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Chapter Text

Lavender Haze

Harry James Potter

25 January 2003

Harry Potter had a secret.

A really fucked up secret that if anyone found out about, could land him in Azkaban for the rest of his life.

But it wasn’t Azkaban that Harry feared most if someone learned of what he’d done.

No. It was her—more specifically, losing her, that kept him up at night.

Even now, five years later, when there had never been a single reason that anyone might have suspected, Harry worried.

He swore it hadn’t started out this way.

No, at first the whole situation had been beautiful and innocent. A young boy who’d fallen in love with his best friend. At first, all it had been, was a deep admiration for the witch who knew him better than anyone else in the world. The witch who cared for him more than anyone else ever had. The witch who stood by him unshakingly, even when they believed they were facing the end.

And really, Harry thought, if you looked at them now, you could not disagree that it was still beautiful. That the happiness and love they had formed together was still remarkable. It was everything anyone could have hoped to imagine for themselves—certainly, Harry wouldn’t want anything different. They were happy, their family was happy. Harry had everything he’d ever wanted in his life. But sometimes, he did wonder…

It's not what she would have wanted, the thoughts crept in. They were like a pest that always came back during his quiet moments.

No. It’s not real, he reminded himself. You can’t even know if that would be true.

Which…was technically true. Harry couldn’t actually know what she would have wanted if he had not done it. So therefore, he couldn’t actually know that she wouldn’t have wanted it. Him. Their family.

She’s happy, Harry told himself, focusing his mind on the image of her smile. The one she gave whenever he stopped by her office at work. She’s happy. You’re happy. You are all happy.

And really, that was all that should matter. She was precious to him. His person. His best friend. His everything.

There was nothing and no one that could ever make him regret what he’d done. At least not fully anyway. Not when he was sitting at a café in Diagon Alley with the witch of his dreams smiling at him, and their son, who was happily chewing on his lunch beside them.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice pulled him from his thoughts and back to their table. He looked up to find her frowning, it must not have been the first time she’d called his name. “Are you alright, love?”

Harry’s brows jumped for just a moment before he looked around and realised she’d finished eating. He must have zoned out. He hadn’t noticed. “Oh, yes. Sorry, just tired.” He shook his head and gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Stressed, I suppose.”

Hermione’s hand found his from where it was resting on the table and squeezed it. “I’m sorry.” She commiserated. “I can only imagine how much paperwork you’ve been doing. I know Robards has been pushing you double lately.”

Harry sighed and twined their fingers together, not making eye contact with her. Yes, Robards had been asking more from him than usual, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Really, after defeating Voldemort at seventeen, Harry wasn’t at risk of losing sleep over simple paperwork. But last week he’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to. Something that could ruin everything, and it had made him distracted. He couldn’t tell Hermione that, though, so he went with the lie she’d unknowingly given him. “It’s fine. It’ll all be worth it if it works out, but…”

Hermione pushed her chair a little closer when he trailed off. They were sitting on two edges of a square table outside Fortescue’s, and she began toying with his fingers as she spoke. “It’s going to work out, Harry, I believe in you. There’s no one better equipped to lead the department when he retires.” She smiled softly and something in Harry pinched. She was always so supportive of him. Hermione was always so sure that he could do anything. Harry had never understood why.

“Unless they decide to hire from the outside.” He shrugged, feeling petty. His eyes watched her, gauging her reaction closely to see what she might know. Harry had never been insecure about his wife outranking him at work. Really, ninety percent of the time he felt it only made her more attractive. But then he’d seen that paper…

Hermione paused for a moment, looking up at his face, confused. “What do you mean?” She asked, and Harry felt a drop of relief wash over him. Maybe she doesn’t know.

But he had to be sure, so he continued. “I mean, we’re not the only auror department out there, Mi. I may be the strongest option in Britain, but you know that doesn’t necessarily mean I would be, compared to other candidates.”

“Do you think Robards would do that? That he’d be interested in looking elsewhere?” Hermione’s fingers started playing with his again, her face scrunched up in consternation at the idea. “He’s spent so much time investing in you and training you over the years. Why would he waste that if he didn’t mean it?”

“I don’t know.” Harry sighed, running his free hand through his messy hair as he watched her. “He probably wouldn’t, but I overheard him telling Clarice to schedule a meeting with the head at MACUSA about a few weeks ago. I just…I don’t like it.”

When Hermione looked up again, her eyes had widened just a fraction and Harry had to keep his face from falling.

“Really? MACUSA?” She asked. Harry very nearly rolled his eyes. Of course that would be the thing she latched on to. It had been over five years since…it. And still, his wife couldn’t help herself.

He grunted in affirmation, not wanting to further the conversation any longer. Before Hermione could press, he turned towards their son—he’d been unusually quiet the last few minutes.

“How’s it going, Scorp?” he asked, watching as the little boy looked up at him. His cheeks were absolutely stuffed with his favourite cheesy pasta, but even at four and a half years old, Scorpius’s posture was perfect and his face void of any crumbs.

It took him a few seconds of staring while he chewed before he spoke and when he did, he smiled, murmuring softly, “Good, dad.”

Harry grinned at the small raven-haired boy. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm” Scorpius hummed, and Harry glanced over out of the corner of his eye. Hermione was looking at her empty plate, her expression pensive. Clearly, his subject change hadn’t made it into her head as well.

He switched tactics.

“Y’know,” Harry started, crossing his arms on the table. “I was thinking. This morning, in The Prophet, there was a page about special releases, and I think there was a note about a new creatures book. What are they called?”  He looked at Hermione as though she would know, temporarily ignoring the little boy who had frozen across from him. “Daniel and the Kneazle Pox?” He pondered aloud, intentionally getting the title wrong.

Hermione had finally looked up and was watching him curiously. 

“Dianara and the Moody Mandrakes?” He tried again, and when the slightest smile appeared on her lips, he knew he had her.

“Hally and the Happy Hippogriff?” She added in.

“Do you mean Ricardo’s Laughing Longhorns?!” Scorpius was practically jumping in his seat as he gaped at a Harry and Hermione. They both hid their smirks. His tiny face looked panicked with excitement and his cheeks were bright red.

“It’s here?!” He asked loudly—or, as loudly as Scorpius ever got outside of their home, which wasn’t more than a normal person’s talking level. Harry’s brows jumped in faux surprise at his reaction and Scorpius seemed to remember where they were abruptly. An embarrassed palm covered his face and Harry tried not to wince. Scorpius had always been shy, but it was a trait Harry was determined to help rid him of.

“I believe so.” Harry nodded encouragingly, hoping the boy would look up. “As long as The Prophet is still reliable news source.”

Hermione snorted beside him, but Scorpius didn’t notice the joke. Instead, he stood and came to stand beside Harry’s chair.

His voice was quiet as he clasped his hands around Harry’s arm. “Can we go dad? Please? Pleeeaaaaase? I’ll be good. I promise! Only one book! I’ll only ask for one. Pleeeaaaaase? May we just get the one?”

Harry fought a grin, stroking his chin with one hand, as though he were trying to decide the answer to something very difficult. “Hmm,” He started, tsking, “I don’t know, Sco—”

“Oh shut it—” He felt the hand slapping his arm before he heard her. “Of course we can go get the book.” Hermione glared at Harry, leaning over him playfully. “We’ll stop by Flors on the walk back to the Leaky. But finish your lunch first, love.”

Scorpius’s eyes lit up like it was Yule, and his mother had just delivered all his presents. Harry didn’t mind, he’d gladly let his wife take the glory any day. He smiled and put his arm around the back of her chair.

Scorpius and Hermione started chattering then, Scorpius about the last Creature Book that had come out, and Hermione reminding him to keep eating. They couldn’t bring food into Flors, she told him, regardless of how much the bookshop owner loved them.

Harry watched them silently, happy to take in both of their excitement. It made him reminisce about the nickname they used for the famous old bookshop.

It had started when Scorpius couldn’t have been passing more than a year old. After the war, Hermione’s recovery had taken months before she’d been able to even start on a normal rehabilitation. Not only was she healing from her serious concussion, but also from her labour with Scorpius. As it turned out, magical pregnancies were dangerous to begin with and, when combined with the dark curse she’d been struck with over the course of their horcrux hunt, and her already malnourished state, things hadn’t been good. In the end, the recovery from it all had left Hermione bedridden for ages. Harry had been beside her diligently for every moment.

But when Hermione finally brought Scorpius home from St. Mungo’s, one of the first things she had been eager to do, was to introduce him to her favourite hobby: reading. She’d taken him to the bookstore with her whenever she’d felt well enough to get out of the house.

When their son had eventually learned how to start speaking a few months later, his young age combined with a speech impediment had made it impossible to pronounce the proper title of the shop. Flourish and Blots and become Flors. Now, Scorpius’s pronunciation was slowly progressing thanks to his mum’s practicing, but they still found it easier to go with the old version.

Plus, neither Harry nor Hermione were quite ready to acknowledge Scorpius was growing up.

When Scorpius’s dishes were cleared, several minutes later, the little wizard stood up rapidly. “Ready?” He asked, looking hopefully between his parents.

“Yes,” Harry looked at Hermione. “I’ll go settle the bill with Dean and meet you out front?”

“Perfect.” She told him, planting a quick kiss on his cheek and standing. Harry tried to ignore the flush he knew would be covering his face, even after all these years. “Thanks love.” She walked around the table and took Scorpius’s hands, straightening his jumper as she spoke. “Tell him to put it on my tab. I’ll be coming for brunch in the morning, and I was planning to pay off for the whole month when I’m here.”

“Brunch?” Harry smirked playfully, “Since when do you eat brunch? I wasn’t aware you knew what that was.”

“Ha. Ha.” Hermione glared over her shoulder, picking up Scorp. “I’ll have you know, I’m perfectly aware of what the combination meal of breakfast and lunch dishes is, Harry James. But also—” Godric, Harry loved when she called him that. Hermione was the only one who had ever called him by his first and middle names together, and fuck if it wasn’t the sexiest thing he’d ever heard. She grinned mischievously and something in him stirred. “Narcissa planned it.”

And just like that: bucket of cold water. Harry’s face fell and he frowned. Hermione didn’t notice.

“Apparently, it’s very in right now. ‘All the young ladies are doing it Ms. Granger, you mustn’t stand out.’, ‘It’s really the thing now darling.’, ‘Oh please. You and that job of yours. You practically own the department, dear. They can afford to lose you for a whole morning. You really do take on too much…’” Hermione’s impression of the older witch would have undoubtedly been amusing in any other situation. But something about Narcissa Malfoy made Harry feel ill.

Scratch that.

Everything about Narcissa Malfoy made Harry feel ill.

He hated that woman. Narcissa Malfoy was the bane of Harry Potter’s existence. And yet…she was everywhere. Always. With his wife.

Harry had never understood the strange friendship she shared with Hermione. As far as he knew—and Harry had made sure he knew everything— prior to May 1998 the two women had never spoken to one another. Yet still, even after the war and it were done, Harry couldn’t get rid of her.

Hermione wouldn’t get rid of her. Despite his strongest protests to the relationship, Hermione was determined that it was necessary. She had tea at Malfoy Manor constantly, invited over by the Malfoy Matriarch weekly. And when Harry tried to convince her that it was strange to spend so much time with a woman to whom she had no blood relation, Hermione had accused him of prejudice and told him it was the neighbourly thing to do. 

‘Harry, the poor woman is all alone! Her husband is in jail! And her only child ran off to another continent the moment his charges were dropped after the war. She hasn’t seen Malfoy in years and still he only owls her every few months! The woman is lonely, and I refuse to abandon her like everyone else! We’re friends!’

Harry had heard the argument a thousand times. But in every one, he had nothing to say to it. There was nothing he could say. As easy as it would be to argue that it wasn’t his fault everyone had left Narcissa Malfoy alone in England, Harry did his best to avoid lying on the regular.

And aside from that, there was also the way Narcissa looked at him. Like she just knew what he’d done. She couldn’t, he was sure of it. Harry had been thorough in his questioning of Hermione before committing his crime, and there was no way he could have left out such a key detail from his notes…but still, the witch made him uneasy.

“—And it’s not like we can all buy a whole new wardrobe every season.” Harry realised Hermione was still speaking and tried to tune back in. “No, you stick to what you’ve got. The good stuff. I’ve been using the same coat since 6^th year and not once has it ever failed me. But apparently the good stuff isn’t on trend anymore. No, apparently combining it all is on trend. So that means we’re going to brunch.”

“Er, right.” Harry nodded dumbly. He really had no idea what she’d just said, but Hermione seemed satisfied with his answer, so he wasn’t worried. Scorpius was playing with one of her curls and Hermione started walking as he began telling her about something or another. Quickly Harry moved back into the main parlour, looking for the host table and finding his old dormmate writing on a sheet. Harry talked to Dean for a moment, told him what Hermione had instructed, and then proceeded into the bustling city-street.

The weather was beautiful. Spring was in the air and Harry found his wife and son standing next to a bench just outside. When he got close to them, Harry reached for his wife’s hand, but Hermione dodged him. Instead, she moved closer, wrapping both of her arms around his left bicep and nuzzling his shoulder with her cheek for a moment before Scorpius led them away.

“It’s a good day.” Hermione commented thoughtfully, and Harry looked down to see her eyes trained on the young boy in front of them.

“Yeah, it is.” He agreed, squeezing her tighter.

The entire way to the shop, Scorpius chattered on about book he was going to buy, explaining in great detail why each it was so significant to the series of magical creatures and assuring them he wouldn’t spend too much money on books, just what he needed to buy the one. Harry shook his head and laughed quietly at him; Scorpius was ridiculous sometimes.

Regardless of the prestigious salaries Harry and Hermione already earned from their jobs at the ministry, the Potters really were in no need of money. At the end of the war, Harry had received a surprising owl. It was from Gringotts, informing him that since the attack on the bank a few months prior, the goblins had been going through their files. They’d found something. A series of documents, pieces of his parents will. Ones that granted him rights not only to the extended Potter vaults (yes, vaults, there were multiple), but also to the Potter estate. Apparently, the documents for the safe and the location of the house had been under the fidelius charm. A series of deaths from unknown secret keepers over the last two decades had broken the spell and released the papers. All this to say, they were rich. Stupid rich.

Not as rich as Draco Malfoy—yes, but they would never notice, Harry rolled his eyes mentally. No one gave a shit about the difference. Anything Malfoy wanted to buy, Harry could as well. Except, maybe a country or some shit.

The point was, they had no need for saving money. Harry knew this, and Hermione knew this. But still, he found her forgetting it, quite often. It was probably a result of growing up in the muggle world, but Hermione hated spending vast amounts of money, even when Harry would try and buy her gifts. And he understood the feeling. It had been daunting to him too at first, having grown up with nothing. But he had since learned to live with his more than sizable inheritance and enjoy it properly. Obviously though, Hermione had somehow taught her same unnecessary tendencies to her son—

Their son.

Harry frowned. Unconsciously tilting his lip into a sneer and tightening his grip on her shoulders. Harry pulled Hermione closer as they walked in retribution for his own damned thoughts. It wasn’t a deal. It didn’t matter. Scorpius was in fact Hermione’s son. Just as much as he was Harry’s. But even still he just— Harry schooled his glare when Scorpius turned to look back at him. His small brown eyes shone back at Harry with such adoration that it made his stomach clench in a way he couldn’t explain. It wasn’t until they’d reached the door to Flourish and Blott’s and Scorpius had run ahead of them inside that Harry realised Hermione had gone quiet.

“Hey, wait,” She pulled on his hand as the door shut behind them and Harry had made to follow Scorp. He stopped, watching her in question.

Hermione took a second to breathe deeply before straightening. “Look, I know you think I didn’t notice, but I know what you were doing earlier.” She told him. Harry froze, trying not to show a reaction on his face. What did she— “And I get it Harry, really, I do. You know I understand how frightening it can be to be put up for a new job. But it doesn’t matter.”

He opened his mouth to respond but she stopped him with a wince before he could.

“No, I—no. That’s not what I meant.” Her hand pulled on a curl. “I mean obviously it matters. I know it matters. You’ve spent years hoping for this, and it’s a big deal, Har, but…” she bit her lip and twisted with a curl of hers for a second. “I-I want you to know that it doesn’t matter to me. Whether you get it or not. And I know you’re worried and I know you’re nervous. And I know you think they’ll choose some random inexperienced upstart wunderkind from somewhere, but—but regardless, you’re Harry Potter. You’re quite literally the wunderkind.” She snorted at the thought before sobering.

“But, more importantly—or, I hope, more importantly. You’re Harry. You’re my Harry.” She smiled softly and looked in his eyes, “You’re Scorpius’s dad, and you always will be. You’re worth so much more than some job. And we love you. Please, just, don’t be worried on my part, alright? Because you know I’ll be here. No matter what. Ups and downs, right?”

He felt speechless, watching her. Like his whole body was stuck in awe at the woman she was, and the heart that she had. How was it that she always knew what to say? Voicing exactly the answer he needed to his greatest fears. Harry couldn’t stop himself as he cupped both her cheeks with his palms and leaned over her for a kiss.

Hermione was like a fire on a cold day, or dittany on a cut. She healed everything in him with her existence. She kissed him back then with fervour, as if she could show him with her lips just how deeply she meant her words. And only when she pulled back to breathe did he remember where they were. A light pink covered her cheeks as both Harry and Hermione seemed to realise they’d just been snogging in the middle of a bookshop. Several patrons around them appeared to be watching, their expressions filled with intrigue or disdain, Harry found he didn’t care to know which.

“I love you.” He told her, quietly. And when Hermione smiled, her shoulders relaxing with relief, everything clicked in Harry’s head. He decided he didn’t care. What they had together was precious and indestructible. How foolish was he to think that anything or anyone could tear it apart? Hermione loved him. She loved him. Regardless of whether he got the job, this was what mattered to him. This was the entire reason he worked for it all.

The past could go fuck itself. Harry was done worrying about it. He was done with fear and regret. All he wanted to focus on was the future. Everything else, he was leaving it all behind.

“Thank you, Hermione. You’re brilliant.”

His wife’s smile bled into a slow smirk. “I know.” She teased. Biting her lip and distracting him again. “And besides, there’s already one ministry department head in this family. It’s not like we really need another one. Especially not some smelly old auror.”

“Oh really? Smelly old auror?” Harry scoffed, pinching her waist playfully as Hermione stifled a laugh and held him back.

“I said what I said, Harry James. Now. I’ll go find Scorpius and make sure he hasn’t grabbed a whole shelf, how about you go talk to Edgar for me in the back and see if he has the Turkish folklore and runic books I ordered?”

Harry nodded, like the dutiful husband he was, and watched as Hermione marched towards the children’s section. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t wait just a moment longer so he could stare at her arse in the jeans she wore when she walked away.

It wasn’t until he looked up, glancing about his surroundings, that something caught Harry’s eye out the window. Or, more accurately, someone. Particularly, the white-blonde hair that flashed through his vision. A shade so specific he would be able to spot it anywhere. One so rare, that apart from on a select four individuals, Harry was sure it did not exist anywhere else in Great Britain. A shade of hair that nearly knocked the breath from Harry’s lungs as every thought inside his head came to a halt and made way for panic.

Because standing outside the window, less than twenty metres away was the exact thing Harry had just vowed to forget. The very person he’d just promised to leave in the past.

Yes, indeed. Somehow, through some way, after five years abroad where he had sworn to Harry Potter that he would stay, Draco Malfoy was back in England.

Even worse. Harry forgot all about the books he’d promised to grab as his mind scrambled over two facts he’d hoped would never be true: Draco Malfoy was in Diagon Alley, and so was his son.

Chapter Text

Vigilante Shit

Narcissa Malfoy Nee Black

October 2002

Narcissa Malfoy knew a secret.

To be fair, Narcissa knew many secrets.

One simply does not marry the wealthiest man in Europe without making it their job to know everything. Especially when that man is Lucius Abraxas Malfoy. Power and control had their own language, intricate and subtle, and only the most skilled could decipher its core translations.

Narcissa, above most, was fluent. She had dealt in secrets for nearly thirty years, her mastery hidden behind a carefully cultivated façade. Few realised the depth of her acuity. To the world, Narcissa Malfoy was the quintessential pureblood matriarch—delicate, indulgent, wasting her husband’s galleons on silks and jewels. And Narcissa let them think that.

She never contested the whispers, never contradicted the articles penned about her. Merlin knew the papers adored her. Narcissa Black was a spectacle from the moment she entered society. The perfect heiress, raised under centuries of tradition, she was groomed for prominence, her every move scrutinized.

Her betrothal to Lucius Malfoy made international headlines. The wedding, held exactly one year later, dominated magazine covers across Europe for weeks. When she revealed her pregnancy, it sparked a storm of envy that bordered on hysteria.

BREAKING NEWS: Lady Malfoy spotted sporting an impressive bump in Diagon Alley. Judging by her husband’s doting attentions, the couple appears thrilled to be expecting!

What the headlines didn’t mention were the two poisoning attempts and one stabbing she endured that same week. Lucius ensured those stories never saw the light of day. From that moment forward, Narcissa Malfoy became untouchable.

She learned quickly that there was little Lucius wouldn’t do to protect her. The papers romanticized it, calling him devoted. Narcissa knew better. It wasn’t love—it was pride.

After all, what kind of wizard lets his pregnant wife get murdered by a hag?

Being a Malfoy, as it turned out, was not for the faint of heart.

And so, Narcissa adapted. She became what was necessary. By the time the first Wizarding War officially began, her reputation was unassailable, a fortress she had constructed brick by brick. Narcissa had been born at the top of the hierarchy, but by age twenty-three she had built a new tier entirely for herself. 

There was a muggle theory, “survival of the fittest” they said. Well, with a husband determined to please a madman, Narcissa was determined to survive.

The idea that Draco Malfoy could ever court a woman without Narcissa’s knowledge was as absurd as it was laughable. There were few things in her life which Narcissa held dear—despite common assumption, she really wasn’t materialistic— and her son was undoubtedly the number one. She knew her son like the back of her hand.

When Draco returned home after his first year at Hogwarts, his eyes red and swollen after Lucius had beaten him for allowing a Muggle-born to best him in their class, Narcissa had known.

When Draco wrote her pages of regret, apologising for calling that same girl a slur, Narcissa had known.

When he sought her advice after goading the young witch into punching him and fretting that he’d gone too far, Narcissa had still known.

And when Draco came home for break after the Yule Ball, muttering under his breath about some “awful bint… stupid blue dress… bloody oaf’s hands on her,” before locking himself in his room for an entire day, Narcissa knew exactly what was coming next.

June of 1995 brought significant developments for both Malfoy men. Narcissa had no doubt which of the two she preferred. Lucius, for all his posturing, was a fool and an embarrassment to his ancestors. Though she would never say so aloud, Narcissa knew that the filth he had invited into their lives was far more dangerous than Draco’s affections ever could be. So, when Lucius announced in July that he would be gone for several weeks to serve Voldemort, Narcissa did not protest. Instead, she set her own plans into motion.

Hermione Granger was a dear. It took less than three minutes of observing her in the drawing room for Narcissa to understand why Draco’s feelings ran so deeply. She was not a seer, but the way her son watched the girl—the way he anticipated her every need before she even voiced it—left no doubt in Narcissa’s mind. Their souls were tethered, though whether their hearts had come to recognise it yet was another matter.

For Draco’s happiness, Narcissa found herself surprisingly amenable to the whole Muggle-born thing. Despite what she had been raised to believe, Hermione’s blood status caused her no distress. The girl was well-mannered, intelligent, assertive, and utterly devoted to Draco. It didn’t hurt that she was strikingly beautiful, though blissfully unaware of it. Hermione’s lack of vanity was oddly refreshing, especially when compared to the simpering pure-blood witches Narcissa often had to endure.

In truth, Hermione was perfect. Her blood status was irrelevant. Narcissa had been too young to fully understand the depth of loss when Andromeda was cast out of the family, but the pain of it had lingered. The day her mother burned the photo Andromeda had sent of her newborn daughter was the day Narcissa made a solemn vow: she would never abandon her child, no matter the circumstances. Prejudice and pride be damned, she did not care. As long as Draco was in love, she would find contentment.

Watching Draco and Hermione share laughter in the drawing room that day, Narcissa felt peace for the first time in years. She had never seen Draco so at ease, so carefree. As his mother, she wanted nothing more than for that joy to endure.

That day, Narcissa resolved to do whatever was necessary—even in the face of war—to ensure that Hermione Granger would one day become her daughter. She began planning their wedding that very night.

Originally, that summer, Draco had only asked for Hermione to stay for the afternoon. His nerves over their introduction had been thoroughly amusing to Narcissa. She had no intention of mistreating the young witch—unless, of course, she proved to be inexcusably dull or daft—but Narcissa allowed Draco to work through his apprehensions on his own. It was only after their meal, once Draco had begun to relax, that Narcissa suggested Hermione extend her visit. Lucius had written a few days prior to inform her that he was embroiled in meetings and would not return for another fortnight.

And so began their strange tradition. Narcissa wrote the Grangers frequently, determined to befriend the couple and assure them she meant no harm. Their responses were generous, though she quickly realised how little they understood about their daughter’s world. The Grangers were eager for information, and it was clear Hermione had been keeping secrets.

In the coming months, Narcissa told them all she could without betraying their daughter’s trust. She met them for tea regularly and kept them informed with all the little things Draco told her about during the year. She could not, as a fellow parent, allow the Grangers to live in ignorance of Hermione’s world. And, as a respectable witch, she refused to allow their children’s relationship to progress without keeping to proper traditions.

Though Draco might never forgive her for requiring him to don his House of Black robes and formally request the Grangers’ permission to court their daughter, it was a sacrifice she was more than willing to make. And, she thought, it had quite helped his case. Despite Richard Granger’s poorly concealed laughter at Draco’s regalia, Jean had called him “absolutely darling,” and both parents had given their blessing without hesitation.

In return, the Grangers came to trust Narcissa implicitly. For years, they had no reservations about allowing Hermione to spend her holidays at Malfoy Manor, and at every term’s end, Narcissa found herself eager to see the young witch once more.

However, they did not always come to Wiltshire. Despite Narcissa’s best efforts, she was not always able to persuade Lucius to take his leave for a few weeks. When that happened, Narcissa ensured they retreated to one of their other homes.

After Draco turned sixteen, they began travelling further afield—to Paris, Nice, and their chateau in Chamonix. Draco embraced his role as their tour guide with great enthusiasm, while Narcissa oversaw the young couple’s adventures through the historic towns and cities. Those were blissful days, and Narcissa treasured every moment as she watched her son fall deeply in love.

She watched her son and Hermione make plans together, hoping deep in her heart that they would both live long enough to see them through.

Yet it was their last trip during the spring holidays that she held closest to her heart. They returned to Chamonix, fully aware of the dark changes looming on the horizon. But for that one final week, Hermione and Draco existed within their own little bubble, untouched by the shadows creeping ever closer.

“Granger, put on the coat,” Draco told her as they stepped outside the door of the chalet, the crisp air immediately biting at their faces.

Hermione gave him a look that was equal parts exasperation and amusement. “I’m not putting it on. I don’t need a coat. And that,” she gestured at the offending garment he held out, “is not even a coat. It’s a cloak. Who wears cloaks, Draco?”

“I do. Literally, right now, I am,” he replied, Draco spread his arms to showcase the fine, fur-lined cloak draped over his shoulders and spun in a circle.

Hermione frowned, crossing her arms when he came back. “Well, I’m not you.”

“Yes, which is why I’m not giving you mine.” 

“I don’t need a cloak,” Hermione insisted, setting off down the snow-dusted path that led to town. Though her determination to get there may have had less to do with her eagerness and more with the hope that the activity would warm her up. But she would never tell Draco that.

He fell into step beside her, unfazed. “It’s freezing, love. Put on the coat.”

“I don’t need it. It’s not that cold,” Hermione replied through gritted teeth, fighting valiantly to keep her jaw from chattering as a sharp gust of wind whipped past them. “And I already have a coat.”

“Oh, yes, a brilliant coat. One that’s doing wonders for you now. From where it’s hanging. In a closet. In London. At your house. Where I told you to pack it.” Draco’s voice was thick with amusement as he shook his head.

“I forgot it. Not a big deal. I don’t need a new one,” she muttered, her gaze stubbornly fixed on the path as she kicked a bit of snow with the toe of her boot.

“Forgot to, chose to, ignored…” he sing-songed, his grin only growing wider when she shivered despite herself.

“I did.” She admitted it begrudgingly, but her tone carried no intention of backing down.

Draco’s smirk deepened. “‘Oh, come on! Draco, have you gone mad? It’s nearly summer; we’re well into March. I’m not going to need a coat. It’ll be practically sweltering,’” he mocked in a falsetto imitation of her voice.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “I do not sound like that.”

“You do.” He raised a perfectly arched brow.

“How the was I supposed to know it would still be snowing? Last time we came, there were so many flowers!” she protested.

“Maybe because I told you,” Draco shot back. “I believe my exact words were, ‘Pack your skis, Hermione, we’re going sledging.’ And the reason there were flowers last time, darling, is because the last time we were here was July.”

Hermione stopped walking long enough to glare at him, but he didn’t stop either his teasing or his pace. Draco held out the cloak again, stepping closer.

“Now, put on the damn coat I bought you.”

“I don’t want to.” Hermione was unwilling to accept defeat, and Draco was positively smug over it.

“It’s brand new.” He told her.

“That’s not the problem.”

“It cost 1,400 galleons,” Draco murmured, whistling innocently in the other direction.

“DRACO!” Hermione gasped, spinning around to face him fully.

Draco grinned at her reaction, using it to his advantage. In one swift motion, he closed the space between them, catching her off guard. Before Hermione could protest, he had pulled her closer by the waist and draped the cloak over her shoulders. His deft fingers moved quickly to tie the bow at her neck as she stood frozen, balancing between indignation and reluctant amusement.

“It’s nothing, love,” Draco said softly, his gaze dropping to where his hands lingered against the fabric. “Your happiness is priceless to me. I’d buy you ten more if you asked.” When he finished, his eyes met hers, and the sincerity there caught her off guard.

Hermione’s glare faltered. She bit her lip, trying to maintain her annoyance but failing miserably. “I hate when you do that.”

“Do what?” Draco whispered, his forehead almost brushing against hers.

“Be all sweet and thoughtful so I have to listen.”

Draco chuckled, his breath warm against her cheek. “Me? Thoughtful? Shocking.”

Hermione’s hand smacked lightly against his chest. “Shut it.”

“You love it.”

Hermione laughed softly. “Yeah, actually. I really do.”

FLASH!

Draco and Hermione’s heads both snapped in the direction of the bright light. When Draco saw their secret paparazzi he sighed, rolling his eyes playfully. “MUM.” He groaned, dragging the word out, though there was no real frustration behind it.

“Hi Draco,” Narcissa greeted sweetly, entirely unbothered. Swaddled in cloaks and leaning casually against the porch frame, she looked rather amused with herself and her camera. Draco couldn’t help laughing at the image.

Hermione seemed to have a similar problem as he heard her giggling from beside him. “Hi Mrs. Malfoy!” She called out.

“Hello, love! How are you?” Narcissa replied warmly.

“Well, thank you!” Hermione answered just as Draco grumbled under his breath.

“How come she’s ‘love’ and I’m ‘Draco?” he asked, feigning indignation.

“Because I like Hermione more than you,” Narcissa quipped. “She’s far prettier and better at teaching me charms, you know. I can’t control these things.”

 “Is that so?” Draco let out a scoff, this time directed at his girlfriend as a mischievous glint sparked in his eyes. Before either woman could react, he bent down, scooped up a handful of snow, and rounded on Hermione.

“Draco…” Hermione eyed him warily, a mixture of laughter and warning on her face as she stepped back from his full arms.

“I think I’ll have to fix that.” Draco lunged, pulling her back into his chest with one arm while dumping the massive snowball on top of her head with the other.

“OH MY GODRIC!” Hermione shrieked, flailing as the cold seeped through her hair.

“Sorry, did you not want me to do that?” He gasped sarcastically, breaking out in laughter as Hermione shoved him away with a glare. 

“Not so pretty now, is she mother? I’d say she’s rather like a snow-woman, really. Do you think anyone could tell the difference between old Dumbledore and her? All that grey hair.” He called out playfully.

"I’m going to kill you, you arse!” Hermione yelled, shaking the snow off as she grabbed her own handfuls. With a surprising speed Draco hadn't expected, she grabbed him by the hood of his cloak and shoved the ice water down the back of his jumper.

“AH! BLAST!” Draco jumped and whipped around as the snow melted against his skin. 

Hermione was practically cackling as she watched him try to untuck his shirt and remove the ice, but Draco was wearing too many layers and it left him distracted. He was still reaching his hands back to relieve the cold water when he felt another, much larger, handful of snow land on his head.

“GAH! GRANGER!” He shouted.  

“Take it back!” She screamed, pelting him again.  

“No!” Draco fought his laughter as much as possible, but when Hermione covered him with a third pile of snow, this time rubbing it into his hair with her hands, he couldn't help it.  “Stop it—stop it—stop it!” He tried, batting her hands away and wrestling to try and grab her wrists.

While Hermione leaned over his shoulder to push more ice down his shirt, Draco’s arms wrapped around her stomach like one of her father’s rugby player folks and threw his weight forward. Hermione's resistance was futile to the weight of his tall figure, and Draco easily pushed her over, though he was careful, even in his laughter to turn them so that he landed first in the snowbank, dragging her down with him.

“Oh my gosh,” Hermione panted with a grin after a moment when she sat up. “You’re insane.”

Draco just smirked, letting his eyes fall shut in laughter. 

Then his mother shouted over them. “No, I'm afraid I must disagree Draco. I ’m not sure Hermione resembles Albus at all. The headmaster's not nearly that agile, and Hermione's certainly prettier than both of you combined."

Draco pushed himself up by his elbows and ran a hand through his wet hair. His eyes didn’t even bother with his mother as he smirked at the witch in question. Hermione’s cheeks were rosy with the exertion, her freckles prominent, even despite the winter sky, and her eyes were bright with a beauty that made it hard to breathe. “I think you might be right.” He answered quietly, so that his mother might not have even heard. “The prettiest.” He used his thumb to wipe a drop of water from her cheek.

“Oh shut up.” Hermione scoffed, though she ducked down and kissed his cheek, sweetly. When their eyes met again, Hermione was blushing quite hard, and it made Draco chuckle at her shyness. Salazar his girlfriend was something perfect—

FLASH!

Hermione and Draco once again snapped their heads around to see Narcissa pointing the camera at them with a grin. This time Draco’s groan was louder as he threw his head back and laid back in the snow. “MUM!”

Hermione just fell into giggles on his stomach.

That was the last trip Draco and Narcissa got to take with Hermione. The last moment of peace for the two of them, away from the world and the pressures of expectations. When they went back to Wiltshire a few days later, everything quickly became so different.

Narcissa couldn’t tell you what it was that told her to find a camera that morning. Why she watched her son and Hermione say they were going out, and then immediately thought to follow them outside. Narcissa didn’t know what caused her to want to preserve some moment between the two of them, but for the next seven years afterwards, she was glad that she did.

There were only two photos that existed of Draco and Hermione together during their school years. Only two copies existed to help them remember what they were fighting for in the war. Narcissa was selfish, but she gave Draco the first one and kept the second for herself. She liked it better. Hermione and Draco were almost posed together in the first, staring into one another’s eyes. But in the second they were the opposite,

The second photo was imperfect, and she treasured it. Draco and Hermione were sprawled in the snow, laughing uncontrollably. Their cheeks were flushed with cold, and Hermione’s hair was a wild mess of curls, scattered with bits of ice. Draco’s smile was wide and unrestrained, utterly genuine in a way Narcissa rarely saw. It was the only photograph she owned where her son was smiling.

It was the one she pulled out now, on days when she needed to hold onto something from that lost world. A world that had shattered so completely on that dreadful day when everything fell apart.

Narcissa Malfoy could remember the day she lost everything as though it were yesterday. She could remember the sweet relief that came with Draco’s trial verdict. As though the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders when they pronounced her son innocent.

She remembered the gratitude she felt towards Harry Potter, whose testimony had tilted the scales in Draco’s favour. Potter, the boy she had once dismissed as an irritating nuisance, had become an unlikely saviour. Perhaps he truly was the hero of the wizarding world—he had certainly saved hers.

And she remembered Draco’s grin that day, a rare, wide smile that was both nervous and radiant. When he hugged her for the first time in nearly a month, his relief had been palpable. “I’m going to St. Mungo’s,” he’d announced, the words tumbling out with a kind of breathless energy. She’d known how desperately he had been waiting for the trial to end, not only to clear his name but for the freedom it would bring.

For the first time in seven agonising months, Draco could see her. Hermione. The witch he had fought for, waited for, endured for. Narcissa could see the anticipation thrumming in every fibre of her son as he spoke. Draco was practically vibrating with excitement at the thought of being by Hermione’s side again, of holding her hand, of finally being together in public after nearly four years of stolen moments and whispered promises. The fact that Hermione was still in hospital, bedridden and frail, did not seem to matter to him in the slightest. All that mattered was her.

Narcissa could still picture his happiness in perfect detail—the light in his eyes, the barely contained joy in his voice. It was a rare sight for a mother who had seen her son grow up under the shadow of war.

And yet, she could also remember, just hours later, the utter devastation that cloaked Draco upon his return.

Narcissa could count on one hand the number of times she had seen her son cry since he was a small boy. Once, when Lucius struck him after he ranked second in his first year at Hogwarts. Again, when the Dark Mark was burned into his skin at seventeen. And then that night—when Draco returned from St. Mungo’s.

Devastated, she thought, was too kind a word to describe what Draco had been. He had been nearly catatonic. His entire body trembled as though wracked by an invisible storm, his breathing was shallow and erratic, and his eyes were devoid of anything except the tears spilling from them.

