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Chapter Text

Harry  Potter — 2005

Harry Potter strolled down the street confidently—hands in his coat pockets, head high, and a smirk teasing his lips. Snow fell in lazy swirls from the gloomy gray London sky, coating the wrought-iron fences and white stone facades of the Georgian-style townhomes that elegantly rose from the sidewalk. 

Snow like this was rare in the city, so Harry had chosen to walk this afternoon, just to experience the wonder of it all. Life was too short to apparate or floo everywhere—he knew that better than most. Plus, the Ministry wasn’t far, and he liked the anonymity that muggle London often granted him.

Today, he appreciated that anonymity more than usual, as he was far too busy relishing in the jittery feeling of anticipation coursing through his veins to play Chosen One for the wizarding masses. It started in his thumping heart when he spotted the very last house on the row and intensified the closer he got. 

In recent months, he’d begun to crave this feeling—the excitement, the uncomfortable fluttering in his stomach that brought heat to his cheeks and a smile to his lips. 

Harry’s heart hadn’t lurched at the sight, let alone thought, of another human being like this since he’d had that silly teenage crush on Ginny in sixth year—a crush that hadn’t survived the war, but the parting had been mutual not long after the final battle. War and grief change a person. They certainly changed Harry, to the point that he assumed he’d never feel like this about another person again.

However, and this made absolutely no sense, but he did get it again. It was the feeling he got when he was about to have another one-sided conversation with Theodore Nott. 

Harry pulled off his gloves, one finger at a time, and approached the emerald green door of the otherwise nondescript townhouse. The shining golden 846 beside the door proudly displayed the location of the London offices of Malfoy & Nott.

Two years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott, two Death Eaters’ sons, pureblood princes with more gold than goblins and no reason to work a day in their lives, opened their business, specializing in curse breaking, potion making, and rune translating. Now, just five years after opening, Malfoy & Nott had a reputation for producing potions of the highest quality, and Theodore Nott was considered the top independent curse breaker in the UK.  

Malfoy, of course, was the pretty face of the venture—handling all the funding and press and representing them at events. He made deals and secured clients, smiling for The Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly photographers that followed him wherever he went. Harry knew this because his niece had collected every photograph published and article written about the prat. In fact, sweet little Lyra had a scrapbook full of all things Draco Malfoy , obsessed as she was. Her hopeful, unrequited admiration for the bastard was one of the many, many reasons that Harry still, after all these years, absolutely loathed Draco Malfoy.  

Harry did not loathe Theodore Nott, however. 

When the Department of Magical Law Enforcement signed a consulting contract with Nott for his services, Harry was assigned to be the DMLE’s liaison for Nott. In this position, he would manage all communication with Nott, explaining the context behind any cursed object they needed him to purify and assisting as needed. 

At the time, Harry was understandably wary of the partnership. He could barely remember anything about Nott from Hogwarts—just that he was tall, smart, quiet, Slytherin, and his father was one of Voldemort’s most loyal, sadistic followers. It was only a natural response for Harry to investigate the bloke. 

Harry had interviewed a number of professors and other students at Hogwarts about Nott, including Headmistress McGonagall, and they all gave glowing reviews. He was, supposedly, incredibly intelligent and considerably kind. Even Hermione had vouched for him, having been Head Girl to Nott’s Head Boy, despite her… history …with Nott’s best friend and business partner. 

No one, however, knew much about him personally. It was strange.

Even now, after months of working with Nott, Harry couldn’t say he knew much more about Nott’s private life, and if he was being honest, since Nott rarely actually spoke to him, he didn’t really know much about Nott at all, which was just so tempting for Harry. 

Theodore Nott was a mystery, and Harry Potter never encountered a mystery he didn’t want to solve. It was kind of his thing. 

Tucking his gloves into the breast pocket of his coat, Harry took the front steps at a jaunty pace. The brass door knocker—a twisted serpent with its mouth open in a frozen hiss—always made Harry roll his eyes. Slytherins could be so predictable. 

He knocked three times. The snake’s mouth snapped shut dangerously, and the door creaked open to reveal a small reception area. Pansy Parkinson sat behind her desk examining her claw-like nails. As Harry approached, she looked up and two slim black eyebrows raised.

“Auror Potter,” she said, gracefully standing. “To what do we owe the pleasure ? As far as I’m aware, you don’t have an appointment today.” Her tone did not match the formality of the greeting. Harry was well aware that Pansy was no fan of his, and the feeling was mutual.

“I don’t have an appointment, no, but I need to speak to Nott on behalf of the DMLE. It’s urgent.” 

Pansy flicked her short black hair away from her face and gave him a leveling stare. “We’ve been over this before, Auror Potter. The DMLE is not exempt from needing an appointment for in-person consultations with Malfoy & Nott. It’s in the contract. Theo— Mr. Nott is a very busy man.”

Harry fought the urge to sigh. Pansy always did this. When she placed her hands on her slim hips in a show of defiance, Harry actually rolled his eyes.  “It’s also in the contract that emergencies are exempt from that clause, as you know. Could you please just ask Nott if he is available for a consultation, Pansy?”

Huffing, Pansy turned down the little corridor behind her desk, high heels clacking with more force than necessary. She glanced back at him with a sneer before entering Nott’s office.

“Professional as ever,” Harry mused, absentmindedly removing his thick blue scarf—an old Christmas present from Mrs. Weasley that had seen better days. 

Pansy came back out just as he shrunk it and shoved it into the pocket with the gloves. “He’ll see you now, but be aware that he has a prior engagement in ten minutes.”

Harry pulled up his sleeve and checked his wristwatch. “He has an engagement at 4:37 in the afternoon?”

“Yes, Potter, 4:37,” Pansy ground out, hands already back on her hips. “And I will make sure he keeps it, so you’d better get on with it before I ask you to leave now.” 

“Right,” Harry muttered, shrugging past her. He paused outside of the closed door to Nott’s office and took a subtle deep breath before rapping lightly on the rich wood. 

The door swung open to reveal Theodore Nott, seated not at his desk, but at one of the cushy wingback chairs by his large fireplace. He stood as Harry entered, and Harry, as usual, was struck by how tall and lean Nott was, characteristics further highlighted by his expensive, eccentric baby blue dress robes. The man dressed like a wizarding dandy. 

Nott kept his office dark, and every inch of wall was covered by shelves of books and a collection of cursed or broken magical artifacts which Harry knew Nott tinkered with in his spare time and sometimes during their meetings. When Nott was working on an object, he not only wouldn’t speak to Harry, he’d barely look at him.

“Mr. Nott,” Harry began. “Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice.”

Nott shook his head and strode to his desk. He sat smoothly, leaning back in his leather chair, placing his elbows on the chair’s arms. Steepling his long fingers, he waited for Harry to explain, his Nott heirship ring gleaming in the low candlelight from his pinky finger. 

Harry ran a hand through his hair. The snow had melted, leaving it cool and wet. Nott followed the action with his startling blue eyes—eyes like piercing sapphires, the sort of eyes rarely seen in the muggle world. Harry suppressed a shudder and sat in one of Nott’s uncomfortable guest chairs. “How have you been?”

Nott didn’t answer, just stared. He never answered, but Harry always asked. 

“Okay. Erm—well, anyway, there was a bit of an incident this morning,” Harry said, crossing his legs and leaning back to appear as relaxed as Nott. “You know how the DMLE has been attempting to break the wards on the Yaxley hunting lodge in North Yorkshire?”

Nott nodded, having consulted on the best approach for tackling the property with the Ministry’s ward specialists a few weeks prior. He rarely spoke which Harry viewed as something of a personal challenge. 

“The ward specialists cracked it today. You were right, by the way, it was the blood wards giving them the most trouble. They ended up bringing in a distant relative they found in New Zealand––a Miss Olivia Brown.”

When Nott made no comment, expression blank, Harry continued. “Unfortunately for her, as soon as the wards fell, so did she. She’s stable and in a magical coma at St. Mungo’s now. The DMLE is hoping you can take a look.”

Nott straightened in his chair, hands falling to his desk.  He cleared his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing behind his crisp cravat. “She’s a halfblood, I presume?”

“Yes,” Harry answered, secretly thrilled by the man’s voice. Nott didn’t speak much, but when he did, the sound melted over Harry like a disillusionment charm. He had a crisp posh baritone that would be toe-curling under less professional circumstances.

Rubbing his strong jaw in deep thought, Nott murmured, “I’ll need to check the keystone at the hunting lodge. It’s likely a purity curse, but could be a number of things.”

Harry smiled. “I know you're busy today. Would tomorrow afternoon work for you? I can meet you at the front gate at 1:00.”

Nott stared at him for a moment then opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a small dragon-leather bound journal. He flipped through it until he found the page he was searching for and ran a finger over it. “I’m free.” 

“Excellent!” Harry said, clapping his hands together, while Nott added the time to his schedule and quirked a brow. “Oh, um—well, you know what I mean—er, or it’s not excellent that she’s been cursed, but it’s excellent you can help, obviously.”

“Hmm,” Nott hummed, leaving a very awkward silence in its wake. 

Harry glanced around, trying to find the words to take his leave, but make sure it wasn’t on this open, awkward note. Spotting a magical porcelain menagerie on the shelf behind Nott’s desk, he gestured to it.“My niece would love that. She’s been mad about unicorns lately.”

Nott’s eyes widened in surprise. He looked back at the little collection of frozen fantastic beasts, then back to Harry. “Aren’t you rather famously orphaned?”

“W—what?”

“An orphan,” Nott said again, giving Harry an odd look, almost like he thought Harry was the biggest moron in Britain. “You’re an orphan with no siblings.”

“I suppose I am.”

“But you have a niece.”

Harry knew he was taking a risk with what he was about to say, but he had to know if Malfoy had told Nott and whether Nott approved of Malfoy’s actions or lack thereof. The twins weren’t exactly a secret, though Hermione valued their privacy, so it wasn’t a betrayal to bring them up or anything. Besides, this was the most Nott had talked to him ever. He wanted to keep it going.

“Lyra is Hermione’s daughter.”

Nott’s jaw actually dropped, blue eyes wide with shock. “Herm—“ He took a glance at his office door and lowered his voice to a hissing whisper. “Hermione Granger has a child?”

Harry nodded. “She has two actually. They’re twins.”

Blinking rapidly in confusion, Nott’s face scrunched as he processed this. “Hermione Granger has—are you quite sure?”

Harry laughed. “Of course I’m sure.”

“Oh.” Nott actually looked like he might be sick. 

A light knock stopped Harry from sharing more. Pansy entered. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the room’s tension and Nott’s quizzical expression. “Time’s up, Potter.”

“Right,” Harry said, clapping his hands on his lap before standing. “I’ll just use your floo then if you don’t mind.”

Nott just stared at him with that sick look, but Pansy stomped over to the fireplace and pulled the small jar of floo powder off the mantel. 

“Goodbye, Potter,” she almost snarled, holding the jar out to him. 

Harry took his leave without another word, escaping the tension in the swirling green flames of the floo network. He needed to speak with Hermione. 

Theodore Nott — 2005

Theodore Nott watched Harry Potter disappear through the fireplace, making sure he was completely gone before slamming his forehead onto his desk with a groan. 

“For fuck’s sake I’ve got a lot to process after that one,” he grumbled, banging his forehead on the polished wood a few more times for good measure. 

“What did he want this time?” Pansy asked. 

He heard her moving toward him, but he didn’t open his eyes when he felt her sit on his desk beside his head. She ran her hand back and forth through his hair, long nails dragging along his scalp soothingly. 

“Another ‘emergency’ that could have easily been dealt with via owl correspondence,” Theo said dejectedly. “I don’t get it, Pans. He just stares at me like—like he can see into my soul, like he’s trying to uncover all of my secrets. I stare right back, but it’s like he doesn’t care. Why won’t he just give up and leave me alone?”

They’d had this discussion innumerable times over the past few months. As soon as it became clear that Potter wanted something from Theo, something more than assistance with curse breaking, it hadn’t taken long for them to figure out that Potter was obviously trying to catch Theo doing something dark and criminal so that he could arrest him and lock him away in Azkaban with his father for the rest of his life. 

That was Theo’s worst nightmare come true. At his father’s sentencing, Theo had been so relieved that he’d never have to face that monster again, and now, Potter wanted to lock Theo away with Thoros ‘You’ve Disappointed Me Again,Theodore’ Nott for the rest of his life. It wasn’t fair. 

For all Potter’s talk in the media about unity and forgiveness after the war, he’d surely held onto some prejudice against the children of Death Eaters. The way Potter treated Draco all these years later was proof enough, despite all evidence pointing to the fact that Draco had changed. Why Theo thought he would be exempt from such prejudice when he discovered that he’d be working closely with Potter after signing a very lucrative contract with the DMLE, he couldn’t say.

Well, actually that wasn’t true. Theo had a spotless record on parchment. Because of his age and the fact that his father regularly forgot that he existed when he wasn’t actively torturing him, Theo had managed to avoid getting involved in the war. Neutral to the end. 

Furthermore, when aurors had initially tried to detain Theo in those chaotic hours following the Battle of Hogwarts, all of Theo’s peers and professors vouched for him during the mass arrests. McGonagall had made him Head Boy during eighth year for Merlin’s sake, and if Theo was currently in possession of a few highly-illegal objects, including his great grandfather’s time turner and a fuck-ton of drugs, that he experimented with every now and again, Potter had no bloody way of knowing that. 

In fact, Potter’s obsession with catching Theo doing something nefarious had to be based on Theo’s father’s reputation alone, and for Theo, someone who had dedicated his life to eradicating the world of the sort of evil his father wrought, that was deeply upsetting. Theo may occasionally dabble in some magic that some may consider morally gray, but he tried to be good. He wanted to be good. 

Pansy continued to run her fingers through his short curls. “I think you should tell Draco that Potter is harassing you. Have him break the contract.”

Sighing, Theo sat up and met Pansy’s green eyes. Her’s weren’t bright and intense like Potter’s. They were like a damp forest, dark and deep, and muted with cruelty. She always rimmed the top lid with thick black liner, further enhanced by her long lashes.

As Pansy began to blink rapidly, Theo realized with horror that she might cry. He didn’t think he was worth crying over, but if he said that aloud, Pans would slap him. While Pansy’s penchant for malice was one of the things that Theo loved most about her, especially because it was never directed towards him, her loyalty was his favorite. For him, for Draco, for a select few of their other friends, she was their greatest protector and most steadfast ally, and she’d direct that vicious cruelty at anyone who crossed them. If Pansy was about to cry on his behalf, they were in for an evening, and Harry Potter should check his wards. 

“I can’t involve Draco, Pansy. You know that.” 

Pansy huffed. “I’ll just have to contact the DMLE myself then.”

“And say what, Pansy?” Theo lamented, pulling his silver cigarette case from his pocket. He ran his fingers over the Nott ‘N’ surrounded by delicately carved filigree. “That I think Harry Potter is too nice to me?” 

Her head tilted, black hair brushing her slim shoulder. “What do you mean by that exactly?”

“He asks me how I am every single time he shows up here.” 

“How dreadful,” Pansy snarked. 

“Yes, I know. It’s positively diabolical of him.”

Pansy stared at him for a minute. “And what do you reply?”

“Oh, I don’t.” 

Eyes wide, her mouth fell open. “What?”

“I don’t say anything. Why should I?” Theo pulled a cigarette from the case and balanced it between his lips. Snapping his fingers, a conjured flame appeared above his thumb. He lit the thing and took a long, leisurely drag. 

“Theo,” Pansy insisted. 

“What am I supposed to say, Pansy? Am I to exchange pleasantries with the man trying to put me in Azkaban?”

She brought her hand up to her chin and tapped it in thought. “Perhaps we misread the situation.” 

“How so?” Theo asked, rubbing his forehead gingerly before taking another drag. This mess with Potter was starting to get to him. Something had to give. It was affecting his mood which affected his work.

“Theo, what if Potter is interested in you?”

Theo snorted, smoke coming out of his nostrils. “The only thing he’s interested in is arresting me, Pansy darling. He thinks I’m a Death Eater. As if I’d be caught dead wearing those robes! They have absolutely no shape to them.”

Pansy shook her head. “No, I don’t think he is—trying to arrest you, I mean. Consider his behavior objectively, Theo.” She began ticking off her fingers with each point. “He makes lame excuses to come here and see you, he stares at you with unabashed intensity, he asks after you like he cares. Merlin, Theo, I think Harry fucking Potter might have a crush on you.”

“You’ve lost the plot, Pans.” 

And Theo really believed that she had. There was absolutely no possibility that Harry Potter—savior of the world—was interested in someone like Theodore Nott sexually, let alone romantically. Just the thought made him shaky. He needed to do something with his hands, so he pulled his wand from his sleeve and summoned the broken menagerie. It landed in front of him on his desk. “Our incompatibility aside, the man is straight.”

“We don’t know that,” Pansy said. 

Theo sighed and considered that, nodding his head back and forth with his cigarette stuck between his lips, lazily casting detection spells on the little porcelain unicorn. 

“We don’t!” she insisted

“Hmm. That’s fair, I suppose, but all evidence points to straight. He’s only ever dated women.”

“We don’t know that either, Theo. You only dated Daphne at Hogwarts, and you most definitely aren’t straight. And, really, for all his fame, Potter is a private person. He hasn’t been connected to anyone romantically since he was with the Weasley cow for a month after the war. That was years ago, and I highly doubt he’s celibate, Saint Potter or not.” 

Wasn’t that a thought! Harry Potter: the virgin sacrifice for the wizarding world—a savior so pure and good that he defeated evil with his love alone. Theo quite liked the drama of the idea, the poetry, but it didn’t matter, and it wasn’t true.

“For fuck’s sake, Pans! Why are we even talking about Harry Potter’s sex life? It’s irrelevant.”

Pansy frowned, her pretty painted lips pouting and eyebrows scrunching. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Pans. I’m not Draco; it doesn’t work on me.” 

She huffed. “I just think you should consider other possible motives.”

“No.” Theo shook his head, flicking the burning ashes off the end of his cigarette and vanishing them with a wave of his wand before they hit the arm of his chair. “That’d be nothing but a waste of time. What I need to do is switch tactics.” 

Giving him a skeptical look, Pansy slid off the desk and adjusted her pencil skirt then sauntered over to the bar cart on the other side of his office. “Change tactics. What do you mean?” 

Theo stared at the menagerie—deep in thought. “I’ve been ignoring him, trying to keep him from getting more information about me than absolutely necessary, hoping he’ll get bored and give up. That’s not working. Honestly, I think it just piqued his curiosity further.” 

“Hmm,” Pansy hummed. She helped herself to his vintage Ogden’s, pouring a generous portion into a glass and downing half immediately. “Why don’t you just confront him about investigating you if you’re so sure that’s what he’s doing?”

“It is what he’s doing! And until five minutes ago, you agreed with me.”

“Yes, but that’s before I remembered that you have the social skills of an introverted mountain troll and the self esteem of an abandoned crup puppy.”

Theo gasped. “That’s quite mean, Pans, even for you, and I can’t just confront him. I can’t let on that I know that he’s investigating me, obviously.”

Pansy swirled the liquor in her glass, not looking at him any longer. “You’re a brilliant idiot, Theo, always have been.” 

“Ah, but brilliant all the same, and in this, I’m confident.” 

Pansy rolled her eyes but returned to his desk. “Fine. We’ll do this your way. Let’s hear it then. What’s the new tactic?”

Ah, and that was the question, wasn't it? Theo mulled it over, casting every animating charm he knew at the unicorn nonverbally. They didn’t work, but that was fine. Nothing worth doing was ever easy. Perhaps the original magic was more complex than he’d thought? Or maybe not. But then as his mind was busy with the unicorn, a thought hit him.

“I’ll simply do the opposite of what I have been, of course,” he said proudly.

“Meaning what?”

“I’m going to become the best friend Harry Potter has ever had.”

Pansy’s mossy eyes widened then she burst into laughter, going so far as to snort from her small nose. 

“Do control yourself, Pansy.” 

She set down her near-finished glass of firewhiskey and swiped the tears of mirth from her cheeks. “Merlin, but you’re insane.” 

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Theo replied, “that’s a well-established truth in my personal lore, but Potter hardly has anything to do with my sanity, really.”

“I need to know what you’re planning so that I can prepare the lawyers when you’re inevitably arrested.”

Theo scoffed, and placed his wand on his desk, offended. “The point is to avoid being arrested, Pansy! Do keep up.” 

“Oh, yes, I know, but I have some reservations about your execution of this ‘plan’ at this point, Theo.” 

“Why not?” Theo asked. “I’m very likable!”

“Of course you are, darling, but I just—I’m having difficulty finding the logic behind this. You want Potter to leave you alone, so you’re going to befriend him?”

“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds a bit backward, yeah, but it’s more nuanced, Pansy.” 

“It’s more nuanced, Pansy,” she mocked and rolled her eyes. “Are you certain this isn’t just about you wanting to befriend Potter? It’s okay if you like him, Theo. You don’t need to create some grand—”

“Stop right there, Pans. It is decidedly not that. I just want him to see that I’m a good, upstanding citizen so that he doesn’t uncover a reason to seize Nott Manor again. As you know, I’m in possession of a few items that could put me in Azkaban for a very long time. I was fortunate they weren't found after my father was arrested. I doubt I’d be so lucky again.”

“I told you to get rid of them.” She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. 

“Those grimoires are priceless!”

“So is your freedom, you twit!” 

“It will be fine, Pansy. Don’t worry.” Theo didn’t want to discuss this with her any longer. 

When Pansy made her mind up about something, it was impossible to change it, and it seemed that she’d decided not only that Harry Potter wanted him, but that Theo wanted Potter back. 

Ridiculous! Preposterous! Intriguing? Impossible! 

While Theo could admit that Potter was fit—like, very fit with that lean muscular build of an active auror, and Merlin’s tits, that arse, those eyes —Theo did not want him . Theo didn’t want anyone. He was very busy, too busy to be thinking about Harry Potter’s snake-green eyes (which was coincidentally Theo’s favorite color, but again, that was a coincidence and meant nothing). 

Yes, and Potter’s arse was quite nice objectively, but it was also attached to Potter—an auror, an auror who thought Theo was a bloody Death Eater! Imagine! 

Theo tried another charm on the unicorn. Its eye may have twitched. Hmm. 

“What else did Potter say?” Pansy asked, plucking the cigarette from Theo’s mouth and taking a drag. 

“Hmm?” he hummed. “Oh, yes, he talked quite a bit actually. Too much if you ask me.” Then Theo remembered the whole niece and nephew thing and cringed. “He—uh—brought up She Who Must Not Be Named .”

“Granger?!” Pansy shrieked, eyes wide, then glanced quickly at Theo’s office door. “What did he say?”

“Well, he mentioned that he had a niece and nephew, and I kindly reminded him that he’s an orphan.” 

“Nice of you.” 

“Yes, I thought so, too.”

“Operation: My Best Friend Potter is off to a fabulous start.” 

“Anyway,” Theo said, ceasing his ministrations on the menagerie to meet her eyes again. “Potter said that the children are hers.”

“No!” Pansy gasped, bringing a hand to cover her mouth. “Oh, fuck, Theo! Why didn’t you mention this immediately? This is bad. Like, bad bad. Oh, no.”

“Sorry. It wasn’t at the top of The Hierarchy of Theodore Nott’s Emotional Needs after Potter left, and I forgot—just briefly.”

Pansy popped off the desk gracefully. She paced the room, gnawing on her thumb nail. “Who did she marry? When?”

“I didn’t ask—thought it might be rude to pry.” 

“Rude? Theo!” Pansy stopped pacing to stare at him incredulously. “You called him an orphan after ignoring him to his face. I think a few questions for Draco’s sake would have been more than appropriate.” 

Theo shrugged and picked up his wand again. “There’s nothing we can do about it, Pans. Draco has moved on—he and Astoria are engaged now, and he hasn’t had a bad night in two years. It’s done.” 

Pansy gave him a knowing look that made Theo feel rather guilty. 

“He really might not care!” Theo didn’t actually believe that at all, but Pansy didn’t have to know that. Time to change the subject again. He paused before casting. “Although, I thought something Potter said was interesting.”

“More interesting than the fact that that mu—” Pansy stopped herself and took a deep breath. “That that slag—has spawned?”

“Oh, well done, darling!” Theo beamed at her. “You’ve really come a long way with the blood purity thing. The misogyny, however, could use some work.”

“Theo.”

“He said the girl is called Lyra. ”

“So?”

“So it follows Black naming conventions.” 

Pansy shook her head, fists clenching. “What a horrid thing to do—probably just to spite Draco. I hate her.” 

“Do you think we should tell him? So that the news is broken gently?” Theo asked. “That way we can choose an open location, perhaps? I’d hate for him to burn down the offices. It took ages to get all the wards and charms just right.” 

Breathing heavily, staring into Theo’s fireplace, Pansy shook her head again. “No—no, we don’t have enough information yet. We need the full picture first.” 

“And how are we to do that?” Theo asked skeptically. 

She turned to him, eyes blazing. “ You will subtly work as much information from Potter that you can.”

“Easy enough. And what will you do?”

“I—” Pansy drawled, lip turning up in disgust, “—am going to have to pay the weasel a visit.”

“You poor thing.”

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy - 1998  

Nostalgia. 

Wistful, sentimental longing for the past. 

That was the feeling that Draco Malfoy supposed Platform 9¾ on September 1st was meant to evoke in him.

But it didn’t. It couldn’t. 

Because Draco Malfoy’s past was not one which could be viewed with sentiment, certainly not longing. Even his earliest memories of Hogwarts were tainted with a hatred he’d felt so deeply, so purely in his youth that prejudice had poured from his mouth like cigarette smoke, wrapping in noxious billowing wafts around his friends and classmates, suffocating them. Ruining them. Just like him.

Draco had used slurs without thinking twice, he’d forced his friends to tolerate his bigotry or face alienation, and he’d desecrated his body happily, taking a mark representing his hatred with a respectful reverence. 

But then, after he was given his suicide mission and forced to watch his mother be punished for his failure, Draco had been disillusioned with the ideology—too late, of course, far too late, and probably for what most would consider the wrong reasons. He’d paid dearly for that, but not as much as so many others. 

He didn’t want to return to Hogwarts. For fuck’s sake. 

How could Draco sit at the Slytherin table, chatting amicably with his friends, where he used to chat so proudly, foolishly about the Dark Lord’s return? Where he’d, just months ago, huddled there with his parents, his mother crying silently and clutching his hand as if he were an innocent child, after the Dark Lord had returned and been defeated, and suddenly, the Malfoy family found themselves on the wrong side of history? 

He didn’t want to return to Hogwarts, but the Wizengamot had ordered him to do so. 

Thanks to Saint Potter, they’d let Draco off easy, his father as well, and his mother hadn’t even had to face trial. At least that was fair. None of it had been her fault, but a lot of it had been Draco’s. 

Too much had been Draco’s fault. 

It set heavy on his chest—the guilt, the remorse, the fucking everything of it all. That guilt and an acute, full-body sadness kept him awake at night and followed him throughout the day. While Draco Malfoy was not and never would be a good person, he was capable of feeling, and he felt bad about what he’d done; he really did, and not just about the war shit but everything. He wished he could start over, take it all back, but he couldn’t.

And thus, The Draco Malfoy Apology World Tour of 1998 was born. 

He was handing out apologies left and right—to Potter, to McGonagall, to Goyle and Pansy and Theo, to his mother, to every ginger-headed weasel he came across. If he’d wronged someone, he apologized—to some he sent letters, others he pulled aside in person. 

Admittedly, the apologies were done selfishly, as he did most things. Apologizing alleviated the weight, made him feel just a little bit better about all the things he’d done, and loosened the constricting ache in his chest.

Maybe, if he didn’t have so fucking much to apologize for, the sight of the Hogwarts Express waiting to take him to the Scottish Highlands for one final time would’ve evoked a feeling of nostalgia. Instead, as students pushed their carts toward the train, loaded with their belongings, and families made their loud, tearful goodbyes, he felt rather ill.

As he stood frozen on the platform, dressed in black like he was going to a funeral instead of a final year of school, someone clipped him on the shoulder. Pain shot down his arm, but he didn’t really react, just a small, sharp hiss. 

“Fuck you, Malfoy,” the clipper groweld, a fifth-year Hufflepuff named Liam or something stupid and Irish like that, he was sure. 

Draco stared at him for a moment, unsurprised by the ire in his dark eyes. 

“I’m sorry, Liam. My deespest apologies,” he said, and he meant it. 

“My name’s Cian, you fuckin’ prick.” 

Cian huffed away, and Draco squeezed his eyes shut, not embarrassed but annoyed with himself. Liam was a very close guess. Draco always used names to make his apologies more sincere, as his mother suggested, but, Merlin, that backfired like a curse from a broken wand. Draco’s heart sort of started hammering, not about Cian, just about it all. 

He tried to take a deep breath, but it felt unsatisfying, unfulfilling. That was a bad sign.  

Not for the first time, he wished his mother was here to send him off. It was his own fault that she wasn’t. Draco hadn’t wanted her to have to face the public like this, so soon after their trials, but she was so good at calming him down. In this moment, he needed her, and that made him feel like such a fucking baby, and eighteen-year-old baby, to be standing here, wishing for his mummy, too bloody scared to go on the train. 

And that was the crux of it. He was afraid to go back to Hogwarts. 

Everyone hated him, and he deserved it. Cian wasn’t the only one. More than half of the people on the platform were giving him dirty looks, cursing him under their breath or outright. It made his blood rush, heat flushing his skin. 

Draco had always liked attention, but not like this—this was bad.

While the Malfoy family may have avoided harsh punishment in their trials with the Wizengamot, in the eyes of The Court of Public Opinion, they were very much condemned. 

Someone spat at him as they passed, the ball of flem landed right on his shiny, dragon leather loafers, and Draco nearly gagged at the sight of it.  

Fuck. This. Draco thought, releasing his wand from the holster at his wrist. 

A group of second years nearby screamed, as if he was going to start throwing unforgivables left and right. 

He deliberately ignored them to cast a cleansing charm on his shoe, as his heart began to pound, the quickening rhythm vibrating in his head, making his hands shake. Breathing heavily, Draco levitated his trunk onto the train, dumping it in one of the storage compartments. He normally preferred to keep his trunk with him, but he just didn’t feel like maneuvering it around all of the people filing into the tight corridor, reconnecting with friends and looking for empty compartments. 

“You’ve got some nerve, Malfoy,” a familiar-looking girl practically growled, as she placed her trunk as far away from his as possible. “My sister died that day because of your lot.”

“I—I’m sorry.” Draco saw double of her, angry eyes boring into him as she was circling around herself. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to take some deep breaths, but his chest was so fucking tight, and he knew this feeling, and this was the worst possible time. 

Loosening his tie, he turned away from the girl and stumbled down the corridor, eyes desperately trying to find an empty compartment. Once he found one, he slammed the door closed and threw himself into a seat. 

His chest hurt, his heart was pounding, and he couldn’t fucking breathe. The train was suddenly stifling, so Draco ripped his black jumper off, throwing it to the floor. His tie went next. Then he undid his collar. Merlin, it was still too hot.

He put his head between his knees, hands shoved into his damp-with-sweat hair and pulling, desperately trying to catch his breath. 

The fucking door slid open. He hadn’t locked it in his hurry. 

“Get the fuck out,” he practically whimpered between breaths. Pathetic. He sounded so weak.

“Malfoy?” 

He froze. 

Oh, it had to be her . 

“Malfoy,” she said again. “Are you—are you alright?”

It had to be fucking Granger. Of course it did. 

Draco refused to look up or move, just hoping she’d go away on her own, and what an idiotic question. This was worse, so much worse. Did he look alright? With half his clothes thrown on the floor in a pile like rubbish, sweating his fucking bollocks off, on the verge of tears like the eighteen-year-old adult baby that he apparently was? 

The door slid shut again. This time he heard the click of the lock. Thank Merlin she must have left while his mind was running. He tried to breathe again to just breathe through this, calm himself down. He knew he could if he just focused on breathing.

Draco had been having these episodes since sixth year. The first time, he’d thought he’d been having a bloody heart attack. With luck, he’d wandered into Myrtle’s bathroom, thinking he was going to die, but she’d helped him calm down. He started going to her bathroom when the tight chested panicky feeling struck after that. 

“Do you need—should I get someone?”

What the fuck? She’s still here?

He didn’t answer her. He couldn’t. His vision blurred as he stared at his spit-shined loafers, the black dragon leather bled into the carpet. 

Where did his feet end and the floor begin?  

He couldn’t do this, couldn’t get enough air. Draco’s chest heaved as he hyperventilated—in front of Hermione Granger of all people. 

“Aguamenti,” Granger whispered, and a jet of shockingly cold water hit Draco’s neck, making him jerk to the side and fall to the floor. 

“Oh, my. I suppose I should’ve warned you,” she said, her wand still pointed at him, but the freezing water had mercifully stopped. 

Draco layed there, sprawled out on the train floor, shirt sticking to his body, at her feet. 

They stared at each other. 

“Are you alright?” Granger asked again, which was rich coming from her, because now that he saw her, lording above him with her wand in his face and her other hand on her hip, Draco thought she’d never looked worse. 

She already wore her school robes, pressed neatly, not a wrinkle in sight. The Head Girl badge gleamed proudly from where it had been clipped to her breast pocket. Granger was still far too thin, first of all—perhaps a bit healthier than she’d looked at the final battle where he’d last seen her, sure, but still far too thin. Her eyes, normally shining and golden, appeared dull and had a sunken quality to them, enhancing the dark circles underneath. Her hair was pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck—a shame, that—which also served to highlight her drawn appearance. 

Draco was a bit pleased that she looked how he felt. It was only fair.

“Malfoy?” She narrowed her eyes as if reading his thoughts, and he realized he still hadn’t answered her. 

Well, it was now or never, Draco supposed. He might as well take advantage of the situation and continue on with his apology world tour. 

“I’m sorry,” he said solemnly, propping himself up on his elbows, wet shirt clinging to his skin.

“Um—” Granger’s face pinched in confusion, a look he hadn’t seen on her often. “You don’t need to apologize for feeling overwhelmed, Malfoy. It’s only—”

“No, no, no,” he stopped her, shaking his head back and forth. “I mean to apologize for—for everything really—for calling you names when we were children and for all of that war business.” 

“Oh,” Granger said, blinking slowly. “All of that war business, right. I see.”

“I do hope you can forgive me.” He felt absolutely ridiculous doing this from his position on the floor, but he thought that clumsily getting to his feet would be more humiliating at this point.

“No,” she said, staring him right in the eyes, which was bloody unnerving. “I don’t think I will.” 

“What? Why not?” Most of the lucky audience members of the apology tour generally just nodded and went on their way at this point. What did she mean? No? Had she just told him no?

“I am of the belief that forgiveness is a gift that must be earned. You have done nothing to earn any forgiveness from me, Malfoy. Certainly not for that war business as you so eloquently put it.” Granger practically snarled that last bit. Merlin, but she was scary. 

“Earned? What do you want me to do? Get on my knees and beg you? I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m already at your feet.” 

“That I’ve noticed, I assure you.” Granger’s eyes raked over him, not lecherously or anything more condescending but he still felt like she’d undressed him. “At least you aren’t hyperventilating any longer. I’ll just be on my way then.”

Huh. That was true; he wasn’t. Still, this was probably the most humiliating morning of his life, and he had stood trial at the Wizengamot, all his secrets laid bare for the Wizarding World to see and judge him for. 

Draco let his head fall back onto the floor and stared at the compartment ceiling, wanting the warm, dark wood to just absorb him. “Yes, be on your way, Granger. I’m rather busy at the moment.” 

“Looks like it,” she murmured, almost to herself. The sound of a lock springing echoed in the quiet, the door sliding open.  “Oh, Theodore,” Granger gasped, “what are you doing out here?”

Draco tilted his head toward the door, just as Theo’s head peered around Granger’s shoulder. “Looking for him, believe it or not.”

“He’s all yours.” Granger stepped aside allowing Theo to enter and left the compartment. 

“Unfortunately, yes,” Theo sighed and loomed over Draco, looking—Draco couldn’t place that look. It might be disgust, but Theo didn’t really get disgusted. Disappointed, perhaps? Apprehensive, maybe? Even after all these years, Theo was very difficult to read. 

With Granger gone, Theo flicked his wand and muttered a locking spell on the compartment door. Like Granger, he already wore his school robes, green and silver Slytherin tie tight and neat at his neck. He cast a silencing charm as well for good measure before returning his attention back to Draco, another apprehensive sort of look on his face. 

“Did she hurt you?” Theo asked, eyes trailing around the compartment, landing on Draco’s jumper and tie, before holding out his hand to help Draco up.

Draco accepted his help and found his wand on the ground. He must’ve dropped it at some point. Casting a drying charm on himself, he shook his head. “No, she actually helped me.” 

“What happened?” Theo asked, throwing himself into a seat. 

“I had a bit of a—well, you know—” Theo nodded, not looking at him. “And Granger found me here. She sprayed me with water, and it sort of shocked me out of it, I guess.” 

Theo nodded again, biting his lip, still looking away. “Did you want to talk about it?”

Draco thought for a second. Did he? With Theo? “No.” 

A great sigh of relief left Theo as he finally turned back to Draco. “Oh, thank Merlin. I’m sorry Draco, but that’s not really—well, you know,” Theo said, repeating Draco’s phrasing from just before. 

And Draco did know. Theo was not the sort of person with which one would talk about emotions and feelings. He gave terrible advice and was probably one of the least comforting people Draco had ever met, and Draco had lived with dozens of Death Eaters for years, including the Dark Lord himself. That wasn’t to say that Theo was incapable of empathy or feeling, however, he very much was. It was just that Theo was too awkward and logical to do anything but offer unwanted solutions, and he could never understand that some problems had no solutions. 

“Too bad Pans didn’t want to come back,” Theo remarked after a long silence.  

Draco grunted in agreement, settling across the compartment from Theo, who pulled out a little leather pouch from his breast pocket along with some thin, white paper. 

It really was too bad—about Pansy, not the spliff Theo was about to roll, obviously—but Draco understood. Last year had traumatized everyone, and Pansy was no exception. She swore she’d never step foot on Hogwarts grounds again, and when their letters came from newly-appointed Headmistress McGonagall, offering last year’s seventh years a chance to complete their education and take their NEWTs without fear of being at the end of one of the Carrow twins’ wand, Pansy had laughed maniacally and set the parchment on fire with her eyes alone. Draco didn’t even know she could do wandless, nonverbal magic, but she had. It was delightfully terrifying, which coincidentally, was the best way to describe Pansy. 

And Draco understood Pansy, deeply and personally. He obviously wouldn’t have come back either, given a choice, and Pansy was being villainized in the press for offering Potter up to the Dark Lord just before the battle got bloody. The Daily Prophet included that ‘heartstopping’ moment in nearly every retelling. It wasn’t fair. That night, Pansy had been a scared teenage girl, and Potter had always been a fucking arsehole to her (not that she hadn’t given as good as she got—she always had). Of course Potter had been a sacrifice she’d been willing to make for her life.

Still, Draco missed her already. Hogwarts without Pansy was going to be like a cup of tea with no sugar—fine but missing the part that Draco actually liked about it. At least he still had Theo, the splash of milk that brought it all together. 

“I think it’s just going to be the two of us, Blaise, Daph, and Tracey,” Theo said before liking the paper and sealing it tightly. “No goon squad lurking behind you will be nice for me, I hate to admit.”

Draco tensed. He didn’t want to talk about Crabbe and Goyle, not today especially. He didn’t even want to think about them. While Theo had never liked Vince or Greg, not even when they were small children before Hogwarts, Draco had loved them. Yes, they’d been “intolerably stupid goons” as Theo had always said, but they’d been Draco’s intolerably stupid goons—until they became the Dark Lord’s goons anyway. Merlin, this train ride was fucking painful. 

Theo flicked his thumb and a little conjured flame appeared above it. A silly little magic trick—a burning flame that reinforced the vision of poor, simple Vince turned to ash, smoldering for eternity in the Come and Go Room, with no one at fault but himself. But himself and Draco. 

“Fuck, Draco, you can’t actually miss those brutes,” Theo said, taking a hissing drag. “Greg smelled like rotten onions and pissed on my Charms book in fifth year for a laugh, and Vince once asked me how to spell wand. ”

“How hideously offensive,” Draco snarked, ripping the spliff out of Theo’s fingers. 

“Rude! You could've just asked!” 

“You oughtn't be smoking on the train anyway, Theo. Aren’t you Head Boy? Don’t you have duties or something? You can’t go to the first fucking prefect’s meeting high off your arse.” 

“Why not? It’s not as though they’ll notice, and I’m sure Hermione ‘I love the sound of my own voice’ Granger will do all the talking. I’ll fade to the background like always. Maybe I’ll even leave early. They’d never even know I left.” 

Draco couldn’t argue with that, so he brought the spliff to his mouth and breathed. “Congratulations by the way.” 

“For what?” Theo asked, eyebrows furrowing in genuine confusion. 

“For making Head Boy, you dolt,” Draco replied. 

