Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Draco knew he was destined for greatness. He’d been born for it, being a Malfoy. When he’d signed with the Falmouth Falcons as a young, 18 year old rookie, he never could have imagined he’d become their star player, building an empire in New York and earning a career high of six Stanley Cups. He’d had it all. The fancy cars, the fame, money, all of it. His NYC penthouse gleamed in opulence as it overlooked the city lights in Midtown East, his best friends and fellow teammates Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott were by his side, and his oldest friend Pansy Parkinson had become his personal manager. 

He’d long since kissed his hometown roots goodbye, shedding the small town image for a big city Megastar. Still, there were times, when it was quiet at night, and he was alone with his thoughts, when he would think of unruly curls and deep, amber eyes that could drink you in. He’d rub the worn and smooth pendant on his necklace fondly, his most prized possession which he never took off. He’d chuckle to himself in nostalgia and sigh at the ceiling until the sun broke dawn. He never did forget the price of his decision. A clap on the shoulder ripped Draco from his thoughts. 

“Draco, good to see ya! Long time.” 

Draco turned around on the bench, surprised to see an old and familiar face. He grinned at the tall brunette, standing up and pulling him in for a bro hug.

“Wood! Long time no see you twat. What are you doing here?” Draco asked his old team captain. 

Wood had retired three years ago and had passed the mantle onto Draco. Oliver Wood had always been a player deserving of the Hall of Fame and Draco was honored to be able to call him mentor. Wood lifted up his hockey stick. 

“I’ve been pulled out of retirement to whip the newbies into shape. Without their team captain, I’m afraid they’re a bit useless.”

Draco groaned, the boot on his leg still itching him in a cruel reminder of his soul crushing, career ending injury. 

“Don’t remind me.”

Last year he’d torn his ACL and Meniscus completely, and had shattered his femur. The doctors said he’d recover, but he’d never be the same again. It’d pushed him into an unknown grey area, and with his contract expiring, free agency a season away, many top clubs did not want to gamble on damaged goods. And while he loved living in New York and playing for the Falcons, he dreamed of being picked up by LA, the best team in the NHL. Those hopes had all been dashed.

“You’ll get there, Draco. There’s no one as tenacious as you.” 

Draco rolled his eyes, but his body language betrayed him. He was nervous. If he didn’t get picked up by a club soon, he’d be forced to finish his physical therapy at his family’s mansion in Northbridge, a task he did not fancy doing, because then he’d be subjected to his mother’s whims and her horrid attempts to set him up on blind dates. He wanted to do no such thing. The very idea of returning to Northbridge made his skin crawl. It wasn’t that he hated it, quite the opposite, really. 

There had been a time when the cracked sidewalks and snow slushed streets had felt like home, when the scent of pine from the tree line behind the school rink had filled his lungs with something like comfort. But he had outgrown it, or at least he told himself he had, because going back meant facing things he had left behind, it meant peeling open old wounds that had never quite scarred over. He had no interest in bleeding again for a past he’d buried under champagne ice baths and city lights.

Still, the calls weren’t coming. His agent had gone quiet, and even Pansy, ever the storm in stilettos, had stopped spinning her usual optimism. The truth was brutal and harsh. Clubs wanted younger players and no injuries. They wanted agility, not caution. Flash, not history. Draco Malfoy had been brilliant, he’d won rookie of the year his first year even, but brilliance only mattered if you could still skate like you were carving your name into the ice, and he couldn’t, not yet and maybe not ever again.

It was frustrating, prematurely retiring from Hockey when you were capable of so much more, but the doctors prognosis was grim, and, there was only so much more they could do.  There were still two months left before training started, it wasn’t to late to get the call about a signing next season, he just hoped this wouldn’t be the end. 

He filled his days with routine, the kind that numbed rather than healed. Mornings began with physio, brutal in its precision and utterly thankless, stretching muscles that no longer trusted him and coaxing strength from limbs that used to obey without question. The gym followed, where he hid behind tinted glass and state-of-the-art machines, pushing himself past the edge of pain because it was the only thing that made him feel. Afternoons were a blur of sponsor meetings he no longer cared about, half hearted brand calls, and Blaise dragging him to bars filled with people too young to remember his first season on the ice. 

Nights were becoming the worst. He would sit in the penthouse with the lights low and the city spread before him, glass of whisky in hand. New York still shimmered, still roared with possibility, but he no longer felt like he belonged to it.

The skyline meant nothing if he could not stand beneath it and be more than what he was now, a ghost haunting his own success. He would drink too much, train too hard, sleep too little. Sometimes, he would lace up his skates long after midnight and take to the private rink in the basement, circling and circling until his knee buckled and he collapsed against the boards, breathing through clenched teeth and sweat soaked regret.

Pansy watched it all with an expression that hovered between fury and heartbreak. She never said the word home, not once, but it hung in the air every time she walked through his door. She would sit on the couch in her heels and power suit, nursing a scotch and reminding him of contracts he had not signed and people he had not called back. She never mentioned Hermione either. That, at least, she respected. But Draco could see it in her eyes when she glanced at the chain around his neck, when her gaze lingered too long on the worn, lion shaped pendant tucked beneath his shirt.

He told himself he was not avoiding Northbridge. He told himself he had nothing to prove and nothing to say. But he knew, in the quiet between dreams, that some ghosts would not stay buried. And if he stepped foot on that cracked pavement again, if he so much as looked into eyes the color of warm amber and walked in the fall orchards, he would unravel. Not because he still loved her, but because he never stopped loving her, the girl who got away. If he went back home, there was always a chance his past would catch up to him. He’d burnt a lot of bridges and friendships to get to where he was now, it’s only natural he felt apprehensive. 

When he’d left Northbridge at eighteen years old, he’d been at a crossroads. If it wasn’t for his Chemistry professor their senior year, he would have never been partnered with bookworm swot extraordinaire Hermione Granger. He’d have never learned true love, what it meant to love someone so wholly. First loves were like that, he guessed, and if that was the case, why did he still love her to this day?

Granger was destined for greatness. Wicked smart, top of their class, and pretty (in a bookish sort of way). She never tried to be someone she wasn’t and what you saw with her was what you got. Draco found it so refreshing, being surrounded by fake friends and other jocks and cheerleaders who wore masks like an armor. He didn’t have to be anything other than Draco when he was with her. 

When he finally got the call from Pansy, it was not the call he had hoped for. There was a club, Texas, one of the worst in the league mind you, but they wanted him for a trial, a year rental, tentative pending a physical and tryout. Draco had no leg to stand on (literally) and with Pansy’s gentle reminder of beggars can’t be choosers, he’d decided to take the tentative deal. This left him with approximately two months to figure his life out.

Hermione smiled as she popped open the commercial oven door, pulling out a tray of popovers from the machine and dropping them onto the cooling wrack. The sun had not risen yet, the time only 3:30 in the morning, but desserts didn’t bake themselves and Hermione was never one to slack. Her CD player sat on a medium high shelf in the corner of the bakery, currently playing the latest Backstreet Boys album. It was one of her favorites to jam to in the early morning. Hermione moved with practiced ease, sliding the tray into place and reaching for the next batch of batter without missing a beat. 

Her apron was already streaked with flour, her curls pulled up into a loose, low bun that had begun to wilt under the oven’s heat in her claw clip, and her fingers danced with muscle memory that came only from years of doing the same sacred ritual every morning. The bakery, small and sun dappled when the day finally broke, was still cloaked in shadow, save for the soft yellow glow of the overhead lights and the flickering candle she kept lit near the register for luck and, of course, the scent of mahogany and green apples. She hummed along to the music, off-key and unapologetic, her hips swaying just enough to betray the rhythm.

The streets outside were silent, the world not yet stirring, it felt like she existed in a pocket of time untouched by anything outside the bakery walls. The mixer whirred in the background as she reached for the lavender honey glaze, the scent already coaxing a sleepy smile from her lips. These were the hours she loved most, when it was just her and the dough, the sugar and the stillness, and the quiet kind of peace that came from knowing she had built something entirely her own.

It had taken years, of course, and nothing had come easy. Years of whispered judgments and lonely nights, of raising a child with flour-covered hands and exhaustion creeping beneath her eyes as she kept the bakery afloat in it’s early years. Though being marginally successful now, that had not always been the case. Hermione had caused quite the scandal in their small hometown circles, turning down MIT and giving birth to a baby boy nine months later.

There had always  been speculation, ideas about who the father might be, how she’d gotten pregnant, whom she may have been dating at the time, but nothing had ever been confirmed for sure, Hermione had made sure to shield her little Scorpius from that. But this space, this warmth, was hers. No matter what ghosts lingered outside, no matter which name still echoed in the back of her mind like a song stuck on repeat, she would not trade a single moment of the life she’d lived, not even for the one thing she had never let herself want again. 

She wiped her hands on her apron and leaned against the counter, the warmth of the ovens behind her seeping into her spine as she stared out the fogged window facing Main Street. The sky outside was still an inky shade of blue, the first threads of dawn just beginning to stretch across the horizon, brushing the rooftops in quiet gold. She could just make out the crooked sign of the barber shop across the road, the streetlamp flickering above it with stubborn persistence.

In a few hours, the town would come alive, and she would smile for her regulars, recommend her seasonal crumble, and pretend that her heart didn’t ache every time a stranger with grey eyes walked through the door. Her small bakery stood out on the cobbled street, it’s pink, baby blue, and cream themes a stark contrast to some of the older buildings, but everybody loved her coffee and doughnuts, and so it’d become a staple to locals and tourists alike.

On mornings like this, when the town was asleep and the air held that strange early morning quiet, she would let herself think of him. Not the headlines or the highlight reels version of him, not the gold-tipped arrogance or the screaming fans that the tabloids constantly wrote about, but the boy who kissed her with shaking hands beneath the bleachers after his final game of the season, the boy who touched her like she was the only thing tethering him to earth, and the boy who left without looking back to chase his dreams. The boy who, in the shape of her son’s face, never really left at all.

The kitchen timer buzzed, pulling her out of the tide of memory. She blinked, the soft ache behind her ribs lingering, and moved quickly to pull the second tray of popovers from the oven before they browned too far. The warmth flooded her face as she leaned over the open door. She set the tray down gently, then rested her palms on the counter, eyes fixed on the way the light from the candle flickered across the stainless steel surface.

She had not meant to name the bakery after him, not really. It had just slipped out one morning, long before the renovations were done, before the walls were painted and the kitchen stocked, when she was curled on the floor, seven months pregnant, with a cup of cold tea and a stack of paperwork she could not make herself finish as her best friend Harry droned on and on about his plans for after college. The name had come to her fairly easily, recalling a memory not so long ago that was one of her favorites. And so the name Crumb & Clover was born. At the time, it had made her laugh, a bitter little sound that was lost in translation somewhere in her chest and made her want to scream. But the longer she stared at it on the page, the more it began to feel like something that belonged to her, to them.

The crumb was easy, she had been scraping by then, baking in borrowed kitchens, raising a child alone with a meager salary and just enough money from her inheritance to purchase a small farm house to live and sustain off of. But the clover? That was his, that was always his. The boy with grey eyes and a crooked grin, who once told her she was the rarest thing he had ever touched, and then left without holding on.

She had not seen him since, not in the flesh, at least, but she saw him every day in her son’s face, in the tilt of his jaw and the way he scowled when he concentrated, in the way he skated across frozen ponds like the ice was an extension of himself, so similar to his father it ached. 

In the quiet, cruel hours of early morning, she sometimes wondered if that was enough, if the ghost of him in her son’s laughter was better than not having him at all. She wondered if she should have said something, if she should have told him she was pregnant back then, but when she’d seen the joy on his face after being drafted, when he’d spun her around and kissed her so deeply she saw stars, she didn’t have the heart to crush his dreams, to grow to resent each other in the future because their son had crushed his dreams before they could even start, so she let him go. She would rather her own dreams be crushed than to crush his, selfless person that she was. It was okay if it happened to her, in her mind, but it couldn’t happen to him, not to Draco.

It started with the smell of burnt sugar and cheap vinyl. The chemistry lab always ran too hot, the radiators working overtime, and Hermione’s seat by the far counter was permanently sticky from whatever idiot last spilled their experiment. She hated it, and she hated that he always showed up ten minutes late with his bag unzipped and his sleeves rolled to the elbows, acting like the rules didn’t apply to him and his possee.

Draco Malfoy was exactly the kind of boy she had spent most of her life avoiding, finding nothing appealing about boys who handled sticks. He was loud, lazy with his charm, worshiped like a minor god in their hockey obsessed town, and always surrounded by girls with curled hair and too much perfume. He walked through the halls with his varsity jacket slung over one shoulder and that sharp, sideways grin that made other people forget he barely scraped Cs.

Hermione did not forget. She remembered everything, especially how, in sophomore year, he called her a walking syllabus under his breath and then laughed when the rest of the table did too. But Mr. Slughorn had paired them up, claiming something about complementary skill sets, and she had swallowed her protest with a forced smile and a throat full of fury. It had been two weeks since then, and still, they moved around each other like magnets unsure which way to pull.

“ You’re measuring it wrong,” she said without looking up, her voice clipped as she noted the exact milliliters on her own beaker. “You added the ethanol too fast, the solution’s going to spike.”

Draco glanced at her, one eyebrow arched, and leaned closer just enough to be irritating. 

“You know, some people say thank you when someone does the hard part.”

She rolled her eyes and kept writing. 

“Some people know how to read the lab manual.”

He chuckled under his breath, and it startled her more than she wanted to admit. It wasn’t cruel, not even mocking, just amused, like he was seeing something new and not entirely unpleasant.

“I thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” he said, tilting his head toward her notes. “Your handwriting is absolutely feral.”

Hermione looked up at him, lips parting in protest, but the words never quite formed. His smile flickered, not his usual smirk, but one she'd never seen directed at her before. She blinked once, then twice, and turned back to the lab bench with heat rising behind her ears. She didn’t speak to him the rest of class.

The Malfoy estate sat just past the lake on the north side of town, where the trees grew taller and the air smelled different, richer almost. She had seen it from a distance before, its sloping brick façade and sprawling front drive with wrought iron gates, but standing in the grand foyer beneath a chandelier that probably cost more than her parents’ mortgage made something tighten in her chest.

Draco hadn’t even blinked, he had tossed the car keys of his red sports car into a crystal bowl, kicked off his sneakers with the ease of someone too used to privilege to notice it, and told her the library was just down the hall.

The library, he had a freakin library! It wasn’t a room, either, it was an entire wing. Books lined every inch of the high arched walls, their spines glinting gold in the late afternoon light. There was a fireplace already lit, crackling beneath an oil painting of some severe-looking ancestor in foxhunting reds. The ceiling was carved wood, vaulted and stained dark, and the velvet armchairs looked like they had never known a crumb or a stain in their lifetime.

It smelled like aged paper and lemon polish, and Hermione stood in the doorway, completely still, her backpack hanging from one shoulder like an afterthought. Draco looked back when he noticed she hadn’t followed. 

“You coming, or are you going to gawk all day?”

She stepped in slowly, her eyes wide. 

“Do you actually live here?”

He smirked, setting his bag down on the long oak table in the center of the room. 

“No, I live in the stables with the horses, this is just where I bring know-it-all’s when I want to impress them.”

She snorted, brushing past him and dropping her things with a little more force than necessary. 

“So this is where the silver spooned elite hide when they’re not being fed grapes by servants.”

His grin widened. 

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Granger.”

“Oh, I’m not jealous,” she said, pulling out her notes and smoothing them over the tabletop. “I just didn’t realize I’d be studying chemistry in a Bond villain lair.”

He laughed low and genuine, it startled her into looking up. His eyes were lighter when he laughed, less guarded, the ice melting at the edges into something almost easy.

“Well,” he said, folding himself into a chair and flipping open his textbook, “at least now you know how your lab partner lives. What about you? Let me guess. Cottage on the south side, parents who still use coupons, and a kitchen that smells like garlic bread and real life.”

Hermione arched a brow, but her mouth curved before she could stop it. 

“And how would you know that?”

“I’m observant, Granger. My best friend just so happens to live in your neighborhood, actually. Theodore Nott, do you know him?”

Hermione rolled her eyes but nodded.

“One, you’re incredibly full of yourself, and two, yes, I do know the Nott family.”

Draco grinned.

“I’m right though, aren’t I? I’ve stayed at Theo’s house enough times to know.”

She hesitated, then leaned back in her chair, letting her shoulders relax just a little. 

“It’s not a cottage, mind you, but a townhouse. Two bedrooms, one bathroom. My dad’s obsessed with fixing things himself, even when he breaks them worse, and my mum can’t cook to save her life, but she tries, so usually I eat outside before coming home so I don’t starve. And yes, garlic bread every Sunday with pasta.”

He nodded, surprisingly quiet.

“Bet you never had to share a bathroom with anyone in your life,” she added with a snort.

He smirked again, but there was something honest underneath it now. 

“I share a bathroom with a whole hockey team at school, Granger. I’m not stranger to a lack of personal space.”

She blinked. 

“No, I suppose not.”

He grinned. 

“Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”

Hermione snorted.

“I promise you, Malfoy, you are the least impressive boy I have ever met.”

Their eyes met across the table, something warm and light passing between them. In this moment, they were just two teenagers, tiptoeing toward the truth of each other, one joke at a time. Who’d have thought their ending would be anything but happy.

The words caught her off guard, he had said it so casually, like it meant nothing, like the thought had just occurred to him while they packed up their chemistry notes and wiped down the lab benches for the day. But there was a flicker in his voice, something careful, and when she glanced up at him, his eyes were already on her, watching her. She laughed once, disbelieving. 

“Your friends? You mean your fellow hockey goons and the girls who look like they were born with highlighters and fillers in their cheekbones?”

Draco smirked, adjusting the strap of his bag as they stepped out into the hallway, the buzz of last period still humming through the lockers and fluorescent lights. 

“They’re not all that bad, Granger, and they’ve been asking about you, you know. Ever since you called me out in front of the entire team in the lunchroom they’ve been talking about you nonstop.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. 

“I did not call you out.”

Draco grinned.

“You said I had the critical thinking skills of a potato and that if I spent more time on our project instead of being a brain dead oaf, I’d have a better chance in life.”

“You would though,” she said, trying not to smile.

He grinned, pleased with himself, and leaned closer as they walked. 

“Come to the bonfire, Granger. For me?”

She hesitated, her fingers twisted around the strap of her satchel, her brows pulling inward just enough to betray the storm quietly gathering behind her eyes. The last time she had gone to one of the senior parties, she had left early, her stomach aching from pretending she belonged as she tried to blend in with Ron and Harry. Her world was textbooks and debate meets and quiet afternoons in the library with a good book. His was bonfires and beer and the kind of laughter that roared without apology. They were not the same.

“You don’t have to say yes,” he said, his voice softer now, almost uncertain. “But I’ll be there. And the fire’s huge, there’s this old couch someone dragged out to the field that’s perfect for stargazing, and usually, at the end of the night, we all take four wheeler’s out for a spin on the moonlit trails.”

She looked at him and thought of the hours they had spent bent over lab notes and vending machine snacks, of how he no longer flinched when she corrected him, of how he laughed differently when it was just her. She wondered what it would be like, to cross over into his world for a night, just one.

“Fine,” she said, smoothing her thumb over the corner of her notebook. “But if one of your friends spills Natty Light on my shoes, I’m never coming back again.”

He grinned wide, bright, boyish, and unguarded. 

“Deal.”

When she showed up later that night, standing on the edge of the firelight in an old sweatshirt and jeans, she saw him break away from his group the second he spotted her, like gravity itself had tilted in her direction. He walked toward her with his hands in his hoodie pockets and that crooked grin she would never forget, she felt it for the first time as her heart did pirouettes. She had no idea then how much it would cost her, only that it had already begun.

The roar of the crowd still echoed through the metal bones of the bleachers above them, rhythmic and wild, a heartbeat that did not belong to just one person but to an entire town. The cold steel beneath her thighs sent little tremors through her jeans, but Hermione barely noticed. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold air of the rink, her hands still tingling from clapping, and her eyes sparkled with something breathless and warm as she watched Draco, fully geared up, hover over her in this somewhat private space.

They had slipped away in the chaos, ducking behind the stands while the rest of the team was lifted onto shoulders and swallowed by lights and glory. He had grabbed her hand without thinking, laced their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world, and pulled her into the shadows with nothing but a crooked grin and a “come on” whispered close to her ear. 

“You did it,” she said softly, her breath forming little clouds in the air between them. “You actually won state! That’s so amazing, Draco.”

Draco turned, eyes bright, and surged forward before she could say anything else. He wrapped her in a tight, thoughtless hug, his arms around her waist, her face tucked against his shoulder, the wool of his jersey rough against her cheek. He smelled like sweat and adrenaline and that aftershave he borrowed from Blaise that made her knees go weak. He was warm all over, pulsing with something electric, and when he pulled back just enough to look down at her, his face was flushed with something more than triumph. Their eyes met, held, a breath stretched to its very edge.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Her lips parted. 

“You’re asking?”

Draco chuckled quietly.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said, his voice rougher now, not from the cold but from something else entirely. “I want all of it, Granger. Not just as chemistry partners, I want you. I want this summer, I want you at every stupid bonfire and late night diner run, I want to see you barefoot in my backyard at three in the morning, stealing strawberries from the garden and telling me I’m full of shit.”

Hermione stared up at him, her heart thudding. She could still hear the crowd above them, still feel the rush of wind through the bleachers, but nothing mattered except the boy in front of her. The boy who had annoyed her in chemistry, who had made her laugh in the library, who had coaxed her out of her own rules until she found herself leaning in closer and closer and never wanting to stop.

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice shaking. “Yes to all of it.”

When he kissed her, it was nothing like she expected. It was soft at first, tentative, the kind of kiss that asked more than it took. His hand slid up to her cheek, fingers trembling, and she rose on her toes to meet him fully, to fall into him like a homecoming. It was warm, hungry, and impossibly gentle. When they broke apart, she had to lean her forehead against his to remember how to breathe. It was only her second kiss, but the first hadn’t counted.

That had been with Ron, sophomore year, behind the science building after a homecoming dance, and it had been all teeth and wet tongues and clumsy hands with no idea what to do and all the awkwardness that accompanied it. This, this was entirely different. This was everything she had been waiting for without knowing it. Draco smiled, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. 

“You taste like peppermint.”

She laughed, breathless. 

“You taste like sweat and Gatorade.”

Draco kissed her forehead.

“Romantic.”

Hermione tapped his nose.

“The most.”

The stars hung low that night, pressed like diamonds into the black silk of the sky, casting soft glimmers through the arched glass ceiling of the Malfoy conservatory. The space had always felt too elegant for teenagers, with its tall palms and polished marble, its antique chaise lounges and sculpted fountains. They lay together on a blanket Draco had pulled from one of the storage closets, spread across the floor between the orchid beds and a low table cluttered with candles and empty teacups.

Her head rested against his shoulder, their legs tangled under a shared quilt, his hand lazily tracing patterns along the inside of her wrist. She had never felt so weightless. The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine and his voice was a low murmur beside her ear as he recited constellations he had memorized just to impress her.

Staring into his eyes, listening to him talk, the romantic ambiance of the night, she let her hand slid over the buttons of his pants, slow and uncertain, feeling the rhythm of his breath where it broke unevenly beneath her touch as she tentatively stroked where she suspected he’d be. He turned to look at her and the expression on his face made her heart catch. It was not hunger or lust, not only that at least, it was love, like she was something he had never believed in until now, something he still wasn’t sure he deserved to touch.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice hoarse, his thumb brushing her cheek. “If we start, I won’t be able to stop, Granger.”

She nodded, her eyes steady. 

“I’ve never been more sure of anything Draco.”

He kissed her like he had waited his whole life to do it properly, no teasing, no bravado, just aching, careful devotion as his lips slotted against her own. His lips were warm and familiar, and his hands trembled as they pushed her shirt higher, then off completely as he moved over her like the ocean does the shore, slow and inevitable, their bodies coming together. She had never been naked with someone before, not like this, not bare in the heart and the body all at once.

The way his toned and muscular body hovered over her filled her with tender anticipation. With him, there was no fear, there was only the stretch of stars above them, the breathless gasp of skin meeting skin, and the kind of trust only two souls could have for the first time.

He touched her like she was something rare and fleeting, like she might disappear if he was too rough, too fast, too anything. His fingers were reverent as they brought her to the edge, his mouth patient as he brought her over it, and when he finally slid into her for the first time, slow and shaking himself, she felt open in more ways than one. Her breath hitched as he filled her so completely, her eyes fluttered closed at the new sensations setting her nerves on fire.

All she could do was feel. The press of his body, the push and pull as he disappeared and reappeared within her, the way he whispered her name like it was the only word that had ever mattered as he grunted his release and stilled inside her, forehead resting on her collar bone as he panted.

They lay together in the quiet, her head on his chest, his hand smoothing her curls back from her face, the blanket now draped over their lower halves. The stars had shifted slightly, and the candles had burned low, but the world outside remained unchanged and no one had been the wiser. Inside, however, everything was different. She could feel it in the spaces between their bodies, in the warmth that had settled into hers, in the way his thumb still moved in slow circles on her skin like he could not bear to stop touching her.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words barely audible, like a confession or a prayer, but she’d heard them.

Hermione didn’t answer right away, she just curled closer to him, pressed her lips to his collarbone, and smiled against his skin as her eyes fluttered closed with sleep.

"I love you, too."

She had no idea how long they would last, how the world would press in and pull them apart, but that night, under the stars and the glass and the weight of first love, she believed him. For the first time in her life, she let herself believe in a forever, a forever with Draco Malfoy.

Chapter Text

The sky outside his penthouse had already darkened, soft blue drowning beneath the weight of evening, city lights flickering to life like static across glass. Draco stood by the window, one hand wrapped around a crystal tumbler of bourbon, the other resting loosely at his side, fingers twitching with something restless.

The silence had been constant lately, filling the space between text messages and unreturned calls, between training sessions that left his muscles sore and his spirit raw. He had been waiting, holding his breath for days, and he already knew, somehow, what Pansy had come to say before she said it.

He heard her heels before he saw her, loud, purposeful, a storm approaching in leather boots and Chanel. The door opened with the sound of a keypad beeping, she walked in without a word, her black coat still buttoned, a manila folder clutched in her hand. He didn’t turn.

“You’re late,” he said, voice low, brittle with exhaustion.

“My date with Neville ran late,” she replied, crossing the room with the ease of someone who had memorized it. 

She set the folder down on the marble counter and shrugged off her coat, tossing it over the back of the couch before pouring herself a drink. Draco didn’t move from the window, the bourbon in his glass caught the light, but it tasted like ash on his tongue.

“So,” he said after a beat, “was it a yes?”

She didn’t answer. She sipped slowly, her eyes on him like she was waiting for him to flinch. When he didn’t, she sighed and spoke, her voice quieter than he expected.

“Texas passed.”

His jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck straining. Still, he didn’t turn.

“They said you looked good,” she continued, walking toward the couch, heels now muffled by the thick rug. “But you’re not last season’s Draco Malfoy, and they’re not looking to gamble.”

He brought the glass to his lips again, drank deep, and finally turned from the window, the city glowing behind him, lights flickering as if in goodbye.

“And that’s it?”

Pansy sighed.

“For now.”

He let out a slow breath, the kind that came from somewhere too deep to trace. His fingers tapped the rim of the glass, his expression unreadable.

“You want me to lie?” she asked, standing now, folding her arms. “Tell you they said maybe later, or that they loved your form? That they’re just waiting for you to finish rehab before they call back?”

“No,” he said, setting the glass down with too much care. “I want the truth.”

“Then here it is,” she said, her eyes hard now. “They don’t believe in you the way they used to and maybe it’s not just about your leg. It’s about you not knowing who you are if you’re not the best.”

The words hit like a slap, exacting and brutal only the way Pansy could deliver. He didn’t flinch, but she saw the way his fingers curled into fists at his sides. She walked over to him, her hand landed on his shoulder, a familiar weight, steady and grounding from one of his oldest childhood friends.

“There’s nothing left for you here, Draco,” she said gently. “You’ve already bled this city dry. Maybe it’s time to go home and, I don’t know, reevaluate your future.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite anything at all.

“Northbridge?”

She nodded once. 

“Northbridge.”

He looked away again, toward the skyline, the bourbon forgotten, the silence heavier than ever. The city had taken so much from him, and now it was offering him nothing in return. All he had left was a last resort dressed in memories and ghosts, and a woman he hadn’t stopped dreaming about in seven long years.

“Then I guess I’m going home,” he murmured, voice low and empty.

Pansy didn’t say anything else, just stood beside him, watching the lights of Manhattan flicker like stars too far to reach. When she did finally leave, she told him he still had to wrap up a few endorsement deals, but afterwards, he needed to contact his lawyers to tie up loose ends and prepare for the next chapter of his life, whatever that may be. Draco stood there for a long while, watching the city pulse beneath him in slow, silent rhythms, his reflection faint in the glass. He had spent years believing this skyline would always belong to him, that this world, this version of himself, would never end.

He had outgrown this place, or maybe it had outgrown him, and he could not decide which truth hurt more. His body was tired, that was true, he’d been the star player, but at what cost? His name, once sacred in the press and locker rooms, had started to feel like an obligation, an honorable mention to the new talent filtering into the league. He was old news, the injured star whose career ended before his time, never mind that he’d smashed records as a rookie and brought the Falcons Six Stanley Cups.

He moved through the penthouse slowly, trailing his fingers along the back of the leather couch, past the coffee table stacked with magazines he no longer read, through the kitchen with its untouched marble and imported knives he had never learned to use. Draco stopped when he reached the hallway leading to his bedroom, his feet rooted to the spot. On the console table by the door sat a small silver frame, the photo was old, faded, taken one summer on a disposable camera with fingers that trembled.

Her eyes were laughing, her head tipped back, hair wild from wind and lemonade and something they had never named. He was in the background, blurry and stupidly in love. His grin was wide, too wide, like he hadn’t yet learned theirbending. He picked it up, his thumb brushing the corner of the glass. The edges were worn, the metal cool in his hand. He hadn’t looked at it in over a year, not since the last time he had said her name aloud and let it echo in the dark after a night of drinking with this teammates. The thought of her had always come with a taste.

The memory of her skin pressed to his beneath the stars, the sound of her breath when she laughed into his neck, the way she used to steal his hoodies and leave flour fingerprints on his cheek like she owned him when she’d rope him into helping her bake cookies on a lazy Saturday. He had not seen her in seven years, but he knew, even now, that she had his entire heart, mind, body, and soul. He had left it there with her the day he’d waved to her from the training bus as it pulled away from the town square.

Draco set the frame back down and turned away, the glass catching the faint tremble in his hands. He did not sleep that night, he only packed, quiet and methodical, folding his old jerseys like they still mattered, and staring at the empty spaces in his closet like they were graves of a life he no longer had the privilege too. When the sun rose, cold and gold against the skyline, he was already gone, his lawyer insisting he’d handle everything, and Pansy promising to tie up the rest of his loose ends before checking up on him in a week or so.

The rink was always cold this time of year, the kind of cold that seeped into your fingertips even through gloves, that bit at your skin no matter how many layers you wore. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting a glow across the ice as little bodies zipped back and forth, wobbling like baby deer on skates far too sharp for their size. It was chaotic, it was noisy, and to Hermione, it was pure and unshakable hell. But Scorpius loved it, so she endured.

He skated with a kind of focus that didn’t seem to belong to a child, his eyes narrowed under the cage of his helmet, his posture already sharp with discipline. She watched him weave through cones, fast and precise, as though the world depended on how tightly he could cut across the blue line. His hair, pale and blonde in the rink lights, stuck to the edge of his forehead, and when he pulled off his helmet during water breaks, those stormy grey eyes, so achingly familiar, searched the stands for her every time.

Scorpius Granger was a contradiction in every breath he took. His features were delicate, freckles dusted lightly across the bridge of his nose, his chin pointed and his mouth expressive in the way all children’s were. His hair fell soft and unruly, and he had inherited Hermione’s frown when he was deep in thought. But his eyes, and that posture, and the quiet intensity with which he chased the puck across the rink? That belonged to someone else entirely.

To Hermione, the resemblance was blinding. She had always marveled that no one in town seemed to notice, or if they did, they chose not to say anything. Perhaps it was easier that way, easier to believe that Scorpius had simply been born out of some hazy romance with a faceless man long gone. But every time her son laughed with his whole chest, or scowled in fierce concentration, or held her hand with that unconscious sense of protection he did not even realize he had, she saw him. She saw Draco, and it was all she could do not to ache with it.

“Granger,” came the gruff voice of Coach McLaggen, cutting through the whistle shrieks and skate scratches. He leaned against the edge of the rink, clipboard in hand, voice always just a little too loud. “You’re early.”

Hermione turned slowly from the glass, offering him a tight lipped smile. 

“I like to watch him finish his drills Cormac.”

Cormac nodded, not looking at her, chewing the end of his pen like it owed him money. 

“He’s good, real good. I’ve had scouts from the middle school programs come down to peek already. That boy’s got the makings.”

Hermione stiffened, but nodded once. 

“He’s focused, that’s for sure.”

Cormac laughed.

“Gets it from you, I suppose, miss Valedictorian.”

She didn’t answer that. Cormac had never been subtle, not in high school when he used to flirt with her between classes, and not now, when he liked to pretend he hadn’t noticed the uncanny resemblance between Scorpius and a certain former teammate who had once made it to the NHL while Cormac stayed here, stuck under fluorescent bulbs and broken vending machines.

After practice, Scorpius spotted her immediately, his helmet still tucked under one arm as he skated toward her with cheeks flushed and eyes alight. He moved like he was still on the ice, fast and graceful, and came to a sudden stop in front of her with a grin too wide for his face.

“Did you see me, Mom?” he asked breathlessly. “I beat two defenders. Coach said I might get bumped up next session.”

“I saw,” Hermione said, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead. “You looked incredible Scorp.”

He beamed under the praise, shifting on his skates, his energy still buzzing under his skin. She helped him peel off the pads and laced his boots while he chattered about practice and drills and how he wanted to try the center position next game. When they arrived home to their quaint little farm house, he kicked off his shoes at the door like always, careful to line them next to hers.

Hermione started on dinner while he sat at the kitchen table with his math homework, tongue between his teeth in concentration, pencil tapping softly against the wood. Their house smelled like butter and rosemary, the lingering scent of scones baked hours earlier, and the windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside.

He cleared his plate without complaint, helped her wash dishes, and said please and thank you. He hugged her before bed and kissed her cheek the same way he always did, tender and automatic. When he slept, curled beneath a comforter stitched with stars, his lashes long against his cheeks and one hand tucked beneath his chin, Hermione stood in the doorway and watched him with a kind of awe she could never put into words.

He was hers, entirely and wholly. Every piece of him reminded her of the boy who had once kissed her under the stars, a lifetime away, it seemed. She had not meant to stand there long, but time slipped differently when it came to Scorpius. Watching him breathe, chest rising and falling with the easy rhythm of sleep, pulled her back into the quiet places of her mind, the places she rarely let herself visit, the ones where memory lived and refused to leave, even after all these years.

She chuckled as he kicked his covers off, he’d always been a wild sleeper, just like someone else she knew. He looked just like him when he slept, that same furrow between his brows, the same stubborn clench of jaw, the same lashes too dark for the pale skin they framed. There were nights when she had to step away from his door, had to remind herself to inhale, to blink, to be present, because it was all too much. The likeness, the ache, the knowing. 

Hermione folded her arms around herself, fingers digging into the wool of her cardigan, grounding her in the moment. She should have gone to bed, should have turned off the light, should have left the memories where they belonged. Instead, she stood there, caught in the strange, beautiful cruelty of a life she had made from the ruins of a promise that had been broken.

She had told herself he would come eventually, that he just needed to get his career launched, to establish himself, and he’d come back to her, and she would tell him all about their son. She dreamed that he would read her words and return, that he would stand at her doorstep with that crooked grin and say something ridiculous and heartbreaking and hers. But he never did, because she had never sent that letter, because she feared she could not respond to more rejection.

So she had done what she always did. She built, she rose, she folded the pain into something useful and fed it to the ovens until it smelled like success. She loved her son with a ferocity that filled every corner of their small house, and she let the world think she had always meant to do it alone.

She stepped back from the doorway, slow and quiet, her hand brushing the light switch with fingers that still trembled now and then, though less than they used to. The hallway filled with soft dark, and she moved through it with muscle memory, barefoot on the wood floors, the house creaking gently beneath her. Tomorrow would come, it always did. She would wake before the sun, open the bakery by six am, and keep going. That was what she had learned to do, even when her heart still knew the shape of a boy who left and never looked back. Even when her son’s eyes told a story she had never spoken aloud.

Draco waved goodbye to his former teammates with a quiet reluctance. His Hermes sunglasses doing little to stave off the hangover from last night when Theo had dragged his ass out for one last hoorah which of course ended in too much drinking and drunken debauchery. His black Adidas shirt and grey joggers did little else but provide comfort for the flight back to Northridge. His Givenchy slides gave way to black socks, and the black baseball cap hiding his blonde hair helped him fade undetected from fans radars. Pansy had promised to drive his car back next week and so he’d be reunited with his dear Viper soon. 

After all, Draco may have been returning home, but he’d had no intentions of leaving the Mansion grounds. He wanted to run into absolutely no one. He didn’t want to leave things to fate or chance. His seat in first class was standard enough, quiet and private, perfect for the hour and a half flight back to New England. He brought out his neck pillow, put in his air pods, and scrolled to his hidden playlist on his Spotify that he’d titled Dramione. He closed his eyes and settled into an immediate rest, the first sounds of his special playlist filling his head with the familiar notes. 

His mother greeting him at the airport was a breath of fresh air, he had to admit. She suffocated him with a quick hug and had their driver, Mr. Ollivander, take Draco’s luggages to the trunk of the luxury SUV. He scanned his surroundings quickly, noting the small airport had not changed in the last seven years. It looked just as it did the day he left. He chuckled wryly, reminded of his high society life in New York City. The fast pace, the shining lights, so opposite of the people walking leisurely through the airport, in no rush to get from A to B. He let out a deep sigh.

“It’s good to have you home, my dragon.” Narcissa placed a hand on her sons knee.

Draco smiled. He didn’t quite share the same sentiments, but the last thing he wanted to do was upset his mother. His father would never let him hear the end of it. Feeling slightly less hungover after a sleep and small snack on the plane, Draco took the time to take in the surroundings. Trees, Forrest, and shrubbery wizzed past him, the familiar twists and turns of the road lulled him and he chuckled to himself as he recalled a particularly funny memory. 

“What’s so funny, Draco?”

Draco chuckled.

“Oh nothing Mother, just takin a trip down memory lane.”

Narcissa gave him that look again, the one that teetered between indulgent and suspicious, but she did not press. She rarely did when his voice dropped that low and his eyes took on that distant haze. She knew when her son was truly somewhere else, lost in the echo of a different time, and sometimes it was kinder not to follow. Draco turned back to the window, his fingers curling lightly around his knee. The road bent through the woods just ahead, and the memory met him there as if it were yesterday. 

Summer nights, thick with heat and mischief, the Toyota 86 roaring under him as he took the curves too fast and let the thrill of speed rush through his veins because at eighteen years old he was invincible. Hermione had loved those drives. She never said it outright, never asked for them, but every time he pulled up outside her house with the headlights off and the music already playing low, she would slide into the passenger seat with her hair still damp from the shower and that tiny, knowing smile on her lips.

She would slip her hand into his, fingers threading together with a kind of certainty that most would say he was too young to know. She would sing under her breath, always slightly off-tune, always too loud during the chorus. He had memorized the way her voice cracked when she tried to hit the high notes, the way she would throw her head back and laugh when he swerved just sharp enough to make her clutch the handle. He had remembered everything, but he didn’t tell his mother that. Instead, he smiled faintly.

“Remember when Father sued that delivery driver for the dent in his Mercedes?”

Narcissa exhaled a soft laugh, tilting her head.

 “Yes, he was mad as a hornet." 

Draco smirked.

“It was actually Theo and I who dented Dad’s bumper.”

Narcissa gasped.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, that was you?”

Draco shrugged, the years long behind that particular incident. The car began to slow as they approached the private gates, the iron archway rising through the trees like some relic of another century. Narcissa straightened her spine slightly, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her coat, her tone shifting as they passed through.

“I should mention,” she began delicately, “we’ve had some renovations done since you were last here. The east wing and the guest parlors have all been updated.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. 

“You’re finally getting rid of the tacky walls?”

“Only in some of the rooms,” she replied crisply. “We’re expecting guests next week, diplomats from France. They’ve accepted the invitation for a private summit on behalf of their cultural ministry, of which the Mayor has asked us to host at our Mansion.”

Draco hummed without interest. 

“And what does this have to do with me?”

Narcissa’s smile sharpened just a little. 

“They’re bringing their daughter. She’s nineteen, in her second year of college. It would reflect poorly on us if she were left unattended while her parents conduct business. You’re to escort her around town, show her Northbridge, be civil.”

Draco growled.

“Mother.”

“I didn’t say court her, Draco,” she said with a sigh. “Only entertain. Be charming, pretend you still remember how to be a Malfoy gentleman.”

He leaned his head back against the leather and closed his eyes, dragging a hand over his face. He’s twenty five years old and back under his parents’ roof, carting around French nobility because the Malfoy’s couldn’t be a normal family name like Granger. He suddenly wanted very much to be anywhere but Northbridge.

“I’m not a bloody tour guide.”

“No,” she replied gently, “but you are still a Malfoy and their daughter will be our guest. Appearances matter.”

He said nothing, just let the rumble of the engine carry them home while the ghost of another girl’s laughter filled his ears and drowned out the one who hadn’t even arrived yet. After dinner, the room welcomed him like an old friend, soft in its familiarity.

The air carried that scent only time and disuse could create, where dust and memories clung to surfaces long untouched. The curtains, once crisp and grey, now hung slightly dulled, but everything else remained the same, as if no one had dared disturb the shrine of a boy who had once believed the world was his to conquer. The walls still bore the faded glow of his teenage arrogance, posters of championship teams, old vinyl sleeves, and a few half-torn Polaroids stuck haphazardly by the desk, yellowing at the corners with age.

He moved through it in silence, peeling open drawers with a morbid curiosity. Receipts for things he no longer remembered buying, scraps of candy wrappers, and dried-out pens met him in layers, each one reminding him of who he used to be. He found an old hoodie that still smelled like woodsmoke and mint gum, and the frayed remains of a practice jersey tucked behind the dresser, stained and beloved.

But it was the closet, a little musty from disuse, that truly stopped him. Pushed far back behind the neatly folded remnants of a life once lived in luxury and recklessness, sat a shoebox. The lid was slightly bent, as if it had been lifted too many times and then forgotten, sealed beneath sweaters and old clothing like a secret. Draco dropped to his haunches and pulled it forward with slow, deliberate fingers, dust blooming into the air as he opened it.

Inside, it was chaos. Beautiful, devastating chaos. Polaroids, hundreds of them, some barely clinging to form, others still vibrant with frozen laughter and blinding sunlight. Him and Hermione, grinning at the camera with wind-tossed hair and red cheeks, her feet in his lap during study sessions, their friends sprawled around campfires, Hermione pressing a kiss to his cheek while he tried to pretend he didn’t like it, the slow shift from innocence to something deeper etched into every photograph, every angle of their bodies growing closer, more entwined, more sure of what they were becoming.

Draco sifted through it with hands that shook, notes folded with messy hearts and half insults, cards with her perfume still embedded in the fibers, receipts from diners they had escaped to at midnight, movie stubs from weekends when he should have been training, and little gifts she had tucked into his locker with no warning at all. A ribbon that once held her hair, a pressed daisy from the garden she swore he would ruin with his clumsy hands, the bracelet with uneven knots that she had made during chemistry class and thrown at his chest when he teased her about being a control freak.

It came back in pieces, the sound of her laugh when she thought no one was listening, the way she’d breathe out his name when he pressed his mouth to her neck, the long hours they spent talking in the dark, wrapped in each other like they could rewrite the future with their skin. His eyes landed on the bed. The mattress sagged slightly in the center, the same way it always had, the frame groaning when he dropped into it with all the arrogance of youth.

He looked at it now like it held the grave of someone he used to be. He could still see her there, curled into his sheets in nothing but his shirt, legs tangled, hair spilling across his pillow like honey as she glowed with post coital bliss. 

He had made love to her, not for the first time. They’d become quite practiced at it, with the hunger of two teens who thought time owed them something, who believed nothing that good could be taken away. Her hands had clutched at him like she was memorizing him, her voice had broken when she whispered that she would wait, that she would follow after finishing MIT, that she would make it work, no matter how many miles came between them.

Then he got the call. The NHL draft, the beginning of everything he had worked for, everything he thought he needed. She kissed him goodbye at the airport, silent tears staining the collar of his jacket, and told him she had deferred MIT, just for a year, just until she could figure things out with her parents.

He had nodded, had kissed her hard and held her tight and walked away thinking she would follow him. She never did. He convinced himself she was busy, that she was chasing her own dreams, that the distance had made things too difficult, too blurred. He had no idea she never went to MIT, no idea that the year she deferred was not for school, but for something entirely more permanent. He did not know about the child with grey eyes and freckles scattered like constellations. He did not know that he had left more behind than a girl and a promise. 

The cold of the rink bit through Hermione’s coat, but she barely noticed. Her eyes followed Scorpius as he cut across the ice with a quiet, relentless focus, the sharp sound of his skates slicing through the quiet in steady rhythm. He was fast, not just for his age, but in a way that carried intention, his little body already understanding the space around him, reading movement like a language only he could hear. His brow furrowed in that familiar way when he missed a shot, lips pressing into a thin line, jaw tight with quiet frustration. It was a look she knew too well. He was so like Draco it almost hurt to watch.

Hermione’s fingers curled around the edges of her takeaway cup, the heat barely reaching her skin. She blinked as the past washed over her, slow and heavy, the way it always did when she least expected it. Her mind pulled her back, not to a game or a match or a crowded event, but to a quiet afternoon near the end of senior year. The field hockey pitch behind the school had been empty, the sun low and the grass thick with dew. Draco had dragged her out there with nothing but a smirk and a stick in his hand.

“You’re holding it wrong,” he had said, standing behind her with that infuriating tilt of amusement in his voice. “It’s not a sword, Granger.”

“It is when you won’t stop talking,” she’d shot back, trying and failing to hide her smile.

He had moved in behind her then, close enough that her breath had caught, one arm around her waist, the other guiding her hands along the length of the stick. His chest had pressed to her back, steady and warm, and he had murmured something against the shell of her ear that she never quite heard because all she could feel was him, everywhere, all at once.

“Like this,” he’d said, his hands adjusting hers, his voice suddenly lower. “Firm, but not stiff.”

She had laughed, turning her head just enough to look at him over her shoulder. 

“You’re enjoying this far too much.”

Draco had smiled, that slow, wicked curl of his mouth that always came before trouble. 

“Can you blame me?”

It shifted then, as it always did with him. One second, she was holding a field hockey stick, and the next, she was gripping the edge of his jacket, his mouth covering hers with the kind of heat that made her knees buckle. The stick had fallen somewhere near their feet, forgotten entirely, as his fingers slipped beneath the hem of her shirt and her hands tangled in the mess of his hair. What happened next was entirely perfect in the throws of eighteen and unsupervised.

They didn’t even make it out of their clothes, he had laid her down right there, on the soft grass just past the goalpost, his laugh caught in her mouth, her name drawn from him like prayer. The look in his eyes when he hovered over her, his palm flat over her heart, was something she had never forgotten.

“You’re trouble,” she had whispered, breathless and dizzy with him as they both came down from their reckless public indecency. Hermione could only thank the Lord for such tall grass. 

“I’m yours,” he’d answered, and for a little while, he had been.

Hermione blinked the memory away, the chill of the rink grounding her back in the present. Scorpius shot and missed again, but this time he shook it off, adjusted his grip, and skated back into position with determination. Her lips parted, chest tight, eyes stinging with something she refused to call grief. He moved like his father, like he just had this innate, natural athleticism, something that Hermione decidedly lacked.

She took a slow sip of her drink and watched her son glide across the ice, towering over his teammates. He was tall for his age, something that played to his favor on the ice. Draco had been tall, too, but she tried not to dwell on that fact. I mean really, when she thought about it, how was it fair? Hermione had done all the work for nine months and her son had the audacity to come out his father’s near twin. If it wasn’t for his inheritance of her nose and freckles, well, there’d be no hiding her sons parentage. 

“Granger! Tighten the inside, you’re not high sticking here.” McLaggen called, bringing Hermione’s eyes back to her son. 

Scorpius played Mite hockey for the city team, Northbridge Raptors. It was the very same team most of the towns boys have played for once upon a time. His red and black uniform were the signature colors of the team and the big number 7 on the back settled nicely below the name Granger. Hermione was not a fan of Hockey, but she was a fan of her son, so, naturally, Hermione had endeavored to learn all about it so she could talk with her son. 

The whistle blew twenty minutes later, signaling the end of the days practice. Hermione glanced at her watch, grimacing at the time. They had only half an hour to get to Harry and Ginny’s for dinner and it was an important one. Their son, James, had finally turned one year old, and Hermione promised to help her oldest friends set up for the birthday party on Saturday.

She waited for Scorpius to come out of the locker room, scrolling Facebook on her phone. Facebook was the only way she could keep up with people these days, absorbed with her sons Hockey regimen and the Bakery. She had added some friends of Draco’s when they were in high school, like Pansy and Theo, but had no news of Draco himself, he had deleted all his personal social medias long ago once apart of the NHL. 

She saw the most recent pictures from Pansy, driving a black sports car, a tall and muscular man in the passenger seat, which Hermione guessed was her current boyfriend. The caption made her chuckle. ‘Drake left me his car keys! Whatever will I do?’ She hadn’t seen Pansy in years, but, once Draco had started hanging out with her, Pansy had been a natural extension and the girls got along together fairly well. She had always known Draco and Pansy were a package deal, practically siblings, so it was no surprise that she would still be in his life. Not that there was much of his life on Facebook, it seemed he rarely updated his whereabouts unless it was from a tabloid or press release and he was never pictured with his friends, either. 

“I’m ready to go Mom.”

Hermione smiled and gave her son a hug. She had to laugh at how tall he was for his age, he was more than half her height already at only seven years old! Granted, Hermione was only 5’2” herself, but it still amazed her. She remembered when he fit in the crook of her arm.

“We’re going to Uncle Harry’s for dinner tonight. I promised to help set up for the party.”

Scorpius nodded.

“Will Uncle Ron be there too?”

Hermione sighed but nodded, knowing that wherever Harry went Ron wasn’t far behind. It was ironic, really, how much Scorpius loved his Uncle Ron considering who his father was, but that was just it, it stung Hermione’s heart every time he wished he’d had a Dad. The guilt crept in, hot and shameful, because Hermione knew that it was her fault, that she was selfish, that she had committed an unforgivable sin by keeping years of opportunity away from the both father and son.

