46.

Monday passed both slowly and oddly fast. Hermione took her potions, and then spent the morning moping about miserably, complaining, and probably driving her father crazy. She was annoyed by her restricted diet, she was frustrated she couldn't go to work, her knee was still a little sore, she missed Malfoy, and she felt infuriatingly fragile. She couldn't settle to anything. Not reading, not browsing time-wasting websites, not watching TV – everything left her feeling restless.

She baked a tray of biscuits – peanut brownies that she wasn't even allowed to eat – to fill in time, and after setting some aside for her father, parcelled up the rest into two packages to owl to the children. She liked to send them treats to share with their friends now and then. She attached notes for each of them.

Hi Hugo,

I hope you're well, darling. I baked these myself, so hopefully they've turned out alright. Make sure you share them with your friends! And speaking of your friends, I heard from Sanjeet and Skye's parents about spending time together in the holidays. Hopefully you can have a sleepover at least once. I love you very much!

Mum

Hermione wrote similar to Rose, except instead of mentioning a sleepover, she asked if Rose and Scorpius would like to go to Hogsmeade on Saturday, if Malfoy was available. She used a candle to firecall through to the post office and ordered an owl, and when it arrived she tucked payment in its pouch and it flew off with her two small parcels hooked under its claws, looking disappointed that she didn't have any owl treats. Usually she just owled things from work; it was why they hadn't gotten another owl after their last one, Castiel, had died of old age. But of course, now she wasn't at work.

She tried doing the crossword in the paper with her father, but her head felt too muzzy from her potions, and while her guilt over sleeping with Malfoy at her home had mostly faded – overwhelmed by how amazing the act had been – she was beginning to worry slightly about their lack of contraception in the bathroom. She was sure it'd be fine; she was forty for Merlin's sake. Hardly amazingly fertile. And he'd pulled out in plenty of time. She didn't think there was any need to bother with trying a charm, or getting the morning after pill again – and she felt too foggy-headed to do either anyway. Oh well, she'd know in another week, she thought with a grimace, not sure what she'd do if she were pregnant.

So the morning went slowly. The afternoon, however, vanished in one nap.

After a lunch of soup and toast, Hermione slept until a text from Harry woke her at 4pm.

[So, Malfoy's currently standing over me, insisting I text you and ask how you are today. I told him you'd be fine and I still have work to do, and he just glared at me and refused to budge. So, how are you 'Mione?]

Hermione stared at her screen, and grinned; a gleeful, giddy expression, like a teenage girl whose crush had just messaged her.

Tell him I'm fine, she tapped out. But I'm bored, and I miss him. Hermione paused, and her grin widened and turned wicked. She never would've expected Malfoy to expose his emotions by deigning to ask Harry to check on her. She found herself wondering just how far he would go. Feeling both bold at saying it to Harry, and curious as to just how Malfoy would respond, she added: Tell him I love him.

And then she sent it, only to drop her phone to her chest seconds later, regretting her impulsiveness immediately. She probably shouldn't have put Malfoy on the spot like that. Or been so blatant with Harry. He knew about her and Malfoy but that didn't mean he wanted it rubbed in his face. "Ughhh," she groaned.

Her phone beeped. Tentatively, she looked.

[You're awful and I hate you. That was one of the most uncomfortable moments of my life. Also, Malfoy says he loves you too.]

Then seconds later, as Hermione was grinning into one hand:

[Get him a damned phone.]

I'm doing that tomorrow. And thanks, Harry. I owe you.

He sent back an eye roll emoji, and Hermione spent the rest of the day feeling lighter, warmth pooled in her stomach.

At 12:10 on Tuesday, as Hermione was trying to zip herself into her black dress, there was a knock at the back door. Oh shit. Malfoy. It could only be him. And he was early. She'd said she'd meet him outside the garden shed at half twelve. Hadn't she? She swore under her breath struggling with the zip. No, she remembered with a groan – she'd said midday and it was already ten past. No wonder he was at the door. Shit. She twisted, contorting as she tried to yank her zip up, but it was stuck in the centre of her back now. Shit. She heard her father's footsteps down the hall. "It's fine, Dad, I've got it!"

She poked her head out her half open door as her father walked past, his eyes bright with mischief. "You're not even dressed, love."

