DISCLAIMER: All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-)

Hermione glanced at the box at her feet, and then at the nearly-blank walls of her flat. She had no muggle television set, no muggle technology save for her laptop resting on the small oak writing desk. And yet, there wasn't much in her place to indicate she was a witch, either- she owned none of the Burrow's magiked contraptions, not even a single moving photograph. She was a simple woman. The only wall furnishing she had, even after four years of living in her London flat, was the sensible mahogany clock that ticked closer towards another nondescript evening.

She squatted, her tendrils perilously close to dragging on the carpet, and sifted a hand through the contents of the box, lazily waiting for her hand to brush against the thick tome she was searching for. She picked up a thick, wooden plaque instead.

It was a Ministry award for her valiant efforts in the Battle of Hogwarts. With disgust, she threw it behind her, hearing the dull thump of wood as it muffled against the carpet. She curled a lip in disdain and fished out another plaque from the box. And another. And another. Each one bearing different inscriptions. Most Prodigious Witch of the Order of Phoenix. Winner of the Yvarve-Teller Award, for Best House-Elf Liberation Policy. Gold Medal for Exceptional Archaeological Achievement, given by The Rune Institute of Great Britain.

Remnants of a life she'd left a lifetime ago. She felt nothing, absolutely nothing as she stared at the awards in front of her.

Huffing a sigh, she pulled out the last object in the bin, grunting as she lifted the heavy book onto her lap. She found what she was looking for at last. Hermione stared at the velvet-bound book in satisfaction.

The Pureblood Directory. It was a beautiful leather-bound book with a plum-colored velvet covering- absolutely gorgeous, noted the bibliophile. Hermione stroked the spine, admiring the intricately etched pattern. Her contentment, however, soured as she remembered the circumstances in which she'd bought it. Malfoy and his Slytherin cronies had begun calling her Mudblood, and when she found the book in an antique shop she bought it, thinking that in understanding their ancestry she could rationalize these purebloods' sense of entitlement. Soften them, humanize them somehow.

She barked a dry laugh. How utterly soft and stupid she had been. Bleeding heart and all.

Hermione sifted her fingers through the pages, turning the leaflets over until she arrived at the page with the Malfoy family tree. She traced the lineage until she found Draco Malfoy's name. Abraxas Malfoy siring only one son, Lucius Malfoy... wed to Narcissa Black, producing only Draco... Narcissa, sister to Andromeda and Bellatrix, the latter of whom was dead... Andromeda Tonks, whose only daughter was Nymphandora, also dead...

Hermione grimaced, feeling nauseated. The only two possibilities of Scorpius' mother were Narcissa and Andromeda, and they were both too old to bear children.

There's no way in hell Malfoy would bed his mother or aunt.

Hermione tapped her finger against the book. Think. Who else...

The Malfoys, she knew, were part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Perhaps it was possible, then, that somehow he had... aligned himself with another pureblood of the Twenty-Eight? Someone relatively close enough in blood to him that their coupling would produce genetic abnormalities? She didn't entertain that thought for long. It was ridiculous; there could be no one else besides the Malfoys themselves.

Then she scoffed at the ridiculousness of it all. What business of hers was it, anyhow, to be nosing around Malfoy's family lineage? What did it matter to her that Malfoy sired a child from incest?

She remembered her encounter with Malfoy. He'd been furious that she brought up the sordid topic. She supposed she deserved his fury from asking impertinent questions. But instead of feeling chagrin, she was bewildered with his admittance that yes, he had committed incest.

He was a modern man, not bound by the old pureblood tradition of marrying only pureblood relatives. And certainly he understood how repulsive it was in this day and age, if anyone had ever found out.

"And what's more," Hermione mused aloud, baffled, "He was honest about it." His frankness was what had caught her off-guard the most, not so much the act itself. He had known she lied to him, and despite knowing this, had chosen to answer her question anyway. She disclosed nothing about herself, nothing too revealing at least, and he chose to confess something private to her, thereby putting himself at a disadvantage.

This man...

This was not the Malfoy she knew.

A/N: Thank you everyone for your feedback! (Also, shout out to the guest reviewer who caught my error in the Ch. 8.) I've been getting a lot of guesses as to who Scorpius' mother is, and some of your speculations are pretty close to what I've got written. You'll find out in the next chapter! So until then, happy reading. xoxo, Besos