Chapter Text
Morning came softly to the Sussex countryside. Mist clung to the hedgerows, and dew silvered the spiderwebs strung along Hermione Granger’s garden gate. Inside the cottage, a kettle hummed a low tune, Crookshanks prowled for crumbs, and sunlight painted gold squares across the wooden floorboards.
Hermione stood in the center of her sitting room, balanced on one leg, her arms reaching toward the ceiling. The cottage was quiet enough to hear her own breath—the gentle stretch of her spine, the creak of old wood beneath her feet. Yoga had become her morning ritual, one of deliberate calm, a way to remind her body it no longer had to brace for battle. The air smelled faintly of lavender oil and toast crumbs.
She exhaled and lowered her arms, smiling faintly when Crookshanks yawned, unimpressed. “Yes, I know,” she murmured, rolling her shoulders. “You’d rather I use the time to feed you.”
He flicked his tail with disdain. She always imagined Snape’s voice when he did that drawling, sardonic, impossible not to hear. “Honestly, Miss Granger, one might assume the cat runs this house.”
After a shower that left the mirror fogged and her skin pink from heat, Hermione stood before her wardrobe, towel wrapped and thoughtful. The cream three-piece suit Georgina had sent hung crisply on the hook. It was elegant but warm, the sort of outfit that made her feel like the woman she’d grown into rather than the girl she used to be.
She dressed slowly, savoring the ritual;the smooth slide of the fabric against her skin, the faint crackle of static as she charmed her curls to behave, the soft scent of her perfume mixing with the clean, lemony smell of the cottage. When she caught her reflection, she tilted her head and smiled. There was something comforting about seeing herself this way: capable, steady, alive.
Her kitchen was bright by then, the mist lifting beyond the window. She brewed coffee, dark, a drizzle of honey, a splash of oat milk, and leaned against the counter with her mug cupped in both hands. The warmth seeped into her palms, chasing away the last of the morning chill.
Breakfast was simple: a slice of toast spread with marmalade, eaten at the little table by the window. Her itinerary lay beside her plate, marked neatly in her own tidy handwriting.
Book Signing – The Silver Quill, Horizont Alley, 1:00 p.m.
Arrival: 10:00 a.m. (meet Georgina & owners, set up)
Harry – Security Sweep
The sight of his name made her smile. Harry insisted on accompanying her to every event, even though she reminded him she was perfectly capable of managing her own security. Still, the gesture warmed her. He had lost too much to ever stop worrying.
Hermione took another sip of coffee and felt the small, electric flutter of anticipation. It never faded, not even after three books. Today’s release—The Boggart Beneath the Bed, felt different, though. More personal. She had poured her own childhood fears into its pages: the ones that lingered long after the war, the shadows that never quite left.
When she finished eating, she moved through the house with a kind of quiet affection. She loved this cottage—the creaky floorboards, the faint hum of old wards, the ivy creeping up the windowsills. It had become her sanctuary, a place where she could be ordinary, where her name was simply Hermione, not Granger, war heroine.
She paused at the front door, wand tapping lightly against her wrist. Disillusionment charm. Bag over the shoulder. Crookshanks was kissed between the ears. “Be good,” she whispered. “And no clawing the curtains.”
He meowed in dignified protest. Hermione laughed softly, then with a crack, she vanished.
The moment she stepped through the shimmering archway that connected Diagon and Horizont Alley, her heart lifted.
Horizont Alley was everything she loved about magic. Modern and bright, full of laughter and motion. Sunlight refracted through floating glass lanterns; cafés spilled tables onto the cobblestones, their patrons sipping tea under awnings that rippled with enchantments. The air smelled of cinnamon, parchment, and the faint, dusty sweetness of spell ink.
An artist was painting a mural across the side of a shop, coaxing color from his wand in shimmering ribbons. A cluster of children stopped to watch, their laughter echoing down the lane. It reminded her of why she wrote—to give children a world where wonder was safe again.
The Silver Quill stood near the far end. Pale oak shelves gleamed behind tall windows, and soft lamplight poured onto the street. The hanging sign—silver lettering on black, swayed gently in the morning breeze.
Hermione slipped off her Disillusionment Charm and stepped inside.
