Chapter 32
AN: Thank you so much for reading my story! I started writing this during a very difficult period of my life that was full of deep grief. I am in constant awe of healing power of writing. I have appreciated how I've been able to reclaim HP from Rowling's rampant bigotry and fully revel in my nostalgia for this amazing story through my own fanfic and everyone else's!
April 2000, New York City
Hermione woke up warm, a ray of sunlight streaming across her face. Memories of the night before rushed through her brain. It wasn't all a dream. Draco loved her. She loved Draco. They were not on a seesaw anymore. They were finally on even ground, together.
She sat up a little in the middle of the bed and peered around the bedroom. The white walls bounced the sunlight around the room. Hermione could see from the open closet door that Draco was still as tidy as ever, his shirts and pants hanging on wooden hangers. His nightstand had a slim leather Muggle wallet along with a set of Muggle keys. There was a red pen atop a large stack of papers taking up most of the space on the tiny nightstand.
Hermione wondered what the papers were and was a little surprised to see Draco using a Muggle pen. Why was Draco operating in New York City like a Muggle? A wallet, keys, papers, pens. It was curious. Hermione squashed her want to interrogate him. She knew that first, she would have to tell him her story before she had the right to ask him anything about him and his life.
The rest of the room was sparse. There was a small fireplace opposite of the foot of the bed, which had a tiny mantel. A stack of Muggle books nearly filled it: Stephen King, Anne Rice, Brian Jacques, J. R. R. Tolkien, Terry Pratchett, Ursula K. Le Guin, several spines that read Dune. What was Draco doing with all these Muggle books?
Something clattered in the apartment, and Hermione realized Draco was in the kitchen. Hopefully, he was making tea. She was parched. How long had she been asleep? She couldn't tell if the sun coming in from the windows was morning light or later in the day.
"Good afternoon," Draco said from the doorjamb. He was carrying a tray with two glasses of juice, two steaming mugs, and two bagels.
"Bagels?"
"I figured the least I could do was welcome you to New York properly," Draco said with a smirk.
"But you do improper so well."
Draco huffed in false offense, straightened his posture attempting to look posh. "My steadfast decorum will not be easily swayed; I am an honorable host."
Hermione stifled a laugh. "Oh, I see, and what if such an honorable host was tempted?"
"Impossible! Honor is a lifestyle, not something thrown to the wayside." There was a small smile pulling at the corner of Draco's mouth as he sat down on the bed, still holding the tray. Hermione couldn't believe they were joking together. She had never thought they would be here again. It lifted her heart. It gave her hope.
She waved her hand, and the tray floated over to the wide windowsill. Draco raised his eyebrows. "Are you trying to tempt me?"
She maneuvered onto her hands and knees and crawled across the bed towards Draco. "I would never dream of dishonoring you with such assumptions."
Sometime in the early morning hours, Hermione had fallen asleep in Draco's arms, having spent all her energy running after him and then sobbing on the floor. Even though her mind was ready for sex, she could feel a physical uneasiness coursing through her body. She was still wrapped up in the cashmere dress, but she felt naked in Draco's presence. Certainly, Draco would see the differences in her body from the last time they had been together. He would notice the scars on her belly. He would notice the new softness of her hips where the baby fat had gathered.
But Draco wasn't looking at her body, he was staring at her eyes. Before she knew it, his hands were framing her face, and his lips were on hers. When he pulled back, he said, "Hermione, we don't have to do anything. I just want to be close." He positioned himself behind her, wrapping his arms protectively around her. How had she ever walked away from this?
—xxx—
Their tea by the windowsill was now most certainly chilled. Draco didn't care. Hermione was here with an arm around his shoulder. Hermione was here in his bed, in his life, in his heart. And he was in hers.
His cheek was against her chest, the bare strip shown by her revealing dress. He could hear the steady rhythm of her elevated heart rate. It was a comforting sound; he felt content. His hand was tracing circles on her belly absentmindedly.
His stomach rumbled, apparently the tea he could let go, but the bagels he couldn't.
"Hungry?" he asked, turning his face towards hers.
"Ravenous," Hermione answered.
He sat up from their embrace and lazily waved his hand, summoning the tray from the windowsill.
