Chapter Text
Hermione Granger owns a bookstore and cafe in downtown London. It opens at nine o'-clock in the morning on the dot every day. The cafe closes around two pm, but the bookstore is open until six-thirty pm every night, with a four pm to five pm break. Only one witch works there, the owner herself; it's easy, because the place is small enough. People have speculated whether she'll ever expand, or open more locations, or hire more workers, but she never does. She likes the simplicity of it all.
And it really is simple, her life. She wakes up at six o'-clock every morning—or earlier, if her child so desires—and makes breakfast in their apartment above the store. Banana pancakes, or cinnamon toast, or whatever else Scorpius wants, complete with milk for him, and coffee for her. They get dressed around seven, teeth brushed, Hermione's medication taken, Scorpius's lunch packed, and then they're at daycare by eight. The three-and-a-half-year-old is left with a kiss on his head and a promise to be back by four-thirty.
This gives Hermione about an hour to get Timebound Books up and ready for customers. She turns on the coffee pot, takes a quick inventory of the ingredients, and adjusts the menu for the special drinks of the day. Once she's done in the cafe, she takes inventory of the books on the shelves and puts out some new arrivals.
When the clock hits nine, she turns the sign on the door to OPEN and makes her way behind the counter, sipping a cup of tea and sitting on her stool. She always keeps a book beside her for slow mornings. She misses the morning Ministry rush because she doesn't open until nine, but Devon, a nineteen-year-old student at Wizarding King's College London, comes in every morning right at opening, purchasing a coffee to-go and two books.
From there, everything is different from day to day. Hermione's business doesn't sell food, but the sandwich shop across the road only sells food, so they share a customer base, giving her a bit of a lunch rush around twelve-thirty. An hour later, Hermione begins cleaning up the cafe, shutting down the coffee pot and wiping down the counters. Around four, she flips the sign on the front door to TEMPORARILY CLOSED and finishes ringing up whoever is left in the store with their books, and goes to retrieve Scorpius. He's usually quite sweaty from play when she gets there, and so she brings him home and gives him a shower, plus dinner.
Then it's back downstairs they go, and he gets to sit behind the counter. Around five in the evening, Devon sometimes returns, usually searching for a textbook. On occasion, Hermione will take pity on him and whip him up a shot of espresso, on the house. He'll say hello to Scorpius and then whisk away again, off to study; Hermione remembers those days, but she was younger, and much less tired of learning.
Scorpius usually starts getting tired by six, and she starts closing up. She'll have one or two stragglers close to the end of the day, but she always tells them they must be gone by six-thirty. Then locks the doors, gathers her son up into her arms, and makes her way back upstairs. Bedtime with Scorpius is always an affair: his white-blond hair gets stuck in the comb, and he argues about what pajamas to wear. He always wants three stories instead of the two that he's allotted, and his nightlight must be set to the blue setting or it's all wrong. He has the imperiousness of his father, really; sometimes he'll sniff haughtily and Hermione will be reminded of the elder Malfoy, the one she fell in love with.
Once Scorpius is asleep, hopefully by seven-fifteen but definitely closer to seven-forty-five, Hermione goes back downstairs, doing income calculations and other mundane tasks. And then finally, around eight-thirty, she gets ready for bed herself, tying her hair into braids and brushing her teeth; on Saturdays, she owls Draco to make sure they're on the same page about the parent switch the next day. She'll climb into bed with a book, and she's always fast asleep by eleven. And the next day—unless it's Sunday—it all begins again.
Sundays are weird, because Scorpius doesn't go to daycare and the store isn't open and she has to see Draco. Her ex-husband has partial custody of Scorpius just like she does, and gets their son every other week, and they usually meet at Charing Cross, right in the middle of the city. They never stay long; even after three years of divorce, it hurts very much to see Draco's face.
Because once upon a time, after the war but before whispered late-night arguments and paperwork that meant saying goodbye, Hermione fell in love with the man. Ministry-mandated study partners in eighth year started with glares; glares turned into heated discussions about the meaning of a particular rune that from there quickly became chaste kisses between stacks.