The scent of fresh ink and polished wood enveloped her. Two young witches—Elsie and Marnie, hurried forward, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. “Ms. Granger! You’re early! Oh, thank you for coming. Everything’s nearly ready!”
“Please, call me Hermione,” she said warmly. “And it’s beautiful. You’ve done such a wonderful job.”
The shop was small but perfect. Banners in soft blues and silvers draped the shelves, each one emblazoned with her book titles. Dozens of copies lined the tables—The Hippogriff Who Hiccupped, The Niffler and the Missing Moonstone, and, at the center, her newest: The Boggart Beneath the Bed.
The cover made her chest tighten; painted in dusky hues, a child peeking beneath a bed where gentle golden eyes glowed back. It was about courage, yes, but also about learning that not every darkness was meant to be feared.
“Georgina should be here soon,” Hermione said, setting her bag behind the counter.
“She already came through the Floo,” Marnie replied. “Said she was grabbing espresso.”
Of course she was. Hermione smiled to herself. Georgina never began a day without caffeine and chaos in equal measure.
Hermione looked around the shop once more, soaking in every detail: the flutter of enchanted quills above the signing table, the rows of seats waiting to be filled with tiny children, the sunlight spilling through the glass like a benediction.
For a moment, she simply stood there and breathed.
After years of rebuilding and searching and healing, her life had narrowed into something small but vibrant. A quiet kind of happiness, painted in technicolor, the soft green of her garden gate, the honey gold of her kitchen light, the silver shimmer of a new book waiting to meet its readers.
And for the first time in a very long while, Hermione Granger felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be.
A familiar voice interrupted her admiration. “Hermione.”
She turned, already smiling. Harry stood framed in the doorway, all black Auror robes and a halo of soot from whatever Floo grate he’d just tumbled through. His badge glinted at his belt, and his hair—impossibly looked more untidy than ever.
“Hey, Harry,” she said warmly, stepping forward. “You’re early.”
He grinned, that same boyish grin that always made her heart lift a little, and pulled her into a hug. Hermione breathed him in. He smelled of ash, tea, and the faint metallic scent of magic. He squeezed her tightly before pulling back to inspect the shop.
“Headquarters wanted me to make sure everything’s safe before the crowd arrives.”
He spoke casually, but his eyes were already sweeping the corners, calculating lines of sight and exits the way only an Auror could. His wand was in his hand before she could blink.
“Praesidium Revelio,” he murmured. Wards shimmered faintly across the beams, rippling like invisible spider silk before vanishing again.
“You’re expecting a decent turnout?” he asked, tucking his wand away.
Hermione shrugged, the corner of her mouth twitching. “A few families, maybe fifty people? Mostly children.”
“Right,” Harry said, a smirk ghosting over his lips. “Because children never bring parents. And parents never gossip. And gossip never travels faster than Floo powder.”
She shot him a look that only made him grin wider. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Not remotely,” he said, peering out the window. “I already spotted three reporters pretending to shop for sugar quills at Sugarplum’s. They’ve got their Quick-Quotes Quills out.”
Hermione groaned. “Wonderful. Georgina will be thrilled.”
He chuckled, drawing another ward along the doorframe. “You sure you’re all right with this? Big crowds, noise, questions—”
“Harry.” She said his name softly, placing a hand on his arm. “I’m fine. Truly. It’s my third tour. I know how to smile and sign and politely refuse interviews.”
He hesitated, studying her face as if looking for cracks. When he found none, he smiled gently, and something like pride. “All right. I just like knowing you’ve got backup.”
“I always do,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Usually one with terrible hair.”
“Oi,” he said, mock affronted, but his grin betrayed him.
He reached into his pocket. “Ginny and the kids made you something.”
She blinked, touched. “They did?”
“Lily insisted.” He handed over a folded parchment covered in crayon. Hermione unfolded it carefully. A bright, chaotic drawing filled the page: Hermione in her robes, holding hands with three stick figures labeled JAMES, ALBUS, and LILY. A crooked sun smiled in the corner, and a speech bubble from Hermione read “Always be kind to magical creatures!”
Hermione laughed, pressing it to her chest. “Tell them I love it. And that I’m framing it.”
