Chapter Text
A story of Narcissa Malfoy in a version that was rarely talked about. (I guess)
My headcannon of a supportive narcissa malfoy, a hot daddy Draco Malfoy to his adorable and cheeky Scorpius and a fashionista Hermione Granger.
After a messy divorce from Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger reinvents her life, running a successful nonprofit for underprivileged magical children and immersing herself in old-money muggle fashion. Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy, recently abandoned by his ex-wife Astoria Greengrass—who disappeared into the muggle world with her golf-pro fiancé—dedicates himself wholly to raising their five-year-old son, Scorpius. When Narcissa Malfoy, now a surprising ally in the muggle philanthropic world, strikes up a friendship with Hermione, she sees a perfect opportunity to bring two broken hearts together.
Draco and Hermione are thrown into proximity through a new school campaign project, and sparks fly. Once enemies, now equals, their past collides with undeniable chemistry. A fast physical burn with a slow emotional unraveling, their secret touches and stolen moments build into something deeper. But neither is ready to admit it aloud—so touch becomes their love language.
Draco, deeply obsessed and devoted, worships Hermione’s body with unrelenting tenderness. Hermione, still guarded but hungry for love, falls for the warmth she never expected from her former enemy. Scorpius, charming and clever, adores Hermione, unknowingly helping stitch a family together. Narcissa’s matchmaking plan works better than she ever dreamed—culminating in the formation of a new Malfoy family, complete with two more golden-haired children: Rosabella and Perseus.
Chapter 2: Chapter 1 – “Tea at the Ritz”
Summary:
The first time Hermione met Narcissa Malfoy again—truly met her—was not at the Ministry or some formal gala, but in the velvet hush of the Palm Court at the Ritz.
Notes:
Please enjoy my new story my love. Narcissa uses Iphone, Draco drives a car and the malfoy have a house in knightbridge.
Please feel free to talk to me, leave your thoughts or anything you want to talk to me my love.
And welcome new readers to my world of Dramione. I hope you guys enjoy my writing and my plot.
Chapter Text
The first time Hermione met Narcissa Malfoy again—truly met her—was not at the Ministry or some formal gala, but in the velvet hush of the Palm Court at the Ritz. Afternoon light filtered in through gauzy curtains, casting a golden haze over fine china, tiered trays of petit fours, and the exquisite calm of money well-spent and well-hidden.
Narcissa had always been striking, but here—dressed in dove grey with pearl buttons, her pale hair swept back like a ribbon of moonlight—she looked less like a pureblood widow and more like an aristocratic ghost who’d learned to drink Earl Grey and navigate Mayfair boutiques with chilling ease.
And Hermione Granger, former war heroine turned nonprofit founder, sat across from her in vintage Prada pumps and a Loro Piana blazer the colour of stormclouds. Her hair was sleek now, pinned at the nape. Her lipstick was rosewood. She was elegant. Dangerous in her stillness. And utterly, utterly exhausted.
“You seem tired, Miss Granger,” Narcissa said delicately, stirring her tea with a tiny clink of silver. “I suppose changing the world has its cost.”
“Call me Hermione, please. And yes,” Hermione exhaled. “Turns out lifting squibs and muggleborn children out of systemic poverty doesn’t endear you to Ministry donors. But it does… keep you up at night.”
“You should not be made to feel ashamed of ambition. Or idealism.” Narcissa looked at her with something that might’ve been respect—or recognition. “I used to think the same thing. Then I got married.”
A pause. A flash of shared irony.
And that was how it started.
⸻
The next time they met, it was in Paris.
Narcissa had invited Hermione to a couture exhibition at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs—an exclusive Chanel retrospective. Hermione had hesitated, naturally. It felt indulgent, frivolous. But the private invitation had included a donation in her charity’s name and Narcissa’s quiet note: “You fight for children. Let me fight for you.”
So she went. And something changed.
They walked through rooms filled with silk and lace and legacy. Narcissa whispered scandalous stories about Gabrielle Chanel’s lovers and spies. Hermione, for the first time in years, laughed until her eyes watered. They took tea again, this time at the Hôtel Plaza Athénée, and Narcissa surprised her by asking what kind of red lipstick Hermione preferred.
“Prada does a perfect matte in ‘Velours’,” Hermione answered, almost shyly.
“Of course you wear Prada,” Narcissa said, pleased. “It’s the thinking woman’s armour.”
That day, Narcissa pledged her full sponsorship to Hermione’s charity. She signed the documents in a perfumed salon surrounded by Chanel gowns and Baccarat crystal. A new campaign would begin: one for underprivileged magical children—especially squibs, half-bloods, and the physically disabled—who had fallen through every crack in every system.
⸻
But Hermione’s heart didn’t start twisting until the day Narcissa handed her a phone.
An iPhone, no less. Gold-cased. Pearl-stickered.
“I’ve been practicing,” Narcissa said proudly. “You showed me how to press record last week, remember?”
Hermione smiled. “And? How did it go?”
Rather than answering, Narcissa pressed play.
The video showed a little boy—flaxen-haired and fierce-eyed—at a miniature piano, his fingers stumbling proudly through a Muggle lullaby. He was laughing, grinning, his cheeks flushed. Off-screen, a man’s voice murmured low encouragement, and when the boy nailed the final note, that same man pulled him into a gentle one-armed hug.
“Daddy!” Scorpius chirped.
Hermione’s breath caught.
Draco Malfoy—older, broader, heartbreakingly beautiful in a plain white shirt—smiled down at his son like he was made of stardust. The camera blurred briefly as Narcissa tilted it too far, then righted itself. More laughter. Scorpius tried to show off his wand grip. Draco gently corrected him.
“He’s beautiful,” Hermione said, quietly. “Scorpius, I mean. And Draco… he’s a good father.”
Narcissa didn’t say anything for a moment.
Then she nodded, once, as though committing Hermione’s words to stone.
⸻
Behind all this softness was a harsher truth.
Astoria Greengrass was gone. Truly gone. Not dead, not missing—but vanished from their world.
The divorce had been civil in court, but privately, it had been a war. Both Draco and Astoria had cheated, each trying to wound the other more deeply than the last. But in the end, Astoria had fallen in love with a Muggle golf professional—absurdly handsome, absurdly ordinary—and wiped her magical identity clean to be with him.
She didn’t want her new life complicated by a wizarding past. She didn’t want Draco. She didn’t want Scorpius.
Draco hadn’t spoken of it. Not once. He simply took full custody and poured his heart into his son. He hired the best tutors, the kindest elves, and filled their Knightsbridge home with toys, music, and warmth.
It was Hermione who learned this story slowly, through Narcissa’s quiet disclosures over tea and truffle sandwiches.
“He deserved better,” Narcissa said once. “But Scorpius deserved everything. And Draco… he’s trying. I’ve never seen him try like this.”
⸻
And so their conversations, once about donations and policy drafts, started slipping into personal confessions. Hermione told Narcissa about Ron—his bitterness, his slow spiral into resentment and rage. About how he once punched a Ministry wall when she was offered a promotion. About the bruises he never meant to leave, and how hard it had been to stop believing his sadness was her fault.
“I didn’t want to be someone who made her partner feel small,” Hermione whispered, eyes glinting. “But I couldn’t make myself smaller anymore.”
Narcissa, for once, reached across the table. Her fingers were cold, elegant, ringless.
“You deserve to be loved for your strength,” she said. “Not punished for it.”
⸻
Hermione didn’t quite realize it yet, but the Malfoys—first Narcissa, then Scorpius—had already begun pulling her into their orbit. Not with force. Not with seduction.
Just with warmth.
With wanting her to stay.
And Narcissa… Narcissa, like any good Slytherin matriarch, had found her candidate.
⸻
“You’re joking,” Hermione said, blinking behind her Céline sunglasses.
Narcissa Malfoy, in a pale Max Mara coat with silver buttons, was studying a window display at Harrods like a general surveying her battlefield. “I do not joke. It is the most divine cashmere they carry in Muggle London. Come—touch it.”
They were on the upper floors, gliding through the luxurious corridors of womenswear, trailed by an attentive personal shopper who looked just shy of fainting at Narcissa’s platinum Amex. Hermione was still recovering from the fact that Narcissa Malfoy shopped.
Willingly. In Muggle spaces.
And seemed to love every moment of it.
“I find the lighting in Gringotts too severe,” Narcissa had said matter-of-factly earlier. “And truly, the elves have no taste in tailoring. At least here, if one must endure the indignity of commerce, it comes with complimentary champagne.”
Hermione bit back a grin. “You’ve become… shockingly well-versed in Muggle fashion.”
“I had to adapt,” Narcissa said smoothly, slipping her arm through Hermione’s. “Besides, you’re the one who introduced me to Prada.”
That, too, had been an accident. A few weeks ago, during another post-meeting tea, Narcissa had asked about Hermione’s cream blouse—flawless silk with delicate cuff buttons.
“Prada,” Hermione had said, before she could stop herself.
Narcissa had hummed with visible interest. “Italian. Sharp. Feminine. Excellent.”
Since then, she’d devoured Vogue UK like it was scripture, begun ordering skincare from Liberty, and—most astonishingly—started using a smartphone. She even had a Pinterest board for Scorpius’s wardrobe that she insisted Hermione follow.
“Which brings us to this,” Narcissa said now, lifting a child-sized wool coat from the rack. It was caramel, double-breasted, with a velvet collar. “He refuses to wear anything with Quidditch logos. Thank Merlin.”
Hermione smiled despite herself. “He’s five, and he has taste. That’s rare.”
“Scorpius has taste and manners. He kissed my hand the other night after dinner.” Narcissa’s voice softened. “He misses having a mother. He doesn’t say it, but it’s in the way he watches the neighbor girl hug hers at the park.”
Hermione’s heart ached a little at that.
Narcissa noticed.
“I want you to see something,” she said. “Come sit.”
They retreated to a discreet seating area near the fitting rooms. Narcissa pulled out her iPhone—Hermione’s old one, now bedazzled with tiny platinum snakes—and proudly opened the gallery.
“I remembered the video button,” she said smugly. “And portrait mode. Don’t ask how long it took.”
She pressed play.
The screen showed Scorpius curled in bed, squinting at a picture book in his lap. His pyjamas were navy with golden stars. The camera wobbled slightly as he mumbled out loud, trying to read the word ‘hippogriff’.
“Hi-po-graff?” he asked, frowning. Off-screen, Draco’s voice chuckled gently: “Close, little comet. Try again.”
Scorpius scowled and tried again—“Hippo-griff!”—before beaming with triumph and throwing his arms up.
Then came the part that made Hermione’s chest ache.
“Do you think Mummy would like this story?” Scorpius asked, yawning. “She always liked horses.”
There was a pause. Then Draco’s voice, quieter: “I think she would have loved it.”
Hermione didn’t even realize she’d reached out to touch the screen.
“He remembers her,” she said softly.
“Yes,” Narcissa said, voice tight. “Even though she hasn’t written. Not once.”
The weight of it settled between them.
⸻
Later, over coffee and mille-feuille in the Harrods café, Hermione took Narcissa’s phone and taught her how to pin videos, make albums, and save favorites.
“You’re… very fast,” Narcissa said, eyes narrowed as Hermione flicked through settings. “You must have grown up with these.”
Hermione smiled. “Half the Muggle world practically raised itself on smartphones.”
She showed Narcissa how to use Siri to take photos.
“How peculiar,” Narcissa mused, tilting the phone and pointing it at a server. “Say cheese.”
Hermione stifled a laugh. “You don’t have to say ‘say cheese’.”
Narcissa arched a brow. “Well that’s hardly intuitive.”
When they were done, Hermione handed her the phone back, only to find Narcissa staring at her—not critically, not even curiously. Just… thoughtfully.
“You’ve changed,” Narcissa said.
Hermione tilted her head. “Since Hogwarts?”
“Since your divorce.”
Hermione’s lips parted, but Narcissa raised a hand.
“It’s a good change,” she continued. “You wear your confidence like silk now. And sadness like perfume—subtle, but always there.”
Hermione’s throat went tight.
“I—thank you.”
“I’m not complimenting you,” Narcissa said coolly. “I’m warning you. There will be men who see both, and want to wear you like a prize.”
Hermione exhaled shakily. “I’m not interested in men. Not right now.”
“Good,” Narcissa said, dabbing her mouth. “Because my son is not a man to be trifled with.”
Hermione blinked. “Draco?”
“I wasn’t offering,” Narcissa said, too quickly. “Merely… observing.”
⸻
They parted with matching Harrods bags—Hermione reluctantly holding a gifted scarf, Narcissa with half the boys’ section for Scorpius. Outside, the city hummed with twilight charm and the warm lights of Knightsbridge shops.
“You know,” Hermione said, turning to her. “You’re not at all the woman I thought I’d meet again.”
“And you,” Narcissa replied, “are everything I never expected to need.”
They exchanged a long, knowing glance.
And somewhere, beneath the cashmere and the clotted cream and the curated civility… a match had been struck.
-------------
It goes on and on with the afternoon tea session between the two. The final rays of London’s afternoon sun spilled through the high windows of the Ritz tea salon, gilding Narcissa’s hair in pale honey. She sat upright, sipping her second infusion of Earl Grey like she was born in this setting—which, in a way, Hermione supposed, she had been.
The bustle of waiters and porcelain faded as Narcissa glanced toward the entrance, a ghost of a smile on her lips.
“They’re here,” she murmured.
Hermione blinked. “They?”
Before she could ask more, a tall, commanding figure stepped into the foyer. His platinum hair gleamed beneath the golden lights. A small boy clutched his hand—a laughing bundle of tiny robes and curls, impossibly charming.
Draco Malfoy.
And Scorpius.
Hermione’s stomach did something ridiculous.
She hadn’t seen Draco in years—certainly not like this. Not in a fitted grey coat that fell just below his thighs, not holding a miniature version of himself whose eyes sparked with innocent mischief. There were faint lines at the corners of Draco’s eyes now, not from scowling—but from smiling, it seemed. His jaw was sharper. Shoulders broader. He looked like a man built by grief and healing, equal parts shadow and light.
He spotted Narcissa and Hermione instantly, his stride measured but elegant as he approached.
“Mother,” he said, his voice deeper than Hermione remembered. “You said half an hour. We’ve been circling Piccadilly like pigeons.”
Scorpius leaned around Draco’s legs, staring openly at Hermione. “Is that the lady from the phone?”
Draco blinked. “Scorpius—”
“He means the videos,” Narcissa said dryly. “Hermione taught me how to take them. I may have… shown off a little.”
Hermione laughed, already enchanted.
Scorpius beamed up at her. “You have pretty hair.”
Hermione crouched a little. “You have pretty everything.”
He giggled. “I know.”
Narcissa stood. “Come. Let’s walk you to the car.”
Draco’s gaze flicked to Hermione again. “You’ll join us?”
Hermione hesitated—but Narcissa’s voice slid in like velvet.
“Actually, darling, I was hoping you’d come to dinner. You haven’t seen the Knightsbridge townhouse yet. We’re just a few streets behind Harrods.”
“Dinner?” Hermione repeated, startled.
“With us,” Narcissa said, gently. “No pressure. Just… a meal.”
Scorpius tugged her sleeve. “Please come. I drew a dragon picture. You look like you’d like dragons.”
Hermione’s heart squeezed.
She looked up at Draco, whose expression remained unreadable. But his voice, when he spoke, was almost too quiet.
“We’d love to have you.”
⸻
The ride to Knightsbridge was brief, but oddly charged.
Hermione sat in the back beside Scorpius, who showed her his sketchbook filled with dragons, centaurs, and one rather creative interpretation of a Niffler in a tutu.
Draco drove.
She didn’t expect him to be a quiet driver. She expected arrogance. Sly comments. The boy from the war.
Instead, he adjusted the heating for Scorpius’s side when he sneezed. Tapped the dashboard twice to turn on the enchanted soft lullaby spell in the background. And checked the rearview mirror not to fix his hair—but to glance at his son with a soft, unguarded fondness.
He was a good father.
Hermione didn’t want to think that. Didn’t want to feel that.
But Narcissa had been right.
There was something about a man like that—quietly devoted, still bruised from the past—who kissed his son’s forehead at red lights.
Her chest tightened again.
⸻
The Malfoy townhouse was—unexpected.
Bright. Airy. Soft grays, pale sage, warm walnut wood accents. The sort of home that whispered elegance instead of screaming it. There were Muggle books on the shelves. A string of paper stars made by Scorpius hung over the fireplace. A tiny pair of glittery trainers rested near the door.
“I thought Malfoys only lived in castles,” Hermione said quietly, amused.
Draco turned. “This house is for living.”
Narcissa swept past them toward the kitchen. “Mippy made roast lamb. Don’t let it dry while you two stare at the stairwell.”
Hermione flushed, realizing she was staring. Not at the décor.
At Draco.
Who caught her glance… and didn’t look away.
⸻
Dinner was surprisingly relaxed. Scorpius sat beside Hermione and proudly narrated the entire life story of his pet kneazle plush named Muffin. Narcissa offered red wine and didn’t complain once when Scorpius dropped mashed potatoes on her linen napkins.
Draco sat across from Hermione. His eyes, slate-gray and lined in shadowed gold, lingered more than she liked.
Or maybe… exactly as much as she liked.
She was aware of him in a way she hadn’t felt toward anyone in years. The way he held his fork. The way his shirt collar sat just open, revealing a strong, pale neck. The way his voice dropped when he asked her how her work with squib families was going.
He listened.
Actually listened.
No jokes. No defensive remarks. Just interest. Awareness. Stillness.
And Merlin help her, it made her want to slide her hand across the table, just to feel his fingertips brush hers.
She didn’t, of course.
But it was the first time she imagined doing it.
⸻
After dinner, while Narcissa took Scorpius up to prepare for bed, Hermione stood in the hallway by the small piano Scorpius used for lessons. Draco joined her, holding two crystal glasses of water.
“I heard about Weasley,” he said softly.
Hermione stiffened.
Draco didn’t press.
“I’m sorry,” he added. “You deserved better.”
She didn’t expect that either. She turned to face him, surprised. “And you think you’d know what I deserve?”
“No,” he said, meeting her gaze. “But I can hope someone gives it to you.”
Something unspoken passed between them. A pause. A pulse. A shadow of old grudges flickering away in candlelight.
And for the first time, Hermione wasn’t entirely sure she hated Draco Malfoy.
⸻
Scorpius was upstairs with Mippy, being coaxed into his pyjamas and bribed with a Honeydukes bedtime story. Narcissa had just returned from tucking him in and walked into the parlour like a queen returning from war—smudged with glitter and humming something suspiciously close to a lullaby.
Hermione looked up from where she sat, curled into the armchair, glass of white wine in hand.
“He’s completely in love with you, you know,” Narcissa said, smoothing her skirt before sitting across from her.
Hermione smiled into her glass. “He’s a very easy boy to fall in love with.”
Narcissa tilted her head. Her diamond earrings glittered faintly. “He misses female energy in the house. He never says it, of course, but… I see it. Feel it. He thrives with warmth.”
Hermione glanced toward the ceiling, as if she might hear Scorpius giggling through the floorboards. “You’ve done well with him. And Draco too. I didn’t expect…”
“Didn’t expect what?” Narcissa asked softly.
Hermione hesitated. “For him to be so… steady. So loving.”
Narcissa’s lips curved like a cat who’d caught a mouse she intended to keep. “I suppose people grow up. Sometimes pain does that—burns away everything that doesn’t matter.”
Hermione looked into her wine, quiet.
Narcissa let the silence stretch, then reached into her handbag and pulled out a slim folder.
“I wanted to wait until after dinner, when you were full of lamb and wine and softened slightly,” she said. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”
Hermione leaned forward, intrigued. “What is it?”
“The next phase of the foundation,” Narcissa said, passing the folder over. “One I hope you’ll direct.”
Hermione opened it.
Hand-drawn floor plans. A list of goals. Outlined vision statements. “Hestia Initiative – A School for Magical Children with Disabilities.”
She blinked.
“You want to open a school?”
“I want us to open a school,” Narcissa said. “Inspired by Scorpius. You know his tutor has mild dyslexia? And how much patience it takes to teach a child magical control when they have neurodivergent patterns? It’s not talked about in our world. Or worse—it’s punished. Children are labeled ‘difficult’ or ‘dangerous’ or ‘drained of magic’ before they’re even given a chance.”
Hermione’s heart clenched.
Narcissa continued. “You’ve already built systems to help squibs and Muggleborns integrate. I thought… maybe we could build something even more permanent. Safe. Nurturing.”
Hermione traced her fingers over a sketched classroom design: wide windows, adaptive spell rooms, circular desks to encourage community.
“This is beautiful,” she whispered.
“It’s only an idea, until you say yes,” Narcissa said, a touch of vulnerability under her usual polish. “But I want you to lead it. I’ll fund it. Draco will co-direct. He’s surprisingly good with logistics, and—well. He’s already proven himself with one small heart.”
Hermione looked up, startled. “Draco?”
Narcissa nodded, calm. “He’s changed. I know what he did in the war. I know what he failed to stop. But if we judged all men by who they were at seventeen…”
Hermione closed the folder.
Scorpius’s laughter still echoed in her ears. So did the warmth of Draco’s hand when he passed her a water glass. So did the words you deserved better.
“I’ll think about it,” she said gently.
