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Hermione and Draco were not speaking.

Not that they had a habit of doing so normally.

In fact, they’d gotten quite good at avoiding the need to converse with one another.

Their Ministry departments rarely overlapped in any capacity other than elbow brushes in the lifts, and though Harry and Ron had found themselves rather friendly with their childhood nemesis these days—Merlin knew men were such simple creatures, a pint at the pub and a quick scrimmage were all it took to let bygones be—Hermione rarely got away from her work enough to see them, let alone their acquitted new mate.

Ironic that her usual savior was now the very thing damning her to this dastardly silence.

Draco blinked at her from across the small breakfast table, pale fingers drumming a relaxed rhythm against the scuffed wood.

She hadn’t realized how worn it’d become in recent years until now, fine grain carved at by baking utensils used to alleviate post-traumatic pains.

A stack of parchment sat untouched between them, as it had for the last forty-five minutes.

They were meant to be coming to an agreement on the final transcripts of the Potioneer’s Amendment for Ethical Ingredient Collection, the sole joint assignment between the Department for the Rights and Care of Magical Creatures and the Magical Office of Law.

Bills normally passed through lower levels with little fanfare, but upending previous statutes meant the deliberation fell to the heads instead.

Both of whom hadn’t moved from either side of Hermione’s kitchen since Draco had come streaking unannounced through her Floo at half past eight.

She eyed the crisp folds of his shirt sleeves, the white linen starched and oddly stiff for such an early hour—on a Saturday no less. Her worn Harpies tee and striped sleep shorts were the more expected attire.

Hermione’s lips parted for the tenth time, but when Draco’s brow twitched in response she sealed them shut yet again. A dance of wills they’d partaken in about every seven or so minutes.

They’d exhausted their usual arguments, reverting to stubbornness instead.

Unfortunately for them, they were quite evenly matched.

Ridiculous, Hermione seethed to herself. Can’t compromise for the life of him. Would rather sit here in perpetual unproductiveness.

And yet, though her tea grew colder with each passing second on the side board, and her copy of the Prophet begged to be perused, Hermione refused to lose.

Especially to Draco Malfoy.

They were coming up on the second hour of their stand off when they heard it.

At first, Hermione thought it might be a charm of sorts, a ploy to get her to break—only it came again a few moments later, louder this time.

“Mummy!”

The confusion lining Draco’s mouth convinced her he wasn’t behind the strange shout. Further proven when he spoke, conceding with a rasp. “Granger?”

Hermione shook her head, dazed. “I don’t know.” She cleared her throat. “Maybe it’s the neighbors.”

But clear as day and echoing down the flat corridor a tiny voice exclaimed, “Mum!”

Drawing her wand, Hermione stood from their stalemate. “I’ll check that it’s not a Boggart or something. I did just take that old armoire from Molly a few weeks ago.”

“A wedding present?” Draco drawled, though he stood as well.

“More like a ‘I’m sorry my son is a twat’ consolation,” said Hermione. She gestured to his vacated seat. “It’ll just be a moment. You can stay here.”

“Right, and when the ominous voice eats you I get to explain to Potter and Weasley that I let you go check for the boogeyman alone,” said Draco. “Because I’ll certainly keep both my bollocks after that.”

“You severely overestimate Ron’s wandwork,” Hermione kept her voice down, shuffling toward the hall from where the noise originated. “And Harry still favors an Expelliarmus over an Avada.”

“Best not to put it up to chance. I’m hoarding heirs here.” Draco crept behind her, footfalls impressively light for his stature. The years of after work hours Quidditch had been more than kind to his once lanky physique.

“I would gag if I wasn’t trying to be covert,” Hermione hissed, sock-clad feet sliding across the floorboards.

“Please, Granger, you wish—”

“Mum!” The cry silenced them both, if not for it’s nearness, than for the evident alarm in it’s tone.

“I think it’s coming from my office.” Hermione pointed toward the closed door a few paces away.

“Slow and steady,” said Draco against the top of her head. “I’ll take the far side.”

Hermione managed a nod, ignoring the steadying affect of his presence at her back. “On my count.”

They each stepped up to either side of the entry, pressing themselves against the wall.

“One.”

Hermione’s grip tightened around her wand, her heartbeat pulsating in the palm of her hand.

“Two.”

Draco gave her a small nod, their earlier animosity subdued in the face of fear.

“Three!”

With a wandless whisper, Hermione flung the door wide, arm extended and ready to fire at will.

