Chapter 6

She was going to murder the person pounding on the door. Hermione had been ignoring the knocking for a few minutes, hoping that whoever it was would give up and leave, but the knocking didn't cease; if anything, it seemed to be growing more frantic.

With a growl of frustration, she gave up on deciphering the latest runes that Gringotts had sent her, slamming her quill down on the desktop before rising. She'd completely lost her train of thought, and it would take ages to get that back… Hermione huffed, but started toward the front door. She might as well get rid of whoever that was, she supposed.

An enormous yawn stretched her jaws, and Hermione belatedly realized that she'd stayed up all night, consumed by her work. It hadn't been her first time, though, and although she had tried, sleep had been elusive that night… It must have been the fight with Malfoy that had her so exhausted, Hermione thought, or the heavy decision that she'd had to make. At least Cyan's safety wasn't going to be a huge problem now and a huge load off her shoulders and onto Malfoy's considerably stronger and wider—Hermione hastily changed that to paler—shoulders. Though she couldn't explain the dread that seemed firmly wedged in her lower stomach.

"Who is it?" she asked, irritated.

"It's Lavender!" A cheery voice called back, followed with a slightly muffled "And Parvati!"

Hermione's annoyance abated just a little. Lavender and Parvati? She hadn't seen them since she'd moved out of the old flat, years ago. What could they possibly want? They certainly didn't… move in the same circles, anymore. She didn't, Hermione thought with a wry chuckle, move in circles at all, really.

Hermione undid the warding at the front door, all the while engaging in a futile attempt to tuck her hair behind her ears. No doubt Lavender and Parvati would be horrified to see a haphazard Hermione Granger… she chuckled softly before pulling open the door. Definitely not a new sight for the two.

"Hi—" she tried to say, but her greeting was drowned in a pool of squeals and hugs and giggles. Hermione's eyes widened as she was enveloped in a cloud of perfume and silk dress robes.

After the two finally settled down enough to sit on her couch, Hermione let herself perch on the set across from them, and eyed them warily. "Dressed already," she noted curiously. "Big day?"

Lavender and Parvati exchanged amused glances. "No, we haven't quite turned in yet," Parvati said with a small smile. "We were just at a party; Frances Doughlin just turned thirty, so she had a smashing party—"

"Frances is Zoë's sister," Lavender explained, seeing Hermione's blank face.

Hermione nodded. Even she knew of Zoë, the Editor-in-Chief of Witch Weekly and the brand new and madly popular host on the eleven o'clock slot on the Wizard Wireless Network. She'd listened to—or left the wireless on, she amended hastily—Zoë's show while she was working at home, and she had to admit that it was rather fun, in a brainless sort of way.

Parvati nodded. "Of course she is," she agreed. "So anyway, of course Zoë was there, and we were just chatting about good old Hogwarts when I happened to mention that you and Lavender and I used to dorm together!"

"And Zoë was so interested," Lavender continued, "and even more so when she heard that you and I were flatmates after graduation, too."

Hermione thought that her eyes had probably narrowed, because Lavender looked confused. "Sorry, did I offend you?" she asked, puzzled.

She shook her head a no, but Parvati laughed. "I know, you're probably wondering, why would anyone like Zoë wonder about little old me, right?"

"Quite," Hermione murmured.

"But as we kept chatting," Lavender reverted back to her story, "she happened to mention that a very interesting piece of news would be revealed on today's show!" She had a smugly satisfied look pasted on her face, and sat back demurely with her hands folded in her lap.

Hermione tried to look enthused, but failed miserably. She had absolutely no interest in the going-alongs of Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, let alone Zoë Whatever-her-surname-was. "How lovely for her," she said politely. "I'll look forward to hearing that. If that's all…"

"Oh no, no," Lavender chuckled. "Don't think you're getting off this easily! I can't believe you've kept this under wraps for so long!"