“Oh, that. Yes, I am very proud to call myself the Least Worst Slytherin. Now give me that back.” He snatched the spliff right out of Draco’s mouth and returned it to his. 

“Least Worst Slytherin? Doesn’t that just mean the Best?” Draco asked. 

Theo let out a humorless laugh. “No, Draco, it doesn’t.”

“Well, what the bloody hell does it mean then?” 

“It means that McGonagall had to choose a Slytherin from 7th or 8th year to be Head Boy or Girl because she’s really pushing this unity rubbish, and if one of the Heads wasn’t Slytherin, most of the younger years from the House would transfer. Granger, famously Gryffindor, had to be Head Girl, or her adoring masses would riot.  I’m the Least Worst of the 7th and 8th year Slytherin boys, so I got it.” He laid down on the bench seat, feet up on the window, closing his eyes. 

Anger, familiar and hot, struck Draco. “Come off it, Theo. You earned this. You did.” 

“Sure, Draco.” 

“ Theo .”

“Can we please talk about something else? Anything else?”

Draco sighed and matched Theo’s position on his own bench. “How was your summer?”

“Productive. After Father’s arrest, I had free reign of Nott Manor to do with whatever I pleased, following the auror raid, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I found a cursed music box that steals the listener’s hearing hidden in my father’s study.” 

“And the aurors didn’t?”

“No, they couldn’t find a hippogriff in a hay meadow.” 

“Right.”

“Anyway, I broke the curse on it, after losing my hearing for a week or so, and then I charmed it to play “Not for All the Gold in Gringotts” by The Weird Sisters. Isn’t that funny?”

“Hilarious,” Draco said flatly. 

They talked for a few hours, smoking and telling stories from summer, avoiding the fact that Draco spent most of it in a Ministry holding cell. Theo’s stories were always somewhat concerning but very Theo. For example, he’d started a story explaining that he didn’t sleep for nearly seven days, just to see how long he could go, then on the seventh day, apparated to Pansy’s flat and fell asleep before he landed. 

After a while, Theo checked his wristwatch and stood. “I have to go to the prefect’s meeting. You’ll be okay without me, won’t you?”

“Yes, Theo. Merlin, what do you think I’ll do?”

“Just don’t go get your trunk until I come back, yeah?” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, mum.”

Theo cast a cleansing charm on himself to get rid of the smell and fixed his tie and tamed his hair using his reflection in the window. He sighed at himself before turning to the door. 

“Theo?” Draco asked.

“Hmm,” he hummed. 

“I don’t think you’re the Least Worst Slytherin.”

“Oh? Then what am I?”

“I don’t know.”

Chapter Text

Harry Potter — 2005

Harry came through the floo and fought the feeling of mild nausea floo travel still gave him after all these years. As he made his way down the corridor towards the warm light spilling from the kitchen doorway, he happened to glance into the small sitting room the family favored and almost jumped at the sight of a gnarled old house elf perched on the arm of one of the sofas.  

“Keacher?” Harry asked, entering the room tentatively, and the elf turned to him, wrinkled face scowling menacingly. “Is everything alright?” 

In answer, Kreacher hopped off the sofa, surprisingly spry to anyone who wasn’t familiar with him—a tricky old thing he was—but since Harry was very familiar with him, far more familiar than he ever wanted to be, Harry wasn’t at all surprised when Keacher gave him a scathing look and pointed to a tuft of white-blonde hair sticking up on the sofa’s arm. 

“The Young Master has called for Kreacher,” Keacher said with a challenging gleam in his eyes, as if he expected Harry to begin arguing with him. 

Harry wasn’t sure how House Elf magic worked, and he had no clue how Scorpius and Lyra were able to call him, especially considering Harry himself no longer had the ability. When Harry had asked Keacher about it years prior, Keacher had simply looked at him like he was an idiot and went back to gnawing on a chicken bone. 

While Keacher didn’t technically serve the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black or the residents of Number 12 any longer, he spent the majority of his time off from the Hogwarts kitchens here. 

At first, when the smoke from Final Battle was still settling and Harry started living at Grimmauld Place full time while undergoing his Auror training, Harry had thought nothing of allowing Keacher to keep his nest in the kitchen where he preferred to sleep on his days off. Then, when Hermione moved in as well a year later, she insisted Keacher stay but forbade him from helping with housework or the massive renovations they began doing, room-by-room, to the old townhome. He kept to himself, and they rarely saw him, and that was fine. 

It wasn’t until the twins were born that he began haunting Grimmauld Place during his hours off like a deranged, overprotective ghost, following Scorpius and Lyra around and taking care of all their needs in his strange way. It was like a flip had been switched. Suddenly, Keacher, who usually only spoke to complain, couldn’t stop waxing poetic about the twins and their ‘elegant Black cheek bones’ and ‘striking Black gray eyes.’

He took a particular liking to Scorpius. Kreacher could go on and on about how similar Scorpius was to his Young Master Regulus. Keacher coddled him, obsessed over him. Sometimes, Harry worried that in Keacher’s moments of madness he thought Scorpius was his Young Master Regulus. Hermione didn’t seem concerned and was grateful for the help, but Harry had never particularly liked Kreacher and kept a close eye.

As Harry came around the sofa, he found the head to which the tuft of blonde hair belonged, facing the back of the sofa, muffled sniffling sounds coming from him, making Harry’s heart clench. 

“Scor, what the matter? Are you hurt?” Harry asked, kneeling down in front of the sofa and placing a hand on Scorpius’ back. 

Scorpius shuddered a sob in response, burrowing further into the space between the cushion and the back of the sofa. 

“The little muggle beasts have made the Young Master cry again. Kreacher will rip out their tongues and force them down their throats for disrespecting his good Young Master, he will. They will choke on their own blood for—”

“Kreacher,” Harry warned, voice low and dangerous, earning him an angry pair of narrowed yellow eyes as Kreacher returned to his perch on the arm of the sofa, running his long wrinkly fingers through Scorpius’ hair. Despite the fact that Hermione and Harry had spoken to Kreacher at length on many occasions about not only Kreacher’s blood prejudices but also his propensity for violence, Kreacher still slipped back into his old rhetoric on occasion, and while Kreacher was not allowed to speak in front of the children like that, he often did anyway. 

Satisfied that Kreacher was sufficiently silenced for the moment, Harry returned his attention to Scorpius. His little body shook with his whimpering, so Harry squeezed his shoulder. 

“Talk to me, Scor. What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Scorpius said, voice small and muffled by the sofa cushions. 

Harry knew that wasn’t true, but he also wasn’t sure what to say or how to help. This was an on-going issue, and Hermione was far better at handling it. Harry had no examples from his own childhood of how to handle such a situation. By the time he had adults that cared enough about him to comfort him or offer advice, his problems had higher stakes. 

Not that Harry wasn’t very much concerned about Scorpius’ issues with the other children at school or thought the problem wasn’t important. He just didn’t know what to do about it. 

If it was up to Harry, Scorpius would’ve been pulled out of this school after the first day, but it wasn’t up to Harry, and Hermione had insisted that Scorpius and Lyra attend muggle primary school because she wanted them to have some connection to the muggle world. Lyra, as always, had taken to it seamlessly, but Scorpius was having a tough time fitting in with the other children. 

“Does your mum know?” 

Scorpius turned to face him, eyes wet and face red. He shook his head. “She’ll just say what she always says.”

“And what is that?” 

“She says, ‘It’s not your fault, love. I understand. Your feelings are valid, and if you still feel this way after the spring term, we can revisit the topic,’” Scorpius repeated, nearly mimicking Hermione’s exact tone which made Harry smile. Scorpius had a habit of memorizing even the most mundane things Harry or Hermione said and repeating them verbatim. It was so cute.

“And what do you think of that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really know what ‘valit’ means, but I know she wants me to keep trying to make friends.”

Harry smiled softly. “You know, your mum is almost always right.”

Face scrunching, Scorpius took a moment to think while Kreacher continued to pet him like a cherished kitten. “It’s just—I don’t want to go to muggle school anymore. I’ve tried and tried to make friends, but it’s not good enough. I don’t want to wait until after spring term.” 

If Harry could, he’d give Scorpius anything he wanted. It broke his heart to see him so sad, but Hermione wanted the twins to deeply understand muggle culture in the way that she did, and with their muggle grandparents gone, going to muggle primary was the best way. 

“Maybe if you tell me what happened today, I can help you feel better about it.”

“Nothing happened,” Scorpius sniffled. “I just feel like no one likes me.”

“Kreacher’s Young Master does not need the muggle swine to like him. They are below filth, and Kreacher’s Young Master is—”

“Keacher!” Harry placed his hand over Kreacher’s lips, muffling the rest of his rant. “Please go and make Scorpius a hot chocolate. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Scor?”

Scorpius confirmed that he did, and Kreacher grimaced but apparated away with a crack. 

Harry sat on the edge of the sofa, pulling Scorpius into a side hug. “Now, why do you think the other kids don’t like you?” 

“Because it’s true!” 

“But what makes you think it’s true?” 

He shrugged and swiped a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand, leaning into Harry. “Mrs. Jones says it’s because I’m an odd duck.” 

Again, Harry wasn’t sure what to say, but that hurt for some reason. Sure, Scorpius had his quirks, but he wasn’t so very different from Lyra or Teddy, and his teacher had some nerve to say such a thing.  “She told you that, did she?”

“She did,” he said solemnly.

“Well, Scor, I don’t think you’re an odd duck, and even if you were, there’s nothing wrong with that.” Harry’s words seemed to have little effect on his nephew, so he tried again. “You know, when I went to muggle primary school, I didn’t have any friends. To be honest, the other children weren’t particularly nice to me at all.”

Scorpius’ eyes widened sort of comically. “What? But, you’re Harry Potter ! You’re the most famous wizard ever! You—”

Harry cut him off with a chuckle. “That doesn’t mean much to muggles, especially not when I was in primary school. Even at Hogwarts, really, I think I was an odd duck—still am, actually.”

“But you had mum—and Uncle Ron.”

“True, but they were my very first friends, and sometimes, they were my only friends.”

Scorpius bit his lip in thought. “What if I never make any friends?” 

Harry squeezed him tightly, hand gently rubbing Scorpius’ arm. “That’s not possible.” 

“Why not?”

“For one, you’ve already got friends, so you’re much further ahead than I was at your age—Lyra, Teddy, and Victoire, to name a few.”

He shook his head. “They don’t count. They’re family.”

Considering this, Harry paused for a moment. “Ah, but the best friends are or become family, like your mum and Uncle Ron and me. They’re my family, aren’t they?”

Scorpius nodded but still looked sad. “I just—I wish I could learn at home like Teddy.”

“I know you do, but let’s just see how Spring Term goes, yeah? I’ll bet you’ll feel better after Christmas break, too. Having some time away then a fresh start for the new term could help.”

A crack announced Kreacher’s return. He held a tray with a steaming mug of hot chocolate and a plate of Scorpius’ favorite biscuits which he deposited onto the side table. 

“What do you think, Scor?” Harry asked, ignoring Kreacher’s grumblings to be careful, as he handed Scorpius the mug. 

Scorpius thanked Kreacher. A big sip of his hot chocolate left a mustache behind. “Okay.”

“Brilliant!” Harry ruffled his hair before standing, earning a string of curses from Kreacher. “Now, where’s your mum?”

“The mother is in the kitchen,” Kreacher replied for him, taking Harry’s spot on the sofa and summoning the plate of biscuits to his hands. “But she did not see Kreacher. She has her head in the fire.” 

“Aunt Andie owled early asking to talk when mum finished work,” Scorpius explained. 

“Where’s Lyra then?”

“The Young Miss is hiding under the kitchen table. Young Miss listens to the mother and blood trai—Madam Tonks—speaking in the fire.” Kreacher scowled after correcting himself, holding the plate up for Scorpius to take a biscuit. 

“Of course she is,” Harry said, giving Scorpius, who was at least a little happier now munching on a biscuit, a final squeeze on his shoulder as he left.

Harry wasn’t sure that he’d actually helped Scorpius in any way, but he’d at least tried. He just wanted his niece and nephew to be happy, always. Having watched them grow, been there for every milestone, every new phase of their little lives, he felt fiercely protective of them, but at the end of the day, he wasn’t their father, and he didn’t really have a say in things like their education. Still, Hermione would take his advice, of which he generally offered very little, and she would do what’s best for them. She was their only present parent, and if she wanted them to go to muggle primary school, that’s where they’d go. Harry respected that and her above anyone else, but he still planned on mentioning this after the children went to sleep. 

As Harry made his way toward the kitchen, Hermione’s voice could be heard coming from the open door. He slipped in, just as the floo call seemed to be coming to an end.

“I really am sorry, dear. You know we’d love to have them, but we just can’t reschedule this trip,” Andromeda said, as Hermione stepped back from the floo looking exhausted. 

“It’s alright, Andromeda, really. I’ll ask Harry when he gets home.”

“Ask Harry what?” Harry said, making Hermione yelp in surprise. He heard little giggles coming from the direction of the kitchen table. Lyra really needed to work on her spywork. 

“Hermione needs someone to mind the twins tomorrow,” Andromeda’s disembodied head said from the fireplace. 

At Harry’s surprised look, Hermione further explained, “That client I told you about wants to meet for lunch in Berlin to finalize specifications for her grandmother’s portrait. She’s willing to pay extra for it to be completed before Christmas—a gift for her father, but it’s such short notice—and Molly and Fleur are both sick—”

Harry shook his head apologetically. “I’m meeting with a consultant at the Yaxley hunting lodge. There’s been a bit of an incident.” 

“A consultant?” Hermione asked slyly. She had a speckle of paint on her cheek, and her work smock was still on, black but splattered in various colors. “You can just say Theo, Harry. We know you’re his liaison.”

“Right,” Harry said, annoyed, refusing to acknowledge the knowing look Hermione gave him or the heat creeping up his neck, likely flushing his skin.  

“Harry! Harry!” Teddy’s voice came from the floo, stifled as he was behind Andromeda. “Can I come through? Please, please, please!”

“It’s getting late, love.” Andromeda said. 

“But I got a new set of Gobstones, and I need to show Scor! Please! Please! Just five minutes. Please!” 

Harry thought seeing Teddy would definitely cheer Scorpius up, so he made a quick decision. “If it’s alright with you, Andromeda, he can come through and stay for dinner. We’re having pizza.” 

“We are?” Hermione asked, brow raised, while an excited squeal came from the beneath table. 

Harry winked at Hermione while Andromeda conceded and sent Teddy through the floo. “You’ll need to be back by bedtime, and mind your manners.” 

“Sure thing, Nan!” he called, barrelling through the fireplace and throwing himself first into Harry’s arms then Hermione’s before running from the room in a whirls of violent green hair and lanky limbs. 

“He’s in the sitting room,” Harry yelled after him as Andromeda and Hermione said their goodbyes. 

A chair slid out from under the table as if by magic. Only, it wasn’t magic—it was a nosy nearly-six-year-old hellion with curly blonde pigtails and a terrifyingly sweet smile. She popped up, clutching her unicorn stuffy—Alfred—to her chest. Lyra took in their lack of surprise with pouty lips. 

“You knew I was there,” she accused. 

“Kitchen tables don’t giggle, darling,” Hermione said with a sigh, removing her smock and banishing it to her studio. 

Lyra rolled her eyes. “They do so . They can be enchanted.” 

Harry laughed. “She’s got you there, Hermione.” 

“Well,” Hermione said primly, “our kitchen table doesn’t giggle, and if it did, it wouldn’t sound like a ridiculously meddlesome little girl.” She crept toward Lyra as she spoke, ending the sentence by lifting her up and tickling her, earning a wave of more giggles from Lyra. 

When they’d finished, Hermione set her down and they caught their breaths, as Harry summoned their collection takeaway menus. Lyra’s face morphed, first into a thoughtful expression with scrunched brows, then bright eyes a cat-like smile.

“Mummy,” she started sweetly, “do you think Uncle Ronald could come look after us tomorrow?”

Hermione seemed to have the same reaction to the smile and narrowed her eyes. “Why would you ask that?”

“No reason, really, Mummy. It’s just we’ve not seen him in ages, and Alfie wants to dance in the air,” Lyra answered with large, hopeful eyes.  

“I can make him dance, Lyra,” Harry replied, ruffling through the menus.

“It’s not the same, Uncle Harry.” 

“I suppose I can floo Ronald when he’s home from the shop,” Hermione mussed. 

Lyra jumped and twirled, Alfred whipping through the air above her head. 

“That doesn’t mean he’ll say yes.”

With an excited squeak, Lyra stopped spinning to smile at her mother. “But he will! I’ll go and tell, Scor!” She ran for the door, but skidded to a halt, nearly colliding with the frame. Giving Harry big, imploring eyes, she said, “You won’t forget to order a Margherita pizza, Uncle Harry?” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

“And chips?”

“Course, love,” Harry said, resisting the urge to look at Hermione, knowing it would make him laugh, and he didn’t want Lyra to know that they thought her little manipulations were hilarious. Lyra made Alfred clap his hooves in happiness that he’d be having chips and pizza for dinner, as well, before bounding down the corridor in search of her brother and cousin. 

Harry finally found the menu for the pizza shop that the children preferred and placed their order using the old rotary phone Hermione had miraculously gotten to work, despite the high-level of magical energy in the air. They only used the “telly phone,” as Arthur Weasley called it, for takeaway and Hermione’s occasional muggleborn client, and even though they couldn’t have any food delivered due to the Fidelius Charm Grimmauld was still under, Harry never minded going to retrieve their takeaway.

“So,” Hermione began when Harry finished ordering, carrying a mug of tea with two hands. She settled into her favored chair at the scarred but sturdy kitchen table that once held Order meetings but was now the preferred location for art projects and warm meals. “How is Theo?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Harry grumbled, leaning against the kitchen counter with his own mug of tea.

Hermione took a hesitant sip of her tea, then considered his words, head tilted to the side, nose scrunching. “What do you mean?”

Harry sighed deeply and threw up his hands. “Oh, I don’t know, Hermione. He barely speaks to me, and when he does, it’s not to exchange pleasantries.”

“Really?” Hermione said with wide, surprised eyes. “Theo was quiet in eighth year, but I found he could be quite the conversationalist when the topic took his interest, and he was always polite.” 

“I must not take his interest then,” Harry huffed into his mug before taking a deep drink. 

“Do you want to?” Hermione asked, as if she knew his answer, and knowing Hermione, she likely did. “Take his interest, I mean.”

Harry just shrugged. He wasn’t going to reply to that; he didn’t need to, and he wanted to talk about Scorpius’ schooling before he forgot, but a crash sounded from down the corridor, followed by a round of rowdy giggling. 

“That better not have been the mantle vase again,” Hermione grumbled, rising from her seat. “There’s only so many Repairing Charms porcelain can take before it gets lumpy.” 

“I’d best be off anyway,” he said, banishing his mug to the sink out of laziness instead of walking it over. He didn’t mention that the old Black-family heirloom was already lumpy or that he thought it was hideous before the children started making a habit of shattering it for sport. “Pizza shop is a bit of a walk.” 

Hermione stopped at the door, seeming to think for a moment before turning to him and wrapping her arms around him in a surprise hug. “It doesn’t matter if Theo Nott thinks you're interesting enough to be worthy of his time, Harry. If he truly feels that way, then he doesn’t deserve you.” She pulled back and looked him right in the eye. “One day, you’ll find someone who deserves you and all that fierce, perfect love you have to give.”

Harry didn’t know what to say, but pulled her back into another hug, putting all his energy into it. “You, too, Hermione.” 

Lyra Granger — 2005

After her Mummy kissed her forehead and tucked her in and Kreacher told her a bedtime story, Lyra waited a few minutes  until all was quiet and still in Grimmauld Place. She slipped from the warmth of her duvet then crouched down, pink nightie flowing around her, and opened the bottom drawer of her dresser, finding the box she was searching for with ease despite the darkness of her bedroom.

“I’ll be back,” she whispered to Alfie, who was still tucked in. “Do try and get some sleep. You’re a horrible grump when you don’t get enough.” Satisfied that Alfie took her advice when he made no argument, Lyra padded away from her bed. 

When she opened her bedroom door, just a bit, one slight stream of light appeared on the floor, and she listened, scarcely daring to breathe. Hearing nothing, she snuck out of her room, gliding along the wall. 

She didn’t need to go far, of course, since her brother’s room was right next to hers, but Lyra never did anything by half measures. Coming to his door, she turned the brass handle with care and pushed then snuck in quickly and shut it behind her.

Scorpius still slept with a night light. Mummy conjured a Ball of Lumos for him every evening when she tucked him in. The glowing orb floated around the ceiling, illuminating Scorpius’ pale face peaking above his bed covers.

He lifted his duvet at the corner without speaking like always, and Lyra slid in beside him, taking care to place her box on his nightstand first. 

“Are you alright?” Scorpius asked shifting to his side to face her like she faced him. 

Lyra nearly giggled. Of course Scorpius would assume something was wrong. He always did when she came to his room at night, even though she was almost always there with happy news. 

“No, silly!” Lyra said. “Today has been nearly perfect. School was amazing, Teddy came round, and we had pizza, and Uncle Ronald agreed to watch us tomorrow.” 

Scorpius just stared at her. 

“This is our chance, Scor,” Lyra whispered. 

“Our chance to what?”

Lyra rolled her eyes. Sometimes it felt like her brother was always a few steps behind her. “Our chance to meet Draco Malfoy.” 

Scorpius’ eyes widened, and he shook his head. “No, Lyra.” 

Lyra sighed and sat up, Scorpius following her lead. She grabbed her box from the nightstand. Opening it carefully, she said, “Aunt Andie read my new article from The Prophet to me.” 

“Okay,” Scorpius said skeptically. 

Lyra pulled a piece of newspaper from the top of the seemingly never-ending pile of them in her magically expanded box. “Look.” 

She handed the article to Scorpius, and they both looked at the large picture beside the words. A very pretty blonde woman wearing sleek silver dress robes smiled at the camera, then at the massive ring on her finger, and then at the man beside her—the man they knew to be their father. Draco Malfoy, with his platinum hair just like theirs and his gray eyes just like theirs, smirked right at them, ending the magical photograph’s loop with a wink. 

“Andie says they’re engaged,” Lyra told her brother, pointing at the ring. 

“Okay,” Scorpius said again, handing the article back to her. 

“You do know what that means, don't you?” Lyra asked. 

“That he’s going to be married.” 

“Yes, but it means more than that.”

“More what?”

“It means he’s ready to have a family.” Lyra carefully returned the article to her box and set it aside. Then turned back to her brother, looking him right in the eyes.  “It means he must have time—time for us.” 

Scorpius frowned. “I don’t think it means that, Lyra.” 

“Of course it does! If he has time for a wife he has time for children, and we really don’t even need that much time if you think about it. Just a small bit, really.”

“I think if he had time for us, he’d come to see us,” Scorpius replied, grabbing his sister’s hand. “Mum says he’s very busy.” 

“That was before.”

“Then why hasn’t he come? Or owled? Or anything?” Scorpius was getting a bit too loud, so Lyra squeezed his hand. 

“Maybe he’s forgotten us,” she insisted. “Maybe if we just remind him, he’ll want to see us.”

Scorpius bit his lip and shook his head.

“Trust me, Scorpius. I know he’ll want us if he just meets us. Harry says it’s impossible not to love us, so I know Draco Malfoy will. We just need to meet him.”

“Okay,” Scorpius breathed after a moment. “What’s your plan?”

Lyra almost squealed with excitement but settled for kicking her feet and smiling at her brother. This was it. As long as everything went according to plan, they were finally going to meet Draco Malfoy.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger — 1998

“Miss Granger,” Professor Slughorn began, saying her name like a sigh, leaning back in his seat and folding his hands over his stomach. “My seventh-year curriculum has gone unchanged for decades of teaching. The top two students are always paired together. It makes for some very exciting potions work. I look forward to seeing what the two of you can produce together.”

Hermione Granger knew when an argument was over, when she’d lost, but she refused to give up on this one in particular because she would not spend an entire year forced into the company of the boy who had looked her in the eyes, doing nothing, as she screamed her throat raw on the drawing room floor of his family home. 

She could never stand his eyes, even before that night—so cold and so cruel in their strange gray coloring, somehow too light and too dark at the same time—but she especially hated them now, after everything. Even when Hermione had interrupted him having a panic attack, giving some half-arsed, superficial apology, he’d looked at her like he hated her very existence, and that was it—he always had. He hated her for who her parents were, for something she couldn’t change, so she hated him too. 

As Malfoy lurked behind her now, like a pasty blonde dementor, sucking away at the good mood she’d been in since starting the new term with each arrogant, irritated huff, Hermione was reminded that he was probably more reluctant about this partnership than she was. He considered her less than human, afterall. 

“Be that as it may,” Hermione replied, allowing all of her frustration to flow into her voice. “I think you’ll find, Professor, that this partnership is not only unnecessary, as I’m perfectly capable of brewing all of the potions listed on my own, but it’s also asking for a lab accident of catastrophic proportions. We don’t get on, you see.” 

Malfoy snorted, but Hermione ignored him.

Slughorn smiled indulgently at her before his eyes shifted to Malfoy and it dropped. “I’m well aware of the history between Mr. Malfoy and yourself, Miss Granger. I’m sure you can set your differences aside in the spirit of forgiveness and school unity?”

“Professor, please—”

“And as Head Girl, I would imagine that you wish to set a good example for the rest of the school. Consider this an opportunity.” 

Hermione resisted the urge to explain just where Slughorn could shove his opportunity . She couldn’t help but think that he was doing this out of revenge for her refusal to join the Slug Club this year. As a final plea, she turned to Malfoy, hoping that he’d say something , but he only avoided making eye contact. Coward. 

“I can not possibly work to my full potential under these conditions,” Hermione said. “I can’t.” 

“Well, the amount of time, effort, and practice you put into your potion-making is entirely up to you, Miss Granger, but I assure you will be graded accordingly.” Slughorn struggled to stand, leaning heavily on his desk. He looked so tired that Hermione almost felt bad for putting up such a fight. Almost. “If you could please find your way to dinner, I’ve got some essays to mark.” He gestured for them to leave before retreating to his office. The door closed with a click of dismissal.

Hermione stood there, speechless. This was meant to be her year. Everything was supposed to be perfect. She had made the decision to come back to Hogwarts alone even before McGonagall had offered her Head Girl, something she’d wanted since she learned of the position in Hogwarts: A History during the summer before first year. 

This year, eighth year, was her chance to be Hermione Granger—not Harry, Ron, and Hermione—just Hermione Granger, a real witch with real magic and many real accomplishments. Sh e shouldn’t have to be subjected to the company of her biggest naysayer from the past all year. Hermione had only planned on gloating her success over him; she’d never planned on having to actually interact with him.

“Well, Granger,” the naysayer in question drawled, “because we have near-identical schedules, I feel confident in suggesting we meet Monday, Wednesday, and Friday after dinner in the library. We can work our private lab time out with Slughorn once we’ve settled on a project.” 

Hermione unfroze, wheeled around and gaped at him, hands on her hips. If there’s one thing Draco Malfoy always had, it was the audacity . “And just what makes you think I will be completing any sort of project with you, Malfoy?”

One of his perfect blonde brows rose, creating a supercilious expression on his face that made her want to hex him blind. At least he’d regained some back bone, she supposed. She didn’t think she could argue with that sniveling mess he’d been on the train. “I believe Professor Slughorn’s instructions were quite clear, Granger. Unless you’re willing to forgo a Potions NEWT?”

Hermione crossed her arms and jut out her chin. She gave him a once over, eyes moving slowly up and down and was struck for a moment by the look in his eyes. They weren’t cold and icy as she’d remembered. No, despite the airs he’d put on with his arched brows and upturned nose, his eyes held a strange vulnerability that nearly made her lose her nerve. “You can’t honestly believe that they’d deny me a Potions NEWT because I refuse to work with you.”

What could be hurt flashed in his eyes before they set with anger, but Hermione couldn’t be sure. “What? Scared to work with a big bad death eater, Granger? Or are you simply afraid to be outdone by one? Some Gryffindor you are.”

That was enraging, especially considering she’d more than proven herself as the model Gryffindor through a fucking war. Even down and out as he was this term, Malfoy still had a way of getting to her. But she’d never let him know that, never let such a reaction show on her face. Instead, she laughed as she allowed her eyes to trail over him skeptically. “Since you are neither big nor bad, Malfoy, I can’t imagine why you'd believe that to be an issue for me.”

“What the fuck is your problem, Granger?”

“My problem? My problem ? Oh, I don’t know Malfoy. Maybe it’s the fact that you bullied me relentlessly for six years, going so far as to wish me dead on multiple occasions.” 

Malfoy’s eyes widened, anger radiating off him. “That’s not—”

“Or maybe it’s the time you let death eaters into a school full of children.”

“I had to for—

“Or maybe it’s the simple fact that you willing joined a group of hateful terrorists run by a genocidal maniac and—”

“Enough, Granger.” He eyed her, then ran a hand through his hair, pulling on the ends a bit before letting out an exasperated sigh. “I apologized to you!” 

Hermione refused to stand down. “And I did not accept. You can’t just be a horrid prick for years, wish a subgroup of human beings dead, commit numerous war crimes, then apologize and pretend it didn’t happen.” 

He just stood there, blinking dumbly. “What else am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, Malfoy. Maybe try showing that you feel remorse for what you’ve done, that you’ve changed.”

“I do! I have!” 

“Have you?” Hermione asked dubiously, making her way past him, trotting up the stone stairs to the door. 

“Yes,” he said forcefully, trailing after her. “And I’ll prove it to you.”

Hermione huffed and pulled the door open. “Good luck with that.”

“Thanks,” he said with a mean smile. “I’ll start tonight—in the library after dinner.” 

“We are not—” But he’d already turned and left. 

Hermione sighed and adjusted the shoulder strap of her bag before heading in the opposite direction, practically stomping. Ridiculous, stupid, annoying boy! Hateful cockroach! Nasty little poncey rat!

For the first time, she regretted coming back to Hogwarts. This was meant to be her escape, her way to heal and grow on her own, and now she had to be forced to listen to Malfoy talk about himself for hours every evening.

Hermione supposed she could simply drop potions, but because she didn’t have any idea what sort of career she wanted, and getting as many NEWTs as possible to keep her options open was her only strategy. She could always go to Headmistress McGonagall and explain the situation, but Professor Slughorn was probably right—it wouldn’t be a good look for the Head Girl to be openly opposed to “school unity.” 

Bugger! 

She was going to have to partner with Draco Malfoy, and there was nothing to be done about it. 

Scorpius Granger  — 2005

Scorpius’ mum once said that Uncle Ronald could sleep through a hippogriff stampede. It was on that theory which Lyra based her plan of escape. 

For the entire morning, they played in the garden. Uncle Ronald had been disappointed that they hadn’t gotten the chance to play in yesterday’s snow before it melted overnight, so he recreated the conditions, only adding more snow, and bundled them up in their winter finest. 

Lyra was so happy. She ran outside and threw herself onto the snow-covered ground, waving her arms and legs and giggling, getting snow all over her hat and scarf, in her hair. Her first snow angel looked more like a snow blob to Scorpius, but he made no comment. Her second was much better in his opinion.  

Scorpius was not happy. The entire experience was horrid and cold and Uncle Ron made Scorpius help him build a rather unkind replica of Kreacher out of conjured snow. Scorpius didn’t think Kreacher’s ears were nearly so large and droopy, but Uncle Ron had laughed, so he remained quiet. 

Uncle Ronald was funny sometimes, but Scorpius thought he could be unkind. That was okay, he supposed. Everyone could be, even Lyra.

When his hands and nose began to sting  from the cold, despite the warming charm that he kept asking Uncle Ronald to recast on him, Scorpius finally gave up.

“Can we go inside now, please?” he asked, trying to sound happy because he didn’t want to upset Uncle Ronald or make him think he wasn’t having fun.

“Go inside?” Lyra whipped around from inspecting snow Keacher’s cooked nose and put her hands on her hips. “Scorpius, we’ve only just gotten out here.”

Her eyes were wide, as if trying to communicate something with him. Scorpius knew what—he had promised Lyra that he would help tire Uncle Ronald, but he’d never promised to do it outside. 

“We can try to build your mum next? I might need to conjure up some extra snow for all that hair though,” Uncle Ronald said, chuckling at his joke. 

“No, thanks,” Scorpius replied. “I want to go inside—I’m hungry.”

That worked, just as he thought it would. “Why didn’t you say so? How about we head in, and I’ll whip up a few cheese toasties?” 

“Yes, please!” Scorpius replied before Lyra could. 

Uncle Ronald smiled and clapped his mittened hands together. “Brilliant! Come on then, Little Ferrets and get you washed up and changed.” 

As he gestured for them to follow him inside, Lyra came up and pinched Scorpius on the arm as she passed him. 

That was fair; he’d gone off plan, but it ended up no mattering. After their lunch, which had been warm and delicious, Uncle Ronald suggested they take their cups of tea into the sitting room. They talked for a while about school and Uncle Ronald’s shop and quidditch, and soon enough, Uncle Ronald laid down on the sofa and started snoring, not five minutes after insisting he was just going to rest his eyes for a moment. 

“It worked,” she whispered, poking Uncle Ronald’s cheek to be sure. “We can move on to the next part. Go and get a chair from the kitchen and meet me in the floo parlor.”

Scorpius nodded. He did as she asked as quickly as he could, making as little noise as possible. When he entered the floo parlor, he carefully set the chair down, breathing heavily. Lyra drugged it across the floor until it was directly in front of the fireplace. She climbed on it and reached for the little jar of floo powder on the mantle. 

“Got it!” she whispered excitedly and hopped down from the chair. 

Seeing her take a handful of the green powder, Scorpius began to feel anxious. What they were doing felt real now, and it as dangerous, and even if they did meet Draco Malfoy, there was a chance that he wouldn’t like them. 

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Lyra?” Scorpius asked hesitantly. 

“Of course it is! It’s mine, isn’t it?” 

“But what if something bad happens?”

She rolled her eyes. “As long as we speak clearly when we say the floo address, we’ll be fine. We’ve used the floo loads of times, and we’re only going there and back. We can even go together, and I’ll do it.” 

“I don't know, Lyra.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then come on!” Lyra grabbed his hand with her free one and pulled him into the fireplace. She smiled  and threw down the powder while his eyes went wide with fear. 

“The London Offices of Malfoy and Nott,” Lyra spoke clearly, which was good, but as the swirled through the floo network in a blur of green flames, Scorpius couldn’t help but feel like they were making a terrible mistake. 

Draco Malfoy — 1998

The library at Hogwarts had never appealed to Draco in the way it seemed to entice Theo and Granger. He preferred to study in the privacy of his dorm room, especially now that he had to be on high alert, lest some aggrieved Hufflepuff hex him behind his back—again. 

Honestly, things could be worse; Draco knew that. These first few weeks at Hogwarts had been terrible, certainly, but it wasn’t that bad. He had Theo and the professors treated him like any other student. Then again, Draco wanted to be able to eat breakfast without having to incinerate a dozen howlers first, and he was so tired of dodging curses and insults before his morning tea.

His classes were—the few other eighth years ignored him for the most part. Walking through the corridors between classes, however, was dangerous, and the Great Hall and the library were even worse. 

As if on cue, a spell blazed right past his ear, nearly hitting Granger who sat across from him. The angry red hex hit the bookshelf behind her, causing a small explosion of splintering wood, dust, and paper. 

Granger huffed and placed her quill into her pot of ink forcefully. “I can’t take this anymore.” 

Draco was actually pleased by this. They had been “working together” on their potion’s project for a week, and she hadn’t spoken a single word to him. Granger always walked up to the table he claimed for them, just on time, her face expressionless, and handed him a detailed list of instructions and demands for him to research for their potions’ project. She chose for them—some bizarre theoretical amortentia variant she wanted to create. Then she sat as far away from him as possible and scratched away at the parchment in front of her, taking notes, which she would then duplicate and hand to him after an hour and leave the library. 

Granger never asked for any of his research. Draco suspected she never would—that she’d given him busy work to make it appear that they were collaborating when in reality Granger was doing all of the actual work. It was frustrating. 

“I agree,” Draco remarked, recasting a modified protego around their table. “I think we should’ve chosen to try to shorten the brew-time for Polyjuice or maybe find a substitute for Boomslang skin—as rare and expensive as it is.” 

Rolling her eyes, Granger began to pack her belongings away. “Not about the project, Malfoy. I can’t work under the constant threat of being cursed.”

“I can hardly do anything about that, can I? They’d never curse you. It’s not as though—”

“And there’s nothing wrong with this project!”

“Other than the fact that the outcome will have absolutely no improvements upon the mother potion?”

“Excuse me?” 

Draco smirked and folded his arms. “We’re putting all of this time and energy into a useless potion. Why would anyone want to brew this? A variant of amortentia that has none of the desired effects and only retains the personalized scent—pointless. It has no purpose or potential for monetary value.” 

Her face darkened in that terrifying way it did right before she punched him in third year. He should be alarmed, but instead he felt satisfied. 

“Of course you would think that,” she scoffed. “The purpose of the assignment isn’t to make any of the listed potions more profitable. We’re meant to be showcasing our knowledge and ability. Taking away all effects of a potion but keeping the identifying characteristics is incredibly difficult and would be more than impressive on an apprenticeship application for a mastery.” She paused in her packing to look him in the eye, flicking her mane of curls over her shoulder. “Your polyjuice ‘idea’ is impossible, ludicrous even if I'm being honest. The boomslang skin is the essential transformative component. It wouldn't be polyjuice without it.”

“Please,” Draco sneered. Her neck and cheeks flushed with anger, dark eyes shining, terrifying. A smarter man would have learned when to quit, but he never did. “You don’t need to explain the assignment to me, Granger. Last I checked, my potions marks are, more often than not, higher than yours, and just because a book told you that boomslang skin is irreplaceable, doesn’t mean it’s true.” 

“You only had higher marks because Professor Snape heavily favored you, Malfoy. I worked for my marks.”

He laughed cruelly. It felt so good to talk to someone like this. Since Granger made her opinion of him clear, he might as well meet her expectations. “Struck a nerve, did I?”

Judging by the grip she had on the table, he had. “Oh, stuff it, Malfoy.” 

“I’d love to.”

Granger’s eyes widened. “Wh—”

“But to circle back to your first complaint, there’s nothing I can do about the curses.”

She stared at him skeptically. 

“Believe me, I’ve tried to reason with some of them, but the Hufflepuffs are out for my blood. Who knew badgers could be so bloody vicious?” 

Granger sighed and stood. After pushing in her chair, she looked at him and said, “I’ve already told you, Malfoy. Forgiveness must be earned.” 

“And I told you, Granger, I’m working on it.” Draco was so annoyed. Granger was annoying .

She left. 

Whatever. 

Hours later, Draco roamed the corridors past curfew. It was the only time he could walk freely without the fear of getting hexed. Sure, he could be caught and given detention, but walking to clear his mind was worth the risk. 

As he walked slowly up a set of stairs, he decided the Granger might be right. He hated to admit it, but maybe he did need to do more than say “sorry about all that,” but what gesture could be big enough to change the opinion of an entire student body—or at least make them stop trying to kill him? 

He found himself on the seventh floor. That wasn’t surprising. He’d spent a lot of time walking here from the dungeons. 

The door to the come-and-go room wasn’t there. He remembers seeing it vanish when they escaped, the smell of smoke and blood cleaning to his skin, the shock that Crabbe was still in there, burning away to nothing in the fire he’d started.

Apparently, several professors, curse breakers, and Potter himself had tried to re-enter the room since then, but the door never appeared. It was broken, and there was nothing anyone could do. The magic was too complex—the room was gone forever, they said. 

Draco stepped up to the wall and placed his fingers lightly where the door had been. He foolishly expected it to be hot, but the stone was cool. 

He would need to do something big to show that he was sorry for what he’d done to Hogwarts—something near impossible. 

It was a good thing that Draco had a knack for fixing unfixable things. 

Chapter Text

Theodore Nott — 2005

Theo’s hands trembled. This was delicate work, and he needed to be precise, but he hadn’t slept last night—not a wink, and then he’d decided to take the edge off with a healthy splash of Euphoria Elixir into his tea.  That had been a mistake because he was meant to be meeting with Potter today for some reason that he couldn’t remember, and he’d gotten so anxious that Potter would know he’d taken an illegal potion that he’d decided to smoke a bit to calm his nerves. 

Now he was high as a fucking Seeker, and he couldn’t remember why he was trying to make this bloody bracelet in the first place. 

No, actually, he was making it for Potter because he wanted to be friends with Potter. It was all a part of the plan. 

When Theo went to research how to make a friend, he’d decided to start in a muggle bookshop because it was common knowledge that Potter had been raised by muggles, and Theo assumed a muggle approach to starting a friendship would be more comfortable and natural for Potter. 

After making an inquiry, the shopkeeper handed him a lovely pink and purple paperback titled “Friends: Making Them and Keeping Them.” While the little book appeared to be marketed towards adolescent muggle girls, it suited his needs just fine, and the instructions on friendship bracelet making were easy to follow. His hands just wouldn’t cooperate. 