Draco followed hot on her heels, swinging around her opposite so they flanked both sides of the small space.

Only instead of a Boggart or other malicious maladaptions, the sole occupant of the room—aside from Hermione’s overflowing bookshelves—was a boy.

He couldn’t have been more than a few years old, legs still somewhat soft and unsteady as he teetered at the edge of her desk, grasping with pudgy fingers for balance.

Though despite his rather young age, he bore a head of thick, riotous blonde curls, their ashy tone further emphasized by the emerald green jumper he wore. Emblazoned with a knit ’S’ in the exact same fashion as the one’s typically gifted by the red-haired matriarch.

“Mummy!” The little boy exclaimed, eyes round and cheeks relaxing into a toothy grin at the sight of Hermione standing before him. He let go of the desk, tottering toward her with arms outstretched.

“What—?” Hermione could barely get a befuddled word out before the boy was clinging to her legs.

“Something you’d like to share, Granger?” Draco watched the exchange with a frown.

“I don’t understand,” said Hermione.

“Well, it seems as though that child thinks your it’s Mum,” said Draco.

“But I don’t have a child!”

The boy let out a whimper at her sharp exclamation, and Hermione stroked a subconscious hand down the back of his head, like she’d done many a times for James and Albus.

“Are you sure?” Draco slid his own wand back into the holster at his hip.

“Of course I’m sure!” Hermione yelped. “I think I’d remember giving birth, Malfoy! Let alone being pregnant for nine months.”

“Hey,” Draco raised his hands. “If McLaggen knocked me up, I’d Obliviate myself too.”

Hermione covered the boy’s ears on instinct. “He does not look like McLaggen!” she scolded. “Regardless of who this child belongs to, how in Merlin’s name did he get into my office? It’s warded six ways from Sunday! Not even a trained Cursebreaker could dismantle them without my assistance.”

Draco seemed about to speak, only he halted, instead striding for her desk.

“Don’t you touch anything—!”

He ignored her demand, plucking something from the mass of opened books and haphazardly stacked notes. “I think this may have something to do with it.”

Hermione swallowed her string of swears in favor of the child at her feet. “Good Godric, you’ve got to be kidding me!” She frowned, Draco bringing the culprit forward. “What is a child doing with a Time Turner?”

The spherical device glittered a deceivingly innocent gold in the dim light of Hermione’s study, the size of a hearty plum in the palm of Draco’s hand.

“Must’ve gotten into his parent’s things,” said Draco, glancing between the hourglass and the boy who’s face remained buried in the side of Hermione’s hip.

“Who leaves a Time Turner so accessible that anyone could stumble upon it?”

“I’m not the one to ask for parenting advice, Granger.”

“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed, glazing over Draco’s self-deprecation. “His parents must be worried sick!” She gently unwound the boy’s arms from around her, crouching so that they were eye level with one another. “Hello, there. What’s your name?”

The boy smiled at the inquiry, thrusting a thumb at his own chest. “I Scorpius!”

“Scorpius,” Hermione hummed. “What a lovely name. And do you happen to know your mummy’s name?”

Scorpius nodded. This time, he pointed at her. “Mum ‘Mione!”

Hermione nearly choked on her sharp inhale. “I—no, darling. I don’t think—”

“Mum Mione!” Scorpius frowned, lower lip jutting out.

“What about your daddy’s?” Hermione tried instead.

“Dwaco!”

“Something you’d like to share, Draco?” said Hermione, giving him a pointed look over Scorpius’s head.

“You can’t even tell what he said!” Draco argued, though he’d seemed to somehow grow paler.

“I hungry, Mummy!” said Scorpius, tugging on Hermione’s shirt.

“Perhaps we should Floo Ginny?” Hermione suggested. “Maybe it’s a prank from George? You could call Theo too. He’s always up to no good.”

“What kind of joke product is this Granger?” said Draco.

“I don’t know! Perhaps he Polyjuiced Albus!”

“You think he Polyjuiced his five year old nephew?”

“Oh, don’t say it like it’s so absurd,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “First time I drank Polyjuice I was twelve.”

“Yes, well, not all of us were scheming to save the world back then.” Draco gestured to Scorpius, who’d taken up tracing a pattern in the rug beneath them. “So, what do we do with it?”

“It? He’s a child, Malfoy! Ours, apparently.”

“How could we have a child?” Draco argued. “We haven’t even gone on a date yet!”

“How would I know—” Hermione sputtered. “Yet?”

