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Chapter Text

Friday, 22nd December, 2023

Draco didn’t eavesdrop as a matter of principle.

Not that he considered it a crime to gather information and use it for one’s own purposes — that was the mark of any good Slytherin — but he didn’t even need to put in the barest hint of effort. He simply heard things, particularly juicy bits of personal drama. And he heard a lot of that these days, as his cubicle was right across from the Deputy Minister’s office. The Deputy’s door hung wide open, and since the buxom witch (much improved with age, in his opinion, which was nearly always correct) was also excellent at projecting her voice, he didn’t even need to strain his ears to decipher her current problem.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Granger cried. “Neville normally cares for him, but he’s on his honeymoon. Crooks is in no shape to travel, but I have to be with my dad.”

Harry Potter’s voice wafted into the corridor. “There’s no one else you trust? What about Ron?”

Draco snorted. As if Granger would let her ex-husband within a hundred yards of her beloved half-kneazle. Their divorce had been splashed across the front page of every paper, and while the quotes from both parties were cordial and featured phrases like “irreconcilable differences” and some tripe about “conscious uncoupling,” anyone with any sense could read between the lines. The real irreconcilable difference was Weasley’s decision to sleep with Angelina Johnson who worked with him in Magical Games and Sports, the tosser.

To add insult to injury, the pair had already married. Weasley dragged his feet for five years before proposing to Granger, and they were married for… Draco paused to do the maths. It was 2023. He and Astoria wed in 2001 (and divorced in 2019, per their arrangement, after Scorpius passed his NEWTs), but Granger married in 2003 and divorced two years ago. So they’d almost made it to twenty years.

And no children, unless she counted the cat. Which, knowing Granger after sitting outside her office all these years, she probably did.

Granger snorted. “As if I would let Ron within a hundred yards of Crooks. Ron hates him.”

“Well, you know I’d do it, but he swiped at Lily last time, and Ginny said—”

“I know, I know.”

Granger sounded positively distraught. Draco rolled his shoulders underneath his heavy winter robes, rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses, and refocused on the parchment in front of him. He only had to get through two more documents until he was free for the holiday. The Ministry closed down for Christmas through New Year’s Day, and Draco planned to take advantage of the break.

Well, he had planned to, but he hadn’t actually made any reservations, and it was probably too late.

Paris would be crowded. His father (recently released from Azkaban) and his mother needed some space to themselves, and left for the estate in Bulgaria. Astoria would probably welcome a visit, but she relocated to Bali, and he had no taste for tropical weather, especially at his age. Skin cancer was a scourge to wizards and Muggles alike, as he’d learned in his longtime position as Undersecretary of Muggle Relations. Fair as he was, he avoided the sun like dragon pox. He did enjoy a good scuba, though.

He rapped his long fingers on the desk. Scorpius was abroad with Potter’s sons, something about skiing in Aspen. Draco didn’t want to crash their trip, seeing as he was already considered “deeply uncool” and “mid” by his offspring. Scorpius had his mother’s superior social skills, and ruled Hogwarts without so much as lifting a finger. He’d been called to McGonagall’s office more than he’d attended classes, which wasn’t all that unusual for a Malfoy, but he was also undeniably popular and charming. Basically the antithesis of his father.

Draco straightened, pushed back his silvery hair and waved as Hannah Abbott walked by, a santa hat atop her head. She didn’t wave back. He hadn’t expected to still be a pariah in his forties, but that was the price he paid for being a rotten fascist in his teenage years.

He finished the document and rolled it into a neat scroll. Only one more to go.

Granger’s chestnut curls bounced into his peripheral vision, and he pressed his quill down too hard. Ink bloomed across the parchment, and he swore under his breath. It was as if she lived to distract him.

“Malfoy, are you still here?” Suddenly she was in front of him, brown eyes swimming with concern.

“I’ve got just one more thing, Deputy Minister,” he said dutifully. “And then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Please,” she said. “You’re never a bother.”

He perked up a little. Granger was a pleasure to work for most days. She acknowledged his existence, for example. And if he was a little bit amoureux d'elle for it, well, it couldn’t be helped. “Thank you. Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas.”

“Malfoy,” Potter said, sidling up to the cubicle and tossing his arms over. Draco eyed him warily. They weren’t really friends, though Potter insisted on acting as if they were.

“Potter. Heard anything from the boys?”

“No, and let’s hope we don’t. The last time I heard from James and Albus on one of their little excursions, they needed me to bail them out of a ghastly American jail over Easter hols. ‘But our dad’s an Auror!” didn’t work.”

“Shocking,” Draco said dryly.

“You off to Bali, then?”

“Not this year.”

“Bulgaria? See the old timers?”

“No.”

“France, then?”

“If you must know, I am without plans this year,” Draco said in a clipped tone. He really wanted to finish this paperwork. Only a few more places awaited his initials. “Might nip over to Goyle’s for drinks if things get truly dire.”

Sweet Salazar, he hoped things didn’t get that dire.

A scheming smile spread over Potter’s smarmy face. “Hermione, what about Malfoy?”

Her brows knit together. “Malfoy?”

“Sure. He’s anal retentive, so he’ll follow all your directions. He’s aces at potions, so he can administer the medication perfectly. And per his parole agreement, he’s not allowed to use any spells that are dark magic or dark magic adjacent, so it’d be perfectly safe.”

Granger brightened. “That’s true.”

“I’m right here,” Draco said. He’d lost his place. Where did he need to sign?

“Sorry. Um, Malfoy, how do you feel about cats? Half-kneazles, specifically?”

He dipped his quill in the inkpot, ignoring her big eyes. “Granger, I am not watching Crookshanks over Christmas.”

“You know his name?”

Of course he knew the cat’s name. Crookshanks was a frequent topic of conversation amongst Granger and her friends, who spoke openly in front of Draco like he wasn’t even there. He also knew Granger’s favourite flowers, takeaway orders, and could tell, without looking up from his work, by the sound of her heels as she strode out of the lifts, what kind of mood she was in.

“Come on, mate,” Potter pleaded. This got Draco’s attention. Potter never referred to him as his ‘mate.’ “Hermione’s in a real bind. Her dad’s having open heart surgery in Australia, and her mum needs help with his care. Someone has to watch Crooks.”

“Preferably at my flat,” Granger added. “He’s blind now, so new places are difficult for him… And I’ll pay you handsomely.”

“I don’t need your money.”

He didn’t. As a condition of his release from Azkaban after his one year sentence, he had a trace on his wand and he’d handed over his inheritance, but he made a good living at the Ministry, and Astoria paid him alimony.

“I’ll owe you one,” said Potter. “I’ll shake on it.”

Draco pushed back from his desk. A favour from Potter was nothing to sneeze at. “A favour of my choosing, no stipulations?”

He could ask for anything, but he already knew what he wanted: a lunch, in public, where they might be photographed together enjoying each other’s company. Surely that would sway enough magical folk’s thinking on Draco Malfoy. It would be enough for him to be allowed into the Diagon Alley shops again — he’d had to send Scorpius in with Astoria at the start of every term.

Granger turned her gaze to Potter. She bit her plump pink lip, and Draco had to admit that little manoeuvre alone would’ve worked on him. He’d thought of her lips more in the last year than he’d like to admit.

If he was being honest, the favour from Potter was tantalising, but the idea that Granger might warm to him after this was even better.

Potter extended his hand, and Draco shook it. He was spending Christmas with a cat.

He’d done worse for less.

Chapter Text

Saturday, 23rd December, 2023

Granger opened the door in a bright red jumper and jeans. A healthy blush stained her cheeks, and she seemed to glow in the dim light of the streetlamps. Witches didn’t age like Muggles, but Draco struggled to find any signs of ageing on Granger’s face beyond a few crow’s feet, which were rather charming, if you asked him.

“Malfoy, you’re right on time. Can I take your coat?”

Draco shrugged off his black greatcoat and handed it to her. He’d chosen a black turtleneck and dark green trousers; a smart look with his glasses. He picked up the aluminium suitcase resting at his feet and followed her into the flat. He’d packed light for the rest of the week, considering he wouldn’t be going out at all. Most of it was sugar-free candy, having changed his eating habits over the years but not his affinity for sweets, but he also brought his mobile, since he’d seen Granger take a call from time to time as she dashed towards the lifts in one of her snug skirts.

Once he wiped his snowy boots on the doormat, he looked around the entryway and living area. The place was nearly empty, devoid of any furnishings except a ratty armchair, two bookcases filled to bursting, and a telly-vision. The telly sat directly on the hardwood floor, and he set his suitcase beside it with utmost care.

“This is your flat?”

“I know, it needs work. I’ve only just moved in since the divorce.”

“Wasn’t that two years ago?” He looked around for signs of the cat. Beyond a tuft of pale orange fur on a deep blue throw draped over the armchair, there wasn’t much.

Granger shut the coat closet and clapped her hands together. “So, I suppose we’ll go over his schedule, his medications, his litter box, all that sort of thing. And then you can meet him. He’s napping in my laundry right now, but hopefully he’ll wake up before I go so you can get used to each other,” she said, brushing past him into a tiny kitchen. He followed. “Thank you again for doing this.”

“It’s no trouble.”

“Tea?”

“Please. Just a little milk.”

Granger looked up at him with a smile. “I know. How long have I worked with you now?”

“Don’t make me do maths. It’s the holidays; have mercy.”

She laughed and slid a steaming teacup into his hands. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” he said, taking a sip. “This is perfect. Alright, what do I need to know?”

Granger summoned a timetable and laid it on the worktop. He moved closer to her, inhaling the delicate scent of honeysuckles that followed her around the office. It was even stronger here in her home, and he wondered if it was perfume or if she naturally smelled so sweet.

“Here’s his daily schedule. So, he wakes up around five-thirty every morning—”

Draco choked on his tea. She whacked him on the back without looking at him.

“And he’ll want breakfast straight away. I make my own pâtés, and I’ve labelled them for you here,” she said, opening a Muggle refrigerator. It was stocked with cat food, but Draco saw very little in the way of food a single witch might eat. He frowned.

“So one pâté per meal?”

‘Precisely,” she beamed. “And these yoghurts are for hiding his medicines. They’re bitter so he won’t take them any other way. You’ll need to crush the pills, then load the powder into a spoon, and cover it with the yoghurt. He’ll lick the spoon, but he’s blind, you know, so you’ll have to get it right under his nose so he can smell it. He has different medicines at seven, nine, eleven — every two hours during the day. It’s all on the timetable.”

“Does he eat all the food?”

“Not usually. Some of the kidney medicines are also appetite depressants. So don’t worry if he doesn’t eat much. The most important thing is that he takes the medicine, drinks water, uses his litter box regularly, and doesn’t seem like he’s in too much pain.”

Draco sent up a silent prayer that the decrepit cat didn’t die on his watch.

“These are his medicines,” Granger said, skimming her hand along the two rows of pill bottles. “There are also insulin shots in the fridge. Have you ever given injections before?”

He nodded. “Astoria’s diabetic. Scorpius, too.”

“That’s right, how could I forget? And to think everyone thought it was some sort of blood malediction. If only we were a bit more accepting of Muggle science. Muggle everything.”

Draco had to agree. He lobbied at an ever-increasing frequency for the Ministry to go parchmentless, though he doubted it ever would. Adding electricity to the Manor had been a years-long affair, and Draco, though he considered himself savvy for his age, struggled to keep up with the onslaught of new technological releases. Scorpius and his pals had recently introduced Draco to the TikTok, which he hated with the intensity of fiendfyre.

He wondered if Granger liked the TikTok. Surely not.

“It’s part of why I took the job in Muggle Relations. Muggle medicine helped her have a healthy pregnancy.”

“I’ve seen Scorpius at Harry and Ginny’s. He’s a wonderful young man. He got your flying skills.”

It was a generous compliment. Scorpius was far more talented as a Seeker than Draco had ever been. And as the first Malfoy sorted into Ravenclaw, he didn’t have a heated rivalry with James Potter, the Seeker for Gryffindor, who became his best friend. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Scorpius wiped the pitch with him every time. But that was neither here nor there.

“Thank you. I’m very proud of him. Couldn’t wish for a better son.”

“Did you ever want more? The diabetes made it dangerous, I suppose.”

“That, and Astoria and I, well, we were in an arranged marriage. It never really evolved into something more. I’m lucky to have an heir at all.”

Granger eyed him sympathetically. “You’re still young. Witches can have kids into our sixties, and wizards even longer. Maybe you’ll meet someone new.”

As if on cue, a raspy meow sounded from down the hall.

“Speaking of someone new, there’s my sweet boy. Come on, Crooks,” Granger cooed a bit too loudly. “He’s also deaf in one ear, so you have to speak up.”

Salazar’s tits, was there any ailment the cat didn’t have?

“Where’s the litter box?” Draco asked as he waited for Crookshanks to make his grand entrance. He had a feeling it might be awhile.

“In the loo. It connects to my room. He’ll sleep in my bed with you, and then if he needs to go in the middle of the night, he’ll usually cry, and you just pick him up and carry him there since he can’t jump on and off the bed anymore. The litter box cleans itself though, so you don’t need to worry about scooping or anything like that.”

Draco practically felt the blood drain from his face. “Sorry, I think I misheard you. I’m meant to sleep in your bed?”

She furrowed her brow. “Where else would you sleep? It’s a one bedroom flat.”

“Please don’t mistake me; I don’t object to it because of you — I should hope you know very well my old beliefs are in the past. That’s just… Well, it’s awfully personal, don’t you think?”

Granger placed her fingers on his bare wrist and gently squeezed. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Draco. I know it isn’t ideal, especially over the holidays.”

A little zing of what felt like magic raced up his arm, and he suppressed a shiver. He tentatively placed his free hand over hers.

“I’m happy to do it,” he said softly, and then when her eyes widened, he hastily added, “I mean, the favour from Potter certainly helps.”

Before she could say anything else, Crookshanks appeared, and Granger released his wrist. Draco knew the cat was old, but he was unprepared for the creature that flopped before him.

Crookshanks was a bag of bones. His orange fur thinned over his joints, and his belly was no more than a dangling pouch of skin. His pupils were milky white. Two long teeth poked out from his mouth, which let a string of drool drip onto the floor. His nubbly nose twitched in time with short, wiry whiskers and a scraggly tail.

But his eyes, though they were clouded, shone with energy and intelligence, and Draco immediately understood why Granger fought so hard to keep the old chap going. Crookshanks was still himself inside, and seemed to very much want to live out his days basking in warmth and affection.

Draco was familiar with your inside not matching your outside. His Dark Mark, despite his best efforts, had never faded. He'd eventually gotten it professionally covered up.

He crouched down and extended his hand towards the cat, palm up. “Hello.”

Crooks tilted his good ear towards Draco and lifted his tail like a rudder, steering himself towards the sound of Draco’s gentle voice. He bumped his head against Draco’s palm, and a rattling purr of satisfaction filled the kitchen.

“He likes you,” Granger said, a tinge of awe in her voice. “He likes you quite a lot.”

“Don’t act so surprised,” said Draco, hiding his own surprise. “I know I don’t have the best track record with animals, but I’ve always gotten on with cats.”

It was true. Cats liked Draco, and Draco liked cats. Draco ran hot; the perfect temperature for a lap cat. And he had gentle hands that knew when to scratch behind velvety ears or simply stroke two fingers along the ridge of a spine. And cats seemed to sense Draco’s need for quiet companionship. He’d long wanted one of his own, but never made the leap.

He hadn’t known if Granger’s cat would accept him, but now that it had, Draco finally let a smile unravel on his face.

Granger picked Crookshanks up and cradled him like a baby in her arms. The cat made no protest. “Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the place.”

There wasn’t much to it. A nook of a bedroom, and a cranny of a loo. All clean and well-kept, but it didn’t feel like a home so much as a hostel. Granger’s bed — his bed for the week — looked like it came straight off an IKEA showroom floor. It was white, and low to the ground, topped with floral sheets, pillows, and matching duvet. A cheap white desk cluttered up a corner, and a standing lamp was the only source of light besides the bay window. The contents of Granger’s meagre closet spilled out onto the floor and into a pink plastic laundry basket.

The loo featured the automatic litter box (Draco learned it had an app, and didn’t miss Granger’s astonishment when he brandished his mobile and downloaded it) and the basic necessities all loos had, except a bathtub. Granger only had a shower stall. It was unconscionable, really. She was practically camping.

He shuddered. Scorpius had asked him to go camping once. They went into the woods for a boys’ weekend and came back three hours later. They never spoke of it again.

Before long, Draco and Granger were back in the kitchen. It was time for Crookshanks’s insulin, and Draco administered the jab under Granger’s watchful eye. The cat didn’t seem to notice, but Granger praised both of them for their bravery. Draco puffed out his chest a bit as he returned the medicine to the refrigerator. He was rather brave.

“Do you mind if I cook while you’re away? I can order groceries so I don’t leave him alone. And I’m freakishly tidy, as my son likes to say. I’ll keep your kitchen clean.”

“Of course. I used to cook more — I’m actually a dab hand in the kitchen — but with everything going on with my dad…”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve got family in hospital. Surgery’s tomorrow?”

She clutched Crookshanks tight. “Tomorrow. Though with the time difference, I really ought to go now. My mum’s beside herself.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“I think I’ve covered everything — Oh! The animal healer and veterinarian details are on the worktop. Crooks goes to one or the other, depending on the complaint. Hopefully you won’t need to use either.”

Draco shot Crookshanks a pleading look, though he knew the cat couldn’t see him. He wanted to reassure Granger, whose voice had gone all nervy, but also didn’t want to tempt fate. In the end, he settled on, “Hopefully not, but if we do, he’s in good hands with me.”

“And I couldn’t help but notice you have a mobile. I’ll give you my number, and we can FaceTime. Much easier than international owls. And there aren’t any Floos in Muggle hospital. You do FaceTime, right? There’s a forward-facing camera, so you just hold—”

He pushed his glasses up. “I know how to FaceTime, Granger.”

She flushed. “Of course you do. Sorry. I’m used to explaining these things.”

“I know.”

“Ginny still doesn’t know how to angle her selfies.”

She was holding the cat, so he couldn’t take her hand and soothe her, as she’d done for him earlier. So Draco settled for squeezing her shoulder through her festive jumper.

“You focus on your family. I’ll take care of things here.”

Granger flushed even deeper. “I have something for you.”

“You didn’t need to do that.”

“Yes, but you’re only doing this for a favour, and I thought…” She trailed off as she set the cat down and rounded the corner into the living room. Draco followed, keeping cognisant of where Crookshanks was at all times.

He’d nearly forgotten how drab the living room was. It didn’t suit Granger at all. She was vibrant and kind-hearted and smart. Clearly all her love went into the people around her, and not her space. It wasn’t a negative; not in the least. It was a relief to know she wasn’t good at absolutely everything. But he couldn’t help but think how a little colour and texture might help her spirits.

Granger rummaged through a handbag with shimmering beads that looked vaguely familiar. After a few moments, she plucked a hand wrapped gift from the (apparently bottomless) depths and presented it to him. A dark green bow adorned the medium-sized box covered in brown packing paper.

“Thank you. This is the first gift I’ve received this year,” he said, tucking a finger inside one of the perfectly folded pleats and lifting the tape.

“Didn’t someone get you for Secret Santa?”

Her frown tugged at his heartstrings. “I never put my name in for it. Don’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable.”

The paper gave way and Draco rocked forward on his feet at the sight of his gift. It was a stack of three books he’d never read, nor heard of before.

“I heard you like fantasy stories,” Granger said nervously. “I worked on that Grindylow project with Zabini recently and he told me about your obsession with—”

“Lord of the Rings,” Draco finished. “And these are fantasy? Granger, this is amazing. I’d been hoping to find something on your shelves to amuse me for the week. Potter’s always going on about your excellent taste in literature.”

“Does he really?”

“No, of course not,” Draco said, and they both laughed. “But he does say you read a lot.”

“Swot then, swot now—”

“Swot forever,” they said in unison.

Draco hoped he wasn’t blushing, though he knew it was likely futile. He’d had a thing for Granger for the past year now, ever since last year’s New Year’s Eve Gala. She’d shown up in a little black number that had every red-blooded man and woman ready to fall to their knees. But even though her dress was perfect, hugging every generous curve, it wasn’t the decisive factor in his newfound desire.

No, the moment he’d fallen had been simple. It was when she handed him a cup of punch and said, ”It’s nice to see you, Malfoy. I was hoping you’d make it this year.”

Just that little cup of kindness. He nursed the drink all night long, too overwhelmed to mingle or dance. And when the clock struck midnight, he’d caught her eye and raised his glass to her in thanks. He’d never forget it.

“Would that I had been better to you in school,” Draco murmured.

Granger’s smile was soft. Forgiving. “Your History of Magic grade would’ve been better.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to apologise enough.”

He’d apologised many times over, to everyone he hurt. Sometimes it was with words. Sometimes with gestures or gifts. Most of the time it wasn’t enough. People didn’t move on easily, and he understood why. He took the rejection on the chin and moved on. But perhaps Granger was the exception to the rule. She seemed to like him just fine.

Something stirred in his chest.

“You’ve apologised plenty. You might have been wretched back then, but you’re not a bad man now. Crooks would know.”

He cleared his throat. “So what are these books about?”

“Oh, yes,” she jumped excitedly. “This is the Grisha trilogy. The first one is Shadow and Bone; that one’s probably my favourite but all three are good reads. It’s for young adults, and the young at heart.”

“I’d say we both qualify, then.”

“The main character is a girl named Alina who discovers she has magical abilities. I don’t want to spoil it too much, but her world is in danger, and only she can change its fate.”

“So she’s the Hermione Granger of the story?”

“Oh, stop. Just read them! At least the first one, please? No one else has read them and I’m dying to discuss with someone.”

“Twist my arm, why don’t you. Of course I’ll read them. Have you tried searching for it on the TikTok? Scorpius says all the discourse is on the TikTok.”

She laughed. He was becoming fond of that laugh. “It’s just TikTok. And I’m more of a Bookstagram kind of girl.”

Draco fished around for his mobile. “I haven’t heard of that one. Is it like Instagram?”

Granger shook her head, but her face was lit up like a Christmas tree. “Stop, stop!”

“These are lovely,” he said, abandoning the search for his mobile and flipping through the pages of the first book, Shadow and Bone. Bit of an ominous title, if you asked him. “This is such a thoughtful gift, and I’m very much looking forward to reading, and our discussion.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And seeing as I’ve come empty handed, what do you think about me…” He looked around the room. “Sprucing the place up a bit while you’re gone? I won’t touch anything personal of yours, you have my word. Just make it a little more homey.”

