Measure Of A Man

by inadaze22

To truly know someone is to differentiate between who they once were, who they are now, and who they're capable of being. Hermione realises the duality of one man as she rectifies what she knows of the past and begins to understand the pieces of who Draco Malfoy is now: a father, a son, and a man.

13. Shape Of Your Heart

Thirteen

Shape of Your Heart

June 1, 2011

On the scale between chaos and cleanliness, Hermione hovered somewhere in the middle. Chaos looked like Harry's office while Andromeda's house was cleanliness personified.

Almost disturbingly so.

Hermione didn't trust anything too clean… except Andromeda. The irony wasn't lost on her, just ignored. She had always made certain never to find herself in the other woman's home—for anything.

That wasn't an easy task. Andromeda picked the most inopportune times to request Hermione's presence. They were close because of Teddy and Harry, but her seizure had shifted their relationship. Not in a maternal way, but they had struck up an unusual friendship and met after bad therapy sessions to wait out their dark moods together. And though those days were few and far between now, Andromeda had remained a constant presence in Hermione's life, inviting her over to her disturbingly clean home to catch up.

But Hermione had a system to avoid surprises, she always made sure to invite her over first. Not too often or Andromeda would realise what she was doing. But not too infrequently either, or she might find a summons on her Magi-Scheduler. To maintain the delicate balance, Hermione equated the visit intervals to roughly every twelve weeks.

Unfortunately, she'd been too busy to notice the lapse in time, and when the invitation appeared after another unproductive day with Narcissa, who was in party planning mode, Hermione was flummoxed.

Certainly it wasn't time.

But Hermione thought back and realised she hadn't seen Andromeda since Easter. That meant it was actually past time. When Hermione tried to strategically move the meeting to reschedule it at a different location, the event wouldn't move or vanish.

The pesky note was as stubborn as Andromeda.

That was how Hermione found herself sitting at the table watching Andromeda make tea in a kitchen so clean it actually sparkled. She would have offered to help, but they'd had enough arguments for Hermione to know her role as a guest.

Which meant she was to sit and do nothing.

Andromeda placed a steaming teacup in front of Hermione before joining her with her own. The tea was fruity, sweet, and light—she never let it steep for too long. A bit bland for Hermione, but exactly how Andromeda preferred hers.

"Are you staying for dinner? I can make Aubergine Parmigiana with everything you brought over from your greenhouse."

Despite her internal cringe at simply existing amongst this level of cleanliness, the prospect of dinner piqued her interest. Andromeda was a far better cook than she was. "I can be coaxed into staying."

Andromeda's smile was only a quick flash, but genuine nonetheless. Hermione saw it all the same and wondered if her summoning wasn't just for a check-in. The house remained clean without Teddy's chaos, but it was also quiet, which didn't always equal peace.

"I'll get started on that after we finish tea. How are you?"

"A bit tired, actually," Hermione confessed. "You?"

The clear parallel to her sister was not missed. In fact, when she analysed it, despite Andromeda's features being similar to Bellatrix's, minus the colour of her hair, now that Hermione was familiar with Narcissa, she could pick out their similarities. Nothing overt, just subtle expressions she recognised from Narcissa—guarded but openly aware of it.

"I have my days. I'm glad for the company." Andromeda sipped her tea with the elegance and equanimity borne from breeding. "Are you sleeping and eating like you should?"

Well… that was a difficult question to answer. Hermione's eating schedule was normal, thanks to meal preparations for Narcissa, but her sleep schedule had yet to recover from weeks of early morning incidents. Even on the weekends, she would find herself awake before dawn and asleep after midnight, tossing and turning most of the night. She hadn't slipped back into insomnia, but the signs were there.

Hermione cleared her throat. "Mostly." Andromeda squinted, which made her grimace into her teacup before sighing. She should have known honesty was always her best bet. "I'm eating just fine, but sleeping…"

Andromeda patiently locked her hands on the table.

"I know." Hermione shook her head. "I've just been incredibly busy."

"Don't lose sight of your progress."

"I won't."

Silence fell between them for a few moments.

"Is it work keeping you busy or are you seeing someone?" There was a twine of hope in Andromeda's eyes. When Hermione made a face, the other woman looked unimpressed. "Do try not to look so offended at the idea."

"I'm not." She took a sip and replaced her teacup on the white saucer. "But I recently had back-to-back arguments with my mother and Ron about our relationship revival and I'm pretty exhausted by the topic."

"Ah." Andromeda's cringe was delicate, and gone before Hermione could blink. "I imagine that went… well."

"Splendid." Hermione rolled her eyes. "Neither one is talking to me, but I won't apologise for standing up for myself. They'll have to get over it. Ron will, I think. My mother…" That was a different matter and she found herself up during the night scrubbing her mind of any lingering guilt.

"Your mother will either realise that you know what's best for yourself and come around or she won't." Andromeda sat back, her eyes fixed on Hermione. "I know you want to repair your relationship with your parents, but you've hyper-fixated on the wound for years and kept it bandaged so long that it's slowed the healing process. If you keep picking at it, if you keep protecting it, it will never heal. Let it breathe."

But what if it didn't heal? What then?

That small fear had grown as time passed after her talk with her father, pushing its way to the front of her brain. Hermione had more than enough wounds. They were all stitched up to the point where it was hard to remember that they hadn't always been there. So, what was one more? She could take the pain. It would hurt until she could no longer feel it. And then… Hermione's head throbbed and her mouth went dry despite the tea she'd just drank.

"You worry too much about things you can't control, while simultaneously knowing that you have no control." Andromeda's statement lifted the short silence. "It's an endless circle that feeds on itself. Like a snake eating its own tail."

"People say that the ouroboros is a symbol of the cyclical nature of the universe: creation from destruction, life out of death. A metaphor for a person's ongoing struggle within themselves, their weaknesses and vices."

"All I see is a snake that's going to suffocate if it doesn't stop." Andromeda shrugged.

Hermione took a deep breath. "I haven't figured out how to let go."

"Let someone help." She gave her a look reminiscent of Narcissa during their first and last chat in her vegetable garden. "You're very good at giving, not so much at taking." And that wasn't the first time those words had been spoken to her, but the woman remained as she always was: patient and watchful. "It's not a lesson you can learn with words. Only the experience of being forced to let go." There was a pause where Andromeda took a sip, a look of open approval on her face. "What is this blend? I quite like it."

Only then did Hermione realise she'd brought the blend made specifically for Narcissa.

She almost changed the subject—Andromeda always knew when she was being lied to—but there was a small jolt when she thought back to that morning in the garden, back to each moment Narcissa accidentally called her or Sachs by her sister's name.

In order to shake the previous uncomfortable topic off, Hermione was willing to create a different one that wasn't focused on her. Besides, to squander a perfect educational opportunity would be criminal.

"It's a blend I made especially for my patient."

Tension pulsed from Andromeda like sound waves from a tuning fork. It was all Hermione needed to shake off all thoughts of her mother and shift her focus to a tiny nugget of realisation.

Harry had been talking to her.

Likely not much knowing Harry. He wasn't bound by a contract but had enough good sense to keep himself out of business that wasn't his. Like Narcissa's illness. It wasn't something Hermione had even considered discussing with Andromeda; she'd even mentally deemed it a topic to avoid. But now that she had unwittingly walked into it, she had to be incredibly careful.

There were so many factors, and navigating each was like walking a tightrope without training, a safety net, or a pole to help her balance. She stepped out on pure instinct, hoping to ease her way into the discussion, but Andromeda was almost as direct as the nephew she'd never met.

"I know my sister is your patient. I've known for a few weeks now."

"I wasn't hiding it." Hermione tapped her fingernail on the wood. "What did Harry tell you?"

"What makes you assume it was Harry? It could have been Theo."

Hermione gave her an expression that perfectly communicated just how little sense her statement made. She had met Theo exactly once, and that had been early in the days of Hermione's unrequited crush when she'd invited him to Teddy's tenth birthday party and had been shocked when he'd actually turned up with a gift in hand. The entire interaction had been memorable because Andromeda took one look at the man who was regarding her with a curious tilt of his head, and uttered one word that summed up her opinion of him as a romantic prospect:

No.

Andromeda examined her nails nonchalantly like her mistake hadn't mattered. "Or Daphne."

The two were friends, bound by a life choice that cut them off from their families, but Hermione knew Daphne. She and Astoria weren't estranged because the latter refused to cut her sister off, but with Astoria's disease and death, she would never divulge anything without careful consideration and consulting Hermione over pie.

"So, when did Harry tell you?"

Andromeda stared at her before relenting with a sigh. "When you took her on as a patient. He didn't tell me much else, even though I know he knows more."

"There's not much I can say due to the confidentiality agreement."

"Interesting." The witch's eyes narrowed slightly before she exhaled a puff of air, seemingly bemused by the extra steps her sister had taken to protect her privacy.

Hermione took a cautious second step. "Would you ask if I could speak on why she's my patient?"

"I already asked Harry, but his response made it clear he didn't want to say the wrong thing."

"Oh? What did he say?"