Graduation made things public, but the perk of being best friends with the Chosen One is that he can make people shut up very quickly. After being in the public eye for so long, Hermione decided to open the shop (and on occasion, she does deal with people looking for an autograph or a photo, but thankfully it's not often); Draco wanted to become an Auror, and ended up being very good at it. They were twenty-two when they married, despite more public outcry and everyone saying that young love wouldn't last; then three years later, Scorpius was born.
Somewhere in-between the marriage and the birth of their child, a few things started to fall apart. Draco started working more, and Hermione saw him even less; he was constantly sleeping, or working, and Hermione started to feel less and less seen by him, which was hard when half the reason she fell for him in the first place was because he saw her for what she was.
And then her nightmares returned, and sometimes he'd sleep through it; other times her scar would burn at the touch of someone with Black blood in their veins. She couldn't help it, residual magic and all, but that strained their relationship, too.
And then Scorpius was born, and half the time Hermione felt like she was on her own. She'd be depressed when nursing, but Draco was so caught up in work that he didn't notice. He helped change diapers, helped with bedtime, helped with everything, but he rarely stopped to check in with her.
So she filed the paperwork, talked to a lawyer, and he agreed. And that was what finally broke it for good, that he didn't fight her on it. If he had, she would have shredded the papers, offered counseling, anything. But he didn't; his one request, in fact, was that he get equal time with their son every year. And she gave him that, because how could she not?
So she sees him four times a month now, every Sunday; and sometimes, Scorpius will ask why he can't be with both of them, and she'll catch Draco Occluding, and that's when she'll remember that during that entire time, their entire rocky period, he was hiding himself behind a wall, and she just hates that he felt like he had to do it with her, his wife.
September 21st, 2012, is a Friday, and starts off completely unremarkable. Scorpius wakes up at five-forty and wants cherries; Hermione has to tell him they don't have those right now, and he settles for blueberries. She carries him into the kitchen and asks him what he wants for breakfast, after setting him down in his chair.
Egg, he signs.
"Hmm," Hermione muses, tapping her chin with her forefinger. "Eggs in what way, love?"
Scorpius grins and gives the sign for omelet. She smiles and gets to work. Flicking her wand at her television—modified to withstand magic—it turns to the kids channel; Scorpius only ever gets to watch television in the mornings, while she's making breakfast.
Hermione hums a little tune to herself as she makes her omelets; Scorpius's is smaller, and she cuts it up before setting it on a kid plate with blueberries and a glass of chocolate milk. She helps herself to some strawberries along with a strong cup of coffee and her own omelet. Scorpius eats his meal happily, signing about dinosaurs in-between bites, and then keeps signing at her as she eats, even when he's done. She responds with dry remarks about the awesomeness of the Stegosaurus, and asks him to clear the plates.
Resting her chin on her palm, she watches her son fondly as he reaches up and pushes the plate onto the counter. He's just tall enough to reach. He's an even mix of the two of them: his hair is Draco's color but Hermione's texture; he has Draco's grey eyes and the shape of Hermione's nose, dad's haughtiness and mom's curiosity. Hermione has never seen anything more perfect in her entire life.
It never mattered to her, nor to Draco, that Scorpius would never speak. When they found out, Hermione asked Draco if he might be alright with the two of them learning signs, and he agreed; they started teaching Scorpius early, so they would be able to understand him as much as possible. Their son picked it up fast.
"Alright, darling," she says, standing up from the table when he comes back over to her. "Let's go brush our teeth and put on some day clothes."
I wanna wear shorts today, Mama! Scorpius follows her into his room, running to the chest of drawers and pulling clothes out.
"Shorts it is," she chuckles. She helps him get dressed—in a t-shirt with the Octonauts on it and some red shorts, then sets him on her bed as she disappears into the closet to get dressed herself. She decides, after a moment, on comfortable but classy: jeans, white fitted shirt, tennis shoes. Scorpius claps when she returns with her best catwalk. She loves the smile that appears on his face every time she pretends to be a model for him.
He holds up eight fingers, scoring her at an eight out of ten, and she grins. "Why, thank you. Very generous. Now—" she carefully lifts him off the bed and sets him on his feet on the floor—"raspberry or mint toothpaste?"
