4 years later.
"Miss Granger!"
"Yes?"
Hermione looked up, never hating herself as much as she did then. Rita was going to send her somewhere stupid- like investigating a nargle infestation behind a toilet u-bend. Ever since she joined The Daily Prophet and let her Ministry job go...she had felt herself sinking in a pit of despair. Her previous salary had been excellent...for one person. But now with an extra mouth to feed, she needed a job with flexible hours and good pay.
Rita better enjoy this, while she still could.
Once Hermione started writing more serious articles, her crediblity would shine through.
Sighing, Hermione reached for the toilet plunger and hard hat. It was a good thing she wore wellington boots this morning, because it looked like it was going to be a long day. Like a pro, she slammed the helmet over her tresses and hefted the plunger over her shoulder. She meant business.
"No need for that," Rita bustled past, "Looks like you've got your first centre spread."
"Don't toy with me, Rita," Hermione said through clenched teeth. "Your prank is getting a little old. Just tell me where I'm going, and how big the infestation is."
"Seriously," Rita blinked, looking owlish. "You have a centre-spread in Wiltshire. They want you to interview a family member of the deceased, and make it an exclusive. I would lend you my Quick-Quotes Quill but..."
"Stop," Hermione fanned herself. "Your kindness is too much."
"Right." Rita didn't know what to make of that. "A portkey's being arranged to leave in half an hour. Take that ridiculous hat of your head and start drawing up questions. Chip chop. Don't delay."
Hermione had half an hour to familiarise herself with the situation. The death had occured a week ago, but The Daily Prophet had only caught wind of it now. The name on the paper shocked her. Astoria Malfoy. Apparently she had slipped in the bath, and banged her head against the rim of the bathtub. Her body had been found naked by a house-elf, and the burial was two nights ago.
The Malfoy family was in attendence.
Hermione's blood ran cold. No wonder Wiltshire rang a bell. That's where Malfoy Manor was, and had been the marital home of Draco and Astoria. And she had to go there? Now? No, she couldn't do it. This interview could be assigned to someone else- and she could go home and snuggle up with her son.
So what, if Astoria was dead?
She had washed her hands off them a long time ago.
But something under her skin was itching, and burning with curiosity. She almost felt relieved when Rita denied her permission to leave, and told her to write the article or get out. She wanted to confront Malfoy. Had to know if he had any part to play in bumping his wife off.
Hermione guaranteed herself that Malfoy wouldn't be in floods of tears when she got there.
And she was right.
"Mudblood," Draco said, opening the door after her fifth knock. "Don't tell me you're the latest reporter to rifle through my bins. Why don't you people get the message? I'm not interested in doing any interviews. I don't need a bunch of rats nosing through my business so kindly tell them to piss off. There, you have my quote."
Hermione didn't say anything.
She was in shock.
In the past four years, she had run through numerous, absurd ways of running into Draco. Both of them, crashing trolleys in a supermarket. Draco, bumping into her at the theatre. All these situations were absurd, because a Malfoy would never step foot in these places. She always imagined she was the superior one. He would ask her, condescendingly, if her life was going to plan. And she would reply, sacharine sweet, absolutely.
But why was he acting like this?
He was treating her like they'd only shared a Potions Class yesterday.
Yet, the difference in their appearances couldn't be anymore contrasted. Malfoy now sported shoulder length hair, and resembled his father something fierce. He was twenty-one when she last saw him. Back then, he still looked like a cunning school-boy. Hermione, on the otherhand, looked like a strict schoolmistress. One, many boys would dream being stuck in detention with.
She got on her tiptoes, and peeked behind him.
Malfoy realized what she was doing, and tried to slam the door. But Hermione shot out a hand, and stopped him. "Did you kill her?"
"You're mumbling."
"Did you?"
Hermione was glad Draco never got to knew her son. Seeing him here, like this, confirmed how misfit he was. Malfoy didn't deserve to know his son. Probably forgot about him the moment he walked out that hospital door. And now she would wrench that interview out of him, and never come back.
"Ah! They finally sent a reporter out!"
"Mum?"
Narcissa floated down the staircase, coming to a stop beside her confused son. Hermione was convinced she was seeing double, with them lined up like that. The elder woman reached out and pumped Hermione's hand, not realizing it was someone she once ratted out to Bellatrix.
"We're ready to provide the exclusive, the entire world is waiting for. Come in! Come in!"
Shooting a triumphant look at Draco, Hermione followed the woman into their lounge. She had to act very hard, not to wince when she saw the spot she was tortured in. Narcissa called out for a house-elf to bring some tea, and seated herself, Draco hovering in the background.
"So Miss Granger. Where would you like to start?"
Hermione hiccuped, throwing a hand to her mouth. So Narcissa did remember who she was. There was no accident about her being lead in here. Draco began to look interested, and sat beside his mother. Now they were both staring at her again. The father and grandmother to her child.
"Well?"
"Mrs Malfoy-"
"I should leave you two alone. I'll come back later with the tea."
Just as Mrs Malfoy reached the door, it was pushed open to reveal a house elf struggling with a tray. He was forced to back-peddle, when Narcissa quickly stepped out and closed the door behind them. Hermione was left in silence to stare at Draco. Both of their faces remained blank.
"Well?" Draco echoed his mother.
"There's lipstick on your neck."
"Excuse me?"
Hermione pointed at the incriminating evidence, planted on Malfoy's neck. Unless he hadn't washed in the past week, it was pretty unlikely it belonged to Astoria. That meant he was having an affair before her death, or he found solice in the arms of a equally sad woman. Either way, Malfoy was damned.
"You killed her, didn't you? Discarded her like a piece of trash?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"You're disgraceful, Malfoy. I won't be needing anymore quotes from you. Once I've published this article, Azkaban will come looking for you. Better enjoy your sleep while you still can."
"Are you out of your mind?"
Hermione remained silent.
"I didn't kill her! I never touched a hair on her head! And she bloody well knew it. You have to do better than that, Granger. If I wanted to kill a spouse, it would have been a lot more inventive than slipping over in the bath. That's downright boring."
Her eyebrows shot up. That's the first time she'd heard a death described as "boring." In distancing himself from the whole thing, it made Hermione's suspicions rise by triplefold. He didn't display the classic symptoms a loved one would have. Only a pyschopath would laugh more than Malfoy.
If Hermione had Rita's quill, it would jot down: Tells blatant lies to cover his tracks.
"That's all I need for now," she said crisply. "No need to show me out."
Hermione strode over to the door, and tugged it so harshly, that Narcissa was caught unawares. She straighted up, in an attempt to shield her eavesdropping. She even turned to the elf, waiting tirelessly by her side, and relieved him off the tray. The elf bowed and disapparated back to the kitchen.
"That was quick!" her laugh tinkled. "Just in time for tea!"
"Not quite," Hermione disagreed, and longingly stared at her escape down the hall. It was pretty clear Narcissa wanted to corner her for something - but what? The answer became clear, when she was ushered back into the lounge. Astoria had died, without leaving a heir to the reputable Malfoy estate. They were using this column space, to advertise for a potential new wife.
"Draco's getting on a bit." (He's only 25, Hermione thought.) "And was left childless from a previous marriage. We ask for a new bride between the ages of 18-35 to apply. She must not have any ferility problems and come from a pure bloodline. We can't have any riff-raff walking in to be Mrs Malfoy. Sorry dear." Narcissa smirked, knowing full well Hermione would be rattled. But she dutifully copied down the request to the letter. Let the entire world see how desperate the Malfoy's had become.
"Finished?" Draco abruptled asked, looking agitated.
Hermione met his gaze, and gave him a slow patronizing smile. "Yeah," she nodded, meaning the opposite.
xox
At last she was home. Hermione kicked off her wellies, and padded into the living room. Her son was having an intense conversation with Albus Severus, and James was trying his best to distract them. Ginny was snoozing on the sofa, her belly swollen in the last stages of pregnancy. It was going to be a girl this time. The name already decided.
Scorpius spotted his mummy, and ran over for a hug.
"I want to be in Gryffindor," he whispered into her ear. Hermione laughed, and ruffled his hair. Sometimes her son was pure comedy. Especially since he was the minature version of Draco, and should be demanding Slytherin. She took great pleasure in making him the anti-thesis of his father.
"My little man," she hugged him again.
Scorpius wiggled out of her grip, and ran back to his friends before they began to tease. She watched them for a few moments, before shaking Ginny awake.
"Go home," she whispered. "I'm here."
The redhead responded with a yawn. But she quickly collected her belongings, and called James and Albus to her side. "The picnic's at one tommorow." Ginny told her. "We're holding it behind the burrow. Richmond Park dropped out of contention yesterday. There's too many muggles to perform magic."
"I understand," Hermione nodded.
"Well better put the kids to sleep. Long day tomorrow."
They shared a secret smile, before Ginny disapparated into the night with her children. Scorpius ran past, probably heading to his bedroom. She followed him in, just as he held out a storybook from his bed. "I want this one." She took it from him lightly and read the cover. Cinderella. Her son certainly had a taste for classic literature.
He fell asleep halfway through chapter four. Hermione closed the book, and placed it on the nightstand. She tenderly stroked his hair, analysing the small features that belonged to her. The dimples. The smile. The way he curled up in his bed.
So what if he had platinum blond hair?
And arctic grey eyes?
The love that shone through his eyes were real. It made him a sunny person to be around, instead of the cool iceberg his looks could dictate. Hermione planted a soft kiss on his forehead and left the room. It was time both of them got some rest.
xox
"Remind me again. Who is his father?"
Hermione's hands froze by the paper cups she was stacking. This was a question she was well accustomed too. Every year, Harry or Ron will try to catch her off guard by casually asking who was Scorpius's father. It was like they expected the answer to change everytime, but it never did.
"I told you. A scandinavian I met on holiday. He died in a car crash."
"Have you told Scorpius?"
"No," Hermione glared. Her web of lies didn't need to extend to him. "It doesn't feel right."
"Feel right?" Harry was nonplussed. "You forget the Dursleys lied to me about my parents dying in a car accident for the first eleven years of my life. Turns out they were murdered by Voldemort. I never did get over that."
"I'm sorry," Hermione said, her gut wrenched in two directions. She could sense the anger and betrayal, even now, fourteen years into the future and across the snacks table. But she couldn't stray from the the original. Harry would leap on it, faster than a flamingo, and blow her "holiday romance tale" into smithereens.
"It's okay."
For a while, both of them watched the children chasing each other in the distance. They were a blur of black and ginger, and occasionally a brilliant platinum shone through. Harry knew blond was a popular hair colour. But there was only one family he had met in his life, that even came close to that shade...
Harry voiced his thoughts.
"If I didn't know any better, I would almost say he's a Malfoy."
He didn't notice Hermione's hand slip with the ladle. Suddenly she was pouring fruit juice down her top, and not into the cups like she meant. She uttered a curse, and quickly magicked the stain away. If Harry saw...
"But I do. And I trust you, Hermione. You wouldn't lie about something like that."
The guilt was being layered on thick. Why was it suddenly so hot outside? Hermione ran a finger around her neck, and fidgeted with the ladle still in her hands. She didn't know what to do with herself, as Harry prised the item from her grip. He continued filling the cups, with startling speed.
Hermione felt like crying.
"Why don't you sit down," he grinned over his shoulder. "You've been rushed off your feet lately. I'll bring a cup over in a minute."
Now, she was crying.
Hermione turned her back to disguise her tears. She didn't sit down like Harry suggested, and instead walked back into the house. All the hands on the Weasley clock were pointing at "Home" - except for two which were pointing at "Work." Charlie was now in Trinidad, and Percy was just a workaholic. The "Fred Weasley" hand was completely missing, before she realised it was tucked under George's, moving in unison.
This made Hermione cry even harder.
She couldn't let the children see her like this, or anyone else for that matter. It took her a good few minutes in the bathroom, before the tears stemmed, and her face began to regain colour.
"Damn you Astoria Malfoy," she whispered into the mirror. "This is all your fault."
The mirror cracked.
Thank you for all the reviews
-Shamz