Draco was established now, Hermione could have reached out to him years ago, but she was somewhat fearful, she didn’t want to hear the sting of his rejection and she didn’t want to create that trauma for Scorpius either. Hypocritically and ironically, she’d created a worse trauma for the both of them. 

“Yes, sweetie. He’ll be there with Aunt Lavender.” 

Hermione unlocked her small and reliable crossover and threw her sons Hockey bag and stick in the trunk. Her son hopped into the back seat and they were off to her friends house before they knew it.

“Gag me. She calls him Won Won, mom. It’s cringey.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. 

“What did I say about judging, Scorpius?”

Scorpius sighed. 

“If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” 

Hermione nodded in acceptance. Scorpius may be a Malfoy, but he would learn to be humble and kind, because that was the Granger way.

Chapter Text

The news came folded inside an envelope with the school’s letterhead printed neatly across the top, tucked beneath the day’s post. Hermione found it after unlocking the bakery’s front door, the early morning frost still clinging to the windowpanes, her breath misting as she sorted through bills and supplier invoices. When she read the letter, her fingers paused, her eyes skimming twice to be sure, and then a slow, disbelieving smile began to spread across her face.

Crumb & Clover had been selected to supply all baked goods for the upcoming Northbridge Elementary Hockey Fundraiser (as if there had ever been another option). Still, the pride bloomed in her chest. She folded the letter and pressed it to her lips for a moment, grinning into it before pinning it beside the till with a gold pushpin, just beneath a faded drawing of a muffin Scorpius had made her three years ago.

The fundraiser was one of the largest events of the year, being a hockey loving town, drawing in families from neighboring towns, local businesses, and the handful of sponsors who still clung to their dreams of growing Northbridge into something grander. It was a small-town spectacle dressed in the hope of something more, and this year, her bakery would sit at the center of it.

She moved through her morning with a lightness she hadn’t felt in weeks. The ovens hummed steadily, the scent of orange zest and butter permeating the air. She kneaded dough with extra care, piped icing with a softer hand, her mind already busy with ideas for display tables and custom signage and flavor pairings that would charm even the pickiest of Northbridge’s donors. She wanted more than what she had, not because she was ungrateful, but because she could feel it, that tug of something bigger waiting just outside the lines of her routine. 

Crumb & Clover had done well, exceptionally well, considering she had opened it with nothing but her own meager savings, a bank loan, and a baby on her hip. She paid her bills on time, kept her kitchen spotless, and the community adored her. But events like this meant more than sales, they meant exposure, possibility. She wanted her cakes at weddings, her tarts at art shows, her scones and pastries wrapped in white linen at garden parties that would land in local magazines with names spelled in gold foil. She wanted people to taste what she made and remember her as the baker.

After the last batch had cooled and the bakery closed for the day, she packed a tin of chocolate hazelnut biscotti and walked over to the school herself. The fundraiser committee was meeting in the multipurpose room, a mix of teachers and parents crowded around a folding table covered in binders and paper cups of weak coffee. She knocked once, smiling as she entered, and was greeted by the familiar warmth of Pamona Sprout, the PTA chair who wore cardigans and fed the entire town and never missed a single community bulletin.

“Hermione,” Pamona beamed, pushing her glasses higher on her nose. “We were just talking about how excited we are to have Crumb & Clover on board. Your cranberry almond croissants are practically folklore at this point.”

Hermione laughed, setting down the tin. 

“Flattery gets you more biscotti’s, Pamona.”

The room chuckled with her, she made a show of settling in to get started. She stayed for the meeting, taking notes and answering questions, already dreaming about menu mockups and signage. Pamona tucked a pen behind her ear and gave Hermione a wink as she adjusted the agenda packet.

“We’ll try not to work you to death, dear, but I do hope you brought that magic of yours for the dessert table. We’re aiming for a record turnout this year.”

Hermione smiled, crossing one leg over the other, her notepad already open, her pen uncapped. 

“Magic is extra, but I’m sure I can manage something sweet enough to keep the donors happy.”

A ripple of amusement passed around the room, and Pamona nodded approvingly. 

“We’ve got two hundred donors RSVP’d already, and that’s not including walk-ins. We’ll need sheet cakes, dessert trays, and individual desserts. It'll have to be portable as well. You’ll be front and center, Hermione, right near the auction table.”

Hermione’s heart lifted at the words, though she kept her tone easy. 

“I was thinking five dozen themed cookies, mini tarts in lemon, lavender, and blood orange perhaps, as well as a two-tierd decorated cake for display accompanied with two sheets of Cassata cake. A tiered tray of biscotti, chocolate dipped and ribboned, maybe cupcakes with the school crest as well.”

One of the other mothers, Juliana Travers, leaned forward in her chair, eyes wide. 

“You can do all that?”

Hermione gave her a gentle nod. 

“It’s easier than it sounds.”

Pamona smiled wide, clapping her hands once. 

“Look at you, always making magic from flour. You’ll outshine the entire event.”

Hermione ducked her head modestly, her fingers tightening around the pen in her lap. She had learned to accept praise without letting it sink too deep, success was earned one tray at a time, one late night and early morning and burned fingertip after another. Especially because it hadn’t started out that way, in the early days, when the whispers of her baby bump were still relevant and immediately after Scorpius’ birth, when the 'how am I going to do this?' thoughts were still fresh. Eventually, however, gossip had settled and the novelty wore off, allowing them acceptance and normalcy. 

Pamona pressed on with the agenda, rattling off sponsorship updates and banner placements, but Hermione’s thoughts drifted to the image of her son out on the ice, skates carving lines across frozen ground. He loved this sport in a way that felt genetic. She saw it in the tilt of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the glint in his grey eyes when he passed her in the stands, helmet cocked back, pride hidden behind mischief. She would make this fundraiser beautiful for him, for the team, and for the bakery. When she picked up Scorpius after practice later that afternoon, he ran to her car, helmet tucked under one arm, cheeks pink with cold and excitement.

“Coach said they’re putting me in the lineup for the showcase game,” he said breathlessly, sliding into the seat beside her. “I’ll be starting center! It’s a dream come true.”

Hermione beamed, she could recall another certain center hockey player.

“That’s amazing,” she said, reaching over to smooth his water-damp hair from his shower. “Guess we’re both going to be center stage next month, huh?”

He grinned at her, wide and bright and full of life. 

“You’re gonna be famous, Mom.”

Hermione smiled softly, turning the key in the ignition as dusk fell over Northbridge. 

“Not famous baby, just acknowledged.”

“Draco darling, I left your suit in your room. We’re having the Greengrass’ over for dinner tonight and I want to present our best image. You remember Daphne Greengrass, don’t you? She was in your year at school. Oh, and her younger sister, Astoria.” 

Draco nodded. He recalled Theo's ex girlfriend very well, their breakup had been messy and landed a very drunk Theo crying and wallowing for weeks afterwards. Astoria, her younger sister, was nice enough, but they hadn’t interacted much. 

“I shall endeavor to, as you say, put my best foot forward.”

Narcissa smiled and shut the door to her son's study with a soft click. Draco let out a long sigh. He’d done a good job of dodging people since he’d been home, but, Astoria was a notorious gossip, surely she wouldn’t keep his low key return to town a secret. He dreaded the inevitable shit storm that would follow, and no doubt that annoying twat Rita Skeeter would follow him around like a gnat to dung. 

After a shower and a fresh shave, Draco donned his suit and readied himself for dinner with the Greengrass’. Now, he never minded the Greengrass’, both Daphne and Astoria had always been pleasant to be around, if a little prim. Narcissa had long stopped trying to set Draco up with one of them, made easier by the fact that Daphne was now married to Adrian Pucey. Astoria, god bless her, was about as straight as a circle. It was obvious she swung for the other team, but, was still keeping it under wraps. For that reason, he always got along well with her because she left him alone. 

Was Draco looking forward to a boring, stuffy dinner? No. Was he excited to catch up with his old teammate Pucey? one hundred percent. He hadn’t seen the bastard in seven years and he’d been dying for a rematch on the rink. He hoped Adrian would be in attendance tonight. Downstairs, the dining room had been transformed in that effortless Narcissa way. The crystal gleamed, the silver had been polished and buffed. There were fresh flowers in tall vases, white roses and sprigs of lavender, all clipped from the gardens that morning. It looked immaculate, like a photograph in a lifestyle magazine.

The doorbell rang precisely on the hour, Draco took his time descending the stairs, letting the echo of Narcissa’s pleasantries drift up to meet him. By the time he entered the foyer, Daphne was already removing her coat with a practiced smile, her left hand glittering with her wedding ring, her right extended toward Narcissa. Astoria stood beside her, wrapped in deep blue velvet, her dark hair tucked into a braid that ran over one shoulder, her expression unreadable.

“Draco,” Daphne said with a touch of surprise, as if she hadn’t already known he’d be here. “You look well. Civilian life suits you.”

Draco gave her a polite nod and leaned in to kiss her cheek. 

“I do what I can to stay off the streets.”

Astoria snorted behind her hand, and he turned to her next, offering a lopsided smile. 

“Nice to see you, Tori.”

“Likewise,” she replied, eyes amused. “You clean up nicely, Draco, for someone allegedly in hiding.”

Draco arched a brow, offering his arm with exaggerated flair. 

“Must be the influence of my mother’s guest list. Come, let’s go pretend to be well adjusted adults.”

The dining room filled quickly, Narcissa poured wine with the grace of a practiced hostess, her earrings catching the chandelier light with each tilt of her wrist. Conversation rose and fell in waves, Daphne chatted about her work in architecture, Astoria made dry remarks about politics and her bid for city council, and Narcissa steered the conversation like a ship through narrow waters. Draco remained pleasant, engaged when necessary, but his eyes flicked to the door more than once. No sign of Adrian. He hid his disappointment behind his wineglass.

“He’s coming late,” Daphne said, catching the glance. “Client meeting ran long, you’ll see him before dessert.”

Draco nodded once, suppressing a grin that felt dangerously close to boyish. It had been too long since he had someone to talk to who remembered who he was before the cameras, before the contracts, before everything had gotten too heavy to carry. Sure, Theo had known him, but, Theo had also gone on to play Professional Hockey, unlike Adrian Pucey, who stayed behind to be with Daphne, was loud mouthed and competitive, had once been his favorite person to argue with on the ice. The thought of seeing him again felt like a breath held too long, finally let go. Astoria leaned toward him as the main course was cleared, her voice low and private.

“You’re really staying, aren’t you?”

Draco glanced at her, her gaze was inquiring beneath the feigned softness. 

“For now.”

She nodded once, then lifted her wine. 

“Better get used to Northbridge again, people are already whispering.”

Draco snorted.

“They always do.”

Astoria smiled. 

“Yes, but now it’s about you. That’s a bit more interesting, don’t you think?”

He raised his glass, let it clink softly against hers, and said nothing at all. The wine was good, far too good for the kind of evening Draco would have preferred, but his mother never did anything in halves. It warmed his mouth, lingered on his tongue, and settled low in his stomach. His eyes drifted, not out of boredom, but habit.

He scanned the room the way he had always done in unfamiliar locker rooms, in press rooms, in hotel lounges filled with men who shook hands with one another while calculating worth. Astoria’s gaze found his again over the rim of her glass. The front door creaked open just as Narcissa was directing the staff to clear the main course. Familiar footsteps followed, quick and unhurried, and then a voice that Draco would recognize anywhere.

“Did I miss the entire meal, or is there hope for me yet?”

Adrian Pucey stepped into the dining room with a coat slung over his shoulder and his tie loosened at the throat. His hair was shorter, his jaw was still as sharp as ever, he’d aged well. He grinned the moment he saw Draco, eyes lighting with the kind of recognition that cut through time.

“Speak of the devil,” Astoria murmured beside him.

Draco rose from his seat before he could think better of it. 

“Seven years and you’re still late to everything.”

Adrian clapped a hand over his chest, mock-offended. 

“Some things never change.”

Draco crossed the room in a few easy strides, and the hug that followed was a total bro hug. Shoulder claps, laughter, the kind of sound that reminded them of back when they were boys and everything still felt possible.

“Pucey, man, long time!” Draco said as they pulled apart.

“No shit you twat,” Adrian replied. “Back to Northbridge finally, eh?.”

Draco nodded, fingers curling around the back of his chair as he returned to his seat. Adrian followed, sliding into the empty spot between Astoria and Daphne, already reaching for the bottle of wine as if he had arrived on time. Conversation picked back up, Narcissa poured more glasses while Astoria quipped something dry about wine pairings and illicit gossip. Daphne leaned into her husband’s side with the ease of a woman who had known him long enough to know when to speak and when to let him run.

Draco watched it all unfold with a strange sense of distance, like he was half a step out of rhythm. He could feel the old life nudging at him, teasing the edges of who he used to be. It made his skin itch. It made his chest feel tight. Later, when the table had been cleared and they stood near the fire with fresh glasses in hand, Adrian leaned closer and lowered his voice.

“You staying long?”

Draco stared into the fire for a moment before answering.

“That depends.”

Adrian sipped his wine.

“On what?”

Draco rolled his shoulders.

“On the NHL. If a team picks me up this season, well, why should I stay?”

Astoria, in that moment, wished more than anything that Draco would just walk into town. But, like the good friend she was, she kept her mouth shut. 

“I see, this is just a temporary visit for you then.”

Draco nodded.

“This town’s got nothing left for me, anyways. I liked my life in New York.”

Astoria chimed in.

“What if you find something here worth staying for?”

Draco snorted and finished off his drink.

“When hell freezes over, maybe.”

Astoria rolled her eyes but said nothing. Boy, was he sure in for a surprise.

The bell above the bakery door gave its usual chime, almost delicate in the late afternoon quiet. The crowd had thinned, and Hermione stood behind the counter brushing flour from her apron, while Scorpius leaned across the register with a lollipop in his mouth and his elbows on the glass. He was recounting, in dramatic detail, how one of his classmates had slipped outside the cafeteria and launched an entire tray of pizza into the air like confetti. Hermione smiled as she listened, nodding at the right moments, amused more by his storytelling than the story itself. His voice carried that confident cadence he used when he felt proud of himself, laced with joy and a little too much sugar. She would never tire of it.

The door opened again, the sound familiar. A quick glance at the patron who’d walked through the door set her insides on fire as her fingertips gripped the counter. Scorpius didn’t notice, he kept chattering, oblivious to the way her fingers stiffened against the countertop, her shoulders drawing the faintest inch higher. She looked up just as he stepped into the light. Mr. Ollivander had served the Malfoy’s for over forty years. Loyal, impeccable, and incredibly observant. His suit was tailored, black wool with polished buttons, his gloves folded neatly in one hand, a parcel slip in the other. He looked like a man who had stepped from an older world, where secrets were hidden behind extravagant curtains and names like hers were never spoken aloud.

“Good afternoon, Miss Granger,” he said with a nod, his tone perfectly polite. “Your mothering skills, I see, are as refined as your baking.”

Hermione blinked, the pause was barely perceptible, but she recovered with practiced grace, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Mr. Ollivander, what a surprise.” She wiped her hands and moved toward the counter, careful to place herself slightly in front of Scorpius. “What brings you to Crumb & Clover?”

He held up the slip. 

“A standing order, I believe. Cupcakes and tarts for Lady Narcissa.”

Hermione took the paper with steady fingers, her heart thudding hard beneath her ribs. She remembered the order now, one of her assistants had taken it two days prior, a delivery for the Mansion. She had thought little of it at the time, she should have known better. Scorpius finally looked up, eyes curious, voice still coated with sugar. 

“Do you work at the Malfoy Mansion? With the fancy garden and the black gates?”

Ollivander turned his gaze on him, and Hermione waited on bated breath. He did not smile, but he studied the boy in a way that sent ice straight through her blood. It was calculating, plain and simple.

“Indeed,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “I have known the family for many years.”

Scorpius tilted his head. 

“Do they have a library?”

“They do,” Ollivander answered. “A very large one.”

Scorpius smiled, the very same one Hermione used to chase.

“I like books,” Scorpius said, his smile blooming across his face like sun through fog. “My mom says I read too fast for my own good.”

Hermione stepped in quickly. 

“Scorpius, could you check if the box is ready in the back?”

He nodded, hopping off the stool and disappearing through the swinging kitchen door with the ease of someone used to being helpful. Her smile dropped the moment he was out of sight.

“Are you here for the order,” she said, low and sharp, “or something else?”

Ollivander’s face didn’t change, not even a flicker. 

“I am here, Miss Granger, because I was sent for pastries. Whether I leave with more than pastries is yet to be determined.”

She stiffened, but did not flinch. 

“He’s a good boy.”

Mr. Ollivander nodded.

“I have no doubt.”

Hermione wrung her hands together.

“He has a kind heart. He loves books and he skates like he was born to it.”

“As did his father,” Ollivander said gently.

Her mouth parted, a breath caught in her throat.

“I will say nothing,” he continued, lowering his voice. 

She swallowed. 

“Why?”

Mr. Ollivander smiled, not unkindly.

“Because I serve the house,” he said, “not its ghosts. I have seen my fair share over the years, Miss Granger, and I have found it is best to remain uninvolved.”

Scorpius returned with the box wrapped carefully in twine, humming to himself, none the wiser. Hermione placed it in Ollivander’s hands, her fingers brushing against the leather of his gloves.

“Tell Mrs. Malfoy that I hope she enjoys the blood orange tarts,” she said, voice cool again.

“I shall,” he replied. He tipped his hat once, glanced briefly at the boy again, and stepped out into the fading light of day.

The door clicked softly behind him. Hermione stood frozen in place, heart thundering in her ears, while Scorpius leaned against her hip, completely unaware, licking the sugar from his fingers.

“Do you think we’ll get more customers tomorrow?” he asked. “It’ll be Saturday.”

She brushed a hand through his hair, fingers trembling, and kissed the top of his head.

“I think we might,” she whispered. “Let’s be ready anyway.”

The car hummed steadily along the back roads of Northbridge. Trees blurred past in amber streaks, leaves rustling in the breeze, flipped upside down as an indicator of the impending storm heading their way. Scorpius sat in the back seat, feet kicked up on the center console, chin resting in his hand as he chattered endlessly about hockey drills, team positions, and the subtle differences between playing left wing and center. His excitement was a tide, crashing in waves, spilling over itself with breathless enthusiasm. He spoke with his whole body, hands gesturing wide, eyes bright.

Hermione nodded when she was supposed to, she made the right sounds, the small affirmations that kept his rhythm going, but her mind was far away, caught in the undertow of guilt. She gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, grounding herself in the smooth curve of it beneath her palms. Her mouth was dry, her chest tight. She had known this day would come, or at least some semblance of it.

The secret had always lived on borrowed time, every year that passed had been one step closer to total implosion. Scorpius had asked once, when he was younger, why he didn’t have a dad like the other boys. She had answered gently, with half truths and white lies, the kind she hadn't meant to spin but slipped out easily enough. He had accepted it then, had been too young to ask more, but Hermione knew that wouldn’t be forever.

The guilt crept in quietly, familiar as breath. It settled in her throat, and echoed in the hollow behind her ribs. She had chosen to raise him alone, she had chosen to shield him from the weight of a name that came with more than just legacy because of her own cowardice, her own fear. She had chosen to bury a love that had burned too bright, too fast, and left her scorched. She had told herself it was for the best, that Draco had made his choice when he never came back, that he had walked away long before she had learned how to stand on her own. Only, that had never been the full truth either.

Hermione had not told Draco, of anything. She had lied. She had chosen to keep him in the dark, so was it really all his fault he’d never came back? He probably thought she’d gone off to MIT like she planned. Hermione knew that she had made a mistake, made the wrong decision in keeping Scorpius and Draco hidden from each other for so long, but the lie embedded deeper and deeper with each passing year, but she was not naive.

If Draco looked at Scorpius, if he heard him speak or saw the tilt of his head or the way his jaw twitched when he was thinking, he would know, he would know in an instant and everything would unravel. Hermione’s own cowardice had caused irreparable damage, at least she could recognize that.

“Mom, are you even listening?”

Scorpius looked up at her, brows drawn, his voice pulling her back into the moment with a jolt. Hermione blinked and forced a smile.

“Of course I am,” she said, her voice too light, too careful. “Center Ice. That’s a pretty big deal.”

He grinned, pleased, turning his face toward the window again. 

“Coach says I’ve got the instincts for it.”

You do, she wanted to say. Your father is a professional after all. 

Instead, she kept her hands steady on the wheel and her eyes on the road, the sun sliding lower behind the trees as their little house came into view, quiet and tucked beneath the amber sky. She parked the car, Scorpius grabbed his backpack and ran toward the porch steps, already asking what was for dinner, already moving forward with the weightlessness only children knew. Hermione stepped out slower, the guilt still clinging to her.

She had lied and it had spiraled out of control. When the truth came, it would break someone, maybe it would break them all. Hermione knew one thing for certain, however. If Draco ever found out, he would probably never forgive her.

And why should he? She thought glumly.

The box sat neatly on the marble kitchen island, tucked between a bowl of figs and a vase of white lilies. Cream-colored cardboard, tied with a deep green ribbon, and a handwritten tag in gold ink that read Crumb & Clover. Draco paused mid step, brow furrowing faintly as he reached for it, the name ringing oddly in the back of his mind like a locked box waiting to be opened.

He turned the tag over, looking for a note or business card, something to mark where it had come from. There was nothing except that name, familiar in a way that set his body on edge. Narcissa entered a moment later, silk sleeves drifting behind her. She crossed the kitchen with practiced elegance, placing a stack of fresh linens on the sideboard before glancing at the box in his hands.

“You found the pastries,” she said, pleased. “They arrived this morning.”

“Crumb & Clover?” he asked, lifting a brow. “That a new place in town or something?”

“Not exactly new, it opened about six years ago.” she said, opening a cupboard and pulling down two plates. “Astoria and Daphne sent the recommendation. Apparently, it’s very popular with the locals these days. I thought you might appreciate something a bit more handmade.”

Draco opened the lid and was immediately greeted with a sweetness that made his mouth water. Inside, nestled on a bed of parchment paper, were rows of cupcakes and tarts, crowned with sugared blood orange, dark chocolate dipped in white cocoa and pistachio dust. His mouth watered without permission.

“These are my favorites,” he said quietly, lifting a tart and inspecting it. 

“I know,” Narcissa said, setting a plate down in front of him. “I may not cook, but I do remember what you crave when you are sulking. Astoria said the baker is brilliant, I trust her palate.”

Draco bit into the tart, the crust crumbling perfectly beneath his teeth, the filling just enough to wake him. His eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment, the taste dragging something old from his mind. He could not remember the last time a pastry had stunned him. He had eaten in every Michelin starred restaurant in the city, had food delivered from private chefs, curated to the hour, to the mood, to the season. None of it had tasted like this, none of it had made him feel so much like home.

“This is…” he began, trailing off as he finished the bite.

“Good?” Narcissa offered, one corner of her mouth lifting.

“Too good,” he murmured. “Dangerously good.”

Narcissa nodded, pleased.

“Shall I have more sent next week?”

He nodded, still chewing, still half-caught in the soft crumble of crust and sugar. Narcissa smiled, folding herself into a chair across from him. 

“You always did have a sweet tooth. I’m glad that, at least, has not changed.”

Draco smirked around the next bite, licking sugar from his thumb, but the moment passed with a quiet flicker of a memory beneath it. It knocked softly against a memory behind a door.

A breath of laughter beneath the bleachers, cold metal, warmer hands. Her hair curling wildly, cheeks flushed, her voice scolding as he smirked down at her, the press of his lips against the side of her throat as small hands threaded through his sweat laden locks at half time. He could hear his own voice echoing from the past, long buried.

“You’re my lucky clover, Granger. Four leafed and impossible to find twice.”

His smile faltered. He set the tart down gently and stared at the name on the box once more. A strange foreboding settled over him. The flavor lingered, clinging to the roof of his mouth, sweet and impossible to forget. Draco leaned against the counter, arms folded, eyes still fixed on the box as if it might shift beneath his gaze, as if it might open again and whisper something back. The name ran in circles through his thoughts, brushing up against a memory that refused to stay buried.

He could still feel the softness of her hair beneath his palm, the chill of the metal bleachers against his back, the breathless way she had laughed when he called her that name and then kissed her with all the passion an eighteen year old boy could have.

He hadn’t thought of it in years. Too many things had come between then and now. Time, distance, pain, silence. He had told himself he had let her go, that whatever they had once been, whatever they might have become, had been lost in the wake of decisions made too fast for eighteen and regrets swallowed too slowly. But the name was there, pressed into the lid of a bakery box like a fingerprint across his skin.

“Who owns the place?” he asked quietly, more to himself than to his mother.

Narcissa lifted her teacup, her expression unreadable. 

“I did not ask.”

Draco nodded once, though it was barely perceptible. He stared down at the remaining tartlets, the ones he hadn’t touched, as if they might hold the answer, as if the sugar had been laced with something more. He picked up the ribbon, ran it between his fingers, felt the weight of it in the silence that followed. She had always loved green, he remembered the scarf she used to wear, frayed at the edges, soft from years of use.

He remembered the way she twisted it around her fingers when she was thinking, the way her voice softened when she talked about books, or tea, or home in that emerald green rag. He remembered the last time he saw her, the way her eyes had looked at him, a kind of sorrow that carved its way into the spaces between words. 

The box sat there, unmoving, unassuming, and yet every part of him itched with the certainty that it had been made by her hands. That she had folded the parchment, that she had chosen the ribbon, that she had named her entire world after something he had said once, long ago, when he still believed in luck. Draco turned away from the counter and walked slowly to the window, hands in his pockets, the sunset stretching pale light across the floor. Behind him, the kitchen was still, the only sound was the distant tick of the old clock above the hearth.

The name lingered. So did the memory, so did the ache.

Chapter Text

The sitting room had been transformed in the usual way Narcissa preferred when high profile guests were involved. Fresh hydrangeas stood in tall vases near the fireplace, the table was set with delicate porcelain China that had only ever been used twice, both times for political theater. The lighting was soft, the curtains drawn just enough to bathe the room in an afternoon glow, and the tea had been steeped to perfection. Draco sat in the armchair closest to the window, one leg crossed over the other, swirling his drink absently as he watched the gravel path below curve through the hedges like a spine.

He heard the arrival before he saw it. The hum of the car engine, the polite but clipped greetings at the front door, and then Lucius’ voice, smooth and cold, offering a welcome Draco had not heard in over a year. His father moved through the world like an old blade, dulled at the edges but still sharp enough to draw blood if held too tightly. Draco remained seated, lips tight, spine straight, waiting for the inevitable performance.

The French ambassador, Monsieur Delacour, was shorter than Draco remembered, with thinning hair and a grin too white for his age. He moved with the confidence of someone who had dined with presidents and never paid for his own wine. His daughter followed just a step behind, swathed in powder blue chiffon, her pale hair swept into something elaborate and unnecessary. She looked too young to be in a room like this and entirely too aware of the eyes that followed her.

“Draco,” Narcissa said, voice warm, “you remember Fleur’s sister, Gabrielle.”

Gabrielle gave a practiced smile, tilting her chin as she stepped forward. 

“It is so lovely to meet you again,” she said in careful English, every syllable touched with a lilt designed to be charming.

He stood, extending a handshake out of habit more than anything else. Her fingers were small in his, her grip soft, almost lingering. He released her hand quickly, offering the polite curve of a smile that meant nothing.

“I hope your journey was smooth,” he said.

She giggled, actually giggled like the young teen she was, and it grated on his ears. 

“It was dreadfully boring until I learned you were going to be here. How lucky am I to spend the next two months with a Hockey superstar?”

Draco blinked once, slowly, and fought the urge to sigh. Lucius arched a brow from his place by the hearth, his expression unreadable, the corner of his mouth twitching. Narcissa simply poured the tea. Gabrielle seated herself beside Draco with alarming ease, her dress floating around her, her perfume already thick in the air. She leaned slightly toward him as he sat back down, resting her chin in one dainty hand as she studied him, fluttering her lashes in a bid to attract him.

“Do you live here again?” she asked, blinking too sweetly. “I thought you lived in New York now.”

“It’s temporary.” Draco replied, his tone even.

Gabrielle laughed again, breathy and cloying, with no substance other than an aim to flirt. He had met girls like her before, too young, too eager, too full of bright-eyed entitlement. She was nineteen, still pressed into the softness of girlhood, her confidence wrapped in curated glances. He was twenty-five, and had seen the inside of grief, of hunger, of silence. She was still pretending the world was a garden built for her arrival.

He no longer had the patience to tend to fantasies. As the conversation swirled around the room, diplomatic niceties and small talk flowing like wine, Gabrielle continued to angle toward him. A compliment about his suit, a question about his time in New York, a not-so-subtle reach for the sugar bowl that required brushing her hand against his.

Draco said little, he sipped his tea quietly. He stared out the window, he let his silence say what he had no desire to explain. Gabrielle Delacour was a child, she had not earned the weight in her gaze, and he would not carry it for her. He was a grown man and he could rage at his parents for saddling him with babysitting duties. He could only hope she would grow tired of him eventually. They always did when he refused to play their games. Across the room, Lucius watched it all with the measured calm of a man already calculating outcomes. Narcissa, graceful as ever, asked Gabrielle about her studies, her travels, her mother’s garden.

Draco sat still and quiet, every part of him aching for the noise of skates on ice, the slam of a puck against boards, anything to drown out the sound of a girl trying to make herself older than she was. He counted the minutes until it would be over, until he could leave the room, strip off the suit, and remind himself that he still belonged to the spotlight, to Hockey. Not to this house, not to their expectations, and certainly not to a spoiled child of a French Diplomat, who did not know yet how unforgiving the world could be. Narcissa offered Gabrielle another scone, her smile as polished as the silver tray she passed. 

She made polite conversation with the ease of someone who had spent her entire life playing hostess, guiding the rhythm of the room with subtle glances and carefully chosen remarks. Her laughter chimed low when appropriate, her praise soft when Gabrielle recounted a recent visit to Vienna. She nodded graciously, but her eyes flicked toward Draco every so often, and when they did, there was something sharper behind her poise, something watchful and maternal that lingered just long enough to speak volumes.

Lucius said little from his place by the fire, one leg crossed over the other, fingers laced over his knee. His cane rested beside him, untouched, more ornament than necessity these days as he entertained Monsieur Delacour. He watched the interaction with a stillness that Draco had always found unnerving, not for its hostility, but for its precision. Every word Lucius chose had weight, and every silence he allowed was by design, a master navigator of social hierarchy. When Gabrielle tried once more to pull Draco into the center of attention with a question about his time in the NHL, Lucius responded before his son could.

“Draco prefers peace these days,” he said mildly, reaching for his teacup without looking away from the girl. “Which is not always easy to come by, I imagine, when one’s reputation precedes them.”

Gabrielle paused, startled for a moment, before composing herself with a smile that faltered just at the edges. Narcissa saved her with a new subject, guiding her back toward safer ground, and Draco silently thanked both his parents for the intervention. He knew what this was, an informal presentation, a trial run. It had all been orchestrated beneath the calm surface, like all good society dances were. The trouble was, he had no interest in dancing.

Draco sipped his tea, his eyes drifting to the window as Gabrielle responded to something Narcissa asked. His thoughts wandered, uninvited, to the name Crumb & Clover again. He noticed a new box had been ordered for the occasion, the desserts more ornate and plentiful. He remembered the name more than the treat, and the tug it had pulled in his chest when he first read it.

He swallowed the thought and reached for another tart. Lucius was saying something to Monsieur Delacour now about estate taxes and vineyard yields. Gabrielle had turned her attention to Narcissa’s earrings, complimenting the expensive jewelry. No one noticed how Draco’s gaze drifted down to the delicate pastry in his hand, how his fingers tightened slightly. Across the sea of china and civility, his past had begun to tap gently on the walls of his mind.

The sound of Albus’ baby laughter filled the kitchen. Hermione had propped him up on her hip, swaying gently as she stirred a simmering pot of lentils with her other hand. He reached for her curls with greedy little fists, babbling nonsense against the column of her throat, and she smiled without even thinking, pressing a kiss to the crown of his fine hair. Ginny, barefoot and still in her joggers, leaned against the counter, sipping a lukewarm coffee Hermione had brewed nearly an hour ago.

“He’s fussier than James ever was,” Ginny admitted, her voice tinged with fatigue and fondness in equal measure. “Cries for nothing, sleeps for even less.”

Hermione turned slightly, careful not to jostle the baby too much, and reached into the cupboard for a jar of ground oregano. She tipped a pinch into the pot and gave the spoon another swirl. Her voice was low when she answered, her gaze soft as it landed on Al’s chubby cheek.

“When Scorpius was his age, he used to scream for hours. Nothing worked, I tried everything.” She paused, laughing gently. “What finally calmed him was the sound of my heartbeat. I wore him in one of those slings and just stood still, sometimes for hours.”

Ginny stared at her over the rim of the mug, eyes slightly wide. 

“You really did it alone.”

Hermione pursed her lips, the sting of Ginny’s words hitting a little too close to home. She had chosen to do it alone, chosen to disappear from Draco’s life without giving him a chance, and conveniently robbed both boys in her life a decision at something more. She knew it was an awful thing to do, but hindsight, as they say, is always twenty-twenty.

“I did what I felt was best.” Hermione shrugged, her smile not quite reaching, though the weight of that truth still hung in the air. 

Albus let out a hiccupping coo and nestled closer. Hermione adjusted her hold, rocked side to side, and gently patted his back until he relaxed. The rhythm came too naturally, she hadn’t realized how much she missed this, the feel of a tiny body curled against her, the scent of powdered skin and sweet milk, the trust of a child who believed you could fix the entire world with a hum and a steady hand. Ginny sat down at the kitchen table, her voice softer now, more careful. 

“Harry mentioned something the other night. A rumor, probably nothing, but you know how the boys at The Leaky Barrell talk.”

Hermione didn’t turn, but her body stilled.

“Apparently, Adrian Pucey is back in town with Daphne Greengrass and was raving blitzed at the bar, saying Malfoy’s back in Northbridge as well.” 

Hermione didn’t speak, she reached for the burp cloth on the counter and laid it over her shoulder, pressing her cheek against Al’s head.

“I thought it sounded ridiculous,” Ginny added, a little too quickly. “He would’ve made a scene, come with flashbulbs and headlines, yanno? That’s how he always operated, right? It seemed he was always in the papers when he was in New York.”

Hermione still didn’t answer, her eyes drifted to the living room window, where sunlight flickered against the glass, dancing over the photograph of her and Scorpius from last winter, bundled in scarves and laughing with snowflakes caught in their hair. The fear settled quietly at the base of her spine, winding around her like ivy.

“Right?” Ginny asked again, her voice smaller this time.

Hermione finally looked at her, her expression unreadable. 

“People change.”

Ginny watched her carefully, Albus began to sleep softly, his little mouth parted, his lashes resting like feathers against his cheeks. Hermione stood there for a long time, holding the baby close, her arms steady and her gaze distant, as if she were bracing for a knock that had not yet come. Ginny rose from the table, her footsteps quiet against the hardwood, and came to stand beside her.

She didn’t say anything at first, just laid a hand on Hermione’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. The touch was warm, grounding, but it did little to quiet the flurry of thoughts twisting behind Hermione’s calm expression. She could feel the tremor building again, like a ripple beneath still water. It felt like all of Hermione’s misdeeds were on her doorstep, waiting to implode.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Ginny said softly. “It’s probably nothing, a misheard name, someone looking for gossip. Harry said Adrian was pretty drunk.”

Hermione nodded, though the gesture was mechanical. She adjusted Albus in her arms, careful not to wake him, and kissed his temple again.

“It’s fine. I’m just tired, he’s heavier than I remember. Plus, Astoria would have mentioned something to us, don't you think?”

Ginny chuckled, the sound hollow with unease. 

“He’s got Weasley genes, built like a broom cupboard I’m afraid.” Ginny sighed. "Astoria only knows because she overheard you and I talking about it one time. It's not like she's ever made an effort with us."

Hermione let out a breath that might have been a laugh, might have been a sigh.

"But she has also never told anyone."

She moved, slipping through the archway into the living room with Al still sleeping against her. Ginny followed, watching as her friend lowered herself into the armchair, legs curled up beneath her, the baby nestled close against her chest. Hermione loved when Ginny came to visit, she was happy to give her friend a break for a few hours.

“Would it be so terrible,” Ginny asked eventually, “if he was back?”

Hermione’s gaze didn’t shift. Her voice, when it came, was low and steady. 

“Terrible isn’t the word. Complicated, definitely.”

Ginny sat down on the sofa, her eyes gentle. 

“You’ll have to face him eventually, Hermione.”

Hermione grimaced. She knew very well what awaited her.

 “I just don’t think I can bear the look of hate on Scorpius’ face when I tell him the truth.”

Ginny leaned back, arms crossed lightly over her chest. 

“Maybe it’s time you started, hmm? Someday, Scorpius is going to be old enough to track him down, to ask questions. Won’t it be worse if he finds out some other way than from his own mother?”

Her eyes drifted once more to the window. 

“I don’t even know how it spiraled so much, Gin. I should have found Draco that first year, I should have done something different. I’m afraid the damage has already been done.”

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, the world kept turning. In the hush of her heart, a name opened like an old wound made tender once more. 

The afternoon sun burned far too brightly for Draco’s mood. He loitered just outside the glass doors of yet another boutique, arms crossed and jaw tight as Gabrielle fluttered within, cooing over tulle skirts and silken blouses as though her life depended on it. His Chanel sunglasses shielded him from the glaring light and, mercifully, from the occasional curious passerby who might mistake this entire charade for something it was not. The cap on his head sat low, brushing his brows, a weak but necessary disguise for a man who once graced the covers of sports magazines and tabloids alike. 

He kept one hand in his pocket, the other tugging absently at the hem of his sleeve as if he could claw his way out of this nonsense. Behind him, poor Ollivander staggered forward, thin arms burdened with pastel shopping bags from half the square. The butler said nothing, only adjusted his hold with the silent grace of a man who had served the Malfoys for decades and knew better than to comment when Draco looked like he might explode into a thousand pieces.

Gabrielle emerged from the shop with a squeal, her hands clutching something frilly and undoubtedly overpriced. She twirled once for his benefit, waiting for praise he would never offer. He gave her a vague nod, eyes trained on the sidewalk cracks, pretending not to notice when a few teenage girls passed by and whispered behind their hands. He could kill his father, slowly and with style. It had been Lucius’ idea, of course.

A “favor” to the ambassador, a “gesture of goodwill” toward future alliances, and a “chance” for Draco to practice being civil again. Draco had very nearly slammed the door in his father’s face. Instead, he had forced his limbs into slacks and a collared shirt, tugged the cap down low, and promised himself he would not be caught dead smiling in a single photograph. He was twenty five, she was nineteen, and spoke with the breathless entitlement of someone who had never been told no.

Draco turned his face to the sky, lips parted in silent protest. The fresh hell of being a glorified babysitter on a public runway of glass storefronts and whispering locals was too much for him to bare. Gabrielle reached for his arm, he flinched before she could touch him, and disguised it with a swift step toward the curb.

“There’s one more shop,” she chirped. “They sell French perfume.”

“Lovely,” he muttered, expression unreadable beneath the shield of his glasses. “Go enjoy it. I’ll be here, guarding the bags.”

She frowned, disappointed but too polite to argue, and disappeared into the next boutique. Draco exhaled slowly. He leaned against the brick wall, crossed one ankle over the other, and ignored the ache in his jaw from clenching it. Somewhere, deep in the quiet thrum of his chest, a single thought whispered, nagging and insistent.

He missed New York. He missed the rhythm of it, the sirens, the shouting, the packed streets where he could disappear into a crowd and no one would stop him or ask for his name unless he wanted to be seen. He missed the anonymity of coffee at midnight, the sound of saxophones weeping through subway grates, the stale beer and neon lights that made every sleepless night feel cinematic rather than pathetic.

There had been something strangely comforting in the city’s cruelty, as if the noise outside muffled the noise within. Here, he belonged to everyone else. The Malfoy heir, the prodigal son, the fallen star. His days were divided into performance and silence, and even in silence he was observed. His father’s watchful distance, his mother’s practiced warmth, the manor’s endless echoes. He had thought returning would bring peace. Instead, it brought suffocation.

Ollivander cleared his throat behind him, not to interrupt, just to remind. Draco tilted his head toward the sky again, counting the clouds as if they might offer him a sign. The bell above the perfume shop door jingled sweetly. Gabrielle stepped out holding a frosted bag and a giddy smile.

“Shall we?” she asked, brushing her hair behind one shoulder, clearly hoping he would offer to carry her latest treasure.

Draco said nothing, he pushed off the wall, adjusted his sunglasses, and gestured toward the car without looking at her. She prattled on about notes of bergamot and how lavender always reminded her of Versailles. He wondered, not for the first time that week, if the universe was trying to undo him. He rode in silence beside her, the girl still speaking, still unaware that he had long since abandoned the conversation.

Gabrielle shifted beside him, angling her phone toward the window for better light, likely snapping yet another curated image of herself to prove she had been here, had spent the day alongside Draco Malfoy. She did not notice his growing discomfort, the way his fingers curled around the seam of his pants or the way his jaw clenched tighter with every passing mile. Her world was glossy and new, all filtered edges and manicured smiles for social media. 

He exhaled slowly and leaned his head back, letting the hum of the car dull his thoughts. He wondered if Hermione would laugh if she could see him now, if she would lift her chin and smirk that secret little smirk she used to wear when she caught him doing something idiotic. She had always known when he was miserable, had always seen straight through him, no matter how carefully he armored himself.

She would have taken one look at Gabrielle and called her a spoiled child. His lips twitched, involuntary. The car slowed at the gates, the manor rising ahead. Ollivander opened the door with the same dignified patience he had offered since Draco was a boy, but there was the briefest flicker of something in his eyes as their gazes met. As if he, too, understood just how precarious it had all become. As if he, too, was wondering what secrets had begun to stir again.

Gabrielle prattled something about dinner. Draco did not answer, his feet carried him forward, each step heavier than the last. Upstairs, in the quiet of his room, he shrugged off the day. When he emerged from a shower, dressed in a pair of old sweat pants and a black t-shirt, he found himself staring down at the box Narcissa had left earlier on his dresser. Crumb & Clover once again, still tied with its pale green ribbon.

He sat slowly and opened it, letting the scent rise and swallow him whole. Almond, cardamom, the barest trace of citrus greeted him this time. He popped one of the tarts in his mouth and closed his eyes, letting the tension of the day leave his body in the safety of his old bedroom. It was absurd how much a pastry could disarm him.

The old field hockey rink had not seen this much life in years. Hidden at the edge of the north woods, where the manicured hedgerows gave way to dense trees and the wrought iron fences turned quiet with ivy, it remained one of Northbridge’s best kept secrets. The boards were faded, the paint chipped from days long past, but the concrete was still good, still clean. A boy with blonde hair skated fast and reckless, all limbs and joy, his breath fogging the air as he shouted for another boy to pass.

The boy did, grinning, his wild brown hair tucked under a too large beanie, his stance fluid and confident. They moved together like they had been born on skates, weaving between orange cones, chasing the puck like it held all the answers in the world. Laughter echoed up into the silver dusk, there was no audience, just two boys, a shared dream, and a stretch of a rink waiting to be conquered.

From the road above, Draco caught the glint of motion. Gabrielle was mid sentence, her accent laced with boredom as she recounted some ridiculous anecdote about the shopping escapades she’d had when visiting England, when he turned his head and saw them, two figures dancing across the rink. His foot eased off the pedal of his parents Cadillac, a slow smile crept across his face.

“Excuse me for just a moment,” he murmured, pulling to the side.

Gabrielle looked up from her compact mirror, puzzled, but said nothing. He sat behind the wheel, watching for a minute longer. There was something right about it, seeing boys out on that rink again, something that wrapped around his heart and pulled, warm and tight. He remembered afternoons lost to bruised shins and taped sticks, remembered wind in his hair and the scrape of blades across concrete with his friends. There was a kind of magic in sport, a freedom he hadn’t touched in years.

He would come back. He would find a reason to be there, someone who could still teach a few tricks. He pressed the accelerator gently and rejoined the road. Gabrielle had resumed talking, unaware that Draco’s mind had wandered somewhere far sweeter, somewhere younger. He did not know their names, nor had he seen either of their faces before, the town had changed while he was away, and the faces of its youth were no longer familiar to him.

Still, as he watched the boys fly across the concrete, he recognized something that needed no introduction. Talent was talent, and that kind of raw, unpolished skill was unmistakable. One of them, the taller one, had a center’s instincts, knew how to slip into gaps and pull the puck into orbit as if it were drawn to him. The smaller boy with the beanie had power, not just in his stride, but in the way he kept balance.

Draco leaned back in the driver’s seat, his arm resting on the wheel, a flicker of amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth. It was not the boys themselves that held his interest, they reminded him of something that had long since settled passed, that feral joy of playing not for glory, not for titles, but simply to be.

He did not need to know their names, if they stayed sharp, if they kept that hunger, he would find out soon enough. A good player did not go unnoticed for long. A great one, never. Perhaps he would ask around, see who the boys were. Draco pressed a fingertip to his mouth and smiled thoughtfully. He could use a reason to use his blades again. At the gates of the Manor, Ollivander was already waiting, an escort for Gabrielle, and a stack of correspondence Narcissa insisted he look through. Draco took it with a nod, but his mind remained with the rink, with the faceless boys and their electric joy. 

“You look pensive,” she said, her tone too casual to be anything but deliberate.

Draco peeled off his coat and dropped onto the sofa across from her. 

“Just saw some kids playing on the old rink off Hayward.”

“Children?” Narcissa set her needle aside. “It must have been one of the hockey boys. You know how much this town loves their hockey.”

Draco laughed, he’d been practical royalty in high school for his Hockey prowess.

“I might go back tomorrow.”

Narcissa’s expression softened. 

“That would be lovely, darling. You always did look most yourself in skates of any kind.”

He bid good evening to his mother and retired to his room for the evening. He hadn’t felt so excited to play Hockey in a long time. 

Hermione was freaking out. She couldn’t believe the order invoice that had just come through the fax machine in her office. This was the best and simultaneously the worst possible order she could have received. On one hand, this was big for business, a Gala of this magnitude, of getting her bakeries name in front of diplomats and the elites, it would be a dream come true. On the other hand, it would mean she’d have to personally deliver the multitude of trays and cakes to Malfoy Mansion, a fact she did not relish at all. It was too risky, too emotionally taxing. For a place that was not her own, it sure held many memories.

She groaned when she saw the price tag, unable to pass up a life changing sum of money for her business. With the extra income, she’d be able to get Scorpius all new Hockey gear AND a private lesson for his approaching 8th birthday party. The order was hefty, it would take all hands on deck and plenty of overtime hours, but she felt confident she could do it and knew Scorpius wouldn’t mind the extra bonding time with his Uncle Ron and his wife Lavender (though he didn’t particularly like her).

Not to mention, he loved hanging out with Harry and Ginny, between the three of them, they’d be more than able to help her with Scorpius when she couldn’t be around. She called her assistant, Lydia, into the backroom to discuss processes and a game plan. After an hour of brainstorming and discussion, Hermione felt happy with her plan. She tamped down whatever personal feelings she’d had and got to work immediately. 

“Hermione! You there?” 

The bell on the shop door wrang, the familiar voice of one of her oldest friends, Ron Weasley, filling the parlor of her bakery. Scorpius chimed in after, gunning straight for the display case and nicking a chocolate strawberry from the tray. Ron gave him a thumbs up, Hermione smacked Scorpius shoulder playfully and told him those were for paying customers. 

“Thanks for picking him up today Ron. I got held up here.”

Ron waved her off.

“It’s no problem, ‘Mione! You know Lav and I love having Scorp over.”

Scorpius grinned.

“Uncle Ron promised to take me to the county fair this weekend! Can I go Mom?”

Hermione nodded.

“That’s fine, as long as you listen to your Aunt Lavender. Remember what happened last year?”

Scorpius groaned at the memory. Ron sniggered, remembering it entirely differently. 

“It’ll be fine, Hermione. You said you had work to do this weekend anyway, so we’ll get out of your hair for a bit.” 

Hermione sighed. Scorpius disappeared into the backroom and Hermione took the opportunity to share the big news with Ron.

“A big order came through. It’s, it’s from you know who’s family.”

Ron’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. 

“Really? And you’re going to take it?” 

Hermione shrugged.

“The pro’s outweigh my own fears. It’s a life changing opportunity and an amount of money I can’t pass up, especially as Scorpius wants to start travel Hockey in a few years. You know how expensive that can be.”

Ron sighed.

“Hermione, you know I love you and support you, but, don’t you think it’s time to tell him? I just, I care about you, and I was there the night Pucey was spouting that nonsense about Malfoy being back. If that’s true, it’d be best to hear everything from you.”

Hermione sniffed.

“I’m a horrible person, aren’t I?” 

Ron shook his head.

“No, you just made a wrong decision, but that doesn't make you horrible. They always say hindsight is twenty-twenty anyway.” Ron patted her shoulder. “Plus, you’re a good Mom to Scorpius. I only meant that you should rip the band aid off before someone does it for you. It’s a small town, Hermione, if Malfoy really is back, Scorpius will run into him eventually. Then what?”

Hermione gave a meek smile. 

“Easier said than done.” 

Chapter Text

The engine was unmistakable, a low-throated revving that wound its way through the valley before the car itself even came into view. Draco stepped onto the porch, coffee still in hand, and narrowed his eyes toward the crest of the hill. He knew that sound better than most people knew the sound of their own name. His Viper, it had to be. He had not heard it in over three weeks, and the moment the sleek black frame curved around the bend and pulled up the driveway, he felt something in his chest loosen.

Pansy swung out of the driver’s seat with the satisfaction of someone who had just conquered a multi-state road trip and looked damn good doing it. Her sunglasses remained perched on her nose, her short bob pinned up, gold hoops glinting in the sun. She stretched her arms above her head, then dropped them and leaned against the hood like she was posing for a press photo.

“You’re welcome,” she said dryly, raising a brow. “I kept it under ninety. Mostly.”

Draco chuckled under his breath and descended the steps. 

“Miraculous, and generous, is this what a favor looks like these days?”

She gestured toward the passenger side with a lazy flick of her fingers. 

“It comes with a bonus complication.”

The passenger door swung open, out stepped Theodore Nott. Draco blinked. 

“You brought the complication with you?”

Theo grinned like a man who knew exactly how much chaos he carried in his pockets. His hair was shaggier than it had been the last time Draco saw him, flopping over his forehead and ears, and his face had that same infuriatingly calm expression he wore when skating into a fight. He shut the car door with a slap of his palm and walked around the hood.

“What, no hug?” he asked. “I drag myself out of New York on my only free weekend, and this is the greeting I get?”

Draco set his mug down on the porch rail and crossed his arms. 

“You have an active contract with the Rangers. What the hell are you doing here?”

Theo smirked. 

“Injury bench, took a skate to the ankle in practice last week. I’ll be cleared in a few days, but I figured I’d make myself useful in the meantime.”

“Useful,” Draco repeated flatly, glancing at Pansy, who only shrugged as if to say your problem now.