Scorpius scrunches his nose up at the idea of mint. Mama, mint is yucky.
"I know you think so, but let's be kind, okay? Just because you don't like it doesn't mean other people don't. Papa really likes minty things." The words are out before she can stop them, and she resigns herself to the fact that she has opened an entirely new discussion.
Scorpius furrows his eyebrows, thinking hard. Why?
Hermione laughs at the unexpected question. "He just does, the same way you like cucumbers but he doesn't."
But I always get them when I'm at his house.
Hermione squeezes some kids toothpaste onto his brush, then adult toothpaste onto hers. "Because he knows you like it, and he loves you."
Scorpius nods slowly and steps up onto his stool so he can spit properly into the sink.
Hermione pats his head. "Now brush those teeth, love. We need to leave in ten minutes."
Thankfully, with the way the apartment is structured, she can see the bathroom from the kitchen, so she's able to go about making his lunch while keeping an eye on him. His lunch consists of carrot sticks, pretzels, a small helping of mac and cheese, and a Friday treat of a small chocolate chip cookie. Hermione is very lucky to have been given a child who will eat his vegetables even without her there to see it.
Just as she's tucking his lunch box into his backpack, he comes barreling into the kitchen looking for something. Where's Leonard? He wants to come to school today.
Ah, yes, Leonard, the stuffed koala Scorpius has had since he was a baby. Daycare has naptime, and Scorpius is constantly changing which plushies get to participate. Yesterday, it was Daniel, the tiger. Now, it's Leonard, evidently. Unfortunately, Hermione has no idea where the koala is.
"Go put your shoes on, love, I'll find him," she says, zipping up his bag and handing it to him. He takes it and runs off toward the door to get his red velcro shoes. She scans the living room, but Leonard isn't there, so she hurries back into Scorpius's room and rummages around for a moment, finally finding the plushie hiding in the corner of the bed.
When she returns victorious, Scorpius is ready to go, shoes on and backpack looped over his shoulders. Hermione sighs, grateful he's ready to go, and tucks Leonard into her son's hands. "Ready?" she asks. "Hold on tight."
He clutches her hand, and with a crack, they Apparate away.
When deciding on a daycare for their son, Draco and Hermione hadn't initially agreed on it. Draco had wanted somewhere magical, to expose their son to wizarding culture basically from birth. Hermione hadn't been strictly opposed to it, but she wanted to split time, send him somewhere muggle on some days as well. Draco had won, in the end, on the basis of accidental magic and what it would do to the Statute of Secrecy. They chose Astoria and Pansy Greengrass-Parkinson to be the ones to provide it.
At Greengrass Growing (apparently Lavender Brown assisted in naming the place, which would explain a lot), the kids are separated by age. Astoria takes care of the younger children, aged eighteen months and under, and her wife, Pansy, takes the older kids. (According to Astoria, they're thinking of hiring someone else to help, as the business grows.)
On the morning of September 21st, 2012, Scorpius barely hugs Hermione before running off to put his backpack in his—green, to Hermione's endless chagrin—cubby and taking off his shoes. Hermione watches for a moment as he runs off in search of James Potter—best friends from infancy, of course, seeing as Hermione and Ginny gave birth within a few months of each other. It was bound to happen.
As she steps back, however, turning into the designated Apparition area—it exists so that the kids don't hear the noise constantly, and so Apparating adults don't accidentally trample any children—Astoria approaches her. Hermione suppresses a sigh—she has nothing against the woman, but she does need to go, to stay on track with her schedule.
"Hermione, darling," she says, smiling with her perfectly white teeth. Back in eighth year, that smile was sharper, more pointed; Astoria figured out quick that Draco was interested in Hermione, and she didn't take it well. Now, however, Astoria is a happily married woman, and she even attended both the Granger-Malfoy wedding and Scorpius's birth as Hermione's midwife. She's a lovely woman, honestly.
"I'm so sorry to keep you," Astoria continues, "but I need you to fill out some paperwork. I would send it to you, but . . . well, I need you and Draco to both sign off, and I need it by Monday, so . . ." She shrugs elegantly.
