15 August 2025

"Don't you look gorgeous this morning."

Rose looked up from the mug of hot tea she was nursing and scowled. Hugo had taken a seat opposite her at the kitchen table; he was smirking.

"Shut up," Rose snapped, flicking a strand of her flyaway auburn curls away from her face and taking a sip of tea.

"Honestly, if the bags under your eyes got any bigger, we'd be able to take them down to the market and shop with them."

"Hugo, shut up or I'll hex you," Rose growled, glaring fiercely at her younger brother, who raised his eyebrows in response.

"Hey, just because Mum and Dad don't approve of your engagement, doesn't mean you're allowed to take it out on me," he said defensively.

Rose almost dropped her mug. Gaping at her brother in horror, she croaked, "How—?"

"Lily told me," Hugo grinned.

Rose stared at him. "How does Lily—?"

"She eavesdropped on Uncle Harry and Auntie Ginny last night."

Rose closed her eyes and released a slow, deep breath. If Lily Potter had discovered that Rose was engaged to Scorpius Malfoy, then the entire family would know by the end of the day. Lily was many things—smart, savvy, fiercely loyal, and an accomplished caster of the Bat-Bogey Hex—but she had a very, very big mouth.

"How come you didn't tell me?"

Rose opened her eyes. Hugo was considering her curiously.

"What?" she frowned.

"I would've helped you convince Mum and Dad," Hugo shrugged. "You know I've always liked Scorpius."

"And how d'you know I didn't already convince them?"

"Please," Hugo snorted. "Have you looked in the mirror, Rosie? You're a mess—and so are Mum and Dad. I saw Mum leave for the Ministry this morning. She looked like a raccoon."

Rose bit her lip and gazed down at her tea. Hugo was only half-right. Rose had spent much of the night lying awake in bed, but it hadn't been entirely because of Scorpius, at all. Listening to her mother describe feeling the floor of the Charms corridor fall from beneath her feet, as Professor McGonagall told her that Ron Weasley had nearly been poisoned…listening to her father describe—in a voice so hollow that it had gone through Rose like physical pain—how helpless and wretched he had felt, clawing at the walls of a stone cellar, while Hermione screamed for her life, begging for mercy, several floors above him…

The impact of the nightmarish conversation had made it impossible for Rose to find sleep. She had been too afraid to close her eyes, lest she dream about foam gurgling at the corner of her father's mouth…or about a knife being held to her unconscious mother's throat…

Rose swallowed heavily, tightening her trembling fingers around the warm mug in her hands.

She had sent a letter to Scorpius first thing in the morning, containing every horrific, gruesome detail her parents had divulged to her. She wanted—needed—him to understand, needed him to realize that their engagement was about far more than just them, needed him to understand that their parents' animosity was far, far more than a house rivalry…

"Good morning…Hugo…Rose."

Rose started, looking around. Her father had swept into the kitchen, his magenta Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes work robes billowing about his ankles. But the vibrancy of his robes did not disguise the obvious fact that he had slept hardly a wink the previous night. Dimly, Rose hoped that her mother didn't have any press conferences or Wizengamot trials to oversee that day; she didn't know how the public would react to photographs of a Minister for Magic who looked as though she had come off worse in a fight.

"'Morning, Dad," Hugo said cheerfully, as he lathered jam on a slice of toast.

"'Morning," Rose murmured, without meeting her father's eye. Dad, for his part, didn't seem like he was particularly keen on catching her gaze anyhow.

There was silence in the kitchen for several minutes, as Rose sipped her tea and stared determinedly down at the table. She could feel Hugo's inquisitive stare flicking between her and their father, who was drinking coffee by the window with his back to them.

Suddenly— "Bloody hell!"

BANG.

Rose jumped, looking up. Her father had slammed his coffee cup down on the counter and wrenched open the kitchen window to allow two birds—one tawny owl and one handsome eagle owl—to swoop inside.

With a soft gasp, Rose leaped to her feet and darted around the dining table to the window, pushing past her father and unfastening the envelope dangling from the ankle of her tawny owl, Athena. With shaking hands, Rose slit open the envelope and withdrew a small, folded piece of parchment, smoothing it out.

Dear Rose,

My father told me everything last night. He's written a letter to your parents and sent it with Brutus, the family owl.