“She doesn’t want me,” he had barely managed to whisper, his voice breaking on each word. Then, as if the effort of speaking had been too much, Draco collapsed onto the floor of the floo room, unconscious.

Narcissa’s panicked absolutely at the sight. She summoned the house-elves immediately, having them transport Draco to his room and call a healer. The air in the had been thick with magic, sharp and volatile, like a wound left raw and bleeding. It radiated off him in waves, pulsing against the walls of the manor.

When the healer examined him, they assured her that his condition, while alarming, was not life-threatening. “He's fine, considering the circumstances, Miss. Wizard's just got out of prison, shock isn't an uncommon reaction.” they explained, as that alone could resolve the brokenness she was watching unfold before her. Shock could not possibly be the cause of this, Draco looked ill and she didn't know what to do. Eventually, Narcissa left, leaving him to ret alone, though she knew her own mind would not find peace until he woke.

The following morning, she went to his room, intending to check on him and see that he was alright. But when Narcissa opened the door, she was greeted by an eerie stillness she did not expect. The room was vacant. The wardrobes had been emptied, his clothes gone.

The only thing remaining that proved Draco had been there at all was a letter, neatly folded on the bed.

Mum,

I’m so sorry. I’ve failed you as a son over and over again and you’ve never held it against me. I could not protect you, from father or the dark lord, as I knew I should have all those years. I thought I did what I could, but I know now that I am a coward. Too afraid and conceited by my own shadow to do what I know is right.

I’m changing that. Or I hope I am. Hermione was right, I don’t deserve her. I never have, but after all that’s happened, it was arrogant of me to think we could still work through it. That she could ever forgive me for what I’ve done. Hermione made it clear to me yesterday in her letter that she could not. Too much has happened. Too much time has passed.

Hermione asked me to leave England. I went storming into St. Mungos like a bloody fool, presuming all that I did, and I was so very wrong. Hermione wouldn’t see me. She’s not well yet, but Potter assured me she’s getting better, and then he gave me a letter. Hermione was too scared of my reaction— of me. Hermione was too scared of me, Mum. After everything I’ve done, she was afraid of me. So, she wrote me a letter asking me to leave. Telling me that it was too hard, and too much has happened and that she loved me. She used to love me. But after everything that’s happened, it’s too hard.

Hermione asked that if I care about her at all, that I will leave England. I’ll leave England and her alone and let her find happiness with someone else. So, I have to listen. I’m leaving, mum. I’m going to America. I heard something that they’re in need of aurors right now and I want to try. I want to try and do better. For you and Hermione. You deserve better than this, I know you do. But I’m a coward, mother, and I knew if I stayed long enough to say goodbye, I wouldn’t leave. And I have to leave. I have to respect her wishes. So, I’ve gone to New York, I’m interviewing with MACUSA next week.

I will send you the details once I’ve purchased a flat. But I must ask that you not visit. I need to do this on my own. Hermione was right. It will be good for me to start over in a new place. To get a new perspective.

I love you, more than these words can express, and I’m sorry.

Draco L. Malfoy

It was seven months after Draco left before Narcissa began to suspect that something was amiss.

Seven months had passed since her son had emigrated, leaving England and the shadows of his past behind. Seven months of silence, of empty halls and unanswered questions, before Narcissa found herself on the second floor of Flourish and Blott’s. She had been flipping through an outdated volume on magical herbology when she noticed a familiar figure examining the gardening collection.

Seven months had come and gone before that eager young witch turned towards her, offering a bright smile and introducing herself as though they had never met.

Hermione Potter. 

The words had landed like a slap, though Narcissa’s expression never wavered. She had seen it in the papers over the summer. The Chosen One and the brightest witch of their age, tying the knot with a small ceremony with only their friends present. But reading something in the papers and seeing it in front of you were two very different things. Narcissa could feel her years of training in occlumency fortifying her mind, shielding her shock from the sharp-eyed young woman before her. How she managed to maintain her composure and prevent Hermione from bolting, Narcissa would never quite understand.

Hermione was the picture of friendliness—perhaps too much so. As they spoke, Narcissa couldn’t help but notice how eager the girl seemed, as though she hadn’t had a proper conversation with anyone her own age in weeks. There was something disarmingly earnest about her manner, a warmth that felt both familiar and foreign.

And yet, what struck Narcissa most deeply—what unsettled her to her core—was the utter lack of recognition in Hermione’s eyes.

This was the same witch who had shared countless meals at her dining table in Malfoy Manor, the same girl who had curled up on the settee to read while Draco had hovered nearby, feigning nonchalance. The same Hermione Granger who had laughed with her son, argued with him, planned a future with him. And yet, now she looked at Narcissa as though she were a stranger, no different from the other patrons in the shop. 

It was wrong. Deeply, irrevocably wrong.

When Hermione introduced the infant cradled in her arms—Scorpius Potter—Narcissa felt the floor shift beneath her. A child. Hermione was holding a child. And not just any child, but her child. Narcissa hadn't even known the girl was pregnant, but clearly she was. And if she'd been pregnant than that meant she and Potter had being seeing one another for far longer than she had assumed. The thought left a sinking feeling in Narcissa's stomach, and a bad taste in her mouth. 

Before her thoughts could really begin to spiral though, Scorpius interrupted his mother and began fussing. His tiny cries were noisy and Narcissa watched Hermione’s face turn pale as she clumsily attempted to comfort him, her uncertainty evident in the way she fumbled with the child’s blanket. Without even thinking about it, Narcissa seized the opportunity.

“May I?” she asked softly, extending her hands.

Hermione did not even hesitate for a moment before nodding hopefully, relief flooding her features as she took the child from her. Narcissa’s movements were instinctive, years of maternal practice guiding her as she rocked the baby gently, murmuring soothing words under her breath. Scorpius settled almost immediately, his small face relaxing as his cries subsided.

“You’ve done wonderfully,” Narcissa reassured Hermione, her voice warm. “But he seems like a child who might prefer a quieter place for a bit of a rest. There’s a tea shop just down the Alley. Would you care to join me?”

The look of excitement that fell over Hermione at the prospect was one Narcissa would cherish forever. It was as though the young woman had been handed a lifeline, a moment of reprieve in a sea of overwhelming responsibility.

As they settled into their seats at the tea shop, Scorpius sleeping peacefully in his carrier, Narcissa listened carefully, her mind racing. The conversation that unfolded was one she would never forget. 

Someone was playing a cruel game with Hermione Granger. Narcissa could see it the longer they sat talking together. There were signs, subtle gaps in her memory, inconsistencies in her story. Narcissa thought there was an almost unnatural precision to the way Hermione spoke of her past, as though the pieces had been slotted into place by some hand.

Someone had erased Draco from Hermione’s memory. Someone had targeted her son’s person and removed every good interaction between the two of them from the young girl’s mind. The trace of magic over Hermione was obvious once the two got talking. And the longer they were together, the more maddening Narcissa found it that she could not step into Hermione’s mind herself and change it back.

But that was not how memory charms worked. And given that it was she who helped Hermione erase the memories of her parents the year before, Narcissa was especially familiar with obliviation. The only person who could reverse the memory charm was the one who had keyed it in the first place.

This left her with two pressing issues.

The first was the question of who. They had just endured a war that had spanned the entire country and beyond. Hermione Granger had not only survived but had been at the heart of the conflict, as the best friend of the Chosen One. There were countless fugitives and enemies who might have sought to harm her. But to erase Draco from her memory? That was deliberate. That was targeted.

The list of people who could have understood the significance of such an act was minuscule. It would have required intimate knowledge of their relationship—knowledge that Narcissa could not fathom being in the hands of anyone but the closest of confidants. Anyone beyond the three of them knowing would have had to have been an extenuating circumstance, of which Narcissa was not aware.

And the second issue, was that Narcissa had no idea when exactly the charm was cast and as a result, she had no idea if reversing if would even be a worthwhile endeavour. Hermione was happy. Happily, and newly married to her childhood best friend. Narcissa knew Hermione had loved Draco with everything in her, but she also knew, speaking to the girl now, that Hermione loved Harry. She had a child with Harry.

She hated the part of herself that worried that finding a cure to the curse would result in nothing but pain for the individuals involved. Draco was her son, but Scorpius was Harry’s. It would be selfish, after all they’d been through, to ruin the happiness the young couple had finally found together. To ask the recovering Hermione to carry the burden of guilt with knowing how heartbroken Draco was.

So Narcissa had stayed quiet. Complicit. She allowed time to go own without fighting it. She wrote letters to Draco almost daily, never including in any of them Hermione’s name. And Hermione, she refused to lose the girl. Narcissa began running into Hermione regularly, weekly. Like clockwork she would stumble upon the young witch while she was out and about and invite her for tea. It became a tradition between them, and overtime their meetings stopped being ‘accidents’ and started being planned. Hermione would come to the manor every week for a meal, almost always bringing Scorpius with her, and the two of them would talk.

Narcissa looked forward to their next two hours together from the moment the last one would end. Even without her love for Draco, Hermione was everything she had ever wanted in a daughter. Narcissa liked, even selfishly, that they were friends too all on their own.

As time passed and the years flew by, Narcissa slowly let the memory of her son and Hermione fade to the back of her mind. She would always mourn, deeply and desperately for the relationship they lost. But on the fourth anniversary of the last time she’d seen Draco, Narcissa knew it was time to move on, for both of them.

 Oh how she would eat her words on that decision. Because four years after everything had went so wrong, something in the heavens decided to go so right.

In November of 2002 Harry Potter was very nearly killed while on a mission in Italy.

Narcissa Malfoy had never loved Harry Potter. She doted on his wife, to be sure, but for Mr. Potter she did not mince her judgements. In Narcissa’s opinion, the young lord Potter was careless, ungrateful, and indelicate. He lacked the tact and intelligence she would have required if given the decision to select a suitor for Hermione. And though she would never tell Hermione herself, Narcissa thought the witch could have done significantly better.

But there was one trait Mr. Potter possessed that Narcissa was remiss to concede weighed heavily in his favour despite all of her oppositions. Harry Potter loved his wife.

And thus, when the fox patronus bounded into her drawing room halfway through their Monday lunch and informed Hermione that Mr. Potter had been cursed badly and she needed to come immediately to see him, Narcissa had told her to go.

She assured Hermione repeatedly that it was fine. She was alright and it would be okay.  

"Stay with him," Narcissa had said calmly over the Floo, her tone soothing despite the situation. "Scorpius is safe here. He’s having a lovely time. We’ll see you when you return."

Hermione had hesitated but finally nodded. "Thank you, Narcissa. Truly."

Tears were forming in the young witch’s eyes as she promised to be back as soon as possible. She was careful not to wake him from his nap as she dropped a final kiss on Scorpius’s cheek, and then Hermione stood, her arms trembling as she took the charmed doorknob from Narcissa’s palm and in a flash, Hermione had been gone.

Hermione wrote quickly after she arrived. Harry was alive, but in critical condition. The healers were doing everything they could to help him, but they still weren’t sure. Narcissa told her again not to worry. She and Scorpius were actually enjoying themselves quite a bit.

The next few days had followed far too quickly for her taste, but Narcissa spent every ounce of energy she had in them, entertaining the little wizard, and trying to distract him from his parents’ absence. For the first time in years, the great halls of Malfoy Manor were filled with laughter and games as they played hide-and-seek, baked biscuits in the expansive kitchen, and practiced small magic under Narcissa’s careful tutelage. To her great surprise, Narcissa quite liked having Scorpius with her. Every time he giggled or clapped with joy; she felt a warmth in her heart that she hadn’t experienced in years.

For the first two nights of his surprise visit, Scorpius had been staying in one of the guest rooms. It was a stately chamber decorated in neutral tones, but on the third morning that changed quite a bit. It started when Scorpius had wandered into her study to say good morning like he usually did. The little wizard had made a habit of finding Narcissa wherever she might disappear to in the manor’s halls. That morning in particular, Scorpius’s curious gaze landed on a portrait hanging on her wall—it was of Draco, a younger version of him, dressed in his Malfoy House Robes, his expression sharp and full of the arrogance Lucius demanded he exude.

“Who’s that?” Scorpius asked softly.

Narcissa paused, her breath catching when she realised where he’d been pointing to. "That… that is my son," she said softly.

Scorpius’s eyes widened. "Your son? You have a son, Miss Cissa? What was he like? Is he like me? Is he different? Did he like quidditch? Did he read books? Did he…"

The flood of questions warmed Narcissa’s heart, and she knelt beside him, smiling gently. "You remind me so much of him.” she said after a moment. "When Draco was your age, he was full of questions too. A curious little dragon… that’s what I used to call him."

Scorpius giggled at the nickname. "A dragon? That’s silly, Miss Cissa.”

“It is," Narcissa replied with a chuckle. "But that’s what his name means, Scorpius. Draco is the name of a constellation of a dragon.”

Scorpius’s eyes lit up, “Consolation?! Is that like with the stars?”

Narcissa smiled at him softly, remembering the first time she taught Draco about stars too. “It is, little one. A constellation is a collection of stars in the night sky that make a picture.”

“Like a dragon.” Scorpius supplied excitedly.

“Exactly.” She tapped him on his tiny nose. “My Draco’s constellation was a picture of a dragon. I wonder if you can guess what his favourite animal was growing up.”

Scorpius seemed to think about it for a minute. “A dragon?”

“Right again.” She told him. Narcissa had to hide her smirk when Scorpius made a small fist pumping motion, his mouth moving in the shape of a ‘yes’ without ever saying it.

“So, he liked dragons?” Scorpius asked after a brief pause, his small voice brimming with curiosity. “Like, a lot? Did that mean he had dragon toys? My dad fought a dragon once, you know. And Mum says she rode one too, but she always tells me I can’t do that. That it wasn’t very nice, and she wouldn’t do it again—not even if the dragon let her.”

Narcissa hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly on the armrest of her chair. Draco’s room had remained untouched since the day he left. Walking into it felt like stepping back in time—a window into the life of her son as a boy, unspoiled by the burdens he would later bear. Yet, the bright-eyed wonder lighting Scorpius’s face softened her resolve.

“Well,” she said, her tone gentler now, “he did. He loved dragons very much. If there was one thing my Draco excelled at as a child, it was collecting them. Dragons of every shape, size, and color.” She stood, extending a hand toward Scorpius. “Would you like to see them? But you must promise me to be careful. If we lose even one, it would make Draco very sad.”

“I promise!” Scorpius’s head bobbed up and down eagerly. “I don’t want to make him sad. I just want to see the dragons!”

Narcissa smiled as they left her office, his tiny hand clutching hers with warm trust.

When she opened the door to Draco’s room, she paused, her gaze flicking to Scorpius to watch his reaction. It did not disappoint. The boy’s mouth fell open, his eyes wide as they darted across every inch of the room. Narcissa followed his gaze, rediscovering the space as if for the first time.

The room was spacious, as were all the rooms in Malfoy Manor, but every surface seemed alive with Draco’s personality. Green and silver banners for his school house adorned the walls, their rich hues softened by age. Shelves lined with hundreds of books towered against one wall, a testament to her son’s love for knowledge. Beneath them, however, was where the real treasure lay—rows of cupboards meticulously organized with the dragon toys Scorpius had come to see.

“These are incredible!” Scorpius exclaimed, darting toward a cupboard before hesitating, remembering her warning. He glanced back at her for permission.

“You may,” Narcissa assured him with a nod. “Just one at a time, and handle them gently.”

He opened the first cupboard with care, his small fingers brushing over rows of miniature dragons crafted with delicate precision. Narcissa observed quietly, her heart tugging as Scorpius’s awe brought the room to life once more. It was as though Draco’s childhood had not only been preserved but was now being rediscovered through the eyes of another generation.

Scorpius’s joy was infectious. The rest of the day was spent exploring the room, Scorpius asking endless questions about Draco’s childhood. Narcissa answered every one, feeling a bittersweet pang with each story she shared. The boy’s enthusiasm brought long-buried memories to the forefront of her mind, and for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to dwell on the happier moments of Draco’s youth.

That evening, after they’d eaten dinner in the gardens, Narcissa called for Tippy, their house-elf, to prepare Scorpius for bed. "His hair is looking quite dirty," She the commented to the elf, noticing greyish streaks poking out of Scorpius’s locks. Narcissa frowned, "I’m worried he might be unwell. Ensure his bath is thorough and warm tonight. I will not have him catching something while he’s here.”

Though Scorpius initially protested, he soon relented, buoyed by the prospect of playing with Tippy during bath time. Narcissa watched fondly as he was led away, his laughter echoing through the veranda.

Later, Tippy found Narcissa in her study to inform her that Scorpius was ready for bed. Narcissa ascended the stairs to Draco’s old room. Her steps were lightened by the thought of tucking Hermione’s sweet little boy in for the night. She pushed open the door, a soft smile on her face—and froze.

Sitting on the bed, under the duvet, was Draco.

No. Not Draco. But it was. It had to be.

Narcissa’s breath hitched as she clutched the doorframe for support, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "Draco?" The name escaped her lips in a whisper, trembling as if spoken aloud might shatter the vision before her. The boy looked up, and she staggered backward, her hands flying to her mouth.

Her son. It was her son. The silver-blond hair, the piercing grey eyes, the cheekbones she had memorised from the moment he was born. Narcissa shook her head violently, her breathing uneven. "No. No, this isn’t possible."

The boy tilted his head curiously, concern flashing across his familiar features. "Miss Cissa?" The voice was soft, hesitant, and unmistakably Scorpius’s. Yet Narcissa couldn’t reconcile it with the face before her. She stumbled back, her mind spiralling.

"Draco? Is that… is that you?" She stepped closer, the warmth of the room pressing against her, but her hands trembled too much to near him. It was Draco. She was sure it was Draco. It was Draco but he was small and young like he hadn’t been in far too long. It was Draco but—Narcissa’s breath stuttered, her hand coming to her chest as her breaths began coming in shallow gasps. She turned abruptly. "Tippy!" Her voice cracked, sharp with fear.

The house-elf appeared with a soft pop, her ears drooping at the evident distress in Narcissa’s tone. “Mistress?”

Narcissa gestured to the boy, her hand shaking. "What… what is this? What’s happened to him?"

Tippy wrung her hands nervously, blinking between Scorpius then back at Narcissa. "Mistress, Tippy did not mean to frighten. Tippy was bathing the young master like Mistress asks. Tippy just doing the wash, but it not working. Tippy just do a quick check because she can feel somethings stickies on the young master and Tippy not like the stickies. She just do a quick check to see, but Tippy did find a glammy on the young master Scorpius. That’s what was the stickies so Tippy had to remove it to clean him proper.”

Narcissa stumbled backward into a chair, gripping its arm tightly. "A glamour? What do you mean? Sticky? What kind of glamour?"

Tippy wrung her large ears, her hands quivering. "Glammy, Mistress. A spell of magic to hide. It was making the young Master look not right—darker hair, and the greeny face. But it be old, Mistress, and started to come off in the garden. Tippy had to remove it to clean him from the bath."

The words were a hammer striking Narcissa’s mind. She stared at the elf, her vision blurring with dread. "How old? How long could it have lasted? The glamour. What—what kind was it that could last—how.”

Tippy hesitated, her ears drooping. "Not too old, Mistress. Little Masters grow too fast for glammys like that one to hold. This one… maybe a few weeks? No more."

The implications hit Narcissa like a thunderclap. Her son’s face stared back at her from the bed, his features reflected perfectly in Scorpius. Her breaths came shallow and uneven. "No," she murmured. "That’s not Scorpius. That’s—".

But if the glamour was only weeks old, someone had hidden his true appearance intentionally. The questions swirled in her mind, sharp and relentless: who had cast it, and why? And what did this mean for her grandson’s parentage?

Narcissa felt like she couldn’t breathe. Her chest tightened as realisation unfurled with terrifying clarity. Scorpius had black hair. He had always had black hair—since the day he was born, since the first time she held him. Always. If Tippy was telling the truth, it meant Scorpius had been under a glamour his entire life. Someone had been casting it regularly, ensuring it stayed in place.

Her thoughts raced. The spell would have faded as Scorpius grew, which meant someone had to be nearby to recast it frequently. Someone close enough to him to notice when it began to fail, someone who had the opportunity and motivation to maintain the deception. Someone who wasn’t there now.

Narcissa’s breathing hitched at the realisation and Her stomach felt as though it were plummeting several floors. Only name that came to mind, that could be responsible for this. Only one person fit the requirements to do something this complex.

Harry Potter.

Narcissa’s hands clenched tightly, her knuckles white. It was him. It had to be. Harry Potter wasn’t here because he was in Italy, lying unconscious in a hospital. But he had expected to be here. His mission had been a routine surveillance one. Meant to take no more than forty-eight hours. Harry Potter had every intention of being the one who watched Scorpius tonight. He had every intention of being the one to see if the glamour began to fall so, he could recast it. The only reason he had not already done so, was because his mission went sideways.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as the pieces fell into place. Harry Potter had done this. He had hidden Scorpius’s true identity from everyone. From her. From Hermione. Narcissa gasped, was Potter responsible for that too?

Clearly Scorpius is Draco’s son, he had to be. Hair that shade only came from Malfoy lines alone. But why would Potter do such a thing? Narcissa couldn’t understand. Why would Harry Potter take away the happiness of a young couple like this? Why would he injure Hermione in such a way that she could not remember the father of her child?

“Miss Cissa?” Narcissa was called from her spiral by the small voice. The boy on the bed—her, her grandson—was watching her with such innocent concern. “Are you alright?”

Narcissa forced a smile, though her chest felt as though it might collapse under the weight of realisation. “Yes, darling,” she said, her tone strained but gentle as she walked towards him. “Let’s get you tucked in.”

As she settled him into bed, Narcissa kissed Scorpius’s pale forehead, his sweet face so achingly familiar. Narcissa sat in the chair by his bed long after he drifted off, her thoughts a growing maelstrom of rage, confusion, and budding revenge.

If Harry Potter had not been injured that day, Scorpius would have never come to stay with her. It Harry Potter had not been injured that day, his glamours never would have failed in front of her. If Harry Potter had not been injured that day, Narcissa would never know what she knew now.

Watching the cherubic face of her grandson fall into a deep and peaceful sleep, Narcissa had faith in two things, she would make Harry Potter regret his injury with all she had. And if it was the last thing she ever did, she would make him pay for ever touching her family.

She knew the first step of her plan that night: It was time for Draco to come home.

My Dearest Draco,

For years, I have honoured your decision to stay away, understanding the pain and memories you sought to escape. Yet, I must now confess to a failing I cannot suppress. I am unwell—gravely so, Draco.

The healers at St Mungo’s have diagnosed me with a rare and most pernicious affliction that is slowly eroding my magic. Though they have worked tirelessly to slow its progression, the disease’s grip has tightened and my magic is diminishing daily. T he healers cannot provide a definitive timeline, however it is clear that what's left is limited. And so, I am compelled to ask you to please, come home, Draco.

I know it cannot be forever, dear, for either of us. But  I would like to spend whatever time I have left with my only family.

I was with a friend recently who mentioned that The Ministry’s Director of Magical Law Enforcement is retiring, and applications for the position are open. Apparently, they are searching both within and out of England. I know that you're success in America has been remarkable dear. And I firmly believe that your experience and qualifications could not be matched by anyone in this department. I wonder if it might be a natural progression for you, even if temporary. An wonderful opportunity to start anew and gain something special, even while you keep me company.

Whatever you decide, you will always have my unwavering support.

All my love,

N.B.M.

Chapter Text

Anti-Hero

Hermione Jean Granger Potter

29 January 2003

It was Wednesday when Hermione stirred, the quiet scratch of a familiar hand tracing absentminded patterns against her back. The sensation was rhythmic, featherlight, and warm, lulling her toward wakefulness even as she clung stubbornly to the last remnants of sleep. A small, drowsy smile tugged at her lips before she shifted, rolling over into the familiar embrace behind her. The hand at her back slid instinctively to her hip, pulling her closer into the cocoon of shared warmth.

“Hi,” she murmured, voice soft with sleep.

“Good morning,” Harry replied, his voice was gravelly around the edges. She didn’t bother to open her eyes; she didn’t need to. She could feel him watching her.

“How did you sleep?” he asked.

Hermione sighed, nestling deeper into her pillow. It was warm. Comfortable. And she wasn’t ready to leave it.

“Not great,” she admitted. “Didn’t really get much.

Harry hummed in acknowledgment. She felt his fingers brush a stray curl from her face, tucking it behind her ear with quiet affection.

“Yeah, I noticed,” he said after a moment. “You were out late. Were you even able to get much done?”

Hermione cracked one reluctant eye open, only to scrunch her nose in protest as bright morning light flooded her vision. The sun was relentless today, a little too eager in its greeting. She turned her face further into the pillow with a grumble, as if that would make it go away.

“Yes,” she said, voice laced with irritation and heavily muffled. “The proposal is submitted. No thanks to Smith’s incompetence.”

She could hear Harry shake his head, his fingers idly trailing over the curve of her hip.

“I will never understand why other people’s screw-ups mean you have to fix them.”

“Because their screw ups reflect poorly on me and my ability to do my job. And if I’d let the proposal Zacharias turned in yesterday be sent to the Croatian Ministry, I wouldn’t have a job anymore.” Another sigh forced its way through her chest. This one was heavier and came with the weight of what an ordeal the day before had been. She could still feel it, the hours of tedious revisions, the biting frustration of knowing she was cleaning up after someone who should have known better. It clung to her like a second skin, unwilling to be shed.

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmured.

Hermione turned to look at him then, offering a tired but appreciative smile. “Thanks.”

She ran a hand through her tangled curls and sat up slightly, her gaze settling blankly on the white wall ahead. It was too early for this. Too early for the weight pressing down on her chest, or for the to-do list already unfurling in her mind. She had to get up. She had to go to work. She had to ask Asher to schedule a meeting with Zacharias Smith, where she would be forced to ream him out until he finally understood how much of a liability he was becoming.

The thought made her stomach twist. Hermione hated scolding. It always left her unsettled afterward, like she’d swallowed something bitter. But this was the third time in the last year that Smith had been an issue, and if it happened again, people would start to wonder why she hadn’t let him go.

Because Hermione hated letting people go.

In part because it felt cruel. Yes, people were there to do their jobs, but they also had more than just work going on in their lives. People needed their jobs to live, to have money and to feed their families. Hermione hated taking that necessity away from them, even if they deserved it.

But also, because she’d had to do it far too many times already. When Hermione first took over as department head three years ago, she had inherited a sinking ship. The entire International Relations branch was bloated with excess delegation and bogged down by absurd politics. If she wanted it to function, she had to clean house. So, she did.

She had spent weeks developing an extensive evaluation system, warning everyone in advance that their next assignments would be scrutinized, their competency assessed. She had given them deadlines, clear expectations, and multiple chances.

But still, no one had taken her seriously. No one cared. When the deadlines passed, project after project were turned in entirely half-arsed. Everyone treated them like they had been doing for years.

In the end, she’d been left with two options: pretend it didn’t happen and lose the respect of everyone who works for her, or follow through…do her job, reconstruct the foundation of the department entirely, and streamline efficiency, but know that every single person there will resent her as a result.

Hermione was already the youngest department head in ministry history, firing twenty-four people had only made her odds of success worse.

And now, Zacarias Smith was making her look like an idiot.

“Do I have to go to work?” she grumbled, still staring at the blank wall. It offered no answers, only its cold, indifferent silence. She wanted to paint it out of spite.

Harry took her hand from her lap and placed it over his chest, his fingers lacing through hers. “No,” he said, voice teasing and light. “You could stay here. Home. With me. In bed. Forever. And ever. And ever.”

Hermione tilted her head, peering down at him.

Her lip twitched up at his expression and she shook her head in disbelief. He was acting different this morning. His smirk was lazy, playful—a stark contrast to the tense, brooding wizard he had been these past few days. Relief settled over her like a warm blanket then; she had grown tired of the storm cloud that had been hanging over him.

“Harry James,” she murmured, shaking her head in amused disbelief, “what am I going to do with you?”

“I’ve no idea,” he said, lips quirking up further. “I’m quite the handful.”

“Indeed you are.”

Harry’s thumb was drawing soothing circles on the back of Hermione’s hand. She sighed, leaning into it and laying her head on his chest.

“How did your meeting with John go by the way?” She asked absentmindedly after they’d been quiet for a minute. Hermione was still thinking about how she was going to handle the Zacharias issue, but she remembered she’d forgotten to ask him about their conference the other day and felt guilty.

Harry tensed at her question “Fine.” He muttered, and it brought Hermione’s attention back. She lifted her head to look at him and frowned.

“Fine?” She tried when he dropped her hand. Instead of responding Harry threw his legs over the side of the bed and pulled out from underneath her, leaving Hermione to fall awkwardly back on their bed. “Good fine, or bad fine?”

“Fine fine, Hermione.” He said exasperatedly and she froze, biting her lip.

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise, I—hey wait a minute!” Hermione started because Harry was walking already across the room to the closet without even looking back. She jumped up quickly to follow and grabbed him by the arm. They’d been having such a lovely morning; she hadn’t meant to ruin it by asking about Robards. “I said I’m sorry.”

“What?” Harry looked at her, frowning.

“I said I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to press. I was just curious, but we don’t have to talk about it if—”

“Don’t apologize Hermione. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“But you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.” He muttered, frowning and turning away again. Hermione followed him into the large wardrobe as he startled rifling through hangers.

“Yes, you are. You’re walking away.”

“I’m not walking away.”

“Harry” She stepped in front of him.

“Hermione, please.” He threw his hands up, his expression going hard. “Drop it. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Hermione didn’t really know what to say. She wasn’t really sure what to do. “Alright fine.” She said, stepping back. He was mad again, just like he’d been all weekend, but Hermione could not figure out why. She waited a second for him to apologize, to say he didn’t mean it, or even for him to hug her, but Harry didn’t. He just kept rifling through his robes. “I’m gonna go get Scorpius up.”

Hermione thought maybe even that would trigger him, but Harry didn’t look her way once.

“If you need to get to the office, I can take him?” She tried once more. “Blaise had Asher push all of my meetings back an hour since we stayed so late. And we can stop to get breakfast on the way so you don’t have to cook?”

“Sounds great.” Was all Harry muttered gruffly, and Hermione walked out of the room in response.

~*~*~*~*~

Hermione’s morning was…fine, after that. She supposed it was nice. She’d woken Scorpius up with cuddles, and he’d been more than excited to see her. Hermione always hated when she had to stay late at the office and miss him at night. She loved getting to come home and hear him tell her all about the adventures he’d had at school the day before. And she knew it upset Scorpius when they didn’t get that time.

So, after she’d had her sufficient fill of holding her little raven-haired monster—at least this one was significantly less prone to mood swings than the other—she asked him where he wanted to go for breakfast in London. She knew what he would say before she’d asked. What he always said. And still, Hermione had to hold back her groan when he cheerily answered, “Pret!”

And so, twenty minutes later, after they’d both dressed for their day, Hermione apparated Scorpius to a quiet alley before the two of them walked to the nearest corner shop, where they purchased their annoyingly mediocre breakfast at one Pret A Manger. Still, Hermione enjoyed every second of it as they talked and walked because he loved it. Scorpius told her all about ‘the colour wheel’ his teacher introduced them to the day before. Apparently, they were going to use it to paint today in class.

When Hermione had finally finished dropping him off, she headed to the ministry through a connection point. A part of her knew she should probably head back to the manor and try to talk to Harry again, but another part of her really didn’t want to get into it. She was already exhausted by the long week, and it was only Wednesday.

She headed straight to her office from the atrium after flooing in. There was so much she had to get done. Despite her and Blaise’s best work the night before, she was still nervous about the proposal and that they might’ve forgotten something. By the time she’d even reached her proper floor and reached her assistant’s desk, she’d already compiled a fourteen-part to-do list.

“Hi, Asher.” She greeted the wizard who was writing something. When he looked up, his smile was friendly, though she could see purple lines under his eyes as well.

“Hermione! Good morning. How are you today? What can I help with? Have you gotten your coffee?” He stood, pushing his chair back abruptly, “I’ll go get your coffee!”

“Oh, actually—”

“No need. I’ve already got it.” The low baritone voice came from behind her, and Hermione smiled with relief, waving Asher to sit down again.

“Oh my gosh, I love you.” She turned to see her best friend holding out a cup in one hand. In the other he had his own and was grinning knowingly as he took a sip.  

“Mmm, tell me that again. I didn’t quite hear you.” He smouldered dramatically and Hermione couldn’t help laughing.

“Shut up.” She told him, taking the cup. “Thank you. I needed this.”

“I know you did. How late did you go to bed after we left?” He asked nonchalantly and Hermione had to look away with guilt.

“Er, not long.”

“How long? An hour? Two?” Blaise scoffed disapprovingly when she nodded, though not in his direction. Hermione took a paper Asher was holding out for her. It was a missive from the DoT that she’d need to look through.

“Thanks. I’ll read it and write them back.” She told him.

“Hermione, we left at four am!”

Clearly Blaise hadn’t gotten her message of please, not right now. And she felt his annoyance was completely unjustified when he poked her firmly in the side. Her head shot up in defence. “I had to get the papers for the Romanian potion transfer from Peru finished and ready to send.”

“You could have done that today.”

“Well now I don’t have to!” Her smile was overly cheerful and him and clearly fake. “And I’d planned on finishing it anyway last night when I went home. It simply got pushed back because of the other.”

“The other we shouldn’t have even been doing?” He said pointedly and Hermione felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. She knew he was right, but why did he have to call her out in front of Asher.

“I’m going to talk to him.” Hermione glared for a second at him before turning back to her assistant. Asher was watching their exchange nervously and she almost cringed. “Asher would you mind letting Zacharias know he needs to be in my office at eleven?”

He nodded quickly. “Are you going to fire him, Miss?”

“I’m afraid that’s quite a bit above your paygrade for now. How about you just let me know when he’s here?”

“Right sorry.”

“Great.” Hermione shot another look over her shoulder at Blaise before walking to her office. She could feel his eyes on her and knew he was following. The second she set her bag down on her desk, she heard the door shut behind him.

“You need to fire him.”

“It’s complicated.”

“It’s not complicated, Hermione. He’s shit at his job.”

“He just got married!” she protested, throwing her arms out. She couldn’t fire him, they had dependents now. Things to think about. Hermione had been newly married once, when she was eighteen. It was fucking terrifying.

He scoffed in disbelief. “That’s not your problem!”

“What would Cho think!”

“Cho would think, hmm. Maybe my husband’s a useless piece of shit and I should’ve checked that he knew how to read before tying my life to someone who takes advantage of other people’s kindness!”

“Blaise.”

“Hermione, you know I’m right. You can’t keep doing this. He fucked up the quidditch tournament last spring and now the bloody smuggler contract!”

“He’s been working here as long as we have.”

“And only one of us has never received a promotion. Go figure.”

“I know. I know.” She fell into her chair with a thump. “I know you’re right, but—I don’t like the idea that I’m causing other people problems.”

Blaise sighed, taking the spot in the chair across her desk. And somehow, he knew exactly what she meant. “Hermione you cannot be the cause for issues in other people’s relationships unless you’re getting involved in their relationships. Teaching Zacharias that he has to actually do his job if he wants to keep it is not getting involved in his personal life. It’s purely professional. He can’t resent you for that and neither should anyone else in his life.”

“You’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, a knock sounded on her office door. Blaise, ever the gentleman, stood to answer it. When it opened, Hermione was surprised to see John Robards—the head of Magical Law Enforcement and the Auror Office—standing at her door.

"Ms. Potter," he greeted, his tone formal and measured.

She scoffed, a smile creeping onto her face as she sat up straighter. "Hermione, please, John. You came over for spaghetti night last week. I think we’re past the formalities."

Robards rolled his eyes good-naturedly before nodding in acquiescence. "Fine. Hermione. May I speak with you in private? There’s something we need to discuss."

His gaze flickered toward Blaise, and the wizard immediately caught on. "Ah, I’m being removed. No worries! Hermione, lunch later?"

"Sounds perfect."

"Great. See you then. Have fun, you two."

“Always a pleasure Mr. Zabini.” John told him, shutting the door as he left. When it was shut, he turned to her and took a seat carefully. “I have news. And I’m afraid you’re not going to like it.”

At his expression, Hermione’s stomach dropped, and suddenly she knew. She wasn’t sure how or what really gave it away, but she felt her chest filled with a new guilt and just knew. “He didn’t get it?” She asked quietly, afraid she already knew the answer.

Robards nodded carefully. "I’m afraid not."

A million different light bulbs from the last few days then began to connect slowly in her head. Hermione sighed, running a hand over her face."Oh, I don’t know how I didn’t realise. That explains his temper all week. He’s been flying off at me constantly, but I suppose that means it makes sense now."

Robards frowned. "Should I be concerned? Has he been—"

"Oh, don’t be silly," Hermione interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "He’s fine. Harry wouldn’t touch a hair on my head if his life depended on it. He’s just been… moody."

She scoffed at the suggestion, but her mind was already working on how to handle Harry’s disappointment. "It’s fine, anyway. I have a plan—I'll use Scorp and guilt him into some books or something for it."

“Oh, I’m sure little Potter would love that.” Robards grinned warmly.

“He definitely will. He’s rather in love with Luna’s new book that came out last week. Insists that we read a chapter before bed each night since he got it. Honestly, I think I’ll miss it when he’s able to read everything on his own in a few years."

Robards laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, I can imagine. But don’t worry. You’ve got plenty of time before that day comes. My Angie started reading independently much later than him, and even then, I think she preferred when her mother or I took the time to read with her."

“Oh, I hope you’re right. I do love getting to make those memories.”

“I’m sure I am. Don’t worry.” He said, and something about his tone told Hermione their time for pleasantries was up. She sat forward at her desk and folded her hands.

“But you’re not here to hear me talk about Scorp.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What is it you need from me?” She asked kindly. “Papers?” She thought of the job position opening up and pulled one of her quills out to take notes. “A transfer, I’m guessing.”