Draco swallowed. Took up a sudden fascination for the same pattern beneath their feet as Scorpius. “I meant—well—that’s not—”

“Regardless,” Hermione let him off, choosing to keep her attention pinned to the small boy before them instead, though her next words came out a bit pitched, “His parent’s are probably beside themselves. Or, we are, I suppose? But then again, if he is our son, then we already know what’s happened to him because we’ve lived this moment.” She shook her head. “Either way, we have to care for him until we can figure out what date and time to send him back to.”

“And how long will that take?”

“I’m not sure,” Hermione shrugged. “But knowing myself, I can’t imagine more than eight hours or so.”

“It’d take you eight hours to notice your child was missing?” said Draco.

“No,” said Hermione. “But it might take me eight hours to figure out how to communicate with my past self.”

“Seems like a long time for the Brightest Witch of Our Age.”

“Oh, I could solve it in under two, I’m sure. I’m just factoring in time to undoubtedly argue with future you.” 

Draco crossed his arms. “Who says we’d argue?” 

“We already bicker like an old married couple, Malfoy. And it appears in some twisted timeline, we actually are one.”

“Fine,” Draco huffed. “Than what do you suppose we do in the meantime? Not considering the present circumstances, neither of us are parent’s, Granger.”

“No, but I am a godmother,” said Hermione. “Spells aren’t the only things I have up my sleeves.”

She sank back to Scorpius’s level again, placing a soft hand on his shoulder to pull his focus. “You said you’re hungry, hmm?”

Scorpius nodded fervently, bouncing on tiny sock-covered toes.

“Right, why don’t we see what we can fix up then?”

When she stood, Scorpius followed, small hand slotting itself against her own warm palm without prompting. Though Hermione had guided her godsons around similarly many a times before, Scorpius’s tiny fingers threading through hers sent a strange tingle across the surface of her skin.

She attempted to pay it no mind, directing them back into the cramped kitchen.

They’d barely rounded the corner of the corridor before Scorpius tore himself free, darting toward the table at which Hermione and Draco had been having their stand-off. He clambered into one of the vacant chairs, using the bottom rung as a step to heave himself upward.

Bum situated, he raised his arms above his head, wide eyes expectant.

With an instinctual wave of her wand, Hermione transfigured a wooden bar across the boys lap, securing him in place so that he wouldn’t slide about on the seat.

She made for the fridge next, pulling out the beginnings of her fool-proof flapjacks. James and Albus had always seemed to enjoy them just fine, and so she figured Scorpius would find no fault in them either.

The scrape of a second chair across the hardwood flooring indicated Draco’s arrival after them.

“Would you like anything to drink?” Hermione asked over her shoulder, cracking three eggs into a large metal mixing bowl and spelling the stovetop to start.

“Tea. Three sugars, dash of milk.”

“Not you!” Hermione chided, throwing Draco a frown as she sidled toward the utensil drawer to retrieve the necessary cutlery. “I meant Scorpius!”

“Juice!” cried the tot.

Hermione hummed, unsure of her current supply. “How’s orange?”

“Yucky!”

“Disgusting.”

The blonde-haired boys chorused their dislike in tandem, an eerily similar wrinkle forming between their matching bleached brows.

“Would you look at that,” said Hermione, summoning the jug of pumpkin juice instead. “Like father, like son.”

Scorpius giggled. Draco scowled.

Hermione ignored the grumpy Malfoy in favor of the happy miniature one, transfiguring one of her chipped mugs into a child-friendly cup and filling it three-quarters of the way with the preferred drink.

Scorpius took it with wiggling fingers, seeming content with the contents.

Draco, on the other hand, stood abruptly, striding for the cupboard Hermione had just pulled the mug from and grabbing his own. He settled back in adjacent to Scorpius, pouring himself a serving of juice and swiping Hermione’s sidelined copy of the Prophet.

“You better not spill anything on that,” said Hermione, pointing a spatula at him. “I hadn’t even made it past the potions periodicals before you came flouncing through my Floo.”

“Your precious paper will remain in tact, Granger,” Draco grumbled, taking a long, exaggerated sip. “And I did not flounce. Besides, I don’t think I’m the one at risk of causing a mess here.” He jerked his head at the boy beside him.

“Oh!” Hermione gasped, swiping a hand towel from the stove. Scorpius smacked his little lips together, cheeks smeared with sticky orange residue from where he’d missed his mouth.

But before Hermione could reach him, Draco raised a hand, the boys face clearing with a wandless wave.