"I don't want to say the wrong thing."

They both laughed because that was typical of Harry, but when they fell silent, Hermione pressed forward. A third step.

"From what I understand you're estranged."

"We are, but the word doesn't encompass the enormity of being burned off the Black family tapestry. It's like I don't exist, like she doesn't have a sister." Andromeda looked down. "Like I'm nothing to her. All because I dared to be different while she wanted to be the same." She tucked a stray hair behind her ear. "And yet…" Andromeda trailed off, appearing to descend into her own thoughts as she finished her tea.

"And yet…"

"It's complicated." Andromeda knew, much like Hermione, that family always was. "She might hate me, but I don't wish her ill. I don't know why she's your patient, but I hope it's not serious."

Hermione did everything to smother her initial reaction."Why would she hate you? Last I recall, she invited you to tea at Grimmauld Place. You didn't turn up."

"I got dressed to go." Andromeda looked away. "Went to the Floo and even picked up the powder, but I just couldn't say the words to leave. I kept thinking about our last argument and I just…"

Couldn't.

Hermione could relate. After her release from St Mungo's, that was how her first attempts at meeting her parents had gone. Overthinking had been the result of leaving pieces of her past broken and uncorrected, like a sea of hesitation she kept drowning in, and was still drowning in—even now. Andromeda was no different.

"What was it about? If you don't mind asking…"

"She begged me not to go." Andromeda fiddled with her teacup. "Begged me to stay and marry my intended."

"Who was it?"

"Lucius."

Hermione froze, trying to process her shock without it seeping into her expression. "Oh."

In an uncharacteristic move, raw emotion strained Andromeda's features as she repeatedly ran her hands through her hair. She stood up, looking at the kitchen as if searching for something to clean to keep herself occupied. But there was nothing.

"I was in love with Ted and…" Andromeda trailed off, her back facing Hermione, who watched with unchecked curiosity. "Bella was already married so Narcissa had to take my place to avoid public shame and the heavy monetary and magical penalties that would have resulted from a broken Malfoy marriage contract. My family was rich, but the Malfoys were richer and more ruthless. I knew what I was doing to them all when I left, but…"

The look on her face told Hermione that despite the pain of losing her entire family—not once, but twice—she would do it all over again.

"I don't know who Narcissa is now, but when we were young, she was the opposite of Bella. As golden as her hair, she was beautiful, untouchable, but not weak or docile as many expected. She was never one to forgive easily." Andromeda wrapped her arms across her middle, glancing over her shoulder at Hermione. "Her invitation for tea felt like a trap."

"Why would it be?"

"The war had been over for over a decade and not once had she bothered to reach out before."

"Have you?" Communication was a two-way street, after all. "Reached out, I mean?"

"I saw her once." Andromeda seemed to be struggling with her words. "She was coming out of a tailor shop last November, right around the time Daphne's sister died. But when I called her name, she looked as if she had no idea who I was." The pain in her voice was unmistakable. "I think I knew right then that Narcissa was gone for good…"

Hermione thought back to Pansy's story about Narcissa leaving Scorpius all alone, and wished she'd never asked. The story was a reminder that knowledge bore fruit.

And sometimes that fruit was pain.

---

June 3, 2011

The atmosphere in the office was tense, but not hostile.

Harry and Malfoy weren't in that historical loop that kept creating intense animosity between them, but they were by no means friendly. Their exchanges were snippy at best and terse at worst, but they weren't actively fighting. She figured it was their way to maintain the status quo while actively ignoring their attitudes towards each other. They'd evolved. Grown. It was both pleasing and odd to witness them in action, working together despite the fact that they both were on edge and fractious.

But there were more pressing matters at hand. It was nice that they both finally recognised that.

From her spot at the head of the table, Hermione's attentive eyes swept between the two men, steady as a tuning beacon. She observed, waited, but not once did she speak. Even though she was there to play mediator, it was clear that her words weren't necessary.

Malfoy fiddled with his signet ring before cutting Harry's speech off by simply raising his hand.

"This isn't going to work."

Harry crossed his arms. "Only because you don't want it to."

"No, it simply won't work."

For what seemed like the hundredth time that hour, Harry ran his hand through his hair. "What do you suggest then, Malfoy?" His tone wasn't rude, just matter-of-fact. Tired. They both were, though Harry displayed his, as he did with most of his emotions. It could easily have been interpreted as frustration, and likely had been by Malfoy, but Hermione knew her best friend better. As for Malfoy, his signs were more subtle: a slight grimace and fidgeting.

"Cancel the raid." Malfoy tapped his fingers against the table. "But leave the mole in to scout for a second opportunity."

Play it safe.

It wasn't something either wanted. They had come too far and trained too hard to cancel their one shot.

Harry scrubbed his face. "We won't get a chance like this again."

"Perhaps not, but strategy won't do us any good if there are more Death Eaters in attendance than anticipated. Instead of two to one odds, we'll be fighting five to one."

Something he clearly was not keen on.

"We could always fight with them. Add to our numbers."

"That would be a strategic nightmare." Hermione couldn't help but intervene. "You're both recognisable and therefore a distraction—not the good kind. Besides, should anything go wrong, they'll retaliate against you both directly because they know how to target you."

Their families.

Malfoy looked grim, and Harry cringed, but neither argued. However, that didn't stop Harry from expressing his opinion."I don't like sitting on the sidelines."

"Always the hero." Malfoy rolled his eyes, absently adjusting the cuff on his right hand. "P—"

"This plan," Hermione cut him, which earned her a scowl. She almost flashed a humourless grin in return. The one with too many teeth that scared Harry. However, restraint was employed to save time. "It calls for a direct attack. With the secret passage confirmed and the ward specialist to take down the blood wards, you'll have the element of surprise to make up for your lack of numbers." Hermione gestured to the blueprint. "The plan never called for you both to fight. In fact, it's not wise for either of you to be seen at all." Malfoy especially, but she left that out. "You've been training the Aurors and Task Force team for weeks. Let them complete the mission. Let them end this. Keep it clean. No added variables."

Harry didn't look happy about it, but sighed because he knew she was right.

Malfoy, on the other hand, seemed smug.

"Any comments, Malfoy?"

Grey eyes shifted to hers, his expression levelling out. "Not at the present moment."

A slight jolt accompanied his words, but with a glance at her watch, Hermione shook it off and backed away from the table, summoning her beaded bag from the chair with an outstretched hand.

"Very well then. I have to go prepare lunch." Speaking of lunch, she reached into her bottomless bag and pulled out Harry's, handing it to him. "Roast beef sandwich, crisps, and fruit." Then she approached Malfoy and held out an identical bag that he accepted with a curious expression. Harry tilted his head like a confused puppy while Malfoy stared at the package in his hand. "It's lunch."

"I gathered."

Hermione watched at the man who regarded her with an arched eyebrow but remained silent. "I figured since I brought Harry lunch, then—"

"It's not necessary." Malfoy glanced over her head, frowning at Harry before returning his gaze to her and lowering his voice so their audience couldn't hear. "I had breakfast."

That she knew. She'd made it for him, as she had been for the last week or so, not that he'd accepted the containers. This morning had marked only the second one Malfoy had taken it with him. Getting him to accept anything required more effort than making the meal itself.

Hermione lowered her voice, too. "Have you eaten since?"

"No, but—"

"Then keep it. I had extra."

She excused herself, pointedly ignoring the pair of green eyes that followed her out. After all, she was going to be late.

For Hermione, punctuality was as important as preparedness and hard work. Being late showed a lack of consideration and respect for someone's time, and she wasn't one to tolerate something like that.

Not from anyone.

Narcissa, on the other hand, was late for lunch.

Her presence had been subpar at best since the invasion of her planning team for the season-ending soiree she was hosting. The event was next weekend, but the Monday after their first gardening session had marked the escalation of planning commitments. Narcissa had little time for anything including morning gardening, reviewing Scorpius' lessons, and Hermione's daily check-ups.

But not everyone was as upset about Narcissa's absence.

Malfoy didn't appear to care, given the way he pointedly rolled his eyes whenever Hermione mentioned his mother by name during their morning conversations. Evidently, this behaviour was normal whenever Narcissa was in party planning mode. As long as his mother stopped pestering him about bringing a date, Malfoy didn't care where she went. Catherine seemed to share his sentiment, though she never expressed it directly. At least not to Hermione.

Hermione had only just noticed that she didn't seem as frazzled.

And how did she know?

Because Catherine—and by extension, Scorpius—had been joining her for lunch everyday.

It had started the Monday after Malfoy's visit when Narcissa stood her up.

She had made lunch and it would have been a shame to waste it, so Hermione wandered up to the library to extend the invitation. The tutor had declined, but Catherine had accepted after taking a look at Scorpius who had perked up. The meal had been such an enjoyable affair that whenever Narcissa failed to attend lunch, they all ate together instead.

As soon as she'd finished preparing the meal, precisely at quarter after one, Scorpius arrived.

He was almost always first, likely because his tutor was typically tied up preparing for afternoon lessons while Catherine coordinated Scorpius' evening plans with Zippy.