"Yes," Parvati chimed in, leaning forward and fixing her dark eyes on Hermione's. "You must tell all! We came as soon as we heard, and really, Hermione, I'm dying to know! After all, we are your dormmates…"

"Dying to know what, exactly?" Hermione asked slowly, suspicion that had been held bay now slowly dawning on her. Surely, Malfoy wouldn't have gone behind her back to announce their … marriage to everybody already? Surely, he must have had at least some thought and consideration for her, and for everyone else… and surely, he would have at least warned her so she'd be prepared, and maybe even lay some groundwork before?

"Why, you and Draco Malfoy, of course!"

Hermione couldn't keep a groan from slipping. Who was she trying to kid? Of course Malfoy wouldn't have any consideration for her… after he'd gotten what he wanted, why would he concern himself any further with her wishes? But why would he tell somebody like Zoë, whose career was made of passing on gossip?

She must have spoken aloud, because Lavender and Parvati exchanged looks. "But Draco and Zoë are great friends," Lavender said, with some surprise. "Why, they even had a—" She stopped, glaring at Parvati who had shoved an elbow into her side. "Parvati! What—" she broke off when Parvati sent a knowing and quite obvious glance pointed to Hermione. "Oh. Oh. Erm, though they were strictly platonic! Don't worry, Hermione, your-" she coughed, "-your husband was, um…" she sputtered to an uncertain stop, realizing that whatever had non-platonically brewed between Draco Malfoy and Zoë—yes, Hermione wasn't so stupid as to miss that—had been during the supposed duration of her marriage to Malfoy.

Lavender looked mortified at her gaffe, and Parvati didn't look like she wanted to broach the awkward silence that followed, either. Hermione, of course, wasn't going to say anything. Yet.

Finally, Lavender coughed. "Wow, um, look at the time!" She exclaimed, looking at anywhere but Hermione, who, despite everything, was amused. Especially considering the clock was behind Lavender's head. "I've got a, um, an appointment. In ten minutes. Got to go! Bye, Hermione! You've got a lovely flat by the way."

She and Parvati cleared out in record time, and Hermione sat back down slowly, mind whirling. If those two knew, then she was sure that everybody in the entire wizarding world would know… she wondered what exactly Zoë had been to Malfoy.

And why she cared.

"So, ladies, that's another bachelor firmly out of the game. What with Harry Potter engaged to marry, Blaise Zabini rather firmly adhered to the side of Daphne Greengrass, and Adrian Pucey tying the knot in just one week… although those men certainly didn't… what was it again? Oh yes, ignore their marriage for five years because of a row." A chuckle. "Well, nevertheless, Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger; who would have thought? Certainly seems unbelievable, though I don't try to understand playboys or heroines. I'm just a simple girl at heart…" Another laugh. "For more details on the secret marriage, Witch Weekly will be featuring an exclusive interview with the bride and groom—oh, not that any longer, right?—the married couple in its next issue, hitting the floos this Saturday! This has been Zoë Turpin, on the WWN."

Narcissa Malfoy flicked her wand at the wireless, which went abruptly silent. Zoë Turpin hadn't been a Slytherin for nothing, and it was quite evident that she was feeling very, very scorned.

"Rather dangerous," Narcissa Malfoy murmured. She sat quietly for a minute, lost in her thoughts, lost in what she had just heard. "Although," she said out loud, "I'd rather Draco have told me this before the whole world."

Footsteps passing by the sitting room paused, as her son poked his head in. "Did I hear my name, mother?" He inquired carelessly. "Can I order you anything?"

Narcissa gazed at him, before nodding to the seat across from the one she was occupying. "Yes. Sit."

Her son collapsed onto the delicately upholstered sofa, letting his head fall back. His feet landed with a dull thud on the glass of the coffee table, just as he snapped a finger. "Tea," he ordered the house elf that appeared lazily. The elf, clad neatly in a white pillowcase embroidered with the Malfoy family crest, bowed and made to disapparate before being halted by Narcissa.

