The Odds

4th of February, 2008. London.

On the passenger seat, Hermione's nerves were shot.

Her knee couldn't stop bouncing, she kept biting her lips and scratching her cuticles to the point that Draco feared she would draw blood.

He dared a sideways look at her. "Are you—"

"I'm fine."

He closed his mouth and ducked his head ever-so-slightly, eyes returning to the road ahead. In his peripheral view, Hermione was still the embodiment of trepidation.

"You know," he tried again, "it's okay—"

"I said I'm fine, Draco, okay? I'm fine." She hastily waved a hand in front of her. "Mind the road."

Draco threw his hand up. "Salazar's sake, Granger, sorry for being concerned about you."

"There's nothing to be concerned about, I said I'm fine. Fine. I'm fine."

He cleared his throat, deciding to let it go. If there was one thing he'd learned after one year of a relationship with Hermione Granger, it was that, despite the peculiar wording, the dragon one ought not to tickle when sleeping was in fact, her. Whenever something, anything, caused even a minimal spike of stress to rise in her, she became a ticking time bomb. Best not to approach, not even with the slimmest of quills.

Now, this observation didn't mean that Draco didn't try to approach at all. Just that he carefully measured his steps, checking each stepping stone before jumping head-first. At the present moment, the car pep talk didn't seem like a stable one, so he backed away slowly, all the while throwing glances at his girlfriend and trying to conjure a solution to soothe her nerves without triggering a shouting match.

The tension spread in the cabin slowly but exponentially, coating them like thick and dark honey. Draco felt a breath finally release when they pulled up and stepped out of the vehicle.

Hermione—who'd shut the door without pomp and ceremony, prompting Draco to swallow his retort about being careful, for fuck's sake—made a beeline for Ginny, who welcomed her with exasperation written across her face; but she didn't let the redhead say a single word before striding toward the back of the library, leaving her friend to run after her. Ginny appeared as though she wanted to throttle his girlfriend, and Draco wouldn't exactly be opposed to it right now.

He ran a hand through his hair and down his face, exhaling heavily. Between people setting chairs up, journalists arriving early, and caterers moving around at Luna's directions, Hermione's agitation was starting to get to him, so Draco approached the one face he was—Salazar save him—familiar with.

"Potter."

Harry didn't even pretend to cover up the heavy sigh he made before turning around. "Malfoy." Before Draco could say anything, the spectacled man lifted a finger in warning. "No loud noises. If he throws a tantrum again, I'll take it out on you."

A huffing sound that could've passed for a laugh escaped Draco as his gaze fell to the small human in the baby carrier strapped over Harry's chest.

"It's his eighth month anniversary tomorrow, isn't it?"

The sly edge in Draco's tone wasn't lost on Harry, who cut his eyes to him menacingly.

James Sirius Potter was born on the 6th of June, 2007—or, at least, that was what his father swore to be true. Technically, as Draco never failed to point out, James was born just after midnight. Ginny had been in labour since the late afternoon of the 5th of June. He remembered with great clarity how he was doing his best to distract Hermione from getting ready for his birthday dinner. She was even about to relent and give up on zipping her dress, when a panicked blue stag had barged into their living room. It had taken exactly six seconds for Hermione to slap a shirt on Draco and throw the two of them into the Floo to reach St Mungo's. When she'd finally emerged from the hospital room, smiling broadly as the wails of newborn baby Potter followed her, the time stamp was 00:00:13 a.m.

Draco had simply decided those thirteen seconds didn't count.

"No," Harry remarked with his usual composure. "That's in two days, Malfoy. Because my son was born on the 6th of June."

Draco made a non-committal sound, and then leaned over the man's chest when little James opened his eyes and splayed a tiny hand in the air.

"Hi."

"Can you…" Harry made a distressed sound as he realised that he was actually trying to shield James from Draco's face, which unfortunately proved to be an impossible feat. In turn, the other man was looking at him with something dangerously close to pity in his eyes. Definitely not good for Harry's mood, still vexed with severe lack of sleep.

"Malfoy, I swear to bloody Godric Gryffindor, if you—"

"Language, Potter, come on now." Draco extended a finger, and James promptly gripped it. "Weasley's gone and you act like this? Think of the baby."