⸻
Later, when she returned home to her cozy Notting Hill flat, Hermione slipped off her heels, unzipped her Loro Piana coat, and collapsed onto the sofa. Her feet ached. Her brain buzzed. Her heart…
Her heart felt confused.
She’d gone to tea expecting charity talk and maybe some gossip about Ministry donors. Instead, she’d met a boy who made her heart swell. A man who made her skin buzz. And a woman who’d somehow become a strange, elegant mentor in silk gloves and diamond brooches.
She reached into her handbag and pulled out her phone.
There—buried among texts from Ginny and nonprofit alerts—was the video Narcissa had sent earlier.
Scorpius playing the tiny piano. His fingers pressing the keys carefully, his tongue poking out in concentration. Draco beside him, kneeling, coaching him with such softness it made Hermione ache.
“You’ve got it, Scorp. Just two more notes. Listen to how it sounds. That’s my boy.”
Her screen blurred.
Hermione blinked and touched her cheek. Oh.
She was crying.
Not from sadness. But from yearning.
She hadn’t realised how badly she wanted this. The little shoes by the door. The music. The bedtime stories. The laughter. The love. Not perfect love, no—but real. Shared. Tangled in softness and patience and safety.
A family.
She tucked the phone to her chest and exhaled.
Maybe.
Maybe this was the beginning of something.
She had no idea what. No idea how dangerous it might become. But the spark had been lit. And her heart—so bruised, so cautious—was finally leaning toward the warmth.
Even if it hurt, she wanted to try. It’s not hers though, but it maybe worth it to get closer to the boy in this project.
It is just a thought that comes and goes with the wind, but the craving and yearning to see the family lingered in Hermione’s heart.
Something inside her stirs…..something maternal….
Chapter 3: Chapter 2 – “The Knightsbridge Dinner”
Summary:
Narcissa invites Hermione to dinner with Draco and Scorpius. Narcissa said that the agenda is only to talk deport about the project of the building a school for squib and handicapped children together with her hidden agenda.
Notes:
My love, thank you so so much for the love you have given New Mommy For Scorpius. I hope you would love to read the maternal instinct of Hermione Granger in this. I have so much fun writing this which reminded me of my time studying in London a few years ago. I tried to put the vibe and the memories back as much as possible. I wish to visit London soon.
With lots of love,
Schmetterling_99
Chapter Text
Invitation in Silk
The owl came just past noon.
A handsome barn owl, pale as snowfall, tapped delicately at Hermione’s office window in Bloomsbury with one claw. It clutched a scroll of parchment so thick and creamy it looked like it belonged in a gallery rather than the hands of a witch in her threadbare cardigan and second cup of espresso.
She opened the latch, and the owl glided in with grace, depositing the scroll onto her cluttered desk before flying off with not a single hoot. The scroll was sealed with gold wax bearing the Malfoy crest—elegant and understated. When Hermione broke it open, a subtle shimmer of enchantment passed over the surface, revealing looping black ink in Narcissa Malfoy’s unmistakable hand.
Dearest Miss Granger,
We find ourselves at the cusp of something rather grand. As we begin shaping the framework for our next charitable endeavor, it would bring me joy to host you for dinner this Saturday at our Knightsbridge residence.
You must allow me to spoil you with food and good conversation. We are long overdue for something outside of meetings and boardrooms. Nothing formal—just elegance.
No Pressure to make a prompt decision my dear, just consider this as a warm invitation for dinner and great wine.
Warmly,
Narcissa Malfoy
P.S. Bring your appetite. Mippy insists on preparing everything from scratch. She’s become quite attached to you.
Hermione smiled despite herself. Elegant and commanding, Narcissa had become—strangely—a friend. A mentor of sorts, but not the overbearing kind. They had planned fundraising galas, argued about magical zoning laws, and spent more than one rainy afternoon in the drawing room of The Ritz with a pot of Earl Grey and a plate of violet macarons between them.
Still, dinner at her home still felt intimate. And mysterious. It was the second time that she was invited to Malfoy’s house after that night Narcissa casually and unofficially proposed a plan to build a school for disable children in wizarding world. Narcissa had never extended an invitation to her Knightsbridge townhouse before. It was, she once told Hermione in passing, “too new” and “too personal.” That she was inviting her now meant something.
But now?
Everything seems more casual between them…
⸻
That Saturday evening, Hermione stood before her bedroom mirror, two dresses draped over her arms and the third clinging nervously to her body.
She decided to send an owl almost immediately after she read the invitation letter from Narcissa.
For the sake of seeing little Scorpius again.
She smoothed her palms down the front of the cream-colored Chanel shift dress, the fabric falling just above her knees with tasteful restraint. She paired it with beige ballerinas—also Chanel, a gift to herself after the nonprofit hit its first milestone—and a thin gold bracelet at her wrist. A small clutch. A neat chignon. Pearl studs. Classic. Soft. Unthreatening.
She glanced once more at her reflection and whispered, “Composed. Not impressive.”
There had been a time when dressing had been about standing out—proving herself as more than a brain behind teeth and frizz. But now, she dressed to feel whole. Secure in her own skin. Safe.
The air shimmered as she apparated, landing with a whisper of heels on the quiet cobblestones just behind Harrods. The Malfoy townhouse was a hidden gem on a row of grand, hedge-lined residences, tucked between two embassies and guarded by spells that shimmered briefly in her periphery. It was modern. Beautiful. But not gaudy.
The wrought-iron gate opened before she reached it, and the garden path—flanked by white roses and lavender hedges—led her to an imposing, ivy-covered door. Before she could knock, it opened.
A small figure beamed up at her with wide, watery eyes. “Mistress Granger! Oh, Mippy is most happy to see you again!”
Hermione blinked. “Oh—just Hermione, Mippy. Please.”
But the little elf gave a delighted squeak and reached for her clutch with trembling hands. “Mistress Hermione looks like a proper angel, she does! Come, come! Mistress Narcissa is waiting!”
Mippy brought her to the part of the house where she did not have a chance to visit last time.
Led through the polished marble foyer and into a candlelit vestibule, Hermione barely had time to admire the tasteful art along the walls—abstract charms woven into canvas, floating calligraphy in gilded frames—before Narcissa swept in like moonlight on silk.
She wore deep emerald tonight, her hair pinned back in soft waves. Her eyes sparkled.
“My dear girl,” Narcissa said, taking both of Hermione’s hands, “you are divine. That dress—Chanel?”
Hermione blushed. “It is. You have a good eye.”
“I have excellent taste,” Narcissa said with a wink. “And so, I see, do you. Come—dinner is nearly ready. I thought we might enjoy a glass of champagne before the others arrive.”
Hermione froze. “Others?”
“Oh—well, of course, it wouldn’t be a Malfoy household without some chaos. So the dinner is not just only the two o us of course my dear.” Her smile didn’t waver, but something about it was just too perfect.
As Narcissa led her deeper into the townhouse, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that something was being arranged. The soft music playing from an unseen source, the elegant white roses in every corner, even the subtle scent of cedar and bergamot that clung to the air—it all felt… orchestrated.
Still, she followed willingly, heels whispering over polished parquet floors, past glass-walled corridors that looked out onto a candlelit courtyard.
The Malfoys had taste. Always. Not the cold, hard wealth of their past—but something gentler now. Warm wood, modern fireplaces, curated textures in stone and linen. Hermione had expected grandiose. Instead, she found grace.
And just beneath it… the hush of something hidden.
⸻
They were walking toward the salon when Hermione finally saw him.
The second time.
He didn’t look like the one who picked up Narcissa with Scorpius last time she saw him. Today he looked different.
Not really for the first time—she’d caught glimpses of Draco in this formal look before at charity events, crossed paths at ministry functions, even exchanged a few measured words over the years. But this was different, she did not expect to see Draco Malfoy in a formal look for a dinner his mother invited her to.
This was the moment the full truth of who he had become settled in her mind and heart like a slow, steady tide.
He stood at the far end of the corridor, framed by a tall picture window that caught the golden glow from the antique sconces. The navy cashmere jumper hugged broad shoulders with an ease that was both casual and commanding. His black trousers were impeccably tailored, sharp at the crease. His platinum-blond hair—shorter and more controlled than she recalled—was swept back neatly, revealing a strong brow and the aristocratic planes of a face that had somehow sharpened and softened in equal measure.
Draco Malfoy.
The first time that she took a proper look to his appearance. She always hear gossip among the witches in Wizarding world that Draco Malfoy is a hot daddy to his little boy, but she did not even care to look at his photos in daily prophet or even in a witch magazine as the hottest single dad in London. His profile alone could have sold paintings. But it was the stillness in him that arrested Hermione’s gaze.
He turned, and their eyes met.
Pale, steely grey. Piercing, but no longer cruel. There was recognition, yes. But also surprise. And the barest flicker of something… unreadable.
Her breath caught.
For a fleeting second, she was sixteen again—watching the boy he’d been, sneering across the Potions cauldron, hollowed cheeks and sharp tongue bruised by war. A boy she’d feared, resented, pitied.
But this was not that boy.
This was a man—taller, broader, devastating in his quiet strength. There was power in how he carried himself, how his shoulders relaxed despite the tension that hummed beneath his skin. His jaw was clean-shaven, his hands free of rings or Dark Marks. Only a simple leather-band watch gleamed faintly beneath his cuff.
Narcissa’s voice floated beside her, gentle but deliberate. “Here he is.”
He stepped forward slowly. His footsteps were soft, but he filled the corridor like a new gravity.
“Granger, you came”
His voice—deeper now, smoother, like dark velvet wrapped around polished wood. Measured, careful. But not cold.
“Malfoy,” she answered, fighting the tightness in her throat.
He nodded briefly and glanced to his mother. “Scorpius is searching for his dragon.”
Narcissa’s eyes sparkled. “Let him find it on his own. Come,” she said, sweeping a hand toward the salon. “Champagne before dinner.”
The salon was impossibly elegant—light grey velvet sofas, towering bookcases heavy with leather-bound tomes, and a modern fire crackling with tasteful warmth. Crystal flutes shimmered on a silver tray beside artful hors d’oeuvres arranged like edible jewels.
Draco poured the champagne with a grace that seemed too refined for the boy who once hexed canaries on a dare.
Hermione took her flute delicately, their fingers brushing for the briefest moment on the glass stem.
Nothing.
Bare skin.
A moment.
But heat flickered up her spine, a quiet spell.
Clearing her throat, she said, “This place is… different than I expected. Last time I didn’t see this part before.” She looked around the dining room as last time as was only at the living room.
His lips curved—an almost-smile. “We hear that often.”
“Modern. Bright. Warm, even.”
He raised a pale brow. “Disappointing?”
She surprised herself by smiling. “Actually, no.”
Their eyes locked again, and Hermione hated how acutely aware she suddenly was of his presence. It’s closer than before, it’s closer than the time he just apologized to her about her divorce. How the air between them seemed to pulse. How suddenly distracted she felt.
She sipped her champagne, looking around. “How long have you lived here?” The first time for a proper conversation.
“Three years. Scorpius needed space. The manor… didn’t feel right anymore.”
“And your mother?”
“She’s often here, often there. We bought this together. She enjoys being close to the muggle world.”
Hermione glanced around once more. “I understand.”
A charged silence stretched between them. Two adults, speaking in calm tones. But underneath, something coiled, waiting.
“Papa!”
The shout echoed from down the corridor.
Draco straightened as a small figure with golden curls came bounding into the room.
“Gran!” the boy called, eyes searching wildly. “Papa! Where’s my drawing with the silver dragon? The one with smoke coming out of its bum—”
He stopped abruptly when his gaze fell on Hermione.
Wide-eyed, curious.
Then his face broke into a grin that lit up the room.
“Oh you come again! Are you the lady from Gran’s phone? Right? Miss Her-miney?”
Hermione nearly choked on her champagne.
Narcissa masked a smile behind a well-practiced cough. Draco rubbed his forehead, clearly resigned.
“I am,” Hermione said, crouching to meet the boy’s eyes. “And you are mr. Scorpius.”
He nodded proudly. “Yes, Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy. I’m five. I do magic and violin. Gran says I’m clever, even for a Slytherin. Nice to meet you again.”
“She’s not wrong,” Draco murmured, a small smile hidden behind his glass.
Scorpius tugged Hermione’s hand eagerly. “Come! You have to see my diversion shelf! I made a dragon that only listens to me and a crayon that draws upside down!”
“Diversion shelf?” Hermione raised a brow.
He beamed. “Papa says it’s better than ‘toys’ because everything helps you think or create. Not just waste time. Come see the violin strings that hum!”
Without hesitation, Hermione let herself be pulled down the hall by the bright, golden whirlwind.
Draco followed at a measured distance, hands in pockets, quiet.
Hermione listened intently as Scorpius rattled off his magical inventions: spell-resistant crayons, puzzle blocks that floated when solved, and a miniature enchanted dragon with foiled wings that snored softly when kissed on the forehead.
“And this,” Scorpius held up a gleaming silver wand case, “is my ‘just-in-case’ wand. It doesn’t work yet, but Papa says I’ll be ready soon.”
Hermione was enchanted.
The boy was clever, yes, but also gentle, expressive, kind. There was a joy in him, unclouded, fiercely protected.
“You’re amazing,” she whispered, brushing a curl from his forehead.
“I like you, Miss Her-miney,” he said solemnly. “You listen. Some grown-ups don’t.”
Behind her, Draco watched quietly.
And something deep inside him—something he wouldn’t dare name—softened.
⸻
The vibe of this Dinner is too friendly yet and domestic.
The dining room was a quiet sanctuary of elegance and warmth, the kind of space where history and modernity danced in perfect harmony. Soft pools of golden light spilled from crystal sconces mounted on the pale cream walls, casting gentle shadows that flickered and shifted like whispered secrets. The polished mahogany table gleamed beneath the glow, its surface reflecting the delicate sparkle of French crystal glasses meticulously arranged in front of each place. At the table’s heart, a simple vase held a bouquet of freshly cut white roses, their scent subtle but calming—an understated breath of life amid the formality.
Hermione settled into her seat with a quiet grace, her fingers lightly adjusting the soft Chanel fabric of her dress. It was the same dress she had chosen that afternoon after much deliberation, one that felt like a shield woven from confidence and composure rather than a display of grandeur. The pearls resting gently against her collarbone added a touch of old-world elegance, grounding her in the moment. The atmosphere around her was formal, yes, but not cold. There was a softness—a rare invitation to let down her guard if she wished.
Before the first course was even served, Mippy appeared—a delicate blur of motion with a porcelain plate in each hand. The house elf floated behind Hermione, lingering with a practiced air of devotion, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper only Hermione could hear. “Mippy made the lemon tart especially for Mistress. Mistress Narcissa said that miss loves to order that at the Ritz for tea.”
Hermione’s cheeks warmed at the intimate gesture, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She glanced to her side and caught Draco’s eyes just as he discreetly coughed into his wine glass. There was a flicker of amusement in his pale grey gaze, but he said nothing, leaving the moment suspended between them like a fragile truce.
The first course arrived—a delicate arrangement of asparagus tips draped with a light, buttery hollandaise sauce. It was artfully plated, each spear positioned with the precision of a painter’s brushstroke. Hermione took a bite, savoring the freshness as Narcissa, ever the gracious hostess, began to steer the conversation with her practiced poise.
“So, Hermione,” Narcissa said, her voice smooth and inviting, “I want us to use this opportunity to talk about the school project formally, dear.” She continued, her voice rhetorically smooth, with the convincing tone like someone who was trained to manipulate, convince and inspire.
“This project for the school—the children who often find themselves forgotten or misunderstood. Those disabled who do not even have a chance to pursue their dream and education— well, how do you envision the curriculum? What do you feel is most vital for their growth?”
Hermione’s eyes brightened as she spoke, passion threading through her measured tone. “UmMmm, well actually I haven’t decided yet to joint the project, but if I were to open my own school, it must be tailored to each child’s unique needs. Not just practical magic lessons, but emotional support, inclusion, and safety. Many of these children have been sidelined—whether squibs or those with disabilities—and they deserve a place where they can thrive without fear or prejudice.”
Draco listened attentively, his gaze calm and respectful. He sat quietly beside his mother, his presence steady. Scorpius, nestled between them, occasionally glanced at Hermione with wide eyes full of curiosity and something more—a sparkle of admiration perhaps, or hope.
“That is a great idea, my dear. A School with tailor made curriculum to fulfil each student’s unique needs.”
The conversation shifted smoothly, slipping from formal plans to lighter topics. Parenting stories bubbled to the surface, gentle ripples on the evening’s quiet pond.
Suddenly, Scorpius’s voice cut through with innocent content. “Miss Her-miney, did you know Papa makes me tea when I have bad dreams?”
Hermione blinked in surprise, nearly choking on the sip of wine she’d taken just moments before. Laughter bubbled up, irrepressible and warm, breaking the formal air.
Draco’s lips twitched into a fond, almost shy smile. He gently corrected his son’s grammar. “He started speaking early. Astoria always said it was because he never stopped listening.”
The room fell into a brief, awkward silence. The mention of Astoria—the shadow in the room—hung softly, neither dwelled on it but neither could ignore it.
Hermione’s voice softened, her eyes meeting Draco’s in a moment charged with unspoken understanding. “He’s extraordinary. You’ve raised him beautifully.”
Draco’s gaze lingered on her, a flicker of surprise and gratitude breaking through his usually guarded expression. “Thank you.”
For a heartbeat, the three of them—father, son, and guest—glimmered as a fragile family unit, bound together by love, loss, and the fragile hope of new beginnings.
The next courses arrived—light, elegant fare that seemed to match the conversation’s tone. There was a simple roasted chicken with herbs, followed by a delicate sorbet to cleanse the palate. The gentle clink of cutlery and soft murmur of voices wove through the room, punctuated by laughter that felt surprisingly free and unforced.
Mippy continued her dutiful dance around the table, attending to every need with the precision of a trained ballet dancer. Each time she hovered behind Hermione, her attentive gaze was slightly longer, her soft whispers more frequent, as if already imagining her new mistress.
Hermione found herself relaxing more with each passing moment, drawn in by the warmth radiating from this place and these people. Draco’s occasional glances—quiet, deliberate—sent unexpected shivers down her spine. Scorpius’s lively stories and sparkling intelligence lit up the room like the very crystal at their fingertips.
As dessert was served—a delicate lemon tart topped with a thin, crisp crust—Hermione caught Draco watching her with a look that was more complex than she could decipher. The coolness of the tart contrasted with the heat rising in her cheeks, and she smiled inwardly at the thought that maybe, just maybe, this evening was the start of something quietly extraordinary.
Outside, the London night pressed softly against the windows. Inside, under the soft glow of the chandeliers, a new chapter quietly unfolded—delicate, uncertain, but filled with possibility.
⸻
The final clink of silverware faded, replaced by the gentle crackle and pop of the fire in the hearth. Its amber light spilled across the polished wood of the grand dining room table, softening the edges of crystal glasses and casting dancing shadows on the walls. The scent of burning oak mixed faintly with the lingering aroma of jasmine from the white roses Narcissa had placed at the center of the table, their petals slightly wilted now but still elegant.
Narcissa Malfoy rose with her usual fluid grace, the rustle of her silk gown barely audible over the quiet warmth that filled the room. Her eyes caught Hermione’s across the table, a knowing smile playing on her lips—one that hinted at unspoken plans and subtle matchmaking.
“I must call a board member,” she said smoothly, her voice calm yet carrying an unmistakable undercurrent of intent. “Excuse me.”
With a final glance, Narcissa glided toward the heavy oak doors, leaving Hermione and Draco alone by the hearth.
The sudden quiet was profound. Somewhere upstairs, a soft thudding echoed—the gentle footsteps of a child being tucked into bed, a door closing softly afterward. The house seemed to breathe in the silence, walls absorbing the warmth from the firelight, shadows drawing closer around the room as the night deepened.
Hermione shifted in her chair, the delicate fabric of her Chanel dress brushing softly against the leather upholstery. She touched the strand of pearls resting against her collarbone, feeling the cool smoothness of each bead, grounding herself in the moment. Across from her, Draco leaned against the marble mantelpiece, the firelight flickering in his pale eyes, making them look almost liquid.
She hesitated, then spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “About the school project… your mom mentioned it last time when I was here, she mentioned you, but I didn’t realize you’d be really involved.”
Draco’s mouth quirked into a half-smile as he lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Mother’s idea,” he said, voice low, almost reluctant but sincere. “I volunteered to help…but… I’m glad. Since I have Scorpius, I want to be part of something that actually gives back. Something better.”
Hermione’s eyes widened slightly, surprise softening the usual guardedness in her expression. “You volunteered?”
He nodded, his gaze steady on hers. “Technically, yes. I want Scorpius to grow up in a world where magic isn’t cruel. Not one ruled by elitism or fear, where kindness is mistaken for weakness.”
There was a vulnerability in his tone that caught Hermione off guard, a raw earnestness that she hadn’t expected from the usual polished, guarded Draco Malfoy. She felt a stirring of something fragile—hope, maybe—unearthing a dream she’d buried deep beneath layers of disappointment and caution.
“That sounds like something I used to dream about,” she murmured, her voice thickening with memories she rarely shared aloud. “Before… everything.”
Draco studied her carefully, his eyes narrowing with a sudden tenderness. The flickering firelight sculpted his sharp features, softening the hard lines into something almost vulnerable.