"Wait," she commanded. "Not tea; something stronger. Wine. A glass of the Bordeaux. And Draco, darling," she added snappily, "feet off the table."

The elf bowed and disappeared, before reappearing immediately with a glass of Narcissa's favourite wine in hand. She took a liberal sip as her son let his feet fall off. He sat up instead, looking slightly surprised. "Alcohol before five o'clock, Mother?" he asked, amusement evident in his voice. "Whatever brought this on?"

She gave him a sharp look. "Zoë Turpin," she said calmly.

"Ah." Draco relaxed again, and met her eyes steadily. "And what did our mutual friend have to say that induced such a breach of the norm, Mother?"

"Zoë found it extremely interesting and… oh, what was the word she used? Oh yes, unbelievable… that you and Hermione Granger had been married for the last five years."

Draco laughed lightly. "Jealousy," he explained with a shrug. "What can I say?"

"And the rest of the public?" Narcissa inquired. "How will they take this… sudden news?"

Her son smiled—slowly, slyly. "I don't know, Mother," he said. "How will the public take this?"

And despite her current displeasure with her son, Narcissa couldn't stop her lips from creeping into a matching smile. Zoë Turpin had been a Slytherin, it was true; the blatant vindictiveness and displeasure over her rival would, however, cause certain Gryffindor traits to surface. She would be a match for Narcissa Black Malfoy, but she did, Narcissa reflected, enjoy a good challenge once in a while. Merlin knew, most others were plebeians.

XXXXX

Narcissa wasted no time in beginning to level the playing field. She was rather at a disadvantage, from Draco's failure to inform her of the tide before blabbing to Zoë Turpin, of all people, but she certainly had access to more vistas than the Turpin girl did—and she was not above pulling rank.

"Narcissa, darling, is it true?" Carlotta Parkinson finally asked the question that had been hanging heavily in the air. The other women in the room visibly tensed in anticipation; they had all obviously been burning with curiosity and, at the same time, hadn't had the courage to broach the subject. "Has dear Draco really been married to that Granger girl for the last five years?"

Narcissa calmly took a sip from her cup, before placing it silently on the saucer. "But of course," she said with a delicately raised eyebrow.

"But how—why would—I mean—" Carlotta floundered, looking around the room for help.

Isabella Zabini came neatly to the rescue. "What Carlotta means," she interposed smoothly, "is that it was such a surprise. Why, even Blaise wasn't aware, and he and Draco have been close friends since their Hogwarts days." She looked into her cup and swirled it lightly, before meeting Narcissa's gaze expectantly.

"Draco and Hermione wished to keep their relationship under wraps until they were ready to divulge it to the public," Narcissa said with a smile. "So, of course, I respected their wishes."

Celia Avery, who hadn't spoken beyond greetings the whole day, opened her mouth. Narcissa immediately suppressed a silent groan, for there was nothing Celia liked better to do, than to instigate. "I understand," she said, unsmiling, "that the girl is a Muggleborn."

Narcissa took another sip of her tea to disguise her shock. She hadn't believed that anyone would have dared to point out such a thing to her face… but then, Celia Avery always was problematic. She recovered almost instantaneously, and turned to look at Celia with a carefully cultivated mixture of surprise, disdain, and condescension.

"Celia, darling," she said pleasantly, "I find it difficult to believe that you still hold the prejudices after the defeat of the Dark Lord. Surely you must have seen that it simply isn't advantageous to hold to the old beliefs in the new order? The Malfoys have always been Slytherin, and Slytherins adapt. That is how we've retained our position, darling."

Like a good Slytherin, Celia Avery, née Macnair, perceived the implied criticism to both herself and her family. Though she caught herself before gasping sharply, her eyes widened enough to allow Narcissa to smile privately.