“He wanted to get out of the city,” she said aloud. “So I let him ride shotgun. He napped through the coast, complained through all of New England, and has not shut up about the food here since we passed the state line.”

Theo leaned against the car beside her. 

“I forgot how much I missed it. Real quiet, real bread, air that doesn’t taste like burnt pretzels or halal meats.”

Draco exhaled, still wary. He loved Theo, always had. From their earliest days as friends, they had moved as a single unit. On the ice, they understood each other without speaking, two minds bent toward the same goal. Off the ice, Theo was the one person who could get under his skin and make him laugh in the same breath. But he also attracted a brand of trouble that Draco had done his best to avoid since moving back.

“You planning on staying long?” he asked, voice even.

Theo shrugged. 

“Just a few days. I thought maybe I’d see my Mom, skate a bit at the old rink, maybe see if the coffee’s still as bad as it was in high school.”

Pansy looked at Draco, her expression softening slightly. 

“It’s not a bad thing, you know. Having people in your corner. You’ve been here by yourself for weeks.”

Draco looked between them, then stepped back and gestured toward the house. 

“Fine, but if either of you touches my liquor shelf without asking, I’m locking the cellar. Oh, and, surprise surprise, we are hosting the French Ambassador and his daughter before the Gala, so you know my Mother will expect you both at your best.”

Theo was already headed toward the steps. 

“You say that like it ever stopped me before. You know Narcissa loves me more than you, she could never hate a face like mine.”

Draco shook his head and followed after him, unsure whether he was welcoming company or inviting disaster. Probably both, with Theo, it was always both. The morning passed in a strange sort of rhythm. Theo wandered through the house like a man walking through a museum of his own childhood, commenting on what had changed and what had not. Pansy commandeered the kitchen, made coffee stronger than it had any right to be. By midday, the place felt fuller, warmer, reminiscent of his high school days. Draco had not decided yet whether that was a good thing. 

They had settled into the sunroom by the time Theo brought it up. He leaned back in the worn armchair, fingers drumming idly against the side of his mug, and looked over the rim of his cup like he had rehearsed what he was about to say. The shit eating grin never left his face. Draco clocked it immediately, the curve of Theo’s mouth too smug to be anything but loaded. He didn’t rise to it. The grin only grew bigger.

“You know who I saw a post about the other day on Facebook?” Theo said, too casual, like it didn’t mean anything, like he wasn’t about to drop a name Draco had spent the better part of the last decade pining over.

Draco didn’t bite. He tipped his chin upward in lazy disinterest. 

“Don’t care.”

Theo grinned.

“You sure? It’s about Granger,” Theo said anyway, unfazed. “Hermione Granger, you know, your high school girlfriend and the love of your life? The one you say you don’t care about but still pine after her like a lovesick fool?”

Draco blinked once, but kept his mouth shut. The name passed through the room, stirring up too many damn things he had buried deep. He gave a noncommittal shrug, cool and rehearsed. 

“Last I heard from Granger she was going to defer a year and then go to MIT.”

Pansy looked up from her phone where she had been scrolling in silence, her expression unreadable. She twisted her lips slightly, then gave a small shake of her head. She followed Hermione on Facebook too and had seen the posts over the years. Pansy knew there was much more to the story, she just didn’t know what exactly that was yet.

“Apparently not. At least, not according to my mom. You know how she keeps tabs on everyone worth knowing in this town. She said Granger never left, stayed right here in town and moved out of her parents house shortly after. She runs that little bakery in town. Crumb & Clover, I believe it’s called.”

Draco’s fingers tightened on the mug before he could stop them. 

“Doesn’t mean anything,” he said sharply, too quickly. “Maybe she decided the pressure wasn’t worth it.”

Pansy shook her head.

“No, she turned it down,” Pansy replied, matter-of-fact. “That’s what my Mom said, anyway.”

Theo leaned forward, elbows on knees, that grin still dancing on his face.

“Who knows, Draco, maybe you knocked her up and that’s why she stayed.”

Draco’s heart stopped, just for a beat too long, long enough to hear the blood rush through his ears. He stared at Theo, face blank, because it was either that or let the panic crack through the mask of practiced calm.

“Funny,” he said, flat. Hollow. “Don’t joke about something like that.”

Theo laughed, but it faltered quickly. 

“I mean, obviously not. You would have known if you didn’t wrap it, right?”

Draco didn’t answer. Theo’s face fell, Pansy blinked, wide eyed.

“Drake, bro, please tell me you didn’t raw dog Granger?”

The silence lingered too long, Pansy glanced between them, the air suddenly heavy with something none of them could name. She cleared her throat and tucked her legs up onto the couch, her voice too bright. 

“Whether Draco decided to be reckless or not isn’t relevant. It’s, It’s just gossip. It’s been seven years since then and you know how this town gets. The second someone makes a decision outside the norm, it becomes a whole story. I’m sure it was nothing.”

Draco set his mug down, the porcelain clinked too loud against the glass table. He stood slowly, walking to the window without a word. Outside, the sky hung gray and close, the trees unmoving. His reflection stared back at him in the glass, pale and drawn, and for one sickening moment, all he could see was a version of himself, eighteen years old and stupid, horny from the breeze and besotted with his girlfriend whom he very much enjoyed fucking and enjoyed being fucked.

Draco felt his heart seize up. There were only two times he knew for a fact he’d not used a condom. He knew the possibility couldn’t have been during his first time, because Hermione had gotten her period shortly after, however, before he left, when they were in his bed that last night…well…that one he couldn’t be too sure.

Draco’s fingers traced the curve of her jaw, his touch featherlight, as if memorizing her. Hermione leaned into his palm, her breath hitching when his thumb brushed her lower lip.

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” she whispered.

His answer was a kiss, slow, deep, and consuming. His tongue slid against hers, tasting her, claiming her. She whimpered into his mouth, her hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer. Draco groaned, his body pressing her into the mattress, his cock already hard against her thigh. He broke the kiss to trail his lips down her neck, sucking marks into her skin, branding her with love bites. 

“I need you,” he rasped, his voice rough with want. “Every part of you.”

Hermione arched beneath him, gasping as his hands removed her shirt and bra, and found her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked. He bent his head, taking one into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive flesh before biting gently. She cried out, her hips lifting, seeking friction. Draco smirked against her skin, his fingers trailing lower, slipping between her thighs. She was already wet, already aching for him. He groaned at the feel of her, his cock twitching as he circled her clit, teasing her in the way he knew she liked.

“Draco,” Her voice broke as he slid a finger inside her, making her back bow off the bed.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled, adding another finger, stretching her, preparing her.

His thumb pressed against her clit, rubbing in tight circles until she was panting, her thighs trembling.

“I want to taste you,” he murmured, kissing down her stomach, his breath hot against her skin.

Hermione barely had time to nod before he was between her legs, his tongue licking a slow, torturous path up her cunt. She gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair as he devoured her, his mouth sealing over her clit, sucking gently before flicking his tongue against it.

“Oh god!” Her hips jerked, but Draco held her down, his grip firm as he lapped at her, drinking in every whimper, every moan.

He slid two fingers back inside her, fucking her in time with the strokes of his tongue until her thighs clenched around his head, her orgasm shuddering through her. Hermione shifted, her dark eyes meeting his, and he saw the same ache reflected there. Without a word, she slid down his body, her lips brushing over his abdomen, her hands skimming his hips as she switched positions.

“Hermione,” His voice was rough, but she silenced him with a look, her fingers wrapping around his cock, already hard just from the feel of her.

She didn’t tease, there was no time for that. She took him into her mouth in one slow, deep glide, her tongue pressing against the underside, her lips tight around him. Draco hissed, his fingers twisting in her curls, not to guide her, just to hold on. Her eyes flicked up to his as she sucked, hollowing her cheeks, her hand working what she couldn’t take. The sight alone was nearly enough to undo him, Hermione Granger, on her knees between his thighs, taking him like she needed it as much as he did. He could feel the tension coiling in his gut, the pleasure gathering at the base of his spine.

“ Fuck,” His grip tightened in her hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to feel. “Hermione, I’m close.”

When she pulled back, her lips were swollen, her breath uneven. Draco dragged her up, crushing his mouth to hers, laying her back down on the bed so he could put his cock inside her. Hermione lay beneath him, her body trembling with every slow, deep thrust as Draco set a slow, sensual pace. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the sound of their ragged breaths mingling with the quiet creak of the bed beneath them.

Draco’s fingers dug into the sheets on either side of her head, his muscles taut, his jaw clenched as he fought to keep his rhythm steady and slow, so fucking slow, because if he went any faster, he’d lose himself too soon, and he couldn’t bear for this to end, not yet. Hermione’s hands slid up his chest, her fingertips tracing the sharp lines of his collarbones before threading into his sweat damp hair. Her eyes, dark and liquid with unshed tears, never left his face. She was memorizing him, the way his grey eyes burned into hers, the way his lips parted on a silent gasp when she clenched around him.

“Draco,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

He swallowed hard, his hips stuttering. A shudder wracked through him, he lowered himself onto his forearms, pressing his forehead to hers as he continued to disappear into her, their bodies pressed together tightly. Their breaths mingled, hot and uneven.

“I can’t, fuck, I can’t think about tomorrow,” he growled against her lips, his thrusts growing harder, more desperate. “Just tonight, just you Hermione.”

Hermione arched beneath him, her nails scoring down his back as she pulled him closer, her legs wrapping tight around his waist. Every movement was a plea, a silent prayer that whispered don’t go, don’t leave me. Draco’s control was fraying, his body coiling tighter with each slick slide of her around him. He could feel the heat pooling low in his gut, the inevitable crest threatening to drag him under at the base of his spine.

 
“Look at me,” he rasped, his voice raw. “I want to see you.”

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open, her lips parted on a moan as he angled his hips just right, hitting that spot inside her that made her gasp. Her thighs trembled, her body tightening around him in warning.

“I’m close,” she breathed.

Draco’s fingers tangled in her hair, tilting her head back as he kissed her, hard, possessive, devouring, as if he could brand the taste of her into his memory. His thrusts turned erratic, his hips snapping against hers in a frantic rhythm.

“Come for me, Hermione.” he begged against her mouth. “Please.”

Hermione’s back bowed, a broken cry tearing from her throat as she shattered beneath him, her walls fluttering around his cock in waves. The sensation was too much, Draco groaned, his entire body tensing as he buried himself deep, spilling into her with a ragged gasp, his release hot and endless as he slowly thrust into her a few more times with each pulse.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, he collapsed onto her, his forehead pressed to her shoulder as he struggled to steady his breathing. Hermione’s fingers traced slow, soothing circles over his back, her own chest rising and falling rapidly beneath him as they remained connected. When he finally lifted his head, her eyes were wet. Draco swallowed hard, his throat tight. He kissed her with everything he had before pulling her into his arms, holding her as if he could keep her there forever.

“ I love you, Hermione.”

“I love you too, Draco.”

As they both knew it would, the sun rose in the sky the next morning, bringing finality with it.

“I would’ve known,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

No one replied, the seed was already there, buried in the rich soil of doubt. It didn’t matter that it had been years, that they had all moved on, or pretended to. It didn’t matter that Hermione Granger had disappeared from his life, the thought had taken root and Draco Malfoy had never been good at leaving things buried. He would never forgive himself, knowingly or otherwise, if he’d knocked up Granger and then left her. Suddenly, he felt like making the trip into town.

Hermione pulled the car to a slow stop beside the near empty lot of the field hockey rink, its weathered boards and patchy cement still clinging to some sense of charm. Teddy unbuckled his seatbelt before they even parked, already halfway out the door with his stick in hand. Scorpius followed, his cheeks flushed with excitement, a grin plastered across his face that made Hermione smile despite herself.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” she called, leaning out the window as they ran ahead. “Stay right here where I can find you, don’t talk to anyone weird, and don’t try any stupid stunts.”

Teddy waved over his shoulder without looking back. 

“No promises Aunt Hermione!”

Scorpius was more polite, he turned and nodded, that charming mix of mischief and manners she knew too well. 

“Yes, Mom.”

She waited a beat longer, watching them dash toward the rink, both of them already shouting about stick handling and who owed who a soda from last time. Content, Hermione put the car back in gear and rolled away, leaving the boys in a flurry of roller blades and laughter. About an hour later, the sound of a car drew their attention. They didn’t even hear the Viper until it idled into place across the lot, sleek and dark and utterly out of place. The engine purred low before cutting out, and two doors swung open.

Out stepped two men, tall and lean, dressed like they had walked off a billboard. Both carried duffle bags slung over their shoulders, hockey sticks in one hand, confidence in the other. Their footsteps crunched across the packed snow with an ease that could only be earned, not performed, and their sunglasses hid the expression in their eyes. Teddy stopped mid-pass, his stick clattering to the ground. His eyes went wide. 

“Is that?”

Scorpius followed his gaze and froze. 

“THEODORE NOTT?”

They stood gaping at the two figures striding toward them like minor gods from an entirely different league. Theodore Nott laughed when he saw their expressions and offered a lazy wave, while Draco Malfoy adjusted his gloves and surveyed the rink like he owned the place. His eyes clocked the blonde hair on the kid immediately, but said nothing.

“You two look like you’ve been holding court here for a while,” Theo called out as they approached. “Mind if a couple of old men crash the session?”

The boys couldn’t speak, could barely nod. Teddy’s face was red, whether from cold or adrenaline was impossible to say, and Scorpius had stopped breathing entirely. Draco paused near the boards, resting his arm on the top rail, eyes scanning the concrete with quiet precision.

“You two got names?” Theo asked, grinning as he pulled on his gloves.

“Teddy,” the shorter boy stammered. “Teddy Lupin. This is Scorpius.”

Draco turned at the sound of the name, but again, nothing registered beyond a brief flicker of interest. A constellation name was rare and he’d only ever heard of such a tradition on his mothers side of the family.

“Nice name,” he added, motioning toward Scorpius with a tilt of his chin. “You been playing long?”

Scorpius nodded quickly. 

“Since I was old enough to skate! Mom got me started right away on my Aunt Ginny’s insistance.”

Draco tossed his duffle bag aside and skated out in a smooth arc. 

“Ginny? As in Ginny Weasley?”

“It’s Ginny Potter now. She married my Uncle Harry.”

Draco quirked an eyebrow. 

“Huh, who’d have thought Potter would go for the Weaslette?” Theo chimed in, grinning. 

“You mind if we play with you guys, give a few pointers? Maybe run a couple drills?”

The boys lit up like Christmas. Teddy practically sidled up to Draco with the eyes of meeting their idol from the Falcons. Scorpius skated to Theo, grinning at the tall brunette for the Rangers. 

“We’ll do some drills and warm ups and then we’ll play two on two. Afterwards, Draco and I here can give you some tips. Sound good?”

It wasn’t long before they were moving together in a rhythm that surprised even Draco. They split into pairs, running short passes and switching off defense. At first, it was just for fun, a casual skate to stretch their legs. But something about the kid, about Scorpius, caught him as he molded to Theo’s playing style like a natural. The angles he took, the way he pivoted, the precision of his wrist when he snapped the puck along the edge of his stick. It wasn’t coached, but it was familiar, deeply familiar. Draco squared off with him near the center line, stick to stick, and felt the flicker of recognition stir again. 

When the boy darted left and spun back with an edge cut so tight it mirrored one of Draco’s signature moves, he blinked. He had never taught that move to anyone but Theo. Theodore saw it too, he skated past him with a raised brow and a look that said everything he didn’t say aloud. He faced the boy again, heart pounding beneath his thermal. He cleared his throat.

“You play like someone I used to know,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly.

Scorpius shrugged, panting a little. 

“Maybe we’re just built the same.”

Draco’s lips parted, but no answer came. He had absolutely no idea what game he had just stepped into. Scorpius gave a small, sheepish smile, one that didn’t quite match the sharpness of his play but softened him all the same. He lowered his stick, letting it rest against his shin, eyes flicking up at Draco with a curiosity that mirrored his own. The boy didn’t flinch under the scrutiny, he stood there steady, chin tilted slightly, like he had no idea who he was speaking to, or maybe he did and simply didn’t care.

He stepped back and gave a half-nod, skating away under the pretense of checking the puck that had slid toward the corner. Theo met him halfway with a knowing look already twisting his mouth. He didn’t say anything at first, just flicked the puck back toward center with a slow, deliberate arc.

“You seeing what I’m seeing?” Theo asked casually, voice low.

Draco didn’t answer, he kept his eyes on the kid, watching as Scorpius laughed at something Teddy said, bumping shoulders like they’d been playing together for a decade. The kid had balance, instinct, that rare ability to make space where there shouldn’t be any. It wasn’t learned, it was lived, and it looked too damn much like him. Theo nudged him with his shoulder. 

“You think maybe it’s just a coincidence?”

Draco didn’t move. Theo gave a low hum. Draco turned sharply. 

“Don’t start.”

A cold silence fell between them, the kids skated around, but Theo smiled like a bastard. 

“You knocked her up, didn’t you?”

Draco didn’t laugh, he didn’t even blink. His stomach dropped so violently it felt like the concrete beneath him cracked. The color drained from his face and for a brief, genuine second, he considered the timeline. That summer had been a whirlwind of first love. There had been moments, nights he barely remembered except in how vivid they had felt, one of them, one of those nights-

“No,” Draco said flatly, though his voice betrayed him. “No, that’s not, no.”

Theo studied him. 

“You sure?”

Draco growled.

“No,” Draco snapped, louder this time. He looked away, jaw clenched. “I mean, I never heard anything, she never said anything.”

“She wouldn’t have,” Theo replied, soft now.

Draco turned his back to the rink, pressing a gloved hand to his face. His breath caught somewhere in his throat and his eyes blurred with anxiety. He hadn’t seen her in years, he hadn’t even dared to ask about her. If she had stayed, if she had built a life in the same town he thought he had left behind for good, and never told him-he was pulled from his thoughts, Theo nudged his elbow. 

“It’s probably nothing.”

Draco didn’t move, he didn’t laugh it off this time. The boy out there reminded him so much of him at that age. Draco watched Scorpius skate past again, light and effortless, unaware of the questions unraveling behind him. It was probably nothing, it had to be. Since he returned to Northbridge, Draco found himself wondering what exactly he had come back to, and if he even wanted to find out.

“Can we get a picture together? The guys on the team are not going to believe we met you!”

Draco and Theo smiled, nodding to the two kids. They posed for a selfie and when the blonde boy, Scorpius, held the phone out to show him the picture, his heart cracked in fucking two. Standing next to each other in the photo, all geared up, clutching their hockey sticks, the resemblance, the smile, it was like looking in a mirror. Uncanny and terrifying.

“Alright kids, one more round of pointers, and then we have to get going.” Theo corralled the boys back to skating, Draco pulling himself together to once again lead drills. 

He was impressed with Scorpius, the kid clearly had talent. It got him excited, for some reason, he wanted to cultivate it, mold it, bring it to it’s fullest potential. First, however, he had a lot of investigating to do, and it started with Hermione Granger’s Facebook.

Hermione parked with a quiet sigh, flipping her phone face down as Scorpius and Teddy came bounding up like they had won something more than a game. Their cheeks were flushed from the cold, hair wild under their knit caps, sticks tucked under their arms. She barely had time to put the car in park before the door flew open and both boys tumbled in, still breathless with excitement.

“Mom,” Scorpius said, eyes glowing, “you won’t believe who we played with today.”

Teddy jumped in before she could ask. 

“Real players, Aunt Hermione! Like actual NHL players. We skated with Theodore Nott and Draco Malfoy. Can you believe that?”

Hermione stilled, hand hovering over the ignition. She looked at Teddy first, then at her son. Draco? Draco was here? Hermione could feel herself panic.

“You’re serious?”

Scorpius nodded, practically vibrating. 

“They just showed up and started playing. Theo gave us tips, he said my shot had good follow through. And Draco,” he paused, his smile softening into something more awed, “he played like he could see the whole rink in slow motion. It was so cool.”

Teddy leaned back in the seat, clutching his phone. 

“I got pictures, look.”

Hermione hesitated. It was irrational, the fear threading up her spine, but she nodded anyway. Teddy passed the phone to Scorpius, who pulled up the photo and angled it toward her proudly. 

“Look, he was really nice to me, Mom. Said I had good instincts.”

Her breath caught the moment her eyes landed on the image. It wasn’t just the quality of the photo, or the sharpness of the frame, or even how close they stood on the rink. It was the way Scorpius was smiling, bright and open, it was the way Draco was beside him, crouched slightly, one hand on Scorpius’s shoulder. He wore a faint, almost surprised smile, his features were unmistakable even after all these years.

His pale hair, the slope of his jaw, the line of his nose, he looked the same, but older, and Hermione felt like a young eighteen year old all over again, besotted with how handsome he was. Her throat went dry, her fingers tightened around the phone. This photo was it, this photo was undeniable, now that they’d inadvertantly met side by side. There was no getting around it now.

“Mom?” Scorpius asked quietly. “You okay?”

She forced herself to swallow, her heart was thundering, her mind had already raced five steps ahead. 

“Yes, just surprised, that’s all.”

Scorpius nodded.

“He was really good,” Scorpius added, nodding as if that somehow justified the pang in her chest. “Really fast. Everyone says that online, but he’s even better in person. I liked playing with him.”

Hermione handed the phone back carefully, her fingers trembling. Teddy leaned forward from the back seat. 

“He said he might come back next week, just to play for fun. Do you think that’s true?”

She didn’t answer immediately, her eyes remained fixed on the dashboard, on the reflection of a life that had somehow caught up to her without warning. The man she had not seen in seven years had stumbled into her son’s life without knowing it. 

“I don’t know,” she said finally, her voice low. “Maybe.”

Scorpius leaned against the door with a contented sigh. 

“I hope so.”

Hermione stared out the windshield, her hands folded in her lap as the truth sat silently beside her. She had finally been forced to face the music. She supposed, it was only a matter of time. The car ride home blurred around her, though the boys chattered on without pause. Teddy rattled off the names of drills they had tried, how Theo had joked with them like they were teammates and not just two boys from a town that barely made the league maps. Scorpius added his own memories, more measured, but no less starry eyed. He had not stopped smiling and the picture still sat in her mind.

Hermione parked in front of the house after she’d dropped off Teddy and gave her son a nudge toward the door. She mumbled something about dinner and went to the kitchen out of habit, but her mind was far from the cabinets and the simmering pot she placed on the stove. She could still see it, clear as day, the shape of Draco’s hand on Scorpius’s shoulder, the way their bodies leaned toward one another, unconsciously aligned.

She stirred the pot, though she could not remember what she had put in it. When Scorpius wandered in, he looked too much like his father for her to ignore it any longer. The same lean frame, the same sharp chin, the same eyes that saw more than they let on. He slid into a seat and watched her with casual curiosity, unaware of the storm behind her eyes.

“Do you really think he’ll come again, Mom?” he asked, swinging his legs under the table.

She took a slow breath. 

“I don’t know, love. I hope so, for your sake.”

He nodded, content with that. 

“I hope so, too.”

The questions that had lived dormant in her chest were starting to stir. She had told herself it was better this way, that she couldn’t bare the thought of Draco growing to resent her, that her own fear and cowardice didn’t ruin her son’s life. She blinked back the heat rising behind her eyes, she was such a terrible liar, even to herself.

“I think I’ll head to the rink tomorrow,” she said quietly, wiping her hands on a towel. “Maybe meet the coach about those private lessons you’ve been wanting.”

Scorpius grinned. 

“Can I come?”

She smiled, brushing his curls from his forehead. 

“Of course.”

If Draco came back, if he walked onto that ice again, she would be ready. She would come with eyes open. She owed her son that much, and maybe, she owed it to herself, too.

He closed the door behind him with a quiet click, the rest of the house falling away into silence. The floor creaked underfoot as he toed off his shoes, he did not bother turning on the lights. Moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting long strips across the foot of his bed. He moved with the same precision he had once reserved for the rink, every motion deliberate, every breath a little too shallow. The bed groaned as he sat, elbows on his knees, hands steepled in front of his mouth.

That night had been a blur, but not because he had forgotten it. He had just locked it away so tightly it only came loose when he let his guard slip. It had been years ago, the night before he left Northbridge for training camp, back when everything still felt possible. Somewhere between the silence, the finality of leaving, something else had spilled out. He had kissed her like it was the last thing he would ever be allowed to do, and she had kissed him back with all the passion of young love.

He laid back now, staring up at the ceiling. That had to be the only time, the only stupid, reckless, heat drenched moment he had let himself forget everything. He had not wrapped it their first time nor their last. He cursed softly and dragged a hand over his face, the evidence not looking good. He recalled the boys name from earlier, Scorpius. Hermione had been in town all this time. She had not gone to MIT, she had stayed. He sat up again, heartbeat heavy. He needed to see her, he needed to know why she had never told him, why she had looked him in the eye and let him walk away all those years ago without ever saying a word.

He needed the truth, even if it wrecked him. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, unmoving. His jaw tightened, a slow, involuntary clench that ached all the way down to the base of his neck. Hermione Granger had been many things to him over the years. He had always known she was capable of cutting deep, but he had never believed she would do something like this. If it was true, if Scorpius was his, if that child had been born from that last, breathless night they had shared, then she had kept it from him for seven years. She had carried that secret into motherhood, she had raised that boy, let him grow into the echo of Draco’s own face, and never once told him who his father was.

A hollow sort of fury took root in his chest, not the kind that made him want to break things, but the kind that made his pulse beat louder in his ears. She had robbed him of something irreversible. He could never get those years back, it was a betrayal so heavy, so monumental, he couldn’t even begin to process it. He had missed his first steps, his first scraped knee, the first time he held a hockey stick or asked about his father. He had not been given the choice, she had taken that from him without a second thought.

His hands curled into fists at the thought. He could almost hear her voice in the dark, that clipped, stubborn tone she used when she was convinced she was right. She would say it had been easier this way, that his future mattered, that he couldn’t give up his dreams. He could hear all the excuses she might craft, each more condescending than the last. Still, none of them would change what she had done. It was not just the lie, it was the decision, the sheer arrogance of it. The idea that she had looked at the possibility of him, weighed it, and decided it was not worth the risk, not worth the call, not worth the truth, it burned.

Yet, beneath the fury was something far more dangerous. There was hope, a small, cloying sort of hope. If Scorpius was his, what did that make him now? What did it mean for the life he had built, the distance he had buried everything beneath? Could he just step into that boy’s world like a ghost finally claiming the living? Would it even matter anymore? Would Hermione let him near? Would she even acknowledge the truth if he confronted her? He stared down at his hands, shaking slightly.

He could not stop the reel of possibilities. A son, a life, a near decade lost. His voice rasped in the quiet, dry and bitter as hot tears streaked down his face. He mourned the life he lived and the life he could have had, all at once.

“Goddamn you, Granger.”

If it was true, if that boy was his, it meant she had taken the single most important decision of his life and made it without him. She had changed everything without ever giving him the chance to care, or walk away, or fight. He was not sure if he hated her for it, or if part of him still ached because he never stopped wanting her to choose him. While there were so many reasons to be angry, to lean into the hurt and betrayal, Hermione had, in a sense, chosen him and his future. She let him walk away from it and simultaneously towards it. Draco cried and cried, letting himself come apart in his privacy, his safe heaven, his solitude. Scorpius’ face remained in the forefront of his mind.

He could still feel her in his bed, in the memory of that night. She had looked at him like she wanted the whole world to disappear, like she trusted him, that was the part that gutted him. She had looked at him like that, and still kept this from him, allowed him to walk away, whether intentionally or not. He thought about what it would mean if he went to her, if he demanded the truth, if he found out that boy really was his. Could he forgive her? Could he ever look at her again and not see everything she had stolen from him? And what about Scorpius? Could he just show up, declare himself, pretend he knew how to be someone’s father after missing every moment that mattered?

It wasn’t just about the past, it was about everything that came next, too. If it was true, it would change the very ground beneath his feet. He would no longer be just a man with too many regrets and not enough reasons to come back, he would be tethered to something living, breathing, and undeniable, something that might look at him one day and ask.

“Where were you?” 

He would have no answer, except the one that had ruined him more times than he could count, he didn’t know. He hated her for that, for the cruelty of it, for the cowardice, for leaving him in the dark while she got to love something he never even had a chance to know. He hated her for protecting something sacred from him, like he didn’t deserve it, like he hadn’t been trying every day to love her and show her the world.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, digging hard, as if pressure might stop the pounding in his chest and the tears running down his face. The anger came in slow waves, yet through it all, one thought remained. He had to know. He had to talk with her, because if there was even the smallest chance Scorpius was his, then everything had changed, whether Hermione wanted it to or not.

Chapter Text

He made it look casual at first, like nostalgia, an old dog back in familiar territory, leaning against the rink walls with a coffee in hand and a neutral expression. No one looked twice. They saw a premature retired pro, whose novelty had worn off after everyone in town had started to notice him and he’d handed out autographs like candy. They didn’t see a man unraveling quietly, calculating every second he could get near a boy who had his hands, his stride, and his last name tucked beneath someone else’s, however. 

Tracking McLaggen had been simple. His mother still had connections in town, and all it took was one offhand question at Sunday tea for her to offer up the coach’s name. From there, the roster was just a polite email and a few old favors called in. When the file hit his inbox, Draco had stared at it for a long time before opening it. He wasn’t even sure what he hoped to find, a middle name, maybe, or something that would disprove what his gut had already told him. When he found Scorpius’ name, a new wave of grief rolled over him. Printed in plain black ink on the line marked Center was the name Scorpius Granger.

His last name was Granger, as if that alone wasn’t enough, as if his own damn blood wasn’t skating out in front of him twice a week with that same determined set to his jaw, that same stubborn tilt to his chin. He kept it to himself, not because he wanted to, he wanted to scream it, to march straight to Hermione’s front door and demand she explain how she thought this was fair. However, he thought of Scorpius, and, without Hermione, he did not want to have that talk. He could see reasonable maturity with that.

So he kept going to the rink. First the field one, then the ice, alternating days when it didn’t look too obvious. He stayed on the sidelines, watched from the edges, offered tips when asked, and left before the kids filtered into the locker rooms. He caught glimpses of Scorpius laughing with his teammates, scowling when he missed a shot, grinning when he didn’t. Draco memorized the way his son tied his laces, the way he stuck out his tongue when he concentrated, the way he leaned on his stick when he listened to the coach.

Every small detail, every tiny piece. Theo had flown back to Texas, leaving behind nothing but half finished jokes and a dent in the guest bed. He had clapped Draco on the shoulder the morning of his flight and said, with no small amount of meaning.

“Don’t wait too long.” 

Draco had only nodded, watching his best friend disappear through security without a word. That was where Pansy came in. She had volunteered, of course, said it with a glint in her eye and a cruel kind of glee. She had always liked a bit of espionage, and once upon a time, she and Hermione had been friends, enough so that she could slide back into the edges of her life without suspicion. She had already started, slipping into Crumb & Clover under the pretense of loving the ambiance, ordered one of Hermione’s coffees, and struck up a conversation with the barista like she hadn’t spent most of her twenties in heels sharper than her tongue. She reported back in clipped, nightly texts. 

Hermione looked good. 

We caught up over tea. She’s very self aware ;) 

Business is doing well. 

No visible partner, never dated anyone after you, seemed lonely.

Draco didn’t respond to most of the messages, he read them late at night, phone lit against the dark, and tried to reconcile the version of her in his head with the one Pansy described. He didn’t know what he wanted her to be. Angry, maybe. Remorseful, definitely, or maybe, despite everything, he still hoped she looked for him in the crowd, still held a flame for him. Buried under his hurt and anger, he knew, no matter what, even after all this time, he loved Hermione Granger.

He had time, that was what he told himself. Time to sort through the knot of feelings clawing their way up his throat every time Scorpius passed him the puck, time to make sense of what Hermione had done, what he had lost, and whether or not he would ever be able to forgive her for any of it. For now, he would wait. He would skate with the boys, he would keep his distance. One day, he would not stay on the sidelines, and when that day came, he would be ready with open arms.

Draco never meant to linger as long as he did, but after the Delacour’s had decided to extend their stay, Draco found any excuse he could to get out of babysitting duty. A week turned into two, and two into a month. Each afternoon bled into the next, and somehow, without ever saying the words aloud, he and Scorpius began to share a rhythm. The boy had taken a liking to him, that much was clear. He would wave Draco over before practice started, ask for help tightening a strap, or sheepishly admit he was struggling with a particular maneuver.

Draco, careful and cautious in a way he’d never been with anyone, would kneel beside him, speak low and firm, offer a trick or a tweak, never too much, he didn’t want to overwhelm. He just wanted to be there. They took to skating drills together after practice, Draco demonstrating, Scorpius copying, both of them racing down the rink until they were breathless. Scorpius called him “Coach D,” and laughed when Draco shoved him playfully into the boards. He always got back up grinning, flushed with pride. There was something deeply grounding about it, watching the boy glow under his attention.

He remembered what that felt like, he remembered what it had meant, once, to have a father in the stands, even if Lucius had never smiled like this. No one else seemed to question it. Draco was a former NHL legend taking interest in the younger generation. No one thought to ask why he never missed a single practice now, why he watched that one boy more closely than all the rest.

Sometimes, when the others had gone, Scorpius would beg for just a few more minutes on the ice, and Draco, weak to the sound of it, always said yes. They would skate lazy circles around each other, passing the puck back and forth, trading jokes, and the occasional challenge. Draco taught him how to square his shoulders before a shot, how to glide into a turn without losing momentum, how to look two moves ahead.

Scorpius soaked it in like a plant in the sunlight. He listened, nodded, corrected. He worked hard, and smiled harder. He called Draco talented, said he wanted to skate like him one day, that he was the best he’d ever seen. Draco couldn’t breathe every time he watched his son light up in admiration.

He had never known it could feel like this, this strange, aching joy; this impossible closeness. He would go home some nights and collapse onto the bed, still in his coat, unsure how to process what had just unfolded. Scorpius was his, he felt it in every inch of his body. That boy was his blood, his son, and every hour they spent together chipped away at the wall between them. Sometimes he wanted to scream, to tell him outright, to ask if he ever wondered why their faces matched in the mirror, why their instincts on the ice aligned so perfectly.

The truth was, he wasn’t ready to shatter the fragile peace they had built. So he smiled when Scorpius called out for him, he passed the puck without hesitation, he clapped when the boy scored, and stayed quiet when he didn’t. He filled his silences with warmth, with presence, with a steadiness he hoped the boy would come to rely on.

He was learning how to be a father in real time, and Scorpius, without ever knowing it, was letting him try. Somewhere, deep beneath the careful mask Draco wore each day, something tender began to unfurl. He was a part of something again. He was his father, a role model to look up to, and, most importantly, he already loved Scorpius more than life itself. Scorpius was trying the drill again, a one-two fake and a backhand flick that Draco had shown him earlier that week. He missed wide, cursed under his breath, and dropped his stick to his knees. Draco smirked, gliding over slowly. 

“You’re dragging your left foot again.”

“I am not,” Scorpius grumbled, cheeks flushed. “I just miscalculated.”

Draco gave a crooked smile.

“You’re too adept to get away with a word like ‘miscalculated.’ You’re dragging your foot, kid. Come on, again.”

Scorpius sighed, scooped up his stick, and reset the puck with exaggerated effort. 

“You sound like Coach McLaggen.”

Draco scoffed, circling him. 

“I do not. I’m way better than Cormac!”

Scorpius snorted. 

“You actually explain stuff though, like, real stuff. It makes more sense when you coach me.”

Draco paused, blinking, caught off guard by the compliment. He cleared his throat and glanced away, lest his son see the well in his eyes. 

“Well, I’ve been doing this a while.”

Scorpius smiled.

“You must’ve had someone really good teach you,” Scorpius said casually, adjusting his gloves. “Like your dad or something?”

The air hitched in Draco’s lungs at the word Dad from his mouth. He wanted to laugh. His Dad never cared much for Hockey, but they’d had money for private lessons, which, obviously paid off.

“No,” Draco said finally. “Not really, not in the way you think.”

Scorpius looked up, puzzled. 

“Oh, sorry. I just thought…”

Draco shook his head slowly and forced a small smile. 

“My circumstances were different, but you, you’re picking it up faster than I ever did.”

Scorpius beamed. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Draco said, voice softer now. “You’ve got good instincts, and you listen well. Those are two very important qualities to have at the professional level.”

Scorpius shrugged.

“Well, I like learning from you. You’re, I don’t know, you just get it.”

There was no good place for Draco to look, every direction hurt. He ended up fixing his eyes on the scuffed boards behind the net.

“You ever think about going pro?” he asked quietly.

Scorpius shrugged. 

“I mean, maybe? I think Mom would freak out. She already yells when I don’t do my homework.”

Draco’s mouth twitched. 

“She sounds smart.”

“She is,” Scorpius said, and there was something prideful in his voice that made Draco ache. “She started this bakery and café, Crumb & Clover. Have you been?”

Draco shook his head, cautious. 

“No, but my Mother had pastries brought home.”

Scorpius beamed.

“She makes the best cinnamon rolls,” Scorpius said, clearly unaware of the knife he was twisting. “I told her if we win the Mite Championship game again this year, that she had to let me eat three whole rolls this time!”

Draco raised an eyebrow.

“She’d do that for you?” Draco said, voice low.

“She always does,” Scorpius replied without hesitation. “We’re the Mite Champions three years running!”

Draco looked at him, the boy’s grey eyes were bright with sincerity, face flushed with effort, jaw set like someone much older. There was a flicker of Hermione there, in the sharpness of his wit, in the curve of his nose when he smiled, and the freckles on his face, but so much of him was familiar in other ways, in ways Draco couldn’t ignore.

“Alright,” Draco said finally, pushing away from the boards. “Let’s go again and this time, stop dragging your foot or I’m making you run laps in full gear.”

Scorpius laughed, his whole face lighting up. 

“Yes, Coach D.”

Draco turned before the boy could see the emotion in his eyes. He couldn’t stop the quiet smile that followed or the water on the edges of his vision. This, whatever this was, it meant more than anything he had ever done on the ice. He would keep coming back, every damn day if he had to.

The café had grown quiet in the lull between the late breakfast rush and the lunch trickle. Pansy sat across from Hermione, one manicured finger circling the rim of her espresso cup, her eyes flicking to the nearly bakery before returning to Hermione with a pointed stare. Hermione shifted in her seat, drawing her cardigan tighter around herself. Her tea had gone cold, she hadn’t touched it in the last ten minutes. Pansy wasn’t making jokes anymore, that was always the first sign.

“You should tell him,” Pansy said, her voice low.

Hermione didn’t flinch, but her shoulders tensed. 

“Tell who what?”

Pansy gave her a look. 

“You know who. Don’t insult either of us by pretending.”

Hermione sighed and looked away, toward the front window, where a smear of fingerprints smudged the glass from a child’s hand earlier that day. 

“It’s not that simple.”

Pansy sipped her espresso.

“It never is, but you’ve had years, Hermione. Years to prepare, years to figure out what the right thing is. What exactly are you waiting for?”

“I don’t, I just,” Hermione said, the words failing her. “He just, he was so dead set on playing at the Professional level and I…”

Pansy snorted.

“You told him to go,” Pansy reminded her, not unkindly. “You said goodbye and then promised to follow him.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened. 

“He had a future, I couldn’t let him throw it away.”

“And what about your future? So you decided for both of yourselves?” Pansy said softly. “You didn’t even give Draco a chance, Hermione. Did you not believe in him?”

Hermione looked down at her hands, knotted together in her lap. Her nails were short, clean, bare of polish. She’d always kept them practical, especially as a baker.

“I was terrified,” she admitted finally. “I was just eighteen, and, and I thought I was doing what was best at the time. After Draco left, I wrote a letter that first year, I wanted so many times to tell him, but I never sent it. But, what was I supposed to do? Track him down in the middle of the NHL season? Tell him I was pregnant with a child he never asked for? I was, am, a coward, and my older self can admit that now.”

Pansy blinked, eyes wide. 

“So it’s true.”

Hermione hesitated, then nodded, slow and deliberate. 

“Yes, Scorpius is his son.”

Pansy whistled.

“You gave him your last name, though.”

“I gave him my protection,” Hermione snapped involuntarily. “Do you know how many eyes were on me after Draco left? Do you know what it was like, walking around town with a growing belly and whispers trailing behind me? If I had given him the Malfoy name, it would’ve turned into a circus. My parents were already enraged at me for turning down MIT, and when they found out I was pregnant? They kicked me out. I was in survival mode, I was, I was just eighteen and scared.”

Pansy leaned back in her seat, her mouth pressed into a tight line. 

“But, Hermione, you’re not eighteen years old anymore, you are twenty-five years old. You robbed him of knowing his son.”

Hermione knew Pansy’s words were right, still, she maintained whatever dignity she could.

“I gave him a chance at the life he wanted. I let him go.”

Pansy sighed, her tone softened as she reached across the table, her hand settling over Hermione’s. 

“You still love him and I think part of you always hoped he’d come back, anyway. It’s ironic, honestly, and for the record I think you’re both idiots.”

Hermione’s eyes welled, but she held them steady. 

“I couldn’t ask him to give up everything.”

“But why was it okay for you to give up everything? Did you think you’d get a trophy for self-sacrificing? You didn’t need to ask him, you just needed to tell him the truth. Why is it okay for you to give up your future for Draco but not okay for Draco to give up his future for you?”

There was another beat of silence.

“I don’t know what to do,” Hermione confessed, her voice cracked. “Where do I even begin to face it? It’s been so many years already.”

“Just tell him,” Pansy said gently. “Just say the truth, Hermione, it’ll set you free. Look at it this way, you have a successful life. You have a business, a house, a son, and a decent life in this small town. What are you so afraid of? Draco going back to his hockey life? Leaving you and Scorpius? Granger you know Draco better than that. He will love Scorpius the minute he knows he has a son, especially because it is a son with you.”

Hermione closed her eyes, her throat burning. She had spent so many nights imagining this moment, but none of those versions had her heart feeling so raw, her secrets feeling so ugly, so exposed.

“I don’t want him to hate me.”

Pansy smiled.

“Then give him a reason not to, start by talking to him.”

The bell above the door chimed, a pair of students shuffled in, laughing, the cold breeze chasing their steps. Pansy stood, smoothing her coat, her voice soft again, just for Hermione.

“You’ve been brave all your life, Hermione. Don’t stop now.”

With that, Pansy left, leaving Hermione alone with the truth she had spent seven years trying to outrun, and a decision that would change everything. After taking care of the newest patrons, Hermione did not move for a long time from behind the counter. Her eyes remained fixed on the window, though she wasn’t really seeing anything through the glass.

Outside, traffic rolled lazily down the street, horns honked distantly, and life went on exactly as it had before. Nothing had changed for the world around her, but something inside her had awakened. The conversation had dislodged something she had kept buried for years, and she could no longer pretend it wasn’t there. Total, crippling, guilt.

She gathered her things slowly, methodically, folding her scarf, slipping her wallet into her bag, closing the bakery for the evening. She had never been the kind of woman to act without a plan, every decision, every pivot in her life, had been deliberate. Still, she found herself sitting on the edge of a choice that had no script, no safety net, no clear consequence that she could map out ahead of time.

The walk back to her car was short, but it gave her time to think. Or, at the very least, attempt to. Her thoughts were a tangle of contradiction. She remembered Scorpius that morning, his excitement, the pure joy on his face as he recounted every second of his time on the rink with Draco. 

It had taken everything in her not to cry when she saw that photo. They looked like reflections of one another, the same tilt of the jaw, the same defiant light in their eyes, even the way they stood. Her son, and his father, unknowingly sharing space, unknowingly building something she had kept apart. None of that erased the truth, the cold, hard, maybe unforgivable truth, that she had taken the decision from him, from them.

She had decided he didn’t get to know about her pregnancy, and in doing so, she had shaped both of their lives without his consent. There was no easy justification for that, and it made her feel like a total witch. When she finally made it home, Scorpius was sprawled across the living room floor, his homework forgotten as he poured over his gear. He looked up at her with that wide, boyish grin of his, and all the doubt slammed back into her chest.

“Draco taught me new drills today!” he beamed, lifting his skates to inspect them. “He said I had a natural talent like him.”

Hermione managed a small smile, setting her bag down on the kitchen counter. 

“I’m glad you had fun, sweetheart.”

“He said I reminded him of himself when he was younger,” Scorpius went on, and something in his tone shifted, turning softer, thoughtful. “Isn’t that funny?”

She wanted to laugh, but her throat was tight. She was a horrible Mom.

“Very funny.”

He returned to his task, still chattering about Draco and the drills they’d run, but Hermione’s mind had wandered far beyond the present. She leaned against the counter, her hands gripping the edge until her knuckles whitened. She had to tell him, she had to tell them both. The time for her cowardice had passed. Now, she had to make it right. However painful, however messy, however late. She owed Draco the truth and she owed her son the rest of his story. She may have taken the past from them, but she could give them the future.

Northbridge’s Main Street was bright with Saturday bustle, the shop windows dressed in soft winter light, the air cool and busy with familiar voices. Hermione had a paper bag looped over her wrist and Scorpius at her side, both of them lingering near the florist while she compared lists in her head. She had just reached for a bundle of eucalyptus when a sleek black sports car rolled to the curb outside the bookstore and a tall blond man stepped out with a younger blonde coming from the passenger seat.

The sight hit her mercilessly, the neat cut of his suit, the broad set of his shoulders, the unmistakable line of his jaw, and for a fleeting, ugly second, she thought this was exactly what she deserved for waiting this long, noting the young girl exiting the passengers seat.

Scorpius saw him first, the boy straightened with a spark of recognition, eyes bright, smile wide. Before she could speak, he had already trotted toward the curb with the easy confidence only children possess. Hermione’s pulse climbed as she hurried after him, her breath catching as Draco turned at the sound of his name. He was taller than memory allowed, stronger across the chest and arms, and the grey of his eyes had settled into something steadier and more thoughtful than the boy she once knew. He looked at her and the years slipped for a terrible instant, replaced by the soft crash of everything they had been and everything they had not.

“Coach D,” Scorpius called, the nickname clear and happy, “you made it into town.”

Draco’s mouth softened, pride and surprise warring across his face as he reached a hand to the boy’s shoulder. 

“I did, kiddo,” he said, voice low and warm, “had to make sure you weren’t skipping your drills just because it is the weekend.”

Hermione stopped a step behind her son and forced her body to stillness, the bag of herbs crinkling where her fingers tightened around it. Draco’s gaze slid from Scorpius to her, caught, held, and in that heartbeat he forgot the girl at his side and the people on the sidewalk. He felt like time had frozen and sped up, all at once. He saw curls he remembered from a hundred late nights, saw amber eyes that had once decided his fate without a word, and saw that small ladder of freckles across the bridge of a nose that had never quite forgiven the sun and he’d love to count after they’d make love. He swallowed and spoke her name like it had waited on his tongue for years.

“Hermione.”

The sound of her name, so familiar, so Draco, sent her heart into a tailspin. It hurt.

“Draco.”

Gabrielle shifted beside him, all polished sweetness and curious attention, her fingers light where they had been linked around his elbow. 

“You did not tell me we were meeting friends,” she said, lip gloss catching the light, eyes flitting between Hermione and Scorpius as if she had found a new story to collect.

Draco stepped a fraction to the side, the movement unhurried, the message impossible to miss as he extricated his arm from her attempted grip on it. 

“We are not,” he said gently, “Gabrielle, this is Hermione Granger and her son, Scorpius. She owns Crumb & Clover. Hermione, this is Gabrielle Delacour, the French Ambassador’s daughter that I have been tasked to look after for the duration of their stay. I am making sure she finds the bookshop without buying the entire street, a feat I’m confident I have experience in.”

Hermione felt her lips pull apart subconsciously, smiling as a memory flit into her mind. 

The drive had been a surprise. Hermione had pestered him for an hour, asking where they were going, but Draco had only smirked and told her to wait as he floored the pedal of his red Toyota 86. They crossed the county line twenty minutes later, windows down, her curls tangled in the wind, the scent of summer mixing with leather and pine as music blasted from the stereo.When the town came into view, she sat up straighter, eyes wide with recognition, and Draco could practically feel the shift in her chest when she saw the spire of the old bookshop rising above the square.

“

You didn’t,” she breathed, voice just shy of reverence.

“I did,” he replied, smug and warm, slowing into the car park. “It’s your graduation present, Granger. I figured I’d indulge your particular brand of madness.”

Her mouth dropped into a soft ‘o’, the kind of expression he’d kill to bottle, and without a second’s pause she was unbuckling her seatbelt and reaching for the door. He laughed under his breath, watching her practically bounce down the cobbled walk, already halfway through the shop door by the time he caught up. Tall windows let in pale afternoon light, and floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, filled to the brim with books. Hermione had frozen in place, eyes scanning the spines with open awe, and he watched her from a step behind, thinking he’d never seen her look more beautiful.

“I thought you said we were just browsing,” he said as she disappeared down the first aisle with purpose.

“I lied,” she replied without shame, already cradling a stack of three. “You said I could get whatever I wanted.”

“Within reason,” he added, though there wasn’t a trace of real bite in it. She didn’t even look back, she knew Draco had no shortage of money, as he so loved to remind her time and time again.

“Define reason,” she said, reaching for a well loved second edition of Pride & Prejudice. “Because this one is rare and annotated.”

Draco followed her deeper into the shop, content to let her wander. She flitted from section to section like she had wings tucked beneath her shirt, pulling books and stacking them in his arms until he had to conjure a basket. When that filled, he grabbed another. At one point, he tried to lean against a nearby table and was immediately called over to judge the comparative worth of two different editions of a chemical theory book.

Hours passed but he didn’t care. Watching her in a bookstore was far more interesting than anything else the day could have offered. She gushed about the newest romantasy novel, and snuck a chocolate bar from the café at the back, cheeks pink from joy and motion. Every time he thought she might be finished, she doubled back, claiming she’d forgotten something she saw three rows ago.

“Alright,” she said at last, face flushed, arms full, curls wild from all her ducking and craning. “I’m done. I swear, this is it.”

Draco raised a brow. 

“You’ve said that twice already.”

Hermione laughed.

“Yes, well, third time’s the charm.”

He didn’t argue, he paid the bill without blinking, even as the shopkeeper bagged the third box. Hermione looked sheepish for all of five seconds before he leaned in and brushed a kiss to her lips, soft and sweet, pressing his forehead against hers.

“Congratulations, Hermione. You’re worth every dollar I’ll ever spend.”

He saw it in her face, that soft, breathless gratitude she rarely let him glimpse. She leaned into his side, her fingers brushing his knuckles as they carried the boxes to the car.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” she murmured.

“I know,” he said, tightening his grip. “But I wanted to. Watching you lose your mind over books is the best part of my week.”

She laughed, warm and quiet, her smile turning inward. All he knew was that she was happy, and he had made her that way.

“You know what else I want for my Graduation present?”

Draco raised and eyebrow.

“What else could you possibly want, love?”

Hermione slowly let her hand brush the inside of his thigh, cupping him through his jeans. She gave a light squeeze and he didn’t need words to understand the meaning. He pulled onto the side of the road, his car covered in a copse of tall trees. He wasted no time reclining the back of his seat while Hermione showed him exactly how much she enjoyed their shopping spree. 

