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Chapter Text

September 18, 2001, London

22:30

The first time she had visited the Wizard's Beard was when she had graduated from Hogwarts. The pub was on the Muggle side of London, on a street parallel to the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. Neville had been the one who had suggested it, and Hermione supposed it was because of the two weeks in the summer he had spent at Dean's house in the Muggle world. The pub was small and always full of university students or students from the theater school that was right across the street.

Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced toward the six-person table where she and her friends used to sit. Now, a group of four women and three men were gathered there, laughing loudly at some inside joke. Hermione looked back, tiredly, at the half-empty glass of soda in front of her and the still-unopened bag of crisps. Her phone buzzed in her pocket -she pulled it out to see a short text message from Ginny, informing her that she would be arriving shortly.

Ginny and Neville were the only ones among her close friends who had returned to Hogwarts to complete their final year. Harry—the Boy Who Lived Again, the one who had finally defeated Voldemort—had followed his dream and joined the Auror training program, which had welcomed him with open arms. Ron, on the other hand, who couldn’t stand the thought of more exams or revision, had become George’s business partner at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. So, Hermione suddenly found herself with Neville and Ginny, walking the same corridors where she had once run with Harry and Ron.

The Gryffindors weren’t the only ones returning to Hogwarts that year.

The first time she saw Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott Jr. sitting in the newly established eighth-year common room, Hermione froze. Neither acknowledged her presence. She had expected Malfoy, at the very least, to glare at her. Instead, he didn’t even glance up from the Potions book in his hands. Swallowing her initial shock, Hermione walked past them with her head held high and her gaze fixed on the door to the girls’ dormitories.

By the end of the first month, Malfoy was rarely seen without Nott at his side. They shared every class, always sat together, and spoke little to anyone else. Hermione often wondered if they clung to each other out of habit—or necessity—shielding themselves from the cold stares and whispered judgment of their fellow students.

One Monday, after Nott's Sunday visit to his father in Azkaban, Hermione saw Malfoy's blackened eye and torn lip, and she knew her suspicions were correct.

The Halloween breakfast was the first time she had seen them sitting at the smaller table set up in the Great Hall for the eighth-years, who no longer wore house badges. Nott was calmly buttering a piece of bread, while Malfoy stirred three spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. Hermione’s first instinct was to turn and join Ginny at the Gryffindor table. She would have done so, too, had it not been for Neville’s steady hand, lightly guiding her into the empty seat across from Nott.

To everyone’s surprise, it was Neville who first began spending time with them. The reason was practical enough: a Charms project that Professor Flitwick had assigned in pairs, forcing him to work with Nott. To Hermione’s relief, she had been partnered with Padma Patil.

By the time Christmas break arrived, Hermione had exchanged a total of ten words with Theo Nott—a significant improvement, considering the previous seven years had yielded none at all. With Malfoy, however, the count remained at zero.

In January, Hannah Abbott's birthday arrived and Neville was determined to organize the best party for his girlfriend in the eight-year-olds' common room. At this very party, after about seven butterbeers, Neville collapsed on the floor, shouting to the whole room how in love he was with Hannah. Hermione and Malfoy were the first — and perhaps the only — sober people in the room who ran towards the unconscious Gryffindor.

"Can you help me get him to his room?", were the first non-hostile words she had spoken to him in eight years of knowing him. With his help and a few simple levitation spells, Hermione laid Neville on his bed after removing his shoes.

“Here,” Malfoy said, holding out a vial filled with crimson liquid. She recognized it immediately: a sobriety draught. “Longbottom’s going to need this in the morning.”

Hermione took it, careful not to touch his fingers, though she felt a slight hesitation. "Thank you," she replied and left the vial on Neville's bedside table for him to see when he woke up.

“Glad to help,” was his only reply, before he turned and disappeared into his own room.

After that brief, almost casual exchange, Hermione began to notice Draco Malfoy more closely. He attended the same number of classes she did, though unlike her, all were compulsory. It was part of the agreement he’d made with the Ministry in exchange for exemption from the two-year house arrest that had been imposed on his parents.

He was quiet in most classes, rarely showing any interest in the professors, and yet his grades were consistently excellent. He and Nott kept mostly to themselves, but as the weeks passed and January came to a close, Hermione noticed more and more of the eighth-years beginning to include them in conversation. She often saw Anthony Goldstein, Nott, Neville, and Malfoy playing Exploding Snap in the common room, their laughter echoing through the stone walls. So, she wasn’t surprised when, on their next Hogsmeade weekend, Neville suggested they all go to the Three Broomsticks together.

“Give them a chance, Hermione,” Neville said, catching her moment of hesitation. She couldn’t imagine what good either Nott or Malfoy had done to earn Neville’s friendship, but whatever it was, she hoped it had brought some measure of joy to someone.

When Ginny and Hermione sat down at the table Neville had set, Malfoy and Nott were already there. Nott smiled at her, and Hermione found herself offering a forced smile in return. Hannah, who had been sitting with Padma, Anthony, and a few other seven-year Ravenclaws at a nearby table, soon joined them. At first, the conversation was stilted, with only Neville, Nott, and occasionally Hannah contributing. Two butterbeers later, the conversation turned to Quidditch. Ginny and Theo quickly became locked in a heated debate over something Hermione didn’t even pretend to understand. Hannah had migrated to Neville’s lap, and Hermione could have lived quite happily without the sight of the two of them snogging endlessly in front of everyone. So, she was left alone with Malfoy and, never patient enough to endure an uncomfortable silence, she finally dared to speak to him.

“Do you think Nott is a good duelist? Because if he keeps insisting that the Falmouth Falcons' seeker is better than the one from the Holyhead Harpies, I’m afraid Ginny will challenge him to a duel to the death," she said, raising her voice to be heard above Ginny and Theo’s argument. Malfoy then laughed, and the sound took her by surprise. She had obviously heard him laugh before, but this time it was different—less cruel, more joyful.

"Nott doesn’t know anything about Quidditch. The only reason he keeps saying that is because he enjoys annoying Weasley," he told her.

That night, the six of them stayed at the Three Broomsticks until midnight—until a furious McGonagall appeared in the fireplace and berated them for their irresponsibility. Hermione had drunk far too many butterbeers to care about the lecture. If she was honest with herself, all she could feel was the white arm of a pure-blood wizard around her waist, steadying her as she walked the last hundred yards to the eighth-years' dormitory.

Over the next few months, the two Slytherins, the three Gryffindors, and Hannah often ended up together in the common room—reading, exchanging notes, or playing Muggle board games Hermione had ordered from Harry, once she realized no one knew how to play Taboo or Monopoly. It didn’t take her long to notice that Malfoy was extremely intelligent, disciplined, and infuriatingly consistent. And, above all, he hated losing. These characteristics made him a prime candidate for her NEWTs study group, much to the surprise of everyone else. Neville and Ginny tried to follow her insanely detailed study schedule, but they quickly gave up. Malfoy was the only one who not only seemed completely satisfied with Hermione's initiative to stick notes on half the pages of his notebooks, but often stuck some of his observations in her own books.

“When did you buy these post-its?” she asked one evening, noticing an orange square with his neat, calligraphic handwriting on a page about the Draught of Living Death.

“I borrowed them from you,” he said. “Without asking, of course,” he added casually. “I’ve been using them for a month now. They’re very convenient. Look—” he tapped the note with his wand and it changed from orange to yellow. “I enchanted them with a copy spell. Any notes you make on yours now appear on mine—and vice versa.”

“You stole my post-its and enchanted them to copy my notes?” she asked, attempting to sound annoyed. In truth, she was impressed. That spell would have saved her hours of copying notes for Harry and Ron.

Malfoy chuckled. “I’ll buy you twenty packs of them the first chance I get.”

On the first day back after the Easter holidays, Hermione opened her door to find a box of two hundred and fifty post-it notes waiting on the floor outside her room.

22.47

“Would you like something else?” the bartender asked her. Hermione glanced at her empty glass of soda and motioned for him to bring her another. She thought vaguely that he must have recently started working at the Wizard’s Beard, since she’d never seen him before.

In the first few months after graduating from Hogwarts, Hermione met every Friday at the pub with Neville, Malfoy, Nott, Ginny, and Hannah. Sometimes Harry would join them. Occasionally Dean popped in. And once—much to everyone’s astonishment—even Pansy Parkinson, who had moved permanently to Paris after finishing her studies at Beauxbatons, made an appearance.

Most of them, except for Neville—who worked at a magical greenhouse in Scotland—and Ginny—off touring with the Holyhead Harpies—still managed to meet regularly on Friday evenings, even after beginning full-time work.

Hermione’s schedule at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was demanding. Still, no matter how exhausted she felt, she made a point every Friday to walk down to the Department of International Magical Relations to meet Nott and Malfoy. The latter now worked in the Finance Office. Nott was one of the few privileged people who had a working fireplace in his office, so they would travel from there to the Leaky Cauldron and then to the Muggle side of London. Hannah, who worked long hours at St. Mungo’s, would walk to the pub straight after her shift.

As the months passed, Hermione found herself growing inexplicably anxious every Friday before stepping into Nott’s office to meet the two Slytherins. More and more often, her cheeks would flush the moment her eyes met Malfoy’s and she could never summon a logical explanation for it. Other times, she would catch him staring at her mouth for minutes while she explained the countless changes she had made to how the data in the Auror’s cases were recorded and stored, or while discussing her disagreements with her boss, who believed that the magical community should remain forever stuck in its old ways.

“Hermione? Are you okay?” Hannah had asked one Friday night, after Hermione having drunk more wine than she could reasonably handle, tripped over a high chair and landed squarely in Malfoy’s arms.

Hermione scrambled to her feet, cheeks blazing, mumbling at least ten apologies before finally daring to meet his gaze.

“My pleasure, Granger,” he said, voice hoarse.

But she barely heard him, too tipsy to process anything beyond the hungry look in his eyes.

On the first Friday of the year 2000, Hermione arrived at Nott's office ten minutes earlier than usual. When she entered, Theo and Malfoy were already by the fireplace, laughing.

“Granger!” Theo beamed. “Just the witch I needed! Draco’s always been jealous of me and frankly, I can’t trust him. Tell me—how do I look?”

He stepped toward her, arms open theatrically. He was dressed in a sleek black suit that likely cost more than her monthly salary.

“You’re a bit overdressed for the Beard, don’t you think?” she said, sinking into one of the comfortable armchairs in his inexplicably spacious office. She never understood why Theo had such a large office with a fireplace and a small sitting area while she was crammed four floors down sharing a tiny space with two other witches.

"Would you invite me to your house, Granger, for... late night activities?” he asked, winking at her.

Hermione burst out laughing. “Late night activities? You mean sex, Theo?” Malfoy, who’d been silent, was clearly struggling not to laugh. Theo, unfazed, only grinned.

“Exactly what I mean. So? Do I have your blessing?”

“So, you’re not coming with us?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, I've got a date with Angela Hardy from the Department for the Misuse of Magic and there's nothing you can do to stop me from going out with that witch." He looked smug. Angela Hardy had just graduated from Beauxbatons and was one of the most dazzling witches currently working at the Ministry. Hermione was nearly certain she was part Veela.

“Weasley’s not coming?” Malfoy asked, his voice casual.

Hermione shook her head. “She’s at the Burrow. Fleur gave birth a few days ago, and Ginny wanted to spend time with the family. What about Hannah and Neville?”

Malfoy handed Theo the bowl of Floo powder. “They left for Scotland yesterday. Abbott finished packing early, so they went ahead. Looks like it’s just the two of us tonight, Granger,” he added, just as Theo vanished in a swirl of green flame.

A shiver ran down her spine. She tried to ignore it.

When they arrived at the Wizard's Beard that Friday there was no reason to sit at the end table with six seats, since none of their friends were coming. Malfoy led her to a smaller table, tucked into a quiet alcove, away from the noise of the pub. They ordered a bottle of wine, and when he asked about her week at work, Hermione went into detail—perhaps more than necessary—about the new case she was working on. Malfoy listened attentively, rarely interrupting her and asking pertinent questions that helped her refine her ideas. When their wine was finished, he ordered another bottle. And when that one was done, he switched to non-alcoholic beer, knowing that Hermione wasn’t used to drinking.

Time blurred. Hermione would have sworn they'd only been there for an hour or two, but when the bartender flicked the lights off and on, signaling closing time, she glanced at her watch. They’d been at the pub for five hours.

"Are you hungry?" she asked him suddenly, as they walked down the main road towards the Leaky Cauldron.

"I’m starving, Granger!” he said with a grin.

“Do you want to come to my flat? I can make something quick to eat,” she said impulsively. The wine had left her head light, her limbs loose, and even the sharp January cold couldn’t cool the burn rising in her cheeks.

He stared at her, briefly speechless.

And in that moment, she felt foolish. He probably had a dozen house-elves who could whip up whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Why would he settle for her cold sandwiches or overcooked pasta?

“I’d love to,” he said at last.

She only truly believed he meant it when he stepped into the Leaky Cauldron’s fireplace beside her and disappeared in green flame.

Hermione and Ginny rented a small flat near Notting Hill, in a building owned by a Squib. The other inhabitants were all wizards. The flat was small, with just two bedrooms, a bathroom and a tiny living room that was connected to the kitchen. But the girls didn’t need anything more. Ginny was often away, spending most days of the month either out or at Grimmauld Place, so Hermione had grown used to living alone.

Draco Malfoy had been there once before, along with Theo, Harry, Hannah, Neville, and Ron, for a chaotic board game night Ginny had hosted. But back then, the space had been full of laughter and shouting and empty bottles. Now he stood alone in her living room, quietly reading the spines of the books on her shelves. The silence between them felt thick. Charged.

She rummaged through the cupboards, trying not to overthink, and announced that she’d make pasta all’Amatriciana.

"Honestly, Granger, whatever you think is best. Right now, I could eat Lucius’s roasted peacocks and still be hungry."

He helped her set the table and they ate in silence. When they sat on the sofa in the living room, each with a glass of wine in hand, the atmosphere in the small apartment shifted. Something in the air between them had changed. She felt butterflies fluttering in her stomach, her body warming up, a feeling she couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard she tried.

Draco spoke to her about his work, one of the few times he’d ever allowed anyone to know what he really did at the Ministry. With each new piece of information she learned about him, the distance between them seemed to shrink. She could feel the warmth of his presence, and before she knew it, his shoulder was resting against hers. Then Malfoy, who had turned toward her, leaned in, his face only a few centimeters from hers. She could feel his breath on her skin. He’s going to kiss me, she thought, and in that moment, nothing else mattered more than feeling his lips on hers.

“I want to kiss you-" he whispered, and she felt his breath on her skin. Do it, do it, do it. "-but first, there’s something I’ve been putting off for months".

Hermione drew her gaze from his lips, her breath uneven, her hands suddenly cold. She nodded, silently bracing herself.

That night, Draco Malfoy finally apologized for all the mistakes of his past, for all the things he had said and done, and the many he hadn’t. He spoke about everything, not with fear, but with a deep shame that seemed to weigh on him, a weight he could no longer carry in silence. He apologized for his behavior, for the cruel words he had thrown at her, for his actions, and perhaps most importantly, for the things he hadn’t done when he should have. The more he spoke, the more Hermione realized how deeply he had changed in the past two years. The Draco in front of her was nothing like the one she had known. The Malfoy he described, the one from the past, and the Draco sitting before her now, were two completely different people — as if time itself had reshaped him. The war had changed him. He had grown. He had matured in ways she hadn’t expected. He had seen things, learned lessons that she knew would never leave him.

When he finished speaking, he asked her to forgive him, and in that moment, his eyes, those soft gray eyes, seemed to reflect everything he had endured. They were the most beautiful gray she had ever seen.

"I forgave you a long time ago," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath, the weight of the words more than just an acceptance, but an acknowledgment of everything they had both endured.

The moment the words left her mouth, he cupped her face in his hands, his touch tender as he leaned in, his lips gently meeting hers.

This was the first time Draco Malfoy kissed Hermione Granger.

The next day, they went on their first official date at a charming Muggle restaurant tucked away in a quiet corner of London. Hermione felt a flutter deep in her chest as she prepared for the evening—nervous, yet exhilarated in a way she hadn’t experienced in years. Returning to the building where she lived, Draco pulled her gently but firmly against the wall. His lips met hers with a hunger and intensity that stole her breath. That night, sleep refused to come. Every time she closed her eyes, she could still feel the press of his body against hers—the warmth of his hands, the taste of his kiss. It was as if he had left a permanent imprint on her, one she couldn’t shake loose. Her mind raced, her heart still pounding, trying to unravel the whirlwind of emotions swirling within.

By the end of the month, they had shared four more dates. The second time, Draco took her to a private gallery showcasing the work of a French sculptor—an experience Hermione would never forget. The sculptures seemed to breathe beneath the soft light, capturing moments of grace and beauty so profound they left her speechless. Each piece told a story, and in that quiet room, she felt as though time itself had lost its hold. When Hermione mentioned the incredible Greek exhibits at the British Museum, ones Draco had never seen—she couldn’t help but feel a thrill. Those exhibits had always been a passion of hers, and sharing them with Draco felt like a bridge between their worlds, a way to bring him closer to the parts of herself he had yet to discover. She already knew what their third date would be—an invitation for him to see a new side of her, just as she was learning to see new sides of him.

On one of the few warmer days in March, Draco arranged a picnic by the sea, just for the two of them. When they returned to her apartment that evening, Hermione asked him to stay. They lay tangled in bed, exploring each other’s bodies through whispered touches and quiet laughter. Hermione had little experience with men before, but all past encounters were forgotten the moment she melted under his hands. From that night on, he stayed at her flat at least three times a week.

It didn't take long for their friends to figure out what was happening. Theo was the first to find out, and then Hermione told Ginny, Harry, and Ron. The latter two, although they had learned to tolerate Malfoy's presence at their monthly meetings, chose to turn a blind eye to Hermione's relationship with him.

They kept the relationship secret from Draco’s parents and the wider wizarding world. The press was relentless with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, and revealing their connection to Malfoy would have sparked unwanted tension and turmoil. So the months passed quietly, their love flourishing in its own private world—morning kisses in bed, secret glances at the Ministry, stolen dates in the Muggle world, afternoons cooking in her tiny kitchen, and restless evenings in their shared bed.

For his birthday, she bought him a mobile phone, which she was sure he would have shattered into a thousand pieces if it hadn't been a gift from her. Draco wasn’t exactly good with technology.It took him two weeks to master typing messages, most of which were no longer than ten words. But that was enough, because Draco only needed to learn to send three: I love you.

For her birthday, he bought her a necklace featuring the Draco constellation, worth a year's rent. 'To always have me with you, even if I’m not around,' he had told her as he sank into her that night.

Fourteen months after their first kiss, they took their first long vacation together. Hermione had been transferred to the Auror Office as a consultant in the interpretation of ancient runes and the study of rare curses a few weeks earlier, but Robards, her new boss, had granted her leave. So, that July, she found herself swimming in the Aegean Sea, watching the most beautiful sunset she had ever seen.

Their cruise to the Greek islands lasted a week, and if they had asked her what paradise was like, she was sure she would have said it looked like this. They woke up early every morning to watch the sunrise. Their days were filled with walks through the picturesque alleys of the Greek islands, delicious food, swims in the sea, cocktails by the blue waters, dreamy sunsets, and endless nights with their bodies tangled beneath the full moonlight. When they returned, Hermione felt as if she never wanted to leave that paradise.

“We’ll go again,” Draco promised, reading the sadness in her eyes.

“Do you promise?” Her voice was soft, almost childlike. The thought of returning to work after a week of pure joy with him was unbearable.

“I promise you, on the sacred Slytherin House,” he said, placing his hand over his heart, as if swearing a solemn oath.

She patted his shoulder playfully. “I’m serious! When do we go again?”

“When do you want to go?” he asked, eyes glinting with amusement.

“Tomorrow.”

Draco laughed, but when her frown deepened, he leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips.

“Tomorrow’s impossible, my love. Remember, when I first suggested this trip, you wouldn’t even ask your boss.”

Hermione’s frown deepened further.

“Next summer? For a whole month? One week wasn’t enough,” she pressed.

“Next summer. For a month,” he agreed without hesitation.

“And every summer after that?” she asked.

He chuckled softly. “Won’t you grow tired of the same place every year?”

She shook her head firmly.

“Then I promise you,” he said, taking her hand and holding it tight, “we’ll go every summer for the rest of our lives. Just you and me.

A week later, Hannah and Neville visited them and announced that they had secretly married two months ago in a small clearing near Hogsmeade. When Hannah affectionately ran her hand over her belly, the whole group at the table stared in surprise.

“It’s still early, only three and a half months,” Hannah said, her smile radiant.

Ginny eagerly bombarded them with questions about the pregnancy, while Ron and Theo congratulated Neville no less than ten times each.

“A friend from the hospital gave us this book,” Neville said, a mixture of awe and nervousness in his voice. “At three months, the baby is about the size of a tangerine. Can you believe that?” He conjured a small, glowing tangerine, gazing at it before casting a loving glance toward Hannah’s belly.

Later that night, just before they fell asleep, Draco pulled Hermione into his arms and gently stroked her belly.

“Tangerine,” he whispered softly in her ear. “One day, we’ll have a tangerine.” His arms tightened around her, and in the light haze of her sleep, Hermione couldn’t help but agree wholeheartedly.

23.10

“Hermione!” A disheveled Ginny hurried over and sat down next to her at the bar. “Sorry I’m late. The match in Bulgaria was a disaster. I just got back to England an hour ago.”

She was talking so quickly that Hermione had trouble keeping up with her words.

“Oh my God, how are you? Harry said he stopped by the flat and you weren’t feeling well,” Ginny added, her hands cupping Hermione’s face as her brown eyes searched for answers.

Ginny’s expression twisted in concern, and Hermione couldn’t help but wonder what she looked like in that moment—if she looked as broken as she felt.

“Hermione,” Ginny whispered, her voice soft yet filled with urgency. “What happened? Did you talk to him?”

Tears she hadn’t known were there, began to spill down her cheeks, and her voice caught in her throat.

“Gi... Ginny,” she choked out, barely audible.

Without hesitation, Ginny rose and pulled her into a tight, unwavering embrace. “Everything will be okay, Hermione. This can’t be true. Something must have gone wrong.”

A second, louder sob escaped Hermione’s throat, and she buried her face in Ginny’s fiery hair. Several minutes passed like this before Ginny gently pulled away and returned to her seat.

"Please, tell me what happened. Harry was so angry, I didn’t understand half of what he was shouting," Ginny said, her voice filled with concern.

Hermione took a deep breath, her gaze fixed on the necklace with the Draco constellation, which she had been gripping tightly in her right hand since she entered the pub.

“It’s true, Ginny,” she said quietly, the weight of those words almost too heavy to bear.

Her voice faltered as the truth spilled out, and her body trembled with the effort to hold herself together. She gritted her teeth, swallowing the bitter bile rising in her throat.

“Was the Daily Prophet telling the truth?” Ginny asked, voice thick with disbelief.

On Sunday, September ninth, exactly nine days ago, Hermione woke up feeling cheerful. She and Draco had made plans to take a portkey at ten o’clock sharp to the annual Jane Austen festival in Bath. The idea had been his, and when he told her about it, she kissed him so fiercely that she almost threw him off the couch.

“I’m going to believe you love Captain Wentworth more than me, Granger!” he teased her, laughing.

After the festival, for which Hermione had, of course, bought appropriate period clothes for herself and Draco—she was particularly excited to see him in Mr. Darcy's attire—she had made reservations for dinner at a traditional local restaurant with the best reviews in all the travel guides she had looked at. They planned to return to London late that night, and since it was a Sunday, Draco would be staying at her flat, which meant she would spend even more time with him in bed the next morning.

But all her plans for the day were shattered when she saw the cover of Sunday's Daily Prophet that an owl had left on her window. On the front page, in large letters, she read the headline:

"Pureblood Union: Draco Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass to Wed!"

Beneath the shocking headline, a photograph showed Draco holding a woman Hermione recognized from the corridors of Hogwarts, though they'd never exchanged a word. The black-and-white image moved as all magical photographs did, capturing the intimate moment between them. Draco had his arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her close. As she settled against him, he pressed a gentle kiss to her hair, and she beamed at him before offering a smile to the camera. The painful image replayed again and again, and Hermione felt rooted to the spot, unable to tear her eyes away from the intimate moment that pierced her heart with every passing second. Her hands shook as she turned the page, revealing a full feature, complete with photos and quotes from the delighted couple and their beaming parents. Among the pictures, her gaze was drawn to the sparkling, oversized diamond.

“…the engagement ring, symbolizes the love shared by the two young people, was personally chosen by Draco Malfoy for his stunning bride from the Malfoy family vaults. It is a priceless historical heirloom, the diamond of which is imbued with magical protective powers…” Hermione read beneath the caption. “…I adore it, it’s the most beautiful gift Draco has ever given me,” the bride-to-be had said.

The pictures of the couple in various settings—together at the Malfoy Manor garden, in the company of their families, sharing intimate glances—made Hermione's stomach churn. It was as if her entire world had shifted under her feet, and everything she thought she knew about Draco, about them, had crumbled into dust.

The words on the page felt like a cruel joke, her breath caught in her throat as she read snippets from the interview with Astoria. "Draco and I have always understood each other," she said, beaming, "We come from families that value tradition, and our marriage will strengthen both our lineages. It's all very exciting."

Hermione's hand gripped the edge of the paper, her knuckles turning white. Always understood each other. The words felt like a slap. She had been so certain that what she and Draco had was real, that their bond had been built on something meaningful, something more than fleeting passion or the weight of societal expectations. Yet here it was, in the pages of a public newspaper—Draco Malfoy, the man who had once kissed her with such urgency, was planning a life with someone else.

She sat back against the couch, the newspaper still clutched tightly in her hands. The words blurred before her eyes, her emotions a chaotic whirlwind. Why hadn’t he told her? Why hadn’t he said something before it all came to this? But there was nothing, no explanation, no apology.

In another photo, Hermione saw Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, impeccably dressed and wearing satisfied smiles. Standing beside them were the Greengrass couple, wearing similar expressions of contentment. "Speaking on behalf of both my husband and myself, we are overjoyed by the surprise Draco had for us today. There is no greater joy for a mother than to see her child so in love. I am thrilled for both of them and eagerly look forward to seeing them start their own family..." Lady Greengrass said to the camera of the Prophet.

"This wedding will bring even more joy to my family, and for that, I am deeply grateful. Draco and Astoria were truly meant to be together. My son could not have found a more beautiful, kind, and pure soul to love..." Narcissa Malfoy shared with a smile.

The tribute was followed by a dozen more photos of Draco kissing Astoria on the cheek and holding her hands in his. The two of them were in the library of the mansion—the very same library she had longed to visit, and which he had promised her they would explore together someday. Then, they were walking through the gardens, where he had told her he planted a rosebush named Hermione, one that would take root in his home just as she had taken root in his heart.

With a sinking heart, Hermione read through the words, though they barely registered. “A perfect match,” said one of Draco’s family members. “A union that’s been years in the making,” said Astoria’s father. The words blurred as her mind began to swim, and the sense of betrayal stung deeply. It was Draco - who had never told her, never shared that this was the future he had been building all along.

She saw Astoria standing with Narcissa and Lucius, all of them smiling. Draco was shaking hands with Mr. Greengrass. Each of these photos felt like a dagger to her heart. A sharp blade that kept twisting, and Hermione was left bleeding, alone in the living room of her small apartment, clutching a portkey that was supposed to take them to Bath in half an hour.

“…I’ve always wanted a Christmas wedding-” Astoria Greengrass—soon to be Malfoy, said, and Draco Malfoy, standing beside her, nodded in agreement. “…Draco and I love Christmas. We used to spend our Christmas holidays at Malfoy Manor when we were kids.” The Prophet’s microphone then shifted to the next Lord Malfoy. They asked him if he’d been waiting a long time to propose and whether he felt ready to start a family. “I’ve been looking forward to this day. It’s Tori’s birthday, and I couldn’t have chosen a more fitting date. I’ve been ready to marry the woman I love for a long time. I’m overjoyed that my dream is finally coming true.”

Hermione didn’t know when she collapsed to the floor. She didn’t know how much time had passed, or whether she was awake or trapped in some nightmare. When she opened her eyes, the portkey, a worn-out rubber ducky, had vanished. The Daily Prophet was still in her hands, with Astoria Greengrass’ flawless face smiling at her from the cover.

That first day, Hermione sent him four owls. When she received no reply, she sent her silver otter with a plea for him to meet her immediately. When that also went unanswered, she resorted to texting him on his cell phone. And then she called him. Over and over and over again.

Hermione didn’t leave her flat, waiting for him. She lay on the sofa in her living room, her eyes locked on the flickering flames in the fireplace, hoping to catch a glimpse of a face that never materialized. Sleep offered no solace that night.

Monday at work was excruciating. Hermione went to Draco’s office first thing that morning, only to find it empty and silent. At lunch, she sought out Theo, but his secretary—yes, he had a secretary—told her he was away all week on a business trip to Ireland.

A little later, Harry found her crying alone in the bathroom.

“How—how did you know where I was?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. Harry helped her to her feet, gently wiped away her tears, and handed her a cold sandwich from the cafeteria.

“You’re my family, Hermione. I watch over you. I take care of you,” he said softly, guiding her back to his office.

Tuesday and Wednesday dragged by, each minute slower than the last, with no sign of Draco. Every morning and night, she sent him owls, clinging to the hope of a reply. But Thursday came, and when she tried to send her Patronus, the silver otter never appeared. Desperation consumed her, stealing the warmth of any happy memory. That night, Draco’s mobile phone was switched off. By Friday morning, the number was no longer in service.

Ron and Harry frequently checked in on her, with Harry practically becoming her shadow at the Ministry. She did nothing but visit Draco’s office three times a day, leaving him messages each time. His colleagues told her that he had taken time off to enjoy his engagement and that it would be best to leave him be. Hermione ignored them.

On Saturday, Neville appeared at her doorstep, and before she could say anything, she collapsed into his arms, barely managing to whisper a few words.

"I gave him the chance you told me to."

Neville stayed with her on Saturday, offering the quiet comfort Hermione desperately needed. But once he left on Sunday, a simmering anger began to rise, relentless and burning beneath her skin. Angry at Draco. Angry at his silence. She knew he loved her—he had to, right? The way he’d shown it, the small, stolen moments. But why was he treating her like this? Why was he hiding, shutting her out? Did she deserve this? What had she done to earn such cold disregard?The more time passed, the hotter her fury grew. Until, in a wild surge of frustration, she grabbed her quill and wrote a letter. Not to Draco. To Theo Nott, who she was certain would soon return to London.

The letter was blunt, filled with her fury and confusion. She made it clear: if Draco didn't show up after this, she would go to Malfoy Manor herself. She would burn it down if she had to, tear through every inch of it until she found him. She would speak to his parents, his colleagues—anyone—until she knew where he was. Because Hermione Granger did not deserve to be ignored like this. Not by him.

On Sunday night, the flames in her fireplace flickered to life, casting a green glow across the room. Seconds later, Draco was standing in the middle of her living room, impeccably dressed in a black suit, his hair styled to perfection. He looked every bit the image of the pureblood aristocrat he was—gorgeous, serious, and undeniably powerful.

Meanwhile, Hermione stood in stark contrast. She was wearing her old, faded pajamas—the ones he'd always teased her about—and her face was swollen from the days of endless crying. She didn't bother to mask the exhaustion or the pain that was etched into her features. She was a mess, and he, as always, was the picture of perfection.

"You have to stop, Granger," his voice distant, as if the person standing before her wasn’t the man she had known, the one she had loved. His words were sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife.

Hermione’s throat tightened, the sting of his anger slicing through her. “What do you—” she began, voice trembling with hurt and confusion, but he cut her off.

“The messages. The owls. The Patronus. Coming to my office ten times a day, bothering my colleagues,” he spat, irritation lacing every word. “What do you think you’re going to achieve? And now you’re threatening me through Theo? What makes you think you could burn down my house?”

Hermione stood trembling, her body alive with rage, every nerve screaming. Her chest heaved as words poured out in a furious torrent she hadn’t known she possessed. The shock of his coldness had shattered her calm—there was nothing left but raw, blazing frustration.

“You, Draco Malfoy, are standing in my house, lecturing me on manners?” she screamed, voice shaking with all the fire she felt. “You?”

She couldn’t hold back anymore. The feelings of betrayal, confusion, and hurt all mixed into one, bubbling over like a pot left too long on the stove. "I've been trying to talk to you for a week!" she yelled, her voice cracking. "I've been waiting for you to tell me what the hell that damned article in the Prophet means FOR.A.WEEK!" Her eyes were wild now, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts as she tried to make sense of the confusion swirling inside her. "I am expecting an apology! To hear that everything was a mistake! Instead, you dare to yell at me in my own home?"

How dare he?

"I’m waiting for you to assure me that the man who for the last two years has been claiming he loves me, dreaming of his future with me, sleeping and waking up with me in his arms, could never get engaged to another woman I’ve never heard him talk about!" The words spilled out, sharp and bitter, and the pressure in her head intensified, as if the force of her emotions was trying to break free in some way she couldn’t understand.

But Draco stood there, blank-faced, as though her words didn’t matter to him. His expression was almost bored, as though he were watching something trivial unfold in front of him. And it infuriated her. His indifference made everything worse. He wasn’t even listening.

When her voice finally broke, and the words trailed off in the emptiness of the room, Hermione’s heart clenched painfully. She felt her tears threatening to spill, but she held them back. She was not going to break down in front of him. Not like this.

She tried to stand, tried to talk to him rationally. She tried to push aside her anger and tears and despair. She assured him that he could talk to her, that no matter what happened, they could face it together. She promised him that they would find a solution together because so far there was no problem in the world that scared Hermione Granger. But nothing was enough. She wasn't enough.

"Stop," he told her when tears from her frustration, her sadness, her fucking bad luck, had filled her cheeks.

"What the hell happened?" she asked him quietly, her voice trembling, betraying the anger she still tried to hold on to. "What changed?"

"Our relationship had an expiration date," he said, his tone matter-of-fact, like he had already come to terms with it, like he had already given up. "And you know it, Hermione." His eyes seemed to avoid hers, his gaze falling to the floor. "You are a war hero and I am someone the world sees differently. What the hell did you expect? We can't even walk around together in public."

The way he spoke, like it was inevitable, like they had never stood a chance, made her blood run cold. He had never told her this before. Not once had he ever made her feel like she wasn't enough.

"Expiration date?" she repeated, her voice breaking with disbelief. She took a step toward him, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. "What the hell are you talking about?" She reached out instinctively, but he stepped back. Away from her.

The sting of rejection hit harder than anything she had ever felt before, but she refused to let it take over completely.

"I don’t care about your last name, Draco," she said, her voice steady despite the tears that continued to fall. "I thought we were over this. I don’t care about your past, I don’t care about the mistakes you made four years ago, I don’t care what the newspapers write, and I don’t care what people say," she told him, her words raw but unwavering. "I only care about you."

"But that doesn't apply to me," he shouted. "I have other people to care about. What do you expect me to do? Leave my parents? Leave everyone behind? Forget my life? My name? My lineage? There are expectations, Granger. There are rules. I care about what people say, what the purebloods I have to face-."

Hermione's temper flared. "Stop this immediately, because I swear if you even hint that my origin is responsible for all this, I will kill you with my bare hands".

A few minutes passed before either of them spoke.

Finally, it was Draco who broke the silence, his voice cold and distant. "I have to go. Whatever this was between us, it's over for good. This is the last time we're talking about it. Please don't contact me again, unless it's a matter of work. Then I'll be happy to help you in any way I can."

He turned his back and before he could disappear, she spoke.

"You're such a coward," she said, her voice low but sharp enough to cut through the silence. "I really thought you'd changed. That maybe you'd grown up. Found a little courage. But I was wrong. You're still the same—someone who runs the moment things stop being easy.” She felt their happiness flowing through their hands because of his cowardice.

He froze in his place. Slowly, he turned to look at her, and his face was red, from shame or anger, she didn’t know. She hoped it was shame. If she felt that much pain, the least he could feel was shame.

“What happened, Draco? Did they threaten you with disinheritance? Did they withhold your monthly allowance? Did they promise you something else to get you to throw me aside and marry your pureblood doll?” She spoke calmly, without tension, and with a coldness that frightened even her. If Lucius Malfoy had seen her, he might have been proud.

“I wonder if they chose her for you. Was any of what the Prophet wrote true? Surely you don’t love Astoria Greengrass, because I know very well that you love me. Surely you didn’t spend time with her, because you spent all your time with me. So, what happened, Draco? Don’t you think I deserve to at least know?”

A few seconds passed without him speaking, and Hermione thought she would never get the answers she sought. Then she realized it didn’t matter, because, with or without the answers, the result was the same. Draco Malfoy was no longer in her life.

“I had to make a choice, and I made the right one for everyone,” he said simply, stepping into the fireplace. She watched him leave, and with him, he took her heart. Draco Malfoy was no longer in her life—by his choice.

23.45

When she described the events to Ginny, her voice had adopted the same cold tone it had held the day she had first met Draco. Hermione had not seen him since. She had not sent him an owl, nor a Patronus, and she hadn’t set foot in his office again. In fact, she hadn’t gone back to work at all. She had contacted Robards and requested leave for the coming week. She had adjusted the spells on her apartment and barred everyone except Harry and Ron from entering. She hadn’t opened any of the three letters Theo had sent her, and she had burned all the Daily Prophets before they had even touched her windowsill.

"Hermione, something else is going on. Malfoy loves you." Ginny said, her voice full of concern.

Hermione nodded slowly. Yes, Draco loved her. But was that enough? Probably not.

"It doesn’t matter. Love isn’t always enough. He made a decision, and it wasn’t me. I told him I’d help him, that we would fight it together. I could do anything if I knew we were together, but he wasn’t interested."

"Hermione-" Ginny began, her voice gentle, but Hermione cut her off.

"Ginny. He's marrying another woman in three months, by his choice. He threw me out of his life, by his choice. He refused my help," Hermione said, her grip tightening around the necklace in her hands. The edges of the pendant dug into her flesh. "I can fight for anything I believe in, but not for a man who doesn’t want to be with me. For a man who doesn’t want me to fight for him. And he doesn’t want me to."

There was resignation in her voice. Hermione had never given up on anything in her life—never, even when everything seemed hopeless, even when the fear threatened to consume her. She had fought for Harry, for Muggleborns, for her parents. But this? This was different.

Ginny reached across the table and took Hermione’s hands in hers. "We're here, Hermione, and we love you so much. Everything will be okay, I promise," she said, lacing her fingers through Hermione’s. "Now, let’s drink whatever alcohol the Beard has to offer, and tomorrow will be a better day."

She motioned to the barman for two whiskies, and Hermione looked down at her glass, now full, her heart sinking further into sadness.

"There’s one more thing," Hermione said, her voice barely above a whisper, as Ginny downed her drink in one gulp.

"What's that?"

"Yesterday morning, I found out I’m pregnant."

Ginny froze, her eyes wide. In one slow motion, she grabbed the second full glass of whiskey and stared at Hermione, speechless.

The time in the pub was midnight.

00:00.

Happy birthday to her.

Chapter Text

Three days after her birthday, Hermione announced her pregnancy to Harry and Ron. Their reaction was exactly what she had expected. Harry stared at her in shock, while Ron turned so red that, for a moment, Hermione feared he might explode in her living room. Fortunately, Ginny was there to handle them both.

After the initial shock wore off, Harry suggested that Hermione move permanently to Grimmauld Place with him and Ginny.

"Hermione, come and stay with me. The house is huge. You'll have your own room, and we can make modifications to connect it to the baby's room," he said, his gaze shifting to her belly.

The baby. Hermione still wasn’t sure how to feel about it. Her gynecologist had confirmed that she was ten weeks pregnant, which meant she had conceived while she and Draco were on their Greek cruise. The doctor assured her that all her symptoms were normal.

Hermione felt constantly exhausted. Perhaps it was the lingering sadness that always follows a breakup with the love of your life, or perhaps it was just another symptom of pregnancy. Either way, she had never felt the need to sleep so intensely in her life. She slept for over fourteen hours a day, and when she woke, it was usually just to eat something—only to immediately vomit it back up.

“Thank you, Harry, but I’ve thought of a better solution.”

When she told them that she wanted to quit and move abroad, they protested.

“Leaving? How is leaving a better solution, Hermione?” Ron asked.

She didn't want to run away, just as she had accused Draco of doing, but she wasn't alone anymore. She had to worry about the life growing inside her.

"Ron, I can’t stay here. Not while he’s here. He’s getting married in three months, and I’m even invited to his wedding!" She pointed toward the window. Earlier that morning, an owl had arrived carrying a large silver envelope. As soon as she realized it was the wedding invitation, she set it on fire and swept away the ashes. Harry had received a similar one the day before.

"People will expect me to attend this wedding, and that’s something I will not force myself to endure." Hermione’s voice was firm. "What if they find out I’m pregnant? I can’t keep it a secret forever! You know the press will go wild. By the time I give birth, he’ll be married. He might even be expecting a child himself! What if they discover my newborn is Draco Malfoy’s illegitimate child? In the unlikely event that the baby is not born with blond hair and gray eyes, he will know the truth. And his family will find out immediately. How will the Malfoys react to a half-blood grandchild? This baby is innocent, and I am responsible for it. I have to protect it, and I don’t know how to do that when I don’t even know how to protect myself from his presence here in England."

With a heavy heart, Hermione decided to extend her leave for another week and started looking for job opportunities abroad. Her first choices were America and Australia. Her parents still lived in Sydney, and though their relationship wasn’t as close as it once had been, Hermione believed that if she moved to the same country as them, the warmth she had once felt for them might return.

When she received a reply from the Australian Ministry of Magic with job offers that aligned with her wishes, she decided to call her parents to inform them of her plans.

"I'm going to start at the Australian Department of International Magical Co-operation. The salary is good, and they assured me I don’t have to start immediately, so I’ll have time to inform Robards and prepare my replacement," she told Ron and Harry two days later.

She returned to the office on October 1, after two weeks of leave. The first thing she did was make an appointment with Robards' secretary. She met him after lunch and handed him her resignation. Robards was surprised and tried to change her mind, but it was useless. She asked him, as a personal favor, to keep her resignation a secret from those who didn’t need to know about it. When he looked at her strangely, she lied to him. She told him she didn’t want the press to assume she was leaving because of problems with the Ministry. In reality, she didn’t want Draco and his family to suspect anything—at least not until an ocean lay between them.

She crossed paths with Draco in the corridors, in the Atrium, and once in the elevator to the Auror’s office. She never looked at him for more than half a second, just long enough to confirm it was him. He never spoke to her. They weren’t even acquaintances anymore. They were strangers.

She saw Theo more often, mainly because she constantly found him waiting for her in her office. She spoke very little to him, answering his questions in monosyllables and avoiding his gaze. Every time she looked into his eyes, she saw sadness, and she couldn’t handle other people's emotions when her own were on the verge of drowning her.

As the date for her last day at the Ministry approached, the more exhausted she felt. Ginny had now moved permanently to Grimmauld Place, and Hermione had signed the lease for their small flat, which carried so many memories. One Friday, she visited her doctor. He informed her that the baby would soon be the size of a tangerine. That night, she cried nonstop in the bathroom of her flat. Ginny found her hours later, lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

From that moment on, she referred to her baby as her “tangerine.”

She visited Molly and the Weasleys at the Burrow to say goodbye. They didn’t know about Draco, but they knew about the baby, and Hermione assumed each of them had made up a different story in their heads about why she was running away. Molly cried when they said goodbye, and Hermione couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t bear other people’s tears because she hadn’t been able to stop her own for the past month.

Ron had been acting strangely until one day, perhaps it was the pregnancy hormones or just her, but she got annoyed and asked him what the hell was going on. He confessed that he and George were thinking of opening a branch of the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes overseas.

“We were thinking about America, but Australia’s also a good option. We’ve done some research, and we both think the prospects are good. George will run the shop in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade, and I’ll take over the one in Sydney,” he told her.

Hermione cried again on his shoulder, her tears not stopping for hours after he told her that he had left her once, five years ago, and had sworn he would never do it again.

A week before November 6th, which was officially her last day at work, Hermione went to the Auror’s conference room for the monthly briefing. Representatives from three different offices were there. He was there too.

When she entered the conference room, he was already sitting in the front row. She stood as far away from him as she could, but when it was her turn to speak, she had to move to the front—and he was right there, directly in front of her. She could feel his gaze on her, like lightning striking her repeatedly, burning her from the inside.

As she talked about the new funds her department needed, she wondered if, by looking at her, he could tell that his child was growing inside her. Hermione was only four months pregnant, and her belly wasn’t visible yet. She had lost five pounds in a month, and although she’d cast beauty spells on her face, those who knew her could still see her puffy eyes and pale skin. Harry definitely could—that’s why he didn’t let her out of his sight. He was in the room, his gaze filled with the brotherly love they shared. For a brief moment, she forgot her pain, forgot the blond man, and smiled at her friend, trying to show him that she was okay. That she was holding on. That she was strong. That he didn’t have to worry about her.

The room slowly emptied, and Hermione picked up her folder. Suddenly, she felt her legs weaken, unable to support her weight. She grabbed the edge of the table, but her grip wasn’t strong enough, and she started to fall. Fall, fall, fall—until strong hands caught her and held her steady. For a second, she imagined it was Draco’s hands that saved her, but no. She smelled Harry’s cologne and knew that, once again, it was him. As he always did, he’d come to her rescue. Hermione was saving Harry, and Harry was saving Hermione.

"Come on, Hermione. You need to rest. I’ll take you home," he whispered in her ear. But all she could hear was her name, spoken by the wizard in the front row of the conference room. She dared to look at him after a month. The last time she had seen him, he rejected her. Now, he was looking at her fearfully, constantly repeating her name and asking Harry if she was okay. Hermione closed her eyes and savored the sound of his voice saying her name—her real name, and not her surname. This might be the last time I hear his voice, she thought and it was fine. She was fine.

Her last day at the office passed quickly. Hermione didn’t say goodbye to anyone. She was clearing her desk of the few personal belongings she had when Theo asked her to go to lunch.

"Where are you going?"

"Nowhere, Theo. They're finally giving me a bigger office. With a fireplace," she joked.

Lies. All lies. She refused his offer to have lunch together, and she knew she had hurt him. He had been trying to talk to her for weeks, but she had been avoiding him. Maybe she was a coward after all. But it wasn’t cowardice that made her do it. She was just tired. Exhausted. She couldn’t face Draco’s best friend at that moment. She promised him they would have lunch the next day, and he seemed to believe her. Too bad, because that was also a lie. Tomorrow, Hermione would be on another continent.

Her parents lived in a suburb of Sydney in a two-story house with a small garden, where her mother had placed an outdoor rocking chair and a small table. The house had three bedrooms, and although she and Ron had already contacted the hotel the Australian Ministry had booked for them, her parents insisted they stay with them.

Helen and Richard Granger took the news of their daughter’s pregnancy positively. They weren’t thrilled about the idea of their child becoming a single mother and threw many pointed glances in Ron’s direction, until Hermione assured them that Ron was not the father of her child.

They stayed at the Granger house for two weeks.

Ron suggested they move in together for a few months.

"I can look after you while you're pregnant, Hermione, and help with the baby when the time comes," he had told her, but she refused. Ron shouldn’t have to put his life on hold because of her. He needed his own space and the chance to build his life. In the end, they found two flats, each within fifteen minutes of the other, that suited them just fine.

Her new job was interesting, but she found her colleagues even more intriguing. Her boss, Elizabeth Austen, was a woman in her fifties who reminded Hermione quite a bit of Molly Weasley, but without the children. She was strict, yet kind-hearted and loving. When she learned that Hermione was pregnant, she smiled at her. The next day, she brought her a dozen baby clothes that she had knitted years ago for her own grandson, who lived in America.

On December 24th, Hermione visited her new gynecologist. The doctor announced that the tangerine was a girl, and her heart filled with so much love that her cheeks hurt from smiling. When she told Ron, he lifted her into his arms, and within the next half hour, he had written down at least one hundred female names that would suit a tangerine.

That evening, they fire called Grimmauld Place to inform Harry and Ginny of the baby’s gender, but no one answered. It wasn’t until later, when Hermione lay in bed, that she realized the reason. December 24th was Draco’s wedding to Astoria, and Harry had been invited.

As the months passed, her body changed. She grew bigger. The only thing that stayed the same was her tendency to cry at the slightest thing. She wondered if she would ever be able to get rid of the packs of tissues she always carried with her now.

Ron was always there, and when Hermione stopped working in her eighth month of pregnancy, Ron was there too. In the last month, she had moved back into the Grangers’ house at her mother’s request.

"I want to take care of you, my child. You and tangerine," her mother had said one morning as they walked. The only things she did back then, were eat and walk. The crying had finally stopped, and for that, she was grateful.

Tangerine came into the world on May 1, 2002—exactly four years after the Battle of Hogwarts. While the magical castle celebrated the end of the war and honored the fallen, her daughter was screaming in the Muggle maternity ward. Hermione looked exhausted at Ron, who was beside her, holding her hand.

She named her child after one of the Pleiades, the seven sisters who, according to Greek mythology, became stars to protect themselves from the gods. Maia Jane Granger was born with a small brown tuft of hair on her head and the most beautiful gray eyes Hermione had not seen in five months.

Chapter Text

Maia was a lovely and easy baby. She slept through the night, only whining when she was hungry or needed her diaper changed. Hermione stayed with her parents until Maia was two months old. When they returned to her flat, the little cot was set up next to her bed. The flat had a second room set aside for the baby, but Hermione couldn't bear to be separated from her daughter.

The first time Harry met Maia, was six months after she was born. Her thick hair had grown, and her brown curls—just like her mother's—made her even more adorable. Harry stared at her, spellbound.

"She's the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen, Hermione. She's just like you," he had told her.

It was true. Maia was a small version of herself, except for her eyes. She had inherited those from her father. Maia moved in Harry's arms and tried to grab his glasses from his nose. When she managed to do so, a small laugh escaped her pink lips, and Hermione knew that, at that moment, Ginny and Harry were completely captivated by the charm of a baby. She could almost see the longing in their eyes to start a family of their own.

When they called her a month later to tell her they had secretly married at London City Hall, much to Molly’s utter horror, she was not at all surprised. And when, nine months later, Ginny gave birth to their first child—a baby boy they named James—Hermione made Ron swear that, when he returned from England, he would bring her as many photographs as he could take.

Hermione was on maternity leave for seven months. She missed her job, but her routine with the baby made her so happy that she didn’t want to return even a day earlier than necessary. Her colleagues welcomed her back with understanding and tried to help her acclimate as quickly as possible. On the rare occasions when her parents or Ron weren’t available to watch Maia, Hermione would bring her along to the office, either wrapped against her chest or sleeping in a pram next to her desk.

Everyone adored Maia. There was always someone offering to hold her—someone gently rocking her in their arms or humming to her as she gurgled contentedly. And Hermione, despite the tiredness and the constant effort to keep everything together, felt calmer than ever.

For her first birthday, they held a party in the backyard of her parents' house. Harry and Ginny, due to their busy schedules and Ginny’s pregnancy, hadn’t been able to come. But George, who had happened to visit his brother, arrived at the party holding fifteen different magical fireworks in his hand, which Hermione's father had been eyeing all day. In addition to her parents, George, and Ron, the party was also attended by Ron’s girlfriend, Roxanne.

Roxanne worked in the Quidditch shop, right next to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes on King George Street, the main magical street in Sydney. Ron had asked her out about four months ago, and Hermione was glad to see her friend happy. Her only small problem was that Roxanne disliked her, and she couldn’t really blame her for that.

Ron was a wonderful man, but unfortunately, he didn’t understand that his close relationship with Hermione made his partner jealous. He had often changed his plans with Roxanne to help Hermione and, even more frequently, had forgotten Roxanne’s presence when he was holding Maia. So, although Roxanne was kind to everyone else, she was always sour and angry whenever the Granger girls were around. There were times when Hermione tried to pull away from Ron, giving them more space to develop their relationship, but when Ron realized what she was doing, he got angry with her.

“ Hermione, we’ve been friends since we were eleven. If my girlfriend can’t accept that there are other important people in my life, then this relationship isn’t going to last.”

One month later, they broke up.

Ron continued to date witches he met during his nights out with Marcus and John, two friends he'd made at a Quidditch match. Marcus was, according to Ron, the funniest person he’d ever met—a big compliment, considering the brothers he’d grown up with. Eventually, Marcus landed a job at Ron’s shop.

John, on the other hand, worked at the Ministry of Magic in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. When Maia turned one, Ron, in his awkward way, tried to set up a date between him and Hermione. But Hermione didn’t go on dates. She had become so absorbed in her baby and her work that when anyone flirted with her, she either didn’t notice or didn’t respond.

“Hermione, it’s been almost two years since we came to Sydney, and you haven’t gone on a single date,” he had said to her one day.

“I don’t need anyone, Ron,” she replied, as she always did. “Maia is still young and needs all my attention.”

Ron let out an exaggerated sigh. “Maia is growing up beautifully, and she’ll continue to grow whether you go on a date or keep collecting cobwebs.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “I have everyone I need in my life.”

“I know. You’ve got me, your parents, Harry and Ginny. But wouldn’t it be nice to have someone for the more… intimate things? Someone to sleep and wake up with? Someone who isn’t a year old and doesn’t wear a diaper when they’re lying next to you?”

Yes, that would be nice, she thought. But then the thought was quickly replaced by blond hair and long white fingers. She shoved it aside immediately.

***

One Monday in September 2003, as she emerged from the fireplace closest to her office, she was confronted by utter chaos. Everyone in the Ministry was running or shouting. Hundreds of folded papers in the shape of kangaroos were flying in all directions, and the only word she could make out amid the commotion was "Quidditch."

“Matthews, what’s going on?” she shouted toward an intern who had started working as an assistant in her department just two weeks earlier. Matthews barely managed to duck before a paper kangaroo hit him on the head.

“We’re hosting the Quidditch World Cup! Australia will host the group stages and the final this December! Miss Granger, you’ll be on the organizing committee as a representative of the Department of International Magical Co-operation. I’ve been told to take you to Jackson's office immediately!”

WHAT? She thought in horror. Quidditch?

“Miss Granger! The World Championship! In Australia!” he said breathlessly. “Who would have thought!”

Hermione hated Quidditch. But more than Quidditch, she hated those who talked about the sport all the time. And unfortunately, she spent her entire September at the Ministry surrounded by wizards and witches who talked only about it.

Organizing a championship of this size, with such a large audience, was no easy feat—especially when it all had to happen under the noses of ten million muggles. She started working overtime, coming home only after Maia had gone to bed. Ron, her mother or father was always lounging on her little sofa in front of the television.

“Ron, I’m sorry, I promise I won’t be so late again,” she said to him for the second time that week. Ron didn’t seem bothered. All he cared about was that Hermione had already booked tickets for all the matches before the pre-sale even started.

In early October, representatives from the eleven countries participating in the championship began to arrive at the Ministry. The committees from each country had to agree on the location, the schedule, the ticketing, the groups, and cooperate with the Department of Magical Transportation to ensure fans from each country could reach Australian soil safely. In addition to Australia, the United States, Japan, Brazil, Ireland, Poland, Romania, Spain, Kazakhstan, Kenya, and England would be part of the championship this time.

The first meeting with the representatives would take place in the largest conference room available at the Ministry, on the twelfth floor of the skyscraper where its offices were located. Hermione entered the conference room cheerfully, despite her fatigue. Maia had started talking that month, and her favorite phrase was “Mummy, what’s dis?” with "this" referring to anything in front of her. Hermione had spent the night before explaining the purpose of the electrical appliances in her kitchen.

The room was packed. There were eleven committees, each consisting of three people. The Australian committee, as the host country, consisted of ten people, with Hermione being one of them. That meant there were forty-three people in the room at the moment, which was why she took a moment to notice him.

“Hermione?”

She stopped talking to the Kenyan committee.

Theo Nott was standing in front of her, looking exactly the same as the last time she had seen him. He was staring at her in shock, and she was sure her own surprise was much worse. He was still handsome, wearing a dark blue suit and his cloak. His hair had grown a little longer, and his curls were much more visible now. His smile, combined with the sparkle in his blue eyes, made her feel like a child who had just been caught doing something naughty.

“Theodore,” she finally said, her voice shriller than she would have liked.

“Please don’t call me Theodore. I’ve thrown butterbeer on your shoe, I went to that Titanic movie with you, and I didn’t tell anyone that you ruined my jacket with your snot and tears. I think we’re past ‘Theodore,’ Hermione.” He tried to sound calm, but Hermione could hear the stress in his voice.

Every day until December 1st, when the championship officially began with the first qualifying round, the committee leaders, along with some additional members, were required to meet to discuss the organization's procedures. This meant that for the entire months of October and November, Hermione would not be able to avoid Theo Nott.

“So, Sydney? Have you been here all this time?” he asked after a few days during a break. He spoke to her every day. Sometimes, he invited her to dinner, and other times, he simply asked her opinion on the best place for street food in the city. Hermione tried to appear as indifferent as possible and always found silly excuses to avoid him.

“Sydney is a beautiful city.”

When he realized she wasn’t going to give him a more satisfactory answer, he continued speaking.

“You left so suddenly. I was waiting for you to go to lunch, you know. I waited every day for that first week, until Robards took pity on me and told me that you had resigned,” he said quietly, his head bowed.

“I’m sorry, Theo,” she said kindly this time. “I did what was best for everyone,” was all she could say. Surprised, she saw him shake his head with a bitter smile.

“I’ve heard that phrase so many times over the years that I doubt people know what’s good for those around them. Some don’t even know what’s good for themselves.”

Hermione didn’t analyze his words or his sad expression any further. She looked around, hoping someone would come to rescue her from the conversation, but no one was paying attention.

“Did you keep in contact with the others?” he asked suddenly. His voice betrayed his sadness. “With Hannah, Longbottom, Weasley?” He very strategically left his name off the list.

“With Ginny, yes, very often. She and Harry have visited me a few times. I talk to Neville and Hannah once every few months on fire calls, but they don’t have much time with their jobs and Mikey.” Not that she had much time with the stupid Quidditch tournament and an eighteen-month-old baby wanting to know what a microwave was.

Theo had stopped talking to their Hogwarts friends. She didn’t know much, since she never really heard news of him and Theo while she was in Sydney. It was a deal she had made with Ginny and Harry. None of them spoke to her about them, and she never asked. But at one point, in a call, Neville and Hannah had told her that they’d seen Theo in London. “Of course, none of us have kept in touch with him. He ignored us, and so did we.”

Hermione was saddened to hear this and asked them why. “Theo came to our house a few days after you disappeared. He asked if we knew where you had gone. We obviously had no idea at the time, and we told him so. He then started to justify Malfoy’s behavior, trying to make us understand why he did what he did. There was no way I was going to tolerate that in my house. We had a really bad fight, and he left.”

Hermione had expected Theo to always take Malfoy’s side. They were both only children and had grown up together. They were practically brothers, and just as Hermione would always support Harry, Theo would do the same for Malfoy.

“I’m glad you kept in touch with them. I wouldn’t want you to be alone.”

“I was never alone, Theo. My parents are with me. Ron is always with me. He came to Sydney for me. Harry and Ginny are my family. The Weasleys are my family,” she said, but the most important of all was Maia. No, she was not alone.

Theo then looked at her even more intensely. “I could have been by your side, Hermione, if you would have let me. You didn’t even give me the chance. I’m not that stupid, you know. He is my brother but I know he treated you badly. I know he hurt you—”

She raised her hand in front of him. “Theo Nott, I’m going to stop you right here. I don’t feel like listening to this. Forgive me, but I think the others are ready to go,” she told him and disappeared back into the room.

Theo Nott never tried to speak to her again for the rest of the month.

Not long after he withdrew, another man began to take an interest in her. Manuel Golim represented the Brazilian participation. He was a former Quidditch player, who had retired about a year ago due to a serious injury to his right hand, which had unfortunately cost him a brilliant sports career. Manuel was thirty-one, tall, with tousled dark hair, a neat stubble, and piercing blue eyes. His strong jaw line and perfect smile only added to his charm. He was the very definition of a dream, physically sculpted into a one-hundred-and-ninety-centimeter frame that could stop anyone in their tracks. His voice carried a unique accent, one that Hermione found oddly endearing, and it made her smile every time he spoke.

The first time she spoke to him was when Jackson organized a small lunch at a famous restaurant in the magical district of Sydney. Manuel sat next to her, and they ended up talking about everything except Quidditch all night. It was a great relief for her not to have to pretend to share the others' enthusiasm for every tiny detail of the sport.

A few days later, he found her in the conference room, two coffees in hand. From that day on, and every day after, he brought her coffee. During their conversations, she learned that he loved the sea, enjoyed the heat, hated sweets, adored suits because, as he put it, he had spent so much of his life in sportswear, and could eat three times as much pizza as the average man. Hermione laughed at his jokes, and every time she had to return to her office to deal with the work waiting for her, she found herself wishing she could stay in the conference room for just ten minutes longer.

In the third week of October, he asked her out on a date. She froze in her seat, partly because he suddenly said it to her, as if it were something normal, something people often do, and partly because she wanted to go out with him but didn't know if it was right. Manuel didn’t know about Maia.

"And what did you say to him?" Ginny asked her that night through the fireplace.

Hermione hadn't answered him. Not clearly at least, and she felt bad not only for her indecision but also for her cowardice.

"Let me get this straight, you're telling me that an attractive man, well-dressed with humor and available, asked you out on a date after I don't know how many years it's been since a man's hand touched you, and you avoided answering? Hermione, should I come over there and slap some sense into you?"

Yes, Ginny was right, but the problem wasn’t that simple. The last man to touch her had been him. The thought of kissing someone else, of letting someone else caress her body, made her feel as though she was betraying everything she had ever felt for him. She knew there was no reason to feel that way, especially since it had been two whole years. She was sure that Draco didn’t harbor such thoughts when he touched his wife. But sometimes, Hermione didn’t think with her head. Taking the step of opening her heart—or what little was left of it—to someone else again terrified her.

"Hermione, you don’t have to marry him. You don’t even have to fall in love with him. I know you’ve forgotten how it works, but there’s something called sex, and you need it desperately. Trust me." Ginny’s face then disappeared from the fireplace for a moment, and Hermione heard the newborn James screaming in the background.

"Sorry, Hermione, James has been having a rough few days," Harry’s head appeared in the fireplace. Even through the flames, she could see how exhausted he looked. "Are you ready for the tournament over there? We're thinking of coming to the semi-finals, depending on whether England qualifies this year." Hermione assured him that, thanks to her position, she had managed to secure tickets for all of them.

"Hermione," Ginny’s head popped up next to Harry’s, her expression determined. "Do yourself a favor, please. It's just a date. Don't make me come over there and threaten you with curses. It’s just a date."

One date turned into two, then three, and by the end of the month, Hermione had begun to believe that there was nothing more thrilling than sex. More specifically, sex with Manuel.

The first time he cornered her in the alley behind the restaurant where they had dined, she didn't expect it to come to sex, but Manuel had absolutely no inhibitions when it came to his sexual encounters. He took her on her feet, quickly and impatiently, while he had her pinned to the window of a closed electrical store. Hermione hoped the store didn't have recording cameras.

After that first time, they had sex on every surface in his hotel room. And when the Grangers agreed to keep little Maia for the weekend, Manuel went to her house and at last Hermione lay in her bed with someone other than her daughter, and cried his name over and over again, as he held her down to the mattress and pressed his face between her legs.

When December came and they no longer had any reason to meet at the Ministry - where he had also taken her three times, much to her embarrassment - she thought their contact would diminish, but she was wrong. Manuel continued to bring her coffee, even though he had absolutely no reason to be at the Ministry so early in the morning.

One afternoon, he asked to meet her daughter. Maia, still too young to understand the nature of her mother's relationship with the young man, was the sweetest toddler in her arms. They enjoyed their ice cream at a shop called "One Hundred and One Magical Flavors." When Manuel tried to hug and kiss Hermione, Maia whimpered, and after a while, she started crying.

"I'm afraid my daughter doesn't like sharing me," She told him with a laugh. Maia wasn’t happy when anyone tried to take her mother's attention away from her—whether it was Ron, Manuel, or another child. This possessiveness was the second thing she inherited from his genes.

On December 20th, Manuel had made her orgasm four times in just two hours, all because Brazil had made it to the final of the championship, which was to be held on Christmas Eve at the most impressive Quidditch pitch ever built. The final was between Brazil and Ireland, and while Harry was disappointed that England hadn't made it, when Hermione told him that Manuel had secured tickets for him, Ginny, Ron, Jacqueline—Ron’s new girlfriend—and herself in the official Brazil box, Harry let out an excited squeal.

Their portkey arrived in Australia on December 22nd. That same evening, Manuel visited them at her house to meet her childhood friends.

"Hermione, are you kidding me? This is the sexiest man I've ever seen!" Ginny squealed as they went into the kitchen to fetch more glasses for the table. "You were hesitant to go out with HIM? HIM?" She made a dramatic motion, as if about to faint. "Merlin, why am I even married? I'm sure this guy could teach me all about sex from scratch."

Hermione burst out laughing at her friend's reaction. Ginny, who was four months pregnant with her second child, had been absolutely smitten with Harry for the past ten years.

That evening, just before her friends were about to leave, Harry pulled her aside.

"You look better, Hermione. You look happy. I'd forgotten what it's like to see you happy."

She smiled at him. "Thank you, Harry. The truth is, I'm doing well."

"Is it because of Manuel?" he asked.

Surely the presence of a sexy man who made her feel beautiful and desired helped, but it wasn’t just that. It had been two years since she left London. As cliché as it sounded, time and distance away from England had helped her. Raising Maia and being her mother helped too. Her child was the greatest source of love and happiness. Although there were many difficult moments, every smile, every hug, every new word Maia learned filled her heart and gave meaning to her daily life.

Furthermore, her job at the Ministry provided her with financial independence and autonomy. In a country where Hermione Granger was, for the first time in her adult life, not the Golden Girl, she had managed to stand on her own two feet, to stand out, and that made her proud. She wasn’t dependent on anyone. She had the ability to raise her child the way she wanted, to work, to grow, to dream, and to make plans for her future.

Yes, Hermione could, for the first time in many months, say that she was satisfied with all aspects of her life.

"No, Harry. Manuel has helped, but it’s temporary. The championship will end soon, and he’ll go back to Brazil. My peace of mind doesn’t depend on him. Work is great, aside from this miserable championship. And Maia is a wonderful little girl who makes me want to rush home every day and hold her in my arms."

Harry gave her a skeptical look. "I’m really happy for you. Are you sure you and Manuel aren’t taking it seriously? What will happen if he wants to continue after the championship? Have you thought about that?"

Yes, she had thought about it. Yes, she would like to try a relationship with him, but no, she wouldn’t do a long-distance relationship with anyone at this point. And if Manuel wasn’t willing to stay in Australia, all these thoughts were unnecessary because she wasn’t going to change continents again.

That night, after Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Jacqueline had left, Hermione placed Maia in her crib, which had now been moved into the empty room. An hour later Manuel threw her on the bed and taught her everything about sex from scratch.

The Quidditch final was filled with noise, singing, shouting, and complaints from the fans of both teams. Even Hermione, who had declared herself completely uninterested in the sport, felt every moment of the match intensely, swept up in the magical atmosphere the fans had created. They were seated in the largest box in the entire stadium, in the front row with the best view of the game. Manuel, sitting next to her, wore a tight blue suit that perfectly highlighted his toned body, causing the women around them to stare at him every chance they got. On his right cheek, he had painted the colors of the Brazilian flag. When Hermione had seen him earlier that day, she had laughed so hard that he ended up laying her on the bed and painting the same colors on parts of her body no one else could see.

Harry and Ron, secretly supporting Ireland, celebrated discreetly with each new goal. When the Brazilian seeker caught the golden snitch and ended the match with a score of 430-300, no one could see the disappointment on their faces because everyone in their box was cheering with excitement. When Steve Jackson presented the medals to the Brazilian players and the cup to their captain, the stadium shook with applause.

"That was a great match!" Ron said enthusiastically, even after Ireland's defeat.

They had waited patiently in their box for most of the crowd to clear, so by the time they reached the exit, the corridors were only filled with a few fans walking toward the signs, not in a hurry. Manuel draped his arm over her shoulder, and they headed for the stairs. They needed to go down to the ground floor to reach the designated spot to apparate to her house. Hermione had left Maia with her parents for the night, so she was planning to suggest that Manuel spend the night at her place.

Before she could say so, a voice stopped her in her tracks.

"Potter."

Her heart pounded as though she had run a marathon. She felt her whole body shake, and she was sure that if Manuel’s arm hadn’t been around her, she would have fainted on the spot. She knew that voice so well. She had heard it countless times before, yet she had convinced herself that she would never hear it again. After all, it was impossible to run into him again, right? She had made sure of that. She had changed continents to escape him. But no matter what she had done, it wasn't enough, because at that very moment, Draco Malfoy stood before her, and next to him was his wife. His pregnant wife.

Hermione immediately felt Ron’s presence beside her, with Jacqueline in his other arm. Harry and Ginny were walking a few feet behind them, so she couldn’t see their reaction, but from Harry’s voice, she knew he hadn’t expected to see the Malfoys here today.

"Malfoy, I thought you didn’t get tickets," Harry said.

Draco smiled that wry smile, and Hermione quickly looked away—anywhere but at his face. God, he is gorgeous, she thought bitterly. And it was the absolute truth. He was wearing a black suit tailored perfectly to his body. His shirt was white, and his tie was green with subtle gold threads running through it. His hair had grown slightly longer and curled just around his ears. He stood tall, proud, fully aware of his heritage—impeccable, just like his equally impeccable wife. A true descendant of Lucius Malfoy.

"After all these years, Potter, you should know that when I want something, I get it—even if it means spending a few hundred extra galleons," he replied, causing his wife to laugh softly. His wife. His pureblood, beautiful, pregnant wife.

Though Hermione couldn't see Harry's face, she was sure he was rolling his eyes. She lifted her head again, and it felt twenty pounds heavier than usual. Malfoy was staring at her. First at her, then at the man beside her, still grinning, caught up in the euphoria of his country’s victory.

Harry cleared his throat. "Let me introduce you. This is Jacqueline Delacroix. She works in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures at the Australian Ministry. And Manuel Golim. Manuel is the head of the Brazilian Committee for the championship. Jacqueline, Manuel, Malfoy works with me as a researcher in the Aurors Department at the British Ministry. Astoria Malfoy is his wife."

A researcher in the Aurors Department? Did Malfoy work with Harry? Were they friends? Harry had never mentioned it to her, never even uttered his name, sticking to the unspoken agreement they'd made when she left England.

"It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Congratulations on your victory today," Astoria said, extending her hand to Manuel, who briefly left Hermione's side to kiss it. Without his support, she felt fragile, like a small twig in the wind.

"Miss Granger, is it?" Astoria continued when Manuel returned to her side. "I’ve never had the pleasure of properly introducing myself. Of course I know you; the British press often speaks of you. Your disappearance was front-page news for weeks. The only reason they stopped speculating about your whereabouts was because of my marriage to Draco, which kept them occupied for over four months." She smiled at her husband and, like Malfoy earlier, scanned Hermione from head to toe.

Hermione was wearing a light blue summer dress and low heels, which she had enchanted with at least three different spells to make them more comfortable. December in Australia meant summer, with temperatures reaching thirty two degrees Celsius. She was in no way prepared to walk around in the summer witch attire, as Astoria did. Instead, Hermione opted for her comfortable muggle clothes. Being muggleborn, she didn’t care much for the expectations around attire. To her, her choices were perfectly elegant, fitting both her position at the Ministry and the event at hand.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Malfoy," she said, trying not to break her voice when she called her by his last name. She couldn’t help but wonder if Astoria knew about her history with Draco. Had he confided in his wife that, before her, he had been involved with a muggleborn? Or would such a revelation shatter the delicate bubble of pureblood supremacy Astoria had spent her life nurturing?

"I'm also quite relieved to be away from the constant prying eyes of the British press," Hermione added, her words sharp but calculated. "With each passing day, I grow more convinced that they are preoccupied with petty scandals and trivialities, rather than addressing the real and pressing issues facing our magical world."

She watched as Astoria's eyes flashed with barely concealed surprise at the veiled insult, and in that moment, Hermione could almost see the wheels turning in her mind, calculating how to respond.

Meanwhile, Ron subtly shifted a little closer to her, his presence a silent but firm promise of support. I’m here, he seemed to say, and everything will be fine.

"Mrs. Potter, Draco mentioned the baby is a boy, correct?"

Ginny, who had been standing motionless next to Harry until that moment, gave a small nod of agreement. Harry, eager to speak for her, quickly interjected.

"Yes, it's a boy. A Slytherin, I'd wager, judging by the way he's already giving his poor mother a hard time from the inside."

"Then perhaps Hogwarts will indeed see a Potter and a Malfoy in friendly company one day," Draco remarked, his voice light but with a hint of something deeper beneath the surface.

Hermione watched as he gazed down at his wife’s growing belly with tenderness, and a sharp pang of longing and sorrow shot through her chest. Inside her own body, once, his first child had grown—the child he would never get to see, the daughter he would never know. Her heart ached as she remembered the tiny life that had once been, the little girl who would never know the kind of adoration Draco was now lavishing on another woman's unborn child. Her daughter, the most beautiful baby she had ever known, would never feel the warmth of a father’s love the way Draco was now looking at Astoria's belly. The hollow emptiness of it all gripped her heart.

"So it's a boy?" Harry asked.

Draco nodded, and for the first time in Hermione's life, she saw him so genuinely happy. He was positively glowing with joy at the thought of his unborn son. He had created his own family without her, and now he was content. She couldn't understand why she had ever thought he'd be miserable in his marriage. Did she expect him to be unhappy? To resent the wife his father had chosen for him? That he would never share a bed with her and live a life of celibacy?

"Yes. I knew from the start," Draco replied, his voice brimming with pride.

God, he was so proud of his son. He was waiting for him eagerly, full of anticipation and joy. And yet, in her life, there was a little girl, only a year and a half old, with eyes that mirrored his. Hermione could hardly breathe. The thought of it made her stomach churn with the sharpest pang of bitterness.

Draco and Harry continued to talk animatedly about their sons. Hermione, however, found herself lost in a maze of thoughts, wondering how their lives would unfold. When their babies were born, would they arrange playdates while the parents sipped coffee and shared lazy conversations in the garden of Grimmauld Place? Would Harry and Ginny one day take their children to Malfoy Manor, where Draco's son would play Quidditch in the sprawling grounds with them, surrounded by the grandeur of the estate?

The image of these moments, so idyllic, caused a strange and unfamiliar weight to settle on her chest. When the children eventually went off to Hogwarts, would their parents still be friends, sharing memories of their children’s achievements? Would Astoria invite Ginny for tea in the drawing room—a room that had once held such dark memories for Hermione herself?

A sudden, overwhelming sadness washed over her. It was sharp, and it took every ounce of her self-control to keep it from showing on her face.

"Do you mind if we head out now? I’m a bit tired," Hermione whispered to Manuel.

"Of course, it’s been a long day. Harry, Ron, Jacqueline, Hermione, and I will take off. How about we meet for breakfast tomorrow? I spoke with the national team coach, and he promised to meet with the players tomorrow afternoon."

Harry gave her a sad glance, his expression softening. "Our portkey to London leaves tomorrow morning."

"So soon? But you only just arrived the day before yesterday!" Hermione couldn’t hide the disappointment in her voice. Two days hadn’t been nearly enough. She already missed them more than she could put into words.

"I’m sorry, Hermione," Ginny said with a small, apologetic smile. "My mum says James keeps asking for me."

"I think Hermione understands perfectly, Ginny" Manuel added, chuckling lightly. "I swear, every time Maia sees me, she hugs her even tighter, just in case I try to steal her away."

Hermione smiled at the thought of Maia holding on to her, her little arms wrapping around her with such fierce love and possessiveness, as though she could keep anyone from taking her away.

No one could ever come between her and her daughter—not even for a second.

"You have a child?" Draco’s voice was laced with shock, and for the first time, Hermione saw the carefully constructed mask of the impeccable pure-blood heir begin to slip. His usual controlled composure cracked, revealing something raw beneath. His eyes blazed with a mix of disbelief and something softer. Longing?

A moment later, he glanced at Ron, then at Manuel. His free hand—the one not wrapped around Astoria—curled into a tight fist. His gaze turned blank again, fixed on her. It was as if he was daring her to speak.

But Hermione was no stranger to this game. She was a Gryffindor, through and through—and nothing, not even Draco Malfoy, could ever take away the fierce pride she held for her daughter.

"Yes, I have a daughter," she said firmly, meeting his gaze without flinching. "She is one year old. She’s the most beautiful baby in the world."

Ron, ever the supportive friend, chimed in with a grin. "I couldn’t agree more. She’s wonderful. Just like her mother."

They exchanged a brief, knowing smile, the kind only close friends share, until Manuel gently pulled Hermione toward the stairs. Just before they disappeared into the night’s quiet embrace, she heard Astoria’s voice, cutting through the tension.

"Draco, we should go too. I’m eager to see the surprise you’ve planned for me," she said with a soft, eager tone. Hermione felt a flicker of realization. Today was their two-year wedding anniversary. A day meant to celebrate their union, but for her, it would always be a reminder of the choices Draco had made—and the ones he could never undo.

That evening Manuel returned to his hotel. Hermione refused to accompany him. She quickly concocted a lie, claiming she received a phone call from her mother, which required her to pick up Maia from her parents' house.

A minute after he left, she apparated directly to the room where her daughter was peacefully sleeping. The sudden noise disturbed Maia's rest, but Hermione wasted no time. She rushed to her side, wrapping her arms around the little girl so tightly that any trace of her tears was soon smothered by her mother’s embrace.

"My little tangerine, how I missed you," Hermione whispered, pressing Maia against her neck. The small child nestled her face into her mother's skin, seeking comfort, and Hermione held her even more lovingly, savoring the warmth and softness of her daughter’s tiny body.

"Mummy, you sad?" Maia asked.

"No, darling," Hermione replied with a soft smile, brushing Maia's hair from her forehead. "Mummy isn’t sad. Just a little tired." She paused before asking, "Do you want to sleep with me tonight?"

Hermione flicked her wand, turning Maia's crib into a comfortable bed. She tossed her shoes into the corner of the room and, without bothering to change out of her dress, climbed into the bed beside her daughter.

"I love you so much, my tangerine. You are the best thing in my life," Hermione whispered as she snuggled into the warm sheets with Maia. The little girl gazed up at her with her striking gray eyes. It was nice to see those eyes looking at her filled with love.

Chapter Text

At the end of January, Manuel returned to Brazil. He couldn’t move to the same country as her due to his work at the Ministry, though he hoped they could maintain a long distance relationship. Hermione declined. If there was one thing she’d learned over the last few weeks, it was that she wasn’t in love with him. She liked him—he was kind and charming—but it wasn’t enough to drag herself into another complicated relationship. She was sad to see him go, but not as heartbroken as she thought she’d be.

Ron continued to try to convince her to go on a date, and to everyone's surprise, Hermione listened to him. Jacqueline, who, unlike all of Ron's previous relationships, adored Maia and had become a good friend of Hermione's, had introduced her to a cousin of hers who had recently moved to Sydney from Bordeaux, France.

Gabriel was a bit overwhelming. They went on a few dates together, during which he would talk endlessly about the vineyards his family owned in southern France and their many properties across Europe. He was a big advocate of self-improvement and personal development: he loved attending self-help seminars and reading books on personal growth. He was constantly seeking ways to improve the "perception" people had of him. Their third date turned out to be a turning point in their “relationship”. They had visited a winery for a tasting, and throughout the meal, his endless chatter and overwhelming enthusiasm for everything began to get on her nerves.

"What a wonderfully appointed room, and what excellent boiled potatoes! It’s been years since I’ve had such exemplary vegetables. Do you know where they’re from? Potatoes actually originate from Peru. I went to Peru three years ago. I even bought a sweater made of alpaca wool."

That was the last time she went out with him, and definitely the last time she let Jacqueline set her up with a man.

Maia’s second birthday was celebrated in their flat. Her parents bought her a few toys and some children’s books. Jacqueline brought her a stuffed lion and dozens of candies, which Maia absolutely loved. When Maia unwrapped Ron’s gift, Hermione almost killed him on the spot. Inside the wrapping paper was a tiny broomstick for toddlers. Hermione let Maia examine it and then distracted her with Jacqueline’s sweets to get it out of her line of sight. The broomstick was never seen again.

Harry and Ginny were the last to wish her daughter that day, just before the little one went to bed.

"Sorry, Hermione, for the delay, it’s been a tough day," Harry said when Maia had already fallen asleep in her mother’s arms, completely exhausted from playing.

"What happened?" she asked.

It took him a while to respond, and for a moment, she thought he might be having trouble with the fire call.

"I went to a funeral. I just got back," he finally said.

Hermione panicked, and Maia stirred nervously in her arms, but didn’t wake up. The first person she thought of was him, but the thought was completely paranoid. He was healthy, young, and full of life. There was no way something had happened to him.

"Whose funeral?" she asked.

Harry hesitated. “Lucius Malfoy died yesterday afternoon. Peacefully, in his sleep. Half the Ministry showed up at the funeral. Being in that bloody manor again wasn’t easy. I should’ve left sooner.”

***

The next fall, Neville, Hannah, and their four-year-old Mikey arrived in Sydney and stayed for two whole months. Neville, who was part of a research team studying rare medicinal plants, had come to investigate a bush growing in Kakadu National Park. They knew about Maia, but had never met her. The first time they visited their home, Maia, who was always social and rarely shy, ran with her little chubby legs towards Mikey and hugged him.

“Hi, be fwiends wif me?” she asked him.

Neville laughed. When the toddler turned her face towards his and smiled with her teeth showing, he was surprised and looked at her with a curious expression. Neither he nor Hannah ever asked about the father, although Hermione knew they had their suspicions.

On Maia's third birthday, Ron announced that he intended to propose to Jacqueline. He had already bought the ring and was preparing a romantic dinner for the two of them at his apartment. Jacqueline was a simple woman who wasn’t interested in grand gestures. The marriage proposal Ron had thought of was perfect. That very day, after Maia’s party had ended and the little one was wearing her pajamas, Hermione lay down with her on the bed and lifted her into her arms.

"Mum hasn’t given you your gift yet".

She hadn’t seen the jewelry since that tragic night when she had been with Ginny at the Wizard’s Beard. The necklace with the dragon constellation shimmered between her fingers. The magic it had been imbued with hadn’t faded even years later. She placed the necklace around her daughter’s neck, and Maia looked at it curiously. As soon as it touched her skin, the chain adjusted to fit her small size.

Hermione’s heart ached as she watched her. She had thought long and hard about whether it was right to give her the necklace, the one he had once given her, so many years ago. It was a gift that carried so many memories—memories of a time when love had seemed capable of overcoming anything. But now it was more than just a piece of jewelry. It was a connection. A bridge to a father she would never know.

In the end, Hermione knew what she had to do. She had nothing left from him. And Maia, deserved to carry a piece of her father with her, even if it was only in the form of a necklace. She deserved to always feel a part of him near her, even though he had never deserved her.

***

In August 2005, Richard Granger was diagnosed with early-stage Alzheimer’s. Her mother was devastated, even though she tried to hide it for the sake of her daughter and granddaughter. Her father had begun to mix things up and Hermione had eventually dragged him to the doctor. The specialists informed them that his condition would worsen in the coming months, despite the medication he had been prescribed. At the beginning of October, Helen and Richard told their daughter that they wanted to return to England so Richard could settle his final matters with friends and acquaintances while he still had clarity and memory.

"There are so many people we left behind when we came to Australia. I can’t even imagine what most of them look like. I’d really like to see them again."

Hermione felt immense sadness, but she understood. She was the reason they had left London in the first place. She wasn’t going to be the reason they wouldn’t return.

By the end of November, their two-story house had been sold. With the help of a realtor, they bought a smaller house in the same neighborhood as Hermione’s childhood home. On December 3rd, 2005, Richard and Helen moved back to London permanently.

Life without her parents and with Ron moving to the much bigger house of Jacqueline on the other side of the city had become lonely. Her daily routine consisted mostly of early mornings, packed schedules at work, afternoon walks with Maia in the park, and solitary evenings in front of the TV or, worse, working through paperwork.

A few days after Ron’s birthday, he and Jacqueline announced that their wedding would take place in France, at a mansion near Jacqueline’s family home that summer. Jacqueline, who was temporarily working at the Australian Ministry, wanted to return to her homeland, and Ron and George had long been planning to open a Weasley Whizzes shop near the Beauxbatons Academy. The Sydney store had already been fully taken over by Marcus for the past six months. Their plan to move to France suited everyone —well, everyone except Hermione and Maia, who would be staying behind. She felt very happy for her friends even though sometimes she was terrified about their impending departure from Australia at the beginning of the summer. But really, what could she do? Ron had already sacrificed his life for her once. She would never ask him to disregard his future wife’s wishes for her and her daughter.

One evening, as they were sitting on the porch of Jacqueline’s house, watching Maia chase fireflies in the garden, Ron turned to her quietly.

"You know... maybe there’s another way," he said. "I could persuade Jacqueline to stay in Sydney for just a couple more years—until Maia is older. Or maybe you and Maia could come to France. I mean, magical Paris is incredible. She could even attend Beauxbatons one day. Can you imagine her in that uniform, with her books and her wand, speaking perfect French?"

Hermione smiled gently.

"Ron..." she began, but he shook his head before she could go on.

"I’m just saying. You don’t have to stay here all alone. I... I don’t want to leave you here all alone. It’s killing me, Hermione. Just think about it, yeah?"

Hermione said nothing. She only nodded, ever so slightly, and turned her gaze back to Maia.

Life after Ron's move was even lonelier and quieter. The only company she had lately, aside from her four-year-old daughter, was the constant fire calls from Harry and Ginny, accompanied by the voices of James and Albus, Harry's second son.

"Hermione, I spoke with Kingsley-"

Not again, she thought. "Harry-"

“Hermione, stop!" Harry shouted. Harry never shouted at her. She saw him exhale through the fireplace. "You're in a foreign country, completely alone with a four-year-old. You have so many people back in England who can and want to help you. They want to be part of your life, Hermione. James has never met you, but he asks for you all the time because he hears the stories about us from me and Ginny. Molly is dying to meet Maia, and your parents, whom I happened to see the other day, talked to me for over an hour about how much they miss you. I spoke to Kingsley. I asked him if there was a position for you in the Ministry, and he accepted before I even finished my sentence! Robards told me that your old position is available and waiting for you, but I don't know if you'd want to go back to working in the DMLE. There's a senior position in the Department of International Magical Cooperation that will be available in two months. McDougal is retiring, and I can't think of a better replacement than you. Hermione, I beg you, think about it. You've moved on with your life. We all have. Please."

And Hermione did exactly that. She thought about it over and over again, but she didn’t know how to go back—especially with a child who would inevitably be in the spotlight. Her first concern was Maia, and the truth was that Maia felt the same loneliness Hermione did.

Often, the child would ask for her grandfather, and other times she would cry on the phone just hearing Ron's voice.

Hermione couldn’t stand it.

At the same time, though, she wasn’t sure she had a place at the Ministry of Magic in Britain—not in the very building where he worked.

Five years had passed, and Harry was right: Hermione had moved on. She might not have a partner, but she had moved on. She was no longer in love with Malfoy, nor did she dream of him the way she had during those first years in Sydney. In fact, she hadn’t dreamt of him in over two years. Gradually—like everything else concerning him—his image had faded, right after the scent of him and the feel of his skin against hers. Even the way he used to look at her had been replaced by the way her daughter looked at her.

If she wanted to be honest with herself, the fact that he worked in a different department at the Ministry helped. There was no reason for them to meet frequently, and the idea of a life where their paths would only occasionally cross felt almost… manageable.

Also, the fact that Draco had a family of his own made her feel safer from him. There was no room for their past; he was now a man with responsibilities—his own child, his own life. The physical distance between them had always been a natural barrier, but the way his life had evolved, with his family and his commitments, made him feel distant in a way that was almost comforting.

And then there was the final, undeniable relief: Lucius had passed away. With him gone, and the old shadows of pure-blood politics no longer hanging over his son, she could breathe a little easier. Maia would never have to face the kind of danger she had once feared.

With Lord Malfoy dead, and his son seemingly living a happy family life of his own, Hermione was convinced that even if Maia ever crossed paths with Malfoy, he wouldn’t give the girl a second thought—let alone suspect the truth about their connection.

And yet, something was still holding her back. Why on earth was she afraid to return? Was it the uncertainty of the future that scared her, or perhaps the fear of change? The thought of leaving behind the comfort and stability she had built in her life in Australia, with her daily routines, made her hesitate.

The solution to her dilemma came from the last person she expected.

“My dear, what’s troubling you?” Elizabeth Austen, her boss at work, had asked her two weeks after her conversation with Harry. The simplicity of the question and the loneliness of the past months were what pushed Hermione to tell her everything.

Elizabeth listened without saying a word, and only when Hermione broke down in tears, tears she had held in since learning about her father's condition, did she gently stroke her head and comfort her.

“Hermione, listen,” she began gently, her voice tinged with both regret and hope. “I have a daughter, you know. Fifteen years passed before I saw her again. I’d never even met my grandchild.” She forced a sad smile, her hand finding Hermione’s and holding it with quiet intensity.

“There’s a lifetime of pain and misunderstanding behind that absence, stories too heavy to unpack right now. But one day I mustered the courage to reach out. It wasn’t easy. Out of everything that happened with my child, and believe me, there was a lot, I regret the most that I didn’t reach out to her sooner. I lost so much time from her life and from the life of my grandchild. Parents and children shouldn’t live apart, my dear. Life is too short to be away from our family and the people who love us,” Her grip tightened.

“And you, Hermione, you have such a vast, loving family waiting for you. Why do you hesitate? You’ve proven how strong you are. You’re raising a beautiful child on your own. You’ve won a war. You’ve stood out among thousands who boast about the purity of their magical blood. You’re the muggleborn who made a whole country talk about her. You’re Hermione Granger, and I’m proud to have met you and worked with you. But now you must go home my child. Australia is beautiful, but without your kin, it remains a foreign land.”

Harry helped her find a small cottage just twenty minutes by car from her parents' house. Ron came rushing to Sydney to organize the packing of everything belonging to her and Maia. Hermione contacted Kingsley several times, and they agreed that she would start at the Ministry in McDougal's position at the beginning of September. Her flat in Sydney was given up, and at work, they organized the biggest farewell party, where Hermione, without any shame, got completely drunk.

On the 30th of July, 2006, five years after her disappearance, Hermione Granger returned to England with her four-year-old daughter.

***

The British magical press went wild. The stories about her disappearance and reappearance were extreme. Some believed she had fled because she was receiving threats from the remaining supporters of Voldemort, others thought she had gotten into a huge fight with Ginny Weasley over Harry Potter’s affections, but her favorite theory was the one portraying her as Kingsley’s mistress, with him too embarrassed to admit their relationship due to the age difference.

The only silver lining in all this was that the press had no idea Maia even existed. The little girl had quickly become the center of attention for the Weasleys and the Potters, but no one outside their immediate circle had ever laid eyes on her—and Hermione intended to keep it that way for as long as possible.

She knew that eventually people would talk. But until then, she would do everything she could to protect her daughter from gossip and questions—especially about who Maia’s father was. In the Australian Ministry’s records, the space for Maia’s father was left blank. That might pass unnoticed elsewhere, but in Britain’s magical community it was scandalous—and for a muggleborn witch, even more so.

August passed with numerous reunions with her old friends. Hermione and Maia visited the Grangers and the Potters almost every day. James and Albus were two beautiful boys, three and two years old, which looked just like their father. Albus, especially, with his green eyes just like Harry’s, made Hermione’s heart swell with love. Maia, however, did not share her mother’s affection. The first few times Hermione held Albus in her arms, Maia ran up to her, grabbing her leg and not letting her move.

"Maia, what’s wrong? What happened?" Hermione asked gently, already knowing the jealousy on her daughter’s face. She had tried many times to explain to her that she was her little tangerine and loved her more than anything in the world, but Maia simply would not share her mother with any other child.

The house Harry had found for them was a small cottage with a large garden and plenty of space for the children to play. On starry August nights, the garden would fill with the children’s voices—Maia, Victoire, Teddy, James, and Albus—while the adults sat on the large cushions Hermione had bought, sipping butterbeers, looking at the stars and telling stories of their lives over the last six years.

***

Her first day at the office was tough. She had prepared herself mentally, but she was still shocked by the number of journalists waiting for her in the Atrium of the Ministry. She could barely make out the questions they were asking her about where she had been for the last six years amidst the noise of camera shutters and the shouting of the aurors trying to move the journalists away from her as they got dangerously close.

Her office in the Department of International Magical Co-operation was surprisingly spacious—almost luxurious by Ministry standards. The walls were painted in soft, earthy tones that created a calm and welcoming atmosphere. One entire side of the room was taken up by a large, elegant bookcase. It stood tall and imposing, with shelves that reached nearly to the ceiling, still half-empty, waiting to be filled with the books she had brought with her from Australia.

There was a cozy sitting area in one corner, with two sets of plush sofas and a polished wooden table in between. A few paintings adorned the walls—scenes of country landscapes, old maps of the universe, and abstract art from around the world.

Though to her dismay, the office lacked a private fireplace for Floo travel. It would have been incredibly helpful to avoid the crowd of journalists that constantly lingered in the Atrium. She often found herself wondering how Theo Nott had managed to secure such an arrangement so early in his career. Then again, she had long since stopped being surprised by the privileges afforded to certain people.

The first time she encountered Malfoy at the Ministry, she was ready. She wasn't going to be caught off guard. Not by him.

It was nearly two weeks after her first day. At lunchtime, she’d stopped by Harry’s office, determined to coax him to that little corner deli he swore made the finest cold sandwiches in all of London. The floor with the Auror offices was vast, buzzing with activity, but she walked through it all with purpose. She knew exactly where to go. Harry had described it clearly.

He had told her that he and Malfoy had been working closely for years, their offices practically next to each other. "Are you friends with him?" she had asked, stunned. How could Harry be friends with someone who had once treated her so terribly?
"You’ve been gone a long time, Hermione. Things… well, things are different now," he had replied softly, when she looked at him with disbelief clouding her features.

Now, as she approached Harry’s office, the familiar murmur of voices and footsteps filled the corridor. She moved with quiet confidence. From the far end of the hallway, she heard the distinct echo of approaching steps. She turned casually—and then she saw him.

Draco Malfoy was striding toward her, tall and impeccably dressed in dark Ministry robes. He was laughing at something someone beside him had said. His face was turned slightly, his guard lowered, the faintest smile still lingering on his lips. Then he looked forward.

In an instant, the laughter died on his face. He stopped in his tracks, like someone had hit him with a Full Body-Bind curse. His mouth parted slightly, his expression caught between disbelief and something else—something that flickered in his eyes. Recognition? Regret?

"Granger," he said at last.

She didn't flinch. She tilted her head slightly, eyes cool, posture effortless.

"Malfoy," she replied, her voice smooth as silk and twice as sharp.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. He looked away first, cleared his throat, and turned toward the office next to Harry's, fumbling with the handle more than he meant to.

Hermione simply smiled to herself.

She had been ready.

The awkward first encounter had passed, and every subsequent time Hermione encountered him in the corridors or in the Atrium, she ignored him.

Four months after her return to England, the press had finally begun to lose interest in her. The constant headlines and intrusive photos—from her stroll through Diagon Alley with Ron and Jacqueline to a shopping trip for children's clothes with Ginny—gradually faded. Their focus had now turned elsewhere, zeroing in on the Ministry’s highly anticipated annual Christmas gala.

That year, they had chosen to host the celebration in a grand mansion, with the most magnificent fountains she had ever seen—ones she was sure Maia would love.

She arrived at the ball accompanied by her friends. Ginny, glowing and pregnant with her third child, clung to Harry’s arm, while Ron walked between her and his wife. Jacqueline, poised and radiant, was preparing to start her new position at the French Ministry of Magic in January; their move to Paris was already planned for after the holidays.

The venue was adorned with dozens of decorated trees and candles, creating a romantic atmosphere. Kingsley greeted the guests with a brief speech before inviting everyone to take their seats for dinner. About an hour later, once the last plates had disappeared, enchanted musical instruments appeared in the grand hall, filling the air with joyful melodies.

Harry and Ginny were already dancing, while Ron, true to form, had gravitated toward Dean Thomas, deep in conversation and determined to stay off the dance floor. Jacqueline had approached a few French witches she recognized from her time abroad, leaving Hermione momentarily alone.

That's when she saw him. He was standing between Theo and another man. It took Hermione a moment to realize it was Gregory Goyle. She tried to remember what had become of him after the Battle of Hogwarts, but came up blank. She knew he hadn’t returned to finish his studies at Hogwarts, nor had he been sent to Azkaban. Maybe he had attended Beauxbatons like Pansy Parkinson, she thought.

Her gaze drifted back to him. In the past, when she’d been in similar situations, she had always felt like their eyes connected with invisible magnets, pulling them toward each other. This time, however, she easily pulled her gaze away. When her eyes returned to him after a while, he was staring at her, inspecting her intently.

"Miss Granger?"

She turned at the sound of the voice. To her surprise, she recognized Patrick Dalton—a former colleague from the Australian Ministry who had moved to Europe two years ago. They quickly fell into easy conversation, reminiscing about their time working together overseas. Before long, they were dancing. Patrick had always been kind and helpful, one of the first people to support her when she was adjusting to life in a foreign country.

"Who on earth is that?" Ginny and Jacqueline asked simultaneously when Patrick wandered off to chat with some acquaintances.

"Patrick? An old colleague of mine," Hermione replied vaguely.

"He's cute," Jacqueline remarked with a sly smile.

"Who? Patrick?" Hermione asked, confused.

"Yes, Hermione, Patrick! Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed!" Jacqueline teased.

Hermione hadn’t noticed. Was Patrick cute? The thought hadn’t crossed her mind. She looked at him more closely from where she sat. He was tall. Yes, tall—not as tall as Ron, but still tall enough. He was also blonde, and Hermione had always had a soft spot for blondes. But other than that, she couldn’t tell anything remarkable about him. She had been talking to him for quite a while but couldn’t even remember the color of his eyes- brown maybe- or whether he had a nice smile.

"Well, yeah, I guess he’s cute," she said more vaguely than before, turning back to the dance floor, where only a few couples were still moving to the music.

It wasn’t long before she spotted Malfoy on the dance floor. He held a stunning blonde witch in his arms, her long hair catching the glow of the enchanted candles. She wore a breathtaking pink gown that exposed half her back, and her arms were adorned with so many heirlooms, she practically screamed "pureblood" from a mile away. Mrs. Malfoy liked making an impression. The two blond figures glided across the floor with practiced ease, and Hermione, without a word, turned her back to the dance floor, choosing instead to focus on her friends for the rest of the evening.

The next day, she found herself on the front page of the Daily Prophet. Again. This time, the headline blared about the romantic intrigue surrounding “The Brightest Witch of Her Age” and the mysterious man who had supposedly stolen her heart. The photo of her with Patrick ran for three consecutive days, fueling wild speculations about their relationship—how they had met, who he was, and what their connection might be.

Hermione sent an owl to Patrick the day after the Prophet’s issue was released, apologizing for the unwanted attention. Two days later, she received his reply, along with an invitation for a meal for herself and Maia at a muggle restaurant in London.

"I can’t believe how much you’ve grown!" was the first thing Patrick exclaimed when he saw Maia.

Maia was four and a half, and her personality already shone through with a unique mix of cleverness, sharp wit, and determination. She was stubborn, but her greatest weapon was her sweetness—so disarming that no one, except Hermione, could ever refuse her. With her thick, curly hair that she adamantly refused to have cut, her rosy cheeks that had never lost their baby softness, and her beautiful gray eyes, Maia looked as if she had stepped straight out of a painting.

They had lunch at an Italian restaurant, where Maia insisted on ordering pizza but ended up eating from Patrick’s pasta, causing him to laugh.

Hermione apologized again for the false stories the Prophet had been printing, but Patrick didn’t seem bothered by it. He waved off her apology with a smile and casually mentioned that in three days, he would be heading to Italy to celebrate his fiancé’s birthday. She bade him goodbye, and he asked her to promise to send an owl if she ever found herself in Verona.

The next morning, Harry appeared in the fireplace at 7 a.m. Hermione, still in her pajamas, stood by the kitchen window, gazing at the thick snow that had fallen overnight.

“Harry, what’s going on? What are you doing here so early?” she asked, noticing his nervousness. Immediately, Hermione tensed.

“I need you to stay calm. We knew this would happen eventually,” he said, showing her the front page of the Daily Prophet.

Golden Girl: Mother of an adorable little girl!

Right beneath the headline was a photo of her with Maia. The image was a bit blurry, taken with a muggle camera, but Hermione’s face was still recognizable. Maia’s features were difficult to distinguish because of the scarf and hat Hermione had put on her before they left the restaurant.

“You don’t need to worry, I’ve arranged for you to travel through the fireplace in the Auror’s office so you won’t have to face the swarm of journalists waiting in the Atrium. It would be better if, for a few days at least, you don’t go out alone. I spoke to Robards, and he agreed to assign you an aur—”

“HARRY!” she interrupted sharply, grabbing the newspaper from his hands and throwing it to the floor. “How the hell did this happen? We were on the muggle side of London! How did they find us?” she asked desperately.

Harry didn’t know the answer, but promised to look into it. He continued talking about the protection he had arranged with Robards, but Hermione refused. She didn’t want to walk around with an auror, and she definitely didn’t want Maia to feel that something was wrong. Harry insisted, but eventually relented. They agreed that she would get a phone to contact him directly if something went wrong.

That morning, when she arrived at the Auror Office with Harry at 8:30 a.m., the place was still mostly quiet. She greeted him before slipping away into the Ministry’s winding corridors, heading straight for the quiet haven of her office.

For the following days, their routine stayed the same. Harry would arrive at 7:00 a.m. Hermione would wake up Maia and drive with Harry to her parents' house. Maia didn’t handle apparition well, and they had agreed it was safer for her to stop going to daycare for a few weeks until the situation calmed down. After dropping Maia off at her parents' house, Hermione and Harry would return to hers, where they would use the fireplace to travel to the Auror's office.

“Good morning, Potter. Granger,” Malfoy greeted them every morning.

No matter how early they arrived at the Ministry, he was always there—except that first day. He would always lean against the door to his office, holding a coffee in one hand, and a second cup placed beside him, probably for Harry.

“Good morning, Draco,” Harry would greet him warmly.

“Good morning, Malfoy,” Hermione would greet him coldly.

The same conversation would happen every day.

Two weeks after the first photo was published, the media had come up with at least ten potential fathers for her child. None of the scenarios even came close to the truth. Some of her favorite rumors involved Harry, who had been joking about wanting an even bigger family lately, Ron, Patrick (despite the fact that photos had surfaced of his engagement to another man last year in Italy), Kingsley, and, to her horror, Manuel. Someone had uncovered her past, revealing her years spent working in Australia. It seemed that Manuel, who had three kids in Brazil, was now being speculated as the father of Maia. God only knew when he had managed to father three children in just two years.

“Good morning, Potter, Granger.”

“Good morning, Draco.”

“Good morning, Malfoy.”

“Hermione!” Kingsley’s tall figure appeared behind Malfoy’s. “I’m glad to see you. How are you? I hear the press has been tough on you lately,” he said seriously.

Hermione shook the remaining ash from her black high-waisted skirt and sighed. “When hasn’t it been, Minister?” she wondered. Since she was fourteen, during that awful Triwizard Tournament, the press had always been harsh on her.

“I spoke to Robards, and he agrees that we need to make sure you and the child are safe. I’ve put pressure on the Prophet to leave you alone, but I’m afraid my influence is limited. The Golden Girl and her daughter sell many newspapers, it seems, and I wouldn’t want things to spiral out of control for the sake of money,” he said seriously.

Hermione noticed Harry and Malfoy exchanging odd glances. She still couldn’t make sense of their friendly dynamic.

“I know, Minister, and I really appreciate it, but as I’ve told Harry, I’ve been through worse. I don’t need an auror watching over me and my daughter. I’m afraid all this will disturb her. She’s already confused by all the changes to her schedule. She can’t even go to daycare anymore, afraid that someone might be watching or taking pictures of her,” Hermione said.

Kingsley nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, I understand. I’m sure Harry has everything under control. Have we heard anything new about who gave those photos of the child to the press?” he asked.

Malfoy cleared his throat, casting a quick glance at Harry before speaking.

“It was a witch, Minister. She had one of those mobile phones with cameras. Likely a muggleborn who knew how to use it. She was there by chance that day. The Prophet has kept her name under wraps. She’d taken a few more photos while the child was still inside the restaurant. They were planning to run them in future issues, but it’s all under control now,” he said, his tone casual.

Hermione’s mind raced. Why was Malfoy involved with the photos of Maia? Harry had told her he would handle the investigation himself. And what did it mean that there were more photos?

Hermione looked at Harry in alarm.

“Hermione, all the photos have been destroyed. Draco brought me the phone, and I personally made sure to destroy them. We gave the witch veritaserum to make sure she hadn’t sold them anywhere else. The Daily Prophet had already purchased them, but all copies have been wiped out. You don’t need to worry,” Harry reassured her.

This was the first time Hermione was hearing all of this and Malfoy’s involvement in the whole situation made her feel even more uneasy.

“How... how did the Daily Prophet agree to destroy the photos?” she asked, her voice edged with concern as she glanced at the three men in front of her. The sounds of more aurors arriving at their offices filled the air.

“There are many ways, Granger, to convince the Prophet,” Malfoy answered absently, his gaze fixed on his coffee.

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but Kingsley interrupted her.

“Well, now that we’ve cleared this up, Harry, I expect you to present me with your plan for the Malown case. Mr. Malfoy, I’ll take our discussion into consideration. Expect an answer from me soon. Hermione, my dear, tell me more about Maia. I hear she’s my daughter, and I feel bad not knowing anything about her other than her name,” he said as he led her to the door.