“That’s kind of you to offer, but it’s only a temporary place, you know. Until I can find something more permanent.”

“Nothing drastic,” he countered.

She relented. “Alright. But I reserve the right to change things up when I get back! You can’t be hurt next time you come over and see things are a bit different.”

“Next time I’ll bring gardenias,” he said without thinking.

She tilted her head to the side. “Gardenias are my favourite. How did you know that?”

His neurons skittered across his brain, a non-creepy answer eluding him. He’d seen her receive the flowers at her office on several occasions, and relished the moment when she walked by his desk with her nose buried in the white blooms. They also paired beautifully with honeysuckle.

Her handbag vibrated, and she withdrew her mobile, which flashed with an alarm. “My Portkey’s activating now. I’ve got to go.”

Saved by the digital bell, Draco exhaled. “Safe travels, Granger. I’ll hold down the fort. Everything’ll be just fine.”

She ran a hand through her curls before looping the strap of her bag across her shoulder, clutching her suitcase, and eying the Portkey on the table. The bottlecap exuded magic.

“I’ll FaceTime you both every night, okay?”

Without warning, she leaned forward and hugged him. But before he could hug her back, she let go, touched the Portkey, and was gone.

Chapter Text

Sunday, 24th December, 2023

Christmas Eve

Draco was unaccustomed to waking at five-thirty in the morning.

He was especially not accustomed to waking somewhere unfamiliar at five-thirty in the morning, to the sound of a disgruntled elderly cat yowling at the top of his lungs.

Rolling out of Granger’s bed — how she slept on that rock masquerading as a mattress, he did not know — he hit the ground running. Within minutes, Crookshanks was fed and medicated, the kettle was on, and Draco hunted through Granger’s cupboards for anything that might amount to a filling breakfast. He refused to eat one of the cat’s yoghurts.

Settling on a half-sleeve of crackers, he munched away while he composed a grocery list. Best to beat the last-minute rush before the shops closed. Granger’s owl, Eurydice, snatched the list from his hand and made two return trips with all the necessities for the week. Bread, eggs, milk, firewhisky... Only the essentials.

By the time he’d stowed away the groceries and made an inventory of Granger’s crockery, it was time for another round of medicine for Crooks.

How did Granger manage this? Did she really Apparate home every two hours to play nursemaid to the cat and keep up with all her work? What if she had a meeting?

Draco had only vague, sleep-deprived memories of caring for Scorpius when he was an infant. Late nights and early mornings blurred together, punctuated only by bouts of crying (mostly Scorpius, sometimes Astoria, and on occasion, all three of them). He’d rocked Scorpius for hours in the nursery, soothing him with shushing sounds and stories about his family. It was the hardest work he’d ever done, and he hadn’t even had the difficult task of feeding his son. Though he didn’t want any more children, he often wished he could go back and do it all again with the wisdom of middle age.

With babies, there was an end to the madness of sleep regressions, and he had a partner as well as his mother and former mother-in-law to help lighten the load. For Granger, she was on her own, and since Crookshanks wasn’t getting any younger, there wasn’t much to look forward to at this point.

The realisation hurt his heart.

“Granger loves you an awful lot; I hope you know that. You’re worse than a newborn,” Draco fussed as Crookshanks finished licking the spoon. The cat rubbed against his legs, and he couldn’t hide a smile. “Good man. Up you go.”

He gently lifted the cat into his arms like he’d seen Granger do, cradling him. “That might have been a bit unfair. You’re a lot less noisy than a newborn. And you use a litter box, not nappies, so you’re not too stinky. I don’t suppose cats would like nappies. No room for the tail.”

Crookshanks simply stared at him, unseeing and unbothered.

Draco’s glasses slipped down his nose, but he didn’t disturb the cat as he wandered into the living area. The decor, or lack thereof, was even worse than he remembered.

“This is tragic,” he said aloud. The cat huffed.

“If you could see this, you’d agree with me. Where did she get this armchair? The Shrieking Shack? And these shelves are particle board. They’re not meant to handle this sort of weight; they’ll warp in no time. I’m not even going to remark on the telly-vision,” Draco paused. “Okay, I actually have to remark on the telly-vision. When was the last year they even made one that isn’t a flat screen? I mean, I won’t change it if you think it’s sentimental to your mum — er, Granger — but I guarantee you she doesn’t have a licence for that thing. My son Scorpius frequents America, and he says they don’t require a telly-vision licence, but they also don’t have national healthcare. A barbaric country, really. England is for the civilised among us. And France. This is the best time of year to be in Paris, the City of Light, and yet you and I are stuck in this flat.”

He stopped himself there. It had been less than half a day, and he was already monologuing to the cat. Lovely.

Draco set Crookshanks down in the armchair, drew his wand, and went to work.

For the next hour, his magic swirled around the tiny living room. Charms had been his second-best subject, and he’d had a lot of practice with Transfiguration. The tasteless sods at IKEA ought to try it sometime.

He and Scorpius had ventured into the IKEA in Greenwich not too long ago in search of furniture for his first flat. Draco was aghast at the maze of cheap fabric and “furniture” made with poor craftsmanship. If one must live in fewer than fifty square metres, why would one choose ghastly squared-off, obviously mass-produced modern designs over the plentiful classical styles available at charity shops? But Scorpius insisted that Harry had taken James and Albus when they struck out on their own, and so Draco loaded up a trolley with minimal grumbling.

When a well-meaning employee in a lurid yellow and blue striped shirt informed him that Draco would need to put the furniture together himself using nothing more than a weird metal-thingy shaped like an S (it hardly deserved to be called a spanner) and some pegs, he concluded that Muggles had outpaced wizards not only in technology, but in torture as well.

Four hours, one sore thumb and a lot of swearing later, Draco’s vendetta against the Scandinavian furniture giant was ironclad. The things parents did for their children.

From the looks of it, the entire flat came from IKEA. How had Granger managed to put it all together by herself? She was a marvel.

Draco reinforced the bookshelves and expanded them so they covered two walls floor to ceiling, flanking the fireplace. It took him a few tries to get it just right, but he matched the colour to her cherry hardwood floors. A simple organisational spell had her books flying around the room, alphabetising themselves by the author’s last name. He made a mental note to ask Granger if she’d like them categorised by genre as well. That was how he kept his books at home, though most of them were fantasy.

“I’m really being quite impressive right now, Crooks,” Draco said, wand conducting the symphony of books. “Now that we know each other a bit better, I’ll call you Crooks, and you can call me Draco.”

It would be nice if more people called him by his first name, but it was an odd thing to request after years of Malfoy. He supposed he could initiate a change, but the idea of calling Potter Harry had him running his teeth over his tongue in distaste.

He eyed the cat, who appeared to be fast asleep, curled in a ball in the armchair.

“Don’t get too comfortable. I’m coming for that abomination next.”

His mobile vibrated, because only prats kept their sound on, and he pulled it out of his pocket with swiftness.

A text message popped up on the screen. It was Granger, though she’d AirDropped him her contact information, and so it came up on his phone as “Hermione Granger” and Draco’s stomach did a weird flip-flop sort of motion.

Probably shouldn’t have eaten that half-sleeve of crackers.

Hermione Granger: Dad’s out of surgery. The surgeon says it went as well as it could’ve, but his blood pressure plummeted during the procedure. They’re keeping him in intensive care for the foreseeable future.

What should he say to that? He wanted to say something kind and uplifting, but didn’t want to gloss over the fact that her father’s situation wasn’t ideal.

Another text lit up his screen.

Hermione Granger: How are you and Crooks doing? Up for a chat later? I haven’t adjusted to the time difference, but time doesn’t seem to exist in hospitals.

She’d asked after him. Draco’s stomach did the weird flip-flop thing again. He chided himself for not checking the expiry date on the crackers.

He typed back: We’re both well, and happy to hear your dad’s out of surgery. Your presence must be a great comfort to both your parents, especially now that he’s in intensive care. I hope he’s in a typical recovery ward before you know it.

Then he typed: Would love to hear from you, but deleted it. Then he tried: Always up to talk to you, Granger, but deleted that, too. Finally he typed: FaceTime us whenever’s best for you, and sent the whole message.

She responded immediately: Thank you, Draco. Knowing Crooks is cared for is a huge weight off my shoulders.

Draco smiled, and his thumbs hovered over the keypad as he considered his response. But before he could say anything, she sent another message.

Hermione Granger: Gotta go. Doctors are here. See you soon.

He considered reacting with an emoji to let her know he’d seen her message, but there were weird rules about emojis. Once he’d requested an aubergine (from the shops — where else would one acquire an aubergine?) via emoji and Scorpius had never let him live it down. A heart was far too much, even in yellow. And he didn’t know if she might be offended by the red one hundred, which could come off as tone deaf and dismissive.

In the end, he left it on read. It wasn’t ideal.

Crooks stirred in the armchair, stretching out his legs. His ears turned back, as if he wondered where he was and what he’d missed.

“I’m right here,” Draco said, a little more tenderly than he’d intended. “Granger’s checked in, and we’ll hear from her later.”

The cat tilted his head.

“Granger. You know, your mum. She takes care of you usually?”

No reaction.

“Hermione,” he said, the name foreign yet soft in his mouth, and Crooks meowed happily.

Draco narrowed his eyes at the cat. “And now I’m ready to improve upon that armchair.”

He lifted Crooks and set him in a sherpa-lined cat bed before the fireplace. Crooks meowed, and Draco swore he was asking for him to light a fire, so he did. The cat circled for a moment before he found a comfortable position and closed his eyes.

Draco considered what he knew of Granger’s personal style. Her work robes were muted, but her blouses and skirts underneath told a different story. She seemed to prefer cheery colours; bright pink, cobalt, emerald, sunshine yellow. He was especially fond of the way she looked in amaranth.

He cloned the chair with a simple Geminio, and reupholstered both in a brushed blue velvet. It was too easy, and yet it was exhilarating to be able to do something for someone, so next he focused on adding creature comforts. Throw pillows embroidered with orange cats, candles, a coffee table, a high-pile rug that felt absolutely extravagant when one ran their toes through it. He even extended the mantle so Granger’s horrible telly-vision fit on top. A flat screen would be much better, but he couldn’t Transfigure one of those. Too many microchips.

Draco settled his hands on his hips and admired his work. It was perfect.

“I should really do the whole flat,” he mused. “I’ve plenty of time. Or is that too much?” He looked at Crooks for confirmation, but the cat merely twitched his stubby whiskers.

It might be too much, he thought to himself after another round of medicine and insulin for Crooks.

He made himself a sandwich and carried the cat back into the living room, which was now by far the nicest spot in the house, and settled in one of the new and improved armchairs. Crooks purred in his lap while he ate, and afterwards, he summoned Shadow and Bone from the bedroom. He’d begun the book last night, and absolutely loved it.

When he’d finally put it down, Alina had just figured out she had powers while crossing the Shadow Fold. They were attacked, and Alina unknowingly used a blast of bright sunlight to save her friend Mal. Now she was being taken to someone named the Darkling.

Draco was immediately drawn back into the intoxicating world. The meeting between Alina and the Darkling made all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The Darkling created the Shadow Fold and divided everything; destroyed everything, but he also seemed to want to mend it. He was the opposite of Alina in so many ways, and yet, Draco had a feeling she would prove to be more powerful than him.

I pulled the kefta tighter around me, feeling suddenly cold. I remembered the surety that had flooded through me with the Darkling’s touch, and that strangely familiar sensation of a call echoing through me, a call that demanded an answer. It had been frightening, but exhilarating, too. In that moment, all my doubt and fear had been replaced by a kind of absolute certainty. I was no one, a refugee from an unnamed village, a scrawny clumsy girl hurtling alone through the gathering dark. But when the Darkling had closed his fingers around my wrist, I’d felt different, like something more.

He thought of Granger’s delicate fingers wrapping around his wrist and adjusted himself in his seat.

Alina and the Darkling were light and dark, two sides of the same coin. He encouraged her to use her power, while Mal seemed envious at best. They were drawn to each other; as like calls to like. Their conversations sizzled on the page. He could understand the Darkling’s drive to help his people, but like Alina, he grew more and more worried about what lengths the Darkling would go to in order to meet his desired end.

The Darkling wasn’t all bad, was he? Salazar, that would be boring.

He read and read, taking breaks to care for Crooks, snack, and check his mobile. When it grew late, he moved to the bedroom and prepared for bed. He charmed the mattress to his preferred level of softness and slid between Granger’s honeysuckle-scented sheets with a sigh of satisfaction. Crooks nestled in his lap contentedly. He was nearly done with the book when Granger called.

Draco answered on the first ring.

“Hey,” he said, a little too loudly.

“Hi,” Granger said, looking more than a little tired in the artificial light. She was still at the hospital, if the sparse walls and periodic beeping in the background were any indication. Her hair was up, and she wore a butterscotch-coloured hoodie.

“How’s your dad?”

“He’s stable.”

Draco blew out a breath. “I’m relieved to hear it.”

“Yeah.”

“How are you?”

She shifted in her seat. “I’m okay. It’s a little more stressful than I anticipated. My mum jumps every time she sees a white coat.”

If they knew each other better, Draco would ask her to tell him more about how she was feeling. He had broad shoulders; he could help carry the mental load. But since they were merely in each other’s orbit, she might think he was prying, or worse, fake.

He settled on a sympathetic nod and tilted the phone towards his lap, where Crooks slept peacefully, a little drool pooling on the duvet. “He and I had quite a day. Stocked the kitchen, made some adjustments to the living room, and I’m nearly done with Shadow and Bone.”

Granger perked up. “Really? What do you think so far?”

“It’s unique, particularly this business with the amplifiers. All the world building is fantastic, really.”

“What do you think about Alina?”

“I love her,” he said. “She’s coming into her own. Mal’s kind of dead weight.”

“You think so?” Granger laughed.

“I don’t get why she loves him when the Darkling is right there.”

“Well, they were in the orphanage together. He loved her before she knew she had powers, so he loves her for who she really is.”

“I disagree,” Draco said, taking his glasses off. “She’s a Grisha. That’s the real Alina. Mal clearly doesn’t like that, even though she saved his life. He should be bowing and scraping before her, but instead he’s agreeing to kill her so the Darkling can’t use her powers. At least the Darkling appreciates her. They could join forces, rule over Ravka and usher in an era of peace.”

“But that’s not his vision.”

“She could change his mind,” he insisted.

Granger smiled and shook her head. “I should have known you’d be the enemies-to-lovers type.”

“Am I going to be disappointed?”

She looked away and plucked at the shoulder of her hoodie. “I hope not.”

A silence passed between them.

“Well,” Draco said. “I’m still going to read them all, and give you all my thoughts.”

“Good. Sorry I’m not more talkative.”

“Please don’t apologise. Is it Christmas there?”

“Yeah,” she said, a little sadly. “It is.”

“Happy Christmas to you and your family. I know it’s not the way you’d hoped to spend it. Tell them Crooks says hello and get well soon.”

“I’ll tell them you both send your best.”

“They know about me?”

“You vain man. Of course they know about you. I practically had to provide them with your dossier, they were so worried about who was looking after Crooks.”

“Ah,” he said. “A post-1998 dossier, I hope.”

He couldn’t stand the idea of Granger’s parents hating him.

“That’s as far as my records go back.”

Draco scrubbed his palm over his face in relief. “Now that I’ve made this all about me…”

She placed a slender hand on her cheek and smiled into it. “Yes?”

“Is there anything else I can do for you here? It might be Christmas in Oz, but I’m not showing you your living room until tomorrow.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Life holds very few surprises at our age, Granger. You’ll have to wait. But it’s some of the best charms work I’ve done in years, I’ll say that much.”

“Tease.”

“Minx,” he shot back. “I could go all night.”

Granger grinned. “I’m sure you could.”

Draco coughed and rapped his chest with his fist. It had been awhile, but he was pretty sure Granger was flirting with him. He could consult Scorpius, but he’d ask who the witch was. His son would laugh him out of the room if he said Hermione Granger.

“Crooks needs his beauty rest though, so we should turn in.”

“That he does. Sorry about the snoring, by the way. He’s always done that.”

“I don’t mind a little night music,” he said, shuffling down the headboard and laying his head on the pillow. He held the phone above him, one arm drawn behind his neck for more support. “It’s nice to have company. I’d been thinking about adopting a cat, but I haven’t gotten around to it. Doubt anyone would live up to Crooks, though. We really did have a lovely day. He’s a great listener, and I love that weird thing he does with his tail when he’s excited—”

She tucked her index finger under one eye and wiped away a tear. “Are you trying to make me cry? Give him a kiss for me.”

“Right now? I just got comfortable.”

“Draco,” she said pleadingly, and he was powerless to resist her.

He set the phone down, propped himself up and placed a gentle kiss on Crooks’s head, right between the ears. The cat’s ears twitched, but Crooks didn’t otherwise stir.

“Done,” he said, picking the phone back up.

“Thank you.”

“Happy to do it. You going back to your parents’ place to get some rest?”

“Yeah,” she said, still a little sniffly. “I’ll FaceTime you both later. Happy Christmas.”

“Take care,” Draco said, and did a dorky little wave as the video chat ended. Ugh. Maybe he really was deeply uncool.

Had he comforted her enough? Said too much, or too little? He’d tried to make her smile, which seemed to work. The conversation replayed on loop in his head, all the missed opportunities eating at him.

He wasn’t as tired as he had been when he’d laid down, so picked up his glasses and returned to the world of Shadow and Bone. But after another chapter, Draco laid the book on his chest and closed his eyes anyway. Five-thirty would be here before he knew it, and he had a very important cat to take care of, for a witch of equal (and increasing) importance to him.

Chapter Text

Monday, 25th December, 2023

Christmas Day

Five-thirty wasn’t nearly as bad with a proper breakfast. Draco dressed in a white button-down with a festive green jumper over top and hummed a medley of carols to himself as he fried eggs and sausages. Crooks begged for a nibble of the sizzling meat, and Draco cut a few thin slices.

“Don’t tell Hermione,” he said as he held the sausage out to Crooks. The cat licked it, carefully avoiding touching his sandpapery tongue to Draco’s skin, then pawed it onto the floor where he could enjoy it fully. Kneazles, and half-kneazles like Crooks, rarely licked humans, magical or not. They reserved that specific display of affection for those with whom they shared a special bond.

Draco left a pile of sliced sausage on the windowsill for Eurydice, too, when she arrived with a few parcels swathed in ribbons and cheerful wrapping paper. Draco realised Granger had no tree to put them underneath.

That wouldn’t do.

Astoria rang as he put the finishing touches on a beautiful Douglas fir he’d conjured from some twigs he swiped from the doorstep. The ornaments were made from some red plastic drinking cups labelled “Solo” he found in Granger’s cupboard. The name made sense, as only someone who never had any company over would drink from such a garish receptacle.

He tucked the mobile between his cheek and shoulder so he could keep decorating. He’d recently lost yet another set of AirPods — though they were possibly in his dress robes — and couldn’t stomach purchasing another pair.

“Hey Tori.”

“Hi darling,” she said warmly. They’d always been friends, and divorce hadn’t changed that. He’d always be darling to her. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas. How are things in beautiful Bali? How’s Adrian?”

Astoria and Adrian Pucey had always been drawn to one another, and after their respective divorces, they moved in together half a world away. Neither of them seemed inclined to marry again, but as Draco well knew, sometimes a marriage was just a piece of paper.

“Adrian, say hi to Draco,” Astoria said a little more loudly. Draco heard a muffled, though cheerful, Hey, Draco. Happy Christmas from somewhere in their bungalow. “Bali’s fab, though it’s the rainy season, so it’s pouring at the moment. Have you heard from Scorpius?”

“No, I doubt he’s awake. He’s in Colorado with the Potter boys.”

“Ah,” she breathed a sigh of relief. “I rang him twice and was worried. Are you at the Manor? Give Narcissa and Lucius my love.”

He adjusted the mobile as he topped the Christmas tree with a sparkling gold star. “Er, actually, I’m in London. I’m catsitting.”

“Really? That’s very thoughtful of you.”

He hesitated before replying. “It’s Hermione Granger’s cat.”

“Well, well,” Astoria said, a teasing note in her voice. “I can’t imagine how you got roped into that. Oh wait, I can. Daphne told me you were making mooncalf eyes at Granger last New Year’s Eve. She’s still single?”

“As far as I know.”

“You should go for it, darling.”

“Tori.”

“I’m serious. Adrian, back me up,” she shouted away from the receiver. More muffled sounds, and then Adrian picked up.

“Draco, Granger’s a certified smokeshow,” he said in his gravelly voice. “But it’s the holidays, and you’re taking care of her cat, so you’ve got a chance. This is your window of opportunity. Shoot your shot.”

Draco laughed. “Did Scorpius teach you that last one?”

“Maybe, but that’s neither here nor there. Listen, you’re a solid bloke, a great dad. Just show her you’re not the insufferable prick she remembers. You’re at her flat?”

“Yeah. I’m actually redecorating it for her so when she gets back it’ll be really nice. With her permission, of course. And she gave me books for Christmas.”

“She gave you books? Fuck me, you don’t need my help. You’re already in. Alright, I’m giving you back to Tori. Come see us soon, yeah? When it’s not so fucking rainy.”

“Cheers,” Draco said, bolstered by the pep talk.

“Hi again,” Astoria chirped. “When’s she back?”

“New Year’s Eve.”

“Poetic. It’s a sign.”

They chatted a bit more, and Draco committed to coming their way in the spring.

“Bring your girlfriend,” Astoria said. “I think we’d get along swimmingly. Does she scuba, by any chance?”

“We don’t even know if she’ll agree to one date with me, let alone be my girlfriend, and you’re already thinking about taking her out on the water? Quit counting your dragons before they hatch.”

“She’d be crazy to turn you down, darling. There’s no one else I’d rather have raised our beautiful boy with.”

“Adrian’s right there,” Draco said, a little confused.

“Yes, but Scorpius wouldn’t be Scorpius. He wouldn’t have your cheekbones or your wit, and he’d be named, I don’t know, Motorbike or Steamshovel, something ludicrous.”

“What?”

Astoria groaned. “Adrian favours stupid Muggle celebrity baby names.”

“Yikes,” Draco said. Scorpius might not be a classic, but it was far more reasonable a moniker than Motorbike.

