Chapter Text
“I love you, Mummy!! Don’t go!” James clung to Ginny’s left shin, his small body rising and falling as Ginny laboured her way towards Hermione. Hauled over Ginny’s right hip, baby Lily was babbling high inarticulate noises and smacking a violent arm against Ginny’s left clavicle.
“You’re fine, sweetie. You’ll have a grand time,” Ginny replied calmly but loudly over the din.
Stepping out of the floo, Hermione was armed with only her beaded bag. She stood awkwardly watching the two little ones clutch Ginny’s hobbling form like a climbing frame.
Ginny finally reached Hermione. "Love of my life! My heart’s true desire. Ahhhh, I’ve missed you so much. C'mere." Extending a free arm, Ginny pulled Hermione into a tight, boisterous two-adult, two-child hug. "You’re looking beautiful!”
Hermione looked down. She wore her mum’s old ratty Oxford jumper, her most comfortable jeans (she still had to jump a bit to wrest them over her bum), and worn trainers. Her face was bare. Her tortoiseshell frames rested atop the bridge of her nose (vision charms made her eyeballs itchy). She hadn’t even bothered to detangle her hair this morning—just pulled it back in a ponytail.
She narrowed her eyes at Ginny, who blurted, “And your hair looks gorgeous! So shiny. It’s giving me Gwenog Jones off pitch in all her no nonsense glory.”
Hermione raised a brow, but before she could dig into the suspicion that Ginny was Up to Something, Lily dove forward and whacked Hermione across the cheek.
“Oi! Lily. Gentle hands,” Ginny admonished, grabbing onto Lily’s tiny palms of fury and sprinkling them with little kisses. “Gentle, gentle.”
That reminded Hermione. She had a list! She fetched the parchment from her bag.
It was embarrassing how overdue this was. Lily was already a year old and Hermione had barely spent any time with her outside of bustling birthday parties or other grand celebrations. And James was in primary school now. Last year, she could only make out every other word leaving his biscuit-encrusted mouth. Maybe today, they’d finally have a real conversation.
Hermione just had some questions about their feeding and sleeping schedules. Dietary restrictions and preferences. Binky or no binky. Her eyes scanned the densely packed list of topics, some items underlined for emphasis, others marked with small symbols or marginal annotations. She had left room for notes.
She tutted under her breath. She was their bloody godmother. How did she not already know this stuff?
“So, Gin—”
“Ow! Lily. No biting.” Ginny gently pried Lily’s gaping maw off her shoulder. “James! No biting! No, not even for pretend. You know better, sweetie.”
Hermione tried again. “Er, before you—”
“Sorry, Hermione," Ginny cut in. "They both want to climb back into my uterus these days.” She squeezed her eyes shut and let out a sharp exhale. “Did I tell you, last week James had a burst of accidental magic that sent a cooking spell awry and a knife sliced into my shoulder. Like, really deep.” Lily wriggled, making frenzied little huffs, and Ginny shifted her arms. “Harry reckons he saw bone. I had to spend a few hours at St Mungo’s A&E.” Bliss washed over her expression. “I swear it was the most peace I’ve had in years.”
Hermione opened her mouth but wasn’t sure what to say.
Ginny continued, “Oh, and just so you know, Lily’s starting to walk—”
“Wow! Walking already?”
“Well, walking might be too generous. She’s finding new things to fall head first into every day. I don’t know why they make babies so top-heavy. Anyway,” Ginny went on hurriedly, “Harry’s already left to get our gear from storage, so I’ll be quick. Let’s see. Lily will start wailing as soon as I leave. And—she’s just going to scream a lot in general, alright?”
“Oh, yeah, I wanted to ask—”
“And this one,” said Ginny, scruffing James’ floppy mop of dark hair, “has promised to be on his best behaviour, haven’t you, love?”
James screeched, “Take me with you!! I want to play quidditch with mummy and daddy!!” He shook his head fiercely, face buried in Ginny’s thigh.
Ginny locked eyes with Hermione, saying in a low voice, “He’ll be fine once I’m gone. Just make life easy for yourself and go along with his ideas. And tell him he’s a very good helper.”
“Erm, okay? But what if—”
“You’re a lifesaver, Hermione! A whole day. Gods. Truly, you’re my favourite friend. Everyone else is rubbish. Harry and I haven’t been able to fly together since—well, no that can’t be right—oi, it’s been six years, hasn’t it? Since before James was born.”
Hermione’s heart began to race. Ginny wasn’t going to just leave, was she? Hermione still had so many questions. Nappy changing procedures. Play philosophy. She’d arrived early precisely because she needed answers before—before she was meant to be alone with the children and responsible for their terrifying little lives.
“Ah, no, Ginny! Erm—”
“It’s fine, Hermione. You’ll do great.” Ginny was speaking faster now. “Just send me a Patronus if they’re dying or close to, alright? I love and trust you completely. I do. With my life. With my kids’ lives. Complete and total trust.”
In the span of seconds, Ginny was unlatching James from her leg and placing his small hand in Hermione’s. His hand was damp and sticky, his fingers small and wiry. Hermione resisted the urge to withdraw.