Robards nodded at her astuteness and sat up as well. “Indeed.”

“Where from?’

“MACUSA,” he answered simply, watching as Hermione made a quick note before looking back up at him, curiosity evident in her expression.

“And who’s the poor sod you’ve tricked into wanting to cross the pond and deal with our madness?”

Robards chuckled. “Quite the opposite, actually. They volunteered.”

Hermione grinned, tapping her quill against the parchment. “Well, surely that’s because they’ve not met your lot yet. They have no idea what they’re getting into. I’m sure Seamus and Anthony will find a way to scare them off in a matter of minutes.”

“Well to the contrary, Hermione, they’re already quite familiar with my team.”

“Oh really?” She asked, intrigued. So, the replacement was someone they’d worked with before in his department.

“Yes, really. They were born and raised here.”

“Really?” Hermione wracked her brain trying to think of anyone who fit the description he’d presented. “Who is it?”

Robards met her gaze evenly. “Draco Malfoy.”

She froze, her quill hovering inches from the parchment. “You’re kidding.”

“I assure you, I’m not.”

“Well then,” Hermione grinned at the news. Malfoy was back in England. How wonderful. She wondered if he’d told Narcissa yet. Hermione knew that information would absolutely make the witch’s year.  Quickly she started taking the necessary notes from him for what she’d need to collect. “I’ll have the papers drawn up by two. I just need to floo call Isabella over there and get his data transferred. I suppose you could send him in any time after that to go through it with me. You know I’ll be here all day.” She told him with a grin. Robards nodded astutely and stood.

“Sounds perfect, Hermione. Thank you so much for your help. And I am sorry it didn’t work out for Harry. You know if it were about favourites, I’d give him the position in a second. But…”

“It’s a numbers game and more, John.” She told him sadly, nodding in understanding. “You have to do what’s best for the department and the people they’re serving. I understand completely. Please, no hard feelings at all.”

“Thank you.” He told her, looking almost relieved. Hermione nodded.

“Talk to you later.”

The next two hours of Hermione’s life passed by in a blur. Which was probably for the best. Hermione knew the moment she had a second to think on her own, she’d start worrying. So instead, she sent Asher off to grab her a few contracts she needed to review. And then she called MACUSA. Isabelle was Hermione’s counterpart there, and as usual, she was wonderful. They talked for nearly twenty minutes, catching up on their different developments in the last few months. Isabella’s department had just landed the 2004 Quidditch World Cup—a feat Hermione knew had been in negotiations for over two years. And as a result, they were beginning the preliminary port-key permissions that would be needed. Hermione had been so intrigued by the complexity of it all that she’d nearly forgotten her reason for calling.

But she had in fact remembered eventually, and the remainder of their conversation was far more Malfoy centric. Luckily for Hermione, Malfoy was already a citizen. The amount of background checks he would otherwise have to be put through were outrageous. Hermione thought it made their ministry appear paranoid, but nonetheless, the added securities were a new development since the end of the war.

Then, all Hermione had to do was submit his records for filing in their classified centre before she could begin his boarding. Normally, Hermione would pass the job off to some lower level under her, but because Malfoy was filling a department head position, it had to be her running it all through. In total the meeting and work took roughly two hours and by the time Zacharias had knocked on Hermione’s door, she’d nearly forgotten he was coming.

~*~*~*~*~

By the time Blaise walked into Hermione’s office an hour after that, she felt she was on the verge of a breakdown—and it was only half noon. She didn’t even need to look up to know it was her best friend. All she did was let herself finally slouch into her chair with a sigh.

Blaise closed the door behind him, eyeing her with quiet concern before speaking. “How’d it go?” His voice was gentle, but the weight of expectation hung in the air.

Hermione shook her head. “I did it.”

“You fired him?”

She let out a slow breath, pressing her palms against her eyes as if the pressure might ease the tension brewing behind them. “I fired him, Blaise.”

“How’d he take it?

“Not well. I didn’t want to. I tried not to. I tried to get him to acknowledge what he’d done and explain why. Give me a reason—any reason. But instead, he started shouting. Told me I was bollocks at all of this. That I won’t make it more than a few months longer before people finally get tired of me. After that I didn’t really have a choice. So, I let him go.”

Blaise’s jaw was noticeably tense when she glanced up. “I hope you told him you’re not. Merlin’s fucking beard—the nerve of a bloke like him. I could kill him.”

She rolled her eyes, though a small smirk threatened the corner of her lips at his passion for it. “You can’t kill him.”

“I could kill him if I wanted to.” He crossed his arms, glowering at the imagined offense. “How dare he? Hermione, you’re brilliant, and you know it.”

“I know.”

“Good. So what did you tell him?”

“After he told me that?” Blaise nodded, and Hermione sighed. “Well, I pulled up the case files and the notes I’d taken on them.”

 “What notes? On Zacharias?”

Hermione hesitated, eyes flicking to the mess of paperwork strewn across her desk. “Well—yes.”

Blaise’s eyes narrowed. “When did you take notes on him? He turned in the proposal last night.”

Hermione bit her lip. She knew he was about to get mad. “Well, I—I may have begun compiling them after the incident with the Swedish delegate last fall. And then—well, I may have worked on it a little bit after we left the ministry.”

“I thought you were working on the Romanian potion transfer.” He asked deceptively calmly, his eyes narrowed.

Hermione shifted, suddenly finding the ink stain on her desk terribly interesting. “I was. But after I finished the transfer document, I only pulled up Smith’s file for a little bit. I just added to my list of everything he’s buggered. I wasn’t even sure I was going to use it, but then he started shouting—” She winced, guilt creeping into her voice. “So, I may have gotten a tad petty and outlined every single flaw he’s ever made and used my list of every sickle he’s ever cost the department unnecessarily.”

Blaise let out a long-suffering sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. “And where was Potter through all of this?”

“Harry?”

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m talking about the responsible adult—”

“Hey!” Hermione protested, standing from her desk. “I’m a responsible adult.”

Blaise gave her a flat look. “Yes. I know. About literally everything except yourself.”

“What? No—”

Blaise turned without a word and grabbed Hermione’s coat from the hook. He held it out expectantly. “I would trust you with the world, literally, Granger. And my life. All our lives, really.” He waved the old cloak at her. “But I would not trust you to cook a dinner if it was just for yourself.”

“Well, if it’s just me, I really don’t need more than cereal or a scone or something.” She huffed, crossing her arms. “There’s no reason to make a fuss and concoct something bigger. I wouldn’t even notice.”

Blaise recoiled like she’d just kicked a puppy. “You are literally proving my point as I make it, and it is disturbing to me.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m concerned.” Blaise strode toward the door, Hermione trailing after him with a shake of her head. “I’m going to remind your husband that a witch needs proper rest, or she becomes fucking batty and I have to deal with her. Please do what you must to keep her from becoming a mongrel. And don’t let her leave the room after midnight because she will find a way to do work and never get that needed rest.”

“I am not in need of supervision,”

Blaise didn’t even dignify her with a response, simply pushing the door open and gesturing for her to leave. She scowled but relented, muttering something about overprotective prats as she shrugged into her coat.

Blaise shook his head, exasperation warring with fondness as he followed her out. “Honestly. It’s like you’re trying to stress me out.”

~*~*~*~*~

If you were to ask Hermione Granger as a young girl what she thought of people who gossip, she likely would have said something condescending. They don’t have lives. They need proper friends. Or even they need a better job if they’re that bored. But if you were to ask her as a twenty-three-year-old, she would say Blaise Zabini was a bloody cheat and has an unfair advantage since he’s a man.

The scent of grilled meat and freshly baked flatbreads filled the air as Hermione and Blaise stepped into their usual Muggle kebab shop. The warm, bustling space was a welcome contrast to the crisp London air outside. Hermione inhaled deeply, savoring the familiar aroma, while Blaise strode forward to the counter with his usual lazy confidence.

"The usual?" the owner asked, already reaching for their preferred orders. They had been coming here long enough that even the staff recognized their routine.

"Yes, please," Hermione said brightly before turning to Blaise. "Unless you’re feeling adventurous today?"

He smirked. "Granger, I’m always adventurous. Just… within reason."

She rolled her eyes fondly and told the man to surprise him. Blaise grumbled something about her being controlling, but followed her nonetheless as they paid and carried their drinks to a small booth by the window. Hermione barely waited for him to shrug off his coat before she leaned forward, eyes bright with excitement.

“I have news.” She started the moment they took their seats. She blamed her adult curiosity about others on Blaise. It was a thing, between them. Every time something interesting happened in their office, Hermione and Blaise would try to be the first to know. Unsurprisingly, Hermione was awful at it. Partly because she was everyone's boss and their willingness to confide in her was small. And partly because after being the subject of so many gossip rags over the years, she was generally hesitant to press people for information about their private lives at all. In the nearly five years that the two of them had been best friends, she could probably count on one hand the number of times she had heard some piece of information before Blaise. 

But not today.

Today Hermione had a secret, one Blaise couldn’t’ve known because Robards wasn’t making the announcement until all of the documentation was officially signed. This time, Hermione was going to win.

Blaise arched a brow as he settled into his chair. “Shannon’s pregnant?” He asked with a lazy smirk. “I know. She told me last week.”

Hermione’s jaw fell open. “I’m sorry, what? Shannon? From accounting? She’s pregnant?”

“Two months.” He waggled his brows smugly. 

“I—what?! How is that even possible? The woman’s nearing seventy! Who the hell is the father?”

Blaise shrugged, completely unbothered as he took a sip of his drink. "Fuck if I know. I didn’t ask for details. You think I want to know how she’s getting freaky with some bloke?"

“Ew, don’t be crass.” She grimaced, picturing the sweet older woman she worked with doing things she’d rather not.

Blaise just laughed at her. “You’re the one who asked, Granger! And anyway, why didn’t you ask her if you already knew?”

“I didn’t!”

“You didn’t?” Blaise pinched his brows suspiciously. “You said you had news.”

“I did.”

“I thought you were going to try to beat me to it. Was Shannon not your news?”

“No.” Hermione answered haughtily. “She most certainly was not.”

“Well then what was it? Ridley?”

“What’s happened with Ridley?”

“Nothing. Everything. He’s planning to ask Erin out tomorrow.” Blaise said offhandedly, his eyes were scrutinizing her closely.

Hermione smiled warmly at the news, momentarily forgetting her own again. “Oh good! That’s wonderful. You know I always thought they’d be quite perfect together. I’m glad he finally got the courage to do something about it.”

“Yes. Me too.” He answered shortly. “What the hell was your news if it wasn’t Ridley, and it wasn’t Shannon.”

“Oh,” Hermione smirked. Knowing Blaise was already annoyed would make this so much sweeter. “I have news. And it’s brilliant.”

“What is it?”

“It’s news you don’t know. Information. Top secret. For me alone. Only a handful of people have even heard about it before it’s made official.”

“Hermione.” He gritted and she grinned.

“Guess who’s coming back to England.”

Blaise was quiet for a moment, his brows furrowed in contemplation. “Who?”

Hermione was kind of proud to say she waited for dramatic affect. “Draco Malfoy.”

Blaise’s jaw fell open as he gaped at her. “No shit.” She could hear the surprise in his tone, and damn if it didn’t feel good to finally win one over.

“Yes shit.” She grinned. “That’s what Robard’s wanted this morning. To tell me and ask me to put in for his transfer from MACUSA. Did you know he was a serious auror?”

“Theo’s mentioned it.” He nodded.

“Well, apparently, they have different levels of seniority depending on skill I suppose over there. Apparently, Malfoy was nearly at the top. Isabelle said they were actually fairly disappointed to see him go.”

“No shit.” Blaise nodded processing. “I wonder why he’s decided to come back. Must’ve been something tempting if he’d give up that.”

Hermione froze, her excitement draining away as the thought struck her like a blow to the stomach. She looked down at the table, suddenly unsure how to move beyond it.

Unfortunately, Blaise noticed. "What?"

"Hmm?" she asked, feigning ignorance.

"Don’t bullshit me, Granger. Why do you look like I just kicked your puppy?"

“I don’t—”

“You do.” He insisted. “Hermione, why’s Malfoy decided to come back after all this time?”

“Well…” She grimaced, bracing herself. “He got the job.”

“The job?” Blaise repeated, not understanding.

She looked up at him pointedly, biting her lip. “The job. The job—job. He—well, he got John’s job.”

Blaise’s eyes widened in shock. “He got the job.” This time, Hermione knew he understood her dilemma. “Does he know?” He asked after a minute of silence had passed between them. She didn’t need him to clarify.

“Apparently he found out Monday.”

“Monday?” Blaise exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re joking. And he didn’t tell you?”

“He was probably upset.” Hermione tried to defend weakly. She knew it wasn’t an excuse.

“Like fuck he was upset. He’s supposed to tell you.”

“I know.” Hermione murmured, but the words felt hollow.

If she was honest with herself, it hurt—more than she wanted to admit. Harry hadn’t wanted to talk to her about losing the job promotion. They were supposed to be a team. Partners. The Golden Power Couple, if the Daily Prophet was to be believed. And if nothing else, they were married. They were supposed to trust each other, especially with the hard things. She wanted him to lean on her, not shut her out.

A beat of silence stretched between them before Blaise spoke again, softer this time. “I’m sorry.”

Hermione blinked at him, slightly startled by the genuine regret in her friend’s voice. “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot,” he continued. “You’re right. Potter was probably just upset. I’m sure he was planning to tell you. He’d probably have told you last night if we hadn’t had to stay so late. I doubt it’s a big deal, Hermione.”

But wasn’t it?

Yes, she’d gotten home late last night, but hadn’t she directly asked him about it this morning? How much more of an opening could she have given than, How did your meeting with John go? No. Harry had the perfect opportunity to tell her, and he hadn’t. And for the life of her, Hermione couldn’t understand why.

She couldn’t understand what she’d done wrong. And the questions had been circling in her head for hours since she found out. Didn’t he trust her? Hadn’t she proven herself to him? And had she not directly talked to him about this? Did Harry really think it would matter to her? She loved him. Yes, losing the job to Malfoy was undoubtedly discouraging, but they would be okay without it.

Hermione exhaled; the breath far louder than she’d intended. “I’m sorry. I’m a mess. First, we stayed up too late working on everything, then I had to deal with Zacharias, and now on top of it all, John’s got me stressing over Harry’s mood swings.” She rubbed her palm over her face, grounding herself. I am not going to get upset in the kebab shop. I am not.

“Look at me, I’m a disaster.” She forced a short laugh, though it was devoid of any real humor. “I need to eat. Tell me something happy please.”

Blaise looked like he definitely wanted to say more on the subject, but Hermione’s weariness must have won him over and he didn’t. Instead, he brought up some debacle he’d overheard happened in the Department of Mysteries, and Hermione was more than grateful to listen as he provided a welcome distraction.

That is, until she got back to her office an hour later and found a strangely nervous looking Draco Malfoy pacing outside her office. Suddenly all of it came crashing back to her mind.  

Chapter Text

I Hate it Here

Draco Lucius Malfoy

29 January, 2003

Generally speaking, Draco Malfoy considered himself a fairly relaxed person. Despite his childhood tendencies, there were few things that could evoke any real emotion from him. Embarrassment, pride, anxiety, nervousness—he had grown out of them all.

His therapist—the one he and every other Auror employed by the American Ministry were required to meet with twice a month—might call it a trauma response. Some nonsense about an abusive father, daily torture by a madman who had lived in his house, and the fact that he had forced himself to cut ties with everyone who had ever cared for him. But Draco liked to think of it as maturity.

He had, one might say, a unique aptitude for self-control.

And it wasn’t a bad thing. Draco’s penchant for occluding or self-isolation made him incredibly efficient at his job. He was quick in the field, ruthless in an interrogation room, and his time as a death eater had given him a unique gift for stealth.

He had killed before. Several times, if he was honest. But it had been in the line of duty, as an Auror, not as a soldier in a vigilante group of blood supremacists. When the life of an innocent civilian was at risk or a duel turned deadly, Draco was the one they called. He had never once failed to prevent a casualty when tasked to do so.

They also sent him on the riskier missions. With few friends and only one living family member, Draco was more… expendable than most. He had lived undercover in a vampire colony for nearly six months in 2000, and when a Muggle mafia bust went awry in 2002, he had taken several bullets to the chest and still managed to put every one of them down.

In essence, he had a reputation. He was good at his job because he was able to handle any potential conflict on the field without fear.

But it would seem all that was really a load of shit, because the moment he heard her name, all of his ‘fearlessness’ disappeared.

When Draco woke that morning, he believed he had time. He knew it would happen eventually, but he’d had every intention of prolonging the inevitable for as long as possible. And for most of the day, he had believed he was in the clear.

Robards had given him the grand tour of the facilities, a rundown of their active casework, and a detailed presentation of his new duties—everything had gone perfectly.

Until the man clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Malfoy, I do believe you’re going to fit in nicely here. You’ve got the talent, the attitude, and I couldn’t be more confident leaving this department in your hands."

Draco fought against every instinct to keep his expression neutral, unwilling to show how much the words affected him. “Thank you, sir. I’m honoured for the opportunity to prove myself.”

“You’ll do great. Now, the only thing left is the bureaucratic stuff, I’m afraid. I’ve got you all sorted here, but you’ll need to head upstairs to International Magical Relations to finalise the rest.”

“Pardon?” Draco was certain his heart had stopped beating. “I have to…”

 "I know, I know. Bloody annoying. But since you’re coming from overseas, Hermione’s got to oversee it all and check you in. Shouldn’t take too long."

His stomach lurched. "Hermione—" He nearly choked, his head shaking involuntarily. "Er, are you sure? Couldn’t I—"

Robards laughed, utterly unbothered by his reaction. “Potter. Or Granger, I suppose you’d know her as. They got hitched after you left. I don’t know if that made the papers where you were. She’s the head of the department now, anyway. Come on, don’t be a wuss. You can handle it. She’s really not that scary.”

Draco didn’t bother correcting him on any of that. His chest felt tight at the thought. Potter. Hermione was a Potter.

Of course, he knew—how could anyone not? Harry Potter’s wedding to the Golden Girl had been splashed across front pages worldwide. For months, he’d not been able to buy a cup of tea without being bombarded by congratulatory headlines.

Of course, he knew she was married. He also knew she’d been promoted—three years ago.

Still, hearing it aloud, like that, in conversation, felt like a knife twisting in his ribs.

"Right," he answered, forcing out a dry laugh. It didn’t feel funny. "Upstairs, you said?"

"Level fourteen," Robards confirmed with a nod.

Brilliant.

Draco cringed, racking his brain for any excuse to avoid going—but he turned up empty. The only thing left to do was listen. Listen and go upstairs.

~*~*~*~*~

Draco made it to the Department of International Magical Relations within eight minutes of leaving Robards’s office.

It was dreadful.

He had lived in England his whole life, had been to the Ministry more times than he could count—tagging along with his father for ‘lessons,’ standing trial as an adult, and on a handful of other occasions best left forgotten. But in all of his twenty-three years, never once had he taken a lift that felt so painfully empty. They’d always been filled to the brim, hardly room to breathe, and every ride had taken ages. But today, he’d been the only rider. Not a single companion to delay his arrival. It was as if the entire Ministry had conspired to make his procrastination impossible.

When he finally reached the department’s entrance, he exhaled in relief. The space was massive—rows upon rows of cubicles, desks stretching out across the entire floor. A maze of parchment piles, enchanted memos fluttering like restless birds between stations. The sheer scale of it was perfectly overwhelming. Draco had no idea where to start searching for his office, which meant he’d be able to waste ages searching for it.

For a few moments, he wondered how on earth Hermione had managed to become head of such a department at their age. Then he remembered who he was thinking about. Of course, Hermione had managed it. Only she was brilliant enough to achieve something so improbable.

Draco moved forward, deliberately slow, weaving between desks with an air of idle curiosity—though it was more a stalling tactic than anything else. Half of the workstations appeared empty, the other half full. He wondered if that meant their breaks were on some sort of schedule, or if there they were all off doing important things across the world.

Hermione had always wanted to travel the world.

They had talked about it—late at night in the castle, when the world had felt much smaller and their future far more tangible. She had this brilliant, though utterly wild idea of selecting a language or dialect at random and allowing that to determine where they would go. She wanted to spend a few months or years on every continent.

Draco had always been fairly certain her dream was born of envy for him. His parents had required fluency in at seven different languages growing up. And he’d taken a certain pride out of flaunting such knowledge over the course of their travels together years ago. Hermione, for all her attempts at subtlety, had made it no secret to him how annoying she found his knowledge. To Draco’s amusement she’d always insisted they could only travel places where neither of them (read: Draco) spoke the native tongue.

As he meandered through the room, eventually Draco came upon an enormous map of the world. It had to have been at least eight metres long, and it was plastered across a significant portion of the wall. He stopped for a moment, examining it, and Draco couldn’t help but wonder if Hermione had ever managed to make that dream a reality.

Then, abruptly, he stopped in his tracks.

His fingers dragged across his face as he exhaled sharply.

Are you fucking joking? His mind reprimanded him.

Five minutes. You’ve been on the same level as her for five minutes, and you’re already losing your bloody mind.

You sound like a stalker.

She asked for space. Told you to leave. And you didn’t listen. You’ve come back when she never asked you to. You cannot do this.

Draco shut his eyes for a second, fists clenching at his sides as he took a slow, measured breath. He needed to get a grip. He needed to get control.

Because if he didn’t, this entire thing was going to go up in flames.

And it couldn’t.

It really, really couldn’t.

“Focus,” he muttered under his breath, opening his eyes.

Draco thanked Merlin no one was around to have seen moment of lunacy. Before he gave anyone the chance then to notice him, he forced his feet to move again, pushing forward. This time with determination.

There was no turning back now.

Draco followed the rows of desks down the hall until he finally found one occupied. A man sat hunched over a book, rifling through the pages with absent curiosity. Draco glanced down at the nameplate on the desk.

“Er, Quinn?”

The man in question looked up, his brow furrowing as he took in Draco’s presence. “Yeah, that’s me. And you are?”

A few years ago, the idea of walking into an office in the ministry and not already being known by name would have been shocking to him. Before the war, the Malfoy name had carried weight. His father had ensured their gold lined the pockets of nearly every department head in the building. Their family was notorious for securing the proper pureblood agenda. After the war, it was for their trials. Whether by his father’s reputation or the humiliating spectacle of his downfall, for years he’d only imagined everyone would still be wary of them.

Now, Draco found a strange comfort in hoping his face no longer seemed to carry the same level of infamy.

Offering a tight—but not entirely disingenuous—smile, he answered, “Draco Malfoy.”

“Oh!” The wizard’s book slipped from his grasp, landing with an awkward thump against the desk. Draco fought back a cringe. “You’re here to see Her—uh, I mean, Ms. Potter. She said you’d be coming by.”

“Did she?” Draco hadn’t meant to ask, but his traitorous mouth seemed to be moving on its own accord.

“Yeah, she’s out for lunch right now with Mr. Zabini. She told me to let her know when you arrived, but, er, I don’t actually know where they went. I think it changes every time.”

“Really?” This time Draco’s question had been a little more conscious, though he still wasn’t sure how to process the information he’d been given.

Hermione had known he was coming.

But what did that mean? Was she angry? Anxious? Apathetic? Merlin, he would take anything over indifference, but maybe that was better?

He hadn’t even known they were meeting today until Robards had told him. But Hermione had known. Had she needed to prepare? Of course, she needed to prepare—this was literally her job. Yes, but prepare to see him?

Draco thought he might’ve preferred some time to prepare. He really had no idea what to expect when they were in the same room again.

“You’re welcome to take a seat if you’d like, Mr. Malfoy.” Quinn gestured towards a small waiting area, where four mismatched chairs were arranged in a corner. “She’s usually not long.”

“Thanks.”

Draco walked towards the chairs, fully intending to sit and wait. But the moment his robes touched the seat, his body rejected the idea entirely—his muscles tensed, and he found himself back on his feet in an instant.

Sit still. He needed to sit still. But he couldn’t. That would make this worse. That would make him worse.

His foot tapped restlessly against the floor. His fingers raked through his hair—he hadn’t brushed it since this morning. A part of him thought that was logical, wasn’t it? It had been a long day. And yet, another part of him, the part trained in decades of pristine Malfoy presentation, cursed himself for looking unprofessional. What would Hermione think of him?

Likely nothing, seeing as she’s married.

Right.

Yes.

Obviously.

Draco’s teeth sank into the inside of his cheek anxiously. His hand ran through his hair again—maybe he had time to fix it if he just—No. Don’t be daft.

Right.

Yes.

How much time had passed since he left Robards? An hour? Salazar it felt like an hour.

He glanced at the clock on the wall.

Fourteen minutes.

Fuuuuuuuck.

Draco exhaled sharply, forcing himself into motion. Pacing helped. Or at least, it was supposed to. He needed to get a grip.

He started moving down the length of the space, his steps sharp and his fingers twitching restlessly at his side.

“Stronzo. Deficiente. Stupido idiota.” He tried to focus, the words hissing out of him, fast and low. He knew no one would be able to understand—that was the point. A Malfoy would never, under any circumstance, admit to their own shortcoming, his father had drilled into him. Malfoys do not apologize or accommodate. For the most part, Draco complied with those guidelines. At least, in English he did. Other languages were a different story as long as no one around him could speak them.

After a while, he wasn’t sure if this was actually helping, but Doctor Harris had said to distract himself when he started spiralling. Italian was supposed to be distracting, wasn’t it? And reprimanding himself gave him a sense of control. “Sei bravo. Ricordi cosa ha detto il dottor Harris? Andare avanti. Lei è andata avanti. Sei andato avanti. È dannatamente patetico se non l'hai fatto. Sei una triste scusa per un uomo, Draco Malfoy. Puoi farlo. Puoi parlare con lei.”

The more Draco walked, the more his mind raced, and he couldn’t help cursing his unpreparedness. More bled from him, each word growing sharper. “Avrei dovuto pensarci prima. Che cazzo ti aspettavi? Imbecille.”

Yeah, it’s not fucking working.

“Malfoy?”

Draco froze. Entirely cut off. His breath hitched and, for a horrifying second, he was fairly sure he’d stopped breathing altogether. This isn’t happening. This cannot be happening.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he hoped to Merlin that she wouldn’t be there. That that wouldn’t be her. Maybe, if he didn’t look, she would simply vanish. But when he turned, his stomach plummeted.

Shit. Merlin failed.

“Yeah?” The word barely escaped, rasping out before he remembered to inhale again.

“Are you… alright?” Her voice sent a jolt through him and Draco’s mind practically melted, scattering every rational thought. Hermione Granger stood in front of him. After nearly six years, there she was, real, solid, and his heart stopped.

She was beautiful.

She had always been beautiful. Draco had known it since the very first time she spoke to him on the Hogwarts Express. At the time he’d been too trapped by his father’s teachings to admit it aloud, but now…

Now it was different.

Hermione was dressed in a crisp white oxford, its sleeves rolled to her elbows, paired with loose, expertly tailored trousers and a dark blue cardigan. The look was effortless. Professional. As though this was her real job—which, obviously he knew it was her job. But half the time Draco had woken over the last five years and worn his auror robes to work only to feel like an imposter. Like he was standing in until someone else—someone better would come and take his place.

Looking at Hermione, Draco doubted she’d ever felt such a way. She appeared an absolute natural, just as he’d always imagined she would be.

She was still the same Hermione. He could see it plainly in the little things, like how she’d used her wand to knot her hair above her, like she always had at school. Only now she was almost, more.

Older. More mature. More feminine.

More bewitching in every way possible.

Draco felt as though he’d lost the ability to function entirely as he stared blankly at her, cataloguing each detail into his mind. It was only when she spoke again that Draco’s sensibilities returned to him, and he was jerked back into the present.

“Were you just talking to yourself?” Hermione asked, a slight frown forming between her brows.

“What—I—no.” He scoffed half-heartedly. “No, of course not.”

“You were.” She insisted, and if he wasn’t mistaken there was almost a hint of amusement in her eyes.

Draco thought he might die on the spot, though not from embarrassment, but something dangerously close to hope. She wasn’t glaring. Hermione looked nearly as though she might, potentially, no longer despise his existence.

“Don’t be ridiculous. No, I wasn’t.” He answered again. Draco didn’t know why he was lying—obviously, he’d been speaking to himself—but when Hermione’s lips tilted upwards and into a smirk, he was glad he had.

“Right,” she said, shaking her head before turning away. Then, with a casual wave of her hand, she gestured for him to follow. “Well, come on then.”

Draco’s stomach flipped and he did so immediately.

~*~*~*~*~

Hermione brought him to an office.

Her office, he imagined.

It certainly looked like an office she would create. Shelves wrapped around most of the walls, each one filled to the edges in books. He glanced through them as they walked. Draco had to squint his eyes, as he attempted to read the titles. He recognized a few from his own collection.

“How do you sort them?” The question was passed his lips before Draco had even realised he wanted to know.

For a brief moment, he cursed himself for even thinking something so intrusive. He was terrified that she had merely forgotten that this was all some slip of her mind, and at any second she would remember who he was—he’d done and have him removed from the building entirely.

But she didn’t. Instead, Hermione took her seat behind the large oak desk and glanced fondly at the shelves.

“Newts.” She said, and Draco tilted his head.  

“The exams?”

Hermione smiled and Draco’s heart skipped a beat when her teeth showed. “Categorized the shelves by them. Runes, defence, charms and the like. I mean, I’m not so obsessive as I was, anymore, really.” She let out a breath, “Obviously, it’s been years. I have grown up and processed our graduation from school, you know.”

He knew that she appeared to be joking. However, something in Draco pinched at her words and he was unsure whether she was trying to send him a message.

“I never said you hadn’t.” He defended weakly.

Draco understood. Message received. He knew the two of them were over—had been over. Besides the fact that he respected her marriage and would never have dreamed of wanting to make her uncomfortable in it, the words of her letter were engraved in his memory forever. With or without her reminder, Draco knew her feelings quite clearly.  

“Herm—Gran… Ms. Potter.” He sighed, not knowing what he was supposed to call her now.

Draco swallowed, straightening his shoulders and attempting to prepare himself. He knew he would only have one opportunity to say this—to get it right. He’d known he would have to from the morning he woke to his mother’s letter all those months ago.  

He could do this. “I wanted to say something, if you’ll allow me, before we begin?” Hermione nodded at him. “I want you to know that I’m sorry. For everything. If I could go back in time and undo it—if I could go back in time and stop it, I would. I would, a thousand times. I—I would stop it sooner, and—and I would tell myself not to fail.”

His hand was shaking again at his side and Draco forced himself to take a breath. “But I can’t. And I know that this means nothing. It erases nothing and it solves absolutely nothing. But believe me when I say, Her—Hermione,” His voice broke slightly on her name. “That I know. And after so many years of failings, I understand that a single apology from me cannot truly make a difference in what I’ve done. But—but I’m here now, and I have to be.” He forced his voice to remained steady, his fist balling at his sides as he thought of his mother. This had to work. He had to stay. He couldn’t leave again. He’d promised to be here, and he refused to break his word to his mother. It was the only thing left that he could give her.

“And I swear,” Draco’s voice was quieter as he met her gaze, “That I will do everything in my power to show you that I’m different. That I will be different, and I won’t ruin this. I want this job. I want to be in London. But I know that I will have to prove myself if our departments are to work together effectively and efficiently. And I will.”

When he finally fell silent, the air flowing out of his lungs, he hoped she would not immediately throw him out.

She did not. Instead, she looked alarmingly endeared by him and nodded.

“Er—thank you, Draco,” she said, her voice soft. Then, after a pause, she frowned slightly. “May I call you Draco?”

He nodded, a slightly confused.

“Right. Thank you. That was… incredibly gracious of you. And kind. I appreciate it. I want to have a good professional relationship as well. John and I worked well together these last few years so, I really welcome the opportunity to continue that.” She looked down, contemplating for a moment.

“And everything else,” Hermione looked up at him, sighing with a thin smile. “Can we agree to water under the bridge? Let bygones be bygones and all that? It was a long time ago, and honestly,” She laughed almost nervously. “I really don’t have the time or energy in my life to still be holding on to stuff like that.”

Draco was too stunned to speak.

His mouth had nearly fallen open as she talked, but on her last note it slammed shut. Of course, he told himself, because five bloody years have passed and like a healthy adult she’s completely moved on. He would be lying if he said he didn’t feel like a complete tool.

“Of course,” Draco said when he realised she was waiting for an answer. “Water under the bridge.”

And under my heart.

And soul—literally.

Are there bridges that can span an entire ocean?

Hermione grinned, seeming to let out a sigh as she did so.

Draco fought the urge to grimace. Why was she being so casual? Why was she so relaxed about all this? For how long had she felt this way?

“Brilliant. Because honestly, we do have so much to get through.”

Yes, brilliant indeed. For a brief moment, he contemplated how much she would judge him were Draco to slam his head on her desk a few times. Here he was, having just barred his soul to her, apologizing for ruining their lives and the only girl he had ever loved called it…water under the bridge.

Apparently oblivious to Draco’s humiliation, Hermione opened one of the drawers on the other side of her desk and pulled out a large stack of parchment.

“Alright. So, first, I’ve your health and medical records…” But she broke off as a knock echoed from the door to her office.

Draco watched as she waved her wand, the door swinging open to reveal the same wizard from earlier.

“Hi, Asher,” Hermione greeted him, her voice warm and familiar in a way she hadn’t been with Draco.  

“Hi, Ms Potter,” the man—Asher—murmured, his eyes darting between Draco and his boss.

Hermione seemed to wait a minute expectantly, but when he didn’t reveal his purpose, she spoke, “What can I help you with?”

“Er, well, I’ve just got off the phone. You know? The telly-phone one you gave me?”

“Yes, I know what a phone is.” She smiled faintly. “Who called?”

“St. Phillips—

“What?” Hermione asked sharply and Draco’s eyes snapped back to her. She was sitting up much straighter than she had before and there was a newfound concern in her brown eyes. “What did they need?”

Asher hesitated, walking closer and shutting the door behind him. “Well, it would seem that Scorpius has caught some sort of stomach flu. The healer says he’s been retching all afternoon.”

Draco stilled, hardly hearing as Hermione gasped out, “Oh godric,”

He was too busy sitting. Frozen. His mind locked on that word Asher had said. Did he just—No. He had to have misheard. There was no way, right? He couldn’t have said—

“Is he okay? Does he need to be picked up?” Hermione and Asher continued speaking and Draco noticed her expression shift rapidly in worry.

“That’s what the healer was calling to recommend.”

“Right.” She nodded; Draco could see her gnawing at her bottom lip. “Of course. Of course. That makes sense.” Hermione froze for a moment, her eyes bouncing between Draco and the papers in front of him. “Do you know if there’s any way Harry’s—”

“I already checked. He’s on Patrol in Manchester for the afternoon.”

“Shit.” She cursed, her eyes falling back on Draco as she wiped a palm over her chin.

He was still staring at her, his mind racing far too fast. He had to have heard wrong. He must’ve. There was no way… But Draco didn’t think he had.

“Right. Yes. Um, Malfoy?” Hermione exhaled sharply, reaching behind her desk and seeming to grab a large leather bag from somewhere. “I’m so sorry, this never happens, but I—I really have to go. Would you mind coming back tomorrow? Or I could—” He watched as she pulled open a drawer, tossing a handful of papers into the bag along with her wand and what looked like a set of keys. Then she glanced towards her assistant. “Do you think…could Blaise maybe—”

“I can come back.” Draco cut in quickly, seizing the opportunity to get out of that room.

Hermione looked guilty, and Draco wasn’t sure what to make of it. He wasn’t sure what to make of anything anymore. His mind was still going back to…

He should have felt relief. He should have been glad that their little reunion was being cut short. In fact, he couldn’t have asked for a better moment to walk away.

And yet…that name.

“Thank you.” Hermione sighed, shouldering the bag and making her way around the desk. She barely paused as she reached for a navy-blue coat hanging near the door, shoving her arms through the sleeves while still talking. Distantly, Draco noticed it matched perfectly with her sweater. “I’m so sorry. I swear this doesn’t ever happen—I normally would walk you out and everything, but I need to leave. Asher will show you the way.”

And then, before Draco could fully register what was happening, she was gone, the click of her heels fading down the corridor.

He blinked, realising that he was now standing alone in her office, her assistant the only other presence in the room.

~*~*~*~*~

Draco left the ministry of magic around half-past four. After leaving Hermione’s office he’d gone back downstairs and found a number of missives and charts on his new desk. He’d stayed to study and review each of them for a while, but eventually, Robards told him to leave.

Then he hadn’t known what to do with himself.

Normally, on a Wednesday after finishing a shift early, Draco would have asked one of the fellow aurors in his unit to go for a drink. They were all fairly familiar with one another, having spent so much time together over the years. And though he would never have admitted it openly—he never would have lived it down—he considered several of them to be fairly decent mates.

So much so that he’d not entirely minded when two of them—on separate occasions—forced him to participate in their wedding parties. They were bizarre, the people he worked with over there. They had an unusual affinity for inviting people into their home without prompt. Draco thought it would do all of them good to carry far more suspicion around in their pockets.

But as he stared into the wall of his office, Draco was reminded he didn’t have that here. Tyler and Koa—his partners for the last four years—were both across the Atlantic at lunch, likely phoning their wives, Draco thought bitterly.

No matter. It was fine. Draco packed up the satchel he’d brought with him and grabbed his coat. He needed to go shopping anyway. Finding the nearest muggle mart for crisps would give him something to do.

Three hours later, Draco was sitting on the sofa in his flat. It was brand new—the sofa, not the building. Draco was fairly certain the man who let it to him had said the building was practically ancient. But the sofa was new. A gift from his mother. As Draco’s eyes trailed around the large room, he noticed that the majority of his furniture had, in fact, also been gifted from his mother. He sighed loudly to himself.

