Hermione began wearing the watch on her left wrist.

Watches, bracelets, and rings had been worn exclusively on her right hand for seven years. Any attention paid to her right hand, right wrist, right arm was attention not paid to her left. For the first time since the incident, Hermione wasn't concerned about people seeing her arm; it was part of her. If Draco didn't mind, why should she care about anyone else's opinion?

Scorpius's birthday was a bit of a mess because Draco said his son wasn't allowed to receive gifts.

"What sort of birthday doesn't have gifts?"

Draco had sighed what Hermione termed his "money sigh." The exasperated exhale which seemed to convey, You need to reconceptualize your idea of wealth.

"Hermione, I have the sort of money that makes people stupid. How, as a parent, could someone get my son a gift I couldn't get him myself? I can buy Scorpius anything he wants short of true friends. Kids showing up and having a good time is a better gift than anything else."

Which made logical sense. If only Draco had mentioned this before Hermione purchased a birthday present. There were three boxes stashed away in her closet. Perhaps it was best if Draco didn't know about them. A maman to Scorpius secret, then.

Maman.

Hermione had no clue how to embrace that title. She sat on the edge of the bed while Draco was in his office and called the best mum she knew. The phone rang, and rang, and rang until Hermione heard a familiar clanging of pots and pans in the background.

"Molly?"

"Hermione! How are you, dear?"

Hermione could've cried. It was always so good to hear her voice. After everything, Molly still considered Hermione family. Hermione said,

"I'm far better than I was when we last spoke."

"Between you and me, I believe they only gave Percy that job because it's an easy way to keep him out of the country."

Hermione giggled.

"Perhaps."

Molly agreed, "Perhaps. I've heard some things about you lately. Read some things, too. Ron has been quite open with his opinions, so I've had to remind him he is not your husband any longer."

"Sometimes I wish he was," admitted Hermione. "Our life was rather easy until it wasn't. I know Draco's father was awful to you and Arthur—"

"Awful is a word for it, dear. Dreadful, a knob, wanker, don't get me started or I'll be on for ten minutes. Lucius Malfoy was an awful man. We knew, as did everyone in certain circles, how he looked down on his boy. That does not make his son an awful man. In fact, sometimes between the name-calling Ron says he's been quite respectful toward you."

"He has. Draco and I have been trying to figure out whether our families can come together in a way that works well for everyone. We have the distance from Wiltshire to London, my career, and his grief to navigate."

"Is it serious, then?" asked Molly.

"Quite." Hermione cleared her throat and said, "That is what I called to ask you about."

"Marriage?"

"No. I'm certain Draco and I will eventually work out how we communicate best. We care for each other but sometimes we have such different perspectives on life that we don't know how to align them. That is the sort of work we are willing to do to make our relationship a happy one. I called to ask you something a bit more personal."

"Ask anything."

"What does it mean to be a mum?"

There was a long pause on Molly's end of the call before she said, "I don't understand the question."

"Draco's son considers me a second mother of sorts. He calls me his maman, and I am worried I may not be," she frowned, "mum material."

"I see."

"He's a great little boy; it's his birthday tomorrow, even. He's turning six."

"Oh!" Molly's smile was evident in her voice. "That's a wonderful age. Six and seven are such an exciting time when they're discovering their interests. At six years old, Charlie was digging up my tomatoes in the garden hoping to find ancient artifacts."

Hermione chuckled.

"At six, Ginny was already kicking tiny footballs into the back fence. No keeper in the world has saved more penalties than my back posts. What does your little boy love to do?"

Your little boy.

"He quite likes to draw. Scorpius likes to run, even though he can hardly keep himself upright much of the time. It's as though his heart and his feet are far quicker than the rest of his body. He also enjoys Formula 1 and pedicures."

"Pedicures?"

Hermione admitted, "I spoil him a bit."

"He sounds like quite the interesting child. Why have you phoned me, exactly?"

"Because I don't know what it is like to be a mother. Much less a mother to a child whose biological mum died giving birth to him." Hermione groaned. "I fear that as he gets older, Scorpius may not feel as close to me as he does now. I haven't a clue what I'm doing, I am so far out of my depth—"

"Hermione, no one knows what they're doing as parents. We're all trying not to completely brick it."

"But you've done such a good job—"

"I have great kids, and that helps. When it comes to being a mum, you must be well aware of your skills. I cook, I clean, I bandage scrapes and all that. As a mum, my job is to be the person my children can come to for anything. For advice, even, like you're doing now."

Hermione's heart ached. She had felt like Molly's child once, years and years ago. Molly said,

"Some plants grow best indoors, while others grow best out of doors. Others yet need a greenhouse. You need to think of a child like their own plant system. Some parts of their personality may need to be nurtured indoors, out of doors, or whichever greenhouse they should choose for themselves. As a parent, you figure out what your child needs and which parts of them you are best equipped to tend to. Are you the gardener or the botanist? When do they come to you, and when must you send them to someone else? Where you fall short, you have a husband or a community or whomever to pick them up."

"I don't know." Hermione admitted, "I don't know what I have to offer a child, really. I'm a reporter, Molly, not a mum."

"Do you love this little boy?"

"Yes."

"He calls you his mother?"

"Yes."

"Would you put his interests before your own?"

"Without question."

