Saturday morning dawned crisp and sunny in the West Country, and Reg was clamoring to go to the playground as soon as he finished breakfast.
Hermione was tempted to take him to the Burrow, or Shell Cottage to play with Victoire, or Grimmauld Place for a visit with Harry or Ginny, or really anywhere in Britain where there were wards to keep away a certain freshly paroled Death Eater. But she knew from personal experience that Malfoy was sly and persistent in equal measure and eventually would force a confrontation to see Reg.
"Better to get this over with," she muttered to herself. "Remember, you're a Gryffindor." That bracing thought dredged up an unwelcome memory of shivering on Malfoy's Nimbus while he whispered cajolingly in her ear, his arms providing the illusion of security. "What's the use of being a Gryffindor if you aren't even brave? What's the use of being a witch if you won't even fly?" he had asked, ultimately persuading her to agree to an illicit moonlight broom ride at a speed of far too many kilometers per hour.
She shook her head against the treacherous recollection of wind whipping her face and Malfoy's body warm against her back. "Reg," she called with false cheerfulness, "Get your jacket and let's go."
Hermione listened with half an ear to Reg's happy chatter as he skipped towards the park, bracing herself for the inevitable encounter with Malfoy. When they arrived, she was almost disappointed not to see him. Reg raced off to play, while Hermione greeted a handful of friends and neighbors before settling onto a bench with her reading. It was a routine she had started when Reg was a toddler - she would take her textbooks to the playground near her parents' dental office in Perth and study while Reg played in the sandbox. Today, she had a folder of financial reports, courtesy of Egbert the goblin slavedriver.
Not even a half hour had passed before she heard the low rumble, similar to that of a Muggle motorcycle, that signaled a racing broom being flown at a low cruising speed. When the broom stopped at the park entrance, she tensed in preparation, not looking around but easily picturing Malfoy dismounting and nonchalantly swinging the broom over his shoulder as he sauntered into the park. Her imagination hadn't played her false; a few moments later, Malfoy sat down next to her on the park bench.
"Hullo, Granger. You're looking well," he said casually, as though he were a friend with the right to pay her a lazy compliment.
"Malfoy," she acknowledged, stone-faced. "Azkaban seems to have agreed with you." Her tone was sarcastic, but Hermione had to admit it was true. Malfoy was still lean, but he'd filled out from the gaunt seventeen-year-old she'd known. And instead of the prison pallor she'd expected, he actually had some color in his cheeks after a brisk flight from Wiltshire.
"Being out of Azkaban agrees with me," he corrected. He leaned towards her, his voice low and intense. "Before I say anything else, I need to tell you that I am sorry, more sorry than you can imagine, for what I did that night at Hogwarts and for not being able to protect you from my aunt at the Manor. Even if you hate me, please believe that I never wanted to see you hurt and did what I could to prevent that from happening." Malfoy took a breath and continued. "Will you forgive me?"
He was looking at her with soft, cloudy grey eyes, practically radiating sincerity, which told her was lying or wanted something. Or both. "I don't hate you, Malfoy," Hermione finally said.
Malfoy nodded, accepting that was all she could give at the moment. "I'm glad to hear that. And I hope we can be at least civil for our son's sake."
Hermione bit her lip. "Look, Malfoy, you need to understand - "
He cut her off. "I'm not asking you to move into Malfoy Manor or anything like that," yet, he mentally amended, "but you need to understand that I will be a part of his life, as I have every right to be." Now his eyes were a steely grey and his tone was implacable.
Hermione sighed. Ginny had been right, and she had been wrong. She really had underestimated how much children - even half-blooded children - mattered to the traditional wizarding families. Most Muggles his age would have been happy to shrug off their parental responsibilities, but Malfoy, possessive snake that he was, wanted to play at happy family.
Malfoy looked over her shoulder at the scrum of little boys crowded around the edge of the protective circle he had charmed around his Nimbus. "Which one is he, Granger?"
His eyes were silvery with anticipation. With a sinking feeling, Hermione realized that Malfoy was truly eager to meet Reg. She stood up and made a beckoning gesture. When dealing with Malfoy, it was easier to show than tell.
