Chapter Text
“It’s a boy!” the Healer exclaimed, holding up the newborn proudly.
The little one squirmed, two tiny fists rubbing at his eyes.
“Did you hear that?” Harry exclaimed, grasping Ginny’s arm. “It’s a boy!”
The Healer placed the baby against Ginny’s chest where he rooted around, still pink-faced and wrinkled after making his long-awaited debut.
Harry and Ginny’s eyes met over the hospital bed.
“We have a son,” Harry said, running a thumb over the dark wisps poking up from the back of his son’s head.
Somehow, five minutes into life, and already he looked just like his father.
“We have a son,” Ginny repeated. Happy, exhausted tears streamed down her cheeks. “He’s absolutely perfect.”
”Worth the wait.” Harry grinned. “I guess we can forgive him for being a few days late, then?”
“Maybe you can,” Ginny snorted. “And it wasn’t a few days. It was nine! I would know, since it was my bladder he was kicking.”
But her face was bright, relieved to be holding her sweet baby at last — and more, to no longer be pregnant.
Harry took Ginny's hand, unable to take his eyes off his wife as she cradled their newborn son.
“James Sirius Potter.”
“James Sirius Potter.”
Hermione gazed down at the cooing newborn in her arms. She’d had the dream nearly a month ago. And now here he was, perfect, just as Ginny had said.
“How is it possible I knew you, and I hadn’t even met you yet?” she asked softly, a hint of awe in her voice.
He yawned in answer, a flash of pink tongue.
“Isn’t he adorable?” Ginny said from beside her.
Her head was resting on Harry’s shoulder. Both of them looked blissfully tired, in that way only new parents did — no sleep, but plenty of baby snuggles to carry them through the sleepless nights.
“He is,” Hermione confirmed, the tiniest pang twisting through her stomach.
She’d never held a baby before.
As an only child, she’d been the baby. And she’d never even had any younger cousins. Her only uncle was older than her mother, and he’d never married, though he did dote on his miniature schnauzer. But even then, the dog looked less like a baby, and more like a distinguished English gentleman with his salt-and-pepper beard and eyebrows.
And importantly, Gus — the miniature schnauzer, not the uncle — did not like Hermione.
Which is why it was strange the baby in her arms seemed the exact opposite, looking perfectly content and even nestling in further.
“He likes you,” Harry observed. “He knows you’ll be his only hope when he needs help with his History of Magic homework.”
Hermione scoffed. “You did just fine in History of Magic.”
Harry flashed her an affectionate smile. “Thanks to you.”
“Oh, well,” Hermione said, having no retort to that. “I suppose I had a little to do with it.”
Green flames burst from the Floo, and out stepped Ron. “The favorite uncle is here!” he proclaimed. Lavender trailed behind him, belly round with James’ soon-to-be cousin.
Ron unceremoniously held out his arms, motioning for Hermione to hand James over. “Come to Uncle Won Won.”
She passed James over. “Mind his head,” she mumbled, her elbow bumping against Ron’s during the exchange of precious goods.
But Ron, who’d had plenty of experience holding babies with five nieces and nephews — now six, counting James — quickly whisked him away.
“I can’t believe you went with ‘Sirius’ as the middle name,” he complained. “I had fifty Galleons on Hedwig.”
Ginny scoffed, affronted. “We were never going to name our child after an owl.”
“Sirius was a dog,” Ron pointed out. He tucked James into the crook of his arm, rocking the newborn back and forth with such vigor that it looked as though he were about to launch him through the nearest Quidditch hoop.
“Sirius was Harry’s Godfather — the same designation you’ve been given for James, I might add,” Hermione reminded Ron. “I, for one, think it’s a lovely tribute.” She gave Ginny and Harry an approving nod.
Ron rolled his eyes. “Well, of course you’d think so, Hermione. You won the whole pot, got James’ name right and everything! Not to mention the due date!” He stared down at his nephew with a serious expression. “You couldn’t have come a week earlier? I’d have gotten you a broom for your first birthday with the winnings.”
Hermione coughed. “It was just a lucky guess.”
Liar, a voice chimed in her head. You knew. You saw it, clear as day, in one of those ‘dreams’ of yours.
Hermione bit her lip.
