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With hands warmed by the Sunday staple cappuccino and pistachio croissant from her most-frequented bakery in Muggle London (any hot drink and a pastry for £3.50 can’t argue with that!), Hermione strolled up Diagon Alley, contentedly window shopping and humming to herself. A precious day off. Two consecutive weeks of presenting her practical research and proposed policy changes to the Wizengamot, and her only plans for a whole twenty-four hours were to relax and indulge in some of her tried and tested anti-stress remedies.
Comfort was key after shrouding herself in her best Take Me Seriously formal robes and pinning her hair into submission for an entire fortnight. Worn jeans, diligently broken-in leather boots, soft cashmere jumper in a slightly dangerous white cream, and her one and only “investment piece” periwinkle wool overcoat could have been freshly laundered pyjamas for how unencumbered she felt.
Her umber curls were left to their own devices, deserving of a blow in the crisp autumn breeze before they were smothered in potions in advance of another week of being tamed. She was due back to the Ministry first thing on Monday morning but she was determined not to waste her opportunity for a well-earned break. The practice model was sound, her drafted bills robust, one day of intentional rest wouldn’t change that.
Knowing when to take a pause was a learned skill for Hermione. Her instinct had always been to keep going going going until she couldn’t go any further and then take another step, but after nearly ten years of sitting on her Mind Healer’s settee three times a month, she could find satisfaction in much more than receiving validation for her intelligence and competence (read: her worthiness to possess magic).
Living in a postwar world was, of course, complex. At once liberating and disappointing, affirming and terrifying, like anything hard-won, there was underlying sorrow and grief, as well as pride and moments of true solace. Facing death, accepting it, and then surviving; no child would be resolved to a fate like that again. Ever. But, in order to keep showing up for everyone else, her first priority had to be herself.
Indeed, her ambition and drive were as dogged as they had always been, but she now had the capacity for stillness. She was a free human being with an independent will, which she exerted to play in the grass and muck with her niblings, to travel when she had the money, to seek companionship when she desired it, to research what interested her.
At twenty-eight, she was very much still a work in progress, but that reality was no longer a source of anxiety; it simply was. If she still carried her beaded bag, that was her own business, thank you very much. She allowed herself that concession. She was zealous in her practice of seeking pockets of peace in her days, and one such pocket came into view as she approached her beloved Flourish and Blotts. Vanishing her rubbish and scourgifying any traces of decadent sage green butter and powdered sugar dust from her fingers, she ducked under the arm of a kindly old wizard who held the door, and entered her safe space.
Surrounded by leather-bound treasures, Hermione made her way through the stacks, traversing every conceivable genre and subgenre and form, all neatly shelved and labelled, ready and waiting. Thousands upon thousands of distinct universes, solar systems strung together by parchment and ink and needle and thread, networks of stars organised in chapter and verse. Millenia of knowledge and wis- gods are they still stocking Lockhart? Ugh!
Not to be side-tracked by righteous indignation, Hermione curbed a private scoff before making a beeline for the new releases, hoping to find a worthy exchange for the 5 galleon gift voucher folded neatly in the front pocket of her overcoat. She had just spotted a Directory of Native British Potion Ingredients and How to Grow Them that looked promising when someone behind her punctured the sombre atmosphere with a loud gasp and then even louder,
“Daddy! It’s Belle!!”
Hermione turned, startled, and was met by a small, slack-jawed boy dressed in a mini Ravenclaw jumper, navy cords and bright white trainers. Ashy blonde hair was parted down the middle so it flopped adorably around flushed cheeks, his eyes were silver sickles, wide and awed, and trained on her. He was clutching a russet coloured maple leaf. A tall figure in black marched towards them and placed a hand on the boy’s head. Slightly breathless they said, “My star, please don’t run off- Granger!”
Then she had two stunned Malfoys to contend with, certain that her manner perfectly reflected theirs. They made quite the trio, all three standing perfectly still, as if gathered inside the chain of a time turner, waiting to be whisked back to a moment already past.
All she could muster was a slightly strangled, “Malfoy!” They were at an impasse again.
In truth, it was as if the man in front of her had eaten the Draco Malfoy she had shared her school career with. She had seen him a handful of times since the strange eighth year at Hogwarts after her testimony had been the deciding factor that pardoned him; across a busy pub, in the bustling halls of the Ministry, at stuffy fundraisers, most recently at the 2006 Quidditch World Cup Final, but never up close.