A bead, white with a black letter “H” in the middle, slipped from his shaking fingers, and Theo let out a string of expletives. He threw the string onto his desk and put his head in his hands. Sure, he could use magic for this, but when he’d considered that, it seemed disingenuous. 

The floo alarm chimed, and it felt his stomach drop into his feet—Potter was early. 

Potter was early, and he hadn’t finished making their bracelets or memorized any of the conversation starters to help him find something they had in common. 

Theo stood, nearly knocking over his desk as he staggered toward the floo so that he could greet Potter with a smile, but Potter didn’t come out of the floo. 

Instead, two small, blonde children tumbled out. 

They stared up at him from their mess of limbs on the floor.

“Hello?” Theo asked, when neither of them spoke, not sure if this was actually happening or not. 

“Hi,” the girl said, swatting the boy away from her and standing. Her smile, almost wolfish in its intensity, was oddly familiar. They were familiar. “My name is Lyra, and this is my brother Scorpius. You’re Theodore Nott.” 

“I suppose I am,” Theo replied. Merlin, he was higher than he thought. He’d have to make a note that cannabis and Euphoria Elixir should not be mixed. 

“We’ve come to see Draco Malfoy,” Lyra said while the boy, Scorpion or something, looked around Theo’s office with wide, terrified eyes. 

“That’s a shame. He’s not here—it’s Saturday,” Theo said, following Scorgio’s gaze to the cursed doll house he had displayed on his bookshelf. “Best not play with that, Scoliosis. It will shrink you down, and make you live in it, and it takes days for me to reverse that part of the curse.” 

“But you’re here,” Lyra insisted. 

“Yes, well, I have a meeting today. Draco doesn’t.” 

Her smile turned into a frown—a very, very sad sort of frown. Her bottom lip started to tremble, and her brother grabbed her hand. 

“I—” Theo stuttered, backing away from them, then moving toward them, then backing away again. “Wait, wait, don’t cry. Please don’t cry! Maybe I could send him an owl or something?” 

“An owl will take ages!” she whined. “We’ve not got ages.” 

“Right, quite right,” Theo agreed. He sat on the floor, folding his legs, and bringing a finger to his chin, considering this. “We could try floo calling him, but I don’t know if he’s in his room. Could you tell me why you need to see him? Perhaps I can help you instead?”

Lyra looked at her brother, and he shook his head. She turned back to Theo, crestfallen. “No, thank you.

The boy cleared his throat, and said in a small voice, “But maybe you could tell him we would like to see him if he isn’t too busy?”

Theo smiled. “Yes, yes, I could definitely do that. Let me just write it down so I don’t forget?”

The children nodded, and Theo summoned a quill, pot of ink, and sheet of parchment from his desk. Kneeling with difficulty, he opened the pot and dipped his quill. “Now, what would you like me to say?” 

Lyra stood up straight, peering at the parchment. “Please write, ‘If you’re not too busy, Lyra and Scorpius Granger would like to meet with you—’”

Theo sat up, head spinning. “Did you say Granger? As in, Hermione Granger?”

“That’s our mum,” Scabbard said. 

Theo’s mind raced. He took in their white-blonde hair—Malfoy hair. They both had pointy little faces, less pointy than Draco’s had been when they were young, but pointy all the same, and combined with the boy’s gray eyes, Theo was pretty sure he knew why they wanted to see Draco. “How old did you say you are?”

“We’re nearly six,” Lyra said proudly. 

Theo tried to count, but his head was spinning, and he was feeling rather ill. He started using his fingers, but the floo alarm chimed again. “Now who could that—” He gasped then nearly fell face first into the carpet as he struggled to stand. “I’m so sorry, but I have a meeting.” 

Theo was just trying to straighten the wrinkles out of his robes when Auror Harry Potter walked through the floo. Potter’s perfect smile dropped as soon as he saw the two children. 

“What—what are you two doing here? Where’s Ron?” Potter asked, looking more frightened than furious. 

“We—” Scabby began, but Lyra nudged him with her elbow, making him squeak. 

“We meant to visit Teddy, but must’ve said the address wrong.”

One of Potter’s brows rose, and his mouth turned down. Theo was worried that Potter would turn that skeptical expression onto him. Surely that could make even the most hardened criminals confess their every sin.

“Andromeda and Teddy aren’t home,” Potter said, putting his hands on his hips. “You know they aren’t. Where’s Ron? Why’d he let you floo—he’s asleep, isn’t he?”

“Yes, Uncle Ron fell asleep, and Scorpius didn’t want to play werewolves with me, so I wanted to see if Teddy could come and play, but we ended up here.” Lyra smiled at Potter in the exact same way Draco used to turn his grin on Narcissa when he wanted something. Theo’s whole body shuddered, and he had to lean on his desk for support. 

“I’m sorry about all this,” Potter said. The silence that followed made Theo look up from his desk to see that Potter was staring right at him. 

Oh, Merlin, Potter knew he was high. Fuck. This was a fucking nightmare. 

“Mr. Nott was trying to help us,” Lyra said, smiling at him. 

He was? Who was?  Oh, yes, that's right. I was. 

Potter was smiling, too—white and bright, his strange green eyes shining like spells. Theo had never been so confused in his life, so he nodded, trying to keep his face as blank as possible, and that seemed to work because Potter ruffled the brother’s hair and started moving the children toward the floo.

“I hate to do this to you,” Potter said, “But could we reschedule our meeting for tomorrow? I’ve got to get these two home and have some words with Ron.” 

Theo kept nodding. Tomorrow. He had until tomorrow. 

“Great. Same time?” Potter asked. 

 At Theo’s continued silence, Potter just shook his head and called their floo address, taking the children with him into the green swirling fire. 

Theo breathed a sigh of sweet relief, sagging into his desk. He took a moment to recover, then summoned his journal from the drawer. 

Potter, tomorrow, children need help, he wrote, followed by DO NOT MIX CANNABIS AND EUPHORIA ELIXIR.

Closing the journal, he sat back in his desk chair, and picked the knotted string back up—at least he had another day to make this bloody bracelet. 

Hermione Granger — 1998

Hermione watched the footprints labeled Draco Malfoy as they paced back and forth along a corridor on the seventh floor. She knew the entrance to the Room of Requirement had once been there, but it certainly wasn’t any longer. 

He’d been going there every night for the past four. Hermione had noticed entirely by accident. She’d taken Marauders' Map out for the first time that school year to see if Hagrid was in his hut, intending to surprise him with a visit, when she’d noticed Malfoy there. He stayed—he stayed for hours, and it was so strange. 

So the following evening, Hermione decided to check the map again, and sure enough, Malfoy had returned to the same spot on the seventh floor. 

She couldn’t shake the feeling that history was repeating itself, and so she’d watched him on the map every night since.

Hermione was well aware that she was likely being ridiculous—that when Harry had done this exact same thing in sixth year she’d told him as much, but the thing was, Harry had been right. 

During the day between, she’d even stopped by the corridor to investigate, but it was empty save for the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach trolls ballet.

Watching his footprints pause then resume their pacing, Hermione made a quick decision. Confronting him at the scene of the crime—or whatever it was he was doing—was her best option. 

“Mischief Managed,” she told the map, then folded it up before grabbing her bag off her nightstand. 

As Head Girl, it was her duty, really, to see what he was doing. Even though he wasn’t technically breaking curfew, with the extended hours McGonagall had granted the eighth years, she had every right to ask him what he was doing.

After debating with herself for the entire walk from the Gryffindor girl’s dorm to the corridor, when she rounded the corner, she nearly jumped at the sight of Malfoy staring intensely at the spot along the wall where the door to the Room of Requirement used to appear. 

His white hair was terribly mussed, and his pale skin shone in the dim lighting. He’d tossed his outer robes and tie in a heap on the floor beside him. Wearing only his school trousers and white button down with his sleeves rolled up, Hermione could just make out the remnants of the Dark Mark on his left arm. It made her stomach turn. 

She cleared her throat before she lost her nerve, but Malfoy didn’t acknowledge her, just kept staring at the wall. 

“Malfoy?” she asked, when he still didn’t respond, she approached. 

For a moment, she thought he’d been petrified, but then he blinked, and sighed heavily, as if disappointed. 

“What are you doing?” Hermione asked, and Malfoy yelped, eyes wide with shock as he realized she was right beside him. 

“Fuck, Granger,” he breathed, putting a hand to his chest and breathing heavily. “What the hell are you doing here at this hour?”

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, squinting her eyes at him. “I just asked you the same question.”

Malfoy rubbed his forehead then swiped a hand down his face. “Nothing—I was just—Nothing, okay?”

“I didn’t look like ‘nothing’. You weren’t moving, not even blinking. I called your name, and you didn’t seem to hear me. What were you doing?”

“It’s none of your business, Granger,” he said, bending down to pick up his discarded clothing. “Fuck off.” 

“I could take house points for that!” 

“I don’t care,” he sneered, turning away from her and walking away. 

Incensed, she followed. “I’m Head Girl.” 

“Trust me, Granger, no one has forgotten, least of all me.” 

“So you know that whatever it is you were doing absolutely is my business.

Malfoy scoffed and paused his escape, facing her with a raised brow. “How have you come to that conclusion?”

“Because you’ve been returning to that corridor every night for nearly a week, and if you don’t tell me what you’re up to, I’ll have to involve Headmistress McGonagall.” 

Both brows were raised now as he looked her up and down. “Are you stalking me?” 

Hermione snorted, rolling her eyes. “As if! I just want to know what you’re up to.” 

“What? Do you think I’m trying to resurrect The Dark Lord or something?”

A chill ran down Hermione’s spine, but she kept her face straight. “I don’t know. Are you?”

“Of course, I’m bloody not!” Malfoy shouted. “Merlin, Granger, I’m trying to fix my reputation, not get myself killed.” 

“You’re trying to fix your reputation by staring intently at the castle walls?” she asked, hands on her hips. 

“I wasn’t just staring at the wall. I was using Legilimency.”

Hermione gasped. “On whom?”

Malfoy shook his head, clearly losing his patience. “Not on whom—on what .”

That made no sense. From what Hermione knew of mind magic, one needed a mind on which to perform it. What could Malfoy be trying to use Legilimency on without another human present on the seventh floor? 

Oh.

“The Room of Requirement,” she breathed, disbelief clear in her tone. 

“Do you want house points or something?” Malfoy snarked, heaving his bag over his shoulder. “You told me to show the school that I’ve changed—that I’m willing to put in the effort to do so.”

“And you chose this? The best curse breakers and unspeakables in Britain have already confirmed that the damage can’t be undone.”

Malfoy shrugged, seemingly to dismiss her, but Hermione was intrigued. 

“What are you trying to do that you think they didn’t?”

He glared at her for a moment, then sighed. “An object cannot be fixed, if it’s not understood.” 

“So you’re trying to read the Room’s mind—to understand it?”

“No,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’m trying to learn how it knows what a person requires. The door hasn’t been appearing. That seems to be the main issue, so I’m trying to figure out why .”

Hermione gasped, truly shocked. “Malfoy, that’s brilliant.” 

She could’ve been mistaken, but she thought he might be blushing, until his mouth turned down in a fierce scowl. “Not brilliant enough to work on my own potions project though, am I? You’re not the only person in the castle with a working brain, Granger.”

“I never said I was, but I suppose I can admit I underestimated your—abilities.” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes before turning away from her again, walking with purpose in the direction of the staircase to the dungeons. “Glad we’ve got that settled.” 

“Wait!” Hermione cried, grabbing his arm and pulling him back to face her again. “Can I—I want to help.” 

One elegant brow raised, and Malfoy had somehow managed to make Hermione Granger feel like an absolute idiot. 

“I’d like to see your theories on fixing the Room and offer my assistance,” she clarified. 

“Why?” 

“Because I find it interesting. Don’t you ever do anything just for the sake of knowing?”

“No,” Malfoy replied flatly. 

“Well, I do.”

He stared at her for a long moment, eyes running her up and down before sighing. “Fine, you can help, but I have a condition.”

Hermione stiffened. Of course he would. “What is it?”

“If I allow you to assist me in restoring The Room of Requirement, you need to allow me to do my share of the Potion’s Project.”

Considering this, Hermione crossed her arms. Sure, he’d proven himself capable of doing good academic work, but to be honest, she preferred having full control of projects and group work, and she was a bit worried she’d regret what she was about to do. 

“Deal.”

Chapter Text

Harry Potter — 2005

Harry apparated to the front gates of the Yaxley family’s hunting lodge with a small pop. He had owled Nott the previous evening, requesting a new time for their rescheduled examination of the wards. Nott had requested six o’clock in the morning. 

It was odd, but Harry supposed Nott was a busy man—owning a business and curse breaking all that. 

While Harry had been reluctant to accept such an early, oddly-timed, appointment on a Sunday, he’d felt rather guilty about having to reschedule in the first place because of Lyra and Scor’s joy ride through the floo network, so he’d owled Nott that he’d be there. 

Misty morning fog obscured Harry’s view of the lodge. Not a soul had been inside the place since Corban Yaxley was killed in the war. The castle, for there was no better name for it, towered over the trees that dotted its gravel driveway. Leave it to pretentious pureblooded aristocrats to dub such an impressive piece of medieval architecture a hunting lodge. 

A crack sounded, and Theodore Nott whirled into existence, wearing daisy yellow dress robes that were both wildly inappropriate and incredibly charming. 

His curly brown hair was neatly combed, but there was a wildness to his expression as he looked around dazedly before spotting Harry, who stood right beside him. Red rimmed blue eyes stared at him unblinking, and Harry nearly took a step back at the intensity he found there. 

“Er—” Harry began with a tremulous smile. “Are you alright?”

Nott’s eyes grew wide. He turned his head with a pained expression, taking them off of Harry, focusing on the castle instead before clearing his throat. “Why do you ask? I haven’t done anything illegal, if that’s what you’re suggesting, Auror Potter.” 

Harry couldn’t help himself—he burst into laughter. “No, no, I think you misunder—I was just a bit worried. You look tired.” 

Nott’s brows came together in a delightfully confused expression Harry had never seen him make before. “Right. Yes, well, that’s probably because I haven’t slept.”

“Oh,” Harry said, rather dumbly, not quite sure how to respond to that, considering that just asking Nott why he hadn’t slept might put him off, and he didn’t want to do anything to make Nott stop talking to him like this. “If you’re tired, we can always come back later today.”

“No, now is fine.” Nott shook his head, long fingers fidgeting with the slim wand he held tightly in one hand. “It’s all fine. I’m not tired at all. Not at all.”

“If you’re sure…” Harry really didn’t want to reschedule. He’d already had to beg his supervisor in the DMLE to allow him more time to get Nott out here to break whatever curse had affected Olivia Brown and landed her in St. Mungos. 

The Ministry was pressed for time and wanted to call in a different consultant. It didn’t look good on the British Ministry, after all, having an international visitor for whom they’d promised absolute safety in hospital for so long.

“I’m quite sure. I wouldn’t sleep if we postponed this anyway. I have a list,” Nott said, stepping up to the wrought-iron gate and examining the winged-stallion motifs adorning the top. 

“They’re…nice,” Harry tried, standing beside Nott for a better look.

“Pegasus,” Nott said. “A symbol of the Yaxley family.”

“Nice,” Harry said again, and wanted to curse himself for being such a bumbling idiot every single time he was in this man’s presence. 

“I suppose it is,” Nott said. He waved his wand, and the gate creaked open. “We’ll need to go inside.” 

Nodding, Harry followed him through, gravel crunching beneath his boots, hands in his robes pockets, trying to appear relaxed and casual. 

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Nott becoming increasingly agitated while they walked along. 

“So,” Nott finally said, voice so loud that Harry jumped. “Oh, sorry…I was just thinking that perhaps we should talk.” 

“Talk?” Harry asked, mouth agape. “ You want to talk ? To me?”

“Yes.” Nott grimaced, and Harry wasn’t sure that was the truth. “In order to make a connection with a potential friend, one must first get to know them through conversation.”

Harry stopped walking, completely floored. Nott wanted to be his friend? He couldn’t believe it. “I thought you didn’t— ?”

Nott’s sapphire eyes pierced Harry, sending chills down his spine. “I have some questions prepared.”

“Okay?”

“We should walk and talk—the house knows we’re here.” 

Merlin, it was far too early in the morning for this. 

“This house isn’t sentient,” Harry clarified. The Curse Breakers from the Ministry had already determined that, and Harry was sure of it because he hated sentient objects. It might be his muggle upbringing, but they always made him feel uneasy. 

“Right, so, you have some questions,” Harry said, changing the subject before Nott could change his mind about speaking to him. He gestured for them to continue their walk, and Nott complied. 

“I do, yes,” Nott began fidgeting with his wand again, appearing to be thinking hard, deep breaths increasing in frequency. 

When it had been over a full minute of this, Harry cleared his throat. “Do you—Are you going to ask something you think I won’t like?”

“No!” Nott shouted, startled. “Merlin, no! I just can’t seem to remember the right wording.”

“You memorized questions to ask me?” This was bizarre. Nott was bizarre, but damn it all if Harry didn’t find it interesting . 

“Evidently I didn’t.” Nott shook his head. “Do you mind if I use my notecards?”

“Go on then,” Harry gestured with his hand,  trying to suppress the dopey smile that his lips made involuntarily. Nott was so charmingly strange that he couldn’t help himself. 

Reaching into the breast pocket of his robes, Nott pulled out a stack of notecards then examined the top one closely. “Right. Yes, that’s it. Okay.”

“I’m ready,” Harry assured him. 

“Ask ‘What do you like to do in your free time?’ and remember to offer some information about yourself. Be candid, but don’t speak about yourself too much.” Nott said, his red-ringed eyes searching Harry’s face almost manically. “I don’t think I was meant to read the whole thing.”

“Well,” Harry said, trying to think of what to say. He really didn’t have much free time these days—or ever. “I like spending time with Hermione, Lyra, and Scorpius, Ron and the Weasleys, too, and I guess I like flying and quidditch.” 

Nott nodded. “Yes, seeker and the dragon and all that, I remember. You’re very fast.”

“Thanks. Do you like quidditch, then?” Harry asked. 

“Not at all,” Nott answered simply. 

“Oh, alright then. What do you do in your free time?”

Nott swallowed. “I…I suppose I like to experiment.”

“On what?”

“Everything.”

“Huh,” Harry replied, supposing he knew that a bit. “Any more questions?”

They went back and forth with Nott’s notecards, walking leisurely up the driveway. Harry learned that Nott liked chocolate frogs but didn’t collect the cards. He was partial to green, but also favored purple, preferring it in lighter shades, and Nott said his favorite subject at Hogwarts had been Ancient Runes, but his favorite professor had been Snape. No surprise there. 

“What is the best birthday present you ever received?” Nott read, then placed the card at the back of his pile before looking at Harry expectantly. 

Harry took a deep breath. How could he answer this without ruining their conversation, and making everything awkward. “I supposed it would be Hedwig—my old owl. Hagrid gave her to me for my eleventh birthday. She was the first birthday present I ever received.” 

“Do muggles not celebrate birthdays?” Theo asked, eyebrows scrunched together. 

“No, they do,” Harry said, scratching the back of his neck. “My—erm, my aunt and uncle didn’t like me much. They never got me anything.”

Harry was nervous, almost afraid to see Theo’s expression, but when he glanced over at him, Theo was smiling brightly. 

“We finally found something we have in common,” Theo said proudly. “My father didn’t like me much either—hated me actually—and I was too young to remember any gifts from my mum. The best gift I ever got was from Pansy in third year. She gave me a shrunken head from her family holiday to the Amazon. I still have him! He has the most beautiful singing voice—a tenor, if you believe it.”

“That’s—nice.” Harry was pleased that Theo was pleased, and if the first thing they had in common was child neglect, that was fine. It was something. 

When they arrived at the grand front doors, Nott paused his questioning but kept the note cards in one hand, his wand in the other. He tapped the ornate gold knocker with his wand and waited.

“There’s nobody home,” Harry started, but was silenced when the door slowly opened for them. 

“I’ve just got to check the curses placed on the ward stone at the entrance,” Nott explained, face serious. “It shouldn’t take me long to break any blood purity curses that have affected your Yaxley relation. You’re a halfblood, so you might want to wait here.”

Harry scoffed. “I’m not letting you go in there alone. Besides, Olivia was cursed just inside the ward line, so I’m no safer here than inside.”

Nott frowned. “I won’t steal any cursed objects or whatever it is you think I’m going to do in here. You’ll be able to see me the entire time.” 

“I didn’t think you’d do that,” Harry replied, voice much calmer than he felt. “I only want to stay with you to protect you. I’m an auror, and I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.” 

Nott stared at him with his wide red-rimmed eyes. “Oh.” 

“Now, go on. The sooner you finish, the happier my boss will be.” 

Nott nodded, blinking confusedly, before stepping inside. 

Cobwebs and dust covered the massive chandelier that hung from the ceiling. The candles it held lit as soon as Theo was across the threshold, sending chills down Harry’s spine. A small receiving table sat directly underneath it with a vase filled with brittle dried flowers resting on top.

“Belladonna,” Theo remarked. “An interesting choice for greeting guests.” 

Harry grunted in reply. In his experience, these old pureblood estates were never decorated with the comfort of guests in mind. At least there were no house elf heads lining the corridor that he could see. 

Nott took measured steps around the room, surveying the dark damask wallpaper with a dubious expression. “Ghastly, isn’t it? I don’t know why those with a predilection towards darker magic feel the need to decorate in grays and blacks. My father was the same.”

“Really? I think it’s obvious,” Harry said, keeping his wand at the ready lest any traps the Yaxley family set be triggered. 

“Is it?” Nott asked, waving his wand along the stone floor by the doors. 

“Sure, dark magic, dark colors.”

A ghost of a smile came to his lips. “But the darkest magic produces the brightest colors. Consider the killing curse.” Nott looked up to stare at Harry again. “You’re more familiar with it than most, having survived it twice.” 

Harry nodded, feeling uncomfortable now—whether from the odd discussion or the creepy entryway. 

“The color—it’s almost as green as your eyes—and so bright it can be blinding,” Nott said, his own eyes going glassy as if his mind was somewhere else.

“It is,” Harry agreed quietly. After a few moments of Nott staring blankly, lost in his head, Harry spoke louder, “I think I understand what you mean.”

Nott shook his head as if to clear it, and went back to the wall, waving his wand about, and muttering spells that Harry couldn’t quite hear. 

“I found it,” he announced, then the wallpaper peeled away where he was pointing his wand to reveal an expanse of stone covered in complicated runes.

A noise came from the floor above them and Harry whipped around, shining his Lumos up the grand staircase. He didn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean they were safe.

“Let’s just—this place is giving me the creeps. It’s worse than Grimmauld was when I first moved in, and that’s really saying something, considering there isn’t a portrait of my dead godfather’s abusive mother screaming slurs at me.” 

“Grimmauld?” Nott asked, examining the runes closely. 

“Yeah, it’s the old Black family home in London. I inherited it from Sirius.”

Nodding Nott moved his wand in a series of quick movements, and a rush of power made the ground shake. The chandelier above them rattled dangerously, and Harry cast a shield over Nott and himself as a precaution. 

Nott didn’t seem concerned in the least. “The portrait was of Walburga Black,then?”

“Is,” Harry corrected, and Nott looked away from the rune stone for a moment to shoot Harry a questioning look. “The portrait can’t be removed. Some sort of permanent sticking charm or something. Hermione and I gave up trying to take it down, so we just built a wall over it. Sometimes I swear I can hear her wailing on quiet nights.” Harry shuddered. 

Nott went back to spellcasting at the stone, his slim wand moving through the air in ever more complicated motions. Harry was transfixed. Sure, Harry was a powerful wizard, but he’d never had such an intimate understanding of magic. Nott was brilliant—a genius.

With a final flourish, the ground shook again, and Nott stepped back. “That should do it. Like I thought, it was a relatively simple blood purity curse.”

“Great. Thank you for your help, Nott.” Harry sent a patronus to his boss then another to St. Mungos.

Nott just stood there, hunched awkwardly and staring at Harry. 

“I could help you,” Nott blurted, after he and Harry were once again walking down the gravel driveway, this time toward the gates. 

“With what?” Harry asked. 

“The portrait,” Nott clarified. “I could take a look if you like.” 

Honestly, Harry was rather loath to remove the wall that blocked the portrait from view, but this would be an excellent opportunity to spend more time with Nott. 

“That would be great, but I have to warn you. She’s awful, and Hermione would hex us both bloody if Walburga is out of her plaster tomb when the kids get home from school.”

Nott gave a small smile. “I’m familiar with the type. Next weekend then?”

“Sure, how much will I owe you?”

Nott shook his head. “No charge, Auror Potter. I’ll do it as a friend .”

Harry’s heart nearly leapt from his chest, it was fluttering so wildly. “Then you should call me Harry.” 

“Theo.” 

Pansy Parkinson — 2005

Pansy checked her appearance in a dingy shop window. From what she remembered of Weasley, it wasn’t surprising that the window appeared to have never heard even a whisper of a cleaning charm in decades. He’d been a dreadful slob at Hogwarts with his loose tie and worn uniform. 

She patted her hair down and adjusted her dress. It was short—far shorter than she would’ve worn when her parents were still alive to check her behavior, but they were gone, and Pansy was a new woman. 

Her year spent traveling the world after the war had introduced her to many new cultures, and more importantly, new fashion. She still favored black. It suited her creamy skin and matched her hair, but she allowed some muggle influence into her looks outside of the office and even purchased some muggle cosmetics. 

Today she wore a killer short black dress that accentuated her slim shoulders, black heels, and muggle sunglasses that drew attention to her face and blood-red lips. 

Satisfied with her appearance, she entered Ron Weasley’s quidditch shop. It smelled like leather and sweat and was not the sort of place Pansy would generally shop for quidditch equipment—not that she would at all, but if she did, she certainly wouldn’t do it here. 

Pansy sauntered up to the counter where she could see the back of a messy red-haired head flopped against the back of a chair. 

“Excuse me,” she said demurely, putting it on a bit thick. Merlin, she was good. 

The head didn’t move, but she did hear quiet snoring now that she’d gotten closer. Weasley was asleep. Typical. Pansy looked around and briefly considered robbing the idiot blind but thought better of it. She was there for information, and information she would get. 

“Weasley,” Pansy tried, much louder than before. The oaf jolted but settled back into the chair with a disgusting wet sniff. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Pansy cursed, then drew her wand and sent a stinging hex at his ear. 

Weasley shot up, wand pointing right at Pansy, chest heaving. Had Weasley always been so tall? He towered over her, and with his wand pointing at her, he was almost intimidating. Almost. 

“Hello,” Pansy purred, tilting her head to the side, smirking at the tip of his wand. 

“Er—how can I help you, Miss…?” Weasley asked, looking confused but no longer frightened, rubbing his ear with his free hand. He didn’t remove the wand trained on her, however.

“You actually don’t recognize me?” Pansy gasped. She knew they’d been in different houses, but Weasley, Granger, and Potter had played large roles in her school days—they were the enemy. They were the ever-present thorns in her perfect side. 

“You look familiar, I guess.” Weasley’s eyes trailed over her. Fuck, had Weasley’s eyes always been so blue? “And you’re wearing sunglasses indoors.”

Pansy huffed and ripped them off her face. 

“Oh…Parkinson,” Weasley sighed, lowering his wand. “What do you want?”

Crossing her arms, Pansy glared at him. “That’s no way to treat a potential customer. I think I’ll take my galleons elsewhere!”

Weasley laughed, shaking his head. “Go on then.” 

“Rude as ever, I see.” Pansy couldn’t believe the audacity of this man. “And sleeping on the job. I really ought to report you to the The Department of Magical Trade and Commerce.”

“Come on, Parkinson! Had a late night at the pub is all,” Weasley replied sheepishly, dragging a hand through his chin-length red hair. The old quidditch jersey he wore raised with his arm, revealing a toned stomach. 

Had Ron Weasley always been so bloody fit?

Pansy pursed her lips. Maybe seducing him would be more…beneficial than she’d initially thought. 

Still, if Pansy was going to do this, she needed to get it together. She was meant to be charming information out of him, but all she’d done thus far was check him out and berate him. 

Gryffindors just brought the worst out of her.

“That’s quite alright, Weasley. I’ve been there a time or two,” Pansy attempted, smiling prettily and tucking some hair behind her ear. “I’m actually looking for a new broom. I want to take up flying.”

Weasley smiled, showing off his straight white teeth and— Dear Merlin —dimples. “Now we’re talking.”

He hopped over the counter. Hopped over the bloody counter! Then gestured for her to follow him. Weaving through the cluttered displays of paraphernalia and equipment, Weasley led her to the wall along the back of the shop where dozens of brooms were suspended vertically side-by-side. 

“What sort of broom are you looking for?” Weasley asked, that dimple forming on his cheek with his lopsided smile. “How experienced are you with broom riding?”

“I’ve ridden quite a few brooms,” Pansy replied cheekily. “But it’s been a while. Do you offer lessons?”

Wealsey’s eyebrows rose. “So you’re experienced, but you want lessons?”

Pansy rolled her eyes. Merlin, help her, but he wasn’t the brightest Lumos out of the wand, was he? She might be able to just ask him about Granger’s kids without the seduction part. Pansy eyed him, considering her options, deciding that she rather wanted to do the seduction part, should he be amenable. It really had been a while since she’d ridden her last broom, after all, and Weasley looked like a very tall, very toned sort of broom. 

“How have you been, Weasley?” Pansy asked, stepping a bit closer to him. “You look good.”

Weasley swallowed, throat bobbing. “Good.” 

She allowed her eyes to trail over him, stopping for an extra few seconds at the muscular thighs beneath his muggle jeans. “I see that.”

“I think the latest Cleansweep would be your best bet.” He turned sharply and put his hand up. One of the brooms soared from the wall into his outstretched hand. “It’s—erm, a nice one for hobby flyers.” 

Pansy stepped even closer, closing the small distance between them and running her fingers along the broom. “How’s Potter?”

“Harry?” Weasley asked, voice high and tight, as he watched her fingers fondle the tip. “He’s good—working as an Auror if you didn’t know.”

“And Granger?”

Weasley gulped as Pansy gripped the broom, palmining up and down.

“What?” Beads of sweat had appeared on Weasleys brow now, and his breathing was heavy on her face.

“How is she? I haven’t heard a single thing about her in years.”

“Hermione…right. She’s good, too. Busy but good?”

“Busy doing what?” Pansy hummed, breath mingling with Weasleys as their faces nearly came together. His breath smelled surprisingly nice. Minty.

“She’s—she has a magical portrait business, and she has the twins, so yeah. Busy.” 

“Twins, you say?” Pansy brought her free hand up to Weasley’s cheek, stroking his chin with her thumb. “Must be a handful.”

Weasley smiled, blue eyes lighting up as he thought of his friend’s children, and Pansy knew she was going to have sex with him—information or not. He was hot, and she had time. 

“Oh, they are. Nightmares the both of them—two little blonde ferret nightmares.”

Pansy paused, heart dropping into her stomach. Little blonde ferret—she only knew of one. “And how old did you say they are?” 

“Nearly six. Their birthday is right around the corner.” Wealsey scratched the back of his head, jersey rising again, showing a trail of red hair that led to his belted jeans. It was shameful, really. Obscene. “Which reminds me I’ve got to buy them a gift that will annoy the hell out of Hermione. It’s my duty as favorite uncle.” 

“Of course.” Pansy smiled. She’d gotten all the information she needed to take back to Theo. She was about 99% sure she knew who fathered the ferrets, but it wouldn’t be wise to approach Draco with this until they were 100% absolutely positive. 

In the meantime, Pansy believed she deserved a reward for all her hard work. She batted her lashes up at Weasley, and he tilted his head in confusion. 

“I don’t think I’ll be buying a broom after all,” Pansy breathed, running a hand down Weasley’s arm, catching his hand at the bottom. 

“Oh,” Weasley said, taken aback. “Er—if you change your mind—”

“No.” Pansy smirked, knowing she was about to say something horribly corny, but she couldn’t resist.  “I don’t think I will, but I definitely would like a ride.” 

“We don’t offer test flies.”

A cat-like grin spread across Pansy’s face as she got up on her tiptoes to whisper into his ear. “Not the brooms, Weasley. I want you to fuck me.” 

“Merlin,” he groaned, finally understanding. 

Pansy squealed as he lifted her up, tossing her over his shoulder as he headed for the back room. Then with a second thought, he made a quick wave with his wand, still holding Pansy in the air like she weighed nothing, and the sign on the shop door flipped from Open to Closed. 

Draco Malfoy — 1998

Sweat dripped down Draco’s face, his neck, into the collar of his school shirt. He could feel it, but pushed harder. He was in contact with something when he used Legilimency on the Room of Requirement, but it wasn’t like any mind he’s ever encountered. Not that he’d performed actual Legilimency on many people, but this just felt so different. 

It was complete darkness, but he could sense he was somewhere. It wasn’t like performing Legilimency on an inanimate object which simply wouldn’t work. He was in. He just wasn’t sure what he was meant to do. 

“I don’t think this is working,” Granger’s voice sounded far away, even though she was right beside him. 

Draco left the mind or whatever he was in with a deep gasping breath. He was exhausted. All these late nights staring at the blackness inside of a wall were catching up to him, so he pressed himself against it, and slid until he was sitting. 

“Are you alright, Malfoy?”

Nodding, Draco cast a cooling charm on himself. “It’s difficult. I’m in something that’s like a human mind, but isn’t at all.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It’s hard to explain. There’s nothing there. It’s like endless darkness, but the darkest darkness I’ve ever seen. At the same time, it feels like a place, like I’m there.” 

“Hmm,” Granger said, sitting on the floor as well on the opposite side of the corridor. “Are you sure you’re casting the spell correctly?”

Draco scoffed. “Of course I’m sure.” 

“Legilimency and mind magic are really advanced, far beyond the Hogwarts curriculum. It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility that you’re making an error in your spell casting.” 

“I’m not ,” Draco insisted. “I’ve been practicing mind magic since fourth year. I’m not an expert, but I know how to cast the spell, Granger. When you’ve had a master Legilimens living in your home, checking your thoughts without warning at any time, looking for an excuse to torture and kill you or your family, you can come lecture me on mind magic.”

Granger blinked rapidly, and Draco nearly felt guilty for bringing that up. 

“Sorry,” she breathed. “I just—Do you think something should be there—in the blackness?”

He was grateful for the subject change. “What do you mean?”

“Well, if the Room of Requirement works by using some form of Legilimency on passersby, then shouldn’t something be there to do it?”

“Like what?” Draco scoffed. “A tiny wizard casting the spell with his tiny wand?”

Granger rolled her eyes, and action so familiar from her that Draco was completely unphased. “No, Malfoy. I mean like the remnants of a spell or rune casting. If the ‘mind’ of the room is empty, how can it read other minds?” 

“I don’t know,” Draco sighed, letting his head hit the wall. “Maybe it doesn’t use Legilimency at all, and we’re wasting our time.”

“No, I think you were on the right track actually, but maybe we’re approaching it the wrong way. Like you said last week, we need to understand the room before we can fix it.” 

“I do say many brilliant things,” Draco agreed. 

Another eye roll. 

“Let me guess—we should do more research in the library?” Draco was very pleased by the scathing look Granger sent him. 

“Obviously. How would you suggest we go about it? More aggressive wall staring?”

“Merlin, Granger, I agree. I was only teasing.” 

Granger’s eyes widened in surprise. “Fine. We’ll meet in the library tomorrow then at the usual time, and after potions, we’ll tackle mind magic. McGonagall has given me permission to use the Restricted Section at my own discretion this year.” 

“Of course,” Draco drawled. 

“Don’t give me that look!” 

“I’m not giving you any sort of look.”

“You are!” Granger’s eyes narrowed, and she got up onto her knees. “I think I’ve earned a few additional privileges as Head Girl.” 

Draco laughed. “Yes, yes, Head Girl privileges. You think the reason McGonagall and all of the professors would let you get away with murder—and I mean that literally—is because you’re Head Girl?”

Her cheeks flushed before his eyes, either in fury or embarrassment, Draco wasn’t sure, but considering this was Granger in front of him, he’d be willing to bet on the former. 

“You’re really going to bring the war into this, Malfoy? The war of which you were on the wrong side?”

Merlin, he could never keep his mouth shut could he?

Sighing, Draco ran a hand down his face. “I’m sorry. I agree that you deserve your special war heroine privileges, Granger. I wasn’t…I just wanted to point out that I can't remember any other Head Boys or Head Girls who were given unlimited, unchecked access to the Restricted Section.”

“Special war heroine privileges?” Granger got to her feet surprisingly gracefully, but Draco remained sitting. 

“What else would you call it?”

“I think we’re done here.” 

“Until tomorrow, Granger.”

“Don’t remind me.” Granger flipped her mass of hair and stormed down the corridor. 

Draco stood slowly, not quite ready to return to the quiet of the Eighth Year boys’ dormitory. It was just so strange, sleeping in there with only Theo. He’d never thought he’d miss Greg’s thunderous snoring or Blaise’s near-constant stream of gossip, but he did. He even missed how Vince used to sing in the shower, and didn’t it just hurt to be thinking about Vince at the place where he fucking died again?

Shaking his head, Draco started toward the common room. No reason to stand here feeling sorry for himself.

Fuck , just when he’d thought he was making progress with Granger, just when he thought maybe she might not hate him any longer, he’d gone and made it worse. 

That seemed to be a part of him that surfaced after the war, or maybe before it, maybe it was always there—Draco made things worse. 

Chapter Text

Theodore Nott — 2005

Theo slept for nearly 48 hours after leaving Harry on Saturday, so when he apparated into his office on Monday morning, he felt more rested than he had in months, possibly years. Making himself a cup of tea, he summoned the tangled pile of strings and beads from his desk drawer, intent on finally making a bracelet worth gifting to Harry. 

He’d just settled into his favorite armchair with his tea floating in front of him and a box of beads in hand, when his office door flew open. Pansy smiled at him smugly, then strutted into his office, doing a full spin before sitting in the armchair across from him.  

“Guess who fucked Ron Weasley?” she sing-songed, putting her hands under her chin and fluttering her eyelashes at Theo. 

Theo sighed, banishing the bracelet-making materials to his desk drawer. Would he ever know peace? “Judging by the announcement alone, I assume it was you.”

“Ding, ding, ding!”

“Why in Merlin’s name did you fuck Ron Weasley, Pans? You loathe him.”

“I don’t loathe him!” Pansy gave an offended sniff. “Besides, even if I did at one point, I’ve put the past behind me.” 

“How could I have forgotten?” Theo drawled, grabbing his cup of tea from the air. 

“And you haven’t seen him recently, Theo. He’s like a bloody caveman!” Pansy swooned, falling back into the chair dramatically. 

“He’s about as clever as one as well, if I remember correctly,” Theo replied, taking a sip of his tea. 

“Who cares? He’s thick in other areas, too. With arms like those? Thighs like two massive roasts of juicy gammon, and don’t even get me started on his co—” 

“Please, Pansy!” Theo cried. “I beg of you. I’ve just eaten for the first time in days, and you’re making me sick.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “You’re no fun, Theo. If only I could tell Draco…” Pansy sat up straight, eyes wide. “Oh, Merlin, I forgot the reason I went and fucked Weasley!”

“As if you needed one.”

“Oh, stuff it!” Pansy leaned forward and dropped the volume of her voice. “Listen to this, Weasley told me those twins are nearly six. And that they’re, and I quote, ‘little blonde ferrets!’ Theo, those kids are almost certainly Draco’s.”

Theo nodded. “I know. I think I might have met them.”

Pansy’s mouth fell open. “What? When?”

“On Saturday morning, I had that meeting scheduled with Potter, and I was very, very nervous, you know, so I just got a bit high—” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Theo!”

“I know, Pans, I know, but I had to.” Theo sunk down into his chair, tea cup clattering on its saucer. 

Pansy gave him a disapproving frown. “What happened?”

“They just fell out of the floo!”

“Who?”

“The mini-Malfoys—Lyra and Sibelius.”

“Sibelius?!” Pansy gasped.

“I know.” Theo nodded sympathetically. “Awful name.”

“Granger is just the worst.” Shaking her head, Pansy stood and made her way to the kettle to make her own cup of tea. “So what did they want?”

Theo shook his head. “I can’t remember, but I remember Potter showing up to take them away. Honestly, I forgot it happened at all until he owled me later that day.” 

“Oh, Theo,” Pansy said in a tone so thoroughly chastising that Theo felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment.

He was about to defend himself when his office door flew open for a second time that morning, revealing a scowling Draco.

“I know your mothers taught you both to knock before busting into a room like a pack of trolls,” Theo huffed.

“I wouldn’t have to bust in if the door was open. What are you two doing in here with the door shut anyway?” Draco asked. “Why does Pansy have her disappointed mummy face on?”

“We’re discussing Theo’s drug problem,” Pansy explained before taking a delicate sip from her teacup.

“No we weren’t. I don’t have a drug problem!” 