"Then you are his mother, Hermione." Molly insisted, "If he chose you, there's nothing more powerful. For a child to have the world at his fingertips the way that boy does, and to say you are what's missing in his life at six years old? You need to defer to him. Is Lucius's son on board with this?"

Hermione revealed, "Draco wants me to take this role. Scorpius wants me to take this role. I keep finding myself wondering why I hesitate."

"Do you feel like you're taking another woman's son away?"

"It feels like I am taking the opportunity she never received."

"When a woman has a child, she lives in their blood in a way a father can't. If I were in your shoes, I would see this as an opportunity to learn about who she was right alongside her son. Honour her by keeping those memories alive. You may need to pull them out of Draco Malfoy sometimes, but his son needs to hear what she was like."

"I suppose," Hermione said, "there is a concern I may fall out of love with Draco. Or he could fall out of love with me—"

"Then he's an idiot," quipped Molly.

Hermione laughed.

"Thank you, truly, but what if I don't love him twenty years from now? Then I'm still a mum to his son? That hardly sounds proper to me."

"You've waited seven years to find love again, Hermione. I've known you long enough to say if you're risking your reputation for this man, then you know it's a lifelong commitment ahead."

"Thank you, Molly, for saying that. I knew you were the proper person to call."

"Of course, dear. You're not the only one of us who's a second mum."

.oOo.

Draco spent the Sunday after his son's birthday travelling to and from Manchester. He offered for Hermione to tag along, but that hardly felt appropriate. Draco needed a day of mourning and Astoria deserved it. Hermione suspected Draco only made the offer to avoid making her feel unwanted, as though she was so emotionally delicate. Though she yelled at him for making her feel unwanted the week prior and threatened to leave him—perhaps this was another area in which they were still feeling each other out.

Hermione drove Scorpius back to Malfoy Manor on Sunday afternoon, and they ate dinner in front of the telly. It was odd, having a television in so readily available in a place she considered home. Hermione put on The Great Pottery Throwdown because Scorpius exhibited such an interest in art. Molly said children begin to understand their own interests at six and it was best to encourage them. After the first episode, Scorpius rushed to another room and returned with an armful of Play-Doh. Hermione watched him for a half hour as he made his own "clay" tea set with the show playing out like his instruction manual.

Astoria would've been happy with him. Hermione was confident that wherever she was, her spirit was incredibly proud of her son. He was kind and so very silly. Draco was silly, but he was not a particularly kind or considerate person. Hermione suspected deep down Draco had his mother's vindictiveness and his father's entitlement. He had covered it up for Astoria, to be the man she needed. With the proper push, Draco Malfoy would set the world on fire.

"Can I ask a question?"

Hermione turned her attention to Scorpius's purple and red tea set with yellow saucers. She smiled, imagining Scorpius at a kiln someday. His rich friends would be out and about in their fancy jackets while he showed up in an apron with dried clay stuck to one eyebrow. Hermione patted his knee and insisted,

"Of course. You can always ask me questions, baby blond."

Scorpius laced his fingers together and wrapped his arms around his knees.

"Is today a sad day?"

Hermione didn't know how to answer that. She must have taken too long to answer, because Scorpius added,

"I know it's a sad day for my dad. But am I sad, too?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"My mum died today. Dad is happy on my birthday, but sad on today. Always sad today. I miss my mum every day 'cause she's my mum. Am I s'pos'ed to miss her more today?"

"No, baby blond." Hermione shook her head and said, "You miss her exactly as much as you want to. Your dad needs to remind himself of her because she was important to him and he doesn't wish to forget her. Today he thinks it's best to honour her memory in a way you can't."

"Oh."

"You don't need to go anywhere to do that."

"I don't need to go?"

"You don't go looking for your mum. She's right here," Hermione gently poked Scorpius's chest over his heart, "and up here," she pressed the pad of her finger into the centre of his forehead. "All you have to do to honour her is be yourself. When you choose to be kind, when you choose to love your dad, when you draw pretty pictures that is honouring your mum. It looks a bit different from the way your dad does it, but you're still loving her. Your mum shouldn't make you sad. You can be sad she's gone, but I don't think she would want you to be sad all the time."

"Then why is my dad so sad?"

"Because he forgot how to be happy."

"He's happy with you."

Hermione blushed and said, "I hope he is."

"If my mum is here," he placed his hand on his heart, "and here," he placed his hand on his forehead, "then where's my dad?"

"I think your mum is on your inside, and your dad is you on the outside."

"Okay. Mum inside, dad outside, then where is maman? Where is Uncle Blaise?"

"Your Uncle Blaise is right here."

Hermione tickled Scorpius's stomach until his tiny face turned red. He pushed her away and continued to giggle.

"As for me …" Hermione stood up and said, "I am glad you asked." She rushed to grab Scorpius's gift from where she'd stashed it before dinner. She reentered the room and plopped onto the floor, with the gift box between her shaking hands. Hermione had never been so nervous. "Your father said you don't get gifts on your birthday."

"Dad says for people with money, friends are the best gift."

"That's true, but I have a gift for you." Hermione handed him the box and said, "These are from me to you. Today is the day you lost your mum, so I thought it should be the day you gain one, too."

Scorpius made a confused face, his grey eyes hopping from Hermione to the box in his arms then back again.

"I don't understand."

"If you want to call me your maman," Hermione took a deep breath before saying, "then I want you to be my son."

