This is Chapter 10. Yes, I know 9 and ¾ is not ten. ^^ Hey, it's close enough. Thank you all for the reviews, favorites, and alerts.

This is a huge fast-forward in time. But to make up for it, it's long, and there's sex. Remember how I said it wasn't going to get any more explicit than in chapter three? Yeah? Well, it won't. But I think this chapter comes very damn close.

Oh, all right, I lied. It got more explicit (and there's a certain number of F-bombs). Blame Hermione, okay? It's still okay, in my opinion; the vocabulary is very tame even if the situation itself isn't. Besides, I need practice. I try to make it more about the emotions than the physical parts, and this story is perfect for that.

Platform Nine and 3/4

There was nothing more fucked-up than Hermione's marriage. She said she loved Weasley, but she couldn't stay away from Draco. She said she couldn't leave him, but what she was doing was worse. She tried to justify herself by saying that he wasn't always faithful, either, but as far as either of them knew, Weasley had only cheated once and fessed up directly afterward. It wasn't like Hermione to be so blinded and so cruel. Couldn't she see what she was doing? To her husband, to her friends, to her children... to him.

Her marriage was falling apart. It had been for years now. The shattered pieces held together only by hope. Weasley's hope. Her kids' hope. Hermione's own hope that somehow, everything would turn out all right. Weasley wasn't blind. He knew something was going on, but hope, or maybe cowardice, or maybe love kept him by her side. The kids suspected. They were old enough by now to have figured it out. Rose, at least, had to guess most or all of it. To hear Hermione say it, the girl took after her mother, bright and perceptive. She knew and it made her miserable. It rubbed off on Hugo, who was a moody, brooding nine-year-old. Hell, even Potter knew, according to Hermione ("It's the way he looks at me, Draco, I can tell he knows").

At first he hadn't minded. Hadn't he told Hermione that a dozen times? She could take her time. He understood. But he didn't. He didn't understand. He had just been patient. And after nine years since the most recent renewal of their affair and almost twenty years since their first kiss, that patience was wearing thin. Nine. Fucking. Years. It was ridiculous. Why was he still hung up on her like this?

At one point he had cracked. That had been during their most recent real break-up, years ago now. He had started seeing other women, because he had been tired of waiting. For a time, it had been satisfying. He hadn't even felt guilty, because it wasn't cheating (and, really, even if it had been, he still wouldn't have felt guilty). It wasn't like Hermione didn't sleep with Weasley. Draco's trysts had been liberating, had made him feel young again and forget that he had passed thirty. But after he and Hermione had re-ignited their affair, he had stopped and never gone back, because she was satisfying, now. They saw each other practically every day. Recently, though, in his frustration, Draco had taken up the habit again – and this time around, guilt gnawed at him whenever he looked at Hermione. But it wasn't his fault. It was hers.

It was obvious she didn't intend to do anything. She had taken his words as permission to keep him as her dirty little secret. Which was what it had been, if he was entirely honest with himself. But... nine years. He wasn't getting any younger, and Hermione sure as hell wasn't getting any more mature. As the years passed, she seemed to get used to her situation and didn't even mind talking about it with Draco anymore.

She had, or so she claimed, given up on trying to make her marriage work. They broke up and made up all the time. Hermione said she could remember a time when she had found it sexy, when she had loved the making up and even the heated arguments. Now it all seemed like just a routine, and nothing made sense anymore. When Ron kissed her after an argument, she felt nothing. After years of being married to each other, they had settled into a boring, unsurprising routine, and she hated it. Draco was the one she loved, she swore. Then why don't you leave him? Draco had almost asked her a hundred times. Why are you telling me this when he's the one you should be saying it to?

A hundred times Draco tried to be the one who left her. A hundred times he almost said the words to end this insanity. He knew exactly how to break things off. He knew exactly which words would make her hate him. A hundred times he had recited them to himself, trying to gather up the courage to say them. But courage was a Gryffindor thing, not his. If Hermione couldn't muster up the necessary courage to face her actions, then how was he supposed to?