"Oh, Merlin help me," Harry muttered when he saw the strong hold that James' podgy hand had on Draco's finger. With a shake of his head, and a palm rubbing his forehead, he decided to let it go. Instead, he shot a glance to the back of the library, where Ginny and Hermione had disappeared. "What's going on with Hermione?"

"Don't know," Draco replied, still looking at James, whose eyes were scanning his features curiously. "She's been like this for two days now. The smallest thing will trigger a breakdown. I'm not engaging."

"Smart."

"Was that a compliment, Potter?"

Harry glared at him. "Shut up. Where's Ron? Why isn't everyone here already?"

"Traffic, probably." James tugged on Draco's finger, perhaps trying to get it in his mouth as a substitute for a pacifier. "Daphne said they're late, too."

"There's a Floo connection in the offices." Harry took James' wrist, tugging in the opposite direction. "James, come on, mate."

Draco was amused. "Tell your friend that. She made me drive here because of pictures."

"It's a wizard-magazines event only. Who the f—" Harry grimaced, scratching his beard. "Who cares about pictures?"

"Again, you tell her. You've known her longer, you should be able to handle her."

"Oh, no, Malfoy, I don't think anyone will ever learn how to handle her. She probably doesn't even know how to handle herself."

Draco pulled a face. Fair. He had to plan a different tactic, and he had to do it sooner rather than later.

James drew Draco's finger close again, turned his eyes to Harry, and blabbered something.

"No, honey, not other people's fingers—Merlin, where did I put…"

As Harry patted his pockets to find his son's dummy and Draco pushed his finger towards James' mouth with a wink, Ginny appeared in front of them, arms outstretched towards her baby.

"She wants you. Give him to me."

Harry frowned. "Why should I—"

Draco instantly freed his hand from James' grip. "Where is she?"

"Not you. You," she told her husband with a vehement nod. "Give him to me, come on. Bathroom."

Harry and Draco froze for a second, exchanging looks.

Then, just as Harry's face morphed into what could have only been described as triumph, Draco drew a resigned breath.

"Heard that, Malfoy?" When James understood he was leaving his dada's chest, his face scrunched up and reddened. Though before he could start crying, Ginny quickly took him from the carrier and started shushing him, cradling him to her chest with fatigue coming off her in waves. Harry, oblivious to the imminent disaster, pointed his thumb at himself and looked at the old school rival with a shit-eating grin. "She wants me!Not you! Me!"

"Yeah, Potter, good job, congrats for the self-validation. Off you go." Draco waved him away whilst trying to hide how Ginny's eloquent eye rolling had a laugh bubbling in his chest.

Harry showed him the finger and turned around, marching toward the bathrooms.

"Is she okay?" Draco asked Ginny.

"Yeah, she's… well, no—I don't know," Ginny sighed, bouncing on her legs to keep the growing wailings of the littlest Potter at bay. "I think she's getting cold feet, but she doesn't want to talk to me."

And what's new.

Ginny threw her head back when her son decided to dial it an octave higher. "Oh, no, please, don't, James, please. I can't do this today." Her pleading eyes turned to Draco. "Do you think he's hungry? Should I feed him?"

"I don't…" James wailed louder, and Ginny looked positively on the verge of tears when a couple of journalists turned her way with menacing looks. Had Daphne been there, she would have known what to do.

Luna joined the two right then.

"Hi, Draco." He nodded. "What's going on with Hermione? People are getting a bit restless, I think."

"I—I don't know. She's in the bathroom. Harry's talking to her."

"Oh." Luna tilted her head. "And how do you think that's going?"

"No id—James, please."

At that, Draco extended his arms towards the screaming infant. "Give him to me."

Ginny paused for the briefest moment. Then, muttering under her breath, she passed the child to the man who had unexpectedly become somewhat of a friend in the past few months. She stared in silence as he settled James in his arms, and exhaled again only when her son—now miraculously silent—grabbed Draco's finger once more as Draco smoothed his hand over the small face.

"Yeah, that's going into your mouth, isn't it?"