Gabrielle’s smile held, but the angle of it changed, more courteous than coy. 

“I have been told your pastries are the best in town,” she offered to Hermione, the compliment graceful, the subtext quieter now that the air had cleared.

“That is kind of you,” Hermione said, tone polite, hands steady, heart anything but. 

She watched Draco tip his head toward the storefront as if to nudge the afternoon forward, watched him remember himself even as his attention never quite left her face. Scorpius rocked on his heels, impatient with adult pleasantries, eyes aimed up at Draco with a question only he could answer. 

“Are you going skating later?” he asked, eager and hopeful, “Teddy and I were going to run drills after dinner if the field rink is clear.”

Draco’s mouth curved, the kind of smile that was never for the cameras. 

“I will be there. Bring both sticks, we’ll work the backhand again.”

“Promise?” Scorpius said, eyes lighting up.

“I promise.” Draco returned, softening the word with a look that said yes without saying it.

For a breath, the four of them stood within the same small circle of pavement, Draco’s eyes flicked to the paper bag in her hand, to the sprigs of green that peeked over the rim, to the little ways in which a life made itself visible if you knew how to look. He lifted his gaze again, careful now, gentler than she had prepared for.

“How is the bakery?” he asked, the question simple, the meaning anything but. “I have been accused of finishing the tarts before anyone else at home gets a chance.”

Hermione found her voice where she had put it, tucked behind civility and habit. 

“Busy, thank you. We are preparing for the Fundraiser and your mother’s Gala. Scorpius is excited for the Fundraiser. He’s been picked to play in the exhibition match.”

“I heard,” he said, and his eyes flicked, just once, to Scorpius with a wink. “They have a very good Center.”

The compliment bloomed across the boy’s face. Hermione wanted to cry watching the pure joy across her son’s face. She’d never seen such a genuine and open reaction before. She nodded, because there was nothing else to do in the middle of Main Street and she didn’t trust her voice not to break under the weight of her shame and guilt. Gabrielle touched Draco’s sleeve, a light reminder that an afternoon had been promised to someone else. He looked to her with courtesy and nothing more, then back to Hermione with everything he could not say yet. 

“I should take her in before we miss the signing,” he said, voice even, posture loose, eyes steady on the only person who had ever undone him without trying. “Will I see you at the rink later?”

Hermione held his gaze and did not flinch. 

“You might.”

“I hope so,” he said, quiet enough that only she could hear it.

Scorpius chimed in, unable to resist the planning of a life he did not yet know he was arranging. 

“Seven works,” he said, already calculating dinner and homework and the window of ice between. “We can run the fake and backhand until I nail it.”

Draco gave him a small salute with two fingers, a gesture so natural it stole Hermione’s breath. 

“Seven,” he agreed, then tipped his chin to Hermione in a farewell that remembered every hello they had ever spoken but also eyes that said they needed to speak privately and alone. Hermione understood now was, obviously, not the time to rehash old wounds. 

“Hermione.”

She held up her hand in a half hearted wave, hesitant.

“Draco,” she returned, waving along with Scorpius.

They parted, Gabrielle drifting toward the bookstore with a new politeness in her step, Draco walking beside her in body while something in his gaze trailed behind with Hermione and the boy who looked like both of them. Scorpius tugged at his mother’s sleeve, buzzing with the joy of plans made and promises kept. Hermione nodded as if any of this were simple.

She watched Draco’s shoulders once more before turning away, felt the old chain at her throat where a lion slept against her skin, and understood that no amount of careful distance would keep the next hours from arriving. She breathed, slow and measured, and reached for her son’s hand, the familiar weight of it anchoring her to the pavement. 

“Come on,” she said, gentle and sure, “let’s get home and eat, you have a practice to conquer and then a hockey training with a professional.”

Chapter Text

The porch light was soft behind her, barely reaching the chipped steps. Hermione stood with her arms crossed loosely over her chest, a defensive gesture more out of habit than actual defense, while Draco leaned against the wooden railing, one hand wrapped tightly around the neck of the bottle he hadn’t drunk from in nearly half an hour. Scorpius had gone to bed with the unshakable excitement of a boy who had just discovered his hero was real.

They had laughed at dinner after meeting at the hockey rink, the three of them, as if things were simpler, as if time hadn’t clawed them in opposite directions. Now, all that was left was the quiet, and what neither of them could keep buried anymore.

“Say it,” Draco said finally, voice low, words crisp at the edges. 

He didn’t look at her, his eyes were on the darkened field, that stretch of grass where green bled into night. Hermione closed her eyes for a breath. When she opened them, she met his profile. 

“He’s yours, Draco. You are Scorpius’ father.”

Draco let the truth settle, there was no gasp, no sudden lurch, no cinematic reveal. Just a long, suffocating silence and the twitch of his jaw as his grip tightened around the bottle, warring with himself, fighting for control of his anger. 

“You really waited seven years to tell me.”

Hermione didn’t deny it.

“I didn’t plan it like that.”

Draco snorted, it was not kind.

“No, you just decided for me, whether I had any right to my son or not.”

His tone wasn’t cold, but it held the kind of restraint that made her stomach twist. He finally turned to face her, and it knocked the breath from her lungs. Those eyes were filled with something so wounded. Pure, unadulterated sorrow and disappointment.

“You didn’t even give me a chance,” he said, quieter now. “You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to be part of his life. You just assumed I’d hate you for it, that I would choose my career over you. You decided that you knew who I would be.”

Hermione felt her eyes start to mist.

“You were going to New York,” she said, struggling to keep her voice level. “You had training camp, you had been drafted, Draco. You had everything laid out for you and I was, I was barely holding it together.”

Draco’s voice rose.

“And you think I wouldn’t have given any of it up for him?” Draco’s voice broke on the last word, and he dragged a hand over his face, stepping away from the railing. “God, Hermione! You think I wouldn’t have stayed? That I wouldn’t have tried? That I wouldn’t have wanted him, too? I was so fucking in love with you, Hermione, I’d have given you the moon if you’d asked it of me.”

Hermione shrunk in on herself.

“I think you would’ve resented me for it, eventually.”

His laugh was short, bitter. 

“Maybe for a while, maybe not at all, but maybe, just maybe, I would’ve been stupid and scared, too. I was eighteen, Hermione, I would’ve fucked up, but I would’ve come back. I always came back to you.”

Her chest constricted. 

“I didn’t know that then.”

Draco shook his head.

“No, you knew, you just didn’t trust that, trust me.” he corrected, and it stung. “You thought the worst of me even after everything. I gave you everything, Hermione. You owned my entire heart and soul. I deserved the chance to, to at least be given the choice.”

Hermione swallowed hard, throat tight. 

“You were angry that I didn’t come to New York. And then, you never came back. I thought, I just figured you’d moved on.”

Draco laughed incredulously.

“I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” he snapped, eyes flashing. “I figured you’d moved on too, and I hated myself for it. I had no idea you were here, raising our son alone. I could have been there! Me! I would have loved Scorpius from the moment you told me about him. I would have figured out something. I already love him now.”

Her eyes welled but she refused to cry, not yet. 

“I wasn’t, I didn’t, I was scared, too, Draco. I didn’t, I didn’t realize my decisions would spiral so far out of my control, that years would pass me by as the guilt buried me. I didn’t mean to punish you for my, my fears.”

“No,” Draco said, stepping closer, “but you punished him. You deprived Scorpius and I the chance to know each other for the last seven years. It’s just, you can’t, that’s not something you just forgive, Hermione.”

Hermione finally dropped her arms, her voice low and trembling. 

“Do you think that didn’t kill me every day? That I didn’t sit up at night wondering how I would tell him, what I would say? That it was my fault he didn’t have a father? He’ll hate me, Draco. I also wanted to protect him.”

“From me?” he asked, incredulous.

“From disappointment,” she replied, and this time her voice cracked. “From hoping you’d stay and watching you leave, from watching you chase a dream that didn’t have room for either of us despite your insistence now that you’d have given up New York.”

It settled between them, the unmistakable chasm. He looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time again, and she didn’t know if that was good or bad. The expression on his face was unreadable.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” Draco admitted after a long pause. “I don’t even know what I’m allowed to want and I am still incredibly angry with you. As for New York? As for what would have been? Well, I guess we’ll never know now won’t we?”

Hermione stepped forward, enough that her voice wouldn’t carry into the house. 

“I don’t have an answer for that. I can only express my deepest apologies and even then I know it will never be enough. But he’s a good boy, Draco. He’s sweet, and he’s smart, and he’s more like you than you know. He deserves to have you, if you’re going to stay. But I’m asking you, if you’re not-”

Draco held up a hand.

“I won’t hurt him.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

“Then don’t get his hopes up if this is just some mid career break.”

Draco nodded slowly. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing, but I do know that I want to be apart of his life.”

Hermione exhaled, chest aching. 

“That’s a start.”

They stood in the silence that followed, not reconciled, not even close to understanding each other fully. The past was still raw, and the future was a landscape neither of them could see clearly. Scorpius was asleep inside, breathing the kind of peace only children know, oblivious to the turmoil happening around him. Draco lingered a moment longer before stepping down the porch steps. 

“Tell him I’ll see him at practice.” Hermione nodded once, arms tightening around herself as she watched him go. 

He stopped and turned around once more.

“Oh, and Hermione? Here’s a question for you. Why would you think that my future was more important than yours? Why was it okay for you to decide for me, but you couldn’t decide for yourself? Have I ever been that kind of, that kind of boyfriend to you? Think about it.”

She didn’t stop him as his cars engine revved to life, she stayed on the porch long after his tail-lights had disappeared over the hill, lamenting the fact that she really had done this to herself. It was her fault for keeping their child from Draco, and that was something she’d decided to own and repent for, fully. It was the very least she could do, to make up for the years of hurt. 

Three days later, after they’d both had time to cool off, Scorpius sat between them on the faded quilted couch, legs swinging just above the floor, hands twisting the hem of his sweatshirt. He looked up at them, a crease forming between his brows, the kind that only showed when he was trying very hard to understand something he couldn’t quite grasp. Draco sat stiffly on the other side of him, hands clasped together, knuckles white. Hermione had her hands folded in her lap, and though her posture was calm, there was a quiet tension in her shoulders that Scorpius could feel more than see.

“We want to talk to you about something important,” she began gently.

Scorpius frowned a little. 

“Is someone hurt?”

“No,” Draco answered, voice low, but steady. “Nothing like that. We just need to explain something to you, something that, that should’ve been explained a long time ago.”

The boy’s eyes moved between them, slow and cautious. 

“Okay.”

Hermione took a breath, and looked directly at her son. 

“You remember how you said you liked playing hockey with Draco? That he felt familiar to you somehow?”

Scorpius nodded slowly, uncertain why it mattered.

“Well,” she continued, “that’s because, because, Draco is your father.”

For a moment, it didn’t register. The words sat there, quiet and unassuming, until Scorpius blinked and looked at her, then at Draco. His lips parted as if to say something, but nothing came. He looked back at his mum, then again at Draco, the pieces struggling to connect in his head.

“You mean for real? I, I have a Dad?” he asked, voice small.

Draco nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“Yes, for real.”

“But I don’t understand,” Scorpius said, blinking faster now. “Why didn’t you say that before? Why didn’t I know?”

Hermione’s heart cracked at the tremble in his voice. She leaned forward, but didn’t reach for him. She felt the weight of her actions so viscerally in that moment, she couldn’t bear it.

“It’s my fault, sweetheart. I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t even tell your Father, I kept it secret because I thought it would be better that way. I was so very wrong.”

Scorpius stared at her, face slowly falling into confusion and something that looked like hurt. 

“You didn’t tell him about me? At all?”

Draco let out a sound that was suspiciously bitter and half a choked sob.

“No,” Draco said quietly. “She didn’t.”

“Didn’t you want me?” Scorpius asked, and his voice had gone tight, the kind of strain that made Hermione’s stomach twist. “Is that why you weren’t here? Because you didn’t know I was even alive?”

Draco’s mouth parted, he moved to the edge of the couch, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder. 

“No, Scorpius, listen to me. I didn’t know at all, not until a few weeks ago. If I had known, I would’ve been here. I would’ve been in your life from the very first moment your mother had told me about you. I would’ve wanted to know everything about you from the very start.”

Scorpius looked between them again, this time, he turned slightly away, drawing his knees up and curling his arms around them. 

“So Mom just…didn’t tell you, and you didn’t come because you didn’t know, and I didn’t get to have a dad, because no one told the truth.”

The words weren’t meant to be cruel, but they landed harder than a physical slap ever could. Hermione blinked fast, her throat tight with guilt. Draco sat with his jaw clenched, staring ahead at the wall, as if he were holding something back.

“I know this is a lot,” Hermione said softly. “It’s too much, really, but we’re telling you now because you deserve to know. You always deserved to know and I am so sorry, Scorpius.”

Scorpius turned to look at Draco.

“Are you going to live with us now?” Scorpius asked, looking at Draco from over his knees.

Draco shook his head, slow and honest.

 “I don’t think so, Scorpius. There are, there are a lot of things for the adults to figure out first. But I want to see you more, I want to be part of your life, if you’ll let me.”

Scorpius pressed his face into his arms. 

“I don’t know how to feel,” he mumbled. “It’s like, I’m happy you’re finally here. I like you, I like playing with you, but I’m also mad. I don’t get why it had to be this way.”

Hermione reached over slowly, placing her hand on his back. 

“You’re allowed to feel all of that, love. You’re allowed to be mad, and sad, and confused. It’s a big thing, and it’s not fair that you have to, have to bear the brunt of Mommies choices.”

“I just wish it was different,” he said, voice muffled. “I wish it had always been this way, both of you here with me.”

“I do too,” Draco said, his voice barely audible.

Scorpius leaned into Hermione’s side as she held him close. Draco sat beside them, unsure if he should move or stay still. Her hand moved gently over his back, slow and rhythmic, not to soothe him so much as to keep herself steady. She looked up at Draco, who had remained quiet, his gaze fixed on the boy with a kind of longing that was almost too heavy to bear. His hands were braced on his knees, fingers curling and uncurling as if he were still learning how to exist in this new space.

“He’s tired,” Hermione said softly, not needing to look to know the way Scorpius’s breathing had evened out, the weight of his small body melting into her side.

Draco nodded, his throat working with something unspoken. 

“I’ll let you get him to bed.”

Hermione shifted slightly, careful not to wake the boy as she rose, letting him sleep on the couch as she draped a blanket over him. 

“You can say goodnight, if you want.”

Draco stood, almost too quickly, he crouched down, his knees cracking under the sudden bend, and reached out to brush Scorpius’s hair back gently. His voice was careful, as if afraid of waking him. 

“Goodnight, Scorpius.”

The boy murmured something unintelligible, half-asleep. Draco’s hand lingered just a second longer before he withdrew. 

“Thank you,” he said, his voice low.

Hermione blinked. 

“For what?”

“For not keeping him from me now,” he replied. “Even if you did before.”

Her jaw tensed, but she didn’t respond. 

“He’s everything,” she said.

“I know,” Draco replied.

He looked around the small space. There were hand drawn pictures on the fridge and a pile of storybooks by the couch. None of it had his fingerprints on it, not a single toy, not a single photo, not a memory with his name carved into the walls. It was a life that had unfolded in full color without him, and he wasn’t sure if he would ever truly be allowed inside. Still, he waited.

“Are you going to tell your parents?” she asked, voice quiet.

Draco gave a slow nod. 

“I think I kind of have too. He’s a Malfoy, Hermione. There are certain inheritances, birthrights, documents that, that I’d like to give to Scorpius. It is only right that my parents know they have a grandson.”

Her eyes flicked away, then back. 

“I’m so sorry, Draco.”

Draco sighed.

“I know, Hermione.”

Hermione swallowed. 

“Just don’t hurt him anymore than I already have. God, I’m so awful.”

He took a step forward, eyes emboldened, honest. 

“I didn’t get the chance to be here for the first seven years of his life, that wasn’t my choice. But now I’m here, and I’m trying. You don’t get to act like I’m the one risking his heart, I will not allow you and Scorpius to walk out of my life.” Draco stared at her, breath shallow. “You should’ve let me decide.”

Her voice broke. 

“I know.”

They stood there, facing each other like two people who had once shared everything, now divided by years of silence and too many what-ifs. The ache hadn’t dulled, it had simply coiled beneath the surface until now.

“I don’t know what this means,” Hermione whispered. “For us.”

Draco’s reply came after a long pause.

“Neither do I, but I know what it means for him. We owe Scorpius civility, at the very least. No matter what, Hermione, you’re the mother of our son. We will always be in each other’s lives.”

She nodded once, eyes glassy. 

“Okay.”

There was no neat conclusion, no warm embrace, no promises exchanged. Two young eighteen year old's stared at each other, two twenty five year old adults took their place. Time, Hermione thought, might be the only cure. 

Tension filled the Malfoy drawing room. Draco sat forward on the edge of the antique settee, his elbows braced on his knees, shoulders stiff. Lucius stood by the liquor cart, a half-full glass of brandy forgotten in his grip, while Narcissa sat perfectly still in the high-backed chair by the window, her fingers laced together so tightly her knuckles were white.

“I need you both to let me finish before you say anything,” Draco said. His voice was rough, but steady. “You deserve to know everything, but I’m asking you not to interrupt until I’ve explained it all.”

Lucius gave a clipped nod. Narcissa inclined her head, her eyes never leaving her son. Draco exhaled through his nose and began. He told them how he and Hermione had been partnered in chemistry their senior year, how it had started with a project, with arguments and late nights studying.

He told them how he had fallen for her quietly, almost stupidly, and how, to his shock, she had fallen too. Their relationship had been private, fiercely so, and it had burned fast and bright, but ended just as abruptly when Hermione sent him off to New York for his training camp. He had assumed she had moved on, but he hadn’t known what she was hiding.

“I didn’t find out until a few weeks ago,” he said, his voice low. “Scorpius, he’s mine. Seven years old. He plays Mite hockey for the elementary school. He’s incredibly smart, stubborn, and a left handed shot to boot. He plays Center.”

Narcissa’s breath hitched, her hands unclasped and came to rest gently over her chest.

“She never told you?” she asked softly.

Draco shook his head. 

“I found out because I investigated it. I got the roster from his coach, I went to his games, I saw him, and I knew. I just knew he was mine.”

Lucius slammed the glass down harder than necessary, the sound echoed. 

“That boy has Malfoy blood, and he has grown up wearing another man’s name.”

“It was never about another man,” Draco snapped. “She raised him alone.”

“She robbed us,” Lucius said coldly. “She robbed you, robbed Narcissa and I of our only grandson, robbed our family of the right to know him, love him, protect him.”

“She was scared,” Draco said, though the words lacked conviction. “She thought she was doing what was best.”

Narcissa stood, she walked slowly to Draco’s side and sat beside him. Her hand reached for his, and her touch was warm and certain. 

“We cannot undo what was done, but we can make sure he never wants for anything again. You’re doing the right thing, Draco, making an effort to be in his life.”

Draco gave a small nod, but his eyes remained stormy. 

“I already called my lawyers. I’m filing to have myself listed on the birth certificate. I’ve started the paperwork to formally establish paternity. I want it in writing, not just for me, but for him, so no one ever questions it again.”

“And your assets?” Lucius asked.

“Already handled,” Draco said. “Scorpius is now listed as the sole beneficiary of my estate. He inherits everything, every cent, every property, every endorsement I’ve royalties from. I made it official this morning.”

Lucius’ lips pressed into a thin line. 

“He should take our name.”

Draco met his father’s gaze. 

“He will if he wants to, Father. I’m not forcing anything. He’s only seven years old and his whole world has changed overnight. I just want to be there for him right now.”

Lucius looked ready to argue, but Narcissa placed a firm hand on his arm.

“Let it be, Lucius. Draco is right. He needs to be a father first, not a Malfoy patriarch, that can come later.”

Lucius said nothing, but his jaw tightened. Narcissa turned back to her son. 

“What does Hermione say about all this?”

Draco hesitated. 

“She’s not standing in the way, but it’s complicated. There’s a lot of pain between us. This isn’t exactly a fairytale reunion.”

“She kept a child from you,” Lucius said, each word precise. “You would be within your rights to drag her through the courts.”

“I’m not doing that,” Draco replied firmly. “That’s not who I am and that’s not what Scorpius needs. He loves her, she’s his whole world. I’m not here to rip it apart.”

There was a long silence, and then Narcissa stood.

“I want every detail,” she said calmly. “Every school he’s attended, every friend, every teacher, every allergy, every bruise. I want to know what he eats for breakfast and what makes him laugh. If I have missed seven years, I will not miss another day.”

Draco nodded.

“I’ll ask Hermione for copies of everything, medical records, school records, all of it,” Draco promised. “But please, be gentle. He doesn’t even know you exist yet.”

Narcissa nodded. 

“We’ll go at his pace, my dragon.”

Lucius still looked like he was trying not to throw something across the room, but he said nothing further. As Draco rose to his feet and walked towards his room, he paused.

“I just wanted you both to know,” he said. “He’s mine and he’s everything. He’s the best thing I’ve ever done, even if I wasn’t there to do it.”

Narcissa gave him a sad, proud smile. 

“Bring him home soon.”

“I will,” Draco said quietly. “When it’s time.”

He disappeared into his wing of the mansion, his heart already a thousand miles away with the little boy who had his eyes, his stride, and the chance to rewrite everything.

The bonfire crackled with lazy contentment, its light flickering over empty bottles, charred logs, and the scuffed toes of someone’s boots left too close to the flames. The air was sweet with smoke, cheap cider, and whatever blend of wildflowers had started to bloom on the edge of the field.

Someone had dragged out a speaker, and the music was low, something vintage and twangy, barely audible over the sounds of laughter and the distant hum of summer bugs. They were all stretched out in a loose circle on the grass, pillows and hoodies passed around like currency, and the night had gone syrup-slow, suspended in that way only a summer evening could manage.

Draco lay on his back, staring up at the stars, a half-empty bottle of beer resting on his stomach, his other hand brushing lazily against the hem of Hermione’s sweatshirt. She was beside him, curled up in the thick flannel she always stole from his closet, her bare legs tucked under her, one hand fisted into the curls behind her ear where a braid had come undone. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing had gone even and slow, but he knew she wasn’t asleep. She never fell asleep at parties.

He turned his head toward her, watched her for a beat too long. 

“You’d look good in white,” he mumbled, slurring slightly but not caring. “Not like bridal magazine white, just something simple. Barefoot, hair up, you wouldn’t need anything else.”

Hermione opened one eye. 

“You’re drunk.”

“Maybe a little.”

She rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. 

“What would you wear, then?”

Draco smirked, let his head fall back. 

“Black suit, no tie, maybe sleeves rolled. I’d want to be able to touch you without ruining anything.” He paused, voice quieter. “Hermione Malfoy, that’s how they’d announce you.”

She didn’t say anything. He turned his face toward her again. 

“I know we’re young, I know I’m a mess most of the time, but if I could have one thing permanent in this life, one thing that stayed, it’d be you. That’s not the alcohol talking, that’s me.”

Her throat worked as she swallowed, her face turned toward the firelight now, away from him. 

“That’s a big thing to say.”

He shrugged, eyes falling closed. 

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

Silence fell between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, it was laden with meaning, with the soft promise of a future they didn’t know how to hold. She didn’t tease him again, didn’t call him dramatic or ridiculous, she just reached out and linked her pinky with his. I

n the dark, with fire crackling behind them and the world blurry at the edges, Draco Malfoy fell asleep dreaming of a wedding he was sure would come. A day filled with laughter and promises, her fingers tangled in his, and a name on his lips that he had always thought belonged to her. Hermione Malfoy.

It had sounded perfect then, it still did now. Draco dragged a hand down his face and laid over the side of the bed. He hated his traitorous fucking heart, after everything, it clearly still beat for Hermione Granger.

The sun had already dipped behind the hills when Hermione walked back into the house. Scorpius had left with Ron an hour ago, his little shoulders squared with a kind of bravery that only hurt her more. He had packed a small overnight bag, toothbrush sticking out the side pocket, and kissed her cheek without really looking her in the eye.

She hadn’t stopped him, didn’t dare to. When he’d asked in that quiet, careful voice if it was alright to stay at Uncle Ron’s for the night, she’d of course said Yes. She needed space, he needed time, and she couldn’t deny him that.

The house felt too empty without him. She stepped out of her shoes by the door, ran a hand through her curls, and glanced at the stack of mail Ron had dropped off earlier. At the time, she hadn’t cared to sort through it, but now she needed something to do with her hands, anything to distract from the ache in her chest. The first envelope was thick, embossed with a name she had not seen in print in years. Malfoy & Associates.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she tore it open, eyes scanning the top page. Legal documents, all of them, including a formal notice for Draco’s name to be listed on Scorpius’s birth certificate. Included were financial declarations, notarized paternity statements, and an inheritance clause that named Scorpius as sole heir to Draco’s entire estate, should anything ever happen to him.

Hermione sat at the table, immobile. Another envelope contained a request for medical records, signed by Draco himself. It was brief, professional, lacking any bitterness or accusation. He had sent it through the proper channels, just as he always had when it came to doing things the right way, no matter how deeply he had been wronged. There was no demand, no anger in the words, just the quiet assertion of his presence, the declaration of his intent to be there, in every way he could be.

She opened the last envelope, a copy of Scorpius’s amended birth certificate was inside, already filed with the Office of Records. Draco’s name was listed clearly beneath hers now, in crisp ink that made her throat constrict. There was no undoing it, no hiding, no more pretending. It was official on all accounts. Hermione leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She had always known this would come, that one day Scorpius would need his father, and Draco would demand to be that man.

She had not fought it, she couldn’t, she had no right. He had every reason to hate her for it, and still, he had been measured, methodical, heartbreakingly calm and mature about the entire situation. He was doing everything she should have allowed him to do from the beginning and that was what made it hurt the most. It was the fact that she had never even given Draco the chance to prove her wrong.

Now, he was proving her wrong in every possible way. She sat at the edge of her bed with the letter still open in her lap, its legal language swimming in her vision though she wasn’t crying. She hadn’t cried once since Scorpius left with Ron, not when she signed the first of the forms, not when she saw Draco’s name in black ink beside hers, not even when she realized her son now officially belonged to both of them in a way she could never reverse.

She didn’t cry, but it didn’t mean she felt strong, it didn’t mean she didn’t feel like a coward. Hermione dragged her fingers through her hair and stared blankly at the wall. A terrible question had been crawling toward her all day, and now it nestled into her mind, nagging and incessant. 

Am I a horrible person? 

Not in the way villains in books were, not with a sneer or some cruel streak, but in a more realistic, selfish way, a way that disguised itself as caution, as protection, as a thousand little excuses. She had told herself she was doing what was best, that raising Scorpius without Draco meant he would never be let down, never hurt by a father too busy chasing a dream across state lines. She told herself she was shielding Draco too, from the weight of a life he hadn’t asked for.

She had rewritten the story so many times in her head over the years, that she’d stopped recognizing the truth. She had made the decision alone, she had never asked, never offered the chance. She knew, deep down, that the blame sat with her. Not because she had gotten pregnant at eighteen, not because she had chosen to keep her child, but because she had let fear dictate the rest of the story.

When had she changed? She asked herself often. It hadn’t been immediate, but that summer, she had felt invincible. She remembered what it felt like to fall asleep curled against Draco’s chest on a sun-warmed blanket after a bonfire. They had made love beneath everywhere they could, two horny teens unable to keep their hands off each other. They danced barefoot in kitchens, and made plans for cities they’d never visit, and she had worn his hockey hoodie everywhere.

She had laughed more that summer than she had in her entire life. The shift had come later, a slow erosion of invincibility. It began with two pink lines, then a scholarship deferral, then a letter from MIT she never opened, then a screaming match with her father in the kitchen and a slammed door from her mother. Afterwards followed silence, the kind that lasted for years.

That was when she learned how quickly love could become something else, how being brave felt a lot like being stupid when you were alone. She stopped thinking about the future, she started making decisions based on survival. She looked around the room now, at the cracked plaster, the stacks of secondhand books, the laundry basket in the corner.

This life she had built had not been easy, but it had been hers, and it had been enough until Draco walked back into it, until her son looked at him with wide eyes and a dangerous hope. She wasn’t sure who she had been trying to protect all these years, Scorpius, Draco, or herself. Maybe all of them, maybe none of them.

Chapter Text

The bell above the door gave a soft jingle as they stepped inside, the smell of fried eggs and too strong coffee enveloping the diner. Draco gave a nod to the waitress behind the counter, an older woman with her gray hair pulled back into a low bun and a pencil tucked behind her ear.

She didn’t recognize him, but gave a polite smile as she waved them toward a booth by the window. Scorpius slid in first, his eyes sweeping the place like it might reveal something important if he just looked long enough. Draco watched him. He didn’t know how to do this the way he wanted to, not without fumbling through things and making a mess, but he was going to try. Scorpius was picking at the corner of the laminated menu, his fingers drumming lightly against the table.

“I used to come here all the time,” Draco said, voice steady but soft. “Back when I was your age. Well, perhaps a little older. My best friend Theo and I would sit right here in this booth and eat cinnamon rolls the size of our heads. Thought we were kings of the world.”

Scorpius looked up at that, his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but didn’t quite know how. 

“Did you get the pancakes too?”

Draco chuckled.

“Every time I would drench them in syrup and then complain about the stomachache later.” He cleared his throat gently. “Anyway, I wanted to bring you here because I figured maybe it’s time we had our own place, somewhere you can ask me anything, say anything. There’s no wrong thing to say.”

Scorpius blinked, then glanced down at his lap. 

“Even if I’m still mad?”

Draco nodded.

“Especially if you’re mad,” Draco said. “You’re allowed to be, this whole thing’s been a lot, and none of it’s fair to you.”

The waitress came by and took their order, Scorpius shyly asking for chocolate chip pancakes with a side of strawberries. Draco ordered the special without really listening to what it was. Scorpius spoke first.

“I don’t know what to call you,” Scorpius mumbled.

“You don’t have to call me anything different,” Draco replied gently. “You can keep calling me Coach D, or Draco, or whatever feels right for now. I just want to be part of your life Scorpius, that’s it.”

Scorpius nodded slowly. He rubbed at his cheek and looked out the window. 

“I used to make up stories about you,” he admitted. “Like, maybe you were a spy, or a traveler. I used to tell the kids at school you were off saving people. Mom never told me anything concrete, she always just said it was complicated. Who’d have thought my Dad would be professional Hockey star Draco Malfoy.”

Draco swallowed around the lump in his throat. 

“I promise you Scorp, I didn’t know,” he said quietly. “If I had known you existed, I swear I would have been there. I would have fought to be in your life every day.”

The boy looked at him again.

So, you really didn’t leave?”

Draco shook his head.

“No,” Draco said. “I didn’t leave. I didn’t even know I had someone to come back for.”

Their food arrived, and they both took a few bites in silence. Draco watched the way Scorpius took small bites and chewed carefully, like he was thinking through each motion. It was a slow process, but Draco didn’t push, he knew trust had to be earned, not taken.

“I’m glad you’re here now,” Scorpius said finally.

His voice was quiet, uncertain, but there was truth in it. Draco’s fingers tightened around his mug. 

“Me too, kid,” he said, steady as he could manage. “Me too.”

It wasn’t everything, it wasn’t a miracle fix or some storybook happily ever after, but it was a beginning. Scorpius swirled his straw through the last of his chocolate milk, watching the bubbles pop in slow rhythm. His pancake plate sat mostly empty, the sticky residue of syrup pooled in the corners. He hadn’t said much in the last few minutes, but Draco could tell by the way his brows pinched and his mouth tensed that something was brewing behind his silence. Draco didn’t rush him, he just sipped his black coffee and let the boy come to it on his own time.

“Did you love Mom?” Scorpius asked, not looking up.

Draco set his mug down and leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. 

“Yes,” he said, his voice even. “Very much.”

Scorpius still didn’t lift his eyes. 

“When you went to New York, were you…were you with someone else? Like, a girlfriend or…” he trailed off, biting his lip. “Do I have siblings?”

The question hit Draco in the chest, but he didn’t let it show. He kept his tone steady, careful. 

“There hasn’t been anyone else,” he said. “I went on a few tabloid dates set up my my agents for buzz news, but I, I could not find it in myself to move on.”

Scorpius peeked up at him finally, eyes uncertain but searching. 

“Because of Mom?”

Draco nodded once. 

“Because of your Mom.” He let out a slow breath and added, “And no, you don’t have any brothers or sisters. It’s just you, Scorp.”

The boy absorbed that in silence, he leaned back against the vinyl booth seat, arms crossed as he stared out the window again.

“Uncle Ron said Mom turned down this big science school. Something with an M.”

“MIT,” Draco replied softly. “She got in full ride. It’s a, a very prestigious school. It’s the number one University in the nation.”

Scorpius sunk in his seat.

“Because of me?”

Draco hesitated, he didn’t want to screw anything up.

“Because of her choice to keep you. It changed her life, sure, but she made that choice herself.”

“Mom says she was scared,” Scorpius mumbled.

“I know,” Draco said. “We were both young. She had every reason to be scared. I just wish I had been given the chance to be scared with her.”

The words settled between them, Scorpius picked at a stray thread on the sleeve of his hockey hoodie. 

“Do you think she regrets me?”

Draco’s heart clenched at the question. He reached across the table, resting his hand palm up, not forcing anything, just offering. Scorpius stared at it for a moment before placing his smaller hand in his.

“No,” Draco said. “She could never regret you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to both of us.”

Scorpius’ fingers tightened slightly. 

“Are you gonna stay?”

“Yes,” Draco answered without pause. “For as long as you’ll let me.”

The boy didn’t speak again right away, but when the waitress came by with the check and a smile, Scorpius looked up at Draco and asked, almost too quiet to hear.

“Can we come back here next week?”

Draco nodded, his grip gentle but firm. 

“Yeah, we can make it our spot.”

Scorpius smiled, a small one, but real. Draco smiled back, a mirror image. From the window outside looking in, patrons could see two blondes, a father and son, and the beginnings of a second chance.

The rink was quiet except for the crisp cuts of blades against ice and the low thud of puck against boards. Scorpius skated with an effortless rhythm now, his confidence growing each time he looped around his father and fired another slapshot past the empty net. Draco watched from the blue line, stick resting lightly in his grip, helmet pushed back to expose his damp hair and wind chilled cheeks. His eyes never left the boy, not even for a second.

“You’re getting faster,” Draco called, voice echoing faintly in the cold air. “At this rate, I’m going to have to start training again just to keep up.”

Scorpius grinned, cheeks flushed with exertion. He circled back and stopped just short of Draco, spraying a cloud of ice between them. 

“Do you think,” he asked carefully, “do you think I could go pro one day?”

Draco raised a brow. 

“Think? You’ve got the instincts, the hunger, the control. You’ve got my blood in your veins and your Mom’s precision in your mind. You’re dangerous already.”

Scorpius hesitated, fiddling with his glove.

“Yeah, but what if people think I only got there because of you?”

Draco blinked, then barked out a laugh. It startled Scorpius enough that he looked up with a sheepish sort of frown. Draco ruffled a hand over his own hair and leaned forward on his stick.

“That’d be impossible,” he said, his tone softening. “Because I’m expecting you to break every record I’ve ever set. If anyone has something to prove, it’ll be me.”

Scorpius smiled, but it was small and thoughtful. He skated a slow arc, stick dragging behind him, before coasting back toward his father. 

“There’s a father-son hockey match at the fundraiser,” he said. “Coach said we could sign up if we wanted to.”

Draco’s heart leapt into his throat. He hadn’t expected it, not the invitation, nor the vulnerability tucked behind the casual words. Scorpius looked everywhere but at him as he continued.

“I mean, you don’t have to. It’s not like mandatory or anything, but I’d like it if, if you came.”

Draco couldn’t speak, his grip tightened around the stick, eyes stinging with tears that refused to fall. He hadn’t earned this boy’s trust yet, not fully, but this was a step in the right direction, a real one, an opening of the door he’d been quietly standing behind.

“It would be my honor to go with you,” Draco said, voice thick and raw.

Scorpius looked up at him, and Draco didn’t miss the way his eyes softened or the way his shoulders relaxed. The silence was filled with movement, the whoosh of air, the scrape of ice, the familiar rhythm of two blades chasing something just out of reach but closer every time. They glided together in a slow circle near center ice, Scorpius tapping the puck between them absently as they drifted. His cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, hair slightly damp under his helmet, eyes flicking up now and then like he was still deciding whether to ask the next thing.

“What did she wear back then?” Scorpius asked, voice a little sheepish. “I mean, like, how did she dress? Was she always in cardigans and loafers like she is now?”

Draco let out a quiet, surprised laugh. 

“No, gods no. She went through phases, for awhile, she had this thing with oversized flannels and those ridiculous canvas bags full of books. There was always a new pin on them, some cause she was fighting for that week.”

Scorpius cracked a grin.

“That sounds more like her.”

Draco grinned.

“She used to roll her jeans at the ankle, even in winter, and she had this one pair of Doc Martens that were so scuffed I could barely look at them. I offered to buy her a new pair once and she gave me this look like I’d just insulted her ancestors.”

“She still has those,” Scorpius said, suddenly. “The boots, she keeps them in the back of her closet.”

Draco blinked, quiet for a second, then nodded. 

“Yeah, that tracks.”

They circled again, slower now, and Scorpius hesitated before speaking again.

“When did you know you loved Mom?” he asked.

Draco hummed under his breath.

“Your Mom wasn’t like anyone else I’d ever known. She didn’t let me hide behind all the usual stuff. I couldn’t charm my way past her, and I couldn’t lie. It was real from the start, and that kind of honesty makes you vulnerable.”

Scorpius gave him a long look. 

“So who asked who out?”

Draco grinned, nostalgia filling him.

“I kissed her first,” Draco admitted, lips quirking. “But she definitely made the first move. Subtle, but effective. She got under my skin, pushed every button I didn’t know I had. I think I was in love with her a lot sooner than I realized.”

The boy’s expression shifted, thoughtful now. 

“Did you guys ever talk about getting married?”

Draco didn’t flinch at the question, he let his stick drag lightly along the ice as he answered. 

“Once, maybe twice. It wasn’t some grand plan, just something that came up. We were young then, things felt possible, until they didn’t.”

They came to a stop near the goal net, Scorpius turning to face him fully.

“I think I would’ve liked seeing that,” he said after a long pause. “You and her, before everything.”

Draco crouched slightly to adjust his skates, but his voice was even when he replied. 

“You still can. Not the past versions of us, obviously, but something better. Real life, Scorpius, the messy version. You, me, and your Mom, whatever that becomes.”

Scorpius looked down at the puck between them, toeing it gently with the flat of his stick.

“Do you still love Mom?”

Draco paused, his heart skipped for a beat.

“I think a part of me never stopped,” he said finally. “Your mother was my first love, and I think I will always love her because of that. That kind of love doesn’t just vanish, it waits, sometimes. But, Scorpius, sometimes love isn’t enough. Your mother and I, it’s not so simple.”

Scorpius didn’t respond right away, he just nodded, eyes focused and far off.

“Okay,” he said at last. “That’s good to know. I think I’d hate it if you didn’t get along with her.”

After another lap, Scorpius coasted to a stop, lifted his helmet halfway off, and looked at him with something cautious in his eyes.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

Draco blinked, but didn’t flinch. 

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

Scorpius shrugged. 

“I don’t know yet, but I can say that I’m glad you’re in my life.”

Draco nodded.

“That’s fair.”

They stood like that for a moment, the cold biting their cheeks, the silence gentle. 

 “You’re better at this than I thought. The skating, I mean. I watched your old matches online.”

“Yeah?” Draco asked, trying to sound casual, though his heart tugged strangely at that.

“You were cool,” Scorpius admitted. “Still are, I guess.”

Draco smirked.

 “Don’t let me get a big head now.”

Scorpius rolled his eyes again. 

“Too late.”

Draco just laughed and held out his glove for a fist bump. Scorpius eyed it, then bumped it back. For Draco, that was everything.

The gates of Malfoy Manor opened with a groan, the wrought iron creaking. Scorpius sat stiffly in the back seat, his small hands pressed into the knees of his jeans, his wide eyes taking in the gravel drive, the sweeping hedges, the way the front of the house seemed to stretch into the sky like a storybook castle.

Draco could feel the tension radiating off of him in waves. Narcissa opened the front doors before they had fully reached the steps. She looked immaculate, her pale hair swept back, her eyes bright and watching. When Scorpius stepped out, she didn’t hesitate. She descended slowly, arms opening in a soft, measured gesture, not overbearing, not overreaching. 

The moment his eyes landed on her, something shifted in his shoulders. He moved toward her, and Narcissa bent low, gathering him up in a gentle embrace. Lucius stood further back, just inside the threshold, leaning heavily on the carved frame of the doorway. He looked as though someone had knocked all the air from his lungs. His eyes followed every inch of the boy’s face. The angle of the jaw, the color of his eyes, the brows that furrowed the same way Draco’s used to when he concentrated. There were too many resemblances to name, and none of them subtle. 

“Your room is ready,” Narcissa said softly, brushing Scorpius’s hair back from his forehead. “Would you like to see it?”

He nodded, not letting go of her hand. Draco followed behind them as they led him up the staircase and down a long corridor lined with portraits. Narcissa pushed open a set of tall white doors and stood back to let him walk in first. The gasp that left him was audible.

The room was nothing short of magic, a full mural of a stadium covered one wall, with miniature goals and hockey motifs styled into the bedding, the shelves, even the headboard. A new pair of skates hung over a polished bench, and a rack on the opposite wall was already filled with various sticks and gear. A framed jersey hung proudly above the bed, MALFOY ‘7’ in bold, familiar lettering.

“Is this, is this mine?” he whispered, turning around.

“Every inch,” Narcissa smiled, her voice warm.

“It’s so cool,” Scorpius breathed, before throwing his arms around her again.

Dinner was a formal affair, but only in name. Narcissa made sure the setting remained intimate, and Draco appreciated the way she insisted on keeping things light. Scorpius sat between them, eyes flicking curiously between every new dish and polished utensil. Across the table, Monsieur Delacour talked with Lucius and Gabrielle Delacour looked at Draco, smiling with syrupy sweetness as if she had not entirely noticed the young boy beside him.

“You did not say you were bringing guests,” she said airily, tucking a strand of her silvery hair behind her ear.

Draco cleared his throat. 

“He’s not a guest.”

Gabrielle turned her eyes toward Scorpius and offered a dainty wave. 

“Hello there. And you are?”

Scorpius paused for a brief moment. He didn’t like the way this young girl was acting towards his Dad. He had to look out for his mother, after all, even if he hadn’t totally accepted Draco yet. Scorpius didn’t hesitate. He sat straighter, voice clear and even. 

“I’m Scorpius Granger-Malfoy. his son.”

Gabrielle blinked, the smile faltering just enough to be seen, her mouth parting slightly as if she were waiting for someone to confirm the joke. No one did. Lucius let out a small, quiet exhale that was equal parts wonder and pride. Gabrielle’s smile wavered again, now forced. 

“Oh, I didn’t know you had children.”

Draco lifted his glass, his voice as dry as the wine he sipped. 

“Neither did I, until recently.”

Scorpius kicked his legs beneath the table, satisfied. He returned to his plate without another word, and the rest of the meal passed with him quietly munching away, blissfully unaware of the havoc he had just unleashed. Later, when Draco walked him back to his new room and tucked the covers up under his chin, Scorpius looked up at him with a smug little grin.

“She was annoying,” he said.

Draco arched a brow. 

“You didn’t have to claim me, you know, if, if you’re not ready for that.”

“She looked at you weird,” Scorpius murmured, yawning.

Draco reached down and ran a hand through his hair. 

“I guess I still have W rizz after all.”

Draco was halfway through pulling the door shut behind him when the voice floated through the dim room, casual.

“Ew, Dad, just be cool.”

He paused, the edge of the door grazing his shoulder, his hand still resting on the brass knob. A long exhale left him as he turned back, arching a single brow, the corner of his mouth twitching in something far too close to a smirk. Scorpius was sprawled across the pillows, arms behind his head, hair a mess of blond waves that caught the glow of the bedside lamp. His grin was crooked and sly, a mirror of Draco’s own from years past, like a ghost come alive in miniature.

“I am cool,” Draco replied, voice smooth and haughty, as if he were presenting evidence before a jury. 

Scorpius groaned into his pillow. 

“You wear suits to hockey practice.”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“I have press obligations, you know that.”

Scorpius grinned.

“You carry a monogrammed water bottle.”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“That’s called branding. Athletes do it all the time.”

Scorpius snorted.

“Heh, branding.”

Draco stepped further into the room again, his expression caught somewhere between indignation and amusement. 

“Would you prefer I continue using the slang I hear in your school group chats? Because I can assure you, no one wants that. Least of all me.”

Scorpius laughed, full and loud, his cheeks pink as he threw a pillow at his father. 

“Just go before you say something that gives me secondhand embarrassment.”

Draco caught the pillow before it hit his chest, spinning it in one hand before setting it gently on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward then, not quite smiling, but close enough to make it feel warm.

“I may not be cool,” he murmured, “but I am yours.”

Scorpius blinked, his throat bobbed once before he shoved at Draco’s shoulder, feigning annoyance. 

“Cringe, Dad. God. Seriously. Save those lines for Mom.”

Draco only chuckled as he stood upright again. 

“Sleep well, Scorpius.”

When the door closed behind him, Draco let his (happy) tears fall freely.

The house was quieter than it had ever been. Without Scorpius darting between rooms or calling out from the living room floor with his latest drawing, it felt like a pause in time, suspended somewhere between familiarity and discomfort. Hermione moved around the small kitchen with practiced grace, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair half-pinned and falling loose as she stirred the sauce on the stove. The scent of tomatoes, garlic, and rosemary filled the space.

It was the first time she’d cooked for someone other than her son in years. Draco sat at the kitchen table, watching her with a look she couldn’t quite decipher. He hadn’t said much since arriving, but he hadn’t left either. His jacket hung on the back of the chair, sleeves wrinkled from where his elbows rested on the table. His hands were clasped, knuckles pressed together, thumb dragging over the edge of one finger like he needed something to do.

“I didn’t poison it, you know,” she said finally, glancing over her shoulder with a small smile.

Draco gave a quiet huff of breath, something not quite a laugh. 

“Pity, might’ve made things simpler.”

Hermione turned off the burner and wiped her hands on a dish towel. 

“There’s wine, if you want it. Or tea.”

Draco pointed to the bottle of Merlot.

“I’ll take the wine.”

She poured him a glass, then one for herself, and sat across from him at the table. They didn’t toast, they just sat, drinks in hand, the silence settling like an old friend between them.

“It’s strange,” she said, swirling the wine gently in her glass. “Having you here, like this.”

“Stranger for you than for me?” Draco asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Hermione tilted her head. 

“I don’t know. I spent seven years wondering what it would be like, seeing you again, explaining everything, but it never really looked like this in my head.”

Draco took a sip of the wine. It was earthy, dry, probably local. 

“How did it look, then?”

She hesitated. 

“Worse, maybe more cruel, but also, maybe softer. Sometimes you forgave me, sometimes you didn’t, sometimes you weren’t even the same person anymore.”

Draco sighed.

“I’m not the same person,” he said. “Neither are you.”

She nodded slowly, watching him over the rim of her glass. 

“No, I’m not.”

He set the wine down, fingers drumming lightly against the stem. 

“So why now? Why invite me in?”

Hermione downed her glass.

“Because,” she said plainly. “no matter how hurt or angry you are at me, you’re still Scorpius’ father. He loves you already, even if he doesn’t fully understand it yet. And I, I want to try and be brave again.”

Draco looked down, jaw working. 

“He’s an amazing kid, Hermione.”

Hermione smiled.

“I know.”

Draco swirled his wine.

“You did a good job with him.”

Hermione swallowed, and for a moment, the sting of that compliment made her eyes burn. 

“I tried,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I still do.”

He leaned back in the chair, watching her with a guarded sort of curiosity. 

“Do you hate me?”

The question hung in the air between them, heavy and unexpected. Hermione’s brows furrowed. 

“No, I never did.”

Draco tilted his head slightly. 

“I missed you, you know.” Draco said finally. “In ways I can’t explain. I thought of you all the time in New York.”

Hermione blinked, but didn’t look away. 

“You’re not the only one.”

He let out a slow breath, then pushed back his chair and stood. She watched as he walked to the stove, lifting the lid on the sauce, steam rising in waves between them.

“You always did put too much rosemary,” he muttered.

Hermione’s lips curved just slightly. 

“Still ate it anyway.”

Draco raised a brow.

“Because I was in love with you,” Draco said without turning around.

She stood too, arms crossed, uncertain whether the brick in her chest was relief or regret. 

“You don’t have to eat it now, then, I won’t blame you.”

He finally turned to face her again. 

“Where are the plates?”

“Here, let me.” Hermione supplied, pulling two fancy round plates from the cabinets. 

Draco didn’t reply, he stepped closer, just a little, and looked down at her in that way he used to, like he could read her thoughts if she’d let him. His hand lifted halfway between them, like he might touch her face, or her hair, or the edge of her shirt sleeve, but he let it fall.

“I’m not going to run,” he said.

Hermione nodded once, the answer tight in her throat. 

“Me either, not this time.”

She turned back to the kitchen, reaching for plates. He stood beside her, quietly helping. Hours later, the dishes were still in the sink, half-heartedly rinsed but not yet scrubbed, and the remnants of dessert sat untouched on the counter. The wine glasses had been refilled more times than either of them could confidently recall, and somewhere between the second bottle and the last bout of laughter, the edges of conversation had begun to blur.

They sat on the worn sofa in the living room now, shoulder to shoulder, legs stretched out, a blanket draped over both of them like some unconscious act of nostalgia. Hermione’s cheeks were flushed, but not from embarrassment. Her limbs were loose, her head tilted back against the cushions as she looked at him with something long since buried behind her eyes.

“I know you hate me,” she said, voice low, thick with the weight of wine and words she had not dared speak until now. “You have every reason to.”

Draco didn’t move, his jaw flexed, but he said nothing. She continued anyway.

“But I want to kiss you so badly it’s making me stupid.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold, nor was it cruel, it was brimming with everything that had gone unsaid for seven years. Draco leaned forward slowly, elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together so tightly his knuckles had turned pale.

“You think I hate you?” he said after a long pause, his voice quieter than it had been all evening. “The truth is worse than that.”

Hermione turned her head to him, blinking slowly, waiting.

“I hate that I still love you,” he said, with no drama, no flourish. Just a bare truth, said plainly. “I hate that my traitorous heart wants to do more than kiss you. I hate that I look at you and still see mine, even when I know you aren’t.”

Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. The heat of wine in her veins had nothing on the way those words burned through her chest.

“You hurt me, Hermione,” he continued, “and every day since, I have tried to kill whatever part of me still reaches for you. I am sitting in your home, drinking your wine, falling apart every time you look at me like you used to, because I simply cannot align my head and my heart.”