“I still dream,” he confessed quietly, his voice rougher now, touched with a hint of bitterness. “I just don’t say it out loud.”
“But, you have no need to say yes, you know.” His voice was almost inaudible, but she heard it loud and clear. She did not reply.
A long silence stretched between them, charged and heavy. The only sound was the fire’s crackle and the occasional soft pop as embers shifted. The room seemed to shrink, pulling them closer even though neither moved.
Hermione’s pulse quickened. She found herself watching the subtle movements—the way his jaw clenched as if holding back a flood of words, the slow blink of his lashes, the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Her own breath caught, a warmth spreading through her chest, distracting and electric.
Then, his voice broke the stillness, low and deliberate, carrying a weight she couldn’t ignore.
“Hermione.”
The single word was soft, almost reverent, but it resonated like a spell between them—heavy with meaning, threaded with unspoken promises and a shared understanding neither dared to voice.
The moment hung fragile, delicate, as if the world had paused just for them.
Suddenly, a gentle rustling from the doorway interrupted the intimacy. Mippy appeared, her small figure outlined by the dim light. She moved like a breeze, gliding forward on silent feet.
“Mistress,” she whispered, her voice light but urgent, “your cloak is ready. Shall I prepare the guest room in case you wish to stay the night?”
Hermione’s cheeks burned crimson. The heat wasn’t from the fire. She swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of the closeness between her and Draco—the way his gaze lingered on her, slow and measured.
“No, thank you,” she said softly, her voice firmer than she felt. “That won’t be necessary.”
Her heart thundered in her chest, loud and fast, drowning out the crackling fire. She dared a quick glance at Draco, catching him watching her with an expression that was both quiet and intense, filled with something tender and uncertain.
Neither spoke, but in that suspended moment, something unspoken passed between them—an electric promise, a match quietly lit in the depths of the night.
Hermione felt the weight of it, the possibility shimmering in the space between them. The warmth from the fire, the softness of the roses, the gentle sound of the house settling—all seemed to conspire to create a fragile sanctuary for this new, tender connection.
Her thoughts spun, half-daring to hope, half-afraid to trust. She wondered what dreams Draco kept locked away behind that guarded expression. What scars he carried beneath his polished exterior. And in her own chest, the ember of a hope long thought lost flickered stubbornly to life.
Draco shifted, his hand brushing briefly against the cool marble of the hearth. His voice was softer this time, almost hesitant.
“For Scorpius,” he said quietly, “for him to have a chance at something better.”
Hermione nodded, her eyes shining. “For him. And for all the children who deserve a future without fear.”
Outside, the night deepened, but inside the room, bathed in firelight and quiet understanding, something new had begun. A spark that promised warmth beyond the flames, a connection that might yet grow into something neither had dared to imagine until this very night.
Chapter 4: Chapter 3 – “The Project”
Summary:
Oh Merlin, did Narcissa Malfoy study Public Speaking in the muggle world? She spoke like a Prime Minister. Very rhetorical, indeed.
Notes:
My love, helloooooooo.
I miss you guys so so much. I just cannot let you guys wait for the next chapter, even though I have almost no time to edit and end up posting another story with a lot of typos.
I'm so so sorry my love. When you find typo or grammatical error, please mention it. No need to hesitate to tell me, okay? I just love our community so smooch, thank you so much for the support. love you guys.
With lots of love,
Scmetterling_99
Chapter Text
The rain hadn’t let up all morning. Thin silver sheets painted the London skyline, blurring the view beyond Hermione’s office window. Water laced down the glass like tears, distorting the rooftops and spires of Bloomsbury in soft gray strokes. The world outside felt distant, softened by the storm.
She barely noticed.
Her fingers curled around a delicate china cup of jasmine tea—still untouched. The porcelain had long gone cold, but she held it anyway, grounding herself with the familiar weight. The scent had once comforted her. Now it barely registered over the hum of her thoughts.
Across from her, Narcissa Malfoy sat poised on a cream velvet chair, every inch the elegant benefactor. Not a hair out of place. Her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap, a leather-bound portfolio resting atop her knees like it belonged there. She looked perfectly at home in Hermione’s sunlit, book-lined office—as if she’d been born to walk through both manor ballrooms and nonprofit boardrooms with the same impeccable grace.
“You’ve read the proposal?” Narcissa asked gently, though her tone made clear she already knew the answer.
Hermione nodded, setting her cup down with care. “Twice.”
“And?”
“It’s… extraordinary,” Hermione admitted. “Visionary. Compassionate. There’s nothing else like it in either world.”
The project—codename Sanctuary for disabled children—was a revolutionary idea: a fully accessible school for magical children with disabilities. A blend of wizarding innovation and modern inclusivity. Adaptive spellwork, cross-disciplinary healing arts, enchanted aids for non-verbal casting, sensory-regulated environments, even trauma-informed magical therapy sessions. It was ambitious and overwhelming in the best way.
And then there was the location.
Hermione ran her thumb along the edge of the proposal, her voice softening. “You want it housed in the Muggle world.”
Narcissa’s eyes warmed, but her expression remained carefully measured. “Yes. We want it to be reachable. Squibs, Muggleborn children, families without connections to the magical transportation network… they shouldn’t be excluded before they ever arrive.”
It was bold. Radical, even. No wizarding school in Britain had ever been placed beyond the barrier of magical concealment—not even temporary institutions. This was not just a school. It was a statement.
“You’ve been dreaming of something like this for years, Hermione,” Narcissa added. “Ever since your foundation’s first cohort.”
Hermione smiled faintly, a little surprised Narcissa remembered. “I never thought someone like you would champion it.”
“People change.” Narcissa tilted her head. “So do families.”
Hermione hesitated. She didn’t want to ask, but the question itched under her skin.
“You have already decided, right Narcissa, that you want me to lead it.”
“Oh dear, you know me so well, no, not at all not to lead, I want you to shape it,” Narcissa confirmed. As she tried to lobby Hermione for a few times now, it’s the time that she has never been sure in her life. “Give it its heart. Its spine.”
Hermione blinked as Narcissa opened the portfolio. The parchment smelled faintly of ink and time. She handed Hermione a single page—an official document bearing the Malfoy Foundation’s crest in gold foil.
At the bottom, beside Narcissa’s signature in flawless script, was another name. Sharp, clean, unmistakable.
Draco Malfoy.
Hermione’s fingers froze mid-page. Her throat tightened.
“And you already planned to make him co-direct? I thought it was just an idea.” She did not tell Narcissa that Draco Malfoy told her about his “Volunteer” idea though. She just wanted to hear it from Narcissa herself.
“Yes, I do,” Narcissa said smoothly, with the infuriating calm of someone dropping a bomb into a tea party. “He’s funding half. And… he’s changed. He is a father now, Hermione. A loving one.” And she still didn’t say he volunteered for the school, instead Narcissa shared her initiative.
Hermione met her eyes, suspicion prickling under her skin. “That’s not the issue.”
“But it is.” Narcissa’s voice was quiet, but firm. “You don’t trust him.”
Hermione didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
“I don’t blame you,” Narcissa continued. “He was cruel to you at Hogwarts. Unforgivably so. I could not change the fact that he did, we did that to you, and I regretted it ever since. But you get to know me now, you saw him at dinner. You saw him with Scorpius. You saw how much he’s grown.” Something inside Hermione just flinched.
Yes, it is true that she was now, kind of a friend to Narcissa Malfoy, they get along well, but that did not mean that she supposed to get along well with her son as well, even though she saw how kind he was with his son, or even how polite he was with her.
But still, two times seeing Draco Malfoy did not tell her how much he changed.
Hermione’s gaze faltered. She had seen. She’d seen the way Draco had bent to whisper to his son, the way he’d waited patiently for Scorpius to finish his thoughts, the way his eyes had softened when the little boy spoke of dreams and monsters and tea.
“Let’s think of it like this, my dear. This school is making Wizarding world a better place. A way of making peace with the world, a way of removing diversity in our society, ” Narcissa rhetorically said, seemed like a convince. “And I think you—more than anyone—might understand that desire. As well as Draco, he has the same desire as you.”
Hermione looked down at the document again. Her name would sit beside his. All decisions shared. Meetings, planning sessions, press conferences… long hours spent side by side.
Her stomach tightened.
“Why me?” she asked just to confirm, barely above a whisper, even though Narcissa said it a multiple times why. It is just to convince herself to make a decision easier.
Narcissa didn’t hesitate. “Because you know what it is to be cast aside. To fight your way in. To be told you don’t belong. And to build something kinder out of a broken system. You know those in need, and you dedicated to that world Hermione, and because most importantly you and my son have the same initiative, same urge to change this world to be a better place, and same motivation to see the next generation of this world a better place.”
Hermione’s throat caught.
Oh Merlin, did Narcissa Malfoy study Public Speaking in the muggle world? She spoke like a Prime Minister. Very rhetorical, indeed.
How can she say no.
But before Hermione would say something, Narcissa added.
“You’d build a haven,” Narcissa finished. “And Draco would help you protect it.”
Thanks god she mentioned his name again, she came back to her sense again.
Only Narcissa rhetorical speech alone would make her unconsciously said yes. She needed time to think.
Outside, the rain blurred the world into watercolor. Hermione imagined that place: a home for children like the ones who slipped through the cracks. A space where magic didn’t punish difference. Where no child felt small, or wrong, or unsafe. Where dignity wasn’t earned—it was honored.
She exhaled, heart pulling in two directions. “I need time.”
Narcissa nodded graciously. “Of course. Take all you need. But… if we’re to open the school by September, groundwork must begin by May. PR sooner. There’s flexibility, but the calendar will tighten quickly.”
Hermione stood, crossing to the window, arms wrapped around herself. The glass was cool beneath her fingertips. She watched a single raindrop slip down the pane, racing the others, then vanish into the sill.
“I just…” she murmured, “I don’t know if I can do this. With him.” Those words sound like an excuse.
“You can,” Narcissa said, rising to her feet. Her voice, when she spoke again, was impossibly kind. “But you don’t have to decide today.”
Hermione turned, surprised to see real gentleness in Narcissa’s eyes. No manipulation. Just belief. Perhaps even hope.
Narcissa stepped forward, lightly touched Hermione’s elbow. “Come back to the manor anytime. The offer stands.”
And with that, she swept from the room, leaving behind the scent of rosewater, a proposal full of promises—and one name Hermione wasn’t sure she could work beside without losing herself.
But still, as she stood there in the hush of her office, only one image came to mind.
Scorpius.
Smiling up at her like she was magic.
And somehow… that scared her more than Draco ever could.
⸻
“I told you, Mother, she wouldn’t say yes.”
Draco stood at the edge of the manor’s drawing room, hands tucked into his trouser pockets, shoulders tense beneath the casual grey cashmere of his jumper. The fire crackled in its grate behind him, but he barely felt the heat.
Narcissa didn’t look up from her writing desk. She was penning a thank-you letter to one of her donors with elegant swirls of peacock-blue ink. Her expression was the picture of calm.
“Up until now, she hasn’t said no,” she replied lightly.
“She will.” His tone was clipped. “You asked the wrong witch.”
“No of course not. She’s the only witch I would ask,” Narcissa murmured, sealing the envelope with a flick of her wand. “And I rather think she’s the only one you’d listen to if she disagrees with you.”
Draco gave a dry laugh. “Right. Because Hermione Granger has always been so impressed by me.”
“She doesn’t need to be impressed,” Narcissa said, rising at last. She crossed the room and took her son in with one long, assessing glance. “She needs to be convinced. And you, my darling, will need to learn how to work with someone who challenges you.”
Draco’s jaw tightened. “She hates me.”
“No,” Narcissa said softly. “She remembers you. That’s different.” But instead of her sharp eyes that are already to lecture him.
Narcissa looked at him with proud eyes.
Umm…I raised him well, he is an eye candy. Her son really grown up to be a very handsome man.
They will be the most perfect pair she has ever matched.
“Mother” He sighed.
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the truth was—he remembered her, too. Not just the way she’d glared at him across classrooms and battlefields, but the way she’d held herself in the aftermath. Granger had been fire and ruin and spine. And she’d survived. He hadn’t liked her then, but even now—especially now—he couldn’t forget that.
“She’ll say no,” he repeated, but the conviction had bled out of his voice.
Narcissa stepped closer, reaching up to smooth a wrinkle in his sleeve the way she had when he was a child. “You’re not the boy she remembers. Let her see that. Let her decide for herself.”
Draco looked away, jaw flexing.
“And Draco,” Narcissa added, her voice almost conspiratorial, “you do want her to say yes. You just don’t want to want that.”
He said nothing. But when she left the room, his gaze lingered on the glowing embers in the hearth, thoughts unraveling in slow, reluctant spirals.
⸻
Hermione spent the first two days in a fog.
She told herself she was just busy—paperwork, grant cycles, upcoming inspections at her foundation’s partner schools—but even as she shuffled reports and answered owls, her mind wandered. She found herself glancing toward her bookshelf and spotting The Ethics of Magical and diversity, the very first volume she’d bought at seventeen when she’d begun dreaming of educational reform.
It felt heavier now.
By day three, she couldn’t sleep. She tossed in her bed at 3:12 in the morning, the room lit only by the soft silver spill of street lamps beyond her window. She lay flat on her back, arms over her chest like she was preparing for judgment.
Draco Malfoy? she thought again, for perhaps the hundredth time.
A part of her bristled at the very idea. Her memories of him were barbed and bitter: hallway insults, hexes narrowly dodged, the ever-present smugness of a boy who thought cruelty was cleverness.
But then came another memory, swift and unwelcome.
Scorpius. Grinning with a gap-toothed smile, asking her if she liked lemon tart. Reaching for her hand as if she’d always belonged there at that table. Showing her his dragon drawing and when she complimented him, he smiled so bright and asked her to kiss his head.
Oh my, this boy is too adorable. The maternal instinct in her stirred.
If she were to have a son, she wished him to be adorable, intelligent and cheeky like Scorpius.
She rolled over, pressing her face into the pillow.
By day four, she found herself seated in the attic, surrounded by trunks she hadn’t opened in years. She hadn’t even realised she was looking for something until her fingers unearthed a photo from her first year after the war. A school visit. A class of wide-eyed, bright-magic children gathered around her, beaming.
It was why she’d started this.
Not because she wanted to fight more battles—but because she wanted to build something. Something no one could take away.
By day five, she stopped resisting.
She pulled the proposal back out from under a stack of reports and reread it—this time slowly. This time, reading the lines Draco had written.
She recognised his hand in the structure: practical yet elegant, shaped with restraint. There were no lofty metaphors, no rousing speeches—just clean plans. Solutions. Room for more.
His handwriting had changed, too. Less slanted. More careful.
I want a place for Scorpius, he’d written in one margin, in ink that had smudged a little. Not just for him to learn—but to belong.
Hermione sat back in her chair, breath caught in her throat.
By day six, she almost said yes.
She had written the owl. Had her quill hovering. But her hand trembled, and she set it down. The past still lived in her too closely. She could forgive a man—but trust him? Build a school with him? Stand beside him and defend their choices to the world?
She wasn’t sure if she was brave enough for that.
Then came day seven.
A Saturday.
Warm sunlight spilled through her kitchen window. She poured herself a cup of coffee, intending to spend the day reorganising her files.
And then, as if summoned by memory, her doorbell rang.
She opened the door to find a box sitting alone on her doorstep. No owl. No note. She knelt slowly and brought it inside.
Inside the box was a single book.
A vintage edition of Healing Magic for Complex Cases, annotated in careful, tidy script. Hermione gasped—it was nearly impossible to find this copy in the UK.
On the inside cover, a slip of parchment was tucked.
Not signed. Just four words:
“For the school’s library.”
She is familiar with those handwriting and knew it too well. It is from Narcissa Malfoy. She stared at the note for a long time, hands trembling around the edges.
She didn’t need a name to know who had sent it.
⸻
By evening, the ink on her owl had dried.
Her reply was short. Formal. Professional.
But her fingers hovered before she sealed the envelope.
Then, with a slow breath, she added a single line at the bottom:
I’ll do it.
And with that, the game began.
The proximity.
The project.
The slow unraveling of ghosts they both thought had long been buried.
⸻
Instead of Malfoy’s house in Knightsbridge, Narcissa invited her to visit her at Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire.
The skies over Wiltshire had cleared at last, pale sunlight warming the softened outlines of the landscape. Hermione paused outside the tall wrought-iron gates of Malfoy Manor, her fingers curled around the strap of her handbag, knuckles white. The rain had stopped days ago, but the grounds still smelled of wet earth and old stone. Moss glittered faintly along the garden walls. Everything was green and still and expectant.
She wasn’t nervous.
That’s what she told herself, anyway.
But why here?
A soft pop interrupted her thoughts. Mippy appeared with her usual eager curtsy. “Miss Granger, Mistress Narcissa is waiting in the drawing room. Please come.”
Hermione nodded, her throat dry. The Drawing room. Only hear the name of it made her skin crawl with shiver and fear. She followed the elf in silence.
Inside, the manor was pristine and quiet, with its usual air of timeless grandeur. The marble floors gleamed. The sconces flickered gently. She noticed a new arrangement of lilies on the table—white and gold, tasteful. Calming.
As Mippy opened the drawing room doors, Hermione inhaled once—bracing—then stepped through.
The first time Hermione stepped into the drawing room again, her breath caught in her throat.
It wasn’t the same room.
Sunlight flooded in through tall, open windows that once pressed shadows like prison bars across cold stone. The frost-streaked panes were gone—now replaced with enchanted glass that glowed softly with afternoon warmth. Pale curtains fluttered in a gentle breeze. The air smelled faintly of orange blossom and old parchment.
Where once there had been silence sharp as a blade, there was now a quiet hum of domestic life. A kettle whistled somewhere beyond the archway. A clock ticked, soft and unhurried. The floor, once dark and slick with polish, had been replaced by honeyed oak that creaked faintly under her step.
A low walnut table sat in the center, set with delicate china in pastel blues and gold. Surrounding it were wide armchairs draped in knitted throws and pastel cushions, soft with wear. A shelf of children’s books curved along one wall—Magical Creatures for Little Witches, The Tiny Thestral—their spines worn and well-loved.
Near the hearth, a small canvas tent stood like a sanctuary, painted with moons and dragons. A woven basket spilled over with plush toys: a curled-up niffler, a velvet unicorn with one eye missing, a winged Hungarian Horntail with silver-stitched scales. Wooden toy brooms and tiny enchanted cars peeked from beneath a fluffy rug.
The chandelier was gone. In its place, a dozen floating lanterns drifted through the air, casting a golden shimmer that moved like fireflies across the walls.
Her fingertips brushed a velvet sofa. No blood. No splinters. Just softness.
The memories still lived in the bones of the Manor.
But someone had built new skin over them.
Warmth. Light. A child’s laughter, imagined in the corners.
Not erasure.
Redemption.
Now she knew why Narcissa invited her to Malfoy Manor , especially in a drawing room. It is only to show her that they have changed and Draco Malfoy has changed.
Narcissa stood to greet her, regal in a mist-grey gown, her smile warm. “My dear Hermione. Thank you for coming.”
“Of course,” Hermione replied, meeting her gaze. “I appreciate your patience while I made my decision.”
“Not at all. These things require thought.”
Hermione reached into her bag and offered the parchment she’d written the night before. “I’m ready to accept the position. Effective immediately.”
Narcissa took it with a nod, her expression one of quiet satisfaction.
Then Hermione’s eyes drifted past her—and caught.
Draco Malfoy was leaning one shoulder against the mantel, half in shadow. He looked almost as if he’d been painted there: pale hair, sharp suit, the faintest suggestion of tension in his jaw. He didn’t move when she looked at him. Just tilted his head slightly, gaze cool and unreadable.
She hadn’t realized he would be here.
“I’ll arrange a briefing with the estate agents in Hampstead, we did not say yes to this agent yet,” Narcissa said lightly, oblivious—or pretending to be. “You can choose agents later. Perhaps you’ll want to see the grounds together. We’ll need full plans submitted by early spring.”
Hermione nodded. “I’ve been reviewing some accessibility specs and building codes. I have notes.”
“I knew you would.” Narcissa’s smile deepened. Then, delicately, she said, “I’ll leave you two to begin the groundwork.”
She swept from the room in a whisper of silk, and the door clicked gently shut behind her.
Hermione turned slowly to face him. “I take it you’re surprised.”
Draco straightened. “I thought you’d say no.”
“Clearly, you were wrong.”
A beat passed. He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. “Doesn’t happen often.”
“Must be disorienting.”
That earned a soft, derisive exhale—not quite a laugh. “Let’s get on with it then.”
Hermione walked to the table and laid out her folder. “I’ve outlined a few potential grant structures, prioritized Muggle accessibility in the budget tiers. We’ll need to bring in bilingual staff—some of the children will come from non-English speaking families.”
Draco stepped beside her, unrolling a copy of his own plans. Their shoulders didn’t touch, but the closeness was unmistakable—professional, but palpable.
“I spoke with a construction team that worked on St. Mungo’s east wing,” he said, his tone neutral. “They’re discreet and willing to collaborate with Muggle contractors. They’ve done sensory-friendly wards before.”
Hermione glanced at the parchment. “We’ll need a complete site assessment before the spring thaw.”
“I’m scheduling one next week. You’ll come?”
“I’ll need to.”