All the aurors around them stifled their laughter.

When a few days later Harry told her that Maia was free to return to school and that no newspaper was allowed to publish pictures of her underage daughter, a huge weight lifted off Hermione’s shoulders. When she asked him how he managed it, he smiled at her.

"Am I or am I not the savior of the Wizarding World?”.

She playfully hit him on the shoulder.

"What do you want to know, Hermione? I have a few friends who know how to pull the right strings."

Maia was bursting with excitement about going back to school. The truth was she hadn’t had much interaction with other children before. Back in Australia, Hermione didn’t have friends with kids, so Maia had grown up surrounded mostly by adults. But ever since their return to England—and especially after meeting Harry’s children and the rest of Molly’s grandchildren—her daughter had become visibly more cheerful, and now she couldn’t wait to be around her classmates again.

"Flora has blonde hair, and the teacher always says she looks like a mermaid. So I told them that some mermaids are really ugly, and Flora started crying. In the book you read me, there was a picture of a mermaid, and she was so ugly, mummy. She didn’t look like Flora," Maia babbled happily as they walked through Hogsmeade.

It was February, and it was freezing. Hermione had dressed in her warmest clothes and made sure to wrap Maia from head to toe in clothes imbued with strong warming charms. The little one was hidden under the pile of thick fabrics, with only her nose and eyes peeking out from beneath her colorful hat.

"Your teacher doesn’t know that mermaids are real, sweetheart. I’m sure Flora is a beautiful little girl, and she doesn’t look anything like the one in the book," Hermione reassured her. "We’ve arrived," she said, pointing toward the huge store.

While they lived in Australia, Maia often roamed the busy magical streets, and with Hermione or Ron, they would buy sweets and ice creams from a shop called "Dreamy Sweets for Sweet Dreams." Maia had been complaining for a while that she wanted to see Diagon Alley, which her mother had told her so much about, and try the ice cream from Fortescue’s. Hermione had always refused to take her out in public, especially after the published photos of her. But when Harry assured her that no newspaper would publish Maia’s picture, she decided to indulge her and take her for a walk in Hogsmeade, which was much quieter than Diagon Alley. To minimize the curious looks from passersby, she had taken the day off from work and traveled to the village at 9 am on a weekday, when half of the shops were still closed. Now, they were outside Honeydukes and the excitement with which Maia gazed at the store window filled Hermione with warmth.

"Mummy, come on, let’s go inside!" Maia tugged at her hand. Her steps were small, but she was walking so fast that Hermione feared she might stumble before getting inside the store.

Just as expected, Honeydukes was nearly empty. An elderly woman stood behind a tall counter, filling jars with various small, colorful chocolates that were trying to escape from the bag she was holding.

“Mummy, can we buy the whole shop? I want to try everything,” Maia said, pulling Hermione toward a display of magical candies that changed shape before their eyes.

Maia loved sweets. She could survive solely on chocolate and candies from the muggle world. The more she grew, the more she consumed, despite her grandparents’ constant protests, as they were both dentists and would have a mental breakdown every time their granddaughter eat large amounts of sugar.

“Maia, we can’t buy the whole shop, and you won’t be trying everything,” Hermione laughed, “but we’ll make a deal, okay?”

The little one nodded, a bit disappointed.

"I’ll give you some money. You can buy whatever you want with this," Hermione said as she pulled out her wallet and gave her two galleons. Two galleons were enough to buy at least two packets of candy and one chocolate bar. Maia eyed the money suspiciously, then tucked it into the small pocket of her pants. Hermione helped her take off her hat and scarf. With their jackets, she shrank them and placed them in her bag.

Twenty minutes later, Maia was still wandering through Honeydukes, eyeing all the products and searching for where to spend her two galleons. They had passed shelves with Bertie Bots Beans, boxes of sugar quills, rainbow-colored lollipops, chewing gums that made huge bubbles, candies that bounced in your mouth and endless rows of chocolates with the most unusual flavors you could imagine. At some point, Hermione noticed Maia was holding a small basket someone had given her to put her purchases in. The basket remained empty, and Maia’s face was serious as she pondered the sweets around her, as though the decision she made now might define the rest of her life.

"Maia, don’t wander off," Hermione called to her daughter, who had turned down a side aisle. Hermione could still see her curls through the gaps in the shelves. The store was nearly empty, with only four customers and the elderly woman behind the counter, but Hermione wasn’t willing to take any chances.

She saw Maia asking the older woman some questions, and she, as a good shopkeeper, began showing her even more flavors of filled chocolates. Hermione started idly looking at the sugar quills, which had always been her favorite. The flavors had doubled since her days at Hogwarts. She discreetly grabbed one that said "Cocoa and Orange" on the label and tucked it into her pocket to pay for it later. She looked over at Maia and saw she was still hidden behind the shelves, talking to the shop owner.

A cute sound pulled her out of her thoughts, and she turned in the opposite direction. A small boy, no older than two, was running toward her, arms raised and laughing loudly. He was heading straight for her, and Hermione quickly knelt to prevent a collision. The boy landed in her arms, and the first thing she noticed was how wonderful he smelled. The distinct scent of a baby was something that had sadly faded from Maia, and she missed it dearly. The little one tangled his chubby fingers in her curly hair, and Hermione did her best not to frown.

"Up! Up!" she heard him say.

Hermione stood up, and the little one continued to giggle. The sound made her smile.

"What’s your name, little one?" she asked him, looking around for his mother. From the corner, she heard running footsteps, and two seconds later, she saw a figure rounding the aisle toward her, knocking over a display of magical cupcakes.

"Sopius—" the boy began cheerfully, just as Draco Malfoy came sprinting toward them, his voice laced with panic.

"Scorpius! Stay away from him—" he shouted, but his words caught as he finally noticed who the boy was talking to.

Scorpius squealed with delight at the sight of his father, his laugh growing louder.

"Daddy, daddy, found Sopius!" he chanted, pointing excitedly at the stunned man.

Hermione instinctively let go of the child, her eyes narrowing slightly. Of course—she should’ve realized it the moment she saw him. That hair—silvery-blond, nearly white in the light—was unmistakable. No family but the Malfoys bore that color. Scorpius had Lucius’s hair, but his eyes, unlike Draco’s cool gray, were a striking blue. They reminded her faintly of Narcissa… or perhaps they belonged to his mother. Astoria. Hermione couldn’t recall the color of her eyes.

"Sopius-," the toddler repeated, pointing at himself. It was a very cute way of introducing himself.  "Up, up," he asked again, wanting to be held, but Hermione didn’t make a move.

Draco rushed to his son and grabbed him in his arms. "Scorpius, you shouldn’t hide, not when we’re away from home." He held the toddler tightly and heard Scorpius laugh.

"Daddy, sweets?"

She saw Draco pull out a small chocolate from his pocket and hand it to the little boy.

"Thank you," he suddenly said. "I just turned around for a second, and he had disappeared." He ran his free hand through his hair. "I feel like I just lost ten years of my life."

The sight of father and son shook Hermione in a way she hadn’t expected. She knew the Malfoys had a child — she had accepted it and conveniently forgotten about it. But she had never thought how this child would actually look like.

Scorpius seemed unexpectedly sweet, joyful and bright. Something didn’t fit. Or rather… it didn’t fit with what she knew of the Malfoys. Maybe, she thought, Draco had been like that once. Cute — before he went to Hogwarts and became an arrogant jerk.

"Hermione-" Draco began again.

"Mummy, where are you? I’ve filled my basket," a childish voice called from the next aisle.

"Minone," she heard Scorpius repeat.

Suddenly, Hermione was overtaken by a wave of panic. Maia and Malfoy were in the same shop, only a few feet apart. She had to grab her daughter and leave.

"I’m coming, sweetie," she quickly responded. She could make out Maia’s loose brown curls among the shelves, standing next to a large pot of hot chocolate. Malfoy followed her gaze.

"Mummy, where are you?" Maia called again from near the cash register.

Without saying a word to the Malfoys, Hermione walked to the other side of the shelves where her daughter was.

 “Mummy, look!” the little girl called out excitedly. “I filled my basket!” she added proudly.

Hermione didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the sight of her daughter. The handle of the small basket was bending under the weight, and Maia was using both hands to keep it steady. Magical nougats, huge lollipops, chocolate frogs, at least ten different bags of strawberry, caramel, and coconut-filled chocolates, half a dozen sugar quills, and even more boxes of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans were nearly spilling over the top.

“Maia, what is all this?”

The little girl beamed. “The lady said I could get anything I like. And I like all of this! I have two galleons to pay!” She set the basket on her knee and pulled the coins Hermione had given her earlier from her pocket.

“Maia—” Hermione started gently, keeping her voice calm and soft so it wouldn’t sound like scolding, “all of these cost much more than two galleons. That won’t be enough. You can choose two packets of sweets, and we’ll put the rest back. I’ll help you so we’re quicker.”

Maia’s smile faded, replaced by a look of complete despair. “But… don’t you have more of these to give me?” she asked, glancing down hopefully at the coins in her palm.

Hermione knelt in front of her. They had to leave Honeydukes right now but she could not buy all those sweets to her daughter.

“Do you remember our agreement?” she asked gently. Maia nodded. “We can’t spend all our money on sweets and chocolates. We still have to buy food, clothes, books and other things for the house.”

“But…”

Hermione saw her eyes welling up, and her heart clenched. It was so hard to say no sometimes. She wiped the tears from the girl’s cheeks with her sleeve.

“Don’t be sad, sweetheart. The sweets we do get will be more than enough. I promise.”

Maia looked longingly at the now-tilted basket, a few bags already having fallen to the floor.

“All right, Mummy.”

“Gloria, please wrap up all the sweets Miss Granger’s daughter picked and have them delivered to the address she gives you. And don’t forget to include some of those filled candies you send to Malfoy Manor last week. Charge everything to my account.”

She froze. His voice came from directly behind her, and for a second, her knees buckled. Hermione looked into Maia’s still-watery eyes. Beautiful grey eyes.

She stood up quickly and turned around. She had been standing strategically in front of Maia, shielding her from his view.

“Malfoy, what do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.

He was holding Scorpius in one arm and a massive box of apple-flavored candy in the other.

“Correcting a great injustice. I think I’ve heard enough.”

“Malfoy, I’m perfectly capable of buying my child all the sweets she wants. I don’t need your money,” she snapped, more angrily than she meant to.

He rolled his eyes. “I know, Granger. This isn’t charity. Merlin, I know better than to try that with you. Think of it as a thank-you for saving Scorpius.”

Hermione let out a sharp, humorless laugh. She hadn’t saved anyone. The child had been perfectly safe. Someone else would’ve found him just as easily, she thought, but Malfoy seemed to read her mind.

“Not everyone would’ve been that kind to a wandering toddler. My wandering toddler” he said simply.

Before she could argue his logic, a small, hesitant voice broke in. “Mummy, does that mean I can keep the sweets?”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, and Hermione gave him a glare.

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“Can I eat them all?” Maia asked, some of her earlier excitement returning to her voice.

Hermione rolled her eyes. She caught Malfoy stifling a laugh, hiding his face in Scorpius’s neck.

“You can have a few after lunch. The rest I’ll keep for you. With that many, they’ll probably last you five whole months,” she muttered.

Maia dropped the basket and wrapped her arms around Hermione’s legs. Then she turned to Malfoy.

Hermione saw the moment he noticed the color of her daughter’s eyes — and swallowed hard. She could practically hear the gears turning in his head, working overtime to make sense of something that simply couldn’t be explained.

There was a reason Hermione had never expected that pregnancy test to come back positive five and a half years ago. She had never once missed a dose of her muggle birth control pills. Even during stretches of celibacy, she continued taking them. Her endocrinologist had prescribed them during her teenage years—originally to help regulate her cycle, which still gave her trouble.

And then, of course, there was his paranoia. For nearly two years, Malfoy insisted on casting a contraceptive charm on himself every time they had sex—partly because he didn’t trust muggle pills and partly because, as he always put it, “I’m a Malfoy, Granger. My seed is strong. I’m telling you, one careless night and just like that — you’ll be pregnant.”

She used to tease him for his arrogance—even about his sperm.

Between the pills and the charm, conception should have been impossible.

He knew all of this of course. And though the surprise flashed in his eyes for a moment when he looked at Maia, reason quickly took over, and she saw him relax.

Maia stepped forward and held out her hand to him.

“Here, sir. You can take my money for the sweets,” she said, opening her small palm to show the two galleons.

With his hands full, one holding his son and the other the candy box, Malfoy simply shook his head.

“You can keep it”.

Maia didn’t move. Her eyebrows furrowed before she spoke again. “No, that’s not right. Mummy says we always have to pay,” she insisted.

“Maia—”

“It’s okay,” Draco interrupted calmly. “The sweets are a gift from me. You don’t have to pay for a gift.”

“But it’s not my birthday—” she turned to Hermione for confirmation, “—right?”

“That doesn’t matter,” he replied. “They can be for your next birthday. Or your last one.”

Hermione placed a gentle hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Maia, you can keep the money and maybe use it to get a gift for James and Albus, if you want.”

The child considered it for a moment, then quietly slipped the galleons back into her pocket.

“Thank you, sir. I promise I’ll eat your entire gift,” she said in a rush. “Who’s that?” Maia asked in the same breath, pointing at the blond baby who was happily chewing on a piece of candy.

At that moment, Gloria, the owner of the Honeydukes, called Hermione over to get her address and the delivery details for the sweets. Hermione didn’t want to leave Maia alone, but the older woman shot her a pointed look. More customers were starting to trickle into the shop, and soon she’d be too busy to take care of the order. Hermione quickly approached the counter and scribbled her details on a scrap of parchment, ears still tuned to her daughter’s voice.

“That’s Scorpius. And I’m Draco.”

“He has really pretty hair,” Maia noted thoughtfully. It was true—the baby’s hair was silky and soft, like spun gold. Hermione had run her fingers through it just once before letting the baby walk to his father.

“Thank you, Maia. You have beautiful hair too,” Malfoy replied.

Hermione caught the moment her daughter blushed. Merlin help me, she thought. He has the same effect on her he always had on me.

“James says my hair looks like a wasp’s nest,” Maia muttered with a frown.

“James clearly has no appreciation for beauty,” Draco said with a smirk. “Honestly, have you seen his hair?”

Hermione couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her lips—one she instantly regretted. She handed her address slip back to Gloria and returned to her daughter’s side.

“Daddy! Jamie! Al! Fwiends!” Scorpius suddenly shouted, clapping his chubby hands excitedly.

“Yes, Scorpius. James and Al. We’ll see them soon,” Draco said with a nod.

“You know James and Albus?” Maia asked, eyes wide, as Scorpius continued to chant their names with delight.

“Yes, he does. They’re Potter’s kids.”

“You know Uncle Harry?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Do you know Teddy too?” Maia continued her barrage of questions.

“Yes. He’s my cousin.”

Maia’s jaw dropped. “Your cousin? Can you change your hair color too?!”

Draco laughed. “I’m afraid not. I’m stuck with this blond forever, you see. And I’m very careful to pass it on to my children,” he added with a wink.

Not all your children, Hermione thought bitterly.

“One day I’m going to marry Teddy, and then we’ll have babies, and they’ll be able to change their hair too, and I’ll buy them lots of sweets, and then I’ll ask them to make my hair blond because Teddy wouldn’t do it when I asked and it made me sad, and then James said my hair looked like a wasp’s nest, so I told Uncle Ron and then Uncle Ron scolded him!” Maia blurted out all at once.

“WHAT?” Hermione exclaimed, horrified. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Malfoy trying—and failing—not to laugh. The door opened and even more customers came into the shop, glancing curiously in their direction.

“Come on, Maia. Time to go.” Hermione pulled out her daughter’s coat, hat, and scarf and helped her bundle up.

“Bye Scorpius! Bye Draco!” Maia called as they walked toward the door.

“It’s Mr. Malfoy,” Hermione corrected automatically once the door had closed behind them.

Maia pretended not to hear her.

For the next two weeks, Maia couldn’t stop talking about Scorpius and Malfoy—who remained Draco no matter how many times Hermione had sternly reminded her to call him Mr. Malfoy. The fact that Maia asked every day for another chocolate from “the box with sweets Draco bought me” didn’t help her forget about him either.

“...And then mummy said we didn’t have enough galleons for all the colorful little chocolates I’d picked out, but then Draco came and bought me all the sweets for my last birthday, and since then I’ve only been eating one a day even though there are so many,” she was explaining for the third time that week to Harry and a sleepy Albus, who was chewing on a piece of bread and not paying her the slightest attention. “Mummy says I have to eat just one sweet a day so my teeth don’t rot, but Draco told me in secret that he eats a lot of sweets every day and his teeth are all shiny white...”

Harry gave Hermione a sharp look.

“Maia, why don’t you go into the sitting room and see if Teddy’s arrived?” Hermione suggested sweetly.

“I don’t want to play with Teddy,” Maia replied, then promptly resumed her monologue about Scorpius and Malfoy.

“But I thought you wanted to marry him,” Hermione said. She saw Harry raise an eyebrow.

“Not anymore. I want to marry Draco so he can buy me sweets.”

Harry choked on his coffee and sprayed it across poor Albus’s face, who had just been nodding off. The baby immediately burst into tears, and Ginny appeared in the doorway, six months pregnant and unimpressed.

“What happened? What’s wrong, sweetheart?” she asked, scooping Albus into her arms and shooting Harry a look as she wiped coffee from the front of his little jumper.

“Maia wants to marry Malfoy,” Harry explained with a grimace.

“Oh, yes, she told me the other day,” Ginny said airily. “I told her in the Malfoy family, incest isn’t really all that shocking—but even they usually avoided marrying their chil-”

“GINNY!” Hermione hissed, horrified, as Albus let out an even louder wail.

Maia, who had not understood a word of their adult conversation, scowled in confusion.

“Maia—” Merlin’s beard, what is going on with my child “—Mr. Malfoy is a little too old for you. And I’m afraid he’s already married.”

Maia grabbed her hot chocolate—courtesy of Ginny—and gave an indifferent shrug. “It’s okay. I’ll think of something.”

“Definitely a Slytherin” Harry muttered under his breath.

Maia followed Ginny and Albus into the sitting room, leaving her alone with Harry.

“I’m sorry you had to hear the story again,” she said with a sigh.

Harry removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He’d only just returned from a Ministry raid on a shady shop in Knockturn Alley that morning—some wizard had been selling cursed items to magical creatures.

“That was the fifth time, if I count the two times Malfoy told me himself. I swear, if Scorpius could talk properly, I bet he’d tell me the story too.”

Hermione froze. “Malfoy told you about meeting Maia?”

“With just as many details, I might add.”

A cold sweat prickled at the back of her neck. “Do you think he suspects the truth about her father?”

Harry took a while to answer. “No,” he finally said, and Hermione was able to breathe again. “But he was hesitant. He definitely thought about it, but I think he dismissed the idea. You told me you were taking the muggle birth control pill. I still don’t understand how you managed to get pregnant.”

“What else did he say?” she asked.

“Besides the entire meeting in ridiculous detail? Merlin, I thought Maia got her chattiness from you, but Draco can talk just as much when he wants to. He said Maia is just like you. Called her adorable. Said Scorpius liked her a lot—but that wasn’t exactly a challenge. Scorpius likes everyone. Never thought Malfoy would end up with such a sweet-natured kid.”

Hermione smacked him on the arm.

“Hey, that actually hurt,” he complained.

“Oh, so now you’re friends? You talk about me and my daughter with your pal Draco?” she asked, raising a brow.

Hermione still couldn’t wrap her head around the friendship between Harry and Malfoy. What irritated her the most was that, years ago, when she had begged Harry to at least try and be civil with him, his answer had always been, “He’s unbearable, Hermione.” And now? Now they were close enough to share details about the meeting with her daughter.

It was downright infuriating to hear Harry call him “Draco” like it was the most natural thing in the world. To talk about him like he was someone who mattered in his life. Like he cared. What Hermione couldn’t forgive—what she still struggled to understand—was how Harry had managed to move past the way Malfoy had treated her.

“Hermione… I know this is hard to hear. I know this whole situation feels wrong to you. But there are things you don’t know. Things that happened in the years you were gone. And I know it feels like I betrayed you—”

Yes. Sometimes that’s exactly how she felt.

“—but I need you to trust me. I would never betray you. You’re like a sister to me. You are my sister. I’ll always protect you, always be there for you. I know your history with him is painful,” Harry went on. “I know it broke you. But I’m asking you to believe me when I say… Malfoy didn’t get away unscathed. You weren’t the only one who suffered. I’m not excusing what he did, but Hermione—he’s been carrying that pain ever since. I think it’s still eating at him.”

Good, she thought. Good.

Chapter Text

He hated Hogwarts. He had hated it during his sixth year, and even more in his seventh. But this eighth and final year, his resentment had reached its peak.

He was miserable. He longed to be alone, because that would mean he would at least find some peace. But of course, life had other plans. The Gryffindors were there, and so had returned a few Ravenclaws and a handful of Hufflepuffs. And Theo. Thankfully, Theo had returned too. He didn’t know how he would survive this year if he didn’t have Theo with him.

The first weekend that Nott had gone to visit his father in Azkaban, Draco was cornered by a group of seventh-year Slytherins in the boys' bathroom. While two of them held him by the arms, a third unleashed a series of cruel punches, calling him a "traitor" and a "disgrace to the house." The result was a bruised eye and a split lip.

“What the hell happened to you?” Theo had asked when they met in Transfiguration class the following Monday. It was obvious to everyone what had happened — they all saw it, but no one said a word. Draco hadn’t bothered to heal his wounds this time. He didn’t hide his face when the professors looked at him, and he didn’t lower his head when the other students pointed at him. He simply didn’t care what anyone thought.

The second attack was much worse. Theo had stayed behind in the library, buried in a Muggle Studies project about helicopter mechanics, while Draco headed alone to the dorms. Just before the staircase to the eighth-year common room, he caught the sound of heavy footsteps behind him.

“Death Eater scum!”

That was the last thing he registered before a bright flash of yellow light and an overwhelming sense of paralysis. His body grew heavy, as if weighed down by invisible chains, and he collapsed to the cold floor with a sickening thud.

Pain everywhere — ribs, face, legs, head. Blows landed hard, his vision blurred, and the attackers’ faces stayed shapeless in the haze. Sounds grew louder. He couldn’t move or cry out.

'You deserve to die,' someone spat. A hand yanked at his sleeve, reaching for the Dark Mark. Panic surged. He didn’t want them to see it.

Then, through the noise, more voices broke through.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Jonathan?” A flash of red light, and suddenly Jonathan was flung backward, crashing into the wall.

Draco could hardly believe it. His eyes tried to focus on the figure above him.

It was Longbottom. Neville fucking Longbottom, of all people.

“Malfoy, are you alright?” his voice was shaky, but filled with an unexpected kindness. The situation was absurd. The very person who, in the past, he would have belittled without a second thought was the one now offering him his hand.

Draco took it.

That night, Longbottom took him to the infirmary, where Madam Pomfrey patched him up. Draco thanked him. Theo found out soon after and immediately rushed to McGonagall, who was understandably furious.

Slowly, something began to change. Over time, Draco saw Theo talking to Longbottom more often. He hadn’t expected it. He wasn’t sure he even liked it. But Theo found comfort in it, however confusing it was. One morning Theo had scolded him, “Stop being so uptight, Draco. You and I both know you didn’t buy into Dark Lord’s nonsense. Neville is a good guy, and honestly, I’m getting sick of just talking to your grumpy self.” And it was true. Longbottom — there was no way to refer to him as Neville, ever — was different. He was easy to talk to.

At the end of November, something even stranger happened. One morning, while he was sitting alone in the Great Hall, eating his breakfast in peace, a familiar voice cut through the air.

“Malfoy, still got that Nimbus 3000? I hear the 3001 is coming out soon.”

It was Antony Goldstein, an old acquaintance from the good old days. Draco raised an eyebrow in surprise, but the small talk felt oddly normal.

“It’s gathering dust in my trunk,” he replied with a hint of sarcasm, though there was a strange warmth in his chest that he hadn’t expected.

Christmas was dreadful, just like the Christmases of the past two years. The Manor, once so full of life and grandeur, now felt hollow and suffocating. His parents were still under house arrest, locked away within the same oppressive walls.

“We’ll start renovations soon, Draco. The house will look better than ever,” his mother had said. But Draco knew better. Nothing would ever be the same.

He looked at her—so composed, so determined to hold everything together—and felt the familiar ache in his chest. Narcissa Malfoy had always been his anchor, the one person who loved him without condition or question. He would do anything to ease the weight she carried on her shoulders, anything to make her smile the way she used to when he was a boy. If only rebuilding walls could repair the quiet cracks in her heart and mind.

Leaving the Manor and returning to the castle, he felt like a prisoner being transferred from one cell to another. The only silver lining was that, at least at Hogwarts, he wasn’t forced to listen to his father drone on about his future—how he had to take over the estate, manage the Malfoy family affairs, and be groomed to carry the weight of the heavy surname he bore. None of which he cared about anymore, and none of which he had any intention of doing.

By mid-February, the next Hogsmeade weekend had been announced. Draco couldn’t help but think how, in previous years, he had always made sure to ask some witch—usually a Slytherin—to join him for the outing. They’d end up at that dreadful tearoom with the overwhelmingly pink decor. Draco loathed the owner, who always fluttered her eyelashes at him, and he would have refused to set foot in the place if it weren’t for the fact that they served the best apple pie in magical Britain. And the scent of those sweet pies! Salazar help him—it even beat the smell of the Manor kitchen on the days the house elves were preparing grand feasts for his mother’s guests.

This year, though, there would be no witch by his side—and if he were honest with himself, he didn’t care. Girls were the last thing on his mind.

When Theo told him he’d arranged to meet Longbottom at the Three Broomsticks, Draco had hesitated—but in the end, he went.

That evening turned out to be unexpectedly pleasant. Never in a million years would he have imagined himself sitting at a table, drinking butterbeer, and laughing at the jokes of three Gryffindors—especially those three Gryffindors. Ginny Weasley, the Chosen One’s better half; Neville Longbottom, who, to be fair, Draco had actually started to like; and Merlin help him—Hermione Granger. Golden girl, brightest witch of her age, and whatever other ridiculous nickname she’d collected over the years.

One week during the Easter holidays, while walking in the Manor gardens, Draco turned to Theo. “Do you know where I could buy some post-its?”

“Post-its? You mean those colorful little bits of paper you and Granger have stuck all over your books? No clue.”

The next day, he found himself—for the first time in his life—standing in a muggle stationery shop somewhere in London. Draco, who had never spoken to a muggle in his life, froze when the rather cute shop assistant asked how she could help him.

“Post-its,” he said, stiffly, eyeing Theo, who looked equally lost among the strange merchandise.

When Draco asked the assistant for five hundred packs, she stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Don’t you think five hundred is a bit much?” Theo asked.

“She seems to like them,” Draco said simply. “Uses them a lot.”

Theo gave him a strange look, but Draco ended up leaving only half the packs at Granger’s door, keeping the rest hidden in his room at the Manor.

After graduation—an event his parents failed to attend due to Ministry restrictions—Weasley began touring with the Holyhead Harpies. Longbottom had already secured a spot at a magical greenhouse in Scotland, starting in September. Abbott would begin her internship at St. Mungo’s in July. Draco, Theo, and Granger were all scheduled for Ministry interviews.

Unsurprisingly, Granger was accepted immediately—by multiple departments, even ones she hadn’t applied to. Three of them tried to snatch her up before she eventually chose the one Draco had also aimed for. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He suspected Potter’s presence on that floor had something to do with her final choice.

Theo, ever the smooth-talking diplomat with all the right connections, landed a highly privileged position. The fact that his father was a Death Eater locked away in Azkaban didn’t seem to affect him much. The Notts had money and dubious connections, but their name didn’t carry the same infamy as the Malfoys’.

Draco’s initial goal had been to get into the DMLE as a researcher—a position that would’ve required him to work alongside the saviour himself, Harry Potter. Predictably, his application was rejected. He went through a few interviews here and there, and eventually settled for something far less glamorous: a spot at the Finance Office.

“Financial Affairs?” Lucius had scoffed a week before Draco’s first day. “You mean that you will be recording the salaries of the Ministry's senior staff and itemizing their lunch expenses?”

“Of course not, Father,” Draco replied, barely masking his boredom. That was… exactly what he’d be doing—at least for now—but there was no way he was going to admit it.

Lucius offered to contact some of his connections at the Ministry—surely, there were more prestigious positions for a Malfoy. Though he had lost much of his influence, he was certain he could find someone who owed him a favor, one that could prove quite profitable. “I agreed to let you amuse yourself with this ‘work’ nonsense for a few years,” Lucius said, his voice dripping with distaste, as if the word itself might soil his mouth. “But I won’t allow you to stoop to something so beneath a Malfoy’s talents.”

Draco declined—and pointedly didn’t correct him. He had no intention of working for just a year or two, and he didn’t think holding a job at the Ministry was some passing fancy or foolish rebellion.

Two weeks into the job, he already hated it. His office was on the Ministry's dampest, darkest, and most secluded floor, filled with paperwork older than his great-grandfather.

“We’re out of space upstairs, Malfoy. I’m afraid you’ll have to stay down here for now,” his supervisor had told him, handing over a nameplate that read: Draco Malfoy, Assistant Accountant.

Everything about the job was dull. The people were dull. The endless files of meaningless numbers were dull. And the Ministry workers who popped into his office every five minutes, inquiring about salary adjustments and leave policies? Merlin, he loathed it all. But he had no intention of quitting—or of admitting just how miserable he was. He kept telling himself it was temporary, that he’d move up soon, that Lucius was wrong, and that he could become someone important because he was worthy of it.

Draco was fairly certain this assignment was some form of punishment—but he didn’t care. He wanted to work. He wanted to carve out his own path. And for the first time in his life, he intended to follow what he wanted—not what his father had planned for him.

One of the few bright spots in his life was Friday evenings. Every week, he’d meet up with Theo, Granger, Abbott, Longbottom, and Weasley at the muggle pub. He had been introduced to a drink called cider, and he was hooked. Granger, who rarely touched alcohol, had been the one to recommend it—and he could’ve hugged her right then and there when he took that first sip of the golden liquid.

Well… if it hadn’t been Granger.

In August, Draco went on his first date since the end of the war. Tracey Davis had been a classmate from Slytherin—someone he’d shared a common room with for years, though he’d never given her a second glance. The fact that she was one of the girls Pansy had openly despised—because she was half-blood—had certainly played a part in that.

But Pansy rarely saw Draco anymore, since she was now living in France — and Draco no longer cared about her opinion. More importantly, he no longer believed in blood purity.

So when he ran into Tracey at Adrian Pucey’s party, he struck up a conversation, bought her a few drinks, and a week later, asked her out.

Tracey was nice. She laughed easily—perhaps too easily, to the point it made him feel awkward. And she talked. A lot. About everything and nothing, in a way that was more exhausting than endearing.

After three dates, they called it off.

As September came, their group at the Wizard’s Beard shrank. Longbottom had moved to Scotland, and Weasley was always traveling. Still, Draco, Theo, Granger, and Abbott kept meeting at the pub, sharing stories from work—though Draco mostly just listened and laughed.

Despite the camaraderie, Draco often felt a gnawing embarrassment when they talked about their jobs. While the others spoke with passion, he felt detached, stuck in a mundane role managing finances. His job was dull, beneath what he’d imagined for himself, but he still hadn’t given up.

One Friday evening, when Abbott couldn’t make it and Weasley was going on endlessly about Quidditch with Theo, Draco found himself quietly observing Granger. Over the years, she had changed more than he had ever realized.

She was still as intelligent and passionate about everything she did as she had been at school—but no longer the know-it-all who raised her hand just to show off. She spoke with conviction, but there was a calmness to it now. She listened—truly listened—before sharing her thoughts. And when she was right (which was often), her entire face lit up, and her smile… that smile was so bright, Draco found himself thinking it could chase away a dementor.

Her eyes—deep brown like rich chocolate—seemed to shine under the pub’s lighting. Her hair, which he had once mocked endlessly, had lost some of its volume and no longer frizzed as it had before.

She wore the most unconventional clothes for a witch—thin little muggle dresses, far too light for London’s chilly autumn air. They often left her arms bare, and the breeze would raise goosebumps along her skin. And Draco—he just stared at her, wondering how that skin would feel beneath his hands… or his lips.

It all started on a Saturday when his mother insisted he attend a high-society event. Since graduation, his parents had been subtly pressuring him about marriage, but Draco had always managed to avoid it.

"Draco, you need to find a worthy wife soon, one who will give you a son," his mother had said before handing him an invitation to the Avery autumn party. Draco hated the Averys and their annual fall gathering, but he knew that important figures from the Ministry would be there—people he could approach for the first time without his father looming over him.

 “I don’t understand why I had to come with you,” Theo complained. “I’m not looking for a bride.”

Draco shot him a glare just as a group of girls passed by, eyeing them with interest. “Neither am I, Nott. At least not for now. But my parents insisted I show up. Looks like there are plenty of eligible witches here, anyway,” he added, glancing to the far side of the room, where two striking blondes were watching them curiously.

“Ah, the Greengrass sisters,” Theo said.

They spent the evening talking to Daphne and Astoria, whom they hadn’t seen in five years. By the end of the night, though, his mind kept drifting to deep chocolate eyes, warm smiles, and chestnut curls that smelled of vanilla.

That night, for the first time, Draco dreamed of Hermione Granger—naked, wrapped in his arms.

Soon enough, things were spiraling out of control, and he had no idea how to deal with it. He listened to her talk for hours about work, but she never mentioned men. Did that mean she was available? Or did it just mean she wasn’t interested?

One Friday night, when a fellow patron at the Wizard’s Beard approached their table and spoke to her—what nerve, honestly! There were men at the table, what gave him the right?—and asked for her number, Draco had no idea what that meant. But he was quietly pleased when she politely told the man she didn’t have one, and went right back to chatting with Weasley about her upcoming trip to Bulgaria.

As the months passed, Draco felt more and more desperate. He feared everyone had figured it out. Theo had definitely noticed. Slowly, he began noticing every detail about her—every line of her jaw, every flick of her hair. He’d memorized them all. He was certain he could draw her face with his eyes closed. And that’s exactly what he did. Well, not the eyes-closed part, of course. The drawing part.

One Friday in November, when he arrived at the crowded pub with Nott and Granger—she was walking just ahead of him, and the view from behind made his mind spin—he saw Pansy Parkinson sitting at a table with Abbott and Longbottom. At that moment, he thought for sure that someone must have it out for him.

"Pansy, I didn’t know you managed to pull it off!" Nott said.

Idiot, idiot Nott.

He had told him not to invite her. Pansy had refused to attend her final year at Hogwarts because, as she had confided to him, she didn’t want to breathe the same air as the mudbloods who won the war. The war might have been won, and Voldemort might have been vanquished, but the beliefs of so many years weren’t easily uprooted from everyone—especially when some didn’t even care to try. And Theo had invited her for drinks, sitting her at the same table as Granger! Honestly, he was an idiot.

The evening went pleasantly enough. Pansy didn’t insult—at least not directly—Granger or Abbott, who were the only non purebloods at the table, though on several occasions, her snide remarks were followed by furtive glances in Draco's and Theo’s direction.

Draco really tried, he honestly did, to act indifferent that night, so Pansy wouldn’t catch on to the crush he had on the Muggle-born, but when Granger drank her third glass of wine and declared, "It’s hot in here, isn’t it?" and he saw her take off her soft sweater to reveal a nearly see-through white blouse, he completely lost it.

"You’re staring," Nott told him, but he didn’t care because she was just so beautiful. Her cheeks were flushed, she laughed nonstop at Longbottom’s  stories, and when she stumbled on a tall stool and ended up sitting on his lap, he simply couldn’t resist. The fabric of her blouse was so thin. He held her by the waist and helped her stand on her feet.

"My pleasure, Granger," he said, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Pansy choking on a sip of her wine.

"The Mudblood, Draco? Seriously? Poor Narcissa," was the last thing she said, with a look of disgust on her face, before grabbing Nott and disapparating to his house.

***

"You have to help me," he barged into Nott's office and before the other man could even reply, grabbed a glass and filled it with Firewhisky.

"This bottle is only for very special occasions, Draco, and for very important people," he said.

"I am a very important person and surely my situation is special."

Theo sighed. "What the hell do you want? Have you finally decided to accept my offer to work in this department? I've spoken to Gar-."

"I don't want help with my job, Nott!" he growled. "I want you to help me go on a date with Granger," he said.

Not understanding the seriousness of the situation, Theo burst out laughing.

"Shut up".

"How exactly do you want me to help you, Draco? Do you want me to ask her if she wants to go out with you? I've done it before. With Pansy, when we were seven years old. I took her a drawing of yours and then you met under a tree at the Manor and gave her a rose. I could do it again, but if I think about it, we're no longer seven years old, so it might not work."

Draco made an obscene gesture at him. "You're hilarious as always, Nott. I want you to help me go out with her, but without me having to ask her out."

"Excuse me?"

Draco had thought this through very carefully. He needed to find a few hours alone with Granger, talk to her, laugh with her, and have a good time. He needed to show her that he was interesting beyond being handsome and rich. But he couldn't bring himself to call it a date; the thought of her possibly rejecting him felt like too much to risk.

It was about finding the right moment, one that felt natural. And, as fate would have it, Nott found that perfect moment exactly one month later.

"Do you like my suit?" he asked.

"I don't care about your stupid clothes, Theo. Tell me, are you sure Ginny won't show up?"

Theo looked at himself in the mirror he had conjured before speaking. "I'm not an idiot, Draco. I told you she wouldn't come, and it’s true."

"How the hell are you so sure?"

He vanished the mirror and looked at his watch. "I bumped into Potter in the hall yesterday morning. The veela gave birth. Ginny went to the Burrow and plans to stay there for a week."

"Abbott and Longbottom?" Draco asked.

"I helped them carry all of her staff yesterday. They're already in Scotland. Stop freaking out. You two will be alone today."

"And where will you go?" Draco asked. Both of them stood in front of the fireplace. In fifteen minutes, Granger would arrive to meet them.

"I am supposed to have a date with Angela Hardy from the Department for the Misuse of Magic, but in reality, I'm going home. I bought a muggle book Granger recommended to me a few months ago, and I can't wait to read the next volume. I'll lend it to you once I finish it. It’s about a Gollum and a ring-"

"Are you sure she won't find out that you're not going to your date? What if she bumps into Hardy in the hall and asks about it?"

"Do you really think Granger is a gossip who goes around asking about my love life, Draco? Anyway, you don't need to worry."

"Why?"

"Because I went out with Hardy yesterday. She's gorgeous, obviously, and her body, Salazar, it's a sin, but within the first five minutes, she told me more nonsense about divination than Trelawney has in three years of Divination at Hogwarts."

That night, the two of them went out. Draco never expected that a date—though it wasn’t really a date, but to him it was—could be so wonderful. They talked all night, or rather, she did most of the talking. But unlike Tracy, who talked about the new furniture she wanted to buy and the discounts announced at a famous haute couture store in Diagon Alley, with a name Draco couldn’t even remember, Hermione spoke about equal rights in education between Muggle-borns and children born into the magical world, and the progressive changes in the society of wizards.

When she suggested they continue their not-a-date at her place, he tried not to stare at her like an idiot.

And when she cooked for him, he couldn’t help but marvel at it. No one, other than the house-elves, had ever made him so much as a boiled egg, let alone a completely mediocre amatriciana, that if his father had tasted, he wouldn’t have served it to the stupidest of his peacocks. Yet, he ate it with such enthusiasm, just to see her smile in satisfaction.

When she handed him a glass of wine and sat beside him on the couch, he found it far more enjoyable than he expected, even though it was probably the cheapest wine he’d ever had. And when he kissed her and ran his fingers through her hair, he couldn’t help but feel like it was a moment he would never forget.

When he returned to the Manor that night, he desperately wanted to send her an owl — to tell her how wonderful the evening had been, how much he wanted to ask her out. Tomorrow? Could they go tomorrow? But he held back. He didn’t want to scare her off. So instead, he rummaged through his wardrobe, searching for one of the post-it pads he’d bought months ago.

“ If I close my eyes, I can still feel you beside me. And Merlin help me, I don’t want to forget"

he wrote, and tossed the small note into his nightstand drawer.

Every moment with her felt different, more real than anything he had experienced before. It wasn’t the typical romance with extravagant gestures. It was just the two of them, simple things—shared dinners, long conversations, and quiet moments that somehow meant more than any party or gala.

Hermione had tried to teach him how to cook, but the reality was, half the time, even she could barely manage to make a meal that was edible. Draco began to suggest more and more often that they just order takeout.

As time passed, Draco kept certain things hidden from her, things he didn’t want to burden her with. For example, every time he walked alone down Diagon Alley, the eyes of people followed him with judgment. There were whispers, pointed stares, and more than once, someone spat at him, calling him a death eater. The hate from the public was palpable, and it stung more than he’d care to admit.

At work, despite his constant effort, people turned a blind eye to him. He had been passed over for promotions time and time again, even when he knew he deserved them. It was as if his past and his name were an anchor he couldn’t shake off, no matter how hard he tried. However, he didn’t want to give up. He wanted to escape from his name and from Lucius' shadow, and he was determined to be patient and try even harder, to prove to everyone that the new generation of Malfoys wouldn’t be the same as the old ones.

They kept their relationship secret—mostly to protect themselves from the press and from his parents. Draco was sure that Lucius would be enraged if he found out, and honestly, he had no desire to get tangled up in another endless argument with his father. Apart from a few of Hermione’s close friends and Theo, no one else knew.

One day, someone sent him pictures—images of him and Hermione walking hand-in-hand in a Muggle park, completely exposed to the world. The photos were meant to be blackmail, and the threat was clear: if Draco didn’t comply, these images would be everywhere.

But the envelope didn’t only contain photographs. Alongside them were handwritten messages laced with hatred—slurs aimed at Hermione, calling her “Death Eater whore.” In some of the photos, her face had been smeared out with angry streaks of red paint, as if to erase her entirely.

He reached out to Theo, and through some of his more shadowy connections, they tracked down the person behind it. Once they found the bastard, Theo made sure the photos disappeared forever. Draco paid him off, yes, but he also made sure the man understood the consequences of ever attempting something like that again. There was no shouting, no dramatic display—just a quiet, deliberate warning. The kind that sank in deeper than threats ever could. Draco made it unmistakably clear that if Granger was harmed in any way—if she was even made to feel unsafe—there would be no place in the world far enough to hide him. The message wasn’t loud, but it was final and ruthless. 

The last thing Draco wanted was for Hermione to face the consequences of his past. So, he kept everything hidden, and promised that he wouldn’t let anything ruin what they had.

One afternoon towards the end of October, his parents asked him to meet them in the drawing room. Their house arrest had ended a few months earlier, and both of them had started circulating again in pure-blood circles, trying to regain some of their former good reputation. This obviously involved the participation of all the Malfoys in countless charitable events, where everyone pretended to like them while they were simply after their money. Money that Lucius and Narcissa gladly handed over if it meant gaining a little more positive publicity.

"It’s time, Draco. It’s been a year and a half since you graduated from Hogwarts. I did you the favor of letting you get a job at the Ministry, which is unheard of for a Malfoy, but your real work now awaits you. You must take over the estate and all the Malfoy businesses. I’ll be there to help you in the first few years, but in the end, you’ll be on your own. You and your wife."

From that day on, almost every week, they told him that he needed to attend more high-society events, that he should spend more time with the daughters of his mother’s friends, and that perhaps a trip to Paris would open new opportunities with willing witches from Beauxbatons.

"You must find a woman who is not only of our circle but worthy of the family interests. Pure-blood, wealthy, and with the right status. It’s time to think about your future."

Draco did none of the above. He was completely and irrevocably in love with a Muggle-born witch. She wasn’t poor, but she wasn’t wealthy either, and despite being one of the most well-known witches in Britain, she certainly didn’t meet his parents' standards when it came to status.

Despite their rigid views, Draco loved his parents. He knew they only wanted what they thought was best for him, even if it didn’t match his own desires. Lucius and Narcissa weren’t affectionate in an emotional way, but Draco understood their care. They raised him with a sense of duty, believing that bloodlines and wealth would ensure his success and security. Though their expectations were suffocating, Draco knew, in their own way, they wanted him to be happy, or at least secure in the world they envisioned.

That is why a few days later, when Draco was alone with his mother, he couldn’t hold back anymore. As Narcissa spoke to him about the family obligations and expectations, he said with a tone that made him feel more mature than ever before: “Mother, I want to marry for love. I want to marry a woman who makes me feel alive, someone I can have beside me for the rest of my life. I want her to be my choice, not some strategic move.”

Narcissa looked at him in silence. For the next six months, neither she nor his father mentioned marriage again.

***

"Sometimes I wish I could just kidnap you and we could go somewhere else. Somewhere where I wouldn’t be Harry Potter’s best friend and you wouldn’t be the pure-blood heir of two houses," she had told him one summer night while they were lying in her bed, naked.

Despite the heat in the small apartment, she had nestled into his arms, holding him tightly. One of her legs was between his, and she was gently kissing his chest. He ran his fingers through her hair, and she looked at him. The most beautiful eyes he had ever seen in his life, filled with boundless intelligence and so, so sweet that in that moment, he thought he was invincible. That he could do anything, accomplish anything with her beside him. That he could tell everyone she was his, and it didn’t matter what their reaction was because it would be the two of them against the world, and that was enough.

Organizing a trip to Greece wasn’t difficult. Draco had visited the country many times during summers with his parents. He knew Hermione had never been there and was sure she would love it. He rented a villa on a relatively quiet island in the Aegean and chartered a luxurious sailboat in case she wanted to take trips around the nearby islands. He took ten days off from work and told Granger to do the same, even though their holiday would only last eight days. He wanted the other two days to be spent together, locked away in her house, doing nothing but having sex and eating delivery food.

He told his parents he would spend a few days in Paris visiting Pansy and meeting her new boyfriend, a world-famous Quidditch player.

He had the best moments of his life during their vacation. They hardly spent any time in their villa, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have sex many times a day. On the beach, on the sailboat, in the sea, and in a hidden underwater cave a local muggle had taken them to. They made love more times than he could count, and every single time made him fall in love with her even more, if that was even possible.

And then, a week before their planned trip to Bath, disaster struck.

Draco was having breakfast, enjoying the delicious cupcakes Hilly had made, when his father walked in.

“Draco, we need to talk,” Lucius said, but Draco didn’t feel particularly worried. His father often made such pompous statements.

“What is it, Father?” he asked, bored. If his father mentioned the Flint party that was happening the next weekend again, Draco would lose it. He had already told his parents that he wasn’t available that Sunday. He and Hermione had planned a trip to Bath a long time ago.

 “Yesterday, I had a meeting with Anthony Greengrass. He informed me that you and Astoria have maintained friendly contact over the past two years—”

Draco scoffed. He and Astoria had bumped into each other at a few boring galas Narcissa had forced him to attend in an effort to restore the Malfoy name. His interactions with the young witch were minimal, and certainly not friendly. They were mere acquaintances.

“—and since I understand that you’re having trouble finding a witch suitable to the Malfoy family standards, I took the liberty of signing a marriage contract with Mr.Greengrass for you and his daughter.”

Draco stared at him, mouth open. “You did what?”

“Please, Draco, don’t overreact. Miss Greengrass is a beautiful, intelligent, and very agreeable young woman. I spoke with her personally before signing the contract and, I must say, she’s practically in love with you already. Very convenient.”

Draco stood up abruptly, knocking over his chair and some of the dishes on the table. Lucius ignored the noise and continued to look at him, completely unfazed.

“You spoke to her, but you didn’t think to speak to me? To your own son?” Draco shouted.

“That’s enough, Draco. You’ve taken far too long, and between us, I think Astoria is an excellent choice. You may not love her now, but I promise you, son, soon enough you’ll look at her and melt. Women have a way of doing that.”

Draco took a deep breath to calm himself. He glanced at his watch—he had five minutes before he needed to leave for the Ministry. This wasn’t the time for this.

“Father, I will not marry any woman I don’t choose myself,” he said firmly, staring him dead in the eyes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go. I don’t know what agreement you made with Anthony, but make sure to inform him that there will be no wedding between me and his daughter.”

He turned to leave, but Lucius’s hand caught his arm.

“Draco, I’m afraid it’s not that simple. Anthony and I sealed the agreement in the old way—through the ancient oath of pureblood families. We signed the contract in blood and took a blood vow to do whatever it takes to ensure this marriage happens. If I fail to uphold it… the consequences for both the family and myself will be severe. The Head of the House will die, and I don’t want that, Draco.”

Draco didn’t go to work that day. Nor the next. He told his boss he was sick and called Hermione to tell her the same.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I can bring you some muggle antibiotics,” she offered, her voice full of worry.

Later that afternoon, his parents visited him again. They tried to speak with him, but he wanted nothing to do with it. He was desperately trying to find a solution—but there was none. Either he would lose Hermione… or he would lose his family.

“How could you do this to me?” he yelled. The past two days had been hell. For the first time in his life, he felt the urge to lash out at someone he loved.

“Draco, don’t you think you’re overreacting?” his father said coolly. “I’ve secured you an incredible arrangement with a woman most men would beg to call their wife.”

“BUT I DON’T LOVE HER! I LOVE SOMEONE ELS—” he screamed, but stopped when he saw his mother looking away guiltily, and his father exhaling in quiet disapproval.

“You already know, don’t you?” he realized. “You already knew I loved someone else. That’s why this happened so quickly. That’s why you didn’t ask”, he said angrily.

Lucius sat in his armchair, composed. “In Greece, Draco? Did you really think I wouldn’t find out? The entire Malfoy fortune is in my name. Every vault, every account goes through me. Eight days of renting a luxury yacht and ten thousand Euros for a seaside villa. Miss Granger certainly has expensive taste.”

“Lucius!” Narcissa snapped at him, shooting daggers with her eyes.

“Don’t talk about her like that!” Draco barked.

Lucius rose from his armchair and walked toward his son with slow steps.

“Draco, it’s not personal. It’s simply the truth. She can’t understand you the way a pureblood wife raised with the same traditions and expectations would. You may worship her now, but those feelings fade. You are young, she is young. Both of you are going to be just fine. Stop acting like a child.”

“How dare you call me a child” Draco yelled again. “She… she is the only thing in my life that has ever felt right! I don’t care about blood and money! And if I have to choose, then—”

“Then choose wisely,” his mother interrupted softly. “Because if you choose her, we’ll lose our family.”

Draco felt his stomach twist into a tight knot. He couldn’t live without Hermione… but he also couldn’t bear to see his parents destroyed, his mother mourning the death of her husband. The mere thought of her—hollow-eyed and fragile—brought a burn to his throat. He had always been her boy, her reason to keep going through the war, through shame, through fear. She had sacrificed too much for him already. How could he ask her to give up her husband, her name, everything she'd fought to protect, just so he could follow his heart? The weight of it all settled heavy on his chest. He sat down on the couch, burying his face in his hands. He didn’t speak for a long time. And when he finally did, his voice was barely a whisper.

“I can’t choose.”

Theo was already two drinks in when Draco finally showed up at the pub.

“You look like hell,” Theo said quietly as Draco slumped into the seat across from him.

“I feel worse,” Draco muttered.

Theo waited.

“I’m supposed to marry Astoria Greengrass,” he finally said, his voice raw.

Theo blinked. “Come again?”

“Lucius made a contract with her father. A blood vow. Unbreakable, ancient, binding. My father believes Astoria will help his cause. She’s popular, adored by pure-bloods, the press likes her, and she has strong connections abroad. She’s filthy rich, and even though we already have more money than we need, apparently, more is never enough. Now he’s willing to do anything to secure the marriage: threaten to disown me, strip me of the Malfoy name, take everything from me—he even hinted at threatening Hermione’s life.”

“He would do that? Disown you? Threaten her? Don’t you think that’s too much, even for him?”

“If the contract isn’t fulfilled, Lucius will die,” Draco answered numbly.

“What? He risked his life for a fucking contract?” Theo swore under his breath. “And Hermione?”

“She doesn’t exist in my future. Not according to my father. To him, she’s just a passing phase.”

“Did you tell her?”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “No.”

“Merlin,” Theo exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Draco, you need to tell her.”

“And say what?” Draco snapped. “That I might marry someone else because I can’t risk losing my father? That I’m about to throw away the best thing that’s ever happened to me just so I don’t have to watch my mother waste away from sorrow? That my father signed away my future to preserve our precious bloodline? What the fuck do I even say to her?”

Theo looked at him with something between pity and frustration.

“No. You tell her because she deserves the truth. Because you both deserve a chance to fight for each other, before it’s too late.”

Draco looked away, ashamed. “You think there is a chance?”

***

Draco found her in the rose garden.

“I can’t do it.”

She didn’t answer at once. She cut a fading rose with precise fingers, then turned to face him.

“You’re talking about the wedding with Astoria.” Narcissa said.

He nodded. “How could you let this happen, Mother? How could you let him do this to me? Use his life—your life—as leverage?”

“Draco,” Narcissa replied calmly, “your father believes Astoria is an excellent choice for a wife. Give her a chance. You haven’t even spoken to her yet.”

“But I don’t want to speak to her! I love Hermione,” he said, his voice cracking with desperation.

She sighed. “I know.”

Draco swallowed the lump rising in his throat. “Then tell me not to go through with it.”

Narcissa looked at the rose in her hand, then back at him.

“She’s a brave, brilliant witch,” she said softly. “But she’s not one of us.”

“She loves me—”

“I don’t doubt that,” she interrupted gently. “But love isn’t always enough. Our world is cruel. She will never be accepted. Not by the people you were raised among. Not by the life we’re bound to.”

Draco clenched his fists. “Then screw them all. Let the world burn.”

“But it won’t,” she said quietly, “We will. Our family. Your father. Me. You”.

There was a long pause. Then she added:

“She’ll be fine, Draco. She’s strong. She’ll cry, she’ll hurt. But one day she’ll move on. She’ll find someone who can give her everything you can’t. Someone who isn’t shackled by blood and vows and names.”

He turned his head sharply. “I don’t want someone else to touch her.”

Narcissa placed a hand over his. “No mother wants to see her son in pain. But sometimes, doing what’s right for the family means giving up what makes you happiest.”

He looked down, breathing unevenly. “What if I never love anyone like that again?”

She squeezed his hand.

“You will, my love, I promise you.”

"What if I don’t want to?" he whispered, but her answer never came.

***

“Draco, I raised you better than this. Be honest with yourself, my son.” Lucius’ voice was calm, but there was a sharpness to it, a subtle edge that made it clear he wasn’t going to let Draco avoid this conversation.

“You’ve been with her for what? A year? More?” he continued. “If blood, name, and reputation didn’t matter to you, then why have you kept it a secret? Why the lies? Why hide—from us, from the world?”

“We were hiding,” Draco shouted, “because we didn’t want to hear your venomous comments. Because I knew the moment you found out, you’d try to ruin it—just like you always do. Every time I try to build a life that doesn’t fit your perfectly crafted design, you tear it down. I was hiding, Father, because I was scared. Scared that you’d find a way to destroy the only real thing I’ve ever had. And now here you are—doing exactly that. With threats, with guilt, with pain.”

Lucius leaned forward, his gaze cold and unwavering.

“You’re being dramatic. As always. Deep down, you know that you and she were never built to last. This relationship, in the long run, will bring nothing but ruin. You say you love her, but do you truly believe she’ll ever be able to follow the career path she dreams of in the Ministry? Her own people will call her a traitor. Our people will see her as unworthy. And you know it.”

He paused before continuing, voice low and deliberate. “Do you really believe she will keep loving you after watching everything she’s worked for fall apart around her?”

Draco’s voice shook with fury. “What you’ve done is unforgivable. And now you stand there, trying to convince me that her love for me won’t last? That it isn’t enough? That this is somehow our fault—that she and I are the problem, not the people poisoned by hatred around us?”

But Lucius simply didn’t understand. Or refused to.

His father’s voice echoed in his mind long after he left the room: It won’t work. She’ll never be happy. You’ll lose everything.

And Draco knew he loved her. With everything he had. But the longer he sat with that love, tangled in guilt and the terrifying thought of losing his father… the more uncertain the future became.

How could he live a happy life with Hermione, knowing that his father had died because of him? Knowing that his mother would waste away in grief?

He had clung to the belief that love would be enough. That love would carry them through the storm. But now, a quiet, cruel fear crept in and whispered: maybe this was never meant to last.

What he did know—what he would always know—was that Hermione deserved everything. A life full of light, joy, and freedom. But could he ever truly give it to her?

The questions haunted him. The more he tried to silence them, the louder they became. Fuck. He had no answers.

***

It started with a bottle of Firewhisky. Then another. And another.

"What the hell are you doing?"

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Draco muttered bitterly. “I’m celebrating. I’m getting married. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Theo’s expression hardened. “You didn’t tell her, did you?”

Draco let out a hollow laugh, the sound brittle and sharp. “Tell Granger I’m marrying someone else because staying with her would cost me my father’s life? Yeah. That’ll go down well.”

He leaned his head back against the couch, his eyes glassy as the weight of his thoughts pressed down on him. “She’s going to move on, you know. That’s what my mother said. She’ll find someone else. Someone better. Someone who will choose her.”

“And you’ll just let her?”.

Draco’s gaze darkened, his frustration bubbling over. “What bloody choice do I have?” he snapped. “If I stay with her, my father dies. And my mother…” He swallowed hard. “She’ll follow him. You know she will. But if I marry Astoria, my parents will be pleased, the contract fulfilled. I’ll be miserable. Hermione will be miserable—for a while. But eventually… she’ll have the chance to build something new. Something better. Without me dragging her down.”

There was a long, heavy silence. Theo watched him for a moment.

“Pass me the bottle, will you?” he asked quietly.

They kept drinking, the bottle now nearly empty, as if it could drown the overwhelming storm of thoughts in his mind.

***

The manor’s halls had never been brighter, flooded with flashing cameras and smiles. Journalists from the Daily Prophet moved between crystal vases of white roses, collecting words, impressions, and perfect angles. Nothing was accidental—neither the colors of the room, nor Astoria’s dress, nor the smiles of her family, which looked more like crafted masks.

Lucius sat comfortably beside the bride’s father, while Narcissa stood tall and composed, her sharp gaze catching every detail. By morning, the papers would run headlines about “a union of love between two pure-bloods.” A Christmas wedding—just as the bride and groom had wished.

Draco stood there among them, posed like a statue. He stood beside the woman his father had chosen for him, giving her a ring his mother had chosen for him, looking into eyes that were too blue and hair far too blonde, and all he could think about was tomorrow’s trip to Bath—the one Hermione had been talking about non-stop for two weeks.

Οne thought echoed relentlessly in his mind all morning: Hermione, dressed in her Regency-era clothes as Elizabeth Bennet, tugging at his sleeve, begging him to take a picture with her new camera. She laughed, knowing how much he hated the idea of dressing as her Mr. Darcy, but secretly hoping he might do it, just for her.

I love you

The owls came early, as they did every morning. He didn’t open a single letter. He didn’t even look at the names. His phone had been handed over to Tilly. He told her to do whatever she wanted with it.

The room sank into silence, until an otter slipped under the door. Moving gently it lit the dim space with a faint blue shimmer. Before he could lift his wand, to silence it, it spoke.

A plea. It begged him to come. To meet. To talk.

One day passed. He flew over the grounds of Malfoy Manor, needing the wind, needing air. Then another. He flew again. And another. He tried to outfly the ache in his chest, the suffocating tightness that no open sky could relieve. The world suddenly felt too small for his pain. Too close. Too loud.

An entire week passed, and nothing changed.

“Draco, you need to speak to her,” his mother told him the following morning. “You must be clear. The marriage contract is binding. It allows no extramarital ties, no indiscretions of any kind. You need to stay away from her, and she from you. You cannot risk violating the terms.”

Draco laughed. As if distance could ever make him stop loving her. As if staying away could undo everything they’d been. Merlin, he hated everyone.

His mother returned the next day. She told him he was brave. He was never brave.

His drawer had filled with Post-it notes. He wrote her three or four a day. On some, he told her how much he loved her, how much he missed her, how he longed to hold her in his arms. On others, he simply recalled little moments they had shared over the past two years—like the time they went to the movies, or that car exhibition.

Next morning, he stood in front of the mirror, taking a deep breath, his reflection more composed than he had felt in days.

Theo walked in, closing the door behind him. He pulled out a letter from his pocket, handing it over. “Hermione sent this.”

Draco stared at the letter in his hands, his mind replaying everything.

“She’s going to want answers. I have to make it clear that it’s over. For good.”

Theo studied him closely. “Are you sure that’s what you want? It sounds harsh, even for you.”

Draco nodded once, his jaw tight. “I need her to stay away. I have to. The contract is clear.”

Theo’s gaze softened, his voice barely above a whisper. “Do you really think you can make her stay away? She loves you, Draco. Deeply.”

“I know,” Draco whispered. His throat burned. “But she will.”

"Can you stay away?"

Draco didn't answer. 

He wanted to take a Calming Draught before going to her flat, but he didn’t. The meeting with her had been the worst experience of his life. Worse than when Voldemort had marked him. Worse than when he had tried to kill the greatest wizard of all time. But he had to do it. He had to suffer as much as she had suffered the previous week.

He didn’t tell her about the contract his father had signed, or his mother’s pleas to do the right thing for their family, but he would tell her that he had been given a choice—and he had chosen his family.

She had called him a coward—and she was right. He deserved it. What struck him as cruelly ironic was that only a few days earlier, his mother had called him brave.

She had shouted at him, pleaded, cried, begged. Then, when none of that worked, she cursed him. He had stood there, watching her unravel completely—and done absolutely nothing.

He was a bastard.

He wasn’t just destroying himself. He was destroying them both. And the worst part? She didn’t deserve any of this.

He wanted to tell her he loved her. He wanted to hold her, to take it all back. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He had to keep his distance. He had to make her believe it was over—that she needed to move on, to leave him behind.

He also wanted to say he was sorry. But even that felt ridiculous. I’m breaking her heart, he thought bitterly, and I want to ask for forgiveness? How pathetic, Merlin.

You're absolutely right. I am a bastard.

She had disappeared. It had been four days since Theo last saw her. She hadn’t come to work, and when he asked Theo to search for her at her apartment, he was told it was empty. Potter, who now seemed to want to curse him every time he looked at him, refused to tell him where she had gone.

“Malfoy, get out of my sight, I swear I will avada you,” he had said before shoving him away and stepping into the elevator. Theo had tried to reach Ginny and Longbottom, but neither was willing to speak with him.

The days went by, and his anxiety about her whereabouts grew.

At the same time, his mother and his fiancée were planning a dream wedding, one that he had no desire to be involved in at all.

“Draco, what do you think? After the wedding, would you like me to move into your room, or should we move to the west wing of the Manor? Your mother was so kind, she told me I could choose any wing I want, except of course the one where she and Lucius stay. What do you prefer?” Astoria had asked him one afternoon while they were walking in the gardens. His eyes landed on the rosebush that bore Hermione’s name, the one he had planted two years ago. He stood there, staring at the withered plant, never answering his fiancée’s question.

***

“Draco.”

A few days before the wedding, his father had summoned him to the study at the Manor. Lucius was seated at his desk, surrounded by a half-dozen documents relating to the estate and the family enterprises. The moment Draco took the seat across from him, Lucius gave a small wave of his wand, and the papers vanished neatly into their folders.

“How are you, my son?”

“Do you actually want to know the answer, Father, or are you just asking out of politeness?” Draco replied flatly.

Lucius, of course, pretended not to notice the dryness in his tone and ignored his words entirely.

 “What do you think of Astoria? It’s been three months since the engagement.”

Oh yes. Astoria.

Astoria adored him—or at least, she thought she did. She was in love with the version of Draco that Lucius had carefully presented to her, and according to him, that was more than enough. And since Lucius rarely made mistakes about such things, Astoria truly was a prize. Everyone liked her, everyone wanted to be near her, and everyone admired her grace and beauty. The press praised her, society loved her. And because she was adored, people had started to respect Draco a little more too. Funny how that worked.

“It’s still early, Father. I don’t know her very well yet,” he said, tone clipped. “She seems… pleasant.”

She probably was. Beautiful, composed, elegant—someone else’s dream come true. Someone else would certainly appreciate her far more than he ever could.

“And yes,” he added dryly, “people seem to adore her. Which, of course, is the most important thing.”

Lucius leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered. “One day, you’ll adore her too. That’s how it always works in proper pureblood marriages. She was made for you.”

Draco gave a faint, humourless smile. “How fortunate, then, that I was made to order.”

I miss you.

Their wedding was the event of the decade. Thousands of galleons, hundreds of guests and a very drunk groom who had to consume three different sober up potions just to appear flawless and blissfully happy in the millions of photographs taken that day.

Astoria moved in to his room. One day, he walked in to find her sitting by his desk, wearing the most minuscule nightgown he had ever seen on a woman. His wife was beautiful, yes, he knew that. She was tall and slender. Her skin was as white as his. Her chest wasn’t full, but it was firm, and he could tell she was already aroused. Her legs were long and enticing. And she was certainly bold and eager. She wanted him, and she showed it in every way possible. Any other man would have taken full advantage of it, but he longed to touch other legs and kiss other lips.

And his wife remained unsatisfied, month after month, but never gave up trying.

***

In March, three months after his wedding and five months since her disappearance, Theo finally brought him some good news. A month ago they met Gregory Goyle at the Leaky Cauldron. They hadn't seen their old schoolmate in over three years. Goyle, along with a few other purebloods who had once allied with Voldemort, had chosen to disappear to America after the war ended. In the course of their conversation, he confided that he had made many powerful connections in New York. "I can ask a few of them, maybe they can found out what happened to her," he had said.

"Draco, they found her. Well, it’s probably her. I’m waiting to hear for sure. She’s in Australia," Theo told him. The relief that flooded through Draco when he learned she was alive—safe, with her parents, with people who cared about her—was overwhelming.

Of course he’d considered the possibility that she might have gone to Australia. But he had dismissed it. He never thought she’d go that far, not when it meant leaving behind Potter and the Weasleys.

"She’s there with Weasley. Ron," Theo continued, and Draco's heart sank.

That night, he stayed awake until three in the morning, drinking the finest whiskey Tilly had brought him, staring at a drawing of the woman he loved he had made years ago. Later, when he went to his room, drunk and exhausted, his wife was waiting for him. She was wearing a tiny green lingerie set that reminded him of the Slytherin colors. Draco wasn’t thinking clearly. He kissed her.

"Draco, drink this," she said, handing him the sober up potion she kept for the nights when he went out with Theo and drank more than they should. He drank it. And then, to Astoria’s surprise, he kissed her again—on the mouth, on her neck, on the spot above her bra. That night, he finally had sex with his wife. And when he lay next to her and pulled her into his arms, everything felt wrong.

Fuck.

***

In September, Draco asked Theo to speak again with his contact. He wanted to know if she was well, if she was happy.

"Enough, Draco. She’s in Australia. I am sure she’s healthy. She has her parents and Weasley. We don’t need to know anything else. Let her go," Theo had said, looking at him fiercely.

By January, Draco’s patience had worn thin. He told him that if he didn’t help, he’d go to Gregory himself and get what he needed. Theo stared at him like he didn’t recognize him anymore, but a month later, he walked into Draco’s new office—he’d just been promoted—and tossed a folded piece of parchment on his desk.

“You told me you had to stay away from her. What the hell are you trying to do? You’ve got a wife waiting at home.”

“I’m not trying to do anything, Nott.” Draco’s voice rose, sharp and bitter. “You know damn well I tried to make the best choice I could when none of my choices were good.” He paused, eyes hard. "I just want to know that she’s okay. That she’s happy. That she’s not alone. That I didn’t destroy her forever."

On the piece of paper, he read her details—an address somewhere in Sydney and the floor she worked on at the Ministry. Department of Magical Co-operation, it read. He was sure she was excelling there too.

***

A few days later, his father summoned him to his study and handed him the full portfolio of the Malfoy family businesses.

“It’s time you assume your rightful place within the family’s enterprises and the Wizengamot. It’s been a year since your marriage, and now you and Astoria must expand the Malfoy wealth, connections, and standing in high society,” Lucius declared, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve played civil servant long enough—it’s time to resign from that Ministry job and focus on what truly matters”.

Draco’s tolerance was fraying, but he managed to keep his composure. He had told his father time and time again that he wasn’t planning to abandon his Ministry position, but Lucius was incapable of listening to anything that didn’t align with his desires.

“What are you going to do, father?” Draco snapped, his voice edged with bitterness. “Sign yet another contract with your blood to force me—again—to do what you want? Was the Dark Mark not enough? Was losing the woman I loved not enough? Now you want me to give up my job, too?”

Astoria, unsurprisingly, had not been pleased when she learned that Draco had no intention of taking over the Malfoy business empire.

“But Draco, darling, you’re a Malfoy,” she argued, her voice sweet but insistent. “You can’t expect to work in the Ministry’s Finance Department for the rest of your life. What will our friends think? What will our associates say? People are already starting to whisper. You have to take over from Lucius. You’re meant to be the head of the House Malfoy and I, eventually, will be Lady Malfoy.”

A month passed, and his father had started acting strangely. His mind often betrayed him, and his magic had begun to weaken. When the healers in Britain seemed unable to find a solution to his problem, he and Narcissa traveled to America in search of a famous healer who, according to what they had learned, could help Lucius. When Draco offered to follow them, Narcissa refused.

"Stay in London, Draco. You and Astoria need some time alone at the Manor," she had said, as if the Manor didn’t literally have three hundred rooms where he could be with his wife without the presence of his parents if he wished.

Astoria was kind to the people who mattered to her. She was a little shallow in many ways, caring more about what she wore, what the world would think, and which pureblood wizard was cheating on his wife with lower-born witches—possibly Muggleborns, though she never clarified.

There was always a trace of jealousy simmering beneath her surface. From the beginning, she knew Draco loved someone else. She had no idea who, of course, but as Pansy always used to say, women could sense these things. And despite her usual discretion and tact in public, when Draco was near other women, she lost control of herself.

One evening, at a formal gala, Draco found himself in quiet conversation with a young woman from the Department of Magical Transport. Their exchange was polite and professional—nothing that would warrant any raised eyebrows. Yet the moment Astoria entered the room and saw them standing together, her smile wavered. Her heels clicked sharply against the marble floor as she crossed the distance between them with practiced elegance, her arm slipping possessively around Draco’s without a word. The woman greeted her politely, but Astoria barely acknowledged her, her attention fixed solely on Draco, as if trying to remind the room—and perhaps herself—that he was hers.

Astoria had fallen in love with the idea of Draco Malfoy, the proud, aloof wizard from before the war. She had adored the arrogant, superior Draco, the one who had believed himself better than everyone around him. To her, he was the epitome of pureblood perfection—someone who could trace his lineage back centuries, someone who embodied the ideals of blood purity and high society. She was in love with the version of Draco she had built in her mind, not the real man standing before her.

But as time went on, as Draco revealed himself to be a very different person from the one she had expected, Astoria’s disappointment grew. She had dreamed of grand balls, of red carpets, of shining in the spotlight while people admired her beauty and wealth. She envisioned herself as the center of attention, photographed with the most famous of wizards and witches, her hand in theirs. But Draco, the man she had married, was not the man she had imagined. He preferred quiet walks in the park, visits to old-fashioned festivals, trips to the British Museum, and muggle car exhibitions.

After Lucius returned from America, his health no better than when he’d left, he made a sudden and unexpected decision. Without negotiation, he granted Draco full control of the Malfoy estate—title, Manor, vaults, and business holdings included. Draco found it deeply suspicious, but since he was no longer expected to involve himself in his father’s business affairs directly, he agreed.

Astoria, on the other hand, was thrilled. The very next morning, she told him—with barely contained excitement—that now that he officially held the title he’d always been destined for, it was time to produce an heir.

Draco froze.

Their physical relationship had grown cold over time. Astoria seemed preoccupied with other things—her social standing, her appearance—and while Draco still found her beautiful in the conventional sense, he didn’t desire her. Not truly.

He was well aware that the contract their fathers had signed included a clause about producing the next Malfoy heir, but the requirement could be fulfilled anytime within the next fifteen years. There was no urgency. No reason to bring a child into a marriage devoid of real affection. But clearly, Astoria disagreed.

“I want to give you an heir, Draco. A child who is half mine… someone who will one day inherit all this,” she had said, her voice soft but firm. And Draco had thought: That’s not a good enough reason to bring a child into this world.

His father, of course, sided with her.

“Why wait, Draco? You’ll have a child eventually either way.”

But Draco refused to be pressured. He would not bring an innocent child into a loveless marriage. So, during the rare times they were intimate—usually at Astoria’s initiation—he always cast a contraceptive charm on himself without her knowledge.

Then one day, when trying to enter his room, he found the door locked. Astoria had shut herself inside for three days straight. She didn’t let him in once. On the fourth day, Draco broke the door down, worried and exasperated. He found her curled up on the bed, sobbing. He pulled her into his arms, wiped her tears, stroked her golden hair, and held her until she fell asleep.

On the fifth day, she confessed everything.

For the past three months, she had secretly been taking fertility potions, desperate to conceive, but had failed. A few days prior, she’d visited St. Mungo’s on her own. There, they had diagnosed her with a rare blood disorder that significantly lowered her chances of conceiving and made pregnancy extremely risky, even life-threatening.

“I must give you an heir. I won’t fail this,” she whispered one night, believing he was asleep.

***

That summer, the opportunity he had been waiting for finally presented itself. The researcher position at the DMLE had opened up, and he was the first to apply. This time, however, he made it explicitly clear to the right people in the Ministry that the position had to go to him—because he was a Malfoy. Thus, the name that Astoria had helped him rebuild over the past year and a half finally began to pay off.

He began working closely with Potter. At first, their mutual disdain was palpable to everyone in the room. But over time, they learned to tolerate each other’s presence—grudgingly, but effectively.

His father had by then fully retired from managing the family’s business affairs. Though Draco had always claimed he never intended to involve himself in Lucius’s ventures, one Sunday morning he found himself—almost accidentally—sorting through a mountain of paperwork in his father’s study. It was then that he made a decision: he needed someone he could trust to take over everything.

Draco put the word out that the position of Malfoy business manager was officially open to all qualified witches and wizards in Britain. The applications poured in. Friends and acquaintances vouched for candidates. Families of noble blood, many of whom had lost their fortunes during the war, pushed their children forward with desperation.

But Draco had made up his mind. He would choose someone based on merit, not name.

In the end, he hired someone Lucius wouldn’t have spared a second glance. Someone Astoria might have shaken hands with, only to discreetly wipe her palm on her dress the moment he turned away.

Draco didn’t even remember Dennis Creevey from Hogwarts.

The young man had told him during the interview that he had been in Gryffindor but Draco, back then, likely wouldn’t have spared a moment for a younger Gryffindor, let alone a Muggleborn one.

Creevey, however, had glowing recommendations both from Professor McGonagall and from Monsieur Leclerc, the French businessman who occasionally lectured at Beauxbatons and whom Draco had heard of—mostly from Pansy, who never shut up about how handsome he was.

But beyond the connections, Dennis Creevey was smart, driven, and determined to prove himself. Draco hired him without consulting anyone.

After all, he was the head of the House.

Lucius nearly had a stroke. Narcissa came close to fainting and Astoria stared at him with her mouth agape for ten solid minutes, unable to form a single word.

Draco ignored all three of them.

In September, rumors were circulating that the Quidditch World Cup would be hosted by Australia that year. Upon hearing the country’s name, Draco thought of her. He longed to see her. He longed to see if she had changed at all. If her hair had grown longer, if she had gained a little weight, because the last time he saw her, so many years ago, when she fainted in the conference room, she looked pale and frail. As if she were ill. He couldn’t bear the thought of her being pale and frail.

“I want to go to Sydney,” he said abruptly to Theo, entering his office. His friend looked at him almost horrified.

“Draco, leave her alone—”

“Astoria is pregnant,” he said. “In a few months, I’ll have a child. I’ll be a father. I’ll never do anything that would jeopardize my family now that there’s a child. I will love my wife and adore my child. I just want to see her one last time.”

And that’s what he did. Theo followed him to keep an eye on him. They stayed in a hotel in the city center for two days. He told Astoria and his parents that he would accompany Theo on a business trip. He told Potter he wanted to bring back a special gift from America for his wife, who was about to give him his first child. Potter agreed, though he looked at him with pity.

They sat in a muggle restaurant with a view of the Australian Ministry of Magic. Theo ordered food for both of them, but Draco didn’t eat a single bite. When the clock showed five, he saw many employees leaving the skyscraper’s exit.

It was almost six-fifteen, the time she would open the door. She was alone; everyone else had already left. As always, she was dedicated to her work and wouldn’t leave until she was sure everything was running smoothly.

She was beautiful. She had cut her hair and gained a few extra pounds. He liked her more this way. She was wearing the wonderful muggle clothes he always loved to see her in. No one else wore muggle clothes as beautifully as she did. She walked quickly, as if in a hurry to get home, perhaps to her partner? Did she have someone in her life? Theo hadn’t told him, and he never asked. He tried to see if she wore a wedding ring on her finger, but she was too far away for him to distinguish anything. She disappeared the next moment around a corner that led to the designated spot for apparition.

He stayed frozen, staring at the spot where she had vanished, until Theo's hand quietly gripped his shoulder.

Today I saw you after two years. I remembered what it feels like to be alive. It was nice.

***

Potter was enthusiastically telling everyone in the office about the tickets he had managed to secure for the Quidditch final. Many were jealous, but Draco wasn’t one of them. Pancy and her world famous Quidditch star husband had found tickets for him and his father, but Draco wasn’t sure if he wanted to use them.

Lately, Potter had been treating him more kindly. Sometimes, days would go by without either of them insulting the other, and once, Potter even opened the door for him. To get rid of him from his office, but it was progress.

December found them working non-stop on a new murder case that had taken place in Birmingham. Often, the two of them ended up in the office, staring at the same evidence over and over again, trying to come up with a solution to their problem.

“Potter, don’t you have a wife and child? You’d better go home. They’ll be looking for you,” Draco said, rubbing his eyes. It was already ten o'clock. Astoria had gone to visit her sister in France for the week, and since his parents were in Europe looking for a second healer to help with Lucius’s condition, no one was waiting for him at home except the house-elves.

“Children,” Potter said.

Draco didn’t understand.

“Children, Malfoy. Ginny’s pregnant again,” he saw him smile.

“Congratulations Potter. Another reason for you to go home tonight.”

“She’s at the Burrow. And don’t you have a pregnant wife, Malfoy? Why don’t you go home?”

“She’s in Paris.”

They continued to read their notes, their eyes scanning over the case files in silence, until finally, both of them gave up. The clock on the wall ticked steadily towards midnight.

The door to the office creaked open, and Robards entered, looking surprised at the late hour. He stopped when he saw the two of them still sitting there, absorbed in their work.

“Still here, are we?” Robards said with a chuckle, crossing his arms. “If Hermione Granger were in your shoes, she would’ve solved this case hours ago.”

Potter glanced up, momentarily startled by the mention of Hermione’s name, while Draco kept his gaze fixed on the papers before him.

“She was the best employee we ever had,” Robards continued, his tone almost nostalgic. “The woman could crack any case wide open".

They all fell into a brief silence, before Robards gave a final shrug. “Well, good luck with the case. I’m heading home.”

Draco didn’t look at Potter.

That night, when he lay in his bed alone, he dreamed of Hermione Granger. The next day, he bought a portkey for the Quidditch World Cup.

Their meeting was orchestrated by him. Draco had made sure to learn in advance which box Potter would be sitting in and with whom exactly. He had arranged for a journalist, scheduled to interview the official Brazilian delegates, to notify him the moment Potter and his friends exited into the hallway. He had thought of everything—except his pregnant wife.

“What do you mean I won’t come with you, Draco?”

“Astoria, you’re pregnant and you hate Quidditch—”

“Of course, I’m coming with you, Draco. I’m your wife, and it’s our anniversary. I’d hate to spend it apart. I expect you to prepare something wonderful for me!” she said, kissing him on the cheek.

Draco sighed. He needed to find a new piece of jewelry to give his wife, and he wasn’t in the mood at all.

Their meeting was shorter than he had hoped. He could have stayed there, looking at her all day. Her hair had grown a little. She was wearing a beautiful summer dress, light blue, and elegant low sandals. Astoria was speaking to her, insulting her, something about newspapers that he honestly didn’t care about. He found himself wishing—again—that Astoria hadn’t come with him. Wishing that he were alone with Hermione. Every one of his senses was drawn to her. Overwhelmed by her presence.

He tried to ignore the man next to her, not even looking at his face. He didn’t want to waste even a second on the others when she was standing there, looking at him. She wasn’t looking at him like she had two years ago, though. Her gaze was hard, and she seemed like a wounded animal.

She’s still in pain, he thought. So am I. But he deserved it, she didn’t.

He forced himself to appear distant, detached. He couldn’t afford to let the others see the way she affected him—even though he was certain Potter knew. That stupid Gryffindor always knew things. Draco didn’t know how or when, but he was sure of it: Harry Potter knew that his behavior over the last two and a half years had been nothing but a performance, staged to meet his parents’ expectations and demands.

“Yes, it’s a boy. A Slytherin, I’d wager, judging by the way he’s already giving his poor mother a hard time from the inside.”

Potter would have a second boy. Draco wondered if their children would become friends when they attended Hogwarts together.

“Then perhaps Hogwarts will indeed see a Potter and a Malfoy in friendly company one day,” he said casually. He saw her shrink into herself, wondering what she was thinking. Did the thought that his unborn child would be friends with the child of her friend bother her? Had he hurt her again?

He continued to speak with Potter, who seemed to be the least hostile of the people opposite them, except for the ridiculous Brazilian who still smiled like an idiot, completely oblivious to the situation. Ginny, on the other hand, was cold and distant, her gaze sharp with disapproval every time it landed on him. Weasel looked like he was one snide comment away from throwing a punch.

At some point, he saw her lean towards the Brazilian guy, whisper something to him, and then he announced that they would be leaving.

Would he take her with him? To his house? To his bed? He had no idea. She would leave and he wouldn’t see her again. He tried to find something to say, to stop them from leaving, but there was nothing, and then he heard it.

“You have a child?” he asked, shocked. Was she a mother? Did she have a child? With whom? How old was the child? He glared at the silly Weasley on one side and the fool Gollum—whatever they called him—on the other.

“Yes, I have a daughter. She is one year old. She’s the most beautiful baby in the world.”

One year old. It couldn’t be his, could it? Impossible. Draco had always been very careful with contraception, and if the child was indeed one year old, then it certainly wasn’t his. But this meant that, despite the pain in her eyes, she had moved on with her life. She had found someone else, had his child, and for some reason, in that moment, his life became a little worse than it had been before.

That evening, Astoria figured everything out. She didn’t say anything, but Draco knew she understood who was the woman who had his heart, why Hermione Granger had disappeared two months before their wedding and why he had insisted on attending the tournament alone. But she said nothing, she wore the diamond necklace he had given her, kissed him on the lips, and curled up in his arms as if she hadn’t understood anything.

The first thing he did upon returning to Britain was ask Theo to conduct a thorough investigation into Hermione’s child and their paternity. The chances it was his were slim, but he needed to be certain.

Theo scolded him once again, but did exactly as Draco had asked. A few days later, he handed him a folder.

“The child was born in October 2002 at a Muggle hospital. Thirteen months after you broke up with her. Inside, you’ll find the name of the father. He’s a muggle.”

Draco opened the folder and found a blurry photo of a man who looked far older than he’d expected. Perhaps in his late thirties.

“It seems to have been an accident,” Theo continued. “The father has no involvement with the child—hasn’t even acknowledged it. The kid has Granger’s last name. She’s raising it on her own, with Weasley and her parents helping out.”

He paused.

“This is the last time I’m getting involved with anything that has to do with her, Draco. You promised you wouldn’t go near her again after the Sydney trip. And then you went and ran into her—with your pregnant wife, no less—at the bloody Quidditch final. Haven’t you hurt her enough?” Then he walked out of the room.

The next day, Draco contacted the journalist who had been stationed in the Brazilian box during the final. He asked to buy every photo the man had taken of the officials during the match.

“But sir, that’s seven hundred and forty photos,” the reporter said, stunned.

Draco didn’t care. He bought them all. He looked through every single one, carefully, and in the end, set aside three.

In the first photo, Potter and Weasley were chatting, while Hermione laughed at something Gollum had said in the background. She looked genuinely happy and at ease around him.

In the second, Weasley’s girlfriend was handing her a pair of binoculars so she could get a better view of the pitch. Hermione didn’t look particularly impressed, but she didn’t refuse the offer either.

In the third, she was alone. The camera had caught her in profile, her hair falling into her face. With a simple, absent-minded motion, she brushed it aside. She was smiling at someone just outside the frame.

She looked beautiful.

He kept all three photographs. The first two he hid them in his closet, but the third—the one where she was alone—he placed inside a book on his nightstand.

Some nights, he would quietly open the book and stare at the photo—watching Hermione smile at him. And that’s when the regrets would hit him, hard and unforgiving.

***

His father died a few months later. The healers had warned them during the final weeks, but that did little to lessen the pain. His mother was devastated. Even Astoria couldn’t hold back her tears—though perhaps her advanced pregnancy had something to do with that too.

A week before his death, he called Draco to his room. By then, Lucius was too weak to get out of bed.

"Father, how are you today? Mother said you're feeling better."

His father had been little more than a hollow shell of his former self. After his trip to Europe and the treatment he received at a private clinic in Germany, his body and mind began to betray him. He’d lost so much weight, and his hair had thinned considerably. His mother, with the help of a house-elf, had cut it just the day before.

"I'm fine, Draco," Lucius said, but they both knew he was lying.

"Do you need me to bring you something?"

Lucius shook his head. "Draco, how is your marriage to Astoria? Do you love her?" he asked suddenly.

Draco was caught off guard by the directness of the question. His father had never shown any interest in his marriage before. His meddling had stopped the moment Astoria announced her pregnancy. After all, that was the most important thing to him—the next generation of Malfoys. So Draco wasn’t prepared for the question and didn’t know how to respond.

His father was dying. He could do him a favor and lie, say that his marriage was wonderful, that there was love and warmth, that he couldn’t wait to embrace his wife. But then he thought that no matter what lies he told, his father would see through them, so he chose to be honest, even if it was hard on Lucius.

"No, Father, I never loved her," he said, watching his father tear up, already knowing the answer before his son gave it.

The funeral was held in a public circle. The entire Ministry attended. Draco didn’t speak to anyone.

Hours later, when everyone had retreated to the manor to mourn the man they had, at some point in their lives, realistically despised, he sat alone by the gravestone and read the inscription:

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy
Loyal to the Malfoy name.
A proud guardian of blood and tradition.
Honor above all.

He could still hear his father’s voice, calm and unwavering, as he spoke of duty, legacy, and the future two years ago. “Miss Granger is just a passing phase. Astoria will be a great match,” he had said more than once. “She understands what it means to be a Malfoy. She’ll support you. You’ll be happy.” He had believed it with every fibre of his being, as if happiness was something that could be built on wealth and status. But sitting there, staring at the name carved in stone, Draco finally understood: his father had been wrong. Terribly, tragically wrong.

I shouldn't but I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.

A month later, Tilly burst into his room. Astoria had woken in the middle of the night, writhing in pain. Even before the conception of their child, they had been sleeping in separate rooms.  The healer arrived within ten minutes, and before Draco could even process what was happening, Tilly had pushed him out of the room and asked him to wait there—while his wife brought their first child into the world.

Astoria’s screams filled the corridor, and though he desperately wanted to go in and hold her hand, he knew she didn’t want that. The labour lasted longer than he’d ever imagined childbirth could. He didn’t even hear what the healer said when he finally opened the door to let him back in.

The room was cold. Someone had thrown open the windows to let the cool country air flow in. Lying in her bed was his wife, exhausted but awake.

“Here he is, Master,” said Tilly, handing him a tiny bundle wrapped in a soft blanket. “The young Malfoy has finally arrived.”

Draco looked down at the baby in his arms, and suddenly, his entire world lit up. He was so small, so fragile. Not a single hair on his head. Not even eyebrows. His skin was flushed and wrinkled, as though he, too, had endured a long and difficult night.

“Draco,” Astoria’s voice came softly. She looked at him with longing. He sat beside her on the bed and placed the tiny baby on her chest.

“He’s perfect,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to her head.

“I’ve given you the most precious gift, Draco. An heir. Now we’ll finally be happy,” she whispered.

Draco brushed a few damp, blonde strands from her forehead and kissed her again. “Yes, Tori,” he said.

Two hours later, she died.

***

He was alone. Again. No—not alone. He had his son. The most beautiful baby he had ever seen.

His mother had been locked away in the east wing of the manor for two months now. After Lucius’ death, he rarely saw her. Draco looked too much like his father, and Narcissa couldn’t bear even to look at her son.

After Scorpius was born, Draco had gone to her door, knocking again and again, begging her to come out and meet her first grandchild. She never opened it. She wasn’t ready. And though he had buried his wife just days earlier, he didn’t want to push her. Someone would say he deserved all of these.

Draco sat in the dark room of the manor, cradling his newborn son in his arms. Scorpius’s tiny body felt so fragile, so helpless, and despite being the father, Draco felt also fragile and helpless. His eyes were red from lack of sleep and the constant anxiety, while the little baby let out weak whimpers in his arms. He had no idea how to care for his child. He had no clue how to make him feel comfortable or safe. The only thing he knew for sure was that Scorpius needed him. And he couldn’t let him down.

***

Months after his wife’s death, Draco and Scorpius moved out. Draco hated Malfoy Manor. It was vast, cold, and filled with ghosts. His mother had finally started speaking to him again, and on occasion, she would even hold his son in her arms—but she remained absent from everything else. He had asked for her help many times, but Narcissa Malfoy was broken. It had taken her husband’s death to completely shatter her. Draco had suggested she see a Mind Healer or some kind of specialist who could help her deal with her grief, but she refused to hear of it.

"Maybe you should consider seeing a Mind Healer, Draco," Theo had suggested one day.

It took Draco a month to make an appointment with one from St. Mungo’s—but in the end, he never went.

“Draco, it will help you. I promise,” Theo had insisted.

"They all know me. They know my name, my past, my family. I feel like they’ve already formed an image of me in their minds. I feel like they’ve condemned me, that they either hate me or simply pity me," Draco replied.

“Then find someone who doesn’t know you, if that makes you feel better.”

Draco looked at him with disbelief. “Is there anyone who doesn’t know me?”

Two days later, Theo handed him an address in Muggle London, with the name of a psychologist. Draco stared at the piece of paper as if it might burn him.

But he went.

Eve Fry wanted to get to know him. So he began talking about his life, leaving out anything related to magic. At first, he thought it would be difficult, but it wasn’t. It turned out to be far easier to talk to someone who had never heard his name. Someone who didn’t care about his last name, the mark on his arm, his bloodline, or the tragedies that had shaped his life.

***

When Scorpius turned six months old, Draco decided to return to work. He didn’t need the money, but he had started to believe that the isolation from adult company was driving him mad. He saw his mother rarely, and only when she wished to be seen. The only adult left in his life now was Theo and Daphne, his late wife’s sister, who visited roughly once a month to check in on how her nephew was growing.

His first month back at the Auror Office was anything but remarkable. Everything looked almost exactly as he had left it. No one said “welcome back.” Not out of indifference—more likely out of caution. They respected him now—he’d earned that through quiet perseverance. Still, sometimes he wondered if the respect was genuine, or just a consequence of marrying into the life his father had always wanted for him.

A few months after his return, Robards invited him out for drinks with a few of the Aurors. They were celebrating the resolution of a case that had dragged on for months. There were five of them, a bottle of Firewhiskey, and loud laughter. Draco couldn’t even remember the last time he had gone out for a drink.

That night, he got completely wasted. He couldn’t even recall how he ended up in the bed he woke up in. A wary-looking Ginny Weasley walked into the living room—where he apparently was—and placed a cup of dark coffee on the table.

“My parents and brothers will be here in half an hour. I strongly suggest you be gone by then,” she said.

Draco was out within five minutes.

It wasn’t until he got home and took a potion for the splitting headache that he remembered spending half the night next to Potter’s barstool, drunkenly confessing everything about his late father and late wife.

***

Lately, Potter had been speaking to him more kindly. The shouting and arguments between them had diminished, and more often than not, Potter would send him home when the hour got late.

“Go to your son, Malfoy. The files will still be here tomorrow,” he’d say.

Almost absentmindedly one night, after returning to his son, he recalled how Potter had attended his father’s funeral. And then, barely a month later, Astoria’s.

***

Earlier that day, something had been wrong with Scorpius, and Draco hadn’t wanted to leave him. The baby, usually cheerful and bright, had been fussy all morning. Draco was hesitant to go to work, but Tilly had reassured him she’d contact him at once if anything changed.

“He’s a baby, Master,” she had said. “Sometimes they just fuss.”

Still, Draco had spent the whole day on edge. He’d already snapped at Potter twice for things he forgot five minutes later.

“Malfoy, are you even listening to me?” Grant waved his hands in front of his face, trying to catch his attention.

“Leave me alone, Grant. I’ll send the report when it’s ready. Until then, annoy someone else,” Draco barked.

Ten minutes later, his unease was justified. Tilly apparated straight into his office, cradling his screaming, crimson-faced son in her arms. Draco sprang from his chair and rushed over.

“What happened? What’s wrong with him?”

Tilly tried to explain, when the door opened suddenly.

“What the hell is going on with you today, Malfoy? Is that a baby crying—?”

Potter burst through his office door. At the sight of the child and Draco’s wild eyes, he froze.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I don’t know. He wasn’t well this morning. Do you think he has a fever? Should I take him straight to St. Mungo’s? Potter, I need to go. What if something’s wrong—”, his words tumbled out in a rush, barely coherent.

“Malfoy, calm down,” Potter said. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious. I’ve raised two kids—sometimes they get sick. It’s not the end of the world. He’ll take a few children’s potions and be fine.”

“I need to get him to the hospit—”

“Wait here.” Potter left and returned two minutes later—with Ginny Weasley.

“Ginny brought me lunch. She was in my office. She’s good with kids.”

Ginny, whom Draco hadn’t seen in months, looked just as exhausted as both Potter and himself. She held out her arms. “Malfoy, give me the baby.”

Ginny took Scorp into her arms with practiced ease. She rocked him gently, brushing his soft blond hair back from his damp forehead and whispering to him in a voice so calm, so warm, that even Draco felt its soothing effect.

“There, sweetheart. You’re alright. Just a bit fussy, aren’t you?” she murmured, cradling Scorpius against her shoulder. Her hand moved in small, comforting circles over his back.

Draco watched her, unmoving. She was good at this. Natural. The kind of human who knew how to calm a crying baby, who didn’t panic at the first sign of clingy whimpers. She was the sort of mother his son would have had—should have had—if things had turned out differently. For a brief, painful moment, he let himself imagine what that might have looked like. A warm hand on Scorpius’s back. A gentle voice humming lullabies. Arms that never grew tired of holding him.

Weasley pulled back slightly, feeling the baby's forehead with the inside of her wrist. “He feels a little warm,” she said, looking over to Draco. “Might have a low-grade fever. Nothing serious, but he probably just needs some rest and a potion or two. You could ask your mother—Narcissa would know what to do.”

His throat felt tight. “She’s not available,” he said simply. He didn’t elaborate, and thankfully, Weasley didn’t press.

Instead, she nodded once. “Alright. I can bring you a few children’s potions from Grimmauld. We always keep some in the cabinet, and it’s better than you having to go to St. Mungo’s if it’s just a little fever.”

Draco blinked at her, surprised. “You don’t have to. I can take my son to Saint Mungo’s—”

“I know,” she said, shifting Scorpius into a more comfortable position as he began to settle. “I am not doing it for you, but for the baby.”

He looked down at his son, who was slowly relaxing in her arms, still sniffling, but no longer screaming.

They returned to Draco’s house just as the sun disappeared behind the clouds. Weasley carried Scorpius inside and Harry followed without a word.

In the soft lamplight of the sitting room, she knelt by the couch and coaxed a few spoonfuls of potion into the baby’s mouth. Scorpius whined but swallowed obediently. Moments later, he settled against her, eyes drooping.

“He should sleep a few hours now,” she said gently, rocking him until his breathing evened out. “You’ll need to give him the second dose in about four hours.”

Draco nodded, watching his son in her arms with visible concern.

“He’ll be alright.” Ginny added, glancing up at him. “Who’ll stay with him while you’re at work?”

“Tilly,” Draco said. “She looks after him when I’m not home.”

Potter, who had been leaning against the doorframe, crossed his arms. “Anyone else?”

“No. It’s just me.”

Potter looked around, seeing the way the rooms were built around the needs of one small baby and one exhausted man and then looked his wife without saying another word.

From that day on, the Potters began to visit his home often. Occasionally, they invited Draco over to theirs, and slowly, awkwardly, something resembling a friendship started to take shape. Scorpius met their children—James, whom Draco disliked immediately, and Albus, who might’ve been cute if he didn’t look so painfully like his father.

***

Several months had passed. One evening, with Scorpius staying over at the Greengrass estate under Daphne’s watchful eye, Draco, Theo and Gregory ended up in a crowded muggle pub drinking cheap whiskey, and trying to talk over the loud music. A group of women approached them, laughing and leaning a little too close. One of them—slim but curvy, with straight black hair and green eyes—locked eyes with Draco almost immediately. She was bold and flirted with such practiced ease that it disarmed him. He didn’t remember how they ended up at her place.

The last woman he had slept with was Astoria. And while he had never truly loved her, he had always made an effort to please her. Draco liked having satisfied lovers. Sex with his wife had always been good, but something had been missing. Astoria was beautiful, yes, but in truth, she was a woman who didn’t really know what she liked. The woman now beneath him was nothing like that. She knew exactly what she wanted, and she intended to have it—no matter what. Sex with her was incredible, and Draco wasn’t sure if it was because of the nearly year-long dry spell or simply the anonymity between them, but he found himself not caring about anything else while he had her spread out beneath him, screaming for more.

From that day on, that kind of life—two or three nights a month—had become his routine. He met women, witches or muggles, pure-bloods or muggle-borns, in all sorts of pubs, magical and not. Sometimes they approached him, sometimes he made the first move. He would fuck them all night and the next day he would forget their names and faces. They were happy, he was... well, he was fine.

Eve tried to get him to open up about his behavior, but in truth, he already regretted having shared his escapades with her. Eventually the unknown women tired him, and at some point, he stopped spending his nights with them.

And life went on. Scorpius grew older. His mother remained distant, but slowly, Draco saw her trying—holding his gaze a little longer, hugging his son a little tighter. Everything was fine most of the days.

Eve was helping. Theo was always helping. Salazar, even Potter was helping.

He was trying to become a better father—to become someone worthy of his son. He clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, if he did everything right from now on, it would somehow make up for all the things he had done wrong.

He couldn’t change the past. But he could try, with every breath, to be a man his son could one day be proud of. And maybe, oneday, he could forgive himself too.

On the worst nights, when the silence in his home felt unbearable, he thought of her. He didn’t want to—not after the endless conversations with Eve and how poorly he had handled their breakup, not after his trip to Sydney—but sometimes, it was inevitable. He wondered what she was doing, where she was. Was she still living in Sydney? Still working in the same job? Was she still raising her child alone, or had she finally found someone worthy of her?

He thought of her, but he never wrote another note, never opened the book by his bedside. He hadn’t looked at her photograph since the day Astoria died. Guilt had eaten him alive, knowing that while she had carried their child, he had spent his nights staring at the image of another woman.

But the day of Astoria’s death, he came to a quiet, painful realization: he had lost them both. And maybe he had never truly deserved either of them.

***

It was strange, talking to Potter. Harry fucking Potter. They weren’t friends—Merlin forbid, they weren’t friends... right? But sometimes, they talked about personal things. A few days before the eighth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, the two of them were shut inside Draco’s office, drinking his best whiskey.

“Ginny wants to have another baby,” Harry said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

“And you? Don’t you want one?” Draco asked.

“Of course I do. I just… I feel so tired all the time. I don't think I’ve actually rested since—Merlin, I don’t know—since third year at Hogwarts,” Harry chuckled. “She wants a girl.”

“Is that some sort of formal request to your sperm, Potter?” Draco teased with a smirk.

Harry rolled his eyes. “She’s always wanted a daughter. I’m pretty sure she was disappointed when we found out Albus was a boy, even if she never admitted it.”

“I get it,” Draco nodded. “It’s different with girls. They’re softer… sweeter. I wanted a girl too, even though I knew from the start I’d have a boy.”

Harry looked at him with a strange expression Draco couldn’t quite read. “You’re young. You’ve got time,” he said.

Draco snorted. “I don’t think I’ll be having another child after Scorpius, Potter. My father got his precious pure-blood heir, the one he so desperately wanted. And after Astoria died… well, I don’t think I’ll ever marry again. I’m not planning on becoming a monk, mind you, but marriage? No. I made that mistake once—I won’t make it again.”

Harry was quiet for a moment before saying, "Maybe one day you'll find a woman, someone new who doesn't know how grumpy you can be, and you'll love her, and she'll love you back, and you can make each other happy."

“That’s not going to happen,” Draco said. “I won’t fall in love again. I loved once—and I ruined everything. I destroyed her. Made her hate me. Merlin help me if I ever love anyone else.”

Potter didn’t say anything. Draco stared into his glass, then spoke again—words that had lived in his mind for years but had never made it to his lips until now.

“You know what the funniest part is?” he said. “I did all of this to keep my father alive. To stop my mother from losing her mind after losing him. To stand next to a pure-blood witch whose social circle could help the Malfoys claw their way back into society and make my parents proud. And what did I get? My father died anyway. My mother became a ghost of herself—isolated, hollow—and she abandoned both her son and her grandson. My wife died. And I was left alone, raising a child I had no idea how to care for—when I could barely care for myself.”

***

Draco hadn’t meant to glance at the Prophet that morning, but the bold headline caught his eye before the owl even landed.

Golden Girl Returns: Hermione Granger Takes Permanent Post at Department of International Magical Co-operation

His fingers froze around the paper, eyes locking on the moving photograph beneath the title. She looked older, sharper—but the fire in her gaze hadn’t dimmed. It hit him like a punch to the ribs.

And just like that, the storm he thought had long passed was suddenly thundering in his chest.

Chapter Text

The next time Maia and Hermione saw the Malfoys was at James's birthday party a month later. Harry and Ginny had organized a big celebration in the backyard of Grimmauld Place for their son's fourth birthday. The guests included the entire Weasley family, the Grangers, Teddy and Andromeda, Luna with her husband and their infant daughter, a few players from the Holyhead Harpies with their children, and the Malfoys.

When she stepped out of the fireplace, the kitchen was filled with children's voices and chatter.

“Teddy! Muuummy, Teddy is here!” Maia ran towards the boy with the bright pink hair. “Mummy, Scorpius is here too!”

Hermione spotted Andromeda sitting on the couch behind Teddy, with a cute blond boy playing with her long, curly hair at her feet.

“Andromeda!”

“Hermione, I’m so happy to see you! Maia, come here so I can give you a kiss.” Maia approached Andromeda, who kissed her gently on the cheek. Then Hermione saw her daughter take Scorpius's right hand and softly caress it.

Maia didn’t particularly enjoy the company of younger children. Having spent most of her life interacting with adults, it was hard for her to adjust to environments filled with toddlers. Even now, when she played weekly with the Weasleys and the Potters, she never paid much attention to the younger kids in the group, the ones who couldn’t talk or play the games she liked. She found them a bit boring. She preferred playing with Teddy and Victoire, who were five years older than her, or with Mikey, who was six. Therefore, Hermione had never seen such tenderness from her daughter towards another baby. The fact that the baby was her half-brother made her watch the scene with a hint of concern.

Later, while Harry and James were having a flying lesson in the yard, Hermione sat in one of the armchairs placed on the grass and struck up a long conversation with Rolf Scamander, about the illegal methods of breeding Kelpies. At one point, Luna passed by to give her husband a kiss. She smiled at Hermione and asked if she wanted to hold newborn Lydia.

"I find her scent very relaxing," Luna said, handing Hermione a small pile of blankets. "You seem stressed, Hermione. Maybe Lydia will help you."

Lydia was three months old and the calmest baby Hermione had ever held. She was even quieter than Maia had been as a baby. She had many blonde locks on her head and slept peacefully in Hermione’s arms.

"I think I've forgotten how to do this," Hermione said, gazing at Lydia's angelic face.

"You can always make another one and remember," Rolf said with a smile.

Hermione chuckled.

"I don't think I’m interested. Raising Maia on my own was hard. And I wasn’t even alone, thinking about how Ron and my parents were always there. I don’t think I could do it again," she said honestly.

No, Hermione definitely couldn’t do it again. The weight of the stress was something she couldn’t bear a second time. The constant anxiety of wondering if she was doing everything wrong, of questioning every choice she made. The sleepless nights, the moments when she’d lie awake, staring at her tiny daughter in the crib, tears silently streaming down her face for no apparent reason. It wasn’t just the overwhelming responsibility or the exhaustion; it was the heartache of seeing her child grow up without him, without the man who should have been there, who should have been a part of it all. It was the painful realization that, in many ways, she too was growing up without him.

"No," she whispered to herself. "I definitely couldn’t do it again."

"Why were you alone? Where was the father?" Rolf asked, his voice gentle but curious.

Had the question come from anyone else, Hermione would have found it intrusive, even rude. But Rolf was different. He was like Luna in many ways, ethereal, with a sense of detachment from the ordinary world, as though he walked between two realities: one foot on the earth, the other floating in the sky. He wasn’t the type to gossip or pry.

"He—" Hermione swallowed hard. How on earth could she explain why Maia was growing up without her father? "He had another family. I didn’t know when I got pregnant. By the time I found out, it was too late," she said.

Rolf shook his head sadly. "I’m sorry".

"So am I," was all Hermione replied before Lydia woke up, hungry.