From a distance, she hadn’t noticed the way he had gained several inches in height and heft, now standing over six foot and so broad that he wouldn’t look out of place in a plaid shirt, swinging an axe through a tree trunk. His features were decidedly less pointy than she remembered, now rather patrician, distinguished, very much befitting the Lord of the Manor. His hair, still white-blonde, was longer, falling to just above his shoulders. Eyes to match his progeny. All his poise and grandeur was contrasted to great effect with comparatively casual attire; a smart turtleneck jumper, impeccably cut pea coat, and JEANS (!!!) turned up to hit a pair of polished chelsea boots just so. Michelangelo’s masterpiece in monochrome. Hermione knew she was staring but, in her defence, there was quite a bit to stare at.
Malfoy (the older) regained his wits and cut through her blatant ogling, “I- I heard about your presentations in the Wizengamot. Two weeks straight already, is it?”
Hermione took a moment to catch up. He was asking about work, “Oh! Yes, and at least another week to go if the first two were any indication. They’re going through every report line by line trying to trip me up but they won’t find anything. It’s all there. I had to petition the Minister to get this recess today.”
Malfoy groaned, “The more things change. Forgive me, I can’t keep up with the hearing schedule, this is your accidental magic policy, isn’t it?”
Forgive me.
Before she could respond, Malfoy (the younger) interjected. He was partially hidden behind his father’s leg, stealing shy peeks at Hermione as the adults spoke, “Daddy? How do you know Belle?”
Draco (Draco? Sure!) smiled down at his son, humour in his voice as he said, “Darling, this isn’t Belle, this is Miss Granger. We went to Hogwarts together. Introduce yourself.”
The boy stepped forward, proudly extending his small hand. Hermione couldn’t suppress a giggle at his formality and as soon as she reciprocated the greeting, he was off, lisping through his missing front tooth,
“Hello Miss Granger, my name is Scorp- Scorpius Malfoy. I’m four and a half. I’m pleased to meet you. You look like Belle from my film, she’s pretty and- um, and likes books and wears blue, like you. Do you know Belle? Have you seen my film-”
Draco chuckled as he smoothed the boy’s silky hair, “Slow down, Scorp. You have to let Miss Granger answer one question before you ask another.” Then he mouthed “Sorry” just for Hermione.
She shook her head, kneeling to get on Scorp’s (aw) level, “Scorpius, it’s lovely to meet you, too. You can call me Hermione, or Mia for short if you like. I’m not sure if I’ve seen your film, do you know what it’s called?”
Scorpius lit up, dropping the handshake and clasping one of her curls, absentmindedly rubbing the coil between his thumb and forefinger as he shifted from foot to foot, “Mia! It’s my favourite! It’s- uh, Daddy, what is it?”
“Beauty and the Beast. He loves it, we’re on our third VSH tape already. We must have watched it a hundred times.”
Hermione grinned, “It’s VHS. You need to get onto the DVDs, they’re newer technology and less upkeep than the tapes.”
Draco blanched slightly, “Oh, don’t tell me I’m out of date already? I just got used to the infernal video machine.”
Hermione was so delighted she had to laugh. It was a lot to take in. Draco Malfoy had hooked up a piece of Muggle kit so his sweet little boy could watch a Disney film on repeat. A new world indeed.
Scorpius huffed, “Shhhh, Daaad. Have you seen it, Mia?”
Hermione couldn’t resist tucking a wayward golden strand behind his ear, a gesture she’d done for the Potter and Weasley children countless times, “I have seen it, I saw it in the cinema when it came out.”
Scorpius squealed, “WOAH! What’s the cim- the cimena?”
“It’s a theatre where they show films on a big screen. You can buy snacks and sweets and then you watch the film with lots of other people.”
Inherited grey eyes were close to bulging out of their sockets. He let go of her hair to whip round to Draco, bouncing on his toes, “Daddy, please can we bring Mia to watch my film at the cimena? Pleeeeeease?”
Draco bowed to lift the rambunctious boy onto his hip, treading carefully, “We’ll see, my star. Miss Granger is a very busy woman and might not have time to come to see a film with us.”