"Daaaad!" Hermione felt like a teenager as she wailed at him, but then he was at the door and she slammed her lips shut, glaring daggers at him. But there was no way her father was missing an opportunity to meet Malfoy. Shit. She huffed, pulling back into her room a little as her father opened the door, staying out of sight and swearing in her head. Annoyance seethed through her as she leaned back against the wall beside the door with an exasperated sigh. She hadn't done her hair yet, and she was barefoot in her half-zipped dress, and now her father was meeting Malfoy unsupervised. Merlin's pants. What a disaster.

"Hello," she heard her father say mildly.

"Hello. Dr Granger, I presume?" she heard Malfoy ask politely, and oh, even just hearing his voice made her smile ridiculously, as if she was an infatuated girl. She shut her eyes and smiled, fingers pressed to her lips as she pictured Malfoy standing at the door, tall and handsome in one of his stylish suits that made it look as though he stepped out of a Brontë novel. Admittedly, she was infatuated – she was just supposed to be more mature about it at her age. He hadn't sounded nervous, greeting her dad. And he'd remembered to address her father properly. That would be a point in his favour. She'd explained her father's work to him in detail several weeks ago, and while it had taken him a while to wrap his head around the concept of dentistry, he'd been equal parts fascinated and horrified.

"Dr Richard Granger, yes. And you are?" her father asked, tone rather cool, and Hermione returned to battling urgently with her zipper. She twisted her arm almost out of her socket to reach it with her fingertips, and then it just wouldn't bloody go up.

"Draco Malfoy. It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr Granger," Malfoy went on smoothly. A brief pause. "I made an appointment to take your daughter out to lunch?"

"Mm. I remember you," her father said, tone positively frigid now. Oh damn. Hermione yanked her door open and poked her head out, giving up on her zipper. "You're the one who –"

"Dad!" she snapped. "Be nice!"

"I am," her father said mildly, at the same time as Malfoy said: "Granger," warmth saturating his voice. He was in one of his Edwardian influenced suits today; dapper in a pinstriped waistcoat beneath his navy sack coat, the golden snitch covered tie peeking out, his shoes mirror-shined. His eyes were appreciative. Wistful. Hermione flushed, remembering Sunday. Coming on his mouth in the shower. On all fours as he fucked her. Clinging to him in the shed.

"Hi Malfoy." She gave her father a pointed look. "Thanks, Dad. I would've gotten the door though. You didn't have to get up."

"No problem, love." Her father's expression was all faux innocence as he smiled at Hermione. "Draco – do you have time for a cup of tea, before you take my daughter to lunch?" Her father pinned Malfoy with a very expectant look. Malfoy cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably, casting a helpless glance at Hermione, clearly wanting guidance. She shrugged and grimaced.

"Of course, Dr Granger," Malfoy said smoothly when Hermione failed to find a way to rescue him from the situation. "We can stop for half an hour or so."

"I need help getting zipped up first, " Hermione said quickly, hoping to grab a minute with Malfoy before the interrogation began. "Malfoy?"

"I'll go pop the kettle on then." Her father smiled at them both and left them alone, and Hermione gave Malfoy an apologetic look as she beckoned him into her room, clicking the door shut behind them. It was more of a box room than a proper spare bedroom, painted in a buttery shade of cream, the narrow bed and an undersized dresser crammed into the poky space together, with a bedside table just fitting beside the bed, and sun streaming in the one window. She began to turn and he halted her.

"No, stay there. I'll zip you." He said as he slid his hands to her hips, holding her still. His fingers were soft on her bare skin as they slid up her back, and she felt like he might be unnecessarily fiddling with her zip. And then a kiss dropped on her shoulder so brief and light it was barely a whisper, as her zipper snicked up smoothly. Shivers ran down her spine. "Sorry I came in, but I wondered if you'd forgotten. Also, I think I landed directly in a cobweb," he said, followed smoothly by, "I do like this dress on you."

"Thank you." Hermione turned to face him. His hair was shoved back and ever so slightly dishevelled, a faint smile curving his lips, his eyes warm and pleased. She wanted to kiss him. Instead she reached up and smoothed down a tuft of white-blond hair that, as it turned out, had a bit of cobweb stuck in it still. He had clearly had been attacked by spiders, she thought, suppressing a smile. "And I'm so sorry. I thought I was meeting you at half past twelve."