Scorpius tossed the box aside and threw himself into Hermione's lap. He hugged her around the neck and squealed excitedly into her ear.

"MAMAN! HERMIONE IS MAMAN!"

It was one of the happiest moments of Hermione's life. She didn't know what to do, nor how to feel. She held Scorpius as tightly as she could, listening to his tiny chorus of Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Hermione cried large tears, whether from relief or love or something else entirely, she didn't know. Her heart was full, as she had gone so long with a piece missing. It wasn't Draco, it was Scorpius Malfoy: her son. Just as Molly said, she could teach Scorpius to honour his first mum while being his second. Hermione said,

"I love you, Scorpius."

"I love you, maman! You make me happy. I want you to stay forever."

"The rest of my life, baby blond, I'll be your maman. I promise."

He squeezed her even tighter and said, "I don't wanna let go."

"You should open your present."

"It's not as good as you."

Hermione sobbed and kissed Scorpius's cheek. She didn't have any words for him. He was her little boy, now, too. It was just as Scorpius said all those weeks ago when Luna drew him a tree. I don't know where to put all the happy. Hermione was overwhelmed by her love for Scorpius Malfoy. Overwhelmed by love for her son.

"I'll open my present now."

Hermione watched as Scorpius plopped down next to her. He grabbed the box as Hermione wiped her eyes, trying to regain her composure. She knew he would accept her as his second mum, but Hermione was shocked by his enthusiasm. He grinned as he pulled the paper off the box. He flipped the lid off and pulled apart the paper to reveal a pair of black kid's trainers not dissimilar to the shoes he tried on during their shopping trip to Harrod's.

"CAR TYRE SHOES!"

Scorpius pulled them out of the box and placed one in front of each foot. Hermione pulled the box away and said,

"They should be just a bit big so you can grow into them."

Scorpius pulled the shoes onto his feet and tied the laces. He pushed himself off the floor and began to jump up and down.

"This—" Jump. "Is—" Jump. "The best—" Jump. "Gift—" Jump. "EVER!"

"I'm glad you like them."

"I love them!" Scorpius ran to the door, then across the room making little vroom noises. As he passed by he said, "Vroom! Thank you, maman! Vroom!"

.oOo.

Oliver arrived at three o'clock on Wednesday afternoon for physical therapy in the garden.

"I've got to torture you three times as much now, since I'm only getting you one day per week," he teased.

With his new regimen it didn't feel like a joke. Oliver had Hermione run around the perimeter of the garden three times. "One per session," he said. Hermione rather though she should shove her foot up his arse three times, one per session. She'd done the usual stretches, though the tension in her left shoulder was strong. She did the push-ups, twenty-five with two arms and fifteen balanced on her left. Hermione could hardly lift her arm to be level with her waist. She grimaced as Oliver gave her a knowing look.

"You skipped your exercises this week."

Hermione looked up at the cloudy sky and prayed for rain. Anything to escape Oliver's gloating.

"It was my son's birthday and I forgot."

My son. Oliver didn't so much as blink when she said it. Then again, Oliver couldn't give a single fuck about her personal life. His job was to keep her shoulder at its most basic function. Instead of belabouring the point, Oliver merely said,

"The muscle will lose its elasticity if you don't use it continuously. You've become so accustomed to compensating with your right arm that if you don't actively use your left you will forget about it."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize to me, Hermione, you're paying me. Or your boyfriend's paying me. Either way, I'm being paid a load of money to be here whether you can move your arm or not. We do this for you, but you have to want to do it for you."

Oliver walked Hermione through their usual routine. Weighted bangle on the left wrist. Make circles with the left arm. Do pendulum swings with the left arm. Try not to wince when the arm goes too far backward. Cringe because Oliver notices no matter how well Hermione believes she can hide the pain.

"Don't push it, Hermione."

"I am pushing it!" she shouted. "I don't want to do this anymore!"

"Okay." Oliver shrugged. "Then don't. Your shoulder will lock up in a few months and you'll go in for surgery where they remove the plate from your clavicle and try to relieve the pressure on your rotator cuff. When that fails, they'll have to do a full shoulder replacement and you'll be right back to see me. You're not getting rid of me, Hermione, so either do this shit now or commit to surgery and see me later."

"SEVEN YEARS!" Hermione screamed. "We've been doing the same routine for seven years! I'm tired, Oliver. I don't want to keep living in fear that someone will bump into me the wrong way and my arm might fall off."

Oliver huffed, "Your arm won't fall off."

"Easy for you to say, you've never had half your chest torn apart."

"No, Hermione, I just broke my kneecap, tore my ACL and couldn't walk for a year-and-a-half. D'you want to start comparing scars? Let's get to the point and say you win. You went through more trauma than I did, bloody fucking whoo for you. It doesn't make you any less of a pain in my arse. As I recall, you elbowed me in the stomach when I told you that you weren't medically ready to go back to work. Which you were fired for."

Hermione placed her hands on her hips and said, "I apologized."

"'Course, of course you did. Are you going to tell me why you're having an emotional breakdown this time, or do I need to get chest protectors from my car?"

Hermione kicked at the grass and admitted, "I don't want to tell you." Hermione grimaced. She had to tell him. There was no one else she could tell. Hermione shook her head and said, "My son," my son, "hugged me yesterday. He came running so I had my arms out to catch him in a hug, like I've done a dozen times before. This time he leaned hard on my left arm and it hurt."