Bottom lip trembling, he didn’t like that answer, “But- but Mia said she liked it!”
Hermione stood, placing a gentle hand on Scorp’s back and seeking confirmation from Draco that she wasn’t crossing a line, “I do like it. And I would love to take you to the cinema, but I’m sure your Dad can take you without me.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Tears were flowing as he sagged forward, crying into the crook of Draco’s neck, “Noooo, Daddy! I want my Mia to see my film!”
Draco attempted to mollify him with a kiss to his crown and quiet words, “Darling, we can’t have everything we want as soon as we decide we want it.”
His eyes cut to Hermione’s, “We have to be patient. I’m not saying no, just not today.”
Thinking on her feet, a slightly flustered Hermione summoned a piece of parchment and a pen from the depths of her bag, scribbling down her floo address and tucking it into the breast pocket of Draco’s coat,
“Floo me or send an owl and we can sort something out. I’m sorry for upsetting him.”
Draco sighed, “Don’t apologise to me, Granger.”
For want of an appropriate response to that, Hermione turned her attention back to Scorpius, “Your Dad and I will organise it, Scorp. I’ll see you soon, OK?”
He twisted towards her, now looking down from his perch on Draco’s forearm. Through a rather spectacular pout, he wasn’t taking any chances, “Do you promise, Mia?”
Damn this adorable child! Extending her pinkie, she assured him, “I promise.”
He looked confused for a moment before figuring it out, hooking his tiny pinkie around hers, sealing the pledge. He offered up his leaf, which she accepted with an almost painfully wide smile, her heart clanging behind her ribs. Draco looked on with an expression so tender that Hermione had to take a deliberate step back, lest she make a fool of herself.
He breathed, “I’ll be in touch, Granger.” And then they were gone, out the door, out of sight, only a wisp of onyx smoke left in their wake.
What the fuck was that?
***
Hermione stepped out of the shower, rich, coconut-scented steam enveloping her as she snuggled into her plush towels, charmed to stay warm and fluffy no matter how much moisture permeated the air. Her meticulously washed and masked and squeezed and plopped and fucking conditioned to within an inch of their lives curls hung down her exfoliated-smooth back, waiting to be styled. She shrugged on her dressing gown and set herself on the edge of the bath, massaging her favourite body lotion into her skin. As the nourishing oils sunk in, she reflected on the day. After her encounter with the Malfoys, she couldn’t wait to get home and debrief with herself. It was all so astonishing.
A man she had known for most of her life, but clearly didn’t really know at all. It was a puzzle. She cycled through the facts. He had been tragically widowed shortly after the birth of his son; it was widely, and insensitively, publicised in the press, and speculation as to the circumstances of the late Lady Malfoy’s death was rife for several months after the fact. It had been an arranged marriage with one of the Greengrass sisters, but was by all accounts an unexpected love match that had evidently resulted in one of the cutest young wizards Hermione had ever met. At least, she presumed he was a wizard, that wasn’t quite confirmed.
He seemed to keep to himself now; still with a close circle of loyal friends around him, but there had been no serious romantic entanglements since his wife’s passing. Apparently. Along with his mother, he was a philanthropist, donating handsomely to a vast array of social causes from werewolf advocacy to equitable school materials for Hogwarts pupils. Progressive initiatives. Projects Hermione had worked on. Projects that the pureblood set took her to task over for two weeks straight in court, for example. He was committed to reparations and rehabilitation, which began when he stood before her after his trial and stumbled through his first apology,
“I understand now how disrespectful it is to magic itself when one uses it to cause pain and destruction. You must know how much of a mindfuck it was for us in my- in my circle to arrive at school and immediately meet someone who contradicted everything we had been taught about Muggleborns. You were alarming for so many of us, I resisted waking up to it for longer than I should have.”
“Even if I was shit at magic, I’m a witch regardless. You shouldn’t have bullied me.”
“I know. I know that and I’m sorry, Granger. I’m sorry for using that hateful word and for perpetuating the purity bullshit, and for- for letting my aunt do that to you. I will never forgive her or myself for that, but please know how much I regret it. I have no right to hope, but I will do whatever it takes for you to forgive me.”
“That wasn’t your fault, what Bella did. I forgive you for the rest, but you have to unburden yourself from that. She would have killed you, you did the right thing.”
