Chapter Text
Hermione: I’m going to do it.
Albus: You’ve said that before.
Hermione: It’s actually disheartening you already know what I’m about to say.
Albus: Let me guess—this has something to do with the very blonde, very prattish man that acts like a gift from the gods in front of everyone in our Models & Computing class?
Hermione: …
Albus: You’ve been in love since undergrad, Hermione.
Hermione: Well, fine.
Albus: Right. So what—exactly—are you going to do?
Hermione: I’m going to walk right up to him at the Quidditch party tonight and ask for his number.
Albus: Hermione.
Hermione: Albus.
Hermione: What? You think I can’t do it?
Albus: No, I think you absolutely can. I just don’t think you will.
Hermione: Because?
Albus: Because…you’ve had so many chances in the past, and I’m starting to think you like the idea of having a crush, more than you like the idea of acting on one.
Hermione: Okay, harsh.
Hermione: What about if I’m wearing this?
Hermione: {Sends photo of sexy dress}
Albus: Holy fuck, Hermione, you’ll end up with more than Malfoy’s number. Mark my words.
Hermione: Will I see you later?
Albus: Can’t. Library for my Large Scale Functioning case study.
Hermione: Liar. Does this have anything to do with the ever studious Jasper Nott being in the library 24/7?
Albus: Nott at all.
Albus: Sorry…couldn't help myself. But, if I happen to be seated at the study carrel next to his, that will be by total and complete happenstance.
Albus: Don’t hate me. We’re one face-to-face away from snogging in the stacks. I can’t miss the opportunity.
Hermione: No, I get it. Go get your man, Potter.
Albus: Night, Granger.
Later that night
Albus: {Sends blurry photo from party}
Albus: I can’t believe you just did that. You literally walked right up to him, Granger. Well done, you.
Hermione: I know. He put his arm around me. I’m hyperventilating in the loo. Wait, are you here?
Albus: I may have left the library early when Nott failed to make an appearance.
Hermione: Bummer.
Albus: Not to worry, I have a plan for when I see him next.
Hermione: Right. So, should I text him right away?
Albus: No, doll. Let him sweat it a little bit. I feel like your fairy sext mother. Just wave my wand, say Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo, and you’ll get laid.
Hermione: Oh no.
Albus: What oh no? What is it?
Hermione: Where Scorpius wrote his number. It’s smudged.
Hermione: Well fuck. Do I ask him again?
Albus: Are you insane? No. He’s seen you already tonight. You obviously flirted. You have to leave him wanting more.
Hermione: I have absolutely no idea what to do.
Albus: It’s not as bad as you think.
Albus: Shite, maybe you should try texting the number. You don’t want to lose momentum.
Hermione: YOU JUST TOLD ME NOT TO.
Albus: Fuck, I know, but look, I don’t even see him anymore. Maybe he’s already home. Probably thinking about you in that hot little strappy number. If we play this right, it could really work out in your favour.
Hermione: Like sexting?
Albus: Stop putting the carriage before the Abraxan.
Hermione: Oh gods, fine. What’s my opening line?
Albus: Be mysterious.
Hermione: Have I expressed how endlessly unhelpful you are?
Five minutes pass
Hermione: Hi! hello? Did I lose you?
Hermione: Oh, Jasper Nott just got here, didn’t he?
Albus: Shite, fuck, I’m sorry. Am I a terrible best friend?
Hermione: Not at all. Go be adorable. I can handle this. I’m Hermione fucking Granger. Top of my class at Hogwarts.
Albus: You won the Gibbons Arithmancy Prize. Twice. Your CV is stunning, darling, just like you.
Hermione makes sure the latch on the loo door is secure before she opens a new text thread. She takes a fortifying breath before typing in his number. The last digit is smudged, but she’s fairly certain it's an 8 and not a 3.
This is it.
She’s had a crush on Scorpius Malfoy for a while, tortured herself through the latter half of undergrad watching him date witch after witch.
Hermione: Hey, Malfoy
She can do this, she thinks, rubbing her sweaty palms against her dress before there’s a chance she loses grip, and regrettably drops her mobile in the toilet. The party is loud outside the door. It’s not really her scene, but two of the chasers on the uni team were in her undergrad cohort and continue to invite her to parties long after they’ve stopped sharing the same courses.
She nearly jumps out of her skin at the immediate response. She expected it would take him hours to respond, days even.
Malfoy: Who is this?
Before she can second guess herself, she takes her hair out of the high bun, and flips the camera forward facing. Click. Her curls are kept in place by charms, and her make-up hasn’t completely melted off in the sweaty, sticky atmosphere of the party. She looks hot, certainly hotter than she did at Hogwarts. Let him try and ignore her now.
