Chapter Text
The Manor kitchen smelled of cinnamon and warm vanilla when they entered, a scent Hermione would never have imagined existed here during the war.
Sunlight poured in through charm-warmed windows, gilding marble counters and copper pots that hovered politely over the stove, stirring themselves with gentle clinks.
And there, at the stove, was Narcissa Malfoy.
Not regal, not distant, though she was always a queen, even in house slippers, but soft. Hair in a loose twist, sleeves rolled to her elbows, wand guiding a floating pan of pancakes while she judged gooseberry jam with the severity of a Potions Master.
“Oh good,” Narcissa said as they tumbled in like a small hurricane. “You’re all awake. I was worried Scorpius might try to levitate the sugar again.”
Scorp gasped. “I only did that once! And it was to see if fairies would come eat it!”
“And they did,” Albus announced proudly.
Hermione blinked. “They did?”
“They were very tiny and very sparkly and very sticky,” Scorp whispered, awe-struck. “It was glorious.”
Draco shot Hermione a long-suffering look. “My life is a cautionary tale, Granger.”
She bit back laughter. “It seems… lively.”
Narcissa turned, and Hermione braced, she still never quite expected gentleness here.
But Narcissa only smiled, real warmth in it. “Good morning, Hermione. I hope you slept well.”
Hermione opened her mouth, paused, then nodded once, meaningfully.
Narcissa saw more than Hermione said. Her gaze softened, not pity, but acknowledgement. Women who survived war recognized each other without speaking.
“Tea?” Narcissa offered, voice silk and steel.
Hermione nodded.
Draco moved before he realized he’d moved, quietly stepping in to prepare it. Black tea, honey, a touch of lemon. Exactly how Hermione took it.
She stared. “You… know how I take my tea?”
He shrugged, casual in theory, catastrophic in practice. “You made it that way in the library yesterday,” he said, too quickly. “I notice things.”
Something warm and unsteady slid through her chest.
Before she could reply, Scorpius tugged her to the table. “Sit next to me and Albus. We saved you the best chair.”
“It has extra cushion charms,” Albus whispered proudly. “Uncle George taught me.”
Hermione sat, feeling oddly like someone had quietly reserved a place she hadn’t realized she wanted.
Narcissa floated plates to them with graceful flicks. Pancakes stacked tall, berries glistening, clotted cream in silver dishes, breakfast like comfort was a spell.
“Thank you,” Hermione murmured.
“Nonsense,” Narcissa replied softly. “You are like family here.”
Hermione swallowed hard, pulse stuttering. She wasn’t sure how to hold a sentence like that. She wasn’t sure she was allowed to.
Draco stiffened like the words hit him, too, quickly hiding it in his teacup.
Crookshanks leapt into Narcissa’s lap like royalty accepting an audience. Narcissa stroked him once, dignified, and Crooks purred like thunder.
Traitor, Hermione thought fondly.
Breakfast unfolded in bright, ridiculous bursts: Scorpius assigning pancake toppings like a general distributing weapons, Albus announcing they were forming “The Order of Pancake Knights”. Draco, deadpan: “We do not need another secret society in this family”. Narcissa: “At least this one only uses jam.” Hermione laughing, freely, without flinching from the sound. Crooks attempting to kill a blueberry.
There was a moment, just a moment, where Hermione looked at Draco across the table, and the air shifted.
Maybe she hasn’t been thinking lately about a partner because she didn’t trust life to give her good things and let them stay.
And maybe, sitting here, in a kitchen where pain once grew but hope now brewed gently with morning tea…
Maybe she wondered if healing could be this quiet.
If love, someday, could be this soft.
“After breakfast,” Narcissa announced, elegant even while buttering a scone like diplomacy itself, “the boys may explore the orchard. And Hermione dear, if you’d like to help me repot the moon-orchids later, I’d be delighted. They always bloom better with company.”
Hermione’s throat tightened. “I’d like that.”
Then Draco, pretending to be nonchalant but failing spectacularly: “And after that we’ll check those stabilizing runes. I want to review your notes again. Unless you’re needed at Sage or St. Mungus?”