After they cut the cake and James opened more gifts than he’d ever received in his life, the adults retired to the living room, while Harry opened the old library—which, much to Hermione’s horror, they had transformed into a playroom, shoving all the children inside.

“I think I’m falling apart,” Ginny said as she walked into the kitchen. At seven months pregnant, her belly was still relatively small, but the backaches and leg cramps were taking their toll.

“If you want, I can kick them all out,” Hermione offered.

Ginny laughed softly. “No, it’s nice to know we’re so many. It’s comforting to have a big family.” She paused, then asked, “How’s Maia? I haven’t seen her much today.”

“She’s probably somewhere near Scorpius. I had to talk to her twice just to get her to leave him alone. I have no idea what they're talking about.”

“Well, he can’t really talk, can he?”

Hermione shot her a sharp look.

"The last time I saw her, she was furious with me for holding Lydia. She stomped her foot, spun on her heel, and stormed off. Honestly, she gets so jealous sometimes. I don't even know how to explain to her that it's perfectly fine for me to hold another baby." She reached for another piece of Molly’s cake, savoring its sweetness.

“I wonder if she’d be jealous of Scorpius too,” Ginny said, eyeing the cake longingly.

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked between bites.

Just then, Andromeda entered the kitchen, carrying little Malfoy in her arms.

“Ginny, Harry mentioned that you have the Black family tree book somewhere in the house. Since the library is currently overtaken by toys and children, could you tell me where it is? I’d really like to take a look,” she said, casting a quick glance at Hermione.

“Of course, Andromeda. I think we put all those books in the attic. Would you mind going up? I’m having some trouble moving around lately.”

"No trouble at all, my dear. Hermione, would you mind holding Scorpius for me? I don't think I can manage both him and the stairs," Andromeda added, shifting the toddler in her arms.

"Granny Meda!" Scorpius squealed, grabbing a fistful of Andromeda’a hair with a delighted giggle.

"Andromeda, are you serious? This is Malfoy’s baby!" Hermione protested, recoiling slightly. "What am I supposed to do with him?"

"What are you supposed to do with him?" Andromeda repeated, raising an eyebrow in mild amusement. "He’s just a toddler, Hermione. And a very sweet one, at that. Just hold him for a bit — we won't be long, I promise."

Hermione took the toddler into her arms, and once again, that familiar baby scent she loved so much overwhelmed her.

“Hey there, do you remember me?” she asked hesitantly.

“Minini!”

She hadn’t expected him to remember her name. Scorpius gently touched her face, tracing her cheeks with his tiny fingers. It was such a tender gesture that her heart skipped a beat. Settling him more comfortably in her arms, she offered him a piece of Molly’s cake. True to his sweet tooth—just like Malfoy and Maia—Scorpius devoured it eagerly. When he finished, Hermione kissed his soft cheek, and in return, he showered her face with wet, open-mouthed kisses, leaving cake and drool everywhere. She couldn’t help but laugh.

Ginny returned a few minutes later, having shown Andromeda the way.

“Mummy, water,” Scorpius said, his little voice insistent. Hermione grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and helped him drink. Then she cleaned his shirt with a quick scourgify.

“Tank you,” he mumbled, slightly mispronouncing the words but melting her heart all the same. Not long after, he began calling out for his mother again.

“Ginny, is Mrs. Malfoy here?” Hermione asked.

Ginny gave her a confused look. “You mean Astoria Malfoy?”

“Well, unless there’s another mother around, yes—Astoria.”

Ginny went quiet.

“Ginny? What’s going on?” Hermione pressed.

“I... I thought Harry had told you. That’s why I didn’t bring it up.”

“Told me what?”

Scorpius snuggled into her neck, wrapping his little arms tightly around her.

“I thought you knew. Astoria passed away two years ago. She died giving birth to Scorpius,” Ginny said, her voice soft and heavy. “I don’t know the details—Harry probably does. I think she was ill.”

Hermione felt a sharp pang in her chest. There was a deep sense of sympathy, as she imagined the emptiness Scorpius must have felt, growing up without the woman who should have been there to love him. She could hardly comprehend the pain, and the thought that such a young child had never known a mother’s embrace made her feel a sharp pang of empathy.

“Mum,” Scorpius whispered again, muffled against her hair.

“But... he’s calling for his mum,” Hermione said, a lump forming in her throat.

Ginny waved a hand dismissively. “He’s not asking for Astoria. Sometimes he calls me ‘mum.’ He hears James and Albus say it and mimics them. I’m sure he picked it up from Maia too. He doesn’t really know what it means.”

The thought hit Hermione like a wave—Scorpius didn’t even understand what “mum” meant. This sweet, bright little boy, so quick to offer his heart to everyone around him, had never felt the warmth of his own mother’s embrace.

The news of Astoria’s death left her shaken. Even after all this time, despite keeping her distance from Malfoy, she couldn’t help but wonder—how was he coping? How had he managed to raise this child alone? Was that what Harry meant when he’d said, Things have changed? Had Astoria’s death brought Malfoy closer to him somehow?

“Muuummy, come see my painting!” Maia burst into the kitchen, holding up a picture of a rainbow. When she saw Hermione holding Scorpius, she paused. Her excited expression shifted, something flickered in her eyes. Was it jealousy?

Instead of saying anything, Maia stepped forward and gently kissed Scorpius’ bare foot.

“Mummy, I made this for you,” she said, placing the paining on the table with a small smile before slipping out the same way she came in.

“Well,” Ginny said, finishing off the last bit of cake, “that was... really interesting.”

Scorpius eventually fell asleep in Hermione’s arms. With Andromeda still nowhere to be seen, Hermione decided to bring him back herself. She found the older woman in the smaller sitting room, beneath the grand tapestry of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Andromeda sat in a distant armchair, absorbed in a genealogy book.

To Hermione’s surprise, Malfoy was also in the room, sitting on the floor, with Maia right beside him.

For a moment, she froze.

How long had they been together? What were they talking about? And why couldn’t Maia seem to get enough of the Malfoys today?

Malfoy held a green marker, while Maia clutched a red one. Two dozen markers lay scattered across the low coffee table. He looked rather awkward, his long legs stretched out beneath the furniture, ankles twisted. Maia sat beside him on her knees, entirely focused on whatever she was working on.

"I like your letters," she said, her voice thoughtful as she concentrated on the painting in front of her.

"Thank you," Malfoy said with a small smile. "I took a lot of lessons as a kid to get them that way."

"I don’t take lessons for my letters," Maia added, picking up a blue marker. Her fingers gripped it with practiced ease.

"Then you’re lucky. I hated every minute of mine."

"Why?" Maia asked, curious now.

There was something sad in his voice when he answered. "Because back then, doing things perfectly mattered more than enjoying them. Especially to the people around me."

"Can you teach me how to write like that?" she asked without lifting her head. Malfoy didn’t respond, and Maia quickly added, "Mummy says I know the whole alphabet and can write all the letters, but they’re not as beautiful as yours," she said a little sadly. "Mummy says I’m smart and a very good student."

"I have no doubt about that. But—" Malfoy fell silent for a moment, and Hermione felt a surge of protectiveness. She was ready to step in, to say no, but just before she could, Malfoy spoke again. "—I'm sure that if you ask your mother, she can teach you. She's a far better teacher than I am, okay?"

Maia nodded.

"Were you a good student?" she asked.

"I was,” he said, and after a pause, added softly, “but not as good as your mother.”

"Were you with my mummy at Hogwarts?" she asked, now fully abandoning the markers.

"I was."

"Then you know my godfather?" Maia asked eagerly.

"Who is your godfather?"

"Ron Weasley! He’s tall and has orange hair like Aunt Ginny. He’s brave and always brings me the best presents," she said enthusiastically.

"Better than a whole box of Honeydukes sweets?”

"Hmm, hard to decide. When we lived in Australia, my Godfather would take me to a shop with pink chairs and buy me strawberry-filled chocolates," Maia said, reminiscing fondly.

"Honeydukes have those too," Malfoy offered.

"No, they don’t," she shook her head. "Those chocolates are magical!" she emphasized. “Do you think you can buy me those too?”

Malfoy paused, then gave her a small, amused smile. “Alright then. I’ll try to find some—for your next birthday, or maybe to make up for your last one.”

"Really?"

"Really."

"Will you come to my birthday?"

He hesitated. “I’m not sure a grown man like me belongs at a little girl’s party,” he said gently. “But I promise, I’ll try to find the chocolates.”

“Well,” Maia declared, puffing up slightly, “if you bring Scorpius with you, then you can come.”

At that moment, Hermione decided it was time to step in.

“Andromeda. Malfoy,” she said as she entered the room swiftly. “Maia, what are you doing in here? Teddy’s been looking for you in the library.”

Maia continued coloring, seemingly indifferent to her mother’s arrival. Hermione paused, taking in the scene before her. Maia had drawn a figure that resembled a unicorn or at least, Hermione thought it was meant to be one, complete with wings and a cascade of blonde curls. But what truly caught her eye was the drawing beside it. Malfoy’s drawing was a perfect reflection of the scene they were in—him, sitting at the table with Maia beside him, both immersed in their world of markers and conversation. There was a peacefulness to it, something oddly tender. She found herself staring longer than she meant to before she forced herself to look away.

"I’m coloring with Draco," Maia explained casually. "You were hugging Scorp, so I came here."

Hermione blinked. Was her daughter… trying to make her jealous? The thought briefly crossed her mind, and she couldn’t help but feel a wave of both amusement and unease.

"She’s quite the talker for her age," Malfoy said, as he observed Maia, who was deep in concentration with her markers.

"What does 'talker' mean?" she asked, slightly annoyed. Without waiting for a response, she added confidently, "I’m a Granger. And I’m a warrior!"

Hermione, now holding a squirming Scorpius, bent down to place him gently on the rug. "Who told you that?"

"Grandpa. He said mummy fought in the war, because she’s brave like my godfather. But he also told me not to get into trouble at Hogwarts like she did. Did you get into trouble at Hogwarts, Draco?"

Malfoy hesitated for a moment. "I did. A lot, actually. I used to provoke it," he replied slowly.

"Can I provoke it too?" Maia asked innocently, a mischievous light in her eyes.

From her armchair near the tapestry, Andromeda looked up with a smile. "I think trouble will find you, whether you provoke it or not," she said.

Before Hermione could say anything, a voice came from the doorway. Harry stood there, James asleep in his arms. "Maia," he said dryly, "if you stay away from the Potters and the Weasleys, you won’t need to worry about trouble."

“But they’re all my friends!” Maia cried, as if the very idea was preposterous and deeply offensive.

***

"Look how much you’ve grown! Come here and give me a big hug!" her mother exclaimed, opening her arms wide. Maia wasted no time, running straight into them with a delighted squeal.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Mum, you literally saw us a week ago."

But her mother didn’t hear or pretended not to. She was too busy fussing over Maia, smoothing down her curls and gushing over how lovely her new spring dress looked. In truth, Maia was growing so fast that Hermione had found herself shopping for new clothes and shoes nearly every three months.

"Where’s Grandpa?" Maia asked, looking around hopefully.

The smile on her mother’s face faltered, and Hermione watched her shoulders slump with quiet sorrow. Her father’s condition had worsened over the past month. More and more often, they found him wandering in the neighborhood, knocking on neighbours' doors, confused and unable to remember how he’d gotten there. Other times, he would wake in the middle of the night asking for coffee, completely unaware of the hour.

His speech had changed too. He struggled to find the right words, often replacing them with strange or unrelated ones. Conversations with him had become nearly impossible. He would stop mid-sentence, lost in thought, unable to focus on the person in front of him.

The most heartbreaking change of all was in his personality and mood. Hermione was sure her mother wasn’t telling her everything, trying to shield her from the harder days, but Hermione could see the truth in her eyes. She had a pretty good idea of just how serious things had become.

"Grandpa was a bit tired today, sweetheart," her mother said gently. "Maybe we can go see him later, if he’s feeling better."

***

One sunny April Sunday, Hermione announced to Maia that they were going to Diagon Alley so she could finally try the famous Fortescue’s ice cream, the one she hadn’t stopped talking about ever since Teddy told her he’d had the peanut butter and caramel flavor.

Maia hated apparition, it made her dizzy, so Hermione opted for the Floo Network from the Leaky Cauldron instead.

When they emerged from the green flames into the dimly lit pub, it was so crowded that no one paid them much attention.

Florean Fortescue Junior had recently renovated his father’s ice cream parlor, adding more tables and chairs in front of the shop so that customers could enjoy their treats under the sun, watching the bustle of Diagon Alley go by. Most of the tables were taken by families with children or couples on dates, enjoying the rare bit of sunshine in the middle of spring. Fortunately, a family with two young boys was getting up, so Hermione quickly swooped in to claim their spot.

Maia ordered three different flavors—peanut butter and caramel, strawberry, and bubblegum—while Hermione settled on a large coffee and a scoop of chocolate ice cream.

As they sat, Maia chattered animatedly about her preschool teacher, who had asked the class to draw the fairy from Peter Pan, although Maia insisted that her drawing looked more like a pixie fairy.

“Mummy, I’m terrible at drawing. Do you know who draws really well?”

“Who, love?” Hermione asked, a bit distracted. Her gaze had wandered across the street, where the owner of Flourish and Blots was hammering a new sign onto the shop window advertising 30% off all books.

“Scorpius, mum!”

“What?” Hermione blinked, snapping her attention back to her daughter.

“Scorpius! Look, mum, it’s Draco! And Scorpius is with him! Muuuum!”

Hermione followed Maia’s excited gaze. Across the cobbled street, about twenty meters from the entrance of Flourish and Blots, Draco Malfoy was walking, holding a large shopping bag from a toy store.

Beside him was the same stunning woman Hermione had spotted months ago at the Ministry’s Christmas Ball, the one she’d briefly mistaken for Astoria.

Now, in the clear daylight and from a much closer distance, it was obvious this woman was not his late wife. Her hair was even lighter than Astoria’s, nearly the same icy blond as Malfoy’s and Scorpius’s, and she was laughing, holding the boy securely in her arms as he giggled, his little legs swinging happily.

“Mum, they’re leaving! Muuum!” Maia tugged urgently at Hermione’s sleeve as Malfoy, Scorpius, and the unknown woman passed the bookshop and turned into a quieter side street lined with restaurants and apothecaries.

“We lost them,” Maia said with a disappointed sigh.

Hermione had to buy her two extra scoops of ice cream to take home just to stop the heartbreakingly sad look from settling on her daughter’s face for the rest of the afternoon.

Hours later, after they had returned home and Maia had started a new painting of the Gryffindor lion, Hermione made her way to the kitchen to prepare a quick meal for the two of them, but the sound of her phone ringing drew her back into the living room.

“Hermione, where have you been? I’ve been calling you all morning!”

The voice didn’t sound like her mother’s usual calm tone, but Hermione knew it was her. The words came out jumbled, mixed with sobs and background noise that made it hard to focus on what she was saying.

Hermione grabbed Maia, who immediately started protesting, just as two bottles of red paint slipped from her hands and splattered across the living room carpet. Without wasting another second, she shoved her into the fireplace.

“Grimmauld Place 12!” she cried out, watching her daughter vanish into the green flames.

The next thing she did was summon her silver otter.

“Ginny, Maia just arrived at Grimmauld. Please take care of her. Someone attacked my father. I’m heading to the hospital now. I’ll keep you updated. Keep Maia safe.”

As soon as her Patronus vanished, she disapparated with a loud crack.

Richard Granger spent three days in intensive care and another seven in the hospital. The doctors advised he remain under medical supervision, but Richard was far too irritable and stubborn to listen. His mental condition didn’t help.

He was discharged against medical advice and settled into the bedroom he used to share with his wife—now under the care of two full-time nurses and surrounded by protective spells that would alert Hermione if anything went wrong.

Two stab wounds to the ribs, several bruises across his body, and repeated blows to the face—those were what finally broke her mother.

“He woke up in the middle of the night. I didn’t even notice he’d left the house. When I went down to the kitchen in the morning, I thought he was with Mr. Marcus, the neighbor. They always read the Sunday paper together.”

Her mother sobbed as she spoke. Hermione tried to comfort her. It wasn’t her mother’s fault that her father had slipped out of the house at four in the morning. Nor was it her fault that he’d crossed paths with a group of drunken young men returning from Soho.

In their statements, they claimed he startled them and attacked first. Hermione was certain they had provoked him. One of them pulled out a knife, and before they even realized what had happened, her father was lying in the street, bleeding.

“This neighborhood used to be safe. I don’t know how this happened,” Helen repeated over and over again.

When he was found nearly an hour later, abandoned on the pavement, he was rushed to the hospital. Helen wasn’t notified until much later, when Richard was already in surgery.

She had tried calling Hermione several times but hadn’t managed to reach her. Hermione promised she’d find her old mobile phone, something she had also promised Harry two months ago but never followed through on. This time, she meant it.

Richard’s recovery was slow but steady. The doctors monitoring his Alzheimer’s progression, however, weren’t optimistic. Her father had entered the fourth stage, which meant that half the time he saw his daughter, he didn’t even know who she was. It felt to Hermione like she’d travelled back in time, back to the day she had visited Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins. Only this time, no spell in the world could bring back the memories he had lost of his daughter and granddaughter.

***

In the final Sundays of her pregnancy, when Ginny was too exhausted to visit the Burrow, Harry would organize small gatherings at Grimmauld Place to keep his wife entertained. As small as a gathering could be, that is, when it involved the Weasleys.

Hermione often declined the invitation, sometimes because she preferred spending time with Maia exploring new corners of London, and more recently because she was helping her mother.

“Hermione, I can manage on my own,” Helen had told her just the day before, after a particularly bad episode with Richard—one that had forced Hermione to stun him for ten minutes until the nurse could administer his sedative.

Her father’s aggression had increased dramatically in the two weeks following the incident. He rarely recognized them anymore, and every time he woke in an unfamiliar place surrounded by people he didn’t know, he lashed out, most often at her and Helen.

That day, it had been something trivial that triggered him. Hermione had brought him his coffee but forgot to hand him the sugar jar. That tiny disruption to his routine had enraged him. He threw the tray at her and tried to attack her, leaving her no choice but to stun him on the spot.

That wasn’t even the hardest part. What came after was always worse.

Sometimes, after the sedative kicked in, he would seem like his old self again. He’d look at them kindly, almost lovingly. Every now and then, he had brief moments of clarity, where he would apologize for what he had done. Yesterday had been one of those moments. Hermione had held him in her arms as he cried, reassuring him that everything was fine, even though nothing was fine at all.

“I’m scared,” he’d said, and Hermione couldn’t have agreed more.

“Hermione! We weren’t expecting you,” Harry called out from the fireplace, his surprise laced with something else—concern, perhaps. She managed only a tired, practiced smile in return, her energy had long since run out.

Maia, who hadn’t seen her grandfather in over two weeks, had been sulking all morning, complaining to anyone willing to listen. The moment her eyes landed on Teddy and then on the unmistakable platinum blond hair of the two Malfoys standing in Grimmauld Place’s back garden, her mood shifted instantly.

Harry hesitated before speaking again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh… I didn’t think you were coming today,” he admitted. “So I thought it might be nice for Scorpius to have some company.” He let out a small, uneasy breath. “I hope that’s alright. If I’d known, I—”

“It’s fine,” Hermione said, cutting him off before he could apologize further.

But was it? She wasn’t entirely sure.

"Scorpius!" Maia shrieked, breaking into a run as soon as they stepped into the garden.

Hermione caught sight of Ginny sitting in a chair, absentmindedly rubbing her belly, watching Maia with one eyebrow raised.

"Maia, play wif me!" Scorpius giggled, pointing eagerly at the tiny toy broomstick next to him.

A few feet away, Albus was holding an identical broomstick, with Harry kneeling beside him, showing him how to grip it properly.

"Malfoy brought new broomsticks for all the kids this morning," Ginny explained casually. "Now Harry’s on a mission to turn his second son into a better Seeker than Malfoy junior here. As if."

"The only reason I'm refraining from insulting your children, Weasley," Malfoy said smoothly as he helped Scorpius correct his posture on the broom, "is because you’re currently gestating a third. If you’re lucky, this one might actually look like you. The first two seem... largely untainted by Weasley DNA."

Ginny snorted and patted her belly affectionately. "Not all of us can manufacture tiny, cuter clones of ourselves with such precision, Malfoy."

"Come on, little Granger," called Bill, tossing a broomstick toward Maia’s feet. "Let’s see if you’ve got what it takes to take down a Weasley and a Potter."

Maia stared at the broom as if it were a unicorn she was almost allowed to touch.

"Absolutely not," Hermione said, her tone leaving no room for negotiation.

"Oh, come on, Hermione," George chimed in as he strolled over, holding Victoire’s hand. "She’ll be fine. Between Harry and Malfoy, you’ve got a Seeker dream team supervising. If you can’t trust Malfoy because he’s a—well, you know—at least trust your best friend."

Hermione ignored him. She knelt down to Maia’s level, softening her voice.

"Maia, we’ve talked about broomsticks before, remember?" she said gently. "You’re still too young to try flying. When you go to school, a proper instructor will teach you how to do it safely."

The little girl looked disappointed but nodded obediently. She sat down on a cushion on the grass, close to Ginny and across from Teddy, who was polishing his brand-new, gleaming broom.

Hermione felt a wave of guilt wash over her. She hated being the strict mum—the one who always said no while the other kids laughed and flew around without a care. But keeping Maia safe mattered more than anything else. Flying might seem like a fun game to most children, but to Hermione, it was still dangerous. She had seen too many things go wrong to ever relax about it.

Trying to ignore the tightness in her chest, she walked into the kitchen. Fleur was happily talking about a bottle of wine she had brought from Provence, while Percy stood beside her, nodding as if it were the most important conversation in the world. Hermione gave a small smile and joined them, hoping the wine talk would help distract her from thinking about her father’s condition.

By the time Molly started setting the table, the knot in Hermione’s stomach had eased a little.

“Hermione, dear, would you mind calling the others in?” Molly asked warmly, and Hermione nodded, grateful to have something to do.

As she neared the backyard, she could already hear the laughter and high-pitched shouts—pure, unfiltered joy that only children seemed capable of.

For all the years Sirius had lived at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, the backyard had been neglected and filthy. The grass had risen in wild, unruly waves, taller than a grown wizard’s knees, and in the shadowed corners, nests of magical creatures festered, filling the night with foul smells and shrill, ghostly cries.

But ever since Harry and Ginny had moved in permanently, the yard had been transformed into a lively gathering space for friends and family. Hermione was almost certain they had cast some kind of Extension Charm to at least double its original size.

Now, the backyard stretched wide and open under the clear blue sky, with lush green grass perfect for running or flying. A large oak tree stretched its arms over part of the yard, offering a dappled shade where a long wooden table stood surrounded by mismatched chairs, colorful cushions, and scattered toy broomsticks. Flowerbeds brimmed with bright colors along the edges, and the breeze carried the fresh scent of lavender and honeysuckle.

In one of the chairs, Ginny sat chatting with Andromeda, who was cradling little Scorpius in her arms. An old photo album lay open on the table between them.

“Nymphadora was the liveliest baby I've ever seen," Andromeda chuckled, pointing at a tiny, blue-haired infant tugging forcefully at a much younger Andromeda’s hair. "The only one even more spirited is her son!"

"Lovely, Victoire! Now try steering your broomstick to your right!" she heard Bill call out encouragingly to his daughter. Higher up, Victoire floated lazily in the breeze, moving so naturally it was as if she'd been born on a broomstick. Off to the side, Harry was gripping a very green-looking Albus, who appeared seconds away from vomiting.

A few meters away, Malfoy shot through the air on his sleek new broomstick, moving so fast that if it weren't for the telltale flash of his pale blond hair, Hermione might not have recognized him at all.

Hermione’s eyes scanned the garden, searching for Maia’s bright spring-red dress, but she couldn't spot her daughter anywhere.

"Where's Maia?" Hermione asked as she approached George, who was watching his niece with proud amusement.

"I think she’s with Teddy. They said they were going to look for Pixies on the other side of the yard," he replied casually.

Hermione couldn’t help but wonder how Harry had ever gotten permission to magically expand the yard enough to even have another side, but she said nothing to George, simply scanning the garden again.

"Ginny, Molly’s almost got lunch ready," she said, heading toward the direction George had indicated.

As she drew closer to the cluster of trees, Hermione could hear her daughter’s excited voice.

"Are you sure I have to move my legs like that?" Maia asked.

"Of course! My godfather taught me this! He’s the best Seeker in the world, I swear! One day, I’m going to be a Seeker too," Teddy said, full of pride.

"I’m a little scared," Maia admitted.

"I know, I was scared too! But don’t worry, it won’t take you high, just up to the tree. Then, you lean your weight forward—my godfather says that’s the trick—and the broom will bring you safely back down."

Hermione started running, her heart racing.

"Okay, you’re right. I really want to fly!" Maia’s voice trembled with excitement.

She had almost rounded the bend when Hermione heard the unmistakable sound of feet pushing off the ground, a broom lifting into the air.

"Maia!" Hermione cried, but her daughter was already soaring upward.

Her red dress fluttered wildly as she shot higher—one meter, two meters—reaching the top of the tree, then flying right past it.

"Maia, come back down! Lean your body forward!" Teddy shouted from below, waving his arms desperately, trying to show her how to maneuver. It was no use. Maia started screaming—four meters, four and a half meters—and Hermione’s heart dropped as she screamed along with her, panic clawing at her.

Frantically, Hermione fumbled through her pockets for her wand. If only she could just cast a simple Summoning Charm on the broom, or at least turn the ground beneath her into something soft—then, even if Maia fell, she wouldn’t get hurt. Five meters, five and a half.

But her wand wasn’t there. It was inside the house, left beside her bag in the kitchen. She screamed even louder when she saw her daughter trembling, her tiny body quivering in fear. The broom wobbled, rising higher and higher.

"MUMMY!" Maia screamed, her voice piercing the air at the same moment Hermione cried out,

"HARRY!"

Teddy, frozen in shock, suddenly sprang into action, running toward Hermione’s path. "My godfather will know what to do! He’ll know!" he shouted desperately.

In a moment of utter desperation, Hermione began to walk beneath Maia, hoping that, if the worst happened and Maia fell, she could catch her before she hit the hard ground.

"Mummy," Maia whimpered again, reaching out as if she could somehow grasp her from the sky.

"Don’t let go of the broom!" a man’s voice called out from just above Hermione.

She felt a rush of relief flood through her at the sound of Malfoy’s voice and the sight of him on his broomstick speeding toward Maia.

"I’ll catch you, don’t be afraid. Just give me your hand," Malfoy urged.

"But you told me not to let go of the broom," Maia protested.

"MAIA, DO AS HE SAYS!" Hermione screamed her voice hoarse with fear. Seven meters. Seven and a half.

"Come on, Maia. Give me your hand. I won’t let you fall, I promise," Malfoy coaxed, his voice gentle, yet firm. But Maia was frozen in terror, tears streaming down her face as she sobbed uncontrollably.

At that moment, a second broom approached—a dizzy Albus in Harry’s arms. Harry flew just a few meters beneath Maia, as though he could possibly catch her while holding a toddler.

"Maia, I promise, if you take Draco’s hand, he’ll pull you onto his broom, just like I’m holding Albus now. See?" Harry’s voice was steady, trying to reassure her.

Maia hesitated, her fear battling against the need to trust, but slowly, timidly, she let go of the broom with one small hand, reaching out toward Malfoy. He grabbed it firmly and, with one swift motion, pulled her onto his broom, seating her securely in front of him. With Harry flying close by, Malfoy began the careful descent back to the ground. Meanwhile, Teddy’s broom crashed into the tree, its riderless form spinning wildly in the air.

The entire ordeal lasted no more than a minute, but to Hermione, it felt like an eternity. Her throat felt raw from all the screaming.

When the brooms had finally descended enough, Malfoy helped Maia off his, the little girl’s face streaked with tears, her cheeks flushed with fear.

Hermione rushed toward them, her heart in her throat, and pulled her daughter into a tight, protective hug.

"You're alright, you're alright", she kept murmuring into the wild curls of her daughter’s hair. The little girl broke into another round of sobs, shaking with the intensity of her emotions.

"Mum...my, I …I was so…scared..." Maia’s voice was muffled by her crying, each word trembling as it escaped her lips.

Hermione kept stroking her daughter’s hair, whispering soothing words in her ear, not just to comfort Maia, but also to steady herself. Her own hands were trembling. Her heart felt as if it was on the verge of breaking apart in those agonizing moments. The image kept flashing before her eyes, the unbearable thought that she might have arrived a minute too late, that Maia could have fallen from a height of eight meters. It was a terror so raw, so primal, that it clawed at her chest and stole her breath away. What mother could bear to watch her child plummet from such a height? The very idea filled her with a bone-deep fear, an overwhelming helplessness that left her knees weak and her soul in tatters.

"Merlin, what happened? Teddy called us!" Ginny’s frantic voice rang out from around the corner. Hermione turned to see her rushing toward them, followed by Andromeda, who wore a furious expression, Teddy, who looked like he wished he could disappear, and George, who was carrying a tearful and shaken Scorpius in his arms.

“Everything's fine now. Thank Merlin, Malfoy was flying near—” someone began, but Hermione didn’t catch who, because in a split second, all the blood in her body rushed to her head, and in the next moment, she exploded. With three long strides, she reached the spot in front of him and started yelling.

“Are you out of your mind, Malfoy?” she screamed.

He, completely unprepared for such an outburst, stared at her, shocked. He was still mounted on his broomstick, hovering a few inches above the ground.

“What?” he asked, his voice incredulous.

“What the hell were you thinking? Giving new broomsticks to children this small?” Hermione’s voice was raw with anger, each word laced with frustration.

“Hermione—” Harry tried to interject, but she cut him off, her emotions raging.

“Shut up, Harry! Maia is five! James is four! Teddy is ten! What the hell are they doing flying on brooms at this age? And not just any brooms! Advanced, dangerous ones that don’t even have the basic safety features to stop them from falling if the kids are in danger!”

“Granger, the broomsticks I gave James and Albus are perfectly safe and suited for their age," Malfoy shot back, his voice tense with frustration. "Scorpius has the exact same broom as Albus. I would never put my own son at risk," he added, almost pleadingly. "The one for Teddy was meant for older kids. He's starting at Hogwarts in September, and I wanted him to have the best. I wasn’t trying to endanger anyone. They’re all completely safe."

"Safe? You don’t get to decide what’s safe for my child!" Hermione’s voice cracked with emotion. "You can make whatever choices you want for your son, but Maia is mine. I raised her. I care for her. I’m the one who will suffer if something happens to her, the one who will wipe away her tears. You— with your perfect little family— you won’t care, because you never have!"

“Hermione, please—” Ginny began.

“It’s not my fault that the kid wanted to try flying on Teddy’s broom! I wasn’t even here! I was on the other side of the yard!” he protested again.

“So now it’s Maia’s fault that she almost died on a broomstick?” Hermione shot back, her voice laced with sarcasm and pain.

"No one’s blaming Maia, Granger," Malfoy interrupted, his voice more controlled now, though there was an edge of exasperation. "She’s a child. It’s a beautiful day, the other kids are flying, and I guess she just wanted to join in. Why does it have to be someone’s fault? The kid’s safe now. Maybe you should focus on that instead of throwing your anger at me because you need somewhere to direct it."

“If anyone should take responsibility, it’s me,” Andromeda said sternly. “Teddy is my grandson, and I should have been watching him more carefully. I knew he had a new broomstick, but I never imagined he would be so irresponsible as to lift such a small child onto it.”

Teddy cringed inwardly at his grandmother’s words.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Andromeda continued. “My nephew is not to blame here. The fault is mine for not being more careful with my grandson. I am so sorry. I wish there was something I could do to make it right.”

Beside her, Ginny stepped closer, her voice gentle but insistent. “Hermione, maybe we should go inside. The kids…”

But it was too late. Maia was standing a few feet away, looking torn between heartbreak and shame. New tears began to streak down her cheeks. Hermione closed her eyes, exhaling shakily. Her hands trembled by her sides. She hadn’t meant for things to spiral out of control like this.

“Come on, Maia. Let’s go home,” Hermione said, her voice softer now, reaching out to take her daughter’s hand.

“But mummy—”

“Hermione, there’s no reason to leave,” Ginny interjected, her voice calm. “We haven’t even had lunch yet. Give yourself and Maia a little time to calm down. Please, come inside. I could use your help with something.”

"Ginny's right. Maia, why don’t you come with me?" Harry said with a smile. "I think George brought some ice cream from Fortescue’s. Four new flavors we absolutely have to try." He lifted the little girl into his arms and carried her toward George.

Ginny gently took Hermione’s hand and guided her toward the entrance of the house, then into the small sitting room, the one with the old Black family wallpaper where, just a month ago, Malfoy had been sitting on the floor coloring with Maia.

“Are you okay?” Ginny asked softly, concern etched on her face. “Did something happen with your dad?”

Before Hermione could answer, the door creaked open. Malfoy stepped inside, broomstick still in hand.

“Granger, are you okay?” he asked, his voice filled with concern.

Hermione let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Seriously, Malfoy? You’re actually asking me if I’m okay? Since when do you care?”

She watched his eyes widen.

Ginny cleared her throat awkwardly.

“Malfoy, you should leave. Hermione, I think you should calm down,” Ginny said gently, but Malfoy interrupted her before she could finish.

“I’m not going anywhere. Ginny, get out”, he said.

“You don’t get to kick me out of my own house!” she snapped.

“No, Ginny, leave,” Hermione agreed coldly. “Apparently Mr. Malfoy has finally grown a spine and wants to talk.”

“Hermione…” Ginny’s voice trembled with unease.

“Ginny. Out.” Hermione repeated, eyes blazing.

Ginny hesitated for a moment, casting one last anxious glance towards her friend before stepping out, gently closing the door behind her.

Malfoy wasted no time. "I don’t know what’s going on, but you need to stop," he said, his tone firm the moment they were alone. "Your daughter is out there, crying in Potter’s arms. She’s terrified. She thinks she’s disappointed you. She keeps saying she didn’t mean to upset you. You should go talk to her once you’ve calmed down.”

Hermione’s gaze hardened, her fury bubbling over. "Who the hell do you think you are?" she snapped, her voice rising, barely able to contain the storm inside. "You’re seriously giving me parenting advice now? Telling me how to raise my daughter?" The audacity of him—it infuriated her, the way he spoke about Maia, as if he had any right, as if he understood anything about them.

“I’m not giving you advice, Granger,” he shot back, his voice measured but insistent. “I’m just telling you. Your daughter is crying in the next room.”

“And why the hell do you care what Maia does? Why are you so involved with her?” Hermione demanded, her confusion and anger mixing. “I don’t understand why you’re suddenly everywhere! Buying her sweets and chocolates, letting your son play with her, sitting on the floor drawing with her like you’re her best friend—and now you’re telling me how to treat my own child, as if you care about her? As if her feelings matter to you? Focus on your own child, Malfoy. Leave Maia out of it!”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Malfoy burst out, exasperated. “Maia’s smart and kind. She’s grown close to Scorpius, and he absolutely adores her. What do you think this is? That I have some ulterior motives? That I would ever hurt her?”

Hermione’s laugh was bitter, almost mocking. "Why not?" she shot back, the words coming out like venom. She really wanted to hurt him. "After all, she’s the daughter of a Muggleborn. We both know how much you valued the beliefs you were raised with. You should want nothing to do with her. So why don’t you just ignore her like you ignored me for most of our childhood?"

"Stop being ridiculous," Malfoy said, his voice hardening, but there was a flicker of pain beneath it. "I would never insult you, or your daughter—"

Hermione’s laughter was harsh and cruel. "And I’m supposed to believe that?"

She saw his face flush with frustration.

“I would never harm a child,” he said tightly. “Especially not your child. I thought even after everything that happened, you would at least recognize that much. I’m a father, Granger. I could never, ever hurt someone else's child. It’s deeply insulting that you would even think I could.”

"I don’t know anything about you," Hermione replied coldly, her tone as sharp as a dagger. "I never really did. And I don’t want to know anymore." Her words were icy, her gaze hard as steel. "What I do know is that I don’t want you anywhere near her. Or near me."

"Then maybe you should tell your daughter to stop talking to my son," he shot back, "because I sure as hell am not going to tell my child who he can and cannot be friends with."

A tense silence stretched between them, neither speaking, just staring, the weight of their unresolved past hanging in the air.

Finally, Malfoy exhaled sharply, his shoulders relaxing just a bit. "We both need to calm down," he said, his voice softer now, as though trying to handle the situation with more care. "I can see you're upset. I understand this must be incredibly hard for you. I would lose it if anything happened to Scorpius. Raising Maia alone, it must be diffic—"

Her eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flashing in them. "What are you implying?" she snapped.

He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm not implying anything," he said quickly. "I just think that when one parent is left to raise a child alone, they can become overly protective, trying to make up for everything the child might be missing. And kids—kids who grow up without one of their parents often feel that void—"

"Maia doesn't feel any void!" she retorted sharply, her fury barely held in check. "And what makes you think she doesn't know her father?"

He swallowed hard, visibly uncomfortable. "I... overheard you talking to Scamander a few weeks ago," he admitted reluctantly. "You said he rejected you. And the baby. That he was married, or something. I didn’t mean to listen in—I just heard."

Hermione’s eyes welled with tears. She tried desperately to blink them away, but it was too late. In just a few careless words, he had summed up everything—everything she had fought to bury.

He had been married.

And she had been the one thrown away.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," she whispered hoarsely.

"I didn’t mean to offend you," he said quickly. "I’m sure he was a complete bastard who hurt you... again. I mean, who abandons their own child—?"

"Shut up! Just shut up!" she exploded, and for a moment she truly thought her magic might crack the walls around them. The entire room buzzed, the air charged with uncontrolled power. "You don’t get to talk about him!" she yelled, her voice shaking with rage. "You don’t get to talk about me! You have no right to assume anything about my life, about Maia..."

Her voice broke, but she pushed through, her anger a shield against the ache threatening to crush her.

"...You fucking broke up with me through a goddamn newspaper article! You left me because I wasn’t good enough for your precious family—because my blood wasn’t pure enough, because my name wasn’t influential enough. You don’t get to stand there and pretend you care! You don’t get to act sad because someone else hurt me! You have no idea what I went through! You don’t know what it’s like to lose everything, your friends, your whole life, to carry a child alone, to cry for hours because you feel like you’ll never be enough, and still have to be enough for her!"

She took a shuddering breath, glaring at him with all the hurt of the past years burning in her chest. "Don’t you dare pretend you understand, Draco. You don’t."

“Oh, I don't understand loss?” he shouted suddenly, his voice trembling. His face was stripped of all pretense—no mask—only naked pain. He threw the broomstick to the floor; the handle cracked with a sharp snap.

“Let’s go over what I’ve lost in the past six years, shall we?” he said, raising a finger.

"One: My father died. Slowly. Painfully. His mind went long before his body gave out. He died without ever meeting his grandson. The whole world hated him, you hated him, sometimes I fucking hated him. But he was my father, and I lost him..."

"...Two," he continued, his tone growing more intense as he lifted another finger. "...Astoria died two hours after giving birth. She held Scorpius once. Then she was gone. She died without ever knowing love from her husband, clinging to the hope that, after the birth of the next Malfoy heir, we might finally become the perfect pureblood family she had always dreamed of. Hoping the world would admire her more, and that I would finally love her..."

"..Three. My mother fell into a deep depression after my father’s death. She locked herself away in the Manor, refused every attempt at help, refused to see me, refused to meet her grandson. Two years later, she’s still not fully recovered..."

"...Four. I am raising Scorpius alone. I have no idea what I am doing. I had to ask parenting advice from Harry fucking Potter and a Weasley. If Scorpius weren’t the sweetest soul in the world, I don’t know if I would have survived this far."

He let his hands fall heavily to his sides, stepping closer to her now, his eyes blazing with a raw intensity.

"Do you want me to feel sorry for you?" Hermione hissed, disbelief and anger mixing in her voice. "Do you want me to comfort you for all the terrible things that happened to you? To tell you how unfortunate your life has been? Do you want me to say I’m sorry you lost your father and your wife? The wife you married while you were still supposed to love me?"

"I don’t want any of that," Draco snapped, his frustration mounting.

"Do you really want me to comfort you?" Hermione continued her voice colder now, cutting through him. "Do you want me to say that things couldn’t possibly get worse for you?"

"Any worse?" he laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. "Oh, it got worse, Granger," he said, his voice steady now, each word calculated and sharp. His fists clenched at his sides. "All of that—it’s nothing compared to what I gave up: the love of my life. I watched her slip through my fingers because I made a terrible choice—one that went against everything in my heart. Because I was taught that family came first, above all else, above my own happiness. I was too blind to see who my real family should have been."

He paused, drawing in a shaky breath. "That, Hermione," he said, his voice faltering, "that was my greatest loss. So don’t stand there and tell me I don’t know what loss is. Because you have no idea."

Her heart hammered in her chest, each beat sending a painful shock through her. Her ears rang, her vision blurry as tears spilled down her cheeks.

He stood there, vulnerable, stripped of his usual arrogance, but all she felt was contempt. He had shattered her too deeply to feel any sympathy.

Her voice cracked. "What the hell do you want me to say to you, Draco? That you didn't deserve it? That I hope everything works out for you now?"

"I don't want anything from you," he replied hoarsely, his eyes dark with regret. "I have no right to want anything from you. I know what I did and why I did it. I've lived with my choices and my mistakes for the last six years. I'm sorry for everything," he said, his voice softer now, as he took a step closer.

She stepped back, bumping into the couch, her chest tightening. "Sorry isn't enough," she spat, her voice trembling with raw anger. "How dare you say that to me? That I was your greatest loss? How dare you?" Her voice rose, an edge of fury in every word. "Don't you ever say that again. Ever."

"Hermion—"

"Don't you ever say that to me again!" she screamed, her voice hoarse and filled with an uncontainable rage. "Don't even think it! Don't you dare ask for forgiveness, because you're not getting it. Not now. Not ever."

She took a deep, shaking breath. Her words were now cold, almost chilling.

"Don't talk to me about the past, or your feelings, or your fucking regrets. I don't want to hear any of it. The only thing I want is for you to stay away from my daughter. Stop acting like you care, because I don’t believe you. Stop thinking you know better than me what my daughter needs. Maia has me. And I’m enough. Don’t come near her again. Don’t come near me. Don’t talk to her. Don’t even look at her. To you, we are invisible."

Hermione stood there, her body trembling with the weight of everything she had just unleashed. Every word had come from the deepest part of her, each one more painful than the last. But as she spoke, she felt a strange, bitter sense of relief. The emotions she had buried for so long were finally out in the open. Yet, despite the release, there was still a gnawing ache in her chest. His presence, his apologies, none of it was enough to heal the wounds he had inflicted. She had given him everything, and he had left her shattered.

“And stay away from my friends too,” she continued, her voice rising, each word a sharp accusation. “They’re my friends, not yours! You destroyed my life, forced me to run away from them in order to get away from you and your fucking family! And now I come back, only to see you laughing with them like nothing ever happened? What the hell changed? You always hated them! Go back to doing that. Go back to avoiding them, to being the person you were before. Because honestly, it’s better that way. We’ll all be better off. You have no place in their lives, in my life, not anymore. Don’t you dare think you can just erase the past. Because I will never forget.”

Her words cut through the silence like a blade, every syllable an echo of years of pain and betrayal. She stood there, trembling with fury and frustration, refusing to let herself show weakness, even though every part of her wanted to break down. But no, she wouldn’t. Not for him. Not for anyone.

The living room door swung open, and Harry appeared in the doorway, his face tight.

“Hermione, you need to come. Maia’s asking for you,” he said without looking at her.

Only then did she realize that when she and Ginny had entered the living room, neither had thought to silence it.

Everyone had heard.

She turned without sparing Malfoy a second glance and followed Harry into the hallway.

Maia was sitting on the stairs, her face buried in her hands, sobbing.

The moment she saw her, she ran into Hermione’s arms.

“Mummy, I just wanted to try it once, I’m so sorry,” she cried.

Scorpius came over shyly, clutching a worn teddy bear that had once belonged to James. It played a silly buzzing tune about a hippogriff and a bee.

“Don’t cry, Maia,” he said softly, offering the bear. “Scorpius make you laugh.”

But before Maia could even smile, Malfoy reappeared.

“Come on, Scorp. Time to go,” he said, lifting his son into his arms.

“Maia’s crying,” Scorpius protested, pointing sadly at her.

“Maia has her mother,” he replied quietly. “She’ll be okay. Let’s go home, ok?”

He offered Ginny a muted apology and disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later, the whoosh of the Floo was the only sound left behind.

That evening, Hermione stayed curled up on the sofa with Maia, holding her tightly until her daughter’s tears finally dried and her little face returned to its normal color. Gently, Hermione brushed back her curls and apologized.

“I shouldn’t have yelled, my love. I was just scared for you. I’m sorry. You know I love you more than anything in the world. I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to you, my little tangerine,” she whispered.

That night, Maia slept tucked safely in her mother’s arms, Hermione silently crying into her daughter’s soft curls—holding onto her like she was the only thing keeping her world together.

The next day, Hermione wasn’t surprised when Harry stepped into her office before she had even had the chance to drop her bag onto the chair.

“What happened yesterday?” he asked, his voice calm but insistent.

Hermione, who had been struggling to keep her composure after her explosive confrontation with Malfoy, felt the anger flood back in an overwhelming surge. It hit her like a tidal wave, knocking all semblance of calm away.

“What happened to me? What happened to you, Harry?” she snapped, her voice sharp, her words cutting through the room like daggers. “You’re spending time with Malfoy like he’s your best mate. You laugh at his jokes, you talk to him like he’s just another one of your old friends. You invite him to your house. You let him around your children—”

“Hermione,” Harry interjected gently, stepping forward, his expression serious but filled with concern. “That’s enough. You’re like a sister to me. But right now, you’re being unfair. What exactly are you accusing me of?”

“I’m being unfair?” she cried out, her voice cracking with emotion. “You’re spending time with the man who broke me! The man who left me behind like I meant nothing, who forced me to run across the world just to figure out how to breathe again! He chose his name, his family, his legacy, he chose everything over me!”

Her voice broke as the rawness of it all poured out, her chest rising and falling rapidly as her grief spilled out of her, unchecked. Harry took a slow, deliberate step forward, then reached out, his hands hovering near hers.

“Hey… hey,” he said softly, his tone comforting, his voice filled with care. “Calm down. I’m here, okay? Talk to me. Please. Tell me what’s really going on.”

And just like that, the dam inside Hermione broke completely. She collapsed into his arms, the walls that had been holding her together finally crumbling.

Tears streamed down her face as she spoke, each word tumbling out between broken sobs. She told him about her father—how the illness was progressing faster than the doctors had predicted, how her mother had been shouldering the burden alone for months, never once asking for help. She recounted how she’d walked into the kitchen three nights ago and found her mother quietly crying by the sink. She spoke of her father, once a man full of stories and laughter, now barely recognizing her at times. Some days he remembered her name; other days, he didn’t even know who she was.

“They said he might not make it through the summer,” she whispered, her voice raw with pain. “And I keep wondering how I’m supposed to find the courage to say goodbye to the man who taught me how to be brave.” Her voice faltered again, and Harry, his arms around her, didn’t say anything. He just held her, grounding her, letting her cry until the storm passed.

When Hermione finally pulled away, wiping her face with the back of her hand, she whispered in a small, guilty voice, “It doesn’t excuse what I did yesterday. I lost control. I accused him of the one thing that wasn’t his fault. He’s done so many things to me, but putting Maia in danger? That was never one of them. And Maia—god. I acted like a child. I hurt her. I’m so sorry, Harry.”

Harry didn’t let go of her hand; instead, he gave it a firm, reassuring squeeze.

“You don’t need to explain,” he said softly, his voice steady. “You’re human, Hermione. We all have days when the world feels too heavy. Don’t think for a second that I’ve never shouted at Ginny, or snapped at the kids, and regretted it immediately after. We all make mistakes. That’s how we learn. That’s how we grow. That’s how we become better parents, better friends, and better people.”

His words sank in, reminding her of the bond they shared and the support always offered in friendship and family. She allowed herself to embrace that moment of understanding, even if it didn’t ease the weight she was carrying much.   

***

Lily Luna Potter came into the world ten days later. Her birth brought together the entire Weasley family—and a swarm of reporters—into the maternity ward of St. Mungo’s. After nineteen hours of labor, her first cry finally rang out, and Ginny burst into tears, overwhelmed by exhaustion and relief.

When Harry saw his daughter for the first time, he fell in love instantly. And how could he not? She was the spitting image of her mother. Lily had the same warm brown eyes as Ginny and a few vivid red tufts of hair that screamed “Weasley” from across the room.

When Hermione held her, she felt like she had been transported five years back, to a muggle hospital in Sydney.

“She’s so tiny,” Maia said, peering curiously at the little bundle.

“You were this tiny once too,” Hermione replied gently.

Maia looked skeptical. “And did I come out of your belly?”

The baby in Hermione’s arms gave a small stretch, and Hermione smiled.

“If you have another baby, will it come out of your belly too?” Maia asked again.

Hermione looked at her daughter fondly. “Yes. But I’m not going to have another baby. You’ll always be my little tangerine.”

Little Lily was passed from hand to hand until she finally made her way back into her tired mother’s arms. Harry entered the room holding Albus, with a large bouquet of flowers floating in front of him.

“Draco stopped by earlier and brought these,” he said, gesturing toward the flowers.

“How kind of him. They’re beautiful,” Ginny said with a soft smile.

“Didn’t he stay to see the baby?” Molly asked.

Harry shook his head. Hermione noticed the brief glance he sent her way before answering. “He had to leave—something about business at his estate.”

“What a shame. I was hoping to see him before the meeting with the Hogwarts Governing Body next week. I suppose I’ll have to send him an owl to arrange a meeting,” Percy said thoughtfully.

“Percy! We’re not discussing business right now!” his mother scolded.

Hermione didn’t understand why Percy and Malfoy were discussing work matters. As far as she knew, Percy worked in the Department of Magical Education and had recently become a member of the Hogwarts Governing Body. Malfoy still worked in the DMLE with Harry.

The buzzing from her purse interrupted her thoughts, and she stepped out of the room to take the call.

“Mum, what’s going on? Is everything alright?” Hermione asked. She had finally replaced her old SIM card. After her father’s accident and promising her mother that she'd retrieve her old phone, she had taken Maia to the store and chosen a simple, practical plan.

“Everything’s fine, Hermione. I just wanted to confirm you're still coming for lunch with Maia tomorrow,” her mother’s tired voice said.

“Yes, of course. Do you need me to bring anything?”

Her mother said she'd text her a list of things to pick up from the supermarket. That evening, once Hermione received the message, she was surprised to see her inbox full of texts. Curious, she opened the oldest one from an unknown number, unsaved on her new SIM.

You looked so beautiful today, I couldn’t stop staring at you.

I’ll come by your flat at six. Tell Weasley to leave. I want you all to myself tonight.

I hate sleeping in my bed. I wish I were there with you.

I can’t wait for us to leave. Your friends are staring. If they knew what I plan to do to you tonight, they’d probably Avada me on the spot.

Granger, I swear I looked everywhere. This supermarket doesn’t sell onions.

I missed the feeling of being inside you. Damn the Ministry and its endless meetings.

That skirt you wore today was very convenient. Tomorrow, same room, noon? Say yes.

I wish you’d let me dance with you tonight. You were so beautiful.

I’m planning a surprise. Tell Robards you’ll be gone for a week. You are going to need a swimsuit.

This has been the best week of my life. Thank you for existing.

I think the weasel complimented me today. Do you think someone imperiused him?

I can’t wait for Sunday. The portkey leaves at ten. I love you, Granger. Sweet dreams.

She read the messages again and again. There were so many.

The very first had been sent the day after his birthday, the day he got the phone. It contained only one word: “Granger.”

As the months passed, the messages had grown in number and intensity. The last one was dated just a week before their planned trip to Bath—a trip that never happened.

Chapter Text

During the last week of June, Maia fell ill, and she wasn’t the only one. James and Albus were running a fever, and Fleur feared that Victoire would soon share the same fate as her cousins. In an effort to protect newborn Lily, Ginny had sent the boys to Molly’s and had strictly forbidden anyone with sick children from coming anywhere near Grimmauld Place.

“I swear this baby is going to be the death of me. She cries all day long. I can’t even imagine how much worse it’ll be if she gets sick,” she had told Hermione when she called Grimmauld Place to ask how Lily was doing.

With the Burrow full of sick children, Grimmauld off-limits, and her mother caring for Richard around the clock, Hermione had very few options left. She could either take a third consecutive day off and postpone her meeting with the Swedish Ministry representative until the following week, or she could take Maia with her to work. That morning, Maia’s fever had gone down, and her mood had slightly improved, but she was still coughing and had lost her appetite.

Hermione was about to send an owl to the Ministry to inform them that she wouldn’t be attending her appointments today either, but Maia pleaded with her to let her come to the office, and on the way back, stop by a pâtisserie on the Muggle side of London that sold pistachio-filled croissants she absolutely adored.

“I thought you didn’t feel like eating,” Hermione had said.

“I always feel like eating sweets,” Maia had replied.

Hermione spent most of her morning in meetings with her Scandinavian colleagues. She had left Maia in her office, accompanied by her paints and the enchanted galleon with a Protean Charm, which allowed her to contact Hermione instantly in case she felt unwell or needed anything. Hermione had also asked her assistant to check on Maia every half hour to make sure everything was alright.

Her third meeting lasted much longer than she had expected, and before she knew it, it was already time for her lunch break. She stopped by the cafeteria to pick up a light meal for Maia, just in case her appetite had returned, and a cold sandwich for herself, then made her way to her office to check in on her.

“—and this is me and my mummy. I’m the small one and mummy is the big one. This is the beach near our house in Sydney. That’s the sun, and this is a mermaid flying in the sky. These are pink clouds—” She heard her daughter chattering from the half-open door.

When she stepped inside, she found Maia kneeling by the small table, her markers scattered all around her. In her hands was a painting.

Sitting in the armchair across from her was a smiling Theo Nott. The moment he saw Hermione, he stood up immediately, his expression turning serious.

“I’m sorry, Granger. I didn’t realize your meeting with the Swedes was today. I came to discuss the conference next month in Milan. The Ministry wants to send one of us. McAlister didn’t show any interest. If you’d like to go, I can arrange it. If not, I’ll take it on,” he said.

Since her return to London, Theo Nott and Hermione had been working in the same department. Although he held a more senior position and technically outranked her, he never treated her that way. He always addressed her with the utmost respect and professionalism, and on several occasions, he sought her advice on matters within her field of expertise. His behavior was so consistently professional that, at times, it left Hermione feeling uneasy about the choices she had made in the past.

Theo’s friendship had been collateral damage. She couldn’t fathom how she could possibly maintain a friendly relationship with Draco’s best friend after everything that had transpired between them. Yet, that didn’t give her the right to treat him with indifference, inconsistency, and rudeness. After all, he had made several attempts to reach out, only to be rejected each time. These thoughts had been eating away at her for months, especially whenever she saw the kind and respectful way he continued to address her. So, she had tried—albeit in small ways—to close the gap that had grown between them because of her actions.

Hermione had started with small gestures. At Collins' retirement party—the longest-serving employee in the Department of International Magical Co-operation—she had made an attempt to start a conversation with him over a platter of canapés. Theo had been taken aback by her sudden friendliness but hadn’t made any comment. A few weeks later, she had invited him to join a lunch she’d organized with McAlister and Jameson, both of whom worked on the same floor. Theo had looked at her with surprise and politely declined; claiming he already had other plans. Hermione had felt she deserved that. Afterward, she stopped making the effort to reach out.

“Hmm, thank you for the offer, Theo, but I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.” The conference was an excellent opportunity to network with representatives from other European ministries, but it lasted an entire week. There was no way Hermione could leave Maia behind for seven days to travel across Europe.

“I understand,” Theo replied, his gaze shifting to Maia, who was still focused on her painting, which appeared to be a tree.

“Maia, did you introduce yourself to Mr. Nott?” Hermione asked.

The little girl stood up and extended her hand.

“I’m Maia Jane Granger. I’m a bit sick, so mum brought me to the office because all my friends are sick too,” she explained, then sneezed.

Theo chuckled.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Maia,” he said, shaking her hand. “I really liked your painting. You described it beautifully.”

Hermione glanced at the picture, which was filled with swirling pink, blue, and yellow, tangled lines and odd shapes that didn’t resemble anything specific, just like all of Maia’s paintings.

“I’m going to give it to mummy when I finish it. I drew a tangerine tree too—” she pointed at a few green lines, “—because mummy always calls me her little tangerine when she tells me she loves me.”

Theo smiled warmly. “Your mum is very lucky. That’s a wonderful painting,” he said kindly.

Maia’s expression shifted slightly. “No, it’s not. I paint really badly. Georgia at preschool made an elephant, and the teacher said congratulations. She even put it on the wall for a whole week so everyone could see it. My paintings never go on the wall. But mummy always puts them on the fridge,” she added with a small sigh.

Hermione wasn’t surprised by Maia’s desire to excel. She had been just the same as a child, always striving to be the best. She feared, though, that Maia might have inherited her complete lack of artistic talent. It was well-known that Hermione had never excelled in anything musical or artistic, despite her parents’ best efforts.

“I understand,” Theo said, his tone gentle. “I wasn’t very good at painting or drawing either. When I was little, I had a friend who was really talented. I used to ask him to draw things for me, and then I’d give them to my mother, pretending I’d drawn them myself.”

Hermione had heard that story before, many years ago, from Malfoy. He and Theo used to spend most of their summers together at Malfoy Manor. Theo’s parents had always been distant, never showing much interest in their only son. They spent most of the year traveling abroad. When Theo wasn’t at Hogwarts, he usually stayed either at Malfoy Manor or at Parkinson Manor with Pansy. Even as a child, Draco had a natural talent for drawing. In an effort to win his parents’ approval, Theo would often ask Draco to create beautiful pictures that he could then pass off as his own, hoping—futilely—that it might make his mother proud.

That story had once made Hermione sad. Now that she was a mother herself, the idea of a parent showing such indifference toward their child felt almost unbearable.

“I have a friend who draws really well too,” Maia said suddenly. “His name is Draco, and he has a little kid. His name is Scorp, and he loves chocolate frogs. I saw him eat two at once!”

Theo laughed aloud. “We have so much in common, mini Granger,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Maia smiled at him. “You look like Uncle Harry,” she announced out of the blue.

Theo burst out laughing.

“But you don’t wear glasses”, she added thoughtfully.

“True,” he agreed. “I’m better looking,” he added with a grin, “have nicer hair, and I definitely dress better.”

He paused for a moment, studying her more closely. “And you look like someone I know too,” he added softly.

“I look like my mummy,” Maia said proudly.

“Yes, you do,” he agreed with a gentle smile. “But your eyes—they’re your father’s. And they’re beautiful.”

Hermione froze.

“Goodbye, Miss Maia. It was lovely meeting you. Hermione,” he said, giving her a small nod before stepping out and closing the door quietly behind him.

She was left alone in her office, her daughter still coloring carefree, while only one thought consumed her mind.

Theo Nott knew.

He knew that Draco Malfoy was Maia’s father.

The next morning, Hermione hurried to the floor that housed the Department of International Magical Co-operation, but instead of continuing to her office, she stopped one corridor early and knocked on Theo Nott’s door.

Over the years, Theo’s office had changed. The personal fireplace remained, but the once dark, leather-heavy décor and crowded magical portraits had been replaced with earth-toned furnishings and bright paintings of exotic landscapes.

Theo was seated at his desk, hunched over a list of names scheduled to attend that afternoon’s briefing.

“Hermione,” he said, not particularly surprised by her early visit. “I was expecting you. I’m only surprised you didn’t show up at Nott Manor last night to interrogate me before bedtime,” he added with a wry smile.

Hermione wasn’t in the mood for jokes. She had spent the entire night sitting in her kitchen, wide awake, replaying Theo’s parting words to Maia over and over in her mind.

“How long have you known?” she asked, skipping any pleasantries. She aimed for firm and composed, but her voice carried a tremor, and her stomach twisted painfully.

Theo rose from his desk and crossed the room to one of the two armchairs by the fireplace. He gestured for her to sit, but Hermione didn’t move.

“Since March 2002.”

“Si…since March 2002?” she echoed, stunned.

In March 2002, Hermione had been nearly seven months pregnant with Maia. He had known even before her daughter was born?

“Hermione, why don’t you sit down? I can already see a million questions forming in that head of yours. I have a feeling this conversation is going to take a while. Sit—I’ll ask Margaret to bring us some tea.”

She ignored him again. “Does Malfoy know?”

The idea that Theo had known about Maia’s existence while she was still pregnant and had kept it from Draco, felt almost absurd. But the possibility that Draco had known all along… that for the past twelve months, since returning to England, he had seen her daughter—his daughter—and acted as though she meant nothing to him… that was truly terrifying.

Theo let out a short, almost incredulous laugh. “Of course not, Hermione. Do you honestly believe he would have known and not blown his entire life up to come find you? Draco doesn’t know a thing. He still thinks Maia’s father is a Muggle,” he said flatly.

Hermione continued to stare at him in confusion, her mind struggling to piece everything together.

“A Muggle?” she repeated, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Theo paused, watching her closely, as if weighing whether to continue. Then, with a quiet sigh, he spoke again, his tone softening.

“Hermione, do you have some time?” Theo asked gently. “Because the story I’m about to tell you... it’s a long one.”

March 2002, London

He hated the rain—and in London, it was pouring, just like it almost always did.

After four weeks in the southern hemisphere, he'd grown accustomed to the warmth and clear skies, and now the grey drizzle felt more miserable than ever.

He didn’t want to go to Nott Manor. Pansy had organized a welcome party for him. He also knew that her insufferable fiancé would be there, along with half a dozen other Slytherins who were probably, at that very moment, drinking his best whisky.

But above all, he didn’t want to go because Draco would be there. He had no idea how to look him in the eye. Merlin, Hermione was pregnant with his best friend’s child and Draco had married someone else.

Bloody hell.

When Ferguson had announced the upcoming trip to New Zealand a month earlier, Theo had been the first to volunteer. Mabel—Goyle’s contact from New York, the one in charge of tracking Hermione’s whereabouts—had told him she was living in Sydney.

When Theo arrived, he hadn’t expected to find Hermione pregnant. It hadn’t been hard to understand why she’d vanished from London without telling anyone where she was going. Once he learned about the pregnancy, everything had fallen into place. Her silence, her sudden disappearance, the complete severing of ties.

He hadn’t known what to do with the information. Approaching her had felt… complicated. He didn’t want to scare her. He didn’t want to intrude or put her in an uncomfortable position. For the first time in years, he felt unsure of his footing. What kind of help would she even want—if any? Financial support? Protection? Or just to be left alone?

He had planned to stay in Sydney for a week. He ended up staying for three.

He never spoke to her directly. Never even let her know he was there. But he kept an eye on things—discreetly. Watching from a careful distance, making sure she had a place to live. That she was safe. Healthy. Looked after.

He told himself he was only staying to make sure she was alright before he left. But every time he packed his bags, something pulled him back. The thought of her out there with only Weasley and her parents, preparing to raise his best friend’s child in secret... it gnawed at him.

So he stayed. Just a little longer.

Eventually, Theo returned to England and did what was expected of him. He went to Nott Manor to meet his friends.

The welcome party was already in full swing by the time he arrived. The fire crackled warmly in the hearth, glasses were brimming with wine and champagne, and the room buzzed with laughter, whispered secrets, and the soft clinking of crystal. Pansy was draped languidly across an emerald-green chaise, a drink in hand, her voice ringing out as she laughed at something Marcus, or perhaps her insufferable fiancé, had just said.

Astoria stood near the drinks cabinet, a vision of composed elegance in pale blue silk, her posture flawless and her smile polished to social perfection. But her eyes told a different story—sharp, alert, calculating. She watched her husband like a hawk, her gaze locked on his conversation with Millicent. And when Millie offered him a shy, lingering smile, something in Astoria’s expression shifted. Her back straightened, her fingers clenched around her glass, and for a brief, burning second, it looked as though she might cross the room and devour the woman whole.

And then there was Draco.

Theo hadn’t seen him in weeks, but it only took one glance to notice the difference. Technically, he looked the same—immaculate robes, hair swept back, posture perfect. But his eyes were duller now. His shoulders carried a weight they hadn’t before. He looked... trapped.

Theo forced himself to act normal. To laugh when expected. To raise his glass and join the toasts.

But every time he met Draco’s gaze, something twisted inside him.

Because he knew. He knew Hermione was carrying his child halfway across the world, in silence. He knew the woman Draco truly wanted was about to become a mother, and Draco didn’t have the slightest idea.

Theo couldn’t meet his eyes.

Not with all these people around.

Not while Astoria was gossiping about mudbloods and how terribly inappropriate their clothes were.

Not while Pansy kept stealing glances his way, like she wanted to devour him whole, despite the fact that her perfectly manicured hand was wrapped tightly around the fingers of her fiancé, the current Quidditch French Champion.

At some point, Draco drifted over to him, glass in hand, one eyebrow raised.

“You took your sweet time getting back,” he said. “Thought New Zealand had swallowed you whole.”

Theo smirked, trying to keep his expression casual. “It almost did.”

Draco tilted his head. “Come on, what really kept you? You were supposed to be gone a week.”

Theo hesitated for half a beat too long, then shrugged. “I met someone.”

Draco blinked, surprised. “You? Involved? With a woman that was not Pansy?”

“She was... interesting,” Theo replied vaguely, offering no further details. “Made it hard to leave.”

Draco let out a low chuckle and clinked his glass against Theo’s. “About time.”

Theo smiled back, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He couldn’t tell him the truth. Not now. Maybe not ever.

June, 2007

“You can imagine my shock when I saw you pregnant. It felt like the ground had been pulled out from under me. In that instant, everything made sense. Why you’d vanished. Why you’d gone so far from London. You weren’t just running from him, you were protecting something.”

He exhaled slowly. “I extended my stay in Australia by two more weeks. Quietly asked a few of my people to dig around. Just enough to know how you were doing. If your parents had taken you in. If Weasley was in the picture. I didn’t know what you needed. Financial support? Protection? Anything. I just needed to make sure you were okay”

He looked down for a moment, fingers tightening slightly. “I came back to London more confused than ever. Torn. Angry, even. Not at you, but at the situation. And I… I made a decision. I decided not to tell him about the child.”

Hermione’s voice, when it came, was soft. Just one word, but heavy with emotion.

“Why?”

Theo looked at her for a long time before answering. “Because I’m not as much of an idiot as you might’ve thought,” he said quietly. “I won’t claim I don’t understand why Draco made these choices—because I really do—but none of that excuses how deeply he hurt you. And while he’s like a brother to me, you were always my friend. You still are. Protecting your child—his child—felt like the very least I could do.”

He hesitated, “I don’t truly believe Lucius would have harmed Maia. He’s done awful things—especially to you—but even he wouldn’t touch a Malfoy child. Not even a half-blood Malfoy heir. Still, I wasn’t sure. And that kind of uncertainty… it was enough. I couldn’t take that risk.”

Hermione’s lips parted slightly, her breath catching as he continued.

“And then there was Draco. By the time I found out about Maia, he was already married to Astoria. The marriage contract Lucius signed, it didn’t allow for separation. No loopholes. If Draco had tried to walk away from her after learning the truth, Lucius would’ve died. I know Lucius was a bastard, but he was still Draco’s father. And while Lord Malfoy could be just as ruthless as Lord Nott in many ways, Lucius loved his son. He always tried, in his own way, to do what he thought was best for him. That’s more than I can say for my own father.”

Theo turned back to Hermione with a seriousness “Hermione, I need you to understand something. If I had told Draco about Maia back then, he would’ve come for you. He would have destroyed everything, he would even sacrifice his father. For you and his child. Watching him choose to marry Astoria was the hardest thing I’ve ever seen him do. Hardest than killing Dumbledore. It broke something in him. He wasn’t the same after. I think… I think at some point he almost lost his mind. And knowing what I knew… I couldn’t give him that kind of pain on top of everything else, especially not without knowing what you wanted.”

He looked at her carefully now, his voice softening. “You seemed fine. Maybe not happy, but stable, strong. You had your parents, your work, your daughter. I told myself that if you ever needed anything—anything at all—I would be the one to make sure you had it, even if you never knew where it came from. I checked in on you every month. I had people send me photographs, financial reports, anything I could get without breaching your privacy too far. I kept my distance because I thought that was what you wanted. I know it wasn’t my place to make that decision, but… I didn’t know what else to do. Telling Draco would’ve changed everything. And maybe that wasn’t mine to decide either, but back then, it felt like protecting you meant keeping the secret…”

“…things slowly started to change. Day by day, I saw him sink deeper into his own misery and despair. Astoria was pressuring him to have a child. His parents were pushing him to take over the family business and resign from his position at the Ministry. He was trying to be a decent husband for a wife he didn't love, a good son for his parents, all while his heart was still longing for you. I know you don’t want to hear this, but he loved you, Hermione. He hurt you, but he loved you. He buried it so deep, it started to eat away at him, eventually. And if he had known about Maia… I truly believe he would’ve chosen you both, no matter the consequences."

“You don’t know that,” her voice cracked under the strain. Hermione turned away, blinking fast, her hands clenched at her sides. “And we’ll never know.”

"You're right. You’ll never know. But I do. He chose his parents’ lives over his own happiness—over yours. But he would’ve never done the same to his child. I can’t fault him for wanting to save Lucius, but he was a fool, and he handled it all terribly. He should’ve been honest with you. He should’ve told you everything. But instead… he thought the only way to stay away was to hurt you so deeply that you’d never let him back in. You weren’t the only one who suffered, Hermione."

He paused.

“Do you know how Lucius died?” he asked suddenly.

“Harry told me years ago that he’d been sick,” she answered honestly. “But I never knew the details.”

“Not long after Draco married Astoria, Lucius began showing symptoms of an illness Muggles call dementia. It wasn’t exactly the same, of course. He was a wizard, and the disease had clear magical roots, but many of the signs matched. Progressive rigidity. Trouble with movement. Tremors in his hands. Eventually, he couldn't even hold his wand properly, let alone cast spells. His speech started to slur. His memory faltered. When they realized it was serious, he went to every Healer in Britain. When no one could give him answers, he went to America. Then to Europe. Still nothing definitive. But one thing every expert agreed on: his illness was magical in origin.”

Theo exhaled slowly, watching her reaction.

“Draco never told me outright, but I know he knows. And I know he blames himself. Lucius didn’t die of natural causes, Hermione. He died because of that damned contract he signed. I don’t know all the clauses or blood-bound terms they agreed to, but I’ve seen similar ones in the House of Nott. Those contracts are binding in the most literal sense. Love eternal between the bound parties. Absolute fidelity. No illegitimate children. No emotional ties outside the marriage. The kind of magic woven into these contracts… it punishes betrayal, physically. From the moment Draco married Astoria, Lucius was doomed. Whether it was because Draco never truly loved her… or because he already had a child, alive and well, with another woman.”

Hermione’s jaw clenched. “I don’t pity him, Theo. He started all of this.”

“I know,” Theo said softly. “And maybe that’s what justice looks like, in its own cruel way.”

Hermione stayed silent for a long moment, absorbing every word. A part of her wanted to argue, to push back against the weight of what Theo had just revealed. But the other part—the part that had lived with years of unanswered questions—felt something inside her cracking, something long buried. And before she could decide what to do with that emotion, Theo went on.

“And time passed. In September, just before the World Cup, Draco told me Astoria was pregnant. She’d been desperate for a child, pushing for it for months. She had started taking fertility potions and pressured Draco to do the same but he never did. She was determined to bring the next Malfoy heir into the world as quickly as possible. When it finally happened—when they conceived—he told me like it was the final nail in his coffin. Draco had always dreamed of having a big family. Growing up without siblings had been lonely for him, and he didn’t want that for his children. But when he told me the news, I could see right through him. He was pretending. He wanted to be a father, yes, but the mother of his child wasn’t the woman he loved…”

“…And then he said he wanted to see you. He wanted to come to Australia one last time before committing fully to his wife and their child. I panicked. His daughter was in Australia. I didn’t know how the hell I was going to keep her a secret if he went looking for you. So... I went with him.”

“You came to Sydney? Draco came to Sydney to see me?” Hermione asked, her voice trembling in disbelief. The words didn’t quite register at first. They hung in the air, surreal and heavy, as emotions surged inside her. Shock, confusion, and something she couldn’t quite name—maybe anger, maybe sorrow—flooded her senses. She didn’t know how to feel, or what any of it meant.

“Yes. The whole thing was orchestrated by me. I planned every detail. I made sure we sat at a restaurant right across from the Ministry of Magic. I avoided going anywhere near your home, I was terrified he might catch a glimpse of Maia. We waited until you finished work. You were the last one to leave the building.”

Hermione thought back to that September. She had been working long hours after being assigned to the World Cup organizing committee. Ron had been taking care of Maia during those late nights.

“Oh my God! I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you knew all along! That he came to—he came to see me… and you—you came to the Ministry just a few months later, looked me straight in the eye, and pretended you had no idea where I’d been all those years! That damn championship they made me particip—!”

Theo gave her a small, regretful smile. “I’m sorry about that. But I didn’t know any other way to reach you.”

“Well, you were very lucky they picked me. Honestly, who in their right mind would choose me to organi—”

Theo’s smile widened, almost imperceptibly.

“Wait a moment,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Did you…?”

He looked slightly embarrassed, though there was a smug glint beneath it.

Hermione stared at him, stunned. “You… you…”

“I just made sure you became one of the organizers of the World Cup,” Theo said with a shrug, as if it were the most casual thing in the world. “I’d already pushed the British Ministry to let me accompany the English delegation. I had a few contacts at the Australian Ministry, and it wasn’t hard to convince them to nominate you. After all, you were one of their top employees—brilliant, reliable, respected. They just needed a little… nudge in the right direction.”

Hermione blinked, stunned. "You orchestrated the whole thing? You’re the reason I spent four months of my life buried in Quidditch?"

Theo chuckled. "Apologies, Hermione, but I really needed to talk to you. It had to feel like chance. I didn’t want you to think I was stalking you or had some hidden agenda. I just didn’t want to scare you off. My goal was to reconnect, to become your friend again. I genuinely wanted to be close to you, to help you, and... to meet Maia. I can only imagine how hard it must have been raising her on your own. I felt grateful to Ron, truly, but sometimes I thought Draco would’ve preferred me by her side instead of him. So I had to try. But of course, you shut me out before I even had a chance..."

"…then, of course, that obnoxious Brazilian showed up," he muttered.

"Manuel wasn’t obnoxious!" Hermione protested instantly.

"Oh, come on, Hermione. You only liked him because you slept with him! To the rest of us, he was annoying, smug, and completely unbearable. I even ran a background check on him—"

"You did a background check on Manuel!?" Hermione gasped.

"Of course I did! He was seeing you and spending time with Maia. I had to make sure you were both safe! Anyway," Theo continued, waving his hand dismissively, "that whole championship turned into something way worse than I expected. I never thought Draco would actually come to Sydney. Especially not with Astoria. When I found out you two had met, I was convinced he had planned it just to run into you. That’s when I realized he wasn’t thinking clearly and didn’t understand the consequences of his actions. When I saw him, we had a huge argument. We both said some pretty heavy things. It took me weeks to speak to him again. And then..." He sighed. "Lucius was dying, and Draco was sinking deeper into guilt every day. Everything he did, he did for his father, and suddenly he was about to lose him. He felt responsible. He kept thinking... if he had loved Astoria, if he hadn’t tried to find out things about your wellbeing, if he was strong enough to forget everything about you, maybe Lucius would’ve stayed healthy. Obviously, he didn’t know Maia was his daughter—although the thought crossed his mind when he saw you at the stadium. He asked me to check, to find out who her father was."

"And what did you do?" Hermione asked, her voice sharp with disbelief.

Theo gave her a wry smile, a flicker of guilt passing through his eyes. "I did what I thought was the only thing I could do," he replied. "I confided in someone. I asked for help, hoping it would set things right."

"YOU DID WHAT? You told someone about Maia? I thought you kept it secret, Theo!"

"Relax, Granger. I’m more at risk from that person than you or Maia will ever be," he replied cheerfully.

"Who did you talk to?"

Theo leaned in with a grin. "Who else, Granger? The one and only savior of the wizarding world. I told Harry bloody Potter, of course."

"Harry knows that you—"

"Of course he knows."

"And he never told m—"

"Of course he didn’t."

"How could he keep something like that from me—"

"Very easily, Hermione. You see, he and I made a deal. I had no intention of revealing Maia’s existence to Draco—definitely not while Lucius was still alive and Astoria believed she was carrying the one and only Malfoy heir. But Potter didn’t know all that. And I needed something important from him, so we struck a binding agreement that served us both."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "You don’t mean—"

"Oh yes, Granger," Theo said smugly. "Harry and I took the Unbreakable Vow. And let me tell you, it was the most awkward hand-holding moment of my life."

March 2004

“Nott,” he said coldly the moment he saw him step into his office. “Malfoy is in the conference room with Robards,” he added without looking up, continuing to write on the parchment in front of him.

“I’m not here for Draco, Potter. I came to see you.”

That got his attention. His quill hovered mid-air for a second, dripping ink onto the parchment.

“Me?” he asked, clearly surprised.

Theo didn’t want to do what he was about to do. But he had no other choice. He needed Potter’s help—and if everything went according to plan, he had to make Potter believe he needed him just as much in return.

“Yes. I wanted to talk about Hermione Granger—”

Potter shot up from his chair as if a spring had gone off beneath him.

“This is unbelievable! Why can’t you and Malfoy just leave her alone? Haven’t you done enough? First, you both show up out of nowhere at the World Cup, and now what the hell do you want from her agai—”

“—and her daughter. Maia Malfoy,” Theo interrupted.

He watched as the color drained from Potter’s face. For two solid seconds, Harry stared at him, stunned and speechless. Then his expression twisted into one of barely contained rage.

“What the hell are you talking about? Who fed you that bullshit—”

“Oh, come on, Potter. You know I’m telling the truth,” Theo said calmly. “I didn’t think it was necessary to bring the evidence I’ve gathered over the last two years, but if you’d prefer, I can just pop down to my office and bring you everything. Photos, documents from the Muggle maternity clinic, birth certificates. All of it. Dated and stamped.”

“What the hell do you want, Nott? After everything Ginny’s told me about you, I thought you might actually have some decency. That you were Hermione’s friend.”

“I am. That’s why I’m here. So calm down, Potter. I come in peace.”

“Does Malfoy know?” Harry asked abruptly.

“Not yet.”

Harry exhaled sharply. “Who else?”

“No one. I haven’t told anyone else, Potter. Just—”

“Expelliarmus!” Harry barked. Theo watched in shock as his wand flew out of his trousers and hit the floor.

“Are you out of your mind?” Theo shouted.

“Don’t move toward the wand,” Harry warned when Theo made a step.

“What are you going to do, Obliviate me? Bloody hell, you Gryffindors really are drama queens. Just shut up and listen to me for two minutes, and then you can go save the world from my evil presence.”

So Theo told him everything. How he’d found out where Hermione was living. How he’d learned about her pregnancy. How he had quietly tried to offer help from the sidelines. How he’d arranged for them to collaborate at the Quidditch World Cup. And how Draco had asked him to investigate the paternity of the child.

“And what exactly do you plan to do?” Harry asked once he was done. “Are you going to tell him the truth?”

Theo wasn’t going to tell Draco the truth. In just a few months, Astoria would give birth, and Lucius’s condition was deteriorating fast. Dropping a bomb like that now would destroy Draco completely. And honestly it wasn’t his secret to tell.

“No. At least not yet. I need your help.”

Theo had excellent contacts, but Draco had something even more powerful—money. And this was a matter of the highest importance. If Theo fabricated a false father for the child, there was still a risk Draco might start digging. That couldn’t happen. Theo needed to present a flawless lie—airtight documents, perfectly aligned dates, believable photos. Everything had to be so thorough, so seamless, that Draco wouldn’t think to question it.

“You want me to help you forge Maia’s birth certificate? Create fake records so Malfoy believes he’s not the father?” Harry asked, stunned.

“Exactly. I want to make a deal with you. A magical agreement,” Theo said calmly.

“You want to take an Unbreakable Vow? You’ve lost your mind if you think I’m agreeing to whatever scheme you’ve cooked up,” Harry snapped.

“I want you,” Theo continued as though Potter hadn’t spoken, “to promise you’ll look after Draco.”

“I’m sorry—WHAT?” Harry asked, incredulous.

“I got a promotion,” Theo said abruptly.

“Nott, are you feeling okay? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’ve been promoted, Potter. Ferguson is grooming me to take over as Head of the office soon. That means more international travel—weeks, maybe months away from England. And a lot less time for my friends.”

Potter still looked lost. This man had helped defeat the darkest wizard of their time? Salazar save us, Theo thought.

He’d considered this for a long time. And while he knew it was wrong—unethical, even—he couldn’t think of another solution. Someone had to be there for Draco, even if it wasn’t him. Draco had been withdrawing more and more in recent months, sinking deeper into himself, weighed down by guilt. Lucius was dying. Today, tomorrow, next week—it didn’t matter. He was dying. And Narcissa… she was already fading, even if she tried to appear strong for her husband. Theo knew that the moment Lucius left this world, Narcissa would disappear into her grief.

That would leave Draco alone. Alone with a wife who cared more about gossip columns, next season’s fashion trends, and producing the next Malfoy heir to secure her place in the prestigious bloodline, than she ever cared about her own husband.

Theo tried to be there for him, to offer support, but work often kept him away for weeks at a time. Pansy had never forgiven Draco for marrying Astoria—a woman she’d despised since their Hogwarts days. Goyle had returned to Britain, but let’s face it: Goyle wasn’t exactly someone you could count on. And while Potter would never have been Theo’s first choice for this, the truth was, he saw Draco every single day at work. He spent more hours with him than Draco’s parents or even his wife did. Potter was many things Theo found irritating, but he wasn’t an idiot. He must have noticed how haunted Draco had become .

Theo was betting on Potter’s bleeding heart—and his ability to be very persuasive when he wanted to be.

“So you want me to take an Unbreakable Vow to look after Malfoy?” Harry asked after Theo finally laid it all out.

“No. I will take an Unbreakable Vow. You just have to promise. You are a Gryffindor. Your promise means something.”

“And what if I don’t promise?”

“If you don’t,” Theo said, voice steady, “I’ll tell everyone the truth about Hermione and Maia.”

Would he really? No. But did Potter know that? Absolutely not.

Potter – Nott: 0 – 1.

Savior of the wizarding world, my arse.

***

The next day, they went to Grimmauld Place. Ginny was the one who joined their hands and said the binding words.

“Do you, Theodore Nott, swear not to reveal the true paternity of Hermione Granger’s child to anyone, without her explicit consent?”

“I swear.”

“Do you swear to protect Hermione Granger and Maia Granger, should they ever need it, from the Malfoy family?”

“I swear.”

"Do you, Harry Potter, swear never to reveal the existence of this vow to Draco Malfoy or to Hermione Granger?”

“I swear.”

***

A week later, with Harry’s help as a senior Auror and mostly as The savior of the Wizarding world, and Theo’s connections, they managed to pull everything together—the forged documents, photographs, hospital records, and a completely fabricated life story. It was airtight.

By the end of the month, they presented it to Draco.

“Do you think he bought it?” Harry asked afterward.

They were back in his office. The Auror floor was empty, it was still early morning. Theo checked the time. His Portkey to South America was leaving in less than half an hour.

“Yes,” Theo said without hesitation. “He believed it.”

April 2004

Theo was halfway through his third cocktail, seated across from a stunning Canadian witch he’d met earlier that day at the American Ministry of Magic. Her eyes were an icy blue that made him momentarily forget his name or maybe that was the alcohol. Either way, the owl from London cut through the haze with brutal precision. The letter bore the Malfoy’s crest and was sealed with urgency.

He read the first line, and everything stopped.

Lucius Malfoy was dead.

Despite the drink clouding his head and the woman still smiling at him, Theo stood up abruptly. He offered her a hurried apology, barely coherent, and Disapparated the moment he stepped outside the bar.

The hotel he was staying at in New York was, of course, lavish, paid for entirely out of his own pocket. He’d never settle for the Ministry’s miserly travel budget, which would have had him sleeping in a moldy flat somewhere in the Bronx. This place, at least, had its perks — one of them being immediate access to international Floo communication.

The moment he stepped into his suite, he requested a connection through the fireplace.

Half an hour later, Harry Potter’s sleepy, irritable face appeared among the emerald flames, still in his pyjamas and thoroughly annoyed.

“What is it now, Nott? Is this another bloody emergency? What do you want at this hour?”

“Rough night, Potter?” Theo said, slumping into the armchair by the fire. “Well, you’re not the only one.”

“Nott…” Harry ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “I just got Albus to sleep after three hours of rocking, walking, and bribing with every stuffed Hippogriff in the house. Say what you need to say quickly, because if he wakes up and I’m not asleep when it happens, I swear I will come find you wherever the hell you are and hand him over to you to deal with.”

“Perfect. I’ve always said I’d make an excellent father,” Theo muttered dryly.

Harry’s glare intensified.

“Lucius is dead,” Theo said simply.

There was a pause. Through the flames, Theo couldn’t quite see Harry’s expression, but he thought he heard a muttered curse.

“What do you want from me, Nott?” Harry asked after a moment.

“I can’t leave,” Theo said, rubbing his forehead. “Kingsley will skin me alive if I abandon these negotiations with the American Ministry. We’re already on thin ice. But Draco—someone needs to be there for him. I want you to go to the funeral.”

Harry blinked, clearly taken aback. “Me?” he asked, incredulous. “You want me to attend the funeral of Lucius Malfoy — the man who held me captive in his bloody manor to hand me over to Voldemort? The man who contributed to Sirius’ death? Who—who tortured—?”

“Yes, Potter,” Theo cut in wearily. “I know.”

“Then how can you ask me that?”

“Whatever your history with Lucius — and yes, it’s a long, dark, terrible history — Draco isn’t him. We both know you’ll do it, Potter. Because you promised. And because I asked nicely! And like it or not, you and Draco… you’ve gotten closer over the past few months, even if you try not to acknowledge it.”

Harry let out a snort. “Closer? Are you referring to the fact that we now manage to have conversations without hexing each other? Or maybe that I haven’t, yet, cursed him bald in the middle of the Auror Department?”

“Look, I’m not asking you to comfort him,” Theo said, leaning forward. “I’m not asking for some grand emotional display. Just… be there. You see him every day, you work with him. You’re the only other person I know who’s capable of noticing when Draco is falling apart behind that façade of his.”

Harry looked away briefly, jaw tightening.

“Just go,” Theo said quietly. “Make sure he’s holding it together. You don’t even have to speak to him. Just… make sure he’s still standing. I wish I could be there.”

The flames crackled between them.

After a long pause, Harry sighed.

“Ok” he said finally, and the fire flickered as his face began to fade.

Theo leaned back, closing his eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

August 2004

It had been two months since Astoria’s death, and Draco was a shadow of his former self. To Theo, he resembled a robot—an idea he'd picked up from a Muggle-born witch he’d met years ago in a pub on the Muggle side of London. Draco functioned like one: he woke when his son woke, fed him, changed him, bathed him, stared at him for hours. Sometimes, Theo wondered if he was even seeing Scorpius at all, or merely existing with his eyes open. And when the baby finally slept, Draco would collapse onto the nearest surface and pass out from exhaustion.

“Maybe you should consider seeing a Mind Healer," Theo had suggested one day.

Draco didn’t answer right away. He was standing in front of the fireplace, gently rocking Scorpius in his arms. The baby had just fallen asleep, his tiny fist curled tightly around the edge of Draco’s shirt.

“I’m fine,” Draco muttered eventually, eyes still on the flames.

“You’re not,” Theo replied gently. “And that’s okay.”

A month later, he told Theo he scheduled an appointment at St. Mungo’s.

He never went.

“I couldn’t do it. Not there. Not in a place where everyone knows my name before I even speak it. Where they whisper the moment I pass by.”

Two days later, he showed up at Draco’s door and handed him a folded piece of paper.

“It’s a Muggle psychologist. Office’s in central London,” he said. “No one will know who you are. She doesn’t care about your bloodline, or your last name, or... anything else.”

He saw Draco looked down at the note in his hand. Evi Fry, MSc—Therapist. There was an address, a phone number, and handwritten beneath it, in his neat script: Just try.

Draco stared at it for a long time. Not with fear. Not with dread. With hope. And Theo just smiled.

On one of the rare occasions Draco ventured out into wizarding London with Scorpius, the merciless reporters from the Daily Prophet pounced. The next morning, the front page of the tabloid showed a moving image of Draco holding his newborn, accompanied by a hideous headline:

"Heir of the Malfoys or Heir of the Death Eaters?"

The article beneath it was a bloated piece filled with speculation about Astoria's death and the “dark legacy” their son might inherit.

“Potter!” Theo stormed into the Auror’s office, slamming the door behind him.

Harry didn’t even look up from his paperwork. He rolled his eyes instead. “Nice to see you too, Nott. I was wondering when you'd show up.”

“Save the sarcasm, Potter. I just heard Draco stormed the Prophet offices and tore the place apart.”

“You heard right.” Harry leaned back in his chair, completely unfazed. “And honestly? I think he showed remarkable restraint.”

“Did they arrest him? Where is he now? Those bastards had no right—”

“Relax, Nott. He’s home. I escorted him there myself.” Harry’s eyes finally met Theo’s. “No, I didn’t arrest him. And if I wasn’t an Auror, I’d have helped him blast their offices to pieces myself.”

Theo exhaled in visible relief, some of the tension draining from his shoulders.

“That said,” Harry added, “he’s probably going to be fined a few hundred Galleons for damages. Not that he can’t afford it.”

He returned to his report, scribbling a note down with practiced indifference.

“How was he?” Theo asked, his voice quieter now.

Harry’s pen paused. “Livid. Overwhelmed. Exhausted.”

Theo sighed and nodded.

“Look, I’ve got a stack of paperwork and a meeting in ten minutes. Go see him, Nott. He needs a friend right now.”

June 2007

“You… you made him take the Unbreakable Vow and kept it from me?” Hermione asked, stunned. “You—”

“To be honest,” Theo interrupted gently, “my main concern was making sure Draco never found out about the vow. But Potter and I agreed it was best that you didn’t know either. He didn’t want to frighten you with the fact that there were people who knew about Maia’s parentage. And I... I was terrified of how you'd react if you found out I’d known about Maia from the beginning—and did nothing. I never stopped keeping up with your life, Hermione. After my agreement with Harry, I mostly asked him about you. At first, he refused to tell me anything, but over time… he trusted me more. I'm sorry if you ever felt like Draco stole your friends from you. That was partially my fault. Their friendship may have started because I forced Harry into making a promise, but I truly believe it's grown into something real. They’ve reached a point where they genuinely care about each other. What they’ve been through helps—both orphans now, both raised under unbearable expectations, constantly striving to prove themselves worthy in worlds that expected them to fail or conform…”

“…They were both affected by the war, but in different ways—forced to grow up quickly, carrying burdens they never chose. They lived in the shadow of powerful people, dealing with decisions that weren’t fully theirs. After everything, they were left to figure out who they were meant to be. In a strange way, I think they understand each other’s loneliness. Not out of pity, not out of duty. Just because they get it. Maybe that’s what brings them together in the end.”

Hermione sat frozen, her thoughts tangled, her heart racing as revelations piled upon her like waves. Theo, Draco, Harry—all of it blurred together, leaving her feeling unmoored and dizzy, as though the ground beneath her had shifted.

Theo’s voice softened as he went on. He spoke of Draco—of the life he had after the birth of Scorpius.

Theo’s own guilt grew heavier with each passing year. Every time he saw Draco with his son, a part of him ached with the truth he was keeping. He had thought about telling him—so many times—but even if the vow hadn’t bound his silence, he knew he didn’t have the right. And maybe, deep down, he’d been afraid of what that truth might break.

“Hermione,” he said at last, his tone careful but firm, “I know it’s been a long, difficult road for both of you. And I see how much you’ve carried all alone. But… I think it’s time. You must consider telling him the truth.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. “What do you mean? You want me to tell him about Maia? Theo, I’ve spent years hiding this—years trying to protect her, to keep her safe. That was the only thing I could control.”

“I know,” he replied gently, never once looking away from her. “But Hermione… there’s no danger anymore. Lucius is dead. Narcissa is—well, she’s gone too, in her own way. Draco is already a father, and he’s a good father. Despite everything he’s done, despite all his mistakes, he loved you. He loved you with everything he had. Do you really believe he wouldn't love your daughter too?”

Hermione’s lips trembled, her eyes stinging. “I don’t trust him. Not with this. What if he can’t handle it? What if he walks away again? What if he hurts her?”

“I promise you, he’s grown. He’s no longer weighed down by the legacy of his name or the expectations of others. He follows his own path now. He’s learned to choose what matters, to fight for what he believes in, not what he was told to believe. He’s spent years quietly working to build a better life, not just for himself, but for Scorpius too …”

“…And he adores Scorp. He gives him what he never had growing up: gentleness, safety, presence. Do you really think he wouldn’t want to give the same to Maia?"

Hermione exhaled shakily, her chest tight under the weight of years of silence and fear. “I can’t trust him. Not with her. Not after everything.”

"You don’t have to trust him right away,” Theo said softly, barely more than a whisper. “Just give him a chance. Watch him. Look for the proof you need to believe in him. For Maia’s sake. And for his. She deserves the truth. And he deserves the chance to be her father..."

“…Six years ago, Draco had to choose between a life with you and his father’s life. Given the circumstances, neither option was the right one. He chose the lesser evil. But in the end, that choice proved to be wrong. Now, Hermione… it’s your turn. You have the chance to make the right one.”

Chapter Text

July 2007

That year, just a few days before Harry’s birthday, chaos reigned at Grimmauld Place once again and the reason, as usual, was The Daily Prophet.

Two days earlier, Ginny—with newborn Lily in the pram and Albus holding her right hand—and Hermione, accompanied by Maia, had strolled through Diagon Alley in search of a gift for Harry’s twenty-seventh birthday. The weather had been perfect: the sun blazed high in the sky, with not a cloud in sight. The two women spent the entire morning wandering the bustling street. They stopped by the toy shop, where Albus chose a book and Maia picked out a colorful stuffed unicorn. They ordered Harry’s presents from Quality Quidditch Supplies and Eeylops Owl Emporium, and later had lunch at a new restaurant Fleur had recommended—she claimed it served the best mille-feuille in Britain.

At no point during their outing did either woman notice the Daily Prophet photographer discreetly snapping pictures of them and their children. The result? Two days later, a photo of two-month-old Lily and two-and-a-half-year-old Albus appeared on the front page of the detestable tabloid, under the headline: ‘Rare Public Appearance of Mrs. Potter with Her Children.’

“HARRY POTTER. Do something about this right now!” Ginny shouted, cradling her wailing newborn daughter. Lily’s red, tear-streaked face and a thoughtful-looking Albus clutching his book stared back at them from the front page of the Daily Prophet, lay open on the kitchen table.

Hermione had nearly spat out her coffee when she saw the Sunday edition that morning. She immediately flipped to pages ten through seventeen, as the front page promised a full feature on the children—complete with additional photographs. Ready to call a lawyer, she was stunned to discover that not a single image of her daughter had been included. Hermione appeared in several shots, walking beside Ginny and always holding the tiny hand of a child but Maia herself was never in frame.

“Ginny,” Harry said, looking exhausted as he took Lily in his arms, giving his wife a chance to calm down.

“How dare they publish photos of our children without our permission? Lily is only two months old for Merlin’s sake!” Ginny’s hair had puffed up in a way Hermione hadn’t seen since their Hogwarts years, usually after a particularly crushing Quidditch loss for Gryffindor.

“I’ve already spoken with Malfoy’s lawyers,” Harry said calmly. “We’re going to take every legal measure available. We won’t let this slide. I’ve got it under control—just please, try to stay calm.”

At the mention of his surname, Hermione shifted in her seat.

She hadn’t seen him since that disastrous outburst of hers three months ago. She still visited Grimmauld Place every Sunday, but the two Malfoys had never once been present during her visits. She hadn’t even run into him at the Ministry. Hermione suspected he was using the Floo in the Auror Office to travel directly between there and the Manor, and since they worked on different floors, the chances of crossing paths were slim.

And yet, even though it had been so long since she last saw him, she found herself thinking about him more often than she had in the past three years.

It was strange—this thinking of him.

She had been back in England for a year now, and she had seen him fewer than ten times in total. Always with Scorpius. Always slightly detached from the boisterous crowd of Weasleys, but somehow always present, somewhere on the fringes.

Whenever she tried to summon his image in her mind, she always saw him softly laughing with his son in his arms. She had begun to see him as a father. And she hated how easy it was to see him that way.

She tried instead to recall a different image of him—one from six years ago. She remembered his silence. The cruel precision with which he had ended things. The guilt burning behind his eyes even as his words cut through her like ice. That hadn’t been the Draco she knew. That had been the Malfoy she had hated. And still, she had loved him. Loved him more deeply than she had ever thought she could love anyone. She clung to that image—the one she hated—because it was safer. It was quiet and after all those years almost felt peaceful and normal.

Six years ago, all she had wanted was for him to say that marrying another witch had been some kind of cruel mistake. To hold her in his arms and make everything disappear.

Five years ago, she had wanted him by her side, holding their newborn daughter’s tiny right hand while she held the left.

Four years ago, she had wanted to erase him from her life completely. And slowly, she had. Piece by piece, memory by memory, he had faded—until only his eyes remained. Eyes she could never forget, because they were also Maia’s.

Three months ago, she had wanted to hurt him. To see him ache. To make him cry. Even just for a moment—so that maybe she could finally breathe again. She had been so desperate to see him suffer that she had been willing to say anything to make it happen.

And in the end, she had succeeded.

But the moment she saw that look on his face—devastation, shame, and something close to regret—she realized something far more painful: it didn’t make her feel any better.

And now, she was learning things about his life over the past few years that she had never known. Things that made her think of him with a sliver of compassion—while simultaneously making her even angrier. Because they rattled her. Because they made her want to slap him. And because she suspected that if she did, it would hurt her just as much.

“What about Malfoy? Can’t he do something? His political allies in the Wizengamot? Hundreds of people are buying the Prophet right now with my daughter and son on the front page!” Ginny shouted.

“I spoke to him this morning, Ginny. He said he would talk to the other members of the Wizengamot as soon as possible, but many of them are away on holiday, unfortunately. He’s already contacted the Prophet’s publisher and threatened to pull his funding unless every issue is recalled. But you know he won’t follow through. He won’t risk breaking his prior agreement.”

Hermione had a distinct feeling Harry looked at her as he said those last words. And when Ginny also turned to glance at her, she was certain of it.

“What’s going on between Malfoy and the Prophet?” she asked, suspicion blooming in her chest. It was clear there was a story she hadn’t been told.

“Nothing,” Harry said, still trying to calm his wife down.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Harry.” She crossed her arms. “I’ll ask one more time before I hex the truth out of you. What’s going on between Malfoy and the Prophet?”

“Noth—”

“Oh, stop it, Harry.” Ginny rolled her eyes.

She turned to Hermione with a resigned sigh.

“After Astoria died, the press published some photos of Scorpius. The headline was disgusting—something like ‘Child of a Death Eater’—and Malfoy completely lost it. He nearly set the Prophet’s offices on fire and threatened to ruin everyone involved. They sent Harry to arrest him. In the end, Malfoy had to pay a massive settlement for the damages, and he ended up bribing the paper to never publish another photo of his son again…”

Hermione had only heard vague details about the incident. Theo had told her just enough to make her stomach churn. How could anyone speak that way about a newborn?

“…A few days later, other tabloids tried to get pictures too. When he realized he couldn’t keep them all away forever, he made a generous donation to the British Association of Magical Newspaper and Magazine Publishers. As long as the gold keeps flowing into their Gringotts vault, Scorpius is protected,” Ginny continued. “That’s when he decided to reclaim his family’s seat in the Wizengamot. The position had been vacant ever since Lucius died. His first action as a member was to gather the best legal minds in the country to draft a powerful proposal—one that would make it illegal for newspapers to publish images of underage children, without parental consent.”

Hermione listened, stunned. Draco had never wanted anything to do with politics—not the Draco she remembered from nearly six years ago. He’d despised anything to do with political ambition, mostly because it reminded him too much of the twisted expectations his father had placed on him. The fact that he’d involved himself at all was surprising. But the fact that his first initiative had been to protect children from the press, that was even more so.

“Unfortunately, his proposal has faced strong resistance from several members who have direct interests in the newspapers. Many of them rely on those papers to maintain their public image. Some members of the Wizengamot still despise the Malfoy name and can’t see past their own prejudices. The proposal has already been rejected twice, but he hasn’t stopped fighting for it. The deal he made with the publishers might have secured Scorpius’s privacy, but it left dozens of other children exposed. You, Hermione—just like Harry—know all too well how many times your faces ended up on the front pages of those rags while you were still students at Hogwarts…"

“…When the first photos of Maia were taken, the agreement he had made was updated. Her name was added to the protected list—along with, I assume, another sizable deposit into the association’s vault. That’s why, even though she was right there with us in Diagon Alley, Maia doesn’t appear in a single photo.”

Hermione sat frozen, staring at them.

Malfoy had made a deal to protect Maia from the press. Just as he had done for Scorpius—for his son.

Malfoy didn’t even know Maia was his daughter.

And still… he had wanted to protect her.

She looked between Harry and Ginny, stunned—waiting. For what, she wasn’t even sure.

“Why do you look so surprised, Hermione?” Harry asked.

“Malfoy tried to prot—” she began, just as emerald-green flames roared to life in the fireplace and a tall figure stepped out.

“Potter. Weasley—” he said briskly, his eyes scanning the room without pausing on her. “Granger.” Malfoy cleared his throat. “My lawyers just contacted me. The Prophet is halting circulation of today’s issue. Unsold copies will be destroyed. For those already purchased, any images of the children will be magically altered to obscure their faces. All photographs sold to third-party outlets have already been tracked down and destroyed. From now on, no images of the Potter children will be printed without the written consent of both parents.”

He paused briefly, then continued. “Hartings also informed me that, in light of this latest breach, he has submitted a formal petition under the new legislation we attempted to pass last time, aimed at banning the publication of minors' images in the press. The hearing is scheduled for the end of August. I have already engaged with several members of the Wizengamot and made it unequivocally clear that we expect full support from all houses currently aligned with House Malfoy. Naturally, House Nott has pledged its backing. House Greengrass as well.”

“The Greengrass’?” Harry asked, surprised. “I thought Astoria’s parents didn’t agree with you on anything.”

"They may not fully approve," Draco replied evenly, "but they will cast their votes regardless. Anthony is bound by a blood contract to support House Malfoy, his allegiance is not optional. Most of the old pureblood families are expected to align accordingly. Our primary obstacle has always been the more …progressive members—at least, until today. When my son was the target, there was indifference. But now that it is your children, Potter, the situation has shifted. Today’s headlines have unsettled the voting bloc. With a measure of luck and a few carefully placed conversations, I believe the law may pass before the start of the new academic year."

Ginny let out a breath of relief. “Thank you, Malfoy. Honestly, you just saved my husband from having to arrest me at the Prophet’s offices. I swear, I was ready to set the place on fire.”

“Would it be possible for me to speak with Hartings? I’ve got a few questions,” Harry said.

Malfoy nodded. “Of course. I’m expected at the Manor, I should leave.”

“Yes, sure”, Harry said, passing his sleeping daughter into Ginny’s arms.

The two men stepped into the fireplace and vanished in a swirl of green flame.

“Hermione?” Ginny asked, concerned. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Hermione said quietly, swallowing hard.

He hadn’t looked at her.

Not even once.

As if she was invisible.

Exactly as she’d asked him to be.

***

Harry’s birthday was celebrated at the Burrow under a cloudless sky. The weather was glorious—warm, breezy, and unmistakably summer. Ron, who had come over from Paris with Jacqueline for a few days, had teamed up with George to set up a long table on the freshly cut lawn, large enough to seat thirty-five people. All of Harry’s friends had been invited.

Neville and Hannah were the first to greet Hermione as she stepped into the garden. She hadn’t seen them nearly as much as she would’ve liked since returning to England a year ago. Standing proudly beside them was nearly seven-year-old Mikey, who had grown surprisingly tall. He was clutching a handful of wildflowers, clearly plucked from Molly’s slightly neglected flowerbeds.

“I can’t believe it! Look at you! You’ve grown so much! You’re a proper young lady now, Maia!” Hannah exclaimed, bending down to wrap Hermione’s daughter in a warm, affectionate hug.

That afternoon, mother and daughter were dressed alike in breezy white sundresses dotted with red roses and delicate shoulder straps—perfect attire for a sweltering London day. Hermione had her hair loosely pinned up, soft curls framing her face, while Maia wore two neat braids tied with little red ribbons. They both had white sandals, slightly dusty from the garden path.

“You look like twins!” Mikey announced with wide eyes, and Hermione laughed. She was twenty-eight, after all!

As soon as the greetings were done, Maia and Mikey took off, racing toward a group of garden gnomes who were marching defiantly through Molly’s sun-dried flowerbeds.

Hermione spent the next hour catching up with her friends. Rolf and Luna joined them, and before long, Dean Thomas and a few others from the Gryffindor dormitory sparked a lively conversation about their Hogwarts years. A few fellow Aurors, among them Andrew Grant from Ravenclaw and Paddington from Slytherin, who were four years their senior, listened with wide-eyed fascination to the tales from their school days.

As the laughter eventually softened and the topic drifted toward Ministry affairs, Hermione’s eyes scanned the yard. She spotted Maia sprinting across the lawn with Teddy and Victoire, heading toward George, who was holding a handful of strange, lumpy objects that were unmistakably fireworks.

“Hermione, darling, would you give me a hand? These children are going to drive me mad,” Molly called from the kitchen doorway. A wild-eyed James zoomed past her, nearly knocking her over as he bolted into the garden, clearly after the fireworks. Molly shook her head in disapproval.

