Notes: Bonus chapter (!) because I finally got a wee creative rush after days of grinding slog, and I want to celebrate. I hope you enjoy. I had great fun writing Hermione's father. Rest assured, there will be plenty of Malfoy in the next chapter!

29.

There had been no question; her father had made it clear that of course Hermione could stay at long as she needed, as she explained the initial facts of the situation over a cup of tea and cold chicken salad sandwiches at the small dining table. A threat relating to her job. Nothing major, she'd said, but best not to be at home alone.

"So you and Ron," he'd begun before she'd even explained that part. "I got the feeling there's something going on there." His eyes – the same brown as hers – were kind as he leaned back in his seat with his mug of tea in both hands, sandwiches polished off. "You haven't brought him with you for a visit in a while. And I feel like you'd just go stay with him and the team overseas, if things were alright. What's going on, Hermione?"

It was vaguely mortifying telling her father that she and Ron were separating. That after Christmas, it was officially over. That they were a scandal on and off all over the wizarding press – he listened, bemused. It had always been hard for her parents to wrap their heads around the fact that Hermione was a person of interest in the wizarding world; that a whole portion of society that they weren't privy to, considered her somewhat of a celebrity. To her father's credit he didn't say 'I told you so', or anything even close to it. He looked at her, and she noticed how old he was looking at the moment – healthy and hearty still, but wrinkled, and grey. So much more so than Molly, or even McGonagall. Muggles just didn't age the same way; magic seemed to give witches and wizards – and even squibs, oddly – an extra vitality that kept them youthful far longer.

"So how are you handling it? And Ron and the kids?"

"Okay." Hermione bit her lip. "We haven't told the children it's official yet. We wanted to give them one last normal Christmas, although I feel like Rose knows." She sighed. "And Ron's already seeing someone on the quiet." She didn't tell him about Malfoy, which was perhaps unfair to Ron, and definitely cowardly on her part.

"And you?" Her dad got up and put the kettle on again.

"I'm okay, dad. It was my decision. I just – well. I couldn't do it anymore. Ron just didn't..." She trailed off. It definitely wasn't fair to speak ill of him when he couldn't defend himself. "I just wasn't happy."

Her dad shot her a sideways glance as she cleared the table of their lunch dishes. "I meant, are you seeing someone?"

Hermione tried to keep her cool, but her cheeks went hot as she filled the washing up bowl with hot water and a squirt of dish soap. She was fairly certain her dad saw. "Are you?" she asked pointedly, dodging the question and hoping to shut him down. "You seem pretty friendly with Karen," mentioning the female friend her father had talked about, who he'd met at poker nights. But her dad just grinned.

"That sounds like a yes, Miss Defensive. And yes, I suppose Karen and I are dating. We haven't been romantic yet, but –"

"Dad!" Hermione protested, shoulders hunching as she cringed in reaction, a plate slipping through her fingers and clattering into the wash basin. He kept grinning mischievously, face crinkled with sun-worn wrinkles, teeth still white and even.

"Tea?" he asked, and Hermione nodded, glaring at him as her shoulders unwound, before finishing up with the dishes as her dad made small talk about Karen, who seemed like a lovely woman, actually. Divorced, lapsed Catholic, three kids all in their late 20s and early 30s, and still managing a local bank branch. They'd been going out for dinner and entertainment regularly, but hadn't really discussed taking things further. Hermione asked questions, and made the right sounds at the right times, happy to be distracted from her own life. And then they sat down in the cosy little sitting room with their tea, the TV off, Hermione curled up on the one couch and her dad in his easy chair.

"So who was that fellow who was with you when you arrived?" he said abruptly, out of nowhere. Hermione blinked at him, taken unawares, trying to process that her dad had seen Malfoy as he'd vanished back into the shed. Shit. Merlin's pants.

"Oh. Um, him? It was Harry," she lied in a stupid panic.

"Him-it-was-Harry would've come in and said hello, Hermione," her father pointed out kindly, as if he were talking to a particularly stupid child. "Besides, he was blond, and too tall. I saw that much."

"It was –" Hermione gritted her teeth "– if you must know, it was Draco Malfoy."