“Granger-”
“I’m tired. I’ll see you at school.”
He kept apologising periodically throughout the following months until Hermione snapped at him in Charms, swearing, “If you apologise again, I will hex you!”. After that they settled into a friendly acquaintanceship until they parted ways with their respective NEWTs tucked firmly under their belts. Then he married Astoria, started his Foundation, and that was that. Correspondence about funding and distant acknowledgement at public events was the extent of their interactions ever since.
Hermione wasn’t quite sure why she was so fixated on him now. Perhaps it was the dichotomy of the Malfoy who had bullied and vilified her when they were both children and the kind, self-assured man she had spoken with today. Or the beautiful little boy he was raising. Or perhaps it was that he was objectively very fit and she was having a moment of shallow weakness. All options held water, and she found herself wondering when the hell an owl would arrive. Would an owl arrive at all?
Her pondering was interrupted by a muffle cry,
“Daddy?”
Hermione froze. That sounded an awful lot like,
“DADDY!!!”
She was out of the bathroom and down the stairs in a flash. Skidding into her lounge, she found a very upset Scorpius Malfoy (in golden snitch jammies) huddled beside the armchair, his eyes darting around the room, cheeks ruddy and streaked with tears. When he saw Hermione, he dashed over to her, hesitantly reaching out to cling to her robe, then burying his face in her hip when she welcomed him in, “Mia! I’m sorry, I- I didn’t mean- I want- where’s my Dad?”
Hermione had an idea as to what had happened. A wizard, then. She knelt down, checking him for any signs of splinching and wiping his tears as she pulled him onto her lap, “Don’t say sorry, sweet pea. You did very well. I’ll get your Dad for you now.”
Summoning her wand, she soothed Scorpius as he sniffled into her neck, once again playing with her hair, twirling a wet ringlet in his little fingers, “Have you seen a patronus before, Scorp?”
She felt him shake his head, “Daddy said he doesn’t have one.”
Hermione blushed. Right, “OK, I’m going to conjure mine. Expecto Patronum.”
The familiar azure otter burst forth, swirling around the embracing pair before looking up at its mistress expectantly. Her protector. Strange how just the act of summoning it, by now as instinctive as breathing, allowed a sense of calm to settle over the scene, enough that Hermione could centre herself and dictate the missive, “This is a message for Draco Malfoy. It’s um, it’s Granger, I believe Scorpius has performed accidental magic and has managed to apparate into my lounge. He’s safe and well, but missing you. Wait five minutes and the floo address I gave you this morning will be open.”
Off she went, leaving Hermione to gently rock Scorpius while she adjusted the wards on her floo, his cries gradually lessening until he was intermittently hiccuping and sucking his thumb as she hummed an old lullaby in his ear.
A flash of green and Draco was barreling out of her fireplace, immediately dominating the cosy space. It was like a giant had been invited to tea in a dollhouse. He was a wreck, more dishevelled than she’d ever seen him in loose joggers and a sweatshirt, clearly in the throes of a major panic. He was barefoot. Someone needed to be in charge, and Hermione was marginally better placed to take that on, “Draco, over here.”
His head snapped towards them, then he was across the room in two strides, dropping to his knees to kiss Scorpius’ head and cheek and shoulder. He placed a splayed hand on Hermione’s back, hot to the touch even through the thick cotton. When he looked at her, his anguish was palpable, the countenance of a man who knew loss implicitly, and feared it. His mouth opened and closed several times, but no words made it out. Hermione could take the lead, “What happened?”
Having a question to answer seemed to help a bit, but his clunky explanation was forced through an apparent boulder of despair in his throat, “He was crying for you. He didn’t understand- he thought you were coming over or something he- he kept asking for ‘his Mia’, asking for ‘Belle’. I tried putting the film on but that got him even more worked up then he just- he was just gone.”
Hermione nodded, stroking Scorp’s wee sock-covered foot where it was tucked into the seam between her thigh and calf, “Has he had an episode like this before?”
Draco hummed, “Yes, but never apparition. He’s been summoning toys and vanishing doors for about six months or so. It’s never happened when he was upset before, usually it’s excitement or just being overtired that sets him off.”