Narcissa, allowing herself a quick glance over the room, saw that the rest of the women were now nodding in slow agreement. Once these women—her friends, she thought with a chuckle—were won over, Zoë Turpin and her insinuations would be null and void.

She caught the eye of Isabella, who alone was not exclaiming in agreement. They exchanged long glances, before Isabella smiled, flashing bone-white teeth for a second. Narcissa nodded back, before picking up her cup again. Isabella was easily quite the most dangerous of the women present—except herself, possibly—and Narcissa knew very well not to underestimate her.

For some reason, however, she had decided to comply. And Narcissa Black was not going to argue. Not just yet.

They apparated to the front of their flat. Hermione dug into the deep pockets of her robes with her right hand, as Cyan had a death grip on her left. He was swinging the hand that was clasped in hers, as he chattered on. "Uncle Won bought Wobert the new toy bwoom that goes four metres high, Mummy, and Scotty's is still super fast! Mummy, can I have a new bwoom too? We're going to race tomorrow and Aunt Ginny said that Uncle Hawwy is going to let us use a snitch and Mummy, how come Uncle Hawwy is so good at flying?"

"Uncle Harry's daddy was very good at flying," Hermione said absently, as she fished out her wand from an inside pocket. "He inherited the trait."

Cyan was thoughtful for a minute. "What's 'herited, Mummy? Does that mean my daddy was very good at flying? Because I am, you know, Mummy. I beat Wobert and he got all mad except Aunt Luna gave him a lolly and then he wasn't mad anymore. Uncle Won and Uncle Hawwy are better than me but that's okay because they're bigger than me. Can you tell me about my daddy? Did he beat Uncle Won? Because I beat Wobert. So he must be more good than Uncle Won! Did he play Quidditch too, Mummy?"

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath. "Well," she said slowly, wondering what to say. Cyan had to be told something, and soon—now that their "marriage" was public news, he would definitely find out in some form or another.

A shape shifted in the shadows, and Hermione had to muffle a shriek of pure shock. "What—" she demanded, before stopping as Malfoy materialized from where he must have been leaning against the wall.

"Hello, Hermione," he said with a small smirk, emphasizing her name. "And this must be Cyan." He knelt, down to eye level with her son, and solemnly held out a hand. "I'm Draco Malfoy."

Hermione watched with trepidation as Cyan carefully studied Malfoy—no, she had to get accustomed to calling him Draco now—'s face. "Hullo," he said finally. "You're that man fwom Mister Fortescue's shop."

"I am," Malfoy—Draco, Hermione silently amended—said seriously. "But I didn't get a chance to introduce myself then."

"Oh." Cyan was silent, before smiling beatifically at Malfoy. "Do you know how to fly on a bwoom?"

"I know how to fly on a broom very well," Malfoy nodded. "I played Seeker for the Slytherin House team when I was at Hogwarts, you know. I even beat Potter—er, your Uncle Harry to the Snitch in my seventh year."

Cyan mulled over that. "Uncle Won thinks Slytherins are mean," he confided finally. "But Aunt Luna says that they're mis… mis… misunderstood," he pronounced triumphantly. "Are you, Mister Malfoy?"

Hermione could see that Malfoy clearly struggling with his reply, and simply ended up shrugging. "Some people might say so," he said finally, looking up at Hermione.

She frowned, before sighing. "Would you like to come in, Malfoy?" She asked instead.

Twin smiles broke out on the two faces before her, and Hermione had to shake her head ruefully as she undid the warding. She still disliked Draco Malfoy with an unrivaled passion, but she had to admit that so far he seemed to be quite proficient with Cyan.

Although she had to remember that Draco Malfoy was only exerting an effort to get along with Cyan because he knew how she felt about him. He was all too aware that she would only go along with the lie for her son; if he made Cyan uncomfortable or unhappy in any way, Hermione would have no qualms about breaking off all contact and denouncing him altogether—and Malfoy knew it.