He entered the room properly, but Hermione could tell he was eager to claim his seat next to her before anyone else could.

The same place he sat every day.

Well, except that one time Catherine had come to lunch before him and taken his spot. How she had remained oblivious to the literal fire shooting from childish blue eyes, Hermione still had no idea. Scorpius hadn't been graced with the art of discretion. His vow of silence had made him harder to communicate with, but when he actually displayed his feelings, they were loud.

It was actually rather hilarious.

"Hi there."

Scorpius waved and stood behind the chair next to her, his chair, looking ever so serious until he peered over at her. Day by day, Hermione was learning the meaning behind each of his expressions. Not just the basic emotions he showed, those were easy enough to interpret, but the more difficult ones. Like pride and shame. There was a hint of the former etched in his features that made her smother a fond smile into her fist.

He took off his blazer and hung it on the back of the chair.

"Did you wash your hands?" Hermione asked, but she already knew the answer.

Scorpius nodded as he patted his pockets, and she knew exactly what he was checking for: the notes from his father.

It wasn't her place to figure out how to bring them together, but she thought about it. Often.

Each morning, no matter how long Malfoy lingered, Hermione would watch Scorpius peek around the corner to watch his father leave. He didn't engage, just waved to the empty space. And each day, she wanted to alert Malfoy to his presence, but there had to be a reason why he ducked back around the corner whenever he caught her looking.

Ideas plagued her in the quiet moments while gardening or reading. No matter what way she dissected her thoughts, Hermione didn't know what to make of it all. But the need to understand the reason for Scorpius' avoidance and Malfoy's distance hummed in her veins like adrenaline.

The scraping of the chair distracted Hermione. She turned her attention to the little boy as he took the seat next to her, curiously looking at his food while waiting for his nanny to arrive so they could start eating. Scorpius sat with his back straight and had an air about him that was too stoic for a child. Hermione knew what was next on his list. Soon, he would tuck his napkin in his collar to protect his shirt from stains and wait.

But today was different.

Today was the day Scorpius surprised her by deviating from his aforementioned routine.

After quickly glancing at her watch, Hermione turned to ask him how his day was going only to find Scorpius extending his napkin out to her.

His eyes were wide and hopeful. He didn't need her help, he just wanted it.

Stunned speechless, Hermione took so long to respond that the light in his eyes dimmed, fading as disappointment began to take its place. Hermione recovered with a soft shake of her head as she presented her open hand and accepted the napkin. She turned his chair towards her with a bit of wandless magic that clearly fascinated him, and noted the adorable way his feet dangled.

"You'll have to tilt your head up."

Tentatively, Scorpius tried to do as instructed while watching her, but was unable to do both.

In the end, he lifted his head.

Trust was a word that passed through her mind as she made quick work of tucking the napkin into his collar and smoothing it over his shirt.

"All done."

Hermione turned his chair back to face the table, but his eyes remained on her. He blinked and set his little jaw. Had she missed something? Scorpius had a tendency to try and clue her in when she didn't have all the pieces of what he was trying to communicate by leaning just a fraction towards her, his eyes trying to prod her into understanding until… ah, she got it.

He was trying to thank her.

"You're welcome," she told him.

Then he deviated even further from his routine by smiling.

It wasn't a smile like Al would give her—wide, bright, and unrestrained, showing every one of his little teeth. No, Scorpius' was soft and subdued, but so earnest it warmed her heart for so many reasons she lost count. Mainly because it was the first time he'd smiled in her presence and it honoured Hermione to witness it. She was grateful he trusted her.

And even stranger, Hermione had the almost overwhelming wish to see him smile again. More often.

Every day, if possible.

The cherry on the top of the entire experience was the fact that Hermione learned from one smile that Scorpius had the most adorable set of dimples. She couldn't help but smile back, couldn't keep the endearment at bay, or the emotions from spilling out. How could she when that was the core of what she felt? When her heart was so unexpectedly full from a simple action?

Scorpius reached for her napkin, handing it to her with an expectant look that she understood clearly. Hermione tucked the napkin into her shirt.

Now they matched.

The little boy was so pleased he actually grinned. It was crooked and contagious and priceless.

But then he covered it with his hands.

"You don't have to hide how you feel." Hermione gently uncovered his smile, though it faded as he listened to her, growing more serious. "It's okay to smile if you're happy." Hers waned too when a small lump formed in her throat. It was then that she realised she hadn't let his hands go, that she didn't want to, but Hermione did her best to swallow the swell of sentiment that had taken her by surprise…

And she let go.

They both heard Catherine's footsteps approaching.

Whatever smile was left immediately died, and she quietly mourned its loss. By the time his nanny entered the kitchen with an aura of friendliness, Scorpius was back to his default: not smiling or frowning, just blank, composed.

Which was fine.

Now she knew the potential was there.

"Sorry that took so long, Zippy is leaving for his next house and wanted me to make sure he did a good job with Narcissa's curtains." Catherine took the seat across from her charge. "Next time, I'll be sure not to leave him for too long."

Scorpius awkwardly looked down and Hermione bristled at her comment, but kept her response light and clear. "He is excellent company." Blue eyes met hers slowly and the smile she offered was earnest and kind.

Hermione shifted her chair closer and initiated lunch. Today's meal was chicken salad sandwiches for the adults and a cheese toastie cut into squares for Scorpius. She'd also made him a small fruit salad with a drizzle of honey on top. After placing today's herb on the table, she watched him examine it closely as he ate his fruit.

"It's sage." Hermione told him as he ran his finger over the leaf. "Feels nice?"

Scorpius nodded then sniffed it, not minding the scent.

"I use it to cook and in potions. Monday I'll show you what it looks like dried."

His face lit up with curiosity, which made Catherine chuckle. Honestly, she'd almost forgotten the other woman was there. No matter. Scorpius looked rather pleased by the prospect and that was what mattered.

The meal itself brought about a problem when Scorpius went to pick up his cheese toasties.

"Mind your manners," Catherine hadn't even looked over at him.

Scorpius froze before examining the cutlery and picking up a fork and dull knife. The sight was patently ridiculous to Hermione, who rested her hand on the back of his chair in an absent motion that drew Scorpius' attention. Blinking with wide-eyed, childlike innocence, Scorpius waited for instruction.

It always struck her how obedient he was. He was only five, yet it had already been ingrained in him to listen without questioning. It wasn't bad, never would she encourage anything that would put him in danger, but what about creativity? What about expression? What about the fact that he was a child?

Those were important things, and because Scorpius didn't speak, every manner of expression was vital.

Yet every adult in his life seemed to want to smother that out of him—save his father, whose only defence was that he was hardly ever around. In truth, Hermione couldn't pin down Malfoy enough to know if his absence was a benefit or a detriment, but what did it matter? Rules and guidelines were going to turn Scorpius hard and brittle. And there were already signs of the shift, signs that the little boy who had dimpled at her, held on to her cardigan almost every morning, and looked almost as interested in the plant of the day as he was in his father's letters, was already on his way down a path that would turn him cold.

It was heartbreaking in a way that snuck up on her, and kept coming back as a reminder with every little thing he did. It just… just…

Made her angry.

Feeling herself get worked up in defense of Scorpius made Hermione take a few cleansing breaths. Not that it stopped her from speaking her mind, but it smoothed out her tone. How exactly was he supposed to eat an already cut cheese toastie if he wasn't allowed to pick it up with his hands?

On second thought, she gestured to the sandwich in Catherine's hands. "Aren't you eating with your hands?"

The nanny blushed. "I suppose I am."

After a little reassurance and gentle prodding from Hermione, Scorpius put down his cutlery and picked up his toastie, awkwardly biting into it. Instantly, his eyes lit up from the taste of butter, toasted bread, and cheese.

"Is it good?"

He nodded enthusiastically, which made Catherine's eyes widen in surprise. The little boy must have felt her gaze because he immediately closed back up and continued eating.

Hermione frowned.

Scorpius stared at his nanny for a long time until she noticed. "It's in the door."

The little boy lowered his head in a bow before easing out the chair and walking towards the refrigerator.

Hermione frowned. She made a mental note that he must not like milk.

"I never knew he was interested in plants. How did you figure that out?"

Her instinctive answer was that she paid attention, but she figured her delivery might be too abrupt. "Lucky guess."

"Maybe I can use that to keep him motivated during lessons."

Before she could state her strong opinion on the matter, Scorpius returned and presented Hermione with a juice box. She grinned. "Thank you. Where's yours?"

Which sent him back to the refrigerator.

"He likes you." His nanny nodded in his direction. "I've been working with him for the last six months and I've never seen him take to anyone so well or… at all, if I'm being honest." Catherine sounded mystified, even chuckling to herself. "He's obedient, but rebellious in some ways. I usually have to coax him into… well, everything. Eventually, he'll do it, but there are a lot of long looks."

"I'd probably rebel too if I were his age with that degree of structure in my life."

"It's what his grandmother wants." There was something hidden in Catherine's tone that indicated Hermione wasn't the only one who disagreed with Narcissa's rigidity. "His father has approached me once or twice about adding certain activities to his schedule, but Mrs Malfoy said that he's too young. I deferred to her. The Malfoys are traditional, and the matriarch tends to the children."

