Chapter Text
To Scorpius, Malfoy Manor’s library was the best place in the world, except maybe the Silver Quill now.
And it was the very best time of day. After pudding each night, they would read for thirty minutes, and it could be any story he chose. Scorpius loved today; it was the best day of his life.
Tonight, he ran to the library, throwing the doors open, and since his father had removed all the portraits in there, none of those mean old relatives could interrupt him during story time. It smelled like old paper and lemon oil and something warm that he secretly knew was just Dad when he’s not pretending to be scary. Floor-to-ceiling shelves. Ladders on rails. Two overstuffed armchairs by the fire, one bigger (Dad’s), one smaller (Scorpius’) with a blanket that had been charmed to always be the right temperature.
Scorpius scrambled onto his chair, hugging the book. Draco took his seat, stretching long legs out, tattoos dark against his white cuffs as he reached for the lamp.
“All right,” Draco said. “Let’s see what all this fuss is about.”
Scorpius held the book out with great ceremony. “She wrote this one so that boggarts aren’t just scary, I cannot wait to see all of the optons,” he said.
"Options."
"Yes, that's what I said. This is the newest choose your own adventure, Dad!"
Draco looked faintly taken aback, Scorpius was unaware that his dad just pieced together that the series they read sometimes was actually Miss Granger's.
Draco opened to the first page. The illustrations were soft and moody: a little witch, a too-big bed, long shadows on floorboards. His lips pressed briefly together. Then he began to read aloud.
His voice changed when he read. Lost some of its cut-glass dryness, took on a lower, gentler rhythm. Scorpius settled in, head tipped back, eyelids heavy but fighting.
They read for the full thirty minutes. The boggart turned into silly things. Then sad things. Then small things. The little witch decided what power it had.
By the time Draco closed the book on their agreed stopping-place, Scorpius’ plan had crystallized down into a brilliant, impossible shine.
“Dad,” he said, as Draco marked the page with an enchanted ribbon. “I’m going to help her.”
“Help who?” Draco asked, though he already knew.
“Miss Granger,” Scorpius said earnestly. “She needs beasts. Lots of beasts. She said so. And other people will pick boring ones, but I can pick good ones.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “A dragon who collects bedtime stories instead of gold. A grindylow who’s scared of the dark. A basilisk who wears sunglasses. I’m going to outline them. In order. For her. And send her an owl.”
Draco stared at him.
Pansy’s voice floated by in his memory: You can ask him all about Granger.
He swallowed. “That’s… ambitious.”
“She said she reads all the letters,” Scorpius insisted. “What if she likes mine best? What if she writes back?”
Draco felt something twist in his chest. Jealousy? No. Not of Hermione Granger, not for being his son’s hero. Fear, maybe. Protective instinct. That same old shameful knowledge that if Scorpius asked her what was my dad like? the answer would not be fit for a bedtime story.
He smoothed it away with Occlumency, neat and practiced.
“If you write to her,” Draco said slowly, “you’ll be polite. You won’t demand her time. You’ll thank her for the stories first.”
“I know,” Scorpius said, offended. “I’m not a troll! Oh my Merlin, a Troll story! She will love that! I can tell her in Paris.”
“And we,” Draco added, “will see about Paris.”
Scorpius lit up like Lumos. “Really?”
“I said we’ll see,” Draco said. “That is not a yes.”
(It was not a no.) “Can I start my outline tonight?” Scorpius begged. “Just the first one. The dragon. Or the grindylow. Or—”
“Tomorrow,” Draco said, standing and ruffling his son’s hair. “It’s past your bedtime.”
Scorpius groaned dramatically but slid off the chair. At the library door, he paused and looked back at his father, who was still holding the book, thumb across Hermione’s inscription.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Were you and Miss Granger friends?”
Draco’s grip on the book tightened.
Pansy’s words again. Oh yes. You can ask him all about Granger.
He met his son’s hopeful gaze. He saw only hero worship there, bright and uncomplicated.
“No,” Draco said quietly. “We weren’t friends.”
“Did you like her?”
A beat.
“She was…” Draco chose his words with surgical precision. “Extraordinary.”
Scorpius grinned. “I think so too.”
Draco huffed a laugh despite himself. “Go to bed, chimera.”
Scorpius padded off down the corridor, already rehearsing letter in his head.
Dear Miss Granger,
I have an idea about a dragon who thinks he’s too scary but secretly likes to hoard stories instead of gold. Also, if you need a chimera expert I am seven and very qualified… But everyone chose dragons. Dragons and hippogriffs. Nifflers, too. But what about griffins with allergies? Or grindylows who don’t like being mean but think they have to be because everyone expects it? Or a kelpie who’s terrified of water? Maybe a nice acromantula?
His brain fizzed.
Miss Granger had no idea. None. Scorpius Malfoy was about to plan her entire career.
