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Chapter Text

The fresh scent of scarcely handled books mingled with the leathery fragrance of their well-worn counterparts. Most people preferred the aroma of brewed coffee in the morning. Its earthy wisps could curl into nostrils and perk a person wide awake before a single sip disappeared past their lips. But not Hermione Granger. To her, the first step into the bookstore was daybreak’s greatest delight. 

After strolling past the shelves of Wizarding and Muggle children’s books, Hermione twisted a key, then welcomed herself into the office. She made sure everything was in order before settling into her desk chair and unfolding a copy of the Daily Prophet. 

With Voldemort long defeated, news was slower nowadays, with hardly anything grave or critical hitting the front page. That didn’t stop Hermione from frowning when she read the headline. 

Malfoy Corporation Secures Thirty Per Cent Ownership of Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop

It was no secret that Scrivenshaft’s had been struggling financially. Years after the war, some shops still hadn’t fully recovered. As a fellow small business owner, she should be happy to learn that the shop was spared from imminent closure. And perhaps she would be if this wasn’t the fourth near-identical article she’d read in the past year — all about small businesses conveniently saved by the deep pockets of one particular pasty pureblood.

Hermione read the article then tossed aside the paper. At his current rate, Draco Malfoy would have partial ownership of every shop in Hogsmeade by the end of the decade. She shuddered to imagine how his selfish hands planned to tarnish the charm and integrity of those stores when they didn’t return on his investment fast enough. 

She took in a deep breath and let the scent of her personal book collection flood her senses. The tension building in her shoulders slackened. Thoughts of Malfoy would not ruin her morning.

Hermione crossed the length of the office, intending to check the ledger to see how many more sales they needed that month to meet their third-quarter goals, when a tapping against the window pulled her attention in the opposite direction. Her heart lifted. She hadn’t expected a response so early in the day.

The taps continued, even after Hermione reached the window and started to push the pane open. As soon as the clearing was large enough, the folded aeroplane zipped into Hermione’s office. It glided through the air, momentarily sweeping around Hermione’s head, until it landed in the centre of the desk.

A jolt of anticipation rolled through Hermione’s veins. Barely a second passed before she reached for the parchment and pressed out the creases to reveal the familiar handwriting. A blossom of warmth bloomed inside her chest upon his very first word.

Dearest friend,

While I understand your assessment of Greheimer’s work, I must disagree. I concede that untransfigurations are a fundamental part of transfiguration and should be considered a foundational skill, yet I still see no reason why it should be its own separate branch. Untransfigurations are mere reverses of transfigurations. The rules to the magic for transfiguring and untransifguring are not inherent inverses like they are with vanishing and conjuring. For simplicity sake, three branches of transfiguration would make more sense than four. Though I assume you will argue otherwise. I already anticipate your forthcoming essay detailing every reason why I’m wrong. Try not to waste all weekend writing it. The fall weather is much too nice for you to spoil your days with that. Now that the pre-Hogwarts crowds have finally disappeared, I’ll be spending the day shopping with my son. May your Saturday be just as enjoyable.

Yours.

The edges of Hermione’s upper teeth dug into her lower lip, gently biting the soft flesh while the curve of a smile teased the corners. It didn’t surprise her that he knew her well enough to predict her immediate impulse. If the store wasn’t opening in a few minutes, she’d start penning her response that very moment. But he couldn’t know the reason for her delay; he still didn’t know her occupation.

“And just who has you blushing like that?” 

Curls whipped over Hermione’s shoulder as her startled gaze fell to the space beyond the doorframe where Penelope Clearwater stood. Only then did Hermione notice the heat that had been prickling her cheeks.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I didn’t hear an answer.”

A new wave of heat pulsed in her cheeks and travelled to the tips of her ears. “I can’t tell you,” Hermione said, not entirely lying as she slid the letter to the bottom of a stack of parchments. 

Intrigue etched across Penelope’s face. “Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t,” Hermione answered more resolutely. She got to her feet and pushed past Penelope into the main part of the store.

The sound of Penelope’s steps followed Hermione’s path, echoing close behind. “In other words, it’s your pen pal.”

A momentary startle froze Hermione’s footsteps. She grabbed an assortment of books from a table display in a lame attempt to justify the pause, then continued towards the front register. 

“If you must know, then yes,” Hermione admitted. A short stack of small parchments drifted across the counter and stopped in front of her. She grabbed the top piece and wrote the name of a fake customer for a fake hold and slipped it under one of the book covers. “Nothing out of the ordinary. He was only responding to my note from last night.”

Penelope lifted an eyebrow. “Note or fully scripted letter? Because from my experience, simple notes don’t necessitate you writing more than eight inches.” 

The quill in Hermione’s hand froze as the heat returned to her cheeks. “I thought you left right after close.”

“I forgot my cloak,” she said with a playful grin.

Hermione finished labelling the fake holds then swished her wand so the books joined the alphabetized stacks behind the counter. She made a mental note to pull those books and return them to their proper spot when Penelope wasn’t looking. 

In the distance, the striking of the nine consecutive bells at the intersection of Diagon and Knockturn rang down the alley. Hermione spelled the sign on the door to flip to the “Open” side and unlocked the entrance. She moved past the counter, preparing for the arrival of customers, but Penelope remained close behind.

“You must admit that it’s unusual that you two are still exchanging letters,” Penelope contended. “That pen pal program fizzled out.”

Hermione sucked in a breath, then let out a short sigh. “It’s not as though we’ve been in communication the entire time,” she said, allowing Penelope this small tidbit of information in hope that it would placate her prying. “There were three years in the middle that I didn’t hear from him.”

The chime of the front door tinkled, and the first customer of the day stepped in. Hermione and Penelope both greeted them before Penelope returned her attention to Hermione.

“Even so, it’s been at least a year since you two have resumed. After so long, aren’t you the least bit interested in knowing who he is?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she answered, perhaps too quickly. “The intention of the post-war pen pal program was to forge friendships inside the wizarding world without judgment or bias. To show that anyone could connect, regardless of background.”

Penelope seemed sceptical. “If you’re still writing each other, I think you’ve more than proved that. And it’s not as though all those people remained anonymous. My friend Eliza met hers.”

Hermione flitted her vision towards the floorboards, feeling a knot form in the base of her stomach. “Maybe it’s just nice to communicate with someone who doesn’t know me as Hermione Granger.”

A customer approached them, asking for assistance, and Penelope went to help. When she was far enough away, Hermione closed her eyes and sagged against a nearby bookshelf.

While she hadn’t lied to Penelope, she hadn’t been entirely honest either. Truth was, she was aching to know his identity. Years of countless correspondence had accumulated from a snowflake of intrigue into a massive snowball that rolled through the slopes of her mind at an unstoppable speed. Every personal snippet he had ever shared was neatly filed in her memory, though that didn’t amount to much considering that the charmed pen pal parchment absorbed anything it deemed too revealing. 

It started innocently. In her final year at Hogwarts, Hermione had been eager to fill her newfound free time reading and responding to the letters, especially since Harry and Ron had opted not to return. At her peak, she’d had over half a dozen pen pals. Yet one had always captured her attention more than the others.

Every meal, she had scanned the Great Hall, mind churning with curiosity as she wondered if her favourite pen pal sat within the space. From the little he revealed, they sounded similar in age. It didn’t take long for her to try to piece together the rest of the few puzzle pieces she had, even if those efforts ultimately proved fruitless. 

After graduation, her heart still soared with anticipation whenever a note in his handwriting arrived. He was the steady constant in her life during the bumpy transition from school to working under George to gain business experience. She shared pieces of her she hadn’t shared with anyone else — even if the context was vague. It felt like he did the same. She had hoped to soon broach the subject of meeting each other. Face to face. To see if the stir inside her chest was a product of her intrigue or the potential for something more. 

Until he stopped responding. 

But that had been years ago. They were older now. She was dedicated to the bookstore. He had a son. Any emotions or feelings she had once felt for him had long since been tucked away, alongside the boxes of their original letters. She was simply grateful to have communication with him restored. Like a long-lost friend returned to her life. 

Yet, as Hermione swept her gaze across the growing number of customers, she couldn’t help but wonder if — and perhaps slightly hope — her pen pal and his son would step into her shop that day.

~*~*~

Intermittent tinkles continued to ring through the space as a steady stream of customers patronised the store. By the time noon struck, Hermione’s mental calculations determined that they had already reached their daily sales target, so they were still on pace to meet their quarterly goal. Weekends were always busier than weekdays, especially when they hosted a storybook hour to pull in an additional crowd.

Now that Penelope had finished that day’s read aloud, flocks of children, all under the age of eleven, were scattered throughout the store. Giggles erupted from two girls playing with a book that billowed with bubbles whenever they cracked it open, while an older boy had a stack of novels so high, it reached his freckled nose. Hermione beamed at the sight. She hoped she would never tire of witnessing the delight on their faces. 

She weaved through the store, checking with customers if they needed help, until she spotted an adorable sandy-haired boy no older than three sitting alone with a book in front of him. His legs were folded criss-cross as he spoke to himself and pointed to different pictures on the opened page. 

Hermione lowered to her knees and met the young boy at eye level. “Are you enjoying that book?”

He looked up at her with bright blue eyes, speckled with grey, and nodded fervently. “I like stars,” he said, gaze twinkling like the charmed constellations in the illustration. 

Hermione smiled. “If you ask nicely, maybe your mummy will buy it for you.”

“No mummy,” the boy stated simply. “Just a daddy.”

He returned his attention to the book, and Hermione felt the flush of foolishness emblazon her cheeks. She knew better than to make assumptions like that. Many children had lost a parent during the war — even if this particular child was too young for that to be his circumstance. 

A blink later, though, a different thought crossed her mind, stirring a swarm of pixies inside her stomach.

A young boy with just a father.

Hermione searched the surrounding area, heart indecisive about whether it wanted to stay lodged in her throat or leap out her ribcage. He could be here. Right now. After years of anticipation, she could be seconds away from seeing his face.

But no one seemed to notice Hermione talking with the boy. Or at least, no one approached. Not yet.

Hermione stayed with the boy, watching him carefully as the prospect of meeting her pen pal tingled every inch of her body. She took small solace in the fact that her mishap didn’t seem to have upset him. He was back to pointing to the different constellations.

“Leo,” he said, fingertip pressed against the outline of a lion. He moved his finger to the swan. “Cygnus.”

Hermione gasped. “That is amazing,” she said with sincere surprise. “You can name those constellations?” She pointed to the bear. “Can you name this one?”

“Ursa Major!”

She slid her finger to another image. “And this one?”

“Orion!”

“What about this one?”

“Draco.”

At the sound of the drawl behind her, Hermione’s pixies vanished, replaced by a sinking feeling and the spikes of hairs on the back of her neck. She barely had time to register what had happened before the boy lit up, and Hermione’s finger fell off the drawing of a dragon.

“Daddy!” the boy exclaimed.

A frown crossed Hermione’s lips as she stood to face the wizard who most undoubtedly, without question, was not her pen pal. Somehow, she had avoided seeing him since the newspaper articles had announced his return to England. It appeared her luck had run out.

Draco Malfoy didn’t spare her a glance. “I thought I told you to stay where I could see you.”

“But I found star book,” the little boy said, his excitement impervious to his father’s clipped remark. He tugged on Malfoy’s robes with one hand while he stood on his tiptoes so the book was closer to his father’s face. “Look, Daddy. It has all the stars.”

Malfoy’s stern concern waned, and a faint smile perked his lips. Not a cruel one like Hermione was accustomed to seeing. Genuine.

“Did you find your constellation?”

The boy nodded, then flipped through the book until he landed on the same page as before. “Here. Scorpius!”

Hermione knew she was staring. She couldn’t help it. It was too unbelievable to see Malfoy interacting with this boy — his son — like he wasn’t the egotistical, arrogant, stuck-up, pain-in-the-arse prat she knew him to be. A hundred years couldn’t change him that much. He may maintain this facade in front of his child, but that morning’s Prophet article assured Hermione that Malfoy’s true colours hadn’t shifted far from Slytherin green. 

Scorpius, Hermione inferred, continued to bounce with enthusiasm, yet Malfoy’s attention was no longer set solely on him. His gaze flickered to Hermione, and the pierce of his slate grey stare jolted her back to the last time she had seen him. Six years ago. At Hogwarts. The morning after the final battle. When their eyes had locked across the Great Hall in a similar fashion. Before his family had disappeared to the French countryside without any consequences for their role in the war.

“Can we buy it? Please?”

The momentary tension between her and Malfoy melted — if only temporarily — as he looked back at Scorpius. 

“If that’s the one you want,” Malfoy said, bending on one knee to meet his son more directly. He reached out and fixed a few strands of sandy blond hair. “Unless you want to go pick out three more?”

Scorpius’ little eyes grew wide. He flung his arms over Malfoy’s shoulders and gave his father a tight hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he squealed before scampering off in the direction of the animal books. 

“Stay where I can see you this time!” Malfoy shouted after him, but it appeared too late. Scorpius was already lost in his delight.

A familiar fondness spread through Hermione at the sight of Scorpius pulling out books and inspecting their covers — until she remembered who she was standing next to.

Hermione straightened her spine, forcing her frame upright so Malfoy didn’t tower over her as much as his stature naturally commanded. She wouldn’t let him make her feel small like he had for so much of their youth.

Malfoy gave her a short look over, and Hermione folded her arms against her chest under the weight of his assessment.

“How predictable,” he said, voice devoid of all the fatherly warmth it had held just a few seconds earlier. “Let me guess. You work here?”

Hermione huffed. “I own here,” she corrected, jutting her chin up half an inch. “I’m surprised you don’t know that considering you seem intent on buying every struggling small business in Wizarding Britain.”

The lines of Malfoy’s scowl deepened, but Hermione didn’t look long enough to see much else. She bent down to collect the books some child had left on the floor and paced towards the appropriate shelf. Malfoy followed.

“It doesn’t appear to me that you’re struggling,” his voice carried from behind. “Judging the size of your store and the general patronage on a Saturday afternoon, I assume you bring in 40,000 Galleons a year? 45?”

Hermione’s movements staggered. If she wasn’t annoyed by how accurate his estimate was, she’d almost be impressed.

Instead, she whipped around to glare at him. “Then you must also know I’m doing fine on my own, so if you came here to find the next victim to whatever financial manipulation you’re planning over these vulnerable business owners, you’ll have to look elsewhere. I don’t need your tainted wealth.”

Hermione turned and released one of the books close enough to the shelf so the surrounding magic carried it to the proper spot. All the while, she could feel Malfoy’s pointed stare digging into her.

“I am here because my son wanted new books, and I heard that this is the best children’s bookstore in Wizarding London,” he said, tone growing harsher. “I didn’t come to spy on your store and one day make a business venture. I needn’t play such games. Or have you forgotten that if I wanted to buy you, or any other shop, on this alley, I could? I’m sure I could name a tempting enough price.”

Anger boiled beneath Hermione’s surface. “That alone proves how little you’ve changed. You’re still the same boy who will use money to get whatever he wants,” she snarled. “Is that also how you buy your son’s affection? The green apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Malfoy’s eyes flared in outrage, turning the slate grey into molten silver. She had only seen such intense ire from him once before. It was almost like they were back on the Quidditch pitch and he was about to hurl the cruellest insult he could fathom.

“I got more books!”

At the sound of Scorpius’ innocent glee, Malfoy and Hermione backed away from each other. All signs of animosity vanished from Malfoy’s body, and he promptly reverted into father mode. He listened with interest as Scorpius showed off the new books, including a Muggle children’s book about dinosaurs. 

To her surprise, Malfoy didn’t comment. No command that Scorpius exchange the Muggle book for something magical. Not even a glower.

He merely conjured a bag and put the four books inside before casting a Feather Light Charm so Scorpius could carry it like the boy begged. He then dug his hand into his pocket and placed a handful of coins on a table.

“Keep the change,” he hissed low enough for only Hermione to hear.

She watched in frozen wonder, incapable of processing how Malfoy could switch from seething wizard to doting father in a matter of heartbeats, as he scooped Scorpius into his arms.

