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The mission should not have required this much running.
Hermione’s lungs burned as she vaulted over the collapsed railing of the mezzanine level, boots skidding against rusted metal before she caught her balance. Dust rose in choking clouds around her, thick with the smell of old oil and something fouler beneath it—dark magic that had soaked so deeply into the abandoned factory walls that it felt almost alive. Somewhere to her left, a curse detonated with a sharp crack that rattled the windows, and sparks showered down like dying stars.
“Behind you,” Draco called, already moving.
She did not bother looking, completely trusting him was enough not to. Instead she pivoted forward with her wand raised, and sent a clean Stupefy through the smoke exactly where his voice guided her. A body dropped; the sound was dull and heavy.
They fell into step the way they always did during operations, shoulders nearly brushing, magic weaving together with unconscious precision. There was no hesitation anymore, no awkwardness about who took point or who covered the blind spot. Years of working side by side, of sharing shifts and night patrols and the quiet; and a year of bone-deep exhaustion of parenthood had worn their edges down until they fit together like a well-oiled machine.
Harry’s patronus streaked past in a blaze of silver light, the signal for containment. The last of the wards collapsed with a low hum that vibrated through the floor. And then, just like that, the mission was over and done.
Silence rushed in so quickly it almost rang.
Hermione bent forward, bracing her hands on her thighs as she caught her breath. Being both a mother and an Auror can sometimes draw out the exhaustion quicker than her days of youth; her pulse hammered against her throat, the familiar aftershock of adrenaline making her hands tremble. She rolled her shoulders and flexed her fingers, checking for any sign of injury, and only then did she glance down at her watch out of habit, already calculating how long the paperwork would take and whether they could pick-up Cornelia from the Potters’ before her bedtime.
The date stared back at her.
February fourth.
For a moment it meant nothing, then the memory slotted into place so abruptly that her stomach dropped. “Merlin—“
Her head lifted at the exact same time Draco’s did.
He was busy pushing his hair out of his eyes, streaked with soot, sleeve torn at the cuff where a curse had grazed him. There was a smear of dust across his cheekbone that made him look younger somehow, almost like the boy she used to argue with in corridors, except the lines around his eyes now were from laughter and sleepless nights rather than scowls.
They held each other’s gaze a second too long, breaking into a ridiculous chuckles only they understood.
”I just realised something,” she said slowly.
“So did I,” he replied.
It was their first anniversary.
Not since the first time they had kissed, or the first time they had ended up in each other’s beds out of stress and loneliness. It had been one year since the night everything had stopped being accidental.
“I can’t believe we forgot our own anniversary,” Hermione laughed under her breath, a little breathless.
Draco feigned offense at the concept, furrowing his brows quite dramatically, “We were slightly preoccupied with being shot at and making sure we survived to pick-up Cornelia from Ginevra.”
”Still.”
He stepped closer, brushing ash off her shoulder with absent care, the gesture so familiar and domestic yet it still made her chest ache. “Come on,” he said quietly, “let’s go home first.”
Fourteen months earlier, the flat had still felt like a place they were borrowing rather than somewhere they belonged.
The wards were newly cast and faintly overzealous, humming at odd intervals like they hadn’t quite settled into the walls yet. The air carried the sharp, chalky smell of fresh paint and recently scrubbed stone, layered with the sterile tang of disinfectant Hermione had used on every surface before Cornelia came home. Somehow, it felt temporary.
Half their belongings remained trapped in mismatched boxes stacked along the walls like poorly planned barricades. Some were labeled neatly in Hermione’s handwriting—BOOKS, KITCHEN, FILES—while others had Draco’s slanted scrawl that simply read MISC or DON’T TOUCH. They had fully intended to unpack the first week.
They had severely overestimated themselves.
Hermione’s books had long since escaped their boxes and now formed precarious towers across the sitting room and bedroom floor, stacked in unstable spirals that leaned dangerously whenever someone walked past. Draco had complained about them daily, muttering darkly about shelving charms and structural integrity and how he refused to die beneath an avalanche of Arithmancy texts.