"Ohh. Rose's friend's father, yes? That horrible, bigoted little prat you said you hit in third year?" Her dad's expression shifted through a series of emotions; from satisfaction at getting an answer, to uncertainty, to a hint of disapproval mingled with amusement. At no point did he look surprised. "Ohh," he said again, as if something were dawning on him, and his eyes gleamed. Hermione looked away, swearing like a sailor in her mind. He knew. Of course he did. It was painfully obvious.

"Yes. Harry insisted I have an escort right now, with the threats that were made."

"Ah, so is he one of those auroras?"

"Aurors, dad, and...well, no. We both work at the Ministry, but he's like – well, he's like a professional jury member? Because he's from a noble family, being a Malfoy. It's very vaguely like being a member of the House of Lords I suppose."

"Hang on. His family were the ones who scarred you, weren't they?" Her father said then, anger and protectiveness seeping into his tone, as if he'd only just put together that Draco Malfoy at school was the same person as the Draco Malfoy who'd stood there while Bellatrix hurt Hermione. She shuddered despite herself, remembering what Malfoy had said about it. I threw up, after. Well, so had she. Despite what he'd said, and despite the fact that she believed how much he regretted it, it was still hard to wrap her head around the memory when it was flung in her face unexpectedly.

Her dad went on, frowning now. "During the War? I remember Ron said they tortured you. When your mum and I were in Australia with that damned magical amnesia you gave us. Wasn't that his family who did that? Wasn't he there? And now you're – you're seeing him?"

"I'm not –" Hermione broke off, huffing in anger. There was no point in denying it now. She had to try another tack – defending Malfoy. Merlin. The strange twists that life took. "He was a teenager, dad. He was coerced into service under threat. He didn't have a lot of choice. And he never hurt me himself." Her father just looked at her, and Hermione was aware of how flimsy her excuses sounded. "It was a long, long time ago. And I believe Malfoy when he says he isn't who he was then, and that he regrets what he did. His actions show that he's not that person anymore."

"Hm. If you say so, Hermione," her father agreed, clearly unconvinced. "And he's Rose's friend's father, too?"

"Yes. That's really the only reason I agreed to go out to lunch with Malfoy the first time he asked me," Hermione said not entirely truthfully, and then flushed as she realised that she'd just admitted to multiple lunches. Oh well; she was fairly certain her father had probably already assumed that, and worse besides. "She and Scorpius are best friends."

"And you still call him Malfoy?" Her father's mouth twitched with an incipient smile, and Hermione huffed a laugh of relief; that was a safe question.

"I do," she admitted. "I'm not sure why. I think because he still calls me Granger." Her cheeks heated. "Instead of Granger-Weasley, you see." And she kind of loved it. She was Hermione or 'Mione to all her family and friends, and Mrs Granger-Weasley to everyone else. She was only Granger to Malfoy. And the thought of actually calling him Draco was...strange. Not bad, just unnatural now, after so long calling him Malfoy. When she blinked back to the moment her father was watching her with fond parental amusement.

"I'd tell you not to jump straight from one relationship to another, but I have a feeling it'd be fruitless," her father said. "I can't say I approve of either of your choices, though. Ron was a good lad, but not a good match for you. And this Malfoy – from what I understand, it's a little like dating someone who used to be a member of the Hitler Youth." He made a face.

"Dad! It's not – he's not –" Hermione gasped, horrified by the comparison, but she quickly realised there wasn't a lot she could say.

"Like Rolf from The Sound of Music," her father went on, and Hermione winced at the comparison. They'd both been blond, arrogant, idealistic, and terrible. Except Malfoy had redeemed himself. He'd changed. "Did he go to that magical prison? Is my daughter dating an ex-con?" Her dad raised his brows.

"Azkaban? No. He and his parents were all found not guilty, in the end." Hermione remembered vividly the scandal of that. She'd been furious at the time; especially considering her visit to Malfoy in Azkaban.