“And yes, I love Adrian. But darling, our friendship is just as important to me. You and I; we’ve been through so much together. Birth, parenthood, my mother’s death, and look at us. Still friends. That’s rare. He gets it.”

“Look at us,” he murmured. “Taste in baby names aside, I’m glad Adrian’s part of our family.”

“That right there, darling, is why I love you. And Hermione Granger is a fool if she isn’t already halfway in love with you, too.”

They said their goodbyes, and Draco scooped up Crooks, scratching him thoughtfully behind the ears.

“Come on. Let’s get some more medicine in you and finish this book.”

Two hours later, Draco turned the final page of Shadow and Bone and sat in silence for a minute, staring into the fire.

“What,” he paused to gather his thoughts. “What did I just read?”

Crooks raised his sleepy head at the sound of Draco’s voice.

“Sorry Crooks. You’ve no idea what I’m on about. Okay, so, the Darkling brought Alina under his power with the stag, but she broke free and escaped with Mal. The last chapters basically undid everything that happened in the book. Alina and Mal are on another ship, just like they were at the beginning. I mean, Alina doesn’t even want to use her power anymore. What is that about?”

The cat’s tail twitched.

“I know, I’m irritated about it too. But there are two more books, so I’m guessing her story isn’t over. And don’t tell Hermione, but I’m still rooting for the Darkling.”

It was time for another insulin injection, and Crooks took it like a champ. He didn’t eat much of his lunch, but Draco chalked it up to the cat missing Granger.

“I ought to Floo call my parents,” Draco said reluctantly as they resettled in the living room. Crooks took to his cat bed, and Draco threw the powder into the fire, shouting the name of their Bulgarian estate. His Bulgarian was awful, but the call went through.

“Draco! Lucius, it’s Draco,” Narcissa Malfoy said excitedly. Her silver and black hair twisted at the back of her head in a chic chignon, and she wore black robes with embroidered snowflakes. “Happy Christmas, son.”

His father came into view, looking markedly better than he had when Draco last saw him. He leaned on his cane, but his beady eyes were sharp. “Glad tidings to you, Draco. Where are you?”

He’d anticipated this question.

“Catsitting for a colleague,” he said, gesturing towards Crooks. “Her father’s ill.”

His mother looked concerned. “What a shame. Anyone we know? I could send one of my gift baskets. I’ve recently added some excellent ginger tea. Very invigorating.”

“Thank you Mother, that’s very kind of you, but you’re not acquainted with her father.”

“And with her?” His mother asked shrewdly.

Time for evasive manoeuvres. Draco shifted his attention towards his father. “Father, you’re looking well. Bulgaria agrees with you.”

“Anywhere that isn’t riddled with Dementors agrees with me. Where’s my grandson?”

“America. Skiing.”

“Not with the Potter boys again, I hope.”

Draco shrugged, and his father groaned.

“Have you spoken with Astoria?” His mother asked.

“Yes, and she sends her love.”

“We really ought to get out to Bali, Lucius. Adrian and Astoria are right on the water.”

His father twisted his face in a snarl. “She left a Malfoy for a Pucey. Why would we visit her?”

“Lucius,” his mother admonished.

“Should have never signed that contract with the Greengrasses. No sense in that family tree.”

Draco bristled. “Hold your tongue, Father. That’s Scorpius’s mother you’re talking about.”

“Yes, well. I wouldn’t mind a few more heirs, Draco, if you catch my drift.”

“I don’t think that’s how heirs work.”

Sweet Salazar, not this again. Draco couldn’t very well tell his parents that he didn’t want any more children. He couldn’t even say he wanted to remarry, or they’d be foisting their Pureblood friends’ daughters on him in a heartbeat. He’d rather be alone than marry someone he wasn’t head over heels for — again.

It had been an awful lot of pressure to marry and conceive an heir quickly. If Draco had been left to his own devices, he would’ve married later, after living together with his intended bride, and he probably wouldn’t have become a parent at all. Still, he could never regret Scorpius, and fatherhood had been a wonderful journey. It just wasn’t one he wanted to repeat.

This realisation had kept him from entering the dating pool again, which was already limited considering his past. Like Hermione said, witches could start families well into their sixties, and he worried about marrying someone and them changing their mind later. Or even worse, what if his wife regretted not having children when they were past their childbearing years? He didn’t want to take away someone’s choices.

His father stabbed the floor with his cane, and both Draco and Crooks startled. “When are you going to stop moping about and remarry? I’m not that old, and I’d like some more Christmases surrounded by grandchildren.”

“Lucius,” his mother said, placing a hard on her husband’s arm. “Modern dating isn’t easy. Things have changed since we were young. Remember that awful show Andromeda made us watch on the telly-vision? It’s not like Draco can just go to Love Island and pick a bride.”

“Made us watch? You practically dragged me—”

“That’s neither here nor there,” she said hurriedly. “The point is, you can’t rush these things.”

Draco’s mobile blessedly rang before he could respond. He held up the device and turned it to face his parents. “It’s Scorpius, so I’ve gotta go. Love you both.”

“Happy Christmas, dear. Tell him to Floo us after he hangs up with you,” his mother said, and then they were gone.

He accepted the call. “Great timing, son. Happy Christmas.”

Scorpius, goggles atop his white-blond hair, flashed a wide grin against a backdrop of snow-dusted pines. “Hey Dad. I’ve only got a minute. There’s fresh powder.”

“Well, if there’s fresh powder, by all means,” he drawled. “How’re things?”

“Amazing, actually. Really great.”

“Yeah? Tell me more.”

“Uh, well—”

Albus Potter skied on screen, launching bits of snow everywhere. “Hey love, you ready?”

Did Albus just call his son love?

Scorpius’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson. “Al. I was just ringing my dad. We’re on FaceTime.”

“Oh. Oh shit.”

Scorpius turned his attention back to Draco. “Dad, I— This isn’t how I wanted to tell you.”

“Mr Malfoy, sir,” Albus stammered. “Hello. I promise I have the best of intentions towards your son…”

Albus prattled on, but Draco didn’t hear a word of it. He was processing.

His son liked men, and that was fine. His sexuality didn’t matter one bit to Draco. He loved his son unconditionally. But a Potter?

Merlin. What if he had to have every Christmas and Easter with Potter?

But his personal nightmare wasn’t what mattered right now. His son had shared something important with him, at a time where he wasn’t exactly ready to share it. Scorpius needed his support.

“Lads,” Draco said, clearing his throat. “I’m happy for you. And Scorpius, I’m sure this isn’t the way you wanted to tell me, but I’m glad it’s out there so I can tell you this: No matter what you do, or who you love, your mother and I are proud of you, and we love you.”

Scorpius still looked shell-shocked. “Thanks Dad. I… I love you, too.”

“I hope you’ll both come to the Manor sometime soon and stay awhile. It’s been too long since we had a proper visit.”

“Thanks, Mr Malfoy,” Albus said. “We’ll do that.” He skied away, leaving Scorpius and Draco to finish their conversation.

“Go on,” Draco said, jerking his head in the direction Albus left. “Go with your love.”

“Oh my God, you’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“I’m teasing. I’m happy for you.”

“Where are you, anyway?”

“Catsitting,” Draco said, gesturing towards the cat in question. “It’s a long story.”

Scorpius squinted at the screen. “Is that Ms Granger’s cat?”

“How do you know Crooks?”

“I don’t, but she’s the only one of Mr Potter’s friends that has a cat, so thanks for confirming. She’s fit, Dad. Didn’t know you could still pull a bird like that.”

“It’s not what you think. I’m doing her a favour,” he protested.

“Sure,” Scorpius said, dragging the word out with a smirk.

His son was turning his own smirk against him. Fancy that.

He heard Albus call Scorpius again. “We’ll talk when you and Albus visit. Go ski. And Floo your grandparents later!”

Scorpius ended the call then, or maybe he lost signal. Either way, Draco was once again alone with Crooks in Granger’s flat. At least it was more festive now.

“I don’t want to talk to another soul today,” Draco muttered. He checked the time. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Crooks flattened himself further down in the cat bed.

“I’ll bring the next round of medicine to you then, shall I? Until then, I’m starting the next book. I’m going to give Gra—Hermione an earful when she rings. What was that ending?”

Crooks suddenly perked up, lurched over the edge of his bed, and barfed directly on the new rug. Draco groaned. That was going to take a bit more than a simple Scourgify to clean up.

He could’ve been in France.

Just then, the Floo sprang to life.

Draco put his hand to his brow. “Mother, if you have something to say about Scorpius’s choices—”

“Malfoy? What are you doing at ‘Mione’s?”

Crooks arched his back and hissed. All his patchy fur puffed out, making the orange cat appear twice his size.

Draco looked up to find Ronald Weasley standing in the centre of Granger’s fireplace. Still broad-shouldered, still dopey, still beloved by all of Wizarding Britain, despite the cheating scandal. Draco clenched his jaw.

“Weasel. Happy Christmas.”

There. That wasn’t so hard. If Granger asked, he could honestly say he’d been cordial.

Though, would she mind if he wasn’t? He wasn’t sure where she stood with her ex-husband. Though her Floo was open to him, so if that were any indication, they were on friendly terms.

Damn.

“Uh, yeah. Listen, could you get ‘Mione?”

The nickname grated. Draco decided he didn’t need to tell Weasley everything.

He deployed his iciest tone. “Hermione’s unavailable at the moment.”

Weasley’s mouth hung agape. “Hermione?”

“Yes, the curly-haired witch who lives here? I’m familiar.”

Draco almost said quite familiar, just to piss him off.

“Where is she exactly?”

“Like I said, she’s unavailable right now. Would you like to leave a message with me? I’ll see that she gets it.”

“Obviously I’m not leaving a message with you. I’ll just send an owl.”

“I’ll be the one getting the owl. Out with it.”

“I wanted to tell her Angelina and I are having a baby. I figured it’d be better to hear it from me than the Prophet.”

His heart sank. Granger would probably be crushed. She was so maternal towards Crooks. Who knew how long she might’ve hoped for a family with Weasley? Maybe they’d even tried. And now he was starting one with the woman he’d cheated on her with. He was the scum of the earth, and if Draco were ever allowed to use dark spells again, he’d hex the arsehole on sight.

“How kind of you to give her the news on Christmas,” Draco said, letting his words drip with venomous sarcasm.

“Well, we’re even now,” Weasley shot back. “She could’ve told me you two were together.”

Draco preened at the assumption, and didn’t correct him. “Is that all?”

“Bloody hell. No, that’s not all. Why would my ex-wife turn to a fucking Death Eater to—”

Draco shut the Floo before the other man could finish his tirade and rested his forehead on the edge of the mantle. Crooks seemed to eye him warily from his position near the dying fire. Draco had to remind himself the cat was blind.

“What? I didn’t even tell him to fuck off. And that was low, Crooks. If you think for one second that I’m buying what he’s selling about it being better for her to find out from him, I have some beachfront property in Nepal you might be interested in. He’s just throwing his happiness in her face. He’s a fucking wanker.”

Crooks growled, and Draco interpreted it to mean that Crooks also hated the scumbag.

“Thank you.”

A moment later, he asked the cat, “Do I have to tell her?”

But Crooks was already asleep.

After he got on his hands and knees and scrubbed away the cat barf, the rest of the day passed relatively uneventfully. Draco coaxed Crooks into eating a little more, and finishing all his medicine-laced yoghurt. He started Siege and Storm, but he was restless, crossing and uncrossing his legs and bouncing his ankle on his knee.

As the story opened. Alina and Mal were hiding in a small town. Mal was perfectly happy, even thriving, but Alina grew weaker with every passing day. Her body and spirit deteriorated rapidly due to her neglecting her powers.

“Say what you will about the Darkling, but he would never let Alina wither away like this,” Draco groused to Crooks.

Finally, Granger’s name popped up on his screen. Just like last night, he answered on the first ring.

“Hey Hermione,” he said without thinking.

She brightened immediately. “Hey. You called me Hermione.”

She was back in hospital, but looked well-rested, and utterly divine in an ivory turtleneck. Her chocolate curls spilled over her shoulders. Draco suddenly ached to see her in person.

“Yeah, I did. Crooks knows you as Hermione, and, I don’t know. We’ve had a lot of chats today, he and I.”

“Have you? He can be quite chatty when he feels like it.”

Draco thought back on the events of the day. Had Crooks been as responsive as he’d been yesterday?

“Is it alright if I call you Hermione?”

“Only if I can call you Draco,” she said. “I like it a lot better than Malfoy.”

He felt warm all over.

“So do I. How’s your dad?”

“He’s still in intensive care, but he’s doing well enough that they plan to move him to a regular room tomorrow,” Hermione said with a smile. “It’s a Christmas miracle.”

“I’m so glad to hear it.”

“How was your Christmas?”

Draco recounted the relevant parts of the calls he’d had from family today, skipping anything that had to do with his love life. He considered telling her that Weasley had tried to get in touch, but she looked so happy, and her dad wasn’t out of the woods yet… No, he couldn’t give her the news tonight.

Was it a little cowardly? Maybe. But he felt protective of her, and it was that inclination that overrode any ideas he had about telling her what Weasley said.

“And then Scorpius called, and, you can’t tell anyone, but he’s dating Albus.”

She leaned in with a surprised grin. “What?”

“I know. I was shocked. He didn’t mean to tell me.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“I wish he’d felt comfortable telling me sooner. And I hope Albus treats him well, though I can’t imagine Scorpius being with someone who didn’t. Oh, the fact that he’s with another man? I want him to be happy; that’s what’s most important. It doesn’t change anything, although I’ll mourn my lack of grandchildren in private.”

The last bit was sort of a joke, but he only laughed a little. He was sad he wouldn’t get any biological grandchildren if Scorpius exclusively dated men — or exclusively dated Albus. What if his son stayed with Albus Potter for the rest of his life? That was unlikely, right?

“You really are open-minded these days,” Hermione said, and he puffed up a bit at the note of approval in her voice. “That’s really lovely, Draco. And they make a good-looking pair. I guess I’ll see you around at Harry’s more often. That’ll be nice.”

“Quite nice,” he said, meaning seeing her around more often, not frequenting 12 Grimmauld Place.

“So, tell me what you’ve done to my living room. I can see you’ve expanded the bookshelves.”

He gave her the grand tour. She oohed and aahed over his improvements, and by the time he sat back down in one of the armchairs, he knew he must be rather flushed. She’d loved everything, and when he hinted that he might like to tackle the rest of the flat, she not only had no objections, but also she said please.

The way she looked at him appreciatively sent a prickle of awareness down his spine. And the way her mouth formed the word, the pucker of her pretty lips, made his cock twitch. He cleared his throat awkwardly and reached for a change in subject.

“I finished Shadow and Bone, by the way.”

“You did?” She practically bounced out of her chair.

He told her all his thoughts on the ending. Hermione tilted her head as she listened, really listening to him, and he rambled at length, high on her attention. She didn’t say much when he shared his theories on how the series might end, which he appreciated because he didn’t want to be spoiled.

“I promise I’ll tell you everything I want to say after you finish the books,” she insisted.

“I’ve already started Storm and Siege.”

“Do you love it?”

“I’m on the edge of my seat. I can’t believe Mal is completely ignorant of Alina’s condition. She’s going to die if she doesn’t use her sun summoning powers.”

Her look was sly. “And has your beloved Darkling returned? Is he going to save the day?”

“He ought to. I know he isn’t perfect, but he understands what it’s like to be Grisha. It even says right there in the text that like calls to like.”

“I suppose you’ll just have to read and find out.”

They talked a bit more, but Draco was exhausted. Hermione must’ve been able to tell he was fighting back yawns, because she encouraged him to get in bed. Draco climbed in, but they stayed on the line, both reluctant to hang up. He typically didn’t like being fussed over too much, having had an only child’s worth of undivided attention in his youth, but her gentle insistence was touchingly domestic. He imagined it would be easy to cohabitate with Hermione, and he’d be lying if he hadn’t thought about what it might be like to share a bed with her. It was even easier to visualise it when he lay in her bed and inhaled her soft, sweet scent.

He’d turn to her in the morning, when the sky was barely light and most of the city slept on, and brush her wild hair from her sleeping face. Then he’d pull her to his chest, stroking her back and whispering endearments while she woke. And then he’d make love to her, with nowhere to be and nothing to do but bring her to orgasm again, and again, and again…

He adjusted himself in his trousers, having difficulty shaking the thoughts away when she was right there on his screen. So close, and yet so far away.

“I’ve got to give Crooks his final jab, and then I promise I’ll get some sleep. I wasn’t going to tell you, but I snuck him a little sausage this morning. It’s Christmas, after all.”

“You’ll spoil him!”

“He has a sherpa-lined cat bed and a robotic litter box. I think the hippogriff’s out the barn door on this one.”

“Oh, you’re an expert on hippogriffs now, are you?”

“Hush,” he said with a laugh.

They exchanged goodnights, and Draco clutched the dark mobile tightly, warm from battery use. He would miss this. She’d be gone a few more nights, and then it would be back to the Manor and his own bed, with no one to ring and tell him goodnight.

Crooks was a bit limp when he administered his insulin, and Draco carried him to the loo to use the litter box before bed. Draco popped in the shower and rinsed off the day, mentally cataloguing all the things he wanted to do tomorrow. He hoped Hermione would love these changes as much as the ones he’d made to her living room.

As he towelled off, a flash of colour caught his eye. He watched as the litter box cycled, a bright spot of red blood in the bits of silica and clay.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, 26th December, 2023

Draco sat in the waiting room at the animal healer’s clinic, shoeless and in his flannel pyjamas, rumpled from pacing. He’d been there since the night before, when he saw the blood in the litter box. He’d gathered Crooks in his arms, not even bothering with his slippers or the red cat carrier Hermione left by the door, and Apprarated straight to Horizont Alley. Even Apparition didn’t feel fast enough when someone you cared about needed help.

And it was so obvious to him now that Crooks had been ill all of yesterday. The lack of appetite, the barfing, the listlessness. He recounted it all to a young, coffee-fueled assistant healer in lime green robes. She was covering for the head healer over the holidays, and pulling a double shift, but listened attentively to Draco’s concerns.

“It isn’t because I gave him a bite of sausage, is it?” he’d asked, terrified that he’d done something to cause Crooks’s symptoms.

“That wouldn’t happen from regular, non-magical sausage,” she’d reassured him. “We’ll take good care of him, just wait right here and we’ll come out and update you when we know more.”

She took Crooks back right away. That had been hours ago.

Draco was miserable; crushed and full of self-loathing that he hadn’t recognised the signs because he was so caught up in the holiday. He’d bitten the inside of his cheeks raw in the hours between midnight and dawn, and now it was mid-morning and the clinic was open for the day. Pet owners with regular appointments took in his frightful appearance and regarded him with pity. Fortunately he didn’t see anyone he knew well, because he was in no shape to explain the situation.

His hand hovered over the “send” button on his mobile. He’d typed a hundred different messages to Hermione, but hadn’t been able to press “send” on any of them. He didn’t know anything yet.

There’d been a few updates, but little actual information. First, they’d run some tests. Second, they’d ruled out a few things, like a urinary tract infection, or cancer, and given Crooks some pain medicine. But Draco hadn’t heard anything for awhile now, and he felt like his world was caving in.

It had only been a few days, but he adored that damn cat.

His stomach rumbled. He was hungry and exhausted, but whatever Crooks was feeling was surely worse.

Slowly, he rose and shuffled to a small table with a coffee pot and complementary pastries. The coffee was bitter; the croissant stale. But they barely registered on his palate as he stared at his mobile again.

His latest draft said: Hey, don’t panic, but I’m at Crooks’s healer. I saw blood in the litter box last night and brought him here straight away. They’re still trying to figure out what’s going on, but I’ll ring you as soon as I know more.

He still didn’t press “send.”

Another thirty minutes crawled by with agonising slowness. He stared down at his charm-dried Christmas-themed socks; the ones with little wreaths on them. Draco lifted his head every time he heard the double doors at the back of the clinic swish, increasingly desperate for news. Finally, the assistant healer called out, “Mr Granger? Crookshanks’s dad?”

Draco sprang to his feet. He hadn’t bothered to correct the staff when they assumed he was Hermione’s husband; he’d been too frazzled. “Yes, I’m still here.”

“Come with me,” she said, her expression giving nothing away.

He followed her back down a long corridor lined with loud posters featuring advertisements for supplemental potions for kidney health and encouraging owners to get their pets spayed and neutered. The assistant healer’s trainers squeaked on the freshly mopped floors. The lights were blindingly bright, and he wondered if she was taking him to one of those awful rooms designed to say goodbye, the ones with murals of the rainbow bridge.

He’d been in one once, when he found a struggling crup in the bushes outside the Ministry. He’d named her Biscuit. She couldn’t be saved.

Probably best not to think about Biscuit right now.

They arrived at a beige door, a non-threatening, normal-looking one, and Draco exhaled slowly when he saw the standard exam room inside. A metal cage sat on a table, and Crooks slept peacefully inside, a monitoring charm displaying his vitals. Most of them were green, but one was yellow, and one was red.

Red wasn’t a good colour.

“We’re releasing Crookshanks to you,” the assistant healer said. “We’re not sure what’s wrong with him. We’ve run blood tests, diagnostics, and cast every spell in the book, but it’s unclear at this time what might be causing his pain.”

“Surely you can’t just… not know,” Draco said, a little angrily.

He’s spun his wheels for hours now, and he just wanted some answers. Not only for himself, but for Hermione whenever they next spoke. And without a diagnosis, it was impossible to know how to help Crooks.

“As I’m sure you know, Mr Granger, healing isn’t an exact science. There’s still a lot we don’t know, especially about half-kneazles. Crookshanks is geriatric. In fact, we don’t have any animals that we see here at the clinic that are older than him. It’s very normal for cats at his age to...”

“To what?”

“Prepare for whatever’s after this,” she said. Her voice took on that smooth quality people used when talking to the mentally infirm, or Greg Goyle. “We think Crookshanks has perhaps begun his preparations. We’re going to send you home with some pain medication, and when you feel his time has come, there’s an injection we’ll provide you with, and you can—”

He cut her off. “No. No, that’s not what’s happening.”

“Mr Granger, I know this is difficult.”

Draco shifted on his feet, trying to keep the room from spinning. The assistant healer was still talking, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. Suddenly she was handing him a pamphlet and a bag of medicine, and then Crookshanks’s cage.