"You've gotten good at wandless," Hermione noted, when the tray settled on the bed without spilling anything.
"Living around Muggles, it's hard to just pull out your wand. So, I've found ways around it."
"Stealthy," Hermione said, reaching for her bagel and tearing into it. A mmmm sounded from deep within her throat while she chewed the everything bagel with scallion cream cheese—her favorite. Draco picked up his own bagel and watched her as he ate. She waved her hand over the teacups and they began steaming again.
"Clever witch," Draco murmured between chewing, leaning over to nuzzle her ear. A bit of cream cheese was on her cheek, so he dipped close to lick it off.
"Oh!" Hermione said softly at the sensation. Her breath resonated with onion and Draco's mind ran with the memory of their last moments in New York City together, when after having just devoured bagels they had scampered off to find an alley to Portkey back to London. Hermione had wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply as if trying to memorize what his lips tasted like in another country.
Draco finished chewing and discarded the remainder of his bagel, reaching for the rest of Hermione's to put it back on the tray. There was something else he was hungry for now. Had she changed her mind too? He climbed on top of Hermione, noticing her eyes were wide with what he hoped was her own hunger. He pinned her down to the bed. Her brown eyes flashed amber in the sunlight. He braced himself above her and kissed her neck, savoring the way her body writhed under his touch. Draco worked his way down her clavicle, dipping his tongue into the depths, feeling her pulse quicken. His one hand came up to cup her breast and swipe the pad of his thumb across her nipple.
"Ah!" Hermione recoiled in what seemed like pain.
"Oh Godric, what did I do?" He sat up Hermione's face was flushed, and she was avoiding his gaze. "Hermione, you all right?"
"It's fine, it's fine," she said. She looked at him then. "Keep going."
He leaned back down, concerned but not eager to stop. If she wanted him to keep going, he would. He resumed his position and pinned one of her wrists, while his other hand came to her other breast. The fabric of her dress was damp, had she spilled some of her tea?
"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed sharply. She turned her body so quickly that she forced Draco to roll off, caught by he got up from the bed to look at her, she was clutching her chest protectively. Something popped into his head then, but it vanished before he could properly grasp it.
"Are you all right?"
"I just need to go to the bathroom," she said.
"It's just through there," Draco said, pointing to the door of the en suite.
Hermione got up and walked briskly to the bathroom. Draco rolled over onto his back and rubbed his temples. Had he done something she didn't like anymore? Had she found other things she liked more now? Had she found those with someone else? He sighed audibly. He stared at the ceiling in frustration and shame. Had he forgotten what she liked? Draco rolled onto his side to stare at the closed bathroom door. He mentally shook himself; everything would be fine when she came out of the bathroom.
"Draco?" Hermione called from behind the closed door.
"I'm right here," Draco said. He jumped up from the bed to stand near the door.
"I need a wand."
"Sure."
Draco retrieved his wand from the other room, knocking on the bathroom door with a gentle, "Here it is."
Hermione's face peeked out from the crack in the door. Her eyes were puffy, and her cheeks were flushed. She had been crying. Draco forgot his misery and pushed the door open with quickening concern.
"You all right?"
The swell of her breasts through the neckline of her dress was impossible to ignore.
She grabbed for her wand and was attempting to push him out of the bathroom. Draco's eyes then caught something wet on the front of her dress right over her left nipple.
Was that—?
He stopped letting her push him away and put a hand on her shoulder. Draco said softly, "Hermione, talk to me."
—xxx—
Hermione knew her time had run out. Draco held her out at arm's length staring at her. Or rather, he was staring at her breasts. She looked down and saw two growing wet spots. There was no more room for stalling.
She wiped the back of her hand across her face to clear her tears. "I have some things to tell you," Hermione said.
—xxx—
Draco left her in the bathroom to put on a fresh pot of tea. When the door to the bathroom closed, Hermione's body shook with one more deep sob, then she straightened to right her appearance. She'd already asked for too much patience from Draco.