"If you manage to keep him quiet, I'll hire you as his babysitter."

Draco smirked, still adoringly watching James' chubby face. "And corrupt the perfect soul of baby Potter? I don't want that responsibility." He looked up when he sensed a squeeze on his arm.

Ginny's smile was as soft as her words when she said, "Thank you."

He nodded, returning the grin. "Don't worry about it, Weasley. Go deal with today's star."

Ginny walked away with Luna, and Draco was left to look at the crowding library with James in his arms.

The kid tugged at his finger again.

"Let's try something else, shall we." He pulled back his hand and readjusted his hold on the boy. James promptly grabbed his tie, and Draco only just managed a wandless charm to prevent himself from suffocating. (He'd had enough of that with Dennis.)

Glancing round, he saw people who were leafing through the novel. Some photographers were snapping pictures of the library. The table at the centre of the room had three microphones pointed toward the main seat in the middle; there was an open book in front of it, a black marker for the autograph signing, and an unblemished copy on a small stand.

On the cover, the drawing of a typewriter sitting on a desk, facing a window. Snowy mountains outside.

The Odds.

A novel - Hermione Granger.

James made a noise, pulling on the silk.

"Yeah, I hear you, mate." Draco sighed, brushing the thin hair on the baby's head. "Where is she?"

As her boyfriend tried to quell his growing worry, the beloved author was locked in the bathroom.

"Hermione?" Harry called as he knocked on the door. "Are you in there? Ginny said—"

"Harry, thank fuck."

The door swung open, and a hasty hand pulled him in by the shirt. Hermione's eyes were wide with a storm of emotions Harry couldn't quite identify. He only knew for certain that she was shaking, and badly so.

"Hermione, are you o—"

She put her hand on his mouth. "Shut up." He raised both palms in surrender, then tapped the makeshift muzzle she'd put on him. "Sorry," and Hermione's hands started twisting on themselves again.

Harry's green eyes searched her face. "Do you… need me to do something?" Hermione lowered her gaze, exhaling a shaky breath. His palms went to her shoulders. "Are you nervous about the book signing? Do you want me to convince Ginny to postpone? I'd hate you for that, but I would do it."

"No. Fuck. It's…" She scratched her head. Harry glanced up at the light bulb, wondering if the greenish shade on his friend's cheeks was artificially created. Apparently, Hermione looked ready to throw up all on her own.

"Harry."

His eyes snapped back to hers. "Yes?"

"You're my best friend, right?"

Harry gulped. "Erm. Yeah?"

Her head vibrated, and her curls fell everywhere. "Is it a question?"

"No, no—wha—yes—Hermione, I—"

"Okay." Hermione bent her head, and then Harry felt something poke him in the stomach.

Like a wand, but less cylindrical.

He frowned and looked down.

His brows didn't unknit when he looked up. Hermione's lips were pulled downwards in a nervous pout; she stared at the thing between them, exhaling a breath of insistence before poking him again.

Gazing back down, Harry blinked—and once was enough to fish out memories from Muggle commercials on the telly.

Realisation dawned on him like the brightest of suns.

"Merlin, is that—?!"

"Yes."

"Is it po—"

"Yes."

"Oh, fuck. Fuck." His hands flew everywhere. Hair. Face. Chest. "Fuck. Fuck!"

"Yes, Harry, fuck, I got the fucking message!" Hermione was trembling so hard she looked like she might faint any moment.

"Okay, okay, sorry—wait." He grabbed her shoulders again, then closed the lid on the toilet and sat her down as he crouched in front of her. "Is—is—is," a loud and panicked groan escaped him. "Is it the only one you took?"

Hermione looked almost offended by the question. "No." She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out four more identical white plastic sticks. She put them all on her legs. Three of them displayed two lines on the small window. "There's a margin of error, of course, which is why one of them is negative."

Harry rubbed his forehead. "Okay. But it's still not…"

"No, I didn't go to the gynaecologist."

Harry forcefully suppressed his teenage instinct to pull weird faces at incredibly normal words.

"Ginny, uh… Ginny used a charm."

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know the charm."