Inside the Burrow’s kitchen, chaos reigned in full force. Ginny was pacing slowly with a drowsy Lily cradled in her arms, gently rocking her in an effort to get her to sleep. Meanwhile, Louis and Dominique—Bill and Fleur’s youngest—were chasing each other in endless loops around the kitchen table, squealing with laughter.

Molly was in the middle of a culinary battlefield, trying to cram at least ten enchanted trays into the magically expanded oven. There were trays of beef stew, fried sausages, roast chicken, roast beef, shepherd’s pie, and a variety of other dishes Hermione couldn’t even begin to identify. The delicious smells mingled in the air, a promise of the feast to come.

“Merlin, where’s Harry? James is completely out of control. I have no idea where he gets all that energy from. I swear I wasn’t like that as a child,” Ginny said, exasperated, rocking Lily in her arms. “Mum, have you seen where he went?”

“I think he’s with George,” Hermione replied, peeking out the kitchen window. “He was showing the kids the fireworks.”

“What?” Ginny shrieked. Lily, who had been drifting off despite the noise, began fussing again at the sound of her mother’s voice.

“James can’t be near fireworks! He’d probably try to eat one just to see if it would make him fly. Merlin—Hermione, can you hold her for a second? I have to go find him before something explodes.”

Without waiting for a response, she carefully handed Lily to Hermione and stormed out the back door.

“I’m going to kill George,” she muttered on her way out. “Who brings half the inventory of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes to a birthday party with twenty children running around? And where on earth is Albus? HARRY!” she shouted, disappearing into the garden.

“Molly,” Hermione said gently, “I see Jacqueline arriving. Do you mind if I go sit in the living room for a bit? Lily’s about to fall asleep, and it’s just too loud in here.”

“Of course, dear, go on,” Molly replied, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. “I’ll call Fleur. This would be the perfect moment for her to come collect her little troublemakers before they turn my kitchen into a war zone.”

She gave a pointed glance at Louis and Dominique, who were now attempting to climb the countertop with spoons in their hands, clearly aiming for the dessert tray.

Hermione walked quietly toward the small sitting room at the far end of the Burrow’s kitchen. It was the least visited room—far too small to accommodate the entire Weasley family, and its windows faced the swamp where the gnomes often bathed. No one really wanted to witness a gnome taking a bath.

As she opened the door, she stopped short. The room was already occupied.

Harry was sitting on the couch with Albus in his lap, the boy playing with a magical music box.

“What are you doing here? Hiding?” Hermione asked, laughing lightly.

Harry glanced at her sheepishly. “Sort of,” he said. “I wanted a bit of time with Al. This morning, I woke up and realized I’m twenty-seven, and I don’t know… I feel like I met you on the Hogwarts Express just yesterday. And now I have three kids, and they’re growing up so fast that sometimes I feel like someone is playing with time.” He looked at Albus fondly. “I swear, he was just born a few months ago. I don’t know how the time passed,” he told her.

Hermione, who understood exactly what he meant, sat down on the rocking chair across from him.

“I know,” she said.

“Maia is five and a half. When did the years go by, Hermione?”

She laughed. “Sometimes it feels like just yesterday she’d curl up in my arms… and sometimes, she feels like a proper young lady. Especially when she says she wants to get married,” she joked.

She had no idea who kept putting these ridiculous ideas into her daughter’s head—probably someone at the daycare—but lately, Maia had no shortage of suitors.

First, there was Teddy. She saw him often—too often, really. Since Andromeda had turned her focus to caring for more war orphans in the sanctuary she’d established, Teddy had been spending half the week at Harry’s house.

Second came Mikey, who was, admittedly, adorable. But being Neville’s son, he had been proudly announcing since the age of four that he planned to “cultivate venomous tarantulas” when he grew up. Hermione had no intention of letting Maia anywhere near anything venomous.

And then there was the third candidate. Well… what could she even say? Malfoy certainly had the money to buy her daughter all the chocolates filled with strawberry her heart desired.

“Sometimes, I think someone is playing a really bad prank on me. Like, any moment now, the Snatchers and the Death Eaters will reappear. They’ll take my children captive, and I’ll be forced to choose between my friends, my family and my life”, he said sadly.

“Harry—”

“Theo told me he spoke to you. That he told you everything,” he said, his voice heavy with sadness.

Hermione didn’t respond. There was no question in his words.

“But you didn’t ask me anything. Don’t you have questions? Don’t you want to know why I took the vow, why I promised to look after him?” he asked, his tone almost pleading.

She didn’t answer immediately. Because deep down, she already knew.

The first reason was practical—calculated, even. Back then, Harry believed it was the only way to ensure Theo would keep her secret. And for Harry, that alone had been enough. He had always been willing to carry burdens no one else would. If it meant protecting someone he loved, even indirectly, he wouldn’t hesitate. He never had.

But the second reason was more complicated.

Hermione had listened to everything Theo had told her. This hadn’t happened overnight. It was slow, cautious, maybe even reluctant at first—but something had changed. Against all odds, and for reasons that weren’t easy to define, the two men had grown into something that resembled real friendship. Maybe it was the quiet understanding between two survivors. Maybe it was raising children the same age in a world that was still learning how to heal. Maybe it was just Harry’s heart—too large, too forgiving, too unwilling to let anyone drown alone.

Or maybe, Hermione thought, he saw the same thing in Draco that she herself had once seen all those years ago.

Potential. For something different. For something better.

She had been proven wrong. She could only hope Harry wouldn’t be.

“There’s no need,” she said at last, meeting his eyes. “I know exactly why you did it.”

Harry’s lips parted slightly, as if the weight of her understanding took him by surprise.

“Because Harry always protects Hermione…” he said quietly.

“…and Hermione always protects Harry,” she finished, her voice soft but steady.

“No matter what.”

Even when the world was falling apart around them. Even when nothing made sense. They still had each other—always.

They enjoyed Molly’s warm, hearty cooking and the exquisite wine Fleur had brought from France. Later, Harry blew out twenty-seven candles atop a towering, four-tier cake Ginny and Molly had baked the day before.

When Maia handed him the present they had chosen together, Harry’s eyes filled with tears.

“I know it’s not Hedwig,” Hermione said softly, helping him open the cage to reveal a large brown owl, “but Maia picked him herself. She named him Hermes. In Greek mythology, Maia was Hermes’ mother. I think she chose the name because it reminds her of mine,” she added with a smile, “but I like to believe she actually listens when I read her those Greek myths about her name.”

Harry pulled them both into a tight hug.

As night fell, George declared it was time for fireworks. Victoire and Teddy, being the eldest, rushed to help, until a panicked Bill dragged them back just in time, shooting George a murderous look.

Jacqueline suggested that all the children sit on the grass to get a better view of the show as the sky darkened above them.

“Mummy, come with me.”

Maia tugged at her hand, leading her toward a thick blanket someone had thoughtfully laid out on the grass. She curled up in Hermione’s lap, resting her head against her chest. Fleur, following their lead, sat down with Louis on her knees. One by one, more parents joined them, settling down in cozy groups. Hermione spotted Neville a few feet away, sitting beside Mikey, and Luna with Lydia, who was struggling to stand on her tiny legs, which trembled with effort.

Then, without warning, the sky erupted.

Hundreds of fireworks burst into the air, forming shapes more breathtaking than Hermione could have imagined. Mythical creatures—some small, others colossal—danced across the heavens. A massive lion in Gryffindor red and gold roared, its deep growl shaking the air, before transforming into an enormous dragon. It opened its jaws and released a fiery stream—not of fire, but of thousands of tiny golden Snitches. Some vanished instantly, but the rest expanded, turning into shimmering little planets that scattered across the night sky.

One by one, they exploded into bursts of color, raining stars upon the spectators—stars that sparkled like distant galaxies.

Gasps rose from the children around her, their eyes wide with wonder. The cascade of magic seemed to float downward, drifting closer and closer—until, just before reaching them, it disappeared completely, leaving behind only a soft, golden glow in the air. 

***

That morning, her mother had told her that her father had shown signs of improvement over the past week. His lucid moments were more frequent and lasted longer. His appetite had returned, and even when he didn’t know his own name or which city they lived in, he remained pleasant and chatted kindly with her mother and the nurses. Hermione hadn’t seen her father in such good spirits for over two months.

“Hello, Richard,” she said softly as she entered the little sitting room her mother had arranged especially for him. It was, in reality, the spare room upstairs, facing the back garden. With the help of a neighbor, her mother had replaced the old bed with two rocking chairs and a small table. A few vases filled with fresh flowers stood on the bookshelf to the right, and two framed Monet prints had been hung on the left-hand wall. On good summer days, the room was quiet and bathed in sunlight.

Her father sat in one of the rocking chairs, gazing out the window at the gentle breeze. He didn’t speak to her, just smiled. She sat with him for about half an hour, until she finally went downstairs to make some tea.

When she returned, he was sitting in the exact same position she’d left him in.

“Hermione, what are you doing here?” he asked, surprised.

Her hands trembled, and she feared she might drop the delicate tea set her mother had spent a small fortune on during a trip to Asia.

“Dad?” she asked cautiously.

“Hermione,” he said, gently scolding. “Are you alright? Did something happen? Don’t tell me you got expelled from Hogwarts before the school year even started,” he added, looking genuinely concerned.

From Hogwarts?

It took her a moment to process the confusion, but she found the strength to respond.

“N-no, of course not, Dad. I just forgot a few things and asked if I could come home to get them.” She had no idea how old he thought she was, but if he believed she was still attending Hogwarts, then he couldn’t be imagining her as older than sixteen.

“Very well, then. Do you have a little time before you have to go? I feel like I’ve missed you. It’s strange—I just saw you last week getting on the train with Ron and Harry.”

Her heart clenched. “I’ve missed you too, Dad.”

They sat together in the little room, and Richard asked her everything about how the school year was going so far. It didn’t take Hermione long to realize that, in her father’s mind, it was around the year 1996—her sixth year at Hogwarts. She answered all of his questions in detail and did her best to comfort him when he nervously brought up vague rumors about what had happened at the Ministry of Magic the previous summer.

“There’s no need to worry about me, Dad. I’m fine. I’ll be even better in the future, I promise.”

He didn’t look convinced. “We Grangers are fighters, sweetheart. I once fought in a war. I wouldn’t want my child to see the things I saw,” he said, gently brushing her hair with his fingers.

“No one’s going to fight in another war, Dad. I promise you,” she said.

Tears welled up in Hermione’s eyes as she struggled to keep them at bay, but they spilled over anyway, falling silently down her cheeks. Her father reached up with a trembling hand and gently wiped them away with the back of his fingers. His touch was so familiar, so heartbreakingly gentle, it made something deep inside her crack.

Richard’s gaze softened, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes cleared—clearer than they had been in months. His voice, though quiet, carried surprising strength.

“What is it, my love?” he asked. “You look so sad. And angry. What’s troubling you?”

Oh, God, yes. She was sad. And angry. And tired. So very tired.

Tired of everything. Of everyone.

Theo’s story. Lucius’s illness. The damned marriage contract he had signed. Draco’s trip to Australia. His silence these past few months—And now, Malfoy’s involvement in protecting Maia from the press.

She was angry about that. Angry that he dared, once again, to act like he had a place in Maia’s life. But she was grateful, too. And that contradiction exhausted her all over again.

She couldn’t stop thinking: why did he protect Maia the same way he protected his legitimate son? Why would he show that kind of tenderness to a child who, to him, should have been a stranger?

She didn’t understand it. She didn’t want to understand it. Because if she let herself think about it—really think about it—she might spiral into thoughts too dangerous to confront. That maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t done it for the sake of protecting a child, but to protect her child. And that was a path she refused to go down.

So instead, she chose anger. It was easier to be angry with him—for once again stepping into Maia’s life without her permission, for crossing a boundary he had no right to touch.

And now he had disappeared. Yes, she was angry about that too.

Because now… now she felt guilty. And she hated him for making her feel that way. Guilty, not for him, but for his son.

You didn’t have to be a genius to see it: Scorpius’s world was painfully small. Had she condemned the child to loneliness, to isolation, by telling his father to keep him away from the other kids?

And Maia—her sweet Maia—spoke about Scorpius more and more with each passing day. She looked for him every Sunday at Grimmauld Place. And every Sunday, her little face fell when the toddler wasn’t there to play.

And finally, Hermione was angry and devastated and just… broken. Because her father was slipping away right in front of her, day by day, piece by piece. And there was nothing she could do to stop it. Nothing but cry into Harry’s shoulder some nights at Grimmauld Place, whispering the same old stories of family trips to the countryside, over and over again—as if holding tight to the past might somehow slow the unraveling.

Yes, she was angry.

And sad.

“We all have our moments, Hermione, when we look back and question whether we made the right choices. But life—life isn’t simply about the 'right' or the 'wrong.' It’s about the lessons we carry with us, about the way we learn and evolve from each choice we make, even the ones that don’t go as planned…”

“…You see, life is more than a series of decisions — it’s about how we embrace the journey, even when we stumble or fail along the way. It’s about being kind to ourselves when we make mistakes and about forgiving others, even when it’s hard…”

“…In the end, it’s not the mistakes that define us. It’s how we rise from them. The real measure of who we are isn’t found in our successes or our failures, but in how we love—how we love others, and how we love ourselves, with all our flaws and imperfections. And above all, it’s in how we learn from every experience, and how we allow those lessons to shape us into something better, something stronger…”

“…Life is a journey, sometimes bumpy and uncertain, but always filled with opportunities for growth. Forgiveness, my love, isn’t always easy — it’s often the hardest thing we can do. We often think that forgiveness is about absolution, about making peace with others, but it’s also about freeing ourselves.”

She stayed beside him for a few more minutes, until the wind outside began to pick up, drawing his attention back to the window. The next time he looked at her, his gaze was distant once more.

That was the last time in his life Richard Granger would recognize his daughter.

***

The following week, while they were having lunch at the deli on the corner across from the Ministry, Harry dropped a bombshell.

“Grant wants to take you out on a date.”

“Excuse me?” Hermione nearly choked on the delicious sandwich with red pesto and mozzarella she had chosen.

“My colleague—Andrew Grant. You met him at my birthday party, remember? Tall? Blond?” He took a bite of his own sandwich. “Exactly your type,” he added.

“How on earth did that come about?”

“He saw you, he liked you, he wants to take you to dinner. It’s not that complicated, Hermione.”

Hermione disagreed. It was complicated.

First of all, she remembered Grant. He was the Ravenclaw she'd talked to for at least twenty minutes about the new findings in the use of Veritaserum during interrogations and how Occlumency could interfere with the drinker’s responses.

He was tall. She remembered noticing it when he pulled out a chair for her at the party and sat beside her—her head hadn’t even reached his shoulder. And yes, he was blond. Not the platinum kind, more of a soft honey-blond, but still. And he had dimples when he smiled and—if she remembered correctly, which she definitely did because that wasn’t the kind of thing you forgot—he had stunning green eyes.

Right.

“And why are you telling me this and not him?”

Harry set his sandwich down and wiped his mouth.

“So… you would go out with him?”

Would she?

“I have no idea. I can’t go out with someone who hasn’t even asked me, can I?” she said, blushing. Merlin, it had been ages since she’d been on a date. And even longer since she’d felt a man’s touch. How had Ron put it all those years ago? Oh yes—she was gathering cobwebs. Practically a historical artifact at this point.

“So, should I tell him you’re available?”

Hermione blushed deeper. She was single, wasn’t she? So that meant she was available, right? And she was gathering cobwebs. Merlin, she was available.

“How did you find out about the date before I did?” she asked, trying to stall.

Harry grinned. “You’re pretty intimidating, Hermione. Even Grant, who’s practically known for his track record is nervous about approaching you. He’s been trying to fish for information through me for days, asking if you were seeing anyone. I’ll admit, it was amusing… until the others in the office stepped in and basically forced me to give poor Andrew a clear answer.”

“So, the whole Auror Office knows that Grant wants to ask me on a date?” she asked, stunned.

“Well, not my fault, is it? And as much as I love being the designated bestie in charge of your love life, I need to give the guy an answer. So? Will you go out with him?”

Hermione went.

Did she enjoy it?

Yes.

Would she do it again?

Probably not.

Grant had met her two days later in the hallway near her office and had formally asked her out on a date. He had made a reservation at a restaurant on the Muggle side of London, following Hermione's suggestion to avoid the relentless reporters from the Prophet. They met at an apparition point near Soho and walked arm in arm to the restaurant from there.

Hermione was wearing a new dress she’d picked out a few days earlier with Ginny.

“This is the one. End of story,” Ginny had said decisively—the sixteenth time Hermione stepped out of the fitting room. “It’s sophisticated but sexy. It flatters your figure, and the color looks amazing against your skin.” Ginny had paid for it before Hermione could argue.

The summer dress had a neckline lower than she felt comfortable with, but she trusted her friend and, truth be told, she really did love the soft pink color.

The food was good, and the conversation with her date flowed easily. Sure, the topics weren’t exactly what one would consider first-date material—the renovation of the Poisoning Ward at St. Mungo’s, the new emergency training program for Ministry employees, and, to her dismay, the Ministry’s annual Quidditch League, in which Grant played Chaser for the Auror team—but Hermione did her best to stay cheerful and engaged throughout the evening.

When he offered to walk her home, she accepted.

“Maia’s sleeping over at Grimmauld tonight. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Please just try to enjoy yourself”, Ginny had told her the day before.

Her last sexual partner had been Manuel. There had been plenty of dates since then—with both wizards and muggles—but none had sparked enough interest for her to want to take things further. And if she was being honest, despite Grant’s impressive presence, he hadn’t exactly swept her off her feet either. Still, she wanted to try being more open—to not judge people so quickly.

When they landed outside her house, he stepped closer and gently brushed his fingers against her hand. Hermione shivered but not in the way she used to shiver when a man was seconds away from kissing her.

Then he kissed her.

He leaned in, his lips pressing against hers. When his hand slipped into her hair, she responded, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

After a while, the kiss ended.

If someone had asked her to describe it, she’d say it was okay. Which probably meant it wasn’t okay at all.

Grant left, and Hermione returned to the safety of her home. The first thing she did was take a bath. For some reason, she wanted to wash his touch off her skin.

***

During the last week of August, Hermione took a short leave from work. Maia had been begging her for months to go to Scotland. The child longed more than anything to see Hogwarts up close—the castle where her mother had met her godfather and Uncle Harry.

The opportunity arose when Neville, who had been working as the Herbology professor at the famous school for the past two years, invited Hermione and Maia to stay at his home in Hogsmeade for a few days. Hermione, not wanting to impose on her friends, would have preferred to stay in a nearby rental or even a Muggle hotel. But Neville's insistence—combined with Hannah’s loud threats that she would never speak to her again if they didn’t stay with them—finally convinced her.

Hannah and Neville’s house was a modest cottage, much like the ones found across the English countryside. The difference, however, was that this particular property featured a greenhouse even larger than the house itself—bursting with plants from all over the world. There were stunning flowers, dangerous shrubs, and proudly temperamental flora growing in wild harmony.

As expected, they spent their first afternoon in the magical village at Honeydukes. Throughout the entire visit, Maia couldn’t stop talking about Scorpius—how she had met him right in that very aisle, how she had been struck by the color of his hair, and how, “Mum, do you know that Scorpius’s favorite sweets are exactly the same as mine! He told me once.”

Neville and Hannah exchanged curious glances as they watched mother and daughter. After about an hour, once Maia had carefully spent her two Galleons—this time buying only what she could actually afford—she picked out strawberry-filled chocolates, strawberry-flavored caramels, and a few strawberry lollipops.

When they finally made it to the Three Broomsticks, Maia had already eaten half the sweets. “Your stomach is going to hurt if you eat that too,” Mikey told her, while she was opening another chocolate frog. “These are Scorp's favorites. I'm eating one for him!” she replied.

The next morning was their scheduled visit to Hogwarts. Maia woke up two hours earlier than usual, and with her, Hermione stirred as well. Neville, who needed to tend to some magical roots in the school’s greenhouses, happily offered to accompany them.

Hermione had already spoken earlier that week with Headmistress McGonagall to arrange the visit and to make sure it wouldn’t be too much trouble to bring along a child Maia’s age for a short walk through the castle. The Headmistress had replied with a warm letter, saying she was looking forward to meeting her daughter and adding, “If I’m lucky, perhaps I’ll have the pleasure of teaching a second Miss Granger one day.”

Hermione hadn’t visited the castle since the first anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. Seeing it again after all these years—crossing its grand gates and walking the same familiar grounds—brought a powerful wave of nostalgia crashing over her.

Their school years had never been easy. At best, she had been drowning in schoolwork and constantly trying to prove that her blood status wasn’t a barrier to her learning. At worst, there had been a looming threat of death hanging over her head and over the heads of her friends.

But the castle had never only been that.

It was also the place where she met the people who changed her life forever. It was here she had met Ron and Harry, who, deep down, she believed were her brothers from another life. Perhaps in another life, she had been born a Potter—or a Weasley.

“Hermione, how wonderful to see you!”

Minerva McGonagall looked exactly the same, as if not a single day had passed since that first time she had knocked on her door to tell her she was a witch. Always admirable, always fair—an extraordinary figure of authority whose presence alone commanded both respect and awe. She had always been Hermione’s favorite professor, and she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t missed her.

“Headmistress, we’re just as happy you could see us. This is Maia Granger—my daughter.”

The little girl, who had been spinning in place trying to take in all the new sights of the castle, turned quickly when she heard her name.

“I’m Maia Jane Granger,” she said quietly, holding out her hand a little shyly.

Headmistress McGonagall gave her a kind smile and extended her hand for a brief handshake.

"Do you live here?" the girl asked, wide-eyed.

“Yes, I live here, in the castle,” McGonagall replied with a gentle smile.

“Wow… it’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,” Maia said in awe, her eyes lingering on the grand doors leading into the Great Hall.

The tour didn’t last long. About twenty minutes in, Argus Filch came hurrying toward them, calling out about students who had started playing music loudly outside Professor Flitwick’s classroom and wouldn’t stop. McGonagall gave Hermione an apologetic look. “Would you mind heading up to the Headmaster’s office? I’ll join you shortly after I’ve sorted this out. The password is Bravery”.

Hermione took her time getting there. She led Maia through the longer path, pointing out the staircase that led to Gryffindor Tower, Sir Cadogan’s portrait—who had once guarded her dormitory—the Arithmancy classroom, and, through a tall window, the breathtaking view of the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch.

When they arrived at the office, Headmistress McGonagall was already waiting.

“I really love it here, Mummy. Can I come with Teddy next week?” Maia asked eagerly.

“I’m afraid not, Miss Granger,” Headmistress McGonagall said kindly. “You’ll need to wait until you turn eleven before you can be officially accepted into the school.”

Maia's shoulders dropped in brief disappointment, but she quickly brightened again.

“Headmistress, do you think I’ll be in Gryffindor too? Like Mummy?” she asked, eyes wide with anticipation.

“I can’t say for certain, Miss Granger, but my instincts tell me that no matter which house you’re sorted into, you’ll show the same dedication, courage, and natural leadership as your mother.”

Hermione glanced down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap, hoping the Headmistress wouldn’t notice the flush rising to her cheeks.

“Is the school already open, Headmistress?” she asked, puzzled by the presence of students. Hogwarts traditionally opened on the first of September without exception.

“Oh yes,” McGonagall replied, a note of weariness in her voice. “This year we have seven early arrivals. Far noisier than last year’s group, I must say.”

“You opened the school early? For first-years?” Hermione asked, frowning.

“Not all first-years, of course. Didn’t Professor Longbottom mention the new program for Muggle-born students?” McGonagall asked, surprised.

“Muggle-born students? He definitely didn’t!” Hermione replied. She hadn’t had much time to speak with Neville since arriving in Hogsmeade the previous day. “What program are you talking about?”

McGonagall’s expression brightened with pride. “A few years ago, we launched a program specifically for first-year Muggle-born students. You, more than anyone, understand how overwhelming it can be for a child raised outside the magical world to suddenly find themselves immersed in it.”

Hermione nodded silently, listening intently.

“It had been discussed at numerous Board meetings, but we lacked the proper leadership and funding until four years ago, when Percy Weasley stepped through my fireplace holding a five-hundred-and-twenty-eight-page proposal…”

“…The first year, we accepted just three students. They stayed for a week before term began, attending introductory lessons to familiarize themselves with magical concepts. The second year, we welcomed five, and the program was handed over to our new Potions Master—also Muggle-born, and deeply passionate about the cause. That year marked a great success…”

“…This year, we welcomed seven children in mid-August. They’re currently receiving daily lessons from Hogwarts staff, focusing on the basics of magic, magical culture, and history. There are no exams or homework. The children stay in specially built dormitories on the grounds, within the castle’s protections. Their parents are allowed supervised visits to ensure their comfort and safety. The goal is to help every child arrive on the first of September not with fear or confusion, but with a sense of familiarity, confidence, and belonging.”

Hermione was speechless. For years, she had advocated for exactly such a program while talking to people from the Department of Magical Education. Many had agreed with her ideas in principle, but most dismissed them as overly idealistic. Securing that level of funding and support from the Board of Governors had always seemed like an impossible feat. The program required meticulous planning, extensive research into how magical subjects should be introduced to children and their parents, and countless hours of bureaucratic navigation. Moreover, there had always been political resistance from the more conservative members of the Board, who viewed such efforts as either unnecessary or as a threat to traditional wizarding education. None of it, it seemed, had ever been worth undertaking—at least, not to anyone but Percy Weasley.

She recalled her own arrival at Hogwarts, how foreign and overwhelming everything had felt, even under Dumbledore’s leadership. That such a program hadn’t existed then, even with a visionary like him at the helm, spoke volumes. What Minerva had helped bring to life now felt nothing short of revolutionary.

“I… I can’t believe you managed to implement something like this. It’s incredible how much you’re helping these children,” Hermione said, her voice soft with awe.

“I didn’t do anything, Miss Granger,” McGonagall replied briskly. “This is all Mr. Weasley’s doing. He designed the program, secured support from the Board, and obtained a twenty-five-year funding agreement from the Malfoy vaults.”

At the mention of the name, Hermione froze. “The Malfoys? What do they have to do with a program for Muggle-borns?”

“Young Lord Malfoy is the program’s primary benefactor,” McGonagall said. “He currently serves on the Board of Governors. As I understand it, Mr. Weasley approached him directly and negotiated the agreement. I’m sure Mr. Weasley could tell you more, but I know the approved proposal was accompanied by a twenty-five-year contract signed by Draco Malfoy himself...”

“…The funding is substantial—enough to support at least fifteen students and their families each year with accommodation, education, and personal support.”

Hermione sat there, her mind racing as she absorbed everything McGonagall had just said. Draco Malfoy—of all people—was the program’s primary benefactor. The thought of him, the same man who had once broken her heart, now playing a key role in supporting Muggle-born students left her completely speechless. It felt surreal—almost impossible. After all these years, after everything that had happened between them, to think he was contributing so significantly to something she had long dreamed of—something that could have made her own Hogwarts experience less isolating, less painful—was too much to process all at once.

She had always believed he was capable of more than his past. She had believed in him. She had seen kindness in him, decency, even gentleness—and that was why she had loved him. But this? This was beyond anything she could have expected, especially after what had happened six years ago. Even more so because she knew his parents would never have approved of such funding. And if life had taught her anything, it was that while the Draco she had once loved might have been kind at heart, the Malfoy heir—the son of Lucius—had always listened to his parents and acted in accordance with their wishes.

So how did he do it? And why?

The questions echoed in her mind, each one louder than the last. The more she thought about it, the more certain she became that the old pure-blood families—the very ones who had spent generations opposing equality for Muggle-borns—would be deeply displeased with such a program. Surely his political allies, the ones still clinging to blood status and tradition, would see this as a betrayal. So why would he risk that? Why risk alienating his parents, his family’s legacy, and his carefully guarded alliances? What did he have to gain from this?

Then, as always, a foolish thought crept into her mind—perhaps he did it for you. A ridiculous, dangerous voice whispered inside her. She silenced it immediately.

McGonagall was still speaking, but Hermione was lost in the tangled threads of speculation and memory, drifting further away with every heartbeat. It wasn’t until Maia spoke that she was pulled sharply back into the present.

“Will I have to come early to school too?”

It was the first time Maia had spoken in a while—she had been far too busy nibbling on cookies from McGonagall’s desk. Her question, so innocent and full of curiosity, snapped Hermione out of her swirling thoughts.

“No, Miss Granger. You’ll be starting on the first of September,” McGonagall replied before Hermione could.

They chatted for another half hour, though the topic of the Malfoys' involvement never came up again. McGonagall expressed genuine interest in Hermione’s work at the Ministry, and just before mother and daughter left, she discreetly reminded Hermione that a teaching position at Hogwarts would always be open to her, should she ever wish it.

“Hermione,” the Headmistress added warmly, “you’re welcome back anytime. I always enjoy seeing my former students—especially you.”

Just as they were leaving, Maia paused in front of a portrait of an old wizard with long white hair, and a crooked nose. He was snoring theatrically, eyes closed in exaggerated sleep.

“Why are you pretending to sleep?” she asked curiously.

Albus Dumbledore, without opening his eyes, let out another dramatic snore.

“That’s very rude!” she scolded, but the portrait remained unresponsive.

She turned to the next portrait.

“Hello, sir! Does he pretend to sleep all day?” she asked, pointing at the old wizard. “It must be hard listening to him snore.”

“The snoring is among the least offensive things I endured from that man while we were both alive,” said the man in the portrait in a slow, deliberate drawl.

Maia, seemingly unfazed, cast one more annoyed glance at Dumbledore’s portrait, which now had one eye open, watching her with mild curiosity.

“If you like, I’ll tell my mummy to scold him,” Maia offered sincerely.

The portrait didn’t respond. Its dark eyes lingered on Maia in a way that might have unsettled another child. Then, slowly, they shifted to Hermione. She shivered.

“Come on, Maia. Let’s go.”

Maia stayed for a moment longer, standing in front of the portrait with the kind of raw, unfiltered curiosity only children possess.

“Goodbye, sir. I have to go now. I’ll come back when I’m eleven. Will you still be here?”

“Obviously,” came the dry reply.

Hours later, long after they’d left the Headmistress’s office, Hermione could still feel the weight of Snape’s gaze on her daughter. And she strongly suspected that Draco Malfoy’s godfather had just joined the very short list of people who knew the truth about Maia’s parentage.

Chapter Text

August 2007

Two days before the Hogwarts Express was due to depart, Andromeda hosted a small farewell gathering for her grandson. Hermione had just returned from a day-long work trip to Ireland and felt far too drained to attend, but Maia was desperate to see Teddy one last time before he left for his first year at school, and Hermione couldn't bring herself to say no.

Just before they exited their cottage to walk to the designated spot for apparition, Maia darted back to her room and returned clutching her mother’s old Gryffindor scarf, despite the lingering warmth of summer. She had begged Hermione for it the moment they returned from their trip to Hogsmeade.

"I hope Teddy gets into Gryffindor," she told Hermione when she asked what on earth she wanted with a scarf in this heat, "so we can be together when I go to Gryffindor too."

Andromeda’s house was tucked away in a small village about two hours outside of London. The land had once belonged to the House of Black, one of many properties that had eventually passed into Andromeda’s hands after the last living heir, Draco Malfoy, had formally acknowledged her place in the family line once more.

Harry had been the one to explain the reconciliation between aunt and nephew. He mentioned that the two had grown closer following Lucius Malfoy’s death. Hermione suspected that Narcissa’s increasingly unstable mental state had more to do with it, but she never cared for details.

Hermione and her daughter were now heading toward the smallest of the three houses on the estate—the one where grandmother and grandson resided. The largest property, located farthest from the main entrance of the grounds, had been converted into a children's home founded by Andromeda herself. It provided a safe haven for the war children whom no one else had taken in.

Before Hermione could even knock on the door, Teddy swung it open with a wide grin.

"In two days, I’m going to Hogwarts!" he exclaimed excitedly as soon as he spotted them, then quickly disappeared back inside.

“Teddddyyy!” Maia called, rushing after him and disappearing around a corner.

Hermione walked through the hall, passed a few closed doors, and entered the sitting room. She found them on the floor—father and son, each holding a handful of markers. Malfoy was gently guiding Scorpius’s small hand as he tried to color, while the toddler joyfully smeared blue streaks across Andromeda’s beige rug. Both of their heads turned at the sound of her arrival.

"Sorry," Hermione said, her gaze flickering to the newly decorated part of the carpet. "I was looking for Andromeda."

"Minini!" Scorpius squealed, clearly excited to see her.

"Hello, Scorp," Hermione greeted him with a smile.

"Minini, paint wif me?" he asked eagerly, holding up a second crayon while happily coloring his trousers.

"No, Scorpius, we need to go now," Malfoy said softly, his eyes fixed on his son. He slowly rose to his feet and held out his arms. Without protest, the little blond boy climbed into his father’s lap.

Hermione watched in silence as Malfoy summoned the scattered crayons with a flick of his wand and neatly packed them into a new leather satchel. He was clearly preparing to leave.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said as indifferently as she could manage. “You can stay. I was just looking for Andromeda.”

“There’s no need. We were leaving anyway,” he replied, though Scorpius was now leaning toward her, waving a crayon in her direction.

"Scoooorp!" came Maia’s excited voice, and within moments, the little girl burst into the room at full speed.

"Maia, don’t run," Hermione cautioned, but her words were quickly drowned out by the delighted squeals of the two children.

“I knew you were here! Come on, Scorp, come down! I have so much to tell you!” Maia bounced excitedly in front of Malfoy’s legs.

“Daddy, put Scorp down! Daddy!” he cried impatiently.

Hermione cast a worried glance at the children and fought with all her strength not to meet the equally troubled look Draco gave her.

“Scorp, we have to go. Grandmother Narcissa is waiting for us,” he said.

The little boy started to whine.

“No, no Grandma Cissa. Stay here, wif Maia. Maia play wif me?”

Defeated, Malfoy set his son down. The moment his feet touched the ground, Maia grabbed his hand and the two disappeared through the doorway she had just come through.

They were alone now in the sitting room, when Hermione suddenly realized that the last time they’d been alone, they had fought.

“I should go. Can you please tell my aunt I’ll come by to pick up Scorp in an hour?”

She didn’t answer right away. She watched as he brushed paint smudges from his clothes. His fingers were stained green, red, and mostly blue.

She found herself thinking—unbidden—that Scorpius must really like the color blue. Most of the rug was blue now. There was some yellow, and a bit of green in one corner. She wondered if the blue was meant to be the sea—or maybe the sky. The yellow, the sun. The green, perhaps trees.

She remembered a summer long ago, waking up to nothing but the endless blue of the sea, the warmth of the sun, and, in the distance, green trees swaying in the breeze.

“Goodbye, Granger,” he said, turning toward the door.

“Wait,” she called out. “I wanted to…” She paused. “I wanted to thank you,” she said, doing her best to sound detached.

Malfoy froze, his posture stiffening at once.

“I appreciate what you did with The Prophet—and with the photos of Maia.”

“Granger—”

“Harry told me—”

“Potter had no right,” he said sharply, his jaw tight.

“Actually,” she cut in coolly, “it was Ginny. And I think I had every right to know.”

Her voice remained steady, detached, almost clinical.

“Anyway,” she went on, “thank you for what you did. It was… considerate of you, shielding a child from the press. I can only imagine the kind of filth they would’ve printed about her and...”

She let the sentence trail off, unfinished but she knew he understood exactly what she meant.

In the eyes of conservative wizarding Britain, a child born out of wedlock to a Muggleborn mother was a scandal. And whatever their history, he had helped shield Maia from that. For that, at least, Hermione was grateful, even if she was still angry that he hadn’t told her.

But as Harry had said to her the week before, “Did you really want to hear that he protected your child, Hermione?”

She hadn’t answered him.

She knew the day would come when Maia would have to face the whispers. The stares. The curious glances in the corridors of Hogwarts. Children could be cruel. The sons and daughters of old wizarding families had a way of echoing their parents’ disdain, especially toward someone with no lineage, and a bloodline many still considered impure.

She only hoped she was raising her daughter to be strong. Principled. Brave. Unyielding, when it mattered most.

She hoped Maia would be a Gryffindor.

The thought gave her some small comfort. So did the knowledge that the Potters and Weasleys would always be close, steadfast allies, a protective circle. Maia wouldn’t be alone. There would be people to shield her if Hermione ever couldn’t.

“Granger,” Malfoy said, “you don’t need to worry about those photos anymore. The legislation passed in the Wizengamot last week. The Prophet went after Potter, and it didn’t end well for them.”

“I know. You chose to protect my child when the legislation didn’t exist,” she replied, “and for that, I appreciate it.”

He didn’t answer.

They stood there, watching each other in silence, until the moment stretched too long and became uncomfortable. But Hermione didn’t look away.

It was strange—standing across from him like this. A man she had once believed was the love of her life, and at another time, the reason for her complete undoing.

“Also, It wasn’t fair of me to demand that you stay away from my friends. They’re your friends too, even if it’ll take me some time to get used to that.”

“Granger—”

“I had no right to make that demand. The fact that I kept Scorpius from seeing Harry’s kids? That’s on me. I regret it.”

She hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then: “We don’t have to be… friends. Frankly, I don’t think I can be friends with you. I still don’t want you in my life. Or in my daughter’s life. So no, we don’t have to be friends. We don’t even have to like each other. We just need to learn how to be in the same room once a month without it becoming a disaster.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t respond at all. He held her gaze for a moment longer, then gave a short nod and walked out of the room.

He apparated, leaving his son behind, before Hermione could even move from her spot.

She found Teddy, Maia—who was holding little Scorpius by the hand—and an unfamiliar girl sitting under the shade of a large sycamore tree in the courtyard.

In the distance, near the entrance of the children’s home, Hermione spotted Andromeda speaking with a well-dressed man who looked like he worked at the Ministry of Magic.

“My mum was a good witch, but my dad was a bad wizard,” the unfamiliar girl was saying, oblivious to Hermione’s presence. Hermione guessed she must have been around Teddy’s age, which meant she was likely born during the height of the war.

“Who told you that?” Maia asked, frowning.

“Joselyn heard it from Frankie, who heard it from Miss Elliott, the Arithmancy teacher who sometimes comes for the older kids,” the girl replied sadly. “But I don’t really care,” she added with a shrug. “Whether they were good or bad, they’re gone. And I’m still an orphan.”

“We’re all orphans,” Teddy said quietly, the excitement of leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow completely gone from his face.

“Am I an orphan too?” Maia’s small voice broke through the silence.

“Do you have a mum and dad?” the girl asked again, turning to Maia.

“I have a mummy,” Maia said. “But I don’t know if I have a dad. Mummy says he’s far away, but I don’t know how far. Maybe he’s still in Sydney. That’s the furthest place I can think of.”

The girl seemed to ponder that. “Then you’re probably half an orphan,” she said seriously. “What about you? Do you have a mum and dad?” she asked Scorpius.

“Daddy Draco. Mother Cissa,” Scorpius said confidently.

“No, Scorpius, Narcissa is your grandmother,” Teddy corrected gently. “He always gets confused, Jess. He doesn’t have a mum either. I know for sure. Draco told me his mum died. Just like mine.”

“Well then,” said the girl with a sigh. “We make quite the group, don’t we?”

She jumped to her feet. “Come on!” she called over her shoulder. “When the man in the fancy clothes shows up, he always brings toys! Let’s see what he brought this time!”

She darted off toward Andromeda and the Ministry official.

Hermione watched as Teddy and the older girl ran ahead, Maia trailing a bit behind. She had slowed down to stay beside Scorpius, whose tiny legs couldn’t quite keep up with the others.

An hour later, the courtyard was filled with the unmistakable noise of the Weasleys. Bill’s family, along with Percy’s, had arrived not long before, bringing with them a wave of laughter and chatter.

It was just then that Malfoy reappeared, coming to retrieve his son.

To Hermione, he looked tired, like he’d spent the last hour in an argument with no clear resolution. His eyes were shadowed, his jaw tight, his movements just a bit slower than usual.

Scorpius, who had practically become an extension of Maia in the time his father was gone—their hands constantly linked—was now seated with the rest of the children at the long table Bill and Percy had set up in the courtyard.

“Hey, Scorp, do you want some?” Teddy offered the toddler a cup of Eton Mess, topped with blackberries and raspberries, his grandmother had made especially for the gathering.

Before Scorpius could plunge his little hand into the dessert, Maia cried out, “He can’t have that, Teddy!”—just as Draco called out from across the courtyard.

Too late. Scorpius had already grabbed a handful of fruit, gleefully squishing the berries between his fingers.

“Scorp, no! No blueberries for you, remember?” Draco said as he strode over, crouching to gently wipe his son’s sticky hand before he could shove it into his mouth. “You’re allergic and I really don’t want to set foot in St. Mungo’s again for at least the next ten years.”

A little while later, after the two Malfoys had already left—much to Maia’s disappointment—Hermione turned to her daughter.

“Maia, how did you know Scorpius was allergic to berries?” she asked carefully.

“Yeah, how did you know?” Teddy echoed, curious.

Maia shrugged. “He told me.”

“Scorpius?” Hermione asked, her suspicion rising.

“Yes,” Maia said confidently.

“No, he didn’t!” Teddy argued.

“Yes, he did,” Maia insisted, chin lifting stubbornly.

Before Teddy could respond, his grandmother’s voice rang out from another room.

“Teddy, why don’t you go call Jess and Frankie? I think they’d like to meet Victoire and Maia.”

Teddy took off like a shot toward the orphanage.

“Hermione, would you like to see the children’s house?” Andromeda asked.

The two of them followed the path Teddy had taken just moments earlier. The grounds were beautiful. Well-kept flowerbeds lined the walkway, magical trees swayed gently in a breeze that seemed almost enchanted, and in the distance, Hermione could hear the soft trickling of water. Perhaps a magical fountain designed to resemble a waterfall?

“There are currently seventeen children living here,” Andromeda explained as they walked. “The oldest is fifteen and about to begin their fifth year at Hogwarts. The youngest is eight. Most have lost both parents. Some have one surviving parent in Azkaban. We have Death Eaters’ children, and Muggleborns too. Here, everyone is equal.”

The building itself was impressive. Bright, airy, and full of life. Colorful decorations adorned the walls, and laughter echoed through the halls. Children ran up and down the corridors, some older, some younger. A few of the older ones had clearly recognized Hermione and were now whispering her name to the younger children, who stared at her with a mix of curiosity and awe.

Hermione’s eyes landed on a familiar little girl—Jess, the child who had been talking to Maia earlier. She was lovely, with shoulder-length blond hair and bright, expressive eyes.

“That’s Jess,” Andromeda said softly, noticing where Hermione was looking. “Her father died during the Battle of Hogwarts. He was a Death Eater. Her mother’s been missing since the end of the war, now presumed dead. Jess came to us on the very first day we were allowed to open the home. She was six years old. Before she came here, she had been living in the homes of Ministry employees. Not everyone was kind to the child of a Death Eater. She ran away four times. We found her living on the street for at least a week before she came here. She hasn’t run since. Ever.”

Hermione looked again at the little girl, who had stopped paying them any attention. She was playing with a magical toy, a baby that whimpered endlessly unless held close.

“I’ll love you, little baby. I’ll be your mummy. Don’t cry,” Jess whispered as she cradled it in her arms.

They continued their walk through the home, passing the dining room, the kitchen, and a cozy classroom used to teach the younger children who weren’t yet old enough for Hogwarts.

Andromeda suggested they take a walk around the grounds behind the main building, where even more magical waterfalls flowed gently into a small, artificial lake that shimmered under the late afternoon sun. The children were allowed to swim there but only under strict supervision and with Andromeda’s explicit permission.

“When I built this place,” Andromeda said, as they strolled along the cobblestone path, “it was the first time in my life that I felt the House of Black had done something truly admirable, something that might actually be remembered in history as noble and pure, just like our name always claimed to be.”

“You’ve done an incredible job, Andromeda. You’ve saved these children. I only wish more people helped the vulnerable the way you do,” Hermione said, her thoughts still lingering on Jess.

“Thank you, Hermione. But I didn’t do it alone. None of this is the work of just one person. I had help, more than I ever expected. And I’ll be forever grateful.”

They wandered farther from the house, approaching the lake and a fenced-off section beside it that resembled a protected garden.

“What’s that?” Hermione asked, curiosity piqued.

“Ah, that,” Andromeda said, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips. “That’s a private garden. It’s a long story, one for another time.”

She glanced at the sky, now tinged with deepening hues of dusk, then gently turned back toward the house.

“It’s getting late,” she said softly. “Let’s head back.”

***

A few days later, just before bedtime, Maia asked Hermione about her father. They’d had conversations like this before when Maia was younger but this time, something was different. Her eyes were steady. Curious. Searching.

Hermione sat beside her and tried, once again, to explain that families come in all shapes and sizes.

“Am I half an orphan?” Maia asked quietly.

“No, sweetheart. You're not an orphan. You have me. And I love you more than anything in the world.”

“But if something happens to you... then I’ll be one. A real orphan. Like the children who live in that big house.”

Hermione pulled her daughter into a hug, holding her tightly.

“Maia, you will never be alone. I promise you that. Nothing will ever happen to me. I’m here, and I always will be. We’re not on our own. We have Grandma and Grandpa. Even if he doesn’t remember us, we remember him—and that matters. We have Ron and Jacqueline, Harry, Ginny... the whole Weasley family. We’re not alone.”

But Maia didn’t look reassured. In the days that followed, she kept asking more questions about her father’s face, where he lived, how old he was. If he wore glasses like Harry, or had blue eyes like Ron.

For the first time, Hermione felt a sharp, unmistakable fear.

Maia was beginning to feel the absence. Not just ask about it, but feel it. Hermione didn’t know if it was Ron’s recent absence—he had been, in many ways, the first stable male presence in Maia’s life—or the simple fact that she was now surrounded by children with two parents.

But one thing was certain: Maia was sad and Hermione couldn’t bear that.

That Friday evening, while Ginny was upstairs putting Lily to bed and the kids were sprawled across the living room watching a movie, Hermione turned to Harry.

“Can we talk in private?”

He nodded. When they stepped into the kitchen, Hermione didn’t waste time.

“Do you think...” she hesitated, then pushed through. “Do you think I made a mistake all those years ago, not telling him I was pregnant?”

It was one of the thoughts that had been tormenting her. What would have happened if she had told him? Before the wedding. Before it was too late. Would he have left Astoria? Gone against his parents, like Theo had once said he would? Would his family have fallen apart? And if that were true—if Lucius’s magical contract truly would have killed him—would the idea of a child have been enough for him to walk away from his father completely?

“Why are you asking me this, Hermione?”

“Just answer me.”

Harry didn’t answer right away, but when he finally spoke, his voice was calm and steady.

“No. I think you did the right thing at the time.”

***

On the second Sunday of September, Ron and Jacqueline suddenly turned up at Grimmauld Place, catching Molly completely off guard and inevitably making her cry.

“Mum, you saw us at Harry’s birthday. It hasn’t even been two months” Ron said, hugging her.

She mumbled something about how they didn’t understand her, and how only a parent could truly feel the pain of being away from their children.

That Sunday was rainy, so the back door to Grimmauld Place remained locked. Harry had opened up the old Black library, which was now completely unrecognizable—transformed into a chaotic jungle of toys, courtesy of the Potter children. All the kids rushed inside, eager to grab whatever caught their eye.

It had only been a week since Scorpius was last at Grimmauld Place, and just like the time before, he had come alone. By the time Hermione arrived with Maia, the toddler was already there, happily playing among the others. Hermione still had no idea why his father hadn’t come with him either time and she didn’t care.

She noticed that Maia had stopped chasing Teddy and Victoire around. Lately, she’d taken to spending time with Al and Scorpius, playing the role of clever little teacher and teaching them whatever popped into her head. Last week, she’d taken them on a grand tour of Grimmauld’s kitchen, explaining in detail how all the electrical appliances worked.

«Mummy, Aunt Ginny and Uncle Harry don’t even have a microwave. How am I supposed to show Scorp and Al? Can they come to our house sometime? We’ve got so many more things they need to learn!” she’d told her enthusiastically.

This week, she was determined to teach them how to count. Hermione had tried to braid her hair that morning, but Maia had been too busy picking out her dress to sit still. Combined with the rainy-day humidity, her hair had puffed up so much it made her head look twice its size.

“I swear I’m having a serious déjà vu moment,” Ginny said.

The other adults looked at her, confused, until she pointed toward the open library door.

Maia stood in the middle of the room, proudly presiding over two very small chairs where Al and Scorpius sat, holding white sheets of paper and crayons like they were quills and parchment. They could all hear her repeating the numbers up to twenty for what had to be the fiftieth time. A minute later, Al’s small voice counted to ten, and Scorpius pushed through all the way to seventeen.

Laughter erupted in the living room.

“Sometimes I forget how bossy you’ve always been, Hermione,” Ron said. She heard Harry and Ginny laughing.

Hermione blushed.

“I’ll take bossy over femme fatale,” Harry added, making her blush even harder.

“Oh, go on,” came George’s voice as he entered the room with Jacqueline. “Don’t tell me Granger’s finally declared herself on the market.”

Hermione gave him a death glare.

“I had to hear all week about a dress—tight, honestly Hermione, how do you breathe in that thing—with a neckline down to Merlin knows where…”

“Décolletage,” Jacqueline corrected, her French accent flawless.

Ron started coughing from the other side of the couch.

“…in lilac. What color is lilac? I never figured that out.”

“WHAT?” Hermione blurted out. Was Grant talking about her?

Harry laughed. “What did you expect, Hermione? That I wouldn’t find out every little detail? Am I, or am I not, your bestie?”

“Since when is Harry your bestie, Hermione?” Ron asked, slightly affronted.

“Are you jealous, Ronald? Do you want to be my bestie?” George chimed in, making everyone laugh again.

“Enough! Harry, I forbid you to keep talking,” Hermione said, shooting him a stern look.

“Hermione, did you go on a date?” Ron asked, squinting at her. “Who was it? Did Maia meet him?”

“No, Ronald. Obviously, I didn’t introduce a stranger to my child. We went out only once, for Merlin’s sake,” she said through gritted teeth, praying for the earth to open up and swallow her whole.

“Will there be a second date?” Jacqueline asked, just as Ginny blurted, “Grant.”

“Grant? That colleague of Harry’s? Tall guy? Blonde?” Ron said. “Merlin, Hermione, he’s so boring.”

Hermione gaped at him.

“Who’s Grant? That handsome bloke we met back in May?” Jacqueline asked excitedly. “Green eyes? Shoulders like he plays Quidditch?”

“Jacqueline! Handsome?” Ron turned crimson.

“What? Boring, maybe—but handsome, absolutely,” she said with a shrug.

Had Grant talked only to Harry, or had he told every single damn employee at the Auror Office about their date? And what on earth had he said to them? Hermione had turned down his second invitation, using Maia as an excuse. Had Grant enjoyed the date? Because honestly, if she were being truthful, she could barely remember half of what they'd talked about.

A few minutes later, Ron and Jacqueline called Arthur and Molly into the living room.

“We wanted to… well, we wanted to tell you something,” Ron said awkwardly. “Jacqueline and I, I mean.”

When Molly and Arthur entered, Jacqueline announced, her smile beaming, that she was pregnant. The room erupted with joy. Voices and laughter echoed as the Weasleys surrounded her, congratulating the couple and guessing how far along she might be.

“It’s still really early,” Jacqueline explained. “My gynecologist said I’m only three months in.”

“Gynecologist?” Molly repeated, dabbing away joyful tears but frowning slightly. “Why not a magical healer?”

Jacqueline gave Hermione a warm smile. “I suppose Hermione influenced me.”

“She’ll be perfectly safe, Molly,” Hermione reassured her.

“So, what is it? Boy or girl?” someone asked.

“We have no idea yet,” Jacqueline said. “My little sister is hoping for a girl to dress up in cute clothes, but honestly? I think I’d like a boy.” She looked at Ron with eyes full of affection.

“When they told me our first was going to be a boy,” Harry said, “I remember feeling so relieved. I knew nothing about girls, barely managed to get one to marry me,” he added, grinning.

Everyone laughed.

“But when I held Lily for the first time…” Harry’s smile turned soft. “The world just stopped spinning. Everything suddenly made sense. There’s no greater blessing for a father than a daughter.”

It was no secret that Lily had had Harry wrapped around her little finger since the moment she was born.

“What about you, Ron? Do you want a boy or a girl?” Ginny asked.

Ron rubbed his wife’s belly gently. “I honestly don’t care. They can be whatever they want. All I want is for them to grow up free of prejudice and hate. To grow up surrounded by love and family. To never have to face war at seventeen. To never lose friends, or bury the people they love. I just want them to have a good life. And I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that happens.”

***

For her birthday, Hermione chose to host a small gathering at her house, consisting only of her closest friends — the Potters and their children, Ron, and Jacqueline.

Hours after they had cut the cake in the large backyard and the kids had run off to play in Maia’s room, Hermione, Ginny, and Jacqueline found themselves in the kitchen, chatting about Jacqueline’s pregnancy, which had now reached the four-month mark.

“I’ve decided I want to start dating again,” Hermione blurted out at one point.

Jacqueline raised an eyebrow at her. “I thought you were already dating. What happened to Grant?”

Nothing had really happened with Grant. Despite his impressive looks, Hermione had felt no real chemistry between them. Whether he touched her or a friend hugged her, it felt exactly the same. Absolutely no spark.

So, even though Grant had tried to ask her out for a second date on more than three occasions, she eventually turned him down, telling him she didn’t think they were a good match.

Ginny, who had been encouraging Hermione to find someone since she was still living in Sydney, surprisingly agreed with her. “If you don’t feel the urge to touch your partner every chance you get during everyday life, then something’s wrong,” she had said.

That’s when Hermione decided it was time to go on a few real dates, with people she was actually interested in, people she felt at least a flicker of attraction to.

The truth was, she was tired of being alone and carrying the weight of everything by herself. She didn’t need anyone to rescue her from her life, but she missed companionship — the feeling of sharing her everyday moments with someone other than Maia.

What’s more, she had found her confidence again. And for that, she partly blamed Grant, who had never missed a chance to compliment her — on her legs, her smile, her eyes. Compliments she hadn’t heard in years.

That, along with the constant sense of competence and appreciation she got from her work, made her feel like a beautiful, smart, strong, and independent woman — someone looking for a partner by choice, not out of need.

"You're always either at your house, my house, or at work," Ginny said. "You're never going to meet anyone that way, Hermione. Unless you've finally started considering the idea of becoming a Weasley and going on a date with George." She placed her hands on her hips as she spoke.

Hermione shuddered. George was like a brother to her. Under no circumstances did her plan to start dating include anyone named Weasley.

"You need to start going out more if you want to meet new people. How about coming with me tomorrow?" Ginny offered.

"What's happening tomorrow?" 

"It's the Holyhead Harpies’ annual event to present the new players of the season."

Hermione pulled a face at the mention of Quidditch, and Ginny rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on, don't make that face. It's not just Quidditch players. There’ll be their families, investors, coaches, talent scouts, VIP members, and even a few fans who won tickets through a lottery. I have two tickets. I was going to take Harry, but he should stay home with the kids. Mum’s already losing her mind with all the grandkids and this is a perfect chance for you and me to go out and have a few drinks in a safe environment. Please?"

Hermione had no idea what one wore to a player presentation event. She had never been to one in her life and honestly hoped she’d never have to go to another.

Ginny had explained that it was more like a large adult party where a bunch of sports journalists and match analysts occasionally talked about stats and expectations.

In the end, she decided to wear a simple burgundy dress she had bought years ago with her mother from a Muggle store in Sydney.

The event was being held in an underground venue beneath the Holyhead Harpies’ stadium. From the moment they walked into the room, Hermione felt certain no journalist would pay them any attention. The stars were the players, and for once in her life, she was truly grateful for the silly sport.

Before long, Ginny was dragging her from conversation to conversation, introducing her to coaches, trainers, physiotherapists, even mind healers! Hermione hadn’t even known that teams employed mind healers to take care of the players' mental health. What a blessing it would be to have a few of those at the Ministry. Some of her colleagues certainly needed them.

She smiled at many, introduced herself to even more, and forgot almost every name—except one.

Adrian Karstair was the brother of one of the new reserve Chasers who had just been added to the team’s roster. He was charming, and it wasn’t just because of his looks. Unlike most people there, he didn’t seem particularly interested in Quidditch. He spoke about the miracle of engineering and how astonishing it was that wizards had managed to build such a vast underground structure with so little effort.

Hermione quickly realized he was Muggleborn. No pure-blood wizard would ever bother learning about things like structural integrity and compression resistance.

When another wizard called his name and he had to leave the little group he’d formed with Ginny and Hermione, she was a little disappointed. But when he returned twenty minutes later holding a second glass of wine just for her, she had to calm the fluttering in her chest.

Adrian found a small, empty table near the bar and led her toward it.

It wasn’t long before she learned that he was seven years older than her—thirty-five.

“The year I started at Hogwarts, you were graduating,” she said with a smile.

He grinned. “I don’t think that’s quite the case,” he replied, winking. “You see, I never went to Hogwarts.”

He explained that he was Muggleborn, just as Hermione had guessed, but his parents had chosen not to send him to Hogwarts.

“My parents are Muggles, but I wasn’t the first wizard in the family, nor the last. After me, my sister Lisa was born, and she showed signs of magic too. Back in the sixties, my mum’s sister attended Hogwarts, but, as you know, it was a strange time with Voldemort rising to power.”

Hermione blinked, surprised by his casual use of Voldemort's name. Even now, years later, most people still hesitated to say it aloud. It was a word that carried a heavy cultural weight.

"My aunt was one of the war’s collateral losses," he continued. "My mother never really recovered from that. So when I showed signs of magic, she flat-out refused to let me anywhere near Hogwarts. Instead, she hired private magical tutors for me and later for Lisa, to teach us everything at home. My father, who had no connection to magic, agreed…”

“…So, Lisa and I received a completely home-based magical education. I chose not to take my N.E.W.T.s. I didn’t want to pursue a magical career. My father owns one of Britain’s first software companies, and these days, I’m running it myself, expanding it across Europe.”

Adrian leaned back slightly, a small smile playing on his lips. “So you see, magic was more of a pleasant surprise for me—it never shaped my life the way it did for other Muggleborns. I’d say I’m a wizard living in the normal world, rather than a Muggleborn living in the wizarding one.”

They kept talking for hours. At some point, Ginny came over to say goodbye—it was time for her to leave. As Hermione stood to walk her out, Ginny shot her a sharp look.

“I can get home on my own, Hermione,” she said firmly, nodding toward the seat. “Sit back down.”

Adrian went on to tell her about his studies in computer science, his master’s degree and PhD in Automated Error Detection and Correction in Large-Scale Software Systems through Machine Learning. Hermione listened, captivated, her mind racing with questions. She often interrupted him before he’d even finished answering.

Time passed without her noticing. Eventually, she realized the party had all but emptied.

“Would you like to grab a drink, just the two of us?” he asked, and she agreed without hesitation.

They apparated to a neighborhood in East London she had never been to before. It was close to eleven, and the pub was half full, buzzing with quiet chatter and the clinking of glasses. Adrian found them a tall table tucked against a wall, and they took their seats across from each other. Under the table, their knees brushed. She noticed it and liked it.

It didn’t take long for Hermione to realize that Adrian was, quite clearly, very wealthy. He spoke casually of transatlantic holidays, exotic getaways, dining at Michelin-starred restaurants, sailing, and even competing in racing events.

But it wasn’t just the luxury that caught her attention. What struck her most was how relaxed she felt. It had been so long since she’d had a conversation about purely Muggle things—ordinary, everyday topics that had once been part of her world.

Some of it wasn’t even to her taste—like car racing—but even that felt oddly comforting. Talking about something as simple as cars reminded her of her childhood, of the life she had with her parents before magic swept in and changed everything. A life that had felt light, familiar, and entirely her own.

The more they talked, the more she smiled. And the more she smiled, the closer he leaned toward her.

He was undeniably handsome. Tall, with intense dark eyes framed by thick lashes. His shoulders were broad, his build athletic, clearly someone who spent a good deal of time at the gym. Her gaze dropped briefly to his hands—a small, silly detail—but she liked them. Long, elegant fingers, neatly kept. Her mother used to call them “pianist’s fingers.”

By the time she checked the clock again, the night had nearly vanished. Maia was with Harry tonight, but Hermione hadn’t expected the evening to last this long. She had a feeling her daughter was still awake, waiting for her.

Adrian paid the bill and then walked her to the nearest apparition point.

"Would you mind giving me your number?" he asked. "I’d really love to see you again soon."

Hermione wanted to see him again too. She was so delighted by the evening that she didn’t even realize he was laughing as she reached into her magically extended handbag and pulled out a small scrap of paper with her mobile number on it.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Well, you asked for my phone number. No one’s asked me that in—" she paused, thinking, "honestly, I have no idea. You expect me to remember it by heart? I literally have three contacts saved—my mum, my dad—who doesn’t even use it—and a friend of mine."

"Wait, are you telling me men don’t ask you out? That’s hard to believe," he said, giving her a slow once-over.

She hoped he couldn’t tell just how much she liked the way he looked at her.

"Most wizards don’t ask for my phone number," she said with a smirk.

Then he leaned in, and with a soft touch, adjusted the strap of her dress that had slipped slightly off her shoulder.

"Their loss," he said softly, his eyes lingering on hers.

Their first proper date was the following week. Over the next few days, they exchanged a few texts and agreed to meet on Saturday at an address in Notting Hill.

The restaurant Adrian had chosen was one of those ultra-exclusive Muggle places that required reservations months in advance and cost enough to make you wince if you actually planned on leaving full.

Once again, the conversation between them flowed easily. The hours flew by, filled with talk of algorithms, software architecture, and cybersecurity—topics Hermione had only brushed against in her reading, but now found herself completely drawn into.

After dinner, Adrian offered to drive her home.

"How about we take my car?" he said.

Hermione hadn’t been in a car in months.

"Sometimes I think wizards miss out on the beauty of ordinary things by relying so much on apparition and the Floo," he mused as they stepped outside. "Sure, it’s faster but they lose the magic of the journey. The hum of the engine, the city lights reflecting in the windshield, the breeze from an open window... it’s all part of the experience."

His car was stunning. Sleek, new, and spotless. The beige leather interior was smooth and elegant, and though the car sat low to the ground, it felt surprisingly roomy.

The night air on her face as they drove was, indeed, a simple pleasure but what captivated her most was watching him. The way his hands moved with precision, confidently handling the steering wheel and gear stick. And then, when he shifted to driving with one hand and let the other rest gently on her knee, that was the moment Hermione realized she might really be in trouble.

He pulled up in front of her building, and they stepped out together.

“Is this where you live?” he asked, glancing at the row of quiet houses.

“Not exactly,” Hermione replied. Grimmauld Place 12 was there, of course, hidden by layers of enchantments Adrian would never see.

He raised an eyebrow.

Hermione smiled faintly. “Before heading home, I need to pick up my daughter. She spent the evening with some friends and their kids.”

She assumed he already knew about Maia. The magical press had covered her return in painstaking detail. But the look on Adrian’s face said otherwise. For a moment, he froze—just long enough to make it clear he hadn’t known. He tried to mask it, but the surprise was unmistakable.

Hermione’s stomach twisted. She should have told him sooner.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I thought you might’ve heard. It’s been in the papers.”

“No, don’t apologize,” he said quickly. “It’s just—surprising, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting it.”

The air between them grew uncertain. She hated how the magic of the evening seemed to be slipping through her fingers.

“Really, don’t overthink it,” he added, trying to ease the tension. “I’ve just… I’ve never been around babies much.”

“She’s not a baby,” Hermione said smiling, “She’s six.”

Adrian didn’t look particularly reassured by that fact, but he nodded.

“You must be proud of her,” he said, managing a small smile. “I can tell by the way you talk about her.”

Hermione felt her tension ease. “I am. She’s… amazing.”

They stood there for a moment, the night quiet around them, just looking at each other. Then Adrian stepped closer. They were beside his car now, Hermione leaning lightly against the passenger door.

“It really was a lovely evening,” he said, his voice low, warm.

“I agree.”

His hands found her waist, and he gently pressed her back against the car. One hand moved to hers, then slowly slid up to the curve of her neck. Hermione almost closed her eyes, but resisted. She wanted to watch his face as he touched her, wanted to see the desire she felt mirrored in him.

And it was.

His kiss was slow at first, testing, thoughtful. But when she gripped the lapels of his jacket and pulled him closer, something shifted. He pressed her harder into the car, his mouth urgent on hers, full of heat and hunger.

She didn’t know how long they kissed like that, out in the open, and she didn’t care.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless, he whispered, “We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?” and gave her one last, lingering kiss.

She nodded, still dazed, watching as he got into his car and drove off into the London night.

Inside Grimmauld Place, the house was silent except for the soft breathing of Maia, curled up asleep with Albus on the magically expanded sofa.

“That was quite a show, Hermione. I couldn’t be more proud,” Ginny teased from the corner, pulling the curtains closed after a not-so-subtle peek at the street.

Their second date happened a few days later. As they stepped out of the elevator on the fiftieth floor of a glass-paneled skyscraper, Hermione turned to him with curiosity.

“Where on earth are we dining?”

The answer took her breath away.

The restaurant was stunning—sleek and modern, with walls of glass that offered a panoramic view of the city below. If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn the ceiling was enchanted, like the Great Hall at Hogwarts. But no magic touched this place. It was purely, achingly Muggle and spectacular.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Adrian asked, his voice low with satisfaction.

“Yes,” Hermione breathed. “It’s… incredible.”

The hostess led them to a window-side table. The city glittered beneath them like scattered stardust, and above, the sky was unusually clear, hundreds of stars visible to the naked eye.

“Usually it’s too cloudy for the stars. This is only the second time I’ve seen a night this clear.” Adrian said as he pulled out her chair.

“We really are lucky,” she agreed, glancing up again.

He leaned in slightly, brushing his fingers over hers. “No. I’m the lucky one. Some god is definitely trying to impress you and he’s working in my favor.”

Hermione flushed but smiled. Adrian didn’t need any divine help, he was doing just fine on his own.

They dined on elegant French cuisine, paired with smooth Italian wine. Conversation flowed easily between them, filled with wit and warmth. At one point, Adrian stood and moved to her side of the table without a word, settling beside her.

His hand slipped to her bare knee beneath the table. She had chosen a short skirt that evening—partly inspired by Grant’s offhand comments about her legs, but mostly because she felt like herself again lately. Confident. Seen.

Adrian’s hand brushed her knee gently, then slid slightly higher, his fingertips ghosting along her thigh as the fabric of her skirt rose with the motion. Hermione shivered, a small sound escaping her lips.

He chuckled, brushing his lips against her temple. “It might be better if I sit across from you again,” he murmured.

“No,” she said a little too quickly.

So he stayed, his hand resting where it was, continuing to talk about his doctorate work with deliberate casualness, as if her pulse wasn’t thudding in her ears and her face wasn’t steadily burning. She couldn’t stop the grin on her lips.

Later, when they reached the parking lot where he’d left his beloved car, he turned to her.

“And now?” he asked. “Want me to drop you off at your friend’s place again?”

She had apparated there, but she knew Adrian loved his car—loved driving, loved the small rituals of Muggle life.

“No,” Hermione said. “How about we take a walk instead?”

She didn’t mention that Maia was spending the weekend in the Burrow with Ron and Jacqueline, and that her daughter would be sleeping there tonight.

They apparated to a spot near the Thames, where the city glowed in the cool October night. The air was crisp, and the wind tugged playfully at Hermione’s hair. Adrian slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. His body radiated warmth, and she leaned into him.

They walked like that for a while, admiring the reflections of the city lights on the water. But eventually, her high heels began to punish her, and the posture of walking while entwined wasn’t as romantic as it looked. So they stopped, standing still in an embrace, looking out across the river to the twinkling skyline on the other side.

Adrian kissed her—on the neck, the chin, the lips. His mouth was warm against the cold, and she trembled in his arms.

“Why are you trembling?” he whispered in her ear.

Because I had forgotten what it’s like, she thought. Forgotten how it feels to be wanted. To want.

But instead, she said something else entirely.

“Would you like to come to my place?”

If Adrian was surprised, he didn’t show it. He simply smiled, took her hand, and pulled her into the shadows of a nearby alley. A quiet pop later, they stood at the gate of her house.

It was dark inside. Before she could say Lumos, Adrian pressed her against the wall, his breath hot on her skin.

“I want you now,” he murmured. He tried to pull down her top to kiss her chest, to unzip her skirt, but his movements were so quick they were ineffective. She heard him curse under his breath.

She barely had time to catch her breath before he raised his wand. Her clothes vanished, leaving only her underwear. Embarrassment never had a chance to settle—he was already kissing her again, his hands everywhere.

She fumbled with the buttons of his shirt as he murmured against her neck, words she couldn’t make out, but they were just as insistent as hers, resisting her efforts.

He stepped back. “Take me to your bedroom, because I swear, I’m going to take you here in the hallway, and I know I’ll regret it later.”

That’s when she looked at him—his hair tousled, shirt half open and wrinkled, lips swollen, eyes dark with heat. He looked wild. Unrestrained.

She wondered, suddenly, what she looked like.

They spent the night together, tangled in sheets and limbs, a blur of heat and urgency. He was more rushed than she was used to but she didn’t complain. Neither of them sought sweet words or gentle restraint. They just wanted. And wanting was enough.

When she woke, he was gone.

There was a note on the kitchen counter: Had an early meeting, will call you later –A.

She showered quickly, still feeling the ache in muscles long unused. It had been years since someone had touched her like that.

“Someone had a good night,” Ginny said knowingly when Hermione stepped out of the Floo at Grimmauld Place. She arched an eyebrow.

Hermione blushed, which was all the confirmation Ginny needed.

Throughout October, Hermione and Adrian continued to see each other. On their third date, they ended up in his car—like teenagers still living with their parents—kissing, touching, their hands and mouths exploring every sensitive spot.

“Did you cast an Extension Charm in here?” she asked when they first slid into the back seat.

“Of course I did,” he replied with a grin, already beginning to undo her clothes slowly, reverently.

Their fourth date took them to a Muggle concert. Hermione didn’t know the band, but let herself get swept up in the music and the crowd. That night, they ended up at his flat. They spent the whole night together, in his bed, their chemistry undeniable. In the morning, pressed for time and with no chance to return home, Hermione transfigured her wrinkled clothes into something more appropriate for work before slipping out the door.

Bit by bit, she began to understand more of who Adrian really was. There was charm, ambition, and intelligence but also a deep-seated bitterness whenever the magical world came up.

At first, they avoided talking about the war. But eventually, it caught up with them.

“I didn’t fight,” Adrian said one evening. They were curled up on his couch, a fire crackling softly in the grate. “The Death Eaters came for us but my parents were ready. My father had the means—money, contacts. We hid. We paid for magical protection. We even helped smuggle out a few Muggleborns, mostly people my mum knew through her sister.”

Hermione listened quietly. It wasn’t the story she had expected.

“It might sound strange,” Adrian continued, “but I’ve never liked the version of the magical world they offered me. There, I’ll always be the outsider. The dirty one. But here—” he gestured around at his sleek, modern flat, at the world he’d built beyond the reach of magic—“Here, I run a successful software company. I have a doctorate. People respect me. I like who I am in this world. I don’t need magic to be somebody.”

Hermione tilted her head, considering his words. “But don’t you miss it? Don’t you ever wish you were part of the wizarding world again?” She couldn’t imagine a life without magic, even with all its flaws.

“Part of what? I was never really part of it”, he said bitterly. “Half those people think we’re beneath them. They tried to hurt us. They killed so many.” He paused, his voice lower now, gentler. “I know the magical world matters to you. I know the Ministry means something to you. You gave up so much in that fucking war. You want to fix things now, to make the magical world better for Muggleborns. But I chose a different path. I’d rather help Muggles, because to me, they need it more.”

***

Their relationship developed slowly. Hermione soon came to understand that Adrian was dedicated to his work. He spent long hours at the office, often traveling abroad for business, and with her own demanding job and the time she wanted to dedicate to Maia, their moments together were fewer than she had hoped.

Even when he was far away, every morning, without fail, she woke up to a message from him on her phone. Sometimes he sent flowers to the Ministry. Other times, he would drop by the corner deli—just for five minutes—when she was having lunch with Harry, simply to see her.

What bothered her most, however, was the constant rush. Their meetings were often squeezed between responsibilities, her needing to get back to Maia, him needing to return to the office. Their intimacy felt hurried sometimes, their time together clipped and fleeting, especially when she hadn’t arranged for Maia to stay at Grimmauld Place or with her parents.

In early November, after a month of dating, Adrian finally met Harry and Ginny. The dinner was casual but warm, filled with laughter and easy conversation. To Hermione’s relief, they seemed to genuinely like him.

Two weeks before Christmas, she suggested that he come with her to Grimmauld Place that Sunday.

“We can start with Maia, you, and me taking a walk in the park near Grimmauld, sit in that little bakery for breakfast, and then head to Grimmauld,” she said.

She had wanted to suggest introducing him to Maia for some time now. This introduction would definitely make her life easier. She wouldn’t have to hide anymore, wouldn’t have to lie to her daughter about where she was going or who she was meeting. But it wasn’t just about convenience.

It was about truth.

Maia was clever—too clever not to notice that something had changed. Hermione had always prided herself on honesty, and the half-truths she’d begun to spin felt heavier with each repetition. Hiding was starting to feel more like betrayal.

More than that, she needed to see it: the dynamic, the way Adrian would look at her daughter, the way Maia might respond. It wasn’t about rushing into anything, it was about understanding whether this relationship had a place in the life she’d built with Maia. If there was space for him in their world, even in the smallest way.

And then, of course, there was Maia herself. Hermione didn’t want her daughter to feel blindsided someday by someone suddenly appearing in her life. A slow, careful introduction—a walk, a breakfast, nothing overwhelming—seemed like the most respectful way to begin. Just enough to let Maia feel safe.

“Hermione,” Adrian swallowed hard. “I... I’ve never really been around kids. I don’t know how to act. And the truth is... I’m scared she won’t like me.”

Hermione tried to reassure him, telling him that he had nothing to be afraid of, that he would be wonderful, and that Maia would like him just as much as she did.

Adrian was visibly uncomfortable around children. Maia, who had started the morning visibly excited—especially when Hermione told her about the bakery—soon grew quiet and hesitant. When she began telling them about her teacher, her classmates, and the upcoming school trip to a small lake near London, Adrian offered nothing more than a polite nod and a smile.

He didn’t ask a single question.

Maia’s enthusiasm faded fast. She slowly turned her attention away from him, speaking only to Hermione from then on.

Hermione’s smile weakened. Seeing her daughter’s disinterest hurt more than she had anticipated. This wasn’t how she had imagined the first meeting going, not even close.

Later, when Hermione nudged Adrian to share a bit about himself, he began a hesitant explanation about his job and the software he was developing. But by then, Maia had checked out completely. She slouched in her seat, resting her cheek against her palm, and stared at her empty plate with a bored expression.

When they went to Grimmauld Place, Adrian looked even more out of place, surrounded by so many children. At one point, James sprinted past him holding a plate of pastries, only to trip and send the entire tray flying. Cream and jam splattered all over Adrian’s trousers and shoes. He said nothing, but Hermione could tell he wished he could disappear along with the mess.

“You’re doing fine, just relax a little. They’re children-,” she said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “-not dragons.” But she was fairly certain he would’ve preferred dragons.

Later, Maia burst into the living room where Hermione, Harry, Ginny and Adrian were sitting, with Scorpius chasing after her.

“Come on, Scorp, say it!” she called out encouragingly. The little boy, who always came to Grimmauld alone, gave a bashful smile.

“Ermione,” he said shyly, cheeks flushed pink.

“Well done, Scorp! Almost there!” Maia laughed and gave him a high-five.

Hermione and Ginny chuckled. “Well done, Scorp,” Hermione echoed, reaching out her hand for a high-five of her own.

“Ermione,” Scorpius repeated, beaming with pride.

“Mum! Can Scorp come to our house?” Maia said, bouncing in front of her. “Please, please, please! I want to show him the science kit you got me! And he really needs to learn what a microwave is! Mum, how will he survive if he doesn’t even know that?”

“Maia, we’ve talked about this—” Hermione began gently.

“I know, but it’s not fair!” Maia pouted. “I want him to see my room. And I want to see his! He told me he has the whole sky on his ceiling with stars that shine and change places and everything! Maybe my star is up there too, Mum. I want to see it so badly!”

Just then, Scorpius pointed up toward the empty ceiling of Grimmauld Place. “Little stars-” he whispered in awe, “-shining in de sky. Daddy is there. Scorp is there too!”

Hermione looked around, not knowing what to say. She didn’t want the little Malfoy coming to her house—that much was certain.

Harry, sensing her discomfort, intervened.

“Maia, what if,” he began, “you, me, Scorpius, and Albus planned a little trip next Saturday? Somewhere in Muggle London? We could grab crepes, and I bet we can find an electronics shop. I’m absolutely certain you’ll be able to show Scorpius all the mysterious machines he doesn’t know about.”

Maia lit up immediately, the stars and Scorpius’s ceiling forgotten in an instant. She threw her arms around Harry with delight.

“But first,” he added, “we’ll ask Scorpius’s dad later, alright? Just to make sure he’s okay with it.”

Hermione had noticed it before: Scorpius was always already at Grimmauld Place when she and Maia arrived, and he never left until after they were gone. It didn’t take much to piece it together. Malfoy must have been dropping him off early and picking him up late, just to avoid crossing paths with her.

Shortly afterward, as Hermione, Adrian and Maia were getting ready to leave she noticed the open Daily Prophet on the table, its pages turned to the section on society gossip.

Lady Malfoy Makes Triumphant Return

After three years of silence, Lady Malfoy has reemerged into the public eye, making her first appearance at the prestigious Pucey Winter Party. Whispers in high society suggest that the Lady is orchestrating a grand return, with rumors hinting she is the force behind this year’s much-anticipated High Society’s New Year’s Gala, to be held at the legendary Malfoy Manor.The last event of such magnitude dates back to the years before the Second Wizarding War. Sources close to the family confirm that the guest list remains strictly confidential, with only the crème de la crème of the wizarding world expected to attend—if the rumors prove true.

She barely had time to glance at the glimmering photo of Narcissa Malfoy before Maia tugged insistently on her sleeve. “Come on, mum, I want to read the story of the wicked grandmother today!”

Yes, wicked, grandmother, indeed.

***

December 2007

Since Maia had first met him, Adrian had begun appearing more frequently, cautiously weaving his presence into their lives. Maia observed him with the kind of quiet scrutiny only children possess, measuring him by what he said, how he responded to her babbling, how he made her feel. Adrian, unsure of his footing, had taken to gifts—designer dolls, stuffed animals, puzzle boxes, and an ever-replenishing supply of sweets.

"She doesn’t need more sugar or more toys," Hermione had chided one morning, folding her arms. "Try talking to her, Adrian."

Adrian had blinked, stricken, like someone being handed a puzzle with missing pieces.

“I am trying Hermione, I really do, but I don’t know how to talk to four-year-olds,” he’d confessed, his voice defensively light. “Not even yours—though I’m fairly certain she’s at least ten times smarter than the Potters’ kids.”

Hermione had laughed, but the sound rang hollow even to her own ears. Maia was almost six.

“I’ll stop bringing so many sweets and toys, I promise,” he’d said while hugging her.

She tried not to judge him too harshly. Adrian was, by all accounts, a good man. He was considerate, intelligent, and had a quiet steadiness that many would admire. More importantly, after he stopped bringing toys and sweets, he was making a real effort with Maia. He had suggested trips to the cinema, even researched Muggle cartoons so he’d have something to talk about with her daughter. He was trying.

And Hermione appreciated that. She truly did. Because for her, Maia was everything. Loving her — truly loving her — meant understanding that there was no version of her life that didn’t include her daughter at the very center. Blending a child into one’s life required more than just affection or desire. It demanded patience, emotional presence, and a quiet kind of care that didn’t always come naturally. She reminded herself of this constantly. Especially with Adrian — who had never imagined himself in the role of a father, even a stepfather — she tried, again and again, to be patient.

But deep down, Hermione knew: if it ever came down to choosing between a man who made her laugh and a little girl who made her whole, there would be no hesitation. She and Maia were a team, always had been, always would be. And if Adrian couldn't learn to love them both — completely, equally — then it wouldn't matter how kind or thoughtful or charming he was. He wouldn’t be the right person for them.

***

The Ministry of Magic’s Christmas Gala that year was held at an opulent enchanted hotel on the outskirts of London. It was the first time Hermione and Adrian would step into the spotlight together—publicly, unmistakably, as a couple—before the ever-watchful eyes of magical Britain.

They arrived at the gala with Harry and Ginny, stepping into the spotlight as expected. The cameras, eager as ever, snapped at the famous couple, but the moment reporters caught sight of Hermione linked with a man, the flashes shifted, now focused squarely on her and Adrian.

“Come on, Karstair, let’s head inside,” Harry said, ushering them into the grand hall.

Just like the year before, the room was filled with round tables, chairs arranged meticulously in perfect circles. Harry led them to a central table where, to Hermione’s dismay, Grant was already seated with another Auror.

She threw Harry a glance, one that spoke volumes. He shrugged lightly, his expression saying, Don’t blame me—I’m not the one arranging the seating.

Adrian, ever the gentleman, pulled out her chair and sat beside her. Hermione's gaze flickered back to Grant, who hadn’t stopped staring since they’d entered.

“You alright?” Adrian asked softly, brushing his fingers over hers.

“I’m fine,” she replied, forcing a smile, her eyes scanning the name cards on the nearby seats. The only thing that could make this more uncomfortable was if Draco Malfoy somehow ended up at their table.

After dinner, the plates disappeared and the music swelled, filling the space with a soft hum. It was in that moment, amidst the laughter and chatter, that Hermione spotted him—Malfoy—standing across the hall with Theo Nott, just as she had last year. But this time, a woman stood by his side.

“Is that Narcissa?” Hermione whispered to Ginny, her eyes narrowing as she took in the sight.

Ginny followed her gaze and gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Merlin. She’s... Merlin, she’s changed.”

And she had. Narcissa was barely a shadow of the woman she once was. Her pale blonde hair had turned stark white, a stark contrast to the woman who had once been the epitome of grace and poise. Her face had thinned dramatically, sharp cheekbones cutting into the hollowness of her cheeks, her skin drawn tight. Only her eyes—icy blue, the same as Scorpius’s—remained unchanged, still gleaming, though they now appeared sunken, as if drained by years of sorrow.

She wore an exquisite deep green gown, the fabric shimmering under the light, and enough jewels to fill an entire vault at Gringotts. Yet, not even diamonds could conceal the toll that age and grief had exacted from her. It was as if she had aged twenty years in the span of five.

“I haven’t seen her in... what, three? Four years?” Ginny murmured, her voice thick with disbelief. “Draco wasn’t exaggerating.”

Malfoy himself was in a deep conversation with Theo. As always, he was devastatingly handsome. He wore a perfectly tailored black velvet tuxedo, the lapels lined with silver silk that shimmered subtly under the warm glow of the chandeliers. His crisp white shirt was fastened with discreet mother-of-pearl buttons, and a dark green pocket square peeked from his breast pocket. His platinum-blond hair was neatly combed back, not a strand out of place, and the faintest shadow of stubble along his jaw only added to his allure. There was something effortless in the way he carried himself—elegant, controlled, magnetic. He looked like he owned the whole room.

She forced herself not to look at him again.

A little later, with a subtle flick of his wand, Kingsley signaled the enchanted instruments to take their places once more. The air around them seemed to come alive with a soft swell of music. The melody was light and airy, filling the grand hall with its charm and offering Hermione a brief reprieve from the unease that had settled over her since their arrival.

“Is that Dennis Creevey?” Adrian asked, his voice cutting through Hermione’s thoughts.

Harry and Hermione followed his gaze.

“Yes, that’s him,” Harry confirmed.

“That’s Dennis? Good God, I haven’t seen him since 1999!” Hermione exclaimed, her surprise evident. The last time she’d seen him had been just a year after the Battle of Hogwarts. They’d exchanged only a few words, mostly about his studies. Dennis had chosen to complete his education at Beauxbatons—Hogwarts had held too many painful reminders of his brother.

“Who’s he talking to?” Adrian asked, narrowing his eyes.

“That would be Draco Malfoy and Theo Nott,” Harry replied, scanning the crowd.

Hermione watched as the two men, previously hidden by the throng, stepped into view beside Dennis. How strange, she thought, him talking to them.

“I thought he was Muggleborn. Am I wrong?” Adrian asked.

“No, you’re not wrong,” Harry said, arching an eyebrow. “But how do you know Dennis?”

Adrian hesitated, a flicker of tension crossing his features. “Years ago, he applied for a job at my father’s firm. I remember looking into him, like I do with every applicant. We don’t hire many magical folk, but I’m always careful. I won’t risk bringing in anyone with anti-Muggle sentiments. Honestly, I was close to hiring him. His résumé was stellar. But in the end, I figured his ambitions were probably better aligned with the magical world than the Muggle,” he said. Then, with a subtle tilt of his head toward the two wizards, he added, “Seeing who he keeps company with now... well, I’ll admit I’m surprised and a little disappointed. Those Death Eaters killed so many innocent people. I don’t understand how he can laugh so easily with them.”

His voice trailed off, the bitterness lingering.

Hermione felt a familiar pang at the words. Malfoy had been many things, but he had never truly been a Death Eater. Even when his own life—and his family’s—had hung in the balance, he had refused to take the lives others discarded so carelessly. He had never become a killer. And no matter what came after, no matter how deeply he had hurt her, she still held that truth close. The boy who chose not to be a monster had been real. She would never have given herself to anyone capable of such darkness. Never would she have brought a child into the world with a man like that. Her daughter’s father was not a monster.

But Adrian didn’t know about her past with Malfoy. He didn’t know about the love that had once smoldered between them—loud, impossible, and hidden away from the world. And this crowded gala was no place to stir up old ghosts.

So she didn’t defend him. Didn’t correct Adrian. She simply said nothing.

“Colin Creevey was a great friend,” Harry said, his voice steady. “And Dennis is a friend—now and always. He fought just as fiercely as any of us. He was only fifteen when he chose to stay and fight. Me, Ron, Hermione—all of us—we see him as one of our own. A survivor of the Order of the Phoenix, even if not officially. We trust him completely, Adrian.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you, Harry,” Adrian said. “And I’m not trying to insult Creevey. But he’s over there, laughing with Malfoy and his lot.” His voice dropped, still edged with disbelief. “How can he do that?”

“Malfoy’s not a Death Eater. And if he ever was, I guarantee you he was the worst one they ever had. He might be an arrogant prat who still thinks he’s a better flyer than me, but a Death Eater? No. That’s why he’s my friend. That’s why he’s Dennis’s friend. That—and the fact that he works with Malfoy,” Harry added, his tone matter-of-fact. “Or rather, he works for him. Dennis runs the entire Malfoy business empire. Frankly, he does the job of ‘Lord Malfoy’ better than either Lucius or Draco ever did.”

Hermione stared at him, stunned, her mouth slightly open. “Dennis... manages the Malfoy business?” she echoed, barely able to believe it. “Since when?”

“Draco hired him a few years ago,” Harry said, his voice neutral. “Right after his marriage to Astoria. Dennis is brilliant. Since he took over, the Malfoy empire has expanded. His ideas are bold. He’s a visionary—relentless, in the best way. And Draco is genuinely proud of him. Dennis is, more or less, his right hand. He trusts him that much, he’s even willing to expand into the Muggle world.”

Hermione’s mind was still reeling, caught between disbelief and awe.

“A Malfoy in the Muggle world,” Adrian said disapprovingly, not quite pleased with what he’d heard. “Well, if Mr.Creevey is as good a man as you both claim, perhaps he can bring some light into the Malfoy legacy.”

Then, turning to Hermione, he extended a hand and asked, “Would you care to dance?”

She hesitated for a split second, then, with a small nod, placed her hand in his. He helped her to her feet, and she adjusted the hem of her gown, her fingers brushing against the fabric as she did. She was wearing sky-high heels, a conscious effort to match Adrian’s impressive height, and the dress, which she had bought only days before from a high-end Muggle boutique in London, flowed gracefully around her. The deep midnight blue satin of the gown shimmered under the lights, the open back catching the ambient glow whenever she moved.

Adrian, matching her in elegance, wore a velvet blazer in the exact same shade of blue.

The two of them, along with a few other couples, made their way to the dance floor. As they moved, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that every eye in the ballroom was on them, a sensation that intensified when Adrian’s hands settled gently on her bare back. His fingers moved in soft, absent circles as they swayed to the music, sending a ripple of heat through her. The photographers' flashes sparked around them, capturing every moment, blinding her for a brief moment. She closed her eyes, leaning slightly into Adrian’s touch, the noise of the world fading as she tried to ignore the unsettling intensity of the moment.

“You're beautiful,” he whispered softly into her ear.

They danced through two songs, the music flowing around them like a soft, steady rhythm, but it didn’t take long for Hermione to start complaining about her aching feet. The high heels, which had seemed like a good idea when she bought the gown, were starting to feel like an instrument of torture. They returned to their table just in time to see Harry now being accompanied by the same two men they had discussed earlier.

Hermione stiffened, but it was already too late—Malfoy had spotted them approaching, and retreating now would only draw attention. So, she kept walking, Adrian by her side, his hand resting comfortably around her waist. She tried not to think about the waves of discomfort rising in her chest.

“Hermione!” Dennis called out, his face lighting up with a warm smile as he extended his hand to her. “How many years has it been? It’s so good to see you.”

Hermione’s heart lifted a little at the sight of him. Dennis hadn’t changed a bit. Still charming, still cheerful, and his easy-going nature was as comforting as ever. She shook his hand with a genuine smile, pleased to see him again.

“I’m happy to see you too, Dennis,” she said warmly, her smile reaching her eyes.

Dennis turned to Adrian, his friendly demeanor not faltering. “Mr.Karstair, I’m not sure if you remember me—”

“I do, Mr.Creevey. It’s very nice to meet you again,” Adrian interjected smoothly, his tone far warmer than it had been earlier, though it was still laced with a subtle formality.

Before Dennis could respond, a familiar voice interrupted their conversation.

“Granger.”

Hermione’s breath caught slightly at the sound of Malfoy’s voice. She didn’t look at him immediately but returned his greeting with a level tone.

"Malfoy," she said evenly, noting how his gaze hovered somewhere between her and Harry—never quite landing, never quite meeting her eyes. He didn’t look at her directly anymore. Not here. Not in the Ministry Atrium when she ran into him the week before. Not even at Andromeda’s home. He just… didn’t.

And if she were being honest, it wasn’t just that he avoided her. His eyes didn’t seem to truly see at all. They were distant—unfocused, blank, like he was staring into a fog only he could perceive. There was something vacant in them, something hollow.

A stray thought flickered through her mind.

Years ago, he had revealed a secret to her, that he was an Occlumens. It was a skill he had learned from his godfather, Severus Snape, and one that had proven useful many times during his time living under the same roof as Voldemort. But it was also something he had sworn never to use again, unless absolutely necessary. When she had asked him why he would ever turn down such a rare ability, he hadn’t answered right away. Instead, he had reached for her, fingers weaving gently through her hair.

"I can’t stand the cold," he had said quietly. "Everything feels so frozen afterward, like I’m sinking into an icy lake, fighting for breath."

A gentle touch from Adrian pulled her back to the present.

It hit her then—the realization that Malfoy and Adrian had probably never actually been introduced. The awkwardness in the air was almost tangible, and Hermione silently pleaded with Harry to break the silence, to rescue her from the discomfort of having to do it herself.

“Ah—yes,” Harry said, stepping in. “Malfoy, this is Karstair. Karstair, this is Malfoy.”

No one offered a hand.

Draco inclined his head, a curt, minimalist gesture—polite on the surface but unmistakably cold. Adrian mirrored him, just as brief, just as distant. The exchange might as well have been carved from ice.

They began speaking—tentatively at first, until their conversation settled into something between polite diplomacy and quiet calculation.

It was mostly Adrian and Dennis who steered the dialogue, with Harry interjecting now and then. Malfoy, meanwhile, remained silent, his expression carved from marble, distant and impenetrable.

“Harry mentioned,” Adrian began, his tone light but edged with intent, “that there are plans to expand into the Muggle market.”

His eyes flicked toward Malfoy, a glance sharp as a scalpel, though Malfoy gave no reaction. His posture was elegant, effortless—spine straight, shoulders loose—but he offered nothing in return.

Dennis smiled, measured and composed. “It’s true,” he said. “Draco’s given me an unexpected amount of freedom. I’d been developing a few proposals during my postgraduate studies, focused on bridging magical and Muggle systems, and he gave them more than a passing glance. He listened. And, to some people’s surprise, he agreed.”

Adrian’s brow lifted slightly, amusement or disbelief shadowing his features. “Forgive the candor, Mr.Malfoy,” he said, voice now laced with curiosity, “but historically speaking, your family name hasn’t exactly stood as a champion of Muggle progress.”

At those words, Hermione stilled. Beside her, Harry shifted, a flicker of discomfort passing over his face.

Malfoy’s response came cool and deliberate, each syllable controlled like a blade.

“You’re not wrong,” he said, voice low but steady. His gaze met Adrian’s, unblinking. “But we all have a choice. We can carry the weight of our family names like shackles or we can redefine them.”

Adrian turned more fully toward him, his posture composed but his tone edged with skepticism. “That’s certainly an ambitious perspective. But I think we’d all agree it’s much easier said than done. Proving it—well, that’s another matter entirely.”

Malfoy inclined his head slightly, the barest hint of a smirk touching his lips. “I’m pleased to hear you find our plans ambitious, Mr.Kastair. I’ve always believed ambition to be a virtue and I prefer to surround myself with people who share that philosophy.” He glanced at Dennis, a flicker of approval in his eyes. “In recent years, I happen to be particularly proud of the direction the Malfoy enterprise has taken. The growth. The vision.”

He leaned back, tone cool but resolute. “And, between us, you’ll come to understand once you inherit your own family’s legacy that the greatest luxury in business is this: I owe no one an explanation for how I choose to lead. I don’t ask for permission to expand into the Muggle world or to be ambitious while doing so.”

Adrian’s smile came slow, measured, though it never quite reached his eyes. “Of course not. Still, your enterprise is attempting to enter a world you don’t truly know. A world built on systems, values and vulnerabilities you weren’t raised to understand. Is that a risk you’re truly prepared to take?” Adrian asked.

“That’s precisely why Mr.Creevey is heading this division,” Malfoy replied, his tone composed, unwavering. “I may not fully understand that world, but he does. And as you can see, I trust him with my money. That means I trust him with my name as well.”

Dennis offered a small, knowing smile. “We’re investing in sustainable technologies, infrastructure, education, fields where the Muggle world already thrives. We’re not here to disrupt or dominate. We’re here to collaborate. To strengthen what’s already there. This isn’t about profit alone, it’s about potential. About bridging two realities. Creating something that serves both.”

Adrian crossed his arms, his skepticism thinly veiled. “And who gets to decide what qualifies as a ‘bridge’? Because if this turns out to be just another subtle form of magical oversight—”

“It won’t be,” Dennis cut in, calm but resolute. “I wouldn’t lend myself to anything that reduced Muggles to a market to be managed. Yes, I’m a wizard, but I was born of that world too. My brother and I—we grew up straddling both worlds. I remember exactly what it felt like to live with one foot in each realm.”

He paused, then extended a quiet invitation.

“If you’ve got more questions or even ideas—I’d genuinely like to hear them. I’m sure Draco would agree with me on that. Perhaps you’d join me at the bar? I’ve actually been meaning to ask about your work in the Muggle market as well.”

Adrian regarded him thoughtfully, then gave a small nod. “Of course. Please—lead the way.”

He turned slightly toward Hermione, his voice dropping as he leaned in. “I’ll be back shortly,” he murmured and before she could respond, he brushed a kiss against her lips. It was brief, barely toeing the line of propriety but the quiet confidence of it, the certainty, sent a slow burn crawling up her neck.

“Okay,” she said with a small smile. “Maybe I’ll find you first.”

As Adrian and Dennis made their way toward the bar, the space they left behind felt strangely taut—charged with something unsaid.

Hermione, quite suddenly, wished she had followed them. She could’ve used a drink, because the alternative was staying in a group now made up of Harry, Malfoy, and Ginny, who had appeared almost the moment Adrian disappeared.

“Let’s go get a drink too,” Ginny suggested, and Hermione felt an overwhelming gratitude for her presence at that moment.

Before they could walk away, a shrill voice sliced through the room like glass under pressure—high-pitched, unmistakable, and utterly unwelcome.

“DRAACO! I’ve been looking for you all night!”

Hermione winced.

Pansy Parkinson was teetering toward them in heels far too high and a dress far too tight, dragging another woman behind her who looked barely able to walk.

“Pansy, I am smashed,” the woman mumbled under her breath, attempting—and failing—not to stumble.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Pansy huffed, not even glancing back. Her focus was fixed on Malfoy. “Honestly, where have you been hiding all evening? Narcissa’s furious with you, you know. She’s been working so hard to secure your happiness and you—”

She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes finally registering who he was standing beside. The sneer that twisted her mouth was venomous.

“Oh. Still clinging to your outdated past?” she said with mock disappointment. “How dull, Draco.”

Ginny stepped forward, her voice sharp and immediate. “Back off, Parkinson.”

Draco maintained a neutral expression, but Hermione saw it — the small flicker of tension in his jaw. He was trying to play it off.

“Hello, Pansy,” he said mildly. “Nice to see you.”

Pansy let out a snort.

“Liar.”

Then her gaze darted across the group, her smirk deepening. “So, what is this? A Potter, another Potter, and… the mudblood.”

Hermione froze.

It had been years since she’d heard that word — that vile, loaded slur — spoken aloud. And though she’d spent more than a decade building armor against it, it still managed to burrow somewhere deep inside her. It didn’t hurt in the way it used to, not with the same raw sting that once made her sob into her pillow in the girls’ dormitory. But it still echoed.

It echoed with the memory of a younger version of herself who had once believed it. Who had, for a time, wondered if she’d ever be enough.

She wasn’t that girl anymore. But the echo still hurt.

Her breath caught in her chest, but her spine remained straight, her chin high. She didn’t flinch. She wouldn’t give Pansy the satisfaction.

Beside her, she felt the subtle shift of Harry’s weight—a tiny movement, but telling. His hand twitched near his wand, protective as always.

“How dare you talk like that, you stupid cow—”

But before Ginny could finish the sentence, Malfoy had already moved.

In one fluid step, he positioned himself between Hermione and Pansy, his shoulders squared, his body a quiet wall. His voice was low but carried a clear warning.

“Potter, keep your wand inside that holster of yours. We’re in the middle of a party,” he said without looking at Harry. Then, turning to Pansy, he added: “Pansy.” A warning.

She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, lips curling into something smug. “You’re absolutely ridiculous, you know that? Pathetic. Your father is probably rolling in his grav—”

“Pansy,” Draco cut in again, this time more forcefully. “That’s enough. You’ve had too much to drink, and your cousin clearly needs help.”

He gestured toward the other girl, who had turned an alarming shade of green and looked seconds away from vomiting on the carpet.

“Come on,” he said, holding out his hand. “Let’s get you some air.”

Pansy let out a cold laugh.

“Oh, Draco, I’m touched. A true gentleman. Always there for your friends. Always ready to help, right?” she said with heavy sarcasm.

Draco didn’t respond.

“Especially Theo. You’ve always had a soft spot for saving Theo, haven’t you?” she added, her eyes narrowing as she stared him down.

Draco’s voice dropped a notch, still calm but laced with warning. “Τhis isn’t the time or place for that conversation, and you know it. The high-society friends you’re so desperate to impress are starting to watch. Is that really what you want?”

He gave a pointed glance around the room. “Haven’t you drawn enough attention to yourself already?”

Pansy said nothing at first. The tension between them was palpable, the silence sharp and brittle.

Then, with an exaggerated sigh and a dramatic roll of her eyes, she finally took his hand.

“Excuse me,” Malfoy said to the group, offering them all a polite nod. His gaze passed briefly over each of them, though he avoided meeting Hermione’s eyes.

Without waiting for a response, he guided Pansy across the room, his hand steady at her elbow as he led her toward the exit.

Before they disappeared completely, Hermione finally released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“That disgusting, fucking bitch,” Ginny spat.

“Hermione, are you alright?” Harry asked quietly, stepping closer to her. Around them, thankfully, most people didn’t seem to have grasped the full weight of what had just happened. There was a vague sense that something unpleasant had occurred, but clearly, Malfoy had managed to remove Parkinson quickly enough to prevent a spectacle.

“I’m fine,” Hermione replied, though her mind replayed Malfoy’s exchange with Pansy over and over. Something about it had unsettled her.

“The nerve of that woman is unbelievable,” Ginny said with a scowl. “Utterly ridiculous. Merlin, I’ve never understood how Theo could have been in love with her all those years.”

Hermione blinked. “Theo? In love with Pansy? Since when?”

She was still gazing in the direction where Malfoy and Pansy had vanished beyond the tall glass doors, now heading towards the balcony.

“Honestly, Hermione, sometimes I think you’re completely oblivious. Theo’s been in love with her for… I don’t know, forever maybe. I have no idea what he sees in her. She’s cold, immature, and riddled with all those pureblood superiority complexes and backwards traditions.”

Hermione furrowed her brow. She vaguely recalled Pansy being mentioned in passing — a few weekends when Draco or Theo had announced they’d be seeing her in London, or trips to Paris for her graduation. But she had never really noticed any particular warmth from Theo’s side. And Pansy, in the rare occasions Hermione had seen her, had always been overly tactile with the boys, in a way that grated on her nerves. Especially with Draco. But she couldn’t remember her ever treating Theo with anything beyond polite indifference.

Was it possible, then, that Theo’s affection had always been one-sided?

She faintly remembered seeing Pansy in a few of those social column photographs she normally skipped, draped on the arm of a famous Quidditch player. Was she married? Or just in a relationship? And what exactly had she meant earlier, when she said Malfoy always protected his friends, especially Theo?

“Hermione, are you listening?” Harry said again.

She snapped out of her thoughts. “Sorry, Harry. I zoned out for a moment.”

“I asked if you wanted something to drink.”

“Oh — no, thank you. Actually, I think I’ll go find Adrian. I’m feeling a bit tired and I don’t want to burden Molly with Maia for too long. We should probably leave soon.”

She made her way toward the bar, but before she could reach it, three different Ministry officials stopped her, all eager to greet her, ask for her opinion, or share their views on ongoing political matters. By the time she managed to extricate herself, both Adrian and Dennis were gone.

Instead, she spotted Lady Malfoy across the room, deep in conversation with a young woman who looked remarkably at ease in the presence of the formidable matriarch. Wanting to avoid both a one-on-one encounter with Narcissa and another round of Ministry small talk, Hermione veered off in a different direction and slipped out through one of the side glass doors that led to the hotel’s back garden.

The December air was crisp and bitingly cold. Hermione cast a quick Warming Charm over herself and stepped further into the quiet, frost-covered garden. The night sky was clouded, starless, and heavy — as if even the heavens were reluctant to witness the evening’s events. A light mist hung low over the neatly trimmed hedges and empty stone benches, softening the harsh lines of the landscape. For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe.

Then, a sound caught her attention — the low murmur of voices, growing steadily louder.

Curious, she turned toward the source of the noise, her steps light against the gravel path. And there, just beyond a tall yew hedge, partially hidden from view, she found Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson locked in what was clearly a heated conversation.

Hermione drew back instinctively, ducking behind the hedge to avoid being seen. She couldn’t help herself — she leaned in just enough to listen.

"You had no right, Draco!" Pansy’s voice was trembling with fury.

"Keep your voice down!" he hissed. "Do you really want the whole world to know you're screwing Theo while still married to someone else?"

"I'm not screwing him. I love him," she spat. "And he loves me."

Draco let out a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand down his face. "You’re being delusional. You never loved Theo. You just loved that he loved you."

"You don’t know what you’re talking about!" she protested. "You’re the reason he won’t even look at me anymore! You poisoned him with your self-righteous garbage. This is your fault!"

"You think I told Theo something he didn’t already know?" Malfoy shot back. "He made that decision on his own. And I supported him because I actually care about him — something you’d do too, if you weren’t so completely selfish and you actually loved him."

Pansy let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Oh, don’t talk to me about love, Draco. You, who married that pathetic Greengrass girl just to please your parents—"

"I didn’t marry Astoria to please anyone," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I was forced to. And you damn well know that, Pansy."

"-and you never loved her. Not even for a day." She took a step closer, her voice dripping with venom. "Or maybe you think your fling with your filthy little Mudblood counts as love. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m ashamed of you Draco."

Malfoy’s eyes flared. “You were warned never to call her that again.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “You called her that your entire life, and now suddenly you’re all noble and sensitive? I’m just speaking the truth, Malfoy.”

“Hermione was never just a fling. She was so much more than your narrow mind and even narrower heart can understand. And if we’re going to speak some truths, Pansy, the truth is she’s ten times the person you’ll ever be. A better woman. A better witch. And you know what else?” He stepped forward, his voice sharp as steel. “Her love is pure. It lifts people up. Yours?” He looked her up and down with cold disdain. “Yours is a noose — tight around the throat. Twisting. Choking.”

Pansy’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “Do you actually think you can hurt my feelings, Draco? Because you can’t! But I am truly curious now—after that lecture on the nobility of her soul and her love—are you fucking her again? I thought she’d gone back to her own kind, let one of them have her. Didn’t know you’d stoop so low, taking Karstair’s sloppy seconds.”

Draco didn’t so much as flinch. His voice, when he spoke, was a blade forged of ice.

“Speak about her like that again, and I’ll make sure the entirety of Britain and France knows exactly who’s fucking the wife of the French Quidditch Champion. Don’t think I don’t know about the others, Pansy. I do. So does Theo.” He took a step closer, his tone quiet but brimming with lethal intent. “I could walk back in right now, whisper a single sentence to my mother, and by the end of the night, your perfectly crafted little lie of a life will be nothing but ash. So let me be clear — this is your final warning. Do not speak Hermione Granger’s name again. You’ll regret it, and between you and me...” He leaned in, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. “I’ll enjoy every second of it.”

Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away, his shoulders tight with barely contained fury. A moment later, the sharp crack of apparition split the silence.

Hermione didn’t move right away. She stood in the shadows, heart racing, breath caught in her throat. When she finally stepped out from behind the hedge, Pansy Parkinson was still there, alone, and shivering in the cold.

Hermione walked away in the opposite direction, not once looking back.

And as the night swallowed the last echo of footsteps on gravel, Malfoy’s words lingered in the air. Heavy. Irreversible. Unforgettable.

***

Hermione and Maia spent Christmas Eve with Adrian. The three of them attended a children's Christmas play in the morning, followed by lunch at one of Hermione’s favorite restaurants. By six o’clock, the girls were back home, where Maia, persistent as ever, begged her mother to put on her favorite film. And so, for what must have been the fiftieth time, Shrek played on the television, much to Hermione’s dismay, who made dramatic grimaces at nearly every scene.

Christmas Day was reserved for the Grangers alone. Hermione and Maia exchanged gifts with her parents and enjoyed the delicious meal Helen had prepared with her usual loving care. Later in the afternoon, just before they left, they spent nearly an hour in Richard’s room. Maia, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her grandfather’s chair, read aloud a story about mermaids and other magical sea creatures. Her voice danced with excitement, and though Richard could no longer remember his grandchild or follow the plot of her stories, he smiled at the sound of them.

A few days after New Year’s, Adrian shared some unexpected news.

“A big opportunity just came up in Paris,” he said. “I'll need to be there for ten days. But I thought—since you’re still on leave, and Maia won’t stop talking about her godfather—maybe you'd like to come along? We could go a few days early. I’ll try to clear my schedule and we can visit the magical quarter of the city...”

As expected, Maia was instantly thrilled, mostly because it meant seeing Ron.

“We’ll see my godfather, Mum! And Jacqueline too! Do you think her belly’s gotten bigger by now?”

The weekend before their trip, Maia burst excitedly out of the fireplace at Grimmauld Place and ran through every room in the house. Moments later, she returned to the kitchen, panting.

“Where’s Scorp?” she asked eagerly, just as Harry was setting down a steaming cup of coffee in front of Hermione.

“Ah—sorry, Maia,” he said gently. “Scorp’s not coming today.”

“What?” Her face fell instantly. “Why not? What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Harry reassured her. “Scorp’s aunt is visiting from abroad and wanted to spend some time with him. She doesn’t see him often. I’m sure you’ll see him next week.”

“No! I won’t! I’ll be in France!” Maia cried, her voice climbing with distress. “Mum, I have to tell Scorp I’m going away! What if he comes and I’m not here? What if he wonders where I’ve gone? He might worry!”

She went on complaining and fretting in a way Hermione had never seen before. Her daughter, usually so composed and mature for her age, now looked utterly undone.

Harry exchanged a concerned glance with Hermione, his brow furrowed.

“Maia, what’s going on?” she asked softly. “Why are you so upset? Scorpius will be just fine if he doesn’t see you for a week.”

“I just wanted to tell him about the trip,” she murmured, her voice small as she left the kitchen, shoulders drooping.

Hermione let out a quiet breath.

“What on earth was that about?” Harry asked, lowering his voice.

“Honestly, Harry... I have no idea,” Hermione replied, though even as she spoke, a creeping sense of unease was already knocking at the edge of her thoughts.

On Monday morning, when Adrian and the girls were due to take the portkey to Paris, the weather was dreary and rainy. Their portkey was scheduled to depart at eleven, and Hermione had been up since eight, packing their suitcases. They had planned to stay in Paris from Monday to Wednesday, and then on Thursday, the two Grangers would travel to the outskirts of the city to spend four days at Ron and Jacqueline’s home. Jacqueline, now in her eighth month of pregnancy, had recently taken leave from her position at the Ministry and was resting at home full-time.

A little after ten, Hermione heard the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps, almost a run, echoing down the hall.

“Mum!” Maia’s voice called out, a note of urgency laced into it.

Hermione, who had just about finished packing—everything they needed was already neatly stored in a small carry-on suitcase—turned, ready to greet her daughter. But then she heard it: the choked sob that broke from the little girl’s throat.

She rushed to her immediately.

“Maia, what happened? Are you hurt?” Hermione dropped to her knees, instinctively checking her daughter’s small frame for injuries or blood. But Maia was still wearing her Shrek-and-Princess-Fiona pajamas, and there were no visible wounds. Gently brushing back the curly hair that had fallen into her daughter’s tear-filled eyes, Hermione cupped her face with concern.

“What is it, sweetheart?” she asked softly.

“Mum, we have to go to Scorp! He needs me—he’s scared and crying, and I need to go now, I have to find him!” Maia sobbed.

Hermione, caught completely off guard by her daughter’s distress, tried to calm her.

“Maia, I’m sure Scorpius is just fine—”

“No, he’s not, Mum,” Maia interrupted, her voice trembling. “I know he’s not.”

Hermione tried to soothe her daughter. It took a long while before Maia’s sobs finally quieted. Just as her tears began to subside, the sound of the fireplace echoed through the house. Adrian, who had gone to wrap up a few last-minute matters at his office, stepped out of it, holding his small suitcase.

“Hermione, are you two ready?” he asked cheerfully. “I’ve got a very important meeting at eleven-thirty, and another one at four, but the rest of the day’s wide open! I thought we could grab lunch and—

His words trailed off as he took in the scene before him: the two Grangers huddled together, Maia’s little face red and tear-streaked.

“What happened?” he asked, frowning.

“Scorp’s not okay. Something’s wrong, I know it. I have to help him,” the girl repeated urgently.

“Alright, Maia, alright,” Hermione said gently, stroking her hair. “We’re going to call Harry right now, okay? We’ll ask if he’s heard anything. I’m sure Scorpius is fine.”

“Malfoy’s son?” Adrian asked, a bit confused.

Maia nodded, curls falling back over her eyes.

Hermione pulled out her phone and quickly dialed Harry’s number.

“Hermione, what are you doing?”

“Calling Harry.”

The line rang and rang, abandoned-sounding, which made perfect sense. Harry was most likely buried hundreds of feet underground at the Ministry of Magic by now.

“Harry’s not picking up, Maia. But I promise you, we’ll find out what’s going on with Scorp, alright?”

“Hermione, can I talk to you for a moment?” Adrian asked, gesturing for her to step aside. Hermione had the distinct sense that he was upset now.

“Hermione, it’s already ten-thirty. The Portkey leaves in half an hour, and Maia’s still in her pajamas. I’m worried we’re not going to make it. She needs to pull herself together quickly.”

Hermione stared at him, shocked.

“And what exactly do you expect me to do, Adrian?” she hissed. “My daughter’s been crying in my arms for the past half hour. She says a child is in danger. If I have to track down Scorpius Malfoy to calm her down and make sure he’s okay, I will.”

“Hermione, listen to yourself. She’s four years old! There’s no reason to take what she says seriously. She probably just had a bad dream, or she’s trying to stall us, or—I don’t know—maybe she’s nervous about the trip—”

“She is six, Adrian!” Hermione snapped. “And I have every reason to believe her. Especially when she reacts like this out of nowhere. I’ve never seen her this upset!”

Adrian muttered a curse under his breath. “You’re yelling at me? I’m just trying to find a solution, Hermione!”

“No, you’re not!” she shot back. “You’re just trying to make sure you don’t miss the Portkey and your precious meeting in Paris!”

Adrian exhaled sharply, visibly frustrated. “Okay, okay—just calm down. I can… I can arrange a second Portkey for you and Maia. I have to take the first one, no matter what, but I’ll have my assistant send you another one, alright? Let’s say around 2 p.m.?”

Hermione didn’t reply.

“Alright then. See you in Paris.” He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead before stepping into the flames—without noticing Hermione’s disappointed expression or even glancing at the tearful child still curled up in the corner.

Hermione took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She moved toward Maia again, who had stopped sobbing uncontrollably but still looked deeply shaken.

“Okay, Maia,” she said gently. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

The child ran into her arms.

“I woke up because I was scared,” she said, voice muffled against Hermione’s shoulder. “I think Scorp is scared too. I feel it,” she said, placing a small hand over her heart.
“Sometimes I feel it when he’s happy—usually when he’s eating sweets. And sometimes when he’s tired, because he plays hide-and-seek with Draco and runs all over the house. And other times I know he’s asleep, because then he’s… quiet,” she said softly.

Hermione felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. What the hell was this?

“And now?” she asked carefully. “What do you feel now?”

“I think Scorp is scared and crying. I know he’s crying. Mum, we have to help him—he’s so little, we have to help him!”

“Alright, Maia. Alright,” Hermione murmured. “We’ll find him. But first, we need to find his dad.”

Chapter Text

Monday, 10:50 a.m.

Maia darted to her room the instant Hermione urged her to get dressed, her small feet pounding against the floor in a blur of urgency. As the child disappeared like a gust of wind, Hermione dropped to her knees in front of the fireplace. She tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the green flames and called out, “Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place!”

Unsurprisingly, there was no reply. Harry would already be at the Auror’s Office. Ginny had likely taken the children to the Burrow.

Hermione hesitated for a heartbeat, weighing whether to try the Burrow next. But that house was never quiet, and she didn’t have the time or the emotional strength for a flurry of concerned voices and well-meaning questions.

There would be questions. Too many. Some she didn’t know how to answer. Others she wasn’t ready to.

Maia reappeared in the sitting room like a hurricane, one hand clenched around what looked suspiciously like a Chocolate Frog, which she quickly shoved into the pocket of her jeans as if concealing a precious secret.

“Come on, Mummy, let’s go!”

They landed moments later in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. At this time of morning, it buzzed with movement—witches and wizards flowing through like a fast-moving current.

“No matter what happens, don’t let go of my hand,” Hermione said, gripping Maia’s fingers with quiet urgency as they slipped into the tide of bodies.

Maia clung to her hand with a fierce, almost desperate strength, her small fingers digging into Hermione’s palm.

The lift to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was, mercifully, nearly empty. When they stepped out and approached the wide double doors leading to the Auror Offices, Hermione gently guided Maia to the side and knelt before her. Her voice was soft but edged with urgency.

“Maia, I need you to promise me something,” she said, brushing a loose curl from her daughter’s cheek. “Let me do the talking today, all right? Don’t answer any questions unless I ask you to. Can you do that for me?”

Maia nodded solemnly, her eyes wide and unblinking.

“Good,” Hermione whispered, as she took a slow, steadying breath.

Then, her voice trembled just slightly as she met her daughter’s gaze again. “Now, tell me… do you feel anything new from Scorpius? Do you think he’s doing any better?”

Maia shook her head.

“He’s crying… he’s scared… he wants his dad,” she whispered.

Hermione’s heart twisted so violently it felt as if it might tear in two. What in Merlin’s name was happening? She didn’t know and she hated not knowing.

Not for a moment did she believe Maia was making it up. But how could it be possible for her daughter to feel what Scorpius was feeling?

To know it?

She had never heard of anything like it.

Her mind raced. A magical bond, perhaps? Some kind of sibling connection? She vaguely recalled reading about such phenomena years ago, though the subject had never captured her enough to study it in depth. From what little she remembered, such bonds were extraordinarily rare—so rare, in fact, that there hadn’t been a documented case in over a century.

Was it possible? Could her daughter truly be magically connected to Malfoy’s son?

Dear God…

And what on earth had happened to Scorpius? Was the little boy truly in danger?

If he was…Hermione knew she had to move—fast.

They moved swiftly down the corridor that led to Harry’s office— Malfoy’s door stood right next to it.

Hermione slowed for a heartbeat, torn. Perhaps it would be wiser to speak to Harry first. But Maia was already near tears again, her grip tightening with every step, and the urgency pressing against Hermione’s chest was too heavy to ignore.

She couldn’t waste time.

“Hermione! What are you doing here?”

Andrew Grant crossed the hall in two long strides, emerging from Robards’ office with a look of polite surprise. His gaze flicked briefly to Maia, but to his credit, he made no comment about the child’s presence.

“Andrew, hi,” Hermione said, offering a tight, hurried smile.

“If you’re looking for Harry, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “I just left Robards’ office—he and Potter are deep in a rather delicate discussion about one of the new cases.” He gestured down the hall with a courteous nod. “You’re welcome to wait in my office, if you’d prefer.”

“Thank you, Andrew,” she said, sparing a glance at the door beside her, “But I’m not here for Harry. I’m actually looking for Malfoy. Is he in that meeting as well?”

Grant let out a low chuckle.

“Malfoy? No, he’s holed up in his office. And in a spectacularly foul mood, I might add. I’d advise steering clear, unless it’s urgent.”

Hermione tilted her head cautiously. “Why? What’s happened?”

Grant grinned. “Rumor has it his mother’s taken it upon herself to parade every eligible pureblood witch in Britain past him in hopes of marrying him off. He’s been sulking around the department like a storm cloud since New Year’s.”

Hermione gave a tight nod, lips pressed in a line. She turned back toward Malfoy’s door. Her heart was thudding. Maia’s hand was clammy in hers. There was no time for detours. No time for second thoughts.

“Well, thank you for the information, Andrew,” she said shortly, then she knocked—three sharp raps.

The sound of his voice from inside made her heart leap and stumble in her chest. Her fingers tightened around Maia’s, and she pushed the door open.

His office was… exactly what she hadn’t realized she’d expected.

She hadn’t spent time imagining it, but if she had, it would have looked just like this. It was unmistakably him. Draco.

Understated elegance. Dark, tailored fabrics. Leather chairs positioned with exacting symmetry. Framed landscapes adorned the walls, quiet scenes of snow-laden mountains and still, frozen lakes. Cool. Composed. And yet, in an odd, subtle way, warm.

There was a photo frame on the desk, turned away from view. From where she was standing, she couldn’t make out the faces inside it.

“Granger?” He sounded startled.

She dragged her gaze from the room and locked it onto him—onto the reason she was standing here, heart pounding, hand clammy around her daughter’s.

“Malfoy,” she said. Her voice held more steel than she felt.

Please, Merlin, let Scorpius be alright. Let Maia be wrong.

“Granger—what are you doing here? With Maia? Are you two okay?” He stood abruptly, crossing the space between them in two long strides. His eyes swept over them anxiously, scanning for some hidden injury, some sign that something was wrong.

“We’re fine,” she said, trying to sound convincing.

He didn’t look convinced.

Before he could ask more, she pressed on, voice quicker now, slightly uneven.

“Maia and I… we’re leaving in a few hours. Just a short trip.” A breath. “With Adrian—I mean, Karstair. We’re going abroad for a few days and…”

She glanced down. Maia stood still, shoulders drawn in tight, her face pinched with worry.

“…and she wanted to see Scorpius before we left. She—she wouldn’t go unless she could say goodbye.”

Hermione hesitated, then added softly, “I know this is… forward. I’m sorry. But do you know where he is?”

Malfoy looked between them—Maia’s pale face, Hermione’s strained one—brows drawn in confusion.

“Scorp?” he repeated.

“Yes—yes, Scorp,” Hermione said quickly, her voice cracking just slightly.

There was a pause. Then, for the first time in months—longer, maybe—he looked directly into her eyes.

And what she saw in his knocked the air from her lungs.

His eyes were beautiful. Sharp and grey, glinting like storm clouds. Cold. Always cold. But it wasn’t their color or clarity that made her heart stutter.

It was how he was looking at her. Like he hadn’t seen her in years. Like he’d been waiting all that time to do exactly this. To really look at her.

Her palms dampened. Her throat went dry.

“Tilly,” he called, voice rasping a little at the edges.

With a sharp pop, the elf appeared beside him, making Maia flinch.

“Please go to Greengrass Manor,” he said. “Daphne is there with Scorpius. Bring him here, will you? The young Miss Granger would like to speak to him.”

The elf vanished again with a soft pop. For thirty seconds, silence stretched tight between the walls.

Then—

“Master,” Tilly said, reappearing in a burst of breathless urgency. “Miss Greengrass is not at home. She left this morning with young Master Scorpius. Lucy says she mentioned something about taking him for ice cream in a Muggle place. The same one Harry Potter took the young master to a few weeks ago. Remember, Master Draco? Young Master hasn’t stopped talking about it since. Lucy said Miss Daphne should’ve been back by now. She was expecting Miss Bulstrode at ten thirty, but she still hasn’t returned.”

Malfoy’s head snapped toward the elf. “Where is that ice cream shop? Go there. Now.”

With another sharp pop, Tilly disappeared.

“Granger, what’s going on?” he demanded, his voice cutting through the silence. “Why are you here, and why are you asking where my son is?”

“Mummy!” Maia cried suddenly, loud and panicked. Her sobs swelled, sharp and broken. Hermione dropped instantly to her knees beside her daughter.

“What is it, Maia?” she asked, her voice trembling as her hands cupped Maia’s flushed cheeks. “What is it?”

Draco was beside them in an instant, his own knees hitting the floor as he examined the girl with frantic precision.

“Hermione, what’s happening?” he asked again, more gently this time. There was a strain in his voice — tight, stretched thin — like the string of a bow pulled to its limit.

Hermione could feel her pulse thundering in her throat. Maia’s small fingers gripped hers tighter, desperate.

Before she could answer, another crack sliced through the tension. Tilly reappeared, panting now, her large eyes glassy and wild.

“They’re not there, Master Draco,” she said breathless. “The young master and Miss — they’re not at the ice cream shop. Tilly looked, and Lucy too. We searched the whole street. Every alley. Even the toy shop across the square. But they weren’t anywhere, Master.”

Draco froze.

Not a word. Not a twitch. He simply stilled — utterly, devastatingly still. The kind of stillness that comes before everything falls apart.

Hermione watched the color bleed from his face. His jaw locked, so tightly it looked painful. His shoulders stiffened, and his fists, which had been clenched at his sides, now trembled — not from rage, but restraint. She recognized that kind of fear. The kind that wraps itself around your ribs and crushes.

“Return to the Greengrass estate,” he said quietly, voice hoarse. “If they come back, inform me at once.”

“Yes, Master. I will. I will,” Tilly whimpered before vanishing.

“Granger,” he said again, but this time his voice had changed — lower now, colder, brittle with dread. It wasn’t anger. It was something far worse. It was helplessness.

Her hands trembled as she looked at him.

“What the hell is going on?” His voice cracked under the weight of his fear.

“Mum,” Maia sobbed, “we need to go to Scorp.”

Draco’s head jerked around at her words. He was still kneeling beside them, but now he turned, slowly, deliberately, to face the girl. What Hermione saw in his expression struck something deep in her chest. Because his eyes — wide, stunned, swimming with panic — reflected Maia's.

“What’s going on?” he said to Hermione again, louder now, his voice splintering. “Please—tell me where Scorpius is!”

Before she even realized it, she had moved in front of Maia, shielding her with her own body. As if her presence alone could protect her daughter from the anguish twisting in his voice.

“I don’t know where he is,” she said, and her voice broke. “I just know… he’s upset. And scared.”

“How—”

“Right now, it doesn’t matter how, Draco! What matters is finding him—”

“Malfoy!” Harry’s voice cut through the tension as he burst through the office door. He glanced quickly toward Hermione and Maia, and his eyes widened in disbelief.

“Hermione? What are you doing here? Weren’t you supposed to be in Paris by now?” he asked, confusion lacing his tone. But no one answered him.

“Potter, what happened?” Draco asked, his voice low and stretched thin.

“Malfoy,” Harry said carefully, “we just received a report. Daphne Greengrass and a child matching Scorpius’s description were admitted to St. Mungo’s not long ago.”

At the name of the hospital, Hermione watched the last remnants of color drain from Draco’s face. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

“They’re okay, Malfoy,” Harry said quickly, reassuringly. “Both of them. Just a bit shaken up, but otherwise unharmed. I swear, they’re fine. But we need to go. Now. Come on.”

Malfoy didn’t need to be told twice. He threw a terrified glance toward Hermione and the child. Then turned and ran after Harry.

Hermione followed them. She watched the green flames engulf them both as they vanished through the fireplace, one after the other. Only then did she step forward, holding Maia tightly in her arms, and shout, loud and clear:

“St. Mungo’s!”

***

Monday, 11.25 a.m.

As soon as they landed in the hospital’s reception hall, the first thing Hermione did was summon her Patronus.

“Ginny,” she said quickly, her voice taut with urgency. “Maia and I just arrived at St. Mungo’s. We’re both okay. Malfoy and Scorpius are here too. I’m afraid someone might need to take Maia soon. Please, come quickly.”

She watched the silver otter swirl away into the distance, and with it, the sense of calm its magic always seemed to lend her.

“Mummy, come on, Scorpius is here! Let’s go, Mummy!” Maia tugged insistently at her hand.

Ignoring the reception desk, Hermione turned down the first corridor toward the emergency wing. It didn’t take long to find the right room — Malfoy’s voice echoed loud and frantic through the ward, impossible to miss.

“Let me in! He’s my son!” he was shouting, trying to push past the Healer guarding the door.

Harry stood beside him, hands on his shoulders, doing his best to pull him back.

“Draco, come on,” he said firmly. “Let them do their job. I told you, Scorp is okay. He just needs to be—”

“Potter, if you don’t let go of me this instant, I swear I will hex you into next week!” Draco bellowed, trembling with fury.

Harry looked up as Hermione approached, his expression a mixture of concern and a silent question. But she hardly noticed, her pulse thundered in her ears. She could feel it: life as she knew it was about to change, completely and irreversibly.

“Don’t be scared, Draco,” Maia said softly, stepping forward and reaching out her hand to him, her small voice cutting through the chaos. “Scorpius is okay now.”

Draco stared at the outstretched hand, visibly stunned. He glanced from Maia to Hermione, who struggled to keep her surprise from showing on her face.

“Are you sure?” he asked hoarsely, his voice stripped of all its usual sharpness.

Maia nodded solemnly, then offered him a faint smile. She let go of Hermione’s hand and dug into her pocket. A second later, she held out two small boxes with both hands.

“One’s for you, and the other’s for Scorpius,” she said gently. “So you don’t have to be scared anymore. Teddy says chocolate makes fear go away.”

Draco looked down at the offering, eyes flicking between the boxes and the child’s face. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out and took the Chocolate Frogs from her.

“Thank you,” he whispered, barely audible.

“He’s okay, Malfoy,” Harry said again, more quietly this time. “I promise you, he’s okay. Just give them a bit more time. They’re being thorough, that’s all.”

Ten minutes later—though in truth, it felt more like two hours—the door finally opened, and a healer stepped out into the corridor.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she began calmly, “your son is perfectly fine. He had a few scrapes on his legs and face, but we’ve already treated them. He’s still quite shaken, but I believe seeing you will help immensely. According to the Aurors who found him in that alley, he’s been asking for you ever since.”

She hesitated briefly, then added, “Miss Greengrass has sustained more serious injuries, but she’ll make a full recovery. She refused any treatment until we had seen to your son first, and she wouldn’t allow him to be taken from her side. You’ll find them both inside the room.”

She paused, and her tone softened into something more deliberate, more careful.

“I must ask that you remain calm. Miss Greengrass has a head wound caused by a sharp object and some very painful memories, I fear. I’d rather not risk upsetting her further. Am I clear?”

Malfoy gave a stiff nod. “What happened?” he managed to ask.

The healer sighed, weary. “I’m afraid I don’t know much. You’ll need to speak with the Aurors who brought them in. I imagine Mr. Potter can help you locate them. All I know is that they were attacked. That’s all.”

She glanced back at the door and then at Draco.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll give you a few moments with your son and your sister-in-law. I’ll return shortly to take Miss Greengrass in for further examination.”

With that, she turned and disappeared down the hallway.

“Maia, wai—” Hermione began, but her daughter was already pulling her by the hand with startling strength for a child her age. The two of them, along with Harry, followed Malfoy into the room.

Hermione had always hated hospitals. The smell, the colors, the heavy weight of pain that hung in the air — it all made her want to vanish from the place as quickly as possible. In the past years, ever since her father's diagnosis, she had spent more than enough time in hospital rooms, and she hoped never to see the inside of one again.

St. Mungo’s wasn’t all that different from a Muggle hospital, contrary to what many might believe. The room they entered was relatively small, much like a typical hospital room in the non-magical world. The walls were painted a soft, calming green, a color often chosen to soothe patients and ease anxiety. One of the walls had been enchanted to display a moving image of a park—probably Hyde Park—offering a peaceful distraction, similar to the large windows or paintings Muggle hospitals use to bring nature inside and comfort those confined indoors. The rest of the walls were bare, just like many hospital rooms, designed simply to avoid overstimulation.

On one side of the room stood a large bed, and lying there was a blonde woman Hermione recognized. She was the same woman who had danced with Malfoy at the Christmas gala last year—the very same who had cradled Scorpius in her arms that day Hermione and Maia were eating ice cream at Florean Fortescue’s shop.

Daphne Greengrass, Hermione thought. Astoria’s sister.

She recalled her now—the small, quiet blonde girl from Slytherin, present during Hermione’s first two years at Hogwarts. Daphne had always been reserved in class, rarely speaking up, often keeping to herself. In third year, she never came back, and Hermione never asked what had become of her.

Now, that same girl lay before her, no longer a child but a woman of twenty-eight. Her long blonde hair spilled across the pillow in a tangled, disordered pattern, tousled beneath the thick bandages wrapped around her forehead. She wore a modern dress, now muddied and torn in several places. Over it, someone had hastily draped a hospital gown that hung loosely off her shoulders like a sack.

Beside her, on a smaller bed, lay a little boy.

His face was flushed red, his eyes puffy from crying, and his hair so wildly disheveled it stuck up in every direction. If Hermione hadn’t been so afraid for him, she might have found it almost comical. His clothes were dirty, his trousers torn at the knees, but physically he seemed unharmed.

As soon as he spotted his father, the boy’s face lit up and Hermione heard both him and Malfoy calling out to each other with such desperation that her heart tightened in her chest.

Malfoy crossed the room in an instant and scooped Scorpius into his arms. Hermione could hear his voice tremble as he whispered the boy’s name between the sobs.

She saw Maia take a step toward the two Malfoys, but gently stopped her by placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Not now, Maia,” she whispered softly. “Give them a moment. You’ll see Scorpius soon, alright?” The little girl nodded, a hint of disappointment in her eyes.

“Draco… I’m so sorry,” a woman’s voice whispered.

Hermione turned toward the bed.

“I don’t know how it happened,” the woman continued, her voice shaking with guilt. “I tried to shield Scorpius behind me. I’m so sorry.”

Malfoy approached her and took her hand. “It’s okay, Daphne. He’s okay. Don’t worry,” he said softly but Hermione could hear the strain in his voice, the forced calm that didn’t quite reach the edges.

“What happened?” he asked.

Daphne swallowed, her guilt heavy in her eyes. “I just wanted to take Scorpius to the ice cream shop. He was so excited when I told him. I never expected—” She faltered, voice trembling. “We apparated into an alley near the shop. It was empty. I took a few steps… then something heavy hit me on the head. I think it was a rock…”

She paused, swallowing hard to steady herself. “I got dizzy, I fell… and Scorpius slipped from my arms. I heard him crying, but I couldn’t… I couldn’t see straight. Then two men appeared out of nowhere and grabbed my bag. They must have been Muggles — I couldn’t understand half of what they were shouting. They told Scorpius to be quiet, but he just cried louder. My head… it hurt so much, I couldn’t think. I pulled him close, trying to shield him. I heard them laughing… and then they were gone. I couldn’t stand, I didn’t even know where my legs were. Scorpius… he was screaming…I couldn’t defend us… they were just teenagers and I couldn’t defend ourselves…”

Her voice cracked into sobs, raw and desperate, each apology spilling out in broken whispers through her tears.

“I lost it… I lost my wand,” Daphne said, her voice trembling as she looked at Harry. “They took it too. It was in my bag.”

“You don’t need to worry about that right now, Miss Greengrass,” Harry replied gently. “I’ll make sure to alert the proper department immediately. If a wand has fallen into Muggle hands, and they try to use it, it won’t be hard to track them down.”

He turned to Draco. “Malfoy, take the rest of the week off. Let me know how Scorpius is doing once you’re home.”

Then his gaze shifted, more cautious now, as it landed on Hermione. “I need to file the report about the wand. Hermione, would you like to come with me?”

He was offering her an escape, she realized. A way out.

But her eyes drifted to Maia. Then to that aching pull in her chest, that tug toward Scorpius—the little boy with the flushed cheeks and tearful eyes—and finally to his father, who was watching her so intently, as if bracing for her answer.

Before she could say anything, the door opened. A nurse entered briskly to escort Daphne Greengrass to another room, followed closely by a visibly shaken Andromeda.

“Draco! Scorpius!”

The woman rushed forward, gathering both Malfoys in her arms as soon as the nurse, Daphne, and Harry exited the room.

“I came as soon as I received Harry’s Patronus. What happened? Scorpius, are you alright?”

The little boy slid down from his father’s arms and stood before his aunt, solemn and wide-eyed.

“Grandma Meda,” he whispered, his lower lip trembling. “Bad people made Scorpius cry.”

Andromeda gently brushed her hand through Scorpius’s tousled hair.

“Thank Merlin you're alright now, my sweet boy,” she said softly. “Draco, do you know what happened?”

“I do,” he replied, his voice low and tight. “But now’s not the time. Scorpius is exhausted, and I’d prefer to take him home as soon as the Healers clear him. We’ll talk later.”

Andromeda nodded in quiet understanding.

“Mummy, can I hug Scorp now?” came Maia’s tentative whisper.

At her words, Scorpius was already running toward her, and Maia, without waiting for her mother’s permission, rushed to meet him. She threw her arms around him in a fierce, heartfelt embrace, holding him as if she never wanted to let go.

The moment their arms wrapped around each other, Maia began speaking so quickly that her words tumbled over one another in a flurry of excitement and relief. Hermione could barely make out half of it.

“I brought you a chocolate frog because I knew it would cheer you up,” she said, repeating it at least three times.

“I gave it to your daddy, but we can ask him for it later.”

“You don’t have to worry anymore, Scorp,” she went on, her voice bright with certainty.

“I told my mum we had to find you and she ran straight to Draco and now we found you and you’re okay and I’m so happy and I’ll tell my mum to let you come to my house because I want to show you what Adrian gave me for Christmas and I know you’re going to love it!”

She beamed up at him, completely unaware of the tears shimmering in Hermione’s eyes or the way Malfoy stood frozen in place, staring at the scene as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what he was seeing.

In that same moment, something shifted inside Hermione. Something deep and immovable finally clicked into place.

A magical sibling bond.

Suddenly, so many things made sense.

All those times Maia had spoken about Scorpius. The way she had searched for him in every room. The fierce protectiveness. The way she insisted on sharing her sweets and toys with him even when she wouldn’t with anyone else. The way she watched him, looked after him, worried for him like a big sister would.

“Oh, sweet Merlin!” Andromeda’s voice rang out, trembling with disbelief. She stood frozen, her eyes fixed on the scene before them. Her gaze eventually found Hermione’s and the expression on her face was one of complete shock.

Hermione could see it in her eyes: Andromeda had figured it out—the truth laid bare before her in the most undeniable way. Those two children, laughing together, hugging one another, standing shoulder to shoulder as if they had grown up together… They were more than just magical children. They were connected.

Was it blood? Something buried deeper, woven into the very threads of who they were? Was it dangerous? Could it be broken? Did she want it to be broken? Hermione didn’t have the answers. She hadn’t studied the bond yet—hadn’t had the time to research what exactly tethered her daughter to Scorpius in such an intimate, invisible way.

“What the hell is going on, Granger?” Draco’s voice was tight, strained.

But Hermione knew—before anything else, before she could even begin to deal with the bond—she had to tell him the truth.

Merlin help her.

She had crossed oceans to keep this secret safe. Had built her life around it, erected walls so high they kept even her own heart at bay. And yet here she stood, face to face with the man she had once loved, with his son and their daughter smiling like siblings, like they'd grown up side by side.

As if the world hadn’t torn them apart.

She would be lying if she said she’d never imagined the moment she would tell him she was expecting his child.

Hermione had once dreamed of that moment—long before she was ever pregnant. Even though children and marriage were things they had barely, if ever, spoken about, she had always known, deep down, that their story would one day lead there.

During those eighteen months they were together, she had often imagined the perfect way to tell him he was going to be a father —when the time finally came. Perhaps she would cook him a special dinner and slip the news between courses. Perhaps it would happen during a weekend trip—somewhere quiet, just the two of them. Or maybe she would whisper it to him in the dark, curled up in bed, just before sleep claimed her in his arms.

In every version, Draco held her tightly, covered her in kisses, and placed a reverent hand on the small curve of her belly, where their little tangerine was growing.

When she actually found out she was pregnant, her first instinct had been to tell him. To run to him. To break through whatever plans his parents had crafted and cry out that he was going to be a father. To beg him to stay. With her. With them.

But soon enough, reason—or maybe it was fear, or doubt, or the dread of his rejection—took hold and silenced every thought. So she said nothing. And that dream—the one where she got to tell him—remained just that: a dream.

Sometimes, during her pregnancy, when she slept, her mind conjured the wildest scenarios. In them, she told Draco that she was expecting. Sometimes he ran to her, breathless with joy. Sometimes he stood frozen, stunned and unbelieving. And sometimes—more often than she liked—he simply turned away, ignoring both her and the growing swell of her stomach.

Then Maia was born. And Hermione finally accepted that the dream of telling him was gone for good.

Andromeda, who had slowly begun to compose herself, cleared her throat softly. “I think…” Her voice quivered. “I think the children need to leave the room now. We’ll go to the café while—” she paused to gather breath, “—while the two of you talk.”

She turned to Hermione, gaze grave.

Theo had advised her a few months ago to tell him the truth. He told her to think it over, but Hermione refused. What she didn’t tell him, however, was that though she hadn’t meant to, sometimes—just sometimes—she had thought about it.

Briefly.

In quiet, stolen moments. When Maia blushed under Draco’s gaze. When she saw him gently brushing Scorpius’s hair from his forehead. When he looked like a man born to be a father. And something twisted inside her—longing. Jealousy.

And the ache of a truth still left unspoken.

Andromeda was looking at her worried. Hermione swallowed hard and nodded.

No more running. No more excuses.

“Come on, kids,” she said with a smile she barely managed to summon. “Let’s go get some hot chocolate.”

The children’s faces lit up at the promise of chocolate, unaware of the storm that brewed behind them. They each took one of her hands, and together with Andromeda, they disappeared through the door.

Then the door closed, and she was alone with him. Again.

Silence settled between them like fog. He stared at the spot where the children had stood.

She kept her eyes on the door.

“What happened today?” he asked quietly. His voice was calm—too calm. The kind of calm that comes just before the collapse. It rattled her more than if he had screamed.

She took a deep breath.

There was no going back now.

“This morning,” she began slowly, carefully, “Maia woke up in a panic. She said she had a feeling—an overwhelming sense—that Scorpius was in danger. That he was scared. That he was… calling for his father.”

Draco’s brow furrowed. “She knew? How could she have known? Is she… is she a Seer?” he asked, eyes wide.

“A Seer? No,” Hermione said quickly. She hesitated, unsure of how to continue. “No, she’s not a Seer.”

His eyes locked onto hers now, narrowing slightly. His breathing had grown shallow, uneven.

“Granger,” he said, voice rising just slightly, “what the hell is going on? If she’s not a Seer, then how did she know something was wrong with my son? How could she feel that?”

Hermione steeled herself.

“I have a theory,” she said at last. “One I haven’t confirmed yet, but I’m fairly certain about. I believe Maia and Scorpius are bound by a magical connection—a bond that allows them to sense one another emotionally, especially in times of distress. I need to research it properly, but I think… I think that’s why Maia knew he was in danger. I think that’s how she knew.”

Draco shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. Those kinds of bonds—they’re blood bonds. That’s impossible unless—”

He stopped mid-sentence.

She watched it happen. Watched the exact moment realization dawned on him.

His face drained of color. His entire body stiffened, frozen in place as if petrified. His eyes—his grey eyes—fixed on her with disbelief.

Then horror.

Real, visceral horror.

“No,” he said, barely a breath.

Hermione didn’t speak.

“No.”

Silence again.

“Malfoy—” she began, but he cut her off.

“No.”

The word cracked. The fear in his eyes had shifted now, cracking into despair.

“It can’t be. It—” his voice faltered. He started breathing through his mouth, each breath faster, shallower. “You wouldn’t… you wouldn’t keep something like that from me. Not this. Not her. You… you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.”

He was breaking apart in front of her. He was disintegrating right there, stripped of pride and pretenses, as the truth cracked him open in a way no spell ever could.

“HERMIONE!” he suddenly shouted. “ANSWER ME!”

The sound of her name from his mouth, raw and desperate, struck her like lightning. It jolted her back to life, shook her out of her paralysis. It gave her the strength, the courage, to finally face him and tell him the truth she had carried alone for seven years.

"Seven years ago, I found out I was pregnant," she said, her voice steady, clear despite the storm inside her. "Maia was born in May of 2002. She's your daughter."

She watched him freeze — truly freeze — as if someone had turned him to stone. She waited, letting the silence stretch between them, giving him space to absorb it all.

“How?” he asked, his voice barely recognizable. “When?”

“Given her birth date and what my gynecologist told me, the conception must have happened in July 2001. Most likely during our summer holiday in Greece.” She hesitated, then added, “As for the how… I honestly don’t know. I never stopped taking the muggle pills, and you were always careful with the charm. I suppose… it was just an accident.”

A few more seconds passed.

“You knew?” he asked at last, his voice rough. “You knew when I came to your house? When I ended things—did you already know?”

She shook her head. "I found out a few days later. You had already... moved on with your life. You had thrown me out of it. I decided—"

"You decided to keep my child a secret?" he was shouting now, eyes wide, voice cracking with disbelief. "You disappeared without saying a word, without giving me the chance to even know there was a baby—my baby—growing inside you!"

"Don’t you dare blame me for that. Not for one second, Draco," she snapped, her teeth clenched, her voice low and trembling with restrained fury. "You broke up with me. You chose to marry someone else. I did what I thought was best — for me and for my child. And the best thing... was to be away from you."

She took a breath, her heart thundering in her chest.

"What did you expect? You told me to leave you alone. You said you had to follow your family’s wishes, that you had expectations to fulfill. What the hell was I supposed to do? Stay around, smiling politely while you paraded your wife around like nothing had happened? Or should I have come begging for scraps of attention — for me and my child — in between whatever time she allowed you to spare?"

Her voice cracked now, not with weakness but with rage and pain.

"I did what was best for me. Leaving was the only way I could breathe again. You took all the air from my lungs, Draco. You shattered my heart and left me wondering why my love wasn’t enough.”

She stepped closer, her eyes burning into his.

“So don’t you dare — don’t you dare — stand there and blame me for walking away. I did what was best for me and my baby. I protected her from your family, your father, the stupid magical contract he signed. I left for her. I left for me. I don’t regret it!"

Hermione watched him falter beneath the weight of her words. His face, usually so cold to those who didn’t know him, was a storm of emotion now — brows drawn tight in disbelief, lips parted slightly like he couldn't catch his breath. He looked lost, tangled somewhere in the years he had spent convincing himself he’d done the right thing. And beneath the shock, there was pain — the quiet kind of pain, the aching sort that burrows deep and doesn’t let go.

"How do you know about the contract my father signed?" he asked, stunned.

She drew in a long, shaky breath. "Theo explained a few things to me… a few months ago. He told me the contract forced you to marry, or your father would die. He said it forbade any illegitimate children. That if Lucius ever found out about Maia… my daughter might be in danger."

“Theo?” Draco’s face darkened instantly, fury blooming like a storm across his features. “That bastard knew? He knew about my child? He lied to me?”

He began pacing, his steps sharp and restless.

“He knew from the moment I asked him to check the paternity, didn’t he?” His voice cracked, raw and disbelieving, as his hands curled into fists, knuckles bone-white.

A moment later, he was cursing—Theo, Lucius, the entire twisted mess of it all. Hermione watched him rake both hands through his hair, claws of despair dragging across his scalp, and for a fleeting moment, she feared that this, on top of everything Scorpius had just endured, was the worst possible day to finally tell him the truth.

But there had never been a right day. Not really.

"Why, Hermione?" he asked again, his voice hoarse with desperation. "Why didn’t you tell me sooner? My father died years ago. You knew that. Why didn’t you say anything?"

Why didn’t she? Because she’d been broken. Because she’d buried the pain so deeply it had rotted into bitterness. Because she had believed, with every aching fiber of her being, that he didn’t deserve to know about Maia. He didn’t deserve her laughter or her little hands curling around his fingers. He didn’t deserve her stories, her tantrums, her hugs in the middle of the night.

Maia was hers.

And even though Maia did deserve a father… at the time, Hermione believed he didn’t deserve her.

But that wasn’t the only reason.

"Because I didn’t know if you’d even want to know," she said quietly.

"You didn’t know…" He laughed bitterly, the sound twisted and sharp. "How could I not want to know I had a child? A child, Hermione. Nearly six years old! How could you think I wouldn’t want to know?"

"Because maybe you wouldn’t have wanted her!" she shouted back. "Because you already had a family! A son. For months, I thought you were still with Astoria. I thought you were happy. And I—" Her voice cracked. "I thought maybe you’d see Maia as a mistake. As a complication. Something that would unravel the life you’d built. And I didn’t want her to ever feel that. I didn’t want her to feel unwanted—like I had been."

She bit down on the sob rising in her throat. "I was scared," she whispered. "Scared that your mother, and your wife would never accept her-”

Maia, with her wild curls and stubborn streak. Maia, who laughs like she has no fear in the world, too loud and too free. Maia, who’s half-blood and looks entirely like her mother.

Would Narcissa ever accept her? Would his world?

“-Scared that, once again, you’d choose them over me! Over my child!" she screamed.

“Our child,” he corrected, his voice angrier now. “She’s our child, Hermione.”

“She’s not our child! She’s my child!” Hermione shouted, trembling with fury. “Just because you’re her biological father doesn’t make you her father! Maia is mine! I raised her. I stayed up all night when she was sick. I held her through every nightmare and scraped knee. You weren’t there!”

“And whose bloody fault is that?” Draco exploded, stepping toward her. “You’re blaming me for not being there to raise a child I didn’t even know existed until half an hour ago?”

“Yes! I am blaming you!” she screamed back, her voice cracking with grief. “And I’m telling you now—I won’t let anyone—anyone—hurt her or make her feel small or unwanted. No one is going to damage her the way I was damaged. No one!”

His face twisted, eyes burning. “Do you really think I’d ever hurt her? That I’d make her feel like she didn’t belong? I am her father Hermione whether you like it or not!”

“What have you ever done for her to deserve that title?”

His jaw clenched. A flicker of anguish crossed his face, something brittle and hollow settling in his eyes — not just anger now, but sorrow, the deep kind that came from knowing you’d been too late for something that mattered.

“You didn’t even give me the chance to do anything for her! You chose for both of us!”

“Because I thought I had to!” she shot back, her voice trembling. “Because you chose them—your parents. And I chose her.”

A heavy silence fell between them, vibrating with unspoken pain.

“Hermione—” Ginny burst into the room, breathless, her face flushed and panicked. “I came as fast as I could—where… where’s Maia?” she asked, frantically scanning the room for the child.

Only then did she fully register the tension filling the space between the two people standing across from each other.

She swallowed hard.

“Let me guess,” Draco said bitterly, his voice low and shaking with rage. “You knew too, didn’t you, Ginny? And of course, Potter knew. Harry fucking Potter always knows everything, doesn’t he?” His laugh was humorless, jagged. “Was it all just a joke to you? Laughing behind my back? You all knew I had a daughter, and not one of you thought I had a right to know?”

Ginny’s face fell. She glanced toward Hermione with silent worry, then turned to Malfoy.

“Okay,” she said carefully, “I think I should leave you two alone again.” She reached for the doorknob, but paused with her hand resting on the metal.

“Draco,” she said gently, “it wasn’t like that. It was never about mocking you. We weren’t laughing behind your back, we were trying to protect a child. That’s all we ever cared about. That’s all that matters right now—Maia. And that should be what matters to both of you.”

With that, she slipped out and closed the door behind her.

Silence descended.

Neither spoke.

They stood, two people who once knew everything about each other, now staring across a chasm of years and secrets.

Finally, Draco broke the silence, his voice gruff and raw. “I want to meet her.”

Hermione looked at him for a long moment. “You already have.”

His eyes flared. “Granger,” he growled warningly.

Again, silence.

He turned toward the door.

“Where are you going?” she snapped.

“To meet Maia, where the hell do you think?” he shouted over his shoulder.

Panic surged through Hermione. She stepped in front of him, placing a firm hand against his chest to stop him. “Are you completely out of your mind, Malfoy?” she asked, breathless, her voice trembling. “Do you even realize what state you’re in right now? There is no way I’m letting you anywhere near her—”

“You’re going to stop me from seeing my child?” he roared, eyes blazing.

“—not while you’re like this,” she continued fiercely. “What exactly do you think you’re going to say to her? You’ll terrify her! Is this really the image you want burned into her memory?”

He faltered.

His eyes dropped from her face to the hand still resting on his chest. It had been nearly seven years since she’d last touched him. They stood frozen, both of them staring at the place where their bodies connected—her hand pressed lightly against the soft white fabric of his shirt. Even through the cloth, she could feel his warmth.

They stayed like that, saying nothing, just looking at each other for several long moments. She didn’t know what exactly it was that finally calmed the frantic rhythm of her heartbeat, or steadied her breath. Maybe it was the color of his eyes—so much like their daughter’s. Or maybe it was the wild, steady thrum of his heart beneath her palm. It could have been his scent. She had always found it strangely comforting. He smelled exactly the way she had tried so hard to forget. For a fleeting second, she wondered if he still used the same shampoo after all these years or if that was simply how he always smelled.

“I am sorry,” he finally said. “You are right”.

Slowly, Hermione withdrew her hand.

“Listen to me,” she said softly, her voice steadier now. “Scorpius needs you right now. He’s had an awful day. Take care of your son. Take him home. Let what I told you settle in your mind. And then think about what you want—”

“What do you mean, what I want?” he interrupted, his voice sharp with disbelief. “I want to meet my daughter, Granger.”

“Please, think carefully before you make any decisions,” she said. “Maia…” Hermione exhaled, her expression tightening. “I don’t want you entering her life only to walk away again once the shock fades.”

She had known, from the moment she chose to tell him the truth, that this moment might come — that he might want to be a part of Maia’s life. But wanting wasn’t enough. Not this time. Not when it came to her daughter. Hermione needed to be certain, not just of his intentions, but of his resolve. She needed proof, not promises. Because if Draco Malfoy was to enter her daughter’s world, it had to be as something steady. Something safe. She would not allow fleeting guilt or fragile remorse to bruise the spirit of the one person she had fought so hard to protect.

He tensed, visibly bristling, but before he could respond, she cut him off.

“Maia is strong. She’s clever. She’s full of love. She grew up surrounded by people who adore her—me, Ron, my parents—but I know that she longs for a father. I won’t let you become part of her world unless you’re certain. I won’t allow my child to be hurt.”

His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Granger-”

“I just need to know you’re sure. That’s all I ask.”

Monday, 12.40 p.m.

Malfoy had stayed behind while Hermione went off to find Andromeda, Maia, and Scorpius.

“Mummy! The Healer said Scorpius can go home!” Maia cried excitedly the moment she saw her mother approach. “Can he come with us? I want to show him the dinosaur excavation set Adrian brought me!”

“Maia,” Hermione said, her voice weary with exhaustion, “Scorpius is very tired, sweetheart. I’m sure he misses his own bed. And his dad.”

“Where is daddy?” the little boy asked, glancing around the corridor as though expecting Malfoy to appear at any moment.

“He’s waiting for you, Scorp,” Hermione said before turning back to her daughter. “Maia, I’m sorry, but we have to go. Andromeda—” she looked the older woman in the eyes for the first time “—would you take Scorpius to Malfoy? He’s waiting to take him home.”

Andromeda gave a small nod and lifted the boy into her arms. “Hermione, we need to talk,” she said quietly. “I’ll be waiting when... when things have settled down, and you're ready.”

Monday, 13.00 p.m.

When they returned home, Hermione found a brown owl waiting patiently outside the window. She let it in. A parcel along with a note dropped from its beak.

Miss Granger,

Your Portkey leaves precisely at 14:00. Mr. Karstair will be waiting in the suite at your hotel.

Enjoy your trip!

Inside the small box was a golden spoon. Hermione glanced at the time.

She rummaged through her bag for her phone and, once she found it, typed out a long message to Adrian. She explained that she and Maia wouldn’t be coming to Paris after all, that she hoped his meetings went well, and that she looked forward to meeting him when he returned. She hit send before she could change her mind.

She had taken the entire week off, so when Tuesday dawned and Paris was no longer on the cards, she decided to visit her parents’ home with Maia. Her daughter was always eager to spend time with her grandparents, even now, when Richard seemed more lost in his thoughts than ever, showing no signs of recognition when he looked at their faces.

Over the past few weeks, her father had grown so weak he could no longer walk, sit up, or even swallow properly. He now spent all his time lying in bed, entirely dependent on Helen and the two nurses who came by each day to help.

Hermione and Maia stayed with the Grangers until late in the afternoon. When they finally returned home, Hermione glanced up, half-expecting a waiting owl from Malfoy—but none came.

On Wednesday morning, she made her way to Grimmauld Place after dropping off Maia at her mother’s for a few hours.

“Harry, what on earth happened to you?” she asked the moment she saw his face.

One of his eyes was a dark, swollen shade of purple, and his nose — clearly recently broken — looked like it had been hastily, and not quite perfectly, put back into place. Slightly crooked, if you asked Hermione.

“Who the hell attacked you?” she asked, shocked.

Harry gave her a look, as if the answer should have been obvious.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “He didn’t...”

“He did,” Harry confirmed grimly. “Honestly, Hermione, what did you expect? He’s my friend, and I kept a huge secret from him. He didn’t take it all that well.”

“But I’m your friend too!” she argued, outraged. “You kept my secret! I can’t believe he dared curse you!”

“Curse me?” Harry scoffed. “Come on, Hermione. Malfoy’s good, but I’ve got the upper hand when it comes to dueling — and flying” he added. “I disarmed him before he could even finish the incantation. No, this—" he gestured to his bruised face and crooked nose “—wasn’t done with magic. The bastard attacked me with his fists. A very Muggle approach, if you ask me. It’s been years since I’ve had to fight someone hand-to-hand. I’ll admit it — he wrecked me. Ginny fixed a couple of cracked ribs, but I think she mended my nose a bit off-centre,” he added with a theatrical grimace.

“Harry!” Hermione scolded. “You should’ve gone to St Mungo’s! I can’t believe he hit you. That’s completely unacceptable!”

“You should see my sitting room,” he said, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “He Bombarda'd it. Destroyed the wallpaper — you know, the one with the Black family tapestry? Honestly, I can’t wait to see his face when he has to explain that to Andromeda. Because I sure as hell won’t.”

“When did he come here?” she asked, frowning.

“Yesterday morning. I was expecting him, of course. Ginny told me you spoke to him. Honestly, I was bracing myself for worse. But I’m afraid he’s saving the worst of it for Theo.” He sighed heavily.

“What he did was inexcusable. Attacking you like that—!”

“What he did,” Harry interrupted gently, “was entirely understandable. I betrayed him. So did Theo. So did everyone who knew the truth. And he knows it. And we know it too. Deep down, you know it.”

She didn’t reply, but her silence was not disagreement.

“Yes, we had our reasons,” Harry went on. “I was trying to protect a child. And more importantly, I was trying to respect your wish to keep that child’s father identity a secret. But that doesn’t erase his sense of betrayal. Or the hurt. And believe me, he’s hurting.”

They sat down in the kitchen, where Harry offered her tea and some croissants. The quiet hum of the kettle was the only sound for a moment before he broke the silence again.

“What happened when you two talked?” he asked softly.

“He didn’t tell you?”

Harry snorted. “Mostly, he swore and made threats. Not exactly in the mood for heart-to-hearts.”

So, she told him. Everything. Every word, every silence in between.

“I asked him to consider whether he truly wants to meet Maia,” she said, her voice laced with hesitation. “But… he hasn’t reached out yet. Maybe he changed his mind.”

She didn’t understand why the thought hurt so much.

Their life—hers and Maia’s—was fine without Malfoy. Their life, should he choose to remain absent, would carry on just the same. So why was she so restless? Why did her eyes search for a letter every time she returned home, or pause at the flutter of wings above, half-dreading - half-hoping for an owl?  

The difference now was that he knew. He knew Maia was his daughter.

The idea that he had learned the truth, only to show interest in the heat of the moment, driven by shock or guilt or anger, stung more than she cared to admit.

The truth was, Hermione wanted, deep down, someone like Draco Malfoy to be Maia’s father. Not the man he had once been, but the father he seemed to be now. Loving. Gentle. Fiercely protective. The father he was to Scorpius.

At the same time, she didn’t fully trust him with Maia. When she said she wouldn’t let anyone hurt her child, she meant it with every fiber of her being. That’s why, although she waited with a cautious hope for his response, there was also a knot of fear tightening in her chest—the moment she would finally open that letter terrified her.

“Give him a little time, Hermione,” Harry said softly. “A second star had just risen in his sky.”

***

The following morning, she received a letter.

The owl that delivered it was the largest and most magnificent she had ever seen—majestic, almost regal. It took her no time at all to recognize it.

Granger,

I would like to meet tomorrow, at whatever time suits you, and in any place you deem appropriate, so that we may talk.

Please send your reply back with Heracles.

D.M.

She summoned a quill from her desk and, in handwriting far less refined than his, jotted down her address. For a moment, she considered proposing a neutral location, but after her conversation with Harry, she doubted Malfoy would ever willingly set foot in Grimmauld Place again—he certainly wouldn’t view it as neutral.

Perhaps they could have met somewhere in Muggle London, but the nature of their conversation was hardly suited for public spaces. And there was no chance she would ever set foot in his Manor.

Which left her home as the only reasonable option.

At half past five the following evening, Harry arrived to pick up Maia. They were spending the afternoon at the Burrow, where the rest of the Potters had already gathered.

"Everything will be fine," he whispered before stepping into the flames with her daughter.

At exactly six o'clock, the flames in her fireplace flared emerald green and Draco Malfoy stepped into her living room.

He looked exhausted. His eyes were red, and the shadows beneath them spoke of too many sleepless nights. He was unshaven, something that struck her as nearly absurd. She couldn’t recall ever seeing him with stubble. Whatever had transpired in his life, even during their teenage years at Hogwarts, he had always been meticulous about his appearance—his hair perfectly styled, his face clean-shaven, every detail carefully tended.

"Granger," he said, his voice raspier than she remembered. "Sorry I'm late. Scorpius has been a bit unsettled these past few days."

"You’re not late," she assured him. "Would you like to sit?"

He nodded, but made no move toward the couch. The silence lingered, heavy and uncertain, until she spoke again.

"Tea?"

He shook his head. "No, thank you."

And so they stood there, in a room thick with unsaid things.

"Where’s Maia?" he asked at last, breaking the silence.

Hermione had expected the question. "She’s with Harry and the rest of the Potters at the Burrow," she replied.

He gave a small nod.

"What you did to Harry—" she began, but he cut her off, sharp and immediate.

"Granger. Don’t even think about starting that conversation. I don’t want to talk about Potter with you."

Silence settled again, colder this time.

She didn’t push. Just waited—calm, patient—for him to find the words he was ready to say.

"I want..." he began, his voice taut, as if holding too much inside. "There’s so much I want to say to you. So many questions I want to ask. But before all that, there’s one thing I need to say."

He drew a slow, deliberate breath and met her eyes, without flinching this time.

"Maia is my daughter. She is my daughter." He repeated the words, firmer now, as if trying to anchor the truth between them. "No matter what has happened between us, that fact doesn’t change. And I don’t want it to change. I want her to be my daughter—not just in blood, but in name, in life, in every way that matters. I want to be her father, just like I’m Scorpius’s father. I want to be there for her. I want to know her, truly know her."

His voice was steady, but each word trembled with restrained emotion.

"I know I’ve missed so many important moments, but I want to learn about everything I missed. And I don’t want to miss anything else, not a single thing. I want to be there for all the milestones, all the little moments that matter. I want her to call me dad..."

He looked at her now, his expression open, pleading.

"More than anything, I want you to let me do all of this. Let me try. I will do whatever it takes to prove I deserve to be in her life. I’ll spend the rest of my days trying if that’s what it takes. Just... please. Let me be her father. Because I am her father."

Of all the things she had expected to hear, this was certainly not one of them.

For a long moment, Hermione held her breath. The room hung heavy and still, as if his words had sucked the very air from it. Her heart thundered wildly in her chest—surely, he could hear it too.

She had rehearsed this conversation a dozen times over the past few days, rewritten it, dreaded it, tried to prepare herself. But nothing could have readied her for this. For the raw honesty in his voice. The desperation in his eyes. The way her own heart twisted with every word.

Part of her wanted to retreat behind the walls she had spent years building. But another part, a quieter, more fragile part, felt something shift. Because despite everything... despite the past, despite the pain... she could feel it. The sincerity. And what scared her most was how much she wanted to believe him.

“You want to meet her?” she whispered. “You want to be her father?”

“More than anything,” he said.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes, Hermione.” His voice cracked slightly. “I haven’t slept in three days, just thinking, over and over again, about how badly I failed you. And her. My father...” He looked down ashamed. “My father blackmailed me with his own life, but the choice was mine. I made it. And I’ve been living with it for seven years. Until two days ago, I thought it had cost me a life with you. But then I realized it cost me a life with you and our daughter.”

He took a deep, unsteady breath through his nose. “I want to know her. I want to give her everything. I want to give her the world. And yes, I am sure.”

Hermione stood quietly for a moment, the weight of his words settling deep inside her. She felt a mixture of pain and hope swirling in her chest.

Slowly, she nodded. “Alright,” she said.

Her voice was steady, even though her heart still trembled with doubt. She didn’t trust him, not yet. Even if it was clear now that he regretted his past and was trying to become a better man for his son, he still had to earn her trust when it came to their daughter. But in that fragile moment, she chose to believe him. Some might call it naive, but she saw it differently. This wasn’t about giving Malfoy a second chance—it was about giving Maia the chance to have a father.

They agreed to meet the following day.

“Can we meet at Grimmauld Place tomorrow? I’ll check with Potter to see if it’s available,” he had offered.

Hermione hadn’t expected him to suggest Grimmauld. After everything Harry had told her, she was convinced Draco would never want to set foot there again.

“I want to spend some time with Maia. Somewhere familiar—somewhere she’s already seen me a few times. I think Potter’s home is the safest choice,” he said. “I’ll bring Scorpius as well. I’m sure he’ll want to see her.”

They both agreed it was best not to tell Maia the truth just yet—though there was a trace of disappointment in Draco’s face.

“I understand,” he said after Hermione explained her reasoning. She believed it was more important, for now, that Maia simply spend time with him, to get to know him better and for him to get to know her.

She wanted to give them time. Time for him to learn who Maia was, and for Maia to learn who he could be. To trust him. Not as her father. But as a person.

She wanted to be certain of his presence in her daughter’s life, a steady, unwavering commitment. She needed to see that he was resolute in his decision, that he had no intention of walking away after a few weeks. Hermione would not reveal the truth to Maia unless Draco proved he was serious about embracing his role as her father.

Beyond that, they agreed on the need to investigate the strange bond growing between Maia and Scorpius.

“I’ll ask my mother if she knows anything more about this kind of bond,” Draco said, a note of cautious hope in his voice. “I’m optimistic she might have some insight. Andromeda might, too.”

When she and Maia landed in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place the next morning, the house was—curiously—quiet.

“Hermione, you’re here!” Ginny rushed forward, wrapping her in a warm hug. “Are you alright? You have so much to tell me. Harry nearly didn’t believe Malfoy when he said you two were meeting here today with Maia.”

“Where’s Scorp, Aunt Ginny? I want to show him my dinosaur figure!” Maia giggled, pulling a tiny Tyrannosaurus from her pocket and proudly holding it up for Ginny to see.

“They’re in the old library. Albus and Scorpius. Malfoy’s with them,” Ginny explained. “Harry had to leave. He was called on an emergency assignment.”

Hermione followed her through the narrow hallways of Grimmauld Place, Maia skipping at her side.

The library, once dusty and full of books, had been repurposed into the Potter children's playroom. It looked tidier than the last time Hermione had seen it. Toys were now stacked along the walls or tucked inside charmed trunks that must have held Extension Charms. A cluster of mismatched armchairs and an old sofa huddled near the fireplace, and a low round table sat in the center of the room.

Malfoy was seated on the plush carpet with Albus and Scorpius flanking him, each boy hunched over a magical puzzle that shimmered and shifted shape every few seconds. Neither of them had much hope of finishing it, of course, but the challenge clearly delighted them.

“Hi Scorp! Hi Al!” Maia’s cheerful voice rang out as she darted into the room, dropping to her knees beside Scorpius, not far from where his father sat.

“Hello, Draco,” she added shyly, blushing a little.

Hermione watched her daughter with a strange ache in her chest.

Merlin, she thought. She’s already halfway in love with him and she doesn’t even know he’s her father.

Malfoy, for his part, had gone pale as parchment. He wasn’t even blinking. Hermione was fairly sure he wasn’t breathing. He stared at Maia—their daughter—with such stunned intensity that she was relieved Maia was too busy showing off her dinosaur to notice.

Within moments, the quiet chaos of childhood took over. James burst into the room in a whirlwind, and soon the four children were scattered among an explosion of magical toys, strewn across the floor in glorious disarray.

“James, Al, come on. Uncle Charlie’s calling through the Floo—he wants to see you,” Ginny called from the hallway after awhile. The two boys scrambled after her, leaving Maia, still absorbed in her painting, and Scorpius beside her, blowing enchanted bubbles that shimmered in the air.

Hermione sat on the edge of a chair, pretending not to watch Malfoy, who hadn’t taken his eyes off their daughter. He looked at her not just with longing but with awe.

She saw him hesitate, then slowly, carefully, approach Maia.

“Is that a dinosaur?” he asked gently.

Maia looked up at him. “Yes! It’s a Tyrannosaurus rex.”

“That’s a very impressive tail,” he said with a small smile, crouching beside her. “May I show you something?”

She nodded, holding out her colored pencil. Draco took it delicately, like it might break in his fingers.

“Here,” he said, drawing a line. “See how you can blend this red into the orange? It makes it look like the light’s hitting it from this side.”

Maia leaned in, fascinated. “Oooh!”

“And if you want the claws to stand out, make the lines sharper. Like this.” He guided her hand this time, steady and patient.

Her daughter giggled as he showed her how to shade the teeth.

“Can you teach me more?”

“Of course,” he murmured. “Whatever you want.”

Later, as they were leaving Grimmauld Place, Hermione turned toward the door, her hand on Maia’s shoulder.

“Wait,” he said.

She turned to face him.

“Thank you,” he said simply. There was no sarcasm, no mask. Just a man who looked far too human for her comfort — just like the Draco she used to know.

She gave a small nod, but before she could pull away, he added, “Will you come tomorrow too? It’s Sunday. We’ll be here.”

Hermione hesitated, searching his face.

“Yes, we will”.

Hermione and Maia met the Malfoys at Harry’s house that Sunday. It was the first time in months that Malfoy had returned to the traditional Sunday lunch at Grimmauld Place, and his absence hadn’t gone unnoticed. Predictably, several members of the Weasley family cornered him with nosy questions the moment they spotted him.

“Well, and here I thought you liked us, Malfoy,” George teased, grinning. “A few pureblood witches introduced by your mother and suddenly we’re old news?”

Hermione caught the flash of exasperation in Draco’s expression before he let out a sharp sigh and replied, “I never thought I’d say this, Weasley, but I actually prefer you over every pureblood witch in Britain.”

The room erupted with laughter, but Hermione's attention had already shifted.

Though the house that day was full of noise—children running through hallways, adults talking loudly —Maia had quietly slipped away from the chaos. She’d left Albus and Scorpius in the garden with Harry, who was demonstrating a few tricky broom maneuvers, and instead made her way to the library, where Draco was already seated surrounded by a dozen brand-new paint sets.

“I want Miss Julia to finally put one of my paintings on the wall this time!” she declared earnestly as she climbed into the seat beside him, determination shining in her eyes.

Then she set to work, carefully sketching the silhouette of something that looked suspiciously like a dragon.

From that afternoon on, it became routine. Every Friday after work, every Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning, Hermione and Maia would stop by Grimmauld Place. Every time, Malfoy was already there—sometimes alone, sometimes with Scorpius. They always found each other in the library.

Sometimes Hermione would stay with them, watching quietly as the two bent over the table, heads close together, whispering and smiling while they colored. Other times, she’d be in the kitchen with Harry and Ginny, or playing with baby Lily, who had just started to crawl and insisted on exploring every dusty corner of the house.

But without fail, every time they prepared to leave, as she reached for the Floo powder and gathered Maia’s coat, Draco would find her standing near the fireplace. And always, in a voice so low only she could hear, he would whisper:

“Thank you.”

He never specified why he thanked her. Was it for choosing to carry their child? For raising her the way she had? For giving them both the chance to meet? Or for coming back to Grimmauld Place three times a week, making space for him and their daughter to spend time together?

He never said, and she never asked.

But in those quiet, unspoken moments, Hermione felt the weight of everything between them—the sacrifices, the regrets, the fragile hope that maybe, somehow, they were building something new from the pieces of their past. And that simple, whispered “Thank you” held a world of meaning she wasn’t quite ready to name, but understood all the same.

***

When Adrian returned from Paris—ten days after he had left—he found himself at her doorstep.

Their communication during his trip had remained steady—regular messages, short phone calls squeezed in between Adrian’s meetings and late business dinners, between the chaos Hermione was navigating with Malfoy and Maia. The conversations were brief, yes, but they were present, a quiet thread of normalcy running through otherwise turbulent days. Amid everything, they still found moments for each other—fleeting but real.

The truth was, she had missed Adrian more than she’d expected. She missed his steadiness, the quiet way he smiled at her, the comfort of his arms when the world felt too loud. In the quiet chaos of her life, his presence had become something solid. Something kind.

Still, she chose to keep the truth hidden from him. She wasn’t ready—not yet—for anyone to know about Maia’s paternity. Not until she understood Malfoy’s intentions, and had spoken to her daughter herself.

So she told Adrian that the reason they hadn’t made it to Paris was because Maia had been unwell, and it had taken a toll on them both.

That first day he returned, he stayed at her house.

“I missed you,” he whispered as they lay exhausted and tangled in each other’s arms, the sheets damp with sweat.

“I missed you too,” she murmured, brushing her fingers across his jaw.

***

Life moved forward with a strange, tentative rhythm. It wasn’t exactly normal but it was something. And yet, Hermione felt like she was constantly bracing for impact, holding her breath every Friday morning as if something might break. Each week, she feared the same thing—that when she walked through the doors of the Grimmauld library that afternoon, he would be gone. That she’d find only silence and absence where he had once waited.

But Draco was always there.

Two months had passed since she had told him the truth. And still, three days a week, he waited. Same spot. Same hour. Waiting for Maia.

In those early weeks, their time together was careful, slow. He sat beside her at the low wooden table in the library, patiently showing her how to blend watercolors and how to shade shadows into sunlight. Maia listened with wide eyes and messy fingers, her face alight with a quiet, rare kind of joy — the kind that seemed to bloom only when she felt completely safe.

Then one afternoon, Maia burst into the room like a thunderclap of joy.

“I did it!” she cried, barreling toward Draco, curls bouncing, cheeks flushed with excitement. “She put it up, Draco! Miss Julia put my helicopter picture on the big board where all the kids can see!”

Before anyone could stop her, she threw her arms around him in a tight, squealing hug.

Hermione’s eyes found his, and what she saw there stopped her heart.

He hadn’t expected it. Not the hug, not the sudden affection, not the blind, bursting trust of a child who still had no idea who he truly was. For a long second, he didn’t move. Maia chattered away against his chest, her arms locked around him as she recited every tiny detail of her triumph.

And then, slowly—hesitantly—his arms came up and wrapped around her.

It was the first time he had ever held her.

Hermione saw his hands tremble slightly as they closed around the small body of his daughter.

She didn’t speak.

This moment wasn’t hers.

She turned and walked back to the kitchen, heart clenched with something too big to name.

That night, after Maia had bathed and was tucked into bed, she asked Hermione to lie beside her for a while. Her voice was sleepy and small, the way it always got when she was winding down from a big day.

“Mummy?” she whispered into the dark. “Did I make Draco sad today?”

Hermione tensed. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”

“I think I saw him crying. Just a little. After I hugged him. I asked him if I made him sad, and he said no, that he was just really happy. But I saw the tears, mummy. He smiled after, but I don’t know... I think maybe my hug made him sad.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. She gently brushed Maia’s curls back from her forehead, her fingers lingering there for a moment. “No, baby. You didn’t make him sad. I promise. Sometimes grown-ups cry when they’re really, really happy. I think that’s what happened today.”

Maia was quiet for a beat, still curled into her side. Hermione hesitated, then whispered into the soft hush of the room, “Do you like Draco?”

There was no pause this time.

“Yes,” Maia said immediately, voice warming. “He’s really nice! He shows me how to paint trees and clouds and mountains, and he said he’s gonna teach me how to write prettier and do those really hard puzzles—like the one with all the tiny pieces he got for me and James. And he said... he said his house has a huuuuuge library, with everything inside. He said one day I can see it.”

Hermione smiled in the dark.

“I think he’s my best friend,” Maia went on, counting on her fingers under the blanket. “After Scorp, and Al, and Teddy. But he’s right there, mummy. And... he’s really really pretty too.”

Hermione couldn’t help it—she laughed, a soft, surprised sound.

Maia blushed furiously, even in the dark. “Don’t tell him I said that,” she whispered, burying her face in Hermione’s side. “Please don’t.”

“I won’t,” Hermione murmured, holding her daughter close.

And for the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to exhale.

***

That Saturday morning, Andromeda’s house looked as if it had been plucked straight from a postcard. The day before, a gentle snowfall had cloaked the outskirts of London in white, transforming the familiar streets into a dreamlike winter landscape. For Hermione, who had spent so many years away in Australia, the crisp cold air and delicate frost rekindled a long-lost love for London’s winter — a season she had almost forgotten.

Stepping inside, she found Malfoy already seated at the kitchen table, deep in conversation with his aunt.

“Hermione, I’m glad you could come,” Andromeda greeted her with a gentle smile. “Would you like some tea? It’s freezing outside today.”

Grateful, Hermione accepted the steaming cup, feeling the warmth seep slowly into her chilled fingers. She took a slow sip, letting the familiar comfort of the tea ground her.

“How is Maia?” Draco’s voice was calm but carried an unspoken concern.

They had met yesterday as planned. Maia had brought a simple Muggle board game to Grimmauld Place—one meant for children. There, she and Albus teamed up with Ginny, while Scorpius joined Draco’s team. They spent the entire afternoon shouting and laughing, their faces alive with silly grimaces and childish jokes sparked by the game.

Meanwhile, Hermione and Harry had spent their afternoon poring over some work files from Harry’s job, for which he had asked Hermione’s help.

“She’s well. Actually, she’s thrilled by the snow. I left her with my parents for a few hours this morning,” Hermione replied. “I want to let you know we won’t be able to make it to Grimmauld Place this afternoon.”

Though Draco’s face remained unreadable, Hermione caught a fleeting shadow of disappointment flicker behind his eyes.

“Is everything alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” she assured him, meeting his gaze firmly. “Adrian has a birthday today, and he wants us to celebrate together. We’ve arranged a small family gathering… so, no, we won’t be coming.”

Before Draco could respond, Andromeda interrupted gently, “With his family? Have you met them, Hermione?”

“Not exactly,” Hermione said, her voice steady though her heart fluttered slightly. “I’ve met his sister. Today, I’ll meet his parents and the rest of the family.”

Draco’s gaze sharpened. “Do you trust him?”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“Do you trust Karstair, Granger? Trust him with Maia? Does he treat her well?”

The question struck Hermione like a sudden gust of icy wind. Of course, she trusted Adrian. Otherwise, why would she keep him in their lives? He was a good man who made her happy. As for Maia, Adrian treated her well — maybe not with the effortless ease of a natural father, but Maia had grown used to him. Maybe she didn’t long for him in her heart or speak of him often, nor did she consider him her closest friend, but with Adrian, Maia was safe.

“I do trust him, Malfoy,” Hermione replied, her tone firm, almost curt.

Andromeda then cleared her throat, shifting the conversation back. “I suppose the reason you came here today isn’t to talk about Adrian Κarstair,” she said. “Draco, please, could you pass me the book I asked for from the manor’s library?”

Draco produced his wand with a slight flick, and an ancient, worn book materialized in his hands. Its faded brown cover bore the Malfoy family crest, weathered by time.

“What is that?” Hermione asked, leaning closer over the large tome.

“It’s a very old book about pureblood families,” Andromeda explained. “We might find something here about the sibling bond between Maia and Scorpius. The Blacks had something similar, but I’m afraid our ancestors weren’t as meticulous about preserving their heirlooms. Our family’s books were destroyed. Still, I managed to find some diaries in the Potter attic — personal accounts from my family’s witches and wizards.”

“Have you found anything useful?” Hermione asked, her curiosity piqued.

“A few things. Mostly about the conditions under which these bonds develop and what ties the two children,” Andromeda replied.

“What ties the two children together?” she asked.

“Their blood. My blood,” Draco answered solemnly.

Andromeda gestured to Draco to continue.

“I’ve read the book,” Draco began, pointing to the heavy volume on the table. “Many times since Andromeda told me to look into it. According to the records, a brotherly bond was a common trait among pureblood siblings. It would manifest when one of the two showed signs of magic. Scorpius is still young, but I suppose Maia has accidentally performed magic?”

Hermione nodded. “About a year ago, maybe a little longer.”

“At the moment one child exhibits magical symptoms, the bond activates in their blood. It allows the siblings to feel each other’s emotions during intense moments. It’s a silent form of communication that protects both from danger — a way for siblings to survive dark times.” Draco explained.

“And I assume,” Andromeda asked, “that when the second child shows their magic, the bond strengthens?”

“Exactly.”

“So… when Scorpius grows, the bond will grow even stronger?” Hermione asked.

“Yes. Until they both learn to control their magic enough to block it.”

“Block it?” Hermione questioned.

“Yes. The bond is harmless. Its presence only meant to help but sometimes it can be intrusive or overwhelming. As they mature and master their power, they’ll be able to limit it, even silence it if they wish.”

“That's exactly what I found in the diaries,” Andromeda confirmed. “There’s no reason to fear the bond. It’s made to protect the heirs, not to put them in danger. It’s incredible how such a bond appeared after so many years. The last recorded case was a hundred years ago in the Black family.”

“There were a few other bonds in other pureblood families, according to the book,” Draco added, “but never in the Malfoy line. Traditionally, the Malfoys always gave only one heir, so it was impossible for such a bond to develop.”

“But you, Draco,” Andromeda smiled warmly, “you gave two heirs. And your children are the first Malfoys in history to share something so extraordinary.”

Hermione glanced at Draco.

“But I was born of Muggles. I’m not pureblood,” she tried to say, “Maia is also my blood—”

Andromeda gently cut her off. “It doesn’t matter, Hermione. Blood is blood. Maia is half Malfoy.”

“That’s exactly what my mother said,” Draco commented.

Hermione looked at him, astonished. “You told your mother? You told Narcissa about Maia?”

“Yes.”

Hermione and Andromeda exchanged a brief, searching glance before Hermione’s voice broke the silence.

“How did Narcissa take the news?” her eyes fixed on Draco, curiosity laced with caution.

He hesitated, a flicker of unease crossing his features. His fingers tightened unconsciously around the worn book in front of him, a subtle sign of his inner turmoil.

“Mother had certain plans for me, carefully crafted visions for my future. They were shattered by this news. It was a severe blow to her expectations.” His voice was threaded with bitterness.

Andromeda shook her head almost imperceptibly, a soft murmur escaping her lips like a private reprimand, “She never learns, does she?”

Draco’s gaze hardened, a flicker of defiance lighting his pale eyes. “I can handle my mother,” he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. “I told her because it was the right thing to do. Maia is her grandchild. But her opinion doesn’t concern me.”

He exhaled slowly, his posture relaxing just a fraction. “Her plans for me don’t bind me anymore. I leave her to her schemes—it’s better that way, so she doesn’t sink deeper into sorrow. But make no mistake, I won’t follow any of those paths she’s laid out.”

Draco stood up then, announcing he had to meet Dennis Creevey soon.

“May I keep the book for a few days?” Hermione asked, noticing he intended to leave it with Andromeda.

He gave a brief nod, eyes steady but unreadable.

“Will I see Maia tomorrow?” he asked, the question carrying a hint of vulnerability that made her heart skip.

“Yes, we’ll be at Grimmauld”.

After he left, Hermione lingered at Andromeda’s house far longer than she had intended. The two women then visited the orphanage, a place that always pulled at Hermione’s heartstrings. She greeted the younger children warmly, including Jess, who watched her with cautious curiosity, as if unsure whether to trust her yet.

Hermione thought about the next visit, maybe she could bring toys or some books with fairytales to read aloud. It saddened her to think that perhaps no one had the time to give these children such simple joys. Maybe, she mused, Maia could sit with the younger kids and read to them too.

As they left the children’s house, the snow had finally ceased its gentle fall. Their footsteps crunched softly on the fresh, untouched snow as they retraced the path they had taken months ago toward the fountains and magical waterfalls. The quiet beauty of the scene contrasted sharply with the heaviness Hermione felt inside.

“How long have you known the truth about Maia?” Hermione asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

She had been turning the question over in her mind for days — marveling at how quickly Andromeda had understood the hidden bond between Maia and Scorpius, a connection that no one could know unless they knew they were siblings.

Andromeda sighed, her gaze distant. “I suspected, but I was certain the day I found the book with the Black family’s genealogical tree inside Grimmauld Place. You know, the tapestry only shows the legitimate descendants of our house, but this book recorded all descendants — even the hidden ones. Maia was there, hidden among secret entries from generations past.”

Hermione’s heart tightened. “You didn’t tell anyone? Not even him?”

“No. I didn’t. I wanted to talk to you, but it didn’t feel right. You’re the child’s mother, you know what’s best for her.”

They walked on in silence for a moment, the cold air filling the space between them.

“I always knew Draco was in love with a Muggleborn,” Andromeda said, “but I didn’t realize it was you. If I had known, my sorrow for him and you would have been twice as deep.”

“How did you know? Did he tell you?”

“Yes,” Andromeda said, a shadow crossing her face. “Draco came to see me weeks before his wedding to Astoria Greengrass. He brought Lucius’s magical contract and asked if I knew how to break it — just like I had once broken mine.”

Shock flushed through Hermione’s chest. “You had a marriage contract? And you broke it?”

Andromeda nodded slowly, sadness etched in her voice. “Not exactly. My father had signed a magical marriage contract with Abraxas Malfoy. The Blacks promised one of their pureblood daughters would marry Abraxas’s son, Lucius, and bear the next Malfoy heir. It never specified which daughter. My father expected it would be me, the eldest unmarried daughter. But I eloped with Ted, and Narcissa took my place. For years, I was overwhelmed with guilt for sacrificing my sister, for putting her where our parents had wanted me. But over time, I learned about her — how Lucius adored her and how she loved him. Where I would have been miserable, she was radiant and happy. So yes, I had a marriage contract. I never fulfilled it, but I didn’t exactly break it either. When I told Draco, he was shattered…”

Her voice softened, filled with a bittersweet tenderness. “The wedding went ahead anyway. Slowly, Draco began visiting me more often. One day, I shared my idea for the orphanage. He said nothing at the time, but four dayes later, he came back with a list of people who could help. Shortly after, he restored my name to the Black family — giving me everything I had been denied for refusing to marry Lucius.”

They reached the private garden she had seen months ago. Andromeda’s voice grew quieter, tinged with regret.

“When Lucius died, he asked me to meet Narcissa — my sister.” She paused, swallowing hard. “My sister took her husband’s loss very hard. I made it my mission to help her, to get her outside again, to help her live what remained of her life with her son and grandson. But I didn’t succeed. Our meetings are usually awkward and cold. Still, I go because I owe it to her — and to Draco.”

Hermione nodded softly. Andromeda stepped forward, passing again through the impressive garden. Hermione noticed a translucent veil now covered it, likely to shield it from the harsh cold.

A sudden, intense curiosity welled up inside her about what secrets the garden might hold. When Andromeda saw Hermione pause at the entrance, she gave her a faint, knowing smile.

“Come,” she said, changing direction toward the enclosed area.

The closer Hermione got, the more her eyes widened. Inside the garden, it felt like... summer. The temperature was at least twenty degrees warmer than outside, and the light could easily have been mistaken for sunlight. The magic preserving this place had to be the work of a truly gifted witch or wizard.

“This is a private garden,” Andromeda explained. “Neville helped me set it up just before the orphanage opened. It was a condition, actually — one I had to agree to if I wanted to open the place without interference,” she added with a laugh.

Then her tone shifted, growing more thoughtful. “Did you know that some magical plants can be incredibly stubborn? If they’re planted somewhere and then left to wither, they often refuse to grow back. It’s like they lose faith in the land they relied on most. If you want to see them bloom again, you have to earn it. You give them new soil, tend to them with care, and show them—truly show them—that they won’t be abandoned again.”

She paused beside a small bush with pale pink flowers just beginning to unfurl.

“There’s a quiet pride in them, a kind of self-respect that’s hard to miss. Isn’t that something? Nature truly is remarkable.” Andromeda added gently.

But Hermione didn’t reply.

“Come on, let’s go deeper inside,” Andromeda said, gently taking Hermione by the hand and leading her through the garden gate.

They walked together among the stunning roses, the dense green hedges, and the heady scent of blossoms hanging in the air. It was so peaceful. Eventually, they reached what looked like the very heart of the garden. Hermione halted abruptly when she saw what was waiting there.

“Every year in September, a new one appears,” Andromeda said softly. “One moment, there was one—and then, the next year, when I come here, I see the plot carved out. Someone plants another, and suddenly, one becomes two. I’m expecting there’ll be eight soon. Always in September…”

“…Every October, the children pick the fruit, and the house-elves make the most delicious marmalade I’ve ever tasted,” she said.

But Hermione had stopped listening.

She stood frozen, her tears starting to fall down her cheeks, her gaze sweeping slowly across the roses, noticing that they bore her name—etched delicately onto small enchanted plaques at their base. And in the center of it all, seven tangerine trees stood tall, heavy with fruit. They looked as though they were waiting—patiently—for small hands to lift some of the burden they carried.

One for each year she was gone.

Chapter Text

March 2008

A few weeks later, Hermione finally gave in to her daughter’s relentless pleading and agreed to invite Scorpius over. That afternoon, instead of their usual visit to Grimmauld Place, the two Malfoys emerged from the fireplace of her cozy cottage in a swirl of green flame and soot.

“Scorp! Draco! You’re here!”

Maia, who had changed outfits at least three times before settling on her favorite red dress, had spent the past half hour camped in front of the hearth, her eyes fixed intently on the clock above the mantel. Hermione had told her they’d arrive at five, and Maia, armed with the stubborn determination only a six-year-old could possess, had been convinced that if she stared hard enough, she might will the hands of time to move faster.

The instant Scorpius stepped onto the rug, Maia seized his hand and tugged him eagerly toward the kitchen.

“See this, Scorp? It’s a coffee machine! Uncle Harry doesn’t have one. Mum says kids aren’t supposed to drink coffee, but she let me smell it once—it was awful. I don’t know how grown-ups drink that stuff.”

She didn’t pause long enough for a reply, already dragging him forward.

“Come on, there are more electric things in here. We don’t use them all the time, but mum says they came with the house, so we kept them.”

Left alone in the sitting room, Hermione and Malfoy exchanged a brief, somewhat awkward silence. From the kitchen came the muffled sounds of Maia’s animated tour—drawers opening, buttons being poked, appliances humming, and explanations being given in exhaustive detail to a very quiet Scorpius.

“Would you like some tea?” Hermione offered, finally breaking the silence.

“Yes, thank you”.

He had barely lifted the cup to his lips when Maia burst back into the room, cheeks flushed with excitement, still dragging Scorpius along behind her.

“Come on, Draco! I want to show you my room and my toys! I got an excavation kit from Adrian for Christmas, and grandma gave me a doctor set. When I grow up, I’m going to be a Doctor, just like her and grandpa!”

Hermione opened her mouth to remind Maia to give their guests a moment to breathe, but Malfoy was already setting down his teacup and rising to his feet with a quiet, genuine smile.

“I’d love to see your room,” he said warmly.

Maia lit up, her grin so wide it seemed to brighten the entire room, then darted off with Scorpius close behind. Malfoy followed without a moment’s hesitation.

Hermione watched them go, her heart stirring with a tangle of emotions she couldn’t quite name. It had been so long since Maia had sounded that comfortable with someone who wasn’t family.

Minutes passed. Hermione remained where she was, cradling her now-lukewarm tea, listening to the distant sounds of exploration—the creak of hinges, the delighted gasp of a child showing off her treasures to a captive audience.

When Malfoy finally returned, he looked faintly dazed, like a man who had just survived a small storm made of glitter, endless questions, and a battalion of plush magical creatures.

“She’s very proud of that excavation kit,” he said wryly.

“I’m afraid she’s going through a bit of a dinosaur phase at the moment. Adrian bought her a few 3D dinosaur puzzles after he overheard her talking about the ones you two do together at Grimmauld Place. Ever since, she’s been completely absorbed, either with those or the excavation kit.”

“She talks about the puzzles we do together?” he asked, eyes alight with quiet surprise.

Maia talked about the Malfoys constantly—about their shared activities, their conversations, the plans they made for the next visit. She spoke of them with such unfiltered joy that Hermione had caught Adrian giving her strange looks more than once during those enthusiastic recaps.

“Why are you suddenly spending so much time with the Malfoys at Grimmauld Place?” he had asked just a week earlier. He’d said it just after Maia had declared, with childlike certainty, that Adrian was terrible at puzzles and that Draco was far better at playing games with her.

Adrian rarely came to Grimmauld Place these days. Whether it was because of work or simply because Hermione had stopped inviting him, he never seemed particularly eager to go on his own. As a result, he had never witnessed her daughter interacting with Malfoy in person—which, as far as Hermione was concerned, was exactly how she preferred it.

Hermione had offered a vague, carefully measured response, deftly avoiding the truth behind her daughter’s sudden connection to Draco Malfoy. She wasn’t ready to explain—not to Adrian, not to anyone. Not until she and Malfoy had found solid ground beneath their feet, not until they decided together where they stood, and how—or even if—they would share the truth with Maia.

Still, a quiet guilt gnawed at her. She hadn’t told Adrian the full story, even after everything he had confessed to her just days ago.

He had told her he was in love with her.

And she… hadn’t said it back.

Yet he had continued to kiss her like nothing had changed, to touch her with the same hunger and tenderness he’d shown from the very beginning. But something had shifted. Hermione could feel it, an undercurrent of distance forming beneath the surface of their intimacy, born from the secrets she now kept. And though Adrian hadn’t asked, some part of her feared he already knew or at least sensed that something had altered between them.

The truth was, the past three months had been... strange.

It was strange for Hermione, who now saw Draco Malfoy nearly as often as she saw Adrian each week. Most days, they barely exchanged a word, especially when he and Maia were tucked away in the library, absorbed in their world of color and puzzle pieces that responded to laughter and cleverness. Meanwhile, Scorpius and Albus would try—usually in vain—to keep up with Maia’s lightning-fast problem-solving.

But in between all that, there were these quiet, unguarded moments, when Hermione would find herself watching Malfoy from across the room. She wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t interrupt. She would simply watch him.

And that still, involuntary awareness unsettled her more than she liked to admit.

She often found herself wondering when it had become so effortless for him to care. When had it started—this calm attentiveness, this gentle, unwavering presence he offered Maia as if it were second nature?

She had arrived like a sudden gust of wind, unexpected and full of force and he had adapted with remarkable ease. He hadn’t merely accepted her existence. He had embraced it completely. Maia was sweet and imaginative, certainly—but also strong-willed, demanding, and endlessly curious. She was, in every way, a child born of fire and intellect.

Just like her parents.

And yet, Malfoy never seemed overwhelmed. He met Maia’s intensity with steady, quiet patience. He played alongside her, listened to her stories with genuine interest, and kept pace—not just with her boundless imagination, but with her emotions. Their time together wasn’t performative. It was real.

The fear still lingered, of course—that one day he might retreat, vanish from their lives once more. But it no longer loomed like a shadow over everything. It had softened, no longer a roar but a whisper. The knot that once clenched tight in her stomach at the mere thought of his absence had begun, slowly and cautiously, to unravel.

And yet… she still couldn’t say, with full certainty, that she trusted his intentions. Not entirely. Not yet.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Sometimes she talks about your games. And about Scorpius.” It was true but only partly. Just a glimpse into the vivid, joyful world Maia often painted with wide eyes and boundless joy.

Malfoy smiled—small and genuine, the kind of smile that reached his eyes and lingered there.

“She’s extraordinary, you know,” he said, his voice hushed, like the words themselves held a kind of reverence. His gaze flicked down the hallway, toward the door of Maia’s room. “She’s the kindest, brightest, most open-hearted little girl I’ve ever known.”

There was something in the way he said it—gentle, sincere—that made Hermione’s lips curve into a faint smile despite herself.

“She really is,” she murmured, eyes lowering to her tea.

“You’ve done an incredible job raising her,” he added. “She’s brilliant. Though I have to say”—his smile widened—“she’s also unbelievably stubborn.”

He laughed then, a warm and unguarded sound. “Which I assume is entirely hereditary,” he finished, with a pointed glance.

Hermione let out a quiet snort. “No doubt about that.”

A pause settled between them—not tense this time, but calm.

Malfoy shifted slightly in his seat, then cleared his throat.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a few days now,” he said, his voice deliberate and composed. “But I wasn’t sure if the timing would be right. It’s about Maia. I’ve been thinking about a few things lately… and before I take any steps, I wanted to speak with you first.”

Hermione’s heart gave a small, involuntary flutter. Not panic—yet—but something close. A ripple of unease stirred beneath her composed exterior. Still, she kept her face neutral, her breath steady. Whatever he was about to say, she needed to be ready.

“Of course,” she replied quickly, sitting a little straighter.

He didn’t speak right away.

Without meaning to, the first thing that came to her mind was the image of him—seven years ago—standing in the living room of the flat she shared with Ginny, telling her he was going to marry Astoria. That he had to honor his parents’ wishes. That it would be best if she never contacted him again.

“These past three months,” he began finally, “I’ve been speaking regularly with my solicitors.” His voice was measured, calm but serious. “As you probably know, children born out of wedlock are… not typical in pure-blood families. Not officially, anyway. In the Malfoy line, there’s no precedent—at least none anyone’s been willing to admit…”

 “…But that doesn’t matter to me,” he continued. “I stopped living for tradition a long time ago. What matters now is Maia. And Scorpius. I want both of them protected—legally, magically, socially. Which is why…”

He drew a slow breath.

“…I’d like to ask your permission to formally acknowledge Maia as my daughter. Publicly. And to give her my name.”

He glanced up, as if searching her face, gauging her reaction.

Hermione blinked, stunned. The words hit like a rush of wind, sweeping through her, stirring up everything—hope, fear, hesitation. She couldn’t quite find her voice.

“What?” she breathed, barely above a whisper.

“I know you’ve needed time,” he said. “To make sure I wasn’t going to vanish again like I did back then. I understand that. I’ve earned your caution. But I also want to be honest with you.” He met her gaze squarely. “I will not abandon my child. What I want is to be her father. Not just behind closed doors or in secret… but fully. Openly. In every way that matters…”

He paused, his gaze steady and unwavering.

“…I want Maia to carry my name. But I want it to be something both of you want. She’s my daughter, without question but she has been entirely yours for so long. I would never try to take that away.”

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment. His words settled deep inside her chest—warm, heavy, undeniable. Her throat tightened with a sudden swell of emotion.

“Would you… really claim her? Publicly?” she whispered, voice barely audible.

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation. “If you’ll let me.”

His voice dropped to something more intimate, more resolute.

“I don’t want you to feel pressured by what I’m asking. But I want you to know I will be here. For her. Always. In whatever way you allow, no matter what her last name is.”

Their eyes locked across the quiet room, and for the first time in a long while, Hermione’s gaze softened. The walls she’d built so carefully—the shields of suspicion and steel, began to crumble.

She hesitated.

“And your mother? The purebloods? The scandal?” Her words barely scratched the surface of the fear twisting between them. What would happen when the world discovered that Draco Malfoy had a child with a Muggleborn witch and kept it secret? Not just any Muggleborn, but her—the one with all the history, the weight, the impossible expectations.

Draco’s expression shifted, not with defensiveness or fear, but with something far stronger. Resolve. 

“My mother shouldn’t be your concern,” he said calmly. “She already knows about Maia, as you well know. I’m fairly certain that part of her already wants to meet her, though she’s not quite ready to admit it.”

Hermione tilted her head thoughtfully. “But you mentioned—when we were at Andromeda’s—that Narcissa didn’t react well. That she wasn’t prepared to accept that you had another child... with me.”

He paused, his jaw tightening for a moment.

“My mother has faced a lot over the past few years. Some of her actions I can understand; others, not so much. I’ve made my peace with much of her past behavior, but I would never—under any circumstances—excuse her if she treated Maia poorly or spoke harshly about her. Believe me, if I thought she’d be a problem in Maia’s life, I wouldn’t hesitate to keep her away. But that’s not the case.”

He exhaled slowly.

“Her initial reaction wasn’t what I had hoped for. But not for the reasons you might think.”

Hermione sensed that when he first sat down, he hadn’t intended for the conversation to veer toward Narcissa.

“It’s not that she wasn’t happy that after all these years there was finally a Malfoy girl. She longed for a granddaughter, even when she knew Scorpius would be a boy, just as all the Malfoy marriage contracts are designed to ensure. That wasn’t the issue…”

“…The problem was that my mother had certain expectations for me. Plans she’s been pushing—sometimes not so subtly—for quite a while. They involve not only me but Scorpius as well. She believes I should remarry, that I need a proper partner at my side, and that Scorpius deserves a mother figure. But the truth is, the existence of another child with you, and the fact that I’m now likely to be seen as the villain of the story—the one who left you pregnant and married a pureblood instead of the hero of the war—that throws a wrench in all of her carefully laid plans.”

He gave a tight, controlled smile laced with quiet defiance.

“Once the initial shock wore off, she realized just how lucky we were to have a little girl join this family.”

Hermione listened, but a flicker of doubt clouded her thoughts.

She no longer cared whether Narcissa ever truly accepted Maia. What mattered to her was simple: if that woman ever did anything to put her child in danger, she wouldn’t hesitate to confront her, no matter the consequences.

Malfoy spoke with a brand new confidence that both unsettled and intrigued her. There was a certainty in his voice about Narcissa’s eventual acceptance that she found hard to share. It struck her as strange, almost foreign.

“As for the rest of them—the pureblood elite,” he added, eyes narrowing slightly, “they can whisper all they want. I stopped caring about their approval a long time ago. None of them would dare say anything to my face.”

A sharp glint flickered in his eyes. “And if they do?” He shrugged. “Then they’ll learn what happens when they come after someone I care about. The Malfoy name still holds weight. I intend to use it to protect Maia, not to bury her beneath it.”

“And The Prophet?” she asked.

A wry smile tugged at the corners of Draco’s lips.

“The Prophet has printed worse things about me Granger. If they want to run a headline painting me as the former Death Eater who seduced the Golden Girl—let them. It’s just noise. I don’t care what they write. I care about my children. I care about doing this right, with your approval.”

His tone shifted then, becoming thoughtful and sincere. “You don’t need to worry about my mother or the rest of the pureblood elite. But if it’s the press that concerns you… well, I won’t pretend it’ll be easy for us. They might cast you as the victim, but make no mistake—some of their attacks will still land on you. Subtlety isn't exactly their strength, and they’re not the kind you can buy off. Not when the story is this explosive. I could try to manage the name change quietly, behind closed doors, but eventually, someone will find out. To be honest... if you agree to let me officially recognize Maia as my daughter, then I think the safest way forward is for us to release a formal statement on our terms. If the truth leaks through whispers and backroom gossip, we lose control of the story. They’ll twist it, weaponize it, and all of us—especially Maia—will end up paying the price. But if we speak first, clearly and directly, we set the tone. We shape the narrative. And in a world like ours… that matters more than you know.”

He hesitated, just for a breath. “But if you have another idea… I’m open to it.”

Hermione nodded slowly, still trying to process everything. She considered his words carefully. Part of her wanted to believe that a formal announcement might indeed be the safest path—by owning the story, they could control the narrative and protect Maia from the cruel distortions of gossip. But another part of her hesitated, wondering if such exposure might bring unnecessary pain and unwanted attention too soon. The weight of public scrutiny felt heavy, and she wasn’t sure if they were ready for that kind of battle just yet. Still, deep down, she knew that hiding the truth indefinitely was no guarantee of peace either.

“If I agree to let her take your name… what exactly does that mean?”

“It means she becomes a Malfoy in both name and law. She’d be formally registered as my legal heir, alongside Scorpius. Technically, because she’s older, Maia would come first in the line of succession. But since she was born outside of marriage, it’s… complicated.”

He hesitated, as if weighing every word before continuing.

“I’ve already consulted with my solicitors. I needed to be absolutely certain before I brought this to you. I’m doing everything I can to protect them both and to be fair to them.”

A slow breath escaped him. His jaw tightened slightly.

“Traditionally, the Malfoy legacy passes to a single heir. It’s been more than seven generations since there were two Malfoy children alive at the same time. We’ve never had to divide it, especially not between one born in wedlock and one who wasn’t. There’s also the contract my father signed with Astoria’s family. It guaranteed that she would bear the legal heir—one entitled to the title and the estate. That complicates things even more. I don’t want either of my children to grow up feeling like they were second best or worse—resenting each other for decisions they had no part in. I already owe both of them more than I can ever repay… for choices I made before they were even born. I have so many things to explain to them about my past, about the war, about my father, about my marriage to Astoria. I won’t let inheritance become another burden they carry.”

He looked at her then, earnest and unwavering. “This is something I need to set right. As much as I can. Fortunately, the Greengrass contract, while restrictive, wasn’t airtight. It required the heir to be male and legitimate… but it never specified which bloodline he had to inherit.” He gave a small, almost tentative smile. “I’m heir to two ancient houses—Malfoy and Black. So I thought… if there are two legacies, and I have two children, why shouldn’t each of them inherit one?”

Hermione blinked, caught in a moment of surprise tinged with curiosity.

“I’ve spent weeks researching whether that kind of workaround could actually hold. Whether the old magic behind the contract would recognize it. Dennis has been helping, he’s been combing through legal precedents and bloodline enchantments for the past month. And we found something. A way.”

His voice softened.

“So Maia—being the eldest—will have the right to choose for herself. Whether she wants to be the Malfoy heir, the Black heir… or neither, it’ll be entirely her decision when the time comes. Whatever she chooses, I’ll stand by her. As for the rest—my estate, vaults, assets—everything else will be divided equally between them. Scorpius already has half of the Greengrass fortune in trust for when he comes of age. If Daphne never marries or has children, he’ll likely inherit the Greengrass title as well.”

He exhaled, eyes distant for a moment before they settled back on hers.

“I never had a choice when it came to the Malfoy name. Not in the title, the legacy, or even my own life. I don’t want that for them. I want my children to have what I never did—the freedom to choose their own future. My name carries a long and complicated history, one marked by power, pride, and more mistakes than I care to count. It’s not a legacy I’m always proud of. But I’m trying—desperately—to change that. To rebuild what it means to be a Malfoy. I want to give my children something better. A future untethered from the shadows I was born into. The weight of this name... it’s heavy. And I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want that burden for our child. But I need to be honest with you. I want them both to be my heirs if you’ll allow it.”

Hermione sat motionless, her hands wrapped around the now-cold cup of tea resting in her lap. Her heart beat somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope—hope she hadn’t dared to feel in years.

Just a few months ago, she and Draco had stood on opposite ends of the drawing room at Grimmauld Place, their voices raised, their pain weaponized. Anger had spilled from old wounds neither of them knew how to name. They had been furious, guarded, two people bound by a past too heavy to hold and yet, here they were.

If someone had told her then that she would one day look him in the eye and tell him the truth—that Maia was his daughter—and that, not long after, he’d be sitting across from her in the quiet warmth of her own cottage, speaking not with bitterness or regret but with fierce, unwavering intent to be her father… she would have laughed. Or cried. Or both. Probably both.

Because this—this moment—felt impossible. And yet, it was real. Tangible. And terrifying.

She wasn’t sure what scared her more: the risk of letting him in, or the aching, dangerous thought that maybe… he meant every word.

“Why?” she had asked him then, her voice barely louder than a breath. “Why do you want Maia to carry your name? Why do you want to acknowledge her?”

“Why?” he’d echoed softly, a flicker of something tender passing through his expression. Then came a faint, almost wistful smile. “Well—for starters, as I told you—I want to give her security. Rights. A future with choices, with protection. I want her to have access to everything the Malfoy name still carries, because she deserves every possible advantage I can offer her.”

He paused, drawing in a breath.

“But more than that… I want her to know she belongs. Fully. I want her to look at me one day, not with confusion or doubt, but with certainty. I want her to know I am her father. Not in whispers or behind closed doors… but out in the open. Without shame. Without hesitation. If she grows up with a different name than Scorpius, I worry she'll always feel like the exception. Like she was left out of something she never had a choice in. I can’t bear the thought of her questioning her worth, or wondering why she was kept apart. I want her to know she is loved. Completely. That she is just as much a part of me as Scorpius is and always will be. I want my children to grow up knowing they belong. That there are no sides, no secrets. Just family.”

He looked down for a moment, jaw tightening as he fought for the right words.

“And if that’s not enough… there’s another reason. One that’s more selfish, maybe.”

His voice almost broke on the next sentence.

“I’ve already missed so much. That guilt… it doesn’t fade. It’s there every morning I wake up and every night I lie down. But this—this is something I can do. This is a way for me to say I see her. I choose her. That I will never look away again.”

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself.

“Hermione, you’ve raised her alone. For six years. And you’ve done it with more strength and grace than I can even comprehend. But I’m asking you now—please. Let me stand beside you. Let me recognize her as mine. Not just in blood, but in name, in truth, in everything that matters.”

Hermione sat in silence, the weight of his words still hanging in the air like mist. Her gaze drifted slowly toward the hallway that led to Maia’s room. From behind the door came the faint hum of that little enchanted radio she’d bought for Maia’s birthday last year, still playing that cheerful melody. And then, laughter. Scorpius’s laugh, light and unguarded.

In her mind, she pictured the two of them dancing wildly on the bed, Maia twirling in her red dress, hair flying as she bounced, pulling Scorpius with her into that little universe of joy only children could create.

Maia loved dancing on the bed. Always had.

There had been a time—God, not that long ago—when the idea of Draco Malfoy in Maia’s life had felt like a threat. Unsafe. Unfair. A risk she couldn’t take. He had been a wound, a closed door, a shadow from a life she’d buried for the sake of survival.

But now…

Now, his voice still echoed in her mind, full of raw honesty and something almost broken beneath the resolve. He hadn’t tried to manipulate or guilt her. He had simply laid his heart on the table, exposed, vulnerable and real.

And it stirred something in her. Not forgiveness. But something quieter, deeper.

It was the sound of longing. Of a man trying to be more than what he had been. Of a father desperate not to miss what remained.

Her instincts, sharpened by years of fear and loneliness, still whispered warnings. Every scar he’d left behind still pulsed beneath her ribs. But her heart—so long guarded, so fiercely stubborn—was no longer untouched by the sight of him kneeling to tie Maia’s shoes, or reading beside her while she painted dragons on puzzle pieces.

For the first time in years she felt the fragile, terrifying beginning of hope.

“You know,” Hermione said, her voice almost a whisper, “if we’re really going to do this… the very first person we need to speak to is Maia.” Her eyes held his without flinching. “Are you truly ready for that? Because she’s going to have questions—so many questions, and they won’t be easy ones.”

She knew her daughter far too well—knew how sharp her mind was, how deeply she felt things. If Maia were to find out about her father, it wouldn’t end in a quiet, tearful reunion. It would be a storm of impossible questions and painfully honest answers.

“So… do you agree? Can I acknowledge her—publicly?”

“Yes,” Hermione breathed out, her voice steady but soft.

For a long moment, they simply looked at each other, the silence stretching and thickening around them. No words were spoken. None were needed. In those shared seconds, they held the full weight of everything—the years of distance, the hidden pain, the uncertain future. It was a silence heavy with unspoken promises and the fragile threads of trust slowly weaving back together.

Draco’s shoulders relaxed just slightly, and then a small, trembling smile broke across his lips. His eyes shimmered — almost glistening, but no tears fell. It was a smile that carried relief and hope.

And then, Hermione returned the smile—tentative, fragile—but real. It was the first time in over seven years she had smiled at him like that. That small gesture held all the things words could not.

That night, long after the two Malfoys had left and Maia was already asleep, Hermione lay down in her bed and finally breathed freely—for the first time in many, many years.

***

They met again the next day at her house, early in the afternoon, while Maia was spending time at her grandparents’ place. They needed to decide together how they would tell Maia the truth.

“Over the past month, I’ve spoken to a few people. Experts. People who work with adults and children about trauma, identity, family separation.” His voice faltered for the briefest moment. “People I trust.”

Hermione blinked. Was he talking about the therapist Theo had mentioned all those months ago? Had he really continued those sessions?

“I asked them how to approach something like this. How to talk to a child about something this big. How to answer questions I haven’t even thought of yet. One of them gave me a lot of advice. She even offered to speak with you directly, if that’s something you’d want.”