Stirring from the other side of the bathroom door alerted Hermione that Draco was back in the bedroom. She exited the bathroom and said to him, "Let's sit on the bed." She took the cup of tea and tried to forget what they had just been doing moments before in the same exact place. Hermione took a deep breath, a sip of tea, and then settled into the pillows, taking Draco's hand in hers, encouraging him to sink into the pillows too.
"Don't worry, this," Hermione gestured to them laying down, "isn't an invitation." She chuckled, expecting Draco to crack a smile at least. He stared at her stoic. Hermione could see Draco's concern. She could almost taste it, as if he had brewed it with the tea.
"I know you must have a lot of questions," Hermione began, "but first, I think it's important that I tell you the whole story." Draco nodded his eyes serious. "Well, you know how it begins," she said somewhat awkwardly. It felt weird to talk about how she had run away from him proclaiming his love for her. They could talk about that at a later time; she was sure they would. What was most important was telling him about his family and Lyra. "After the Head Girl's Bathroom, I went right to the Ministry…"
—xxx—
Draco lay opposite of Hermione listening to her talk about her mission, how Kingsley had approached her earlier that year at Hogwarts, her plentiful questions about the mission, her accelerated Auror training. Most of her discourse was factual. Sometimes it was emotional. Occasionally, it was remorseful.
"The French witch's name, the one they wanted me to pose as, is Amelie."
Draco sat up in bed reflexively. "Amelie?" Something connected in him as Hermione nodded.
"The Aurors felt like it was best if the alternate persona was an actual person in case anyone I interacted with in 1977 became curious about my background as I poked around."
"You were Amelie in 1977?"
"Brewed the Polyjuice myself."
"And you introduced yourself as her? You used her name?"
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Yes."
Dots which had been lingering in the ether began to come into focus as Draco connected them: Severus' journal entry, Lucius' confession.
"You seduced my father," Draco said flatly. Not accusingly, but like it was a fact.
"Absolutely not!" Hermione sat up, some of her tea sloshing over the rim of the cup and onto the bedspread with her sudden movement. "My mission was to befriend him and gain access to what he knew about the beginnings of the Death Eaters. Most importantly his initial work internationally of forging a network for Voldemort."
Draco's mind reeled. What had Lucius really felt for Amelie? Had he ever realized that the woman he thought he knew was Hermione in disguise or even just a ruse to use him? The loyalty within Draco pushed and pulled across familial lines. Why, after all the nastiness that had occurred by Lucius' hands, did Draco still feel linked to him? Was he forever going to be aligned to his Malfoy roots merely because that blood coursed through him?
"Did you fall in love with him?"
"Draco! What a thing to ask!"
"He fell in love with you."
—xxx—
It was as if Draco had slapped her across the cheek. Tears sprung to the corners of her eyes at the emotional pain of that fact.
"How do you know that?"
"He told me."
"Lucius talked about Amelie?" That was preposterous given how he'd acted the last time they had been together—the attempted coercion, the attack. Why was Draco being so cold? Was he on his father's side of this? Had he been swayed against her without realizing it? Had Hermione wasted precious time getting to Draco while his father had been poisoning him against her?
She hardened her face and echoed Snape's portrait to Draco, "No one ever showed Lucius how to properly love."
"Don't you think I know that more than most?" Draco asked, anger spewing for a moment, then unraveling into vulnerability.
"What has he told you?"
"I know more than he told me."
"How?" Hermione asked.
"Severus' journals."
"You have his journals?"
"You know about them?"
"I saw him writing in one, back in 1977." She didn't feel like disclosing that his portrait had revealed there was more than one.
"He left everything to me." Draco's shoulder slumped with the grief he was obviously still processing over the loss of his godfather.
"When did this happen?"
"While you were gone."
How much more had Hermione missed? She felt like an outsider in his life, not having access to these details. "You went to Spinner's End?" Draco nodded. Hermione couldn't imagine how difficult that must have been for him. "Were you alone or did someone—"
"Alone."
"Oh, Draco," Hermione said, sitting back down next to him. "That must have been so difficult."
Draco straightened then, his masculinity rearing its head in self-preservation. "It was bloody booby-trapped."
Hermione was unable to stop the bark of laughter. "No!"
A smile cracked across Draco's lips, "Every fucking room."
"Of course."