He took the opening. "I could call her and—"

"No, no, no, no." Hermione hastily reached for his hand and gripped it. "No, Harry, no. No, I need you here, I'm sorry."

Harry laced their fingers together. "But she can help you with—"

"Harry, please. Please," she choked out.

He held her gaze for a moment, scrambling for an escape. Except that there was no way out, because it was either Hermione's way or the highway—and Hermione was already driving at an impossibly high speed.

"Okay," he relented. "Of course, I'm not going anywhere."

Hermione seemed to deflate, leaning forward until her forehead rested on Harry's shoulder. He brought his free hand up to her back, rubbing slow circles.

"Are they all from today?"

"No." Hermione pulled away and tucked her hair behind her ears. "I took one on Friday night and it was positive, one on Saturday morning and it was negative, two yesterday—both positive, and now this."

Harry nodded. "Okay. And why did you take it here?"

"I don't know, Harry!" Her features were fraught with feverish anxiety. "I just had to know."

"Hermione, I think you already kn—"

"I—" She released his hand, fingers going to press on her eyes. "I… fuck."

Harry collected the sticks on her lap. "How, um…" He winced. "How late…"

"Two weeks and a half."

"That's—that's a long time, isn't it?"

"I mean, I'm not that regular actually," Hermione started, "which is why I was on the pill, but—"

"Hold on. Then how did it happen?"

He practically felt the knives her eyes were throwing at him. "Well, Harry Potter, when a man and a woman give each other a very special hug—"

"No, no, thanks, no!" Harry shouted, shutting his eyes and covering his ears too for good measure. "I mean, if you were on the pill, then how—"

"I had to stop for a while, because it clashed with other medications."

"Oh. And you didn't…?"

"Evidently no, I didn't, Harry."

They stared at each other for a while, quiet. Hermione was the first to look away, her gaze scanning the wall in front of her as she flipped through a myriad of thoughts.

Harry could feel her mind pacing. Racing. Stumbling and tripping and reeling and—

His hand fell on her knee and her focus returned to him, wide-eyed and at a complete loss.

Collecting all the calm he had within, Harry said: "Tell me what you need."

Hermione took a shaky breath and pinched her lips between her fingers. "Can I ask you to hug me?"

"No, Hermione, you most certainly cannot do that."

She smiled a tearful smile before burying her face in the crook of Harry's neck. Her hands raced over his back, gripping tightly the fabric of his shirt.

Harry, ever the unwavering friend, held her in a hug both gentle and firm, lips pressing for a brief moment on the crown of her head.

Hermione closed her eyes, hitting pause on the tempest vortexing in her mind. The one perception standing out in the charged silence was the distinct note of Harry's scent: he smelled of clean laundered clothes and that peculiar something she was never quite able to name, though it instinctively brought her home each time. Just … Harry.

Sinking into the embrace, Hermione exhaled slowly. "How did you and Ginny do this without telling anyone?"

Harry shook with laughter under her. "Well, we told each other."

"Smart arse."

"Besides, you know. We were actually trying."

"Ew. Gross."

He laughed again, one of his hands smoothing the curls down her back. When her shallow breaths evened out, Harry dared a new question: "Hermione, do you need me to…? I can take a car, we'll find a way. I can drive you to a clinic straightaway if that's what you want."

Hermione pulled back, sniffling heavily and wiping her wet cheeks. "No. I think." Her eyes closed shut. "I don't know."

Still balancing himself on his heels, Harry put his hands on her knees. "Okay, that's fine, you don't have to decide right now."

"No, I don't—I don't think I want…" The thought was a single breath away from escaping her lips. She exhaled another heavy stream of air. "Fuck." She cocked her head, squinting at Harry's worried face and taking in how everything about him screamed ready-to-help. "Maybe I should tell him first."

Harry's face scrunched up with a deep frown. "I'm not sure about that."

Hermione recoiled a bit. "What?"

"No, I just mean… It should be your decision first. And, knowing you, I'm sure that if you catch even the glimmer of something in Malfoy, it's going to be impossible for you to focus on what you want." She made a whimpering sound, and he rubbed a comforting hand on her arm. "What do you want?"

She felt her chin wobble. "How can I know? This is huge. How did you know?"