“How did—”

“When Narcissa Malfoy is your mother, you learn a few things about keeping tidy at the table,” said Draco, turning to the next page of the Prophet with a much-too-casual tone.

“That tickled, daddy!” Scorpius chortled, nose twitching. “Do it again!”

Hermione frowned, still put out by Draco’s unexpected ease.

“Like mother, like son,” Draco said, eyes still trained on the print before him.

“What?”

He glanced up then. Placed a finger on his nose. “You twitch too. Just there. When you dislike something.”

Smothering the urge to press her palm over the center of her face, Hermione grimaced. “I do not!”

Draco only shrugged in response.

“I don’t!” Hermione insisted. “You’re seeing things, Malfoy.”

“And you aren’t smelling them.”

“Excuse me?”

“The pancakes, Granger,” Draco set the paper down with an exasperated huff. “They’re burning.”

“Shit!”

“Mummy can’t say that!” Scorpius scolded.

Hermione ignored them both, casting a quick Aguamenti to quell the flames that had engulfed the flapjacks behind her turned back.

“Well,” she huffed, the smoldering pan sizzling post douse, “I suppose we’ll have to take our breakfast elsewhere.”

“And where do you suppose we eat, Granger?” Draco scoffed. “A trip to Diagon with our supposed spawn would certainly turn a few heads.”

“I was thinking somewhere a bit more Muggle,” said Hermione, Vanishing the bar across Scorpius’s lap. “Are you alright to Apparate, darling?”

Scorpius gave her an enthusiastic squeal. “Appetate with daddy!”

Both of them turned to Draco expectantly.

Draco sighed, standing from the table, fingers going to the buttons at his wrists. Hermione wasn’t quite sure why she had the urge to avert her eyes as he rolled each sleeve up to his elbow, pale hands working the fabric over taught forearms.

“Alright,” Draco held out his left hand toward the small boy, “Come on, then.”

Instead of taking the proffered appendage, Scorpius stuck out his lower lip, a frown pulling at his tiny cheeks. “Up!” He extended both arms toward Draco. 

“Are you not too old for this?” Draco grumbled, though he obliged the tot, hinging just slightly at the waist to lift Scorpius so that he rest nestled against Draco’s hip.

Scorpius’ small hands found purchase at Draco’s collar, tugging at the stiff fabric.

Hermione half-expected Draco to wince at the mussing of his neatness, but he only unbuttoned the top with an admittedly impressive show of one-handed dexterity, allowing for Scorpius’ continued exploration without the risk of being choked.

For someone who usually spent his time in heated debates with co-workers and hour-long back and forths with Hermione herself, it seemed Draco Malfoy possessed an unexpected latent patience for the small blonde-haired boy.

“Would you like to paint our portrait, Granger, or shall we go?”

“Right! Yes!” Hermione straightened. “Let me just change into something more appropriate for a public outing first and then we can be on our way!”

She swept into her room, quickly replacing her sleepwear with a pair of denims and a sweater and snagging a pair of Albus’s spare sneakers for Scorpius before rejoining the boys in the kitchen.

“I’m not sure what size he is, but these should do just for the trip into town,” said Hermione, brandishing the tiny brown boots.

She stepped closer, taking Scorpius’ ankle lightly to guide his foot toward the opening of one shoe. She wrangled the suede over wriggling toes one by one, trying to ignore the fact that she could feel Draco breathing, his arm brushing hers with every rise and fall of his chest.

She hadn’t realized she’d been staring at the buttons near his throat until he spoke.

“Are you going to tell me the location of our destination?” said Draco, brow raised. “Or would you like to be carried as well?”

Hermione’s cheeks reddened. “I’m perfectly capable of Apparating myself, thank you.” She stepped back, tugging at the fraying hem of her sweater. “The Columbia Road Apparition point should be near enough.”

Draco swept a linger look across her blushed skin before he gave a single nod of confirmation, spinning on the spot, taking himself and Scorpius away with a resounding crack.

After a brief self-scolding for acting like an absolute nutter for no reason, Hermione followed suit, teetering on the cobblestones at the top of the lanes moments later.

It seemed that in the seconds it’d taken her to arrive, Scorpius had somehow managed to squirm his way out of Draco’s arms, already dragging him from stall to stall amongst the morning flower market.

One hand clasping Draco’s, the other petting the petals of a bright pink peony, a young shop owner appeared to be quickly fond of the child as Hermione neared.