"The Ministry had ransacked it before turning it over to me."
"Bastards," Hermione said, understanding the violation Draco felt.
"But Severus was clever and had a hidden room."
"How did you get in?"
"Funnily enough, Lucius had the key."
"Lucius has read the journals?" Draco shook his head, and inexplicable relief flushed through Hermione. "But you've read them?" He nodded. "Why?" Hermione asked before she could stop herself.
"I'm publishing them."
—xxx—
"You're what?"
"That's what I've been working on. That's why I'm here in New York."
Well, Draco thought, not entirely why… He didn't think it was helpful in that moment to pull that thread.
"Why the Helga would you do that?"
"To tell his story," Draco said. "To show the world the unsung hero." His eyes dared her to dispute him. Hermione sat back and considered this as the silence stretched between them.
"People should know his story," she said resolutely. "Did he write a lot about Amelie?"
"Not really, there are so many details in those journals that I skimmed until just last night my father talked about her, er, you I guess, and I made the connection. Apparently, Lucius had confided in Severus about his feelings for Amelie."
"And what about your mother?"
"You mean, do I know if Voldemort forced them to get married?" Hermione looked sheepishly away. "Yes, Severus wrote about that too."
"How many journals are there?
"More than a hundred."
Hermione took a sharp inhale with surprise. "What do your parents think about you publishing these journals?"
"I mean, they aren't fond of the idea, protecting the Malfoy name even when it's shit given what Lucius has done to it, but still they think there is something there to preserve. Besides, Severus' story is more important than the blasted Malfoy name."
—xxx—
Hermione chewed her bottom lip in contemplation. How had things gotten so bloody complicated? And how was she supposed to bring up Lyra now among all this other information? Would the Malfoys want to shoo Lyra away in efforts to preserve the family name under this new threat of transparency from Snape's journals?
Draco exhaled loudly and he turned to her, his defenses dropped. "You didn't sleep with my father, did you?"
It was a question that at one time Hermione would have taken umbrage to, but now, given the nasty bag of snakes they had to set out straight between them, she felt at some point it would be beneficial to divorce emotionality from what was to be discussed.
"No, I did not. I knew of his fondness for Amelie. He attempted to act upon it once, at the very end. It was a move made out of desperation."
"Sounds like Lucius," Draco said darkly. "Did he hurt you?" His tone was guarded, as if he were worried he already knew the truth.
—xxx—
Hermione pulled a conflicted face, as if she were uncertain of how much she wanted to reveal to Draco. Rage bucked in him at that, at her assuming he needed protecting from the truth. He wanted to know everything. Hadn't he proven that he could handle everything this nasty life could throw at him? He'd survived Voldemort for bloody sakes, he could handle more disappointment over his father.
Instead of answering directly, Hermione unraveled moments she shared with Lucius in 1977, teasing out details of locations and people he had introduced her too. How she described Dolohov was no surprise at all—what a bloody wanker. Draco didn't like how Hermione had been so alone among all these monsters. But it wasn't because he didn't know she couldn't handle herself—she was the most capable and competent witch of her age.
No, he didn't like it, because he knew she had been lonely. Hermione being lonely broke his heart. Draco had thought that he had been alone over the past nine months—but he'd had Pansy and Theo (who also had each other and it tickled Draco to bits) and Alexander and now Heather and LaLa and Severus' journals. Hermione had actually been alone, in another time swimming among swine.
Draco had taken her hand gently at some point and refused to let go. He rubbed small circles with his thumb over the back of her hand. He wanted tell her that she was no longer alone. That she was never alone as long as Draco was alive. That she would never be alone again. There was a knowledge pulsing in his chest that told him everything he needed to know—he wanted to marry Hermione Granger. Draco knew that loving Hermione was how he was going to truly make the world better, how he was going to make their life sublime.
Draco wanted to laugh when Hermione told him about Bellatrix, but somehow Draco knew it would be distracting to laugh while everything was just gushing out. He did find it curious about the awkward interactions between Bellatrix and the LeStranges. Although, it did not shock him—in fact, it made sense of why Bellatrix had always been so cold towards her husband.