When his son's footsteps faded, Draco stayed in the library.
The fire snapped and crackled. The house shifted around him, old stones settling, He ran his thumb over Hermione’s neat signature inside the cover of his son's newest acquisition.
J. Granger.
Hermione Granger.
Writing stories about teaching children not to fear the dark.
His son had called her his hero.
Draco was not stupid. He could feel the hinge in the evening, the way the axis of his carefully controlled existence had tilted a fraction of a degree. Scorpius’ world had just welcomed in a new star, bright and unmuddied by the war.
And that star was Hermione Granger.
Draco set the book down with a soft exhale and leaned back, closing his eyes.
Life was about to get… complicated. He wasn’t sure yet if that terrified him, or if, buried under the old ghosts of Malfoy Manor, some treacherous part of him was relieved.
Sunlight came early to Wiltshire.
It spilled in through the high windows of Malfoy Manor like honey, catching dust motes and turning them into tiny stars that danced across Scorpius’s pillow. His curtains, charmed to open at dawn, rippled gently in the warm breeze. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and grinned.
Today was a writing day.
He could feel it in his chest—the kind of fizzing energy that meant his brain was already awake and racing ahead of his body.
He flung back the covers, stumbled to his little desk by the window, and grabbed the nearest quill. Fribley had organized his parchment in a neat stack the night before; Scorpius promptly scattered it in a flurry of enthusiasm.
He already knew which story to start with.
SHM Story Idea #1: The Basilisk Who Wore Sunglasses
The basilisk is lonely. He lives under a castle (not Hogwarts, another one) and every time he tries to make friends, people get all petrified, which is very rude and also makes him sad.
So one day he finds an old pair of Muggle sunglasses in the castle basement (because wizards are always losing things), and when he puts them on—he can finally look at people without hurting them!
He opens a tea shop. It’s underground, of course, and called “The Serpent’s Sip.”
Everyone comes—ghosts, goblins, a shy werewolf who only drinks herbal tea, and even a few brave schoolchildren. The basilisk learns that when you stop hiding, people stop being scared of you.
Being careful doesn’t mean being alone.
Scorpius read it back, frowning thoughtfully. Then he added a little doodle of a basilisk wearing heart-shaped sunglasses.
Perfect.
Now for the next one. This one was trickier. Scorpius had to pace the carpet for a bit first, thinking. His quill scratched across the parchment as he muttered under his breath.
SHM Story Idea #2: The Selkie Who Was Afraid of Water
The selkie used to love the sea, but one night there was a big storm and lightning hit the water, and it made her think maybe the ocean didn’t like her anymore.
So she moved to a little cottage inland. She wears her seal-skin coat but never swims.
Then she meets a little witch (maybe named Juniper? or Wren? he’d decide later) who is also afraid—of flying on brooms. They make a deal to help each other.
The witch teaches the selkie that storms come and go, but the ocean is still hers.
Bravery isn’t about never being scared. It’s about being scared and still going home.
He sat back, satisfied. Two complete ideas before breakfast! He imagined Miss Granger reading them—her eyes widening, her quill pausing midair, maybe even showing them to her editor. She would write back, of course. She seemed like someone who would.
Dear Scorpius, she’d say, these are wonderful. Have you ever thought about writing your own book?
And he’d say something humble like Maybe one day, even though his brain would already be designing cover art. He was halfway through outlining a third idea (the dragon who collected bedtime stories instead of gold) when the door opened.
“Master Scorpius,” came Fribley’s exasperated voice, “you are supposed to be dressed for breakfast, not inventing entire literary careers before dawn.”
Scorpius whipped around guiltily, parchment in both hands. “I’m almost done! Just the dragon’s last line!”
“The dragon may wait until after you’ve eaten,” Fribley said firmly, marching in with his usual air of long-suffering devotion. “Your father said to have you in the breakfast room in ten minutes. There are guests.”
Scorpius perked up. “Uncle Theo?”
“Indeed.”
That got him moving.
He shoved his parchment into a folder marked IMPORTANT THINGS FOR MISS GRANGER, let Fribley comb his hair into something civilized, and bolted down the corridor with one shoelace untied and ink still on his fingers.
Breakfast at the Manor had become almost civilized in recent years.
Draco preferred the smaller east breakfast room—warm sunlight, real coffee, and none of the ancestral ghosts muttering about table manners. He’d already gone through one set of shipping contracts before Blaise arrived uninvited, and Theo had wandered in wearing sunglasses indoors “for the aesthetic.”
Blaise poured himself espresso. “You look half-dead.”
“I was up all night reviewing trade permits,” Draco replied dryly. “Try running a legal business with a partner who invoices in cocktail napkins.”
Theo yawned. “It’s part of my charm.”
Draco rolled his eyes.
They didn’t have to wait long for the day’s chaos to begin. Scorpius burst through the door like a Comet 260 with no brakes.