Harry’s eyes softened. “They’ll be over the moon.”
He looked around again, and this time his gaze lingered not with caution but with quiet admiration. “You’ve built something good here, Hermione. You should be proud.”
“I am,” she said quietly. “It’s strange, though. I used to think fulfillment would come from politics or research, something big. It turns out it looks like this.”
“Books and marmalade and bossing cats around?”
“Exactly,” she said with a grin.
By eleven, the peace was over. Georgina LaCroix swept in on a gust of perfume and French exclamations, trailing the scent of roses and ambition. She was all long limbs and gloss: a silk scarf knotted at her throat, lipstick the shade of holly berries, and heels that clicked like punctuation.
“Ma chère rêveuse!” Georgina cried, swooping in to kiss Hermione on both cheeks. “You look divine! And this shop—oh, très charmant! You’ve outdone yourself again, my shining star!”
Hermione smiled, accustomed to her editor’s whirlwind energy. “Bonjour, Georgina. Everything’s ready, I think.”
“Good, good,” Georgina said, flipping open her leather-bound planner. “The Prophet’s photographer will arrive at noon. Try not to hide this time, yes?”
Hermione sighed, rubbing her temple. “I’ll do my best, though I suspect my best won’t satisfy you.”
“Not with that hair,” Georgina said cheerfully, reaching out to fluff one perfect curl. “It is magnifique, but perhaps...less volume?”
Harry snorted behind his hand.
Hermione gave him a withering look. “Don’t you dare.”
He laughed outright now. “Good luck with that one.”
Georgina turned to him, eyes narrowing playfully. “Ah, Monsieur Potter! My favorite bodyguard! You will make sure no one steals my author, yes?”
Harry straightened in mock salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The three of them stood for a moment amid the hum of last minute preparations; the murmur of charms from the back room, the faint tapping of a quill testing its ink.
For Hermione, it was always like this before an event: a mixture of nerves and gratitude. She glanced at Harry, her oldest friend, her steady anchor, and felt the familiar warmth of belonging settle in her chest. Whatever else the day brought, be it photographers, crowds, or chaos, she would be all right.
She had built a life full of peace and purpose, surrounded by people who believed in her.
And though she didn’t know it yet, that peace was about to ripple softly, irrevocably, with the arrival of a small boy.
By one o’clock, the doors opened.
And by half-past one, Hermione realized Harry had been right.
The line outside stretched halfway down Horizont Alley—children clutching copies of The Boggart Beneath the Bed, parents balancing tea and camera lenses, shop assistants darting about with trays of biscuits. Inside, the air buzzed with laughter and sugar and the sweet hum of magic. The Silver Quill had never felt so alive.
Hermione’s hand cramped halfway through the second hour, but she didn’t mind. Each name she wrote was its own small joy. Each child’s face carried a story. She asked them about their favorite creatures, their dreams, their fears, and they told her—oh, how they told her. There were dragons who wanted hugs, boggarts who learned jokes, and one little boy who swore he’d met a talking garden gnome named Simon. Hermione smiled until her cheeks hurt, her heart blooming with every shy thank-you and every whispered “I love your books.”
“Next, please!” called Marnie, cheerful and flushed.
Hermione lifted her quill and stilled.
A sleek witch was approaching, hand resting lightly on the shoulder of a small blond boy. Dark hair, clever eyes, impeccable taste in robes.
Hermione blinked. “Pansy Parkinson.”
The witch gave her a languid, self-assured smile. “In the flesh.”
But Hermione’s attention had already shifted to the boy at her side.
That hair. That unmistakable shade of pale gold. Those eyes—grey as smoke and sharp with curiosity.
The boy looked up at her as if she were a story come to life.
“Hello, love,” Hermione said softly, warmth threading her voice. “What’s your name?”
He straightened, polite but radiant. “Hello, Ms. Granger. I’m Scorpius. Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy.”
Hermione’s quill didn’t falter, though her heart gave a quiet, surprised twist. “It’s very nice to meet you, Scorpius. Which book has been your favorite so far?”
“I love them all!” His voice was bright with sincerity. “You’re my hero.”