“But ahh, don’t hate me, I also called in some reinforcements. They should be here in a little bit.” Her tone softened. “You know you’re a right catch, Hermione, yeah? Anyone would be lucky to have you.”
Ginny smoothed down the curls that had escaped Hermione’s ponytail and begun frizzing at her temples. She cast a quick scourgify at a bothersome oil stain on Hermione’s jeans.
Hermione blinked. Was that jam on James’ fingers?
Ginny straightened the collar of Hermione’s jumper and looked her up and down, nodding in approval.
“Thanks so much, Hermione. We really need this break.”
The worrisome pit in Hermione’s stomach sank deeper.
Ginny gestured for Hermione to open her arms and detached from Lily’s embrace. Hermione couldn’t help the nervous grimace on her face as she stretched out her upturned palms. Lily’s expression went from content to uncertain to distressed in a heartbeat. Before even making contact, Lily started to shriek. Ginny plopped her in Hermione’s arms.
Seizing a handful of floo powder, Ginny gave Hermione a look that was equal parts bracing and apologetic. She spoke quietly and in rapid fire bursts, “I love you. Harry sends his love too. Don’t be mad at me, yeah? You just deserve everything you want in life because you’re the best and my favourite forever. Byeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
And with that perplexing farewell, Ginny spun on her heels, yelled “Kenwood Park!” and the green flames sucked her away.
Oh, no.
Hermione was all alone with the children.
And—reinforcements?
Embarrassment bloomed in the hollows of her cheeks.
Who could that mean but Ron?
She supposed that explained the hair fussing and the pep talk about being single.
She didn’t begrudge Ron his seemingly delightful home life with Parvarti. Fatherhood brought out the best in him. Kids loved him. He knew how to do the silliest voices and faces.
Hermione was many things but she was not silly.
A decade ago, she had imagined all their kids growing up side by side—playing together, starting reception and primary school together. It had felt inevitable that she, Harry, and Ron would walk through the rest of their lives hand in hand, ready to fight a troll or rob a bank or turn fugitive at a moment’s notice to protect each other.
She and Ron were an ill-fated pair, lasting only a few months before they both wanted out. Things ended amicably, but the whole ordeal left her misaligned inside, like fate had gone off kilter and something integral to her being was missing. It wasn’t the loss of their relationship she grieved, not really, but the fantasy that those early friendships—forged by fire—would remain unchanged.
Maybe she begrudged a little. It wasn’t quite fair, was it? Ron had had his whole childhood to practise raising kids, growing up in a tight-knit family with so many siblings and cousins.
Meanwhile, at her cousin’s baby shower a few years ago, Hermione’s own mum had turned to her, cradling a cup of tea in her hands, and said, almost absentmindedly, “I can’t quite picture you as a mother.”
She hadn’t said it unkindly—there was no malice, no pointed edge. It was simply an observation by a mother who knew her daughter well.
Hermione had merely hummed in response, forefinger tracing the rim of her own untouched drink. She wasn’t offended. How could she be, when she couldn’t picture it either?
The thought of motherhood felt like a distant concept, like something that belonged to another version of her. She had spent so much of her life in books and battles, solving problems and seeking answers, that she wasn’t sure what it would mean to take on a role so profoundly quiet, so deeply entwined with the unassuming rhythms of daily care and invisible sacrifice.
Perhaps one day. Or perhaps not.
She had simply given her mum a placid smile and taken a sip of her tea.
But now, she wondered more and more.
Kids didn’t seem all that fond of her. She knew she didn’t make a great first impression in general. Too earnest. Too serious. Too bossy. Too rigid. She had once tried to amuse James with some nifty charmwork, but he had been too busy laughing at Ron’s ridiculous commentary to notice. During her last visit, she’d asked James whether he liked dragons and he’d simply turned and wandered off without a word, leaving Hermione feeling like she’d earned the first Dreadful of her life.
How old had James been then? Two? Three? She could never tell. Certainly older than one.
“What do I smuv of?”’
Hermione looked down at little James, still holding her hand.
“What do you what now?”
“What do I smil of?”
“Smell? Like,” she repositioned Lily in her arms and pointed to her nose, “this kind of smell?”
“Yeah," he nodded energetically. "What do I smell of?”
“Er.” She leant down clumsily while trying to keep Lily upright. Goodness, she was heavy. Small but dense. Hermione gave his forehead a good whiff. “You smell of—er, eggs and grapes. I suppose.”
It was not the most pleasant scent.
“No! I smell of bandages and biscuits.”
Hermione bristled at being told she was wrong. “If you knew what you smell of, why’d you ask me?”
James ignored her, hopping up and down impatiently. “Now you ask me what you smell of.”
“Alright,” she sighed. “What do I smell of?”
“You smell of tomato soup and fall leaves.”
“Er, thank you.” Then she remembered Ginny’s counsel. “You’re a very good—er, smelling helper, James.”
He beamed.
She could do this.
***
It was normal for childhood friends to drift apart. She knew that. It was just—her friends had things they were drifting towards. Hermione didn’t.