“You do,” Draco said simply before turning to Pansy. “Listen, Pans, can you cancel my morning appointments? Mother is insisting I be seen with her in Diagon Alley. We’re taking Astoria to brunch to show off her engagement ring.”

“On it, Boss,” Pansy said, giving Draco a mockery of a salute. “Shall I inform the press or has Narcissa taken care of that herself?”

Draco sighed, running a hand through his tousled blond hair. “You make it sound so calculated.” 

“Is it not?” Pansy sipped her tea with a coy smile. 

“Mind your business, Pansy.” Draco turned to the door. “And leave any messages for me on my desk.”

“Yeah, Pansy,” Theo said, as the door clicked softly behind Draco. “Mind your business.” 

“Whatever,” Pansy scoffed. “Keep trying to get more information on those children, and do try to stay sober while doing it. Once we’re completely sure they’re Draco’s and have undeniable evidence, we can approach him with this, but until then, we’ll keep it to ourselves.” 

Theo nodded his agreement, but did so reluctantly. Talking to Potter was already nerve wracking enough, and now he’d have to subtly ask about these children as if he isn’t one of Draco’s best and only friends looking for information—it was all too much. 

Hermione Granger — 1998

“If nothing else, it’s a nice change in scenery,” Malfoy said, one long slender finger brushing over the spines of the books lined up in front of him. 

Hermione gave a frustrated sigh. After hearing a rumor that Rowena Ravenclaw herself created the Room of Requirement in a bid to outdo her fellow founders, Hermione had asked Luna for a favor, and Luna had readily allowed herself and Malfoy into the Ravenclaw common room to pursue their personal library. So far, they’d found nothing useful. 

“I really hoped we might find something here,” Hermione said, leaving the fact that they’d found absolutely nothing that could help them fix the room thus far unsaid. It was so frustrating. 

For weeks, Hermione met Malfoy in the library or outside of the Room of Requirement, working on their potions project as well as their personal project, making a lot of headway on the former and next to none on the latter. 

Malfoy, surprisingly, was an excellent partner. He was brilliant and relentless, much like herself, and after nearly a month of meeting with him every single day, Hermione was loath to admit that he was far easier to work with than Harry and Ron had ever been. While she loved both of her best friends dearly, they weren’t exactly academics, and they cared little for magical theory. Malfoy, on the other hand, pursued knowledge with a voracity that nearly rivaled her own. 

“They have a larger arithmancy section than the actual school library though,” Malfoy remarked, still perusing the titles. “Hardly seems fair.” 

“And I’m sure Malfoy Manor’s is just as large as Ravenclaw’s, if not bigger.” Hermione watched him through narrowed eyes. “But I’m sure you don’t view that as an unfair advantage.” 

“No, I agree, but it’s only an advantage if one actually uses it, Granger.” 

“And did you?” 

Malfoy smirked. “Of course.”

“Yet my arithmancy scores are higher.” Hermione smirked back. 

“Ah, well, I suppose even unlimited access to a centuries-old library isn’t enough of an advantage to out-swot the ‘smartest witch of our age.’ That is what the Prophet is always calling you isn’t it?”

Rolling her eyes, Hermione hoisted her bag over her shoulder. “Come on, Malfoy. We’d better let Luna know we’re leaving.” 

She didn’t look behind to make sure he followed as she made her way back down the stairs that led to the seating area where they’d left Luna. Malfoy moved so quietly that she was tempted, but Hermione didn’t want to seem like she needed to wait for him or anything ridiculous like that. 

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Luna called when she spotted them. She sat cross-legged on the floor near the fire, a crown of chestnuts adorning her blonde head. 

“No luck,” Hermione replied. “We just wanted to let you know we’re leaving.” 

“Oh, Hermione,” Luna said, shaking her head with a small frown. “I should have thought you understood that luck plays no role in the acquisition of knowledge.” 

Hermione wanted to explain that she was only using an expression, but it wasn’t worth her time. While Luna was loyal and kind and had proven she deserved Hermione’s respect, Hermione had always clashed with her more… airy personality. 

“Yes,” Hermione ground out through a clenched smile. “I should know.”

“What about you, Draco?” Luna’s large blue eyes turned on Malfoy, and he looked like he might sick up right on the Ravenclaw-blue carpet. 

Hermione had noticed that he often reacted poorly when confronted with reminders of the war. Anyone with eyes would have noticed, what with it happening so often, seeing as they were currently residing in the castle which housed the final battle. With Luna having been held prisoner in his home, it must be awful for him—but not nearly as awful as it must be for Luna. Hermione needed to keep reminding herself exactly which side he’d been on. 

“What about me?” Malfoy asked after a moment's hesitation. By the clenching of his hands and set to his jaw, Hermione worried he was about to have another panic attack—which she’d witnessed only once thus far, when Malfoy simply read the word “Cruciatus” in some book while they’d been researching in the Restricted Section. They’d ended up sitting on the floor beside one another, discussing their experiences being held under the curse. She almost couldn’t look at him the day after—it seemed like a dream.

“Did you find what you were looking for, Draco?” Luna tilted her head, blonde hair cascading down her shoulder like a wavy waterfall. 

“We were definitely both looking for the same thing,” he said, as if that should be obvious. “So no.”

“The same thing—are you certain?” Luna’s eyes held genuine curiosity as she stared up at Malfoy. 

Malfoy looked away from her intense stare, meeting Hermione’s eyes instead, pleading for help, for escape. 

“We were,” Hermione answered. “It’s for a personal project.”

“What sort of personal project?” Luna smiled and leaned back on her arms as if she wasn’t sprawled out on the floor in the middle of a room full of chairs and sofas. “Would you like some help?” 

“No!” Malfoy said, far too quickly and far too loudly. “Sorry, Lovegood, bu—”

“Please, Draco, call me Luna. I lived in your house for months, after all.” 

Malfoy, gulped, pale skin somehow whitening further. “I hardly call your stay in the dungeons living.” 

“Whatever else would it be?” Luna asked. 

Mouth opening incredulously, Malfoy looked at Hermione again, but she just shook her head. Best not to go down that road today. 

“We’re trying to fix the Room of Requirement,” Hermione whispered, changing the subject. “Malfoy wants the positive social points, and I’m just interested in the challenge.” 

“Oh,” Luna said, frowning. “What’s wrong with it?”

“We don’t know. That’s the problem,” Malfoy replied, clearly irritated, but trying to be cordial, and Hermione found herself smiling at his clear distress.

“Have you tried asking it?” 

“Have we—” Malfoy stopped, taking a deep breath to calm himself. He seemed to be at his Luna limit for the afternoon. “No, we haven’t tried asking it.” 

“That’s an excellent idea, Luna,” Hermione said, even though she thought it was as absurd as Malfoy surely did. “We’ll have to give that a try.”

Malfoy’s eyes grew to saucers, and Luna smiled up at them, head tilted to the side and dreamy eyes assessing. 

“Thanks, Luna,” Hermione finally said, breaking an awkward silence that was only seconds long but felt like a lifetime. “We’ll just be going then.”

Malfoy followed Hermione closely as they exited the common room, heaving out a long breath as soon as they were in the corridor. 

“ That’s an excellent idea, Luna. We’ll have to give that a try ,” he said mockingly, in a high-pitched supercilious sort of tone that was an awful impression of Hermione in her own opinion. “You can’t be serious.”

Hermione huffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she started walking toward Gryffindor tower. “Of course I wasn’t serious, Malfoy, but Luna can be…difficult. Sometimes it’s easier to go with her fancies rather than arguing.”

“ Ask the room what’s wrong—” Malfoy continued, shaking his head and following Hermione despite it being the opposite direction of the nearest staircase that led to the dungeons. “I may as well ask my goblet if the pumpkin juice is too sweet at breakfast in the morning.”

Hermione laughed. “Yes, and I’ll just start asking my quill when the nib needs to be sharpened.” 

Malfoy smirked, huffing out his own small laugh, and Hermione was struck with the sudden realization that she was having a conversation with Draco Malfoy and enjoying it. 

“Malfoy,” she started hesitantly.

“Hmm?” He was still smirking, and Hermione was conflicted over whether she should say what she was about to. 

“You’re going the wrong way.” 

He stopped, mouth falling open and eyes widening imperceptibly, before his face became a mask of indifference. “Right, well, goodnight then, Granger.”

“Night,” she told his retreating form. 

Lyra Granger — 2005

Lyra hopped up and down, squealing with Victoire as Uncle George gave the small crowd of children a wicked smile. This was a special Monday—the first of their Holiday break, and Uncle George had requested the presence of all his nieces and nephews in his shop to test out one of his new products. Lyra and Scorpius had both been terribly worried that Uncle Harry would tell Mummy about their using the floo without permission. They knew if she heard that she wouldn’t let them come and see Uncle George, but luckily, he hadn’t, so their Mummy took them to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes that morning as planned. 

“What is it? What is it?” Lyra cried, hands clasped together and pleading. She wasn’t good at waiting like Scorpius was, never had been, and Uncle George was fond of teasing them. 

With his eyes gleaming, Uncle George dug into the breast pocket of his baby pink muggle suit jacket. Wiggling his brows, he pulled out a small wrapped sweet then showed it to the children, earning a round of excited applause. 

“Would you like to see what it does?” Uncle George floated the brilliant blue sweet in the air with his wand, making it unwrap itself. 

“Eat it, George! Eat it!” Teddy shrieked. His hair was fiery red today, as it always was when in the presence of his very favorite Weasley.

“Don’t mind if I do.” The sweet sailed into his open mouth, the children on their toes, waiting to see what it did with bated breath. 

Chewing slowly, Uncle George winked, then opened his mouth and out poured hundreds of shiny blue bubbles. They surrounded the giggling children. 

Lyra looked around and saw her brother, frozen in awe and staring at the bubbles open mouthed as they floated around him. She was about to tell him to close his mouth when Victoire, who was twirling around and laughing, grabbed Lyra’s hand, and they danced in the sea of bubbles together while Teddy set about popping as many as he could. 

“I think this one’s a hit, George,” Mummy said when the bubbles pouring out of his mouth slowed to one or two every few seconds. 

“I’d say so,” Uncle George agreed, giving the kids a sudsy smile. “Alright, you lot, you know your payment for being my test subjects.”

“One free product each, and make sure it’s a loud one so your parents know who to thank!” The children chorused, then ran off from George’s product development laboratory—otherwise known as the spare stock room—toward the front of the shop. 

Lyra perused the colorful, cluttered aisles with the same feeling of wonderment she always got when in Uncle George’s shop, looking for something to keep her occupied over the holiday. Soon Scorpius joined her empty handed—he always took this rather seriously. 

“What about a board game?” Lyra suggested, pointing to the very front of the shop where Uncle George’s new line of wizarding board games were displayed in the window. Scorpius nodded and followed her to the display, shuffling his feet, and earning a disapproving glare from Lyra. 

Just as they reached the window, a group of people walked past the shop, strolling down an unusually quiet Diagon Alley. Two shocks of white-blond hair caught Lyra’s eye, and she gasped. “Oh, Merlin, Scor, look!”

Looking up from the board game display, Scorpius gasped. “It’s him.” He looked at Lyra, gray eyes searching her face frantically. “What should we do?”

Lyra bit her lip and looked around the shop. Their mum and Uncle George hadn’t come out from the back, and Teddy and Victoire seemed to be in a row over the last pair of yellow Self-Cleaning Wellies that quacked like a duck with each step. 

“Let’s go!” Lyra grabbed her brother’s hand and made for the door. 

“We’ve not got our coats on!” Scorpius cried, tugging back. 

“We’ll just be a moment, Scorpius. You’ll be fine.” Merlin, he could be such a baby sometimes. 

“But—” 

“If you don’t come, I’m going without you.” 

Scorpius bit his lip, conflicted. 

Deciding she was done waiting, Lyra snatched his hand again and pulled. This time he came without protest, following her through the door. When the bell chimed, Lyra cringed, hoping their mum and Uncle George hadn’t heard it. Still, she made sure to walk quickly, Scorpius following right on her tail. 

The air was freezing, definitely cold enough to require a coat and a warming charm, but she could see the two heads of blond hair just up ahead, entering a restaurant near the ice cream parlor. 

“There,” Lyra said, glancing back at her brother whose cheeks were already red from the cold. “They went in there.”

Scorpius sighed, eyeing the restaurant nervously. “Let’s go.” 

Draco Malfoy — 2005

Draco opened his menu, listening to Astoria and his mother prattling on about wedding details he couldn’t care less about. He wondered if it was too early for a firewhiskey, but decided against it. His mother would hex him to Hogwarts and back if he was seen drinking liquor in public before noon. Pity. 

“And, of course, Draco will wear blue,” Astoria said, touching his arm and bringing his attention to the conversation. “I’ve always thought he looks so dashing in blue. It brings out the color of his eyes.” 

“Perfect.” His mother nodded. “And I think a bit of light color on the groom is to be expected at a spring engagement party, as long as it’s a subtle shade.” 

Draco reconsidered his decision about the firewhiskey. He hated all this wedding nonsense. It just didn’t interest him in the slightest, and he quite honestly was sick of hearing about it. Astoria spoke of nothing else, and his mother was even worse. 

“What do you think, Draco?” Astoria asked, looking up at him through her long lashes. 

“It doesn’t matter to me,” he replied, holding back a sigh. 

“It should,” his mother said, smiling despite her harsh tone. “This is your wedding, Draco.” 

“I’m aware of that, Mother. I bought the ring. I proposed. I just don’t have any interest in the planning.” Draco took a sip from his water glass, hoping they’d just move on. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Malfoy.” The maitre d’ approached, accompanied by two small children—two small children with blond hair. “These children claim to be with you, but your reservation was for three.” 

Draco looked at the children. They were tiny little things, clearly cold and shivering, both with gray eyes and blonde curls. Their eyes were…they were looking back at him like they…He couldn’t speak, only stare at them. 

“We don’t have any children with us,” Astoria said. 

“But—” the little girl started, and was quickly silenced by the boy who nudged her with his shoulder. 

“I’m so sorry to have bothered you,” the maitre d’ said, while Draco couldn’t take his eyes off the children. “Please, enjoy your meals.”

“Wait!” the girl cried, pulling away from the maitre d’, and walking toward Draco. “Please, we just thought that maybe you’d want to see us now that you have time for a wife and a family.” 

“Wh—what?” Draco asked, feeling like he’s been hit with a Confundus charm. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you are.”

The girl blinked rapidly for a moment, then her tiny face fell. She was devastated, and Draco had never been so confused in his life.

“Some father you are,” the boy said, chin tilted in defiance.  Draco felt a stab to his heart as the boy pulled the girl into his arms. His little lip quivered, like he wanted to cry as well, but he stared at Draco venomously, despite the hurt in his gray eyes. “I knew meeting you would be a mistake.”

This made the girl cry harder.

“Draco,” his mother said, placing her napkin on the table. “Would you care to explain any of this?”

“I haven’t the slightest—”

“Lyra! Scorpius!” A panicked voice called from the door of the restaurant. 

Draco’s brain actually stopped working. He knew that voice. He closed his eyes, not ready to see her, not even after all these years. 

“We’re in here, Mum,” the little boy called back, still clutching the sobbing girl. 

Draco’s eyes flew open. Oh, fuck. 

Granger appeared around the corner, eyes flying around the room until she spotted the children. With a relieved breath out, she ran toward them. 

“You know you aren’t allowed to wonder about Diagon Alley alone!” Granger seemed to be close to tears herself, pulling both children into her arms. “Anything could’ve happened! You’re not even wearing your coats! What has gotten into the two of you?” She cupped the boy’s cheeks between her hands. “I was so worried.”

“We—we—we,” the girl said through her tears, taking deep breaths between each word. “We just—”

“We just wanted to meet Draco Malfoy,” the boy whispered, but Draco could hear him, and he thought he might vomit right then and there. 

Granger looked up, and met eyes with him for the first time in years, and she looked bloody stunning, but also really fucking angry, and come to think of it, he was angry, too. 

“What is this, Granger?” he asked, putting on his best pompous pureblood voice. 

“What is this?” she gasped, standing, one hand on each of the children. “ These are the children you abandoned, you arsehole.” 

Draco felt a hex hit the back of his head, presumably from his mother. 

Children? He never abandoned any children. He and Granger didn’t have children! 

“I think we should take this somewhere more private,” his mother said, standing gracefully. “Miss Granger, if you could please accompany us to the manor, I think we can sort this out there.” 

Granger scoffed. “There’s nothing to sort out. We were just leaving.”

She glared at him, nothing but hatred in those chocolate brown eyes that once looked at him like he hung the moon, pulled her wand out, and apparated away with the children. Just like that. 

“Fuck,” Draco breathed, slumping into his chair. 

Pain struck his cheek. He’d been slapped across the face. Blinking to clear his vision, he was confronted with a fuming Astoria. She ripped her ring off her finger and threw it at him. Tears welled in her eyes as she turned and fled as well. 

“Astoria, wait!” He yelled after her. When she didn’t turn around, he buried his face in his hands. 

What the hell had just happened?

Chapter Text

Harry Potter — 2005

Harry lounged in his office at the ministry with his booted feet resting on his desk. Fiddling with the practice snitch he kept in the top drawer, he thought about Theodore Nott. He’d only been at work for an hour, maybe less, but he couldn’t focus on any of the overdue paperwork piled up beside his feet, not when Theo had said so much to him on the Yaxley assignment. 

It made him want to talk to Theo again…and again…and again. 

He was rapidly becoming obsessed with Theodore Nott, and for once in his life, one of his obsessions felt healthy, harmless, and good. Yes, there was a mystery to solve, but it wasn’t about whether Theo was secretly a Death Eater or had anything to do with Harry throwing himself into death’s path once again to save the wizarding world. No, he just wanted to know Theo and spend time with him. 

Harry was lost in his musings when Hermione’s familiar otter patronus burst through the wall, circling the office once before stopping directly in front of him. 

“Harry,” Hermione’s voice came from the silver otter. The strained, miserable tone had Harry sitting up straight immediately. “I need you. We’re home.” 

At once, Harry stood. With a wave of his hand, his bag flew to him. With another, his office door banged open. 

He was on the lift heading for the floss in the atrium before his secretary could even ask where he was going. 

When he reached Grimmauld, he followed the sounds of muffled sobbing coming from the direction of the kitchen, then was greeted with the horrible sight of Hermione rocking both her children in her arms on the floor. Her face was stoic, but when her eyes met his, her mask faltered, and her lips began to quiver. 

“Merlin,” Harry gasped. “What happened?”

Kreacher popped into existence, scowling menacingly and holding two cups of hot chocolate in his spindly fingers. 

“The heir to the house of Malfoy has made an enemy of the house of black,” the elf said, kneeling in front of the children and gently offering the sweet drink to them. 

At Harry’s baffled expression, Hermione swallowed down a lump of emotion before explaining, “We ran into Draco in Diagon Alley.” 

“Oh, fuck,” Harry breathed, running a hand through his hair. “What did he do? If he was cruel to them, I swear, I’ll send an auror raid of that house of  horrors they call a manor and have his arse in Azkaban before sundown.” 

Lyra wailed hard, and Kreacher flashed Harry a look filled with so much venom that Harry nearly took a step back, and would’ve had he not known that Kreacher was mostly all bark and no bite—mostly. 

“No,” Hermione shook her head. “He—it was so strange, Harry. He acted like he didn’t know they existed at all. It was—Harry, it was just awful.” 

Harry sighed. Draco was known for getting creative with his cruelty, the Potter Stinks badges from fourth year coming to mind, but this—to do that to his own children, it felt beyond evil. 

Kreacher scowled, vanishing the untouched hot chocolate.. “Kreacher will be taking the young Master and Missy now. Kreacher can see that the sweetlies need rest, and Kreacher will take care of them. Yes, he will.” He reached out, grabbing two thin wrists, and popped away with them just as Hermione released them. 

They could hear the three of them land in Lyra’s room a moment later.

“I should be with them.” Hermione sniffed, wiping a tear from her cheek before standing on shaky legs. “They’re just so upset—I’ve never seen them like that.”

“Keacher will probably burn you alive if you try to go in there right now.” Harry cringed when  Hermione didn’t smile or even react. That was fair, he supposed. It was a bad joke, considering they didn’t actually know the depth of Kreacher’s insanity, and what Harry had just said could very well be the truth. “Come sit. I’ll make you a cuppa, and you can tell me exactly what happened. Then we can check on the children when you’re feeling better.”

Hermione nodded and slid into a seat at the kitchen table while Harry busied himself with the kettle. By the time he sat in the seat beside hers, Hermione had stopped crying, but her face was set in an angry glare. 

“That arsehole!” she seethed. “How dare he? He’s allowed to feel however he wants about me, but the children? I wish I’d known better. I really thought he’d changed!”

“I know,” Harry replied. “I know.” And he did. He and Hermione had been talking about Hermione’s final year at Hogwarts for years —analyzing every little interaction she’d had with Malfoy, trying desperately to figure out how it all had gone so wrong. Usually, they both agreed that Malfoy was just Britain’s biggest bell end, always had been and always would be, and left it at that. 

Setting their mugs onto the table, Harry made sure Hermione got the wizarding mug with the moving picture of a judgmental kneazle that always seemed to give her a bit of a laugh when she used it. She didn’t even notice before wrapping two hands around the mug, as if for support rather than actually wanting a sip. 

Hermione took a fortifying breath, closing her eyes softly, then released the breath and opened them back up before delving into their disastrous morning in Diagon.

Harry didn’t interrupt, only reaching out to hold Hermione’s shoulder when she got to the part where she found the twins in some restaurant, confronting the Malfoys.

At this, Harry had a sudden realization and felt a pang of guilt strike his gut. He really should’ve told Hermione about finding the twins in Theo’s office. Clearly, they’d been scheming, and neither Harry nor Hermione had noticed. 

“What I don’t understand—” Hermione said, evidently finishing up the story, as she placed the mug back onto the table. “—is why. What could he possibly gain by pretending he was unaware of their existence?”

Harry sat back, tapping his fingers along the side of his own mug in thought. “Maybe he—this would be a nightmare, honestly, but all I can think is that he’s decided to be in their lives and wants to win them over or something?”

Hermione’s eyes widened to brown saucers, horrified. “No!”

“I can’t imagine anyone, even a soulless worm like Malfoy meeting those two and not wanting them. Malfoy is the King of Slytherins—if he decided he wants them as his heirs or whatever nonsense purebloods do with their children, then he’d want to start off on a better broom with them.”

“Do not use that ridiculous quidditch analogy with me, Harry Potter. I’m not in the mood.” 

Harry sighed. “Sorry.”

“Forgiven.” 

“Anyway,” Harry said. “As an auror who—humbly—is quite good at his job and reading people like Malfoy, that’s all I can think…unless—”

“Unless what?” 

“Unless he actually didn’t know about them.” Harry rested the urge to cringe away from her, fully expecting a less than positive reaction. 

Hermione just scoffed and shook her head. “We’re not even going to entertain that. I’ve told you what he said, Harry. You know what he did.” 

Harry nodded sympathetically. “I do, but I’m just trying to lay out all the options—being a Hermione about this really—since the actual Hermione isn’t exactly herself when Malfoy is involved.” 

“The actual Hermione is sitting right here.” 

“I may have glasses, Hermione, but I can see you.” 

Hermione smiled, finally. “You’re ridiculous.” 

Harry smiled back. “I know, but I’m also an auror, and I have to get back to work. Are you going to be okay?”

Sniffling, Hermione nodded. “Yeah, I’ll just check on the children. Poor Lyra—” 

Harry squeezed her shoulder before standing. “Will be alright. They both will, and so will you. Malfoy will probably be back to pretending they don’t exist already, and we can go back to wishing him bodily harm and misfortune for a very, very long distance.” 

Another small smile. “Thank you, Harry.” 

“Always.”   

Kreacher the House Elf — 2005

Kreacher perched between his twinnies, right in the middle of Missy Lyra’s bed. He ran his long, knotty fingers through each child’s fine hair in turn, as he told them a story he’d told generations of Black scions. 

“And for its crimes, the filthy gnome was cursed—” Kreacher hissed lovingly “—to spend its days in dirt and filth, damned to spend eternity hungry and wanting, with only rotting vegetables to eat. Nasty little things is gnomes to this day, thieves and scum, so they are thrown from the garden, dizzy and flailing as they should be. ” 

Light snores responded. His sweet twinnies had finally fallen asleep. 

Keacher hopped off the bed and busied himself with putting away Missy Lyra’s laundry. He could do it with the snap of his finger, but he wanted to be busy right now. Kreacher was angrier than he had been in a very long time—even angrier than when the blood traitor moved an army of mudbloods and half breeds into his home. When Kreacher was angry, he liked to make himself happy by taking care of his family. Yes, taking care of those with blood from the House of Black flowing through their veins was what he did best. It’s what he lived for. 

Earlier, when Master Scorpius had called him, Kreacher had been working in the kitchens at Hogwarts, helping prepare lunch for the students who’d stayed behind for Christmas. As soon as he felt Scorpius’ distress, he’d dropped the bowl of mashed potatoes he’d been carrying to the warming table and apparated straight home. 

Master Scorpius and Mistress Lyra were hysterical when he arrived, crying so hard that their noses ran and cheeks flushed. 

Kreacher had felt the rage of a thousand unjustly freed elves at that moment. No one made his twinnies sad and got away with it. 

Missy Lyra told him about what the Malfoy Heir had done. To have rejected such perfect examples of the glory of the House of Black, the Malfoy scum was a disgrace to those of pure and noble blood, and he would pay. 

Kreacher would make sure of it. 

Theodore Nott — 2005

Theo had just settled back into his armchair with his bracelet making materials floating in front of him. After Draco and Pansy had left, he’d decided to actually get a bit of work done, but the cursed wristwatch a client had sent in had only taken him ten minutes to curse break. 

With the watch now back on time and no longer tightening uncontrollably to the point that it removed the wearer’s wrist, Theo felt he deserved a break. 

He’d just grabbed his box of beads and began rifling through it, searching for an “H” when a loud crack made him jump. Beads spilled all over himself and the floor. 

“For the love of FUCK!” Theo shouted at Draco, who’d just scared the magic out of him. “What the hell, Dra—Draco? Are you alright?”

Draco’s naturally pale face was stark white, and his eyes were blinking rapidly, spluttering his distress.

“What happened? Is it your mum?”

Draco shook his head numbly and collapsed into the armchair across from Theo’s. He seemed to be in a state of shock. 

“Astoria?” Theo asked hesitantly, once again banishing his bracelet supplies to his desk, leaving the beads that scattered across the floor for the time being. “Did she break things off?”

“Probably,” Draco sighed, putting his head into his hands. “I don’t know. I don’t really give a fuck about Astoria at the moment.”

Oh…that didn’t speak well of their relationship then, did it? Whatever. It wasn’t Theo’s place to question Draco’s motives on that account again. 

So, naturally, Theo wasn’t quite sure what to say, and he’d found throughout his life as a Nott, that when he wasn’t quite sure what to say, it was best that he didn’t say anything at all. That, in his opinion, was better than saying the wrong thing, so they sat there in silence. 

Draco’s back moved up and down with each labored breath. His head started shaking back and forth still in his hands, and Theo had the disturbing suspicion that he might be crying. Fuck.  

With a wave of his hand, Theo summoned his latest blend and bowl from the stash in his desk drawer. This occasion called for weed—whatever this occasion was.  

He’d just taken his first deep burning breath when Draco finally raised his head, eyes suspiciously wet. 

“Didn’t we just talk about your drug dependence this morning?” Draco asked, frowning at the bowl in Theo’s hand. 

“No, we didn’t.” Theo exhaled, thick smoke billowing from his nostrils. “You and Pansy shouted at me, and I didn’t listen to a word.” 

“Sounds about right.” Sighing, Draco looked away. Either something in the fireplace had caught his eye, or he didn’t want to look at Theo anymore. It didn’t matter, Theo supposed, looking away from Draco himself. 

“I think I might be a father,” Draco murmured distractedly. 

Theo coughed and spluttered. “Wh—What makes you think that?”

“I—I saw her today.” 

Oh, fuck. Theo pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“She—she has two blond twins. They approached me at the restaurant like I was their favorite celebrity signing autographs.” 

A pause in conversation had Theo’s heart hammering. “Blond twins, you say?” 

Theo saw Draco turn back to him out of the corner of his eye, but he was too afraid to look at Draco right now. Magic was crackling, fierce and angry in the air, and Theo couldn’t help but feel he was in terrible danger. He took another deep hit. 

“They’re gorgeous,” Draco said, voice deceptively dull, “perfect—and apparently she has kept them from me.” 

The sound of glass shattering had Theo out of his chair and cowering behind in the blink of an eye. The glass from the curiosities cabinet at the other side of the room littered the floor, artifacts and oddities with it. 

Merlin this was a bad day for Theo. 

“Draco, calm down,” he begged, as Draco seethed, wand drawn. 

“How can I?” Draco shouted, eyes manic. “How could I? When I have two—When she—I’m going to have her arrested for fucking line theft.”

Theo’s jaw dropped. “That’s a kissable offense, Draco. Let’s—Merlin, Hermione doesn’t deserve the bloody kiss. Sit down!” 

“I can’t.” Draco’s eyes squeezed shut and his shoulders slumped. “I can’t believe she’s done this.”

“Maybe—” Theo stood shakily, hands raised in surrender. “Maybe she didn’t?” 

Draco shook his head. “Those children are mine, and she knows it. She did. Grang— she loathes me, and this must be some kind of twisted payback for—” He sighed, stepping toward the floo. 

“Where are you going?” Theo asked, almost afraid to know the answer. 

“Home,” Draco said, “To the Manor.” 

“Oh, no,” Theo whispered. 

“My father needs to hear about this,” Draco said, “if he hasn’t already from Mother. He’ll know what to do.”

Theo collapsed back into his chair. Lucius would have Hermione in Azkaban within the hour. Merlin this was a mess—his office and his life. Typical. 

Just as Draco disappeared into the floo, Theo spotted his bowl in the wreckage on the floor. It was fortuitously still packed. At least one good thing had happened to him that morning. 

As the smoke filled his lungs, Theo relaxed. He could clean up another time.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger — 1998

Hermione wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her school robes, closing her eyes and tilting her head to the ceiling in frustration. The spare potion lab Slughorn had generously allowed his NEWT students use of for their projects was hot and hazy with steam, despite Hermione being the only seventh year using it at the moment. 

Malfoy was late, but Hermione was trying not to let that affect her research. He’d never been late in their weeks of working together, certainly not over—she checked her wristwatch and pursed her lips—over thirty minutes late. 

It wasn’t as though she needed him for this project, anyway. She was perfectly capable of brewing alone, but—well, she’d gotten used to having a competent partner for once in her academic life. 

As the swirls of glittery steam rose from her cauldron, further filling the small lab and making her hair grow to three times its usual considerable volume, Hermione cast another air-clearing charm. While she enjoyed the sweet minty, grassy scent that came when she smelled Amortentia, she was feeling a bit off, and she was starting to get a strange new tangy fruity sort of scent at the end of each inhale which made her dizzy. 

It never made sense to her—why on earth did wizards always put their potion labs in dungeons and cellars where there were no windows or natural sources of ventilation. Having to constantly pause to freshen the air was so inconvenient, but whenever she voiced opinions like that, she received at best dead-eyed stares and at worst open contempt. Being muggleborn and opinionated had rarely earned her any new friends in the wizarding world. 

She briefly mused over what Malfoy would say should she suggest they work in a classroom in one of the towers that got better air circulation, but thinking of Malfoy made her huff and turn back to the potion. 

Losing herself in crushing more mother-of-pearl into powder with her mortar and pestle, she jumped and nearly knocked it over when the laboratory door slammed open. 

“Granger!” Malfoy shouted as he ran into the room, skidding to a dangerous stop right in front of her station. “Ganger,” he said again, breathless and panting. “You need to come with me.” 

“You’re late, Malfoy,” Hermione said, putting a bit of extra force into the pestle as she returned to her pulverizing. “I’m right in the middle of the brew.” 

“I know, and I apologize, but I think I’ve done it,” he said, putting his hands on his head as he tried to catch his breath. Not that Hermione noticed, of course, as she was very busy doing their project by herself. “I think I know why we’ve made no progress.” 

“I am making excellent progress on this Amortentia, thank you very much.”

“Not the bloody potion, Granger! The Room! I know why we haven’t made any progress with the Room.” 

Hermione looked up, eyebrows raised. “What?”

“It’s why I’m late—I ran into Lovegood while I was on my way here. She was hanging upside down by that suit of troll armor on the fourth floor listening for Terraplimpies or something equally unfortunate in name—I don’t know, but she asked me if we’d asked the Room what was wrong with it yet.” 

Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes. “And you think we should actually do that?”

“No, of course not.” Malfoy snorted and shook his head, the blooming red on his cheeks from his run was beginning to fade. “Lovegood is fucking mental—absolute nutter.” 

“Bless her, but she is,” Hermione sighed.

“Right, but our conversation, odd and incomprehensible as it was, made me think about wanting and how the Room used to work.” 

Hermione put her potion under a stasis charm and started cleaning up her station, gesturing for Draco to continue. 

“In sixth year, I spent a lot of time using the Room of Hidden Things” he said, voice a bit tremulous toward the end, but they both had the good manners to ignore it. That was a box of Every-Flavored Beans that should remain unopened between them. “Some nights I’d show up having not slept in days, too worried about my—mission—to bother, and instead of presenting me with the Room of Hidden Things like I thought about, there would be a dark bedroom with a very comfortable-looking bed right in the center instead. It happened more than once.” 

Blinking slowly, Hermione took this in. “Charlie Weasley once told me he found the Room when he needed the loo. It’s highly unlikely he thought the exact same phrase while pacing in front of the tapestry like we would do when summoning it for the DA, but I hadn’t considered that.” She looked up at Malfoy, his eyes were shining with excitement. Hermione had never seen him look so determined, so triumphant. It was—nice. “The room isn’t reading minds.” 

“No, it’s not legilimency,” Malfoy agreed. “It doesn’t just give you what you want.” 

“It gives you what you require.” Hermione shook her head. It was so obvious, even in the name, for Merlin’s sake. “But we still don’t know how, which is the only way to restore it.” 

“Yes, but now we can stop wasting time staring at the wall like idiots—”

“Only one of us did that,” Hermione interrupted. 

Malfoy just smiled, which was deeply unnerving because it made him look—nice. Merlin, the Amortentia was affecting her, that must be it. “ We can focus on researching enchantments that could give a room that ability.”

“Or making some of our own,” Hermione said. “I haven’t done a lot of spell crafting, but I think now that we’re certain of what the room used to appear, we might be able to trick it into coming back so that we can fix any of the other spells that may have broken from the fiendfyre.”

“Like reverse curse breaking, almost.” Malfoy nodded thoughtfully before smiling again—perfect white teeth encased in full pink lips. “We can do this, Granger.” 

Hermione felt very much off her guard when he—Draco Prince of Bad Mood and Brooding Malfoy—smiled at her like that. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to switch to Malfoy’s polyjuice idea. “Yeah,” she breathed. “I think we can.” 

Draco Malfoy — 2005

Sitting across from Lucius in his ridiculously large office at the Manor always brought back memories for Draco. Almost none of them were good. 

Draco felt so much like the child version of himself, being chastised for flying his new broom too fast and too high, to focus on his mother’s pale face as she explained to her husband what exactly had happened at the restaurant in Diagon Alley. 

This was Lucius’ third time hearing the tale—first from a frantic Narcissa right after it happened and then again from a calmer Draco, but he listened intently, chin resting on his steepled fingers. 

Lucius Malfoy was a complicated man and Draco had an even more complicated relationship with him. When Draco was young, he had thought Lucius was the perfect father, the perfect pureblood role model. He was everything Draco wanted to be until Draco realized who he actually was and decided he absolutely did not want to be anything like his father. 

But that realization had come far too late and with far too high a cost and had done nothing for improving their already-fractured relationship.  

After the war, Lucius was sentenced to ten years of house arrest without a wand followed by another ten years of parole—a lenient sentence that earned the Malfoys no favors in the press or the opinions of Wizarding Britain. He’d never stopped working, making the family more money than ever now that he could no longer insert himself into Hogwarts or Ministry business.

For the first three years, Draco ignored every owl, every floo call, and any attempt Lucius made to connect to him, but eventually, Narcissa wore him down, and Draco spoke to his father again. They were strangers then and still were, despite their stunted conversation every Sunday at dinner. In truth, Draco still resented him, even after all this time, but Lucius was the Head of the family, and as such, he had a right to be involved in family matters. 

He was also the best person to sort out this twin business in a discrete but timely manner. 

“Then Astoria slapped him,” his mother continued as if utterly scandalized, as if that was the worst of it. “I should have thought she was better bred than that, with the Greengrasses being a noble family, but she slapped him like a common muggle.”

“Better bred,” Draco scoffed. “Mother, I seem to recall your own sister knocking Rodolphus out when he accidentally drank from her glass of wine one Christmas. And with her fist, not her wand.” 

Narcissa gave him a scathing look. “That’s entirely different. We were in private, and Bella was touched, you know that.”

“If by touched you mean completely and wildly insane, then I suppose I do.” 

“Draco,” Lucius warned, speaking for the first time since his mother started retelling the story. “You are hardly in a position to comment on the behavior of dead relatives. Children. Two children with a mudblood.” 

“Don’t call her that,” Draco snapped. He couldn’t help it. Yes, he hated Granger. Yes, he knew she hated him, too, but there was just some reaction in his gut that couldn’t let that slur slide. 

Lucius ignored him. “Should this prove true, you will have sired the first half-blood Malfoys since we fractured from the French branch and settled in Britain in the eleventh century.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Draco sighed, putting his head in his hands. Perhaps Lucius should have been kept out of this after all. After leaving Theo, he’d had time to cool off and calm down, and he was starting to think he should’ve just handled this himself. 

“I hope you’re proud of yourself, Draco,” His father said, quiet and cruel. “Centuries of purity ruined for a quick fuck with filth.” 

Draco stood and drew his wand, pointing it right between Lucius’ eyes. Despite everything that had happened between them, even as the very sight of her made his stomach drop to the floor, he still just couldn’t allow someone to talk about her in such a way—especially not his father. “Say one more word disparaging Gra— her —or those children, and I promise you I will happily go to Azkaban for patricide.”

“Calm down, Draco,” Narcissa said, moving in front of the wand. “Such dramatics. Your father is just upset at the moment—you understand.” She turned around while Draco lowered his wand. “And Lucius, please let us not pretend that the Malfoy family has been free of bastards and by-blows since 1057, even the House of Black had their fair share that were spirited away to the continent or killed, depending on the generation. Toujours Pu r and all that.”

“But this is our own son, Cissa, our grandchildren. We can’t allow them to be bastards, and not just because we’d be ruined once and for all if it came out in the Prophet—it’s a small mercy that it hasn’t already.” Lucius sat back in his chair, looking contemplative.

“We don’t know for certain that they’re mine,” Draco said after some silence. He didn’t believe that. He knew somehow that they were his, but only a stupid man would just accept two children as his own without confirming it. Draco was not a stupid man—well, not about most things. 

“Oh, don’t be daft, darling, of course they are.” Narcissa gave him a scathing look. “Those were Black eyes in Granger’s face with Malfoy hair. Knowing your history with the mu—”

“Mother,” Draco said warningly. 

“—muggleborn, I think the chances they aren’t yours are slim.”

Lucius straightened and removed his favored quill from its stand. “We’ll start by demanding a familial lineage ritual be performed on both children, and a meeting with Miss Granger to confirm they’re Malfoys. I’ll owl the solicitors to keep them apprised of the situation, but we won’t involve them directly yet.”

Draco narrowed his eyes skeptically. That was surprisingly tame for Lucius, and he suspected his father was planning more. 

“We must have the children at the Manor for the ritual rather than Gringotts,” Narcissa said, and Draco nearly rolled his eyes at her failure to mute her excitement. 

“She won’t come here, Mother.”

“Why ever not?” Narcissa’s brows were to her hairline, as if she’d heard nothing so ridiculous.

“Oh, I don’t know. I just thought that maybe the trauma of having been brought here as a prisoner and tortured to near death 

Narcissa scoffed. “Who among us hasn’t been tortured here once or twice? This is a private matter, and involving the goblins too early will over-complicate things and leave a paper trail.”

Lucius nodded as his quill scratched away at a piece of official Malfoy stationery. “Your mother is undoubtedly correct, Draco. I’ll include that stipulation in the letter. It must be done here.”

A wave of anxiety clenched at Draco’s heart. He didn’t care about how Granger felt about his home. He didn’t, but he knew she’d be uncomfortable. That might make the children uncomfortable, and he really needed to make a better impression with them if they actually were his. 

Narcissa stood with all the practiced grace she always did, a small smile on her lips. Oh, Merlin. 

“What are you planning now, Mother?” Draco sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. 

“I was just going to pop to Diagon Alley to look around that new children’s shop across from that horribly gauche Weasley Wheezing place or whatever it’s called. I have it on excellent authority that the selection of toys is the largest in London.” 