She waited a respectable number of seconds before asking, "What did his father want to add?"

"Quidditch."

"Did he have an instructor in mind?"

"No, but it was peculiar…" Catherine shook her head, humoured by the thought. "He said he would teach Scorpius himself."

Well, that wasn't strange.

It was just something a father should do.

The rest of lunch passed quickly. Scorpius ate the centre of his cheese toasties, leaving the crust neatly on his plate. Catherine chattered the entire meal, while Hermione went through the motions and asked just enough to keep her talking—not interested but also not wanting to be impolite. The younger witch talked about her parents, who lived in Boston, her studies at Ilvermorny, and what brought her to England.

"There aren't enough American wizarding families looking for tutoring nannies." She glanced at Scorpius, who had fished a letter from his father out of his pocket and was staring at it as if he were on the verge of a breakthrough. Catherine continued on as if he weren't listening; Hermione knew he was, even though he probably didn't completely understand. "Word got out that there was an opening. I had just moved to London and had no idea who they were, which I suspect is why I was hired."

Hermione perked up in interest. "Who hired you?"

"Mrs Malfoy, but she was reluctant as she believes I'm not old enough to teach him proper customs, etiquette, and languages—despite my experience." Catherine didn't look amused. "I speak four languages. I was at the top of my year. I know all about etiquette, European pureblood customs, and I came with references. My last family only let me go because their youngest went off to school."

"Ah," Hermione intoned with a nod. "So, if Narcissa didn't think you were old enough, how did you get the job?"

"I was the only one with a background Mr Malfoy approved of. And his search was extensive. I had to provide so many documents."

Well, Malfoy was quite rigorous about security.

"I understand though. I was briefed about… everything when I was hired on." Catherine looked at her charge with a bit of endearment she hardly ever showed. Mainly because she was too busy expressing her frustration. "At the time, I thought the extensive background search was ridiculous, but it makes sense now."

Hermione tried not to sound as interested as she truly was. "Oh, how?"

The witch was poised to answer when she glanced at her watch. "Excuse me for a moment. I need to check and see if Mr Graves has returned from lunch." Catherine was gone before Hermione could say anything else.

She turned to Scorpius, who was studying his father's note with such single-minded focus that it was equally as adorable as it was impressive. It was fascinating watching him his face work through a series of different expressions as his mouth moved to silently sound out the letters. Using his fingers, he traced the letters on the scrap of parchment. Hermione made out two letters:

C - H

It didn't take much to grab his attention.

"You know," she began carefully, figuring out each word as it formed. "I think your dad would like to give you this himself." Scorpius tensed then looked down. Hermione turned in her chair, knees facing him. She dipped her head down to look him in the eye. "It's okay."

A thought struck her. A theory. It couldn't be right, given how he seemed to wind up sleeping in Malfoy's office. But perhaps—well, there was a difference between being in the presence of something you want versus actually reaching for it.

"Are you scared?"

Scorpius blinked several times as if he were trying to sort through his own feelings. The consternation made him look older. It made her think of Albus when he talked about his struggles at school. His shrug wasn't so much one as it was him awkwardly pressing his ear to his shoulder. His cheeks turned red. Maybe that wasn't it.

"Are you nervous to say hi?" The little boy seemed confused by the word so Hermione tried something else. "Do you want to see your dad?" There was no hesitation in his nod, but there was a pinched expression of frustration that she knew too well. "Do you… feel like you can't? Is that why you hide until he leaves?"

He paused, looking down at the note in his hand.

The small nod was every bit as hard to witness as it was for him to express, judging from his small cues and the way he squirmed in his seat.

"It's okay to be nervous." Hermione placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's also okay to ask for help in whatever way makes you feel better."

Scorpius was staring again, then his eyes moved when she extended a hand.

He accepted it a little quicker than before.

"I'll tell you the same thing I tell Albus." He looked confused and she realised she'd not yet mentioned Al to him. "Albus is my godson, but sometimes I call him Al. He's five, like you. He wants so badly to meet you." Hermione smiled. "Yes, you."

The little boy still seemed mystified.

"He's just like you. Sometimes he gets scared and nervous around big things, but do you want to know what I tell him?" Scorpius nodded, adjusting his grip on her hand but not letting go. "I tell him what I once read to him in a book. You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think."

Squeezing her hand tighter, he stared at his father's letter.

It didn't matter, she wouldn't let go until he was ready.

"I can read that for you."

Scorpius held the note to his chest. Protective. As if he thought she were going to take it away.

"It's your note, Scorpius. And it's also your choice." Hermione meant that. "I won't take that from you. I just wanted to try and read it to you so you know what it says."

After another solid minute of deliberation, he handed it to her with slow hesitation. Accepting it graciously, Hermione shifted her chair closer so they could look at it together. Hermione opened her mouth to read, but it instantly went dry when she deciphered it. It was…

Personal.

Private.

Genuine.

Hermione couldn't read it out loud. Wouldn't. But Scorpius was looking at her with eager blue eyes and gods, she had volunteered.

"It says—" Hermione cleared her throat of another lump and read a father's written words of devotion. "You're the best choice I've ever made."

---

It was late in the afternoon when she heard the tell-tale signs of Narcissa returning home. She was doing work that would have been more comfortable in the confines of her own office, but she had not wanted to miss speaking to her patient.

Narcissa strolled into the kitchen dressed in long, floral robes and flanked by assistants—all of whom were carrying several bags. She began giving them instructions on where they could set up, what they needed to do, and asked if anyone remembered the sample clothes for the tables. Hermione waited patiently to be noticed while reading and making notes as it pertained to the questions she had for the various professionals she was meeting with during the next couple of weeks.

It went on for minutes until Hermione pointedly cleared her throat.

Narcissa's steps stuttered on the wood, but she recovered with the grace she naturally possessed, schooled her features into something haughty yet defensive, and approached.

"Miss Granger."

Hermione continued writing, her face as blank as the walls in their impersonal living room. "Mrs Malfoy."

"My apologies for missing lunch today. I had several appointments that unfortunately—"

"Week." Hermione turned to the next blank page, and the sound of pen scratching against parchment resumed.

"Excuse me?"

"You've missed the last week. Not only meals, but gardening sessions that you agreed to attend as well." Finally, Hermione raised sharp eyes to the witch as she sat primly on the two-seater sofa with her legs folded and her hands laced on her knee. There was such an aristocratic air about her that it made Hermione sit up straighter, but she had learned Narcissa a little better since April and she now knew what this particular attitude meant. It was a role she portrayed whenever she intended to stand high on her moral ground, ready to justify her actions. "I've committed to giving you my time."

"And you have—I have never felt better than I do right now."

"That's not the point. Your condition is centred around deterioration, which is inevitable. I can't do my job without your cooperation. We're only a few weeks from getting you stabilised and—"

"Miss Granger, this soirée—"

"Is it more important than your life?"

"Now you are being dramatic, Miss Granger. The event is next Friday. After that, I will resume your treatment schedule. I will be on my very best behaviour."

Until the next end of season event or anything she valued above her health. Hermione could feel her careful control slipping, and with the audience around them, she made a split-second decision to cast a wandless Muffliato. Narcissa arched an eyebrow in response.

"That's not what we agreed on."

"Miss Granger, there are several aspects of your care that we didn't agree on—"

"Oh? Like what? Because I have sacrificed a lot of time and we're less than two months in and you're already breaking the rules. You're already not taking this seriously, Narcissa. Something I find ironic because you spent so much money trying to gain time."

"I assure you I very much am taking this seriously."

"Are you? Because it's important right now to stay on top of this, to follow the plan I've created as we learn your disease, but your complete focus is on planning a party."

Narcissa recoiled at the demeaning tone in her voice. "It is not just a party, Miss Granger. I was chosen for this event, which is an honour that you wouldn't understand."

"That argument is officially retired. It's not about what I understand, this is about your health. This event—"

"Correction: this incredibly important event." She crossed her legs, looking more like a business woman and less like a society witch. "This event will help me reach the goals I sought more time to accomplish. There will be very important wizarding families from all over Europe in attendance. More importantly, I am staking my reputation on its success. I dare say I might find a wife for my son at this event, or at the very least review the credentials and meet each witch seeking to arrange a marriage date with him. I would like for him to choose—"

Her snort—impolite and incredulous—had come out of nowhere, loud enough for Narcissa to take notice. Previously, whenever she'd brought up her intent to contract Malfoy's second marriage, Hermione had never so much as breathed a response, keeping her face clear of the judgment she felt in her spirit. She told herself it wasn't her business and that was that.

In fact, she hardly gave it a thought at all.

Except when she did…

There were so many pieces to his puzzle (especially as it pertained to Scorpius), but having interacted with Malfoy quite regularly—well, her comment had sparked to life the self-righteous part of Hermione's brain that wanted to say something. The sensation, the urge to speak in his defence, crawled up her throat like an army of ants.

But like any bug, she smacked it away.

