February 9, 2016

Hermione woke up abruptly, pressing a hand to her forehead, imagining that she had heard voices in the corridor leading to her room. "Merlin," she breathed, almost inaudibly, her voice swallowed by the heavy silence. The air was stifling in its weight, and Hermione couldn't suck in enough to soothe her rapidly fluttering heart. She peeled back the silken covers, turning and allowing her legs to slip out, feeling them dangle in the air before meeting the luxuriant carpet beneath.

This was not her room.

It was one of many in Malfoy Manor, a different room from than the one she had stayed in while Malfoy was away, slightly larger, perhaps, although Hermione wasn't honestly sure if she noticed much difference. She had thought to move out once Malfoy returned, but he had insisted, saying something about how he had seen how attached Scorpius was to her, and that he would be confused if Hermione stopped staying at the Manor like she had before.

He'd said dryly, "There's more than enough room at the Manor, Granger. What else am I supposed to do with all this space?"

She couldn't exactly argue with that logic– it wasn't as if she really had anywhere better to be. This way, she could save herself the trouble of Flooing, and honestly, she didn't mind Scorpius pouncing on her in the mornings. She had gotten rather used to it, actually.

That, and the fact that in the month she had been here, she had not been drinking as she used to. Sure, she had indulged a few times, but nowhere close to what she had been imbibing before. There were benefits to staying at Malfoy Manor, it seemed.

A door slammed outside, and in one fluid motion, she had swiped her wand from the nightstand and pointed it at the entrance to her room. She had not imagined the voices then. Silence reigned, and Hermione relaxed slightly, shoulders dropping, only to hear a sinister, low chuckle slide between the cracks in the door and through the walls. With a muttered lumos, she quietly dropped her feet to the floor, wincing at the thump they made upon contact. Leaning against one side of the door, she shut her eyes tightly and tried to quell the rising bubble of panic that had lodged itself in her throat. Danger, her mind whispered, the war, it said again, and Hermione needed it to shut up, needed to clear her head of all thoughts and focus on the present.

She breathed, in and out.

Cracking the door open, she peered out into the hallway, looking for any signs of crisis. Seeing nothing, she slipped fully out of her room, still staying close to the walls, just in case. It was eerily quiet, and Hermione was immediately wary. She was sure that she had heard someone laughing, and her mind immediately jumped to the two other occupants of the house– Malfoy and Scorpius. She had to make sure Scorpius was safe, and at least check on Malfoy before she went back to bed. Silently, she walked towards the Scorp's room, her wand still out and ready.

The light from her wand illuminated the seemingly endless halls of the manor, and the extravagant carpet muffled her light footsteps as she approached his room. Slowly, she turned the doorknob, and entered, looking towards the small blond boy sleeping peacefully in his bed. With a relieved sigh, she brushed his baby-soft hair from his fair cheek, pulling his silk sheets up to cover him. A kicker, she silently laughed, remembering the days when she was little and waking up in the middle of the night to find her blankets strewn across the ground.

Quietly, she left him, closing the door behind her. She cast a few wards around his room, ever cautious and still wary, and headed towards Malfoy's room. Just to secure the house, she told herself.

She hadn't gotten far before she started smelling the smoke.

A dense, grey fog had enveloped the hall leading to his room, and Hermione broke into a run, dispelling the smoke with her wand as she went. She burst into his room, paying no attention to any sort of decorum, or sense of propriety, and spied the problem immediately. There were tongues of flame licking up the side of Malfoy's bed, and the carpet was starting to catch on fire as well. "Malfoy," she frantically called, running to his motionless form, "Malfoy, you need to wake up."

"Aguamenti," she directed her stream of water at the fire creeping ever closer, but it wasn't enough. She needed him to wake up and help her. Thinking quickly, she shouted a rennervate at him, watching out of the corner of her eye as he stirred. "Malfoy, you need to help me," she tossed his wand at him, spying it next to him on his pillow.

He coughs, still disoriented, and then notices the encroaching flames. "Bloody hell," he shouts, jumping off the bed, and casting his own aguamenti. Together, the two of them fight back the fire, stamping out the remaining few flickers and dispelling the smoke and smell of charred fabric in the air.

Hermione drops to the carpet –what was left of it, anyway– and turns to glance up at him, the motionless figure still staring at the remains of his bed. "Any closer, and I would've been dead," he finally says, turning to focus on her. She shivers at the hollow look in his eyes. "I hate fire," he murmurs, face twisting into an expression of utter despair and a hint of fear.

She wonders at his words, and then she remembers, and then she is speechless.