“We don’t know for certain that—” 

“Do shut up, Draco,” Narcissa said with finality, breezing past him on her way to the door. 

Draco followed behind her, far more slowly, and she’d turned the corner toward the floo parlor and disappeared before he could come up with a good reason that she shouldn’t just start buying toys and clothes and Merlin knew what for her new grandchildren. 

And he was certain that they were, even though he voiced reservations to his parents.

Suddenly a curtain toward the end of the corridor moved, and Draco could’ve sworn he saw the gnarled face of an elderly elf revealed behind it before disappearing. Strange—it was highly unusual for the Malfoy elves to be seen or heard, but it looked quite old, and might be losing its touch. 

Draco shrugged it, continuing on to the floo parlor. He’d neglected his work far enough, and Pansy was probably beside herself with all of the changes she had to make to his schedule in his absence. 

Just as he walked past the curtain where he’d seen the elf, the statue of Octavius Malfoy that stood across from it tipped over and fell. If Draco was any slower with his wand, the massive slab of carved marble would have killed him. 

Had that elf—No, that was ridiculous. It was only a coincidence. Surely. 

Chapter Text

Pansy Parkinson — 2005

Pansy Parkinson was used to getting what she wanted. Even after the war, where she made that little faux pas with the whole offering-Potter-up-to-Voldemort-for-the-slaughter-thing, Pansy did what she wanted, skipping her last year of actual education and traveling the continent. Her parents had been furious, but Pansy didn’t care. 

Pansy hadn’t even sat for her NEWTs, but she had a great job that she enjoyed, working with her only friends and living above the office, making enough money to support herself with a surplus. Draco and Theo were very generous employers, and if she didn’t pay her rent  some months, showing up in a new pair of designer heels instead, they never commented. 

So when Pansy decided she wanted Ronald Weasley for more than just a quick fuck in the backrooms of his quidditch shop, it should come to no surprise that she found herself staring at the display in his shop window just one day after their encounter. 

She told herself it was just the enormous cock and amazing sex, but there was a charm to the Weasel that Pansy found attractive. He was dumb as a chocolate frog, but not so dumb that he couldn’t hold a conversation, just dumb enough that it was kind of cute. Pansy enjoyed being in control, manipulating, bossing others around. Unfortunately for her reputation among Slytherin House, Weasley was the perfect man for her. 

Reassured by her own thoughts, Pansy put a coy smile on her face and used a bit of fancy magic to open the shop door for her.  

Hermione Granger — 2005

Miss Granger, 

It has come to my attention that you have kept quite a large secret from my family, a secret which could have you spending the rest of your life in Azkaban should you prove uncooperative going forward. Considering your heritage, you may be unaware, but line theft is taken quite seriously by the Wizengamot, even a war heroine such as yourself would not be immune from justice. 

I request your presence at Malfoy Manor, along with any children you believe belong to my son, this Saturday for luncheon at noon. We will be administering inheritance tests in addition to making proper introductions. 

Should you prove uncooperative, I will have no choice but to contact the Department of Law Enforcement and the Malfoy solicitors. 

I await your direct reply,

Lucius Malfoy

Hermione crumpled the letter in her fist, earning her a peck on the wrist from the regal eagle owl awaiting her reply. 

“Do that again, and I’ll transfigure you into a toad, you bully,” Hermione seethed, rubbing her wrist. 

The owl trilled indignantly but didn’t peck her again. 

Hermione tried not to make a habit of threatening animals, but this letter unsettled her. More than unsettled, really. She couldn’t make sense of it. 

Could it be possible that Draco somehow truly didn’t know about Lyra and Scor? Or did he fail to inform his parents that he’d sired two bastards with a muggleborn during his last year at Hogwarts? 

Both seemed unlikely. 

“Mummy?” Lyra’s small voice made her look up. Both her children were staring at her, breakfasts uneaten. 

Harry cleared his throat and held out his hand, so Hermione passed him the crumpled sheet of parchment. His brows scrunched together as he read. 

“Eat your breakfasts. Mummy and Uncle Harry need to step out for a moment,” Hermione said. 

She stood, Harry following closely behind, as Lucius owl gave an angry hoot at being made to wait. 

“He can’t do this,” Harry said as soon as she cast the muffling charm to keep the children from overhearing. “Say no, and we’ll get our own lawyers.”

Hermione sighed, running a hand through her curls. “I’m not afraid of Lucius Malfoy. I’ve never tried to hide who fathered Lyra and Scor. We’ve protected them from the press and public, but they’re not secrets. I’m not ashamed of them.” 

“Of course you aren’t, but Hermione, when the paternity test comes back with the results we know they will, the Malfoys could legitimize them, and take them from us. You’re the one who made me learn all those ridiculous pureblood customs and laws; you know how it works.” 

A wave of fear washed over her, but she shook her head. “Draco is an arsehole, but he wouldn’t take my children from me. I know he wouldn’t.”

Harry’s green eyes flashed with pity. “You thought you knew him, Hermione, but you didn’t. He left you. Who’s to say he won’t do worse?”

That hurt. Anytime she thought about Draco, it just — hurt, but Hermione wanted to believe that some of those parts of himself Draco had shown her that year had been real. 

“If you insist on going to this luncheon, I’m coming with you,” Harry said, shaking Lucius' letter. “There are motives behind this, and I want to hear their explanations for myself.”

Hermione nodded. She did, as well, and while she wasn’t keen on visiting Malfoy Manor again, with Lucius still on house arrest, there wasn’t really another option for a meeting place if he insisted upon being present. 

“What about Theo? Wasn’t he coming to look at Walburga Saturday afternoon?” Hermione asked, knowing Harry would be disappointed to miss this opportunity to spend more time with the man he’d been obsessing over for months.  

Harry shrugged. “I’ll just have to pop into his office to reschedule.”

Hermione released the muffling charm. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.” 

Draco Malfoy — 1998

For weeks, Draco and Granger threw all their time and energy into layering spell work into the black void inside the Room of Requirement that Draco initially mistook as some sort of mind. Figuring out how to even do that had taken them nearly a week, and then the arithmancy work to map out the spell layers took another. The room had to be able to conjure just about anything, so it was incredibly complex, but together, they laid out a plan that they both believed would work, then checked, double checked, and triple checked each other’s work.  

It was grueling, exhausting, thrilling, and wonderful, and Draco couldn’t remember a time he’d felt so—content. 

Granger’s mind was a force to be reckoned with. She was brilliant, but didn’t let that stop her from wanting to learn more, to master, and it complimented him well. 

It had also come to his unfortunate attention that she was starting to look like her old self—the girl before the war who wasn’t battle weary, traumatized, and half starved. No, she was back to Hermione Granger— curls and skin practically glowing with health and dark eyes warm with intelligence. The fiery girl who’d punched him in the face was slowly replacing the shell that had taken her over, and he couldn’t help but be…appreciative of it. 

And this was one such time. They were working on the Room, taking a quick break. She’d just had some idea and bent over to write some note on the sheet of parchment at her feet, when her sweater pulled her uniform skirt up to scandalous heights. 

Draco wasn’t a creep or anything, but he was a man, and Granger was…

He looked. 

When she suddenly stood and turned to him, he looked away too quickly, making his moment of self indulgence fairly obvious. Heat rose his neck, and he tried to act casual, but he knew he was blushing, and she could probably see it. 

“Are you okay?” she asked. 

He took out his wand, pretending like he intended to start back up on spell casting. “Fine.”

“Are you sure?” 

“I said I’m fine,” he said, voice far too sharp for the words to ring true. 

“If you want to take a break for the rest of the evening, we can. I saw what happened in the Great Hall this morning, and—”

“Granger.” He faced her, surprised by the concern present in her eyes where he’d thought he’d find laughing. “It’s not that. I’m used to the fact that the entire school and country hates me, okay? A little hex here and there doesn’t bother me.”

She looked contemplative, biting her lip as she traced him up and down with her eyes. “It won’t last. Once you’ve shown them you’re remorseful, and that you’ve changed, they’ll stop.” 

“So you’ve been saying.” 

Granger smiled, nodding. “Yes, but I didn’t really believe you before.” 

“Before?” he asked, almost breathless. He wasn’t prepared to have a conversation like this just now, and he felt off. 

“When you first apologized, I thought you were just doing it out of obligation, that you didn’t mean any of it.” Granger sat down against the wall and patted the floor beside her, and Draco sat obediently. They sat like this often, mostly in silent exhaustion. It was comfortable. “And maybe you didn’t then, but I believe you now.” 

“Why?” He was almost afraid to ask. “I haven’t fixed the room yet.” 

Granger rolled her eyes. “For me it was never about fixing the room, Malfoy.”

“I don’t understand. You said—” 

“I said —” she sighed, shaking her head. “I think for a lot of the others who are using you as a scapegoat for their grievances with the war, fixing the room will go a long way towards fixing your reputation, but for me, it was more…personal.” 

Personal.

Draco melted into the stone floor. He understood that. He did, and part of him was pleased that she’d forgiven him, but a larger part was actually starting to think he didn’t deserve to be forgiven, at least not by her. 

“I know you care more about actions than words, but I am sorry, Granger.

She reached out, patting his hand. Her sudden, unexpected touch surprised him, and he nearly pulled his hand away. 

“I know you are.”

Draco Malfoy — 2005

“Astoria,” Draco said flatly. He would not beg her, and if she couldn’t be reasonable about this whole secret children thing, he’d have to have his mother find him a new fiance. She pouted, her full lips shining in the morning light. She’d agreed to have a morning stroll about the Manor grounds with him which was a start, but she was being unreasonable. “I really didn’t know. I’m sorry.” 

“I know you are, Draco, but do you have any idea how embarrassing that was for me ? It’s a wonder we weren’t on the front cover of the evening Prophet!” 

Draco had to agree there, and he suspected Potter and his boy—man?—wonder status had something to do with that. 

“Will they be legitimized?” Astoria asked. “If they really are yours?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Astoria stomped and crossed her arms with a huff. “Well, you should know! Draco, how can you be so nonchalant about this. Our future children’s places in society could be ruined!”

“I’m sorry,” he said, taking her hand, although he didn’t care about any children that didn’t currently exist right at the moment. He had to get his possible children sorted first. “We’ll figure this all out. My father is already working on it. Can you forgive me?” 

She narrowed her eyes. “Will you buy me that quill set I’ve been eyeing?”

Draco resisted the urge to drop her hand and walk away, but it wasn’t worth the hassle. Astoria may be materialistic, but she was beautiful, and she was the only woman he’d found that put up with his busy work schedule and overbearing parents, and he needed a wife if he was going to take over the Malfoy Estate from his father. 

It was just the way things were done, and it wasn’t like he’d ever marry for love, considering he never wanted to be with someone he actually loved ever again. It was far too painful. 

“Of course.” He kissed her hand. 

“You’re forgiven.” She smiled prettily. “But no more surprises.” 

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger — 1998

Malfoy paced back and forth, presumably thinking of their agreed upon outcome for the Room. On his third pass, a door, the most beautiful door Hermione had ever seen appeared. 

“Yes!” she gasped, excitement pouring out of her, making her heart race and hands jitter. “Yes, yes, yes!”

“It still might not be right,” Malfoy warned. “The door conjuration spell sequence was pretty simple compared to the rest.”

“Right.” Hermione tried to calm herself, but they’d never come this close. The fiendfyre had eaten through so many of the old charms, more than they’d thought, and it had been weeks since they’d seen any visible progress. “You’re right, of course.”

Malfoy’s teasing smile surprised her. “Hermione Granger admitting I’m right. Who’d have thought?”

“Oh, stop. Let’s just open the door before it disappears.”

He kept smiling, and she suddenly felt quite warm. “You do the honors.”

Hermione shook her head. “No, this was your idea. You should do it.”

“But you did most of the arithmancy.” He looked so casual, blonde hair mussed but not messy, hands in his pockets. She looked away, at the door.

“Still, I wouldn’t have—“

“Open it.” 

“But—”

“I want you to, Granger.”

Hermione pursed her lips at the force of his words, but grabbed the cool brass door knob, nonetheless. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as she twisted and pushed. 

“Merlin’s tits, we did it,” Malfoy said behind her. She opened her eyes. Inside, the room was massive but empty, cavernous — the new Room of Hidden Things. 

“We have to be sure.” Hermione shut the door, and it melted into the stone wall. This time she paced, thinking of a place they could celebrate. When the door appeared, she didn’t waste time arguing with Malfoy, just opened it. Streamers and confetti fell from the ceiling onto a little table set for two. They’d really done the impossible.

Hermione squealed and launched herself into Malfoy’s arms. He caught her with a humph, forced to take a step back from the force, but he held her, and they laughed like idiots. 

When Hermione finally calmed, her face was inches his, and he was looking right at her, smiling faintly but panting, chest heaving. 

“We did it,” she breathed, unable to break eye contact, trapped in gleaming steely gray, though she wasn’t sure she ever wanted out. 

“Yeah,” he returned, eyes falling to her lips, making her stomach flutter. 

He leaned further down, breath ghosting across her face. She didn’t move away. 

As his lips touched hers, so light, like a feather brushing the ground in sweeps as it fell, Hermione melted. 

It had been so long since she’d been kissed, not since Ron during the battle, and that came more from fear of dying and adrenalin than anything else. Before that, it was only Viktor, and those kisses had always been short and awkward. 

This kiss, though—once Draco realized she would not pull away, was reciprocating even, it was exactly what she needed. His tongue explored her mouth without hesitation, tasting tart, like the apple he’d been eating while they worked, but so warm. 

When his hand found her curls, pulling gently, Hermione moaned, actually moaned. She wasn’t sure she’d ever actually moaned in pleasure in her life, thought it was something people just said happened in romance novels and movies, but she felt so good—he felt so good—that she couldn’t stop it. 

At her moan, Draco froze, then pulled back, eyes bewildered and lips red and plump. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, putting her on the ground and taking a step back. “Fuck, Granger. That—I’m sorry.” 

Hermione blinked, dazed. “What?”

“Sorry,” he said again, looking at anything but her, before fleeing. 

Hermione watched him go, watched him snatch his satchel from the ground and rake a hand through his blond hair in frustration or anger. She wasn’t sure, but she was sure that out of the very few kisses she’d ever had that one had started the best and ended the worst. 

Harry Potter — 2005

Harry really didn’t mind being late for anything, and he didn’t mind when others were late either. Life had a habit of presenting the unexpected, especially when it came to him, so Harry found that stressing over tardiness was a waste of his energy. 

Hermione would disagree. 

For her, few things were worse than running late, and having twins—who had very different needs when it came to getting ready to go somewhere—stressed her to no end. Given the location of the luncheon they were about to attend, her stress levels were through the roof this morning. Her hair was wild, frizzy and crackling madly, even as she tried to tame Lyra’s hair into submission.

Lyra was crying, had been on and off all morning. She had changed her dress four times now, and was currently wearing the first one she’d put on again, a little pink and purple thing she favored for special occasions.

Harry knew Lyra was just anxious and exhausted, but it was so hard to see her like this. Kicking and screaming when the smallest little thing wasn’t absolutely perfect. When it came to her hair, Lyra couldn’t be satisfied. Hermione had to bribe her to stop crying over it with the privilege of wearing her favorite necklace from Hermione’s small collection of jewelry. Hermione never let Lyra wear that necklace, and Harry hadn’t seen her wear it herself since her eighth year. 

Harry worried Hermione was going to have a fit or something before they could get through the floo, but he said nothing, just sipped from his mug of tea and tried to talk to Scor. 

That wasn’t working out either to be honest.

Scorpius had been ready for hours, dressed in his best dress robes. He looked so cute with his little blue tie up to his neck and hair slicked down. Kreacher always loved to dress him up, like he was a pureblood child doll made just for Kreacher. Weird.  

Luckily Scorpius didn’t seem to mind, but Harry was still worried about him. He hadn’t eaten all morning and spoke very little, just sat beside Harry at the kitchen table, biting his nails to the quick and staring into space. 

“Lyra,” Hermione said, “please just sit still for a moment, love. I’m nearly finished.”

“It hurts!”

“It doesn’t. I cast a light numbing charm to make sure it doesn’t. Just sit still,” Hermione said. Her tone was as patient and gentle as it always was when speaking with the children, but Harry could tell she was at the edge. 

“I don’t like plats,” Lyra said petulantly, crossing her arms.

“You asked for plats, darling.”

Harry sipped his tea. 

Hermione Granger — 2005

They were late, five minutes late now, and it would’ve been worse had Lyra gotten her way and changed again.

Hermione knew the children were anxious. After their disastrous first meeting with Malfoy, she didn’t blame them. She hated putting them in this position, but if Malfoy insisted on having their paternity confirmed, the arse that he was, Hermione couldn’t deny him that right legally.

It made her want to punch something. Him preferably, but she’d settle for Lucius given the opportunity.

With one last round of calming reassurances to her and the children, Harry went through the floo first. 

Scor went next. 

“Harry will wait right in front of the floo for you, sweet boy,” Hermione kissed his forehead and brushed his cheek. 

Scor nodded. He wasn’t talking much right now which was fine. Sometimes he needed to work things out himself in his head. He went straight into the fire, tossing his handful of powder and shouting the address clearly, face stoic. He didn’t know it, but he was so brave.

“Mummy,” Lyra said as soon as Scorpius disappeared. “I don’t want to go.” 

Hermione got down on her knees, holding Lyras shoulders. Her lip trembled as she took a big gulp. 

“Lyra, darling, you’ve spent your entire life wanting to meet—” Hermione swallowed thickly. “Draco and the Malfoys.”

“And I did, and it was horrid!”

“I think you just took him by surprise. He’ll be ready for you now.” Hermione fixed one of the pink ribbons at the bottom of one of the two mercifully straight plats. Lyra was so fierce, so fiery. There wasn’t any doubt that the Draco Hermione knew that year after the war wouldn’t love her, but Hermione often doubted she ever truly knew Draco at all. “He’s going to adore you. They all will.” 

Lyra’s voice was so small when she finally replied, “What if they don’t? What if he doesn’t?”

“If they don’t, then it’s their loss.” Hermione pulled her into a hug. “You and Scor are gifts, the most precious gifts anyone could ever want or need, and if they’re too stupid to see that, they don’t deserve you.” 

Lyra nodded, pulling away. “But they will. ”

Hermione nodded back, heart clenching. If the Malfoys were as awful to her children as she’d seen them be to the Weasleys and herself in the past, she’d burn that bloody manor to the ground with them in it, and she wouldn’t get caught. 

Draco Malfoy — 1998

“Quaffle,” Draco said, and the gargoyle statue hoped out of the way, granting him access to the Headmistress’ office. 

Draco had been unsurprised to receive the summons at breakfast. He daren’t look at Granger or the Headmistress or anyone when McGonagall's distinctive eagle owl dropped the missive into his bowl of porridge. 

He assumed he was going to be expelled. He’d violated the Golden Girl, and for that he’d be forced to leave, breaking his parole agreement with the Wizengamot. He just hoped Azkaban would be more bearable without the dementors. 

Draco trudged up the stone steps, a convict ready to face the gallows. 

When he knocked on the door at the top, he was surprised by how light McGonagall’s tone was as she called for him to come in. She was always quite firm with him, never kind exactly like she was with students that weren’t blood purist bullies. 

He opened the door with caution, unsurprised to see Granger sat in one of the two chairs in front of McGonagall’s desk. 

He sighed, taking the other seat. “This really isn’t necessary, Headmistress. I understand what I’ve done, and I’ve already started packing my trunk.”

McGonagall’s eyebrows rose above her wire-rimmed spectacles. “And what exactly do you think you have done, Mr. Malfoy?” 

Draco felt ill, sneaking a look at Granger whose cheeks were red in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to. It just happened.”

“You mean to tell me you didn’t mean to fix the Room of Requirement? Miss Granger has had me under the impression that the two of you have been working on this for quite some time.”

Draco’s heart stopped then fell to the floor. He may have misjudged the situation. “That would be correct.” 

McGonagall pursed her lips skeptically. “Shall I refrain from awarding points to your house, given that it appears I may have to deduct them right after?”

“No,” Draco said, “No, I think I—I just assumed I was here to be reprimanded.” 

“Then you must’ve done something worth reprimanding.” 

Granger laughed, actually laughed, and Draco was so confused. “He’s just got that Slytherin chip on his shoulder, Headmistress. They expect the worst from everyone, you see.” 

McGonagall assessed him over her glasses. “Is that true, Mr. Malfoy? Have I ever given you any indication that I would be unfair to you and your house?” 

Draco was almost afraid to answer. “No, Headmistress, of course not.” 

“Preciscely.” McGonagall gave him a tight smile. “Now, as it was, I invited you here because you and Miss Granger have completed a feat that the Ministry’s top Unspeakables couldn’t.”

Granger preened beside him, and it was so like her , the old Granger, that Draco had to disguise his involuntary smile with a roll of his eyes. 

“Thus, you will each be awarded 50 points each for your respective houses and will also be given the Services to the School Award tomorrow evening at dinner.”

Draco was speechless. Was she actually offering him , a former Death Eater who let the likes of Bellatrix Lestrange and Fenrir Greyback into this school full of children, who literally fought on the wrong side of the battle in this very castle, an award for services to the school? It was—it made little sense to him. 

“From your expression, you seem displeased, Mr. Malfoy. Were you expecting more?” Headmistress McGonagall asked. 

“No, not at all. Actually, I wasn’t expecting any of it.” 

“I see.” The Headmistress nodded sagely. “You are allowed to be here now, Mr. Malfoy, because you made mistakes when you were a child. I was here last year. I saw you, and I know how…unwilling…you felt, especially toward the end. You have been given a chance to redeem yourself. Take it. Accept the award and don’t make me regret presenting it to you.” 

Draco took in her words and felt a weight lift from his shoulders, gone for the first time since the summer after fifth year. 

After the Headmistress dismissed them, he followed Granger down the staircase at a distance, sure that despite the pleasant surprise meeting, Granger was still not happy with him for kissing her. 

She waited for him at the bottom, and Draco sighed, resigning himself to begging her forgiveness.

The smirk on Granger’s pretty face as he approached her was almost frightening. “Why did you think we were going to be expelled for snogging? Is that some strange pureblood moral or something?” 

Flustered, he swallowed the words he’d been preparing to say. “I didn’t think we were going to be expelled, Granger, only me.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I forced myself on you.” 

“You didn’t, Malfoy.” She snorted a laugh. “Merlin, you’re dramatic!” 

“I didn’t ask.”

Granger brushed her curls over her shoulder, clearly preparing for one of her little lectures. “You didn’t have to, you dolt. I knew you were going to kiss me the moment you looked at my mouth, and I let you.” 

“Why?” He had to ask, especially when she was being so open with him. 

She just shrugged, so relaxed. “I wanted to.”

“Oh.” Fuck, but if that wasn’t the dumbest utterance—

“I’m not angry with you for kissing me, Malfoy. I liked it. It was a nice kiss, even if you are this world’s biggest prat.” 

He took a deep breath, summoning courage he rarely had. “Would you like to do it again sometime?” 

Granger smiled, a small coy thing that was still brighter than any lantern in this corridor. How had he never noticed how radiant she was when she smiled?

“If you’ll help me figure out an issue with step eight of our Amortentia variant, I think I could be persuaded.” 

Chapter Text

Theodore Nott — 2005

“Master Theodore, Hovie is meant to be sure you eat once a day.” 

Theo looked up from the set of choir bells on his work table. They’d been cursed into silence, so they didn’t ring, but they did steal the hearing of anyone who tried to play them. Theo had lost his hearing to them for the entire afternoon the previous day when he hadn’t been able to resist the compulsion charm to try to play them. 

He hadn’t made such a simple mistake since he first started curse breaking. To touch an object such as these without dragonhide gloves? Ameteur!  

Well…he had to concede, that wasn’t exactly true, but he only did this sort of thing once a month now instead of once a week. If he hadn’t been familiar with that particular brand of sense-stealing curses, it could’ve been permanent. 

Theo was a bit of a mess at the moment, even for him. A lot was going on in his normally peaceful life, and he was fucking terrified.

It didn’t help that Harry had canceled on him. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why? Why would he cancel? What had Theo done?

“Something really important came up,” Harry had said with a frown. “I’ll send you an owl to reschedule. Maybe next Wednesday?”

Something important came up. 

Important.

Like the very illegal time turner hanging around Theo’s neck. 

Theo was sure the aurors would be at his door by dusk. Harry had finally gotten the evidence he needed, and discovered that Theo had more illegal dark objects in his home than Borgin and Burkes’ backroom.  

But that couldn’t be right! Could it?

Harry had never been here, and he said he wanted to reschedule . 

Fuck, he could use a drink.

“Has Master Theodore gone deaf again?” Hovie asked. He folded his green-gray arms impatiently. Most wouldn’t tolerate such defiance in an elf, but Theo had always liked elves.  And Hovie had been the only one who stayed after his father died and Theo freed the whole cellar full of them during one of his…episodes.

 The tray hovered beside him now, bumping into his arm for attention. 

“I’m not hungry, Hovie. Just leave it, please.” 

“You is never hungry when you is working,” Hovie chastised, snapping his fingers, making the tray disappear and reappear on Theo’s work table with a danger clatter of dishes. “Master Theo works too much and takes too many potions.”

Theo sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Not only were his friends constantly badgering him, but now his elf was too.

“Hovie will stay until Master Theo finishes his dinner. Then Master Theo can go back to waving his wand at those bells.”

Theo reluctantly cast a few preservation charms and safety wards over the bells, ripped off his gloves, and shoved a roasted potato into his mouth. 

Hermione Granger — 2005

Before following Lyra through the floo, Hermione took a moment to charm the wrinkles from her robes. She didn’t bother to fix her hair, telling herself it was because it would take too long and wouldn’t make much of a difference anyway. It certainly wasn’t because Draco used to say he loved it when it was wild. 

Merlin, what was wrong with her? She didn’t actually care what Draco thought, obviously.  

She took a deep breath and stepped through the floo, keeping her eyes closed as she spun, trying to calm her racing heart. 

If the Malfoys did anything to upset her children, she’d curse them straight to hell. 

Hermione repeated the phrase in her mind—a less than positive mantra that worked quite well to calm her nerves nonetheless.  

Stepping out of a large fireplace with her head held high, Hermione first waved her wand to remove any stray soot from herself, then did it for each of her children. They stood quietly on either side of Harry, waiting patiently. 

The door to the sitting room opened, revealing a smiling Narcissa Malfoy. 

“Miss Granger,” she said, with a warmth that had Hermione blinking in surprise. “It’s so lovely to see you, and Mr. Potter it’s always a pleasure.”

Harry returned her greeting, just as Lucius and Draco entered the room, both looking far less welcoming than Narcissa. When they stood so close together across the room from everyone else with expressions guarded and hands behind their backs, the resemblance was…eerie. But now that Hermione got a closer look, she could see that where Lucius was sharp, Draco was softer, taking some features from Narcissa. 

Draco’s eyes met hers, catching her looking, and he narrowed his them. She narrowed hers back, even as herstomach twisted. She’d never wanted to see him again, but here they were in his awful manor with his weird parents and their amazing children whom he’d never met. 

“And here we have Lyra and Scorpius,” Narcissa practically cooed. She bent down to better take them in. “Oh, aren’t you two just darling! Aren’t they darling, Lucius?”

Lucius’ brow rose. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Cissa. We need to confirm paternity before you start playing grandmother.” 

Narcissa stood straight and leveled him with a glare. “They do not need to be my grandchildren to be darling, Lucius, and you’d do well to watch your tongue. Should they be Draco’s, I doubt they’ll forget this behavior from you.”

Lyra preened, smiling up at Narcissa like she hung the moon, and Hermione actually understood her admiration, maybe even felt a bit herself. 

As if inspired by Narcissa’s words, Draco stepped forward, ignoring Harry and Hermione completely and, much like Narcissa had, crouched down to meet both children at their eye level. “I think we got off to a bad start. You surprised me is all. I’m afraid I didn’t know you—that you might be my children.”

Hermione scoffed, and Draco’s eyes met hers like two slicing daggers. She crossed her arms and matched his energy, glaring at him for all she was worth. 

“I’m Draco, and these are my parents.” He looked back at his mother and father, face uneasy.  “You’ll have to forgive them. If you are my children, they’ll be your grandparents, and they’re both rather excited, in their own ways.” 

Lyra nodded, but Scorpius remained still, looking at Draco like he had three heads. 

“Would it be alright if I take some blood from you? It won’t hurt at all, and I won’t take much.” 

“I’ll do it,” Hermione insisted, stepping forward. 

“No,” Lucius said, voice firm as he marched toward Draco and the children, cane clicking against the floor with each step. “It must be Draco or myself. We need to be confident in the integrity of the samples, and personally, I will only accept the results if I’m certain the blood hasn’t been tainted.” 

Hermione just knew he’d added further in his head. It must be such a difficult concept for Lucius to come to terms with—having half-blood grandchildren. 

“Why?” Harry asked, narrowing his eyes at Lucius. “Surely you’re not suggesting that Hermione would tamper with the samples.”

“Oh, I’m not merely suggesting it.” Scowling, Lucius rubbed the silver snake head at the top of his cane with his thumb, staring intently at Harry. “Miss Granger has kept these children a secret from our family for years, if they are indeed Draco’s. Who’s to say she isn’t capable of further deception?”

Hermione had to take a few deep breaths as her blood boiled. It wouldn’t help her children, blowing up on Lucius, but Merlin, did this man make her want to hit something. How dare he question her character? Him— a former member of Voldemort’s inner circle. It was laughable, really. 

Reaching out to put her hands on both of her children’s shoulders, more for her own support than theirs, Hermione smiled. “I have never kept my children a secret from anyone. Never. We keep them out of the public and press for their privacy, but they have never been secrets.”

Lucius turned his sharp eyes onto her. “Are you suggesting that my son is a liar?”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Hermione turned his own words on him, feeling Draco’s scrutinizing gaze on her as well. 

“You never told me,” he said firmly, straightening from where he was crouched in front of the children. “You know you didn’t.” 

“I did,” Hermione insisted, feeling tears burn her eyes, willing them to stay there and not fall, not after all these years. “You said, and I quote because I’ve never forgotten, ‘Enjoy your life with them, Granger. I won’t be in it.’” 

Draco’s jaw fell open, eyes moving from his parents to the children and back to her. “That’s not—”

“Enough,” Narcissa said. Her voice was gentle enough, but all present froze. “We can have this conversation after the Paternas Familias is complete. Do be careful when you take their blood, Draco.”

“Of course,” Draco said, crouching back down in front of them and removing two small vials from his breast pocket, opening them, and allowing them to float beside him. He turned to Scor first. “Can I see your hand? I promise this won’t hurt.” 

Scorpius looked up at Hermione, frowning.

“It’s alright, darling,” she said, giving his small shoulder a reassuring squeeze. 

Scor lifted his hand, and Draco took it in his with a hesitant smile, murmuring a numbing charm before counting to three and slicing Scor’s palm. He siphoned the blood into one of the vials, then healed the wound, leaving no scar. Draco floated the vial to Lucius, who left the room promptly. 

After repeating the process with Lyra, Draco stood. “I’m going to take this to the lab. Mother, I know you’ve had the elves prepare lunch. Why don’t you escort…our guests to the dining room, and father and I will meet you there after we add the blood to the potions.”

He left after giving the children one last long look, and Hermione just knew he knew that they were his. He’d either known all along or just came to the conclusion after seeing them more closely.

Hermione hoped for his sake it was the later.

Draco Malfoy — 1998

“I can’t believe you didn’t ask for my help with the Room,” Theo huffed, closing the book he’d been reading. This was the twentieth or so time he’d voiced this opinion since McGonagall made the announcement. “And to have Granger help instead? I just don’t understand. I was right here!” 

“You’ve been busy with all your classes and Head Boy stuff,” Draco said, again for the twentieth or so time. 

“But Granger is, too. She’s Head Girl, and you don’t even like her!” Theo threw himself onto his bed, face in his pillow. Then he suddenly looked up. “Wait, do you not even like me ? I know I’m weird or whatever and we were sort of forced to become friends, but I thought we had something, Draco. I really did.”

Draco sighed. He loved Theo, he really did, but Theo was capable of doing the most insane mental Wronski feint, always had been, and Draco didn’t feel like talking him back to reality today. 

“We do have something, Theo. You’re my brother in all but blood, and you know that.” 

Theo looked a bit appeased, but was still frowning. “So, why Granger then? You hate her.”

“I don’t,” Draco admitted. 

Theo’s dark brows scrunched. “You don’t?”

“No,” Draco said, feeling his cheeks heat. “I quite like her, actually.” 

“Oh,” Theo said, looking more confused than ever. “I like her, too, you know. She’s been nice, if a bit bossy.”

“Yeah,” Draco easily agreed.

Harry Potter — 2005

Harry was positive that he and Narcissa were the only ones eating at lunch, and that was a real shame because the egg and cress sandwiches were the best he’d ever had. The Malfoy elves had to have added Euphoria Elixir to their mayonnaise, they were that good.  

He took another bite, his chewing the only sound in the room. The tension was palpable, but Harry had been in far more tense situations than this with food of far lesser quality. 

“So, Malfoy,” Harry said, then swallowed this bite, “how’s the business?” 

“The Malfoy Estate is far too complex and storied to be referred to as a simple business, Mr. Potter,” Lucius replied, eyes narrow and cold.

“That’s great, Lucius, but I was talking to your son.” Harry took another large bite, ignoring the scowl on the older Malfoy’s face. 

Hermione grabbed his hand, squeezing it under the table, and Harry knew she wanted to laugh just as badly as he did. They’d definitely be talking about this tonight. 

“It’s going well,” Draco said. “As you well know, with how closely your Department has been working with Theo the last few months.” 

“Yes, the DMLE is very lucky to have such a talented curse breaker as a contractor,” Harry said—quite smoothly if he did say so himself. “And…how is Mr. Nott? I haven’t had the pleasure of working with him for a few days.” 

Hermione kicked him under the table. 

“Mr. Nott is very nice,” Lyra said and Scorpius nodded. 

“You’ve met Theo?” Draco asked. His face was completely blank, but Harry could see the strained set to his jaw.

Hermione turned and quirked a brow at the twins as well. 

“I introduced them,” Harry said, before the twins could mention their little adventure through the floo network that Harry had neglected to inform Hermione about. “Just in passing.” 

Hermione looked even more skeptical now, so Harry changed the subject. Again, very smoothly. 

“So, about those results?” he asked, then took a long pull from his goblet of water. 

Lucius cast a quick Tempus charm. “They should be ready.”

Draco called an elf and ordered her to collect a vial from each potion in the lab along with two sheets of parchment and two clean quills. The elf popped away, was back with the supplies in an instant, and laid the parchment in the center of the long dining table with the quills and vials filled with dark red liquid on each side. 

When Lucius stood, the rest of the table followed, with Lyra and Scorpius taking some encouragement from Hermione. Standing in a group, huddled in front of the sheets of parchment, Harry suddenly felt anxious. Not because he thought Lyra and Scor weren’t Malfoy’s children—they obviously were, but because he was worried that things would change after Narciss and Lucius saw the results. They’d made their own little family in Grimmauld Place over the years, and he wasn’t ready to let that go. 

He’d miss them all terribly, and he didn’t think he could live alone again. Being lonely brought up feelings and memories that Harry didn’t want to address, didn’t think he’d ever be able to address. 

“Draco,” Lucius said, as they all stared down at the parchment. “I think it’s only fitting that you cast the charms.” 

Nodding, Draco opened the vial with an “S” etched into the glass. He muttered a series of charms over one of the quills. It floated into the air, dipping itself in the liquid, then began writing on the first sheet of parchment. He quickly did the same with the vial etched with an “L”.

They all watched as the both sheets of parchment filled with tight, even script. 

Draco gasped, seeing Scor’s paternity before anyone else, as close as he was. Tearing his eyes off the parchment, he looked at the twins with so much grief and longing that Harry nearly had to look away. He bent over to read the text.

Name: Scorpius John Granger

Born: The 28th of December in the 1,999th Year

Parents: Hermione Jean Granger and Draco Lucius Malfoy

Godparents: Harry James Potter and (No Godmother Magic Present)

Blood Status: Halfblood

Heirships: Illegitimate, May Claim Heirship to the Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy through Rights by Blood; Heir to the Ancient and Noble House of Potter through Inheritance from Godfather; and Heir to the Ancient and Noble House of Black through Inheritance from Godfather

Harry knew all of this already, of course, but it wouldn’t be good manners for him to gloat now, not when the Malfoys could react to this unpredictably. 

Narcissa slid Draco aside, leaning over the table gracefully, then smiling like she’d just won the whole pot in a hand of poker. With lips pursed, Lucius looked next while Narcissa moved to Lyra’s parchment. His eyes scanned the page—once, twice, then a third time. He stood, looked at his son, then Hermione with an indiscernible expression, and made to leave the room. The heavy double doors slammed behind him as he exited without a word. 

Scorpius jumped, looking up at Hermione with startled eyes. 

“Don’t mind him, my treasures,” Narcissa said, putting Lyra’s parchment down, and addressing the children. “He doesn’t like it when things don’t go his way, but he’ll come around. Won’t he, Draco?”

Draco gave her a look like he highly doubted that, but then turned back to the children with a strange mixture of sadness and awe. “Yes,” he gulped, trying to form a wobbly smile, presumably to reassure the children. “He’ll have to.” 

“Well,” Hermione said, after a silence, running her fingers through an anxious Lyra’s hair. “I supposed we’re all done here then.”

Draco’s head snapped up, and he glared at her with palpable loathing. “Oh, no, Granger, we’re just getting started.”

Chapter Text

Scorpius Granger — 2005

Scorpius was relieved when his bedroom door creaked open and Lyra’s small form crept in. He’d just been contemplating whether he should sneak into her room to talk to her, and she saved him from having to make the decision. 

“Scor, are you awake?” Lyra whispered from the doorway. 

Scorpius sat up and gestured for her to come in. She shut the door and ran over to his bed, sliding into her spot. 

“I can’t sleep,” Scorpius said. 

“I can’t either.” Lyra frowned, shaking her head. Her curls were sticking out all over, like she’d been tossing and turning in her bed. “Uncle Harry said we had a long day.” 

“It was.” Scorpius nodded.

Lyra bit her lip, worried. “Do you think Draco Malfoy will want to see us again? He didn’t say.”

Scorpius shrugged. “I don’t know, but I feel bad for Mummy. He wasn’t very nice to her.” 

“But he was nice to us, and Narcissa was very nice. She said she wants to buy us new robes.” 

“That is nice, but I don’t want new robes,” Scorpius whispered. He didn’t care about clothing all that much, and further, he didn’t know if he liked the Malfoys. 

They scared him, made him nervous, and he didn’t like how Draco and Lucius had spoken to his mum and Uncle Harry. If they could be so rude to them, what would stop them from turning that anger on Lyra or Scorpius if they disappointed them, and Scorpius felt like he was very likely to do so. 

“I do,” Lyra said, flipping onto her back, sighing, “and I hope Draco comes shopping with us. I think that would be fun, and if he gets to know us better, I think he’ll really like us. Uncle Ron says we're irresistible.” 

Scorpius laid back down, too, and stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t think that would be fun at all, and he wasn’t sure that Draco would like him more after spending more time with him. After all, the more time the other children at school spent with Scorpius, the weirder they thought he was and the meaner they were.

Lyra squealed in happiness. “Oh, I think we’re finally getting everything we’ve always wanted, Scorpius. I’m so excited.” 

Scorpius didn’t feel the same. 

Hermione Granger — 1998

Hermione sat across from Malfoy, doing homework together for the fifth night that week. They’d relocated from the library to the Room of Requirement. While Malfoy was no longer receiving daily curses from the larger Hogwarts student body, they found that the Room was better equipped to serve all their studying needs in addition to providing a better atmosphere for their after-studying activities than the library was. 

Hermione really didn’t think there was anything wrong with the fact that she and Draco Malfoy were snogging the life out of each other each evening, as long as Hermione didn’t have Head Girl duties, and they finished their respective homework. 

In her mind, she deserved it. In the last year alone, she’d been through so much—war, torture, and living with a bloody horcrux in a tent for months, just to name a few. 

If she wanted to snog a cute boy who was exceptionally good at snogging, she deserved that. And if that boy just so happened to be her childhood bully who played a key role on the opposite side of the war that traumatized her, well, that wasn’t anyone’s business but hers. 

That certainly sounded worse in her mind when laid out like that than she’d like, but Draco Malfoy wasn’t the boy who allowed a pack of Death Eaters into the school anymore. He was gentle with her and kind, and was ridiculously fit. She felt like they understood each other, what they’d been through. He wasn’t the bigoted child who bullied her; he wasn’t.

He wasn’t!

“Granger,” Malfoy said, turning the page of his Astronomy textbook then scribbling something on his parchment. “You’re staring at me again.” 

Hermione felt heat rise up her neck to her cheeks and quickly looked back down at her own text book. “I was just thinking.”

“Oh, come on, Granger, I’ve got eyes, too,” Malfoy continued. “I don’t mind. But I’ve got to finish this assignment, and we have the Transfiguration essay due next week that I haven’t started. Not to mention NEWTs.” 