“Daaad!”
Draco sighed. “If this is about another—”
“I finished my first two stories for Miss Granger!” Scorpius announced, climbing into his chair.
Theo looked up from his paper. “Granger?”
“Miss Granger! J. Granger! She writes my books!” Scorpius said, vibrating with excitement. “She said we could send her letters with story ideas, and I have two already! A basilisk who wears sunglasses because he’s lonely and doesn’t want to petrify people, and a selkie who’s afraid of water!”
Theo lowered his paper completely, grinning. “I like the basilisk one.”
“She opens a tea shop,” Scorpius continued seriously. “It’s underground, and everyone comes—ghosts, goblins, even a werewolf!”
Theo laughed. “Brilliant. Kid’s got talent. You’ll have competition soon.”
Draco muttered, “He already thinks he’s my equal.”
Theo smirked. “He’s got your dramatics, that’s for sure. And your taste.”
Draco’s fork froze mid-air. “My what?”
Theo’s grin turned feral. “The curls, mate. You always liked Granger’s curls at school. Something you and your boy share now.”
Draco’s jaw clenched. “Theo.”
“Don’t look at me like that. Everyone noticed. It was practically a Hogwarts phenomenon. Defied gravity, those curls. Half the blokes in Slytherin—”
Theo’s voice vanished mid-sentence. Draco flicked his wand. Theo’s mouth sealed with a faint pop.
Blaise snorted into his coffee.
“Fribley,” Draco said evenly, “please escort my son to his lessons before my business partner dies an unfortunate accident.”
“Yes, sir.”
Scorpius slid off his chair, still talking, still utterly unaware of the quiet panic rising in his father. “Can I finish my letter after lessons?”
“You may,” Draco said, standing to kiss his son’s head. “We’ll send it tomorrow.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
As the boy bounded away, Draco sank back into his chair.
For a moment, the room was silent except for the tick of the clock and the sound of Blaise stirring his espresso.
Then Draco said flatly, “My son is about to remind Hermione Granger about the bloody time a giant fucking snake hunted her down and petrified her as a second-year. Fucking Salazar, what the hell am I supposed to do with that?”
Blaise didn’t even flinch. “Buy her flowers? Apologize preemptively?”
Theo rolled his eyes, still mute, waving his hands indignantly.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Draco snapped. “It’s bad enough she’s in his bedtime stories now. If she reads that basilisk nonsense, she’ll think I’m—” He stopped himself. “Never mind.”
Theo conjured a quill and parchment, scrawled something, and slid it across the table.
Draco glanced down.
Bet Granger’s hot now. No wonder Scorpius is in love with her. Like father, like son, eh Drakey-Poo?
Draco hexed his mouth shut again. Harder. Theo glared, cheeks puffed out, while Blaise sipped his espresso and smirked.
Draco grabbed his briefcase. “I’m going to work before I commit homicide.”
“Wise,” Blaise murmured.
Draco stalked out, the sound of Theo’s muffled protests echoing behind him.
Lessons were dull, but Scorpius was far too occupied to care. His tutor droned about goblin economics while Scorpius scribbled dragons in the margins of his notes.
SHM Story Idea #3: The Dragon Who Collected Bedtime Stories
The dragon doesn’t steal gold. He steals stories. He listens at windows where parents read to their kids and remembers every word so no story is ever lost.
When he gets lonely, he tells them to the stars.
Every story wants to be heard twice.
He’d drawn the dragon curled around a stack of books, snoring.
By the time lessons ended, he had three finished stories and one idea about a grindylow who took swimming lessons.
He spent the afternoon polishing them, adding flourishes, and tucking the pages neatly together with a green ribbon. The letter he wrote on top was short but earnest:
Dear Miss Granger,
I thought about the stories you said you wanted. Here are some of mine. The basilisk wears sunglasses because he’s tired of being lonely. The selkie is scared of water, which is sad, but she learns to try again. The dragon likes bedtime stories.
Thank you for hugging me. You have very nice curls and smell like sunshine.
Sincerely,
Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy (age 7)
P.S. Please write back. I live at Malfoy Manor.
He folded it carefully and set it beside his pillow, ready for the owl in the morning.
Draco found it later that night when he came to check on his son.
Scorpius was already asleep, arms spread, curls haloed on the pillow. The envelope sat waiting, his small handwriting painstakingly neat.
Draco didn’t open it. He didn’t need to. He stood in the doorway for a long time, the moonlight catching the edge of the parchment. His mouth curved despite himself.
“Granger,” he muttered under his breath, “if you thought I complicated your life at sixteen, you’ve no idea what’s coming.”
He turned off the lamp, leaving his son to dream of chimeras and selkies and tea-drinking basilisks, and maybe, just maybe, a certain witch who had no idea she was about to become part of the Malfoy family’s nightly routine.