He glanced up at her, more vulnerable now. “You’d understand what she told me better than I did. You know Maia, how she thinks, how she feels. I don’t want to walk into that conversation blind οr unprepared. I want to do this right,” he said. “We need to do this right.”

He met her gaze, steady and unwavering. “We need to be a team in this, Granger. You and me.”

***

Over the next two weeks, she and Malfoy met regularly with Evi Fry—a calm-voiced, keenly intelligent psychologist whose office occupied the top floor of a converted townhouse near Liverpool Street.

The space was quiet and minimalist, with polished wooden floors, soft grey walls, and clean architectural lines. One wall was lined with shelves of psychology books and academic journals, while a single potted fern stretched lazily toward the sunlight streaming in through the tall window.

Despite Hermione’s initial discomfort, it quickly became clear that Evi knew precisely what she was doing.

She was perceptive, unflinchingly direct, and unfailingly kind. She had a gift for cutting through their hesitations and naming the heart of things with clarity and care.

She asked detailed questions about Maia—her temperament, her routines, her emotional patterns. She offered practical tools and gentle language: ways to help a child feel anchored while hearing something that could upend her understanding of the world.

She challenged Malfoy when he grew defensive, and grounded Hermione when her anxiety threatened to take over. Most importantly, she helped them communicate as a team.

Together, they explored Maia’s inner world—her fears, her resilience, her deep need for honesty and stability.

Evi walked them through potential scenarios: how Maia might react, what questions she might ask, and which truths could be saved for when she was older. She emphasized presence over perfection, urging them toward clarity, compassion, and patience.

“There’s no perfect script,” Evi said in their final session, her voice calm but resolute. “What matters most is this: children may forget the exact words, but they’ll never forget how something made them feel. Your daughter will watch both of you for emotional cues. So be calm. Be kind. Be honest but keep it simple. And above all—be together.”

***

She stirred beneath the thick duvet, blinking awake to the sound of her daughter’s excited voice echoing through the cottage.

“Mummy! It’s snowing, Mummy!”

The bedroom door creaked open, and Maia jumped onto the bed, curling into her mother’s arms over the covers. Her cheeks were already flushed with excitement, her curls bounced with every movement.

“Mum?” she asked again, more playfully this time. “Come on! They’re waiting for us at Uncle Harry’s! We’re going to have a snowball fight!”

Hermione smiled sleepily and tucked a strand of hair behind Maia’s ear. Maia urged her to get ready, her wide eyes filled with wonder. Snow—real snow—still hadn’t lost its magic for her. Growing up under the sunlit skies of Sydney, she’d never seen it until last winter in England. Since then, it had remained something extraordinary, something out of fairy tales and dreams.

But the excitement didn’t last.

At Grimmauld Place, Harry greeted them in the library, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“James is feeling a bit under the weather,” he explained when Maia eagerly asked about the snowball fight. “So he shouldn’t really be out. And, well… Albus doesn’t like snow. He’s a strange one sometimes.”

Hermione watched the joy slip from Maia’s face, her little brow furrowing in confusion.

“Then how are we going to play in the snow?” she asked, disappointment clouding her voice.

Before Hermione could respond, two figures stepped into the library—Malfoy, with Scorpius bundled beside him in a dark green cloak.

He shook the snow from his son’s hair, scattering white crystals across the floor. Malfoy’s hair, usually so meticulously styled, was dusted with snowflakes, and a rare light danced in his eyes. A faint, almost unguarded smile played on his lips as he looked at their daughter still talking about the snow.

Hermione’s gaze lingered on him longer than she intended. She remembered, as clearly as if it were yesterday, how much he had always loved the snow—how winter seemed to draw something freer, more boyish out of him. In the quiet hush of a snowy day, he always seemed more himself.

“Draco!” Maia called out, running up to him as soon as she saw him. “Do you and Scorpius want to have a snowball fight with me?” she asked eagerly, her eyes shining with hope.

Malfoy, still half-in the doorway with his coat on, hesitated. He looked over at Hermione.

She gave a small nod.

“Of course, Maia! Scorpius and I love the snow,” he replied with a smile.

Scorpius, eager and impatient, wriggled in his father’s arms as if he couldn’t wait to get down and play in the snow.

And just like that, the three of them disappeared through the back door into the garden, where the snow lay thick and undisturbed, glittering under the pale morning light.

Hermione lingered at the window, her fingers resting lightly on the frost-laced glass.

Outside, the three of them knelt in the snow, wrapped in cloaks and scarves and woollen gloves. They were building a snowman together—though really, it was more of a snow-boy, no taller than Scorpius himself. Hermione watched as Malfoy tapped the snow figure with his wand, and to Maia’s absolute delight, it began to move—wobbling on its rounded base and waving stiff arms like a puppet brought clumsily to life.

Maia squealed with laughter, her mittened hands clapping with delight.

Then without warning Scorpius hurled a snowball straight at his father. It hit Draco squarely on the shoulder.

The boy let out a whoop of triumph.

Maia immediately followed suit, packing a snowball of her own and launching it with all the strength her small arms could muster.

Malfoy staggered back in mock betrayal, then swept his wand through the air in dramatic fashion, shielding himself as the snowballs exploded harmlessly into powder mid-air.

The children shrieked with laughter, red-cheeked and breathless, their giggles echoing through the crisp, white air.

At some point, Ginny joined the snowball fight, cradling a very grumpy Albus in her arms, who absolutely refused to let his feet touch the snow.

“I still can’t believe you told him about Maia,” said Ron, settling down beside Hermione on the window bench.

In his arms, he held a tiny bundle, his newborn son. For once, the baby was quiet, peacefully asleep. It was one of the rare moments Hermione didn’t hear him crying.

Ron looked exhausted.                              

Just a week ago, he, Jacqueline, and baby Fred had arrived in London so the entire Weasley clan could meet the newest addition to their already sprawling family. Fred had been born three months ago—a few weeks earlier than expected. He had tufts of bright orange hair and Ron’s unmistakably brilliant blue eyes. In fact, the baby was almost a perfect miniature of Ron, much to Jacqueline’s endless delight.

“I don’t think she had another choice at that moment, Ron,” Harry said quietly, sitting down beside him.

“I don’t know,” Ron replied, gently shifting the sleeping baby in his arms. “She could have always stood up and walked away. She could’ve come to France. I’d personally make sure Malfoy never set foot near her again,” he said firmly.

Hermione gave him a faint smile. “I stopped running away, Ron.”

He sighed. “I just… I don’t want to see you get hurt again. You or Maia.” Ron looked at her seriously, his blue eyes sharper than usual. “I swear, if he ever hurts Maia, I’ll kill him. I’ll make him eat every single strand of hair on his head, then drown him.”

Harry rolled his eyes as Hermione laughed aloud.

“Good to know I always have you on my side.”

Ron smirked and sighed. The three of them sat quietly, watching the scene outside. George had gone out, and now Louis was chasing after him, leaving tiny footprints in the snow.

“He thanked me, you know,” Ron said suddenly.

“Who?” Hermione asked, curious.

“The ferret,” Ron replied dryly.

“What?” Harry asked.

“He thanked you?” she repeated, surprised.

“The other day,” Ron said, shifting to get more comfortable. “You Hermione were upstairs with Lily. Harry was in the kitchen. He, Maia, and that little blond son of his were in the library, coloring. I just popped in to check on Maia, make sure he wasn’t saying anything weird around her. When he saw me, he asked if we could talk privately. Then he thanked me—for helping you raise Maia, for being there for you. He actually called me ‘Ron,’ I swear. When he said it, I didn’t know whether to laugh or punch him. Pretty sure he felt the same.”

“Yeah, definitely he felt the same,” Harry agreed.

Hermione tilted her head, intrigued. “What exactly did he say?”

“He said he owes me,” Ron said. “Because I took care of you and the baby while he was oceans away. And the craziest part? It was the only time I’ve ever heard him speak without a hint of sarcasm. Which, honestly, didn’t made it easier not to punch him.”

Outside, the snow had begun to fall again, soft snowflakes drifting lazily from the pale winter sky.

Malfoy stood now, brushing snow off his cloak. Maia tugged at his hand, pointing eagerly toward the far end of the garden, where she and Teddy had once claimed they’d found a hidden dragon’s nest.

“Maia likes him,” Hermione said softly. “A lot. She talks about him all the time. My child is happy around him. He makes her happy. And he… he wants to publicly acknowledge her as his daughter. He wants to give her his name. He wants to give her everything—if… if I agree.”

She glanced at Harry, who showed no surprise at her words.

“And you, Hermione? How do you feel about all this?” Ron asked gently.

She hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly.

“I didn’t expect it. I didn’t think things would turn out like this. I’d seen him with Scorpius before, but watching him with Maia is… different.”

She paused, searching for the right words.

“At first, it felt strange,” she continued. “Strange because he was good with her. Really good. And I hate that it surprised me. I hate that a part of me expected everything to fall apart again. That he would disappear…”

“…But he didn’t. He’s still here.”

Harry watched her for a moment, then looked out the window, where the children were throwing snowballs in the garden.

“That’s what scares you, isn’t it?” he said quietly. “That this time, he might actually stay.”

Hermione didn’t answer right away. Outside, Maia’s laughter echoed over the snowy yard. She rested her forehead against the cold glass, eyes fixed on the man standing beside her daughter.

“Yes, it did,” she whispered. “But not anymore.”

She took a slow, steady breath, her gaze lingering on the snow-covered garden outside.

“For six years, Maia was mine. Just… mine. Every decision was mine to make. I watched her grow into this brilliant, fierce little person and I did it all alone. And then… suddenly, there was a father in the picture. One who shows up on time, who wants to teach her things. One who listens. Who’s patient with her stubbornness, who laughs at her jokes—even when they don’t quite make sense. And I didn’t know how to feel about that. Because part of me was happy—so happy—that my child was happy. But another part of me wanted to scream every time I saw them together, because it meant she was no longer just mine. It meant there was this whole new force in her life I couldn’t control. And for so long, control was all I had.”

Her throat tightened.

“And I should have felt relief that he adores her. I should have been grateful that he wasn’t doing just the bare minimum. Because Merlin, Draco has been—” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “He’s been good. For three and a half months now, he’s been steady. Present. Thoughtful. He’s trying to understand her. He asks questions. He doesn’t push. He notices the little things—when she’s overtired, when she’s had too much sugar. I knew he was a good father to Scorpius, but with Maia... It’s almost like he’s trying to make up for all the time he lost. And while at first I was terrified—Merlin, terrified—now… now I’m not afraid anymore. I haven’t forgiven him but for the first time, I think he’s becoming the man I once believed he could be. The man our daughter deserves.”

***

By the time morning arrived, the snow had stopped.

Hermione was up earlier than usual, dressing quietly in her warmest clothes. Outside the kitchen window, the garden was blanketed in a thick layer of white, undisturbed and still. Adrian’s red car, parked just outside the cottage, stood in striking contrast to the monochrome hush of the scene.

As they sat together, sipping coffee in the soft light of the kitchen, Hermione broke the silence.

“Would you mind making a little detour to my parents’ house before heading to the office?” she asked. “Maia gets quite cranky with Apparition.”

Adrian glanced at her over the rim of his mug. “You’re not going to work today?”

Adrian had come by Grimmauld Place the day before, just after most of the Sunday gathering had dispersed. Malfoy had still been there, but aside from a brief exchange of greetings, the two men had barely acknowledged each other.

Afterward, Adrian followed the two Grangers to the cottage, where he spent the night with Hermione.

“I took the day off,” Hermione replied. “I thought I’d spend it with Maia. We’re going to my parents’ for a bit. You’re welcome to join us, if you’re free.”

The truth was, Adrian’s presence usually grounded her. He had a calming effect—always finding a way to speak about ordinary, mundane, Muggle things that gently carried her thoughts away from anything that involved Draco Malfoy.

Adrian smiled softly, though there was something faintly sad in his eyes. “I can’t. But how about this: I pick you both up around seven, and we go out for dinner? Somewhere warm. Just the three of us.”

Hermione hesitated only for a breath, but enough for him to notice.

“I... I don’t think we can tonight,” she said carefully. “Maia and I have something we need to take care of this afternoon. At Grimmauld Place. Harry needs my help with a few things, and I promised I’d stop by.”

It was a lie.

In truth, she and Maia had a very different appointment—one Hermione had been preparing for through many sleepless nights. That evening, Malfoy was coming to the cottage. Together, they were going to tell Maia the truth, that he was her father. That was why Hermione had taken the day off, she wanted to spend every moment with Maia, to be fully present before her world changed forever.

“…But,” she added, her voice casual, “If you’re free tomorrow afternoon, I’d like to see you. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

Adrian looked at her, his brow furrowing slightly. He wasn’t one to pry but he wasn’t a fool either.

“Is everything all right, Hermione? Should I be worried?”

She shook her head quickly. “No. Everything’s fine. Really. I just… I need to talk to you about something. About Maia.”

Because after Maia, the next person who deserved to hear the truth was Adrian.

It had been three and a half months since Malfoy had learned the truth and throughout all that time, she had kept a secret from a man who had been nothing but kind, steady, and patient with her. Adrian hadn’t asked questions, hadn’t pressed. But Hermione knew he sensed the change. She had been holding something back, and he, gracious as ever, had allowed her to keep it—for now.

But that time had come to an end.

No more half-truths. No more delaying the inevitable. Once Maia knew the truth, Adrian deserved to know it too. Because his life—and their relationship—would change after today. And he needed to be prepared for that, even if Hermione wasn’t entirely sure how things would unfold.

At her parents’ house, Hermione immediately noticed how much more worn her mother looked compared to just a week ago. Despite her frequent visits to the Grangers’ home, Hermione had yet to tell her mother that Malfoy now knew the truth. Helen was perpetually drained, emotionally frayed around the edges, and Hermione didn’t want to add another burden—one that would almost certainly deepen the anxiety already weighing her down.

Over the past month, her father had grown increasingly vulnerable to infections. He had fallen ill three times, each episode more severe than the last. Helen now cared for him with meticulous caution—always wearing a mask and gloves, limiting who came into the house, and disinfecting every surface, as if fighting to stave off decay itself.

Maia understood that her grandfather was very ill. She no longer asked many questions. Instead, she chose to spend every moment of their visits by his side, in his room, nestled close to him, reading magical storybooks aloud in her clearest, bravest voice, or chatting about her toys, her friends, and her school, as if sheer joy could somehow hold him to this world.

“Maia, Grandpa is very tired today,” Hermione had gently told her that morning, brushing a curl from her daughter’s cheek. “You can visit him, but only for a little while, okay? He’s not feeling well, and we don’t want him to get worse.”

They spent the entire morning there. Maia tiptoed in and out of the bedroom, then finally bundled up and went out to play in the snow-covered garden.

As the afternoon slowly settled in, Hermione took Maia’s hand, and together they wandered down the street toward the small row of shops near her parents’ neighborhood. They ended up at a cozy local pizzeria—Maia’s choice—where they shared a slice of pepperoni, a fizzy drink, and a quiet corner booth. Maia chatted about school, her feet swinging beneath the table, while Hermione listened, smiling, letting the normalcy steady her heart.

Afterwards, they slipped into a charming bakery next door, where Maia eagerly picked out a bright green cake shaped like a toad.

“It looks like Shrek!” she declared with delight, completely unfazed by the fact that no one was celebrating a birthday.

Hermione smiled and let her have it. Today wasn’t about practicality or rules, it was about holding on to simple, joyful moments before the evening came, bringing with it a truth that would change everything.

At six o’clock that evening, Draco Malfoy stepped out of the fireplace in her living room, this time arriving alone.

“Draaaaco!” Maia squealed, running toward him with open arms. “Mummy said you were coming, but she also said Scorp was staying with his aunt,” she added, pouting slightly. “That’s okay, though because she bought me a brand-new experiment kit today, and Scorp’s too little to play with it anyway! Do you want to try it with me? It has potions, mixing stuff, and fizzing things!”

She spoke in one breath, bouncing eagerly with excitement.

Hermione watched him closely.

Malfoy appeared anxious, his shoulders tense, his eyes uncertain. She didn’t blame him. She herself had been on edge since waking that morning. Their conversations with Evi Fry had helped them prepare, offering a path forward but now, standing on the brink of the moment, the weight of it all still felt overwhelming.

“The experiment kit sounds amazing,” he said, crouching down with a gentle smile. “And I promise we’ll try it together. But tonight, I’m here because your mum and I have something important to tell you.”

Maia’s expression faltered just slightly, but she nodded in understanding. Hermione reached out, taking Maia’s hand, and led her to the couch. Maia settled into her lap, small, warm, and trusting.

Malfoy sat beside them.

“There’s no perfect script,” Evi had said. But there was honesty, and there was love for Maia. Together, they had chosen to lead with both.

Hermione was the first to speak. She gently reassured Maia that she loved her more than anything in the world, that her happiness and sense of safety would always come first, no matter what. She promised her daughter that she would always be there for her, to protect her and care for her, because she would forever be her little girl.

“Do you remember how I’ve always told you that when you came into the world, you filled it with light, just by being you?” she said softly.

“Yes, Mummy,” Maia whispered.

“Well, that’s still true. It will always be true. You are my sunshine, Maia. You’re my little star but you’re also my whole universe,” Hermione said, her voice thick with emotion. “And because I love you so much, there’s something important I want to tell you. Something about your family that I haven’t told you before.”

Maia blinked, curiosity shining through her calm.

“Maia… you know how some kids grow up with both a mum and a dad, and others grow up with just one?”

“Yeah,” Maia nodded. “You’ve told me that before. Some kids only have a mum. Some only have a dad. Like Scorpius.”

“Exactly,” Malfoy said, his voice gentle and warm. “Families come in all kinds of shapes. You’ve grown up with your mum, and she’s done an amazing job. But…”

He glanced briefly at Hermione before turning his full attention back to Maia. “…the truth is, I’m your biological father. That means you were made from a part of your mum… and a part of me.”

Maia blinked, as if the words were still finding their place in her mind.

“But… I thought my daddy was really far away.”

Malfoy leaned forward, gently taking her small hand in his. His thumb brushed over her knuckles.

“I know,” he said, his voice quieter now. “For a very long time… I was far away.” He offered her a small, hesitant smile—one lined with sadness, but full of hope. “But I want to be here now. I want to get to know you. I want to be part of your life… if you’ll let me.”

A hush fell between them. Maia looked from one adult to the other, studying them carefully. “Then… why aren’t you married to my mummy if you’re my daddy?” she asked finally.

Hermione reached out and tucked a curl behind Maia’s ear. “Sweetheart, people don’t have to be married to have a child together.”

“But then what do they need?”

“They need love,” Malfoy answered softly. “A lot of love. And you, Maia… you were made from love. I promise you that.”

Maia looked down at their joined hands, her brow furrowed in thought. Then, barely above a whisper, she asked:

“So… you’re really my dad?”

Malfoy nodded slowly. “Yes. I am. And I’d be the happiest man in the world… if you’d want to be my daughter.”

There was another pause. Maia’s gaze lifted to meet his.

“Where were you when I was little?”

Hermione’s heart clenched. She had known this question would come. Evi prepared them for it. She’d urged them to tell the truth or at least a gentle, simplified version of it.

Draco took a deep breath.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there when you were little,” he said. “I bet you were the most beautiful baby in the world.”

He swallowed.          

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you grow up. The truth is… I made some very big mistakes. Sometimes grown-ups do that. And one of the consequences of those mistakes… was not knowing you existed.”

Maia’s brows drew together in confusion. “But… why didn’t you know about me?”

Hermione reached out, tenderly running her fingers through her daughter’s hair.

“Because…because I never told him, love,” she said. “He only found out a little while ago.”

Maia stared at her, stunned.

“You didn’t tell him about me?” she asked, her voice tinged with confusion and hurt. “But why, Mummy? You should’ve told him!”

Her words tumbled out in a rush, her wide eyes shimmering with betrayal.

“I know,” Hermione whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of it. “I know, love. I just wanted you to be safe…”

But Maia pulled back slightly, lips trembling.

Draco leaned forward, still holding her hand.

“Your mum was only trying to protect you. She did what she believed was right at the time.” He paused, choosing his next words with care. “I don’t know how things would’ve turned out if she had told me back then. But I do know she was trying to shield you from the consequences of the mistakes I made.”

Maia looked down at her hand resting inside his. “What kind of mistakes?”

Malfoy hesitated. He looked at Hermione, then back at their daughter. “Sometimes, parents make choices that aren’t fair. And I come from a family that made a lot of bad choices. Some of them… they paid for. Others, I’m still paying for.”

He shifted, his voice heavier now but steady.

“My father… he was a good man only to the people he believed were worth something. To everyone else, he could be cold. Even cruel. He was a decent father in some ways, but he believed my life belonged to our family name. He made decisions for me that… forced me to choose between him and your mum.”

His voice cracked, but he kept going.

“I chose him… because I didn’t want to be responsible for his death. And deep down, I convinced myself that your mum would be better off without me and without the burden of my broken family”

He looked at Maia, his voice trembling now with something unspoken. Then he too reached out, gently tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

“Not a single day has gone by that I haven’t regretted that choice. But the truth is because of that choice, I have Scorpius. And I’m endlessly grateful for him. He’s one of the greatest joys of my life. But at the same time… that choice cost me you...”

He stroked her soft hair, brushing it back with aching tenderness.

“…And it cost me a life with a woman I loved… and who loved me back.”

Maia’s eyes, round and questioning, darted between the two of them. “Did your daddy not like my mummy?” she asked carefully.

Malfoy gave a small shake of his head. “No, sweetheart. He didn’t.”

“But… why?” Her voice was puzzled, hurt blooming in the crease between her brows. “Why wouldn’t he like her?”

Hermione took a steady breath and leaned closer.

“Maia, love… do you remember when we talked about how some wizards come from non-magical families—like your grandparents—and others come from very old wizarding families?”

Maia nodded slowly.

“Well… there are people who wrongly believe that being from a non-magical family makes you less of a wizard,” Hermione explained.

“Is that what your dad thought, Draco?” Maia asked, her gaze sharpening with childlike clarity.

He met her eyes without flinching.

“Yes. Among many other things… he did.”

Maia looked down again at their joined hands, then up at Draco with something deeper stirring in her voice.

“Did you believe it too?”

The question landed like a stone in her chest. She saw him inhaled slowly.

“I did, once,” he admitted, his voice rough with honesty. “Because that’s what I was taught. It’s what I grew up hearing every day. But it was wrong, Maia. So terribly wrong. And your mum—your brilliant, brave mum—she showed me the truth.”

There was a long pause as Maia sat in thoughtful silence, her small brow furrowed as she tried to piece everything together.

“Does that mean… Scorpius is my brother?” she asked, hesitantly. “I have a little brother?”

Draco’s smile returned, soft and real this time. “Yes. You’re his big sister.”

Another stretch of quiet followed. Then Maia turned toward Hermione.

“Mum?” she asked in a small, unsure voice.

“Yes, my love?” Hermione said gently.

“Draco is… my daddy?”

Hermione nodded, her eyes full. “Yes, Maia. He’s your dad.”

Maia turned back to Draco and studied his face again with a seriousness far beyond her years.

“If you really want to be my daddy… will you stay? Even if I get mad sometimes?”

Malfoy leaned forward, took her hand in both of his, and pressed it against his chest, over the beat of his heart. His voice shook, but his gaze was steady.

“I will stay, Maia. I promise. Even if you’re mad, even if you're sad, even if you need time. I’m here. And I’m not leaving. Not ever again. You can ask me anything. You can feel anything. And I’ll still be right here. Because I want to be your dad more than anything in this world.”

Maia didn’t answer right away. She seemed to be studying him, measuring his words not just with her mind, but with her heart. Slowly, she slipped off Hermione’s lap, but she didn’t let go of Draco’s hand. She stood in front of him, silent for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

And then—shyly, almost hesitantly—she stepped forward and wrapped both of her small arms around his neck.

Malfoy froze, just for a heartbeat.

Then he exhaled, closed his eyes, and held her close.

“I was waiting for you,” Maia whispered against his shoulder. “I really want you to be my daddy.”

***

The conversation with Adrian the next day was more uncomfortable than anyone might have expected. Hermione tried to explain the situation without delving too deeply into the past. She left out her time with Malfoy during the eighth year at Hogwarts, the endless Friday nights at the Wizard’s Beard, where they had truly come to know each other.

She said nothing about the summer holiday in Greece, where Maia had been conceived, or the love that had lived between them then.

It wasn’t just that Adrian didn’t need to know. It was that Hermione hadn’t allowed those memories to surface in years. She was afraid that if she gave them voice now—if she opened that particular door—the weight of it all, combined with the whirlwind of emotions from the past few months, might be enough to break her completely.

Adrian stared at her in stunned disbelief, his expression unreadable.

“You… you had a child with Draco Malfoy?” he asked eventually. “The Draco Malfoy?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “As I told you, it wasn’t something we planned. It wasn’t supposed to—”

“So you were in a relationship with him?” he interrupted. “A real relationship?”

She hesitated. “Yes,” she said finally. “A real one.”

They spoke for a long time. The air between them was tense and full of unsaid things. Eventually, both of them sank into the sofa, drained, staring at the fire flickering in the hearth.

Adrian broke the silence. His voice was low, raw.

“I’m in love with you, Hermione. I know I work too much, that I’m not always there the way you or Maia might need me to be. But I love you. Truly. I don’t want to lose you.”

Hermione turned toward him, her hands folded in her lap, eyes soft but unwavering.

“You’re not going to lose me because of Malfoy,” she said quietly. “That’s not what this is about. But you need to understand something, Adrian… He’s part of Maia’s life now. And because of that, he’s going to be part of mine too. Not in the way he used to be—those days are over. But as her father. She deserves to know him, and I won’t take that away from her.”

Adrian didn’t speak right away. The fire crackled beside them, filling the silence with its gentle hiss and pop.

Then, he reached out, brushing his thumb along the curve of her jaw with unexpected tenderness.

“I don’t care about Malfoy,” he said softly. “I care about you. Only you. I know this is complicated,” he continued, “and maybe it always will be. But I’m not walking away. Not from you. I want this, Hermione—” he gestured between them “—all of it. I want you.”

And before she could answer, he leaned in and kissed her.

It wasn’t tentative or questioning. It was sure. His hands cupped her face like she was something fragile, like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. His hands slid from her face to her waist, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. Her fingers tangled in the back of his shirt. They sank together into the cushions of the sofa, bodies aligning instinctively, breath coming faster.

His mouth found the curve of her throat, her collarbone. She arched into him, heart hammering, mind spinning.

In that moment, nothing else existed. Just them.

***

April, 2008

April came and their regular three-day visits to Grimmauld Place had been reduced to once a week—every Sunday—but that didn’t mean Maia wasn’t seeing Malfoy and Scorpius often. In fact, almost daily Draco Malfoy would come by their home, sometimes with Scorpius, sometimes alone. Other times, instead of visiting Hermione’s house, they’d meet at the park near her cottage or wander somewhere in Muggle London for ice cream or a walk.

Hermione often noticed Maia trying on a dozen outfits before settling on the perfect one every time the Malfoys were due through the Floo. And every single time, she begged Hermione to do her hair.

“Not like that, Muuuum,” she’d whine with theatrical frustration. “Make it prettier! It’s all sticking out!”

During some of the Malfoys’ visits, Adrian was there too. Since the conversation they’d had about Maia’s paternity, Hermione and Adrian had been a lot better. He, sensing the quiet shift brought by another man stepping into Maia’s world, had begun spending fewer late nights at the office and more time at home with Hermione and Maia. They’d go on small day trips every Saturday and there were more shared dinners than ever before.

Whenever Adrian happened to be around when Malfoy arrived, Hermione made sure Maia was completely ready to leave before the tension had time to settle in the room.

“Malfoy.”

“Karstair.”

The greetings were always curt, stiff as ever.

In mid-April, Malfoy shared with Hermione that the legal process for changing Maia’s name—officially recognizing her as Maia Granger-Malfoy—had been finalized. All that remained was the formal public statement from the House of Malfoy, declaring that a second heir had been welcomed under its name.

After long hours of discussions with Malfoy’s legal team—and Dennis, who proved to be an unexpected but invaluable ally—they had agreed it was safest to reveal Maia’s existence openly. Hiding it was too great a risk. The truth would come out eventually, and the damage from secrecy would be far worse.

That Sunday morning, the day the article was scheduled to appear in the Daily Prophet, Hermione decided they would not go to Grimmauld Place. Instead, she, Maia, and Adrian spent the day at an aquarium that featured dazzling sea creatures and marine life of all sizes. Maia had pressed her hands to the glass and squealed with delight at every graceful jellyfish and toothy eel. It had been the right decision, to let the day belong to her, untouched by headlines or family politics.

When they returned home that evening, there were at least three hundred sealed letters waiting for her.

Some were clearly howlers, already vibrating with fury—others were plump with thick parchment, and most bore names Hermione didn’t recognize. Witches and wizards from across the country had written. Some curious. Some undoubtedly furious.

Adrian dealt with them all without hesitation.

That night, long after Maia had gone to bed and the house had grown quiet, Hermione sat on the edge of the sofa, a warm blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She reached for the copy of the Daily Prophet and another one from Witch Weekly someone—Harry, most likely—had left for her on the hearth.

Her fingers lingered on the front page for a moment.

Then she turned it over and began to read.

Daily Prophet – Sunday, April 13, 2008

SHOCKWAVES THROUGH THE WIZARDING WORLD: THE MALFOY HEIR WHO WAS HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT
by Arete Jeremy

The British magical community awoke this morning to news that has sent ripples across every corner of society. In a public statement released just after dawn, the House of Malfoy officially recognized a second heir: Maia Jane Granger-Malfoy, the eldest daughter of Lord Draco Malfoy and—perhaps even more sensationally—of Hermione Granger, Muggleborn, war heroine and brightest witch of our age.

Few could have predicted a revelation of this magnitude. Whispers of scandal are already echoing through the corridors of the Ministry and the drawing rooms of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. That the child in question is Muggleborn on her mother’s side has caused considerable stir in aristocratic pureblood circles.

While relationships between purebloods and Muggleborns have become more common since the war, never before has a child of such a union been formally acknowledged as heir to one of the most ancient and staunchly pureblood houses in wizarding Britain.

Even more striking is the timing: based on the girl’s age—estimated to be around six—it is clear her conception predated Lord Malfoy’s wedding to Astoria Greengrass. The implications of this are as delicate as they are scandalous.

Social commentators and bloodline purists alike are already reacting with outrage, fascination, and, in some cases, grudging admiration. What does this mean for the future of the Malfoy name? And what could have possibly led Draco Malfoy, once one of the most vocal opponents of Muggleborns at Hogwarts, to take this unprecedented step?

OFFICIAL STATEMENT FROM THE HOUSE OF MALFOY

April 13, 2008

The Ancient House of Malfoy is honoured to formally welcome Maia Jane Granger-Malfoy as a rightful and beloved member of our family.

The child of Lord Draco Lucius Malfoy, has been legally recognized and named in accordance with all customs and statutes governing magical inheritance and bloodline succession.

We could not be prouder of her presence under the banner of our House. It is with joy and conviction that we affirm our commitment to her place in the Malfoy lineage.

We request privacy and dignity as this announcement marks a significant moment in our family’s history.

The House of Malfoy

A NEW HEIR FOR A NEW AGE?
by Arete Jeremy

With the ink still fresh on the Malfoy family’s official statement, one question remains on everyone’s lips: what now?

The introduction of Maia Jane Granger-Malfoy into the public eye has not only ignited gossip but also sparked debates in the Wizengamot, especially among those invested in issues of blood purity and succession. Will this child, a half-blood, someday become the sole heir to one of the most notoriously pureblooded wizarding families in Britain?

The implications are staggering.

Can a child of Muggleborn descent, no matter how brilliant or well-raised, truly carry the legacy of the Malfoy name in the eyes of traditionalists? Or are we witnessing the beginning of a profound transformation in the values of wizarding high society?

Only time will tell whether Maia Granger-Malfoy will be accepted not just legally, but socially, as the true future of the Malfoy line. For now, all eyes are on the little girl with two surnames and the scandalous legacy that might one day become her birthright.

Witch’s Weekly – April 13, 2008

A HEROINE BETRAYED? THE QUESTIONS NO ONE IS ASKING ABOUT THE MALFOY ANNOUNCEMENT
by Angie Sala

I never thought I’d see the day when the name Granger would appear alongside Malfoy in a formal family declaration.

I am a Muggleborn witch. I fought in the war, like many of us. I remember Hermione Granger not just as the brightest witch of our age, but as the unwavering, brilliant force who stood beside Harry Potter and Ron Weasley when the rest of us were too afraid to act. She was a symbol of resistance, of bravery, of hope.

So you can imagine my unease—no, my fury—when I read the news that the child she raised alone for years, the child she bore in silence, was in fact fathered by Draco Malfoy.

Yes, that Draco Malfoy. The boy who served Voldemort, who stood on the opposite side of the Great Hall while we bled and buried our own. The man who—after everything—married a pureblood witch and disappeared into his gilded life without so much as a whisper about Hermione Granger.

Which leads me to ask what no one else seems brave enough to say:
What really happened seven years ago between Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy?

Was it love? A mistake? A moment of weakness? Or something far more heartbreaking?

Why, if he cared for her or their child, did he marry another woman? Why was Hermione Granger left alone, cast aside, forced to raise a daughter in secrecy?
And most damning of all: did he know?

Did Draco Malfoy know that Hermione Granger was carrying his child?
If he didn’t—why not?
If he did—how dare he?

The wizarding world is celebrating this recognition of a child. They are applauding his supposed bravery in “welcoming” his daughter. But I can’t help but see it for what it is: damage control, reputation management, maybe even guilt.

This man, who once couldn’t bear to speak to Muggleborns as equals, is now parading his half-blood daughter as a banner of family honor.
So what’s changed?

Is it love for a child he never wanted before? Is it regret? Or is it that the tides have turned, and even the Malfoys can’t ignore the shifting values of our time?

Let us not forget: Hermione Granger is the victim here.
She gave up everything. She raised a child alone. She kept her dignity in the face of scandal that wasn’t hers to bear.

Before we celebrate Lord Malfoy for doing the bare minimum, we must ask the harder question:
Why did it take him so long to do it at all?

***

The day after the Malfoy family’s official statement—and the inevitable storm of headlines it unleashed—a full squad of Aurors descended upon Hermione’s cottage. Harry himself led the operation.

Among them was Malfoy. Though not technically an Auror, he still held a position within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and alongside Harry and Andrew Grant, he helped reinforce the protective enchantments around the property—layer upon layer of wards designed to shield the cottage from curious eyes and unwanted ears.

In the chaos that followed, it was only natural that Maia stopped attending her Muggle nursery altogether. Her mornings were now spent at the Burrow with Molly, or at Grimmauld Place with Ginny and the children. Occasionally—though less frequently—she stayed with Hermione’s parents, Helen and Richard.

As for Hermione, she had resumed traveling through the Auror network’s private Floo connection. Each morning, Harry arrived at the cottage to escort her personally to the Ministry, and each evening he returned with her, often with Maia in tow. It gave him a reason to check, and recheck, the boundaries of every spell, every ward. No precaution felt excessive anymore.

Beyond the perimeter of those wards, however, the presence of the press had become a constant hum of tension. Reporters had practically taken up residence in the nearby fields, tents pitched at odd angles and quills scribbling feverishly on floating parchment. Even with the curtains drawn, Hermione could feel their gaze pressing against the glass. She tried to ignore them, but their presence—relentless, buzzing—burrowed under her skin.

It wasn’t just her they were after anymore.

Adrian’s patience was fraying, thread by thread. For years, he had managed to keep a careful distance from the magical world but now that distance was eroding fast. One evening, he emerged from the Floo in a cloud of soot and fury. He didn’t even bother to remove his coat before snapping, his voice low and shaking, “One of them cornered me. Inside my office, Hermione. With a bloody enchanted camera—in front of all my colleagues. Muggles, all of them! Asking about you. About him.”

Gone were the easy days when he could simply drive up in his car, unnoticed and unbothered. Now, every step he took into her world seemed to cost him a little more.

And still, the articles kept coming.

Each morning, the Daily Prophet—along with half a dozen other publications—found new angles to dissect, reinterpret, or outright fabricate. Some painted Hermione as a woman who had fled in shame, hiding the truth of her daughter’s lineage out of embarrassment or regret. Others hailed her as a paragon of strength and fierce independence, raising a child alone without ever asking anything of the man who helped bring her into the world.

But nine times out of ten, it was Draco Malfoy who emerged as the villain.

The tales were wild, sordid, and cruelly creative. One headline claimed he had seduced her in a moment of reckless passion and abandoned her the next morning. Another whispered suggestion that Malfoy had manipulated her, preying on her vulnerability, weaving lies of silk and shadow. Some speculated he had laced her drink with enchantments, bound her with dark magic, or dosed her with a love potion.

Each theory was less about truth and more about spectacle. The actual events no longer mattered. Only the scandal did.

“This is too much!” Hermione shouted, hurling the crumpled newspaper onto the table with burning rage.

Across from her, Kingsley watched her quietly. Harry stood beside him. On his other side, Draco Malfoy sat motionless. Adrian and Robards were both standing—one next to Kingsley, the other beside her.

“Kingsley, can’t we do something?” Harry asked.

“I’ve already tried to stop several similar articles from being published,” Kingsley said, his tone heavy. “But even I have limited power when it comes to the press. It’s a separate institution, one immune to the Ministry’s pressure.”

“Kingsley!” Hermione snapped, stabbing a finger at the front page. “This one insinuates I was raped! How can something like this go unpunished? It’s slanderous—”

“Granger,” Malfoy spoke at last.

She turned to him, seething. “How can you be so apathetic?” she yelled.

Strangely, for the past week—ever since the first wave of articles—Malfoy had seemed calm, eerily composed. Reporters hounded him just as much, but Malfoy Manor was an impenetrable fortress. Unlike Hermione, he didn’t need Harry Potter to re-enforce his protective enchantments every day.

“They’re insinuating you are a rapist, Malfoy!”

“I know. I don’t care,” he replied flatly.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t care, Granger. The only thing I care about is my daughter. Let them say what they want about me. Maia will learn the truth when she’s older. The people who matter already know. I’ve been called worse. I’ll survive.”

His indifference only fueled her anger.

She knew he must be at his breaking point these past few days. The things that had been written about his family—about Scorpius, about Astoria—were beyond cruel. She could see right through his calm exterior, see the pain he was trying so hard to conceal. She understood his need to stay composed. She even wished she could find that same composure herself right now.

But that didn’t mean his apathy didn’t infuriate her.

 “Well, I care, Malfoy! Our daughter was born out of love not some twisted crime. I loved you with all my heart. And you loved me!”

For a split second, she saw him falter, something flickered behind his controlled expression.

Hermione noticed Harry staring awkwardly at the crumpled newspaper on the desk. Robards was staring straight ahead at the blank wall, and Kingsley looked at her with eyes full of quiet empathy.

Adrian, standing stiffly beside her, was frozen in place.

“It’s true,” Draco said finally. “I know it. You know it. Maia knows it. That’s enough for me. But if you want to set the record straight… I could make another public statement, one that—”

“One that says what?” Adrian cut in, his voice tight. “That you two were in love?”

“Draco, you know better than to make another public statement right now,” Harry interjected. “This situation is already too volatile. It requires… delicate handling.”

“What do you mean, Harry?” Hermione asked.

Harry glanced at Robards, then at Kingsley. It was the latter who finally responded.

“Although we now know you and Lord Malfoy had a secret relationship years ago, the public doesn’t. All their information is filtered through tabloids, through lies. And those lies have stirred quite a reaction from a portion of the wizarding population who…” He cleared his throat. “Who are now calling for a formal investigation into your relationship with Lord Malfoy—one that resulted in a child. We are doing everything in our power to make sure that does not happen.”

“You’re joking,” Hermione said in disbelief.

“I’m afraid not,” Kingsley replied. “But there’s no need to worry—not now. Legally, everything is under control.”

“What if I make a statement, explain everything, tell the truth?” Hermione suggested, her voice trembling with frustration.

“No,” Harry replied firmly. “No one is making any statements at this time. That’s the official legal advice, and that’s what we’re going to follow.”

But no statement was needed.

The very next day, a new article hit the front pages—this time, an exclusive interview with the Greengrasses, Astoria’s parents.

“We never expected such behavior from our son-in-law,” said Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass. “We are, quite frankly, devastated. Naturally, we were aware—when Lucius Malfoy first approached us to discuss the magical marriage contract—that there had been another woman in Draco’s life. However, we were assured it was a fleeting dalliance. Nothing of substance. Something… temporary…”

“…Our daughter was elated at the prospect of joining the noble Malfoy line. Astoria had dreamed of becoming Lady Malfoy since she was a child, during our many visits to Malfoy Manor. It was always her greatest hope—to bear the next heir of such a distinguished house. A child of Greengrass and Malfoy blood—just imagine what a powerful wizard he might become. Though she adored her husband, their marriage was not without difficulty. Draco never loved her, and Astoria knew there had always been… someone else. I lost my child far too soon, and I thank Merlin that she is not alive to witness the disgrace we’ve endured these past days...”

“…A Muggleborn—with a Malfoy child! A daughter, conceived out of wedlock, now poised to threaten what rightfully belongs to Scorpius—the legitimate, pureblooded heir to both the Malfoy and Greengrass legacies…”

“…It is a shame beyond words. And while we grieve for Astoria every single day, what wounds us most is the injustice being done to our grandson. That a stranger’s child would dare to encroach upon his birthright… it is simply intolerable.”

Following the Greengrass interview, the magical marriage contract between Lucius Malfoy and Antony Greengrass was leaked to the press. Its clauses were laid bare for the wizarding world to scrutinize, and expert analysts soon began dissecting the agreement, attempting to explain in simple terms the legal and magical weight of the alliance between two of the most powerful pureblood houses.

It wasn’t long before the tabloids spun a new narrative—this time, casting Draco Malfoy as a tragic figure bound by duty.

“Was it this contract that forced young Draco Malfoy to marry a woman he did not love—lest he watch his own father perish?”

“Sources close to the case reveal a passionate romance between the brightest witch of her age and the heir to the Malfoy legacy. Could their story be even more heartbreaking than we imagined?”

Photos of them began gracing the covers of every wizarding publication, most of them taken during their time at Hogwarts, since there weren’t any more recent. One in particular was reprinted endlessly: a graduation-day shot, where Hermione, Ginny and Neville beamed at the camera while, just off to the side, Malfoy laughed with Theo. There was a softness in his expression, a rare warmth, and people couldn’t help but speculate what—or who—had put it there.

The public was ravenous for more. Suddenly, new “reliable sources” surfaced everywhere, each offering tidbits of insight no one should have been able to know.

“Oh, they were head over heels, those two. I used to rent out a flat to Miss Granger and Miss Weasley—well, Potter now, of course. And I’d see them every evening, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy, the two lovebirds, sneaking in hand-in-hand. I never told a soul, just watched them through the peephole, thinking how lucky they were. Merlin, I wish I’d known a love like that in my youth…” gushed Madgie Heese, a squib who works in real estate.

What began as scandal had taken a strange turn—public sentiment shifting from outrage to curiosity, then to a kind of wistful sympathy.

While the wizarding world struggled to understand how Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy could have ever been in love, life quietly went on for Hermione and Maia. The two of them spent more time tucked away inside their little home than venturing out into the world.

It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon when Malfoy appeared in the fireplace, dressed in Muggle clothes.

Hermione blinked, startled. She hadn't seen him in anything Muggle-made for over seven years.

"What are you wearing?" she asked, visibly thrown off.

He was in a pair of dark jeans made from a soft-looking fabric, a light blue turtleneck sweater hugging his frame, and a leather jacket draped casually over his shoulders. At her question, he shrugged it off and held it in his right hand.

"Hello, Granger," he said, ignoring her question entirely and glancing around the living room instead.

Once he was certain they were alone and that Adrian wouldn't suddenly barge in and start yet another one of their silent, charged battles of glares—he continued.

“There’s been a change of plans.”

Hermione and he had agreed that he would come to take Maia to the Burrow, where most of the Weasleys were gathered. She needed to finish some urgent work for a Ministry meeting the next day, and then she’d join them later.

He hesitated, searching for the right words. “George’s been running some experiments about a new product in the Burrow’s yard, so it’s off-limits for now. Potter and James are going to... it’s called an amusement park. It’s a place with rides and things for children to do. Dennis said it’s perfectly safe." He glanced back at her, gauging her reaction. "I thought Maia might enjoy it."

When she didn’t answer, he continued.

"I’ll take care of her. I swear it, Granger. I’d die before letting anything happen to her."

In the two weeks since they had told Maia the truth, he had spent time with her often, in various ways and settings. But always under Hermione’s watchful eye. This would be the first time she’d let Maia go somewhere with him alone. Out there. In the Muggle world.

"How will you contact me if something goes wrong?" she asked, her voice calm but firm.

"Nothing’s going to go wrong, Granger."

"I don’t like that answer," she said flatly. "I need to know how you’ll reach me, and how I’ll reach you."

He let out a slow breath.

“Well… since Potter will be with me, if something happens, I’ll ask him to send you a Patronus,” he said at last.

Malfoy had never managed to produce a corporeal Patronus.

“And what about next time?” she asked.

“Next time?”

“Yes, Malfoy. You won’t always have Harry around to send your messages. You need to figure out a proper way to contact me.”

He looked everywhere but at her. For a moment, he didn’t speak.

“I can… buy a mobile phone,” he said finally.

“What happened to the one I gave you?” she asked instinctively, before she had time to regret it. But the regret came fast.

He snapped his head up to look at her, clearly shocked by the question. Hermione didn’t even know why she’d asked it.

“I… I don’t know,” he said, still holding her gaze. It was rare, him looking at her. Apart from the day he learned the truth about Maia and a few rare glances since then, he rarely met her eyes anymore. “I gave it to one of my house-elves. No idea what became of it.”

“Well,” she said, twining her fingers together, brushing away the awkward moment, “you’d better buy a new one. After all these years, I’m sure they’ve come out with far better models.”

As expected, Maia was thrilled at the idea of going to the amusement park, she dashed off to her room to search for the perfect outfit for the big outing.

“Muuuum!” came her voice a few minutes later. “Come help me!”

When Hermione stepped into the room, it looked like half the contents of Maia’s wardrobe had exploded across the bed and the floor.

“Mum, which dress should I wear? This one?” Maia asked, holding up a white one that was at least two sizes too small—something Jacqueline had bought her in Paris the first time they’d gone there. “Or this?” She held up a sleeveless magenta sundress, perfect for Mediterranean summers and completely absurd for a chilly April day in London.

They spent a little while sorting through options, eventually settling on something both Maia-approved and Hermione-approved. After helping with her hair, twisting it into soft curls and tying it with a ribbon, Maia beamed at her in the mirror.

“You did it perfectly mummy! Remember exactly how you did it, okay? I want the same next time,” she said, giving her a kiss on the cheek before running off to put on her shoes and head to the living room.

Malfoy was still standing in the exact same spot she’d left him, rigid and tense.

“What happened?” he asked, worried. “Why did it take so long? Doesn’t she want to come? If she’s changed her mind, it’s fine, we can go somewhere else. I’ll tell Potter—”

“She was just deciding what to wear,” Hermione interrupted. “No idea where she gets that obsession with clothes. Certainly not from me,” she murmured.

He smiled, a little smugly.

“You think she got it from me?” he asked, with a hint of pride, as though she’d just claimed Maia had an IQ of 150.

“Possibly. Among other things.”

His smile widened. “Like what?”

Before she could answer, the fireplace flared green and Adrian stepped out, brushing soot from his sleeves.

“Moments like these make me really miss having a car—” he began, but stopped cold when he saw Malfoy standing there with a too-pleased expression on his face.

“Malfoy,” Adrian said flatly. “You’re here. Again.”

“Κarstair,” Draco replied with equal dryness.

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, to break the sudden tension in the room, but didn’t get the chance. In one swift, unexpected move, Adrian stepped toward her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and kissed her—deeply, passionately, and completely out of the blue.

It left her stunned.

She didn’t know how long it lasted. All she knew was that it ended only when she heard Maia’s footsteps rushing into the living room.

“I missed you, love,” Adrian said, far louder than necessary. Hermione, still reeling, didn’t reply. She dared to glance sideways toward the man who, just moments ago, had wanted to talk about what he shared with their daughter, only to find Malfoy staring at the fireplace, as if he couldn't wait to leave.

“Draco, I’m ready! Look at my dress! Mum helped me pick it!” Maia announced brightly, twirling to show off the light blue dress that matched Malfoy’s sweater perfectly.

"You look beautiful," she heard him say. Within seconds, he and Maia vanished into the green flames, her voice trailing behind her: "Bye, Mummy!

The moment the fire died out, Hermione turned to Adrian.

“What the hell was that?” she snapped, anger flaring.

He feigned confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb, Adrian! You kissed me like that on purpose, right in front of him! What the hell do you think I am, something to mark in front of other men? I can’t believe you actually did that!”

“Does it bother you, Hermione? That I kissed you in front of him?”

Hermione was taken aback for a moment, but quickly found her footing again.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

“It’s a simple question. Did it bother you that I kissed you in front of him?” he said angrily.

“It doesn’t bother me when you kiss me in front of other people, and you know that. But the way you did it, that was something else entirely. You’re smart enough to know that. Don’t pretend that kiss was random!”

“Oh, it wasn’t random,” Adrian said. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time and I don’t regret it for a second. Every time I see him looking at you like that—”

“What are you even talking about? He barely even looks me in the eye!”

“That’s what you think, Hermione!” Adrian shouted. “But I see it! He’s watching you — always watching you. The second you look away, his eyes go straight back to you. It’s like… it’s like you’re magnetic or something. Like there’s a bloody radar in him that can’t stay off you. He wants you!”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous?” He let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You know what’s really ridiculous? That sometimes you are also staring at him!”

“What? Now, you’re being irrational!”

“Am I really now?” he said coldly, his voice low and bitter.

That night, Adrian didn’t stay at the cottage.

***

May 2008

As May approached, Hermione had two very important things on her mind. The first was Maia’s upcoming sixth birthday party. The second the tenth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts.

Malfoy had casually offered to host the birthday party at his place when she mentioned her plan to hold it in her garden, hoping the weather might cooperate.

She stared at him, caught off guard by the suggestion.

“I haven’t lived at the Manor in years, Granger,” he added dryly when he noticed her reaction—clearly realizing she had no intention of throwing a children's party at the ancestral home of the Malfoys.

Despite her curiosity, she didn’t ask where he lived now. Maia had never been to his home, of that Hermione was certain. Eventually, she knew it would happen—Maia would go. It wasn’t sustainable for all their meetings to take place at her house. At least, knowing she wouldn’t be stepping through the doors of that cold, cavernous Manor made the prospect of that inevitable visit a little easier to swallow.

So, the birthday party was indeed held in the garden of the cottage, and for once the weather was kind. Not a single drop of rain fell from the sky that day.

The guest list mostly included the familiar faces they saw every Sunday at Grimmauld Place, with a few special additions: Ron, Jacqueline, and little Fred had come all the way to London for the party and the anniversary.

And, of course, Adrian was there.

Maia, who had always adored her godfather despite the distance, hardly left his side. She kept patting little Fred’s head and repeatedly asked Ron, “Do you know I have a little brother now? His name is Scorpius.” She pointed across the garden toward the group of children playing tag—Scorpius laughing as he ran alongside Al and James.

If Maia wasn’t clinging to Ron, she was practically glued to Malfoy.

When it was time for the birthday cake, George volunteered to take some pictures. Maia stood proudly behind her cake, with Draco to her right. When he stepped aside so Hermione could take a photo with her daughter, Maia tugged on his sleeve.

“Don’t go, Draco,” she said firmly. “I want lots of pictures with you.”

As a result, Draco Malfoy ended up in nearly every single photograph taken that day—with all of the guests. There was Maia with Hermione and Malfoy, Maia with Harry, Ginny and Malfoy, Maia with Hermione again… and Adrian and Malfoy… and, to the horror of both men, Maia with Ron—and Malfoy.

That continued until Fleur, in a flash of suspicion, took the camera from George who had been unusually quiet while snapping pictures, only to discover that it wasn’t Hermione’s camera after all, but a brand-new Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes prototype. The device distorted faces in the photos, magically transforming people into animals. Which meant, of course, a whole new round of photos had to be taken—with Maia, Malfoy, and everyone else once again.

That evening, after the guests had left and only Ron and Harry remained to help Hermione clean up, Ron walked into the kitchen and handed her a thick stack of prints.

They showed her daughter with a sparkling unicorn horn and fuzzy ears.

“What are these?” Hermione asked, narrowing her eyes.

“The photos George took,” Ron replied, trying not to grin.

“And why are you smiling?”

“I figured you might want to keep them,” he said, now openly laughing.

It didn’t take Hermione long to understand why, and once she did, she burst into uncontrollable laughter, dragging Ron along with her.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked as he wandered into the kitchen, yawning.

Hermione wordlessly held out one of the pictures.

“Is that…?” he asked and then he, too, started laughing.

Ron nodded, grinning from ear to ear.

“Oh yes. That’s Malfoy. As. A. Ferret. Merlin, I love George.”

***

The next afternoon, Malfoy arrived at the cottage with Scorpius in tow. In his hands, he held something she recognized instantly—the birthday gift for Maia.

“Sorry I didn’t bring it yesterday,” he said as he settled on the couch. “It was a special order, and it took a little longer than I expected.”

Scorpius, who had grown noticeably taller in recent months and whose chubby cheeks made him look even more endearing, was curled up in Hermione’s lap. He held a large, neatly wrapped box in his arms, clearly his own gift for Maia.

“I go first, daddy!” he shouted gleefully, scrambling off Hermione’s lap and hurrying over to Maia. With a proud smile, he handed her the box. “This is for you, Maia!”

Maia scooted over on the rug to make room for him beside her, her face already lit up with curiosity. She peeled back the paper with eager fingers. As soon as the wrapping fell away, she gasped, her eyes wide as saucers.

“You got me the strawberry filled chocolates from the shop with the pink chairs back home!” she squealed, nearly vibrating with joy. “Mummy! Look! It’s the strawberry filled chocolates! Mummyyy, can you believe it?!”

She jumped up and ran to Hermione, waving the box in the air like a trophy.

Hermione caught the moment out of the corner of her eye, Malfoy chuckling quietly at Maia’s ecstatic reaction. “Good job, Scorp,” he whispered to the boy, who was already sharing one of the coveted chocolates with Maia.

“Where on earth did you find them?” Hermione asked.

“In Sydney. Where else?” he replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“You went all the way to Sydney?” Maia turned to him, wide-eyed. “Did Scorp come too? Mummy says it’s really far and we can’t go there! But it’s so beautiful! It’s sunny! And there’s a beach!”

“I did go,” Draco admitted, “but only for a few hours. Maybe one day, we can go together. You can show me all the places you went when you were little, alright?”

Maia nodded eagerly.

Once the excitement over the chocolates had begun to settle, Malfoy handed Maia his own gift.

Hermione watched as she slowly unwrapped the present. The moment the object revealed itself, her daughter froze, eyes round with awe.

It was a child-sized broomstick—sleek, brand new, and unmistakably a custom order.

“This one’s made especially for you,” Draco said gently. “Extra safe, charmed with ground-level security spells. In case… anything goes wrong,” he added, glancing briefly at Hermione.

Maia stared at the broom in silence, her fingers lightly tracing the handle. But instead of joy, a shadow passed over her expression. Her shoulders drooped slightly.

“Thank you, Draco,” she said softly. “But… mummy doesn’t let me ride brooms. Not until a teacher at Hogwarts teaches me.” She ran her hand down the handle again, this time with something like longing.

He leaned forward, his voice kind and steady. “Maia, you don’t have to be sad. Your mum and I talked about this. And we agreed—if you want to learn, I can teach you. I ordered this broom just for you. It’s the safest one you can get right now.”

A week earlier, when Malfoy had asked Hermione for a private conversation, she hadn’t expected it would be about a birthday present.

He’d spent nearly an hour trying to convince her, with calm persistence, that it was time for her to overcome her fear. But Hermione’s anxiety ran deep.

“Granger, I know you’re scared of brooms. But is that what we want for our child? She had one bad experience—yes—but if we don’t help her now, if we don’t encourage her, that fear might stay with her for life. I don’t want Maia to grow up thinking she can’t fly just because things went wrong once.”

And the truth was, Hermione didn’t want that either. Not really.

“Please,” Malfoy had said. “Let me teach her. You’ve taught her nearly everything else—how to walk, how to talk… Let me give her this. I want to be the one to help her fly.”

And now, here they were in the living room—one new broomstick, one hopeful father, and a little girl torn between her heart’s desire and her mother’s rules.

Hermione looked at Maia, who glanced between her and the broom, eyes filled with silent pleading.

“You can fly, Maia—”, Hermione said gently, “but only when Draco is there with you. Alright?”

Maia’s face lit up, a slow, radiant smile blooming across her face. She hugged her broom tightly and then threw herself into Hermione’s arms.

“Thank you, mummy! Thank you!”

Malfoy said nothing. But Hermione could see it in his eyes, the silent gratitude, the unspoken thank you.

***

May 2nd, 2008

The castle had never looked more solemn.

Wreaths of deep violet and gold floated in the Great Hall, suspended by near-invisible enchantments that shimmered with quiet reverence. At the far end of the room, a massive banner bearing the names of the fallen glowed softly. Hermione lingered just past the threshold, her hand resting lightly on Adrian’s arm as they stepped through the grand double doors.

This was not a day for joy. Not yet.

Kingsley had insisted—no, assigned—her, Harry, and Ron to take an active role in the commemoration.

“You’re symbols of what we overcame,” he had said. “But more importantly, you’re reminders of what we must never forget.”

Ron had arrived before her. Harry and Ginny appeared not long after, greeted by a swell of red-headed family that made the Great Hall feel, for a fleeting moment, more like the Burrow than a war memorial. Luna was already there, standing quietly beside Neville and Hannah Abbott. Dennis Creevey had come too, alone, but not unnoticed.

The moment Hermione stepped into the hall, the rest of the world faded.

The reporters spotted her instantly. She had barely taken a breath before a wall of cameras, enchanted quills, and urgent voices surged toward her like a tide.

“Miss Granger, is it true you and Draco Malfoy were once engaged?”

“Did you conceive your daughter while he was still married?”

“Will young Maia inherit the Malfoy estate now that Astoria is gone?”

“Are the rumors of shared custody true?”

“Do you still love him?”

Her name echoed over and over, carried from every direction.

Hermione froze. Beside her, Adrian tensed, his jaw clenched as he stepped slightly forward. It was Harry’s voice that broke through the noise.

“That’s enough,” he snapped, suddenly beside her. She hadn’t even seen him move. “Back off.”

He hadn’t raised his voice, but the authority in it cut through the crowd. The journalists recoiled, silenced by the weight of his presence.

Adrian placed a steadying hand on her back. “You alright?”

She nodded, though she wasn’t. Not really.

I should be used to this by now, she thought bitterly. But it had never felt like this before—so intimate, so invasive. Her daughter’s name didn’t belong in their mouths.

And worst of all… not a single question about Fred. Or Tonks. Or Remus. Or Colin.

That morning’s memorial was heavy with sorrow. Every name was read. Every life honored. Hermione couldn’t recall standing when Kingsley called her forward, nor the long walk to the podium.

Ron followed with a speech that was brief but piercing.

Then came Harry. His words were simple, but they bore the weight of everything they had lost and everything they had saved. He spoke of courage, of fear, of the choices that shaped them. He spoke of love—not the easy kind, but the kind that endures. That saves. The kind that had saved him, again and again. Whether it was a mother’s love or the bond between friends, it had always been love. And then, in his quiet, steady voice, Harry said that surviving wasn’t enough—not really. That what they had fought for was not just the right to live, but the chance to live fully. To love deeply. To learn from the past so they could build something better. Living, loving, and learning—that, he said, was the real victory. And the only way to honor the dead.

That evening, the mood shifted.

The hall had been transformed. The mourning drapery replaced with warmth and celebration. Floating lanterns cast golden light across the tables, and soft music drifted from a set of enchanted instruments in the corner.

Hermione found herself speaking to Luna about Thestrals, to Angelina about work, to Neville about greenhouses. Almost everyone from her time at Hogwarts was there.

And then, there was Draco Malfoy.

She spotted him across the room, standing slightly apart from the other Hogwarts Governors. His presence was calculated; she could tell. Chin high, posture immaculate, he kept his gaze level even as cameras trailed his every move. Dennis Creevey stood near him.

She caught glimpses of Malfoy throughout the night, speaking with McGonagall, then Kingsley, then one of the Beauxbatons ambassadors. And she remembered, with a flicker of guilt, Adrian’s words: You’re watching him, too.

So she stopped. Or at least tried to.

Still, even when she wasn’t looking, she knew the press hadn't spared him either.

“Mr. Malfoy, how do you feel about a half-blood Malfoy heir?”

“Have you spoken to your daughter about your involvement in the war?”

“What do you have to say to the Greengrasses?”

“Do you think your children will despise one another for what happened to their mothers?”

The same cruel questions.

He responded with composed restraint. A nod here. A quiet “No comment” there. But she knew him too well not to sense the storm roiling just beneath the surface.

Later that night, their paths finally crossed.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. Hermione had approached the Governors’ table to thank them for approving the program for first-year Muggleborn students.

“Hermione,” Percy said, turning slightly pink under the camera lights. “Truth be told, it was your work that inspired the whole thing. Without that early proposal, we wouldn’t have gotten anywhere.”

“Really, Percy, I hardly did anything—”

“Oh, don’t be modest! That plan of yours was extensive. Pages and pages on that Muggle computer of yours—I swear, it took me ages to transcribe the whole thing onto parchment!”

Hermione blinked. “Wait—what proposal? What pages?”

Percy beamed proudly. “The one you submitted ages ago. The board rejected it at first, remember? Malfoy handed it to me, saying it had potential, just needed a bit of polishing. I added some details, clarified a few points, restructured it here and there. And voilà, it passed! My version, naturally.”

He went on, praising his own brilliance, but Hermione barely heard him. Her gaze had drifted across the table and settled on Draco Malfoy.

Was it all his doing? Had he submitted the proposal himself? Written everything down and told Percy it was Hermione’s idea? Or perhaps no proposal had ever been formally submitted at all. Perhaps lying was the only way he could make Percy take it seriously.

Malfoy was still speaking with Kingsley, laughing at something he’d said. And not just any laugh. A real one. That rare, fleeting kind of joy she’d only ever seen when he was with Scorpius. Or with Maia.

Before she could stop herself, she smiled too—softly, instinctively. Right in the moment he turned toward her.

And the flashbulb went off.

As expected, the photograph—moving in the moments where they appeared to smile at one another, though Malfoy hadn’t truly been smiling at her—graced the front page of every tabloid for five consecutive days. Headlines spoke breathlessly of rekindled flames, of second chances, of a love story with a beginning but no end. 

Hermione had done her best to ignore the covers, to carry on as if the media storm weren’t swirling around her name once more. Adrian, however, fared far worse. From the moment his eyes fell on that now-infamous image—her and Draco, caught mid-smile—something in him shifted.

His mood soured. His temper thinned.

Lately, their arguments always seemed to find their way back to Malfoy, no matter where they began. And though Malfoy himself hadn’t done anything specific—nothing that could rightly justify the unrest—Adrian simply couldn’t see it that way. Or perhaps he didn’t want to.

As a result, the constant arguments had left her emotionally drained.

A few days later, with the tension between them still unresolved, Adrian, in an effort to reach out, asked her to accompany him to a business party hosted by one of his associates at a luxury hotel somewhere in Cornwall.

Truthfully, Hermione had little desire to attend, but she recognized his attempt to bridge the growing distance between them, and so she agreed. They planned to be away for two days.

The event was scheduled for Saturday night—they would Apparate there, stay the night at the hotel, do some sightseeing the following morning, and return late Sunday.

She had already considered asking Harry and Ginny if they could watch over Maia on Saturday evening and Sunday morning but that plan quickly fell apart.

"Maia can stay with me," Malfoy had said casually.

When she raised a sceptical eyebrow, he rolled his eyes.

"Granger, I’m raising a three-year-old on my own. I think I can handle a six-year-old for two days without your supervision."

As expected, Maia was absolutely thrilled at the idea of spending the night at Malfoy’s with Scorpius, especially after learning she’d finally get to see the famous bedroom ceiling which, according to Scorpius, held all the stars of the entire London, whatever that was supposed to mean.

On Saturday afternoon, Malfoy arrived at exactly five o’clock. Maia was already packed, her tiny suitcase neatly filled with all her things. Hermione tried to give him a few instructions about Maia’s habits and preferences, but to her surprise, he wasn’t really listening. Instead, he was watching Maia, utterly enchanted, as she opened her suitcase and proudly showed him her Shrek pyjamas.

“Malfoy, are you even listening?” she called sharply.

“Relax, Granger. I’m listening,” he said. “Bedtime by nine, no extra chocolate, don’t let her jump on the bed or she’ll never fall asleep, make sure she eats a proper breakfast or she’ll be grumpy, and if we go outside, she has to wear the pink cardigan—it’s packed in her bag. You don’t need to worry.”

Around seven, Hermione began to get ready. She had bought a new black dress, elegant and daring, with a high slit along one side and a single exposed shoulder. Her hair was swept up, with a few soft curls left loose to frame her face. She had just finished her makeup when she heard the soft whoosh of the Floo—someone had arrived.

It was far too early for Adrian.

“Granger, what on earth is a ‘Shrek,’ and how the hell do I get it on the television?” came Malfoy’s voice from the living room. “Granger? Are you still here?...”

“…I can’t believe my daughter wears pyjamas with a troll on them and now wants me to buy her a stuffed toy of that green abomina—” He cut himself off mid-sentence as she entered the room.

“First of all,” she said, arms crossed, “Shrek is not a troll. He’s an ogre. And second, you really need to learn how to say no, Malfoy. She’s already got you wrapped around her little finger.”

He stared at her as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. His gaze swept over her—slowly, deliberately—from the soft curls framing her face to the curve of her bare shoulder, to the black dress that skimmed her curvy silhouette. There was hunger in his eyes—raw, unguarded—something that made her pulse catch, made the air between them stretch taut with unsaid things.

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. Then something in his expression closed, shuttered so quickly it was as if a door had slammed inside him.

Hermione waited—half-expecting a remark, even a careless one—but Draco said nothing. He just stood there, stunned into stillness.

“Well,” he said at last, voice flat, unreadable. “An ogre. Good to know. I should get back. Maia put on some music and we…”

He never finished. With a curt nod, he turned away and vanished into the green glow of the Floo, leaving Hermione staring at the empty hearth.

***

On the seventeenth of May, Hermione received a call from her mother with grim news—Richard had fallen ill again, this time with what appeared to be a severe infection, possibly pneumonia. Without a moment's hesitation, Hermione gathered Maia, and the two of them Apparated directly to the Grangers’ home.

The atmosphere in the house was heavy with worry and weariness. He was lying in his bed, pale and visibly struggling to breathe despite the Muggle medication and the humidifier humming softly beside him. Hermione could see the toll it was taking on her mother—Helen Granger’s face was drawn, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion, and though she smiled when she saw Maia, her hands trembled slightly as she reached out to hold her.

They spent the entire day there. Hermione talked to the doctors and nurses, while Maia did her best to bring lightness into the room, drawing pictures for her grandfather and showing them off with pride. Hermione moved between rooms, keeping an eye on Richard, comforting her mother, and silently taking on more than she let on. It was a day of unspoken fear and quiet resilience.

By the time they returned home, the sky had gone dark, and both mother and daughter were emotionally spent. But as soon as Hermione stepped through the fireplace into their sitting room, she was met by Adrian’s stiff silhouette, arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyes narrowed with restrained frustration. He was waiting for them—again—with that same brooding anger, the kind that filled the room like storm clouds, leaving Hermione with the sinking feeling that this, too, would be another evening of tension.

"Malfoy came by this afternoon," Adrian said flatly.

At the mention of his name, Maia's face lit up. “Draco came? Oh, Mum! We were supposed to go to the pool today with him and Scorpius! Oh no, we forgot!” she whined, her small hands clutching at the hem of Hermione’s sleeve in distress.

Hermione felt a sharp pain bloom behind her eyes. Her head throbbed as if about to split open. She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly through her nose, grounding herself in the rhythm of her breath.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” she murmured, smoothing Maia’s curls away from her forehead. “You’ll go another day, I promise. Now, please, go on up to your room. I’ll be there in a little while to tuck you in, okay, love?”

Once Maia had scampered off, Adrian resumed, his voice tight and accusatory. “Malfoy came looking for you, Hermione. When he didn’t find you, he said he’d call your mobile to ask where you were,” he added sharply. “Since when does Malfoy care where you are?”

Hermione opened her eyes and looked at him, her exhaustion flaring into irritation. “Adrian, do you even hear yourself? He was supposed to come at five to pick up Maia. They had plans. She's been missing swimming terribly since we left Sydney. Obviously, when he showed up and we weren’t here, he was concerned. Why are you angry? Again?”

“Again?” Adrian echoed with a bitter laugh. “I’ve been doing everything I can—cutting back my hours, trying to connect with Maia, trying to reach you—but honestly, the child barely looks at me. And you… you don’t see me at all anymore!...”

“…I don’t think I can keep living like this, Hermione. I feel like you don’t hear me. You don’t see me.” His voice softened, but the pain in it only deepened.

“Neither can I,” she whispered.

They stayed frozen, none of them looking the other.

“What does that mean for us?” he asked, though they both already knew.

Adrian left.

And Hermione never got the chance to tell him about her father.

***

The weeks following her breakup with Adrian passed quietly, almost imperceptibly at first. In the beginning, Hermione barely registered his absence—life had a way of filling the empty spaces before she had the chance to acknowledge them. But about two weeks later, a quiet ache began to settle in. A soft, persistent sorrow, not for the loss of a great love, but for the departure of something familiar. Their relationship had lasted a little over seven months—hardly a lifetime, but long enough for her to remember what it felt like to let someone in again. That, she supposed, was worth mourning.

Adrian did reach out eventually—just a short message to check that she was all right. She appreciated the gesture. It gave her the excuse to ask after him as well, and that brief exchange offered a kind of closure, however incomplete.

She didn’t tell anyone about the breakup. Not out of pride or shame, but because she simply wasn’t ready to talk about it. Somewhere deep inside, Hermione carried the quiet belief that she bore some of the responsibility. As difficult as Adrian had become—his near-obsessive mistrust of anything involving Malfoy over the last five months—she knew her attention had shifted almost entirely the moment he re-entered her life in his new role as Maia’s father.

And yet, some small voice in her heart whispered that Adrian should have understood. That he should have seen, from the beginning, that Maia would always be her first and deepest concern. That the wellbeing of her child would always stand above all else. Wasn’t that what any parent—or anyone who claimed to love her—ought to have accepted?

But at the same time, if she truly cared about their relationship, shouldn’t she have tried harder?

These thoughts lingered quietly at the back of her mind—private, unspoken, not yet ready to be shared, not even with her closest friends. Coupled with the growing worry for her father, they cast a soft, persistent shadow over her days. Richard Granger had fallen gravely ill with pneumonia, and the prognosis was far from hopeful. Still, Hermione held herself together, drawing on reserves of strength she barely knew she had—not just for her own sake, but more importantly, for Maia’s.

***

On the fifth of June that year, after much pleading from Maia, Hermione found herself standing in front of Draco Malfoy’s cottage.

His home, though located within the expansive Malfoy estate, sat on the far opposite end from the grandeur of the manor. To her quiet surprise, it wasn’t all that different from her own—charming, modest, and clearly lived in.

The birthday gathering had been hastily arranged in just three days—a consequence of relentless begging from Maia, who insisted that Scorpius had begged too. Hermione remained skeptical. At three years old, Scorpius was still working his way through complete sentences, let alone orchestrating social events.

She felt uneasy as she stepped onto the stone path leading to their door. Maia, on the other hand, moved with complete familiarity, already bounding ahead through the garden gate as if she belonged there. And perhaps, in a way, she did. She had visited the cottage a handful of times before and carried herself now with the confidence of a child who had nothing to fear. Hermione, by contrast, lingered at the threshold, hesitant.

Given how last-minute it all was, the guest list was mercifully short: the Potters—minus Lily—Andromeda, and a cheerful house-elf who beamed every time she passed Hermione with a tray in hand. Malfoy seemed just as ill at ease in the role of host as she felt being there, and Hermione was quite certain Maia had deployed every ounce of charm she possessed to coax him into hosting the event for his own birthday.

The party, if it could be called that, didn’t last long. Andromeda was the first to leave, followed shortly after by Harry and James, the latter in an unusually sulky mood. Hoping they wouldn’t be far behind, Hermione went looking for her daughter, whom she’d seen slip outside long ago with Malfoy close behind.

What she hadn’t expected was the sight that greeted her in the yard.

From a distance, she could make out Malfoy, broomstick in hand, standing beside Maia. Their daughter was clutching a much smaller broom—sleek, clearly brand new, and unmistakably custom-made.

He was speaking, calmly and steadily, his voice low but animated. Hermione saw him tilt his broom gently, demonstrating. Maia mirrored the motion, her brow furrowed in concentration. A moment later, he dismounted, stepping beside her. He corrected the position of her hands, adjusted her posture with quiet care, and smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear. There was a tenderness in his movements, unspoken and deliberate.

Hermione stayed still, hidden in the shadow of the doorway, unwilling to interrupt. She watched Maia shift her weight, tap her foot against the grass—once, then again. The broom wobbled beneath her, rising just a few inches. She landed, tried again. This time, it floated higher.

Then Draco crouched beside her.

“I promise nothing’s going to go wrong,” she heard him say. “You won’t fall. I’m right here, Maia. I’ll catch you. Always.”

Maia didn’t answer. Her little face was tense, uncertain. But after a pause, she gave a tiny nod. Then, with sudden conviction, she kicked off the ground—harder this time—and the broom lifted her, clean and smooth, several feet into the air.

A sharp gasp escaped her lips, half fear, half astonishment.

"You're doing it! You're flying, Maia," Draco called up, his voice steady and reassuring. "I'm right here—don't be afraid."

They practiced like that for nearly half an hour. Each time, Maia grew bolder. Higher. Steadier. Her confidence blooming right before Hermione’s eyes.

At last, she hovered at least two meters above the ground, her small form silhouetted against the sky. For ten whole minutes, she soared, without looking down, without panicking, without calling out for him. She flew on her own, and Malfoy just stood below, arms crossed, head tilted back, wearing the faintest, proudest smile Hermione had ever seen on his face.

Later, just before they were about to leave, Maia tugged at Hermione’s hand and whispered something in her ear. Hermione nodded, reaching into her bag and pulling out a carefully wrapped parcel.

“Can I give it to him now?” Maia asked, her eyes shining with anticipation.

Without waiting for an answer, she crossed the room with purpose, her small footsteps confident, and clambered into Malfoy’s lap as though it were the most natural place in the world. She placed the package firmly in his hands.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” he murmured, raising a brow as he looked down at her.

“But it’s your birthday,” she replied, her voice bubbling with excitement.

“Maia? Maybe filled chocolates inside?” Scorpius chimed in hopefully, peeking around the edge of the box with eager curiosity.

But Hermione already knew better. There were no sweets hidden within.

As Malfoy began to unwrap the parcel, his hands slowed, almost reverently. The paper slipped away, falling to the floor unnoticed. When he finally revealed what lay inside, his breath caught. His eyes widened and then, slowly, he smiled.

“I painted it myself!” Maia declared, beaming. “Mummy helped a little—she found a picture on the computer—but I did most of it alone. Do you like it?”

He didn’t answer right away.

He was staring at the painting. The canvas was cloaked in a night sky so deep a blue it was nearly black, scattered with constellations. At the center, the Pleiades blazed—seven sister stars rendered in delicate, enchanted ink, shimmering faintly with magic that looked like starlight caught on paper. One star, nestled slightly apart, pulsed with a gentle inner glow.

“That one is Maia,” she explained, pointing to the luminous star at the center. “I wanted you to have it. So you'll always know where to find me in the sky.”

Malfoy reached out, almost afraid to touch it, his fingertips grazing the stars. His voice, when it came, was a whisper. “It’s beautiful…”

“I used everything you taught me. That’s why it turned out so nice.”

Then, without a word, she slipped her small hand down the front of her dress and pulled out a delicate silver chain. Hermione recognized it instantly—it was the necklace she had given Maia just days earlier.

“See?” Maia said, lifting it gently for him to see. “I carry you with me, daddy. Now… now you can have a part of me here too, if you want.”

It was the first time Hermione had ever heard her say it—daddy. The word rang through the quiet room like a bell. She froze, startled by its clarity, its truth. And from the way Draco's chest stilled, the way his eyes glistened and locked onto Maia as if the entire world had shifted, she knew it was the first time he had heard it too.

He gathered her into his arms and held her close—closer than Hermione had ever seen him hold anyone. He pressed his cheek into her curls, and for a long time, he said nothing at all.

When he finally looked up again, his eyes glistened with tears caught in the lashes. He looked across the room to Hermione, and in that quiet, trembling glance, he mouthed just two words.

Thank you.

***

At the end of the month, Richard Granger passed away.

The doctors had warned them during that final week—there was nothing more to be done, they said. He wouldn't last much longer. And still, Hermione had hoped. She didn’t know what exactly she had been hoping for—some miracle, some twist of fate, something that would hold off the inevitable—but hope had lingered in her heart like a stubborn ember refusing to die. After all, they’d told her the same thing a year ago, and Richard had fought through it then. But this time, it turned out that he had already done more than his share of fighting. His time had simply run out.

When Hermione received the news, she was out shopping with Maia in the golden haze of a Muggle London summer.

Her mother didn’t say the words over the phone—she didn’t need to. The broken sound of her voice was enough. It cut straight through Hermione, cold and final.

She tried to explain it to Maia as gently as she could, in the simplest terms a child might understand. But Maia refused to listen. Richard might have been her grandfather by name, but for a significant part of her young life, he had also been one of the two steady paternal figures she had ever known—alongside Ron. In her own way, Maia had lost a father that day too.

“Maia, I need to go to Grandma’s house.” Hermione had said, fighting to keep her voice even, to not let the sorrow slip through the cracks. She couldn’t fall apart in front of her daughter.

The first person Hermione thought of to watch over Maia was Malfoy. She was too emotionally frayed to register what that thought meant in the moment—but later, in the stillness of the week to come, she would sit with the oddness of that instinct. And she wouldn’t be sure whether it disturbed her or comforted her.

She called his mobile, half-expecting it to go unanswered. He despised the new phone as much as he had loathed the old one. But to her surprise, he picked up on the second ring.

“Granger? What’s wrong?” he asked, the tension in his voice immediate.

She didn’t say much. Only that she needed him, that it would help her enormously if he could take Maia for a few hours. “If it’s not too much trouble,” she added out of habit.

Malfoy assured her it wasn’t trouble at all. He told her he’d come by to pick Maia up shortly.

“We’re not at home,” she said. “Would it be all right if she comes to your place through the Floo from the Leaky Cauldron?”

And so Hermione and Maia made their way quickly down central London. At the hearth of the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione took a deep breath, called out Malfoy’s address clearly, and watched her daughter vanish into the green flames.

Then she turned and left, stepping back into the daylight that now felt somehow colder than before.

When Hermione arrived at her parents’ house, she was struck by how still everything was. Grief had a way of altering the atmosphere of a home—it made the air heavier, the silence more pronounced. Her mother was in the sitting room, surrounded by untouched cups of tea and unopened cards from neighbors. Hermione sat with her, held her hand, answered the phone when it rang, and wrote down the names of relatives who asked about the arrangements. She spoke softly, moved carefully, as if the house itself might shatter from sudden movement.

There were things to be done. She called the funeral home, arranged the paperwork, contacted the crematorium. She confirmed the date and time for the service and gently reminded her mother to eat something. Through it all, she kept her voice calm, her hands steady, her heart stitched tightly together with invisible thread.

It wasn’t until much later, when the house had emptied again and her mother had finally drifted into a fitful sleep, that Hermione let herself sink into her father’s old armchair.

She had known this day would come. She had told herself she was prepared. But nothing—nothing—could prepare you for the ache of losing a parent.

Suddenly she didn’t want to stay in that house anymore. Not where her mother was shattered and her father forever absent.

Returning home, Hermione fell onto her bed, too exhausted even to take off her clothes. The fabric still clung to the scent of grief and her mother’s tears, heavy and suffocating. Time slipped by—hours or maybe more—without thought or motion, as if she had been swallowed by silence itself. Then, suddenly, the floodgates broke open. She wept with a rawness that no words could hold back, tears falling endlessly as if nothing in the world could ever stop them.

And in the midst of that overwhelming sorrow, a cold, sharp loneliness crept in. It was a loneliness she hadn’t expected—after all, she had Maia, her daughter’s bright presence, and so many people who cared. Yet, without her father, her life felt unbearably empty. It was as though losing him had carved a hollow in her heart that she didn’t quite know how to fill.

After some time, a noise from the living room stirred her briefly, but she did not move. When no one knocked at her door, she told herself she had only imagined it—and the tears returned with renewed force.

Later, a soft sound came again outside her door, this time followed by a gentle knock.

“Granger?” came a quiet whisper.

She didn’t answer. But he opened the door anyway.

“Granger, Maia told me what happened,” he said simply, his voice heavy with sorrow. Her eyes, even blurred with tears, made out the figure standing half in the doorway, half inside the room.

Still, she stayed silent.

“Maia can stay with me as long as you need”, he offered again.

She blinked, willing her vision to clear. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice fragile and unfamiliar to her own ears.

“Can I…” He hesitated. “Would you like me to call Karstair? I don’t want you to be alone right now. I know how hard this is,” he said, looking at her with a tenderness that caught her off guard.

Hermione doubted whether Lucius deserved the sorrow she now felt for Richard’s death.

“We broke up. Months ago,” she said simply.

Silence stretched between them.

“Maybe I should call Potter then? Or Weasley?” he offered.

She shook her head. Ron and Harry would have been her first choice but both were far away, vacationing in southern France at Fleur’s family home, along with most of the Weasleys.

“Where’s Maia?” she asked.

“She’s in the living room with Scorpius and Tilly. They’ve put on the TV,” he replied.

Another quiet pause.

“Do you want me to stay with you?” he asked tentatively.

Their eyes met, and for a moment she felt the sting of tears again, threatening to spill. Instead, she shrugged, trying to sound indifferent.

“I don’t care,” she said. But it was a lie—she didn’t want to be alone any longer.

For a fleeting second, she feared her words would send him away. But to her surprise, he stepped fully inside, leaving the door slightly ajar in case the children needed anything.

She watched him settle on the floor beside her bed, resting his head against her nightstand.

Neither spoke. But at last, Hermione’s tears slowed and stopped.

After an hour—or maybe longer—two small sets of footsteps approached the door.

“Mummy?” Maia’s voice appeared in the doorway. “Can I sleep with you tonight?” she asked quietly.

Hermione nodded.

Behind her, she saw Scorpius peeking shyly inside, looking for his father.

Malfoy began to rise, but Maia’s voice stopped him.

“Mum, can Scorpius sleep with you too? He’s sad, just like me,” she said softly.

Hermione thought how the little boy might be mourning someone he never knew through his connection to Maia.

“I think Scorpius and I should leave, sweetheart” Malfoy hurried to say, but Hermione cut him off.

“Don’t go,” she said firmly.

He looked uncertain.

“Come in, Scorpius,” she invited, and the boy stepped inside slowly.

Hermione made room on the bed for the two children. Maia curled into her on one side, Scorpius on the other. Soon, both children slipped into a peaceful sleep while she and Malfoy remained awake—she lying with their daughter and his son, and he on the floor beside them, his head resting on her nightstand as he stared up at the ceiling.

“You can sleep now, Hermione. I’m here. You’re not alone,” he whispered.

Without realizing it, she reached out her hand toward him. He took it quietly, and only then was she finally able to close her eyes.

Chapter Text

January 2008

She was his daughter.

He had a daughter.

Though hours had passed since he’d come home clutching Scorpius in his arms, the words still echoed in his mind, hollow and deafening. He couldn’t grasp them, couldn’t make sense of them, no matter how many times he turned them over.

How?

The question clawed at his thoughts, relentless and raw.

He had always been so careful. They had both been so careful.

It wasn’t just the impossibility of it that haunted him. It was the betrayal.

How could they?

The woman who had once loved him. The friend he had trusted more than anyone else in his life. How could they have kept this from him?

Tilly, sensing that something was terribly wrong, had gently offered to look after Scorpius. The boy had finally calmed down after the terrifying incident with Daphne and the attack in the Muggle part of London earlier that morning.

Draco had been horrified when he realized Scorpius had been in danger, but nothing, nothing, could have prepared him for what Hermione had revealed to him in that sterile, too-bright hospital room.

She had told him the truth.

He had a daughter.

A six-year-old daughter.

And it wasn’t just an abstract idea. He had met her. He had seen her. For the first time, almost exactly a year ago, in Hogsmeade, inside Honeydukes.

That sweet, bright-eyed little girl who had begged her mother for more sweets—just like he himself had done countless times with Narcissa in that very same shop.

The one with the unruly chestnut curls and the stubborn little chin. The one who had reminded him—painfully—of someone he had loved and never stopped loving.

Hermione’s daughter.

His daughter.

He kept repeating it to himself, silently and aloud, as if the repetition might help solidify the truth, might anchor the world beneath his feet, which felt like it had begun to spin off its axis.

That little girl, with her endless curiosity, and fierce, unapologetic intelligence, she was part of him. She had been his from the beginning. And he had never even known.

Of course he’d adored her. From the first moment. How could he not? She was just like her mother, brilliant, sharp, fiercely brave in the way that made your heart hurt. She carried every spark of Granger’s soul and—Merlin help him—maybe a tiny flicker of his, too.

Her voice was too loud, her words tumbling out too fast.

He remembered the way she’d looked up at him.

Her eyes. His eyes.

He remembered the flash of recognition, the strange ache of familiarity. He had brushed it off then—chalked it up to nostalgia, or perhaps to some forgotten dream that had lived quietly inside him for years.

A child born after his marriage to Hermione.

A little tangerine—just like the one they had always dreamed of.

A cruel trick of dreams.

He had never dared to imagine anything more.

But now that he knew, how was he supposed to live with it?

When Scorpius finally fell asleep, exhausted from the chaos of the day, Draco stayed by his bedside for a long time, brushing pale hair off the boy’s forehead, hair like his, like Lucius’s.

But his thoughts were elsewhere.

He couldn’t stop picturing the other child. A little girl somewhere in London, maybe giggling as she brushed her teeth or pestering her mother with endless questions at bedtime.

His daughter.

Merlin.

He had a daughter.

He wasn’t sure when or how it had happened, but he suddenly found himself pacing his bedroom with a bottle of firewhisky clutched in his hand.

The alcohol burned his throat, but his insides were already aflame with so much rage that the firewhisky barely registered.

He was furious.

So angry he had to physically restrain himself from doing something reckless—like opening a damn Floo connection to America and murdering Theo in his sleep.

Because if Theo had been anywhere within Britain’s borders, there wouldn’t be a corner of the country dark enough to hide him from Draco’s fury.

And Potter.

Of course. Harry fucking Potter with his infuriatingly noble heart, flashing it around like he was some kind of saint. He was just a piece of shit.

But more than anyone, he was angry at her.

Hermione Granger.

How could she do this to him?

How could she keep something so monumental from him?

How could she?

How could she vanish with their unborn child, and raise their daughter alone, never once telling him the truth?"

His fury was limitless. His nerves raw and buzzing.

He hated them all.

He wanted to destroy the world, burn it to ash, make them all pay for the secrets they kept.

And only when he grew too tired to pace, only when the firewhisky had nearly run dry, only when his tears blurred his vision, did he finally collapse onto the floor with a heavy thud.

He threw the bottle across the room. It shattered against the far wall.

And then he buried his face in his hands.

Because deep down, he knew.

He knew that the person he hated most wasn’t Theo. Or Potter. Or Hermione.

It was himself.

He was the one who walked away.

He was the one who stayed silent.

He was the one who let her go.

And now the only person who truly deserved to be destroyed, the only person to truly blame, was the man staring back at him from the mirror.

***

He was drowning in guilt.

Every choice he had made, every cowardly surrender to Lucius’s unyielding pressure, each one came crashing down on him now, heavier than any curse he had ever known.

Six years. Six years his daughter had lived in this world without him. Six years lost.

And when she finally did meet him, she hadn’t even known who he was, he thought bitterly. Not her father, not even someone important. Just some stranger.

And the weight of that truth was suffocating.

Hermione had borne it all alone. She had chosen to bring their child into the world despite the odds, despite the shame and the pain, while he… he had been too weak to face her with the truth. Too afraid to tell her why he had walked away. Too afraid to defy his father’s iron grip, the cruel demands that had always torn his life to pieces.

While he was spending his days with a woman he never loved, hundreds of miles away Hermione was giving life to their daughter—raising her, teaching her how to speak, how to walk. Alone. Without his help. Without protection.

The thought ate at him like poison.

In a surge of restless anger, Draco grabbed a second bottle of firewhisky from the side table. He slammed the cork free and drank deeply. He felt the heat rise in his chest. Τhe rage and pain swelling inside him.

Without another thought, he apparated to Malfoy Manor.

The manor loomed cold and silent, its shadows long and accusing. He marched into his father’s office, a room he’d deliberately avoided since the day Lucius died.

The room was suffocating with memories. Portraits of his family stared down at him, faces frozen in time: Narcissa, young and unyielding; Lucius, seated arrogantly in his chair; and there, a much younger Draco, just twelve, sitting stiffly between them.

The sight shattered him.

With trembling hands, he grabbed the nearest objects—papers, books, trinkets—and hurled them across the room. The crash of broken glass and scattered parchment filled the heavy silence.

His wand was suddenly in his grip. The air thickened as he pointed it at the portraits.

"How unfair-," he spat, voice cracking with years of buried pain, "-how utterly cruel you were, Father."

With a flick, flames erupted, licking the painted faces. The portraits shrieked, their images dissolving into smoke and ash.

In a final act of fury, Draco hurled the firewhisky bottle at the portrait of the three of them—the Narcissa, the young Draco, and the proud, cold Lucius. The glass shattered, flames spreading across the canvas.

He sank to his knees, tears burning in his eyes.

I left her alone. I left her to raise our daughter by herself. And for what?

The weight of his failures pressed down, merciless.

He wept—not just for the daughter he never knew, but for the man he once was, trapped in a cage of fear and obedience.

He was drowning in guilt.

***

The house was quiet when Draco arrived.

He moved through the halls like a ghost, the weight of sleeplessness and rage dragging behind him. It didn’t take long to find Potter—of course he was waiting for him. Sitting cross-legged in an armchair like the lord of Grimmauld Place himself, a worn copy of the Black family tree open on his lap.

“I was expecting you,” Potter said, not looking up at first.

“You deceitful, two-faced bastard!” he roared. “You knew. You knew the truth all this time and said nothing! You lied to my face for years. Pretended to be my friend. Played along while you kept this from me!”

Potter closed the book and set it aside with slow, deliberate calm. Then he stood.

“Malfoy, calm down—”

“Go to hell, Potter!” Draco spat. “Don’t tell me to calm down! You don’t get to pacify me!”

“Draco—”

“Don’t call me that!” His voice cracked with fury. “Merlin, I should’ve seen it. All that concern, your friendship, Ginny pretending she gave a damn… Was it all just a show? Were you all conspiring to make sure I never found out?”

“You know that’s not what happened,” Potter said, his voice quiet but unwavering. “Yes, I’m your friend. But Hermione is my sister. I owe her everything. I wasn’t about to go against her wishes. She wanted to protect Maia. And I wanted to protect them both. If lying to you was what it took to keep them safe, then yes—I’d do it again. A thousand times over.”

There was a blur of motion.

Draco’s wand was in his hand before he even realized it—its tip steady, aimed squarely at Potter’s chest.

But Potter was faster.

“Expelliarmus!”

Draco’s wand shot from his fingers and clattered across the floor. He stared at it now lying useless next to Potter. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“You think I need magic to take you down?” he growled to Potter, voice like gravel.

He was on him in seconds.

They crashed into each other with fists this time—not spells. Draco landed a solid punch to the nose, maybe one or two to the ribs, before the full force of the Chosen One’s Auror training kicked in. Potter shoved him back with a silent repelling spell, sending him staggering.

“Stop!” Harry gasped. Blood was dripping from his nose. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

They stood there, both of them breathing heavily, blood and rage thick in the air between them.

Draco stared at him, at the crooked line of blood now streaked across Potter’s cheek. For one strange, fragmented moment, he thought he’d given him a nose just as bent as Dumbledore’s. Something to remember his mentor by.

“Enough, Malfoy. I know you're hurting,” Potter said finally, wiping away the last trace of blood from his shirt with a flick of his wand. “But you have to find a way through this. Your children need you.”

His children.

Scorpius needed him, of that Draco had no doubt. He was both mother and father to the boy. Scorpius relied on him for everything, and in return, Draco gave him all he had, and more. In that giving, he found purpose. Wholeness.

But Maia?

How could Maia possibly need him? What did he have to offer her—the daughter of Hermione Granger? Of the woman he had loved in silence for years, and the woman he had once wounded beyond repair?

The more he thought about it, the more he realized a bitter truth: it was far more likely he needed Maia than she would ever need him.

Draco's voice came out low and broken, barely more than a breath.

“This is my fault. All of it. She left Britain because of me. She gave birth to our daughter alone. Raised her in secret. Endured everything without me—because of me.”

The weight of it all threatened to crush him again. It curled around his ribs like iron, threatening to drop him to his knees. But he stayed upright, trembling, jaw clenched.

“You always said you wanted a daughter, Draco. Remember?” Potter’s tone was softer now. “Well, now you have one. With the woman you never stoped loving. This is your second chance with Maia. Most people never get that.”

His voice dropped, just above a whisper.

“You are a good father Draco. I believe in you.”

***

He had spent two more sleepless nights beside Scorpius, watching over his son’s peaceful, innocent face, brushing soft hair from his forehead, kissing his tiny hand.

But it was Maia who haunted his thoughts.

He ached—desperately—to meet her. To know her. He longed to hear her speak for hours about everything and nothing, to simply sit near her and listen.

He wanted to teach her things, how to write in elegant script, how to draw, how to play music. He wanted to read her stories at bedtime, to let her fall asleep in his arms, to spend entire nights watching over her, memorizing the shape of her breath.

He wanted to give her his name, not out of obligation, but out of love. A name that, at times, had felt more curse than gift, but one he was fighting to redeem. To turn into something good. Something worthy of the light his children brought into the world.

He wanted to tell her he was her father. And more than that, he wanted—needed—to ask her forgiveness.

For not being there.

For missing everything.

For letting her and her mother face the world alone.

But before he could do any of that, Hermione had to trust him. And she had no reason in the world to. Not after everything he had done.

By the time he landed in her sitting room, his chest felt like it was made of stone. Every step was heavy, every breath uncertain.

She was waiting for him, looking tense. He didn’t want to imagine what kind of state he himself must have been in.

“Where’s Maia?” he asked, his eyes scanning the room instinctively, as if half-expecting a little girl to leap out from behind the sofa and startle him.

“She’s with Harry and the rest of the Potters,” Hermione replied, her voice carefully measured. “They’re at the Burrow.”

A part of him deflated, deeply disappointed not to see her. But another part—perhaps the wiser one—felt immense relief.

He needed to talk to Hermione first.

He needed her to believe him.

To see that his intentions were genuine.

To understand that he wasn’t going anywhere. Not this time.

“Maia is my daughter,” he said with conviction, as if trying to make himself believe it all over again. “She is my daughter.”

He looked into Hermione’s eyes, speaking not just to her, but to himself. To the ghost of the man he was the last few days, and to the father he wanted to become for his daughter.

“No matter what’s happened between us, that fact doesn’t change. And I don’t want it to change. I want her to be my daughter—not just in blood, but in name, in life, in every way that matters. I want to be her father, just like I’m Scorpius’s father. I want to be there for her. I want to know her, truly know her. To love her. To be someone she can depend on. Someone she can run to when she’s scared, or proud, or curious about the world. I want to be her father...”

He said everything.

Everything he had been carrying for the past three days like a storm behind his ribs. And somehow, he managed not to break. Somehow, he kept his voice steady, even when the weight of it all threatened to pull him under. He spoke with all the honesty he had left.

Hermione didn’t respond at first. Her face had gone pale, and her eyes were wide with disbelief.

“You… you want to meet her?” she whispered. “You want to be her father?”

Draco stared at her.

She was beautiful, achingly so. How was it possible, after all these years, that she was still this beautiful? So much like the woman he had fallen in love with, and yet, Merlin, so different.

Still beautiful, but exhausted. Worn thin by the weight of years spent carrying too much, with no one to share the burden. She had borne the unbearable for so long—shouldered every pain, every fear, every impossible choice without him. How many nights had she stayed awake for their child? How many questions had she answered alone? How many quiet heartbreaks had she endured while he lived in the comfort of ignorance?

And gods, how he wanted to hold her. To gather her into his arms and tell her that even if she didn’t trust him, if she still hesitated, he would never stop trying to earn that trust. He would always be there.

For her. For their child.

To show her that he wasn’t leaving.

Not this time.

That afternoon, Draco returned once more to Malfoy Manor.

“Draco, I didn’t know you’d be coming,” Narcissa said as she rose from her seat. “You just missed Lady Rosier and young Miss Tonya Rosier, what a shame. Miss Rosier was speaking ever so fondly of you—”

She launched into one of her long-winded monologues, this one focused entirely on Tonya Rosier, whose presence Draco had done his best to ignore during every absurd tea or dinner Narcissa had orchestrated over the past four months. The worst had been the New Year’s Gala, where she’d insisted that he dance with Tonya three times.

Lately, his mother had begun reentering pureblood society, cautiously, like a woman waking from a long, sorrowful sleep. After three years of mourning, and with persistent encouragement from both Draco and Andromeda, Narcissa had finally begun to pull herself back together. And with a new sense of purpose—ensuring the happiness and well-being of her son and grandson—she had decided that Draco should remarry. Immediately, if possible.

In fact, she no longer even cared about blood purity, a sign of her desperation. “Draco,” she had said once, her voice soft but insistent, “just bring me a bride. Any bride. I only want to see you happy.”

He had reminded her that he wasn’t planning to bring her any bride any time soon. She didn’t like his answer, so she had taken matters into her own hands, naturally.

Draco had allowed her to play her little matchmaking games in the background, never intending to indulge her whims.

But things had changed now. Everything had changed. He had no intention of letting her continue inviting potential daughters-in-law to afternoon tea, not when tomorrow he was going to truly meet his daughter for the first time.

“Mother,” he said, cutting through her enthusiastic praise of Miss Rosier, “I don’t care about Tonya Rosier. And neither should you.”

“Nonsense, Draco. Miss Rosier is wonderful.”

“She may very well be. I’m still not interested.”

He sat down beside her on the velvet sofa. Narcissa blinked, surprised by his tone and perhaps even more surprised by his closeness. Their relationship had grown distant over the years. There had been times when he needed her, her help, her counsel, even just a listening ear, and she had not been there. Drowned in her own grief for Lucius, she had withdrawn from the world. Draco had tried to understand. But her absence had been heavy. And he wasn’t sure if he’d ever truly forgiven her for it.

“Mother,” he said, more gently this time, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

And so he did.

He told her about Maia. That she was his daughter. That he hadn’t known until recently. That he couldn’t wait to get to know her better.

“She likes sweets, Mother. And she loves to draw—though she’s not very good at it yet. She’ll need practice. Do you remember when I couldn’t draw to save my life, and you told me I just needed to keep trying? I think the same applies to Maia.”

He smiled softly at the memory of Maia sitting with him on the carpet in the living room of Grimmauld Place, so many months ago. Her markers were scattered everywhere, a whirlwind of colors and chaos. Her painting hadn’t made much sense, but she had tried so hard to fit all of her imagination onto a single sheet of paper, like the world inside her mind was too vast to be contained.

“She has my eyes. Exactly the same colour. But that’s probably all she’s inherited from me. The shape of them is different, larger, more almond-shaped, just like Granger’s. She has thick, curly brown hair, and she always wears dresses. I think she’d love your old wardrobe, Mother.”

Narcissa stared at him in silence. Completely stunned.

“A daughter?” she breathed. “A Malfoy daughter?”

Her voice broke just before the tears came.

Draco couldn’t tell if she was crying out of joy or sorrow.

***

Maia was… wonderful.

She was the smartest, sweetest, kindest child he had ever met. And beautiful. So heartbreakingly beautiful.

She was everything.

He longed to hold her, to pull her into his arms and stroke her curls, to let her know she was safe. But he knew better. She didn’t know him. Not yet. And the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her with a stranger’s sudden affection.

So he waited.

He saw her three times a week, always at the Potters’ house. From the very first visit, he started arriving thirty minutes early—every time. His own home suddenly felt too small to hold both his nerves and his anticipation.

So he waited, always in the old Black family library, where mother and daughter would eventually appear. He’d watch the seconds tick by on the faded grandfather clock, his heart pounding like it, too, was counting down with him.

“You know, since you insist on being early, Malfoy, why don’t you make yourself useful and help with these sandwiches?” Ginny had told him one day.

And he had.

Not because she told him to, but because the final thirty minutes before Maia’s arrival were always unbearable. He needed something—anything—to keep his hands busy and his mind from spiraling.

They painted together. Draco taught her how to mix colors, how to shade properly, how to make her drawings look three-dimensional. And when her attention shifted to other games, he followed—wherever her curiosity led.

Helping her. Showing her things. Talking to her.

But mostly, he listened.

And gods, how she loved to talk. And how he loved to listen.

She told him the strangest little stories about her Muggle school, a place full of noisy children and a teacher named Miss Julia who, apparently, was always looking for a boyfriend. According to Maia, Miss Julia kept telling all the girls to get married young, before "time runs out."

“Draco,” Maia had whispered to him once, very seriously, “if I don’t get married by the time I’m old, will you marry me? So I don’t turn into Miss Julia? She seems really sad.”

He’d nearly laughed, but didn’t. He didn’t want her to feel embarrassed. So instead, he smiled and said gently,

“I’m sure you won’t need me, Maia.”

The very next day, she came running into the library, bursting through the door before she’d even fully seen him.

“I did it!” she shouted. “She put it up, Draco! 

She flew into his arms, and she clung to him tightly, the kind of hug only a child gives. The kind that says, I trust you. You’re my safe place.

She told him her drawing had made it onto the special wall at school—the one where the best pictures went. Her greatest goal of the past few weeks.

And then she hugged him again, tighter this time. And Draco, for a moment, froze. Just a second. But then he hugged her back, and when the tears came—hot and sudden, spilling over before he could stop them—she leaned back and looked at him in surprise.

“Draco? Did I hurt you?” she asked, softly.

He shook his head, voice thick. “Not at all. I’m just… happy.”

“But you’re crying,” she said, frowning a little.

She reached up with both small hands and gently wiped the tears from his cheeks. Then, without hesitation, she kissed one of his eyes, then the other.

“Kisses make tears go away,” she told him seriously. “That’s what Mummy says.”

And Draco nodded, because he couldn’t find his voice.

And because, in that moment, he believed it.

***

Two weeks later Draco arrived at Nott Manor. He hadn’t sent an owl, but he didn’t need to.

Someone had warned Theo. Maybe Potter. Maybe Granger herself. It didn’t matter. Theo was expecting him.

It was a pathetic echo of the scene with Potter weeks earlier: Theo sat in the drawing room, one leg crossed over the other, reading, this time, Diplomatic and Trade Relations Between Colombia and Brazil: A Post-Colonial Critique.

He looked up the moment the door opened.

“Should I ready my wand?” he asked calmly.

Draco didn’t answer. Didn’t blink.

Theo closed the book and set it aside. He stood. “I’m sorry,” he added, quieter this time.

Draco wanted to scream. To hex him with something lasting, possibly something that would scar. But not yet. Not until he said what he came to say.

“You’re sorry?” his voice was low. Controlled. Too quiet to be safe. “How very gracious of you, Nott. And what, exactly, are you sorry for?”

Theo said nothing.

Draco stepped closer.

“Are you sorry that, for years, you called yourself my brother while hiding a secret that concerned my child? My child, with Hermione? That you looked me in the eye and lied to me, again and again, even after I met Maia? Even when I saw her, over and over, and didn’t know she was mine?”

Theo nodded slowly.

“Yes. I’m sorry for all of it. I’m sorry Maia didn’t grow up beside you. I’m sorry it took years for you to learn the truth.”

He hesitated.

“Everything I did, I did to protect your child.”

Draco stared at him. Speechless for a second. Then he laughed—a sharp, hollow sound, empty of mirth.

“Protection?” he spat. “Don’t dress betrayal in noble words. You’re not a martyr, Theo. You’re not a hero. You’re a liar.”

Theo didn’t flinch.

“I did what I believed was right. At the time. I didn’t just do it for Maia.” His jaw tightened. “I did it for you, too.”

Draco’s patience snapped like a wire pulled too tight.

“For me?” he echoed, his voice cutting with disbelief. “You’re full of shit.”

Theo lifted his eyes. His face looked ten years older.

“I was trying to protect you. From the guilt that would’ve destroyed you.”

“Guilt?” Draco’s voice cracked into a shout. “You think I don’t already live with guilt? You think I sleep well? That I wake up at peace?” His hands were shaking.

“…You think I don’t spend every bloody day wondering what Hermione went through, raising our daughter alone? Wondering what she sacrificed while I did nothing? You think I don’t feel sick with gratitude to fucking Ron Weasley for taking care of my child, when I didn’t even know she existed?...”

His voice was ragged now, near breaking.

“…do you honestly believe I haven’t drowned in it already?”

“I wasn’t trying to save you from regret,” Theo shouted back. “I was trying to save you from the kind of guilt that eats you alive!”

“I wouldn’t have felt like that if I’d known!” Draco roared.

“You don’t get it!” Theo bellowed. “I didn’t want you to understand what it’s like to live with the guilt of losing a parent because of your choices! If you’d known about Maia back then, you would’ve torn everything apart. You would’ve defied your father, Lucius would’ve died, and you, you would’ve had to carry that for the rest of your life!”