Nine fucking years later, he stood on Platform 9 and ¾ at King's Cross Station, his hand on Scorpius' shoulder, Astoria by his side. They had remained on friendly terms, for Scorpius' sake and also because Astoria really was a wonderful person. Scorpius had grown into the spitting image of his father, to Draco's delight. (Astoria pretended she thought their son was very ungrateful, considering she was the one who had carried him for nine difficult months, but Draco knew she found him beautiful.) Scorpius was slim and had Draco's face, hair, and eyes, but he was less spiteful than his father at the same age, which Draco put down to Astoria's calm and gentleness. He was proud, but you could hardly call it arrogance. He was clever. He was respectful. He was, in a word, perfect, and this was going to be his first year at Hogwarts. They still had maybe ten minutes before the train left. Draco could remember leaving his family as soon as he set foot on the platform that first time, eager to get on the train that would take him away. He was touched when Scorpius stayed with them instead for those last few minutes, happily chatting away.

He was worried when he saw the knowing glances coming their way. As soon as he tried to meet someone's gaze, they turned their head away quickly, knowing they'd been caught. One woman he thought he vaguely recognised drew her little girl closer and leaned down to whisper something in her ear while looking straight at him. It made him uneasy. Scorpius didn't know anything about his father's role in the war, and while he knew Granger's kids didn't either, he hoped his son wouldn't find himself in a carriage of students who knew exactly who the Malfoy family was. He absent-mindedly rubbed his left forearm through his robes, then caught Astoria's glance and let his hand drop as though he'd been burnt. He saw his own worry reflected in his ex-wife's eyes and tried to force a reassuring smile. Meanwhile Scorpius said something, then laughed. Draco wanted to be as relaxed as him, but it was difficult.

Suddenly, he had the distinct impression that someone was staring at him. Again? he thought, and looked around. He quickly located Potter, who was looking right at him, and felt himself stiffen. Potter's gaze travelled to Scorpius, then back up at Draco again. Draco gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement, to which Potter responded – much to Draco's surprise – in kind before looking away and saying something to his wife. Draco's heart leapt in his throat when he saw Granger lean into Weasley's embrace and laugh.

"Who's that?" Scorpius, who had watched the exchange, wanted to know. Then he did a double take at the man at the other end of the platform. "Merlin's sock, is it Harry Potter?"

Draco winced. If it had been up to him, Scorpius would never even have known that name, but Astoria had been adamant: her son would not grow up ignorant of the war. Ignorance, she had told a sullen Draco, was the cause of prejudice and violence and that was not the path she wanted her son to take.

Besides, it would have been difficult to keep Scorpius from reading Chocolate Frog Cards forever.

"Yes," Draco said cautiously. "That's him."

"That is so cool," Scorpius said, craning his neck for another glimpse of the Boy-Who-Lived. "Does he really still have his scar?"

Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. His son was a fan of Harry Potter. How was he ever going to live this down? This was definitely Astoria's fault.

"His son Albus will be in your year at school," Astoria told Scorpius. "If you have any questions, you can ask him."

And his wife was suggesting that Scorpius be friends with a Potter look-a-like. This couldn't get any worse.

"And Rose Weasley, too," Astoria added. "Harry Potter's niece. Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley's son."

"Hermione Granger?" Scorpius repeated, and looked again.

He didn't remember Hermione. Didn't remember the woman who had taken a shine to him when he was two years old. She saw him practically every time she came around... and then she stopped, saying that she didn't want to replace his mother. The truth, Draco knew, was that she didn't want anyone to know about their affair.

That was it. The day had just got worse. And Draco was sure Astoria had done it on purpose, too. Was she still jealous of Hermione? He shot her a look and she smiled back innocently.

"I'm sure they're very unpleasant kids," Draco said. "Please don't try to make friends, Scorpius."

"Why not?"

Draco remembered the day on the train when he had asked Harry for his friendship, and the way he'd been rejected. Would Rose and Albus have grown up around horror stories about the Malfoys? He certainly wouldn't put it past Weasley to have told them all about him.

