Hermione would have rolled her eyes at the mere suggestion that Draco had ever led anything resembling a hard life, but that was not to say he hadn't faced his fair share of challenges and hardships. He was an orphan, for crying out loud. Deprived of the guiding hand of his parents at an impressionable young age and left to fend for himself against an army of nannies and tutors and his aunt Bellatrix, whose only saving grace was that for the most part she was happy to leave him to the army of nannies and tutors.

He was hounded — hounded! — by a hostile press that took perverse pleasure in chronicling his misadventures. And one time a snotty, stuck-up version of himself had showed up in his world and kidnapped him from a perfectly good private party, only to have the nerve to call him a bloody disgrace on top of it.

Yes, Draco knew all about hardships, but nothing in his life had prepared him for the true test to his character that was trying to make a baby eat his soup if he was disinclined to do so.

"Look, Scorpius, it's a plane. Here comes the plane."

But Scorpius was left unmoved by either aviation, mashed vegetables or pleas, and as it turned out, he was able to levitate pureed food just as easily as anything else.

"Scorpius Malfoy, we do not play with our food in this household," he said, tapping the back of the plastic spoon against the nose of the baby, who had the nerve to laugh at him, the cheeky monkey. "Dobbson, I better not have heard you snicker just now."

"I wouldn't dream of it, sir."

"We do not play with our food in this household?" Granger was definitely snickering — damn her to hell. "Turn this way." She tilted his face towards her and wiped his cheek with a kitchen towel. "The food is for him to eat, not for you to wear."

"You look very amused for a woman who had to Google what to feed a seven-month-old."

"A little research never harmed anyone." She let go of him, and he reminded himself that the part of him that mourned the loss of her fingers on his skin was at least sixty per cent Other Draco. At least forty five per cent Other Draco.

"Ma'am, you asked me to remind you of the time."

"Right, I have to go." She kissed the top of Scorpius's head. "Be good. I'm working tonight. I'll be home late."

She made to walk past Draco's chair, but he grabbed her arm. "You can't just abandon me here."

"I have classes."

"I have a baby who refuses to eat his lunch."

"We all have our crosses to bear."

"Dobbson, I need coffee on an IV drip." Blaise walked into the kitchen, never looking away from the book he was reading.

"Will a cup suffice, sir?"

"I suppose it'll have to do." He looked up then. "Granger, some sort of Weasley is waiting outside in a monstrosity that might have been roadworthy at one point or another, though I sincerely doubt it. Kindly go get him to move it before I have it towed."

"Going."

Draco only realised he was staring after her when he felt Blaise's gaze on him.

"I don't know what you're doing," Blaise said, turning his attention back to his book. "But you're a fool."

Very likely.

There was a line in his mind between the things Other Draco had put in it and the things that belonged there, and he knew where that line was. As long as he knew where the line was, it was not a problem.

Really.

Just then his phone started vibrating on the table. Draco flinched when he saw the caller ID. Nothing good ever came from taking Snapes's calls.

"Are you going to take that?" Blaise asked.

No. No, he wasn't. Because he might be a fool, but he wasn't an idiot, and his avoidance skills were legendary. The phone fell silent again and he heaved a sigh of relief.

"Guess they gave up," he said, scooping another spoonful of soup. "A terrible pity, I'm sure." He smiled as Scorpius made a face at the taste. Just then the phone started vibrating again. Rolling his eyes, Draco picked up. "What?" The voice on the other end was low and steady and entirely unwelcome. "I can't. No, look— Yes, I know, but—" He ground his teeth, cursing himself for taking the call. "Fine. I said fine; what do you want from me? I'll be there in a couple of hours." He hung up, repressing the urge to throw the bloody contraption at a wall. "I'm going to London," he said to Blaise, getting up. "I need you to babysit."

"And I need not to receive all the Weasleys in the country. I dare say we're both bound for disappointment."

Draco put his phone on his back pocket and nudged Scorpius's cheek with a finger before heading for the door.

"Call Lovegood if you run into trouble."

"Malfoy, don't you dare walk out that door." But walk out he did, and Dobbson, with the sort of well-honed instincts that had kept him sane in his many years of service, had made himself scarce. Blaise sighed, aggravated. "Well, I suppose one ought not to leave your education entirely in the hands of philistines," Blaise said to the Scorpius, sitting down on the chair Draco had vacated. "We'll start with the basics. Food shouldn't fly off the spoon. We're not barbarians." The baby opened his mouth and Blaise spooned in the vile concoction that someone had decided was suitable food for children.

It was almost 3 a.m. when Draco made it back to the house. It had been an exhausting, infuriating beast of a day, and he was in a foul mood. He had been in and out of meetings all day, followed by more meetings, followed by a supremely uncomfortable dinner with Snape and Bellatrix, whose loathing for each other somehow did not stop them banding together to urge him to take a closer interest in the running of Malfoy Enterprises and stop horsing around as if he were still sixteen years old. He had duties, he had responsibilities, and he was no longer a child. And if he did not intend to stop being a disgrace to his name, would he at least consider taking Tom Riddle back as CEO?

That last comment had been Bellatrix's, and it might have been more than a little awkward, considering Severus was the current CEO of ME, but the older man merely rolled his eyes as she carried on about how Riddle was an intelligent, competent, brilliant man who had always done well by him and by the company.

Right up to the part where he fucked his girlfriend.