He missed his home in New York. It had been smaller, warmer. He’d bought the first place he’d seen when he moved because it had a small library that reminded him of Hermione.

Draco hadn’t decorated that flat either.

He’d purchased a bed, kitchen utensils, and a table. He then filled the built-in wardrobe with the clothing and necessities he’d brought from England and that was it. He’d lived like that for nearly six months. Then, one night, he’d gotten roaring drunk at a pub after work, and Koa and Tyler had been forced to bring him home. He honestly couldn’t remember much that happened that night. He knew he’d been emotional—Dr Harris would be dramatic and call him depressed—and he’d apparently dumped nearly all of his life’s story on them.

The two wizards evidently had taken pity or found him pathetic when they arrived at their own homes. The next morning, he woke to a banging in his sitting room and Draco had come out to find Koa’s small but terrifying fiancé Malia assembling some sort of furniture on his floor. When Draco had opened his mouth to ask what the bloody fuck she thought she was doing, Koa himself appeared from his kitchen and made a universal sign for ‘shut up, or else.’

An hour later, Tyler had arrived with his too-cheerful girlfriend, Ellie. By that point, Draco had simply accepted that he was everyone’s charity case, and by the end of the weekend, his empty flat had been filled with colours, fabrics, books, and smells along with a large assortment of furniture.

Draco had absolutely refused to thank the two men—it was their bloody faults for budding into someone else’s life without invitation. He owed them nothing. But he did arrange for both the women in their lives to receive a large bouquet of flowers and an all-expenses-paid trip to a women’s spa. In hindsight, he now understood that 7,000 dollars in gifts was probably excessive for their two days of labour, but at the time he’d still been learning exchange rates and all that.

Plus, they’d made his flat feel like Hermione’s. Or—a home she would’ve built, even if she never got to step foot inside.

Now he was in London, where the walls were too white, the weather too dull, Hermione too close by, his seat too stiff, and Draco—Draco was too lonely.

“Well, aren’t you fucking sunshine.” He sighed to himself.

He needed to get up, he decided. He had to do something or read something. Because his mother’s awful couch was making him miserable.

Draco stood, walking over to the pile of boxes he’d laid in the corner of the room and picked one. He hoped that perhaps there might be a chance of something new among his belongings which he’d not already read. But after flipping through the first pile, he knew there wasn’t.

Resigned to another evening of melancholy and contemplation, he walked towards the kitchen. The least he could do was eat something, he thought. That was, until he heard his floo alarm ring from the other room.

Draco jolted upright, instinctively pulling his wand from his pocket as he moved. He’d only granted access to a handful of people—most of whom he hadn’t even told where to find him yet.

“DRACO!”

His name was bellowed just as he turned the corner. Draco was more than a little surprised to find Theodore Nott stood in the middle of his parlour, looking positively livid.

Draco eyed him warily, not lowering his wand just yet. “Uh… everything alright, mate?” He asked hesitantly.

Theo stormed out of the fireplace, his expression dark. “Tell me you have Ogden’s.”

Draco blinked. “What?”

“Firewhiskey, Draco. Tell me you have Firewhiskey.”

Draco barely had time to process the demand before Theo was already heading toward the kitchen. The cupboards were abruptly rattling as the wizard flung them open, scanning their contents at a furious pace. Finding nothing, Draco watched him slam each one shut before moving onto the next.

“Whoa—Theo, hold on. What the hell is going on?” Draco attempted to intercept him before he could tear the whole room apart. Theo hesitated for a fraction of a second, just long enough to allow Draco the opportunity to wave his wand. A bottle soared in from the other room, landing neatly in Theo’s outstretched hand.

Theo wasted no time reading the label. He twisted the top off in one swift motion and took a deep swig straight from the stem. “What’s going on,” he muttered between gulps, stalking to the other side of the kitchen, “is that I am one fucking move away from murdering my boyfriend.”

“Naturally.” Draco nodded, casually plucking the bottle from Theo’s grip before taking a sip himself. He hadn’t planned on drinking tonight, but now that the opportunity had presented itself, he wasn’t exactly opposed.

Theo jabbed a finger at him. “Right. And since you finally decided to grow some fucking brains and move back here, as my best friend, you are legally required to make my problems your problems. And I. Have. A. Fucking. Problem.”

Draco didn’t argue. Years of living under his father’s thumb—and months under his aunt’s—had taught him that when someone appeared on the verge of madness, sometimes it was best to just let them go off. He merely offered a nonchalant shrug and took another swig of the Firewhiskey. “Right. Yeah. Definitely. But help me out here—because I’m slow. Why is it, exactly, that you want to kill Blaise?”

Chapter Text

Dear Reader

Hermione Jean Granger Potter

29 January, 2003

“Mum, it huts.” Scorpius moaned from his bed.

Hermione crossed the room, unfolding the quilt she’d grabbed and tossing it over him. “Oh, my little bug, I know.” She tucked the blanket over him, on top of the steadily growing pile he’d asked for. Patting his knee, she brushed some of his dark hair back and took a seat on the edge of his bed. “Is that better? Or are you still cold?”

“’m c-c-coud. I need—need paw-foot.” He chattered and Hermione’s heart broke at the sound.

“Padfoot? You want him?” Scorpius nodded and Hermione looked around his room. “Of course, do you know—where did you last put him? I don’t see him.”

“I gave to dad.”

“Right.” Hermione sighed, pulling her wand out and using a summoning spell. Harry might’ve put the plush animal any number of places and Hermione didn’t feel like looking. A few moments passed, during which Hermione cast a temperature charm. It read back 38.4. Not too concerning, but still definitely a fever. 

When the fluffy dog finally flew into the room, Hermione caught it and handed it to him. “There we are, love. How’s that feeling?”

“No good.” Scorpius pulled his toy close, rolling onto his side towards her and whimpering.

“I know, I’m so sorry. But how’s your stomach feeling? Did the tummy potion help?”

This time Scorpius didn’t speak, just nodding and closing his eyes. Hermione sat there for several moments in the quiet, biting her lip and rubbing a hand over his back as she tried to decide what to do.

After a few minutes she glanced at the time and nearly breathed a sigh of relief. It was just turning five o’clock, which meant Harry would be home soon. Then she would have help—or at least another person in the room to think with her. She’d been trying to contact him all day since she left the ministry to pick Scorpius up, and while she knew he was on some sort of assignment, she couldn’t help but feel frustrated that he never picked up the phone.

At one point she’d contemplated sending him a patronus when Scorpius had been retching for especially long a few hours ago, but she didn’t know the nature of his task so she was hesitant to risk any sort of cover he might have.

For now Hermione turned back to Scorpius, watching his chest rise and fall in restless sleep, and his little fists clutching Padfoot tight. She brushed his hair back from his face again and planted a kiss on his temple. It was fine. He was doing better now, surely that meant he’d be alright. The stomach potion seemed to be working, and soon Harry would be home so she could ask him about the others.

She just needed to keep her worrying down for a little bit, then it would all be okay.

*~*~*~*~*

It was forty past when Hermione heard the floo ring downstairs. Immediately, she jumped from where she’d been sitting on the rocker in Scorpius’s room and ran downstairs.

Her feet had barely crossed the doorway of their floo parlour when she spoke, “Where have you been?!”  

Harry was just setting down his bag on the long side table when he looked up, frowning. “What?”

She kept walking towards him. “You’re late. Where have you been? I’ve been calling you for hours and you never answered.” She help up her mobile phone in front of her, as if that were any indication.

Harry’s eyes tracked it, “What? Work—I, I’ve been at work. I didn’t have it on me.”

And when he looked at her specifically, Hermione could see his eyes take in her state of disarray—wrinkled trousers, a probably stained top, and an awful knot of hair on her head that she needed to fix but hadn’t thought to until now.

“Well, I’ve been calling you.”  She told him, hating the slight crack that came through her voice, but she was nervous and tired and couldn’t really help it.

“I’m sorry—wait, what is it? Why?” His confusion quickly shifted to alarm, and in a heartbeat, he crossed the room and took her gently by the waste as he scanned at her, seemingly searching for injury. His voice softened with worry, “What’s happened?”

“It’s Scorpius.” She twisted her fingers in front of her anxiously and Harry’s face hardened.

“What do you mean?” he asked seriously.

“I had to pick him up early from school today. Nurse Farid called Asher because he’d been vomiting everywhere and needed to go home.”

“Is he alright? Where is he?”

“He’s upstairs. I gave him a bath to clean him. He smelled awful, the poor dear. And then I gave him a stomach potion so he could keep something down. He took a nap while I tried to make him a bowl of soup, but—but, you know I’m not very good at it. And it didn’t come out well and nothing was working, and he said he wanted yours or Molly’s so he wouldn’t eat mine. I got him to eat some bread and that seemed to stay down, but then he said he was achy, and everything hurt so we went back to bed.”

Hermione rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her palms, trying in vain to catch her breath that she’d lost while speaking. Her chest hitched, and Harry instinctively stepped closer, drawing her against him.

“Alright, hey—hey,” he murmured, she felt one of his hands come to cup the back of her head as the other moved soothingly down her back. “It’s okay. Breathe, Hermione. I’m here.”

“But—" Her voice cracked again, and she couldn’t help letting him press her face into his shoulder.

“Breathe,” he whispered again, resting his cheek against her hair. “It’s okay. That all sounds good to me. You did everything right. But let me think this through. I’m not as fast as you.”

“I don’t need fast, Harry, I need Scorpius to be okay.” Hermione’s voice was hoarse as she pulled back sharply to glare at him.

Harry raised his hands in surrender, his face open and calm. “I know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to joke. Just—please, let me think about this. You gave him a stomach balancer for the retching?” Hermione nodded. “And it worked?”

“He hasn’t been sick since he took the last one. And that was around an hour ago.”

“Right. Okay, um. And did you try a pain potion? I know you said he was achy.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t remember what Theo said about pain potions and not taking them at the same time until you’re of age because it could hurt your mental processing.”

Harry nodded slowly before shaking his head. “Wasn’t that to do with the anti-infection cream? I thought it was about Seamus and Dean giving Saoirse it when she busted her knees.”

“No, I thought it was when she’d stolen a botched Puking Pasty from the shop.”

Harry ran a palm over his face. “Merlin that girl’s a handful.”

“Harry, focus.” Hermione insisted, pulling his arm down. “What do we do?”

He stared blankly for a moment. “Right. Er, let’s just get Theo if you’re that worried about it. Go call Blaise.”

Hermione shook her head regretfully. “We can’t call Theo tonight.”

“Why not?” Harry tilted his head. “We always call Theo.”

“Well, we can’t tonight. Tonight, he’s busy.”

“Busy with what?” He levelled her a look. “It’s Scorpius, Hermione. The man loves Scorp. I’m fairly certain if he knew he was sick, he’d be over in a minute. Let’s just call him.”

“Yes, but not tonight. Tonight, we can’t because he’ll be angry.”

“Angry at you?” Harry frowned, staring at her incredulously. “You’re talking about Theo? Theodore Nott? Look I know he was cross about the crab cakes,” he shrugged, “but honestly, how was I to know the batch was bad? And I thought he was fine eventually.”

“No, not about that. He’s angry about Blaise. You know how we stayed late last night working?” Harry nodded. “Well, apparently they were supposed to go to a dinner thing and Blaise forgot.”

“He forgot?” Harry repeated.

“Yeah. I guess he was going to go but then when he saw the mess Zacharias had left me with, Blaise felt bad. Plus, he knew we’d get it done in half the time if there were multiple people working on it together. So, he stayed and helped me.”

Harry grimaced. “Well, I mean I suppose it was work, right? A bloke can’t hold it against him that much if Blaise was trying to fix something serious.”

“Well, that’s the other part of it.” Hermione bit her lip anxiously. “He can hold it against him, because Theo didn’t know. Blaise said he forgot to write a note, but he didn’t realise until he had gotten back to the manor and their stuff was lying out, but Theo was asleep. And then I guess when he woke up this morning Theo had already left. I’m fairly certain Blaise is expecting to have quite the row when he gets home.”

“Well, fuck.” Harry ran a palm over his eyes and Hermione nodded. Her thoughts exactly. “I can’t imagine how worried Nott must’ve been. I mean, how hard is it to write a note? It takes two minutes.” He looked down at her then and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “You know I love you, right?

Hermione rolled her eyes through a sniffle, but her lip twitched upwards just a bit when he kissed the top of her head. “Yes, Har. And you’re welcome for your note.”

He kissed her head once more, before letting her go.

“Alright, well, we can’t call Theo. Perhaps we could try Padma and Ron’s?”

Hermione winced. That was a last resort Hermione wasn’t sure she’d gotten to. Sure, Ronald would be friendly enough, but she avoided interactions with his fiancé as much as was physically possible. Padma Patil soon-to-be Weasley hated Hermione. As far as she was aware, she’d never done anything to personally offend the witch. But despite having tried on multiple occasions to apologize generally in an attempt to clear the air, Hermione had never gotten a positive response. 

The witch simply hated her. And, as a result, she hated Hermione's son too. This was a well-known fact, and Hermione tried not to get frustrated with Harry for even suggesting it. “We can’t call Padma. You know Scorpius hates her. He says she pinches and smells funny and frankly, I don’t disagree.”

“Okay, so then we just give him the potion and see how it works till morning.”

She shook her head in confusion. “We can’t give him the potion, Harry. Are you even listening to yourself? Do you actually want to risk our son getting brain—"

“I’m trying to find a solution, Hermione, and you keep telling me they’re wrong.” He let out a harsh breath, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “So how about you give an idea then, because clearly, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I’ve been giving ideas all day! You’ve only just got here!” She snapped. Her voice was rising with emotion, and her hand flew out in the direction of the hallway. “I’ve been dealing with this since hours ago and it isn’t getting better! I’m tired. I’m dirty. I haven’t slept more than four hours in two days and I’m asking you to help me think, Harry! Because I don’t know what I’m doing either, but our son is in pain, and he needs help, and we’re supposed to bloody help him!”

It started then as she finished, heaving out a breath she looked up at him and suddenly everything crashed over her and her face broke. Hermione couldn’t stop the tears as they stung her eyes, and her hand dropped back down uselessly to her side. “I—I don’t—I don’t know how to help him. I don’t know how to make it stop. I just—”

Harry’s expression faltered, guilt flickering across his features as he stepped forward. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m sorry.” He reached for her, hands gentle, and Hermione instinctively leaned into his embrace, her shoulders trembling.

“Oh, Godric, I shouldn’t’ve shouted. I’m sorry—"

“No, don’t apologise,” he murmured. “It’s alright. It was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have said it. And you’re right.”

Hermione sniffled, her forehead resting against his collarbone. “I’m scared, Harry,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to do and—and I don’t like when he’s sick. It reminds me of when he was so small and little, and they said that—"

“I know,” Harry murmured, holding her tightly. “I’m sorry. I know. It’s okay. I promise. He’s better now, love. He’s much better, remember?”

“But what if—"

“If he gets worse, we can always take him to Mungo’s.”

Hermione pulled back. “We can’t take him to Theo, Harry. I already told you he’s busy.”

“Not Theo’s, Mungo’s.” He said patiently, “We’ll take him to the hospital if we have to. I’m quite sure they’ll be able to help. You know there are more than two Healers who work there, right?”

Despite herself, Hermione nodded, and Harry smiled softly, brushing his thumb along her cheek for a few moments.

“What if we give it an hour?” he suggested, glancing at his old watch. Hermione watched him toed off his shoes on the rug and gave her a reassuring look. “I can go check on him for a minute, and then that’ll give me time to wash up. Maybe you can sit down? Take a well-deserved kip, hmm?”

“I suppose…”

“And then how about if I take a look at that soup you said you made?”

Hermione felt her shoulders slowly easing at his calm tone. Her body sagging as the weight of being the only adult present for hours started to shift. Someone else was here to help.

“It’s really bad, Har.”

He chuckled deeply and brushed her cheek again. She leaned into the touch.

“I’m sure it’ll be perfect. It probably just needs a little seasoning or something. How does that sound?”

“That sounds alright,” Hermione said softly.

Harry grinned and gently pinched her chin. “Brilliant. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

*~*~*~*~*

While Harry went to freshen up, Hermione lingered in the parlour for a moment, unsure of what to do with herself. She considered lying down like he’d suggested, but her mind was far too restless. Her feet moved almost without thinking, guiding her back across the manor to Scorpius’s bedroom.

The room was dim and quiet, the only light coming from the soft amber glow of the enchanted night lamp by the bed. Hermione stepped inside and sat down gingerly on the edge of the rocker in the corner. Scorpius lay curled beneath his duvet and the many blankets he’d compiled, his breathing deep and steady. She couldn’t be certain how long she sat there, simply watching the gentle rise and fall of his small chest. Her eyes traced the curve of his cheeks, still fairly flushed, and she bit her lip as anxiety tugged at her once more.

A quiet knock pulled Hermione from her thoughts. She turned to find Harry standing in the doorway, now dressed in an old pair of trackies and a threadbare quidditch t-shirt. His hair was still damp from the bath, droplets clinging to the tips.

“How is he?” he asked softly, stepping into the room.

Hermione shrugged, her voice barely above a whisper. “Alright, I think. He seems to be sleeping better. That’s good, right?”

Harry nodded, moving towards the bed. He crouched beside it and gently brushed Scorpius’s hair off his forehead, smiling faintly when he noticed the small, well-loved black dog plushie clutched in their son’s arms.

“Yeah. Probably just needs rest now. Let him heal a bit,” he said, his voice low.

Hermione watched him in silence, the weight in her chest lightening just a touch at the sight.

After a few moments, Harry stood and looked at her. “Dinner?”

She nodded, slowly rising to her feet and following him out of the room. They walked through the wide, echoing corridors of Potter Manor together, the silence between them filled with unspoken thoughts. The tension from earlier was still present, but softened now, dulled by exhaustion.

It wasn’t until they reached the sprawling kitchen that Harry finally broke the quiet. “What are we working with?”

Hermione gestured sheepishly towards the stovetop. “I tried to make a chicken tomato dish. I read somewhere it was supposed to be good when you’re ill. But it came out poorly.”

Harry approached the large pot and lifted the lid. He inhaled cautiously.

Hermione winced. “I wasn’t even sure I wanted Scorpius to try it. I honestly don’t know what went wrong. I thought it would be easy.”

To her immense relief, Harry didn’t laugh or tease. He simply nodded thoughtfully; his expression neutral as he gave the contents another tentative sniff.

“You gave it a go,” he told her. “That’s what matters.”

She gave a soft, tired laugh. “It smells like boiled socks.”

Harry didn’t disagree. Instead, he reached for his wand, levitated the pot off the burner, and poured the whole thing into the bin with an air of grave ceremony. “Tragic casualty. But it died noble death,” he declared, then turned to the ice box and began pulling out new ingredients.

Hermione smiled then, for the first time in hours, watching as he placed fresh vegetables and herbs on the counter. His movements were calm and sure, and there was something grounding about it. He always had a way of creating order from chaos in the kitchen.

Harry gestured for her to sit, and she did, sinking into the breakfast table chair as he uncorked a bottle of their favourite red and poured them each a generous glass. She accepted it with a murmured thank you, taking a small sip while Harry set to work.

For a while the only sounds were the rhythmic slice of his knife against the chopping board and the occasional bubbling of the pot as he began to recreate the soup from scratch. Hermione watched his hands move with purpose and precision. He always said he liked to think while he cooked, and that magic would only get in the way of him using his hands.

After a few minutes, she spoke. “So, Manchester then?”

Harry glanced up at her, his brows scrunched in question. “You heard?”

She gave a small nod. “Asher mentioned it earlier when the school called. He said you both were out on patrol or something?”

“Ah yes,” Harry nodded, looking back down at his work. “Got a call about a suspicious persons wandering the area. A bookkeep said a number of muggles were showing signs of confundus or obliviation and a few men had even been stunned at the grocer by her shop.”

“Oh goodness,” Hermione leaned forward, swirling the wine in her glass. “Were you able to find them?”

“Not quite, but we found tracks of the looting in addition to the remnants she mentioned. But Seamus called in a squad to take care of some muggles a bit too soon and that sold us out. I tried to tell him before, but…” He tossed a pointed look with his shrug.

She knew quite well what Harry’s thoughts on his current partner were. Despite Seamus’s brilliance in a duel and chase, Harry found more often than not he rushed their investigations, allowing things to slip through the cracks.

“Once they knew we were there, they must’ve wrapped up pretty quick for the day. Fifteen shops they’d hit in the morning, but then they stopped right before they hit the bank?”

“Do you think they’re not finished? That they’ll go back?”

Harry scratched the back of his head absently with the back of his hand. “I dunno, but I think so. There was a pattern to it. And it was sloppily done. I mean, most dark wizards or witches tend to have a goal. From what I could tell they hadn’t completed it yet. It wouldn’t make sense to go after all the smaller businesses and not even try the actual bank where they store the money.”

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. “So, what does that mean for you both?”

“I want to go back. First thing tomorrow if we can. Get ahead of the perp and canvas the area. I think if they’re going to finish the job they’ll want to move quickly now. Get in and out. Plus I don’t like the way they were messing with muggles. It was careless and that’s dangerous. I want to see if we can put a stop to them completely.”

She hummed, agreeing with his logic. “You sound excited.” She commented.

Harry shrugged but did nothing to cover the modest smile spreading over his face. “It’s nice to be back in the field, I guess. Paperwork doesn’t exactly make your heart race the way a chase does.”

“I bet not.” Hermione gave a small laugh. Something twinged uncomfortably in the back of her stomach at his words, but she couldn’t quite remember why, instead choosing to ignore it. Writing it off to exhaustion and the stress of her day, she took another sip of wine and let the moment pass.

“Just be careful, alright?”

Harry looked at up her then, his expression softening. “I always am.”

After a while the soup was beginning to take form, the kitchen slowly filling with the comforting aroma of garlic, herbs, and simmering stock. Hermione closed her eyes, breathing it in. They were all safe. Warm. Together.

She opened them again to find Harry watching her.

“Better?”

She nodded. “Much.”

And for the first time that night, Hermione truly believed it might be—Or at least that was until she saw a small figure approaching from the shadows behind Harry.

Immediately Hermione straightened sharply, her hands instinctively moving. Scorpius padded into the room quickly, barefoot and pale, his bottom lip trembling. He didn’t say a word, just walked into her waiting arms.

Hermione gathered him onto her lap at once, but she cringed when the moment his little face pressed into her shirt, she felt it—a damp patch spreading through the fabric.

“Scorp?” she asked gently, brushing his hair back.

“Mum,” he whimpered, voice thick with tears, “I frew up.”

Her chest tightened as she pulled back, trying to see his face in the kitchen light. His eyes squinted against it, and he burrowed deeper into her.

“You did, darling?” she murmured, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead. The heat startled her.

She looked up, meeting Harry’s eyes directly as he set down the chopping knife and stepped towards them. He didn’t speak, but his brow furrowed deeply. Hermione mouthed one word: fever.

Scorpius mumbled something against her chest, too muffled to understand.

“What was that, love?” she coaxed.

“It huwt, mummy. I don’t like it. Make it stop huwting.”

“I—” Hermione’s breath caught. Her throat burning with helplessness as she tried to think. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know what to say. “I—I know. I’m—I’m so sorry. Mummy’s sorry. She’s—she’s.” She pulled him tight and rocked him gently. Her eyes found Harry’s, pleading for help. “What do we do?”

Harry was looking between her and Scorp, but on her question he started moving, grabbing his wand from the counter. “Mungos.”

She hesitated. “But—”

“Mungos, Hermione. They’ll know what to do. It’ll be okay.” His voice was firm, but Hermione felt weak from the table as she watched him leave the room.

She tried to adjust her hold on Scorpius and stand with him, but before she could get far, Harry reappeared. He’d grabbed a robe and his shoes, and she was grateful when he gently lifted Scorpius from her arms, the little boy whimpering softly as he clung to his father’s neck.

Hermione followed close behind, heart hammering, silently thanking Merlin that her shoes were already waiting by the fireplace.

They stepped through the Floo together, vanishing into emerald flames.

*~*~*~*~*

The Floo deposited them in the main reception of St Mungo’s Hospital with a burst of emerald flame. The moment Hermione’s feet hit the tiled floor, she surged forward after Harry, who was already striding towards the reception desk with Scorpius cradled carefully in his arms.

To her relief, the moment Harry gave his name, the response was immediate. A mediwitch behind the counter waved them through a set of double doors and summoned an attendant without so much as a quill-scratch of paperwork. Within minutes, they were ushered into a private room, Scorpius gently laid on a clean hospital bed by steady, practiced hands, and his spoiled shirt replaced with a fresh hospital top.

Hermione knew it was selfish, but a part of her was grateful—grateful that the title of ‘Chosen One’ still afforded Harry, and by extension their family, certain privileges. Tonight, it meant their son didn’t have to wait.

She barely had time to register the soft hum of magic sealing the room before the door opened again.

Padma Patil.

Hermione’s stomach clenched but she pushed it down.

Padma strode in, her dark hair swept into a sleek knot and her green healer’s robes pristine and crisp. Her gaze flicked briefly over Hermione before settling on Scorpius. “What seems to be the issue?”

Hermione stepped forward. “He’s had a fever since this afternoon. He vomited multiple times and was lethargic. I gave him a stomach-settling draught and tried a muggle painkiller, but it didn’t help. His temperature spiked again an hour ago and he said he was in pain.”

Padma raised a brow. “Muggle painkillers?”

Hermione bristled but kept her voice even. “Yes. Paracetamol.”

The scoff Padma gave was barely restrained. “Well. How conventional. You don’t hear of many witches resorting to that sort of thing anymore. Most people who want to help would give an actual potion.”

Hermione said nothing, her jaw tight.

Padma continued her examination, murmuring spells under her breath and passing her wand over Scorpius with mechanical precision. Hermione watched, arms crossed, knuckles white as she stood by. She hated feeling useless, especially when it came to Scorpius.

“You should have brought him in sooner,” Padma said, tone clipped. “He’s severely dehydrated, his fever is dangerously high, and there’s a rash forming on the underside of his arms. If you were so opposed about potions, you could have flooed for guidance and someone would’ve instructed you to use something real.”

Hermione swallowed the rising sting in her throat. She wasn’t a healer. She had done her best. But guilt bloomed like a bruise in her chest. Scorpius had a rash? She hadn’t known, but she should have, she’s his mother.

“We’ll administer a combination of cooling draught, a fever reducer, and an internal rehydration tonic. If his temperature doesn’t settle in the next few hours, we may need to escalate. I suspect he has a virus, but I won’t bother testing for that until I’m sure it’s not something else.”

Padma scribbled something on the chart at the foot of the bed, then turned sharply. “A nurse will bring the doses shortly.” She paused at the door, her gaze cool as she looked over Hermione one last time. “Next time, probably best not to delay treatment for the sake of hubris.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Hermione stared at the space Padma had just vacated, hands trembling slightly, and her mouth agape at such a reprimand. Hubris? Hubris over Scorpius? Her hands twisted in front of her anxiously, that was ridiculous. Wasn’t it? This wasn’t Hermione’s fault—she looked over at the boy lying in bed and her stomach sank. Was this her fault?

“Don’t listen to a word she said.” Harry’s voice pulled her out of her spiral, his hand reaching for hers and pulling her back to sit next to him on the bench. When she did, he gave her shoulder a squeeze. “You did nothing wrong and everything you could. This is not your fault.”

“But—”

She never got to finish her protest, for at that moment a nurse walked in. He greeted them all kindly, and Hermione tried to contort her face into less of a grimace. Harry pulled her closer and she reluctantly leaned into him. They watched hopefully and quietly as the wizard gave Scorpius a number of different potions—the man was kind, coaxing him into swallowing each one with little jokes. By the last one, Scorpius had very nearly cracked a small smile.

Hermione didn’t feel any sort of relief until a while later when he drifted off, his breathing slow and his small hands fisted weakly in the blanket around him.

*~*~*~*~*

30 January, 2003

The next thing Hermione knew, a soft light was filtering through the shuttered windows, catching on the whitewashed walls of the room she was in. She stirred slightly, her neck aching from the awkward position she'd fallen asleep in. Something slipped from her shoulders as she sat up, and for a fleeting second, she panicked—sure she'd drifted off in her office again, and that Blaise had come to scold her awake.

But when her eyes cleared, she realised this wasn’t her office.

It was cold. Sterile. Quiet, except for the rhythmic ticking of a wall-mounted clock and the soft beep of a monitoring charm near the bed. Blinking herself fully awake, Hermione glanced down to see a thick outer robe puddled at her feet. She bent to retrieve it, fingers brushing the familiar fabric.

Harry’s.

"Harry?" she called out, eyes scanning the room for the wizard who wasn’t there.

Hermione was standing to check the hall when a door to her right creaked open—a door she hadn’t even registered before. Harry emerged, his hands vanishing a towel from what must’ve been the bathroom. His expression shifted the moment he saw her awake, wincing slightly before he tried to smooth it into something calmer.

"Hey."

Hermione felt her shoulders sag in relief. She grabbed her wand and cast a quick muffling charm around the bed where Scorpius slept. "Sorry. I thought you'd left."

"No," he said, shaking his head. She clutched his robe tighter around her chest, grateful for the warmth it provided. "I didn’t mean to wake you."

She shook her head. "It’s fine. I’m glad to be up to check on him. I meant to be awake anyway, so it was a sort of accident that I fell asleep at all.” She smiled at him before shifting her gaze to the bed across from them. “Do you know how he is? Has Padma been back at all?”

Harry moved closer to her chair; his voice low despite knowing they couldn’t be heard. “No. Or, not since she came in around midnight and told us she was going to run a few tests.”

Hermione’s heart clenched as she took a deep breath in preparation. "Did she run them? Do we know if he has it—the, the Orexinon Flux or whatever it was?”

“I don’t know.” He sighed, running a hand through his messy jet-black hair. “Unless she popped in before an hour ago, I don’t think she came back. Or at least I didn’t wake and hear her when she did.”

Hermione paused with worry, “You fell asleep too?”

She knew it wasn’t sensical given that she hadn’t even been able to keep awake herself. But she had also barely slept four hours the night before and she knew Harry had gotten a complete rest. Selfishly, she’d hoped that even if she failed to keep watch, Harry was paying attention all night to make sure Scorpius was okay or if he needed anything.

Harry nodded, though there was a hint of guilt in his expression. “Well, yeah. I mean—not a lot. But sometime after you did around two, I think. I mean, I had to if I’m going to be able to work today. I can’t be falling asleep on the job.”

He shot her a half smile as though he made a joke, but Hermione only blinked at him.

"You’re going to work?"

"Of course," he said, as though it were obvious.

"I—but, but Scorpius." She stammered, her stomach turning over at the thought of being alone in the hospital without him.

"Hermione, I have that case to work today. I need to be there to run the operation."

She stared at him, incredulous for a moment. "Can’t someone else can run it? I mean, Harry, come on. Your son is in hospital."

He looked almost offended by the suggestion. "I’m fully aware, Hermione. But he’s going to be fine, so I don’t see what’s the big deal if I’m not here.”

"But you don’t know that I mean—how could you know that?" she insisted, her voice rising despite herself. "Padma said she’s checking him for some sort of virus or test or something. I mean you don’t know that he’s fine. We thought he was fine yesterday. He was fine and then he wasn’t, and we had to bring him here. You should be here.”

"I should be at work," Harry said firmly. "The healers have got this. You’ve got this. There’s nothing I can do that you can’t and really there’s no need for me to be here. Why should I waste a day—"

"Waste a day," Hermione cut him off harshly. "Really, Harry James? Making sure your son is okay? That’s a waste?”

“Hey, wait. You can’t twist my words—"

“You’re his dad. It’s not out of the realm of question to expect you to be here to show him you care to see that he’s alright.”

Harry rolled his eyes at her pointedly, “Of course he knows I care. But he’s asleep, Hermione. I hardly think he’s going to notice that I’m gone.”

“He’s going to wake up!” She snapped, trying to get him to understand. “And when he does, the first thing he’s going to look for is the man who carried him into this room and told him it would be okay last night. And then he’s going to wonder why that same man isn’t here to see him in the morning.”

“So tell him I’m at work.” He shook his head as if she was missing something. “I have a job I have to do. He knows that—you know that.”

Hermione stared, failing to hold back her scoff. “I’m not going to tell our son that you thought work was more important than him.”

“I did not say that.” Harry gritted.

“No, you didn’t.” Hermione’s voice was like ice. “But your actions did. I mean, you don’t have to go to work, Harry. You’re being absurd, just call John and tell him what’s happened. You know he would understand, and he would help you. I mean he’s your friend and the director of your entire department—”

Harry stiffened, “Right, except it’s not that easy for everyone, Hermione, is it?  Some of us have to work for it. You’ve got your department, your bloody staff who hang on your every word—you say jump and the whole floor asks how high. You don’t have to prove yourself every day, Hermione. You’ve already made it.” He waved a hand between them and looked to make sure Scorpius was still asleep before continuing. “Meanwhile, I’m still fighting just to be seen as equal. I don’t get to lean on people and expect the world to understand. No one gives a shit when I fall. And I refuse to be their ‘boy who lived’ and then lived off of it for the rest of his life. No, I am trying my absolute bloody hardest to show up every single day and make a difference. I know it’s not as glamorous as your lengthy contracts and delegations or whatever, but it is important to some people. People who depend on it. Who depend on me to show up. Because some people care if I’m not there—even if you and John-flipping-Robards don’t.

“I—” Hermione faltered. Her chest growing abnormally tight at his words and not even sure what they even meant. “Are you serious?” She said much quieter than before. “Please tell me you’re joking, Harry. I didn't— I never once meant for you to think that I… I mean how does that even relate to w—”

But she never got to finish.

Because at that moment the hospital room door swung open.

"Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favourite godson and his two smelly parents," came Theodore Nott’s familiar drawl.

The wizard was grinning down at a medical chart, but when he looked up and took in the scene—Hermione standing rigid, Harry pale and tight-jawed in front of her—his smile faltered.

"Everything alright?" he asked, glancing between them. "I can come back if you need a minute."

Hermione opened her mouth, but Harry beat her to it.

"No, mate. You're good," he muttered, dragging a hand over his face. "I’m just leaving."

Theo raised an eyebrow. "Leaving? But the parties only just started."

Hermione folded her arms, her voice blank as she watched her husband gather his phone and wand from the table. "Unfortunately, ours started several hours ago, and Harry's decided he's tired of it."

"Hermione," Harry snapped sharply and she cringed. That wasn’t necessary, her mind scolded.

"I'm sorry. You're right. I'm sorry." She turned to Theo. "He has to go to work. They’ve—they’ve got a big case today. I didn’t mean that." Her hand moved to rub her temple weakly, far too drained to argue. She really didn’t understand what had just happened between them, but she couldn’t believe he was still leaving to go to work.

Theo nodded, thankfully not pushing. "Ah, right. Well, no worries. I’ve got it covered. You go save the world or whatever.” He smiled tightly at Harry who gave a stiff nod.

"Right."

When Harry turned to Hermione, he leaned in reflexively to kiss her cheek goodbye, but Hermione hadn’t expected it. Unintentionally, her face flinched backwards and away from him, both of them freezing immediately.

The hurt in Harry’s expression was unmistakable as he looked at her.

Hermione saw it. She hated herself for it.

She kissed his cheek instead as an apology.

Some bitter part of her said that if he really cared, he’d stay and not leave her alone.

So, she didn’t apologise out loud.

Harry didn’t either.

The room was silent as he walked away. No one moved until the door closed again and Hermione looked up.

Chapter Text

Lego House

Hermione Jean Granger Potter

30 January, 2003 

“How is he?” Hermione didn’t wait but a moment to ask the question.

She watched as Theo tried to give her a smile—and failed, ending up with a grimace—and stepped further into the room. He seemed to understand her mood because he did not even attempt at a joke.

“The good news is, it’s not the virus they tested for.”

“It’s not?” Hermione had to ask. She needed him to repeat it. To confirm again he was okay.

“No.” Theo’s smile was more genuine this time. “He’s definitely negative on that front. All of the typical patterns we’ve seen so far in patients with that one are absent in Scorp.”

“What does that mean? On that front? What other fronts are there?” Hermione’s eyes were stinging with a mixture of hope and sleep deprivation as she watched her friend.

“Well, there’s a number of different things that could be going on with him. I know you read the papers. There’s that one strand of flu going around the muggles lately. We’ve seen a few different cases in here and I’d like to check for that one next. See if he has the symptoms.”

“He does.” She told him. “Aches, dehydration…” Theo listened patiently, and it made Hermione’s hand stop shaking. Somewhere in the back of her head she knew she wasn’t a healer, and it would be best to let him finish speaking before she commented. But after years of knowing each other, Hermione was thankful to Theo who let her just go. “…lack of appetite, fever. He has them all. Is there a cure?”  When she finished, he nodded as though he’d expected her to answer all along.

“Right. And I agree with you.” He looked down at the patient record in his hand and flipped a sheet. After reading for a moment, he held it out to her, his finger pointing to a specific graph as she looked down. “Except for one thing.”

Hermione couldn’t control her gasp when she read the number shown. Her stomach felt as if it had plummeted eleven floors and she dread overwhelmed her. “That’s impossible.”

Once again, Theo’s face showed no surprise at her reaction, but he took the record back. “I wish it were. But as of an hour ago when nurse Teller last measured it, he’s at forty-three percent.”

“Oh godric,” Hermione whispered, her hands coming to cover her mouth as she choked out, “Theo—”

She didn’t know what she meant to even say. Hermione felt like she couldn’t breathe, her arms were undoubtedly shaking again. But it was as if she were going numb.

Scorpius—her Scorpius—the light of Hermione’s days and the only reason she knows she’s made it this far after the war. He was so small, Hermione thought, turning away from Theo to trace over his small figure in the hospital bed.