“What do I do?” Draco asked as she showed him the door.

“Go home and enjoy the time you have together.” She smiled, and it wasn’t unkind, but he wanted to punch her in the face.

He didn’t remember walking back down the corridor, out of the clinic, and back to the Apparition point. Something might’ve been on fire and Draco wouldn’t have noticed. He only felt a little more like himself when he entered Hermione’s flat, where he stripped off his wet socks, set the cage down, and removed the orange ball of fluff inside.

For a while, he simply sat in one of the armchairs and held Crooks. The cat purred as Draco gently rubbed his ears and ran a hand down the length of his body, but he was limp and didn’t open his eyes.

“I don’t care what that healer says,” Draco said. “We’ll get a second opinion. I’ll take you to the best healer in the world if I have to, but we’re not just going to sit around and wait for…”

As he trailed off, Draco remembered that Crooks also had a Muggle healer. A veterinarian.

He carried Crooks into the kitchen and consulted the parchment Hermione left for him. There was a phone number, and Draco dialled it without hesitation. Ten minutes later, he had an appointment. All he had to do was get dressed and figure out how to get there.

As it turned out, figuring out how to get there was far easier than actually getting there. Despite his love for Muggle technology and ingenuity, Draco didn’t visit Muggle London all that often, and it was far more crowded due to the Christmas season. He held Crooks, now safely tucked away in his red carrier which Draco had charmed to stay warm and dry, against his chest as he navigated the endless swaths of people. He kept Storm and Siege and Ruin and Rising in his coat pocket, in case there was another long wait. It would be good to have a distraction.

The veterinary clinic was busy. A sea of irritable dogs barked from the moment Draco and Crooks walked in the door. Draco held Crooks’s carrier in his lap protectively, warily eying a jumpy black labrador. He knew deep down it was just a normal dog, but it was still disconcerting. He couldn’t determine whether it was a bad omen to see his dead cousin reflected back at him in the dog’s dark eyes.

They were seen in a timely fashion. An assistant showed them to a tiny room, and Draco appreciated that he could go with Crooks. The young man took Crooks’s vitals and confirmed his current care plan with Draco, making sure they knew all his medications and their doses. Draco crooned encouragement to the cat until the veterinarian, a tall woman with thick black hair, came through the door of the exam room wearing light blue scrubs and carrying a clippyboard.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Gupta,” she said, pausing at the sink to give her hands a thorough scrub.

“Draco.”

“Hi Draco. I haven’t seen Crookshanks come in with you before.”

He cleared his throat. “I’m his catsitter.”

“Ah. Mum’s on holiday, then? Bet you’re missing her,” she said to Crooks, peeking into the cat carrier. She directed her attention back at Draco before sinking onto a padded stool with wheels. “So what seems to be the main issue today?”

Draco rattled off all Crooks’s symptoms while Dr. Gupta reviewed and updated her records. After he finished, she coaxed Crooks out of the carrier and conducted a brief exam. She was gentle and thorough, and seemed pleased when she held out a treat and Crooks ate it from the palm of her hand.

“Okay, so, nothing is jumping out at me yet, but I share your concerns. Blood in the stool could be serious. He has an appetite, which is a good sign, but he’s usually more energetic in my office.”

“Yeah. This is my first time taking care of him, but something’s off.”

“Sometimes the best thing we can do is listen to our gut. I’m glad you brought him in. I know you don’t know me, but I’m fairly conservative in my approach, and I’m not going to do anything unnecessary. If we need to do any expensive procedures I’ll consult with you and you can run it by the owner.”

“Money’s no object,” Draco said quickly. “Anything he needs. I can cover it.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Good to know. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves here. First I want to run some tests and keep him overnight.”

“Overnight?”

“It’s just a precaution. He’s elderly, and we want to have everything he needs nearby in case we run into unforeseen issues.”

“And I just go home and wait?”

More waiting. Just what he needed.

“I know it’s frustrating. Keep your mobile handy, but don’t worry if you don’t hear anything tonight. No news is good news. I’m going to send my assistant back in and get Crooks set up for the night. Is there anything you want to leave with him to make him feel safe? Sometimes that helps our patients.”

Draco racked his brain. He hadn’t anticipated Crooks staying overnight, and didn’t have anything of Hermione’s with him. Suddenly it occurred to him that his greatcoat was lined with a soft fabric similar to sherpa, like Crooks’s cosy cat bed. He shrugged it off.

“Can he sleep with my coat?”

“I’m sure he’ll love that,” she said kindly.

The assistant came back and prepared Crooks for his stay. Crooks didn’t make a fuss, barely twitching his nose and tail, as they prepared his paw to receive fluids. Draco was sniffly, and couldn’t make eye contact with the assistant and his sympathetic smile.

Eventually, he was given a moment to say farewell to Crooks.

“Crooks,” he whispered, running a hand over the cat’s spine. A tear threatened to escape his eye. “Hermione loves you very much. I know you wish she was here right now, and not me, and I’m sorry for that. She misses you, and she just wants to come home and see you. So you’ve got to pull through, okay?”

Crooks didn’t make a peep, but he arched into Draco’s touch. The movement was so subtle anyone else would’ve missed it, but not Draco. And it gave him a fleeting moment of hope.

He picked the cat up and held him like a baby, like he’d seen Hermione do, and looked into his milky eyes. “And we’ve only known each other a few days, but I love you too, alright? You’re safe with these healers. They’re gonna figure out how to help you, and I’ll pick you up tomorrow, good as new.”

The assistant knocked, and Draco coughed into his fist. “Come in.”

It hurt him to hand Crooks over to the other man, but the cat didn’t object, so neither would he. After the door swung shut, Draco watched through the rectangular window as he disappeared into another room across the corridor labelled “Emergent Care.” Wrung out and despondent, he slumped into the plastic chair behind him and wiped his suddenly damp eyes.

The trip back home was awful. The sun had come out, and throngs of tourists with smiling faces and armfuls of shopping bags lined the streets. It just seemed so wrong. How could anyone be out having fun when such a brave, loyal cat was sick?

He stopped by something called Pret a Manger and bought himself a cuppa and a sorry excuse for a sandwich with the little Muggle money he’d carried with him. Everything tasted like a pale imitation of itself, and he wasn’t sure if it was because he was so distraught, or if Muggle prepared foods were subpar. Probably a bit of both.

When Draco arrived back at Hermione’s flat, Crooks’s absence hit him like a jinx to the heart. Everything reminded him of the cat; the fire he lit in the grate, the stack of pâtés in the refrigerator, the duvet covered in orange fur. He changed into a fresh set of pyjamas and drew the shades, hoping to get a quick nap before phoning Hermione and giving her the bad news.

How would she react? Would she cry? Yell at him?

He knew better than to think that she would blame him, at least out loud. Perhaps she’d wonder, in weeks to come, whether he’d made the cat sick on purpose. She wouldn’t smile at him on the way to the lifts anymore, that’s for sure. And his plan of asking her to dance at the next gala was out the window.

His mobile vibrated.

Hermione Granger: Hi, I’m sorry I haven’t checked in, but it’s chaos here. They’ve moved my dad back into intensive care.

Draco swore as he deleted his draft about Crooks and typed a reply.

Draco Malfoy: I’m so sorry, Hermione.

Hermione Granger: I didn’t see this coming. I feel so silly. It’s not like we didn’t know the risks of surgery, but I just assumed that nothing would happen to my dad, because, he’s my dad, you know? I’m trying to be here for my mum, and my uncle’s flying in now, too.

He typed something out impulsively, moved to delete it, and then accidentally thumbed the “send” button. His lungs were completely devoid of air as he saw it pop up on screen.

Draco Malfoy: I wish I could be there for you.

She was typing… Typing… Typing…

Hermione Granger: You’re helping more than you know.

He exhaled; relieved and slightly less off-balance.

Another message came through.

Hermione Granger: I don’t think I’ll be able to chat tonight, sadly. I need some sleep. You two boys behave. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

Draco could tell her. He could tell her right now, before she put her mobile down for the night, that Crooks was sick. But then she might not sleep, and things sounded like they’d gone from bad to worse for her dad, if family flying in was any indication.

At the same time, he’d want to know if someone in his life, beloved pets included, might not have much time left. She could get an emergency Portkey and be back within twenty-four hours. And she’d need advance notice if Crooks was truly dying and they needed to put him down.

Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, she’d said.

She wouldn’t hide something like this from him, if the wand was in the other hand, no matter how hard it was. That made up his mind.

Draco Malfoy: Hermione, I need to tell you something. It’s important.

He waited, but received no reply.

Draco Malfoy: Hermione?

Nothing. Maybe she was already asleep. It was late in Australia.

He pressed the phone icon next to her name. It rang and rang, finally going to voicemail.

Hi, you’ve reached Hermione. There was a faint meow in the background. And Crookshanks, thanks Crooks. If you’re hearing this, I’m unavailable at the moment, but since this is a voicemail, you probably already know that. Um… Leave me a message if you like, or send me a text, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Cheers!

Fuck.

Draco Malfoy: When you see this, ring me.

Draco Malfoy: Please.

He didn’t take a nap, though he desperately wanted to. He suddenly feared that Hermione might ring him back, or even the veterinarian, and he would somehow sleep through the call. Instead, he changed back out of the pyjamas and into a jumper and joggers, and placed his trainers by the door, at the ready. If he needed to, he could be out the door in under a minute.

Draco had never been one to fall asleep upright, so he parked himself in one of the armchairs and changed his mobile volume to high. That way, he’d hear it and pick up right away. He’d stay up all night if he had to, and it was looking like that might be the case. He hadn’t pulled an all-nighter in years, but he prepared the same essentials he’d used at Hogwarts: a pot of strong tea, several packets of salt and vinegar crisps, and a good book.

He blazed through the rest of Siege and Storm. The Darkling found Alina, just as Draco hoped he would. And he didn’t hesitate to stake his claim.

“I've seen what you truly are," said the Darkling, "and I've never turned away. I never will. Can he say the same?”

But yet again, and despite new powers and an intimate kiss, the Darkling couldn’t hold Alina for long. Whilst they were all at sea, the crew revolted against the Darkling, and spirited Alina (and Mal, ugh) away.

Draco wanted to tell the Darkling to quit trying to keep her; quit trying to control her. Alina would never respond to his advances and reign with him if he didn’t let down his guard with her every now and then. Though perhaps that was too much to ask of an ancient being.

And then there was this Nikolai bloke trying to get with Alina, too. He had real Cormac McLaggen energy, which Draco didn’t appreciate.

Now the Darkling was furious, and when he found Alina again, he seemed rougher around the edges, more susceptible to the darkness that fed him. If Alina had only worked with him, seen through the politics and all the other bullshit, then maybe he wouldn’t have committed to fascism. They could have ruled Ravka, brought peace to the land.

Dark and light have to find a way to coexist. Like calls to like.

Draco picked up Ruin and Rising, afraid that this book might be much like many other fantasy books he’d read. There was more than a slight chance the villain would not get redemption, let alone find love with the protagonist, even though the author had teased it for most of the series. He couldn’t stand it when authors gave extremist characters with good intentions a tragic backstory and then did absolutely nothing with them.

He checked his mobile again. Nothing new, not even a text from Scorpius. He sighed. Maybe his son wasn’t ready to talk to him yet about everything that happened yesterday. It was hard to know, as a parent, when to give your kid space and when to reach out. Draco didn’t want to smother Scorpius, especially when his son’s coming out had clearly been accidental and difficult. But at the same time, he wanted Scorpius to know he was genuinely supportive of his sexuality and his relationship.

After giving it some more thought, Draco decided that if Scorpius didn’t reach out tomorrow, he would send him a message. Scorpius wasn’t due to return until after New Year’s Eve, but maybe he’d ask him to come by the Manor and talk in person. Unless that would be too awkward?

He was too tired to think clearly. And the mobile was still dark and silent.

More tea. More crisps. More Ruin and Rising.

Alina would have to make her decision soon. Who to fight for; who to love. If she would love at all. Some of her thoughts hit a little too close to home.

Maybe love was superstition, a prayer we said to keep the truth of loneliness at bay. I tilted my head back. The stars looked like they were close together, when really they were millions of miles apart. In the end, maybe love just meant longing for something impossibly bright and forever out of reach.

The Darkling’s mother died, and Draco’s heart sank when he reached out to Alina through their bond, but she refused to answer. And then the little hope he had left for their reconciliation was blown to bits when Alina chose to be with Mal, and then marched to the Fold to take on the Darkling in a final showdown to determine the future of Ravka.

He should’ve known that even in fantasy, once a villain, always a villain.

No matter how hard the villain tried to change, or escape his fate, it was written in the stars. He could scour every galaxy and never find love. He could live for thousands of years and be destroyed by someone who had the good fortune to be born with stardust and light streaming through their veins.

He skimmed through the final battle. His heart just wasn’t in it.

And when the Darkling died at the hands of the woman he loved, Draco threw the book across the room, wrenched his glasses off, and put his head in his hands.

Chapter Text

Wednesday, 27th December, 2023

Despite his best efforts, Draco dozed in the armchair off and on until the veterinarian’s office rang him at eight o’clock. They told him they’d found the source of the problem, and he could come pick Crookshanks up now.

“He’s alright?” he asked, stepping into his trainers.

“Just fine. Dr. Gupta will give you an update when you arrive.”

Draco’s battery was nearly dead, but he wasn’t about to make Crooks wait while he charged. He grabbed a granola bar, put on an extra layer since Crooks still had his greatcoat, and headed out into the cold.

The journey into Muggle London was less arduous today. Draco arrived at the veterinarian’s office in less than thirty minutes. The receptionist greeted him with a stack of discharge paperwork, and after he completed it, escorted him back to the same room he’d been in yesterday. He sat and checked his mobile again. No word from Hermione.

The door swung open, and Draco leapt to his feet.

“Good morning,” Dr. Gupta said cheerfully. Crooks was in her arms, wrapped in Draco’s greatcoat and looking much happier and more alert than he had yesterday.

“Good morning. Hey Crooks, how are you, old chap?”

The veterinarian handed the bundle of cat and coat to Draco and motioned for him to sit. He swallowed hard when Crooks pushed his head up against Draco’s chin, rubbing against him with clear affection.

Dr. Gupta smiled. “So I just want to fill you in and you two can go home right after we chat. He’s doing much better. After we gave him some fluids for dehydration, we noticed he perked right up. But when we gave him his medicine with the yoghurt, he seemed to go back to the way he was yesterday when you first brought him in. I had a hunch, ran an allergy test, and it seems that Crookshanks is lactose intolerant.”

“He is?”

“Most cats are, so it’s nothing to worry about. They don’t typically have as big of a reaction to it, like you saw with the bloody stool in the litter box, because they’re usually ingesting much smaller amounts of milk or other dairy products. It’s important to get him to take his medicine, so I can see why his owner made the choice to use yoghurt, but I’d go ahead and make the switch to something like a soft, hollow treat with room for the pills. We have lots of patients his age who are able to chew and swallow those, and I’ve actually got a sample pack here for you to try.”

Draco accepted the pack, a little mind-boggled. “So, I just put the medicine in here?”

“Yep.”

“He’s not dying?”

“Nope. He just had an upset tummy.”

Unbelievable.

“And if he doesn’t chew these well?”

“Give us a ring, and we’ll make a plan. We can either switch his medicines or find something else to hide them in. But the vet techs who had him overnight said he accepted these just fine from them. Any more questions?”

“Uh, no, I guess not.”

“Excellent,” chirped Dr. Gupta, her hand already on the door handle. “You know, he’s got a flair for the dramatic. He’s probably missing his owner.”

“Yeah, I think we both are,” Draco said, stroking Crooks while the cat purred contentedly.

“Well, you might consider getting him a friend. We see this a lot in elderly cats. Sometimes getting a kitten lifts their spirits; makes them feel young again. There’s actually an adoption event in the lobby today.”

“Oh, I don’t know if—”

“You seem like you’d be a responsible owner. Maybe you should stop by and see if you and Crookshanks get on with any of the little rascals out there. Might help you win his owner over,” she said with a sly wink.

He stammered something incoherent, but the veterinarian was already out the door.

Draco looked down at Crooks. “That was quite the adventure for a case of indigestion. I’m out three Galleons and who knows how many pounds sterling. And I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to rid this coat of all your fur,” he said, forcing an annoyed tone.

Crooks meowed and licked a paw.

“But what matters is that you’re okay. Let’s go home. I need some sleep. And at some point Hermione’s going to get back to me and I’m going to have to explain all of this.”

He loaded Crooks into the cat carrier and strode to the receptionist’s desk to pay the bill. (An astronomical figure. Highway robbery. Worth every cent.) As he turned to the exit, out of the corner of his eye he saw a vinyl banner with a dozen metal cages underneath.

Kitten Adoption — Today Only, it said in bright red letters. Spay/Neuter and All Vaccines Included. £100.

Draco knew he shouldn’t even go over there. He didn’t need a cat. He certainly shouldn’t adopt one on someone else’s behalf. Later, he would blame it on a lack of sleep and an excess of worry about the half-kneazle he’d come to love so much.

“Why is it a hundred bleeding pounds to adopt a cat,” he muttered under his breath as he moved closer.

He jumped when the friendly receptionist, who’d apparently heard him, answered the question. “Ideally, we want them to go to homes that can afford to provide for them. And a high adoption fee, like a hundred pounds, also serves as a deterrent to those who might want to pick up a kitten for unsavoury reasons.”

It made sense, though it was awful to think about those things. Draco couldn’t fathom anyone wanting to hurt an innocent creature. Even in his youth, he regarded most animals with a healthy amount of fear. He hadn’t really wanted anything bad to happen to Buckbeak in third year; he was merely talking a big game, lashing out at the people he secretly envied.

He’d grown a lot these past decades.

Draco surveyed the cages in front of him. “Are any of them the sort that would get on well with an older cat?”

“Certainly. You’ve got a male, right? Probably better to get another boy. There’s mostly girls today, but there’s Weetabix, in the top left cage — he’s quite energetic. And right below him, the cream-coloured one, Muesli, might be good, too,” she paused, probably noticing Draco looking at her strangely. “This group’s got cereal-themed names. If you want to open your cat’s carrier, I’ll take the kittens out one at a time and see if they get along.”

She turned to open a cage, and Draco spoke softly to Crooks as he pulled him out of the carrier. “Would you like a friend, Crooks? We’re about to meet two kittens. Let me know if either of them suits your fancy.”

Weetabix was first, a downy grey kitten with a loud meow. Crooks didn’t hiss when the kitten approached, but backed away, closer to his carrier.

“Not him,” Draco said.

Next, Muesli, a slightly larger kitten who had flame point markings, skittered across the floor towards Crooks, who flattened his ears.

“Definitely not that one.”

The receptionist put both kittens away. “Maybe he’s not ready.”

Draco scanned the cages, zeroing in on one he originally thought was empty. It wasn’t empty, just nearly so, as the tiny black ball of fur huddled in the back took up so little space.

“What about that one?”

“Cocoa Puff? Oh, no, you probably wouldn’t want him.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing, but he was adopted and returned this morning.”

“Returned?” Draco asked, his fingers working at the lock of Cocoa Puff’s cage. “Whatever for?”

“Apparently he’s quite a hellion. The former owner couldn’t keep up.”

Draco reached inside the cage and scooped the tiny kitten into his hands. Yellow-ringed pupils blinked back at him, so big they almost took up the kitten’s entire face.

This little thing? A hellion?

“Hello, there,” Draco said, and the kitten rubbed its face into Draco’s left thumb. “Would you like to meet Crooks?”

He lowered himself to the floor, gently setting Cocoa Puff in front of Crooks. Cocoa Puff trotted forward on stumpy kitten legs, head held high. Draco smiled. He was a brave little thing, he’d give him that.

Crooks’s ears picked up the sound, but he made no movement towards the kitten. Cocoa Puff drew closer and closer, until finally he rubbed up against Crooks’s side. Crooks began to purr, and flopped down inelegantly on the tile floor. The kitten wasted no time. He snuggled his little body into Crooks’s belly, tucking his tail up by his tiny feet.

The receptionist raised her eyebrows. “I think we have a winner.”

“Will you take eighty for him? Since he’s been returned?”

His wallet was considerably lighter than when he’d walked in; may as well try to haggle.

She smiled at him like he was an idiot. “Nope. Now, will that be cash or credit?”

Draco paid, coaxed Cocoa Puff into a much smaller blue cat carrier, and headed down to the local pet shop to purchase kitten food, toys, and another cat bed. While he was in the checkout line, his mobile died. Grand, just grand.

“When I get back to the flat and charge my mobile, I’m going to have to tell Hermione that I took you to a healer and they thought you were dying, and I didn’t tell her. But then I took you to a veterinarian, which I also didn’t tell her about, but as it turns out Muggle animal healers are much better for acute illness, and they told me you’re not on death’s doorstep, you’re just lactose intolerant. And on top of this, her ex called and said his new wife’s having a baby, and I adopted a kitten on her behalf. How do you think that’s going to go?”

“I don’t know, man,” the cashier said with a shake of his head. “That’s a lot.”

“I was asking the cat,” Draco said in a clipped tone.

The cashier didn’t look him in the eye when he handed over the bag of kitten supplies.

Once they were home, Draco opened both carriers, and Crooks and Cocoa Puff exited cautiously. Crooks recognised his home immediately, and made a beeline for his bed by the fireplace, mewling for Draco to light a fire. Cocoa Puff sniffed at one of the blue armchairs.

“Welcome to your new home,” Draco said to Cocoa Puff. “The lady of the house is away, but she’s going to love you. You’re small and weak, and she goes in for that sort of thing.”

Cocoa Puff bounded over and sunk his claws into the leg of Draco’s trousers.

“Ow, fine, you’re also fierce and handsome. Very handsome.”

He shook the kitten off and lit the fire. Next, he placed the new cat bed down by Crooks’s cat bed, and placed Cocoa Puff into it.

“Here you go, Cocoa Puff,” Draco said, and made a face. “Are you set on Cocoa Puff? It’s a bit cutesy.”

Cocoa Puff flexed his sharp claws as he kneaded the middle of his new cat bed, shredding the top layer of fabric. Then, without warning, he launched himself into Crooks’s bed and cuddled up to the orange cat. Crooks tucked the kitten to his side with a swish of his tail.

Draco pondered names for small black cats. Licorice? He wasn’t particularly fond of food names, not after Biscuit. And though he was small now, he might get big. Midnight, maybe? Eclipse? Shadow?