”I am not being taken out by a Weasley-level construction failure,” he’d said once, staring at a particularly ambitious stack like it had personally offended him.
Cornelia’s bassinet had been wedged awkwardly between their bed and the window because it was the only place they could both reach her quickly at night. It meant stubbing toes and knocking shins every time they moved around the room, but neither of them had suggested relocating it. Proximity mattered more than comfort.
Everything about the flat had been built around survival.
Those first weeks had blurred together until time lost all meaning. Feedings bled into diaper changes, which bled into half-dressed sprints to the Ministry, which bled into long shifts fueled by too much tea and not enough sleep. They had learned to nap anywhere—on the sofa, at the kitchen table, once memorably against each other on the floor because neither of them had made it to the bed.
Morning and night stopped existing as separate things. There was only before and after Cornelia cried, and yet—Hermione had never felt more tethered to do anything in her life.
That night, Cornelia had finally fallen asleep between them after nearly an hour of soft fussing and tiny hiccupping sobs. Her small body radiated warmth like a banked fire. One impossibly tiny fist had tangled itself stubbornly into the fabric of Draco’s shirt, refusing to let go even in sleep, as though she instinctively knew he might vanish if she loosened her grip.
Her breath came out slow and even against his ribs. Hermione lay on her side and simply watched them peacefully.
The room was dim, lit only by the faint flow of the streetlamps outside filtering through the curtains. It softened everything, blurred the sharp edges of the world until it felt gentler, quieter. She noticed Draco looked different when he slept.
All the tension he carried during the day—the tight jaw, the wary eyes, the constant readiness to react—melted away. His face smoothed into something boyish and unguarded.
One arm curved around Cornelia protectively even unconscious, his hand splayed wide across her back like a shield. Every time she shifted, his fingers tightened reflexively. Just something deep and primal that said mine.
The sight hit Hermione hard. Although this wasn’t planned, it was somehow the most precious thing she had ever known. The feeling swelled too large for her to hold alone. Before she could talk herself out of it, the words slipped free.
”Draco,” she breathed in a quiet whisper, so as not to wake the sleeping babe.
His eyes opened instantly, alert and ready, even from sleep.
”What’s wrong?” He asked, voice rough but sharp with concern.
”Nothing,” she said quickly, then shook her head against the pillow. “No—not nothing… I just—“
Her gaze dropped back to Cornelia, then to him.
”What are we doing?”
He blinked at her, clearly bracing for an argument or bad news. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Granger.”
”Us,” she replied, “What are we doing?”
He went very still. She swallowed.
“We live together. We share a bed. We take shifts with her at three in the morning. We go to work together and come home together. You know exactly how much milk I take in my tea. I know you pretend you don’t like being fussed over when you’re ill even though you absolutely do. We argue about whose turn it is to wash bottles and who forgot to restock nappies.”
His mouth twitched faintly, a teasing glint in his eyes, “It usually is your turn.”
”That’s not the point,” she said, fighting a tired smile as her voice softened, “Is it crazy to tell you that I think I want more?”
His eyes were wide as he watched her like every word mattered.
”I don’t want you to just be her dad,” she admitted, “I don’t want this to be something temporary we fell into because circumstances shoved us together. I don’t want either of us pretending we could walk away if things get inconvenient.”
The confession scraped on the way out, raw and frightening.
”I don’t want us to be something we almost chose.”
Silence filled the space between them, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure it would wake the baby.
”I want us to be real,” she whispered, “I want you and me. Together. On purpose.”
For a long moment he said nothing, and dread curled low in her stomach. He had promised he’d stay. He’d always shown up. But asking him to choose her fully, deliberately, felt heavier than anything else she’d ever asked of him. Then, carefully, so he wouldn’t disturb Cornelia, he reached across their daughter and took Hermione’s hand.