He’s so small, she thought. Small, and pale. Her eyes stung and she wasn’t sure if it was because of her lack of sleep or absolute fear that was consuming her. She couldn’t lose him.  

“Hey,” Something warm squeezed the side of her arm and Hermione realised she hadn’t been listening. When she looked over at the hand’s owner, Theo was smiling, but she thought he might be trying to hide his worry behind his grin.

“Hermione, I need you to listen to me. It is going to be okay.” He pulled her to face away from Scorpius. For a second she tried to fight him, but he kept talking. “I am not worried. And if I’m not worried…” He trailed off, tilting his head for her to finish.

“Then I shouldn’t be—but, Theo, his magic—”

“Is unusually low for a stomach virus, muggle or magical.”

“Unusually low?” She stared at him. “Theo, his magical core is depleting—it’s approaching deadly.”

 “Approaching is not the same as being. Until he is at that point, I refuse to worry and neither should you.” He flicked her a brow and his casualness made Hermione want to do something.

“What does Padma think?” She asked.

Theo’s other brow joined his forehead, and his expression morphed from confident to indignation.

“I’m going to let that go because your child is ill, and worry makes people do stupid things. Like comparing my judgement to Padma Patil’s.” He scoffed. “Padma doesn’t think anything about it, love, because she didn’t think to check.”

“She didn’t think to check his magic levels?”

“No. You have Lawrence to thank for that. Padma put her on you all around midnight last night. When she came to collect his numbers, she had some suspicions because of his volatility and wanted to make sure she was wrong. As you can imagine she started taking notes every hour when she came in to cast the monitoring charms and lo-and-behold, she wasn’t wrong.

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat. “Well, what does she think?”

“Lawrence?” 

“Obviously. I want a second opinion. My son’s magical core is below fifty percent, and you seem to think that’s not an issue. What does the other healer who’s been examining him think?”

“She’s a nurse.”

“Theodore.”

“Fine. She thinks the same as I do. It’s not a virus and it’s not an immediate concern. No—” Hermione had opened her mouth to protest when he held up a hand. “I will not ask her to come here. You’re going to wait. And you’re going to listen to me. I did not spend a year working the bowels of mania in the war and healing the consequences of my father’s curse development for you to suggest that an amateur Hufflepuff medi-witch has spotted something I didn’t. If I am telling you not to worry, Hermione, it’s because you don’t need to.”

His eyes were sharp, waiting a moment to see if she would speak. Hermione was half waiting herself to see if she would speak. She knew he was right. Theo was the best healer in Britain—likely Europe. After the war, he graduated the normally four-year healer training program in under five months with multiple special recommendations. His past was as dark as anyone could imagine, but Hermione knew it was what made him brilliant.  

There had not been a cursed patient come into Mungo’s that he hadn’t found some way to help or cure. In fact, John Robards had been trying to put Theo on retainer for the Auror Department for years. His ability to break down curses and counter them in real time was unmatched.

It was part of why Hermione loved him, he’d saved so many of their auror friends on countless occasions. And yet, Theo turned down nearly every promotion he’d been offered. If needed, he would help anywhere, but officially, Theodore Nott refused to budge from his position in the hospital’s children’s ward.

Bumps and bruises were far below his skill set, and yet, even with the little things, Theo was always happy to help. Hermione had always found comfort knowing they could lean on him because he wanted them to.

But Hermione had never needed to lean on him for something so big.

“Okay,” she told him quietly, both of her hands cupping her face.

Theo’s sigh was loud as he set the record down on the table and pulled her into a hug. Hermione let him, the tears flowing almost immediately and her shoulders trembling. Theo just let his hand rub her shoulders soothingly.

“It’s going to be okay, Mi. Alright?”

She pulled back, sniffling, but trying to hide it. “What do we do?”

He let her go and went to pick up the record again, then walked to the bed. “Well, I am going to run a few charms because I want to see them for myself. Nothing too serious, you know I just don’t trust the nurses.”

He looked up conspiratorially and Hermione tried to smile at his joke. It didn’t matter whether she succeeded, because Theo grinned for himself and then turned away, pulling out his wand.

“And you, dear, are going to take a seat. You look bloody exhausted and you’re no good to any of us standing.”

“Right.” She nodded, listening as he gestured for her to move over to the stiff sofa where she’d spent the last twelve hours. When she was seated, she wanted to ask him what kind of charms he needed to cast, what he was looking for, or what his plan was. But instead, she looked up to find Theo already busy.

His wand was turning in tight and precise movements over Scorpius and Hermione watched as hundreds of lights appeared above her son as a result, each one moving in different directions and patterns she couldn’t understand.

There was a time in Hermione’s life when she’d contemplated becoming a healer. She remembered studying the summer before they went on the run—wanting to know any medical magic that might prove useful if they landed in a tricky situation.

But then they’d gone on the horcrux hunt, and all the spells she’d learned for research stopped being the result of curiosity, but necessity. She had to know how to close a wound when Ron was accidentally splinched, it wasn’t by choice that she knew dittany only worked against most poisons, and she knew werewolf blood can be just as damning as a bite if not treated quickly enough.

Hermione had wanted to be a healer until she’d been forced to become one. Until she’d been met with the consequences of ineptitude and the guilt of everyone’s reliance on you.

Then she’d gotten injured just before the final battle and again during it and that only sealed her fate. Months trapped in the sterile and cold walls of this very hospital and Hermione never wanted to open another healer’s book again.

She decided she would help people, but from the government side of the world. Healing should be left to people like Theo, who don’t flinch at the sight of dead bodies, or scream when a limb is severed.

No, Theo had seen the darkest sort of magic one could imagine, and it brought him his calling. Which is why Hermione stayed quiet and just watched him work on her son.

She didn’t know how much time had passed before he finally looked up.

“Alright, I think I’ll try and wake the monster now, how does that sound?”

“Do you think that’s the best move? Is he okay?”

Theo lolled his head back and forth, “Depending on your definition of the word. But I’m legally able to act as a guardian and I’m the professional, so I say yes!”

Hermione stood from the chair and came closer, taking Scorp’s hand as Theo peered down at him. “You know that’s not how it works.”

He shot her a side eye that felt seriously inappropriate in the circumstance. “Hush. Rennervate.”

It took a few seconds—more than she would have liked—before his eyes fluttered and then she was met with two beautiful brown ones.

“Good morning, love.” She told him softly and they opened a little wider, registering the world around him. His face was the only part to move though which she thought was strange but put it aside for now. Though, the lack of motion did mean he didn’t notice anyone standing outside his current field of vision.

“Mummy?” He whispered and his voice was hoarse.

She squeezed his hand tighter in hers, and with her free one, she brushed the fringe of his hair from his face.

“How are you feeling today?” She asked, though she already knew what the answer would be after seeing Theo’s records earlier. “Any better?”

“Mhmm.” He grumbled, and to her surprise, “My tummy don’t hurt.”

“Really?” She asked and he nodded just the slightest. “I’m so glad, Scorpius. And guess what? I’ve a surprise for you. Someone’s come to see you this morning. He heard you weren’t feeling well and wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Scorpius’s eyes widened just a fraction in surprise, and she could feel the Theo’s presence behind her, “Uncle Ph-eo?”

“Hiya, mate. Did your dad try making crab again?”

Scorpius still wasn’t capable of moving much, but Hermione watched his lips break upward a bit in what might have been smile as he shook his head.

“No?” Theo didn’t seem surprised by his lethargy. Instead, he brought enough energy for both of them. “Are you sure? Because usually when I’m not feeling well it’s because your dad tried making me food.”

This time Scorpius’s pseudo grin was wide enough that a few of his teeth shown, and Hermione couldn’t help smiling with him, though hers was admittedly more in relief.

“Scorp, can you tell Uncle Theo it was one time, and he needs to get over it? Dad felt very sorry for making everyone sick, didn’t he?”

Once again, Scorpius’s smile was small, but he did open up this time and whisper, “No.”

Theo shook with laughter behind her and Hermione was endlessly grateful for his support. “Ah, see? I knew it. Didn’t I know it? I’ve been telling your Uncle B for weeks he did it on purpose, but your mum and him don’t believe me. You believe me, right?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Good.” He nodded. “Now, I must tell you I am a little bit sad to hear it wasn’t your dad’s cooking that brought you in here today, bug. Because we both know how to fix that one, right?”

Scorpius grinned again and grunted in affirmation.

“But unfortunately, I’m a little slow this morning so I haven’t quite figured out what’s going on. Which means you and your mum are stuck hanging out with me today. How does that sound?”

Scorpius, never one to turn down time with his godfathers, even when he was ill, managed to nod quite enthusiastically at him.

“Brilliant,” Theo stood up straight again, squeezing Hermione’s shoulders as he did and rubbing his hands together. “Well, I suppose that means we’ve got to get some breakfast in here for you both. Bug, I know what you’ll be wanting—we prune juice men have got to stick together. But what do you say for mum? Pumpkin or orange juice for her?”

When Hermione looked back at Scorpius, his face had gone completely flat, his eyes deadly serious and she felt the floor drop again.

“Scorpius? What is?” She asked quickly, her voice tinged with nerves at the sudden change. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Her son’s eyes found hers and it took him a moment before he shook his head adamantly. “No—no, poon.”

“What?” 

“No poon!” He whinged louder. Hermione’s eyes widened but she was interrupted from speaking by a clatter behind her where a plate and tray had fallen over.

“Theo!” She gasped, when she found him picking it all up. She shook her head, turning back. “Did you say, no poon? No poo—prune! No prune! Oh! He doesn’t want prune juice Theodore—wait!”

Her brain stuttered in shock for what felt like the hundredth time that morning as the conversation clicked. When she turned around to look at the wizard, he was utterly failing to stifle his laughter at all, and it only filled her with annoyance.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” She demanded. “He’s allergic to plumbs, Theodore. You cannot—You know this. I know this. Why would you assume he wanted prune juice when he not only hates it but is completely allergic?”

“Granger, love,” He toned down his smirk a bit at the glare she gave, though he still sent a conspiratorial look to Scorpius that was both annoying and endearing. “It’s called a joke. He got it, didn’t you, bug?”

If the little wizard’s eyes were to be believed, he most certainly did not get it. Scorp was still lying in bed as he had been, but his expression looked angry enough to scare dragons. Hermione laughed and Theo rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, tough crowd.” He groaned. “Well, we’ll see who’s laughing then when you both realise only one of us is allowed to place orders in the kitchen. And you just earned yourselves tomato juice.”

Hermione didn’t need to look at Scorpius to know this would not go over well. “He’s five. No tomato juice.” 

He sighed “Fine. Cranberry.”

“Theodore,” She called, using what Blaise had coined as her mum voice.

“Alright, Pumpkin. Happy?”

Hermione looked back at the bed and found Scorpius once again making a little smile. She turned back to Theo with a grin. “Ecstatic.”

“Whatever,” He pulled the door open, “I’ll have them bring it over and then I’ll be back in a bit. Mum?”

“Yes?”

Theo paused for a second, looking out into the hall. He visibly gnawed on his bottom lip, before he turned back to her and looked in pain when he spoke quieter. “I can talk to Lawrence and ask her to come up and see you. Or I can have her come with me when I’m back in a bit so we can talk together. That way you can check that we are both on the same page about this?” He waved his hand dismissively in the air.

Hermione gaped at him, not knowing whether to feel relief at this concession or worried that he was actually going to let her get a second opinion. She wasn’t sure what to say. “Theo…”

“Or I can just ask Patil to come back.” He rushed to interrupt her. “Maybe she can give you some tips, see if I missed anything. I know you love when she talks doctor to you.”

Hermione laughed at his waggled brows.

“Oh, shut it. That would be perfect. Thank you.”

Theo nodded in confirmation and then the door close behind him. Sighing deeply, she walked around to the other side of the hospital bed where there was more room on it and took a seat. Scorpius was quiet, but he smiled when she put her feet up too. Then, very carefully, Hermione wrapped her arm around him on the pillow, and carded her fingers through his hair.

It was nostalgic, she thought—though she couldn’t exactly recall why—when Scorpius responded to her touch, turning his face into her hand and shutting his eyes softly. Like a little kitten, he almost nuzzled his nose into her wrist and Hermione smiled sadly at the thought. He fell asleep quickly then, his eyelids fluttering, and she sat there watching him, filled with nerves and an unusual sense of déjà vu as she toyed with his soft hair.  

“We’re going to be okay.”  She told him and then Hermione just watched the time tick by.  

*~*~*~*~*

It wasn’t until the door opened that Hermione realised, she’d fallen asleep again on the couch.

Breakfast with Scorpius and Theo had gone well. He’d been a little more alert once she’d sat him up on the pillows. Seeing the full English breakfast, they’d brought him earned them his first full smile of the day. Though, once he’d eaten, he fell back asleep fairly quickly—which worked out well because the medi-witch Lawrence came in soon after that to talk with them.

The result of that conversation had been discouraging to say the least. Theo was right, Lawrence agreed with him. A decreasing magical core was not good, but she said that there was no need to panic yet if Scorpius was still at 43%. Apparently, it only became worrying when he’d broke thirty—Hermione was the only one who felt concerned by how close those two numbers actually were.

She tried to press them to see if they knew of anything that could be done, anything to stop or staunch the issue but they had nothing. Instead, Theo said he was going to do some research, not to worry, and that she should expect they’ll keep him for another night—if you want to owl Potter to let him know. After they left, she started pacing and eventually sitting.

When the door opened, Hermione drearily expected it to be another nurse or Theo coming into take his records again. For this reason, she made no effort to hide her fatigue or soreness from the crick that had now formed in her neck as she blindly sat up.

“Merlin’s beard you look atrocious.”

Hermione’s eyes snapped open, and her head flew across the room to look at the voice that had just appeared. “Narcissa!”

The older witch took a few steps into the room, ruefully shaking her head. “What is wrong with you? You look ridiculously purple and pale all at once.”

“I’m fine.” Hermione brushed her comments off, standing to greet her by exchanging a kiss on the cheek. “What are you doing here? How did you—are you alright? Did something happen?”

Narcissa looked displeased as she eyed her wrinkled pants, but Hermione didn’t care enough to feel embarrassed. Her own eyes were scanning the other witch for any sort of injury.

“I’m fine, dear. I was at an appointment with Healer Phelps when I ran into Theodore.”

“Theo told you we were here?” Hermione frowned. It didn’t really matter to her because she knew Narcissa, but being married to Harry came with some terrible ties to the gossip rags and she tried to keep Scorpius away from the papers as much as possible. There were far too many people in wizarding London who would sell a story for Hermione to feel comfortable letting someone know where they were—especially, when they were at the hospital.

“No. He asked to buy me lunch downstairs and when he went for the washroom, I read the stack of case files he’d left on the table. Apparently one of Wood children shattered his leg this morning at a quidditch match.” She said and Hermione relaxed, dismissing her later comment. That makes more sense, Narcissa had always been terribly nosy.

“Right.” She forced a smile. “Are you sure you’re okay? Why did you have an appointment with Healer Phelps? Is it anything I can do to help?”

“I’m fine. Thank you for your concern, but there’s nothing to worry about. It’s honestly nothing at all.” She clapped her hands together and stepped more into the room. “Now tell me why Scorpius is in here, and then we’re going to talk about fixing your mess and getting proper rest.”

Hermione ran a palm over her face, the other one massaging her sore shoulder. “I don’t need rest. I’m fine. I’m sorry, he got sick a few times while at school yesterday and the nurse called so I picked him up and took him home, and…” She took a deep breath, fighting back a yawn, “I tried to give him medicine or potions, but he got worse, so Harry thought it would be best if we brought him here. They’ve been treating him since last night.

“I’m sure you know from reading Theo’s notes, they don’t know what’s wrong with him. But obviously it’s something. He has all of these symptoms of different flus, so I thought that’s what it was. But then Theo figured out that it’s not, but he doesn’t know what it is. So here we are.”

Narcissa looked thoughtfully at Scorpius, “And where is Mr. Potter?”

Hermione fought to keep her face neutral. She loved Narcissa as a dear friend—perhaps sometimes even like a second mother— but the witch could be as judgemental as she was nosy. Hermione didn’t care what people thought of her outside her family, but that didn’t mean she wanted to listen to yet another battering of opinions that were poorly disguised as questions about her marriage.

“There was an emergency at work.” She lied with a smile. “Harry wanted to stay but they said they needed him, so he had no choice. He promised he’ll be back as soon as he can though, so, I’m not worried.”

The older witch nodded, lightly clicking her tongue in a way that set Hermione on edge. “Oh dear, of course. I do hope everything is alright. I’ll have to ask Draco about it when I see him later. We’re having dinner.”

“Right.” Fuck. Hermione cursed herself. She’d completely forgotten about Malfoy in the chaos of the last twenty-four hours. After the way she left him in her office so abruptly yesterday, she hoped he wasn’t offended. If he came by again today, she was sure Blaise would smooth things over for her. He could probably even finish the paperwork in her place—but, as this thought crossed her mind, so did another.

Hermione hadn’t told Blaise where she wasn’t. She wasn’t sure if he even knew what had come over Scorpius. She’d been so focussed on picking him up once Asher came in that she hadn’t thought to leave a note. Shit. She checked her watch; it was nearly two. If Blaise hadn’t figured out she wasn’t coming in by now, then there was nothing she could do. She’d just have to try and borrow an owl once Narcissa left. Speaking of…

“Right!” She said brightly, hoping her voice might mask the maelstrom happening inside her head. “I completely forgot about that. You never told me Malfoy was moving back and we just had tea a few days ago. Was it a surprise, or have you been holding out on me?”

Narcissa gave her a funny sort of frown that made Hermione feel like she could see straight through her. “A surprise. He arrived this weekend. Apparently, one of his coworkers abroad recently experienced a tremendous familial loss. It made Draco start to think. He’s concerned about me.” She scoffed, but Hermione could see the warmth blooming beneath it and smile back at the witch. “Says I’m not getting any younger, and he doesn’t care for the thought of me all alone in England.”

Hermione reached for Narcissa’s hand and squeezed it between hers. “Oh, but you’re not alone. You know you have me and Scorpius. Harry too. We love spending time with you, and you know we would all be there in a minute if you needed anything. The boys would as well. Tell Malfoy he doesn’t need to worry.”

Narcissa shook her head almost merrily. “Ah yes, but you see, I don’t mind when he worries. I am rather excited to have Draco so close to me. If allowing him to fret over me a few times a week means I get to see him for dinner, then I am quite content to do so.”

Hermione laughed. “Narcissa, are you guilting your son into spending time with you?”

“It’s not guilting him. It’s called letting Draco feel guilt and not interfering.”

“You’re quite cunning, do you know that?”  

The look in her eye was nothing short of mischievous. “You have no idea, darling. No idea at all.  And anyway, you’ll understand what it’s like one day. When Scorpius has a life of his own. You too will treasure every moment that he wants to spend with you.”

Hermione’s smile faltered and she felt as if she’d been plunged in ice water, remembering where they were. She hadn’t run into Narcissa for a chat on the street, they were in the hospital. Scorpius wasn’t hugging her leg or chattering softly, he was asleep, and slowly draining of his magical life force for reasons they didn’t know.

She didn’t want to think negatively, but even when Dolohov’s curse had been burning her alive during fifth year, Hermione’s magical levels had never gone below sixty. And Scorpius hadn’t been in any sort of dark wizarding fight.

“Hermione?”

She glanced up to find Narcissa staring down at her with concern. She didn’t know what her face looked like, but her eyes stung and when she ran a hand over her cheek, she realised she’d started crying.

“I’m sorry, I—I just, I want that. For Scorpius to have that. A life. I want him to have that.”

Narcissa wrapped her arm around Hermione’s shoulder in a gesture she’d never seen before. It wasn’t quite a hug, but it was comforting all the same.

“Oh dear, he will.” She told her. “He will have a wonderful life, and I know you will be so proud to watch him grow up. With parents like his, there is little chance of him not being brilliant. This is just a bump. I remember full well how terrifying it was when Draco got ill, but they do get better, children. They’re quite resilient, especially when they’ve got magic flowing through their veins, I promise.”

But this was, in fact, the wrong thing to say. And Hermione promptly burst into tears at the notion. Narcissa pulled her closer into her side and for several minutes Hermione was vaguely aware of the woman trying to comfort her, but it was no use. Eventually the witch let her go, and Hermione thought she might be leaving completely. She opened her eyes, removing her hands from where she’d been cupping her face but was abruptly shocked by a full body stinging sensation.

“What the hell!?” She gasped, jumping to find Narcissa staring down at her with disapproval.

“You have vomit on your shirt, are you aware?”

“Are you serious right now?!”

Narcissa clicked her tongue, “Hermione how long have you been at this hospital? How long has it been since you showered? You look disturbing. Your eyes are purple, your clothes are wrinkled, I’m not even going to address the mess that is your hair, and your shirt has vomit below your collar.”

Hermione forced herself to take a breath, she could not Narcissa Malfoy. She could not hex—slightly insane—friend.

“Narcissa, respectfully, I don’t—”

“I’m going to assume it wasn’t Mr. Potter who gifted you with his sick.” She didn’t even bother listening, continuing right through her. “And Scorpius has been attended to by healers since last night, you said. Which means your engagement with such…” She sneered. “Substances was more than a few hours ago. Go home.”

“Go home?! Are you mad? I can’t just—”

“Go home and bathe, Hermione. Clean yourself and put on fresh robes. I will send a house elf—”

“You absolutely will not send a house elf.” The urge to snap growing ever stronger.

“I wasn’t asking permission. I will send an elf to the manor to prepare a proper meal while you at least attempt to look like a witch again. You will eat the meal Poppy serves and only after you have done so will you return here.”

“I am not leaving Scorpius alone in the hospital.” Hermione’s jaw was tight as she held up her hands. “I appreciate your concern, and I will cast refreshing charms so that my appearance is less troubling to you, but someone needs to be here.”

“I’m not a fool, Ms. Potter. And I would not ask you to leave him here alone. That is why I will stay and be here with him.”

She sighed, an abundance of feelings at war within her. “Narcissa, thank you. But I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

The witch’s look was almost bewildered. “Again, I don’t ask for things. I assumed that was clear. I’m telling you, dear. If you want to remain in this hospital for any time this evening, you will do as I say. Because this,” She waved a hand across Hermione’s frame that made her feel quite small, “is not continuing. You are of no help to anyone when you are so visibly frayed. I’ve half a mind to have you take time to rest, but I will leave that fight to your husband. Go home dear, I will make sure he’s okay.”

There wasn’t much to say after that. Hermione felt as if the fight had been drained from her, and really, Narcissa didn’t look like she’d take no for an answer. She supposed it could be nice to shower. Her twill trousers weren’t the most comfortable and now that she’d been alerted to it, Hermione couldn’t ignore the stain on her Oxford from when she’d help Scorpius in the kitchen.

If she was quick about it, perhaps Scorpius wouldn’t even notice. He could still be asleep by the time she ran home and back. Hermione nodded, murmuring a “thank you” and kissing Narcissa’s cheek once more. For a second she turned to Scorpius and planted a kiss on his sleeping head too, whispering that she’d be back soon, and then she left.

*~*~*~*~*

When Hermione arrived back at the hospital, she was feeling far better than before. Admittedly, the break had been needed. She felt refreshed and more comfortable in her loose jeans and an old Cambridge jumper that was her dad’s, and she’d managed to work her curls into a loose plait down her back. Her lack of proper sleep made a slight weariness unavoidable, but the spread Poppy had been able to prepare certainly revived her energy and spirit.

As Hermione stepped out of the lift, she felt a great shift from the anxiety she’d felt when leaving.

She could do this.

She was Hermione Granger, dammit. There was not a single problem in her life that she had faced which she’d not been able to fix.

Devil’s snare and potion trap? Solved it.

Mysterious deadly creature out to murder muggleborns in the castle? Solved it while petrified.

Werewolf Professor? She’d figured it out in a matter of months.

Triwizard tournament? Granted, a lot of that really had been Harry’s genius, but she certainly contributed to the first and third tasks.

The list could go on and on. Hermione may not have defeated Voldemort herself, but she’d bloody worn the horcruxes and helped destroy a number of them before then. For Merlin’s sake, she brewed a NEWT level potion of Polyjuice at 12.

It didn’t matter what was wrong with Scorpius, Hermione would solve that too. Theo was a brilliant fieldworker, but Hermione was the best researcher of her generation.

And no, it wasn’t arrogance if it was the truth. And it was the truth.

So, she didn’t waver this time as she walked down the quiet dull hall. She walked with confidence and determination. She could do this.

When she opened the door to the room Scorpius was in, she found Narcissa talking casually. For a second Hermione had thought she was speaking to herself, but then her eyes met the brown ones across the room, and she broke into a grin.

“Well, hello there,” she cheered, walking into the room and to Scorpius’s side. She ran her hand through Scorpius’s hair, feeling even more relief at the slight colour that had come back into his cheeks. It wasn’t a lot, but it was more than this morning, and that meant a great deal.

“Welcome back, dear.” Narcissa stood from the chair and greeted kindly. “You look well.”

Hermione nodded. She’d never been particularly good at admitting when she’d been wrong, but this time she had. “Thank you. And thank you for watching him.” She kissed her son’s cheek with a smile. “You were right, I needed that. Please send Poppy my thanks. She left before I was able to see her, but the food was remarkable. I’ve put it all in the ice box and plan to eat it for at least the next week.”

Narcissa moved to stand across the bed from her. “I’m pleased to hear that, and I will certainly pass that along. She will be happy you enjoyed it.”

“I did. Now tell me, how was it while I was gone? I took longer than I expected, sorry for keeping you.”

“Not at all. You were certainly quick. I’d half expected you to fall asleep while you were out.”

Hermione nodded in thanks at her kindness. “Did Theo come back at all? I was hoping at hadn’t missed him for an update.”

“No, Theodore hasn’t returned. Though a witch did come for a few minutes and take some measurements. I’ve no idea what they were for, but she seemed friendly enough.”

Hermione tried to think of who the witch could be. Either Padma or the medi-witch Lawrence came to mind as possibilities. Both were likely to be friendly to Narcissa, but Hermione hoped it was Lawrence.

“Well, I’m sure it’s a good sign that they’ve been gone a while today.” She looked down at Scorpius who was watching her. “Right bug? We don’t want Uncle Theo in here all day bothering us. He’s far too icky.”

Scorpius smiled and shook his head. “Uncle ph-eo’s fun, mummy.”

“Oh really?”

“He have pumpkin juice.”

“And that makes him fun? I thought you didn’t like the potions juice he gave you.”

Scorpius frowned like she was being terribly daft. “No potion, mummy, pumpkin.”

“Oh pumpkin,” Hermione nodded like she’d simply misunderstood. Half of her wanted to cry with joy for the positive change in his behaviour from earlier, and the other half fought to keep from laughing at his cheeky expression. “My mistake. Well, that’s certainly a different think, bug. Pumpkin juice is far better than potions.”

“All little wizards think someone’s fun if they offer you a sweet treat.” Narcissa nodded. “I remember my Draco had such a tooth for it when he was young.”

Hermione smiled warmly at Narcissa. "I can certainly believe that.” she said, softly brushing her fingers through Scorpius's hair. The little wizard hummed and leaned into his pillows towards her, his eyelids fluttering in that tell-tale way she was beginning to know meant his energy was fading again.

Narcissa watched the two of them with a quiet expression, her sharp features softened by something altogether more maternal. After a moment, she straightened her already perfect posture and smoothed her hands over the sleeves of her elegant robe.

"Well," she said gently, offering Hermione a small smile, "I think I shall leave you to it now."

Hermione looked up. "Thank you, for everything,” she told her. “Really, you’ve been wonderful today. Completely. I can’t thank you enough for watching him for me."

"And you needn't thank me," Narcissa said, shaking her head. "I was happy to help. Truly. But I think it’s best I let you both rest now. And besides" — she glanced to the bed where Scorpius was now blinking heavily — "my presence is hardly needed at this point."

Hermione stepped back from the bed to walk with the witch toward the door. "Well, I still mean it anyway. I’m grateful.”

“I’m glad.” Narcissa picked up her small handbag, the picture of elegance as always, and turned to face Hermione fully.

"Will you let me know how he is in the morning?" she asked, her tone kind but not pressing.

"Of course," Hermione nodded. "As soon as we know.”

"Good," Narcissa replied, following to the door. Before she opened it though, she added softly, "And please do try to get some rest. I don’t know when you’re expected to be dismissed, or if you’ll have to stay another night. But you can’t run forever, and exhausted isn’t really running at all if you can’t do well.”

Hermione gave a small but nervous laugh, rubbing at the back of her neck. "I will," she told the witch, knowing full well she intended to start compiling a list of books to pick out for research if Theo came back empty handed again. "I promise."

Narcissa arched a knowing brow. "You're a dreadful liar, my dear."

She didn’t quite know what to say, but she shrugged, biting her lip nervously. "Yes, well. It's only a little one. I do what I can."

"All the same," Narcissa said, "take care of yourself."

After Narcissa left, Hermione found herself quite bored. She pulled out a book Theo ad given her for Christmas a few years ago. It was a dense volume on healing magic related to viruses—she’d gotten curious after there’d been a few outbreaks among muggles and Theo had gotten tired of her questions. It was rather a gag gift between them, though she had every intention of reading it. Unfortunately, having a little tot like Scorpius wasn’t particularly conducive to reading for fun, so the book had been shelved until a later date.

As Hermione sank into a char, with Scorpius tucked into the blankets around him, she decided today was that later date. She couldn’t do anything and they didn’t really have a diagnosis, but reading was something she could control. And it felt like she was doing at least something useful.

She opened to the fourth chapter, picking up where she’d left off the last time she’d held it, and began to read. The minutes stretched quietly around her, filled only by the gentle beeping of magical monitors in the hall and the soft rustle of parchment as she turned the pages.

Nearly two hours had passed, and she was just about to move on to the seventh section when the door clicked open behind her and Blaise Zabini walks in.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, flashing her a smirk as the door clicked shut behind him. “Look what we have here. I’ve been wondering where you were all day. Imagine my surprise when I went to your office last night to walk you home and it was empty. Then I came in again this morning to find out what happened, and you weren’t there either. I sent you four owls—did you not get them?”

Hermione grimaced. “Not quite. I’ve hardly been home at all today. I popped in for a minute earlier to change while Narcissa watched Scorp, but I didn’t think to check for post.”

“Hm.” He grunted. “Or send any, I assume—seeing as I had to go all the way down to the Auror office,” Blaise’s distaste for that department was perfectly clear in the way he sneered the words, “to find Potter and ask where the hell you were.”

“Harry was at the ministry?” she asked, frowning. Hadn’t he said they would be in Manchester all day?

“Obviously. He looked fairly beat up—looked like they’d just got back from some assignment. I don’t know for sure.”

“Oh, right,” Hermione nodded, a stab of guilt settling in her chest. It wasn’t ideal that Harry had chosen to go to work, but if he really did have a case, at least he wasn’t avoiding them on purpose.

“Yeah, well—anyway—you made me go to Potter. And then I find out you two have been here all day.” He stepped up to her side, his voice softening. “Hermione, I wish you’d told me.”

“I’m sorry—I just wasn’t thinking. I meant to, honestly. But time got away from me, and it’s not like you could’ve done anything here.” She shrugged. “We’re just waiting for Theo to get back eventually. I think it’s been a fairly hectic day for him.”

Blaise made a funny face, and Hermione scoffed.

“What’s that look for? Of course we came to Theo. There’s no one I trust more than him with Scorpius. I just don’t like that he knows things I don’t.”

“There’s no look. And I know. I just… would’ve been here. I could’ve given you support.” He pulled her into a hug, and Hermione smiled faintly.

“Thanks.” She returned the hug. “I’m grateful—and I really do appreciate you wanting to be here. But it’s alright. I’ve made it pretty far on my own.”

She could hear Blaise smile in his voice. “Yeah, I’m sure you have. You’ve always been good at figuring things out by yourself. I just wish you didn’t feel like you had to.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Blaise loosened his hold, and Hermione turned slightly, following his gaze.

“How is he?” he asked, eyes fixed on Scorpius, a line of worry forming between his brows.

“Alright. He’s been in and out all day. Keeps dozing off on me.”

He let her go completely and walked towards the bed. “That’s good, right? Children need… rest?”

“Yes, so I’ve been told. I’ve tried asking if it’s normal, but everyone seems more focused on making sure I’m not worrying—which only makes me worry more that they’re not paying attention to him.”

“I’m sure they are.” Blaise nodded. “They’re dealing with this stuff every day though. It’s only out of the ordinary for you or I.” He glanced back at her, “I mean, for you, Scorpius is sleeping far more than normal, and you don’t know when he’ll stop and wake up. For Thee, there’s probably six other little buggers on the floor this week all going through the same steps.” He shrugged. “For all we know, they’ve got them on some sort of schedule. Knock them out twelve times, shake it around, and then good as new.”

She couldn’t help the incredulous grin as she shook her head. “When did you get so wise? And why haven’t you been here all day? I could have used your logic. I mean, Narcissa was here earlier, she made one comment about him moving out when he’s older and I completely broke down sobbing all over her.”

Blaise looked aghast. “All over her?”

“She hugged me!” Hermione laughed at the absurdity. “Like literally hugged.”

“Narcissa?”

“Yes! It was the strangest thing. I started crying and then she was hugging me. Oh, but it was rather embarrassing because once I started, I couldn’t stop. I don’t know what came over me. But after I’d gone on long enough—you wouldn’t believe.” Hermione’s palms covered her face as if she could hide her embarrassment, now that she remembered. “Oh Merlin. Blaise, she told me I looked hideous, smelled, and then she kindly informed me that I had Scorpius’s vomit on my shirt, and I needed to go change because it was embarrassing myself!”

“She didn’t.” Blaise’s voice was devoid of humour and Hermione looked up, removing her hands from her cheeks.

“It’s fine.” She told him.

But Blaise was practically sneering again from the end of Scorpius’s bed. “It is absolutely not fine. She cannot do that. It’s rude.”

“It’s not rude, she was just being honest. And it did help a bit to go shower and eat at home.” Hermione shrugged as she awkwardly crossed her arms in front of her.

“It is. I can agree that someone needed to make you, but there is a time and place for brutal honesty. And humiliating you while you’re in the hospital for your child is certainly not either of those.”

“Are you implying Narcissa Malfoy doesn’t always have the best manners in a room?” Hermione tried to joke. She could feel her face turning red as her friend called her out and she didn’t like it. “I think half of Europe would probably curse you for such a notion.”

But Blaise didn’t look amused, and he leaned back on the footboard to watch her. “I’m implying that she didn’t have to put you down to get you to see reason. You like to think you’re far more stubborn than you are.”

“Nonsense. I’m atrociously stubborn.”

Blaise scoffed. “Please, Potter’s stubborn. You’re like…a dog.”

“Excuse you?”

“Scary on the outside, or when you want to be. But most of the time all you have to do is pat your head and you’ll agree to anything.”

“I absolutely am not!” Hermione gasped at him.

“You’re right. You’re not. I’m sorry.” Blaise told her, but as he spoke, he reached his hand out and rubbed her hair a few times. “I’m so sorry for my—”

“Oh you!” She threw his hand off. “You horrid man! I will have you know I am nothing like a bloody dog, that’s not even a realistic comparison of—”

“Mum?” Hermione was cut off from her scolding by a small voice behind Blaise and she winced. She’d been so careful all day, even with Narcissa to speak at low volumes. But five minutes with Blaise and she’d woken Scorpius up. Dammit.

Quickly she stepped around Blaise, moving to the side of the bed. “Hi, love. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You loud.”

“Yeah, sorry, that one’s my fault.” Blaise went to the other side of the bed. “I made your mum mad.”

Scorpius’s eyes got unusually wide at the entrance of a new voice, and Hermione helped him turn over to see who his visitor was. “Uncle B,” he said, his too quiet voice tinged in wonder.

“Hey, bug.” Blaise grinned.

“What are you—” Scorpius paused for a second and Hermione didn’t like the way he seemed to take a breath. “What are you doing here?”

If Blaise noticed it, he didn’t show it. “I was going to ask you the same thing.” He pulled a chair from against the wall and sat, folding his tall frame so it was much closer to Scorpius’s level. “Tell me really now, is your mum paying you to be here, so she doesn’t have to go to work with me today?”

Scorpius’s mouth twitched up. “No. I’m sick.”

“Oh really?” Blaise sounded utterly unconvinced; his tone full of mischief. “Are you sure? Who told you that? Your mum?”

“No, me!”

“What?!” Hermione echoed in mock surprise, struggling not to laugh. His little spark of energy, however rare these days, was heartening.

“I did. I got sick at school,”

“Salazar’s buttocks! That’s terrible!” Blaise exclaimed, his voice exaggerated and full of dramatic horror.

Scorpius let out a genuine laugh—a bright, bubbling sound that filled the quiet hospital room like sunlight through the window.

And then, suddenly, it all went wrong.

The laughter turned into a cough. A sharp, choking sound that ripped through his little body like a spell gone awry. He doubled over, and the joy wiped clean from his face as he struggled to breathe.

“Scorpius!” Hermione was on her feet instantly, reaching for him for him and gently easing him upright with a hand on his back. “It’s alright, breathe—just breathe, darling. Let it out, I’ve got you.”

His face was red, his eyes wide with fear, and the coughing only worsened. He couldn’t catch his breath, each gasp coming out more ragged than the last. Hermione didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t even really thinking when she held her hand out, her instincts the primary force that summoned a glass of water wandlessly from across the room. It sloshed slightly as she caught it mid-air.

“Here, sweetheart, here… small sips, okay? Just little ones… that’s it.”

She held the glass to Scorpius’s lips, supporting his trembling hands as he managed a few precious sips. His coughing subsided slowly, gradually fading into shallow breaths and soft hiccups. But the toll was clear.

Scorpius’s face was flushed, his lip trembling, and his whole body seemed to wilt with exhaustion.