Draco’s breath caught.

“My father made his choices. He should’ve lived—or died—with the consequences,” he said coldly.

Theo’s voice was rough with fury.

“Don’t lie to me. Don’t lie to yourself. You loved your father. You did what you did for your parents. Don’t stand there and pretend otherwise.” He took a step forward. “Stop blaming me and pretending you don’t understand. The guilt you feel now? That’s a storm. It will rage, but it will pass. You’ll meet your child, and she’ll love you—just like Scorp does. It will pass. But the kind I was trying to protect you from? That’s rot. It consumes you. And do you know how I know?...”

His voice broke.

“…Because I live with it. I watched my father kill my mother in slow motion! Every day, chipping away at her spirit until there was nothing left. I watched her forget who she was. I watched her disappear before my eyes. And I did nothing to stop it...”

Theo’s fists clenched at his sides.

“…I didn’t protect her. And I carry that weight every fucking day. I didn’t want that for you. I didn’t want you to look back and choke on it.” He took a breath that sounded more like a gasp.

“…So yes, I protected Maia. And Hermione. And you. And if you hate me for it? Fine. I hate you too—for pretending you can’t understand my reasons. For pretending you wouldn’t have done the same for me or my kid.”

He blinked hard.

“I have no one left, Draco. No family. No real friends. Just you. And if keeping Hermione’s secret and honoring her choice means you never speak to me again, so be it. I don’t regret it. Maia is safe. Hermione is safe. And I’m finally free of the weight of the truth.”

***

When Andromeda asked him to find a particular book in the Manor’s library, his mother offered to help.

Together, they combed through volumes chronicling the bloodlines of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Hidden among the tales of ancestors and arcane rituals, they uncovered references to rare magical blood bonds, ties forged between siblings to protect them in dark times. Bonds, not unlike the one Maia and Scorpius seemed to share.

Hours later, after Draco had read every mention twice, he closed the book in his lap and leaned back into the armchair, surrounded by towers of dusty pureblood journals and heirloom volumes. He had already agreed to meet Hermione at Andromeda’s home the following Friday. His mind was full, his resolve heavier than ever.

His mother approached without a sound.

“Draco,” she said.

He looked up. Her face was composed, but he knew her well enough to see the sorrow beneath her practiced calm.

“What is it, Mother?” he asked.

She sat down across from him, her spine perfectly straight, hands folded neatly in her lap.

“I wanted to speak with you,” she said. “I want to know… what your intentions are for the girl. For Maia.”

His intentions.

Draco had spent two weeks thinking about little else. If Hermione agreed, he planned to acknowledge Maia formally. He wanted to give her his name, his legacy, and everything that came with being a Malfoy. She was just as important to him as Scorpius. He would not draw lines between his children to satisfy the traditions of a dying society.

Inside or outside wedlock, Maia was his daughter. She had a right to his estate, his title, his protection. She had a place in his future. Period.

For the last two weeks, he, Dennis and a team of well-compensated solicitors had dissected every thread of magical law. They had torn apart the Malfoy inheritance contracts, especially the one Lucius had signed seven years ago, in search of a way to bind Maia to the House in both name and blood.

He told Narcissa all of it.

“I suspected as much,” she said with cool restraint. Then, after a pause: “I wonder, however, if that will do your reputation any good.”

Draco nearly rolled his eyes.

“My reputation? What are you talking about, Mother?”

“The press will be brutal,” she said. “Very brutal. They won’t say you had a child with a Muggleborn witch. They’ll say you abandoned her. That you left her pregnant and alone. Your name will be tarnished again… and I daresay your popularity among eligible young women will drop dramatically.”

“Mother!” he snapped, disbelieving. “How many times must I say this? I don’t care about those women you or anyone else keep parading in front of me! I don’t want them. I won’t marry any of them.”

He rose sharply to his feet, fists clenched at his sides.

“And even if I were looking for a wife, I wouldn’t choose someone who’d ask me to hide my daughter out of shame. Who’d rather I pretend she doesn’t exist just to appease a few gossip rags. Maia is my daughter. And when—not if, when—I find a way to secure it legally, she will become a Malfoy. Whether the wizarding world likes it or not.”

He stood tall, every inch his father’s heir, but not his father’s son.

“And for the last time, Mother,” he said, voice low and full of finality, “the only woman I’ve ever loved… the only woman I will ever love… is Hermione Granger. I don’t want or need anyone else in my life.”

And with that, he turned and left the room—leaving the quiet thunder of his words behind.

***

That Friday, following his meeting with Granger and Andromeda, Draco had another appointment scheduled for the afternoon, this time with Dennis Creevey and the legal team.

A few days earlier, he’d received an owl from Hartings, his family’s solicitor since he was a child. The message had been short but significant: his team had identified a legal pathway to recognize Maia as one of Draco's two rightful heirs. The process wouldn’t be easy, nor without complications, but the idea of two heirs—one Malfoy, one Black—had taken root in Draco’s mind. And now, it was bearing fruit.

Today’s meeting would focus on one of the most delicate aspects of the process—one his mother hadn’t let him forget for a single day all week: the press. How would the wizarding world react when news broke that Draco Malfoy had a second child? A child born out of wedlock. A child born of Hermione Granger.

That is, if Hermione agreed to his proposal at all.

The headquarters of Malfoy Enterprises, which Draco visited only when absolutely necessary, loomed in the heart of London. Its sleek, angular lines of glass and steel gleamed under the summer light, a proud symbol of modern ambition.

“Mr. Malfoy, a pleasure to see you,” one of Hartings’ associates greeted him in the lobby, though Draco couldn't for the life of him recall the man’s name.

Once seated at the long obsidian conference table, Draco watched in silence as Hartings and his assistant began their presentation. The solicitor moved with practiced ease, unfurling a collection of scrolls and parchments across the polished surface—wills, inheritance codices, dragonhide-bound property ledgers centuries old. There, in ink faded to sepia and magical script still softly glowing, lay the tangled legacies of the Malfoy line, and the even more complex web of allied pureblood houses.

“As you can see, Mr. Malfoy,” Hartings began crisply, adjusting the rimless spectacles perched on his aquiline nose, “there is, in fact, precedent for what you wish to accomplish. However, if I may be frank—” his eyes flicked briefly up “—I would advise caution. At the very least, allow us to present a few alternative proposals that might serve your interests with less… turbulence.”

Draco’s tone was flat and unyielding. “Maia Jane Granger is my daughter. You will not convince me to deny her what is hers by right. Whatever compromise you’ve prepared—I’m not interested.”

Hartings blinked, once. His expression remained professionally impassive, but Draco had known him long enough to read the slight tightening around his mouth. Hartings had always been Lucius’s man, not his. He excelled at strategy and subtlety, but his loyalties and instincts were forged in the old world—cold, hierarchical, and immaculately calculated.

Draco suspected the solicitor had constructed some neat little compromise: a generous trust fund, perhaps, or a minor estate in the Welsh countryside, something to satisfy propriety without threatening the sanctity of the Malfoy bloodline. A gesture of obligation, so Draco could do his “fatherly duty” and then disappear from Maia’s life.

But Draco wasn’t here to offer a consolation prize. This wasn’t only about Galleons or inheritances. It wasn’t about appeasing the Prophet or managing public perception. It was about Maia—his child, his blood. And it was about being in her life, not from the margins, but from the heart of it.

“You misunderstand me, Mr. Malfoy,” Hartings replied smoothly, folding his hands. “I would never suggest anything so crude. Our concerns lie not in legality, but optics. As you’re aware, your businesses experienced significant gains after your marriage to Lady Astoria. Her public image, her background—”

Draco cut him off, his voice sharp as frost. “Let’s not rewrite history, Hartings. Our revenues rose because my father stepped down and Dennis took over operations. He restructured the entire business from the ground up. Whatever the press thought of my wife had nothing to do with it.”

Beside him, Dennis gave a small nod and smiled faintly, appreciative but quiet. He’d been sitting patiently through Hartings’s monologue, hands folded, his usual warmth tempered by the weight of the discussion. Draco had often wondered how Dennis managed to tolerate the solicitor’s veiled condescension. He’d even proposed more than once that they switch firms entirely.

But Dennis always shrugged and smiled. “He’s the best there is, Draco. Sure, he talks bollocks sometimes. Who doesn’t?”

Hartings cleared his throat, unfazed. “Of course, Mr. Malfoy. And I do agree with your assessment. Nonetheless, as Mr. Creevey will no doubt explain, the sudden emergence of a child born out of wedlock, and prior to your marriage to Lady Astoria, will provoke considerable public confusion. The press will be relentless. Not only with you, but with Miss Granger as well.”

Draco turned toward Dennis, whose easy expression had tightened into something more serious.

“He’s right,” Dennis said softly. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it, of course you should acknowledge Maia. But we need to prepare for the fallout. We have to soften the blow.”

Draco leaned back in his chair, jaw tight. “What do you suggest?”

“Well,” Dennis began carefully, “once Hermione agrees and the legal process for Maia’s name is complete, the Malfoy family should issue a formal statement. Public. Immediate. Welcoming her without reservation. We cannot bury this, Draco. Secrets this size rot underground and when they finally surface, they ruin everything.”

He hesitated, then added, “And you need to be ready for the backlash. Hermione Granger is a war heroine. A few conservative outlets may sneer at her blood status, but the wider public adores her. So when the story breaks, they’ll assume she was wronged. That you abandoned her. You’ll be the villain in every headline. And you have to be prepared to accept that, without retaliation, no matter what they print.”

Hartings nodded, adjusting his cufflinks with his usual precision. “Which is why, Mr. Malfoy, under no circumstances are you to confront the Daily Prophet… again. There is no complete protection for your name, but there may be a way to cushion the blow. To preserve your family’s reputation. And your daughter’s.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “What way?”

Hartings folded his hands atop the parchment. “After careful discussion, my team and I believe that if you and Miss Granger present yourselves publicly as… united—even amicable—it will shift the narrative. Let the world see that she holds no resentment. That she forgives you. If she walks beside you, if she smiles at you, if she holds your hand in front of the cameras… the public will follow her lead. They always do.”

Draco stared at him, stunned. “What?”

“Forgive me, Mr. Malfoy. I’m not suggesting deception. Only… a gesture. If the world sees peace between you, even the smallest hint of affection, it would ease—”

“That is never going to happen,” Draco said coldly.

“Mr. Malfoy, if I may—”

“No,” he snapped, sharper now. “She’s with Karstair. She’s happy. I’m not going to ask her to pretend otherwise. I won’t ask her to give up her peace just to rescue my reputation.”

The room fell silent.

He drew a breath, jaw clenched. And for one thing, Draco was certain:

There was no universe in which he would ever ask that of Hermione. Not because he feared her refusal, but first—because he couldn’t bring himself to put her in that position. The very idea of asking her to play nice, to pretend that the past between them had been anything less than devastating, made his stomach twist.

And second—because he couldn’t bear the lie himself. The thought of her fingers wrapping around his in public, out of performance, when once they had reached for him in love. The image of her smiling at him with hollow politeness, when once she had looked at him like he was the only man in the world that mattered, her entire face alight with joy.

No.

Draco Malfoy would never ask her for that.

For all his wealth and all his legacy—for all the centuries of Malfoy blood, for all the power behind his name—Draco understood one truth with aching clarity:

Some things could not be bought.

Could not be negotiated.

Could not be staged.

Love.

Trust.

Forgiveness.

And Hermione Granger.

***

April 2008

There were days when Draco still couldn’t quite believe this was his life now.

The absurd, cheerful chaos of a Sunday morning at Grimmauld Place, children laughing, darting in and out of rooms—and those children were his. Merlin. His children.

He sat on the floor with his back against the sofa, legs stretched out, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Across from him, Potter was arranging the game pieces with that same overly serious expression he always wore when he thought he had a chance of beating Draco, though, in Draco’s opinion, he rarely did. Especially not at magical board games.

But today, Draco didn’t really care about the game.

He cared that Maia was beside him, kneeling quietly. Every now and then she glanced up at him with that sly little smile that sparked something warm and unfamiliar in his chest.

“Alright,” said Potter, rubbing his hands together with theatrical anticipation. “Teams: me, James, and Albus—”

“And me with Daddy!” Scorpius cried, eyes shining as he launched himself into Draco’s lap.

Draco caught him with a soft grunt, laughing as he pressed a quick kiss to the top of his head.

“Can I be on your team too, Draco?” Maia asked, her voice quiet but full of excitement.

“Of course,” he said, smiling down at her.

Not long after, once Draco’s team had thoroughly demolished the Potters, James grew bored and ran off to find his mum and Granger in the kitchen.

“Scorpius,” Draco said gently, “how about helping Harry and Albus this time? I think they might need you more than Maia and I do.”

Scorpius pouted but obeyed, sliding over to the opposite team. Maia leaned over and kissed his forehead with a dramatic smack.

“We can play again later, Scorpius,” she said, determined and hopeful. “And if you want, it can just be the two of us next time.”

She was so gentle with him in a way that made Draco’s chest ache. She always knew when Scorpius was tired, or grumpy, or quietly overwhelmed. Lately, it felt like she could read his moods before he even spoke.

He watched her sit up straighter, her small shoulders squared with quiet determination.

“Uncle Harry,” she said, turning to the Potters, “are you ready to lose again?”

Harry raised a brow. “Big talk, Granger.”

Maia beamed. “We’re not scared of you, right, Draco?”

Draco chuckled softly, a low, quiet sound that made Maia glance up at him with a pleased little spark in her eyes.

The game continued, full of playful teasing and whispered tactics. Sometimes Maia hesitated, biting her lip before making a move, but whenever she glanced at Draco, he gave her the smallest nod of encouragement. She would smile back—flushed cheeks and all—and play her piece with newfound confidence.

At one point, she leaned in close and whispered, “I think Scorpius is a little sad… maybe we should let him win the next round?”

Draco raised an amused eyebrow but smiled. “That’s very kind of you.”

She nodded seriously, as if they’d just sealed an important diplomatic alliance.

Watching her, thoughtful, gentle, clever… a little shy sometimes, but brave in her own quiet way, Draco felt something in him soften.

His daughter. His little girl.

Who talked too much and smiled shyly at him and offered these small, unexpected kindnesses that undid him more than anything else.

She was turning his world upside down.

And for once, he was perfectly okay with that.

That afternoon, when they returned home, his mother was waiting for them. Narcissa rarely came to their house, even though it was only a short distance from Malfoy Manor. Usually, if she wanted something from Draco, or wished to see Scorpius, she would send a house-elf with a note and an invitation to her private drawing room at the estate.

So Draco was surprised to find her sitting there, in the armchair by the fireplace, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the window.

“Draco. Scorpius. You’re home,” she said.

Scorpius, still clutching a drawing Maia had given him earlier that afternoon, didn’t even look at her. He tore down the hall toward his bedroom, calling for Tilly to come see his picture.

Narcissa’s expression flickered for a moment with something between surprise and disappointment. But Draco, still warm from the glow of the day spent with his children, barely registered it.

Her relationship with Scorpius had always been inconsistent. Lately, she’d been warmer, more attentive. But in the early years, she’d been distant, cold, and Scorpius, despite his age, hadn’t forgotten. He liked her, but then, Scorpius liked almost everyone. It would be a stretch to say he was fond of her—certainly not more than he liked Molly Weasley, who always fed him sweets he had a terrible weakness for. If anything, he probably liked Molly more.

Draco cleared his throat and stepped closer to her.

“Hello, Mother. I didn’t know you’d be coming today. We would’ve returned earlier if I had.” A lie. He had no intention of giving up even half an hour with Maia and Scorpius to sit here listening to his mother speak about Miss Rosier or Miss Avery or whichever other suitable bride she’d currently conjured up in her mind.

“It was a last-minute decision,” she said. “I was alone and… I missed you.” Her voice softened. “I missed you and Scorpius.”

Draco didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t remember the last time Narcissa had openly expressed any emotion about him or his son.

“You look… different,” she said after a moment, her eyes studying him. “Happier. I haven’t seen you this happy in… years.”

“I spent the day with my children,” he replied simply. “That makes me happy, Mother.”

She nodded slowly, as if those words needed a moment to land.

“I’m going to speak with Granger next week,” he added. “I want to formally recognize Maia.”

There was a pause. Then, gently, she reached out and laid her fingers on his arm.

“You should do that. You’re a good man, Draco. By far the best man this family has ever had. And you’re a good father. I’m proud of you.”

He looked at her then, caught off guard.

“I only wish I’d been the kind of parent you are. But I wasn’t. And I’m sorry, Draco. For everything.”

She drew a breath, and her voice trembled.

“Will you ever forgive me for my mistakes, my son?”

***

On the Sunday the announcement of Maia’s paternity was published, Draco woke before dawn.

He took to the sky on his broomstick, carving through the cold morning air, soaring low over the lake that stretched across the estate like glass. The wind bit his cheeks, and for the first time in years, he flew recklessly—sharp turns, steep dives, sudden climbs—until his muscles ached and his mind quieted.

At some point, he veered toward the edge of the grounds, where his father’s ridiculous white peacocks still roamed. He scattered some feed on the frost-dusted grass, watching them flock toward it, their long tails trailing behind like silk banners. He almost laughed. Almost.

When his wand finally indicated it was nine o’clock, and he assumed Scorpius would be awake, he turned back toward their house.

As expected, a storm was waiting.

No fewer than a hundred owls circled or perched outside the house, many weighed down by letters that dragged at their talons and bent their wings. Some looked like they might collapse under the sheer mass of parchment.

Draco barely managed to silence the howlers with a flick of his wand before they burst open, desperate to protect his son’s ears. Still, the magic was imperfect. Some managed to slip through, their hateful voices echoing through the front hall.

“Death Eater…”

“How dare you tarnish your father’s memory…”

“Your bastard child…”

“Shame of the Malfoys…”

“Rapist…”

“Malfoy whore…”

The words were poisoned blades from strangers who had never met him, never laid eyes on Maia or Scorpius, yet still felt entitled to pour their venom into his home. Draco stood motionless among the fluttering wings and the choking magic, stunned not by the fury—but by the sheer volume of it.

By midday, Tilly was visibly trembling from exhaustion, vanishing letter after letter with both hands and still unable to keep up. By late afternoon, Draco was seriously considering placing a permanent anti-owl charm over the entire property.

Outside, a line of birds nearly two hundred meters long still waited their turn.

Amidst the threats and curses, Draco searched in vain for a single kind letter.

He didn’t even know what kindness might look like anymore. Perhaps a quiet, “Congratulations on your child, Malfoy.” Or even a cold but honest “I’m happy for you, Draco.”

But there was nothing.

He recognized a few names. Pansy had sent a curt note, barely twenty words, brittle with resentment.

“Sure, Draco, it’s one thing to sleep with her, but quite another to give her bastard children.”

He crumpled the letter without reading it twice.

Then, somewhere in the pile, something unexpected. A letter from Blaise Zabini.

Draco hadn’t heard from him in over a decade. Blaise had left for his mother’s homeland years before the war, and had never returned.

Draco opened the envelope with cautious curiosity. Blaise didn’t mention Maia. Nor Granger. Not even the announcement. Instead, he asked how Draco was and suggested meeting for a drink next time he passed through London.

No judgment. No accusations. Just… a letter. A hand reached out from the past.

Draco placed it on the desk and told himself he’d write back. Tomorrow.

That night, after putting Scorpius to bed, Tilly approached with one more letter.

“Enough, Tilly,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Throw it away. I’m tired of hearing how awful I am.”

But she didn’t move.

She placed the letter carefully on his desk and quietly left the room.

He didn’t need to look at the seal. The handwriting was unmistakable.

Inside, a single line:

“I’m proud of you. I wish you and your children the happiness you deserve.”

Signed only with two letters:

T. N. 

May 2008

Draco sat at the kitchen table, hands curled around a steaming mug of coffee. He reached absently for the Daily Prophet, expecting a ten-year anniversary feature on the Battle of Hogwarts.

But there—front and center—was a moving photograph.

A moment frozen in time, yet very much alive.

He hadn’t even realized the Prophet had caught them together.

In the image, he stood in conversation with Kingsley Shacklebolt, caught mid-laugh. And behind him, glowing—

Hermione.

She was looking at him.

Her face was turned toward him with a smile so gentle, so open and warm, it took his breath away. A smile he hadn’t seen directed at him in so many years, he had nearly forgotten what it looked like. What it felt like.

He watched, transfixed, as the enchanted image looped. He turned his head in the photograph, still grinning from whatever Kingsley had said and his eyes met hers for just a second. Her smile didn’t falter when he looked at her. It deepened. Her expression softened. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

His heart had skipped two beats. She looked at him the way she used to. As if he mattered.

All night he had wondered if he had imagined it, if it had been nothing more than a trick of his weary mind, or worse, a fantasy born of a heart too wrecked to know better.

But now he held the proof in his hands.

It hadn’t been a dream. It had been real.

The image played again and again, and still he could not look away.

He remembered the way her fingers had once tangled in his hair, the way her breath had caught when he kissed the side of her neck, the softness in her voice when she had whispered his name in the dark. For a moment, he let himself wonder what it might feel like to touch her again, not by accident, but deliberately, intimately.

He didn’t want to have those kinds of thoughts about Hermione. He didn’t want to think about her at all. But he had always been weak when it came to her and if he hadn’t managed to forget her while married to another woman, he certainly wasn’t going to manage it now.

He tried, though. Because she didn’t want him thinking about her. She’d made that very clear.

“How dare you say that to me? That I was your greatest loss? How dare you? Don't talk to me about the past, or your feelings, or your fucking regrets. I don't want to hear any of it.” She had told him months ago.

He had returned home that night after their fight at Grimmauld Place and sworn never again to tell her how he had felt back then or how he felt now. She didn’t want to know. And he understood.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t still feel it.

Because Merlin, he felt it every day in his bones. In his skin. The way he felt magic in his blood. Every time he saw her, it was as if time folded back on itself and he was twenty again, waiting for Friday night just to see her at the Wizard’s Beard.

Only now, it was Sundays. And instead of her friends at her side, it was their daughter. Or her partner.

Karstair.

The thought of him, of the way he touched her, held her, kissed her even in front of Draco… The way his hand slipped easily around her waist— It burned. A low, slow fire that never went out.

Sometimes Draco thought maybe this was his punishment.

After all, he had once appeared before her with a pregnant wife at his side. What a fool he had been.

He wondered if his punishment would grow with time. Would he have to watch the woman he loved marry someone else—just as she had once did? Would he have to see her give birth to someone else’s child, when he hadn’t even been there to watch her give birth to his? Would he hear his daughter call another man “Dad” when he hadn’t heard her say it to him yet?

These thoughts tormented him.

And so did the jealousy. He hated how jealous he felt. He had no right to it. None. He knew that. He had forfeited any claim to her life a long time ago.

But still, he was jealous. So jealous that more than once, he returned home with lips bloodied from biting down too hard, just to stop himself from screaming.

He looked back at the photograph on the front page, at the real joy on her face as she looked at him.

And for a moment, his tormenting thoughts disappeared, and he felt something else.

Peace.

He traced the edge of the page with his fingers.

She was happy and for one fleeting second, he had been the reason.

It wasn’t enough. But it was something.

And if he had managed it once without even knowing how, then he would try again. Even if it took him the rest of his life. Because the only thing that truly mattered to him, beyond his children, was her.

He folded the newspaper slowly, carefully, as though afraid to crease the memory.

For the rest of the morning, he let the image stay with him.

Warm. Beautiful. Undeniably hers.

***

“Granger, I’m raising a three-year-old on my own. I think I can handle a six-year-old for two days without your supervision,” Draco had said dryly a few days earlier, when he overheard her talking to Ginny about whether she could leave Maia with the Potters while she and Karstair went on some romantic little getaway.

To Cornwall, of all places. Cornwall! Honestly!

To his great surprise, Granger agreed. Maia would be staying with him for the next two days, the first time she would be in his home, the first time he would have her to himself for more than a fleeting visit.

He was thrilled. And terrified.

He had woken up at five that morning, too anxious to sleep. He had already ordered Tilly to prepare not one but two bedrooms for Maia—one with a view over the front lawn and out to the distant hills, and another overlooking the back garden, where his mother’s old flower beds still bloomed in bursts of pale color. He didn’t know which she’d prefer. He didn’t want to get it wrong.

He’d cleaned his study at least ten times. Rearranged his desk, re-centered his inkwell, adjusted the box of family seals until they were aligned to an impossible, invisible symmetry. He found himself opening and closing his wardrobe with increasing urgency, as though the state of his ties might reflect the quality of his parenting.

He was becoming worse than his mother before the Winter Solstice Ball. And the most absurd part of all was that Maia—six years old, sweet, smiling Maia—was not going to inspect his bloody closet or critique the shine on the silver candleholders.

The day dragged excruciatingly slowly. Scorpius, bouncing with excitement, spent the entire morning running back and forth through the halls, barely able to contain himself at the thought of his sister arriving.

Draco still hadn’t grown used to that phrase. His sister.

It had been only a few weeks since he and Granger had told Maia the truth. The very next morning, Draco had sat down with Scorpius—or as close as one could sit down and discuss anything with a three-year-old—and tried to explain the situation in the simplest terms possible.

He’d been afraid. Scorpius had always had him to himself, always been the sole focus of his attention. Draco had braced himself for signs of jealousy.

But instead, Scorpius had been delighted. He had adored Maia from the moment he met her, and that joy hadn’t faded in the slightest since.

The two children loved each other with a fierceness that moved Draco in ways he hadn’t expected. Whether it was the magic in their blood that bound them, or simply two only children who had longed for a sibling’s company, he couldn’t say. But it felt like something sacred.

At precisely five o’clock, he stepped into the Floo and called out Granger’s address.

Maia was already waiting, standing beside the fireplace with her eyes fixed on the flames. A tiny suitcase stood neatly next to her, no doubt packed with great care by her mother.

When she saw him, her whole face lit up.

She smiled so wide it almost hurt his chest, and Draco wondered—just for a flicker—if she’d been waiting by the hearth just as he had, watching the minute hand tick toward five with impatient hope.

“—in bed by nine,” Hermione was saying. “If she doesn’t get at least ten hours, she wakes up miserable. And Malfoy, for the love of Merlin, don’t give her any sweets after dinner, she’ll be bouncing off the walls until sunrise. Also, don’t let her jump on the bed right before sleep. I swear, she gets this burst of energy and she’ll talk your ears off all night long with her stories. In the morning, she needs a proper breakfast or she’ll be in a horrible mood—”

Draco was only half-listening. Maia had opened her suitcase and pulled out a small pajama top, which she now held up for him to see with great pride. It featured a green troll and a red-haired witch who, unsettlingly, reminded him of Ginny Weasley.

“Do you like my pajamas, Draco?” she whispered conspiratorially.

“Malfoy, are you even listening?” Hermione snapped.

He looked up, startled—and caught sight of the open suitcase beside her, the one she’d be taking to Cornwall with that buffoon Karstair. Right on top of her neatly folded clothes, a scrap of black lace peeked out. It looked suspiciously like lingerie, and Draco, who had most certainly not been trying to identify Hermione Granger’s underwear, averted his eyes at once.

Partly out of decency. Mostly because the thought of her wearing something like that, while off in bloody Cornwall with him, made him want to turn into the troll on Maia’s shirt and strangle the man with his own hands.

Granger leaned down and kissed Maia three times on the cheek. She whispered something into her daughter’s ear that Draco couldn’t make out, then straightened and gave him a look that left no room for doubt: if anything happened to her child while she was gone, he would be the first one she hunted down and hexed into oblivion.

Without another word, she turned toward her bedroom to retrieve the rest of her things. Draco and Maia stepped into the green flames together.

Within the hour, Scorpius had taken it upon himself to give Maia a grand tour of the cottage. He led her from room to room with the solemn pride of a curator in a treasured museum, regaling her with tales like, “This is where I once hid behind the door and daddy spent forever trying to find me!”

By the time the sun had begun its slow descent beyond the tall hedges of the southern gardens, the three of them had ended up in the kitchen, where, despite better judgment, they proceeded to consume far more sweets than Tilly had prepared for the entire weekend.

“Master!” the house-elf shrieked when she finally caught them. “You’ve cut into the lemon tart!”

She glared at Draco with such theatrical indignation that Scorpius dissolved into giggles. Maia, however, looked mortified. Her little fork, which only seconds before had been ferrying a generous helping of treacle fudge into her mouth, dropped immediately onto the plate.

When Tilly finally stormed out into the back garden to tend to Narcissa’s beloved flowers, Draco lifted Maia gently into his arms.

“You don’t need to be afraid of Tilly,” he said. “She’s a very good elf. She’s been with me since I was even younger than Scorpius. Sometimes she scolds me when I eat too many sweets,” Draco continued, “just like your mum scolds you.”

Maia tilted her head. “Is Tilly… like your mummy?”

Draco smiled. His mother had, of course, always been present. Narcissa Malfoy was not the type of woman to be absent from her son’s life. But her presence had come with conditions—expectations, poise, restraint.

 “She’s sort of like my mum,” he said after a pause. “Though they’re very different. Except for one thing, they both never let me eat as many sweets as I want.”

Maia grinned. But then her expression shifted, turning thoughtful—hopeful—as she asked in a quiet voice:

“So… you have a mummy?”

“I do.”

“Can I meet her one day?” she asked. “I already have one grandma. And I used to have a grandpa too, but he doesn’t remember me anymore. He used to take me to the beach and teach me how to swim. But now… now I don’t even know if he remembers how to swim.”

Draco’s heart twisted in his chest.

He’d only ever heard fragments of what had happened to Hermione’s father—passing whispers from Ginny, a quiet remark from Potter. Never from Hermione herself. But he knew enough. He knew what it meant to watch a parent slip away, day by day, until they became a stranger. And he didn’t want that fate for her.

“Maybe one day, Maia,” he said gently. “But not today.”

She nodded solemnly, satisfied with the answer. Then, just as quickly, her face lit up with fresh excitement.

“Do you want to watch Shrek?”

Draco blinked. “What’s a Shrek?”

But Maia had already wriggled out of his lap and begun enthusiastically rummaging through her bag. She emerged a moment later holding up a DVD case, triumphant, with a green monstrosity on the front.

“This is Shrek!” she declared. “You put the shiny disc in the tray and then press the button and then—wait, I’ll show you!”

Draco obediently followed her into the sitting room, where the brand-new, barely-used television loomed like a monument to his muggle ignorance. He had purchased it just three days earlier—after spotting a similar device at Hermione’s place and pestering her with questions—along with a small stack of DVDs whose titles meant absolutely nothing to him.

“Okay,” Maia said, standing on tiptoe. “First, open this part, then press the circle button… or maybe the arrow… no wait, I think it’s the blue one—”

Draco frowned as multiple lights on the machine began flashing ominously.

“Are you sure we’re doing this right?” he muttered under his breath.

“Y-yeah,” Maia said, though she didn’t sound especially confident.

Just then, Scorpius barreled into the room, breathless with excitement.

“Come on, Scorp!” Maia shouted. “We’re gonna watch Shrek! It’s so funny!”

“I want to watch Shrek too!” Scorpius cried, despite having no idea what it was.

“Brilliant,” Draco muttered. “Three of us now, and still no clue how to make the damned thing work.”

The next fifteen minutes were a blur of mispressed buttons, blinking lights, and two small children climbing all over the settee shouting contradictory instructions. Draco, normally a capable man, felt thoroughly defeated by plastic and pixels.

At long last, miraculously, the screen lit up. A trumpet fanfare blared, and a hideous green creature appeared, accompanied by an even more obnoxious talking donkey.

The children were thrilled.

Draco was horrified.

He lasted five minutes and ten seconds. Exactly.

“This is disgusting!” he exclaimed. “What is that thing? Why is he bathing in mud? Why is the donkey talking?”

Maia burst out laughing. “That’s what Mummy says too!” she squealed.

Merlin, help him.

As if summoned by divine mercy, the television suddenly went dark again. A crackle, a flicker, and Shrek vanished from existence.

The children groaned in unison.

Maia’s face fell. She looked genuinely disappointed, her lower lip trembling.

Draco couldn’t stand it.

“Don’t worry,” he said at once. “I’ll fix it. I promise.”

He stood and turned to leave, pausing only to glance over his shoulder at Tilly.

“I’ll be five minutes,” he said. “Keep an eye on them for me?”

The house-elf gave a solemn nod of assent, her dignity unshaken even in the face of digital failure.

Draco wasn’t sure if Hermione would still be at home, but it was worth the risk to ask her how the hell this DVD contraption worked. And more importantly, how he could get the ridiculous troll back on his television.

He stepped into her living room and found her suitcase still by the door, thankfully closed this time, sparing him another accidental glimpse of the lace-trimmed contents that had haunted his thoughts far more than they should have.

“Granger, what on earth is a Shrek, and how the hell do I get it back on the television?” he called out.

Then, after a beat of silence:

“Granger? Are you still here?...”

But the rest of his question never made it past his lips.

Because then he saw her.

And sweet Salazar, she was breathtaking.

She looked like a dream, like something conjured from the deepest part of his subconscious—the part that still hadn’t stopped loving her. She wore a black dress, bold and elegant, far more daring than what the magical community typically deemed appropriate. But in the Muggle world, it was simply stunning. The slit ran high up her left thigh, so high Draco would have sworn that one more inch and—Merlin help him—he might’ve seen her underwear.

One shoulder was bare, her graceful neck exposed. She wore no jewelry. But a neckline like that, a dress like that, it cried out for something. A family heirloom, perhaps. One of his. Nothing ostentatious—she wouldn’t like that—but something with Slytherin colors, something quietly daring.

Her hair was pulled up, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. There was a faint mark there—a thin, pale line left years ago by the mad slash of his aunt’s blade. Draco used to kiss that scar. He wanted to kiss it now, even if he couldn’t see it.

He could’ve stood there all night just staring at her.

The most beautiful woman in the world.

The most beautiful woman in his world.

But not his woman.

The thought hit him like a bucket of ice water. He was standing there, practically drooling over someone else’s date.

She hadn’t dressed like that for him, but for Κarstair. That night, Draco wouldn’t be the one slipping off her black dress, wouldn’t be the one pressing kisses along her collarbone and those crimson lips.

That man would be Karstair.

Never him.

Not anymore.

He mumbled something he wasn’t even sure it made sense and then stepped reluctantly into the fireplace, returning to his home.

To his children.

That night, Maia danced on top of Scorpius’s bed with her brother for almost two hours. It was midnight, and neither of them showed any sign of tiring.

Draco, who had somehow—miraculously—managed to get Shrek back on the television, endured the entire film like a champion. But when Maia gleefully informed him there was a second movie, he made a solemn vow to his fraying nerves and to his mother’s years of etiquette training that under no circumstances would he give in to his daughter’s pleas to watch that green abomination again. So, he proposed dancing.

“Come on, Draco! Dance with us!” Maia shouted, twirling erratically on the mattress.

Scorpius laughed uncontrollably, trying—and failing—to mimic her wild movements. Draco found himself grinning despite everything. She was just so utterly lovable.

He knew he’d regret this little bedtime rebellion. But in that moment, he didn’t care. She was happy, and if letting her dance barefoot in pajamas made her feel joyful, then so be it.

He’d turned the music up, helped her into her pajamas featuring Shrek and Ginny Weasley, “her name is Princess Fiona Dracoooo”, who appeared to be just as monstrous as the troll—and after charming Scorpius’s pajamas to match, he had settled onto the couch in his son’s room, watching them both dance with tireless enthusiasm.

Only when Scorpius finally fell asleep—practically standing—did Maia lower the volume and tiptoe over to Draco.

“Sleepy yet?” he asked her gently.

Scorpius had already slumped onto his pillow, snoring softly.

“Can I stay with you a little longer?” she whispered. “I don’t want to go to sleep yet.”

Draco nodded, a little surprised when she climbed into his lap and curled into him without hesitation.

It felt... unfamiliar. He had never held another child like this before. Maia was older than Scorpius, and he wasn’t used to the shape of her. And yet, strangely, it felt like she belonged there. As if she had always belonged there.

“Draco?” she murmured.

“Yes, my love?”

“Why didn’t you love my mummy? She’s a good mummy.”

Draco blinked, caught off guard. “What?” he asked, startled. “Who told you I didn’t love your mummy?”

“No one,” she said softly. “But... why aren’t you with her, if you do love her?”

Draco swallowed hard.

“Maia... I promise you, I loved your mum more than anything. She brought light into my life, the same kind of light you and Scorp bring now.”

Maia tilted her head. “But do you love her now?”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I love her endlessly. And now I have even more reasons to love her. Do you know why? Because she gave me you. Because she kept you safe when you were little. Because she taught you how to speak, how to laugh, how to be kind. Because she raised you into the extraordinary little girl sitting in my arms right now. For all that—and for so much more—I will always love your mum. And I will always love you. I promise.”

Maia was quiet for a long moment.

“I wish you were with my mummy again,” she whispered. “Adrian always fights with her, and then she’s sad. And then he’s sad too. And I don’t know what to do to make them happy again.”

Draco felt something twist painfully in his chest. What was she talking about?

Hermione seemed happy with Karstair. She was going to bloody Cornwall with him. She’d worn that stunning dress for him. She’d packed lacy underwear for him.

How could she be unhappy?

“Sometimes Mummy does magic,” Maia went on, her voice small, “and I can’t hear them when they argue. But sometimes she forgets. One time, I snuck out of my room and hid in the bathroom to listen.”

Draco sighed, his chest tight.

“Maia, sweetheart, it’s not right to eavesdrop.”

“I know…” she whispered. “Mummy’s told me that before. It’s just—I was worried. I thought maybe they were fighting because of me.”

Draco gently brushed a hand through her curls, his fingers lingering against her temple.

“I’m sure they weren’t arguing about you,” he said. “Sometimes grown-ups fight over things that don’t really matter. But there’s nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart. I’m here now. And everything’s going to be all right.”

Exhausted, Maia gave a tiny nod and closed her eyes.

And that’s how the night found them, curled together in the armchair, her small body rising and falling against her father’s chest, as if she'd always belonged there.

***

In the days that followed, every time Draco visited the Grangers’ house, he kept a watchful eye for any sign—however subtle—that Granger was unhappy with Karstair.

Days later, after Maia had mentioned twice more how much she missed swimming in the sea back in Sydney, Draco decided to make it up to her. With Dennis's help, he found a Muggle children’s pool not too far from central London and planned a little outing for just the three of them: Maia, Scorpius, and himself.

Scorpius had never learned to swim. He’d never even seen the sea up close, let alone splashed in it. Draco had never been particularly fond of beaches—he avoided sun exposure for reasons too obvious to name. But a swimming pool? That was manageable. A perfect compromise. Maia would have fun, and Scorpius could dip his toes into the idea of swimming.

So, that afternoon, after securing Granger’s approval, Draco went to the cottage to pick up Maia. He expected to find her by the fireplace, bouncing on the balls of her feet with excitement as she always did when he came to take her somewhere.

But she wasn’t there.

“Hermione, you’re back?” a voice called out from somewhere deeper in the house. Karstair entered the room, only to stop dead in his tracks when he saw Draco.

“Karstair.”

“Malfoy. What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, his voice clipped.

Draco kept his tone deliberately flat. “I’m here for Maia. We’re going swimming today. It was planned.”

“Well,” Karstair said briskly, “Maia isn’t here. Neither is Hermione. I guess your plans are cancelled. You can leave now.”

Draco didn’t believe that for a second. If plans had changed, Hermione would have told him. She always did. And he wasn’t about to leave and risk Maia returning to find he wasn’t there, waiting for her as promised. The last thing he wanted was to disappoint her.

“I’ll wait for them to come back,” he said simply and, without asking permission, sat down on the sofa facing the fireplace.

He heard Karstair mutter something under his breath before storming off down the hall, presumably toward the room he shared with Hermione.

Half an hour passed. Still no sign of Maia. Or Hermione.

Draco pulled his mobile from his coat pocket, considering, for the first time, the possibility of calling her. He had never actually tried, but he understood the theory of how phone calls worked.

When he had first suggested getting a new phone, he’d forgotten how deeply he despised the devices. But he knew it was the only way she would ever agree to let him take Maia out without her supervision. So the next day, he took Scorpius into a Muggle mobile store in London and asked the clerk, an overly cheerful young man, for a phone and a number.

The boy had launched into an enthusiastic monologue about models, data plans, camera specs, and network speeds—none of which Draco understood in the slightest. Eventually, overwhelmed and annoyed, he told the boy he’d take the most expensive device in the store. He paid and left.

When he got home, he discovered that the most expensive phone had no buttons. His old one had buttons. This one had a giant screen that lit up aggressively, but not a single visible way to make it do anything.

He’d had to send a bloody owl to Dennis, asking him to come over and explain how the infernal contraption worked.

Dennis had burst out laughing when he saw Draco holding the phone like it might explode. Draco didn’t find it amusing.

Still, despite the lack of buttons, the phone had an enormous camera—one he had absolutely no idea how to use. Somehow, though, Maia—six years old—and Scorpius—barely three and a half—had managed to unlock the device and fill it with blurry, wobbly photos of their faces. Most were close-ups. Some had both children grinning. One showed Maia snapping a picture of Scorpius mid-bite, chocolate frog halfway to his mouth. In another—so zoomed in Draco could barely make out the child’s blue eyes—Scorpius was sticking out his tongue.

Worst of all, one of them had taken a picture of Tilly while she was cooking and had set it as the phone’s background. Now, every time he opened the thing, he was greeted by her disapproving expression and bright pink apron. He had no idea how to remove it.

Now, unlocking the device he found himself staring once again at Tilly’s judging eyes. He tapped the glowing glass, hesitating over what he hoped was the invisible button to call Hermione.

But before he could press it, Karstair returned to the room.

"You're still here?"his voice sliced through the silence, laced with disdain.

Draco glanced at him lazily, careful to slide the phone back into his pocket. He didn’t want this idiot to see the photo of Tilly.

"I was just about to call Granger," he said coldly. "I told you, Karstair, I’m not leaving until I see my daughter."

He gave a mocking snort. "Your daughter? Now you suddenly remember you have one?"

Draco clenched his jaw, fighting with everything in him not to lose his temper. He owed no explanation to anyone—especially not to Adrian Karstair—about Maia. She was his daughter. That was all that mattered.

"Watch your mouth," he warned. "Like it or not, I’m her father. And that’s not going to change."

But even as he spoke, a small voice in his head whispered something he hadn’t dared admit: if Granger ever married Adrian Karstair, that would make him almost a father to Maia too.

"You're right," Karstair said, voice low and sharp. "I don’t like it. I don’t like walking into my partner’s home and finding you here. I don’t like hearing her child talk about you like you’re some kind of hero when you’re nothing more than the man who abandoned both of them to keep his mummy and daddy happy. And I certainly don’t like the way you look at Hermione. Honestly, Malfoy, have you no shame? Lusting after another man’s woman?"

"Watch your tone," Draco growled.

"I don’t see you denying it." Karstair took a step forward. "So it’s true, then. You want her back. And I have to wonder, this interest in Maia… is that really about her? Or are you just using her to get Hermione into your bed?"

Draco’s eyes turned to steel.

"You bastard," he said. "If you ever repeat that kind of nonsense about me, my child, or her mother again, I swear, I’ll end you."

Karstair laughed. "Save your threats for someone who gives a damn. I was never afraid of your kind, and I’m not about to start now."

"My kind?" Draco repeated with a humourless chuckle.

"What’s your plan, Malfoy?" Karstair went on. "Win over Maia so Hermione feels sorry enough to take you back? And then what? What about your legitimate, pureblood heir? You expect her to raise the child of another woman? Of the woman you left her for—while she was pregnant with yours? Have you even thought about that? Are you going to ask her to become the mother of the son of the woman she despises?"

That was it. Draco saw red.

"Are we talking about me and Hermione, or are we talking about you and her, Karstair?" he roared. "Because these sound a lot like your insecurities. Is that your problem? That you can’t stand I am her daughter’s father because it reminds you she and Maia will never truly be yours? Do you have a problem that Hermione has a child at all? Or is it a problem because it’s my child?"

"That’s not what I meant—"

"Shut your mouth," Draco growled. "If I ever suspect—ever—that you’re treating Maia differently because she’s mine, I swear on every last Galleon in my vault, I’ll end you myself. And this time, your daddy’s money won’t save you from the big, bad Death Eater. My name once terrified people, and I swear to you, I will become that man again if I must."

"I would never treat a child badly because of their parents! I’m not a fucking Malfoy, bullying people because they were born to Muggles!"

Draco’s fury ignited further, not just from the insult, but from the ugly truth buried inside it. Because Karstair wasn’t entirely wrong.

No matter how many years had passed, no matter how many times he’d apologized to Hermione for the vile, cowardly way he’d treated her at Hogwarts, even if she had found it in herself to forgive him, Draco could never quite forgive himself. The shame of who he had been clung to him like a second skin. And hearing it thrown back in his face, especially in reference to Maia, was more than he could stomach.

"Stop talking to me like you know anything about my life because you fucking don’t," Draco spat. "Take this as your warning, Karstair. If you so much as breathe in a way that harms Maia—physically or emotionally—I will destroy you. And I’ll enjoy it."

He didn’t wait for a reply. Turning on his heel, he stepped into the fireplace and vanished in a swirl of green flame.

He landed in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place with a thud and didn’t bother checking who was there before barking:

"Potter!"

Harry looked up from the counter where he was eating what appeared to be chicken wrapped in pastry. He put down his fork and raised an eyebrow.

"What is it now, Malfoy? Miss me already? We spent eight straight hours together this morning. I thought that’d be enough even for you."

Draco ignored the jab. "We need to talk."

He quickly explained what Maia had told him a week before, and everything that had gone down between him and Karstair just minutes ago.

"I want you to keep an eye on him," he said. "You see him with Granger more often—when he’s relaxed, when he lets things slip. Watch him. And if you see something… if he does something—kill him."

"What?" Harry blinked.

"Wait, who are we killing now?" Ginny had just entered the kitchen, cradling a giggling, teddy-clutching Lily in her arms.

"No one," Harry said quickly.

"Karstair," Draco muttered.

After Draco repeated everything for Ginny’s benefit, Harry sighed and leaned back against the counter.

"Look, Malfoy, I think you’re overreacting." Draco glared at him with such heat that Harry immediately added: "But fine, I’ll keep an eye on him."

Ginny stepped forward gently, her voice calm and even.

“Draco, Maia isn’t in danger from Adrian. He’s just… jealous. Painfully so. Do you know how long it took for her to warm up to him, even just a little? Months. And then you showed up, and she was looking at you like you’d hung the stars. Can you really blame him for being shaken?”

She took a breath and added softly:

“Adrian isn’t a bad man. But he struggles with Maia. He’s awkward around children—he doesn’t know how to behave, doesn’t know how to talk to her. And the truth is, even though he’s trying, he’s still just a spectator in her life. And Maia… she doesn’t care about him. Let alone love him—not the way she loves you. And Hermione… she sees it. She sees all of it. And maybe that’s what terrifies him the most.”

***

June 2008

After Richard Granger’s death, Maia was inconsolable and Hermione even more so. Yet she kept going to work, moving through her days with quiet determination. Draco made sure to “accidentally” run into her at least once a day, just to make sure she was alright.

Sometimes he caught her in the mornings as she stepped out of the public Floo Network, pale and composed. Sometimes they found themselves in the same lift, standing side by side in silence. And sometimes he’d spot her in the Ministry café—an abysmal place he otherwise avoided, but where Hermione unfailingly bought her morning coffee.

Sometimes she was the first to greet him. Sometimes she offered him a soft, distant “Good morning.” And sometimes—on the harder days—she walked past him without a word, lost in thought or grief.

Harry was often by her side. And on a few occasions, to Draco’s surprise and faint irritation, he saw Andrew Grant walking with her, speaking with enthusiasm while she nodded politely. Draco had no personal quarrel with Grant, he was a solid Auror, principled and capable, but he hadn’t quite forgiven him for the far-too-detailed account he’d once shared with half the office after his first (and only) date with the Golden Girl. The story had made Draco’s skin crawl for hours. Fortunately, Potter had returned from a mission early that day, and Grant had cut the tale short the moment he caught sight of him.

The weeks following Richard Granger’s funeral passed in a slow, muffled haze.

Draco spent more and more time with Maia, sometimes at the cottage, sometimes at his own house. Hermione was always nearby, though rarely present. Grief clung to her like a second skin, leaving her too tired, too hollow, to join in their games. They no longer visited Grimmauld Place on Sundays, either.

“You can go if you want,” she had told them the week before. “I’d rather stay home. I’m just… tired.”

Draco had stayed.

Even though, truthfully, they were together only in proximity. Granger spent most of her time alone in her bedroom, moving in a quiet frenzy. She reorganized her wardrobe, then refolded her clothes—again and again—before moving on to scrub every surface in the house. Floors, walls, ceilings. Polished and disinfected until they gleamed. It was as if she could wipe away her sorrow by scrubbing the world clean.

Draco didn’t know where the sudden mania had come from, but he never questioned it. Never commented. Never made her feel watched or strange. He simply let her be. While she disappeared into the ritual of cleaning, he remained outside with Maia and Scorpius—playing silly, made-up games, watching cartoons (anything but Shrek, thank Merlin), reading picture books, or listening to Maia chatter endlessly about everything and nothing.

He could have taken the kids to his own home. It would have been easier, quieter. But he didn’t want to leave her, not when she was so clearly unraveling behind her locked doors and lemon-scented silences. At least this way, even if she never asked, he was there. Just in case she ever needed him.

“That’s me, and that’s Mum!” Maia said one afternoon, pointing proudly at a photograph of a tiny baby with a tuft of brown hair, cradled in the arms of an exhausted-looking Hermione.

“It’s my very first photo! My godfather took it! I was so little, I didn’t even look like me yet,” she giggled.

An open photo album rested across her lap, her name—Maia Jane Granger—written in elegant calligraphy on the cover beside a sketch of a baby with a  pink dummy.

Draco stared at the photograph, something twisting deep in his chest. He wished he could step inside that frame, go to that worn-out young mother and her fragile newborn, hold them both close, kiss their foreheads.

The picture brought him such aching joy and pain. How he wished he had been there when Maia was born, holding Hermione’s hand, watching her bring their daughter into the world, being the first to cradle her, just like he had with Scorpius.

Maia, blissfully unaware of the war unraveling inside him, turned the page with a happy little hum.

“Here we are at our house in Sydney! I used to sleep with Mum when I was tiny, ‘cause she always wanted me close,” she explained.

This photo was a moving one. Baby Maia, only a few months old, lay curled on a large bed, while Hermione rested beside her, gently stroking her daughter’s hand so as not to wake her. When she noticed the camera, she turned and smiled—a luminous, quiet smile that made Draco’s breath catch.

In the next picture, Maia was perhaps a year old. Her hair had grown, her cheeks had filled out, and she was utterly filthy—smeared head to toe in what looked suspiciously like chocolate as she chased Ron Weasley, clearly intent on tackling him.

Hermione’s parents appeared in a few of the still photographs, smiling softly. But in most, it was just Maia and her. Sometimes Weasley. But never another man. Always just mother and daughter, their entire universe wrapped up in each other.

“Mummy! Come see what I found! Muuuumy!” Maia suddenly called, her voice loud and eager.

Hermione appeared in the doorway, arms full of coat hangers.

Draco sighed. She was reorganizing Maia’s wardrobe again, for the third time that week.

“What is it, sweetheart? Why are you shouting?” she asked, distracted.

“Come sit! Look what I found!”

Maia scooted closer to Draco and Scorpius, patting the space beside her to make room for her mother. With a resigned breath and a flick of her wand, Hermione vanished the coat hangers back into the bedroom and sat down beside her daughter.

“Do you remember when we went to the zoo, and I fed that nice animal, and it almost ate my finger, and you screamed really loud?” Maia asked, practically bouncing in place.

“That nice animal?” Hermione blinked. “Maia, that was a chimera!”

And so began a retelling that left Maia in stitches and Hermione in near-hysterics. More stories followed, each one sparked by a photograph—Maia’s second birthday at home, their trip to Kakadu Park with Longbottom and Abbott, Halloween 2003, summer holidays filled with sand and sunscreen, and countless visits to the shop with the pink chairs and the strawberry-filled chocolates.

Memories spilled from the album like light—joyful and chaotic. Laughter filled the room, soft and unguarded, and for a little while, the grief faded. The coat hangers were forgotten. The sadness was forgotten. And there they were: four of them on the couch, gathered around a photo album full of moments Draco hadn’t lived but intended to be part of from now on.

From that day onward, she seemed a little better. The cleaning continued, but no longer with the same feverish obsession. By mid-July, even the compulsive scrubbing had stopped altogether. Sundays at Grimmauld Place resumed—though not with their former regularity. Sometimes they went. Sometimes they didn’t. Some weekends, Maia stayed at Draco’s from Friday night onward. And once Scorpius slept over at the cottage.

“He doesn’t need to stay here. I don’t want you to feel like you have to say yes just because Maia begged,” Draco said that August afternoon, as they stood alone in the kitchen.

Hermione looked at him, puzzled.

“It’s really not a big deal, Malfoy. He’s my daughter’s brother. And he’s a sweet little boy. I don’t think there’ll be any trouble,” she said, her voice calm, steady.

Still, he hesitated.

Of all the foolish things Karstair had thrown at him months ago, one truth had stuck, and Draco had thought of it more than once. Scorpius might be Maia’s brother, but to Hermione… he was nothing. She had no connection to his son. No obligation. And just because she happened to be a wonderful mother, and just because his son had no mother, didn’t mean Scorpius could look at her as if she were one.

But sometimes, he caught him doing exactly that.

He’d tried to explain it gently to the boy—that Hermione wasn’t his mummy—but it was hard when Maia called Draco “Daddy” and Hermione “Mummy” without a second thought. Scorpius imitated what he saw. And Draco hated it. Not because he didn’t want it to be true, but because it wasn’t. And it would be barbaric to let Hermione think—just for a second—that he was trying to saddle her with the child he’d had with the woman he married after walking away from her.

Scorpius knew about Astoria. Draco had made sure of it. He’d asked Daphne to speak often of her sister, to keep her memory alive in words and stories. Once a month, they visited her grave. Once a month, Scorpius left flowers—wildflowers he gathered himself from around their home, or more carefully arranged ones he asked Draco to conjure. And in those quiet minutes at the cemetery, Draco could see something real in the boy’s solemn gaze.

But then they went home.

And Scorpius went back to asking for Maia. And for Maia’s mum.

Hermione, for her part, was always kind to him. Just as she was kind to every child.

But Draco saw the flickers behind her eyes—the wariness, the weariness. The way she smiled at Scorpius as though holding something back. She never recoiled, never treated him with anything less than warmth. But she never let him too close, either.

Draco couldn’t blame her for that. He wasn’t sure he would have known what to do, either, if their roles had been reversed.

Still, he caught her once—just once—when she thought no one was watching. She was crouched beside Scorpius in the garden, tying his shoelace with steady fingers while he babbled on about kneazles. She didn’t say much. Just nodded and listened. And when he kissed her cheek before bounding off after Maia, something shifted in her expression. A flicker of softness. A breath of sorrow.

She touched her cheek after he’d gone.

And Draco allowed himself, just for a single, fleeting moment, to imagine what their life might have been like if Scorpius had been her son, and she had been the woman he had married.

***

September 2008

And life went on.

August slipped away, and September followed. Maia, with the secretive excitement only a child could muster, planned a surprise party for her mother with the help of Draco and Potter. Whether Hermione had suspected anything, Draco couldn’t tell, but if she had, she’d hidden it remarkably well.

For her gift, Maia handed her mother another one of her paintings, this time carefully framed inside a wooden mount. It was a recreation of a photograph Draco had once seen in her album: Richard Granger holding a three-year-old Maia in his arms, while Helen and Hermione laughed beside them. Behind them stretched the endless blue of the Australian sea.

Draco saw Hermione’s eyes fill with tears just before she pulled her daughter into a tight embrace.

He had brought a gift as well. He wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do. He didn’t know if she would want anything from him—if she’d ever wear something that had come from his hands. But the truth was, over the past few months, their relationship had softened. It was quiet and tentative, but no longer strained. Most of their conversations revolved around Maia, but now and then, she’d speak about work. Once, she had even mentioned her mother. And once, briefly, he had told her about Narcissa.

“This is from me and Scorpius,” he said, offering her the small velvet box.

She hesitated, just for a second, before accepting it. Her hands were steady now, but her eyes still shimmered, glassy with emotion. When she lifted the lid, he saw her draw in a sharp breath.

“It’s…” Her voice caught, thin and uncertain.

“The Pleiades,” he finished softly. “I thought you might like them. You named our daughter after them, didn’t you?”

The necklace shimmered faintly in the candlelight. Seven delicate stars, woven in silver and starlight, each one quietly pulsing with protections he had spelled himself. It echoed the one he’d once given her long ago, etched with the constellation of the dragon, back when they had loved each other fiercely. It didn’t matter that now he was the only one who still loved. For him, his love was enough for them both.

She looked up at him. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” she whispered.

But Draco only shook his head.

“No…” he said, his gaze drifting to their daughter, this fierce, bright child they had brought into the world and were, slowly, learning to raise together, even if not yet side by side. “…thank you.”

***

October 2008

Draco sat by the window, the soft light of early afternoon casting long, gentle shadows across the parquet floor.

Evi Fry watched him for a moment before speaking, her voice calm and measured, as always.

“Let’s begin simply. How are you feeling lately, Draco?”

He glanced over at her, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Better. Maia, and Scorpius, they make things clearer.”

Evi nodded, encouraging. “That’s good to hear. You’ve come a long way from where you were a few years ago.”

“Things feel lighter. Not easy—just lighter. Granger’s been smiling more these days. I think her friends are helping her. I like to believe I’ve helped too, even if just a little. I try to help however much she lets me. Not just with Maia, but with her.”

He paused, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I asked my… my cook to make her favorite pie the other day. She was really pleased when I gave it to her. I promised Maia I’d teach her how to make it. I have no idea how to make a pie. I suppose I’ll have to learn.”

He chuckled softly. “Another day, I made her a cup of tea while we waited for Maia to get ready, and then we took the kids to the park. The weather was nice, and we all wanted some fresh air. I walked beside her, holding both of my children, and I knew she realized how much we must have looked like a family. But she didn’t pull away. She kept walking beside me.”

His voice grew quieter. “And just last week, she told me about a dream she had. I mean… she didn’t really tell me the dream, not exactly. But she said it made her really happy—and also a bit confused. I tried to find out what it was, but she never told me.”

He hesitated. “She even bought me a present. A book. She said Maia picked it, but there’s no way Maia would’ve known about that book. I know it wasn’t much. But… it meant something.”

Evi tilted her head. “And how did that feel? You, spending time with her.”

His voice grew quieter. “Like spring after a very long winter.”

A thoughtful silence passed before Evi spoke again.

“Have you thought about revisiting that apology? Not the one you’ve already given, the one you’ve been carrying inside.”

Draco’s body stilled, not defensive, just cautious.

“She told me not to. Months ago. Said she didn’t want to talk about the past. About my regrets.”

“But you said it yourself—that was months ago,” Evi said gently. “She told you while she was scared for her daughter. And angry. You mentioned Maia nearly had an accident, didn’t you? There’s a good chance she was emotionally overwhelmed when she said those things.”

She paused, then added softly, “People think differently when they’re thinking clearly.”

Draco looked down, brow furrowed “I don’t want to ruin this small sense of normalcy we’ve managed to find… by dragging her back into pain. What if I misread the moment?”

Evi leaned in slightly, her voice warm and firm. “I’m not saying you should ask for forgiveness. I’m saying you should honour the truth of what you still carry. An apology doesn’t have to be dramatic. It can be quiet. Steady. It can be about letting someone know that you see the full weight of what they endured, without asking them to carry anything more.”

He sighed, his eyes drifting back to the window.

“Sometimes I catch her watching me,” he murmured. “Like she’s studying me. Like she wants to understand who I am now. Like she’s trying to see if I’m still the man who left her all those years ago… or hoping I’ve become someone else.”

“Maybe she is,” Evi said. “Maybe she’s studying you. Maybe she’s already seen something good. And maybe she’s starting to let you in again—slowly—as a partner in raising your child. Maybe as a friend. Maybe as something more. This studying of hers—it means something, Draco. It means she’s testing the ground beneath her feet. The real question is: what do you want her to find when she finally sees you?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I want her to know that I would choose her. As a partner in raising Maia, as a friend, as a lover—as anything she wants. I would choose her again and again. Even if she never chooses me back.”

Evi’s voice softened. “Then tell her. Not all at once. And not to chase some perfect ending. Tell her because it’s true. Because sometimes, offering your truth without expectation, is the most generous kind of love there is.”

He looked over at her then, gaze steady, voice quiet.

“Do you really think she wants to hear my apology?”

Evi held his gaze, unwavering. “I think she’s braver than you give her credit for. And kinder than you often believe you deserve.”

***

Draco stood at the threshold of the sitting room, one hand resting lightly on the doorframe. The cottage was still for once. Maia had gone to bed.

Lately, she had started asking more often for him to be the one to tuck her in. So nearly every evening now, after putting Scorpius to bed, he would come to Granger’s house and lull his daughter to sleep.

“Goodnight, Daddy. I’ll see you in the morning,” she had whispered just moments ago, her voice already heavy with sleep.

And still—even now, five whole months after the first time she’d said it on his birthday, he hadn’t grown used to hearing “Daddy” from her lips. The sound of it never failed to undo him.

“Granger?”

She looked up from the couch, quietly closing the book on her lap as she met his gaze.

“Yes? Did she fall asleep? I’m sorry if she gave you a hard time. She was full of energy today,” she said, gesturing for him to sit in the armchair across from her.

Lately, she always invited him to stay a little while after Maia fell asleep. Sometimes, they spoke about Hermione’s work. Less often, about his. Most of the times they talked about Maia—her habits, her school stories, or memories Draco hadn’t even been part of, ones Hermione thought she’d forgotten until he asked about them.

It was strange, sitting across from her, watching her with a heart on the verge of breaking, and speaking of things so simple, so wonderfully ordinary.

His favorite nights were the ones when they lost themselves in Maia’s stories, when Hermione spoke endlessly about their daughter and her little triumphs, with pride and love and boundless affection. Then she would laugh in that way she only did when talking about Maia’s mischief, and it was all Draco could do not to fall apart.

He cherished those evenings most of all, because in those moments, she looked carefree. Happy. Radiant in a way that made his chest ache.

And deep down he held on to the smallest drop of hope: that maybe, one day, she might smile like that while talking to him, even when she wasn’t speaking about their daughter.

Draco lowered himself into the chair slowly.

“There’s something I need to say,” he began, his voice steady. “I know you told me once not to bring up the past. But I can’t keep going without saying it.”

Hermione held his gaze, wary, but open.

Draco exhaled.

“I’m sorry. For all of it.”

He let the words settle between them like stones dropped into still water.

“I’m sorry for the way I left you. For choosing my father over you. You were my family, more than he ever was. And I broke us. I’ve hated myself for it every day since. I’m sorry you had to leave. That I made your world so painful you had to cross oceans just to be able to breathe again. I think about that all the time. You were alone. You were carrying my child. And I wasn’t there. You endured everything by yourself. I am so sorry…”

His throat tightened, but he kept going.

 “…I should have been there. I should’ve fought for you until the end. I should have been by your side when Maia was born. I hate myself for not being there. I missed everything. Everything. All the nights she cried and needed someone. And you held all of that alone… because of me…”

He looked down. His hands, now resting on his knees.

“…I used to tell myself I did what I had to do. That I was protecting people. My family. Maybe even you, in some twisted way. ”

Hermione didn’t interrupt. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes shimmered faintly in the lamplight.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he added. “I just… I needed you to know. That I see it. All of it. And I’m sorry. Not because I want absolution. But because it’s the truth. And it’s long overdue. You’ve been… more generous than I ever imagined. Letting me be here. Letting me know Maia. Letting me witness the life you built. I know that wasn’t easy.”

He looked up at her.

“I just needed to say it. Out loud. Because I never did. And you deserved so much more than my silence. I’m sorry, Hermione.”

This time, it came as a whisper. Nothing more.

For a moment, she didn’t speak. She closed her eyes, her lips parted slightly, caught between breath and memory.

Then, she nodded.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice no louder than his had been. “For saying it.”

When she looked at him again, her eyes were lighter, filled with feelings he couldn’t quite name, but they were certainly clear, hopeful eyes.

After eight years, Draco finally let out the breath he’d been holding.

***

The orphanage was bursting with life. Children raced through the hallways, laughter echoing off the high ceilings. They clutched the new toys Draco and Scorpius had brought, their voices a joyous cacophony. The air smelled faintly of old wood, wax crayons, and something sweet baking in the kitchen.

Draco sat in the large dining room beside his son, several puzzles scattered across the long table. Around them, children Scorpius’s age crowded in, small hands fumbling with colorful pieces—some chattering excitedly, others lost in quiet, focused concentration.

“Draco, I didn’t expect you today,” came a familiar voice from the doorway.

He looked up. “I spoke with Potter again yesterday,” he said. “We agreed I should reduce my hours at the Ministry. Starting today.”

Andromeda nodded, unsurprised. She’d known for a while that Draco had been toying with the idea. In truth, he had been thinking about it for months, but there were always too many cases, too many threads pulling him in different directions. Leaving all that behind without a solid replacement had felt irresponsible.

When he finally brought it up, Potter hadn’t hesitated. Four hours a day, to start. Just enough to take Maia to school in the morning and pick her up in the afternoon. Enough time to be home more with Scorpius.

Draco had agreed. And already, the rhythm of that new life suited him better than he’d imagined.

“Before you leave, I have something for you,” Andromeda added.

She returned minutes later with a heavy cloth bag, tied at the top.

“What’s this?” he asked, curiosity flickering as he reached for the knot.

She slapped his hand away with mock sternness. “It’s not for you. It’s for Hermione. I promised it to her months ago. She’s been waiting.”

Draco rolled his eyes. As if she couldn’t have just sent it with a bloody owl or a house-elf. But he didn’t argue. He simply nodded and, once Scorpius had finished his puzzle, they went home.

The next morning, Draco stepped into Hermione’s cottage to pick up Maia for school.

She sat by the kitchen table, a cup of coffee cradled in her hands, her attention half-turned toward the window.

“Malfoy,” she said, not looking up. “You’ll have to wait a minute. Maia’s still choosing a dress. I think it’s the one with the flowers today.”

A small smile curved his lips.

“It’s ok. I can wait. These are from Andromeda,” he said, holding out the cloth bag.

Granger blinked, caught off guard. For a brief second, Draco wondered if Andromeda had ever actually promised her anything at all or if this was one of her little schemes. But then Hermione untied the drawstring and pulled out a few glass jars, their surfaces catching the morning light.

Jam.

He recognized them instantly, and something caught in his throat.

Granger, who had been curious a moment ago, now held the jars in her hands as if they were something fragile, sacred even. Her expression shifted, puzzlement and longing and something else he couldn’t name.

“I saw your secret garden,” she said, eyes still fixed on the jars.

Draco went still.

“It’s beautiful,” she added.

He didn’t answer for several minutes, unsure of what to say.

“Thank you.” It was all he could manage.

“I couldn’t help noticing…” She took a small step closer to him. “There were so many flowers with my name.”

He nodded.

He had tried planting those particular roses near his own home once, years ago. But not a single seed had ever bloomed. Not one. Desperate, he’d scoured every gardening book in his library before finally writing a letter to Neville Longbottom—under the name Frodo Baggins—begging for help. Longbottom, never having read Tolkien and blissfully unaware, had written back with three pages of detailed instructions, complete with sketches and diagrams.

So Draco had asked his aunt for a small patch of land at the orphanage. A place of his own. A place where he could go to feel close to Hermione without actually being near her. A garden full of memories and scents, of flowers and dreams and tangerine trees. A space for all the things they had shared and all the things they never got to. For the promises they made and never kept. For the children they had once imagined, but never had.

That garden had become his sanctuary. When life without her had been unbearable, that garden had been his only refuge.

“There were tangerine trees too,” she whispered. “A lot of them.”

He met her gaze then. Still, he said nothing. But he hoped—Merlin, he hoped—that she could see it in his eyes. Everything he hadn’t dared say. Not when she first returned. Not when she was with Karstair. Not when she was drowning in grief.

And now here she was, holding jam in her hands, speaking of tangerine trees, and asking the one question he had both longed for and feared.

“Why?” she asked softly.

He looked at her and in that moment, there was no mask left to wear. No pride to hide behind. Just the quiet ache of everything he had lost.

“You don’t want to hear it,” he whispered, “but you already know why.”

Chapter Text

July 2008

The weeks that followed her father’s passing unfolded in a blur—an endless stream of indistinct moments and foggy impressions. Hermione couldn’t recall how she managed to rise each morning and dress for work. She had no memory of the commutes, no sense of how she made it through eight silent hours at the Ministry without crumbling beneath the weight of her grief. And yet, somehow, every evening found her back at home again, intact in body if not in spirit.

Through the haze, she remembered Malfoy. And his elf.

She remembered him appearing at her fireplace each morning without fail, calm and composed, to help Maia prepare for school, always promising that he’d be the one to collect her in the afternoon. She remembered catching glimpses of him in the garden, walking alongside Scorpius and Maia as he taught them how to fly on their brooms.

And most of all, she remembered the golden Snitch.

She would stand at her bedroom window, quiet and withdrawn, and watch as he enchanted that tiny golden sphere, setting it loose to flit and swoop across the garden. It chased the children in wide, laughing circles, their shrieks of delight carrying through the open windows, warm and bright against the dullness of her grief.

In that first week, she hadn’t noticed the cupboards. She moved through the kitchen like a shadow—unhungry, unseeing, untouched by the rhythms of a household. It wasn’t until the second week that she realized: the fridge was always full. There was always fresh bread on the counter. The fruit bowl was never empty.

Malfoy had been restocking it. Sometimes with the quiet efficiency of his elf. Sometimes himself.

That first week, the state of the house didn’t even register. But in the second, a strange restlessness bloomed inside her. A feverish need took hold, a compulsion to scrub every surface, to banish every speck of dust, every out-of-place object. As if by restoring order to her surroundings, she might wrest back some measure of control from the chaos inside her.

That first month, she didn’t want to speak to anyone. And for the most part, she didn’t have to. Until he came. Until he asked questions she couldn’t ignore.

“Have you eaten?”

“Do you want me to bring you something?”

“Granger, you need a bath. You’ll feel better.”

Somehow, that terrible first month passed.

Hermione moved like a shadow through her days, numb and automatic. And Malfoy stayed, never demanding, never overstepping, but there. Always there.

He didn’t try to fix her grief. He didn’t offer empty comfort. He simply watched, waited, stepped in when she started to unravel. And sometimes—when words would’ve only deepened the ache—he left her be.

One might think those were the moments she appreciated most: the silence, the solitude, the space to grieve.

They weren’t.

Harry and Ron had returned the moment they heard. She hadn’t told them, not wanting to interrupt the holiday Ginny and Harry had planned for months, but Malfoy, it seemed, hadn’t shared that hesitation.

“He shouldn’t have told you,” she murmured, guilty, when she found them in her kitchen, sun-kissed and windblown, fresh from the Mediterranean.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hermione,” Harry said at once. “He did the right thing. I wouldn’t want you to be alone in this.”

Ron nodded, agreeing completely.

She didn’t correct them.

She hadn’t been alone.

He had been there. Always nearby.

Harry, Ron, and Ginny came often. They never pressed her to talk. Sometimes they helped her clean without complaint. Other times they tried to coax her outside.

“It’s a beautiful day. A walk in the park would do you good.”

Sometimes, she went.

Most times, she didn’t.

Until, one afternoon, just as she was preparing to cast a second Extension Charm on Maia’s wardrobe, now hopelessly overstuffed with dresses, she heard her daughter’s voice calling from the living room.

She followed the sound and found them there: Maia, Malfoy, and Scorpius, huddled close together on the sofa, their heads bent over Maia’s photo album.

She didn’t quite remember when she sat down beside them, or when she began to speak. But she did. She spoke.

As she told the stories behind each photograph, recounting trips to the magical zoo, seaside holidays, and spilled ice cream, the children laughed.

And laughed.

And then laughed some more.

And with every new burst of their laughter, something in her grief lifted, just a little. Like mist fading in the morning light.

She couldn’t say exactly when it had started, but somewhere along the way, Malfoy had become the adult she saw more often than anyone else.

He was there in the morning, taking Maia to school. There in the afternoon, bringing her safely home. There in the evening, helping her into pajamas and reading her a magical bedtime story until her eyes slipped shut.

Three times a day. Like a dose of something healing.

What disarmed her even more than his constant presence was the quiet betrayal of her own smile—how it would rise, unbidden, the moment she saw him with Maia.

She often caught glimpses from the window: Maia and Scorpius darting through the air on toy broomsticks, Malfoy flying between them on a larger one. Maia perched high on his shoulders, shrieking with laughter. Maia gripping his right arm while Scorpius clung to the left. Maia curled against his side as he whispered something that sent her into helpless giggles.

He was gentle with her. Patient in ways Hermione would never have expected. There was a tenderness in him. An awe.

When they first told Maia the truth, Hermione had braced herself for hesitation. She thought Maia might need time. Caution. Distance.

But she hadn’t. Not for a moment.

From the very beginning, Maia had looked at him as if the sun itself had stepped down from the sky just to walk beside her. She adored him with the kind of unshakable certainty only a child could give. What stunned Hermione most was that he adored her back, completely, fiercely, without hesitation.

Seeing him like this shook her to the core.

For Hermione, who had carried Maia through every hour of every year alone, who had loved her with all the ferocious devotion of a mother, it was both a comfort and a blow.

Because now she saw a version of her she had never known. A Maia who lit up simply because he was near. A child who laughed differently when he was the reason.

She had never seen her daughter so happy. Not just safe, or content, or loved—truly happy. In the fullest, simplest sense of the word. And that happiness had a name.

His.

***

October 2008

It had been almost two weeks since he apologized for everything that had happened all those years ago.

Hermione had spent years convincing herself she didn’t need to hear it. That it didn’t matter whether he regretted it or not. That she had no interest for anything he had to say.

The truth was different, because the moment he finally admitted his mistakes it was as though the weight of the last eight years slid from her shoulders.

His apology didn’t undo the choices he had made. It didn’t rewrite the past or soften the pain she’d carried. But it mattered. It didn’t absolve him, not entirely, but it gave shape to something she hadn’t realized she needed: acknowledgment. That he had hurt her. That he had pushed her away. That he had left her to raise their child alone, to mourn a life they never had the chance to live. Hearing him say it—that he was sorry, that he should have fought for her, that he would carry the weight of that choice for the rest of his life—it cracked something open inside her.

Since that day, she hadn’t quite known what to do with herself.

There was a strange stillness in her now, where rage and pain used to live. A quiet, unfamiliar space between her ribs that no longer burned, but waited, tender and hollow, ready to be filled with something gentle. Something new.

She didn’t know why she had asked the question. Deep down, she wasn’t even sure she truly wanted to know the answer. What had she expected to hear?

But she was holding the jars of marmalade in her hands—marmalade made from the fruit of tangerine trees he had planted, in that hidden, magical garden of his. A place shielded from prying eyes, known only to him. A place filled with flowers that bore her name. That noble, secret haven where only the laughter of children could be heard now, like soft echoes from a time long gone.

So she asked.

And yet, when he finally spoke, the answer only tightened the knots inside her.

She knew that once, he had loved her. She had felt it in every part of herself, like warmth moving through her veins, like light breaking through darkness. That love—no matter how fractured or distant it might be now—had been real. In those early years in Australia, that truth alone gave her something quietly precious: the certainty that she had once been loved fully and completely, from the depths of another’s heart. That someone had given himself to her, and she had given herself back in return, without hesitation, even if in the end, it hadn’t been enough.

But that was the past. For her. For him.

She refused to believe—even for a fleeting moment—that his love could have survived the weight of all those years. The distance. The others who had come and gone. The pain, the loss. The secrets kept, the words spoken, and the ones never said.

Then why did his answer—that she already knew why the tangerine trees were there—why did it shake her?

Why did it make her angry… and yet, in the same breath, send her heart racing, as if it remembered something her mind had tried to bury?

That confession—one she refused to acknowledge as such—so quiet, so unexpected, stirred something in her. She didn’t know what to make of it, or whether she was meant to draw meaning from his tangled response. She didn’t want to dwell on it, because the more she thought about his words and the vulnerable look in his eyes when he said them, the more something rose within her. A sensation both sweet and bitter. Like a touch that brushed against an old wound, and didn’t hurt but reminded her it had once been there.

***

The last Saturday of October was one of those rare days when Hermione longed to do absolutely nothing. She would’ve liked nothing more than to stay in bed, cocooned in warmth, watching the rain lash against the windows in rhythmic fury while the rest of the world spun on without her.

But Maia had other plans.

Hermione could already hear her daughter padding around the house, opening and closing doors, turning the volume on the television up far too high. She had, clearly, been awake much earlier than any six-year-old had business being. Weren’t children supposed to need sleep to grow? Why, then, did her child wake with the dawn?

“Maia, why are you up so early?” she asked, her voice still thick with sleep as she shuffled into the living room. Maia was already curled up on the couch under a blanket, eyes fixed on cartoons, feet tucked beneath her.

“Daddy said he’d come get me this morning,” she replied through a yawn. “We’re going to pick out Halloween costumes! I’m waiting for him.”

Hermione blinked at the clock on the mantel. Half past six.

There was no universe in which Malfoy was coming that early to go shopping.

“Sweetheart, it’s still very early. Your dad’s probably still asleep,” she said gently.

“He’s not. Scorp’s awake. Daddy’s with him,” Maia replied with certainty, as if that settled the matter entirely.

George—ever the enthusiastic uncle—was throwing a Halloween party for children at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, aided by his new girlfriend, a French cousin of Jacqueline’s. The moment he’d announced it, Maia had declared she knew exactly what she wanted to dress up as. After much whispering and conspiring with Scorpius, the pair had unveiled their costume choices with dramatic flair.

To Hermione’s astonishment, Malfoy hadn’t even blinked. No protest, no scoff of disapproval, just a nod of acceptance, as if it were the most reasonable idea in the world. She found his reaction absurd. And telling. Maia had him hopelessly wrapped around her little finger.

Still, Hermione had made it perfectly clear that she would only participate in the dress-up festivities on her own terms.

“But mum, we have to match!” she had insisted days earlier.

At ten-thirty sharp, Malfoy and Scorpius arrived to pick her up. Hermione, seizing the opportunity, decided to visit her mother, who had just returned to London after a long holiday in Ireland.

When the children eventually burst back into the house in the afternoon, arms overflowing with shopping bags, Hermione had no doubt their trip had included far more than just Halloween costumes.

“You really need to stop buying her things all the time, Malfoy,” she said pointedly, noting that he himself was carrying at least ten additional bags.

He only shrugged, unbothered. “She seems happy when she gets dresses.”

“We’re running out of space. I’ve already used two extension charms on her wardrobe. You better keep those”—she pointed at the bags—“at your place. And for Merlin’s sake, stop spoiling her! She’ll turn into a brat!”

He grinned, slow and teasing. “Granger, she’s the sweetest, most generous kid in the world. And honestly? I owe her six years’ worth of birthday presents. I think she deserves a few dresses.”

It was strange, seeing him smile like that.

Back at Hogwarts, Malfoy’s smiles had been cruel things—sharp-edged, smug, meant to wound. Until sixth year, when they stopped altogether. And then came the war, a time when no one smiled.

Even after peace returned, when they both went back to finish their education, his smiles had been rare and brittle, fragile as cracked porcelain. She had often wondered if he would ever truly smile again.

But she’d been wrong.

When she came to know him—truly know him—when they became friends, then more, she discovered that he could smile in ways she hadn’t imagined. Quiet, unguarded smiles. The kind that made her feel like she’d been granted a secret.

She used to treasure those smiles. She used to chase them.

After Sydney, in those hard early years alone, she had made a list in her mind. A private tally of the things she was determined to forget. Pieces of him she slowly—deliberately—let fade, one by one, like worn photographs left in the sun.

His scent for example. The sound of his laugh. The sight of his bare chest. The rasp of his voice in the morning. The warmth of his hand at the small of her back. The softness of his hair. The press of his mouth against her skin.

His smile.

That was one of the last to go.

She had forgotten all of it. And though part of her had mourned the loss, another part had felt proud for surviving him.

But now, standing in the doorway, watching him laugh with Maia, shopping bags falling from his arms as she recounted some absurd detail about a hippogriff costume, Hermione saw his smile again.

For the first time in a long time, her heart skipped a beat.

On Halloween morning, they had arranged to meet the Malfoys and the Potters outside George and Ron’s shop in Diagon Alley, where the festivities were already in full swing.

“Daaaaddy, you promised you’d dress up as Shrek!” Maia whined, dragging the vowel out with theatrical desperation.

Hermione wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at the sight before her.

Maia stood proudly in her Princess Fiona costume—the very one Malfoy had bought her the week before, complete with satin bodice, puffed sleeves, and a tiara that tilted precariously on her head. She had spent nearly an hour that morning wrangling her daughter’s wild curls: first straightening them, then weaving them into a tidy braid that now swung with every dramatic sigh.

Next to Maia stood a small gingerbread man—Scorpius—grinning from ear to ear, clearly thrilled with his costume. He clutched a basket overflowing with tiny gingerbread men and took sneaky bites when he thought no one was watching, leaving a trail of crumbs behind him like some fairy-tale reversal of Hansel.

“I said I’d humour you by dressing as someone from Shrek,” Malfoy said, sounding deeply put-upon, “not the troll himself.”

“He’s an ogre,” Maia and Hermione corrected in perfect unison.

Hermione wasn’t entirely sure how she’d ended up in this mess. She’d promised Maia she’d participate if she could choose her own version of Fiona’s look. And yet here she was, dressed in a floor-length green gown that looked suspiciously more like something a Slytherin duchess might wear than a cartoon princess. The silver embroidery, the intricate neckline, the dark emerald velvet—it was elegant, yes, but entirely inaccurate. Not that she particularly cared about being an authentic Fiona, but still. The color scheme felt a little too pointed to be coincidence.

She was convinced Malfoy had chosen it deliberately. The moment their eyes met and she caught him staring, she knew it. She saw his throat bob in a sharp swallow, and for the briefest instant, she was certain he was about to speak. But whatever words he might have said—she would never know. Something held him back, and instead, he only continued to watch her in silence.

“But daddy,” Maia insisted, stamping one small foot, “now we’ve got two Fionas and no Shrek!”

“Yes,” Malfoy said dryly, gesturing toward Scorpius, “but you’ve got one gingerbread man... and one dragon.”

He adjusted the elaborate black mask perched atop his head—a fierce, glittering thing with obsidian scales and small silver horns curling back from the temples. It was impressive, but Maia was unimpressed.

“That’s not a dragon,” she scoffed. “You’re just wearing all black and a mask. Where are your wings? Where are your claws?”

“I didn’t want to maim anyone,” he muttered under his breath, looking vaguely insulted.

The argument carried on—Maia growing more indignant with every passing second, and Malfoy defending his costume with an increasingly weak line of reasoning.

“At least make your mask pink! The dragon in Shrek is pink!” Maia cried in exasperation.

She saw Malfoy visibly shudder at the thought.

“Yes, Malfoy,” she said. “Make your mask pink. And if you can’t, I’ll do it myself,” she added, giving her wand a meaningful wave.

Malfoy shot her a murderous look over Maia’s head, the dragon mask now tucked begrudgingly under one arm.

Hermione smirked. If she had to wear Slytherin green, then he could survive a bit of public ridicule.

Sometimes, late at night, she would try to chase down answers to the questions that kept circling in her mind.

Had she forgiven him?

It was never a simple answer.

The kind of forgiveness she could offer wasn’t the kind that came with clean endings or sprang from grand gestures. It wasn’t something that arrived all at once, after a few tears or carefully chosen words. No. What she felt was slower. Unsteady. It came in fragments—through observation, through the accumulation of small, unnoticed moments.

Some nights, the answer felt like yes.

She could look at him without that old, burning weight pressing against her chest. She could hear Maia’s laughter from the other room and not ache for all the years he hadn’t been there to hear it. She could remember who they had been once—two unlikely souls drawn to each other against all odds—and feel not grief, but a tenderness instead. A gentle remembering.

She could see the way he looked at their daughter. The way Maia’s small hand slipped so easily into his. The way the house felt more like a home whenever he was near.

She had never been one for easy forgiveness. She wasn’t foolish, or sentimental. She knew that words could sound good but still mean nothing.

But his hadn’t been empty. He hadn’t tried to change the story or hide what he’d done. He had taken responsibility for the damage. And in doing that, he gave her something she thought she’d lost a long time ago. Trust.

And maybe that was why. Not because of his whispered apologies, or because he was doing what every father should do for his child. But because he’d planted tangerine trees and flowers. Because he’d made sure the cupboards were never empty when she was too tired. Because he danced on the bed.

She didn’t know when forgiveness had begun. It hadn’t arrived like thunder. There had been no sudden moment of clarity. It had crept in slowly, soft and persistent.

Forgiveness, she realized, had nothing to do with forgetting.

She would never forget. Not the pain. Not the silence. Not the ache of raising a child alone. But maybe forgiveness was simply what happened when the pain no longer held the pen. Maybe it was the quiet choice to stop bleeding.

Still, on some nights, the question lingered.

Had she forgiven him?

She didn’t always know.

But she was closer now than she had ever been.

And maybe—for now—that was enough.

It was mid-November when Malfoy told her Narcissa wanted to meet Maia.

It was a Thursday, and as usual, he had come by to put Maia to bed—something he now did at least three nights a week, sometimes more. That evening, he lingered longer than usual in her room, and Hermione was almost certain she could hear faint music drifting down the hallway from the little enchanted wireless by Maia’s bed.

Which could only mean one thing: Maia was dancing on the bed again.

When he finally emerged, his cheeks were slightly flushed, his hair mussed, and he was smiling with the unmistakable guilt of someone who had thoroughly indulged a child past bedtime.

She shot him a sideways glance, sharp enough to let him know she was onto him, but not quite stern enough to scold. It was difficult to fault him when Maia went to sleep giggling.

Sometimes, after Maia had drifted off to sleep, she would ask him to stay a little longer, usually to go over plans for the next day or to talk about something Maia had said or done. Most of the time, he would ask her questions about Maia’s life, or about her own years in Australia. Sometimes, he’d bring her her favourite savoury pie; other times, those biscuits she’d grown to love during her pregnancy—something she’d mentioned weeks ago when he’d asked to know more about that part of their lives.

“Tilly sends them,” he’d say.

Other times, their conversations strayed. Wandered.

She’d catch herself talking about her work, her projects, her latest meeting. And, on rare occasions, things far more personal. Like the mistake she’d made a few days earlier, telling him about a dream.

“Granger,” he’d said, in that maddeningly patient voice she swore he hadn’t possessed seven years ago, “you’ve been describing this for ten minutes and still haven’t told me what actually happened. My Inner Eye can’t help you if you don’t give me specifics. What made the dream so... joyful?”

She’d tried to dodge the question. She had no idea why she’d even brought it up. It wasn’t like her to talk about dreams—she hardly had them anymore. When she did, they rarely stayed with her after waking.

But this one had.

She’d woken that morning smiling, her chest strangely light, as though some invisible burden had lifted in the night. She hadn't planned to say anything, but when he came to collect Maia, the words had slipped out before she could stop them.

She hadn’t told him the truth of it—not really.

Because the dream had been too strange. Too soft.

She had been walking through a garden, one she hadn’t recognized, and yet somehow knew belonged to him. The trees were heavy with fruit he had planted, and the air smelled of tangerines and sunlight. It wasn’t England; she was sure of that. Perhaps somewhere in the Mediterranean, she could hear the sea in the distance, smell the salt on the breeze.

Beside her walked Maia, pulling at her hand, eager to pick the fruit from the trees. But each time they reached for a branch, the tree would begin to glow—soft at first, then blindingly bright, until Hermione had to close her eyes. When she opened them, the tree had vanished.

In its place stood a child.

Sometimes older than Maia. Sometimes younger. Sometimes a boy, sometimes a girl. Some stared at her shyly. Others ran straight into her arms.

By the end of the dream, she and Maia were surrounded by at least half a dozen children—each one with silver-blond hair and grey eyes.

She would never, ever tell him that dream.

“She wants to meet her?” she asked, startled.

"Yes, she’s been asking for a few days now,” he continued. “I know it’s hard for you to trust her, but I’d like you to trust me. My mother simply wants to speak with her, to spend some time together. She’s longed for a granddaughter all her life.”

Hermione didn’t trust Narcissa. That much hadn’t changed. But she did trust Malfoy, at least when it came to Maia. His devotion had proven itself again and again over the past year.

She wasn’t convinced Narcissa’s intentions were as pure as he claimed, but after a long pause, she agreed, on two conditions: that the meeting take place at Draco’s house, not Malfoy Manor, and that Hermione remain present the entire time.

The sitting room of the house where Draco and Scorpius lived was impeccably tidy.

Malfoy stood waiting in front of the fireplace, dressed in a soft grey jumper and black trousers, looking far more composed than Hermione felt.

“Come in, my mother is waiting in the smaller parlor, the one that looks out over the garden,” he said.

Hermione followed him, holding Maia’s hand. The little girl walked confidently through the house, as though she’d been there a hundred times. It was only Hermione’s second visit since Malfoy’s birthday five months earlier, and now, as she moved through it again, she noticed things she hadn’t before: the understated tones of the walls, the stacks of books scattered in a way that suggested frequent use, and lining a long corridor, a series of framed drawings.

Dozens of them.

Some had been drawn by Maia, others by Scorpius. There were magical creatures, rainbows, and brightly colored mountains. Others depicted themselves—Scorpius and Maia in vibrant crayon hues, flying on broomsticks, holding fake wands, laughing.

There were even a few of Draco, rendered with childlike reverence. His hair always gleaming, his smile wide and warm.

Hermione stopped briefly in front of one sketch where he stood between the two children, their hands in his. The care in the drawing, the emotion... it stole her breath for a moment.

When they stepped into the parlor, Narcissa rose to greet them. She looked poised, elegant as ever but there was something vulnerable in the way her hands trembled faintly at her sides.

Hermione was surprised by how much healthier she seemed. The hollow look she’d carried at the Ministry’s Christmas gala had faded; her cheeks had filled out slightly, her posture less brittle.

“Hello!” Maia chirped brightly, offering her hand without the slightest hesitation.

She’d been talking about her mysterious second grandmother non-stop since she and Malfoy had told her about the meeting. And now, she had arrived fully prepared to love her.

“I’m Maia Jane Granger Malfoy,” she declared. “And I’m your granddaughter! I’m very happy to meet you! I can’t wait to have a second grandmother!” The words tumbled out in a single breath.

Draco let out a soft snort behind her, clearly trying not to laugh.

Narcissa blinked, visibly caught off guard by the bold little hand stretched out to her. For a beat, she simply looked at Maia, studying her face, her curls, her posture. Then, gently, she took the child’s hand in her own.

“I’m Narcissa Malfoy,” she said, her voice warmer than Hermione had ever heard it. “Draco’s mother.” Slowly, she knelt down until she was eye-level with Maia. “You look very much like your mother, but you have my son’s eyes. And my husband’s. I would recognize those eyes everywhere”, she said quietly. “Would you like to come outside with me to the garden? There are all sorts of flowers. Some smell beautiful, and some are enchanted. Do you like flowers?”

“I love flowers!” Maia said instantly, though she looked up at her mother for permission.

Hermione gave the smallest nod and just like that, Maia followed Narcissa toward the garden, her footsteps light and untroubled.

After a while, beneath the vine-draped gazebo, Hermione found them with Scorpius. The boy was neatly tucked into the tableau, his blond head bent as he spun his teacup on its saucer with quiet concentration.

Maia sat perched on a chair far too tall for her, her feet swinging above the grass. Across from her, Narcissa sat with elegant posture, a tea service laid out between them. Maia clutched a glass of juice in both hands, as though it might anchor her in place.

“Mum!” she called, face alight. “Did you know there are flowers here that smell different for everyone, depending on what they love most? To me, they smell like you and strawberries filled chocolates!”

Hermione’s lips curved into a smile.

Narcissa turned toward her and Malfoy who was right behind her, with composed politeness. “Miss Granger. Draco. Please, do join us. I’ll have Tilly bring more tea.”

Hermione sank into the seat between the children, steeling herself for the expected awkwardness, the heavy weight of old resentment.

But none came.

The hush she had braced for never materialized. In its place bloomed something far more startling: ease.

Maia’s questions tumbled out one after another—curious, animated, unfiltered—and Narcissa, to Hermione’s surprise, answered every one with steady gentleness. She spoke of flowers that opened only at moonrise, of vines that hummed when brushed with joy, of herbs that shimmered gold in the sunlight.

As the conversation meandered, so too did Maia’s admiration.

“I really like your hair,” she said suddenly, peering up at Narcissa with wide-eyed sincerity. “It’s so smooth and shiny and glossy—just like daddy’s!”

Narcissa’s hand stilled. Her teacup clinked against its saucer just a touch too sharply, betraying the moment’s impact.

“Thank you,” she said after a pause, her voice carefully even.

It was the first time she’d heard the child call Draco “daddy.”

Eventually, the two children and Malfoy slipped away toward the hedges, laughter rising into the air as they vanished into the garden.

Narcissa watched them go, then turned to Hermione.

“I wished to extend my gratitude”, Narcissa began, her tone composed yet sincere. “For permitting this meeting to take place. I am well aware it cannot have been easy. I would also like to offer you my apologies, for many things. I carry the weight of what my family has done, and of my own part in it.” Her voice wavered, just briefly, before she collected herself once more. “And yet today, you have granted me something I never thought possible: the chance to know my granddaughter.”

She folded her hands in her lap, white-knuckled despite her poise.

“I would very much like to see her again. I’ve made many mistakes with my son… and with my grandson. I have no wish to repeat them.” Her gaze moved to the garden path where Maia and Scorpius had disappeared. “All I have left now is him. And his children.”

Hermione studied her, eyes searching for the mask, waiting for the subtle shift that might betray calculation or pride. But there was none. For the first time, Narcissa Malfoy’s eyes held no chill, no practiced detachment. Only hope.

It had started with something simple.

A dance.

It was one of those late December afternoons when Maia’s energy seemed boundless—fizzy and bright and impossible to contain. Whether it was the magic she shared with her brother or simply the thrill of the season, her mood was contagious. Whatever joy sparkled in her eyes had clearly spilled into Scorpius as well, amplifying their delight until it echoed—quite literally—through the house.

The door to Maia’s bedroom was flung wide open, and music poured out, something fast and modern, distinctly Muggle, pulsing with color and noise. Laughter followed, bright and full-bellied.

Inside, Maia spun across the floor in a green dress Hermione didn’t recognize, no doubt a gift from Draco or, more likely, from his mother. Beside her, Scorpius twirled and leapt with abandon, their movements wild and graceless and utterly joyful. Limbs flailed. Cheeks flushed. They danced like the world was ending and this was their celebration.

And there, leaning against the window, stood Malfoy.

His arms were folded, his posture relaxed, a rare and unguarded smile softening the familiar edges of his face. He looked utterly content.

“Come on, daddy!” Maia cried, twirling dramatically, her curls flying. “Dance with us!”

She beamed at him, her whole body swaying with theatrical flair. “Pleeeeease!”

He raised an eyebrow with mock solemnity. “Only if you promise to let me teach you the waltz later.”

Maia froze mid-spin, her eyes narrowing in mock betrayal. “The waltz?” she said, wrinkling her nose. “That’s boring!”

He only chuckled, shaking his head as they resumed their chaotic, happy rhythm.

Hermione had just managed to slip away from the doorway before her daughter could spot her and demand she join in the wild, whirling dance—right there, in front of both Malfoys.

Later, when the sun had set and it was almost bedtime, Hermione walked past Maia’s room again.

The music had changed.

The thudding bass and shrieking laughter were gone, replaced by soft, elegant notes that floated gently through the slightly ajar door. A waltz.

She paused, her hand resting on the frame, and leaned in just far enough to see.

Scorpius was fast asleep, sprawled diagonally across the bed, one shoe hanging precariously from his foot. His hair fell across his forehead in soft waves, his breathing deep and slow.

It was what stood at the centre of the room that stilled her completely.

Beneath the soft golden glow of the fairy lights Maia had insisted on hanging across the ceiling, Draco moved slowly, his steps steady and instinctively graceful. In his arms, Maia was curled against his chest like something sacred, half-asleep in her wrinkled green dress, her cheek pressed sleepily against his shoulder.

“I think I like this waltz after all, daddy,” she mumbled drowsily.

He swayed with her gently, careful not to wake her further. One hand cradled her back, the other steady beneath her legs. His movements were unhurried, fluid—years of formal training etched into his very bones. He was humming softly, the melody of the waltz transformed into a lullaby, just for her.

The sight struck Hermione like a gust of cold wind through an open window.

There was something achingly beautiful about it—the intimacy, the stillness, the trust. The way he held Maia as though she were spun of starlight and silk. The way he moved, as if this quiet dance was already turning into a memory he was trying to preserve.

Suddenly, she wished she had a camera with her in that moment. She wanted that memory captured on paper, not just held in her mind.

She stepped quietly into the room. “Do you want help putting her to bed?”

Malfoy shook his head. With a gentle, practiced motion, he laid Maia down beside the already sleeping Scorpius and brushed a curl from her forehead.

“It’s late,” he murmured. “We should probably leave before he wakes up.”

He bent to lift his son, but Hermione reached out, her hand hovering near his forearm, close but not quite touching him.

“Let him sleep here tonight,” she whispered. “They’re both completely out.”

She crouched beside the bed, slipped off Scorpius’ dangling shoe, and pulled the quilt over both children. They snuggled up close, arms and legs all mixed together, warm and safe like only children can be.

“Come on,” she said, motioning toward the hallway. “They’ll be fine.”

They tiptoed down the corridor and into the living room, where the Christmas tree Maia had helped her decorate just the day before cast soft, multicolored light across the room.

“What were you dancing to?” she asked after a moment, glancing at him sideways.

A faint flush touched his cheeks, visible even in the glow of the fairy lights.

“A waltz,” he admitted with a wry smile. “Didn’t exactly impress her. It seems I am a terrible dance teacher.”

Hermione looked at him closely. For a heartbeat, it was as if the years had melted away. He didn’t look like the man carved by sorrow and guilt, but the boy she had once known—the one who claimed to love Jane Austen’s entire collected works, just so she could talk about them with someone. She had known he’d been lying, of course. But it hadn’t mattered. He’d said it for her. So she could be herself with him, unfiltered, unapologetic—and she had seized that gift.

And then he looked at her too and smiled.

It was still something she hadn’t quite grown used to over the past weeks.

Draco Malfoy had begun to look at her again. It was as if some great weight had lifted from his shoulders the day he finally spoke to her about their past. Now, after all those weeks, his gaze met hers—not by accident, not in passing, not in hurried, stolen glances that vanished the moment they sparked. He looked at her fully, without flinching, as though he no longer feared what he might see reflected there.

Sometimes, his eyes were bright—filled with hope and something tender. Sometimes they were distant, shadowed by the memories he tried to bury. Sometimes she could swear they reminded her of the Draco who had loved her eight years ago. Sometimes, especially when he looked at Maia or Scorpius, she could almost believe he was truly happy.

And yet, just a heartbeat later, the faintest trace of sorrow would return. Hermione was certain Draco Malfoy hadn’t always carried sadness in his eyes, but now he did. Even when he smiled, the sadness lingered—a quiet shadow at the edge of the light, never fully gone.

“You’re a wonderful dance teacher,” she said suddenly, not quite meaning to say it aloud.

He arched an eyebrow. “How would you know? I never taught you to dance. You never let me dance with you.”

It was true.

Back then, they’d attended more events than she could count. Always under the same roof, always near, never together.

She had told him, time and again, how much she wished she could dance like he did. But every time he offered to teach her, she’d laugh and shake her head. One day, she always said. One day, when there was nothing left to hide, when their love was no longer a secret, and the whole world knew what they were to each other. She wanted their first real dance to be in the daylight. In front of everyone. The day they could finally hold each other without looking over their shoulders. The day the world would see what they had always known in the quiet: that they belonged to each other.

There had been moments when she’d envied the way other women looked at him as he danced. She’d never been possessive by nature, but watching him move so effortlessly with Ministry witches or elegant pureblood girls who seemed to drift into his orbit… it had stirred something sharp and aching in her. She had longed, more than once, to take his hand in front of them all and make it clear that he was hers.

“I know,” she whispered. They had never danced. Not once.

And then—madness, perhaps—a wild idea passed through her mind. One she caught just in time, before it could slip past her lips.

Maybe… maybe next time he taught Maia, he could teach her too.

But instead—thankfully—she said something entirely different.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” her voice sharper than she’d intended. “That’s a story from another life.”

He nodded at that. Quietly. A little sadly maybe.

In the hush of that living room, with the Christmas lights glowing softly and the ghost of the waltz still lingering in the corners of the house, something within her shifted.

That night, she dreamed again of the garden where Draco Malfoy’s children played, and at the heart of all those tangerines stood he himself, holding Maia in his arms, the two of them dancing to the rhythm of a gentle waltz.

***

March 2009

In the months that followed, that same dream returned to her again and again. Sometimes it showed him dancing with Maia in his arms; other times he waltzed with one of his other children, but never with her. And how Dream-Hermione yearned to step into that dance herself — gods, how desperately she longed to feel his hands guiding her through the gentle rhythm, to move with him just once. There were nights when the dream seemed to stretch on for hours, holding her captive in a sun-warmed garden scented with tangerines, content yet aching as she watched him move and laugh. On other nights, it lasted no more than a heartbeat, but still left an echo strong enough to haunt her through the following day, replaying itself in the quiet corners of her mind.

Hermione—always the logical one, always the thinker—tried to make sense of that dream. The only thing she could come up with was this: The story between her and Draco Malfoy had never really ended.

Everything had happened so abruptly all those years ago. Their breakup, her pregnancy, her leaving. She had never been given the chance to say goodbye. To close the chapter. To give their love a proper end.

Strangely, that thought brought relief.

Because if it were true, if all of this was just the consequence of an open ending, then maybe that’s all the dreams were.

Residual longing.

Fleeting flashes of something unresolved.

Maybe the warmth in her chest when she watched him with Maia. Maybe the strange pull of joy and sorrow and yearning after that waltz at Christmas. Maybe everything she couldn’t explain…

Maybe none of it meant anything at all.

Maybe it was just the cost of never getting closure.

***

The third week of April marked one of the greatest successes for the Department of International Magical Co-operation since Hermione’s return to Britain. After nearly a year of painstaking coordination with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, a vital agreement had finally been secured with the Irish Ministry. The treaty focused on curbing the illegal trafficking and abuse of mermaid colonies smuggled into the Bristol Channel, where many had been found half-starved, wounded, and perilously exposed to Muggle eyes.

To celebrate the achievement, Kingsley had arranged a quiet, after-hours gathering on Friday evening, once most of the Ministry had emptied. The rarely used conference amphitheatre had been transformed for the occasion, bathed in golden light from floating charms and filled with long tables sagging under the weight of miniature pumpkin tarts, spiced fruit skewers, and warm cheese rolls. No alcohol, only laughter and the quiet satisfaction of hard work finally paying off.

That Friday, Hermione had arranged for Maia to stay with Malfoy for the weekend, an eagerly awaited visit that would stretch from Friday evening through Sunday.

As she moved through the gently buzzing crowd, she spotted Theo Nott near one of the side exits, leaning casually against the doorframe, half-hidden by shadow. He looked like someone who hadn’t quite decided whether to join the celebration or vanish into the night.

She approached without calling his name.

“I didn’t expect to see you here”.

He straightened at the sound of her voice.

“Kingsley swore me into coming. Apparently, he wants to speak to me about the Russia trip next week. I have a feeling I won’t like what he has to say.”

Hermione nodded.  “How are you, Theo?”

He looked tired in a way that went beyond lost sleep, like something deeper had worn him down from the inside out.

“I’m splendid,” he said dryly. “Just got back from three weeks in South Africa, and instead of going home, I came here. So yes—living the dream.”

They hadn’t really spoken in months, and she still never fully understood what had passed between him and Draco after it was revealed that he had known, almost from the start, that Maia was Draco’s child.

She had thought, once, about asking Theo directly, but he had a way of disappearing just when she found the courage. Then, slowly, he'd stopped being seen at all—volunteering for longer and more distant trips abroad, as if determined to keep himself exiled from London, and from everything in it.

“I don’t see you much these days,” she said. “I’d really like to know how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine, Hermione,” he replied, but the words landed flat, too practiced, too thin to carry any real weight. “How’s Maia? Is she doing well?”

“She is,” Hermione replied, her voice instantly warming. “She’s over the moon, actually. Her birthday’s just a few days away, and she’s counting the hours until she gets the pet she’s been asking for. Honestly, she’s mastered the art of persuasion. Malfoy never stood a chance. She even managed to talk me into it.”

Theo’s smile deepened at that, but his gaze dropped to the floor, the brightness in his expression dimming.

“I’m glad they’re spending time together,” he said. “I’m… really glad. For her. And for him.”

Hermione hesitated for a moment, then let the words come.

“I never properly thanked you,” she said. “For keeping my secret all those years. I don’t think I ever really said it. And I’m sorry—sorry it came between you and him.”

He didn’t respond right away. His fingers tightened slightly around the doorframe, a small motion, but telling.

“I’m leaving, Hermione,” he said at last. “I’ve been living abroad for a few months already. I spoke with Kingsley. After my next assignment in Russia, I’ll be relocating permanently to New York. I’ll be working at the American Ministry of Magic, as a liaison, essentially. Something like an ambassador, I suppose.”

Hermione blinked. “You’re leaving? Just like that?”

He nodded once. “I can’t stay here anymore. I just… can’t.” He faltered, as though there were more to say but couldn’t quite bring himself to say it.

“He just needs time,” she offered, gently. “He’ll come around.” Though even as the words left her mouth, she wasn’t sure she believed them. It had already been over a year.