Hermione's story was building, and Draco was waiting. What had his father done? Draco was no fool, he knew Lucius kept sordid company and was most devout about Voldemort in his youth, before the attack on Potter and his parents. Lucius was not a good person. Whatever trauma Hermione had suffered, Draco knew that it would be at the hands of his father, either directly or indirectly.
"Then he invited me to stay at the Manor."
"You stayed at the Manor?" Draco asked incredulously.
Her shoulders shrugged and the way she peered at him over her teacup made him realize she had been expecting this reaction from him. Draco couldn't imagine Hermione in the Manor. He didn't want to, not after the last time she'd been dragged over the threshold. They had never talked about it—Draco found it impossible to bring up. What would he do? Apologize for his psychotic (another word borrowed from Theo) aunt? Draco felt like there was nothing he could possibly do or say to erase that terrible moment in the Manor.
Young Draco had been a bloody fool, but he'd done what he could in that moment to stall. Lying about Potter had been one of the smartest things he had ever done. Young Draco had wanted it all to end before it had even started. Voldemort was beyond evil. Draco had had a glimpse of what and who he could become in the Astronomy Tower that night. It was not a pleasant glimpse.
Severus had spoken to him calmly two days after Dumbledore had fallen. He'd talked in riddles. He'd talked about right and wrong. He'd talked about loyalty. Draco had thought his godfather being a little bit Hufflepuff with all the talk of loyalty. And at the time, Draco had read that as loyalty to his master, Voldemort. That disgusted him. It had been hard for Draco to listen to his godfather, the person he had respected most in his life, to talk about loyalty to evil. But at the time, Draco had missed Severus' true point.
"Loyalty is one of the most important virtues, Draco," Severus had said. "It can carry you forward and link you to the past. It can keep those you admire and adore close even when they are gone."
Young Draco had been too preoccupied to fully understand his godfather. Watching the light in Dumbledore's eyes go out—that ephemeral blue glimmer that had taunted him and encouraged him for so many years—as he had fallen backward had been like watching the sun dip under the horizon. But without the guarantee it was to rise again. In that moment, Draco knew that the world would never be the same. He'd never been loyal to Voldemort. He'd confused Lucius' loyalty to himself as loyalty to Voldemort.
Once Lucius was chucked into Azkaban, Draco assumed the role of protecting the Malfoy family. And everything became so much clearer—Malfoy loyalty was not to Voldemort. Malfoys were only ever loyal to Malfoys. So, every chance he got to undermine things, Draco had taken them. He often performed Confoundus charms on his fellow Death Eaters when he overheard them planning out various attacks or missions. Keeping him and his family alive was his top priority. He'd figured that undetectable ways to undermine Voldemort were his best possible chance.
Now, of course, Draco could grasp what Severus had truly meant. It was hard to fault his godfather for lying to him his entire life. Not when he knew the reason Severus had done so and had such insights into his godfather through the pages he'd poured his whole life into. Draco had only ever seen lying as a way for personal gain. Lucius was the king of showcasing that particular skill. Draco had attempted it many times in his youth. But it wasn't until he decided to lie about Potter that he understood lying could also be a means for a greater purpose. It had been the most direct thing he'd done to defy Voldemort. He'd felt the euphoric bubble burst when the harsh reality of fear came crashing back while he watched his deranged aunt torture Hermione.
Draco should have done more to stop Bellatrix. He should have cursed her himself. He should have started a battle right there in the Manor. He would have fought his father if he'd had to. He could have joined up with Potter, Weasley, and Hermione and joined them when Dobby had come for them. He knew there was nothing he could do about it all now, but it haunted him that there were so many choices he'd made in his youth that he could have done differently.
Did Hermione even know why she had been sent on the mission? Had it really been Dumbledore's lingering idea that had wormed its way into the Order of the Phoenix to find its rebirth in the new Minister? What would Severus think about the Ministry sanctioning such questionable tactics in intel gathering? The potential ripples time travel could cause were so vast, which made constructing ethics around it impossible. It was a conundrum all the best witches and wizards had attempted to make sense of. And to send Hermione into the fray of sharp-toothed youthful Death Eaters was beyond comprehension. How did Kingsley expect her to stay safe?