Harry shook his head, seemingly at a loss for words. "I just… knew."

Hermione scoffed hysterically. Instinct-driven. "Helpful."

"It's different, Hermione. We knew we wanted a kid and we were actively—okay, sorry," he chuckled as her face twisted in disgust and she averted her gaze. "But what I mean is, we just knew we wanted that. If Ginny stormed in here this very second and told me she's pregnant again, I would still just know. So," he tilted his head, trying to find Hermione's eyes. "I think you already know, too."

Hermione stared stubbornly at the floor tiles, her leg drumming. If there was one thing she'd learned after one year of relationship with Draco Malfoy—and it had been at the expense of several fights—was that the only way for her to stop over analysing every detail of her life, constantly teetering on an edged cliff that crested the broad and vast nothing, was by voicing her feelings.

A dreadful realisation that always left her far more vulnerable than what she'd liked, but when Draco said, "Cockroaches vanish in the light of day," he was—sadly—right.

"I'm terrified, Harry."

"Of what?"

"Of everything." She caught her head in her hands, resting her elbows on her knees. "What if… I don't know. What if we break up? What if he doesn't want it? What if I'm a shitty mother? I could very well be an incredibly traumatising mother. How the bloody hell do I raise a child? How do I take that responsibility on myself? And my body is going to change so much—and do you know about all the absolutely disgusting stuff that can happen while giving birth? Do you know people still die from childbirth—"

"Hey, hey, hey, Hermione, breathe!" Harry pushed her hair off her forehead. His palms slid to her cheeks, cupping her face. "Alright, listen to me now. You and Malfoy have been together for over a year. You did not get together yesterday, and unless there's things you're not telling me, you definitely do not look like you're going to break up tomorrow. And you and I both know you don't really have doubts about you two breaking up because your relationship is—well, insane, granted," Hermione chuckled, "but incredibly strong. And that's for one thing."

Harry caught a tear rolling down her cheek with his thumb. "And for another, I have never heard him say he doesn't want kids. I have never heard him say the opposite either, but still. And besides… I mean, bloody hell, Hermione, the bastard would be so lucky." She cracked another smile, her vision blurring past the point of no return. So much for mascara.

"You would be an amazing mother, Hermione. And I'm not just saying it, I know it for certain. If I'm still alive today to tell you this, it's because of you. All that crap about curses and magic protections and whatnot—I wouldn't have lasted a day without you. And, out of the two of us, I'm the one already handling parenthood, so, you know. If I can manage, you're going to ace it."

Hermione wiped her eyes, blinking rapidly.

"It's a risk obviously. Like everything in life. You know what you're leaving behind, and you don't know what's awaiting you there. And, again, your choice, I stand by that—but…" Harry paused, taking her hand in his. "You won't be alone. You won't. It's the two of you. Together."

He said it so matter-of-factly. As sure of it as he was sure that the Sun rose in the East.

Hermione let her eyes wander over those familiar features in front of her and measured her breathing with his, inhaling and exhaling to a calming rhythm. She searched his gaze, finding that spark of unwavering determination that had never died, and she then dipped into the pool of her own heart to grasp the courage of her convictions.

One year and a month before, she and Draco had apparated to her flat, messily stumbling over her still-packed bag. Another owl had appeared to deliver yet another fee, but they were already staggering to Hermione's bedroom before the parchment touched down on the coffee table in the living room.

They'd made love once, twice, three times, and they didn't worry about clothes, about noises, about open curtains, about thin walls.

And after that, they talked.

And talked.

And talked.

And talked again.

Hermione had apologised profusely, and Draco had rested his head on her belly for her to run her fingers through his hair even when she didn't find the strength to tell him everything weighing on her heart. It was still too soon, at the time. But she'd listened to him as he told her about his nephew, and his mother, and about a billion other things Hermione stored in a carefully guarded part of her soul.

Day by day, she'd learnt to mirror his trust, day by day she woke up choosing to be open with him, choosing to give all of herself, to show all of herself, even at her most ugly, even at her most fragile. It wasn't easy, and it was disheartening at times, and many days ended up in a fight—but it was worth it, because what they had was real.