Hermione: {Sends a sexy selfie}
Hermione: Any guesses?
Malfoy: I confess, I have absolutely no idea.
Hermione: Oh.
Fuck. This is an incredibly stupid idea. Silly, foolish woman.
Malfoy: Are we acquainted?
Are we acquainted? He must be pissed. That’s the only explanation she can fathom. Perhaps she drank more than she intended. The Quidditch house is known for deadly brews.
Hermione: Only for our entire adult lives, Malfoy.
Hermione: Look, it’s fine. No big deal.
She clicks off the screen, making her way downstairs. Once she enters the main party room again she’s promptly handed a sticky cup of some purplish elixir. Fuck it, she thinks, and she downs the entire cup in one long, steady gulp.
Two more cups, and three Weird Sister songs later, she’s incensed.
Are we acquainted? Is he fucking serious? How dare he! He can’t just blow her off like this. Sure, he’s basically only seen her as the smart little Gryffindor since back at Hogwarts, but she’s a mature adult woman now.
Hermione: You know what? How dare you, Malfoy.
Malfoy: How dare I?
Again, with the immediate response. She casts a Tempus, needing to attempt the spell three times before mastering it. She expected he would be long passed out, and she’d have time to unsend anything too incriminating.
Hermione: Yes. Right. How dare you. Pretending not to know me.
Malfoy: I have no recourse for misleading you.
She huffs. He’s so fucking posh, and prattish, and annoying, and she can just imagine the blonde strands falling across his perfect face as he sits up in bed typing his responses.
Hermione: Oh, shut it. I’m so sick of your self-importantance.
Malfoy: Please, do go on.
Hermione: You walk around our campus like your Merlin’s gift to Oxford’s Magical Institute.
Malfoy: I feel like that reputation is earned.
Hermione: Hardly, you’re barely a grown wizard. I’ve bested you in every class, you know. And yes, I don’t have as much experience as the witches you usually date, but I can’t see any reason to be so dismissive. I’m not just some stuffy nerd, I’ll have you know. I refuse to be less than exemplary at anything I do. Interpret that how you want.
She is actually spiraling. The room, and all the bodies in it began to spin.
Hermione: Oh, I’m making an utter and complete fool of myself.
Fuck, she texted that instead of only thinking it.
Malfoy: I think you’ll come to see this in a different light after a good night’s rest.
She wobbles in place, wanting so badly to apparate back to her flat, but not trusting her magic to deliver her there after drinking so many potions.
Hermione: I’ve made a horrible mistake.
Malfoy: I’m assuming you’re not home? Possibly intoxicated?
Hermione: Still at the Quidditch House. Well, outside of it.
Hermione slumps down on the nearest bench and strains her eyes until she can focus her wand in one place. Water streams from the tip and she lets it drip into her mouth. She hasn’t been this obliterated since Hogwarts Graduation. All over a stupid wizard. How could she? This is why she focuses most of her time on her studies. This is why she avoids the messier bits of dating.
The low rumble of a motor vehicle pulls up, and Hermione shields her wand. Cars are not unheard of on the Wizarding side of Oxford, but they are surely a rare occurrence.
Malfoy: The car is for you.
What? She scoffs, squinting her eyes so she can re-read the message. This wizard is maddening.
Malfoy: Go to the window, and say you're with Malfoy. Are you able to do that?
She certainly is. He doesn't need to know that standing on two feet is a struggle. Once safely buckled into the back seat, Hermione opens the text thread again.
Hermione: I don’t quite know what to say. Thank you, Scorpius. Please say we can forget this whole night ever happened.
Malfoy: You’re very welcome, but this isn’t Scorpius.
The car turns, and the potions slosh wickedly in her stomach. She feels the world tilt.
Hermione: I’m sorry, what?
Malfoy: It’s clear to me now this conversation was intended for my son.
Even in her haze she sees him clearly in her mind. Tall, salt and pepper hair, searing grey eyes. Not unlike his son’s. He’s breathtakingly handsome. Sometimes she spots him across campus, dress robe sleeves rolled up criminally high on his muscular forearms.
Professor Draco Malfoy.
She is mortified. Beyond mortified. The car pulls in front of her row of townhouses. Hers is more expensive than she would like, but they let it at a student discount, and at least she has a single flat. Basically floating up the front stairs, she flings open the door and collapses into her bed. She takes in the familiar scents of her room, mostly from her position face down on the quilt. Her limbs feel heavy, and before she can respond to him, or even adequately imagine Professor Malfoy in his teaching robes, she’s fast asleep.