She had her career, of course. And she liked her work. She knew she didn’t want other kids going through what she went through, starting Hogwarts entirely alone, forced to carry her intelligence like armour against a strange, new world that was at best ignorant and at worst actually truly genocidal towards her.
After the war, she devoted herself to normalising the existence of muggles and muggleborns in the wizarding world. She had done some good, redesigning the muggle studies curriculum at Hogwarts, implementing initiatives to raise public awareness about muggle life and muggle accomplishments, and building the groundwork for more cooperative relations between wizards and muggles. Each step forward involved several years of tedious research and gladhanding, but the promise of tangible improvements glimmered in the distance. She was proud of what she had achieved.
Yet under her left rib where her heart was caged, she could feel a tether, curling and pulling and searching.
Her work provided a sort of fragmented fulfilment. Her friends had her undying loyalty but days and weeks could pass without seeing them. In between, an aimlessness filled her, hollowing out her limbs as she walked through the daily routines of her life. In the evenings, she came home to an empty flat. At nights, she slept alone, on the left side of her queen bed. In the mornings, she set the table for one.
For years, her love life had been a revolving door. At first, it was exhilarating—meeting different people, indulging in all kinds of experiences, discovering new facets of herself with each partner, each outing, each fresh adventure. She burst into laughter when recounting her favourite dating disaster stories.
Then it grew tedious. The faces changed, but the dance remained the same. Every new person fit a type she’d long since catalogued. Every encounter felt predictable, the script laid out within the first two minutes. She bit back a grimace when her friends counted their lucky stars to be out of the dating scene.
As her friends got engaged, she learned to navigate conversations about venues and centerpieces, nodding along gamely. As they got married, she listened kindly to spats about who ate all the snacks in the house and who put the dishes away wrong. As they started having kids, she watched as pub nights and mimosa brunches dwindled. Get togethers revolved around children’s birthday parties and the occasional family-friendly picnic and quidditch game. Her best friends talked about sleep schedules and teething and the merits of various strollers. The words bounced around her, meaningless and foreign.
All this she could bear—had been bearing, for years—just fine.
The unbearable thing was watching as Draco Malfoy started attending these very same social events with his own little boy Scorpius in tow, blending in seamlessly with her friends, sharing funny tidbits and advice about nappy brands and cot design.
Draco Malfoy, upon whom she had once wished a cursed life and a receding hairline. Draco Malfoy, sitting with his legs bent on his stupidly plush picnic blanket, arms draped casually over his knees, long fingers loosely clasped. Draco Malfoy, grey eyes warm and steady on his son climbing a tall tree, calling out, “Steady on, Scorp.” Draco Malfoy, pale blond hair ruffling lightly in the breeze, the muscles in his chest and arms flexing subtly beneath his shirt each time he shifted position. Draco Malfoy, gentle hand curved over the back of his son’s head after a fall, his voice a soothing indistinct murmur.
Draco Malfoy, who had grown the fuck up.
Draco Malfoy, who not only had a son but had tragically lost a wife, all before turning twenty five.
Draco Malfoy, with whom she had been friends, of a sort, back in eighth year.
He had started the year with an apology tour. She knew it was her turn when she saw him leaning by the door outside Ancient Runes, fifteen minutes before the lesson was meant to start. She always arrived first. She liked to nab the dictionaries and set them on her desk for easy reference. She liked to sit in the quiet and flip through the periodicals that Professor Babbling kept on the back shelves.
As she walked towards the door, his fingers intertwined and broke apart in restless motion, palms pressing together before sliding back and forth in a slow, nervous rhythm. His thumbs fidgeted at the edges, as if searching for something to hold onto.
She tightened her textbook against her chest and rebuffed him before he could open his mouth.
“I’m not interested in your apology, Malfoy.” His eyebrows lifted and his lips parted, but she charged ahead. “I’m over it. I’m not interested in meting out forgiveness—or punishment. If you’re truly sorry, then be a better person.”
The war seemed to follow her everywhere.
She sighed. “Live a good life. That’s enough.”
He tilted his head like he had a question on the tip of his tongue. But then he just gave her a few slow nods and a murmured, “If you say so, Granger,” before walking away.
He returned in time for the lesson. She startled when he sat next to her at the very front of the class. He usually sat in the back by the book shelves. She frowned as he nudged her quills and books to make room for his own.
A week later, he handed her three scrolls of parchment after Charms. “Even if you don’t want to hear me say it,” he said quietly, “I hope you’ll read it.”
She didn’t want to. But it felt rude to throw it out. After some deliberation, she tucked the scrolls in her trunk with all the other odds and ends of her life, underneath her wand maintenance kit and the personal potions set she kept for emergencies. In between Crookshanks’ favourite mouse toys, The Tales of Beedle the Bard, letters from her parents, a charm bracelet from Harry and Ron, her frayed Gryffindor scarf, and a few pressed flowers from her mum’s garden.
Malfoy continued sitting next to her in Ancient Runes, and then in Charms and Arithmancy too. He found her table in the library—it was the quietest corner with the best light—and settled into the seat across from her.