Another beat. Then—
“You said yes,” he said again, quietly.
“I did.”
“Why?”
She kept her eyes on the map. “Because it’s a good project. Because it matters.” She didn’t dare mention that one of the reason she decided to jump onto this boat is purely because of little Scorpius Malfoy. Just to be near the little boy again.
His voice stayed even. “That’s the official answer.”
She looked up at last. “It’s the true one.”
Their eyes held.
He said nothing. Just gave the faintest nod, and looked away.
Mippy returned with a tray of tea, her hands careful, quiet. “Shall I serve?”
“No, thank you,” Hermione said softly.
The elf bowed and disappeared again.
Draco moved to the opposite side of the table, putting a measured distance between them. “We’ll be doing site visits, meetings, fundraising events. You know what that means.”
“I’m not naive. Perhaps I know more than you Malfoy.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
Hermione gathered the edge of the parchment. “We’re co-directors, Malfoy. I don’t expect friendship. I expect results.”
He met her gaze again, more closely this time. “We’ll get them.”
The silence that followed was not awkward—but not quite easy, either. Like standing at the edge of something and choosing not to step forward.
Hermione turned another page in her notes. A sketch fell out—hand-drawn in crayon. A smiling sun, a little building with turrets. The initials “S.M.” in messy print at the bottom.
She stilled. “Is this Scorpius’s?” Everything about this little boy catch too much of her attention.
Draco didn’t look over. “He wants the classrooms to have ‘magic cushions.’ Whatever those are.”
Hermione smiled despite herself. “Probably beanbags.”
A small pause. Then—
“He asked if you were coming back.”
She looked up. “Did you tell him I was?”
“I told him you hadn’t decided yet. He said he hoped you would.”
The words sat between them, quiet and undemanding.
Hermione placed the drawing carefully back in her folder. “He’s a bright child.”
Draco’s voice was unreadable. “Too bright.”
Hermione exhaled. “Well. He won’t be the only one.”
Another silence. But this one had softened.
They returned to their notes, and time passed—half an hour, maybe more. Just two colleagues with overlapping goals. But every now and then, Hermione would catch the sound of his quill pausing. Of his gaze brushing her face and looking away again, like he was trying to solve a puzzle he hadn’t quite committed to yet.
When the grandfather clock in the corridor chimed the hour, Hermione closed her folder. “I should go.”
Draco nodded. “I’ll walk you out.”
They didn’t speak as they moved through the quiet halls. At the door, she paused.
His hand reached out—hesitated—then dropped.
“Thank you,” he said finally, “for giving this a chance.”
Hermione’s breath caught, not because of the words, but because they were sincere. Unadorned. Real.
She nodded. “We’re not building just a school. We’re building trust. That takes work.”
Draco didn’t smile.
But his silence was no longer guarded.
As the doors closed behind her, Hermione felt the press of something intangible settle over her skin.
Not attraction.
Not connection.
Something quieter.
The awareness of nearness.
And the slow, unrelenting gravity of what was beginning.
Chapter 5: Chapter 4 – “Paperwork & Passive Aggression” (Part 1)
Summary:
And somewhere in her bag, folded carefully between her documents, was a crayon drawing labeled “My New Mum.”
Notes:
My Love, how are you? I miss you guys so so much. Today I decided to be able to post and update all the fictions of me, as I know that next week I would have no time to edit and proofread. Thank you so so much for the support my love. Thank you so much for choosing to read my story. Thank you so much for the love you guys are giving me.
with lots of love,
Schmetterling_99
Chapter Text
When it comes to Paperwork or work in general, Hermione Granger can be very Passive Aggressive.
The first day of co-directing dawned with an edge in the air. Not quite a chill—but something sharper. Hermione stepped into the converted west wing of Malfoy Manor—the temporary headquarters for the project—with her briefcase in one hand and a steaming takeaway coffee in the other. She wore head to toe with Loro Piana. She wore sleek oatmeal-colored Loro Piana trousers that moved like liquid when she walked, paired with a cream blouse and a matching tailored coat. Casual. Comfortable. Devastatingly elegant.
She didn’t dress to impress him. Obviously not. But if he noticed, that was his problem.
Draco was already there when she arrived, standing over a large architectural blueprint spread across the central oak table. He was dressed in black slacks and a dove-grey button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a silver tie tossed carelessly on the table beside him. His hair was perfectly in place, except for one errant strand falling across his brow. A cruel trick of fate. Or nature.
“You’re on time,” he said dryly, without looking up.
“I live by a calendar, Malfoy,” Hermione replied, sliding into the seat opposite him. “Some of us had to learn structure to survive.”
He raised a brow. “And here I thought you survived on sheer will and righteous fury.”
“Still do,” she said sweetly, setting down her notes.
The morning began with a call from St Mungo’s. A liaison from the Mind-Healing Department, Healer Amara Welwyn, appeared in the Floo to walk them through data on cognitive disorders across wizarding children. Hermione took notes furiously. Draco leaned back, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in concentration.
By ten-thirty, they had a preliminary framework: seven year groups, ten to fifteen students per year. Classroom sizes adjusted to sensory sensitivity. Curriculum to be modular—adjusted for magical and cognitive variance. Diagnostic partnerships with Healers. Emotional support teams. Protective enchantments discreetly woven into the physical architecture.
It should have been productive.
But there was tension in every sentence.
“I’m not sure we should focus so much on standard OWL pacing in the first few years,” Hermione said, tapping her quill. “Some of these children will need far more foundational support before you even introduce transfiguration theory.”
Draco gave a light shrug. “I’m not suggesting we supposed to use OWL, I’m suggesting we believe they can rise to a challenge. Where normal OWL system might not pass. One size doesn’t fit all.”
Hermione frowned. “Belief without accommodation is negligence.”
Draco met her gaze coolly. “And over-accommodation can feel like pity.”
“You think I pity them?”
“I think you underestimate them.”
She exhaled sharply through her nose, pushing a stack of parchment toward him. “These are St Mungo’s case studies from the last five years. Read them. And if you still think this is about underestimation, I’ll brew you a flask of Veritaserum myself.”
He didn’t rise to the bait. Just flipped the first page open, gaze sharpening.
Minutes passed. No one spoke.
And then—
“I like that you included options for magically blind students,” he said quietly. “The raised braille language for the first time in wizarding history… It’s clever.”
She looked up, startled. “You read that section?”
She started to think that Draco Malfoy knew her too good somehow, before the conversation would be escalated into a fight, he chose to praise her with what she did.
And she kinda like it a lot.
“Twice. And added a few notes.” He slid a separate sheet forward. “There’s a supplier in Edinburgh—Runework Ltd.—who’ve been developing the first stage tactile spell, as you want to recruit also students in Europe who might not speak English, I suggest that we contact them to create Rune and spell in Braille for the students.”
Hermione scanned his annotations. They were meticulous. He was thoughtful.
She didn’t look at him. It was too embarrassed to admit at his face that he was brilliant. “That’s… good thinking.”
He leaned back slightly, brushing his thumb along the edge of the table. “I grew up in a house that only taught one way to learn. If you couldn’t sit still and recite Latin, you were stupid. Or defective. I’d rather Scorpius know there’s more than one way to be brilliant.”
She didn’t answer, then he added.
“That is why I found your idea of trying to remove the diversity in all type possible brilliant.”
Something inside her softened at that. But she didn’t show it. He was rhetorical like his mom. That was literally scary for her.
Instead, she made a point of straightening a pile of folders. “We’ll need an updated estimate on the potions lab equipment. I don’t want to assume your suppliers will cover the modified cauldrons.”
He snorted softly. “I’ll cover it.”
She glanced up. “Why?”
His gaze flicked to hers. “Because this isn’t a charity. It’s a future. And if you’re going to build the bones, I’ll pay for the blood.”
Hermione blinked at the unexpected poetry. But before she could reply, he abruptly stood and crossed to the whiteboard, changing the subject with brisk efficiency.
And yet—
She saw it. The way he rubbed the back of his neck when he thought too long. The way his eyes flicked down to her legs when he thought she wouldn’t notice. (She noticed.)
He was trying not to look at her. And failing spectacularly.
At one point, she reached for a scroll and her sleeve slipped. His eyes dipped briefly to the edge of her wrist, where a tiny freckle marked the inside curve.
Just a glance. But something unspoken shifted.
By mid-afternoon, she was seated at the window bench with her laptop open and a scroll of St Mungo’s therapy notes in her lap, one shoe kicked off without realizing it. Draco stood at the corner desk, quill scratching over a detailed letter to the Department of Magical Education.
“We’ll need a formal statement by Friday,” he said without looking up. “Something both Muggle and wizard audiences can digest.”
Hermione nodded absently. “I can draft it tonight.”
A pause.
“I could… help.”
She blinked. That was unexpected.
“Not that I doubt your skills,” he added quickly, eyes still on his parchment. “But I know how to phrase things. When I want to, and we co-direct, I don’t want you to carry all those tasks by yourself. I prefer to help when I can.”
She bit back a smile. “I’m sure you do, and thank you Malfoy.”
Just before Draco could reply back or say you’re welcome, a soft voice called out from the hallway. “Daddy? Are you still working?”
Hermione looked up in time to see Scorpius poke his head in. His white-blond curls were slightly mussed and he held a small dragon plushie in one hand.
Draco straightened. “My little star, what are you doing here?”
Narcissa followed into the room a moment later, elegant in cream wool, a small parcel tucked in her hand. “We were nearby. I thought we might entice your co-director into staying for dinner.”
Hermione blinked. “Oh, I don’t—”
“Please?” Scorpius padded into the room, eyes wide. “It’s my turn to pick dessert.”
Hermione hesitated. She was exhausted. And she didn’t do family dinners.
But Scorpius was already beaming at her like she’d just handed him a Hippogriff.
She relented. “All right. Just for a little while.”
“Brilliant!” he grinned, running ahead.
Narcissa turned to Draco with a knowing look. “Risotto and tiramisu, then?”
Draco sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Apparently.”
Hermione stood slowly, watching them go. She felt the warmth lingering in the room, like something had shifted without anyone saying it.
And in the place where friction had once been—
There was something quieter.
Still edged with thorns. But softer now.
⸻
Of course Narcissa Malfoy got her hooked with Italian Dinners
Dinner was served in the Knightsbridge townhouse, just as Narcissa promised—low-lit, fire-warmed, the scent of truffle risotto and fresh basil drifting through the air like an enchantment.
Hermione stood near the window of the formal dining room, sipping a glass of white wine while Scorpius played under the table with his enchanted dragon plushie, which periodically let out sleepy little puffs of smoke.
“This feels… extravagant for a weeknight,” Hermione murmured to Narcissa, as house-elves in crisp uniforms glided around setting places with silver and fine linen.
Narcissa smiled knowingly. “There’s no such thing as an ordinary weeknight when you’re trying to impress someone.”
Hermione arched a brow. “I hope you don’t mean me.”
“Of course not,” Narcissa said airily, then leaned in to whisper, “Though I did tell Mippy you like panna cotta. She is more than eager to do it for you with raspberry sauce.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “How would you know that?”
“Well, is that not what you always order when you eat in Italian restaurant together at Franco’s.”
“Oh I missed Franco’s, we should visit that again.”
Narcissa laughed with her effortless elegant style, before she added “I know you too well right?”
Before Hermione could respond, Draco walked in, freshly changed from his work clothes into something deceptively casual: a black cashmere jumper over a white oxford, collar unbuttoned, sleeves pushed to the elbows again. His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. There was something unfair about how effortless he looked. Again.
He barely glanced at her when he spoke. “We’re out of the ’95 Barolo.”
Narcissa sighed, “Then open the ’07. And my Darling, sit down before Mippy starts twitching.”
One thing Hermione Granger noticed is the nickname that Narcissa used to call her son, My darling, My love, My Dragon, now she knew why little Scorpius also has many cute nicknames.
Dinner was… surprisingly comfortable. The first course was caprese, the tomatoes sliced so thinly Hermione thought they might vanish on the fork. Then came beef carpaccio, which she declined, and wild mushroom risotto with truffle shavings—creamy and impossibly rich. Draco, naturally, had the bistecca alla fiorentina, and Scorpius had been granted a child-sized pizza with buffalo mozzarella and basil cut into star shapes.
Conversation wandered from work to Scorpius’s latest drawing obsession—pegasus stables—and then to Italian cities. Narcissa waxed poetic about Venice at dusk, and Hermione admitted she’d once spent a summer in Florence researching early wand-making guilds.
“That explains your pronunciation,” Draco said offhandedly as he cut into his steak.
She blinked. “Excuse me? Did you just comment on how I said Italian?”
“No not at all, I’m impressed. Your accent. When you said ‘bistecca alla fiorentina.’ It was… correct.”
She stared. “And You’re critiquing my Italian?”
He shrugged. “Just surprised.”
“Why?”
“You’re usually so precise, I assumed you’d sound like a textbook.”
Hermione set down her wineglass. “Is that your version of a compliment?”
“It’s my version of polite.”
Narcissa cut in smoothly, before Draco’s politeness would start a war. “Oh my dear Hermione, would you like more risotto or truffle oil?”
“Yes, please,” Hermione said without looking at Draco. “Before I use this fork for something impolite.”
A smothered laugh came from under the table.
“Scorpius,” Draco warned.
“Oii, Papa. I’m Sorry,” Scorpius whispered, eyes wide with delight. “But She’s funny.”
After dinner came tiramisu and panna cotta with raspberry glaze. Hermione ate hers slowly, half-listening to Narcissa discuss estate logistics with Draco—warding specialists, contractors, local permits—and nodding when prompted, though her eyes were mostly on Scorpius. He’d climbed onto the settee near the window, legs tucked under him, paper and colored pencils scattered at his feet.
He was drawing with fierce concentration.
When Hermione rose to gather her things, he bounded over. Little hands hold her soft hands.
“Wait! I made something!” She turned her attention fully to him before he ran to his playing room and brought something with him.
She turned just as he held up a piece of paper with both hands, eyes wide. His smile was so adorable when his eyes expected to see her happy reaction.
It was a drawing. Clearly crayon. Scorpius himself was in the middle, with a golden crown and a beaming smile. Draco stood tall beside him, in something resembling a suit. And next to them—
Hermione.
Wearing what appeared to be a floating gown and holding Scorpius’s hand.
Above them, in big glittery letters, he’d written:
“My New Mum.”
Hermione’s breath caught.
“Oh, Scorpius…” she said softly, crouching to his level. “That’s so lovely.”
“You like it?” he asked, beaming.
“I do,” she said. And meant it. Despite the sheer emotional ambush of it all. “You’re very talented.”
Draco froze where he stood.
Hermione didn’t look at him.
“Can I… Can I ask you something?” Scorpius whispered, leaning closer.
“Of course.”
His voice dropped to a conspiratorial hush. “Can you kiss me on the head? Like Mum did? And maybe do the hair thing too?” The way little scorpius subtly invaded her heart. He is too adorable to ignore, too smart to avoid and too cheeky to not make her laugh.
Hermione felt something twist deep in her chest. It was so innocent. So heartbreakingly earnest. Her maternal instinct always beamed when she was around him. Her right hand touched his soft hair.
She smiled, heart full. “Of course I can.”
She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead, and a bonus on his cheek, then gently carded her fingers through his soft curls. He let out a dreamy sigh, eyes fluttering closed.
Draco was still silent. Still watching.
“Thank you miss Hir-mieney, I like you a lot” and he hugged her back.
Hermione stood slowly, her hand lingering at Scorpius’s temple for a moment longer. “He’s a remarkable boy,” she said quietly.
Draco’s voice was low. “Yeah. He is.”
Narcissa moved to clear the plates, but her eyes lingered on Hermione, soft and pleased. “Shall I have Mippy prepare a guest room, dear?”
Hermione laughed. “Tempting. But I have a speech to write.”
Draco finally spoke again. “Want help?”
She glanced at him. “With the speech?” While little Scorpius is still in her arms. He nudged his head to her neck.
The scene was too intimate and too domestic, like they were a real couple with a son in her arms, and him asking to help her with her work.
He nodded. “With the late night. I’ll be drafting the accessibility policy anyway.”
Her lips twitched. “If you’re still offering when I floo you at midnight, I’ll believe it.”
A beat.
“Challenge accepted,” he said.
Hermione left not long after, Mippy offer to take Scorpius to bed, but then he sneaked from his bedroom to run to see her. Scorpius waving from the living room that adjoined to the dining room like he was sending off his mommy.
“You will come here again right?” He innocently asked. She glanced up to Draco Malfoy who stood at the doorway ready to send her home.
“We will see each other soon my dear, but I cannot promise we see each other here often.” She said that as a matter of factly. They are not even in a relationship. They are only co-directors in the same project, so when she wasn’t invited here, she would not be here often either.
However, Draco answered his son giving him hope when he hold the boy into his arms. “You want that little one? That Miss granger comes here often”
“Of course dada. I love her!” Oh kids at this age said things without filter. The word love came out of his mouth so easily. Hermione could not help it but to lightly brush his chubby cheek.
Again this scene was too domestic. Draco hold Scorpius. Hermione stood at the door touching his cheeks.
“Then I will make sure I invite miss granger here often”
“Perfect! I love you dada!”
“Thank you so much Malfoy for the invitation, and please tell Narcissa that I am glad for dinner at Franco’s with her again. And bye bye my dear. We will see each other soon” before the domestic scene ached her heart more, she decided to say goodbye. Narcissa was out of sight after she said she was going to make a call, and lastly she did not forget to touch little boy who stole her whole heart again. She could not resist to give him a kiss on the cheek.
“Bye Bye Miss Her-Mienay”
As the door shut behind her, she felt strangely light. Like she was walking away from something important—not out of it.
And somewhere in her bag, folded carefully between her documents, was a crayon drawing labeled “My New Mum.”
Chapter 6: Chapter 4 – “Paperwork & Passive Aggression” (Part 2)
Notes:
I didn't know that I should or would continue posting this story or not. That's why I stopped posting this for 2 weeks. I will give this a chance to post it here and if I lose my inspiration during the way, I might not continue writing it. I already have the stock of another 2 chapters which are a smut and an aftermath.
By the way, thank you so such my love for the support you guys are giving me. I am so into fashion, since I was 18 and my dad bought me the first LV bag for me, plus because I am Blackpink fans. I am Blink and I always support my girls as a brand ambassador. If anyone of you is Blink, please feel free to talk to me as well.
With lots of love,
Schmetterling_99
Chapter Text
The flat was silent when Hermione returned.
She slipped off her heels at the door, the soft thud of leather against the wood echoing into stillness. The lights dimmed with a lazy flick of her wand as she made her way to her study, sliding her coat from her shoulders and folding herself into the familiar rhythm of solitude.
But she didn’t open the St Mungo’s data packet first. Most of the first Batch students would come from the psychological department for kids in St.Mungo.
She opened her handbag and took out the drawing.
Scorpius’s crayon version of her had comically large eyes and a swirl of chestnut hair. Her gown floated like she was a princess or a ghost—maybe both. But the smile… The smile he’d drawn was bright, open. Safe.
Hermione set it gently against her bookshelf and stared at it for a moment, then sat down at her desk.
There was real work to do.
By 11:45 p.m., her screen was filled with half a draft of the outreach letter—one she would’ve considered serviceable had Draco Malfoy not offered to “help” with it. She was now considering taking the offer.
Which she was thinking in hypotheticals:
1. What would he write?
2. What phrasing would he use to seduce investors into caring about magically dyslexic seven-year-olds?
He’d be clever. Slightly manipulative. But very clever indeed like his son. Probably poetic at some godforsaken point.
She sighed, glancing at the clock.
11:48.
She should owl him.
Or not. Or should she?
Except she already was. A few minutes ago—and he came after she sent him an owl.
She told herself that she wasn’t that desperate to meet the father of baby Scorpius.
With a slightly guilty flick of her wand, her fireplace flared green and Draco’s study appeared beyond the flames. She sent him an Owl, which she needed to admit that she would see him in her flat rather than him bringing her with a floo to his study in Knightsbridge.
He was still working.
Still in that infernal grey jumper, sleeves pushed high, his face partially shadowed by the desk lamp as he scribbled onto parchment with his fountain quill. But damn he looked so fine from this angle.
He was biting the end of it. Furrowed brow. Bottom lip caught between his teeth.
He didn’t look up right away, so she cleared her throat gently.
“You need help, I see.”
He startled, blinked, and then his mouth curved in that maddening smirk. “Well, well. I was beginning to think you’d lost your nerve.”
Hermione stepped through the Floo, brushing dust from her sleeve. “I thought about it.” Hermione tried to brush it off and keep the discussion as short as possible. She didn’t want to hear him blah blah about why she needed help and why she was here.
“I’d expect no less.”
They fell into the flow of work easily—almost too easily. He offered notes, she argued a few points, they merged two drafts, debated the difference between “inclusive” and “equitable,” then descended into a spirited (and slightly ridiculous) conversation about whether to use Muggle terms like “learning disability” in the wizarding press.
“It has clarity,” Hermione insisted. “We need the public to understand the stakes.”
Draco leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “It also sounds like an admission of weakness.”
“It’s not weakness. It’s diagnosis.”
“It’s branding.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re stubborn.”
She threw a quill at him. It bounced harmlessly off his chest and rolled across the table.
“Charming,” he said dryly, retrieving it.
But he was smiling.