I'm so, so sorry. I swear, I had no idea about any of it. I would've never taken you to Malfoy Manor if I'd known.

Love,
Scorpius

Rose read through the letter several times, feeling a lump swell in her throat. It was so typical of Scorpius to apologize for his family's actions from nearly a decade before he'd been born.

"Dad?"

Rose looked up. Hugo had gotten up from the table and joined her at the window. He was staring at Dad in concern. Rose turned to her father; he had untied the letter from the eagle owl's foot and was gazing down at it with a dumbfounded expression.

Then, very abruptly, he ushered the eagle owl out of the window and slammed it shut, latching it tightly. Tucking the letter he was holding into his cloak, he faced his children.

"I'm going to work," he said shortly. "You're not allowed out anywhere today except your grandparents', or your aunts and uncles'. Am I clear?" His gaze lingered on Rose for a second, and she reflexively tightened her grip on the letter in her hands.

"But Dad, Henry Malkin and I were going to go to Diagon Alley—!"

"Not today, Hugo," Dad snapped, snatching up his cloak and stalking out of the kitchen. A few moments later, Rose heard the front door slam shut.

Immediately, Hugo rounded on Rose. "Who was that letter from?" he demanded angrily.

Rose glanced down at the letter from Scorpius. Then, she turned to stare out of the kitchen window. In the distance, she could see Brutus—now a brownish-gray speck—flying back to Malfoy Manor.

"Draco Malfoy," she said, stunned.


"That nasty, evil git," Ron said furiously, pacing the length of Hermione's office for the sixth time that morning. "Who the hell does he think he is, writing to us? That's it. We need to start having our owls rerouted to the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Dark Artefacts, Hermione. They'll be able to test our letters for curses and foul enchantments. I bet Dad knows someone who could help us out…"

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to block out her husband's blustering tones, as she read the letter that he had slapped onto her desk, a minute earlier.

Granger and Weasley,

I've told my son how inappropriate it was for him to bring your daughter to my house on Tuesday, and why. I would apologize on his behalf, but it's become clear to me that you never told your daughter about that night either. I'm certain she would never have accompanied Scorpius to Malfoy Manor had she known the truth herself.

The fact remains, however, that our children have gotten themselves engaged. I'm positive that I am no more thrilled about this development than you are, but I've spent the past nineteen years working hard for my son's happiness, and I have no intention of stopping now. I would much rather attend my son's wedding here in England than sit back and watch him run off to Italy again to elope with your daughter.

Scorpius, Astoria, and I would like to discuss matters with you and Rose over dinner. We have made a reservation for seven (Scorpius reminded me that you have a son, as well) at the Beauregard Hotel in Upper Flagley, for six o'clock on Sunday. Please send us word of your response at your earliest convenience.

Draco Malfoy

Hermione blinked several times. Then, with a little shake of her head, she began to reread the letter, eyes widening. I've spent the past nineteen years working hard for my son's happiness, and I have no intention of stopping now. How unbelievable, how ludicrous, how impossibly unreal that she and Draco Malfoy—the man who had nearly poisoned her husband, the man who had seen her writhe and scream on his drawing room floor, the man whose thoughtless actions Hermione would never be able to forgive—could stand united on such an enormous issue. Suddenly, Hermione had newfound understanding for her mother's belief that all parents were equally stupid about their children's happiness.

She cleared her throat. "Ron."

"…could ask Bill to set something up for us. I'm sure he and Fleur have curse-breaker friends who would love a side project…"

"Ron."

"…worst case, I'll get Harry to double the number of Hit Wizards guarding our house. We can tell them to intercept all owls…"

"Ronald."

Ron stopped pacing and whirled around to look at her. "What?"

Hermione pointed at the letter sitting on her desk. "What are we going to do about this?"

Ron stared at her. "About what?" he asked blankly.

"The invitation," Hermione said impatiently, picking up the letter and shaking it. "How do we respond to this?"

Ron's jaw dropped. "Are—are you joking?"

Hermione frowned at him. "No, Ron, I'm not," she said slowly. "We…we'll have to do something about it, won't we? If Rose is going to marry Scorpius—"

"She isn't!" Ron exclaimed. "Hermione, there's no way—!"

"Ron, we discussed this last night," Hermione snapped, glaring at her husband. "I told you, I'm not going to be the one to stand in the way of Rose's happiness—"

"Her happiness?" Ron scoffed. "She's nineteen!"

"Ron, did you see her last night?" Hermione asked angrily. "Did you see her face when we told her about you being poisoned? Did you see her face when we told her about Malfoy Manor? She was devastated!"

"Of course she was! She was listening to stories about her parents being hurt—"

"—by family members of the man she's clearly in love with," Hermione said quietly, fixing her husband with a stern gaze. "Give our daughter some credit, Ron. She's a smart girl. She'd never agree to marry someone who treated her with anything but the utmost respect."

Ron stared at her for a moment, his mouth slightly open, and Hermione knew that she had rather impressed him with her argument.

But then— "No," he said firmly. "There's no way I'm going to sit down for dinner with Draco Malfoy. Hermione, you can't seriously want—"

"Of course I don't," Hermione said loudly, standing up suddenly and leaning over her desk towards him. "Of course I don't want to have dinner with Malfoy and his wife." Closing her eyes, she took a deep, steadying breath and sat back down. Then, she opened her eyes again and looked at her husband. "But put yourself in her position, Ron. What would you have done if your parents had disapproved of me?"

"Hermione—"

"They haven't invited us to dinner at Malfoy Manor," Hermione interrupted. "And it's not like Scorpius would ever expect Rose to move into that house. From what Al has told Ginny, Scorpius spends as little time there as possible." She paused, considering Ron intently. Then, softly, she added, "Ron, if Malfoy is willing to do this, why can't we—?"

"Because the slimy bastard and his family worked just as hard to bolster Voldemort as we worked to bring him down," Ron said harshly, flinging a hand in the air. "Because Bellatrix Lestrange didn't torture the woman he was in love with and force him to listen. Hermione, I'm never going to forget that, do you understand me? Never. I'm never going to forget that night because it's the most terrified and helpless I've ever felt in my life, and I have no idea what the hell I'd have done if—" he stopped short abruptly.

Hermione had swept around her desk and caught him in a tight embrace.

It was crushing and suffocating, but Hermione didn't care. She needed to hear the steady rhythm of Ron's heartbeat, needed to know that he was real, that he was there…because all of her senses were telling her that it was impossible that they could have survived everything that had happened to them…and yet, her husband's beating heart was insisting that they had…

Hermione didn't know quite how long they stood together. The clock on the wall of the Minister's office told her that it was only two minutes before they broke apart, but when she pulled away and looked at Ron's ashen face, she knew at once that he too had just relived several years of his life. Swallowing a few threatening tears, Hermione reached up and took Ron's face in her hands.

"Ron, look at me."

Pressing his lips together, Ron looked up and met her gaze. Hermione gently brushed a tear away from the corner of his right eye.

"I still have nightmares about the day McGonagall found me on the third floor and told me that you'd nearly died," she told him quietly. "I still have nightmares about Malfoy Manor. I will never, ever ask you to forget any of it, Ron, because I'm never going to either." She paused, taking a deep breath. "I'm only asking you to move forward, for Rose."


"Why haven't we heard back? We should've heard back by now. Brutus got back three hours ago."

Draco rolled his eyes, ignoring his son's muttering and idly turning a page of the Daily Prophet. Scorpius was sitting in the armchair across from his own, nervously tapping his foot against the marble floor. Every few seconds, he would sit upright and shoot a hopeful glance in the direction of the drawing room's high windows. But then, with a disappointed sigh, he would settle back into his seat and continue tapping his foot on the floor.

"Draco, I'm going to Daph's to help her and Theo pack for the Isle of Skye."

Draco lowered his newspaper. Astoria had entered the drawing room, pulling on her traveling cloak. He nodded at her. "All right."

"Why don't you ever take me to beautiful islands for our anniversaries?" Astoria sniffed reproachfully, walking towards the fireplace.

Draco quirked an eyebrow. "When we've been married as long as Theodore and Daphne, I'll take you to any island you want."

Astoria smirked at him. "Our twenty-fifth is in two years, Draco. I'll be holding you to that promise."

Draco shook his head, smiling slightly.

"Hey, Mum," Scorpius called, in an unconvincingly casual tone. "D'you know if any owls have arrived in the north hall this afternoon?"

Astoria froze with her hand above the Floo powder jar, exchanging a fleeting look with Draco over the top of Scorpius's armchair.

"None, darling," she said gently. "Not yet. I'm sorry."

Scorpius shook his head. "It's all right," he said, in a voice filled with determined bravado. "I was just wondering."

Astoria bit her lip, staring at the back of her son's armchair. Then, she turned and shot Draco a stern look that plainly said, Talk to him.

Draco frowned at his wife, ready to argue, but faltered slightly at the ferocious expression on her face. After several more moments of mutinous glaring, Draco sighed and relented, nodding stiffly. Astoria gave him a winning smile. Then, with a blaze of green, she disappeared into the fireplace.

Clearing his throat, Draco folded up his newspaper and tossed it aside. "Scorpius, you need to be patient," he said curtly. "You can't expect them to jump for joy at a dinner invitation from me. You should consider it a good sign that they haven't already sent us a refusal."

Scorpius stared at his father for a moment. Then, without a word, he turned abruptly to face the bay windows.

Gritting his teeth, Draco bit back an angry retort and reached for the Prophet again. But suddenly—

"What if she ends it?" Scorpius asked quietly. "What if she doesn't want to be together anymore?"

Draco paused with his fingers a few inches away from the newspaper, studying Scorpius's profile closely. He was still staring at the window, but his jaw was clenched and his dark brown eyes—Astoria's eyes—were alight with a very real fear. Draco felt his frustration ebb away.

"Scorpius, I'm not going to lie to you. You should brace yourself for the worst. If there's one thing I've learned about the Weasleys, it's that they stick up for their own," Draco told his son grimly, eyes glinting. "But if you've heard anything I've been telling you for the past nineteen years, then you'll know that Malfoys are no different."


"What's this I hear from Roxy about Rose and Scorpius Malfoy?"

Ron had to resist a groan. Looking up from the shelf of Decoy Detonators he was restocking, Ron met George's amused smile with a glare and slammed a Detonator onto the shelf with such force that it exploded, spraying both brothers with ash.

"Does the entire family know that my daughter's engaged to the son of the world's twitchiest ferret?" Ron barked angrily, dusting ash off of his robes.

"Pretty much," George smirked, drawing his wand and vanishing the ash and the broken Detonator with a casual wave. "So, how're you feeling?"

Ron glowered at his elder brother. "How would you feel if Roxanne came back from a one-year stint in Florence and announced that she was engaged to Draco Malfoy's kid?"

"Not too surprised, if I'm being honest," George said unconcernedly, picking up a Decoy Detonator from the crate at Ron's feet and placing it on the shelf. "Roxy's a rebellious kid. Always has been." Ron heard a distinct note of pride in his brother's voice. "But this is ickle Rosie we're talking about—Prefect, Head Girl, ten Outstanding O.W.L.s, eight Outstanding N.E.W.T.s…I don't think she's ever put a toe out of line before now."

Ron exhaled loudly. "I should've known something was up the moment Rose told me she was going to reject the job offer from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and pursue art," he muttered mutinously. "She worked so hard in school, George, I couldn't believe she wanted to throw everything away to move to Italy for an art apprenticeship. Now, I'm starting to wonder whether Malfoy talked her into it—"

"Ron, that's not fair," George interrupted, frowning at his brother. "Rose has always been a talented artist. She's the one who designed all of those front displays for the shop, remember? And you know as well as I do that there's no boy in the world who can convince Rose to do anything she doesn't want to."

"Oh, for the love of Merlin, don't tell me you're on Rose's side, too," Ron groaned. "Do you want Draco Malfoy to be her father-in-law, George?"

"Of course I don't," George rolled his eyes. "But you should consider yourself lucky that Rose came back from Italy engaged, not married. Believe it or not, she cares what you think. She's the biggest daddy's pet I know."

Ron stared at his brother. "When did you get so smart about this stuff?"

George smirked. "I've always been smart, Ronnie-kins," he said wickedly. "You were always just too slow to keep up."

Easily ducking Ron's punch, George laughed and swept away. Ron shook his head and turned back to the crate of Decoy Detonators, smiling in spite of himself.

Suddenly, the bell above the door of the joke shop rang with a loud clang, and a very strange—but very familiar—awed hush fell over the customers nearest to the door. A few seconds later, Ron heard George call out, "All right, Harry?"