“What a handsome young lad you are,” the woman gushed, blonde hair swept back in a perfectly messy updo, her prim green apron and pink cheeks stark against the dreary late spring clouds clustered overhead. “Just like your father!”

The woman gazed up at Draco from where she knelt alongside the planter which had caught Scorpius’ attention. Her eyes caught on the noticeably ringless finger held between Scorpius’s own.

“Your handsome, single father.”

Hermione frowned, coming to stand on Scorpius’ other side then.

She ran a hand over the top of his windswept curls. Her curls.

“What have we found here, darling?” She asked.

“Peomees, Mummy!” Scorpius grinned, giving a yank on her jumper and pointing at the bound bushels.

“Your favorite.”

Hermione startled at the sound of Draco’s semi-hoarse drawl. He looked at her over the top of Scorpius’ head, a soft lilt to his lower lip.

Hermione blinked. “How did you know that?”

Draco ignored her, instead pulling a ten pound note from his trouser pocket. “We’ll take that one.”

The shop owner eyed the two of them with a grimace, taking the money and stuffing it in her apron pocket. She said not a single word more as she wrapped the florals in brown paper and tied them off with a thin strip of twine.

She passed them to Hermione with a frown of her own. “Here you are, ma’am.”

Hermione suppressed a scowl.

Ma’am?  She was twenty-seven! Hardly of ma’am-able age!

“Thank you,” Draco cut in evenly, turning from the stall before Hermione could say something stupid. “Come now, Granger. You still owe us breakfast.”

The shop owner had already moved on to another young, handsome customer, and so Hermione followed, frowning at the back of Draco’s broad shoulders. “I owe you no such thing.”

“I’m not the one who burnt the flapjacks,” said Draco, letting Scorpius lead them further through the market. “Besides, I just gifted you a beautiful bouquet of flowers so you’d stop being jealous. It’s the least you could do.”

“I—what?” Hermione sputtered. “I was not jealous!”

“Mhm,” Draco hummed, and though Hermione couldn’t see his face she would’ve bet an immense amount of galleons that he wore a self-satisfied smirk.

“I wasn’t!” She insisted, jogging to catch up. “I just didn’t find it very appropriate for her to be flirting so openly with you in front of Scorpius!”

“Ah, so the cold shoulder was only for Scorpius’ sake?”

“Yes!”

Draco nodded.

“It’s true!” She smacked him on the shoulder.

“Sure, Granger.” He tossed a bemused smile at her. “Now, where’s this place? Before we have a hungry fiend on our hands?” Draco wandlessly Accio’ed a leaf dangerously close to Scorpius’ mouth.

Hermione sighed, gesturing a few stalls ahead. “It’s just up a few plots. Can’t miss it.”

Indeed they couldn’t. The squashed shop barely fit in it’s designated spot, the doorway and few front-facing windows trapped between overflowing flower pots.

Yet despite its smaller size, business was booming, customers spilling out onto the street, steaming cardboard cups and parchment pastry bags cradled in gloved palms.

Draco began to lead the way through the throng, tall stature shielding the little boy at his side from stray elbows. Hermione trailed behind them, attempting to stay in the wake of Draco’s movements, tracing his steps to stick close.

But it seemed the bustling fellow breakfast-goers were not concerned with anything other than securing their morning pick-me-ups, knocking shoulders so aggressively with one another Hermione had the sudden urge to throw a hex.

Yet another unobservant exiting customer nearly mowed her over, sending her careening into the doorframe.

Only before her back could strike the wooden moulding, a hand secured itself around her waist, warm and steady and pulling her the rest of the way through until she burst into a pocket of space at the front counter.

“These better be some bloody good pastries, Granger,” said Draco, Scorpius tucked back up in his arms so that he didn’t get trampled. “I didn’t expect to go to battle for a brioche.”

Though they’d escaped the thick of it, Draco’s hand remained attached to Hermione’s lower back, guiding her forward as they inched along the display case toward the register.

She ignored the small part of her that wished she’d worn a thinner jumper.

Scorpius wiggled in Draco’s grip, attempting to press his face into the glass which separated them from the delicious sweets.

Freshly baked croissants, gougère, and canelé filled metal trays, golden and flaky and selling fast. By the time the cashier greeted their odd little group, the gougère had dwindled to a few savory puffs.

“Hello there,” said the woman behind the counter, blowing at the greying fringe which escaped her gingham scarf. “What can I get you folks today?”

“Scorp?” Hermione prompted, the nickname oddly natural on her tongue.

“Chocwett!” Scorpius exclaimed, baby teeth exposed in a full grin.