They'd sat across a table from each other, his hands chained to it as he sat there in a grubby jumpsuit, and he'd called her a mudblood and said it was because of filth like her that he was going to rot in Azkaban for the rest of his life, and he hated her. He'd been terrified, she realised much later. Scared out of his wits and angry with it. Lashing out. And she – who had gone to see him for reasons she'd never understood – had told him she wished they still had dementors in Azkaban, because he was a monster and he didn't deserve anything happy.

"He spent several months in Azkaban before his trial, but after that he went free," she said aloud, very calmly. "I didn't see him again until about a decade ago, when he took his place on the Wizengamot, Merlin knows why. And I hadn't spoken to him until this term began."

"And he's a gentleman? He treats you with respect?"

Hermione remembered what he'd whispered in her ear just earlier. She wasn't sure that counted as respect, but... "He's thoughtful, and attentive, and surprisingly sweet," she told her father, realising that yes, all those things were true. "A consumate gentleman."

"So if he has a son, I assume he had a wife. What happened to her? Divorced? Or did she die?" her dad asked, grilling her, and Hermione groaned.

"That's complicated, dad. The wizarding world isn't like ours. It's about seventy years behind at least, in some regards. They just don't do divorce there, unless your husband or wife is in Azkaban for a serious crime. Especially not the noble pureblood families."

"But you and Ron...?"

"I'm a Muggleborn. So I don't care. And Ron's fairly modern. Plus I think he'll want to marry again eventually."

"But Draco Malfoy is more traditional?"

"Well...sort of. But his wife definitely is. And his parents. Shit." She rubbed her forehead, stress building as pressure behind her eyes, a headache burgeoning. "I really didn't want to think about this yet." About where they were heading, and whether he would divorce Astoria, and could they even get a divorce in the wizarding world unless both parties agreed? Hermione couldn't remember. And what if he didn't? Was Hermione going to just be his mistress forever? Ugh, no. She couldn't. This hadn't just opened a can of worms, it had dumped the can all over her head, right when she already had enough on her plate to worry about.

"Sorry, love, but you can't just ignore the inconvenient truth. You know that," her father said apologetically, and Hermione thunked her head back against the couch. Merlin fucking damnit. She could ignore it, and she would. For just a little while longer, at least.

That night, sleeping in her father's tiny spare bedroom, Hermione dreamt of that day in Azkaban. But he was dressed in Rolf Gruber's uniform and she wore Liesel's pink dress, from the gazebo scene. Instead of just yelling at him, she slapped him, and his chains fell from his wrists at the sharp blow, a red handprint flaring on his face. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her arm forward, turning it over to show the still-fresh scarring. It was more lurid than it had been in reality and impossibly long; too long to fit on her arm but somehow it did.

you'll burn on a pyre of cypress

this I promise you, bitch

"That's not supposed to be there," she said, meeting Malfoy's eyes, the handprint seared into his skin like a burn.

"You're not supposed to be here," he replied and then dropped her arm, lifting his hand to caress her face. "It isn't safe, Granger."

"Why do you even care? After what you did? After what you stood by and watched? You're a Death Eater, Draco. You hate me."

"I haven't hated you in years, Granger. I love you," he said simply, and Hermione's chest felt suddenly over-full and bursting at the seams. It hurt. His hand curled around the back of her head and he pulled her in and kissed her, and it was hot and warm. Too warm. Heat seared Hermione and she pulled away from Malfoy. They stood at a witch-burning stake, surrounded by flaming branches. Cypress. She gathered up her pale pink skirts.

"Run!" she screamed, but he shook his head.

"I can't, Granger." Chained to the stake, arms above his head. "You run," he said, and kicked out. His foot didn't connect with Hermione but she went tumbling back anyway, head over heels, her skirts flying. She came to a stop on her back floating in a pool of silvery water, almost like...a pensieve. And pink hibiscus flowers rained down; a flurry, a blizzard, sinking into the silver fluid she trod water in.

"Draco!" she screamed, looking around desperately. And then something grabbed her by the ankle and yanked her under, a crushing feeling of dread swallowing her and she knew she was going to die, drowned in memories.

And then Hermione woke, eyes snapping open as she jerked upright, panting and whimpering into the silent, strange room.