Theo looked up then, and for a brief moment, she saw everything he wasn’t saying. Regret, sorrow, and something heavier: guilt.

“Will he, though?” he asked, voice low and rough at the edges. “Because of me, he didn’t know about his daughter from the beginning. He missed everything, all those years he’ll never get back. And I—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening as if the weight of it all might break him. “Anyway. You know what he’s like. When Draco shuts a door… he bolts it. And then sets it on fire just to make sure it stays shut.”

Hermione gave a slow nod. Her voice was barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Theo offered a faint, tired smile. “Don’t be. It’s all right, Hermione.”

But it didn’t feel all right. Not to her. She didn’t believe for a second that Theo was fine, no matter what he said. And the truth was, she felt awful. Everything he’d done, he had done it to protect Maia. And now, it was tearing everything else apart.

She had to find a way to fix this. To mend the friendship between Draco and Theo. No matter how hard it was, no matter what it took. She made herself a promise then and there.

She would make it right.

***

Maia’s seventh birthday was celebrated in the garden of the cottage. She wore a brand-new spring dress, a gift from Narcissa that Hermione was fairly certain had cost a small fortune. Malfoy and Scorpius were among the first to arrive, bearing a carefully wrapped box that Maia accepted with trembling excitement.

From her spot in the kitchen doorway, Hermione watched as Draco crouched beside their daughter, the gift cradled carefully in his hands. The box trembled just slightly, as though he were as nervous as the child he was about to surprise.

Last month, their main disagreement had gone something like this:

“You are not buying her a puppy.”

“But she wants one!”

“And when she stops wanting it? Will you take care of it? Because I won’t.”

“She’s incredibly responsible. She wouldn’t just abandon a pet—”

In the end, Hermione had relented. She decided that perhaps it was the right moment for Maia to learn, in a real and meaningful way, what it meant to care for another living creature, to understand that loyalty, consistency, and patience were part of loving something beyond oneself. Besides, Hermione had realized there was more to gain: a pet could offer comfort during difficult days, and give her a sense of stability in a world that sometimes still felt unpredictable.

She had expected a puppy, since Maia had been talking about one for months. What she hadn’t expected was the small golden bundle of fur that blinked up at them with wide amber eyes and a tufted Kneazle tail.

“Oh!” Maia gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. “Is it a kitten? Is it really mine, daddy?”

Draco nodded, a smile pulling at his lips. “Scorpius picked him,” he said, glancing over at his son. “Said he liked the eyes.”

“I did pick him, Maia!” Scorpius chimed in proudly. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

Draco turned slightly toward Hermione, as though aware of her gaze at the edge of the frame. “I thought,” he said slowly, “a kitten might be easier to care for than a puppy.” He looked back at Maia, who was already cradling the creature against her chest. “He’s yours, but only if you promise not to name him something ridiculous.”

Hermione hadn’t meant to tear up, but the moment her eyes landed on the kitten, something tightened in her chest. That squashed little face, those clever eyes… It was as if Crookshanks had returned, in miniature, with all his familiar grump and judgment and warmth. A piece of her past, handed gently back to her.

“I’ll love him as much as I love you, daddy. I promise,” Maia whispered, squeezing her arms around both kitten and father. Draco’s smile deepened, and he brushed a hand through her curls.

“And I love you too, Maia,” he murmured.

That night, long after the guests had left, they stood together by Maia’s bed. She was already half-asleep, the kitten curled against her chest, purring like a tiny motor.

“Strawberry,” she mumbled, barely audible. The kitten blinked up at them with sleepy indifference, then nestled closer into the crook of Maia’s arm with a soft sigh.

“He reminds me of Crookshanks,” Hermione said, eyes still on the kitten.

Draco turned to her, something tentative in his gaze. “The one who hated all the Slytherins?” he asked, as if he didn’t already know everything about her cat.

“He had excellent instincts,” she said with the faintest smile.

Draco huffed a soft laugh. “Apparently, Maia doesn’t.”

Hermione looked at him then, something warm and delicate blooming behind her ribs. “Apparently.”

He didn’t answer, not with words. But in the hush of that moment, he reached for her hand, and she let him.

One month later, Malfoys’ birthday celebration had drawn nearly everyone back to his estate once again.

Strawberry, the tiny, mischievous kitten that never left Maia’s side, darted after her as she ran around the lawn with Scorpius and the Potters, their joyous game of tag filling the warm air. He had become the children’s little mascot, adored and endlessly requested for cuddles—yet stubbornly loyal only to Maia, curling up only in her arms or, on rare occasions, Scorpius’s. To everyone else, especially Malfoy, he showed a pointed disinterest, his small nose wrinkling whenever the elder Malfoy approached.

“You’re a menace, Malfoy,” Harry groaned, massaging his temple with a tired smile. “James has been begging me for a dog for weeks now, and it’s all your fault.”

Malfoy didn’t spare him a glance. “You are complaining because I’m a better father than you,” he shot back, a sly smirk playing on his lips.

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’re just a bloody menace!” he repeated, flipping him off with mock exasperation.

The sun shone unusually bright that day. The party was held beneath a large white marquee in the back garden, flowers blooming all around. When it came time to blow out the candles on the cake, Scorpius clambered onto his father’s knee, Maia onto the other.

“Wait, daddy, don’t blow yet!” Maia’s voice rang out, her eyes alight with excitement. She leaned in close and whispered something into Draco’s ear. He paused for a moment, considering her words, then gave a small nod.

Father, son, and daughter blew out the twenty-nine candles together.

Later, when the last guests had departed and only Hermione and Maia remained, the little girl, utterly exhausted, curled up with Scorpius on the living room sofa. Before Hermione even realized it, Maia had drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

“Let her stay the night,” Draco said as they stepped into the cool summer air. “I’ll bring her to you tomorrow, before you leave for your mother’s.”

Hermione nodded, her eyes drifting upward to the star-strewn sky—one of the best gifts of living far from the city’s glow.

“If you like,” Draco added, “we can sit for a while. Before you go.”

He gestured toward two large garden chairs still set from the party. With a flick of his wand, they transformed into wide, reclined loungers.

The night air was mild and pleasant, carrying the lingering warmth of the day. A soft breeze stirred now and then, teasing strands of her hair across her face and bringing with it the faintest trace of jasmine from the garden beds. Hermione hesitated at first, but there was something so gentle, so peaceful in the air that she found herself nodding, willing to stay a little longer simply because the night made her feel calm.

They settled side by side, silence wrapping around them as they gazed upward.

After a long moment, she broke the quiet. “What did Maia whisper to you? Before you blew out the candles?”

His voice was soft, almost a murmur. “She told me to make a wish. Said hers always come true. That I should blow with all my strength if I wanted mine to come true too.”

“And did you?”

“I did.”

They fell silent again.

“What did you wish for?”

He exhaled slowly, the sound heavy with regret. “Something I don’t deserve.”

His voice dropped, low and steady, weighted with unspoken truths. “I feel like I already have more than I deserve. I shouldn’t want more, especially not things that aren’t mine to claim.”

“People rarely feel satisfied with what they have,” she said. “Whether they deserve more or not.”

He sighed, a shadow crossing his face. “There was a time in my life when I was perfectly content. Maybe I wished some things were different, but I was happy. I felt like the world was in my hands.”

Hermione didn’t answer, her silence stretching into the night.

A breeze stirred, cool and gentle, and she felt it brush across her face, tangling in her hair. Her mind began to betray her, or perhaps, to set her free.

She thought of their first night at the Three Broomsticks, how she’d been nineteen and foolish, tipsy on more Butterbeer than she could handle, and how he had steadied her with a firm hand at her waist, guiding her carefully up those endless stairs to the Eighth Year dormitories.

And then that winter night outside the Wizard’s Beard. She had felt dizzy then, too, not from drink, but from him. From his nearness, his voice, his laugh, the way he had looked at her as if there was no one else in the world.

Other memories broke open like hidden doors: stolen weekends, hushed meetings at the Ministry, secret smiles traded in passing hallways.

Before she realized it, tears were trailing quietly down her cheeks.

He spoke again, voice raw, as if reading from the same page of their history.

“Sometimes… I try to hold onto our memories but they slip through my mind like water. It’s ridiculous. My head is organized like a Pensieve. I’m an expert Occlumens. And still… some things just vanish. I hate that. Do you ever feel that way?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice fragile. The difference between them was that she had forced herself to forget. It had been the only way to survive the pain. “What did you forget?” she asked after a pause, her eyes never leaving the stars.

He gave a small, humorless laugh. “Far more than I’ll ever admit. Sometimes I think I rebuild memories just so they won’t be lost completely. But I can’t tell anymore what’s real… and what’s only born of longing.”

His voice fell to a bare whisper. “Months after our breakup I was trying desperately to remember the last time we kissed. Can you imagine? I couldn’t remember.” He spoke the words as if confessing the deepest betrayal of all.

“I panicked. I wrote to one of my father’s assistants and asked him to find me a Pensieve. My father had one, but the Ministry confiscated it after the war. They were so rare… and still are. Days passed with no word. I was desperate. Then one morning, my mother came to me. I don’t know who told her, probably her little spies, the house-elves. She approached me with a kindness and calm I hadn’t heard in years. ‘Draco,’ she said, ‘if a Pensieve ever enters this house, you’ll drown in it instead of truly living. You’ll be lost in memory, not life.’ She was right, of course…”

He sighed deeply. “…I stopped searching. I never managed to remember.”

After a few moments, she mustered the strength to ask the question. “What is the last thing you remember?”

“I remember seeing you on a Sunday. Exactly a week before that awful article in the Prophet. I stayed at your flat. Slept beside you. But… I don’t remember. In the morning—did I kiss you? Was it a quick kiss or real? Did I hold you close? Tell you I loved you? What were the last true words I said to you before I learned I had to marry another woman?”

He fell silent.

“I wish I had held you a little longer. Kissed you a little more. Told you once more how much I loved you. I wish I could remember. Maybe then I’d have closure. Maybe it would put out the fire inside me. Maybe I’d… maybe...”

Hermione’s tears had been quietly falling for some time. Now she blinked rapidly, struggling to see the stars through them. How deeply she understood. How desperately she longed to stop hurting. To find the closure worthy of the love they once shared. To finally be free of him.

No matter who came after, no matter what she felt for anyone else, a part of her still lived with him—a circle never closed, a wound half-healed, aching despite the years.

Even though she couldn’t see his eyes, she knew they were also wet.

They stayed like that for nearly half an hour, silent, gazing up at the sky. At some point, they stood and walked side by side toward the house, their steps quiet but perfectly in sync. At the door, she stopped.

“That wasn’t the last time you saw me,” she whispered.

He looked at her confused, hand on the doorknob.

“You left your watch at my flat,” she continued, voice trembling. “That Monday morning, while we were both at work, I sent you a quick note by owl. Told you I was heading to Newcastle with Harry for two days for a case… and that I was keeping your watch hostage.”

Their eyes locked, and she saw the flicker of recognition in his expression, the memory breaking free.

“You were in my office within minutes,” she said softly, “I never even got to ask how—”

“I was already on the same floor,” he interrupted, stunned. “Dropping something off. I don’t remember what. Just a few doors down.”

Hermione nodded.

“You walked into my office and demanded I hand over the hostage.”

“And you told me you wanted ransom to give it back,” he whispered.

“You didn’t stay long. Maybe a minute? Maybe less. But you kissed me,” she said, voice trembling. “You… you caressed my cheek...”

Her hand rose slowly, fingers tracing the familiar contours of his tear-streaked face. His skin felt so familiar, unchanged, yet he himself seemed so different somehow—altered by time and sorrow.

“…You asked me if one kiss was enough ransom…”

She stepped closer to him, closer than she had been in eight long years.

“…then you kissed me. Softly…” she breathed, barely above a whisper.

His eyes locked onto hers, warm, yet forever shadowed with sadness, always sad.

“…like you loved me.”

She leaned toward him.

Their lips met—quiet, tentative, a mere brush.

Hermione felt her tears mingle with his, soaking the kiss in shared sorrow.

His hand rose to her neck, his thumb tenderly caressing her skin.

His lips were as soft as she remembered, as if not a single day had passed without kissing them, even though eight years had gone by.

After a few seconds, she pulled away.

They stood there, eyes locked, two souls desperate for an ending.

But staring into his beautiful eyes, smelling his familiar scent, feeling the warmth of his hand on her face, all the memories she’d fought so hard to bury came flooding back, overwhelming her.

If this kiss was meant to be closure, why did it feel nothing like one?

Chapter Text

They never spoke of the kiss.

Hermione had convinced herself that by offering him a kind of release—by reminding him of their last moment together—perhaps she might find some peace herself. But the moment she stepped away, the look on Draco’s face showed anything but closure.

Confusion, yes. Shock, certainly. And, most terrifying of all, hope.

In that instant, all she had wanted was to throw herself into the Floo. Once home, she sealed the fireplace against any incoming connection, her heart pounding with the irrational fear that he might follow.

But why would he? Surely he wouldn’t chase after her over that miserable kiss, so brief it had barely counted, lost in tears.

That night, she collapsed onto her bed still fully dressed, lying motionless with her eyes fixed on the blank ceiling.

How could such a pitiful, grief-soaked kiss send shivers through her entire body? How could it resurrect butterflies she had long believed dead, now fluttering wildly in her stomach? Especially when, just months ago, Andrew Grant’s passionate kiss had left her cold, and Adrian Karstairs’ gentle lips had offered comfort, but nothing more.

How could this be happening?

She felt like a fool. A fool for giving in to the impulse and even more so for how it left her feeling afterward.

All night she lay there, eyes pinned to the ceiling, letting memories she had fought so hard to bury rise from the ashes: moments in her old flat, quiet Sunday afternoons in bed, whispered dreams in the dark, kisses at her throat. They surged back like a relentless tide, denying her rest as her mind remained cruel and unyielding until the pale light of dawn crept through the window.

She didn’t want to see him the next morning or any morning that week. But she saw him. The moment he arrived, his eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. For reasons she couldn’t even name, a primal urge to hide from him gripped her.

More than once, she considered telling him that what had happened was a mistake. That it meant nothing. That she’d acted on impulse, hoping it might help them both. But she never brought it up. And Malfoy never did either.

Slowly, Hermione convinced herself that perhaps she was the only one truly unsettled by that fleeting moment of weakness. Maybe he was wise enough to recognize her motives for what they were. Maybe he understood that the kiss had meant absolutely nothing.

It was the line she clung to, because it was easier to believe than to face the storm of emotion that one miserable kiss had unleashed.

Although they never spoke of what had happened, Hermione began to notice his attempts to approach her growing more persistent, almost insistent. Every evening, after putting Maia to bed, he would appear in her sitting room. Without asking permission, he settled into the armchair opposite hers, as if he had every right to be there, as though the old rules of courtesy no longer applied.

He watched her with an unwavering focus that made her feel as though she might unravel beneath his gaze.

In those moments, dressed in her soft, well-worn house clothes, Hermione felt painfully exposed, as if her simple attire was somehow out of place next to Draco Malfoy’s crisp linen trousers and perfectly tailored summer shirts. Yet almost immediately, she would scold herself for such foolish thoughts. She had no reason to care what he saw when he looked at her.

At first, it was he who spoke more, a rare reversal of their old roles. He shared small pieces of his life, details about his work, how he had recently reduced his hours, a new case that troubled him more than usual.

Gradually, almost cautiously, he turned the conversation back to her, not to Maia but to Hermione herself, as if trying, piece by piece, to rediscover the woman she had become during the years they had spent apart.

Soon he began asking about her work. And Hermione, well, she had never been good at resisting someone who showed genuine interest in what she did. He listened to her long after Maia had fallen asleep. Sometimes Scorpius would curl up in his arms, half-asleep, while she talked about her collaboration with the Department of Magical Misuse on a delicate diplomatic case involving magical spheres appearing in the Muggle world.

He asked questions. He truly seemed to care about the answers.

He even brought up the international conference in Milan scheduled for the following month and encouraged her to attend. Whether that was because he wanted more time alone with Maia or because he saw how badly she longed to go, she couldn’t say.

Although they spoke more now than ever before, they never once mentioned the kiss. Hermione knew she ought to have forgotten it by now, days later, yet some nights, long after he had left, she caught herself staring absently out her bedroom window, recalling the feel of his lips against hers.

One Tuesday evening, they were talking about Hogwarts when she shifted the topic to the programme for Muggleborn first-years. Draco’s eyes flickered with surprise for a moment before he steadied himself.

“Why did you do it?” she asked.

He held her gaze without wavering. “Do you remember that first night at the Wizard’s Beard? Our first date, even if we never called it that. You told me about the programme you had in mind for Muggleborns. Said I was the first person, outside Potter and Weasley, you’d ever trusted with it.”

“You spoke with such fire that night. Such certainty. You had this quiet, relentless belief that you could change the world, and I—” he exhaled sharply. “I wanted to promise I'd help you do it. I meant to.”

Hermione said nothing. She could still remember that night, how her cheeks had flushed from the warmth of the wine and his attention, how she had spoken of her hopes with a kind of reckless vulnerability that even now startled her. She had never believed he’d remember.

“You left because of me. I couldn’t shake the thought that I was the reason the magical world lost a brilliant mind, someone who could have made things better for all of us. So I made it my mission to bring some of those dreams to life. I made so many promises to you, I never fulfilled. This was something I could do. Your dreams were never just ideas shared over drinks at a pub. They were sparks of hope that brought light, even to the darkest souls- those marked by evil.”

He looked at her then, fully, openly. “Your dreams are pure light Hermione. Every step I took, every decision I made, was because of that light.”

That night, hours after Draco Malfoy had left her home, Hermione lay in bed, her fingers tracing the Pleiades necklace he had given her, replaying his words over and over in her mind. When sleep finally claimed her, she dreamed again of that first night at the Wizard’s Beard, so many years ago. Their first date, even if they never called it that. It was only the beginning of many such dreams to come.

***

It was the morning of June 27th when the emergency sirens blared through the Ministry of Magic.

No one truly knew what was happening or why they had been ordered to evacuate their departments in such a rush. The Aurors stationed at each exit tried in vain to calm the growing panic, offering vague reassurances that convinced no one.

“Harry! What’s going on?” Hermione shouted, catching sight of him across the atrium, trying to calm an elderly witch from the Department of Magical Finance.

“It’s fine, Hermione! I’ll explain later. Please, just go home,” he called back to her over the crowd.

She reached her empty house much earlier than usual. An owl arrived not long after with a hastily scribbled note from Harry:

Something went very wrong with a containment experiment in the Department of Mysteries. The Ministry’s closing for at least forty-eight hours. Mandatory leave for all staff.

Left with nothing to do and having rushed out so quickly she’d even left her case files behind, she sent a text message to Malfoy, asking if he’d already picked Maia up from school. When he didn’t respond within twenty minutes she glanced at the clock and realized it was already much later than she’d thought. They were most likely already at the pool.

Once a week, Malfoy took the children to a Muggle swimming pool in East London. It had become their little ritual: part swimming lesson for Scorpius, who, as Malfoy had once confessed, had never had the chance to learn; part pure joy for Maia, who adored the water.

Hermione had never joined them before, despite Maia’s endless chatter about how amazing the place was. With her day now ruined by magical catastrophe, she figured it was the perfect opportunity.

She hadn’t expected this.

The facility, in a word, was obscene. Or rather—obscenely perfect. The building stood like a five-star hotel, tucked behind tall iron gates on an otherwise unassuming street. Its front was all glass and brushed steel, gleaming under the soft afternoon sun. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows she could make out a vast, echoing lobby with polished concrete floors and a reception desk carved from actual stone.

It was, quite frankly, the poshest building Hermione had ever stepped foot in. Naturally, she thought, her mouth quirking, only someone like Malfoy—or someone with his level of disposable income—would choose this for a midweek after-school activity.

Unfortunately, access to such opulence came with its own set of... complications. Security, for one.

She was stopped at the entrance by two very serious-looking Muggle guards demanding a membership card. After several failed attempts to explain that she was meeting her daughter inside, Hermione sighed, rolled her eyes, and quietly cast two discreet Confundus charms.

Inside, she paused.

The pool itself was enormous. Every surface sparkled. The ceiling was high and arched, and daylight poured in through the upper windows, making the water glow like molten sapphire.

Hermione climbed the spectator staircase, ignoring the raised brows of a few women in sculpted yoga gear, and settled into a seat overlooking the water.

Her eyes began to search the pool for three familiar shapes: two unmistakably blonde, and one with wild brown curls barely tamed beneath a bright pink swim cap.

It wasn’t hard to spot them.

At this hour, the pool was nearly empty, just a few parents with their young children scattered across the shallows. One side of the pool, Hermione noted, had become a kind of crèche for toddlers and chatty mothers, while the other housed a few solitary adults swimming slow laps in meditative silence.

Maia was in her element. She sliced through the water with the gleeful abandon of a child who belonged there, surfacing only to grin, then dive again. A nearby sign clearly forbade diving, but Malfoy didn’t appear remotely bothered. If he’d noticed it at all, he clearly wasn’t inclined to enforce it.

He stood with Scorpius in his arms, the little boy clinging to him in a bright blue swimsuit, looking utterly betrayed by the entire concept of swimming. It was the first time Hermione had seen Scorpius genuinely sulky and she strongly suspected he shared his father’s disdain for unnecessary wetness. And likely, for the sun.

A young instructor entered the pool moments later, clapping enthusiastically to gather the children. Maia swam over without hesitation. Malfoy bent down to murmur something into Scorpius’s ear, then gently nudged the boy toward the others. Afterward, he moved to the side of the pool and sat, feet in the water, near the other parents.

Hermione’s gaze lingered.

She hadn’t meant to look but once she did, she found herself unable to look away.

His torso, exposed above sleek black swim shorts, was lean and defined, not in the exaggerated way of someone obsessed with their reflection, but with the quiet elegance of discipline. His shoulders were broad, his abdomen taut, his collarbone catching the light as he leaned back on his hands, face tilted up, eyes half-closed. He looked utterly at ease.

He looked—well, he looked incredible.

Of course, she’d seen him in swimwear before. And without it. But this version of him, half-lit by skylight, entirely unaware of being watched, was a memory she had worked very hard to bury. Now it was returning, piece by piece, rising from the depths to wrap around her like warm water.

She was still watching him when Scorpius glanced up, shading his eyes against the overhead lights.

“Granger!” he called out.

There had been several moments in the past when he had called her “mum” instead.

At first, Hermione hadn’t known how to react. Although she hated admitting it even to herself, there were times when, looking at Scorpius, she saw the pureblood heir Lucius had so desperately wanted. The child she could never give Draco.

It was a painful, uncomfortable thought. In those early months after they’d returned from Sydney, it colored the way she responded to him.

Once they started spending more time at Grimmauld Place things had begun to shift slowly.

She no longer saw him as the child of the woman who had married the love of her life, or the son she would never bear. Instead, she saw a sweet, soft-hearted little boy. A sensitive soul with so much love to give. The way he played gently with the other children, the way he was always thinking of others, always eager to share or help or hug—it softened something in her.

After the truth about Maia’s parentage came to light, and the children began spending more and more time together, Hermione found herself growing truly fond of him.

The bond between Maia and Scorpius was remarkable. Maia often took the lead, offering advice and defending him. But just as often, Scorpius stood by her with quiet fierceness. He encouraged her mischief, took the blame when things went wrong, and was always the first to comfort her when she was sad.

Watching them together, Hermione sometimes felt a strange pang of envy for their closeness and for the simplicity of their love. It made her wonder what it might have been like to grow up with a little brother of her own.

The fact that Scorpius looked so much like Draco — with his silver blond hair, pale skin, and sharp cheekbones — sometimes made her thoughts drift. She would imagine that in another universe, in some alternate version of their lives, her child with Draco Malfoy might have looked more like him and less like her. Perhaps in that world, Maia had been born a boy, with fair skin and silver blond hair. Perhaps, in that version of things, Scorpius could have been her son.

Those thoughts came too easily, but in the end Hermione had learned to love Scorpius, not for who he might have been in some imagined life, but for who he truly was in this one. A kind-hearted child, born into sorrow yet carrying no bitterness. A boy who deserved every good thing the world had to give.

And if, every now and then, he sought comfort in her arms, she welcomed him without hesitation.

That’s why, one afternoon during one of Maia’s especially stormy moods—when she was all pouts and complaints, and Scorpius was just as fussy—he had run straight into Hermione’s arms, buried his face in her neck, and whispered “mummy” again. She knew he’d simply needed comfort, a place to rest away from the noise and irritation around him, so she had held him close, just as she would have held Maia.

Draco was there, just a few feet away. At the sound of the word, his eyes dropped, pain and guilt flickering across his face.

“He’s just a child,” she had told him when he murmured an apology. “He sees me nearly every day. He hears his sister call me ‘mum.’ He’s just confused.”

Hermione understood. Of course Scorpius was confused—how could he not be? He was barely five. He had never known what it meant to have a mother. And now, suddenly, he had a sister with a mother who was warm, kind, and unshakably real. Of course he reached for her.

If Hermione was honest with herself, she had found joy in that, too. In caring for him. Maia had grown older now—no longer so quick to seek her comfort for every little thing. Besides, she had her father now. Scorpius, though, still needed soft voices and safe arms.

She didn’t know what Malfoy had said to him, or how he’d explained it, but after that day, Scorpius never called her “mum” again. These days, he called her “Granger”—which was, admittedly, charming in its own ridiculous way, though still utterly absurd coming from a five-year-old.

“Granger!” he called again, then caught himself, turned quickly to Maia, and pointed.

Maia followed his gaze.

“Mummy!” she shouted, lifting both hands from the water to wave with a big splash. “You came!”

Hermione waved back, smiling, her heart catching as both children lit up as though she’d just made their entire week.

Then Draco turned.

The moment his eyes found her, his expression shifted. He smiled, slow and warm, giving a small nod, as if pleased to see her.

She watched as he stepped fully out of the pool and made his way toward the gallery platform. The sight of his half-naked body, the confident way he moved, the warm, easy smile he wore as he looked at her made the hairs on her arms stand on end. But what truly made her blink was the sight of his tattoos. While he had been sitting at the edge of the pool, they had been hidden, but now, as he walked toward her, she could see them clearly: two clusters of stars on his right arm. The constellation of Scorpio, and just above it, the Pleiades.

She forced her gaze away from his right forearm with some difficulty. She knew that on his left inner forearm, there had once been the Dark Mark. Not long after they had graduated from Hogwarts, she had helped him cast the strongest concealment charm they could find, to make it vanish once and for all.

“Hello!” he said, leaning against the railing that separated the gallery from the pool deck.

“Hi”.

“You didn’t bring your swimsuit?” he teased, raising an eyebrow.

She froze for a second, realizing she was still wearing her work clothes — a high-waisted brown leather skirt and a crisp white blouse with delicate gold stitching.

“Sorry, not today”.

“That’s a shame,” he replied with a playful shrug, though his gaze lingered on her for a moment, intense enough that she couldn’t help but wonder if he was imagining her in a swimsuit.

Just then, the children’s class ended, and Draco returned to his spot at the pool, sitting near Maia and Scorpius.

And then —

A woman appeared.

She stepped into view at the edge of the pool, moving with the kind of effortless grace that drew attention without even trying. Her swimsuit was black, sleek, unmistakably designer, sculpted to flatter every improbable curve. She had endless legs, hips that swayed with choreographed perfection, and a chest that barely respected the rules of public decency.

She leaned toward Draco, who was sitting on the pool’s edge with his feet in the water, her fingers brushing his shoulder as she murmured something to him. He looked up at her and replied. Whatever he said made her laugh — light and carefree.

Hermione couldn’t hear them from the gallery. But suddenly — and quite irrationally — she wished she could.

Draco dove into the pool, and to Hermione’s surprise, the woman followed — though she did not dive, but descended dramatically and almost seductively down the small ladder into the water.

Once she was in the pool, the woman turned to the children next, crouching to say something that looked playful, maybe even sweet. Hermione watched as Scorpius grinned back at her, clearly delighted by whatever she’d said. Maia, on the other hand, eyed the woman carefully, with a faint trace of annoyance.

Before Hermione could fully process the discomfort starting to coil in her stomach, Maia lunged at Draco, hugging him with both arms and legs wrapped tight around him. Hermione heard Malfoy laugh out loud at the sudden, fierce show of affection. He whispered something in Maia’s ear, and Maia tucked her head against his neck, holding on.

For a long while they stayed like that — Maia in his arms, Scorpius floating close by, and the unknown woman trying, unsuccessfully, to win Draco’s attention back from Maia.

Then, at last, Hermione saw her daughter twist in the water, point straight up toward the gallery, and announce with the crystal clarity and volume only a seven-year-old could manage:

“That’s my mummy! She’s right there! Look!”

The woman turned. So did half the pool.

Malfoy turned, too.

Hermione froze — then gave a small, startled wave.

Maia, still beaming, added — because of course she did:

“She’s the best mum in the world, isn’t she, daddy?”

Something stuttered in Hermione’s chest. And if Malfoy laughed, turned to look at her, and winked — well, she couldn’t be entirely sure she hadn’t imagined it.

***

The dreams had begun to trouble her. Some were innocent, others… decidedly not.

Sometimes they took her back to Hogwarts, young again, in a version of the past where they’d never fallen in love, yet her subconscious insisted on rewriting the narrative. It tucked them away into empty classrooms, pressed them against dusty bookshelves, their mouths locked in breathless, endless kisses. Sometimes that was all they did—kiss. Other times, her imagination ran far wilder.

But the constant across every dream was this: she always woke in the same state—uneasy, flushed with something between shame, pleasure, undeniable arousal… and nerves. A lot of them.

It infuriated her. Truly, deeply infuriated her. She was angry at herself for not being able to control something so irrational, so involuntary.

Dreams.

She was even more furious with him. More than with herself, because suddenly she was aware of him in a way that felt constant, impossible to ignore. She could feel his gaze lingering on her—too long, too intent—until seconds stretched into eternities that made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end.

And as if that weren’t enough, sometimes… he touched her. Sometimes by accident. Sometimes—perhaps—not quite by accident.

He would take her hand to help her step into the Floo, as if she weren’t perfectly capable of doing it on her own. He would open a door and place his hand at the small of her back to guide her through—not quite touching, but close enough for her to feel it anyway.

Once, he had even brushed his fingers softly against her lips.

That day, Hermione had arrived at his house to collect Maia, only to find him and the children gathered in the kitchen. Maia had beamed with pride as she announced that her father was teaching them how to make Hermione’s favorite savory pie and that she should stay close by to taste it fresh from the oven.

After she had finished her plate, Draco had leaned in, brushing a stray crumb from her lips with his thumb, their eyes locking.

“There,” he had whispered. “Now you’re perfect.”

Even hours after leaving his home, Hermione could still feel the faint trace of his touch lingering on her skin.

At times, she wanted nothing more than to glare at him, to snap at him. But more often, she struggled to hide how deeply it affected her, how something so small could send her pulse racing beneath her skin.

Even worse, she sometimes caught herself wondering if he was actually flirting with her—which felt utterly impossible, utterly forbidden. In those moments, she fought to banish the vivid images from her dreams the night before, where he starred far too clearly.

The atmosphere between them had shifted. Until then, she had sensed he was careful with her—steady, yet reserved, always keeping a certain distance. But after their kiss, everything changed. The looks, the touches, the subtle hints, sometimes so vague she wasn’t sure if they were real or just her imagination, tangled her thoughts and frayed her nerves. At the same time, butterflies exploded wildly in her stomach.

Often, the swirl of emotions between them erupted into arguments, especially over Maia.

“It’s perfectly natural for her to want to go to the Quidditch World Cup! I don’t see why you’re so against it.”

“Malfoy, she’s seven! I won’t let her spend hours surrounded by shouting fans. She’ll have plenty of chances when she’s older.”

Sometimes they fought for no real reason at all.

“Granger, why do you always have to push?”

“Because I’m right!”

“You’re not!”

“Malfoy, you took her to Gringotts without telling me! I was calling you all morning—of course, you couldn’t answer, ten hundred feet underground.”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision! Sorry I didn’t plan every minute of our day in Diagon Alley.”

But no matter how the fight started, it always ended the same way. The sharp words would fall away, and for a brief moment, something like release would settle between them. Hermione would exhale, arms crossed, pulse still racing — not just from frustration, though she told herself that’s all it was. She hated how aware she became of his presence then, of his voice, his nearness, the way his eyes sometimes lingered just a second too long.

Their arguments never truly resolved anything. If anything, they left her more unsettled than before. The line between irritation and something far more dangerous blurred too easily, and no matter how much she tried to reason with herself, the dreams that followed spoke differently. Vivid, unwelcome, and impossibly hard to shake.

She had even resorted to Dreamless Sleep, though she stopped after only a few nights, too conscious of how quickly it could become a crutch. Instead, she turned to Muggle remedies—the sort that promised undisturbed slumber without dreams, without memories. Some nights they worked. Other nights, they didn’t.

Lately, whenever they were all at Grimmauld Place, she felt the weight of another gaze on her—Ginny’s.

“Everything all right, Hermione?” Ginny had asked just the week before, her voice light, but her eyes far too perceptive. Hermione had been watching him at the time, her gaze lingering longer than it should have on the way his fingers curled around a broom handle as he explained the rules of a casual pick-up match to the group of children in the garden.

“Yes, I’m perfectly fine,” Hermione had said, pretending she hadn’t just pictured those same hands pressed against her skin.

Perfectly fine.

She kept telling herself that. Again and again. Even if, deep down, she knew that Ginny didn’t believe her. And worse—neither did she.

July 2009

That year Harry’s birthday celebration took place at The Burrow. Unlike the previous year, when Hermione had stayed away mourning her father, this time she was among the first to arrive with Maia. After the fireworks display that had become a beloved tradition, most of the children had settled into makeshift beds conjured by their parents or had been carried inside. Maia and Scorpius lay sprawled together on the small sitting room sofa exactly where Hermione had left them an hour before.

Enjoying a rare moment of quiet away from the noise and chaos of children, the adults lingered around the long wooden table sipping butterbeer while exchanging half-forgotten stories of old celebrations and mischievous pranks.

“I’m going to check on the kids,” Hermione said to Draco, who sat across from her holding a glass of firewhisky despite the summer warmth.

“I’ll go,” he replied, rising from his chair and slipping quietly into the night.

Hermione continued to enjoy herself. The summer heat had made her drink more butterbeers than usual, but she soon switched back to plain water. George and Lee Jordan were spinning tales from days gone by, their laughter infectious enough to have everyone clutching their sides. She felt lighthearted and joyful — it had been a long time since she’d been this carefree.

Yet, despite the warmth around her, her eyes kept drifting back to the empty chair across from her. She hadn’t checked her watch, but she was certain Draco had been inside much longer than necessary to check on the children and ensure they were asleep. A sudden flicker of unease passed through her — what if something was wrong? What if Maia or Scorpius were unsettled? What if Draco himself had run into trouble? Had he had too much to drink? Had he stumbled somewhere in the dark?

While the guests were either on the edge of drunkenness or lost in old jokes, Hermione quietly rose and slipped toward the house.

She found him standing by the door to the small sitting room, his gaze fixed on the children sleeping peacefully on the couch.

“Is everything alright? Are you okay?”

He looked up, clearly surprised to see her. “Everything’s fine, Granger. What’s wrong?”

“You’ve been here at least half an hour. I was worried something happened,” she admitted.

Without a word, he motioned for her to follow him toward the kitchen, gently closing the sitting room door behind them.

 “I just got distracted,” he said. “It’s so beautiful to see them together. I always wanted a brother or sister. They’re lucky to have each other.”

He leaned against the kitchen counter, whisky glass in hand, his eyes fixed on her. “Were you worried about me?”

The question was simple, but the way he said it—the soft voice, the intense look—sent a shiver down her spine. She wanted to look away, but his eyes held her like magnets, both challenging and pleading.

“Well, I thought maybe you’d had too much and fallen somewhere,” she admitted.

A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. “I haven’t drunk that much, Granger.” He lifted the glass to his mouth in a deliberate, teasing motion.

They stood silent for a moment. His calm grey eyes watched her as if he’d been waiting for this very moment.

Then, suddenly, he spoke.

“You look beautiful tonight.”

The words hit her like a spell she hadn’t been prepared for.

“I—what?”

Instead of snapping at him or brushing it off, warmth flooded her cheeks. Oh Merlin, she was blushing — and utterly helpless. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing pale forearms traced with faint constellations.

“Thank you,” she managed, though her voice came out thinner than she’d have liked.

She caught him watching her slowly, deliberately, eyes sweeping from head to toe with a heat that made the butterflies alive. Maybe she had spent a little too long in front of the mirror that morning for reasons she refused to examine. Maybe she’d fussed with her hair a bit more carefully and tried on two or three dresses before settling on one nearly identical to Maia’s: a light blue summer dress with thin straps, except Hermione’s clung tighter to her curves and left more of her neckline bare.

“I can’t stop looking at you,” he whispered, voice rough, almost pained.

Then he stepped closer. Just a little. Close enough that she could smell the faint, crisp linen of his shirt, mingled with that unmistakable scent that was Draco Malfoy alone.

That scent flooded her with a thousand shared memories and all the dreams that had haunted her nights for weeks.

“Hermione,” he murmured, so quietly it felt like a sacred confession.

Before she could answer, his fingers brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear — gentle, reverent, as though she might break if he wasn’t careful.

She locked eyes with him and she knew — she just knew — he was going to kiss her.

“If I kissed you now, would you stop me?” he whispered.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t nod. But she didn’t move away either.

Instead, she tilted toward him—barely. So slightly it might have been imagined. But it wasn’t. And it was enough.

Draco leaned in slowly, as though giving her every chance to change her mind. His lips brushed hers with a softness that stole the breath from her lungs. Not desperate. Not demanding. Just… careful. Intimate. A touch of lips meant to say, I’ve waited for this. I don’t want to break it.

His hand hovered near her cheek, but he didn’t touch her again, didn’t need to. Everything he wanted to say was there, in the reverence of that kiss.

She didn’t pull back. She just let herself feel. And for a few suspended seconds, the world narrowed to the quiet hum of summer air, the faint laughter of adults in the distance and the trembling miracle of his mouth on hers.

August 2009

Sometimes she found herself resenting him for things he hadn’t even done.

As if it were his fault that, the night before, she had dreamed of him — pinning her against the shelves of the Hogwarts library, his mouth leaving possessive traces along her neck, her collarbone, lower still...

She was ashamed of those thoughts. Ashamed that they still clung to her, that they were about him. It felt ridiculous. And painfully true.

She was embarrassed, too, because the truth was she couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss. It had been two whole weeks since Harry’s birthday, and neither she nor Malfoy had spoken a word about it. And he certainly hadn’t tried to repeat it.

It replayed in her mind with the same clarity every time—soft, hesitant, reverent. Not a moment of passion stolen in the dark, but something gentler. Something dangerous in its tenderness.

She had gone over it a thousand times since it happened. The way his lips brushed hers. The way her body had stilled in place, suspended between memory and longing. And the way, afterwards, nothing had changed—at least, not on the surface.

She tried to pretend everything was the same. That her heart didn’t leap like a fool’s every time he entered the room. That she didn’t study him from across the table, confused and unguarded, trying to make sense of her own feelings—and his. That her stomach didn’t clench every time she felt him pause a little too long near her.

She hated how obvious it must have looked. She couldn’t bear to think what he saw in her eyes—longing? Confusion? Fear? Resentment? All of them?

In the solitude of night, when the house was silent, she found herself pressing her fingers to her lips and wondering—why hadn’t she stop him?

She wasn’t sure about the answer.

A part of her ached to feel it again, but another part feared it. And yet, her traitorous heart fluttered with anticipation every time they were alone in the same room, wondering... would he kiss her again?

And if he did—

Would she stop him this time?

She didn’t know.

And that terrified her most of all.

***

They came through the front door laughing—Maia’s cheeks pink, her curls damp and clinging to her temples. Draco followed behind her, hair tousled and wet. There was a flush on his face and a smile that could bring light to the darkest of rooms. They looked like summer and childhood and freedom.

Maia darted past her with a breathless, “Hi, Mum! Today was amazing! I’m going to change real quick, and then I’ll tell you everything!” before disappearing down the hall.

He turned to her slowly, raking a hand through his damp hair, leaving it tousled in uneven spikes. His shirt clung lightly to his chest, and water glistened in the hollow of his throat.

He stopped in front of her. Too close. Not nearly close enough.

“Sorry we’re late,” he said. “I had to drop Scorp off first. He really doesn’t like the sun. Was fussy all day.”

Hermione blinked, but didn’t step back. “You’re flushed.”

He gave a small smile, the corner of his mouth curling.

“The sun, probably. We swam in the outdoor pool. The weather is perfect, don’t you think?”

She nodded, though she wasn’t entirely sure what she’d just agreed to. Her eyes dropped to the bead of water trailing down his neck, and her heart began its traitorous, erratic pounding—the kind she hated.

“How was your afternoon?” he asked.

Boring. Endless.

“Quiet,” she replied.

“You should’ve come with us,” he said, his eyes flicking briefly to her lips.

In her mind, unbidden, surfaced a dream she had a few ways ago. He had lifted her into his arms and set her on the kitchen counter, his mouth on hers before she could breathe. She didn’t know if that memory had somehow made it onto her face, but in the very next moment, she saw him lean toward her.

Just slightly. Just enough to make her breath catch.

“I really want to kiss you,” he murmured. “But I think… it’s your turn.”

For a heartbeat, all she could do was stare at him. Her pulse roared in her ears. Her hands twitched at her sides.

Then—without thinking, without hesitating—she reached up and kissed him.

It wasn’t tentative this time. Her hands slid behind his neck, pulling him down to her. Her mouth met his in a slow, certain press that turned fierce in an instant. She felt his sharp inhale, the way his fingers found her waist like instinct, the way he kissed her back—hungrily, helplessly, like something unraveling deep within him.

His hands moved to her back, then her jaw. He pressed her against the edge of the kitchen counter and deepened the kiss. It was messy, breathless, wildly irresponsible—especially with their daughter only moments away from returning.

When they finally broke apart, she was dizzy. His forehead rested against hers, both of them panting, mouths still parted.

Neither of them spoke.

***

September 2009

She was a mess. There was no other word for it. She’d kissed him again—really kissed him—and this time, there hadn’t been an excuse waiting in the back of her mind to soften the blow. No surge of nostalgia, no clever rationale she could cling to. She’d just wanted him. Plain and simple. So she’d reached for him, and done something completely irresponsible, impulsive, terrifying, and undeniably reckless. Her head was spinning. Her heart wouldn’t settle. What the hell was she doing?

She needed to get a grip. To find a way to stop whatever this was before it spun even further out of control. There had to be a line somewhere—some rule she could cling to, some wall to rebuild between them. This couldn’t keep happening. It wasn’t sustainable. It wasn’t safe. And it certainly wasn’t wise. She couldn’t afford to lose her footing now, not after everything. She needed a solution. A plan. Something to keep her from making the same reckless, impossible mistake again.

Maybe it would have helped to confess to her friends—to admit the storm twisting inside her, the confusion, the desire, the fear—but the words never made it past her lips. She never found the courage. Somewhere deep down, she felt ashamed. Ashamed to tell them the truth. That she had started it. That she had kissed him. That she had kissed him again. And that every night, in the quiet dark of her dreams, she did far more than kiss him. So she kept it to herself. Locked it away. Decided to face it alone, with whatever strength she could summon.

She needed a distraction. Something else to anchor her, to keep her from falling back into the pull of his gravity. She had to stop thinking about him because if she was being honest with herself, she was afraid. Afraid of what his smile did to her. Afraid of the way her heart stuttered when he laughed. Afraid of how, for months now, she'd been noticing things she thought she'd buried years ago.

In a moment of reckless, blinding irrationality, she said yes to a date. With Andrew Grant. Again.

Not because she wanted to. But because she had to want something else. Anything else.

When she told Harry, his expression faltered, clearly taken aback.

“I know he’s been after you since things ended with Adrian,” he had said cautiously, “but Hermione... I remember what you said after your first date. ‘There’s no spark.’ That was your exact phrasing. Are you sure you want to try again?”

She wasn’t sure but confusion churned inside her like a storm. She didn’t know what to feel, what to think. She no longer knew what was normal and what wasn’t — because surely it wasn’t normal to want Draco Malfoy to kiss her, right?

She wanted the confusion to stop. She wanted the guilt over those feelings to vanish.

Honestly, she didn’t know what was happening to her. So she went out with Grant.

The date was worse than the first. Worse because, once again, there was no spark. Worse still because, the entire dinner, all she could think about was the look on Draco’s face when he had come to pick up Maia that evening. He hadn’t smiled. He hadn’t frowned. He had looked at her with nothing at all.

And somehow, that nothing twisted inside her like a knife.

What on earth was she expecting? What did she want from him?

Did she want to make him jealous? Because if that was it, she had clearly failed.

Did she want to hurt him? No. She didn’t or maybe she did, but even that was unclear.

Did she want him to kiss her? Yes, she did but... she shouldn’t want that, right?

She was utterly, ridiculously, confused.

When Andrew offered to walk her home, she declined, avoiding his eyes, avoiding the second goodbye kiss she already knew would leave her cold and hollow on her doorstep.

How could she sit through that kind of kiss when just days ago, Draco Malfoy’s had nearly made her knees give out?

The next time she saw him was only a few days after her date with Grant.

Hermione sat by the window with her legs tucked beneath her, watching as the sun dipped behind the trees. The sudden whoosh of the Floo made her flinch. A moment later, Maia’s voice echoed through the house—bright, excited, chatting away to Scorpius.

It was the second time this month Maia had visited her grandmother at Malfoy Manor.

The first time she’d gone—nearly six months ago—she’d come back spellbound. She’d talked for hours about how enormous the manor was (“Enough to fit every dress in the world!”), how the library stretched “on forever,” and how she’d gotten lost twice and hadn’t even minded.

Hermione had never seen that library herself. Draco had offered to bring her along this time, but she’d already made lunch plans with her mother.

“Didn’t expect to see you,” he said coolly.

“I came back early.”

“Your date didn’t go as planned?”

“My what?” She looked at him, confused.

He glanced away, his expression unreadable. “Forget it. None of my business.”

Hermione’s brows knit together. “I had lunch with my mother,” she said flatly. “It wasn’t a date.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her—silent, measuring—like he was deciding whether or not to believe her.

Her voice sharpened. “Why do you care if it was?”

He gave a casual shrug. “Just trying to prepare myself for what I’ll hear tomorrow at work, Granger.”

The use of her surname, the coldness in his voice—it landed sharper than she wanted it to.

“Strange, actually,” he continued, his tone losing some of its edge. “Yesterday, Grant didn’t stop by the office to replay every moment of your conversation, every joke, every awkward silence, every—”

He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

“Yes?” she pressed.

He met her eyes. “Every kiss,” he muttered.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, irritation rising fast and hot.

“Of course. Because of course Andrew would share that.” Her voice was clipped. “Well, maybe that’s because there wasn’t a kiss.”

Draco said nothing, but something in his face shifted. His detachment slipped just a little.

She turned fully toward him. “Does it matter if there was a kiss or not?”

“It doesn’t,” he said, but the lie was too thin to hold. “The only kiss I care about is ours.”

Her heart stuttered. It was the first time he had spoken to her about their kisses.

“You kissed me. Twice” he added, stepping closer. “Don’t you remember?”

When she didn’t answer, he went on.

“I need to know.” His voice had dropped lower, stripped of sarcasm or pretense. “What did it mean to you?”

Hermione stared at him, caught off guard. She hadn’t even let herself answer that question in private, let alone aloud. She held his gaze, unsure what to say.

He took another step toward her. His eyes searched hers, open and urgent.

“Please, tell me,” he whispered. “I need to know.”

She couldn’t think. She was too focused on him—on the sharp angles of his face, on how soft his expression had gone. And then, suddenly, he was right in front of her, his warmth closing the last inch of space between them. His lips hovered near hers. So close. Almost there.

She didn’t move. She waited—aching—for him to close the distance. It had been two weeks since their last kiss, and though she’d relived it a hundred times in her sleep, none of it compared to this: the weight, the heat, the realness of him.

And still… he didn’t move.

His breath brushed her cheek. His eyes never left hers.

“What did it mean, Hermione?” he whispered again.

She let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t react. Didn’t flinch.

“Okay,” he said softly.

“Okay,” she echoed, barely above a whisper.

He stepped back. Just like that, the distance was there again.

She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath until the flames in the fireplace flickered and she finally let it go.

***

She sat curled up on the worn sofa in her mother’s living room. Her fingers twisted restlessly in her lap, her posture curled inwards as though trying to shield herself from the weight of her thoughts.

“I kissed him,” she whispered at last. “I thought it would bring closure. That it would be a goodbye. That it would finally… set us free.”

“But it didn’t,” Helen said gently. For the past hour, she had been listening carefully to everything that had happened in her daughter’s life over the past few months.

Hermione shook her head. “No. It did the opposite. I thought I’d feel peace afterward—relief. But I’ve never felt more restless. Around him, I feel sixteen again. Not in a sweet, nostalgic way, but in the foolish, breathless, uncertain way. Like when I used to wait for Ron to come back from Quidditch practice, hoping he’d sit next to me on the couch and not notice how my hands shook.”

Her voice broke slightly. “I don’t know what to feel anymore. After everything that happened I truly believed I’d moved on. That I was done with him. But these feelings… they’re back. Maybe they never really left. Maybe I’m just too scared to admit it.”

Tears pooled in her eyes as she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, swallowing the emotion that threatened to rise. “Sometimes I think I’m just confused or maybe I’m fooling myself. Honestly…” she paused, eyes brimming, “I feel so stupid for thinking about him the way I do.”

Her voice turned smaller, more fragile. “Am I stupid, mum?”

Her mother reached out with steady hands and gently took Hermione’s trembling ones into her own. “No, sweetheart. Not stupid. Feeling lost doesn’t mean you’re weak or foolish. It means you’re human.”

“You have to see him with Maia, mum,” she went on, her voice trembling again, but this time with something closer to awe. “It’s… beautiful. The way he is with her. The way she lights up when she sees him. And I—” she paused, surprised at her own honesty, “I light up too. He does these little things throughout the day that make me lose my mind. He even learned how to bake. Who would ever believe it if I told them? He brings my favorite pie, every Thursday. He doesn’t even say much when he hands it over, just… leaves it on the counter like it’s nothing.”

She brushed away a tear. “But it’s not nothing. It never is. Every time he looks at me, it’s like my heart doesn’t know what to do with itself.…”

“But my mind…” Hermione added, more quietly now, “my mind is scared. Scared of making a mistake.”

Helen exhaled softly, brushing a thumb across the back of Hermione’s hand.

“The human heart is a stubborn thing, darling. It clings to both love and pain in equal measure. Even when we think we’ve buried the past, the heart remembers. That doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re healing. And healing doesn’t always come with clarity—it comes with confusion, with doubt, with slow steps forward.”

Hermione looked down at their joined hands. “How do I know if I can trust him? Or myself? What if I open that door and it all falls apart again?”

“You start by listening,” Helen said softly. “Not just to him, but to yourself. To the part of you that wants to hope again, even if it’s scared. Trust isn’t given in a moment. It’s built over time, through actions, through care. You don’t have to decide everything today. All you have to do is stay open. Trust that you will know when something feels true, and when it doesn’t.”

She squeezed Hermione’s hand. “Remember, you’re not that twenty-year-old girl anymore. You’ve lived, you’ve learned, and you’ve protected yourself through storms no one else could see. You’re allowed to feel something good and let it unfold, without punishing yourself for it.”

Hermione felt a loosening of the tight knot in her chest. Maybe she didn’t have all the answers. Maybe that was okay.

She sat up a little straighter, shoulders less tense now, her breath coming easier. For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel like she was failing for not knowing what to do. Instead, she felt… capable. Capable of sitting with her feelings without letting them consume her. Capable of trusting herself to figure things out in time.

She wasn’t going to rush. She wasn’t going to force answers. She would let herself feel, and she would let time do its work. If something good could come from this—if something real could grow from all the wreckage—they would face it one step at a time.

And if not… she would still be standing.

***

The last week of September, Draco found her in her office.

They didn’t often cross paths at the Ministry. Every time they did, people had an unpleasant habit of staring. Not discreet glances, but long, deliberate looks, as if waiting for one of them to either cast a hex or pull the other into a kiss.

The press had quieted down recently, printing fewer speculative headlines about them. Yet, whenever Malfoy was seen in Diagon Alley with Maia and Scorpius, the stories flared up again. The public seemed unable to decide whether to root for them or hate them.

So, without really saying it, they’d both agreed to keep their distance at work. But that day, Draco came to her office anyway—unannounced.

“I was thinking,” he began, “we could spend a few days at my house in the South of France. I haven’t been there since I was a child, but I have good memories of the place. It’s close to the sea. Maia would love it. And I think some sun might do Scorpius and me some good.”

“When?”

“It would be best to go sometime in the next week or two, so the kids can swim in the sea while the weather is still warm.” He paused. “I’d really like you to come with us. I know how much you love the sea.”

It felt, somehow, like Draco was trying to give them both a little space—time away from the routines and obligations of their lives in England. Perhaps he hoped she might use that time to give him an answer about what their kiss had meant to her.

Hermione still didn’t know. But after her conversation with her mother, she felt stronger. Braver.

Before she could answer, the door swung open and her ten o’clock appointment walked in.

 “Hermione, hope I didn’t keep you waiting! I’d hate to be late for you.” Andrew Grant stepped inside, cheerful and oblivious.

“No, not at all,” she replied quickly, stepping forward. “I was expecting you.”

“Oh, I see you got my flowers!” he added with a smile.

Hermione’s eyes flicked briefly toward the bouquet of deep red roses she’d placed in a small vase earlier that morning. They truly were beautiful—full blooms, rich in color, and delicately fragrant. The note that had come with them, however, had read like a borrowed lyric from a saccharine love song:

"Even in a room full of magic, you'd still be the brightest spell."

Sweet. A little forced. Too much.

She’d kept the flowers. Thrown out the note.

“They’re lovely,” she said politely, her tone measured.

Andrew’s smile widened, clearly pleased with himself.

“I was hoping—” he began, but she cut him off, glancing over his shoulder.

“Malfoy... can we talk later, please?”

Draco  didn’t speak. His face was blank, unreadable, but the look he gave Andrew was sharp and unmistakably cold.

Andrew, who hadn’t noticed Draco until that very moment, turned to face him, slightly startled. “Oh—hello, Malfoy. I think Robards was looking for you earlier.”

Draco turned toward them, but his gaze didn’t quite reach hers. “Of course. I have to go”, he said curtly, then left the room without another word.

The meeting with Grant was a disaster.

First, because he asked her out again—tonight, no less—and Hermione had to scramble, yet again, for a gentle way to say no.

And second, because even though he brought valuable updates from the Auror Office regarding the strange magical phenomena appearing in the Muggle world, which could be critical ahead of her meeting with the Muggle Prime Minister the next morning, Hermione couldn’t focus.

Draco’s voice echoed in her thoughts long after Andrew had left.

I’d really like you to come with us.

The villa. The sea. The way he looked at her when he said it.

And the way he hadn’t looked at her when he left.

That night, after putting Maia to bed, Draco returned to the living room.

Most nights, he would linger without needing an invitation, talking idly about nothing and everything until they were both tired, then quietly disappearing into the fireplace.

But tonight was different. Tonight, he greeted her softly and then walked straight to the fireplace. He stepped toward the green flames as if ready to leave but just before vanishing, he paused.

“I need to know something,” he said, his back still turned to her.

Hermione straightened slightly. “What is it?”

“I want to ask you something. I promise, this is the first and last time I will.”

He turned towards her.

“I love you,” he said simply.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world.

As if he spoke those words to her every day.

“I’ve never stopped. I loved you then, I love you now, and I will love you for the rest of my life.”

“I need to know what you want from me—if you want anything from me,” Draco went on. “I could spend my entire life trying to win you back. I could give up everything, just for one day as your partner. I would do anything, Hermione—anything—if I knew it was what you wanted.”

“If there’s even the faintest sliver of hope, I will fight for you with everything I have. I’ll stand against Grant, against Karstair, against every single one of the men who look at you the way I do. I will clear them from your path, because I can’t even bear the thought of anyone else standing where I long to be."

“But I won’t chase you if it’s not what you want. I won’t force myself into your life. I won’t come between you and someone else. I won’t be the reason you're unhappy… not again.”

“If tonight, you tell me to stop—if you tell me that my love is unwelcome—I’ll never speak of it again. I swear it. If you ask me not to try, I’ll pretend those three kisses never happened. I’ll be Maia’s father, nothing more. I promise you… one word from you, and I will never speak of this again.”

He stood before her, firelight casting golden shadows across his face.

“But if there’s even a flicker… even a single heartbeat of belief left in you—for us— please, Hermione. Tell me now. Because these past few months have been agony. Hope has been burning through me like wildfire. And fear—fear has wrapped around my throat every time I see you and wonder if I’ve already lost you forever.”

Hermione held his gaze. His eyes were soft, brimming with hope, as if he’d laid his heart in her hands and was simply waiting to see what she would do with it.

And then, unexpectedly, her mother’s voice rose in her mind: You start by listening... not just to him, but to yourself.

She closed her eyes.

Her mother had been right—trust wasn’t a switch you flipped. It was a path, uneven and slow, paved with time and truth. And maybe she didn’t need to see the end of that path just yet. Maybe, today, it was enough to stop running from what she felt.

Because she did feel something—not just ache and longing, but the stirrings of something brave and alive. She wasn’t the girl he’d left behind, and he wasn’t the boy who had walked away. And through everything, despite everything, they had found their way back to this moment. Perhaps that meant something. Perhaps it meant everything.

She didn’t have all the answers. But she was finally ready to stop hiding from the questions.

She opened her eyes.

And then, Hermione stepped toward him.

“You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Beautiful eyes, but also a little sad.

“No. Yours are the most beautiful that exist.”

Their faces were inches apart now, foreheads nearly touching. She could feel his breath against her skin, saw the way his eyes flicked down to her lips and back again.

“I want to kiss you,” he whispered, half agony, half hope.

“Do it.”

The moment barely settled between them before his lips found hers.

It was nothing like the kiss he had given her weeks ago. This time, he kissed her softly at first, as though she might break. As though he was memorizing her—reverent and trembling.

But soon, the kiss deepened—slow and searching, then desperate, intense, burning with everything they hadn’t said. His hands came to her face, holding her like he was afraid she might vanish if he let go.

Hermione kissed him back with every ache she’d buried for years. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him like he was gravity and she’d been floating for far too long. She felt the years between them collapse—the silence, the heartbreak, the pain of what could have been—melting away beneath the heat of his mouth.

And in that kiss, she felt it all.

The anger.

The grief.

The longing.

The love she had tried so hard to forget.

It poured out of her in a single, breathless sob against his lips as he kissed her like a man drowning—and she let him, because in that moment, she was drowning too.

That night, he stayed.

They didn’t speak—not of the past, not of what came next. Words felt too sharp for the softness of what was unfolding between them. Instead, they simply curled into each other on the sofa, surrounded by the hush of a sleeping house and the tentative warmth of something neither of them dared name just yet.

At first, they touched each other as if relearning familiar shapes. Fingers brushed against cheeks, tracing lines softened or deepened by time, mapping the quiet changes life had carved into their faces. It was almost reverent—the way his thumb lingered at the corner of her mouth, the way her hand rested over his heart, feeling it thud beneath her palm. As though they could memorize one another again by touch alone.

Now and then, they kissed. Sweet, slow, aching kisses. Kisses that said I’m here, that whispered I want to try again. So many that Hermione lost count. Her lips tingled, tender from the pressure of them, and still she found herself leaning into the next. And the next. She didn’t want them to stop. She didn’t want him to stop.

Sometimes, they only looked at each other—eyes locked in a silence deeper than words. In those moments, they smiled shyly, uncertainly, like two people standing on the edge of something vast. At other times, tears slipped down their cheeks, unspoken grief mingling with a fragile kind of hope neither of them quite knew how to hold. She didn’t always know what the tears were for. Maybe for the time they’d lost. Maybe for the strange, terrifying joy of being found again.

He would draw her close then, arms tight around her, as though he could keep the moment from slipping away if he just held on tightly enough. And she would bury her face in his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him, grounding herself in the weight and warmth of his presence.

They whispered to each other in hushed voices, not full sentences but pieces of feeling—tender fragments meant only for the space between them. Sometimes he would tuck a curl behind her ear and murmur something so softly it felt more like a thought than a sound. And sometimes, she would take his hand in hers and press a kiss to his knuckles.

By the time the first light began to bleed through the curtains, they were still tangled together. His fingers had woven themselves lazily through her hair, and her head rose and fell with the steady rhythm of his breathing. Hermione held on to the moment like a lifeline, afraid that if she blinked, it would dissolve into the quiet ache of memory again.

“I should go,” he whispered.

“I know.”

He brushed her cheek with his hand and gave her a soft smile. “I’ll see you in a bit,” he said, just before stepping into the fireplace.

He returned an hour later to take Maia to school. He looked tired—just as she felt—but he was smiling. And Hermione couldn’t help but smile back.

“Shall I see you tonight?” he asked, as Maia ran off to put on her shoes.

Hermione nodded.

Maybe it was just her imagination, but that night, he stayed in Maia’s room for far less time than usual.

When he stepped into the living room, he found her already curled up on the sofa—the same one where they’d spent the night before. He paused in the doorway, and she saw it: the flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

She wondered if some part of him feared she’d changed her mind, if he thought she might regret what had happened between them.

But Hermione hadn’t changed her mind.

“Please, sit with me,” she said softly. And that was all it took. Whatever doubt lingered in his chest melted away.

He sat beside her, and just like that, they slipped into a quiet echo of the night before—wrapped in each other’s arms, lips meeting again and again. They whispered sweet things, mostly him to her.

“We should probably talk,” he murmured against her neck.

“You’re right,” she breathed, between uneven sighs.

He stilled, but his hands didn’t leave her—still brushing her cheek, still finding her fingers, still curling gently around her knee, as if he couldn’t bear to let go.

And then, finally, they talked.

About the past. About things that still hurt.

Draco spoke first, sharing fragments of his story in quiet honesty. When she asked what life had been like after Astoria died, he hesitated—his eyes searching hers..

“Do you really want to know?”

She nodded.

So he told her.

He told her about the guilt—how heavy it had been to mourn a woman he’d never truly loved. He told her about those first hollow days with a newborn in his arms, the sleepless nights and blurry mornings.

“I don’t think I slept at all back then,” he said. “I think I was just... a ghost.”

They spoke late into the night, revealing pieces of their lives to each other, bit by bit.

He told her about his sessions with Eve Fry. Just as Hermione had guessed, the therapist who’d helped with Maia had been in his life for years. He admitted there had been a time when he’d drifted from woman to woman, trying to fill a void he couldn’t name.

“I don’t even know what I was chasing,” he said. “It wasn’t pleasure. I don’t think I was capable of feeling anything back then.”

He told her about Lucius—about his death, and how in the end, the weight of it had landed squarely on his shoulders.

Hermione listened without interrupting, her hand resting gently over his. She saw how the words about his father caught in his throat, how they fractured before reaching his lips. So she didn’t press. She gave him space. Maybe one day, he would tell her everything.

When it was her turn, she told him about her loneliness, her fears. About the grief that never truly left her alone. She had grieved for their love, for the dreams they lost, for the life they never had. She confessed to the nights spent doubting everything. Wondering if she should’ve been braver.

When her voice began to falter beneath the weight of it all, he held her closer. Kissed her more tenderly. Smoothed her curls with quiet reverence.

They lay there again, wrapped in silence. His lips pressed against her forehead, her ear against the steady beat of his heart.

“Granger,” he murmured, his voice soft and warm against her hair. “If you truly want to give us another chance—really try—there’s something I need to tell you first.”

There was a shift in his tone. Hermione felt it instantly, like a hush falling over the room. A quiet pressure bloomed in her chest. She pulled back just enough to see his face, her eyes searching his.

“What is it?” she asked, barely above a whisper. Her heart had already begun to race.

He sat up straighter, his knees brushing hers as he turned to face her fully.

“I just....” he paused.

“For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy,” she said, her voice tight, breath hitching. “Just tell me.”

He drew in a slow, steadying breath. Then, finally:

“I’m not alone. I have a son. Scorpius. He means everything to me. Maia and he—they’re my whole world. He has no one else. Just me. And I’ll never leave him. I couldn’t. So if there’s even the faintest chance that you and I could have something real again… you need to know. I don’t come alone. We come together.”

His voice cracked, rough and vulnerable at the edges.

“If it’s too much—if you can’t do this—just say so now.”

Hermione reached for his hand and squeezed it, grounding him.

“Draco,” she said gently, her voice steady.

“No—listen to me. Scorpius adores you. I see it in the way he looks at you. I know you care about him, the way you’d care about any child. But it’s more than that. He’s already started to see you as a mother. And I keep telling him that you’re Maia’s mum, not his. I say it again and again, but he doesn’t seem to understand. Or maybe he just… doesn’t want to. And I don’t blame him. He’s already lost one mother far too soon. I can’t let him lose another.”

He swallowed hard.

“I know it’s too much to ask. And if you tell me now that it’s too much, I swear I’ll never hold it against you.”

“Draco, stop.” Her voice broke, sudden and fierce. “Don’t say another word. Now you listen to me.”

“Scorpius is wonderful. He’s an amazing little boy. I don’t know if people tell you this enough, but you should know—you’ve done an incredible job raising him. He’s kind, gentle, caring, and thoughtful. He’s a child who has received a lot of love, and it shows. And I love him, Draco. I promise you that.”

And she meant every word.

She loved him for his gentleness, his kindness, his quiet sweetness. For the way he had quietly entered her life and made a home in her heart—effortlessly and completely. Not just because he was Maia’s brother or Draco’s son, but simply because he was himself.

That very morning, just before stepping into the fireplace, he gave her the widest smile she had seen in a long time.

“I love you,” he said. “I’ll do whatever it takes to win you back. And I will, Granger—I will.”

She saw him the next day at Grimmauld Place.

She tried—truly tried—not to look at him. Not to scan the room for a glimpse of him, not to let her eyes linger or her thoughts drift. But it was a losing battle. Every wall she had built was crumbling, and the magnetic pull between them was stronger now than it had ever been in all those long eight years.

“Hermione? Are you even listening?” Ron’s voice cut through her reverie. He was watching her intently now, concern etched across his brow. She realized she hadn’t heard a single word he’d said.

She saw him again the next morning, when he and Scorpius came to pick Maia up for breakfast in the Muggle part of London.

“Will you come with us?” he asked, his smile warm and hopeful.

She said yes.

And when he took her hand as they walked—Maia and Scorpius trailing ahead, laughing at something only they understood—she didn’t pull away.

When he leaned in to whisper that she looked beautiful, a soft smile bloomed on her lips.

Later, when they said goodbye, he kissed Maia gently on the forehead and pressed a lingering kiss to Hermione’s knuckles. Her cheeks flushed with warmth, her heart thrumming softly in her chest.

That night, her phone buzzed with a message from him:

I’ll come by once the kids are asleep.

At nine, she heard the familiar flare of the Floo. Before she could even speak, he was there—already crossing the room, already pulling her into his arms, already kissing her with a tenderness that undid her completely.

“Hi,” she whispered, smiling up at him when their eyes met at last.

“Hi,” he replied, voice low and steady, as if he too couldn’t quite believe this was real.

They spent the night talking. About fears. About hope. About the future and what it might hold for them, if they were brave enough to reach for it.

“I want to get to know you all over again,” he murmured, his lips brushing her hair. “I want to win you back from the beginning. I want to take you out on a date.”

“A date?”

“Yes. A real one. It’s been eight years, Hermione. I love you—but so much has changed. You’ve changed, and I know I’ve changed too. I want to know everything about you. Again.”

Of course they’d changed. How could they not?

“Okay then. Let’s go on a date.”

“Our second first date,” he teased, a glint of hope in his eyes.

October 2008

Their second first date happened the following week.

They had carefully planned the logistics in secret. Maia and Scorpius would stay the night at Draco’s house, under the pretext that Tilly would be there to watch over them—and she would. Leaving the children with friends wasn’t an option. Not because they didn’t trust them, but because neither of them was ready to answer their questions.

Draco had chosen the place, but refused to tell her where they were going.

Hermione stood in front of the mirror for far too long that evening, second-guessing everything. Finally, she chose a deep midnight-blue dress that fell just below her knees—elegant and simple, with long fitted sleeves and a low V at the back. She wore her curls half-up, letting a few wisps frame her face, and added a silver shawl for warmth. A pair of black heels, understated jewelry, and a touch of lipstick completed the look.

When Draco arrived, he looked effortlessly put-together. Dark slacks, a charcoal-grey coat over a navy dress shirt that brought out the steel-blue of his eyes, and just a hint of cologne that made her stomach flutter.

They Apparated into a narrow alleyway somewhere in Muggle London. The city was alive with its usual hum—laughter spilling out of pubs, the rustle of leaves, distant car horns. Draco took her hand without hesitation, and they walked in silence for a few moments.

The route felt oddly familiar.

Hermione frowned, glancing around. She couldn’t quite place it—but something tugged at her memory. It wasn’t until they reached the end of the alley and turned the corner that she stopped dead in her tracks.

“Oh.”

They stood in front of a building she had known well but it was almost unrecognizable.

“Is this—?” she began, but Draco was already nodding.

“The Wizard’s Beard closed about six years ago,” he said. “Sometimes, in the early years, before Scorp was born, I’d come alone. Or with Theo. We’d have a drink, talk nonsense. It made things feel... less hollow. Then one day, I came back and it was gone. Closed for good.”

She glanced up at the new sign—sleek, gold-lettered, modern. A warm amber glow spilled through tall arched windows.

“Recently, I passed by again,” he went on. “Turns out, this place reopened. As a restaurant. There was a huge waiting list but I made a few calls.”

He offered his arm.

“You brought me back here,” she said, soft with awe.

“I fell in love with you here the first time. This time, I want to make you fall in love with me.”

Inside, the transformation was breathtaking. Where the old pub had been dark and smoky, the new space was elegant, intimate. Candlelight flickered in floating sconces along the walls. The color palette was warm neutrals and forest green, with gold accents and soft classical music playing just under the surface of the air.

They were led to a private table near the back—tucked beneath an archway, partially hidden by velvet drapes. The table was round, set for two, with a small vase of autumn wildflowers in the centre. It felt like the kind of place you could stay for hours and forget the world outside.

They ordered slowly, taking time with the menu—Hermione choosing a wild mushroom risotto, Draco going for venison with blackberry sauce. They shared a bottle of French wine, and lingered between courses, neither in any rush.

The conversation flowed easily. Naturally.

It wasn’t about Maia or Scorpius. Not tonight.

They talked about the books they had read recently and how they each spent the little free time they had. Hermione looked genuinely sad when she learned Draco had stopped brewing potions. “My godfather always said potions require dedication and time,” he told her with a faint smile. “I’m afraid I’ve got plenty of the first and a frustrating lack of the second.”

They spoke about the places they had travelled over the past years—though that part of the conversation was mostly Hermione’s. Draco hadn’t been outside of England since that disastrous trip to the Quidditch World Cup in Sydney so many years ago and the time he visited Australia to bring Maia her favorite chocolates.

She told him about Tokyo, a trip she’d managed while still pregnant with Maia, about the brilliant spells she encountered there and the fascinating people she met.

They laughed over old Hogwarts stories—the time, in eighth year, when Peeves had turned the entire library purple, or the time Theo had nearly fallen off his broom trying to impress a seventh-year Ravenclaw. None of them could remember her name anymore.

“I remember the first time you actually smiled at me,” he said. “A real smile. I think it short-circuited my brain. For a moment, I forgot even my name.”

Hermione grinned over her glass. “A Malfoy forgetting his name?”

They talked about food and favorite restaurants, and music. They learned things about each other they hadn’t known—new tastes, new fears, new dreams.

Hours passed unnoticed.

When dessert came, Hermione was laughing at something utterly ridiculous Draco had said about the politics of broom design. He was looking at her—half-offended, but mostly like she was the most important person in the world.

When they finally left, the night air had turned cold. He cast a warming charm on them , their fingers once again entwined.

They Apparated together just outside the gate of her cottage.

He didn’t let go of her hand right away. Instead, he led her to the stone wall by the garden, stopping just beyond the little wooden archway that led into her yard.

And then—just like he had done ten years ago in their first date—he kissed her.

Gently, firmly, pressing her back against the cool stone wall, his hands braced beside her. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry. It was reverent. Soft lips, steady breath, the way he leaned in like he’d been waiting a decade for this one moment to return.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered between kisses, his voice low and slightly hoarse. “I didn’t get the chance to tell you that tonight.”

She smiled against his mouth, but it was swallowed as he kissed her again—his fingers tracing slow paths down her arms, over the fabric of her sleeves, around the small of her back. Her breath caught, and he stilled, forehead resting against hers.

Then, slowly, he began to step away, retreating with a soft smile still playing on his lips.

“Will you promise me something?” he asked.

“What is it?”

He kept backing away as he spoke. “On our next date, I want you to wear that black dress, the one you were wearing when I found you packing for Cornwall. Just once… wear it for me.”

Something twisted inside her at the memory—the way he had looked at her back then.

“Maybe I will.”

She heard him laugh—a low, satisfied sound.

“Goodnight, Granger,” he said at last.

“Goodnight, Malfoy,” she replied softly.

A moment later, the sharp crack of his Apparition echoed through the stillness.

They kept seeing each other with a sense of wonder that felt both old and entirely new.

Sometimes they met at a small gallery in Shoreditch where magical and Muggle artists exhibited side by side. Other times, they strolled through the Kew Gardens under illusion charms to ward off recognition, or had lazy breakfasts in tucked-away muggle cafés behind shopfronts that blinked at passersby. One night, he took her to a rooftop in Soho charmed to resemble the night sky over the Alps, stars swirling in slow constellations above them.

Each time, they learned something new about one another—details that felt stolen from a different life, one they might have lived if everything had gone differently.

One evening, as they shared dessert in a dim-lit bistro hidden behind a bookshop in Bloomsbury, she blinked at him in disbelief.

“You got a driver’s license?”

Draco sipped his wine with theatrical nonchalance. “Blame Denis bloody Creeve. He wouldn’t shut up about how I might need one in case of an emergency. I did it just to make him stop pestering me.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

He smirked. “Alright. I may have Confunded the examiner so thoroughly he forgot his own name, and no—I don’t feel the slightest bit guilty.”

She burst into laughter, half horrified, half charmed, and fully undone.

Another night, she confessed over warm buttered bread and a bottle of Beaujolais, “I had to learn French for work. Those translation charms are dreadful sometimes."

He leaned closer, resting his elbow on the table. “You always liked languages, didn’t you?”

“I did,” she said softly. “Especially—” She hesitated, “Especially when I used to hear you speak it.”

That earned her a slow, dangerous grin and a kiss that stole her breath—followed by a low murmur of "je ne t'ai jamais oubliée" and "Je te reconquérirai, je te le promets", whispered against her skin in the alley behind the restaurant.

December, 2009

They spent Christmas Eve that year at the cottage. Soft light glowed from the Christmas tree in the corner of the sitting room, gently illuminating the garlands and wrapped gifts. Outside, snow began to fall under a grey winter sky.

There had been laughter. Games. A blissful kind of domestic chaos with Scorpius and Maia weaving through rooms like comets, giddy on sugar and the magic of the season. Draco had spent most of the day smiling.

He was spending Christmas Day with Narcissa and Scorpius at the Manor. Hermione and Maia would join the Weasleys at the Burrow the following morning. But tonight it was the four of them.

It had been a beautiful day.

And yet, beneath the surface, a quiet ache pulsed in her chest. A low, persistent sadness that had shadowed her all month. She hadn’t understood the shape of it—not entirely—until ten days ago, when she’d asked Maia what she wanted for Christmas.

Her daughter had stopped drawing at the little table in the sitting room and looked up at her, puzzled.  “I don’t want anything, mummy,” she’d said. “I have daddy now. I don’t need anything else.”

Hermione had stared at her, speechless, unsure what to say.

And now, tonight—on Christmas Eve of all nights—when she knew she should be filled only with joy, she found she could no longer hold it in.

“You’ve seemed… unsettled today,” he said, watching her. “Are you alright?”

He sat close beside her on the sofa, legs stretched out, an untouched glass of wine in his hand.

She hadn’t spoken in a while. Her gaze was on the flames, but her thoughts were eight years behind her, on the choices she’d made.

She turned toward him. “I’ve just been thinking.”

There was still one thought she had never said aloud. One fear that lived in her chest, untouched and unspoken.

“Sometimes,” she said, “I think it’s my fault.”

He frowned. “What is?”

“That Maia grew up without you,” she said, and the words shook as they came. “Especially now—seeing how happy she is with you, how her whole face lights up when you’re near. You blamed Theo. You blamed Harry. But you were wrong, Draco. It wasn’t them. It was me.”

He reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers.

“I feel guilty,” she said, the words sharp, raw. “If I’d told you the truth back then—if I’d had the courage to say I was pregnant before the wedding—if I’d done anything differently... maybe things would’ve been better. Maybe she would’ve known you from the start. Maybe we could’ve been—”

Her voice cracked. “—a family.”

Her shoulders trembled as the rest spilled out.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have been so alone. Maybe you wouldn’t have. Maybe Maia wouldn’t have grown up wondering why other kids had two parents and she didn’t. You missed so many years with her. And I never said it before, but…”

Her voice faltered.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for keeping her from you.”

Tears spilled freely now, tracing warm paths down her cheeks.

Draco leaned in. He cupped her face in both hands, tilting her gaze to meet his.

“No. Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”

She opened her mouth, but he shook his head before she could speak.

“You didn’t take anything from me. You gave her everything. You kept her safe. You raised her with kindness and brilliance and fierce love. You’ve been her whole world.”

He brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of his knuckle.

“She’s extraordinary. And that’s because of you. I’m grateful that she had you. Grateful that you never let her grow up in the shadows of my mistakes…”

“…We didn’t lose time, Hermione. We still have time. All the time in the world, if we want it. And I do. With you. With Maia. With Scorpius. I want it all.”

She swallowed hard. “But… if I’d made different choic—”

He silenced her gently.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t torture yourself with what-ifs. We don’t have a Time-Turner. We don’t need one.”

He gave her a soft, bittersweet smile.

“Maybe there’s another world out there where I chose differently. Where I never left you. Where we got married young, and the house is full of noisy kids and love in every corner. Maybe that version of us exists somewhere.”

“…But we’re not in that world. We’re in this one. With the mess. The regrets. The chance to start anew. And I won’t waste another second of it without you.”

She gasped as his thumb swept another tear from her cheek.

“Don’t cry, love,” he whispered, leaning forward.

He kissed one of her eyes. Then the other.

“Kisses make tears go away,” he said softly.

The words wrapped around her like something sacred.

Her father had said those same words to her when she was little. She had said them to Maia countless times, during tear-streaked hours.

And now, as Draco whispered them into the silence, she believed it again.

They fell asleep on the sofa.

That night, she dreamt of their life in other worlds—the ones Draco had described to her.

Worlds where he met her every morning at a quiet little café, and they shared scones over laughter and soft touches.

Worlds where a grand magical portrait hung above their mantelpiece, showing the two of them in old age, surrounded by a half dozen grown children with curly blond hair and grey eyes, grandchildren tugging at their sleeves, generations of love spilling across the canvas.

Worlds with green velvet sofas and Crookshanks curled in her lap, purring softly.

Worlds where they fell in love again and again and again.

But instead of making her sad, the dream brought her peace. Because now, she knew— All those worlds were possible.

They had time.

All the time in the world.

***

She woke to soft whispers and the unmistakable giggle of Scorpius nearby, but when she opened her eyes, no one was standing there.

She was still in Draco’s arms, his body wrapped around hers like a blanket against the hush and cold of Christmas morning.

She didn’t know what time it was and she didn’t care.

It was Christmas. And after nearly ten years she was exactly where she was meant to be. In his arms.

Chapter Text

At first, they had agreed to keep their relationship a secret — not only from their friends, but from their children as well. From their friends, because despite everyone’s good intentions, Hermione and Draco both felt this was a path they needed to walk on their own, free from interference or opinions that might cloud their judgment. From their children, because they didn’t want to involve them until they were certain their relationship had the strength and maturity to withstand whatever challenges lay ahead.

But, as with most carefully laid plans, things didn’t unfold exactly as expected.

Perhaps it was because neither of them was particularly good at pretending. Or maybe, as Draco often muttered under his breath, “Harry bloody Potter always knows everything.” Either way, everyone around them seemed to catch on.

To their credit, no one said a word. Their relationship became an open secret — one their closest friends politely ignored, while Hermione and Draco, in turn, continued pretending it wasn’t glaringly obvious.

The same, however, couldn’t be said for their children, who were far less discreet.

Scorpius, being younger, might not have fully grasped what was going on, but Maia? Maia absolutely knew. She never said it aloud, never asked directly, but her behavior made it unmistakably clear she had figured it out and that it made her happy.

Sometimes, Hermione would catch her watching them with a barely concealed smile, as if silently delighting in a story she was part of, but didn’t wish to spoil. Other times, Maia and Scorpius would dissolve into giggles in some corner of the house, whispering and exchanging sly glances whenever Hermione and Draco entered the room.

Once, Maia had asked Draco why he wasn’t sleeping at the cottage.

“You spend all your free time here anyway, daddy,” she said matter-of-factly. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you just slept here too?”

A week later, she handed him a drawing titled Our Family. It showed four smiling figures — me, mummy, daddy, and Scorpius — surrounded by hearts and a radiant, overenthusiastic sun. Strawberry the cat was curled in Maia’s arms.

When Hermione gently asked her about it, Maia only shrugged.

“Daddy hugs you, and you both hug me and Scorpius, and we all love each other. That’s why I drew so many hearts.”

After a few more moments like that, with offhand comments and knowing glances, it started to feel almost silly to keep pretending.

So, one quiet evening, with both children curled up on the sofa, they told them the truth in the simplest way they could: that they loved each other. That they were a family, not just in drawings, but in real life.

The children’s reaction was everything they had hoped for. Scorpius grinned and threw his arms around them both. Maia beamed, just like the sun in her picture.

Later that night, as Hermione leaned in to kiss her goodnight, Maia looked up at her with a wide, sleepy smile and whispered:

“I knew it.”

***

For the first two months, Draco never stayed the night. That had become an unspoken rule between them.

He would stay with her in the living room until the fire burned low and everything was quiet, then he would leave.

They sat close, knees brushing, fingers intertwined. They kissed like people trying to make up for lost time—laughing between kisses, fumbling like two people discovering each other for the first time, then leaning back in only to forget caution all over again.

On their fourth official date, they attended the grand opening of a lavish Muggle hotel, an investment Draco had recently made as part of his growing involvement in the Muggle world.

That night, Hermione finally found an excuse to wear the black dress he adored.

This time, she wore it for him.

The truth was, the first time she had worn it, it hadn’t been for Adrian. She’d chosen it because it made her feel strong. Confident. Like herself. Some might say she had worn it for her own sake. And they wouldn’t be wrong.

But tonight... tonight was different.

She wore it for Draco. Because she wanted to see his reaction. And if she were being honest—she was excited, too.

Draco hadn’t expected it. When he saw her, just like the first time, he stopped cold. For a beat, he said nothing. Then, in a voice barely more than a breath, he murmured,

"Don’t move. I’ll be right back."

And with that, he vanished into the fireplace.

Ten minutes later, he returned holding the most exquisite piece of jewelry Hermione had ever seen. It was a delicate heirloom necklace—an antique piece of fine silver, adorned with small, perfectly cut emeralds that glinted like sunlight through deep forest leaves. The centerpiece was a teardrop-shaped green gem, encased in filigree metalwork, suspended on a fine, whisper-thin chain.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, sweeping her hair to the side so he could clasp it around her neck.

He slipped his arms around her from behind and pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “Merlin, Hermione… your skin is so soft. I want to—”

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice barely more than a breath.

He paused—she heard him take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I know we said we wouldn’t rush. Not unless you’re ready.”

Later that night, when they returned to her cottage, he kissed her slowly.

She looked at him, searching his face, then whispered, “Stay.”

And then, after a breath, more certain:  “Sleep with me tonight.”

He froze for the briefest moment. Then kissed her with a hunger that felt like years catching fire.

He lifted her into his arms, and she let herself fall completely into him. He carried her to the bedroom with a tenderness that stole her breath. There, he kissed her slowly: her mouth, her cheeks, the curve of her jaw, the hollow of her throat.

Kisses that asked permission. Kisses that gave thanks.

“I don’t look like I used to,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

She hated how small her voice sounded. She had never explained herself to anyone. Not about the softness that lingered on her hips, or the way her breasts no longer sat quite as high, or the stretch of skin across her belly that bore the quiet map of motherhood.

“You’re perfect,” he said, his voice low, steady, as he slowly unzipped the side of her black dress.

He helped her out of it, leaving her in nothing but her underwear. Then he paused, just looking at her. His hands came to rest on the gentle swell of her stomach, the one she still sometimes tried to hide even from herself.

“This,” he whispered, “is where our daughter grew. Your body was her first home. How could I not love it? How could I not love you? So much. So completely.”

Their clothes vanished, scattered somewhere beside the bed. They touched each other with reverence, fingertips trailing over skin that had forgotten how it felt to be seen like this. Lips found old places long neglected—shoulders, collarbones, the tender space behind knees. And new places too, where time had left its quiet mark.

They took their time.

When he spoke again, his voice cracked with shy honesty.

“Granger… it’s been a while…”

She smiled and ran her fingers through his hair, brushing it gently back from his face.

“It’s been a while for me too.”

“No, I mean… it’s been a long while—”

She silenced him with her mouth, with her hands, with the certainty in her body that she wanted this—him—here.

He entered her slowly, carefully, as though afraid the moment might shatter. And she held him with the same care, drawing him deeper, her breath catching as their bodies found each other again after so long.

Being with him like this, skin to skin, breath to breath, was like waking inside a dream.

She had forgotten what it felt like to lie beneath him, to look into his eyes while he moved within her, to feel his hands mapping her like sacred ground, to hear his voice break with all the things he couldn’t say aloud.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered again, kissing her like a prayer.

“So are you,” she murmured against his skin.

The most beautiful man in the world.

Hers.

At last and again.

May 2010

Their first official appearance as a couple took place at the twelfth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts.

The moment they stepped into the Great Hall, the press went wild. Flashes erupted like fireworks, and the sudden surge of bodies was so overwhelming that Harry had to draw his wand and threaten a few particularly aggressive reporters with hexes just to create a path through the chaos.

It was a miserable night.

People stared as if they couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing. The older pureblood families, present mostly because of their positions on the Hogwarts Board of Governors or in the Ministry, looked ready to devour them whole. Their gazes were sharp, cold, and laced with judgment, like shattered glass.

The Greengrasses, Astoria’s parents, sent Hermione daggers with every glance. At one point, they even tried to corner her near the refreshments table, but Ginny appeared at her side in a flash and wordlessly steered her away with practiced ease.

Later in the evening, when Hermione noticed the Greengrasses approaching again, she tensed instinctively. But this time, she wasn’t alone.

Draco was beside her. She felt the reassuring warmth of his hand at the small of her back as he leaned in slightly, nodding toward someone ahead.

“What’s going on?” she murmured.

He didn’t answer, just gestured subtly toward the figure walking toward them.

A tall, elegant blonde woman was making her way through the crowd with effortless grace. Her beauty was striking—icy, sculpted—but her eyes were kind. Hermione recognized her at once.

“Hello,” the woman said, her voice warm and sure. “I don’t think we’ve ever been properly introduced. I’m Daphne Greengrass. Scorp’s aunt.”

Hermione blinked, startled by the unexpected gentleness in her tone.

“Hi… I’m Hermione Granger,” she replied, cautious but courteous.

Daphne laughed lightly, her smile widening. “Oh, I know who you are. I’ve been hoping to meet you.”

From the way she said it, Hermione believed her.

The next morning and for the next four relentless months, their rekindled relationship was splashed across every magical newspaper, magazine, and gossip rag in Britain.

No detail was too small. Articles dissected everything: her past, his past, their time at Hogwarts, the so-called scandal of their reunion, their children, their former partners, the suspicious timeline of their relationship.

Some pieces veered into wild speculation, spinning elaborate conspiracies about secret affairs and hidden motives. Others took aim at her Muggleborn status, his family’s dark history, or decried their union as “an affront to tradition.”

Headlines screamed:

“The Golden Girl and the Ex-Death Eater: Hogwarts' Strangest Love Story Yet”

“Granger-Malfoy: A Redemption Arc or a PR Stunt?”

“What Would Astoria Think?”

“From War to Romance: How Hermione Granger Lost Her Mind (and Her Standards)”

Paparazzi camped outside the cottage. Journalists sent enchanted letters disguised as fan mail. One particularly vicious op-ed claimed Hermione was “using Draco Malfoy for power and position,” as if she hadn’t built her entire life and reputation on her own.

They stopped reading the papers after a week.

Eventually, mercifully, a Ministry embezzlement scandal broke and hijacked the public’s attention. The press turned elsewhere. The headlines faded. The cameras disappeared.

Finally, they were left in peace.

June 2010

Life went on.

That summer, Draco withdrew from work almost entirely, taking on only the occasional consulting case—matters of such complexity they genuinely demanded his expertise.

“Are you sure?” Hermione asked one night, as they lay side by side in the quiet of their room.

“I’m sure,” he said and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Maia is already eight, and Scorpius is nearly six. In three years, she’ll be off to Hogwarts. That means I still have three years to be fully present, without distractions, for both of them. After that, she’ll be gone for seven years. When she comes back, she’ll probably be in love with some idiotic Gryffindor. Or worse, a Slytherin,” he added with a theatrical shiver.

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re a Slytherin,” she reminded him with a grin.

“And who said I deserve you?” he replied with a teasing smile.

But beneath the humor, she heard it. That quiet thread of uncertainty, the lingering truth behind the joke.

It wasn’t the first time she had glimpsed that hidden corner of his heart. The part that still hadn’t fully forgiven himself.

***

Their relationship wasn’t flawless. It wasn’t a fairy tale. They fought. They argued. Their stubbornness often collided before their logic had a chance to catch up. There were moments of silence, stretches of miscommunication, and days when neither of them could find the right words. But always, they tried.

At the end of the day, one of them would take the first step. Even if it was just a small one.

And every night, without exception, they ended up in the same bed. Wrapped around each other like it was the only place they truly belonged.

“I spent too many years without my arms around you,” he had whispered once, after a particularly bad argument. “I don’t want another night without you.”

Maybe the anger lingered into the morning. Maybe some wounds needed more than a night to heal. But the nights were sacred. Always together in the dark, whispering soft words, touching the edges of forgiveness.

There had been a time, not so long ago, when the nights were the worst part of her day.

Back in Sydney, they had stretched out endlessly. Long and heavy. Too much space. Too much silence.

Just her, alone, in a bed that always felt too big.

But now, the nights were her favorite.

Because no matter how the day had gone, no matter what had been said or left unsaid, she knew one thing for certain.

He would be there. So would his warmth.

And she would never fall asleep alone again.

August 2010

It was early August when Draco first mentioned Blaise Zabini’s villa in Sardinia. Empty for the summer. Theirs, if they wanted it. If she wanted it.

Hermione hadn’t seen Blaise since their fifth year at Hogwarts. He’d always seemed aloof, sharp-eyed, vaguely amused by everything—especially people like her, born of Muggles. The idea of staying in his house, even temporarily, felt oddly intimate. Unsettling, almost. But Draco, who’d reconnected with Blaise a few months earlier, promised her he wasn’t the same boy they remembered.

Two weeks later, they arrived.

The villa perched high on a cliff above the sea, nestled among wild rosemary and bleached stone. Pale green shutters trembled in the salt-sweet wind, and the air was heavy with lemons and heat. It was beautiful, disarmingly so. Too serene, too cinematic, like stepping into someone else’s dream.

“I cannot believe this,” Draco muttered, exasperated. “I own the largest manor in Britain, three times the size of this place. The Malfoy gardens stretch for acres, with actual peacocks, mind you, which I despise. And yet for the past twenty minutes, all you’ve done is rave about the architecture, the furniture, the paintings. Have you even seen the paintings at the Manor?” He sighed dramatically.

“Are you jealous, Malfoy?” she teased, perhaps a little too gleefully now that she realized how much it irked him. To be fair, the villa really was stunning, but maybe she had gone slightly overboard.

“Jealous? Of this? Absolutely not.”

“Dad! This is the most beautiful place in the world!” Maia came bounding toward them, already clad in her swimsuit and a sunhat far too large for her, bouncing with every step. Behind her, Scorpius followed at a more measured pace, slathered in sunscreen and squinting against the brilliant light.

The days slipped by gently, one flowing into the next. Mornings began with sunlight spilling through sheer curtains and the sound of children’s laughter as they raced down the stone steps to the beach. Afternoons drifted under wide umbrellas, Maia collecting shells with earnest purpose, Scorpius building lopsided sandcastles. Draco watched them both with a quiet, open tenderness that still caught Hermione by surprise.

Evenings slowed the world.

They cooked simple meals. Once, Draco had protested.

“There are house-elves in the villa, Granger—”

“I am capable of feeding my family, Malfoy,” she said without looking up.

“I know love,” he said softly, clearly pleased.

Sometimes they cooked side by side, other times she relented and let the elves handle dinner. They dined on the terrace beneath skies streaked with orange, or inside the grand dining room when the heat lingered. Almost every night, the children fell asleep quickly, worn out by sun and sea. She and Draco stayed up late, sipping cool Aperol Spritz beneath the stars.

They talked about Hogwarts, childhood memories, half-remembered and half-invented. She shared stories of her father, Australia, the diagnosis, the last months. He spoke of his mother, how she’d grown distant after Lucius died, how she awkwardly tried to find her way back to him and Scorpius, and how she finally apologized after hearing about Maia.

He told her about therapy, how Narcissa had reluctantly agreed to see a Muggle therapist recommended by Evi Fry, how necessary it had felt.

They spoke for hours, watching the moonlight shimmer on the sea. When words ran out, he took her hand and led her to bed, where they spent nights relearning each other’s bodies, wants, what had changed and what had never truly left.

A few days before they were due to leave, Blaise came to visit. Just as Draco had promised, he was warm, even charming, especially with the children. He introduced them to his wife, an Italian half-blood with quick hands, a musical accent, and two children younger than Scorpius. She was visibly pregnant, her belly round beneath a breezy summer dress.

On the second-to-last night, Draco surprised them. There was a local village festival happening that evening with music, dancing and Italian food.

They dressed lightly, perfect for wandering narrow cobblestone streets lined with crumbling stone walls draped in bougainvillea, the warm hum of life spilling from open windows. Most were tourists, but locals mingled too. They ate more than they should have, and at one point Scorpius patted his belly gravely and declared, “I think I’m having a baby.”

This, Hermione thought, was the magic of Mediterranean summers, how time bent and stretched, became irrelevant. At eight o’clock, the sun was still high and golden, the light endless. The scent of wood-fired ovens lingered in the air, laughter sparkled off wine glasses, and the whole evening felt suspended in a dream.

In the village square, a band played a bright, cheerful rhythm. Tourists and locals danced in a blur, following the calls of an exuberant instructor. Maia grabbed Scorpius’s hand and pulled him into the circle. They tried to mimic the steps, giggling and bumping into strangers.

As the crowd thinned, the music slowed, soft and melodic.

“Dance with me,” Draco said, extending his hand.

“You’re serious?” she asked, surprised.

“Why not?”

“Here?”

“If not here, then where?”

She took his hand, letting him pull her close. Around them, couples swayed to the rhythm. Hermione glanced over to see Maia and Scorpius awkwardly attempting a waltz, arms draped clumsily over each other’s shoulders.

“I still haven’t taught you how to waltz,” he said, nodding toward the children.

“You’ll have your chance,” she whispered. “We have all the time in the world now. Remember?”

He looked down at her, hands brushing over her waist as they moved.

“We do have time,” he said quietly, “but I don’t want to waste another minute not calling you my wife, Hermione. I want to do what I should’ve done ten years ago. I want a family. Our family. I want you. I want to marry you. I want to wake up next to you every day. I want a big house in the countryside, room for the four of us. I want us to decorate it together. I want Mediterranean summers and Christmases with our mothers. I want Saturday mornings in the park and Sundays at Grimmauld Place. I want to go to the Jane Austen Festival in Bath with you. I’ll wear whatever ridiculous costume you make me wear and yes, you can take all the pictures you want because I’m never doing it again.”

“I want you, desperately. I’ve wanted you for years. I’ve dreamed of this, wished for this. And now I’m asking, will you marry me, love?”

As the music drifted through the warm night air and the scent of sugar and smoke hung between them, with their children giggling nearby and the sun dipping below the hills, she wrapped her arms around him and whispered her answer into the curve of his neck.

April 2011

It took them only two weeks of searching to find and purchase their new home. Hermione had fallen in love with it the moment she stepped through the door and so had the children. Nearly three times the size of her old cottage, it was a warm, welcoming two-storey house with four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a vast living room, a sunlit kitchen, and a stunning, high-ceilinged room that was destined to become their library.

They moved in just before Christmas of 2010. To welcome the new year, they hosted a grand celebration, opening their doors to family and friends. Among the guests was Theo Nott, despite Hermione’s quiet fear that he might not come, even after all the invitations she had sent. But in the end, he appeared, a bottle of aged American whiskey in hand.

Hermione knew how deeply Draco still mourned the slow unraveling of that friendship. More than once, she had urged him to reach out, to try again, to salvage what had once meant so much. At last, he relented and sent Theo an owl. Three days later, a reply arrived.

Their correspondence remained brief and sporadic, but it existed. And that was something. A beginning. Hermione believed, with time and a little will from both sides, that the bond could be repaired.

Six months later, they were married on Andromeda’s estate, in the private garden where Draco had once planted trees and flowers in bloom. Theo stood with them that day, alongside the Weasleys, the Potters, the Zabinis, the Longbottoms, and a handful of other dear friends and family.

All the children from the orphanage were there too, seated proudly in the front row, dressed in their finest. The girls wore flowers woven into their hair, and the boys had matching blossoms pinned neatly to their lapels.

There were no professional photographers. No extravagant floral arches. Hermione didn’t wear the most expensive gown by the most celebrated designer.

They were married beneath the tangerine trees, surrounded by blossoms that bore her name.

Maia and Scorpius stood beside them, dressed in miniature versions of their parents’ wedding clothes.

In the months that followed, Draco occasionally met with Dennis Creevey to oversee the affairs of Malfoy Enterprises. Most of his time, however, was devoted to home. That was where he found real purpose, in the quiet presence of Maia and Scorpius.

Evenings often saw him seated beside Maia as she practiced spells, or quietly observing Scorpius as he lost himself in the pages of a book, brow furrowed in focus.

Hermione, meanwhile, had earned yet another promotion, one that opened doors to international travel and broader influence. Still, she chose to remain close whenever she could, unwilling to spend too much time away from Draco and the children.

Their life settled into a rhythm. It was gentle, steady, filled with small joys and shared silences, with work and family held carefully in balance.

Maia, in particular, flourished under Draco’s patient guidance. After countless early-morning flying lessons, she had become remarkable on a broomstick. Her confidence and control were well beyond her years. More than once, she and Draco rose before dawn and slipped out into the stillness to catch the first light of day as they soared through the crisp morning air.

“If she didn’t resemble you so much in every other way, I wouldn’t believe she’s your child, Hermione,” Harry had told her when he saw Maia’s progress in flying.

Scorpius, by contrast, never quite took to flying. He preferred the quiet of the house, spending long hours curled up in the soaring library with Hermione. Together, they read for what seemed like ages. Scorpius would interrupt every few minutes to ask why dragons breathed fire or how many stars were in the sky. Those questions made Hermione smile and think harder than any Ministry debate ever had.

"Granger, can you hand me that book?" he asked one afternoon.

They were alone in the library again, just the two of them, as they often were.

Hermione smiled and brought him the book on magical creatures he had pointed to. She sat beside him and tucked her legs beneath her.

"Would you like me to read it to you?

Scorpius shook his head giving her a proud little grin. "I can do it," he said.

He was nearly seven and he read beautifully. Maia had spent countless afternoons teaching him everything she knew. Reading, writing, numbers, little facts she believed were important. Scorpius had soaked it all up like sunlight.

As he read, his voice was clear and full of wonder. Hermione watched him with quiet affection. She loved this child more deeply than she had ever thought possible.

And yet, he still called her “Granger.”

It had been nearly a year since her wedding to Draco. It wasn’t that she needed the word. Not really. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, she ached to hear it. To hear him say it again after so many months.

When the story ended, Scorpius closed the book with a satisfied little sigh and moved to stand, ready to pick another from the shelves.

“Scorp,” she said gently.

He paused and looked at her, his bright blue eyes filled with curiosity—so much like his biological mother’s and his aunt’s that it made her chest ache.

She reached out and brushed a soft strand of blond hair from his forehead, letting her hand linger for a moment.

“You know,” she began carefully, “if you ever want to call me mum, you can. I’d like that very much. I love you like you’re my own. You are my son, even if I didn’t carry you in my tummy.”

He blinked at her, surprised, and sat down again beside her, closer this time. The boy studied her for a moment, eyebrows knitting in thought.

“I know,” he said. “I’ve always called you mum.”

Hermione smiled, but she still looked puzzled.

“No, love. You call me by my surname. Granger.”

“Granger means mum,” he said matter-of-factly.

She turned her head to look at him. “What do you mean?”

“When I was little, dad and I made a deal. He told me not to call you mummy, because you were Maia’s mummy, not mine. But I wanted you to be mine, too. So… we made a deal. We invented a secret language. Dad said we could make words mean anything we want. I decided that in my language ‘Granger’ would mean ‘mum,’” he said, as if that were the most natural thing in the world.

Hermione’s breath caught. Before she could speak, he reached up with his small hand and gently brushed her curls behind her ear. It was an uncharacteristically tender gesture for a seven-year-old boy.

“You’ve always been my mum,” he whispered. “Since forever.”

Her arms wrapped around him, pulling him close.

And if a few tears slipped from her eyes as she pressed a kiss to his golden head, they were warm and happy and full of everything she couldn’t put into words.

Chapter Text

Epilogue

The house was even more beautiful than Hermione remembered from their first visit to the Aegean. It stood proudly atop a hill, overlooking the endless blue of the sea. With its classic whitewashed walls and iconic Cycladic cubic forms, it was grand and imposing, an elegant blend of authentic architecture and modern luxury.

The courtyard was spacious and thoughtfully arranged, tall trees providing shade and coolness around the seating areas. At its center lay a large, crystal-clear pool reflecting the sun and the bright blue sky, inviting refreshing swims. From every corner of both courtyard and house, the panoramic sea view was breathtaking and all-encompassing. The home was designed to impress, with open spaces and wide verandas where light and breeze reigned.

Draco had rented the house for the entire summer. Three whole months on the Greek islands, a promise he had made twelve years ago and had finally been able to fulfill.
Hermione, who under any other circumstances would never have agreed to step away from work for so long, surprised even herself by how quickly she said yes. The moment he told her they’d return to that same island, the one that had once offered them a brief, stolen escape from the world, she couldn’t resist.

The children adored everything about the place: the sea, the food, the freedom and even the sun. Scorpius, now nine, was more cautious than the rest when it came to the sun; he applied so much sunscreen that Hermione, at thirty-three, joked she hadn’t worn that much in her entire life.

“Mum!” Maia called one morning, bounding up the stone steps two at a time. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat and excitement, her hair wild from the breeze. “There’s a man down at the harbor shouting about cruises to some magical underwater cave. Can we go? There’s one leaving this afternoon!”

Draco followed just behind her, already grinning. His white linen shirt was wrinkled from the sea air, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. Ηe looked more relaxed than she had seen him in years.

“Do you want to go?” Hermione asked him, brushing Maia’s curls away from her eyes.

“Why not?” Draco said with a shrug and a smile that made her heart flutter.

That afternoon, they boarded a small sailboat alongside a friendly group of German tourists and their young daughter. The wooden deck creaked beneath their feet, and the sails snapped overhead as they glided over the sunlit water. Scorpius sat curled beside Hermione with a hat too big for his head, clutching a sketchpad where he tried to draw the coastline. Maia leaned over the edge, hair trailing in the wind, asking the captain endless questions in a mix of English and newly-learned Greek.

They spent the evening drifting from one hidden cove to another exploring sea carved caves. Their guide spoke in a comically thick accent but told stories so vivid the children were enchanted. When the sun began to set casting a golden path across the waves Draco slipped his arm around Hermione’s waist. She rested her head on his shoulder feeling the salt in his hair the warmth of his skin and the quiet joy of having nowhere to be except here.

Ten days later, Blaise Zabini arrived on the island with his wife Lucia, their three children, and what seemed like far more luggage than anyone could possibly need. Over iced drinks under the fig tree, they announced that they were thinking of renting a house nearby for the rest of the summer.

“The island is beautiful, Uncle Blaise!” Maia chimed in enthusiastically. “We went to these caves that are supposed to be magical, but honestly, there were no fairies or glowing lights or anything like that. Still, they were really pretty!”

“Oh, I know those caves. One in particular,” Blaise said with a wink toward his wife.

Draco cleared his throat sharply. “Not in front of my children, Zabini.”

Blaise and Lucia laughed without apology.

Later that evening, once the kids had gone to bed and the adults had indulged in perhaps one cocktail too many, the conversation drifted to Maia and the looming milestone of September 1st.

Draco, as always, avoided the subject. It was as though if he didn’t talk about it, she wouldn’t grow up. She’d stay six forever, flying wobbly loops on her toy broomstick, her curls bouncing behind her.

“You know,” Blaise said, stretching lazily in his chair, “maybe you ought to take your wife to the magical caves, Malfoy.”

Draco snorted. “If I want to have sex with my wife, Zabini, I’ve got ten very comfortable beds scattered throughout this house. No need to drag her into some damp hole in the rock.”

Hermione blushed a deep red.