And it couldn't get more real than this.

"Harry?"

"Hm?"

"Do you think I'd be mad if…?" A hand went to her mouth, and the other one ran to her belly, rubbing and gently prodding something that was exactly as it had always been, just slightly different.

When she looked at Harry and saw him completely blurred in her vision, she smiled broadly as small sobs shook her body.

His lips turned up. "No, I don't think you'd be mad. I don't think you're mad at all."

She nodded, sniffling and biting her lips. "Yeah. That's great, then. Yeah."

"Oh, fuck. Come here." Harry's arms engulfed her frame, and then they were holding tightly on each other, as noises toying with the line between tears and laughter escaped them, impossible to control.

"Godric's sake, I can't believe this." He wiped at his eyes behind his glasses. "A bloody Granger-Malfoy baby. I feel feverish."

Hermione laughed, and she laughed so earnestly that everything fell into its rightful place under the light of her happiness.

As it turned out, Harry was right.

She did just know.

After composing herself and fixing her make-up, she emerged from the bathroom with a small smile.

"I apologise for the delay." The journalists looked a bit irritated and fed up with Luna's non-attempts at calming them, but Hermione was a woman on a mission. "I need one more minute, please."

She followed Harry where Ron was taking his nephew from Draco's arms and eyeing him with suspicion. She waved at her friend and his wife Padma behind him, before turning to her boyfriend.

Draco was watching her with worry. His hands clapped her shoulders in seconds. "Granger, are you—"

She shushed him, casting a wandless privacy charm with a subtle movement of her hand. Her palm ran down the collar of his suit jacket to smooth imaginary wrinkles as she took a deep, bracing breath, her heart hammering maddeningly in her chest.

"Draco…"

His grey eyes bore into hers as his hands slid down her arms. Hermione held his gaze as her hand fished a stick from her coat pocket and held it between them. She poked him in the abdomen, just like she'd done with Harry, and his eyes flew down.

He blinked once, and then exhaled a single breath. His grip on her tightened.

When he looked up, Hermione didn't need words to know exactly what he was thinking.

"Are y—"

She cut him off by pressing a kiss to his soft lips—small and yet full of meaning, so tender but revealing the fire and determination within her.

She let the stick slide into his shirt pocket under the jacket. Right over his heart.

"I love you," she whispered.

He held her close for just a little while longer, pressing their foreheads together. His chest heaved with short breaths, matching the furious beating of his heart.

The words came choked out of his mouth, trembling with emotions too strong to be named. "I love you too, Hermione."

Hermione smiled, touched her lips to his once more, then finally turned to join Ginny and Luna at the table.

Everyone was waiting for her.

"Right. Here I am!" she smiled endearingly as her eyes remained entranced by Draco—how he very slowly back-walked to the nearest wall, how he leaned against it in slow motion, how his right hand went to the shirt pocket, how his eyes never left her, not even when Daphne joined him, whispering something in his ear and sneaking a smirking glance at Hermione.

She answered question after question dutifully, if a little distracted. She joked, read passages of the book, and grazed the cover of her novel in such a delicate manner, almost in disbelief that it was actually there, underneath her hands. It had taken months of editing to get through it—and she'd started right from Draco's notes.

Admittedly, most of them suggested a lingering anger, but they were rather helpful when it came to improving paragraphs, cutting scenes, tweaking context, expressing emotions, deepening characters. Hermione had gone over them time and time again, even when Draco gave her the updated versions; in her words, "These are never going to be as honest as the first ones."

And then she'd worked tirelessly on the story. Over the span of interminable months, she'd reviewed everything, from the overarching plot down to simple sentence structure. The two people who had to bear with her process, and kept reminding themselves just how much they loved her, had been Draco and Ginny. Many days had passed in which the former had flipped her off because she'd woken him at dawn to debate whether to use a specific word over another.

"During the presentation, Miss Lovegood claimed that this novel is a story about soulmates," said an elderly man from a niche literature newspaper, pulling Hermione from her thoughts. "But from what I've gathered about you, Miss Granger, I get the impression that you're not much of a fan of Divination."