Hermione smiles; she could have done without the mention of her ex-husband, but she truly doesn't mind the paperwork. "Of course," she says, hitching her bag higher up on her shoulder and following Astoria over to the secretary counter.
Astoria rummages around behind the counter for a moment before sliding over parchment and a quill. "It's simple stuff, just the things that need to be updated bi-annually, you know. Allergies, emergency contacts."
Hermione nods and begins scanning over things. In theory, it should be the same as it has been for the past three years, but it's nice to be sure. Midway through the emergency contacts, she makes the impulsive decision to swap Neville and Harry, putting Neville first because he's easier to reach than Harry. She just hopes Draco agrees with her; if he doesn't, she's going to have to come talk to him about it. They learned that the hard way when Scorpius was two. Draco won that one; Theodore Nott now sits on the bottom of their contact list, on account of him being a healer at St. Mungo's.
"Oh, I wanted to ask you," Astoria says, tentatively. Hermione looks up from where she's reviewing Scorpius accommodations policy and raises an eyebrow. Astoria is wringing her hands, and Hermoine swallows. "It's just . . . well, Romilda is ready to begin working, and we were going to hire her, but we're trying to decide what sector to put her in. I know you and her don't particularly get along, so . . ."
"You want to know if I would be upset if you put her with the older kids?"
Astoria nods sagely. "Yes. She really doesn't want the younger kids—her children will be privately babysat, she hates infants, and Pansy, bless her heart, is losing her mind trying to wrangle two, three, and four year olds."
Hermione's stomach coils defensively—dangerously. It's no secret that she and Ron's wife dislike each other, and honestly, it's simply because Romilda is like . . . well, she's like this.
After the War, Hermione was haunted by everything that happened—particularly that night in Malfoy Manor. And Ron simply couldn't look at her the same anymore. So he turned to Romilda, who wanted him because she couldn't have Harry; but Ron never saw that, he just saw a pretty woman. And then Ron and Hermione had further falling outs because of Draco, and Romilda used that, too.
She refused to come to their wedding, so Ron didn't go, either; she refused to go to their baby shower, so neither did Ron. They ran into Romilda and Ron in The Three Broomsticks, and the woman started sobbing when she saw Hermione's pregnant belly and the ring on Hermione's finger. Draco almost punched her when she called Hermione a Death Eater whore; Ron never said a word.
Now, the couple has twins, and Hermione absolutely does not give a shit. She doesn't give a shit that Romilda is looking for a job, and she doesn't give a shit that Romilda's kids are going to be privately babysat. However, she does give many a shit about her own kid. Unfortunately, she also understands business.
Carefully, she finishes her final signature and folds her hands on the counter. "Astoria," she says softly. "I am not going to ask you to make this decision based on me alone, but since you have asked, I admit that I'm not particularly comfortable with Romilda running my child's day. However, I know that you and Pansy are probably tired and Pansy struggles with the older kids sometimes. I suggest . . ." She hesitates, but in the end, she plows on; she trusts her ex-husband with this, no matter how much it hurts to admit. "I suggest you ask Draco on Monday. His feelings on the Vane woman might be stronger than mine."
Astoria smiles sympathetically. "I understand. Are you finished with the papers?"
Hermione nods and slides them back across the counter to the Greengrass-Parkinson woman, who files them away carefully. "Is that all?"
Astoria thinks for a moment, then nods. "Have a good day, Hermione. If you need Scorpius to stay a little later today, don't worry about owling, I'll know."
It's an odd thing to say: Scorpius has never had to stay later, and it's not as though today is going to be any different than usual. But Hermione really needs to go, so she simply nods and Apparates away.
The next part of the day passes by mostly normally. By the time the lunch rush is over and Hermione sits back to attempt to immerse herself in a reread of The Taming of the Shrew, September 21st, 2012, is turning out to be a remarkably normal day. The odd encounter with Astoria was chased out of her mind by a customer attempting to buy five copies of the same book (unfortunately, Hermione's policy is two per customer because of her smaller inventory), and the owner of the sandwich shop delivered an absolutely exquisite chicken wrap to her door, so all in all, it's been fine.