She felt her throat tighten around a laugh. “That’s very kind of you. Tell you what, if you and your mum can stay a bit, I’ll be reading from my next book just over there after the signing.”
He gasped, eyes wide, clutching his copy like treasure. “The next one? On my Merlin, yes! Yes!”
Pansy’s laughter startled her, it was real, unguarded, touched with fondness. She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Come along, sweetheart. Let Ms. Granger finish her work.”
Before leaving, Pansy’s gaze lingered. Appraising. Surprised. Hermione Granger, it seemed, had learned to shine. Her curls tamed into soft waves, her cream suit a perfect fit. Success suited her.
By late afternoon, the sunlight had gone honey-soft, spilling through the tall windows and dusting everything gold. The signing table was cleared, replaced by a small stage and rows of cross-legged children. A tall chair waited for Hermione, but she ignored it, laughing as she transfigured her heels into flats.
She rolled up her sleeves, perched at the edge of the stage, and sat cross-legged among the little ones.
“All right,” she said, smile bright and conspiratorial. “How about a story no one’s heard yet?”
The chatter hushed. Dozens of eyes blinked up at her.
“This one’s called The Chimera’s Choice.”
A hush, then a collective intake of breath.
“As you all know,” Hermione continued, “it’s a choose-your-own adventure. Which means you get to decide what happens next. Should the chimera guard the village—or learn what it means to be free by following the stars?”
Tiny hands shot up at once, voices overlapping in a chorus of excitement.
“Follow the stars!”
“Guard the village!”
“No, the stars!”
Hermione laughed, delighted. “All right, all right, let’s see what happens when the chimera chooses the sky.”
Her voice wove through the shop like music, soft and sure. Even the parents fell silent, leaning in. She made the words dance, each sentence alive with warmth and color, as if the story itself glowed between her hands.
Near the front row, Scorpius Malfoy sat perfectly still, his quill poised over a tiny notebook. His expression was solemn in concentration, yet his eyes shone. Every so often, Hermione caught his gaze and smiled, and he smiled back quickly and brightly showing off his little white teeth.
When the final line drifted into silence, the room seemed to exhale as one. Hermione closed the manuscript, setting it gently beside her.
“That,” she said, “was a little piece of my next story—The Chimera’s Choice. It should be out by Easter.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
“Will you do another reading here?” asked a girl with pigtails and enormous spectacles.
Hermione smiled apologetically. “My last reading for this tour will be in Paris, in two weeks’ time. But you can all write to me, and tell me what you’d like to see next. I promise I’ll answer every letter I can.”
The children gasped, wide-eyed at the idea.
Hermione rose and began hugging them one by one—collecting crumpled letters, shaky drawings of dragons, folded scraps scrawled with hopeful stories. “Keep imagining,” she told them, her voice soft. “That’s how the world stays bright.”
From the window alcove, Pansy watched with her arms crossed, mouth curved in something between amusement and disbelief. The years had softened her, yes, but she was not easily impressed. And yet… there was something about this scene—the once-bookish Gryffindor surrounded by rapt little faces, her voice filling the air like sunlight—that disarmed her entirely.
When the crowd thinned, she stepped forward.
“Miss Granger,” Pansy said smoothly, tone equal parts tease and compliment. “Love the suit. Saint Laurent?”
Hermione looked up, faintly surprised but smiling. “It is, actually. Good eye, Pansy. Goodbye, Scorpius, it was so lovely to meet you.”
She leaned down to hug him, gentle and genuine.
Scorpius froze for a heartbeat, then wrapped his small arms around her with all the courage of a knight pledging allegiance.
When she released him, his eyes were shining.
Pansy extended a gloved hand, her smile faint but real. “Take care, Granger. You’re doing brilliantly.”
“Thank you, Pansy,” Hermione replied, warmth threading through her voice. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Scorpius Malfoy had never been so sure of anything in his seven years of life: Hermione Granger was magic.
Not the wand kind—the other kind. The warm kind. The kind that made him believe the world could be good.
She’d hugged him.
Not a polite tap on the shoulder. Not a smile for the crowd. A real hug—one that made his chest ache in the best way.
As the shop emptied and the chatter softened, he lingered in front of the little stage, clutching his new book tight enough to crease the silver foil lettering.