When their work was finally done—nearly 1 a.m.—Hermione stretched her arms above her head with a groan. Her blouse pulled slightly at the waist, and Draco’s eyes flicked there before immediately, absolutely not subtly, snapping back to her face.
Hermione blinked.
He said nothing.
But she noticed the pulse in his neck.
“You should sleep,” she said, standing.
“You too.”
“Doubt I’ll manage.”
“Why?”
She hesitated, then answered honestly. “My mind doesn’t slow down easily.”
He tilted his head, studying her. “Still haunted by Weasley?”
Hermione’s breath caught. “That is not a good joke Malfoy.”
The question wasn’t sharp. Wasn’t even accusatory. Just… quiet.
“Well, I’m not haunted, not at all” she said after a moment. “After divorce, he meant nothing to me. My mind doesn’t slow down easily because I am workaholic, please don’t blame me with that face, and sometimes silence is too loud.”
A long pause. His gaze didn’t shift.
“I know what that’s like.” This time not with the hint of the amused tone like before.
She looked at him.
He didn’t elaborate. But his voice was rough around the edges when he finally said, “It took me a long time to stop thinking the war would find me again. Every time things were quiet, I expected something to break. And also after Astoria left, it was hard for me to be whole again.”
Hermione’s throat tightened.
“Did it?” she asked.
He didn’t look away. “Sometimes. But sometimes I just broke myself first. Only because of Scorpius. My boy makes me whole again.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then, softly, she said, “You’re different, Draco. You are a father now and you are a really good one.”
His smile was wry. “You make that sound like a compliment, but thank you anyway.”
“It is.” She smiled softly back at him. The first time in weeks that they dint fight when they worked alone together.
She turned to go, pausing in the fireplace, one hand braced against the carved mantel. “Scorpius drew me as his new mum.”
“I saw.” He nodded.
“He asked me to kiss his forehead.”
Draco exhaled slowly. “He never asks anyone for that.”
Hermione looked back at him, surprised. “Not even Astoria?”
His jaw worked for a moment before he answered. “Not since she left.”
Her chest ached. “I’m sorry.”
He nodded, but there was a distant glaze in his eyes. “Hey, no, you have no need to be sorry. I’m thankful he asked someone like you who gave what he asked for. In fact, Astoria left him when he was too young. He doesn’t remember her properly anymore. Just fragments. Things like her scent. Her voice when she read him to sleep.”
“And you?”
His eyes met hers. “That’s the problem. I remember everything. I remember my mistake, remember what I did, and remember how I destroy a family for scorpius.”
Hermione stepped closer to the hearth. “You’re doing well, you know. With him. The pain will be better with time.” She said that to him, but much like to herself.
“He deserves better.” She nodded at what he said. The smile of scorpius is so pure and charming.
“He thinks you’re everything.”
Draco’s mouth parted, then closed again.
Hermione stepped into the green flame.
“I think it’s already too late now. I need to go. Good night, Draco.”
“Good night, Granger.”
And just before she vanished, she heard him murmur, just loud enough—
“Sweet dreams.”
⸻
The afternoon tea strategy from Narcissa and the new mum Tension
The next morning, Hermione arrived at the manor with a bouquet of fatigue, caffeine, and questions she wasn’t sure she had any right to ask.
She wore charcoal-grey Loro Piana trousers today, with a black cashmere turtleneck and gold-buttoned blazer. Her hair was tied into a low knot at the nape of her neck—sleek, efficient, untouchable. It had always been her armor.
The manor’s west wing was already humming when she entered. Papers rustled. Spell diagrams floated mid-air. Elves flitted in and out carrying tea trays and ink refills.
Draco was reviewing schematics with a junior architect when she walked in. He glanced at her over his shoulder, just once—but it was enough. His gaze skimmed the edge of her waist, then quickly returned to the blueprint like nothing had happened.
But she saw it. Again.
He was failing. Spectacularly.
“Morning,” she said, setting down her bag beside the map board.
“You’re late.”
“I’m seven minutes early.”
Draco said nothing. But his mouth twitched slightly.
Hermione busied herself with a new file: tentative staffing lists from St Mungo’s. The Mind-Healing Department had identified eight potential specialists for magical learning disorders, all of whom had agreed to consult part-time during the school’s first year. Most were retired or semi-retired. One was a Squib with two Muggle psychology degrees. Hermione highlighted her name.
“She’s a Squib,” Draco said suddenly, reading over her shoulder.
“She’s brilliant,” Hermione replied. “And she knows how to integrate neurodiverse Muggle frameworks. That could be vital for Muggle-borns.”
Draco hummed. “Controversial, but useful. If we can handle the press.”
Hermione arched a brow. “You suddenly worried about bad press?”
“No,” he said, cool and calm. “I’m worried about you getting crucified in Witch Weekly for hiring a non-magical healer. I rather enjoy it when they go after me.”
Hermione laughed despite herself. “You would.”
By noon, they’d revised the budget, confirmed their first round of prospective interviews, and begun outlining the physical layout of the school: an enchanted garden courtyard for calming exercises, soundproofed classrooms for overstimulated students, charm-safe potions labs, and sensory libraries lined with Braille-like glyphs.
They worked well together. Too well.
And that was its own kind of problem.
Just before lunch, Narcissa swept in.
“Darling,” she said to Draco, with her usual regal affection, “the caterer for the board luncheon cancelled. I need your signature on the revised wine order—and Hermione dear, I hope you’ll join us this evening? We’re tasting the new truffle risotto.”
Hermione opened her mouth, about to decline—again.
But Scorpius appeared behind Narcissa, clutching a drawing in one hand and a fistful of grapes in the other.
“I drew a new picture!” he announced proudly, running to her.
Hermione smiled. “Did you? What’s this one of?”
“You and Daddy. And Mippy. And me! We’re having a picnic. See?”
He pointed to the crayon mess. Four oddly-shaped figures under a crooked tree. The ‘Hermione’ figure wore a pink crown. Draco had what appeared to be a wand and a book. Mippy was smiling. Scorpius had made himself with a lion’s tail.
Hermione crouched beside him. “Is that a crown on my head?”
“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “Because you’re queen of the picnic.”
Draco groaned behind them. “We’re going to need therapy and art school.”
Hermione smiled, but her eyes lingered on the way Scorpius leaned into her without hesitation. The way his little hand curled around hers, sticky grape juice and all.
Narcissa looked on like a satisfied prophetess.
“Do say yes to dinner,” she said. “We’ll have wine. And tiramisu. And I’ve just received a parcel of that Ligurian olive oil you like.”
Hermione hesitated.
But Scorpius was already tugging her hand. “Please, Hermione? Please come again?”
Draco’s voice cut in, lower. “It’s fine if you don’t want to.”
He said it without emotion. But something in his eyes flickered.
Hermione inhaled, then smiled faintly. “I’ll come. For the risotto. And the crown.”
Scorpius beamed. “Yes!”
That evening, the townhouse in Knightsbridge was warm with laughter and the aroma of roasting garlic. Mippy had outdone herself. A Caprese salad with sun-warmed tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella was followed by paper-thin tuna carpaccio instead of beef as last time Hermione said she didn’t like to eat raw beef, and grilled baby artichokes. The main course arrived: white truffle risotto for the women, white truffle tagliatelle for Draco, and margherita pizza with extra cheese for Scorpius.
Dessert was both vanilla with raspberry sauce and tiramisu, because Scorpius couldn’t choose. Mippy solved it by plating both and declaring a “pudding duel.”
At one point, Hermione found herself laughing. Properly laughing. Narcissa told a story about Lucius trying to wear Muggle chinos and fainting at the sight of elastic waistbands. Draco looked horrified. Scorpius accidentally snorted milk.
And then—
As they sat with tea after dinner, Scorpius reached into his pocket and pulled out another drawing. This one was neater. More deliberate.
It was Hermione again.
But this time, the word written at the bottom wasn’t just “Hermione.”
It was Mum. He wrote that twice now.
Scorpius handed it to her like an offering, wide-eyed. “I know you’re not really my mum. But… could you still kiss my forehead sometimes? Like last time again. I like it so much. It gives me sweet dream.“
Hermione’s throat went tight.
She nodded.
And without saying a word, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead, brushing his hair back like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Draco watched the whole thing, frozen. Like he couldn’t breathe.
Narcissa said nothing. Just lifted her teacup with that faintly pleased expression.
Later, as Hermione prepared to leave, Draco walked her to the door.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said quietly.
Hermione turned to him. “I wanted to.”
He looked at her for a long moment. And then said the one thing she hadn’t expected.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being gentle with him.”
Hermione’s heart swelled, though she kept her face composed. “You’re doing all the hard parts, Draco.”
“I’m used to hard.”
Hermione tilted her head, studying him.
“Maybe you don’t have to be.”
A pause stretched between them. The kind that could end in silence… or something else.
But she stepped back before it could go further.
“Goodnight, Malfoy.”
“Goodnight, Granger.”
This time, she didn’t Floo away.
She walked. Into the London night, her heels clicking softly, her heart caught somewhere between tension and tea leaves—both of which had started to say the same thing.
Something was changing.
And neither of them knew how to stop it.
Chapter 7: Chapter 5 – “The Gala Dinner” Part 1
Notes:
Hellooo my beloved loves!
I’m back! I’ve missed you all so, so much—welcome back to my little world of Dramione. I cannot wait to drop another chapter and also introduce you to some brand-new Dramione stories I’ve been cooking up. This break was way too long and honestly… exhausting.
So, the reason for my disappearance? Ridiculous. I got my laptop back in the post this morning, but a couple of weeks ago I was vacuuming, music playing on my laptop, minding my own business… when my two cats decided it was the perfect time to go full chasing across my desk. They ran straight over my keyboard, and the laptop just… shut down. Dead.The Mac technician spent days trying to figure out if it was a hardware failure, some sneaky virus, or something technical and mysterious. But nope—it was just a keyboard malfunction caused by my cats’ high-speed chase scene.
Chapter Text
The evening was silk-stained and starlit, the air over Mayfair humming with summer’s last warm breath. Outside the mirrored glass of the Avalon Ballroom, a long line of carriages and enchanted autos glided to a stop, each one delivering someone more important—or more self-important—than the last.
Hermione Granger adjusted the strap of her black Chanel cocktail dress as she stepped onto the carpeted steps. The fabric skimmed her knees in perfect proportion, hugging her in all the right places without ever veering into vulgarity. Sleek. Sharp. Devastating. The square neckline exposed just enough collarbone to stir speculation. Her heels clicked like declarations as she moved, impossibly high, impossibly thin. She’d left her curls half-tamed tonight, glossy waves falling over one shoulder.
She always looked lovely—though she’d never say so aloud. But tonight… tonight, there was something else. A shift in atmosphere when she entered the room. She always wore perfume, usually Jo Malone, crisp and elegant. But tonight she’d chosen something new. White neroli and floral green tea beneath warm vanilla and a whisper of skin musk. Clean, but sensual. Feminine, but not demure. She hadn’t known why she picked it until now.
Draco Malfoy stood at the top of the steps, dressed in all black: tailored robes with structured shoulders, a pressed shirt unbuttoned just enough at the throat to be dangerous, and dragonhide boots polished to a soft gleam. His only concession to color was the silver of his cufflinks—and the way his pale hair caught the low lantern light like spun silk.
His gaze found her instantly.
And didn’t waver.
She swore she saw his throat move when she stepped closer.
“You clean up well,” he said, his voice low and lazy—deceptively so.
Hermione offered a wry smile. “what kind of compliment, Malfoy. You don’t look entirely awful yourself.”
He offered his arm. “Shall we?”
She paused for a breath—long enough to feel the weight of the moment, of him—then took it.
Inside, the ballroom shimmered. Candlelight floated in glass orbs above them, the ceiling enchanted to resemble a dusk sky strung with diamonds. Marble columns bloomed with roses charmed to remain at peak blush. A quartet of violinists played near the fountain, each note rippling over the crowd like silk in water.
The elite of magical Britain had gathered: Ministry heads, old pure-blood families, foreign ambassadors, high-ranking Healers, eccentric artists and socialites with glamoured cheekbones and questionable titles. All had come to support—or at least be seen supporting—their school initiative.
Hermione couldn’t help but notice how many eyes followed them as they passed.
“Try not to hex anyone,” Draco murmured in her ear as they passed Blaise Zabini, who looked the picture of lazy wealth in sapphire velvet and lifted his champagne flute with an amused smirk.
She tilted her head closer. “Only if someone touches my dress.”
“You do look a bit…fatal,” he murmured. “Like you might murder someone with those heels.”
“I might.”
“Will you step on me if I ask nicely?”
She choked on her laugh. “Draco.”
“I’m only halfway joking.”
They wove through the crowd like shadow and flame, fielding toasts, pledges, and thinly veiled curiosity. Hermione recognized at least three Daily Prophet correspondents in sequined gowns, pretending not to eavesdrop as she shook hands with a member of the Wizengamot.
More than once, someone said, “You’re working with Malfoy?” with enough awe and suspicion to leave a bitter aftertaste.
Draco handled it all with a kind of effortless precision—cool where she was warm, disarming where she was sharp. Together, they made an oddly elegant contrast: a gleaming knife and a velvet glove.
Their table, draped in black linen and set with crystal place cards, offered a view of the dais and the enchanted screens displaying progress reports on the school. They’d hardly taken their seats when Hermione crossed her legs beneath the table—and caught Draco’s eyes flick down.
“Your eyes are showing,” she said lightly behind her wine glass.
He didn’t even pretend to be ashamed. “That’s hardly my fault. Those legs ought to come with a Ministry license.”
She gave him a sideways look. “And what would the regulations say?”
“Restricted use. Dangerous in close proximity. May cause cardiac arrest.”
She snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m very serious about public safety.”
His hand brushed her knee under the table—light, casual. Intentional.
It lingered.
Conversations blurred into the clinking of forks and distant bursts of applause. A slideshow of architectural renderings faded in and out behind the speakers. They sipped wine, clapped on cue, nodded at donors. But beneath the surface—
The air between them shimmered with awareness.
His hand didn’t move from her leg. At one point, he tapped his thumb—barely perceptible—against the soft inside of her knee. A rhythm, almost. She felt it in her spine.
She leaned closer as someone asked him a question across the table. Her arm brushed his. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the careful stillness.
She wasn’t sure if it was the wine, or the candlelight, or him. But something made her brave.
She let her fingertips drift to the back of his hand. Just a touch. Soft. Barely there.
She traced a line along the raised vein at his wrist. Circled it with her nail.
He went still.
“Don’t do that,” he said, almost too quietly.
“Do what?”
“That thing you’re doing.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Yes, you are.”
She smiled into her wine glass and didn’t stop.
His fingers flexed.
“Don’t do that,” he said again, this time under his breath.
“I’m just being polite.”
“No,” he murmured, voice low and dark. “You’re being cruel.”
She smiled, didn’t look at him. Just kept tracing.
He leaned in, his voice close. “You don’t know what you’re playing with.”
Hermione tilted her head. “Don’t I?”
He said nothing.
But his hand under the table moved. Up her leg. Just a bit. A warning. Or a promise.
Later, when the lights dimmed slightly and the music rose, the ballroom floor filled with slow-dancing couples. String instruments shimmered like a spell cast in a minor key.
Draco rose from his chair and held out a hand.
“Dance with me.”
Hermione stared at it, her pulse in her throat. “I didn’t think we were dancing.”
“We are now.”
She hesitated.
Then—damn him—she let him take her hand.
He guided her onto the floor with quiet confidence, one hand slipping to her waist, the other curling around hers like a vow. They moved in time, slow and careful, bodies not touching but close. Too close. Not close enough.
He leaned in, voice at her ear. “Tell me what your perfume is.”
“Why?”
“So I can buy it. Bottle it. Get drunk on it when you’re not around.”
Her heart stumbled.
“You don’t usually sound sentimental.”
“I’m not,” he said, breath hot against her skin. “But you’re not exactly usual.”
She dared look up.
His eyes burned.
And in that moment—just one quiet, heady second—she thought he might kiss her right there on the ballroom floor.
Instead, he did something worse.
He brushed his mouth close to her temple. Not a kiss. Not quite.
A breath.
A promise.
When the music slowed to silence, they didn’t speak. They didn’t move.
They just stood there.
And Hermione thought, If you touch me again, I won’t make it to the car.
-----------------------------------
The car was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that hummed with all the things they weren’t saying.
They sat side by side in the back of a sleek black magical town car, separated by little more than shadow and nerve. Mayfair drifted past the windows—streetlamps blurring like memory, the city wrapped in a velvet hush. A faint, enchanted instrumental played from the console, some jazz piece she couldn’t name. Her skin still smelled like wine and rosewater. His coat still carried the ghost of her perfume.
She could feel him beside her.
Not touching.
Not quite.
But aware of him in the deepest, oldest part of her body.
“You didn’t kiss me in there,” she said quietly, eyes forward.
Draco didn’t look at her. “No.”
“Why?”
“Because if I had,” he said, voice low, “I wouldn’t have stopped.”
She swallowed.
The silence swelled again—thick, ravenous.
She turned just enough to glance at him from the corner of her eye. “So what happens now?”
He did look at her then. Slowly. Directly.
“You tell me.”
His voice was calm, but there was something taut behind it—like piano wire stretched to the edge of sound. She saw the flex of his thighs beneath his robes, the clench of his jaw, the way his pulse beat like a drum in his throat.
She was not a girl anymore.
She was a woman who had walked through fire. Who had survived violence disguised as love. Who had rebuilt herself with bloodied hands. Who knew exactly what she wanted.
And what she wanted—right now—was him.
His heat. His mouth. His control, undone.
Hermione leaned in.
“I want to know what it feels like,” she said softly.
He blinked. “What does?”
“Being touched by someone who actually gives a damn.”
Something in him cracked.
Or maybe it finally snapped into place.
His mouth was on hers before the car even rolled to a stop.
No warning. No hesitation.
Just yes.
He kissed her like it had been killing him not to. Like the taste of her was oxygen. His hands tangled in her curls, angling her mouth so he could go deeper, slower, hungrier. The kiss was wet, open, honest. A confession. A claim.
He kissed like he was starving.
But he touched her like she might shatter.
When they broke apart, her lipstick was ruined, her breath hitched.
Draco cupped her jaw. “Tell me to stop.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“Then say it.”
“Don’t stop.”
Outside, the car came to a halt.
He looked toward the hotel, then back at her. “Come upstairs with me.”
She nodded.
Simple. Direct.
No games. No power plays. Just… truth.
They moved like magnets through the gilded lobby, into the lift, up eleven silent floors. She wasn’t nervous. She was alight. And she suspected—as the lift doors slid open—that he’d been burning longer than she had.
The suite smelled of smoke and cedarwood. Dim, expensive, elegant.
But all she noticed was him.
Draco locked the door with a flick of his wand and turned to her. He didn’t pounce. He didn’t push. He simply waited. Watching her with eyes gone dark and aching.
Hermione stepped toward him, her hand finding his chest.
His heart was racing.
She reached for the clasp of her dress.
His hand stopped hers.
“Let me,” he murmured.
His voice was low, reverent.
She let her arms fall. Let him undress her like a secret.
Draco stepped behind her and undid each hidden fastening with aching patience. Her spine arched under the graze of his knuckles. When the final clasp slipped, the dress puddled to the floor.
She stood before him in black lace and heels. Nothing more.
He exhaled sharply—like he’d seen something divine.
“You’re going to ruin me.”
She turned and smiled, slow and wicked. “Good.”
Then she kissed him.
No patience. No pretense.
He lifted her effortlessly, carried her to the bed like she was breakable, like she was his most fragile truth. His mouth claimed hers as they sank into the sheets, his hands greedy and reverent all at once—learning her, mapping her, memorising her.
He undressed with quiet control—shirt, belt, boots, trousers—until he stood bare above her.
And Hermione stared.
His cock was thick and flushed, already weeping at the tip. Long, heavy. Beautiful.
Something inside her clenched with anticipation. With want.
Draco knelt between her legs and hooked his fingers into her knickers.
“May I?” he asked, voice low.
“Please,” she whispered.
He slid them down, slow as sin, and tossed them aside. Then he settled between her thighs, hands cradling her hips, breath hot against her cunt.
And then—he worshipped.
He parted her folds with his thumbs and licked her like a man dying for salvation. Long, slow strokes of his tongue from slick entrance to aching clit. Reverent. Steady.
Not teasing. Not performative.
Just pure, molten devotion.
Her head fell back with a gasp.
“Oh—Draco—”
He groaned into her, the sound vibrating through her, and sucked her clit into his mouth. Her hips jerked. His hands held her open, firm and gentle, thumbs pressing circles into her thighs while his tongue moved like he knew her body better than she did.
When he slid a long finger inside her, she moaned.
When he added another and curled them just right—
She shattered.
Her orgasm tore through her with a cry, back arched, thighs trembling, cunt clenching wildly around his fingers. He didn’t stop. Licked her through it, tongue slow and gentle on her clit until she whined, overstimulated.
He kissed the inside of her thigh as she came down.
“You taste like heaven,” he murmured.
Hermione pulled him up, kissed him fiercely, tasting herself on his lips. Her body felt hot and slippery and aching.
His cock pressed hard against her thigh.
she murmured to cast a contraceptive charm.