At first, she puzzled over him. Why was he doing this? Was it all a bid for forgiveness? It was just—strange. She wasn’t sure what to make of him. He talked to her and the conversations they had flowed like brandywine—smooth, effortless. He teased and smirked, but not in a rude way. It felt almost friendly, like an inside joke.
Then it became second nature.
They exchanged essay drafts and he had commentary that was not entirely useless. ”The theory is sound, Granger. But in practice, you’ll never be able to store asphodel root for that long, even with the world’s strongest stasis charm. Here, take a look at Krofter’s article on the magical lifespan of plants and herbs.” She’d already read Krofter’s take on the subject, but she could appreciate a person who came armed with supporting evidence. They eventually agreed to test out their competing theories in the brew room over the weekend.
She complained that the wizarding world sorely lacked for science. “Wizards are so spoiled. If muggles had magic, they’d have had it all mapped out and optimised by now. Instead, wizards bumble through the same traditions and spellwork they’ve clung to for centuries.”
He gave her a sceptical look. “If it works, why question it?”
She huffed into her Potions textbook, thumbing through the pages. “This is so vague. What’s a pinch? What’s a robust shimmer? What’s a delicate tingle in your chest? How do you make something better if you have only the barest grasp of why it works in the first place? Muggles actually push the boundaries of knowledge because they can’t just coast on magic the way wizards do. Muggles might struggle more, but they learn more too.”
They argued about charmwork.
“You want to take two disparate spells and combine them?” Hermione frowned when he told her about his independent study project for Charms. “The magic could conflict. It’s better to just cast in sequence.”
“But sometimes casting in sequence isn’t practical,” he countered. “Like wouldn’t it be convenient to disarm and summon your opponent’s wand at the same time? And, honestly, how is there not already a spell that combines muffliato and silencio? It wouldn’t take much to figure out the right way to combine the wandwork and incantation. I just have to experiment a bit. Test things out.” He cocked his head. “Isn’t that what your beloved ‘science’ is?”
Her lips quirked up. “Inventing a new spell would be cleaner, more direct. That way, you can be sure it’ll do exactly what you want.”
“New spells have to be registered with Ministry.” Draco clicked his tongue impatiently. “And besides, I don’t just want to combine two specific spells, I want to find a method for combining that works for any two spells. That way you wouldn’t have to build the entire theory from scratch each time.” A smile spread slow and easy over his face. “You’re the only one who enjoys all that magical theory, you know.”
He asked her what she planned to do after graduation and listened quietly when she said she wanted to figure out ways to challenge the wizarding world's preconceived notions about muggles. “You’re never going to stop fighting, are you?” he mused, his fingers tracing a nebulous pattern on his parchment.
He lent her books and slipped little notes in them detailing the parts he found most interesting and the ones that reminded him of her.
He touched her hand when he passed her a quill.
When she wanted to point out a passage to him, he didn’t just take her book and slide it to his side of the table. He stood and walked to her. He leant over, hovering, his bicep grazing her shoulder. His face practically nestled in her curls, seemingly breathing her in.
When he grew bored revising, he stayed at the desk, finding ways to amuse himself. He enchanted the dust motes to dance around her curls. They would glitter in the dim yellow light. He searched for a hundred similarly sized books and stood them up on their ends like a long domino chain, casting a silencio before nudging Hermione so they could both watch them topple, clunking down one by one. He elongated a pretty scroll ribbon and wound it through a plait in her hair. He gathered her paperclips and sticky tabs and post-it notes and choreographed little dances for them, making them twirl and flip and skate around the desk and over top her books and parchment until she stopped revising and talked to him.
When she turned in for the night, he packed up his things too. He started walking her back to Gryffindor Tower.
And he just—he looked at her. It seemed like he was looking at her all the time. She would feel an intense gaze heating her skin from across the room, and there he would be. Sometimes he’d turn away, pink cheeked and sheepish, when she caught him out. Other times, he would hold her gaze, his eyes deep and knowing, like he was pleased to have her attention.
What did it mean? She didn’t see him looming over any other girls, talking about books and letting his hand linger over a sheet of parchment spread out between them. She didn’t see him make that lazy soft smile at anyone else—the one he wore when peering at her over a thick stack of books or charming stationery to get her attention. That had to mean something, right?
Deep in the recesses of her soul, a small part of her wondered if it was because he found her pretty.
Her stomach dipped whenever he came near. Her cheeks flushed. Her breath caught when he leveled her with a certain look—the one that said, yes, you, I’m looking at you. Her posture stiffened, her body suddenly unsure what to do with all its useless limbs. Her voice sounded too high-pitched. Her fingers went into overdrive, seeking out something, anything, to touch—the bottom edge of her hem, the soft feathers of her quill, the corner of her book, the nape of her neck, the rough stubble of his jaw, the aquiline curve of his nose, the exposed skin of his throat when the top buttons of his collar were undone.
What was it about him that made her feel so young and foolish?
No matter. That was all before she proceeded to make an absolute fool of herself.
First, by going to the movies with him.
Second, by thinking it was a date.
Third, by begging him to kiss her.
It had been so nice, right up until it turned humiliating.