He threaded their fingers together with slow steadiness, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in quiet circles.
”Do you remember what I told you the night she was born?” He asked softly, she nodded.
“You said you’d stay as long as I’d have you.”
”That hasn’t changed,” he murmured. “It wasn’t temporary then, and it isn’t now.”
His eyes held hers, clear and certain.
“I’m not here because I feel obligated, Hermione. I’m here because I choose you. Every day. I choose both of you,” his grip tightened slightly, “and I’m not going anywhere.”
The fear inside her chest loosened all at once in the way Draco had reassured her. Things fell into place—not dramatic, not loud.
She leaned forward and kissed him softly over Cornelia’s tiny sleeping frame, and for the first time since everything had changed, Hermione felt like the ground beneath her feet wasn’t shifting any more.
Now a year together, the world felt effortless.
The flat greeted them familiar warmth when they stepped inside, the wards instantly recognising their magic and humming softly in welcome. Cornelia’s toys lay scattered across the rug, stained bibs that were strewn next to the kitchen sink that were promised to be washed as soon as they got home—it was the perfect picture of a family home. Hermione dropped her boots by the door and rolled her stiff shoulders while Draco locked the last protective charm into place out of habit.
The tension of the mission still clung to her skin, a restless hum she couldn’t shake.
He must have felt it too, because when he passed her in the hallway his hand slid around her waist and tugged her close without preamble. The kiss he pressed to her mouth was warm and grounding and a little desperate, the sort of kiss that came after close calls and near misses and the unspoken terror of what might have happened. She kissed him back just as fervently.
When they finally separated, her forehead rested against his.
”Happy anniversary,” she murmured.
His thumb brushed her cheek, “I love you, Hermione.”
They showered, washing away smoke and grime, and by the time they finished cleaning up and putting everything in order in their humble flat the late afternoon light had softened into gold. The quiet wrapped around them like a blanket. Hermione rested her head on his chest as they relaxed for a few minutes on the couch, listening to the steady thud of his heart beneath her ear, intertwining her hand with his and fiddling with his slender fingers.
For an extended moment neither of them spoke.
Then the thought that had been lingering for months finally gathered enough courage to surface.
“Draco,” she said softly, looking up at his striking silver-grey eyes. He hummed in response, giving her hand a gentle squeeze, urging her to share what was on her mind.
”I’ve been thinking about something,” she swallowed, a hint of nervousness evident, “I think I want another baby.”
The words felt fragile and enormous all at once, Draco’s hand stilling at the sudden admission.
She rushed on before she could lose her nerve. “Not because we have to, or because Cornelia’s growing so quickly, or because anyone expects it. I just—I love this. Us. Coming home to her. Watching you with her. I want more of it. More noise, chaos—more of our family.”
Her voice dropped into something almost shy.
”I want another piece of our family.”
For a moment he didn’t answer. She worried she had blindsided him. Then she felt the way his arms tightened around her, the way his breath hitched against her hair like the idea had struck somewhere deep.
When he kissed her, it wasn’t playful or distracted. It was slow and certain and filled with a heat that made her toes curl, like he was trying to memorise her. They rolled together, laughter dissolving into something softer, and the rest of the world suddenly slipped away.
”Why don’t we try again now?” Draco whispered slowly into her ear, his hot breath and invitation immediately dampening her knickers.
“I thought you’d never ask,” she giggled softly, pulling herself on top of him and kissing him with the same ferocity of a madwoman wanting to bear a man’s child.
“Show me how much you want another, yeah?” He teased, moving his hands up and underneath her shirt to give her breasts a squeeze.
Hermione craved more than his touches, the feeling of his hands on her sensitive spots riling her up into a frenzy. She began moving her hips against his, her wetness touching his already hard erection beneath his soft grey trousers.