“You’re alright, darling. You’re okay now,” Hermione whispered, brushing a damp lock away from his forehead.

He looked at her with wide, glossy eyes, and suddenly let out a broken sob. “Mummy…”

His arms stretched up towards her in a silent plea, and without hesitation she lifted him into her lap, clutching him tightly against her chest.

He cried in earnest then. Great, heaving sobs that racked his tiny frame and broke Hermione’s heart. She held him like he was made of glass, her cheek pressed to his hair, murmuring softly in a stream of reassurances.

“I know, I know, love. It’s okay.” Hermione told him. Repeating those words over and over again into his messy hair. “You’re alright. It’s okay. Mummy’s got you.”

She was swaying back and forth to try and comfort him while wishing someone could comfort her. Mummy doesn’t got this. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know what’s happening. But instead she squeezed him tight, telling him it all again. It was on the second or third round as Scorpius was sobbing something unintelligible into her shoulder though that she felt a hand on her back.

Hermione looked up to see Blaise close beside her looking utterly panicked. “I’m so sorry—”

“It’s fine. It wasn’t you. You couldn’t have known.”

“Yes, but I—never mind. What can I do to help?” He asked and the question felt like someone had opened a window. Mum’s not alone.

Scorpius sniffled loudly again and she closed her eyes to think as she murmured, “You’re okay love, I know.” Whatcouldhelp?Whatcouldhelp? What could help—oh! Shit! Obviously, she nearly groaned aloud.

When Hermione opened her eyes, Blaise was watching Scorpius intently. He looked about three seconds from grabbing Scorpius out of her arms to hold him too. In another setting she knew she would have laughed at how sweet her best friend was. Instead, here, she worked one of her hands free for just a moment to grab his arm and get his attention.

“Theo,” was all she got out before Blaise’s eyes widened and he nodded.

“Right. On it.” He said as he immediately went to the door.

By the time Blaise got back with Theo, Hermione had moved from swaying on her feet, to her bottom on the bed. She’d tried to set Scorpius down so maybe he could rest, but he’d immediately started sobbing louder again and this time he was shivering too. So, she’d picked him back up and sat on the bed herself.

Theo wasted no time as he came in and immediately started asking questions she answered. Blaise close moved next to her and gave her a comforting smile. Hermione was going to thank him for his help, though before she could, Theo asked him to go grab something from the medi-station in the hall. She didn’t miss the strange look her friend was giving him, but Scorpius was still shaking so she didn’t bother asking. Theo would tell her if he thought she needed to know.

Instead, he began casting. Earlier she had been too far from the bed to make out the lights going by, but this time she could see them all. Hermione was just able to make out a few runes she recognized before he swiped them away and charmed out another set, each one changing colours and moving.

She wanted to ask him questions, to know what was going on or what he saw, but Theo was quiet, except for the murmured spells, he wasn’t speaking and that made her nervous. Theodore Nott was never quiet. They joked it was to the detriment of everyone around him’s peace, but Theo was rarely not talking or laughing—it was why he and Blaise worked so well together. But he wasn’t talking now, and Hermione was trying not to get scared.

It wasn’t until Blaise came back, his arms filled with vials and a tight look on his face that Theo spoke.

“Scorp, mate?” He cancelled out the charm above his head. “It’s uncle Theo here.”

Scorpius had stopped crying a few minutes ago, but the gooseflesh hadn’t left him. Theo gestured for her to move him, and Hermione did. She tried to move off the bed as she lowered him to the mattress, but Scorpius grabbed her arm and cried out. All of them froze, but Theo was first to speak.

“Naw, you’re good, mum. You can stay on the bed. I just need to talk to this one.” He pulled on Scorpius’s shoulder, so he rolled over a bit. “Hey, mate, how’s it going?”

Scorpius didn’t answer.

“Yeah, I heard, I’m sorry. I am going to need your help for second though, is that okay?”

Again, Scorpius stared blankly at him. Theo didn’t say anything, but he did look at Hermione. She pushed herself to sit up so she could see his face, but Scorpius cried again when she shifted. She tried to tell him she wasn’t leaving, but again, Scorpius seemed reluctant to have her move at all.

“I know, bug. I’m sorry. But Uncle Theo needs your help. Can you help him?”

This time, at least, Scorpius did move—though it was to shake his head in denial.

“Please, I know you don’t feel good. But that’s what Uncle Theo’s here for. He wants to make it better, but he needs your help.”

She couldn’t see Scorpius’s face from where she was positioned, but judging by Theo’s nod, he’d received some kind of acquiescence.

“It’s not bad, don’t worry.” He smiled stiffly. “Only the good stuff for you, right Uncle B?” He looked at his partner for the first time in nearly twenty minutes. Blaise’s jaw was tight, but Hermione couldn’t understand what for.

They’d been fighting last night, she knew. But surely, they’d resolved it? Both of them had seemed so cheery, it was hard to imagine they were still rowing about something so serious. Hermione made a promise to demand answers the next time Blaise and her were alone after she’d gotten Scorpius healed. There’s no way he’s daft enough to not have apologized, right?

He’d been watching Theo, but when Blaise caught her staring at him, he forced a nod. “Er, yes. Absolutely. Only for you, dear.”

Theo snorted dryly. “Right. Anyway, Scorpius, I want you to tell me if I’m wrong, but just nod your head, okay?” Scorpius did not move. “Brilliant. You’re having a little bit of tummy problems again, yes?”

Scorpius nodded and Hermione frowned.

“Right. I can see the acidity climbing, and I want to stop it before it reaches a peak, and you get sick again.” He looked at Hermione and she knew he was explaining to her, Scorpius nodded again anyway. “So, we’ve got some brilliant tummy balancers here, alright? Would you be willing to drink it for me?”

Scorpius nodded and he turned. Blaise was holding out a vile and Theo paused. “Ah, not quite. Did she give you a purple one?” He asked. Blaise looked slightly alarmed and just held out his arms to display the full collection he carried.

Theo looked like he was perusing a shop and not a pile of potions. “Hm,” he took one and pulled the cork off, sniffing the top. “Peach.”

“Sorry, I didn’t realise.” Blaise apologized. “I can go get another—I didn’t know there were ones I shouldn’t have grabbed.”

“No, it’s, it’s fine.” Theo waved him off. “Thank you. This’ll work perfectly.”

Blaise looked slightly dejected, though he appeared appeased when Theo left a kiss on his forehead before walking away. Hermione had to try not to laugh at the awkward interaction—especially when she noticed Blaise’s cheeks flushing.

“Alright then, are we ready? Shall we say, bottoms up?” Theo asked Scorpius and Hermione looked back down at Scorpius. His face was pale from her side, though he managed to break out a nod. Theo smiled and offered the glass forward.

“Just a few sips. Then the rest won’t be too bad, yeah?”

Scorpius turned back to look at Hermione, his eyes asking a question, but when she nodded and brushed a curl off his forehead, he took the vile and drank a tentative sip. Then another. And another. His nose crinkled at the end, but eventually he finished it.

Theo smiled softly. “Brilliant. Knew you could do it.”

He went back to Blaise and grabbed the next two, muttering something Hermione couldn’t hear, though Blaise left the room with the rest of the vials afterwards. Theo summoned a towel from somewhere and wiped Scorpius’s face lightly.

“Alright, next is this little green one. Tastes like lemon and will make the soreness you’ve got all over stop, I swear it.”

Scorpius sniffled the top and blinked tiredly, but he didn’t protest when Theo poured it. This one went down faster, and Scorpius even used his hands to grip the side of the glass a little.

When Theo held out the third bottle, it was filled with some dark brown liquid, though he didn’t give an explanation.

“Alright, this is the last one for now, I promise.” He looked only at Scorpius. “And I’ve got to be honest, it’s going to taste a little like socks. But it is the most important one that I’m giving you right now, so I need you to try for me, bug. Can you do that?”

Scorpius looked like he very much did not want to do that. But his godfather gave him a look of insistence and he relented, nodding again. Theo let Scorpius grab the potion from his hands, but she noticed he didn’t let him hold it by himself, even as Scorpius had drunken almost the entire thing. It took perhaps fifteen seconds, but when he’d finished, Scorpius dropped the glass mindlessly—though Theo caught it seamlessly before it broke—and turned to her. His face was crumpling, and he started crying again. Hermione looked at Theo, who nodded that they were done, before adjusting the pillow and pulling the blanket up to his shoulders, trying to bring him comfort.

A minute later Blaise came back in with a glass of pumpkin juice, and after some careful negotiation with the tired child, he was able to get Scorpius to drink some. But as soon as the last sip of it was gone, Scorpius let out a long, rattling breath and turned back into her side. His little hands fisted her shirt, holding tight as if she might vanish. It took a moment for Hermione to realise what had happened so quickly, but she thought Theo must have asked Blaise to put a sleeping drought in it.

He was standing across the room, writing something in the record she hadn’t seen him grab when the door opened again and someone came in.

It was Harry.

Hermione didn’t know how to feel about it as the auror came in, wearing his dark blue robes. On the one hand, she wanted to yell and curse him for leaving her all day. But on the other, he looked clearly worried—even moreso when his eyes found her on the bed—and his smile faltered as he closed the door behind him.

“Hey,” Harry said gently. He came straight to her from behind her, leaning over the bed to kiss her softly. His lips were warm and lingering just long enough to remind her that she really had missed him today. When he pulled away, she turned forward again to watch him over her and run a hand through Scorpius’s hair tenderly. “How are you? What’s going on?”

Hermione wanted to be mad, for so many reasons. What right did Harry have to be worried about her when he’d chosen to leave this morning after she had asked him to say? The audacity to want to pretend he cared when he’d left her all alone and afraid in the hospital while he spent the day galivanting around the city was maddening.

“I’m sorry.”

Her head snapped around in shock when he spoke. Harry looked like he’d been reading her mind.

“What?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left, this morning. I shouldn’t’ve said those things to you. It was wrong and unkind. I’ve felt horrid since I left and regretted it all day.” His voice was low, and she could tell he was trying to keep the other wizards from overhearing him.

If the peeved look on Blaise’s face from the couch beside him was anything to go by, he was failing. But Harry looked earnest, and she desperately wanted to believe him.

“Then why didn’t you come back? You could have left at any time. You could have told them you had to leave. Why didn’t you?”

He ran a tense hand through his messy hair. “I’m sorry. I really am. I wish I’d never left. I wish I’d been here with you both. I’ve been so sick with worry—but, but I promise, I’m here now. And I’m not leaving.”

“You’re not?” Hermione’s stomach filled with hope as she scanned his face, searching for any sign of a lie.

“No.” He shook his head. “I’m here now. I want to be here with you. However long it takes.”

“Oh, thank you, Harry.” She sighed and unconsciously her whole body relaxed with her as Harry’s hand returned to her waist. Hermione’s eyes fell shut as she turned her face to him as much as possible without jostling Scorpius. “Please mean it. Just—please?”

She felt his forehead move to rest on hers. “I do, love. I’m here. I promise, I mean it. I told them I had to be here. And you were right, they said not to come back until we could all be home. I’m here until Scorp is better.”

“Thank Merlin.”

“Not to interrupt...” Hermione looked up to see Theo standing on the other side of the bed, his face locked in a half smile-half-grimace. “But I would like to check Scorpius’s records again, mark if his levels have changed at all since the potions kicked in. I have two more rounds to wrap before I’m done for the day. I just need to check on them and then I’ll be back for as long as you’d like tonight. So…”

Hermione nodded, pushing herself into a sitting position before Theo gestured, she lay back down.

“You’re fine. I just need him still, so this works.”

“Oh, right.” She nodded dumbly, feeling rather useless from her position lying on the bed. Theo didn’t say anything else as he set to work again so Hermione just listened.

The room was filled with a tense quiet for several minutes. And then, surprisingly, it was Harry who spoke. “So, you think he’ll need to spend the night again?”

Somewhere behind Harry’s large form beside her, Hermione was sure Blaise Zabini was sneering with the muttered “Obviously” he let out not nearly as subtly as she was sure he thought he was.

Theo grimaced in the direction behind Harry where a muttered “Obviously” came from what Hermione could only imagine was a sneering Blaise Zabini. If Harry heard him, he didn’t show it, though his expression was noticeably stiffer when she looked up at him.

“Er, yeah. I think it’s best if he’s here for a few nights. I know Hermione needs to rest, so I can fill you in on more in the hall if you’d like, Potter. But after earlier’s ...er, episode, I would rather like to keep him under observation and potions until I can figure out what’s going on.”

Harry frowned. “You’ve not figured out what’s going on?”

“No. I’m afraid all of the trials I’ve run today have come back negative for the usual number of suspects.” Theo’s eyes bounced to Hermione and then back Harry, and she felt her stomach sink again. Theo hadn’t told her that part yet. The last thing they’d spoken about had been hours ago and he’d said he thought he’d likely come back with answers. She hadn’t known they’d all failed.

“My colleagues and I are looking into a few more potential issues we think could be causing the drain. But it’s going to take time.”

“Drain? What drain?” Harry’s hand tightened on Hermione’s hip. “And what episode? Hermione? What’s going on?”

Hermione’s mouth opened and closed an unknown number of times as she struggled to find words to say. Harry’s eyes were pleading and panicked but Hermione felt a sore vindictive part of herself want to shout at him “YOU WOULD KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON IF YOU’D BEEN HERE, DAMMIT!”

Instead, she took a deep breath, swallowing the lump in her throat and meeting her husband’s gaze. “Scorpius’s magic is draining, Harry, and we don’t know why. Theo said he wasn’t worried about it, but this morning it was at forty-three percent, and I don’t—I can only imagine it’s getting worse since earlier he could barely even breathe—he just…”

“What do you mean you’re not worried?” Blaise’s voice was sharp and defensive in the quiet room. Sometime during Hermione’s explanation he’d stood because he was now glaring beside Theo. He looked at Hermione. “Scorpius’s magic is failing?”

The healer sighed, running a palm through his hair and looking quite put out. “It’s not failing.” He looked at Blaise. “I never once said it was failing. Let’s not use words like that, love. They’re quite the opposite of helpful in any situation.”

“I’m just trying to understand, Hermione said—”

“Hermione is not a healer!” Theo threw his hands up, cutting him off. His face winced and he glanced at her quickly. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. I am the healer, I am the trained professional, Blaise. So why don’t you let me explain before we start reaching to dramatics.”

“I think we’re past dramatics, mate.” That came from harry, who was looking quite sharply across the bed at their friends.  “If my son doesn’t have whatever you thought he did before. What do you think he has now and how the hell do we go about curing it?”

“I’m working on it.” Theo said stiffly.

“You cannot just tell me that my son’s magic is being depleted from his body and then expect me to be okay with the words ‘I’m working on it.’ What are you going to do. We need answers. Specific ones. I need more than just your empty promises.”

“They’re not empty promises, Potter. I’ve been working on this all day. Ask your wife. I got in and started on his case and I’ve been running it all day. My godson has priority in nearly everything I do and believe me when I say that I care as much as you do that he is alright. But unfortunately, Scorpius is not the only patient I have to see. I am a healer at the largest hospital in Britain. And up until a little over thirty minutes ago he was not nearly the most serious case on my log. That has changed and I will do everything I can to ascertain what the problem is.” Theo glared.

“Theo—” Hermione reached over Scorpius’s prone figure for his hand and the wizard obliged, though reluctantly. “Of course you are. I’m grateful. We know you’re doing everything you can. I understand.”

“Well, I don’t, Hermione. And I want to know what exactly it is he thinks is happening. I want to know what he’s going to do—”

“Do you want me to tell you I think your son has a blood curse?” Theo’s eyes were unwavering as he glared at Harry. “Because I think your son has a blood curse.”

The words hit like a hex.

Hermione felt the blood draining from her face. She knew her expression was mirrored on Harry as his hand tightened around her. Across the bed, Blaise’s breath caught audibly. Smug wasn’t the right word to describe the way Theo was glaring at her husband. But it was something along those lines. Like he knew he’d been tested to see if he was full of shit and Theo had proved he wasn’t.

“What?” Harry breathed, choking out the word.

Theo crossed his arms over his chest. “I think your son has a blood curse. There is something terribly wrong with him and I don’t believe I can fix it with a few potions. I want to run a detailed assessment on a sample of his blood, but the diagnostics takes a little over a week to get the results back. If you’d let me start working five minutes ago when I tried to, I would’ve already had the thing running.”

“What happens if he does?” Hermione could barely bring herself to speak the words, but she needed to know. “What happens if he has a blood curse?”

Theo’s eyes softened as they found hers. “Then I isolate it and we find a cure. If he does, I’ll figure out what kind and where it’s rooted and then find a way to solve it. I’ve done it before.” He squeezed her hand tightly from where he’d dropped it back on the bed. “I told you not to worry until I am, Hermione. I still mean that. I’m not worried. The situation is changing, but my expectations haven’t.”

“Right.” She nodded. Hermione sat back to allow for Theo to start working, which he did. None of them spoke as the bright and flashing lights once again appeared over Scorpius’s head and Theo jotted things down. When it came time to prick his finger, Hermione had to look away. Scorpius shouldn’t feel any of it, Theo assured them, since he was still under the dreamless sleep potion. But Hermione let Harry pull her into his chest until it was done. Then Theo bid them goodbye and promised to return when his shift ended and Hermione felt the remaining energy seep out of her. She was exhausted and frightened.

Blaise hovered pensively, his eyes flicking between them as Harry adjusted Scorpius’s pillows and tucked the blanket more securely around him. When he moved in his sleep, Hermione let him cuddle closer to her side, holding him tight.

Eventually, Harry pulled up a chair and settled beside them. His fingers found the end of her plait and began twisting it absently, the motion soft and familiar. The silence stretched for a few minutes, broken only by the steady rhythm of Scorpius’s breathing and the distant hum of the ward.

Then, quietly, Harry spoke. “I wish you’d told me you were coming by when we spoke at the office earlier, Zabini.” he said, his voice light.

Blaise, who had been standing off to the side, barely moved. “I thought it was implied,” he told him, his tone just as mild. “Hermione with Scorpius in the hospital. She needed support. I had time.”

There was a beat of silence. Hermione smiled faintly at her kind friend, and her eyelids grew heavy. She heard Harry say something about them coming together instead, but her mind was too tired to process the words. His hands in her hair were soothing and everything began blurring together, their voices like a tide lulling her out to the sea of sleep finally.

Chapter Text

This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things

Draco Lucius Malfoy

“But, help me out here, why is it again, that you want to kill Blaise?”

That was the question that would haunt Draco for the rest of the night. The one that would keep him awake into the early hours of the morning, staring at the ceiling of his room. The one that would drag him from his bed when his alarm rang, but keep him from stomaching a single crumb of breakfast.

That question would haunt Draco for undoubtedly the coming weeks, and perhaps even—he feared—the coming years.

Draco wished he could go back to the time before he’d asked. Before Theo had answered and suddenly, he knew too much. He wasn’t meant to carry these things, Draco wasn’t. He could compartmentalize and occlude the majority of things in his life if he wished. But that hour he’d spent with Theo and the things he’d learned had released an explosion inside his head and Draco’s ground was shaking, even as he threw the powder into the floo to his office.

29 January, 2003

“Why is it again, that you want to kill Blaise?” Draco asked. Theo chewed aggressively at the inside of his cheek for a second, snatching the bottle back before taking a long pull from it.

“Because, Draco,” The wizard grinned at him darkly. It made Draco feel oddly like there were spiders crawling up his neck. “He’s going to leave me.”

Well, that was unexpected. Draco frowned, gauging perhaps just how much liquor Theodore might have ingested already. Sadly, not enough to be delusional unless he’d started before arriving at the flat. The large bottle was still half full. “He’s going to leave you? Zabini is?” Draco repeated.

“Yes.” Theo held the bottle out across the room, gesturing grandly at some display only visible to him. “In a few days—perhaps a week or two, you never can know—he’s going to sit me down. He’ll tell me he loves me. Kiss me deeply. Perhaps we’ll fuck one final time for good luck. And then he’ll stand and say ‘Theo, I think we should break up.’”

Alright, now Draco really was confused. “I’m sorry, what? That’s ridiculous. Why on Earth would he do that? I thought you said things were going well again?”

“Oh, they were,” Theo nodded as if this was not in complete contradiction to his convictions. “They were going brilliantly. Last week he was cooking dinner, and I swear to Merlin I was dreaming about buying rings just watching him. I thought we were finally getting it right. That after seven years, this would be it.” Then he paused, heaving a great big sigh before turning to Draco with a strange glint in his eye. “And then he came home from work today, and do you know what he said to me, Draco?”

Draco stared at him; sure he was missing something quite significant. “Honestly, I’ve not the foggiest.”

Theo grinned, but it wasn’t the comforting and kind grin Draco knew from their years of growing up together. No, this one was off, it was different, it was almost maniacal in a way that reminded Draco darkly of Theo’s father.

“Well then I’ll tell you.” He nodded. Draco would have moved to steal the bottle of firewhiskey had Theo not lifted it again to pour another large sip. “We’d finished washing the dishes last night. And we were sitting down together to lay on the bloody sofa when Blaise paused—stopped walking in the middle of the bloody room and you know what he said? Oh right, that’s right. You don’t know. Well, I’m telling you so just shut up and listen.”

“I didn’t say anything” Draco flicked his hands.

“Shut it. I’m speaking. Blaise said—he said, ‘You know who I just cannot believe, Theo? Do you know who I will never be able to understand?’ And I, the absolute fool that I am, took his bloody hand and pulled him beside me as I answered, ‘No, Blaise—love of my life, my first for everything and the only man who has my heart, the bloody man whose had it since we were fucking teenagers—I don’t know. Who is it?’”

“I’m still failing to see the problem.” Draco muttered when Theo gave a dramatic pause.

The glare Theo shot him was lethal. “I’m getting there.”

“Right. Sorry, continue.”

“I don’t need your permission. Anyway, if you would just let me speak. Do you know why asking that makes me a fool Draco?”

Draco stared at him for several seconds, trying to ascertain whether he was really supposed to provide an answer to this question, eventually he decided in favour of it. “Er, no. I don’t know. Why?”

Theo nodded deeply at him as if he’d answered some great problem and Draco was beginning to question his level of sobriety. The likelihood of this being his first drink was growing smaller every time he sloshed it about. So, he took the firewhiskey from him, figuring this conversation would probably be easier if they were both somewhat pissed. “Because I know who Blaise cannot believe. I know the one person he will never be able to understand. And still, I asked, ‘Blaise, who is it that you will never understand?’ And he looked up at me and he said the words I already knew, he said, ‘Harry Potter.’”

“I’m sorry?” Draco spluttered, pulling the bottle he’d been drinking from down as he stared at his friend; quite confident he’d misheard something.

“He said, Harry Potter. The one person in the world Blaise Zabini hates above all others—the one he will never understand is Harry. James. Fucking. Potter. The Chosen One.”

The bottle he was holding spilled over the top a bit as Theo waved his arm and bumped Draco’s. Draco withheld a wince…at a number of things.

 “I’m not following. Why does Blaise hate Potter, and why does that mean your relationship is about to end?”

Theo smiled at him then, an awful smile that did not match the person behind it. He looked at Draco as though he’d been waiting to answer that question. Perhaps for a while now. Theo took the bottle back from him, drinking a long pull before looking up. Draco was vaguely wondering how much that must burn, before his next words stopped him completely. “Because it always does. Because, Harry Potter, is being an ass. And when Harry Potter is being an ass it means Hermione Granger has to deal with him. And when Hermione Granger has to deal with him, she confides in her friend. And guess who’s the best friend she confides in?” Draco didn’t even attempt to answer before Theo continued.

“My thick-headed partner. Which means Blaise is worried about her, which of course he is. Because sometimes Potter is an ass. But somehow, my boyfriend’s got it in his mind that one day Hermione is going to wake up tired of it and realise Potter’s sometimes an ass and then she’s going to leave him for it. And the moment she does, my boyfriend believes he’s going to be there. Playing house. Playing best mate.” Theo sneered. “So that by the time those divorce papers are signed and sealed, Blaise will already be there, comforting her. And then eventually, Hermione’s going to wake up and realise that Potter was never meant to be the father of her child—in fact, he was never meant to be her husband, Blaise was. Which means Blaise is going to leave me, because today he was worrying about Hermione again.”

There perhaps a thousand questions Draco wanted to ask Theodore in that moment. A thousand different alarms ringing in his head—far too many of them sounding like the echoes of hope. A thousand different things and different dreams that wanted to combat for his attention at the idea of Hermione Granger ever leaving her husband or being happy.

But now was not the time.

And Draco Malfoy was regrettably mature enough to recognize that this moment could not be about him. The least of reasons why being that your best friend just told you he thinks he’s about to get left. Which is why Draco did not ask Theo why exactly Hermione might want to leave Potter, and instead settled on something more comforting.

“Theodore, that’s insane.”

“No. What’s insane, Draco, is pining after a witch and expecting her to notice you when I’M FAIRLY CONFIDENT,” He took another swig from the bottle as his voice grew louder. “SHE THINKS HE’S FUCKING GAY.”

In Draco’s defence, there was quite a lot of information Theo was sharing, and he thought it was only natural that a man in his position might be struggling to process it all.

Which is why after staring blankly at the other wizard for a number of moments, he asked, “Is he not?”

If looks could kill, the one Theodore Nott sent him would have Draco dead on the floor. “Good morning, Draco, WELCOME TO THE TWENTYFIRST BLOODY CENTURY, I don’t know if you and the rest of Great Britain have heard, BUT IT IS POSSIBLE TO WANT TO FUCK BOTH MEN AND WOMEN.”

“Right. Sorry, I didn’t realise.” He winced.

“You didn’t realise.” Theo scoffed, standing and pacing across the room. “Of course you didn’t realise. Why would you realise. No one’s fucking realised. How about this, now that I’ve taught you this incredible lesson on a man’s cock, would you mind going and teaching it to Hermione Potter too? Because NEWS FUCKING FLASH BLAISE! SHE’S NOT LEAVING HER HUSBAND. Just like she didn’t the last four times he decided we ‘just weren’t working out’. But maybe, she could let him know that instead. So, this time he doesn’t leave me like an idiot all alone until he gets his head on right again!”

“Theo, that’s mental.” Draco stared at his best mate, finally focussing on the situation. He couldn’t decide what was more horrifying, Blaise’s entire relationship with him and Granger, or the fact that Theo had supposedly let him do such a thing to him four times. “Why would you—"

“You think I don’t know that?” Theo worked his jaw for a moment, staring at the window. “I’m pathetic, Draco. I—I know I am. I fully appreciate how insane I sound. Believe me I hear it too.”

“No—you’re not.” He tried, standing and coming towards him. “But I don’t understand. Why would you stay with Zabini if you know he’s—”

“Because I love him.”

Theo looked at Draco and his previous anger appeared to dissipate almost instantly as a shaky breath heaved its way through him.

“I’ve been in love with him since I was eleven years old, and he saved me from spending a summer alone with my father. Blaise is all I know. He’s all I want to know. And I was fine.” He took a stiff breath. “I was fine being his friend and loving him from afar. I know my family. I know what my father would want from me. I would have done what’s expected. Married whoever he told me and had her children, and that—that would have been enough. I didn’t think I was meant for happiness, and then…”

“Slughorn’s party.” Draco filled in for him. He remembered Theo’s pining, though perhaps in his own naïve and blissful way at the time he’d pretended it wasn’t that bad. He’d been so caught up in Hermione back then and their relationship that he’d convinced himself everyone else would work out happily together as well.

He’d been an idiot.

Theo nodded, this time more calmly, and quietly as he looked out.

“Blaise kissed me, and my nightmares became just that, figments of my imagination—they were dreams. Something I could wake up from because what was real, what was tangible was us—him.

“I know I’ve never been quite as normal as everyone else. But I thought this was it—I could have this one thing. He could be mine after the war—after my father was killed, if I could just keep… And even now it’s slipping away, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep holding on.”

He palmed his eyes and for the first time Draco realised he was crying.

“Mate, you can’t keep doing this.”

Theo pulled one of his hands away to run it through his hair as he looked up. “I know.”

There were oceans of despair rolling in Theo’s eyes and he had no idea what he was supposed to do to help.

“He didn’t come home last night.” Theo took a breath. The crazed energy that’d been circling him seemed to dissipate with it into the air. “No note. No patronus. No—anything. I thought he might be ill. Hurt. Kidnapped. I almost hoped for that—that’s how fucked up I am. Anything but the reality of where I knew he probably was.”

“Where?”

“It’s not her fault.” He bit his lip as he absently as he shook his head. “Hermione Potter is a million things but a cheater she is not. She wouldn’t do that, and I know she wouldn’t let him if she knew.”

For once Draco was grateful, he’d never told his friend about them. That Theo had never known the burden of Draco’s despair. He’d contemplated telling him so many times in the last five years, but always he’d been too afraid. Now he was glad, Theo wouldn’t understand why Draco looked away, his guilt at such a thought. He once believed the same thing about Hermione, but some days he was not so sure.

“And I love her, I do. She is like the sister I never had. She has been to hell and back since the war and before. And still she will see the best in a person until they are standing over her with their wand drawn, and even then—but sometimes,” He wiped his mouth, “Sometimes I wish Blaise didn’t meet her first after the war. I wish I’d not been so intimidated by her when I saw her staying at Mungo’s, and I wish I’d talked to her, and she’d been my friend before they even started working together. And I wish I could tell her how it’s breaking me because I know her.”

He wiped his hair once more before pacing back to the sofa and setting the bottle on the ground before he fell over the chair, towering his arms over his eyes.

“You don’t know what it’s like. Hermione is my family—her family, is my family. But I can’t even function because there is this wall between my head and my world and it’s—it’s suffocating me and I can’t breathe, Draco.” Theo lifted his head up a bit and Draco was frozen. “Why can’t anyone choose me?”

“Theo, they do. People do. I do.” He stepped forward and Theo shook his head. “I mean, you’re my best mate.”

“No, you don’t. You move to the States for five years with fuck all kind of explanation. I mean you literally freed me from my father and a week later you’re arrested and when I finally think we’ll get out of this fucking hellhole together, it’s your mother of all people who’s there to tell me you’re gone. Now you’re back for Salazar knows what reason and I’m meant to just pretend it never happened… I’ll do it.” He looked up sincerely. “I will. I pretend a lot doesn’t happen. Just ask Blaise.”

“Merlin—that’s not what I, I’m so sorry. I never meant for you to feel that way. I didn’t mean to do that. Mate, I was in a shit place after the war. I’m sorry, it wasn’t you. I just—I couldn’t stay in Britain; I had to go. I needed to—”

“Maybe my father was right.” Draco wasn’t sure when Theo had picked up the bottle of firewhiskey again, but he took a deep sip of it, spilling it over his chin from where he lay.

“No. He wasn’t, Theo. You know that’s not true.”

“Do I? I don’t really think I do. All of it seems to check out to me. Worthless,” he lifted the glass as if he were going to take another sip. “Stupid. Pathetic,” Draco grabbed the neck of it before he could.

“Alright, and I think it’s time we say goodbye to Mr. Ogden.”

“I wasn’t done.” Theo glowered and Draco ignored him, looking around the room for his wand so he could summon a glass of water. “Bring him back. I was still talking to him.”

“No, you don’t need to talk to him. In fact, I think it’s better if you don’t. You’re going to burn your liver if you keep it up like that. It’s disgusting and I’ll not be taking you to get your stomach pumped tonight, so don’t need it.” He found it, sitting on the table by the kitchen and waved the wand, walking back to the sitting room.

“I’m trying to wallow here, and you are currently ruining it.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair as he sat down beside Theo and grabbed the glass of water when it appeared a moment later.

“Right yeah. It’s just—your father was fucking insane and I’m not listening to you spew shit about yourself that you know is ridiculous.”

“Is it ridiculous or is it me finally coming to terms with my total ineptitude and worthlessness.”

“Oh, be serious, man.” Draco pulled him to a sitting position by the arm and rolled his eyes. “You’re the bravest wizard I know besides unfortunately Scarhead and if you want to talk about to hell and back, we both know you’ve survived the world of evil. I’m sorry you didn’t get to Granger first or whatever so you can’t tell her—which by the way is a load of shit—but regardless, you got to me, so I’ll be biased towards you.

“If what you say is true, then Blaise is a manipulative cunt who doesn’t deserve the dirt on the bottom of your shoe. You’re right, I don’t know the situation or your relationship with Hermione, but I know she would want to know. She deserves to know. It’s not fair to you or her if Blaise is using your emotions to—to manipulate her into trusting him or whatever. That’s not what friends do—and it’s bloody fucked up to begin with. You need to talk to her.”

Theo was frowning, and Draco nearly scoffed at what came out. “You called her Hermione.”

“That’s what you caught onto? Granger’s name?”

“It’s not Granger anymore, you know? It’s Potter. They didn’t hyphenate either. Sometimes I think Hermione wishes they did. But Harry’s the one who filled out the paperwork seeing as she couldn’t really move all that much, so, it’s kind of stuck.”

“Right.” Draco shook his head, ignoring those very unhelpful details. “Did you listen to anything I said?”

Theo’s eyes were hazy for a moment as he stared across the room to the blank wall, “Er, not really. Something about letting Hermione know about Blaise’s feelings, but I don’t think that would work. Blaise would just say it isn’t true. Did you know when you’re cross, your eyebrows scrunch up like caterpillars? I had a patient—Nigel—did you know he’s a werewolf?”

“What?”

“Anyway, he was in for his potions and he told me that today because I was cross because he wasn’t taking his potions this week so his dad brought him in which is just stupid because he knows it’s worse if he doesn’t take them than if he does, but he said mine look like caterpillars and I’m looking now and yours do too.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Caterpillars and Nigel. Yours look poisonous, to be honest. Kind of invisible.” 

“What the fuck, mate? I’m going to poison you.” Draco glared. He hated drunk people. He held out the glass of water he’d summoned. “Drink this.”

Theo scoffed haughtily “I’m not drinking that.”

Draco felt a migraine growing. “Why the hell not?”

“You literally just said it’s poison.”

“No, I didn’t—Salazar, please—It’s water. Drink it so you won’t get sick on my sofa.”

“I’m not going to get sick.”

“Right. Well, you’re the one who barged into my home and started spewing all your nonsense about everything and drinking my firewhiskey and shouting at me, so I rather think it’s the bare minimum of you to listen to me and drink some bloody water, even if you’re not in danger of spewing your stomach everywhere too. Alright?”

Theo pursed his lips. “Has anyone ever told you you’re quite dramatic?”

“Believe it or not, it has come up.” He pushed the glass forward. “Now drink this or I’m throwing you through the floo and letting Zabini sort you out.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” He gasped, but he did take the drink and Draco rubbed his eyes. No, I wouldn’t, but Salazar, what had happened to his quiet night? He felt as if he were going through motions as he leaned back into the stiff cushion beside his friend.

Five years.

Five years he’d lived perfectly alone and away.

Five years he hadn’t been forced to deal with the chaos that was Britain. That was his world.

He knew he’d missed his mother—and fucking Theo when he wasn’t unknowingly dropping bombs on Draco’s perception of their world—but there was something so quiet about distance, and Draco had grown to love the quiet.

What Theo had just told him wasn’t quiet. No, it was loud and bustling and upending Draco’s very tentative grasp of his reality. Granger isn’t happy—yes, but what does that really mean? Was anyone truly ever completely happy? Draco certainly hadn’t ever been. He was usually fucking miserable. The few times he could even imagine calling himself happy

*~*~*~*~*

Now it was nine fifteen the following morning and Draco was trying to reconcile everything Theo had told him with the wizard sitting across the room at the daily briefing.

“Finnegan, Potter, and Lancaster,” Draco glanced down at his notes again to make sure he’d gotten their names correctly. “You lot are headed back to Manchester, yes?”

“Just about.” Potter nodded. “We were on the tail of a suspicious person yesterday when our cover was unexpectedly given up and they were able to escape.” He looked at his partner out the corner of his eye and Draco had to forced himself not to roll his eyes. Bloody Gryffindors, too afraid of offending anyone to be honest.

Luckily, Draco had no such qualms.

“Finnegan, if you blow another operation like that because you don’t want to do your job and just rush the obliviators through a case again I swear to Merlin, I’ll have you on desk duty for the next two months.”

“Can he do that?” A witch sitting to his left directed the question at Robards. Draco thought he recognised her as a Slytherin in the year above him at school, though he too looked to his present supervisor.

At his old job, such a punishment wouldn’t even have been second guessed, but Draco didn’t actually know if such was also the case here.

“He’s the new me, Sullivan. As far as reason goes, Malfoy can do whatever he wants.”  

Draco’s responding grin could only be described as smug.

“In that case,” he looked at his sheet again. “Sullivan, you’re going to Galloway Forest today to check a potions supply shipment coming in. What’s the status on that?”

“I flooed the operators this morning and there’s trouble on the originating end so they’re expecting the to be delayed a few hours.”

Draco nodded at her, making a note on the page he’d been keeping for all the running assignments that day. It was something Robards had advised him to begin doing when he arrived, and though Draco had at first been sceptical of the tedious task, he was quickly finding it the only way to properly manage everything.

“Brilliant. Good on checking with them. Do you know when they expect to land so we can inform the sanctuary?”

“Last estimate was that they hope to portkey out of Cairo around three.”

“Good. Contact the head trainer and let him know so they’re prepared—I think his name was Charles or something.”

Draco glanced behind him at Robards to check and was caught off guard by the look on his face. He looked almost proud and even the thought made Draco’s stomach roll. He wasn’t sure what to do with that.

Instead, he turned back to the room full of people and looked at his list. “Right. So, the rest of you…” He read off the remaining assignments, answering the few questions the aurors posed, and when he finished the list, he nodded at them. “That’s all then for now. If you need anything, I’ll be in the office working so…dismissed?”

Everyone seemed to take that in stride and Draco was confident he hadn’t fucked it up completely. Still, he waited at the back of the room until the last person had left before looking at John.