For the past several months, she’d been having trouble sleeping, dreading closing her eyes at night after being plagued by uncanny dreams. At first, she’d thought it was stress from starting her new job as Head Archivist.
But…
Her eyes drifted to James — to James Sirius Potter, who’d been born exactly nine days late, looking just as he had in her dream, down to the defiant cowlick of his hair.
Ron was still rocking him, but his movements had eased, especially when he locked eyes with Lavender. The two of them exchanged a soft look, no doubt thinking of their own baby, due in a few short months.
Hermione’s eyes drifted to Harry and Ginny, who were still sitting close on the loveseat.
Her friends had grown up — become husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, with families of their own. There would be no more late nights at the pub. Friday night drinks would now consist of wrangling wiggly children into bed, and reading bedtime stories about sleepy dragons and the tales of Beedle the Bard.
And that was the strangest part: she was happy for them. Even if she couldn’t help feeling a little left behind.
It wasn’t that she’d never considered children, or the idea of settling down with someone. It was just that she’d been far too busy. Not simply working — but proving herself. That sort of thing didn’t happen overnight, especially for a Muggleborn like her, no matter how many long hours she spent deciphering old records in a dusty archive.
From her seat on the sofa, Ginny crossed her arms. “I’m still angry George was running a gambling operation on my child!”
“I didn’t place a bet,” Lavender offered with a weak smile. She’d been working hard to get in Ginny’s good graces, but so far it hadn’t done her much good.
“Nah, you’re just mad you didn’t get to place a bet,” Ron retorted.
The two of them bickered back and forth for a bit more before Hermione stood to say her goodbyes. She kissed Ginny and Harry on the cheek, and even gave Lavender an awkward one-armed hug before squeezing Ron’s shoulder. “I’ve got to get back to the archives. The scrolls never end. Quite literally — there’s one from the Library of Ashurbanipal that we still haven’t gotten to the end of.”
They all nodded; not one of them questioned the excuse.
But Hermione didn’t go back to the office.
At least, not immediately.
Instead, she walked straight out the front door of Grimmauld Place, closing the door behind her with a definitive click.
There was no crack of Apparition afterward. She stood on the front stoop, staring at the sky, wondering when it was she’d grown so lonely.
“Hermione,” a deep voice purred sensuously. “Open your legs, love.”
“Mhmm.” Hermione shifted under the covers, pushing back against a solid, warm body.
A caressing hand traced the dip in her waist before tugging her closer, settling the curve of her arse firmly against a large, very hard cock. Hermione did as she was told, opening her legs and biting back a moan when a deft finger dipped into her wet center.
“That feels good,” Hermione murmured, wiggling back further, enjoying the prodding feel of his cock against her backside. “Don’t stop.”
He chuckled, soft lips skimming over her earlobe. “Wouldn’t dream of it, love.”
The man’s finger darted back and forth, sliding into her tight core, then circling back to her clit, wet with her own slick. “You’re so wet for me, Hermione.” He spoke into her hair, his own breath hitching. “Is this for me?”
“Yes,” she whimpered, grinding against his hand. “Just for you.”
Before she knew what was happening, he’d flipped her to her back. “Say it.”
The room was dark, but the birds chirped from the open window. It must have been early morning. She could just make out the broad stretch of his shoulders, silhouetted in the dim light from the hall. He perched at the foot of the bed, fingers relentless in their brutal, methodical stroking.
When she didn’t say anything, his fingers stilled. Waiting.
She exhaled, sounding half delirious. “I’m yours.”
He hummed, apparently satisfied, dipping not one but three fingers into her now. “That’s right, you’re mine.”
And when she came apart around the curve of his knuckles a few minutes later, his name rolled off her tongue like it were the most natural thing in the world.
Sounding as though she’d said it a million times, a million ways.
“Oh, Draco.”
“That’s right, love,” he answered, sheathing himself inside her with a deep, rumbling sigh. “Say it again.”
“I’m yours.”
Hermione had just completed a preservation spell on a new magical record they’d procured out of Scotland (detailing primeval Centaur laws), when the bell at the front of the archives rang. It pinged low, its call echoing through the stone walls and never-ending shelves.