Letters.
He could write to her.
He would write to her.
He could tell her his ideas—about kind chimeras, and dragons who collected lullabies instead of gold, and Nifflers who buried treasure just so people could find it and smile.
He was still shaping the first line in his head when Aunt Pansy appeared, immaculate as ever, her hand cool on his shoulder.
“Come along, sweetheart. We’ve taken up enough of Miss Granger’s time.”
“But, Aunt Pansy, she said her next reading’s in Paris! If we go, she can sign the others! The Hippogriff one, and the Niffler one, please?”
“Breathe, darling.” Pansy chuckled, looping her arm through his. “We’ll discuss it later.”
“But—”
“Later,” she repeated, and her tone left no room for debate.
Outside, the late-afternoon air was soft and golden. Scorpius tugged at her sleeve as they walked. “You know her?”
“I did,” Pansy said lightly. “Kind of.”
“How?”
She smiled, secretive and sly. “Hogwarts.”
Scorpius stopped dead. “Wait—you went to Hogwarts with Miss Granger?”
“Mhm.”
His eyes widened. “Then—then does Dad know Miss Granger?”
Pansy’s laugh was sharp and delighted. “Oh yes, darling. You can ask him all about Granger.” And though Scorpius didn’t yet understand the look in her eyes when she said it, he knew one thing with perfect certainty: He absolutely would.
By the time they reached Malfoy Manor, dusk had turned the Wiltshire countryside blue and still. Torches flickered along the long drive, throwing shadows up the ancient stone façade.
Scorpius barreled through the front doors before the elf could announce them, shouting for his father at a volume that made every portrait in the foyer twitch awake.
“Daaad! Dad! You’ll never believe who I met!”
Draco, halfway through his supper in the dining room, looked up from a folder of shipping manifests, his fork hovering. “If this involves another Kneazle kitten, the answer is—”
“Miss Granger! Hermione Granger! She’s J. Granger! She writes my books! Aunt Pansy took me to her reading and she’s amazing!”
Draco blinked, completely lost. “J… Granger?”
Pansy glided in behind her nephew, unhurried, unrepentant. “You’re welcome.”
Scorpius, oblivious to his father’s confusion, launched into a monologue. “She read us a story about a chimera! And we got to choose what it did! And she hugged everyone and said we could send her letters—letters, Dad! I’m going to write her all new stories!”
Draco set down his fork slowly. “Hermione Granger.”
“Yes!” Scorpius bounced on the balls of his feet. “She’s so nice and clever and pretty! Aunt Pansy says you know her from school! Were you friends? Was she always this pretty? And smart? And kind? I love her voice. We could invite her to tea here! Do you think she likes cats? We have cats in the stables, don't we Fribley!” Their elf Fribley nodded, and glanced at Draco with his eyebrows high on his tiny forehead.
Draco inhaled sharply and immediately choked on his wine at the mentioning of wanting to invite Granger here to Malfoy Manor.
“Tea,” he managed, after coughing into his napkin. “You’d like me to invite Hermione Granger to tea.”
“Yes!” Scorpius said, entirely earnest. “Fribley can make those scones with jam!”
“Merlin help me,” Draco muttered, pressing his fingers to his temple.
Pansy took a seat across the table, green eyes dancing. “He’s quite taken, isn’t he? She’s his hero, who would have thought!”
Draco shot her a look sharp enough to cut glass. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Oh, tremendously, Darling.”
Scorpius leaned closer. “Can we go to Paris, Daddy? Please? She said she’s reading again there, and I forgot my other books. I want her to sign them! We could go together! Please?”
Draco stared at him, speechless. He couldn’t recall the last time his son had sounded so alive, so eager. His small, hopeful son; his infuriatingly smug friend , and realized, with a slow and certain horror, that his tidy, carefully ordered world had just shifted on its axis.
Hermione Granger. Of course it would be her.
He didn’t know what this meant, or what would come of it. Only that his son had already decided she belonged in their orbit, and Draco suspected he didn’t have the strength (or the heart) to argue.
He poured himself another glass of wine and muttered under his breath, “Of all the witches in Britain…”
Pansy’s smile turned razor sharp. “You are so very welcome.”