Hermione was stunned. Four years old and wielding his magic with intention. Successfully apparating to a person. In one piece. Her mind was reeling, but first, “Scorp. I have some books and toys in the conservatory, would you like to take a look?”
He pulled back from where he had found sanctuary in the collar of her robe and looked sheepishly between the two adults. He placed a slightly snotty hand on Draco’s cheek, “Sorry, Daddy. I wanted my Mia.”
Draco’s tense demeanour eased as he turned his head to kiss Scorp’s palm, “I know. Let’s get you set up with something so I can talk to Miss Granger, OK?”
Then Draco was lifting Scorpius into his arms, holding him flush to his chest while Hermione padded to the sun room, letting father and son comfort each other without her interference. Lifting the lid of her old school trunk that had found a new life as a toy box for her godchildren, she heaved out a quilted mat and laid it in the middle of the carpet, early evening dappling the space with hazy sunbeams. Floating miniature quidditch balls, animal figurines, colouring materials, and a book about dragons into the makeshift play area, she waited for the Malfoys to join her.
When they appeared in the doorway, Scorp was much less pink, considerably calmer, and was walking beside his Dad, fist closed tightly around two of Draco’s fingers. Hermione smiled as she beckoned him over, and after a quick glance at Draco to check he was allowed, he sat down on the mat to survey his options. He chose a colour-by-numbers sheet and set to sorting through the stationery, lining up the pencils and crayons he would need.
When he was fully engrossed in the task, Hermione excused herself to cobble together some tea for her impromptu guests, leaning on the kitchen counter to gather herself before she initiated a potentially difficult discussion.
When she stepped back into the conservatory, she found that Draco had flung himself into one of the lumpy couches, legs spread, head thrown back, pinching the bridge of his nose and exhaling gustily. Mouth suddenly dry, she set the tray down on the coffee table, encouraging Scorpius to help himself to some juice and a biscuit. He made his selection and carried the snack back to where he was blazing through her stock of art supplies. She would need to make some more.
Draco poured the tea, raising a brow as he gestured to the milk and honey. She nodded, smiling when he prepared his the same way. She let him take a fortifying sip, then joined him on the settee, casting a privacy charm so that they could hear Scorpius, but their conversation was muffled for him, “I must admit I’m a bit pissed off that you haven’t brought him to the centre before now. You knew what my research was focused on, you bloody well paid for most of it!”
Draco clearly wasn’t expecting that, “Uhhh, sorry I didn’t think this conversation would start with a telling off-”
“Oh please, how could you not?” She scoffed, plopping her mug back onto the tray so she could cross her arms, “From what you described, your son is intentionally using magic. This is far beyond accidental outbursts. He had a clear image of me in his mind and enough conviction that he apparated into my house, where he has never been before, and didn’t end up splinched to bits. That’s power. He needs to learn how to control it.”
He was angled away from her, squinting at the french doors that opened into the garden when he asked, “Do you not have wards?”
The non sequitur pulled her up short, “What?”
He abandoned his mug too, lifting a knee so he could turn to face her fully, his arm stretched along the back cushions, “I would expect someone with a public profile like yours to have wards around their home.”
She narrowed her eyes, leaning towards him, “I do have wards, thank you. Hence why I needed a few minutes before you could come through the floo. I also have a special failsafe that allows children to pop in. I designed it myself when all my friends started having kids at a rate of knots so they wouldn’t get hurt if an incident such as this happened. As it is, none of my godchildren have ever spontaneously apparated across the country, but it’s good to know my calculations were correct.”
He searched her face, studying her, then shook his head, muttering, “Of course you designed it yourself.”
“I’d be happy to teach it to you if you, I don’t know, made an appointment and came into the centre so you could learn some of the AMOC procedures we’ve developed. Or, better yet, come to the Wizengamot sessions and listen to me answer every conceivable question about them for the next however many weeks.”
He frowned, “Amok?”
She tutted, patience waning, “Accidental Magical Outbursts in Children. A.M.O.C. Did you read the theory of change I sent to your office or just blindly transfer the galleons?”
Weary, he let his head hang heavily on his nape, “Sorry, I knew that, and I’ve read everything, it’s just…it’s been a bit intense lately.”