Hermione sniffled. She dug the toe of her shoe into the grass and crossed her arms, hoping to sink toward the centre of the earth.

"It hurt a lot, Oliver. I don't want to be afraid to let my son hug me. I'm new to the mum thing and it's the most basic part: hugging your child. I can't do it properly."

"You said you'd done it a dozen times."

Hermione nodded.

"Your arm's fucked up, but we've known that. It's never getting better unless you commit to a shoulder replacement. This is what you decided was the proper course."

"I didn't have a family when I made that decision."

"You can still avoid surgery. Nobody's saying you must go for it, but the best you can do is tread water. You need to talk to your boy and tell him he can't hug you that way."

That hurt Hermione's soul. She'd rather melt into the molten core of the earth than tell Scorpius he'd hurt her.

"What sort of parent does that make me?"

"A parent with one good arm."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Oliver had an answer for everything. He was right, which made this all the more frustrating. Before she replied, Oliver added,

"There are plenty of good parents with no arms at all, Hermione. You're viewing this wrong, I'm guessing, because it's new for you. I'm going to say this once and you're going to fucking listen to me—"

"Don't tell me what to do, Oliver."

"Your arm does not make you less of a person. It doesn't make you less of a good parent. It makes you shit at tennis and . It means you have to be careful. Why you refuse to have the surgeries I recommend is not my business. I don't judge you for it, I made it clear we can work with your arm as it is. That means doing the shit I tell you to do when I'm not around. When you start yelling at me because we've had the same very successful routine for seven years, your frustration isn't with me. Your frustration is with the choices you've been given. This is what you chose."

"Fifteen years, Oliver. They gave me fifteen years for an effective shoulder replacement. I was twenty-eight, my shoulder would've been worn through by the time I'm forty-three? Forty-three! I'd be middle-aged and having to go for yet another surgery to repair the repair to the repair." Hermione sobbed, "It's not fixable. I'm not fixable."

"You are fixable," said Oliver. "Your life is great and you are letting the fear of repeated surgery keep you from living it."

Hermione frowned and tried not to cry. He wasn't on her side and it felt like she'd lost her only ally. It appeared he was merely appeasing her all this time. She said,

"You know how many surgeries I went through. I don't think it's a fear so much as an understanding of what happens when surgery is over. You know your knee will never look the same. It will never be right again. The whole left side of me will never be right, and every time I go through surgery I am less and less of me."

"That's your way of seeing things."

"You think I'm wrong?"

"Doesn't matter what I think as long as you're paying me."

"Yes it does," huffed Hermione. "It does matter to me what you think."

"Then I think you're an idiot for not getting your shoulder replaced. You'll be able to move your arm the way you need, to hug your son, to hold a fucking microphone with your left hand. You've got a billionaire boyfriend who doesn't seem to mind the scars and your self-imposed limitations. He doesn't mind the aesthetics of it, clearly, he's run past us four times now just to stare at your arse while you were doing stretches and push-ups."

Hermione felt her cheeks warm the slightest bit. Viktor had always been up-front about his physical attraction to her, and with Ron the physical always seemed secondary to the my-best-friend of it all. Draco Malfoy had become a delightful middle ground; a decent friend who gave Hermione all the love she avoided for years. He did it before either of them noticed he was doing it.

"I value your opinion," Hermione said. "I trust your opinion. You were willing to be arrested to keep my records confidential, and I'll never forget that."

"I meant what I said. You're a fighter and you're not done. You've been fighting against yourself when you should be fighting to move forward. That is my opinion."

You've been fighting against yourself.

Hermione couldn't get those words out of her head. Not at dinner, not tucking Scorpius into bed, and not even while putting on her pyjamas. She pulled on a bright red jacket overtop the BBC t-shirt she usually wore to sleep. Hermione trudged to bed and flopped atop the blanket, waiting for Draco to appear. She felt the bed dip and turned onto her right side as Draco made himself comfortable. He wore silk Gucci print pyjama bottoms and a white t-shirt so thin his nipples poked through the fabric. He said,

"It doesn't feel like you're looking for sex tonight."

"I'm not looking for it, but you are as tempting as ever."

Draco laughed softly and rolled onto his side so they were face-to-face. He tugged slightly on one of her curls before admitting,

"I hate falling asleep with you when you're wearing clothes. You've got such perfect tits, they should be on display."

Hermione tried to smile, but her face wouldn't respond. Draco sensed something was happening and placed his hand on her hip.

"What's wrong?"

You've been fighting against yourself.

Hermione looked into Draco's eyes and saw concern, but he had confidence in her. She looked at him and saw an ally in the fight to move forward, as Oliver suggested. Forward was right there in bed with her. She sat up and asked,

"We're doing this permanently, yes?"

Draco raised an eyebrow and asked, "You mean marriage? Yes, I intend to be your husband. I wouldn't risk my heart again for anyone less."

Hermione nodded. Those words felt true.

"I've given it thought. Weeks ago I told you I wouldn't give you my name. After visiting Tori's memorial on Sunday, I reconsidered."

"Oh?"

"The way I see it, my name is part of my family. If I'm making you part of my family, a mother to my son, then you have every right to every part of me. Including my name."