He flicked his wand blindly over them both. Then he settled between her legs again, thick cock brushing her slick entrance.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
She did.
And he began to press inside.
He went slow. Excruciatingly slow. Her cunt stretched around him inch by aching inch. He was thick—almost too thick—and her body trembled under the pressure.
He stroked her hair, kissed her jaw, whispered filth and praise against her lips.
“Such a good girl for me… Christ, you’re so fucking tight… Just a little more… That’s it, love… Breathe for me…”
Her nails clawed into his shoulders.
“Oh—fuck—Draco—”
He buried his cock to the hilt with a low groan, sweat beading on his brow. He held still, deep inside her, letting her adjust.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered. “You take me so fucking well.”
She whimpered, legs wrapping around his waist, cunt fluttering with every pulse of his cock.
“Move,” she begged. “Please.”
And he did.
Long, deep strokes.
Each thrust measured. Intentional.
He fucked her like she was priceless—like this wasn’t sex but devotion. A sacred act. A vow.
She clung to him, breath ragged in his ear.
“You’re ruining me,” she gasped.
“Good,” he growled.
Her second orgasm came like a slow tidal wave, building, cresting, crashing—her entire body quaking as she came around him with a cry, cunt squeezing him so tight he swore and slammed in deep.
He followed with a groan—hips jerking, cock twitching, spilling inside her in hot, endless pulses.
They lay tangled, sweaty and silent. Hearts beating in unison.
Hermione blinked up at the ceiling, her body boneless, her soul still hovering somewhere outside her skin.
“So that’s what it feels like,” she whispered.
Draco looked at her, hair wild, lashes damp. “What?”
“Being wanted. Not…used.”
He touched her face, thumb tracing her cheek.
“You’re not a thing to be used, Granger,” he said softly. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted properly.”
And this time, when he kissed her—
It wasn’t hungry.
It was grateful.
Chapter 8: Chapter 5 – “The Gala Dinner” Part 2
Notes:
Hallo all my beloved loves, how are you guys?
I missed you guys so much and your comment, hits, kudos meant the world to me. I didn't even know that the story that I once wanted so bad to delete received so much love like this. Thank you so so for inspiring me everyday my love.
Thank you so so much for all your love that you guys have given me. Thank you for loving Scorpius, Draco, Hermione and Narcissa.As a gift for your love, today I will post this fiction 2 times. I'm now editing and proofreading chapter 6, so I think I will be ready to post it around noon.
please feel free to talk to me, share your thoughts and leaves comments my love.
with lots of love,
Schmetterling_99
Chapter Text
Soft morning light spilled through the tall windows, painting the room in gentle golds and pale ambers. Dust motes drifted lazily in the quiet warmth of the suite, suspended like tiny stars caught in a sunbeam. The city beyond was waking, a faint hum of distant traffic and murmured life threading through the stillness.
Hermione lay curled on her side, silk sheets tangled around her legs like a soft embrace. Her skin still held the warmth of the night before, flushed and alive beneath the crisp white fabric. Eyes closed, she listened to the slow, steady rhythm of Draco’s breathing beside her, the comforting cadence of a heartbeat just inches away.
Damn—this woman is gorgeous.
He was awake before her, she could tell. A subtle weight pressed gently against her back—his body careful and protective, as if afraid to shatter the fragile peace they’d made. Such tenderness was new, unexpected, like he was cradling something precious.
A soft rustle of fabric broke the silence.
How can one night made so much impact on him like that.
He wanted more, he needed more of her.
Seemed like an addiction.
Was that an impact of Hermione Granger, or was that an impact of his restraint?
Draco slipped from the bed with the quiet grace of a shadow, careful not to disturb her or the tangled sheets. The soft thump of his footsteps faded, and for a moment, Hermione was left alone with the steady hum of the city waking beyond the glass.
She breathed him in—the faint scent of his cologne mingled with something uniquely him, a warmth settling deep into her chest.
Then he returned, carrying a silver tray balanced with perfect care. On it rested a small pot of tea, its porcelain lid lifting gentle steam into the morning air; a plate piled with golden croissants, flaky and buttery; ripe strawberries, their skin gleaming bright red; and a tiny dish of thick clotted cream, rich and inviting.
His eyes met hers, wide and a little awed, as if still not quite believing she was really there beside him. His gaze held quiet wonder, like she was a fragile dream made flesh.
“You’re here,” he said softly, voice thick with something tender and unspoken, reverence woven through every word.
Hermione smiled, sleepy and warm, too full of the moment for words.
He sat beside her, careful not to disturb the sheets tangled around her legs, and set the tray on the low table. The gentle clink of porcelain sounded like a secret between them.
Then, without warning but with perfect timing, he kissed her—slow, reverent, like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted to taste again. His lips moved over hers with a softness that made her breath catch and a shiver trail down her spine.
“I could get used to this,” he murmured against her skin, voice low and husky, fingers tracing gentle circles on her bare arm, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.
Hermione’s pulse fluttered, fragile hope blooming inside her, but she held her silence, afraid to speak it aloud. Hope had always been dangerous before.
He slid closer, the heat of his body grounding her in the soft morning light. His presence was steady and sure, like an anchor in a world that often spun too fast.
Their hands found each other, fingers entwining naturally, a quiet promise in their touch. Words felt unnecessary—this was a conversation in breath and skin, a language only they spoke.
Then Draco shifted with deliberate care, trailing slow kisses down her neck and collarbone, worshipping her with devotion that left her breathless. His lips whispered against her skin, reverent and worshipful, as if discovering a holy secret.
He wasn’t just hungry for her body — he revered it.
His hands cupped her face with a fierce gentleness, eyes dark with longing and softness both. Then he lowered himself back onto the bed, the heat of his skin melting into hers, blurring the line where he ended and she began.
Their mouths met once more, slow and molten, and the world narrowed until there was nothing but the two of them—soft sighs, whispered names, mingled breath and desire. The silk sheets whispered beneath their movements, the city outside fading into a distant murmur.
When his hands found the lacy edges of her underwear, he paused, searching her eyes for permission—a silent question asked and answered with a slow nod.
He eased the fabric down her legs with reverent care, leaving her bare and trembling beneath him, every nerve alive and waiting.
Draco’s mouth traced a path from her inner thigh to the curve of her hip, fingers caressing, worshipping, memorizing every inch of her skin. His touch was gentle but sure, like a prayer said on bare skin.
He slid between her legs, lips brushing over her swollen clit with slow, deliberate care, coaxing soft moans from her parted lips. His tongue was patient, skilled—each flick and swirl a promise, a vow made without words.
Hermione’s back arched, hands tangling in his thick, silken hair as waves of pleasure rolled through her like warm, crashing tides. The world contracted to the feel of him—the softness of his mouth, the gentle command of his hands.
“Draco,” she whispered, voice trembling as she clung to the feeling, “please…”
He flicked his tongue faster, sucking gently on her clit, his fingers sliding inside her cunt with slow, sure strokes. His mouth and hands moved in harmony, worshipping her with reverence and hunger.
When she came, it was slow and deep, her body shuddering beneath his loving touch. He held her close, breath warm against her skin, voice a low murmur.
“Good girl,” he whispered, possessive but tender, the words settling into her like a secret she wasn’t sure she wanted to keep.
She swallowed hard, heart pounding with a mix of fear and longing. Before she could answer, he kissed her again—soft and slow, then slid his length inside her, filling her with a gentle, reverent fullness that made her gasp.
He shushed her with a kiss, fingers threading through hers, grounding her.
His thrusts were slow, patient, each one a question. Hermione responded with sighs and trembling hands, riding the wave of sensation he built with careful attention.
“God, Hermione,” he groaned, voice thick with need. “You’re so perfect. So beautiful like this.”
His pace grew, careful but insistent, every movement an act of worship, every sound from her lips a blessing.
They moved together in a sacred rhythm, until her body tensed, trembling with a fierce, wild release that spilled over them both.
Draco groaned low in his chest, following her over the edge with a desperate, shuddering climax, his seed filling her with a sacred warmth.
They lay tangled, bodies slick with sweat, breathing heavy in the soft morning light. Time seemed to pause, wrapping them in a cocoon of fragile intimacy.
But as the heat of the moment settled, reality crept in—soft, cold, inevitable.
Hermione pulled back slightly, the sudden coolness prickling her skin, pulling her from the warmth they’d made.
“I—” she began, voice trembling, uncertain.
Draco’s gaze searched hers, steady and unyielding, willing her to trust him.
“It was just one night,” she whispered, the words a fragile shield she wrapped around herself. “Physical. An accident.”
His lips pressed gently to her forehead, slow and sure, a silent plea.
“I don’t want it to be just that,” he murmured.
She looked away, swallowing the ache blooming in her chest, the pull of something dangerous and new.
“Maybe you don’t,” she said softly, voice barely more than a breath. “But I do.”
The silence stretched between them, heavy with everything left unsaid, with every possibility too terrifying to speak aloud.
Draco’s fingers brushed her cheek, gentle as a caress, grounding her, reminding her she wasn’t alone.
“If this was a mistake,” he said softly, “then it’s the best one I’ve ever made…..Hermione—stay for another night.”
Hermione closed her eyes, hesitated, fighting the pull of the moment, the dangerous hope in his voice threatening to unravel her carefully built walls.
She kissed him once more as an answer yes for another night—soft, fleeting—but it was also a goodbye and a promise tangled in one delicate motion.
And as the morning sun rose higher, warming the room and casting long shadows across their tangled sheets, they lay together, caught between what was and what might never be.
Chapter 9: Chapter 6 – “Rules & Regret” Part 1
Summary:
My love, I know now Hermione is a bit chaotic. it was a mind-blowing sex and Hermione has a rule that she won't sleep with her colleague or co-worker......so let her have a bit of her confusion, chaos and withdrawal, but Please believe in our daddy Draco. He knew what he was doing.
Notes:
As promised to you guys my love.
I would like to apologize for the delay, all day I've tried, literally tried to post a fiction on here but the server was keeping having an error, which made me unable to post the new chapter successfully.However, here I am, if you get a chance to read, it means the post was done successfully. Finger crossed.
Thank you for loving daddy and please rooting for Daddy Draco to be able to win a new mommy for little Scorpius.Please feel free to leave comments and talk to me my love. I will check all the comments tomorrow, and reply each and every one of you when the server is more stable.
With lots of love,
Schmetterling_99
Chapter Text
Hermione POV
She stayed the night, slept until afternoon in his arms yesterday, had room service dinner that he ordered. She was in a bathrobe and he was with his tousled annoyingly perfect platinum blonde hair.
So domestic
It was so intimate yet dangerously domestic.
She just had a one night with Papa of little Scorpius.
The morning light filtered in pale and hesitant through the tall windows of the charity office, but inside Hermione felt nothing but cold. The heat of last night, the memory of Draco’s touch, seemed to have drained away, leaving behind a fragile tension that settled heavy in her chest.
She stood before the glass door, fingers tightening briefly around the handle before she pushed it open and stepped inside, her usual calm composure folded neatly around her like armor. Professionalism was all she had left—no room for distractions, no space for the tangled emotions that still whispered between her ribs.
Her eyes scanned the conference table as she entered, seeking the seat Draco would normally claim. It was empty. Of course it was. She told herself this was better—less chance of awkwardness, less chance of those stormy gray eyes catching hers and unraveling the fragile barrier she’d built.
A small part of her wished she could disappear too, or that he might never come at all. But the project depended on both of them, and they had to work side by side.
Her mind flicked back to last night—the slow, reverent kisses; the way he had worshipped her skin like she was the most precious thing in the world; his hands, gentle but sure, tracing every inch of her like he was learning the map of a secret temple. She remembered how she had moved with him so naturally, in sync with his rhythm, her body answering his every touch with a fierce, intoxicating hunger she hadn’t known she possessed.
And yet, she told herself firmly: it was a mistake. Just a physical accident. Nothing more.
Hermione settled into her seat, organizing papers with deliberate calm. When Draco finally slipped into the room, the silence between them stretched like an impossible gulf.
His eyes caught hers for the barest second—a flash of something raw and unguarded beneath his usual cool mask. The tension was nearly unbearable, as if they were two charged particles refusing to touch yet desperate for the spark.
She busied herself with her notes, refusing to meet his gaze. But she felt his presence like a weight, silent and unyielding.
“Morning,” Draco said quietly, voice low but thick with something unsaid.
“Morning,” Hermione replied, her voice steady but cold.
He touched her like she meant something. Like it wasn’t a mistake.
How come he could stay professional in the morning in a conference room without showing anything.
Like it was really nothing.
Her overthinking was wiped way as soon as the meeting began, but every word seemed to falter under the weight of their shared silence. The work they both cared so much about felt suddenly heavy with regret and unspoken longing.
When the meeting ended, Draco gathered his things without looking at her, his jaw tight, shoulders stiff. He left the room without a word.
Hermione’s heart clenched painfully. She wanted to call after him, to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come.
She sat frozen for a long moment, the echo of his absence pressing down on her.
That night had changed everything, and yet nothing.
She poured herself a cup of tea, her hands trembling slightly, the faint tremor betraying the calm mask she wore.
Her mind replayed the moments again and again: the slick heat of his skin beneath hers, the deep growl of his voice as he whispered her name, the slow, maddening worship of her clit with his tongue, the way she had shattered beneath him and come undone twice.
It was addictive, the way he had claimed her body so completely, with a tenderness so fierce it almost broke her.
But she couldn’t let herself lose control—not now, not when the fragile new partnership between them was all that mattered. And yet to her very conclusion—
Draco was dangerous.
He was dangerous to her heart in a way she hadn’t expected—and might never survive.
Later that afternoon, Hermione found herself avoiding him. He kept his professionalism in place so as she. She took longer routes down the hallways, buried herself in meetings, and kept her phone tucked away whenever he was near.
Yet she knew he noticed. She could feel the weight of his gaze even when she dared not look.
Somehow she sensed that he would probably had the same feeling but just good at keeping it under Malfoy’s stoic face. She was sure he was already obsessed. She had seen it in his eyes last night—how he saw her not just as a colleague or a project partner, but as something far more precious and dangerous.
She wasn’t innocent. She married before. She was courted before, dated before and she knew that maybe under that rested bitch face of Draco Malfoy lied something dangerous.
Her heart ached with the knowledge that this was only the beginning, and that the rules she tried to impose on herself would be tested again and again.
-------------------
Draco POV
Draco Malfoy had never been good at hiding his feelings. Not really. He knew how to appear indifferent, how to use silence like a weapon — but the truth of him always swam too close beneath the surface.
He sat alone in his office, its sleek, minimal design doing little to quiet the storm inside him. Shadows stretched long over the floor, the light dimming outside the enchanted windows, but he couldn’t focus on the files before him. They blurred together — timelines, staff recommendations, floorplans for the new school wing — and none of it mattered because Hermione Granger was avoiding him.
Again.
His jaw tightened as he reached for the cup he’d brought in that morning — tall, insulated, and filled with her favorite almond milk oat latte from the Muggle café three blocks down. He’d stopped by on the way in, made sure the barista did the cinnamon exactly how Hermione liked it.
He had left it on her desk before she arrived.
She hadn’t said a word.
He told himself he didn’t expect her to. He hadn’t done it to be thanked. He did it because he couldn’t not do it — some wild, compulsive need to soothe her, reach her, remind her without touching: I see you. I remember. I care.
And still, she kept her distance.
She barely looked at him in meetings. She left rooms just before he entered. She turned all their dialogue into strict business, her tone clipped and polite — devastatingly professional.
Draco stared out at the office’s enchanted glass wall, watching the imitation clouds roll slowly past. He felt like a ghost in his own life, going through the motions of someone who hadn’t just had his world cracked open by the warm, writhing body of a woman who had ruined him in one night.
She had moved with him as if made for him — every sigh a ribbon of silk against his ear, every breath a shared rhythm. She had let him worship her, had crumpled under the reverent drag of his mouth, and now she pretended none of it had happened.
He could still feel her skin against his palms.
Could still hear her voice, broken and gasping, saying his name like it meant something.
It had meant something. He was certain of that.
And yet.
Hermione Granger sat two doors down from him, cool and collected, pouring herself tea and gliding through meetings like she hadn’t let him see every inch of her — hadn’t clutched his hair and sobbed into his mouth when she came.
She thinks it was a mistake, Draco thought bitterly. But I know better.
She was more than the best sex of his life. She was clever and sharp and maddeningly brave, and she never once held his past against him. She was softness and steel. He wanted her mind just as badly as he wanted her body. Maybe more.
When the next planning meeting began, he forced himself into calm.
He arrived early, pressed and composed, taking a seat at the far end of the table. Hermione was already there. She was all crisp lines and effortless elegance, her hair twisted into something soft and messy, a pen resting lightly against her lower lip as she read a proposal draft.
He couldn’t stop looking at her mouth.
She caught him watching. Her eyes flicked up, held his for a split second, then darted away.
“Morning,” he said, voice low and soft.
“Morning,” she replied, without lifting her gaze from the parchment.
The meeting dragged on. He tried to care about the notes, the numbers, the budget logistics for St Mungo’s integration. But his mind betrayed him with the memory of her — flushed and breathless beneath him, those intelligent eyes going hazy with pleasure.
When they broke for recess, he stood — then hesitated. She was still seated, scrolling her notes with a frown. He took a step toward her desk.
“Hermione,” he said quietly.
She glanced up, guarded. “Yes?”
He hesitated. There were too many words on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to ask how she was sleeping. Whether she remembered the way he had held her after. If she had felt the shift too — that something inside them had changed.
Instead, he said, “About the other night…”
Her jaw tightened. She stood abruptly, smoothing her skirt. “Draco, it was a mistake.”
He flinched at the word. Mistake.
“I disagree,” he said softly, firmly.
But she was already pulling back, chin lifting in defense. “We work together. This project matters. We need to be professional.”
There was something in her eyes — a flicker of pain she didn’t want him to see.
“I understand,” he said, though his voice was a little too rough to be convincing.
She didn’t reply. Just walked away with measured steps.
Draco watched her go, something twisting deep in his chest. Something wounded.
What he didn’t know — what she would never say aloud — was that Hermione couldn’t breathe properly when he stood too close. That she’d spent the last two nights with her face buried in her pillow, aching with the memory of his hands, the things he’d whispered into her skin. That she was terrified of wanting him again, because if she gave in now, she wouldn’t survive it.
Because the way Draco Malfoy had touched her felt too much like love.
And love, Hermione reminded herself fiercely, had already burned her once.
She didn’t see him again for the rest of the day. But when she returned to her office after a late lunch, a fresh coffee sat waiting.
Warm. Exactly the way she liked it.
She stood there staring at it for a full minute, her hands trembling just slightly.
Draco didn’t need to say a word. His obsession was written in every silent act of care.
And Hermione wasn’t sure how much longer she could resist.
----------------------
Hermione thought the worst was over after that morning — after she had managed to look Draco in the eye and call it a mistake. That was supposed to be the end. Final. Clean.
But it wasn’t.
It was withdrawal.
And it was torture.
Each day afterward became a battle of restraint. Not against him — he didn’t push, didn’t touch her, didn’t try to corner her again. It was her own body betraying her. Her mind. Her senses. She could smell him when he entered the building — that warm spice and expensive cologne, woodsmoke and something darker — and the scent alone made her chest feel too tight.
She knew the way his footsteps sounded when he approached a room. She could feel his presence like static in the air. She felt scorched whenever he stood too close, even if he didn’t look at her.
He had respected her boundary.
And it was killing her.
Her body wanted him like a need she couldn’t ignore. Her mind kept dragging her backward — to the weight of him pressing her into silk sheets, to the reverent way he had whispered her name like it was sacred, to the way he had looked at her after — as if she were something rare and breakable and cherished.
That look had undone her more than the sex.
And now she was pretending none of it had happened.
She was lying.
The only relief — if it could be called that — was that he wasn’t pushing. No smug smirks. No cocky innuendo. No “I told you so” glint in his eye. He was quiet. Still. Watchful. Torturously careful.
Except for the coffee.
Every day, there was one. Waiting on her desk when she arrived — hot, perfect, tailored to her impossible taste. Always in the same cup. Always untouched. She never saw who brought it, but she knew.
It was him.
And that small, gentle persistence started to undo her.
On Wednesday, she stared at the cup longer than usual, her fingers curled around the cardboard sleeve, too warm. Her throat felt tight. It was just coffee. But it wasn’t. It was him, speaking to her the only way she had allowed.
I remember you.
I see you.
I miss you.
She took one sip.
And nearly cried.
She pushed it away, stood up fast, paced her office. Her reflection in the window looked flushed and shaken. Her blouse clung too tightly at the collar. Her skin felt too hot.
That night, she dreamed about him. Not the sex — not the intensity, though that would have been easier.
She dreamed he was in her kitchen.
Just there.
Barefoot and rumpled, flipping pancakes with Scorpius laughing beside him. He smiled when she entered, handed her a coffee without a word. Like it was normal. Like he belonged.
She woke with tears on her pillow and shame clenching her gut.
This is how it begins, she thought. This is how you lose yourself again.
Except this didn’t feel like when things had started with Ron — loud and reckless, desperate for safety, ignoring the warning signs. This was different.
This was soft.
This was dangerous in the quietest, most insidious way.
She didn’t tell him that, of course. She didn’t say a word. But she caught herself watching him in meetings — watching the subtle flex of his jaw when he was focused, the way he tapped the edge of his quill when something intrigued him. The way his hair curled slightly when he skipped a day of potion and let it dry naturally.