"Just because," he said, then sighed. "Oh, do what you want, Scorpius. The train will be leaving in a couple of minutes. Send an owl tonight when you get there, all right?"

"After the Sorting," Scorpius said, nodding. "Yes, Dad. Bye. Bye, Mum."

He gave his mother a quick kiss on the cheek to say good-bye, then whirled around and headed off for the train, dragging his trunk along behind him. Draco watched him disappear into the train and sighed again. Astoria's hand slid into his, warm and comforting.

"He'll be fine," she said.

"I know." He chuckled. "I feel so old, watching him leave."

Again that creepy sensation of being watched. He scanned the platform, which was already steadily emptying as the kids boarded the train and the parents began to leave. He met Hermione's gaze, hot, steady, and insistant. A smoldering gaze that promised an encounter that night. There was a spark of something else there too. Something he hardly ever saw in her... Jealousy. He realised he was still holding Astoria's hand, but instead of stepping away guiltily, he pointedly looked away from Hermione.

Astoria had caught the whole thing, and her expression was half-disgusted, half-amused. "You're an idiot," she told her ex-husband.

"I know."

"You want to make her notice you? Then leave her. And she'll come to you."

He found his gaze straying back to Hermione and forced himself to look at Astoria instead. "I wish it were that easy."

Astoria's expression softened. "You really are an idiot. And hopeless."

"Thank you."

"I only hope our son doesn't take after you in that respect," she said. "I suppose you're right. If Rose is anything like her mother, then I don't want our son to have anything to do with her. I don't want him to turn out like you."

"Thank you," he said again.

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do."

That night wasn't sweet. As he had expected, he had succeeded in making her jealous and she came to him, not outright furious (because she knew she didn't have the right) but simmering. She came to his room but didn't bother to make her way to the bed; instead she slammed him against the wall and pressed her lips to his. The first kiss wasn't as brutal as some they had exchanged, because she was trying not to let her feelings show. She seemed determined to drive him crazy, the kiss good but tantalisingly slow and close-mouthed, almost chaste, almost – but he didn't want his thoughts to go into that territory. The thing to do with Hermione, he had realised over the years, was to keep the sex and the problems separate.

He didn't want to do that anymore.

In the end she was the one who lost control when he gripped her hips and pulled her body flush against his. The kiss deepened. Her fingers flew over his belt, then the zipper of his trousers, which they fell to the ground with a soft clink as the buckle hit the floor. Then he could feel her hands touching him, ever so lightly, through the thin fabric of his pants.

"Slow down, Hermione," he murmured.

She didn't take him seriously and hooked her thumbs inside the hem of his pants to pull them down. Draco caught her wrists and pushed her away, looking into her eyes.

"Slow down," he repeated, firmly this time.

"Why?" she said, looking confused. "Aren't you –"

He kissed her, gently, softly, then pulled back. "We need to talk."

"Right now?"

He kissed her neck. "Yes, right now."

"This had better be good."

"You're jealous," he said into her neck.

"That's ridiculous."

"Absolutely," he agreed. "But you are."

She didn't deny it.

"Sometimes," he said, "hot, angry sex isn't the solution."

She looked up at him incredulously.

"Okay," he admitted, "the hot part, maybe, yes. But the angry –"

"I'm not angry," she said, and kissed him again.

He let her, this time, because he had no choice in the matter. He let her, and let go of her wrists, his arms wrapping themselves around her waist and pulling her closer instead, then turning them around so she was the one pressed against the wall. What was it about her, exactly, that made her so irresistible? She wasn't the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The harmony of Astoria's Grecian profile, slender shape, and flowing dark hair was really a closer guess. There was nothing particularly mind-blowing about Hermione's physique – the overall impression was attractive, but not excessively so, and even less so now that she, like him, was getting closer to that "mature" age. She was clever, yes, but he had never been one to find that arousing. Interesting, yes. Sexy, no. She was gentle and forgiving, but so was Astoria, and – and why was he comparing her to his ex-wife? Maybe Hermione was right to be jealous. Astoria should have come out the winner in every way, but instead, she paled in comparison to the glowing, passionate woman in front of him.