No, not Shadow.

Something more powerful than that. A name for a cat that deserved a second look.

“The Darkling,” Draco said with a snap of his fingers. The kitten opened one sleepy eye, and Draco knew he’d found the right name. “Crookshanks and the Darkling.”

Hermione was going to love it — the kitten, his name, the rest of the changes Draco had in store for the flat, all of it.

Well, he hoped she would.

Draco slipped Crooks his medicine in the new treats, which the cat gobbled down, and figured the cats would be fine for the next few hours. He was bone tired. Wrenching his jumper and undershirt over his head and stepping out of his trousers, he retreated to the bedroom in just his pants and fell face first into Hermione’s bed, burying his nose in the fading honeysuckle scent of her sheets. It took everything he had to turn over and plug his mobile in before he was lost to sleep.

He dreamt he was back in eighth year Potions. His alarm charm was going off, but his Amortentia wasn’t done. It kept ringing, no matter how much he tried to shut it out, and there was a warm weight on his chest. He shifted and felt two sets of claws dig into his skin.

His eyes shot open. “Bloody hell, what the fu—”

Crooks and the Darkling were curled on his chest, and his mobile was blaring the Falmouth Falcons fight song. He groaned and pulled it up over his face so he could see it.

Hermione was trying to FaceTime him. Fuck. He grabbed his glasses, pushing both cats down to his lap, then swiped. Her face appeared on the screen, looking concerned. This time, she wasn’t in the hospital. She sat on a tan sofa, and behind her was a plate glass window and a collection of lush houseplants. It looked like it might be the living room at her parents’ place.

“Draco, thank Merlin. I saw your texts and I’ve been trying to reach you. What’s wrong?”

Crooks meowed, recognising Hermione’s voice, and clawed his way up Draco’s bare chest.

“Ow, ow, ow,” Draco groaned in protest. “Easy, Crooks.”

The orange menace rumbled his happiness, rubbing his head against Draco’s cheek and dislodging his glasses.

“Hey you,” Hermione purred, and Draco had to remind himself she was talking to the cat. “Are you being a good boy?”

Draco snorted. “He’s had quite the adventure in the last thirty-six hours. I tried to ring you, and I’m sorry if you were worried… Everything’s fine now.”

He noticed the way her eyes flicked down to his chest and back up again. Maybe she remembered the Sectumsepra that gave him the constellation of scars.

“What happened?”

“It’s a long story,” he said. “You should know upfront that Crooks is completely fine. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, drawing out the last vowel sceptically.

“Christmas night I saw some blood in Crooks’s litter box. I took him to the animal healer; actually, it was the assistant healer, but they didn’t know what was wrong with him. They gave me the impression that Crooks was in a bad way, and told me to take him home and wait for the inevitable.”

“What?”

“I panicked. I’m so sorry, I should’ve told you immediately what was happening, but with your dad in hospital and all the stress you were under, I didn’t think texting you all that, or leaving it in a voicemail, was going to do any good. I did try to ring you.”

Disappointment rolled off her in waves. “Draco, you absolutely should’ve let me know somehow. I might’ve been more stressed, but at least I would have been in the loop.”

“I know, I know.”

“I would’ve come back,” she said, clutching the side of her head.

“If he’d taken a turn for the worse I swear I would’ve kept calling. But he’s completely fine. I took him to the veterinarian you listed on the timetable, and she figured out he’s lactose intolerant. Apparently all the yoghurt caused him to have a bit of tummy upset, that’s all. I really am sorry, Hermione.”

“Crooks is my only family in England. I know he’s a cat, but…”

“He’s everything. I know,” he said, squinting at her guiltily. “I paid the bills, if it helps.”

She uncrossed her arms and let out a breath. “Well, you didn’t need to do that.”

“I was worried enough for the both of us. I promise. I’ve become quite attached to Crooks these past few days,” he said, wincing as Crooks climbed higher on his shoulder. “He’s attached too, as you can clearly see.”

“So no more yoghurt?”

Was she really letting him off the hook so easily?

“Exactly. She gave me a pack of these pill pocket treats and he’s been taking his medicine just fine in those. Oh, actually, he’s due for another dose now. Hold on.”

Draco set the mobile down in disbelief. She wasn’t nearly as angry as he thought she’d be, though that might change when he told her about Weasley and the Darkling.

He unwound Crooks from his shoulders and shooed the Darkling off his lap, then padded into the kitchen and went about getting Crooks medicated. He popped his neck and stretched his back while Crooks chowed down.

Hermione wasn’t upset with him. He didn’t realise how much that really meant to him until this moment. Should he just tell her everything now? Maybe that was too much. He could ask about her dad first. That seemed like the wiser course of action.

The Darkling squeaked up at Draco, and he picked up the kitten and held him at eye level. He hardly weighed anything at all.

“Can you and Crooks hang out by the fire a bit? I don’t think Hermione is quite ready to hear about you yet.”

The Darkling’s yellow eyes widened with mischief, but he whipped his tiny head towards Crooks when the older cat meowed to announce he was finished with his treats. He scrabbled in Draco’s grip, and so Draco released him, and the Darkling, as though he knew Crooks was blind, led Crooks into the living room with his tail held high.

Draco sighed and walked back to the bed. When he picked up the mobile, Hermione had changed into a silky pink sleep camisole. He tried to keep his look respectful, but it was hard when her tits were on full display. Nothing could prepare a man to see cleavage like that, especially after seeing her wear only high-necked blouses and dresses. Were those her nipples poking through the fabric?

“It’s hot here,” she said by way of explanation, and he noted the blush scoring her cheeks.

“Uh huh,” he said, a little dumbly.

Hermione took it as his trademark sarcasm, and not dazed appreciation of her physical assets.

“You’re showing more than me. You still don’t have a shirt on.”

“Sorry, I can grab one—”

“Don’t worry about it. You look comfortable, and I’m not scandalised if you’re not.”

“Not at all.”

He was very willing to be scandalised, though.

“Good,” she said, though she drew a pillow in front of her, marginally obscuring his view.

“How’s your dad?”

“He had a second surgery, and now he’s doing much better.”

“Do you… Do you want to talk about it?”

He’d learned from Astoria that this was the ideal follow-up question for most women, and he wanted to impress Hermione. Not only that, but get back into her good graces.

“Not really. I have to notify everyone on both sides of the family every time there’s an update from the doctors, and answer all their questions. And of course Dad’s got family all over the place. By the time I’ve gotten to everyone, there’s another update. I tried to get them all in a group chat, but you know how that is, and everyone wants to hear everything straight from me or my mum. I was up for so long dealing with all of that, and then I came back here and just crashed.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is. I’m sorry I missed your call.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Thanks. And thanks for taking care of Crooks. I’m glad it was you and not someone else who might not have understood how to get him to the vet. Did the animal healer really say he was on his deathbed?”

Draco pressed his thumb and forefinger to his temples. “She did. It was so intense; she took me back to this tiny room and she told me there was nothing more they could do for him there.”

“But it was simple lactose intolerance.”

“Yet another thing Muggles are superior at: animal medicine.”

She put her chin on her fist and leaned forward. “I never get tired of the Draco Malfoy telling me Muggles are better than magical people at things.”

He rolled his eyes. “If you’d been paying attention these last few years, you’d see that I tell people all the time Muggles are better at all kinds of things. Technology, for one. Imagine if we had laptops at the Ministry.”

“Now I’m scandalised,” she said, fanning herself as a teasing grin spread across her face. “Laptops? In our Ministry?”

“It’d be awful. McLaggen would drop by your office every hour to follow up on whatever meaningless email he sent two minutes ago. And you know he wouldn’t be able to attach a document to save his life.”

“Or worse, what if he learned how to access the internet? Imagine his browser history.”

“No, thank you,” Draco said.

Hermione giggled, and he drew one arm behind his head. If this were twenty years ago, he would’ve worried which one, but he had his Dark Mark covered up at a Muggle tattoo parlour. In a matter of hours, a tattoo artist transformed it into a panther ready to pounce. The pain was absolutely worth it.

He relished the surprise in her eyes when she glimpsed the tattoo. If he flexed his bicep a little, so what? He had a good body for a man in his forties. May as well show it off while he had the opportunity.

“What else is happening?”

He beamed. She wanted to keep talking to him. She could be sleeping, or reading, or watching trashy telly, but she wanted to keep talking to him.

“Well, on the way back from the veterinarian’s office—”

“You can just say vet. Sorry, not trying to be a swot.”

“Like you need to try,” he said, but it was a light jab, if that.

“It’s just that it’s both less of a mouthful and you’ll sound more like a Muggle. Not that you have to, but I figured you might want to know, with your role and everything.”

“Thanks. On the way back from the vet,” he corrected himself. “I tried Pret a Manger.”

“Thoughts?”

“Rubbish. Have you had it?”

“Way too many times. It’s kind of a quintessential Muggle London thing. I don’t think anyone actually loves it, but there’s always one around, and eventually you just sort of give in.”

“Like being with Weasley?” The insult escaped from his mouth without consulting his brain.

“You’re bad,” she laughed.

“You like it,” he shot back.

“Maybe.”

He admired her in the lamplight. The glow of her skin; the dimple winking at him as she smiled, half mischief, half shyness. He took a chance and told the truth.

“He Floo called you. On Christmas.”

The dimple vanished. “Oh God, I’m sorry you had to deal with that. I don’t keep in touch with him, but I kept the Floo open to the Burrow. Ginny and Harry are there sometimes and come here after for drinks. He must’ve called from there.”

“I can’t believe they keep in touch with him after what he did.”

Hermione waved it off. “Family’s complicated. What did he say?”

“Er, well. I didn’t tell you before because I was worried it might upset you.”

“Draco Malfoy, you have a protective streak a mile wide. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“My son,” he admitted.

“I’m a big girl. Let me decide what’s going to upset me, okay?”

He sighed. “Weasley told me they’re expecting a baby. He said he wanted to tell you before you heard it from the Prophet.”

She covered her mouth, and at first he thought she was gasping. Then he thought she might cry. Instead, a laugh bubbled out around the side of her hand.

“Circe. That poor woman. I would never have a baby with that man.”

Draco raised his eyebrows.

“I know, I married him, but we were young, and I always had stars in my eyes when it came to him. He never put me first. I had so many reasons to leave, but I kept dragging my feet. And then when I found out he was cheating on me, I finally decided to deal with it and start the rest of my life.”

“Good for you. I mean that sincerely. He was never good enough for you.”

“Thank you. It’s in the past now,” she said, hugging the pillow closer. “What happened with Astoria, if you don’t mind me asking? You said it never evolved into romantic love, but you two still seem so close.”

“We tried to fall in love, we really did. For a while there, after we had Scorpius, we both loved him so much I think we both thought it would spark something more between us. But it never did. She’s a wonderful woman, just not the right one for me.”

“So it was an amicable divorce?”

Draco nodded. “And Adrian’s great. FaceTimed them both on Christmas and they’re pestering me to get out to Bali in the spring.”

“I’ve never been to Bali.”

Was she back to flirting with him? It seemed a lot like flirting. Should he flirt back? It was hard to say without her here next to him. For as easy as it was to reach someone digitally, so much was lost in translation. Maybe it was his age, or season of life, but Draco much preferred speaking in person whenever possible.

If Hermione was next to him right now, he’d bet his last Knut she was flirting with him. But over FaceTime? Maybe she was just really interested in travel.

Still unsure, he played it safe.

“You should go. Do you scuba?”

“I do. Can’t have parents in Sydney without learning how to scuba.”

“Astoria’s obsessed. Got me into it as well. I’m sure she’d be happy to host you if you ever want to get out there.”

“I’d love that,” she said. “But listen, don’t worry about the Ron thing, okay? He’s… He’s trying to twist a knife into something that isn’t there.”

“Beg pardon?”

“He wants me to think I missed some kind of golden opportunity. When I was younger, I thought I wanted children, maybe because it was always presented as what people do. But as I got older, I realised it wasn’t the right path for me. It wasn’t about Ron. But he has the listening skills of Rita Skeeter, and he got it in his head that I just didn’t want kids with him, and he was all butthurt about it. He even got his mother to talk to me about it, which was one of the more mortifying conversations I’ve had in my life; right next to the birds and the bees talk with my mum.”

“What birds and bees?”

She laughed. “It’s Muggle slang for the sex talk.”

“Sex talk? Your parents talk to you about sex? I take back everything good I’ve said about Muggle culture tonight. That’s downright humiliating. Imagine my father, Lucius Malfoy, instructing me on the ways to make a woman orgasm.”

Hermione got up from the sofa and grabbed a fireplace poker, holding it in her hand like a cane as she sat back down. “Now, Draco,” she said, in an absolutely terrible imitation of his father’s posh accent. “If you want to please your new wife, peel back the petals of her glistening flower until you find the delicate bud at the top—”

“Stop!” He yelled with a choked laugh. “Stop!”

They both dissolved into laughter. It felt so good to laugh with her. She threw her head back when she laughed, and there was a little smattering of freckles right beneath her jaw. He had the sudden urge to lick them.

When they collected themselves, Hermione asked, “How did you learn about sex, then, if no one ever spoke to you about it? It’s not like we had any sexual education at Hogwarts.”

“Like everyone else,” he said, a little primly. “Marcus Flint’s collection of hand-me-down erotica.”

“Are you serious?”

“What? It’s tradition for the outgoing quidditch team captain to give the legendary trunk of Slytherin porn to the new captain. I forget who gave it to Flint, but that’s neither here nor there. Most of the photos were old, and tasteful. Pretty tame compared to Muggle pornography. They’re like cave paintings that should be preserved for future generations.”

“You’re making this up. Tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m serious. You should have seen some of the stuff he had in that trunk of his.”

“What, like Pureblood girls showing their ankles? Or worse, their calves?”

He made a tsking sound. “Not that I don’t appreciate a gorgeous pair of legs, but we saw far more than that. Some of the literature was… Rather instructive.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” she said, biting her lip. Damn her and her beautiful, biteable lips. “So you watch Muggle porn?”

He readjusted the pillow behind his neck to keep from flushing. “Not often. But I’m not a monk.”

The conversation was headed into dangerous territory. He tried to steer it back into safer waters.

“I didn’t know you don’t want children. Is that why I haven’t seen you date anyone since Weasley?”

“Partially. I would love to marry again, so I know I’ll need to date again and have that conversation with anyone that turns out to be husband material. Most wizards want kids.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I mean, kids can be great. I don’t regret Scorpius for a second.”

“So, more kids in your future, then?”

“No. Left to my own devices, I wouldn’t have had any,” he admitted. He’d never told anyone besides Astoria how he felt about the topic. “It’s hard to explain, but basically they’re all joy and no fun. For some people, I think those fleeting moments of joy balance out all the drudgery. Or maybe that’s what we tell ourselves since we’re already parents. Looking back, I mostly remember the good stuff. But it’s a lot of work, and I’ve already done it. I don’t want any more. He’s perfect.”

“That’s…” She looked like she might say something else, but bit her lip again, and then asked, “Have you talked to him since he told you about Albus?”

“No. I need to. I’m just not sure what to say. It all happened so fast.”

“You’ll know what to say when you see him again. You’re good with words.”

“Thanks. You’re easy to talk to.”

It was the first long silence of their conversation, and they traded yawns.

“I’m going to adjust to the time zone here right before it’s time to go back,” she lamented.

“Probably. My schedule’s all messed up because of the Crooks stuff. I didn’t want to leave him for a second, and then when he was at the vet, I was worried I’d miss their call, so I stayed up and read the rest of the books you gave me.”

“Wait, both? Siege and Storm, plus Ruin and Rising?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, I want to know everything. But I’m exhausted, and I know you are, too. We can save it for tomorrow’s FaceTime.”

He grinned. “Perfect. I’ll tell you all my thoughts. You won’t be surprised to hear this, but I have a lot to say about the Darkling.”

Both Darklings, actually.

“Sounds good,” she said, and took a deep breath. “I was so worried. I’m glad we talked.”

“Me, too. I’ll see you tomorrow, Hermione. Sweet dreams.”

He hadn’t meant to add that last part, but her dimple came back out to play, and he couldn’t regret it.

“You, too. Goodnight, Draco.”

With those parting words, she was gone. Draco held the mobile to his chest and took a deep breath, taking note of how hard his heart thumped against his rib cage.

He’d been so worried about the conversation, but he’d forgotten who he was dealing with. Hermione was practical and saw the best in everyone, and that included him. She let him know how she felt, but then they ended up having a surprisingly open and honest chat, covering a wide range of topics that he usually didn’t discuss with, well, anyone.

It could’ve easily been awkward revealing his innermost thoughts about parenthood. But she’d shared her decision to remain childfree, and Salazar help him if it didn’t make her even sexier. And she was so confident, which was another massive turn on for him. They’d even ventured into sexual territory, but they were able to laugh about it. Nothing was hotter to him than someone who didn’t take everything so seriously.

Merlin, he was in deep. More than smitten now; he was developing feelings for the real Hermione, not the one he stole glimpses of at the Ministry.

She’d upped the ante tonight, coming out in her camisole. The next move was on him. But what could he do to let her know he was interested?

He pondered the question as he checked on the cats. Crooks was sleeping in his cat bed, blissfully unaware that the Darkling was using his tail for pouncing practice. It amazed him that they appeared to be bonding already.

Draco spent the rest of the day in Hermione’s loo making improvements. He replaced the peeling wallpaper with white subway tile, and transformed the sad shower into a luxurious soaking tub with brass taps. After adding a built-in cabinet and mirror, refreshing the towels, and reorganising her hair supplies (of which there were many, which explained why her curls were so much more defined than they were in school), he only had the bedroom left to tackle.

He made a delicious dinner for himself and tried to eat it in front of the telly-vision, but it had a weird dial instead of a remote, so he had to get up any time he wanted to change the channel, which meant he also had to disturb the cats who had decided his lap was the only acceptable sleeping surface. Eventually he established that nothing good was on, and consulted Hermione’s bookshelf for something to read.

Draco scanned the titles. A Court of Mist and Fury caught his eye. Another fantasy book from the looks of it, and the spine was bent. Hermione must’ve really liked that one.

Alas, a quick peek inside informed him it was not the first in the series. He needed to read the book to the left of it, A Court of Thorns and Roses, before the one in his hand. Tapping the well-loved book on his opposite palm, he considered skipping ahead.

Draco had always been the sort of person who liked to do things in the correct order of operations. It was probably why he was so good at potions. But it was tempting to forgo convention just this once and unwind with a book Hermione had enjoyed time and time again. He liked to think she’d left a little of her magic between the pages.

But what if he missed something important? What if the first book was what made the second worthwhile?

He sighed. He’d just have to read A Court of Thorns and Roses and find out.

He grabbed it and made his way to the bedroom, the cats trailing in his wake. Maybe the villain would get a fair shake in this one. Unlikely, but hey, a reformed villain could dream.

Chapter Text

Thursday, 28th December, 2023

Draco now understood why the Darkling’s previous owners had surrendered him. He was a nightmare.

Since he’d awoken at five-thirty, Draco had done nothing but clean and repair nearly everything in the flat. He hadn’t had a single chance to fix up the bedroom, which he’d really wanted to do before Hermione rang again.

But if the Darkling could reach it, he ruined it.

Curtains? Shredded.

Furniture? Chewed.

Food? Strewn everywhere.

Draco didn’t even want to talk about the state of the robotic litter box, which had sent him numerous urgent messages in the night.

3:40am — Motion detected

3:41am — Weight: 1.4kg

3:43am — Cycle interrupted

3:45am — Manual reset required

There had been much more than a manual reset required.

The tiny terror bit and clawed his way through the entire flat, seemingly fascinated at the way Draco waved his wand to undo the damage he’d caused.

Draco reached his breaking point when the Darkling cried from the top of the Christmas tree, shattered ornaments scattered around the perimeter.

“Well, why did you climb all the way up there then, if you’re so scared?”

The kitten continued crying, even as Draco removed him from the tangle of branches and lights.

“I’m trying to be patient with you, the Darkling,” he scolded. “Next time you get up there, I’m not coming to your rescue, alright?”

He rescued the kitten at least six more times.

Draco would’ve never really considered sending the Darkling back to be adopted a third time, but he thought about threatening. Crooks seemed to understand Draco and often appeared to be listening to him, but the Darkling might as well be deaf for all he heard of Draco’s ire. He lived on the edge, gnawing through wires and sticking his little wet nose into tight spaces.

“Maybe he just needs to get some of this chaotic energy out,” Draco suggested to Crooks. “And you could stand to get a little exercise.”

He transfigured the shattered ornaments into shiny silver jingle bells and shook them in the cats’ direction. Both of them bounded over, and gave chase when Draco rolled them across the hardwood floor. The Darkling was faster, but Crooks, despite his lack of sight, was more accurate, and batted the bells around the room with relative ease.

Hermione couldn’t be upset with him when she saw how spryly her old cat was moving now. Crooks had caught the Darkling trying to get a bell away from him, and chased the kitten through the flat, a weird half-purr, half-growl coming from his throat. The Darkling leapt onto the bed, but Crooks jumped — jumped — up onto the bed, making the kitten’s eyes go wide in a mix of fear and surprise. They ended up tangled together, a blur of fur and teeth, before the Darkling finally submitted. Crooks licked the kitten’s forehead, as if to say, That’s right kid. I’ve still got it.

The cats got settled for a nap, and Draco sighed. He couldn’t get anything done in the bedroom as long as they were on the bed.

He unlocked his mobile. No missed calls or texts. His only notifications were about the weather and his remaining photo storage. He had been taking a lot of videos of the cats. At first he’d intended them to be for Hermione only, but now he could admit he liked to watch them, too.

Draco took a deep breath and found Scorpius in his contacts.

Draco Malfoy: Hit the slopes yet today?

Scorpius: Not yet. Making breakfast.

Draco Malfoy: Up for a chat with your dear old dad? FaceTime? I know I said we’d talk when you and Albus came by, but I want to make sure you’re okay.

Draco Malfoy: I meant it when I said I’m happy for you.

His mobile vibrated, and Scorpius’s name and photo appeared on the screen. Draco swiped without hesitation.

“Hey. Good to see you again.”

Scorpius stood shirtless in a bright kitchen, a tea towel flung over one shoulder and his Malfoy blond hair up in a bun. “Hey.”

Draco decided to deploy a little Slytherin finesse and talk about his own problems first, hoping it would encourage his taciturn son to open up. “So, I nearly killed Hermione’s cat with yoghurt.”