Hermione reached for her glass, but her hand trembled too much to lift it. She set it back down, untouched, and folded her fingers in her lap. Her throat worked once before she spoke again.

“I didn’t stop loving you either,” she said. “That was the problem.”

Draco looked at her.

“I don’t know how to forgive you,” he said. 

“I’m not asking you to,” she said softly. “I’m only telling you the truth.”

She reached for him then, slow and cautious, and placed her hand over his. He didn’t pull away, their hands resting in the space where everything broken still lingered. Neither moved to kiss the other, but the space between them had never been smaller.

“Did you,” he began, the words hesitant, barely louder than the soft hum of the crickets outside. “Did you ever have anyone else?”

Hermione’s brows pulled together as she turned toward him fully, the blanket shifting slightly as her knee pressed into his thigh. Her eyes searched his face, trying to read what he wasn’t saying, but the vulnerability in his question was plain. She shook her head. 

“No,” she said, with no fanfare. “Only ever you, Draco. I, I couldn’t imagine being, being that way with anyone else. If I did go on a date, well there was never a follow up, and, of course I’d never brought them home.”

He stared at her, eyes unreadable in the dim light. He huffed a short laugh and looked away, scrubbing a hand down his face before shaking his head at the irony. 

“So I’ve been celibate for seven years because some know-it-all girl with terrible taste in music has my heart so thoroughly captured she won’t give it back.”

Hermione blinked once, startled, and then laughed despite herself. 

“You haven’t, you, what? But, but your hockey career! All the girls, the parties, you mean to tell me you never slept with anyone else?”

He turned to look at her again, serious now, the teasing fading but not gone. 

“I haven’t slept anyone else, Granger. I couldn’t, it was like if I even thought about attempting to move on, it was always your face I saw, your voice in my head. It just never worked out.”

She reached up slowly, almost afraid to touch him, as if he might vanish. 

“Why?” she whispered. “How could you wait for me?”

Draco tilted his head slightly, studying her like he was trying to memorize the way her mouth curved when she said something that hurt to admit. 

“You waited for me,” he said. “You kept our son, you raised him. You could have moved on with someone else but you didn’t.”

Hermione looked away, throat tight. 

“I didn’t think anyone would understand,” she admitted. “I didn’t want to explain why I had a child so young. I didn’t want to pretend, and maybe, I was holding out hope that someday you’d come back and I could, I could apologize, or, I don’t know, atone?.”

He leaned closer, close enough that she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint scar along his jaw that hadn’t been there before. The wine was effecting them both.

“So if you waited for me,” he said, voice softer now, “why is it so far fetched that I’d do the same?”

She didn’t answer, the words hanging between them. It felt like something had shifted, like the world had tilted ever so slightly into a place where they could both breathe again. 

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “I guess I never thought I was worth waiting for.”

Draco reached for her hand, curling his fingers around hers. 

“You always were,” he said. “I don’t, I don’t want to examine us right now, or, if there could ever be an us again, I’m not ready for that. I’m still incredibly angry and mad, but, I would like to try to be good co-parents for Scorpius. He deserves that from us.”

She nodded, looked down at their joined hands, and didn’t let go. 

“Thank you, Draco. It’s all I could ever hope for at this point.”

Chapter Text

Downtown Northbridge buzzed under the soft hum of a late Sunday morning, the small town bustling in its usual slow rhythm. Storefront windows gleamed with winter displays, Hermione adjusted the strap of her handbag as she stepped out of the car, Scorpius bouncing excitedly beside her, cheeks flushed from the cool air, already yammering on about the sporting goods store he had spotted down the street. Draco was waiting with his mother just beyond the crosswalk.

He had dressed plainly, his dark jacket zipped up to his throat, hands shoved into his pockets, but Hermione still found it hard to meet his eyes for too long, the guilt she carried near unbearable. They had come to a rhythm lately, careful but smooth, and she didn’t want to throw their semblance of normalcy off balance. She kept her words measured, her tone light, and he responded in kind, neither of them reaching too far beyond what was safe. For now, they were just co-parents, and nothing more.

“Boys’ day.” Scorpius grinned, eyes alight as he tugged on Draco’s sleeve. 

Draco raised a brow and glanced at Hermione for silent confirmation. She gave a small nod, and Scorpius practically skipped away with him, his small voice rattling on about hockey sticks and skates and how he wanted to learn a new trick by next week’s practice. Left behind, Hermione turned toward Narcissa with an awkward smile. The older woman was elegant in a tailored cream coat, hair swept up in a neat twist, not a strand out of place. Her expression was unreadable, not quite cold, but not openly welcoming either.

“Shall we?” Narcissa asked, her voice even, pleasant, and distant.

They started with the jewelry shop, a quiet, tucked away place. Narcissa barely browsed, instead watching Hermione with subtle glances as she scanned the various displays. They made small talk, safe subjects like the weather and how fast the year had flown by, but it felt like treading water, each of them silently calculating the other’s depth. At the next store, a boutique filled with warm knits and artisan soaps, Hermione finally broke the silence that had taken space between them.

“I know I hurt him,” she said quietly, her fingers resting against a folded grey scarf she hadn’t really been looking at. “And you. I’m not sure I even deserve to be here, to be near either of you. I don’t know how to fix it.”

Narcissa’s eyes didn’t soften, but she didn’t look away either. She reached for a glass jar of hand cream, turning it slowly in her fingers. 

“You did what you thought was best at the time,” she said, not accusatory, just factual. “It doesn’t excuse it, but it is not something we can go back and change.”

Hermione swallowed, her throat tight. 

“I didn’t mean for it to go this long. I didn’t mean to keep Scorpius from him. I just…” Her voice wavered. “Well I guess I really don’t know what I was thinking, just that it was so selfish of me.”

Narcissa set the jar down gently and turned toward her. There was something calm in her face. 

“Time will do what time always does. It won’t erase what happened, but it will soften the bruise if you let it.”

Hermione looked away, blinking quickly. 

“I’m not sure I could explain it in a way that doesn’t sound like I was selfish. I know that I have caused irreparable damage.”

“Perhaps,” Narcissa said gently. “but being selfish once, does not mean you are a selfish person. You’ve paid for it in ways that I think you haven’t even realized yet.”

They stepped outside after that, the crisp wind biting at their cheeks. Across the street, they spotted Draco and Scorpius again. The boy was laughing, a brand new Northbridge beanie slouched over his ears. Draco was crouched beside him, adjusting the hem of the scarf around his neck. He looked up just as Hermione approached, his expression unreadable, but his eyes held steady on hers. Hermione smiled faintly, tucking a curl behind her ear. 

“Did you two have fun?”

Scorpius nodded enthusiastically. 

“Dad bought me a new puck! He even showed me how to hold my stick better.”

Draco stood, hands back in his pockets. 

“He’s a fast learner,” he said, eyes still on her, though his tone was clipped, careful. “Must get that from you.”

It wasn’t a compliment, but it wasn’t cold either. It was an in between, a bridge that might be built someday. Hermione nodded and said nothing more. They walked down the street together, Scorpius walking ahead. Narcissa quietly fell back beside her son, and Hermione let the silence return. Some things would take time, some things might never be fixed, but they were here, all of them, and that had to be enough for now. They strolled down Main Street at an easy pace, the kind of slow amble that only made sense in a town like Northbridge. Narcissa paused outside a home goods store and touched her son’s arm lightly. 

“I’ll pop in here for a moment,” she said, her voice polite, distant as always, but not unkind. “There’s a dish I saw last week I still haven’t made up my mind about.”

Draco gave a short nod, without further explanation, she slipped inside, leaving the three of them alone on the sidewalk. Hermione tucked her hands into the pockets of her coat, the air was crisp enough to bite at her fingers, but she was already flushed from the walk, or maybe just from the memories she hadn’t quite been able to shake since they arrived downtown.

“It’s kinda nice,” Scorpius said, skipping ahead a few paces before circling back between them again. “Having both of you here. It feels normal.”

Hermione’s heart pulled at the edges, Draco’s expression softened slightly.

“Yeah?” he said, nudging his son’s shoulder lightly with his elbow.

They kept walking, passing the record shop and the old barber that still had a revolving red and white pole in the window. A couple of older women on a bench smiled as they passed. Hermione nodded, though she wasn’t sure they recognized her anymore. Seven years could make strangers out of anyone. Draco broke the quiet first. 

“So the fundraiser’s coming up. Are you ready for it?”

Hermione looked over at him, caught off guard by the fact that he remembered. 

“Yes,” she said. “I’m baking for the events donors. Scorpius tells me you’re playing in the father-son hockey match?”

He gave a nod in confirmations and a low hum, the kind that used to mean he was storing information away for later. Part of her was surprised he was even making conversation, not just offering pleasantries for Scorpius’ benefit, but asking her real things. It felt almost cruel, how easily he could be this way, gentle, familiar, a good man, when her insides were still a mess of guilt and nerves and the realization that she was the bigger villain in their story.

They ducked into the clothing store on the corner, the bell above the door ringing softly as they stepped inside. It was warmer here, all golden lighting and soft jazz playing faintly from the ceiling speakers. Scorpius immediately veered toward a rack of women’s dresses with the kind of focus only a child could have. Hermione wandered after him, already preparing to steer him away, but he held one up before she could.

“Mom, you should wear this one to the fundraiser. It’s nice, you’d look really pretty.”

She opened her mouth, her face heating instantly. 

“Sweetheart, I already have something picked out.”

Draco came up behind them, giving the dress an exaggerated once over. 

“Looks like he’s got good taste,” he said, plucking it from Scorpius’ hands and shoving it into hers before she could argue. “Try it. Humor the boy, Hermione.”

Hermione blinked at him, his smirk was faint but unmistakable, a glint of shared mischief passing between father and son. It was so achingly familiar, it knocked the breath straight out of her. She felt suspended in that moment, as though if she closed her eyes, she might find herself a teen again, on the cusp of everything, before she ruined it all. She managed a shaky laugh. 

“You two are ganging up on me.”

“Obviously,” Draco said, folding his arms loosely across his chest. “It’s tradition starting…now.”

Hermione stared at the dress in her hands, the soft fabric pooling over her fingers, and swallowed around the lump in her throat. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at her like that, with warmth, familiarity, with a history. He was doing such a good job of treating her like a person, like a mother, like she wasn’t the girl who had shattered his trust into a thousand pieces. She didn’t feel like she deserved any of it.

“I don’t know how to make up for everything,” she said quietly, almost to herself, but Draco looked up anyway. “I don’t know if I even can.”

His expression didn’t change, though something flickered behind his eyes. He didn’t offer a response, and she hadn’t expected one. Scorpius tugged on her sleeve. 

“Go try it on, please?”

She forced herself to smile, brushing a hand through his waves before turning toward the fitting rooms. Draco stepped aside, giving her space, but his eyes stayed on her a moment longer. Hermione didn’t know what to make of that either, all she knew was that it wasn’t hate and that might be all she would ever be deserving of.

When Hermione stepped out of the fitting room, Scorpius lit up. The dress hugged her just enough to flatter without feeling showy, a rich forest green that made her skin glow softly in the afternoon light streaming through the shop windows. She smoothed her hands nervously down the fabric, brushing invisible wrinkles from her hips, and looked up to find both sets of Malfoy eyes fixed squarely on her. Scorpius was the first to speak, his voice full of bright certainty. 

“That’s the one, Mom. You look amazing.”

Hermione laughed, a little breathless. 

“You think so?”

Draco didn’t say anything right away, when she turned her gaze to him, she caught it, that flicker in his eyes she’d kept seeing all day. He looked at her as if he was seeing something for the first time, or maybe something he hadn’t let himself think about in years. She wasn’t eighteen anymore, wasn’t the girl in oversized sweaters and old boots running across cobbled paths. She was a woman now, shaped by motherhood. Something about seeing her like this hit him so viscerally. Scorpius elbowed his side, grinning up at him. 

“Right, Dad?”

Draco cleared his throat and looked away, nodding once. 

“It suits you,” he said simply, voice a touch too even. “Good pick, kid.”

Hermione felt the warmth spread across her chest, equal parts awkward and flattered. She didn’t know why she felt embarrassed, it wasn’t as if Draco had never seen her naked before, but it had been so long, she supposed it was only natural. She ducked her head and stepped back into the changing room to retrieve her clothes, and when she came out again, dress folded neatly over her arm, Draco was already at the cashier, handing over his card.

“Draco, really,” she said, stepping up beside him. “I can get it.”

He barely glanced her way. 

“Let me, Hermione.”

Hermione sighed.

“Really it’s-”

“Let me do this for Scorpius’ Mother.” he said under his breath, tone firmer than his words. “I insist.”

She caught the glance he gave their son, who was now distracted by a stack of novelty socks near the register. She pressed her lips together and stepped back, giving him the space to finish the transaction. Her heart twisted in that familiar way it always did when he did something kind without needing to. There had been so many times, so many chances, where she had imagined them like this. Shopping, laughing, going out as a family of three, a normal family doing normal things. Draco passed her the bag and offered a half smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“It’s a gift,” he said. “From your fashion consultant and me.”

Hermione took it without argument this time.

“Thank you.”

They rejoined Scorpius outside the shop, who immediately began chattering about the bookstore around the corner and whether they had new volumes in his favorite series. Narcissa met them there, happy to indulge her grandson in whatever books he’d desired. As they walked, Hermione let herself fall into step beside Draco, the bag swinging gently from her wrist. Neither of them said anything, there wasn’t anything more that needed to be said.

“Thank you for taking Scorpius on such short notice, Mrs. Malfoy. I really do appreciate it.”

Narcissa waved her off.

“Nonsense, Hermione, and please, call me Narcissa. I am happy to take my grandson for however long you need, and I know Scorpius is happy to spend time with Draco as well.”

Hermione nodded. 

“I’ll be working long hours over the next few days, but if anything happens, please call my cellphone. I always have it on me. I will see you both at the Fundraiser on Saturday.”

Narcissa waved goodbye as Hermione walked back towards her car. Scorpius turned to his grandmother with a mischievous grin. 

“I’m going to go find Grandfather. When will Dad be home?”

Narcissa smiled. 

“Your Grandfather is in his study. Your Father will return from showing the Delacour's around the orchards in a few hours.”

Scorpius scrunched up his nose. 

“I don’t like that Gabrielle.”

Narcissa laughed.

“Well, like father, like son.” 

Scorpius grinned and scampered off toward the west wing, where Lucius kept a small side office. Narcissa watched him go, her heart pinched with something too complicated to name. She turned to the foyer mirror, adjusting the slight twist in her scarf. She didn’t know what was going to happen between her son and Hermione, but she had seen the look in Draco’s eyes the day before on Main Street. That look didn’t belong to a man ready to move on, it belonged to a man still tethered to the past, still haunted by what could have been, what might still be.

She only hoped time was on their side. Despite popular belief, the Malfoy’s were a very progressive old money family compared to some others. Narcissa did not dislike Hermione, and perhaps with time, could come to understand her a little. Narcissa couldn’t deny she’d raised Scorpius well with manners and respect for only seven years old. 

Forgiveness was a long road, one that required more than apologies and quiet gestures. It required presence, required showing up, again and again, when it was uncomfortable or hard or frightening. Narcissa knew that much, whether Hermione understood the depth of the wound she had left behind was not for Narcissa to decide. She was not Draco, and it was not her forgiveness Hermione needed most. Still, there was something to be said for the effort Hermione was making.

For the look on her face as she walked beside Draco and Scorpius down Main Street, for the way she stepped back, letting Draco take the lead with their son, even when it must have pained her. Narcissa noticed the restraint, she noticed the heartbreak, too.

She moved to the sitting room, pouring herself a cup of tea, fingers trembling only slightly as she lowered the kettle. The house was quiet, peaceful in a way it hadn’t been in years. There had been no laughter here since Draco left, no footsteps that belonged to a child, no traces of innocence or warmth, not like now, when Scorpius darted from room to room as if he had always belonged. Perhaps he had. Perhaps, if they were lucky, time would not demand penance for every moment lost.

Perhaps, if they were wise, they would stop trying to undo the past and instead begin to build something new. Because making up for lost time was not about chasing what was gone, it was about choosing, every day, not to waste what was left.

Lucius found Scorpius tucked into the far corner of the study, legs dangling from the edge of the armchair far too large for his small frame. The boy had dragged one of the old chess sets from the side cabinet and was meticulously arranging the pieces in their proper order, brows furrowed in a look of deep focus that didn’t belong on a seven-year-old face. Lucius paused at the doorway for a moment, quietly observing. The boy had his mother’s precision and his father’s intensity, but the stubborn set of his jaw, that was unmistakably Malfoy.

“Planning to challenge me again, are you?” Lucius finally asked, voice low and teasing.

Scorpius lit up at once. He didn’t jump or flinch like Draco used to when caught off guard at that age, instead, he grinned with the easy confidence of someone who knew they were loved and had grown up with no shortage of affection.

“You cheated last time,” Scorpius said as he sat up straighter. “You moved the bishop twice in one turn.”

“I did no such thing,” Lucius replied, walking toward the table and settling into the opposite chair. “But if you caught me, that just means you are finally learning.”

“I learn fast,” Scorpius said proudly, nudging a pawn into place. “Mom says my brain works like a sponge.”

“Of course it does,” Lucius said with a faint smile. “You’re my grandson.”

They played for nearly an hour, Scorpius narrating every move, asking questions, peppering Lucius with comments about his school, his favorite books, and the ridiculous antics of the neighbor’s cat. Lucius found himself laughing more than once, not the restrained chuckle he usually allowed, but a quiet, genuine kind of amusement that left something warm lingering in his chest. He wasn’t used to being spoken to so openly, let alone by someone so young.

Draco had never babbled like this. He had been quiet, careful, always watching for approval. Lucius had not known how to give it back then, and it struck him, in moments like this, how much he had missed.

“Do you like having me here?” Scorpius asked, glancing up from the board without warning.

Lucius blinked, caught off guard by the directness. 

“I do,” he said truthfully. “I enjoy your company.”

Scorpius beamed. 

“I like being here too. It’s fun, and my Mom doesn’t tell me to do homework or chores here.”

Lucius huffed out a laugh. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

They continued in comfortable rhythm, the tension of past years slipping to the background. Lucius didn’t know what would happen with Draco and Hermione. He didn’t know if the family would ever feel whole again in the way Narcissa hoped, but as he sat across from this bright, clever boy who was not afraid of him, who laughed freely and argued over knights and rooks like it was the most important thing in the world, Lucius realized something very quietly.

He had been given another chance, a do-over in his own way, and he would not hide away his affections. Lucius leaned back in his chair as Scorpius swept the last of his pawns off the board, declaring a victorious draw with a satisfied grin. Lucius had not realized how much he missed the presence of youthful energy in these halls until Scorpius came to stay.

“I think next time I’ll win for real,” Scorpius said, tucking the black queen into its slot in the box. “You’ll see. I’ve been practicing.”

Lucius nodded, brushing a hand over his slacks as he stood. 

“I have no doubt you will.”

Scorpius puffed up with pride, then hesitated. 

“Did Dad used to play chess with you?”

Lucius crossed to the bookshelf, buying himself a moment, fingers grazing the spines until he stopped on an old worn leather edition of Tales of the Northbridge Lakes. 

“Not often,” he said finally. “He was more fond of being out of the house than in it.”

Scorpius nodded like he understood. 

“He likes teaching me hockey stuff. He says my skills are better than his was at my age, but that I get called for High Sticking a lot.”

“I believe that,” Lucius said, turning back toward the boy with a softened expression. “Your father always worked hard, but he was very serious. You have a different kind of energy, more playful.”

“You mean I’m fun,” Scorpius said matter-of-factly. “Unlike Dad, I’m actually cool.”

Lucius chuckled, walking back to rest a hand gently on the boy’s shoulder. 

“You are, and this house could use more of that.”

Before Scorpius could respond, the sound of the front door echoed faintly down the hall. The boy perked up at once, eyes lighting up.

“Dad’s home,” he said, already halfway to the door.

Lucius followed at a slower pace, allowing himself a moment to breathe in the stillness of the study before stepping out. Draco’s voice drifted from the foyer, casual and easy, as he thanked the Delacour's for their time and made polite farewells as they retired to their rooms in the house. Draco couldn’t be more thankful they’d be leaving soon. By the time Lucius reached them, Scorpius was already wrapped around his father’s middle, chattering about his latest chess match and the new book Lucius had promised to read with him before bed.

Draco looked up, catching his father’s gaze over Scorpius’s head. It was not lost on Lucius that his son had grown into a better man than he had ever been, that Scorpius had brought out something in Draco that had long been buried beneath pressure and expectation.

“Thanks for watching him,” Draco said quietly.

Lucius nodded. 

“He’s easy to watch. Hermione raised a fine boy.”

Draco looked down at Scorpius, his fingers ruffling the boy’s hair with gentle affection. 

“He’s worth it.”

Lucius did not say it, but he thought it all the same. So was Draco, he had always been worth it, too. He only wished he had realized that sooner, before his sons face was replaced with that of a mans.

Draco tossed his duffle bag onto the bench and helped Scorpius adjust his helmet, checking the strap beneath his chin with careful hands.

“You remember what I told you about your stance?” Draco asked, crouching beside him, elbow resting on one knee.

Scorpius nodded. 

“Wider, low center, eyes up. I remember.”

“Good. And passing?”

“Lead with my left, don’t chase the puck, and don’t swing like a caveman.”

Draco smirked and ruffled his son’s hair. 

“Exactly. Keep your head on a swivel, no hero moves. It’s not about showing off, though, believe me I did plenty of that. It’s about being where your team needs you.”

Scorpius nodded again, a little more seriously this time. He stepped onto the rink with confidence, his form cleaner than it had been the week before, smoother in transition as he glided forward and called for the puck. Draco followed him onto the concrete, a few feet behind, stick in hand and his roller blades on his feet, already watching for gaps in his posture, lapses in attention, small errors that could be fixed before Saturday.

They ran drills for the better part of an hour, skating hard from one end of the rink to the other, practicing slap shots and quick passes, weaving between cones Draco had set up like he used to for his own training years ago. He kept the feedback consistent but encouraging, guiding Scorpius with firm direction and the occasional sarcastic jab that made the boy laugh, just to keep things light. Every now and then, Draco caught himself staring, realizing how much his son had grown in such a short time. 

“You’re not nervous, are you?” Draco asked after they paused for water, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the low bench at the edge of the field hockey rink.

“A little,” Scorpius admitted, kicking at a stray puck near his skate. “The donors are gonna be watching. What if I mess up?”

Draco leaned back, stretching one arm along the railing behind them. 

“You might, everyone does, but the trick is to keep going. Don’t let one mistake ruin the next five minutes of your game.”

Scorpius frowned thoughtfully, then nodded. 

“Okay, I’ll try.”

“You’ll do better than try.” Draco stood and offered him a gloved hand. “You’ll show them you’ve got grit, that’s what matters.”

Scorpius grinned and took his hand, letting his father pull him to his feet. They returned to the center of the rink, side by side now, facing off for the last scrimmage of the evening. There was a kind of ease between them here that didn’t exist anywhere else. On the rink, they were just father and son, player and coach. Two Malfoy men, chasing the puck and laughing under the old lights, doing their best to figure it all out, one pass at a time.

After one last drill, they packed up slowly, neither quite ready to leave the quiet comfort of the empty rink. The boy leaned against the bench, cheeks flushed from exertion, eyes bright beneath his helmet. Draco worked in silence for a moment, then helped him tug the helmet free and run a hand through his sweat damp hair.

“You were good today,” he said finally, voice low and honest. “Really good.”

Scorpius beamed, that crooked grin of his breaking across his face. 

“I had a good coach.”

Draco snorted, shaking his head. 

“Flattery will only get you so far.”

They moved through the locker room with practiced ease, exchanging gear for sneakers and jackets, tossing sticks into the duffle bag without the usual chaos that accompanied a full team’s departure. Once they were back in the truck, Scorpius sprawled in the passenger seat, chattering about which drills he wanted to try next and what snacks they might find at the fundraiser.

Draco nodded along, answering when needed, watching his son from the corner of his eye as the town’s narrow roads passed by in a blur of amber streetlights and early spring trees. When they pulled up to the house, the porch light was already on, casting a warm glow against the dark siding. Draco cut the engine and turned to face his son.

“You still nervous about the game this weekend?”

Scorpius shrugged. 

“A little. But, if you’re on the ice, I think it’ll be okay.”

Draco smiled. 

“We’ll make a good team.”

They climbed the front steps, gear bag between them, and pushed through the door. Lucius’s voice, softer than most would expect, carried from the den. Scorpius brightened immediately and dropped his jacket, heading off with a cheerful 

“Grandpa!” thrown over his shoulder.

Draco remained in the entryway a moment longer, one hand on the edge of the staircase. He watched his son disappear into the other room, that easy bond with Lucius so natural it ached to witness. He had no memory of his father kneeling to tie his skates or staying late after practice to run extra drills. There had been standards, expectations, but never softness, never the affection Scorpius received without even having to ask.

He wondered if that had been Hermione’s doing too, the way she raised Scorpius with kindness and patience. She had clearly taught him that love didn’t have to be something you earned with perfection, it could just be there, waiting and given freely. Draco moved through the house to hang up their coats.

Somewhere in the back, Lucius and Scorpius were talking about jerseys and numbers, and whether Grandpa might come to the game too. Draco let himself hope it wouldn’t all fall apart. Maybe they really were doing something right, even if things between him and Hermione never went anywhere. Maybe, this time around, it could be enough to just make sure that Scorpius had a whole and complete family, however that looked.

Chapter Text

The community center parking lot was already full when Draco pulled his Viper into the gravel overflow behind the building. Children ran across the lawn in miniature jerseys, clutching sticks too big for their hands. String lights hung from the porch railings, and the scent of grilled food drifted from the open doors. Draco glanced at Scorpius in the back seat, who was practically bouncing in place as he unbuckled and grabbed his gear bag.

Inside, the atmosphere buzzed with anticipation. Tables were laid out with auction items and donor information, and parents mingled in their Sunday best, most of them in some variation of Northbridge’s colors. Draco followed his son into the main hall, his eyes scanned the room once before finding her. She looked up at the sound of their approach, schooling her features into a genuine smile at the site of Scorpius and Draco. 

“Hey,” she said. “You made it.”

Scorpius rushed ahead of Draco and threw his arms around her waist. 

“Mom, can I go find the team? Coach said we can do warm ups early.”

She looked down at him and nodded. 

“Go on, I’ll find you before the showcase.”

The boy disappeared in a flash, Hermione tucked her clipboard with her checklist under her arm, fingers tapping lightly against the edge. Draco cleared his throat and stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“Need help with anything? Setting up for the donors? Final logistics?”

Hermione blinked, startled. 

“You want to help?”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“Believe it or not, I am capable of more than just skating circles.”

Her lips twitched, but her answer was immediate. 

“I’m fine, really. You’ll be needed on the rink, anyways. The father-son game kicks off in twenty, and after that, Scorpius is counting on you to be there for him for the showcase game. If you disappear for manual labor, he might revolt.”

Draco gave a small nod and slipped his hands into his pockets. 

“Right, just thought I’d offer.”

Hermione’s eyes lingered on him longer than they probably should have. She forced a breath through her nose and shifted back into her event mode. There was no time to oogle the man of her dreams, sexy thing that he was.

“Thank you, though. Really.”

He didn’t miss the way her fingers tightened on the clipboard when he smiled, nor the way her gaze flickered briefly to his mouth and away again. They were both pretending for the sake of the crowd, for Scorpius, for the donors, and maybe for themselves too. Still, something about it felt smoother than expected. Easier. Draco stepped back, giving her space, and tilted his head toward the rink doors. 

“See you after the game, Hermione.” he said, already turning.

He didn’t look back, but if he had, he might have caught the moment her smile faltered, just for a second, and the way her fingers curled around the clipboard like it was the only thing holding her together. Because, with the way her heart was doing pirouettes, it was. 

The locker room filled with the kind of energy that could only come from a pack of boys too young to fully grasp the gravity of the moment but old enough to know it was special. Scorpius sat on the bench, tugging at his shin guards, cheeks flushed with excitement. His eyes flitted to Draco every few seconds, like he needed to confirm he was still there, still real. Draco tightened the last strap on his own pads and met his son’s eyes with a crooked smile, skates laced perfectly. He hadn’t worn gear like this in years, but the ritual came back like muscle memory. Tape, gloves, helmet, neckguard, breath steady.

“Ready to make them regret showing up?” Draco asked, nudging Scorpius lightly with his elbow.

Scorpius grinned and nodded so fast his helmet wobbled. 

“We’re gonna crush them. I’ve been practicing all week.”

“I know you have,” Draco said, voice low with pride. “Let’s go show them why Malfoy’s belong on the ice.”

They walked out together, side by side, matching jerseys gleaming under the bright lights of the Northbridge Rink. The bleachers were packed with parents and donors, the crowd already warmed by the earlier games, laughter, and a generous supply of coffee and catered pastries courtesy of one Crumb & Clover. When Draco’s name was announced, a sudden cheer rose from the stands that caught him completely off guard. It wasn’t just polite applause, it was a complete and total recognition. His name rippled through the crowd, not as Scorpius’ dad, but as the player he had once been. He heard it clearly, scattered from different corners of the rink accompanied by chants of Malfoy.

“Draco Malfoy! That’s him, right? From the Falmouth Falcons?”

“Holy shit Draco Malfoy! He’s really here!”

“No way, is that really him? Does he have a son?”

The chanting picked up again when he skated onto the ice, not nearly as loud as an arena crowds, but loud enough to make the blood in his chest move differently. His fingers tightened around the stick in his hand, an extension of himself that felt like second nature. He hadn’t felt this kind of adrenaline since his debut all those years ago. Back then, it had come with nerves and pressure, the weight of everything riding on his shoulders. Today, it was pure and unadulterated love for the game. Scorpius looked up at him with wide, astonished eyes. 

“They’re cheering for you.”

Draco bent slightly, grinning. 

“I know. Crazy, huh? It's almost like I'm a professional or something.”

Scorpius gave him a look that made Draco’s chest ache. A mix of awe, pride, and something else that looked suspiciously like affection. 

“You’re kinda awesome.”

Draco laughed, pushing off toward the faceoff circle with his son trailing him. 

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

Scorpius nodded, ready at the center. Draco knew he was, by far, the best player on this rink, but he also recognized that he posed a highly unfair advantage. He vowed to pass to the kids as much as possible and play it easy with the other Dad’s. The puck dropped with a clean snap, clacking against the ice as the two centers lunged forward. Scorpius darted in, his knees bent low in a textbook ready stance.

His stick blade met the puck just ahead of an older boy from the opposing team, and with a quick flick, he chipped it off the boards and into open space. Draco, already anticipating the play, skated backward with practiced ease, tracking the puck and reading the angles like it was second nature. He intercepted it cleanly with the toe of his blade, shifted his weight, and sent a leading pass back to Scorpius, who was already in motion up the right side of the ice.

The sound of skates carving the rink echoed through the space, rhythmic, paired with the occasional thump of bodies brushing lightly in puck battles and the hollow ring of stick taps on ice. The air in the arena was cool, and, above it all, the crowd’s cheers rose in bursts of excitement each time Scorpius made a clean pass or Draco executed a sharp backcheck. They were not the only father-son pair on the ice, but they played like they had rehearsed it a hundred times, like they were cut from the same cloth.

Scorpius circled behind the net and came up along the left side, scanning for his father. Draco had drifted into the high slot, drifting just out of reach of the defenders. With a short pass off the half wall, Scorpius connected, and Draco caught the puck on his backhand, flipped it forehand, and sent a wrist shot toward the top shelf. The goalie caught a piece of it with his blocker, but not enough. The puck snuck past and hit the twine with a satisfying snap.

The crowd clapped and whistled, elated to watch a real professional play hockey, and Scorpius whooped, raising his arms as if he had scored it himself. Draco grinned and gave a modest salute toward the bleachers before skating toward his son. Their gloves met in a quick high-five before Draco tapped  Scorpius’ helmet and gestured for him to get back into position.

“Keep your stick on the ice,” Draco reminded, guiding his son toward the faceoff circle. “You’ve got good instincts, trust them. And no High Sticking!”

As the game wore on, their rhythm only sharpened. Scorpius took faceoffs with more confidence, mirroring Draco’s calm, focused demeanor. During a line change, Draco stood at the bench, bent at the waist with his hands braced against his knees, watching his son make a clean interception in the neutral zone. He shouted encouragement and was the first to skate over when Scorpius assisted another boy’s goal, patting him on the back and offering a grin that lingered even as play resumed.

The final minutes of the game came down to a tight one goal lead. The opposing team was pushing hard, peppering Draco’s line with breakaways and quick shots. Draco blocked a pass with his skate and pivoted cleanly, clearing the puck out of the zone and skating it up himself before dishing it to Scorpius, who was waiting by the blue line. The younger Malfoy toe dragged around a defender, drew the goalie left, then snapped the puck glove side for a clean finish.

It was electric. Scorpius dropped to one knee in celebration, pumping a fist, and Draco let out a full laugh as he reached him. He picked him up with both arms, turning once before letting him slide back to the ice. They tapped gloves again, and this time, Draco leaned down and said something that made Scorpius beam so wide it nearly split his face.

“See? Told you we make a good team.”

When the horn finally sounded and the game came to an end, both teams lined up for the customary handshake. Scorpius took it seriously, repeating the words he had been taught. 

“Good game, good game, good game…” He said with each opponent, even the ones who had slashed his stick or tried to block his lane. 

Draco watched from a few paces behind, pride simmering in his chest. The announcer’s voice echoed over the speakers, thanking everyone for coming and inviting them to stay for the performance showcase. Scorpius whipped off his helmet and jogged to Draco, cheeks red, eyes bright.

“I can’t believe I scored twice.”

Draco reached out to undo the strap of his son’s helmet, setting it beneath one arm. 

“You earned both of them. You played smart, and you kept your head up. That’s how you do it.”

Scorpius leaned against his side, not quite hugging him, but close. 

“I wish we could do this every weekend.”

Draco swallowed the lump that rose in his throat. He rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezed gently. 

“Me too, kid.”

They walked off the ice together, a little slower now, blades carving gentle arcs across the rink as the crowd clapped and the next group of players prepared to warm up. When they passed Hermione at the barrier, Scorpius broke into a grin.

“Mom! Did you see us? Dad passed it so fast, and I scored, and we won!”

Hermione’s expression softened as she leaned against the rail. 

“I saw, love. You were incredible. Both of you.”

Draco met her eyes just briefly. He gave Scorpius’ shoulder another gentle squeeze before guiding him toward the locker room, the boy still talking a mile a minute, recounting every second of the game like it had been the Stanley Cup Finals. For Draco, it had been better. Playing Hockey with his son was priceless, and worth more than all the Stanley Cup’s in the world.

The performance showcase was no simple scrimmage, it was a scouted exhibition between Northbridge’s Mite team and the Mite squad from the next town over. Coaches stood along the bench with clipboards in hand, travel hockey scouts made themselves comfortable in the stands, and the players, boys between seven and ten, wore expressions tighter than before, less smiles, more focus. It was the kind of game that mattered to the kids, to the coaches, and to every parent who had driven early morning miles to practice. Scorpius stood at center ice for the faceoff, shoulders squared, chin tucked just like Draco had shown him.

His opponent was taller, broader, and already skating for the traveling team. The referee dropped the puck, the game burst into motion with a clatter of blades and a burst of adrenaline. Scorpius lost the draw, but he hustled back, checking over his shoulder before falling into position. He remembered what his dad said earlier in the locker room, keep your feet moving, trust your instincts, look for the pass.

For the first ten minutes, he played beautifully. He passed clean, skated hard, and even forced a turnover that led to the game’s first goal, a rebound tucked in by his teammate Ben. Scorpius beamed as the group surrounded him, tapping helmets, calling his name. Draco stood behind the glass, tapping his stick on the ground in celebration, smiling like it hurt. The game stayed close, tied at one, until the other team pulled ahead. Scorpius played center, but with each shift, the coach kept him in a bit longer, testing his stamina. 

He handled it fine until he didn’t. Near the end of the second period, Scorpius intercepted a pass just above the circles. Instead of dumping it into the zone, he hesitated. A split second, that was all, but it was just enough. He tried to deke around his defender, but lost the puck on the toe of his blade. Before he could pivot back, the other team had it. Two passes later, and the puck was in their net.

The buzzer sounded, the scoreboard read two to three. Scorpius skated to the bench with a lump in his throat, blinking rapidly and gripping his stick like it might ground him. His coach gave him a pat on the shoulder and said something he didn’t hear. The team filed into the locker room for intermission, Scorpius sat on the far end of the bench, helmet between his knees, trying to breathe through the disappointment. The door creaked open behind him, he didn’t look up until the footsteps stopped right in front of him.

“Scorp,” Draco said softly, crouching so they were eye level. “Hey.”

Scorpius didn’t answer at first, he kept his head low and muttered.

“I screwed up.”

Draco’s brow furrowed, he placed a hand on his son’s shoulder and gave it a steady pat on his shoulder guards. 

“You didn’t screw up, you tried to make a play and it didn’t go how you planned, that’s all.”

Scorpius groaned.

“I should’ve dumped it. I wanted to do something good, for you.”

The words hit harder than Draco expected. He exhaled slowly, brushing a hand through Scorpius’ damp waves. 

“Hey, look at me.”

Scorpius raised his head, eyes glossy, mouth tight.

“You’re already something good, you don’t have to win games or make perfect passes to prove that. I am proud of you, not because of goals or stats or anything like that. I’m proud of you because you care, because you fight for your team, and because you’re mine. You’re my son no matter what, you hear me?”

Scorpius nodded quickly, then surged forward and wrapped his arms around Draco’s middle in a hug so tight it knocked him back a little. Draco’s hand came up instinctively to cradle the back of his son’s head.

“I love you, Dad.”

Draco froze, he blinked once, then again. He felt his throat tight with emotion he didn’t have time to process. He pressed his lips to the crown of Scorpius’s head.

“I love you too, Scorp.” he said quietly. “So damn much.”

They stayed like that until the coach’s whistle echoed from the hallway, calling the team back. Draco pulled back just enough to fix Scorpius’s helmet and click the chin strap into place.

“Go out there and play your game. Just do your best, that’s all anyone could ask.”

Scorpius nodded again, more confident this time. He grabbed his stick, squared his shoulders, and jogged toward the tunnel, already shouting to his linemates as he joined the team. Draco stayed behind a moment longer, staring at the spot his son had just occupied. His heart felt like it had swelled beyond his ribs, pushing everything else aside. He stood slowly, wiped the back of his hand across his face, and turned toward the rink to join the coaches on the bench. As he did, he realized something else. Whatever happened on the ice next, Scorpius had already won, and so had he.

The final period was a blur of high speed shifts and heart thudding anticipation. The teams were evenly matched, both skating with everything they had left in them. Each pass, each check, each turn at the boards felt heavier than the last. The puck pinged off sticks and ricocheted off the glass, but the scoreboard stayed frozen at two to four. Hermione had pressed a hand to her chest at least twice in the last five minutes. With less than ninety seconds left, Northbridge was on the rush. Scorpius flew up the left wing, cutting through the neutral zone with two defenders breathing down his neck. He had Teddy looping around right, open by a fraction. For a heartbeat, it looked like Scorpius might try the shot himself.

Instead, he darted left, just like his father used to in his prime, dropping his left shoulder and dragging the puck through the narrowest of gaps. He cut hard, skate edges carving into the ice with a tightness that made the entire bench stand. Then he spun back, a full rotation so smooth it sent his defender sprawling, and snapped a no-look pass straight to Teddy in the slot. Teddy didn’t hesitate, he fired high, blocker side, and the puck slammed into the top corner of the net. The rink exploded, the game was now three to three.

“Holy shit,” Draco whispered, leaning forward. “That was my move.”

Hermione’s mouth parted. 

“He’s been watching your old games on YouTube after practice. Said he wanted to try it but didn’t think he was ready.”

Draco couldn’t keep the proud smile off his face. He was more than ready.

“He was ready.”

The final seconds ticked away, and the game rolled into a shootout. One by one, players took their turns. When it came to Northbridge’s last shot, the scoreboard still read three to three. All eyes turned to the bench as the coach tapped Scorpius on the helmet and nodded. It was his shot to tie it. He skated out slowly, eyes locked on the goalie, jaw tight in concentration. The puck dropped in front of him at center ice, and he gave it one tap, then another, then started forward.

Draco didn’t blink, neither did Hermione. Scorpius accelerated quickly, approaching the goalie with a deceptive burst of speed. At the last second, he repeated the same move, darted left, sold the shot, then pivoted with that tight, precise edge work. The goalie bit hard, shifting off center, and Scorpius tucked the puck around his pads on the backhand. It slid past the line, clean and undeniable. The horn blew, the crowd roared.

Scorpius threw his hands in the air and ripped off his helmet, sprinting toward his team as they swarmed him. Coaches high-fived, parents cheered, Teddy tackled him into a hug that knocked both of them sideways, and all Draco could do was sit there, grinning like a lunatic, stunned and proud beyond words.

“He used the move again,” he said to no one in particular.

Hermione pressed her fingers to her lips, eyes shining.

 “He was incredible.”

When the crowd finally began to settle and the players started clearing the ice, Scorpius broke away from the group, skating straight to the sideboards near where Draco and Hermione were watching. He raised both arms high and called up, voice cracking with excitement.

“Did you see that? Did you see what I did?”

Draco stood and leaned over the side of the rink. 

“Every second. You crushed it, Scorp.”

Scorpius laughed, sweaty and flushed, he looked at Hermione too and pointed. 

“Dad taught me that move!”

Draco glanced at Hermione just in time to catch her expression soften into something impossibly tender. She didn’t say anything, but the look said enough. They won the overtime matchup, all thanks to Teddy and Scorpius’ teamwork. After the equipment was peeled off and the last few parents filtered out of the rink, Scorpius trotted toward his own, his duffle slung over one shoulder.

“I’ve never felt that good before,” he said, a little breathless, cheeks still ruddy. “When I made the spin and passed to Teddy and the crowd yelled like that? I thought my chest was gonna explode.”

Draco ruffled his hair with a grin. 

“Get used to it, Scorp. Big moments have a way of sticking with you.”

Scorpius stood between them, holding Draco’s arm with one hand and Hermione’s sleeve with the other. 

“Can we go get burgers? And milkshakes?”

Draco smiled. 

“Is it alright with you, Hermione?”

Hermione nodded.

“Yes, it's fine Scorpius, but only if you don’t rub it in Teddy’s face,” Hermione said, even as she nodded.

Scorpius laughed. 

“Deal.”

Draco looked down at his son, who had just won the game using his move, who had stood on the ice like he belonged there, who had said I love you with the conviction of a boy who finally knew he was seen. He knew, without question, a true manifestation of the father-son bond had formed forever. 

The diner was quiet in the way only a small town haunt could be after midnight. The hum of the neon sign outside buzzed faintly through the windows, casting a pinkish hue over the linoleum floor and metal backed booths. The smell of griddle oil and fresh coffee lingered in the air, mingling with the syrupy sweetness of the pies under the glass counter. A few truckers sat at the bar nursing mugs of coffee, and a waitress in orthopedic shoes moved slowly between tables, wiping them down with tired efficiency. It was nothing fancy, just Dale’s on Main, but for the three of them seated in the corner booth by the window, it might as well have been the center of the universe.

Scorpius sat in the middle, wedged between his two parents like he had been born to fill that space. His cheeks were still flushed from the game, his voice just a little hoarse from yelling. He hadn’t stopped talking since they walked through the door, bouncing between stories of the father-son match and the showcase game, mimicking plays with his hands and grinning every time he caught one of them smiling.

“And did you see the look on Teddy’s face when the puck went in? He thought I was gonna go for the shot, but I faked it, just like Dad said. Dart left, cut back, pass it clean. Boom, right in.”

Draco leaned back in the booth with his arm resting along the top edge, smiling in a way that hadn’t quite worn off since the shootout. 

“That fake was solid. You sold it better than I ever did.”

Hermione sipped her coffee, watching both of them with quiet amusement. 

“You say that like you were ever subtle on the ice.”

Draco raised a brow at her, mouth twitching. 

“Did you watch my career, Hermione? Why I didn’t know you cared about me so much.” He threw Scorpius a wink. “I was subtle enough to get past five defenders and a goalie, wasn’t I?”

“You were flashy,” she countered, nudging her spoon against her saucer. “Flashy, dramatic, and just a little too in love with your own highlight reels.”

Scorpius looked between them, eyes wide and delighted. 

“Wait, were you two fighting or flirting right now?”

Draco laughed while Hermione tried to hide her smile behind her cup. 

“Bit of both, I think,” she muttered.

It wasn’t awkward, that was the surprising part. It should have felt strange, sitting across from the man she had spent years growing apart from, but for some reason, it didn’t. There was no tension in Draco’s shoulders, no tightness in Hermione’s posture, they were just two co-parents, sharing a booth, listening to their son talk about a day that had clearly meant everything to him. The past didn’t feel like a fourth person at the table. When the waitress came around, she didn’t bother with a menu, she just gave them a knowing smile and pulled a pen from behind her ear.

“Your usual, Draco?”

“Yep,” he said, glancing at Scorpius. “Double bacon cheeseburger, no onions, and fries. Milkshake too, chocolate.”

Hermione set her mug down and added.

“And I’ll have the grilled chicken club, no mayo, extra pickles. Sweet potato fries.”

Scorpius grinned. 

“Strawberry Pancakes for me!”

The waitress nodded once and walked off. They didn’t speak for a moment, just shared the kind of look that came with familiarity, the kind you could only build with time. They both started laughing, quiet and surprised.

“What?” Scorpius asked, puzzled.

Draco leaned forward, his voice still light with amusement. 

“We used to do this thing every time we ate here. Order our favorites, then halfway through, realize we liked the other person’s plate better and swap.”

Hermione nodded.

“I always forget how good that burger is until I see it in front of me,” Hermione said, chuckling. “And I still think sweet potato fries are better than regular ones.”

Draco threw her a smirk.

“Do you want to just-”

“Switch? Obviously.”

They did, sliding their plates across the table when the food arrived, and Scorpius stared at them like they had grown two extra heads.

“You two are weird,” he declared, though he was grinning.

“Familiar.” Hermione corrected, lifting a fry from Draco’s plate with a small smirk.

“Creatures of habit.” Draco added, already taking a bite of the sandwich.

Scorpius leaned back in his seat and took a long sip of his milkshake. Outside the diner window, the town of Northbridge was quiet and still, the streets dim under the wash of streetlights. Inside, though, it felt alive, cozy, like everything had finally clicked into place. He didn’t know if this would last, or if it was just one perfect night carved out of a messy history, but he didn’t care. He had his mom on one side and his dad on the other.

They were laughing, sharing food, talking like people who remembered how to care about each other. As far as Scorpius was concerned, that was all he had ever wanted. So what if his parents weren’t married like his friends at school’s parents? So what if they never got together at all? Scorpius felt as long as he had them both, and they got along, he wouldn’t ask for more. He’d gone too long without a father, he never wanted to experience that again. Hermione looked across the table, her voice low but sincere. 

“Thanks for taking the time tonight, Draco. You made those kids year playing in the charity game. I know you didn’t have to.”

Draco met her eyes without flinching. 

“I wanted to. For all of us, really.”

She nodded slowly and didn’t look away. 

“It was good, this was good.”

Draco smiled. 

“Yeah, it was.”

Scorpius rested his chin on his hand, watching them both like a referee at the world’s softest, slowest reconciliation. He had no idea what tomorrow would look like, but tonight? Tonight felt like a win. Not the kind you got from goals or trophies or shootouts, but something better. Home. Scorpius’ head tilted slightly as he watched them, the corner of his mouth tugging into a grin he didn’t try to hide. His eyes flicked between them as they sat back with their swapped plates, eating in easy rhythm, the conversation flowing like there was no awkward history behind them. The magic of the night felt good, like a temporary truce.

It was just the three of them, tucked into a booth at Dale’s, as if this was something they did every Friday night instead of something that hadn’t happened in nearly a decade. The warmth of the diner, the scrape of silverware on porcelain, and the low hum of a jukebox in the corner made everything feel rooted, solid. Scorpius dragged one of Draco’s fries through a puddle of ketchup and popped it into his mouth. 

“You know,” he said around the bite, “this is the first time I think we’ve all hung out without anyone being mad or weird.”

Hermione glanced at Draco over her coffee cup, her lips curving. 

“Is that a compliment or a passive-aggressive jab?”

“It’s both,” Scorpius said brightly. “But mostly a compliment.”

Draco chuckled and reached over to steal one of Hermione’s fries, ignoring her swat. 

“He’s not wrong.”

“I’m keeping track of every fry you steal,” she warned, though the amusement in her voice undercut the threat. “You’re already three deep.”

“I’ll make it up to you, you can have the last bite of my milkshake,” he offered, lifting the glass with a dramatic flourish.

She wrinkled her nose. 

“That’s the melted part.”

Draco laughed.

“I’m generous, not a saint.”

Scorpius smiled, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe them. He looked so happy, his cheeks still pink from the lingering high of the game, his body tucked into the corner of the booth like he belonged nowhere else in the world. Draco leaned his forearms on the table, his eyes steady on Hermione as he said.

“Scorp was incredible tonight.”

Her expression softened as she looked at Scorpius. 

“He really was.”

Scorpius was preening under all the praise.

“He’s got your focus,” Draco said.

“And your flair,” Hermione returned. “Though I think he might be a bit more humble than a certain Malfoy I know.”

Scorpius ducked his head, cheeks glowing brighter. 

“You guys are embarrassing.”

“That’s part of our job,” Draco said.

Hermione hummed her agreement and reached over to brush a crumb from Scorpius’s shirt. 

“You’ll understand when you’re older and have a kid of your own.”

Scorpius wrinkled his nose.

“Ew,” Scorpius muttered, stabbing another fry.

Draco’s smirk was sharp, but his eyes held something gentler. 

“Someday you’ll find yourself a lady, Scorp. You’ll see.”

Scorpius leaned back against the leather seat and let his eyes drift toward the window, watching as the last of the night faded into the early grey of morning.

“I don’t want this to be the only time,” he said suddenly, not looking at either of them. “I mean, like this. I want more of this.”

Draco froze for half a second, then nodded slowly.

“Me too.”

Hermione reached across the table, her hand landing lightly on Scorpius’s wrist. 

“We can figure it out.”

He nodded, his throat bobbing once. The check came and Draco reached for it without thinking. Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off with a look, the kind that said let me. She held up her hands and smiled, and Scorpius didn’t miss the way her fingers brushed Draco’s. They walked out together, arms brushing as they stepped into the crisp predawn air. The sky above Northbridge was still dark, the horizon just beginning to hint at blue. Across the lot, their cars sat parked side by side, as if they too had decided to call a truce.

“Same time next week?” Draco asked, not entirely joking.

Hermione smiled at him over Scorpius’s head. 

“Only if you let me pay.”

Draco nodded as he patted Scorpius’ head.

“It’s a deal.”

Hermione felt her heart leap. There was still so much to overcome, hurt to work through, but it was apparent now more than ever, that all of them were trying to move forward. If that meant late night diner runs with her son and his Father? Well, there were worse things.