Ron stiffened. He knew exactly what his best friend had dropped by to discuss, and he had absolutely no desire to have that particular conversation.

Dropping the Decoy Detonators he was holding back into their crate, he began to hurry past the shelves, towards the backroom of the shop. But he had barely managed to cross half of the aisle before he was intercepted.

Harry Potter was standing in front of him, arms crossed.

"I knew you'd try and run," he said in amusement.

Ron glared at him. "I wasn't running from you," he lied. "What are you doing here, anyway? It's half past two. You should be at work."

"I'm the head of Law Enforcement," Harry grinned. "I can take a lunch hour whenever I feel like it."

Ron snorted. "My wife's Minister for Magic," he retorted, walking back towards the crate of Decoy Detonators he had abandoned near the far end of the aisle. "And she can fire you in a second if she finds out you've been abusing your position."

"Fair point," Harry laughed, following him towards the crate. "But as it so happens, your wife gave me permission to visit you."

Ron froze in the act of seizing a handful of Decoy Detonators and threw Harry a dark look. "She told you about the dinner invite, didn't she?"

"Yep," Harry said simply, bending to pick up a Detonator from the crate. A moment later, however, he cried out in alarm and leaped backward, clutching his hand as though burned.

"There's an enchantment on the crates," Ron explained, snickering as Harry cradled his injured fingers. "Only employees can touch products before they've been shelved."

"Typical George," Harry mumbled, shaking his head.

There was a brief silence, as Ron continued to stack Detonators.

Then— "So…what are you going to do about the invite?" Harry asked in a low voice.

Ron avoided his friend's gaze. "Dunno."

Harry didn't respond. Finally, with a sigh, Ron turned around to face him, folding his arms across his chest. "I suppose you think I should accept?"

To Ron's surprise, Harry shook his head. "No, I don't."

Ron stared at him. "You don't?"

"No, I think that you should do whatever your gut's telling you to. If you really don't feel comfortable sitting down for dinner with Malfoy, you shouldn't. But if you're refusing the invitation for any other reason, Ron, then you should reevaluate."

Ron rolled his eyes. "You're such a bloody Auror, Harry."

Harry laughed, leaning back against the shelf. "Ron, you might run a joke shop now, but I know for a fact that you're still every bit the Auror you were nineteen years ago," he said, grinning. "Your instincts are as impeccable as they've ever been." He paused, considering Ron shrewdly. "Especially when it comes to your children."

Ron was quiet for a moment, biting his lip. Then, after neatly arranging several more Detonators on the shelf, he turned to face his friend. "I want to accept, for Rose's sake," he whispered. "And so does Hermione, but…" He swallowed heavily. "I know it happened almost thirty years ago, Harry, but I remember that night like it happened yesterday. What if it all just comes rushing back? What if I do something I regret?"

Harry cocked his head to the side. "You're stronger than that, Ron," he said, frowning. "I remember that night like it was yesterday, too. I remember a lot of nights like they were yesterday, and there are a lot of people I'd love to curse if I got the chance…but I wouldn't. And I know you wouldn't either. We're better than they were."

Ron stared at Harry. Thirty-four years of friendship later, his best friend still had a stranglehold on his conscience.

Slowly, Ron turned back to the shelf. "I need a little longer to think," he said quietly.

Harry nodded. "I'll take it," he said, smiling. "As long as I can tell Hermione that you're no longer planning on sending a Howler to an unsuspecting nineteen-year-old."

Ron snorted. "Funny how she still bosses us around, isn't it?"

"Some things'll never change," Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "I'll see you later, mate."

"See you, Harry."

Ron picked up the now-empty Detonator crate and followed his friend past several aisles, towards the front entrance of the joke shop. Then, just as Harry reached for the door handle, Ron was seized by a bizarre impulse—an inexplicable desire to know the answer to the question that had been badgering his mind all day.

"Hey—Harry!" he called out.

Harry turned around, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?"

Ron struggled with himself for a long moment, opening and closing his mouth several times. At last, with an impatient sigh, he asked in a low voice, "D'you…d'you think he makes her happy?"

Harry stared at him. Then, he smiled.

"Deliriously."


Author's Note:

EEP. Things are getting real! Stay tuned for the final chapter, aka the dinner from hell XD

Ari