She knew he was right. They’d spent so much time fixing the Room that they’d lost far more precious NEWT preparation time than she’d like. The thought made her even more curious, however, and she couldn’t help but look back up at Malfoy who’d already returned to his parchment. 

“How many NEWTs are you taking?” she blurted, ever the tactful conversationalist. 

“I’m going for ten: History, Defense, Charms, Herbology, Transfiguration, Astronomy, Potions, Runes, Arithmancy, and Care of Magical Creatures. I don’t expect to do well on the last one, so I’ll likely get nine.” 

Hermione nodded. “Impressive.” 

“Coming from someone who got eleven OWLs.” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you have similar plans for NEWTs

“I dropped Muggle Studies after fifth year.” Hermione pursed her lips, not sure why she felt self conscious now, but she did.

“So you’re going for the same as me, then?” Malfoy smirked. “How I love a bit of competition.”

“No, I’m still going for Muggle Studies, actually. McGonagall said I could still try for it when I dropped, being muggleborn and all that.” 

Hermione watched his face, searching for any sort of negative response, but it remained impassive as he digested her words, but then he raised a quizzical brow. “What will you do with all of them? Fancy being Minister?”

She shook her head. “I thought once I would’ve liked that, but now I’m not sure.”

He bit his lip in contemplation. “I guess I always pictured you as a crusader against corruption, climbing your way to the top.” 

“I’ve had enough crusading, thanks,” she laughed lightly. “Maybe my mind will change after Hogwarts, but right now, I’m…tired, I suppose.” She eyed him and all the books and parchment in front of him. “What about you? Will you take over for your father?”

They had never really spoken about Lucius, so when Malfoy sighed, fidgeting uncomfortably, Hermione wished she hadn’t brought him up. It was so much easier, for the most part, to pretend like they were just two normal students who did their coursework together then snogged.

“No,” Malfoy breathed. “I used to want that. For a long time, I wanted to be just like him, but now…”

“I understand,” Hermione said, reaching across the table and taking his hand. 

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he admitted after a moment, staring at their intertwined hands. 

“Well, what sort of things do you enjoy doing? Maybe that will help you decide? What about quidditch?”

Malfoy shook his head. “I was never good enough to play professionally.” 

Hermione’s brows rose. Who was this man and what had he done with the arrogant prat that was Draco Malfoy? “But you do enjoy it. You could always coach.”

He considered this. “I could, but I don’t think I’d enjoy it as much if it became my job. What about you? What do you enjoy doing?”

Hermione thought about it and realized that she actually wasn’t sure. “I don’t know.” 

“You like reading.” 

She rolled her eyes—that’s all anyone thought of her. Hermione Granger was so much more than a bookworm rule follower. “I like using research and facts to solve problems.”

“So, you don’t like reading?” 

At his confused expression, she sighed. “I do, but I like other things too.”

He smirked. “You like snogging.” 

“I can hardly make a career out of snogging!”

Malfoy shrugged. “I suppose you’re right—might not be good enough.” 

Heat rose to her cheeks. “I am so!” 

He leaned back in his chair, eyeing her hungrily. “Prove it.”

Draco Malfoy — 2005

Draco swirled his glass of firewhiskey, staring intently at the parchment in front of him. He couldn’t believe he had children, that it was real, that Granger had hidden them from him for years. Everytime he thought he’d come to terms with the fact that he had two children—twins, no less, he remembered that he missed so much of their lives already, their birth, their first words, food, and steps. He missed raising them, reading to them, loving them. 

They didn’t know him either. They were afraid of him. 

His stomach turned and threw his glass into the fireplace, watching the flames roar and like the broken glass. 

“Oh, the drama,” his Mother said from his office doorway, frowning in disappointment. She left herself in, walking around his office with an upturned nose. “So this is where you spend all your time? You really ought to let me redecorate, Draco, those curtains are ghastly.”

Narcissa raised her chin at the heavy green damask curtains, eyeing them with disgust. 

“Leave me alone, Mother.” Narcissa had never shown much interest in the business he’d started with Theo, rarely asked questions about what they actually did, but she had a habit of showing up to their office unannounced. The last thing he needed right now was her lecturing.

“So that you can continue to wallow in your misery in peace?” His mother asked with her signature raised brow. “No, it’s gone on for too long, Draco. You have children to think of now. There’s no use in this constant moping, feeling sorry for yourself.”

Dracos’ jaw clenched as he processed her words. He wished he had another glass to throw into the fire. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Mother. I’d like for you to leave.”

“Don’t I?” Instead of getting the fuck out of his office as he’d requested, Narcissa floated over to the black leather chesterfiled sofa he usually reserved for clients or quick naps. “I’ve let this go on long enough. After the war, I understood you needed time. After your eighth year and whatever happened between you and Miss Granger, I understood you needed time, but it’s been nearly a decade now, darling. You need to get yourself together. If not for yourself, then for the children.”

“I’ve done quite a lot in nearly a decade,” Draco seethed. “Everything you and Father have asked of me, except for taking over the Malfoy estate. I’ve attended every droll charity gala and event. I courted Astoria, just like you asked. I asked her to marry me after the appropriate amount of time, just as you asked. My apologies if I need some time to myself to come to terms with the fact that I have children that I didn’t know about with a woman who, even though she left me years ago, I can’t even look at because it still hurts .”

Narcissa stood and crossed the room. She took his head into her hands, and he let her, too embarrassed that he’d just said that allowed to stop her. Looking at his face, cupping his cheeks, his mother frowned. “Why don’t you talk to her?” 

“I can’t,” he whispered. 

“Something isn’t right about this, Draco. I can feel it.” Narcissa stepped back, crossing her arms in worry. “From what I know about Hermione Granger, she isn’t the type to intentionally cause this much pain, even when a large amount of pain has been inflicted upon her.” 

“You don’t know her, Mother.”

“Do you? You must have at one point. I saw the necklace Lyra wore to brunch.”

Draco sat up, brows scrunching in confusion. “What necklace?” 

“One that I distinctly remember your Grandmother Malfoy wearing rather often when she was alive that has been missing from the Malfoy vault since Yule during your eighth year.” 

He’d given that to Granger for Yule that year, but had neglected to inform his parents for obvious reasons. Evidently she’d gone and found it after throwing it into the Black Lake.

“I can’t imagine you gifting such a priceless piece to a woman without the intention of it acting as courtship jewelry. You should have told me, Draco.”

“And what should I have said, Mother?” Draco ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Oh, by the way, you know that muggleborn your sister tortured to near death in our home a few months ago? We’ve started fucking, and I fell in love with her. Can you believe it?”

His mother glared at him. “There’s no need to be crass, Draco.” 

“What do you want from me?” 

“I want the truth,” she said. “I need you to tell me everything from the start so that I can help you.” 

“I don’t want your help!” 

“But evidently you need it.” Narcissa sighed. “Those children deserve to have parents who can be in the same room without arguing. They did nothing wrong, and until you and Miss Granger can sort out whatever mess the two of you made, I don’t think you should be with the three of them alone.” 

Draco put his head into his hands. A part of him knew his mother was right, that he needed to be mature about this and do what was best for the children, but the other half of him was just so angry. That part wanted to take her to court, to see her feel the pain that he did, to deny her the right to see their children, just as she had done to him. But Draco wasn’t cruel. He could never do that, not even to her—especially not to her, actually. Still, he was so hurt and confused by this whole mess. He didn’t think he could speak to her without shouting. 

“Write to her,” Narcissa said, standing gracefully. “Explain your side in a letter, and see what she replies before acting on this further. I’ve arranged to take the children to some shops on the weekend. Miss Granger has been gracious enough to trust me with them. I think communicating with her would go a long way in earning you the same privilege.” 

Draco nodded. He could try. For the children, he would try.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger — 2005 

The owl arrived at breakfast, sticking out its leg to offer a letter with an imperious glare that only a Malfoy owl could pull off. Hermione didn’t open it right away, choosing to focus on speaking with Lyra and Scorpius about their day ahead over her cooling mug of Earl Grey. 

They’d been through so much over the last week, and Hermione was growing increasingly worried about them. Lyra seemed to have accepted the Malfoys already, without even knowing them, and that scared Hermione. Her daughter was too trusting. Hermione didn’t want to see them hurt Lyra in the same way that Draco had hurt her.

Scorpius, on the other hand, was holding his feelings close to his chest. He wouldn’t talk about the Malfoys with Hermione. Even when he reluctantly agreed to accompany Lyra and Narcissa on their trip to Diagon Alley, he just nodded before looking away. He was so sensitive, too sweet for this world. Her heart ached for him. Scor was already having so much trouble with his peers and teachers at school. He’d had a rough few months, and now with this mess, Hermione was concerned he’d become even more self conscious and shy. It was too much for a little body and mind to handle.

After breakfast, Hermione hugged them both fiercely then sent them through the floo to Andromeda’s to play with Teddy, an activity that always had them both smiling and squealing like children should. 

She took the letter up to her studio to open with the rest of her correspondence. After making another mug of tea for emotional support, she opened it. It was only a few short sentences, but the familiar handwriting made her stomach lurch.

Granger,

I think we need to talk. Could we meet when my mother takes the children shopping on Saturday? Wherever you want. 

Draco Malfoy

She tossed it onto her desk and pushed her hands into her eyes. Why? Why was he doing this now? He said he wouldn’t be in their life. He had, and she’d finally accepted that, after years of mourning what they had and what they could’ve been. 

It felt so unfair of him to do this, but Hermione knew he was right. They did need to talk. 

Sniffling back tears, which further angered her—she’d cried far too many tears over Draco Fucking Malfoy to last a lifetime—she wrote a quick reply. If they were going to do this, they were going to do it, and it would be on her terms. 

Hermione Granger — 1998

Hermione pulled off her gloves as she settled into the secluded booth toward the back of the Hog’s Head that she, Harry, and Ron had claimed as their own following the war. The pub was the only place they could drink and talk in public without being swarmed by admirers and reporters, especially Harry. 

Ron slammed three pints down as he clambered into the booth seat across from her beside Harry, sloshing beer onto the already sticky table.  

“Fuck, sorry bout that, they were slick,” he said, snatching the closest one then hesitating before taking a sip. “The head on that’s ridiculous. You’d think Aberforth would know how to pour a pint of beer, the man’s over a century old, for Merlin’s sake.” 

Hermione smiled fondly as she vanished the excess liquid from the table. “I don’t think he actually gets much business.”

“I think he likes it that way,” Harry agreed, reaching for his own pint. 

Harry wasn’t looking good, but Hermione didn’t know how to approach the subject. He was thinner than when she’d last seen him before boarding the Hogwarts Express in September, and while his hair was generally a mess, it wasn’t normally dull and flat like that. She’d told him that jumping straight into auror training after the war wasn’t a good idea, but he’d been so adamant that he needed to help round up all the death eaters who escaped capture after the battle, refusing to rest. He was an adult, she couldn’t force him to return to Hogwarts, and really, she wasn’t sure that would’ve been best for him either. 

Ron took a long pull of his beer which left a mustache of foam across his lip. “How’s Hogwarts, Hermione?”

She shrugged. “It’s better than I thought it was going to be, I suppose.” 

Ron gave her a skeptical look. “Oh, come on, we know you, Hermione. You’ve finally realized your years-long fantasy of being Head Girl! Tell us, is the rush of power you get from bossing the lowly prefects around everything you ever dreamed of?” He elbowed Harry, making him smile

“Do shut up, Ronald,” Hermione sighed with a roll of her eyes, smiling as well despite herself. 

“You do look good, Hermione,” said Harry after a moment. “I’m glad you’re doing well at Hogwarts. I was worried, you know. It—the memories and all that.”

Hermione nodded. “I was worried about that, too, but I think helping fix the castle has helped, making new memories, too, along with remembering the good ones.” She was absolutely not going to mention her budding…situation…with Draco Malfoy. She wasn’t actually too worried about them being angry with her—Harry and Ron were more her brothers than friends after all they’d been through, and she knew they’d support her decisions no matter what. But she also knew they wouldn’t understand at all and would certainly worry. 

Plus, Ron and Harry had enough to worry about—what with Ron taking care of George and the shop, still mourning one of his brothers, and Harry dealing with all of the misplaced guilt and basically a lifetime of trauma. They didn’t need to know. Best to change the subject altogether, really. “How’s the shop, Ron?”

“Good, keeping me busy. I like working the register and talking to people, but I’m pants at product development. I’ve blown up about a dozen cauldrons, I think. After the last one George won’t let me help in the lab at all, not even wrapping the sweets.”

Harry snickered, meeting Hermione’s eyes, but then he looked back to Ron, more serious. “How is George?”

“He’s a right fucking mess, mate.” Ron took another drink, then frowned into his pint. “I don’t expect him to be anything else for a long while.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathed, frowning.

“What about you, Harry? How are you?” Hermione asked, he looked up at her, green eyes so muted, sad. 

“I’m alright. Grimmauld Place is kind of—It’s hard not to see it the way Sirius did, I guess, so I’ve been trying to renovate in my spare time, but working with the DMLE on top of training has me so exhausted, I haven’t got much done.” 

“Give yourself time to rest, Harry, please,” Hermione couldn’t stop herself from saying. “I’ll help you fix the place up when I’m finished at Hogwarts, but for now, I think you need to prioritize your health.” 

Harry frowned. “I’m fine, Hermione.” 

“You do look like shite, Harry.” Ron tapped his glass to Harry’s, ignoring Harry’s glare. “Tell you what—why don’t you stay with mum and dad for a few weeks? Mum would be over the moon.” 

Harry sighed. “I don’t think Ginny would appreciate that.” 

Ron cringed. “Fair enough.  Although, honestly, she seems to have gotten over you already with that bloke from the Wasps. Still be awkward.”

“For the best,” Harry muttered, before taking a big gulp from his pint. 

“What about a mind healer?” Hermione proposed, making Harry grimace. “It could really help, Harry. I read that—”

“Here we go.” Ron kicked her under the table, blue eyes twinkling with brotherly affection. 

She scowled back indignantly. 

“I don’t have time,” Harry said, ignoring them. 

“Make time,” Hermione insisted. 

Harry shook his head. “Maybe once I’m finished training. I really am fine, promise.” 

“What you need is a new girl, mate, someone to keep you company,” Ron suggested.

Harry put his head into his hands, and it was Hermione’s turn to kick Ron under the table.

“What?” he asked, as if offended. “Ginny’s moved on. He can, too!” 

“It’s not about Ginny,” Harry said, removing his hands to reveal a world-weary face that made Hermione’s heart lurch. “I don’t think it would be fair for me to start a relationship with anyone right now.” 

Hermione noted that he didn’t specify gender, but didn’t point it out. They’d had a lot of time alone together during their months alone in their tent. She knew everything about him, and if he wasn’t ready to tell Ron about his preferences, that wasn’t her business, but the rest of his sentence gave her pause. 

“What do you mean it wouldn’t be fair, Harry?” 

He shrugged, looking into his pint again. “I don’t have time.”

“Come off it.” Ron nudged him. “If you have time for a wank, you have time for—.”

“Ronald!” Hermione gasped.

Ron cringed. “Sorry—George has been really rubbing off on me. Still makes no sense.” 

“I just think it wouldn’t be fair to saddle someone with all my baggage,” Harry admitted. 

Hermione frowned. “What’s not fair is you choosing to keep it all for yourself to carry.” 

Harry huffed, clearly struggling to control his anger now. “Why would anyone ever want to help?” 

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione whispered. 

“Can we please not do this right now?” Harry shook his head. “Let’s talk about something else. Anything else.” 

“Sure, mate,” Ron said, voice just as sad as Hermione felt. 

Theodore Nott — 2005

Theo was losing his mind. He was due to floo into Potter’s home, his actual home where he lived as the boy who lived, in the next five minutes, but he couldn’t get himself under control. 

Lived as the boy who lived—that was actually fucking crazy. Theo started laughing aloud at his own thoughts, then stopped abruptly.

Yeah, Theo was a mess. He knew he was a mess, even more of a mess than he usually was, but he couldn’t be a mess in front of Auror-extraordinaire Harry fucking Potter. 

The clock was ticking, and he needed to leave, but he didn’t know how to make his feet move.

Theo took one of the calming draughts he’d stuffed into his pockets, uncorked it with his teeth, and chugged. The scent of lavender stuck in his nose. He didn’t really care for calming draught, partial to more illicit substances as he was, but he could hardly show up to Potter’s house high. 

He checked his pockets one last time, vials of calming draught and friendship bracelets were all accounted for. After running his fingers through his curls to freshen them up, he snatched up his briefcase and all but jumped into the floo. 

Potter was waiting for him, of course, leaning against the wall with his hands in the pockets of his muggle jeans. He looked so casual and relaxed, smiling at Theo like he was actually happy to see him. It was so strange.

“Hey,” Potter said, shoving off the wall. “You’re right on time.” 

Theo blinked. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

“I’m so glad you could make it,” Potter continued, coming right up to Theo. “Hermione doesn’t think this is the best idea, doesn’t want the children exposed to Walburga when we fail, but she’s never seen you work. I think she thinks if something can’t be done by her, it must be impossible.” 

Theo blinked, taking in the room. It was cozy with pictures of Potter, Granger, various redheads, and the twins were on every available surface as well as hung on the walls. Toys, mostly wizarding ones he recognized along with some bizarre muggle contraptions, had been dumped into an overflowing oak box in the corner of the room. 

“As she should though.” Potter’s bright green eyes soften with affection. “Hermione’s brilliant. She’s revolutionized wizarding portraits, you know, but she doesn’t know nearly as much about curses and that sort of thing as you do. You’re like a curse whisperer.”

Theo’s brows rose of their own volition. He didn’t know what to say, which never seemed to be a problem for Potter, and he felt so awkward just standing there right in front of the floo. 

Potter’s cheeks had gone pink, to Theo’s utter bewilderment, and he swallowed thickly before speaking again. “Er–sorry. Was that a bit too much?” 

Was it? Theo wasn’t sure.

“It’s just that—” Potter went on, before thinking better of it and shaking his head. “Nevermind. Want to see the wall?” He smiled so kindly at Theo again that Theo nearly went back through the floo. It made no sense, and neither did Potter’s self depreciation chuckle. “Obviously you do. That's why I invited you here.” 

Potter turned and gestured for him to follow, leading him out into the corridor. He stopped in front of a wall before the staircase that jutted out a bit further than it looked like it should in one section.

“She’s in there,” Potter said, pointing to the wall. “We put her under a strong silencing charm, but I can’t promise it won’t break with the wall.  

Theo nodded, running his fingers over the smooth surface. It had been painted a nice bright white. A lot of Potter’s home was like that—bright and welcoming, comfortable and clean. It was so different from where Theo had grown up, where he lived now, and Theo had to wonder what this place had looked like before Potter, when it belonged to the Ancient and Noble House of Black. 

Theo set about vanishing the new wall. It wasn’t an easy task, but he accomplished it in less than ten minutes. 

When a set of drawn curtains were revealed, Theo looked back at Potter, who shifted uncomfortably. 

"Think you can remove the sticking charm without opening them? She’s a real piece of work,” he said. 

Theo turned back to the curtain. Intrigued more than anything now, he flicked his wand, and the curtains flew open. 

A woman with dark hair and wild eyes stared back at him in surprise. She looked behind Theo, presumably at Potter, then started wailing. 

“Blood traitors! Filth!” she shrieked. “Mudbloods whores and halfbreeds! How dare you sully the—” 

A white spell sailed over Theo’s shoulder, silencing the portrait of Walburga Black, who’s mouth still moved, eyes blazing, as she berated them. 

“Sorry. I can’t stand to listen to it,” Potter admitted, coming up beside Theo. “It reminds me of Sirius, and I just…don’t like it.”

“Sirius Black,” Theo said, not as a question, more to himself than to Potter. He remembered all the wanted posters with the man’s screaming face from the summer before third year. They lingered in Diagon Alley shop windows for years after. He looked at Walburga Black and her own silent screaming, and he could certainly see the resemblance. “Was he similar?”

“Oh, so you can speak,” Potter mused, making Theo’s brows scrunch in confusion. “No, Sirius wasn’t like that at all. He was—he was complicated.” Potter raked a hand through his messy hair, and Theo couldn’t look away. “She reminds me of how it must’ve felt for him in that last year before he died, being stuck in this house with her screaming like that every time the curtain opened. When I stayed here alone after the war, it would happen sometimes, while I was sleeping or when I’d just got back from Auror training, and it may seem silly to be affected by the words of a portrait, but after a while, it becomes—difficult. I can’t imagine how much worse it would’ve been for Sirius. She was his mother.”

Theo understood that better than he’d like to admit. He would forever be grateful that his father had been too conceited to have a portrait made of himself before he died. His father had been so certain the Dark Lord would win and that he’d be beside him that he never even considered memorializing himself before he reached what he believed would be his full potential. 

He couldn’t say any of this to Potter, however, so he just turned away and started running his standard diagnostics on the sticking charm. 

It took so long that Potter conjured himself a comfortable looking armchair. He didn’t summon a book or anything to distract himself, just sat and watched Theo work. 

“I’ve never seen spell work like this,” Theo finally admitted, shaking out his wand arm. 

Potter didn’t answer so Theo looked over at him. Potter was just staring at him, his green, green eyes practically glowing. They were so intense. It was so unsettling, having all the attention of someone like Harry Potter. Theo had to believe Potter was looking for something he was doing wrong. 

“Do you know who cast it?” Theo asked, looking away, unable to take it any longer. 

“I don't know exactly, but it had to be Walburga. Hermione thinks she must have had everything ready for her portrait before she died and left instructions for it in her will. I can’t see the solicitors casting a sticking charm that powerful, and there were no other Blacks with access to Grimmauld Place besides Sirius left to do it when she died, but he was in Azkaban obviously.” 

“Are you sure?” Theo asked. That was odd and wasn’t really how magical portraits worked as far as he knew, but he didn’t actually know that much about them. 

“Hermione said it could be possible they had the artist and portrait specialist do most of the work before she died. She would know—she’s a portrait specialist. Trying to remove Walburga’s is actually one of the things that inspired her to start her mastery after she did some research on the process. It’s actually really complicated magic.”

Theo nodded distractedly. “Are you sure no one else was here to hang it? I don’t think portrait specialists or artists generally work with a frame that’s already been hung, and even if Granger suspected as much, I find it unlikely.” 

Potter stood. Shaking his head, he came up beside Theo to have a closer look at the frame. “No, she was it from the direct Black line. Regulus died in the war, and Sirius was in Azkaban, and her husband died shortly after Regulus went missing. All his brothers were already dead, as well, and Narcissa and Andromeda both confirmed they had nothing to do with hanging it.”

“We could ask her,” Theo proposed. Inside the portrait, Walburga was practically foaming at the mouth, seething as she continued to silently berate them.

Potter looked at the portrait then back to Theo and started laughing. “Yeah, I don’t think so.” 

Theo may have smiled a little. “There had to have been someone else capable of performing magic this complex and binding to receive and hang this after she died.”

Potter shook his head. “The house was basically empty until Dumbledore asked Sirius to use it for The Order. Only Kreacher was—Oh.”

“What?” Theo asked, as Potter pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Kreacher did it. Of fucking course Kreacher did it.” Potter laughed incredulously. “Wait till Hermione hears this.”

Theo knew he was missing something. “Wait, what creature did it?”

Potter laughed even harder. “No, oh, Merlin, it wasn’t a creature—well, it kind of was. Kreacher is the name of the Black’s old house elf. He still kind of lives here part time.” 

Huh. House elf magic. That explained it. “He can cancel the charm then, if you ask him. I suppose I’m not really needed here after all.” Theo picked up his suitcase, making to leave. 

Potter’s face fell. “Wait, can—would you like a drink?” 

Theo froze, not even breathing. He felt like a niffler caught in a jewelry box, with wide eyes and fear suspending each limb. 

“It’s just you came all this way, and I know you said you’d take a look at it for free, but I feel like I should repay you somehow.” Potter’s hopeful expression had Theo’s stomach flipping.

Theo felt conflicted. On one hand, he assumed this was some sort of test. He didn’t trust Potter. He was afraid of Harry Potter. 

On the other hand, he was here for a reason, and the reason was not to remove the portrait of Walburga Black. Theo had dedicated himself to making “friends” with Potter, and he couldn’t exactly do that if he kept avoiding him when his anxiety became too much. For fuck’s sake, he had a collection of poorly-made friendship bracelets at this point. He needed to do this.

“The wine cellar is wild. The Blacks kept all sorts of stuff down there. We don’t go down often and keep it warded so the children can’t get down there, so we’ve barely touched it, but their Ogden’s collection is…immense.” 

That settled it. Theo nodded, smiling hesitantly back at Potter. “Alright.”

“Great,” said Potter, “Just let me secure this until we can get Scor to call on Kreacher to ask him to fix it.” 

Theo downed another calming draught as soon as Potter turned away.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy — 1998

It was a wonder, really, just how Draco Malfoy’s life had gone from the most miserable, depressing existence to so much more in a matter of weeks, and it was all thanks to Hermione Granger. 

Granger—the woman who had removed the grim, grey filter from his eyes. She showed him that the world wasn’t so bleak, had seen him, forgiven him, given him a reason to get out of bed in the morning. In just a few short months, Granger had not only shown him so much undeserved care; she’d helped him fix his broken reputation. 

Sure, he was still hexed in the back on his way to class every now and then, but for the most part, he felt like a normal student again. 

An actual, normal student—not the scared boy who’d lost everything during a war he hadn’t fully understood until it was almost over. While he’d never be that pampered, privileged prince again, now he could be Draco Malfoy, and the best part, he was Draco Malfoy with Hermione Granger. 

So naturally, wiith the Christmas holiday fast approaching, Draco was at a complete loss. 

What do you give someone who’d given you everything? 

When Granger had plans with Pothead and the Weasel in Hogsmeade, Draco took the opportunity to browse the stores alone, and nothing had felt right. Nothing was good enough. Fuck, he wasn’t even good enough, so it wasn’t any sort of surprise that a 12-pack of sugarquills wouldn’t suffice. 

It didn’t help that a good deal of the shops in both Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley wouldn’t let him in, and the ones that would felt hostile. The wizarding world at large wasn’t like Hogwarts. They didn’t know about the Room or his apologies. He couldn’t focus there properly.

In desperation, Draco considered making something for her, maybe enchanting a new coat or gloves, a journal or ink, but it just felt lacking. Granger could probably cast any charm with more power and better accuracy than him if he was being honest with himself, so anything he enchanted for her would be completely and utterly inadequate. 

The weekend before the Christmas holiday was set to begin, Draco still hadn’t found anything suitable. A small voice in his head kept suggesting that he take a look around the Malfoy library for something, but he didn’t want to be like every other person Granger had ever met—the people who gave her books because the only thing they knew about her was that she liked to read, not even what she liked to read. 

In a stroke of genius, while discussing Granger’s contentious relationship with the goblins at Gringotts one afternoon over lunch, Draco remembered that, while his heir vaults had been seized at the time of his arrest, they were no longer being held by the Ministry like his father’s belongings. 

Draco arranged a quick trip with the Headmistress for that evening, telling Granger he was going to retrieve something for his mother, so they wouldn’t be able to meet for their nightly study then make-out sessions. (That was a huge loss in Draco’s opinion, but he hoped the trip would be worth it.)

Gringotts was as busy as ever, and given it was the holiday season, witches and wizards bustled about like mad little coat-clad ducks. One thing about goblins, however, they valued wealth over reputation. Despite his family’s standing in the wizarding world and the fact that the majority of his family assets were currently wrapped up in bureaucratic hell, the goblins still treated him the same as they always had. 

As an heir to a Noble and Ancient House, all he had to do was flash his key for inspection, and he was afforded the privilege of skipping the queues and going straight to the carts. 

The goblin who drove him to his vaults smiled dangerously through the nauseating ride and continued to do so until Draco hopped out of the cart. 

“Vaults 789, 790, and 791,” the goblin said, nasally voice echoing loud this deep underground.

Draco nodded a hurried thanks, then proceeded to the first vault. He didn’t want to be here all night. Despite his familiarity with the bank and his vaults—his father had been bringing him along since he was an infant, really—the place always creeped him out in the way that being miles underground with none for company but an unfriendly goblin and the belongings of long-dead ancestors was wont to do. 

He skipped over 789. It held mostly galleons, and giving Granger a handful of gold felt a bit icky. 

The vault door to 790 creaked open, revealing a cavernous room, black as pitch. Draco lit his wand, and shuffled into the room hesitantly. 

Antique furniture, empty portraits, and overflowing trunks were packed precariously along the walls. It reminded him vaguely of a neater, less cavernous version of the Room of Hidden Things. Grimacing at the thought, he opened the closest wardrobe. It was stuffed with fur coats and smelled like rot. He slammed the door shut—he didn’t think Granger would appreciate a Fwooper-feather cape, and he wasn’t trying to investigate that stench. He wasn’t trying to deal with any aurors today.

After searching for at least an hour, Draco was forced to acknowledge that he wasn’t going to find anything worth gifting to Granger in this vault either—which left him with his final vault. Part of him knew, as soon as he decided to search for her gift at Gringotts, that 791 would be the vault he found it in, but the implications of such a gift made his heart race. 

He nodded at the goblin again after leaving 790 empty handed and fumbled in his pocket for the key to his last one. 

Taking some calming breaths, he pushed the door open, and cast a Lumos. All of the jewelry he’d been gifted over the years was here. When both his maternal and fraternal grandmothers had died, they’d left a good deal of their belongings directly to him. There were no other grandchildren on either side—well, none with mothers who were still on the family tree. 

So with Lucius being the sole Malfoy heir prior to Draco, Draco had all of the Malfoy jewels in addition to any jewelry that his aunt and mother hadn’t wanted. 

Thinking  of Narcissa reminded Draco that de’d have to be careful about what he took. His mother did have access to his vaults as the current Head of House with Lucius still in his legal battles. If she happened to notice anything missing on the Statement of Assets that Gringotts sent out quarterly, she’d know he’d given a woman jewelry, and that would be…messy. 

He’d think about an excuse if it ever came up, for now he needed to find something brilliant for Granger. 

Inside, there wasn’t enough jewelry to fully fill the vault, but there was enough that it would take him a few hours to sort through it all should nothing stick out to him. 

Opening a drawer, he looked at the rings inside for just a moment before shutting it. A ring would be too much. 

Merlin, any of this was probably too much, but Granger was muggleborn. She didn’t understand the importance of family jewelry in courtship, and as long as it didn’t mean anything to her, it didn’t have to mean anything at all. 

He was just choosing a nice gift to give to a woman who deserved a nice gift. It didn’t have to be a declaration of love or any of that old pureblood nonsense. 

And if he knew, deep down, that maybe to him it was, no one else had to know, and he didn’t have to acknowledge it. 

He found the tiaras and immediately passed them, but took more time with the bracelets. He wanted to find something she’d wear—not too flashy but still beautiful. Understated but enthralling. 

There was the diamond line bracelet from the Rosier line that could be suitable, but it didn’t really have anything special about it. Still, he picked it up as he moved to the necklaces. His mother had most of the good ones, he knew, but it was still worth a look. 

His eyes were drawn to one. It had belonged to his Grandmother Malfoy. He didn’t have many memories of her, but he recalled her wearing it often—a courting gift from Abraxas. Theirs was a love match, something quite rare for their generation, and the necklace was a testament to Abraxas’ affection. 

Green malachite, set inside thirteen brilliant-cut diamonds on a gold chain. Malachite was an unusual choice for courting jewelry, but Draco could imagine it would look delicious against Granger’s honeyed skin. 

It was perfect. 

Theodore Nott — 2005

Theo took another long pull straight from the vintage bottle of elf-made wine. Fucking hell, the Blacks had quite the stash down here. Not only was the firewhiskey absolute class, the wine was otherworldly. 

Potter sat right beside him on the stone floor, swirling his finger of firewhiskey in his glass absentmindedly. 

They’d talked a bit down here, mostly about the liquor and wine, but also about the full Potions lab down the corridor  that Professor Snape had allegedly used during the war, as well as the cells which Potter claimed had never been used by the Order but were a relic from the house’s centuries of Black ownership.

Seemed odd to keep them, but Theo wouldn’t judge. His own house was its own kind of nightmare, after all. 

Still, sitting down here so close to Potter in the quiet cellar, Theo was starting to feel awkward as fuck, despite the light buzz he had going. 

Theo wasn’t very good at talking—he knew that, and silence generally didn’t bother him, but this was. 

The more he drank, the more he felt it, but Potter seemed content to just…look at him in that strange way he did. Theo knew he was looking for something dark in him, and one day he would undoubtedly find it.

But not if Theo could play the game better.

He thought about all the tips he’d learned throughout his reading about making friends. It was important to take initiative to start conversations, but Theo didn’t know what people who didn’t know each other from birth talked about. 

“So,” Theo said, deciding to just throw himself into this, but kind of regretted it when Potter’s impossibly green eyes widened as if he was on the receiving end of a lightning hex. “I supposed we should talk about the war.” 

Spluttering, Potter put his glass down heavily, shaking his head. “Should we?” 

Theo nodded. “Being vulnerable when appropriate is vital in any strong friendship.” 

Potter’s mouth fell open, and he blinked slowly. 

“I can start if you would like,” Theo suggested. “Although, I daresay any stories I have to tell will be far less harrowing than yours.” 

“Er—no, it’s fine,” Potter said, ruffling his artfully messy hair. “I just suppose ‘talk about the war’ is a bit too broad.’” 

Theo considered this for a moment, taking another sip of wine. “Too broad, yeah,  I can understand that. How about we ask each other questions that are more…narrow?” 

Potter smiled slowly, eyes shining, and Theo swore the man must charm his eyes to be so distractingly green, because it couldn’t be natural. 

“I’ll start then,” Theo said. “What was your favorite part?” 

“Of the war?” Potter gave an incredulous laugh. 

Theo nodded, then tilted his head, keeping eye contact to show Potter he was an active listener. 

“My favorite part…hmm,” Potter’s face scrunched as he thought. “Not a lot of good came out of it, that’s obvious enough, but I guess my favorite thing is what I gained—a family of sorts. Hermione, Ron, the Weasleys, Andromeda, and Teddy.” 

“Family.” Theo matched Potter’s scrunched expression from earlier. “I thought you’d say defeating Voldemort.” 

Potter snorted and took a sip of his drink. “No, I didn’t much like that, actually.”

“But you won, became a hero.”

“But I killed someone. He was terrible, but I killed him. I killed a lot of people, if not directly. That’s never something I wanted to do, but I always wanted a family. In first year, I stumbled upon The Mirror of Erised at Hogwarts of the Christmas Hols—”

“You what?” Theo sat up straight. Merlin, he’d die to get a look at such a legendary artifact, which was rather funny because it had taken so many lives as they became addicted to its lure. He laughed a little at his own joke, and Potter seemed amused. 

“Yeah,” he smiled sheepishly, “I think Dumbledore might’ve had something to do with it, but I found it while exploring.”

“At eleven…wow, it could’ve killed you.”  

Potter shrugged. “Yeah, but it didn’t.” 

Theo was beginning to think that Potter was far more fucking insane than he let on. “What did you see?”

“Oh, right, that’s what I was getting to. I saw my mum and dad, and eventually generations of Potters.” 

“A family.” Theo played with the lip of his bottle. “That’s rather sad.” 

Again, Potter shrugged and looked away. “I guess.”

Theo nodded. It made sense, he thought. Potter seemed to really cherish the people around him. “But you got your heart’s desire in the end.” 

Potter smiled at him wistfully. “For the most part.”

“Most part?” Theo asked. “You’ve got the family you wanted. I’ve seen it—all the pictures full of people around this place.” 

“Yeah, I do, and it’s great, but I still get lonely sometimes,” Potter admitted, gazing into his glass before downing the rest in one go. 

“You do?” Theo asked, and Potter looked back up at him, searching his face. “That’s—that must be…” He trailed off, trying to gather his thoughts, but he was suddenly very aware of Potter’s proximity, and if he wasn’t mistaken, Potter had leaned in closer. Theo scanned his brain for help from his friendship books. He needed to reciprocate, show empathy, and he supposed this wasn’t exactly difficult to do, not when it came to being alone. He’d been his own best company his entire life. 

“Yeah,” Potter breathed, frowning. 

“I am too…alone, that is, most of the time. I always have been, so I’m not sure if I’m lonely or not.” Theo shook his head. “I quite like to be alone.” 

Potter was staring at him again, face inching ever so slightly closer. “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to…well, not be?” 

“I…” Potter was so close that Theo couldn’t think, couldn’t process an answer, and when Potter’s eyes fell to his lips, Theo stopped breathing. He’d never been kissed before, but he was sure this was how it started, the closeness, the air thick with tension in the small space between them. 

Still, Theo didn’t move away. He was mesmerized by Potter, with those green, green eyes in a sea of creamy skin and jet black hair. The man smelled so bloody good, like firewhiskey, which Theo loved, and just when Theo knew that Potter was going to kiss him finally, Potter pulled back shaking his head. 

Potter didn’t kiss him. 

Why didn’t Potter kiss him? 

His heart panged uncomfortably as the spell (that wasn’t a spell at all but more akin to desperate, weird, taut longing) was broken, and he could move again. 

“Well, I think I ought to go.” Theo chugged the last of his wine and stood, brushing off his trousers. “Thanks for the firewhiskey and wine. It was…it was nice.” 

“Theo, wait.” Potter scrambled to his feet. “I’m sorry if I…I didn’t mean to—” 

Theo wasn’t sure what Potter was apologizing for, but he knew he couldn’t bear to hear it. “I have something for you,” he blurted, reaching into his pocket. 

“You do?” Potter’s brows furrowed in confusion. 

Theo held out one of the bracelets he’d made—the best one, in his opinion. Red and gold thread knotted and braided into a cord, to which he’d attached a tiny golden snitch. 

Potter reached out and took it, eyebrows somehow scrunching further behind his glasses as his mouth fell open. 

“It’s a friendship bracelet,” Theo explained. Normally he loved silence but at the moment it felt awful , and he needed to fill it. “I made it for you.” 

“A friendship bracelet,” Potter said, blinking rapidly. 

“A muggle custom between friends.” Theo felt so stupid, explaining muggle customs to someone raised by muggles, but Potter’s reaction was unnerving, and he was starting to lose control. 

“Right. Friends.” Potter sighed, and something in Theo’s expression must have tipped him off to the fact that Theo was seconds from spiralling because he smiled and said, “Er—thanks, Theo. Shall I put it on, then?” 

Theo shrugged, heart racing. “I’m not sure.” 

“I think I will,” Potter said, sliding it over his hand then using some wandless magic to fasten it. He held up his wrist for them both to admire. “I love it, Theo. Thank you, really. It’s cool.”

“Cool.” Theo nodded. “Great. Okay, I’m going to leave now.” 

Potter gave him a strained smile. “I’ll show you to the floo.”

“No need,” Theo said.

“I want—”

“No!” Theo shouted, then closed his eyes, feeling shaky, unhinged. “No, I just. Please don’t.” 

“Okay,” Potter breathed, the stricken look on his face was too much for Theo to bear, so he turned on his heel and ran from the cellar like it had caught on fiendfyre. 

Merlin, what a nightmare! 

It served Theo right for trying to socialize outside of his small circle of Slytherins. This was all Potter’s fault! At this point, he thought he’d prefer Azkaban to this. Physical torture was better! And he would know, but at least he knew what to expect when he was being cursed. 

This was a whole new kind of torture. 

When he came out of the floo into his home, he slapped himself on the forehead, grabbing his hair and pulling. Why couldn’t he just—Why had he thought Potter was going to kiss him? Why had he done any of that? 

Heart pounding, fueling his anxiety, Theo barreled through the door and rushed to his room. There, he almost yanked the top drawer out of his desk in his haste to find his stash. 

He just wanted to stop feeling this, smoke until he could forget how awkward and fucking weird he was. 

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger — 1999

Draco was late. She’d been waiting for him at their usual time in the Room of Requirement for over twenty minutes now. He was usually so punctual. Something felt off. 

Her hand touched the stone on the necklace he’d given her for Christmas a few weeks back. Since then she’d found it an excellent article for fidgeting.

At first, she hadn’t wanted to wear it, or even accept it, having been such an extravagant, entirely unexpected gift, but Draco had insisted he had spent no real money on it after she’d panicked when unwrapping it. Truthfully, that hadn’t helped ease her mind at all. This necklace was basically priceless—a family heirloom, probably worth more than what she’d made from selling her parents’ trusty Volkswagen Golf.

But then Draco assured her it wasn’t a big deal, moving her curls from her neck and clasping it there for her, then kissing the delicate skin, sending shivers down her spine. It was very convincing, and now she wore it every day, if only to see his eyes flash with heat every time he caught sight of it. 

All of that aside, the  truth was that she really liked it. She wasn’t about to reject a gift that suited her taste so perfectly. She was far too sensible for that. 

Hermione was about to go off in search of either Draco or the Marauder’s Map from her trunk in her room when the door finally appeared again and Draco rushed in. 