And it made him furious.

"Fuck you," he said into her mouth.

He was sure she knew what he was saying, even though she couldn't possibly make out the words. He felt her smile against his lips and wrap her hands around his neck, digging her nails almost painfully into his skin, and something snapped inside of him. She felt it when he tightened his hold around her, because she gasped slightly and pulled away from the kiss. The smile he gave her was as smug as hers just seconds before, and before she could say anything, he spun her around and pressed her against the wall, facing away from him.

"Fuck you," he said again, and this time she did hear him and her entire body tensed up.

"Draco –"

"You think," he said, "that you can just – just do things like that, and I won't mind. You think I'll always be here, waiting for you, and that makes me – what? Worthless, Hermione? Do you really think there's nothing you can do that will make me leave? Is that why you keep playing games? Is that why you think it's okay to fuck me just to keep me close? Because, in case you were wondering, the sex isn't what's lacking in our little arrangement."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, a hint of fear lacing her tone.

She tried to wriggle out from his hold, to twist her body around so she could face him, but his grip was firm. She settled for turning her head to look at him over her shoulder.

"Draco, what –"

"You should be jealous of Astoria, you know," he said.

Something sparked in her eyes. Hurt. And a hint of that smugness again, that self-righteousness, as though the fact that he could be seeing someone else somehow justified what she was doing.

"You mean –"

"No," he said. "I don't mean that at all. You're too blind to see, woman, that there's... that there's..." He struggled to spit the words out, they were so pathetic. "I tried," he snapped. "Of course I bloody tried, because you and me, we never had a fucking future, you know? So I tried to look elsewhere. But in bed, at least – or on the floor, or whatever – there's no one else who can hold a candle to what you do to me. Not anyone I've found, at least."

"Then what –"

"You should be jealous," he said, "because Astoria – and the other women – they gave me something else. Something human." He was tracing the sensitive spot above her hipbone with his thumb, applying just the right amount of pressure. "It doesn't have to be just about the sex."

"It isn't."

"Yeah, it is," he said. "And that's... it makes sense, I suppose. It must be easier for you if you don't get emotionally involved."

He slid his hand underneath her shirt to continue his touches on bare skin; she closed her eyes and turned her head away to lean her forehead against the wall, tilting her hips back into his touch.

"If I'm jealous," she said, her voice very low, "then doesn't that mean I'm emotionally involved? If I keep coming back to you – if this has been going on for years – if I still hate seeing you with your ex-wife – then doesn't that mean I'm emotionally involved?"

"You tell me, Hermione. Sometimes I feel I still don't know anything about you."

His hands worked his way around, tracing her navel, then dipping inside the hem of her knickers. His fingers looked for something, and found it; her breath hitched.

"You know everything about me," Hermione said, tilting her head back in pleasure. "Draco..."

He did know everything about her, inside and out. He knew how to make her feel. He knew how to drive her crazy. And he intended to put that knowledge to good use.

"Lean forward," he said, his voice low and breathy in her ear. "Spread your legs, tilt your hips back, and put your hands on the wall to brace yourself. Yes, like that."

She obeyed without discussion or even a small hesitation, which surprised him. It wasn't often they did it like this – Draco liked to see a woman's eyes when he was inside her, and he knew she wasn't entirely comfortable with the apparent coldness of the position, either.

He stopped touching her and pulled her knickers down in one swift movement; Hermione lifted her legs one after the other to kick them away. Then his hand was back under her skirt, more insistent this time, and Hermione rocked her hips against his fingers, letting out a single, throaty moan. He kissed her right where the dip of her shoulder met her neck, a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of sweat and Hermione. Then he did it again, and again.

"Draco," she said, "I don't mean to interrupt, but –"

"Shut up," he said forcefully, and she did.