“What?

“He was never in any real danger. Turns out he’s allergic to dairy.”

“No shit?”

“Had to take him to a Muggle animal healer and everything. I also adopted a kitten for him, and I haven’t told her about it.”

Scorpius laughed. “Have you told her you’ve been carrying a torch for her for like, a year now?”

“No. Who told you that, your mother?”

“Yeah. I had to ring her after we talked so I could tell her about Al and I before you bungled it.”

Draco frowned. “I wouldn’t have bungled it.”

“Sure, Dad.”

There was a long silence while Scorpius turned something over in a pan with a spatula.

“How long have you known you liked men?”

Scorpius shrugged. “Since always, I guess. I knew you and Mum would be fine with it, but Grandmother and Grandfather? I don’t think they’d be keen. I wasn’t trying to hide it, I just… And Al didn’t mind keeping it a secret.”

He had a point there. His parents wouldn’t take it well at all.

“We don’t have to tell Grandmother and Grandfather. Did you tell the Potters?”

“No. Maybe when we get back. Al says he thinks his dad suspects, and he’ll also be cool with it.”

“Have you been together long?”

Scorpius shrugged. “Like a year. I fancied him in school, but didn’t know if he felt the same. James guessed, and hinted Al was into me, and then it just went from there.”

“Well, I think it’s great.”

“Even though Al’s a Potter?”

Draco tensed. “Is that why you didn’t tell me? Look, my rivalry with Potter was misguided, like most of my youth. I don’t hate him anymore. And when I did, all my reasons were childish at best and racist at worst. I’d… I’d really like to be mates with him.”

Scorpius stopped cooking and stared at him. “You want to be mates with Harry Potter? But you act like you hate him. You sneer every time I go over there.”

“I know.”

“Pretty sure he’d go out for a pint with you if you just asked.”

“Maybe I don’t want to ask,” Draco said, looking anywhere but the screen. “There’s just… There’s a lot of history there.”

“I’m aware. There are entire books about it. But you’re not like that anymore, Dad. Everyone knows it.”

He sighed. “People hold grudges, Scorpius. Your mother and I tried to shield you from it as best we could. We even spoke with Headmistress McGonagall before you went to Hogwarts because we were so concerned you’d be bullied. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m still not welcome most places.”

“I know, and it isn’t right. What’s to encourage anyone to reform if society still treats them like dirt? You gave them your money, they limited your magic, and you apologised. What more do they want?”

“I’ve asked myself the same thing.”

Scorpius put some pancakes on a plate and regarded Draco seriously.

“I bet Ms Granger believes you’ve changed. That’s why you like her so much.”

“That’s part of it,” Draco admitted. “Al doesn’t seem to mind that you’re a Malfoy.”

“What if instead of me and Al coming to the Manor New Year’s Day, you come to Grimmauld with us? The Potters won’t turn you away, especially when they find out Al and I are serious,” Scorpius said earnestly. “I think… I see a future with him.”

“And that future would be a lot easier if your potential in-laws got along. Am I catching your drift?”

Scorpius’s cheeks flamed red. “Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His son tried to act casual, but Draco could tell he was pleased. “Cool. I’ll get Al to ask his dad about it.”

“Should I ring your mother and Adrian and ask them to come too?”

“I think they already agreed to see Adrian’s parents.”

Right. He’d forgotten that the Puceys usually celebrated at their ski chalet (it was attached to a sprawling manor, but it was gauche to say so) in the Swiss alps.

“Alright, I’ll fly solo then.”

“Or you could bring Ms Granger.”

“Absolutely not,” Draco said, making a slicing motion through the air. “That’s a terrible first date.”

“Yeah. But she wouldn’t know it was a date, because you haven’t told her how you feel. You could just be asking her to hang out with one of her best mates. And then when the time is right...”

“You might have made a good Slytherin after all. And you and your mother talk too much.”

Scorpius tilted his head and sharpened his gaze on Draco. “You’re happy for me and Al, right? And Mum and Adrian? When are you gonna be happy for yourself?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not? I think you’re ignoring all the people who love you and focusing on the few that still hate you. When are you gonna realise that they don’t matter?”

Before Draco could respond, Albus and James Potter walked into the kitchen. They both waved to Draco, grabbed plates, and sat down at the worktop to eat.

“I’m gonna go eat,” Scorpius said, gesturing behind him. “I’ll let you know what time to meet us on New Year’s Day, okay?”

“Okay,” Draco said. “I love you, son.”

“Love you too, Dad. See you soon.”

Draco set the mobile down and blew out a long breath. His son’s words ricocheted off every memory from the last two decades.

Upturned noses as he walked down the road. Cutting remarks at staff meetings. Whispers in the cafeteria, where he ate alone until he finally started eating in his cubicle. He’d just considered it his never-ending penance.

After all, that had been him, once. Jeering at Muggleborns. Playing dirty on the quidditch pitch. Using his charms and potions skills to make sure anyone who challenged or questioned him paid dearly. He was vindictive, callous, and cowardly.

The cowardice, at least, wasn’t all bad. He hadn’t killed Dumbledore. He’d never killed anyone. The very thought made him sick to his stomach.

He had done everything in his power to make sure his son didn’t follow in his footsteps. And Scorpius hadn’t, thank the gods. He was the best of Draco; even better than either parent had ever hoped for. He was kind, intelligent, and had a talent for seeing right through people.

I think you’re ignoring all the people who love you and focusing on the few that still hate you. When are you gonna realise that they don’t matter?

Scorpius was right.

He could’ve made plans this year to go to Bali for Christmas. Astoria and Adrian would’ve welcomed him with open arms. He could’ve skied with Scorpius without staying with him and the Potter boys. They could’ve gotten some good bonding time. Even his parents, who he’d assumed needed a little space, would probably have been overjoyed to see him in Bulgaria on Christmas morning.

But no, he’d spent the recent weeks at the Ministry feeling left out of the holiday preparations. He isolated himself in his cubicle, eavesdropping on people instead of looking to be included in conversations.

Draco had thought words, which were a Slytherin’s bond, would make other people realise he’d changed. But seeing was believing, and he hadn’t given anyone outside his family the opportunity to see with their own two eyes how different he really was.

Somehow, Hermione and Potter saw.

Hermione and… Ugh.

Harry.

Who named their child Harry? He’d rather go with Motorbike.

Draco sighed and picked the mobile up to text Astoria.

Draco Malfoy: I think I’m spending New Year’s Day with Harry Potter.

Tori: Who are you and what have you done with my ex-husband? What are your demands?

Draco Malfoy: Ha ha ha

Draco Malfoy: Scorpius asked me to. He says he wants us all to get along because he’s serious about Albus.

Tori: Our generation finally put a stop to marrying off their children at a young age and what does our son do? He goes and falls in love anyway.

Draco Malfoy: He’s full of surprises. He also thinks I need to pursue this thing with Hermione.

Tori: I gather things have progressed if you’re calling her Hermione.

Draco Malfoy: Maybe. I found out she scubas.

Tori: Ask her on a date. What’s holding you back?

Draco Malfoy: I don’t know. It’s stupid. She’s even more perfect for me than I thought. If she turned me down, I know she’d keep it professional at work. But I think it’d kill me.

Tori: Ah, so you are my ex-husband.

Draco Malfoy: ?

Tori: You can’t deny you have a flair for the dramatic, darling.

Draco Malfoy: Whatever.

Draco Malfoy: What if I ask her out, and she says yes, but after a few dates she’s not into it? That would be even worse. I’d have to see her five days a week and know I blew it. It’s not as if I can just find another job.

Tori: What if you ask her out, and she says yes, and you go out on a few dates and move in together? And then get married and adopt a frankly negligent amount of cats and come scuba with Adrian and me every Christmas?

Tori: I know you’re used to things going wrong. But that doesn’t mean this will, too.

Tori: I was nervous to be with Adrian. He seemed too good to be true. And I was worried about how you’d feel, even though you said you wanted me to be happy, and how Scorpius would feel seeing me with someone that wasn’t you. But I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t try.

Tori: You have enough regrets, darling, don’t you think?

Draco Malfoy: Yeah.

Draco Malfoy: I guess I’m not used to having a say in my love life. Or life in general.

Tori: I know. What did we tell Scorpius when he was a firstie scared to get on the Hogwarts Express?

Draco Malfoy: We said, “It’s okay to be scared.” And then we explained how the train works, and encouraged him to find someone else who might be scared, and help each other.

Draco Malfoy: Thank you for this.

Tori: Any time. Keep me posted on how things go at the Potters?

Draco Malfoy: Of course.

When Draco walked back into the bedroom, the cats were still asleep, so he gave Crooks his jab without disturbing the drooling beast. The Darkling was using Crooks’s belly as a pillow, and his tiny feet kicked at the air from time to time, but other than that, all was still. Draco picked up A Court of Thorns and Roses and laid on top of the duvet, enjoying the peace while it lasted.

It was an even easier read than Shadow and Bone. Feyre intrigued him. He’d never read about an illiterate heroine before, and from the minute she slew the wolf that was actually a faerie in disguise, Draco was invested in her journey. Forced to leave her home and family behind for the faerie realm, she must live out her days among the immortals she despised. But Draco had a feeling she would change her mind, especially when it came to the high fae Tamlin.

He didn’t trust Tamlin, even though he sent Feyre back to the human world to protect her, and protected her family in her absence. Draco couldn’t put his wand on why just yet, but there was something too perfect about him. Maybe that’s just the way fae were written in this series.

But the more he read, the more he couldn’t understand why Hermione would have this series on her shelf. The bad guys were in the Night Court?

Really?

What was it with all these authors and making it completely obvious who the villains and their motives were? Where was the subtlety? Even in the Lord of the Rings trilogy, there were morally grey characters or people who became villains despite their valiant efforts.

Sauron, well, he was on another level.

The Darkling woke Crooks with some playful pouncing, and Draco made them all lunch. Kibble for the kitten, meds and pureed liver for Crooks, and fish for Draco. He broke off a little of the flaky cod for the cats, who gobbled it up and begged for more until he washed the plate in the sink.

Next, he sent an owl to Zabini. (The man loathed mobiles.) Unlike most of their classmates, Zabini had avoided the typical Pureblood betrothal. His mother didn’t believe in anything confining, be it clothing, contracts, or conjugal relations. So he was the only person in Draco’s small circle of friends who knew about dating.

What makes for a good first date?

DLM

He received a response within minutes.

A minimum of two orgasms.

Z

Draco rolled his eyes.

I’m serious.

Zabini owled back.

So am I.

He couldn’t just make this easy for Draco, could he?

There’s a witch I fancy, and I’ll only get one shot with her, so I have to get it right.

The next missive made him groan.

So wank beforehand. If it’s Granger, wank twice.

He balled up the parchment and threw it to the floor for the cats to play with.

Annoyed with Zabini’s cheek, and quite frankly going a bit stir crazy, Draco finally set about giving Hermione’s bedroom a makeover. He transfigured the bed into a king size sleigh bed, complete with ornate carvings at the edges. Morning glories curled around gardenias, honeysuckle, roses, and irises. He added gauzy curtains that would gradually let the light in at dawn, and turn opaque as the sun went down. He kept the sheets. They reminded him too much of her to alter them.

Draco congratulated himself on leaving this room for last. Now that he knew her better, he could add personal details that would make the room distinctly Hermione. For instance, he added a nightstand with shelves rather than drawers, so her favourite books would always be close at hand. He also made a matching set of stairs for Crooks, so he could chase down the Darkling without wearing himself out, or Merlin forbid, becoming injured. As nice as Dr. Gupta was, Draco didn’t fancy seeing her again anytime soon.

He should probably get the Darkling registered there, though. Or, Hermione would, since she would be his owner, wouldn’t she? Draco already felt attached to the tiny black kitten. But the Darkling was adopted with the intent to keep Crooks company in his golden years, so it made more sense for Hermione to take charge of his care.

But he’d get visitation rights, wouldn’t he?

Draco opened Hermione’s closet and took a deep breath through his nose before he could stop himself, inhaling her scent. The basket of laundry at the bottom needed washing, so he took it upon himself to sort it and send three bundles — colours, delicates, and dry cleaning. Her other clothes he arranged by season, colour, and style, in that order. She wasn’t much of a shoe lover, but he still lined up the few pairs she owned.

The only place he didn’t touch was her dresser, tucked in the back of the closet. He figured that was where she kept her unmentionables. It was probably chock full of sensible bras matching her skin tone, and knickers that covered the breathtaking expanse of her arse. If he didn’t open those drawers, he could go on believing in the fantasy where all her underthings were little more than scraps of lace.

Plus, she’d probably appreciate the self control it took to not open the drawer and respect her privacy. If he ever wanted to see her in something with satin or ribbon, it was better to leave it shut.

Fuck. Now he was thinking of Hermione, laying on her new bed in knickers with pink bows holding the sides together, appraising him with half-hooded eyes. He was already hard.

Zabini had put the idea of a wank in his head earlier. Now Draco was in desperate need of one. Especially as his imagination now ran wild with the idea of Hermione beckoning him to join her; her finger making a come hither motion that would have him kneeling between her legs in seconds. He leaned back onto the door, palming himself through his trousers.

Later, he told himself. When the cats are asleep.

It was a ridiculous thought, as he could just close the door, but it felt weird. He felt like the cats would know.

Instead, he fed them, read some more, and waited for Hermione to FaceTime him. Zabini sent a crystal decanter full of good firewhisky, and Draco chuckled as he poured himself a generous amount into one of the horrendous Solo cups and took it into the living room. He took one sip; then another. The whisky tasted the same as it did in a tumbler. It also had the added benefit of not breaking when two cats nearly knocked it over.

He’d reached the halfway point of A Court of Thorns and Roses when Hermione’s smile graced his screen. He was also rather drunk.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi Draco.”

“How’s your dad doing tonight? Er, today?”

“Loads better. He was like his old self today. Cracking jokes, asking when he can go home. They told us Saturday, so,” She smiled and held up a glass of wine. “I’m celebrating here at their house. Mum’s at the hospital trying to get things in order for discharge, so I’m drinking alone.”

“Not alone,” he said, brandishing his Solo cup of firewhisky.

“Cheers, then.”

“Cheers.”

They both took a swallow. Draco followed the bob of her throat with his eyes, mesmerised by the long, fluid motion.

“How’s our favourite lactose intolerant half-kneazle?”

“Grand. Hermione,” he said, bright with spirits. “Don’t be cross, but I’ve adopted a friend for Crooks.”

Her face, haloed by the curls she wore in some sort of half-up, half-down situation, tilted to the side. “I can’t leave you alone for twenty-four hours, can I?”

“Nope,” he said, popping the end of the word harder than he intended.

Merlin. He wasn’t drunk. He was soused.

In fairness to him, the recent reveal had him on the edge of his seat: The blight destroying the Spring Court was the work of an evil fae, and she’d kidnapped Tamlin. Feyre, determined to rescue him, would now face the fae under the mountain. He’d needed to pour another finger of whisky just to deal with the anxiety.

“What did you do? Tell me exactly.”

His tongue was so loose from drink that he told her everything from the adoption to the destruction to the way Crooks doted on the little kitten.

“His name is the Darkling,” Draco said with pride.

“The Darkling?”

A tiny, enchanting dent appeared between her brows. Confused. Maybe she needed a visual aid.

“Do you want to meet him?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He simply scooped up the Darkling, who’d been cuddling with Crooks in front of the fire, and thrust him towards the screen.

The Darkling squeaked in protest.

“Oh my gods.”

“He’s adorable, isn’t he?”

Before Hermione could reply, Crooks bounded into frame, having leapt from the floor to the armrest. He bit the scruff at the Darkling’s neck, as if he was his own kitten, and jumped back down, trotting back to his sherpa-lined cat bed with his prize. Draco turned the mobile around so Hermione could witness Crooks curling behind the Darkling and stretching out his tongue to groom him.

When Draco flipped the mobile back around, Hermione looked as if she might cry.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck—

“I haven’t seen Crooks jump like that in years,” she said, obviously choked up. “And look at how he loves his little brother.”

Draco puffed out his chest and adjusted his glasses. How had he ever doubted himself? Who wouldn’t love a kitten? “I thought you’d be pleased—”

“But there had better be no more surprises, Draco Malfoy! I’m serious. I’m not good with them. Harry threw me a surprise party once and I lit his robes on fire accidentally.”

“Accidentally?”

“...Mostly accidentally.”

“There’s nothing else up my sleeve, I promise,” he said, showing her the rolled cuffs of his shirtsleeves.

Hermione laughed. “Okay. But did you have to name him the Darkling?”

“It suits him, actually. He’s a terror. Nearly undid all my handiwork in here.”

“And you’re leaving me on Saturday to handle this terror all on my own?”

Now it was Draco’s turn to be surprised. “Saturday? I thought you were coming back Sunday? New Year’s Eve?”

“I changed my plans. I’ve done all I can do for my mum and dad here. You should see this house, it’s sparkling. And while the sun has been nice, I miss good old England. I’m ready for grey skies and scarves and inadvisable food choices. Did you know practically everyone here drinks green juice and takes exercise every morning around sunrise?”

“Sounds terrible. I can see why you’d want to come home.”

Draco was not going to tell her that he took exercise nearly as frequently. It turned out that he could not continue to enjoy inadvisable food choices without feeling — and seeing — the effects. And he wasn’t completely without vanity.

“Thank you,” she said crisply, and took another sip of her drink.

“I adopted him, so I’ll catsit the Darkling any time. I’m going to miss him when I go back to the Manor. And Crooks, of course.”

“Good. I think Crooks likes you even better than Neville.”

“So am I your first choice now,” he asked, vulnerability underneath his teasing tone. “For catsitting, I mean?”

“Of course. And don’t forget interior decorating.”

He grinned. “You should see the rest of what I’ve done. Your loo is practically an oasis. The tub’s big enough for two. So if you and, I don’t know, someone you’re seeing wanted to… You know…”

It was all too easy to sink into thoughts of Hermione, naked and covered in bubbles. He imagined the feel of her slippery back resting against his chest while he ran his hands all over her body. He’d whisper sweet nothings in her ear, taste the skin above her clavicle, let his lips linger in every place that drew a whimper or sigh from her pretty mouth.

Hermione cleared her throat. “I’m not seeing anyone, in case that wasn’t clear before. I’m single. Very single.”

“Oh, well, good,” he said.

“Good?”

Fuck. He needed to rein it in.

Probably should have had that wank earlier.

“I mean, same. If it wasn’t painfully obvious already due to the fact that I had no Christmas plans.”

Hermione blew out a breath and leaned further back on the couch. “Being single during the holidays is the actual worst. Everything seems to be made for couples and children. What do they expect us to do, hibernate until the day after Valentine’s Day?”

He snorted. “Next thing you know the Ministry’ll try to pass some law to match us all up together.”

“Don’t give them any ideas.”

“Hmm, I do want to remarry,” he teased, pretending to consider the merits of the idea.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy. No. We wouldn’t get anyone good.”

He didn’t realise she remembered his full name, but it pleased him to no end that she deployed it.

“I’m sure they’d give you a nice bloke.”

She made a face. “I’ve had enough of nice blokes, thanks.”

Draco chuckled at the intensity of her reaction. “Nice is overrated until you find the brand of nice you like, with a little sexual chemistry thrown in. I don’t want someone who isn’t nice, but I’d like someone who gives as good as they get.”

She studied him, her honey-coloured eyes hooded but curious. “What if they matched us?”

Draco’s mouth went dry. The Ministry would never match him with Hermione; anyone could see she was way out of his league, so it was useless to fantasise. And he wouldn’t want her forced to be with him. But a vision of her in white flashed in his mind anyway, radiant and wearing that smile she gave him when she found him more than tolerable.

“We’d make a way better couple than Alina and Mal,” he said, dodging the question. “Ruin and Rising? More like Ruin the Series.”

“Wow, okay,” she said, refilling her wine glass. “Did you absolutely hate it?”

He crossed his legs, propping his ankle on his knee, and a lock of hair fell in his face. He pushed it back, only to have it flop forward again.

“I didn’t hate it. The first book was fantastic. The other two were still enjoyable, but on the whole… I have some issues.”

“I feel the same way.”

“The world building, in particular, was quite good. Alina's struggle between her old life and the possibilities in her new one was compelling. The love triangle wasn’t my favourite, but the real problem is the treatment of the Darkling.”

“I should have known you’d sympathise with the villain. Which, side note, I still can’t believe you named our new kitten after him.”

“Ours?”

Draco liked the sound of that. He’d have a good excuse to come see Hermione and Crooks. Maybe they could even come to Malfoy Manor. It wasn’t as cosy as he’d made this flat, but he and Astoria demolished everything steeped in evil and rebuilt those wings from the ground up. The home Scorpius grew up in was completely different than the one he’d known as a child. His parents lived in a more reasonably sized mansion on the grounds, but Hermione didn’t need to see them if she didn’t want to revisit that part of the past.

Warmth flooded him at the idea of Hermione on his doorstep, two cat carriers in hand.

Adopting that kitten had perhaps been his best idea yet. Way better than his idea for an app that estimated how much hair pomade you needed for the current weather.

“Well, you adopted him, so even though he lives here… I don’t know, I assumed you’d be involved in our kitten’s life?”

“Can I get that in writing? Actually, my solicitor will contact yours to initiate a shared custody agreement.”

She grinned into her drink. There was that lovely dimple again. “Is that the grownup version of ‘my father will hear about this’?”

“You wound me,” he said, flinging his hand over his chest.

Hermione burst into a fit of giggles.

“And ‘the Darkling’ suits him. He’s a black cat, for one. He’s a destroyer of worlds and fine drapery. But he has good intentions. I mean, you should see the way he leads Crooks around the flat already. Plus he’s got a tragic backstory. Did you know someone returned him?”

“No,” she gasped. “How could they? He’s just a baby.”

“Guess they were in the market for a Mal. Pity.”

“You are shameless.”

“Come on. ‘Mal’ means bad, and I would know. I’m ashamed to share three letters of my name with that bellend. He’s bad for her. And I know it’s not adult fiction, but what was that sex scene?”

She shook her head vigorously. “Mal just isn’t sexy.”

“Precis— Wait, wait. So you agree?”

“Of course I agree! Anyone who thinks the Darkling isn’t hot is seriously deluding themselves.”