"I don't want it," said Hermione. "You may offer it, but I will not accept."

Draco leaned back on the pillows and stared up at the ceiling. He sighed and said,

"I understand your reasoning has not changed. I'm only letting you know mine has."

"Speaking of a change in reasoning," Hermione was surprised how shaky her voice was to her own ears, "I need to tell you about something."

"Is it serious?"

"Quite."

Draco sat up and crossed his legs, pulling not one but two silk bobbles from the pocket of his pyjamas. He pulled his hair into a ponytail on the crown of his head. He wrapped his hair around and around before securing it with the second bobble. He faced Hermione and she was struck by how gorgeous he was. She'd become used to seeing him with his hair down, even sometimes pushed back with a headband. With his hair pulled back, he was quite stunning.

"I'm ready to listen."

Hermione shook herself from those thoughts and stared down at the blanket beneath them. Draco was patient, not pressing her to talk. Hermione found herself at a loss with how to approach what needed to be said. Not only what had happened, but about the future. Their future.

"Scorpius and I spoke on Sunday."

"I saw."

Draco grinned and Hermione's heart skipped a beat. He was so beautiful, she felt privileged to be with him considering how mucked-up her skin was. Draco Malfoy was looking at her like that. The last man to look at her like that was Ron, before she was blown up. In her soul, Hermione never believed a man would look at her like that in the after.

"Scorpius is wearing a pair of trainers I didn't buy for him. He told me his maman gave him a gift." Draco reached for Hermione's hand and said, "He also told me how happy he was that his maman referred to him as her son."

Hermione squeezed his hand in reply.

"You know, I told Blaise something the day I met you. I told him that love finds you when you have settled and are happy with where your life is at. I've been caught up all this time knowing I could've met you three years ago; I realized I wasn't ready for you. All the same, you weren't ready to be a mum to my son. We found each other when we were meant to."

"With some help from your mum," added Hermione.

"I never believed my son would have a mother in his life. I gave him men, I gave him people who value the stillness in life, the quiet. You and me, Hermione, we're not those people. In you, my son has someone with ambition. You do insane shit because you think it's the right thing to do. I wasn't ready to match that, but I am now. I'm ready for you."

Hermione blurted out, "We need to talk about my shoulder." The words tumbled from her lips rather clunkily, one into the next like dominoes. "Scorpius hugged me wrong a couple days ago, and I'm feeling it. I haven't stopped feeling it, Draco."

His eyes narrowed. Hermione could almost see him travelling back to those moments when Astoria mentioned she was in pain. He asked,

"What must we do to alleviate the pain?"

"Nothing." Hermione shook her head and repeated, "Nothing. Oliver told me which painkiller to take. My concern is telling Scorpius. I don't want him to think he hurt me—"

"He did. He needs to know so he won't do it again."

Hermione wiped her nose with the side of her hand. She admitted,

"I just became his mum, I don't want him to think he gets a mum and then hurts them. I do not want him to see a pattern."

"Scorpius would be devastated to see you in pain, Hermione. What if he does it again, but worse? He will not internalise this. In fact," Draco hummed softly to himself, "I will tell him."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Is that all?"

Hermione shook her head and Draco didn't seem surprised. He sensed this was the more serious part of the conversation. He took Hermione's hand in both of his, pressed a gentle kiss against her fingers, and said,

"We're in this now, golden girl. Whatever it is, it's together."

"This." Hermione unzipped her jacket and pushed it off her shoulders. "It's this. I had an argument with Oliver today and I need your opinion of my choices."

"Which choices?"

"I had fourteen surgeries to fix my skin. I was cut up like a piece of meat over and over again for eight months. All that effort and my skin still looks like this."

"It's not horrible, Hermione."

"But it's not right, either!" She huffed, "Can you honestly say you'd rather sleep with a woman whose arm looks like this, compared to what my arm looked like before?"

"I don't care what your arm looks like. When I fantasize about shagging you, it's because you stare down the most dangerous men in the world and call them on their bullshit. Then you come home to me and I have the privilege of shoving my cock down your throat."

Hermione blushed.

"I haven't done that for you, yet."

"You will when I ask."

Hermione felt that in her core. She rubbed her eyes with her fingertips, hoping Draco wouldn't notice how such a small statement ignited the most sensitive parts of her. Anywhere else in the world, no one could tell Hermione Granger what to do. She fought to tell stories, to bring corruption into the light of day on the international stage. Hermione stepped into the ring with drug cartels, dictators, and the largest companies in the world.

Behind bedroom doors, the truth was that Hermione enjoyed being told what to do. She never knew as much before Draco put his hand around her throat. Hermione wanted to please him because he knew the subtle things her body could do. She had gone down on Draco before, but only as a prelude. The thrill of being told to get on her knees. The thought of Draco's fingers clutching her hair as he forced himself deeper into her mouth. Hermione closed her eyes and allowed her mind to wander …

"When you think about being intimate with me, you aren't thinking about your arm. I'm not thinking about it either."

She opened her eyes and said, "You have no idea how easily you distract me."

"I know." He ran the pad of one thumb across her knuckles. "I don't believe you know how easily you distract me. Tell me about your argument with your physical therapist."

Hermione's eyes immediately returned to the blanket beneath them. She pulled her hand back and laced her fingers together.