"No. Midday," he said, seeming amused rather than annoyed. "I know you said to wait in the shed, but I wasn't about to suffer in there for an unknown length of time. I feared the spiders were plotting."

"No, of course not. God, I'm so sorry." Embarrassment fizzed up. She'd just left him in the garden shed for ten minutes. Merlin. What a mix up.

"Don't be, Granger. Stop apologising." Malfoy pulled out his wand and swivelled her around again with his hands on her shoulders, fingers combing through her hair. It felt lovely. "Honestly, it's fine."

"I don't know where my head's at, right now. I feel so scattered." She frowned to herself, annoyed as she smoothed her dress over her hips, and he murmured a charm and magic soaked into her as her hair suddenly felt a fraction heavier, and a few loose curls slid forward around her face.

"Which is why you're at home resting, instead of at work," he said patiently, as he did something to pin her curls back. She tried to imagine Ron doing her hair and couldn't; he could just about manage a slightly scruffy plait thanks to having to do Rose's hair for Honeywell's occasionally when she was little. "There. Your hair has been defeated, no Sleekeazy's necessary." Malfoy was smiling down at her as she turned around and his hands went to her waist. She fiddled with his jacket lapels, the urge to kiss him very strong.

"Thank you. You have to teach me that charm – it's fantastic," she said instead, but found herself leaning toward him anyway, face upturned. Malfoy's eyes darkened and his breath caught. And then a faint voice came through the door – her father calling that the kettle had boiled, and Malfoy's hands fell away as he took a step back from her and shoved his hands in his pockets, like a naughty little boy caught touching something he shouldn't. Hermione groaned. "And now you're going to be stuck getting the third degree from my father. Christ, I'm sorry."

"I survived Voldemort, Granger," he said dryly. "I think I can handle half an hour with your father."

"Mm. Well," she said meaningfully, as she slipped on her black court shoes and opened her bedroom door, leading the way through the tiny flat, giving Malfoy a wee tour. He observed everything with a keen eye – always interested in Muggle technology. He paused to examine the photos on the mantel in the front room – family portraits over the years. He glossed over the ones with Ron, but lingered on one of Hermione and her parents, when she was two. They were standing on the front doorstep of the house they'd been living in at the time, and Hermione was in her mum's arms. Her hair was a wild halo, unlike her mum's dark, silky waves, and her dad's was gingery brown and long enough to be a curly thatch on top of his head instead of the short, thinning grey it was now.

"You look a bit like your mother," Malfoy said softly, arm sliding around her waist. They were playing fast and loose with the rules, but Hermione said nothing. She felt warm, thinking that she looked like her mum. She'd always thought her mum had been pretty, and stylish.

"Thanks." She leaned into him.

"What was her name?"

"Thomasina. But she hated it. Everyone called her Tommy. Or Mina, sometimes."

He huffed a laugh. "Understandable. It's a bit of a mouthful. And yet she named you Hermione?"

Hermione smiled. Her name was indeed a mouthful. "I'd never really thought about that. Odd. And she always called me Hermione, too. Neither of my parents have ever shortened my name, or called me 'Mione."

"I still find myself preferring Granger," he said smoothly, his hand warm around her waist.

"Good," she said softly. She preferred it too, strangely.

She felt oddly nervous as they entered the dining room. Her father was mild-mannered and so far had been quite understanding of her relationship with Malfoy, but she was certain he wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to give Malfoy a grilling. At least Malfoy wouldn't know what her father was talking about if he compared him to Rolf from The Sound of Music. Hermione grimaced, crossing her fingers. They all sat at the small square dining table; Malfoy opposite Hermione's father, having pulled out the chair for Hermione like a gentleman before he'd sat. They made small talk for a moment; Hermione's father admiring her hair, and asking where they were going for lunch – the Folly – and Malfoy asking her how her knee was today – nearly back to normal.

"Hermione baked the biscuits this morning," her father said as he set out the tea on a tray and Malfoy thanked him. Sugar, a little jug of milk, and three mugs of tea already poured, along with a platter of Hermione's peanut brownies. It was all very genial and banal; Hermione held her breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It surely couldn't go without a hitch.