He tried to extract all the hope from his voice. They were talking about characters in a book, not themselves. She wasn’t Alina, who discovered her powers late in life. He wasn’t the Darkling, who had misguided goals and dashed ambitions.

Still, he couldn't help himself. “Have a taste for villains now, do you?”

She rolled her shoulders with feigned nonchalance. “I did say I’ve had enough of nice blokes.”

“That you did, that you did,” he said, drawing out the last three words.

“What about you? Are you certain you’re not looking for a nice woman? Someone a little more, shall we say, traditionally feminine?”

Could she possibly be referring to herself? He hoped she wasn’t implying that she wasn’t feminine, because sweet Salazar, had she seen herself in a mirror lately? She was godsdamned delicious in every possible way. Curvaceous. Lush. A goddess divine.

“I’m not the least bit interested in someone nice, meek, or, heaven forbid, appropriate,” he said, letting his gaze drift down to her lips.

If she was here, this was the moment he’d try to kiss her. The night dwindling into the wee hours of the morning, the fire casting her in a dreamy glow, their drinks empty…

“Maybe you want a challenge,” she murmured.

“You could say that.”

The screen was much closer to her face than when they’d first started talking. Not that he could look anywhere but at the beautiful witch his fingers itched to touch.

“Could I?” Her voice had gone low and breathy.

“Definitely. I’d like to win her over. And after that, I’d show her just how easy it could be.”

She licked her lips. “What would be easy?”

“Being with me. I spoil everyone I care about.”

“You do, don’t you?”

Before he could do something truly reckless and ask her how she would like to be spoiled, the Darkling clawed his way up Draco’s trouser leg.

“Bloody hell, mate. I’m on the phone with your mum. Can it wait?”

Hermione giggled as the Darkling continued along his path of destruction, mewling for attention. “Oh, he’s probably just hungry!”

Draco adjusted his glasses to hide his pout. He had been cat-blocked. “Yeah, they both could use some food.”

Hermione stretched, and her top pulled up to reveal a cute belly roll. “I should get to bed. I’ll be insanely busy tomorrow making sure everything’s solid here, so I might not have time to chat.”

“Oh, alright,” he said. Disappointment sank like a stone in his stomach.

“But I’ll see you Saturday morning. Your morning. Our morning, I suppose. And we can go from there.”

Go from there? That sounded promising.

“Okay. I’ll put the finishing touches on your bedroom. Just wait; you’re gonna love it.”

“I told you I hate surprises,” she said with a laugh. “And you expect me to wait? I want to see.”

“It isn’t ready. You’ll simply have to be patient.”

“I can’t wait to see it. And meet the Darkling, and give Crooks so many snuggles… It’ll be nice to be home.”

“We’ll be here waiting for you,” he said. “Goodnight, Hermione.”

“Goodnight, Draco. Sweet dreams.”

His dreams that night were not sweet. They were not nice or meek or appropriate.

He dreamt of spoiling Hermione Granger with his fingers, his tongue, his cock.

And when he woke, impossibly hard and aching, he locked himself in the loo and spoiled himself. Twice.

Chapter Text

Friday, 29th December, 2023

Draco couldn’t stop thinking about Hermione.

Her laugh. Her eyes. The way those eyes drank him in.

Her wit. Her quick forgiveness. The way she extended that forgiveness to him.

He was utterly fucked. FaceTiming with her nearly every night had only clarified his desire for her; shaped it into something more, something as pure as it was heady. It made the weak winter sun pouring through the windows brighter; the tea in his cup more potent. Even the breakfast he cooked was tastier than it had any right to be.

Draco served the cats their meal and ate his own on Hermione's kitschy plates. He hadn’t changed them, even though they were objectively hideous, because something about them made him smile. Instead of the thick band of gold adorning the edges of the china at Malfoy Manor, Hermione’s dishes featured a ball of yarn, mostly unravelled, chased by an orange cat. On a whim, Draco tapped his wand on each plate, cup, and saucer, adding a tiny black kitten to the design.

Everywhere he looked, there were things that needed mending or improving. Her faucet leaked, so he identified the source of the problem and repaired it for her. The doormat was nearly worn through, so he replaced it with one he made from his sock. He didn’t like that pair, anyway.

Something had changed between them last night. Hadn’t it? She’d said she’d had enough of nice blokes. His past alone kicked him out of the nice bloke category. He was, at best, a reformed bad boy.

The reformed bad boy never got the good girl in real life, and very rarely did in books.

A Court of Thorns and Roses, which he finished last night, made that perfectly clear. Anyone could see that Feyre had wickedly hot chemistry with Rhysand, ruler of the Night Court. But Rhysand was a villain, and after he helped Feyre save her lover, she left him behind.

Wasn’t that always the way? Rhysand had the tragic backstory, the guarded secrets, everything the author needed for a redemption arc. But of course he’d never get it.

“This is why I don’t read romance,” Draco muttered to himself.

He eyed A Court of Mist and Fury on the bookshelf. It’d caught his attention because of that damned bent spine. Hermione babied her books, if the rest of her collection was anything to go by, so this one stuck out like a sore thumb. Questions burned in his chest: Why did she love it so much? What made it worth returning to time and time again?

Tamlin and Feyre were a done deal, right? Sure, Feyre would have to visit the Night Court sometimes as part of her arrangement with Rhysand, so maybe the author would tease another love triangle, but it wouldn’t take long to resolve.

Ugh. He didn’t know if he could put himself through another Mal and the Darkling situation.

But the last book had been a quick read, and the day was already dragging. He pulled A Court of Mist and Fury from the shelf and laid it on the bedside table for later.

His next thought hit him like a jinx to the ribs, unexpected and more painful than it had any right to be: Tonight was the last time he’d sleep in her bed.

Probably. Unless he made a move. But he wasn’t suave, not like Zabini or Adrian.

He could reach out to either or both of them for advice, but he already knew whatever they suggested wouldn’t work on Hermione. She wasn’t impressed by contrived attempts to woo her favour at the office; why would her love life be any different? No, Draco would need a different approach.

He spent the next few hours mulling over what that approach might be. Laundry kept him busy, especially since he had to Google how to use Hermione’s washer and dryer. He had several laundry rooms at the Manor collecting dust; two of them filled with dry cleaning equipment. How the house elves, who’d been freed after the war, had handled so much cashmere was a mystery not even the Unspeakables could puzzle out.

These days, Draco employed a laundry service which was half as good as the elves, but infinitely better than his disastrous attempts. However, he was determined to make Hermione’s return home as perfect as possible, and, neat freak that he was, he couldn’t abide by a basket of unclean clothes. Fortunately, he knew spells for folding and hanging, so once everything was washed and dried, the rest of the chore was easy.

Draco tried, and failed, to ignore how pretty her underthings were as he sent them flying towards their proper drawer. He’d been a fool to think all her knickers were practical and boring. Periwinkle lace, ivory cotton, and most jaw-droppingly, a strappy black teddy, all seemed designed to make him weak. He wondered if she had anything else fun in that top drawer of hers.

If it were anyone else’s, he’d look inside. But it was Hermione’s, so he didn’t.

The Darkling followed him as he moved about the tiny flat, chirping to let Crooks know where Draco was at all times. Crooks, with far more pep in his step than Draco was used to, chirped right back. Draco had to remind himself the cat was old and blind, because it was a bit like he’d traded one half-kneazle for two kittens.

“I could just declare my affections,” Draco suggested to the Darkling as the kitten attacked a defenceless spring doorstop. It made a boing-boing sound that had Crooks’s ears flattening with irritation. “But what would I say? And what if it scares her off?”

Crooks waved his paw in the air, searching for the Darkling so he could put an end to the infernal noise. He growled when he made contact with the kitten’s backside and the Darkling pounced on him, biting one of his ears. The cats collapsed to the floor, squabbling like littermates.

“You’re all Gryffindors, aren’t you? Not afraid of anything.”

Just then, an unfamiliar owl tapped at the kitchen window. Draco opened it and the tawny bird flew in and landed on the worktop, demanding treats in exchange for the letter clasped between its talons. He gave it some mincemeat, and it ate while eying the cats warily, then left without waiting for a response.

The letter was from Harry Potter.

Malfoy,

Bit weird posting this to you using Hermione’s address. Hope Crooks hasn’t been too much trouble. Hermione said he had some sort of health scare? She’s glad you were there and understood enough about Muggle culture to get him the right help. Anyway, thanks for catsitting. I’ll make good on that favour.

Albus rang us last night and told us about him and Scorpius. He said you’d recently been made aware of their relationship and were supportive. I assured him Ginny and I are supportive, too, and he suggested we all get together on New Year’s Day. I don’t know about you, but I’m getting the impression our sons are serious about each other, and they’re worried we can’t be in the same room at the same time.

In case it wasn’t clear, Malfoy, I consider us friends. We’ve set the past aside (at least, I have) and while we have our moments at the office, I haven’t considered you an adversary in years. If I’ve had too many laughs at your expense, I apologise.

Ginny and I would love to host you at Grimmauld on Monday for tea. Albus says Astoria can’t join us this time, but I’ve written to her, too, in case plans change. The boys should arrive about half past noon. I think it would be good for us all to put on a united front. There’s no need for them to worry about us when they have to navigate so much else at their age.

Ginny’s ordered some rainbow flag pins off Amazon for us to wear on the day. I think it might be ‘cringe’ as the kids say, but I think it’d mean a lot to her if you’d act excited about it. I’ll owe you double.

Best,

Harry

Draco read the letter twice. It almost didn’t seem real. It was in his hands, written in Harry’s awful chicken scratch, and yet, he still barely believed his former rival had extended not only an invitation, but also an apology. And he’d done so with elegance and class.

Cautious optimism simmered in Draco’s veins. Revitalised, he strode with purpose to Hermione’s bedroom and sat at the small desk he’d made for her. He’d decorated it with the same floral motif he created for the bed, and ran his fingers over the carvings as he contemplated how to answer Harry’s letter. His tone was warm and friendly, and Draco wanted to respond in kind.

It had taken him years to become who he was now; someone who had buried his sneers and cruelty with his past. Something broke inside him the day he didn’t confirm Harry’s identity, and from there, his doubts snowballed into full-on rejection of the twisted beliefs he’d held since childhood.

The first few years post-war were a watercolour blur. The Ministry dampened parts of his magic, he married Astoria, and he had to adjust to a world where Malfoys were last in the pecking order. It humbled him. Fatherhood had further softened him, and in early middle age, Draco was finally comfortable with who he was as a man and a wizard.

And in this letter, Harry made it clear he was comfortable being his friend.

If Harry was so willing to be his friend, was it really such a stretch to think that Hermione might consider him as a romantic prospect? If Draco did as Scorpius suggested and asked her to come with him to see the Potters, would it help his chances? He felt sure Hermione would fit into his life like a Snitch in his palm; like she was meant to be there. And this week had shown him he could certainly integrate into hers.

Her flat felt like home now. Draco could see them curled up together in her bed with a book and a cat each. They’d while away rainy afternoons in their armchairs in front of the fire, chatting and practising their magic. He imagined cooking with her, rubbing her shoulders while she stirred a pot of homemade soup, whispering in her ear all the illicit things he wanted to do to her after dinner. Maybe he wouldn’t wait; maybe he’d turn the cooker off and spread her out on the kitchen table.

Of course they’d have to go out sometimes. To work, where he’d hold her hand in the lift. To their friends’ homes, where she’d laugh until her dimple graced her cheek. Out in public, where they’d hold their ground. He wouldn’t have to shy away like before, or bow and scrape when people noticed him. He wasn’t launching a PR campaign by any means, but with Hermione on his arm, maybe people would give him a chance. They might listen when he spoke about the value of Muggle technology and innovation, and eventually they’d see the man he was today.

It would be a huge change. He’d have to be brave. But Hermione was worth it.

For someone who prided himself on being good with words, Draco was lost for them now. He summoned an inkpot, parchment, and quill from his belongings. How to start?

And then it came to him.

Harry,

Thank you for the invitation, and the apology, though the latter was unnecessary. I, too, consider us to be on good terms. Please, call me Draco. Hermione and I have dropped the last names, and it’s rather nice.

I’ll be there for tea, and I don’t mind wearing the pin. Scorpius already mocks everything I do. And I think it’s actually quite a touching gesture on your wife’s part. I’ll bring some sugar-free biscuits for tea. They’re a bit rubbery, but Albus’ll need to get used to them if he and Scorpius are going to go the distance.

I’ve always thought Albus was a fine young wizard. He reminds me a lot of Ginny; loyal and level-headed. That hair is all you though, I’m sorry to say. The point I’m trying to make is that I’m glad Scorpius chose him for a boyfriend. (Boyfriend? Partner? Do we know what they’d prefer?)

I’d be pleased if you’d join me at Malfoy Manor sometime, either for drinks or, if you’re feeling brave, one of the Slytherin alumni pick-up quidditch matches. I’ve got a pitch out back, and Zabini, Nott, Goyle, and a few others suit up nearly every week. We’ll play nice.

Draco

Under his name, he wrote his mobile number. Harry probably didn’t think he was the type to have one, despite his department at the Ministry. He rather hoped it surprised him.

Draco also hoped Harry wasn’t the type to text like Theo Nott. He grimaced as his friend’s message popped up on his screen.

Nott: whaddup playa? u comin 2 gregs 4 a pint l8er?

Circe help them all if Nott ever discovered GIFs.

Draco Malfoy: Can’t. Catsitting.

Nott: NYE then?? im hosting. live band, open bar

Draco Malfoy: I don’t think so.

Nott: k

Nott: im making jelly-o shots

Nott’s jelly-o shots were rather famous, as he rarely made them. It was even more rare for Draco to receive an invitation to a party. He usually toughened up and went to the Ministry gala, because no one could complain about his presence if it was a work event, and he enjoyed wearing his dress robes. His friends typically visited family, or stayed in with their small children. But Nott had never married or produced an heir, despite his parents’ ambitions. He travelled and caroused and didn’t care what other people thought. Draco liked that about him. He wanted to accept Nott’s generosity, but he didn’t want to be hungover at the Potters.

Draco Malfoy: I’ve got somewhere to be early on New Year’s Day, otherwise I’d be there. What about drinks next week?

Nott: gr8. ur buying

Satisfied, he rolled the letter up to give to Eurydice that evening and fired off a text message to Scorpius.

Draco Malfoy: Heard from Harry. Looking forward to seeing you at the Potters on Monday. Love you.

Scorpius replied right away.

Scorpius: Love you too.

Draco snacked on a sugar-free candy cane while he put together another grocery order. He wasn’t sure what Hermione liked, since her cupboards had been nearly bare when he arrived, so he included ingredients for an array of dishes. After Eurydice flew off with the list and plenty of money to pay for it all, he made lunch.

The cats scarfed down their meal, and begged for more at his feet.

“I’m not giving in,” he scolded. “I caved at dinner last night and one of you left me a nasty surprise under the tree.”

Thick as thieves, neither of them had the decency to look ashamed.

“Though I could be persuaded to give you both some treats if you’re willing to help me figure out what to say to your mum when she gets back tomorrow. Don’t worry,” he told the Darkling. “You’re going to love her. And we’re sorting out visitation.”

The Darkling padded over to him with a whine, and Draco got in one pet before the kitten bit him lightly, and if he wasn’t mistaken, a little possessively.

“I’m going to miss you, too. I didn’t really think the whole adoption thing through properly, did I? I saw you in that cage and all my good sense flew right out the window. And Crooks needed you. I didn’t know how much until I got you home. So you see why I can’t just take you with me back to the Manor.”

Malfoy Manor. It was home; the place where he and Astoria had raised Scorpius. It responded to his magic, and purged of the evil that had settled in the ley lines, the entire estate brimmed with warmth and life. Draco missed his kitchens. He missed the view of the frozen pond from the massive portrait window in the even-more-massive library. He even missed his father’s beloved albino peacocks. The Darkling would have a field day with those.

But he didn’t miss his bed, not now that he had Hermione’s mattress charmed to his exact specifications. Hopefully she didn’t spell it back. Draco couldn’t abide a firm mattress.

Although it would be funny if she preferred sleeping on what could only be described as a bed of nails. Maybe when she slept over at his place, she’d sneakily charm his bed just how she liked it, and they’d get in a never-ending war over feathers and foam.

There was probably a solution to this issue, like a newfangled charm, or a bed where one side was soft and the other hard as a rock. He could Google it. But where would be the fun in that?

Fighting Hermione, just for sport, seemed like it could be fun. He loved to win, so he wouldn’t let her, which he knew from working with her these past few years was her favourite pastime. Hermione was stunningly competitive for someone with no interest in athletics.

No, he would drive her mad. Stir her up, watch her spin, soothe her after she accepted defeat. He’d never had that playfulness with anyone, but he wanted it, bone-deep.

Draco had experienced perfunctory sex. Comfort sex, when Astoria’s mother died. And after his divorce, sex so casual that no last names were exchanged. But not the sex he wanted; that he had an inkling he could have with Hermione.

Silly sex. Desperate-for-each-other sex. Sex for no reason at all, except that they were alive.

A zing of sheer want zipped down his spine. He was getting ahead of himself again.

“What should I say to her, Crooks? You know her best.”

Crooks swished his tail and twitched his stubby whiskers. Draco understood this as the international cat sign that meant pick me up, and so he did. He held the cat like a baby in one arm, and when the Darkling mewled his displeasure, he picked him up, too, and cradled him with the other.

“I can’t lead with ‘I’ve been thinking about you for a year.’ That’s too much. But I don’t want to come off as too disinterested either. Although I think she knows I’m interested, or at least she’ll know for sure once she sees this place. I wouldn’t do this for just any witch.”

The Darkling twisted in Draco’s hold, impatient, and leapt down onto the kitchen floor. He scampered off to parts unknown, and Draco brought his free arm around to support Crooks’s head. He scratched the sparse orange fur between the cat’s ears. Crooks rumbled, eyes closed, pleased at the gentle friction.

“Help me out,” Draco pleaded. “You know how I feel about her, don’t you?”

What happened next could never be explained; not by books or Google or anything other than magic.

Crooks propelled himself onto Draco’s shoulder, dug his claws in, and gave Draco’s temple a firm lick. Draco startled. Did Crooks just…

As a firstie, he’d learned about Kneazles. They’re like cats, but more mysterious, Hagrid had said. They were particular creatures, not especially magically powerful, but those who earned the right to keep one as a pet had good luck and were protected from harm. Kneazles, or in this instance, half-kneazles, only licked people they considered worthy of bonding with them for life. They could go a lifetime without choosing a witch or wizard to love. But Crooks had chosen Hermione, and now, he chose Draco, too.

Draco was so overwhelmed he hardly noticed the pain in his shoulder. He blinked a few times, blamed his blurred vision on his glasses, and hugged Crooks tightly. He’d worry about extracting the cat’s sharp hooks later.

“Thank you,” he croaked, and then cleared his throat. “Thank you. I suppose this means I have your blessing?”

Crooks purred and retracted his claws, nuzzling Draco’s silvery hair.

“If you’re just doing this for the treats, you should know, it’s absolutely working.”

Chapter Text

Saturday, 30th December, 2023

Draco woke to the scrape of a key in the door.

He jolted up in bed. It was still pitch black outside, sleet tink-tink-tinking against the window. The Darkling sprang to the floor, while Crooks yowled as he walked down the cat stairs Draco had fashioned for him.

Hermione was home.

Draco fumbled around in the darkness for his wand. When his fingers scrabbled over the hawthorn wood, he cast a quick Lumos, found his glasses, and slid out of the warm sheets. He hissed as his bare feet made contact with the hardwood floor. The flat was chilly, but the floorboards were frigid.

Naked except for his shortest pair of black pants, he stumbled over to his suitcase and rummaged around for his favourite joggers. He knew they were in there somewhere…

“Draco?”

He stilled at the sound of her voice. Slowly he rose, one arm coming up to fold over his chest, the other in front of his pants, protective but not standoffish. It was quite cold; not the first impression he and his penis wanted to make.

Hermione stood in the doorway, bleary-eyed with her hair in a messy bun. She wore black leggings, an oversized fleece, and a giant scarf festooned with pom-poms in every colour of the rainbow. Crooks rubbed his face across her chunky-knit socks.

“Er, hi,” he said.

This was not at all the way he’d wanted to greet her.

He’d had it all planned out. He would wear the light blue jumper that made him feel the most confident, and a dash of cologne. Then he’d make two cups of tea, set them under stasis charms, and light a fire. When Hermione came home, she’d find him curled up in the armchair with the cats, reading one of her favourite books, tea waiting for her just how she liked it.

That was about as far as he’d gotten, and hoped that after that she’d make the first move and snog him. It would make things a lot easier.

But no, she had to arrive before he was even up for the day. He’d had no chance to look debonair and set the stage for further flirtations. No opportunity to present himself as a leading man instead of an awkward, half-naked wanker who couldn’t find his joggers.

Instead of leaving her breathless, he’d made her slack-jawed.

Gods above.

The Darkling ran in from the corridor, skidded across the floor to Draco, and cried to be picked up. Draco looked at the kitten and sighed. Hermione had already seen him like this; what was a little more humiliation? He bent over and scooped the Darkling into his arms. The kitten fought to get even closer to him, burying his tiny black nose beneath Draco’s armpit. Victorious, the Darkling swished his pointy tail twice before his eyes closed and he began to purr.

Hermione hadn’t said anything, and he couldn’t read her expression, so he asked, “What time is it?”

“Um,” She tucked her hand in her pocket and withdrew her mobile. “Oh my gods. Half-past three. So sorry, I didn’t think about — I was helping my mum with the discharge paperwork when I scheduled my Portkey and I must’ve—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, coming to his senses. He spotted his joggers halfway under the frilly bed skirt and lunged for them. Despite cradling a disgruntled kitten with one arm, he yanked them up his legs in record time.

“Oh,” Hermione said, blushing. “I’ll just, um, I’ll be in the kitchen. Or, shit, did you want to sleep a bit more? I could—”

“No, no, I’m awake,” he said, waving her off as he died from embarrassment.

Shirt, shirt, where was a fucking shirt when he needed one?

He thought she would shuffle away and wait for him in the kitchen, but instead he heard a sharp intake of air.

“Draco, this is incredible.”

Draco wasn’t looking at her. He was summoning his things with nonverbal magic and shoving them into his suitcase; definitely not making any sort of eye contact. But he gathered she was talking about the improvements to the bedroom. He set the Darkling on the bed, and the kitten curled into a tight ball.