"The Room of Requirement," she chokes out, the words an empty reminder of the loss, the tragedy, of the war, and what they all lost. "Fiendfyre." Even though she had never thought Draco to be particularly close to Crabbe or Goyle, she knew that Crabbe's death still struck a chord within him. Within her, too. They had all gone to school together, she mused, and they grew up together. Losing him meant losing their innocence, losing their bravery, losing losing losing. It hadn't mattered what side of the war they had been on. It hadn't mattered if they won or lost. They all lost, regardless –in some way or another, they lost.

His nod tears her away from her thoughts. "Fiendfyre," he agrees, and he slides down the side of this bed to join her on the ground, his knees touching hers. She takes this moment to study him, him with the distinctively pale blond hair, the mark, the supercilious sneer, and registers his posture of utter defeat.

His head snaps up quickly, muted grey eyes meeting hers before he breathes out a panicked, "Scorpius," and rushes to his feet.
"He's fine," she reassures, "I checked on him and put some wards up around his room before I got here."

He holds a hand out to her, slender fingers extended and loose, and she grasps it, feeling the cool metal band of his signet ring against her skin, before pulling herself up. The look he gives her is full of thankfulness, and she is taken by surprise, unused to the sight of him so openly displaying his emotions. Thank you, it says. "You saved my life," his voice washes over her, soothing and calm, and she relaxes. "Hermione Granger," he continues, still watching her carefully, "the brightest witch of our age."

She makes a face, and the corner of his lip twitches upwards, as if he is trying to hide his amusement. Their gazes lock and hold, and she is entranced, curious about who Draco Malfoy really is, what he believes in, who he holds dear. The moment breaks when he turns towards the door once more, twisting his head around and telling her to stay, that he had some things to take care of within the manor, and that he would be back soon. His body is already through the door when he pops his head back in and glances at her, as if to check that she is following his directions.

She is trying to repair his half-burned bed and charred nightstand when he returns. "Reparo," she utters, waving her wand in vague movements, half-aware of what she is doing. She watches as the bed begins to fix itself, pieces coming back together, sheets stitching up, and wishes desperately that it were that easy to fix herself, with a few muttered incantations and a swish and flick of her wand.

He comes up behind her, and brushes the hair off her neck gently. She jumps, and nearly smacks her head into the nightstand. "You stayed," his voice is slightly awed, as if he had not expected her to follow his order. And she supposed his surprise was justified, seeing as normal, old Hermione would have never listened to anyone's commands, much less his.

"Yes," she says.

"I owe you a life debt, Granger," and he sounds like his regular self now, less haunted, more like the proud young boy she had known.

"No," she protests, "you don't owe me anything, Malfoy. I don't want you to owe me anything."

"It's not your decision to make," and he's stubborn, mouth set in a line and eyes glaring down at her.

"It is."

"It's not."

"Is."

"Not."

She crosses her arms over her chest, and pushes her chin up, assuming the haughty pose that she had carried throughout her Hogwarts years. "Is."

He closes the scant distance between them, his hastily thrown on dress shirt hanging off his shoulders, and her breath hitches. Slightly. "Not."

"Malfoy," and she hates how her voice has lost its bossy edge, and become something more of a whimper.

"Granger," he parrots, smirking down at her.

She swallows, and vaguely registers that he is now toe to toe with her, face so close that they could practically be –no, she thinks– and she steps back, quickly, head turned to the side to avoid his gaze.

"Granger," he repeats, voice softer. "I owe you a debt, and I cannot rest until I have paid my due. Please."

She nods, anything to get away, leave, go back to her room. "Okay," she whispers, and it carries through the damp silence of the room. "I should go," she continues.

She feels him move beside her, and then his fingers are on her cheek, turning her head to face him. "Okay," he whispers back. Her hand reaches up to meet his, and dimly, she thinks of how wrong, how right this is.

"I– yes, yes," she takes a step back, still holding his gaze, "yes, I'll go now. His hand slips away, and she feels the absence of his warm touch. "Goodnight, Malfoy." And she takes another step back until she's by the door, and she turns and leaves, cursing her foolishness all the while.


Valentine's Day, she thinks, is one of her favorite holidays. She fondly remembers the days at Hogwarts, the letters sent by crushes, and the festivities and ornaments that had decorated the Great Hall. She stifles a giggle at the thought of Ginny's first valentine to Harry, and discovers with surprise that thinking of Harry and Ron doesn't hurt as much as she expected it to. "Strange," she murmurs to herself, chewing on her lip in thought.

"Miss Hermy," Scorpius calls, and she turns to look at the little boy. He has paint splattered all over his clothes, and his hands are caked with shades of pink and red.

"Goodness," Hermione sighs, but smiles at him, flourishing her wand and muttering a quick scourgify to rid his clothes of the paint. "Yes, Scorp?" she asks, when she is finished.