In the spring, he asked if they could go to the muggle cinema together. He seemed nervous, but he often was when talking to her about muggle things.
“I’ve read about it, but it’s hard to imagine,” he said. “I’d like to experience it in person. What do you say?”
“Just me and you?”
He nodded, biting his lip.
She agreed.
He probably didn’t know that couples went to the movies. So he probably didn’t think it was a date.
Even so. The possibility floated around in her mind. A date. With Draco Malfoy. Huh.
After reviewing the listings at the nearest cinema, she gave him a choice between Star Wars: The Phantom Menace and 10 Things I Hate About You. She informed him that the former was an action adventure about good versus evil that took place in outer space and the latter was a romantic comedy about two school-aged enemies who fall in love.
He chose the latter. That had to mean something, right?
She decided to wear her pale blue cotton dress; it had a fluttery skirt. She kept her curls loose, pinning back only the most unruly strands at the crown of her head. She left it at that, pursing her lips as she looked in the mirror. She could be dressed for a date, or dressed for a not date. It would do.
He looked handsome waiting for her outside of Gryffindor Tower, but he always looked handsome. His hair was neatly styled. He wore a forest green henley and his usual pressed trousers that fit around his bum so well they had to be custom tailored. He grinned when he saw her, his eyes twinkling.
Her mind jostled. A date?
He insisted they grab a bite to eat beforehand. “There’s plenty of time. Let’s go here,” he said, gesturing towards a humble little bistro. He leant forward to open the door, guided her with a light hand at the small of her back that made her straighten, afraid of leaning into his touch.
Their conversation stuttered more than usual. He rubbed his thumb against his lips while she talked and nudged a basket of crisps towards her. She bent over her sandwich, unsure what to say. Her laugh sounded too quick, too breathless.
Was it a date? Was it going okay?
She tried to think of something clever and witty to say, her heart pounding as he shifted forward and snuck an olive from her plate.
It was later, in the dark of the theatre, that she knew.
She was watching Kat tell Patrick that he had a little green in his eyes—no, they’re grey like a cloud-filled sky, Hermione thought idly. Then Kat vomited right on the pavement, Patrick’s hand cradling her head gently.
At that moment—Hermione would remember it forever—Draco lifted his hand from his lap and moved it close to hers on the armrest. For a few seconds, his fingertips were suspended, only a few inches above her.
Hermione's breath hitched. She forced herself to keep her gaze fixed on the screen, even as every muscle in her body tightened and thrummed at the charged air between their hands.
Slowly, his fingers landed light as a breath against the curve of her knuckles. He traced each rise and dip, following the delicate ridges where bone met skin, mapping all the gentle bends. His touch lingered on the soft creases and the tender folds as he stroked back and forth, up and down, over and over, like he was savouring it, like it was a privilege, this intimate touch.
You didn’t touch someone’s hand like that at the movies, in the dark, if it wasn’t a date.
She settled into it, trying to school the contours of her grin.
His touch was careful and deliberate. He held the outer edges of her hand, ghosting along the contours of her fingers, outlining them. He traced each graceful arc, following the smooth lines up to the very tip, grazing over the nail, the sensitive pad. Then he travelled back to her palm, and when he reached the soft juncture where her fingers met, he pressed softly against the fine thinness of her skin, petting the spot gently.
Every nerve in her hand prickled and screamed. His touch sparked flames in her palm. A ravenous heat swept through her body, her heart stuttering in her chest, her core pulsing deep and low in her gut, her toes curling in her ballet flats.
She wanted to devour him. She wanted to bring his hand to her breasts. She wanted to turn towards him and straddle his lap right there in the movie seat. She wanted to, at least, rest her head against his shoulder.
But she sensed this moment was a cautious exploration for him, so she kept her hand still. She only allowed herself a slight caress of his thumb, a tiny venture to graze his fingernail beds (so large) and skim the length of his fingers (so long), a brief pause at the hard knobs of his knuckles and joints (so well defined).
Her mouth felt very very dry.
This was a date. This was a date. This was a date.
The intensity of her reaction surprised her. She felt dizzy, giddy, like she was floating out of her seat. The realisation carried her through the end of the movie, through the moment when the lights of the theatre flicked back on and he slowly took his hand away, through the walk to the apparition point when their hands swung close but never quite touched.
They made their way back to the entrance of Gryffindor Tower. Her body was a live wire.
“So, that was nice,” she offered.
“I agree. I liked it.” His eyes were focussed and intent on her.
Her teeth chewed her lower lip in a grin. It felt like her cheeks would be hot for the rest of her life.
It was a date. She was happy. She looked down and gave a little laugh, exhaling, “Dracooo,” in a tone that meant, Well?
The edges of his eyes creased and he wet his lips. He replied evenly, “Hermione.”
She huffed, rubbing her lips together. She edged closer and tugged playfully on the hem of his shirt. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”
Her heart, which had been fluttering a merry beat, anticipating a sweet ending to the nicest date of her life, plunged to the molten core of the earth as she watched him stumble a half step back, panic strickening his features.
He said, “Hermione. I’m betrothed.”