“We don’t have much time, but you’re not going anywhere until you fuck another baby in me, Malfoy,” she moaned against his lips as she continued to grind herself onto him, increasing the friction just until she was close before getting herself up and stripping her lower half. “Now, fuck me like you mean it, Draco.”
Draco looked like he was in a daze, obviously admiring how feral his witch had become, all in the name of adding to their family tree. His lips were in a lopsided grin as he stared at her briefly before completely ridding himself of his own pants.
”Bend over, princess,” he told her, taking her by the wrist with some force and pushing her toward the couch they had previously occupied, “Make sure to take it all in. Not a single drop wasted.”
”You’re already this wet for me?” Draco admired the way she glistened for him, her slit dripping in her own juices. He traced a finger along her opening, as if scooping up all her fluids before pushing in two fingers inside her. Hermione sighed in relief and satisfaction as she felt his fingers move, curling inside her and hitting her most sensitive spot.
The way Draco was talking to her while he fingered her nearly made her cum, it was ridiculous. She could only whimper in want and desperation for the man she loved. Just before she hit the edge as her walls clenched around his fingers, he felt him stop. Without another second, Hermione felt his tip slide against her throbbing and dripping heat. The way he had always stretched her walls to the fullest made her eyes roll and her back arch; they’d been together for a year now yet it still felt absolutely divine.
Draco emitted a low grunt when he pushed himself inside her to the brim before moving at a steady pace. He held her by her hips, squeezing on the soft skin that now housed her ‘love handles’, driving himself in and out of her.
“F-fuck, Draco!” She panted, waves of dopamine coursing through her as he rammed himself inside. It was the perfect angle for pleasure and making sure it sticks. Her hips were raised against him, making his every thrust hit deeper and harder, “Right there! O-oh, fuck! Draco—,” the sensation driving her mad.
“Come on, baby,” he said in between grunts and thrusts, “Come for me. Make me a daddy again,” and that did it for Hermione.
“A-ah! F-fuck!” A guttural and loud shriek echoed in their flat as she came so hard, her legs trembling as she held onto the cushion of the couch. The intensity of the way she was fucked in that position and the way Draco talked to her made her see stars much faster than she had ever dreamed.
”Shit—“
Draco’s movements jutted as he came, spilling all of his thick seed into her. His movements became erratic as he continued to thrust inside her, riding out his orgasm as if making sure that it won’t spill. Their hot breaths filled the silence, then he slid out of her and they both slumped against the couch.
“Take a rest,” he said softly, kissing her temple, “I’ll pick up Cornelia from the Weaslette.”
It had been a year of them, even more years of them being in the same circle yet Draco still called Ginny playful names. Hermione rolled her eyes before patting him on the leg, “I’ll need a nap after that.”
Having fallen asleep afterward, warm and boneless and wrapped in the kind of safety she only ever felt beside him, Hermione did not expect to fall asleep for a few hours. One moment she had set an alarm for an hour’s max, her body pleasantly heavy with exhaustion and contentment, and the next she was surfacing slowly through layers of sleep like someone rising abruptly through water.
The light in the bedroom had shifted.
It was no longer the soft gold of the early afternoon but the muted lavender-grey of early evening, the curtains breathing gently with the breeze from the cracked window. The air had cooled, carrying with it the faint scent of laundry soap and the lingering trace of Draco’s perfume on the pillow beside her.
For a moment she simply lay there, disoriented, her mind sluggish and untethered. Then, she heard one of her most favourite sounds in the world. A bright, delighted babble from the living room, punctuated by the unmistakable thud of something small being dropped onto the floor and a tiny triumphant squeal that could only belong to her darling girl.
They’re home.
Hermione pushed herself upright, wincing faintly at the pleasant ache in her muscles, and dragged a hand through her tangled hair. The flat felt alive again, filled with those familiar domestic noises she had grown so used to. There was a shuffle of footsteps, the rustle of paper, and Draco’s low voice murmuring something too soft to make out.
The bedroom door creaked open and Draco stepped inside first.