Or panicked while slapping at it repeatedly and shaking her clothes to make sure there were no more ants left marching on her skin.

Semantics.

"My assignment isn't to care about your parties or marriage dates for your son." Hermione exhaled and refocused. "My job is to preserve your mind as long as possible, and to provide the best palliative and transitional care I can."

"I am aware of our contract."

"I've worked countless hours since I started, learning and trying to understand your disease and what to expect so that I can prepare you, myself, and your family, who happen to be the reason you sought my care in the first place. But you have neglected your duties on all levels."

"This is why I have hired Catherine and Mr Graves to keep Scorpius on track with his lessons while I tend to other important matters."

"You're missing my point. I've given up a significant amount of time that I could have been utilised helping others who need it and are more than willing to make sacrifices you refuse to. I've compromised with you on your exercise preferences. I've allowed you into my home and my garden—something I've never done before. I have even relented on your participation in the season, when I know perfectly well that stress can exacerbate the dementia we still know little about. I have been performing my duties as your Healer, going above and beyond to regularly seek advice from the Healer you rejected, but you haven't been performing your duties as my patient."

Narcissa's face was tight, her jaw working as if she were holding back. "Say no more, Miss Granger. I understand perfectly." Placidly, she folded her arms across her chest. "Would you prefer if I stepped back from society."

"I'm not saying that just yet."

She bristled. "But you will soon."

"As you worsen, yes, but you haven't and I'm trying my best to be understanding. I understand you have other priorities and goals that you want to accomplish before you have to step back, but I have expectations that you will follow our plan. I can tolerate most things, but I despise being stood up as it wastes what little time I do have. It shows that you don't value my time as much as you value your own, so when it boils down to it, that is my problem."

Narcissa brought her hand to her necklace. "That was not my intention."

"But that's what has been happening." Hermione gathered her belongings and summoned her beaded bag from the table, catching it firmly with her left hand. She then stood, preparing to leave and end the Muffliato, but Narcissa's next words stopped her.

"I do have one final thing to discuss."

Her hackles rose, as they often did whenever a conversation took a sharp turn. "And that is?"

"Your conversations with my son."

She paused, unable to shake the defensiveness that sent her shoulders creeping up to meet her ears. "What about them?"

Narcissa stood, dusting invisible lint off her robes. "I'm going to make the assumption that you're the reason he mentioned therapy for Scorpius when there's nothing wrong with—"

Hermione scoffed, and when Narcissa's entire expression darkened, she folded her arms. "I have a long list of reasons that make that statement factually incorrect, but all I will say is that there is something most definitely wrong when a child is crying for his dead mother in his sleep—"

A trace of surprise flashed across her face, but stoic composure won out.

That was fine. Hermione had everything she needed.

Narcissa had no idea.

Malfoy had never told his mother.

"Finite Incantatem. Have a good weekend, Narcissa." She bit the inside of her jaw to stop herself from saying anything else. Not yet. Not today.

---

June 5, 2011

Pansy was beautifully dressed in an off the shoulder magenta dress. Decorated with sequins and beads, the bottom was trimmed with loose, lace edges. She was ready for a night out.

On a Sunday.

She also needed a favour, which didn't bode well for Hermione's afternoon plans to deliver her monthly donation of Wolfsbane, Dreamless Sleep, Enhanced Calming Draughts, and various other antidotes and salves. "What is it?"

"I'm already late, but we're having dinner with Draco for his birthday. I arranged for a caterer to make a cake for him, but someone on their staff got Spattergroit and they cancelled. I know you cook things and since I now have no cake—"

"You want me… to make Malfoy a birthday cake?"

"Yes." Pansy blinked as if it were obvious. "You're the only person I know who can bake edible food."

"Ginny can bake."

"I went to ask her first, but there were two angry kids hugging it out in the living room, I'll let you guess which." Likely Lily and James. "I backed out slowly."

They both winced, but then Hermione laughed. Hug it out had always been Ginny's preferred avenue of conflict resolution. Despite their almost four year age difference, the eldest and youngest of the Potter clan fought all the time. Al, on the other hand, tended to shy away from their drama. He had no interest in it.

"So, will you?"

Scratched her head, Hermione didn't even try to hide her unease with the request. "I don't know what sort of cake Malfoy likes." Outside of his true tea preference, she knew little about his predilections.

But Pansy was persistent when it came to getting her way. "A birthday cake, Granger, do keep up. Draco likes anything lemon and pretends he doesn't have a sweet tooth anymore, but absolutely does." That was all the advice Pansy gave before she glanced at her watch and winced. "I've got to pick up his gift, rip him from working on his translations, and meet everyone in an hour."

"Will Scorpius be in attendance?"

The edgy expression on Pansy's face clearly indicated they would revisit that topic later when they both had time and a lot of wine. Good, Hermione was ready.

"Adults only. I know Narcissa tried to do something for his birthday yesterday, but she's all but given up. Draco will attend our birthday events, but he typically spends the day alone. It's his way."

It sounded lonely in the same way that underfed people felt even more hungry when they saw others eat. Hermione hugged herself at the thought and the words he'd written on a scrap of parchment for his son.

She shook it off.

"How did you convince Malfoy to allow you all to host a birthday dinner?"

"I threatened." Pansy shrugged. "It worked."

That was one way of doing it.

"You'll make the cake then?" Pansy looked so hopeful—the expression was odd coming from someone who glared considerably more often than she smiled.

"Fine."

Pansy squealed in excitement.

"But you owe me."

"I'm already renovating your bath!"

"I'm paying you."

"Details." After checking her watch again and swearing loudly, Pansy left with a soft pop.

To her empty house, Hermione gave a well-earned sigh before heading in the direction of her office where she stored all of her cooking books.

Lemon. Sweet-tooth. Cake. What else did she know?

He'd spent years in France and she noticed that he tended to veer towards—

A short while later Hermione closed the cookbook she'd been flipping through in favour of one she'd purchased a few years ago on basic French baking.

It was a good enough place to start.

After washing her hands, Hermione put on her apron, put her hair up into a bun, and got to work.

First stop was the greenhouse.

Pansy had asked for a birthday cake, but Hermione had something else in mind. Picking several freshly ripened lemons off of her small tree, she ventured back into her home to pull out the other lemons from the refrigerator before boiling half of them in water for fresh lemon juice.

Following the directions, Hermione prepared a crust for a lemon tart.

Flour. Powdered sugar. Salt. Cold butter. Egg. Vanilla extract.

Before long, she was turning the dough on her lightly floured countertop until it was a ball. After wrapping it up in clingfilm, she put it up to chill and turned to her next task.

For another thirty minutes, Hermione worked on the lemon curd. The directions had made it seem far easier than it actually was, which sent her scouring through all of her French dessert books for tips to fix something that was too tart. She ended up figuring it out with a small experiment that worked and found herself back on track just in time to finish making the curd, which turned out far nicer than any she had ever made before.

When Hermione poured the curd into its crust and placed it into the cooker, she made raspberry Chantilly—ripe raspberries, sugar, vanilla extract, and cream—and a small batch of lemon biscuits for Malfoy to hopefully share with Scorpius.

It was worth a shot.

Hermione packed the Chantilly in a separate container, some fresh mint to garnish, and then dusted powdered sugar on the lemon tart. It was too soon for the powdered sugar, but three hours had passed since Pansy had left and she was officially late.

They would surely be back at Pansy's any moment following their meal out, but that didn't stop her from waiting until the biscuits were finished. She used the only bit of cooking magic she knew to rapidly cool them to the perfect temperature so she could wrap them up along with the other desserts. Rushing, Hermione didn't even bother to take off her apron before stepping into the Floo and calling for Pansy's flat.

Which was empty.

A relief.

Pansy had already properly set the circular table for five, along with cutlery and serving knives. Hermione placed the lemon tart in the centre of the table on the stand, found a nice dish for the raspberry Chantilly, and laid a sprig of mint on each plate for the garnish. She sighed with relief, tucked a flyaway behind her ear, and prepared a note with serving directions.

Hermione was leaving said note on the counter when the Pansy popped into the room.

Followed by Malfoy, who looked every bit as confused as Hermione was shocked by their sudden appearance. He was arm in arm with the heavily pregnant Daphne, who winced upon landing.

"Consider that my last side-along until I have this—" Daphne noticed Hermione and greeted her with a broad smile. "Look, Draco! Hermione's here."

"I see."

Nothing more was said, but Hermione found herself watching the strange scene unfold in front of her. Daphne allowed the ever-stoic Malfoy to help her into a seat at the table. His expression gave nothing away—his movements were stiff and there was a grimace on his face—but Hermione noted how careful he was with Daphne, how he'd kept a firm hand on her back to keep her steady.

But why was she surprised?

Daphne was pregnant.

He wasn't a barbarian.

Behaviour at Hogwarts aside, proper manners and etiquette had been ingrained in him—just as his speech patterns had been. But still, there was something noteworthy about how, even after she was seated and pushed in, Malfoy waited until she was absolutely settled before shifting his gaze back to Hermione. His mouth was pressed into a tight line as if he were waiting for her to say something.