She could still hear the choked horror of his voice. She could still see the bob of his throat as he worked through a gulp and the darkness of his brows and lashes framing his pale eyes, a shadow of pity passing over them. She could still feel the rise and fall of his chest, not too far from her. As if he couldn’t even fathom—the notion that it may have been a date.
The humiliation flew deep into her nerves, burying itself inside, and never left. It became so deeply ingrained it would come unbidden when she closed her eyes to sleep, when she stepped into the lift at the Ministry (grey like his eyes), when she passed leafy canopies at a certain time in the spring (the dark green shirt he wore that day), when she heard the name Julia (or Heath or Kat or Patrick or Bianca or Cameron or Joey). And most of all, when she saw a certain kind of hand, strong and nimble and undeniably masculine (the veins, the knuckles, the elegant length of his fingers).
She had thought mistakenly polyjuicing herself into a cat had been mortifying. No. Thinking you were on a date with your childhood bully. Deluding yourself into believing it was going incredibly well. Desperately asking him to kiss you when he had just been trying to say goodbye. Then for him to tell you he was betrothed. That was true mortification.
The rest of eighth year passed in a daze. She spread out her parchment and books to discourage him from sitting next to her in class. He took the hint. He sought her out in the library only once, to ask if she would talk to him.
She could see him fiddling his hands by the edge of the table.
“I’m sorry, Hermione. I should have told you sooner.”
“No, I-I should apologise.” She blinked several times to hold back the moisture in her eyes, then forced herself to gaze up from her seated position.
He looked down, tired and uncertain.
“I misunderstood,” she said as firmly as she could manage. “It’s not like we were—anything, anyway.”
“Right.” He ran his hands through his hair, his signet ring flashing in the dim yellow light. “Could I sit with you?”
Her mind whirred. If they were friends, she’d have to hear about his betrothal, about the plans, the ceremony, the life he was building with someone else. Maybe she’d have to attend the wedding, standing among the guests with a smile frozen on her face while he exchanged vows. Maybe she’d have to befriend his wife, make polite conversation over tea, pretend it didn’t sting every time she saw them together.
The thought settled like a heavy knot in her chest.
“No!” She said it too loudly. She snapped her lips shut and forced a few breaths in and out through her nose. “No, thanks. Let’s not—let’s just leave each other alone, alright?” She looked down at her parchment, adding softly, “The year’s almost over. We can go back to how it was before.”
She didn’t look up to see his reaction.
But he did as she asked.
Her study sessions became unsettlingly quiet. She immersed herself in revisions and walked back to Gryffindor Tower alone. She sat her final NEWTs. The term ended. She boarded the Hogwarts Express.
Unpacking at home, she found his apology letter at the bottom of her trunk. In the privacy of her childhood room, she unfurled it. It was a thorough cataloguing of his wrongs. Bellatrix. Mudblood. Buckbeak. The cabinet. Greyback. Dumbledore. Poison. Imperius. Horrid words he’d said to Ron, about her and the basilisk, about Cedric. Mocking Harry’s dead parents. Dozens and dozens of sins, all listed in his swooping script.
She forced herself to read it all, to recall each and every incident. She dug up old photos from past years, trying to reawaken the person all these things had happened to. She looked so young and small in the photos. It all felt so long ago.
And the culprit? Was he the same person who had asked her about muggle films and shared his crisps with her? Who charmed dancing paper clips out of boredom? Who stared at her like—like—like what, exactly? She never did know.
The apology ended with:
If you’re reading this, thank you, Hermione. Your hearing me out is already more than I deserve. If you ever chose to forgive me, I would welcome it, if only for selfish reasons. I hate knowing that I’ve caused you pain, and I couldn’t stand it if that pain lingered in you still.
I hope you’re free of it. Maybe that means I hope you’re free of me too, and all that I did. Though part of me also wishes that
For my part, you told me to be a better person and live a good life. That’s what I plan to do.
She read it over and over. Rolling it up and putting it away, only to take it back out. She unfurled the parchment and smoothed it down. Her eyes traced over his words until they became familiar. She admired his elegant loopy cursive. She noted the portions where he seemed to pause too long and the ink blotted. Had he hesitated? Rethought his words? How long had he spent writing this for her?
He was betrothed.
The word sounded formal and antiquated. Final.
It was fine. It was fine. It was fine.
They were never anything to each other.
She just needed to avoid him for the rest of her natural life.
***
“My keenom boke.”
James had pulled himself away from Hermione, busying himself with rearranging a stack of colourful wooden blocks.
He looked at Hermione expectantly. What had he said? Something cloak? She hadn’t followed anything after “my.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. What’s happened now?”
“My keendom bwokkkkeeeee.”
This kid’s enunciation had not improved at all.
“Your what did what now?”
His lips began to quiver at her lack of comprehension.
“My keengdom brokkkkeeeee.”
“It's ok, it's ok. Your—" goodness, she hoped this was right, "—kingdom, is it?”
He nodded urgently. “It brokkkkeeeeeee.”
She looked at the blocks. Nothing had fallen down or shifted.