One of the boys broke away and obediently trotted over. He was slightly built, with a heart-shaped face and bright hazel eyes, wearing an orange Chudley Cannons cap that clashed horribly with his wavy hair. Malfoy's eyes widened in surprise and more than a bit of anger.
"What the fuck, Granger? He's a ginger!" exclaimed Malfoy.
"Language, Malfoy," Hermione reproved.
Unexpectedly, he laughed and crouched down to Reg's level. "Sorry about that, sprog. Your mum has a cheeky sense of humor. What's your name?"
"I'm Reg," the boy said, with the sunny confidence of a well-loved child. "Who's that?" he asked his mother in a loudly whispered aside.
"That's Mr. Malfoy. I went to school with him."
"Were you friends?" Reg asked curiously.
"Sort of, for one year," Malfoy replied, which Hermione supposed was a diplomatic answer. "You can call me Draco," he offered.
"Mr. Draco," Hermione corrected. "Now shake his hand and say 'nice to meet you.'"
Reg obediently shook Malfoy's hand and parroted his mother, breaking from the script to ask excitedly, "Is that a real Quidditch broom, Mr. Draco? Can I touch it?"
"It is a real Nimbus, though it's a bit of a later model now, a 2001. And while I ordinarily don't allow grubby, little hands anywhere near my broom," this was with a pointed look to the brats still clustered around it, "I'll make an exception for you. In fact, you can even sit on it, if you'd like."
Reg smirked triumphantly at his playmates, a look that Malfoy mirrored over his head at Hermione as Reg grabbed his hand to pull him towards the broom. She watched them carefully, doubtful that Malfoy had any experience in minding small boys, but it seemed that an enthusiastic knowledge of Quidditch was sufficient to manage her excitable son for at least a short period of time. She could hear Reg's high-pitched questions as Malfoy, with surprising patience, walked him through the broom's finer points.
As promised, Malfoy then lifted Reg to sit on the Nimbus, which he had hovering stationary a couple of feet off the ground. Hermione found herself smiling at the sheer exuberant joy on the boy's face, until Malfoy looked up and caught her eye. Her smile faded and Hermione found herself flushing. She thought their staring contest might have continued indefinitely, but for Reg's timely interruption.
"Mr. Draco, would you take me on a broom ride? Please?"
Hermione doubted that Malfoy, who had been a very spoilt child himself, would see any reason to resist Reg's plea. With a mental sigh, she prepared herself to intervene, deny her son's request, and deal with the inevitable resulting tantrum. As much as she adored Reg, there was no denying that he had a temper, inherited from both sides of his family tree.
"Absolutely not," Malfoy replied crisply. "You'd be daft to ride a broom like this without wearing a helmet. Now run along and play while I have a talk with your mother." Shockingly, Reg bowed to Malfoy's authority without protest and with only a slight pout.
Malfoy sat down beside her, slightly closer than before, with a grin on his face.
"All right, Granger. You've had your fun. Will you lift the glamor now, or will I have to do this the hard way?" he asked.
"It's not a glamor," Hermione warned.
With an exaggerated sigh, Malfoy produced his wand and pointed it Reg. "The hard way, then."
He started wordlessly with a Finite Incantum, and then moved through a series of increasingly complex non-verbal and verbal Revelio counter-charms, including some that Hermione didn't recognize, growing visibly frustrated as nothing worked.
"What kind of fucking glamor did you use, Granger?" Malfoy growled.
"It's not a glamor," she repeated.
"It has to be a glamor," he insisted. "There's no such thing as a ginger Malfoy. All Malfoy wizards are blond."
"I know," Hermione said softly. "And all Weasleys have red hair."
Malfoy looked at her with a mix of incredulity and fury. "Don't expect me to believe you were slagging around with the Weasel King behind my back. I know you weren't."
"This isn't the time or place, Malfoy," Hermione cautioned, with a meaningful look towards the playground. She knew this conversation could quickly turn ugly, and even the best-cast Muffliato wouldn't conceal that they were screaming at each other.
Malfoy followed her glance and agreed with a sneer that recalled the vile boy he'd been at Hogwarts. "Agreed. Name your time and place, Granger."
"Hogsmeade. The Three Broomsticks at half past seven."
With a sharp nod of agreement, Malfoy stalked over to his broomstick without a backwards glance.