“We have pain au chocolat, as well as pre-sliced gateau opera,” said the woman, Millie as declared in looping cursive on her name tag.

“Pain au chocolat, if you please,” said Hermione. “Best not to give this one pure sugar so early.”

“A wise choice,” Millie smiled. “My grandkids are absolute terrors if they have any sweets before noon.” She slid open the back of the case, depositing one of the pastries into a small white bag. “Anything else?”

Though Draco stood closer to the counter, he turned to Hermione expectantly.

“Oh!” Hermione hummed. “An oat milk latte, please.”

“Got it,” said Millie.

“That’s all?” Draco asked her, unconvinced.

“Mhm.” Hermione nodded.

“You can’t honestly say after the morning we’ve had, you’re not the least bit famished?”

“I am hungry,” Hermione conceded.

She reached a vacant hand to Scorpius’ curls, tucking a few unruly strays behind his ear. Odd how the motion kept coming unbidden.

“But he won’t eat the whole pain au chocolat. Kids have eyes much bigger than their stomachs. I’ll eat whatever’s left over.”

“You’re sure?” Draco looked at her strangely, a crease between his brows, gaze flitting between her outstretched hand and her face.

“I promise I won’t steal a bite of whatever you order if that’s what you’re worried about,” she huffed. “I swear, there will be plenty left for me.” 

“Fine,” said Draco, readjusting Scorpius against his side. “I’ll do a tea. Dash of milk. Three sugars on the side. And a cinnamon scone, please.”

“Sure thing,” said Millie, punching their order in. She swiveled the small electronic screen to face them. “I must say, you three make the most darling little family. Just perfect.”

Hermione nearly objected, hand halting mid-way to her wallet.

The Oh, we’re not.. sticking to her suddenly tight throat when Draco spoke instead.

“Thank you,” he passed Millie their payment despite his previous dig at Hermione’s supposed debt. “They’re all a man could ever want.”

Millie visibly melted, wrinkled hand over her heart. “You’re a lucky one, then.” She beamed, passing their packaged pastries over.

“Indeed, I am.”

“Your drinks will be out in a minute,” said Millie. “If you don’t mind me asking, how old is…”

“Scorpius,” supplied Draco.

“Scorpius! What a beautiful name!” Millie cooed. “I only ask because my daughter’s son is starting schooling soon, and if you’re from the area, her and her wife just moved in and haven’t had much luck finding others of similar age in their neighborhood. I told them they should join one of those online parent communities but…”

Millie continued to ramble, ignoring the few shouts of frustration coming from the halted queue.

Draco glanced at Hermione as if she might offer a way out, but she was still too preoccupied reeling over his words.

They’re all a man could ever want. .

What did that mean? He wished for a wife and kids? A family, perhaps, more functional than the one he was familiar with?

They’re all a man could ever want..

It’s just…he couldn’t possibly mean he wanted…her.

We haven’t even been on a date, yet!

Yet. Yet. Yet.

“Granger?” The warmth of her name on his tongue and the heat of the cardboard being pressed against her palm pulled her from her miniature spiral.

Hermione shook her head, taking the proffered latte. It looked like it’d been struck with an Engorgio as it passed from Draco’s much larger hands into hers, her fingers just barely able to wrap around the sides.

“Shall we find somewhere a bit less crowded to settle in?” said Draco, holding the bag of pastries out of Scorpius’ reach.

Hermione nodded. Attempted to subtly clear her throat. “There’s a park not too far from here. Shouldn’t be too busy this early.”

Their cohort carved their way back out onto the street, Draco’s fingers never far from the peak of her shoulder blades or the curve of her shoulder.

When they were finally clear of the masses at market, it took them only a quick five minute stroll to come upon the quaint fields of a nearby nature preserve open to the public. A few other families were out for an early morning promenade, prams and pets in hand.

They came upon a spot of grass that looked promising, though the ground was a bit wet still from previous days showers.

Hermione gestured to the bag Draco held. He passed it over, and she extracted one of the spare napkins, discretely Transfiguring it into a blanket large enough for the three of them.

Draco set Scorpius down on one corner, folding his large form onto the other. Hermione did the same, placing the flowers in the center alongside their treats like a blooming cornucopia.

Without needing to ask, Draco took her latte, balancing it on one knee so that she could unwrap their breakfast.

She tore a piece of the pain au chocolat, passing it to a bouncing Scorpius.