“What now, Scorp? Should we get ice cream?”

Scorpius nodded, smile beaming. “Yes, please.”

Malfoy proceeded to the door without another word. Her only form of goodbye came from Scorpius waving over his father’s shoulder.

“Bye, bye Book Lady.”

Hermione waved back. It wasn’t his fault his father was a complete and total arse.

By the time the door closed behind them, Penelope was at Hermione’s side, glancing at her in surprise.

“Was that Draco Malfoy?”

Hermione grimaced. “It was.”

Penelope’s gaze tracked them through the front window. “I didn’t know he had a son.”

“Me neither.”

Hermione set down the remaining books from the floor and collected the pile of Galleons. It was at least double what the books actually cost.

Wealthy wanker.

She closed her eyes and inhaled, allowing a massive breath to expand her lungs. Not even the smell of books could restore her peace. Echoes of the past rang inside her chest, with murmurs of resentful words never quite forgotten. Of all the people to walk into her store that day, it just had to be him. 

Hermione sucked in another deep breath and exhaled slowly. 

“You okay?”

Hermione reopened her eyes and was met with Penelope’s concerned gaze.

“I’m fine,” she voiced, refusing to let Draco Malfoy affect her any longer. “I just wasn’t expecting to see him.”

They both returned to work, but Hermione’s head remained elsewhere. It wasn’t just the fact that she hadn’t expected to see Malfoy; it was the fact that, when she had turned to face that boy’s father, Hermione had expected to see someone — anyone — else. Disappointment was a cruel torment, even if that hope had been built on a foundation of unlikely circumstances. The Wizarding World was big. The probability of running into her pen pal must be small. 

Yet Hermione didn’t give up hope. It was quite quixotic, but on the off chance that they ever did run into each other, she had a feeling she would simply know it was him. He was clever. Considerate. Charming. All the things she admired in a wizard — and everything Draco Malfoy was not. 

Chapter Text

The stuffed dragon padded its plush feet across Scorpius’ stomach, eliciting giggle after giggle as Scorpius wiggled in bed.

“Daddy!” he said through little laughs. “It tickles!”

Draco grinned and continued to move his wand to direct the enchanted toy. It had started as a prop while Draco read the dinosaur book they had bought earlier that day but had spiralled into a tool for delightful torment. More laughter erupted from Scorpius. To Draco, there was no better sound than his son’s amusement and no better sight than his son’s crinkled eyes and baby-toothed smile.

The game continued for several more minutes until Scorpius seemed properly worn out. By the time Draco had him tucked under the covers, his eyelids were already drooping.

“Did you have a good day?”

Scorpius nodded. “I like my new books.”

Draco leaned down to kiss him on the forehead. “I’m glad.”

He was about to blow out the flame inside the lantern when Scorpius spoke again.

“I liked the book lady. She was pretty.” 

Draco froze, eyes still oriented towards the lantern. He didn’t know how to react in an appropriate way without lying. 

“She asked about my mummy.”

The twist in Draco’s stomach tightened. 

“Your mummy would have loved you very much,” Draco said, feeling the pang of guilt rip through him. “Just as much as I do.” 

Scorpius’ eyes were bright, like they always were whenever someone mentioned his mother. “I know.” 

Scorpius snuggled deeper under his sheets and rested his eyes. When Scorpius was settled, Draco took a few more minutes to admire his son. So young and so optimistic — in a way Draco never had been. He swept his fingers through Scorpius’ hair, not as white blond as his. A softer blond. Just like his mother’s.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Draco’s lips. The universe may not be fair, but at least they had each other.

Draco reached across the bed and placed the stuffed dragon under one of Scorpius’ arms. Even on the precipice of sleep, Scorpius gave it a squeeze then rolled gently to the side. He let out a precious, contented sigh, and Draco felt a moment of peace.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he whispered before blowing out the lantern’s flicker and starting towards the door.

A small, sleepy voice stopped his tracks. “Goodnight, Daddy.” 

His heart clenched. “Goodnight, Scorp.”

The door closed behind Draco, and he leaned his head against the ebony to stare at the decorative scrollwork that lined the ceiling. It was never easy when Scorpius brought up Astoria. The occurrences were rare, but Draco was never certain how to respond without divulging more than Scorpius was ready to hear. 

Draco’s thoughts didn’t stay on Astoria long when dormant irritation resurfaced. Somehow, Granger had managed to tarnish his day more than he originally thought.

Dim lighting guided Draco’s path as he strode down the corridor and up the stairs towards the second floor. Cushioned footsteps on top of hand-knotted, centuries-old Persian rugs were the sole sound in the otherwise silent townhouse. Such was the usual whenever it was time for Scorpius to go to bed, leaving Draco to spend the rest of his night in solitude. Yet, as he entered his study, satisfaction overpowered any animosity that had tainted his thoughts only seconds earlier.

There, in the centre of his desk, was a folded parchment aeroplane. 

Draco paced forward, swishing his wand to simultaneously close the window he had left ajar and remove the ward charmed to grant only letters entry. He didn’t wait to sit before reading her latest message. 

My dear friend,

You must know that your logic is flawed if you already believe me inclined to disagree. My reasoning is based on centuries of research by respected witches and wizards, not just Greheimer. If you have one published researcher who agrees with you, I would like to see it. In the meantime, I will get started on my rebuttal. You can expect it by next Saturday. I would have started it tonight, except I’m still in an agitated state after someone upset me at work today. Don’t ask. I’d rather not think any more about it. Just writing you makes me feel better.

I hope, for you and your son’s sake, that your day was better than mine. Shopping in the fall always reminds me of preparing to go back to Hogwarts, even if I typically did that in August. There’s something about the turn of the leaves that makes me want to buy a dozen new quills. It just feels fitting, don’t you think? Though, if I’m being honest (which you know I always am), an entirely different question has consumed my thoughts today... 

Do you think we’ve crossed paths and don’t even know it? I thought about that earlier, while I was on Diagon and Knockturn. Every little boy and wizard I saw, a part of me wondered if it was you and your son. So I did the maths. Provided a population of around 2.9 million living in inner London, not counting tourists, in a crowded location with a pedestrian passing rate of 20 people a minute for two hours, the chances of running into one specific person you know is about 0.083%. But the population of wizarding Britain is significantly smaller. Taking into account a decreased overall population while also decreasing the pedestrian passing rate to consider the traffic on Diagon and Knockturn, I estimate that the chances we passed each other today is 5.354% — assuming, of course, that’s where you and your son went shopping.

The hint of a grin found its way across Draco’s lips. Minutes prior, he would have argued that his day was more sour than hers, but after reading her letter, the events from earlier no longer felt relevant. She never failed to make his day brighter. 

He imagined her sitting somewhere at home — at work? — doing these calculations. Was she a Ministry member who handled population numbers, having stopped by the office to wrap up some paperwork before shopping? She seemed the type to do that. Or maybe she was a Gringotts employee. Then, his pen pal would have been at work and on Diagon.

Had he seen her?

The question tumbled through Draco’s mind as his eyelids closed and he tried to imagine his pen pal. He’d always pictured her as brunette. It just felt right. Or maybe that was his subconscious trying to separate her from his guilt about Astoria. Anything other than her hair colour, though, was a vague blur. 

The thoughts promptly vanished. He couldn’t let those fantasies consume him. Not again. He’d let himself get too close, too attached the first time. His reasoning may be different than it had been four and a half years ago, but the fact remained that Draco couldn’t afford to think of her as anything more than she presently was. It wasn’t fair to Scorpius.

Everything Draco had ever done had been for his family — even if that meant making significant sacrifices for himself. Nowadays, that was only more true.

Setting aside her letter, Draco pulled back his top left desk drawer. Inside laid a single item. It was worn from years of rereading, but the enchantment-preserved ink remained as dark as it had been the day it arrived. The old parchment was familiar in Draco’s hands, yet not as familiar as her handwriting. Or her words forever etched in his heart and memory.

“I don’t think anyone’s incapable of change. Sometimes they just need the right motivator to help them get on that path.” 

Nearly six years had passed since he’d first read those words. Six years since his pen pal had been the first person to suggest that Draco didn’t have to live the rest of his life as nothing more than a disgraced former Death Eater. Six years since he began his search for that motivation, only to one day find it in his own child. 

People like Granger could still assume the worst of him. Of his business. As if six years couldn’t change a man.

But Draco’s perspective had changed. All because of Scorpius.

And his pen pal. 

The old letter remained on Draco’s desk as he pulled out the master parchment and cast a Duplication Charm on it. Words flowed easily from the quill’s tip as Draco responded to her letter, expressing his sympathy about her rough day at work before volunteering to hex the person if they dared upset her again. Certainly, they’d deserve it. Or, if she’d rather handle it on her own, he recommended a strongly worded letter. He quite trusted her ability to cut someone down with that method, even if he, himself, had never been her victim. 

He then tried to cheer her up with the story of how Scorpius had nearly knocked Draco in the eye with a boxing telescope at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. He wanted to share that he bought a Happy Bubble Box as a surprise for Scorpius’ birthday next week, but the parchment absorbed that detail. Apparently, that was too personal.

When he was finished, Draco returned the quill to its inkpot, full-well knowing that there was a major portion of her letter he hadn’t addressed. Maybe they had crossed paths. Maybe she was just as beautiful physically as she was internally. But his feelings towards her would never change his instinct to prioritise his family’s needs over his personal desires.

So Draco poured himself a glass of whiskey, then stared at the dark night sky into which the folded letter had just disappeared. As usual, he spent the remainder of his evening alone.

~*~*~

Draco tossed his copy of the Daily Prophet across the dining room table. How bloody dare she!

His chair legs screeched against the wooden floorboards as Draco pushed himself to standing and began to pace. The outrage in his chest sprouted from a kernel to a full-grown oak tree. Even if she hadn’t explicitly named him or his business, the sheer audacity of that witch to make such bold, presumptive claims was infuriating. Now, the entirety of wizarding Britain would read Granger’s op-ed about the importance of preserving small business charm and protesting “corporate involvement” disguised as doing good for the community.

She knew nothing about him and his business deals.

Temptation boiled to Floo directly to Knockturn Alley and barge into her stupid bookshop before it opened. Sharp words and cruel sneers teased his tongue and lips. If she had a problem with him, she could say it to his face, not hide behind words in a newspaper article.

And of all the days on the calendar, she had to choose today.

Draco listened in the direction of the staircase for signs of Scorpius nearing. He had insisted that he could get ready on his own this morning. After all, he was a big boy now.

By the time the sound of Scorpius' scurried footsteps pounded down the stairs, Draco had already sent half a dozen missives to various associates directing them with how to squash concerns from their partnered small business owners. He vanished his quill and parchment before Scorpius was in sight, vowing to forget about work for the rest of the day.

Scorpius ran into the dining room, directly into Draco's arms. Draco lifted him off the ground, letting Scorpius' legs fly through the air as his giggles flooded the space.

"Who's my big birthday boy?" Draco asked once Scorpius had his arms latched around Draco's neck.

"Me!" Scorpius beamed.

Draco smiled while still trying to comprehend how his son was already so old. He gave Scorpius a bounce. "Grandma and Grandpa are coming for dinner, but the rest of the day until then is ours. So what do you say? Would you like to be in control of whatever we do today?"

The strands of sandy hair on top of his head shook as Scorpius eagerly nodded.

Draco chuckled. "I thought you might like that. What do you want to do first?"

"Can we go zoo?"

"If that's what you want."

"Then park?"

"As I said, whatever you want today." He gave Scorpius a short kiss on the forehead then returned him to the ground. "But only after you've eaten your breakfast."

Scorpius’ feet had barely reached the ground before he scampered to his chair. He tried to push himself up, but when he couldn’t lift himself onto the seat, Scorpius waited for Draco to help. It was only then that Draco noticed how Scorpius' pants were unbuttoned and his jumper was inside out. A small smile stretched Draco's lips. Let Scorpius revel in the satisfaction of dressing himself for at least a few minutes. Someday far too soon, Draco would miss little moments like these.

~*~*~

"What sound did the tigers make?"

"Roar!"

"And the monkeys?"

"Ooo ooo ooo."

"The giraffes?"

Giggles poured out of Scorpius. "Giraffes make no sound!"

Scorpius tightly grasped the chains of the swing as Draco held a coffee in one hand and pushed his son with the other. Despite the way it had started, it was turning out to be a blissful day.

Scorpius pumped his legs back and forth as he glided through the air. "Why no dragons at zoo?" he asked, looking back at Draco.

"Muggles don't know about dragons," he answered. "We keep those protected in sanctuaries."

Scorpius' eyes were wide with youthful curiosity. "Have you seen dragon?"

"Yes."

"Are they big?"

"Yes."

"Scary?"

"They can be."

"Like dinosaurs?"

A snorted laugh perked Draco’s lips. "If dinosaurs were still around, then yes."

The heat of the sun's rays on the nice fall day warmed the air as Draco continued to push Scorpius on the swing. It was a peaceful, perfect way to spend the afternoon, until Scorpius let out a sudden squeal and it all came crashing down.

"Look, Daddy! Book lady. Pretty book lady!"

At the swing's peak, Scorpius jumped from the seat, and Draco's heart stalled. Dropping his coffee, Draco whipped out his wand with barely enough time to conjure a pillow right where Scorpius landed on his bottom. Scorpius — entirely oblivious to his father's panic — got straight to his feet and wandered to a nearby bench where, sure enough, Hermione Granger was reading a book with a half-eaten sandwich by her side.

Draco cursed beneath his breath. He'd successfully gone over six years without seeing or hearing from her, and now he and Scorpius had run into her two Saturdays in a row. What curse had he been hit with to afflict him with such terrible luck?

From a distance, Draco watched as Scorpius tugged on Granger's skirt. She lifted her gaze from the open pages of her book and smiled when she recognised Scorpius. Her levity faded when she looked past Scorpius and saw Draco standing a few dozen feet away.

It was like the ground had been transfigured into knee-high muck as Draco trudged his way towards the bench and stopped behind Scorpius. With a dour gaze, Draco scanned Granger up and down. To his son's credit, Granger really was pretty, even if that pained Draco to admit. At some point during the past half-decade, she seemed to have finally figured out how to style her hair and wear clothes that were flattering to her figure. If only she could also fix her judgmental outlook. 

A firm tug on Draco’s trousers pulled his attention downward. 

“Sit, Daddy.”

Draco stiffened, as did Granger. With one more quick inspection, he caught a glimpse of her bookstore name tag pinned to her blouse and the transfiguration theory textbook closed in her lap with her current page saved by her thumb between the pages.

“We shouldn’t disturb her, Scorpius,” Draco tried to calmly rationalise. “Miss Granger looks busy.”

Scorpius turned to Granger. “Are you busy?”

She and Draco exchanged cursory, sour glares. 

“I only have a few minutes left in my lunch break,” she said, lacking the cheerfulness with which she typically addressed Scorpius. 

Scorpius looked at them both, eyes wide and bright. “Okay. Few minutes. I go play now.”

A knife stabbed at Draco’s chest. Clearly, Scorpius didn’t understand what he and Granger were hinting at.

Draco caught hold of Scorpius’ hand before he could run off. 

“What Miss Granger and I are saying is that we don’t think it’s a good idea for us to sit together,” Draco tried to explain, somehow making it through the sentence without letting his resentment towards the witch become apparent.

Scorpius’ face fell. His gaze flickered from Granger, then up at Draco. He pouted. “But I want it.”

At those four simple words, Granger frowned and Draco’s spine straightened. It was one thing for Granger to make false assumptions about him, but he wouldn’t allow her to think Scorpius a spoiled brat.

“It’s his birthday,” Draco begrudgingly revealed, voice curt as he spoke. “I told him we would do whatever he wanted today. And today only.”

“Oh.” Granger blinked, and her whole body softened again. “And how old are you today?”

Scorpius lifted one finger, then another. “Three.”

Despite his overall annoyance for the situation, a smile somehow found its way across Draco’s face. “One more finger, Scorpius.”

Scorpius raised a third finger, then held them out for both adults to see. “Three!”

Surprise etched the lines of Granger’s face and a burst of pride swelled inside Draco’s chest. The present situation wasn’t an entire disaster if it granted a moment for his son to render Granger speechless.

During those few seconds of distraction, Scorpius pushed against Draco’s legs and even managed to make Draco stumble a step backwards.

“Now you sit. I go play.”

Scorpius didn’t leave enough time for Draco to protest. Seconds later, he was already running around the playset with the other young witches and wizards. 

“Your son is quite precocious.”

The balloon of pride promptly burst into tiny pieces. 

“Don’t try to make small talk,” he sharply hissed, no longer in the mood to entertain feigned niceties now that Scorpius was out of earshot. “I read your op-ed.”

They both stared forward.

“If I had known it was your son’s birthday, I would have requested they push back its publishing,” Granger said after several silent seconds. 

“How considerate,” Draco returned with a huff. “Nevermind that the actual decent thing to do would have been to warn me it was coming out.”

Granger dropped her book on the bench and turned towards him. “Draco Malfoy telling me the decent thing to do?” She let out a mock laugh. “I see no reason why I needed to warn you. I merely sent a letter to the Daily Prophet expressing my opinion on a matter I thought relevant to public interest. They decided if it was newsworthy or not.”

“Potter could sneeze and they’d find it newsworthy,” Draco retorted with a contemptuous sneer. “You know right well that they’d publish anything you send them.”

Granger puffed out her chest. “Then consider this me taking advantage of a small privilege I have for helping win a war you fought against,” she said with a firm fold of her arms. “At least I’m not flouncing around with vaults full of Galleons and a corporation that was handed to me. I had to start my business from nothing, while you and your family disappeared to France scot-free.”

Draco felt his eyes blaze with anger as a surge of fury pulsed through him. “You sure do think you still know it all,” he seethed through shallow breaths. His lips twitched into a scowl. “You think you know better than everyone else, when really, you stay adamant against what you don’t want to believe.”

Granger pressed her fingers against the fabric of her blouse. “I do not.”

“Oh?” Draco lifted an eyebrow. “I remember quite the famed tale of Hermione Granger storming out of Divination because she refused to believe it was a real course of magic.”

A deep crimson coloured Granger’s face. “That’s not why I left class,” Hermione retorted, bitterness caking her words. “I left because I realised I would learn nothing from Trelawney. Not because Divination is an illegitimate subject.”

“Ah, my mistake,” Draco conceded with mock remorse. “In that case, will you admit that the stories we hear about people may not be accurate representations about what really happened?”

Granger’s lips went flat. He took her lack of response as reluctant acceptance.

“Good,” he settled with a grimace. “Then let’s make one thing clear. My family did not get off without retribution. We just know how to keep things out of the public eye when we don’t want something known. But if you’re so smart, then where do you think the Ministry got all those Galleons to renovate Knockturn Alley into the quaint row of businesses your shop now presides? I’ll give you a hint. It cost more Galleons than you and your little bookstore could ever imagine.” 

Granger opened her lips, but nothing came out.

His gaze continued to pierce into her, even as Draco stood up. “Not everything happens by magic. Sometimes, what a business needs is money, and I happen to have it,” he slowly voiced, making sure that Granger could hear every syllable of every word. “What do you expect me to do? Donate tens of thousands of Galleons each time a business is struggling?” Draco scoffed. “I’m a businessman. That’s how business works. You think I’m a horrible person, therefore I have no choice but to be horrible. But I am not the monster you perceive me to be.”

Having said all he cared to say, Draco marched towards the playground, leaving the still speechless Granger alone on the bench. Scorpius would just have to cope with one of his birthday desires not happening that year. He was done letting Granger sully his son’s birthday. 

~*~*~

Draco pinched his brow. “I distinctly recall asking you and Father not to give Scorpius so many gifts this year.”

He watched with resignation as Scorpius zipped through the informal sitting room on his brand new toy broomstick while Lucius chased after him. Draco twisted his wand, and the lamps, end tables, and empty chairs moved to the perimeter of the room allowing Scorpius more space. 

Narcissa picked up her teacup and gently blew at the nonexistent wisps of steam. “We must have forgotten,” she said with the touch of a smile. “It’s just a couple dozen presents. Nothing exorbitant.”

Draco canted his head, but Narcissa continued to feign innocence. Regardless of how many times he told his parents that he didn’t want to raise Scorpius in a bubble of opulence, they insisted on showering him with presents every time they visited. At least it was a rare occasion. Draco would mind infinitely more if his parents made the Portkey journey from France more frequently. 

When the clock struck half past six, Draco rose from his chair. Before long, it would already be time for Scorpius to go to bed, and they hadn’t even had cake yet. The birthday boy had been a bit too distracted by the toy broomstick, shooting star wand, and everything else his grandparents had gotten him. 

Dismissing himself from his mother’s company, Draco left the sitting room and made his way to the kitchen. He was in the middle of placing the candles on the cake when the pound of tapping against the front window caught his attention. Then another. And another. 

Outside the window floated three identical folded parchment aeroplanes, all awaiting entry. Draco dropped the candles on the counter and pushed open the pane. One after the other, they soared inside. As Draco unfolded the three letters, amusement delighted his senses. Each one was paginated in the top right corner, denoting their order in her essay advocating for four branches of transfiguration. 

Draco didn’t mind that she hadn’t included anything personal in her letters this time. He relished any word from her, even if it was an analytical essay trying to prove his theory wrong. He laid the parchments flat on the counter and began to dissect her thinking line by line.

“I thought you were getting the cake.”

Draco was halfway through with the third page when his mother’s voice interrupted his reading. He snatched the parchments into his grasp and folded them into his pocket.

“Apologies,” he said after clearing his throat. “I received some post I thought was time sensitive.”

Draco placed the final two candles in the cake as Narcissa stepped into the kitchen with an unconvinced expression. He watched as her gaze switched from the cake to his pocket.

“I was unaware that you had resumed correspondence with your pen pal.” 

Draco startled, stomach lurching into his throat. “Pen pal? What pen pal?” 

Narcissa lightly laughed. “Oh, dear, did you really think your father and I didn’t know you participated in that program?” She rounded the corner of the counter and joined Draco’s side. “You couldn’t hide all those aeroplanes zipping in and out the chateau’s windows multiple times a day. The distinct sheen of those parchments under any form of light make them near impossible not to recognise.”

Possible ways that Draco could combat his mother’s statement flashed through his mind, but there was no point. For years, he had kept his correspondence with her secret, dreading what his parents would say if they knew he was engaging in a program specifically designed to prove that anyone of any blood status could form relationships. He never intended for it to continue for so long, even if he was responsible for cutting their communication off for three years in the middle. Now, it turned out, his parents already knew.

Draco straightened the candles. “It was lonely in France,” came his muttered admission. “She got me through that first year.”

Narcissa sighed, then swept her fingers through a few strands of Draco’s hair. “It wasn’t an easy transition for any of us. If the Greengrasses hadn’t fled to France after the Ministry fell, giving us some connection to our old social circles and into new ones, I don’t know what we would have done.”

A beat of silence passed through the room.

“You were smart to stop writing her when you did.”

Draco frowned, heart constricting. “I didn’t see any other option once the agreement was signed for me to marry Astoria.”

“An agreement you supported,” she needlessly reminded him.

Narcissa took a step closer, but Draco backed out of his mother’s reach. “It’s what was best for the family at the time.”

He turned and retrieved four forks from the drawer.

“Even if you never loved her?”

The forks fell onto the ground in a clamour of clinks. 

Draco whipped around, and a guilt he felt too often washed over him. “I cared very deeply for Astoria.”

Narcissa tilted her head. “That’s not the same thing.” She bent to the floor to pick up the fallen forks and placed them in the sink before pulling out four clean ones. “I know you both hoped to one day love each other, but that’s not what the universe had in store for you two. You’ve raised Scorpius almost entirely on your own, putting your life on pause for over a year after Astoria passed. Our family has changed since we signed that agreement with the Greengrasses. You deserve something for yourself now.”

A storm of uncertainty churned inside Draco. “What are you suggesting, Mother?”

She pressed her hands together, taking a moment, it seemed, to choose her next words carefully. “From what I can infer, you care for your pen pal, yes?”

“That’s a fair assumption.”

“Do you more than care for her?”

It was like a blow directly to Draco’s chest. He reached into the cabinets and brought down four plates. 

“That’s irrelevant,” he tightly stated.

“Why’s that?”

Draco closed his eyes, letting his lungs inflate with a slow, steady breath. When he returned his vision, Narcissa’s motherly eyes were directed his way.

He released a short sigh. “Scorpius doesn’t remember Astoria,” Draco said, his mouth growing dry as his heart hammered behind his ribs. “All he’s ever known is just me and him. He’s content with that. I can’t imagine introducing someone else into his life, getting his hopes up, and then it not working out.” 

Draco dipped his head to shake it, but the lift of his mother’s fingers brought his eyes back to hers.

“Scorpius is a strong little boy, just like his father was. You needn’t introduce her, or anyone else, into his life until you’re ready. I’ll Portkey over whenever you need someone to watch him.”

Some of his concerns crumbled, but Draco still wasn’t convinced.

“What if this is just insanity, though?” he asked, voicing the latent fear he’d been too apprehensive to admit even to himself. “I don’t know her age. Her job. Not even her name.”

Narcissa offered a faint smile. “But you know how she makes you feel.”

Draco looked away. “Doesn’t mean she feels the same.”

A different fear formed inside his chest: one he knew his answer to but not Narcissa’s. 

“And what if she isn’t pureblood? How would you feel then?”

Narcissa glanced down at the birthday cake, smiled, then looked back at Draco. “You and Astoria already gave your father a pureblood heir, so that should keep him satisfied. As for me, as much as I love my grandson, first and foremost, I want my son to be happy, too.”

~*~*~

Draco stared at the blank parchment while his parents put Scorpius to bed. The quill quivered in his grip as he contemplated what to write. After nearly twenty minutes of thinking, he found the nerves to compose a single line.

Do you think we should meet?

He sent it before he could second guess himself.

Chapter Text

The faint tick of the second hand’s echo cut through the bookstore office. Hermione read the note for the tenth, eleventh, twelfth time that morning. She’d read it at least double that amount the night before. Since reading those six simple words, Hermione’s heart had been tied in a knot. 

He wanted to meet.

The tell-tale tinkle of the chime above the front door carried to the back of the store, and Hermione knew that meant Penelope had arrived. Any moment, her lead associate would head to the office to ask what needed to be done before the shop opened. Yet Hermione couldn’t think beyond the slip of parchment laid out on her desk.

“Morning,” came Penelope’s greeting, but Hermione didn’t look up. She hadn’t even bothered to hide the letter.

Hermione heard more than saw Penelope step inside the office. The slight wobble of the cloak rack under the weight of a new addition, the padding of feet against the floor as they drew closer. The footsteps stopped right in front of Hermione.

Thick muscles lined Hermione’s throat as she forced a swallow, then handed the parchment to Penelope without saying a word. There was no need to explain who it was from. The widening of Penelope’s eyes confirmed that she could make that deduction herself.

“Only took him six years,” Penelope said once the shock seemed to wear off and a slow smile formed in its place. “Surely you’re saying yes.”

She reached out the parchment, and Hermione took it back into her grasp.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Hermione responded honestly. The knot in her heart tightened. “Last week, I alluded to the potential of us meeting, but when his reply didn’t react to that part of my letter, I accepted that meant he wanted us to stay pen pals.”

“Or maybe he just needed time to think about it? After all this romantic build up between you two, he’s bound to be nervous.”

A blazing heat scorched Hermione’s cheeks. “We’re simply two people who enjoy sending letters to each other and are now considering developing that friendship in real life. Nothing in our letters has been romantic.”

“Mhm, sure ,” Penelope challenged, smile shifting into something mischievous. “As if I didn’t catch you blushing while reading his letter last Saturday. The content may not be romantic, but the feelings certainly are.” She paused, snorted, then briefly shook her head. “I don’t know who you’re trying to fool here, Hermione, because it isn’t me.”

Silence filled the air, punctuated solely by the continual ticks of the clock. Hermione stared at the time before promptly standing from her chair.

“The store opens in less than five. We can finish this conversation later.”

The steady beating inside Hermione’s chest thudded against her ribcage twice for every step she took. She was already starting to second guess her decision to share the letter with Penelope, but she needed to tell someone. Penelope just happened to be the first person Hermione saw who knew about the situation.

She swatted through the fog in her brain and tried to remember everything they needed for the day without fixating on the letter she had furtively tucked into her pocket before leaving the office. 

“The Gershman family said they’d be here right at nine, so we should double-check that we have their hold ready. You know how impatient the father gets. Best not to start the day on a sour note.”

The sound of Penelope’s footsteps followed closely behind as Hermione rounded her way past the display tables towards the front counter.

“Hermione.”

“If possible, suggest that children check out the books in the fairy tale section. Those books haven’t been selling much lately, and we’re starting to have an abundance in the storeroom.”

“Hermione.”

“Oh, and Yolanda Regus came out with a book on Friday. It will likely sell fast. We should keep an eye on it to make sure we always have enough on display.”

“Hermione.”

The interruption was sharper this time — more insistent. 

Hermione stopped her babbling and let out a sigh. With a slow turn on her heels, she shifted to face Penelope. “Yes?”

Penelope’s head was tilted to the side with her arms folded flat against her chest. She assessed Hermione with a critical gaze. “You can try to ignore our conversation, but you can’t ignore that letter.”

“I’m not ignoring it,” Hermione swiftly defended. “He needed time to think, and now, so do I.”

She slipped behind the front counter, but her intent to focus on work didn’t last long.  She had just managed to unlock the currency drawer when Penelope’s voice brought her to a halt. 

“Remind me when you and Ron broke up?”

It was as if Penelope’s question was a specialised Petrificus Totalus, designed and customised with Hermione Jean Granger as its sole intended target. Forcing movement to her muscles, Hermione turned to blink at Penelope.

“Last August,” she answered, hoping her voice sounded more level than it did in her own ears.

Penelope raised an eyebrow. “What a coincidence. That’s shortly after the letters with your pen pal resumed.”

Sometimes, Hermione really hated working with a former Ravenclaw. 

Hermione opened the currency drawer, purposefully avoiding Penelope’s gaze as she confirmed they had enough Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts to start off the day. She pushed the drawer closed and magicked it locked. 

“Ron and I weren’t right for each other.”

She could still feel Penelope’s eyes tracking her movement while Hermione checked the books on hold.

“Oh, I quite remember. No one is denying that,” Penelope added. “Then again, when was it that you and Ron started officially dating? A little bit under two years after the war, wasn’t it?” Hermione’s spine stiffened as she already anticipated what Penelope would say next. “It does make me wonder, was that before or after you and your pen pal ceased communication?”

Hermione whipped around. “Do you have a point?”

“You know my point.”

The nine dings of the clock half a block up Knockturn travelled down the alley. Neither Hermione nor Penelope moved. Through the window, Hermione caught a glimpse of Mr Gershman already waiting to enter. He’d have to wait.

A fire burned inside Hermione’s chest with the ardent flare of emotions she’d concealed for so long. The twists and turns of her stomach sent crashing waves through her body, while her mind battled with what to say, what to confess. She sucked in a breath, then stared straight into Penelope.

“There are many reasons why Ron and I didn’t start dating until then. We agreed it best not to date right after the war while he was in Auror training and I was at Hogwarts. Then, I spent the first year after graduation working countless hours learning from George and trying to start the bookstore. Whether or not I had feelings for my pen pal back then is unrelated,” she said, even if she didn’t entirely believe that last part. 

The second half was harder to justify. Hermione choked on her words as they pushed past her lips. “As for our break up, that— That was more complicated. But what it boiled down to is that I realised that my feelings for Ron didn’t match what I thought I should be feeling after dating for three years.”

Penelope’s critical gaze softened. “Because you felt more strongly about someone else?”

Hermione let that question go unanswered.

Mr Gershman knocked against the window then motioned towards the locked front door, yet the “Closed” sign stayed firmly in place.

“Hermione.” Penelope’s voice was hesitant. Cautious. She stepped forward. “Why are you really questioning if you should meet him?”

Doubts drifted in Hermione’s mind — the same ones that had been hazing her confidence all week.

She rested her hand on top of the pocket where his letter laid and gave the fabric a subtle squeeze. “What if he doesn’t feel the same?” she faltered.

Penelope gently chuckled. “I find that highly unlikely.”

“I don’t.” Hermione quickly countered, replaying every possibility that had tumbled through her mind since he had ignored that part of her letter last Saturday. She couldn’t help it; it was how her brain operated. “He has a son. A young one. That child didn’t come from nowhere. He was with someone else. Recently. I don’t know anything about the mother. He never writes about her. But that leaves enough of a chance that he’s not over her. Or isn’t looking for a relationship. Or just— never felt that way about me.” She forced a deep inhale. “After all, he was the one who cut things off.”

A small smile crept up Penelope’s lips. “He’s also the one asking to meet you now.”

That sentiment hung in the air for several moments before the slow buzz of excitement started to form inside Hermione’s stomach like a swarm of invisible pixies. Despite all her reservations, that was the piece of evidence that gave her the greatest slice of hope. Regardless of whether or not he felt a romantic connection, he wanted to take that leap and go beyond the exchange of letters. That had to mean something. 

“Do you want to meet him?”

Hermione nodded. She really did.

“Then that’s your answer,” Penelope stated simply. “Is there a possibility he doesn’t like you like that?” She shrugged. “Sure. There’s always a possibility. But that’s the worst case scenario. There’s also a possibility that he does like you, and you’d be a right idiot not to meet him and see what happens. Better to find out instead of continuing to pine after him through pieces of parchments.” 

The pound of Mr Gershman’s knocks once again filled the bookstore, and Penelope pulled out her wand and flicked the front door open. 

“I’ll deal with him,” she said in a whisper as the first customers of the day entered the store. “You have a letter to respond to.”

As Hermione sat behind her desk, quill at the ready to pen her response, the doubts cleared from her mind. Worst case scenario, he didn’t feel the same. It wasn’t what she wanted, but she could live with that. She was well-versed in staying friends with people she once had feelings for. But after losing him once, she knew she wanted him to stay in her life — even if that meant as friends.

With the stroke of her quill, she wrote six words in return.

I’d love to. How about Friday? 

~*~*~

Every storefront he passed, Draco glanced at his reflection in case a hair or anything else had gone astray in the handful of hurried footsteps since the last window. The patter of pixie feet danced inside his stomach. He hadn’t been this nervous since the end of the war.

Lanterns illuminated the brick-lined path as Draco hastened down Knockturn Alley. Scorpius had questioned at least ten times why Grandma was visiting again so soon, each of which Draco had artfully evaded from a complete answer. It had taken an extra half-hour to get Scorpius to fall asleep — he had insisted that Grandma and Daddy tuck him into bed — and now Draco was running a few minutes late. Surely she’d understand his tardiness, even if he hated not being punctual on their first date.

Merlin, he hoped this was a date.

Draco tightened his grip around the bouquet of a dozen new quills he had spent half the afternoon selecting under Solomon Scrivenshaft’s guidance. It was too late to back out now. Eight dings had already rung from the nearby clock, and the dessert cafe was only a few stores away. 

He froze in front of the cafe door. Somewhere inside, among the diners, sat his pen pal. Within a matter of frantic heartbeats, Draco would soon see the face he’s spent the past six years trying to imagine. He would finally be able to tell her anything. Everything. Without concern that it would be deemed too personal. Or having to wait for a response. She’d be there, right in front of him, holding a real conversation like any other witch and wizard.

Peeking through the pane of glass, Draco scanned his vision through the cafe, paying attention to the tables, not the patrons. On their table, she’d have a book. Which one, she wouldn’t say. She had teased he’d know it was her when he saw it. Yet that didn’t stop Draco from trying to get a glimpse of her before stepping through the threshold and diving headfirst into new territory. He didn’t consider himself a shallow man — after all, he’d fallen for a witch he’d never laid eyes on — yet that didn’t stop him from sending one final prayer to the founders that she was pretty.

Table by table, Draco was met with disappointment. Either there were multiple people at the table or there was no book. He was starting to wonder if she was somehow running even later than him. Until finally, he caught sight of a book on the edge of a two-person table with one seat empty. Draco’s stomach somersaulted. Its owner was currently blocked by the waiter filling her water glass. He counted the seconds, anticipation thrumming through every inch of his body. When the waiter finally moved aside, Draco held his breath.

And then his heart stalled.

She was pretty.

Very pretty.

But she was also Hermione Granger.

Draco stumbled backwards, struggling to find his footing as the bouquet of quills dropped to the ground. Wildfire emblazoned every ridge of his brain, struggling to make sense of what his eye showed him. Surely this was a trick. A mirage. His tangled nerves had caused him to see the one witch who never failed to make him frown instead of the one who made everything feel okay. Because those two people couldn’t be the same. It couldn’t be her. It couldn’t.

He scanned the cafe again. There had to be another single witch with a book. Surely it wasn’t out of the ordinary for Granger to be alone with a book. This was a coincidence. A cruel, crazed coincidence. Somewhere else in there was his pen pal. Or she was still running late. Those were the only two explanations he would accept.

Draco waited five more minutes, agonizing apprehension lining his every thought.

No other witch with a book showed up.

Gruelling dread swirled inside Draco like a summer storm. He still refused to accept it. But there was only one way to know for sure.

He stepped inside. Chatting filled the cafe, but Draco didn’t register a single word. The only noise he heard was the rush of blood pulsing in his ears. He affixed his lips in a stern line, trying to play as nonchalant as his body allowed as he stepped into the dining area toward the counter to order. And then, just when he was a reasonable distance away, he cast a seemingly casual gaze towards Granger, who was — unsuccessfully — trying to hide behind a menu.

Slow, measured footsteps led the way as Draco approached her table, all while his heart remained lodged inside his throat. 

“Granger.”

The menu fell to the table, and sharp brown eyes dug directly into him. He glowered right back.

“I wonder,” he growled, “what are the odds that, of all the people in Wizarding London, we would run into each other for the third time in two weeks?”

Granger sneered out something in return, but Draco didn’t listen. He was too busy examining the book on the far corner of the table. A cold wave washed over him the second he read the title.

It was a transfiguration textbook. The same one he’d seen her read in the park last Saturday — the day he’d received his pen pal’s essay defending the four branches of transfiguration.

The frantic fog of desperate hope vanished, sending a tsunami of reality in its place.

It was her.

His whole body numbed, yet he didn’t leave. Didn’t want to leave. It was like he was witnessing an experimental potion go catastrophically wrong and knew he shouldn’t look but couldn’t tear himself away. Except, Draco was the witness, perpetrator, and victim all at once.

He motioned his head towards the book. “Big Friday night plans, I see.”

Granger reached across the table and slid the book next to her. “Go away, Malfoy. I’m waiting for someone.”

“I didn’t stumble upon you waiting for a date, did I?” The question pushed past Draco’s lips before he realised what he had asked. 

“As a matter of fact, you did.”

Fuck.

Draco tried not to fixate on her response, but Merlin it was fucking hard. He allowed himself one glance — just one — to survey Granger’s appearance. That one glance was a mistake. Her curls were relaxed, less bushy than usual, and she was wearing a nicely fitted blouse that didn’t reveal much but left enough to the imagination to confirm one thing: she had put extra effort into her appearance that night. The thought stabbed at him. 

It would have been a date.

Instead, he glared into the eyes of a witch who held nothing but disdain for Draco Malfoy and the man she perceived him to be.

Torment tickled Draco’s memory of the two sentences he held more precious than almost anything. The two sentences that had given him hope that one day, others could see him differently. That he could see himself differently. Now, staring at the witch who had penned those words, the past six years felt like a lie. 

Yet he still didn’t leave.

Chair legs scratched against the tiles as he pulled out the seat, but it quickly collided back into the table with a swift swish of Granger’s wand.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she spat, straightening her spine. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll leave as soon as your date arrives.” Draco ignored the vice grip around his heart as he slipped into the seat before she could stop him a second time. He glanced at his watch. “8:17 already? He must be late.”

Her sharpness faltered. “I’m sure he has a perfectly valid explanation.”

Oh, he does, Draco wanted to retort, yet his lips remained pressed together.

The cafe’s door opened, and a new patron stepped inside. Granger perked for a few moments, but when the wizard joined someone else at a different table, she deflated.

“What’s his name?”

Granger jolted her attention from the door. “Excuse me?”

Draco inhaled. “The wizard. The one you're waiting for. What’s his name?”

A sour expression painted her lips. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

Snatching the book from its place, Granger cracked it open and looked down at whatever random page she had opened to. Evidently, her tolerance had run dry. His time was up.

Draco blew out a short, derisive huff. “Just trying to have a civil conversation,” he grumbled just loud enough for her to hear.

She snapped her head up from the book. “Since when do you and I have civil conversations?”

Piercing, unkind eyes cut in his direction, and with one biting, sneered out question, the crushing weight of the situation fully hit Draco. For years, they had freely written to each other with so much more than civil conversation. When his mother had fallen ill with a serious case of Black Cat Flu, she was the one he had written to express his concerns. Not an old Slytherin housemate. Her. Same with the time he had been rejected from a potions apprenticeship. Or whenever he needed a place to talk about the day to day struggles of being a single father. And all the celebrations in between. She was the one he wanted to share them with first. But with the veil of parchment removed, so was the illusion that they could ever turn their relationship into something more.

Raging resentment flared behind her amber gaze. In many ways, he wondered if he deserved it.

“Just tell me one thing,” he said, his voice an eerie calm compared to the thunderous roar inside his chest. “Will you ever be able to see me as anything other than our past? Or am I, to you, so far gone that I am incapable of change?”

With each second that his questions went unanswered, his anguish swelled to an excruciating peak. Granger blinked at him several times before scrunching her forehead in stern concentration, as if he were some ancient rune she was trying to unlock the hidden meaning of. Finally, after several agonizing moments, her answer came.

“I don’t know.”

It wasn’t a no. But it wasn’t the yes his pen pal had promised. 

Yet, even as she said it, something seemed to brew behind her eyes, as if there was more behind that answer than she was telling him.  But for now, Draco had heard enough.

He got to his feet, gaze never leaving Granger for those final few seconds.

“I think you’d discover a lot of things if you really knew me,” Draco resolved, stiffening himself further upright. He gave her one last look over, then deeply exhaled. “Enjoy your date.”

It took him no longer than ten minutes to get home. Green flames licked his shoes as Draco landed in the fireplace of the townhouse's parlour, where Narcissa sat in one of the wingback chairs. 

Motherly concern flashed across her features. “What happened?”

His chest cracked.

“Mother, she—” 

Draco closed his eyes, tried to find the words, then shook his head instead. 

“We should have stayed pen pals.”

Chapter Text

It didn’t make sense.

He had asked her to meet.

He had initiated it.

Her hand clutched the elegantly bound set of quills she had found discarded on the pavement outside of the cafe. A dozen of them. All fresh and sharp for the start of a new school year — just like Hermione had said in her letter the other week that she wanted.

Her grip tightened.

He had been there.

Rage and confusion battled for prominence in her brain as she marched down Knockturn Alley. The lights in the bookstore were out, and she breathed a short sigh of relief. Penelope had already finished locking up for the night. 

Hermione shoved the proper key into the lock then pushed herself inside. Not even the scent of books could calm her senses. As soon as the door clicked shut, Hermione cast a Muffliato Charm around the perimeter and let out a scream. What, precisely, she was screaming about, Hermione wasn’t sure. Anything. Everything. The fact that her pen pal had left. That she’d had to face Malfoy instead. That her leaden heart was trapped inside her stomach, weighed down by insoluble disappointment.

She had hoped for a date. Would have settled for dessert with a friend. Instead, she had nothing.

Hermione pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. The darkness obstructed all other distractions, allowing her enough focus to centre her thoughts for the first time since she had spotted Malfoy step into the cafe. Yet those efforts did nothing to stop the flames of irritation from continuing to burn. 

She did her best to control the conflagration. There had to be a logical explanation. There just had to. 

Had he recognised her and been too intimidated to engage with the famous Hermione Granger? Part of the comfort of writing to him was that he didn’t interact with her with the same reverence as so many others did, just because of something she had done six years ago. Maybe shock and surprise had stolen him away. Or what if he had arrived during those unpleasant moments she’d been forced to interact with Malfoy? He could have seen her speaking with him, gotten the wrong impression, and left. 

Hermione huffed. As if her list of reasons to be annoyed with Malfoy wasn’t already long enough.

She pushed aside those tarnished thoughts. She’d come to the bookstore for a reason. 

Making her way to the office, Hermione held on to one of her last strands of hope. It didn’t hold long. When she stepped into the space, there was no sign of a parchment aeroplane awaiting entry. Nor, after she had taken the Floo home, was there a letter back at her flat.

No note. No explanation. No apology.

Hermione threw the quills on her kitchen table before falling onto the sofa with a frustrated humph.

The cushion of the pillow over her face muffled her second round of screams. Feelings from three and a half years ago — long passed but never fully resolved — stewed to the surface. If he planned to suddenly disappear from her life again, she would never forgive him. It had caused her too much strife the first time.

A weight settled on top of her stomach, and Hermione set aside the pillow to peer at the ginger fur and yellow eyes of her beloved cat. Crookshanks mewled, then nudged his soft pink nose against her hand. She stroked his greying coat a few times, but despite her pet’s attempt, he, too, gave her little comfort. 

Returning Crookshanks to the ground, Hermione got to her feet and paced to the kitchen. She wasn’t sure anything would be able to squash the surging storm swelling inside her, yet she filled a kettle and cast a Warming Charm on it anyway. Her mother had always made her tea when she was distraught, and while it had never fully helped Hermione, it was worth trying if it could, even temporarily, placate her thoughts.

Theories and speculations pestered her mind while her eyes continually glanced to the window in despondent hope that she’d spot a parchment aeroplane. When all she saw was a crescent moon obscured by clouds, Hermione rested her eyes and listened to the faint whistle of steam. 

This wasn’t how their night was supposed to go.

Hermione retrieved a mug from the cabinet then placed the strainer filled with decaffeinated Earl Grey tea leaves into the cup. Curls of steam rose from the stream of hot water as Hermione poured the liquid on top. Then, she waited.

Waited. Just like she had done for forty-five minutes before she finally accepted that he wasn’t coming.

A flash of white blond hair crossed her thoughts, and Hermione scowled. She didn’t want to imagine what Malfoy would sneer out if he ever learned her date — or, she supposed, non-date — didn’t show up. It would have been easy for Malfoy to enter the cafe without approaching her table. Clearly, he had done it just to incite her. Civil conversation, her arse. He had a motive. Draco Malfoy always had a motive.

Enough time passed, and Hermione removed the strainer from the mug. The heat of the tea seeped through the ceramic, warming her hands as she held it, not a single sip taken.

The audacity of that wizard! She had told him to go away. Yet he stayed, pried, and then somehow found it appropriate to ask if she thought him capable of change. She would have laughed at the absurdity of the question if he hadn’t looked so serious asking it. And for whatever reason, in that moment, she had felt a twinge of sympathy. 

Was he too far gone? No. Was he capable of change? Maybe. That was for him to decide, not her. As she distinctly remembered once writing her pen pal, she didn’t think anyone was incapable of change. They just needed— 

The mug slipped from Hermione’s fingers and shattered on the kitchen tiles.

No more than five minutes later, hundreds of letters spread across the carpet, all bundled in stacks tied together with twine and organised by month. Hermione first selected the pile from January 1999. Somewhere, in one of these stacks, it was in there.

One by one, Hermione began re-reading every note, every letter that her pen pal had written her that second semester of her final year at Hogwarts. The stress of revising for N.E.W.T.s had caused her to become less responsive to all her other pen pals, yet she had never failed to go more than a day without writing him. His responses had been just as prompt. He had been her beacon of sanity when the endless colour-coding of class notes or incessant staring at the famous Hermione Granger had grown to be too much. As long as he continued to make her stressors disappear, it didn’t seem to matter who he was.

Now, it very much did matter.

Mentions of being an only child. Of growing up far away from Muggle London. Of the satisfaction he got from brewing a particularly tricky potion. Of the freedom he felt when flying.

How had she been so blind?

And then, she found it. Nestled within the letters from March of that very same year, sat the one that had gripped her heart more than any of the previous. She located the exact paragraphs and was immediately transported back to the Great Hall where she had read it for the first time.

There are pieces of my past that sometimes keep me up at night, regrets and mistakes that torture every sleepless thought, while I stare at the blank expanse of my ceiling. I hope, for your sake, you’ve never felt this agony. The pain of wondering if the things you’ve done are irreparable. If the people you’ve harmed will ever be able to see you as something else. As someone worthy of more than pure disdain.

I know we don’t usually write about things like this, but I needed to get those feelings out there today. Just sharing them with someone, with you, makes it feel slightly better. But I know it’s just temporary. Tonight, I’ll once again stare at the ceiling as I ask myself for the hundredth time if I’m capable of change.

The parchment shook as Hermione read it again. And again. She looked at the date scripted in the corner. 

March 26th, 1999

He had written it the day after the anniversary of their capture.

Of Dobby’s death.

Of her torture.

Hermione’s insides twisted, and the whole world seemed to stall. She had never considered it a possibility. The pen pal program had only been advertised in British publications. But that didn’t mean British wizarding families residing in other countries hadn’t maintained their subscriptions. And at a certain point, coincidences were no longer coincidences. 

“What are the odds that, of all the people in Wizarding London, we would run into each other for the third time in two weeks?”

Hermione didn’t need to do the maths to conclude that the odds were incredibly low — unless their meeting tonight had been planned. 

Repeated taps against her window pulled Hermione from her frantic thoughts. On the other side was a parchment aeroplane.

An ice cold shiver froze every inch of her frame. The only movement was the wild beating threatening to jump out of her chest. It wasn’t until Crookshanks leapt onto the ledge and began scratching at the glass that Hermione forced herself to thaw and retrieve his letter.

There was no salutation.

I thought I was ready for us to meet, but when the moment came, it wasn’t the right time. If you knew my reasoning, I have no doubt you’d understand. You’ll just need to trust my judgement like you’ve learned to trust me. I’ve battled with this for hours, but I need you to know one thing: I still want you in my life. After so long, I can’t imagine you not. But for now, I think it best that we remain pen pals. 

Hermione collapsed onto the sofa, eyes locked on the parchment. His writing was tighter than usual. She imagined him gripping his quill with additional pressure as he had penned these words. How many discarded drafts were in his rubbish bin? Surely this was far from his first. And this — this — was what he had decided to send her.

He still wanted her in his life.

The thought swirled inside Hermione’s mind. The idea of friendship with him didn’t feel realistic.

Him.

Not “him” her pen pal, but him.

Draco Malfoy.

Her grip on the parchment tightened, causing crinkles on the edges. After six years, it hurt to see the handwriting she had placed so much faith and feelings in say that he wanted to remain pen pals. Because, despite everything she had just discovered, that’s what stung the most.

She wasn’t mad at Draco Malfoy; she was mad at her pen pal.

But it was impossible to differentiate those conflicting emotions when they were directed at the same person.

Hermione pushed herself off the sofa and discarded the letter on the kitchen table next to the quills before summoning all the letters and stalking into her bedroom. She had no more words for him tonight. 

~*~*~

Customers scattered throughout the bookstore, yet Hermione couldn’t concentrate on any of them. Her attention was set on the scene unfolding just beyond the store’s front window. 

The morning had been slow so far, made all the worst by Penelope’s incessant worried glances.  They hadn’t stopped since the moment Hermione had told Penelope that her pen pal had left her waiting last night — even if that did exclude one massive, major detail.  And now, no more than twenty feet away, stood that very same wizard, trying not to be dragged into her shop by his son.

Part of Hermione prayed they didn’t enter. The other part inexplicably, irrationally hoped that they did.

Her breathing stalled when they started to move and the front door pushed open. Scorpius had won.

His little feet scampered through the entrance while a vibrant, beaming smile matched his excitement. Hermione expected him to head straight to the books, but instead, she soon found the young child right at her feet.

“Hi, Book Lady,” he said, tilting his head way back so he could peer up at Hermione with his sparkling blue eyes.

“Good morning, Scorpius,” Hermione politely returned despite the rocky current flowing through her veins. She offered him a closed-lipped, pleasant smile, then looked behind him to where his father stood, stiff and rigid. She forced a solitary nod. “Malfoy.”

His returning gaze was distant. “Granger.”

No sign of cordialness coloured his tone. Why would there be? He was Draco Malfoy, and she was Hermione Granger. They had never gotten along.

Except that they did get along.

Very well.

Very, very well.

Her heart ached, staring at the wizard who, for so many years, had treated her with such disdain, yet had also helped her heal those wounds — even if not knowingly. And he knew it was her. That the witch standing in front of him was the same person that he, too, had confided so much in through thousands of letters. 

Neither one of them said another word to each other.

“Come, Scorpius,” he said when he finally broke their silence, though the hundreds of seconds it felt like couldn’t have lasted longer than one or two. Malfoy steered his son in the opposite direction. “Let’s go look at the books.”

Hermione watched their movement as they joined the other customers perusing the shelves. Hardly a minute had passed before Malfoy looked over his shoulder and their eyes caught one another for a splinter of a second.

Her mouth was dry, but Hermione swallowed anyway. The lump in her throat refused to budge.

“I can’t believe he’s here again.”

Hermione blinked herself back to focus. Penelope stood next to Hermione, arms folded against her chest as she peered in Malfoy’s direction. 

“His son likes books,” Hermione pushed past her lips, trying not to think too hard about how much more she knew about Scorpius from Malfoy’s past letters.

Penelope huffed, and her expression soured. “He’s perfectly capable of shopping at Flourish and Blotts.”

Hermione’s stomach churned as she turned to fully face Penelope. She had been so caught up in her own emotions towards Malfoy, Hermione hadn’t considered that she wasn’t the only witch here who had experienced prejudice as a Muggle-born.

“Which means he made the conscious decision to return to the store he knows I own,” Hermione stated, carefully watching Penelope’s reaction. “That must signify some sort of shift in him, right?”

Penelope stalled, seemed to think for a moment, then sharply exhaled. “It’s a start.”

A customer approached the counter, and Penelope left to complete their purchases. Hermione scooped up a pile of unshelved books and began returning them to their spots — all while never taking her eyes off Malfoy and Scorpius for longer than a handful of moments.

Penelope was right to be sceptical that Draco Malfoy could sincerely change his prejudiced ways. A day ago, Hermione had felt similarly. He had cheered while Muggle-borns feared for the Basilisk. One didn’t easily forget that — especially when Hermione and Penelope had both spent three weeks petrified.

Over ten years had passed since then. None of them had come out of the war the same person they had been before, Malfoy included. The fact that he had even signed up for the pen pal program was proof of that. But anonymous correspondence expressing his remorse for his past mistakes wasn’t the same as internalising a shift in mindset. That took work. Effort. Motivation. 

And Hermione had little doubt that she was staring straight at Draco Malfoy and his motivation.

Hermione forgot all about reshelving books as she continued to observe Malfoy and Scorpius from a distance. Since first seeing Malfoy again the other week, every antagonistic interaction they’d had during childhood had fueled her bitter resentment. But that cruel, young wizard had grown up to be the man in front of her. Her pen pal. A wizard she knew to be so much more.

Clever. Considerate. Charming. Three things she admired in a wizard. Three things she believed her pen pal to be. Three things she had thought Draco Malfoy not to be.

Only, the more she watched him, the more Hermione admitted how biased she had been. Six years could change a man. Had changed a man. 

She was the one who hadn’t changed.

Bolstering her nerves and swallowing decade-old animosity, Hermione set down the remaining unshelved books and approached them. If she and Malfoy could get along on paper, it was worth seeing what they could manage in person. 

She left a five foot gap between them. “Is there anything I can help you find?”

“We’re fine,” came Malfoy’s prompt — slightly choked — response. He only acknowledged her presence with a half-turn of his head before reverting focus to Scorpius. 

But Scorpius wasn’t looking at his father. His bright eyes locked on Hermione. “Do you has more star books?”

“Yes, we do,” Hermione answered with a smile, astutely aware of how Malfoy seemed to be watching their every interaction. “Would you like to see my favourites?”

Scorpius nodded his head in quick succession, and Hermione pulled out her wand. A single swish later, four different books drifted off surrounding bookshelves and floated their way. Scorpius giggled at the thin trail of golden sparks that cascaded down from the books’ paths as he jumped up to try to catch one. The modification of that spell never failed to amuse their youngest patrons.

Once all the sparks had faded, Hermione sat cross-legged on the floor and spread out the books for Scorpius to see. “This book tells you more about constellations,” Hermione said, pointing at the one all the way on her right. “It talks about different stars than the one you already have, so I think you’ll like it. But I also thought you might want to learn something new. Do you know anything about the planets?”

Scorpius shook his head, but from his wide-eyed expression, he was eager to hear more. Hermione introduced the other books about various space topics, and Scorpius wasted no time opening them up and beginning to explore. He chose the planet book first and laid down on his stomach as he flipped through the pages. 

It was remarkable to see how quickly Scorpius could get immersed in a book, even at such a young age. Stories from her parents suggested that Hermione had been similar. Had Malfoy been like this, too? Or was Scorpius more like his mother?

The clearing of a throat directly behind her tore Hermione’s attention to the wizard in question. Malfoy’s stern expression was still in place, as was his cold, distant demeanour. But somewhere, hidden in the silver specks of his gaze, she found the faintest flicker of warmth — even if it did only last a second. 

“We’ll take them,” Malfoy evenly stated, having slipped back fully into his reserved state. “And a book about dragons from the Muggle perspective if you have.”

He started walking towards the counter before Hermione had the chance to react. That was probably a good thing. Otherwise, he would have seen the small quirk of Hermione’s lips. Her mind was still trapped in perpetual struggle trying to reconcile the Malfoy she knew from childhood with the Malfoy she knew from their letters, but small remarks like these helped bridge that gap. This was now the second time he was purchasing books for Scorpius rooted in something Muggle. 

Scorpius remained immersed in the books as Hermione selected a book on Muggle dragon mythology as well as a copy of The Paper Bag Princess. When she set the two books on the counter, Malfoy picked up The Paper Bag Princess, flipped through the pages, lifted his eyebrow no less than three separate times, then closed it.

“Scorpius will enjoy these.”

The quirk of Hermione’s lips returned, this time, for Malfoy to see. “I’m glad.”

Silence settled between them, though not the strained sort that she was accustomed to. It was a welcome changed to the stiff tension with which they usually interacted — in person, at least.

Hermione added up his total, and Malfoy placed the appropriate number of coins on the counter. The books were in the bag, and the transaction was complete.

It could have ended there. Easily. She and Malfoy had managed to make it through an entire conversation without being hostile. By their standards, it had even been civil. That’s what Malfoy wanted, right? A civil conversation? 

Regardless of whether or not they outwardly confirmed anything, Malfoy knew. And she knew that he knew — even if he didn’t know that she knew, nor that she knew that he knew. 

Yet that didn’t stop Hermione’s curiosity from getting the best of her. For the first time ever, she could ask her pen pal anything, and the parchments wouldn’t be able to block his answer. 

Hermione gripped the handle of the bag, inches from handing it to Malfoy, when she pulled it back.

“Can I just ask you one thing?”

Something darkened in Malfoy’s gaze, but he didn’t protest.

Hermione gathered her hair over one shoulder, looked down at the counter, then, finally, met his eyes as she pushed out the question that had stirred inside her for over a year.

“What happened to Scorpius’ mother?”

Whatever Malfoy had expected her to ask, this certainly wasn’t it. A ripple of shock flashed across his expression. His lips parted slightly, seemingly unable to revert back to the practised stoicism he so typically wore. Compassion clenched inside Hermione’s chest, and she tried to summon the words to tell him that it was okay if he didn’t want to tell her, but she too desperately wanted that answer. Or perhaps, more accurately, she wanted him to trust her with that answer. If not as Hermione Granger, at least as his pen pal.

He broke their eye contact, attention falling towards Scorpius still flipping through the various books. By his side, Hermione noticed his fingers fidgeting with one another.

“Her name was Astoria,” he said, voice low and strained. He didn’t look at her as he spoke. “Astoria Greengrass.”

Hermione felt her whole body grow numb. “Related to Daphne?”

“Her younger sister.” A visible swallow travelled down his throat, as if the next words pained him to say. “We were married.”

The stab in her chest hurt more than it should have. She couldn’t help but glance down at his left hand where a wedding ring must have once sat.

Malfoy’s gaze fell off Scorpius, but it still didn’t land on Hermione. “She passed away a few months after Scorpius was born. A familial blood curse we didn’t know about weakened her after childbirth.”

Hermione couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped her. Blood curses were rare and often had no cure. All feelings for Malfoy aside, she could only imagine how difficult that must have been for them.

Her words were a soft whisper. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

Only then did Malfoy meet her eyes. “As I told you last night, you’d discover a lot of things if you really knew me. There’s a lot more to me than you think.”

Hermione stilled her breathing. “I know there is.”

She reached out the bag again, and Malfoy took it into his hold, though not before Hermione let go. Their fingers brushed against each other, and even the slightest contact with his skin sent a heat to Hermione’s cheeks. She withdrew her hand before her flush grew apparent.

“About last night,” Hermione said, her heart thudding in her chest as Malfoy jerked his head to once more look at her. She bit the inside of her lip. “For what it’s worth, I do think you’ve changed. In some regards, at least.” A deep inhale filled her lungs, and she looked at Malfoy with what she hoped was remorse. “What I said the other week about you and your son was rash and unfair. I just— You’ve raised Scorpius very well on your own.”

He blinked at her for several seconds until his coldness cracked, as did the tension surrounding them.

“Thank you.”

They continued staring at each other, letting the lack of insults speak instead of words themselves. There was no goodbye when Malfoy turned from her, but the voicing of his thank you was enough for now.

He started to walk back to Scorpius but stopped after only a few steps.

Malfoy looked back over his shoulder. “Astoria and I… It was an agreement between our families. I never—” The words slipped away as his eyelids pressed closed. When he reopened them, it was with a softness Hermione had never seen from him before. “For what it’s worth.”

Hermione stood in stunned silence as she watched Malfoy and Scorpius exit the bookstore.

~*~*~

After Malfoy left, it became even more difficult for Hermione to concentrate on customers. By the time it reached three, Hermione asked Penelope to take over running the shop for the remainder of the day. Penelope didn’t press for a reason. If Hermione was leaving early, Penelope knew it must be important. And it was important. Once Hermione Granger had a need to research something, it became instantly vital.

The Diagon Alley Library was nothing in comparison to the one at Hogwarts. Their collection of reference books was half as extensive and the atmosphere was dull and uninspiring without the seemingly endless rows of magical tomes. But it had what Hermione needed: a complete backlog of Daily Prophets dating back six centuries.

She found what she was looking for in a Sunday Prophet from November of four years ago.

Back in her flat, Hermione once again had hundreds of letters scattered across her sitting room carpet. Crookshanks started padding towards her, and she cast a Fence Charm to keep him in the kitchen. She couldn’t risk any of the letters getting out of order.

One by one, the pieces of the puzzle fell more into place. First were the dates that she already knew: 

October 17th, 1998 - Their first letter

March 26th, 1999 - He expresses his regrets

April 14th, 2000 - His last letter before disappearing

June 5th, 2003 -  The letters resume

After finding those respective letters within the sea of parchment, Hermione placed a temporary Sticking Charm on each one and levitated them to the wall for display, leaving considerable gaps in between. For so long, that three year hiatus had been a blank in their relationship. He hadn’t divulged much about that time. Hermione hadn’t pried. But now, she had a few new dates to add:

November 5th, 2000 - Draco Malfoy marries Astoria Greengrass

September 15th, 2001 - Scorpius Malfoy born

Early 2002 - Astoria Greengrass passes away

Slowly, the holes in the timeline started to fill. It stung to think how little Malfoy and Astoria had been married before she died. They couldn’t have been married more than two months before Astoria had become pregnant. And it still didn’t answer what happened in the year and a half between Astoria’s death and their letters resuming. But there was one event that she hadn’t yet added to the timeline that held more significance than any of the others.

It had been an aside in the Sunday Prophet article announcing the Malfoy-Greengrass marriage. To any other reader, it would have been a mere detail. But to Hermione, it was the answer she’d waited four years for. 

The couple, pictured above, got married yesterday on the Malfoys’ private Bordeaux estate after a seven month engagement. 

She added one last date to her timeline:

April 2000 - Draco Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass get engaged

The same month the letters stopped.

Summoning a letter off the wall, Hermione retrieved the one dated April 14th. It would be impossible to count how many times she had read it. That first month alone she had read it at least fifty times. She had picked it apart, hoping to find a hint she had somehow missed, a firmer explanation about why he had disappeared. Now, in context, it finally made sense.

I’m at a crossroads. There’s something in my life that I feel I must do, though it brings me little happiness. In fact, I fear it will go directly against my own happiness. But it feels like the right thing for my family, so I’m compelled to do it anyway. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve made sacrifices for them, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

Hermione could still remember her response. She had told him she related more than he could imagine. That she, too, had made significant sacrifices in the name of her family, even when that decision was emotionally taxing. And that she would make that same decision every single time.

That final letter remained in Hermione’s hand as she pushed herself off the floor and settled onto her sofa. One flick of her wand and all the parchments on the floor gathered themselves back into the appropriate piles. She then removed the Fence Charm so Crookshanks could sit next to her.

She read the letter for at least the hundredth time, only causing the sinking feeling in her gut to deepen. The last line hurt the most. 

Our correspondence means more to me than you’ll ever know. 

Hermione rested her head against the back cushion and took deep, steady breaths. Logic felt unreachable right now. Her thoughts were too muddled by emotions. Turning off her mind, she let those emotions overtake her thoughts, allowing a few tears to finally break free.

Her head was such a blur, she didn’t know where to start processing. But a few things were becoming clearer: Draco Malfoy hadn’t wanted to stop writing her. Draco Malfoy wanted to keep writing her. And she, Hermione Granger, wanted to keep writing Draco Malfoy.

She swiped away the wetness that lined her cheeks and located the master parchment. As soon as the copy was made, she penned her response.

My long-time friend,

While you may not share your reason with me, I need you to know how much it hurt when you didn’t show up last night. This isn’t the first time you left me waiting for you, just to be met with disappointing silence on your end. I do trust your judgement, and I do trust you. But I also need to trust that you won’t disappear again like you did three years ago, just to reappear when it serves you. I need to know I won't lose you again — even if, for now, it is just as pen pals.

Her heart palpitated until his response came slightly over an hour later. 

My intention was never to hurt you. Not last night and not three years ago. I was young and didn’t know how to properly confront what I was feeling. Looking back, there are many things I would change. Many. Not just this. But I can only move forward, which is precisely what I am trying to do. I’m still not sure what the future brings, but after today, I am cautiously optimistic that things aren’t as bleak as I thought. One day, I hope to tell you everything. Until then, I’m not going anywhere, so long as you’ll have me.

Hermione folded up his response and placed it in the top drawer of her nightstand. She didn’t know what the future held for them either. A full day after realising his identity, the path ahead of them was still unclear. 

Considering the way she had treated him in the cafe, Hermione wouldn’t have blamed Malfoy if he had cut off communication completely. But she suspected he felt the same as she did; the bond they had developed the past six years was too deep to let go of just yet. Their feelings for each other were real. That part hadn’t changed. It just wouldn’t be as easy as they had hoped to make that transition to real-life. 

Chapter Text

The above-head chime tinkled, and Draco immediately second-guessed his decision.

Once should have been enough. He didn’t need to submit to Scorpius’ pleading two Saturdays in a row. Yet here he was again, stepping into her bookstore. And there she was, unpacking books from a new shipment and doing absolutely nothing special while somehow managing to make Draco’s entire world narrow to just her.

Scorpius didn’t wait for permission before scampering off to greet Granger, just as he hadn’t last week. It was times like these that Draco saw glimpses of Astoria in him, kind and welcoming in a way his father wasn’t. Draco didn’t even know what to say to the witch who had been on his mind every second of every hour of every day since he’d last left this very same place. While the words continued to flow out of the tip of his quill, his tongue remained knotted. 

The space between them felt like a canyon as Draco watched her interact with Scorpius. She had never treated Scorpius with anything short of adoration, like Draco imagined Astoria would have if the universe had given her the chance. He just hoped Scorpius wasn’t getting any ideas. It had been complicated enough when Draco had considered the potential of one day introducing his pen pal to his son; it was another thing entirely when Scorpius had already grown fond of Granger, while Draco himself still didn’t know how to proceed.

Scorpius was babbling about something — most likely naming all the planets, as was his new favourite thing to do — when Granger’s gaze fell off him and landed on Draco. He counted two skips of his heartbeat as she blinked at him before the barest trace of a smile appeared on the right corner of her lips. An instinctive tug pulled Draco’s lips into a similar countenance. It didn’t hurt to be polite. 

She returned her attention to Scorpius, then pointed to the front corner of the store where a crowd of children had gathered cross-legged on the floor in front of a witch wearing a pointed gold hat with stars, a crescent moon, and pale pink fabric flowing from its tip. In her hands was a book, face forward for the children to see before she began reading it. Scorpius bounced on his toes then scurried to join the other children and listen to the story, once again running off without asking Draco first.

A small, involuntary chuckle escaped Draco while he gently shook his head. One day, that boy was going to cause him endless headaches.

With Scorpius occupied by the read aloud, Draco let his vision fall back to Granger. She had already moved the box of books and was reorganising a display to make room for the new additions. Draco stepped back and pretended to skim the titles of the books in whatever section he was in. Nerves jumped inside his veins, and Draco cursed himself for it. It was bloody ridiculous that he was hiding behind a bookshelf and stealing glances at a witch he had known for over half his life. But he also recognised how precarious their situation was. He had somehow managed to keep her as a pen pal as he bought himself time to figure out what to do next. Lingering tension seemed to lace together her written words, but at least it meant they still had a chance. 

Something was better than nothing. That was what he had come to accept during the darkening hours in the aftermath of last week’s revelation. Yet his heart yearned for more. His feelings had been impossible to squash, especially after she had reignited his hope that Hermione Granger could see beyond their past and believe him to be the man he had become. 

But Draco couldn’t rush it. If he fed the fire too quickly, it could burn bright and die fast, leaving them with nothing except the charred ashes of what could have been. He had waited six long years for this. A few more weeks wouldn’t kill him, right?

The ardent pounding in his chest didn’t seem to agree. Nor did the movement of his feet. Before Draco’s logic caught up, his legs had already led him next to her. His lips and tongue moved by their own accord as well. 

“I have a problem.”

An infinitesimal jolt seemed to ripple through Granger. The brown of her irises slimmed as she turned to meet his gaze. 

“Can I help you with something?”

No malice. Just a question. Almost as if he was any other customer. Almost. Except, there was a glimmer of something he couldn’t name hidden behind her stare that kept his feet rooted and his heart buzzing. 

“Actually, you can,” Draco answered. “My son. He won’t stop talking about space.” He used every ounce of mental strength to keep his tone even, yet that still wasn’t enough to let one taunting remark break loose. “And it’s entirely your fault.”

She set aside the book in her hand as a hesitant smile appeared across her lips. “Seems like you’re partially responsible, too. I wasn’t the one who introduced him to constellations.”

Technically, that was Grandma Malfoy’s doing. But he wouldn’t correct her now. They were talking, and by Merlin, he wasn’t going to squander the moment.

“Details,” he dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Regardless, my problem remains. I require more books on the topic, for as precocious as my son is, I’m afraid he isn’t quite ready for my personal collection of astronomy volumes.”

A small laugh left her body, and that flicker of hope refuelled inside his chest. Surely this wasn’t the first time he had made her laugh, but it was the first time he had gotten to witness it. The sound was delicate, no more than a few puffs of amused air, yet it stirred a sensation inside Draco he had to battle from becoming visible.

Not now. Not yet. 

He followed Granger to a different section of the store where she began introducing him to a variety of books, presumably about space. His mind was in such a cloud, she could have selected books about hippogriffs and Draco still would have bought them. Slowly, the layers of animosity were beginning to peel. The optimism Draco had never believed in as a child still felt foreign, but he latched onto that feeling. 

When the story ended, Scorpius came barrelling over, eager to see what books Draco had hidden in the bag. 

“They’re a surprise,” Draco said, trying not to pay too much mind to the fact that Granger was next to him, listening to every word. He scooped Scorpius into his arms. “Storytime tonight?”

“Yes, please.” 

Draco planted a kiss against his sandy blond hair. “Tonight it is. Now say thank you to Miss Granger for the books. She picked them out.”

“Thank you,” Scorpius beamed at Granger. His eyes were still sparkling when he turned back to Draco expectantly. “We get ice cream now?”

Draco gave Scorpius a gentle bounce. “Don’t we always?”

“With Book Lady?”

The bouncing stopped.

“Miss Granger has to stay here,” Draco stated. He had to try even harder now not to glance over to see her reaction. “She’s working.”

Scorpius scrunched his little forehead. “But ice cream. Thank you?”

“Saying thank you was enough,” Draco said after sucking in a breath. “We needn’t invite her to ice cream too.”

Scorpius’ disappointment was immediate, and it gripped Draco’s heart. All he ever wanted was to make his son happy. Over everything else in the world. But he couldn’t do this. A half-hour in her bookstore was testing enough. 

“Actually, my lunch break is just about to begin.”

All other thoughts tumbled out of Draco’s brain as he shifted to face Granger.

“You needn’t feel obligated,” Draco said, heart frozen behind his ribcage.

Granger blinked. “No, I—” She paused for several agonising moments until a faint smile curled the edges of her mouth. “Just let me grab my cloak.”

~*~*~

“Three… two… one… Blast off!”

Squeals poured out of Scorpius as Draco lifted him off the ground and raised him above his shoulders. He then tossed Scorpius a few inches higher and used his wand to keep him suspended mid-air before bringing him back to Earth.

“Again, again, again!” Scorpius said the moment his feet safely landed.

He stretched out his arms for Draco to take hold, but Draco only laughed. “Five times is plenty.”

“Please?”

“Later,” Draco promised. “Time to go play.”

Scorpius ran to the playground, once again leaving Draco alone with Granger.

“Blast off?” she asked as she handed him back his cup of ice cream.

Draco huffed, though it came out more amused than cynical. “I repeat, this is your fault.”

“I’ll happily accept responsibility for that," she said. “It’s cute.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eyes and caught a hint of red adorning her cheeks. "You're a good father."

They settled on the bench, leaving considerable space between themselves, and Draco released a sigh.

"It hasn't been easy," he confessed, staring out to watch Scorpius run around the play equipment. "Particularly when I didn't have the best example."

A nervous flicker of his gaze flashed her way when silence descended between them. Draco swallowed. Even alluding to his father was risky. He recognised that. Their history was plenty complicated without inserting his parents into the conversation. 

She poked her spoon into the scoop of ice cream. “Being a single parent is already hard enough,” she said just above a whisper. The spoon stuck sideways as Granger tilted her head in his direction. “Are they also back in England?”

“Still in France,” Draco answered. “They’ll visit every now and again, holidays and birthdays and such, but for the most part, it’s just me and Scorpius.”

“Then why’d you return?”

Draco stared straight into her eyes, but that didn’t stop the memories from obstructing his vision. It had been a year and a half ago, just after the fifth anniversary of the final battle and the Malfoy family’s decision to near-immediately leave for France. That was never a good time of year for Draco. Regret was a terrible emotion that didn’t seem to wane with time — especially when it felt like he was still hiding from confronting any of that part of his past.

France had never felt like home. It was the Malfoys’ refuge when they had been the ones inciting danger to others. That thought had never sat well with Draco. And now, that home was laden with memories of a wife he lost too young, too soon.

He needed a new beginning. 

The Malfoy Corporation was still operating in Britain, so Draco made the decision to return. It wasn’t what he had expected to do with his life. Potions had always been more his passion. But a tainted past had closed the doors to any respectable apprenticeship that even money couldn’t re-open.

Yet it was a different night that pushed its way to Draco’s forefront. Less than a month later, the first week of June. His twenty-third birthday.

He had drunk himself into a near stupor that night. It had always been incredibly lonely being Draco Malfoy, but it felt worse that year. Everyone had made sure to be there for his first birthday without Astoria, but not as much the second. Boxes lined his office as Draco drank another glass of whisky from the half-empty bottle, but only one box mattered to him — the one sitting in the centre of his desk. In the packing process, he had found it hidden in a rarely used cupboard. He had long ago blocked those memories, thinking he had made his decision and destroyed that possibility. But that night, after over two years of silence and one vial of Sobering Potion, he read through every last one of her letters, until finally, he picked up a quill and prayed she’d respond.

He would never be able to properly describe the waterfall of relief he had felt that very next morning when the tap of a parchment aeroplane against his office window startled him awake.

But Draco kept that story locked inside and pulled himself back to the present. 

“Business,” came his answer instead.

She didn’t press for more of an explanation, and Draco didn’t supply one. 

They both stared forward where Scorpius continued to run around and play with the other young witches and wizards. Draco took a spoonful of ice cream but set it down before taking a bite. Eating didn’t interest him. Even in silence, all he could think about was the witch by his side. He strained to think of what to say next. They could write about anything and everything, but it wasn’t as though Draco could jump into heartfelt conversations without the context of their pen pal correspondence. He should be sufficiently satisfied that they were being civil, that she had even agreed to spend her lunch break with him, but Draco desired more, even when his brain screamed to remind him of the delicacy of their relationship — however one chose to define that word right now.

Yet Draco had never been good at not going for what he wanted. So he pushed, taking whatever measly nugget he could get. 

“I never asked how your date was the other week.” Granger’s attention immediately whipped his way, and his heart jumped into his throat, knowing just how risky the topic was. “Not another redhead, I hope.”

She seemed startled by the comment. Was it that unbelievable that Draco would ask her something about her life? After all, she had asked him about his.

He strained to maintain a facade of casualness as he awaited her response.

“He, um, he didn’t show,” she eventually answered, the tinge of red reappearing across her cheeks.

Draco lifted an eyebrow while his heart threatened to beat out of his ribcage. “Someone dared stand up Hermione Granger and you haven’t hunted him down to hex off his balls?”

“Depends. Are you volunteering to help?”

Draco couldn’t help but chuckle. Absolutely not.

But her teasing reaction didn’t last long. She shrugged, then looked back down at her melting ice cream. “It’s more complicated than that.”

Merlin, it was, but oh, how Draco wished it wasn’t. 

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “Not just that your date didn’t show. For a lot of things.”

He could feel Granger’s intent stare as he peered down at his buttoned sleeve, covering the angry skin that still bore the faded red outline of a terrible mistake.

“I hope this goes without saying, but I don’t believe in any of that anymore,” he said, eyes still averted away. “Haven’t in a long time. Not once have I tried to instil those beliefs in Scorpius, nor will I ever. It wasn’t what either Astoria or I wanted for him. We both wanted to put that ideology behind us, even if we did submit to our parents’ pressures to marry and start a family so young.”

The walls of his throat were tight and his tongue felt heavy, but Draco pushed the words out anyway. “I should have owled you. Told you I was wrong for all the pain I caused you for so long. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

He set his forgotten ice cream between them on the bench and met her glossed over gaze.