As was customary, Cyan looked expectantly toward Hermione as they walked into the flat together. It was her cue to undo the glamour, to restore the usual visage of her son.

She did so with a practiced wave of her wand and a nonverbal finite. His hair was now blindingly blond, and the eyes crinkling up at her gleamed silver. His face morphed subtly from a nondescript oval shape to a more heart-shaped face, with a pointed jaw that put Draco Malfoy's first year at Hogwarts into mind. The rest of him, she noted with a wrinkle of her nose, had unfortunately not changed; he was still deploringly messy.

"Cyan, I think you need a bath," Hermione said after a moment. "Go get in the tub, okay? I'll be in in just a moment, after I deal with Mr. Malfoy here."

"Oh, Mummy, no," he protested, eyes wide. "I'm not so very dirty, see? It's all cakey anyway and it's not going to smear!"

Hermione frowned at him. She didn't understand why he had such a loathing of baths—when she was a child, she loved floating around in the tub, heaven knew, and Malfoy probably screamed in terror when a speck of dust had the audacity to land on him. Cyan scowled back, as he inevitably did whenever the words "get in the tub" appeared, but toddled off to the bathroom just the same, followed by Hermione's befuddled look.

"He's four years old, Granger," Malfoy said just then, and Hermione looked up sharply.

"What?"

"He's a four year old boy, Granger," he repeated irritably. "Of course he isn't going to want to take baths."

"How did you—" Hermione blinked, then scowled furiously. "Did you use Legilimency on me?"

"Of course not," he huffed. "Your face is too expressive; I don't know how you're going to lie properly. And you know," he added thoughtfully, "you look just like Cyan when you frown like that."

"Thanks for saying that I look like a four-year old boy," Hermione muttered. "And anyway, I'll have you know that I'm quite the proficient liar, should times call for it. I lied to Umbridge, didn't I? And stole from Snape, and— oh, damn it." She interrupted herself furiously.

Malfoy choked on his laughter. "You stole from Snape?" He gasped as red began to creep over his pale face. "You stole from Snape? You stole from Snape?"

Hermione didn't feel the slightest inclination to help him. "Go sit down," she said with another scowl, this time toward herself. "I'm going to have to give Cyan a quick bath." And be drenched for her efforts, no doubt. He was rather exuberant once she finally got him into the tub.

"You do that," Malfoy said idly.

"I don't suppose you want to help?" Hermione inquired as she turned to leave.

The deadpan look he shot her was the only answer she got, and she wasn't surprised one bit at all.

XXXXX

"Nice look," Malfoy said dryly as Hermione walked back into the sitting room, drenched head to toe in water, accompanied by a perfectly dry Cyan, dressed in a sweatsuit decorated with seven zooming broomsticks and a flying snitch.

Hermione rolled her eyes as she flicked a drying spell at herself. He was sprawled on her couch comfortably, a glass of something that looked suspiciously like cognac or brandy dangling from his fingers. "Sure, Malfoy, make yourself at home," she said sarcastically as she sat on the sofa opposing him, Cyan settled in next to her.

Malfoy ignored her comment and instead sat up, leaning forward. "We need to plan our strategy," he said instead.

Cyan perked up visibly at that. "I know stwategy," he bragged. "I heard all about it fwom Uncle Won!"

Hermione was a little gratified to see Malfoy's startled look. "You told Weasley already?" he said incredulously. "Without warning me?"

She could hardly believe it. "Are you serious?" she demanded, incensed. "You told bloody Zoë Turpin, whose occupation is to spread gossip, before warning me! I had Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil descend on me at five o'clock in the morning after hearing the gossip from the lips of Turpin herself!"

"It was all a part of my strategy, you great—er, Granger," Malfoy amended with a hasty look at Cyan's curious face, "a word that you Gryffindors wouldn't have any idea of!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You obviously haven't noticed, Malfoy, but it's been years since we've graduated from Hogwarts. Houses don't matter anymore."