She hated how much she noticed.
And worst of all — he noticed that she noticed.
They were both playing a silent game of pretend. But the tension grew unbearable.
One afternoon, it cracked.
They had stayed late after the team left, combing through curriculum suggestions from the Muggle pediatric specialists. Hermione didn’t even realize it was nearly nine o’clock until Draco murmured, “You haven’t eaten.”
She blinked up at him. “What?”
He stood at the far end of the table, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, eyes dark. “You haven’t eaten,” he said again. “You’ve been here since eight this morning. You’re shaking.”
She looked down. Her fingers were trembling where they gripped the paper.
“Stress,” she muttered.
He took a step closer. “It’s not stress. You do this when you’re starving.”
She straightened, defensive. “I’m fine.”
He stopped in front of her. Not touching. Not daring. But close.
“You’re not,” he said softly. “And you don’t have to be.”
Hermione froze.
For a moment, her whole body wanted to fall into him. Let him touch her. Let him hold her. Let him take her back to the warmth of his bed and the safety of his hands and pretend, for one night more, that it was allowed.
But she couldn’t.
She stepped back.
“I need to go,” she whispered, gathering her things quickly, her pulse thundering in her ears.
Draco didn’t stop her. He just nodded once.
She didn’t see the way his hand curled into a fist at his side.
Back in her flat, Hermione threw her bag on the couch and leaned against the door, heart still racing. She wanted to scream. She wanted to sob. She wanted to go back to him and throw her arms around his neck and say, You’re dangerous to my heart and I want you anyway.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she pulled off her blouse, climbed into bed, and let herself remember the way his mouth had felt against her collarbone.
The way he had looked at her like she was precious.
And the way she had left him behind.
She didn’t see the owl that came by her window at midnight.
Or the note Draco didn’t send — the one he wrote and burned, again and again.
I miss you.
I’ll wait.
Chapter 10: Chapter 6 – “Rules & Regret” Part 2 Hermione – The Problem with Draco Malfoy
Summary:
Here is Hermione's POV and Draco's POV
Notes:
My love, how are you guys? I just finished baking banana cake and it smells divine throughout the house.
Btw, I wish from the bottom of my heart that you guys are enjoying this chapter as much as I did when I wrote this. please feel free to leave comments, leave kudos, and scribe for further updates my love.
As every story of mine has a signature scent, in this story, Hermione's main fragrance is from my favorite perfume house as well. it is Luna from Penhaligon's, and Chanel chance eau tendre (the pink one). Narcissa for me is always going to be Chanel No.5. And Draco Malfoy is using Tomford Ombre Leather. I know, love, it was cliche I know, but I can't just get the scent of out my head when thinking of Draco Malfoy.
Please feel free to share your favorite perfume, fragrance or even a product you guys love using. Perfume talk is always my guilty pleasure.
Chapter Text
Hermione’s POV
The problem with Draco Malfoy wasn’t just that he was handsome. Though he was—infuriatingly so.
No one had warned her that the pale, pointed boy who used to sneer across the Great Hall would grow into this. Broad shoulders, razor-sharp cheekbones, aristocratic bone structure softened by fatherhood and grief. Hair like white-gold silk, often slightly mussed in a way that made her fingers twitch. And those eyes—stormy, intelligent, impossible to ignore. How could anyone be expected to work next to that and concentrate?
But it wasn’t just his face, or his body, or the fact that he looked unfairly good in both bespoke robes and rolled-up sleeves. That would have been easier. That she could have managed.
It was how he saw her.
He brought her coffee without being asked. Not just once—repeatedly. Always the right one, always just when she needed it. He remembered things. Little things. Her favorite quill brand, the way she preferred to edit contracts by hand, that she didn’t like loud noises before 9 a.m. He learned her schedule without asking. Waited for her opinion before finalizing anything on the school. Sent her a charmed book on magical dyslexia after a particularly hard day at St. Mungo’s, with a quiet note: “We’ll do better.”
Sweet. Considerate. Unbelievably gentle.
How had he become this?
And more pressingly—when had she started craving it?
Hermione sat in her bedroom long past midnight, legs tucked beneath her, staring at the outline of a shadow against her wall—the one she’d imagined ever since he kissed her that first time. A phantom that looked like Draco. One that wouldn’t go away.
She remembered the moment too clearly. The way he touched her as if she were a revelation. The worship in his eyes. The trembling restraint in his hands, even as he undid her piece by piece.
Draco Malfoy made love like a man who feared he was dreaming. Reverent. Slow. Controlled until she shattered—and then wild, as if her pleasure was something sacred to protect.
He’d ruined her.
She’d had sex before. Even good sex. But this… this was something else. This was intimacy woven into every thrust, every whispered praise. His hands cradling her face like she was breakable and holy. His mouth mapping her neck, his voice raw when he said her name.
It wasn’t just good sex. It was sex that rewrote the laws of magic. It was sex that left her trembling days later with phantom echoes.
And worst of all?
He knew her.
Not just her body—though Merlin, that he knew too. But her mind. Her rhythm. Her silences. The things she didn’t say. He noticed everything. Watched her like she was an unsolvable riddle he was delighted to spend the rest of his life attempting.
She tried to tell herself it was just physical. A fluke. A moment of weakness.
But she kept watching him during meetings—not just at his body, though that was part of it—but at his mind. The way he dissected policy. Drafted correspondence in perfect, fluid ink. Paused to consider ethical implications she hadn’t even noticed. He was intelligent in a way that unnerved her. Quiet, sharp, exacting. Dangerous.
Sometimes, when he sat at the conference table with sleeves rolled, glasses low on his nose, scanning a contract with that furrowed brow, Hermione had to force herself to look away. To remember who she was. What she was doing. Why she had rules.
And when he cast spells—low-voiced, graceful, efficient—it was worse. Something about the way he moved. The deliberate confidence in his wandwork. The quiet precision. It made her lightheaded.
And breathless.
And wet.
This was Draco Malfoy. Her teenage nightmare. Her schoolyard rival. The boy who once called her a Mudblood and spat at her feet.
And now?
Now he was dangerous.
Not to her body—no, her body was already gone, hopelessly his.
Draco Malfoy was dangerous to her heart.
He listened when she spoke. He challenged her gently. He looked at her like she was a miracle. And when he played with Scorpius—when he tucked his son into his lap during team meetings and gently corrected him with a softness that cracked her in two—she thought she might fall apart entirely.
Because she wanted it.
Wanted him.
And that… that was the real problem.
Because she couldn’t have it.
Because if she fell for Draco Malfoy—really fell—there would be no safety net. No plausible deniability. No one to catch her if he changed his mind.
She didn’t know what terrified her more.
The idea that he might not feel the same…
Or the idea that he did.
-----------------
Draco’s POV
Hermione Granger was not what Draco expected.
She wasn’t just beautiful—though she was, devastatingly so. Not in the curated way Pure-blood society expected. No, she was elegance without effort. Grace in motion. Hair pinned or wild, lips always soft with something unsaid, eyes wide and sharp all at once. She moved like she belonged somewhere more important than the room she was in.
She glowed.
Even when she was tired. Even when she was angry.
Especially when she was laughing.
Merlin, her laugh.
He found himself chasing it, like some desperate addict. Slipping her dry jokes, offering sarcastic barbs, letting her win ridiculous arguments just to coax that quicksilver smile. When she laughed—really laughed—it felt like sunlight had cracked through the frozen shell of his life. Warmth where he hadn’t realized he’d gone cold.
He lived for that warmth.
And it terrified him.
She was sexy in ways he hadn’t even realized he desired. Yes, her body drove him mad—those long legs, those clever hands, the curve of her hips when she bent over a file—but it wasn’t just that. It was her mind. The way she challenged him. Outwitted him. Argued until he wanted to strangle her or kiss her or both.
The way she took up space without apology.
He remembered watching her during one of their earliest planning sessions, the one where she’d taken over the whiteboard with three color-coded quills and five floating charts. She’d spoken for nearly an hour without notes. His head had spun—but not just from the ideas.
He’d been hard for most of it.
It was humiliating.
No one had ever done that to him before—turned him on with logistics.
But Hermione did. She stirred him in ways no other woman had ever managed. It wasn’t even fair. She was brilliant. She was kind.
She was his son’s favorite person.
And that… that was what wrecked him.
He watched them together sometimes, unseen. Scorpius curling into her side on the library settee, his voice small and reverent: “Miss Hermione, did you know unicorns only come to girls who are brave and good?”
And she—Merlin—she looked down at him with a softness that didn’t belong in a world like theirs. One hand brushing back his fringe, the other casting a warming charm around their shoulders.
That single moment had nearly undone Draco.
Because he knew.
He knew she wanted it. Not just the project. Not just the child. All of it. She wanted the kind of family no war could destroy. And she would love fiercely if given the chance.
She would be a perfect mother.
She already was.
Draco had spent years building walls to protect Scorpius from everything—the press, the politics, the emptiness of Astoria’s departure. And now Hermione had waltzed in with her bright ideas and softer eyes and made the boy believe in magic again.
And made him believe in things he thought were long dead.
He imagined her in his home—not just as a lover, but as a constant. Reading with Scorpius by the fire. Enchanting the school kitchens while humming under her breath. Laughing with Narcissa over flower arrangements and redecoration schemes.
She fit. She just fit.
He could see her there, barefoot in one of his shirts, sipping coffee by the window. Her legs folded under her. Glasses slipping down her nose. One hand absently petting the family Kneazle while she read.
And it wasn’t just some idle fantasy. It was worse. It felt possible.
It terrified him.
Because he didn’t just want her.
He wanted everything with her.
The mornings. The kisses. The arguments. The late nights with lesson plans spread across the floor. The quiet intimacy of sharing space. The family she would build around them like a charm circle, fierce and unbreakable.
He wanted to wake up with her every day for the rest of his life.
And that scared him more than he could say.
Because he couldn’t tell her.
Because she’d think it was too fast, too intense, too much. She’d retreat behind those cool, composed eyes. She’d remind him of the rules. That it was a one-night accident. A lapse in judgment.
He knew better.
He knew what it felt like to be inside her—not just her body, but her trust. He’d felt her unravel in his arms. He’d heard her beg. He’d whispered her name like a prayer and watched her fall apart beneath him.
That wasn’t a fluke.
That wasn’t an accident.
But he hadn’t said anything. Not yet. Because if he did, and she didn’t feel the same—
It would destroy him.
So he bit his tongue. Watched her from across the table. Memorized her handwriting, her gestures, the little furrow in her brow when she read. He drank her in like he was starving, like she was the only thing that had ever made him feel full.
Hermione Granger. In his office. In his son’s heart. In his blood.
Perfect for the school. Perfect for Scorpius.
Perfect for him. Perfect as the new mistress of the house Malfoy.
And it was killing him not to tell her.
Chapter 11
Notes:
Hellooo my loveeeee, welcome back to the world of new mommy for scorpius, but yeah I know---my love I know that we didn't see Scorpius for quite awhile now. T-T now daddy is trying so hard to seduce the prospective, potential and the one and only mommy for scorpius, Hermione Granger. and the way he seduced her is 18+, so unfortunately little scorpius, who is only 5, is not invited.
It would a bad influence for a baby boy to see his father going wild with a new mommy, no?
Anyway, I promise to bring him back soon my love, but now just let daddy flirt with new soon-to-be mommy first.
please feel free to to share your thoughts with me, I appreciate everything truly my love. this community means the world to me and I love to see how much you guys are loving this story. Without all of you, this story would not come this far. thank you so much my love.
with lots of love,
Schmetterling_99
Chapter Text
It started with a touch.
Not even a real one.
Hermione’s fingers brushed Draco’s wrist as they both reached for the same file—a report on ward safety spells. Dry reading. Logistical, impersonal. But her knuckles grazed the skin just above the cuff of his shirt, and suddenly, it wasn’t dry at all.
It was fire.
She snatched her hand back like she’d been burned. Said nothing. Pretended to keep reading. But she could feel his eyes on her, quiet and steady, the way they always found her when she was pretending hardest.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
The silence between them had been shifting all week. Not strained—coiled. Every glance, every polite exchange, every moment of almost-touch had wrapped them tighter. She’d told herself the gala had been a mistake. That what happened after—the kisses, the sighs, the way he had held her like something precious—could be folded away and forgotten.
But he wouldn’t let her forget. Not really.
He didn’t push. Not once. But he was there. Always. Coffee waiting on her desk. A silencing charm on the breakroom when she had a migraine. The exact schedule for the St Mungo’s tour written in her favorite violet ink, already alphabetized.
He’d become inevitable.
And it was killing her.
She had set the rules. Said the words: This was a one-time thing.
She had drawn the boundary—and every moment since, she had hated herself for it.
Rain swept through London on Friday. Cold and constant. The windows of the charity office were streaked like a Monet painting gone dark. Hermione stayed late, again. Not for work. Not really.
At 8:43 p.m., he appeared in her doorway. No knock. No pretense. Coat open. Shirt damp at the collar. Hair curling at the edges from the rain. In his hand, a brown paper bag.
She looked up, startled. He didn’t smile.
“Grilled cheese,” he said. “From that café you like when you’re in a mood.”
She stared at the bag. “You noticed that?”
“I notice everything about you,” he said quietly.
She should have sent him away. Should have held the line. But her hands moved on their own.
She took the bag.
He didn’t leave.
They ate in silence. Two separate chairs. Two people pretending their bodies hadn’t been pressed together on silk sheets less than a week ago. That he hadn’t kissed her like she was oxygen. That she hadn’t sobbed when he made her come a second time because it had felt like relief.
When she stood to throw away her napkin, he rose, too. She could feel him behind her—close, but not touching. The air between them pulsed.
“Hermione,” he said.
Her name, from him, had a particular gravity. Like he was saying something sacred.
She didn’t turn. But damn….his voice made her squirm.
“I’m trying,” he said softly. “Trying not to scare you. Not to ruin whatever this is. But I think about you constantly. And I don’t know how to stop.”
She turned, finally.
Draco was standing there with his heart in his eyes.
“You said it was a mistake,” he said. “But it didn’t feel like one. It felt like the only moment in my life that’s ever made sense.”
Her throat burned.
“Draco—”
“You don’t have to say it back,” he interrupted. “I know you’ve been hurt. I know it’s fast. But you don’t have to pretend it meant nothing.”
She backed into the edge of her desk, hands gripping the wood like it might keep her steady.
“You think I’m not trying?” she whispered. “You think I don’t fight it every time you walk in the room? Do you know what it’s like to smell you on my sheets days later and still—ache?”
His breath hitched.
Her eyes closed. She hadn’t meant to admit that. But it was too late now.
“I can’t do this,” she said, voice cracking. “I can’t. Not again. Not if it ends the same way.”
“I would never break you,” Draco said. He stepped forward. Not to touch, just to be near. “Please—let me.”
Her chest tightened. That was worse. So much worse.
“Please,” she whispered.
“Please what, darling?” he asked gently.
She opened her eyes. Met his. And everything unraveled.
Her mouth found his.
This wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. This was hunger—pent-up and denied, furious and frantic. She yanked him to her, kissing him like she could drown in him.
He groaned into her mouth as she shoved his coat off his shoulders, his hands already under her blouse, pushing the silk up to expose her bra, her ribs, her stomach. He cupped her breasts and dragged his thumbs over her nipples until she whimpered.
They stumbled against the desk. A stack of parchment crashed to the floor.
“I shouldn’t,” she gasped against his throat.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasped.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she reached between them and undid his belt with shaking hands. The clink of metal sounded like permission.
“Fuck,” he groaned when her palm brushed his cock through his trousers.
She shoved his trousers and briefs down. He hissed when his cock sprang free, thick and flushed, already leaking.
Then her skirt was bunched around her waist. Her knickers shoved aside. His fingers found her first—her slit slick and needy, her clit already throbbing. He circled it slowly, reverently, until she gasped and rolled her hips.
“Already wet for me,” he murmured. “Fuck, Hermione.”
She was trembling. “Please—”
He lined himself up and pushed in.
She choked on a moan.
He filled her slowly at first, letting her stretch around him, his cock thick and pulsing as he seated himself deep in her cunt.
She clung to his shoulders, her breath stuttering, her thighs shaking.
“Draco—”
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to hers. “Let me.”
He moved, and everything else disappeared.
The office faded. The cold windows. The rain. The ache.
All that remained was the sound of skin on skin, the slick, obscene slide of his cock thrusting into her. His hands on her hips. Her moans. The high, gasping sounds she made when his pelvis brushed her clit just right.
She clawed at his back. He kissed her like he couldn’t help it.
When her orgasm hit her, it did so violently—her cunt clenching, her vision sparking. She gasped his name, and he groaned, “Fuck, yes—Hermione—” and followed her, hips grinding deep as he spilled inside her.
They stilled. Shaking. Breathing hard. Still locked together.
His head dropped to her shoulder. Her fingers threaded through his damp hair.
She felt raw. Dismantled.
“I can’t keep doing this,” she said quietly. “And I can’t stop.”
He didn’t answer. Not at first.
He just lifted her wrist. Pressed a kiss to the delicate skin there.
Then, barely a whisper:
“Then let me be careful with you.”
She closed her eyes.
And—for one moment, just one—she let herself believe him.
She let herself lean into him.
Let herself hope.
Even as the guilt curled hot in her throat, even as her pulse quickened with panic—
She didn’t pull away.
Not tonight.
⸻
When her orgasm hit her, it did so violently—her cunt clenching, her vision sparking. She gasped his name as the climax surged through her like a tidal wave breaking against something long-buried.
It wasn’t just pleasure. It was grief. Relief. Rage. Need.
The sound that tore from her throat wasn’t just a moan—it was a sob.
She held him tighter, like she could anchor herself to his body, to the shape of him inside her. Her nails dug into his back as she shattered around him, thighs trembling, lips parted in something close to a cry.
She had forgotten what this could be.
Forgotten what it was to be touched like she mattered.
To be filled like her body wasn’t something to use but something to adore.
His name left her lips like prayer—Draco, Draco, Draco—and he groaned in return, the sound helpless, guttural, undone. He buried his face in her neck and came with her, hips rocking deep, his cock pulsing inside her as he spilled everything into her heat.
His arms trembled.
His breath stuttered.
But still—he held her.
Not with urgency. With reverence.
His cock still inside her, his chest pressed to hers, his hand splayed over her ribs like he needed to feel every breath she took.
They didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Her heart was pounding. Her throat tight with something awful and tender.
And still, she didn’t pull away.
Because he didn’t pull away.
He didn’t collapse. He didn’t withdraw.
He stayed.
He shifted only to tuck her skirt gently down, then gathered her fully into his arms, lifting her off the desk with surprising care. He sat in her chair and wrapped her in his lap like she was breakable, like she was something rare.
And maybe—tonight—she was.
His lips found her temple. Her cheekbone. The corner of her mouth.
Soft. Unspoken.
She didn’t speak either.
She didn’t trust her voice.
Her throat felt too tight. Her chest too open.
Her fingers stroked the nape of his neck, almost absently. She could feel his heartbeat under her palm. Could feel the soft, sticky warmth of their mingled release between her thighs, the fading echo of her orgasm still trembling through her legs.
And she wanted to cry.
Because she couldn’t keep doing this.
Because she couldn’t stop.
Because this felt like the beginning of something that could ruin her.
Or save her.
She didn’t know which.
Only that it was him.
And she didn’t want to be alone tonight.
Not with her thoughts. Not with her past. Not with the cold space in her flat where laughter used to be.
So she let him hold her.
Let him press slow kisses to her shoulder. Let him murmur things she didn’t quite hear—sweet, quiet nothings that made her skin prickle.
And when he whispered, “I’ve got you,” against the shell of her ear—
She almost believed him.
Almost.
But if he gives her another orgasm again tonight, she thinks she gonna have a heart attack.
Chapter 12: Chapter 12 – “The Touch Language”
Summary:
After one A business meeting turns into lunch at the Manor. Draco lightly said that scorpius mentioned about Hermione. He said he miss her.
Chapter Text
They didn’t talk about it.
Not once.
Not the way she’d kissed him like it would undo her. Not the way he’d held her on the desk like he was trying to breathe her in. Not the way they’d come together, forehead to forehead, silent and trembling.
The moment should have fractured something. Broken it open, or closed it forever.
Instead, it birthed something far more dangerous.
A quiet game.
They said nothing. They didn’t have to. Because now the air between them was made of touch.
In their shared office, surrounded by files on magical pedagogy and handwritten proposals for the school’s inclusive design, they wove a new language from silence. One of near-constant contact, always just this side of plausible deniability.
In the conference alcove, while he annotated Ministry correspondence with a quill so precise it made her bones ache, Hermione stood behind him and placed her hand on his shoulder. Light. Intentional. Not fleeting. A claim and a comfort all at once. He didn’t react—only tilted his head slightly, granting her the nape of his neck, as if to say, yours.
Later, when she sat at her desk rubbing her temple, he passed behind her—slow, casual—and let his hand rest briefly on her nape. His thumb circled, once. Twice. Her eyes fluttered closed.
In the breakroom, when the interns had gone for the day, she leaned down to murmur something about scheduling, and her lips brushed the shell of his ear. He didn’t answer. Only exhaled sharply and gripped the edge of the counter like she’d struck him with a spell.