"Oh," Hermione chirped, as a laugh echoed round the library, "no, I am certainly not."

"Then, why soulmates?"

"Well, you see," she started, locking her fingers under her chin, "I'll be honest, it's quite fitting that you mentioned Miss Lovegood, because this theme is a detail my editors picked apart. It wasn't something I specifically had in mind while writing—but I wasn't opposed to it. I have many issues with Divination as a subject, mostly because I like to feel in control of my life. But I think there's something intriguing in exploring how our free will and choices meet with… fixed points. Things that are bound to happen. As in two people meeting each other.

"Lucille and Andrew already knew each other, and they met again because of an event that seemed like a complete accident in the ordered chaos that is the universe. But, what if it wasn't an accident? What if they had to meet again? They're pushed together again—and that's the fixed point. But the rest of the story is completely up to them. They can decide whether to build something from there, or just let go."

From the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Draco covering his mouth: his cheeks were raised in a knowing smile. His other hand was holding Daphne's.

"Once I pondered it further, I too, came to the conclusion that Lucille and Andrew are soulmates. And this resolution coexists with them actively deciding to create something. Something that is only theirs. Born from their choices."

After a couple more questions, Luna, as timely as ever, was calling that the time was up, when a hand shot into the air. It was a young girl, so Hermione decided to hear her out.

"Last question—sorry Luna. Yes?"

"Thank you, Miss Granger, and forgive me for being so blunt, but I have to ask." A sly look glimmered in her eyes, and Hermione already knew where she was heading. "Given your now public relationship with Mr. Malfoy, the community couldn't help but notice one or two similarities between your shared past and some plot points in your novel. So, my question is this: is The Odds autobiographical?"

Hermione chuckled. "I believe all art is autobiographical."

"Ah, certainly. But some literary art is more autobiographical than others, isn't it?"

"If what you're asking is if Lucille is me—"

"That is what I'm asking, yes."

Pausing, Hermione kept smiling. Her eyes briefly slid back to the people behind the audience. Neville had arrived. He was holding his copy under his arm while wiggling his fingers in front of James, still in Ron's arms. Harry was sitting next to them, and then there was Padma, and Pansy, too, along with Theo and Blaise. Antony was picking up Dennis to sit him on his lap and stop him from running around the shelves.

Draco was still in the same position, but now Daphne was leaning against him, their hands locked firmly as with pride, his eyes fixed on Hermione.

Even at a distance, she could feel all the love of the world radiating from him in unstoppable waves.

Her heart felt lighter than ever, even when she touched the small weight in her pocket.

"Well, Miss…?"

"Moore."

"Miss Moore. A storm, the Italian Alps, a brief lockdown, there was only one bed, and two people who haven't seen each other in ages."

An eleven-year-old girl. She goes to school and she meets a boy who is the worst—he's just the worst. 'Bully' doesn't even begin to cover it.

A lot happens. Boy and girl go separate ways, and are very happy they don't have to hear from each other ever again. Actually, they're not even happy about that specifically, because the other person is just not in their life anymore, so they're simply indifferent to one another.

But.

But.

Boy and girl are the fixed point in each other's trajectories.

Like soulmates.

Funny thing, soulmates. Some people believe they're a completely impossible concept.

Others, though…

"I mean," Hermione said, a playful grin dancing on her lips and a heart full of incandescent happiness. "What are the odds?"

"I think that book that I wrote was like building something so that I wouldn't forget the details of the time we spent together. You know, like, just a reminder that once, we really did meet. That this was real, this happened."

Before Sunset (2004), dir. Richard Linklater

A/N: Can't believe we got to the end. Phew! During early drafting, this was supposed to be around 48/50k words tops, and instead look at us. Look at us. Who would have thought!

Thank you so much for coming on this journey with us! This story touched something very personal and came from a very delicate place: we can only hope we left something with you—let that be a simple thought, an image, a word, or maybe a massive breakdown.

To everyone who was moved enough to tell us what they thought of the story and the characters in the comments—it really made our days.

And thank you to you, too, new reader who decided to give this story a chance when the green check was already in place. We hope the binge-reading was worth it!

Until next time :)

Sara & Vale

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