"Look at what I made," he proudly holds up his card, grinning a toothy smile and waiting expectantly for her praise. "I made this one for you," he continued.

She's touched. "Scorp, this is beautiful," she takes the card gently from him, studying the heart painted sloppily in the center and the polka-dots embellishing the empty white spaces, along with a picture of what she assumed was herself and Scorp. She laughed at the wild portrayal of her hair –ever a Malfoy, she thought fondly– and traced her finger across the splattered paint, noting the predominance of red.

Scorp throws himself into her arms, and she nearly drops the card, she is so surprised. "I like you a lot," he says, looking up at her with wide grey eyes.

She ruffles his hair and squeezes the boy sitting in her lap tightly. "I like you a lot too, Scorp," she promises, and closes her eyes.

A shuffling at the door causes them to fly open and focus on the intruder. Malfoy, she groans internally, of course it would be bloody Malfoy. "Good morning," he says finally, eyes locked on his son snuggling into her embrace, then flicking up to meet hers.

"Hi," she manages weakly.

"Daddy," Scorp scrambles off her lap and runs towards his father, arms up, clearly wanting to be picked up and held. Malfoy obliges and scoops him up, fixing his son's rumpled shirt with the other hand.

"Scorp," he says, "what are you doing?" Hermione watches as Malfoy's gaze takes in the mess on the table, as well as the abundance of paint that has been smeared, well, everywhere.

"He was making Valentine's Day cards," she explains, rising up and cleaning the carpet and desk with a flick of her wand, "it was part of our lesson today."

"And what kind of lesson would that be, Granger?" his tone was slightly disbelieving.

"Holidays," she shrugged. "And art– it's good to develop a child's creativity when they're young."

"If you say so," he replies, and the words are dismissive, but she knows that he is at least amused. "What do you say to a walk?" he asks Scorpius, who wriggles in his arms in excitement.

"Can we play?" he asks hopefully.

Malfoy smiles. "Yes, we can play," he agrees, "but only if you behave and don't run off."

"Okay Daddy," the little boy promises.

The pair are out the door before Malfoy pops his head back in, frowning at her. "Coming, Granger?"

"Oh," she exhales in surprise, and grabs her wand off the table, where she had left it. "I, yes, yes, of course."

"Good," she spies a brief smile on his lips before he's gone, leaving her to quickly follow.

Somehow, she is left alone with Malfoy yet again. Not quite alone, she corrects herself, spying Scorpius running along ahead of them, but close enough. She has been feeling awkward ever since she saved him from the fire, but apparently that feeling is not reciprocated, as Malfoy strides along confidently beside her, with none of the hesitation that she exudes.

They are walking along the path leading to the Owlery, the path where she had almost cursed Malfoy off his broom. She flushes slightly, still moderately embarrassed, and Malfoy tilts his head to look at her, seemingly reading her thoughts. "I still can't believe you almost stunned me," he shakes his head. "But you missed," and it takes a moment before she realizes that he is teasing her.

She huffs and pushes her hair out of her face. "Please," she said. "I haven't had to do that in years."
"Or maybe, I'm just a naturally excellent flier, and I instinctively dodged your spell," he boasts, pride coloring his voice, and he sounds like the arrogant school boy who had bragged about his father buying brooms for the whole team.

She snorts before she can stop herself –a rather unattractive sound, all things considered– and Malfoy shoots her an incredulous look. "Sure," she says, "but Harry was always better."
He tenses slightly beside her, unsure if he should continue needling her, or if he should drop the subject entirely. She cringes, knowing that she has slipped up, and suddenly feels unbalanced. Who would've thought that Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, would be talking about Harry Potter, the Chosen One, her best friend, her brother, with Draco Malfoy, their childhood enemy?

Not her, that was for sure.

She was so distracted by her thoughts that she doesn't notice her companion bend down to pluck a flower –a startlingly vibrant red rose– from the path. He twirls the stem around between his fingertips, hissing sharply as the thorn catches his skin, then thrusts the flower to her. "Red would be your color, Granger," and he stops there, muttering words under his breath that Hermione strains to hear. All she picks up is bloody something something and then Gryffindor princess, before he coughs and straightens up. "Happy Valentine's," he finally says. "Although I must say that I think it's a stupid holiday."

She gasps, slightly offended, mainly because she is a closet romantic and she loves the idea of, well, love. "It is not stupid!"

"It is."

"Is not."

"Is."

"Not."

She freezes as a sense of déjà vu washes over her. This was exactly what their conversation had been reduced to before that embarrassing moment a few nights previous. She cringed as the memories of her behavior came up in her mind. God, she had been utterly out of her mind, flirting with Malfoy. There were boundaries set up between them, and she had been dancing exactly on the lines separating them.