Not a word was spoken.
But the silence between them had learned to speak.
It was its own dialect now—made of glances, breath, the ghost of pressure where fingers had once been. The brush of knees beneath the table. The way her coat always ended up on the back of his chair. The way he always—always—stood too close.
Touch had replaced every word neither dared say.
Because the first to speak would lose.
They met for strategy meetings and read inspection reports side by side, the air between them too quiet to be professional, too charged to be platonic. Every time she passed him a quill, their fingers grazed. Every time he reached for her teacup instead of his own, she didn’t correct him.
One afternoon, when he returned from lunch, she was already in his office—barefoot, legs folded up in his chair, reading aloud from the financial projections he’d left behind. Her hair had come loose, and her shoes were kicked off beside his desk.
He stopped in the doorway. Said nothing. Just stared.
She didn’t greet him. Just looked up, held his gaze, and extended the parchment in one hand—still reading, her voice steady as a spell.
He crossed the room slowly. Took it from her fingers.
His hand grazed her thigh.
She didn’t flinch.
And he didn’t move away.
Sometimes, in the evenings, she lingered by the fireplace when the staff had gone. And he brought her a cup of something warm—not tea, not coffee, just something he thought she might need. A warm potion for grounding, perhaps. A chocolate blend with clove and cinnamon.
She never thanked him. He never waited for it.
They were becoming fluent in their silence.
One Tuesday, after a draining roundtable with St Mungo’s that ended in more bureaucracy than progress, she collapsed onto the divan in his office and fell asleep before she could take her heels off.
He didn’t wake her.
Just draped his coat over her shoulders, carefully removed her shoes, and left a handwritten note tucked into her palm:
You can rest here, you know. Always.
She didn’t speak of it the next day.
But when she handed him the finalized grant budget, it was annotated in his favourite ink. His name was written in her script, curling like a caress.
Another night, he found her in the archive room, cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by books. She looked up—startled, at first. Then softened.
Without speaking, he knelt beside her, knees brushing. She passed him a volume without looking. He began to read aloud, voice low, careful not to wake whatever spell hung between them.
He didn’t know what perfume she wore anymore.
He knew what her pulse felt like beneath his fingers.
He knew the sound she made when he massaged the bridge of her nose. He knew that when she was tired, she hummed without realising. That when she was thinking, she played with her lower lip. That when she looked at him too long, her breathing changed.
And she—
She knew that when his hands were in his pockets, it meant he was restraining himself from touching her.
She knew that when he left his door open, he wanted her to follow.
She knew that the little growl in his throat—when she bit her lip at something he’d said—was not frustration.
It was need.
They weren’t lovers.
They weren’t friends.
They were something perilously in-between. Something warm and wordless, smouldering and soft.
It couldn’t last. Not like this. The tension was becoming unbearable.
Every graze of his fingers burned. Every silence made her ache.
Every little look, every accidental brush of skin—it all built toward something inevitable.
But neither of them dared speak first.
Because saying the wrong thing might break the spell.
And the spell was everything.
------------
The business meeting at Malfoy Manor ended more quickly than expected.
Gringotts had sent their second-tier team, all politeness and protocol, more concerned with parchment trails than vision. Draco was courteous but clipped. Hermione, precise and gracious. The goblins bowed out by midday, leaving behind polished folders, half-finished tea, and the faint scent of ink and old stone.
Hermione was still gathering her notes in the study when she noticed Draco lingering near the hearth, his eyes fixed out the west windows where Narcissa’s roses grew wild.
He didn’t turn as he spoke.
“Scorpius asked if you were coming today.”
Her hand paused, fingers curled lightly around a quill.
Draco’s voice remained even, but something about the softness beneath it betrayed him. “He said he missed you.”
Her breath caught.
It wasn’t a question. But she answered anyway.
“I’ve missed him too.”
Of course she missed little Scorpius a lot as well.
He looked over at her then. Not with triumph or gratitude—just quiet hope, offered like a hand extended.
“We’re taking the rest of the day,” he said, almost offhand. “You should stay.”
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand.
And the word we echoed in her chest like a promise.
She nodded.
—
Lunch was held in the sunny parlour, the one with the tall windows and Narcissa’s favourite peonies blooming just beyond the glass. Mippy had set the table with chicken tagine, warm flatbread, cucumber salad, and a fizzy goblet of elderflower drink just for Scorpius. But the little boy barely noticed. He was too busy bouncing in his seat.
“Miss Hermione!” he squealed, launching himself toward her the moment she stepped in. He wrapped his arms around her waist like she might vanish. “You came!”
She laughed—a bright, natural sound that made Draco close his eyes for a moment, just to feel it pass through him.
“Of course I did,” she said, brushing Scorpius’s curls out of his eyes before kissing his temple and the boy just sighed with content. “I heard you’ve been practicing wandless magic.”
Scorpius grinned so wide his dimples showed. “Yes, I did. Granny said I am the best. Watch!”
He returned to his seat between them, thrust out one small hand, and—with the fierce focus of a boy determined to impress—levitated his water glass a few inches off the table. It wobbled but held steady. He bit his lip and set it down without spilling a drop.
Hermione blinked.
“That’s—Scorpius, that’s very advanced for your age. You did such a good job.” She said the compliment with the warmth in her voice, before the little boy was pointing his finger to his cheeks, „ And now, a gift for me, no?“ Hermione laughed seeing the adorable reaction of a boy who was craving for the reaffirmation, confirmation and reassurance that what he did was good by asking her for a kiss on his cheeks.
Definitely and almost immediately, Hermione kissed his cheeks without hesitation.
“ Perfect, I know!” he said proudly. “Daddy said it’s advanced, but okay if I try the hard ones. He didn’t give me any compliment tho.”
Hermione turned to Draco, brow raised.
“Wandless magic at five? And no compliment?”
Draco sipped his tea like it was all very boring. “He has good instincts. Of course, he could achieve that at this age.”
„But I mean compliment Draco—no?“ Hermione looked at him in the eyes like she was lecturing and complaining him. Draco just shrugged his shoulders to her before smirking as little Scorpius went on.
“I read your Arithmancy book too, miss Hermione, and then this means a lot of compliments and kisses, right?” Scorpius added, already reaching for flatbread. Understanding now to why Draco Malfoy shrugged his shoulders and smirked at her. “The one with the runes on the inside cover. I liked the part about fractal matrices. And daddy said that if I finished this chapter, I would get a lots of kisses from you.”
Hermione’s mouth parted, looking to Draco while he was sitting nonchalantly drinking his tea.
“That’s N.E.W.T. level.”
Scorpius turned to her, smile softening. “Can you kiss me? On the cheek? Please?”
Hermione stilled. She stilled not because of the shock from the request, but from how much she saw this little boy as her own. How his cheekiness just steel her heart, how he achieved something more advanced than his age, just because his father promised him he would get a kiss from her.
This was too domestically intimate…even more intimate than the time she was laying underneath Scorpius’s father and moaned his name.
She looked at him—not just his cleverness or charm, but the raw, open trust in his face. A kind of need she knew all too well. She felt her throat tighten.
“Of course,” she whispered.
She leaned in, brushed her lips to his cheek. He flushed a happy pink and hugged her again with his whole body—spindly arms, sticky hands, sauce-smudged shirt and all.
Draco said nothing.
But under the table, his hand found hers.
Just two fingers, sliding along the edge of her palm. Deliberate. Wordless.
She didn’t look at him. She just curled her fingers around his and squeezed.
—
Scorpius dozed off after lunch, tangled in a pile of pillows and picture books, his arms wrapped around a stuffed thunderbird.
Draco carried him upstairs with practiced ease and came back a few minutes later, sleeves rolled to his elbows and a softness in his shoulders that Hermione had never seen in their school days. It looked good on him.
She hadn’t moved from the window, watching clouds scud low across the afternoon sky.
“I think he loves you,” Draco said.
She turned. She felt it too. But everything was just too overwhelmed and to much. The secret encounter between them as a co-directors for the charity school project, the way scorpius was asking to be kissed by her and hearing from Draco that he loved her. It was just overwhelmed at the moment. Her smile came slow, then faltered at the edges.
“He’s just… affectionate.” That was the only thing she could answer.
Draco stepped closer. “He’s never asked anyone to kiss him before. And he asked often from you. How could I describe this—if its not love?”
The silence stretched. Her cheeks was traitorous with flushing crimson red.
Her voice was small. “If that was too much, I think—Do you want me to go?” She didn’t know why she asked that. It was much to herself than to Draco Malfoy. Too much of invading their privacy, or perhaps too much of wanting to claim the mother role in this house—she could not answer both.
He shook his head, looking her in the eyes, and damn his perfect handsome face melted her heart.
“No—of course not—I want you to stay.”
—
She found herself in the library in his house at Knightsbridge just after five.
She stayed.
Because Draco asked her to stay.
She didn’t think about where she was going. Her feet knew the way. The room was dim and quiet, the only light a warm spill from the sconces and a fading glow through the high glass. She let her fingers drift over old spines, the scent of parchment and dust and magic wrapping around her like memory.
“You always find the best corners of this place.”
She turned.
Draco leaned against the doorway, one shoulder cocked lazily. His shirt was open at the throat, his hair slightly tousled.
“Scorpius is asleep,” he said, stepping inside. “He asked if you’d still be here in the morning.”
Her breath snagged. „And what did you tell him?“
“I told him maybe.”
He stopped in front of her—close, but not yet touching. His hand lifted slowly. Cupped her wrist.
He kissed it.
Soft.
Then her inner wrist.
Then the curve of her throat.
“You should go,” she whispered.
“I should,” he agreed, lips brushing her skin. “But you won’t ask me to.”
And she didn’t.
He kissed her mouth once—slow, questioning—and she melted into it like a page curling to flame. When she made a sound, breathless and unsure, he groaned softly and kissed her again, harder this time, until her back hit the bookshelf behind her and the world fell away.
“You drive me mad,” he murmured. “Do you know that?”
She nodded, eyes already hazy. “I should know that?”
His hands gripped her waist, dragging her closer. She could feel the heat of his body, the hard line of his cock already straining against his trousers. He kissed down her neck as if committing her to memory.
“Stay,” he whispered again. “Tonight—Hermione—Please.”
She hesitated. But the plea in his voice undid her.
But then his hand slid between them, found the button at her waistband. Her breath caught.
Still watching her face, he undid it. Then the zip. Then slipped his hand beneath the waistband of her knickers.
Hermione gasped.
“Draco—”
His fingers found her clit immediately, circling it with gentle, practiced strokes.
“You’re already soaked,” he said, voice husky. “I’ve barely touched you.”
She clutched at his arms, head falling back against the books.
“Let me,” he breathed. “Let me take care of you.”
His mouth claimed hers again as he worked her open, fingers moving with maddening slowness. He didn’t rush. He just coaxed pleasure from her body, each stroke more deliberate than the last. When his thumb slid lower, circling her slick entrance, she whimpered.
“I want you inside me,” she whispered.
Draco groaned—sharp, guttural.
“Say it again.”
“I want your cock inside me.”
She felt the last thread of his restraint snap.
He lifted her easily, pressed her back against the bookcase. Her legs wrapped around him instinctively. He reached between them and aligned himself, dragging the head of his cock through her folds—once, twice—spreading her slickness everywhere before he began to push in.
Slow.
So achingly slow.
She gasped as he filled her, inch by inch, thick and hot and unrelenting. He was too big—he always was—but he soothed her with kisses, with whispered praises.
“You’re perfect like this… fuck, you feel so good… so tight around me…”
She clenched around him, moaning softly, and he stilled, buried inside her.
They barely moved at first—just rocked together gently, her back against the shelf, his hands braced around her thighs. His cock stretched her so exquisitely she thought she might cry.
“Draco—please—”
He pulled out a few inches, then pushed back in, slow and deep.
“You love this, don’t you?” he whispered. “Letting me fuck you like this. Letting me worship you.”
“Yes,” she gasped. “God, yes.”
He fucked her slowly, possessively, his strokes long and measured. The edge built unbearably, her clit brushing against his pelvis with every grind of his hips. She buried her face in his shoulder as her climax neared.
“Come for me,” he growled, lips brushing her ear. “Come on my cock.”
Her whole body tightened.
She came with a cry, trembling, her cunt clenching around him. The sound she made wrecked him. He thrust harder now, deeper, his rhythm faltering as her orgasm dragged him into his own.
He came inside her with a groan, hips jerking against hers, breath ragged against her throat.
They stayed there for a long time—silent, wrapped around each other, heartbeats echoing in the hush of the library.
It wasn’t just sex.
It never had been.
And that terrified her more than anything.
-------------------
The Library was hushed again.
Books lay scattered on the floor, the scent of sex and old paper curling in the air. Draco pressed his forehead to Hermione’s shoulder, both of them slick with sweat and breathless.
Neither spoke.
Then, slowly, reverently, he drew out of her, catching her soft gasp as her cunt clenched once in protest. He tucked himself away and straightened her skirts, his fingers brushing her thighs like an apology.
She blinked at him, dazed and quiet.
“I didn’t mean for that to happen here.”
“I did,” he said softly.
She stared.
A heartbeat passed before his mouth twisted into the faintest smile.
“But you’re right. You shouldn’t sleep curled around ancient politics.”
Before she could reply, he gathered her into his arms—just lifted her, one arm beneath her thighs, the other behind her back. She gave a startled laugh that melted into his collar.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he said, kissing her temple. “Let me carry you for once.”
She didn’t protest again.
The Manor was silent as he walked. Old floorboards creaked softly beneath his steps. His voice, when it came, was quieter than she’d ever heard it.
“You’re all I think about,” he murmured, almost to himself. “At the office. In the car. When I’m putting Scorpius to sleep.”
Hermione’s breath caught, but she didn’t interrupt.
“I picture your laugh. Your mouth.” A pause. “The way you say my name like you’re angry, even when you’re not.”
She smiled faintly against his chest.
“I’ve never…” He exhaled, voice barely there now. “I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”
She closed her eyes, aching.
Because she wanted him too.
But wanting wasn’t the same as trusting it. Or surviving it.
Draco opened the door to the guest bedroom at the far end of the east wing—a room she recognized vaguely from a past tour, all cream linens and silk wallpaper and pale, enchanted moonlight pouring in from the arched window.
He set her down gently on the bed.
“Stay here,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Don’t move.”
She watched him disappear into the hall, then return with a warm cloth, a glass of water, and—absurdly, sweetly—her slippers.
He cleaned her thighs without a word. Careful. Tender. As if worship still lived in his fingers even after the claiming. She touched his jaw once, brushing her thumb over the stubble.
He kissed the inside of her wrist again.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispered. “Just sleep.”
So she did.
—
The sunlight spilled slowly across the duvet.
Hermione stirred to the smell of cinnamon and warm bread. Her limbs ached faintly in the best way. She stretched, naked beneath the sheets, and blinked at the side table—where a tray now sat waiting.
Croissants. Honeyed fruit. A cup of black tea, still steaming.
And a small vase with a single peony from the garden, petals soft and pale blush.
Draco appeared in the doorway, hair damp from a shower, shirt unbuttoned at the throat. He carried another cup and leaned on the frame like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.
“Good morning,” he said.
She swallowed. “You brought breakfast.”
He nodded. “I didn’t know if you’d be gone.”
Her chest pulled.
“I wasn’t going to leave in the night.”
His eyes dropped to her collarbone, where the sheet had shifted.
“I wanted to wake you up with my mouth,” he said quietly. “But you looked too peaceful.”
Her breath hitched.
He crossed the room, set his cup down, and leaned over her. Brushed a crumb from her lower lip.
“You should eat.”
She didn’t move.
“Or…” she whispered. “You could kiss me instead.”
His lips curled.
He kissed her slow. Deep. Familiar now. She tasted tea on his tongue and something warmer beneath it.
“You make it hard to be good,” he said against her mouth.
“Good is overrated.”
His hand slid beneath the sheet, palm settling on her stomach, then lower—brushing over the swell of her mound with lazy, intimate familiarity.
She gasped.
“Let me make you come before breakfast,” he murmured. “It’s only fair.”
He found her clit with two fingers, teasing circles that made her hips rise. Her cunt was still sensitive, still needy, and he knew it.
She was already close when he slid one finger inside her—then another—curling just right, whispering praise into her skin.
“You’re so wet for me already. You like being touched in the morning, don’t you?”
“Draco—”
“Say it.”
“I love it,” she choked out. “I love the way you touch me.”
He worked her over slowly, building her back up until she broke apart again, thighs shaking, head thrown back on the pillow as she came on his fingers.
Afterward, he kissed her hips, her stomach, her breasts. Laid beside her like he had nowhere else to be.
“I won’t push,” he said finally, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “If you tell me this was just once. If you need that.”
She looked at him for a long time.
Then she reached for his hand. Twined her fingers with his.
“I don’t know what it is yet,” she admitted. “But it wasn’t just once.”
Something shifted in his expression—quiet, open, almost afraid to hope.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”
Outside, the townhouse gardens were waking. Inside, beneath tangled sheets and sunlight, so were they.
Together.
Pages Navigation
poisonous_strawberry on Chapter 1 Sun 13 Jul 2025 01:56PM UTC
Comment Actions
Schmetterling_99 on Chapter 1 Sun 13 Jul 2025 06:44PM UTC
Comment Actions
poisonous_strawberry on Chapter 1 Mon 15 Sep 2025 03:16PM UTC
Comment Actions
Alitha on Chapter 1 Thu 21 Aug 2025 05:52AM UTC
Comment Actions
Schmetterling_99 on Chapter 1 Sun 24 Aug 2025 06:39PM UTC
Comment Actions
EmmaJames5692 on Chapter 1 Sat 23 Aug 2025 05:05PM UTC
Comment Actions
Schmetterling_99 on Chapter 1 Sun 24 Aug 2025 06:43PM UTC
Comment Actions
EmmaJames5692 on Chapter 1 Mon 25 Aug 2025 07:05AM UTC
Comment Actions
lucia42 on Chapter 2 Sat 14 Jun 2025 08:30PM UTC
Comment Actions
Schmetterling_99 on Chapter 2 Sun 15 Jun 2025 04:04AM UTC
Comment Actions
skysohightinthesky on Chapter 2 Sun 15 Jun 2025 02:05AM UTC
Comment Actions
Schmetterling_99 on Chapter 2 Sun 15 Jun 2025 04:00AM UTC
Comment Actions
SeverianMatachin on Chapter 2 Sun 15 Jun 2025 02:45PM UTC
Comment Actions
Schmetterling_99 on Chapter 2 Sun 15 Jun 2025 04:15PM UTC
Comment Actions
scaredofrobots on Chapter 2 Sat 21 Jun 2025 01:18PM UTC
Comment Actions
Schmetterling_99 on Chapter 2 Sat 21 Jun 2025 07:05PM UTC
Comment Actions
Jeanie205 on Chapter 2 Sun 17 Aug 2025 12:58AM UTC
Comment Actions
Schmetterling_99 on Chapter 2 Sun 17 Aug 2025 04:30AM UTC
Comment Actions
misslittlepsycho24 on Chapter 2 Sun 31 Aug 2025 09:08PM UTC
Comment Actions
SeverianMatachin on Chapter 3 Sun 15 Jun 2025 05:55PM UTC
Comment Actions
Schmetterling_99 on Chapter 3 Sun 15 Jun 2025 06:26PM UTC
Comment Actions
BeauxT on Chapter 3 Tue 17 Jun 2025 07:26AM UTC
Comment Actions
Schmetterling_99 on Chapter 3 Tue 17 Jun 2025 10:25AM UTC
Comment Actions
Jeanie205 on Chapter 3 Sun 17 Aug 2025 09:24AM UTC
Comment Actions
Schmetterling_99 on Chapter 3 Sun 17 Aug 2025 10:02AM UTC
Comment Actions
misslittlepsycho24 on Chapter 3 Sun 31 Aug 2025 09:42PM UTC
Comment Actions
SeverianMatachin on Chapter 4 Wed 18 Jun 2025 10:24PM UTC
Comment Actions
Schmetterling_99 on Chapter 4 Thu 19 Jun 2025 07:08AM UTC
Comment Actions
scaredofrobots on Chapter 4 Sat 21 Jun 2025 01:35PM UTC
Comment Actions
Schmetterling_99 on Chapter 4 Sat 21 Jun 2025 07:05PM UTC
Comment Actions
misslittlepsycho24 on Chapter 4 Sun 31 Aug 2025 09:56PM UTC
Comment Actions
BeauxT on Chapter 5 Sat 21 Jun 2025 10:36PM UTC
Comment Actions
Schmetterling_99 on Chapter 5 Fri 27 Jun 2025 02:26PM UTC
Comment Actions
Mnemeee on Chapter 5 Sun 22 Jun 2025 07:42AM UTC
Comment Actions
Schmetterling_99 on Chapter 5 Fri 27 Jun 2025 02:22PM UTC
Comment Actions
SeverianMatachin on Chapter 5 Sun 22 Jun 2025 03:03PM UTC
Comment Actions
Schmetterling_99 on Chapter 5 Fri 27 Jun 2025 02:16PM UTC
Comment Actions
padore on Chapter 5 Mon 23 Jun 2025 03:01AM UTC
Comment Actions
Schmetterling_99 on Chapter 5 Fri 27 Jun 2025 02:30PM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation