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Chapter Text

As a girl, Hermione had a vivid imagination. Her inner world was the most majestic place—not only one of adventure but also of friendship and escape. She remembered the castle of seashells she built on the sands of some beach, likely not far from where she currently stood. The story she created for those little shells had been a harrowing one of betrayal and triumph. The stuff of legends, really.

She angled her body toward the rising sun, smiling at the memory. Had it been over twenty years since she thought of that day? It had been before receiving her Hogwarts letter…She had unwittingly transfigured the shells to have legs and scuttle about. Hermione could hear her father’s gentle praise on the wind — "brilliant" and "darling "— and against the crash of the sea, her mother’s admonishments — “Dear, those were likely sea crabs.”

Ocean waves moved around her ankles, swirling and shifting in patterns she couldn’t follow before retreating again. She imagined feeling little fish scurrying about her toes, being pulled back and forth by a force bigger than themselves.

Hermione felt like one of those fish today. Try as she might to control, change, and make things better; life had a way of undermining or usurping the best-laid plans.

“Mum?” A soft voice called from behind her, most likely huddled on the sand, wrapped in a blanket with a cup of tea and a book.

Hermione knew Lyra had her Harpies hoodie pulled tight around her face, covering all of her head except her petite nose and large, round eyes. She’d probably wrapped the patchwork quilt she nicked from their summer cottage around her shoulders and legs for good measure. How this child survived living in Sweden for the last eleven years was beyond Hermione.

“Yes?” Hermione said into the wind, refusing to end this peaceful moment.

“I’m cold.”

Hermione waved her hand, casting a wandless, nonverbal warming charm over her daughter.

She’d wrestled with her decision their entire break. Hermione still didn’t know if she was making the right choice. She hated the insecurity of a choice not backed with empirical evidence but held up with hunches and guesses as strong as spello-tape.

“Can we get breakfast in town today…since it’s our last day and all?” Lyra’s voice was next to her now.

Hermione opened her eyes and turned to look at the burrito blanket of a daughter who had dragged herself from the little nest of blankets on the beach.

Her lips twitched. “Yes, dear. We can grab a pastry at the coffee shop on our way out of town.”

Hermione wrapped an arm around her daughter, who was still marginally shorter than her, but not by much, and guided her back to their cottage on the edge of town. The magical community of Île de Ré, France, was charming and quiet but also rather extensive—more so than Hermione had planned for when she booked the last available cottage on the beach. This island, barely off the coast of France, was reasonably populated. Mercifully, like the magic folk of Sweden, none paid her any mind.

She stifled the panic at the thought of returning to England. Eleven years later, people still fawned over the Golden Trio. Leaving England after the war for her healer studies only intensified the public’s curiosity about the “brains of the Golden Trio” rather than lessened it. Perhaps it was because Ron relished the spotlight initially, whereas Hermione returned to Hogwarts, studied for a year at St. Mungo’s, and promptly accepted an apprenticeship in Sweden. The general public (Rita Skeeter) felt they were cheated out of knowing how many sugars she liked in her tea and who she did or did not date.

Harry had borne the publicity in the same way he always had—he ignored it entirely, and eventually, even Rita got bored with him and Ginny. Ron settled into his role as an Auror without Harry by his side, leaving Rita to only write about pub meet-ups and speculate on Harry’s quiet existence alongside Hermione’s absence.

“Mum, are you sad?” Lyra asked as they returned to their cottage.

Hermione looked into her daughter’s eyes and shook her head no. “I’m going to miss you, that’s all.”

“But you’ll have St. Mungus—”

“Mungo’s,” Hermione corrected.

“Yes, and Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny and—”

“I will be fine, Lyra. You needn’t worry about me.” She squeezed her daughter’s shoulder and moved past her into the seaside cottage, which was painted a warm yellow with lovely furniture that creaked in all the right places and had a tea kettle that never ran out of hot water. It wasn’t the nicest of the cottages available for let, but it was one of the few she could find on the beach, which hadn’t come cheap.

They’d lived a modest life in Sweden. Hermione tried never to dip into her slowly rebuilt savings that she’d emptied to go on the run with Harry, ignoring the windfall from her Order of Merlin First Class entirely…until this summer. It was their last holiday together before Hogwarts, and Hermione wanted it to be a fantastic one. Overall, it had been. Harry and Ginny visited for a few days in the beginning, followed by Arthur and Molly, and then Hermione’s parents for a day. The in-between was filled with daily swims and copious amounts of reading.

“Everything packed?” Hermione called down the hall, moving toward her small room with only a bed and nightstand. What it lacked in space, it more than made up for in the view that overlooked the ocean.

“Yes—wait,” Lyra called back. “I forgot to double-check my books!” A flurry of scrambling happened as Lyra ran to her room.

Hermione snorted, picking up her wand and levitating her remaining items into her trunk.

“Mum,” a wobbly voice broke in the doorway. Hermione spun, letting her bag of toiletries fall into the trunk without care, rushing over to look at her daughter.

“Lyra! What is the matter?”

Lyra’s lips quivered. Normally a placid child, content to read and explore the Swedish countryside where they had lived, it was unsettling to see her quick tears.

“We—we—remember? They ran out and —” She tried to get the words out, but heaving sobs were beginning to take over. Hermione pulled her daughter close to her chest, squeezing just enough to give that comforting pressure but not so much that it hurt.

“It’s alright. Breathe. We can figure it out. I promise.”

They stood there a moment longer as her daughter worked through the breathing exercises Hermione taught her more anxious patients. Lyra pulled back, wiping the tears from her face. She still had the vestiges of childhood clinging to her—a little baby fat that hadn’t let go; bright, eager eyes that defaulted to trust and contentment. But the bubbling, sometimes turbulent emotions were new. Yes, Lyra was moving out of childhood and into her “tweens.” Hermione once thought her daughter would never lose her round cheeks and bright, sunflower eyes, but it looked like the day was coming sooner rather than later.

More calmly, Lyra began again. “The bookstore in England ran out of The Standard Book of Spells, and we forgot to owl for another one from a different shop. I won’t have all my books ready for the first day, and I’ll be — I’ll be — humiliated!” She began tearing up again. “This is awful, just wretched and awful and —” Lyra moved to leave and, presumably, to cry in her room, but Hermione caught her before she could escape.

“Lyra, you will be fine. I’ll write you a note to give to your head of house. They should have an extra you can borrow while I sort out the details and get one sent to you. You won’t be humiliated or ridiculed —”

“I never said ridiculed!”

Hermione let out a long sigh. “Right. Well, in any case, this shouldn’t be the thing that derails your day. You have a train ride ahead of you, a new House, and so many wonderful, amazing new friends. I promise — You will have forgotten all about not having your spell textbook on your first day by Christmas.”

That seemed to mollify Lyra, and they quickly packed the remainder of their things. Hermione had spent most of the previous day gathering all their odds and ends so they could have a relaxing morning before apparating to Kings Cross Station.

“Almost there,” Hermione muttered to herself, shrinking her trunk and tucking it into her old beaded purse. Lyra met her in the living room, and Hermione did the same with Lyra’s trunk

They’d stuck to their little section of the island for most of the summer, choosing to cook and eat at home unless company wanted to go out. Their cottage was on the Muggle side of the island but owned by a wizarding couple who had excellent wards. Hermione was rather impressed when they arrived.

Hermione set the key on the kitchen table, leaving it for the owners to collect after they left. Lyra grabbed the little jar of floo powder and threw it into the fire, which turned a lovely Azul that mirrored the waters here instead of the lurid green the British Ministry of Magic chose for their floo network.

“Le Croissant Envoûté,” Lyra called out the name of the bakery on the island. Her French, and English for that matter, had a slight Swedish tint.

She didn’t step through immediately but held out her hand to Hermione. Hermione’s chest squeezed a little — how much longer would Lyra be willing to hold her hand? Even for the brief moment as they floo’d from one place to another.

They stepped out of a large hearth in a bakery on the island's busiest street of the magical quarter.

“I’ll go order if you want to find a table?” Hermione pointed at one by the window. Lyra grinned, her teeth bright and straight. That was one thing Hermione wouldn’t deny her daughter when she asked if she could shrink her front teeth a bit before the start of school.

“Bonjour,” Hermione greeted the barista. “Deux croissants et deux tasses de thé noir, s’il vous plaît.”

We will have two croissants and two cups of black tea, please.

The barista gave her a tired smile, accioing two croissants from the back along with two cups and a small kettle of tea. Hermione almost turned to leave but then stopped to ask —

“Ou se trouve la librairie la plus proche qui vend des manuels scolaires?”

Is there a bookstore nearby that sells textbooks?

The barista blinked at her but nodded. Pulling a quill from behind her ear, she scribbled a quick note on a piece of paper and tucked it beneath one of the saucers. Hermione floated the tray over to their table.

Lyra’s face was bright as she watched the usually busy seaside town wake up for the day. She’d snagged a newspaper on her way to the table and had it open before her but wasn’t reading the headlines.

The Daily Prophet

1 September 2017

Bones Eviscerates Wizengamot, the top headline read.

Lyra immediately began speaking, “Mum, you should have seen these people who walked by! I think they were veela. Their hair was beautiful.”

Hermione hummed, taking her seat and stirring in the sugar and splash of milk Lyra preferred with her morning tea before preparing her own. She’d asked herself every day if she was making the right choice — leaving all they had known together and moving back to, technically, their home country, even though Lyra had only visited a handful of times.

“If we don’t eat too slowly, we should be able to stop by a magical bookstore before we leave for Kingscross.”

Her daughter’s head whipped around. “You found one? I thought there weren’t any on the island since we never visited one this summer.”

Hermione snorted. “I’m not that predictable…am I?”

“Mum.” Lyra stared at her — her sharp eyes narrowing and chin tilting up in a way that made Hermione’s heart jump. It wasn’t a look she had learned from her but something Lyra received from her father. Hermione never pointed it out but let those moments pass.

Lyra practically bounced in her seat after that, devouring her croissant. Hermione spelled away the crumbs that dotted her jeans and black blouse, doing the same for Lyra.

“Can we go?” Lyra asked, eyes tracking her mother as she stowed her wand inside her cardigan.

Hermione took one last sip of tea and set her cup on her saucer. "Yes, I think we can.”

She cast a quick location charm on the scribbled address from the barista, allowing it to float before them at a measured walk.

The island was cooler than when they first arrived at the beginning of August. Hermione wrapped her chunky cardigan tightly around her as a swift wind hurried them toward the island shop.

Hermione was loath to admit that even she was rather surprised she hadn’t thought to seek out a bookstore while they were here. It was typically one of the first places they visited on holiday, but this time — perhaps because they were in the Muggle district and they had their own bookstores — or whatever it was, she hadn’t explored the magical area much.

It certainly wasn’t because Lyra wasn’t comfortable in the magical or Muggle world. She had had an almost idyllic childhood surrounded by mountains and magic in their town just outside Funäsdalen. Her fellows at the hospital where she worked loved Lyra as their own and didn’t bat an eye when Hermione added a young child to the mix of her rigorous studies.

It had been hard to accept the open position at St. Mungo’s and leave the Swedish Institute behind, but it was time to return home. Even the head healer at the institute said it was so.

“You cannot keep running from your demons, Hermione,” the matronly healer had chided in her heavily accented English. She chose to speak in English when she truly needed Hermione to listen.

A charming bookstore appeared at the end of the lane, pulling her from her thoughts as they rounded the corner. It had large, paned windows and breathtaking roses spilling from planters beneath them. In the distance, the sea crashed against the shore. Old magic clung to the wood and stones around the building. A wooden sign with carved a black swan hung just over the door, the words Librairie Cygnus elegantly etched into it.

“I wonder how long this store has been here,” Hermione mused, almost hesitant to reach for the brass doorknob.

Lyra had no such druthers and pulled open the door. A little bell jingled above them, but no one was at the counter to greet them.

“Are we too early?” Lyra whispered, stepping inside.

“I don’t think so.” Hermione wasn’t certain. She glanced back at the little sign in the door that was turned to “open.” It was handmade in an elegant script and affixed with a sticking charm.

“Bonjour, how may I help you?” A young boy who looked to be Lyra’s age popped his head out from around one of the shelves. He had white blond hair and bright blue eyes. He wore smart-looking ropes that were open, revealing tan trousers, and a green jumper. Hermione thought he looked rather posh for someone working at a bookstore.

French, she thought to herself.

“Bonjour,” Lyra stepped forward. “Do you have spell textbooks?” Her French was passable, but Hermione could hear the Swedish inflections warring beneath. She worried Lyra would be teased at school for her English accent, often inflected with another language's musicality.

Ignoring her question, the boy replied, “Are you Swedish?”

“Are you?” Lyra replied, pointing to his hair.

He smiled then — something warm and bright. “No, I’m English.”

“Wonderful,” she replied in English, tilting her chin up a little in pride. “I’m going to Hogwarts today, but Flourish and Blotts ran out of the Standard Book of Spells Grade I. Do you by chance have any? They said they’re on order…whatever that means.”

The boy perked up even more, taking a step closer. “You’re going to Hogwarts? So am I!”

“Really?” Lyra asked, eyes wide, chin dropping a bit. “I haven’t met anyone who is going to Hogwarts this year. All my classmates are going to the Swedish school.” Hermione could hear the forced joy in her daughter’s voice.

The boy nodded emphatically. “That’s around Helvetesfallet, right?”

She smiled. “Yes.”

“Wow. We’ve never been to Sweden, but I know Dad used to travel quite a bit while growing up. Oh! And I think we have one extra. Of the Standard Book of Spells Grade I, I mean. My dad accidentally ordered two.”

Without saying anything more, the boy turned and ducked beneath the shop’s folded counter, presumably to go to the back of the store.

Lyra spun round as his neatly combed white hair disappeared behind a swinging wooden door painted a charming French blue.

“Oh, this is wonderful!” Lyra clapped her hands. “I thought I would be the only girl not from England on the train. France isn’t so far from Sweden. Maybe we could sit together?” She eagerly watched and waited for the boy to return.

Hermione patted her hair, letting her fingers run down Lyra’s long, blond curls. They were white blonde, like the bookshop boy. She had blended in well with her Swedish classmates except for the riotous curls she inherited from her mother and the splash of honey gold that encircled her irises before bleeding out to the cool grey of her father’s eyes.

Hermione let her gaze wander the shop. It was lovely. Large wooden bookshelves that looked like they had stood there for hundreds of years filled the space. The shopkeeper had a large fire going across the room with big chairs before it. The shelves were filled with books, both old and new — and, to her surprise, a few Muggle ones as well.

She drifted over to the shelves, running her fingers over the books. She noticed that there was only one copy of Ron’s memoir, and even that one had dust on it. Smirking, she kept wandering the shelves until she heard the quiet, quick chatter of the shop boy and her daughter.

“All set?” She asked, pulling out her coin purse to pay.

“My dad said you can have it. Doesn’t know who —” The boy scrunched up his face as if trying to repeat his father verbatim - “— who on this bloody island would want a standard book of spells in English.”

Hermione’s smile faltered. That cadence — the aristocratic lilt the boy imitated was familiar…too familiar. She stepped forward a bit and truly looked at the boy. He had a generous smile and a slightly pointed chin. His fingers were long, but his nails were trimmed neatly. His clothing was fine but not ostentatious. His hair was parted to the side but not severely slicked back like she remembered another boy’s blonde hair at that age. Adding all these things together, Hermione’s eyes darted to the door behind the till.

She had never said who Lyra’s father was—the child asked only a few times in her life, and even then, Lyra never pressed. It had become a foregone conclusion in Lyra’s mind that he was absent, and Hermione made sure that her life was so full that she didn’t need more.

Hermione’s pulse quickened as she slowly put the puzzle together. If he wasn’t Malfoy’s son, he was related to them. The Malfoy were French, and she knew Draco had married sometime after their leaving St. Mungo’s introductory apprenticeship, but she hadn’t kept tabs. It was becoming increasingly apparent that she should have kept tabs.

“Lyra, we need to get going.” Hermione placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. She nodded to the boy and turned them quickly toward the door.

“Thank you again!” Lyra said brightly.

“See you on the train!” The boy smiled.

Lyra paused, causing Hermione to stop as well. “What’s your name?”

“Scorpius!”

Lyra’s face brightened, but Hermione tugged her again, yanking open the door.

“I’m Lyra. See you on the train, Scorpius!” She called over their shoulder.

Once outside, Lyra rounded her. “Mum, that was rude.” Lyra furrowed her brow at her mother, letting out a huff of annoyance.

There’s that attitude again, Hermione thought.

“It’s true,” Hermione conceded. “But it was for a good reason. I wanted you to see our flat before we go to the station.”

Lyra’s countenance immediately changed. “You finally let one?”

Hermione nodded, relieved that her daughter had let her previous ire drop in exchange for the happy news.

“Well,” she linked her arm through her mother’s while the other hand held the little bag with the bookshop's logo on the side. “What are we waiting for?”

Hermione smiled. “We’ll have to apparate to Paris first and then to England. Are you ready?”

Lyra nodded. Hermione pulled out her wand, glancing back at the shop where Scorpius waited and, most assuredly, his father as well. She turned on her heel, disappearing from their summer holiday with a soft pop.

——————

A tall man with bright blond hair and piercing grey eyes watched mother and daughter from the window of his office, his heart beating wildly as he pressed his nose against the glass. His Muggle suit jacket lay draped on the back of his chair where he had left it before sitting down to review the ledgers. His pocket watch dangled carelessly at his side, holding onto the clip inside his waistcoat’s small pocket for dear life.

Draco Malfoy hadn’t seen Hermione Granger since their year-long introductory apprenticeships at St. Mungo’s before departing to their specialties. How long ago was that? Eleven years — give or take. Draco swallowed. He had followed Scorpius to the store's main floor to see the English family needing the bloody book out of curiosity but immediately disillusioned himself upon seeing Granger.

She looked the same as she had all those years ago, but her hair was somehow tamer. She dressed well but still simply. Over ten years had passed, and she still took his breath away. Her face was tanned with freckles, presumably from the summer holiday.

How long had they been here? Surely not that long if they hadn’t come to visit the shop? He was the only magical book and fine stationery on this side of France.

The girl. She was lovely. She was obviously a mix of whatever sperm donor — husband? — of Granger’s with the bright blonde hair and slender face, but her eyes? They were silver but with a starburst of honey gold in the middle. He’d snuck slightly closer to look at them while the children spoke.

The girl prattled on like Granger had when she was eleven but with a decidedly lesser need to prove herself. She also had a Swedish musicality to her voice. He knew Granger went to Sweden, but had she stayed there so long because she’d gotten married? Perhaps that’s where the distinctly fair coloring had crept into her child?

What had spooked Granger so that she practically fled the shop?

“Dad?” Scorpius asked, interrupting Draco’s thoughts. His son’s head peeked just inside the door.

Draco jumped slightly, pulling his eyes from the spot where Hermione and her daughter disappeared.

“Yes?”

“Pascal is here. You said you wanted to speak with him before heading to London?”

Draco let out a sigh, willing his face to relax. “I did. Thank you.”

Scorpius disappeared once more. He’d likely be nicking one more book off the bookshelf to have on the train with him. Father had strictly forbidden Draco from bringing a book to read on the Hogwarts Express, telling him the train was to “make alliances, not settle yourself as the biggest swot.”

What father tells their eleven-year-old that?

Letting the old anger and hurt roll through him with a sigh, Draco tugged on his jacket and went to speak with the older Frenchman who was taking over the shop for the autumn and winter now that summer was over.

There was a reason Flourish and Blotts were low in stock — Draco told them to pause reordering after their initial haul. He was buying the business and moving back to England.

Putting his pocket watch away and moving back to his desk to grab the papers, he resolved that the first thing he’d do after sending Scorpius off to Hogwarts was pay a visit to Mother. She always knew the latest gossip, and perhaps her fingers extended to Granger.

Chapter Text

Hermione cast a sidelong glance at her daughter, who squinted up at the drizzling rain. She hid her smirk as a fat raindrop splattered in the middle of Lyra’s forehead.

“Don’t stick your tongue out. City rain—” Hermione chided over her shoulder.

“Mum, I know. We went to Stockholm plenty of times.”

“Quite,” Hermione quipped, attempting again to unlock the squat lobby door to her new flat. She could see the dim hallway leading to the quad of rented flats, but try as she may, neither the key nor the handle budged. The rain was beginning to pick up, and her hair (and her daughter’s) ever remained styled by magic after a rain shower.

“Lyra, cover for me,” Hermione muttered, fumbling in her purse for her vinewood wand. She whispered, “Alohomora,” chancing a quick look around to ensure no Muggle neighbors were watching. The lock made a definitive clicking sound. “I think that worked!” Hermione pushed down hard on the brass handle, but the door still wouldn’t budge.

“One moment.” Hermione leaned harder onto the handle, letting frustration take over as she shook the door, giving it a slight kick for good measure. The rain was transitioning from a sporadic drizzle to an actual rainfall. Godric, she forgot how much she hated London’s weather.

“Mum,” Lyra whinged, holding Hermione’s old school messenger bag over her head.

“Oh, come on, you bloody, awful—” Hermione simultaneously pushed on the handle and threw her shoulder into the door. That combination seemed to do it, and the door swung forward. The Granger girls rushed inside, letting out a collective sigh of relief as the first crack of lightning highlighted this unromantic part of London.

“Oj, we made it,” Lyra sighed, her fingers dancing over her curls. “How’s the damage?”

Hermione shut the door with a long sigh. “I think…if we apparate to King’s Cross, your curls will have an effortless look.”

Lyra worried her bottom lip, seeming to consider this information. Hermione peered about the tight entryway. She knew not to expect her landlord to be there to greet them. However, she expected it to be…cleaner. The building comprised four flats: two on the ground floor, just down the hall from where they stood, and two up the narrow stairwell. A small post box for Muggle mail nestled in the wall just to her right.

The landlord said the neighborhood teetered on the edge of magical and Muggle, with up-to-date Muggle repelling charms, and used words like “vintage” in the description.

“I suppose we go up?” Hermione mused. She hadn’t seen the flat before today but didn’t think it could be that bad. The location was supposed to be ideal for a healer with just a brief twenty-minute walk to St. Mungo’s and had been listed at a reasonable price. She ignored the nagging feeling that perhaps she should have inquired more about the building and the reason for the low rent as they climbed the rickety stairs to the first floor.

“Close to work,” she muttered as if repeating the fact would make the building less depressing.

The stairs groaned, opening into a cramped hallway, similar to the ground floor but boasting a once cheerful wallpaper now faded and peeling. The only light came from a fogged window at the end of the hall where rain gathered on the sill.

“Oh dear,” Hermione said, gripping the key and her wand tighter. “Here we are. The landlord said we’d have flat 2b. Let’s see if the key works in this door.” Hermione tried to smile at her daughter, who peered past her, chewing her bottom lip like she had when she was two and learning to ski.

She was unwilling to give into despair or take her parents (or Molly Weasley) up on a free room till she got settled, so Hermione slotted the key into the keyhole and turned. Her breath released with the sound of the lock turning. She needed a win, and her standards for what that might be had sunk lower with each passing moment since they stepped through that front door.

“Ah, I see. A simple mixup of keys.” Hermione tossed over her shoulder. “I’ll ask the landlord for an additional key so you can have one when you come home for the holidays. Ready?” Hermione smiled, a little less falsely now that something had gone right.

Lyra shrugged.

Hermione turned, holding in her eye roll at the surliness of her daughter, and swung the door open with a dramatic flair, hoping to elicit a smile.

Her mouth parted at the sight before her. She was immediately hit with the musk of damp wood and disrepair. Hermione was the first to step through the threshold, moving with as much confidence as she could muster for her daughter. Her purse coughed up a cloud of dust as she plopped it on the narrow kitchen worktop.

What was advertised as a“quaint flat” appeared to be more like an abandoned broom closet, with two bedrooms that could barely fit a bed, let alone all the hopes Hermione had misplaced. Spiderwebbed water stains covered the high ceilings, and a slow drip into a rusted bucket in the corner only punctuated the witches' stunned silence. Hermione pushed down her dismay, not wanting to fully display her distress to her daughter, who would undoubtedly carry it like a torch until something was done. (One of Hermione’s less charming qualities she passed on.)

“Where’s our stuff?” Lyra asked, unable to hide the warble in her voice.

“It’s scheduled to arrive later today via floo at Gran’s, but don’t worry about that. Come here, bug,” Hermione wrapped an arm around Lyra’s shoulders. She cast floating balls of light about the room, hoping it would make the space seem brighter. “Once I tidy it up and add some rugs, it will feel much better.”

“But—” Lyra’s voice caught. “I hate thinking of you living here while I’m away at a beautiful castle and when you could be back home. We could’ve stayed in Sweden. You loved it there, Mum.”

“Lyra,” Hermione turned her daughter to face her, holding on to both shoulders. “Listen. You did not force me to leave Sweden. I told you, it was time. The position at St. Mungo’s is a wonderful one that Healer Hilda said I needed to pursue. Yes, while you may have seen the less…idyllic scenes of London proper today, I promise you. I’m going to be perfectly content.”

“Promise me you’ll take Granny or Auntie Molly up on their offer if—”

Hermione blew out a long sigh. “I cannot promise I’ll do that, but how about I promise to have Uncle Harry come by and fix a few of the broken things?” Her gaze cast about the flat, cataloging several areas needing Harry’s help. She frowned as the mental list grew with each sweep about the space. Though tempted to turn around, she squared her shoulders.

“Let’s have a peek at your room?”

Lyra didn’t move. “Mum…this flat is…horrid.”

Hermione let out a protracted sigh. “I know, but it will have to do until I can find a new place.”

“Promise you’ll find somewhere with at least a garden?”

When had she agreed to move? Hermione chewed her bottom lip. “I’ll try.”

Lyra had no concept of money or real estate. A place in London with a garden…Merlin, Hermione really should move into Bill’s old bedroom at the Burrow and call it a day.

“Do you at least want to pick your room? I think they’re the same size, so—”

“No,” Lyra sighed. “Just pick for me.”

This was not the adventurous moment Hermione had been hoping for her daughter. While their summer cottage hadn’t been spectacular, the bright colors and the windows that opened toward the beach more than made up for its simplicity.

The single, grimy window in the communal living space drew her attention. Hermione stepped closer, muttered a quick Scourgify to clear the layers of dust from the panes, and revealed the view: a brick wall.

“Bloody hell,” Hermione groaned. She wasn’t going to cry. She was angry.

“What?” Lyra’s head poked out from one of the rooms, evidently curious enough to poke about while Hermione contemplated the murder of her landlord.

Hermione spun around, using her body to cover the view from the window. “Nothing! How about we get out of here and grab some ice cream? We still have an hour until we must be at the station.”

Lyra instantly perked up and ran to the door. Hermione followed, keeping her back to the window wall. She took a breath and plastered on a smile before taking her daughter’s hand to disapparate for The Leaky Cauldron in search of promised ice cream and perhaps a newspaper to research flat advertisements.

________

“What do you get when you mix a kumquat with an Unspeakable?”

Lyra cocked her head, considering Fred’s question, as she scooped another large bite of cherry chocolate fudge ice cream. Hermione’s lips twitched as she watched Fred’s confusion at her daughter’s seriousness. Most of the Weasley nieces and nephews would roll their eyes or spout off some inane answer to keep the fun going.

Then again, Lyra wasn’t a Weasley, even if Molly still considered Hermione Weasley-adjacent because of her history with Harry and Ron. Lyra was…magnificent.

Hermione blinked away the rush of emotion, hastily taking a bite of her ice cream.

“A silent-mellon,” Lyra announced, her voice brokering a finality that only caused Fred to beam.

“That’s better than what I thought up! You must come from the smarter side of our family.”

“I’m not from your family at all.”

Fred huffed a laugh, meeting Hermione’s eyes. “Well, we’ll get you some red box dye. That should fix you right up.”

Lyra pulled a face at that thought, and Hermione had to stifle a laugh. Harry slid into the seat beside her, stretching out his legs.

“Hiding?” Hermione asked, noticing that he succeeded in extricating himself from the young family wanting to speak with him.

“Something like that,” Harry huffed, pulling off his glasses to rub his eyes for a moment.

“Where’s Al? I haven’t seen him yet,” she leaned to skim at the throng of Weasleys milling about the shop.

“He’s coming with James and Gin. They had to stop by Quality Quidditch. James is going out for the team this year.” Harry couldn’t disguise the pride in his voice. “I already went with him to get his broom, and Lils wanted to see Alice…”

Hermione patted Harry’s hand in understanding. “Lyra and I had to visit a bookstore this morning.”

A fond grin spread across Harry’s face. “Breaking the mold on that one,” he said, nodding in Lyra’s direction.

Hermione snorted, but her attention was drawn to Harry as he attempted to massage his knee discreetly.

“Have you iced it today?” Hermione asked. “Even an ice-therapy charm is better than nothing.”

Harry blinked, his hand stilling, and then retreated to the table. “What makes you—”

“Harry,” Hermione chided, “I’m a trained healer.”

“So you dabble in knee-consciousness now?”

Her mouth clicked shut with a huff, her arched brow rebuking Harry more than her list of all the reasons why he should listen to her. It was an exhaustive list; she’d been adding to it since they were eleven.

Harry caved at her silence. “Fine, fine. Yes, I iced it, but this weather seems to make it act up.” Harry whispered.

“I don’t think anyone can hear us. It’s quite loud in here.”

“Yes, well…if Gin finds out, she’ll force me to meet with her team’s physical therapist, and Helga is brutal.”

Before Hermione could lecture him on the importance of maintaining strength in the muscles around old injuries, Lyra was hovering over their table. “Mum, it’s a quarter till.”

“Is it already? Alright. Ready to head on?” Hermione tried to keep her voice pleasant, not letting on to the utter despair that gripped her stomach in knots when she thought about living without Lyra a room over.

Hermione said she was ready for this change…she’d made all her lists and intentions known, but as the prospect stared her down, Hermione wanted to take it back and run: return to Sweden, turn back time, keep Lyra at age six if possible.

But that wasn’t how life worked. So, Hermione picked up her purse, extended a hand to her daughter, gave Harry a little wave goodbye, and slid out the ice cream parlor’s side entrance, away from the crowd before anyone could tag along. This next moment was for them.

Hermione’s heart raced as they pushed through the platform’s wall, remembering the feeling of doing it with her confused parents for the first time. Lyra was nonplussed, having been around magic her entire life, but even she couldn’t contain her wonder at the sight that greeted them on Platform Nine and Three Quarters.

It smelled the same. The platform was already abuzz with people moving this way and that. It wasn’t a particularly extensive train platform, but just large enough to make Hermione feel relatively small.

Several families had already arrived, pushing carts filled with every color trunk and animal familiar allowed. Someone had set off one of George’s favorite Weasley Wizard Wheezes Fireworks. They took a moment to watch the charmed explosive weave between flustered parents and delighted children.

Hermione felt rather than saw the curious stares. She hastily pushed Lyra forward, waving a polite hello to old classmates who recognized her before moving down the platform. It would take getting used to being in crowds again. Their life had been so quiet at The Institute.

“Have everything?” Hermione asked, arranging Lyra’s hair behind her shoulders and brushing some nearly invisible lint from her sleeve.

“Yes,” Lyra answered, brow furrowed as she observed a family trundle by with a caged screech owl perched on their luggage. “Is my hair fluffy?”

Expecting the non-sequitur, as her daughter was prone to, Hermione replied easily, “No, dear. It’s perfect.”

Lyra nodded, briefly meeting Hermione’s eyes before the first genuine grin broke out over her daughter’s face since they arrived in England. “I like being here, Mum.”

Relief washed through Hermione—perhaps this was the right decision. She stroked her daughter’s face, relishing the last vestiges of childhood that clung to Lyra’s cheeks and glinted behind her unusual eyes.

“Mrraaaoooow!” Hermione jumped, letting go of Lyra’s face as Lyra spun to watch two cats screeching at one another near the end of the platform. The two creatures seemed to have either escaped their cages or one of the felines decided now was the time to call in accounts for an overdue vendetta.

“Oh dear,” Hermione chuckled as the scene unfolded. Lyra leaned into her side, and she put a comfortable arm around her daughter.

“Mum, look, there’s—” But whatever Lyra was going to say was cut off by the barrage of Weasleys and Potters coming through the wall, collectively louder than the caterwauling.

“Hermione!” Ginny waved, dragging a mournful Lily behind her. The ginger herd descended upon Lyra and Hermione, gobbling them up so sufficiently that they were hidden for a while longer from onlookers.

“Look at you. I swear, you’re lighter already being back in the UK,” Ginny looped an arm over Hermione’s shoulders while grabbing James’s upper arm with her free hand. “Don’t you dare step foot on that train without saying goodbye.” Ginny narrowed her eyes at James, who had the wisdom to appear contrite. She let go, and he slunk to stand next to George and Angelina. Ginny still hadn’t let go of Hermione. “When Harry told me I just missed you, I wanted to follow, but this lot,” she turned her head and said loudly, “take forever to do anything.”

“Oi, lower your volume!” A familiar, lopsided smile appeared on Ginny's other side.

“They let you out of your jail cell, brother?” George extricated himself from his youngest to clap Ron on the back.

Ron shrugged off George and reached for Hermione, rescuing her from Ginny’s vise and subjecting her to one of his own, crushing her against his…muscular chest. Surprised by this development, Hermione let herself lean into the hug. He smelled like cinnamon and the cookies his assistant had been feeding him for the last year.

“Glad you’re back, ‘Mione,” he said into her hair. Hermione stiffened. She hated that nickname and all the things that came attached to it.

Hermione let go and stepped back. “Good to see you too, Ron. Job going well?” She could admit Ron cut a striking figure in the red, Head Auror robes. He’d grown into a man in the last ten years.

In a surprising act of modesty, Ron blinked down at his feet and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, it’s brilliant.”

“That’s good.” Hermione meant it. She was happy Ron found his place working in the Auror department. She hadn’t heard from Molly recently on who he was dating, but she supposed she’d get an earful at dinner that night.

“Hey, Lyra.” Ron offered her daughter a wave but didn’t move to hug her like the other Weasleys.

Hermione pulled her bottom lip beneath her teeth, resisting smiling at Lyra’s cool survey of Ron. In response, Ron held his arms out and turned in a circle. “So?” He asked.

“I suppose you look acceptable.”

Ron beamed. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Hermione barked out a laugh as her daughter flung her hair over her shoulder and marched over to speak with Lily.

“Scary that one,” Ron laughed.

“She gets it from her mother.” Hermione couldn’t help the genuine smile for her old friend. Perhaps being away for ten years settled things between them—maybe Ron could simply be Ron again.

Hermione let herself be drawn into the Weasleys, enjoying the sense of familiarity and home before sending her daughter away for the first time.

________

Scorpius Malfoy was an obedient son. He stood where directed, nodded politely when greeted, and, for the amount of doting the sole heir to the Malfoy fortune received, he was modest. Although, his Gran might call him a tad whimsical.

Scorpius held a quiet smile while he waited for his father to finish at the new bookshop, wiggling his toes inside his dragon-hide shoes. Beneath the leather, his toes were covered in purple socks accented by silver and green embroidered snakes. His father had a matching pair, but no one would ever know or believe him if told.

The fantastical socks began as a silly tradition between him and his father for special occasions. Scorpius had been three when he first picked the gaudy peppermint-checked dress socks to gift his father for Christmas. Gran said Scorp had been so proud that she couldn’t demand he return them. Mother said she wished she had one of those Muggle video recorders to replay Draco’s face repeatedly upon opening them.

Scorpius’s toes stilled, a picture of Astoria’s disapproving countenance at his fidgeting clouding his vision. Mother had said her goodbyes the week prior before returning to the States with her new husband. His stomach clenched at the memory of Austin and his mother. She was so incredibly happy with him and invited Scorpius many times to come visit or “even try a year at Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

Austin laughed too loud. Scorpius let that be the reason why he didn’t enjoy visiting her, but in truth, Scorpius couldn’t do it. Beyond the lingering hurt from his parent’s divorce four years ago, he couldn’t abandon his dad. Draco had said Scorpius was dramatic in his care for him, but Gran said he came by it honestly, so he didn’t take much stock in his father’s half-hearted disputes.

His mother was lovely in her own way. Astoria had been absent for so long that sometimes he worried he didn’t know her. He knew she thought his bookishness silly. When they’d speak via floo or during the holidays, she would always encourage him to ride his broom or have a “kick-about with the football” (courtesy of Austin, of course.) She tried, and he was grateful for it.

His parents had seemed happy when he was growing up—or at least happier than many of the families forced into an arranged marriage. Scorpius, as best as an eleven-year-old could, had spent a long time trying to remember if there were signs of their unhappiness. His parents weren’t affectionate, but he’d see how his Auntie Daphne interacted with his uncle, and it didn’t seem out of the ordinary. (Then again, he’d overheard his mother talking about how awful Uncle Adrian was, so perhaps that was the reason, not the arranged marriage.)

Astoria was beautiful. She had a slender nose bracketed by almond-shaped blue eyes. She wore bright colors, and some article of her clothing always seemed to billow or trail about her, conjuring images of those leading ladies with “transatlantic accents” in the old films Aunt Pansy made him watch. Scorpius had been enamored with his mother, thinking her the height of feminine perfection. He loved brushing her hair when he was little. She would sit primly at her dressing table and hand him her hairbrush with the ornate silver handle, instructing him how to move the brush in long, fluid motions.

The memory was tinged now. All his memories of his parents how had a hue of sadness cast on them. Scorpius hadn’t even known his parents weren’t happy together.

They’d explained all this to him when Mother announced she was leaving for a week-long trip to America for a job.

“Your mother is trying something new,” Draco had said. “In either case, when she returns, we will be getting a divorce.”

It had been a Tuesday when his world skipped, the news marring his life in such a way that he thought he’d never be repaired.

Narcissa didn’t seem surprised at his parent’s separation, but the Greengrasses threw a snit. The corner of his mouth curled up at the memory of Grandmother Greengrass sobbing into her dinner napkin and Grandfather Greengrass later becoming drunk on Port and threatening Astoria that he’d write her out of his will.

Scorpius overheard Gran whisper to Father that she was glad the Greengrasses finally showed their true colors and that they were better off without them. Scorpius didn’t know quite what to think about that. Were they better off?

He’d been seven years old when Astoria left.

She returned for a week after her first trip to America, packed up her things, and moved out permanently. Father hadn’t seemed sad; he had simply been resigned. These days, his smiles rarely reached his eyes, and his laughter was slow, measured, and often forced, if at all.

After that fateful Tuesday, Scorpius wondered if they had run out of enough love and happiness because of him. In his darkest moments, he still pondered those questions. Those secret thoughts belied every gift, every accomplishment, every significant event. What if, what if, what if.

“Scorpius?”

He blinked up, awareness dawning that he’d been lost in his thoughts for several minutes. He schooled his face into a happy-enough expression.

“Hi, Dad. All done?”

Scorpius tried not to think too hard about the curious look his dad was giving him.

“Yes,” Draco said slowly, tugging on his gloves while inspecting his son. “I’ll have to come back this evening for the handing over of the keys, but for now, we’re finished.”

“Could we pop by the Owl Emporium? I want to grab a few treats for Horatio Nelson.”

His father let out an uncharacteristic snort, and Scorpius smiled brightly. Using his owl’s full name seemed to amuse Draco and sometimes, like today, elicit a grin.

“Why’d you named your bloody owl after a sea captain…” Draco murmured, gently touching his son’s shoulder and guiding him out of the store. Scorpius let the gesture ground him, savoring the kind touch.

Following the playful script between two people who spend most of their time together, Scorpius replied over his shoulder, “Because he has one eye!”

He earned Draco’s deep chuckle in response. The overused joke was worth it.

________

Lucius was dead—had been for the better part of twelve years—yet his presence in Draco’s life had seemed to grow with each passing year. Perhaps it was Draco’s anger as he realized all the ways life could have been better—it could have shaped him into someone who wasn’t spat on if he ventured beyond the confines of the Manor’s walls to the grocer or tried to get ice cream at the new shop when it was blistering outside.

He ran his finger beneath the hem of his gloves around his wrist before giving them a shake and clasping them behind his back to wait. Being in Diagon Alley did something to him—his nostalgia and fear were constantly at war here.

His mind flitted to the riot of white-blonde curls he’d observed this morning. Perhaps they’d run into them at the Hogwarts Express? The owl-themed clock above the register read thirty past ten o’clock in the morning. They needed to leave for the station soon if Scorpius wanted to take the Muggle way in, yet Draco did not want them to arrive at the platform at the wrong moment. He had to time it right. If they arrived too early, someone might cause a scene and ruin Scorpius’s morning. If they arrived too late…he might miss seeing Granger again… and her mysterious daughter.

Granger had been a fleeting moment in his life—not Hogwarts, but afterward—when he was pursuing a dream of doing something more with himself, something his father despised but he loved—but then Lucius got the last say in the end by dying and forcing Draco’s hand.

“Merlin,” Draco sighed. He hated his father.

Scorpius was still dithering about the owl treats, debating between two flavors.

“Why not get a few of each and owl me which one Horatio prefers? We can have a bag sent to you,” Draco offered, glancing at the clock again.

Scorpius nodded, paying with some of his pocket money. The rain had begun again while he’d been shopping. They stood at the store’s threshold, watching the fat drops pound into the cobbled pavement.

“Bugger. I was hoping to take you through the Muggle side of King’s Cross station.” Draco squinted at the rain as if his menacing stare could will it away.

“Why can’t we get wet?” Scorpius asked innocently, reminding Draco once again that Scorpius was not him at age eleven. Draco, at that age, knew they would never arrive at Platform 9 ¾ the Muggle way, rain or shine. His parents held strict beliefs on how wizarding kind should comport themselves in public.

Draco side-eyed his son with one foot out the door, ready to dive into the rain without a second thought. “Valid point. Let me cast a quick impervious spell so at least our hair won’t be spoiled. Hopefully, the Muggles won’t notice.”

Scorpius stood still, allowing his father to tap his head, the charm bubbling down him like a cracked egg, covering Scorpius in a rain-repellant charm.

“Here, take this,” a voice said behind them. The shop owner held out a copy of the Daily Prophet. Draco stared at it, a crease pinching between his brows. The shopkeeper smiled sheepishly. “It’s a few days old. I like to use them as liners.” His eyes darted to the wall of bird cages across the room.

The older gentleman still held out the paper like Draco should know what to do with it.

“Dad, I think he means we should transfigure it into an umbrella,” Scorpius whispered.

Draco blinked, letting out a huff of a laugh at himself. “I completely forgot I was a wizard there for a moment. Yes, thank you. That is quite kind of you.” He took the paper with a nod.

“You’re the gent who bought Flourish and Blotts, yeah?” asked the shopkeeper, pleased at Draco’s acceptance of the old newspaper.

Draco nodded. “I am. Draco Malfoy, nice to meet you.” He held out his hand, watching the recognition of his sullied family name cross the man’s face, but then the man did the unexpected and took Draco’s proffered hand, giving it a shake.

“Art Pinkroy.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pinkroy.”

“Ah, call me Art. Mr. Pinkroy was my da’. That’s who I inherited this place from. His one instruction was not to change anything. And mind you, I wanted to update the whole place, but…” Art sighed long, rubbing his stomach like a crystal ball as he examined the shop. Draco highly doubted Art would have changed anything.

“It seems like you’ve kept the place in order,” Draco said more graciously than he thought himself capable.

“Why did you buy old Flourish and Blotts?” Art asked, his eyes narrowing.

Draco held his gaze and answered truthfully, “Because Mr. Ingleson was kind to me when many were not. Even as a boy, he never treated me differently. His widow wrote, telling me what their nephew was doing to the place and…and I love the shop. I didn’t want to see it change hands to someone who didn’t love the way the Inglesons had…the way I do.”

Art’s brows pinched briefly before his face shifted, revealing a crooked but warm smile.

“Now, that’s what I love to hear. My da would be glad to hear it, Merlin rest his soul.”

Draco nodded, placing a hand on Scorpius’s shoulder. “Thank you again for the treats. If you’ll excuse us, I must get my son to Platform 9 ¾. First year at Hogwarts and all.”

“Ah, wonderful. Best of luck to you, lad!” Art waved amicably, returning to his post behind the till.

Draco quickly transfigured the paper into a black umbrella and set out into the pouring rain.

________

“Dad, that was brilliant!” Scorpius grinned, peering back at the wall they’d pushed their cart through, huffing slightly at the exertion and sheer thrill of running at a wall.

Draco was breathless. He didn’t want to admit it was his first time doing it, having always apparated to the platform with his parents. He met his son’s eyes and returned his broad grin.

“Come on, we should get out of the way.” Draco motioned for them to move on down the platform.

Scorpius pushed his trunk, unaware of the stares and the quiet hush as they passed by families, most of which were from Draco’s generation and now sending their children to Hogwarts.

Draco resisted the urge to tug on his gloves but instead rested a hand on the cart’s handle and helped guide Scorpius toward an open patch by one of the brick pillars.

This was the part he and Astoria had argued about the most over the last year via late-night floo calls. For all her leaving, she had rather big opinions on Scorpius’s future. Astoria wanted Scorpius to come to America, attend Ilvermorny, and be far away from everything. Draco suggested Beauxbatons as a compromise.

In the end, all their arguing had been for naught. Scorpius wanted to attend Hogwarts. Their son was a romantic, and the idea of going somewhere else where his parents and grandparents hadn’t tread was a grave misstep in Scorpius’s estimation.

Draco had done his son a disservice, living most of the year in France during his formative years. This change—moving to live full-time in London to run Flourish and Blotts— would hopefully be good. He and Astoria tried explaining the war to Scorpius, the vitriol their families once espoused, but Scorpius made his choice.

The train let out a shrill warning whistle of its imminent departure. Draco’s gaze flitted over the faces of people he hadn’t spoken with in roughly ten years.

What if Scorp became friends with Granger’s child? What if she rejected him because of my sins?

Draco swallowed, averting his eyes from the flash of red hair that was sure to be one of the Weasley siblings.

“Got everything?” Draco asked.

“Dad, I’ll be fine. You’ve become so fussy.”

His mouth parted, a bright laugh escaping. “Fussy? Me?” He pressed his hand against his chest in mock horror. “I’ll have you know, Scorpius Malfoy, I am the paragon of chill.”

Scorpius's eyes widened. “Dad, never say that phrase ever again. You sound like Austin.”

Both Malfoys flinched, a disgusted look flashing across their faces.

“Enough said,” Draco nodded, glancing up to check the time on the big station clock. Standing beneath the clock were the Weasleys and Potters and…

There. A flash of bright blonde, curly hair. Someone stepped to the side, revealing Hermione being hugged tightly by another Weasley. She was still dressed in the same outfit he’d seen her in that morning, but her hair was slightly fluffier from the rain.

He couldn’t tell if she had lines on the sides of her eyes as he did, but he was confident she’d have laugh lines — she’d laughed so freely growing up. Surely she did the same now?

The girl stood off to the side, speaking quietly with a boy who looked like a decent mixture of Potter and his wife but with all Potter’s coloring. Draco did the math, trying to remember from the errant Daily Prophet he’d taken through the years how many children Potter had in his brood. Three? Four?

“Dad, what are you staring at?”

Draco whipped around. “Checking the time.” He peered at Scorpius and took a deep breath. At this moment, his son deserved his full attention.

Draco squatted, grimacing at the stiffness in his knees. “What do you do when someone tries to hex you in the corridors?”

“Dad, no one is going to hex me. I’m a first-year!”

“Alright, I’ll concede that. But do you remember the canceling and shield spells we taught you if they do?”

“I don’t think—”

“Scorpius,” Draco cut him off, needing to say these things. “Your mother and I are so proud of you. I know we’ve tried to tell you about the war and our sorry part in it all. Your classmates…their parents were my peers. You’ve done nothing wrong, but I cannot send you into a place where you might be hurt because I was so rotten. If anything happens, go to Prof—”

“Yes, I know. And even if I’m not in her house?”

“Even if.” Draco let out a long sigh, letting his head hang for a second. “I’m doing a wonderful job of this.”

Scorpius sniffed, kicking the ground a bit. Draco shifted to one knee and pulled him into a fierce hug, leaning to whisper in his ear, “You will be brilliant. You will excel far beyond us, and whatever you do, whoever you become—we will be so proud of you.”

“Will you be okay?” Scorpius asked into his hair, returning the fierce hug and finally voicing a question Draco was sure he’d been wrestling with all day.

Draco leaned back on his heels, bracketing his son’s face with his gloved hands. “I am going to be fine.” He tried to project all his confidence and peace for Scorpius to see. “And when you come home for Yule, I’ll have our home dressed to the nines.”

“And Gran will have the Manor even better.”

Draco gently pinched his ear, letting out a muffled groan as he used his son as leverage to stand. “Oh, get on with you. Eat some treacle tart for me, and have a wonderful first year at Hogwarts.”

Scorpius nodded, finally stepping back.

Scorpius resembled Draco. Merlin, how Scorpius looked like him at eleven, but at the same time, he was softer, gentler, and happier than Draco ever had been. Draco cataloged everything about him. He wished he’d brought their Muggle camera and not only to rub it in Astoria’s face at Christmas that he’d learned to use the bloody thing.

“Love you, Dad.”

“I love you, Scorp.” He held on to Scorpius’s shoulder, giving it a long squeeze before letting go. They turned as one and walked to the train to load Scorpius’s trunk. “Horatio will meet you at Hogwarts. He’ll be in the owlery when you arrive.”

Scorpius turned for the door, and Draco suddenly remembered. “Scorpius.” His son spun, eyes eager and face open. It nearly made him pull Scorpius off the train in an attempt to keep him small forever. Mastering himself, Draco retrieved a velvet pouch of galleons from inside his jacket, quickly pressing it to his son’s chest. “A little extra spending money. Be sure to buy sweets for your friends in the compartment. It’s always good to be generous.”

Scorpius grinned, deftly pocketing the bag in his pocket where, up until recently, little rocks and leaves had been. Now, it held a notebook and galleons. Scorpius’s smile cooled a bit at the train door, his fingers whitening a bit from where he gripped the bar, but before Draco could say anything, Scorpius brightened and gave him a wave. “Bye, Dad!”

Scorpius climbed onto the train and through the doors. Draco stepped back, overcome with emotion. He swallowed it down, willing the tension behind his eyes to disappear and the tightness in his throat to release. He quietly stepped to the side so other families could load their children and wait for the train to pull away from the station.

He leaned against a pillar and crossed his arms to wait for Scorpius to poke his head out the window. He didn’t mean to watch Granger and her daughter stand outside a door one train car down, but his position provided him a perfect vantage point. Hermione pulled her daughter into a tight hug. Draco understood the expression well, having just felt it a minute before. The girl nodded at something Hermione said into her curls. Like Scorpius, she boarded the train but turned at the last moment to give her mother a small wave before disappearing inside. Draco watched Hermione step away, turning to smile at something one of the many (Merlin, why were there still so many?) Weasleys had said. This tallest Weasley, Bill perhaps, threw an arm around her shoulder, giving it a little shake as she swiped her eyes.

Draco leaned forward, squinting at her hand brushing away a tear. He couldn’t see the line of a ring, but Hermione had always been modest. That didn’t mean there wasn’t one there—or someone there. He once again wondered who on earth was the father of this child.

Steam billowed through the station, enveloping them before retreating again. The train let out a shrill whistle. It was as if someone had pressed two-time speed, the band increasing the tempo and the gathering becoming even more frantic. Last-minute students and families scrambled to hug and wave goodbye; all the while, Draco leaned against his pillar, watching it all.

Granger’s daughter poked her head out the window, searching and finding her mum in the crowd. The girl had a pointy chin, giving her a more heart-shaped face he hadn’t noticed before. Draco couldn’t tear his gaze away; Hermione’s daughter was beautiful but in an understated way. A pang of regret washed through him. He’d been so overwhelmed seeing Hermione in his space, the one place on earth he thought he’d escaped his past, that he’d hid. He sincerely wished he hadn’t because he could have learned Granger’s daughter’s name.

The girl offered a modest, tight-lipped smile and a slight nod to her mother before her white-blonde curls disappeared back inside the train, only to be immediately replaced by none other than his son’s giddy face. Scorpius found his dad easily and waved wildly, yelling something that couldn’t be heard over the din of chatter and the train. Draco held his hand up in reply, his heart beating rapidly at the realization that his son chose to sit with Granger’s daughter. Draco swallowed as his son disappeared back inside.

The train let out its final whistle and began to move. The Hogwarts Express began to pull away, and he watched it disappear around the corner. When he glanced back, he found Hermione watching him. Their eyes met—and the look behind Hermione’s flashed a million different things —emotion, surprise, fear —too fast for Draco to decipher. He took a step forward, worried she was about to faint.

Then, Potter appeared by her side, sliding a brotherly arm around her shoulder, his eyes following her gaze. He frowned a bit when his gaze settled on Draco. Potter raised his hand but didn’t move to speak. Draco nodded absently in reply. Then Potter tugged her away, into the throng of people and away from him.

When did Hermione have a child? Why? They had been…Draco swallowed the lump in his throat. Draco fiddled with his gloves, not quite sure what had just transpired between himself and Granger. What he did know was that he needed to meet with his mother.

Chapter Text

The English countryside was a dappled painting of undulating hills coated with emeralds, hazy blues, and saffron yellow flowers. Lyra’s breath caught at the craggy rocks as the landscape transitioned, shedding the linen coats of English summer and adorning itself in the thick woolens of early Scottish autumn. During all this, she kept one ear open to the near incessant conversation of Scorpius Malfoy seated across from her. They’d somehow snagged a train car all to themselves. Lyra wondered if it was because they were the outsiders, having spent most of their childhoods in another country, or because everyone heard the run-on sentence that was Scorpius Malfoy.

“And have you read Guillermo’s Mystical Mysteries? No? It’s fantastic! He’s this classic private investigator who wears these Muggle fedoras.” Scorpius held up a book he’d stuffed into his coat pocket, waving it around as she glanced back out the window. The day’s light colored the outside in sepia tones, and she wondered again what her mother was doing as Scorpius’s voice blended into the background.

Lyra didn’t know how much time had passed when she noticed that the only sound was the soothing, repetitive rhythm of the train on the tracks. She looked over to see Scorpius staring at the book in his hands but not reading. His eyes were glued to one spot, a bright flush to his cheeks and tips of his ears.

“Scorpius?” she asked softly, willing the boy to look up from his novel.

The blond boy did not look up.

“I hope you don’t misunderstand my silence. I’m not angry or bothered. I’m…” Lyra didn’t know what she was. She was nervous, certainly. She already missed her mum, and it had only been two hours. She swallowed, finally settling on, “I’m not very good at small talk, and you are rather skilled at it.”

Then Scorpius did the unthinkable and sniffed, hastily wiping away a tear. “I’m sorry. Gran says I can talk too much and—”

But whatever Scorpius was going to say was cut off by two small arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders in a fierce hug, his vision filled with wild curls whose hue matched his sleek blond hair. After a stunned moment, Scorpius patted her on the back. She let go, and he gave her a weak smile.

Lyra had no idea why he was crying or apologizing, but she knew she needed a friend, and it seemed like Scorpius did, too.

“Sorry about that,” Scorpius mumbled, but Lyra waved him off, scooting back to lean against the window and pull her legs up on the cushioned bench.

“Do you have any siblings?” she asked.

Scorpius shook his head. “No, but, well…” He fidgeted with the edge of his book. “You really don’t know anything about society or what’s going on in England?”

Lyra huffed, crossing her arms. “I wasn’t raised in a Swedish barn, you know. I’ve met many aristocrats in my lifetime, thank you very much.”

Scorpius flailed his hands about. “I didn’t mean it like that! I meant, well, my dad was kind of a person of note. Gran said we were once a renowned family but had to rebuild the last couple of years.”

Lyra relaxed a bit, reaching down to fiddle with her trainers. “I see. My mum is a bit of the same way. It’s why, when we would return to England on holiday, she never wanted to visit anywhere but the Burrow or her parent's home because she was recognized. I suppose she still is recognized, but I’ve never cared.”

“What’s the Burrow?” Scorpius cocked his head. It reminded Lyra of an adorable puppy.

A wide smile blossomed on Lyra’s face, but before she could reply, a voice from the door said, “It’s the best place in the world.” She hadn’t heard the door slide open, but she let out a squeal of delight when she saw the person standing there, practically falling off the bench in her scramble to hug her friend.

“Al!” Relief flooded her heart at the sight of the middle Potter with his fluffy dark brown hair. “I thought you would be stuck with James and his horrid friends the entire trip.”

Al rolled his green eyes, returning her hug with a good-natured pat. “Horrid? You’ve been rereading Austen novels.”

Lyra stuck her tongue out at him and spun, taking her seat opposite Scorpius.

As Al slid the door shut behind him, he finally noticed the person seated across from Lyra. A fierce scowl replaced his easygoing warmth; it was the look Al gave strangers who badgered his parents too much.

Scorpius suddenly stood, smoothing down the front of his lapels. He’d removed his jacket at some point, revealing a smart-looking jumper. Lyra thought he was rather dressed up for an eleven-year-old. Just how wealthy was Scorpius Malfoy?

“Hello. I’m Scorpius Malfoy.” He proffered his hand, shoulders pulled back, and pointy chin inclined.

Al’s eyes flicked to the outstretched hand and then returned to scrutinizing Scorpius. Lyra wasn’t sure what was happening, but Al and Scorpius seemed to be at some sort of momentous impasse.

Whatever Al saw seemed to be alright because he took Scorpius’s hand and shook it warmly, the tension in the room dissolving. “How are you friends with Lyra?” Al asked.

Scorpius’s dimples appeared as he vigorously returned the handshake. Her mother once said, “Only the best people have dimples.” Lyra hadn’t noticed before that Scorpius had matching dimples to hers, revealed only with the brightest of smiles, like hers.

“We only met today!” Scorpius prattled. “Her mum stopped by my dad’s bookshop looking for a textbook and…”

Scorpius pulled Al with him and regaled him with his life story, accompanied by flailing hand motions. It eventually led to Scorpius’s odd penchant for impressions, some of the very best of his father that had them all in stitches.

“You really are a wonderful storyteller, Scorp—Is it okay if I call you that?” Al asked, taking a massive bite into one of the many chocolate frogs Scorpius purchased for all of them when the snack cart came by.

Scorpius’s dimples appeared again. “Yeah. That would be brilliant.”

“How did you escape James?” Lyra asked, politely nibbling on a chocolate cluster.

Ever the modest one, Al blushed a little. “I slipped out just before the snack trolley went by. James wasn’t going to risk missing out on fizzing whizbees on account of finding me when I didn’t come back from the loo.”

Lyra huffed a laugh, glancing out the window, unable to see the wild landscape any longer as night had come without her notice.

“It’s gotten late,” she remarked. “I suppose we’ll be there soon.” Nerves swelled inside her and she looked back to see Scorpius looking at his watch on his right hand.

“Are you left-handed, too?” Lyra asked brightly.

“I am! So is my dad,” Scorpius grinned, turning the watch to face her. It was bright gold with a few extra handles and small faces embedded on the watch face. It was something lovely and very wizarding—a thing you might give someone when they turned seventeen, not eleven.

Scorpius had shown his hand a bit when he bought all their snacks, but Lyra didn’t mind. She only had so much pocket money and wanted to save a bit, especially after seeing how pleased Scorpius had been at their ready acceptance of him.

Lyra knew their families, the Potters and the Grangers, were well off. Her mother never spoke about money, nor did any of the Healers at the Institute or her Swedish friends. It just wasn’t done. But you did, however, become adept at noticing the signs of moneyed people.

Scorpius’s clothes were not merely tidy or nice but fine. His hair was cut perfectly, the fade something to be envied with his pale skin. He also wore one of those rings.

She’d first encountered someone wearing a similar ring at The Institute when she was six and still allowed to roam about the grounds while the patients, or residents as she was instructed to call them, took breaks between their sessions.

The older gentleman had a gorgeously long beard, braided with little beads and silver charms. The man’s eyes were crystal blue, and wore a ring with a large “D” engraved at the center. Being six and unashamed of her curiosity, she circled him for two days before finally eschewing all Swedish notions of jantelagen. She strode up to him with that confidence afforded to the young.

“Sir, I noticed you have a beautiful beard and a lovely ring. Was it a gift from long-lost love?”

The man had laughed deeply, and it was something extraordinary.

“No, my sweet,” he replied in English. “This ring is all that is left of my family. They used to be given to all families of wizarding gentry, passed from one son to another. My older brother left me his.”

“What is the point of it?” she asked, ever the practical.

He stroked his beard for a moment, considering. “I suppose if I needed to send a letter, I could press my ring into the seal. I wear it now because I want to remember.”

The older man had stayed for another month, and she found him most often by the lake or assisting with the therapy animals. She often wondered if she’d ever see him again, but the goal of the Institute was to help their patients heal mentally and spiritually if things were successful.

Lyra had the world come to her as a child, having met tzars, diplomats, and humble, magical farmers seeking healing from whatever prevailing darkness that surrounded them. Lyra once received Uncle Harry’s card in a chocolate frog a resident gave her, which forced her mother’s hand to speak about the war that brought many residents to the Institute. Still, her mum was somewhat reluctant to elaborate on the subject. Al despised talking about his parents, who were arguably more famous than her mother since they stayed in England. Lyra wondered if Scorpius’s father was a part of the group their parents would reluctantly speak about.

She tried not to study the blond boy but couldn’t help herself. His eyes had the same silver-blue that the edges of her eyes had, except the center of her eyes was a starburst of honey-gold.

“Lyra?” Al asked, interrupting her quiet thoughts.

“Yes?” She blinked several times.

“You were staring.”

“Oh,” she blushed furiously. “Sorry. I suppose I’m nervous about being sorted.” Lyra wasn’t completely lying…she was nervous.

“Oh! What house do you hope to be in?” Scorpius perked up, his voice taking on that harried quality she was beginning to recognize as a mixture of insecurity and genuine excitement. “My mum says I must be Slytherin, but my dad said any house would be fine….well, except Hufflepuff, but I think I would be alright if I were placed there. It would beat having to go to America with…” but Scorpius cut himself off, quickly amending to say, “What about you?”

“My mum was in Gryffindor like Al’s parents, but she doesn’t much care. I don’t think I’d fit in well with Gryffindor, to be honest. Al’s family has all been in Gryffindor and are…loud.”

Al snorted, nodding along quietly. Lyra continued, “I suppose that leaves Slytherin and Ravenclaw.”

“I think I’d like to be in Ravenclaw. I love to read,” Scorp volunteered.

Lyra couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled up. “Yes, you do love to read, but I think you like to talk more.”

Scorp reddened a bit, but Al put him out of his misery. “Lyra, you are just as talkative, but it just takes time.” Al leaned close to mock whisper to Scorpius, “She’s very bossy, and her hair sparks when she gets mad.”

“Al!” Lyra cried, leaning forward to pinch him.

“I solemnly swear I tell the truth!” Al stood, dodging her hands and crossing his arm over his chest.

“Oh, good grief,” Lyra flopped back into her seat. “You’re still on that?”

“On what?” Scorpius asked, looking between the two.

“Al and his parents visited Mum and me this summer on the island. He spent most of the trip trying to figure out this phrase he heard James and his best friend using over Christmas hols. They wouldn’t tell him, and Al is obsessed. He’s been going on about it for nine months.”

“I can owl my dad if you like? I’m sure he can think of a book to send about it,” Scorpius offered.

“I don’t know—” Al began to say.

“The library!” Scorpius and Lyra said in unison.

“Oh no,” Al sunk into his seat, biting off the head of a red licorice thestral. “I’ve made friends with two boffins.”

The remainder of the trip went smoothly, and soon, they were punting in tiny boats, following a much older Hagrid across the lake. Her mum showed her a picture of him once, with a sandy brown mane of hair and a wide smile. He kept the wide grin but exchanged the hair for a wiry salt and pepper.

“Alright, out the boats firs’ years,” Hagrid boomed. Al scrambled out first, Scorpius following and then stopping. He held out his hand for Lyra, and she snorted. Instead of accepting, she used his head as a counterbalance to hop down from the side of the boat, landing gracefully.

“I’ve been in a boat once or twice there, Malfoy,” she teased.

“Al! Lyra!” Hagrid proclaimed, making other first-years jump at the volume and turn to look. Lyra was hit with the woodsy, sometimes gamey scent she’d grown up with as Hagrid tugged her and Al close.

“Hey, Hagrid,” Al mumbled, quickly pulling out of the hug.

“Oh, Hagrid. It is good to see you,” Lyra beamed. He’d been one of the first of her mum’s friends who came to Sweden to visit when she was only a baby but returned every few years to visit because he had family in the mountains. He always stayed at least a night at the Institute to visit. Hagrid had become one of those mysterious links to her mother’s past, and Lyra was starting to believe she only had half of her mum’s story.

“When ye get situated, come down and visit me at my hut. James never seems to come…”

Al kicked a little dirt with his toe.

“We’d be delighted, Hagrid,” Lyra replied pointedly at Al, who was suspiciously quiet about the whole affair. “Erm, Hagrid. Have you met our friend Scorpius?”

The boy in question hovered just behind them, waiting on the steps that led away from the shore and to the castle. Not all the first years had left the small dock, but most were well on their way.

Hagrid moved his gaze from Lyra and frowned. “Yer a Malfoy?” he asked, his voice losing some of his previous warmth.

Scorpius’s eyes widened. “Yes,” he said more confidently than Lyra would if Hagrid looked at her that way.“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He extended his hand toward Hagrid, looking less like a small eleven-year-old and more like someone trying on adulthood like a jacket, though it hung long over his hands.

“I knew yer dad when he was here,” Hagird said, not accepting Scorpius’s hand. Lyra hadn’t seen Hagrid this way before, but from this angle, he appeared menacing rather than gentle.

“And my mum,” Scorpius added, still holding out his hand. “Astoria Greengrass.”

Hagrid frowned and then smiled. “She was very good with the Thestrals.”

Scorpius shrugged, a curious look crossing his face. “She breeds crups now.”

“So she does,” and then Hagrid accepted his handshake. “Rubeus Hagrid, but you can just call me Hagrid. A pleasure to meet you.”

Someone called from the castle, and Hagrid shooed them on. They each waved to the caretaker and made the trek to the Great Hall.

“Rumour has it this is the second-highest class ever to be admitted to Hogwarts,” she heard a student say a few places ahead of her in line.

“Largest,” Lyra mumbled. She must have spoken more loudly than she meant to as the boy in front of her turned, giving her an appraising look. She narrowed her eyes at him, staring till he turned around.

The Great Hall looked like the pictures in her mother’s books with the four lengthy house tables, the high ceiling enchanted to look like an idyllic night sky, and the seeming hundreds of students all turning to look at them as they waited in line to be sorted.

Lyra waved to Scorpius and Al, situated several spots down the line behind her. Al reddened at the outbreak of whispers, but Scorp waved back, his dimple appearing again. She couldn’t help but grin as she turned toward the front and stepped forward as another student was sorted.

The boy in line ahead of her slowly turned his head to survey her, his brow arching in judgment before pivoting haughtily. The boy was next, and perhaps he didn’t appreciate her merriment. “Git,” she thought and shuffled forward when the hat announced, “Hufflepuff!”

The Deputy Headmistress called “Goldstein, Clive,” and the haughty boy plopped onto the stool. The hat debated for less than a minute before its shrill voice announced, “Ravenclaw!”

Lyra's chest felt tight as her eyes followed the boy to his new house table. She inhaled—one, two, three, foure—her ribs expanding, then slowly exhaled, releasing the anxiety fighting to take over. The familiar rhythm soothed the ache bigger than the upcoming sorting, but she wasn’t quite yet able to identify except to call it longing. Release—one, two, three, four, five—on it went, a thread connecting her to the Institute and what felt like her real home.

Her mother’s words settled into her mind as she waited for her name to be called. “You are extraordinary. You are enough just as you are.”

“Granger, Lyra,” the Deputy Headmistress called. Lyra had only met her once before when she visited the institute for a weekend; even that memory was imprecise.

Deputy Headmistress Andromeda Tonks arched an imperious eyebrow as Lyra stared, unmoving. Whispers filled the cavernous room, but Lyra urged her feet forward. She wondered if they all saw her mother or simply a terrified first year. Lyra slid onto the stool, her trainers not even skimming the floor. She fixed her eyes on the ground as Professor Tonks placed the hat on her head.

Lyra didn’t gasp like many others had when they heard the hat’s voice for the first time.

Ah, yes. Another Granger. I’d been wondering when…but also…oh my. Do you know? Why…oh dear. I see that you do not know who your father is.

“Is?” She thought in reply.

The hat was silent as if debating something.

I feel it’s not my place to say any more on the subject—

“My father is living? I thought… Mum never said, but I assumed that he died in the war—” Her thoughts were coming in quickly, and she felt her breathing hitch.

Shhh. Child. I didn’t mean to upset you. But yes, he is living, and he was a Slytherin. Your mother could have also been a Slytherin, but I still stand by my Gryffindor decisions. She proved to be just as cunning, albeit (a bit) too justice-oriented for Slytherin.

“Really?” That notion seemed to distract her, and she latched on to it as a lifeline, pulling her out of these confusing thoughts.

The hat seemed to chuckle as if remembering years gone by.

I see you are like your mother in many respects, but having grown up in Sweden has influenced you. Yes, I see boldness in you, but I also see you inherited both your parent’s intelligence. You could be remarkable in Ravenclaw….However, there was that incident at the Institute with the toad and the intractable intern. The hat did chuckle then. My, you are a clever one…

Lyra shifted in the chair's hardwood, her back stiff from tension and sitting for so long. The hat seemed to go in circles, adding colorful commentary as it intrusively sifted through her memories. She couldn’t see the other students but could hear the growing whispers as her sorting stretched on. The hat was careful not to say too much about her father, whom she hadn’t deeply wondered about in ages. Then, something akin to panic rose in her.

“Not Hufflepuff, please,” Lyra pleaded internally.

The hat snorted. No, no, no, no. You would eat those kind Hufflepuffs for a snack the moment they left a wrapper on the floor.

“I am kind!”

She was sure the hat was giving her a mental side-eye.

You are pragmatic.

Lyra didn’t have a response to that, her thoughts returning to the man—the Slytherin—the living father she had never known.

The hat was still talking in the background. Lyra absently thought the hat and Scorpius might get along swimmingly. I think—yes. This is right. Then the hat took a deep breath and bellowed, “Slytherin!”

The Great Hall pulsed with hushed voices, a tide of whispers swelling and crashing into silence. Heads swiveled toward her, eyes darting between her and the Slytherin banner. Someone near the Gryffindor table muttered something sharp under their breath. She gripped the edge of her robes, her pulse thrumming in her ears. Scattered applause, the most coming from her new house, filled the room.

Lyra slid the odd hat off her head, glad to be rid of it, and handed it to Professor Tonks, meeting her eyes. “Glad to have you here, Lyra,” she whispered with a conspiratorial smirk before shooing her across the hall to the Slytherin table.

Lyra’s gaze was pulled to the Gryffindor table. Her breath caught at the glare from James and his friends. She felt the eldest Potter’s stare boring into her back as she turned away from the crimson and gold and toward green and silver.

Lyra selected the first open seat at the end and did not look at anyone. She traced invisible lines on the table, twisting her fingers beneath the table. She felt the weight of unseen eyes pressing down on her, whispers wondering if she was the “same Granger or a different one” gathered like rain clouds hovering above her.

Had she done something wrong? She didn’t think being sorted into another house beside Gryffindor would be a bad thing, but she couldn’t help but feel like she messed something up along the way.

And my dad is alive?

She never thought her mum would betray her; Lyra knew her mum must have a reason for keeping his identity quiet for so long. Unbidden, she blinked back tears and gave her head a little shake. She looked toward the front but was surprised to see a pair of amber eyes studying her a few seats down with his back turned away from the proceedings.

The strange boy with beautiful ebony skin and full lips observed her momentarily as if waiting to see if she would crack or be okay. When he saw whatever he needed to, he gave her a singular nod and turned around to watch the other students being sorted.

She’d heard the Potters chatter about the Hogwarts houses when they’d visit during holidays but didn’t think that much of it. But by the way people responded to her sorting into Slytherin…was something wrong with her?

A girl with black hair was sorted into Ravenclaw, and another boy named “Tim” into Gryffindor. Her attention perked up at the sound of “Malfoy, Scorpius.”

A similar tittering filled the room, but unlike her, Scorpius held his chin up high and strode to the stool. However, before taking the hat from the Deputy Headmistress, he fell into a rather gallant and extravagant bow.

Giggling overtook the whispers as his head popped up from mid-bow, his face bright with mischief. Professor Tonks’s lips twitched as she held the hat out for him.

Scorpius snatched it gladly and hopped onto the stool. She hadn’t noticed how tall he was until now; his long, knobby legs didn’t dangle but rested on the floor. His time with the sorting hat was decidedly much shorter than Lyra’s, which had taken nearly thirty minutes, but after about eight, the hat declared, “Slytherin!”

Lyra’s shoulders eased a bit at the pronouncement, her fingers stilling as he proudly made his way over, dropping into the seat across from her, grinning all the more. Surely Slytherin couldn’t be all that bad if the hat sent her new friend here?

“This is going to be brilliant!” He whispered, nearly bouncing in his seat to watch the following students.

There was one girl in line between Scorpius and Al with dirty blonde hair.

“Nott, Florence!”

Florence Nott moved with cat-like grace, hopping into the seat like Lyra had to do. Her wide blue eyes disappeared beneath the hat’s rim. The hat took almost as long as it had with Lyra when it finally announced, “Slytherin!”

The mumbling grew louder. That was two in a row for Slytherin. Lyra didn’t know why that was something to note, but from the growing murmurs about the room, she had to wonder. Florence glided over and settled next to Lyra, offering a wide, ethereal smile that somehow blossomed brighter.

“Lyra, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes.” What else was she bloody supposed to say? But before Florence could ask another question, the Deputy Headmistress called, “Potter, Albus.”

The room erupted once again in wild chatter. So much so that Headmistress McGonagall stood, her hand pressed to the Head Table, clearing her throat loudly. Immediately, the room quieted, and Al stepped up to the stool. He looked green. The poor boy’s eyes darted to Gryffindor's table, where his brother sat like a king, and then to her and Scorpius seated on the opposite side of the room. She gave him a soft nod, hoping he would see all the kindness she had for him and that wherever he ended up, it would be perfect because Al deserved nothing less.

The hat again took a long while.

“Three hat stalls in a row, bloody hell,” mumbled an older Slytherin down the table.

“Is that what it’s called?” Lyra whispered to Scorpius.

He nodded. “Yeah, my dad wasn’t a hat stall. The hat barely touched his head before it put him in Slytherin. At least that’s how my Gran tells it.”

Florence smiled and replied, “My father was in Slytherin, but my mother was a Ravenclaw. I’m rather happy to be here with both of you, though. My mother said a house doesn’t make quality people, but quality people do make the house.”

“Well said, Lovegood!” said a boy with bright blue hair down the table.

Scorpius slapped his forehead. “Lovegood? Is your dad Theo? Our parents were mates growing up.”

Florence nodded and directed her attention to Lyra. “Our mums were friends while at Hogwarts.” Then she frowned for a moment, studying Lyra in a peculiar way before her gaze went soft. “You don’t need to be worried. You have friends here, Lyra. You’re not alone.”

Lyra’s mouth fell open. How?

Florence squeezed her hand, somehow helping her dam up the emotions threatening to spill over.

“Why did he call you Lovegood?” she asked, hoping her voice wasn’t as wobbly as she felt at that moment.

“Frank thinks it’s funny to call me by my middle name.”

Lyra assumed Frank was the blue-haired boy down the table. She knew these students were likely friends before coming here unless they were Muggle-born like her mother, but in that moment, she had that deep pang of longing to belong effortlessly, like she would have if she’d stayed in Sweden. Before her mind could get away with her weighing the pros and cons of transferring, the sorting hat took in a deep breath, signaling its debate was over.

“Slytherin!”

They cheered more boisterously than before…almost sounding like Gryffindors.

“We got a Potter!” one of the Slytherins cried at the head of the table.

Lyra’s eyes were drawn to James’s across the hall. He didn’t watch his younger brother as he moved across the room. Al slipped into the seat next to Scorpius, giving them a soft smile, his face flushed red at the attention.

Al seemed to shrink further into himself as the chatter in the room grew louder, heads craning to see Harry Potter’s son, who had been sorted into Slytherin. Across the room, James Potter's expression was carved from stone, his gaze fixed somewhere past them. Something sunk in Lyra’s stomach; the peace and elation from a moment before slipped from her grasp as the murmurs grew louder, like an invisible current pulling at her, pressing against her ribs. Maybe children of war heroes weren’t supposed to be Slytherins. Instinctively, Lyra reached across, placing a soft hand on Al’s arm. The headmistress cleared her throat for a second time, and the sorting resumed. A few more students remained, and all were sent to other houses by the sorting hat.

“Come on, Al. This is going to be brilliant,” said Scorpius.

“You’re much too interesting to be in Gryffindor, Al,” Florence added.

“Thanks?” Al laughed, the first thing he’d said since being sorted.

Lyra smiled then. Everything was going to be brilliant.

Chapter Text

“Mother?” Draco called, siphoning soot from his trousers with his wand. He was over thirty years old, and she still loathed him using the floo. She would much rather have him apparate to the front gates and walk the long drive to avoid the nuisance, even though the Manor was technically his home, and he could arrive however he pleased.

His mother’s house elf appeared by his side, her habitual scowl in place.

“Master Draco. Yous did not let us know yous were coming.”

“Hello, Darla,” he said, trying not to be annoyed with her surliness. “Where is my mother?”

“She’s indisposed.”

Draco arched his brow and pulled himself to his full height, clasping his hands behind his back to wait.

Darla was immune to his tactics, and the incalcitrant house elf crossed her arms. She wore her clean toga but accessorized fingerless lace gloves. Even though she was a freed elf, Darla, like his house elf, Mippy, stayed. He and his mother gave them a modest salary (modest per their instance), and that was that.

Draco blew out a long sigh, letting his hands fall to his sides. “Is she still upset that I refused to go to the gala with her last week?”

“Yous should have gone!” Darla wagged her long, knobbly finger at him.

“I wanted to spend my last bloody weekend with my son—” Draco flung his hands in the air in exasperation. He took in a protracted breath before letting it out slowly. He was on the verge of shouting at the tiny creature, who, out of all the house elves in the Manor, probably could have taken it and dished it right back. “Please tell me where my mother is and save me the trouble of tracking floo soot all over the house.” His lips arched in what he hoped wasn’t a smile but a sneer.

“Yous wouldn’t—” Darla mock gasped.

“I would,” he said, lifting one foot back toward the floo behind him. That was another reason his mother loathed the floo: the dust.

Darla’s lips drew into a thin line, clearly debating the trouble of following him around the house and cleaning up his mess.

“She’s taking her tea on the patio—”

“—Thank you, Darla!” Draco was already down the hall, his voice a lilting song as he swung around the corner. He heard the faint pop of Darla disapparating with her unique magic, likely to notify Narcissa of his arrival.

He opened the glass door to the expansive patio overlooking the back gardens his mother meticulously maintained and strode to where Narcissa Malfoy waited like every pureblood woman of leisure was supposed to do when accepting guests.

“Draco, darling. What a surprise!” she said lightly, soundlessly setting down her cup of tea. The patio table was set for two and ready for a complete luncheon. Draco let his gaze flick to the fine china before focusing on his mother. She knew he’d come calling today, but for some reason, she decided to test him.

Salazar, Draco was out of practice with pureblood games. There was a rule, a motive ascribed, a pattern to follow with each word and action. Some things were taught, but most were learned. Draco used to play the game. Astoria and his mother always seemed to play it better.

He bent down to press a kiss to her cheek. “Yes, and it must have been such a surprise that you have all my favorite foods ready for me.”

Narcissa merely tilted her delicate chin, ignoring her son’s statement. He took the seat adjacent to her, snapping his napkin before laying it in his lap. Narcissa frowned at the gesture but declined to comment. Draco wondered how many things he could get away with before she snapped.

Everything about this visit had been calculated. Once upon a time, he’d heard his mother remark that the first choice of sandwich said more about a person than how they took their tea.

“Scorpius make it to King’s Cross all in one piece?” She asked. To his amazement, his mother knew Draco’s plans to take him the “common way,” but she hadn’t commented on it beforehand.

Draco nodded, watching her pour them each a glass of lemonade. “Yes, it was quite fun. I don’t know why you never allowed me that joy and instead forced us to apparate to the platform.”

“You poor neglected thing. Is this why you’ve chosen a life of…business?”

Draco frowned, selecting the tuna sandwich first. His mother glared at him.

Tuna is the smelliest option. When the girl wears too much perfume, select it to overcome the stench.

“You don’t want to try the cheese?” Narcissa offered after he ate his second tuna fish sandwich. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, taking a long sip of lemonade. Narcissa watched, neither of them willing to play the next card.

Three tuna fish sandwiches, two cheese triangles, and a biscuit later, Narcissa folded her napkin in her lap and looked at her son with one perfectly arched brow. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this afternoon?”

Satisfied he’d nettled his mother enough, Draco decided to play his wild card, opting for a direct method rather than subtlety. “Mother, what do you know about Hermione Granger?”

Narcissa tutted, throwing her napkin on the table and leaning back in her chair. “You’re no fun. We’re supposed to have a little dance, Draco. You ask me something innocuous, like—” she spun her hand in the air “—Why is it Theodore Nott isn’t speaking to anyone from your year and has sired a female heir that will be at Hogwarts this year?”

Draco nearly choked on his drink with the guffaw that escaped his lips. “Merlin, I thought you knew? Yes, Theo married Luna Lovegood.”

“Recently?” Draco could hear the condescension in his mother’s voice.

“Yes, recently. They’re modern, Mother, and you cannot fault Theo for how awful his father was. I suppose he decided love was enough, not necessarily a piece of paper.”

She rolled her eyes, declining to comment, and readjusted her seat, laying her napkin in her lap once more.

Draco spoke more gently when he said, “They are very sweet together—two free spirits who have a darling daughter. I’ve only met her a handful of times as they’ve lived in Egypt and Turkey for the last ten years. I don’t recall Scorpius even meeting the girl, as their visits usually coincided with Astoria’s time with him.”

Narcissa sniffed at the mention of his ex-wife, dropping the matter as he hoped she would.

They were silent for a while. Draco accepted it as the time to formulate his next question so he could “play the game.” Mother hadn’t answered what she knew about Granger; that was certain. She’d deflected, indicating that she knew something. It was just how to go about it to get her to answer.

Salazar, he really was out of practice.

“I also saw Potter on the platform this morning.” Harry Potter was his mother’s soft spot.

Her eyes lit up momentarily at the mention of him before she could school her features. “Did you? Which one was it going this year?”

“The one named after Dumbledore and Snape.”

“Poor child.”

A loud laugh escaped Draco, to his mother’s delight. “Indeed. Ginevra must have been full of giggle water after her birth to have agreed to that name.”

Narcissa’s eyes twinkled. There were few things she loved more than gossip and mocking the ridiculous choices of others.

“Had I been consulted, I would have suggested something more dignified.”

“Naturally,” he nodded in concession. “Although, how you talked Astoria into Scorpius…”

She reached over and swatted him hard on the arm. “Enough, Draco. Scorpius is a fine name. What was it again you were hoping for? Glen, was it?”

Draco rubbed his arm where she thwacked him with surprising force. He finally felt like he was falling back in step with the game.

“No, it wasn’t bloody well ‘Glen.’ It was…bother, I cannot remember what it was anymore.” Draco frowned.

“You asked me about the Granger girl?” Narcissa delicately stirred a little milk into what had to be her fourth cup of tea.

In his crudest moments, Draco had wondered if his mother secretly wore a catheter when doing things like this. Merlin’s balls, he hadn’t thought about those Healer things in ages.

“Draco?”

He blinked, his mind having gone back to his failed attempt to become a Healer before his father went belly-up. Draco cleared his throat.

“Pardon, my mind wandered. Yes, I saw Granger this morning.”

“Fascinating.” Her lips tilted up at the edges. Draco frowned. His mother was acting coy.

“Did you know that she has a daughter?”

Narcissa’s lips parted in surprise, her face paling slightly.

“I—I hadn’t thought she’d send the child to Hogwarts,” Narcissa said softly.

“You knew?”

Narcissa looked at him again, her turn to blink several times. “Well, of course I knew. I know everything.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her, but she refused to meet his gaze. Narcissa pressed a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes.

“Darling, would you be terribly put out if I cut our luncheon short? I have a headache.”

“A headache.” Draco folded his arms.

“Yes, it’s been building all morning, and I fear I cannot tolerate it any longer.”

Draco leaned back, observing his mother go through the familiar ritual of vanishing the food and sending a little notice to the house elves to clean up when they left. Yet, in all these well-rehearsed motions, her shoulders were too stiff, her posture too straight, and her attention too distant.

“I hope you feel better,” Draco said, finally standing and giving her a soft kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you, dear. I’m sure Scorpius will be sorted into Slytherin.” She squeezed his shoulder and bolted to the door toward her suite as much as Narcissa Malfoy could be said to bolt anywhere.

Draco let out a sigh, throwing his napkin on the table.

He hadn’t seen Granger since…”Merlin’s balls.” He ran a hand over his face. He remembered precisely the last time he and Granger had spoken. It had been a few days after they received their specialty placements for advanced Healer training.

Draco had dropped out of the special Mind Healer institute because Father had passed, and Mother needed him here. He could still hear Hermione’s ranting, remembering how irate she had been when he told her his decision. But Granger still went and apparently stayed in Sweden for another eleven years…

Draco froze, a momentary white-hot panic coursing through his body till he could wrestle his mind into submission. A long-buried memory of her body beneath his, a frantic coupling of two people who’d….

“No,” he shoved his chair back and turned, heading for the floo. “Absolutely not,” he said to no one.

Draco disapparated from the back patio, putting as much distance between him and these thoughts as he could.

________

Purchasing Flourish and Blotts hadn’t been a strategic move on Draco’s part but one of galling emotionalism.

As he sidestepped a puddle on his way to accept the keys, Draco wondered how the wizard he hired to oversee the island bookshop was doing. It was the end of the season for the town and should be effortless on his part. Draco used to love the end of the season with Scorpius, the anticipation of what lay ahead, and their found traditions together. They would venture to the Manor in the autumn, enjoying the fields as they changed color. Then, as the snow came, they’d portkey to Paris, where the holiday lights were on display, and take the train to Brussels for the holiday market.

He wished he was back there. Draco didn’t think he would ever tire of the sea. He loved how the salty water would prick his skin, easing the scars that ran deeper than the newer ones on his hands and the faded scars on his chest. He loved the way the town felt languid in every respect—the signs hung gently, the pace never hurried but also never slow.

He hadn’t intended to put in an offer on Flourish and Blotts when the store’s previous owner wrote, complaining of the nephew they’d entrusted the store to. He would later blame it on the fairy wine Pansy sent over for his birthday because after a horrible night’s sleep, plagued with images of his favorite bookstore turning into a coffee shop, he owl’d his solicitor, knowing they had more than enough to purchase the bookstore five times over. It was easy to persuade the nephew to sell. He was the sort that chose the white meat, thinking it a delicacy.

What was he going to do with two bookstores? The thought nagged at him, but at least one thing was settled—he would keep on any employees willing to stay, even after they learned who had bought the shop.

At some point—maybe when he first bore the Dark Mark, maybe after his very public divorce—Draco had stopped caring what others thought of him. His focus had narrowed when Scorpius was born, channeling his energy into fatherhood rather than public perception. And now, somehow, that path had led him here—purchasing one of the most well-known shops in wizarding London.

He stopped just outside the familiar wooden door, fingers ghosting over the grain. A deep breath steadied him, but the unease lingered. Then, with a sharp exhale, he pulled it open. The little bell jingled, and the nephew spun, his face more pinched than usual. Draco’s eyes flicked just past the man to the older woman behind him, with her hands firmly planted on her cane before her.

“Mrs. Ingleson,” Draco said, breezing past the sour-faced man for her. She held out her hand, and Draco took it, bowing slightly before pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Her hand was small, the skin thin with age and sun spots.

Dottie and Amos Ingleson had been the owners of this store for over half a century and were universally adored. They’d been some of the few people who allowed Draco into their store immediately after the war. He owed them more for their friendship than he could express.

Galling emotionalism.

Then Dottie retired a year ago after her husband passed, and Robert the Nephew nearly dismantled everything they’d built in those following months.

“Now, now, dear. Enough with the theatrics,” she chuckled, patting Draco’s cheek fondly.

“I thought you retired out East? Don’t tell me this is a hostile takeover.” Draco grinned, letting go of her hand so she could rest it on her cane again.

“Am I still a witch, or did that disappear when I moved in with my daughter? And no, the store is yours, my dear.”

He was going to say something in response, but the nephew cleared his throat, a clipped hacking sound marring the otherwise tender moment.

Mrs. Ingleson rolled her eyes for Draco to see before leaning to the side to speak. “Oh, come off it, Robert. You can wait five more minutes while I catch up with Draco here.” Then she turned and mumbled, only for Draco to hear, “He certainly didn’t take that long to accept your offer.”

Draco chuckled, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, gesturing to the store. “What do I need to know, Mrs. Ingleson?”

“Dottie, dear. You can call me Dottie now that you’ve paid me so handsomely for my store.”

Robert, the nephew, let out a squeak of protest, likely thinking he’d keep the majority of the sale rather than Dottie. Ignoring him, Dottie shuffled Draco down the long aisles, regaling him with stories that encompassed more than just the secret entrances and tricky books that routinely plotted their escape from the bookstore, but also of memories—people she encountered and the life she had lived with her husband at her side.

It was well past ten in the evening before they had a lull in their conversation. Draco sat across from her by the large hearth in the back of the store, where she used to reside with Mr. Ingleson, but it now served as a break room for the staff.

Robert, the nephew, snoozed in the corner, waking himself up every few minutes from his loud snore or Draco’s somewhat discreet, shocking hex. Dottie pretended not to notice.

“Now, Draco dear,” Dottie began slowly. Draco sensed a shift in the conversation as she eyed him for a long moment before continuing. “Are you dating again?”

He blinked, pressing his lips into a thin line. She was as nosy as his mother. “No, I’m not.”

Dottie huffed. “Well, you cannot possibly think you’ll be able to run this store alone.”

“I wasn’t planning on it. I intend to be more of an overseer of sorts rather than as hands-on as you and Mr. Ingleson—”

“Amos, if you please.”

Draco sighed. “As you and Amos were. I still have the shop in France. I hoped I could hire someone —or a few people, at least—to be the Amos and Dottie of the shop.” He looked down, fiddling with the gloves he finally removed when the nephew fell asleep. “I do not think my presence is…welcomed by most, and this shop is necessary for our magical community. I want to keep it as accessible as possible.”

“Draco Lexus Malfoy!”

He snorted. “Lexus?”

“Isn’t that what your mother used to call through the store?” Dottie said with a mischievous grin.

“Lucius.”

“How could I ever forget?” Dottie reached over and grasped his scarred hands with hers. Draco thought their hands made strange bedfellows, one wrinkled from scars and the other from age and use. Dottie’s fingers lightly gripped his. Mobility had been one of the reasons the nephew persuaded her to hand over the shop.

“You are phenomenal, Draco Lucius Malfoy. Whatever your sordid past—those of us who have lived long understand that people aren’t made up of only good and bad but a healthy mixture of both. And you have more than filled your cauldron with goodness to dilute away all the bad from your childhood.”

Draco tried to swallow back the lump in his throat, willing the wetness gathering at the edges of his eyes away. An embroidered handkerchief with daisies and daffodils floated from across the room. He let go of Dottie’s hand to pluck it from the air, a bemused twitch of his lips at the familiar sight.

“I see your wandless, nonverbal magic is still excellent,” he quipped as he dabbed his face.

Dottie patted his knee. “Ah, that was just lucky. I half expected a hot water bottle to come over instead.”

Draco nodded, pulling out his wand to clean the handkerchief.

“One more thing before we wake my nephew,” Dottie accepted the cleaned handkerchief. “Would you go look in the cabinet in our old bedroom? I think a few things of yours are still there. Last shelf, bottom right.”

Draco frowned but obeyed. In the room, just to the right of the hearth, he found a large shelf filled with boxes, all labeled with the tired script from years past. Precisely where Dottie had instructed, he found a small cardboard box with Draco written on the little card affixed to the front with a light sticking charm.

It was no bigger than a shoebox and much lighter than he anticipated. Unsure what was inside, he retreated from the room with his prize in hand.

“What is this, Dottie?” he asked, slowly taking his seat across from her. The old wooden chair squeaked as he sat, but the nephew did not stir.

“Oh, I was going through the remainder of the items I left here the other day, trying to decide what you might need versus what I should bin or take with me. No need to open it now, but do take it home with you. I think it might make you smile.”

Curious, Draco obeyed, shrinking the box to the length of his palm and then tucking it in his pocket. They called it a night after that. Dottie did the honors of waking her nephew with a rather impressive stinging hex to his right toe. The poor chap danced around a bit, rubbing the sting away before shoving the keys into Draco’s hands and barking where the ledgers would be found in his new office, then stormed out of the back room. They heard the store’s floo activate a moment later. Dottie hugged Draco tightly around the middle before she followed her nephew through the floo back to her daughter’s home.

“Don’t be a stranger, Draco dear. I’m only a floo call away, and I do so love those Muggle York Peppermint Patties.”

Draco gave her a solemn nod. “Noted. Adieu, Dottie.”

She raised her bent hand in farewell as she spun away.

Draco listened to some of the books snoring as he walked through the space, using his wand to turn out the lights and lock up the “troublemakers,” as Dottie had called them. It was a routine he was familiar with on a much smaller scale. The enormity of the store weighed on him, but it was too late now.

He finished the loop, returning to the front of the store where Scorpius had stood that morning, giving it one last look before heading home.

________

“Mum, you’re going to suffocate her.” Bill gently tugged Molly Weasley away from Hermione.

“I’m just so, so happy you’re back home again. It’s where you should be,” Molly sniffed, dabbing her eyes with her apron.

“Well, the work is what brought me—” Hermione began to say, but Molly waved her hand.

“Yes, yes. The work.” Molly said it like it was some sort of out-of-style phrase. “That’s all well and good, but I’m glad your work has brought you home where you should be. Now, where is Ronald?”

“Hermione!” George said loudly, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Let me get you a glass of wine, and I know Harry wanted to show you something…”

“Thank you,” Hermione whispered as they moved out of earshot of Molly. She still hadn’t let go of the wild hope that Ron and Hermione would end up together.

Fleur handed her a large glass of wine with an understanding smile. “I heard the station was chaotic today. It must be strange coming home only to send your daughter away.”

Hermione let out a long sigh, their odd group moving to the back garden.

“It has been, and it hasn’t been, all simultaneously. I spent the day unpacking my boxes in the new flat. Beyond the brief stop at the new ice cream shop, I’ve only been to the Tesco to get the essentials all day.”

“Avoiding Diagon Alley, are we?” George seemed a bit offended at the idea.

“Not because I’m avoiding the joke shop,” Hermione said quickly. “I simply haven’t had time to go anywhere.”

Fleur squeezed her shoulder. “We understand.”

Somehow, Hermione believed Fleur understood best out of all the Weasleys what her day had been like.

“Was it hard moving to England?” Hermione asked, looking to Fleur. She didn’t answer immediately, their attention drawn to the lawn where Fred and George entertained the youngest children.

Fleur considered her question for a long moment. Hermione was prepared to let the question go when Fleur finally spoke.

“Yes, it was…it felt like I was suffocating, in the beginning—starved for some breath of home. I was falling between the pages, marking my place and setting myself aside so I could look like everyone else around me. I’m sure you well remember my English lacked much to be desired. I couldn’t express exactly what I meant if someone didn’t speak French. There were times I completely missed things because the British…” Fleur paused, reining in some long-standing frustration with how England differed from France, taking a long sip of her wine. “Then, Bill came along,” she continued, the pinched lines between her brow softening as she recalled those early days with him. “He understood the loneliness, or at least listened. I thought things would be easier after that, but of course,” she gestured her glass toward the window where Molly cooked, “I entered another layer of culture more nuanced that turned into a tug-o-war match of missteps because I grew up singing a different song, learning a different dance.”

Without thinking, Hermione wrapped an arm around Fleur, sharing the old burden of loneliness. She only wished she’d asked the question sooner.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I mortified myself in an all-staff meeting? I proudly volunteered to ‘cook’ for the office barbecue—only to realize too late that I’d accidentally said ‘cock’ instead.” Laughter bubbled from the depths as Hermione relived that awful moment.

Fleur snorted into her drink—something so inelegant yet completely wonderful to hear from this veritable French Barbie. Hermione grinned up at her, grateful for the few people not blood-related to the Weasleys here tonight.

“Where is Harry?” Hermione looked around at the back lawn, but no head of fluffy black hair was in sight.

“Workshop,” Bill replied, pressing a quick kiss to Fleur’s head in greeting before slinging an arm around her shoulder. “My mum requests your assistance…”

Hermione grinned at Fleur’s annoyance as she ducked from Bill’s arm and sauntered toward the kitchen. Hermione noted how, even now, Bill’s eyes followed Fleur wherever she went.

“Is Harry trying to fix Sirius’s motorbike again?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” Ginny grumbled, deftly slipping outside to join them, fleeing the cooking madness. She held a refreshed glass of wine and bumped Hermione’s shoulder as she came to stand next to her. “I told him he should give it up, but you know how he gets.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Obsessed.”

At Hermione’s urging after the war, Harry asked his psychiatrist if he could be tested for neurodivergence. Unsurprisingly, he tested off the charts for ADHD. That diagnosis answered so many questions for him and was the ticket to his freedom from the burden of serving the world. He now owned a woodworking shop in Diagon Alley. It all began after he made Molly a new salad bowl when her old one was permanently cracked and had been mended one too many times with magic and spell-o-tape. She cooed over the smooth wood and gentle, wide slope of the bowl.

Molly, being Molly, bragged about it to everyone, and soon, Harry had ten orders for more, and one shop owner asked if she could stock some of his work. His skills and business slowly grew from there. Woodworking allowed Harry enough movement and change that he never felt stuck. Of course, his interests expanded out from there—and the most recent one he returned to every couple of years was Sirius’s old motorbike that lived in Arthur’s workshop out back.

“Should I go get him?” Ginny scrunched up her nose like the idea of that chaos was too much.

“I can,” Hermione offered. “It’s been ages since I’ve ventured to the workshop.”

Ginny let out a snort that sounded more nasty than conspiratorial as Fleur’s had. “I bet. The last time was with my…brother?”

Hermione slapped Ginny’s arm. “Ginny, no. Ron and I never…” She waved her hand in the air.

Ginny just grinned and waggled her eyebrows. “Well, keep your hand over your goblet because I know Mum still has designs for you and him.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” Hermione said over her shoulder as she trudged through the tall grass to the metal workshop.

“Ginny, you need to let it go. Hermione hasn’t ever confided in us who the father is…” she heard on the wind behind her and picked up her pace.

She’d only told three people the identity of Lyra’s father, and Ginny had not been one of them. Hermione had never felt comfortable sharing this big piece of herself with Ginny. They’d had a schoolgirl friendship, living in the same room when she visited during the summers, but Hermione’s conversations with Ginny had been a tad one-sided. She didn’t enjoy Hermione’s need for solitude or understand her intense desire for privacy.

Loud banging greeted Hermione as she pulled open the door to the…

“When did the workshop get clean?”

Harry lay on the floor of the tidy workshop, both hands turning in opposite directions.

“Hey—Hermione! Could you help me…”

She rushed over and got on her knees next to him.

“Put your hand here,” Harry said as he pulled one hand away from a wrench-looking tool. “Hold your hand steady while I try to tighten this…” Harry’s voice trailed off as he pulled down.

There was a sharp click. “Did it work?” she asked.

“Let go and…” They let go at the same time, releasing their tools. A small gear fell onto Harry’s face.

“Ouch. Bloody bike,” Harry swore.

Hermione patted his sweaty head and stood, giving him room to roll over and stand. She marveled at his organization. He’d labeled every box and vanished the useless odds and ends. It appeared even the counters were regularly wiped clean. It was a far cry from Arthur Weasley's workshop.

“Harry, when did you find time to clean up in here?”

He pulled a flannel from his back pocket, looking like the mechanics in Muggle magazines, and wiped his forehead with a sheepish grin. “I may put up a glamor when Gin or anyone else comes out here. If they knew it was clean, I’d never get any peace.”

Hermione threw her head back and laughed, leaning against one of the dustless worktops as Harry busied himself about the space, returning his tools to their proper places. Another aspect of his neurodivergence revelation: tidiness helped him think. “If I had known that by organizing my trunk, I’d be able to think better, I would have done it ages ago!” Harry had exclaimed over dinner one summer.

Harry slung a friendly arm around her shoulder as they left the workshop but then paused. “Oh, almost forgot.” He turned, tugging Hermione along with him, and cast a strong glamour, returning the workshop to its more familiar state with detritus everywhere.

“Harry, your spellcasting is astonishing. Too bad it couldn’t have been used for the greater good.”

“Shut it,” he chuckled, towing her along as they meandered to the house, neither in a rush to dive back into the Weasley fray.

“Is it odd?” Hermione finally asked after Harry rerouted them down the hill to extend their quiet. The air slowly began to cool as the sun set in the distance.

“Hmm?” He asked, hands in his pockets as they walked in amicable silence.

“The leaving. Your kids going to Hogwarts…I—it was some of the best and worst times of our lives.”

Harry stopped walking and stared at Hermione, his bright green eyes piercing. “Hermione,” he began slowly, “On the platform, I think I saw—”

“Yes,” she looked down, kicking a stone off the well-worn path back up to the house, letting out a long-held sigh, something she’d been keeping so close to her chest since she saw Draco on the platform.

Harry gripped her arm, willing her to look at him. “You need to tell Lyra.”

“I know!” She didn’t mean to shout, but she was frustrated at the impossible situation she’d put herself in and the careful life she’d created around this omission to her daughter and almost everyone else. It had been easy to control the narrative in Sweden. People asked who the father was when she returned to England for her first Christmas with a child in tow. But to her astonishment, they left her alone when she insisted she only wanted to move forward and that the father would never be in the picture—even Molly Weasley could let it go.

And that lie of omission had been adequate when Hermione believed Draco Malfoy to be blissfully married to Astoria Greengrass.

She hadn’t planned for Lyra, but upon first seeing the little glowing orb above her abdomen in her tiny flat at the Institute, she knew she couldn’t let her go. Hermione never thought much about soul bonds, but she knew her soul was tied to this little glowing orb as much as she knew that the one-night stand with Draco Malfoy meant more than either of them ever pretended it to mean.

She and Draco had made indirect plans with one another—in the quiet moments of the night, she envisioned them together, healing those wounded from the war and moving on from their collective pasts. Sweden was meant to be a fresh start.

Then Lucius died, leaving Draco to pick up the pieces as their holdings at Gringotts were released and buried contracts were revealed.

“When did they get divorced?” Hermione asked after a prolonged silence where Harry wouldn’t stop staring. He looked to the sky for answers.

“I don’t know. Three… four years ago?”

Her mouth fell open.

“It was in the Prophet!” Harry said defensively at the incredulous look on her face. “Bloody hell, Hermione. I thought you knew and didn’t care.”

“Fair. Fine. And you’re right. I do not care.” Hermione didn’t want to ruminate on why she was so nettled at the news. Perhaps it was being caught off guard and already feeling like her life was barely holding together as it was. Shoving the emotions aside, she turned on her heel and set off up the hill toward the house. “Come on, we should get inside.”

“Alright,” Harry said, jogging a bit to catch up and falling in step beside her. “He’s actually decent—”

“He was decent before you declared him so,” Hermione snapped, a long-forgotten indignation rising up in her on behalf of Draco Malfoy.

She glanced over and was met with Harry’s familiar, lopsided grin. She couldn’t help the bubble of laughter that escaped and shoved him a bit with his arm. “Shut up, Harry.”

“Ah, it’s good to have you back, Hermione.”

Molly ensured Hermione was seated next to Ron, who arrived just as they sat down to eat. He looked tired, more so than he had that morning at the train station.

“Get settled in?” he asked, cutting a large slice of tenderloin.

Hermione shrugged. “My flat is—” she was going to say horrendous, but the way Molly looked up made her quickly change course “—full of boxes. It will take me a few days and a trip to IKEA before it feels like a home.”

“You’re always welcome to take Bill’s old room,” Molly said from down the table, not even trying to hide that she was listening.

“Ma, she doesn’t want to live in Bill’s old room,” said George.

“Well, I just like having everyone close,” Molly huffed. Arthur patted her arm affectionately, wisely staying out of the fray.

Before things could escalate, a large grey owl swooped in from the kitchen window, landing just before Harry.

Everyone quieted as Harry gave the owl’s head a little pat, tugging the small scroll from its leg. He read the letter to himself, swallowing, and glanced over at Ginny.

“It’s from Al. It seems he and Lyra are in the same house,” he began.

“Unsurprising,” said the twins in unison, everyone chattering in agreement.

“Which house, Harry?” Ginny shrewdly asked over the commotion.

“Slytherin,” Harry said, his eyes meeting Hermione’s across the table.

The merriment dimmed a bit, but Molly clapped her hands. “Well, that just means two more chances for Weasleys to become prefects at Hogwarts.”

Hermione felt Harry’s gaze follow her for the rest of the evening. She and Harry had both been considered for Slytherin; it was natural that the streak would end somewhere….but the other, louder matter was that Lyra did need to learn about her father before the clever girl figured it out first.

________

It was late when Hermione threw her keys onto the folding card table—the one she snagged from her parent’s garage earlier that day. She stopped by to retrieve the boxes she left before their holiday and to say hello after sending Lyra off. Her flat hadn’t grown in her estimation.

Her shoes lay by the front door, abandoned and forlorn. Back in Sweden, they had a proper place—lined neatly on the wooden shelf in the mudroom, waiting for her to slip them on before heading out into the crisp morning air or to be tucked away in exchange for house slippers.

Unpacked boxes were huddled in the corner, with a protection charm over them in case the ceiling decided to leak further than the bucket situated in the middle of the floor.

“How can it look greyer?” she mused as she flicked her wand at the tea kettle, one of the few items she unpacked before going to the left bedroom (identical to the right one Lyra had scoped out when she visited.) The light from the gold lamp with the floral print shade barely filled the space. Hermione frowned at her large bed and wondered if she’d do better shrinking it down to a single.

“It’s not like I’m ever going to have visitors here,” she grumbled, finally letting loose all her pent-up resentment toward this place.

She undressed quickly, laying her clothes back in her trunk. The flat didn’t come with a wardrobe, and she added it to her list of things to purchase, as she didn’t bring the one from Sweden with her. Her pajamas were soft against her skin, something to remind her that life hadn’t changed all that much, merely her location…and coworkers…and daughter being away.

This time, she didn’t swallow back the tears when they threatened to close her throat but let them come. She cried as she steeped the tea, missing her daughter’s humming. Tears streamed freely as she locked the door and shuffled to bed with her hot mug of chamomile, wishing she were back in their little cottage. She wiped her eyes as she nestled deep under the covers and wondered if she’d made all the wrong choices, starting with leaving England and not letting Draco know about Lyra in the first place.

As her tears subsided, a soft rap sounded against the charmed window she added for owls (she would reverse it when her landlord stopped by or when she moved out, but one window facing a wall was ridiculous).

“Hello,” she greeted the beautiful bird with caramel-colored feathers and bright brown eyes. It held out its leg to her, and she accepted the note. “I’m sorry, but I do not have any treats yet. I just moved here.” Her voice sounded strange to her—she had momentarily forgotten that she’d been crying for the better part of a half-hour.

The bird hooted demurely and left quietly, gliding out into the night.

Hermione suddenly wished she owned a cat or something because talking out loud to herself was already becoming tedious. She turned over the parchment, and her breath caught at the wax seal with the Malfoy signet ring indented into the dark green wax.

She felt her body flop onto her bed, unaware that she had moved across the room (three steps) to sit down.

“Malfoy?” she asked the quiet of the room, with silence the room’s only reply.

Her hands shook as she slid her finger beneath the seam of the wax, breaking it gently from the envelope.

Hermione,
Welcome back to England. I believe we should be reacquainted. Please send me your availability for tea in the next week.
Narcissa Malfoy

Chapter Text

“First years, this way!” a bored voice drawled from the head of the Slytherin table. Lyra couldn’t immediately pinpoint the speaker amid the older students rising as one from their now-cleared plates. She winced, rubbing her temples as the Great Hall erupted with chatter the moment the Headmistress dismissed them for the evening.

She was relieved it was over. The longer the welcome feast had dragged on, the more Lyra curled inward. Scorpius had also been suspiciously quiet throughout, opening and closing his mouth several times, unsure what to say, as the other students around them seemed to all know one another. Meanwhile, Al stared at his plate for so long it looked like he was attempting wandless magic before the smell of shepherd’s pie won him over.

Lyra let out a long sigh. “I suppose we should go,” she said, turning to Florence to see if she was ready. Florence had no problem conversing with the other students, seeming to be familiar with many students from other houses as well.

Lyra glanced again to the end of the table, feeling a prickling like someone was watching her. An older student was glaring —well…not at her but at their entire little group of first years. He was a tall, good-looking boy with tousled sandy brown hair. A silver and green badge gleamed on the front of his crisp robes, a large P stamped in the center.

She hastily stood, amassing surprised looks from the few students nearby. Florence, however, remained oblivious, engrossed in a conversation with Al about a book they’d both read over the summer. Lyra tapped her shoulder, and Florence blinked up, almost surprised that anyone else was around.

“I think he wants us to get a move on,” Lyra said, nodding toward the increasingly irritated fifth year prefect. Al and Scorpius followed her lead, and slowly, the small group of new Slytherins gathered at the end of the table, stomachs full of rich English food and ready to rest.

Lyra felt a bit queasy. Whether it was the overwhelming newness of everything or the unsettling possibility that the Sorting Hat had been right—that she had a living father—she couldn’t quite tell.

There were eleven Slytherin first-years this year. Word had it that the number of new students would double in the coming years, thanks to the post-war baby boom. At least, that’s what she’d overheard Uncle Harry telling her mum over the summer. Their class was already larger than her mum’s had been—another fact she’d picked up while eavesdropping when she was supposed to be reading.

Al sidled up beside her, his shoulder pressing into hers. She leaned into him in return, grounding herself in the comforting nearness of someone she considered a brother. She wasn’t alone. She already had family here.

That thought lingered as Lyra glanced toward the front of the Great Hall, where Headmistress McGonagall stood watching the departing students. Their eyes met, and McGonagall gave her a soft smile and a single nod. Lyra had first met the headmistress as a resident at the Institute, then later as a returning friend of her mum’s. She returned the nod before shifting her attention back to the prefect.

“My name is Alec Grey.” He gestured to the imposing ginger at his side. “This is Patricia Nelson. We’re your house prefects. Follow me, and I’ll show you where the dormitories are.”

Now that Lyra had a proper look at him, Alec seemed less intimidating. Patricia, on the other hand, was another story entirely. From what Lyra understood, prefects were meant to represent the best of their house—reliable, responsible, and upstanding. But Patricia merely popped her chewing gum with a loud snap, her kohl-rimmed eyes indolent and unimpressed.

Alec paused to see if Patricia wanted to comment, perhaps even inspire them. Her bored silence answered, and Alec just shook his head, continuing as if he hadn’t stopped speaking, “We’ll have a brief all-house meeting in the common room when we arrive before you are shown to your dorms for the school year. This way and keep up.” Alec didn’t look to see if they followed; he strode confidently out the double doors. Patricia smirked at the theatrics and waved them along with a sweeping gesture, taking up the rear.

The weight of Al’s gaze as he tracked the Gryffindors’ ascent could be felt. His unspoken longing for his brother’s approval rolled off him in waves as he stopped to watch them take the large staircase. Lyra mentally shouted for James to look their way. He did not, but instead slung an arm around a mate as they boisterously disappeared from sight. Al rushed forward, shoving his hands into his pockets and following the other first years as they filed through a secret passageway, disguised behind a tapestry, and descended the narrow stone staircase into the dungeons.

The air became noticeably chillier the further down they went, weaving past empty classrooms till they stopped before an unsmiling portrait of a wizard. His painted brow pinched, his hand ceaselessly stroking a sleeping blue hare. The creature filled his entire lap. An owl hooted out of frame, and he turned his head, revealing a long swath of smooth white hair with little stars braided throughout. The portrait tsked at the unseen creature, who gave a final, indignant hoot. Unlike many other portraits that shouted their greetings as they passed, this man turned back to them slowly, narrowing his gaze at the incomers, measuring them in a glance and finding them wanting.

“What is the basic element in the gasping poison?” The portrait wizard asked sinisterly, his lip curling at the protracted silence.

“Really trying to avoid the ‘dark wizard’ aspect this year, aren’t we, Merlin?” Alec deadpanned.

A ripple of recognition flitted through their group. Merlin.

“He was Slytherin?” Al whispered into Lyra’s ear, glad whatever it was that came over him had momentarily been pushed to the side.

Merlin sniffed and raised an imperious white brow, waiting for their answer. Like a little squirrel distracted by a falling acorn, he puffed at a floating piece of lint, completely skewing the dark angle he was trying to project. Lyra watched his eyes track the mote until it floated out of sight.

Alec let out a long, beleaguered sigh, then turned to peer down at his charges. “Anyone want to have a go at the answer?”

Florence raised her hand, and Alec rolled his eyes. “We’re not in class, and I’m absolutely not your professor. Just say it.”

“Hemlock,” Florence answered pleasantly, as if not affected at all by her prefect’s distemper.

“Well done,” Merlin grinned. The portrait undulated, becoming more like a curtain than a moving painting. Alec stepped through the curtain, pushing the fabric aside. The group looked at one another for a moment before Alec’s head popped out again. “What are you lot staring at? Surely, you didn’t just discover magic. Inside!” Then he disappeared again.

The fabric was thick but moved easily against Lyra’s hand as she pushed against it. The temperature shift made Lyra gasp. Gone was the chilly dampness of the dungeon corridors, replaced by the warm embrace of leather and tobacco. She blinked, surprised at the scent, but instantly, she felt as if she were at home. Everything about the Slytherin common room clung to her, wove in and out of her fingers, and all she wanted to do was take hold of it and never let go.

Lyra took a few tentative steps in the small entryway, peering around as it opened to an expansive, split-level room with a high stone ceiling and plush carpets before a roaring fire. Her gaze was drawn past the wooden bookshelves and tapestries to the wall of windows at the end of the room. She’d read about how the Slytherin dormitories were underground, situated beside the Black Lake, but it was entirely another thing to see the depthless black reflected in the ceiling-height windows. The shallow shore she had envisioned paled to the reality they were with the water beneath the earth’s surface. Startled by this realization, Lyra stopped, forcing others to halt behind her with murmured annoyance. She squinted, wondering if the movement she saw on the other side of the glass panes was real or if her mind was conjuring images.

“This is brilliant,” Scorpius breathed out in awe, and she had to agree.

The common room was already full of students piled onto dark leather sofas and velvet green chairs. Lyra’s robes felt heavy in comparison to the students around her. Everyone had this sense of refinement about them; some even wore their robes open and showed off their uniforms with shortened hemlines or undone neckties. Their group of eleven first years congregated like a flock of little cygnets, unsure how to be individuals yet and terrified to venture beyond themselves.

“Ugh, come on firsties. You’ll sit on the ground at the front. Chairs are for fourth years and up.” Patricia pushed past them, gesturing over her shoulder for them to follow. For better or worse, they followed in a single-file line, only cementing the image of little birds plodding behind their leader. Patricia paraded them to the front, where Alec stood chatting with some older students who looked to be in his same year. The boy with the blue hair, who knew Florence, was among them. He winked at Lyra as she passed, causing a blush to streak up her neck.

Lyra and Florence led the way, with Al and Scorpius behind them, their odd little group moving to their assigned spots on the carpet before the fire. Lyra took the furthest spot, as indicated by Patricia. The green carpet was soft beneath her fingers, its intricate design a muddle of lines and swirls.

“This looks like something my Gran would pick out,” Scorpius leaned to whisper across Al. “She loves this kind of thing.” He gestured at the filigree around the onyx hearth and the snakes that undulated around it. Lyra surreptitiously looked over her shoulder, noting the feet of the couches were serpent heads or clawed feet.

The house also looked smaller from this vantage point—like their numbers were smaller in comparison to Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. She wondered if it mattered.

Alec cleared his throat, coming to stand at the front of the room just before them. The talking died down as he smiled for the first time that Lyra had seen. “Welcome back, everyone. I trust you all had a productive summer. A few things before we begin. You will notice that—oh, professor!” Alec’s nonchalant attitude suddenly shifted, his smile becoming a little more coy, his eyes a tad lazy…as if he was trying to impress someone.

Lyra leaned forward, but it was Scorpius’s wide smile that caught her attention, forcing her to sit up straight as a stunningly beautiful woman with dark brown hair, sheared into a neat bob cutting her jawline, strode into the room. Her stiletto heels with red soles clicked on the stone floor before becoming muffled by the thick carpet. Her calf-length black robes hung open, revealing a rather form-fitting, high-necked black dress with an emerald “S” pin affixed to the chest. Her dark brown eyes were sharp, taking in the room, and her red-lined lips pulled into a closed-lipped grin as she came to stand before them with her wand hanging loosely at her side.

Lyra had heard her mother speak of Uncle Harry in the same manner: someone who just had a presence about them to where if he spoke, people listened. This woman reminded her of him…Lyra idly wondered if Uncle Harry would appreciate the comparison….or Aunt Ginny, for that matter.

“Good evening, my little snakes,” the woman crooned, her voice deep and almost husky. She sounded nothing like what Lyra anticipated.

“Good evening, Professor Parkinson,” voices about them chorused.

“She’s a professor?” Lyra gaped, hastily leaning to whisper to Al.

Al shrugged, not removing his gaze from Professor Parkinson. She hadn’t been there during their sorting, or at least Lyra hadn’t noticed her. She seemed like a person everyone would notice if she walked into a room.

“And welcome to our little firsties,” the professor grinned.

Professor Parkinson peered down at the line of first years, her gaze noticeably warmer as she studied each of them in turn. She barely reacted to Florence and Scorpius, but her brows rose slightly at the sight of Al—and higher still when her eyes landed on Lyra. She held Lyra’s gaze for a long moment before recovering, a mask of authority slipping smoothly back into place.

“If we haven’t met yet, I am Professor Parkinson and your head of house. This means if you get into trouble, I absolutely better not see you in my office.” Her red lips quirked up at the side at the joke. “This will be my fourth year as head of Slytherin. Our house has traditionally been known for cunning and ambition, along with a few nastier elements. Headmistress McGonagall appointed me here not only because I myself was a Slytherin while at Hogwarts but because she knows our house can be known for more than just our penchant for the most powerful magics and arts.”

Her gaze swept the room as she continued, addressing everyone now. “We are the leaders, the ones who shape and bend society. You’ll note that our current Minister of Magic was a Slytherin—and a member of the Order of the Phoenix, fighting for the light during the war. I remind you of this so that no other house underestimates us. I expect great things from you, but you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t intend to meet my expectations.”

A coy smile tugged at her lips. “We barely lost to the bloody Gryffindors last year for the House Cup—” A chorus of boos erupted, and she held up a manicured hand for silence. “—however, we did win the Quidditch Cup. This year, I want both trophies in my office, because Professor Longbottom is entirely too smug for my liking.”

A ripple of laughter spread through the room. “So go forth and be Slytherins—and if you do get into trouble, never get caught.” She winked, drawing more chuckles. Her eyes flicked briefly to Lyra before she turned on her heel, robes billowing dramatically as she strode toward the portrait and out into the castle without a backward glance.

“Wow,” Al breathed. “I—she’s just—wow.”

Scorpius grinned. “She’s fantastic. She’s my godmother, you know.”

“What?” Lyra and Al laughed, turning to stare at him simultaneously.

“Alright, settle down, everyone.” Alec was speaking again, his usual smirk once again in place. “Firsties, your dorms are this way—” he pointed to a hall to his right behind him. “All students in the third year and below are on that side of the dungeon. Fourth years and up are on the other side. Your trunks and familiars should be waiting for you. Professor Parkinson will hand out your class schedules during breakfast. The great hall opens at six for breakfast. Any questions?” He stared at them for half a second before returning to his earlier conversation.

All the older students followed his lead and began moving in the direction of their rooms or chatting idly.

“Firstie girls, follow me,” Patricia called out.

Lyra squeezed Al’s arm before standing to leave. He looked less green than when he was first sorted, but unease still clung to him. Florence looped her arm through Lyra’s and beamed.

“I’m so glad we’re going to be best friends, Lyra.”

Lyra chuckled. “We are?”

Florence winked and tugged her along, following the four other first-year girls through the arched stone doorway and down a winding with other hallways branching from it, leading to the older student’s dorms. Sconces cast flickering light along their path, leading them to the last set of doors at the end of a long corridor.

“Boys are on the left, girls on the right. Salazar wasn’t a blithering prude like Godric, but no bed-sharing until sixth year, or Professor Parkinson will have your head,” Patricia said, pushing open their dormitory door and stepping aside for them to enter.

“What did she mean by that?” Florence whispered.

Lyra smirked. “Have you read Hogwarts: A History?”

Their dormitory was nothing like the one her mother had described. Gryffindor Tower, according to her, had been cozy and circular, just spacious enough to sleep in—but this room was the opposite. Each girl had a four-poster bed with a desk and wardrobe nearby, all arranged with ample space between them. The beds formed a checker pattern along the walls, long velvet-green curtains drawn back to reveal soft white bedding. Atop each pillow rested the school-supplied scarf and necktie in Slytherin colors. Beneath the beds lay dark green Persian rugs, and at the foot of each bed sat a waiting trunk, marking their assigned spaces.

Florence pushed past Lyra with a delighted cry, dashing to the bed by the far window on the right. A large lizard leapt off the blankets and into her arms, its tail wagging.

“Oh, Pericles. I missed you.” She nuzzled the creature, which rolled onto its back like a dog, demanding a belly scratch.

Lyra lingered in the doorway, letting the other girls pass as they found their beds.

“My mum wouldn’t let me bring a familiar this year. Said I had to ‘earn it with my marks,’” said a girl at the far end of the room, closest to the door.

Florence grinned down the line. “Pericles is very friendly. I’m sure he’d be glad to be your friend too.”

The girl smiled, bouncing slightly on her mattress.

Lyra walked the length of the room, finding her bed more by process of elimination than anything else. Opposite Florence, by the left-side window. She ran a hand over her trunk, tracing its edges. It looked different here than it had that morning before they left the island.

She sat, gaze drawn to the blackened windows. The lake stretched beyond them, dark and unfathomable. She’d read that mermaids lived in the depths. Had they ever come close enough to peer inside?

“One of the best parts of being in Slytherin,” Patricia’s voice cut through the room, “is that we’re not bound by space like the other houses.”

Lyra startled, not realizing Patricia was still leaning against the doorway, smirking.

“We get the biggest rooms. You should check out the washroom—it rivals the Prefects’ Bath. Oh, and the curtains over the windows close. I suggest shutting them whenever you need to change.” She gave a lazy wave. “Toodles.”

She sauntered off, disappearing down the corridor.

Lyra turned back to the window, frowning. Suddenly, the idea of peeping merfolk seemed much less charming.

“I think that’s the most I’ve heard Patricia speak since we arrived,” a girl giggled, sitting on the bed beside Lyra’s. Her chestnut hair skimmed her waist, gleaming in the low light. “I’m Caroline Thomas, by the way. We haven’t met.”

Florence returned her smile. “Your mother is an Unspeakable.”

Caroline’s expression flickered. “We—I’m not supposed to—”

Florence waved her off. “Oh, sorry. I forget the British are funny about that designation.”

“But you’re British,” said the girl from the far end—the one who had admired Pericles.

Florence tilted her head as if considering the question. “I suppose I technically am. Both my parents are, but I’ve lived most of my life in the Middle East and Asia.”

A brief pause followed before the girl shrugged, apparently satisfied. “Beatrice DeWinter. British. And that one at the end, who’s in love with your familiar, is Dahlia Wilson.”

“How do you two know each other?” Lyra asked.

Dahlia spoke before Beatrice could. “We went to the same primary school in Bootham before coming here.”

Florence nodded as if that was explanation enough. “Florence Nott.”

Caroline’s head snapped up. “As in Theodore Nott?”

Florence sighed, letting Pericles scuttle under her pillows. “Yes.”

Lyra caught the shift in her tone, the way resignation laced the single word. People were funny after the war—her mother had said as much. Maybe Florence’s parents had fought in it too. Maybe that’s why they stayed away.

“My dad’s a Finder,” Caroline added, rummaging through her trunk for nightclothes. “He works with your father a good bit, I think.”

Before Florence could respond, Dahlia flopped dramatically onto her bed. “Enough with the family talk. What about you, blondie?” She gestured at Lyra. “Are you twins or something with that other blond boy?” She snapped her fingers. “What’s his name again?”

Lyra’s stomach twisted. Here we go.

“Scorpius,” she said, clearing her throat. “I mean—his name is Scorpius. And no, we’re not siblings. We only just met today. I’m Lyra Granger.”

Silence fell. Lyra swore she could hear a pin drop.

Beatrice blinked. “As in… Hermione Granger? Are you her niece or something?”

Dahlia turned to her, eyes widening in recognition.

“No, Hermione Granger was Muggle-born, and she isn’t married. Remember?” Caroline mused. “I bet you’re related to the Dagworths.”

Dahlia frowned. “The Dagworths are German, and—”

“No,” Lyra said, too loud. “My mother is Hermione Granger.”

She turned abruptly, fumbling with the latch on her trunk, pretending to check the contents. Her fingers trembled as she clutched her pajamas, her heart pounding.

The Sorting Hat’s revelation still hummed beneath her skin, unraveling everything she’d believed to be true.

A gentle hand settled on her back. She exhaled shakily, gripping the soft fabric in her hands like a lifeline.

“Lyra, we don’t mind that your mum was a Gryffindor or Hermione Granger.” It was Caroline’s voice, not Florence’s, as she anticipated. Lyra stood, turning to look at the rather beautiful girl with kind brown eyes that nearly matched her hair. It wasn’t the reply she anticipated, but her gentle tone did something. James and even her Uncle Ron only had awful things to say about people from the Slytherin house. Perhaps it was they who had it all wrong?

Lyra cleared her throat and nodded. “I’m technically a Swedish-British citizen.”

Caroline snorted and gave her arm a little squeeze before walking away, flipping her hair over her shoulder in dramatic fashion. “It appears we’ll have the most cultured class this year.”

Conversation picked up after that, and Lyra let herself fall into the background. Soon, everyone was nestled in their beds, but not before a genuine round of giggling filled the room. None of the girls bothered to shut their curtains just yet.

“I cannot believe we’re here,” Beatrice said gleefully. “I wonder who will take the last bed next to you, Caroline.”

“Me, too,” Caroline and Dahlia replied simultaneously.

“Does Hogwarts normally have latecomers?” Lyra asked, sitting up to peer past Caroline to the empty bed.

“Not sure. We can ask Patrice in the morning,” Caroline replied, rolling to look at her. “Still worried about being a Slytherin, Lyra?”

She considered for a moment and then shook her head. “No. I think it’s perfect.”

Lyra laid back down on her pillow, staring up at her bed’s canopy, wondering what her mother was doing at that moment. Would her mum be upset that she was in Slytherin or not surprised…because, supposedly, her mysterious father was as well.

Someone turned out the light, but it was a long while before sleep pulled Lyra under. Even then, her dreams were filled with a man’s voice, though she could never see his face.

Chapter Text

Hands pushed and pulled—the only sound was their mingled breaths,

Their lips tasting—savoring.

Want and desire overruled all thought.

The brush of a finger—a hand on her lower back—a lingering look. They were inconsequential but, as a sum, irrevocably overwhelming.

Taste replaced words.

Fingers superseded all notion of modesty.

She moaned—he echoed. It was a dance and both were learning the steps.

Laughter at fingers trailing too close to exposed ribs.

Wistful smiles at the flush of her cheeks.

The bob of a throat.

The rocking, the rhythm ancient and known by many, yet this time—

Somehow.

It was all new.

Perfect.

Hermione woke with a gasp, sweat forcing her curls to cling to her forehead. She scrabbled to clutch the threadbare dream, a quickly fading memory leaving only an ache deep and low. She winced at the more present headache from too little sleep. Hermione waved her hand, silencing her piercing alarm, letting her hand fall back down at her side. She released a long breath, noticing the wrongness she felt and unsure if it was from the lingering dream or her location.

Everything was unfamiliar and wrong: her room, the sounds coming from her transfigured window, the shade of accompanying morning light. At least she could still smell the faint scent of soap from when she last washed her bedsheets before packing them under stasis, sending them to her parent’s house to store until she arrived. Hermione wanted to roll over and take one more day to adjust, but she couldn’t—she wouldn’t.

Her mind wouldn’t allow it.

The boxes in her living room were now strewn about, the contents no longer an organized chaos but simply chaos. They mirrored her troubled thoughts as she dug through them late into the night, searching for the shrunken copies of letters she’d hidden for eleven years. Her peace, like the letters detailing Lyra’s concealment, remained elusive. She thought she packed everything, but perhaps there was an errant box floating about the Institute or in her parent’s attic with the information she needed.

Hermione liked lists—she didn’t necessarily need predictability, but she had never been able to rest until she considered something in its entirety. And even then, she doubted.

The cloud hanging over her as she dragged her weary body from bed this morning was aptly named Narcissa Malfoy.

Hermione forced herself to breathe as she made her tea, counting down with the timer as she watched the steam rise in a concentric pattern from her cup. It felt circular returning to St. Mungo’s, as if she was completing a loop she hadn’t realized was unfinished.

Narcissa’s letter glared at her as she ate her morning toast. It lay open on her bed as she dressed and rested on the bathroom counter as she brushed her teeth. She made a decision as she slotted the dainty gold hoop earrings her mother gave her for Christmas two years ago. With a flick of her wand, she folded Narcissa Malfoy’s summons and banished it to the bottom of her trunk.

Narcissa Malfoy was not going to ruin her first day at work. The pure blood witch could take all her self-appointed aristocracy and shove it up her golden arse for all Hermione cared.

“Eleven bloody years!” Hermione spat as she fiddled with one of her curls, twisting it to lay correctly. “She had years to reach out, and only now she wants to speak?”

Hermione allowed herself one more moment to tantrum before closing her eyes, willing all the vitriol to leave, but in reality, just stuffing it down so tightly it was almost like it wasn’t really there. The letter—the summons—became like a small rock in her shoe, something she only noticed if she stepped the wrong way or allowed herself to be jostled. Narcissa could run on her hamster wheel for all she cared; Hermione had never agreed to get on it with her in the first place.

Music leaked from beneath her neighbor’s door across the hall; Purple Rain incongruent with the delicate, dappled light breathing through the small window behind her as she trekked down the creaky stairs.

London was having an odd morning of sunny weather, the temperature cooler than the day before, but not by much. Hermione paused on the pavement, turning her face up to the sun. She smiled, remembering how the world would hold still when the sun would peek out in Sweden—like flowers, everyone would turn their faces heavenward.

It wasn’t winter yet, but the sun felt like a good omen.

Hermione opened her eyes, letting them adjust to the light, and began walking toward the hospital. She focused her mind on the sound of her steps, allowing the rhythm to sort her worries for the day. There was an excitement beneath the jitters—she loved the beginning of things: the unknowns, the potential hurdles, and the successes.

When Susan Bones Floo-called her eight months ago, Hermione never imagined it would lead to this moment. Susan had taken over as Head Healer of the Janus Thickey Ward a year ago, following the abrupt departure of her predecessor after nearly forty years in the department. With little time to deliberate, the hospital director had recommended Susan to the board, and the decision was made. She reached out to Hermione looking for insights on a treatment Hermione specialized in at the Institute for a long-term patient, and one thing led to another. Now here she was.

Susan had always been more of an acquaintance than a close friend, their connection overshadowed first by school and then by Harry. Hermione wondered if things would have been different—if they might have been better friends—if the war hadn’t upended their lives. If Susan hadn’t lost her family and aunt to Voldemort. If Hermione hadn’t left to help Harry. If she’d been more present during their year of healer training instead of spending it distracted by thoughts of Draco.

She stepped into an errant puddle from yesterday’s deluge, the icy water seeping through her shoe and firmly dislodging all thoughts of what if.

St. Mungo’s loomed in the distance—or, its decrepit facade did, appearing just as tired as it had eleven years ago. The last time she’d been here, she’d turned in her white robe and left for Sweden, unaware she carried Lyra with her even then.

The building looked awful outside the wards that nudged Muggles along, encouraging them to look away and forget about the abandoned department store. It was too early for shoppers to be out and about in this part of Knightsbridge. The air still felt sleepy, and Hermione took a moment to stop and observe.

Circularity.

Hermione knew for a fact she wasn’t carrying a child this time, but instead, she harbored love, devotion, and sacrifice for her daughter as she readied herself to return.

She had tried not to think too often about her residency as a Healer over the years, yet somehow, the memory was fraying at the edges. Had it been raining the day she left? Or was it simply her angry tears from shouting at Draco because he decided not to go? However, to dwell too long led to more questions with answers she wasn’t ready to discover.

“Admiring the view?” an American voice asked from behind, the speaker coming to stand next to her. Hermione glanced over, eyes slightly widening in appreciation. Something she thought dormant did a little flip-flop in her stomach at his warm, wide grin and glossy black hair, waved and styled out of his eyes. She had to look up to meet his curious eyes and unintentionally returned his grin.

This man was open, face curious as his eyes darted back to the defunct Purge and Dowse, Ltd. She quickly cataloged the crisp lines of his trousers and how his sports coat hung just so over a white button-down. He looked like a model businessman taking a stroll in between meetings. In all of that, she didn’t spy a wand or anything that would let her know if she was about to break the statute of secrecy.

She settled on a half-truth. “No, just a bit of nostalgia.”

The man hummed in acceptance, slotting his hands in his trouser pockets and rocking back on his heels.

“Well, happy admiring.” He flashed her a cheeky grin, inclining his head in farewell as he stepped off the curb, deftly moving around a puddle from yesterday’s rain before disappearing through the hospital’s wards.

Hermione huffed as he vanished, stepping through a window to the dummy's right. He evidently was a wizard. Feeling slightly the fool for not answering truthfully, she ignored the other part of her disappointed she did not ask for his name.

Attraction.

The word landed, stirring something Hermione thought unnecessary. Well, attraction was inevitable, a by-product of being human. Romance, however, was superfluous.

She shifted uncomfortably at the thought. Hermione intentionally hadn’t dated for the last several years. She’d been out a few times and even attended a handful of galas with various wizards, but all those seedling relationships stayed precisely where she intended them: nothing.

“Ridiculous,” she mumbled to herself and urged her feet forward. Hermione stepped through the wards, feeling the tingle of acceptance and magic. The facade of Purge and Dowse, Ltd. transformed into a stately building of red brick with the image of two wands crossed affixed to the left of the large doorway. Hermione adjusted the purse on her shoulder and strode through the doors.

The reception area was quiet, with only a few waiting patients in the chairs. It looked the same back then, down to the vanilla-colored seats and safety notices on the wall. She walked up to the desk, smiling at the young witch.

“Hello, my name is—”

“Hermione Granger as I live and breathe. They told me you were coming, but I didn’t know it would be today—”

Hermione inwardly groaned. The public still fawned over their childhoods, simultaneously infantilizing them and expecting them to pull the moon out of their arses.

“Director Diggory’s office, please,” Hermione said, efficiently interrupting the receptionist from further platitudes, speaking softly and using her crisp, authoritative voice that brokered no argument.

The woman’s candy-floss smile faltered at Hermione’s direct tone and firm gaze. Hermione had always been brusk, with little patience for ineptitude. As a girl, insecurity and the need to be liked tempered her…to a degree. As an adult, she reserved all her mercy and motherly care for her patients and children.

More quietly, she replied, “Floor eleven. I’ll let his secretary know you’re on the way up.”

Hermione gave the witch a curt nod, remembering to affix a tight smile of appreciation, and strode toward the lifts without a backward glance. The lifts were as they had been, except with the addition of several new half-floors between the original. Hermione’s eyebrows rose higher with each stop and half-stop.

St. Mungo’s was bloated, having magically expanded to half floors for offices between the original patient floors. She made a mental note to ask about space for an entirely new department. Where was she going to meet with clients? Train other healers in her work? Hopefully, expand to pediatric mind healing and psychiatry with the squib psychiatrists she’d connected with previously. Hermione ran through a long list of things she hoped to achieve in the next eighteen months and wondered if she had been too ambitious.

The lift doors dinged open to a vast waiting room. It looked like a poor imitation of a C-suite-level office that wanted to have a love child with the Ministry of Magic. It wasn’t hard to distinguish the Director’s office, situated at the center of the grouping of offices with double doors. The heel of Hermione’s brown loafers clacked against the marble floors, echoing her arrival if the lift’s sound hadn’t done it already. At the end of the short walk, the secretary didn’t seem surprised to see her. She offered Hermione a thin smile before pressing a button.

Hermione didn’t have long to ponder why the witch didn’t use a patronus when the director appeared in his doorway, dressed in black robes with a white ribbon next to his name tag.

“Hermione Granger, we weren’t expecting you till tomorrow,” Director Jan Diggory said by way of greeting. Something about the man chaffed, and instinctively, Hermione donned the mask required of her. From his oily grin that never brightened his eyes to the press of his lips when she spoke of healing as more than a commodity but rather as societal change, her catalog of dislikes grew with every encounter.

Perhaps it simply came down to their differing theological pedagogies on the purpose of medicine and mental health, with tenuous common ground being hope in the restoration for their patients… and even there, Hermione wondered if he only saw galleons. Probably, the heated discussion they had over floo the day she was offered her job did not help. He’d wanted publicity, and she adamantly refused.

Rolling her shoulders back, Hermione strode forward, accepting his handshake. “No, I’ve always been scheduled to begin today, but if you were unable to coordinate my paperwork…”

Diggory’s eyes squinted minutely at the insinuation of disorder, and Hermione inwardly preened that the subtlety had landed. She forgot how wonderful it was to disagree with the British and how satisfying it could be when words were able to slice instead of bludgeon…as it often went at the Institute.

Hermione prided herself on her thick skin and ability to let things roll off her back. However, Swedish directness was unlike anything she had encountered before. Growing up, she had learned to temper her words, aware that speaking too precisely or too sharply often led to misinterpretation.

Then she moved to Sweden, where blunt critique was the norm. When a trainer flatly told her she was performing a spell incorrectly, her frustration only deepened with each swift correction. It wasn’t until the trainer pulled her aside during their afternoon fika that she realized her irritation hadn’t gone unnoticed. With the same frank kindness, they explained that Swedish honesty wasn’t meant to be unkind—if it were, they would say so outright. Swedes were reserved yet truthful, and Hermione needed to stop searching for subtext that simply wasn’t there.

“I know Healer Bones has sung your praises and is thrilled you are joining her team.”

Hermione stiffened as he dropped his hand. The hospital director turned on his heel, retreating into his office. Perhaps it was a slip of the tongue, but he didn’t strike her as the flippant sort. Diggory was much like Ron's previous boss before he rose through the ranks to Head Auror. Gawain Robards was intractable and considered himself the “last of the old guard.” Diggory would likely find a friend in the retired Head Auror.

Hermione took a quick breath before stepping inside and closing the door behind her. “I believe Healer Bones and I will be peers. Please let me know if my role has been demoted or reallocated so I can make other arrangements.”

The man didn’t so much as blanch at her curtness but waved a manicured hand. “Apologies, we’ve had quite a few things shifting lately. That was my mistake.” He picked up what appeared to be a fresh cup of tea and took a long sip.

Hermione nodded. “Thank you.”

Jan Diggory looked like his younger brother, Amos Diggory. He had the same bright grey-colored eyes that Amos had passed on to his son Cedric and the same pinched expression. However, Jan had none of the winsome allure that Cedric had possessed. Hermione had idly wondered if that came from Cedric’s mother.

Jan had lived in the States until a few years ago when the hospital needed a boost in funding. According to Susan Bones, when Hermione asked during her recruitment process, rehabilitating businesses was Diggory’s specialty…and judging by the state of things, St. Mungo’s really needed the funds he had promised to bring in.

“Tea?” He asked, gesturing to the cart in the corner.

“No, thank you.”

Hermione had a schedule—her life was governed by rhythms that blended with the season and hour. It was too early for a second-morning cup, and she wouldn’t add that practice until the daylight turned so continuously grey she needed the moment of rest. The predictability lent itself to her personality, adding order to what could be considered a disorderly occupation with interruptions and an ever-changing landscape of people.

Diggory narrowed his eyes at her. “Ms. Granger, please have a seat. I know you stopped by to complete paperwork–-” but whatever he was going to say next was cut off by a quick rap on the door before it swung open to reveal the handsome man from the street. His brown sports coat had been replaced by white healer robes with dark purple bands next to his name tag, indicating department and rank within the organization.

Hermione didn’t care for the practice of wearing colors to identify which healer or medi-witch belonged where, thinking it was too militarical. Still, the higher-ups of St. Mungo’s did not—having retired the lime green robes for a more subtle look following the Battle of Hogwarts. The only consolation was that Hermione thought it was their subtle nod to their Muggle counterparts with the white coats.

She hadn’t been informed what color she would be, but Hermione supposed that would be revealed indue course.

The handsome man’s eyes glanced at Hermione, slightly raising his brow before looking back at the director. “Apologies. Ms. Standish wasn’t at her desk, and you requested my presence when I returned?”

Whatever annoyance at the interruption was quickly smoothed away, replaced by Diggory’s default grimace. “Yes, I remember now. Come in. Healer Sendhil, please meet our newest team member to the Janus Thickey Ward, Healer Hermione Granger.

Healer Sendhil strode inside. The man was a stark contrast to the stilted civility of his superior. A scowl didn’t mar his face, and he seemed genuinely delighted that Hermione was there.

“I see your allotted time for nostalgia is up,” he grinned, extending his chestnut hand. “Apologies for not introducing myself earlier. AJ Sendhil, it is a pleasure to finally meet the infamous Hermione Granger. I know Bones is thrilled you’re coming on board.”

Hermione shook his hand, returning his smile for one of her own and admiring his straight teeth. Hermione could appreciate something and not slobber all over it.

“Glad to be here,” she replied. “What is your specialty, Healer Sendhil?”

“Please call me AJ. Jan over here,” he gestured at the Director, either not noticing or ignoring the glare at being addressed by his first nickname, “recruited me for the Magical Virus & Disease Research Department. My specialty back in the States was recurring viral maladies.”

Director Diggory cleared his throat, “Yes, Healter Sendhil joined us about six months ago. We are…pleased to have him and his unique ideas with us for our departmental management.”

Hermione wondered what that meant. She told herself to stay out of it, retreat, find the correct office, and leave, but curiosity was her Achilles heel.

The question was formed on her tongue when the director spoke again, “Well, Ms. Granger. Thank you for stopping by. I’m sure I’ll see you about. If she has bloody returned from wherever she went, my secretary can give you your security tags and direct you to laundry for your robes.”

Knowing she was dismissed, Hermione left, but not before glancing back as the two wizards sat down to speak before the door clicked shut with a wave of the director’s hand.

________

One week-ish later.

“Hermione,” Harry and Ginny gasped in unison. She hadn’t been expecting company when she answered the knock at her front door, already dressed in her favorite leggings and oversized sweatshirt.

“Er…hello? I wasn’t—”

“We know,” Ginny winced. “And we’re sorry, but I brought my mum’s cookies…” She held up a large tray covered with sweets under stasis.

“That looks like a lot more than cookies,” Hermione frowned at the double-Honeyduke-fudge brownies. She loved those brownies and perhaps had a sex dream involving them one time that she told absolutely no one about.

“Hermione,” Harry said again, wrenching her gaze away from the sinful offerings. “You mentioned that your flat might need some repairs, but…” His voice trailed off as he leaned to look around her.

“I also brought a bottle of firewhisky!” Ginny cut in, sensing Harry losing the plot.

Harry turned his head, brows raised. “You did?”

Ginny shrugged. “It seemed like a safe bet. Hermione has been living in the tundra for the last ten years. Don’t you drink when it’s cold?” She directed that last question to Hermione.

“How did you get in? Did someone let you up?” She glanced down the hall to the neighbor she still hadn’t met.

“Well we are—”

Hermione waved her hand, stopping whatever Harry was going to say, pointing down the hall.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled.

Neither party budged and after a long moment, Hermione rolled her eyes and took a step back. She knew when resistance was futile. Ginny went through first, setting the tray down on the card table Hermione had yet to replace. Harry immediately traipsed over to the window facing the brick wall, poking it with his finger while simultaneously glancing up at the ceiling, frowning at the watermark like it was a personal insult.

“I named it Gorm,” Hermione told him over her shoulder, discreetly transfiguring three napkins into whisky tumblers.

“Named what Gorm?” Harry glanced at her in confusion.

“The snake-looking water stain on the ceiling.” Hermione grinned, turning to hand Ginny a glass. The ginger cocked her head, staring up at the ceiling.

“Why Gorm?”

“The Swedish word for snake is orm, and Gorm seemed fitting.” Hermione shrugged.

Ginny and Harry simultaneously turned to look at her, their faces a wash of incredulity.

“I wonder if you should have this place tested for mold,” Ginny finally said, breaking the silence.

“Oh, be quiet,” Hermione waved her off. “Now…let me find something else to transfigure for seating. I haven’t had time to run to the furniture store, and we didn’t bring much with us.”

All she had was a fold-out chair (that she also nicked from her parents’s attic). Their cottage had come fully furnished, everything else they either sold or kept, but even then, it wasn’t much. Hermione loved the simplicity of the Nordic style.

Harry had visited a few times and nodded along in understanding. Ginny frowned, only having visited once with all the kids a few years back. They ended up staying up at one of the bed and breakfasts away from the Institute.

“I’m sure my parents would be glad to lend you anything—” Ginny began, but Hermione cut her off.

“Thank you, and I will take them up on it if I need it, but I promise you. It’s just been a busy first week at the hospital.”

“Have you ventured out into the city yet?” Harry asked, changing the subject as he accepted a generous tumbler from his wife. He peeked inside a box before closing the lid and sitting on it.

She blew out a long breath. “No, the most I’ve done is stop by a Tesco because I needed milk and cheese.”

“Hermione, we could have…” Ginny waved to the entire room. “Helped!”

“I don’t need help…” Her voice trailed off as a fat water drop landed squarely in the middle of Ginny’s forehead, and the witch squawked in annoyance.

“I think Gorm is growing,” Harry mused from the safety of his box.

Ginny sent him a withering look. “We have an assistant at the Harpies who handles all the relocation things for our players. Can I have her show you a few places?”

Hermione frowned. “You’ve only been here ten minutes. Surely it’s not that awful?”

“We’ve been here five, and it took us even less time to see your place, experience the smell, and know that you can do better,” Harry said quietly.

“It’s just a flat,” Hermione groaned, not relishing the thought of looking elsewhere.

Ginny had taken the lone chair while Hermione leaned against the cabinets, her body folded so tightly it was a wonder Ginny and Harry barreled on.

“What harm can come from looking?” Ginny countered.

“Hermione, my cupboard under the stairs was bigger than this.”

“Harry!”

He offered her his lopsided grin. It was a nice sign to see Harry joking about his past rather than building a wall so high no one could really get in and see what was going on.

“I’m sure you can find a way to share child support with your landlord?” Ginny deadpanned.

“What?” Hermione blinked.

Ginny gestured to the ceiling. “Gorm will miss you.”

Harry snorted a laugh, giving his wife a bemused look while she grinned triumphantly at her awful joke.

Hermione stared at her socked feet, resisting the smile that tugged at the edges of her lips. She’d forgotten why she liked Ginny so much during their years in school. She was disarming in a way Hermione and Harry never could be. Much like Molly, she drew people in, not because she wanted to run all over them but because it was in her nature to care.

A soft rap sounded from the window in her bedroom, relieving Hermione of needing to comment.

“One moment.” She practically ran to her room and flung the transfigured window open, but the owl soared past her. Her body lunged, arms flailing out to catch the avian beast, but she only captured air.

Ginny’s squawk and the sound of a glass breaking punctuated the silence. Hermione moved back into her dim living room—she really should have purchased a lamp or something instead of using her wand light and bluebell flames—to see Ginny vanishing the mess with her wand and Harry’s face a blank mask of horror. His eyes darted to the missive clutched in the bird’s beak—the very visible Malfoy M seal facing out toward the room.

Hermione whispered accio, but the letter wouldn’t budge from the bird’s beak.

“Insufferable monster,” she muttered, unsure if she was speaking about the owl or the sender, and stomped over, tugging the letter free from the bird’s beak, swiftly retreating as the bird aimed to nip her finger.

Hermione looked at the letter, examining it momentarily before someone cleared their throat.

“Are you going to read it?” Ginny asked. Her hands were on her hips, staring at Hermione. She chanced a glance at Harry situated just behind Ginny with his head in his hands. Hermione went to toss the letter in the bedroom when the owl let out a piercing cry in protest, flaring its wings to let her know she was to read it now.

“Sounds like the Malfoy owl wants you to read the letter, Hermione.”

Her shoulders tensed. She didn’t realize Ginny would put two and two together so quickly, but Ginny wasn’t an idiot. There was a reason Harry loved her, and she was able to manage her brood all these years while keeping her sanity—Ginny Weasley Potter was shrewd.

Hermione sniffed but did as instructed, unsure how she felt about being ordered around by Ginny when she used her mum's voice on her. She’d heard it when they’d visited during the holidays, grateful Lyra wasn’t so…Gryffindor because Hermione couldn’t imagine sporting that brand of parenting Ginny did with alacrity.

Hermione,

In case a Hippogriff has eaten you, I thought it prudent to resend my request for a meeting.
To speed up the process, I’ve included three dates I am available in the next two weeks.
Athéna will wait for your reply or for you to tap the date with your wand, whatever works best.

I’m unsure how else to express how imperative it is to meet, and soon.

N. M.

Hermione stared at the page a moment longer, weighing her options—and not about what she’d say to Narcissa Malfoy, but to Ginny.

She looked up to see understanding in Ginny’s gaze. She’d expected anger, hurt, derision, and how wrong she’d been.

“How long have you known?” Hermione asked, her voice a thin shell to the emotion inside her.

Ginny shrugged, hugging herself a bit. “I suspected for a while, but seeing how Malfoy looked at you on the platform last week confirmed my suspicions.”

Hermione blew out a shaky breath. “Okay.”

Chapter Text

June 2000

Somewhere near the mountains in Sweden

Her simple Healer uniform had begun to cling to her body. “I need to cut back on the biscuits,” Hermione mumbled, patting her pockets to make sure she had everything she needed for the morning.

Not accustomed to struggle, Hermione steeled herself, affixing another pin in her hair so her curls wouldn’t get in the way. She and Draco were top in their Healer class for Occlumency, Draco because he’d started training at fifteen with Severus, and Hermione out of sheer spite. What one could accomplish with spite and a healthy dose of natural competitiveness was incredible.

Yet, those things didn’t necessarily mean Hermione would be successful here at the Institute. There was a reason the Institute was renowned for their work in Mind Healing; the way the Swedes approached earth magic, using it alongside the inherent magic flowing through all beings, was distinctive as it was challenging to master. Tacking on the already tricky subjects of Occlumency and Legilimency had nearly toppled Hermione during her first few months.

Hermione turned from the mirror, nose wrinkling at the coffee waiting for her on the kitchen table. She was trying to learn to enjoy the beverage, but no matter how she prepared the sludge, it still tasted like bitter, muddy water that made her stomach roil. Three months here, and she still could not understand the delights of Swedish coffee.

She sauntered over, sizing up the mug, when her eyes snagged on the two-week-old copy of the Daily Prophet. Draco’s wedding announcement was an understated footnote—a stiff, joyless photograph of the couple tucked into a corner of the page. Hermione had set fire to the paper the moment she read it. But then, one of the residents left behind their copy, idly remarking on the Prophet’s use of “Muggle photography.” She hadn’t possessed the willpower to throw it away twice, so it remained on her kitchen table, burned into her memory.

The resident had been wrong—it wasn’t Muggle photography. The image simply lacked life. The couple barely moved. Astoria scratched her nose occasionally, flashing her massive ring, but neither smiled.

The wedding had been two weeks ago. Nausea surged again, and Hermione dumped her nearly full mug into the sink. She summoned her things and bolted outside, the crisp morning air biting her skin. Reaching into her herb garden, she plucked a mint leaf and popped it into her mouth, biting down, letting the sharp scent steady her. Three months had passed since she stormed away from Draco, left England, and took the last portkey to the Swedish Ministry of Magic in Stockholm.

Her yellow bike waited for her, leaning against the house. She shrugged on her summer coat and pulled the headscarf from the coat’s extendable pocket. The wind never seemed to settle this close to the mountains.

Her breathing slowed as her sudden wave of nausea passed. Knotting her floral scarf behind her head, pinning down her curls for her upcoming trek to the hospital, she idly wondered if she should look into ginger candies.

The thought was tucked away as she slung her leg onto the bike and kicked off down the worn dirt path. Summer near the mountains was a thing to behold—a riot of wildflowers lined the dirt road of the copse of trees surrounding her cottage.

The Institute offered all its healers these private cottages, though only six others chose to live in them. The rest flooed in from the south, preferring the slightly milder climate. Slightly.

It was a relief having her own space, however small.

Hermione rounded the curve, feeling the wards tingle their acceptance as a sprawling estate came into view. The building itself was a blend of a modest English manor and Swedish countryside charm, its exterior painted in deep Falu Rödfärg, an expansive garden stretching out toward the road. Magic hummed about the place, and the temperature was noticeably regulated as she peddled up the gravel path. She steered to the side entrance for staff, parking her bike.

The grounds were quiet—only the night shift healers remained—but soon, others would arrive. Over thirty healers worked at the Institute, their schedules staggered throughout the week depending on their clients in residence. Some split their time between here and major hospitals in their home countries, taking multiple Floos or Portkeys on their off days—others, like Hermione, specialized in areas that required full-time commitment.

Their team meeting room was spacious but sparse, an ode to Nordic minimalism. A long table filled the room's length, installed with the backdrop of windows overlooking the meadow beyond.

She sat a few seats from the head, setting her magic scheduler, Muggle pen, and notebook before her. A glance at her watch told her she still had fifteen minutes until the meeting began. She pulled out her notes from her last training session with Head Healer Wickstrom skimming over the careful handwriting.

Occlumency is not about hiding in one’s mind but allowing emotions and spirit the space to acclimate to life’s challenges. Legilimency goes beyond reading thoughts—it peels back the layers of a person's soul. Practicing Legilimency responsibly requires deep respect. As both an Occlumens and Legilimens, one must maintain strict boundaries and never read uninvited. It’s a delicate balance, but absolute trust with our clients is paramount.

“Early again, Hermione?” A voice sounded from the doorway, and the smell of burnt coffee beans filled the room. Hermione sat up straight and pressed her fist to her mouth, her gag reflex nearly uncontrollable.

“Oh dear,” said Kerstin, an auxiliary Healer who had been with the Institute for over ten years. “You do look unwell this morning. Still feeling the nausea?”

Hermione waved her hand as if to say she was fine, but she knew the color had drained from her face. “It’s the smell. I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much,” Hermione managed to say.

“Ah,” Kerstin nodded solemnly. “You are very English sometimes.” But to her credit, she cast a containment charm over her drink and dispelled the scent from the room with a flick of her wand.

“God morgon,” called the Head Healer Wikstrom from the doorway. Hilda Wikstrom was an older woman, well over six feet tall, with a commanding stride and a voice that demanded attention. Hermione wanted to be her—self-assured, fiercely independent, and wholly dedicated to her work. She had shattered glass ceilings in the field of magical medicine, pioneering techniques considered radical in their time.

The room filled quickly, and again, no one else noticed Hermione was the first to complete her assignments, the first to arrive, and the first Healer from the UK in a long time. Part of that was due to the UK’s delayed views on Mental Health and Voldemort’s influence across the islands.

Assignments were handed out, other announcements made, and soon they were dismissed, but before they left, Head Healer Wikstrom said, “Healer Granger. A moment, if you please.”

That she said the request in English should have set off alarm bells in Hermione’s mind, but she was still too new to measure the difference.

Hermione tried not to preen at the healer’s designation. She quickly learned not to gloat or flaunt; it was abhorrent to her colleagues. She waited until the door shut and turned to look at the Head Healer. The older woman leaned forward on her elbows, folding her hands before her.

“You look unwell.”

Hermione blinked. “I…pardon?”

“Your color is off. Have you run a diagnostic test on yourself recently?”

Hermione bristled at the comment. “I feel perfectly fine, but perhaps I should abstain from coffee. It doesn't seem to agree with me. I promise you it’s nothing that will impede my work here.”

Healer Wikstrom held up a hand to silence her. “You are the first here every day and the last to leave. You push yourself, Hermione, and yet I cannot help but notice…oh, what is the English word.” She frowned but threw her hands up in the air in defeat. “Vara i hamsterhjulet is the phrase. You are running from something, but it seems it persists, and you cannot escape.”

Hermione’s body tensed as if she’d been plunged into cold water.

“No,” she replied automatically. “Healer Wickstrom—”

“Hermione—”

She out a huff. Hermione never dared call her superiors at St. Mungo’s by their first name, but once again, Sweden was different.

“Healer Helga,” Hermione corrected herself. “I know I have much to catch up on. Beyond learning a new practice of magic, I’m also spending late nights learning Swedish because I’d rather not rely on translation spells my entire life. It’s…well,” she shifted in her seat, noticing the defensiveness in her voice. “Perhaps I have been…working longer than necessary.”

Healer Helga gave her a swift nod of approval. “Ja. You have, Hermione. What did we speak about when you first arrived?”

“Lagom är bäst.” Hermione tried not to mumble the phrase.

As foreign as the Swedish word itself, the concept of doing “just enough” wasn’t in Hermione’s vocabulary.

“Correct, lagom. While we appreciate your enthusiasm and dedication, we expect balance. If you are to live this life, practice at this level of healing magic, you must learn how to know when just enough is enough.”

The sentiment chafed, but she pressed her lips together. It wouldn’t do to argue the point further.

“I’d like you to follow Healer Gertrude today. She’s working with our long term patients.”

Sensing she was dismissed, Hermione scooted back her chair to leave.

“And Hermione, please do a diagnostic tonight. We need you in peak health for our training next week.”

“Yes, I will,” she answered, shutting the door quietly behind her.

The day was long and quiet. Like the Longbottoms, most of their long-term care patients were non-verbal or similarly afflicted, but where their care drastically differed was the environment. The tenants were regularly moved from their rooms, whether in magicked wheelchairs or by a gentle hand guiding them down the long corridors, out into the front garden, or through a public trail to the lake nearby.

By the time Hermione returned home, the sun had long since set. She tried to eat dinner with the other residents, but something about the boiled vegetables made her set her fork down. She let her head fall against the closed door, shutting her eyes.

Perhaps the Head Healer was correct. She was tired. More so than she had ever felt in her life.

She sloughed off her shoes and coat, using her wand to put them each in their place. Hermione took a quick shower and then promptly climbed into bed, forgoing her usual nightly tea. She was drifting off when she remembered her promise to the Head Healer: run a diagnostic.

She debated putting it off till morning, but sleep wouldn’t come until she finished her assignment.

“Fine,” she muttered, pulling her wand from beneath her pillow. It was a simple enough spell; she could do it lying down. Moving her wand in a gentle arc, she didn’t even bother to whisper the words as she had done so many times in the last few years.

A glowing chart hovered above her, runes mixed with English. It all looked as it should, except for her iron levels.

Hermione scrunched her eyes, trying to picture the page in her textbook about diagnostic readings.

If a witch's iron level is low, review further for anemia and possible pregnancy.

Her eyes flew open. How long had it been since her last cycle? Hermione mentally counted back the weeks.

No.

She propped herself up on her elbows and waved a hand, dimming the light in the room. A cold sweat engulfed her body, setting every nerve ending on edge. The last recollection of her monthly had been before she left England.

She moved her wand in the less familiar pattern, one she’d only performed a handful of times because she had no patience for midwifery or obstetrics. She never looked back when that rotation at St. Mungo’s was finished.

Nothing glowed above her abdomen for several seconds, long enough that she wondered if she even did the spell correctly…until it did. A small ball of light that should have been grey and dormant glowed golden and bright.

She brushed her fingers through the little light, and inexplicably, her heart filled with wonder rather than dread—a sensation so incongruous with what she idly wondered she should feel. Hermione didn’t have plans to marry or even think about having a child for a very long time. The timing was inverted, but…when would she have another chance?

As soon as the thought came, she knew it to be true. She let out a shuddering breath.

Hermione didn’t have to guess at the father; she’d only been with one man in the last year, and he was on his honeymoon with a Slytherin princess.

________

Late September 2013 - Present Day

“There, softly now.” Hermione cradled her hands over her patient’s as they clutched her modified Remembrall. “As we practiced last week, I want you to picture your safe place. Let your mind rest and focus only on this scene.”

Hermione’s entire “Mind Healing Department” of St. Mungo’s was contained in this humble eleven cubic meters of a room. Someone might think St. Mungo’s did not want Hermione Granger at their hospital because of the minimal accommodations she’d been afforded, but the powers that be obviously did not remember her well. Obstacles only made Hermione dig in her heels, and work harder rather than retreat.

The moment Hermione had walked through the doors, Susan had a stack of clients ready for Hermione’s services. She spent the better part of her first two weeks becoming acquainted with the files and trying to rearrange her tiny office between floors four and five.

The Remembrall glowed in her patient’s hands, indicating he was clearing his mind and focusing on the place as Hermione had instructed. His lips quirked up at the side, and the perpetual furrow between his brows had softened.

Hermione’s methods were unorthodox— a mixture of Muggle science and psychology, interwoven with modern magic and potions, including a cultivated form of occlumency only taught by the healers at the Institute. It had taken Hermione five years to master occlumency to a level sufficient enough to practice there. By how invested the lead healer had been in her journey, Hermione thought she’d take Head Healer Helga’s place someday.

But then Susan called, and her world forked down the middle. Hermione could have stayed, but the unknown path called to her—and once again, moving away was the adventure. She never considered moving home to be the biggest one yet.

Her wand vibrated in her pocket—a five-minute warning till the end of the session.

“Jamal, if you feel comfortable, I’d like you to describe one thing you’re seeing.” She let go of his hands and leaned back, trying to adjust her position. She was grateful her client’s eyes were closed so he didn’t need to witness her wince as her tailbone protested in the uncomfortable plastic chair she snuck from the waiting room because the sofa she requested was still on backorder…or so she was told.

Jamal was a middle-aged man from Devon who had been captured by the Death Eaters during the war and forced to serve at the Dolohov estate. He had once owned a small shop, selling a mixture of Muggle and magical home items.

His hands still shook when Hermione would pull out her wand, eyes darting to the floor when he spoke longer than a sentence or two. And in all these ten plus years, the most help he’d had was a once-a-month Healer appointment where they prescribed a mediocre, mass-produced calming draught. He was too scared to seek out a Squib counselor but unable to move on from the shop that once delighted him. His daughter now ran the store in his stead while he worked in the back, terrified of the little bell over the door and the demons his dreams said would come again.

His voice reminded Hermione of soft cotton, easy and gentle. “I’m at my gran’s home. She—Her kitchen is full with pans n’ pots. She’s cooking.” She didn’t have to look to see the rare smile and the wrinkle of his eyes.

To Hermione, it didn’t matter where her clients chose as their safe harbor, only that it was somewhere like Jamal described: safe, inviting, a refuge for when things were overwhelming—not to disassociate but to remain grounded in goodness and light.

The session ended the same way. He returned to his safe harbor before his eyes blinked open. She flicked on a lamp nested on her desk with a bit of wandless magic.

“That was a productive session,” Hermione remarked, taking the Remembrall and tucking it in one of her desk drawers. The room

Giving her back a little stretch, she leaned forward to flip open her magical scheduler. “I have you down for next week at the same time. Does that still work for you?”

His eyes were bright; the ghostly tension abated for the briefest moment. “Yes, ma’am.”

A smile pulled the edges of her lips. “Hermione is fine. See you soon.”

He gave her a singular wave and pulled open the door but let out an uncommon yelp and ducked as an irritatingly familiar owl swooped inside.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Hermione cried, stumbling over the folding chair’s leg in an attempt to help Jamal stand. “It’s a rather persistent…nuisance of a correspondent. I didn’t realize owls could get into St. Mungo’s, or I would have put up a ward about my room. I’ll make sure she isn’t here next time,” Hermione said over her shoulder, glaring at the bird now perched on the back of her chair…as if it were its second home.

Jamal nodded, his shoulders hunched and his hands shaking as Hermione let go.

“Bye, Ms. Hermione,” he said quietly, briskly walking down the hall toward the exit. She watched him, her brow furrowed, before she rounded on the avian beast.

“I wish Crookshanks were around because he’d think you a delightful snack, you bride of Satan.”

Narcissa’s owl fluffed her feathers and clicked her beak at the weak insult. Hermione had unfortunately begun to understand this Malfoy owl. It was clever, appreciated punctuality, and relished a good-aimed barb. Athéna would only give a light nip for an ingenious, scathing remark about her or Narcissa.

Brilliance was rewarded, while mediocrity was scorned. It was a jarring insight into the Malfoy family.

Hermione crafted a noncommittal reply with Harry and Ginny to get the bloody bird to leave the prior weekend and replied similarly to Narcissa’s letters since then.

Hermione stared down the wretch, keeping her mouth shut until she could craft a passable insult, but her magic-scheduler dinged, saving her from a vicious nip because she had nothing delightfully vile to convey.

“I have a meeting, Athéna. I’m not returning today, so you’ll be here until morning if you stay. Please go home or wait for me at my flat if you must.” Hermione loathed that she was on a first-name basis with the owl.

Athéna turned her head, cocking it slightly as if considering. Not caring what the menace decided to do, Hermione summoned her papers and bag from her desk. She then summoned her folding chair and shrunk it, forcing Athéna to alight and swoop out of the room. Hermione let out a long breath, relieved that the bird had gone. She turned off her diffuser in the corner and the light on her desk.

This was a far cry from where she’d been. She locked the door and moved down the quiet hall to the lifts.

“Hermione,” a voice called after her. Dressed in only his slacks and a crisp white button-down, Healer Sendhil jogged to catch up to her.

Unable to resist, Hermione offered him a smile in greeting, much like how you’d yield a smile for a darling puppy. It couldn’t be helped.

“Hello, AJ. Finished for the day?” she asked.

The handsome healer shook his head, his silky black waves bouncing. “Alas, I am not. I needed more spell-o tape, and your floor houses the utility cupboard…” He winced as he realized his error.

She gave him a wan smile, punching the lift’s button with more force than was strictly necessary.

“No need to be embarrassed. I think the spell-o tape has more spacious accommodations than my entire one-witch department.” Hermione tried to huff a laugh at her attempted joke, but there was too much truth behind it to be anything less than pitiful.

The lift mercifully dinged, its doors opening to reveal an empty carriage.

AJ leaned forward, pressing his hand to the retracted door. “After you,” he said with a sweeping gesture.

She breezed past him, but not before noting the faint scent of curry and a heady cologne. It wasn’t something Hermione would choose, but that didn’t mean she was opposed to learning to like the scent.

“What level?” She asked, hand hovering over worn buttons.

“Level eleven, please.”

Hermione held in her irritation. She was going down, but pressed his floor number first, then hers. She grimaced at the odd, jerky movement the lift made to avoid another one in their ascent.

“Big plans for this weekend?” AJ asked conversationally, nearly leaning on the wall before thinking better of it.

AJ was always like this—informal in that American way and offering you his undivided attention. Yet, their conversations were never more than pleasant passings. He seemed…intrigued by her, but then again, she wondered if all the witches, or wizards for that matter, felt that way when speaking with him.

“I’m heading out to go tour a flat with—” Hermione was about to say estate agent, but that sounded much too formal for the favor Parvati had been doing for her. “—a friend and then dinner at the pub. I suspect much of my weekend will be filled with reviewing the remaining files Susan sent over. I still feel a bit behind on many of the cases in the Janus Thickey ward.”

AJ hummed, rocking back on his heels with his hands in his pockets. “Well, I’m sure you’ll get there.”

Before she could ask him the same question, they stopped on his floor, and just as smoothly as he had wafted into her atmosphere, he left.

“I honestly don’t know what to make of that man,” Hermione mumbled, jamming the button closed.

________

“Happy birthday, Hermione!”

Her shoulders hitched, a not-so-subtle flinch at the cacophony of noise filling George and Angelina’s home. Hermione pasted on a bemused smile, offering the packed living room a little wave.

She was afforded a moment to hang her coat on the hook, but that was it, and she was promptly pulled into the throng of well-wishers.

She nodded and gave hugs when requested. Her inner circle of friends knew she had returned, but the wider circle did not. Parvati and Padma waved but were caught up in a discussion with Dean and Seamus. Several faces she hadn’t seen in ten years filtered through the room. It was an oddly sweet semi-homecoming, semi-birthday soirée.

Yet, in all of this, the cloud of Lyra’s absent owl dampened her spirit. It wasn’t like Lyra to forget these things, but then again, Hermione never fussed over her birthday, taking care to celebrate Lyra’s birthday instead when the time came.

“Alright, Hermione?” Ron asked, interrupting her musings with a slight bump to her shoulder with his. “Cake?” he offered his half-eaten piece to her.

“No, thank you, though.”

“This isn’t what you planned on, is it?” he asked, not unkindly and with more social awareness than Hermione thought possible for him.

“No,” Hermione replied slowly. “But it is nice to celebrate with friends.”

“Well, your friends are glad you’re home.” Ron smiled down at her, lopsided and warm.

She gave him a stiff nod and remained in her spot by the wall, watching but not participating. Life had gone on while she was away; new friendships and families had formed. Hermione felt a bit on the outside of it all and didn’t know where to begin bridging the gap.

Ron wandered on, but she watched him, wondering if he had also changed enough for her to think of him as something more.

________

October 2013 - Present day

Without her notice, autumn somehow replaced the late summer doldrums, bringing cooler temperatures and one last burst of color before a long, dreary winter. Halloween shop displays boasting ghoulish delights called to Hermione. Yet, her feet did not tarry, keeping a brisk pace through the crowds of people, ignoring the murmurs as she passed.

She still hadn’t found a new flat that fit her needs. Hermione knew she was being a difficult client for Parvati and wondered when she told her to give up and propose to Gorm.

Hermione resisted patting down her wild curls. She loathed that her hair was so recognizable, especially after a prolonged day shadowing Susan with her permanent residents, observing their practices before making suggestions. The slow nature of the Institute still clung to her even though ten years ago, she would much rather have run than walked.

A candied pecan vendor at the end of the lane stepped to the side, and Hermione finally spotted her destination: Harry’s store.

Harry had been reluctant to own a storefront, working instead from their home’s garden shed until Ginny had enough with the sawdust…and children. Hermione’s lips twitched as she approached, remembering the story of Lily’s conception and how that had been the final straw.

“I can’t be trusted with him that close all the time.” Ginny had shrugged as she had eaten an apple that day. Ron had spluttered his beer, and George let out a loud guffaw as he smacked Ron on the back.

Despite having a vast working knowledge on the subject of reproduction, Ginny peppered Hermione with questions the week after she revealed Lyra’s sire, for a galling lack of better words, because of Narcissa’s letter.

How did it begin?

Did you shag during your eighth year?

Just one fucking time? Bad luck, that one.

Then Ginny grinned, something maniacal and wonderful. “And the ferret doesn’t bloody know.”

“Don’t call him that,” Harry and Hermione had said in unison.

Hermione had artfully dodged each post from Narcissa, citing one banal reason or another for why she could not meet when Narcissa insisted on a reply. Hermione wondered if her time was running short for avoiding the meeting.

The sign for Prongs & Padfoot swayed with the wind, the carved dog and stag chasing one another around the words; occasionally, a werewolf would peek its head out from behind one of the engraved letters. Hermione’s heart clenched, knowing it cost Harry something to share that precious part of him with the wizarding world. Not many knew precisely why he chose a black dog, although the stag was easily guessed because of his famous patronus.

Harry’s shop was mainly run by him for all his success, but he employed a few werewolves during the peak season. Hermione assumed most were off today, preparing for the full moon. She pushed open the door, revealing an open workspace that functioned as a workshop and store. The radio in the corner blasted nineties grunge, a heady contrast to the pristine workshop.

“Harry?” Hermione called out over the noise but didn't see anyone. The carved wooden clock on the wall noted it was just about time for Harry to close. They were supposed to grab dinner tonight, and she thought they could get a drink before going to the restaurant. Hermione let her fingers trail along the wall where he stored items waiting to be picked up. Her lips twitched at a clock face featuring a flying seeker, always trying to catch a snitch.

“How apropos to trying to seize time,” Hermione muttered. She winced as the music took a grating turn and flicked her wrist, shutting it off entirely with a bit of wandless magic.

It was then that she realized why the music had been so loud and jarring: because of the heavy moans coming from the storage cupboard. Hermione stilled, not necessarily shocked at what she was hearing but startled.

“Gin, we only have half an hour till dinner.” She wrinkled her nose at Harry’s muffled groan. Ginny let out a deep, mischievous laugh from the mercifully closed door.

Hermione closed her eyes and turned on her heel. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said as she stomped out of the shop, but not before flicking back on the music, turning the sign to closed, and locking the door behind her, not caring if it slammed on her way out.

She stood outside, letting out an exasperated sigh. But her lips twitched at the familiarity of it all. It had been the same when she lived with them in Grimmauld Place after her eighth year. Nearly fifteen years later, neither one could remember to put up a silencing charm.

Their poor kids.

Suddenly free with time to spare, Hermione didn’t know quite what to do. A group of women up the way from where she just came were looking at her, not hiding their furied whispering. Hermione spun and set off in the opposite direction, not wanting to be cornered. The street vendors had begun to pack their things away in the few minutes she’d been inside the shop, and signs in store windows were being turned from open to close with a flick of the wand.

Hermione couldn’t say why it had taken her so long to find her way to Flourish and Blotts Bookstore, but the sense of belonging as she pressed on the aged brass handle made tears prick the edges of her eyes. The dainty bell above the door chimed. Hermione inhaled the comforting scent of ink and parchment. Her gaze flitted about, not landing anywhere because she didn’t know where to begin.

She frowned, surprised to see the spot behind the till devoid of the aging owners who’d been so kind to her after the war. Hermione hastily pushed up the sleeve of her coat to check the time. It was getting late, and the associates were likely going through their closing procedures.

“I’m going to be quick! I promise,” she called over her shoulder as she set off toward the school paraphernalia section, at least where she remembered it being located. She wanted to send something to Lyra. Visions of Draco and company receiving large care packages flashed before her as she barreled down the aisles.

From the three letters she’d received since September, it was clear Lyra was evolving—none of the missives were terribly effusive. Still, it at least sounded like her daughter was happy.

Lyra only spoke briefly about her house, avoiding mention of friends’ names. Hermione tried not to read too much into it. Perhaps Lyra was worried Hermione would be disappointed that she was sorted into Slytherin, but hadn’t Hermione already expressed to her how delighted she was that Lyra was doing something different?

Thoroughly turned around in the Modern Magics section, that inexplicably included One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, Gilderoy Lockhart’s old skincare instructional, and Rita Skeeter’s latest memoir, she let out a huff of irritation.

The layout of Flourish and Blotts had changed dramatically. Boxes were strewn about the floor, carts filled with identical copies, while other shelves remained empty—it was as if the store abruptly stopped mid-reorganization and everyone went home, leaving it suspended in chaos.

Hermione vaguely remembered Molly grumbling that they couldn’t get all of Al’s textbooks because of the incompetent nephew who’d taken over.

Hermione decided to give up on speed and let her feet wander. Harry and Ginny could wait five minutes at dinner, though she didn't anticipate it taking that long.

Pleased at that thought, Hermione fled Modern Magics and skidded to a halt. The romance section was extensive. What was once contained to a tucked-away corner with a few books that spat out tawdry limericks and confetti hearts was now a dedicated, double-sided aisle with everything from the latest romcoms to moving picture books with what appeared to include licentious instructions.

She bit her lip, holding in a squeal of delight, nearly skipping into one of the few clearly labeled sections of the store.

Hermione had visited the old romance section with Ginny and Fleur the summer before they went on the run. Fleur had declared in her mixed English that she wanted something to read while they were on their honeymoon and insisted it needed to be “ze trashiest piece of filth.”

Back then, Hermione’s cheeks had reddened at the sight of the shirtless men and bulging creatures plastered across the book covers. She’d been curious and even let Viktor feel her up once, but it had never gone further. When would she have had the time to explore that aspect of herself while saving Harry and coddling Ron?

She remembered Ginny becoming uncharacteristically quiet as she not-so-subtly picked up Tantric Sex for Modern Witches. Fleur had tsked, plucking the book from Ginny’s hands. “When you are ready to have sex, come ask me. This is useless.”

Hermione never asked Ginny if she had approached Fleur about sex when she and Harry finally got together. It might have been awkward since Bill was her older brother…then on second consideration, the two witches weren’t the most precious of people, so perhaps it hadn’t mattered to them.

Hermione smiled at the memory, idly selecting a book titled “Impaled by a Vampire.” Her eyebrows rose as she flipped through the pages. Yes, this would do splendidly. She indiscriminately grabbed a few more with various covers.

Hermione selected one to gift Ginny at dinner, boasting a moving picture of a lumberjack with an ax slung over his shoulder and an open flannel shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked body. A workbench with wood stacked as high as a Hippogriff stood tall and proud in the background. He winked at her as she stacked him on her ever-growing pile floating behind her.

By the time she ventured to the front, her arms were considerably heavier for someone who had arrived on a whim. Distracted by the sugar quill display, Hermione unceremoniously dropped her pile before the store clerk waiting behind the counter.

“Sorry about that, but I think I need to grab…” Hermione’s voice trailed off as she seized her favorite flavors, planning to include some in Lyra’s gift package.

Eyes bright with a sense of accomplishment, she looked at the cashier and gasped. Draco Malfoy stood behind the till, his face hard and unreadable.

Hermione had imagined running into Draco countless times. In each scenario, she was put together, perhaps arriving fresh off the heels of saving a renowned dignitary from the brink of mental collapse or rescuing…kittens.

It wasn’t like this, though, with a towering stack of romance novels, Slytherin paraphernalia, and a shocking amount of sugar quills that no sensible woman in her early thirties ever needed to consume.

He must think she’s gone round the bend.

Malfoy stood stiffly behind the counter. His severe jaw was in relief, pale skin contrasting with the dim light of the shop. Hermione squared her shoulders, quite used to dealing with less-than-efficacious store clerks.

Draco silently dragged her pile of items toward himself, opened an ancient-looking ledger, and began writing each item on a separate line. Hermione’s eyes widened as he tugged another tome from beneath the counter to consult the price of one of her items.

Her eyebrows raised as his long fingers trailed the page before noting the price in the other tome. It was a gesture she thought he’d do over his own ledgers at Malfoy Manor, not here, in a Diagon Alley shop.

For the first time in a long while, Hermione had questions but wasn’t sure how to get the answers she wanted.

Why was Draco here?

Why was he behind the counter?

What happened to his hands?

Malfoy’s scarred hand hovered over the Slytherin diary, green quills and ink, stationery that self-monogrammed with a touch of a wand and boasted the Slytherin house crest, and a silver and green scarf.

“Is this for your nephew?” he asked, breaking the silence as he inspected a quill’s goose feather. She blinked, tearing her eyes away from the angry ridges and tight red skin. It looked like it still hurt. How long?

Hermione blinked, surprised he was speaking to her, and answered before considering her reply. “No, my daughter. She was sorted into Slytherin, and I wanted to send her a little care package.”

“I believe scarves are given to each student upon sorting, courtesy of Hogwarts.” His voice was still crisp and lilting, revealing his aristocratic upbringing but now devoid of all the condescension she had once associated with him.

Hermione smirked. “Yes, but they’re not given to the parents of Slytherins if they were sorted into another house.”

“I see,” he said, a slight smirk tugging at the edges of his lips before he wrote the item in his ledger and rang it up on the till. He didn’t say anything more. Hermione didn’t know where to look. Every nerve ending seemed to be working in overdrive. She looked out the shop window to give her mind something else to focus on.

The street lights had already been lit, and the street vendors were gone. She frowned, looking at her watch.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how late it had become,” she said, now understanding Malfoy’s initial grumpiness. He’d likely wanted to close up thirty minutes ago.

Malfoy hummed, eyebrows raised at the latest edition of Hogwarts: A History, but waved her off after a moment. “I have nowhere else to be. It’s fine.”

His hands paused as the following stack of books was revealed, perhaps artfully hidden at the bottom of the pile by her doing. Of course, the first book had to be the book with the illustrated vampire standing over a woman lying in a canopied bed, his hand on his belt buckle with the words “IMPALED” glowing on the cover. She didn’t mean to blush, but the growing smirk that tugged the edges of his lips as he went through the six books she’d chosen, all from that women’s romance section, seemed too much for him.

“Is something amusing?” Hermione snapped.

“Hardly.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

Malfoy continued, barely concealing his mirth “My ex-wife discovered this author.” His hand rested on the last romance book she pulled from the “Muggle Author” recommendations.

“Did she?” Hermione didn’t mean to sound insincere, but she was irritated.

He hummed in reply to her question. “She went to the States to meet the author and his publishing company and never returned.”

Hermione cocked her head. She hadn’t known Astoria Greengrass while in school. She’d had sparse encounters with her older sister in their same year, and none of the memories were all that sterling. Hermionie tucked away the thought that a pureblood witch left Draco for America and loved Muggle literature for later.

“That must have been quite the change for her,” Hermione remarked.

Malfoy let out a derisive snort. “Likely, but As—she has always been a quick study.” He cleared his throat. “That will be fifteen galleons and three sickles. Would you like to start a tab? We collect the last Thursday of each month.”

Hermione opened her mouth to decline but then paused. She wasn’t here on holiday. She was home. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, I would. I’ve—I’ve moved back to London, so I think we should be seeing one another more often.”

Dig a hole and throw her inside it, she thought as the expression on Draco’s face morphed from mirth to something indefinable—a mask.

He was occluding.

She added that to the mile-high list of questions surrounding her one-time lover.

She tugged the bags from him and swallowed, slowly backing up with her purchases, pressing them close to her sides. He leaned forward on his elbows, his eyes playful, and all pretense of surliness vanished. “Please let me know how you enjoy the books. I’m sure I can make some wonderful recommendations next time.”

Hermione nodded. “Yes. Thank you. Do you need any more information for the tab?”

She immediately regretted her brusqueness as she watched his eyes shutter. “No, I’m sure our owls can find you and your husband, Granger.”

“I’m not married,” she automatically corrected before giving him a sharp nod of farewell and escaping the shop.

Hermione dashed down the road, shrinking her things and tucking them into her satchel before pulling open the door to the Leaky Cauldron. Harry and Ginny laughed at something the barman said behind the bar; their pints were mostly finished.

“There you are,” Ginny grinned. “Get lost on your way here?”

“Hermione?” Harry’s gaze took in her pallor. She didn’t need to reach up to know that her hair had grown in her agitation as she fled Flourish and Blotts.

“Why didn’t you tell me Draco Malfoy works at Flourish and Blotts?” she hissed, tossing her things onto the open barstool.

Harry’s mouth opened and closed. Ginny wore a similar expression.

“We had no idea, honest Hermione.”

“Malfoy doesn’t just work at Flourish and Blotts,” the barman interrupted, not noticing they were having a private conversation. “He owns the whole bloody place. Hasn’t burnt it down yet, so maybe it’s not a bad thing, I suppose,” he mused. “Anything is better than that nephew.”

The barman wandered off to serve a hag at the other end of the bar, leaving silence in the wake of his pronouncement. Ginny rounded on Harry, punching him hard in the arm.

“Ouch!” Harry exclaimed, rubbing his bicep. “What was that for?”

“Your inability to gossip! We would have been the first to know if you put forth a little effort and chatted with your fellows.”

“My fellows?” A wry smirk replaced his grimace.

Ginny waved her hands in the air. “You know what I mean. If you socialized.”

“Well,” Harry shrugged and didn’t continue.

“You’re useless,” Ginny said affectionately before turning to Hermione. “Come on, let’s go get dinner, and you can tell us all about your clandestine meeting.”

The way Ginny’s eyebrows waggled did not bode well for Hermione, but she joined them all the same.

Chapter Text

That same night.

Draco slammed the door behind him, flinching as the picture frames rocked precariously against the wall. His House Elf had been decorating again.

“Mippy!” he shouted, throwing his gloves on the front table. Draco’s hands shook as he combed his fingers through his windswept hair. Granger had been in his store and had spoken with him. He stared at himself in the hall mirror, but all he could see was her.

Hermione Granger had returned—and he hadn’t known. Perhaps had he paid better attention, read the Daily Prophet, or visited his mother whenever she’d sent that damned owl summons, he wouldn’t have been so caught off guard. A phantom ache pained his wrist where the wretched bird bit him the last time he rolled his eyes at the letter and lit it on fire.

The longing for the sea was particularly acute today…and for his son and the quiet life they created for themselves after Astoria left. They had nearly four glorious years living above Librairie Cygnus.

Salazar, he missed Scorpius, but at least his son was not lax in his correspondence. Draco’s lips twitched at the thought, his eyes flitting to where the daily post usually awaited him, but it was curiously empty today. Scorpius’s letter from two weeks ago lay open on his desk upstairs, a full three pages front and back.

Merlin, that boy could pontificate.

Even still, those letters were like having him here, chattering behind Draco about whatever flitted through his magnificent mind.

“You bellowed?” Mippy, his House Elf, appeared by his feet, hands perched on her tiny hips.

“Apologies, Mips. I was wondering what you did with that box Dottie gave me.”

The House Elf rolled her eyes and snapped her fingers, the shoebox appearing in her hands. Draco tried not to grin as he took the box from Mippy.

“Dinner will be ready when you are,” she said a bit tartly for his taste before disappearing with a crack.

Draco took the stairs two at a time, flicking his wand at his office. The door swung open, lamps flickering to life in greeting. Unlike the rest of the townhouse, this room remained in disarray, Draco having forbidden Mippy from touching the contents beyond dusting. The unpacked boxes were his burden—records from Librairie Cygnus, decade-old files transferred from the Manor, remnants of his father’s life and legacy that were his responsibility now. He’d ignored many of them for as long as possible, handing off most things to his solicitors or allowing his mother to manage the day-to-day tasks of the Manor.

Side-stepping a teetering stack, he reached his desk, situated by the large window, and dropped Dottie’s box down, burying Scorpius’s letter beneath it. The Malfoy townhouse had stood empty for forty years before he moved in. It still felt like it was waiting for someone else.

Beneath Scorpius’s letter was another—one from his solicitor—informing him that the Fidelius Charm over the townhome was set to lift in November. As the head of the family, the choice now fell to Draco: renew the enchantment for another two hundred years or allow it to lapse.

At first, Draco supposed he would renew the charm and be done with it. But then his mother, of all people, suggested otherwise. Let it go, she’d said. Rent out the attached unit—41 B. Maybe even to Muggles. The idea surprised him, but it wasn’t without merit. Despite not needing the funds, even his solicitor thought it a sound business move.

He gazed out the window at the house across the street, decorated for Halloween with a glowing, plastic jack-o-lantern on its steps. He liked living among Muggles. Even Librairie Cygnus would acquire a stray Muggle on occasion, the store enchanted to reveal non-magical books to non-magical people.

The last line of his solicitor’s letter gave him pause, though: the Ministry would need to modify the neighboring Muggles’ memories; it would be quite the surprise for two homes to suddenly appear across the street, when you’ve stared at different ones your entire life. His solicitor assured him it should be a quick process.

The question that had plagued him for the better part of ten years flashed through his mind: What would Hermione think about it all?

It was a dangerous line of questioning for Draco because once he allowed his mind to think of Hermione, it was hard to stop unless he occluded. He’d lived this way for so long, resigned that this was his penance for making promises he could never keep—not that he knew that then.

“I’m not married,” she had said.

Draco had no idea if that was a panicked declaration or an olive branch.

Hermione had grown in every respect. Her voice sounded the same, but she carried herself differently, more assured but quiet. Time had been a tutor to them all, Draco supposed.

Draco ran a tired hand down his face and turned toward his desk, where the box from Dottie was waiting for him. It had been a footnote from that day, left in his coat pocket for Mippy to find and store until he remembered it.

He smiled as he remembered the stack of romance novels Hermione purchased. He’d read every one of them and his cock twitched at the thought of her reading them as well.

Hastily, he flipped off the lid, eager to move his thoughts beyond his last customer of the day.

A stitch formed between his brow as he thumbed through the contents— mostly old Daily Prophet clippings. But at the bottom lay something entirely unexpected: a moving Polaroid with a small group of freshly promoted healers, their white coats crisp, purple stripes newly fixed upon their shoulders—no longer healer students, but first-year healers and eventual apprentices.

Draco grinned at the once familiar group, laughing and hugging, a joyous moment caught in time where he truly believed life was beginning to right itself.

Standing off to the right of the wild group of ten were the awkward pair that had danced around one another for the better part of a year. Each missing the other’s gaze as they smiled for the photo.

“Hermione Granger, what have you done?” Draco mumbled, slumping into his desk chair, staring at the long-forgotten picture.

“Does Master want me to retrieve the candelabra from storage so you can have a moody dinner?” Mippy asked from the doorway, levitating a dinner tray before her.

“Mips, please,” Draco groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. He patted his chest, looking for his glasses, but they weren’t there.

“What would you do without me?” Mippy sniffed as she snapped her fingers. Dottie’s box and papers lifted off the desktop, floating to a neat pile to the right and revealing his buried reading glasses. Not wanting to navigate the maze of his room, she floated the tray to him, landing it softly before him without so much as a spilled drop of wine.

“There,” Mippy said, pleased with herself. She had artfully arranged the plate with all its necessities on the tray as if he were dining at the Manor and not his home office.

“You really needn’t have—”

“Master Draco, you are alone. If I don’t look out for you, who will?”

Draco recoiled at that astute observation. He didn’t think of himself as alone, per se, but the creature did have a fair point, even if the delivery was a bit on the nose.

“What wine did you select this evening, Mippy?” Draco reached for the glass first, swirling the contents and sniffing it before taking a small sip. “Perfect choice.”

Mippy beamed, her large ears turning pink on the ends. She quickly exited after that, never wanting to receive more praise than was essential.

“Alone,” Draco sniffed as he sampled the steak.

“I’m not,” he said as he dabbed his lips with the cloth napkin, idly surveying the Polaroid, holding it between his fingers, and leaning back in his seat.

“Budge over,” he fussed, nudging the picture healers with his finger till picture Draco and Hermione stood front and center.

He slid on his glasses and huffed a laugh. He’d forgotten that he’d been attempting to wear his hair long. It was not a good look on him.

“Besotted sod,” Draco grinned. He wondered if Scorpius had ever seen pictures of him from this time in life. Perhaps he could save his son the embarrassment of a poor hair choice.

“Mippy?” He said, taking care not to shout.

“Yes, Master Draco? Are you finished with dinner?” She stood just outside the door, holding a stack of fresh towels.

“I am. Thank you. Did my son happen to send a letter today?”

Mippy grinned, and the towels disappeared, along with his dinner. In its place, a glass of whisky with his post appeared.

Draco narrowed his eyes at his meddling elf. “Why didn’t you give the post to me when I first arrived, Mippy? Or better yet, leave it on the front table where it's supposed to be?”

She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. “Yous didn’t ask. You shouted. Anything else his lordship demands?”

At this, Draco did roll his eyes. “No, and thank you, Mippy.”

Mippy offered him a stiff nod and left with a loud crack.

“I should stuff you and hang your head on the wall when you die,” Draco grumbled, not meaning a word of it.

Draco grabbed his goblin-made letter opener out of habit rather than caution and slid the magicked metal beneath the seam. Most would consider his choice of stationery utensil overkill, but even now, his hands throbbed when near owlpost. The goblin metal ensured that most poisons and curses would be nullified before his fingers reached the contents.

He slid his son’s letter from the envelope, flipping it over, surprised to see that Scorpius’s letter was short.

”Is this all there is?” Draco huffed. “The bloody letter is contained to one page.”

His son had made friends since beginning Hogwarts and subsequently wrote about each for at least one paragraph per letter.

Dad—

You were right. Lyra’s potion was missing beetle eyes. She got so mad! Her hair sparked. A fifth year in Hufflepuff that Al knows had a Muggle camera, and I asked him to take a few photos so I could send them to you. I hope you enjoy them.

I’ll write more later this week. Miss you, Dad.

-Scorp

Curiosity piqued, Draco picked up the envelope and turned it over. Three photographs fluttered into his palm, all needing to be enlarged with a tap of his wand.

The first was Scorpius in the Quidditch stands, arm tossed around the Potter boy like they were lifelong friends. Judging by how much Scorpius had written about Albus, Draco suspected a conversation with Harry and Ginny was inevitable—their sons clearly had plans for the holiday, whether the parents were ready or not.

Scorpius looked winsome, and…happy. Draco had worried for him, even going so far as to owl Pansy to check whether students weren’t picking on him.

Pansy, predictably, was curt. Instead of answering Draco’s question, she asked about Granger. About Lyra.

“Lyra,” Draco practiced under his breath, tasting the unfamiliar syllables. He couldn’t call Granger’s child Granger. He swallowed dryly, but the jarring emotion at the memory of Hermione didn’t make his stomach drop like it once had.

He set the photo of his son and Albus down. A bark of laughter escaped him as he looked to the next: Scorpius stood beside a very annoyed-looking Pansy, dressed in her professor robes, clearly not wanting the photograph. He bit his lip, grinning.

“Sorry, Pans,” he chuckled. Maybe he’d write to ask about visiting after the New Year, assuming Scorpius wouldn’t mind. Still half-composing the letter in his head, Draco flipped to the final Polaroid.

His mind stilled.

Albus stood in the center, one arm draped over Scorpius’s shoulders, the other slung around Lyra Granger. The three of them looked not only like friends, but like a modern echo of another long-remembered trio. Their smiles were radiant, caught mid-laugh at something someone said outside the photo.

That’s when he noticed Lyra's darling dimple on her left cheek, a mirror of his son’s on his right cheek. Then she huffed and rolled her eyes—a gesture so familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

Draco leaned back in his seat, holding the two pictures side by side. Two children, different parents, yet somehow drawn together. Gods, he hoped that for all their sakes, Scoripius and Lyra would be forever friends. He did not want Hermione Granger for an in-law.

Perhaps Lyra felt familiar because she was Granger’s daughter. But if Hermione wasn’t married, then who was the father? He cocked his head to the side, as if another angle would reveal the photograph’s secrets.

But it was simply a photo of his son with his two best friends…who happened to be the children of some of the most famous wizards and witches in the United Kingdom.

“Salazar’s left tit,” he groaned at slowly growing horrorof what was going to happen when word got out that the Golden Trio’s children adopted the son of the famous former Death Eater as their best friend.

He nervously turned the photo over and there, written in Scorpius' neat script:

My best friends. Al and Lyra.

Draco finished his whisky in one gulp. Let out a breath and then summoned a sheet of parchment and a quill. Might as well pull the hinkypunk off with the blisters.

From somewhere in the house, Mippy refilled his glass. She, too, must understand what all this meant.

________

A week and a half later — November
Hermione

Hermione landed a few streets away from the hospital, in a rather charming corner of Knightsbridge, tucked away from the usual bustle. What she hadn’t accounted for was the deluge—a lingering hangover from October’s relentless London rain. She frantically juggled her bag as she ran down the path, hoping she was heading in the correct direction, while digging for her umbrella in the bag’s bottomless depths. She could have prepared if she had more time, but Parvati Patil had owl’ed her barely fifteen minutes before.

With a frustrated growl, she found the purple umbrella and popped it open. But the damage had been done. She was a proper wet rat.

“You really should be done with this by now,” she scolded the rain, squinting up at the street sign, then scanning the row of homes ahead.

“I must have gotten the address wrong.” Hermione passed tidy hedges lining the walk of the long row of townhomes. Her curls clung damply to her forehead, rainwater still trailing down her back from the brief but brutal scramble to retrieve her brolly.

These homes were so far outside Hermione’s budget, she hadn’t the foggiest why Parvati suggested they look at one. Why even get her hopes up? These homes were the city’s version of English monoliths—shoulder to shoulder, British and defiant against change and the weather. Hermione was reasonably sure the house across the street had been used in the film The Parent Trap for the English mum's home, but it was hard to tell in the rain.

“Where the bloody hell is Parvati?” Hermione spat, tucking the handle beneath her arm as she fumbled in her bag for her mobile.

“Hermione!” Parvati’s voice cut through the rain from just down the street. She briskly walked from apparition point, her sleek black ponytail swinging behind her. In one hand, she held a delicate umbrella, no doubt charmed not to let in a lick of rain.

“Sorry about that,” Parvati said breathlessly, towering over Hermione in pointed stilettos while wearing a sharp-looking business suit. “I hadn’t seen this place before and needed to make sure it was available and not a fluke in the system. Took me a little longer than expected.” She waved a folder in her other hand, presumably containing the listing’s information. “This townhome is phenomenal,” she cooed, impervious to how Hermione seethed.

“I thought you hadn’t seen it before.” Hermione tried to keep her incredulity out of her voice, but she was one puddle away from wet-cat-mode.

Parvati waved a manicured hand. “Oh, I haven’t—but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t looking. I couldn’t even find a picture of the front in the Ministry’s Magi-Homefinder. That’s how exclusive this place is. Usually, there’s something in there, at least a record of magical properties in Muggle-heavy areas…but this one?” She let out a low whistle and proffered the thin file.

Hermione swallowed, accepting the packet. This area was… big. More expensive than anything she could dream of renting. “…Posh.”

“I know,” Parvati said, deliberately ignoring the weight behind Hermione’s words. She practically bounced in her heels. “I was given explicit instructions to show only you the house. No one else. I know you don’t like it, but your name still carries some weight in this town.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened as she resisted the urge to wince. They’d been discreet—until last week, when Parvati had dragged her to an open house on a magic-friendly street in Nottingham. People stared. Worse, the wizarding world had finally learned to use mobile phones. The next day, her picture was plastered across The Daily Prophet under the headline: ‘Golden-Brains is Back and Looking for a Gilded Abode in London!’

Parvati sidled up to Hermione, offering her some of her umbrella…that had warming and rain-repelling charms.

“Open the folder, real quick, would you? There’s something you need to read before we go inside.”

Hermione gave her a long look, but Parvati was not bothered by her stoic mood. She waited Hermione out until she acquiesced, flipping open the thing.

Inside, Hermione found a dainty card fixed to the top of the listing’s form; it was thick and smooth between her fingers with an address written in a petite, charming script.

41B Little Hall Home

Knightsbridge

Parvati turned, gesturing to the house before them—well, it had been before them but was now replaced by a new terraced house unassumingly hidden…

“A Fidelius Charm?” Hermione squeaked, rounding on Parvati.

The witch held her hands in defense, backing away slightly and taking the charmed umbrella with her. “For Godric’s sake, don’t give me that look, Hermione. It was in the instructions for showing you the home. The Fidelius is scheduled to drop in three days, and the solicitor requested that you see it before it is offered to the general populace.”

Hermione pulled out her wand. “Parvati, did it not occur to you that this might be something—”

Whatever Hermione was going to say was cut off by Parvati looping her arm with hers and forcibly escorting her through the little black iron gate separating the pavement from the front garden of Little Hall 41 A and B. The homes were charming, with a shared lemon tree, magically still producing fruit in November, and twin colored Robin’s egg blue front doors.

Hermione’s hand shook without her permission as she opened the front door, silently swinging on its hinges, revealing a long hall. She tentatively stepped inside, and lights flickered in greeting around her. She peered into the front room, revealing furniture covered in crisp white sheets, preservation charms hovering in the air.

“You didn’t mention it comes fully furnished,” Hermione whispered.

“I saw your flat, Hermione. I didn’t think you’d mind,” Parvati replied in equally hushed tones. “And why are we whispering?”

Hermione closed her eyes. “You’re right.”

“I am?” she laughed. “About what precisely?”

“I need to have a more open mind. I’ve discounted you, and I’m sorry about that. This home is lovely. Thank you, Parvati.”

Parvati grinned and began the tour. It had all the expected parts; yet, Hermione’s favorite place was the kitchen.

Hermione blinked furiously, turning to stare out the large windows overlooking the back garden instead of facing Parvati. Dappled sunlight from the waning rain bathed the small garden in rich jewel tones, highlighting the last of the wisteria that covered the brick wall shared with the attached neighbor.

“Did the owner mention who lives next door in 41A?” asked Hermione, studying the neatly patterned bricks beneath the fading purple flowers.

“No,” Parvati sighed, idly opening the refrigerator.

Hermione ran her hands along the marble worktops; visions of the Kanelbullar she could make in this space with Lyra when she returned for the winter holiday dancing before her. It startled Hermione how much she could see herself here.

“We were happy in our little cottage,” Hermione said softly. “I thought the flat would be a good transition, but…we see how that went for me. I like this home, I do. But do you think it’s too much?”

Parvati reached out, placing a kind hand on her arm. “It’s okay to like this home, Hermione. None of us will judge you for it, you know.”

She nodded, suddenly feeling those crashing waves around her feet. The memory of wondering if she was making the right choice before coming home swirled about her in a fog of luxury hand soap and mysterious landlords.

Home.

It had been a long time since Hermione truly felt like this.

“Who is the solicitor with?”

Parvati tilted her shoulder in a noncommittal way. “His name is…” she flipped through her mobile. “Cornelius Flint is his name, but he didn’t reveal who owned the house, only that whoever owns this has quite the extensive portfolio, and this is one of several homes they own.”

“But how did they find out about me?”

“The solicitor was at the open house we went to the other weekend and mentioned to their client that you were looking…” Parvati’s voice trailed off.

“And here we are,” Hermione finished. “So I wouldn’t be keeping someone from living in their—”

“Gods, no. Do you honestly believe people who own multiple homes like this opt for the town home over the sprawling estate?”

Hermione could think of one such individual but remained silent on the matter, choosing to shift the subject to more pressing issues. “How long do I have until they need my answer?”

“Three days before the Fidelius is lifted. After that, they cannot guarantee you’d get the home.”

“November twentieth it is then,” Hermione sighed.

Hermione’s mother once said you could tell wealth from the carpets. And from the look of the ones lining the stairs up to the first floor, she was going to rent a home from someone so far outside her echelon, she wasn’t sure she was comfortable with it.

Parvati let her wander, staying close to answer any questions, but they’d done this so many times she knew the routine.

“And they want me to keep the furniture?” Hermione asked, running her hand along one of the large bookcases lining a wall in the living room.

“Well, they said you’re welcome to replace whatever you’d like, but I assured them you would likely need most of it.”

“How gracious of you,” Hermione deadpanned.

Twenty minutes later, Hermione stood outside the attached home, trying to discern some insight into the other occupants from their door knocker.

“The solicitor didn’t hint at who lives next door?” she asked, hoping for a different answer.

“No, but I’ll ask when I send him the note that we stopped by this afternoon.”

Hermione pulled her eyes away and looked at her old friend. “Thank you, Parvati. I know I haven’t been the easiest of clients, but…you’ve been decent about it all.”

Parvati waved her off. “You are much easier than the inflated athletes I typically deal with.”

“Well, thank you again. I suppose I have quite a bit to consider before Wednesday.”

“That you do. I’m only a text or owl away. Let’s have dinner on Wednesday, and we can either make a new plan or celebrate.”

“Sounds good.” Hermione smiled.

The rain had stopped, and Hermione decided to walk home. She had quite a good bit to decide.

________

Wednesday afternoon

“Ron is built like a bear,” Hermione thought as he crushed her against his chest, his Head Auror pins plowing into her cheek. For someone who loathed the colour maroon as a boy growing up, the maroon robes signifying his role in the Ministry of Magic suited him.

“Whaddya think?” Ron sheepishly grinned, releasing her from his vice-like embrace so she could survey his office. Even now, Hermione could see the boy who longed for others' approval peeking out from behind the strawberry blond five o'clock shadow.

Seriously, when did Ron become fit? She glanced over her shoulder at him as she ran her hand along Auror manuals stacked haphazardly on the bookshelf among pictures of his family and awards, his Order of Merlin First Class nested with a picture of the three of them.

Hermione pulled the picture free, turning to look at him. “When was this photo taken? I’m embarrassed to say I cannot remember.”

Ron rubbed the back of his neck, “Erm. Sometime during our fifth year.”

Hermione looked back at the photo, unsure why Ron was uncomfortable with the question. She squinted, noticing a face peeking out in the corner and then hiding again.

Lavender Brown.

Hermione snorted, a bemused smile for the children playing adult games, and none the wiser their lives would be overturned a few months later with Dumbledore’s death.

Because of Draco.

He would be the Lynch pin—if he hadn’t fixed the vanishing cabinet, if he hadn’t let in the Death Eaters—the questions of whether they would have had more time with Dumbledore, to where they wouldn’t have been in such disarray—maybe even Draco could have changed sides?

She set the photo back in its place. Time could not be changed—maybe shifted, as they discovered during their third year with Sirius and Buckbeak—but there were absolutes. Dumbledore had to die. Harry had to die. At least the latter came back.

“Your office is very fitting, Ron,” Hermione smiled. I hope you know how proud we all are. Your mum mentioned you no less than five times in her first letter when you were promoted.”

Ron blushed, but seemed pleased.

An awkward silence hung between them—years of distance, of perfunctory hellos with air kisses on the cheek; piles of stilted greeting cards for birthdays clouded the easy repartee they once shared.

Old shoes, Hermione thought.

“You said you needed help understanding things?” Ron asked, moving to sit behind his oversized desk but reaching for a half-open tin and proffering it to her. “Biscuit?”

“No, thank you, though.”

He shrugged, snagging one for himself and popping it entirely into his mouth before sagging into his seat. Much like he had at Weasley Sunday dinner last month, he looked tired.

“Have you been bogged down with work?” Hermione asked, taking the seat across the desk from him. He looked like Ron at this angle, but more so.

Ron heaved a sigh, running a hand through his ginger hair. “Yes, but it’s nothing new. People will be….people.”

“Well put.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Some of us aren’t heads of an entirely new department for St. Mungo’s and considered experts in their field of whatever.” He waved his hand at her.

“Yes, and the whatever is why I’m here today.” Hermione shifted in her seat. What she was about to ask Ron would tell her everything she needed to know about where they stood—friends? Foes? Unlikely comrades once upon a time, but now…the friend you would wave to in the pub but not speak to if it weren’t for your friends being friends…to put it mildly.

Something must have crossed her expression because Ron’s eyes lit up. “It has been years since I’ve seen you with that look, Hermione. Go on.”

“What look?” She pulled back a bit. “I do not have a look.”

“You do,” Ron grinned, enjoying himself, looking too much like Ginny for Hermione’s comfort.

“Fine,” she snipped. “I was wondering if you’d do a little digging for me.”

“Got yourself into a bit of trouble already?”

“No! Well, I’m not sure, actually. There is something off with the hospital director. Have you been to St. Mungo’s recently?”

“Not as much as I did when I was in the field. Still run down?”

“Impossibly. Did Harry tell you about my office?”

“No—”

“It’s terrible!” Hermione interrupted. “I have been bringing my folding chair each morning because they couldn’t supply me with a big enough office to house a desk and a decent desk chair…or a couch, for that matter. And there is the issue of team meetings, when it comes to my turn to speak, he moves on. It’s not like I have a team…I am the team.”

“You are a rock.”

“An island,” Hermione corrected before she stopped and blinked. “You know Muggle music?”

Ron leaned back in his chair, tossing an inactive snitch into the air before letting it fall back into his hands. “A girl I dated a few months back was a fan.”

Hermione didn’t know how to respond to this.

“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.” That wasn’t entirely true. Molly always found a way to drop little updates in the letters she would send.

Here is a clipping from last week’s Daily Prophet in case you missed it. Look at Ronald in his Auror’s uniform! The picture would be of him and his date, smiling for the camera and then at one another. The women didn’t shuffle often, and most of the time, it was just him in those photos.

Ron set the snitch on the desk, shrugging. “She ended things a few months ago. Didn’t like my schedule…or really me, for that matter.”

Compassion filled Hermione, a well for her friend. She leaned forward to grasp his hand, but he moved it to nick another biscuit. Hermione quickly redirected to his cup of quills, snagging one as if she meant to all along.

“Was it serious?” She had to ask.

“I really dunno. We went out. She came to the Burrow a few times. Seemed to get along with Fleur and Ginny. Mum was a bit funny about her, but Mum was that way with Fleur in the beginning, and you see how well they get along now.”

Hermione did see and that wasn’t a glowing review.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Ron asked, not meeting her eye.

Hermione shifted in her seat. “No, but I don’t think relationships are for me. I’m content on my own.”

Ron looked at her, his blue eyes steely in his office light. At that moment, she saw the Head Auror, the man who had grown up while she was away, raising her child and developing her craft.

“Alright,” she amended. “I haven’t met anyone that…fascinated me.”

“Does love have to be interesting? Couldn’t it be simple and comfortable?”

“Ron,” Hermione met his gaze. “No. It needs to be more than that.”

They were silent for a long moment before Ron offered her a curt nod and the tin of biscuits. Hermione took one this time.

“So, Cedric’s uncle is an ass?” Ron’s subject change was surprisingly adept.

“The biggest.”

“I’ll do a quiet workup. I probably won’t find anything, but I’d be glad to give his background a once-over internally. I can make up some stuff or something as to why.”

“Very official sounding.”

“I’m nothing but.” Ron grinned.

“Ron?” Hermione asked after a moment.

“Hermione?” He parroted.

“Are you able to look into redacted home dwellings?”

“Not without due cause. I’d have to go through Mona in Housing and Agriculture.” Ron visibly shivered. “Why?”

“There’s a house I’m looking at, and the owner is anonymous. Their solicitor seems reputable, but…”

“But it’s a bit unsettling renting a nice home from some anonymous person as opposed to an equally anonymous person with a small flat that Ginny firmly believes is infected with Black Mold and a poltergeist named Gorm?”

“Oh, for Godric’s sake!” Hermione threw her hands up in the air.

“I’m merely repeating what she told me over the phone last night!” Ron laughed, but suddenly became very serious. “Who is Gorm?”

“My water…never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Hermione frowned. “How much do you know of my housing saga?”

Ron’s ears turned a bit pink.

“So everything.” Hermione groaned. “How mad is your mum?”

“Ginny is a bit of a blabbermouth, but she isn’t stupid. Mum thinks you’re living with the queen.”

Hermione’s shoulders sagged in relief. “At least there’s one silver lining.”

“Why didn’t you ask me or someone to run by the place before you let it? We could have told you how awful it was.”

“I didn’t think to ask…” Hermione frowned.

“Sounds about right.” Ron didn’t roll his eyes or huff. It was said like something he was so resigned to knowing that the comment was an afterthought that slipped out.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ron stood, his perfectly acceptable and appropriately assigned desk chair rolling back at his movement. “Nothing, it means nothing. I’ll see what I can do about Diggory, and why not let one of us come by the town home and look at it with you tonight before you give your final answer?”

“I—” It was on the tip of Hermione’s tongue to say no, but she stopped herself. “I suppose that would be fine. I’m having dinner with Parvati later. Join us?”

“Sure. Owl me the address and I’ll meet you there at five. We can meet Gin and Harry at the pub afterward.”

This casual dinner with her estate agent had just morphed into a party.

“Wait—“ but whatever protest Hermione was going to offer was cut off by Ron’s secretary poking her head through the door.

“Auror Weasley, Banks just returned with the Peabody report. You need to come down right away.”

“Be right there,” Ron answered. “Hermione, see you tonight?”

He looked so pleased, so incredibly competent, that all Hermione could say was, “See you then.”

Ministry workers were returning from lunch when she exited the lifts to the Atrium; a growing buzz grew around her as she passed witches and wizards moving toward the lifts.

“Is that Hermione Granger?” She heard someone say behind her. Hermione picked up her pace as she wove through people, going against the returning tide to the lifts.

“Hermione Granger,” a corroding voice cut through the clamor, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Hermione knew coming here today was a risk, but she’d hoped to avoid this confrontation for as long as possible.

It seemed her luck had run out. She stopped and turned to face the collision head-on, because retreating was never an option when it came to dealing with Rita Skeeter.

Rita’s rump was perched on the side of the fountain, one leg crossed over the other. Her neon-yellow heels clacked against the marble as she moved to stand.

“I’ve heard a little rumor about you,” said Rita as she approached.

Hermione crossed her arms and arched a brow in mute reply.

Unbothered, Rita’s grin grew wider. “Why were you here today, I wonder? To see the handsome Head Auror you let slip through your claws?”

Hermione did not reply.

“No? Well, was it to meet with your estate agent to finalize paperwork for a new home?”

Hermione glanced at her watch. Her lunch break was almost up, and she had a client in half an hour.

“I see you’re very busy, so I’ll just ask this:” Rita leaned forward, her noxious perfume made Hermione’s eyes water. Her breath ghosted Hermione’s cheek as she said, “Or were you in the Family Assistance and Wizarding Kind office, filing for a paternity test for your daughter?”

Cold rage washed across Hermione, and Rita saw it.

“You forget I know your secrets, too, Rita.” Hermione was shaking.

How dare she?

Rita seemed unconcerned by Hermione’s threat. “I wonder if all will be forgiven if I discover who knocked up the Golden Girl. Ta, Miss Granger.”

All Hermione could see was red, and a high-pitched ringing followed her through the floo to St. Mungo’s and up to her office.

She threw her purse onto her chair and slumped into her seat.

“Fuck!” She screamed, throwing her paperweight at the wall, then letting her face fall into her hands. She tried to breathe, but anxiety clawed at her chest and throat.

She preferred not to do this before client sessions, but the creeping dread wouldn’t wait. Hermione closed her eyes, summoned her Occlumency, and forcefully compartmentalized it all: Draco, Rita, the press, the fury. She tucked every emotion away, each into its own drawer, until her heartbeat slowed and her thoughts stopped careening like a ship in rough waters.

“Fuck,” she breathed as she flicked her wand, repairing the hole in the wall her paper weight created, catching the weight as it landed back in her hand.

“Fuck,” she thought as she reviewed her new client’s intake file.

And as she opened the door, plastering on a soft smile for her two o’clock, her occlumency walls shook.

“Fucking hell,” she groaned.

Narcissa Malfoy raised an imperious eyebrow. “Hello to you, too, Ms. Granger. So nice of you to make time for me in your schedule.”

Chapter Text

“Your name isn’t Elladora Flint,” Hermione blurted.

Narcissa Malfoy stood just outside her office, resplendent in tailored ice blue day robes, her face unreadable.

And all Hermione’s brilliant mind could muster up were facts.

“Correct,” Narcissa clipped, “but it is the name of my thrice-great-aunt—and the one I choose when I prefer to avoid public theatrics.”

Hermione white knuckled the door frame, barring her entrance. “I only take appointments with actual clients. Please send another owl that I can ignore.”

She moved to shut the door, but it would not budge.

She tried again, but nothing.

Then, Hermione used both hands, arms shaking with little success.

Her eyes flicked up to see a smirk faintly drawing up the edges of the witch’s rose colored lips.

“Unstick my door,” Hermione snapped.

Narcissa had the audacity to raise her chin and reply with a prim, “No.”

The nerve. It was the same haughty tilt of her head that Lyra had when she was going to defy something with absolute finality.

Hermione’s temper flared.

“I will call security,” she hissed, glancing down the hall to see if anyone was watching this scene unfold.

“I welcome the audience.”

White hot rage clanged against the well-sealed doors of her Occlumency. She wanted to scream. To rant. To tear into her, for the weeks of relentless owls and the years of silence before them.

“Don’t grind your teeth,” Narcissa commanded abruptly.

It was precisely the kind of absurd remark to knock Hermione off kilter. Her grip on the doorframe slackened just briefly, but it was enough.

Narcissa sashayed into the room, effortlessly batting away Hermione’s arm that had been barring her entrance since she arrived.

Hermione stood, stunned, as she watched Narcissa take in her office. She idly thought that, had this been anywhere else, she would have laughed at the dog-like circle Narcissa Malfoy made before finally accepting the only seat available to clients.

Narcissa somehow made the cracked, plastic waiting room chair seem elegant; ankles crossed and tucked to the side, hands gently folded in her lap.

Bewildered, Hermione swung the door shut, the click echoing in the cavernous silence.

She didn’t want to sit—sitting would convey that Narcissa was in control, but she was not.

I’m in charge, you bint. Hermione thought savagely. She turned her back, snatched up the faux-client file for “Elladora Flint,” and let the silence stretch, flipping it open as if she had all the time in the world. The clock on the wall ticked on.

“So,” Hermione finally said after fifteen minutes. “You’ve been having…oh my.” She raised her eyebrows, looking down at Narcissa, still seated primly in the uncomfortable chair. “Night sex terrors?”

“I beg your pardon?” Narcissa Malfoy recoiled. “Let me see this file.”

She held out her hand like a queen expecting tribute, but Hermione smirked, pressing the file close to her chest.

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Elladora. I suppose, if we were only rammed with one member our entire lives—”

“I’d tread lightly if I were you, Ms. Granger. Draco takes after Lucius, and if I remember correctly, you once found his member rather appealing.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped.

“You—you barge in here, under false pretenses, wasting my time, hijacking my office—”

“Because you refused my letters,” Narcissa said smoothly. “I was quite clear about how urgent it is that we speak. Or has your daughter not been writing you?”

The pivot was so swift it knocked the wind from Hermione. Narcissa had always been a master of strategy, but this—this was personal.

“She has,” Hermione said slowly, thinking of the three letters on her bedside table, each shorter than the last.

“Then you know that Lyra and Scorpius have become friends…best friends, from the way Scorpius describes it, along with the Potter boy.”

Hermione did not know that, but she would be damn’d before admitting it.

“And?” She folded her arms, moving to lean her hip against her desk.

Narcissa’s blue eyes narrowed. She leaned forward and sniffed.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asked.

“I’m trying to determine if you’ve taken to drink or have become profoundly daft.”

“What?” This time, Hermione did shriek.

“I only ask because Scorpius does not know he has a half sister; as does my son not know of the existence of his firstborn daughter.”

“I am aware,” Hermione was still shouting. “I was under the impression you and I were agreed upon that point.”

Narcissa pressed her lips together, but her tone did not rise to meet Hermione; instead, her voice grew low and quiet. “Lyra will turn twelve this month. I do not want to presume about your experience as a young girl, but I became a woman during my twelfth year of life. When this happens, whether at twelve or twenty, her name will appear on the family tapestries.”

Hermione’s breath caught. “I thought you would be able to—I thought there was only the one Black Family tapestry at Grimmauld Place.”

“No,” Narcissa said softly. “I moved the Malfoy family tapestry to my private salon after Lyra was born. I hid it behind an atrocious cedar wardrobe for the last eleven years. But I cannot control the Black Family tapestries and their absurd magic. If Teddy were of age—and if he chose to become head of the Black house—we might have a chance. But he’s not. And as it stands now, Draco is not merely the Head of the Malfoy Family. He is the Head of the Black Family as well.”

“But why would he need to go see it? Harry still owns Grimmauld Place, and he wouldn’t invite Draco over to see the tapestry.” Hermione scoffed.

“You think the tapestry in Grimmauld Place is the only one in the Black family?” Narcissa’s voice turned steely. “You think my parents’ estate doesn’t still hold one? Or that your secrecy can outlast Black magic?”

“I think you’re being overzealous about this point. I will tell Lyra. I was planning to, actually.”

“Were you now?” Narcissa scoffed. “And what precisely are you going to tell her? Merry Christmas, darling. Your best friend’s father is your father! Surprise— Mum has been lying to you for over a decade?”

“I have it under control,” Hermione snapped.

Narcissa stood, her blue eyes locked on Hermione. And in that moment, Hermione saw it—This was the Narcissa Malfoy that Draco confided as the person he most respected and revered; she was more than the neck that turned the head, she was everything to the Malfoy men.

“I’m likely one of the few people in your life to ever say this to you, so I’ll be plain: you are playing the fool, Hermione.” Her voice cut, words icily pressing against Hermione’s chest. “These are feckless choices of someone too scared to own up to their mistakes. Do you think the tapestry is the only safeguard the Malfoys and Blacks have made for bastards?”

Her breath caught—she knew the term could apply to her daughter, but to hear it said aloud—so matter of factly, so calmly—it was as if Narcissa had slapped her.

Emotion flooded her voice. “Lyra, whatever you might think of her, is breathtaking, and lovely—”

Narcissa held up her hand, forestalling Hermione.

“I agree. She seems to be a lovely girl. I use the term bastard not to be cruel, but because that is the legal term the Malfoy magic will use regarding her. Magic does not harbor sentimentality like we do.”

“What do you mean?”

Narcissa pressed her hand to her stomach. “I wanted to do this in the Manor because it’s easier there.” She let out a sigh. “Mind if we sit?”

Hermione nodded. She wished she had a better home because she’d suggest moving there, but…only gorm and half-unpacked boxes awaited her if she didn’t submit her application for rental this evening.

“I would invite you to my flat, but I’m in a bit of a transition,” Hermione said, trying to regain some footing in this conversation.

“Yes, word travels when Hermione Granger is looking for homes in London after being away for so long.”

“I am. The flat I chose is an unlivable as a long-term solution, but I’m visiting a home with promise tonight.”

“Are you now? How serendipitous.”

“Quite.”

A stilted silence descended upon them, the moment of anger and emotion receding, leaving only a bereft sort of peace in its wake.

“You said this conversation would be easier in the Manor?” Hermione prompted.

Narcissa nodded. “It would. I could show you what she would inherit, how her magic will change and become stronger if she chooses to stay a Malfoy.”

“Choose to stay?”

“If Draco does not disown her when he discovers the truth, Lyra will be given a choice to claim the name, the title, and the magical protections that come with being a Malfoy or Black.”

Hermione must have made a face because Narcissa leaned forward, speaking more quickly, “If she accepts her Malfoy heritage, the magic she receives is more than symbolic. It is ancient, powerful, and protective. Every Malfoy child is bound to it. Draco was. Scorpius is. It is not as potent as the sacrificial magic that saved young Potter, but it is…significant.”

Hermione frowned. “Why have I never heard of this before?”

“Hoarding power is as wizarding as it is Muggle. The old families keep their advantages close, and their secrets closer. What benefit would there be to broadcast it? And as you might expect…” She paused, lifting an elegant brow. “Very few bastards ever make it past the head of house to become Malfoys.”

“None?” Hermione’s stomach dropped.

She didn’t know this version of Draco Malfoy. The man she had fallen in love with was teetering on the precipice of change and in the process of shedding the old to ring in the new.

“There’s likely one or two in the Malfoy lineage. None through the Black family, to the best of my knowledge. Although I think the Black family would have been well-served to have outside blood.” She gave an elegant shrug. “But it is what it is, as they say.” A wry smile appeared on Narcissa’s face.

It made her look younger. A little bit more…human.

Hermione almost laughed. Was Narcissa making a joke about her wretched family, aside from Andromeda?

Narcissa suddenly stood. “I won’t trouble you any longer, but you’re not alone in this, Hermione. It will come down just as hard on my head as it will on yours, when Draco finds out that we’ve been hiding her.”

Hermione mirrored her movement. “There was never a we, Narcissa. You summoned me for tea while Draco was out with Astoria, coerced me to give you a drop of Lyra’s blood to hide her from the records till she became ‘of age,’ and now you’re telling me that all will be forgiven if she gives up…”Her voice cracked, sorrow finally breaking through the mental damn. “Me.”

“Hermione,” Narcissa reached toward her, but Hermione flinched, pulling away.

“Leave,” she said hoarsely. “Just….leave.”

She expected the cool assessing gaze she’d associated with Narcissa Malfoy, but only encountered warmth. Empathy. Pity.

Narcissa gave a solemn nod and left quietly. Unable to watch, Hermione turned to face the wall. When the door clicked shut, she waved her hand, warding her office from further visitations. Then, she collapsed into her folding chair and cried.

It wasn’t lovely or small—it was an unraveling of threads she desperately tried to hold onto until now.

It seemed like five minutes had passed when her magic-scheduler buzzed: Meet Ron at The Little Hill House in fifteen minutes.

She let out a long, shaky breath, pressing her palms to her cheeks. Her face felt hot and sticky from tears. She cast a quick cooling charm, followed by a glamour, automatically waving her wand to gather her things and locking her door behind her.

She waited outside the lift but didn’t have the energy to be a positive face for the department.

Rolling her shoulders, she gripped her wand and turned, disapparating Knightsbridge.

________

Ron stood outside, craning to look at something down the street.

“I thought I’d have to send out the dogs,” he grinned. Something must have shown in Hermione’s face because his smile faltered. “It’s a Muggle phrase…I thought, well. Never mind.”

“No, Ron. It was very funny. I’m sorry. I’m still unraveling my thoughts about…my last client. She was a difficult case.”

Hermione did not want to lie, but how could she confide in him the multitudes of things pressing against her sternum, threatening to capsize her before she could catch her breath?

Ron’s empathy made her gut twist. “Sorry to hear that. Must be awful. I just get to lock 'em up, but you actually have to heal them.”

She nodded, looking at the ground.

“Hermione, you brought company!” Parvati said, making her and Ron simultaneously jump.

“Godric, Patel. Announce yourself, would you?” Ron said, but without malice. He looked like Charlie momentarily, reaching for Parvati and pulling her into a hard hug.

“You’re going to mess up my makeup. Off.” Parvati shoved him back. The faint blush dotting the apples of her cheeks was not lost on Hermione.

Ron and Parvati? Stranger things have happened, Hermione supposed.

Parvati went through the same routine she had with Hermione the other day, showing Ron the card and delightedly watching him swear as the house appeared.

“I never get tired of watching that. I don’t see it too much these days,” Ron mused as they walked through the little gate.

A cold wind buffeted Hermione, forcing her to hold down her curls as she peered up at Ron.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s an old magic thing,” Ron said unhelpfully. “You need access to old, pureblood magic in order to perform the spell because you’re calling on…” he scrunched up his face.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Hermione said, wrapping her coat around herself.

Ron shook his head. “Well, suffice to say, you need to be incredibly powerful like Dumbledore, or be able to tap into stored magic that comes through family to cast a Fidelius Charm.”

“So you’re telling me pure bloods can be more powerful simply because they’ve been stockpiling?”

Parvati and Ron shared a look.

“What?” Hermione didn’t mean to let her voice become shrill, but she was done with surprises for the day.

“Ron and I are both pure bloods, Hermione. It’s common knowledge,” she said gently, sounding much more like her twin sister than her usual acerbic self.

“Why do you think Bill could cast one on Shell Cottage during the war?”

Hermione opened and closed her mouth. She knew she was more intelligent than most, but these assumed facts made her feel eleven years old again, fastidiously reading Hogwarts: A History, trying to make sure she was enough, like the rest of the witches and wizards.

“So this is the place, huh?” Ron said, intentionally changing the subject.

“Let’s go inside, shall we? I’m freezing and ready for dinner.” Parvati unlocked the front door and ushered them inside.

Hermione followed them briefly before branching off, slowly taking the stairs to the first floor. The lights glowed in the primary bedroom. New linens adorned the bed, and fresh flowers were on the dresser.

A loud crack sounded to her right. Hermione spun and shrieked, her cry mingling with a startled House Elf’s squeak.

“I is sorry, miss!” the poor creature shook, her pile of towels a heap around her feet.

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scream.”

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Ron burst into the room, wand drawn.

“Hermione, are you okay? I heard you shout.”

“I’m fine. It was just a mixup.” She turned to look at the house elf. “What is your name?”

“Mippy, miss. I serve The Little Hill house.”

“It is lovely to meet you, Mippy. Are you…” she glanced at the creature, wearing a traditional House Elf toga.

“I is a free elf, miss. Master free’d us a long time ago, but we chose to stay.”

“But, why?” Hermione blurted, her polite filter thrown out the window.

Something sharp glinted behind the house elf’s eyes. She wasn’t so delicate as she was pretending to be in that moment. “Where would we go? This is home.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Mippy. My name is Hermione. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She held out her hand, and the House Elf took it, her grip much firmer than Hermione thought necessary. Yes, this house elf was not a wilting flower.

“Do yous need anything while you’re here?”

“No, thank you, but I will call if we do.”

Mippy nodded and snapped her fingers. The towels and she disappeared with a sharp crack.

Ron and Pavarti stood in the doorway, eyes wide.

“You did not tell me the home came with a House Elf.”

Parvati shrugged. “I remembered you were hung up about them. Had I known the owner employed free elves, I would have made that a selling point for you.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but Ron’s laughter dissolved whatever self-righteous tirade she was brewing.

“Well,” she sighed. “I suppose this means you’re a good estate agent after all.”

Parvati winked, “The best. Now, let’s get to the pub. I need a drink and for you to sign these papers.” She spun on her heel and started down the stairs.

“What makes you think I’m agreeing to let this home?” Hermione called after her.

Parvati’s laughter was her only response.

________

A half hour later, she found herself tucked into a booth beside Ron at the little wizarding pub their group had claimed as home during the years she’d been away. The barman spotted them and sent over a round without asking—habit, history.

“When are you going to move in?” Harry asked, leaning back in his chair, arm slung over the back of Ginny’s. Sawdust clung to bits of his flannel shirt, and he desperately needed a haircut, but he looked content.

“I’m not sure.” Hermione fiddled with her napkin. “Parvati is submitting the application. She said we should hear something back tonight or tomorrow. I’m sure she’ll tell us when she gets back.”

Muggle rock music played softly from a stereo behind the bar, filling the corners and silences. She could feel Harry’s studying gaze upon her, but averted her eyes. Ginny and Ron were lost in conversation about the outcomes of the latest Quidditch match.

“Hermione, what happened today? You’ve barely spoken. Is everything alright with work?”

She swallowed, dipping a chip in the sauce before setting it back on the plate.

“Narcissa visited me at work today,” she said quietly.

“Malfoy?” Harry mouthed.

She nodded. “I’ve been avoiding her owls, and it seems she decided our conversation could no longer be put off…so she made an appointment.”

“As a client?”

Hermione blew out a long breath. “Yes.”

“I assume it was about Lyra?”

“What’s about Lyra?” Ron broke in.

Harry’s eyes widened. His poker face had never improved.

“Her birthday is next week,” Hermione said smoothly. “I need to send her a present.”

“But why does Narcissa Malfoy care?” Ron pressed. Apparently, he and Ginny weren’t having that scintillating of a conversation about Quidditch.

Hermione darted a glance at her friends. Ginny threw back the rest of her beer, and Harry suddenly found rubbing his injured knee of utmost importance.

Ron’s eyes narrowed, looking at the group. “Alright, enough.” He put his beer down hard on the table, the last of the foam sloshing over his hand. “I know you all know something about Lyra. I’ve known for a while. But I’m tired of being left out of it. Just tell me.” Hurt colored his voice.

Hermione had not accounted for Ron over the years, thinking the natural distance between their work and lives was enough. Yet, a decade later, here they still sat together, having dinner like no time had passed.

“Ron—” Ginny said softly.

“It’s alright, Gin,” Hermione stopped her. “Lyra’s father isn’t from Sweden.”

Ron cocked his head. “Okay? I mean, she is very blonde. I just assumed it was Malfoy.”

Hermione blinked, but instead of crying or shouting or a myriad of all the emotions coursing through her body, the last vestiges of adrenaline bled from her in deep, unbridled laughter.

She couldn’t stop the hysterical giggles spilling from her, mixed with hiccups and tears and unfettered exhaustion.

“Hermione?” Ron put a steady hand on her shoulder, alarmed now. “Did I say something wrong? I figured it wasn’t a secret, just something you wanted to forget.”

Hermione recoiled, jerking her shoulder from beneath his hand. “I beg your pardon?”

“I mean… you came home from Sweden with a blonde—beautiful, mind you—little girl who cried every time I spoke,” Ron chuckled at the memory. “And Malfoy had just announced their pregnancy in The Prophet, and I assumed you wanted to… move on from it.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. Ron’s familiar blue eyes met hers, earnest and unguarded.

Slowly, she let her shoulders fall. “I didn’t think anyone…”

“We all kinda guessed,” he admitted. “Then Susan mentioned you two were practically attached at the hip during Healer training before you left…”

“Susan?” Hermione’s voice squeaked. “Does everyone know?”

“No,” Ginny said quickly, reaching across the table to squeeze Hermione’s hands in hers. “Most people didn’t even know you had a kid until September.” Her eyes flicked to Harry, who was focused on the grain of the wooden table. “We made sure any pictures of you and Lyra that might’ve made it to The Prophet or Witch Weekly were… taken care of.”

“Gin…” Hermione pulled her hands back gently. “You didn’t have to do that. None of you needed to.”

“Why not?” Harry’s voice was stern, his green eyes piercing as he finally looked up. “Are you the only person allowed to care for others when they need help?”

“I—”

“This is what family does, Hermione. We are family.”

She looked to Ginny, but her face was as set as Harry’s.

“Ron?” Hermione turned to look at him.

“Sorry, ‘Mione. Harry’s right.” He gave her an awkward pat on the back before pulling his hand away, worried she might bite.

Hermione swallowed hard. “Thank you,” she muttered hoarsely.

A tired silence descended upon them, but was broken a moment later by Ron swearing.

“How the bloody fuck does Malfoy not realize Lyra is his kid?”

The table erupted in laughter.

“I have no idea,” Ginny giggled, wiping tears away.

“I knew it the first time she looked at Mum’s liver and wrinkled her nose with a prim, ‘No, thank you,’” Ron said, snorting.

“And the way she says ‘James Potter’ when he’s being a prat?” Harry added with a grin. “Completely Malfoy.”

“No, but seriously,” Ron went on, sobering slightly. “Pure blood families—especially the old ones—usually have ways to detect extramarital pregnancies. Some kind of magic lineage detection. Malfoys. Blacks. That lot.”

Hermione blinked. Ron, again, proving himself to be vastly more informed than she gave him credit for.

Harry flagged down the bartender for another round.

“Narcissa,” Hermione said, answering the question Ron hadn’t quite asked. “She was still helping Draco with the books when Lyra was born. She noticed the change. And she… helped. Delayed Lyra’s appearance on the family tapestry and in any magical registries.”

“But when will she show up?” Ginny asked, her brow furrowed.

“That’s the hundred-galleon question,” Hermione muttered. “It’s keyed to her coming of age… when she gets her period.”

“Oh.” Ron made a face. His ears turned pink. “Brilliant. Excellent.”

“Aw, Ronnikins.” Ginny leaned forward, trying to pinch Ron’s cheek. “Someday, you’ll have a wife and learn the wonders of womanhood.”

Ron vigorously shook his head. “I’m fine. Blood and spiders. No, thank you.”

“Ron,” Harry said seriously. “You and Tabitha practically lived together for a year. You never…”

A jolt of something went through Hermione…it wasn’t necessarily jealousy. But it was something.

“Tabitha?” she heard herself ask. “The witch you dated for a few months?”

“It was more than a few months,” Ginny said dryly. “Ron was looking at rings.”

Hermione turned to look at him. “I don’t remember Tabitha from school.”

“She was a few years behind us,” Ron answered, studying his fresh pint.

“She was Reginald Cattermole’s daughter,” Harry offered.

Hermione frowned, trying to place the name. “Is that the person—”

“Whose hair we stole when we broke into the Ministry? Yeah.”

“I was going to say the one you were imitating when his wife tried to snog you.” Hermione smirked.

“Oi!” Ron squawked.

“Did you ever compare who was the better kisser?” Ginny asked, gleeful.

“You two are the worst,” Ron said, though his grin betrayed no real malice.

Hermione smiled, the weight she’d been carrying having lifted every so slightly.

“I have good news!” Parvati’s voice rang across the pub, waving papers above her head as she wove through the evening crowd to their table. “You are now the proud tenant of 41B Little Hill House. Congratulations, Hermione!”

The group whooped in celebration. Parvati bought a round for the table, and the heaviness from earlier vanished into the familiar hum of shared drinks and laughter.

“We’ll help you move this weekend,” Ginny said as she squeezed Hermione in a tight, tipsy hug goodbye. Harry grinned, flushed from too many tequila shots with Ron, and pulled his wife toward the pub’s floo with a backward wave.

“Your place doesn’t have a floo, does it?” Ron asked, squinting at her.

“No, but not for much longer.” Hermione grinned. “If you remember, I am now very posh.”

Ron gave her a lopsided grin. “Alright, your majesty, let’s get you home.”

“Ron, neither of us can apparate right now.” She hiccuped for emphasis.

He placed both hands on her shoulder and turned her to face the door. “That’s why we’ll take the underground.”

“When did you learn to use the Tube?” Hermione said over her shoulder as he guided her out the pub’s front door.

“I am a man of the city, now. Pity you haven’t taken the time to notice.”

“My apologies, Head Auror Weasley.”

The temperature had dropped considerably since nightfall, but there was a warm, glowy hum beneath her skin—partially from the alcohol, but also from the unburdening of secrets. Hermione wasn’t ready to think too long on how the past eleven years might have been different had she not hidden Lyra. Some truths could only be unpacked slowly.

“Tell me about the wildest arrest you’ve made,” she said, stuffing her hands into her coat pockets.

He launched into a story that didn’t wrap up until they were climbing the stairs to her flat.

“Are you sure you’re able to get home alright?” Hermione asked as they stopped before her front door.

“Yeah,” Ron nodded. “I should be fine.”

Hermione wasn’t sure if it was the wind, the drink, or the relief, but he stood so close.

She swallowed, not meaning to look at his mouth, but there it was—right there. Then, he leaned closer to her.

Her heart beat wildly, lips parting. His wind-chapped lips pressed the side of her cheek. She placed a steadying hand on his arm.

Neither moved.

She could smell the mix of his cologne and beer, but also the comforting smell of Ron. Her friend, who despite so many things, had remained himself.

If she turned her head, she knew he wouldn’t stop her.

But she didn’t know if she was ready for something like this, as a mountain of hard truths awaited her. Would it be better to climb with someone at her side?

“Good night, ‘Mione,” he whispered in her ear, his lips grazing her cheek before he stepped back, and her hand dropped.

She swallowed thickly. “Night, Ron.”

Hermione turned to unlock her door, but when she looked back, Ron had disappeared.

She hadn’t even heard him leave.

Chapter Text

Long bands of icy rain and snow snapped against the Great Hall’s windows. Even though it looked as if night had never lifted outside, an odd energy hummed about the castle.

It reminded Lyra of how the village would feel before one of the winter storms: witches and wizards warding their homes, casting protective charms over their Muggle neighbors. She would stand with her mum on their front porch, huddled together as they felt the push and pull of an endless tug-of-war against large trees and the fixed, immovable mountains.

Hogwarts wasn’t Sweden or the Institute, but it too was surrounded by land and forests. The magic felt different here. One of the residents at the Institute warned her of this—magic changed based on the ley lines and people, like how dialects shifted depending on where you were born. Lyra was still mulling over Hogwarts’ magical dialect. She wondered if Florence felt the shift as well, coming from Egypt.

“You’re quiet this morning.” Al nudged her with his elbow.

“I am?” Lyras blinked up from the eggs she had been moving around her plate. Florence hummed idly on her other side, quiet as well.

Al bobbed his head in reply as he ripped a piece of toast and swirled it around in his egg yolk. Lyra wished he used a fork and knife, but she had witnessed Uncle Harry do the same thing…and James.

James had become a sore spot for them. He didn’t ignore their group, precisely, but he didn’t engage with them either. If they passed in the Great Hall or on the way to class, he might cast a tripping jinx or say something terrible more loudly than necessary.

And the hair. Lyra rolled her eyes, finally spearing a piece of egg with her fork. James had his father's silky, wild hair, and he loved to run his hands through it.

In short, James was insufferable.

Al’s hair was much more lovely, anyway. It was a mix of his parents, not deep brown, but a bit auburn if she was pressed to give it a name. His skin was just as tan as his father's and brother’s, only Lily taking after her mother with the Weasley pale skin, ginger hair, and freckles.

“You’re quiet, too,” Al garbled, mouth half full of toast already, gesturing at Scorpius.

Scorpius blinked up from the book his father had sent him yesterday. Lyra smiled, knowing full well he was trying to finish it quickly so he could pass it on to her.

He lifted the book up to show Al before setting it back down in his lap to keep reading, as if that was explanation enough for his unusual silence.

Lyra wrapped her dainty hands around her teacup, trying to draw comfort from the warmth. Heating charms in the castle were finicky at best. A light dusting of snow fell from the ceiling, disappearing before it reached the students. She knew it was enchanted, but a shiver ran through her once more as she glanced up at the dark windows in the rafters and the falling, magical snow.

“Why do you keep looking at the ceiling?” Al asked.

“You’re full of questions this morning,” Scorpius mumbled irritably.

Al shot him a look as Florence also turned her gaze upward, her Dirigible Plum earrings swaying with the motion.

Lyra worried her lip, but there was no use in lying. “I’m not looking forward to today.”

Scorpius’s nose wrinkled, his eyes not leaving the page as he said, “Why not? It’s only a Tuesday.”

Lyra began to reply, but cold air flooded the Great Hall as the owls swooped in from the open windows high in the ceiling. Delighted shrieks and giggles scattered throughout the hall as owls dropped miniature snow flurries in their descent, whether from the enchanted ceiling or actual snow outside.

Lyra couldn’t look now that they’d come. She reasoned it would just be one letter from her Mum and waited for the inevitable owl.

“Can’t believe they made it through the storm,” Al muttered, voice barely audible over the commotion from the cold snow the birds brought with them.

“Wow, they’re huge,” someone muttered down the table, and Lyra looked up in time to see four large owls gliding toward the Slytherins, their gobstone round eyes fixed on her.

“Al,” Lyra hissed, as the birds zoomed nearer. “Help me before…” but her words trailed off as the owls descended.

“Why are there so many…” Al’s eyes widened as he met Lyra’s panicked gaze. “Bugger. Yeah, right. Sorry.”

He quickly began to help her untie letters while Florence deftly stuffed the beaks with little bits of toast before they could nip fingers. The owls were making a scene, knocking over juices and trampling through food, leaving forked footprints down the Slytherin table as they jostled for prominence to deliver their birthday wishes first.

Red crept up Lyra’s neck and face until finally the last owl was divested and dispatched, leaving Lyra with a stack of cards and packages with featherlight charms, one smoking precariously with the return address to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

“It’s your birthday?” Scorpius asked weakly, holding an armful of oddly shaped parcels. She hadn’t even noticed that he’d come to their side of the table to help.

“Yeah,” Lyra sighed.

A chorus of well wishes sounded down the Slytherin table as people lost interest now that the scene was over. She nodded, picking up her wand to begin sorting the letters and putting them in her bag to return to the dorm. Scorpius bumped Al with his hip, forcing him to scoot over so he could shrink the packages individually and add them to Lyra’s bag.

“That could have been worse,” she mumbled, watching Scorpius shrink the smoking box.

Florence patted her on the back.

“You forgot one from your Mum,” another first year said, reaching over to toss a large box Scorpius missed.

It was neatly wrapped with brown paper and a candy-striped red and white string. At the top was her address in her mother’s familiar, neat handwriting.

Lyra fiddled with the dainty string, wondering who else thought sending copious amounts of gifts for her birthday would be something she’d like.

“You should open one. We won’t make a fuss,” Scorpius said kindly, nodding to the one in her hands as he deposited the last box into her bag.

Buoyed by his encouragement, Lyra tugged on the string and pulled off the paper. A card sat on the gift, and she slid her finger beneath the seam.

Lyra,

Happiest of birthdays. I know you don’t enjoy a big fuss, so be sure to open my gift back in your room. I shrunk it a bit, so be sure to give it a tap. I am so proud of you.

Love,

Mum

She swallowed thickly and tucked the note into her bag, but before she could add the package, a hand snatched it from her lap and tossed it into the air.

“Well, what do we have here?” James Potter smirked, his school robes hanging open to reveal a rumpled shirt beneath, his tie loose and hair artfully askew.

He looks ridiculous, Lyra thought.

“Give it back, James,” she snapped, extending her hand and expecting compliance.

“Why? It seems you’re getting fan mail. Why not share with the rest of us poor souls?”

“It’s not—” Al began, but Lyra shot him a sharp look, and he fumbled. “It’s just mail, James.”

James ignored them and tugged out his wand. “Seems like whoever sent this didn’t want you to open it in front of everyone. Pity. But you really should throw your humble fans a bone.” He glanced over his shoulder at his mate, who was watching the scene unfold. “I think we should indulge the weirdos and give Lyra a hand.”

The table stilled, everyone gaping as James tapped his wand against Lyra’s gift. Even the Bloody Baron stopped halfway through the wall to watch the gift grow from the size of James’s palm to something that needed two hands to hold.

As swiftly as he had swiped it, he flicked open the lid. Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes candies spilled over the side. Lyra stared in horror as he picked through them—treats from home that her mother had likely special-ordered.

But the worst was still buried deeper in the box.

“Ah, look. A dozen… sugar quills?” He sneered. “And Slytherin notebooks, Slytherin pencils, Slytherin—look, Gill,” he called over his shoulder, “some poor little firstie’s mum is trying to make her feel better about her crap house. I don’t think there’s enough dirt to make this one any cleaner.”

Lyra set her jaw and was about to summon the box back to herself when the most unexpected hero charged James.

The bench rocked—not because Al had finally sprung to her defense, but because Scorpius had.

“Just go on, would you?” Scorpius hissed. His usual congenial demeanor had vanished, replaced by a tilted, haughty chin and narrowed eyes. Even though James was a year ahead, he and Al were less than eighteen months apart. Scorpius was all limbs, but he stood his ground, meeting James’s glare without flinching.

James glanced at his mate, then let out a bark of laughter. “What are you going to do, little Malfoy? Run to your daddy and have him throw a book at us?”

Scorpius arched a brow, his voice cool and sharp. “That would be a waste. Everyone knows most Gryffindors are only good for grunting and menial tasks. I mean, your father is a… wittler, isn’t he?”

Lyra heard Al groan behind her. He knew full well that Scorpius loved Harry Potter’s woodworking stories—he’d practically begged for demonstrations and checked out books on magical carpentry from the library.

James, clearly, did not know.

His face darkened, red blotching his cheeks as he stepped closer, teeth bared. “Take that back, you—”

“Ickle children,” a voice cut into the bubbling anger. “Don’t you think it’s too early—and dreary—for this sort of thing?”

Professor Parkinson stood a few paces away, a singular brow arched, her wand lazily held at her side.

“Professor, they’re a bunch of—”

“James Potter,” a deeper voice interrupted, silencing James mid-sentence. Lyra turned to see Professor Longbottom striding toward them, his jaw clenched, his expression cool and sharp. “I think you’d be wise not to insult one of Professor Parkinson’s house members.”

A wave of ooohs washed across the Great Hall, as heads swiveled at the familiar baritone of Professor Longbottom’s voice—the crowd buzzing for a proper dressing down.

Professor Longbottom’s lips twitched, gaze darting to Professor Parkinson and then back to James. Lyra tried not to blush.

Professor Neville Longbottom is kind and always smells of fresh cut grass and smiles so lovely, she thought.

James, too incensed and embarrassed to realize he wasn’t in that much trouble, stiffly nodded.

“I suggest you head to class, Mr. Potter,” Professor Parkinson added with what could only be described as a maniacal grin. “I do hope your potion is up to snuff today and you won’t need remedial potions lessons.”

James shoved the box into Scorpius’s chest hard enough to make him grunt, but Scorpius didn’t move. James gave him a final, smoldering glare before stuffing his hands in his pockets and stomping off, his mate hurrying to follow.

Scorpius slowly turned to look at the Slytherin table. His eyes were wide with glee—like Christmas had come early.

“Ms. Granger,” said Professor Longbottom as he passed. “Happy birthday.” His voice was warm and low, and Lyra felt her cheeks flush even hotter.

He fell into step beside Professor Parkinson, the two of them heading toward the head table.

“You could cut that tension with a butter knife,” muttered a sixth year further down the table.

“What tension?” Al asked, sounding both elated by his brother’s scolding and genuinely confused.

“That,” Caroline breathed, eyes wide as she stared at Scorpius, “was amazing.”

Lyra hadn’t even noticed her and the others arrive.

“What did you get, Lyra?” Florence asked as Scorpius took his seat next to her, handing the box back.

“It’s…” She’d almost forgotten about the gift in the altercation.

“It’s certainly from your mum,” Al laughed, reaching over to tug out not one but five different flavours of sugar quills.

“Oh my gods,” Lyra flushed, hastily stuffing the candies back inside.

“What’s wrong with sugar quills?” Scorpius frowned.

“They’re old people candy, Scorp,” Caroline giggled.

“I like them,” Florence offered.

“I bet Professor Parkinson likes them…” a seventh year snickered.

“Would someone tell me what is going on?” Al groaned.

“Aw, Al. You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t notice,” Florence said, patting him sympathetically on the back.

Lyra grimaced at the other items James had failed to notice…things she enjoyed when she was ten, but now? At twelve? Embarrassing. She tapped her wand against the box, muttering the spell and shrinking it to pocket size and stuffed it away.

“I’m going to dash back to our dorm and drop this off,” she whispered to Florence and Scorpius. “I’ll meet you in class.”

“See you in Herbology,” Scorpius said, still grinning at his roundabout victory over Gryffindor.

Lyra hurried off, but something compelled her to glance toward the head table. Professor Parkinson was watching her. But then her gaze slid away, and she turned back to quietly conversing with the other professor.

She’d been doing that since the start of term—not necessarily needling Lyra, but exceedingly more curious about her than she was with most first-years.

Then there were Professors Longbottom and Tonks—both heads of other houses—who went out of their way to be kind. They made sure she was taken care of, or laughed warmly when she said something that must have reminded them of her mum.

It sometimes felt like she was walking with her mother's ghost trailing behind her. Everything she did was preceded by the shadow of what her mother had already done.

She knew Hermione Granger was a thing back here, but it was an entirely different experience living it day in, day out.

Al must feel it doubly so.

And if Uncle Ron had a kid, they’d probably feel it too.

Then again, James probably took the brunt of it. Not that he minded. With a head that size, he probably loved it.

Too soon, she was standing before Merlin’s portrait.

“What is the last ingredient in…” Merlin trailed off, forgetting his question halfway through.

“Pickled toad,” Lyra said balefully. He’d retained the same password for three weeks, forgetting that he changed it, and always accepting Picked Toad.

“Correct! Are you sure you’re not part Seer? My Morgana could see the future,” the portrait mused.

Lyra ignored him, pushing through the rippling fabric to a quiet common room. A few fifth years sat hunched over textbooks in the back, cramming for an Astronomy exam. She hurried past and down the long hallway to their oversized first-year dorm. Tears clouded her vision as she made it to her bed.

“Stupid box,” she said thickly, wiping away fat tears with the back of her hand that wouldn’t stop, no matter how hard she tried to will them away.

Twelve.

Her first birthday away from Sweden—and from her mum. She supposed the snow was a small consolation, at least something familiar.

Lyra took a shuddering breath and squeezed her eyes tight. After a few more breaths, the tears slowed. She dumped the cards and gifts—from whom she couldn’t fathom—into her trunk. Glancing at her watch, she squeaked and bolted out of her room.

It was a long trek from the dungeons to the greenhouses.

But as she rounded the corner into the common room, she came to a complete stop.

Professor Parkinson sat perched on the sofa's edge, twirling her wand.

Waiting.

“Ms. Granger. My office. Please.”

“But I have Herbology—”

Lyra would later swear she saw her professor roll her eyes before turning and striding toward the door. “I’ll send a note. Follow me.”

Adjusting her bag, she obeyed, seeing little other choice.

James had said something. She knew it. He was always all bark until someone bit back, and then he’d go running to Uncle Harry…never Aunt Ginny because she saw through his ruse.

Maybe Professor Parkinson was like Aunt Ginny? Lyra hoped so.

The professor unlocked her office door and stepped inside. Lyra followed, hesitating on the threshold. The room was neat, softly lit, and smelled faintly of bergamot and parchment.

This wasn’t the scary dungeon office Uncle Harry had warned James about—filled with horrible jars and shrouded curtains. Instead, bookshelves lined the walls, filled with potion tomes, framed photographs, and what looked like a few Quidditch medals. A large wooden desk sat neatly at the center.

“Take a seat, please,” Parkinson said, elegantly settling into the high-backed chair behind her desk.

Lyra sat, perching on the edge of one of the oversized dark floral chairs.

“Astrid,” Parkinson called softly.

A small House Elf appeared beside her, dressed in the official Hogwarts uniform.

“A tray of biscuits for myself and Miss Granger,” the professor said. She leaned close, whispering something. The elf’s head snapped toward Lyra, eyes wide. Then she nodded, ears flapping, and vanished with a polite crack.

Lyra shifted in her seat, unsure. Parkinson turned back to her, folding her hands.

She idly noticed that the professor’s nails were painted a sharp red, matching her lipstick.

“This morning—” the professor began.

“It was all James,” Lyra blurted. “He’s been insufferable since the first day because Al and I are in Slytherin while he’s stuck in stupid Gryffindor like our parents. Whatever he said, it isn’t true, Professor. He’s a smug, prig-headed git and—” Her voice trailed off.

Parkinson was leaning back in her chair, smiling—smiling—wide and delighted.

“Go on,” she said. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Lyra swallowed dryly. “Sorry, professor,” she mumbled, looking down at her hands.

“Oh my gods, Salazar’s tits. Lyra.”

Lyra’s head shot up, lips parting in shock at hearing her professor swear.

“Child,” Professor Parkinson sighed, but before she could continue, Astrid reappeared with a large tray.

Two delicate demitasse cups filled with dark, steaming coffee were next to a wild assortment of biscuits and little cakes. But in the very center rested a miniature green sponge cake.

“Prinsesstårta,” Lyra breathed.

“I don’t know if this is actually what you do in Sweden for Fika on birthdays—and I realize it’s only eight in the morning—but you seemed lost at breakfast,” Professor Parkinson said gently. Her voice lacked pity, as if she were simply noting the deep snow outside.

“It’s wonderful.” Lyra stared hard at her folded hands, willing the tears puddling at the corners of her eyes to stay put.

She could feel Professor Parkinson studying her, and finally looked up to meet her steady gaze. Whatever the professor saw, it must have passed inspection because she returned to fix Lyra’s cup of coffee and fill a plate with little cakes.

“Are you enjoying Hogwarts?” she asked after a quiet few minutes of cakes and kaffe.

“It’s different,” Lyra replied, nibbling the edge of a cookie.

“How so?” Professor Parkinson asked, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin, as if she were taking Fika with the queen rather than a twelve-year-old girl, who was desperately homesick and at the same time, inexplicably content.

Lyra chewed her bottom lip, wondering if the answer would sound too bizarre. But Professor Parkinson wasn’t someone you gå runt på gräset with, so she settled on the truth. “The magic tastes different.”

The professor's manicured brow arched higher than Lyra thought possible. “Tastes?” she echoed disbelievingly.

“Taste is the wrong word.” Lyra frowned. “It’s more—Have you traveled much?”

Parkinson blinked at the abrupt change of topic. “I have, but it has been some time. I attended my apprenticeship in France.”

Lyra nodded. “They’re not too dissimilar to England, but enough. Did you notice how the magic shifted depending on where you went? Did any of your Latin-based incantations work slightly better or worse, depending on where you were?”

Parkinson blinked slowly, as if she was resisting an eyeroll with all her might.

“You are very much like your mother.” Lyra must have flinched because she quickly asked, “And that doesn’t suit you, does it?”

Lyra shifted in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable. She was saving her last bite of Prinsesstårta, but now she wasn’t sure she wanted it.

The professor let out a soft huff. “I don’t mean to pry. It’s just…while you remind me very much of your mother—we were in the same year, you know—you also remind me of one of my best friends. He’s equally inquisitive and determined. A bit emotional at the worst of times.”

Lyra frowned. “Emotional?”

“Draco felt things. The number of times I had to pry him from drowning in some well of feelings.” She trailed off, laughing softly at a memory. “I enjoy having you in my class and house, Lyra. Whatever your parentage, you are what matters here. I will not give you marks based on your mother’s past. It will be on your merit alone. I hope you know that.”

And Lyra did. For the first time in days, she felt genuinely grateful to have been sorted into Slytherin.

“Is your father around?” Parkinson asked, sipping her coffee. The question was casual, innocuous—yet wholly surprising.

“No,” Lyra answered, that lingering knot in her stomach tightening whenever she thought of her mysterious father. “I don’t know who he is, actually. My mum vaguely mentioned the war once.” She looked up, suddenly hopeful. “Do you know who he is? The Sorting Hat said he was still alive. I didn’t know that.”

Her voice dropped into a whisper, the confession slipping out before she could stop it.

The professor’s expression faltered—just for a moment—and Lyra instantly regretted saying anything.

“I don’t,” Parkinson replied quietly. “Why not ask her?”

Lyra shrugged. “She’s made a point not to mention him. What if he was a horrible person? Like…like a Death Eater or something.”

She looked up just in time to see something flicker across her professor’s face—pain, maybe—but it vanished behind a smooth mask.

“I shouldn’t have pried, Lyra. Forgive me.” Professor Parkinson glanced at the clock on the wall. “You’ve only got ten minutes left in Herbology. I’ll send a note to Professor Longbottom—you can get the notes later. With your aptitude, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Thank you for joining me for tea.”

Lyra nodded, glancing once more at the last bite of cake—but she didn’t want it anymore.

What she wanted was to know more about her father.

Perhaps the library had answers.

That thought carried her through the rest of the week.

________

“No one can wear the ring unless related by marriage or by blood. Typically, the enchantments are such that you need to be a fairly close relative to wear the ring. For example, the Longbottoms are distant cousins of the Malfoys, but they could never wear a Malfoy ring because of—”

Professor Tonks turned to the board, spelling out the correct runic enchantment for the students to copy down.

“This is all above your year,” she continued, “but as your Charms professor, it would behoove me to impress upon you the importance of knowing this. In your sixth year, you will study magical disintegration—the art of dissecting an enchantment using your own magic.”

“Earth magic,” Lyra blurted, then quickly covered her mouth.

Professor Tonks gave her a kind smile. “You have experience with that, do you not, Ms. Granger?”

She nodded, curls magically tamed to bounce gently when she moved. “Magic is different in Scotland. In Sweden, there are blessings we give to the earth each morning and requests we make of the magic.”

“Midsommer, yes?”

“That’s one of the festivals.. But even during Fika we give and receive from the magic.”

Professor Tonks raised an eyebrow—so much like Scorpius’s expression that Lyra nearly giggled.

“Earth magic will also be studied during your sixth year. You’ll need to account for it in your studies of magical disintegration.” She tapped her wand against the blackboard. “Again, class—the ability to know an object, to analyze its magical potential before even touching it, is a marvelous skill. Our former Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore—rest his soul—was a master at it. Perhaps one of you will follow in his footsteps?”

Her smile turned fond. Almost motherly.

“Mr. Finnigan, please take this quill,” she said, offering a large quill with a magnificent peacock plum.

Cautiously, the Gryffindor accepted the quill. Nothing happened.

“Is something supposed to happen?” He looked up curiously at the professor.

“Please copy this phrase onto your parchment using the quill.” She waved her wand at the board, and a quote from their textbook appeared beneath the earlier runes.

He shrugged, dipped the quill in ink, and began to write—only to squawk a moment later. “It’s not in English!”

Professor Tonks grinned. “Enchanted quill. Which of the three charms do you believe has been applied?”

“Obviously a translation spell,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Are you sure it isn’t layered with a truth translation?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Erm—”

“Now,” Tonks clapped her hands together, drawing everyone’s attention. “I have pulled a few items from the Black family vaults and asked Bill Weasley to ensure their enchantments are safe for students.” She smiled at Al, who beamed proudly for his uncle. “Your task in today’s Charms lesson is to deduce which charm is at work—using only the set of spells we’ve been studying so far.”

A chorus of groans rippled through the room.

“Tsk.” She snapped her fingers. “Let me finish before you complain. Each item will reflect one of the three enchantments listed here—” She gestured to the board, where elegant script spelled them out. “House points will be awarded to each group who guesses correctly. Double points if you determine the answer without physically touching the item.”

With a flick of her wand, the classroom came to life—objects flying across the room, landing gently in front of each student.

A large onyx ring floated before Lyra, its flat oval face engraved with a faded family crest.

“Ugh, I hate this,” Caroline muttered next to her, spinning her object in midair with a casual levitation spell. They’d mastered that easily in the first week.

“Me too,” Beatrice parroted, scrunching her nose at the candlestick she prodded with the tip of her wand.

Professor Tonks cleared her throat. “I will remind you that all objects before you are safely enchanted. Your task is to solve the riddle of the magic using the charms you have learned thus far. You may use your textbooks if necessary.”

Lyra picked up the ring with the tip of her wand, bringing it close to her nose to examine it. She gave her head a little shake. The room filled with a high-pitched ringing noise.

“Wrackspurts?” Florence turned in her seat a row ahead, narrowing her eyes at Lyra. “You’re thinking too hard, Lyra. Why not try putting it on?”

Lyra looked aghast. “But we will forfeit double points.” She gently levitated the ring back onto the table.

Florence smirked and turned back around. Lyra threw a wad of paper at her head.

Her mum always said never to trust anything that had a mind that you couldn’t properly see. What if this ring had a mind and made her do funny things?

“Scorpius!” she hissed, turning to look at Scorpius behind her.

He looked up from his cigar box, grinning as he tossed the little item gently in the air before him. “Andromeda forgot I’m part Black because of my Gran. I asked the box to show me its enchantments, and it did!”

Lyra huffed. “That’s cheating, and you know it. But never mind—what was the book where the people turned into wraiths if they wore a ring too long?”

Scorpius cocked his head to the side, making him look like a puppy. “You mean Ringwraiths? Like from Lord of the Rings?”

“Yes!” Lyra turned, looping the ring on her wand, and held it up to him.

“Do you think this might…?”

Scorpius shook his head. “No, that looks like a dead family ring.”

Lyra blinked. “Dead?”

“Yeah, it means the people in the line have either died or the ring hasn’t found a suitable heir. One of the portraits at the Manor went on about it for ages one day, and Gran had to rescue me so I could eat dinner.”

“Oh.” Lyra frowned. “You have more than one portrait in your home?”

“We do at the Manor, but Dad doesn’t want to live there again until he has to. He leaves most of the estate management up to Gran and lives in a townhouse in London now. He only supervises the necessary items…his words, not mine.”

“Right…thanks.” Lyra turned back around in her seat. She had never spoken with the few portraits at the Institute. They merely shouted suggestions to Healers or chided her for running in the halls—if they spoke at all.

She squinted at the small object before her. If the ring was dead, and Professor Tonks had already had all the objects in the room assessed for ill-magical intent…

She stopped dithering and began muttering enchantments. The ring glowed slightly but didn’t reveal its secrets. After several minutes and consulting her textbook, she still had no idea what was contained in the object. Lyra peered about the room, and most students had given up and were touching their items, laughing as their hair raised on end or their voices spoke gobbledygook.

Taking a breath, she levitated the ring slightly with her wand and then let it fall into her palm.

It was warm to the touch, almost humming like a struck tuning fork. She held it up to her ear, now able to hear the magical vibrations. Her eyes flicked to the board, but none of the suggested charms included music.

It was notably a woman’s family ring, with a narrow gold band and a dainty, flat seal. She ran her thumb over the raised B, surrounded by vines and what appeared to be a black crow. The bird turned its head to examine Lyra, and she jumped. Its beak opened as if to say something, but no sound emerged.

She smiled. What harm could come from trying the ring on? Nothing had happened while she held it in her palm.

She slipped it onto her finger and gasped as a rushing wind burst through the open windows, causing papers to swirl and dance. Lyra’s hair rose slightly with the energy, just as it had when she first grasped her hawthorn wand at Ollivanders. Her ears rang from the magic, and as it slowly settled, she became aware of the loud exclamations and staring eyes.

“What was that?” Caroline gaped, her pretty chesnut tangled from the wind. Lyra looked around her to see papers scattered throughout the room and every student staring at her. She blushed, looking down at her hand where the small ring had shrunk to fit the small of her finger.

“Lyra,” Scorpius breathed, his pale grey eyes wide. She turned to look at him and then at Professor Tonks, who stood rigid, lips parted in surprise.

“I promise, I didn’t know—” Lyra tried to tug the ring off her finger, but it wouldn’t budge. “I can’t get it off,” she gasped, tears brimming as she struggled to remove it.

“Class, we are done for the day. Please leave your item at your seat and submit your reports next class period. Only one foot, please,” Professor Tonks announced, waving her wand to right the room as students gathered their things. “Ms. Granger and Mr. Malfoy, please stay.”

Lyra swallowed, not looking up as students left for lunch, still trying to twist the immovable ring off her finger.

“My office, if you please,” Tonks said crisply, disappearing through the far door behind the chalkboard.

Lyra shared a look with Scorpius, spelling her papers and textbooks back into her bag. They followed together through the arched door.

Profesor Tonks’s office was orderly—similar to Professor Parkinson’s, but with more family photos, many of them including her Uncle Harry and his godson, Teddy. Lyra smiled at the young Teddy Lupin, waving to her from what looked like the Burrow’s kitchen table. She had only met him a handful of times as their visits never seemed to coincide with his and Professor Tonks's holiday drop-ins. It didn’t help that Teddy was a fifth-year Slytherin.

They tumbled into their seats, Lyra speaking before Tonks could even sit down. “Professor Tonks, I promise—I didn’t do anything except try the spells you showed us before putting it on. It won’t come off.” Her voice was trembling, and she struggled to keep it even.

“Lyra, please.” Tonks raised her hand. “I am not upset, child. That ring is very old, and its response is curious. I am not blaming you for the ring’s…affinity toward you and your magic.”

“Affinity? But I’m…I’m not a BLack, I’m a Granger.”

Professor Tonks’s face pinched thoughtfully. “Are you related to the Dagworth-Grangers, by chance? I’d need to call Cissa and look at the Black family tree, but I believe we distantly have a cousin who married into the Dagworth-Grangers…or married into the Blacks?”

“You think we could be related?” Scorpius squeaked, beaming as he met Lyra’s eye. “I mean, everyone says we could be twins with our hair.”

Tonks tutted fondly. “That hair, no matter what your Gran may say, is utterly Malfoy. Ms. Granger, have you visited Malfoy Manor before?”

She shook her head slowly. “No, I haven’t.”

“Well, when you do, you will see a long, stuffy line of Malfoy patriarchs all with that same hair color. Narcissa, my sister and Scorpius’s grandmother, is an outlier with her blonde hair…” Tonks trailed off. “Perhaps whatever family line you’re connected with is where Cissy gets her blonde hair?”

“Wait—but I’m not…my mother is a Muggle-born. A famous one! I don’t see how—”

“Who is your father, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Lyra swallowed. “You’re the second person to ask me that this week, and I don’t know. I was hoping…well, since you know my Mum, you might know.”

Tonks’s eyes softened. “My dear, forgive me for prying.”

“Could you guess, though? Maybe give her some ideas so we can look through the family trees in the library?” Scorpius asked.

Tonks opened her mouth and then closed it. “No, I think it wouldn’t be prudent of me to begin naming guesses, especially if they turn out to be incorrect. That would be entirely dreadful if I were wrong.”

“Then what do I do?” Lyra's shoulders slumped, the emotions from the past half-hour crashing down into a wave of frustration and hopelessness. “Is the ring broken, and I’m still…” The word nothing hung in the air, heavy and unspoken.

“The ring,” Professor Tonks said slowly, “I was told it would make the wearer speak in limericks. All the old pure-blood nonsense has been stripped away, leaving it safe for whatever wearer. Evidently, both I and Curse-Breaker Weasley were incorrect.”

Lyra’s lips twitched at the idea of Uncle Bill being told he was wrong.

“Lyra, I know we don’t know one another very well and have only met in passing at the Burrow, but I do hope that whatever comes from this exploration with the Black family will make England feel a little more like home.”

She nodded. “What do I do with the ring in the meantime?”

Professor Tonks pressed her lips together thoughtfully. “I believe you should be fine, but I’ll need to speak with Scorpius’s father, as he is the acting head of the Black family. I’ll let you know if anything needs to be done. And please tell your Head of House if the ring gives you any trouble.”

Sensing they were dismissed, she and Scorpius rose as one. The door was hardly shut before Scorpius began speaking, his voice surprisingly quiet for the amount of words spilling from him. “Can you imagine? What if we are related? What if we’re second cousins or—what if you can take the Black family title, or what if—”

Al was waiting for them outside the classroom.

“What happened in there?” he hissed, falling in step beside them as they walked to the Great Hall for lunch.

“You were there, Al…” Lyra said defensively.

“I know, but…the ring just…” Al made an exploding motion with his hands. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Just more annoyed that I can’t take it off.”

Al’s eyes widened. “But that’s a family ring. Like—that’s what Uncle Bill and Grandad wear when they visit the Wizengamot or go to family events.”

“The Potters don’t have one?” Scorpius asked, aghast.

Al and Lyra shared a look—this is where Scorpius’s upbringing shone through.

“Scorp, most people aren’t magical gentry and don’t have long lineages…” Al said with a longsuffering sigh.

“It’s odd, that’s all,” Scorpius mumbled, his cheeks flushing.

“It’s just fine,” Lyra affirmed.

“Well, Dad said we might have some buried in the family vaults, but doesn’t care enough to look really. He hates going to the Ministry anyway. The phrase, ‘I’ve done enough,’ is always mentioned. ” Al amended

They entered the Great Hall to a chorus of whispers. Rumors of what happened in Charms had spread. Faces turned to watch the trio as they made their way to the Slytherin table.

Lyra ended up rehashing everything that had happened in class three times before Teddy Lupin finally sat down next to her. He had shifted his face again to the handsome boy with blue hair she hadn’t recognized on the first day.

“Why do you do that?” she asked, cutting him off before he could ask her about the ring stuck on her finger.

“Do what?” he squeaked, clearing his throat.

Lyra gestured to his face.

Teddy sighed, and she watched as his features shimmered back into place, matching an older version of the boy in the photograph with Uncle Harry.

“I just like trying it on…” Teddy said softly, picking up her fork to scoot around some of her peas. He looked up at her, a bit sheepishly. “I hear we might be long-lost cousins.”

“I don’t know what we are, Teddy. I think the ring has been fiddled with too much and the magic went haywire, that’s all.”

“But wouldn’t it be amazing if she were part of our family?” Scorpius leaned across the table to whisper.

Teddy grinned. “It would be nice to have more family to visit on the holidays.”

Lyra’s heart constricted a bit. Teddy had never known either of his parents. She, at least, had her mum to raise her.

“Teddy, do you like having your gran as a professor?” she asked, swiftly changing the subject and hoping his voice would drown out the louder voices in her head.

________

A cold wind tore down Diagon Alley, tossing Draco’s hair this way and that. He’d forgotten his scarf, and his delicate skin was paying bitterly for it.

He’d received notice from his solicitor that his bloody attached home had been let—without even a single showing. Draco knew he could write to Mr. Flint for clarification, but he despised the man. Polite, but only just so—like reviewing Draco’s accounts was an act of charity, rather than the lifeblood of his business. So instead, he decided to head into work and avoid all responsibility for the matter until supper.

His jaw ticked as he stormed down the street. Something on his face must have screamed get the fuck out of my way because children dove for their parents, and women clutched their handbags as if he might snatch them away…not really, but he smirked at the thought.

He knew precisely who was behind all of this but needed to come up with a plan first. Narcissa Malfoy had played her hand, but Draco was determined to win the round. He’d known she’d strike eventually, but he hadn’t expected it to be so...tedious.

Diagon Alley was quiet today, with few shoppers around. The holiday rush would hit in days, and he was bracing for impact.

“Good morning, Alice,” he said to one of the employees who stayed on after the takeover.

“Morning, Mr. Malfoy,” she called back, using her wand to rearrange a Christmas display with holiday-themed books. “I took the liberty of collecting a few owls that arrived for you this morning. They’re on your desk.”

“Thank you,” he said over his shoulder, trudging through the back office to his desk. The post waited for him, stacked neatly atop the pile of unsent order forms from the night before. He was still having trouble determining the ordering habits of the community—twice he’d had an overstock of Indonesian-Plum Quills and run out of Sapphire Self-inking pens.

It was irritating.

Draco thumbed through the letters, discarding the advertisements and sending the order forms to the front for another employee to take care of with a flick of his wand. What remained were a few personal letters—ironically addressed not to the Manor or his London flat, but here.

The first was from Blaise, informing him that he would be back from Italy next month and expected to be entertained.

The second looked like a note from a Countess his mother might have mentioned would be writing. He buried it beneath overdue correspondence.

As he was about to open the last, an official-looking owl soared through the window, landing atop his pile.

“Good morning to you, too,” Draco sniffed, accepting the letter and offering a leftover biscuit. The bird hooted, turned its nose up at the food, and left as swiftly as it came. “Just as well,” Draco mumbled, turning over to see who was writing him this morning. “Those were three days old anyway.”

A glimmer of gold caught his eye: Gringotts Bank's seal, pressed and perfect. Curiosity piqued, since his Goblin liaison only sent updates at the beginning of the week, not the end, he pressed his family ring against the wax and watched it dissolve in acknowledgement.

At half-past eight in the morning on 30 November, an automatic alert was sent to Gringotts Bank, informing of a possible suitable heir to the Black Family vaults. Should you seek to cut off the heir, please let us know, and we can resolve the matter internally. Should you seek to accept the heirship application, we can schedule a time to meet and divide the vault accordingly.

May your galleons ever grow and your family name be strong,

Grimindore

First Goblin, Order of Pike

Liaison to Black Family

Draco exhaled slowly. It was barely nine in the morning, and he already had a headache. It seemed his day would be spent in a windowless room with his goblin liaison.

He read the letter a second time and frowned. Grimindore conveniently left out who the recipient of the Black family boon was. Draco was annoyed and had half a mind to reply that they should cut off the heir and leave it at that.

Teddy or Scorpius would take the title someday. This had to be some distant cousin clawing their way back into relevance.

Draco grabbed his coat and gloves and walked toward Gringotts before he fully processed his next move. The imposing stone pillars greeted him as he took the marble steps two at a time, nodding to the guard as he passed through the arched doors.

Grimindore was waiting for him.

“May your vaults be overflowing, Lord Malfoy,” the goblin said with a bow.

As was customary, Draco gave him a long nod in greeting and replied, “May your gold be safe and your walls high.”

Grimindore wore the standard Gringotts uniform: a waistcoat with large gold buttons denoting his rank. Draco was fairly certain the goblin had been with the Black family for over a century.

Draco followed the goblin through the labyrinth of hallways, bypassing the many doors that led to the railroad and vaults, and instead heading to his office.

“May I take your coat?” the goblin asked in his gravely voice.

“No, thank you,” Draco replied, noting the new trinkets displayed on Grimindore’s desk.

“Tea?”

“Not today, Grimindore. I have a task to return to, so if we could make this quick, I’d be most appreciative.”

“Certainly, certainly.” Grimindore gestured to the open seat across the table that sat squarely in the room with chairs around it for meetings instead of his cluttered desk.

Draco tugged off his gloves and tucked them into his coat pocket before sitting down.

Two large folders were pushed toward Draco without explanation. Grimindore steepled his fingers and watched Draco expectantly.

“What are these?” Draco asked, his father's voice whispering in his mind: Never accept anything from a goblin before it's explained in full.

All we could find about the heir. Their name and parentage are not appearing in our files,” Grimindore replied, teeth long and yellowed. The goblin attempted what Draco supposed was a smile.

Draco did not return the smile. “That is alarming. I thought Gringotts above such tomfoolery.”

Grimindore hummed. “There seems to be a blood enchantment over the pages that would typically reveal the claimant’s identity. Do you know of any bastards?”

Draco’s eye twitched at the term. “No,” he said crisply.

Grimindore didn’t look convinced but didn’t press further.

“And how might we go about finding out who this person might be?” Draco asked.

Grimindore’s eyes flicked to the door just before a knock sounded.

Bloody good hearing, Draco mused.

“Grimindore, you asked to see me?” Bill Weasley poked his head inside. Noticeably older, yet just as intimidating as Draco remembered.

“Thank you, Head Curse Breaker Weasley.”

The ginger sighed. “Bill is fine, Grimindore. What can I help you with?”

Bill stepped inside, his movement stuttering briefly when he saw who sat across from the goblin. Draco stiffened but didn’t reach for his wand. He was well aware of what most Weasleys thought of him, except for Potter and Ginevra.

“Do I have permission to share with Head Curse Breaker Weasley?” Grimindore asked.

Draco waved a hand. “Go on.”

Bill stared at Draco’s hands for a beat too long before he cleared his throat and closed the door. He picked up the folders from the table, thumbing through the contents.

“It’s your typical notice of a potential heir...” he mumbled. “What triggered the notification?”

“A ring, according to Grimindore,” Draco answered.

“A Malfoy ring?” Bill asked incredulously.

“Black, actually. I’m the manager of the vaults and estates at the moment.”

Bill’s head jerked up, his eyes flashing with something—fear? Recognition?

“Right,” Bill said instead.

“I desire your opinion on why the name and parentage of the applicant are blurred,” Grimindore prompted.

“Oh,” Bill said, rubbing the back of his neck. He pulled out an empty chair by the table and sat down, still studying the folder. “What’s in the other folder?”

“A list of divisible assets, should Mr. Malfoy accept the possible heir, and instructions on how to disown and reject the notice.”

Bill hummed, as if this was a normal occurrence for Gringotts to sort out.

“There could be a myriad of reasons why this failsafe was triggered.”

“But why is it hidden?” Draco interrupted.

“Age, location, level of claim on the vaults...all three? I don’t know, Malfoy. But my bet is on age. The person might not be of age yet.”

Draco nodded, sharing a small, knowing smirk with Bill at what coming of age meant for wizards. When Draco hit puberty, he’d woken up to sugar quills littering his bed after a particularly vivid dream, and he’d frantically vanished them before Blaise or Theo noticed. Then there were the usual mood swings and power surges.

“There isn’t a set day for this to occur that we can determine?” Draco asked, knowing full well the answer would be no.

Bill chuckled darkly. “I wish. It would have been nice to know when the ticking time bomb of my daughter would erupt.”

And for a moment, both men smiled in understanding—fathers not wanting things to change but knowing it can only get better.

“I suppose that leaves us to wait, then,” Draco sighed, resigned, reaching for the folder.

Bill handed it over with a nod. “Things never seem to be dull for you, do they?”

Draco snorted, shaking his head. “No. They certainly do not.”

“Grimindore will keep an eye on the parchment and let you know if anything changes.”

The wizards bid Grimindore goodbye, and Bill escorted Draco to the front, chatting easily about the latest Quidditch match.

“I hear from Gin that your son and my nephew have become quite the pair.”

Draco sighed, pulling out his gloves and tugging them on. “Indeed. I suppose I will be seeing your family this holiday, as I don’t see my son going a full month without his friends, as exciting as I may be.”

Bill smirked. “Likely.” He held out his hand, and Draco accepted it.

________

Three days later, the pinch between his eyes lingered stubbornly and had continued through the weekend. Draco regretted ever having opened the ledger from one of his father’s boxes after too much wine, hoping to find the family Grimoire that hadn’t been in the Black Family Vaults as it should have been.

He still hadn’t heard from Grimindore or Bill.

The new contract with the strictly albino peacock farm lay open before him, the old one balanced in his lap.

Never in his life did he imagine he would be the primary investor in not one, but three different peacock farms in China. His father had always said he was "diversifying their assets" before the war...Draco just hadn’t realized how much.

“Father, if this is your way of mocking me from your grave...” he mumbled, pushing his chair back and tossing the old contract onto the desk. He stood, stretching his back and arms, trying to breathe some life back into this tedious task—one he was fairly certain he paid someone else to manage.

The Fidelius Charm around his home would fall in an hour.

The Ministry had already set up a temporary barrier, citing road construction for the Muggles. It forced them to park elsewhere and walk on foot through the barrier, where they were greeted by a Memory Charm and an Obliviator from the Ministry, dressed in a garish reflective orange vest to look like a Muggle construction worker.

All in all, it was an efficient process, if a bit disruptive to the community. Three different neighbors had already knocked on his door to sign a petition to speed up the “road repair.”

A soft pop sounded at the end of the lane—the Fidelius let him know when someone passed through the wards while he was home. He was still rather put out that Mother had allowed someone to view the attached home while he was out, robbing him of the opportunity to know precisely who his new neighbor was.

They had to be magical if they passed through the Fidelius unharmed.

A small figure walked briskly down the pavement, stopping outside the gate. Draco rubbed his eyes because he could have sworn he saw Hermione Granger. He’d been working for too long. Blinking several times, he looked again, but the riot of curls had vanished.

Granger.

He froze for just a moment before launching himself past his desk, deftly swerving around the teetering tower of documents and out his door. He bounded down his stairs, stopping at the front door, and caught his breath.

Mother and his solicitor had been cagey about the new tenant, citing Ministry laws he’d never heard of for confidentiality. He’d been so preoccupied with the holiday rush and the mystery of the potential Black heir that it had fallen down the list of things to—

Draco yanked the door open, pulling himself up to his full height, and stopped dead.

“What the bloody fuck are you doing here?”

It wasn’t his best moment; he’d admit that later.

Granger shrieked, dropping the folding chair and box she was awkwardly hauling into 41B.

“Malfoy!” she shouted back, her wand somehow already in her hand.

Draco scowled, emotions he hadn’t felt since needing to deal with Astoria’s insipid divorce attorney coursing through him. “I see Mother has been up to her schemes again.”

And then he did the only sensible thing: Draco crossed the distance, scooped up her things, and strode inside his next-door neighbor's home without waiting for permission. His eyes swept over the freshly dusted furniture and the stack of neatly labeled boxes—evidence of a life just settled, a claim quietly staked in the one place he hadn’t thought to look. He turned back to Granger, who stood rooted in the doorway, wand still clenched in her hand, eyes blazing with the fire of twelve years gone by.

Hermione Granger was his tenant and next-door neighbor.

And Merlin help him, that might just be worse than the peacock farms.

Chapter Text

June 1990
Malfoy Manor

A small, tentative hand reached up, knocking on the door to his mother’s private lounge. The knock echoed down the long hallway, and the sound made his heart beat faster. He was rarely invited to this part of the house anymore.

“Come in,” his mother’s voice called faintly through the door.

Draco turned the handle, expecting to see his mother reclining on the loveseat reading or at her desk taking correspondence.

She wasn’t in either place.

“Mother?” His voice had not yet changed; it was still soft and high. He’d been trying to deepen it after he overheard Father chuckling with his friends about how he sometimes couldn’t tell if it was Narcissa or Draco calling for him.

“In here, please.”

He followed the sound of her voice through the adjoining door that led to his parents’ bedroom. If his mother’s lounge was rare, his parents' bedroom might as well have been the Hanging Gardens of Babylon to Draco.

For all their functions, luncheons, and balls, his parents’ private lives were shrouded in mystery. He tried to hide and listen after long, insultingly boring dinners with people who father called “sycophants.” But then Nanny or a House Elf would find him and send him off, either to socialize with his friends or to bed.

Pansy told him he needed to grow up, and there was one reason why they never wanted him in their rooms. He’d yet to discover that reason and resented Pansy for being so smug about it all.

Narcissa Malfoy sat at her dressing table, meeting Draco’s curious gaze in the mirror. She wore gardening trousers and a button-down blouse.

“Ah, there you are, darling. Your father is out on business this morning, and I’ve pestered Mippy enough already. Would you please help me with my ribbon?” She held up a cornflower blue ribbon, one that matched her eyes. Draco loved this color—it was the colour of summer, when his parents were most at ease and his mother would join him outside.

His eyes lit up as he quickly crossed the threshold, plucking the ribbon from her hands, Narcissa’s delighted tinkle of a laugh crinkling the edges of her eyes.

“I thought you might enjoy helping me with this,” she hummed, studying Draco as he knotted the ribbon around her long ponytail. “Are you pleased with your Hogwarts letter?” she asked.

Draco’s eyes flicked up from his concentration, trying to bend the ribbon into the perfect loop. “I am. When will we go to Diagon Alley for my things?”

“Soon, dear. Is there anything you’d like to do between now and September first? Would you like to visit our home in France? I’m sure I could speak with Greta and Tiberius about Greg and Theodore joining?”

Draco didn’t answer, stepping back slightly to admire his handiwork.

“Your hair is beautiful,” he whispered, almost embarrassed to give the compliment.

“It is what first attracted me to her,” his father’s voice cut through the moment.

“Lucius,” Narcissa gasped, and stood, placing a gentle hand on Draco’s shoulder with a light squeeze of affection as she went to greet her husband. “Please announce yourself next time. That was much too dramatic.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably on his feet, suddenly aware that he was in their bedroom and perhaps might witness whatever that otherness might be. He hated it when they kissed. Would they do that here?

Lucius’s piercing gaze shifted to Draco. “I see you’ve replaced me.”

Draco opened his mouth to say something, but Narcissa swatted his father with her gloves. “And he did a fine job. Shall we go out to the garden? My roses need tending.”

Lucius hoarsely grumbled something in his mother’s ear that made the apples of her cheeks pink, but she still moved towards the exit.

“Draco, any pureblood witch worth pursuing wears ribbons,” Lucius said, not looking at him.

Narcissa glanced back from the doorway and rolled her eyes. “Come along, Romeo.”

Lucius followed, leaving Draco alone in their room. He didn’t know what to think about it all.

Did Pansy wear ribbons?

________

November 1998
Six months post-Battle of Hogwarts

Hermione’s neck hurt.

It had been the one prevailing thought as she furiously scribbled out the last line of their written exam. She wondered if she had accidentally included it in her runes analysis.

Twaz’s influence increases eight percent when paired with its counterbalance, 'My neck hurts.’

She snorted as she leaned back in her seat, stretching her neck to the right, letting the tight band burn up her shoulder at the gentle pressure.

A throat cleared next to her, and automatically, she glanced, blinking in surprise at the pair of grey eyes peering back at her.

“Do you have a spare quill? Mine just broke.”

Her lips parted, but no words would come. Malfoy had hardly spoken since his required return for their eighth year. Something —was it hurt?—flashed behind his eyes, and he turned back to his parchment at her lack of reply.

“Yes,” she said belatedly. “One moment.” Hermione turned, wincing at the movement as she pulled out her spare quill. “It’s self-inking blue, sorry,” she whispered as she handed it over. How she knew Draco always wrote with black ink, she didn’t want to acknowledge.

He glanced up, his face complex and unreadable. “Thank you,” he whispered, accepting the quill and hunching over his parchment once more.

They tied for top marks on that exam.

Hermione was livid.

Never should have lent him the bloody quill.

________

December 1998
Seven months since the Battle of Hogwarts

The Hogwarts Express

“I’m beat,” Neville yawned, stretching his freakishly long limbs. Like his crop of new venomous tentacula, Neville had literally sprouted a foot over the last year. “I’m going to hunt for an empty compartment and take a nap. Don’t want to crowd you, Hermione.”

Before Hermione could say anything, Neville slipped out the sliding door, padding in the direction of the food cart. Her lips twitched in amusement. Luna had “gone hunting for Nargles” only ten minutes prior in the same direction.

She tucked her hair behind her ears, wishing she had a spare hair tie, but her last one snapped. She hadn’t cut her hair in well over a year, but Fleur taught her a few tricks with her wand to keep the frizziness at bay, making the weight and the volume…somewhat pretty.

Even Padma complimented her on her hair the other day…that was something, wasn’t it?

Hermione winced at the unusually bright winter day and the blinding flashes of white snow as they zoomed through Scotland, making their way south to London.

The train rocked, its steady rhythm causing her heart to ache. Harry and Ron should be here, but they’d chosen to step into their roles as Aurors.

Hermione fished around in her overstuffed beaded bag and pulled out her Muggle, spiral-bound notebook. It was already swelling with scrawling thoughts, questions next to neat tables, and pro/con lists. Yet, having the worn notebook between her fingers calmed her spirit. It had become a lifeline of sorts—a place to contain the vast quantity of things she not only carried in her mind, but that pressed upon her heart.

She located the page with Harry’s name at the top, written in her tidy script. His page wasn’t an exhaustive list of ideas or concerns anymore; it was merely a collection of sentiments she wanted to pose to him that she couldn’t ask via owl or that weren’t pressing enough to warrant a letter.

Ask Harry about testing, she wrote somewhere just past the midway point on the page.

Harry’s most recent letter from Auror training had been a stark contrast from the buoyant exchange with Ron, who, for the first time in his life, was thriving.

Hermione frowned at the thought of Ron, and it only just occurred to her that she didn’t have a page for him. How had she overlooked that?

For so long, Ron had felt inevitable, but then she returned to Hogwarts, and he had a new career, their lives bisecting with no real intersection in the coming years. They’d each be devoted to their work, or at least, Hermione knew herself: singularly focused when passionate, as a teacher had once described her.

That teacher hadn’t been wrong.

Idly, she flipped to the back of the notebook, fingers tracing the hastily written hospitals that accepted healers looking to explore mind healing, advanced magical restoration, or were open to Muggle input in their medical practices.

Liáoyù Zhī Shuǐ - Kunming

Le Sanctuaire des Guérisseurs — France

Centro de Cura Mágico— Brazil

The Institute of Wandwell Healing — Tazmania

Yggdrasil-institutet för Magisk Läkning — Sweden

Hermione tapped her pen next to the hospital in France. She would need to ask Fleur’s opinion during Christmas Eve dinner, one of the few breaks she was allowing herself. Much of her holiday would be spent studying for her entrance exam to St. Mungo’s, the first real step beyond completing her N.E.W.T.S.

Shouting echoed down the train corridors as someone set off a firework, the sparks and colours flying past the windows.

When Ginny and Harry had offered for Hermione to stay in one of the many spare rooms at Grimmauld Place, she readily agreed. The Burrow was teeming with too much distraction and life, while her parents' home was…well, she’d described the angry silence as “deafening” in one of her melodramatic letters to Harry that summer after restoring their memories. She would need to drop in to give her parents their presents on Christmas Day, but even so, it would be a long road of forgiveness between them.

The door to the compartment slid open, the swooshing sound soft against the clamour in the halls.

“Back already?” she asked, a wry smirk on her lips before turning her head to look at the door. But her randy friends weren’t there.

Draco Malfoy stood there instead, silhouetted in the bright afternoon light. His Hogwarts uniform had been swapped for a soft-looking jumper and crisp trousers. He held what looked like a novel loosely in his hand.

“I apologize. I returned to my traincar, but the door was sealed…” he swallowed, his cheeks lightly pinked. “I believe your train mates mistook it as empty.” Hermione blinked and then gasped, as the dawning horror of the realization as to why he couldn’t access his car suddenly struck.

“Right. Please,” she gestured to the empty seat across from her, averting her eyes.

What were Neville and Luna thinking?

Draco didn’t hesitate, but slid the door closed behind him, cutting off the ruckus.

They sat in awkward silence, neither reading whatever they held in their laps, but each taking turns studying the other before them.

Draco had become her de facto companion in most classes, simply because he was as focused as she was. Padma was focused as well, but she liked to sit with those who chattered too much. Hermione hadn’t realized that all those fleeting moments of shared silence had amounted to anything between them, or enough for him to seek her out when he was displaced.

Then again, she did owl order black self-inking quills, leaving her blue at the bottom of her trunk in case he ever needed to borrow one again.

“What are you reading?” she asked, suddenly transforming into one of those people who couldn’t bear awkward silences.

Draco looked up from his book, shifting slightly in his seat as if he were preparing to speak to the Wizengamot.

He swallowed before speaking, his voice softer than Hermione remembered it.

“Far From the Madding Crowd,” he answered.

“By Thomas Hardy?” Hermione didn’t mean to sound incredulous, but it came out all the same in her tone. “He was a Muggle.”

“I’m aware.”

“And you read Muggle literature? I thought you believed it would give you chickenpox.”

Draco frowned at the statement. “You mean dragon pox?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Never mind. Are you enjoying the book?”

Draco eyed the novel, thinking for so long that Hermione figured he wasn’t going to answer until he did.

“I find Ms. Everdene's fecklessness draining; however, I’m hopeful she will…” his voice trailed off.

Hermione answered for him: “She will stop having a stick up her arse?”

Draco’s laugh was low, not so much a huff or a chortle, but something delightfully in between. “Precisely. I take it you’ve read it before?”

“It’s been a few years. I read it over a winter holiday when I should have been skiing but instead preferred to lounge by the fire and read.”

“You ski?”

Hermione bobbed her head slightly. “Not extremely well, but my dad fancies himself an athlete, and so many of our holidays were spent adventuring.”

Draco nodded, his lips doing an awkward twitch, like he wanted to smile at what she said but didn’t know if he could.

“What are you working on?” he asked, gesturing to the notebook Hermione still clutched.

She stared at the list a moment, but then turned it around and offered it to him.

He frowned, but accepted the book. Hermione was pleased to see him use a bookmark to note his place before setting his novel to the side to look at her notebook.

“Apprenticeships?” he asked, not looking up from the list.

“Yes. I know it’s presumptuous, but I feel better when I make lists.”

His lips twitched again, but he didn’t reply.

Draco’s family ring caught the light as the train curved through the changing countryside. Her gaze flitted between watching his long fingers as they delicately held her notebook, to studying his face, to looking for any sort of reaction to what he saw in her list.

“I would cross off Centro de Cura Mágico from your list. They only accept those fluent in Portuguese and require extensive hiking experience.”

Hermione gasped, and had it been Harry, she would have reached over and swatted him with the notebook as she yanked it from his hands.

“I’m not incompetent in nature,” she laughed instead, noticing the spark of teasing behind his eyes. “I simply prefer to be warm and dry rather than cold and wet during the winter.”

He smiled then. Hermione hadn’t seen him smile all year. Smirk, yes. Lips twitching in amusement at some dry quip from under her breath during class, of course—he wasn’t dead, and Hermione wasn’t so dull that she couldn’t land a scathing remark when she wanted to.

She’d forgotten he was pretty when he smiled.

“Fair enough, I suppose.” He held out her notebook to her, still smiling. “I do enjoy skiing, but I suppose drying charms aren’t terribly accepted on Muggle slopes.”

Hermione took the notebook and frowned. “There are magical slopes?”

Draco blinked and then nodded. “Yes, actually quite close to Le Sanctuaire des Guérisseurs in France. We have a home near there and used to ski if we visited during the winter.”

They spoke easily of their family travels until the whistle blew, alerting them that they would soon arrive at the station. Hermione felt almost reluctant to let this odd slice of respite go as she watched Draco’s retreating form.

She hoped he was able to get his things and that Neville and Luna didn’t give him too hard a time.

________

1998
New Years Eve

“Hermione, when are you going to give up your studies, overturn the government, and create a new world order?” George grinned, his arm loosely draped around Hermione’s shoulders as she stood outside, watching the final dregs of the winter sunset. It had been raining most of the day, only relenting in the last few minutes, and the Burrow looked like a slushy of mud.

“Hello, George,” she laughed, laying her head on his shoulder. “I suppose the Kingdom of Hermione does have a certain ring to it.”

“That it does.”

They stood like that for a long while as the light slowly shifted to dark and the canopy of stars winked into existence above them.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Hermione asked. She had her suspicions, but wanted to hear it from him.

George shifted but didn’t pull away, merely patted her hair.

“There’s someone but…” he said slowly.

“But you’re worried about messing with the friendship?” She lifted her head then and turned to look at him. His ears were already pink from the Romanian firewhisky Charlie bought for Christmas.

“Something like that.” George uncharacteristically mumbled in reply. “What if they’re your best friend? It could ruin…oomph!”

Hermione wrapped her arms tightly around his middle, squeezing hard. “George,” she said into his chest as he returned the hug. “He’s worth the risk, but only when you’re ready. You are incredible.”

She felt the intake of a shuddering breath, but before George could reply, Fred broke in.

“Oi, my brother is bent, Hermione. The only other straight free agent is Ronnikins, but you could absolutely do better.”

“Hey!” Ron shouted from inside as the door slammed shut behind Fred.

She released George, and he gave her an affectionate kiss on the forehead as they parted.

“I am aware, Fred. Just merely relishing solitude with my favorite Weasley.”

Fred stepped back in mock offense, hand pressed to his chest. “You wound me.”

Hermione could only grin.

She’d been cooped up in Grimmauld Place for most of the holiday, except for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. This was a welcome respite from the hours of studying in the unsettling quiet of the Black family library.

“Alright, brother dearest. We need to get set up for the fireworks display.” Fred nodded at Hermione, and the twins left for Arthur’s workshop, where they’d stashed this year’s supplies.

Hermione threw back the last of her champagne and winced. She was going to regret the sugar headache later, which always came with the stuff. She peered through the window at the wild group.

Her best friends sat around the dining table, idly pecking at food. Half-drunk wine bottles littered the length, and a volley of loud conversations filtered through the thin window panes.

Harry had his arm draped effortlessly over the back of Ginny’s chair. He looked…better. Ron was thinner, but he’d always been tall and long. She’d missed them the last few months. Harry caught her eye and gave a little jerk with his head for her to join them.

The Burrow was still loud as she reentered. Charlie and Bill were still playing a Muggle video game Harry gifted Arthur for Christmas (along with showing him how to work the telly with magic).

“Where’d you scuttle off to?” Ginny asked as Hermione eased into a seat across from them.

Hermione pulled her feet up and merely smiled. “Just wanted to breathe for a minute before the madness starts again with the fireworks.”

“Godric, I forgot,” Ginny groaned, slumping closer to Harry.

“At least we can celebrate properly this year,” Harry offered.

“What were you doing last year?” Ginny asked.

Hermione shared a look with Ron and Harry.

“Was that before Malfoy Manor or after?” Ron finally asked.

“I think before?” Harry answered, scrunching his nose so his glasses scooted up.

“Let’s not talk about all of that,” Hermione said, her hand absentmindedly rubbing the scar on her forearm.

“Right, sorry,” said Ginny.

Loud cheering from Bill broke the silence as Charlie fell to his knees, mock-crying in defeat.

“I actually have come to a decision,” Harry declared, forcing those around the table to look at him. “Oh, er. It’s not huge, but I think…” He swallowed, suddenly nervous as everyone stopped what they were doing to listen to him. Even Bill and Charlie poked their heads in from the living room, and Mrs. Weasley came from the back pantry with a disheveled-looking Arthur.

Harry swallowed dryly before speaking. “I’ve been thinking and decided…What I mean to say is, I’m going to drop out of Auror training. I—I-it’s not what I want to do with my life.”

His words hung in the air; the Burrow stilled as everyone absorbed the information.

“You’re not going to be an Auror?” Ron frowned. “But—mate, I thought that’s what you always wanted to be?”

Harry fiddled with his napkin and shrugged. “I think I chose it because the weight of…everything was on my shoulders. But now that things are finally good?” He looked at Ginny, and she leaned in, kissing him hard on the cheek.

“I think it’s brilliant,” Ginny said fiercely. “Now you can be my bag boy for all the games and follow me around the world as I play.”

The way the couple gazed at one another made even Hermione look away—impossibly tender and honest. It was exactly what Harry and Ginny both deserved and more.

“Harry, mate. That’s the most sense you’ve made in a long time.” Bill lifted his glass in cheers, and voices echoed the sentiment around the room.

Hermione shared a soft smile with Harry. He’d scheduled his test with a Muggle psychiatrist for his lingering nightmares and for testing adhd for later that week. She made a mental note to see if any psychiatrists were serving the magical population.

________

January 1999
Nine months since the Battle of Hogwarts

“Hermione, did you see the Prophet this morning?” Padma whispered. The library was still quiet this soon after break, and Hermione didn’t mind Padma’s company.

“No,” she looked up from her Advanced Level Six ancient runes textbook. She was damned if Draco was going to tie with her again for the exam next week.

Padma slid her the folded newspaper. Setting aside her frustration with Malfoy, Hermione willed her expression into something softer, accepting the trash newspaper that still employed Rita Skeeter.

DEATH EATERS SYMPATHIZERS OR LEFTOVER TRAPS?

SHACKLEBOLT STUMPED.

“Arthur mentioned during Christmas that there had been an increase in maliciously charmed objects being given to Muggles,” she said quietly, turning the page to skim the rest of the article. It seemed Rita knew just about as much as she did. “Do you want me to write to Ron?” she asked, looking up at Padma.

“Would you? I know Ron is still in training, but maybe he’d know something more? Parvati said someone mailed a cursed letter to Witch Weekly because they did a feature about Narcissa Malfoy.”

Hermione nodded. She’d read that article in Witch Weekly one morning after a particularly long night studying in Grimmauld Place, dressed in her oversized t-shirt with a faded cartoon character and eating cereal with her hair half up. Hermione had been the absolute opposite of the paragon of beauty in Witch Weekly: Narcissa Malfoy was stunning, no matter which way you sliced it.

Hermione could reluctantly concede why Witch Weekly would want to feature someone so close to Voldemort: beyond being an intriguing subject, Narcissa was beautiful. And then her story was equally compelling, even though most of it was already public knowledge. They did a brief recounting of her involvement in the war, what Harry said on her behalf during the trial, and an interview where Narcissa mentioned some of the initiatives the Malfoys were giving toward the rebuilding effort.

The move, however, seemed too early for a brand rehabilitation.

“I’ll write to him today.” She gave Padma what she hoped was a reassuring smile and returned the paper.

Hermione glanced at her watch. She still had twenty minutes till their next class and decided now was better than later.

“I’ll let you know what he says,” she said, quickly tucking her textbooks away. The rebuilt owlery wasn’t too far from the library, but she would need to move quickly if she were to make it to class on time.

Hermione was out of breath by the time she reached the top. Perhaps she had been a bit sedentary over break. She let her breath catch as she tore off a sheet from her notebook and scribbled Ron a note. It was strange to write only to Ron about Auror questions. Typically, she would have written to Harry instead.

Hermione tried to find the right combination of words, but was repeatedly forced to stop and briefly wave hello or mutter something as the over-eager students came and went.

Another person entered the owlery, but she didn’t look up, hoping they would take the hint.

It was not to be. A throat cleared, and she stifled a groan.

“Yes?” she snipped, no longer trying to mask her frustration as she glanced up. “Oh, Malfoy.”

“Granger, would you mind…” Draco trailed off at her tone.

“Yes?” she asked, shifting her bag on her shoulder.

He cleared his throat, clasping both hands behind his back. “I overheard your conversation with Patel. Would you mind letting me know what Potter says? My parents received the same curse.”

No was on the tip of her tongue and not because she thought the Malfoys deserved cursed boils, but because…because she was petty. Would it be wrong to ask him not to do his best on the exam?

“Of course,” she replied. “I didn’t know. And I’m writing to Ron. It’s not public knowledge yet, but Harry is stepping down from Auror training.”

“I heard.”

“Right.” She frowned, but didn’t ask from where. She finished her letter, tacking on a postscript at the end, inquiring after the Malfoys. She might have to end up writing to Harry to find out information if Ron ignored her request.

“Did you have a good holiday?” she asked, that itchy need to fill the weighty silence between them resurfacing as she rolled up the page.

They hadn’t really spoken since the start of the second term. They still were silent class partners, as they had been last term, but Hermione thought there was an ease between them that hadn’t been there before because of the train ride.

Today, though, the warmth seemed to have dried up.

He nodded stiffly, but didn’t turn to leave. Instead, he extended a hand for the scroll.

She stared at his long fingers, glancing up at his entreating eyes. Slowly, she set the edge of the scroll in his hand, careful not to let their fingers touch. Pleased at the offer of trust, a smile flashed across his face before he turned, barely stretching for the beautiful eagle owl she’d seen fly through the Great Hall countless times. However, she hadn’t noticed it coming and going much this year.

Like Neville, Draco had grown, too. How had she not noticed?

“Ulysses, please take this scroll to Ronald Weasley and wait for a reply.” The bird’s long talons wrapped around the scroll. His large, black eye stared at Draco as he allowed Draco to pet his feathers in sweeping strokes before stepping away.

They watched Ulysses fly into the afternoon sky, dimmed by the unrelenting cold rain. When she turned, she was surprised to see Draco looking at her.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, his words almost lost in the gentle cacophony of ruffled feathers, clicking of beaks, and patter of rain outside.

Hermione shifted, crossing her arms. “For what?”

Draco let out a sigh. “For everything. I was an unmitigated ass to you. For years. I have no expectation of friendship or even forgiveness, but I offer you an apology all the same.” To his credit, he didn’t fidget or look away. Like a proud man waiting for his execution, he stayed to see what she would say.

She didn’t say anything. The door opened, and the spell was broken.

Hermione lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling of her four-poster, and practiced, “I forgive you.”

She let all the cold words, shoves, and curses that came from his hand or encouragement flow through her mind—and then paired them with the broken man seated next to her in most classes.

“I forgive you.”

________

March 1999
Hermione lifted her chin toward the sun and smiled. Spring had come to Hogwarts.

Students reclined on the lawn, tossing things up to the Whomping Willow and laughing as it pummeled them with its mended branches. Professor Sprout and Neville had worked meticulously to repair the damage done nearly a year ago during the Battle. Aside from scorch marks, the tree looked as it always had.

Neville stood off to the side, speaking quietly with…Hermione propped herself up on her elbow to get a better look.

“Hannah?” she said to no one.

Then Neville leaned down and kissed the bloody Hufflepuff. Hermione’s mouth fell open.

“What are you staring at, Hermione?”

The blood drained from Hermione’s face, and she scrambled to sit up, trying to shield Luna as the witch plopped down next to Hermione on the grass. Luna wore a wildflower crown around her head that, in any other circumstance, Hermione would ignore, but desperate times…

“Luna! Your head! I mean, what a crown. Could we go find flowers and make me one?”

Hermione knew her voice was too shrill but tried to dampen it with a smile. It didn’t work.

“Hermione, you’ve been studying too much. You’ve developed a twitch.” Luna leaned close, almost nose to nose with her, and then poked her square between the eyes.

“Ouch,” she leaned back, rubbing the spot. But the recoil left room for Luna to peer around her at Neville and Hannah.

Hermione braced for the worst, but Luna merely shrugged and lay back down on the grass, a peaceful look wrapping her visage.

“Luna, I’m so sorry,” Hermione said softly.

Luna turned to peer up at her, brow furrowed. “Why are you sorry, Hermione?”

“For—” Hermione turned, gesturing at the now heavily snogging couple, who were leaning against a piece of rubble from the castle that’d become casual seating—several spots like this were dotted around the grounds now; some grew wildflowers and others remained barren from dark magic.

Luna’s eyes flicked over to Neville and Hannah before returning to Hermione, her lips twitched in amusement. “Neville and I aren’t together. While we enjoyed one another, he needs someone more grounded.”

“But,” Hermione spluttered. “I like Hannah and all, but she’s no you, Luna.”

Luna beamed and reached up, tugging Hermione back to the ground and looping their arms together.

“You and I will always be friends, Hermione,” she said solemnly.

“I couldn’t agree more, Luna,” Hermione sighed.

They relaxed like that for a long while until Luna spoke again.

“I can hear your mind, Hermione.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well, it’s just—Ron and I had a moment during the battle.”

“And you’re wondering if it should have been more?”

Hermione bobbed her head. “Yes and no. I’ve never slept with anyone before. Viktor hinted that he’d like to someday if we continued on, but then…everything else happened.”

Luna hummed as if anything Hermione was saying made perfect sense when it hardly did to her.

“Do you wish to sleep with Ronald? I know his birthday party is tonight. Sex can be a wonderful—”

“No!” Hermione didn’t mean to shout. “No,” she said much more reasonably. “I don’t want to sleep with him.”

“Good. He’s too selfish for you.”

Hermione opened and closed her mouth. “Be that as it may, how do you…” And she was at a loss for words.

Luna seemed to understand, though. “How do I sleep with Neville and be okay with him swallowing Hannah Abbott twenty yards away?”

“Something like that,” she mumbled.

“Neville and I were for a moment, and we aren’t in love. I think we’re simply happy to be alive.”

“So many things to unpack in that statement, Luna,” Hermione chuckled. “Do you mind if I ask if he was your first?”

Luna turned her head to look at Hermione. “I don’t mind, and no, he wasn’t. My first was Theo.”

“Nott? Theodore Nott?” Hermione’s voice took on that drilling quality that typically made Harry and Ron shrink back.

“Of course. Who else?”

Hermione had so many questions, but thought the basics would suffice. “When? Where? I don’t need the 'how' as in the mechanics of the moment, but rather how? I thought the Slytherins were awful to you.”

Luna’s face took on a soft quality—something distinctly opposite of how she spoke about Neville.

“We met at the end of my first year. He kindly helped me find a few things of mine that other students had hidden. Everyone thought him arrogant, and it was fairly easy to do because of what a git Draco was back then, and they were friends, but Theo was kind when he didn’t have to be. So, at the end of each term, he’d somehow appear where I was and we’d find my things.”

Hermione let that sink in before asking, “And you did it while looking for your objects unfairly hidden by school bullies?”

“No, silly. Last year, before the Death Eaters took me. Theo was still at Hogwarts with Draco. He helped us keep the younger students out of the Carrows’ way.”

“Oh.” Hermione hated hearing about how awful things were at Hogwarts while they were on the run. An underlying, misplaced guilt gripped her heart when she heard about the Carrows, making her pulse race with all the things she wished she could have done if she’d been there.

“Why didn’t Theo get you out of Malfoy’s cellar?” Hermione questioned, unable to keep the ire out of her voice.

“I needed to be there for Mr. Olivander, and Draco was able to lure away Greyback when he got too interested in us.”

Hermione sucked in a breath. Greyback.

“I hate that you were down there,” Hermione whispered.

“I hate that you had to hide, wearing part of Voldemort’s soul around your neck for months,” Luna said, squeezing Hermione’s arm before letting go and standing. “I might be at the pub tonight for Ronald’s birthday, but Theo sent me an owl. He’s remotely testing for his NEWTS in Cairo. I want to think of something interesting to tell him.” Luna spun away, twirling with her arms outstretched in the sun till she could no longer, ambling back up to the castle and out of sight.

“Bye, Luna,” Hermione called as her friend disappeared.

While Luna hadn’t outright said it, Hermione could see the difference in them. Unlike Luna, Hermione couldn’t separate love and sex. She’d forestalled Viktor, citing her age, but really—she didn’t love him.

She loved Ron, but not that way.

Malfoy stalked across the lawn, his broom slung over his shoulder. Sweat clung to his body, and his cheeks had a pleasant flush to them. Hermione stared, eyes following him as he walked, chatting with a younger Slytherin also carrying their broom.

She didn’t realize she’d been leering until Draco’s gaze met hers, a questioning quirk to his brow before he looked back at his companion, still speaking.

Hermione gasped and looked down at her hands, her book from earlier discarded before Luna even came over.

When she looked up, he was gone.

________

“Happy birthday, Ron!” somebody in the Three Broomsticks cheered, jostling Hermione as they moved past to shake the birthday boy’s hand. When Ron sent his owl telling Hermione of his plans, he pitched this as a small get-together for drinks at the Three Broomsticks. It was anything but—Ron was well-liked in the Auror program, and their quaint pub was filled with junior Aurors throwing back shots and “talking shop,” along with older students celebrating the last night of the Easter holidays.

Hermione tugged up the sleeve of her jumper to check the time. She could stay for thirty more minutes and then slip out. Her four-poster was calling her name.

“I feel like I’m surrounded by meatheads,” Ginny said, sliding into the open seat beside Hermione. “If I yell, ‘I’m going to smash this chair over your head,’ how many junior Aurors do you think would intervene?”

They stared at a knot of Aurors a few tables over, looking like they were debating a peace treaty rather than a fun night at the pub.

Hermione leaned in to Ginny, dropping her voice. “Ma’am, put the barstool down, that would be a magical infraction section two-eight, misuse of inanimate objects.”

Ginny snorted. “Auror Weasley battled a barstool last night; the barstool won.”

“Auror Weasley neutralized the threat swiftly, but forgot to cancel the spell, sending all the butterbeer out the window in a conga line. Three Muggle witnesses, no survivors of butterbeer.”

“The ministry has issued a statement: engorgio charms on pricks are not a safe use of Auror resources.”

A throat cleared behind them, and they turned to see a wizard standing there looking quite put out. Hermione vaguely recognized him, but couldn’t pinpoint where.

“That’s not something the Ministry would ever say,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry—what?” Ginny snorted.

“Engorgio charms.”

Hermione shared a look with Ginny. “We were just joking around,” she said slowly.

“Well,” the man blustered, “being an Auror is a serious job. Takes real skill and fortitude.”

Ginny, unfortunately, belched at that exact moment, barely covering her mouth in time. Hermione buried her face in her arms while Ginny let out a raucous cackle, the poor, befuddled Auror looking quite unamused at their response.

“Ignore them, Gregson,” Harry said, putting an arm around Ginny’s waist. “They’re just taking the piss.”

Hermione wrestled her face into something she hoped looked penitent, but it didn’t help her case when she giggled while saying, “We didn't mean to offend you."

Gregson stomped away to the bar, face red and shoulders stiff.

“He’s a nice enough bloke. You shouldn’t have done that,” Harry chastised.

“He’s a right wanker who takes things too seriously,” Ron said, coming up behind them and setting down his pint, sloshing it a bit.

“You would know better than me these days,” Harry said easily.

Ron picked something out of Harry’s hair and squinted.

“Don’t you think the in-love-ape-act is a bit tired, boys?” Ginny smirked.

Ignoring his sister, Ron asked, “Mate, why is there sawdust in your hair?”

Harry reached up automatically, giving his hair a little swish and sending debris flying.

“Oi! That was a fresh pint!” Ron squawked, snatching up his glass that now boasted a delicate dusting of wood particles.

“Ew,” Ginny recoiled, pushing her already finished drink away from her. “I think this means the Chosen Woodmaker is buying us all new drinks!”

“Ha, ha,” Harry grumbled, but stood anyway.

“I’ll come with you,” Ron said, vanishing his beer with a forlorn sort of look on his face.

“What’s the over-under Harry gets my drink right?” Ginny cocked her head, not even trying to hide her ogling as her boyfriend walked away.

Hermione snorted. “Go on then. Make Ron uncomfortable for me.”

Ginny winked and was gone, leaving Hermione alone. She was still drinking her first glass of wine, which had avoided Harry’s woodchip catastrophe.

“I thought you said it was going to be slow, Blaise,” a much too familiar voice snipped from somewhere nearby. Hermione stifled a groan. She did not have the spoons to deal with Pansy Parkinson this evening.

“How was I supposed to know it was going to be a Hufflepuff Hoedown?” Blaise drawled.

“Hoedown? Who the fuck are you?” Pansy cackled, the sound making Hermione's shoulders stiffen.

“Why again is Theo not coming?”

Hermione glanced over her shoulder and was surprised to see the pair with their backs to her at the next table.

Pansy shrugged. “Said he had ‘correspondence of a pressing matter,’ whatever that means. I think he’s talking to someone, and that’s why he declined my offer of a portkey.”

“Perhaps he’s tired of us,” Blaise mused.

“Never,” Pansy spat.

Hermione turned, smiling into her wine. She hoped Theo was writing Luna or waiting for Luna’s reply.

She took a long sip and nearly gagged on the wine when she spotted him: Draco Malfoy was walking in her direction, but he looked….Hermione swallowed what she had in her mouth, eyes watering. Draco wore a fitted jumper that made his already bright grey eyes seem to glow; his hair was tousled to perfection, and his cheeks were pink from the day of flying in full sun.

Hermione averted her eyes, intent on not being caught staring at him again.

“Granger,” he mumbled as he passed her table.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he was past, and the obnoxious cackle of Pansy obscured any other sound.

“Draco, darling! I thought you were going to tell us you were ‘studying’ again.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at the whinging.

“Pansy, leave the poor man alone,” said Blaise with little vitriol, sounding almost affectionate.

A fresh glass of wine floated across the table to Hermione. She looked up to see Ginny smiling while a red-faced Ron stomped across the room to the dart board.

“What did you do?” she asked with a laugh.

“Ronald can’t take a bit of birthday teasing,” Ginny winked. “Just giving Harry twenty kisses….” but her voice trailed off when she turned to Harry.

He had stopped, staring just past Hermione, his face unreadable.

Hermione followed their gaze and got a good look at Pansy for the first time since Draco’s sentencing. She’d been there, of course, but Hermione really hadn’t paid her any mind. Now, several months later, she was less of the large personality (however awful) from childhood and more…miserable.

She looked like Draco had at the start of term back in September.

Blaise was the first to break the silence. “Good evening.” He inclined his head to each of them.

Harry gave a stiff nod in reply, standing a tad closer to Ginny at Blaise’s lingering gaze.

“Has your term been going well?” Blaise asked, his voice conversational as if they weren’t just enemies several months ago.

“We’re not back at Hogwarts,” Ginny answered. “Only Hermione is.”

“Potter, I—” Pansy blurted softly, all attention moving to her. She stared down at her hands before rolling her shoulders and looking up, meeting Harry’s curious attention. “I was an arse. I shouldn’t have tried to give you over to the Dark Lord or…everything else. I’m…I wish I had done things differently.”

Hermione supposed that was an apology of sorts. Harry seemed to take it as such with another nod of acknowledgment.

Then Pansy turned her kohl-rimmed eyes upon Hermione. “Granger…” she started to say, but it seemed too much whatever it was for Pansy to say, so she said instead, “Your hair looks nice.”

Hermione blinked, resisting the bubble of laughter pressing against her chest. She felt a wry smile tug at her lips as she said, “I guess since you didn’t offer me to Voldemort, that will do.”

A few people who had stopped to listen in gasped, only making Hermione’s eyes roll. “For goodness' sake. The git is dead, and even if he wasn’t, Dumbledore said that we should—”

Harry cut her off.” Thanks for that, Parkinson. A letter like Malfoy’s would have been fine, too.”

Hermione’s gaze darted to Malfoy, standing stiffly with one hand on his glass of firewhisky.

Draco hadn’t written her: he’d said it. It somehow felt more meaningful, and she felt ashamed that she had never responded.

“Oi, what are you Death Eater trash doing in here?” a voice called, shoving through onlookers. Gregson emerged, looking noticeably more tipsy, with his wand out and pointing at the Slytherins.

“Gregson,” Harry groaned. “They’re talking with me. Just put your—”

“I’ll hex 'em for you, Potter. Are they bothering you?” Gregson sounded almost excited at the prospect.

“No,” Harry began to say, but someone jostled Gregson and a hex shot from his wand, hitting a barstool and making it splinter into hundreds of pieces. The loud sound caused shouts to echo across the bar before the room fell eerily silent, all eyes turning to look at them.

“Fucking hell,” Harry groaned, pressing a hand to his leg. Blood seeped through his jeans. “Gregson, you idiot.”

Gregson stood frozen, not quite sure how that happened, his eyes blinking back and forth between Harry and the wand still in his hand.

“What’s going on?” Ron pushed through the crowd, coming up short at the bloody Harry and Gregson with his wand still pointed at them. He looked from Gregson to Harry, to Malfoy, seeming to see what happened.

“Mate, you need to go to St. Mungo’s and have that looked at,” Ron said calmly, nodding at Harry.

Harry did not like that comment.

“Gregson, put your bloody useless wand away. What were you thinking?” Ron seethed, snatching the wand from Gregson’s hands and tucking it in his shirt pocket.

“I–I—” Gregson spluttered.

“You all alright?” Ron asked, cutting off Gregson's blubbering.

The Slytherins nodded in unison. Blaise and Pansy had moved to stand behind the table with Draco—an odd, but fitting tableau for the three of them.

“We’re going to go,” Malfoy said, but he wasn’t looking at Ron. He was looking at her. Hermione could only stare, trying to decipher something behind his eyes.

“That would be best,” Ron replied, running a tired hand down his face.

The crowd parted to let Malfoy and his friends through. Once the door was shut, someone restarted the music, and people began talking again, the odd moment forgotten.

Hermione vanished the mess, frowning as Harry gently slid himself onto a barstool.

“That looks like more than a leg with splinters,” she commented. Harry scowled at her, but it was Ginny who answered.

“He strained his knee during training before he left the Auror program being an idiot, and refuses to see a healer.”

“It’s not just that,” Harry ground out between clenched teeth. “Does Gregson know what hex he used?”

“Come on,” Ginny sighed, sliding an arm beneath Harry’s shoulder.

“That was a weird apology from Parkinson,” Hermione heard Harry mutter as Ginny all but dragged him through the floo.

“I think I’m going to head out,” said Hermione, suddenly wishing she were in bed with a book rather than here.

“Night, Hermione. Thanks for coming out.” Ron awkwardly hugged her shoulders with one arm before wandering off into the crowd. Hermione avoided looking at anyone as she slipped outside and away from the madness.

The next day in Ancient Runes, Malfoy sat next to her, as was typical. Her anxiety for the week lessening at the surprisingly familiar cologne he wore.

“When do you take your exam for St. Mungo’s?” he asked.

Hermione looked up from her textbook. “Erm. In three weeks. I really should have stayed home last night and studied.”

Draco smirked. “I feel the same way.”

“Are you applying?”

“I am,” he said quietly, but nothing more as Professor Sinestra moved to the front of the classroom, calling attention with a flick of her wand, the class syllabus appearing on the board.

________

July 1999
Junior Healer at St. Mungo’s Hospital

Hermione breathed out unsteadily, her wandwork slicing through the frigid hospital air, knitting together flesh recently healed by her partner.

At the final stitch, she stepped back and Draco silently replaced her, muttering the counter curse as the green tinge to the young man’s leg dissolved away at last. She wiped sweat from her brow, resisting the inclination to cross her fingers that this would be the last time they had to do the sequence. Whoever cast this most recent hex must have been feeling particularly vengeful.

Draco lowered his hawthorn wand; the sight of it no longer made Hermione’s stomach clench like it had on their first day.

Then again, it was that same wand which bridged the gap between suspicion to tenuous trust. Enough of a bridge that Hermione agreed to be his partner when he stood alone, shunted to the side while other junior healers paired up.

How strange it must be for him—to find himself the one talked about, ostracised, unfairly judged, and held to an impossible standard others would never keep for themselves.

The wand speaks to the wizard she’d heard Ollivander once say. The hawthorne wand readily let her and Harry wield it while on the run; it was Draco’s wand that eventually brought about Voldemort’s demise at the hands of someone who was supposed to be Draco’s sworn enemy.

And yet.

Even after all of that, the wand desired to return to Draco. Ollivander had said so. Harry had said so. And so, her line of reasoning went that perhaps Draco was worth a second chance, just like the rest of them? The wand speaks to the wizard.

“I think that did it,” noted the attending Healer, his quick quotes quill scribbling across a parchment that bumped his head occasionally.

Hermione turned to look at Malfoy, who had already stepped away, his wand clasped with his hands behind his back. They would wake the patient soon, and sometimes, patients had an adverse reaction to seeing him, for better or for worse.

Draco looked tired, but not in the same way he had during the war or throughout their sixth year. It was a good sort of tired—satisfied, if she had to name it. Perhaps even happy?

She noticed how his eyes would glow after they finished their work, his gaze sharpening during their weekly training sessions: Malfoy loved learning almost as much as she did. Hermione rolled her shoulders, processing that revelation. It settled somewhere in her sternum because when his eyes would lift from the old linoleum floor to meet hers, something stuttered inside her.

His lips tilted up at the edges, as if acknowledging an unspoken, 'we did it.'

“I’m going to wake the patient now. If you would step back, please, Ms. Granger.” The attending healer didn’t wait to see if she moved before lifting his wand. She felt a warm, strong hands wrap around her waist and pull her back just in the nick of time as the patient woke and was promptly sick, spilling the contents of whatever potions they’d been forced to drink upon the floor, right where Hermione had been standing a moment before.

She stood frozen, staring at the sick. Hermione felt Draco release her hips where his hands burned into her sides and vanish the mess with a flick of his wand. Neither of them moved, though, his body still touching hers.

Hermione liked how it felt. He was tall and had filled out, utilizing the Muggle workout facility with a few of the other first-year healers. But it was the all-encompassing warmth, the security of his nearness, that she realized two things at once: she trusted Draco, and she didn’t know when that happened.

They both realized their nearness at the same time, each stepping away from the other.

“Thanks,” Hermione mumbled over her shoulder.

“Any time, Granger.”

________

October 1999

“We need one more person to make the team minimum for the first match,” whinged Tripp, one of the junior healers Hermione thought looked more like a golden retriever than a wizard.

Hermione tended to ignore Tripp, not because he was a bad person, but because he aspired to a career in sports medicine. Did he really go through all this schooling to follow around a bunch of smelly athletes whose exciting prognoses centered around habitually pulling hamstrings or tearing their ACLs or falling from brooms when two feet on the ground was much more logical?

A bunch of Icaruses, Hermione grumbled, tugging open her locker where she stored her street clothes.

Hermione sucked in a breath, calming her already adigated body, and exchanged her work jacket for her actual coat. She was in a foul mood and it wasn’t Golden Retriever Skippy’s fault.

She and Draco had been stuck working in the emergency room of the general hospital for the three, twenty-four-hour shifts. Anything, and truly anything that required more than two percent of brain power was shifted to another specialized floor.

To add insult to injury, she and Draco learned early in their paired shift that they should not be paired together for this floor. They needed a Skip (Tripp) or a Padma or anyone else who wasn’t annoyed by idiocy to soften their terse replies and ministrations. Hermione had been a tad better than Draco, but at the end of the day, when the twelfth FOWP (fell over while pissed) came through, she was done suffering fools.

“What about Malfoy?” Hermione heard herself say to the whinging Tripp.

Why, dear Godric, why am I putting myself in the middle of this?

The locker room went silent, all heads turning to look at her, their faces a wash with shock or incredulity.

“What?” Hermione asked defensively. “He’s a part of this program, has a broom and is reasonably good at flying, and…” She narrowed her eyes at Tripp, ignoring how he averted his puppy dog eyes at her stare. “You know what, fine. But shame on all of you. Stay bigots. It’s not like that’s anything Malfoy’s unfamiliar with.”

She seized her purse from the ground and stormed out of the shocked room, not bothering to stop the door from slamming behind her.

Stupid drunk idiots.

Stupid fellow junior healers who were arse munchers.

Stupid healing program that forces junior healers to work three twenty-four shifts over the course of a week on a floor a child could run.

Hermione blinked, her eyes aching with exhaustion. She desperately needed to sleep, but they had an exam on Friday. And then her stomach rumbled, but she only just remembered they were out of bread at the house, so she’d need to stop by a Tesco on the way home, and…

She hadn’t felt this strung out since third year with the time turner.

Why didn’t the other healers seem this wrecked?

Oh. Right. She’d covered for Skip last week so he could visit his girlfriend while she was off for fall break.

Arse muncher.

Hermione savagely pressed the button for the lifts, smirking to herself at her made-up insult. She’d have to tell Ginny that one when she got home.

Imagining Ginny’s cackle of delight, Hermione stepped into the Morgana-blessed empty lift. She pressed the button for the ground floor and stepped to the center as the doors began to close.

A pale hand gripped the door, stopping its motion and forcing it to recoil open.

Hermione’s lips parted in surprise as Draco stepped into the lift. She could have sworn he’d left half an hour ago.

His face wasn’t tired like she’d seen it at the end of their shift—it was angry. The grey eyes she’d, on more than one occasion, thought rather pretty, were no longer cautious. They were narrowed in cold indignation. His jaw ticked as he glared down at her.

Automatically, she took a step back. Draco mirrored her, the lift jolting slightly under his added weight.

“Malfoy, hold the—” someone called from outside.

Draco flicked his wand. The door slid shut, cutting the voice off.

He advanced, and Hermione suddenly felt like a small animal cornered by something larger. She swallowed.

“Is everything alright, Malfoy?” she asked, pleased with how steady her voice sounded.

He leaned in, stooping to meet her eyes.

“What the bloody fuck were you doing back there?” he hissed.

She blinked. “Back where?”

“The fucking locker room!”

Hermione startled. She’d never heard Draco yell like this before.

“I didn’t realize you were—”

“You have to be shitting me? You didn’t realize I was in the room, so you took it upon yourself to offer me up as tribute to their pathetic, departmental Quidditch team? What gives you the right—” He cut himself off. His chest heaving, Draco leaned forward, bracketing his arms over her head.

Hermione clutched her purse to her chest, turning her head to relieve herself of his stare.

“I don’t want you to be my savior.” His voice was low and menacing.

She snapped her head forward, meeting his gaze. “I never said I wanted to be, Malfoy.”

“Then what the fuck was that back there?”

“I–I–” Hermione had no idea what that was back there. “They were annoying me.”

He scoffed. “So you decided to play around with my reputation? Well, news flash, it’s shit. And absolutely no one wants the Death Eater scum on their pick up Quidditch team, let alone their healer program.”

“But you’re here—”

“Because Shacklebolt pulled some strings! Only after the fucking Minister of Magic spoke with the program manager did they let me in. I’m not here under any false illusions that I’m wanted.”

She swallowed, her throat dry. “But you came anyway.”

Draco blinked and recoiled a bit at her sincerity, suddenly realizing the nearness of their bodies. He pushed off the wall and took a step back, running a hand through his hair. Draco wore it loose now and she’d caught him running his hands through his hair a few times, the gesture having the unfortunate effect of making him look like a wealthy playboy rather than a prat…arse muncher.

Hermione didn’t mean to giggle, but one escaped. And then another until she was doubled over, exhaustion, anger, relief from the emotional release. She felt a hand on her back, solid and warm.

“Granger?” Draco asked, his voice coated with concern. “Granger, breathe.”

She was gasping for air.

No no no no.

She felt her chest tightening, unsure if air would reach her lungs. A whispered charm from a familiar wand tapped the middle of her back, her chest expanding.

She gasped, pressing a hand to the place between her breastbone that somehow filled with oxygen when she was sure the world had run out. Her bottom lip quivered as she rubbed that spot, willing the tears to abate.

But then Malfoy had to go and ruin all of it by saying, “Who is taking care of you, Granger?”

She was so tired.

She pressed her lips together, but was unable to stop the soft sob that escaped.

That was the first time she experienced a Draco hug. It sounds like a silly thing, but she’d learn from an impromptu dinner with the Slytherins later that year that they were legendary. Even quiet, reclusive Theodore Nott wanted a Draco Hug.

He hugged like Charlie, all arms and chest and heart, but had the surprising gentleness that he’d learned from his mother.

Someone raised by Lucius Malfoy shouldn’t be this good at giving a hug, Hermione thought.

Draco held her head as she cried tired, self-pity tears.

“Granger, what’s the matter?” he mumbled into her hair, a hand gentle on the small of her back, the other patting her head…it was comforting, even though she felt a bit like a wounded krup.

“Ginny and Harry are engaged,” she said into his tear-sodden button-up. “They need me to move.”

He stilled. “They said that?”

She shook her head. “No, but I know they will.”

“What else?” he asked in the strange safety of the lift.

She wanted to say, “My parents’ memories were restored, but our relationship is fractured beyond repair,” but even in this Lift of Truth, that was too much.

“I have no idea where I’ll go after this. I know I can’t stay here,” she said instead.

She felt his chuckle before she heard it. “Yes, I think you would eat the poor attending alive if you were stuck in General A&E for the rest of your career.”

Her lips reluctantly tilted up at the edges.

“Your slogan would be, ‘Shant Suffer Fools, Call Your Father,’” Hermione quipped and was rewarded with a genuine laugh.

She laughed along, something wet and full. It was wholly unattractive, and yet, as she pulled away, wiping her face with the proffered handkerchief with a mumbled thank you, she felt lighter.

Only after she scourgified the snot out of Draco’s embroidered piece of cloth did she look him in the eye.

Where was this boy during all their years at Hogwarts? Hiding, buried deep beneath distrust, bigotry, and perhaps insecurity? Loneliness? She didn’t know the third but suspected that if they allowed one another a crack into their inner lives, she would.

“Thank you,” Hermione said again, not sure where to go from here. “And I’m sorry for volunteering you for the quidditch team. Skip really annoys me.”

“His name is Tripp, and he already asked me to join. That’s why they’re in a lurch for this next match. It’s my mother’s birthday, you see.”

A wash of mortification came over her; Hermione felt her cheeks redden. “Oh my gods, I’m—” she blew out a breath. “I’m really sorry. For making you feel belittled and for…erm…” She gestured at the wet spot on his shirt.

His only reply was to flick his wand to vanish the spot and then point it at the lift. Instantly, it began moving.

Neither spoke as the reality sank in that Hermione Granger had a breakdown in a hospital lift with her once-enemy, now turned favorite coworker.

The doors dinged open, but neither moved.

“After you,” Draco gestured.

Hermione came to herself and moved, not looking at the waiting crowd that had gathered while the lift was inoperable.

The wind had picked up, pushing out summer for autumn. They stood awkwardly outside the entrance.

She watched him fuss unnecessarily with his scarf.

“Would you like to grab a bite to eat? I know I’m going to crash when I get home, and it would probably be better not to eat where I might fall asleep.” She attempted a little laugh, tucking an escaped curl behind her ear.

But, of course, before he could reply, an untimely voice called from the end of the street. “Hermione! We’ve come to kidnap you.”

She turned and gave a reluctant wave to Ron, Harry, and Ginny.

“You could join us?” she said, but when she looked back, he was gone.

Chapter Text

November 1999

“Welcome to your six-week course on Alternative Healing.” The Head Healer of the Janus Thickey ward stood at the front of the meeting room. She looked…overworked. Healer Eulalie Desfosses blew an errant hair out of her eyes with a single, efficient puff, barely straying from their meandering lecture on twelve uses of Dragon’s Blood for treating the blues.

“While St. Mungo’s is renowned for our work in counter curse healing and accidental magic healing, we are not a research hospital, meaning we have select, long-term patients we care for but do not take them on lightly,” lectured Healer Desfosses.

Neville’s parents immediately came to mind; her hand was up before her question fully formed in her mind.

“But why take on long-term patients if the goal isn’t to find a cure?” Hermione asked, ignoring how Draco shifted next to her in his seat.

The Healer sighed. “It is a mix of our capabilities and the desires of the families. Many of our patients…there is little to no evidence of healing from the torture they suffered, and it is better for them if we look at care in the palliative sense—”

“Palliative?” Again, Hermione really should shut her mouth. “They’re not dead or dying—”

“I mean,” Healer Desfosses frowned, her tone a bit more snippy. “I mean, quality of life and the possibility of care by the family. Again, we only have a small handful of long-term patients because of our limited capacity.”

Draco’s foot pressed against Hermione’s beneath the table, nearly squishing it. Hermione shot him a glare as the Healer moved on, floating their syllabus for the next six weeks to them.

“What?” Hermione whispered.

Draco’s lips twitched, and he arched a singular eyebrow.

“It’s ridiculous,” Hermione mumbled, snatching the floating syllabus from the air and automatically writing her name at the top.

Draco didn’t say a word, but moved his foot away to retrieve a pen from his bag.

She missed his warmth.

They hadn’t had a chance to talk since her failed attempt at asking him to dinner as friends. She’d said that to herself a dozen times.

Then, they were off for a few days and only just returned as their team began a new study rotation.

Mercifully, she and Draco were no longer working General Admission (to everyone’s great relief.)

“Junior Healers Granger, Malfoy, Abbott, and Tripp are assigned to the Alternative Care ward for this week. Everyone else, you’ll continue your assignments before being rotated into the schedule,” announced Healer Desfosses, momentarily switching to rotation assignments.

Hermione’s mind stuttered as she stared at her syllabus. They were having Occlumency training? The impulse to interrupt the Healer once again made Hermione’s hands itch. She felt her arm moving, but long fingers wrapped around her wrist, pressing it onto the table.

She whirled to glare at Draco, attempting to tug her hand out of his vice-like grasp. “Fuck, you’re strong,” she hissed, unsuccessfully dislodging his grip after a few more tries and ignoring the way her body awakened at his lingering touch. “What do you want?”

“Just let the bloody professor finish a sentence for once instead of interrupting.” He said softly, leaning close so she could hear him.

“But—”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Yes, we are going to have Occlumency training. No, your life will not cease to go on even if you don’t have all the answers. Yes, I am the smartest person in the room.” He smirked at her look of outrage, and loosened his fingers just enough for Hermione to pull her hand free.

“I’m never sitting with you again,” she mumbled, rubbing her wrist where his fingers seemed to sear her skin.

“Mr. Malfoy and Ms. Granger, please come to the front. You have just been selected to be our first training participants in Occlumency.”

Hermione blushed. Neither of them had been paying attention, and the Healer Desfosses knew it.

“But we haven’t gone over the basics of Occlumency,” she started to say.

The Healer waved her objections off. “I’m sure you know something.”

“Well, yes. I do. I studied it extensively to help Harry.”

“Excellent. Please proceed to the front like Mr. Malfoy already has.” The Healer nudged the empty seat with her wand.

Draco had sauntered to the front and sat down, while Hermione rambled. She stumbled a bit, getting out of her seat, and marched down to meet him.

“Mr. Malfoy, what are the basic tenets of Occlumency?” asked Healer Desfosses.

“To seal one's mind against magical intrusion and influence.”

“Textbook definition, thank you.”

Hermione noticed the slight frown on Draco’s face before it washed away.

“Why do you think it is important for Healers to have a basic grasp of Occlumency?”

Draco’s eyes lifted to Hermione’s, and she saw the challenge behind them. Occlumency or not: could she hold her tongue?

She had the answer. Bloody hell, she always had the answer or the means to finding it. Her teeth ground as the professor called on Skippy or whatever the hell his name was, and he answered incorrectly.

Draco quirked a brow, but she kept her hands firmly clasped in her lap.

It was awkward, seated with their knees nearly touching at the front of the classroom as the lecture continued.

“Mr. Malfoy, will this be your first time casting Legilimens?”

Hermione nearly jumped; she hadn’t realized the Healer had returned to the front.

His answer, like earlier, was akin to a low rumble, announcing an impending storm rather than the bright Robin’s egg blue chirp of Skippy.

“I have, but only in an…instructional setting.” Something about his choice of words made Hermione still.

When had Draco been instructed to use Legilimency?

Healer Desfosses pressed her lips together. “And how is your Occlumency?”

“Not as good as Severus Snape’s, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Hermione felt the room recoil, her own body betraying her with a flinch at the mention of the former Headmaster. His name had been in the papers recently—a reporter asked Harry about Snape, and Harry defended him. Kingsley finally had to make a statement, affirming that Snape was a secret member of the Order of the Phoenix at the end of the day, causing further furor.

Wizarding London didn’t know what to think of that revelation: Severus Snape, someone who was marginally well known because of his role at Hogwarts and the War, and renowned for his taciturn disposition, was actually good.

Snape didn’t fit the narrative they wanted to write in the papers and keep in their minds.

Neither did Draco. And the ongoing attacks from a new cell of Voldemort sympathizers called “Neo-Death Eaters” did not help.

Someone let out an uncomfortable laugh, all heads turning to gape at Draco. It was hard to divorce his name from Severus Snape’s, the two known Death Eaters, cleared of all charges, even if one was posthumously.

Lucius had been leaning on the papers to lessen his sentence by way of proxy to Draco and Snape; it made Hermione sick to the stomach.

The Healer cleared her throat. “Would you feel comfortable demonstrating?”

Draco’s jaw clicked, but he nodded stiffly and stood, moving to stand opposite the professor.

“When we work with victims sent to us from the DMLE, it is required that one of us be in the room if Legilimency is used.”

“That is not the requirement at the DMLE,” Draco corrected.

The Healer shifted uncomfortably. “You are correct,” they said slowly. “However, if a suspect is injured and sent here, St. Mungo’s requires that one of us must be in the room if they are interrogated.”

“Has that happened before?” Hannah asked from her seat, leaning forward. Hermione hoped that she, too, was disturbed at the thought of someone abusing Legilimency on anyone.

Draco turned, his eyes finding Hermione’s across the room.

The answer of yes was behind them, and then she watched the brightness that was Draco dim.

She sucked in a breath. He was occluding.

How good is he at this?

“You may begin,” Draco said, his voice neutral.

The Healer lifted their wand and pointed it at him. “Legilimens,” they whispered.

Silence filled the corners of the room; Hermione held her breath and waited.

The Healer dropped her wand, frowning.

“You are very good at Occlumency.” Healer Desfosses seemed…disappointed.

“I am.” Hermione could hear a hint of preening in Malfoy’s voice, an echo of the proud boy he’d once been.

“Please sit opposite Ms. Granger, and we’ll walk through exercises to clear one’s mind, the first step in the Occlumency process.”

________

December 1999

“Fuck it’s cold,” Hermione swore, fumbling with the front door as Grimmauld Place had decided it was as done with the weather as she was. She gave the front door a bit of a kick before it swung open, revealing a slightly warmer-looking entryway.

“Granger, get inside. I’m freezing my tits off out here,” Draco mumbled, his hand finding its way to her lower back again and urging her forward. “

The Elevator incident hadn’t been discussed since it happened over a month ago, but the arms-length distance between them had shrunk considerably. Also, since her Moment in the locker rooms where she, according to Hannah “berated sweet, puppy dog Skippy to tears over Malfoy,” the team had been less chilly toward Draco as well. Hermione begrudgingly apologized to Skippy, but it was somewhat tinted with him correcting her on his name….which still wasn’t Skippy. Tripp?

“Harry? Gin?” she shouted up the stairwell, undoing the circle of her scarf.

“One would think a simple Patronus would suffice instead of bellowing up the stairs,” Draco mused, peering into the front room with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Yes, one would think that if they were a prat,” she sniffed, but there was little venom in her voice. Hermione walked down the hall and poked her head in the kitchen, but it was quiet. “I guess they already left.”

“Does Ginevra have a match?”

Hermione jumped, and Draco was right behind her. “Godric, Malfoy. Why do you have to creep?”

He raised his eyebrows in question.

Hermione sighed. “Yes, it’s the winter scrimmage, and then they’re off for the holidays. I thought she’d said she'd leave tonight, but maybe she and Harry are making a thing of it. Come on. I need some tea. I’m frozen.”

She bobbed her head at the door, only just now noticing that his body hovered close to hers, the tall, narrow hall seeming to press them together.

“Do you have a House Elf?” his voice was suddenly softer, as if the walls pressing them closer together also dampened whatever buoyancy that had been in his voice earlier.

“What?” she blinked, trying to rid herself of the spell she was under, her body leaning toward his.

“Why are we standing here, Granger? Are you waiting for…”

“Oh, yes and no,” she interrupted, giving her head a little shake. “Kreacher splits his time between here and Hogwarts now. Today is Friday, so he’s likely helping with dinner there. Come on, we’ll just have to do it ourselves.” She backed through the swinging door to the kitchen, watching Draco’s inscrutable face as he took in what was once his Great Aunt’s kitchen.

“So this place, Malfoy, is called a kitchen. I know poncy gits like yourself may have never entered such a wonderland before, but fear not—I shall endeavor to keep you safe.”

“Granger.”

“Yes?” she said over her shoulder, lighting the hob with her wand.

“I know how to make a proper cup of tea.”

“Well, at least we know our Lord Malfoy can muster up the basic needs.”

He turned, mumbling something about knowing more than she thought, and sauntered over to the fireplace. He pointed his wand at the cold hearth and whispered, “Incendio.”

A warm glow filled the room, emitting a heat Hermione hadn’t realized was missing.

“Thank you,” she said, pouring the hot water over the leaves, summoning the tray Kreacher insisted they use when having guests. It was odd living with a House Elf; at Hogwarts, they hardly saw them except for when they went to the kitchens. Here, Kreacher felt very much like this was his home, and they were to do things a certain way; whether that was due to his previous masters or simply his nature, Hermione hadn’t pinpointed the exact reason. Needless to say, she knew that if he found out she had served a Black family member tea on anything other than the bare minimum for etiquette, she would never hear the end of it.

“I miss when he hated us,” Harry had mumbled after Kreacher followed him around the house lecturing Harry on fifteen reasons why one should use a coaster.

“Where would you like to work?” she asked, trying to keep her hands busy. A light fluttering began in her chest when he suggested helping her with her Occlumency after class that day, and the quickening had only continued as they apparated to the end of the lane of Grimmauld Place together.

Now, Draco Malfoy stood in her kitchen, supervising her tea making.

“Wherever,” he shrugged, a gesture so at odds with how stiffly he stood, staring up at the pictures on the mantle.

“I think you and Sirius would have gotten along,” she said, leaving the ready tray to stand next to him.

He tilted his head, brow arched.

“Well,” Hermione amended, “I think after a fashion you would have enjoyed one another. He and Remus were…” but she let her voice trail away. Broken and irreparably in love.

“I’m glad Remus found Tonks. He deserved some modicum of happiness after everything,” she added.

Draco remained quiet, his brow furrowed as he stared at the group of Marauders, laughing and tussling in the photograph, Peter conspicuously absent.

“Potter looks exactly like his father,” Draco huffed a laugh as James grinned, flexing his muscles till Sirius shoved him.

“Is this your first time seeing James?” Hermione smiled. “Yes, he really does. I don’t think it worked in Harry’s favor with Snape, though. He and Harry’s dad were a bit of…enemies of sorts while in school.”

Draco nodded. “I gathered as much. I’m sure he wasn’t as big of a prat as I was while in school.”

Hermione’s lips twitched. “From the brief accounts Harry has given while mistakenly traveling in Snape’s pensieve, I think James was a rather large prat, but without all the blood prejudice nonsense.”

Draco snorted, finally turning away from the photograph. “Potter would poke the troll. What was this about tea?”

“Ready. How about we move to the sitting room? The chairs hurt after a while at the table.”

“Lead the way,” Draco motioned, levitating the tea tray, ready to follow.

Hermione lit the fire in this room and waved her wand to light the lamps. Draco once again hovered around the edges of the room, peering at the bookshelves and photographs. The front room had become a wonderful hodgepodge of Weasley and Black family things. Crocheted blankets draped lazily on the back of every available seating, fresh flowers filled a vase that once tried to snap Hermione’s finger off until Kreacher showed them how to take care of it, and pictures—Fleur helped Ginny fill the home with photographs.

Grimmauld Place still kept its secrets, but seemed to warm to them as they did it, replacing the dark and honoring the past and quirky.

“Granger, are all these books Potter’s?” Draco turned, selecting a rather old-looking book from the shelf.

“No, most of these are leftovers from Walburga and company. You’re welcome to any of them. I know Harry wouldn’t care if a few went missing.”

“Where are your books?” he asked, his long fingers delicately turning the weathered pages.

The butterflies danced in her chest. “Oh, my room. I hate having to traipse down the stairs at night, and Harry put a ban on me summoning books.”

Draco’s lips twitched. “Book bludger to the head?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Yes, and twice.”

He shut the book with a snap. “You would think he’d figure out how to dodge flying books.”

Hermione laughed, flopping onto the long sofa. She poured his cup, hoping and not hoping that he’d notice that she remembered how he took his tea.

“Thank you,” he said, accepting the milky, sugary concoction that would make her parents cry. Draco summoned a chair and sat opposite her, crossing his legs.

She watched him over her cup, her heart expanding as he took a sip, giving his cup a soft smile as he tilted his chin down for another.

“What are you struggling with?” Draco suddenly asked, setting his cup down soundlessly on its saucer.

She mirrored his movement, pleased when her cup barely made a sound, and let out a breath. “I cannot maintain it. I do the exercises each night, but nothing seems to make a difference. And when I can convince Bill or Harry that they’re not going to hurt me, they barely tap my mind and the dam of thoughts pushes them out.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. They rarely saw one another outside of the hospital. It was distracting to have Draco in her space, wearing a beautiful jumper that brightened his eyes and hugged his biceps. His long legs were covered in fitted trousers that she’d come to associate with him.

“Have you ever worn blue jeans before?” Hermione blurted.

“What the—fucking hell, Granger. What is with you tonight?” Draco barked out a laugh, running a hand through his hair.

She laughed, grinning sheepishly, admiring the way his hair fell softly across his forehead. “Sorry, my mind is everywhere.”

Draco shook his head, leaning back in his seat. “How about we give it a few rounds, and I can see what is going on in that rat’s nest up there.”

“Take that back!”

Draco just grinned, pulling out his wand from his pocket. “Ready?”

Hermione huffed, but repositioned herself on the sofa. “Alright.”

She met his gaze, barely remembering she was supposed to be stilling her mind before he whispered, “Legilimens.”

When Harry or Bill entered her mind, it often hurt; Harry was magic and power, Bill was gentler but felt pointed, as if he were dissecting a particularly nasty curse rather than wading through the tides of the mind.

Draco was soft, his presence barely registering, save for the overwhelming aroma of his magic around her. Their instructor initially said that magic comes with scent markers. You’ll first discover the smell of your magic, and then notice others. If you come from a magical home, you might already be able to identify your parents or a sibling.

Hermione’s scent had eluded her—as if the mere suggestion that it should be a simple thing to identify caused her mind to instantly put up a block. She acted like it hadn’t bothered her when her classmates laughed about their “magic scent.”

How useless she would think, all the while wondering.

Harry was raw magic: melted caramel, coriander, and smoke. Ron was treacle tart, and not an unpleasant scent of wet grass, and the dark lager he’d taken to enjoying after leaving Hogwarts.

Draco was fresh air on the summer lawn, quill ink, and the scent of the ocean. She considered asking him since they worked so much together, but it was impolite to speak about the scent of someone’s magic—Legilimency was an Intimacy Magic: intrusive and disarming, dependent on the motivation and intent.

“Granger, I’m not going to hurt you,” he said through the fog of her mind. “I want you to do what you do at the end of the night. I want to see you empty your mind.”

“Okay.” Her voice was shaky. It’s not that she didn’t want Draco to see and understand her thoughts, but what if they were about him?

She swallowed. In for a knut…

A vast, arched wooden door appeared before her, the carved doors shut tight. She pictured tugging a paper free from her Muggle notebook and scribbling down thoughts with a pen.

“Why do you not open the door?” he asked as she shoved the folded piece of paper with her thoughts from the day, along with his name scribbled in the corner beneath the door—it was all she’d allow herself to write about him. Tonight, she would add more.

“I don’t know,” she said, straightening. She couldn’t see Draco in her mind, merely felt him. It was uncomfortable, and perhaps that’s what prompted her to ask, “Is this what Voldemort did to you?”

Draco withdrew so suddenly that Hermione cried, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes.

“Fuck, shite. Granger.” Draco stood, rounding the table, jostling it as he rammed his shin against the edge, collapsing next to her on the sofa with a pained hiss. “I’m sorry. You just—”

Hermione blinked away the pain of tears. “It’s alright. I shouldn’t have asked.”

His thigh pressed against hers, anchoring when she typically felt adrift by his presence. They were silent as the needles in her skull abated, and until she could look at him without wincing in pain.

“Malfoy, really. I’m alright. It’s my fault, not yours.”

Draco’s shoulders somehow slumped even more, his fingers twisted and untwisted in a pattern, attempting to wring out the excess emotion.

“I knew I would hurt you.” He said it more to himself than her.

“No, you didn’t.” He finally looked at her, his eyes sharp and calculating. “Well,” she amended, “Yes, you did hurt me, but it was because I asked you about Voldemort.” He visibly flinched, casting his eyes to the floor reflexively.

Never—never did Hermione think she would have deep compassion for Draco Malfoy, but the boy who ridiculed, taunted, and disdained her so fully wasn’t there.

Or perhaps he had simply grown.

Had she?

Tentatively, she placed her warm hand over his, stilling his movement at her touch. The butterflies had turned wild, slamming against her chest.

“Was it that bad?” she whispered.

His eyes, watery like hers, flicked to their hands and then up to her eyes. “Yes.” His voice was hoarse, wrung out like he’d been screaming from being crucio’d.

The weight of that answer held more substance than she anticipated, making her shoulders sag with his and a dawning revelation all of its own: “Who taught you, Malfoy? Tell me it wasn’t him.”

He shook his head. “Severus initially, but then my Aunt took over when she realized I had a knack for Occlumency.” Draco pulled his hands out from hers, shakily running them down his face before he pushed to his feet.

He cleared his throat, taking the seat across from her once more. “A few ground rules. We need a safe word so that if either of us is hurting the other, we can stop and safely retreat. Legilimency, when done correctly, is—” a faint blush pinked his cheeks, but he continued on, “—harmonious.”

She offered him a private smile. During the war, they only heard of the perils of Legilimency and the power of Occlumency for a well fortified mind, but their instructor hinted at the original intent of the magic: nearness; to allow someone safe passage through your thoughts should be a safeguarded thing, shared because of profound connection…an effort to further the bond, not break it by stealing moments for ridicule and power.

“Hippogriff,” she said.

She received a glorious roll of his eyes in response.

“Fine,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Moving on. From what I saw, you have a passable grasp on limiting your thoughts, but you were holding back, and what you scribbled on the paper wasn’t an exhaustive sum. All those scraps of paper need to go somewhere beyond a locked door you’ve never ventured through.”

“How did you know I haven’t opened it?” she said a bit defensively.

“I assumed,” he said dryly. “This next part also comes from Severus. My Aunt cared more about how to wield Legilimency against others and sifting through thoughts with a more nuanced nature. For all her—” he waved his hand as if to say Bellatrix-ness— “she was a remarkably disciplined legimimence; especially when compared to how the Dark Lord tended to sort through people’s minds.”

The hard knot in her stomach shifted at Draco’s mention of Voldemort—his casual use of the name only Death Eaters chose, rolling off his tongue. A glaring reminder that they were, once again, from the opposite sides of the proverbial tracks.

She felt like she had whiplash, her estimation of him jerking from adoring to distant from one moment to the next. Malfoy unsettled her in a way no one ever had.

“Ready?” he asked, her wand held loosely in his hand.

“For what?”

He let out an exasperated sigh through his nose. “You are going to enter my mind to see what I’m going to teach you.”

“Oh.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you alright? Do we need to do this another day?”

“No, no. I’m fine.” She held out her hand for her wand. Eyes narrowed, he studied her as he placed her familiar wand in her hand, the wood already warm to her touch.

Does my wand respond to Malfoy?

“Ready?” she pointed her wand at him, meeting his inscrutable gaze. A stiff nod was his reply. “Legilimens.”

They both gasped as she stood just inside his thoughts. Flashes of people swirled, nothing she could reach out and grasp, so she let the swirling pass. She had only cast Legilimency with the instructor, and even then, Hermione could only hold on to the connection for a few seconds before she had to break it; the deluge of his mind was too much. Draco later said it was “too undisciplined. It’s a wonder he even managed to tie his shoes correctly.”

Her face flashed across her mind's eye several times until, abruptly, all the images slowed and settled onto the ground.

Papers. She looked down at the metaphysical ground to see it bathed not in ecru-colored snow, but in parchment of every width and length, some rolled tightly while others were unfurled face up to be read, and then some torn to pieces, never meant to be pieced together again.

Draco spoke aloud, making her concentration wobble. “Each of these papers represents a thought I’ve set aside. Those open and face up, you are welcome to observe, while others I would kindly ask you to keep sealed shut.”

“And the torn-up parchments?”

The walls of his mind shook briefly. “Those are destroyed memories. The Dark Lord could never steal a memory, but he could ruin it.”

She reached down to run her fingers through the debris and was struck by grief—an emotion not from her but from him. Either it was a sad memory or his sadness over losing something he didn’t know he had lost.

“Is there any way to repair the memory?”

“Are you in the habit of digging through someone’s mind to piece together something a vile wizard thought inconsequential or destroyed out of punishment?”

She cocked her head in thought. “No,” she said slowly, “but I did curse a parchment during our fifth year in case of snitches.”

Draco let out a huff of a laugh.

Hermione typically struggled to maintain the spell for so long, but with Draco, it was easy. She leisurely walked through the drifts of papers, encountering deep banks followed by tidied piles of parchment memories.

“Malfoy, this is remarkable. Does your mind have an ending?”

Amusement flitted through her. “Yes, but this is the third lesson I want to add: you can make your mind a loop. Much like how you saw my thoughts swirling ceaselessly, you can make someone wander for an eternity and never find what they’re looking for. With your mind under your control with Occlumency, you can hide away thoughts and secrets.”

Her lips parted, no sound coming for a long moment. “That’s why you don’t care all that much about those memories, Vol—the Dark Lord destroyed.”

“Well done.”

“How did you get so good at this?”

“I was alone and scared for the better part of three years. What else should I do but practice?”

Three years? “Even after the war?”

“Especially then.” A paper twitched a few steps away. With a thought, the paper came to her, and she turned it over, shocked to see it was a memory. As she read, the memory began to play in her mind's eye like a movie reel.

It was her, seated next to Malfoy in their Advanced Arithmancy class from last year. It had to have been sometime in November; she was wearing a scarf. Draco’s emotions were like ocean waves; he was trying to keep the tide back, but every time he glanced over at her, they would swell. Hermione experienced it all: longing, fear, hope, desire. And all of it was for her.

Next thing she knew, Draco had expelled her from his mind. She blinked, eyes watering at the sudden return to herself. Draco was still seated opposite her, but he groaned, his knuckles white from clenched fists. While uncomfortable being pushed out of his mind, that act was painful for him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling like a broken record. “I wasn’t thinking, and I just saw the paper twitch, and I summoned it.”

He swallowed, chest heaving as he struggled to control his breaths.

“How much did you see?” he asked after a protracted silence.

“Nothing really. Just us in school from eighth year.” It was a lie, but Hermione needed to believe it and sensed Draco needed it, too. “If you tell me how to craft my scene, I can work on it this week, and maybe we can inspect it in class.”

He nodded, not listening. Draco hadn’t looked at her since he forced her out.

“Go through the door,” he said, summoning his coat from where he hung it next to hers on the front hall rack. “I think that’s the next step.” His hands shook as he slotted his long arms through the coat sleeves.

“Malfoy,” Hermione stood, panic rising in her. She didn’t know what to do to make it better. Fear of losing him began to override her thoughts. “Malfoy, please. Let me make you a cup of tea. You shouldn’t apparate upset.”

“I’m fine,” he said distractedly, patting his pockets and turning toward the front door.

Hermione rushed after him, grabbing his arm instinctively, stopping his hand from tugging on the handle. He stopped as her fingers wrapped around his wrist. He was trembling. Whatever it was—that memory terrified Draco.

“Can I give you a hug?” she asked, her voice downy and gentle. He didn’t answer, but Hermione risked moving herself between him and the door before wrapping her arms around his waist, arms snaking beneath his unbuttoned outer coat.

Draco was stiff, his body tensing as she slowly pressed her cheek to his chest. Hermione counted to five in her head and moved to drop her arms when his suddenly shifted, as if the strings holding them down had been snipped, and he enveloped her. His jaw brushed her forehead as he returned her hug, his body’s tremors beginning to lessen.

How long they stood there, she didn’t know—time hung suspended between his arms, wrapped beneath the scent of him and his magic. Whatever was happening between them, Hermione knew it was more than friendship. She closed her eyes, drinking in the scent of him, the pleasure of how good it felt to be held, and tried not to linger on the meaning behind all of it.

He was solid. He was here. That reason could be enough for now.

Chapter Text

Wind rattled the front windows, clamoring for the locks to slip. The cold December air was attempting to come inside and join Hermione, huddled beneath layers of Weasley blankets.

Hermione flicked her wand at Grimmauld’s Place front window locks, reapplying the sticking charm that had a habit of wearing off during the winter. Friends had been coming through all afternoon, leaving little gifts beneath the Christmas tree and staying for a cup of tea or Ginny’s mulled cider.

The first-year Junior Healers were meeting up for a holiday party at the pub later that evening. All of them were celebrating Christmas a few days early because they were all scheduled to work Christmas Day. Hermione didn’t mind, though—it was not as if her parents had invited her to visit them in Australia. At least, they hadn’t returned their present, so that was something.

The fire roared, casting the room in a merry glow; a brief announcement of the floo before George marched into the room, not minding the footprints of ash behind him.

From somewhere in the house, Kreacher ignored the floo dust, something he wouldn’t have done a year ago. This year, Hermione took a risk and gave him old Western novels as a gift …he’d been shut away since then, and she was sure she saw him at the Muggle bookstore lurking in the fiction section earlier that day.

“I’m in love! I’m in love, and I don’t care who knows it!” George spun, arms wide as he danced through the house.

Dean emerged a breath later, dogging his steps with a bemused, affectionate look on his face.

“I regret ever showing you that film,” he laughed, vanishing both their soot tracks with his wand.

George walked backward, a shit-eating grin on his face as he said, “It is a masterpiece of unparalleled wit and genius, the likes of which our generation will never see again.”

“Elf?” Hermione asked, realizing neither of them knew she was there.

Dean spun to look at her, just noticing her beneath the mound of blankets on the sofa. “Hey, Hermione,” he said. “George said he forgot—what did you forget?” he called, but George had stomped up the stairs out of earshot. “Never mind. How are you doing?”

Hermione grinned, a bit of nostalgia squeezing her chest: a fire, the Weasleys, and Dean, Christmas.

She held up her book in reply. “I have a new book Fleur lent me, and a cup of tea, so I’m grand.”

“Brilliant.”

George clopped back down the stairs, swerving to avoid colliding with Dean as he came into the room. “Sorry, my feet are moving as fast as my mind!”

“Got what you need?” Dean asked, eyeing whatever George had wadded up in his hand.

George nodded and held up one of Ginny’s old practice jerseys.

“What are you going to do with that?” Hermione arched a brow, thinking about how Ginny would react to whatever George had in mind, and she couldn’t see this ending well.

“Ask me no questions, Hermione…” George waggled his finger.

She rolled her eyes, picked up her book, and mumbled, “Never heard that before.”

Dean snorted, grabbing George’s hand to tug him toward the fire. “We’ll get out of your hair. I promise I’ll…” he looked at George and frowned. “Well, I promise not to implicate you in whatever he has planned.”

“That’s all I ask,” said Hermione.

Dean and George looked like they had always been together. Even though it took George almost a year to ask Dean out, that delay seemed to have been worth it.

Dean threw a pinch of floo powder into the fire, casting a wave over his shoulder before disappearing with a muttered, “Flat over the joke shop.”

George followed, but with one foot out, he turned and grinned at Hermione. “I may have set a few…gifts for Harry and Ginny. Just don’t go through any doorways with Harry before I come around again, okay?”

And with that, he spun out of sight.

Hermione threw down her book, calling after him, but it was no use. She pushed the blankets from her lap when she was hit by the chill of the front room, regretting the loss of her nest on the couch. Hermione tugged a quilt over her shoulders and padded over to inspect the small bundle of Mistletoe now hanging over every single doorway.

“George!” she yelled, stomping a little with her Weasley-wool-sock-clad-foot.

Kreatcher popped next to her with a frying pan in his hand. “What’s the matter? Do I need to plucks out the toenails of the miscreant Weasleys?”

He was much too delighted at this prospect.

“No, no, not at all. George just stopped by and did a bit of…holiday cheer. That was me just…oh, never mind. How is your book?”

Kreacher blushed. “I finished it. Thank you.”

“Would you like me to pop over to the Muggle bookstore? I’m sure I can grab you—”

“No, that is not necessary. I…I purchased the rest of the series with my wages from Hogwarts.”

Hermione smirked but didn’t say anything else.

“Do you need more tea?” Kreacher asked, changing the subject.

“I’m fine, thank you. I need to get a move on anyway and get ready for my holiday party with classmates. You have a good evening.”

Kreacher gave her a modest bow and disappeared with a crack. She blew out a long breath, staring at the bundles hanging ominously above her.

“George,” she sighed, keeping her voice low so Kreacher wouldn’t come storming in again. “If only you had another ear to string you up by…” Hermione mumbled, heading for the stairs with her blanket burrito fit snugly around her. They still hadn’t figured out the temperature-regulating charms for the old house, and she suspected they’d need to bring in an expert sooner rather than later.

She could likely discover a solution, but when would she have the time?

Hermione trekked up the stairs, her steps laden with her swirling thoughts about narrowing down her choices for advanced Healer training.

And with Draco.

He’d permeated so much of her life. And yet, she hadn’t even told Harry and Ginny about him. She tucked that last conundrum in the back of her mind, saving it for tomorrow’s Hermione to deal with as she glanced at her desk, filled with correspondence between her and many different Healer specialty hospitals. The two programs that caught her interest, but the intrusive question of “Where would Draco go?” plagued her again.

Inwardly, Hermione had asked him that question half a dozen times but never aloud. Did he want to leave England? Could he leave England? She knew he spoke at least three other languages. She witnessed it multiple times while working together at the hospital, which left her a tad breathless when his grey eyes would hold hers, a question behind them before he looked down at the patient again.

Hermione tugged on a jumper, exchanging her sweatpants for blue jeans. She had a bit of hair potion left from Fleur and styled her curls accordingly. Pansy Parkinson said her hair looked nice. Hermione knew it did, but the acknowledgment was very satisfying. She thought again of the scared look on each of the Slytherins’ faces in the pub—recognizing Draco’s look because she knew him now.

How strange and wonderful—she held a private smile at the realization that she knew Malfoy and hastily summoned her slip-on boots, wrapping a green scarf around her neck.

The gift for the Secret Santa gift exchange sat on her desk next to another gift she’d spent much more time thinking about: a collection of her favorite Muggle things along with a complete set of ballpoint clicky pens so that Malfoy wouldn’t steal hers anymore.

Her fingers twitched to bring it along with the name she drew, but she left it on her desk. It would be odd to give him a gift and not give one to everyone else.

Hermione swiped up the wrapped vampire romance novel with a box of Honeyduke’s chocolates, tapping them with her wand before slotting the gift into her coat pocket. Hopefully, she would have a spare moment to give Draco his gift when they worked on Christmas Day.

________

A pleasant buzz coursed through Hermione; Celestina Warbeck’s holiday music crooned over the pub’s stereo, making the twinkle lights glow a little in Hermione’s estimation. She had forgotten how much she loved the holidays, almost missing Hogwarts days and sitting with her boys in Gryffindor Tower.

Now, it was a new kind of warmth: Draco sat on her right, his arm brushing against hers when he took a sip of his neat whisky, his thigh pressed against hers as more classmates squeezed into their u-shaped booth.

“Skippy!” the group cheered as Tripp waded through the growing crowd as the night wore on, the pub filling with more holiday goers.

“I wish you’d forgotten Hermione’s nickname for me,” Tripp grinned. “Any more room for me?”

“Sure,” someone said, and everyone shifted closer together.

Hermione had to press against Draco, leaving him little choice but to drape his arm over the back of the booth, giving Hermione room with the by-product of her nestled securely by his side.

“Sorry,” she turned to look up at him, worried that this would be one step too far for him.

A soft smirk graced his lips. “You smell nice,” was all he said.

Hermione snorted. “Yes, I’m sure you’d rather me than Robert,” she said, nodding to another one of their Junior Healers in their program who was squeezed none-too-unhappily between Padma and Susan.

“When are we going to exchange presents?” Padma asked, dropping a neatly wrapped box on the table.

“Do we just give our present to our secret Santa?” Tripp asked, tugging an awkwardly shaped object from his coat pocket.

“Skippy, here you go,” Draco said, tossing a neatly wrapped box at Tripp.

“Erm, thank you, Malfoy?” Tripp said, catching the box easily. He tugged on the black wrapping paper, nimble fingers sliding beneath. Once again, Hermione had to stifle the urge to scoff because steady hands like those should be doing complicated wandwork, not healing athletes.

“Oh, wow!” Tripp breathed, turning over the orb in his hands.

“What is it?” Susan leaned forward to peer across the table.

“It’s a Healer’s quick assessment orb. They’re not exhaustive but bloody handy when dealing with blood and pain management. It scans the patient’s body and offers options for possible injuries.”

“Fucking hell, Malfoy. None of us gave as good of gifts as that,” Padma threw up her hands. “That is perfect for Skippy and his ambitions to be a Quidditch healer.”

“Work smarter, not harder, I say,” Robert mused, getting an elbow from Susan.

“Who has Malfoy?” demanded Padma.

Susan floated over a gift wrapped in brown paper and string. Draco’s eyes grew wide, looking up at her and then the gift now hovering before him.

“Go on,” said Susan. Her face was blank and unreadable. The package looked like the one that once held the cursed necklace from Katie Bell. He withdrew his arm from around Hermione and gingerly tapped the gift with his wand, letting it unwrap midair.

Inside were…gloves.

Draco frowned, his lips pressed to a thin line as he plucked them from where they hovered before him.

“I noticed your flying gloves were looking worn the other day, and the chap at the store said these are a good brand. If they’re too small, the receipt is in the bag.”

“Thank you, Susan,” Draco nodded. “They are precisely what I would have chosen.”

Of all the compliments, that made Susan beam.

“Alright, you lot, give me my gift.” Susan put her hands out and wiggled her fingers.

Hermione tossed it over to her with a wink. The present giving devolved from there when Susan described her favorite scene from one of the earlier novels in the series, probably more to make Robert blush than anything else. Draco slid the gloves into his trouser pockets, lifting his arm again in question, and Hermione obliged, scooting back against his side, giving both of them more room at the table.

Naturally.

Robert had drawn Hermione’s name; he gifted her travel guides for Sweden and Australia, as she had mentioned those were the two places she was applying for advanced Healer training.

“Australia?” Draco asked as Padma gave Robert a fat kiss on the cheek (and a bottle of Ogden's finest) as her present.

Hermione turned a bit, aware of every place their bodies touched. At the twist, Draco seemed to mirror her movement, his hand coming down to rest on her shoulders, cocooning their conversation from the table.

“Have I told you about my parents?” Hermione asked, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

“No. Are they alright?” His concern made her confidence waver.

What will he think of me when he hears this?

“Yes,” she said, measuring her words. “They are now. Before Harry, Ron, and I went on the run to hunt for Horcruxes, I knew my parents wouldn’t be safe. I was enough of a target being a Muggleborn, but my being best friends with Harry was a death sentence for them.”

Draco nodded, not denying her assumption, which only fueled her to speak more.

“And they wouldn’t listen—they wouldn’t leave. I also had been shielding them quite a bit from the worst of it, and it sounded…” She let out a shaky breath, emotion at the memory surprising her. Draco’s fingers brushed her shoulder, a soft gesture that made her chin wobble.

“Anyway,” Hermione said, clearing her throat. “I obliviated them, and for a little over a year, they thought themselves Wendell and Monica Wilkins, who left England to live in Australia and fulfill a lifelong dream since they didn’t have children.”

Draco was quiet, his typical somberness accentuated by the way he stared down at her, nestled close to his side. It felt intimate; it felt like something more—this sharing of a secret.

“Do they still live in Australia?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, the Tasmanian Healer Institute specializes in Memory Charms. Since my parents’ memories were reversed in under two years, they were able to recover with little to no side effects, except missing an entire year of their lives.”

“That didn’t go over well, I assume?”

Hermione rolled her eyes then, the memory still so visceral: the way her mother yelled, her father silently cried, the betrayal behind both their eyes.

“They still won’t speak to me over the phone. We’ve exchanged letters, and they didn’t return my Christmas gift, so…there’s that.”

“Bloody hell, Hermione…they’re your parents.”

Hermione blinked, recoiling a bit from him, but it only served to press her back against the hand that had come down around her.

“That came out wrong. It’s just...” He ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Do they understand what you did for them? The great sacrifice and skill that took? For it to be able to be successfully reversed is nothing short of”— his eyes searched hers—”breathtaking.”

Hermione swallowed, throat dry. She threw back the rest of her wine, feeling the heat of Draco’s gaze.

“Who wants to go dancing?” Padma asked from the head of the table. “I’m not ready to call it a night, and we’re young and fit—”

“Here, here!”

“Thank you, Skip,” she nodded to the rather tipsy Tripp. “Parvati mentioned she would be going to the Salty Leopard at eleven. I am going, and so are all of you.” She stared at each of them until everyone gave a half-hearted nod.

To Hermione’s great annoyance, everyone began scooting out from the booth and settling their tab at the bar.

“What say you, Malfoy? Do you dance?” she asked, looking over her shoulder as she tried to elegantly shuffle her way around the empty booth.

He didn’t respond until they were walking toward the bar, leaning close behind her to whisper, “Are we sure we want to go dancing anywhere Parvati declares fun? Blaise has stories on how those newspaper people party.”

Hermione huffed a laugh. “That surprises me. Blaise was so quiet in school.”

Her heart raced as his hand found her lower back, deftly guiding her through the crowd. She liked this. She liked the familiarity and the way his touch made her body come alive.

Draco remained by her side even as they buttoned up their winter coats. She relished the pleased look he gave her as she wrapped her green scarf around her neck.

“Green suits you,” he murmured, reaching past her for the door.

A pleasant warmth that began when they arrived had steadily grown, stoked by his nearness and little touches. Hermione’s scarf was hot around her neck; a flush due to him rather than the heating of the small pub threatened to overtake her.

“I want to drop my gift off before going dancing. Mind running by Grimmauld Place?” Hermione asked, fiddling with her gift as if to make a point.

A cold wind raced down the street, cooling her hot cheeks and forcing her curls to whip across her face.

As if he were entranced, Draco reached up before she could and tucked a few curls behind her ear. She watched his Adam’s apple bob as his fingers lingered for a moment longer than necessary.

“Sure, Granger.”

He held out his hand, and Hermione stared at it before placing hers in his. She twisted, tugging him with her and trying to concentrate on the destination rather than how good her hand felt in his. The pub had been on the far east side of London, well out of the way, but enough that the torrential downpour over Grimmauld Place hadn’t moved their way yet.

Completely caught unawares, they ran from the end of the street’s apparition point to the front steps, bursting inside.

Grimmauld Place was quiet; all the lights had been turned low, and Kreacher had long since gone to bed. Hermione laughed, looking up from her bedraggled, sodden state at an equally waterlogged Draco. His frown made her chuckle, and she unwound her scarf and unbuttoned her winter coat.

“Well, that was unexpected,” she said, bending over to unlace her boots before Kreacher yelled at her for tracking mud through the house.

“I don’t see how I can go out in this state,” Draco said, mirroring her efforts; he didn’t sound the least bit sad at the prospect of avoiding the club.

“Agreed. I actually have a Christmas present for you,” she said softly in the dim light. “It felt weird bringing it to the pub tonight, but since we’re here…”

She sensed his lips tilt up before she saw them as he turned to face her, having hung his coat and coat on the hook.

“Funnily enough, so do I for you.” Draco bent down and began unlacing his boots.

“Really?” she said with more enthusiasm than what was warranted.

Draco chuckled. “Yes, Granger. Now run along and get yours. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

Hermione grinned, toeing off her shoes and dashing up the stairs in her wet socks. She quickly changed out of her wet jeans and socks, putting on a black pair of leggings and another pair of Weasley-wool-socks, cementing their decision to stay in for the night.

Draco’s gift was where she left it on the desk. She snatched it, but on the way out, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair was wet, and the smoothing potion was making a valiant effort at maintaining the relaxing effect on her curls.

With a bit of vanity, she shook the bottle for a few drops and brushed them through her curls, along with a quick breath-freshening charm.

She looked alive—awake in a way she’d never been before. Giving herself a smile in the mirror, she dashed back down the stairs, finding Draco in the kitchen, staring down at Kreacher.

“Miss Hermione did not tell Kreacher Cissy’s son is visiting. No, no, she didn’t,” he glared in her direction. “I had to dry his clothes for him with magic since he refused to borrow one of our guest robes.”

“We were only going to—”

But Kreacher cut her off, holding up a hand. He snapped his fingers, and an exceedingly ornate tea service appeared on the kitchen worktable, polished and ready for use.

Hermione crossed her arms, staring at the House Elf. She’d never seen this one before, and they’d lived here for the better part of a year.

“That isn’t necessary,” she tried to say, but Kreacher shot her a sharp look. Draco, who had been quietly enjoying this exchange, muffled a snort of laughter.

“Thank you, kindly, Kreacher,” Draco said, somehow mastering himself in the span of a breath. “We’d feel more comfortable taking tea at the kitchen table, however unorthodox that may be.”

“The Granger girl has rubbed off on you,” Kreacher mumbled, shuffling around and filling the tray with more cakes and scones than strictly necessary for an hour till midnight.

Draco’s eyes met hers, warmth and affection for her pouring from them. “It seems she has.”

He moved, pulling out the head chair from the table, and nodded for her to sit. A bemused sort of smile overcame her.

“What?” he asked, gently nudging the chair closer to the table as she sat down.

“Nothing.”

He took the chair next to her, a pointed choice that seemed to make Kreacher huff but say nothing more.

The tea was excellent, though neither of them seemed to have an appetite for the full spread.

“Merlin, what possessed Kreacher?” Hermione snorted, spying caviar on one of the biscuits.

“I long learned not to question my House Elves,” Draco mused, setting down his cup of tea before folding his hands on the table.

Hermione mirrored the movement. “What?” she asked.

“I heard you have a present for me. Or was this a ploy to trick your House Elf into serving on his second-best servette?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Firstly, Kreacher is technically Harry’s House Elf. Secondly, I do. Would you like to see it?”

She set the gift before him, his plate somehow cleared away. Hermione scanned the room for Kreacher, but he was rather sneaky at hiding tonight.

“Granger…” Draco’s voice trailed off as he kept pulling ballpoint pens, clicky pens, a calligraphy pen with dark green ink, a Muggle spiral notebook, and dental floss. The last item made him frown.

“That’s dental floss for your teeth. It’s a bit of a joke because my parents are dentists or were…” She frowned but quickly tried to move past the awkwardness of the moment. “Anyway, this gift is entirely genuine and a bit self-serving, so you’ll stop stealing all my pens.”

Draco grinned. “Not likely, but this is fantastic. Thank you.” He gathered all the items up and placed them back in the bag before setting it aside and conjuring a box. It was wrapped similarly to how Tripp’s had been, but this one had a lovely ribbon around it.

He set it before her and waited.

Hermione tugged on the hunter green silk ribbon, relishing the feel of the cool fabric between her fingers. She set it aside to pry open the small box’s lid. Hermione gasped, letting the small gold necklace fall into her hands.

“Malfoy this—” she was without words, eyes scanning over every inch of the dainty piece.

“It’s not a family heirloom and didn’t cost me twenty galleons,” he said quickly as if anticipating an argument. “I was at Flourish and Blotts visiting a friend, and she recently tried to acquire a few things for her gift section. This one reminded me of you.”

The necklace was simple—a delicate gold chain with a small, flat golden pendant no larger than Hermione’s thumbnail. Engraved at the center of the pendant was an outline of a Bluebell flower.

“I may have taken it to my jeweler and had an 'H' embossed on the back as well, so you can wear it either way.”

Hermione turned it over, admiring the script. She tore her eyes away to look at Draco. His lips were pressed, shoulders tense, as if he was ready for her to throw it back at him.

In a fit of madness or genius, Hermione leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek, body heating as her lips brushed against his five o’clock shadow.

“It’s perfect.” She returned to her seat, cheeks aflame but not regretting the decision.

Draco smiled down at his hands.

“These chairs are uncomfortable,” he said after a long silence, shifting a bit in the seat. “I can see why you didn’t want to practice in here.”

“I keep telling Harry he should replace them, but he is nothing but sentimental.”

“Where is Potter tonight?”

“Probably over at the Burrow. He’s attempting to convince Arthur to empty his shed of Muggle paraphernalia.”

“I’m not going to touch that sentence with a ten-foot pole,” he said wryly.

Hermione smirked. “I do know Harry keeps a bottle of Ogdens in the sitting room that he pretends to drink and enjoy. I’m still a bit chilled from the rain. Join me for a nightcap?”

Hermione knew what she was asking—what she was hoping might come from it, but she couldn’t bring herself to make the next move.

Draco nodded, following Hermione through the swinging door.

But then they stopped just on the other side.

Hermione looked up at Draco at the same time he looked down at her, confusion written on both of their faces.

“I’m not doing this,” he said, gesturing to their halted state.

“Well, neither am I.” Hermione attempted to push herself past this invisible barrier but could not. Draco tried pressing on the door to the kitchen, but it wouldn’t budge.

Simultaneously, they both looked up.

“George,” Hermione said flatly.

“Did he enchant the mistletoe?”

“He told me not to go through any doorways with Harry. I assumed he enchanted it to be linked to him…” Her voice trailed off at the memory of Ginny’s sweatshirt beneath George’s arm. “Fuck. He hadn’t worked out that next part. Only how to enchant two people beneath it…”

Draco swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet of Grimmauld Place.

“George Weasley is a bloody menace. I can light it on fire if you’d like?” Draco nudged the mistletoe with his wand.

“Why do I have the strange feeling George would have a contingency plan for that?”

Draco frowned, a flush creeping up his neck.

“Fine.” His hands flexed by his sides, an internal battle seeming to come to some resolve as he tucked his wand away.

“Fine, what?” she asked, the air shifting around them.

“I’m going to kiss you. Is that okay?” Draco’s voice rumbled through her.

This is what she had thought about—it had been the stuff of her dreams, waking her aching and wanting, but she didn’t want it to happen this way. She imagined Draco tugging her close, his indolent smirk pressing a kiss to the side of her lips and then the other, teasing until he kissed her thoroughly, consuming her. It was romantic and gentle—perhaps after a real date, where anticipation made the air crackle with electricity.

Even still, she heard herself say, “Okay.”

Draco took a half step forward, handing ghosting her waist before falling back to his side. As if anticipating her shoving him away, he leaned down. His lips pressed tightly together as he applied a chaste kiss to her lips; it reminded Hermione of what two dead, limp fish might experience in a kiss.

Hermione tried to hide her grimace, but Draco quickly ended the kiss, frowning down at her.

“You have kissed someone before, haven’t you?” he accused.

She gasped. “Of course I have. You’re the one doing it wrong.”

Draco sneered.” I most certainly am not.”

“Prat, yes, you are.” She poked hard at his chest.

His eyes flashed in amusement. “Insufferable erudite.”

“Crusty Plimpy,” she snapped, failing to keep the lilt of humor out of her voice.

“Bookish berk.”

With each volley, their bodies grew closer together, his eyes struggling to stay on her eyes and not her mouth.

Their bodies swayed, each pushing back against this dam of attraction that had cracks in it long before this moment. Who would be the one to smash through it finally?

Hermione reached up, the necklace he gifted her twisted through her fingers.  She pressed her hand against his cheek, her thumb ghosting over his sharp cheekbones before trailing it around to the back of his head, tugging him toward her.

“Pompus windbag,” she said victoriously as his hand slid around her waist to steady her.

They were so close; his breath ghosted her lips as he began to say, “You’re so—“

She silenced him with a kiss, their mouths opening for the other. His lips were soft and warm, much more pliable the second time around. He tasted like tea and a nibble of the toffee he ate.

Time danced around them, moving both fast and slow; all she knew was the low hum of pleasure in her gut and the soft gasps shared between them as their hands explored, tentative but growing bolder as their kisses increased, lips retreating for breath before seeking the other once more.

Draco’s hand slid up her goosebumped arms, thumb skimming along her neck, eventually ending its journey by cradling her face, angling their heads as his tongue brushed—a question. Her answer was to reply with a brush of her own, their tongues colliding and acknowledging that this was more.

Had either of them ended the kiss earlier, it could be chalked up to being caught up in the moment or too much alcohol. But as he groaned at her body pressed against his, their tongues licking into one another’s mouths in overwhelming desire, they both knew this was the hammer to the dam, and never would they be returning to the dry grounds of friendship.

Hermione gasped as his fingers skimmed beneath the hem of her jumper, exposing a sliver of bare skin to the cool of the dark hallway. She arched her back, encouraging Draco with a nip at his lips. She felt his smile against hers as his hands slid beneath her jumper and flattened against her bare back, fingers pressing against her skin.

They were two souls satisfying a curiosity and finding an answer that far exceeded their expectations.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she heard the floo chime; her mind sluggish with desire and Draco’s hands skirting up her back. She gasped, breaking their kiss as someone called from the front sitting room. Draco froze, mid-chase of her lips.

“Hermione?” George’s voice was a bucket of cold water. Draco let go, her jumper falling back into place, and took a step back. He looked down at her, eyes wide, chest heaving from the tongue gymnastics they had just been competing in.

“Kitchen,” she called, a firm hand nudging Draco back through the swinging door.

George bounded around the corner.

“Stop!” he shouted, eyes wide at the mistletoe bundle still hanging over her head, and beckoned her forward with a wave. She stepped away from the door, grateful for the dim hallway lighting. If he noticed her bee-stung lips or finger-tangled hair, George didn’t say anything. “Accio,” he said, pointing his wand at the bundle that had held Hermione and Draco blissfully captive for the last several minutes. “Ah,” George said with a relieved sigh.

“What happened? Why the sudden change?” Hermione asked, watching him summon all the remaining ten bundles from the rest of the house with a flick of his wand and stuff them in his trouser pockets.

“Well,” George blushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I may have gotten a tad ahead of myself and the charmed mistletoe. I wanted to see how well it held people captive and thought Harry and Ginny might like the challenge.”

Hermione arched a brow, crossing her arms in what she hoped looked less like an annoyed, ravished victim of mistletoe mayhem and more like a peeved roommate.

“And?” she asked.

“And my parents were…” He coughed into his fist. “Caught up. In the mistletoe. For a very long time. It was like they fed off the mistletoe’s encouragement or something.”

Hermione tried to muster up a coherent thought, but all her clarity was behind the kitchen door, waiting for her. A snort of laughter escaped against her better judgment. “A sobering experience for you, I presume?”

George shivered. “I know my parents like one another—hell, there are seven of us, but…it’s another experience trying to eat treacle tart and then looking up to your parents snogging their faces off in the doorway.”

“How did you get them apart?”

George sighed. “I summoned the mistletoe, breaking the bond, but I think it was already broken when they kissed, and they just kept going for it because of Bill and Charlie’s cat-calling.”

“Merlin,” Hermione laughed. “You got what was coming for you.”

“Tell me about it,” he sighed. “Fred told me we need to bin these and start over. After tonight, I’m not sure I want even to try again.” He sighed, rocking back on his heels. “Well, I’m going to go burn my retinas with a movie or a lamp or something. Glad you weren’t a victim in all this.”

Hermione bobbed her head in agreement, reaching up to tuck a curl behind her ear.

“What’s that on your hand?” George asked.

Hermione looked at Draco’s necklace, forgotten in the fever of their kissing, still wrapped around her fingers.

“A necklace I was untangling,” she said, hoping her lie was convincing enough.

“I know a good charm—”

“No, but thank you. I think you’ve charmed enough things in our home for one day.”

George winced. “Fair, fair. Night, Hermione.” He gave her a wave and then sauntered away to the floo.

“Bye, George,” she called, waiting till she heard the floo activate and then silence before reentering the kitchen. She regretted lying to George, but she didn’t know how to explain Draco to anyone.

A nervousness gripped her stomach. What if Draco regretted this? Or even worse, what if he thought it was a fling and nothing more? Hermione couldn’t handle it if he just thought it a blip of a moment.

As she stared at the wooden swinging door, she was confronted with the jarring reality that she was falling for Draco Malfoy and had been for some time.

“That mistletoe just made my life so much more complicated,” she muttered, steeling herself and walking through the door.

Chapter Text

“Tripp, I swear, if your bloody Santa hat sings one more carol, I will light that hat on fire and send you down to the Suspicious Burn Ward,” Padma snapped, shooting red sparks from her wand in warning.

Tripp blanched, hastily tugging the floppy, crooning Santa hat off his head and shoved it into his duffle bag.

Their group of Junior Healers had successfully survived an eighteen-hour, Christmas Day shift at St. Mungo’s.

“I’m not sure if Boxing Day will be any better,” Susan mumbled, tugging on a fresh jumper.

“Are you working tomorrow?” Hermione asked, looking up from the bench where she sat knotting her shoes.

Susan nodded. “A distant relative is getting married on New Year's Eve, and I was scheduled to work, so I swapped shifts so I could have the day off and not be exhausted.”

Hermione had initially asked off New Year’s Eve, thinking she would visit her parents, until they told her not to come. She swallowed, grateful Susan hadn’t asked her to cover her shift.

“Well,” Robert slapped his knees. “I’m off. Anyone fancy a pint before heading home?”

“Me,” Padma hopped up. “I think I’ll call Parvati. She thought you were cute, Rob.”

Robert’s delighted chatter faded as the door shut, leaving only Tripp and Susan in there with Draco and Hermione.

Tripp loitered awkwardly by Susan.

“What, Tripp?” Susan’s tone was sharper than usual.

“Erm,” Tripp hedged. “Would you want to join me for a pint?”

Susan arched a brow, assessing Tripp like she would a peculiar rash, and then let out a beleaguered sigh. “Sure, Skippy. But you’re buying.”

“That’s what asking someone for a pint means…”

They left, leaving Hermione and Draco alone for the first time since their protracted goodbye at Grimmauld Place a few days prior. Hermione stood to gather her things and give her hands something to do. They’d had stolen kisses and linked pinkies during the odd moment, but things had been too busy for anything more.

Draco’s locker door slammed shut. She felt him come to stand behind her, a shiver running down her body as his fingers wrapped around her arm, turning her to face him.

“Hi,” he said softly, caging her in with his arms.

“Hello, yourself. Good shift?”

His grey eyes flashed. “It was agonizing.”

“Why?” She didn’t think it was that bad of a shift, even though she’d rather be at the Burrow with all her friends.

“Because all I could think about the entire shift was doing this—”

Hermione tilted her chin up as his lips crashed into hers, their mouths joining in a relieved gasp. Hermione’s body warmed instantly, her mind letting go and sinking into the sensation as Draco bruised her lips with his, desperation taking over reason.

Despite herself, she worried that he didn’t want her in the same way she desired him.

But the way his arms wrapped her into a tight embrace disabused her of that notion. An involuntary moan escaped her lips as his hands skirted beneath her shirt, cold fingers burning against her skin. Draco kissed like a starving man, too hungry to be concerned with gluttony or the consequences of overindulgence.

He unsnaked his hand from beneath her shirt and walked her backward, body bumping into the closed lockers. His lips made a trail down her jaw, his now free hand pushing back the escaped curls from her bun to lave gently behind her ear.

Hermione felt that familiar pulse between her thighs, lust and longing tunneling her vision to one point, and that was Draco. She hadn’t known what she’d been missing, but now that she had it? Hermione kissed promises of affection and trust onto his lips. She slung her arms around his neck, pressing her chest against him to balance. Draco’s long body rocked against hers, with a hum of satisfaction, his length hard against her stomach.

She knew this was new, and yet her body ignored that message, desire thrumming as she slid her hands beneath his jumper and wondered about the many ridges that she could feel across his skin.

Just as she considered locking the door to their locker room, it swung open. They jumped apart—Draco moving across to his locker at lightning speed, pretending to be pulling out his coat.

Hermione turned, unlocking her locker to pull out her coat as well.

“You’re still here, Hermione?” asked Tripp.

“I forgot something,” she said with a feigned air of indifference, but not turning around as she shrugged on her outer coat, whispering a quick glamor charm to cover her freshly snogged complexion.

“Me too,” Tripp said jauntily, rustling with something before the room was filled with an ear-piercing holiday jingle.

Padma really should have set it on fire.

Draco cleared his throat, and Hermione took that as her cue to turn around. Her lips twitched as she took in his flushed cheeks and raw lips. He didn’t cast a glamour, and it made her heart race.

Tripp beamed at the thing, stuffing it on his head. “See you all later!”

“Shall we?” Draco asked, gesturing for the door. “I believe I owe you a dinner.”

“You do?” she asked, grabbing her purse and scarf.

“Yes, I believe that’s what modern couples do on a date….don’t they?” he asked after a moment.

She smiled up at him, reaching up to press a fat kiss to his cheek before dropping back down to her heels. “Yes, Malfoy. That sounds splendid.”

His genuine smile was beautiful—his grey eyes warmed, his entire face looking younger by the simple tug of his facial muscles.

Draco held her hand as he walked her back to her home after dinner. He'd given her that quiet smile all evening, and she didn't know if her heart could be fuller.

They stopped just outside the front door to Grimmauld Place.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked.

He reached out, tangling their other hands together and bringing both up to his lips. She watched his long eyelashes flutter as he pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles, thumb gently gliding over the hills and valleys.

“I wish I could, but Mother needs me back at the Manor. This time of year is…” He paused to consider his words. “As a boy, my mother loved Christmas Day and all the days after it until they culminated at a New Year's Eve ball at the Manor. We haven’t had one since Lucius first went to Azkaban.”

Hermione’s heart twisted—the human side of Draco Malfoy was so compelling, it was sometimes hard to remember the reason why they hadn’t had their ball.

Draco continued before she could speak, “And I know what you must think of us: sad because we cannot have a party, but my mother’s entire life was my father and taking care of the Malfoy family name. Something that was completely her was ripped away because of their—”

“Malfoy,” Hermione said softly, tugging her hand free to cup his face. “I admit her grief is different from other griefs, but it doesn’t make it any less real to her. Go take care of her. Send me an owl if you’re free, alright?”

He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her palm, his fingers wrapping around her hand and giving it a squeeze.

“Good night,” he whispered.

“See you soon,” she smiled. The door swung open easily, as if the house was swooning over Draco Malfoy as well. 

He waited till she was safely inside before walking away.

________

Dear Healer Wikstrom,

Thank you for your patience in answering my many questions. We holidayed in the Swiss Alps a few years ago and endured the Scottish Highlands during the winter, but the Swedish winters may be more magical than those places combined.

I will review the coursework you sent over. I am also speaking with another program and will send you my answer by the end of January.

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger

She scanned the letter, bottom lip trapped between her teeth. Her reply to the Head Healer’s offer at the Swedish Institute wasn’t effusive. Would that offend her? Hermione suspected it would be appreciated, based on how their correspondence has been over the last three months.

Her fingers found the necklace securely fastened around her neck, tugging the small pendant. Hermione smiled down at the letter, that ache of pure bliss that she’d carried around for the last two weeks hadn’t left.

She replayed that night of their first kiss and the many small moments with Draco in her head that happened since then: the brush of his hand against hers as they passed a folder, shared looks during lectures, and the way his eyes would linger on the necklace around her neck.

Then there were the stolen kisses in the locker room when everyone had left after their Christmas Day shift, the way his hand greedily squeezed her waist, his hips involuntarily rocking against hers as he pressed her into the wall of closed lockers. They were sixteen years old all over again, just discovering the power of two people falling madly for each other and without regard for the future.

Where might things have gone had Tripp not returned? Hermione crossed her legs, that familiar ache between them thrumming with her pulse.

“Why are you staring at the wall above your desk?”

Hermione gasped, whirling around in her chair to glare at Ginny leaning in her doorway.

“I’m working on my reply to Healer Wikstrom from the Swedish Institute.”

Ginny hummed like she didn’t believe her, but didn’t press, instead coming to sit on the edge of Hermione’s bed.

Hermione inspected her friend. Ginny was fierce and determined; when she’d set her course, there was little that could stop her. But something was bothering her enough to come to the privacy of Hermione’s room. And so Hermione waited.

“Hermione, do you take the potion?”

Well, that was not what she thought was coming.

“I did while in school, but stopped while we were on the run. I’m not sexually active and have since learned the contraception charm, so I’m not sure I’ll go back on it when the time comes,” Hermione answered. She cocked her head as Ginny wouldn’t look at her. “Why do you ask, Gin?”

Unflappable Ginny had tears in her eyes. “I forgot to take it this month.”

Hermione flung herself from her seat and wrapped her arm around Ginny.

“Are you?” she whispered.

Ginny shrugged. “I don’t know. Could you check and see?”

Hermione’s heart squeezed, and she swallowed. “Of course. Could you just lie back?” She dropped her arm and summoned her wand, scooting up onto her knees beside her friend.

Ginny was tall and once willowy, but all that was muscle now; she could throw Hermione across the room if she wanted.

But at this moment, she was the scared girl coming up from the Chamber of Secrets, tears making a track down her cheek as she gave up on wiping them away.

Hermione gently lifted Ginny’s hands off her abdomen and set them by her side.

“Have you seen this done before?” Hermione asked.

“No,” Ginny choked out. “Mum never showed me because I was the last and she…” Ginny hiccuped. “She never needed to…”

“Okay,” she put a soft hand on Ginny’s shoulder. “It’s three simple wand movements with the phrase, ubertas revelio.”

Hermione demonstrated the movements to Ginny a few times. “Ready?”

Ginny let out a long breath. “Let’s find out if I’m having a Chosen Baby.”

A bubble of laughter broke the tension, Ginny covering her face as tears mingled with laughter; both of them giggling at the absurdity of this moment.

“Okay, but really,” Hermione said, sobering.

Ginny nodded, wiping her eyes and then laying her hands at her side.

“I’m ready.”

“For whatever it’s worth, you are going to be a great Mum. Today or five to seven years from now.”

Ginny’s calloused hand found hers and gave it a squeeze.

Hermione lifted her wand and spoke, “Ubertas revelio.”

She completed a wand movement, and a soft, colorless mist appeared, hovering over Ginny’s abdomen.

“What does that mean? I’m a barren wasteland?”

Hermione snorted. “It means you’re not pregnant. They would coalesce into a small, glowing orb instead if you were.”

Ginny was silent again, frowning at the mist. Hermione cancelled the charm and shifted from sitting on her knees.

“Are you disappointed?” Hermione was baffled—she liked kids. She wasn’t dead inside. Hermione just vastly preferred other people’s kids. Children, if she ever had them, were at least ten years away in her timeline.

Does Draco want children?

Ginny’s answer brought her back to the present.

“I suppose I am a bit disappointed,” Ginny laughed, wiping away the leaking, jumble of emotions from her eyes.

“What?”

Ginny sat up and let out a deep breath.

And then shrugged, as if the mental leap wasn’t so hard to do.

“I’ve been in love with Harry since I was eleven,” Ginny said slowly, “and the last two years have confirmed how much. He’s it for me, Hermione. I love my career, my family, and my life. But if a smaller family with him were to start sooner than I thought? I think I would be okay. I’m a bloody good flier and the idea of having a mini-Gin or Harry with us at practices or sitting in the stands…it was a nice daydream, that’s all.”

“You wouldn’t give up your career?”

Ginny looked at her like she was crazy. “I’m not a pureblood princess, Hermione. Women can have children and a career. Besides, I think Harry would thrive being a stay-at-home dad.”

Hermione snorted, remembering Harry just that morning dancing in the kitchen, cooking up a morning fry wearing his Kiss the Fit Cook apron.

“He has become quite the man of leisure since quitting the Aurors, hasn’t he?”

Ginny laughed. “Gods, I need to get him a hobby. I like having him along for travel games, but…he needs something other than my body to occupy his hands.”

“Stop,” Hermione jumped up. “No. I said no more apprising me of your sordid sex proclivities.”

That look came across Ginny’s face—the one Hermione had seen flash across her older twin brothers’ faces far too many times— as she followed Hermione out of her room.

“The other night, I told Harry to put on his school tie. Can you guess which part of him?”

“Oh my gods,” Hermione jogged down the stairs as Ginny lewdly described the position of her breasts.

She burst through the swinging door to the kitchen, finding a beet-red Harry and George, while Dean just winked at Ginny from where he stood, eating whatever leftovers Harry put under stasis.

“Gin, why do you insist on shouting about our private life down the stairs?” Harry groaned into his hands.

“Sister dearest, I’m so glad you love Harry here, but I never—never want to hear that much about your breasts ever again.”

Ginny rolled her eyes but mumbled her agreement.

“So what’s this I hear about a New Year's Eve party?” asked Ginny, plopping down next to Harry. She tugged his hands away from his face, looping their arms together so she could lean on his shoulder. A pang of longing went through Hermione as he pressed a kiss to Ginny’s head before answering.

“George and Fred are thinking of having one at the second Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes in Hogsmeade.”

Ginny sat up. “That’s…brilliant! I didn’t know you got it. Congratulations!” She hopped up and ran to a ready George, his arms wide for his sister.

George exchanged a look with Harry that Hermione couldn’t decipher, but before she could press, an owl tapped on the window. Harry lazily flicked his hand, opening it with that insufferable wandless magic; If he were anyone else, Hermione would be pushing him to do something with all that power…but he was Harry, and she just couldn’t—not when, for the first time since knowing him, she had seen him so relaxed.

Draco’s eagle owl cut through the small space; its long talons wrapping around the back of an empty chair to peer at Hermione.

“Dean, bring me some of the bacon Harry cooked this morning.”

A long, thick strip of fried bacon floated over to Hermione, and she snatched it from the air just before the owl’s sharp beak snapped where the bacon hovered.

“Nah uh, Ulysses,” Hermione wagged her finger at the bird. “I will give you this piece of bacon if you extend your leg.”

Ulysses’s large, black eyes glared at Hermione. Much more slowly than necessary, the bird extended its leg to her. She offered the long edge of the bacon to Ulysses before snatching the scroll and backing away.

The eagle owl held its bacon in its beak, letting out a muffled, indignant hoot before alighting, soaring out the kitchen window without waiting for a reply.

The kitchen was silent.

“That’s the third time I’ve seen that owl this week, and I don’t live here,” Dean noted with a lilt of mischief, stirring his cup of tea as he leaned against the worktop.

“Yeah, whose owl is that?” George asked, sauntering over and taking the cup from Dean, winking as he took a sip of his tea.

Hermione pretended to ignore them, fiddling with the scroll.

“It’s Draco Malfoy’s owl,” Harry said coolly.

A chill blew through the room that had nothing to do with the harsh winter outside; every person turned to stare at Hermione.

“We work together at St. Mungo’s and are partners in a…an assignment.” That was enough of a truth. “He’s not like he was during school.”

Her eyes flicked up to where Harry sat with his back ramrod straight, green eyes drilling a hole into her. Silently, she pleaded with him not to mention how she’d been owl-ing with Draco all week or sending notes through the floo at all hours. Something must have passed between them because Harry gave her a stiff nod.

“Keep your secrets, Hermione,” Harry said. “Just be careful—even if a snake sheds its skin, it’s still a snake.”

Anger bubbled inside her. How unfair of him—Draco helped save their lives at the Manor. He’d kept his head down for the last two years, tirelessly working to build a new life for himself. Arguments built on the tip of her tongue, but eventually fizzled.

This wasn’t the way to convince Harry; defending Draco at this moment would only cause an argument. She was dying to tell them how wonderful he was—to confess to Ginny how she wanted to go further with Draco than merely making out. She wanted everything with Draco. Yet, she feared they were a powder keg: subject to burn quickly and brightly, then explode and take everything within their radius in their implosion.

“Alright,” Dean said, interrupting the tension. “We have cleaning to do.” He gave George a pointed look.

“Any chance you could write Malfoy to lend us his House Elf?” George asked as Dean shoved him into the kitchen’s floo, spinning for George and Fred’s flat over the joke shop.

“When do you think George will move out of the joke shop?” Ginny mused, eyes trained on the fire.

“They began dating a few months ago, Gin.” Harry huffed a laugh.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Yes, and everyone should follow your lead: stalk a girl and pine over her till you cannot contain yourself.”

Hermione snorted. She wanted to leave the room and read whatever Draco had sent her.

“Want to go for a fly?” asked Ginny.

Harry shifted, wincing as he adjusted his body in his seat. “Yeah, in a bit.”

Hermione cocked her head. Harry was acting odd.

“Harry, why haven’t you gotten up from the table?”

He didn’t meet her gaze, taking a long sip of his tea and making a face.

“Dregs,” he coughed.

“Harry,” Hermione said, sliding her wand into her hand. “Could you reach this pot for me? It’s on the top shelf.”

“Use magic?” he said, offering up a weak smile.

“It’s your leg.” Ginny scowled at Harry. “Why didn’t you say something? We can go to St. Mungos—”

“I don’t want to go!” Harry snapped. “There’s nothing they can do anyway,” he added more softly this time.

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, casting a quick diagnostic charm over his head.

“Would you stop that, Hermione?” Harry groaned. “I went to a specialist last week about it anyway. It’s…well…you remember how Voldemort cast a crucio on me after I, er, came back from the dead?”

“No, but go on,” Ginny said flatly.

“Well, he did. I didn’t feel it because—I don’t know—magic? Anyway, my body still experienced it, and when I had my training accident before leaving last year, that exacerbated it.”

“How could climbing a wall—” Ginny began to ask when Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“Ron and I were casting enhanced shield charms, and he cast a bit of a nasty hex. My shield faltered, and it hit my bad knee….”

“I’m going to kill my brother.”

“It’s not his fault, Gin. I was tired and should have called it long before it happened.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you just sprained your knee or something?”

Harry shrugged. “The specialist Healer told me this injury disqualifies me from rejoining the Aurors. I think—it’s not that I want to go back. I just liked having the option, you know?”

“How have you been functioning? That injury is extensive, Harry,” said Hermione, canceling the diagnostic spell, having seen enough to know that Harry had been in pain.

“Force of will?”

They laughed. “Only you, Harry. Well, did the Specialist give you a pain management protocol?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, but I ran out of the stuff this morning.”

Hermione sighed. “Send me the list. I can brew some later.”

“Would you?” Harry looked relieved.

“Of course, Harry. We’re family,” Hermione said, looking to Harry and then to Ginny.

________

“Your father wrote. He wishes us a happy Christmas and New Year. Would you like to see his letter?”

Draco’s knife scraped the bottom of his plate, the high-pitched eeek filling the vast, empty formal dining room. He and his mother sat at the far end, away from where the Dark Lord once held court and Nagini feasted.

He didn’t understand why his mother hadn’t set fire to the whole table… to the entire room.

Draco set down his cutlery and snatched his half-full wine glass, draining it in one long sip. They sat in silence as he stared at the untouched crystal water glass, debating how he would respond, along with whether he should have more wine before going out with Blaise and Pansy.

“No, thank you,” he answered after he’d dabbed the edges of his mouth with his napkin.

Undeterred, his mother continued, “He mentioned that there should be a list of eligible families we could reach out to in the top drawer of his desk—”

“My desk, you mean.” He didn’t know why he bothered—it’s not like he was going to live here once he was done with St. Mungo’s.

Draco hated his father.

Draco loved his father—the flip-flop making his heart squeeze tight because, for all his father’s going on about blood purity, Lucius Malfoy prized his family above all else.

Draco despised this tension. He wished he could hate his father outright; brand him the villain as the press and the Wizengamot had done.

But just as his mother couldn’t shift her thinking to Draco as the Head of the Malfoy household because of Lucius’s incarceration, neither could Draco entirely disavow his father.

He’d struck a nerve. Draco regretted snapping at his mother. She only made his guilt worse by the contrite reply of, “Yes, dear.”

Draco closed his eyes, steeling himself for what he was about to do. “I’ll have the House Elves bring you the list, but I don’t see any use in following through. I’d rather not have you in St. Mungo’s again because of an unknown substance.”

Narcissa hummed, a slight upturn of her lips at his bending.

They smiled at one another, then, the familiar intimacy of knowing how to sway the other into getting what they want.

Isn’t family delightful? he inwardly groaned.

“Blaise invited me out for the evening. Are you sure you’ll be alright here?” He was already folding his napkin, preparing to leave the dinner table.

“Yes, Draco. I’m not an invalid. Just…” His mother looked about the room, a forlorn look passing across her face. “I hate New Year's Eve, now. It will never be like it once was.”

“I can stay—”

“No.” Narcissa’s head snapped to look at him. “They win if we hide here.”

Draco reached forward, wrapping his hand over his mother’s hand resting on the table.

“Happy New Year, Mother.” He squeezed her hand.

Narcissa nodded. “Happy New Year, Draco. I was invited to tea with Andromeda in the morning. If you’re awake, you’re welcome to join us.”

Hermione’s face flashed through his mind. Draco dropped his mother’s hand and stood. It felt wrong to be thinking about Hermione in this room while grasping his mother’s hand, surrounded by memories Draco wished he could forget.

What would his parents do if he and Hermione became something?

He pushed that worry aside; everything was still so new, but Draco also knew himself: he never did things in halves. He hoped Hermione was the same.

________

“New Year’s Eve in London is awful. Why are there so many people?” Blaise flopped his wrist in the direction of the masses crowding the trendy bar. He squinted as a person dressed as a disco ball walked past their table. “It’s as if Lovegood birthed a million idiots with tinsel sticking out of their—”

“And that’s enough for you,” Pansy covered Blaise’s mouth with her hands, grimacing as he licked her palm. “Thank you, dear, but need I remind you that while I have a good guess where your mouth has been, are you fully sure where my hands have been?”

Blaise shrieked, a noise incongruent with his Tom Ford-esque persona, and shoved her hand away. Mumbling, he grabbed a cocktail napkin to wipe his palm, grimacing as it disintegrated between his hands. He threw the soggy, wadded ball on the table in frustration.

“I’m going to go wash away the filth with a tequila shot. If I’m not back from the rabble in ten minutes, send out the guards because I’ve been eaten by lametta.” Blaise smoothed his jacket and waded his way into the black, silver, and gold-clad bodies.

Pansy threw her head back, her deep cackle lost to the noise of the room. Draco grinned into his whisky, his thoughts blissfully fuzzy around the edges. They’d commandeered the booth on the far wall with a clear view of the front door and bar for the better part of an hour.

Draco didn’t realize how much he missed his friends and the ease that came with being around those who stuck by him at his worst. He spent so much of his life putting on different masks now: penitent former Death Eater, faithful student, friend, and…it bothered him that he hadn’t had a chance to define things between him and Hermione.

It had only been a week and a half since that kiss, and he was still riding the high of having finally crossed that line with Hermione. More than once, he’d stop and rub that spot between his chest bone, astonished at his good luck.

Draco stuffed down the dread he felt at sending the list of eligible families to his mother. Nothing—nothing—could come of it. She and father were delusional if they thought any families would want them, and they could proceed with life as usual with his father in Azkaban. Yet, he’d still given in, agreeing to think about any families should his mother dredge someone up from the mud.

Would Hermione be open to a formal courting contract?

Draco had sat too long in silence, staring off at a point in the distance. He didn’t realize the error until Pansy was in his face, eyes narrowed.

Fuck.

“So, have you started fucking Granger yet?”

Draco choked on his drink, coughing roughly to clear his throat. Pansy reeled back from his spray with a pleased look on her face and plucked an olive from her martini.

“There, there,” she said with mock sympathy, her black painted nails lightly scraping the back of his hand as she patted it.

“Why would you say that?” he croaked.

Her shoulder lifted, matching the playful lilt in her voice. “During our sixth year, when you decided that making out with me was old news, I was convinced you were either secretly gay because of how you obsessed over Potter or harboring an illicit pining for the one witch so out of your league, it made you ill.”

Draco gaped.

“I—I never wanted to fuck Potter.”

Her smirk turned into a wide, cat-caught-the-canary grin. “I knew it was Granger!”

As if sensing he was missing gossip, Blaise returned, setting three shots of top-shelf tequila before them. Draco snatched one, throwing it back and letting the golden liquid sear his throat.

“Bastard, I had a whole toast planned,” Blaise grumbled, sliding onto the bench beside Pansy.

Pansy lifted her shot glass, arching a brow for Blaise to do the same.

“To Draco finally fucking Granger,” she said triumphantly.

“I’m not!”

Blaise’s dark eyes turned to Draco, the look on his face mirroring Pansy’s.

“Is that so? Too bad you couldn’t bag Ginevra,” he hummed, clinking the glass to Pansy’s before throwing back his shot.

“I’m not sleeping with Granger,” said Draco. “We’re colleagues.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Blaise mused.

“Piss off,” Draco chuckled, but it petered out, that pressure between his chest building again. “But…what if I wanted it to be more?”

“Does she?”

“I—” Not typically at a loss for words, Draco didn’t know how to answer his friends. “We may have become better friends over the last few months—more so than seat partners while back at Hogwarts.”

“Go on,” Blaise said, still smiling.

“And there was an incident with Mistletoe—”

Pansy let out a squeal that took him back to their first year at Hogwarts. She gripped Blaise’s arm, laying her head on his shoulder.

“And?” she prompted.

“We kissed.”

“Was it good?”

“A gentleman…” Draco wasn’t going to answer, but the look on Blaise’s face made him crumble. “The best of my life.”

“Oh, mate.”

“I know. I’m playing with fire.” He didn’t mean to shout, but a thousand things were said in Blaise’s Oh mate.

“Draco, she’s the girl of the wizarding community. If you thought your reputation was shit, just wait if they think you broke her heart.”

“Darling, we’re not telling you not to pursue Granger. Merlin knows she looks better now that she’s learned proper self-care. But, be careful.”

He nodded, resisting the urge to run his hands through his hair.

Draco let out a tired sigh. “I didn’t know how to mention this, but now seems as good a time as ever. It just so happens that Granger invited us to the Weasley twins' New Year's Eve party.”

“You’re not thinking of going, are you?” asked Pansy.

Draco shifted in his seat.

“Draco, you very well might be colleagues and accepted by Granger and your coworkers because of it, but you’re telling me you’re invited into the whole Weasley-light-right-side-of-the-war party? We’ll be the only Slytherins for a mile along with…” Blaise gestured with his hand in a sweeping motion. While no words were said, the everything of the gesture was enough.

Granger had been willing to kiss him. To exchange letters. To banter and work so fucking well together, it took his breath away.

But his friends were right—while she might like him, no one would accept them.

“Oh my,” Pansy cooed, scooting close to wrap both arms around his neck. “You’re really gone for her, aren’t you?”

He swallowed the lump in his throat, hating himself for the blissful week of delusions.

“Hi Pans,” a familiar voice hummed, breaking up the somber moment. Daphne Greengrass leered down at them, dressed in a form-fitting black dress with an expression fixed on Pansy that could only be described as contemptuous.

“Look who the cat dragged in,” Pansy said coolly, not moving to get up to greet her former friend. “I thought your mother married you off, Daph,” Pansy said, inspecting her nails…or sharpening them.

He’d heard rumblings of Pansy’s fall-out with the pure blood families from Theo and Blaise while he was under house arrest before returning to Hogwarts, but didn’t know the extent of it. She and Daph would squabble, but it was never this cold and detached.

Daphne gave her a saccharine smile, too sweet to be genuine. “Still just as charming as ever, Pansy. I did hear a rumor about you and a certain—”

”Daph, do shut up.”

Draco’s eyes widened at the new voice sauntering up to stand beside Daphne, who turned to glare at a slightly smaller version of herself, but with brunette instead of platinum blonde hair.

“Astoria?” Blaise stood, tugging on his jacket.

The younger Greengrass sister smiled down at them. Gone was the shy, lithe thing that followed her sister around like she hung the moon. Astoria was striking; all polish and finesse that came with people of their station, but her eyes held a presence behind them.

“Hello, Blaise,” Astoria said a bit long-sufferingly, her eyes flitting over to Draco and then to Pansy. “Don’t mind, Daphne. She’s having a bit of a night away from her husband and forgot that everyone isn’t a prick. Let’s not spoil the fun by keeping up with old arguments.”

Daphne’s nostrils flared, and Blaise coughed into his fist, but the group inclined their heads in mute agreement.

“Would you like to sit down?” Pansy asked after a moment.

Astoria shook her head. “No, we have a party with some of Adrian’s friends. Mother would have my head if I didn’t go.” She rolled her eyes. Draco could imagine how awful that party would be with the older, former Slytherin. Why Daphne agreed to marry Adrian Pucey was anyone’s guess—no wonder she was so unpleasant.

He surveyed Astoria. She was beautiful. Had Draco never met Hermione, never seen how full life could be, he would have been attracted to Astoria: competent, witty, and carrying herself with grace. She was precisely someone his mother and father would select for him, then again—the Greengrasses weren’t known for the galleons. Perhaps their name….

Draco felt the color drain from his face. He’d been a fool not to look at the list of families his father was considering without a backward glance before handing it off to his mother. He didn’t think his mother would act on it…but what if she did?

Astoria said something that Draco didn’t catch, too busy trying to recall if he saw the Greengrass’s names on the list before sending it to his mother. Her eyes flicked over to Draco before tossing her long brown hair over her shoulder and escorting her grumpy sister through the crowd.

“Well, the night can’t get any worse. Let’s go to the Gryffindor party.” Pansy declared, already standing to leave.

Blaise snorted inelegantly. “What could go wrong?”

Draco frowned, unable to shake the feeling that the answer to the question would be so much.

So much could go wrong.

Chapter Text

New Year's Eve, 1999

Dread coiled in his stomach the closer they got to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. While the music couldn’t be heard down the quiet streets, nothing could be done for the lights and fireworks that burst through the thick silencing spell they’d cast around the shop.

“I suppose there’s something for their consideration of their neighbors and all that,” Blaise mused, squinting at the bright flash of light from a random firework.

“Are you certain Granger invited you?”

Pansy interrogated him most of the way to Diagon Alley, very nearly demanding Draco run back to the Manor so she could read the post Hermione sent that morning. Blaise intervened and reasonably mentioned they could always leave.

The rest of the walk, Pansy muttered expletives under her breath until the building came in sight.

“Yes, Pans. She did invite me. Perhaps not you but…”

“Shut up, Draco. We all know I am the most agreeable of the three of us.” She shoved past him, striding to the side entrance that led up to the roof, which Hermione had told Draco to take.

He shared a look with Blaise and followed her. Crossing the Weasley’s sound barrier felt like walking through a cold waterfall before sound slammed into them, forcing all three to gasp in surprise.

On the roof, there were people everywhere, wedged into corners, spilling off sofas brought from somewhere else, and writhing on the makeshift dancefloor. Draco immediately spotted Neville Longbottom across the deck, the man now as tall as Blaise and frankly just as good-looking.

His eyes scanned the crowd for Hermione, but all he could see were flashes of faces.

“I’m going to find a drink,” Blaise practically shouted in his ear before disappearing through the crowd with Pansy, who, for all her blustering, attached herself to Blaise.

“They left me,” Draco huffed.

“Malfoy!” Skippy bounded through the crowd, and never in his life did Draco think he would be glad to see Tripp the Hufflepuff. He made the mental note to ask Hermione if she had ever seen Tripp at Hogwarts. And Robert, for that matter.

“Where’s Granger?” Draco asked.

Tripp turned, saying something that was lost to the crowd, gesturing with his bottle of beer across the room.

Draco rolled his eyes, turning Tripp to face him.

“Say that again. I can barely hear,” Draco shouted.

Tripp blushed. “Sorry. She’s celebrating with Harry. They’re engaged!”

Draco froze. “Say that again?”

“I said,” Tripp leaned in closer, his stale breath made Draco gag. “They-are-engaged. This whole party is one part marketing for the Weasleys, another part New Year’s Eve party, and a small part engagement party for Potter and—”

But then Tripp turned, someone calling his name, so the plus one to Potter’s engagement was lost to the thumping downbeat.

Draco had had enough. He offered Tripp a backward wave, throwing himself into the sweaty bodies of people. He glanced up, realising that the sound barrier also provided a bit of wintering protection from the cold. He searched for a place to put his topcoat and gloves, but it seemed not to be.

Awkwardly bumping into a few people who gave him surprised looks as he tugged off his overcoat, Draco breathed a sigh of relief at the humid air, still warm but not stifling beneath his winter coat. He draped it over his arm, grateful that he followed Blaise’s suggestion and went without a tie with his dinner jacket.

He was overdressed, that was for certain.

Well, actually, no, he wasn’t. George and Fred Weasley stood on a table a few paces over, dressed in astonishingly well-tailored tuxedos. One of them—Draco couldn’t tell which at the moment—pressed his wand to his throat, his voice booming over the music with a Sonorus charm.

“There are only fifteen minutes till midnight! Please gather your crushes and loves or scurry yonder to the drinks table for a quick sip of our Everything-Is-Coming-Up-Roses Potion! Waiver forms need to be signed before imbibing—”

“—but there’s no denying our potion will help you kiss the frog and perhaps find a prince or princess when the effects wear off!” finished the other twin.

Excited chatter filled the space as people bumped around, looking for their chosen partners for the evening or drawing closer, intrigued by the Weasleys' experimental-sounding potion.

Just as he was about to stalk over to the drinks table, he saw her.

Hermione stood off to the side with Harry. Draco’s vision tunneled, red highlighting the way she slapped Potter’s arm. One of the stars must have taken pity on him because the crowd shifted once more, revealing Ginevra, snuggly wedged next to Potter with his arm around her.

Potter and the She-Weasel. How boring.

As if she sensed his mocking, Hermione’s eyes found his. Surprise morphed into delight. He watched in slow motion as she said something to Potter before walking away, not looking to see if he replied before she set off for Draco.

“Hi,” she said a bit breathlessly.

“Good evening.”

“You look…” Her voice trailed off as she took in his suit. “Good.”

His brow quirked. “Good?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding appreciatively. “This is a good look for you, Malfoy.”

Draco knew he looked like an idiot, but that didn’t stop his face from breaking into a delighted grin.

“I had no idea the ferret could smile!”

And just like that, his mirth was broken.

Ginvera stood just behind Hermione, arms crossed, with Potter by her side.

“Congratulations, Ginevra,” Draco said with a slight tilt of his head. “Potter.”

“Thanks,” said Ginny. “And I suppose you’re here because—”

“I invited him, Gin,” Hermione whirled, her curls whipping Harry in the face as she spun to snap at Ginny.

The She-Weasel's lips parted in surprise, not accustomed to being on the receiving end of Granger’s waspish tendencies when an ideal she thought precious was challenged.

Something in Draco stirred—like called to like in that regard, he reasoned.

“Glad to have you here, Malfoy,” Potter interjected, extending a hand.

Draco’s lips twitched, accepting the offer of a handshake…but Malfoy was still himself and couldn’t stop the words from tumbling from his lips as he grasped Potter’s hand, “Can you imagine how much simpler our lives would have been had you accepted my handshake nine years ago?”

“Draco,” Hermione gasped in horror.

But Potter just laughed, throwing his head back in a relieved sort of way that made even Draco chuckle. Heads turned to look at the very odd group of people.

“See you around, Malfoy,” Harry eventually said, slipping a possessive arm around Ginny and tugging her away to their adoring masses, as Blaise sauntered towards them.

“Blaise,” Hermione said with surprise. “I didn’t know…”

“That Draco had friends?” Pansy finished for her. “Yes, we’re still around, Granger.”

He should have liked seeing Hermione wrong-footed, but Draco rather relished the fifty different responses that flashed across Hermione’s face in the span of a few seconds as she took in Pansy Parkinson.

“Good to see you, Parkinson,” Hermione said with more ease than Draco thought possible for her.

“Thanks for inviting us.”

Draco had no idea what conspired between them in the ensuing moments—years later, he would think about how they just stared at one another…like cats did before pouncing or flopping on the ground in abject boredom. They landed somewhere in the middle, each giving the other an approving nod before Draco found himself being pulled in the opposite direction of Pansy and Blaise by Granger.

The corner Granger found was just dark enough, tucked away from prying eyes behind what looked to be a storage shed.

Lips crashed into his before he had a moment to collect himself, and he stood frozen as her lips were insistent against his own. Her hands shifted from his face to his jacket lapels, pulling him closer to her as his mind caught up to his body and he opened his mouth, angling his head to deepen the kiss.

He wanted to hash things out tonight—ask her out or something. He needed to know if this meant more to her, like it did to him…but the way her tongue slid against his and the feel of her body as his arms encirled her, tugging her flush against him, sent all those determined notions right out of his mind.

In the distance, someone shouted, counting down from ten, but Draco ignored them, taking long kisses from her as she plunged her hands into his hair. He was obsessed and could not tear himself away.

“Happy New Year, Draco,” she gasped into his ear as he sucked on her neck.

He pulled back, chest heaving and eyes hazy with desire. “New Year's?”

She giggled, a bemused fondness sweeping her expression. He closed his eyes as her finger pushed his bangs out of his face, trailing gentle circles against his temple and cheek. Reaching up, he clasped her wrist, tugging her hand down to press a kiss to her fingers.

“I had no idea kissing could be this wonderful,” she whispered.

That grin came over him again, a thing only Hermione could drag out of him.

“Neither did I.”

Their voices floated the short distance between them, cocooned away from the crowd celebrating the new year.

“I would invite you back to Grimmauld Place, but I have a sneaking suspicion Ginny and Harry will be…”

Draco’s nose wrinkled. “Ugh, no thank you. I’m still at the Manor, and I doubt you’d like to come there. Not to do anything,” he added hastily. “Just to be out of earshot. Potter is bad with silencing charms, right?”

Her lips twitched. “Impossibly bad.”

“Draco?” Pansy’s voice called from nearby.

Draco groaned, pulling Hermione against his body and trying to slink into the darkness. She pressed her face to his chest, and he felt her laughter warm and welcomed against him.

“Shh,” he hushed into her hair, cradling her head against his chest.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, I know you’re around here. I need food, and you are the one with the deepest pockets. Come on. Bring Granger if you have to.”

Hermione pulled back, and he could barely see her mouth at him, “If you have to?”

He rolled his eyes, leaning down to ignore Pansy by making out with Hermione some more, but she stepped back. A soft whine left him.

“Come on, I’m hungry, too.” She adjusted her dress and then stepped out from behind the shed. Draco reluctantly followed, reaching down to adjust himself before coming to a halt.

Pansy and Blaise stood a few steps away, both with that maniacal glint to their eyes.

“Granger, we were just talking about you,” Pansy said, with a little too much brightness to be believable.

“You were?”

“Yes, and I think we should all go and get drinks.”

“I thought you said you were hungry?” Draco whinged, longing for the cozy corner he was just in with Hermione.

Pansy cocked her head, seeming to consider his words for a moment. “Same difference. Come along, Granger. Do you have a coat?”

It was a bizarre sight watching Pansy escort Hermione out of a Weasley bash. More than one head turned to watch the odd pair as Hermione made her goodbyes, throwing furtive looks his way. Blaise handed him his overcoat.

“Thanks,” Draco said, not looking away from where Hermione shared what looked to be an intense conversation with Harry. “I didn’t even know I’d lost it.”

Blaise hummed.

Several minutes later, Draco found himself at a small Italian restaurant seated across from two of his best friends, with Granger at his right. Blaise knew the owner, speaking in brisk Italian before the man rushed away. Glasses of champagne floated to their table.

“I propose a toast.” Blaise held up his glass, nodding for them to do likewise.

“A toast for what?” Hermione asked, surprising Draco by how composed she was in the face of two of the more formidable personalities of the Slytherin house.

“To new friendships and beginnings. If Malfoy can land the Golden Girl, who's to say I cannot land a sparkly prince or that muscled Weasley that works with Dragons?”

Hermione gaped, but it was Pansy who broke the moment, throwing her head back to laugh.

“Hear, hear,” she said, downing her glass of champagne all in one long sip.

Draco darted a nervous look at Hermione. She met his gaze, eyes softening.

“Granger, Draco tells me you’re looking at furthering your studies?”

Hermione set her drink down, fiddling with the stem before clasping her hands in her lap. “I am. I have it narrowed down to two. One in Australia that specializes in memory and mind magics and the other in Sweden with a more psycho-magical bent.”

“I suppose after the nutter all our parents forced us to follow, England needs a bit of mind healing,” Blaise sniffed, poking around at the bread basket.

“That’s precisely why I looked into it. Harry was able to see a Muggle psychiatrist for something called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or PTSD, as it is more commonly known.” If she was bothered by Blaise speaking of their apparent involvement or attachments during the war, she didn’t show it. “Still, I don’t see many people from primarily magical homes being able to access such help. Goodness knows, St. Mungo’s isn’t equipped for care of that magnitude. But then there’s the magical component as well—some Muggle treatments simply won’t work on magical persons because our magic protects us.”

“Similar to how Muggles get cancer, but we get Dragon Pox?” Pansy wondered aloud.

Hermione bobbed her head. “Similar but not quite a one-to-one example, though it will work for our conversation.”

Before Pansy could ask another question, a Patronus of an Arctic fox bounded through the wall, coming to stand before Draco.

“Draco, your father has been attacked. They are transferring him to St. Mungo’s. Please meet me there.” The fox’s head turned, his mother forgetting to cancel the spell before he heard, “Let me grab my cloak, Andy—”

Draco’s chair fell back as he swiftly moved into motion. He summoned his jacket from the wall, hastily tugging it on.

“I’m coming with you,” Hermione said before he could argue.

He met her determined gaze and gave her an affirmative nod.

“Tell Sylvette we are sorry and will return another day. I know she was excited to have Hermione dine here.”

Blaise grimaced, the all too familiar look of resignation arresting his features. They’d been through this before, and it seemed they were to go through it again: their parents ruining what was supposed to be an easy night.

Hermione slid her hand into his and then turned, disapparating them away for the back entrance of St. Mungo’s.

________

4 January 2000

Draco groaned, his mouth felt like cotton, and his back ached from the odd position he’d fallen asleep in despite his best efforts. He sat up, running a tired hand down his face. His gaze was drawn first to his mother, who slept soundlessly on the cot she had transfigured from a hair ribbon, and then to the man in the hospital bed. Awake.

Draco sat up straighter on instinct, resisting the urge to stand, shout, or do anything that would wake his mother. Four days. His father had been in a medically induced coma for four days, and they suspected he wouldn’t wake up for another three.

Yet, like a roach, Lucius Malfoy didn’t remain downtrodden for long. His grey eyes seemed to glow in the dim light, fixed on Draco.

“Son.” His voice was raspy from disuse. Draco suspected he didn’t speak much while in prison.

“Father,” he whispered back.

Lucius’s eyes roamed the room, taking in the unadorned hospital room before returning to him.

“I suppose congratulations are in order?” his father asked.

Draco’s brow furrowed, knowing this was a trap, but his mind was still too groggy from poor sleep to suss out the move.

He foolishly nudged his pawn forward, sensing the Knight just on the other side.

“Congratulations for what?” Draco asked, his voice just above a whisper, so as not to wake his mother.

“Your new domain.” Lucius’s fingers flicked to the room. “A Healer?” Lucius sneered at that designation, as if Healers bound by oaths weren’t the very ones who saved him four days ago when he arrived, cursed and barely hanging on for life.

Draco kept his lips shut tight, biting on his tongue and refusing to rise to his father’s bait. He might be cornered, but sometimes inaction could be an escape.

“Glad to see your mental faculties are working,” Draco replied despite his resolve to stay silent. “They were worried you’d be brain dead when you woke up, but look how the stars have rewarded us.”

“Insolent boy. You used to be so sweet—”

“A doormat, you mean, who worshipped you.”

“And yet here you are: a working man. There hasn’t been a Malfoy that wasn’t in a seat of power for half a century. I suppose it was time.”

“A working man?”

“A working Malfoy!”

Narcissa shifted on her cot at his father’s raised voice, and for the briefest of moments, Draco caught a glimmer of that man from his childhood who would stare adoringly at his mother, waiting on her hand and foot.

But the moment was gone as swiftly as it came.

“Had I been here, you never would have ventured down this path, but I suppose not all is lost. We can make a sizable donation in a few years to St. Mungo’s, and you can move up the ranks, eventually becoming—”

“No,” Draco snapped, his tone cutting his father off at the legs before he could get going. “I don’t want that.”

“I don’t want that,” Lucius mocked. “You’ve devolved into a petulant child, Draco. Grow up.”

“That’s rich coming from someone whose entire life has dwindled to a nine-square-meter box.”

“Insolent—”

“Boys.” His mother’s soft voice silenced them, their attention immediately fixed on her. “I’ve heard quite enough. Lucius, we are proud of Draco and what he is doing; he chose a profession that helps and mends. Surely this will be good for the Malfoy name since it’s been previously associated with so much destruction?”

His father seemed to think on that while his mother went on. “And Draco, what your father means to say is that he is worried for you. While our lives may look different, we still must continue tradition. It is time you began seriously looking for a wife.”

“A wife?” his voice squeaked. “That’s —I am applying to Advanced Healer positions. A wife isn’t in the—”

“See, Narcissa,” his father weakly gestured, the strength he had had a few minutes before seeming to drain away. “He’s….he’s…” His eyes rolled back in his head.

“Lucius!” Narcissa sat up, grabbing his hand. “Darling, look at me. Draco, go get the healer on call.”

Draco stood, obeying his mother’s command. He probably could have cast the diagnostic charm and acquired the potions, but he needed to leave. He needed space from his father and the weight of his parents’ enduring expectations for his life.

His life.

Draco blinked away the small orbs that appeared in his vision, the anxious throbbing sensation only abating when he saw one of the Senior Healers for the Level Four Magical Accidents and Catastrophes Unit. He was one of the few Healers who had been kind to him since his first day at St. Mungo’s.

“Healer James,” Draco called, jogging up to the middle-aged wizard. “My father woke up and then suddenly declined. I…” his voice trailed off, not sure what else to say.

“Not to worry, this isn’t surprising. We had to use Draught of Living Death to slow his heart rate enough for the hex and poison to work out of his system. His magical levels are likely low because of that and because of the Azkaban shackles that drain the magic of those incarcerated. I’ll put in an order for a Replenishing Potion and a few others that should help.”

Draco nodded. He knew all these things—he had worried this would be his life a few years ago.

But by some mercy of the stars, it wasn’t.

And his father had the audacity to tell him how to live his life.

He somehow managed a polite, “Thank you,” to the Healer before turning. He didn’t return to his father’s room. Lucius would likely remain there for a few more days before returning to Azkaban.

“What a mess,” Draco said, nearly moving to lean on the lift’s walls before remembering the perpetual layer of magi-goo that lived on the walls. The doors opened to a quiet waiting room with the one person he most longed to see, curled up in one of the gods-awful chairs.

He walked over and stood there for a moment, watching the peaceful rise and fall of her chest as she slept in her street clothes. She’d stopped by with his father’s Healer a few times, but they hadn’t had a chance to speak beyond a hushed whisper through a cracked door before she left for the day. Had she fallen asleep waiting for him? His eyes flitted to a clock—it was half-past three in the morning.

Draco’s knees cracked as he bent down.

“Hermione,” he whispered, gently tucking a curl behind her ear. He had to repeat her name to get her to rouse fully.

“What time is it?” she asked, mid-yawn.

“A little after three in the morning. Come on, let’s get you home.”

“But your…Lucius?”

“He’s awake and still has one of his nine lives, it would seem.”

Her lips twitched at that. “Can’t squash a cockroach.”

“Something like that.”

She accepted his hand. If anyone saw them, they didn’t say anything as their fingers intertwined, and Hermione threw a bit of floo powder into the outgoing fire.

“Grimmauld Place,” she said, tugging Draco along with her.

The house was quiet. Ginny was at a match in Germany, and that meant Harry was right along with her.

“Tea?” she asked, but her body didn’t move toward the kitchen, but toward the stairs.

Draco shook his head. She pulled him along with her, up the creaky stairs, and into her room. They shared few words as they brushed their teeth, the odd routine of domesticity coming naturally to them as they got ready for bed. Draco felt disgusting from practically living in St. Mungo’s for the last few days, even though Blaise brought him a change of clothes the day before.

He was too exhausted to shower, so he cast a cleansing charm and tugged off his shirt. He draped it over the back of her desk chair and transfigured his trousers into joggers. He felt Hermione’s eyes take him in, an approving glint to her eye, before she pulled back the corner of her bedsheets, nodding for him to get in.

Draco obeyed, sliding in next to her. His mind already felt as if he were moving through a fog, too weighted to piece out what this meant. Instead, wrapped his arms around his witch’s waist, tugging her against his chest, and fell into a deep sleep.

________

3 February 2000

Three dress shirts floated before him, nearly identical save for the slight tilt of a collar or the position of a button. Draco knew it wasn’t the blasted shirts’ fault he couldn’t make a choice, and time was running short…but it was easier to blame his indecision on thread counts and not because of the note his mother asked Mippy to include on his morning tea tray.

Please be home by four o’clock for tea with Miss Astoria Greengrass.

His hands shook, angry sparks shooting from his wand till he had the wherewithal to set it down.

Draco began pacing the room, fingers itching for his wand now safely resting above the mantle of his bedroom’s fireplace. He wanted to incendio the summons.

He came to an abrupt halt.

This was his double-shift day. Draco didn’t have to say yes. He could work and avoid this interest meeting.

Wandlessly, he summoned the crisp cotton button-down, shrugging it on with a smirk. He even selected his emerald-green cufflinks for good luck.

Yes, this was a sound plan.

Astoria Greengrass would have to look elsewhere, or even better, would run the other direction after he missed their meeting. He knew this was the coward’s way out; He knew he should tell his mother that he’d fallen for someone far better.

Draco frowned at the grey eyes staring back in the mirror, despising the power his family still held over him, and hated himself most of all.

Lucius had written a few times, but he’d ignored his letters, leaving them unopened in his bottom desk drawer. He foolishly believed humoring his father and his ill-intentioned plans to restore the Malfoy name would make them fizzle…but it seemed he was still pressing his bony thumb into them still from a cell across the sea.

________

14 February 2000

Hermione lingered before the mirror, eyes trapped on the necklace she’d worn nearly every day since Draco had gifted it to her. Two months. They’d been quietly dating for two whole months, and yet, the status of their relationship hadn’t changed all that much to the outside world.

Their Instructor at St. Mungo’s had mentioned that the uphill sprint to the finish line of their program was intense…and Hermione generally thrived in those types of situations. Still, in all her planning, she never accounted for a boyfriend.

Boyfriend.

They hadn’t put labels on what was going on between them, partially because she hadn’t wanted to rock the boat during their sparse times together since New Year’s Eve, and also because she hadn’t mentioned it to Harry or Ginny yet.

She wasn’t lying, but she wasn’t sharing either.

The Harpies qualifying for the World Cup Trials made an excellent excuse—who would want to throw off Ginny Weasley, dubbed Quidditch Monthly’s Rising Star? And there was the added bonus of wedding planning stress from Ginny’s mother and sister-in-law.

I’m being a better friend by keeping this quiet a bit longer. No sense in stirring up needless drama.

She and Draco functioned well together. Both tidy (alright, he was tidier than she), both driven toward a similar goal, and it seemed the universe was gunning for their success.