"Oh really? I didn't know you baked," Malfoy said with a polite interest as he took one, and Merlin's pants, this was so awkward. She shrugged weakly.

"I don't really bake as such. Not as a hobby. But now and then I'll whip something up. It's hardly difficult. Far easier than potions."

"You always were good at potions," he said rather fondly, as he poured the milk into both their tea cups, and then passed the jug to her father.

"Yes, and then Snape gave you the best marks because of who you were," she complained, arching a brow, still indignant about that favouritism even all these years later. She'd slaved away, doing her absolute, utmost best while Malfoy had skated along thanks to Snape's preferential treatment. Malfoy's lips twitched, flickering into a smirk.

"I'll have you know I was excellent at potions," he defended, as Hermione's father quietly sipped his tea and watched the conversation over the rim of his cup with an air of amusement. So far he didn't seem inclined to begin an interrogation, which was interesting.

"Hm. Not that good." She frowned at Malfoy, and he smiled properly then, his eyes ash grey in the light and crinkling at the corners as his mouth curved. It felt like they were alone in the room despite her father's presence, with Malfoy smiling at her like that – the expression startlingly sweet. He was usually never like this in front of others. Hermione wasn't sure why he was being different now. She suspected he might be deliberately allowing the vulnerability because it was her father, and he wanted to demonstrate his affection for her. Or perhaps he was still just set entirely off balance by her kidnapping. She knew she was.

"You wound me, Granger," he said looking entirely unwounded as he kept gazing at her with the quiet, contained affection, and she felt her cheeks go hot again. Her hand went to her necklace, the tanzanite still feeling foreign there after having had the vial of felix felicis around her neck for so long, glowing softly golden.

"You're certainly good at potions now. The felix felicis..." She dragged her eyes away from Malfoy and looked at her father, still watching them both, his eyes unreadable. "He saved my life, Dad." She explained it to her father as Malfoy sat there, looking uncomfortable under her praise, nibbling on a biscuit. She hadn't talked to her dad about the ordeal at all yet, and he thoughtfully hadn't pried – but now, with Malfoy present, she felt able to relay the basic details that Harry might have skipped over, as her father sat there looking grave and worried, asking questions occasionally. "Of course, the children don't know any of this. They think Usbourne turned up while I was at home on Thursday, and poisoned me then. So don't let it slip."

"I won't. Good God, Hermione, love." Her father looked aged as he sat there, fiddling with his empty tea cup, shoulders stooped and expression worried and worn. "Your job has always seemed so safe, but I suppose these things can happen when you're dealing with criminals. Are you being provided with protection from now on?"

"That's what this is," Hermione said, holding out her hand, and then spent the next five minutes trying to get her father to see the charmed ring, after explaining how it worked to him. He gave up in the end; the charms laid on it were clearly very good. "Well, I suppose we'd better go," Hermione said at last, seizing the opportunity for escape.

"Oh, it's only been fifteen minutes. And I haven't even had the chance to have a proper talk to Draco. I hear your son is good friends with Rose?" her father railroaded over her, and Hermione groaned.

"Yes. They're very close. She's been invaluable to Scorpius as a friend. I'm very grateful he has her. She's a wonderful girl." Malfoy shot Hermione a sidelong glance. "She seems to have her mother's sense of justice. And bravery. And intelligence too, if our conversation at St Mungo's was any indication," he added in an aside to Hermione, smiling wryly.

"She's very much like her mother, yes. Although she doesn't give her parents half as much trouble as this one gave her mum and me, growing up. She gave us some kind of magical amnesia during the war and sent us off to Australia."

Oh dear. The war. This was dangerous territory

"Yes, Granger told me."

Hermione's father gave Malfoy a funny smile, and it took Hermione a moment to realise it was the way he'd called her Granger that had done it. Oh thank Merlin, perhaps this might derail him from war talk. Hermione didn't want to spend her lunch with Malfoy explaining The Sound of Music and the Hitler Youth. She already felt like she might have to ask about Astoria and the divorce papers he'd sent her, and perhaps what exactly had happened last Wednesday when he'd gone to see his father – and that was enough serious talk for one lunch.

"She calls you Malfoy, and you call her Granger, hm?" Her father probed. "Shouldn't it be Granger-Weasley, at least?"