And then, around one-forty-five, when Hermione is about to begin shutting down the cafe, the bell rings. She looks up from where she's inspecting a stain on her counter and finds Blaise Zabini standing there, looking quite a bit lost.
Blaise was the only one of Draco's friends that Hermione never got particularly close to; he married Astoria's sister, Daphne, and was quite close with Draco, but he was always distant with Hermione. When she filed for divorce, she saw him quite often, seeing as his wife was her lawyer—Astoria's suggestion, and an ironic one at that—and he would just watch her, never saying a word. Like he does now, actually.
But he lives in Surrey, where there are plenty of bookstores, and cafes, and Astoria, who knows Hermione and Blaise don't get along, would have mentioned if he were in London. So he must be here suddenly. Perhaps on business? (Blaise is in real estate.)
Hermione smiles brightly on him; it doesn't matter who he is or why he's here, a customer is a customer. "How can I help you?" she asks, tying her apron back on. She really needs to stop taking it off before two. "Would you like something to drink?"
His dark eyes flick to the menu, and then to the clock on the wall. "If it's not too much trouble," he ventures. "Could I have a medium tea to go? A dash of milk and sugar, if possible."
Hermione nods. "Of course. I'll start that for you." She makes her way over to the kettle and checks how much water is in it; enough for a cuppa, thankfully. She lights the stove with a flick of her wand and lays out a to-go cup, tea leaves, milk, and sugar.
"Are you in search of any books?" she asks over her shoulder. "If not, I can ring you up for the tea right away."
Blaise purses his lips. "Do you have any . . ." He seems to wince, then continues. "Any old wizarding romance books? A friend's mother enjoys them."
Hermione nods, coming around the counter. "Follow me," she says, leading him to a section. It's a smaller section; Hermione's taste doesn't particularly delve into romance in general, and certainly not regency romance, but Narcissa Malfoy made the suggestion when Hermione was first opening Timebound Books that there would most likely be a customer base for them.
"I know you said wizarding," Hermione says, gesturing towards the books in question, "which are right here. However, we do carry muggle selections as well."
Blaise scans the shelf, and Hermione stands there awkwardly for a moment, waiting. "I would like to purchase one of each of the muggle books, please," Blaise says eventually.
Hermione stares at him for a moment. What is going on? Blaise Zabini, in her bookstore, buying muggle romance books for a friend's mother? "Alright, then," she says. "Then, grab them, and bring them to the front. I hear the kettle going off."
She hurries away, trying to process what is happening. She barely gets the chance, however, because Blaise moves fast, coming back to the counter with the books right as she's pouring the boiling water into his cup. She adds the milk and sugar, attempting to remember his preferred measurements from when he used to come over.
Putting a lid on the cup and a stopper in the lid, she brings it over to him. "The cup is charmed to not be too hot and not spill over, but be careful, because that doesn't extend to—"
"Tipping it upside down," Blaise finishes, with a shrewd smile. "I remember, Granger. I used to come here often."
Hermione gapes at him. Seriously, did she fall asleep? Is she dreaming? She breathes in sharply when she registers his raised eyebrow, and schools her face into professionalism. "Just the five books and the tea, then?" she asks, bagging the novels.
"Yes, thank you," he murmurs, face also solemn again. "What's my total?"
She rattles off the numbers, and he hands over the coins before dropping five galleons in the tip jar. The coins jingle and ping against the glass. "Thank you," she says, so quietly its almost a whisper. "Have an amazing day."
He smiles again, and this time it almost looks sad. "I wish that for the both of us."
For the next two hours, Hermione replays the conversation in her head. She's preoccupied as she bags books, gives recommendations, and helps people find selections. Life around her goes on as normal, but she's stuck in her head, trying to figure out what is going on.
She has come to the conclusion, as she locks the door behind her last customer, that it has something to do with Draco. Astoria's odd comment, plus Blaise showing up at her door, has to be connected. They are too deeply intertwined as remnants of her old life for it to not be.