Hermione met his eyes. “Of course. I took the week off from St. Mungus, and Briony is in charge of Sage for today, so I can fully focus on this.”
It was such an ordinary thing. And somehow the most extraordinary of all.
Scorpius wiped jam across his cheek like war paint. “Mione is staying forever!”
Draco choked on tea. Hermione nearly died.
Narcissa only smiled like she had seen the future first and approved.
***
The orchard behind Malfoy Manor was not the same place Hermione remembered, no longer dark, no longer silent with the heaviness of legacy. It breathed now. Lush and living, full of bees humming like tiny spells of mercy.
Scorpius and Albus tore across the grass with wooden wands, arguing passionately about who would win in a duel: a Hungarian Horntail or Aunt Fleur on a bad hair day.
Hermione snorted. Smart money’s on Fleur. She’s already done it.
Narcissa knelt beside a bed of moon orchids, hands steady, elegant. She conjured soft soil into a waiting pot as Hermione knelt beside her.
“Thank you for helping,” Narcissa said quietly.
“Thank you for trusting me,” Hermione replied.
They worked in silence at first, gentle magic coaxing roots, the scent of earth and mint in the air. Birds flitted overhead. Sunlight danced on Narcissa’s wedding band, same ring, new life.
Finally, Narcissa spoke.
“Do you know why I chose moon orchids for this garden?”
Hermione shook her head.
“They bloom only when the night is gentle,” Narcissa murmured. “They do not trust the dark entirely. Not after the world I raised my son in. So they needed a place where shadows soften. Where night is allowed, but cruelty is not.”
Hermione’s breath caught. A language only survivors knew.
“I spent years,” Narcissa continued softly, “building rooms where light could return.”
Hermione looked around: new benches, pale stone paths, rose bushes pruned with care. A house once made for fear, now healing through patience.
“You did all of this,” Hermione whispered.
“I needed to,” Narcissa replied. “The Manor remembers. Trauma lives in walls, you know. It must be overwritten, or it festers.”
Hermione’s hand stilled on the orchid stem. “Yes,” she said. “I do know.”
Their eyes met.
Two women scarred by the same war but on different sides, and yet somehow walking forward together.
Narcissa placed a delicate, cool hand over Hermione’s.
“You are safe here,” she said. “Not because you earned it. But because you deserve it.”
Hermione swallowed hard. Not flinching. Not running. Letting safety in; terrifying, warm, unfamiliar.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Truly.”
A beat.
“Draco worries,” Narcissa added, voice hushed. “About opening this place to others. About hoping for more than duty. About wanting something gentle and not knowing if he deserves it.”
Hermione’s chest tightened.
“I don’t know if I can be gentle,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”
Narcissa smiled, soft and knowing. “You already are. It seems like it frightens you more than war ever did.”
Hermione blinked, stunned, because it was true.
Before she could answer-
A silvery wolf bounded into the garden and halted before her. Theo’s voice echoed through the warm morning:
“No new activity from Dolohov. Keep watch, stay armed.”
Silence followed, thick and heavy with relief and dread in equal measure.
Narcissa exhaled slowly. “The quiet… I never trust it.”
Hermione nodded. “Me neither.”
Scorpius raced up then, cheeks flushed, hair wild. “Mione, look! I found a ladybug army!”
He held out a leaf crawling with gentle spotted bugs.
“See? Peacekeepers,” he whispered importantly. “They patrol the flowers. Very brave.”
Hermione smiled. “Very brave indeed.”
Draco watched from the terrace, leaning against the stone railing, sunlight catching in his pale hair. When Scorpius darted off again, Draco crossed his arms, a defensive habit, but his gaze when it landed on Hermione wasn’t guarded.
It was… soft. Tentative. Like someone standing in a doorway of a room they once feared and realizing it smells like cinnamon and safety now.
Hermione stood, brushing earth from her knees. The Manor hummed, its wards alive, and magic thick with renewal.
Not haunted. Not hostile. Healing.
And in her chest, an unfamiliar peace, fragile but real. She did not flinch from it.