“Well?”

“Not half bad, Malfoy.” John clapped Draco on the shoulder, and he had to bite down the urge to step back. “For a first briefing, I’d say that was perfect. Obviously, room for improvement, definitely follow up with Sullivan on the potion case. We want that one watched carefully with the new sanctuary opening.”

“Is there a particular concern you have outside the norm?”

John let go of his shoulder to think and Draco took the opportunity to subtly step away.

“No. Just the entire situation really.” He looked up and waved his hand, wandlessly closing the door from prying ears. “I sent you the paperwork on the new sanctuary to catch you up before you arrived, yes?”

Draco frowned, scouring his memory for any such work. There’d been so much sent to his flat when he’d first accepted the offer. But he couldn’t recall anything on the development of the British Dragon Sanctuary. In fact, he hadn’t even known they were building one until he’d read a update sent to his office the day before.

“I don’t believe so, sir. If you did, I never got it.”

“Didn’t I?” Robards looked pensive. “Well, I’ll leave it for you now then. I’ve a meeting with Marge in fifteen that I need to get to. But I’ll have it set out in the office so you can catch up.”

“I did read the memo sent by Zabini, I think, yesterday. So, I’m familiar with the plan for delivery they’ve got today.”

“Good.” They both seemed to nod in agreement at this fact. “Well then, I’ll still do the rest. You’ll need to understand all the final details. Personally, between you and me, the whole situation is a disaster waiting to happen. A dragon sanctuary, in Britain?” He shot Draco a disapproving look. “One of these days, the big ones up there are going to realise we’re not meant to have a hand in everything. I mean there’s a reason we’ve been shipping them off to Romania the last forty-eight years, no? We’ve got enough bloody problems on our own to add dragons in the mix—even if it is for conservation.”

Draco watched his predecessor closely, not sure how to take that. “You think it’s going to end poorly?”

“I think we need to settle our own problems in the government for a while before we start creating new issues. You’re young. But I was in this department for both the first and second wars against Voldemort. And I was a boy in the years following Grindelwald. Change is good, but a foundation needs to be strong before we start building on top of it. Kingsley’s only been in charge for a few years, give him time, give the Wizengamot time, let the people relax, and then you talk to me about bringing wild Horntails into Galloway Park.”

“Right.” Draco pondered that for a moment. He supposed it must all still be rather new here. Living overseas he’d somewhat forgotten the mess everything was when he’d left. Now that he was back, the Ministry seemed much the same as it had been during his childhood—albeit with significantly less corruption and prejudice marring its halls, but still similar. It was hard to imagine what it must have been like for those who worked here through the entire collapse of the government and created this new one.

“Well anyway, those are just the ramblings of an old man, I suppose. You’re young and stronger than I am these days. I’m sure you’ll handle it all well. Just as long as no more trouble breaks out, it shouldn’t be too rough.” He smiled and Draco returned it tightly as he followed him out of the briefing room.

Then Robards led him to see their archivist Darren and instructed him to pull all of the data they had about the new preserve out so Draco could review them. Before departing for his meeting with Marge. Draco was left feeling tired and intrigued all at once to be left alone. It was the first time he’d been given such a privilege in the department since his arrival.

~*~*~*~*~

“Malfoy,”

Draco was startled at the voice when he entered his office. He looked up from the memo he’d just been handed to see none other than the man he was most dreading standing in the middle of his office.

“Potter,” Draco said, trying to keep the trepidation out of his voice as best he could. “How can I help you?” He stepped forward into the room.

“Not help, so much as talk.” The wizard ran a palm through his hair and Draco was annoyed to see he looked almost nervous. “I just— I wanted to clear the air.”

Draco’s stomach dropped. Potter could not possibly mean what he thought he did. “Clear the air?” Perhaps if he feigned ignorance, he might be able avoid this entirely.

Draco’s plan was abruptly foiled by Potter’s nervous laugh.

“Come on, you know. I just…the last time we saw each other it was at the hospital after everything finished and I know you and Hermione had just…”

Something in Draco snapped and he didn’t want to explain why. “You mean when she asked you to give me a letter that said she didn’t love me anymore and I needed to move on?”

Potter winced—he actually grimaced at the reminder and Draco felt like throwing something. Who the fuck was he to make Draco feel guilty for what happened that day?

He didn’t apologize though. He wouldn’t. Arsehole move though it may have been, that was what happened. Draco didn’t need to mollycoddle Potter because it might hurt his feelings.

“Right. Er—sorry. I didn’t mean to…trudge that up or whatever. I just—look, I know it’s been years, and we’ve all moved on. But we have to work together now, and I don’t want there to be any awkwardness or tension, you know?”

Draco blinked. The audacity. He wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or maybe hex Potter through the nearest window.

Because once again it was like a slap in the face. An ugly reminder that what Draco viewed as the worst thing to ever happen to him in his small and miserable life, meant nothing to those who caused it. That to them, Draco losing the love of his life and finding her married a few miniscule months later was really just that, miniscule.

Potter looked to be waiting for a response, and yet, Draco didn’t know the right answer.

What even could he say? No. I don’t want to clear air or solve any awkward tension you’re feeling. Because I’m still fucking in love with your wife—or at least the woman she was six years ago when I knew her—and I’m not quite interested in making you feel better about the fact that you married her less than three months after she broke up with me and I’m fairly confident that means she cheated.

Instead, he landed on, “Right. Of course.”

Potter beamed like they’d just resolved a tricky bit of office politics. “Thanks. I mean all of our friends are pretty much the same now, what with Blaise and Theo watching Scorpius for us half the time. So, I figure we’ll probably be seeing each other around quite a bit now that you’re back.”  Draco felt ill. “And let me know if we can help at all with the moving stuff. We'd be happy to bring over a meal or something as a welcome gift. I don’t know when you got in, but, are you still staying at the Manor?”

Each of his words were liny tiny needles.

Blaise and Theo.

Scorpius for us.

It was so casual. The paternal ownership Potter claimed. The familiar air of having an us and we that he exerted so naturally. His confidence at not giving an explanation—Potter knew that Draco understood whom he was referring to.

It was the mark of a man with a family and Draco hated him just a little bit for it. For having everything Draco had ever dreamed of.

And then he hated him a bit more for trying to be nice.

“Er, no. I’ve a place in London.”

“Ah, nice. We’ve been over in Somerset for a while—needed out of the city.” Potter laughed lightly like they were sharing a joke. “But we did spend a little over a year here, staying at my godfather’s home. So, if you ever need anything or different pub recs, or restaurants, date spots, I’ve got you covered, yeah?”

Draco’s stomach twisted. He fought the urge to sneer.

Date spots. Yes, Potter, I’ll be sure to ask you for your input when I’m picking out a place to take someone. 

“Thanks. Good to know.” he said instead, tone flat.

Potter's fingers tapped against the wood of Draco's desk. “Anyways, I’ll be off. Sorry for bothering you.” He smiled and Draco wanted to slam his head in the wall.

Instead, he smiled back—albeit rather tightly. “Not at all. I hope it goes well.”

“Thanks, mate.”

Potter nodded and then he was gone. Letting the office door swing shut behind him and leaving Draco to stew in the awkwardness of that interaction.

And with that, Harry turned, letting the door swing shut behind him. Draco stood there, stunned, the stewing in the silence and awkwardness of the last five minutes.

What a fucking bastard.

Potter had broken into Draco’s office just to be nice. Friendly. Bloody warm, even. It was maddening. Like he hadn’t done enough by marrying Hermione and having her child. He also had to remind Draco that Potter was an overwhelmingly well-liked individual. He hadn’t just won the entire fucking war and saved Britain; he’d also done so without gaining even the slightest complex.

Draco wished he’d ignored him.

Perhaps the entire ordeal would have been more bearable if Potter had pretended, he didn’t exist. If he’d treated Draco like what he was—his wife’s ex-boyfriend of three years—and been cold or guarded.

At least then Draco might be able to bear the memory of his former relationship, knowing it had meant something, even if it was over. But this friendly disposition. The agreeable way he laughed and called Draco ‘mate,’ left him feeling bitter and quite alone.

Draco sat down hard in his chair, the weight of it all crashing over him so he tried to focus on something else.

Unfortunately, that something else was interrupted with a knock on his office door. A moment later a older witch with greying hair stepped in.

“Mr. Malfoy, sorry to interrupt, but a letter’s just come from St. Mungo’s for you.” Moved toward him and handed a piece of paper over.

When Draco took it, he noticed that it looked to be a potions order form that had been crossed out and addressed to him.

“Thank you, Ms…?” He trailed off, recognizing her face from Robard’s introduction, but having completely forgotten what her name was.

“Daniels.” She smiled gently at him, but the upward twitch of her lips bordered on a smirk.

“Right. Thank you, Ms. Daniels.” He felt his face heat as he answered, and the witch left before he could try to apologise.

Draco looked at the paper, opening it without much fuss.

D-

Sorry, I got called in early and didn’t want to wake you to say goodbye. Thanks for all your help last night, I

Fucking hell. Now it look like we had sex and I left you alone in bed. Well, least that’ll be good entertainment for your secretary—do u have one??? I don’t have time to get a fresh paper so  you’ll have to manage.

Patient came in morning and coworkers are incompetent so needed me. Got patronus saying  to come early so I had home. Sorry for giving you my dramatic shit last night. I’m fine. We talked about it this morning so probably best to forget everything I said. I’ll be fine.

aren’t you glad your back?

Got 2 go. x

-theo

When Draco finished the note, he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or roll his eyes. On the one hand, it was a comfort to know Theo must be doing at least somewhat better to attempt such shit spelling and poor jokes. Draco was hopeful his friend really was in better spirits after seeing him in such poor form the night before.

On the other hand, while perhaps excessive in his drinking, the more Draco had thought about it, the less dramatic Theo’s behaviour had seemed. It was proportionate, was it not? To the crime committed against him. Draco didn’t know Zabini well. They’d not known each other in childhood given that Blaise hadn’t moved to England until the year before Hogwarts. When they’d shared a room, Draco was mature enough to admit he’d felt threatened by Zabini. For the first eleven years of his life, he’d known his place as the leader amongst his quieter friends.

Then walked in Zabini, all self-assured and worldly, Draco hadn’t known what to do. So, he did what any emotionally stunted, attention seeking, and anxiety ridden eleven-year-old would have: been a complete bitch in an attempt to assert his dominance.

It hadn’t worked. Unsurprisingly the young Italian was not intimidated and was—perhaps more than Draco—capable of giving as good as he got. For the first two years in their dormitory the air was sick with tension between the boys. Until the summer after second year—while Theo and Draco were hiding from their fathers in one of their manors—when Theo asked Draco to back off.

In the years that followed, Draco had listened. The attempts at usurping one another between the boys decreased exponentially, but neither of them ever truly had an interest in being friends. When Theo and Blaise started dating during their 6^th year at Hogwarts, he’d made his best effort towards cordiality, but past simple pleasantries, they never spoke much when Theo wasn’t around.

So it was difficult for Draco to imagine the wizard his friend knew. When Theo described Blaise, he did so through these glasses of affection. For the entire time that Draco had been away, he’d only ever heard about the wizard during big events.

Draco had believed all of it, knowing Theo knew a different side of him than Draco ever could. He’d understood Blaise through those same lenses, trying to appreciate the life his friend had without him there. Now Theo was taking the glasses off again and Draco wasn’t sure what to see. It was hard to imagine the Zabini who planned fantastical holidays six months in advance and wore a matching kit to all Theo’s quidditch matches as the same one who would do something so callous as to leave Theo four times.

Frankly he wasn’t sure how to rationalize the two.

In the end Draco decided not to. So he distracted himself with work—of which, he had much to do.

It worked well, in fact, or it did, until several hours later when a knock sounded on his office door.

“Come in.” Draco told them, not looking up from the file he was reading. He’d sent out Ms. Daniels for a cup of tea half an hour before. When the door opens, he smiles, “Ah, thank yo—mother?”

“Draco.” His mother responds stiffly from where she’s standing in the doorway of his office, her robes still perfectly pressed despite the hour of the day.

“What are you doing here?” He sets down his parchments and makes to stand. “I thought I was seeing you tonight for dinner.”

“And you are. But I needed to speak to you now, it’s urgent.”

“Of course.” Draco walks around the large wooden desk and closes the door behind his mother. Taking her arm then, he led her to one of the guest chairs before returning to his own. “What seems to be the matter?”

Narcissa Malfoy’s expression was stern as she looked at her son. He could practically feel her eyes observing him, hunting for any possible tells—the only issue was, he wasn’t sure what he was meant to be telling.

Finally, after a minute had passed, she spoke. “Where is Mr. Potter?”

“Uh—what?”

“Don’t stammer. I asked you a question. Where is Harry Potter?”

Truly, if Draco’s eyes rolled, it was of their own volition—he had no say in the matter. “I don’t know mother. Likely working a case. I don’t really keep tabs on him, but seeing as it’s his job, I’d image that’s where he is.”

“So, it’s nothing urgent then?”

“Urgent?” Draco frowned. “His case? I don’t believe so. Last I understood, it was just a routine surveillance operation. They blew their cover yesterday, so I doubt they’ll find anything. But, there’s nothing like a boring day just watching the wind blow to make an auror want to be more careful next time.” He smirked at the thought, though when he looked up his mother appeared mutinous.

“Oh honestly, Draco. I can’t believe you sometimes.” She reproved and Draco sat up.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to attempt some sort of patience. “Why do you need Potter, mother? Is something wrong? I’m sure I can help resolve whatever it is, just as well as he can.”

“Yes. Somethings wrong. And I really never thought you had it in you.” She said stiffly and Draco felt his hackles rising. “Honestly, Draco, you don’t have to like the match, you don’t have to find it agreeable. Merlin knows I have my own concerns and questions about the whole thing. But there is a time and place this behaviour and when a man’s child is in the hospital, it is not the time to be executing some petty squabble.”

“Sorry—what?” Draco gaped at her, not even sure what they were talking about anymore.

“When a man tells you his child is in the hospital, you let him be with his wife—regardless of who that may be. You do not force him to spend the day aimlessly at work while his family awaits potentially bad news.”

“Potter’s in the hospital?”

“Scorpius Potter is in the hospital Draco, deeply unwell. And I know you are angry with Hermione, but she is there and despite her words, I know she is worried. And it is because of you that she is alone. How could you do that to her?”

“I didn’t!” He protested, throwing a hand up. He wasn’t sure whether to join his mother in concern for Hermione—bloody hell, was that what the Asher-Quinn bloke came in about— and annoyance for her accusatory glare. “What am I supposed to do? No one told me.”

“Send him home, Draco. Tell him to go be with his family until they know everything’s okay. Scorpius is small, I can only imagine the level of stress Hermione is feeling right now. You should have seen her; she was positively a wreck. She hadn’t showered in almost two days because she couldn’t leave him alone but there was no one to stay with her son because you told him he needed to be here. She thinks it’s an emergency he’s working.”

“There’s no emergency!”

“So send Harry Potter home, Draco.” His mother snapped and Draco wasn’t sure what he was even meant to say. If Potter didn’t want to be here, he should have just said so. There was no reason to act all chummy this morning.

“Fine. I’ll talk to John and let him know as soon as Potter’s back.”

His mother rose from her seat promptly and dusted off her skirt. “Good. I will see you at seven for dinner. Don’t be late.”

“Brilliant. I wasn’t planning on it.” He ran a palm over his face when something hit him. “Hey, why were you at St. Mungo’s this morning?”

Narcissa stopped as she reached the door and Draco’s stomach dropped when she looked back. “I had an appointment with my healer.”

“Is everything alright?”

“You know it’s not, Draco. I told you that. But yes, for the time being, I suppose, it’s not changed since our last meeting.”

“Right. Of course.” He nodded, trying to think. When he saw her hand reach for the door handle, Draco stood up. “Mother—if you’d, if you’d like, I could accompany you to your next appointment.”

“Accompany me?” She frowned.

“Just to—to take notes. And talk to the healer. I want to look into your case anyway. Surely in all the realm of magic there’s something more that can be done. I just want to help and better understand.”

For the first time since she arrived that day, his mother’s face broke into a small smile, “that would be lovely, Draco. Thank you. I will owl you the details of my next appointment.”

“Perfect.” He nodded and watched as she left. A few minutes later, Ms. Daniels came in with that cup of tea and Draco was drawn from his thoughts. When she left, he made a plan to find Robards and speak with him. He really had no idea how Potter’s work schedule was his fault, but the last thing he wanted was to cause Hermione any more grief so he would do his best to fix the issue, however he could.

Chapter Text

King of My Heart

Hermione Jean Granger Potter

1 February 2003

When Hermione woke up the next morning, she found herself in a far more comfortable position than the previous night. And, relaxing into the warmth of the firm pillow beneath her, she opened her eyes with a small smile sprouting on her face.

“Good morning,” Hermione murmured.

“Good morning.”

Her pillow shifted as Harry adjusted his position, fanning the rest of her hair out across his lap where she was laying as she positioned her head to look up.

 “How’d you sleep?” He smiled down at her.

Hermione let her eyes close once more as she leaned back into him. “Much better. What about you?”

“Not the best night I’ve had.” She felt him twisting one of her curls around his finger. “But not the worst, so no complaints. I kept waking up whenever they would check on him.”

Hermione’s eyes widened infinitesimally, and she sat up, abruptly spilling the blanket she hadn’t realised was spread across her lap onto the ground. Where did that come from? She briefly wondered before her surroundings came into view. She’d completely forgotten where they were, and admittedly she missed the brief feeling of blissfulness she’d felt tucked into Harry’s lap as soon as it was gone.

They were in the hospital still. For Scorpius. Who was unwell with some mysterious illness that was slowly draining the magical life force out of the little boy she loved so dearly.

It physically hurt her to wipe the sleep out of her eyes and take in the room.

“What time is it?” She asked, mindlessly turning back and reaching for Harry’s wrist before he could even have the chance to check. Hermione tilted the old watch Sirius had given him and stared at its face.  

“Just past nine, I think.” He said, and she scowled when her eyes confirmed he was right.

A light finger tapped on her chin, and Hermione looked up to find Harry’s lip was twitching, and she felt annoyed. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

His face grew into a full smile as his hand brushed one of her curls back behind her ear. “Because I was here, and you were asleep. I screwed up yesterday, and I know it. but I’m not a complete berk. You were up all day, and you didn’t sleep much the night before either. You were actually able to pass out here, and so I wasn’t keen on waking you before your body did.”

Well that’s just bloody nice, she thought petulantly. “Well, what if something had happened?” she tried, and Harry nodded.

“Well then, I would probably try to fix it myself and if I couldn’t, I’d wake you up.”

“But what if—”

He grabbed her hands from where they were fidgeting in front of her and pulled them to his face.

“Hermione, it’s okay for you to rest. I know, I was an arse yesterday, and I’m sorry for it. But I’m trying to do better. I watched Scorpius all night and I’m not leaving. You don’t have to worry. I’ve just been…stressed, at work. And I think I let it get to me, but I want to be here, with you, with Scorp. Is that okay?”

He looked so earnest that Hermione felt the tension begin to bleed from her body as she watched him—scanning for any sort of lie.

Then her eyes found Scorpius in the bed, his tiny chest rising with every breath as she turned back to Harry. “Okay.”

She thought through his words for a minute before looking at him again. “So you were awake when the medi-witch or whoever came in? What did they say? Did they say anything about him?”

“Yes and no.” Harry said, scratching his face absently. The motion directed Hermione’s eyes to her husband’s chin, and she was embarrassed to say she felt her face heat a bit at the sight of the stubble sprouting across his face. How many times have I told him he’d look fit with a beard. But she thanked Merlin Harry didn’t seem to notice her staring as he spoke. “He’s settled, I think the medi-witch said. It seemed his magical core levels have plateaued at 44% a result of the medication which is good.”

Hermione shook her head immediately. “forty-four? No. It wasn’t forty-four. It was forty-three. He’s at forty three percent. You must have misheard.”

“I mean, it’s possible.” Harry’s expression was patient as he nodded. “But I could have sworn she said Scorp was at forty-four the last time she was in here, love. I think that was her hope is that he’s levelled off and we don’t have anything to fear.”

“But to go up?”

“I think it’s meant to be the potions regiment. Theo’s got him on some pretty heavy stuff and it seems to be pushing him in the right direction.”

“But for how long?” She frowned not wanting to get either of their hopes up. They still didn’t know what was wrong and even if Harry was right, one percentage increase wasn’t a significant improvement. At that, Harry conceded.

“I don’t know. She seemed unsure as well. That’s why she didn’t say anything definitive. Didn’t want to give me any false promises until a proper healer has the chance to look over his record.”

“Healer? That does mean Theo, right? Theo’s the healer?” Her hand found his forearm and Harry put his palm over it. They wouldn’t switch him to a different healer, right? It would be Theo. Hermione needed it to be Theo who watched him.

“Yes, love. I’d imagine so. I don’t know what time Theo’s getting in today, but I talked to him before he left late last night—”

“He came back?” Hermione hadn’t noticed that, she’d wanted to hear if he had any find updates.

Harry squeezed her hand again. “No. I went and found him later. You’d fallen asleep and I wanted to talk to him. Apologise for losing my temper. It’s my fault I didn’t know anything because I wasn’t here. And I know Theo cares about Scorp and wants him well, same as you or I do. I just got all wound up with Zabini snapping at me on top of everything at work and it’s not an excuse, but…I needed to apologise.”

Hermione nodded, smiling tightly at him. “What did he say?” She asked, half readying herself for a conversation of their own.

They needed to talk. She needed him to finally talk.  But part of Hermione was afraid of leaving the semi-content bubble of morning they’d formed. The other part of her felt it was Harry’s turn to bring up their issues—given that it was his behaviour creating their problem.

Oblivious to her thoughts—or so she thought—Harry sighed, letting his head fall back against the wall.

“What do you think? He’s Theo. Nott’s always been too nice to me. Too forgiving when I’ve not earned it.” He rolled his head to the side and shifted so he was facing her more. “He’s not the only one.”

Right. Hermione took a breath. So we are doing this now. She didn’t know where to begin.

“Harry, can we talk?”

Her voice was quiet in the hospital room, but it felt like it echoed off the walls.

“Yeah, of course.” She waited for him to say more. He wasn’t going to help her, was he? Well, Hermione refused to walk him all the way there. John’s announcement had been hanging in the back of her mind for two days now and she needed it out in the open. But if they were going to have a proper conversation, Hermione needed Harry to admit it—she needed him to trust her with his vulnerability.  

“About this week?” She looked at his eyes and noticed the way they froze. Gotcha.

“What do you mean?”  He asked reflexively and Hermione had to keep from pulling her hair.

“Please don’t insult my intelligence by pretending you don’t know what I mean.” She said slowly. “You’ve been off all week. Temperamental, impatient. Scorpius told me that you refused to read Babity Rabbity on Tuesday, and you love Babity Rabbity, Harry.”

“That was one night!” He put up a hand and Hermione grabbed it, pinching the skin on top. “Hey—”

“One night of you not reading Babbity is like the end of the world Harry!” She huffed softly at his indignant look. “Scorp said you read him The Hopping Pot instead.”

“The Hopping Pot is a fine story.”

“The Hopping Pot is boring, and you know it.” She pulled his hand to her lap and looked up.  “Just talk to me, Harry. We’ll figure it out, whatever it is. But this pushing me out thing cannot go on. It’s not fair of you to expect Scorpius and I to accommodate you when you haven’t even told us what you need.”

Harry looked at her for a minute, and she could see the moment he made a decision in his eyes.  

“I didn’t get the job.” He said softly and at least for Hermione, much of the stress in her broke. Finally. She hadn’t been worried he would lie about the promotion—that just wasn’t Harry. But avoiding talking about something until the last moment or changing the subject if someone else tried? That was most definitely a very Harry thing to do.

Hermione kept her face straight as she responded. “You didn’t?”

“No.” He took a breath. “John talked to me on Monday, and I just—I really thought, Hermione…” He looked so incredibly defeated as the words left him that so much of her anger dissipated.

“Oh Harry, I’m so sorry.” Hermione’s hand squeezed his, unsure how to make his pain better.  “I know how badly you wanted it.”

“I did. I—when he told me I didn’t get it, I think I was just in disbelief.”

“I can imagine.”

“I mean, he’s been training me for this job for over a year. We’ve talked about it. He pulled me from the mission assignment crew because he wanted me learning the ropes of the administrative side of things. Everything felt so sure and then…”  Harry shrugged, staring distantly and Hermione felt as helpless as he looked to her. He pulled his hand back from hers for a second to run it through his hair. “I mean, I just don’t understand what happened.”

“I don’t either. I’m so sorry.” Hermione thought back to her conversation with John a few days ago. He’d been so casual about it, and at the time she’d been caught off guard. Both because she finally had an explanation for Harry’s moodiness, and because it really had been unexpected. Obviously, there’d been an application process, interviews and everything, but neither of them had really ever considered that Harry might not be chosen—not after all the hoops John had him jump through these last few months. “Did he give any kind of explanation why?”

Harry looked at her, his mouth in a tight line. “Other applicants, better qualifications, not the right time. Nothing specific about me or anything I did, just…”

“General excuses.” She filled in blandly. “Oh Harry, I really am sorry. That’s awful.”

He waved her off. “It’s fine. About time anyho—"

“It’s not.” She stopped him before he could even try to put himself down. Hermione wouldn’t hear of it. “It’s not fine and it’s not okay and you don’t have to just get over it or whatever else you’ll say. We knew it wasn’t your job officially yet, but the way John spoke, we both thought it was as good as. It’s not your fault for getting your hopes up when he’d all but told you to.”

Harry shifted to face her more, his expression softening as he leaned against the back of the sofa and towards her. “Thank you, Mi. I appreciate that. It helps to know I wasn’t the only one who thought so.”

“Of course, Harry.” She smiled at him. His hair was positively a wreck from the restless night, and she ran a hand through his spikey locks, slowly. “You know I’m always on your side.”

“Hmm.” He hummed as his eyes fell shut, his forehead falling against hers. “I know. You’ve always been far too nice to me, like I said, too forgiving when I’m an arse.”

Hermione scoffed lightly and pulled back. “Well, no one said anything about forgiveness yet, Mister Potter. You’ve been a right prick this week and I expect a thorough apology for it. We can talk about forgiveness when you’ve made it up to me.”

One eye popped open as a dangerous smile began to bloom over his face. “Oh? And how should I do that? Make it up to you.” He leaned forward “Are you looking for me to grovel, Miss Potter?”

Hermione shook her head as she pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “Depends. What kind?”

“Oh it’s kinds we’re talking then?” Harry pulled back just a bit, his eyes narrowed. At his mischievous smirk, Hermione knew she was done for. “Are you looking for me to get on my knees, darling? Beg you for it? You know I will.”

“Harry James!” She shrieked, shoving his shoulder away as he broke out in laughter that made her stomach flutter. “We’re in a hospital!”

He kissed her forehead once more, even despite her outrage. “Answer the question.”

“Harry!” Hermione pushed him back again in disbelief. When she glanced over at the bed behind her though, she was relieved to see no movement from Scorpius. At least they hadn’t woken them. She lowered her voice and scolded. “There are little ears in here. Watch your tongue.”

When she turned back to Harry, he pinched her chin and pecked her. “If you don’t think I cast a muffling charm around him the moment you woke up, then you don’t really know me at all.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but relaxed. Sighing out a loud groan as she fell forward into her husband.  “Mmph. You’re right. Thank you.” She told him, her voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

Harry’s chuckle was evident through the bouncing of his chest and she grinned as his arms tightened around her waist, pulling her to sit closer.

“Now, about the make-up sex…”

“Harry!”

“What?!” He laughed again. “It’s a valid question. Yay or nay for me on my knees?”

“Fine.” Hermione pushed herself up and rested her elbow on his shoulder so she could see Harry’s beautiful green eyes—Merlin she loved his eyes. She pursed her lips, tossing her head back and forth as though in thought. Really, there’s not much question about it, she smirked  “I suppose I would be decidedly, yay.”

 “Oh really?”

She couldn’t help her laugh at the delight on his face, Harry looked rather like a dog who’d just been offered a biscuit. “Yes. Deal. But don’t act like it’s much of a favour to you, you weirdo—” She shoved him back again when he bit his lip dramatically. “No. Stop it—you idiot. Listen to me,” she giggled. “I was going to say, I want lunch with it too now.”

Harry’s brows jumped unexpectedly. “Oh, do you mean today? Mi, dear, you know I really am always happy to…” he looked around and she noticed his cheeks were growing red. “Y’know—with you, er—But we are in the hospital, and I worry it might be a slightly inopportune—”

His meaning hit her with a gasp. “OH GODRIC HARRY! You know that’s not what I meant!”

“What do you mean, Harry?! But—You’re—you’re the one who just said—” He spluttered.

“At work! I meant at work!”

Harry shook his head incredulously as he gasped out a laugh, “how is that any better than the hospital?!”

“No!! Shut it! Stop! Just stop. Stop it!” She batted his chest furiously. “I meant lunch at work. I want you to bring me lunch at work.”

When she looked up Harry’s cheeks were flaming red, but he was now shaking with supressed laughter.

“Oh you!” She shoved his firm chest again and this time Harry grabbed her hands.

“Hermione Jean Granger, for a second there you had me scandalised. I mean, my delicate sensibilities can hardly handle a woman of your—”

This time it was Hermione who pinched his chin, bringing his face to meet hers. “Shut it.” She muttered fiercely, smirking when Harry’s eyes were immediately drawn to her lips. “You know what I meant. Bring me lunch. At work. Like you used to. And then we can talk.”

“Er—yes ma’am” he told her distractedly, his focus suddenly sharp and unwavering. “Anything you want.”

Hermione wanted to give in then. She wanted to pull him close and remember one of the many reasons she loved being Harry Potter’s wife so much. But before she could, there was one more thing she needed.

“But, seriously, I mean it Harry.” She leaned back a bit until his eyes met hers as she forced down her smile at him. “We can’t do this again. I know you were disappointed, but some of the things you said yesterday—really hurt.”

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head, his face quickly sobering from a moment before. “I shouldn’t have said anything I did. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. It wasn’t your fault. And it wasn’t right.”

“You know I don’t think of you that way, Harry—as the ‘Chosen One’. You’re not a freeloader or anything like that. I know you work so hard. I know you’re trying. I know how much effort you put into deserving everything you do, you know I do.”

He ran a palm up his face, rubbing his eyes as he jostled his glasses. “I know. I know you do. I was awful. I was angry and disappointed, and I took it out on you. I never should have spoken to you like that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have. And it can’t happen again. I won’t be spoken to like that, and especially not in front of Scorpius. What kind of example are we setting for our son if that’s how we talk to one another?”

Harry looked at her, his face solemn. “I’m sorry.”  

“And I understand if you need time to process something, Harry. Believe me, I get it. Sometimes things take time to process, and you can be angry, merlin knows you’re allowed to be frustrated when things are unexpected. But you can’t keep secrets from me. Not when they’re this important. We’re married, but you’re my best friend and this only works if we’re talking to one another. We can’t have secrets. I’ll give you the time you need to think or grieve what happened, but you need to tell me.”

“I know. It won’t happen again.” He nodded seriously. Hermione debated the merits of telling him one last thing. She didn’t want to upset him, but in the spirit of being honest…

“Thank you. Because I can’t be finding out life changing information about my husband from John Robards again. He’s a dear friend, but that is not his job.”

Harry’s eyes were wide as he gaped. “He told you?”

Hermione gave him a disapproving frown. “Yes. On Wednesday. Do you know why?” Harry didn’t respond. “Because he thought I knew.”

“Bloody hell.” He removed his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. I really fucked everything up this week.”

“Yeah, you really did.” Hermione told him blandly. When Harry looked up, she rolled her eyes. “Oh sorry, did you want me to lie and say you didn’t? Like how you lied about work?”

He held a hand up. “Technically I didn’t lie, simply—”

She cut him off before he could start. “Harry James Potter, I swear to Merlin—you were doing so well at apologising, but if you try to tell me that intentionally omitting information in order to dissuade me from the truth is not a lie, you will be on the sofa for the next month. Don’t finish that sentence.”

He wiped his eyes again in the face of her glare. “Right. Yeah. You’re right. I know. I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

Hermione nodded. “Thank you.” She said primly, moving back to let her head fall on his shoulder. The tension in the room was palpable once more and she hated it, but Hermione didn’t know how to break it without dismissing all of what they’d just discussed.

Finally, after a few minutes, Harry did it for her, his lips pressing against the top of her head. “I love you. You know that, right?”

She smiled, softly. “Yeah, I know that.”’

“And I love Scorpius too.” He paused. “Little bugger that he is.”

Hermione snorted. “Well, I should hope so. You helped make him. He’s half of you anyway.”

“The buggering half?”

“The buggering half,” she laughed.

***

It wasn’t long after that that the door to their room opened and Theo came in. He was carrying a stack of papers, and Hermione let Harry pull her into a standing position so they could follow him to the bed.

“Morning.” Theo nodded, and Hermione couldn’t help but notice the small bags forming under his eyes. “Alright night? Evening shift didn’t tell me if anything had happened, but did they miss anything?”

“No. We were okay here.”

“Scorp’s alright? No more episodes, yes?”

Harry squeezed her hand, pulling her closer beside him. “No. No more episodes. In fact the person who was in here earlier mentioned they thought he’d been improving actually—maybe the potions were working?”

“Ah, good, good. I’m gonna check things out if that’s ‘right with you?” He set the stack of papers onto the table at the end of Scorpius’s bed before pulling out his wand. She vaguely recognised the spells he murmured from those he’d cast the day before and wasn’t surprised when the familiar flashing lights popped up above Scorpius’s sleeping head. This time though, Theo absently snapped his fingers and one of the parchments came flying towards him and appeared to copy down data from the chart without a quill.

It was several minutes before Theo looked up at them, having gotten the information, he needed. Harry’s hand tightened reflexively around hers at the apprehensive look on his face, and she squeezed him back.  

 “I’m going to say something you’re not going to like. But I need you to listen to me and trust that there’s a reason for it.” Theo crossed his arms over his chest. “I want to send you home.”

“What?” It was perhaps one of the last things Hermione might have expected him to say in that moment. And her head started shaking instantly. “No—what?”

“I want to send you and Scorpius home. We’ve been monitoring him all night and have seen no further deterioration. It appears the potion regiment I put him on yesterday has been working and in fact we’ve noted a slight improvement.” He took hold of the self-inking parchment floating beside him and held it out to them. Harry took it, but it didn’t appear to be a diagram, and Hermione’s brain was still too exhausted to attempt to translate the medical runes she may or may not have seen before in her life.

“What does this mean?” Harry asked for the both of them, his voice firmer than hers would have been, and Theo smiled, though it was weary.

“I gave him the first dose of his potions last night at approximately five. We’ve been monitoring him bi-hourly since then to ensure he had no adverse reactions. When he showed none, Healer Fawley repeated the dosage six hours later and we’ve continued checking on him since. What I’ve given you in your hand there is a print of sorts for Scorpius’s magical signature. Think of it as like…his muggle DNA vitals. But in this case the encryption of it tells me about the exact changes in Scorpius’s magic over whatever period of time. We last gave him a dose of potions at four that should wear off around ten and I’m trying to understand if his magic is forming a pattern or not.”

“Why?” Harry asked, and she noticed his spare hand had moved to clutch the edge of Scorpius’s quilt. “Is that bad?”

“No. It’s good. Or it would be. We want a pattern. Patterns are reliable. In this case it means that Scorpius is reacting well to the potions, and I can expect that if he continues on them, he will act the same. If there wasn’t a pattern it would mean he’s volatile, and then we’d have a problem.”

“So if there’s a pattern,” Harry spoke slowly, “You want to send him home?”

Hermione didn’t give Theo the chance to answer, too panicked at the idea. “Why can’t we stay here? With you. Where you’re able to monitor him. You’re checking for a blood curse. A few days you said. Why can’t we stay the time until that’s done where you can watch him and make sure he’s okay?”

“Because he is okay.”

“No he’s not dammit! He’s—he’s sick. There’s something wrong. You—you said yourself. There’s something wrong and you don’t know what it is. But what if it’s the blood curse? What if it’s hurting him and it’s from us but we didn’t know it when we—” She choked on her words and Harry pulled her in.

“Because there’s nothing else I can do right now, Hermione. The potions are working. They’ve stabilised him and I have faith that they’ll continue to do so. What I want now is to keep Scorpius calm and comfortable. That is best done in your home. There’s nothing I can do if it is a blood curse until I know more. The test will take a few days to run on his blood and once it finishes, I’ll know more.”

“But can’t you do something proactively?” Harry’s hand twisted the edge of Scorpius’s blanket. “If it’s not anything else and we think it’s likely that he does have a blood curse, then can’t you just diagnose that now and start fixing it—if you know how to fix it.”

Theo nodded, though Hermione could see the impatience growing on his face. “Of course I can fix it. But I have to know more about it. That’s what the test is for.”

“I thought it was to determine the presence of a curse?” she cut in.

“And to know it’s cause and root. There’re nearly a hundred types of blood curses that we’re presently aware of. Most of which I’m at least somewhat familiar with improving symptoms of. But I can’t go fixing a problem if I don’t understand it. This test will tell me whether there’s a blood curse by testing what kind of blood curse.”

“And what? We’re just supposed to wait at home while he gets worse, waiting for you to try and figure it out?” Harry demanded.

Theo’s sigh was filled with exhaustion and Hermione felt bad for badgering him, but Scorpius meant more to them than being a nuisance did.

“Forgive me. No. Of course not. I—apologise. That’s not what I meant. You know, Scorpius is dear to me and I value being his godfather over all else. But I forget our difference in specialties. No. Of course I’m not asking you to sit at home and watch him get worse. There is a very simple principle when it comes to the handling of blood curses: Don’t expend unnecessary magic, and don’t expend unnecessary energy. Both of those things are what these curses feed on.