She pulled off her gloves and sent the stone tablet she’d been inspecting back to its proper place in the Magical Creatures section. The spotless, temperature-controlled shelf stretched back as far as the eye could see, organized first by subject matter, then by date and region, just as she’d arranged after taking over as Head Archivist.
When she got to the front desk, Draco Malfoy’s blond head was framed through the archive window, staring down at a pink slip of paper.
It wasn’t unusual to see him there. They’d fallen into an easy, professional rhythm over the past few years. And he was somewhat of a regular in the archives, pulling old files to help the D.M.L.E build cases and file official charges when a case warranted a bit of research.
What was unusual was seeing him after dreaming about him the night before.
Quite explicitly.
“Hi, Malfoy,” Hermione managed to say, making a conscious effort to keep her tone steady. “Did you need something from the archives?”
He glanced up, distracted. “Yes, Robards is being a stickler. He’s convinced there was another case of Polyjuice Banking Fraud from five years ago that we overlooked that could be connected. We really want to nail this guy. Would you mind pulling the records?”
He handed over the paper detailing the request, and for a moment their eyes met. Hermione turned her face away, breaking eye contact faster than if she were dodging a Knockback Jinx. “Sure, give me a minute.”
She turned away, only to run straight into Luna returning from the lower levels of the archive.
“I’ll pull the records, Hermione; I have another request from the Auror’s office about a murder in Gloucester that I need to pull. I told them it was a Gytrash. They often abduct their victims off the side of the road before torturing them to death.”
She took the slip of parchment from Hermione’s hand with a sweet smile that didn’t match the grim words that had just slipped from her mouth.
“Oh… kay,” Hermione said. She’d been so focused on fleeing the presence of the man who’d metaphysically (transcendentally?) given her an orgasm the previous night, she hadn’t heard Luna’s footsteps. “If you’re sure.”
“It’s no trouble,” Luna reassured her. “Hi, Draco. Nice to see you. Follow me, please. I’ll take you down.”
Hermione had kept her back to Malfoy, but she heard him hesitate from behind her. He cleared his throat. “I’ll wait here.”
“Alright,” Luna replied, floating away into the shadowy archives.
Normally, she would’ve been grateful to Luna. Now she could get back to archiving the new records, which was categorically her favorite part of her job, only now it meant she was alone with Malfoy.
A man she barely knew in reality, and yet, in another sense, knew far too intimately. Was this yet another dream that would come true?
She took a quick peek over her shoulder. He was absently twirling his wand between his fingers. A habit of his, she’d noticed. His hands were always busy doing something, like the way his fingers had slipped between her legs in her dream, drawing all sorts of sounds from her mouth—
She nearly whimpered again, right there in the quiet archives. But at the last second, she pressed her lips together, internally rebuking herself.
It was a dream. It was not real. And it would not become real. Ever.
The thought of the two of them together was absurd. Ludicrous. Completely nonsensical.
Draco sighed, a tired sort of sigh. One Hermione knew well because it often echoed her own at the end of a long day. She’d heard the sound before, when his warm breath had fallen on the inside of her neck, the hard lines of his body pressed up against her.
No, she shook her head, pushing the image from her mind with the resolve of a devout nun, one who’d taken a vow of chastity that very morning.
“Did you need anything else?” She kept her gaze focused just over his shoulder.
A beat passed. Maybe he hadn’t heard her, but then—
“No,” Draco answered.
Good. He hadn’t noticed anything odd in her behavior, unaware of the stiffness in her shoulders as she inched away from him.
“Then Luna will finish assisting you.”
He nodded, looking bored.
He was probably counting down the minutes until he could leave. The Archives weren’t a place Ministry employees went out of their way to visit. In fact, many employees joked that spending too much time down there made you go mad.
It was all that ‘magical dust,’ they said. It swirled with motes of sour, archaic magic. It certainly didn’t help that she worked with Luna, who already had a reputation for such things. To Luna’s credit, she was wonderful.
It was their boss, Director Mulligan, who very well may have been insane. At a hundred-and-three years old, he refused to retire, which at the very least made him extremely senile.
Hermione stepped away from the front desk, loosening the breath she’d been holding since she’d first seen Malfoy standing there, completely unaware his dreamy likeness had been in her bed, mere hours ago.
She was almost to her office when his voice found her.
“Night, Granger.”
She kept walking, resisting the urge to look back.