The smile fell from her face as he got closer to their study table. His uniform was in disarray and a bruise was blooming on his cheek. 

“What happened?” she asked, pulling out her wand. 

He bent down and kissed her cheek then her lips. “It’s nothing. Don’t look so upset.” 

Gripping his chin, forcing him to look her in her eyes, Hermione used her wand to heal the bruise. 

“Thanks,” he said, putting his hand over hers. “But it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Hermione insisted. “This has to stop. I’m going to speak to McGonagall.”

Draco shook his head. “It’s not worth the trouble, Granger. They’ll get over it, eventually.” 

“I don’t think they will,” Hermione said, worried for him striking her so fiercely that she was surprised. She hadn’t realized she’d grown to care so deeply for him, but she had, and seeing him being repeatedly cursed and humiliated by the small group of students who refused to forgive and accept him, it made her furious. “Tell me who it was.” 

“Granger.”

“Don’t Granger me!” Hermione blew a stray curl from her face with righteous indignation. “I just want a word with them, that’s all.” 

She expected him to argue with her, wanted him to, really. Instead his mouth twitched, fighting a grin. He leaned his head down until his face was just inches from hers. “I love it when you get all worked up like this, especially when it’s on my behalf.”

She slapped his chest lightly. “Stop that. I’m serious.” 

“I am, too.” He lent all the way down, capturing her lips with his. She gasped, taking him in. Draco smelled so good—he always did, like crisp, tangy apple and sweet mint. 

He lifted her up, carrying her to the sofa by the fire. Hermione yelped when he tossed her down onto the soft velvety cushion, but had no time to protest because he was already on top of her. They hadn’t done anything more than kissing and writhing on each other fully clothed, but with each day they met, the closer they got, Hermione knew she was ready for more, and judging by the hardness in his pants that ground against her, he was, too. 

As his mouth found her neck, licking a sucking and making her shiver with lust, she began unbuttoning his shirt, and he pulled back in surprise. 

“Are—are you…are we?” His eyes searched hers as he struggled to articulate his question. 

She just nodded, knowing just what he was asking, continuing to remove his shirt. “Yes.” 

He groaned and bent to kiss her deeply. “Fuck, Granger, I love you.”

Hermione’s heart leapt from her chest, tears welling in her eyes, as he started on her own shirt buttons. She wasn’t ready to say it, not even when he palmed her breast over her bra, but she felt the same. It was baffling, completely and utterly unexpected, but she did.

Narcissa Malfoy — 2005

Narcissa sipped lightly from her tea, the delicate handle of the porcelain cup held just so by her perfectly manicured fingers. 

Madam Malkin and her assistants fluttered about, measuring tapes, thread, pins, and various assistants spun about her in a flurry of clothing chaos. She knew springing two express orders for full wardrobes, including dress robes, outerwear, and shoes for every occasion, on the little shop with such short notice was an arduous task, so she could hardly blame them for the dramatics, but the circumstances were dire. 

When she’d met the children at The Leaky Cauldron for their day of shopping, they were dressed in the more ghastly muggle costumes she’d ever had the misfortune to behold. Merlin, it made very little sense to her why muggles insisted upon wearing such bulky coats and plebeian fabrics, but the effect was undoubtedly hideous. 

These children—these sweet little darlings—were Malfoys . Seeing them in cheap fabric blends felt like the worst sort of tragedy. So naturally, Narcissa waved off their mother for her much-needed meeting with her son and marched them straight to Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. 

Lyra was such a doll. She hopped right onto the pedestal to be measured, smiling like a pampered kitten. Even now, after Narcissa pulled another set of girl’s robes (the tenth or eleventh, Narcissa had lost count at this point) from the rack just to see what cut and colors suited Lyra best, Lyra thanked her graciously, twirling and dancing about in each one.

Scorpius, however, seemed far less enthused. 

“Would you like to try on some gloves, darling?” Narcissa asked, eyeing him curiously where he sat on the settee beside her, staring into space with his chin on his fist. 

Striking grey eyes, so like her son’s met hers briefly. “No, thank you. Molly made me mittens.” He pulled an offensive burnt orange lump from his pocket to show her. 

Narcissa schooled her features. “And you like those?”

Scorpius shrugged.

In the short time Narcissa had been with him, Scorpius had proven a difficult conversationalist. Short answers, shrugs, sighs. To an extent, Narcissa understood. Even though she was his grandmother, she was a stranger. He would take more work than his sister, but Narcissa was nothing if not persistent. 

Furthermore, his less than exemplary manners could hardly be claimed by any fault of his. Having been raised by a muggleborn , he wasn’t aware of expectations or propriety. And really, if Narcissa was being fair, she had to admit that shopping wasn’t exactly the most appealing pastime to most young boys—Draco had always loathed being dragged to the shops with her. Still, she thought it odd, just how quiet the child was, especially when compared to his vivacious twin sister. 

Perhaps she could try to tempt him out of his shell with a subject that caught his fancy?

“Do you play quidditch?” she asked. That was something she knew many children enjoyed, including Draco.

He blinked slowly then shook his head. 

“I love quidditch,” Lyra said as she came out from behind the dressing curtain, positively radiant with her beaming smile. “I like the Chudley Cannons—just like Uncle Harry and Ron.” 

“Oh, Lyra,” Narcissa cooed. “You look so darling in that shade of blue.” 

Lyra spun around, gauzy light blue fabric floating around her. “I love it!” 

“We’ll add it to the order then.” Narcissa gave one of the seamstresses a meaningful look, and she scurried away. “Perhaps a pair of shoes to match?” 

“Really?” Lyra folded her hands under her chin, looking up at Narcissa through thick lashes with Draco’s eyes, and Narcissa’s heart just melted into the settee. 

“Of course.” Narcissa smiled and gestured to the children’s shoes. “Pick whatever you want.”

“This is the best day of my life,” Lyra squealed and ran over, giving a little clap as she took in the shelves of shoes. 

Narcissa stared after her fondly for a few moments before turning back to Scorpius who also watched Lyra but with an expression of boredom on his face. 

“I take it you don’t want any new shoes,” Narcissa remarked. 

He looked down at his white trainers, floating a few inches off the ground because his legs were too small to reach it. “My mum bought these for me.” 

“I see,” Narcissa said, watching his little feet kick back and forth before he noticed he was doing it and abruptly stopped. “So, you don’t like shopping or quidditch. I’ll remember that, but what do you enjoy?”

Scorpius scrunched his nose in thought. “I like listening to mum’s music, and I like playing with Lyra and my cousins.” 

“Your cousins—you have cousins?” Narcissa knew their mother was muggleborn, but she hadn’t considered the idea that the children had a muggle family. 

Scorpius nodded. “We mostly play with Victoire and Teddy. The rest are little. Teddy is my best friend.” 

A wave of unease struck Narcissa. This Teddy…it sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place the name. Perhaps she was weary of the fact that he was likely a muggle. Although, she’d mostly come to terms with the fact that her grandchildren had a muggle family and regularly interacted with the muggle world. Lyra said they even went to muggle school, which Narcissa would be lying if she said she didn’t find that perturbing.

“Is this Teddy a muggle, then?” She prodded gently, and Scorpius’ face morphed from confused to gleeful. He giggled, shaking his head. 

“No! Teddy isn’t a muggle!” He said between his laughter, voice light and so cute Narcissa had to resist the urge to scoop him up. “He’s a meta—metamofa—I can’t remember the word, but he has so much magic he can change his hair color and his eyes and nose! It’s very funny.” 

“A metamorphmagus,” Narcissa breathed. How could Hermione Granger be related to a metamorphmagus…unless? “Is he muggleborn like your mother?”

“No,” said Scorpius, “I don’t think so. His parents died in the war. Uncle Harry is his godfather, so Teddy says we’re basically brothers, except he lives with his grandmother.”

Narcissa closed her eyes. She remembered now. She knew who Harry Potter’s godson was, but it hadn’t occurred to her that Scorpius and Lyra would be…but of course they would. 

“Aunt Andy is your sister!” Lyra said, a sparkly pair of silver shoes grasped in her small hands. “She’s told us a lot about you.”

“Has she?” Narcissa asked quietly, fully occluding now to keep her face from revealing just how rattled such a statement made her. 

Still, Lyra seemed to pick up Narcissa’s change in mood. “Yes. All sorts of stories from when you were girls like me and Victoire. We like to dance, too.”

“Oh—” It came from her mouth unbidden as she covered it with a gloved hand. Without the occlumency, she’d have been brushing away tears, surely, but it had been decades since she’d allowed herself such a luxury, and she certainly wasn’t about to cry in front of her grandchildren. It would set a terrible example. “Well, isn’t that…nice.” 

Lyra nodded, lifting the shoes for Narcissa to see. “I like these.” 

Taking them into her hands, Narcissa assessed the shoes, trying to take her mind off the fact that her sister—her once beloved sister whom she hadn’t spoken to in…Merlin, far too long—knew her grandchildren and she didn’t. 

“They’re perfect,” Narcissa said, and they were for a little girl, enchanted to sparkle with each step. “And they match your eyes.”

Lyra preened. “They do?”

Narcissa nodded, lightly touching Lyra’s chin. “So beautiful.” 

Lyra smiled. “Narcissa?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s Draco’s favorite quidditch team?” Lyra’s eyes darted to her brothers, shy from the question. 

Narcissa brushed Lyra’s curls from her face gently. “I believe he favors the Falmouth Falcons. He used to attend some matches with his father, but they haven’t gone since he was a child.”

“The Falcons…” Lyra bit her lip, nodding. “I like them now, too.” 

Narcissa’s heart broke into pieces. 

Draco Malfoy—2005

Granger was already waiting for him when he arrived at The Leaky Cauldron, ten minutes before their decided meeting time. Of course she was—so fucking predictable.  

He sauntered over to the booth in the corner, exuding an air of confidence he didn’t really feel, but she was watching him closely with her shrewd brown eyes that he needed to strengthen his armor. 

Sliding into the booth without greeting her, Draco busied himself with taking off his coat and gloves while she cast all her usual privacy charms.

“If you want a drink, you’d better get it now,” she said, picking up her glass of red wine and swirling it around. “I’m going to cast a notice-me-not, and I’m not sure how that will affect the charms on the menu.” 

“You’re the one who insisted we do this in public,” he said, pressing his wand to the sticky drink menu on the table. A pint appeared before him. “My office would’ve been far more comfortable.” 

“For you,” Granger said, eyeing him with such disgust that he felt a wave of nausea. He didn’t think he could do this—maybe he wasn’t ready. “But you always had that nasty habit of putting yourself first.” 

Ouch. “That isn’t true, and you know it.”

“We’re here now because it is.” She threw back the rest of her wine. 

Draco gritted his teeth, leaning forward. “We’re here now because of you. You hid my children from me for half a fucking decade, Granger.” 

In an instant he was looking straight into the tip of her drawn wand. “I didn’t. ”

“Then what?” He scoffed, slapping the wand out of his face. “You really think I’d abandon my children, that I wouldn’t want them?” 

“Yes!” she shouted, eyes glassy with unshed tears of frustration. “Yes, because that’s exactly what happened.” 

“No, it isn’t!” His pint shattered, sending glass and beer all across the table and spilling onto the floor. “It isn’t,” he seethed. 

Granger banished the mess with a furious swipe of her hand. “And this is exactly why we’re here. Clearly, you and I have two different versions of that day.” 

“So what?” Draco ran his hand through his hair to calm himself. It didn’t work. “We just agreed that we disagree and move on? I can’t do that.” 

“I can’t either,” she agreed, wrapping her arms around herself. 

They sat in silence for a few moments, staring at each other. It had been over half a decade since he’d sat across from her like this, but she looked much the same, older but the same. Still so beautiful that it twisted his stomach with her tight golden skin and riot of brown curls, big expressive brown eyes that missed nothing. Granger looked good, and it was infuriating. 

She bit her lip in thought, and Draco had to look away. 

“I think I have an idea,” she said. 

“Of course you do,” he muttered under his breath. 

“Excuse me?” The pitch of her voice made him cringe. 

“Nothing,” he said. “What’s your idea?”

“Well,” she said, straightening in her seat with primly pursed lips. “As you and I both remember that day differently, I think the most logical thing to do is view each other’s memories to figure out exactly where the difference of opinion occurred.” 

Draco considered this, nodding. 

“I can contact Headmistress McGonagall and set up an appointment to use hers. It shouldn’t take—” 

Draco held up his hand. “That won’t be necessary. My father has one in his study.” 

Granger frowned, muttering under her breath. “Of course he does.” 

“Excuse me?” He mocked her tone from earlier, earning a vicious glare. “We can floo to the manor now and have this all settled by time Mother finishes her outing with the children.” 

Sighing, Granger reached into her pocket then tossed a few sickles onto the table. They disappeared as she shrugged on her muggle-style puffy coat. “The beers on me.” 

Scoffing, Draco spelled his coat on. The beer had better be on her. She’s the one who broke the bloody glass with accidental magic like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Well, he assumed it had been her—he supposed they’d both gotten pretty heated there. 

He led the way to the public floo, keeping his head high, making sure not to check that she followed. 

Once at the manor, he continued leading her in silence through the winding corridors from the floo parlor to his father’s office. Malfoy ancestors watched with disapproving scowls from their portraits, whispering to each other, some scurrying from frame-to-frame to get a better view. Draco couldn’t care less. They were dead, after all, and his father was about to know of their presence anyway, so their gossiping wouldn’t matter.

At his father’s door, Draco eyed Granger who was trying to hide her heavy breathing, but her flushed face and heaving chest gave her away despite how quiet she was. 

He smirked. “Aw, was I too fast for you?” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she quipped, smiling wickedly through her gasps for air. 

His own smile fell. “Fuck you, Granger.” 

“Never again,” she snarled. 

The door opened, and Lucius stood before them, looking rather green but putting on an imperious front. The scent of stale liquor preceded him. “Why must you discuss…whatever it is you were discussing in front of my office door?”

“Because we need to use the pensieve,” Draco said, ignoring the heat in his cheeks.

Lucius’ sharp eyes examined him for a moment then he moved aside. “You have one hour.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, something that would certainly set his father off, Draco entered the office. 

The room was dark with the only light being the bit of sun that peaked through the half-drawn damask curtains. A bottle of firewhiskey joined a mountain of parchment on the desk, half drunken. 

“At this hour, Father?” Draco remarked, gesturing to the bottle. “Does Mother know you aren’t using a glass?” 

Lucius shut the door and came around his desk, sitting in his cushy chair with more elegance than most men would be capable of after so much liquor. “She does not , considering she’s parading about Diagon Alley with our half-blood grandchildren.”

Granger’s eyes narrowed, and Draco realized this hadn’t been his best idea. 

“And now, my only son and heir stands before me, in my private office,” Lucius continued, grasping the neck of the bottle, “with their mother. Their mother who is a mud—”

Draco’s wand was in his hand in an instant, but he wasn’t as fast as Granger who had already sent a hex at Lucius, who no longer had lips. Raising his brows, Draco looked at her. That hex was dark.

“Never,” Granger snarled, wand still pointing right between Lucius’ wide eyes. “ Never call me that again, especially not in front of my children. Do you understand me?”

His eyes darted to Draco then back to Granger then he nodded. 

Sighing, Draco nudged Granger, and she lowered her wand. “Come on. Let’s just get this over with. The pensive is back in here.” He pulled Granger away from her staring match with his mouthless father, hoping his father couldn’t do the counter nonverbally. That would be quite funny, as his pride wouldn’t allow him to ask for help. He’d have to wait for Narcissa to come home. 

A smaller door led to his father’s sitting room, where the pensive was stored inside a dark oak antique armoire. He spelled the doors open, revealing the stone basin. 

Granger made a show of inspecting it before nodding. “This will do.”

Draco huffed. “Thank Merlin it’s up to your high standards.”

She crossed her arms and leveled him with a glare. “Just put your memory in so we can settle this.” 

He put his wand to his temple, thinking of that day. A string of silvery liquid attached itself to the tip of his wand, and he guided it carefully into the basin. 

“Ladies first,” he said, nodding at the pensieve. 

Granger pursed her lips and stuck her head right in. He stayed, knowing exactly what was there and needing a breather. 

Draco Malfoy—1999

Draco healed the gash on his leg then mended the hole in the knee of his pants as best he could. Fucking hell. Those arseholes really wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone.

He dusted off his robes before continuing his walk around the Black Lake. The weather was perfect, actually sunny for once, and he wasn’t about to let those twits ruin his day. It was only thanks to Hagrid and his beast of a dog rustling about in the Forbidden Forest that they’d been scared off. 

Draco was a little shaken up after this last encounter he had to admit, but the gentle sound of water lapping against rock was helping, and he was certain they’d leave him alone once the school year ended. 

It was such a marvel, how this had been the best school year he’d ever had, even with the few students who were still angry over his actions in the war cornering him to take out their frustrations every few weeks. If it weren’t for them, he’d never want to leave Hogwarts again, not when he’d built so much with Granger in the Room of Requirement. 

Although, he supposed it was only up from here. Draco had plans to ask her to move in with him. He knew she didn’t have parents any longer, not cognizant ones, anyway, and that she felt the same way he did. They had their whole lives ahead of them. This time last year, Draco wouldn’t have believed it, but he was so excited, ready to build a life with her. 

He came around a bend in the lake where the forest jutted into the water and the shoreline thinned. Voices stopped him in his tracks, so he ducked behind a tree. Draco wasn’t a coward—well, maybe he was a bit of a coward when the occasion called—and he really didn’t want another run-in with his aggrieved tormenters.

When he realized one of the voices was distinctly feminine, he breathed a sigh of relief, but as he grew closer, still covered by the forest, he realized it he recognized the voice, knew it rather well in fact—Granger. 

“Hermione, you don’t have to do this…shouldn’t, actually.” There was Potter’s voice, the fucking prick. 

Granger rarely talked about Potter and the Weasel. Honestly, they spoke little about their friends and families, so they wrapped up in each other, and on top of that, it was almost an unspoken agreement that she wasn’t ready to hear much about his parents in a similar way that he didn’t want to hear about Perfect Potter. 

“I know I don’t have to, Harry, but I want to. I don’t expect you to understand, but I want this.” Her voice was so confident, so sure, but Draco felt quite the opposite. He didn’t have any idea what she was talking about, and now he needed to know. Why was she confiding in Potter and not him?

Creeping closer, casting a Muffling charm on his shoes and the ground then a Disillusionment charm on himself, Draco found a spot where he could see them through the trees without too much risk of being caught. 

Potter was holding her face, so close to his own that there was hardly a foot between them. It gnarled Draco’s stomach. He couldn’t believe this. He couldn’t.

“And what about Malfoy?” Potter asked, practically spitting his name. Draco nearly tore through the treeline to cure the bastard. 

“What about him?” Granger gave an odd, shrill laugh, and Draco nearly fell to his knees at the sound. Did she actually just say that?   

Granger gripped Potter’s hand, shaking her head, tears forming in her eyes. “Draco will—you don’t know him, Harry, but it doesn’t matter. I want this. I want it.”

Fuck! Draco was sure they were about to kiss. He couldn’t let this go on any longer. He countered the charms on himself and stepped out of the trees. 

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” he announced, using his most caustic tone, holding his head high. “But by all means, do go on.” 

Granger stepped away from Potter—far too late for that—a confused expression on her face. She really must’ve thought he was an idiot. 

“Draco? You’re late again. What—” 

“Don’t.” He didn’t know what she was talking about, but he could only assume that she was trying to deflect from what he’d overheard, what he’d seen. 

“What’s your problem, Malfoy?” Potter gave him a familiar scathing glare.

“You, Potter,” he snarled, resisting the very serious urge to hit him. He wanted to snap his ugly glasses in half. “Leave before I curse your head off.” 

Potter looked at Granger, who wore a bewildered expression. “I’m not doing this with him, but I’ll stay if you want me to, Hermione.” 

Draco nearly did curse him then. Saint Potter, always doing exactly the right thing. Fuck. Fuck! How could Draco have ever thought he could compete with that?

“I think it’s best for now, Harry,” Granger said, giving Potter’s hand a squeeze that Draco felt in his core. 

For now. 

Draco pushed the crushing pain he felt deep down, leaving room for only anger—anger at himself for believing she could love him, anger at Potter for besting him once again, but mostly anger at her for fooling him so thoroughly. 

Potter kissed Granger on the cheek, murmuring his reassurances and goodbyes, but Draco refused to look away from their shamelessness. He wanted to remember this forever so that he never made the same mistake again. 

When Potter left, he clipped Draco on the shoulder. “Watch yourself, Malfoy.”

Draco gritted his teeth, spinning on Granger. 

“Draco?” she asked, her wide brown eyes only served to further infuriate him. 

“I can’t believe this,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. “I can’t believe you’ve done this.” 

“What?” Her eyebrows furrowed, nose scrunching. “What are you talking about?”

“I heard everything, Granger,” he said. “I’ve been here the whole time.”

She gasped, placing one of her small hands over her mouth. “Oh, Draco, I didn’t mean for you to find out this way. I’m so sorry, but—”

“But nothing!” He shouted, squeezing his eyes tight, trying and failing to control the rage boiling over the surface. “Fuck, you really had me fooled, didn’t you?”

When he dared to look at her again, he was met with nothing but bewilderment which had him clenching his fists. She had to know he wouldn’t buy her playing stupid. He knew her better than that, or at least he thought he did. “When were you planning to tell me? Before we left tonight? Just to take off with Potter and the Weasel and fuck everything else, right?”

“No,” she said, far too calm for him. “I was going to tell you now, Draco, but you were late. Didn’t you get my note?”

“Yeah, I got your note ,” Granger. Unfortunately, he hadn’t actually had a chance to read it. That Irish fuck had ripped it up when he jumped him, but it didn’t matter, he could guess what it said. 

“Okay, then you know that I’m—”

“Don’t you dare say it!” He snapped. “I can’t bear it. I don’t want to hear it.” 

“So you’re not—” Granger gulped thickly, misty eyes searching his face. “I take it you’re not happy then?” 

“How the fuck could you expect me to be happy about this?” Draco scoffed, then whispered, “How could you do this? For fuck’s sake, I can hardly even look at you.” 

Tears spilled from her eyes now, falling lazily down her flushed cheeks. “It wasn’t just me, you know. You played a rather big part in this, as well.” 

He laughed cruelly. Was she really trying to blame him for this? She was cheating with fucking Potter because of him ? Loathing washed over him as he watched her pathetic, pretty face fall. Un-fucking-believable. Draco had known all along, he thought, that all of this between them had been too good to be true. 

“Oh, come off it, Granger,” he spat. “I trusted you.” 

After a deep breath, Granger wiped her tears from her cheeks fiercely. “I’m keeping them. I don’t care what you say. I’m keeping them.” 

“Them?!”

“Yes, them,” she said, straightening her spin and looking him right in the eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business any longer.” 

Draco huffed in disbelief. 

“I really—” Granger paused and gasped for air, as if she was trying to temper her emotions and failing miserably. “I really thought you were better than this, Draco.”

He was seething now, unable to hold back. “Yeah, you know what, I am. Enjoy your life with them, Granger. I won’t be in it.”

“Good riddance.” Her voice smoldered, burning with her own clear anger as she brought her hand to her neck, pulling on the chain that she’d worn every day since he’d given it to her. The necklace came easily from her collar. With one last glare at him, she ripped it off her neck and chucked it into the Black Lake.

She watched it sink into the depths then stomped off, leaving him there. 

Once she was out of sight, he sank to his knees, sharp pebbles biting into his newly healed flesh. 

In minutes, the life he’d been so close to having was gone with the bounce of her curls. 

His chest panged horribly, tears clouding his vision. Fuck. 

Fuck!

Draco Malfoy — 2005

Gasping for breath, Granger’s head came up from the pensive, mass of curls wiping behind her. A tear fell as she assessed him with shocked, confused eyes. Blinking rapidly she shook her head as if to clear it. 

Finally, he knew she understood. She hadn’t told him. She hadn’t. 

“Draco Malfoy,” Granger said, eyes almost crazed now. “ You are an idiot .

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger — 2005

“Draco Malfoy,” Granger said, eyes almost crazed now. “ You are an idiot .”

Malfoy’s mouth fell open, the smug look he’d been wearing as she exited the pensieve disappearing more quickly than an Evanesco.  

“You—you really —well, knowing you, I suppose I should’ve known,” Hermione babbled as she tried to sort what she’d seen in the pensieve into her own version of events. Draco had always been…well, insecure and short-tempered with a penchant for cruelty, but she would’ve never expected him to assume she’d been cheating with Harry of all people. Merlin, she wouldn’t even get into that insane bit about Ronald. 

“Should’ve known what ?” Malfoy asked with narrowed grey eyes. 

“That it was all somehow even worse than I thought,” Hermione said, earning a nasty scoff. 

Malfoy made a skeptical snort. “And how exactly was that?” 

Shaking her head at his hostility, Hermione sighed. Honestly, considering what he’d done, she was just barely resisting the urge to lay him flat with an overpowered hex. And sure, while she hadn’t explicitly stated during that very heated argument where what felt at the time like her entire world was falling apart, it had never occurred to her that she hadn’t until watching it again. The sharpest part of her memory was his dismissal of her, telling her to enjoy her life with them without him in it. 

Merlin, those words had haunted her for years. The hurt, the betrayal—it had never really gone away. She’d thought about writing to him, asking him what had changed, if any of their relationship had ever been real, but according to Andromeda when a pureblood like a Malfoy—or a Black in her case—cuts you from their life, it’s for good. Andromeda had become a second mother to her over the years, and Hermione trusted her judgement implicitly. It never occurred to her that there had been any miscommunication. 

Steeling herself, Hermione removed Malfoy’s memory from the pensieve and returned it to his head with a bit more force than was strictly necessary. Judging by the snarl he released, he knew that perfectly well. 

Then, she thought of her own version of events, pulled the silvery stream of memory from her temple and placed it in the pensieve. 

“See for yourself,” she said, tapping the stone basin with her fingers. 

“Gladly,” the pompous blond idiot said, smirking at her. Gods, he was so infuriating. 

He stepped up to the pensieve and gave her one last look of annoyance before putting his head in. Hermione suspected he’d be looking at her with a far different expression when he returned. 

Hermione Granger — 1998

A plump red tentacle rose from the dark water of the Black Lake, followed by another. They curled together before smacking back in the water and disappearing into the depths. Waves rose and dispersed before lapping into the stony shore—a pleasant sound that would have been calming in any other circumstance, but Hermione’s anxiety was far too present and real to be charmed by nature at the moment. 

Hours earlier, she’d made a rather shocking discovery. After a week of nausea, which often led to vomiting, fatigue, and most bizarrely, tender breasts, Hermione finally caved into her intuition and cast a pregnancy revealing charm on her stomach. 

She hadn’t wanted to believe it could be true. Hermione so rarely made mistakes—but she’d somehow missed a contraception charm here or there during the many, many (Oh, for Merlin’s sake, they’d basically been in a haze of sex in every iteration for the past three months…) intimate moments with Malfoy. They’d been fucking like rabbits. It isn’t any wonder it happened, but they really should’ve been more careful. 

Draco had noticed something was off about her, too. He’d seemed so worried when they’d parted the previous evening after Hermione had needed a lie down after being struck by a wave of dizziness that she thought he was going to insist she visit the hospital wing right then and there. It was only because of her pathetic pleading and reassurance that she’d visit Madam Pomfrey in the morning if her symptoms persisted that he’d let up. 

Hermione’s symptoms had persisted. In fact, they’d worsened, with a lingering sense of fatigue.

When Pomfrey suggested she might be pregnant, Hermione knew. Before casting the charm, she knew. In fact, she’d felt like an idiot for not considering it herself. 

Madam Pomfrey cast the charm, and not only did one bright orb appear over her stomach, confirming that she was indeed pregnant—there were two. Two. Hermione spiraled, had a full panic attack sitting on the crisp white sheets of her bed in the Hospital Wing. 

For once in her life, Hermione Granger did not know what to do, but she knew she had to tell Draco. He was half convinced she was dying from some dark curse or other. Draco was meant to be out of the castle most of the day, taking stock of the wildflowers that grew in the forest as a final-hour favor to Professor Slughorn, but he’d have to cut that short. Hermione needed him now more than he needed the extra credit.  

With shaking legs, she walked to the owlery, biting her fingernails to the quick as she went, contemplating her next move. 

Once faced with a blank sheet of parchment, surrounded by the sounds of flapping wings and trilling coos of hundreds of owls, all looking at her, Hermione couldn’t make herself write. 

It wouldn’t do to scare him into returning with a “we need to talk” sort of note, but would it be crazy to just tell him why she needed him? Would that be too…Oh, this was ridiculous. 

Dipping her quill in the pot of ink, she wrote.

Draco,

I’ve been to see Madam Pomfrey. I’m not ill or cursed, but I need you. I’ll meet you about halfway at that spot where we had that picnic by the Black Lake last month at quarter till. Don’t panic. It’s nothing bad! At least, I don’t think it’s bad, and I don’t think you will either. That sounds so questionable reading it back, doesn’t it? I suppose I should just come out with it so you don’t worry too much. I’m pregnant, and it’s twins. No, I’m not joking, and I think you’ll understand why we ought to be together right now. I’m sure Professor Slughorn can search the forest for Bluebells himself. Merlin, this is getting lengthy. Sorry, rambling. You know me. 

Yours always,

Hermione

She didn’t bother reading it over. There was no use in agonizing over a simple note, and really, it was fine. It was absolutely fine to just be out with it so he didn’t panic and they could be on equal ground when they met. 

Nodding to herself, she chose the closest school owl, tied the letter to its leg, and sent the owl to Draco. Considering how fast the owl flew out the opening in the high ceiling, Draco would be reading the note in a matter of minutes, giving him plenty of time to make his way back through the forest, so Hermione went straight there. This should give her enough time to think .

Her feet moved over stone, then dewy grass, finally reaching stony shore. Staring out at the lapping waves, Hermione released a hysterical laugh. She’d just told Draco she was pregnant via owl. Merlin, she was pregnant. 

“What’s so funny?”

She gasped and spun around. Harry walked toward her leisurely, smiling fondly. “Harry. What are you doing here?”

He scrunched his nose. “I could hardly let you finish your time at Hogwarts without me, could I?” 

Her heart pounded in her chest. That was lovely, truly. Harry was always so lovely, but this was…poor timing. “But how did you find me out here?”

“I found this spare bit of parchment on your bed.” His smile turned cheeky as he pulled the Marauder's Map from his pocket. “I thought I’d take this back if you don’t mind.”

“Right, the map, of course.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm down. 

“Hermione?” Harry’s voice, so laced with concern, just made her feel worse. “Are you alright? Sorry. I know you don’t like surprises, but I got the afternoon off unexpectedly, and I thought we could…I don’t know… reminisce?” 

“No, Harry.” She reached for him, pulling him into a tight hug. “It’s not you. Thank you for thinking of me.” Sniffling into his shoulder, she took a moment to decide how much to tell him, and then remembered that this was Harry. Her Harry, her best friend. If she could tell anyone, it was Harry. 

Pulling away, she saw the worry in his eyes, and let it all spill out. How she’d started working with Draco, warming up to him, fixing the Room of Requirement with him, and finally, falling in love. Because it was the truth, she was in love. 

Harry listened, frown deepening further and further as she explained her year with Draco Malfoy, and that made her speak more quickly, more frantically, until finally he interrupted. 

“Hermione, if you’re worried that I’m angry or something, you don’t need to be. I’m just confused. I don’t understand.” His dubious expression reinforced the sentiment.

“I’m sure you don’t, but Harry, he’s not like he used to be.” 

Harry eyed her skeptically. “So he’s not spoiled, rude, or self-centered?”

She laughed, verging on hysterical again, so she shook the feeling away. “Fine! In some ways he’s the same, but Draco has changed. He wants to be good, do good things. He’s amazing, Harry, so resilient and caring, kind even.” 

In an instant, Harry’s wand was pointed at her. “ Finite Incantatem .”

When nothing happened, Hermione stared at him in shock before gritting her teeth and crossing her arms. “Harry Potter, I have not been cursed or Imperiused or whatever you think.” 

“I had to be sure.” Harry shrugged and slipped his wand back into his sleeve. “It just sounds so insane—you know that, right? I mean...Malfoy?”

Hermione snorted at Harry’s expression. He looked like he might sick up. “I’m sure it sounds insane, but you’ll see, Harry. He should be here soon enough. We were meant to meet here.” She cast a quick wandless Tempus. “Oh, five minutes ago.” A twist in her heart was ignored, as she turned back to Harry. “He was collecting some data for Professor Slughorn. He’s rather good at potions, you see.” 

“I remember.” Harry frowned, nudging her arm. “But why are you meeting him here? And if he’s so incredible, why do you seem so upset?”

Hermione bit her lip. “It’s complicated, and I don’t want you to panic.” 

Harry straightened, eyes going fierce behind his characteristic glasses that had seen better days. “What did he do?”

“He didn’t do anything,” Hermione quickly reassured him. “Well, he sort of did, but it was me as well.” 

“I’m confused again,” Harry sighed. “Fuck, Hermione, I thought we’d just be drinking pumpkin juice and talking about the time you turned yourself into an anthropomorphic cat…I’m just having some trouble processing all of this.” Harry nudged her again. “What have you gotten yourself into without me?” 

Hermione let his arm come over her shoulder, relaxing into Harry’s side. “It’s…unexpected.” 

“Naturally.” 

“I’m pregnant.” 

Harry jumped away, eyes wild. “You’re joking.” 

“I would never joke about something like this, Harry. You know me better than that.”

“But…with Malfoy? For fuck’s sake, Hermione!” With a shake of his head, Harry paced. “Does he know? Do his parents know?” 

“I wrote to him just now. I’ve only found out this morning.” Harry’s panic was rekindling her own. “Draco will be pleased, I think. I’m sort of pleased as well.” 

Harry looked at her like she’d grown three heads. “So you’re keeping it, then? You’ve decided.”

“Them, actually,” she corrected primly. “It’s twins.”

“Fucking hell!” 

“Quite right.”

“I think I might pass out,” Harry said, gulping thickly. “Hermione, I can’t believe all this.” 

“I find myself in a similar state to be honest,” Hermione said, clasping her shaking hands together. “Like I said, it was unexpected, but I’m not…I don’t feel like I think I should.” She turned away, unable to bear his confused, anxious stare any longer. 

Silence stretched between them. 

“So, what now?” Harry asked after a few minutes. “Draco is the Malfoy heir. Are you going to go and live in that awful manor with Lucius Malfoy? He hates everything you are, Hermione. Imagine how he’ll feel about having half-blood grandchildren—what he might do…”

“Stop, Harry.” She stamped her foot like a child and whipped back around to face him. “You’re not being helpful, and I don’t care about Lucius Malfoy or what he thinks about me. Draco doesn’t either. I haven’t thought that far into the future, but I’m sure it will all work out just fine.”

“Sorry,” Harry’s face crumpled, eyes going suspiciously glassy. “I’m just scared for you. Terrified.” Harry came over and cupped her cheeks with his soft hands. “I love you. You’re my best friend, and—Hermione, you don’t have to do this…shouldn’t, actually.” 

Hermione placed one of her hands over his. She knew he was just worried about her. “I know I don’t have to, Harry, but I want to. I don’t expect you to understand, but I want this.” 

“And what about Malfoy?” Harry asked, searching her face. 

“What about him?” Another shrill, hysterical laugh came out, but she couldn’t help it. This had been such an unexpectedly emotional day, and Hermione was at the brink. Tears came almost out of nowhere. She was losing it. “Draco will—you don’t know him, Harry, but it doesn’t matter. I want this. I want it.”

“I’m so sorry to interrupt!” Draco’s voice sliced through the tension between them like a knife. “But by all means, do go on.” 

Hermione pulled away from Harry, confused by the venom in his voice. He was so angry, and she didn’t know why. “Draco? You’re late again. What—” 

“Don’t.” His grey eyes were glacial cold, stopping her heart for a moment, freezing the air in her lungs.

“What’s your problem, Malfoy?” Harry asked, hands on his hips, looking every inch the off-duty auror. 

“You, Potter,” Draco snarled, and Hermione was suddenly afraid. Confused and afraid. Maybe she’d misjudged—but she couldn’t have. He must be angry with Harry. They’d never gotten along, had they? “Leave before I curse your head off.” 

When Harry’s eyes met hers, full of questions, she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t understand what was happening.

Harry’s jaw set. “I’m not doing this with him, but I’ll stay if you want me to, Hermione.” 

Hermione was torn. She needed Harry’s support right then, but she didn’t think Draco would tell her why he was so angry if he stayed. “I think it’s best for now, Harry,” she finally said, giving Harry’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll see you soon,” she whispered. 

Harry leant down and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be in the common room if you need me.” He gave her hand a last squeeze then pushed past Draco. “Watch yourself, Malfoy.”

Draco watched him go with a terrifying, simmering hatred that Hermione had never seen from him, not this school year at least. 

“Draco?” she called softly, wanted the Draco she knew back, needing him back. 

“I can’t believe this,” Draco spat, shaking his head in disgust. “I can’t believe you’ve done this.” 

“What?” she breathed. This is not the reaction she’d thought he’d have. It made little sense. “What are you talking about?”

“I heard everything, Granger,” he said. “I’ve been here the whole time.”

She gasped, placing a trembling hand over her open mouth. Merlin, he’d heard all of that, what she’d said about his father…She didn’t think he still valued his father in the way he once had when they were children. They didn’t speak about him much, but when they did, Draco seemed more resentful than anything else. Perhaps she’d misjudged that resent. “Oh, Draco, I didn’t mean for you to find out this way. I’m so sorry, but—” 

“But nothing!” Draco shouted at her, actually shouted, and Hermione hardly recognized him. She took a step back at the violence in his expression. His next words weren't shouted, but that somehow made them hit harder. “Fuck, you really had me fooled, didn’t you?”

Hermione didn’t know what to say. Was he angry because she was pregnant? Was it because she didn’t care about his father? She couldn’t read him when he was this angry. 

“When were you planning to tell me? Before we left tonight? Just to take off with Potter and the Weasel and fuck everything else, right?” 

“No,” Hermione said, trying to placate him with a calmer tone. “I was going to tell you now, Draco, but you were late. Didn’t you get my note?”

“Yeah, I got your note , Granger,” he snarled, each word stabbing her, wounding her.

It took all of her strength to stay standing, but she needed him to clarify. “Okay, then you know that I’m—”

“Don’t you dare say it!” He snapped, and she flinched, feeling like she’d been slapped. “I can’t bear it. I don’t want to hear it.” 

“So you’re not—” Hermione’s entire world was crashing down around her. She tried to gulp down her tears, her inevitable spiral, refusing to do it in front of him. If he was going to treat her like this, she wouldn’t stand for it. “I take it you’re not happy then?” 

“How the fuck could you expect me to be happy about this?” Draco scoffed. “How could you do this? For fuck’s sake, I can hardly even look at you.”

Tears spilled from her eyes now, betraying her, falling down her hot cheeks in cooling trails. “It wasn’t just me, you know. You played a rather big part in this, as well.” 

His laugh was so cruel, the same one that laughed about Buckbeak being murdered at his insistence, and she was certain about one thing now—Hermione Granger had been wrong, wrong about Draco Malfoy. Merlin, how could she have been so stupid? Of course he hadn’t changed. She was a fool. 

“Oh, come off it, Granger,” he spat. “I trust—”

Her ears were ringing now, she could hardly hear him, so she wiped the tears from her cheeks and straightened her shoulders, refusing to let him see her fall apart. He would get no satisfaction from what he’d done to her. “I’m keeping them. I don’t care what you say. I’m keeping them.” 

“Them?!”

“Yes, them!” Hermione couldn’t even look at him. “Not that it’s any of your business any longer.” 

Draco laughed, so cold and vicious that it actually broke something in her. She knew she’d never be the same. 

“I really—” Hermione gasped for breath, the pain was too much to bear. How did this happen? How could she have been so wrong? “I really thought you were better than this, Draco.”

“Yeah, you know what, I am. ” Ouch, ouch. She was going to cry. She thought she’d never be able to stop. “Enjoy your life with them, Granger. I won’t be in it.”

Fuck that. “Good riddance!” In a craze, she ripped the necklace he’d given her, a piece of them that held such promise, from her neck. It stung before the chain broke, but she didn’t care. She threw it as hard as she could into the depths of the Black Lake where it belonged, a cold, watery death for what they’d been, what they could’ve been.

Draco Malfoy — 2005 

Draco’s head ripped from the pensieve, lungs gasping for air, more air. He couldn’t get enough. A sharp pain shot from his knees as they hit the stone floor, then his hands followed suit. He couldn’t breathe as waves of grief and guilt crashed into him, relentless. 

It was him. Fuck, it was his fault. 

He’d—gods all this pain. It was too much. What had he done? 

Right as the corners of his vision went black, a small hand grabbed his shoulder, forcing him to look up. 

Granger crouched above him, touching his shoulder, comforting him when he deserved none of it. Gods, if he was her, he’d have already left. He’d never deserved her, had always been meant to fuck it all up, and he’d done it in the most terrible, unforgivable way. 