But for once, she had nothing to say.

Hermione nodded in the direction of the Floo. "I was just—"

Leaving.

"Staying, of course…" Pansy said from where she stood at the counter, Hermione's note in hand with a smirk on her face. Grey eyes slid away from her to Pansy before one brow lifted in a query that the witch ignored like it was her job. "You don't mind, right Draco?"

"I was only here to deliver the lemon tart." She took one step backwards. "I—"

"I don't mind." His words were quiet and clipped, but they cut through the near silence of the room.

Hermione shut her mouth with an audible click, held her breath, and then uttered a quiet, "Oh, but I don't want to intrude." It didn't matter that she knew them all, and was friendly with each in one way or another, they were still Malfoy's friends. And today was his birthday. That he never celebrated. She really shouldn't be there. "I was going home to—"

"Come on." Daphne appeared vastly amused.

Pansy followed her statement with a flippant, "Stop being—well, you."

Before she could argue her point further, Pansy ushered her to the seat next to Malfoy that he held out politely with his normal air of stoicism. Hermione meant to argue that she didn't need him to do anything for her, but his hard expression made the words dry in her throat. She sat down. Then jolted when Malfoy pushed her chair closer to the table and returned to his seat to her left. Pansy took the seat to her right.

Theo appeared in the room, nodding in Hermione's direction in greeting like he half-expected for her to be there. "Granger."

She managed a small wave. It was… bizarre, but also Theo.

"Did you bring the candles?" Pansy asked Daphne.

"I thought you did."

"No, you said…"

When they finished squabbling like Hermione's chickens, Pansy got up with a huff to search her kitchen drawers for candles. Theo, with an almost fond roll of his eyes, took the final open seat next to Daphne, who was squirmier than usual. She'd already shifted in her chair several times, unable to find a comfortable position. He asked if she was all right, and she nodded.

"I've had this cramp for about a week now. No worries."

"Anything I can do?"

"If you could make my baby stop stomping on my internal organs, that would be fantastic."

"Uh." There had only been a handful of times Hermione had seen Theo truly speechless, and this was one of them. Having nothing else to say or add, he awkwardly moved on while Daphne laughed at him. Not that he heard or paid much attention. He was too busy surveying his surroundings like a king would a newly conquered territory. Once he reconciled Hermione's presence, everything else was as it should be.

Except Malfoy.

She knew how to interpret the meaning in Theo's subtleties after studying him for years, and didn't feel so woefully out of her element as she watched the exchange between the two men.

At least one half of the equation made sense. In a way.

Hermione internally grimaced. Theo still had his quirks and mysteries, things about him that perplexed her, but she had never put forth the energy required to figure those out.

The other half of the equation? Well… he made about as much sense as the instructions to brew Felix Felicis.

Figuring Malfoy out would require more than just strength of character and the ability to scale high walls. Subtlety and a journey back in time would be ideal to figure out how he had become the person he was… whoever he was.

Hermione—while admittedly curious even before the note or the talk in her conservatory—was still trying to weigh her options about expending the frustrating energy it would take.

What were her reasons for wanting to scale the walls of his fortress?

Malfoy was odd and difficult, contradictory in the way he talked and behaved. He was nothing like the boy she once knew: the bully, the bigot. Yet despite his defensiveness and intricacies, there was something far more genuine than posturing about the adult version of Draco Malfoy.

But why was she so curious?

What did she hope to gain by educating herself on him?

What was she looking for?

And better yet, what was her probability of success?

Not very high.

Theo's eyes suddenly flashed like he'd taken notice of something he found worthy of a second glance. "Your favourite, right Draco?" He gestured to the lemon tart.

The questions in Hermione's head scattered like ash in the wind. Dispersed and forgotten. Diluted, but still present, if unnoticed. Because what?

Malfoy's face was so blank that, with his pale skin and black suit, he almost seemed lifeless. Next to Theo, recognition bloomed on Daphne's face. "Oh, right, this is your favourite! How did you know, Hermione?"

"I didn't." Hermione awkwardly patted the bun on the top of her head while looking everywhere except at the wizard sitting next to her.

"Ah, well…" Daphne shifted in her seat again. "Nice guess."

Blessedly, before things got any more uncomfortable, Pansy arrived with candles, placing one in the centre of the lemon tart. When she threatened to sing, Malfoy cut her down with a glare so sharp it would have drawn blood had her skin not been so thick. But she spared him a song and settled for letting him blow out the lonely candle. He extinguished it with nothing more than an irritated sigh.

As hostess, Pansy took care of cutting the lemon tart into pieces and placing them on each plate. With magic, of course.

Seconds after Daphne and Theo started in on their tart, the Floo roared to life. Blaise arrived alone, as Padma had to work. Because he wasn't the sort that could let the elephant in the room go unmentioned, his dark eyes scanned the scene with obvious interest.

"Ah." Blaise smirked. "A lion amongst the snakes."

It was such a nauseatingly cliched statement that it made them all respond in various ways: Daphne threatened to throw her tart at his head then changed her mind, Pansy cursed, Theo raised an eyebrow, and Malfoy… Well, he smothered a chuckle in his fist. Hermione rolled her eyes with humour, feeling like she could because he'd lightened the heavy mood of the room.

Blaise had an unmatched way of melting into any group and easing tensions.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Pansy dramatically rolled her eyes. "You're late."

"Had an important Floo call with the wedding planner to confirm our guest list." He made a face. "Couldn't be helped. Padma told me to go when the call went on too long. Is that lemon tart?"

"Granger made it." Pansy summoned a spare plate from the kitchen and cut him a piece of tart.

He paused. "I trust your cooking." That spoke volumes as he barely trusted Padma's.

"Now, where am I going to sit?"

That made Hermione feel even more like an intruder.

The table had been set for five and couldn't be spelled any larger due to the lack of space. She should have left. Six people made it a tight enough fit for her to murmur an apology to Malfoy when she scooted into his space for Pansy to add a chair for Blaise. She wasn't touching him, but it was still too close for comfort.

Everything was.

"Mind your hand, Draco." Pansy chided gently when she saw him scoot his chair slightly away from Hermione.

"It's fine." His response was low and gruff and came a beat too quick.

"What happened to your hand?" Hermione asked curiously

Before Malfoy could answer—or not, knowing him—twin aggravated huffs came from Daphne and Pansy, but it was the former who responded.

"He got hurt during a training exercise Friday and refuses to see a Healer—"

"Not to mention, he's overusing it with all his translation work that I had to yank him from in order to make it to dinner on time."

"Are you fucking serious?" Daphne leaned forward as much as she could with her pregnant belly and the table as a barrier. Those obstacles didn't stop her from glaring daggers at the man who was practically scowling at Pansy. "Draco!"

"It's his birthday, for Merlin's sake." Blaise came to the rescue. "Stop nagging him."

"Fine, we'll resume tomorrow." Pansy looked rather proud of herself. "Daphne?"

"Absolutely."

Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose. "Suddenly hell on Earth sounds appealing."

Everyone laughed and Hermione glanced at him in time to see him card his right hand through his hair. She went to reach for her drink, but there was none there. Hmm.

Everyone resumed eating and chatting, but Hermione went back to feeling uncomfortable as she waited…

Unlike every other person at the table, Malfoy hadn't so much as picked up his fork. Blaise settled between Daphne and Pansy, complimented the lemon tart, and that was the end of that.

Soon, the atmosphere began shifting. Changing. Daphne helped herself to a second piece while Theo listened in on their conversation, only speaking when absolutely necessary, as he was wont to do anyway. His tart was half-eaten, which made sense—he wasn't one for sweets to begin with.

Malfoy still hadn't tried it, and while everyone else seemed to approve, for the simple fact that it was his birthday, Hermione wanted to know what he thought. If he liked it. Finally, likely when he thought no one was paying attention, Malfoy forked a piece of it and examined it as though he were a food critic.

"You'll never know that you don't like it unless you try it." Hermione would have never received confirmation that he'd heard her had his shoulders not stiffened; had he not cut his eyes at her.

"And why do you assume that I won't?"

"Because you seem hesitant."

"I'm not hesitant, I'm just not hungry." Malfoy placed his fork on the plate. "I had no idea they were planning dessert." He didn't seem happy about anything. The surprised look, his overall sour lack of amusement, and the daggers he all but slung at Theo—

Ah, now it all made sense.

Malfoy did not like surprises.

And as someone who also hated being put on the spot, she could relate.

"You haven't tried it either." He pointed to her still untouched slice.

"I had no plans to even make this today, so…" Hermione trailed off with a single roll of her shoulder. "I guess we were both in for a surprise."

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he said nothing else before picking up his fork that still held the piece he had been examining. She didn't expect him to eat it, but he surprised her. If she read his fleeting expression correctly, he almost seemed to enjoy it. Then he took a second bite. And a third.

Absently, Hermione's eyes strayed to his mouth, watching the way he chewed, the way his throat worked as he swallowed. When his eyes swung to hers again, one brow rising sharply in curious bewilderment, Hermione thought there was no better time than the present to try the lemon tart.