"No," Malfoy said simply, no banter about it, just a simple statement of fact as he looked over at Hermione, his eyes like burnished silver in the light, the corner of his mouth just tipping up a fraction. He looked stunningly attractive, and Hermione's heart fluttered. "No, it shouldn't. She's always been Granger to me, and she always will be." Somehow that felt like a statement of love as clear as if he'd gotten on his knees, and Hermione pressed her lips together hard as her breath stuttered in and her stomach flip-flopped.

"But you're still married to Scorpius's mother, I understand?"

Oh no. Why did she have to think of Astoria? It was as though her thoughts had summoned mention of the woman. But Malfoy just nodded, features neutral as he set his tea cup down.

"Yes. I am. We've been essentially separated for nearly a decade –"

"I told you purebloods don't get divorced, Dad," Hermione cut in. "And I told you he's still married." She felt awkward saying that in front of Malfoy and her eyes skittered away from him, staring into her tea.

"We only divorce in the most dire of circumstances, usually. But I sent Tori the papers last Thursday morning, actually. Before Granger turned up on my doorstep that evening." His voice went a little rough with emotion at the end there, his eyes scouring over Hermione like a physical caress. As if he still needed to reassure himself she was safe.

"Ah... I see," her dad said slowly and thoughtfully as he eyed Malfoy, and Hermione wondered if he really did see. Maybe he did. "So you'll be bucking the system, then? What do your parents think about that?"

Malfoy winced. "I haven't told them yet." He met her dad's eyes unwaveringly, and Hermione could see her father appreciated that. "We're not particularly close. Our views on social issues differ a good deal."

"They hate people like Hermione, you mean?" her father said bluntly. "And me?"

Malfoy hissed quietly, a pained look coming over him, and Hermione gave her father an exasperated frown. "Dad. Please."

"No, Hermione. You're not yet officially separated from your husband, and you've gotten involved with a married man, whose parents are effectively Nazis. A man who himself belonged to these –"

"Dad! "

"My mother was never a Death Eater," Malfoy said quietly, shame on his ashen features. "Just my father, and me. I took the Mark – joined – when I was sixteen. My father was in Azkaban, and the implication was that if I didn't take his place and make good on his failures, my mother and I would suffer." He sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair, his eyes still fixed on Hermione's father as she sat there frozen with horror and dread, glad she'd put on antiperspirant and perfume, because she was clammy. Sweating. "I was a foolish child, Dr Granger. I was terrified, but I also thought I was being honoured by being allowed to join, under-age. I felt special. I wasn't. I was a stupid, nasty little bigot, and my actions hurt a lot of people, directly or indirectly. Including your daughter. I regret it all. Deeply." He fell silent then.

He and Hermione's father locked eyes for a silent moment that seemed to stretch on forever. And then Hermione released a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding as her father nodded. As if Malfoy had passed some test.

"I see," her father said again, as he stood and stacked their empty tea cups and platter of mostly eaten biscuits on the tray. Malfoy had eaten three biscuits, Hermione noted with a hint of pleasure. Her father sighed. "Well, I can't say that on paper you're exactly who I'd like Hermione to get involved with, but as she always says, she's a grown woman and it's none of my business. Which of course I don't agree with." He smiled at Hermione as she bestowed an irritated look upon him. He carried the tray into the kitchen, glancing up at Malfoy, who still looked a little pale and strained, tension in his posture. "But you make her very happy. And ultimately, that's all I care about."

"So does he have your blessing then?" Hermione asked tartly, and her father chuckled as he meandered back over, bracing himself with his hands on the back of his chair.

"Once you two get divorced, then yes."

"Well, thank you, Dad," she snipped sarcastically as she stood, Malfoy standing as well. "Can we go to lunch now, or would you like to interrogate him some more?"

"Go on then, love. Enjoy yourself. Make sure he pays." Her father grinned at her and gave her a kiss on the cheek, and then he and Malfoy shook hands firmly and with gusto.

"It was good to finally meet you, Dr Granger."

"And you, Draco," her father said sincerely, and smiled amicably enough. And then Hermione dragged Malfoy away by the hand into the hall, and out the back door before her father could change his mind, snagging up her handbag and coat on the way.