"The truth is that my shoulder doesn't have to be like this. I could have it replaced."

Draco vocalized, "More surgery."

"It's not only that." Hermione sniffled. "You know, when they were making me into the world's worst cheese board, they took parts of me and used them to fix the other parts. A shoulder replacement is metal and I already have the plate on my clavicle. I don't want my arm to feel like less of me."

"You pushed off having the plate removed. Could you have the plate removed while getting the replacement? Then you're subbing out one metal bit for another."

"That is more surgery, which I don't want."

"Then don't do it." Draco shrugged and asked, "Why are we even discussing it? This is clearly something you don't wish to do."

"I could regain almost all the movement in my shoulder."

"I see."

"I never believed I had reason to go through surgery again until I realized I can't hug my son." Hermione wiped away the tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "I want to hold Scorpius the way a mum holds her son, Draco. Part of me thinks it's worth having a metal shoulder if—"

"No." Draco shook his head. "You're not going through surgery for Scorpius."

"It's not for him, it's for me. It's completely selfish, but I don't feel right. If I had my shoulder replaced, perhaps you could be rough with me the way I want you to be when we're intimate together. I do want to hold my son. I want to cut up my own fucking food!" Hermione leaned forward to rest her head in her hands. That was the root of it. No one could tell Hermione Granger what to do … Including Hermione Granger.

She couldn't stop crying when she said, "I don't know how to feel anymore. Seven years this opportunity has been on the table and I chose to suffer because I wanted my shoulder to be mine. Not some metal ball and socket joint they have to cement into my bones with a fifteen-year expiration date."

Draco didn't say anything. He sat there as Hermione cried into her hands, unsure when the tears would stop. She kept this secret for seven years and telling Draco released all the emotions in an uncontrollable rush. She wiped some snot away with the cuff of her jacket and chanced a look up at Draco. His eyebrows were knitting together, forming a little eleven between them. She begged him,

"Will you say something, please?"

"I'm unsure what to say."

"Your opinion. I want your opinion," said Hermione, "no matter how much you believe it may hurt me. I need honesty because I'm feeling too many things to sort."

Draco replied, "I don't know how to feel, myself. Losing my wife the way I did, any time someone I love needs to go to hospital I tend to overreact. Then I remember Graham and how he put you in hospital with little more than a jolt. If there is a way to fix your shoulder so things like that can't happen?" Draco hesitated before saying, "I don't understand why you wouldn't jump at the chance."

"Again," Hermione repeated, "it is a fifteen-year lifespan for the procedure. If I did it now, by my fiftieth birthday I'd need to do something else. They literally take a muscle off the bone and replace it with this long metal stem into the bone with a ball on the end. Then they drill into the other bone to insert a plastic piece where the ball rests and cement it to me to keep it in place. This," Hermione placed her hand on the round part of her shoulder," wouldn't be me anymore. It would be metal on plastic on cement."

"I understand that. I don't understand why that is an issue for you."

Frustrated, Hermione reminded herself this was completely new to Draco. He had only seen her in pain, had only ever seen her with limitations. Hermione Granger had been whole once, and she would never be that way again. How could she say that in a way Draco would understand?

"It's like this, then. What if you cut your hair and it never grew back? It would never get any longer than it was. Then someone told you that life would get better, but only if you cut your hair even shorter. Knowing, once again, it will never get any longer. Wouldn't you feel like you had lost part of yourself?"

"Without question." Draco confirmed, "My hair is important to me, and I understand what you're trying to tell me. Forgive me for saying it, because I know it will upset you, but I think you've missed your own point."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. She nodded for him to continue, curious as to where his mind was.

"If I shaved my head and my hair never grew back, I would still be a billionaire. I would still own this land, and I would remain a man of deep thought, as you referred to me. I still quite like that, by the way. I would be able to hold my son, to cut my own food, and to look people in the eyes knowing I am better than them. When you tell me you feel like you would be less of yourself, you are massively wrong. I think you not doing this makes you less of yourself."

"You're right," replied Hermione, "that does upset me."

"The bits inside of you don't make you who you are. It's the outside, Hermione, your actions which impress people. Which impress me. This surgery would lift limitations on you, allowing you to do more of what you love to do. More of what you are meant to do."

"I—"

"As an aside, I would very much enjoy rough sex with you, but I would be devastated if that was what tipped you over into surgery."

Hermione asked, "Are you disappointed in my decision?"

"Not at all."

"You disagree with it."

"Yes."

"If I said my reasoning has changed, and thereby my decision," Hermione wondered, "what would you say?"

"Tell me the reason." Draco leaned forward and rested his chin on his closed fist. "I want to know why you're considering it now."

"My routine with Oliver worked because I was alone and pushing myself forward in my career with little care for anything else. I have a family now, and I see that my limitations limit you, too."

"I wouldn't say that."

"You don't have to. I see it now. My fear of losing parts of myself is mitigated a bit by knowing I have a man who loves me and a son who loves me even more. It's rather selfish of me to keep on as I have knowing it places strain on the two of you."

"Again," Draco insisted, "I don't want you choosing this because of me."

"I'm not, I am choosing to do this for all of us. Oliver is right that I have been offered shit choices, and the one I chose has become less desirable now."

"Would you care to know what your physical therapist told me about our son?"

Our son.

"Oliver saw Scorpius?"