And, well…

She tasted it enough to know one thing.

"It's a bit tart."

"The name implies that it should be." Malfoy placed his fork down with a soft clink.

Hermione chuckled before she could stop herself. "True."

She took another bite, really taking her time with it. Tasting it. Bizarrely, she remembered while chewing that this was his favourite dessert. She wondered why. The consistency wasn't perfect. Perhaps, had she been given more time and had she not been pressed to use magic to help it settle, it could be quite good. Issues aside, it was an acquired taste—sweet and flavourful with a bite that wasn't bitter enough to make her grimace but still strong enough to assert itself.

"Why lemon tart?" It was a leading question, but she asked it anyway, not quite certain where she was going with it or how far he would go in his response.

"Why does anyone like anything, Granger? Not everything has a deep meaning or symbolic significance. Sometimes, it's a matter of preference and taste."

Malfoy's response confirmed Hermione's previous hypothesis regarding the privacy provided by the intentional mystery he shrouded himself in. Even though she knew this, there was a tiny sliver of her that wondered if he was genuine.

"It's an odd predilection." Hermione tried it again, but with the raspberry Chantilly. It provided a sweet balance which significantly improved the taste.

"Probably, but it's mine."

It wasn't said with the normal brusque tone she was used to. Still dry and cool, but perhaps that was who he was. It sounded like a matter of pride. No matter how simple, his preference for tart foods was a little piece of something that was just his—something he didn't have to hide.

"I made lemon biscuits for Scorpius, too." She hadn't even remembered until that very moment.

Malfoy went cold and blank, tension rising in him for some reason she internally scrambled to figure out.

"First breakfast, then lunch, now this? Why?" His question was accompanied by a glare that would have melted steel, and was intended to intimidate.

It didn't work.

"I wanted to." Hermione's response was direct as she bore into him with a stare of her own. "No need to treat an act of kindness like a declaration of war. They're just biscuits, Malfoy. You can take them and try to enjoy them with your son or leave them and I'll give them to Harry's kids. I don't care which you decide to do." Then she recalled her conversation with Pansy and Daphne, and the hints that Catherine had given. "You're more than welcome to test them, if you'd like. Or I could try them first, if that makes you more comfortable."

Malfoy said nothing as several long moments stretched taut. Hermione turned in an attempt to join the conversation the others were having about Portkey applications for international travel for Blaise and Padma's wedding. Pansy had apparently already turned hers into the Ministry.

Tension continued to roll off Malfoy in waves that crashed against her due to proximity, but before she could react or brace herself, the storm passed on. The dark clouds over his head cleared. The waters calmed—as much as they could, given who he was.

And then, something unexpected happened.

Malfoy tapped his finger on the table just long enough to draw her eyes to the action—and the bit of colour peeking from under the cuff of his suit jacket. In a voice low enough for her ears only, he asked a question that derailed everything.

"Do you think he'll like them?"

Hermione abruptly turned. There were several reasons she found his question odd, but a small sliver of that had to do with how earnest he sounded. Honest. Like his note. Like he really wanted to know. But her overall confusion, the reason behind her sharp recoil was simple:

He didn't know?

"H—" She tried not to trip on her words, but failed. She cleared her throat. "As a rule, children generally like sweets. Now, whether he prefers lemon biscuits to another kind, I'm not sure. You would know that better than me."

Daphne gasped and looked down sharply. "I think my water just broke."

Everyone froze…

And then dessert descended into chaos.

---

The entire scramble to St Mungo's was anti-climatic at best.

Pansy had run off to track down Dean, who was finishing up at work at Gringotts—somewhere deep underground in a vault. That would take time.

Theo had gone ahead to start the registration process. Blaise had stayed behind to make Floo Calls to their mutual friends with news.

As a Healer, despite the fact that she was no doula, Hermione had been the natural choice to escort Daphne to the hospital. Out of them all, she likely had the most experience with giving support during childbirth as she had been in the room when James was born after Harry had fainted. However, the labouring witch had surprised them all when she'd asked Malfoy to come with them.

For moral support.

Though appearing vastly uncomfortable with the idea, he'd agreed because he wasn't stupid enough to argue with a woman in labour.

While questionable at best, it didn't take long for Hermione to realise that—until Pansy returned with Dean—Malfoy was a good option. He was calm during check-in, kept her balanced when they walked to keep her comfortable, and unflappable when she squeezed his hands through each contraction.

Three hours later, in a private room with a Mediwitch doula, Daphne was still squeezing Malfoy's left hand—the hurt one—hard enough for Hermione to wonder if she would actually break his bones.

If she hadn't already.

She had heard his knuckles painfully crack several times.

"Where is he?" Daphne looked at the door anxiously.

"He'll be here soon." Hermione dabbed her brow. "We can't worry about that now. Need you to focus."

"Six centimetres." The Mediwitch announced, re-emerging from under the sheet. "You're doing beautifully, Mrs Thomas. In a few hours, you'll be set to—"

"Did you say hours?" Daphne sat up from her reclined position as best as she could, Hermione ended up giving her the last little boost she needed while Malfoy helped her adjust.

"I did." The witch smiled brightly, but it slowly washed out like a canvas in the rain at the almost dangerous look on her face. "We can do potions, something to ease the pain, but not too much because it will dull your senses and you need them to push."

Daphne consented with a small nod and together, she and Malfoy worked to get her comfortable before the next contraction. He was patient—with her at least, if the increasingly irritated looks he was giving the too happy Mediwitch gave anything away about his current mood.

And he also double checked the potions, going so far as to sniff each of them before Daphne growled, surged up, and snatched it out of his hand, guzzling them down one after the other.

"Now's not the time for your paranoia."

Hermione agreed.

Silently.

Malfoy rubbed his temple and exhaled sharply, seeming to reset. It was something he appeared to do for a myriad of reasons, Hermione recognised.

A glance at the watch on his wrist was all the indication of impatience that he gave.

Where were they?

It was a question Hermione wanted to answer, but couldn't.

Not that it mattered.

A minute later and the potions began to ease Daphne's stress and curb her pain, but the pressure seemed to be her biggest issue. But apparently that was normal. For once, despite her experience, Hermione felt woefully out of her depth and had little to say. She just kept to her job of dabbing her friend's head with a cool towel and offering words of encouragement. All the while she watched, with a certain degree of horror, as Malfoy's hand turned from normal and pale to red. She could now see the veins.

There was no way he had any feeling left in his fingers.

And yet, Malfoy didn't seem to notice.

Maybe he was Occluding.

Hermione remembered Harry saying that Malfoy had learned. She'd never seen anyone do it up close before. George had tried after the war, but it had been such an unsafe and unstable way to handle grief. Besides, he didn't have what it took to be a good Occlumens; his feelings after the war had been too close to the surface, not repressed, chaotic.

Therapy had been a much better option.

Malfoy, on the other hand, was probably excellent at it. He had to compartmentalise his true emotions, suppress them, bury them so deep and cover the surface of his mind with meaningless thoughts to distract anyone from what was beneath. Malfoy was the most repressed person she knew, so it was possible. Hermione wasn't sure if he was doing it right then, but knew he had to be doing something because he hadn't so much as winced.

In fact, he'd shifted his chair closer to Daphne's side. His jaw flexed when her next contraction hit and she squeezed his hand like it was her lifeline, while seemingly holding her breath, straining.

Before the Mediwitch or Hermione could say anything on the matter, Malfoy gave firm yet gentle instructions. "Exhale. Don't push yet."

Hermione was taken aback. How did he know? Hermione doubted it was even proper for wizards to be in the birthing room. Harry didn't care much for tradition, Dean either, but she always thought that Malfoy—

"Okay. Okay." Daphne stared right at him as she exhaled slowly, nodding along with him and sharing silent words neither would speak.

Whatever she was saying to him, Malfoy responded with a restrained, "I know."

A low sob broke loose before she shut her eyes, tears rolling down her cheeks.

The Mediwitch stepped out of the room and Hermione watched several things at once: the emotional exchange and bond between them she had never been around to witness, the uncharacteristic serenity he projected, and just… him. She stared at Malfoy for so long that she nearly forgot what she was supposed to be doing. It wasn't until he caught her staring and quirked his brow that she looked away.

Just for a moment.

The door opened and the entrance of a harried Dean felt like salvation.

And though Daphne had been worried sick, everything just melted away when she saw him. He looked relieved to see her. Happy to see that she was all right. Glad that he hadn't been too late. Hermione stepped aside and allowed her husband to fill the space she'd just left.

"Sorry I'm late." He was sweating and a bit dirty, looking as if he'd run several kilometres while still in his work clothes from Gringotts where Dean was a Curse-breaker. "Working on a cursed vault when Pansy—well, she'll likely be banned for violating security protocol."

There was a mixture of laughs, chuckles, and snorts between the four of them.