The thought sits in the back of her mind when she Apparates away to get Scorpius, and stays there when Pansy seems surprised that Hermione is on time. Scorpius is tired—he didn't have a nap, which irks Hermione to no end, but she doesn't call Pansy on it. Through a dinner of chicken nuggets and cucumbers, Hermione checks off inventory lists, keeping track of sales, and wonders who the books Blaise bought were for. She thinks about a courtroom and the way she carried a sleeping baby Scorpius out of it, mourning the fact that he'd never really know a world where his parents were happy, together. That last bit is nothing she doesn't think about every Sunday; but it's different this time.
And really, it is, because when she tucks Scorpius into his chair behind the counter and hands him a big book of all kinds of wizarding pictures, he doesn't immediately open it. Instead, he's looking outside; and when Hermione turns, she realizes why: his father is standing right there.
The first emotion to overcome Hermione at the sight of her ex-husband standing outside her business isn't shock, or confusion. It's annoyance. Because honestly, they have a routine. They see each other on Sundays, or if an emergency occurs at daycare, and that's it. Hermione doesn't go into the Auror offices to see Harry, and Draco doesn't come walking on this side of London looking for books. The parent swap is quick, easy: they owl before hand to make sure they don't have scheduling conflicts, and they don't really talk when the day comes. They don't interact outside of that.
But here he is, messing it all up. And while Hermione has never yelled at him in front of their child, if Draco is here for something ridiculous, which he probably is, she can't be sure that she'll keep the streak.
The annoyance becomes something a bit closer to heartache when she locks eyes with him and his face softens. HIs arms are still crossed and shoulders still tense, but she'd recognize the shift in him anywhere. She spent almost nine years learning him, and the tension in his face muscles uncoils now in the same way it used to when she'd cup his cheek after he had a long shift at work.
Merlin, she misses touching his face.
A light tap on her shoulder brings her attention back to her son. Let Papa in? he asks. She closes her eyes and nods, trying not to let Scorpius see just how much she does not want to do that.
Steeling herself, Hermione Granger forces herself to open the door for Draco Malfoy.
The world feels still for a moment as they stare at each other, Draco standing just beyond the threshold of the bookstore. Hermione sniffs; Draco taps his fingers against his thigh. Then, after a moment, Draco opens his mouth, and Hermione lets out a breath. Draco pauses.
"Would you like to go first?" he asks drily. "Also, might I come in? The wind is quite rough on my skin."
Hermione almost laughs; in three years, he hasn't changed in terms of humor. She steps aside and he comes in. She locks the door behind him—it takes a moment because her hands are shaking. When she turns back around, she finds that he's gone straight to Scorpius, which was to be expected.
Scorpius is grinning, and immediately reaches up, prompting Draco to pick him up. "How's my little dragon?" the elder Malfoy asks, pressing a kiss to the top of his son's head.
I'm great, Scorpius signs, tilting his head against Draco's shoulder. But I'm tired. James wanted to play pretend Quidditch all day.
"And did you nap?" Draco murmurs, brushing a stray curl back from Scorpius's face. Hermione's heart squeezes. Always so gentle, always so soft, for their son. Always so quiet when Scorpius needs it; that hasn't changed, either.
No. Aunt Pansy forgot.
Draco's eyes snap to Hermione, annoyance flickering through. We'll talk about it, Hermione mouths, even though she really doesn't want to. They should, though, as this ties into the Romilda situation, which is what Hermione is now assuming he's here to talk about. He nods and returns his attention to Scorpius.
"What do you think about an early bedtime?" he asks, framing it as a question so Scorpius feels like he gets a say. They always do this, when they know what Scorpius is going to say.
Yeah, Scorpius signs sleepily. He's getting more tired by the second. But can I get a story still?
Draco chuckles. "Of course, love. You can always have a story." Draco starts subtling inching towards the staircase right behind the counter, and Hermione nods, telling him to go ahead. She needs to open the store back up, and if Scorpius is going to bed early anyhow, then they'll be able to talk later. If he were anyone else, she wouldn't let him just take Scorpius up to bed, but he's . . . well, he's him.
When they're gone, Hermione unlocks the shop door, flips the sign, and goes to sit behind the counter. She drops her head into her hands with a groan; this has to be a cruel joke.
She tries to put on a smile for the few evening customers she has, but it doesn't seem to be working, because she gets a few odd looks.