“Now, Scorpius has been in the hospital almost two days. For the majority of the time, we’ve been able to keep him sedated, something I believe is doing him good. Not because he needs the sleep, but because he is his mother and father’s son.”

His lip twitched and Hermione frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Every time he’s awake, he’s panicking—stressing over not understanding his circumstance I imagine. It seems a very Potter trait to want to be in control of things.” Theo gave them a weak smile. “Even when he appears the picture of calm and blissful yesterday, his magical signature shows that he’s uncomfortable where he is and worried—very worried.”

Hermione felt Harry drop her hand as he moved to the head of the bed, brushing Scorpius’s hair with his fingers.

“What would sending him home do that is better?” He asked, not looking up.

“Well, for one it would put him in a familiar environment. I think he’s off kilter here. He doesn’t know what’s happening apart from the bed being uncomfortable and I’m always here which is unusual. Hermione you’ve stayed here, much as we might try, this place doesn’t exude warmth. You know I’ve got a number of thoughts on the Janis Thickney Ward and the good it does patients to stay here long-term. I think it makes things worse, but that’s not the point.”

“And the point is?”

“He’s wasting energy here. He’s not comfortable and clearly not happy. I think it would do him good to go back to the manor and rest there. Either way, he’s not able to run around and play quidditch. But I think sending him home would slow the loss that’s happening even passively by putting him in a more calming state until I can figure out what’s happening.”

“But what about the potions?” Hermione asked. “You said he needs those or he’ll be unstable. How will he get those or how will we even know if he’s unstable if he doesn’t?”

This time when Theo took a breath, it was calmer. Hermione was slowly understanding where he was going with this—though she still didn’t like it— and she imagined Theo could tell.

“I’ll come by. I’ll stop by at night and do his evening doses while dropping off a supply for the following day. Believe it or not, it’s not that uncommon to have to do. I’ve done it before for other patients. Administer the monitoring charms in the evening and set you up to do it yourselves for the day. The only difference between Scorp and my other patients will be that I’m already over at yours half the time anyhow. It’ll be good and it won’t set Scorpius off.”

“And you’re sure about this?” Harry looked grave.

“Absolutely.”

*~*~*~*~*

The house was dark when they arrived that evening. The sun had already gone down, despite the relatively early hour, which meant there was no light from the windows. And despite having lived there for nearly four years, Hermione still found the empty manor a bit creepy.

She jumped slightly when the floo went off again, and Harry appeared behind her. He looked exhausted, but she knew both of them were relieved to be home.

It had taken time and significant negotiating before she felt comfortable, but after discussing and seeing Scorpius take another two doses of potions with no negative effects, she and Harry had been—reluctantly—convinced.

Scorpius was asleep, cradled in Harry’s arms when they came through, and Hermione cast a light cleaning charm on them both to remove the soot. He’d passed out shortly after they’d eaten lunch together and she knew they were both relieved he wasn’t awake for travelling.

Hermione took a second to close her eyes once they were all there and look around. It had been just under two days since she’d come home from work with him, but it felt like weeks.

“I’m gonna put him up and I’ll be back.” She turned to find Harry smiling weakly at her. When Hermione’s eyes fell on Scorpius she couldn’t help but come towards them. Her hand running through his—progressively greasy—hair as his head rested on Harry’s shoulder.

He looked better, she couldn’t deny Theo on that front, colour had returned to his cheeks. And the potions had worked like he said and Scorpius had been able to keep all of his meals down so far that day.  

“Thanks.” She murmured, pushing up to leave a kiss on Harry’s cheek. He was amazing and she was so grateful to have him with her through this. Neither of them were happy with Theo’s plan to send Scorpius home, but they understood his logic, especially as Scorpius had become more alert that morning and they could see his anxiety growing in the hospital room.

Scorpius had never been entirely talkative, but expressive, he was. And five years of paying close attention to his reactions and cues meant that both his parents were attuned to his emotions.

He smiled at Theo when his uncle asked him silly questions to distract him. But when lunch arrived, and Scorpius refused to touch the meat on his plate—going so far as to break into loud, angry sobs when Hermione suggested he simply eat around it—they knew Theo was right.

Who would have thought Harry Potter’s child would become vegetarian whenever he was stressed? But alas, when an hour ago he developed an aversion to water as well, Hermione needed only to look at Harry to know it was time.

Now they were home and she was hopeful it would help. Theo had promised to come by as soon as he was off to check in either way, but for now they were on their own.

Thank, Merlin, she thought. “I need a shower. I know I smell after that ham.”

“You’re beautiful.” Harry huffed a laugh.  “This one however…” he nodded to the bundle of little boy in his arms.

“Shit. I know.” She leaned over and sniffed his messy hair before frowning. “I’ve just been layering the cleaning charms, but they’re not even working anymore. I don’t think he’s had a bath since Tuesday.”

“That’s nasty, mate.” Harry whispered. “I’ll run him one right now and then put him to bed.”

“You want to wake him up for that?”

“I’m not worried. He’ll pass out after from the warm water anyhow. And I think it might be worth it if he’s clean and stops smelling like hospital.”

“Okay.” She nodded before something occurred to her. “Have we checked his sheets? I’’ve not been in there since we left but if he got sick in them they might still be—”

“I changed the bed yesterday when I stopped home for clothes. They’re—”

There was a loud crashing sound from another room and abruptly Harry cut off.

It happened fast. Hermione was behind him immediately and Harry seamlessly passed Scorpius to her, his wand was already drawn and ready. For a second Hermione was thrown back to years ago, when they still lived in London and the number of stalkers Harry Potter had was startling.

Back then their flat address was temporarily made public because Witch Weekly had no boundaries, and they’d had more than one unwelcome visitor. Hermione was more than proficient in warding given their time on the run. But torture and pregnancy had left her magic weak and no matter what they tried, people kept breaking through.

No one had found them since they’d moved to Potter Manor—the blood wards there were ancient and supposedly indestructible—but Hermione’s blood ran cold with fear that they might have been wrong.

She clutched Scorpius, tightly to her chest, stepping back into the parlour as Harry moved outside. She didn’t see where he went but her wand was drawn in front of her.

Hermione was skilled with her wand, but only one of them duelled for a living. She hated seeing his cloak disappear down the hall, his footsteps quiet on the marble flooring, but someone had to protect Scorpius and Harry was their best first defence.

It was quiet then, the clatter had been loud, but nothing had been heard since. Hermione held her breath, her heart racing. She listened for any creak or sound of movement outside, but there was none.

Then, suddenly from across the house—

“Put your hands where I can see them now or I swear you’ll lose them both!” Harry shouted.

Hermione froze.

The silence that followed felt almost worse than the crash as she waited for something. Anything. She tucked Scorpius’s head under his chin and hoped he didn’t wake.

Then, a noise.

"Ron?"

Hermione’s shoulder’s fell and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to scream or sigh at the familiar name.  

Taking one second to breath, she then started walking forward through the house. It was still dark, but at the end of the hall there was a singular light on in the kitchen. She found Harry standing in the doorway when she came through, his wand still in his hand, but it was pointed at the ground now and relief washed over her when their eyes met.

When she stepped past him to see their guest, she found their oldest friend standing over a shattered pie dish and looking guilty.

Her jaw fell in indignation. “Ronald Bilius Weasley, what the actual fuck is wrong with you?”

Ron flinched. “Er… surprise?”

Harry holstered his wand, slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You nearly gave us a heart attack, mate.”

Hermione was still gaping. “Yes. Because you’re in our house! At night! Without telling us! In the bloody dark!”

“It’s not my fault you’ve got all the lights off!”

“Because no one was home! We weren’t home! Why the hell are you in our home?!”

At that Ron’s expression turned confused. “It’s game night?”

“What?” Hermione hissed.

“Game night? It’s game night. It’s Friday and I’m back which means we said game night—which by the way, sorry reception for your best mate who’s been out of the country for the last month.”

At that, she felt Harry sigh beside her before he stepped forward and gently took Scorpius from her arms. Scorp whimpered at the exchange, but luckily the potions still seemed to keep him under because his eyes were shut when Hermione checked. “I’ve got him. I’ll be back.” Harry pressed a kiss to her forehead and gave her a soft look before disappearing up the stairs with their son.

When Hermione turned back to Ron, she winced, but Ron wasn’t looking at her, he was looking at the space where Harry had just been, frowning.

“What’s wrong with the kid?”

She sighed, forcing herself to take a deep breath before moving into the room and sitting down heavily on the nearest chair. “Nothing. Everything.” She ran both her hands over here face. “We forgot. I’m sorry. It’s been an awful two days—awful week, to be honest, actually. And we’ve only just got back from the hospital—that’s where we were when you got here. I didn’t realise you were back.”

“The hospital? What do you mean?” She heard him step around the island in front of her.

“He’s sick.” She didn’t bother looking up. “There’s a problem with his magical core and it’s draining and we don’t know why. Theo thinks it might be a blood curse.”

The kitchen was quiet for only a moment before he broke out. “A blood curse?! What the hell does that mean? A blood curse, fuck—that’s like something the Blacks or Rosiers or bloody Malfoy’s would have. What the hell kind of blood curse does Nott think your kid could have?”

“I don’t know, Ronald. Theo thinks it might be something on that theory I told you about where muggleborns are actually the descendants of squibs are we’re all just branches of the same whatever-many family trees. He thinks there’s a chance somewhere far back in Harry’s line or mine there’s an issue, but we don’t know for sure.”

She looked up when Ron didn’t answer immediately. His face was pensive, and he kept running his hands over the countertop between them.

“Has he asked Padma about it? I mean she’s brilliant at this stuff. She’s always fixing things, and you know her family’s one of those ancient types too. She might know something Nott doesn’t.”

“Theo’s a pureblood too Ron. And you know he specialises in this stuff. We—we went to Padma first. But, er, she wasn’t able to give us much help so Theo offered.”

Ron rolled his eyes, “Yeah. I’m sure Nott, offered to help, probably just took over everything like he always does, saying he’s better and now he’s got you lot spinning your circles worried about dark magic when you probably don’t even need to be concerned with. Just, let me floo her right now Mione, she’ll be over in a jiff and I’m positive Pads can figure out—” he froze mid-sentence and Hermione watched him, nervous for what was next. “Wait, did you say Padma already saw you today?”

He was looking at her funny and Hermione was too tired to deal with thinking about why. She shrugged absently, resting her head on her palms. “No. She saw us the night before yesterday. It all happened kind of later in the day after we were both home for work that we got concerned.” She yawned just thinking about it. “And Padma was the healer on-call I believe when we arrived. I don’t know what she told you, but I promise we didn’t call Theo automatically. We went to her and we really did ask for her help, and I think she was trying to. It just happened that the next morning when Theo showed up they decided for him to take over.”

“So Padma knew you were there?” Ron’s voice again was low.

Hermione’s stomach started hurting as she tried to think back over the last seventy-two hours. “Er, yeah. I told you Ron, she saw us when we first got our room.”

“But she didn’t see you after? She didn’t know there was a big problem?”

“Well, I mean, at that point we were still dealing with semi-regular vomiting every hour, so, I imagine she knew there was a problem.”

“But then why didn’t she say anything?”

Hermione pulled the elastic out of her hair and started running her hands through it. The movement made her scalp hurt. “I mean, she did. Gave Scorp a busload of pain and nausea supressing potions, so she definitely did say something.”

Ron narrowed his eyes. “No. I meant, to me. Why didn’t she say anything to me if she knew my best friends’ kid was in the hospital and really ill.”

“Patient confidentiality?” Hermione asked weakly. Ron looked like he was about to protest when a voice came from behind her.

“What’s confidential?”

Hermione smiled when Harry walked in. She felt his hand on her hip and tilted her head back to look at him from below his chin. He left a quick kiss on her forehead before looking at Ron.

“Apparently you lot.” Their friend sighed from across the room. He looked back at Hermione. “I’m going to talk to her. And I still want her to talk to you. I’m telling you, I really think she would know what she’s doing with this stuff.”

“I know she would, Ron.”

“Padma?” Harry asked, squeezing her waist.

“Yeah, I just. I really think Nott might be leading you all in the wrong direction. I was telling Hermione if she just let Padma look at him, I think she’d have some really good ideas that don’t involve bloody blood curses.”

Harry snorted as he let go and walked around her. He grabbed a loaf of bread and moved to the vegetable drawer. “Yeah, I’ll let you tell Theo about that idea, how’s that sound?” He looked up, “Sandwich, love? Turkey or Ham?”

Hermione cringed, “I think I might be sick if I have to even see another piece of ham today.”

Harry smirked as he pulled the bags of cold cuts out of the ice box, ignoring the annoyed look Ron shot them both.

“First of all, I’d love to tell Nott to piss off—especially if it’d get him to stop acting like he’s better than everyone else. So I think I will. Second of all, what happened with the ham?”

Hermione pursed her lips, before standing to fix a cup of tea. “Can we not insult Theo tonight? Seeing as he’s just saved my son’s life, I think I have the right to institute a rule.” Ron moved to trade places with her, taking her seat and she saw him open his mouth but cut him off quickly. “No. I’m officially making a rule that no one can speak poorly about my friends in my house until they’re done healing my family.”

She filled the kettle with water and started the stove.

“So you’re saying when the kid is better, I can talk shit about him again?”

“Ron,” Harry’s voice was a warning.

“I’m asking you to leave Theo alone. Your bickering is exhausting on a good day, and I really don’t want to listen to it right now, please. He has given you no cause to be so unkind and I’m not listening to it in my home.”

“I have cause,” Ron started, but before he could finish, several pieces of luncheon meat had flown across the room and hit him in the face. Hermione looked at the perpetrator, but he was simply looking down innocently and putting the top halves on their dinner before passing her a plate. When she raised a brow he smirked.

“What? You said you weren’t going to eat the ham.”

“If I had a sickle for every time an argument today was settled by magicking ham at someone else, I’d have two sickles.” She mumbled, surprisingly pleased with herself at the grin that earned her.

“Ha! Well, at least I have a sense of aim. Scorpius just blew it up on you.”

 “Hear that?” She scoffed half-heartedly as she took her food back to the bar. “Do you want another Order of Merlin because your aim is better than a hysterical child’s accidental magic?”

Ron was peeling the damp meat from his face beside her and Hermione had to hold back her giggles when he started eating the pieces. It was such a strange sight but It felt like Hogwarts, for some reason. Being back at the table, just the three of them, and teasing one another like only best friends could.

They were quiet for a while, the only sound between them in the large house that of them eating. Hermione felt strangely content.

“You two are weird. And I work in a joke shop so that should tell you something.” Ron told them when he finished. Hermione’s eyes found Harry’s mid-bite and she laughed when he leaned over the island between them to press a kiss to her cheek anyways.

“Thanks.” He said, and it was right. They didn’t know what was happening or what their futures would be like right now. But in that moment, she felt oddly grateful to Theo for being right. Being home was much better than the hospital when the people she loved were there.

Chapter Text

The clock was just passing 8.15 when the floo alarm at Potter Manor went off. Hermione knew this because she was curled, rather conveniently, on the sofa with only two things in her range of vision: her husband, and Ronald’s wristwatch from where her head lay by his knees.

She’d come back a few minutes ago from looking in on Scorpius to find they’d moved seats. She and Harry had been taking turns making sure he was alright, but since she last sat down, she’d found herself growing rather drowsy.

The two men were half-heartedly discussing a recent Chudley Canon’s quidditch match—or at least, Harry was half-hearted. Ron still ardently defended the team as beginning in their ‘comeback season’. Personally, Hermione questioned how many ‘come backs’ a team could claim to have before they were required to actually come back. But she’d learned a long time ago that such commentary was not recommended, unless she wanted a lecture on player statistics, all of which she’d forget immediately.

“And all I’m trying to say is if you give Cornfoot just a bit more time—not even, give him a few more weeks and I’m telling you, that bloke won’t be missing a single ball.”

“Right, and—and I do see where you’re coming from, mate. But in a few weeks, won’t the season be near over?”

Hermione had to force down her laughter at the baffled look on Harry’s face.

Ron sat up then, forcing Hermione’s head to fall over as he adjusted his position to lean across the room. “But that’s exactly the point! Just in time for Championships—wait is someone here?” He cut off and Hermione forced herself to sit up.

“Oh, good timing. Harry, I’ll get Theo can you just…” Their eyes met and Hermione’s sentence needed no finishing as she stood and ran quickly to parlour. Harry’s groan of annoyance echoed through the walls.

When she got to the floo room, it was much brighter than earlier, all of the lights having been lit for their expected guest’s arrival, and Hermione was relieved to find one of her favourite people waiting for her, and dusting off the bottom of his work robes.

“Hi, love.” She said warmly when he looked up, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek.  

“Hey,” Theo’s smile was soft as he returned it.

She was surprised to notice the purple bruises beneath his eyes had grown deeper.  

“How was work?”

“Alright.” Theo shrugged, “I think I’m just exhausted.”

“And rightly so. You’ve been pulling absurd hours.” Hermione told him. More than one mediwitch and wizard had made that observation to her when she’d asked after him during their stay at the hospital. Now wasn’t the time, and she didn’t have the energy, but Hermione fully intended to follow up on a specific comment one nurse had made that she worried Theo might be using work to avoid going home. The woman cited that Theo had arrived early and left late to all of his shifts that week.

She felt exhausted just thinking about it. And tired thinking about why.  

Hermione loved her best friend, but she wouldn’t date him. And there were times when she worried after the man who was dating him.

Blaise was brilliant. Hermione would trust him with her life or any member of her family’s lives—Merlin, she’d made him Scorpius’s godfather for a reason. But there were moments when her friend was strangely thoughtless. He could be so caring and yet callous all in the same breath.

This week, for example, when he’d forgotten to write home that he’d be at work late, Blaise had shown hardly any remorse. He’d been helpful and a blessing to Hermione the entire time they’d worked together—she was woman enough to admit he’d been the reason they were able to finish in time. But he didn’t seem to care that the consequence of his staying with her had been significant. That he’d hurt Theo by not thinking of him. The most she’d been able to evoke after talking to him had been over the conversation he knew he’d have to have with Theo later, not for worrying him or for forgetting to let him know.

It wasn’t Hermione’s place to speak on other people’s relationships, especially since Merlin knew she hated when people tried to speak on hers. But sometimes, she did wonder if Theo might deserve better? Not that Blaise didn’t deserve happiness too. And not that it wouldn’t give her the greatest joy in the world to see her two friends blissful and together forever.

But when she saw Theo like this, weary and unkempt, Hermione couldn’t help but want for someone to take care of him. And she wondered sometimes, if that person might not be Blaise. 

He smiled though as he stretched his shoulders and Hermione put the thought aside for another day. “I’ve been pulling normal hours for a healer, love. We’re not supposed to be well rested.”

“I think literally any healer’s manual would tell you otherwise.”

“Well, that’s because they’re books, they’re not meant to do much more than sit around.” He gave her a crooked grin as she motioned for him to follow her through the house.

“You’re ridiculous.” She scoffed. “Are you hungry?”

“Starved, but it’s the weekend so I’m hopeful Blaise is cooking something as we speak.”

She nodded, hoping he was right.  

“Oh well that’s perfect. We’ll try not to take up too much of your time then, that way you can get…home…” Hermione’s words trailed off awkwardly as they rounded the corner to the sitting room and the voices inside reached them.

Her feet stopped cold as she took in the scene. Harry’s hand desperately pulling on his hair as he stared at the ceiling in aggravation. Ronald leaning forward on the sofa again, his face red and his voice raised. The air was thick with agitation and Hermione grimaced.

“I don’t see why you won’t let me, Harry. It’s insulting that you didn’t even try. I could have called her and she’d have been here an hour ago.”

Harry’s eyes found hers pleadingly and it took less than a second for Ron to notice the shift before he turned to face the newcomers.

“What the hell is he doing here, Hermione?” Ronald snapped, his eyes glaring at the figure behind her.

Hermione wanted to fix this, really she did, but before she could even try to deescalate the situation, Theo was there, his sneer audible in his voice. “I was just about to ask the very same question.”

“I was invited, Nott.”

But were you though? Hermione had to bite herself from pointing out. She could see the same thought written on Harry’s face as he side-eyed Ron.

“Y’know it makes sense now. I’ve been wondering why all of Britain felt strangely more insufferable today. Now I know—someone let you back in.” The fully grown adult wizard glared from behind her and Hermione wanted to stomp on his foot.

Instead, she tried to cut in, “Both of you, can’t we just take a deep breath?”

But neither listened and Ron’s voice dripped with mockery as he taunted, “Miss me, did you?”

“Oh, but of course. In the way someone misses a migraine.”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, “I’m going to get a migraine.” She muttered, as the two—once again, adult wizards—squabbled on.

“You would be familiar with those,” Ron said, “seeing as everyone who has to listen to your stupid voice must get headaches all day.”

“Please, like you know how to listen to anyone, Weasley.”

Ron bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh you want to see? Let’s try it on, Go away.”

Hermione groaned as Ron responded. “Oh, that was real clever. Here’s my turn, no one likes you!”

Their bickering filled the hall, each insult more childish than the last, and Hermione’s stress rising with each one. She closed her eyes, trying to count to ten and ground herself, but it wasn’t working. She couldn’t even tell who was saying what anymore.

“You’re an idiot.”

“You’re obnoxious.”

“You face is ugly and so is your monstrous hair.”

“Ha! Takes one to know one, or do you need me to buy you mirror?”

“You’d know where to get those, wouldn’t you? Seeing as you must own a thousand you bloody narcissist.”

She felt like she was back in second year, but instead of Draco Malfoy hurling slurs on the quidditch pitch to make himself feel bigger, it was two of her best friends being rude simply because they could. They were getting louder, and Hermione’s thoughts were curling in on one another, until finally something broke through.

“Enough.”

The single word sliced through the din like a spell. Hermione’s head jerked up, her hands falling to her sides as her eyes opened to find Harry. Stood beside her now and between the two wizards, she hadn’t even noticed him stand or cross the room. His presence was steady though, finally grounding her amidst the chaos.

“Alright, what the hell is wrong with you?” He snapped before taking a deep breath. “Both of you. Acting like you’re children. I mean it’s funny, I’ll admit that. Mildly amusing when we’re on the quidditch pitch and you both have your heads shoved up your arses. But not in our home. Not bloody tonight.” He turned, “I would have thought that was clear after what Hermione said earlier, Ron. If it’s not, then I think you need to leave because we’ve enough on our hands right now.”

Ron opened his mouth as if to say something, but Harry stopped him before he had the chance.

“Don’t.” He looked at Theo, his expression fierce. “I don’t even want to know what that was. Ron, yeah. You? No.”

Theo grimaced and Hermione felt one of Harry’s hands squeeze her hip. She leaned into the touch as she tried to avoid looking at either of their friends.

Theodore Nott and Ronald Weasley had never been a good combination.

It was easy to assume that—like with most Slytherins—distance from the war, their school years, and petty house rivalries would lead way to common ground between their classmates. No one in their fifth year would have imagined a combination like Milicent Bulstrode and Lavender Brown falling together. Certainly, Pansy Parkinson and Neville Longbottom had seemed the furthest thing from compatible when they were divided into their houses as children.

But adulthood and loss had taught them a great deal. And childhood rivalries had given way to deep bonds between all of them.

Except some.

Hermione and Padma Patil, for example, were unlikely to ever become friends (despite Hermione’s many efforts). But even the rift between Hermione and Padma was small when compared to another.

No one really knew why Ron and Theo hated one another. Sometimes Hermione questioned whether even they understood.

The two wizards had hardly interacted at school, Theo, never one to draw notice to himself had spent the majority of his time reading in the library or common room, while Ron had never really been one to read at all. There was no obvious reason for such tension between them. It wasn’t even as if Theo had joined his fellow Slytherins in their frequent harassment of the Weasley family.

Unlike Pansy Parkinson who had contributed to Ron’s torment as a child, but who Ron now considered to be one of his favourite mates because she never turned down the chance to go pubbing.

Theo and Ron simply hated one another.

There was no reason to it, and regrettably no limit to it either. So long as the two were within a close distance of one another, words would be exchanged.

It was easier when their partners were there. Padma, being the absolute wonder that she was—yes, Hermione could admit she was good for her friend, even if she didn’t understand why the witch hated her—had a certain knack for redirecting Ron from his anger with Theo. And Blaise usually got Theo’s attention by just snogging him until the wizard forgot Ron was even there.

In general, Hermione avoided having Ron and Theo in the same room like the plague. Harry was more used to it, seeing as they all played on the same quidditch recreational league. But Hermione’s exposure to them together was kept limited strictly to birthdays and holidays when there was no other option.

Overwhelming workdays, with heavy task loads and crowded schedules, she could do.

Overwhelming spaces though, with lots of people, loud noises, or in particular, aggressive shouting, she could not do.

“Come on.” Hermione found Theo’s hand and turned, pulling him behind her until they reached the foyer. As they walked through the halls, she could hear Harry and Ron still talking but didn’t listen.

“Hermione,” Theo started as they climbed the grand staircase. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve egged him on like that.”

“No. You shouldn’t have.” She pushed open the door that led to the east wing.

“It’s just—Weasley gets to me sometimes.”

She threw an unimpressed look over her shoulder. “Ronald gets to everyone, Theo. But most people don’t regress to the adolescent tendency of yelling when he does.”

He didn’t respond, and after a moment Hermione realised he’d stopped walking too. Theo was standing there, his eyes closed and his mouth tight until Hermione stepped forward.  

“I know and I’m sorry. I’ve just…” The breath he took was long and heavy and her hands itched to hug him for it. When he finally finished, he looked as tired as Hermione felt, but it was bone deep on him. “Had quite a long week.”

“Theo,” She didn’t know what to say. Obviously, Ron wasn’t the real problem here, but she didn’t know how to ask him to tell her what was.

“Don’t worry about me, love.” He forced a smile. “I don’t mean to burden you with my dramatics. I’m fine. I overreacted. I didn’t know Weasley would be here, and I took out on him what he had nothing to do with. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

He nodded lightly at her before walking forward, as though he would go to Scorpius’s room on his own. Hermione’s stomach sunk and she gaped at his back in confusion over the about-face he’d done. Was that what he did all day? When things were difficult, Theo just dismissed it? It wasn’t healthy. No wonder he’d exploded at Ron.

“But…you know you could?” She spoke up. Theo stopped walking but he didn’t turn to face her. “You could, burden me—it wouldn’t be a burden at all, really. I mean, that’s what friends are for, no?”

She could see his shoulders rising and falling again with another breath and continued.

“I’ve cried in front of you more times than I can count. Merlin, the number of times I’ve yelled to you because I didn’t understand why things in the world happened. You are one of my people, Theodore.” This time it was Hermione who had to take a breath to steady herself. “I would hate to think that I’m not one of yours.”

He turned and his expression was positively crestfallen. “Hermione, you are—I’m so sorry that I’ve made you feel like you’re—”

“Stop apologising!” She cried, the vigour with which she said it surprising both of them. “It’s not about me! Alright? It’s about you!”

She could see him preparing to try again.

“No! Stop. I’m not trying to—fuck.” She ran a hand through her hair, catching on what was left of her plait and pulling it. Her thoughts were far too scrambled for the seriousness of what she wanted to say. “I’m messing this up because I can’t even bloody think straight anymore.”

“No, you’re fine—it’s brilliant, don’t worry.” He was looking at her like he just wanted to make her feel better and it made her feel so much worse. How was she ruining this? She was supposed to be the one consoling him.

“I want you to come to me, Theo. I want to be a person you can talk to not just when you’re happy. Because it’s alright if you’re not always happy. You know that, right?” She smiled sadly. “I know from experience that the wizarding world is really difficult. And that’s with people to confide in. You don’t have to be happy, or you don’t have to be okay. I just want to be your friend.”

“We are friends, Hermione.”

“Yes, but you don’t talk to me.”

“I talk to you every other day.” He insisted and she felt so exhasperated.

“No, you don’t. We…chat. But you don’t talk. You don’t tell me about the hard stuff,”

“Hermione—”

“Because I know there’s hard stuff.” She sped up her words before he could finish. “And I feel like you don’t trust me with it.” Hermione thought about how to say what she wanted to next without being too forward. She didn’t know if there was one. She didn’t know how to find it, but she said what came to her mind. “Look, you’re mates with Harry, right?”

Theo frowned. “Of course I am.”

“But you didn’t tell him on Boxing Day when I dropped Scorp off at Sami’s house and spent the day at yours being upset because he forgot to ask off of work and I had to cancel our trip to Norfolk, did you?”

“Of course I didn’t.” He looked indignant.

“Why?”

“Because stuff happens, Hermione. Life happens; sometimes good people are shit. Potter loves you, he’s just…an idiot. You’re allowed to be angry at him—Salazar, you’d been looking forward to having that holiday for weeks. I’d be more surprised if you weren’t disappointed and angry. And I can like Harry without being blinded to that.”

 “And do you know it works in reverse?”

“What?”

“It works in reverse, Theo. I care about you. I want to see you happy. Just like I care about Blaise and want to see him happy. But . . . I would still . . . care about you . . .” Hermione hadn’t meant to start the conversation tonight, but when had any of the plans she’d made really lasted?  She wasn’t quite sure what the words were, but now that they were coming, she needed to get them out, regardless of if they landed poorly. She took a deep breath. “If Blaise . . . didn’t make you happy.”

Theo looked like a trapped animal. Hermione rushed to continue.

“I mean—please don’t misunderstand me, I adore you two together. I’m so happy to have you both in my life and have you be Scorpius’s godfathers. I’m not suggesting that you two should . . . anything necessarily. I just meant that . . . you’re important to me. I want you to know that, Theo. And if you ever wanted to talk or be upset, or bloody hell, even cry, I’m here. Even if it’s about . . . Blaise—but it also doesn’t have to be. I’m happy to listen to anything, alright?”

He was quiet, staring at her blankly as Hermione’s nerves ran fraught with worry that she’d just ruined everything and made her friend uncomfortable. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid witch. What was she thinking? Oh gosh he probably thought she wanted him to dump Blaise now.

But then Theo opened his mouth, “I’m going to go check on Scorpius.”

And Hermione’s heart plummeted past her stomach when he walked away.

She took a minute to collect herself, to gather her thoughts and give Theo a second in case he needed to be away from her. Or at least she thought it was a minute, but when she heard Harry coming up the stairwell she worried it might have been longer.

“Hey, you alright?” He asked, Hermione turned back to look at him. “I thought it was best if Ron headed home. Did something happen? Is it Scorp?” He looked quickly down the hall where the door to Scorpius’s room was cracked open.

She shook her head. “no, he’s fine—er, Theo’s in there with him.”

“Okay,” Harry nodded, stepping closer to her then. “Then why do you look like you’re about cry?”

“I did it again.” She muttered lowly.  

Harry frowned as he moved even closer and tilted his head so they were closer in eye level. “What was that?”

“I did it again. I pushed.”

His expression fell a bit, and he grabbed her hand from where it was picking at her other. “What happened?”

“I just wanted to—I want to help. I just . . . I thought maybe—but he— and then I, and now I’ve gone and upset him.” The heel of her palm found her forehead, but Harry pulled it away.

“None of that was a real sentence, love.”

“I wanted to help—I wanted Theo to know he could talk to me if he were upset about something because I worry about him. But then I went too far like I always do and I pushed and pushed and,” She bit her lip until she could taste blood. “He didn’t say anything.” She turned to look at Scorp’s door again before moving back to Harry. “But it felt like if I went inside, I’d probably make it worse.”

“Oh, Mione,”

Harry’s arms wrapped around her shoulders to pull her in. She buried her face in his sweater and tried not to let the tears fall. She was too tired to be doing this, she knew the exhaustion was making everything feel worse. But still, her lip trembled against him, and she could feel herself begin to cry.

“Why do I always do this?”

“You don’t.”

“Yes, I do. I think I’m helping, I think I’m building someone up and instead I push push push until I’ve pushed everyone away or made them angry.”

“Not everyone, love.” Harry said from above her; he leaned his face down to her ear though she didn’t look up. “We’ve been friends for years and you’ve not pushed me away yet.”  

Hermione pushed against his chest so she could look at him incredulously and shake her head. “Yes, I have! I mean look at this week! I thought I was being encouraging, caring about your goals and dreams. But instead, you’re too embarrassed to tell me you didn’t get a promotion and brush me off any time we’re in the same room! We barely talked for days, Harry! And the whole time I’d no idea what I’d done to upset you, but I knew everything I was trying to fix it just made it worse. Don’t tell me I’ve never pushed you away, it’s not true.”

His eyes had fallen closed in a grimace, but they opened when his palms came to cup her face. “Hermione, no. Look, I can’t fix it quickly and make it up to you. I know that. I wish I could go back and slap myself for not telling you the minute I found out. But that is not on you. You did nothing wrong, all week. All you did was care about me. Blimey, you’re the best wife a man could ask for and I’m sorry that I ever made you feel you’re not. It’s me, I was the problem here. My pride was wounded, and I was too embarrassed to admit it but I’m the one who was pushing away. Not you, love.”

She sniffled as Harry’s thumbs brushed her tears aside. “Well, what’s the difference?” she blubbered. “It was still my pestering. If I’d just let it be and not brought it up so much—”

“Then you wouldn’t be the woman I married.” He cut her off, pressing a kiss to her forehead quickly. “You wouldn’t be Scorpius’s mum, and both of our favourite person in this world. You push because you care, Hermione.  Do you know how much it means to have someone in your life who cares about you? In my life? I would have killed to have someone like you with me growing up. I still would. We’re lucky to have you, all of us. And Theo knows it too.”

“Doesn’t feel like it. Feels like I made him uncomfortable, and he didn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

“That’s because you’re smarter than all of us. And you usually figure out things before us too. Give him time.” His hand pushed a stray lock of curls behind her ear. “You mean well, and it doesn’t mean you’re wrong. But sometimes it’s not you pushing so much as cluing people in to things they’re not ready to see yet.”

Hermione bit her lip as she looked down the hall again. She didn’t want Theo do be angry at her when she went in. She didn’t want him to be upset. She knew she’d wanted to say it. She wanted him to know. But she’d never meant to hurt Theo or make him feel worse. “How much time?”

Harry seemed to have read her thoughts because he smiled sadly and reached for her hand to intertwine their fingers. “I think he may need a good bit, love. It’s been a long week. We’ve all had a load of stress on our plates. We need rest, and to focus on one thing at a time. First that means getting Scorpius better, then we’ll talk about him and Blaise if you want, yeah?”

“Yeah.” She squeezed his hand.

“You ready to go in?” He asked. Hermione nodded.

She followed him as they walked to Scorpius’s room. Inside, he was asleep and Theo was once again waving his wand over the little wizard’s head.

He looked so sweet, tucked in as he was. Scorpius’s blankets piled up to his chin and Padfoot was tucked gently beside him, wrapped up beneath his arm. If Hermione hadn’t known better, looking now, she would assume he was perfectly fine. Merlin how she wished that was the case.

She wished he were alright and healthy. She wished he’d just fallen asleep during story hour and hoped he was dreaming about lovely and happy things. She wanted to kiss him on his forehead and wake up tomorrow to Harry and him making pancakes together in the kitchen. She wanted to take him to the garden so they could colour together. And she wanted Harry to sit beside them drawing something so atrocious that Scorpius would be unable to contain his giggles as he tried to explain that the picture was not in fact what a turtle looked like.

But he wasn’t fine.

Hermione’s steps faltered when Theo glanced up at them for a moment, his face guarded. But he didn’t speak, and when he turned back to studying the runes over Scorpius’s head, her free arm wrapped around Harry, pulling herself closer to him.

They stood there for several minutes, the three of them. No one said a word as they waited for Theo to finish. At some point, Harry’s face came to rest behind her head, his lips pressed into her mess of a plait and she held his hand tightly.  

“He’s fine.” Theo said eventually. “Not fine, but—stable, and that’s the best we can hope for. I was right, being home is helping. His energy levels are rising over the last few hours, and his mind seems to have stopped running overtime as well. I’m keeping him on the potions, since those seem to have made the largest difference. They’re what’s keeping him drowsy, but that’s where I’d like him whenever he’s not eating.”

He ran a palm through Scorpius’s hair, gently. “I know it can feel frightening, but I am working to have the information I need soon to figure this out. You are not helpless, either of you, in this. Everything you are doing, feeding, comforting, providing him the time to rest and the warmth of your love is helping. Too often parents of patients feel that if they’re not brewing the potion itself, they’re not helping—it’s not true. The best thing you can do for Scorpius tonight is to rest, I’ll be back in the morning for his next round at breakfast, but he’ll need you both to support him when he takes them.”

“Thank you.” Harry told him. “Don’t know where we’d be without you.”

Theo’s lip twitched, “Lost, but so would most people.”

The two of them talked for a few minutes, but Hermione didn’t hear much of it. She dropped Harry’s arm and moved to kneel beside the small bed.

“You are so brave, my love.” She whispered as she looked down on him. “Mummy’s so proud of you. You’re so strong.”

He was so little in his bed, even as he’d grown so much. Hermione could remember when he was just the size of her forearm. She’d been so scared holding that tiny little baby. Terrified she might do something wrong and hurt him more than she already had. And it’d been such a relief when they let her take him home from the hospital.

She could hear Ron’s teasing laughter as Harry tried to assemble the baby basket, confident he could do it the muggle way yet failing entirely in their first flat. She’d spent hours just watching Scorpius sleep in there when the nursery was finally done.

There was something so arresting about watching the life you’d made exist.

Hermione had fought a war as a teenager, she’d spent six months petrified, and another six living as a fugitive. Most days, she felt far too old for twenty-three. But looking at Scorpius, as she rested her head on her arms, she couldn’t help but feel far too young to be this old.

“When you’re better, I promise, we can go to Flourish and Blots and Fortescue’s, and we’ll buy all the books and ice cream you want. Anything you want, darling, just—just get better.”