The reply to her acceptance letter lay open on her desk.

We look forward to having you and Mr. Malfoy working with us.

He could have gone anywhere, and yet he chose to go with her; it spoke more to her than the quiet conversations snuck in between shifts or the one time they quite literally slept together until her alarm went off for her afternoon shift.

His choice to go to Sweden spoke of devotion, of love.

A heat rushed through her as that word blazed through her mind, greedily eating up all the looks and brushes of his knuckles against her skin.

She was falling in love with Draco Malfoy.

Hermione’s heart raced, and she was struck with the urge to do something with her body or her mind might combust. She began tugging her hair back into a ponytail.

Love love love

The words danced before her as she rifled through her drawers, looking for anything that would work for the highly encouraged Valentine’s dress up (but with strict guidelines).

She wished she could just wear black.

Her eyes caught on the ribbon she’d been using as a bookmark, just peeking out from the edges of her Anatomy of Magical Humanoid Creatures textbook.

A quick duplicating spell later, with an additional color shift charm, Hermione tied a neat, red ribbon around her pony-tail. She grabbed her bag and quickly apparated to the designated spot.

Hermione would never unsee the odd things people got up to during Valentine’s Day. She almost grimaced when she watched Susan and Tripp walk through the locker room doors for the evening shift. It was only going to get worse.

The locker room was lively with half of the team finishing up for the day and the other half arriving. Tripp had charmed his jumper to have a stick figure proposing in the most outlandish manner to another stick figure, only to be rejected each time. It was a rather delightful piece of charm work.

“Tripp, are you sure you want to be a—”

“Hermione,” Tripp snapped. “Tonight is going to be a fun night. Please do not start it off with your incessant snobbery about my choice of intended work after our training is done.”

The room faltered at his tone—Tripp, the congenial, easy-going member of their huddle, had reached his breaking point.

“About damn time,” Padma slow clapped. Hermione shot a glare at her, with which Padma merely raised an eyebrow.

“You have to admit you’ve been rather hard on Tripp once you learned he was going into sports medicine, Hermione. Not everyone wants a career like you and Malfoy,” Susan said reasonably, adjusting her sparkly, heart-covered headband.

“But you’re—” Hermione began to argue.

“Hermione.”

The one voice in the room to temper Hermione pierced all her prepared counter-arguments. Hermione deflated. She found Draco in the doorway, dressed in his street clothes and not in his healer robes, looking a tad worse for wear.

“Malfoy, you’re bleeding,” said Tripp.

Draco reached up, dabbing at his cheek like he wasn’t aware.

“Oh, I had a bit…I’ll be fine,” Draco said, not looking at anyone as he moved to his locker. All eyes followed him, and a collective gasp came as he removed his outer coat, revealing his back, shredded shirt, bloodied and raw.

“What the fuck?” Padma shrieked.

Hermione’s eyes widened as Draco turned, hanging up his outer coat. His shirt had been sliced, angry red gashes marring his skin—some of them still seeping blood.

Hermione scrambled over the benches separating her from Draco, unfeeling as she slammed her shin into the hardwood in her haste.

“Draco,” she said softly, hands hovering just over his raw skin.

“Don’t.” His words, once again, stopped her in her tracks.

“What happened?” she asked, letting her hands fall to her sides with one hand clutching her wand. “Were these the same people who attacked Lucius?”

“I don’t think so…I was jumped on my way back to the hospital. Healer Smythe let me off a few minutes early so I could dash out to grab—” his eyes flicked to hers, jaw clenched. “—something from a Tesco and apparently there are a few magical families that live close by who thought I shouldn’t shop in their Muggle shop.”

Hermione knew he avoided certain parts of London, but had never pressed. She was vaguely aware of people’s continuing dislike of the Malfoys… She just hadn’t realized how much they still hated them. It was easy to get comfortable with him; their team certainly had and included him as if he didn’t bear a mark on his left forearm.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Hermione finally said, delicately wrapping her hand around Draco’s elbow, guiding him to the showers.

“Do you want me to tell someone? You need to file a report.” Susan called after them.

Draco stopped midstep, a terse but firm, “No.”

Hermione looked over her shoulder at her team; everyone was visibly upset to varying degrees, but it was Susan and Padma’s nod of approval that brought her comfort most of all. They lived the war; they understood.

“How did they not tear up your outer coat?” Hermione asked, leaning against the counter while Draco peeled off his ruined clothes, tossing them over the shower stall curtain for Hermione to levitate into the trash.

“It was draped over my arm. The Tesco’s radiator was broken, and it was a sauna inside…” His reply was drowned out by the shower turning on.

She waited to hear more, but the only sound was the shower pounding against him.

“Draco?” she asked after a prolonged silence.

No response.

Hermione hesitated, eyes flicking to the door. She knew that whatever her next step would be, it would either launch them into a new phase of this relationship or be the end of it all.

She walked back into the empty locker room and took off her white coat. Inside her beaded purse, she quickly located an old, familiar bottle and strode back into the showers.

Swallowing, she slowly walked to the stall; a flimsy pastel blue curtain was all that separated her from Draco’s battered, naked body. She tried not to dwell on the latter part as she tugged the curtain aside ever so slowly, armed with her spare bottle of Dittany.

His back was worse than the fleeting glance she got of it as she moved him through the locker room.

She must have made a sound because he looked over his shoulder at her, hot water streaming down his front. He didn’t seem to be embarrassed that he was nude with his back to her.

“Draco.” It was all she could say.

“Don’t say you’re sorry.” His voice was bitter and hollow—not the voice of the man she’d been falling in love with, but an echo of a boy so scared he’d practically starved himself from tireless work to save his family.

Hermione didn’t respond. She toed off her shoes and socks, bending down to roll up the hem of her trousers.

Draco arched a brow, slightly turning to look at her, artfully not letting water slide down his back.

“What are you doing?”

“I have Dittany.”

She shouldn’t have looked up. His arse was at eye-level and…Merlin…it was a good arse.

Hermione had seen a few during work, but in those clinical contexts, she never thought, “Could I see if a knut could bounce off that ass?”

She did now.

“What did they do?” she asked instead, averting her eyes.

“I’m not sure. Some sort of stinging hex.”

“But it sliced…stinging hexes typically form a boil-like response. Your back looks like a cutting board.”

Draco scoffed. “Well, it now matches my front, courtesy of the Chosen One.”

Her hand hovered over the deep ridges that bisected his back, making unidentifiable slashing patterns from just below his neck down to the beginning of his waist.

She’d felt the gashes beneath her fingers, barely able to glimpse them in the dim light that night he’d slept over.

The new slashes weren’t as deep as she anticipated—there were just so many of them, and few that hit in just the right spot to bleed quite dramatically.

“This might sting,” she said, unstoppering the bottle.

“Get on with it.” He turned off the water, bracing his hands against the wall in front of him.

“Hand me that flannel, would you?”

Grumbling, he passed the one hanging on the wall to her, letting out a hiss as his body twisted.

“I’m going to apply the Dittany, but I’ll need to wipe a few areas to make sure I don’t miss anything. Trust me…this feels better than an Evanesco.”

“You used an Evanesco on a wound area before?” Draco sounded genuinely shocked.

“It was while we were on the run. Ron was splinched, and I needed to make sure I administered Dittany to every area.”

“Brutal,” he said, sounding curiously delighted at the thought of Ron enduring such pain at Hermione’s fingertips.

Whatever delight he had was forgotten as she began dispensing the Dittany drops. His knuckles whitened as he braced himself against the wall. The wounds fizzled, a blue smoke wafting into the air as his skin knit itself back together.

“Curious,” she mumbled, tracing the place where a wound was moments before.

“What is?”

“I’ve never seen Dittany produce blue smoke while healing.”

Draco hummed. “Where did you buy it?”

“I ran out of the Dittany I brewed. This one is from an apothecary Harry and I may have…borrowed from, while on the run. I haven’t used it since I refilled the bottle.”

He smirked at her over his shoulder.

“You robbed Phinius Wright’s apothecary. He’s the only potioneer I know who adds iodine crystals with a dash of turpentine. He’s a Muggle-born, you know. Said he learned it from his dad, who was a pet healer.”

“Veterinarian,” Hermione corrected, reaching around him to turn back on the water. His hand stopped her retreat, the warm spray soaking her jumper’s sleeves as he bracketed her arm to himself.

She stepped closer, wrapping her other arm around his waist. His back was still a mess, but she didn’t care as she hugged him from behind. Draco shook—adrenaline abating as the weight of what happened crashed in on him.

“All I wanted,” he said, his voice soft against the pounding of the spray, “was to buy you flowers for Valentine’s Day. I’m sorry I forgot them in my haste to get away.”

“Draco.” Hermione’s heart hurt. She wanted to call Ron and have him arrest the idiots who attacked him. “This is wrong. This is so wrong, and I’m so sorry.”

He nodded, holding her close a few moments longer before he let go.

“I need to wash up, and you’ll want to dry yourself off. Wait for me?” he asked.

She let go, understanding that he needed a moment to collect himself. Had this been any other moment, she would have pressed. She would have cautiously undressed herself and washed his back for him.

“Thank you,” he said as she retreated from his stall.

It took her no time to draw the water out of her clothes, making it look as if she had never hugged a nude, hurting man in the shower only moments before. Hermione returned to the locker room to wait. Her fingers found the necklace, sliding the small pendant back and forth in a soothing, repetitive motion.

Chapter Text

“Hungry?” Draco asked, emerging from the shower room in a black jumper and black jeans.

Hermione blinked. It was such an odd thing to say after the experience they just shared.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in Muggle jeans before.” Hermione didn’t know why that was the first thing out of her mouth after seeing the back half of his naked self ten minutes prior, but the words hung in the air anyway.

Draco rolled his eyes, attempting to mask his stiff walk to his locker to retrieve the remainder of his things. She didn’t miss the flinch as he reached down for his bag.

“This outfit is compliments of Blaise from when I was staying with my father,” he said over his shoulder. “I think he went shopping rather than stopping by the Manor. I don’t remember owning black jeans. Are they—?”

“They look good,” she said, cutting him off. She felt her cheeks pinken at the admission.

That perked him up. He smirked, shrinking his bag before tucking it into his pocket. He came to stand just before her.

“Up, Granger.”

She obeyed and stood, her body warming simply by his proximity to her. How could one man make her heart pound by standing near?

Draco motioned for her to turn. He summoned her jacket and held it open for her. Hermione glanced over her shoulder, and he arched his brow.

“We cannot leave until you put your jacket on.”

She turned with a mumbled, “Bossy,” and slipped her arms through.

“Thanks,” she said, reaching up to adjust her collar. His hands brushed her sides, lingering as if he was going to pull her close, but then he took a step back.

“Would you like to stop by the Ministry before we get dinner?”

“No.”

“Malfoy, I think you need to—”

“Well, good thing it wasn’t you who was jumped today, Granger.”

Her eyes flashed in annoyance. “Draco,” she amended. “I want you to report this.”

“What can they do, Hermione? I’m a convicted, Death Eater? Of course, there are people out there—people in the Ministry of Magic itching to take a piece of me. What good would it do?”

“A paper trail,” she began to say, but he held up his hand and she stopped. Hermione couldn’t remember when he’d become that to her—because Hermione pushed. She cajoled. She was the person who moved the pawns or became one herself.

But Draco asked her to stop. And so she did.

“Would you mind if we ordered in?” His breath ghosted her forehead as he leaned down, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. She leaned into his gravity, reaching for his hands. They were shaking. “I don’t think I am up for enduring crowds this evening,” he whispered into her curls.

“Alright. I can order us Chinese takeaway from around the corner. We’ll have the house to ourselves. Harry went all out and got them a fancy spa weekend because…well, Ginny has been a bit stressed.”

She kept hold of his hand as they moved to the designated apparition points. It was either that or floo or a Muggle taxi. He chose apparition.

“Potter’s wedding planning not going well?” he asked as they walked to the Chinese restaurant.

“Don’t sound so happy about it. More like World Cup trials coupled with Molly-planning is going to drive them to elope if Molly isn’t careful.”

Draco didn’t even attempt to rein in his smirk. “My mother will probably be like that. She cares…about a great many things that do not matter.”

Hermione tried not to read into what he was saying—or dissect it. They walked the short walk from the restaurant to Grimmauld Place in comfortable silence.

“Would you want to watch a film? It doesn’t have to be romantic because it’s Valentine's Day,” she said, tapping the front door to unlock it.

“Do you mind if we just listen to music on your record box?”

Her eyes crinkled, fondness washing over her. “Record player,” she corrected, “and absolutely. We can have a picnic on my floor.”

That seemed to snap him out of his trance.

“Eat on the floor?” he asked, trailing behind her as she moved through the house, gathering the things they’d need for a bedroom picnic.

“That’s what I said.” She didn’t try to hide the amusement in her voice as she handed him the bag of food so she could select a few of the Weasley quilts from the front room.

“Why not eat the food at a table?”

“Because the record player is in my bedroom.”

“But—but—” he spluttered.

Hermione stopped and turned to look at him. “You really do not like the idea of eating on the ground, do you?”

“No.” He didn’t even pretend to be ashamed.

Hermione sighed, her shoulders dropping a bit. “I don’t know why I’m so attached to this sudden idea. I think I’m trying to make something because it’s what you do on Valentins…”

Draco reached over, setting the food on the coffee table before taking the blankets from her arms and tossing them back onto the couch.

His hands were warm as they gripped her shoulders, most of the shaking having ebbed away once they were away from the hospital. A tingle of awareness moved through her as his calloused fingertips brushed her chin, nudging her head so she would look at him.

“I wish I had that bouquet to give you,” he murmured. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry my family name is what it is and that I cannot give you the basic things—”

Hermione surged up on her toes, crashing her lips against his. Draco wrapped his arms around her, tugging her body against his. The tension from the day bled away with each stroke of his tongue against hers. Lost in the comforting press of her body against his, she let her hands trail down his chest and around to his back.

Draco gasped, jerking out of her embrace.

“Godric, I’m so sorry, Draco,” Hermione cried. “I didn’t even think not to touch your back.”

“It’s—I think there are a few spots that need more Dittany,” he panted, shoulders hunched as he blinked away tears.

She let him catch his breath from the pain before taking his hand.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“My room to apply more Dittany.”

Draco didn’t argue and followed her up the staircase to her room.

“Take off your shirt,” she instructed over her shoulder, rifling through her cupboard for her bottle of Dittany. She’d left her purse downstairs and didn’t feel like going through the hassle of getting it.

“Bossy,” he breathed, but next she heard the rustling of fabric.

“Ha!” she exclaimed, spinning around with her bottle in hand. But her mirth quickly fizzled as she got her first real glimpse at Draco’s Sectumsempra scars. They weren’t wide and uneven like her scar from Dolohov’s curse, but narrow. What caught her breath was the sheer volume of them. Thin, dark pink stripes bisected his entire torso and chest, contrasting in stark relief with his pale skin.

“Aren’t I a majestic painting?” he remarked dryly, interrupting her shocked silence.

Her eyes flicked up to his, observing her as she took in his appearance.

“May I?” she asked, unaware that her feet had moved closer to look at him.

He swallowed, giving her a stiff nod as her hand hovered over his ribs. Draco shivered when her fingers touched his skin. The weight of his gaze draped over her as she inspected each line, following their indiscriminate trails from his hip up to his collarbone.

“I’m sorry Harry did this to you,” she whispered, her breath soft against his chest.

“It’s nothing I didn’t deserve.”

She looked up at him, seeing the pain and shame he tried to mask most days. Hermione reached for his face, tugging his head down so she could apply a soft kiss to his lips.

“You are redeeming,” she said against his mouth. His arms circled her, holding her to himself. She closed her eyes, heart swelling at the simple pleasure of belonging. She wanted to wrap her arms around his waist, but settled for resting her head on his chest, arms tucked in close to her breast.

When his stomach began to growl, she took a step back.

“Alright, let’s get this done so we can eat dinner.”

“Where do you want me?” he asked.

She cleared her throat, trying to make her voice sound neutral as she said, “Lie down on my bed. You can use my pillow to prop your head up if you need to.”

She was transfixed, watching him bunch up her pillow beneath his folded arms. His body, long and imposing, stretched in the middle of her queen-sized bed. Waiting. Waiting for her.

She forced her mind to ignore how his jeans pulled tight around his arse and suppressed the fluttering in her stomach as she crawled across the bed, perching on her knees next to him.

She swallowed, the sound loud in her ears as she surveyed the vast landscape of Draco’s marred back. The wounds looked better than they had an hour ago, but some, still puckered and angry red, would need at least one more application of Dittany.

She willed her hands to steady as she unstoppered the bottle.

Think of this as another patient and not the man you’re falling in love with. It’s another back waiting for treatment, not one you want to heal so you can drag your hands down it.

Hermione dabbed her brow, suddenly hot for all the wrong reasons.

“Everything okay?” he asked, head buried in his arms.

“Your back is looking better. There are a few spots that need a second application, though.”

He hummed but didn’t move. Not giving him a warning this time, she applied the tincture. His skin seemed to shimmer as the wounds knitted themselves together, the last of the slicing hexes finally healing and leaving bright pink scars in their wake.

“I bet we can find something in the Accidental Amputations and Burns Ward for the scarring,” she said, prodding one of the freshly healed lines with her finger. “Does this hurt?”

He turned his head to look at her. “No.” He moved his shoulders a bit and added, “The skin feels a bit tight, though.”

Hermione nodded, stoppering the lid to the Dittany. “That’s to be expected, I suppose. Did the same happen with the…other scars?”

Instead of answering, Draco rolled onto his back, giving her an up-close view once more. He gently took the bottle of Dittany from her fingers and tossed it aside, tugging her hand to his chest, guiding it to the largest of the slashes across his skin.

“This one,” he said, his voice low and rumbling beneath her fingers. “It itched for months. Severus tried everything until one day, it stopped.”

“What changed?”

He curled his hand around hers, holding it close to his heart. “Haven’t the foggiest. Time, I suppose.”

His stomach rumbled again, and she moved to pull away, but he held on.

“Not yet,” he whispered, his voice not carrying its typical confidence.

“Alright,” Hermione said slowly, shifting from her kneeling position to sit on the bed, her hand held like a vice against his wildly beating heart.

“Draco,” she said softly. “Did you recognize any of the people who hurt you today?”

He stared at a spot on the wall, his jaw shifting.

Hermione sighed, and he released her hand so she could pivot, laying her head down on his chest. “You don’t have to tell me, but if it would help, I’ll listen. I swear not to charge in and try to fix it.”

His chuckle rumbled beneath her ear. “I thought you didn’t tell lies, Granger.”

She smiled. “Only when it suits me.”

“You would have thrived in Slytherin.”

She hummed, eyes fluttering shut as he stroked her hair, the scrape of his nails sending shivers down her spine.

“You are beautiful,” he breathed.

He shifted beneath her, gathering her into his arms. His kiss was hungry and bruising as he clutched her to his chest. Light-headed, she let herself go, giving him control as his mouth dominated against hers. He tugged her up onto his lap, but it wasn’t enough for Hermione. She pushed up on his chest, breaking the kiss so she could straddle him.

His eyes were dazed, drunk. His hands slid around her hips, running up her sides and back down again. Everywhere his hands roamed, they left a trail of want.

A breathy moan escaped her when he grasped her bum, squeezing it softly. This was the furthest they’d ever gone; his hands had always been frustratingly close to where she wanted them most, but never enough.

Hermione had never slept with anyone before, and Ginny had once said, “You just know.”

She knew as his fingers slid beneath the hem of her shirt. She knew as she tangled her hands in his hair, feeling him harden beneath his jeans as she straddled her body against his. She knew as his hands gripped her arse.

“Draco,” she said, eyes shut tight as he sucked on her neck.

He hummed in acknowledgement, not stopping what he was doing as he kissed along her jaw to the other side of her face.

“Draco,” she said again.

“Yes?” he stopped, looking adorably put out for having done so.

“I—I want to talk about this.”

He blinked, eyes struggling to focus not on her lips but to meet her gaze. “About my attack?”

“No,” she shook her head, aware of every inch of her wrapped around him and the way his hands still kneaded into her bum. “I’ve never…I’ve never slept with anyone before. But I want to.”

He was silent, his face an unreadable mask.

“With you,” she added when he didn’t respond. “If my straddling you and rocking against you is any indication…which, by your response, I think also indicates that you’re interested in sleeping together, too. But if you don’t want to, I understand. There’s a lot to consider, and some men don’t enjoy sleeping with virgins and—”

“Granger,” he cut her off, a smile appearing on his face, his voice so soft she almost had to look away. “I want to—very much so.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He asked. “Anything else you need? A book perhaps on the male anatomy or—”

“Oh my gods, you’re such a prat,” she laughed, shifting so he would lower her to the ground.

“Where are you going?”

“To change out of my street clothes and then to eat our dinner. I’m starving.”

“What?” he cried, moving to follow after her. “I thought we were…”

“About to have sex? Not on an empty stomach.”

“You don’t need clothes for the fun part of this plan,” he said through her bathroom door. She merely responded with a loud, deep laugh as she threw her work clothes on the floor, kicking them to the side as she tugged on a pair of leggings and an oversized t-shirt.

When she opened the door, he took a step back. His heated gaze followed after her. She smirked at his muttering about her being a tease as he trailed her about the house. She felt his eyes on her as she reheated their lo mein and he set the kitchen table.

“Wine?” she asked.

He frowned, but stomped down to the wine cellar and returned with a vintage Hermione was positive cost more than one month’s salary at St. Mungo’s.

“Potter has no idea the value he has down there, does he?” Draco asked as he decanted the wine, setting a timer with his wand.

“Not the slightest,” she grinned, sliding her arms around his waist.

Draco smirked, kissing her forehead.

“Thoughts on table sex?” he asked.

“Pro, but not for my first time.”

“Worth an ask,” he sighed. “How far have you gone? If you’re comfortable answering. No names, please. If it’s the Weasel, say nothing because I’m sure nothing is accurate.”

She pinched his side, eliciting a yelp.

“I’m a wounded man,” he cried, shrinking away from her nimble fingers.

“Don’t be a prat. And no. The furthest I went was with Viktor.”

“Krum? The international Quidditch star, Viktor Krum? Krum?”

“How many other Viktors do you know?”

His chair grated loudly against the stone floor as he pulled it from the table, slumping down onto it with a groan. “Oh my gods. How far did you two—wait, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I could not handle it if he were bigger…”

Hermione let him get his dramatics out of his system, summoning fresh wine glasses and ignoring the timer, she poured him a large glass.

“You ruined the wine—”

She held up her hand, stopping him. “If the words out of your mouth next aren’t, ‘you are wonderful and thank you for my glass of wine,’ I highly suggest you reconsider them.”

His mouth clicked shut, and he sat up straight in his chair, all pretence of flailing over her past lovers forgotten as he readied himself for his poured-too-early glass of wine. It would have been more compelling if he were wearing a shirt and not draped in a throw blanket he summoned from the front room when he realized how cold it was downstairs.

“Now, drink up,” she instructed, nodding at the glass before him. She tried to keep a straight face as his lips puckered, clearly having an internal battle with his posh sensibilities and not letting the wine “breathe long enough,” and wanting to please her so he could get in her knickers.

A heady rush of lust and power washed over her—she could very nearly ask him for anything and he would agree. She liked this transference of control. As a mental exercise, she made a list of all the things she could try if she were the type, before he would outright refuse. Cut his hair? Possibly. Dye it brown? Never.

“What are you smirking at?” he asked. Her mental game had continued through dinner, left to her thoughts while he took forever to eat a plate of noodles. She very nearly instructed him to “eat like a Weasley” so that dinner could end.

She dabbed her lips, setting down her napkin, and stood. Automatically, Draco stood, his good breeding useful for when she wanted to escape this dinner prison. Hermione held out her hand. Draco took one fleeting look at his second glass of wine and the last few bites of his plate before accepting her outstretched hand.

Hermione was ready.

The echo of their footsteps was the only sound as she led him up the stairs and back to her room. But when she arrived, she was struck with the realization that she had the mental basics of what she should do next, but didn’t know how to start.

Sensing her standstill, Draco walked past her and over to her collection of records she’d snuck from her father before erasing his memories. Draco selected one from the shelf, allowing the record to glide from its sleeve into his hand and then onto the turntable. He flicked the on switch and then moved the needle onto the record. She loves watching his hands work.

The record shifted, and the soft crackle of sound began to fill her quiet room. He turned his intense gaze to her, a brow arched in question as he walked to where she stood just inside the doorway.

“Dance with me?” he asked, voice soft. Draco never mumbled; even his whispers were crisp. But it was his eyes that were most expressive this evening; molten and so open she could barely speak.

I'll be seeing you

In every lovely summer's day

“Alright,” she choked out, lifting her hands to wrap around his neck like she was at a school dance. He caught one of her wrists in his hand, weaving their fingers together as he tugged her closer by the waist.

“Put your hand on my shoulder, Hermione.” His voice rumbled through her, and she did as he asked. He began to sway to the languid song that was somehow beautiful and sad.

I'll find you in the morning sun

And when the night is new

Hermione’s heart was a wild thrum, off tempo to the soulful music. Draco leaned forward, pressing his cheek to her head, holding her close to him.

“Relax,” he said softly against her temple.

Her shoulders dropped, tension releasing as his thumb stroked the small of her back in circles, pressing gently to nudge her in whatever direction he wanted to lead them.

I'll be looking at the moon

But I'll be seeing you

They rocked, feet shuffling gently against the rug, wrapped in the velvety music and one another. Hermione pressed her eyes together, savoring the rich smell of his cologne and how he played with her fingers as he clutched her hand to his chest.

As the final note rang out, she tilted her head up, and he captured her lips, soft and sweet. She could taste the wine on his lips, and as the music shifted to Billie Holiday’s “All of Me,” she could have laughed had she not ached for what the song sang of so beautifully.

All of me

Why not take all of me?

Can't you see

I'm no good without you?

Draco released her hand, his palm sliding up her neck and into her hair. His thumb brushed her jaw before angling her head to deepen the kiss, his tongue licking into her mouth, his fingers a delicious pressure against the base of her skull.

“Fuck, I love your curves, Hermione,” he gasped against her neck, his other hand gripping her waist before curving around and digging into her arse.

Draco walked them over to her bed, laying her down as if she were a precious sculpture, worthy of every caress and touch. Clothes quickly became a forgotten thing, their bodies stripped down to just their skin. His eyes were black as he took in her bare form, licking his lips as they trailed down to her stomach.

Draco hovered over her, leaning down to press a kiss to Dolohov’s mark, whispering his approval as his lips trailed her body. For someone who’d become known for his stoicism, Draco was generous with his approval as he kissed down her body, noting all the areas he thought particularly worthy of his mumbled sonnets.

Sex felt like witchcraft.

Heat rushed through her, licking against her skin where they touched. His hands were everywhere, eliciting soft gasps, her body arching into his. Hermione was sure that each pass of his mouth over her body could not send her higher, but it just kept going—she was strung out on a tightrope, waiting for it to snap or for her to jump.

Draco rolled to his back, dragging her leg over his lap. And like the pliant rag doll she was, she let him.

“You’re in control,” he whispered against her heaving chest. Draco Malfoy had never said something so sexy in his life.

“My gods, Hermione,” he breathed, unable to keep his hands to himself, gazing up at her. He cupped her cheek, dragging his thumb over her lip before his fingers moved down her neck. She was helpless, following his descent as his hand roamed down her chest, rolling her nipples between his fingers. Her eyes fluttered shut, a breathy moan escaping her as his other hand joined the fray. She was sure her hair was wild and her body wasn’t the most beautiful he’d ever seen, but in that moment, she knew that she was his favorite.

Confidence swirled through her, pushing her to grasp him gently. His hands stilled, their attention directed to what would happen next. Their gazes tangled together: want and lust and desire colliding as she raised up onto her knees.

His hands found her hips, a reassuring pressure holding her together as she lined him up with her entrance.

“Look at me.” His voice rumbled through her. She sank slowly down. They gasped in unison. She paused to accept his fullness until he was seated inside her. Foreheads pressed together at the perfection of their coming together.

Then she began to move, and a fresh wave of arousal washed through her as she learned this new rhythm. Watching how his eyes would flutter shut when she would lift and lower or roll her hips just so. He held on to her hips to show her, as she’d shown him what she liked, and then let her go, his hands finding her breasts as she rode him.

She felt like a fucking goddess, his hands worshipping her every curve. His movements grew more erratic, and Draco sat up, tugging her against himself as he bucked up into her. A new position driving them closer together—she wasn’t sure where she began or ended, only finding herself in the drag of his teeth against her jaw and the sloppy kisses on her neck.

“Touch yourself,” he insisted, guiding her hand to herself as he moved. It was what she needed, and they moaned in unison as pleasure moved through them. Hermione felt herself cresting higher and higher before she clenched around him.

Her universe seemed to expand wider and wider, the bright light blinding to a point until it shattered—the super nova of their coming together obliterating every thought until all that remained was Draco’s whispered truths against her skin as she came down from her release.

She leaned to the side and he rolled on top of her, pumping into her at a frenetic pace—the sensation reverberated through Hermione until she felt her arousal coiling higher once more. Her nails dragged down his chest. The sorcery of sex rewashed over her, and she shuddered, joining Draco in the incantation as he cried into her sweaty neck, his teeth nipping in his descent as he emptied himself in her and she clenched around him with a cry.

They held on to one another, finding gravity once more. Draco peppered kisses across Hermione’s cheek, soft, sappy kisses on her lips as they basked in their transformed existence.

Surely they had just been broken and remade? It was the only possible answer to the deep fulfillment she felt. Draco whispered a spell as she slid off his lap, dragging her covers up over them.

Hermione was spent: physically and emotionally. All she wanted was to fall asleep in his arms, and she was rewarded by getting exactly what she wanted.

Chapter Text

The Morning After

Draco woke with Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake playing in his mind. He didn’t know why Le Cygne drummed through his fingers as he fiddled with her hair, and caressed a long trail with his lips down Hermione’s spine. This was the best way to wake up. Hermione hummed in her sleep, a soft, contented sound that made his heart clench.

His fingers and lips tripped along with his thoughts. She was too good, too pure. She was Hermione Granger. And he’d just defiled the Golden Girl. Draco’s mouth quirked up at that thought. So, perhaps that wasn’t so awful.

Suck it, Weasel.

“What are you smiling about back there?”

Her sleep-hoarse voice. Draco pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades and pulled her flush against him.

“Good morning,” he whispered over her shoulder.

“It seems you’re delighted to see me,” she laughed, giving her bottom a little wiggle and making him groan at the friction.

“Fuck, witch.” Unable to help himself, he nipped the lobe of her ear, and she let out a breathless moan. Oh? This was unexplored territory, and he was a very, very good researcher. His hand slid lower, but an uninvited and insistent soft tap at the window began.

Hermione stilled at the sound, like her body was trained to sniff out information, and the post was hearty chum.

“Ignore it. The bird can wait,” he lamented as she shifted to get up.

“Draco, the bird will not wait. Have you ever met a patient owl?”

He squeezed her boob, a fleeting gesture as she rolled out of bed and out of his arms. Draco flopped dramatically onto his back, like a desperate housewife in brazen want of the gay pool boy’s attention. But the view he received as she padded over to the window was spectacular and more than made up for the temporary delay in his ravishing plans. He slid his arms behind his head, letting his gaze caress each bare curve he’d touched last night.

“Enjoying yourself?” she asked over her shoulder as she cracked the window open, accepting two scrolls before the bird flew away.

“I’m a man of simple pleasures,” he said sotto voce, eyes lingering on her peaked nipples.

“One of these is addressed to you,” Hermione hummed, summoning a dressing gown and slipping her arms into it before tearing into her post.

He watched his window of opportunity for Morning Seconds dwindle away like a prosecco on a summer day as she inhaled this all-important letter.

“You’re going to be distracted, aren’t you?”

Hermione’s reply to his question was to extend her hand with the scroll that was addressed to him. He ignored her hand and petulantly refused to sit up, hoping that perhaps she’d take mercy on him and his tumescence.

The witch was apparently not in a benevolent mood and just threw the unaccepted scroll down on the bed next to him. Unable to resist looking to confirm, he angled his head to read the side of the scroll, and indeed, it was addressed to him.

Who the fuck cock blocks at half past six in the morning?

“Draco! They want us to come early,” Hermione gasped. She jumped onto the bed, crawling to where he lounged. Groaning, he pushed to sit up.

“Who?”

“The Institute. They had two Healers quit suddenly and wanted to see if we could come early?”

“Really?” Hope. This strange feeling strumming inside him was hope. He could get out of his parents’ purview and the demands and expectations three months early. He knew his mother wouldn’t stop him. His father couldn’t once he was out of the country. “What do we need to do?” he asked.

Hermione was already at her desk, frantically scribbling in her Muggle notebook. “This would mean we’d need to pass our final exams in the next two weeks. You and I are both bright. I can make us revision schedules. It will be brilliant. Although there is packing and shopping. I’m sure Molly would be glad to help.”

“Hermione,” he said, tugging on his pants. She wasn’t listening, lost in her planning.

“Hermione,” Draco said again, standing behind her now.

“Hmm?” She didn’t look up from her list as she nibbled on the end of her pen.

Draco loved how her shoulder felt beneath his hand.

Was this normal? Shoulder feel: Ten out of ten.

“Look at me,” he instructed.

She reluctantly obeyed, eyes already hazily lost to her plans.

“We’re doing it, aren’t we?” He had to confirm—this was too good a thing, wasn’t it?

“Yeah,” she laughed. “Yeah, we are.”

He couldn’t help himself as he pulled her up into his arms and kissed her.

Life became a blur after that. Any thoughts of intimacy left the building when Hermione created their revision timetable.

________

27 February
Half past one in the morning

Draco rolled over on his back, staring up at his childhood bed’s canopy. The enchanted dragon slept in the corner, but if Draco shot sparks, it would wake and fly around if he liked.

His mother had been quiet after he informed her he was leaving for Sweden, but she said she understood. She asked if Draco had spoken with his father, and he’d snorted in reply.

“Why in the name of Salazar Slytherin would I speak to him? He’s barely the head of this family as it is.” Where this boldness came from, Draco did not know. All he knew was that he finally—at long last—saw the end to this tunnel. He was getting something and doing something for himself.

His trunk lay open, packed and waiting to be closed. Their portkey would leave at nine o'clock in the morning, two days from now. It felt like the days leading up to Hogwarts, only he was older and taller, and his back hurt.

The hexes from the attack had healed, but much like the Sectumsempra scars on his chest, they stretched tight across his skin. He was slowly becoming a striped, over-stretched canvas in desperate need of salve. He hadn’t told his mother about the attack; she barely left the Manor as it was and didn’t need another reason to be scared.

Draco rolled onto his stomach, punching his pillow a few times before resting his head. Sleep had become a flighty mistress—his thoughts consumed with a woman so perfect, he’d had to wank twice already that day, and magical rune charts that pertained to healing. It was an oddly disconcerting amalgamation that produced the strangest of twilight dreams before he woke with a start.

They had their Board Exam in seven hours, and it was imperative that they passed. If they didn’t pass their exams, which they were taking three months earlier than all their classmates, they wouldn’t be able to leave for Sweden, and he didn’t know if the positions would be open to them three months from now.

He closed his eyes and sank into his Occlumency, allowing his emotions to shutter away, his mind becoming blissfully still. Realization washed over him that he hadn’t needed to do this as often since taking up with Hermione. Draco allowed a memory to float to the front, one where he was tired of studying and trying to get Hermione distracted. In exasperation, Hermione got down on her knees and—the Manor shook.

Draco’s eyes flew open, his heart rate spiked as the magic of the Manor seemed to expand and contract, like a dying star before it winked into oblivion. Then all at once, it coalesced beneath his chest bone, as if the Manor was a purring house cat, settling down at long last to rest.

Draco’s breathing was labored; he had no idea what the fuck just happened. He rubbed at that spot beneath his sternum and felt something cold drag across his skin. Draco swallowed, eyes flicking to where his Heir ring should be resting on his bedside table. It was not there, but there was a new ring on his left pinky: his father’s ring. The Head of the Malfoy family ring.

It was as if a bucket of water, directly from the Norwegian fjords, was dumped on him. Because there was only one reason this ring would ever appear on his hand: his father was dead. And as the Malfoy family magic had done for generations, it shifted to the person the patriarch declared his heir.

Numb, Draco slid from his bed, summoning his shirt and dressing gown. He dressed as he walked down the stairs to his parents’ wing. The house was quiet, the shadow’s long fingers seemed to clutch at his heels as he pressed on to where his mother slept.

Did Azkaban know? Were they the reason—he gave his head a hard shake. He needed to speak with his mother before the owl came, no matter the reason.

Dead.

That word was like a clap of thunder, foretelling that the dreaded flood had come. Lucius Malfoy wasn’t some omnipresent, vindictive god, but mortal after all, and he’d gone the same way as Dumbledore and his former House Elf Dobby.

“Mother,” Draco called softly into the bedchamber, still alight by floating candles charmed never to drip. Her body looked so small beneath the covers as she lay curled on her side, one of her novels open on his father’s pillow. She’d fallen asleep reading, and it was such an odd moment of normalcy.

Draco rarely saw his mother in a vulnerable state. Even as a boy, he’d only be allowed in their rooms once she was fully dressed and made up, leaving only an earring to put on or a ribbon to tie in her hair. Theo mentioned sleeping in his mother’s bed as a boy before she died. What a strange notion.

“Mother,” he said again, coming to stand by the bed. His hand shook as he reached out, fingers brushing her shoulder.

“Darling?” Narcissa turned at his touch, lips parting in surprise at seeing him. Draco pulled his hand away and swallowed. All words left him as he stared at her angelic blue eyes—as clear as the waters along the Mediterranean coast.

But he didn’t have to find the words, because her eyes followed the hand that had been on her shoulder.

“No,” she breathed, reaching for Draco’s left hand where a ring she’d seen most of her life on another hand now resided. “Darling,” she whispered, her voice thick. Whether that endearment was directed at him or his father, Draco didn’t know. He could only look on in growing despair as his mother squeezed his hand.

“When?” Narcissa asked. It took Draco a moment to realize she was speaking to him.

“About fifteen minutes ago.”

“Have the wards shifted?”

He resisted rubbing that spot beneath his chest. “I believe they have, yes.”

Her fingers squeezed his hand before she let go and stood, summoning her dressing gown from the chair across the room. Draco fled to her adjacent sitting room, shutting the door to give her privacy. A clock ticked from somewhere in the room. It was strange to dwell on the fact that time ticked on, but Lucius Malfoy no longer possessed their seconds. He had died.

Draco felt the wards now and closed his eyes, expanding his magic as he reached out to the edges of the property, and for a beat, he could understand why his father liked to think he was illimitable.

“I sent an owl to your father’s solicitor,” Narcissa said a few minutes later, coming into the room dressed in black day robes. “He will visit Azkaban to confirm and make arrangements to have your father’s…to have your father’s body moved here so we can emtomb him in the mausoleum.”

Draco nodded, grateful that his mother knew what to do. Her eyes were red, and she wore no makeup, but it didn’t make her any less beautiful to him in that moment.

“Go get changed, Draco. I’ll have Mippy lay out your robes. We have a long day ahead of us, and I need you…please.”

“Anything, mother. Of course.”

It wasn’t until he sat at the head of the family dining table, dressed in fitted black robes, that he remembered his exam, but by then, it was too late. It had started two hours ago.

________

28 February 2000

Hermione stared at him. She wasn’t speaking, and it made it almost worse.

“You could still take the exams,” she had said. “Perhaps...”

But no. He couldn’t leave now. At least not soon, if ever. The Manor’s wards felt like a noose around his neck—uncomfortably following him around. His mother said he’d get used to it, but he wasn’t sure he ever would.

“I have a meeting with my solicitor. I need to go.”

She’d kissed his cheek goodbye and handed him a thimble—a portkey already assigned to him. A lifeline. At least someone still had hope.

Later that night, he’d beg her to let him go with his hands throbbing beneath a glamour.

________

1 March 2000

Draco was going to be sick; grief tore through him as he gripped the cold marble bathroom counter. His hands throbbed where the Healers applied the salve. It had been hours, but it still felt like his hands were encased in the enchanted flames.

Flashes of tanned skin and cotton bedsheets bled through the spots behind his shut eyes. He thought he was being clever, forging his way out of the machinations of his family, but like the foolish man that he was, he didn’t realize he’d been in the trap all along.

The last two weeks had been…the best of his life. The portkey ready to whisk them off to Sweden, away from everything, glowed. He stared at it, breath caught in his throat as he watched it pulse. If he just stretched out his hand—a brush of a pinky would be all it took to send him to her.

But to do that was to damn an innocent caught in his father’s web. As the last pulse of light flickered out of existence, a banging on Draco’s bathroom door pounded the final nail in Draco’s coffin.

“Draco,” Astoria screamed on the other side. “Draco Malfoy, come out here. You are not going to ruin my life.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he had his wand. But he didn’t. That had been taken by his mother the day before during their meeting with the family solicitor to discuss his father’s will, when he tried to Incendio the marriage contract.

“A horrific redundancy,” the solicitor had said as Draco’s hands were consumed by green fire. He didn’t mean to do this to his hands, but he was desperate. Draco had shouted; he’d hexed and screamed and denied…but there was nothing he could do without cursing Astoria and her entire family. His hands were a warning of what would happen if either of them failed to fulfill this wedding contract.

Draco had never hated his family ancestors more than he did during the reading of that will—ancient magic. Honored magics. Insidious magic that bent the family heir over its knee, forcing them into indentured servitude until they produced an heir of their own. How nice. How trite. How damning.

His mother had the grace not to suggest another woman as a lover after the heir was born. As if the woman Draco most desired could be someone’s side piece instead of the center of the whole fucking universe.

He screamed, the burning pain in his hands a dim echo of what he felt inside. He hurled the decorative vase at the mirror, cracking it at the center, splintering out like a ripple of water, but it still didn’t shatter. Draco considered punching it with his fist, just to match the pain ripping his heart in two. Draco had grasped happiness and become Icarus. How could he have thought that he would ever escape?

“Draco,” Astoria yelled, pounding her delicate fists against the powder room door. “Get out here.”

He swung open the door, her fist raised to pound once more, falling through thin air. Gone was the lithe little thing that doted after her older sister: Astoria had become a harpy.

“Do you think I want this?” she hissed, not giving him a moment to flee again. “I do not, but unless you have a fucking Potter-level loophole rammed up your pointy little sphincter, ready to be wielded against ancient magics neither of us knew existed until today….”

Her bony fingers squeezed his wrist, just above where the wraps ended, bruising his wrist as she dragged him away from his grief and into the new hell that was his home—head of the Malfoy Family at age twenty. In the time it took for his father’s soul to go to wherever it would find its rest and the ring to appear on his left hand while he slept, Draco had become the youngest, wealthiest wizard in all of London.

Draco wished he were a pauper.

________

December 2000

Narcissa’s summons came by way of a House Elf. Hermione shouldn’t have been surprised that the creatures didn’t have to follow the International Codes of Magical Transportation. Lyra woke with a scream at the loud crack that filled their one-bedroom cottage.

“A letter for Miss Granger,” the House Elf squeaked, holding up a cream envelope with a green seal.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the creature. But then it did the unexpected, trotting over to where Lyra wailed in her bassinet and waved its fingers in the air. A spray of lights hovered over the bassinet, blinking and twirling into different constellations.

“Shh, now, little one,” cooed the House Elf. “I is sorry for waking you.” The House Elf snapped her fingers, and an old stuffed animal appeared in her hands. She turned her large eyes to Hermione, a question behind them as she held out the loved dragon.

Hermione swallowed. ‘You may give it to her. Her name is Lyra, by the way.”

The House Elf’s eyes filled with tears. “Beautiful name for a beautiful child.” She turned, offering the loved dragon to Lyra, whose little fist grasped the dragon’s tail. “I is your Mippy, Lyra,” the House Elf whispered. “I hope we will become friends one day.”

Mippy turned and walked toward the front door.

Hermione’s lips parted. “Would you like tea?” she asked, suddenly wanting the House Elf to stay.

“No, thanks you Miss Granger. I will leave outside so as not to make Lyra cry again.”

“Alright,” Hermione replied, bereft at the sudden exchange.

Before the door shut, Mippy said over her shoulder, “She has his hair but both of your eyes.”

“I know,” Hermione whispered as the door shut, leaving little flurries of snow on the ground.

Hermione waved her hand, vanishing the dusting of snow and reapplied the heating charm. Lyra had fallen back asleep. Hermione wandered over, marveling at the suspended, magical mobile of contestations. As it rotated, she saw at the center was Draco.

Her head whipped around to the envelope on the table. She rushed over, tearing open the seal.

You are requested for tea on the twenty-seventh of December. Please arrive precisely at half past ten in the morning. This card will permit you access to the grounds of Malfoy Manor. You may bring the child, but no one else. It is vital that you come.

Narcissa Malfoy

________

27 December 2000

The Manor looked like how Hermione imagined Pemberley might look during the winter: pathways carefully cleared of snow that kissed the grass and rested on the arms of the bare trees. As instructed, she arrived at half-past ten, Lyra strapped to her body in a swaddle the ladies at the Institute taught her to wear.

If anyone there minded that she arrived at her two-year apprenticeship, unaware that her ex-boyfriend knocked her up, she would never know by the way they cared for her and Lyra. Her daughter had found open arms, wanting to hold and nurture her while Hermione pursued her studies.

Before she left, the Head Healer told her that she expected her to return in January and not to think that giving up on her dreams was preferable to living back in England. Malfoy Manor made her want to run back into the arms of the Institute with its imposing baulstrades and dragon-like gargoyles on each of the parapets.

The front doors loomed over her. She wasn’t sure if she could bring her hand up to knock. The last time she’d come through these doors, she’d been dragged in with Harry and Ron nearly three years ago.

Hermione blew out a steadying breath. Lyra shifted beneath her swaddle but didn’t wake, secure against Hermione’s breast.

Three years. Hermione suppressed a hysterical laugh. Now she was a mum and a healer and…and about to meet her child’s grandmother.

The door swung open, revealing an austere foyer still decorated for Christmas, but it was Mippy smiling up at them that made her breath catch. She hadn’t expected a friendly face to this summons, because that’s what the invitation was: a summons.

“Good to see you again, Miss Granger,” she said with a bow. “May I take your coat?”

Hermione nodded, allowing Mippys' assistance so she wouldn’t jostle Lyra too much.

“Mistress is waiting for you in her sitting room. This ways,” Mippy instructed, motioning for her to follow. They walked through long halls, many of them emanating ancient magic and others with the distinct odor of dark magic that made Hermione jog to keep up with Mippy.

A door at the end of the hall swung open to a room Hermione could only describe as soft—like the velvet pad of a petal or the glide of a pink silk ribbon. Feminine.

This was the heart of Narcissa Malfoy?

“Not what you anticipated?” a voice cut through the building of her thoughts.

Hermione’s eyes flicked to the corner where Narcissa stood, back straight and examining a large tapestry on the wall.

Hermione squared her shoulders. “It’s a gentler color palette than I assumed it would be,” she replied.

Narcissa merely hummed. “If you could believe it, Lucius picked most of it out. It was my wedding present.”

Her brow wrinkled. “Decorating a room?”

Narcissa spun, an indelicate sort of derisive snort launching her toward Hermione and away from her odd spot near the far wall. “Hardly. This wing was the gift, but he did request it be lovely.” She sighed, reaching for her left hand where a wedding ring resided.

It had been seven months since Lucius' sudden passing. Rumors of the cause still surrounded the mystery of his death. Hermione heard Arthur asking Ron about it at Christmas dinner, as if it were an interesting line of gossip rather than the upheaval of Hermione’s entire world.

Narcissa still wore black, her bright blonde hair a stark contrast to the fitted black day robes. She looked like the regal mistress, fit to rule this Manor. Hermione couldn’t even fathom being in her place, the otherness of it all settling on her sternum.

“Thank you for coming. I know my note must have been surprising,” said Narcissa.

Hermione inclined her head. “Your note was well timed. Had you waited another two hours, Mippy would have appeared in the middle of dinner at the Burrow.” Hermione’s lips twitched at the way Narcissa blanched.

“I see,” she said, Narcissa’s pallor answering many questions she’d arrived with.

“I assume we are alone today?” Hermione asked.

Narcissa gave her a stiff nod, sitting down to a tea tray that had been prepared.

“Milk?” she asked, pouring Hermione a cup of tea.

“No, thank you. Black is fine.”

Narcissa arched a brow, setting down the milk saucer. Hermione’s cup floated over to the seat across from Narcissa, a clear indication of where she was to sit.

“Would you like to lay Lyra down? I had Mippy unearth Draco’s bassinet.”

“How generous of you.” Hermione Narcissa rolled her eyes.

“It was a genuine offer, Miss Granger. I have no intention of any harm coming to your child.”

Hermione hadn’t sipped her tea; memories of Madeye Moody’s lectures on never accepting drinks from an enemy shouted in the corners of her mind.

“I believe I need to show you something before we begin.” Narcissa rose from her seat, gliding over to where she was looking when Hermione first arrived.

“Unless you have the eyesight of a falcon, I suggest you come over here and join me, Miss Granger. I swear on my son’s life that no harm will come to you if that’s what it takes.”

Hermione bristled at being read so easily, but she rose and walked over to Narcissa, keeping a whole arm’s length between them.

“I took care to move the Black family tapestry from my sister’s home and my parents' home.” Narcissa motioned to the tapestry on the wall. “I destroyed Bellatrix’s tapestry because it rather smelled, but this one,” Narcissa reached up, trailing her fingers over the frayed edges, “this one I kept.”

It looked nearly identical to the one in Grimmauld Place, save for the lack of scorch marks.”

“No holes?” Hermione asked, unable to hide the smirk.

Narcissa’s nostrils flared, the only indication that Hermione’s shot had landed true.

“No,” she replied. “My aunt was…not in her right mind when she died. Blasting someone off the family tapestry does not remove them from the wards and magic…unlike a signature will do at Gringotts.”

“Then why do it?” Hermione asked, curiosity at the inner workings of the Black family overriding reason.

“By burning the threads on the tapestry with a pointed shot of fiendfyre, another heir cannot show up beneath their name, even if they have the purest blood.”

It wasn’t a hard leap for Hermione to make, her eyes frantically scanning down the faces to where Draco’s resided.

Next to his name was a dash with Astoria Greengrass to his right. Her vision blurred at the edges when seeing Astoria’s name linked to Draco’s. But there were no arrows beneath him indicating Lyra.

Hermione frowned. “I know Draco is the father. I wasn’t…there has never been anyone else.”

Narcissa observed her cooly. “I know, Miss Granger.”

“You do?”

“Legitimate heirs appear immediately on these tapestries. Bastards have a…different route.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, anger flaring at the term used to describe her daughter.

“Since she was not conceived in wedlock, Lyra’s name did not appear on the tapestry; it did, however, appear on the Gringotts records.”

Hermione froze. “But…but…”

“I wondered if my son was up to something when he rarely came home last spring. Lucius wisely instructed me to put a notice on all Gringotts accounts so I may intervene and…” Her eyes flicked to the sleeping child. “curtail any scandal or intrusions.”

Hermione's teeth ground. “I do not want Draco’s inheritance, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

Narcissa waved her hand, moving back to her tea. “It wouldn’t be the first time something like this has happened. Mistresses are very common in the pure-blood circles if there isn’t a love match.”

Hermione sucked in a breath, Draco’s words from when he ended things echoing in her mind.

I don’t want this, but I have to stay. I’m so sorry. We have to end things. I won’t—I cannot let you—Please go.

Not once did he beg her to understand. Because he would never ask that of her: to become a mistress.

Lyra began to squirm, her one-month-old cry breaking through Hermione’s thoughts. She began to bounce, leaning her head close to quiet her. But Lyra had decided she was hungry and had a will of her own, even at six weeks old, when Hermione moved too slowly.

Hermione’s gaze flicked to where Narcissa sat frozen. Emotions crawled across Narcissa’s face; some easy to identify: awe, longing, and most curiously, sadness. But then her cool, unaffected mask slid into place.

Occlumency.

She’d forgotten that it was Narcissa who once taught Draco before his crazy aunt took her place.

Hermione shooshed Lyra, gently tugging down the wrap to free her floppy newborn. She rubbed her chest, knowing she’d need to nurse but….but what?

A sense of power came over her, and she slid her hand down the buttons of her shirt, quickly undoing them along with the latch to her nursing bra. She took her seat across from Narcissa, summoning one of the little decorative pillows to rest beneath her arm.

Narcissa didn’t shrink back like she had expected, but her brow furrowed as Hermione offered her breast to Lyra, the child latching with her little sounds that made Hermione a tad teary-eyed each time.

These hormones.

“Is that a Muggle…” Narcissa said, sitting back to sip her tea while Hermione nursed. “That is certainly more convenient than the robes my mother forced me to wear with Draco when I nursed.”

Hermione blinked up, surprised at the statement. “There are nursing robes?”

“Yes, and they’re heavy and dreadful. I thought Draco was going to suffocate the times I had to use them.”

“What did you do when you didn’t?”

Narcissa blushed, and, like everything else about her, it was beautiful. “I remained in my private quarters,” was all she said. Hermione had almost forgotten what question she had asked, so lost in the novelty of the moment.

Hermione was curious, though. It wasn’t that she didn’t have an army of willing input and hands at the Institute; it was just that she didn’t have peers. She hired a nanny of sorts during the day and socialized with a few of the healers who were in the same decade as her.

But Hermione was starved for friendship. So desperate that she called her mum, all the way in Australia, in the middle of the night, to tell her the news. They were coming to Sweden when she returned in January. It had been the first lift of hope after Lyra’s uneventful, textbook birth, as the midwife described it.

She and Narcissa sat in relative silence until Lyra was sound asleep, nursing just for the comfort. Hermione gently slid her finger between her daughter’s gums, breaking the latch.

“May I?” Narcissa asked, her hands twitching in her lap.

Hermione took a risk and lay Lyra in her grandmother’s arms, handing her the burp cloth to wear over her shoulder.

Narcissa’s eyes were wide as she studied the little girl, tracing every divot and curve, cataloging the soft blonde of her hair with the tip of her finger. Hermione righted her clothing, allowing Narcissa a moment to see that her daughter—Narcissa’s granddaughter—was more than a bastard or a thing to be hidden. She was perfection entirely unto herself.

“What color are her eyes?” Narcissa whispered.

“Right now they’re a silver grey, with flecks of brown.”

Narcissa hummed, gently patting her daughter, who let out a hiccup of a burp.

“Come now, my little star; we don’t want to mess mummy’s clothes. Can you offer me one more?” Narcissa cooed, rocking her daughter with more gentleness than Hermione thought possible.

Perhaps this meeting could be precisely what Hermione hoped it would be: sating a curiosity and agreeing to keep things quiet.

“Why did you not tell my son?”

The air in the room shifted slightly cooler; the warmth of watching someone adore her daughter abated.

“It didn’t seem prudent.”

Narcissa arched a brow, shifting to cradle Lyra as she slept on.

“I appreciate your discretion, Miss Granger. I invited you here today to ensure that we are both satisfied with how we handle Lyra’s future.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Narcissa pursed her lips, gaze flashing to Lyra sleeping in her arms, as if Hermione’s swearing would sully the child she already called a bastard.

“There is magic involved, Ms. Granger, that I believe my late husband would not have invoked had he known there might be a child entangled. Lyra presents a bit of a troublesome point to the ancient magic, and I’m not sure how it will affect her.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione’s fingers inched to hold her daughter, to clutch Lyra close to her chest.

“I do not know.” Narcissa frowned, as if the unknowing was as abhorrent as the magic itself.

“In any case, I would like to ask your permission to hide your daughter from potential…unfortunate revelations until a proper heir is produced by hiding her on the Gringotts’ records. I assume you do not want Draco to know about her?”

Hermione nodded, and Narcissa’s shoulders dropped.

“Previously, the Head of the House would have to strip the bastard from the family records magically. If Lucius were alive, it would be no matter, and we could continue our lives. But with his death, Draco is now the head of the family, and I worry that should Draco discover her, he will not fulfill his duty.”

Hermione blinked, stunned by this proclamation. “And how will this affect Lyra if we hide her? Her name will still be attached to the Malfoy records, regardless.”

“I do not know what will happen as she is…a half-blood.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Don’t you ever tire of spouting the same party line when all it gets you is on the wrong side of history?”

“History is written by the victors, Miss Granger,” she quipped back.

Hermione scoffed, but saw little use in arguing. “Is there anything you need from me to make sure your son produces an heir?” The words tasted like sand in her mouth.

“I need some of Lyra’s blood. The incantation is simple, but it will hide her till her body begins its ascent into womanhood.”

“Fine,” Hermione sighed, conjuring a vial with her wand. She stood, walking over to where Narcissa sat and knelt. Her daughter's long foot was covered in a knitted sock. She slid the heel down and whispered a numbing spell, gently pricking the pad of Lyra’s heel with her wand, and collected the sample for Narcissa.

“Dittany,” Narcissa handed it over in exchange for the stoppered vial of Lyra’s blood. Hermione appreciated the thought as Dittany helped prevent scarring. She dabbed the potion on her heel, and it wound sealed together with a puff of blue smoke. Hermione gasped, nearly dropping the Dittany as she gaped at the familiar blue smoke.

“Did something happen?” Narcissa asked.

“No,” Hermione’s voice choked. She tried clearing it. “No, it’s been…I haven’t seen something like that in a long time.”

Narcissa waved her hand. “A silly apothecary Draco likes to visit. I think it’s ridiculous because Dittany is Dittany when correctly brewed, and it doesn’t need the added drama.”

Hermione collected her daughter, who slept through the entire ordeal. Lyra was perfect. She pressed a kiss to her head, smelling the faint trace of Narcissa’s perfume in her hair.

“If there’s nothing else, I need to get her home.” Hermione wanted to return to the Burrow and away from this manor.

Narcissa stood, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in her dress.

“When my son is a father, all of this will be laid to rest. I commend you for raising this child alone.”

Hermione stiffened at those words. He was a father now, but the implication was obvious: Lyra was not theirs. She would never inherit. She would be swept under the rug of Malfoy dalliances. Anger swelled inside her, and she turned to leave, needing desperately to be away from this place once and for all.

Mippy was waiting on the other side of the door to escort her out.

“Do you need anything?” Narcissa asked before she crossed through the threshold. “Money? An allowance?”

Hermione looked over her shoulder. “I am no one's mistress. Keep your secrets and your money, Narcissa.”

________

Four months prior
August 2000

Draco’s glass of whisky was nearly empty. But the bottle was all the way across the room. He didn’t have the energy to cross the expanse to refill his drink. And Astoria, that bint, had taken his wand, declaring she was tired of him destroying their things when he got drunk.

He wasn’t drunk.

He just hated himself and his life. And he hadn’t slept well in months because his hands still throbbed the same way they had the day they were doused in enchanted green flames.

Draco leaned back in his desk chair and closed his eyes, giving in to the near constant pull to dwell in the past. He had brewed Amortentia last month because he missed her smell.

“I’m pathetic,” he said into his glass.

“Yes, you are.”

Draco winced. Astoria’s voice had become a grating violin. He endured her, but he would never enjoy her. A soft click. The sound of something being poured into his glass.

“Drink your potion, Draco. We’re going to have a chat because it’s been a month since we were married, and we’re both miserable.” Her voice ghosted his throat. Why hadn’t he heard her enter the room?

Draco cracked open an eye, spying a full vial of sober-up potion next to his hand.

“What is it you poured in my whisky?”

“Drink the sober up and then we’ll talk.”

He arched an eyebrow, but his curiosity had been piqued enough that his shaky hand wrapped around the sober up. The fuzzy edges of his world righted themselves, and the hollowness that he’d been trying to afixiate got breath once more inside him.

“What do you want, Astoria?”

Astoira hopped up onto the desk, her long, smooth legs front and center. She sat like a queen on top of her throne, staring down at her disappointing court jester, and Merlin, did Draco feel like a fool.

That feeling hadn’t left since the other shoe dropped.

“What, Astoria?” he snapped, willing irritation to flare up so he wouldn’t have to feel the shame.

Her blue eyes cut through him. It was a pity she was so pretty because her good looks were lost on Draco.

“Five years.”

“Pardon?”

“I received word from my solicitor today. We need to have a child and then wait for at least five years. After that, the magic should be sated enough that we can look for ways to dissolve this marriage.”

“Why five years?”

Even her shrugs were elegant. “Haven’t the foggiest what idiocy inbreeding has done to your ancestors to make them settle on that number.”

Draco let out an indelicate snort, not arguing with her.

“You’re in love with someone else. The sooner we start the clock, the sooner you can find her or him,” Astoria pressed. “But what we did on our wedding night did not take. I’m not pregnant, even though I took a potion.”

Draco’s throat went dry. They were required by the magic to have sex. He’d taken Astoria from behind, eyes shut and imagined it was another cunt he had buried himself inside, tears streaming down his cheek when he came.

Hermione would never forgive him.

“Is there someone else for you?” he asked, unable to meet her penetrating gaze.

“No,” Astoria said simply. “But our marriage did help me with something else.”

“Oh?”

“I have—had—a blood disorder. Our wedding night was the first step in satisfying this curse’s requirements.”

Ever the Slytherin. “And there’s one more thing you want?”

“A child. The blood curse will leave if we have a child.”

Draco closed his eyes. “Why not become a harem with your sister and brother-in-law. I’m sure—”

The slap was hard and fast. His head turned with the motion, and it wasn’t until his face stung with the sharp pain of her hand that he realized it had happened at all.

“Listen to me, you little shit. I am done with your theatrics. I don’t fucking care about the other woman, but it’s my life you're fucking about with by not playing your part. I don’t expect love, Draco, but I demand respect. We will start living a normal married life now, and in five years, if you still find me as intolerable as you do now, we will file for a divorce. I never expected a love match, but I do insist on decency. Are you able, or should I procure some of that Amortentia you made the other day and slip it into your pumpkin juice every morning?”

His jaw clicked, but she was right.

“What did you put in my whisky?” It wasn’t an agreement, but they were both Slytherins. It was a concession, loud and clear.

“Diluted amortentia. You’re not the only one to get top marks in Potions. The effects will wear off in the morning, but it’s enough to make you forget her for one night.”

Draco had profoundly underestimated Astoria Greengrass.

“What will you do when our five years are up?” he asked, reaching for the glass of tainted whisky.

Astoria visibly relaxed, a small smile playing at the edges of her lips. She leaned back, her body arching as she rested her palms on the desk behind her.

“Live, Draco. I want to live.”

He threw back the rest of his whisky.

Scorpius Malfoy was born nine months later, and Draco’s entire world cracked open. He would never have Hermione Granger again, but the prize of Scorpius was unmatched and unparalleled.