By six pm, the slow trickle of customers has completely cut off, and Hermione feels comfortable closing. Now, she could go upstairs, but she's been holding back tears and if she sees Draco putting Scorpius down to sleep, they'll spill over.
Hermione forces herself to focus on counting money and not who is currently in her apartment, but that comes to a halt around six-thirty, when the soft creak of the stairs returns her to her current situation.
With the shades drawn and warm light leading from lamps lit all over the store, she finally gets a chance to really look at him, and he shouldn't look as pale as he does. His face is gaunt and tense as he surveys the store, and it registers that he didn't even look like this last Sunday. Something is wrong, and it's not Romilda Vane. Still, she might as well go with that, since it's what she's convinced herself is going on.
"He's deep asleep," Draco says quietly, coming around the counter to sit on one of the stools that she keeps out for the rare patron that's interested in sitting down. He sets his wand on the counter and fiddles with it—a habit she remembers, one he said developed during the war. He doesn't look at her when he adds, "I miss him every time I leave him with you, you know."
"I know," Hermione whispers, chest squeezing again. She hates this—God, she really, really hates it. "I feel the same."
Draco nods curtly, as if he's regretting what he just said.
"Why are you here, Draco?" It feels odd, to bring it up so abruptly, but if she doesn't know, she never will. "I'm assuming Astoria contacted you about Romilda?"
Draco's eyes snap to hers, and Hermione isn't sure she's met such an intense stare from him since they were teenagers. "What about her?" His voice is low, controlled: the voice of a father who would do anything to protect his son.
Hermione's brow furrows. "I thought that's why you were here. Astoria and Pansy are going to hire Romilda to help, because—"
"No," Draco cuts in sharply. "No, absolutely not. I don't want her around Scorpius. I hope you told Astoria that, because—"
Hermione grits her teeth and sighs in frustration. "I don't want Romilda around Scorpius either, Draco. But it's their decision, who they hire. They need help, Pansy is overwhelmed; that's why she forgot the nap today, she's carrying too much. What they want to know is if we have strong feelings about Romilda watching the other kids."
Draco sneers. "Honestly—" he rolls his eyes—"I thought they were better than this. Hiring someone so terrible. If they go through with it, I'll just pull him out—"
"Draco! That is not the discussion! Would you just shut up and listen to me for once?!" She bangs her hand on the counter, and he stares at her, shocked. She continues. "We're not pulling him out, and we don't get a say in whether or not they hire her. What we do get a say in is if she interacts with Scorpius regularly. And I know for a fact that you don't want that, and neither do I. But I told Astoria to contact you about it, because I wasn't interested in discussing it."
"I'll tell her no," Draco mutters. "I want him to be safe."
Hermione softens, just a tiny bit. "I do too." It's the only thing we agree on anymore. "Now . . . if not that, why are you here?"
Draco lets out a long breath, and he closes his eyes, as though he's in pain. When he opens them, there's a hard wall there, and she knows he's Occluding. "I want Scorpius to really meet my mother."
Hermione's head tilts. "Well, honestly I'm surprised it's taken you this long to ask. But you could have just asked Sunday. Why come here?" In their custody arrangement, they restricted Narcissa's rights so that she can only see Scorpius with permission from both parents. It was a hard line for Hermione; she didn't want Narcissa babysitting. Scorpius met the Malfoy woman once when he was a newborn, but he obviously doesn't remember her.
"Fuck, Hermione," Draco groans, dragging a hand through his hair, mussing it up. "My mother is dying."
Hermione almost feels her heart stop. Because now it all makes sense: Blaise and the books—Narcissa loves regency romances; Blaise's cryptic words, because the man loves Narcissa, that much Hermione knows, and if Narcissa is dying, Blaise is most certainly having a terrible day. Draco's gaunt face, his tenseness, the Occlumency . . .
Hermione drops her face into her hands for the second time in as many hours. She only met Narcissa a handful of times, but she quite liked the woman, much to everyone's surprise. Narcissa is well-kempt, of course, but she's not shy or soft like many people seem to think. No, she's quite fiery—you probably have to be, to survive all that she has.