He looked almost boyish, in a way she rarely saw anymore, like the carefully constructed composure he always wore had slipped somewhere between the Floo and home. His hair was slightly windswept and imperfect, the sleeves of his jumper rolled. There was a faint flush across his cheeks that wasn’t from cold.
In one hand he held a bouquet of soft white and red roses, the stems wrapped neatly in brown paper like something chosen carefully. In the other, he guided Cornelia, who toddled forward on unsteady legs with all the determination of a tiny drunk witch, clutching something square and velvet in both hands like it was the most important treasure she had ever possessed.
The sight of them together—Draco bent slightly to match their daughter’s height, his long fingers steadying her steps with infinite patience—hit Hermione so hard it almost stole her breath. Her entire world was right there in the doorway.
”Hi, mummy,” Draco said softly with a chaste kiss on her lips. His voice had lost all of its usual sharpness.
First, he handed her the flowers with careful deliberation. Up close, she could see that he had chosen them intentionally—cream roses, deep red buds, tiny sprigs of greenery tucked between them. A folded piece of parchment peeked out between the stems.
She recognised his handwriting immediately, neat and deliberate and slightly slanted, the way it always was when he tried very hard to be precise. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded it.
You were my past. You are my present. Now, I wish to have all the days of my future with you.
Hermione’s vision blurred almost instantly. It was such a Draco thing to write—simple, honest, stripped of flourish, yet somehow devastating in its sincerity.
Cornelia, apparently deciding that whatever the adults were doing was taking too long, squealed and shoved the velvet box towards Hermione with both hands, nearly toppling over in the process. She looked absurdly proud of herself, like she had personally orchestrated the entire event.
Draco huffed out a soft, nervous laugh and dropped to one knee beside the bed, resting his forearms on the mattress. Even now, even after everything they had been through together, the gesture made Hermione’s stomach flip.
“I looked at the Malfoy vaults,” he admitted quietly, eyes fixed on the box rather than her face at first. “Every ring in there has a history attached to it. Generations of names, expectations, bloodlines.”
His jaw tightened faintly.
”Generations of people who would have sneered at you. Who would have called you less. I’m not putting that on your hand; I’m not letting that kind of prejudice near you ever again.”
The conviction in his voice made her chest ache, then he opened the box. Inside rested a ring so simple it stole her breath.
A clean diamond set in understated rose gold, elegant without being ostentatious. No crests or signs of old magic. It looked like something intricately chosen for her, something new. Like something that was made for her and solely belonged to her.
”I had it commissioned in Muggle London,” he continued, finally lifting his eyes to meet hers. They were softer than she had ever seen them. “Custom made. Something that starts with us.”
Hermione couldn’t stop herself from the tears that spilled over.
”I want our family, Hermione,” he said, glancing briefly at Cornelia, who had started patting the bed enthusiastically as if cheering him on. Then his gaze returned to Hermione, steady and certain. “Just you, me, and however many loud, chaotic children you decide we’re having. I don’t care what it looks like, as long as it’s with you.”
A watery laugh broke through her tears.
Trust Draco to propose by talking about chaos and children and a future that felt messy and real instead of perfect and polished. It was so terribly, wonderfully him.
“Marry me, Hermione.”
There was no grand speech needed. And somehow that made it more than perfect.
”Yes,” she breathed, her voice breaking. “Of course, yes!”
Relief washed over his face so openly it made her laugh again, and he slid the ring onto her finger with hands that were only slightly unsteady. It fit like it had always belonged there, the weight of it warm and grounding. Cornelia immediately clapped at the sparkle, babbling excitedly and trying to grab Hermione’s hand.
Draco leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers, both of them basking in their emotions as they start another chapter in their lives. In that quiet room, with the evening light spilling gold across the walls and their daughter squealing between them and the future unfolding so simply, Hermione realised this was everything.
This was forever and she wouldn’t have it any other way.