Chapter Text
“Granger. I am not getting any younger.”.
Theodore Nott.
At thirty-two years old.
Still a twat.
“Prat,” she corrected absently.
“You take that back.”
She smirked, sealing the final vial with a cork and setting it aside to ferment.
From upstairs, his voice drifted down again. “Darling, please. Your cactus will survive the night.”
Satisfied that everything was secure, Hermione hurried up the narrow metal stairs.
There he was—Theodore Nott, dressed in black from head to toe, looking infuriatingly handsome as ever.
“Alright,” she said, brushing past him. “I’m ready.”
“Gods, woman. We’ve been friends for how long now, and you still love your plants and weeds more than me?”
“They don’t complain,” she replied sweetly.
“They absolutely do,” Theo said. “You just listen to them.”
He offered his elbow; she accepted without hesitation.
The familiar pull tightened behind her navel as magic wrapped around them, compressing the world into a sharp, breathless point. For a heartbeat, everything went dark—soundless, weightless—
Then her feet met pavement.
When her vision steadied, Hermione took in her surroundings.
Concrete. Brick. The low hum of traffic threading through the air like a living thing.
“Muggle London?” She raised a brow.
“Yes. Muggle London.” Theo shot her a sideways grin. “Happy?”
“Dare I say—confused?” She glanced around again, already cataloguing details. “Why are we here?”
He smoothed his shirt and adjusted his collar before answering. “Come now. Our reservation’s this way.”
They set off together, her arm looping easily through his. Theo was every inch the gentleman when it suited him. The street was narrow and busy in that distinctly Muggle way—brick buildings pressed close together, windows thrown open to the warm evening air. Traffic murmured in the distance, and the last of the summer light lingered between the buildings.
“See?” Theo said lightly. “I plan these things. Ambience.”
He stopped before a dimly lit restaurant tucked neatly between two storefronts.
“I hear they have the best vodka pasta,” he added.
Hermione eyed him. “How do you know what vodka pasta is?”
He pressed a hand to his chest, wounded. “I just do.” His grin turned wicked as he stepped forward and pulled open the door. “Milady.”
Inside, they were greeted by the host—a brunette with a neat bob and bright brown eyes. Her name tag read Lia.
“Good evening. May I have your reservation, please?”
“Evening,” Theo said easily, glancing at her name tag. “Lia. It should be under ‘Nott.’”
She tapped at the screen, then smiled. “Perfect. Right this way, please. Your friend has already been seated.”
Hermione raised a brow.
Theo was not looking at her at all.
When they reached the table, she briefly wondered if her eyes were deceiving her.
Because why on earth—
Draco bloody Malfoy was sitting at their table.
In Muggle London, of all places.
“Ah! Malfoy.” Theo clapped his hands together lightly. “Apologies for the delay—Granger was tending to her blueberries.”
Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
“No problem at all,” Malfoy said. His grey eyes flicked to her. “Granger.” He gestured for them to sit.
“Malfoy,” she replied.
Theo pulled out her chair before reaching for a menu.
The restaurant was dimly lit but inviting—dark wooden floors, walls adorned with empty frames and vintage paintings. Everything about it felt intimate, understated, deliberate.
Once they were seated and their orders placed, the tension crept in.
For the first time, Hermione felt unsettled—and that was new, especially with Theo. She had never felt out of place at his side. Now it felt as though one wrong move might draw Malfoy’s attention, his grey eyes sharp enough to sting. A scoff, perhaps. A cutting remark. In another life, maybe even a hex.
But none of that happened.
Instead, Malfoy was deep in conversation with Theo, discussing the proper way to tend vineyards through winter.
She stole a glance at him.
He was dressed simply: a white Oxford, black trousers, black boots. Familiar enough.
And yet—different. Older. Time had softened the sharpest edges of his features without dulling them. Handsome, she realised, despite herself. Gorgeous, even.
A small leather-bound journal rested beside his place setting, a pair of reading glasses folded neatly atop it.
Hermione wondered what they were for.
Once the meal arrived, they ate and talked, keeping to safe, ordinary subjects—work, businesses, old friends. Nothing that mattered. Nothing that required honesty.
When the plates were cleared, Theo ordered a bottle of red.
Hermione’s stomach tightened.
He only did that when the conversation was about to turn serious—when something needed softening around the edges. A buffer. A kindness, disguised as indulgence.
Theo cleared his throat. “Hermione, do you remember Alice?”
“I do,” she said, a small smile forming. “She was lovely. I was her Healer for about two years.”
Theo nodded. “What was it like?” he asked quietly. “The progress.”
Hermione swirled her wine, watching the liquid catch the light as she reached back through memory.
“It was difficult,” she said honestly. “But I never gave up—and neither did Alice. She had extensive care from my team and me. Countless sleepless nights. Searching for an antidote, or anything that might help. Anything at all.”
She became acutely aware of the silence—of two sets of eyes fixed on her.
“She grew attached,” Hermione continued softly. “I was with her almost every day. Day and night.” A pause. “But I didn’t mind. It was my job to make her feel better—even if that meant being there beyond my hours.”
Theo nodded, thoughtful.
Malfoy’s gaze drifted away.
Theo drained his glass and reached into his jacket, producing a slim file.
Malfoy stiffened. His expression sharpened, eyes flashing with something fierce and barely restrained.
“Theodore,” he warned, low.
“Draco,” Theo replied gently, holding his gaze. “Allow me.”
Whatever flickered between them—pity, perhaps—it was sincere.
Malfoy drew a slow breath, closed his eyes, then nodded once.
His expression flattened. Carefully blank.
He was Occluding.
“Mione,” Theo said softly, “would you say this case is similar to Alice Winters?”
He slid the file across the table.
Hermione opened it.
A patient file.
Name: ||||||||
Age: 5
Date of Birth: 16 January
Hermione frowned as she read.
“This poor child…”
“What do you think?” Theo asked quietly.
She scanned the file again, lingering on the treatments.
“It’s similar,” she said slowly. “Alice shared some of these symptoms.” She hesitated. “But this is far more severe.”
She met their gazes.
“How severe?” Malfoy asked.
Hermione looked back down. “This patient has undergone extensive treatment—advanced protocols, experimental magic—and nothing has worked.” Her voice steadied, professional. Grave. “This case alone would warrant new research by the Healing Department.”
A pause.
“This illness,” she added quietly, “has never been documented before.”
Theo frowned. Malfoy stared at the file.
“I could speak to my superior—”
“No.”
The word cut sharp and final.
Theo turned toward him. “Draco, I think it would be best to involve the top Healers—”
“No.” Malfoy’s jaw tightened. “This case remains private. It will not reach the Department.”
Hermione frowned. “I disagree. The Healing Department exists for cases like this—research, prevention—”
“I know what is best,” Malfoy said coldly, lifting his gaze to hers, “for my son.”
The truth landed like a blow.
Draco Malfoy had a son.
And he was gravely ill.
“I didn’t know,” Hermione said quietly.
Malfoy exhaled slowly. “Scorpius,” he said. “I’ve brought in Healers from across the world. Nothing has helped.” His jaw tightened. “If anything, some treatments may have made it worse.”
Theo reached for her hand. “Hermione,” he said softly, “please help my nephew.”
Hope flickered.
Hours later, Hermione lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. A glance at Tempus—11:30 p.m.
She closed her eyes.
Then opened them again.
The file sat on her desk.
With a sigh, she rose, summoned parchment and quill, and began to write—ingredients first. Remedies. Gentle draughts. Not a cure.
But a beginning.
Tomorrow.
She was already on her feet.
Hermione went to her greenhouse and began brewing.