"You would think that," Malfoy said dismissively. "It's a Pureblood thing—and I don't say it in a racist way," he added upon glimpsing her slowly reddening face. "Get it through your head, Granger."

Hermione took a deep breath, and reminded herself tersely to choose her battles. "Okay," she said, teeth clenched. "All right, Malfoy. You wanted to talk strategy. So, let's talk, and then you can get out of here."

"Well," he said, a slight frown crinkling his forehead, "shouldn't we tell…" he flicked his eyes toward Cyan, who, Hermione was gratified to notice, had lost all interest in the conversation and was instead trying to capture the snitch currently racing down his left arm.

"Oh." Hermione wondered just how much Cyan ought to know. No matter how mature he acted sometimes, he was still only four years old, after all—how much could he understand? "Yes. Cyan," she said, hesitating as he looked up at her expectantly.

Malfoy sat back, as if to defer to her judgment in this. Hermione, however, knew perfectly that he simply didn't want to expend the energy. With an inaudible snort, she thought for a second. "Cyan, I—that is, Mister Malfoy and I want to tell you something. Um, it might be confusing, and I don't really know how you'll take it, but I hope that you won't—"

"Just say it, Granger," Malfoy said, annoyed.

"Mister Malfoy told you that he was a Slytherin at Hogwarts," Hermione began carefully, "and you already know that I was in Gryffindor."

Her son nodded, eyes full of curiosity. He had heard a myriad of tales about their Hogwarts days from Harry and Ron, about Quidditch and horrible Professor Snape and the Fat Lady and the icky Slytherins.

"And your Uncle Ron told you that we—Harry, Ron, and I—didn't really get on with the Slytherins at school," she continued. "But after we all graduated, I ran into Mister Malfoy here, and we… we became friends, of a sort."

Malfoy hastily turned his snort into a cough at Hermione's glare.

"And we ended up getting married. But soon after, we had a big row with each other—just like when you and Robert argued when he tripped over your broom and broke it, remember?"

He nodded quietly.

"But it was much bigger than that, and Mister Malfoy and I stopped talking to one another up until now. But after we ran into each other once again, we decided to try again. So… that's it," Hermione ended lamely, looking worriedly at Cyan, who was silently looking down.

The air around them was almost tangible, and Hermione bit her lip, fighting the urge to demand that he tell her what he was thinking.

After what seemed like an hour and was probably only a minute, he looked up to Malfoy. "So he's my daddy?" Cyan asked quietly.

Hermione and Malfoy both nodded a yes.

"Oh." Cyan blinked, before looking toward, but not directly at Hermione. "I want to go to bed now, please."

"Of course," she said, startled. "Shall I come and tuck you in?"

"No thank you," he said quietly as he slid off the couch and walked slowly toward his room.

Hermione exhaled sharply as Cyan left the room. "He took it badly, didn't he?" she murmured unhappily. "I don't… should I—"

"No, leave him alone for now," Malfoy advised. "Don't push him, not right now and not just yet."

Hermione looked incredulously at him. "And since when are you an expert at reading children, and namely, my son? I've raised him for the last four years, you know. Why do you care, anyway?" She immediately regretted her words, as he scoffed angrily, grey eyes so like her son's flashing with fury.

"Without my knowledge or consent," he bit out tightly. "And I don't care. Only that he accepts me, so I can have my goddamn heir."

"Of course," Hermione mocked. "Nothing is more important than the future of the Malfoy family."

He sighed loudly. "Can we at least pretend to get along, Granger, or are you going to bite off my head at everything?"

"Look, Malfoy, I agreed to this farce to save Cyan from pain, and not to cause it," Hermione snarled. "So I'm sorry seeing him like that upsets me, okay? But I have more on my mind than whether your stupid family gets your stupid heir, so get that through your head!"