But more than her own feelings about Narcissa, Hermione knows how Draco feels about his mother: complete, total, undying love. Draco would do just about anything for his mother, in a similar manner to what he would do for Scorpius, and what he once would have done for Hermione. And Hermione knows, with complete and utter certainty, that this is likely to break Draco wide open.
Hermione raises her face again and meets Draco's eyes, and she feels her expression crumple. "Draco," she whispers, almost choking on the word. On impulse, she reaches out, intending to put her palm against his cheek. She expects him to resist, pull away, but he doesn't; no, his carefully crafted Occlumency walls break in real time as she strokes her fingers over his cheek.
His breathing is heavy, and he squeezes his eyes shut. "I didn't come here for pity, or reassurance," he says, but his voice lacks conviction.
"I'm not pitying you, sweetheart," she responds. "I want you to know that you're not grieving alone."
She watches Draco swallow. "Everyone is a mess right now," he murmurs, eyes still closed. "Blaise came to the Manor today carrying five muggle romance novels. Theo runs diagnostics every ten minutes even though they say the same thing every time: the constant exposure to Dark Magic throughout her life is shutting her organs down. There is no stopping it. We have five months.
"And all I can think," Draco continues, "is that I want her to meet Scorpius, and Scorpius to meet her, before she's gone. I want him to have a memory of her that isn't surrounded by echoes of the hospital, of the diagnosis, of his Papa trying—trying not to cry all the time.
"Because that's all I'm doing, Hermione. They said there's no stopping it and immediately I gave up, too. I cried when the healers told me; I cried when she stopped being able to walk properly; I cried when the healers said they need to move her to St Mungo's soon. I'm not being productive, I'm not helping anything, I look at her and I'm a little kid again and all I can do is sob because I don't want to lose my mother."
Hermione's heart is breaking, and she doesn't want to, because they don't do this anymore, but then she's around the counter, pulling him against her, letting him bury his face in the crook of his neck. They were in a similar position when she found out about her parents never remembering her.
"It's alright to cry, Draco," she murmurs into his hair. She feels a slight wetness against her collar bone, and ignores it. "And if the healers said there's nothing you can do, then accepting it is probably better than forcing yourself into false hope."
"You were always annoyingly logical about feelings," Draco mutters into her shoulder.
Hermione nods, not sure what else to say on that. "When is she going to St Mungo's?"
"Sunday afternoon," he says, pulling back. There's a single tear streak on his right cheek. "That's why I'm here. I can't take Scorpius until Wednesday. I wanted to see if I . . . if I could take him tomorrow? And bring him back Sunday morning?"
Hermione's heart breaks. Saturday evenings are usually for her and Scorpius; they watch a football match, eat popcorn, or whatever else he wants to do. But that's not the reason Hermione's chest hurts—she's not so selfish as to resent Draco for this. No, it's because he sounds like he thinks she'll say no.
"Draco. I need you to hear me." She tilts his chin up, and he looks up at her with blue grey eyes that take her a million places at once. "We have our issues. But I will never keep you from your son. Especially not under circumstances like these."
"Thank you," he whispers, voice hoarse. Then, abruptly, he stands. "Can you . . . pack an overnight bag? We're going to the Manor, not my flat."
Hermione inclines her head. "Of course."
And then, in silence, she walks him to the door, unlocking it. At the last minute, right before she pulls it open, she considers offering him to stay. Maybe it's because she feels terrible for him and his mother; maybe it's his eyes, or just being in such close proximity to him for so long after not touching him for three years. Maybe it's the vulnerability that she didn't get to see after she got pregnant.
Whatever, it is, the words almost fall out of her mouth, but she catches them before they make whatever this is worse. She replaces the invitation with two words, instead. "Goodnight, Draco."
He pushes the door open, and over his shoulder—hair tousled and something playing in his face that feels oh-so-familiar, as though from a different time—he responds, "Goodnight, Hermione. I'll see you tomorrow."
Five simple words, but ones she hasn't heard uttered in years, are enough to send a tremor through her body. She barely registers the door closing behind him, but what she does feel is his eyes on her, before he Apparates away with a CRACK.