Chapter Text

Draco wasn’t entirely sure how he had ended up cross-legged on the floor of Hermione’s living room, a carton of General Tso’s chicken in one hand and a flimsy plastic fork in the other. The rug was plush beneath them, patterned with navy and rust tones that somehow made the room feel lived in and warm. Her coffee table had been pushed aside to make room for the spread of takeout bags and open containers, the scent of soy and sesame cloying.

Soft music played from a speaker tucked into the corner, barely loud enough to register, but enough to fill in the spaces between bites. Hermione sat opposite him, chopsticks in hand, hair tied up in a way that looked like it had been done without much thought, a pencil still tucked behind her ear from some long-forgotten to-do list. She looked at ease, which felt strange given how static things had been between them ever since they’d decided to co-parent Scorpius.

Even so, something about tonight had settled into something that didn’t feel quite so hard. It was familiar, like learning to ride a bike, you never truly forget. Hermione laughed at something he said, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Draco felt that moment hit him with quiet clarity. It was like watching a door he had forgotten about slowly creak open. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the way she looked when she was genuinely amused, how it made the room shift a little around her with a light aura.

“I still can’t believe you ordered four different dumpling varieties,” she said, nudging one of the containers toward him with her foot.

“You were the one who said we should try everything,” he shot back, raising an eyebrow.

“I meant try, not hoard.”

He smirked, not bothering to defend himself.

“You didn’t complain when you finished off the pork and chive ones.”

She smiled, eyes flicking up to meet his, for a second, time stood still. Draco could still remember the way she used to look at him across the lab table, always so sure of herself, always a little exasperated by his antics. That version of them had felt like a different lifetime, but now, sitting here on the floor with her, surrounded by empty takeout containers and a shared comfort long forgotten, it didn’t feel so far away. Hermione glanced down at her food, her fingers tapping softly against the side of the container.

“You ever think about those days?” she asked, not quite looking at him. “Those afternoons in lab, or the day Theo caused that stupid fire because you goaded him into it. Or that one awful group project with the presentation where the slides didn’t load and I thought I’d ruined my chances of straight A’s.”

Draco let out a quiet laugh.

“I think about it more than I should.” He took a bite of Lo Mein and chewed slowly. “We were good at being partners, even when we were trying to outscore each other.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“You mean when you were trying to outscore me, on the days you deigned to care, anyway.”

Draco shrugged.

“I stand by my methods.”

She hummed, a soft sound that landed somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

“It was easier then,” she said after a pause.

Draco nodded.

“Ahh, to be eighteen again.”

Comfortable silence settled between them. Draco wasn’t ready to call it anything, but he didn’t mind sitting on her floor and pretending, for a moment, that they were just two people figuring things out again over cheap food and old memories. It was more than he’d allowed himself to want in a long time. Hermione reached for her wine glass again, swirling the last bit of red at the bottom before tipping it back with practiced ease.

The room felt warmer now, not just from the heat of the food or the soft music still humming through the speakers, but from the stretch of time they had let pass without pulling back. Her shoulders had dropped into something easier, more natural, and across from her, Draco looked far less guarded than he had since, well, she couldn’t be sure. He was lounging against the couch now, one arm propped on the cushion behind him, legs stretched out, his tie undone and collar open, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow.

She caught herself staring, but didn’t look away quickly enough. Draco’s eyes found hers, he didn’t smirk or tease her. He looked at her, head tilted a little, gaze steady and heavy with something that made her stomach flip. He hadn’t touched her, not once all evening, but it felt like every glance lingered longer than it should have, like every brush of conversation skimmed the edge of something neither of them dared to cross but so badly wanted too.

“You still get that little wrinkle between your brows when you’re overthinking something,” he said softly.

Hermione blinked, heat blooming in her cheeks as she reached up, brushing her fingers across her forehead like it might somehow erase the tell.

“Do I?”

Draco nodded.

“You do.”

She tucked her legs beneath her, shifting a little closer, though she pretended it was just to grab the last dumpling before he could.

“Some things never change, I guess.”

Draco let out a low breath of a laugh.

“Some things do.”

She met his eyes again, the tension between them wasn’t subtle now, it pulled them into that familiar middle ground they had once danced around in their youth. It had been different then, all sarcasm and late night study sessions, arguments disguised as flirting. Hermione glanced down at her lap, running her thumb along the side of her glass, voice barely above a murmur.

“Does it make me a horrible person, more than I already am, for wanting to kiss you right now?”

If Draco was surprised by the omission, he didn’t show it. Draco leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees.

“No, god no Hermione. I want to kiss you too, I think about it every damn day.”

Her breath caught, biting the inside of her cheek. She looked into those grey eyes for a long moment, searching for whatever it was that had always existed between them. The steady pull, the reluctant understanding, the need. It was still there, waiting just beneath the surface. Hermione’s fingers brushed the edge of the takeout container nearest her, but her attention was locked on him. He was closer now, close enough for her to feel the heat rolling off his body. She didn’t know who moved first, maybe it didn’t matter. His hand touched hers gently, fingers grazing her knuckles, she let her hand stay. When her eyes dropped to his mouth, and his to hers, the tension twisted tight enough to hold them breathless. It was Hermione who pulled away first.

“I want you, Draco, I do, but I don’t, I don’t deserve that type of relationship from you. We should try to be friends for Scorpius, and, and good co-parents.”

Hermione twisted her hands in her lap, physically paining herself for pulling away. Draco shook his head, as if trying to clear some of the lust between them.

“No, no you’re right. It’s probably for the best, we should focus on Scorpius.”

Hermione sighed and tipped her wine glass back. Draco, in a rare show of his younger self, gave her that adorable little pout.

“On second thought, Hermione, maybe just once?”

Hermione playfully rolled her eyes.

“Draco, if you kiss me, I won’t be able to stop. I’m going to ask you to stay the night, I’m going to take you upstairs into my bed, and I am going to do unspeakable things. I’m going to be selfish, because I have already taken from you once, and I know if I let myself want you, I will want to take more, and I’m afraid that once I have you again, that I won’t be able to stop. I don’t want to start again only to fail you.”

Draco stood up, extending his hand for Hermione to take. He pulled her up so she was standing too. He stepped closer, staring at her with such a pupil blown gaze it caused her to clench.

“I want you to take from me, Hermione. Please, take whatever you want. Whatever happens tomorrow, we can figure it out then. But let's not pretend that we both don't want to go upstairs and fuck each other senseless.”

Draco hooked his fingers through the front belt loops of her jeans, pulling her flush against him.

“Are you sure, Draco?”

Draco wasn’t sure if it was the wine or being so close to Hermione nearly everyday again because of Scorpius, but, while his head was hesitant for anything emotional with Hermione, his head was very eager to return to the physical aspects of their relationship. And who could blame him? He very much could concede his sort-of-exes body was only more beautiful with age.

“Hermione, I have never been more sure.”

Hermione jumped on him with all the urgency as if she were eighteen years old again, wrapping her legs around his waist with ease, as if she’d never stopped. Draco easily caught her, his muscles flexing as he slid his hands under her ass, pulling her up to him. They both moaned at the friction the action brought. Hermione pulled herself away quick enough to say bed, and Draco walked them both up the steps by some miracle, slamming into walls and knocking down pictures as they clawed their way through seven years of abstinence.

Draco kicked her door shut with a slam and Hermione could be heard giggling as Draco tossed her onto the bed. This time, there was no hesitation or nervousness between them, only a comfort age and experience could bring and a familiarity in knowing someone so intimately.

Draco wasted no time in following her onto the bed, his body pressing hers into the mattress as he captured her mouth again, his kiss deep and hungry as he relearned the shape of her mouth. Hermione arched against him, her fingers already working at the buttons of his shirt, her nails scraping lightly over his chest as she pushed the fabric aside. He groaned into her mouth, his hands sliding up her sides, memorizing the curves he’d spent years dreaming about and missing.

The heat between them was immediate, a wildfire reigniting after too long without oxygen, and neither of them had any intentions of putting it out. Two consenting adults, that was what they were at the moment, and nothing more. Hermione broke the kiss just long enough to yank his shirt the rest of the way off, her eyes dark with want as she took in the sight of him, his broad shoulders, the lean muscle of his torso from Hockey, the way his skin flushed under her gaze.

“You’re still so fucking sexy,” she murmured, dragging her nails down his chest, watching the way his breath hitched and his abs flexed. 

Draco’s hands found the hem of her blouse, tugging it over her head before his mouth descended to her neck, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin just below her ear. She gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair, holding him there as he laved his tongue over the spot, his teeth grazing just enough to make her shiver. She wasn’t about to let him have all the fun, though. With a sharp twist of her hips, she flipped them, straddling his waist and pinning his wrists above his head. Draco’s pupils were blown wide, his lips parted as he stared up at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Missed this,” he admitted roughly, his voice already wrecked.

Hermione smirked, leaning down to brush her lips against his, not quite kissing him, just teasing.

“Yeah?” she murmured, shifting just enough to grind against the hard length of him, drawing a low groan from his throat. “Tell me how much.”

Draco bucked his hips, his restraint fraying.

“Fuck, Hermione, every damn night,” he admitted, his voice rough. “Thought about your mouth, your hands, the way you used to ride me like you owned me.”

She rewarded his honesty by finally kissing him properly, her tongue sliding against his as she rocked against him, the friction maddening through their clothes. His hips jerked up, seeking more, but she pulled back just enough to keep him chasing it.

“Patience,” she chided, her fingers trailing down his chest, over the taut planes of his stomach, before popping the button of his pants.

She took her time undressing him, her hands slow and deliberate, her mouth following wherever her fingers went, licking a stripe up his ribs, biting lightly at his hipbone, her breath hot against his skin. By the time she finally freed him from his boxers, Draco was trembling, his fingers fisted in the sheets to keep from grabbing her and just blindly fucking her. Hermione wrapped her hand around him, stroking slowly, her thumb swiping over his head just to hear him curse.

“Still so perfect,” she murmured, leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of his thigh.

Draco’s breath came in sharp bursts, his hips lifting off the bed as she dragged her tongue up his length, her grip tightening just the way she remembered he liked. When she finally took him into her mouth, Draco nearly came undone on the spot. He felt like a virgin all over again. Her tongue swirled around him, her lips tight, her fingers working the base in rhythm with her movements. He groaned her name, his hand tangling in her curls, not pushing, just holding on for dear life. She hummed around him, the vibration making his thighs tense, and when she hollowed her cheeks and sucked harder, he had to bite his lip to keep from thrusting up.

“Fuck, Hermione, I’m not gonna last if you keep-”

She pulled off with a wet pop, grinning up at him.

“Good,” she purred, crawling back up his body to kiss him.

Draco flipped her onto her back in one smooth motion this time, his mouth crashing into hers as his hands made quick work of her jeans, yanking them down her legs along with her underwear in a desperate grab to regain control. She gasped as his fingers found her already soaked, his touch firm and sure as he circled her clit, his thumb pressing just hard enough to make her back arch.

“You’re so wet,” he growled against her lips, his fingers sliding lower, teasing her before pushing two inside.

Hermione moaned, her nails digging into his shoulders as he curled his fingers inside her, the heel of his palm grinding against her clit as he worked her toward the edge. She was close, so close, her hips rocking against his hand, her breath coming in short, desperate pants, but he pulled away, ignoring her whimper of protest as he shifted down the bed, his hands spreading her thighs wider. He hooked his arms under her legs, hoisting them over his shoulders, all while giving her a look that spoke volumes. His mouth was on her before she could protest, his tongue licking a slow, torturous stripe up her cunt before circling her clit. Hermione cried out, her fingers twisting in his hair as he sucked lightly, his fingers slipping back inside her, fucking her in time with each flick of his tongue.

“Draco, oh god, right there, I- ”

Her thighs trembled, her back bowing off the bed as pleasure coiled tight in her stomach, her orgasm arriving with a force that left her gasping on his tongue. Before she could even come down fully, Draco was kissing his way back up her body, his cock pressing against her thigh, hot and heavy. Hermione reached between them, guiding him to her entrance, her eyes locking with his as she demanded of him.

“Now, I need you now.”

He didn’t hesitate, pushing into her in one smooth thrust, both of them moaning at the delicious stretch, the perfect fullness. Draco stilled for a moment, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath ragged as he just took in the moment.

“Fuck, you feel-”

Hermione cut him off with a roll of her hips, her legs wrapping around his waist as she took him deeper.

“Move, Draco.” she demanded, her voice husky.

He obeyed, his thrusts slow at first, savoring the way she clenched around him, reacquainting himself with every exposed inch of her. It didn’t take long for their pace to turn frantic, the bed rocking beneath them, Draco pounding into her fast and hard, her headboard smacking against the wall as he did so. Hermione arched into every stroke, her hands roaming his back, her nails leaving marks as she urged him on faster, harder.

“Fuck, baby, faster.”

His mouth found hers again, swallowing her moans as his hips snapped against hers, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. A hand snaked between them, small and dainty as Hermione pleasured herself. Hermione could feel the tension building again, her second orgasm cresting as Draco’s thrusts grew uneven, his breath hot against her neck.

“Come with me,” she panted, dragging her fingers through his hair. “I want to feel you.”

Draco buried himself deep, his release spilling into her as she clenched around him, her own pleasure cresting. They clung to each other, their bodies trembling, their breaths mingling in the quiet aftermath as Draco let his body eclipse hers, completely boneless and spent. Draco pressed a kiss to her shoulder, his voice rough but amused.

“Tomorrow’s gonna be a problem, isn’t it?”

Hermione laughed breathlessly, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his back.

“Probably.”

Draco grinned.

“Best sex I’ve ever had, Granger, as always.”

Hermione chuckled and gave his softening cock a playful squeeze.

“I am the only sex you’ve ever had.”

Draco rolled his eyes, popping his boxers back on.

“Semantics.”

When Draco spotted his cum leaking down her thigh, he groaned. Did his head never fuckin learn?

“Oh, wait, shit, you uh, you are on contraceptives, right? I remember you used to take the pill back in high school. Though fat lot of good that’s done.” Draco mumbled the last part more to himself.

Hermione shook her head, lying back on the bed as she slipped the closest t-shirt she could find over herself.

“We’re safe, Draco, I promise. There is no chance of any surprise babies.”

Draco nodded as he continued to get dressed, giving Hermione a once over. She looked positively beautiful, there was no better site than Hermione, freshly fucked by him. It rang true at eighteen, and it rang true now.

“I should get going, it’s late.”

Hermione nodded, ignoring the slight disappointment she felt. So what if she wanted him to stay? To hold him close after sex like they used to? They were not together, nor dating in any way. Hermione had no ground to stand on, doing what she’d done to him already, and they’d only just gotten onto an amicable ground. They were two sort-of-exes, two adults, consenting to a physical relationship. Nothing more, she reminded herself glumly. Draco, as if sensing her sudden, sullen mood, sat beside her on the bed, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss on her forehead.

“I may be going back to the Mansion, but I enjoyed tonight and I don’t regret it.”

Hermione felt her eyes mist up but nodded, leaning over to hug Draco.

“I don’t know what to do now.” Hermione sighed and buried her face in Draco’s shoulder. “But you should be there tomorrow morning when Scorpius wakes up, he’ll ask questions if you’re not there.”

Draco nodded.

“Walk me out?”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Still spoiled I see.”

Draco waggled his eyebrows.

“Well, if this co-parenting thing comes with benefits, I suppose I can’t complain.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes slightly, fighting a smirk.

“Draco…”

He gave her another smile that made her heart flip. There was so much left to be said, to work through, and they had to figure out what tonight meant, but they could figure it out eventually, they could worry about the consequences later. Tonight, both of their hearts were singing.

The bakery was already warm by the time Draco arrived. The scent of brown sugar, cinnamon, and freshly kneaded dough greeted him as he stepped inside, wiping his hands on the hem of his shirt before tying on an apron Hermione had tossed him the last time he’d helped out, which, was really just building boxes and tying the little plastic bags together, but, he didn’t mind. Hermione was already elbow-deep in flour, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, her curls twisted into a haphazard knot at the top of her head. There was a dusting of powdered sugar across her cheekbone, and she didn’t seem to notice when she waved a wooden spoon toward the prep table.

“There’s six dozen macarons to box, two lemon loaves that need glazing, and I still haven’t finished decorating the petit fours,” she said without looking up. “Don’t even get me started on the truffle boxes.”

Draco gave a low whistle and stepped into place beside her, grabbing a tray and reaching for the boxing supplies. 

“I was under the impression the Malfoy Gala was an elegant evening event, not a sugar-laced siege on your sanity.”

“It’s both,” Hermione replied dryly. “Your mother has very strong opinions about the dessert spread. Apparently, the wrong ganache can ruin a reputation.”

He glanced sideways at her. 

“And yet, you said yes.”

She shrugged, a small smile tugging at her mouth. 

“I like a challenge and the business was too good to pass up.”

Draco hummed. 

“That’s how she gets you, you know.”

Hermione laughed.

“There are worse fates than baking for Scorpius’ grandmother, Draco.”

They worked side by side, their movements oddly in sync. Draco folded decorative tissue papers and ribbon into the boxes, setting them up eventually for Hermione to fill. The sounds of the bakery surrounded them, clinking trays, the hum of the ovens, the soft buzz of the fridge, but it all faded into a rhythm that felt natural. 

“Scorpius used to hate anything pink,” Hermione said after a while, her voice soft as she reached for a tray of rose meringues. “When he was three, he threw an entire strawberry cupcake across the room because he said it was too girly.”

Draco chuckled, the corner of his mouth quirking up. 

“Really?”

Hermione nodded.

“Until he got to Kindergarten, that is,” she continued, smoothing a dollop of cream over a tart base, “and one of the girls in his class told him pink was her favorite color. After that, he insisted on having a pink everything in every birthday party bag, just cuz she liked it.”

Draco’s smile softened as he glanced at her. 

“He’s got a way with the ladies, then?”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Yes, though he certainly didn’t get that from you.”

Draco scoffed at her sarcasm.

“Hermione, you wound me. I seem to recall being quite popular in school, an ice prince, one could say. You may have been my first Hermione, but I have certainly kissed my fair share of girls, Miss know-it-all.”

Hermione smirked mischievously. Draco was fooling no one. Pansy had told Hermione all about how much of Draco’s experiences were truly conjecture over their many bonfires.

“Kissing Pansy Parkinson when we were fourteen doesn’t count, darling. And your brief stint junior year with, oh, what was her name? Oh yeah, Tracey Davis. Couldn’t fool anyone with that short lived fiasco. We all saw her making out with Astoria under the bleachers while you were on the ice, you know. Even still, this know-it-all was able to completely captured the heart of the hockey prince. All’s fair.”

Draco shifted to the next tray, brushing egg wash across a row of pastry stars under Hermione’s direction. Draco chuckled, shaking his head.

“Nothing gets passed you, does it my Clover?”

Hermione froze as the name rolled so easily off Draco’s tongue. He gasped himself, mortified at what he let slip. Both of their faces flushed. Thinking of a distraction, a backtrack, he recalled something Scorpius had mentioned recently.

“Scorpius told me he used to wish for his Dad to show up at his hockey games, said he always thought maybe I’d be there in the stands, a surprise or something, you know?”

Hermione’s hands stilled, her eyes flicked toward him, then dropped to her work for completely different reasons this time.

“He never said that to me.”

Draco shook his head.

“He probably didn’t want to make you feel bad.”

“Too late,” she murmured, the silence heavier than before.

Draco set his brush down, turning toward her. 

“I’m not saying it to guilt you, I just thought you should know that he missed me. But he doesn’t blame you, I don’t think, and, honestly Hermione, I should’ve tried harder, too.”

Hermione met his gaze fully, raw emotion flickering in her eyes. 

“Draco you don’t need to apologize to me. I am at fault here.”

Draco dropped his utensils and walked over to Hermione’s side of the table, pulling her into a hug.

“You were hurt too, I get it. I had a long time to sit and think about what I didn’t do, and I realized that for each year you hid Scorpius from me, it was another year that I hid myself from you. We both made mistakes, Hermione, but I think we’ve shown ourselves over these past months, that we are able to give Scorpius the love he deserves.”

She nodded slowly, for a moment, they just looked at each other. Draco and Hermione, two people who had once shared something real and complicated and messy, two people still trying to make sense of it all.

“I forgot how nice it was,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Draco cocked his head.

“What was?”

Hermione sunk into him.

“Being with you.”

Draco smiled.

“I didn’t, forget, that is.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed, she turned back to the tray, clearing her throat and reaching for the next stack of tarts. They returned to their tasks, the pace of the kitchen didn’t slow, but something inside both of them did. There was no rush to fill the quiet, no need to overcorrect or shift away from what had just passed between them. Draco reached for the next tray and Hermione slid it over without looking up, her hands still moving with practiced ease, her lips tugging faintly at the edges like she was fighting off a smile.

“I still can’t believe you’re actually doing manual labor,” she murmured as she set another tart shell on the rack. 

He smirked, brushing flour from his wrist with the back of his hand. 

“Well, you always did love to put me and my hands to work "

The salacious suggestion in those words set her insides on fire. Draco looked up at her again, studying the curve of her brow, the way her eyes softened when she focused, and the faint flush of exertion across her cheeks. Hermione was the first to break the pause. 

“Did I tell you about the time Scorpius made cookies for the school bake sale and insisted on using hot sauce for flavoring instead of vanilla?”

Draco blinked. 

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

She laughed, the sound low and natural. 

“He swore it would give them a kick, said I was being close minded and I needed to be daring if people wanted to remember my bakery.”

Draco grinned, shaking his head. 

“He definitely got that from you.”

There was a point in the late afternoon when they found themselves reaching for the same bowl, and their fingers brushed. Hermione looked up, startled, and he froze. Neither pulled away immediately, both reminded of what had happened between them only a few nights before. Her eyes met his, the bowl was forgotten between them. She blinked, her breath caught just slightly. Hermione cleared her throat and turned toward the oven. 

“The truffles should be ready to temper.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, nodding. “I’ll get the tray.”

They kept working, whether they were ready or not, something between them had begun again, only this time, it wasn’t anger or bitterness leading the way, it was time, effort, and the slow realization that neither one of them wanted to go back to the way things were before.

“Goodness, we’ve made such a mess!”

Hermione’s laughter still lingered between them as another hour of working went by, her curls tousled, her cheeks flushed as she wiped a streak of flour from Draco’s jaw with her thumb. Draco couldn’t help it, the space between them had narrowed, the teasing glances turning heated. Before she could protest, not that she wanted to, Draco’s hands were at her waist, lifting her onto the empty prep table near Hermione’s office, away from their workstation, with effortless strength as he slotted himself between her legs.

“Hermione, let me.”

Hermione couldn’t think through the cloud of haze, she only knew that she wanted him constantly ever since that night. And who was she kidding, really? She always wanted him, regardless. 

“Please.”

Her skirt was rucked up around her thighs in a flash as he dropped to his knees, his fingers hooking into the delicate lace of her panties, dragging them down with agonizing slowness. The contrast of the cold table beneath her and the heat of his breath against her skin sent a shiver racing down her spine. He pulled her to the edge of the table, her legs resting over his shoulders as he hooked his arms underneath her thighs. He didn’t tease, didn’t draw it out, he pressed his mouth to her with a hunger that made her gasp, his tongue laving over her in slow, deliberate strokes.

Hermione’s fingers tangled in his hair, her hips arching off the table as he worked her with a ruthless precision, the scrape of his stubble against her inner thighs only heightening the pleasure coiling tight in her belly. His tongue was relentless, wicked in it’s manners, as it flicked and laved at her clit in agonizing circles. When his fingers slipped into her, as he worked her so thoroughly she saw stars, it didn’t take long until she came with a broken cry, her thighs trembling around his shoulders. Before the last wave of pleasure had even crested, she was dragging him up, her hands fumbling with the buckle of his belt. 

“Inside me,” she demanded, her voice rough with need, her nails digging into his shoulders. 

Draco didn’t hesitate, once she’d pulled him out of his pants and boxers, he pushed into her with a groan, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks. The table rattled beneath them, the sound lost beneath her moans as he set a relentless pace, each thrust driving her higher, her legs locked around his waist to keep him close. Hermione’s head tipped back, her breath coming in ragged gasps as pleasure built again, sharper this time, more urgent as the cool and simultaneously warm air of the bakery mixed with the smell of sugar and sex.

Draco’s mouth found her throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. He whispered her name over and over again, his head dropped into the crook of her neck, feeling the telltale signs of her Orgasm. When she shattered around him, he followed with a low moan, his forehead now pressed to hers as they both struggled to catch their breath, the evidence of their spend mixing together. The bakery was silent save for the sound of their breathing and the humming of the machinery, the moment monumental between them, heavy with something more than just desire.

Eventually, Draco pulled back, his hands smoothing down her skirt with a tenderness that belied the intensity of what had just passed between them after he’d slipped her underware back on. Hermione’s fingers traced the line of his jaw, her smile soft, knowing, as she leaned in to press a kiss to his lips. A silent understanding passed between them in that moment. It would be best, for now, to label nothing, and, to try again with whatever outcomes happen.

“We should probably finish those pastries,” she murmured, though neither of them moved, too caught in the quiet aftermath. 

Draco huffed a laugh, his thumb brushing over her lower lip, as if the last seven years hadn’t happened.

“I’ll get the cleaning supplies.”

Hermine smiled, Draco returned it, and in both of their hearts, it felt like coming home after a long journey.

Chapter Text

The coffee shop had cleared out by late morning, save for the usuals who took their time. Pansy claimed a corner table, her Jimmy handbag tossed across one side, her sunglasses folded neatly beside her on the table. She stirred her coffee with one hand, leaning back with the kind of practiced ease that made it clear she had no intention of rushing the conversation. Draco looked out the window for awhile before turning his gaze back to her, the corner of his mouth twitching as she raised an eyebrow at him.

“So,” she said, resting her chin on her hand, “you gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I need to guess?”

Draco huffed out a soft laugh and took another sip.

“You’re not going to let this be casual coffee, are you?”

“Draco,” she said, dragging out the syllables like a warning, “we’ve known each other since we were kids, you don’t do casual coffee with me unless you want to be interrogated.”

He leaned back in the booth, his fingers curled loosely around the mug.

“It’s a lot, to be honest. I’m still trying to sort through everything with Hermione, but I know it’s not just her, Pans. It’s Scorpius, too.”

Pansy blinked slowly, giving him space.

“So, what changed?”

Draco glanced down at the scratches on the table surface, tracing one absentmindedly with his finger.

“At first, I was angry. I still am, in some ways, because how do you just…just forget the last seven years? I had every reason to be angry. She shut me out, made decisions that hurt both of us, and hurt Scorpius too. I kept going back to all the things she didn’t tell me, all the things she chose for me.” He paused, his voice low. “But after the Father-Son game, after that night at Dale’s with the three of us sitting together like it was the most normal thing in the world, I started thinking about everything I didn’t do, too.”

Pansy stayed quiet, letting him keep going.

“I could have written, or called, or I don’t know, I could have tried harder to visit home more, to check on her. I kept telling myself that it wasn’t my choice to be cut out, so it wasn’t my responsibility to fix it. Maybe that made sense for a while initially, but it doesn’t anymore.”

Pansy tilted her head, her expression softer now.

“You feel guilty?”

“Not entirely,” Draco admitted. “I just feel stupid for being so proud, for thinking time would just smooth everything over if I just left Northbridge behind. I feel stupid for not seeing that maybe we were both drowning in our own ways, and neither of us had the tools to fix it back then, but if we’d only just reached out…everything could have been different.”

“And now?” she asked, her tone measured.

He exhaled slowly.

“Now, I just want to get it right. I don’t know what that looks like, though. I’m not expecting a perfect family or some dramatic reunion, I just, I see the way she looks at him. I felt happy at Dale’s that night, when she looked at me as we swapped plates like we were eighteen again. I think she wants this too, but, doesn’t know how to overcome the chasm of time and distance, either.”

Pansy smiled into her coffee, then took a slow sip before setting it down.

“You’ve always been stubborn. I used to think Hermione brought out the worst in you, always hogging all your time, but maybe she just brought out the part you weren’t ready to admit existed.”

Draco met her eyes.

“What part is that?”

Pansy smirked.

“The part that wants to settle down and take up roots, not just the next win or the next city or the next name on a jersey. You’ve built your life on adrenaline and distraction, but you’ve never looked calmer than you did when Scorpius pulled off that ridiculous edge cut and pointed right at you like you hung the moon.”

A small smile tugged at Draco’s mouth.

“He was proud of himself.”

“He was proud of both of you,” she said gently. “So what’s stopping you from trying with Hermione? Really trying?”

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking toward the window again. The streets of Northbridge were quiet this time of day, warm sun spilling onto the sidewalk, a mother walking her toddler past the flower shop. It felt small and manageable, in a way his life rarely did. Maybe that was the point.

“I think I just needed someone to say it out loud,” he murmured. “And I think, well I thought, if I just got back together with Hermione, if I just gave in, then it would be erasing everything she’d taken from me. I don’t know if I am ready to forgive her, yet.”

“Well, I’m here, and I’m saying it.” Pansy leaned in. “Go talk to her and tell her the truth. About what you want, your feelings, and how you’re not ready to forgive her and you feel like entering a relationship would be a cop out. Not because it’ll fix everything, but because maybe this time, you both know better. You can start slow, you know.”

Draco nodded, fingers tapping once against the coffee mug. He didn’t have all the answers, and he wasn’t sure Hermione did either, but he had Scorpius, he had a history, and he still had time.

“Thanks, Pans.”

“Anytime,” she said with a smirk. “Though next time, I expect you to buy brunch.”

He lifted his coffee to his mouth and took a slow, deliberately measured sip, eyes trained somewhere over Pansy’s shoulder like the chipped linoleum wall behind her had become suddenly fascinating. His jaw twitched slightly, just once, the kind of giveaway she knew how to read without effort. Pansy’s eyes widened, and a delighted sound slipped from her throat, too loud for the quiet diner and far too smug to be contained. She smacked her hand on the table and leaned in like a predator closing in on a kill.

“Oh my God. You did, you absolutely did. You hooked up with her.” She didn’t whisper, she was far too gleeful to be discreet. “Don’t even try to play it cool, Draco. You just made that face, the I’ve seen her naked and it wrecked me face.”

Draco pressed his lips into a line, looking like he regretted every life choice that had led him to this conversation.

“Can you not?”

“Nope,” Pansy cut in, grinning. “If you don’t give me details, I swear, I’ll just ask Hermione at girls’ night. You know she’s an honest wine drunk, don’t think I won’t do it.”

He set down his mug a little too forcefully.

“That’s blackmail.”

She tilted her head, pleased.

“It’s leverage. Also, you owe me. I’ve listened to you pine and sulk and brood for years. I’ve earned this.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and mumbled something under his breath that sounded vaguely like annoying bitch. Pansy beamed, utterly shameless.

“You lasted how long before kissing her? Three minutes? Five? Please tell me it was on the kitchen counter. No, wait, the car. It was the car, wasn’t it?”

Draco gave her a long, slow look, deadpan and unimpressed.

“I’m not having this conversation with you.”

She leaned back with a smug sigh.

“You’re glowing, by the way, like a man who finally got really, really good head.”

Draco choked on his coffee.

“Christ, Pansy, warn a guy next time.”

Pansy sipped her coffee.

“You’re welcome.”

He reached for the check and muttered quietly.

“I’m never telling you anything again.”

Pansy rolled her eyes.

“You always say that,” she replied sweetly, and blew him a kiss over her coffee. “Just be glad Theo’s not here. You’d surely never hear the end of it.

Draco finished the rest of his coffee. Begrudgingly, Pansy wasn’t wrong.

Hermione leaned back against the counter, her hands bracing either side as she let out a long, quiet breath. Her cheeks still felt warm, the coffee was no longer hot in her hand, but she kept sipping it anyway. A few minutes passed as she busied herself with pulling another tray of croissants from the oven, arranging the thumbprints with care, and setting out the next batch of sourdough for proofing. She was putting the finishing touches on the pastries for the Gala tonight, which she would hand deliver with her assistant in a little over two hours to the Malfoy Mansion. The work was familiar and grounding, her hands moving with the kind of practiced ease that let her mind wander. She thought of Scorpius spending the day at the Malfoy estate with Narcissa and Lucius, likely being primped and primed for the evening. 

She thought of Draco, just the thought of him brought a flutter she wasn’t sure she should still be allowing. They had agreed to keep things simple, to put Scorpius first, to build from a place of mutual respect and shared responsibility. Somehow, however, the things between them kept unfurling, spiraling deeper and deeper past the point of no return. The kitchen door pushed open a moment later, and the devil in question stepped through, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair slightly mussed from the wind outside. He had two grocery bags in hand, filled with the ingredients she had asked for that morning in a rush, and he nodded toward the counter as he set them down.

“I brought you extra flour and sugar and all the things on your list,” he said.

Hermione looked up and smiled. 

“Tough work for a pretty boy such as yourself, I know.”

Draco laughed.

“I’m growing as a person,” he joked, gesturing to her transport boxes. “Do you need help getting to the Mansion?”

“No,” she replied, reaching for the bag and beginning to unpack the ingredients. “As soon as I drop off the pastries with my assistant, I’ll go prepare for the evening and meet you and Scorpius.”

Draco nodded.

“Sounds good,” Draco muttered, grabbing a kitchen towel and tossing it over his shoulder. When Hermione looked at him with a skeptical, raised eyebrow, he grinned. “Let me help you box the last of the pastries.”

Draco leaned on the counter next to her as she sorted the new boxes. Their arms brushed once, then again, but neither of them moved away.

“Scorp’s probably convincing my Father to put on a pair of skates with him and go to the rink before the Gala, which I know my Mother would disapprove of because, unlike me, our son is a bit of a clever troublemaker,” he said after a beat. 

“He is clever,” Hermione replied, then softened as she added, “Just like his dad.”

Draco’s eyes met her again, but it wasn’t guarded like it usually was. It was open, maybe even a little hopeful, receptive.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

Hermione smiled and bumped his shoulder with hers. 

“You’re doing better than you think.”

Draco shrugged.

“I know, still figuring out what that means, though.”

Hermione smiled and planted a kiss to his jaw.

“We both are.”

Hermione moved through the house with a focus that bordered on neurotic, every motion careful, deliberate, and fueled by anticipation. She had left the bakery in capable hands, her assistant immediately understanding the weight of the evening without needing more than a glance. There was still so much to do, but none of it would mean anything if she missed this, her first official public event with Draco and Scorpius. Draco had offered her a place at his side, not just as Scorpius’ mother, but also something they decided not to label.

The moment she stepped into her bedroom, she went straight for the garment bag hanging on the back of the closet door. Her fingers trembled just slightly as she drew the zipper down, revealing the navy gown nestled inside. She had found it on a shopping trip with Pansy, Ginny, and Astoria nearly a month ago, buried between overpriced tulle disasters and garish sequin monstrosities. It was Pansy who had pulled it off the rack with a single, decisive nod, already declaring it the winner before Hermione had even touched it.

As she slipped it on, she understood why. The fabric clung in the right places, draped in others, and moved like water across her frame. The deep navy glimmered faintly in the overhead light, the silver trim catching where it traced the neckline and hem in quiet, deliberate glints. It was understated, elegant, and dignified, but there was a romantic softness in the way it swept to the floor and pooled slightly at her feet. She stood still for a moment, letting herself simply feel it.

She pulled her hair back loosely, pinning it up with a small, silver ornament that had once belonged to her grandmother. It sparkled just enough to draw the eye without competing with the rest of the look. Her makeup was minimal, favoring natural tones and a touch of color on her lips. She wanted to feel beautiful, but she also wanted to feel real, present, and unmasked.

The final touch was the pair of soft white silk gloves she eased onto her hands. They reminded her of old photographs, the kind she used to flip through in her great aunt’s albums, where elegance was not a costume but an expectation. She smoothed them once at the elbow, then took a slow breath. Downstairs, the clock in the foyer chimed softly, urging her into motion. She reached for her coat and keys, pausing once at the mirror by the door. She allowed herself to admire what she saw. This was a woman who had fought, who had built something out of wreckage, who had persevered even when it had been hard. 

Tonight, she would walk into the Gala not as a caterer, not as a single mother carrying the past on her back, but as the woman who had raised Scorpius Granger-Malfoy with unwavering devotion and had somehow found her way back to the man who had once stolen her heart. Her hand brushed the doorframe as she stepped out, her heels clicking softly against the porch. The night air was cool and still, somewhere in the distance, a car engine rumbled to life and the town of Northbridge began to settle into evening. Draco would be waiting for her with Scorpius, and tonight, she would meet him not in the past, but in the present.

The driveway had been cleared for her arrival, lanterns glowing softly along the stone path that curved up to the front of the Malfoy Mansion. The ivy had been trimmed back, the porch polished, and strings of white lights twinkled above the columns. Hermione barely had a moment to take it in before Mr. Ollivander, ever the gentleman, opened her door with a warm, knowing smile.

“You look radiant, Miss Granger,” he said softly, offering her a gloved hand.

“Thank you,” she replied with a grateful nod, stepping carefully out of the car and gathering her gown with a practiced sweep.

Her heels clicked against the stone as she straightened to her full height, her eyes lifting to the wide double doors just as they opened. There they stood, waiting for her at the top of the steps, her boys. Draco was in a deep charcoal suit with a crisp white shirt and a tailored navy tie that matched her dress as if it had been planned. His hair was neatly styled, just a little longer than it had been back in the day, with a few strands brushing his brow.

He looked like every bit the man she remembered and yet somehow more mature, older, entirely focused on her in a way that nearly knocked the air from her lungs. Scorpius, standing just to his father’s right, bounced in place with excitement when he saw his Mother. He wore a miniature version of Draco’s suit, complete with a pocket square and polished shoes, his hair slicked back to match. When he saw her, his face split into the brightest grin, one that held all the mischief and sweetness she had always loved in him.

“You look like a princess, Mom,” he called down, unabashed and proud.

Hermione laughed, a full, warm sound, and lifted the hem of her gown just enough to take the stairs carefully. 

“And you, young man, look entirely too grown.”

Scorpius raced down the last few steps to meet her and held out his arm like a proper gentleman. She linked hers through it with a smile, allowing him to guide her up the rest of the way. When she reached Draco, he smiled, his gaze trailed from her pinned up curls to the glint of the silver trim on her dress and finally settled on her face like he had to memorize it before she disappeared.

“Hermione,” His voice came out low. “You’re breathtaking.”

Her smile softened, touched with something that had nothing to do with pride or vanity and everything to do with knowing he meant it. 

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice gentle as her eyes flicked between him and Scorpius. “You both clean up well.”

Scorpius puffed up his chest. 

“Dad helped me with my tie. He almost stabbed me with the pin, but we survived.”

Draco rolled his eyes. 

“Barely.”

Hermione laughed again, brushing her fingers gently through her son’s hair. 

“You’re definitely your father’s son tonight.”

He truly was. Standing side by side, the resemblance was striking. She had carried him, birthed him, raised him, but there was no mistaking who his father was. Inside the house, the music was already playing. Low piano melodies filtered out into the foyer, mixing with the scent of fresh cut flowers and the warmth of the fire crackling in the formal sitting room. Guests were already beginning to gather in the main ballroom, where champagne flowed and coats were whisked away by staff.

Hermione’s pastry tables gleamed with elegance, attendees flocking to the tasty treats. For a moment longer, they stayed there at the threshold, the three of them together. Draco cleared his throat and glanced at Scorpius, who nodded once with the kind of quiet seriousness Hermione had only ever seen when he was trying not to cry at a goodbye. They had talked about this for days. Draco had offered, gently but firmly, to announce the truth tonight, and Scorpius, after asking every question he could think of and getting every answer he needed, had made his peace with it.

“You sure, buddy?” Draco asked again, his hand resting lightly on Scorpius’s shoulder.

Scorpius nodded. 

“Yeah, I want people to know you’re my Dad, that I’m a Malfoy, and that we’re a family.”

Hermione’s throat tightened, but she smiled through it, letting herself reach for Draco’s hand, giving it the lightest squeeze. He turned to her, his palm curling around hers as if by instinct. 

“Alright Scorp, let’s go.”

Hermione smiled and wiped a tear from her eye. Draco leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek, lingering there for just a second too long, while Scorpius made a face and muttered something about gross adults. Hermione laughed, her gloved fingers brushing across Draco’s lapel as they turned together toward the sound of the gala behind the doors, his arm extended out to her, Scorpius in front of them both. Tonight, they were a family and the world would officially know it.

Pansy had arrived in a deep emerald gown that sparkled at the hem, her arm loosely linked with Neville Longbottom’s. They made an oddly endearing pair. Where Pansy was loud and dramatic, a master of calculated charm and bold declarations, Neville stood beside her like a grounding force, quiet, steady, a half smile always lingering in the corners of his mouth. He leaned in to whisper something as they stepped through the entryway, and whatever it was made her laugh outright, throwing her head back without a care for decorum.

Theo arrived not long after with a beautiful blonde on his arm, who would later introduce herself as Luna Lovegood. Both of them dressed in shades of soft grey and lilac. Luna looked ethereal, her blonde curls pinned back with tiny jeweled clips shaped like butterflies. Theo, for all his dry sarcasm and sharp suits, had softened considerably beside her, his posture more relaxed. When they reached the foyer, Scorpius had peeked out from the side of the grand staircase, wide eyed at the sight of so many new faces in elegant attire. Draco noticed immediately, nudging his son gently in the direction of the arrivals. 

“Come on,” he murmured. “You’ve got people to meet.”

Scorpius hesitated only briefly before stepping forward. Theo, always quick to adapt, crouched just slightly to Scorpius’ level once they were introduced, formally that is.

“So, we meet again kid.” Theo said, grinning, “I’ve just been informed that I am your Uncle now, which means I am the cool one by default. You ever want to play hooky from school or sneak snacks after bedtime, I’m your guy. And when you’re old enough, I’ll teach you all about girls.”

Draco rolled his eyes and muttered something about bad influences, but Scorpius only tilted his head thoughtfully, then nodded once.

“I like that idea,” he said, voice confident in that curious, unwavering way children sometimes possessed.

Pansy let out a delighted gasp, sweeping in next to ruffle his hair. 

“Oh, he’s perfect, Draco really. Absolutely precious. I am going to spoil him completely rotten with only the best clothes!”

“Please don’t,” Draco deadpanned.

Pansy ignored him entirely, already asking Scorpius about his favorite brands and promising to teach him all the secrets of good fashion. Gabrielle Delacour, standing not far off with her mother and older sister, as the family of the Ambassador, watched the scene unfold with a carefully trained expression. Her smile was polite, but the disappointment behind her eyes was barely masked. It wasn’t heartbreak, not exactly, but there had been a flicker of infatuation in her glances toward Draco that hadn’t quite faded even after the reveal of his son weeks ago. Now, knowing he had a child, knowing Hermione Granger was his something, however undefined it was, seemed to shift the ground beneath her feet.

Daphne and Astoria arrived together with Adrian Pucey just behind them. Adrian clapped Draco on the back, exchanging a few quiet words that made them both smirk like boys again, though Draco’s eyes kept drifting toward where Hermione stood beside Scorpius, watching him soak in every new introduction as well as Hermione greeting her old friends and acquaintances. Eventually, Draco took Scorpius by the hand and began steering him through the crowd to meet the rest of the board, the sponsors, and a few prominent families whose interest in the Malfoy Gala had less to do with philanthropy and more with curiosity. With the boys gone, Neville turned to Hermione and held out a hand.

“We’ve never been properly introduced,” he said. “Neville Longbottom, it’s good to finally meet you.”

Hermione smiled and shook his hand. 

“Hermione Granger. Likewise.”

To her surprise, they got along almost immediately. Neville was affable and warm, asking her about the bakery and remembering a few things Pansy had clearly told him in advance. They spoke about Northbridge’s slow moving politics, about the school board’s nonsense, and even about plants, which Hermione didn’t know much about but listened to with genuine interest. He was kind, uncomplicated, the sort of man who didn’t play games with words or affections but was by no means a push over.

“I always wondered how Pansy would settle down,” Hermione said at one point, sipping her champagne.

Neville chuckled and shrugged. 

“She didn’t settle so much as claim.”

Hermione laughed, the sound soft and genuine, and glanced once across the ballroom. Her eyes found Draco easily, he was listening to one of the Delacour cousins with polite patience, but his hand was still resting lightly on Scorpius’ shoulder, fingers curled protectively, like he was never quite unaware of where his son was standing. Every now and again, he would glance toward her too, just briefly, but enough to fill her stomach with butterflies.

Hermione spotted Narcissa make a move toward the grand staircase. Narcissa moved with the elegance of someone who had spent decades knowing exactly how to command a room without ever needing to raise her voice. She took the center of the staircase balcony just as the quartet transitioned into a softer, more refined melody, one that quieted the gentle clinking of crystal and drew attention naturally. A steward handed her a small glass of wine, but she only held it lightly in one hand as she raised the other with practiced grace.

“Good evening,” she began, her voice smooth and composed, carrying easily across the expanse of the ballroom. “On behalf of our family, I want to thank each of you for being here tonight. Your support means more than you know, not just to the causes we hold dear, but to the legacy we hope to pass on as Malfoy’s.”

Draco stood near the front, his hand still loosely resting against the small of Hermione’s back. Scorpius had wandered up to join his grandparents the moment Narcissa gave him a subtle, beckoning glance. He stood now between them, impossibly well behaved in his little tuxedo, his spine straight, his eyes flicking between the crowd with a mixture of awe and wonder.

“There is someone I would like you all to meet,” Narcissa continued. “Some of you already know him, others may have only heard stories whispered in passing, but tonight, we are proud to formally introduce him as he deserves. This is our grandson, Scorpius Granger-Malfoy.”

A small ripple of applause followed, polite at first, then growing in warmth. Scorpius turned slightly, his face flushed, but he smiled brightly, stepping forward just enough that he could give a tiny wave before returning to his place beside Lucius.

“And of course,” Narcissa added, her gaze sweeping to the bottom of the staircase, where Hermione stood next to Draco, “none of this would be possible without the tireless efforts and patience of someone who has shown extraordinary grace and strength, even in the face of complications. Hermione, dear, thank you.”

Hermione felt the sting behind her eyes before she could stop it, blinking fast to keep it at bay. She offered a smile, inclining her head, but she could feel the way Draco looked at her, the hand on her back tightened around her waist comfortingly. As Narcissa stepped away and the musicians transitioned to the first notes of a waltz, Draco turned to her fully and extended his hand. There was no smirk, no challenge in his gaze, just a quiet, sincere invitation.

“Dance with me,” he said softly.

Hermione didn’t hesitate, she slid her hand into his, letting him guide her toward the cleared section of the ballroom now aglow with soft white light. Guests parted around them, murmuring with smiles and gentle laughter as the couple took the floor. The music swelled, his hand found the curve of her waist, hers rested lightly against his shoulder, in his arms she let herself breathe, she felt at ease. Their steps fell into rhythm without effort, Hermione let herself be led, trusting the movements, the pressure of his palm, the familiarity in the shape of his shoulders beneath her fingers. There was a comfort in it, yes, but a deep love, though maybe not the same it used to be, as they spun slowly under the chandelier’s gleam.

“Scorpius looked proud up there,” Hermione murmured, eyes flicking toward the edge of the ballroom where their son now stood with Lucius and Narcissa, his chest puffed and his grin uncontainable.

“He was,” Draco said. “I think he needed it, maybe we all did.”

Hermione glanced up at him, his hair was perfectly styled, the lines of his suit sharp, but it was his expression that caught her breath. 

“I meant what I said,” he added quietly. “I want to figure this out with you, Hermione.”

“I know,” she replied, her fingers brushing gently over his shoulder. “So do I.”

They danced as if no one else was watching, though they both knew the room had stilled to watch them. The press of his hand and the certainty of hers, twined together on a ballroom floor in a small town called Northbridge, where two former lovers spun and twirled, each turn setting the clock back years.

Scorpius stood near the edge of the ballroom, a flute of sparkling apple cider cradled in his fingers, condensation dripping slowly down the side. The music was soft and sweeping, strings weaving in and out with a kind of effortless elegance that made the whole night feel timeless. His shoes pinched just a little and his collar was stiffer than he liked, but he hardly noticed in his daze. His gaze was locked on the center of the floor, where his parents were dancing and twirling in their own little world.

Draco’s hand was resting on the small of Hermione’s back, his posture elegant and familiar. Their steps were practiced, synchronized without thought. Hermione was smiling, her face tipped toward his father, and her eyes held a softness Scorpius had seen only a handful of times. Draco, for his part, was looking at her like she was the moon, the love of his life. The way they moved, the way they looked at each other, it didn’t feel like a dance, it felt like watching two people fall into each other all over again.

“They clearly still love each other,” Scorpius said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.

Beside him, Pansy reached over and patted his head. 

“They do,” she agreed. Her voice was kind, not pitying. “But sometimes love isn’t the end of the story, Scorpius. At least, not the way we would like it to be.”

He turned toward her, frowning, clearly unconvinced. 

“Why not? If they love each other, shouldn’t that be enough?”

She hesitated, then reached down to adjust the hem of her heel, buying herself a moment. 

“Because people mess up, timing is tricky, and so is pain. Your Mom and Dad have been through a lot, hurt doesn’t always go away just because love is still hanging around. Sometimes, love changes, and it takes on a different sort of care.”

Scorpius didn’t answer immediately, he glanced back toward the dancefloor where Draco spun Hermione carefully, her navy dress flaring as she laughed, the sound carried off by the room’s low chatter. His chest felt too small for all the things he wanted to say. He could see it so clearly, the way their eyes met, the easy affection, the way they remembered how to lean into each other even after all this time.

“But what if they just need a push?” he asked eventually, still watching them.

Pansy smiled, but it was the sort of smile that came with years of understanding things the hard way. Scorpius was only seven, his worldview was still so black and white.

“Then let it be theirs to figure out. True love that lasts is the kind that doesn’t need meddling. It grows all on it’s own.”

He looked up at her, unconvinced, as he slowly sipped his drink. Across the ballroom, Theo caught his gaze from beside the dessert table and raised an eyebrow. Scorpius gave the most subtle of shrugs and then tilted his head just slightly toward his dancing parents, his brows lifting with intention. Theo narrowed his eyes, clearly understanding the implication, and shook his head as he bit into a strawberry tart, but he was grinning, and Scorpius knew that was at least a maybe. 

Chapter Text

The call came as Draco was fixing the collar of his button down shirt in the hallway mirror, Scorpius’ laughter echoing from the living room where he was tossing sofa cushions at his Mom’s cat, Crookshanks. The night had been planned for over a week, dinner at that new steak place just off Main, the one with the rooftop seating and fairy lights that Hermione had mentioned in passing when they were walking through the Farmers’ Market last Sunday. He had already made the reservation, Hermione was upstairs finishing her makeup, and Scorpius had laid out his favorite jacket, the one he insisted made him look older. When his phone buzzed, Draco nearly ignored it, but the name that flashed across the screen made his fingers still. It was his old sports agent, Cliff Mathers.