“If I hadn’t been such a pureblooded bigot, do you think—” The question died away, fearful of her answer, but Draco forced himself to finish asking. “Do you think we would have gotten along?”

His skin prickled in anxious anticipation.

“As children, I’m not sure,” she said, nothing but honesty reflecting in her expression. “But we’re not children anymore. We’re getting along just fine now, aren’t we?”

A light appeared at the end of the dark labyrinth Draco had spent the last eight days navigating. 

She smiled at him. ”Never too late to try?”

“Not at all.”

It was a fresh start with her. Again. Only this time, she was choosing to be friends with him, Draco Malfoy, not an anonymous person behind a quill.

The flicker of hope sprouted into a healthy flame.

They didn’t have much longer after that, and far too soon, Granger had to return to her store. 

“Thank you for inviting me, Scorpius,” she said to the young wizard. “My ice cream was yummy.”

Draco withheld a snort. As if he hadn’t just seen her throw out half a cup of butter pecan.

“And it was nice talking with you, Malfoy.”

A contented smile spread across his lips. “You as well.”

Their eyes locked on one another, and Draco couldn’t help but feel like the afternoon had been a success. 

The moment broke when Granger looked down to where Scorpius was tugging on her skirt. 

“Why call Daddy Malfoy?” He tugged again. “Am I also Malfoy?”

Granger’s lips parted but no words came out.

“That’s what some people call me,” Draco attempted to explain. “Grandma and Grandpa call me Draco, you call me Daddy, and Granger calls me Malfoy. Different names from different people.”

“But why?”

Draco didn’t know how to answer without opening the nightmare he had so far concealed from his son. He was too young to know about the war. About his father’s role in it. About the baseless belief that the Malfoy name made him superior, and thus Draco had wanted everyone to refer to him as such.

But times had changed. As had Draco.

“It does seem silly, doesn’t it?” he said to Scorpius. He lifted an eyebrow Granger’s way. “Perhaps it’s time you start calling me Draco?”

He expected Granger to protest, or at least react in some sort of way, but all she did was get on her knees to meet Scorpius at eye level. 

“I’ll make you a deal, okay? I’ll call your daddy by his given name if you start calling me by mine.” 

Scorpius rocked on the balls of his feet. “Okay!” 

“Can you say Hermione?”

“Huh- may- nee.”

“Her- my- oh- nee.”

“Huh- mo- nee."

Amused laughter filled the air and Granger looked up at Draco to roll her eyes.

“Apparently, I have two Malfoys incapable of calling me Hermione,” she remarked, an edge of amusement in her tone as well. She turned back to Scorpius. “How about this? Can you say Granger?”

Scorpius’ face lit up. “Granger!”

His r’s came out more like w’s, but it seemed to satisfy her.

“Like father, like son, I suppose,” she said as she stood back upright. “Will you remember that the next time you see me?”

She lifted out a pinky, and Scorpius put his whole hand around it.

“Granger, Granger, Granger!”

Granger lowered her head and shook it back and forth, but Draco saw her smile clear and bright. There were no words to properly capture the feeling blossoming in his chest. All he knew was that he didn’t want that feeling to fade.

Draco cleared his throat and took the plunge. They were too close for him not to seize the chance. 

“I guess we’ll see you next Saturday then.”

Granger looked at him in surprise. “Pardon?”

“We’ve seen you now four Saturdays in a row,” he said, straightening himself to give off more confidence than he felt. “Seems only fitting to continue next week as well.”

Granger briefly huffed, but from the slight movements of her lips, he could tell she was suppressing yet another smile. “Well, I’m not one to turn away paying customers.”

“Just as long as I don’t plan on buying your entire bookshop, right?”

She snickered. “Then it’s a good thing it’s not for sale,” she remarked before fastening the clasp of her cloak, smile no longer hidden. “Goodbye, Scorpius. Goodbye, Draco.”

His heart fucking fluttered.

Once she was a few feet away, Draco picked up Scorpius.

“I like Granger,” Scorpius beamed.

Draco looked at her departing form. Merlin help him, Draco did too.

~*~*~

Floating jack-o-lanterns bobbed in the front window while enchanted toy bats flapped their wings around the shop’s perimeter. October had passed in a blur, and Hermione couldn’t believe that Halloween was just over a week away.

The sound of the door chime’s tinkle pulled Hermione’s attention away from the decorating, but she was met with disappointment. Still not them. Yet that didn’t concern her. She knew they’d show up; Draco and Scorpius had yet to miss a storybook hour all month.

Hermione stepped off the ladder and got more Weasleys’ Wicked Webs from her box of decorations. When the chime tinkled again, Scorpius darted through the door and ran straight to Hermione.

“Hi, Granger,” he said, hugging her legs in greeting. When he backed away, she noticed a parchment in his hands. He held it out proudly. “I made this.”

Hermione took the parchment and admired the scribbled drawing of what she could only guess was his attempt to draw a vampire.

“I love it,” Hermione said after Scorpius explained every part of the drawing. “Should I add it to the collection?”

The hair atop his head flopped as he eagerly agreed. 

Only then did Hermione let her gaze track to Malfoy, standing just behind his son and looking equally proud. Just one glance was enough to make her pulse quicken. 

“Let’s go look at the books, Scorpius,” Draco said, attention downcast on his son. “I’ll even let you pick two this week.”

Scorpius’ eyes grew wide. “Two?”

“Two. But only if we pick them out before the story starts.”

That was all Scorpius needed to be told before he scurried off to explore the book selection. Yet Draco stayed behind. When he finally looked at Hermione, a slow smile spread across his face.

“Two books?” Hermione teased, pulse now racing. “Sure you’re not spoiling him?”

Draco stepped forward, hands in pocket, and laughed. “Everything in moderation, Granger. Otherwise, his book collection will start rivalling this very store.”

“I’d like to see that.”

“I’m sure you would.”

The prolonged length of his pewter gaze stirred a swarm of pixies in Hermione’s stomach, so many words still left unspoken. A month had passed, and while so much had changed, the most important thing hadn’t. So many times, it had danced on the tip of her tongue, yet the truth was never uttered. By either of them.

The swarm only stilled when he broke their contact to glance towards Scorpius.

“I better help him,” Draco said. “But I’ll be back in a few minutes?”

Hermione grinned. “You know where to find me.”

When Draco left, Hermione went behind the counter and added Scorpius’ latest drawing to her growing gallery of children’s artwork. Other customers had also started to add their drawings to the collage, but Hermione’s secret favourites were all the ones made by a particular blond.

“Surprise, surprise. Once again, Draco and Scorpius Malfoy are here for storybook hour.” Penelope stood next to Hermione, eyebrow quirked and arms folded against her chest. “How many weeks in a row is this?”

“He’s a loyal customer,” Hermione defended, already feeling her skin start to flush. 

“A loyal customer that you’ve taken your lunch break with the past four Saturdays?”

Hermione raised a rivalling eyebrow. “Didn’t you just ask how many weeks it’s been?”

“Didn’t you just avoid answering my question?”

Blast, Penelope. She never let Hermione get away with letting questions go unanswered.

“What I do on my lunch breaks is my own business,” Hermione plainly stated, willing her cheeks not to reveal anything more. “I happen to like his son and think he benefits by having another adult in his life.”

Penelope didn’t look convinced. “Really?” Her eyebrow lifted further. “Or have you found someone to replace your pen pal?”

“Oh, believe me, he is most certainly not replacing my pen pal,” Hermione returned, affording herself a private smile. A boost of assuredness swelled inside her chest. “In fact, we’re still in communication with each other. Fairly regularly, I might add.”

Penelope blinked in startled surprise. “Even after he didn’t show? I assumed it was done after that.”

“He had his reasons,” Hermione vaguely replied. “Now we’re figuring things out.”

“As friends, or as something more?”

Hermione glanced to where Draco stood. “Still to be decided.”

When the time came, Penelope chose a book to read and sat on the stool in front of the crowd of waiting children. The story had barely begun when Draco appeared at the counter, two books in hand and ready for purchase. Just like every other Saturday that month, they began chatting about their weeks while Hermione rang up his total, both pretending as though they hadn’t been sending letters to each other every day since the last time he’d been there.

They didn’t stop talking even after she completed his checkout. Nor when she left the counter to finish hanging the spiderwebs. As long as Scorpius was occupied with the read aloud, they would continue talking. That was just the way it was.

“So what are your Halloween plans?” Draco asked as he handed her a wad of webs. 

Hermione took it from him then stretched it out to cover the top of a bookcase. “Not sure yet. Harry usually wants to do something, but he hasn’t told us what. It may be just him and Ginny this year.” She cast a Sticking Charm on the corners to set the web in place while bewitched faux spiders crawled across the white threads. “How about you?”

“Scorpius is begging that we go trick-or-treating since someone thought it wise to tell him about that Muggle tradition.”

Playful smugness reflected in his features as he held back the next wad of bundled web, but Hermione snatched it out of his grip.

“I thought you were trying to raise your son with a more well-rounded understanding of Muggle culture,” she challenged.

“Needn’t you worry,” Draco stated. “That hasn’t changed. I just didn’t expect it meant I would have to go into Muggle London and find an astronaut costume so my son can go to strangers’ doors and ask for candy.”

Hermione paused her decorating. “You bought him a costume?”

“I did.”

Imagining Draco dressing up Scorpius for Halloween and guiding him around Muggle neighbourhoods did nothing to help Hermione’s attempt to keep things between them artificially platonic. 

“Will you be dressing up too?” she asked, already knowing she would regret voicing that question if the answer was yes. But his response was worse than she anticipated.

“Depends on if you can join us.”

Hermione had to balance her hand on the top of a bookcase to prevent herself from slipping off the ladder. When she glanced down to look at Draco, a pleased grin was stretched across his lips. 

She stepped off the ladder, no longer trusting herself at such heights. Erratic heartbeats echoed in her ears. “See, that’s tricky, because I only see you on Saturdays, and Halloween’s on a Sunday.”

Draco wasn’t fazed, letting his grin morph into a smirk. “I think we can make an exception.”

His gaze gleamed with a glint of desire, and Hermione felt her whole body melt. Standing in front of him, with her blood thumping and her chest aching, it was growing increasingly difficult to maintain their charade and not succumb to the rousing tension hazing her logic.

She had always thought she’d feel an instant connection with her pen pal whenever they met in person. She thought the feelings from parchment would immediately translate to real life. But that wasn’t the case. That had been a foolish belief, rooted in naivety and longing. Sparks didn’t always fly the moment you met someone — even if the emotional connection was already there. But good Godric, did she feel them now.

She had never allowed herself to think it during school, but Draco Malfoy was an attractive wizard. He was tall and fit, and he carried himself with an air of confidence that made him all the more alluring. But that wasn’t what drew her to him the most. She had fallen for the wizard beneath that exterior, and that was what made it so difficult to stand in front of him pretending as if they didn’t share years of mutual feelings. 

She wasn’t sure she could pretend much longer. 

Hermione stepped away, accidentally knocking into the ladder and causing it to wobble. 

“Careful there, Granger,” Draco said with a laugh. “Unlike these spiders, I promise I don’t bite.”

She tried to laugh with him, she honestly did, but her thoughts were elsewhere. She felt like she was Icarus, flying so close to the sun that it was becoming dangerous. They could only fly around it for so long before one of them got burned. She wanted to fall with Draco, but not like that. 

She sucked in a shaky breath and gathered all the courage her house was famous for. “Draco, I need to tell you something.”

Draco turned solemn, all levity faded from his expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she assured him, but his gaze remained dark and distant. “I just—” 

Hermione searched for the words. The right thing to say to finally break the illusion they’d been hiding behind. Yet any words she tried to form fell flat on her tongue before she could make a sound. 

She peered up at Draco, and her heart constricted. Concern glossed his eyes, glazed with worry that something was the matter. Her fingertips twitched by her side, wondering what it would be like to brush her fingers over his cheek in simple assurance. After hundreds of letters, they didn’t need words when the care they held for each other could speak for itself.

But the moment wasn’t right. Not here. Not now. Not while she was working, with his son so close, when they couldn’t talk about it properly.

She released a resigned sigh, and the lioness inside her chest crawled back into the safety of its den. “I just... can’t come to ice cream today.”

The light in his eyes reappeared. “Merlin, Granger, that’s it?” he said with audible relief. But when she didn’t react for several silent beats, Draco added, “You sure everything’s okay?”

A pit formed in Hermione’s stomach as she gathered the unhung decorations. “Just some accounting paperwork I want to finish. That’s all.”

Draco remained no farther than two steps behind as she picked up the box and brought it to the office.

“Would you like assistance? I run a business, too, you know.”

But Hermione shook her head. “I’ll be fine. You and Scorpius have fun without me.”

She set the box on the desk and turned to face Draco standing in the doorframe.

“Not sure if that’s possible,” Draco remarked, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Scorpius will miss you.”

The aching in Hermione’s chest tightened. “And you?”

He offered her a faint, heart-breaking smile. “Like father, like son.”

Long after Draco and Scorpius left, Hermione’s heart remained in knots. Once the number of store patrons sufficiently thinned, she returned to the office and closed the door. Except, instead of pulling out any accounting files, she retrieved a pen pal parchment. She may not have been able to voice the words, but she and Draco had always been better with a quill. 

Chapter Text

“Sad, Daddy?”

Scorpius held Draco’s hand as they walked home from the park.

“Not sad,” Draco answered. “Just thinking.”

While it had still been an enjoyable afternoon with Scorpius, Draco couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something Granger wasn’t telling him.

Each week, their interactions at the bookstore had grown more amicable. Gone were the sneers and ridicule. She smiled. She laughed. She treated him like someone she wanted to spend more time with. 

The animosity that had tainted their previous interactions felt like a distant memory while the line between former adversary and pen pal had blurred. And yet, he still hadn’t told her.

But dear Merlin, was he ready to. 

The plan had been perfect. They would have gone trick-or-treating together, and then Draco would have invited her back to the townhouse. Nothing improper. A drink. An opportunity to talk as two adults for longer than a handful of minutes in the middle of her workday. And once Scorpius had gone to bed, he would show her the letters.

Except, Draco hadn’t considered Potter. Of course Potter would want to be with one of his closest friends on the anniversary of his parents’ death. Did he always have to ruin Draco’s plans? Surely the Weasleys could prove useful for once.

Though that wasn’t what bothered Draco the most. 

Something was off. While it was different than seeing it in writing, Draco liked to think he knew Granger well enough to tell when something was bothering her. It was more than just paperwork that prevented her from joining them for ice cream. There was something else that she needed to tell him. Something that she had only considered after he had invited her trick-or-treating. 

Draco drew in a breath. He hoped he hadn’t pushed things too far by trying to take their friendship beyond the walls of her bookstore and the metal of a park bench. For as much as he appreciated being friends with her, Draco wasn’t sure he could keep pretending that his feelings didn't run deeper than that.

Scorpius skipped as they proceeded down the pavement, continuing to hold on to Draco’s hand. They were only a few townhouses away when Scorpius gasped, then broke into a sprint.

“Scorpius!” Draco shouted after him, but Scorpius didn’t slow.

“Look, Daddy!” he cried. 

Draco ran to catch up, which was thankfully not too hard when Scorpius’ legs were still so short. It took no more than thirty seconds to have Scorpius in his hold again.

“In Granger’s bookstore is one thing, but you can’t keep running off all the time,” Draco chided, though it didn’t seem like Scorpius was fully listening.

He stared back with wide, innocent eyes. “But spaceship.”

Draco scrunched his brow, uncertain what Scorpius was getting at, but when he looked to where Scorpius was pointing, his stomach sank. 

A parchment aeroplane was knocking its tip into their front door.

Scorpius wiggled his way out of Draco’s grip and ran the rest of the way up the steps. He jumped to catch the parchment aeroplane, but Draco snatched it from above Scorpius’ outstretched hands. 

Draco hadn’t thought to leave his office window cracked before they left. Granger never wrote him mid-day. Especially not on Saturdays.