"Yes, he probably watched him trip over a single blade of grass or a pebble in the drive. Anyway, he asked how tall Astoria was, so I told him. He said in the future Scorpius might have the proper build for an Olympic athlete."

"Oh." Hermione couldn't hide her surprise. She pictured Scorpius as an artist, not so much an athlete. "He saw Scorpius fall and thought, 'That's the perfect child for sport?'"

"He said Scorpius is a runner, and his feet sort of drag the rest of his body along for a ride faster than it's meant to go. It's a balance and timing issue which should sort out as he grows."

"I suppose I shouldn't have bought him 'vroom' shoes, then." Hermione admitted, "I've got two pairs in larger sizes, as well. I figured we could replace them as his feet grow and they could be his magic shoes for awhile."

"I love it." Draco leaned forward to kiss Hermione full-on and place one hand on her cheek. "I love you, Hermione Granger. Thank you for hearing me out. Thank you for telling me about your fear. I hope you know I trust you every bit as much as you trust me."

"I know. You chose me to fill the most important role in your son's life—"

"Scorpius chose that. I chose you to be my girlfriend—" Draco frowned. "I think we're past that. I think 'partner' is proper now, given the path we've found ourselves on."

"I agree."

"Partners?" asked Draco.

Hermione confirmed, "Partners."

.oOo.

Saturday was a busy day for the Granger/Malfoy household. Narcissa was already in London with Mr. Queensbury, set up in a hotel near the gala. Draco drove Hermione and Scorpius to Blaise's house, or at least that's what Hermione believed. He passed their usual turn and Hermione noted it seemed they were working their way toward Battersea. She asked,

"Are we going to my flat?"

"No." Draco grinned. "You said you wished for our home to be within reasonable proximity to your flat."

"Yes," Hermione conceded, "I did. Though I thought that was within a twenty-minute drive, and we're only five minutes away."

"You ask and I deliver, golden girl."

Draco pulled up to a gorgeous brick home on the corner of Cheyne Place in Chelsea. He frowned and looked at the other car inside.

"It appears parking may be an issue."

Nothing else about this house could possibly be an issue. Hermione never would have dreamed to afford something like this on a broadcaster's salary. It had a gorgeous perimeter wall made of bricks, about a metre high. The house itself was covered in green vines and a large tree obscured the left portion of the home. Draco pulled through the wrought-iron gate just to the left of that tree. From the backseat, Scorpius asked,

"Whose house is this?"

"If we like it," Draco said over his shoulder, "this might be our house."

"We have a house. A really big house."

Hermione revealed, "I can't live in Wiltshire full-time because I work here in London. You go to school here in London, and your dad—"

Draco shook his head ever so slightly. Hermione raised her eyebrows, surprised he did not wish for Scorpius to know he intended to pursue more university education. It would be one of the first things she would want him to know, how important education could be. Particularly when money was of no object.

"Your dad might be here with us, too."

"Why can't we stay with Uncle Blaise?"

"We can for awhile," replied Draco. He unfastened his seatbelt and stepped out of the car to unfasten Scorpius from his car seat. "Blaise is his own man with his own home. We are Malfoys, we don't share residences."

"But—"

"No, my son. If we wish to be in London as a family, we need our own home."

Hermione stepped out of the car, closed the door, and turned to look at the house. She let out a slow breath and shook her head. Seeing Draco's wealth in Wiltshire was one thing, but seeing it at play in central London was another level. She touched the watch on her left wrist and wondered whether she was truly meant for this.

"What do you think?" asked Draco, appearing at her side.

"This is quite nice," said Hermione, aware she was lowballing it. She lowered her voice to ask, "How much is this house?"

Draco shrugged.

"It's only eight million pounds. It is right on the Thames, not far from your place in Battersea. Only a twenty minute drive from Bas in Hampstead and ten minutes from Blaise in Holland Park. Twenty minutes from Theo in Wimbledon. Ten minutes from Scorp's school. It is in the perfect location, Hermione."

Just then, a woman about their age with shoulder-length black hair came out the front door. She was in a navy suit, holding a dark blue Sotheby's brochure pamphlet. The woman made a beeline for Draco and offered her hand.

"Mr. Malfoy, delighted to meet you. My name is Trisha Buttermere and I will be showing you this house today."

"Good to meet you." Draco shook her hand and said, "I appreciate you doing this with such a quick turnaround. I am hoping to move into a home before my son begins school in September."

"Of course." She turned toward Hermione and offered her hand, "Ms. Granger, it is an honour to meet you."

Hermione shook her hand, a bit surprised.

"Thank you."

"You did a bit from my husband's hometown years ago, Jamkaran. I'd never seen him glued to the telly before. It was 2013, and all the other networks were in Tehran covering the election. You were in towns and villages covering the election from the peoples' view and I remember my husband laughing because you speak Arabic with an English accent. He asked, 'How did BBC send a tiny English woman and she does a better job than everyone else?'"

Hermione couldn't help but say, "The mosque in Jamkaran is incredibly beautiful. Your husband is far from the first to laugh at my accent, but if you think it's bad in Arabic you should hear me in Malay."

"No, he wasn't laughing, he was saying you did a better job even with the accent. He's going to be so excited I showed you a house, it's all we'll talk about at dinner, I'm sure." She turned to Scorpius and offered her hand. "Trisha Buttermere."