“Cliff?”

The voice on the other end was exactly as he remembered it, efficient, with just enough of a practiced calm to sound like this was just business, even though it never was with Cliff.

“Draco, got a situation in Texas. The Stars Center went down during a practice scrimmage this morning with an MCL tear. Season ending.”

Draco’s breath stilled, his fingers flexed around the phone. Cliff didn’t wait for permission to go on.

“The Coach is looking for someone who can mesh fast and on a short term contract to finish the season, possible extension depending on if they make the playoffs. They asked about you.”

Draco groaned quietly. He sighed.

“I haven’t been on the ice seriously in months,” Draco said slowly.

“That’s not true, someone of your caliber is kept in shape I’m sure. They’re not looking for a miracle or their Franchise player, they’re looking for someone who knows what the hell he’s doing. You’ve got one weeks time to give me an answer.”

Draco said nothing, he heard Cliff sigh on the other end, softer this time.

“I know you’ve got things going on, I know you’re back home now. I’m not calling to push, just, don’t shut the door before you check what’s behind it, don’t you want to retire the proper way?”

The call ended before Draco could say anything. He stared at his reflection, the phone still pressed to his ear. It was the call he’d been dying for, the call he’d waited on for ages before he left New York. It wasn’t LA, but it was the only team willing to take him on after his injury. Behind him, Hermione’s voice floated down from the upstairs of her house.

“Is Scorpius brushing his hair or training for battle?”

Draco cleared his throat and dropped the phone to the entry table.

“A bit of both, I think.” he called back.

Hermione appeared a moment later, her curls half pinned, her earrings still in her palm.

“You okay?”

He turned to her, she was wearing that navy blue dress he loved, he could think of no better sight.

“Yeah,” he said, offering a smile that almost reached his eyes. “I’m good.”

She narrowed her gaze, sharp as ever, but said nothing. She crossed to help with the last button of his cuff. He watched her hands as they worked, Scorpius skidded into the hallway with his jacket crooked and a shoe untied.

“I’m ready!” he announced, breathless. “Let’s go before we lose the reservation!”

Draco chuckled and reached for the boy’s shoulder, guiding him upright and bending to tie the loose laces. The call already felt like a separate thing, something he’d tucked into the back of his mind and pretended could wait. When he looked at his son and then at Hermione, the soft way she was watching both of them, he knew whatever decision he made, it was not just his life anymore, it was theirs, and more importantly, it was Scorpius’. 

After parking his Viper, they walked out into the warm evening air together, Scorpius chattering excitedly about the restaurant and already debating what dessert he would get. Draco held the door for them, his hand brushing lightly against Hermione’s back as she passed through. Strings of small round bulbs lit the rooftop patio, and the hostess recognized Draco right away, ushering them to a table near the railing with a perfect view. Scorpius practically bounced in his seat, happy to be with both of his parents.

“You think they’ll have those mini lava cakes again?” he asked, leaning forward with his elbows on the table.

“If they don’t, we can stage a protest,” Hermione said, smoothing out her napkin with a grin.

Draco watched them both, half listening, his mind tugging in two directions. The conversation with Cliff still whispered at the back of his thoughts, molding into the edges of every smile, every laugh. He saw Scorpius more clearly now, how at home he looked, how safe. He didn’t want to undo that, he didn’t want to leave the son he’d finally reconnected with. Dinner passed in a warm, unhurried rhythm. They shared plates like they always did, Hermione gave Draco the last spoonful of her roasted squash risotto, and Scorpius swapped bites of steak with both of them, declaring his own meal the winner anyway. 

There were moments of eye contact that lingered longer than they used to, little smiles exchanged over the rim of wine glasses, a passing joke that felt like something private. Draco didn’t know when exactly it had begun to feel this easy again, but somewhere along the way, the tension had settled. Later, when Scorpius excused himself to the bathroom, Hermione turned toward Draco, her voice lower.

“You’ve been quiet tonight.”

He nodded once, swirling his drink.

“I got a call from my old sports agent, Cliff Mathers.”

She stilled, her fingers curling around the edge of the table.

“Your old agent?”

Draco nodded.

“Yeah, The Texas Stars lost their Center. They’re offering a spot, temporary contract just for the season and potentially a post-season.”

Her brows lifted slightly, but she said nothing.

“I have a week to decide,” Draco said. “I haven’t told Scorpius yet, but I know that I want his opinion, I want to know his thoughts.”

Hermione’s expression softened, her eyes searching his.

“What do you want to do?”

He exhaled slowly.

“I used to think I’d drop everything if I ever got a call like that again. I used to think I was waiting for it, my chance to come back on my terms, retire on my own merits. But now,” He looked toward the patio entrance, where their son was just returning with a wide grin. “I don’t know if I can leave him. I find that I don’t really want to leave him, either.”

Hermione didn’t push, nor offer advice. She knew that it was Draco’s decision to make, she could only hope it wouldn’t crush Scorpius, though, Hermione knew Draco loved his son, she doubted he would abandon them even if he did sign for a temporary stint. She had initially warned Draco not to get Scorpius’ hopes up, and while it still made her nervous to think of him leaving, she didn’t think that was the case here. Scorpius returned and dropped back into his seat, cheeks flushed from the run and hands still damp from washing.

“They have the lava cake,” he announced, triumphant. “I told the server we need three.”

“Obviously,” Hermione said, smiling as she handed him his napkin again.

They fell back into rhythm after dessert came, rich and warm, the chocolate center spilling over as Scorpius declared it even better than last time. Draco scraped the last bite from Hermione’s plate when she was distracted, she rolled her eyes, nudging his foot under the table. It was late when they finally stood to leave. Scorpius climbed into the back without a word, worn out and happy. Within minutes of the engine humming to life, he was asleep against the window, a smile still on his face. Draco drove his Viper with one hand on the wheel, the other resting between Hermione and himself on the center console. Hermione reached for it halfway through the ride home and gave a gentle squeeze. Draco didn’t let go of her hand the rest of the way to her house.

Draco ushered Scorpius into their booth, their sacred spot reserved just for them. Scorpius climbed in across from him without being told. He was growing fast, faster than Draco had expected, and sometimes when the boy frowned or leaned back with his arms crossed, he could see peaks of his mother in him. Draco stirred his tea with the edge of his spoon, steeling himself for the tough conversation they were about to have. He could feel Scorpius watching him, waiting. The kid always knew when something important was coming. Draco breathed through his nose, rolled his shoulders once, then set the spoon down with a quiet clink against the ceramic.

“I received a phone call from my old Sports Agent, Cliff Mathers. The starting Center for Texas went down with an MCL tear, and, I’ve been contacted to temporarily fill the spot for the rest of the season.”

Scorpius didn’t move, Draco continued.

“I wanted you to hear it from me first,” Draco said. “Not from someone else, not from a headline, either. I want to talk with you first before I make a decision.”

Scorpius nodded and drank his own milkshake, urging his father on.

“It would be my last official season on the ice,” Draco continued, eyes fixed on the place where the condensation from his glass had marked a faint ring on it. “After this season, it puts a wrap on my Professional career. It has to, my leg won’t take another year, and there’s only so long you can chase the same dream before it outruns you. I’m afraid that the great Draco Malfoy is heading for retirement.”

The words sat heavy between them, honest and final. He hadn’t said it out loud to anyone until now. He had wanted this moment to be between them first, without cameras or noise. Scorpius still didn’t speak, he leaned forward slightly, his fingers twitching against the edge of the table. He had always been good at reading between the lines, better than most adults Draco knew.

“I was offered one more contract,” Draco said. “One more shot at the season. It’s everything I was waiting for after my injury.” He looked up then, meeting his son’s eyes for the first time since he started speaking. “But I’ll walk away from it in a second if you ask me to.”

Scorpius blinked, startled for the first time that evening.

“I mean it,” Draco said. “If this feels wrong to you, if the travel or the time or the worry is too much, you say the word and I stay. No regrets, Scorpius. No questions or What If’s. You are worth more than any game to me, more than any Cup. I spent years thinking Hockey was the only dream that mattered to me, the only dream worth chasing. But now, when I look at you, when I skate on the ice with you, and walk next to you with your mothers hand in mine, I realize that I was wrong.”

His throat tightened, but he kept going, willing the tears to stay at bay.

“You’re my dream now, and I’d rather be a good father to you than a great player to the world. So if this is the moment where I choose, then I’m choosing you, Scorpius, every time.”

Scorpius sat still for a long minute, his expression unreadable, his mouth pressed into a tight, thoughtful line. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, but steady with a strength no seven year old should possess.

“Do you still want to go?”

Draco gave a small nod. 

“I do, but not more than I want to be here with you.”

Scorpius looked down, then back up again. 

“Then I think you should go, Dad. I think you should finish what you started, because Mom always taught me that failure is only the result of quitting something before giving it everything you have.”

Scorpius’ voice was steady, his eyes clear. There was something unshakable in the way he said it, like he believed the sentiment wholeheartedly. Draco nodded slowly, the words settling deep into his psyche. 

“She taught you that?”

Scorpius nodded.

“And she was right,” Scorpius said. “You’re not done yet, so go, try, win it one more time, Dad.” He paused, lips pressing together in thought before adding, “Just make sure you come back to Mom and I.”

Draco didn’t speak at first, he reached across the table and squeezed his son’s hand once, firm and certain as his tears fell freely. Scorpius’ identical tear tracks matched his own, but there were smiles on both Father and Son’s face.

 “Always.”

The rest of the lunch moved in a lighter direction, their plates forgotten for a while as the conversation opened. Scorpius leaned forward over his drink, eyes wide, his curiosity insatiable. He wanted stories from every game, every injury, every moment his father had ever stepped onto the ice. He asked about the arenas, about the crowds, about the sound of a puck hitting the post in overtime, and if it really did feel as loud as it looked on the recordings.

Draco indulged him, he described the smell of the locker rooms, the silence in the tunnel before a home game, the way time slowed in the last three minutes when they were up by a goal and everything felt one breath from collapse. He told him about the rookie who never laced his skates right, about the goalie who swore he could predict a shot by the tension in a player’s shoulders, and what it takes to be the Captain of your team. He laughed when he spoke of the time Theo tried to fight a ref by accident, and Scorpius nearly choked on his chips from laughing too hard.

They stayed longer than they should have, the sky outside had started to shift into late afternoon, and the diner staff had begun prepping for the evening rush, but neither of them moved. Draco sat with his arm resting on the back of the booth, watching his son soak up every word like it was gospel. He told him about his first fight on the ice, the first time he got knocked out and had a concussion, the first time he stood up and saw the crowd on their feet just for him. Scorpius listened on baited breath.

“Did it feel worth it?” Scorpius asked at one point, his voice low but sure.

Draco considered that for a moment. He ultimately nodded.

“It felt like everything at the time,” he said. “But nothing compares to right now.”

Scorpius tilted his head. 

“To what?”

“To you, Scorp. You are the best thing to ever happen to me, and everyday I thank you Mother for giving birth to you and raising you into the wonderful kid you’ve become. ”

There was no need to say more. The dream had been real, it had been loud and bright and made of everything Draco had ever wanted at one point. But this quiet afternoon with his son across from him, asking for stories instead of space, this was priceless. These moments with his son, he would carry it with him. On the ice, off it, and for as long as the dream would let him.

The airport was busy in the way airports always were. Crowds moved in slow lines, security announcements crackled overhead, and the fluorescent lights cast everything in the same colorless hue. Draco’s bag felt heavy in his hand, but he didn’t mention it. Hermione stood beside him, calm and composed, though her eyes flicked to the clock more than once. Scorpius was quieter than usual, his hand tucked into hers, his shoulders pulled in. Standing here, just before the last call, everything settled different. It was real now, Draco’s noticeable absence for the next six weeks + post-season if applicable. Draco bent slightly to meet his son’s eyes. 

“You take care of your Mother for me.”

Scorpius nodded. 

“I always do.”

Draco reached out, brushing a hand through his hair, and let his palm linger against the boy’s cheek for a second longer than usual. 

“I’m going to miss you like hell.”

“I know,” Scorpius said. “But you’ll come back.”

The words weren’t a question, they were fact. Draco swallowed. 

“Always.”

Hermione didn’t speak, she waited until Scorpius stepped back, giving them a moment without being asked. Her arms crossed over her chest, not defensively, but to hold herself steady. She blinked at him, the moment suddenly feeling so familiar, a sense of deja’vu as it all came full circle. Except, this time, neither of them were eighteen years old and Hermione was not pregnant.

“You don’t have to prove anything to us,” she said. “Just come back for Scorpius.”

Draco shook his head.

“I’m not trying to,” Draco answered. “It’s not just Scorpius, either, you know.”

Hermione smiled.

“Scorpius trusts you, Draco. It’s enough for me.” she said.

He took that in quietly. He wanted to say something perfect, something clean, something she would remember in the silence after he boarded, but all that came out was the truth in this moment, the words he should have told her seven years ago.

“You’ve always been the only place that feels like home.”

She stepped forward, brushing her lips to his cheek, her hand firm on his arm in encouragtement. 

“Then make sure you come home.”

Draco nodded, blinking hard. The final boarding call echoed above them. He looked down at Scorpius, then at Hermione, and something twisted deep inside him, it was the ache of distance before it even began. He turned toward the gate. When he reached the top of the ramp, he did not keep walking. Unlike that stubborn ferocity he’d carried all those years ago, this time, he looked back. He saw them both standing there, just as he knew they would be.

The only girl he had ever loved, waving with one hand and holding his son with the other. She was the place he had always circled back to, even when he hadn’t known what he was chasing. She was his beginning and Scorpius was his continuation. He sincerely did not want there to be an end. Draco Malfoy had spent a lifetime running toward something he thought would make him whole, but watching them through the glass, still waiting, still waving, he knew it had always been right here. 

There was no other life, there never had been. Even during the years when everything had felt unreachable, when he had lived out of hotels and stitched together a version of himself that looked presentable from the outside, Draco had known, somewhere deep, that the life he was building wasn’t built to last. He had called it ambition, had dressed it in goals and victories and Stanley Cups, but it had never quieted the part of him that missed the ordinary things.

The mornings with half warm coffee, the soft knock of Hermione’s knuckle against the bathroom door when he lingered too long, the sound of Scorpius’ laughter behind closed bedroom doors, too loud for a quiet house, but always just loud enough to make it feel like home. The boarding gate pulled him forward, but he kept his gaze fixed behind him, memorizing the curve of Hermione’s smile and the way Scorpius pressed into her side. It was not a perfect picture, they had been through too much for that, and Draco still did not want to name his relationship with Hermione, but it was real and imperfect and perfectly, theirs.

A security agent nodded toward the jet bridge, her voice polite and practiced when she reminded him it was time. Draco nodded back, not unkindly, and shifted his bag higher on his shoulder. He gave them one last look, Hermione lifted her hand again, two fingers held up in the same small wave she had always used when she didn’t trust her voice. Scorpius waved beside her, his grin uneven, one foot already bouncing like he was ready to run as soon as his father stepped off the plane again.

Draco stepped through the gate, his steps steady. He was going toward something, yes, but he was not leaving anything behind. He was walking away with the full understanding that the best part of his life would still be there when the doors opened again. And when they did, when the season came to its final whistle and the lights dimmed on his last game, and he skated to the center Ice for his final bow, he knew exactly where he would go next. Home. 

The night was quiet, save for the soft clatter of forks against ceramic. The third chair sat untouched, pushed in like it always was, but both Hermione and Scorpius kept glancing at it. The absence was loud. Scorpius finished the last bite of his pasta and looked up. Hermione had barely touched hers, her fingers toyed with the edge of her napkin, folding and refolding the corner like it would help her decide what to do next. She glanced at him, and the moment she did, Scorpius nodded in return. He didn’t ask what she was thinking, he already knew.

“This weekend,” he said softly, pushing his plate forward. “It’s the last game of the season.”

Hermione nodded and stood without another word. By morning, they were on a plane bound for Dallas. Hermione sat by the window, one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee she hadn’t finished. The city stretched wide below them, flat and unfamiliar, all lights and lines and stadiums too big to feel personal. Scorpius had fallen asleep with his headphones in, curled slightly in his seat like he used to do when he was small enough to fit beside her without question. She turned her gaze back to the sky, heart steady, thoughts loud. 

She had let him go once, had let him walk away without knowing how badly she had wanted him to stay. This time was different. This time, she was going after him. She was going to stand in the one place he had always looked for her and found no one. She was going tell him, in no uncertain terms, that she wanted something more with Draco, that she wanted a chance at forever. Even if it scared her, even if she wasn’t sure what the future looked like beyond the rink and the road and all the ways they had grown and broken and pieced themselves back together again. She knew what they could be if they both kept showing up. If and when he looked up from the ice and saw her in the crowd this time, she hoped he would understand what it meant. She wasn’t waiting anymore, she was here and she was ready for whatever came next.

The moment they stepped off the plane, the heat wrapped around them in a way that was distinct to Texas. Late spring in Dallas was unforgiving and humid, the sun already high despite the early hour. Scorpius tugged at the collar of his shirt, his tennis shoes squeaking slightly against the airport floor as they made their way through the terminal. Hermione kept her pace even, one hand resting lightly on the strap of her bag, the other brushing her fingers against her son’s shoulder every few steps, grounding them both.

Outside, the city shimmered beneath the sun. Glass towers stretched into a pale blue sky, each building stacked against the next. The traffic moved in waves, fast but rhythmic, the streets wide and unhurried in the morning light. Hermione turned her face toward the skyline, allowing herself to breathe in something unfamiliar. It was busy, bright, and loud in all the ways Northbridge was not.

The car Narcissa had arranged was already waiting, the driver met them with a quiet nod, took their luggage, and opened the door with the kind of attentiveness that spoke to his training. Hermione slid in first, followed by Scorpius, and within moments they were weaving through the city toward their hotel. It sat just outside the arena district, a towering hotel draped in modern elegance. Narcissa had spared no detail it seemed.

The rooms were reserved under their aliases, the suite high enough to overlook the skyline, and the concierge had been briefed on their arrival. When the elevator opened onto their floor, Hermione let Scorpius take the key and lead them in. The room was quiet and expansive, filled with soft light and clean lines. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city in glass, and Scorpius crossed to them immediately, pressing his hands to the cool pane and staring down at the streets below.

“He’s here,” he said without turning around.

Hermione stepped beside him, her gaze sweeping the view until it caught on the familiar curves of the stadium in the distance. It sat nestled among the steel and concrete like a heart beating beneath the surface. 

“Yes,” she said. “He is.”

They had crossed the distance, they were here, and even before they saw him, even before the game and the crowd and the moment she would finally meet his eyes again, Hermione felt a true acceptance of the past. She could not rewind time, she could not undue what had already been done, but she could change the future, she could learn from the past. She intended to do just that.

The stadium was already screaming when Hermione and Scorpius found their seats. The air conditioning struggled against the press of bodies and noise, but neither of them minded. Their passes had taken them through private security and past layers of velvet rope exclusivity that Narcissa had maneuvered with polite but undeniable Malfoy efficiency. The seats were excellent, center ice, four rows up from the glass, right where the action cut across both ends of the rink.

Scorpius kept bouncing his knee and glancing toward the bench, his eyes searching for his father beneath the rows of helmets and pads. Hermione, meanwhile, stayed still, her fingers curled around the handmade sign in her lap. 

Below, the game began with a clean drop at center ice. Draco skated forward like he had been born to move across this surface. He was the starting Center tonight, a decision made not out of sentiment, but because he had earned it. His posture was low, knees flexed, weight evenly distributed as he took the draw. The opposing team’s Center lunged in, but Draco’s timing was perfect. He swept the puck back with a clean flick of his stick and pivoted to protect the play as it moved behind him.

He spent the first shift controlling tempo, reading the opposing formation as though it had already been played out on paper. His linemates adjusted to his lead, and when the puck was cycled up the boards, Draco intercepted a lazy clearing attempt at the blue line. Without pause, he glided along the edge, dragging the puck behind him to bait the defense. He saw the goalie square up and dropped his shoulder as though he meant to shoot. The opposing left winger bit on the move, and that was all the space Draco needed. He slipped the puck across the crease with a no-look pass, his right winger buried it top shelf, blocker side.

The crowd exploded, Hermione felt the vibration in her ribs. Scorpius jumped to his feet, already cheering before the goal horn finished its second note. Draco raised his stick in salute, then skated toward the bench, chest heaving, eyes sharp. He said something to the winger as they bumped gloves and leaned down to tap the pads of the goalie as he passed. The shift changed, the next line jumped over the boards, and Draco returned to the bench with a small nod to the coaching staff, expression composed, but undeniably alive.

The rest of the first period played out fast and physical. Draco stayed disciplined, forechecking hard, breaking up passes in the neutral zone, and keeping his line cohesive. He drew a penalty halfway through the second by baiting the defenseman into an interference call along the boards. On the power play, he took the faceoff clean again, sent the puck back to the point, and dropped into his position at the bumper. The puck rotated between defenders. When the pass finally came to him, he didn’t hesitate. His wrist shot was quick and clean, just beneath the glove and inside the post.

Two goals on the board, the building was nearly shaking. When the buzzer signaled the end of the second period, the players cleared the ice, and the house lights dimmed slightly for the intermission show. Fans stood for snacks and bathroom breaks, but Hermione stayed exactly where she was. Her hands shook faintly as she held the sign. She pressed her fingers to the edge of her seat and waited. The Jumbotron flickered through a series of faces and filters, an announcer joking in the background as the popular look-alike Cam segment began. The crowd laughed politely when a man was compared to Elvis, a woman to a pop singer, a child to a famous goalie, and a funny looking guy with a beard and mustache compared to The Lorax. All at once, the screen went black for a breath, a small green clover appeared in the center. The arena quieted, caught off guard by the new graphic.

“And for our final look-alike of the night,” the announcer said, “we have someone very lucky in the building tonight. Let’s see if we can find them.”

The camera panned, scanning slowly. It locked onto Hermione. She stood up, the sign in her hands lifted fully above her head. Draco Malfoy’s Lucky Clover. Scorpius popped up beside her, waving with both arms. His smile was unmistakable, and his waves bounced wildly with each motion. Hermione didn’t try to hide her emotion, she waved too, her hand steady, her eyes on the bench where she knew he would be looking. Draco stood frozen at the bench, towel in hand. His eyes lifted to the screen. He stared, blinked, and stared some more. He laughed, his guffaw carried throughout the bench. His teammates erupted beside him, two clapped him on the back, one nearly shoved him into the boards. His captain threw an arm around his neck, shaking him roughly as the laughter spread.

“You’ve got your very own John Cusack, Malfoy!”

Draco turned back toward the ice, grinning in disbelief as he looked up again. He saw them standing there, his son and Hermione. Draco felt he had truly won before the game had even ended. The third period began with a fresh sheet of ice and a renewed sense of momentum. The crowd had settled only slightly, still buzzing from the intermission surprise and the steady dominance of the home team. The scoreboard reflected a comfortable lead, but Draco did not skate out like a man playing safe, he skated out like a man determined to finish it right.

From the drop, he took command of the ice, his line opened with control, and Draco won the faceoff clean, his stick snapping back as the puck slid to his defenseman. He didn’t hang back, he cut up the middle, called for the puck with a slight lift of his blade, and received it in stride. His linemates followed without hesitation, the transition smooth as they moved into the offensive zone. Draco kept low, weaving between defenders, pulling attention with every stride.

At the top of the right circle, he cut inside and deked once, forcing the defense to collapse. His timing was precise, the drop pass behind him was clean, and his winger sent the puck across the slot for the trailing forward. One touch, one finish, another goal on the board. Draco didn’t linger to celebrate, he tapped gloves, skated through the cluster of arms and helmet bumps, and returned to the bench with a purpose. The coaching staff met him with a nod, and the captain leaned in behind him.

“They’re standing the whole shift,” he said, jerking his chin toward the glass. “Better give them something worth watching.”

Draco didn’t need to be told, he already planned to. Time ran low, but not slowly. Every pass, every stride, every faceoff had intention behind it. Draco hit the dots like it was the first period of Game Seven, stick angled, feet set, eyes focused. He won nearly every draw, he backchecked like he had something left to prove, his stick quick and his awareness sharper than most rookies still dreaming of their first contract. With four minutes remaining in regulation, the opposing team pulled their goalie for the extra attacker.

Draco’s line took the ice for what would be their final shift. They started deep in the defensive zone. Draco called the coverage, motioned to his wings, and kept his eyes on the puck as it cycled between blue liners. When the pass was mishandled at the point, he sprang forward, intercepting it at the edge of the neutral zone. He didn’t look back, he knew no one would catch him. The crowd rose to their feet as he approached the empty net.

He could have tapped it in with a soft shot, he could have ended it clean. Instead, he coasted to the crease, dragged the puck across, and flicked it into the upper corner with the same wrist he had trained to near perfection over decades.

It was a statement. A final, deliberate exclamation of a career well played. The buzzer sounded two minutes later, and the game was over. Draco dropped to his knees on the ice, hands hoisted high in the air, fist pumping the sky as his tears fell freely. Six Stanley Cups, franchise and league records, and countless accolades later, all earned through consistency and command of the ice, had not officially come to a close.

Tonight was more than numbers, however, tonight was his end, and it was exactly what it should have been. He circled once, helmet still on, nodding to the fans as they remained on their feet. The cheers didn’t dip, his name echoed through the stadium, in chant and praise. When he finally removed his helmet, sweat soaked and flushed from exertion, he glanced up toward the fourth row.

Scorpius was standing on his seat, waving with both hands. Hermione stood beside him, her eyes bright, her sign still clutched in her hands as tears streaked down her cheeks. She was smiling through them, proud in a way that reached him more deeply than any award or contract ever had. Draco raised his stick toward them. Not to the fans or the media, but to them. He skated to Center ice for the handshake line.

His gloves were off, his head held high, every step was steady. When the final hand was shaken, he turned to the bench, his teammates lined up, tapping sticks against the boards, welcoming him back with grins and claps and quiet words he would remember long after the gear was gone and the pads were packed away. He had done it, on his terms, in his way. The best part? His entire world had been sitting fourth row to witness it all. There was nothing more he could have asked for in that moment.

Chapter Text

THE NEW YORK TIMES

Special Feature | Sports & Legacy | Editors Edition

DRACO MALFOY: THE CENTER OF A GENERATION

After seven seasons, six Stanley Cups, and a career that redefined what it meant to lead on and off the ice, Draco Malfoy skates off into retirement, not alone, but with his, surprise, family finally at his side.

Elliott Grant, Editor In Chief

“There are careers, and then there are eras. Draco Malfoy’s time in the NHL was both.” - Mick Duvall, Sports Analyst, ESPN. 

When he stepped onto the ice for his final regular season game last night in Dallas, the crowd knew they were witnessing history. For those who had followed his career since his debut with the Falmouth Falcons nearly a decade ago, the energy in the air said everything. There was a finality to every pass he made, every zone he entered, every time he dropped into a faceoff and walked away with possession. For seven years, Draco Malfoy controlled the Center of the rink like it was a second home, but the big moment from last night is that for the first time, his home came to him.

In a moment that took over the entire arena, a familiar intermission segment called “Look-Alike Cam” became something far more personal. The screen went dark, a single clover icon lit up, and the camera panned to the fourth row center. There, a woman stood proudly, a woman from Malfoy's hometown named Hermione Granger, a sign clutched between her hands. It read, Draco Malfoy’s Lucky Clover. Beside her stood a boy, grinning from ear to ear, waving both arms as if his life depended on it.

The boy was their son, Scorpius. What happened next will be replayed for years, so out of character for the usually serious Hockey player. Draco Malfoy, helmet off, sweat pouring, stared up at the screen and laughed a full, disbelieving laugh. His teammates erupted around him, egging him on. One teammate shouted, “You’ve got your very own John Cusack, Malfoy!” and the stadium lost it. The man who had spent the last decade earning respect for his composure, his quiet power, and his unflinching work ethic, finally let the world see a different side of him.

A Career Carved in Legends

Malfoy’s career began in 2012, the second overall draft pick for the Falmouth Falcons. Skeptics questioned his pedigree and discipline, but he silenced every critic by the midpoint of his rookie season. By nineteen, he had his first Stanley Cup. By twenty-five, he had six. Malfoy was the Falcons franchise player, their star. He brought them a legacy of dominance for the last seven years and there is no doubt in this reporters mind that we will see Malfoy inducted into the Hall of Fame someday.

He finishes his career with 1,303 points, 548 goals, and 755 assists. More impressively, he sits second all-time in faceoff percentage among Centers who have played over 1,000 games. He was known for his vision, his playmaking intelligence, and the ability to control game tempo with nothing more than a glance and a shift in stride to his teammates. But his numbers were never the whole story.What made Draco Malfoy legendary was his discipline. He showed up game after game, shift after shift, and let his skills speak for him. After seven whirlwind seasons, it has said everything it needs to.

The Man Behind the Jersey

Outside of hockey, Malfoy remained a private figure. There were no tabloid scandals to speak of and certainly no scandals. Malfoy can confidently retire with a spotless career record. However, when asked about his surprise family announcement, during the postgame presser, Malfoy said only this.

“My son gave me a reason to make my last game count post-injury. Seeing my son and his Mother there, that was all I needed.” He declined further questions, but one thing was clear from his expression as he left the media room. He may have ended his Professional career, but he was finally beginning a personal happiness.

What Comes Next

Draco Malfoy has not announced post-retirement plans. Sources close to the team say he has declined coaching offers with the Falcons and Stars, and front office roles are also off the table for now. He will return to Northbridge at the end of the week, where he owns a private residence. Hermione Granger and Scorpius Granger are expected to join him. Whether or not the next chapter includes more headlines is uncertain. What is certain is that the man who defined consistency, leadership, and excellence on the ice, finished his career the only way he knew how, with purpose, presence, and finally, with the people he loved most watching him skate off the ice one last time.

IN PHOTOS

[1] Malfoy during the third period last night, pointing to the crowd
[2] Scorpius waving during the "Look-Alike" segment
[3] Hermione and Draco in the tunnel postgame, a moment captured without flash
[4] A collage of Malfoy’s six Cup wins across his seven-season career
[5] A final shot: Draco, center ice, stick raised, helmet off, framed by the crowd on their feet

Related Articles

Legacy on Ice: Top 10 Moments of Malfoy’s Career
Hermione Granger: A Quiet entry into the Public Eye
Where Will Scorpius Play? Youth Programs Tied to the Malfoy Family
Behind the Stats: An Analytical Look at Draco Malfoy’s Career Numbers

The porch was quiet except for the soft creak of the swing and the distant hum of cicadas. The night was warm, Hermione sat curled into Draco’s side, one knee tucked beneath her, his arm draped around her shoulders with a familiar comfort. Scorpius was at the Mansion for the night, his overnight bag hastily packed after Narcissa’s offer to keep him. Hermione suspected the arrangement had been made before she even asked.

Narcissa had always been intuitive, especially when it came to timing. Hermione had hesitated for only a second before agreeing, and now, with the house still and her son safely tucked away, she finally had the space to say the words she had carried for far too long. She shifted until she could see his profile. He was looking out past the railing, gaze fixed somewhere between the edge of the yard and the dark stretch of trees beyond it. His jaw was relaxed, his hand still warm where it rested along her arm.

“I should have gone after you,” she said.

He turned to look at her and raised a questioning eyebrow, she pressed on.

“I should have followed you when you left Northbridge. I should have called, I should have said something before too much time had passed. I lived a life without you, but I never stopped loving you.”

His hand tightened slightly at her shoulder.

“I know this…whatever this is,” she continued, her voice softer now, “I know it’s not something you’re ready to name and I respect that. But, I couldn’t let you leave again without saying what I didn’t back then.”

She reached up and pressed her palm lightly to his chest, just above the faded logo of the old Northbridge hockey hoodie he wore.

“It’s always been you, Draco. No one else. I loved you then, I love you now, and if it takes the rest of my life to make that mean something again, I’ll spend every day trying to be that for you. There’s no one else in the world for me but the man holding me right now on this swing.”

Her voice didn’t shake, she had meant every word. Draco grabbed her hand, his thumb brushing the top of it gently. He lifted his gaze to hers, his voice carried everything he had held back since he was eighteen.

“You will always be my lucky clover, Hermione.” 

Her breath caught, a sense of Dejavu overtook her. She pictured the sweaty eighteen year old boy dragging her underneath the bleachers at halftime, wearing his Northbridge Jersey and that boyish grin as he pinned her up against the metal support beams and kissed her for the first time. She recalled the words he had uttered, her smile genuine. He turned fully, both arms drawing her into him. One hand slid up to cradle her cheek, his thumb brushing along her temple, the other wove gently through the curls at the base of her neck. He leaned in slowly, his eyes searching hers as if making sure this was real, that she was real.

“Rare and impossible to find twice,” he whispered, grey eyes and liquid amber clashing in a dance of love.

He kissed her slowly, he took his time, he let himself fall into the only woman who had captured his mind, body, and soul. It wasn’t rushed or desperate, it was patient, a culmination of everything they had both waited years for. His mouth met hers with the kind of care that came from years of longing, of regrets, of quiet hopes that never quite died. She kissed him back with the certainty of someone who finally knew where she wanted to be. The swing rocked gently beneath them in the middle of a quiet Northbridge night, and a love lost had been found again.

The kiss eventually turned heated, slow no longer as her hand slid up to cup the back of his neck and he angled his body closer. He kissed her with a kind of certainty that had taken years to build and only seconds to unleash. Her lips opened beneath his, and when her tongue brushed his, he let out a quiet, uneven breath that said more than words ever could. He pulled back just long enough to look at her, their foreheads brushing.

“Come inside,” she whispered.

He did not need to be told twice. In one fluid motion, he stood and took her with him. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders instinctively, and he caught her legs beneath her knees. She laughed under her breath, startled but not protesting, her hands threading through his hair as he carried her through the door she left unlocked for him more than once. The house was dim, the hallway familiar. His steps were steady as he climbed the stairs, her mouth grazing the edge of his jaw the whole way as she peppered him with featherlight kisses.

The bedroom door swung open quietly under the press of his foot. He set her down at the edge of the bed with a tenderness that did not match the tension in the air. She pulled at his shirt with eager fingers. He made quick work of the sundress, letting it slide from her shoulders with a glee that bordered on restraint. When it pooled at her feet and she stepped free of it, his eyes traced the curve of her bare shoulders and the softness of her skin with something close to awe.

Every time felt like the first time with Hermione. He kissed her again with passion, his hands steady on her waist as she guided them backwards toward the mattress. She sighed against him, every inch of her leaning in. He kissed down her neck, across her collarbone, and when he came to the valley of her breasts, he grabbed a handful as she gasped his name. He answered it with his hands, his mouth, and the kind of touch that was both careful and consuming as he worshiped her.

He took his time, leaving a kiss everywhere and anywhere. He grinned when his hands slid down the flat expanse of Hermione’s stomach and found her slick with arousal, dragging his finger through it, spreading it around as he circled her clit just the way she liked it. Her back bowed off the bed, her breath coming in soft pants as she begged him for his tongue. Draco would never deny his Queen her needs and happily hooked his arms beneath her thighs, settling himself between her legs as he roughly yanked her to the edge of the bed.

He lowered his head to her, dragging his tongue up and down, swirling and sucking on her clit gently. He grinned as he looked up at her, tongue flicking, his girl flushed, panting, and writhing for him. His own cock throbbed with aching need, but he’d always endeavored to make sure Hermione was satisfied first. 

She came with a long moan, her thighs squeezing the side of his head as she bucked into his tongue, riding out her pleasure, boneless and spent into the mattress. Draco wiped his glistening mouth with the back of his hand and crawled up the bed, kissing Hermione, letting her taste herself on him as he pushed his cock into her. He dropped his head to the crook of her neck, groaning as he balanced his bodyweight on his forearms, biceps flexing with each slow thrust into her. Her legs came up to wrap around his waist allowing him a deeper angle.

While Hermione loved being so close to Draco, she loved riding him more. Flipping them over, Draco moaned in appreciation at the site before him. Hermione, flushed and dripping, straddled him with her gorgeous tits bouncing as he reached both hands up to grab them, playing as she fucked herself on his cock. He loved when she took control, when her tight little body rocked against him. He brought his hand down to circle her clit, drawing tight circles as she arrived closer to the edge. 

“Draco, I-”

Draco gripped both her hips, picking up the pace as he dragged her along his cock faster, thrusting up to meet her.

“Me too.” 

Draco’s thrusts became erratic as Hermione’s hips met his own, both of them chasing that release. Draco felt himself arrive quickly, his balls tightening before releasing deep into her with a slow, final thrust. Hermione’s own pleasure rushed her, she clenched around his release, relishing the deep pulses inside her, the warmth of his spend as it started to leak down her thigh. 

Panting beneath the sheets, with the door softly closed behind them and the world outside forgotten, they let everything fall away. Hermione let Draco pull her into him, let him throw her comforter over them, relished the afterglow of their lovemaking. Draco traced slow circles over the curve of her shoulder. Hermione said nothing at first, only tilted her face to press a kiss to the skin just above his heart.

“Stay?” she said softly.

He tightened his hold around her, digging into the mattress further, letting the last of his defenses, his reservations, fall away as the sleepy afterglow overtook him.

“Okay.”

The smile on both of their faces as they fell asleep together spoke a million words between them. 

The sun had already crept in through the slats of the blinds when Hermione stirred. Her limbs were heavy with warmth and exhaustion, her body comfortably tangled with another beneath the sheets. She stayed still, eyes barely open, letting her mind catch up with the rest of her. The quiet around her was familiar, but the arm draped around her waist was not something she had woken up to in years. She turned slowly, careful not to shift the bed too much.

Draco lay next to her, hair a soft mess across the pillow, his breathing slow and steady. His chest rose and fell in a calm rhythm, one of his hands still resting lightly against the dip of her waist as if he hadn’t moved at all in the night. Hermione reached out and brushed a bit of hair from his temple. She didn’t expect him to wake, but he blinked once, then again, and gave her the laziest smile she had ever seen from him.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice rough from sleep.

“Hi,” she said quietly.

They looked at each other with the kind of look that lingered, a shared pause between two people who had spent too long keeping everything in the past tense. Draco’s thumb began to move in slow, absent circles along her side. 

“Did you sleep alright?”

“I did,” she said, smiling faintly. “Better than I have in a while.”

“Good,” he replied, leaning forward to kiss her. It was unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world. “So, now what?”

Hermione laughed softly and rolled onto her back.

“Now we get up, I go make coffee, you argue that your pancakes are better than mine, and we get ready for Scorpius to come home.”

He shifted closer until his head was beside hers on the pillow, watching her with an amused expression. 

“My pancakes are better than yours.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“You’ve never even made pancakes for me.”

Draco laughed and gave her breast a playful squeeze. She mock gasped as she swotted his hand away. He leaned forward and planted a soft kiss to her forehead.

“Then it’s about time.”

She reached for his hand where it lay between them, he laced his fingers with hers without hesitation. They stayed like that for another stretch of minutes, unbothered by the ticking of the clock or the growing light in the room. Eventually, she turned her head to look at him once more.

“I meant what I said last night, Draco.”

“I know,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Hermione felt settled, she squeezed his hand, then kissed his knuckles. 

“Good. Now how about those Pancakes? I’m starving.”

They rose slowly, showering and dressing in the clothes they had left folded neatly on the dresser. When they both drifted into the kitchen, she busied herself at the stove while he rummaged through the cabinets with the confidence of a man who had always belonged in the house. The conversation was light, full of small bickering and teasing. As the coffee brewed and the scent of pancakes filled the air, they moved together with the ease of people who had known each other for far longer than their current arrangement might imply.

When the doorbell rang an hour later, and Scorpius came bounding in with his overnight bag and a beaming grin, he found them both in the kitchen, his mother barefoot, smiling over a spatula, while his father handed her a mug like it was the most natural thing in the world. Scorpius blinked, took in the sight of them, and grinned wider.

“Took you long enough,” he said.

Neither of them disagreed. Draco stood at the stove in a plain white tee and plaid flannel pants, flipping the last of the pancakes with practiced ease. His hair was a little messy, there was a faint streak of batter near his wrist, but he looked relaxed. Scorpius sat perched in his usual seat, legs swinging slightly beneath the table as he spoke a mile a minute, cheeks already full of syrup and strawberries.

“So then I told Grandpa that if he was going to comment on my stance, he had to show me how to do it better.”

Hermione reached for her coffee with a knowing smile, watching him with soft amusement. 

“He actually got on the ice?”

Draco turned from the stove, spatula still in hand, eyebrows climbing high. 

“Wait, no. You’re joking. My father? On skates?”

Scorpius grinned proudly, a little syrup on the corner of his mouth.

“Swear it, Dad. He laced them up himself. Grandma helped him stand, and he even did a full lap. Well, kind of. He held the wall the whole time, but he did it.”

Hermione choked on her coffee, laughing into her mug. 

“Please tell me someone got a picture.”

“Grandma did,” Scorpius said proudly, reaching into the front pocket of his hoodie to pull out his phone. 

Draco crossed the room and leaned in to look. The photo showed Lucius Malfoy bundled in an impeccable coat, a pair of very conservative skates strapped to his feet, clinging to the wall of the rink with a look of utter disdain. His posture was rigid, one hand white-knuckled, the other held stiffly out for balance. Behind him, Narcissa looked serene, if not entirely smug. Draco sat down slowly, eyes still on the photo. 

“I honestly don’t know how to process this. I’m a little jealous, to be honest.”

Hermione laughed into her hand.

“I told him you’d never believe it,” Scorpius said brightly, reaching for another pancake from the center plate. “He said that if you made fun of him, he’d remind you of your small stint in ballet.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. 

“That man has a memory far to sharp for my liking.”

Hermione laughed as she sliced into her own pancake, her fork gliding through the soft stack like it was butter. 

“I think it’s lovely. He clearly adores Scorpius.”

Draco stabbed his pancake angrily.

“He barely tolerated skating when I did it.” Draco muttered, slightly bitter, though his eyes softened as he glanced at their son, who was now humming around a mouthful of powdered sugar.

Scorpius leaned back in his chair, wiping his hands on a napkin before resting his elbows on the table and beaming at both of them. 

“I think this was the best sleepover I’ve ever had. And now pancakes with both of you? This is like the best weekend ever.”

Hermione met Draco’s eyes across the table, her fork pausing halfway to her plate. A silent conversation of the eyes passed between them, full of meaning. Draco reached for his coffee, nodding once without looking away.

“We should do it more often,” he said, his voice casual, but the way he looked at her added something deeper to the words.

Scorpius nodded eagerly, licking syrup from his fingers. 

“Yes, please!”

Hermione smiled, her chest lifting with a quiet kind of contentment. 

“We can make that happen.”

Draco reached for the syrup and topped off Scorpius’ plate with a little flourish. 

“And next time,” he said, tilting his head in mock seriousness, “I’m going to bear witness to my father on skates.”

Scorpius burst into laughter, the sound filled the room easily, rich and unguarded. Hermione rested her chin in her palm and watched them both. There was something unshakably right about mornings like this. She could be content with pancakes and stories and a table that finally felt full.

The rink was quiet in the early evening, the kind of quiet that came with a weekday practice slot when most of the town had already headed home for dinner. Overhead, the high lights cast a bright white sheen over the freshly resurfaced ice, and the boards reverberated faintly with every cut of skates and thud of a puck.

It was just the two of them, father and son, skating drills in slow repetition under the banners that lined the rafters. The Championship game was just days away, and the team had worked hard for it, but Draco had carved out this one-on-one session with Scorpius on purpose. He had something more important to talk about than slapshots or defensive strategies.

“Keep your stick lower on the draw,” Draco called out as he passed the puck across the zone. “You’re reading the play well, but you’re hesitating too long once it hits your blade.”

Scorpius nodded, breath puffing from his mouth as he bent into the movement, controlling the puck and sending it back across the sheet. His cheeks were red, his waves damp under his helmet, but he looked focused, alive in a way that made Draco beam with pride. They did a few more passes before Draco skated to the center and tapped the ice with the edge of his blade.

“Take a knee,” he said, voice steady but firm.

Scorpius looked up and blinked, then nodded and glided toward him before dropping to one knee on the center circle. Draco followed, crouching so they were level.

“I’ve been watching you closely these past few weeks,” Draco began, resting his gloved hands over the top of his stick. “You’ve gotten faster, sharper, and your reads are better. You’re anticipating plays like a real center, not just a kid looking to score.”

Scorpius bit back a grin. 

“Thanks, Dad.”

Draco exhaled slowly, his expression serious. 

“You love this, don’t you?”

Scorpius looked up at him, eyes wide and bright. 

“Yeah, I really do.”

“Then we need to talk about what that means,” Draco said. “Not just for this season, or even next year, but longer term. If this is something you’re serious about, something you want to do beyond Northbridge rec leagues and high school games, then we need to start planning for it now.”

Scorpius shifted on his knee, the grin slipping a little. 

“You mean travel leagues?”

Draco nodded.

“I mean more than that, too.” Draco replied. “I mean real training, year round commitment. Summer camps, showcases, weekend clinics, private coaching. It’s not just about lacing up and showing up. You’ll need to train for hours every week, you’ll need to start weight and agility work when the time is right, and you’ll miss some birthdays and holidays with your friends. Your schedule will change and your schoolwork, while still important, will need to bend a little to fit the schedule.”

Scorpius hesitated. 

“Mom won’t like that.”

Draco laughed. Hermione would definitely have words with him over this, but, he was confident his tongue could be the perfect persuasive tool when necessary.

“No, she probably won’t,” Draco agreed. “She believes in balance, in academics first. And she’s not wrong, Scorpius, school is also important. But this? This kind of thing? It’s a different path. It takes early commitment and true grit and dedication. Most kids who go pro start young, they sacrifice, they know what they want and they chase it relentlessly. If you really want this, if you really want to play Hockey as a Professional, you’ll have to do the same just as I did.”

Scorpius glanced down at the ice, then back up at his father. 

“Do you think I’m good enough?”

Draco’s answer was immediate. 

“Yes, but being good isn’t the same as being great. Even great doesn’t always make it. You’ll need drive, discipline, and the guts to keep going even when things get hard or when someone better than you knocks you back. It’s not a guarantee, Scorp, it never is. But if you want it, I’ll be with you every step of the way. Plus, unlike you, I didn’t have a me growing up to train with.”

Scorpius looked at his father carefully. 

“And if I don’t want to go pro?”

Draco smiled.

“Then we still train,” Draco said with a small smile. “But we keep it fun. We make memories as father and son together. We focus on school, and you find your path when you’re ready, or maybe you take the collegiate path. There’s no shame in that, either. The only shame would be in not asking yourself the question now.”

Scorpius nodded, quiet for a moment. He looked out across the rink, the empty stands, the painted lines, the goals waiting on either end. He turned back to his father, his young mind made up.

“I want to try,” he said. 

Draco reached out and rested his gloved hand on the back of Scorpius’ helmet. 

“Then we try. But you give it everything, Scorp. No halfway. You give it all or nothing.”

Scorpius nodded, this time more sure.

 “Okay. But what about Mom?”

Draco stood and offered his hand, helping his son up off the ice. 

“You just leave your Mom to me, kid. Let’s run that drill again. This time, I want you to think like you’re playing for a scout. Keep your head up and stay hungry.”

As they skated back into formation, Scorpius squared his shoulders and took his place. There was a fire in his eyes as Draco passed him the puck again. This time, the boy didn’t hesitate. Draco watched the blade of Scorpius’s stick as it snapped forward, crisp and confident. The puck flew low, kissed the post, and slipped into the net with a satisfying thud. He nodded once, approvingly. Scorpius didn’t need the praise, he was past that stage. What he needed was to be pushed. Draco intended to do just that.

They cycled through drills for another thirty minutes, switching between shooting, breakouts, and controlled zone entries. Scorpius asked questions in between reps, Draco answered every one with the calm, thorough tone of a man who’d been there before. He offered small corrections, moments of insight, and occasionally shared stories from his own playing days, enough to keep the rhythm steady and the energy up. By the time they finished, sweat clung to their collars and the ice was scarred beneath their skates.

“Water,” Draco said, pointing toward the bench.

Scorpius skated over, unstrapped his helmet, and took a long drink before plopping down on the wooden bench beside his father. His cheeks were still flushed, and his chest rose and fell in quick bursts, but his eyes were alight with happiness.

“Are you sure Mom won’t be mad?” he asked, quieter now. “I know she wants me to go to college.”

Draco rubbed his towel along the back of his neck, then draped it over his shoulder. 

“She wants you to have choices, and this gives you one more. If you’re serious, she’ll come around. She just needs to see that you’ve thought it through.”

Scorpius leaned back, legs stretched out in front of him. 

“I think she’ll understand. I just, I don’t want to disappoint her.”

Draco patted his sons shoulder.

“You won’t,” Draco said without hesitation. “She loves you too much to be disappointed in your dreams. Just don’t lie to her about how much you want this. Be honest, that’s all you need to do.”

Scorpius nodded slowly, then gave a short laugh. 

“I’m really gonna have to start running more, huh?”

Draco smirked. 

“Try sprint drills after practice. And tell your Uncle Theo to stop sending you snacks in his care packages.”

“I knew it!” Scorpius grinned. “He said they were ‘essential for morale.’”

“Of course he did.” Draco shook his head, amused. “That man has no business giving nutritional advice.”

They sat together a few minutes longer, just watching the Zamboni pull out from its corner and begin its slow sweep across the far end of the rink. The air was cold but not biting. It reminded Draco of the effort and memory and all the years he had spent chasing a dream of his own. He never imagined he’d find something even better in teaching his son to chase his.

“Championship’s in two days,” Draco said after a long stretch of quiet.

“Yeah,” Scorpius murmured. “I want to win it.”

“You can do it, kid.”

Scorpius glanced up at him, his face serious now. 

“Will you be there?”

Draco looked at him like the answer had always been obvious. 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

They packed up their gear after that, still talking, still planning. They left the rink side by side, their skate bags slung over their shoulders, the last of the day’s light faded into a deep colored dusk. The parking lot was mostly empty, save for a few cars. They climbed into the truck, Scorpius fiddled with the aux cord until his playlist started up through the speakers. Draco started the engine and let it idle for a moment, heat humming to life around them. 

“You’ve got the drive, Scorp. All I ask is that you don’t forget to enjoy it too. This game is supposed to mean something.”

Scorpius buckled his seatbelt. 

“It already does.”

Draco nodded, the corners of his mouth tugging upward, just slightly. 

“Good, then let’s win you that fourth Championship.”

Chapter Text

Scorpius stepped into his grandfather’s study, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. Books lined the far wall in pristine order, and a small reading lamp sat beside Lucius’ untouched tea. The elder Malfoy looked up from his desk, his secret, definitely-only-for-reading, spectacles perched at the bridge of his nose, gave his grandson a patient nod.

“I need your help,” Scorpius said, his voice a little rushed.

Lucius set down the document he had been reading and gestured for Scorpius to take the leather armchair across from him. 

“If this is about new skates again, I thought we already agreed your current pair would last the season.”