Allowing him a moment of reprieve, she checked on Scorpius. He was lying on his tummy, kicking his feet as if swimming with flippers, and making two plastic penguins kiss each other. Hermione melted, “He’s so openly affectionate. Sensitive and bright. Curious. He really is a credit to you, Malfoy.”
She heard his throat click, “He’s the centre of the fucking universe.”
“Hmm. Your star.”
They sat in easy silence, bearing witness to a plastic penguin wedding, then Draco cleared his throat, “I didn’t bring him in because I didn’t want you to feel obligated.”
That ruffled her, “It isn’t as if I would be doing you a favour, it’s my job!”
He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, “You don’t get it. I didn’t want to push your boundaries. My family’s magic hasn’t exactly been a source of great comfort to you in the past!”
He was lucky there was a child present. She rounded on him, mirroring his position so their bent knees touched, “Right, you’re annoying me now. How many years have we been working together in some capacity and there was never an opportunity to talk about this? How could you possibly know what my boundaries are when you have never once asked me about them? Besides that, you know I don’t blame you for what happened to me, and I damn well wouldn’t blame Scorpius for it! I forgave you already. If you haven’t forgiven yourself yet, that is on you to figure out, but you need to at least accept what I’m saying to you and suck it up so we can get cracking with Scorp.”
It was as if he had been petrified, several beats passing wherein he didn’t move a muscle. Then he laughed, a rich sound that resonated deep in Hermione’s stomach. He scrubbed at his face, “Wow.”
Unfortunately, the laughter was contagious, “What?”
He wiped his mirthful eyes, sighing, “Nothing, it’s just- I think I finally understand how Potter did it.”
She sobered, then choked on a gasp as Draco dropped his hand onto her shin, long fingers almost encircling her leg. Stormy grey clouded to black as he flicked his gaze between her lips and her furrowed brow, slowly caressing down to her ankle with a deliciously calloused touch, squeezing once, “Is this OK?”
It was then that she realised she was wearing her dressing gown. With nothing underneath. In her conservatory. With Draco Malfoy. And his son! She stood abruptly, bursting their private bubble and joining Scorpius on the floor before Draco could look at her with pity or regret or some other odious expression.
Before long, all three were strewn across the carpet, each bent over their own artwork. Hermione was labelling her slightly abstract (read: wonky) succulent pots when Scorpius appeared in front of her, clutching his drawing to his puffed out chest. She couldn’t wait, “Let’s see the masterpiece.”
He rushed to turn the page over, revealing the portrait. He had drawn a smiley woman with curly brown hair, wearing a long blue dress and a white apron, holding hands with a boy whose hair was yellow and sticking up in all directions. Dressed all in green but with a white apron of his own, he waved a wobbly candlestick in his free hand. The pair were surrounded by books and a teacup and what looked like wrapped sweets. Above their heads were the letters S I M I N A in bold pink capitals.
Suddenly, the drawing was obscured by the moisture collecting in the corners of her vision. She swallowed thickly and looked up into Scorpius’ cherubic little face, “This is us two?”
He nodded proudly, then turned shy, tracing patterns on the mat with his toes. He admitted cautiously, “It’s my dream. What I wanted when I- when I popped in.”
She looked to Draco, and at his nod carefully set the picture aside to take Scorp’s hands, “You are so clever and I meant it when I said you did very well. But we need to learn how to pop in safely so we can make sure we don’t have any accidents. I work at a centre where I teach children like you how to get used to their magic before Hogwarts.”
Then Draco was there, crouching beside them, “I’m going to get in touch with the centre tomorrow and then we’ll be able to visit. If you like it, we can enrol and then you’ll have lessons all about your magic. You’ll see Miss Granger, and you can play with the other children as well.”
Scorpius’ eyes were shining with hope, “I’ll get friends?”
Draco opened his arms and Scorp launched himself at his father’s chest, wriggling to find the most comfortable nooks and crannies in the hug. When he was settled, he reached out towards Hermione, and with unexpected force, brought her into the fold too with a surprised “oof!”. Draco found her hand, entwined their pinkies, and the jumble of pyjama-clad limbs all swayed together, until a tiny yawn signalled that it was time to let the Malfoys go.