“Thank you, Mummy!” He giggled, chomping on the end with an enthusiastic smack of his lips. Much like the pumpkin juice, most of the chocolate ended up coating everywhere but his mouth.

“Would you like your scone?” Hermione prompted, holding out the proffered sugary triangle.

Draco simply parted his lips in response.

It took Hermione a moment to realize what he was implying.

“I am not feeding you, Malfoy!” She chided. “You have two working hands, do you not?”

“Not at present,” said Draco. He lifted their drinks.

“Set them down then!”

“And risk them spilling when Scorpius shifts the blanket?”

Hermione puffed an exasperated breath, but broke off a corner of the scone. She held it out between her thumb and forefinger.

She’d expected him to simply take a bite, and he did—though the pastry crumbled easily, more delicate than anticipated, and the flicker of his tongue across the expanse of her fingertips to catch the stray crumbs had her stomach clenching from hunger of a much different kind.

“How is it?” The question came out a bit more pitched than she intended.

Draco seemed to contemplate his answer for a moment. He drew his eyes to hers. “Exquisite.”

Hermione had to shift her focus to Scorpius lest she do something stupid like lean closer. Forward. In.

What was happening? Hadn’t they been sat on opposite sides of table, paralyzed by animosity, mere hours ago?

Objectively, Hermione could admit that Draco Malfoy was attractive. One would have to be blind to argue against the astute perfection of his porcelain complexion, the aristocratic slope of his bone structure.

And yes, she’d perhaps found herself somewhat impressed by his ability to put aside his past in favor of bettering the Wizarding world. His befriending of her non-blood brothers. His 2004 statute which granted house-elves the right to own property and establish businesses of their own which she may or may not have a spare copy of tucked away in her bedside table drawer.

But regardless of the unarguable aspects of his allure, he was still Malfoy. And she was still Hermione. Granger.

Despite her aptitude to entertain the idea of a different world, a different time, where they sat on a blanket just like this one and basked in the joy of a boy that looked just like them, she doubted Malfoy capable of doing the same.

“How long do you think it’ll be before he crashes?” Draco asked, chin jerking in the direction of the chocolate covered child who now chased a small butterfly with sticky fingers.

Hermione smiled. “A few hours. Max.”

Draco chuckled his agreement. He held her still steaming latte, but when Hermione went to take it, he pulled it back. “It’s only fair,” he said.

She wasn’t sure if it was the humorous glint in his grey eyes or the shine of the sun beginning to peek through the haze, but Hermione allowed him to press the cup to her lips. To tilt it until the creamy coffee coated her tongue.

She licked at a singular stray drop sliding down the lid.

Liked the way Draco didn’t look away when she did.

“Mummy! Daddy!” Scorpius’ shriek sliced through the tense moment. “Play!”

Hermione stood first, face hot, brushing stray scone from her pants. “Coming, darling!”

She didn’t look back as she stepped off the blanket. As she chased a squealing Scorpius through the grass. As she picked him up and spun him and smiled in a way she hadn’t in far too long.

And when Draco joined them too, when they later returned to the Apparition point with a run down little boy between them, when Draco reached for her hand and she took it, letting him whisk the three of them away, Hermione had the strangest sense that it didn’t matter where they went next, she’d still feel at home.

—

“It seems your estimate was correct, Granger,” said Draco, arms folded, a softness about his features as he tucked the blanket beneath Scorpius a bit tighter.

Hermione readjusted the throw pillow so that it better supported his head, sliding him further down the sofa.

“I told you,” she whispered. “He didn’t stand a chance.”

They’d spent a good bit of the afternoon at the park, playing games both Muggle and magical until Scorpius insisted he required more sustenance. But the minute they’d returned to Hermione’s flat, he’d collapsed into the worn cushions of her couch whilst waiting for a cheese toastie.

Now, her and Draco stood side by side, staring at their sleeping carbon copy as he softly snored.

“A cuppa?” Hermione asked quietly.

“Sure.”

Making sure to keep her footsteps light, Hermione padded into the kitchen. She spelled the kettle to ensure it wouldn’t wake Scorpius and set to rummaging around her pantry for the box of teabags she knew she’d stored in there some time ago.

Finally, after a minute or so, she felt the sleek cylinder, pulling the black tea from the depths of the cupboard.

Settling two mugs on the countertop, she popped the round top, shaking out a pair of beige bags.

Only, something else tumbled from the depths of the container instead.

Hermione frowned, thumbing the folded slip of parchment.