“Alright. Well, perhaps we can build it back together.”
“No! I don’t need help building! I need help breaking it!!”
“I–what?”
“I need help breaking it!!”
She inhaled a slow breath.
“I thought you didn’t want it broken?”
“No, help me break it! Let’s jump on it!”
“Er—”
She was still holding Lily. James grabbed her free hand and bounced with vigour.
“Jump jump jump jump!”
She gave a few half-hearted bounces, then switched a squirming Lily to her other arm. Lily was emitting a huffy, heaving noise that seemed to signal imminent doom. When the wriggling continued, Hermione slipped Lily to the ground, where she immediately began grunting and flailing her arms to be picked back up.
But James took the opportunity to grab Hermione’s other hand.
“Jump jump jump jump!”
Hermione jumped. After twenty seconds, she stopped jumping.
Merlin. She needed to exercise more.
***
Hermione had always heard that baby heads smelled lovely. She gave Lily’s head a discreet sniff, though only she and James were around to notice.
Lily smelled of—Hermione sniffed again—sour milk?
***
Fortunately, Hermione quickly became accustomed to James’ speech.
“I’ll be the tiny king and you be the grown-up prince.”
Hermione fought back a scowl. She didn’t care for being bossed around one bit.
“Ok. Er, what does a prince do?”
“The dishes!”
“I’m a prince and I still have to do dishes?” she frowned.
“What’s wrong with the dishes? Daddy says it’s his honour to do the dishes every day. He wears a special dishes hat and everything,” replied James solemnly.
Oh, good Harry.
“Well, your dad’s quite right. Luckily, we have magic too.” She flicked an imaginary wand at imaginary dishes in an imaginary sink. “See? I even charmed them to put themselves away in the cabinets.”
“Nooooooo!!!”
Hermione jolted. “James, are you alright? What happened?”
“You didn’t do it right!”
He stamped his left foot. His pitch grated her ears.
***
Oh, no. Lily had stumbled her way over to the James’ block kingdom.
Wait. It was fine. She was just taking off the top blocks one by one. With an admirable gentleness and patience, really. It’s a shame she wasn’t saying words yet. Hermione felt a connection with this child, whose calm—
Oh, it was not fine.
Lily thrust her forehead forcefully into the watch tower and the castle came crashing down.
Hermione cringed, bracing for the fallout.
Wait. It was fine.
Lily had been unharmed by the tumbling blocks and she looked pleased with herself. Hermione could see her little brain churning, I did that!
James looked up at the broken castle and then the ceiling and began blubbering.
Lily started howling.
Not fine then.
She scooped Lily up. Now the squalling was right next to her ear. Excellent. Progress.
“It’s ok, James,” she soothed loudly, leaning over the blocks. “I’ll just charm them back—”
“Nooooo, you can’t!! They’re special!”
Hermione pulled back.
“Uncle Draco charmed them! You have to put them back the right way or it doesn’t work!!”
Hermione forced a grin through her wince. “Did he? How kind. Well, I’m a rather good witch myself. Let’s take a look at his charmwork, hm? I bet Auntie Hermione can go one better.”
She cast a detection spell to reveal the underlying enchantments in the blocks, feeling the pleasant and strangely familiar hum of Draco’s magic unraveling to display itself to her. She pulled a face. It was exceedingly complex for a children’s toy. Blocks that could remember and rebuild themselves into previous configurations. Blocks that could talk and sing to kids as they were building. Blocks that could transform into the just-the-right shapes needed. Mischievous blocks that tried to scarper mid-build.
Damn. He’d always been a dab hand at charms.
***
“Er. What news of the kingdom?” asked Hermione.
“I don’t know.”
Hermione tried not to roll her eyes. James was supposed to be the tiny king!
“Are the people well?”
“Yeah, they’re good.”
“Do they have food and bread?”
“They do.”
She racked her brain for something mildly interesting.
“Do they have cake?”
“Oh yeahhhh, they have so much cake! It’s the whole size of the kingdom!”
“The people in the kingdom must be very happy.”
“And they have big tummy aches!!”
James fell down on the ground laughing, nearly taking down a toddling Lily with him.
***
“No babies allowed in this theortor!”
Hermione glanced down at her watch.
Gods. Only twenty minutes had passed since she first arrived at the Potters’.
Lily was whinging, stretching her right arm and then her left, trying to reach a dancing snow globe on a tall shelf. She fell on her bottom for the dozenth time, then scrambled back up.
“I’m the performancer!”
James was—she wasn’t quite certain what he was up to. Possibly being a performer in a theatre.
When was Ron going to arrive? To hell with her petty grudges and resentments. She desperately needed another adult in the room, especially one that might be able to absorb or deflect the children’s manic energy in a way she couldn’t. Was that a learned skill or an innate talent? Whatever it was, she didn’t have it. Her own energy had been zapped dry.
She chided herself, remembering that she was here because she had been neglecting her godchildren.
But she shouldn’t be blamed for that.
Her plan to avoid Draco had worked for a time. Right after school, they went their separate ways. He got married and went into curse breaking. She dated and got a job in Muggle Relations at the Ministry.