Scorpius accepted her handshake and said, "Scorpius Malfoy!"

"Very good." Trisha smiled at all of them and said, "Follow me."

They walked through the front door and a white staircase was right in front of them. Trisha Buttermere gestured to the left so the three of them could step into a large reception area. There was a fireplace on the far wall and a floor-to-ceiling window looking out onto the front terrace. This area alone was the size of the living area in her flat. Scorpius was the first to speak.

"It's small."

Draco sighed heavily. He said,

"Scorp, you could fit your entire class on this sofa. How much room do you need?"

"Is it s'posed to be small?"

"It is meant to feel like home."

"What does home feel like?"

Draco looked at Hermione for help. How the bloody hell were either of them meant to answer that? Trisha Buttermere took a step back, not wishing to interfere in the conversation. Hermione offered,

"Home is where you can lie down and do nothing all day, and feel like you're in the right place."

"Oh." Scorpius frowned. "Okay. This room isn't home. Where's the next room?"

Draco shrugged and turned toward Trisha Buttermere, who walked them past the staircase and front door into a dining room. The table there could comfortably seat twelve. The floors were a dark wood and the arched window looked out onto the street. It was a beautiful space, one where Hermione could imagine inviting her friends over for dinner. Bastien and Padma there, Harry and Gin across from them, though Bastien struggled to keep his admiration for Ginny's career in a manageable state. Dean could bring Blaise Zabini, and Scorpius could sit next to them. Parvati and Ron could come, as well.

Hermione's heart sank a bit because Cedric would've loved this. A chance to be around Parvati in a smaller, more intimate way. They were always at parties together, working to impress a roomful of people. Perhaps things between them ended so terribly because they rarely had time when they could be themselves forthemselves alone.

Scorpius declared the dining room, "Not home."

The more intimate family eating area just off the kitchen had room for a table of four right up against the arched window, looking out onto the same street. The kitchen was quite large, with dark countertops and what Hermione guessed Blaise Zabini would deem, "Barely enough room to work." Scorpius stood in the middle of it all and said,

"Not home."

Trisha Buttermere led them upstairs to the first floor, and out onto an incredible terrace. It was an enclosed brick enclave with standing patio heaters strategically placed in corners to keep the temperature up in cooler seasons. A large outdoor table which, again, could seat twelve was further down and cordoned off from the neighbors by a bamboo wall. Hermione could picture intimate summer get-togethers with her friends happening right here. Perhaps Ron and Harry could come over with their families and Hermione would finally, after all these years, feel like she had a family complete enough to join them.

Scorpius looked up at the sky and said, "This is close to home."

"We're getting closer, are we?" asked Buttermere.

"I think so." Scorpius frowned and asked, "Is there more?"

"Of course."

Draco leaned down to whisper in Hermione's ear, "Does this feel like home to you?"

"It might." Hermione admitted, "Their furniture is a bit one-dimensional. If there was some of my furniture in here, my books, and new things that feel like me … Then I think this may be home for us in London."

"I am concerned about parking, but everything else is great. I didn't want a pool because I know Scorp would find his way to drowning in it. All the mansions and every home I'd usually go for have pools. This one is small enough to where it feels more like a family home, and it doesn't have a pool. I like it so far, though—"

"Blaise will hate the kitchen?" guessed Hermione.

"Exactly."

There were seven bedrooms on the first and second floors. One had been set up as an office and Hermione watched Draco's eyes light up. It was comparatively small to the office he had at Malfoy Manor, but the back wall had incredible built-ins Hermione imagined Draco would fill with photographs of Scorpius and other mementos. The window faced northeast, with a good view of both the street and the neighbors. There was a fireplace across from the desk and even a miniature fridge in a corner of the room.

The master bedroom was incredible. The windows faced eastward, with a nice view of the sunrise in the morning. The bathroom had two sinks, and the grandest soaking tub Hermione had ever seen. She trailed her fingers along the lip of the tub, imagining what it would be like to lay in it. Hermione could almost smell the lavender oil and feel the warmth of the water against her skin.

Scorpius tossed his hands in the air and asked, "Where do I play?"

Trisha Buttermere grinned and revealed, "I saved your playroom for last. At least, what I think would make the most sense for a playroom."

Scorpius nearly vibrated right out of his shoes.

"Yes! Yes! Yes! Show me!"

Draco cautioned Scorpius, "Steup."

Scorpius amended his words to, "Please show me."

Trisha asked, "Are you all ready to return to the ground floor?"

Hermione followed the three of them downstairs, taking it all in. There was more space than she ever imagined having in this part of London. In any house, really. She'd never considered a family to be in her future, and suddenly she was looking at an eight million pound home right off the Thames in Chelsea. Hermione listened to the click of Draco's loafers against the wood floors, lost in the warm opulence of this home. She stepped into the eighth bedroom, a smaller one, with nothing in it. Light filtered in from a single window, but it was dim. It gave the room an ethereal, spooky quality. Every other room in the home had been decorated somehow, this the only one saved for the imagination.

Scorpius walked to the far wall and pressed his palm against it, as though he could feel something in the space. Then he was off like a shot, racing toward the opposite wall. They watched him run back and forth, back and forth, before he dropped onto his back in the centre of the room. He smiled up at the ceiling and said,

"This is home."