Draco had let them both talk, knowing full well that there was no point in arguing. They'd say their piece and then he'd leave and go back to ignoring them as he always had.

He would never understand what had possessed his parents to name them his guardians. Neither one had ever had any liking for the role, or for each other, or any interest in caring for a difficult, angry little boy who had never learnt how to deal with loss except by breaking everything within reach. They had never had much interest in his welfare, not until he was old enough that he didn't need or want them to.

They didn't own him, either one of them. Not Bellatrix with her constant demands, and not Severus with his silent disapproval. He was who he was — because of them, and in spite of them — and if they didn't like it they could go fuck themselves.

The house was dark and silent as he made his way upstairs. He paused by Scorpius's door, but there was no sound. There was light under the door of his study, and he could hear the muffled sound of the television, but he did not stop, heading straight for his bedroom. He was no fit company tonight. The way he had driven back from London, it was a stroke of extraordinary good luck that he had neither been arrested nor ended up in a ditch, but even that had not been enough to spend all the nervous energy that still made him want to put his fist through a wall. He'd try that, but he suspected the wall might win.

Closing the door behind him, he quickly unbuttoned his shirt, balling it up and tossing it at the hamper in the corner. He missed, and that seemed fitting. Such was his life. One fucking miss after another.

He looked around, wishing he had had the foresight to bring a bottle of whiskey up. It was a night for drinking. It was a night for drinking a lot.

A knock on the door made him turn around.

"What?"

Hermione peeked in. "Everything alright?"

"Everything's fucking dandy," he said, just a little too loud.

She quirked an eyebrow at the outburst and walked all the way into the room, closing the door behind her and putting down the baby monitor on the dresser.

"What happened?"

"What business is that of yours?" He didn't need to see her flinch to know he was being a jerk, but knowing he was being a jerk had never before stopped him being one. "Piss off, Granger. Some of us actually sleep at night, and that's what I intend to do."

Hermione, to her credit, did not back down.

"I was just worried. When you didn't come home—"

"It's not your fucking home." Man, he was on fire tonight. "This isn't your home. We're not a family. This isn't a thing that's happening. We're not them." He only realised he had been moving forward when her back hit the door, and suddenly they were standing far too close to each other. "But maybe you wish we were." He cupped the the back of her neck, his thumb ghosting over the hollow of her throat. "Maybe what's keeping you up at night is the thought of the things I would do to you if we were." His hand moved lower, his fingers following the curve of her neckline over her breasts, and Hermione sucked in a breath.

"Are you quite done being an asshole?" she asked, her voice steady despite the blush on her cheeks.

His hand paused for a moment and then he dropped it, moving back. Yes. Yes, he was. For the moment at least, though knowing him that was unlikely to last.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words unfamiliar on his tongue. He sat down on the bed, leaning forward, his arms propped up on his legs. He was so used to people calling him a disgrace — Bellatrix, his holier-than-thou double, the press, both foreign and domestic — that he didn't even notice anymore, but an argument could be made that they weren't totally wrong.

The bed dipped next to him and Hermione's hand came to rest on the back of his neck, her thumb rubbing slow, steady circles in a soothing pattern, and some of the tension bled out of him.

"Are you okay?" she asked, and he had no real answer for it.

"It was just a bad day. Family crap and business crap…" He glanced at her, adding with a rueful smile, "And it may have escaped your notice, but I'm not always a very nice person."

"I've been serving you drinks at the White Hart for over two years. It has not escaped my notice." Her tone was light and teasing, with no real sting to the words. "But you make up for it by being a very good tipper."

He chuckled and she smiled, a soft, fond smile that tugged at parts of him that had very little to do with Other Draco.

"I should have sent a message when I left London. I'm sorry I didn't." It just hadn't occurred to him to do it. He wasn't used to people worrying about his whereabouts.

Hermione shook her head, looking away. "No. You were right; it's none of my business—"

Draco touched a finger to her chin, turning her face towards him. "I should have texted. I'm sorry."

She smiled and nodded, and that should have been it, that should have been his cue to call it a night. But Draco had never known how to quit while he was ahead, and he was not about to start now. He was exhausted, he couldn't even begin to untangle the mess that was his life, and the only thing keeping him sane and grounded just now was the warm pressure of her hand on the back of his neck. Closing the space between them, he kissed her, a soft peck on the lips that was a question and an invitation and a dare, and never before had he wanted so badly for someone to take him up on it. Hermione froze for a moment and he made to move back, but she followed the movement, her lips meeting his, soft and warm, one of her hands tugging at his shirt, and it was all the encouragement he needed. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her to him until she climbed on his lap.

He was suddenly hyper-aware of her, of her breasts against his chest, of the pressure of her hips, of her breath on his skin. He fell back on the bed, bringing her down on top of him, before rolling them both so that he was half on top of her. They looked at each other for a moment, both flushed and out of breath.

"This is a really bad idea," Hermione whispered, her gaze dropping from his eyes to his lips and back.

"Extraordinarily bad," he agreed, undoing the button of her jeans with on hand. "The sort of dumb, half-assed—"

Hermione kissed him, wrapping her legs around his waist, and he lost his train of thought, making very little effort to get it back. It was not in Draco's nature to deny himself the things he wanted — he had never had to learn how — and he did not choose to attempt it now. He might live to regret it, but that was a problem for the future. Today was today, and tomorrow would just have to take care of itself.