And then Dean leaned forward, wrapping an arm around his wife's shoulders that she brought her free hand up to clasp. Malfoy, now freed from her grip, joined Hermione at the foot of the bed, giving the soon-to-be new parents space. Dean rested his forehead against hers. When he spoke her name like a prayer, Daphne shut her eyes, truly relaxing for the first time.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

The sight was almost too intimate to witness; a private, vulnerable moment between two people who loved each other so much they defied everything just to be together. She found herself struck by the exchange, the moment when past, present, and future blended seamlessly together like a trinity. Unified and alive.

"We're going to be parents," Daphne whispered in awe, her eyes wet with tears. "I'm terrified."

"Me, too." Dean's quiet confession was loud in the silence.

Not knowing where else to look, Hermione glanced over at Malfoy, who opened and closed his fist, mouth downturned in a solemn expression. To get his attention, she tapped his arm. He cut his eyes to her and she made a gesture towards the door. His response had been to lead the way. Hermione followed, watching the way he walked, noting the stiffness in his shoulders and the way he continually flexed his hand.

He was hurt. He'd likely aggravated the untreated injury.

To the new parents, she said, "We're going to wait with everyone else."

They both nodded, but Daphne mouthed thank you to her. She grinned back in response.

Malfoy was near the door when Dean addressed him. "Draco." They both looked for two separate reasons: Hermione because of how he'd said his name—with an air of gratitude and a measure of respect—and Malfoy in a knee-jerk response to hearing his name.

The two men exchanged looks. Not words.

Pansy interrupted the silent exchange by all but bursting into the room. She had yellow balloons and was holding three bags with a look of high irritation on her face. "Am I late?"

"No! Come hold my other hand!"

In a move that was surprisingly compliant, Pansy did just that. But first she practically dropped everything in a chair and glared at Daphne. "You're about to be really annoying, aren't you?"

"Of course, I am, I've got something the size of a watermelon coming—"

The words died in her mouth when another contraction hit.

They slipped out just as the Mediwitch returned.

Hermione fell into step beside Malfoy. From the door to the end of the corridor and through their first turn, they said nothing. In the end, she broke the silence when the pieces of the dynamic between Pansy and Daphne fell into place and she gave a soft, chuffed chuckle.

"They fight like siblings."

"You say that as if that surprises you." Malfoy cast a sharp look in her direction as they continued down another hall, heading towards the lift. "And if it does, you haven't been paying attention." He paused. "Surprising for someone who rarely misses a thing."

"Admittedly, there are plenty of things that I miss. And even more that I don't understand."

Like you. The word almost sprang forth, but Hermione suppressed it, smothered it, or tried to.

But the thought wouldn't die.

When they passed a Healer she was familiar with but didn't know by name, Hermione politely nodded in greeting. Malfoy said nothing until they were alone.

"It's a humbling experience to be burned." His voice was deep like thunder that matched his stormy look. "To be ostracized from everything you know because you want something you shouldn't, something you've known all your life you won't get because of your duty to your family, your heritage, and your bloodline."

"You've never been burned. How would you know?"

"You're right. Instead, I did as I was told." Solemn words from a stoic man. "There's punishment in that, too."

Draco Malfoy was younger than her, but his sentiment carried a weight that made him sound so much older. Brittle. Lonely.

His statement would stay with her for a long time. Follow her from room to room. Replay in the silence. Unavoidable.

And it wasn't just that.

His words were timeworn in the same way dead languages were. When translated, they could be interpreted and applied to every part of his life: when he'd made the wrong choice at the wrong time, when he had gone down the wrong path. He seemed to know that, no matter what good he did, no matter how many Death Eaters he brought to justice, his present would never eclipse his history.

He never stood a chance, always fighting an uphill battle.

But for some reason, he kept fighting.

She had no idea why.

"Burning," Malfoy drawled, cutting through her thoughts, "is something that they have both suffered, at one time or another. I won't deny each could have handled it a lot better, at least as it pertained to the other."

"Daphne could have been more understanding about Pansy's abandonment, as she was under the thumb of her husband's family, but Pansy could have tried harder, too. Also, Daphne could have been more supportive when Pansy left that life."

"That's a very black and white way of looking at things, Granger," he snipped curtly but it didn't have much heat. "But you're not wrong. How do you know—"

Hermione stopped in front of the lift. "They've each told me a bit, but Theo told me more." She shook her head fondly. "He's like a collector of wayward purebloods."

"That's accurate." Malfoy didn't sound quite humoured, but it was close.

"But what about you?" The question was out before she could reconsider.

He tensed, turning to face her, brow lifted. "What about me?"

Everything about him screamed that she was pushing too much, but she did it anyway. "Why did Theo take you in?"

"He had his reasons." The answer was so vague that it was both useless and full of meaning. Hermione had no idea how to decipher it. "I think the better question is why did he take you in, Granger? With that logic, you're neither wayward nor are you a pureblood. He considers you a friend, yet you don't meet his criteria."

"I didn't know friendship came with conditions. Just loyalty, consistency, and trust. Does yours?"

"Are you trying to be my friend, Granger?" He flexed his hand again. The painful grimace remained as he opened and closed his fist. "I'm not one of your projects."

"No, you're not." She glanced down at his left hand. In comparison to the right, it was red and swollen. "How's your hand?"

"It's fine."

Obviously a lie.

With a more clinical eye, Hermione took her wand out of the pocket of the apron she ridiculously was still wearing. Malfoy, who most definitely noticed the action, narrowed his eyes and stepped back, bumping into the wall next to the lift doors. Hermione stepped with him, reaching for the cuff of his sleeve. Sharply, he drew back.

She looked up to meet his eyes. "I can heal it."

"I said I'm fine. I have a high tolerance for pain."

"I'm aware, but you shouldn't have to suffer."

Hermione wondered if the intensity of his gaze was indicative of the defensiveness that he carried like a shield or just a product of the friction and history. "Why does it matter to you?"

"I'm a Healer. It's my job and it'll just take a second to examine it."

Malfoy's frown was deep, cool, and fixed. Unmovable.

"If you must." He extended his hand between them and looked away.

His acquiescence jolted her. She hadn't expected it. Rubbing her thumbs against her fingertips, feeling strangely jittery, Hermione tentatively reached for the extended arm and turned it over as though she was dealing with a skittish patient—honestly, she was. Hermione made quick work of healing his hand. After a couple of spells, it was no longer red or irritated.

"I'm just going to look at your wrist as well."

When she went to unbutton the cuff of his shirt, Malfoy tried to jerk his arm away, but his back was against the wall and his elbow hit it hard, causing him to wince.

There was no place to go.

Why was he so jumpy about showing his wrist? It couldn't be the mark that had faded with Voldemort's death. Besides, he had a—

"Normally," she said softly, "people with tattoos are proud to show them off, but not you. You seem ashamed."

Malfoy tensed to the point of absolute stillness as she unbuttoned his cuff. "The only tattoo I'm ashamed of is nothing but scarred skin."

Hermione would never dream of getting one, but she found tattoos fascinating. They could tell a thousand stories, show a myriad of emotions, tell someone's dreams, memories, stories of hurt and happiness, joy and pain—all without uttering a single word.

It was a unique form of art that could show a person's soul.

But what about Malfoy's? What piece of his soul did he etch into his skin?

Hermione folded his sleeve back once, eyes raking over the tiny reveal of his secret, one that she'd been quietly interested in since seeing it for the first time. It was most definitely a dragon. An intricate one at that. Dramatic. The shaded scales she had seen were part of the tail that became its body. It wound around his arm and continued up beyond what she could see—beyond what he would willingly expose.

Hermione stepped closer, now toe-to-toe with him, as she examined him. Once again, she was surprised to find his hands warm. The tips of his were fingers rough from past injuries. Burned. It was something she had done with other patients she'd healed before, lacing her fingers with his and rolling a compliant wrist, bending it back and forth.

Just to test its flexibility.

Strength.

Hermione also looked at the details of his tattoo, but what she could see wasn't enough. It didn't answer enough questions. She was curious by nature, after all. Now more than ever after his note to his son.

She needed to see more to find more answers.

With bated breath, because she just knew Malfoy was going to stop her, Hermione focused on her task of unlacing their fingers and rolling his sleeve up again—now nearly halfway up his forearm. Though her reason was illogical, he didn't stop her. He remained as still as a statue, so silent she could hardly hear him breathing.

What Hermione could feel were his eyes on her, searching and intense. Burning her. But she knew better than to look as he loomed above her like a shadow. She knew if she looked up, it would all be over. The spell would be broken.

Hermione focused on the task at hand. More scales were revealed. The dragon's body continued up his arm, partly covering scarred skin.

But Hermione barely noticed.

Her attention was snatched by a space on the dragon's belly that was different altogether. A scarred part of his skin that once represented his shame was now covered, shaded a dark blue.

It looked like a night sky with stars organised into shapes.

A constellation.

A scorpion.

Scorpius.

Wear your heart on your skin in this life.

Sylvia Plath

---

Disclaimers remain the same.

A/N: It's nice to be back. Hope everyone had a great new year. It's been an eventful new year thus far. Apologies for the delay with the posting. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter. So much happens (BB SCORP) and so much change on all fronts and people beginning to notice the chemistry between Draco and Hermione. Until next week!