But eventually their worlds shifted and collided. He and his son became enmeshed with her best friends’ children. He became friends with Harry and Ginny. Her Harry and Ginny. She saw Draco more and more often.
It was fine. She kept her distance. But even from across a room, she could clock the changes in him. His chest and shoulders had grown broader since school. He styled his hair differently, a little floppier. His posture was easier somehow. He stood straighter, more sure of himself as he moved. His eyes still twinkled when he smiled, but never at her. He seemed to be keeping his distance too.
That was hard enough. But something cracked a year ago when Ginny invited him to her bedside, not twelve hours after giving birth to Lily.
He had entered the room, one hand gently holding onto a shy little boy.
“Entirely clean bill of health for both of us, I promise,” Draco said, hand raised in a placating gesture. “I cast diagnostics before entering the room. And we’ve both thoroughly washed and scourgified our hands. I solemnly swear we are pathogen-free.”
Hermione was both stunned and vexed.
First, Malfoy had known to disinfect himself before entering the room. Hermione sheepishly recalled that Ginny had needed to gently remind her to do so. (“Thanks, Hermione. Newborns are just so very susceptible to illness,” she had yawned blearily.)
Second, I solemnly swear… Was that a coincidence? Just how close were Harry and Malfoy these days? She knew James and Scorpius were good friends, having hit it off when they started reception at the same school. But how many secrets had Draco and Harry shared?
And third, Draco’s son Scorpius was adorable. A sweet button nose and pale blond hair curling over his ears. Keen grey eyes that seemed to absorb his surroundings with earnest curiosity—so much like his father’s. She wondered which of his features were from Astoria. Maybe his expressive eyebrows? The delicate curve of his chin?
Then Draco asked Ginny in a gentle voice, “May I?”
And Ginny! Ginny had opened her arms to him, transferring her newborn daughter into his embrace with a tired smile.
Hermione watched as Draco cradled tiny Lily in the crook of his arm, his touch impossibly tender. His fingers adjusted carefully beneath her head. With a warm smile, he turned to Scorpius, kneeling slightly to bring the baby into view.
“Scorpius,” he had said in a soft conspiratorial voice. “Can you believe you used to be this tiny?”
Hermione felt a deep well of discomfort settle in her gut and lower—between her thighs.
Scorpius stepped closer, his wide eyes darting between his father and Lily. His small hands hovered, unsure if he was allowed to reach out. Draco’s eyes first sought permission from Ginny and then he gave Scorpius a slight encouraging nod, shifting just enough for the boy to see Lily’s delicate features—the fluttering of her eyes, her tiny fingers curled into a fist, her mouth forming an unconscious pout.
“But she’s so little,” Scorpius whispered.
Draco brushed his fingertips over baby Lily’s downy head. “She is,” he agreed. “And she’s counting on us to be gentle with her.”
Hermione knew then that something was wrong with her. With her heart. With her head. With her ovaries, probably.
A few weeks later, she booked appointments with her wizarding general practitioner and then a muggle gynaecologist. The latter, an older woman with long silver hair and discerning eyes, listened patiently to her symptoms (“There was just a lot of—er, fluid—released. It was a bit concerning. And very sticky.”) and declared that Hermione had “knicker lust.”
“I-I, what? Knicker… Doctor—” Hermione glared at the nametag while crossing her arms over her breasts. “Purselmore! You’re a medical professional!” She didn’t need a doctor to tell her she was hopeless. “I hardly think that’s appropriate.”
“Report me, love. I’m only a few months shy of retirement. I’m just telling you what I’ve learned from my own life and a lifetime of clinical practice. Once you near your thirties, when you spot someone who'll make a good mate for you, your knickers will soak. It’s your body’s way of letting you know it’s ready, dearie.”
“No, that’s not—not, that’s just, that's so regressive," Hermione said a bit desperately.
"Doesn't have to be a man." Dr. Purselmore lifted an unbothered shoulder and tilted her head knowingly. "Have someone in mind, do you?"
"But that's just physical attraction," Hermione insisted. "I'm more than a biological reaction."
Dr. Purselmore let out a soft tsk. "Of course you are, love. Listen to it, or don't. That doesn't mean your body isn't there."
"My body doesn’t know—”
“The body doesn’t lie, dear. It doesn't know how.”
Something was wrong with her.
Draco wasn’t interested in her. She already knew that. He had made his choice, following a path that had nothing to do with her. Not that—not that she ever expected otherwise. They were never anything to each other, she reminded herself. She had only imagined those fleeting moments, the lingering glances, the warmth in his voice. They had meant nothing at all. She had misunderstood.
And that was an age ago. They were different people now.
Draco’s life had gone in another direction, one she had no place in, no claim to. He had always been betrothed. And a good thing, too. It was a union that bore Scorpius, sweet child that he was. She could see how much Draco loved him.
Yet why couldn’t she move on? Why couldn’t her body move on?
A blaze of green flame jolted Hermione back from her dissociative haze.
Oh, thank Merlin. Ron was here.
“Scorp!!! Auntie Mione, it’s Scorp! And Uncle Draco!!”