After ceremoniously hanging Scorp’s Dream on the fridge, and a cursory tidy-up, Hermione pulled out her planner. She explained that they wouldn't be able to watch Beauty and the Beast in the cinema, but promised to find a new film that they could all enjoy. There was a brief spell of disappointment at that, but after assuring Scorpius that they would watch 'his film' together too, they set a date, counting the days so he knew what to expect and when; until he was enrolled at the centre, they would do what they could to minimise the chance of an emotional outburst, thus reducing the risk of magical outbursts too.
By the time she was herding the boys towards the fireplace, Scorpius was almost asleep, but fought valiantly to bleat out, “Goodnight, my Mia. Don’t let bugs bite the bed.”
Draco and Hermione stifled their laughs, both shushing and soothing in unison until the young wizard drifted off. This time it was Draco who cast the privacy charm, “Granger, I can’t thank you enough for today. I’m so used to making decisions by myself that sometimes I forget that asking for help is an option. But, I understand that I need to do what’s best for Scorpius, even if it scares the fuck out of me.”
She hummed, “I really think it will be good for him. And for you, too. I won’t be there this week because of the hearings but my assistant can draw up the registration paperwork for you. If you’re unsure, just send me a note.” ”
In truth, he already looked unsure, “Is there anyone else on your team who can work with him?”
Where’s he going with this? “Yes, we have six tutors and three play workers, but I would prefer-”
“And I would prefer someone else to take his case.”
She stared up at him, utterly flabbergasted, “I’m trying really hard not to take offence here, Malfoy-”
The corner of his lip lifted, “You misunderstand me. I just don’t think it would be appropriate for me to ask my son’s tutor out to dinner.”
Oh! “Oh.”
Her silence made him restless. He licked his lips, cleared his throat, carefully adjusted the snoring child draped against his shoulder, “Unless I’ve misunderstood you, too-”
That got her back in the room, “No! No, you haven’t misunderstood me.”
He smiled, a dimple setting into his angular cheek, “I want to keep talking. It’s strange, I’ve known you for so long but I feel like I’ve learned more about you today than in all our past years combined.”
Hermione was teetering dangerously close to the edge of an honest to Godric swoon, “I feel the same way.”
Then they were just beaming at each other like idiots. Savouring a sacred moment of calm, as they both prepared to take a monumental leap.
Draco looked at Hermione’s mouth for a long time, then squared his shoulders, “My life is complicated. It’s tricky finding time for myself with Scorp still being so small and I’ve never- I’ve been alone for four and a half years. I’ve never felt…drawn to someone the way I am to you. I will need to go slowly and consider my son before all else. But, I am also a spoiled only child who usually gets what he wants in the end. I’m in no rush.”
Hermione would swear she could hear her blood rushing south, “So, we keep talking and take our time. No rush.” And because she was shameless, “Hopefully I’ll be more appropriately dressed next time you see me.”
He looked her up and down, pausing on her red painted toenails, her thighs, her waist, her exposed clavicle. When he reached her eyes his smirk was lethal, bottom lip caught in sharp white teeth, brow arched, gorgeous in his slappable cockiness, “I have never, ever wished that my son was anywhere other than by my side. Until now.”
She spluttered, pleased beyond belief, “OK, get out of my house. ”
He laughed lightly, then because he didn’t play fair he captured her hand, lifting it to his lips so he could kiss her knuckles, “Goodnight, Granger. I’ll owl you tomorrow.”
She nodded mutely, flushing all over, knuckles tingling. This man needs to go, NOW! He got one last jab by turning her arm to kiss the inside of her wrist, then he took mercy on her. He stepped back, cradling Scorp’s sleep-heavy body as he tossed floo powder onto the hearth and, with a parting wink, disappeared into viridescent mist.
Goodnight, Malfoys.
***
Hermione had just concluded her opening remarks, kicking off what promised to be another long week of defence, when an origami crane landed on her podium. Turning away from the committee of vultures in indigo robes, she unfolded the delicate parchment. Written in a familiar swooping penmanship were two words,
Dinner tonight?
She snorted, looking up into the public gallery, scanning the sparse crowd. There he was, front and centre, poured into a slate grey muggle suit, three piece, luxe jet black outer robes draped over a neighbouring chair. Hair pulled back into a neat low bun, booted foot resting on the opposite knee, notebook and quill ready to go.
He lifted a brow. Waiting. Her smile answered him. Yes. At his nod, she refaced her opponents,
“First question, please.”