Her expression was full of pity, and it made him feel so much worse. Anger he could handle. Hatred he could handle, but this soft pity, it was unbearable. 

“I—” he began, but it came out like a croak, so he had to take a moment to swallow his grief down. “I’m so sorry.” 

Granger stared at him blankly, and he knew she didn’t forgive him. She had every right to never forgive him, not for this. 

Her hand left his shoulder, leaving him bereft, and he collapsed onto the floor. He heard her through the fuzz in his ears cast a summoning charm, and in moments a vial was placed at his lips, the sweet floral lavender taste of Calming Draught filling his mouth and passing thickly down his throat. 

It took a minute, but once the effects set in, he sat up, finding Granger still watching him with a deep frown. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t know. I really didn’t know.” 

Granger sighed, head tilting to the side, a cascade of brown curls falling over her slim shoulder. There wasn’t an ounce of sympathy in her eyes. “Here’s what I’m going to suggest—This…situation…is awful, but I think it’s better than you not wanting them or being too busy for them. Lyra and Scor deserve to know the truth, but I don’t think now is the time.”

“No,” he readily agreed. Draco didn’t know his children yet, but he knew he didn’t want them to see him like this. 

“Come over for dinner tomorrow. We can explain over pizza, which you will bring. It’s their favorite, and it should help you earn some points with them.” 

Draco blinked slowly, mouth falling open in confusion. “Why—Why are you helping me with them?”

Granger gave him a scathing look. “Because I put them first, and even if I don’t like it, it doesn’t mean your children don’t deserve to know you.”

His heart sank, but he nodded, understanding. “Thank you, Granger.” 

“Don’t you dare fuck this up.” 

Narcissa Malfoy — 2005 

Narcissa hummed merrily as she made her way to the dining room. Her afternoon with her grandchildren had been wonderful. They were such darlings, so sweet, and Hermione had confirmed when she’d returned them to her that Narcissa could take them out again soon. 

Using an easy bit of magic to open the double doors, she strutted through, giving a pleased smile when she noted the elves had already served the food, but stopped in her tracks when she saw Lucius’ face. His mouth was gone. 

“Don’t undo the curse, Mother,” Draco drawled, lazily swirling his glass of red wine before taking a light sip. “He deserved it.” 

“Hmm,” Narcissa acknowledged, taking her seat at the table beside her husband, leisurely undoing her napkin and placing it. “And what has he done?”

“He called the mother of your grandchildren a slur,” Draco said, ignoring Lucius’ muffled noise of protest. “And she showed him what she thought of that.”

“Is this true, Lucius?” Narcissa eyed her husband. His grey eyes bulged with fury, pale skin becoming ruddy. “I take that as a yes.”

She turned away from him and cut into her lamb. “Did you have a pleasant visit with Hermione, dear?”

“No,” Draco said, releasing a shuddering breath. “Turns out this was all my fault. She really thought I knew about them, and I thought—I won’t go into it, but it was me. I don’t know my own children and lost the love of my life because I’m a self-centered, temperamental prat. All in all, it’s been one of the worst days of my life.” 

Lucius pounded a fist on the table, which they both ignored. 

“Well,” Narcissa said. “You still have time to get to know the children, but I daresay the broom has flown with Hermione. Besides, darling, you’ve got Astoria now.” 

Draco picked up his glass of wine and downed it in one go, an action she’d normally chastise him for, but he seemed too overwrought to respond well at the moment. Best to change the subject. 

“I had a splendid day myself. The children are so delightful. Just wait, Draco. Lyra is so like you when you were that age, and Scorpius is adorable.”

Silence responded—obviously Lucius couldn’t speak, but Draco slumped into his chair, frowning. 

“And they say the wildest things! Did you know they go to a muggle school? They learn all sorts of things like maths and writing, exactly what a private tutor would teach, from how I understood it. Fascinating.” Narcissa took a bite of salad, chewing contemplatively, ignoring the lack of response. 

“The muggle fashion is just dreadful though, so shocking. I had both children measured for full wardrobes. We can’t have Malfoys running about Diagon Alley in those cheap dyed rags.”

Draco sat up. “I hope you didn’t say that to them, Mother.” 

“I didn’t need to.” Narcissa smiled sweetly. 

“There’s nothing wrong with muggle clothing.”

“It’s boorish manners to lie at the dinner table, dear.” 

“Do you think us acting like pureblood elitists will endear us to them? They’re half bloods. No matter what you say or ignore or think, those children aren’t purebloods, but they are mine,” Draco said, chest heaving. 

“Draco—”

“Don’t, Mother.” The seriousness of his tone had Narcissa placing her cutlery down. “This blood purity nonsense has only brought the House of Malfoy pain and ruin, and if you can’t accept that your grandchildren aren’t perfect pureblood heirs, then tell me now so that I can keep them away from you. I’m already considering banning father.”

Lucius grunted. 

Narcissa pursed her lips, taking in Draco’s worry. She hadn’t considered that interpretation regarding her dislike for muggle clothing. Did she dislike it because it was objectively bad or because it was different? It was something to consider. 

“Don’t do that, Draco,” Narcissa said quietly. “Your father and I promise to try. Don’t we, Lucius?”

Lucius sighed heavily from his nose but nodded. 

“See.” Narcissa smiled. “You have nothing to worry about, darling. I love them already, just from spending one day with them. Not just because they’re yours, but because they’re so smart and funny and loving. Those are the children a muggleborn birthed and raised, and they’re perfect.”

Draco reached over the table, and Narcissa reached too, letting him clasp her hand. 

Lucius moaned and slammed his head onto the table. 

They ignored him. 

Chapter Text

The nib of Pansy’s quill snapped as she, admittedly, pressed far too hard while attempting to reschedule Theo’s third appointment he’d missed that day. She tossed the thing onto her desk in frustration and crossed her arms.

While she knew a part of her job was managing Draco and Theo’s rather intense schedules, neither of them had bothered to show up to to work that day, and it in addition to fresh black ink splattering all over the parchment, her desk, and her fresh manicure, Pansy decided she’d had enough.

Fuck this.

Draco she could forgive. At least he told her he wouldn’t be in, floo calliing her in a panic, going on and on about how complicated it is to order muggle pizza and his secret children and Granger. Pansy had been too stressed over the number of owls she’d have to send that morning to listen too closely.

While she was glad he’d sorted the whole children that might be his or not debacle, she didn’t have time to hear more at the moment, and Draco seemed mostly stable. He didn’t need her. Also, Pansy had honestly half forgotten about the twins, what with all the…quidditch lessons…she’d been attending recently, so she hadn’t been facilitating. It was a blessing from Mother Magic herself that Draco was handling it all so well. Their office was at least still standing.

Theo, on the other hand, had neglected to inform her of his absence. He’d done this before, of course. Even when they’d been at Hogwarts, he’d been known to disappear for a day or a week, then show back up with his lopsided smile and a deranged story about cursing or poisoning himself, having somehow completed all of his classwork and then some.

Was it concerning? Perhaps. But Theo preferred to take care of himself.

Ordinarily, Pansy wouldn’t interfere, offering support only when asked, but Theo had seemed extra unhinged the last few weeks, and his sudden absence from work just wasn’t sitting right with her.

With a huff, Pansy stood, making sure to grab her slim wand from its spot on her desk. Her heels clicked down the corridor to his office where she easily dismantled his lazy wards. Just to be sure, Pansy went first to the fireplace and tried to floo to Nott Manor, but the connection was closed. Not a good sign.

Even more concerned, Pansy did the obvious thing given the circumstance—snooped. Ignoring the oppressive dark magic of Theo’s collection of oddities that were artfully displayed behind his desk, she sat in his chair and yanked open the top right drawer. Beads of all shapes and sizes flung out at the force of her pull, scattering on her lap and the ground.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Theo!” She scoffed, brushing away the majority of the loose string and beads and scanning the continents of the drawer—lots of odds and ends, spare quills and a bit of parchment, as well as a little metal container full of a suspicious smelling dried and ground leaf of some kind that she did not want to investigate further, should it incriminate her.

The bottom left drawer was full of bundles of herbs and potion vials that clinked together when it opened. She didn’t bother pulling any out before shutting it again.

Bafflingly, the bottom right drawer held a single muggle screwdriver.

Rolling her eyes, Pansy slammed that drawer shut and tried the top left. It was a mess of hastily written, mostly nonsensical notes Theo must have written to himself. How this man functioned as a successful curse breaker and business owner would forever be a mystery to Pansy. He’d been top of their class at Hogwarts, as well, coming only behind goody goody Granger in marks.

Using her wand, Pansy floated all of the notes out of the drawer and straightened them out neatly on the desk. She discarded the ones with indecipherable scribbles back into the drawer immediately, then set about reading the rest. There were, naturally, a lot of notes about his various projects and, disturbingly, many more about Potter.

Finally, she found one detailing an off-book job with Potter, scheduled at Potter’s home for over the weekend. It was…suspicious. Pansy just knew something had happened.

Trouble followed Potter wherever he went, and his disturbing perusal of Theo was bringing that trouble into her office. It had to stop now.

Pansy stuffed the notes back into Theo’s drawer and returned to the floo, this time with the Ministry of Magic as her shouted destination. The swirling green deposited her into the Atrium, and she sauntered out of the public floo with her head held high, waving her hand to remove any stray soot from her dress.

Luckily for her, there was no queue at security this late in the morning, but the portly guard eyed her with annoyance when she approached, tossing a half eaten sausage roll aside.

“Name?” he asked, still chewing, holding his hand out for her wand to register it, not bothering to brush the greasy crumbs from his ruddy fingers.

“Pansy Parkinson,” she replied coolly, as her wand slid from her sleeve and into his hand.
The guard’s brows rose, sitting up straight from where he’d been slouched in his chair, evidently recognizing her name. Pansy resisted the urge to give him a real reason to be suspicious of her but simply kept her tight smile instead.

While her overall treatment from the wizarding public had vastly improved in the last few years, there were still some who were less than kind to her when they recognized her name and associated her with her family—or worse, remembered what she’d done to Potter during the battle.

“And what business do you have at the Ministry today?” He frowned, staring at her wand like it might cast an Unforgivable at any moment.

Pansy crossed her arms, feeling rather defensive, but trying to remain aloof. “I’m here to visit with someone in the DMLE.”

“Visitors for the short-term holding cells are meant to floo directly to the department during scheduled hours,” he replied, placing her wand on the desk for her to take back.

Pansy sniffed haughtily. “I’m not here to visit the holding cells. I need to see Harry Potter.”

The guard’s mouth fell open, then his head shook as if to gather his senses. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” she replied begrudgingly. “But this is an emergency.”

He shook his head. “You can’t just waltz in here demanding to see Harry Potter. We can’t just let anyone up to see him. There’s a very strict list of guests allowed to visit him, and you’re not on it—not to mention he’s a very busy man with a very important job.”

For a moment, Pansy was thrown back in time to a conversation she’d had with Potter himself. She so hated when the tables turned on her.

“Can you please send a memo to him, then? If you tell him Pansy Parkinson would like to speak with him he’ll send me right down.” She wasn’t actually certain that was true, but it was worth a try.

“I will not be bothering Mr. Potter with this nonsense. Have a nice day, Miss Parkinson. Thank you for visiting the Ministry of Magic.” The guard gave her a forced smile then relaxed into his chair, picking up his sausage roll, effectively dismissing her.

“Oh, you can’t be serious!” Pansy shouted, turning heads of the few employees lingering in the Atrium. “It’s not as if I plan to curse him! I just need a word!”

The guard narrowed his eyes at her, but the effect was lost due to the crumb of pastry left in his beard from his last bite. “Is that a threat?”

“No, but it should be!” Pansy screeched, thensnatched her wand and stomped off toward the floo.

Fucking Potter, making her life more difficult than it needed to be. All she wanted to do was figure out what he’d probably done to Theo, maybe shoot off a hex or two, but nothing less than he deserved, obviously.

‘Strict list of guests’ her arse! What other Aurors had a strict list of guests? Potter always got special treatment—always. It was annoying at Hogwarts, and it was bloody annoying now.

Who would want to see him anyway? Granger? Weas—Oh.

Pansy stopped walking abruptly, a slow smile spreading over her face. She turned back to the guard. “I’ll be back.”

Not bothering to wait for a response, she whipped back around, her short hair bouncing and walked past the public floos, toward the apparition point. She was outside of Ron’s shop a minute later.

The familiar smell of quidditch leather hit her as she opened the door. The shop seemed empty, and Ron wasn’t at the register or anywhere in sight.

“Hello?” she called tentatively

“Pans? Is that you?” Ron’s voice echoed from the open door behind the register. “I’m in the back!”

She followed his voice through the door, down a narrow corridor, made narrower by shelves of quidditch equipment and stacks of crates, to another open door. Knocking lightly on the side, she stepped in.

Ron was in the center of the room, shirtless, pale freckled chest glistening with sweat as he lifted a thick steel bar with big black disks attached to each end.

“Twenty-eight..” he grunted, lifting it again then breathing out as he lowered it. “Twenty-nine…Thirty!” He dropped the heavy object and it clanged against the floor as it bounced.

Ron smiled brightly at her, taking a cloth from the waist of his joggers to wipe the sweat from his face. “Wasn’t expecting you this morning—I thought you had to work.”

Pansy’s mouth was suddenly quite dry. “I thought you did, too, but here we are.”

Ron laughed, flexing one of his considerably muscled arms. “I am working. I usually lift in the morning when it’s not busy—I’ve got an alarm set in case anyone comes in.” He grabbed what appeared to be his discarded jumper from the floor beside his feet, then looked back up at her, blue eyes questioning. “Should I put this back on or are you here for no-shirt times?”

Pansy pursed her lips, taking a deep breath through her nose. Theo really didn’t deserve her—she was such a good friend because the very thought, the mere suggestion of no-shirt times with Weasley at this moment, when he was all hot and muscled and sweaty as he was—well, evidently she was Theo’s strongest soldier.

“I’m here for shirt-on times, unfortunately,” she finally said, and almost folded at Ron’s disappointed expression. “But that doesn’t mean we cant have no-shirt times in the future.” She cleared her throat, standing tall, as he threw his jumper on and gave her a wink.

“What will you be needing, then? He asked, guiding her back out the door. “I thought you weren’t actually interested in quidditch, but if you’ve changed your mind—”

“No, I haven’t,” she said, “But I do need a favor.”

“A favor?” Ron hummed. “A favor from a Slytherin—you must need something important.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Ron.”

“Oh, don’t look so put out. I’m only teasing you.” He reached up and tucked her short hair behind her ear, thumb lingering along her cheek and chin. “Whatever it is, you’ve got it.”

“That’s terribly stupid of you,” she breathed, looking up through her lashes and into his bright eyes.

Ron snorted a laugh. “I know you won’t take advantage, Slytherin or not. Besides, a favor implies I’ll get one back, and I know just what I want.”

Pansy melted. Fucking Theo. She needed to be strong. “Can you get me into the DMLE to see Potter?”

Stepping back, Ron blinked in surprise. “Yeah, sure, but can I ask why?”

“Ugh! I’m probably not going to hurt him, okay? I just need to talk.” Pansy crossed her arms, still feeling defensive over the guard’s reaction to her request early

Ron shrugged. “I never said you were, but most people who need to speak to Harry don’t need me to help…unless they’re using me. He generally prefers blokes, you know. ”

At his quiet, almost hurt sounding admission, Pansy shook her head. “I’m not trying to fuck Potter, Ron, and I’m not using you. Well, I’m not using you to fuck Potter, anyway. I’m really only interested in doing that with you at the moment.”

Ron’s smile returned, just like that.

Pansy stepped closer again. “I just need to use you to get me past the guard and into Potter’s office so I can find out what happened with him and Theo at their meeting over the weekend that I believe caused Theo to skip work today.”

“Oh, yeah, of course, Pans—I can do that.” He pointed his wand at the shop’s door, locking and warding it before flipping the sign to indicate the shop was closed to any potential customers. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her into the back again to his floo.

Back at the Ministry again, Pansy smiled smugly as they approached the security check again. This time, the guard was talking to another visitor, so the had to stop at the front of the queue, but once he finished registering the other witch’s wand and sent her on her way, the guard looked over to them, and his jaw fell open at the sight of Pansy standing with Ron, holding his hand.

“Ron Weasley and Pansy Parkinson to see Harry Potter,” Ron said, holding out his wand then gesturing for Pansy to do the same.

The guard blinked at Ron’s wand dumbly then looked back up at him. “Ron Weasley?”

Ron chuckled. “It’s me, Ed. Check the wand.”

The security guard, Ed, apparently, grabbed the wand, cast some spells, checked the tome labelled “W” behind his desk, and shook his head in disbelief. “What business do you have with Mr. Potter?

Narrowing his eyes, Ron assessed Ed. “I’m here to see Harry. As I have many times. Is there some kind of problem?”

Ed’s eyes flitted to Pansy then back to Ron. “She’s not on the list.”

“But I am, and I’m allowed to bring guests,” Ron answered.

Pansy felt exhilarated, like a student who’d just tattled on a bully and got to watch the teacher reprimand them. She hadn’t felt so vindicated in years.

“Well,” said Ron, “Aren’t you going to register her wand? We’re on a tight schedule.”

They weren’t, obviously, but this was fun. Pansy let her wand fall from her sleeve, and handed it to the guard with a cat-like grin. He didn’t meet her eyes which was wonderful. Once their wands were properly registered, and they received their visitor badges, Pansy squeezed Ron’s hand as they walked to the lifts.

“You were brilliant,” Pansy whispered in his ears, while they waited. Normally, she was hesitant to give compliments, even when they were due, but Ron was different. It felt deserved.

His pale cheeks reddened. “It was nothing, Pansy.”

“Not to me.”

They rode to the DMLE in silence, mostly because the lift doors were constantly opening as they stopped at every floor for memos and Ministry workers to fly in and out.

Once on their floor, Ron led the way, waving and greeting various Aurors and Hit Wizards as they weaved through the cubicles toward the back of the big open room where the offices of the higher ranks were located.

Eventually, Ron stopped at one of the doors and knocked. A plaque on the wall beside it read “Harry Potter, Lead Auror, Curse Breaker Liaison.” Sneering, Pansy looked away. She knew if he wasn’t the savior that he’d have a simple cubicle like all of the other younger aurors, but it was hardly the time to complain about favoritism and corruption in the Ministry.

The door opened, revealing a harried Potter. Parchment and quills littered his desh and the floor by the rubbish bin. His generally messy hair was a bowtruckle nest, standing on ends and mussed wildly. His rumbled auror robes hung off his slim shoulders, and his green eyes were shot with red. He looked awful. Pansy smiled.

“Ron?” Potter asked, taking his glass off to rub his eyes tiredly. “What’s going on? Why are you here?”

Ron walked in and made himself at home instantly, throwing himself onto the tiny soft Potter had crammed beside his bookshelf. “Pansy needed to talk to you.”

Potter put his glasses back on and sighed heavily, staring at her all the while. “I understand if Nott no longer wishes to work with me, but you didn’t need to come in person.”

Flicking her hair over her shoulder, Pansy fully entered the office, waving her hand to shut the door and she sat down in Potter’s guest chair. “And why exactly would you think that I’m here because of Theo?”

“Aren’t you?” Potter asked, looking at Ron who simply shrugged. Potter sat up straight, seemingly coming to some sort of realization. “Wait, why are you here with Ron? How do you two even know each other?”

“Uh, we went to school together, mate,” said Ron. “You should know—you were there too.”

Potter huffed, shaking his head. “I know you went to Hogwarts together, obviously, Ron, but if I remember correctly, you weren’t friends.”

Shrugging, Pansy lifted her hand to examine her manicure. “We are now.”

Head moving from Pansy to Ron, the Pansy to Ron again, Potter seemed to be thinking quite hard. “Are you two…together, then?”

“No,” Pansy said, at the same time Ron said, “Yes.” Pansy turned around, eyes wide with surprise.

“Wait, I thought we were.” Ron sat up straight for where he’d been lounging, eyes tracing her face, mouth a thin, serious line. “You said you only want to fuck me.”

“Oh, Merlin, why’d I even ask?” Potter lamented. “Why me?”

Pansy didn’t want Potter to see her blush, so she faced Ron fully. “Ron.”

“What?” Ron asked. “I think that means we’re together—at least, we’re not fucking other people together while we’re having sex together, so I don’t think that could mean anything other than us being together, right?”

“Ron, mate, you’re not making any sense,” Potter said, but Pansy disagreed, so she waved him off.

“No, that does makes sense,” she said. “I suppose we are.”

“Great,” said Ron, winking at her before laying back onto the sofa again.

Potter released a long-suffering sigh. “Right, now that’s settled, can you please explain what you’re both doing in my office?”

“I told you,” Ron said, “Pansy needs to talk to you.”

“About Theo?” Potter asked, hesitance clear in the set of his jaw and tone of his voice.

“Yes, about Theo,” said Pansy, eyes narrowed. “He didn’t come to work today, and I can’t reach him. His floo is blocked, and he hasn’t responded to any of my owls since Friday. Naturally, I searched his desk—”

“Naturally,” Potter snorted.

“—and found that he met with you over the weekend. He’s been absolutely mad over you the last few weeks, and I’m worried that he’s gone off the bend.”

Potter perked up. “Has he?”

“Gone off the bend? That’s what I’m trying to find out, Potter.”

“No, no, no,” Potter said, leaning forward. “The mad thing—what did you mean by that?”

“Seriously, mate?” asked Ron from behind her.

“Yes, but not in the way I think you’re hoping,” Pansy clarified. “Or maybe it is. Theo is…complicated, and I don’t pretend to understand the way he thinks, but I know whatever is going on between the two of you isn’t healthy.”

“There isn’t anythi—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Potter. Clearly, there must be something. You’re meeting up outside of DMLE business, he’s spending countless hours threading those ugly little beads on string for you, and he didn’t show up to work with no notice after having some kind of weird date with you.”

“It wasn’t that weird,” Potter said, one hand coming up to fiddle the hideous bracelet she hadn’t noticed was fashioned to his wrist.

“So it was a date!” Pansy’s fists clenched. What the hell had Potter done?

“No! I never said—”

“You implied,” chimed Ron.

“Well, it wasn’t,” said Potter, looking guilty. “But he was…upset…when he left.”

“What. Did. You. Do.” Pansy asked through clenched teeth.

“Nothing!” Potter insisted, “We were talking, and I did almost kiss him—”

“Bloody hell,” said Ron, as Pansy stood, wand in hand.

“I said almost!” Potter raised his hands in surrender. “I didn’t because we’d both been drinking, and it felt wrong to do it then.”

“So why was he upset?” Pansy’s grip loosened on her wand, but she didn’t lower it.

“I haven’t a clue!” Potter said.

“Well, you need to find out,” said Pansy. “Use your auror bureaucratic authority to open his floo and perform a wellness check or something.”

“That’s—I’m not allowed to do that,” said Potter.

“Fucking Gryffindors,” said Pansy, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Can you please be ignoble for once in your perfect, golden life?”

“It’s a gross invasion of Theo’s privacy,” said Potter, frowning. “I could and should lose my job if I—”

“My gods!” Pansy sighed. “I’m a citizen asking for a wellness check on my friend who could be seriously injured or dead.”

Potter’s eyes widened. “Do you really think that?”

“It doesn’t matter, Potter! Just put that I do in whatever you have to file to get this done.” Pansy really should earn some sort of trophy for having the most patience anyone has ever had, ever. “Listen to me, file the paper, then you need to pull some of those Boy-Who-Lived strings with your superiors and make yourself the Auror that performs the check.”

“I don’t think he wants to see me,” Potter said. “I can send another team.”

“No, Potter! No!” Pansy looked back at Ron for support. He just shrugged. “Theo’s house is quite literally stuffed to the brim with illegal dark objects and drugs. He’ll be arrested on the spot. It has to be you.”

Potter’s green eyes were wide as saucers. “If that’s true, you think I won’t arrest him.”

Hands slamming onto his messy desk, Pansy leaned over it, getting right in Potter’s face. “No, I don’t think you will.”

“She’s right, mate,” added Ron. “You won’t.”

“And why not?” Potter asked, directing it at Pansy, eyes searching her face as if he’d find the answer there.

“You know why,” she breathed.

His eyes closed and he gulped thickly, nodding. “I do.”

“Fabulous.” Pansy stood, looking over her shoulder to find Ron staring at her arse. “Weasley, I think it’s time I returned that favor I owe you, and I find that we’re both free.”

Ron scrambled up from the sofa to join her, and Pansy turned back to Potter. “What are you waiting for! Go!”

Potter gave her an annoyed look, but listened, slapping Ron on the shoulder in goodbye as he left his office ahead of them.
Ron’s hand trailed down her back as he murmured in her ear. “That was hot.”

Pansy smiled, grabbing a fistful of jumper and pulling him in for a kiss. “More where that came from.”

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy — 2005

Despite the sticking charm he’d expertly cast before apparating, the six flat boxes Draco carried wobbled dangerously as he spun into existence onto the front steps of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. The Black ancestral home loomed over him, gloomy in the winter evening light. While he could tell Potter and Granger had attempted to liven the place up a bit with some fresh paint and charmed planters, the facade looked a bit…well, grim. 

Shifting the boxes to one hand Draco ran a hand threw his hair and took a shaky breath in. Part of him felt ridiculous for being so nervous, but he felt like he was interviewing for a new job, but in this case the position was ‘father.’ Swallowing down that thought, he flicked his wrist, sending a pulse of magic at the brass knocker. 

The door creaked open, ominously slow. He expected to see Granger or one of the children inside but was instead met with the bloodshot eyes of a gnarled old house elf, barring his yellowed teeth in a twisted smile. 

“Draco Malfoy,” the elf graveled out, eyes running over him, accessing. 

“The one and only,” Draco said, flashing the elf his best Malfoy smile, the one that got him the majority of his clients.

The elf grunted in return, clearly unimpressed.

“And you are?” Draco asked, but the elf didn’t respond, just kept staring.

After a near minute of standing there, rather awkwardly, in the cold on the stoop, it became apparent to Draco that the elf wasn’t interested in welcoming him inside. He adjusted the pizzas to a more comfortable position.“Right, well, I’m here for dinner.” He nodded to the tower of boxes in his hand. “I’ve brought pizza.”

The weird old elf actually growled at him which was so bizarre that Draco had to snort a laugh. “I didn’t know Granger had an elf.”

Shaking his head, the elf stepped back, allowing Draco entrance at last. “The Mother does not have Kreacher, foolish Malfoy.” 

“Okay,” Draco replied, not sure what to make of that.

“And Kreacher will watch you. Oh, yes, he will.” With that he snapped his long fingers and the heavy front door slammed shut. Then Kreacher apparated with a pop, leaving Draco alone in the entryway. He might’ve suspected he’d come to the wrong house, had the elf not known Granger.

“Hello?” He called, to no answer, but he could hear murmured voices down the tight corridor past the stairs. He wasn’t sure what to do. This wasn’t the greeting he’d been expecting—well, he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting exactly, but it wasn’t a deranged house elf leaving him alone in the foyer with no instructions or indication that he ought to let himself in.

With a shrug of his non-pizza-bearing shoulder, Draco followed the voices, trying to calm his nerves by taking stock of the place.

The house was…eccentric, to say the least. He ducked his head into the first room, a sitting room. There was an odd mixture of modern muggle decor and antique magical pieces, Black heirlooms more than likely, now that he thought about it, but stuffed as it was with furniture, it was clean and warm, and there were photographs everywhere. Draco was used to the judgemental eyes of portraits following him about or his mother’s favored pastorals. This was so different.

Unable to help himself, he entered the room and placed the pizza boxes onto the side table beside the very cushy, well-loved sofa. 

He returned to the wall he’d spied from the corridor where dozens of photographs moved in their time loops. There were several of Potter with various red heads, presumably Weasleys judging by the clothing quality. Granger, of course, was heavily featured, with her hair and her eyes and her smile, but so were the twins. 

His twins.

His twins in various stages of theirs lives in which he’d not had the chance to know them. One had them lying together in a crib, two blonde tufted bundles, swaddled in muslin so that only their sweet sleeping faces peeked out. In another Potter held them both while they cried, one baby tucked into each arm. The prat looked exhausted as he bobbed up and down trying to get them to settle, giving the camera an exasperated look.

Draco was struck with a pang of jealousy so acute that he nearly set the frame ablaze. Why did it always have to be Potter? 

These were Draco’s children, not his. Why did Potter get to experience their lives and see them—actually see them as those little sleeping bundles while Draco was doing fuck all? 

The more pictures he saw, the more devastating the moment became. Lyra was so playful, gorgeous, eyes sparkling with intelligence, just like her mum, and smiling brightly in every picture. Scorpius’ personality was far more subtle, but he was adorable, too. One picture showed him giving Granger a flower, then whispering into her ear, which had her looking up at the camera and smiling, eyes shining with tears. 

It was all too much. He’d missed it, all of it, and those were moments, ages, milestones he’d never get back and they’d never do for the first time again.

The worst part was, he decided, coming to a picture of Granger with Potter and both the twins at some quidditch match, was that it was his fucking fault.

His jealousy, the same jealousy he felt so viscerally now, is what took this from him. He could’ve been in these photographs. 

The sound of hurried footsteps coming down the hallway made him bristle. Blinking rapidly, he wiped the wetness from his cheeks and stepped back from the photographs, internally cursing his curiosity. 

How embarrassing would it be to have his children find him in their sitting room crying?

Hermione Granger — 2005

Hermione was not in the mood for company, and neither was Scorpius.

If Malfoy had just stuck to the original plan, this wouldn’t have happened. They’d been their usual cheery selves the day before, but Scor hadn’t slept well last night, so he was overtired.

And that morning, Scorpius had run down the stairs, half dressed in his uniform, shouting that he was late for school. He had to be reminded that they don’t have school today because they’re on Christmas holiday, and that reminded Scor that he’d have to go back to school when the holiday ended, which started their usual row about his schooling over breakfast. 

Scor hadn’t eaten since which worried her, and Hermione just felt so incredibly guilty. She knew he wasn’t adapting to muggle primary school so easily as Lyra, but as a muggleborn, she felt it was important for him to understand both worlds, just as she had. Many halfbloods chose muggle primary rather than traditional wizarding home schooling with parents or tutors. It made them more well-rounded students and humans, in Hermione’s opinion. All she wanted was for her children to have the best possible education, but she’d never imagined muggle primary would be so hard for Scor.

Now he sat miserably across the table from her, his little socked feet kicking in the air where he couldn’t reach the ground while Kreacher pet his blonde curls and whispered reassurances. 

Further grating on Hermione’s nerves, while they waited for Malfoy to arrive with dinner, Lyra was bouncing around the room, too excited to sit, and too used to her brother’s and mum’s arguments on the matter of their schooling to care about the dour atmosphere.

A chime alerted them that someone was at the front door. Hermione jumped up to let Draco in. 

Before she could go, a clammy hand wrapped around her wrist, and Kreacher tutted. “Kreacher will let the Malfoy in. The Mother can stay and wait with the children as is proper for an ancient and noble house. A Malfoy expects it, he does.”

He was gone with a pop. Sighing, Hermione returned to her seat as Lyra rushed over, practically vibrating with excitement. 

“Do you think he’ll want to see my room?” she asked, bouncing up and down. 

“He might,” said Hermione. “You can take him up there after we eat if he does.” She turned to her sulking son. “You can show him yours too, Scor.”

Scorpius scrunched his face and looked away. “I don’t want to. I hate my room.”

“Hate is an unkind word, Scor,” Lyra chastised, putting her hands on her hips.

“You don’t hate your room,” Hermione sighed, wishing she’d ask Malfoy if they could postpone this again. Scorpius in a grumpy mood could be…difficult. And while she knew no children were perfect, and she was sure Malfoy knew that well enough, Hermione worried how Malfoy would react. 

“Yes, I do,” he said, crossing his arms with a petulant frown. 

“No, you don’t!” Lyra crossed her arms, too. 

“Shut it, Lyra. I do,” said Scorpius. Kreacher reappeared beside him, resuming his petting and shushing immediately. “I don’t want to live here anymore. I want to live with Teddy. Then I can learn with him.”

Kreacher’s bloodshot eyes glared at Hermione over Scor’s head. “A son of the House of Black should be taught at home until Hogwarts. It is what’s done.”

Hermione huffed. She tried to be kind to Kreacher, really she did. He loved her children, which was endearing if not a little creepy, but there was only so much she could take. “Don’t you have a job?”

“Hogwarts students is on holiday, so Kreacher is not needed. Kreacher wants to be here with his twins so he can take care of them as they should be.”

Ignoring the implication that she didn’t take care of her own children, Hermione prepared to give him a task to get him out of the kitchen, when she remembered something crucial. 

“Kreacher, where’s Malfoy?”

Lips twisting into a smile, Kreacher’s eyes met hers again. “Kreacher let him in.”

“Right, but where is he?”

Kreacher shrugged his bony shoulders. “He is in.”

With a heavy sigh, Hermione stood and left the kitchen in search of Malfoy. She didn’t know what Kreacher had up his non-existent sleeves, but knowing the elf, it was nothing good, so the sooner she found Malfoy the better. 

She headed toward the front door, but movement in the sitting room caught her eye. There he was, standing in there with a mountain of pizza boxes and suspiciously red-rimmed eyes. His expression was almost guilty.

“Malfoy?” Hermione asked, earning a nervous smile. “Are you alright?”

He nodded hurriedly. “Alright, yeah, just lost.”

“Sorry about that,” Hermione said, gesturing for him to follow her. “Kreacher is…odd, but he means well for the most part..” 

“I’m sure he does.” Malfoy adjusted the boxes and came into the corridor. “Where did he come from? You didn’t have an elf in eighth year.”

“He came with the house.”

“Oh?”

“He was the Black family house elf. As Sirius’ heir, he went to Harry with the house, Grimmauld Place, and after the war, Harry set him free,” Hermione explained. Seeing Malfoy’s confused expression, she added, “He’s here of his own free will. Technically, he works at Hogwarts, but he’s hardly ever there. He likes the children. I suppose he sort of views them as the Black heirs.” Coming into the kitchen, she trailed off. 

Malfoy seemed disturbed by this, scrunching his brows and opening his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted before he could reply.

“Draco!” Lyra shouted, barreling toward them. “You came!”

“Of course I did,” he said gently, Kreacher apparently forgotten. “And I brought pizza.”

“And chips?” Scorpius asked in a quiet voice so forlorn that Kreacher gave Hermione a scathing look.

“Chips?” Malfoy asked, turning to Hermione in what she could only describe as panic.

“We don’t need chips,” Hermione reassured, taking the boxes from Malfoy’s hands. “There’s more than enough pizza here. Merlin, Malfoy, did you order the entire menu?”

“Draco,” Lyra said, head tilted and eyes blinking sweetly, manipulative little thing she was, “would you like to see my room after dinner?”

“Malfoy did not order the chips, as Kreacher smells no oil,” growled Kreacher.

“I’m—I can go get some.” Draco pointed to the door, brows raised in question.

“That’s unnecessary,” Hermione said, summoning some dishes from the cabinet. “Scor is just tired, so he’s being a contrarian.” 

“I am not!”

“It’s a very nice room, and mummy let me choose my duvet,” said Lyra.

“I don’t want to eat pizza. I want chips.” Scorpius tightened his arms around his chest.

“Pizza is your favorite,” Hermione reminded him gently. 

“But I don’t want it!”

“I’m sorry, Scorpius. I didn’t realize you wanted chips. I’ll—I can get them. Just give me a few minutes.” The stress of it all had Draco sweating.

“No,” said Hermione, as Scorpius looked at Draco, bottom lip quivering. 

“Kreacher will get his little master his chips.” He was gone before Hermione could stopping, knowing the elf was about to steal some dodgy chips from Merlin knows where. 

“If you don’t want to see it, I won’t make you,” Lyra said, frowning.

“Lyra,” Hermione warned.

“No, I absolutely do want to see it, Lyra,” said Draco with a bewildered smile. “I—I’m just trying to keep up.” 

Hermione sighed. “Welcome to Grimmauld Place.”

Draco Malfoy — 2005

Kreacher returned within a minute, a brown paper bag, dotted with oil stains clutched in one hand. “Chips for little master.”

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Scorpius said, then gave the elf a small smile. His eyes were still sad, and Draco felt awful. He was already mucking this up, and he’d only been here for ten minutes. 

“I’ll bring some next time, Scorpius, I promise.”

“Next time?” Lyra asked excitedly, earning a laugh from Draco. 

“Of course,” Draco said.

“Shall we eat then?” Hermione asked, opening the box on the top of the pile. “Tuna and sweet corn?”

Draco shrugged. “I wasn’t sure what the kids liked, so I ordered one of each pizza on the menu.”

“But not chips,” Kreacher said, smiling maliciously.

“Not chips, no.”

“It’s alright,” Scorpius said, finally looking at Draco. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“Scor is grumpy today,” said Granger, ruffling Scorpius’ hair as passed to take the seat beside him. “Don’t take it personally. He’s angry with me, not you.”

The scowl Scorpius gave his mother would send an army to their knees. Draco began to worry again about Kreacher’s influence on the lad.

“Can I ask why?” Draco said, unable to resist. Lyra took his hand and pulled him to the table, seating him beside her.

“Kreacher will get drinks, he will.” A snap of his fingers and four glasses appeared, another snap and they filled with fizzy brown liquid. A muggle drink of some kind, Draco presumed, not recognizing it. 

“I don’t like primary, but mum says I have to go because it’s good for me,” said Scorpius. “It’s not fair.”

“Marguerita, please, with chips,” said Lyra, and Granger started opening more boxes to find whatever pizza that could be.

“Ah,” said Draco, choosing a random slice for himself, “and why don’t you like it?” 

Scorpius looked at him sister, then back to Draco. “Because I just don’t. I want to learn with Teddy.”

“Andromeda’s grandson,” Granger explained, anticipating his next question in that quintessentially Hermione Granger tone. It almost hurt to hear, and Draco felt like he couldn’t breathe for a moment. “She teaches him at home.”

Draco nodded. He knew of Andromeda’s tragedy and her grandson, of course, but he’d never met his aunt or the child. “And teaching Scorpius and Lyra would be too much?”

“No,” said Granger, giving Scorpius a wary look. “She offered, and she’d love to have them, but—”

“Mummy makes us go to muggle school.” Lyra smiled at him. She had a bit of red sauce on her cheek that he vanished with a wave of his hand instinctually. “It’s good fun! The muggles do all sorts of things like maths and art and football, and I have loads of friends.”

“Sounds like you enjoy it,” said Draco.

“I do!”

“Well, I don’t,” said Scorpius, pushing his plate of chips away.

Granger sighed. “Just finish out the year, darling. Give it a chance, and then we’ll talk about it again over summer holidays.”

Draco wasn’t sure what to say. He felt conflicted. On one hand, this was his son—his son who was very clearly miserable—and the solution seemed simple in his eyes. While Scorpius hadn’t shared exactly why he didn’t like his school, it was clear to Draco that the reason must be more than just because.

On the other hand, he felt it wasn’t his place to object, at least not yet, and knowing Granger, there was definitely a reason she’d chosen this path for the twins’ education. He also didn’t really know the children yet. Perhaps Scorpius was just prone to dramatics. Merlin knew if that was the case the boy would’ve gotten it honestly.

To cover the heavy silence, Draco picked up his fizzy drink to give it a go, but just before the glass touched his lips, he was hit with a strange but familiar odor.” 

He pulled the glass away and eyed it dubiously.

“It’s only Coca Cola, Malfoy,” said Granger. “It won’t bite.” 

“I call it Coke,” Lyra said, less than helpfully.

“Everyone does,” added Scorpius, as if it should be obvious.

“Is it meant to smell like Hemlock?” Draco asked.

“What? No, it smells like—well, it’s difficult to describe, I suppose, but it certainly doesn’t smell like Hemlock,” said Granger.

“It smells like Coke,” Lyra said, much less than helpfully.

“Let me see, then.” Granger strained, reaching across the table to take the glass from Draco, her mass of hair flying about the place, blocking Kreacher’s long fingers as he  reached out, too.

“No, no, let Kreacher,” the elf drawled, staring at Granger’s curls with loathing. 

Granger brushed him off and grabbed the glass first. She took a delicate whiff then gave Kreacher a disappointed frown. “Kreacher.”

“Kreacher couldn’t find anything odorless, but he will next time.”

Draco scoffed, incredulous. The bloody elf had tried to poison him.

“No, there won’t be a next time, Kreacher. What have we told you about poisoning house guests?”

“It’s an awful thing to do,” said Scorpius. “Uncle Ron was poorly for days after the last time.”

“You’d better say you’re sorry, Kreacher,” added Lyra. 

“Kreacher is only sorry he didn’t succeed,” the elf growled, staring right into Draco’s soul. With a final sneer, followed by a pop, he disappeared.

Granger released a long, heavy breath, slumping into her seat while Lyra and Scorpius giggled, covering their mouths with their little hands.

Welcome to Grimmauld Place, indeed.