"What do you mean you can't make it?" she whisper-yelled into her phone, standing on her dad's back step in her pyjamas and a pair of his too-big slippers, the autumn air biting through her. Ron made an unhappy grumble.

"Look, 'Mione, I'm sorry, but it's work. Not personal. I have to be there."

"It's just practice, Ron!" Her voice rose and Hermione lowered it, aware her dad would probably be able to hear her. He was getting ready to go out himself; he and Karen had decided to start a habit of visiting stately homes one Sunday a month. It sounded nice, Hermione thought wistfully. Not so much the stately homes – Hermione could pass on that – but being able to go out whenever one liked, with no one judging them. "I can't believe you forgot about this!"

"You know I'm not great at keeping track –"

"Yeah, and I'm sure Chastity's been keeping you distracted too, right? Ronald?"

"Fine, Hermione, yes, I've been too busy shagging Chastity into the bed to remember practice conflicted with lunch," Ron snarled angrily, horribly sarcastic, and Hermione felt a sharp pain stab through her chest. "I admit it. Does that make you feel better? Do you feel superior now? Because from what I know, you're just as bad with Malfoy."

White-hot rage spiked through Hermione, blinding her for a moment. "Fuck you, Ronald. I haven't slept with him since – since one time, one time right after I found out about you and whoever you were screwing before Chastity. So I think I get a pass. And since then, nothing, okay? Nothing." She was almost panting down the phone, her heart racing and clattering judder-fast. The half a mug of coffee she'd drunk sat uneasy in her stomach.

"I don't know if I beli–"

"Shut up, Ronald. It doesn't matter anyway. I don't give a shit." Hermione forced out a breath, harsh and angry. "What time?"

"What?"

"What time were you due to get her, Ronald? Honestly." She was scathing.

"Eleven," Ron said sullenly, and he clearly knew exactly what she was doing and was happy for her to do it without him even having to ask, and she fumed over that too. He was so used to her fixing things for him. She hated it. "I was going to pick her up at Hogwarts front gate."

"Fine. Okay. I'll take Rose out. I'll pick up your damned mess. But you better make up for it with her. With time, not money or gifts." And then she jammed the end call icon, furious as she stormed back into the house, shutting the door quietly behind her and wishing fervently that she could slam it. "Dad?" she called. "Dad, I'm going out too. I have to take Rose in to Hogsmeade for lunch. Do you have a spare key?"

He did, it turned out, which made things easier. It was only half past nine, so Hermione sat and finished her coffee and breakfast in the sun, and then she did the sudoku in the paper while her dad got his shoes on, and double-checked he had the parts of the picnic lunch he and Karen were going to have that he was responsible for. He kissed the top of her head.

"Your hair looks nice today, love." She hadn't done anything to it; Malfoy's charm just hadn't worn off yet.

"Thanks, dad. New spell," she said and he nodded inanely, it meaning very little to him.

"Well, I should be back before dinner, but otherwise who knows. The world is my oyster. Just call if you need anything. Say hi to Rose and give her a big hug for me." He tossed his keys in his hand jauntily and popped on a straw sun hat, pointing at Hermione. "No boys over while I'm out!" Hermione gave him a chuckle and rolled her eyes.

"No promises," she shot back on a whim, and he laughed, genuine and loud. "Have fun, dad."

"You too!"

And then Hermione was alone in the flat, with an hour and a half to get ready to take Rose out. Plenty of time. She showered – not getting her hair wet – and slid on the same jeans as yesterday, a long-sleeved white t-shirt, and a cosy off-white woollen jersey with a patterned yoke in blues and burnt orange, from M&S. That would surely be warm enough, she figured. If it wasn't, she'd just cast a warming charm. Then she stood and stared for too long at her wedding ring and engagement ring glinting dully on her finger, the small diamond on her engagement ring in need of a clean. With a tight expression she twisted them both off and tucked them in her toiletries bag. And then Hermione curled up on the couch and half-read, half sat and stared at nothing until 10.50, when she pulled on brown ankle boots and tucked the keys in her pocket, handbag over her shoulder and then walked out to the back shed, to apparate to the edge of Hogwarts' grounds.