Well, obviously, she hadn't been completely safe. She'd been subjected to Lucius.
"The Manor is a cold place, I can't imagine growing up there," Hermione said, pulling Draco back from his thoughts.
—xxx—
"It was difficult for you at the Manor," Draco said. It was the most Draco had ever invited Hermione to talk about all that had gone down in the Manor, the deceit, the kidnapping, the torture.
"It was," she said resolutely, "but also being Amelie gave me this sort of armor." Draco nodded thoughtfully. "Plus, Dobby was there."
"I forgot Dobby had been around then." They sat in silence remembering the brave house elf. After some time, Draco said, "There's more, isn't there?"
Hermione nodded. "It was the night of a big party Lucius had asked me to help him with. There was nothing for me to do, because the house elves took care of everything. But it gave me the best excuse to poke around the Manor. He came back from a trip abroad, upset and aloof. He quickly got drunk."
"Not an honorable host," Draco said, attempting to lighten the mood.
"He was upset about how his plans had soured."
"The tattling to Voldemort about Bellatrix?"
"Severus wrote about it?"
"He overheard two Death Eaters talking about it right before—"
"Amelie caught him journaling," Hermione finished, remembering the youthful look on Snape's face back in 1977.
"Lucius has a knack for failing quite elaborately…"
"Lucius told me how he felt, and I nearly laughed in his face. Then he got belligerent and attacked me." Draco tensed, obviously trying to parse what "attacked" encompassed. "Draco—your father did not rape me. He got upset and knocked me down. Hard."
"Prick," Draco whispered hoarsely, concern alight in his eyes. "I hope you left right in the middle of that bloody party."
"Well—"
"Don't tell me you stayed and played attentive hostess," Draco said, bringing a hand up to his temple to rub it.
"Not really," Hermione said hesitantly. "Lucius knocked me down and knocked me out. Dobby found me all bloody later and rushed me to another house elf to keep me safe from Lucius."
"Dobby rescued you?" Hermione nodded, feeling proud of her friend's bravery. "That's one Helga of a house elf," Draco said with a slight chuckle in his voice. Then he caught the look in Hermione's eyes. "That's not it?"
She shook her head. It is time, she thought.
"Dobby took me to Molly Weasley's childhood home, and the Prewett's house elf, Tippy, attempted to heal me with elf magic, since I was bleeding from the head."
"Attempted?"
"Oh, no, Tippy healed me." Hermione rubbed her head at the spot Tippy had said she'd healed. She would have never known anything had happened if Tippy had not told her. "But there was a side effect."
"What kind of side effect? I've never heard of elf healing magic being used on witches or wizards."
"Tippy didn't know, I mean, how could she—when I didn't even know…"
"Didn't know what?"
"I didn't know that—"
The doorbell sounded then. Draco turned his head and narrowed his eyes.
"Ignore it," Draco said sharply. "You didn't know that you were what?"
"I didn't know I was preg—"
"Draco!" called a voice from outside the front door. He jumped up from the bed, and Hermione's heart plummeted as he dropped her hands, as if caught with his fist in the cookie jar.
"I should get that," Draco said mysteriously and moved out of the bedroom. He threw a "stay here" over his shoulder when he closed the door behind him that curdled Hermione's already jumbled nerves.
—xxx—
"Coming!" Draco called while striding towards the door. He opened the door, even though the hinges squeaked in opposition, to find LaLa standing clutching one of Severus' journals to her chest. Surprising relief spread through Draco—he had not realized how concerned he'd been about his ghost writer at her suspicious disappearance the day before until now.
"LaLa," Draco said. "How did you know where I live?"
"When you called in sick, I asked Heather for your address."
Draco motioned for her to come inside, which she did in an almost tip toe. "Not worried about me being contagious, then?" he asked.
"You're not sick."
"So? Does that mean that you weren't sick either when you darted out yesterday?" LaLa pulled a face. "Don't worry about it," Draco continued before she felt compelled to offer an explanation. He motioned for her to sit down. "Tea?" he offered instinctively without thinking through the logistics of getting the tea set from the bedroom and facing Hermione. Thankfully, LaLa shook her head.