He took his time with her, slowly building her up to the release she wanted. He knew her too well, as she had said, well enough to know when she was on the edge. That was when he stopped for a second or two, refusing her the right to actually fall over the edge, before starting again. Teasing. Tantalising. Torturous. And through it all Hermione didn't say one more word, though he could feel her shaking when he touched her, and tensing up with irritation when he stopped. She didn't speak up once to say something, or beg, or ask him why. He elicited the occasional soft cry with his touches, maybe even something that could have been his name, but that was it.

At last he stopped, for real this time.

"Don't move," he told her as he let go and stepped back.

She didn't. He took a moment to look at her, her hair falling over her shoulders, her entire body trembling from desire, the glistening wetness running down her left thigh. He watched her leisurely as he slid his pants off before moving back to her and placing his hands on her hips firmly. Then, with a slow, long roll of his hips and a soft hiss of pleasure, he was inside her.

It was fast, which wasn't something he would be proud of under normal circumstances. He didn't even touch her, just kept his hands on her hips like that, as though he were taking, not giving – and he was. But she was ready for that, more than ready. She rocked her hips back to meet each of his thrusts and her body glistened with sweat before his. She didn't look back at him once. Sex had never been so impersonal and so intimate at the same time. He poured all his fury, hurt, and annoyance into his thrusts, and then it was over. He slumped against her afterward, wrapping his arms around her, planting another kiss on her neck.

"Feeling emotionally involved yet?" he asked.

She laughed softly. "Very much."

She wriggled beneath him, not insistently, but almost as a question. He let go of her and backed away to let her turn around and face him. She looked so deliciously fucked – her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the shirt he hadn't even bothered to take off, her hair a mess, her eyes still glazed over with pleasure – that he couldn't help but grin.

"Sorry about that," he said, making a twirling motion in the air with his index finger so she knew what he was referring to.

"Not a problem," she said. Then, "You haven't even taken off your shirt."

He shrugged. "Not necessary."

"I think it is," she said, reaching out to unbutton it. She looked down at his shirt as she did so, her fingers flying over the buttons. "I was angry," she admitted quietly. "I'm sorry. That was stupid of me."

"Yeah, it was." He shrugged out of the shirt, letting it fall to the floor. "How would you react if I –"

Her hands reached up to cover his mouth with two fingers, lightly, though she still didn't look up at him. "Shh," she said. "Don't say it."

Don't say what? he wanted to ask. How do you know what I was going to say?

How would you react if I acted jealous every time you came back to me after spending a night with Weasley?

"It was stupid," she said again, apparently very absorbed by what she was doing – dragging her fingers across his chest, then over his shoulders and down his arms, and then right back up again. "I know that. Please don't make this difficult."

"Right, because I'm the one who always makes things difficult."

"Please," she said. "I love you."

He was silent for a long time. Was talking 'making things difficult'? He thought that was what she meant, so he remained quiet. She seemed to relax, running her hands up and down his body with light, teasing touches, occasionally leaning forward to kiss his chest. He didn't do or say anything, but stayed there, silent and unmoving, as she tried to – to what, exactly? Make it up to him?

"Look at me," he breathed.

She did, and he realised with a jolt that her pupils were still dilated with arousal. She gave the most indecent of smiles – almost a smirk – as she slid down his body slowly, her eyes never leaving his for even a second. She trailed kisses down his torso, across his upper thigh, then on his inner thigh.

And then there was fire.

When it was over, he said, slightly out of breath, "I feel – like I'm – nineteen again."

"I don't remember anything like that happening when we were nineteen. It was all very tame back then, considering."

Scorpius was Sorted into Slytherin. Draco should have been proud. Unfortunately, Albus Potter also ended up in Slytherin, and he and Scorpius struck up an immediate friendship. Rose, who was a Gryffindor, apparently came attached with the Potter boy, because soon Scorpius was writing home about his two new friends.

Draco really was never going to live it down.

I couldn't resist adding that last bit.

Please drop a review telling me what you think. Only three more chapters to go... It'll be over in less than two weeks. Next chapter is called... Eleventh-Hour Decision. :)