"What he feels now is going to be nothing once he gets to Hogwarts," Malfoy hissed. "You have no idea, Granger, what it would have been like for him, Slytherin or Gryffindor or what. Not everyone was going to believe in that nonentity you made up as your husband, and you should be grateful—" he pushed his hand through his hair, and sighed sharply. "We went over this already. So I'd be grateful if we could get something done today."

"Agreed," Hermione said tersely.

"So now that we've reconciled…" Malfoy's wry smile referred to their supposed reconciliation after their "row", Hermione knew, and not this brittle truce. "You should really move into the Manor soon."

Hermione closed her eyes briefly. She ought to have expected this, but it had completely flown from her mind. "Fine," she conceded. "I suppose it's necessary. But I'm keeping my flat just the same, Malfoy."

He shrugged. "Whatever. So, as soon as possible would be best, I think. Mother is working on the society right now, so let's say this weekend by the latest?" At Hermione's nod, he continued. "See how easy it is when you give in, Granger?"

At her outraged look, he changed the subject hastily. "Our biggest problem is—"

"Zoë Turpin," Hermione interjected sullenly.

"The public," Malfoy corrected. "Which, unfortunately, includes Zoë, who was a bit… skeptical. So we really have to win them over, if they're going to believe us. We must be seen out, as a family, and be seen getting along… like a married couple. I guess."

Hermione laughed shortly, as Malfoy's lips twisted. "It's not exactly going to be a picnic for me either, Granger," he pointed out.

"Great," she said, shaking her head. "Family outings, how adorable. What do you Malfoys do for fun as a family, then? What did you and Lucius and Narcissa do? Go torture some muggles together?"

"No," he said with a smug smile. "We did not. Leave tomorrow open for our… outing. And you can move in on Saturday." He stood to leave, and Hermione was only too glad to see him go.

After he shut the front door behind him, Hermione poked her head into Cyan's room. He was lying in bed with the covers pulled up to his chin, eyes wide open and darting about here and there. She tapped on the door to get his attention. "Can I come in?" she asked quietly.

At his nod, she walked in and sat at the edge of the bed. "Would you like to talk?" she asked softly. "I know it was a shock to find out that your daddy is still alive, darling, and I am so sorry I couldn't tell you earlier. Can you forgive me?"

He was quiet for a second. "Mummy," he said carefully, "you aren't mad at me?"

"I?" Hermione repeated incredulously, as Cyan burrowed himself deeper into the blankets so that only the top of his head and eyes peeked out. "Why would I be mad at you, Cyan?"

"You fighted about me, didn't you?" he said dejectedly, as a small tear appeared at the corner of his eyes, before he furiously swiped an arm across his face. "That's why that Mister Malfoy left, wight? Because he was mad at me and now you might be mad at me, Mummy, because I made your husband leave and it's all my fault!"

"Oh, Cyan," Hermione whispered as she gathered his small body in her arms. He immediately buried his face into her shoulder as she hugged him as tightly as she could. "It wasn't your fault at all. Your daddy didn't know I was pregnant when we fought, baby, and our fight was between us. It wasn't your fault at all, honey, I promise."

"Then why did he leave?" he finally wailed, his words muffled against her shoulder. "I wanted a daddy so much, Mummy. Why did he stay away for so long—I was—I was… jealous of Wobert and Scotty and oh, Mummy, he hates me, he must."

Hermione closed her eyes in despair. "Cyan, baby, your daddy… your daddy doesn't hate you at all," she said carefully. "That's why he came back, you know. When he found out about you, he was so upset he missed your growing up. You have a daddy, Cyan, and you have no reason to be jealous of anyone anymore."

"Pwomise?" Cyan asked, and his voice was so hopeful that Hermione's heart almost broke.

"Yes," she said softly, dropping a kiss on the top of his head. "I promise."

A/N: OMG HI. Don't ever say that flattery doesn't work wonders.

Happy holidays, everyone.