"Oh, I meant to ask you about where you're staying in the city. I have a friend who stays at a truly wonderful hotel in Chelsea, and I could arrange for you to stay there if you wished."
LaLa muttered something and bit her lip, but did not elaborate. Her hesitation was clear, and Draco decided to change topics. "What brings you by today?"
—xxx—
Hermione paced the bedroom willing herself not to put her ear to the door to listen. Jealousy bounced through Hermione as her patience snapped. Why should he have to answer the door just on the brink of her telling him the truth, the biggest truth of her life, of their life? Hermione overheard a feminine voice through the door which Draco greeted kindly, but she didn't catch the name he used. Then there was a brief exchange which seemed charged to Hermione. Was it tension? Was it flirtation? She tried to reason with her jealousy but failed as it bucked around her ribcage. She dared to crack the bedroom door to get a clearer idea of what was happening.
"I couldn't wait."
"What couldn't wait?" Draco asked.
"I should come clean," the woman said, her voice shaky.
"Come clean about what?" Hermione could hear the frustration in Draco's tone. No doubt, he was rattled about the interruption on top of all that Hermione had dumped on him in the past however long they had been talking. She knew it could have only been hours, but felt like days, and she hadn't even gotten to the most important thing yet!
"I answered your ad because I knew who you were."
"Erm," Draco cleared his throat.
"I mean, I knew you were a Malfoy."
"Right. And?" Hermione imagined Draco's face to be placid at this, as if it were expected that everyone knew of him and the forever important Malfoy name.
"And I think we're related."
Wait, what? Hermione thought.
—xxx—
Draco dragged a hand through his hair. LaLa thought they were related? What like, distant cousins? There had never been any mention of family over in America.
"What do you mean, you think we're related?"
"I think I'm your sister."
Oh, Draco thought. Well, that's a fucking relation.
"Sister?"
"Yes."
"Erm, and how did you come to this conclusion?"
LaLa fiddled with the journal in her lap and bounced her eyes around the living room, taking it in, buying time to figure out what she was going to say.
"I was born in England and never knew my parents."
"So, you think my parents abandoned you and then had me? You're older than me, correct?"
"Right."
"And how does that make you a Malfoy?"
"I never knew my parents. I was adopted by an American couple when I was young, before the war came to a head in England. When I was very young, I was apparently raised by a house elf."
"A house elf raised you?" Draco had never heard of something more ridiculous. Sure, house elves made wonderful nannies to the young, but he'd never heard of a house elf raising a witch on their own.
LaLa nodded encouragingly as if Draco was solving the puzzle himself even though she'd given him barely anything to piece together. "My mother was delivered to my house elf's residence by another who served in Malfoy Manor."
Why does this sound familiar?
—xxx—
Hermione couldn't believe it, could it be? Her heart surged—it was improbable, it was a coincidence. A bloody ridiculous coincidence. But Hermione was not the kind of witch to let that answer the questions that were boiling inside her brain.
Hermione bustled out of the bedroom, propelled by the furiousness of her thoughts. She surged into the living room, knowing her appearance and countenance was crazed. The woman stood up quickly from her seat on the couch, looking startled. It was the woman Hermione had seen carrying cups back to Draco's office. So they worked together? Now Hermione was confused. How had she found Draco? There was coincidence, and this was not it.
Her hair was pin straight, black with a white streak which reminded Hermione of Narcissa. She seemed alternative, dressed in casual wear that had seen better days. A leather-bound journal was clutched in one hand, while another went sheepishly into the front pocket of her tattered jeans. Her gray eyes warmed as she considered Hermione, as if apologizing. Something about her pulled at Hermione from a place so deep within her, she hadn't known it was there sitting empty all this time.
"Uh," the woman said, a frown drawing across her face. "I'm so sorry, I didn't realize you had company."
Draco fumbled for an explanation, "This is—she's just, erm. This is Hermione Granger."
"Oh wow, the Hermione Granger?" the woman brightened slightly. "I've read all about you. You're a hero. I am surprisingly surprised to meet you!"
Tippy's odd phrase... Was this who Hermione hoped it was? "You said you were born in England?"
"Oh," the woman said, "You heard that?"
"When were you born?"
"1977."