The wave of uncertainty crashed inside his stomach. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Not waiting to step inside, Draco unfolded the parchment. He held it tight as he began to read.

Most cherished friend,

I have always been honest with you and must be honest with you now as well. For the greater part of the past six years, you have been a pillar in my life. Over that time, my feelings for you developed. To what, I wasn’t sure, but I knew that I cared for you. Very much. I had hoped that when we met last month, I would figure out what that meant for us and see if you felt the same. But as you already know, that night didn’t go as I — or you — envisioned.

“What does spaceship say?”

Draco shooed Scorpius away. “Shh. Daddy’s still reading.”

The hammering of his heartbeat escalated as he moved to the next paragraph.

I am endlessly grateful that we have maintained our correspondence these past few weeks since then. I continue to look forward to every word you write. But I have also started spending time with someone. Someone who I am interested in getting to know better. His and my past may complicate things at times, but there’s something about him that makes me tingle with anticipation whenever we interact. The only other person who has ever made me feel that way is you.

I respect if you’re still not ready to meet. But I also care for you too much to not give us the proper chance we deserve. 

The parchment dropped to his side as Draco’s knees gave out and he fell against the door. 

His head felt light as he tried to process. Granger liked her pen pal. While Draco already knew that, it was different seeing that confirmation, in her handwriting, purposefully telling him. Yet she was debating those feelings with what she felt for someone else. Someone she had recently started spending time with. Someone she wanted to get to know better. Someone she had felt inclined to tell her pen pal about right after he had invited her trick-or-treating.

Was that what she had been trying to tell Draco that afternoon? That she had feelings for someone else? But she didn’t. She had feelings for him.

Merlin’s fucking beard, she had feelings for him. Not just him, her pen pal; him, Draco Malfoy.

A laugh broke free from Draco’s chest, mere puffs of air still grappling the discovery. He read the parchment again. A third time. He still couldn’t quite believe it.

“Daddy happy now?”

Draco picked up Scorpius and swung him high in the air, letting the ripples of Scorpius’ giggles mix with Draco’s elation.

“Yes, Daddy is very happy now.”

After he set Scorpius down and unlocked the door to let him inside, Draco took a few more minutes to himself. He lifted the parchment and read it once more, a display of fireworks igniting with every sentence.

Resting his back against the townhouse’s exterior, Draco closed his eyes and imagined his pen pal. Imagined her. For so long, she had been a brunette blur. Now he could picture her clearly, curly hair and warm brown eyes, dipping her quill into an inkwell while she wrote to him in her shop’s office. 

He couldn’t wait until Halloween. He needed to tell her sooner. Tomorrow. 

A new plan instantly sparked. 

Back in his office, Draco pulled out a parchment and wrote her one last letter.

We’ve come too far in the past six years for me not to feel the same about you. Though I sometimes wonder if “care” is the best word to describe it. I can only hope that when we meet, you’ll still see me the same way. 

The attached Portkey will activate tomorrow night at nine. I’ll be waiting for you at the destination. I promise.

As soon as he sent the letter, Draco reached into his top left desk drawer and pulled out the worn letter he cherished so deeply. His fingertips brushed over its creases as he read those long-ago memorised words. A hopeful smile spread across his lips.

Tomorrow.

~*~*~

The day had been torturous. Never before had Draco believed time to move so slow. The sluggish speed of sand trickling through an hourglass seemed to drip from Draco’s heart into his stomach, leaving his stomach heavier with every second that passed. 

Narcissa came just before dinner, and Scorpius didn’t argue when only she put him to bed. On the next floor up, Draco adjusted his tie in the mirror, feeling the accumulation of sand shift inside him as he checked his reflection one final time. Then, when there was nothing more Draco could do to delay, he snatched the box off the corner of his bed and Disapparated.

It was already dark when Draco arrived, save the moonlight overhead. The park had a peaceful stillness to it when it wasn't filled with the delighted shouts of young witches and wizards. In the faint distance, Draco could hear the nearby jostle of the stores on Diagon Alley closing for the night. He checked his watch. He still had a half-hour to prepare.

One by one, he removed the letters from the box and levitated them into space. He started with the ones from October 1998. How lonely Draco had been back then, the horrors of the war still fresh. Then came the letters from that subsequent spring, when the thin friendship they had maintained started to sincerely develop. That summer when he wrote her every day despite his mother’s insistence that he spend more time getting to know other witches. That December when his mother had grown sick and she had helped him through it. That March when he knew the end was coming.

In the darkness, he constructed their timeline, the story of them. The letters formed a parchment passageway, starting on one side and twisting until it reached the end where Draco would stand. Every letter she had ever written lined the walls — all, except for one. Once the letters were in position, Draco cast a spell so twinkling lights illuminated the entire space. The muted glow of a thousand balls of light radiated throughout the park.

Now, all Draco had to do was wait.

The swoosh of her Portkey swirled through the air, and Draco felt his breathing catch. Just as he had designed, she seemed to have landed on the opposite end of the passage. He listened closely, straining to hear any noise she made, regardless of how small. The faint sound of her initial gasp sent a jolt straight to Draco's heart. She was there, and in a few minutes, she'd see him.

Any other thoughts felt unreachable other than the witch headed his way. Draco counted the seconds. He imagined her strolling through the passageway, jaw agape as she saw all the words she had written him over the past several years. Knowing her, she would probably pause to read a few of them, capturing snippets of memories that had led them to this very moment and were now leading her to him.

Padded footsteps grew closer, and Draco prepared himself. Any second now, she'd turn the final curve and discover Draco Malfoy at the end. Him. The wizard who had so relentlessly bullied her. Believed her to be beneath him. Stood on the sidelines while she was tortured in his home. But he was no longer that wizard. Somehow, in the past several weeks, he had convinced her to see that.

A shadow appeared on the grass. First just a sliver, then the silhouette of a head and a torso, until finally, standing no more than ten feet away, he saw her.

The glisten of tears streaked down her cheeks, but hell if she wasn’t the most captivating thing Draco had ever seen. Her lips were parted, seeming to struggle to find words as she shook her head back and forth. When she brought her lips back together, she caught the bottom with a nip of her teeth before a choked laugh escaped her. 

Relief flooded through Draco, drenching him with pure euphoria in the process. 

He paced forward. “One thousand three hundred and forty-seven,” he said, unable to take his focus off of her. “That’s how many letters you sent me.” Draco reached into his pocket and lifted the worn parchment. “But none of them meant more to me than this one.”

His eyes never left hers as he recited the line. “I don’t think anyone’s incapable of change. Sometimes they just need—”  

“The right motivator to help them get on that path.” Her smile was infectious. “I know exactly what I said.”

The light’s glow glimmered in her gaze, wide and bright as she stared up at him, and in that moment, nothing else mattered other than the two of them.

“Granger,” Draco said, closing the space between them so her chin near touched the edge of his chest.  He swept away the lingering wetness on her cheeks. “Hermione.”

The simplest touch made his pulse race. In all the ways he had pictured this scene, he had never imagined it would be this easy. But something with her just felt natural. Like they both knew that they were meant to end up in each other’s arms.

Then again, it had almost been too easy. She hadn’t even looked surprised to see him.

Suddenly, it all clicked.

Draco hung his head and snorted. When he returned his gaze to hers, he had a newfound smile on his face. “How long have you known?”

“As long as you have,” Hermione confessed, her own smile dancing on the corners of her mouth. She reached into her bag and revealed an elegant quill. Her smile broke free. “I think you may have forgotten something outside the cafe.”

Draco thread his fingers through her hair and laughed. “You brilliant, beautiful witch.”

He didn’t wait any longer after that. When his lips found hers, he could no longer picture a world in which he hadn’t kissed Hermione Granger. His hand slipped to the back of her neck, and he felt her melt into him. Nothing else had ever felt so simple. So perfect. 

The softness of her lips consumed his thoughts, and Draco lost himself in the actualisation of so many years of built-up feelings. He could have stayed like that for hours, revelling in the pure bliss of her kiss, but before Draco let himself get too carried away, he pulled back.

Hermione bit the bottom of her lip while the tingle of their kiss lingered on his. She cupped her hand against his jaw and peered up at him with a yearning look.

“So what do we do now?”

“Whatever you want,” Draco answered. “As I already told you, I’m not going anywhere. So long as you still want me, of course.”

Hermione brushed her thumb across his cheek. “I’ve wanted you for years, Draco, and I have no intention of that changing.”

That was all Draco needed to hear.

His lips crashed back into hers with no plan to pull away again. His fingers tangled into her curls, keeping Hermione firmly in place as the gentle caress of her tongue swept over his. Every inch of Draco’s skin felt like it was burning, desperate to be cooled by her tender touch. It had been ages since he had so much as kissed someone, yet it had never felt like this. Never this fire. Never this ardent need. He couldn’t imagine kissing anyone different ever again. 

There would be a time for Hermione and him to talk more about what this meant for them, but they’d let nothing except words flow between them for far too long. Tonight, he just wanted to be with her. 

Never breaking their kiss, Draco retrieved his wand from his pocket. With a single nonverbal spell, all the letters soared through the air and folded themselves back into the box. The warmth of their connection continued to spread through Draco like the delicious burn of Firewhisky, and Draco knew then that he could never have enough of this witch. Finding the space between her fingers, he laced their hands together. With one hand on the box and the other intertwined with hers, they Disapparated.

They landed in Draco’s bedroom with a soft thud. The box dropped to the floor, and within a matter of heartbeats, he had her laid out on top of his bed. He leaned in to capture her with another kiss, growing more insistent with every breath that passed. Kiss after kiss, his need only grew more urgent. Draco knew how he felt about her, even if it was too soon to say a particular word. But one thing was certain: he would accept whatever she was willing to give.

Her fingers raked through the strands of his hair, pulling him closer so her body’s curves pressed against him. Their hands were everywhere after that. The dip of her waist. The nape of his neck. The hem of her blouse. 

Shallow breaths left their lungs as he paused to look at her. Her eyes were ablaze, fueled with the same desire that coursed through Draco. 

“Are you okay with this?” He felt the answer in his heart but needed that confirmation.

Hermione nodded, yet something in her gaze grew cautious. “Are you? We don’t have to rush into anything.”

An honest laugh escaped Draco’s lips. “Rush? We’ve waited six years for this. I’m not waiting any longer.”

He dragged the blouse over her shoulders, revealing the creamy skin hidden underneath. Piece by piece, the rest of their clothing fell discarded on the ground until all they were left in was their underwear. 

Her curls were splayed across the pillow as Draco slipped one hand under the fabric of her bra and filled his palm with her breast. Hermione wrapped her arms around Draco’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss, letting the sound of her moans hum against his lips. 

Merlin, he wanted her. He wasn’t sure he had ever wanted anything more in his life.

His touch explored every inch of her skin, while the pulse of his erection was becoming undeniable. When her fingers dipped beneath the elastic of his boxers and circled around his length, Draco knew he was done for. His sharp hiss cut through the air before he tightened his grip in her hair and smashed their lips together. Travelling down the smooth expanse of her torso, his own fingers reached the lace of her knickers and found the already slick folds waiting underneath. The heady bliss consumed him as he pushed two fingers inside, feeling her walls clench around him. Hermione broke their connection, head drawn back as she let out a strangled breath and arched off the mattress. Draco relished the sight, but his need wasn’t yet sated.

With a craving tug, Draco pushed her knickers down the length of her bare legs. She kicked them to the ground while the heat of her gaze watched Draco discard himself of the final layer of fabric blocking his naked form. Surging desire rocketed through his veins, mixed with a tangle of knotted nerves. Few witches had seen him like this, none in many years. Yet nothing felt more right than this moment, right here, right now.

He stole one last kiss before poising his tip at her entrance. Slowly, he sank into her as Hermione’s delectable gasp filled the room. She was tight and warm in the most blissful, overwhelming way. His movements started slow, savouring every inch that he filled her with, while the push of his hips pressed against her. After all these years, he was finally sleeping with his pen pal — with Hermione Granger — and he intended to make this last.

They chased each other’s pleasure, sighs and moans passing between them with every thrust. He worshipped every part of her. Their bodies worked in perfect harmony, as if their magic intertwined and made them one. When the flutter of her climax clenched around him, Draco kissed her intently, soon following with his own release. 

Spent and satisfied, Draco crashed onto the bed next to Hermione. She radiated in the aftermath and curled her body around his, resting her head against his chest.

“I’m never letting you go,” Hermione said as she nestled closer.

Draco kissed the top of her curls. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Together, they drifted off into a peaceful sleep. 

~*~*~

Morning came too soon, but waking up was infinitely better with Hermione wrapped in his embrace. He swept his fingers through her hair, careful not to break her slumber. Even sleeping, she was the most beautiful witch he had ever seen.

Rays of early sun cast onto the bedspread, and Hermione started to stir. She hummed slightly, then peered up at Draco with an amber-glinted gaze. 

“Morning.”

Draco couldn’t fight his smile, even if he wanted to. “Morning.”

He traced mindless patterns on top of her bare skin, still in disbelief that he finally had her. Perhaps a little optimism wasn’t the worst thing in the world. 

From the other side of the door, Draco heard the gentle creak of footsteps on the staircase, and he knew Scorpius was awake. Every muscle in his body didn’t want to move. The bed called to him with the temptation to stay there all day long. If he didn’t know this would be far from the only time Hermione woke up in his arms, he likely would have given in. But Draco had other responsibilities, as did she. 

“I have to make Scorpius breakfast,” he said, fingertips still not leaving her skin.

She sighed. “And I have to get to the shop.”

Draco glanced at the clock, not ready to let her go just yet. “Your store doesn’t open for another hour. Think you have time to eat with us?”

Her tongue crossed the seam of her lips, a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. “What about Scorpius?”

“He may be smart for his age, but he’s still three. He won’t suspect anything,” Draco said, tilting her chin up as he gave her a reassuring smile. “We don’t need to tell him just yet.”

He leaned in to kiss her, the first of many morning kisses to come in the weeks, months, and hopefully years ahead.

It didn’t take long for them to get ready for the day; all they needed were a few Freshen Up Charms to do the trick. When they headed downstairs, Draco could already hear noise from within the kitchen. He pushed open the door, prepared to discover a mess of cereal scattered across the tile floor, but that wasn’t the case. 

Draco froze, surprised to see his son not alone — almost as surprised as Narcissa seemed to see her son not alone.

Hermione stalled next to him.

“Granger!” Scorpius shouted, wobbling off his seat around the table to run and greet Hermione. “You eat breakfast with us?”

Neither Draco nor Hermione answered him, both too stricken by Narcissa seated next to where Scorpius had just been.

“Mother,” Draco startled. “What are you still doing here?”

Narcissa set her teacup down on its saucer. “I thought I’d stay to have breakfast with my son and grandson before heading back to France,” she said before tracking her gaze from Draco to Hermione. “I didn’t realise we’d have company.”

Draco hadn’t told his mother the reason he had needed her to watch Scorpius last night. In the anticipation of the reveal, it was one less thing for him to concern himself over. But now, with Hermione firmly by his side, Draco grinned.

“I’d like you to meet my pen pal.”

A second wave of surprise flashed across Narcissa’s features, but once the initial shock wore off, she gave Hermione a polite smile. “A pleasure to see you again, Miss Granger.”

Hermione did the same. “Likewise, Mrs Malfoy.”

Scorpius pulled on Draco’s trousers. “What’s a pen pal?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” Draco answered, crouching down to look at Scorpius more directly. “But for now, it means Granger is going to be around a lot more. Is that okay?” 

Scorpius nodded in rapid succession, then looked between Hermione and Draco expectantly. “Do I get more books?”

Draco laughed. “You can have as many books as you want.”

When the excitement settled, Hermione and Draco joined Scorpius and Narcissa around the table. Underneath the table’s top and blocked from everyone else’s view, Draco reached out and laced his fingers with Hermione’s, never wishing for anything more than this. 

That late October morning, they ate breakfast together for the first time as a family. Eighteen months later, that family became official.