Embarrassing, was what it was.

"And let me guess, green is your favorite color," she manages finally, voice coming out slightly distorted. He looks bewildered at the topic change, but doesn't argue with her– surprising, she notes.

"Of course," he agrees, "Slytherin and all."

She nods, "Obviously."

"Right."

"Yes."

"I'm glad we're in agreement then."

"Okay."


"Story, story," Scorpius tugged at the sleeve of her shirt, demanding her full attention. She smiled down at him, tucking her hair out of the way as she bent over the little boy.

"Okay, but only one, and then you have to be a good boy and sleep, okay?"

He nods in compliance. "What kind of story do you want, Scorp?" she pushes herself off his bed, and walks towards the large bookcase on the other side of his room.

"The Hopping Pot," he jumps up and starts bouncing around on his bed, as if to demonstrate.

Her finger trails along the spines of several books before she finds the well-worn, and familiar cover of The Tales of Beetle the Bard. She pulls it out, caressing the leather gently, and admiring the embossed lettering– a special edition, she mused, nothing but the best for the Malfoy family, of course– and heads back towards Scorpius' bed, settling herself next to him. She clears her throat, turns to the appropriate page, and begins, angling the book towards him so he can follow along as she reads. "There was once a kindly old wizard who used his magic generously and wisely for the benefit of his neighbors…"

There are only a few pages left by the time Scorpius falls asleep, so she finishes them anyways, reading them softly, both for herself and the boy next to her. "But from that day forward, the wizard helped the villagers like his father before him, lest the pot cast off its slipper, and begin to hop once more."

Easing the book closed, she sets it on the nightstand beside his bed, before turning to Scorp and tucking him in gently. She spies a small stuffed dragon next to him –rolling her eyes because of course– and places it next to him. He smiles and snuggles next to it in his sleep, gathering the toy close and hugging it tightly, murmuring something about birds and flowers and candy. Straightening his sheets, she stands up and makes for the door, gasping when she runs into something hard.

"Ouch," she mutters, rubbing at a spot on her head.

"Clumsy, Granger," and she looks up sharply at the sound of his voice, and then groans in resignation.

"Were you watching us?" she shoves at him, slightly shaken by the thought of him standing there for God knows how long. "That's a little bit creepy, even for you, Malfoy."

"Back to insults, are we?" he is more than a little amused, judging by the tone of his voice, and she splutters, unable to come up with anything scathing to throw back at him. He grasps her elbow suddenly, roughly. "I want you," he stops for a moment, and Hermione studies him, trying to understand why he is suddenly so flustered. "I want you to teach Scorpius some Muggle literature," he continues, and Hermione lets out a breath she didn't know she had been holding. Genuine surprise churns in her stomach, along with something bitter, something surprisingly like disappointment. I want you, the words echo in her mind, and she wishes he had stopped there.

She refocuses her gaze back on this man in front of her, disbelieving that he is the same boy who tormented her in school, who called her a Mudblood and belittled her friends. Not the same boy, she reminds herself, for he defected and turned to the Light. Or perhaps, the same boy, but a different man. He stares back at her, looking almost nervous.

Realizing that the silence has stretched far too long, she tilts her head, with a slow, sweet smile stretching across her face. "Of course. Got any in particular?" she asks.

"Whatever you read when you were little, I'm sure is fine," he waves dismissively at her.

She narrows her eyes at him and smirks slightly. "You know, Malfoy, that really doesn't cut the list down much."

"Oh yes, I forgot that I'm talking to Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of our age, who probably read all the books in the Hogwarts library –including the ones in the Restricted section– by first year, and is currently on track to finishing the Malfoy library by next afternoon at the latest," he presses a hand to his chest dramatically, lips twitching.

"Prat," she finally says, after a few moments of watching him struggle not to laugh.

"Thank you," his voice is sincere, "for tucking in Scorp. He really likes you, you know."

"I would hope so," she sniffs, aiming to sound disinterested, but falling rather short.

He smiles, as if he knows exactly why she is trying to avoid him, to cut their conversation short. "You've grown on me, Granger," he relents, "although I must say that I didn't have very high expectations to begin with."

It was a lie and they both knew it. She rolls her eyes at him instead, childishly sticking out her tongue and pulling her arm out of his grasp. "Okay, Malfoy," she replies, "whatever you say."

He smiles again at her, and a warm feeling that she doesn't want to think about blooms in her chest.


a/n: okay this chapter took me literally forEVER and I honestly was going to save it for tomorrow at the earliest, but I couldn't wait and so now here we are... but regardless, I hope you enjoyed it :) thank you to all the people who've reviewed or are now following this work!