The breath in Hermione's lungs hitched as she stitched things together. Hermione's mind burst open with thoughts and memories and stolen time and regrets and connections.
In her silence, Draco filled in, "Oh, where are my manners?" He turned towards Hermione, placing a hand on her elbow, "Hermione, this is LaLa, the ghost writer helping me with Severus' journals."
"LaLa?" Hermione echoed.
"Short for—"
"Lyra," Hermione said with sudden realization.
Draco let out a little "hm" and said, "I didn't know—"
Hermione interrupted Draco with a quick push as she rushed to her grown daughter and pulled her into a hug. "Lyra, Lyra, Lyra, Lyra," she repeated, clutching at her daughter desperately.
Lyra's arms hung limply at her sides as Hermione grasped her possessively, protectively, parentally.
"Nice to meet you?" Lyra said over Hermione's shoulder. Hermione felt Draco approach from behind and place a hand on her back.
"Hermione, what's going on?"
Hermione pulled back, grasping Lyra by her arms. She looked between a shell-shocked Lyra and a curious Draco—feeling home weave itself between them. How they had found each other amid the layers of secrets and time was dumbfounding. Firmly gripping one of her daughter's arms, she brought another to Draco's hand, clasping it hard.
"Have we met before?" Lyra asked her.
"You could say that." Hermione chuckled as her heart filled. "I'm your mother."
Draco guffawed loudly in disbelief. "You're what?"
Lyra's eyes widened with sudden understanding. Hermione was going to spend the rest of her life making it up to her daughter, filling in the holes she had left her with. Lyra nodded as she absorbed this information, amazed at everything that unexpectedly began making sense.
—xxx—
"Hermione, what the fuck are you talking about?" Draco asked, agitated.
"Remember what I was telling you before?" Hermione asked.
"Tippy's healing magic had an unknown side effect on you."
Hermione nodded. "Tippy didn't know. I didn't know. And her healing magic rushed gestation."
It took Draco a beat to recognize the connotation of the word. "You were pregnant?" Hermione nodded succinctly. "You had a fucking baby?"
Hermione had tears in her eyes and the look of the purest joy—like they had won the Battle all over again. Like all that pain and suffering was over. Things had suddenly gone very sideways. Draco looked around the garden apartment expecting to see a baby crawling around.
"Did you have to give birth in 1977?"
"Unfortunately, yes," Hermione said looking at Lyra.
"And you had to leave it in 1977," Draco said.
"I had to leave her," Hermione corrected him.
"Her," Draco repeated, dazed by the influx of charged information. "She's mine," Draco said.
"Lyra," Hermione said softly. Draco's eyes snapped to the older witch, searching her face. Hermione turned to Lyra, tears in her eyes, and said, "You're not Draco's sister, you're his daughter."
Draco's heart raced. There was a quiet understanding between Hermione and Lyra, as if they were not bothering themselves with questioning this crazy shit. It was astounding to think that he was a father. And that his child was technically older than him. And that they had just happened to work together in a different country for the last couple of months. It was all just so incredibly impossible.
But other incredibly impossible things had happened to Draco, like falling in love with Hermione in the first place, Potter defeating Voldemort, finally understanding his godfather's loyalties.
"I'm sorry, but what the fuck?" He didn't mean it as harshly as it came out. The cursing seemed to jar the two women out of their shared reverie. "How are we not all freaking out about this? Lyra—don't you have a million questions? I sure as fuck do."
"There's time," Lyra said again. The patience she demonstrated was foreign to him. Neither Draco nor Hermione would be considered patient people. Lyra must have picked that up somewhere else.
"I'm a father," he said mostly to himself.
"I have a father," Lyra said with a smile.
"I found you," Hermione said, "both of you." She clutched both of their hands with hers, bringing them to her chest right above her heart. "I love you," she said to the pair of them.
Hermione's hands squeezed theirs. Somehow that tenacious grip held their entire history—all the moments of taunting in the halls, all the moments of tenderness, all the stories and secrets shared. But beyond the memories were the possibilities—all the memories they would make, all the things they would do together, all the love they would share. And not just between the two of them, but now the three of them.
"Tell me everything."
—The End—