“No, it’s not about that.” Scorpius sat down, a little too fast, his knee bouncing with restrained energy. “It’s, well, I want to change my name. I mean, I want to legally be Granger-Malfoy. Before the championship game if possible.”

Lucius blinked slowly. 

“That is quite the request.”

Scorpius sighed.

“I know it’s short notice, but it would mean a lot to me. I want to surprise Dad with my new jersey. I want him to see it before I hit the ice,” Scorpius explained. “He’s never asked me to change my name, not once, but I can tell how much it means to him and how proud he is of me. And Mom’s okay with it, we talked about it weeks ago, and I just never had the nerve to ask for help until now.”

Lucius folded his hands together, thoughtful. 

“It can be done with the right filings, and expedited processing, we can push it through. We have two days you say?”

Scorpius nodded. 

“The game’s Saturday.”

Lucius stood and moved toward the set of drawers behind his desk, unlocking one and retrieving a leather folder with the family crest. 

“We’ll need to submit a petition to the circuit court in Northerton County. Since you’re under eighteen, your legal guardians need to give consent. Your mother will have to sign the affidavit in person, your father too. I can send a paralegal to the bakery in the morning.”

“I already asked Mom,” Scorpius said quickly. “She said yes.”

Lucius nodded.

“Then your father?”

“I want it to be a surprise,” Scorpius said, quieter now. “Is that, can I still do that?”

Lucius paused, then gave a slow, approving nod. 

“There is a legal path if your mother consents and you can justify that it is in your best interest, the court can grant the change without prior notice to your father, provided we show no risk or controversy. It is rare, but not unheard of. I will need to speak to Judge Mercer directly, and I will personally cover the filing fees to expedite the process. But you’ll need to come with me tomorrow to sign the formal petition and state your reasons.”

Scorpius straightened in the chair, wide-eyed. 

“You’ll really do that?”

“You have always been a Malfoy, Scorpius,” Lucius replied, his tone even. “And your decision shows more maturity than many adults I know. I am proud to help you in this endevour.”

Relief passed through Scorpius so fast he nearly sagged in the chair. 

“Thank you. I just, I want him to see it and know. I’ve always been proud to be a Granger, but I’m his son too. It’s never been a question for me.”

Lucius nodded, stepping behind his desk again and flipping open the legal folder. 

“Then we will make it official. I’ll call the firm tonight, expect a courier at your Mother’s house by nine in the morning. The jersey, is it already being made?”

Scorpius grinned. 

“I asked Aunt Ginny. She pulled some strings with the Northbridge Athletics supplier, it’ll be done by Friday night and delivered straight to the arena.”

“Efficient.” 

Lucius allowed the smallest of smiles to tug at the corner of his mouth. 

“You’ve inherited your mother’s planning instincts, I see. It’s not too late to become a lawyer or businessman yet, you know.”

Scorpius laughed.

“I want to follow in Dad’s footsteps. Plus, your money helps,” Scorpius added with a laugh.

Lucius chuckled softly. 

“That it does.”

They finalized the plan before dinner, Scorpius left the study feeling light on his feet. He messaged his mom on the walk to his room that he would be staying the night with his Grandparents, and confirming the courier’s morning arrival and thanking her again. Her reply was nearly instant, filled with support and emojis that made him smile. Scorpius also knew his father was currently with his mother, so he didn’t mind making himself scarce. He loved to be spoiled by Narcissa, anyway.

That night, Scorpius lay awake thinking of how his father’s face would look when he saw the back of the jersey as he skated onto the ice. Would he be happy when he saw the Granger-Malfoy? Would he cry? He didn’t know, but he knew his decision was right. It felt right. Scorpius knew that this new name wasn’t choosing one parent or the other, it was a merging, a meshing, a complete and total acceptance of the past. He was now carrying their names forward, both of them, proudly.

Hermione knew the distraction had to be perfect. If they wanted this surprise to land the way Scorpius dreamed it would, she needed to buy them time. So, on a Thursday night, when the air still clung to a touch of spring warmth, and the sky sat painted in lazy streaks of lavender and fading gold, she tugged Draco’s car keys from the bowl near the front door and dangled them in front of him with a single raised brow. He looked up from his phone, one foot tapping lightly against the hardwood floor. 

“You’re stealing my car now?”

“I’m taking you on a date,” Hermione said simply, tossing him his hoodie. 

Draco narrowed his eyes at her but stood anyway, slipping the hoodie over his head as he followed her to the door. 

“This is suspicious.”

Hermione grinned.

“You’re getting old babe, where’s your sense of adventure?” she called over her shoulder.

They ended up somewhere outside town, beyond where the pavement began to crack and the trees outnumbered the houses. The sun had dipped fully behind the treetops by the time Draco took the wheel. Hermione sat beside him, legs curled up in the passenger seat, her hair pulled into a loose braid. She cracked the window, letting the wind tangle through the strands, letting her head rest against the seat back. Draco didn’t ask questions, he knew exactly where to go.

He turned onto a familiar stretch of road, one that wound through wide fields and dense woods. It was the same backroad they used to cruise when they were eighteen and invincible. He rolled the windows down fully, cranked the stereo louder than was legally advisable, and hit the gas just enough to feel the thrill of the ride bloom in his chest as his Viper’s engine revved.

They had been driving for hours, the kind of long, looping drive that had no destination. The two lane roads that cut through Northbridge’s countryside were mostly empty this late at night, and the soft roar of the tires was a steady constant beneath the bass pouring from the speakers. Hermione had her feet propped up on the dashboard, her window cracked just enough to let in the crisp air.

Her braid was unraveling, her cheeks warm from laughing too hard at something Draco had said ten minutes ago. The air smelled like summer grass, and everything felt endless. Draco glanced over at her, one hand draped over the steering wheel, the other brushing his thumb across the back of her knee. His playlist had cycled to Paradise by Bazzi, and Hermione immediately straightened up, reaching for the volume and cranking it just enough to feel it in her chest.

“ This one,” she said, grinning, already mouthing along with the lyrics. “This is the one.”

Draco’s mouth curved. 

“You say that every time it comes on.”

“That’s because it’s our song,” she said, not looking at him as she said it, but the flush on her neck gave her away.

He didn’t argue, he knew she was right. There was something about the sound of it that matched the feeling of her hand in his, her laughter spilling across the center console, the way she tilted her head against the headrest when she looked at him with all the love an eighteen year old could. It had played the first time he picked her up in his car, the first time she pulled him in by the collar and made him forget everything else as they kissed in his car, and the first time they ever got daring enough to have sex in the back seat of his car.

They drove until the roads narrowed and dipped, weaving through the wooded outskirts of town where they used to sneak off. He parked in a gravel turnout, hidden enough to feel like a secret, familiar enough to feel like safety. Hermione twisted to look at him, the inside of the car was dim, the console lights casting a faint blue wash over his face. He looked too good, always had. He wore his hoodie pushed up to his elbows, and his hair was a mess from her fingers running through it earlier at the diner.

“Do you remember the first time we came out here?” she asked.

Draco leaned his head back against the seat. 

“Oh yeah, I’ll never forget it, Granger. You rode me like it was your last rodeo.”

“Draco!” she said, laughing. “Don’t act like it didn’t make all your boyish fantasies come true to fuck your girl in the back seat.”

He reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together without a word. She leaned over the console and kissed him. It started slow, the kind of kiss that belonged to quiet nights and familiar touches, but it deepened fast. Maybe it was the music still playing, or the buzz of being eighteen and certain nothing could ever pull them apart. Maybe it was just them, the way they always had been, crazy for each other in every possible way. Draco broke away only to breathe, cupping her cheek, brushing her hair back. 

“Come here,” he murmured, his voice low and full of something that made her stomach tighten.

She climbed over the console without hesitation, knees pressed into his thighs, her arms looping around his neck as he adjusted to make space. The back seat was cramped, but it did not matter. They had done this before after all. He took his time, it was never rushed with her. Not even now, when their skin was pressed together, when her hands found his jaw and held him close, when she whispered his name like it was the only thing she knew for certain. The windows fogged slowly, the playlist looping through songs they both knew by heart and had made love to all summer. Outside, the world kept spinning, but in the back of that Toyota 86, everything stilled, and nothing existed but them as they came together.

“I love you, you know,” she murmured.

Draco looked down at her, he kissed the top of her head and whispered back. 

“I love you too, my lucky Clover.”

Somehow, even at eighteen, they both understood the truth of young love. The windows were still fogged when Hermione stretched her leg out along the seat, the air thick with the heat of late summer and skin pressed too close to cool down. Her arm draped across Draco’s middle, her cheek tucked against the space just under his collarbone. He was staring up at the car’s ceiling, shirt pushed up around his underarms, his hand still resting on the curve of her hip as though letting go would undo everything they had just shared.

“I wish we could stop time in this moment.” Hermione murmured, the words muffled into his chest, more fond than surprised. 

She smiled before she even lifted her face to look at him. Draco tilted his head, lips parted in that lazy, contented way he only ever wore when she was pressed this close. 

“You say that every time, babe.”

She laughed, reaching up to flick his ear. 

“I was being romantic.”

Draco planted a kiss to the crown of her head.

“I liked it.” His voice was soft, lower than usual, like he didn’t want to break the spell between them. “I liked it a lot.”

Hermione’s smile grew quieter, more thoughtful. She reached for his hand, the one still curled loosely on her waist, and brought it to her mouth. She pressed a kiss to his knuckles before threading her fingers between his again. Draco watched her, his eyes searching her face, taking in every detail. Her hair was messy, her cheeks flushed, her lips kiss bruised, but it wasn’t just that. It was the way she looked at him like he wasn’t just a boy she loved, but someone she would choose, again and again. Even if he doubted himself, even if he questioned whether he was good enough for her, she always looked at him like he was hers.

“You okay?” she asked quietly, her fingers tightening just a little.

“Better than okay,” he said, dragging his thumb across the back of her hand. “I’m with you.”

She leaned in and kissed him again, this time without urgency, without fire, just warmth and knowing. He kissed her back with that same ease, one hand cradling her jaw, the other anchoring her to him like he needed to memorize the shape of her in his arms over and over again, imprinting her onto his body like a tattoo. 

“I never want this to end,” she whispered.

Draco turned his head, brushing his lips to her temple. 

“It doesn’t have to.”

Even as he said it, there was a faint thread of unease in his words. They had college on the horizon for Hermione and the Drafts for Draco, applications scattered across her desk, scouting emails sitting unopened in his inbox. They had parents who never quite understood why they fit together the way they did, and friends who warned them that young love never lasted. They had grown up too fast in some ways and not fast enough in others. Still, in this moment, the car smelled like her shampoo and the remnants of the fast food they had eaten hours ago, the world was far away and worries could wait until tomorrow. The only thing either of them cared about was how tightly they held on. Draco pulled her closer, Hermione sighed into the curve of his neck.

“I’m serious,” she added sleepily. “You better marry me one day, Draco Malfoy.”

He laughed and tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. 

“You already know the answer to that, Hermione Malfoy.”

She didn’t need to say anything else, she just smiled, wrapped her arm tighter around his chest, and closed her eyes as Paradise played once again through the speakers, looping into a new memory they would both carry forever before Draco woke them up in a few hours to drive home.

The bass thrummed under their feet, Draco wound through the backroads with a familiar ease. They just let the road carry them, let the music take over. When the playlist shifted, Hermione noticed it. The first few notes came soft and steady, her heart caught in her throat. The rhythm was unmistakable and it brought her nearly to tears.

“Is this?” she asked, voice quiet over the music.

Draco glanced at her quickly, then back at the road. 

“Yeah.”

The screen on Draco’s dashboard read Playlist - ‘Dramione’. It was the title of the playlist. At the top of the queue was Paradise by Bazzi, the same song that used to play when they were tangled together in the backseat of his first sports car, breathless and young, windows fogged up as they pretended time would never catch them and back roads would carry them wherever they could be together.

“You still have it,” Hermione whispered.

“I never deleted it,” he admitted. “I couldn’t.”

The beat built beneath her skin, warm and rhythmic. She remembered every detail. The curve of the road, the way he would take his hand off the gearshift just to thread his fingers through hers, the way he kissed her when the chorus hit, every single time. She could live inside that moment forever.

“I used to pretend the whole world paused when this came on,” she said, her voice softer now, filled with nostalgia. “Just you, me, and the road.”

Draco pulled over near a familiar overlook, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The lake shimmered far below them in the dim evening light, just visible through the trees. He cut the engine, but left the music playing. 

“We never told anyone about this spot.”

Hermione laughed.

“We never needed to,” she replied, unbuckling her seatbelt.

Draco leaned across the console, his hand finding hers. 

“You know, every time I got behind the wheel, no matter what car, no matter what year, I thought about you. There were so many nights that I would just get in my car, put this song on, and think of you.”

Hermione turned to face him fully, her fingers traced along the edge of the leather seat. 

“That’s a lot of years.”

Draco chuckled.

“And still,” he said, “after all these years, this song, this road, and you? It still does it for me.”

She couldn’t stop the tears from leaking down her face. She leaned in, pressing her mouth to his with the same certainty she once had at eighteen, now with the steadiness of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and would never let go of what she had ever again. His hand cupped her jaw, the kiss deepening as the music pulsed on around them. It didn’t take long before he reached for the door handle and she mirrored him, both slipping out into the open air.

The back door swung open and Hermione climbed in first, laughing under her breath as she sprawled across the seats. Draco followed, the rhythm of their bodies quickly overtaking the rhythm of the music as muscle memory returned, the both of them giggling as if they were eighteen again. It was breathless and heated as their bodies slid across the leather seats, the windows quickly fogging as Draco dragged his cock in and out of her, Hermione’s own moans accompanying.

Draco knew he was close, the atmosphere, the music, the memories and overflow of love lost and found, it was too much. He spilled into Hermione with a throaty moan, stuttering with each rope of cum until he pushed into her one last time before collapsing completely on top of her. Hermione rode out her own release, clenching around Draco’s cock in that delicious stretch she loved. When they came down together, with her head resting on his chest and their legs tangled as they stared at the cars ceiling, Hermione laughed to herself.

“God, Draco, look at us.” she said, running her fingers through his hair. “Being with you makes me feel eighteen again. I’m a mother, and I just fucked my kids father in the back seat of his car.”

She kissed his jaw, letting the song repeat quietly around them. 

“But it was always one of our favorite past times, wasn’t it?”

Draco answered with a kiss. With the backseat of the car still warm from them and the windows open to the quiet of the woods, they rewrote the past without erasing a single part of it. They simply added more. More moments, more truths, more songs with meaning. The leather seats were uncomfortable in all the ways that didn’t matter, and neither of them was in any rush to go. There was something oddly perfect about being here again, in the car that wasn’t his old 86 but carried all the same pieces of their youth, threaded through new memories and anchored in something more matured. Eventually, Hermione shifted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she sat up a bit straighter. 

“You know Scorpius is going to be suspicious if we don’t get back soon. Your Mother is supposed to bring him back to the house in an hour.”

Draco’s arm was still draped lazily across her waist, his thumb brushing against the fabric of her shirt she now dressed in like he couldn’t quite let her go. After they both did finally dress, Draco chuckled as he stepped out of the car, holding the door open for her like it was instinct. They got back on the road in no time, like they didn’t just fuck each other, like Draco’s cum wasn’t still dried on the inside of her thigh. The town was quiet when they returned, the streetlamps glowing against the familiar backdrop of Northbridge’s storefronts and neighborhoods. As they pulled into Hermione’s driveway, she caught a flicker of movement through the living room window. Draco noticed it too. 

“That’s a flashlight.”

Hermione sighed. 

“He’s pretending to read in the dark again, that means he’s waiting up.”

“Let him wait,” Draco said as he shut off the engine. “I’m walking you in.”

They entered through the front door to find Scorpius on the couch, blanket pulled around his shoulders, a half empty bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, and a book upside down on his chest.

“I thought I told you bedtime was nine thirty,” Hermione said, standing with her arms crossed.

Scorpius looked up at them, eyes wide and absolutely unrepentant. 

“I got distracted.”

“By what?” Draco asked, raising a brow.

Scorpius sat up, brushing crumbs from his shirt. 

“By wondering what you two were doing.”

Draco turned to Hermione. 

“See? Nosy.”

Hermione gave her son a long look before walking over and picking up the remote. She turned off the lamp and gestured toward the hallway. 

“Bed. Now.”

Scorpius groaned, dragging himself up from the couch. 

“Okay, okay.”

Draco ruffled his hair as he passed. 

“Big game this weekend, you need your rest, it’s important.”

“I know,” Scorpius replied, grinning up at him. “It’s gonna be the best one yet because you’re going to be there!”

As the boy disappeared down the hall, Hermione leaned against the doorframe, watching him go. 

“I’m sorry that you didn’t get more time with him.”

Draco blinked. 

“We agreed to move forward with it, babe.”

“I know, I know.” Hermione said with a soft laugh. “It’s just hard watching him grow up.”

Draco stepped closer, his voice quiet but firm. 

“At least we can watch him grow up together.”

She turned, their foreheads nearly touching, her voice warm.

“That’s the plan.”

The arena was electric well before the puck dropped. Northbridge’s local ice rink had never felt so full, its stands a patchwork of light coats, handmade signs, and the unmistakable sound of community pride humming through every corner. The Championship game was the event of the season, and the town had turned out in droves to support the team of Mite boys who had spent the last few months skating with purpose and heart. Hermione tugged her jacket tighter around herself as she leaned in toward Draco, her breath a soft cloud in the chilly air. Sitting beside her on the hard bleachers, he looked focused. His gaze swept across the rink, landing every few seconds on the team huddled by the bench. It was weird, experiencing things from the other side.

“He’s going to do great,” Hermione said, nudging his arm. “He’s won three of these things after all.”

Draco glanced over, lips twitching into a smile. 

“You think he remembered everything we practiced?”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“I think he’s your son, of course he did!”

He reached down to take her hand, his fingers curling easily around hers, it felt like no time had passed at all. They weren’t co-parents or exes or two people trying to find their footing again, they were just Draco and Hermione, watching their boy chase a dream. A couple of kids from the row in front turned around, eyes wide and excited. One of them, maybe twelve at most, held out a small notebook and a pen. 

“Excuse me,” he asked politely, “Are you Draco Malfoy? From the Falcons?”

Draco blinked. 

“Uh, yeah. I mean, I used to be.”

The kid grinned, practically bouncing in place. 

“My dad said you were one of the best Centers he ever saw. Could you sign this for me?”

Draco chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Sure, kid.”

He took the notebook and scribbled his name quickly, offering a brief nod to the second boy who eagerly passed forward a puck for the same. Hermione watched the exchange with quiet fondness. She saw the pride in the kids’ eyes, the disbelief that someone like Draco lived in their town, and the way Draco seemed both embarrassed and oddly touched by the attention. He handed the puck back and the boys turned around with wide smiles.

“You’re a little bit famous,” Hermione teased, bumping his knee.

“Retired and forgotten,” Draco replied, shaking his head. “But that was nice.”

The announcer’s voice boomed across the arena, calling for teams to line up. Hermione felt Draco’s fingers tighten around hers, his other hand bracing on his knee as they both turned their eyes to the rink. When the team emerged from the tunnel, a roar erupted from the crowd. Scorpius was near the front, his helmet fastened as he scanned the stands. He always looked for his mother, he always found her in the same spot. But today, the moment his eyes landed on the two of them sitting together, Scorpius felt it, the longing and love all crashing together in one emotion too big for seven. Scorpius looked stunned, then deeply, fiercely proud. Draco frowned, leaning forward. 

“Is it me or?” He paused. “Wait. What’s on his jersey?”

Hermione said nothing, she only smiled knowingly and waited. Draco squinted, leaning over the rail. Stitched in bold black letters across the white of Scorpius’ new Home jersey, right above the number seventeen, was Granger-Malfoy. He sat back slowly, eyes still locked on the ice, his being in a state of shock. Hermione’s voice was low beside him. 

“Apparently, Lucius called in favors, paid the rush fees, and had the paperwork processed in under forty eight hours.”

Draco didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. He was watching Scorpius, unable to look away at the way the boy squared his shoulders and grinned at them both, proud and utterly sure himself.

“He did that?” Draco’s voice was hoarse. “For me?”

Hermione nodded, her eyes soft. 

“He wanted to surprise you. He said he wanted to carry your name with him, too.”

Draco wiped at his eye with the back of his hand, annoyed with how wet it had gotten. He laughed under his breath, a shaky exhale as his tears flowed freely. 

“That kid is going to destroy me one day.”

Draco put his hands over his face to try and stop the flow of tears. It was everything, seeing Malfoy, his name, on his son’s jersey. Down on the ice, the referee blew the whistle, Scorpius double checked his helmet and took his place at center ice. Draco wiped his eyes and took a breath, willing himself into Hockey mode. He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, heart hammering with much more than nerves. He had played in Championship games of the highest level, had stood under stadium lights with thousands of fans screaming his name. But nothing, nothing, compared to this moment, this feeling. Watching his son play was the single greatest accomplishment in the word, and now that his son was carrying both of their names on his back, it was priceless.

Draco tried to focus on the ice, on the players lining up for the faceoff, but his eyes kept returning to the name stretched across his son’s shoulders. Granger-Malfoy. Draco pressed his free hand to his mouth, the shake in his breath unmistakable. He looked straight ahead, pretending to watch the puck drop, but he saw nothing. 

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispered, his voice cracking against the truth he barely dared to admit aloud. “I missed years,” he said, shaking his head. “I missed goals and practices and parent-teacher meetings. I missed bedtime stories and skinned knees and whatever stupid toy he was obsessed with when he was five. How could he want my name?”

Hermione shook her head at such nonsense.

“He loves you so much, Draco.” she said softly. “Every early morning on the ice, every meal you’ve cooked, every single time you show up for him, that is what he sees. That name on his back? That’s his love.”

When the whistle blew and the puck dropped, the game surged into motion. Scorpius shot forward like lightning, Draco stood to his feet without realizing it, Hermione rising with him.

“Come on, Scorp,” he cheered, his throat raw. “Show them how Granger-Malfoy’s get it done!”

Hermione leaned her head against his shoulder, her voice warm at his ear. 

“He will, Draco, because he is yours.”

Draco nodded. This time, he wasn’t chasing a dream that was already behind him, he was living the dream everyday in the young boy with wavy blonde hair and grey eyes the color of his own. It seemed in no time at all the final buzzer rang through the rink, the arena surged to its feet in response. Northbridge had done it, clinched the top spot four years running. The scoreboard lit up in bold red numbers, final in its count. 

Northbridge - 4. Ellendale - 3. 

The ice became a storm of limbs, sticks, and flying gloves, teammates crashing into each other with laughter and disbelief at being the Champions four years in a row. Scorpius was at the center of it, his helmet yanked off, mouth open in a scream of joy, cheeks red from cold and effort, hair wild. He had watched every minute of the game with his heart suspended in his chest, nerves frayed. Now that it was over, now that Scorpius had scored the winning goal in the last seven seconds of the game, now that he could breathe again, he found he could not move. 

“He did it,” Hermione whispered. “They won.”

Draco blinked hard, his throat bobbed, too overcome to speak. He watched his son throw back his head and scream with the kind of joy that only belonged to children. Hermione leaned into him, the side of her head brushing his jaw. He finally moved, wrapping an arm around her without a word. The way her body fit into his was familiar and grounding, and it helped him breathe again. They made their way down through the cheering crowd, weaving past kids waving homemade signs and parents clapping them on the back. He barely registered any of it, his eyes were locked on Scorpius. When they reached the rink, Scorpius spotted them instantly and broke into a full sprint. He skidded across the ice, clumsy in his excitement, nearly colliding into them both, his arms thrown wide.

“I told you I could do it,” he laughed breathlessly, pressing his face into Draco’s shoulder.

“You didn’t just do it,” Draco murmured into his son’s hair. “You owned it, you were the best player on the ice.”

Scorpius beamed at his father.

“Did you see the jersey?” Scorpius grinned, pulling back just enough to show it off again. “Do you like it, Dad?”

Draco hands tightened around his son’s arms as he nodded, his eyes glassy. 

“You have no idea what this means to me.”

Scorpius sobered a little. 

“I do, I think, that’s why I did it.”

Hermione smiled, her hand reaching out to brush his cheek. 

“You’re the best thing we ever did, Scorp.”

Scorpius smirked at them.

“So, you’re going to get married now, right?” Scorpius added with the casual audacity of a young kid who had no concept of the word complicated. “Because I’m tired of pretending you two aren’t madly in love.”

Draco coughed into his fist, trying not to laugh. Hermione rolled her eyes with a grin.

“Let’s just enjoy this moment first. Burgers and shakes at Dale’s?”

The boys nodded. Draco clapped his son on the back, proud as punch.

“Burgers and Shakes at Dale’s sounds wonderful.”

After their bellies were full, they returned home to the quiet safety of Hermione’s living room. Draco sat on the couch, still dressed in the same clothes from the game, his arm slung lazily around Hermione’s shoulders. They didn’t need vows or rings to make their love real. What they had now was hard won and imperfect, a hybrid entirely theirs, but it worked for now. This wasn’t a fairy tale, it was so much better than that.

It was two people who had broken and healed and found their way back despite the time they’d lost. It was the soft surrender of forgiveness, the wild joy of second chances, and the quiet, permanent comfort of coming home. Draco smiled in disbelief, how much his life had changed in the past year. Hermione’s thumb traced a line across the back of his hand, and he let the tension ease from his shoulders, confident that he could stay with her forever.

“Mom, Dad! Are you coming to look at my new trophy or what?”

Scorpius’ voice rang out from upstairs, boyish and proud, full of the kind of joy that only a Championship could bring. Draco turned toward her, Hermione smiled at him, leaning in for a quick kiss that felt like a seal over every moment of hurt they had endured. Draco took the lead, heading up the stairs with his heart full in ways he’d not felt in years. Life had thrown its share of penalties at them. They had made mistakes, some that had cost years, some that had bruised deeper than either of them liked to admit.

Draco had spent so long trying not to trip over the past, afraid to swing too hard, to care too much, like he might get called for High Sticking in the game of life and lose everything all over again. Tonight, he had scored something better than any goal. He had a son who wore his name with pride, a woman who had always, quietly, been his home, and a future that felt worth the bruises it took to reach.

Second chances were rarely neat, rarely easy, and never promised. Standing at the top of the stairs, watching Scorpius beam beside his trophy made of the gold and glory that it was, Draco finally understood. Love was not about perfection, it was about showing up, even after the buzzer, even after the mistakes, and still wanting to play, still choosing to love the game. He stepped into the room, Hermione just behind him, and wrapped his arms around his son like he’d never let go again. 

“That trophy,” he said, voice rough with feeling, “might just be the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

Scorpius laughed, pulling them both closer. 

“Wait ‘til it’s the Stanley Cup, Dad.”

Draco smiled and kissed the top of his sons head.

“I can’t wait for that day, Scorp.”

The family of three stood together, hugging in Scorpius’ small childhood room. It was nothing extraordinary, an action normal families partook in all the time, but for Hermione and Draco, it meant everything.

Chapter Text

The booth by the window had not changed. It was still cracked on one corner, still creaked faintly when someone slid across it, and still boasted the same laminated menu wedged beneath the salt shaker like it had never moved. The smell of buttered toast, cheap coffee, and something faintly maple accompanied, unchanged by time. The waitress, a new girl, Ellie, always kept a corner of the table warm with a fresh pot of coffee the minute she saw the Malfoy’s walk in.

Draco sat across from his son, Scorpius had ordered the usual, three pancakes, sausage, and extra syrup, but his hands rested untouched on the table. His eyes were fixed on his father with the kind of focus that made Draco straighten a little, not with nerves, but with an accute awareness. There was something different about the way his son sat that morning, less boy and more man.

“So,” Scorpius began, drumming his fingertips once, then stopping. “You ever gonna marry Mom, or what?”

Draco blinked. He sat back slightly, his coffee paused mid-air. 

“That’s how you’re starting the conversation? No hey, Dad, how are you doing?”

Scorpius shrugged, though it came with a crooked grin and a raised brow that was so unmistakably Hermione it almost knocked Draco sideways. 

“I’m just saying. I’m seventeen, and in, like, four months I’ll be eighteen. You always told me when I got old enough, we’d talk man to man. Well, here I am. Talking man to man.”

Draco rubbed his jaw, eyes narrowing with a half-laugh. 

“Is this what being a man means? Grilling your Dad over pancakes?”

“No,” Scorpius said, softer now. “It means saying things that matter, even if they’re hard.”

That stopped him. It was the kind of line that came from someone raised by both a brilliant woman and a stubborn man who learned, over time, how to listen better than he used to.

“You love her,” Scorpius continued, voice steady. “And she loves you. Everyone sees it. Hell, our entire town bets on when it’ll happen every Valentine’s Day and Christmas. You’ve been through everything, so why haven’t you married her yet?”

Draco looked down at his coffee, then back at the boy, or the man, he had raised. 

“Because I’m scared,” he said, honestly. “When I look at your mother, I still see the girl I loved at eighteen. If I marry her, it’s like, it finally comes true, it’s real.”

Scorpius didn’t interrupt, he let his father speak, his eyes kind.

Draco continued.

“She’s built this life. Her business, her work. She did that without needing my name attached to hers. I never wanted to get in the way of that.”

Scorpius rolled his eyes. God, his Dad was so emotionally stunted it was painful.

“She doesn’t want your name,” Scorpius said plainly. “She wants your promise.”

Scorpius gave a small smile, one that twisted with something old and wise, something no kid should have had to learn, but did. 

“You taught me how to skate, how to fight for what matters, how to lose with grace, and how to show up when it counts. I’ll enter the draft next year, and, regardless of what happens, I’ll be moving out on my own. Mom will be all alone without me. So show up for her, let her say yes. You’ve already given her everything else, why not one more thing?”

Draco groaned in resignation. His son was too smart. He reached across the table and clapped his son’s shoulder, fingers gripping tight. 

“You’re too damn smart for your own good.”

Scorpius laughed, picking up his fork. 

“I get it from Mom.”

Draco chuckled, shaking his head as he finally lifted his coffee. 

“You know,” he said, voice low, eyes warm, “I’ve had a ring hidden in the glovebox of my car for six years.”

Scorpius nearly choked on his pancake. 

“You’re joking! Six years? God Dad.”

Draco only raised a brow.

“You’re actually serious?”

He nodded. Scorpius set down his fork, his face breaking into the kind of grin that could rival the sun outside that diner window. 

“Then I guess the only question is…what the hell are you waiting for?”

Draco smiled into his coffee, the steam rising between them.

“Nothing,” he said, his voice steady now. “I’m not waiting anymore.”

Scorpius smiled.

“Good. And while you’re at it, maybe a sibling would be fun?”

The swot Draco gave on the back of Scorpius’ head was worth it.

The chemistry lab had not changed. The floors were still the same polished linoleum, scuffed and worn from years of sneakers and boots dragging over them during rushed class changes. The countertops were still black and sturdy, faded with use, corners marked with initials etched by bored seniors long graduated. Rows of Bunsen burners lined the back counter like forgotten soldiers, and the smell, that mix of chalk dust, ethanol, and cheap soap, still lingered. Hermione stood in the doorway, coat draped over her arm, watching the pale light from the late afternoon stream through the tall windows.

She had not stepped foot in this room in almost twenty years, yet it welcomed her the same way it always had. Familiar, a little sterile, but full of memories. She turned back to Draco, who was lingering by the old lab station they had once shared. It had been their assigned seats. Table four, right in the middle of the room. She used to arrive early, notebooks stacked with color coded tabs, already halfway through the reading. He would stumble in minutes before the bell, smelling like cologne, muttering about practice and pretending he had done the homework. Somehow, they made it work.

“Why here?” she asked gently, stepping closer.

Draco gave her a quiet smile, his hands resting against the edge of the counter. 

“Because this is where I started loving you, before I even knew what to call it.”

Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat. She glanced around again, taking it in. 

“I remember this table,” she said softly. “You broke the gas valve trying to light the burner and nearly got detention that one time.”

He laughed, the sound warm and easy. 

“You covered for me, told the teacher it was already cracked when we got there. I don’t think I ever thanked you for that.”

“You didn’t,” she teased, a smile tugging at her lips. “I had a spotless record until I met you, you know.”

“Well,” Draco said, reaching into his coat pocket, “it’s about time I fixed that.”

Hermione blinked as he dropped to one knee. There was no audience, no flash of cameras or fanfare. Draco looked up at her, his eyes clear, steady, and completely unguarded.

“I’ve spent a long time keeping you waiting,” he began. “You never made me feel like I had to prove anything.”

Hermione’s eyes shimmered, she said nothing, but her hands came up to cover her mouth, her fingers trembling slightly.

“But somewhere between our son’s first hockey game we watched together and our hundredth Sunday morning as a family of three, I realized something. You never needed me to be perfect, you just needed me to show up. And I did. I showed up again and again because I love you, because I’ve only ever loved you. No part of my life has ever made sense without you in it and I know that now.”

Her hands slowly dropped, pressed over her heart, as her lips parted with the faintest, tearful smile. Draco reached into his coat and pulled out a small black box, fingers steady as he opened it. Inside sat a simple ring, white gold, elegant, and unmistakably Hermione. No frills or ostentatious designs, it was something subtly beautiful, like the life they had built, and the woman he had built it with.

“I want to marry you, Hermione. Not to fix anything, or to prove anything, we’ve long since buried the hatchet. I want to marry you because I already know what forever with you feels like, and I don’t want to spend another year, or another minute, pretending we’re anything but that. Let me grow old with you officially, let me keep showing up for us.”

She dropped to her knees, too overcome to care about the floor, and threw her arms around him before the last word even left his mouth.

“Yes,” she whispered against his shoulder. “Yes, Draco. Of course yes.”

They stayed there for a while, wrapped up in the quiet safety of each other, knees pressed to the tile floor of a room that had once been just another classroom but now held the beginning, the middle, and everything ahead. 

The Malfoy estate had never looked more like home. The grounds had been trimmed and shaped by hand, not by staff, and there were wildflowers tucked along the fence posts, picked by Scorpius and arranged with careful pride. Folding chairs formed two soft rows along the lawn, mismatched cushions borrowed from the bakery and the Grangers’ porch swing.

A linen arch stood at the back of the yard, strung with fresh eucalyptus and cream roses, exactly how Hermione had described it when she was eighteen and doodling wedding dresses in the margins of her chemistry notes. When she walked toward him in a simple white dress, barefoot in the grass with her hair pinned back in soft curls and flowers woven through her hair, Draco could not imagine there had ever been a better use for this land. It was exactly as he’d suspected, she looked beautiful and needed nothing more.

Scorpius stood beside him, now the same height as his father in a casual suit and slacks. His hands were steady as he passed the rings, his voice didn’t shake when he made his toast later, standing proud in front of a crowd full of family and their closest friends, reminding everyone that he was the reason they were all her amid chuckles, and he was right. They didn’t need a ballroom, didn’t need strings or chandeliers or a hundred guests.

They had each other, they had Scorpius, and now, at long last, they had forever. The crowd tossed dried petals as they ran toward the driveway, hands linked, shoes forgotten. Hermione hiked up her dress as she climbed into the front seat of Draco’s car, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. It was the same car he had driven when he was eighteen, restored and repainted over the years, but still unmistakably his. The engine rumbled beneath them as he turned the key, grinning as he shifted into gear and waved back at the cheering crowd disappearing in the rearview mirror.

They hit the long stretch of countryside road, windows cracked, her hand on his thigh. Wind whipped through the open car windows, tangling the edges of her veil until she tugged it off and tossed it in the backseat with a laugh. Draco’s knuckles relaxed on the wheel, his eyes flicked over to her every few seconds, like he couldn’t believe this was real. He noticed as she reached into her clutch. Inside, Hermione drew out a folded piece of glossy paper, something stiff and square. She didn’t speak as she slipped it into his free hand, letting her fingers linger just long enough to still him. He glanced at her, puzzled, but she nodded toward the photo. 

“Look.”

He glanced down briefly, balancing driving as he unfolded it slowly, careful not to crease the edges. The image came into focus all at once, black and white, a grainy outline at first. A sonogram. His throat closed, he blinked hard. She smiled with all the love and excitement in her eyes. 

“I wanted to wait until we were married to tell you.”

Draco swallowed, his voice rough. 

“Is this real?”

Hermione nodded. 

“I’m about twelve weeks along, due in the spring.”

He didn’t say anything right away, he pulled the car to the side of the road, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and shifted into park. He turned toward her fully, both hands still holding the image, like it might disappear if he let go.

“I missed everything with Scorpius,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The first scan, the kicks, the cravings. I wasn’t there.”

Her hand found his again. 

“You’re here now and you’re not going anywhere. It’s our second chance to do it right, babe.”

He looked down at the sonogram again, then up at the woman he had loved his whole life.

“I’m going to be there for all of it this time,” he said, voice firm and full of something unwavering. “I won’t miss the birth of my child twice.”

Hermione leaned in, kissed him softly.

“I know,” she whispered. “That’s why I chose today to tell you.”

When he pulled back onto the road, the photograph safely tucked into the sun visor above him, his hand found hers again, resting on the small place between them that held their future. They drove on toward the next chapter of their lives, the car steady on the road, and the rest of their love story unfolding with every passing mile.

Chapter Text

The crowd roared as the final buzzer arrived, the boards rattling under the force of it. Silver and Green confetti rained from the rafters, and in the mesh of his helmet as Scorpius coasted toward center ice, arms raised, stick tossed to the side. His teammates swarmed him in a wall of jerseys and limbs and years of blood and grit. The scoreboard blazed above them, and for the seventh time in his career, Scorpius Granger-Malfoy had done the impossible. Again. The Stanley Cup gleamed on the platform, waiting.

As he hoisted it above his head, heart pounding, he found her first. Lyra Jean sat in the front row, nose pressed to the glass, cheeks flushed with excitement. She had grown up so opposite from Scorpius, but he was not jealous. Scorpius' name carried a history, it was special, a bond between just him and his parents. She grinned at him now, crooked and proud, and lifted a handmade sign above her head that read in her looping handwriting.

That’s SEVEN, you showoff.

Next to her, hand-in-hand, were the two people who had built this life with him. Draco still wore the same Northbridge cap he had owned since Scorpius’ first state championship. It was frayed at the brim, the logo half faded, but he refused to retire it. Hermione stood beside him, tearful and laughing, both hands clutched at her heart as she watched her son do what he had always been born to do. Scorpius grinned, teeth bared, and skated toward the glass. He tapped his glove against the surface once, twice, then again, slower this time.

A code they had started back in juniors. One for Mom, one for Dad, and one for home. His career had never belonged to just him. He was the boy who wore Granger-Malfoy across his back in equal measure. He had watched his parents fall in love every day, even when they were too busy or too tired or too stubborn to notice it themselves. He had seen his father cry, years ago, in a quiet hallway in Madison Square Garden when Scorpius shattered his first NHL record. Now, standing on the ice with the seventh Cup behind him, he knew exactly what that had felt like.

The record he had chased for years, his father’s legacy as the youngest to earn Six Stanley Cups, was one he had finally broken. The media had called it poetic, his father had called it inevitable. By thirty five, Scorpius had played seventeen seasons, captained the Stars through three rebuilding eras, and worn the ‘C’ longer than any player in the franchise’s modern history. He had done everything he dreamed of, and then some, but he knew it was time. His knees ached on cold mornings, and his little sister had just started college. The world was still wide open and he wanted to build something new. The press conference was emotional. He thanked his coaches, his teammates, he even thanked the fans who had worn his number and camped out overnight and supported him over the years. But most of all, he thanked his parents.

“They never let me forget where I came from,” he said, voice steady, “and they never let me think I was alone. I have always been a Granger-Malfoy.”

When it ended, when the cameras were off and the microphones had been packed away, Scorpius walked down the hallway of the Stars arena with his hands in his pockets and a lump in his throat. The halls were quieter now, empty of the clamor, of the adrenaline, of the noise that had shaped him since he was a young rookie. At the end of that hallway, standing just inside the loading dock, was his father. Draco looked older now, his hair had started to pepper silver, and the lines at the corners of his eyes had deepened. But he still stood the same way, with his arms crossed and that familiar tilt of his head, like he had been waiting there all along.

Scorpius did not say anything at first. He walked up to his Dad, slightly taller now, a little broader, but somehow still that seven year old kid in a Northbridge hoodie and skates. When his father opened his arms, Scorpius stepped into them, seven years old again. He buried his face into the curve of his father’s shoulder, gripped the back of his shirt, and let himself feel all of it. The wins, the losses, the games he had played and the sacrifices his family had made for him. Every second of it was here, in this one embrace.

“I’m proud of you,” Draco said, voice thick, hands firm on his back. “You did good, Scorp.”

“I know,” Scorpius whispered, not letting go. “I had a great coach.”

He didn’t need the rink anymore, he didn’t need the spotlight, or the headlines, or the roar of the crowd. He had everything he needed right here. When Hermione and Lyra came through the doors, carrying the old Stars banner they had saved from his very first season in the pros, Scorpius turned, took it from them, and slung it over his shoulder as he walked out into the night, arm-in-arm with his family, ready for whatever came next. Second chances ran deep in their blood and this time, no one was skating alone.

The news came on a Monday. Draco had just returned from his morning run, which was really more of a spirited walk at his age, followed by a fifteen minute stretch and an accusatory look in the mirror at the smile line of his face. Hermione greeted him at the door with a kiss, a fresh blueberry muffin, and a very casual, very suspicious.

“We should probably Face Time Scorpius after dinner.”

He should have known something was up then. By the time dinner was cleared and Lyra Jean had Face Timed them from her campus dorm, Draco was freshly showered and stretched out in the den of their little farmhouse, ready to watch the old Northbridge championship rerun for the fourth time that month. He had the remote in one hand, a slice of leftover peach pie in the other, and a smug grin that said retirement was treating him just fine.

It was only when Hermione thrust her cellphone in his face, that Scorpius’ face filled his vision instead of a hockey puck, which was jarring enough. It was the way he looked, however, that struck Draco as odd. He was too grinning, too suspicious, and that made Draco sit up straighter. Lily Luna Potter sat beside him, glowing with the kind of newfound softness he’d only seen on his wife’s face once before. She wore a soft pink blouse and was absolutely beaming. Draco’s stomach sunk.

“Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad,” Scorpius said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing. “So, uh, we wanted to tell you both something.”

Hermione leaned forward on the couch, Draco crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes.

“If this is about your dog chewing through something again, I swear to God-”

“Nope,” Scorpius cut in, smile twitching wider. “Bigger than that.”

Lily nudged him. 

“Just tell them.”

Scorpius cleared his throat. 

“Lily’s pregnant.”

There was a long, extended pause. Draco’s brain had simply stopped working. Hermione gasped, slapped her hand over her mouth, immediately bursting into happy tears. 

“Oh my God, are you serious?”

Draco blinked, then he blinked again. He reached over, slowly, like a man trapped in a dream, and turned off the television.

“You’re what?” he asked flatly.

“Pregnant,” Lily repeated sweetly, resting a hand over her stomach. “Twelve weeks along.”

Hermione was already rambling about onesies and knitted socks and whether the nursery should have forest animals or sports themed players, but Draco remained still as stone. His son, his bachelor son who had once dated a super model, a Finnish pop star, and a New York food blogger within the same playoff season, was having a baby. With his wife. He wasn’t ready for this. He was fifty six and had just sent his baby girl off to college. He had just bought a new motorcycle after that mid life crisis. According to Hermione, he still had abs, sort of, and they’d never lost activity in the bedroom. Still, he could not comprehend the reality of his age.

“I need a drink,” he muttered, standing up and walking to the kitchen.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Hermione called after him, though she was smiling so brightly she could barely get the words out.

“I am not being dramatic,” he shouted from behind the fridge door. “I am being aged, Hermione, aged! My looks are too good to be called Grandpa!”

Later that week, he found himself seated on a park bench beside Ron Weasley, of all people, watching a handful of neighborhood kids kick a soccer ball around in the grass. Draco had come to the park to clear his head. Ron had brought a sandwich and a penny for his thoughts.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Draco muttered, staring blankly at the jungle gym.

“That you’re gonna be someone’s Pop Pop?” Ron replied through a mouthful of turkey.

Draco winced. 

“Don’t say it like that, Weasley.”

Ron swallowed.

“You could go by ‘Grand-D,’” Ron said with a grin. “Or ‘Coach.’ Or just ‘Sir,’ if you wanna terrify the kid.”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“I am going to fight you. Why are we friends?”

The worst part, however, came the following Saturday, when Hermione hosted a little announcement party at their house. Nothing big, just close friends and family, a few pink and blue cupcakes, and a banner that read Welcome Baby Malfoy! Draco walked in, took one look at the gold foil balloon that said Congrats, Grandpa! and promptly walked right back out. It was only after Scorpius chased him down the driveway, grinning like a fool, that Draco finally stopped sulking.

“I get it,” Scorpius said, jogging beside him. “It’s a lot. But hey, you had me at eighteen. You’re still young, Dad. You’ll be the cool grandpa.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. 

“I am not wearing cargo shorts or giving piggyback rides. And I draw the line at shoes. Don’t you dare buy me a pair of New Balance 990’s.”

Scorpius laughed and threw an arm around him. 

“You’re gonna be great, Dad. You know you’re gonna love them, just like you love Lyra and I.”

Draco thought of all the years that had passed. His only daughter, his second chance, was grown and in college, and now, his oldest child had his first grandkid on the way. He lamented his life and relished it all the same. He was just being dramatic and he knew it.

“Fine,” he said. “But I get to hold them first after you.”

Scorpius barked a laugh. 

“Deal, old man.”

They walked back toward the house, toward the party and the cupcakes and the family waiting inside, Draco realized he didn’t feel old, not truly. He felt lucky. Really, stupidly, ridiculously lucky. For a man who had built a life on the ice, sometimes the best wins came years after the final buzzer, with one lucky clover at his side.

Chapter Text

The Other Sister: (Full HP Dramione rewrite from Years 1-Post-War w/ SPICE). COMPLETE

What if Hermione Granger had a twin?

In the stories they tell after the war, it’s always Coraline Granger they remember. Cora, 1/3 of the Golden Trio. Cora, The Bravest Witch of Her Age. Cora, the Golden Girl. Cora, who fought loud and bright and brave. She has the accolades. The War Hero Status. The friendship of Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world. But there was another sister, more intelligent and, perhaps, powerful. Hermione Granger, often overlooked in favor of her twin.

The first Muggleborn sorted into Slytherin, she vanished into the shadows the moment the hat touched her head. She wasn’t the girl who led the charge, she was the one who rewrote the battlefield behind the scenes. With Draco Malfoy at her side and a House full of snakes behind her, Hermione did what others wouldn’t. But history never remembers the girl who made the hard decisions, for legends, like her sister, only live in the light.

https://archiveofourown.to/works/65153077/chapters/167575450

The Black Card War Duology (WIP):  (Durmstrang Hermione x Beauxbatons Draco Crime Syndicates AU)

Durmstrang sent its fiercest, Beauxbatons sent its finest, neither expected the other to be a threat or a temptation.

When Hermione Granger, heiress to the feared Granger Crime Syndicate, crosses paths with Draco Malfoy, heir to a blood soaked French Empire in silk gloves, the sparks they strike could ignite more than rivalry. In a world ruled by Black Cards passed between enemies with a mark for death, what begins as a battle of wills and manipulation quickly turns into something much more dangerous.

Love was never part of the deal, now it’s the most dangerous card on the table. 🂲

https://archiveofourown.to/works/66582868/chapters/171750061

The Thief In My Bed: (Obsessive/Possessive Hermione, Gratuitous and Shameless Smut). COMPLETE.

Hermione Granger has been obsessed with Draco Malfoy for years. She knows his routine down to the minute, hoards pieces of him like sacred relics, and dreams in the scent of his cologne pressed into stolen silk. When rumors of his alleged betrothal to Astoria Greengrass reach her ears, it simply wouldn't do. He was hers to covet, to touch, to possess. If the world refused to give him to her? Then she’d simply take him. After all, Hermione Granger was never good at sharing.

https://archiveofourown.to/works/67893201/chapters/175565006

Jilted, Stilted, & Vine: (PURE FLUFF, Post-Hogwarts, Married Dramione w/ SPICE). COMPLETE.

On the same day they were supposed to marry other people, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy independently flee their respective weddings only to run into each other in a Muggle bar. One too many drinks, an admittance of a something at Hogwarts, and one impulsive courthouse ceremony later, they wake up married, naked, and headline news in the Wizarding World. Now publicly, and magically, bound for life, the former enemies must navigate one very inconvenient marriage certificate. It was supposed to be a disaster, so why does it feel like the start of something else entirely?

https://archiveofourown.to/works/66677197/chapters/172021486

A Gallow's Kiss: (Rockstar Draco Malfoy, Post-Hogwarts Dramione w/ SPICE). COMPLETE.

Five years after the war, Hermione Granger is a rising star at the Ministry. When Ginny drags her to a concert by the mysterious masked band A Gallow’s Kiss, Hermione isn’t expecting much. But the lead singer’s voice cuts through her, and the lyrics feel like they were written just for her. Draco Malfoy disappeared without a trace after the Battle of Hogwarts. No body, no trial, no closure. In truth, he fled the wizarding world and became a rock legend.

When Hermione recognizes more than just his voice on stage, she follows the pull of a memory she never fully understood. Behind the mask, she finds a man she might have loved…if they hadn’t been on opposite sides of a war.

https://archiveofourown.to/works/67714061/chapters/175054361

In Your Arms: (8th Year Dramione w/ SPICE). COMPLETE.

Hermione Granger returns to Hogwarts for her Eighth Year, not to reclaim her past, but to disappear into it, to be a student, not a war hero, not the Golden Girl. She wants solitude, numbness, and no expectations. She doesn’t want Draco Malfoy, but Malfoy is there, silent, watchful, and just as haunted as she is. He sees the way she no longer fights to be the best, the way she shrinks from the spotlight she once thrived in. They don’t want to share space, but they do. As tension builds between them, heavy, charged,  and undeniable, Hermione begins to realize that slipping away isn’t so easy when someone else sees you fading.

https://archiveofourown.to/works/63902641/chapters/163892755

The Quidditch Pitch:  (No Voldy AU, Quidditch Player Draco). COMPLETE.

Hermione Granger’s worst nightmare comes true when she loses a bet to Draco Malfoy, the self proclaimed Slytherin Prince and star Slytherin Seeker, during their fourth year. His demand? She must wear his Quidditch jersey to every Gryffindor-Slytherin match until graduation, a long standing tradition among love interests and couples alike. For Hermione, it’s mortifying. For Draco, who’s secretly been in love with her since first year, it’s a dream come true, a chance for his name to finally grace the back of his dream girl.

What starts as public humiliation turns into something neither of them expected, stolen glances, heated banter, passionate romps in the Room of Requirement, and a growing bond that defies deep seeded house rivalries. With meddling friends, over-the-top Quidditch drama, and a whole lot of tradition, The Quidditch Pitch is a story of teenage love, where sometimes, the hardest battle isn’t on the pitch, it’s in your heart.

https://archiveofourown.to/works/62291230/chapters/159372781