She’d never opened this particular packet before, let alone placed something inside. A brief nonverbal sweep told her it wasn’t anything nefarious, and so she opened the odd note, pressing it flat before her.

Hermione,

It’s odd to write to ones past self and know they’ll actually read it. Usually, words of wisdom I wish to share with you get trapped in diaries and conversation, forever stuck in the now, never making it to the then.

I know you’re rather confused at the moment, and I don’t blame you. I remember the feeling well.

As you know, there’s not much I’m able to share with you at risk of disrupting the natural progression of things, so I’ll just keep it at this:

Say yes.

May 6 ^th, 2010. 4pm. Whenever you’re ready.

HJGM

Hermione ran a light, disbelieving finger across her handwriting. Because it was hers. Future hers.

Her heart lurched at the addition to her signature, the looping G to M.

She swallowed. Refolded the note. Retraced her steps back to the sitting room.

“Malfoy.”

Draco glanced up from where he’d perched himself in her reading chair, one of her recent reads balanced on the arm.

Hermione’s hands shook as she held the note up before her. 

Draco just watched her for a moment. Gently closed the book. Stood. “I’ll go get it.”

Hermione nodded. Had the urge to scratch at her throat which had gone uncomfortably tight.

She crossed the room, kneeling before the still slumbering Scorpius. Ran a hand across his rounded cheek, through those perfect curls.

He nuzzled further into her palm and Hermione had to swallow the sudden sob which threatened to escape.

A hand lightly brushed her shoulder, then Draco knelt beside her, the Time Turner held between them. It’s golden sheen cast shimmering ripples across his skin, a brilliant, beautiful hue.

Neither spoke as he nestled it under Scorpius’ arm.

As Hermione turned the dial to the written date and time.

As Draco’s hand found her’s.

As Hermione reached forward with trembling fingers and spun.

The room warped momentarily, a dull ring echoing against the walls, the floor shaking beneath their crouched forms.

When Hermione opened her eyes again, Scorpius was gone.

They remained that way. Silent. Entwined. For minutes.

How many, Hermione wasn’t sure.

“He had your eyes,” she finally managed to say some time later.

Draco nodded. She could feel his uneven inhale. “He had your nose.”

Hermione cleared her throat. Pulled herself away. “How about that tea?”

Though he didn’t say anything, Hermione could hear Draco follow her back into the kitchen.

She took the discarded tea container, pulling the bags still stuck inside and placing them in the mugs. The kettle silently screamed.

“I didn’t know you liked black tea, Granger,” came Draco’s voice from the doorway. Low. Even. “I thought you were strictly an herbal witch.”

“I am,” said Hermione, annoyed her own words weren’t nearly as steady. “Besides, it’s not for me, it’s—” She bit back the confession. Became suddenly very interested in the hot water streaming from the kettle spout.

When Draco spoke again, it was against the back of her neck.

“Did you know, Granger,” he breathed. “That I happen to favor black tea?”

“Do you now?” Hermione choked. “What a coincidence.”

“Mhm,” he hummed. “Why is it, then, that you have a box of a brew you don’t prefer?”

“How do you know I don’t like it?” Hermione argued, attempting to find her normal indignation.

“Chamomile. One sugar. Three spoons of honey.”

Hermione turned then. Found him much closer than she’d expected.

Your favorite.

They’re all a man could ever want.

Yet. Yet. Yet.

“Why do you have the tea, Granger?”

Perhaps it was his proximity. The brush of his hands, gripping the counter on either side of her hips. The way he looked at her, the same way he looked at their son.

“Because!” Hermione exclaimed in a rushed exhale. “Because I know you hate the herbal blends because you always make that stupid, disgusted face when Denis brings you the wrong one in hearings! And because I wanted to make sure there was something palatable for your stupid, bloody pretentious palate should you ever drop by! Happy?”

Draco’s eyes danced across her face. Eyes. Nose. Cheeks. Lips. “I’ve never once randomly called on you, Granger.”

Hermione blinked. “You did today.”

Eyes. Nose. Cheeks. Lips. Chin. Lips. Lips. Lips.

“I did today.”

Draco stepped further into her.

And yet if there had been somewhere to go, Hermione doubted she’d have left.

Wouldn’t have wanted to.

“Would you like to have dinner with me, tonight, Granger?”

Even without the note urging her onward, or the memory of soft blonde curls on a beautiful little boy, Hermione knew what her answer would be.

Knew what it would’ve been should he have asked her weeks prior, what it will be if he were to ask again in the days still to follow.

She smiled.

“Yes.”