“Thanks,” he mumbled through a cotton t-shirt. He pulled a jumper on next. “It was my pleasure.”

“This woodwork — my gods. You did this with a charm?”

“I could teach you,” Draco said, slipping on a pair of socks. He felt much more presentable now. All he needed now were his boots, which were by the door.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“It was no trouble.”

He straightened to his full height and tucked his wand in his back pocket. Hermione’s eyes danced around the room in wonder, and Draco wished, for the millionth time in the last few minutes, that he’d been more prepared for her arrival. He would’ve loved to take her by the hand and show her all the little details he’d thought to include, and why.

It hit him as he watched her take it all in that he’d perhaps gone a bit overboard, imbuing meaning into every stick of furniture. All through the flat, he’d declared his feelings for her with subtle flourishes and filigrees. It would take her weeks to find them all.

Hermione’s gaze fell on the Darkling, still in a tight spiral on the bed, and she held out her hand to him. “Hello. Aren’t you a handsome fellow? I’m Hermione.”

The Darkling’s eyes slid towards Draco, who nodded, just once, to confirm Hermione was someone he could trust. The kitten rubbed his jaw along her knuckles, then sank his tiny fangs into one finger. Hermione yelped and clasped her hand to her chest.

“Sorry, I should’ve warned you. The Darkling likes to bite,” Draco explained. “It’s his love language.”

She examined her finger, holding it up to the light. “I see.”

“Did he draw blood? Here,” Draco said, crossing the room in two strides and taking her hand in his. It was cold, and he swiped away the two tiny red dots on her fingertip. “Episkey.”

Hermione was frozen, Her eyes, always doe-like, were even more so now as they met his, wide and guileless. He could get lost in those eyes.

She made a little sound, a mix between a whine and a gasp, and Draco realised he hadn’t let go of her hand. He released it to her care, but didn’t step away. Neither did she.

“Wandless healing,” she murmured. “Have you always been able to do that?”

“No. That was the first time.” It hadn’t even occurred to him he’d performed the spell without his wand, still nestled in his back pocket. She’d been hurt, and he needed to fix it, and his magic rose to the occasion. But he hadn’t asked to touch her, let alone heal her. She didn’t seem upset by it, but maybe she was just too kind, or too tired, to tell him off.

Then again, she’d hugged him before she left for Australia, so maybe it wasn’t the end of the world?

“I, um, well… Thank you.”

“It was nothing,” he said miserably.

“I don’t suppose you’d like some tea?” She followed up the question with a yawn so cute it made his teeth ache. She was asleep on her feet, but too polite to shove him out the door.

“Don’t trouble yourself, you’re exhausted. I’ll just be going.”

Draco longed to dispense with his jumper and joggers and pull her into bed with him, tuck her head under his chin, and sleep until sunrise — or at least until the cats woke them. Her hair would tickle his chest as she burrowed into him further, and he’d sigh from the pleasure of having her body flush against his. But that seemed impossible now that he was faced with Hermione in the flesh, travel-weary and clearly in need of a good rest instead of his awkward presence.

“Oh,” Hermione said, looking down at her feet. She yawned again. “Alright then.”

His feet carried him to the door, mechanically and not at all in the direction his heart thought he should be going. He should be moving towards her, not further and further away. There would never be another chance like this, but perhaps it was for the best.

As he shrugged on his greatcoat, still covered in orange fur from Crooks’s vet stay, Draco rattled off a few tips on the care and feeding of the Darkling, much like Hermione had with Crooks just a week ago. He didn’t know if she’d had a kitten before.

“But text me if you have any questions,” he said, sliding his feet into his boots. “He’s a wily one.”

Both Crooks and the Darkling made anxious figure eights around his feet. It was as if the cats knew he was leaving without firm plans to return, and neither of them understood why. Draco knelt down to say goodbye. He spoke to Crooks first.

“Hey Crooks,” he said, scratching the cat right between his shoulders. “I had a lovely time with you this week. We had a scare, but we made it through, didn’t we old chap? I’ve got to go back home now, but I won’t forget about you. I’ll ask Hermione about you when we’re back at work, and maybe send you some sausage treats, yeah?”

Crooks sagged a little, but seemed to accept Draco’s farewell. He continued rubbing up against Draco’s shin while Draco picked up the Darkling and held his tiny angry face up to his.

“Listen here, you scamp. You’ve got to be good. Don’t give redeemable villains a bad name, alright? Keep helping Crooks. He trusts you, and that doesn’t come easy. Try to keep your business inside the litter box. Oh, and play nice with the curtains in Hermione’s room.”

Draco got choked up as the tiny kitten meowed and nuzzled his thumb, but he soldiered on. “This is your home now, okay? You don’t know it yet, but it’s the best home there is. So don’t… Don’t blow it.”

He set the kitten down and stood. Hermione wiped her nose on her sleeve and blinked rapidly. She must be really tired now after all his stalling. Time to go.

“Thank you for your hospitality, and the books. I hope you like the changes, but if you don’t, they’re easy to undo.”

“I’ve loved them all so far.”

She sounded as if she might be coming down with something.

“Good, good. Well, I’ll uh, I’ll see you at the office,” he said, and stepped out into the cold. The sleet stung his ears.

“Oh. Alright.” Hermione said. She looked angelic, backlit by the Christmas tree and haloed in lamplight. Her cheeks were pink, and her mouth slightly downturned. The innocent expression tugged at his heart. Somehow, without a trace of makeup, in her comfy clothes, she was more beautiful than ever.

It was now or never. And maybe it wouldn’t be perfect, and maybe she wouldn’t be able to look at him again after this, but he’d kick himself for all eternity if he didn’t at least try.

He set down his suitcase, the aluminium scraping against the brick doorstep, looked her in the eye, and swept her into his arms.

She was so soft; so warm. Every cell in his body seemed to shift forward, clamouring to feel the press of her curves against his hard chest. Draco tucked his face into the scarf around her neck and inhaled her delicious honeysuckle scent. So, so sweet. He wanted to bury his nose in her curls, run it along the tender cartilage of her ear, drag it across her cheek until her lips parted, inviting him to kiss her. But she wasn’t hugging him back, let alone melting into his touch.

So he didn’t do what he wanted. He couldn’t; not when he didn’t know what she wanted.

Hermione made a muffled sound against his shoulder. He knew the moment was slipping away, but he held her tighter. Right as he let go, she lifted her arms as if she intended to wrap them around his back, but he didn’t register it until he’d already stepped away.

There. He hadn’t been a coward. He’d reached out for happiness. He’d held it in his arms, for a brief time. Her eyes were on his now, but his heart thumped so loud in his ears he couldn’t interpret whatever message lay beneath those honeyed depths. Their breaths were visible in the dim light, commingling before fading into nothingness. Draco dipped his gaze to her parted lips, then locked eyes with her again.

He waited.

But Hermione didn’t say anything, and he didn’t say anything, and so he picked up his suitcase and fled down the steps, practically running to the Apparition point.

Twenty minutes later, Draco was back in his chambers at Malfoy Manor. He rummaged around for a phial of Dreamless Sleep, popped the cork, and downed it without another thought. Then, in his last few seconds of consciousness, he stripped down, plugged his phone in, and fell into his giant soft bed.

When he woke, it was nearly dark again.

He groaned and moved his legs experimentally. No claws hooked into him; no meows reached his ears.

Then he remembered. He was home.

Draco patted the mattress until he found his glasses, then checked his mobile, not bothering with lights just yet. Four o’clock in the afternoon. No new messages. He sighed and let his head fall back onto the pillow. What had he expected, exactly? Ten messages from Hermione begging him to come back to the flat and ravish her?

He rolled out of bed and shuffled to the loo. His sleep schedule was well and truly fucked now, but nothing could be done about it. He brushed his teeth, showered, and shaved the hint of stubble that sprouted over his jawline. Refreshed, he pulled on a fresh set of pyjamas — no one was going to see him — and raided the nearest kitchen. Halfway through cooking the chicken, he felt a pang in his chest at the fact that Crooks and the Darkling weren’t there to beg for a piece.

After he ate, Draco dragged a chenille blanket into his favourite of the Manor’s sixteen living rooms to watch a little Netflix. Getting sucked into a new show was always a good distraction from his feelings. But when the little red N disappeared from the screen, the first suggestion that autoplayed was none other than the Hollywood adaptation of Shadow and Bone.

“There’s a show,” he muttered to himself. “Of course there’s a show.”

He turned off the telly.

A bit put out, he wandered back to his bedroom. Maybe it would be better to unpack his suitcase. He could even finally figure out how to work one of the washing machines, if he really needed to avoid thinking about Hermione.

“Okay,” he said, dumping the whole lot on the bed. Clothes, toiletries, and sugar-free candies tumbled out en masse. But as he shook the suitcase once more, four books fell out. Three from the Grishaverse, and one with a very bent spine.

Draco picked up A Court of Mist and Fury. His homemade bookmark was still in it. He’d fashioned it from a strip of her floral bedsheets, and added his initials at the bottom, assuming Hermione thought the act of dog-earing pages was both disgusting and punishable by death. What would she have thought if he’d left it behind for her to find the next time she was in the mood for a reread? Would she have rung him? Leaned over his cubicle for a chat?

He hadn’t meant to take the book, of course. And he had to return it, seeing as it was one of her favourites. How he would accomplish that without looking like a total arse was a problem for future Draco.

He laid the book back down on his bed and set about putting his things away. The silence in the Manor, which Draco had grown used to since Astoria and Scorpius moved out, gnawed at him now. He missed the hum of Hermione’s radiators, Crooks’s snoring, and the scratch of the Darkling’s claws as he raced around the flat with far too much energy for a creature that small.

Maybe some music would help. He flipped the switch on his radio and an upbeat Christmas song filled the room. He groaned. Didn’t they know Christmas was five days ago now?

I don't want a lot for Christmas

There is just one thing I need

“Bloody hell.”

Of course it would be this song. Draco was unfortunately familiar with Mariah Carey, the singer of all Theo Nott’s favourite karaoke songs. Trouble was, Draco actually liked this one.

I don't care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree

I just want you for my own

More than you could ever know

Make my wish come true

Draco gave up and sang along. “All I want for Christmas is you.”

He did not add the “Ooh, baby,” at the end, of which he was proud. Even in private, he had some sense of decorum.

After several more Christmas songs, he had to admit he was feeling better. The last of his things were put away, and it was after six; a perfectly respectable hour for drinking. He poured himself a healthy amount of brandy from the bar cart and added a few cherries, an orange slice, and a cinnamon stick. The fruit made the whole thing a little more festive.

Draco looked at the book again.

All I want for Christmas is you.

The infernal song was stuck in his head. There was no hidden meaning he needed to examine, nope. No sir. Just a catchy tune with lyrics that definitely didn’t pertain to his deepest desires.

He walked down the corridor towards the grand library where his Christmas tree stood. For a moment, he drank it all in. It was perfect and polished; not a bent branch from a mischievous kitten to be found. Somehow it didn’t bring him the same joy he’d felt when he put it up a month ago.

A few gifts lay underneath; a new set of Airpods from Scorpius (how had he known?), a wetsuit from Astoria and Adrian, and various anti-aging creams from his parents. He was touched by their thoughtfulness. But it also made him sad to think he might be opening presents alone for the rest of his life.

He’d opened one present with someone else this year. Hermione’s present.

All I want for—

“Fine,” he groused aloud, and not at all to Mariah Carey. “I’ll think about FaceTiming her.”

What would he FaceTime her about?

He snapped his fingers. The book. He’d tell her he accidentally took A Court of Mist and Fury. Perfect.

The only thing was… He still wanted to read it.

“Well, no time like the present, I suppose,” Draco said. “Accio A Court of Mist and Fury.”

From the moment the book sailed into his hands, he couldn’t put it down. All Draco’s doubts about Tamlin came to fruition, and Rhysand spirited Feyre away to the Night Court. It was one of the most beautiful, fantastical places he’d ever read about; it reminded him of Lothlórien. Rhysand loved his kingdom and wanted to protect it, and that was why he’d played the villain. Feyre was falling for him, and Draco could only hope Rhysand could win her to his side.

A few pages later, his wish was granted.

“Merlin fuck,” he said, nearly spilling his drink when Feyre discovered the secret Rhysand had been trying to hide from her. “They’re soulmates.”

When Rhysand said to Feyre, “There you are. I’ve been looking for you,” he wasn’t just trying to help her escape a bad situation. He knew right away that she was meant for him. But he wanted Feyre to love him for who he was, not because they were fated mates.

It was relatable. Maybe a little too relatable.

Draco set his drink down and walked over to the fireplace.

Maybe what Hermione said was true. Maybe she really did have a thing for reformed bad boys and misunderstood villains.

When he’d left this morning, she hadn’t pushed him out, had she? Looking back, if anything, she’d been trying to get him to stay. He’d been caught off guard, but then again, so had she. And who could expect conversation, let alone flirting, at half-past three in the morning?

Oh gods. He was an idiot.

Draco palmed his mobile and pulled up FaceTime. Hermione answered in less than two seconds.

“Hi,” she said, blowing a curl out of her face. She was in her bed, but it didn’t look like he’d woken her up. She wore flannel pyjamas with little cats holding books on them. He wondered if they came in men’s.

“Hey.”

Smooth. Very smooth.

“Did you butt dial me?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

He scratched his head. “Where are the cats?”

“In front of the fire. They’re cuddling in Crooks’s bed. I guess it’s their bed now, because the Darkling refuses to sleep anywhere else. But he’s happy here.”

“Good. I’m glad.” He rubbed the crease between his eyebrows. “I’m sorry about this morning.”

Hermione sat further up in bed. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. I came in really early, and I think I misread some things, but—”

“You didn’t misread anything. If anything, I misread things. And don’t forget: I adopted a kitten without your permission.”

She opened her mouth to say something, closed it, and then opened it again. “That you did.”

“I miss him already. Suppose I could go back to Dr. Gupta’s clinic and inquire after Weetabix and his siblings. Maybe some other ridiculously named litter of kittens is up for adoption now. I could adopt twenty kittens and still have room for more here.” He threw one arm out to the side to emphasise the ridiculous size of the Manor.

“I think he misses you, too. The Darkling is wonderful, although I’ve had to mend these curtains multiple times now and they don’t look as good as they did when you left.”

“I can come mend them again.”

“I don’t know,” she said, hugging herself. “I had such a difficult holiday.”

He gentled his voice. “It doesn’t have to be right now, Hermione.”

“I wasn’t finished. I had such a difficult holiday, and you were there for me, and I saw how Crooks trusted you. And now I have the Darkling, too, and this beautiful flat. Every time I open a cupboard or turn a corner I see some new detail. And it’s not too much, and I appreciate everything you did. It’s just…”

Draco swallowed and looked down at his lap. “Is it that it was me who did it?”

It would make sense. She could work with him, and he could watch her cat, and they could even flirt a little, as long as nothing came of it, because she was Hermione Granger, and he was Draco Malfoy, and whoever authored their story had decided long ago they would never evolve into anything past former enemies.

“No, no. I can’t seem to say what I want to say,” she sighed, then bit her lip. “Draco, my sheets smell like you.”

His head shot up. “They do?”

Of course she’d just crashed in bed; she wouldn’t have washed the sheets. But she would’ve been up hours ago, and she still hadn’t…

“Like firewhisky and expensive cologne and something that’s just... you.”

Draco stilled. “I meant to wash them. But they still smelled a little like you, and I thought I’d have time to wash them before you came back.”

“Oh. Well, I’m glad you didn’t,” she said, and he took a sharp breath as she continued. “What do I smell like?”

“Honeysuckle and sunshine.”

Hermione laughed. “Sunshine doesn’t have a smell.”

“It does to me.”

They both sobered a little, realising they’d both, in some small way, confessed there was something more between them.

Hermione spoke first. “Do you have New Year’s Eve plans?”

“Theodore Nott’s trying to get me to come out. Don’t know if I’m in the mood for one of his huge parties, though. I was thinking I might have a quiet night in. Though, now that I’m having one of those tonight, I’m starting to think I should go and throw back a few of his jelly-o shots.”

“Jello shots. He makes jello shots?”

“He’s famous for them.”

“They’re always a bad idea,” she said seriously. “Trust me.”

That was all the warning he needed.

“Alright. Mark me down as a no, then.”

Hermione rubbed the back of her neck with one hand. “Would you… Would you like to come here?”

“You’re not going to the Ministry gala?”

Draco recalled balling up the invitation and throwing it in the bin a month ago. He didn’t think he could handle seeing Hermione in a cocktail dress again.

“No, I thought I’d still be in Australia.”

“I’d love to come round. I really do miss the cats. And I know you’ve got good snacks over there,” he joked.

“You really didn’t have to stock the fridge. That was exceptionally kind of you.”

“I was happy to do it. Besides, I didn’t want you eating Crooks’s pâtés.”

“Well, we couldn’t have that, now could we,” she said with a little laugh. “I appreciated it when I finally got up this afternoon. You really thought of everything.”

“It was my pleasure.”

They exchanged daft smiles.

“This is going to sound a bit mad, but did you make the mattress softer?”

“I might have done,” he admitted. “Do you prefer sleeping on a bed of nails?”

Hermione snapped her fingers. “I knew it. And yes, what’s so wrong with liking a firm mattress?”

“Some of us have bad backs.”

“Probably because your mattress is lacking in support,” she chided, grabbing for her wand and charming the bed back to its stodgy self. “My back is perfectly fine.”

Draco did not think of blowing her back out on her concrete slab of a bed. He did not.

“Is there anything I can bring tomorrow? My mother always says never to show up empty-handed.”

If Narcissa Malfoy knew he was going to see a witch, she’d insist he brought one of her giant cellophane-wrapped monstrosities she called gift baskets. She’d probably try to sneak a ring somewhere on his person, too.

“My mum says the same thing.”

Draco inquired after her parents, and she assured him they were both doing well and looking forward to ringing in the New Year in Sydney.

“Well, I will have something with me,” he confessed. “I accidentally made off with one of your favourite books. I meant to finish it before you got back. Still haven’t finished it actually, but I will by tomorrow.”

“Which book?”

Draco held up the copy of A Court of Mist and Fury. Hermione lit up.

“No spoilers,” he scolded. He could tell from the look on her face she wanted to gush, but she reined it in.

“My lips are sealed. But you read the first one first, right?”

“Of course. I’m not a heathen. The first one drew me in, but this one…”

She smiled, dazzling him. “Do you love it?”

He couldn’t resist a grin to rival hers. “I love it. Way better than Shadow and Bone.”

“Of course you do. Now that I know your reading preferences, it makes complete sense you’d love these.”

He turned the book so the spine faced the camera. “I’d say you love them, too.”

“That one in particular is quite good,” Hermione said, blushing. “I don’t know how you feel about smutty reads, but, just so you know, there is smut. Sorry if that’s a spoiler.”

Draco fell onto his sofa dramatically. “Smut, you say? Oh no. It’s ruined for me now.”

“It probably doesn’t hold a candle to Marcus Flint’s selection.”

“It’s fine, if your tastes run more towards vanilla. But I never had a chance, not after reading all the things a witch can do with my wand, if you catch my meaning.”

She laughed and took a sip of water from her glass on the bedside table. “Ollivander did tell me the wand chooses the witch.”

“Stop,” he said, throwing his arm over his eyes. “Ollivander has no business in my fantasies. Or my fantasy books.”

It felt so good to play with her again. To flirt.

“Do your tastes run towards… I don’t know. Strawberry?”

“Hermione Granger. Strawberry? You minx. I might go as far as vanilla bean, but strawberry?”

She clasped a hand to her chest. “Please, don’t tell anyone. I beg you. It would end my career, and I have two cats to support now.”

He pretended to consider her fate. “I suppose I could keep quiet. But it’ll cost you.”

“Name your price.”

Draco downed the last of his drink. Now or never.

“Tomorrow night, you charm the bed how I like it.”

His heart thumped wildly in his chest.

“So you can take a hint,” she mused.

Salazar, she was definitely into him. No need to second guess on this one. Excitement laced with apprehension lit up his nervous system.

“Of course I can. But a direct approach never hurts, either.”

“Well, if we’re being direct… You looked good this morning. The whole ‘no shirt’ thing really suits you.”

For all his skill with words, Draco didn’t know what to say.

He touched the hinge of his glasses briefly, opened his mouth, then closed it when an idea hit him. Maybe he didn’t need to say anything. Maybe he should just… do.

Draco set his empty glass down, looked directly at Hermione, and set his fingers to the task of unbuttoning his shirt. It wasn’t perfectly smooth like he saw it in his head, because he still had to hold the mobile. But it had the desired effect, because he heard her sharp intake of breath when he tossed the shirt to the floor.

“And now?’

“Better than ever, I’d say.”

The room was too hot. He wished he had more liquid courage. But all he had was his own.

“Can I be direct with you, too, Hermione?”

“By all means,” she purred.

“I like talking to you.”

Her face fell a little. She’d clearly been expecting more. But she recovered, straightening a little. “I’m glad.”

He bit his lip in a way he hoped was equal parts devastating and irresistible. “But I can think of a lot of other things I want to do to you.”

Too far? Maybe. The alcohol was muddling everything. But she was looking at him like the cat that got the cream, twirling a curl around one finger.

“You talk a big game.”

Did she want him to talk to her? He could do that. That was one compliment he never failed to get from previous bed partners; when he got comfortable, he was good at talking. But that was so much easier in someone’s presence. What could he do over video? There were too many ways it could go wrong. He could lavish Hermione with praise, or descend into filthy dirty talk, but maybe she wanted a different approach, one he had no experience with.

He didn’t want to blow this.

“If you were here, I’d show you. But all I have are words tonight, sweetheart.”

“I can work with words,” she said, and suddenly she lay on her back and he was looking down at her face, her cheeks flushed and her hair spread over a pillow.

“Fuck, you’re pretty.”

Apparently his filter had disappeared with the last of his drink.

“You FaceTimed me shirtless with a cat. Do you even know… You organised my bookshelf. You read the books I gave you and redecorated my entire flat so it looks like something straight out of a magazine. And then you adopted a kitten. A kitten.”

The sofa was wildly uncomfortable all of a sudden. “That worked for you, I take it?”

“It would have been knicker-melting if I’d been wearing any.”

His brain short-circuited at the thought of Hermione Granger, completely knickerless.

“And are you wearing any knickers now?”

Gods, he was depraved for that. But the blood flow ordinarily dedicated to his brain was rapidly diverting to his cock.

“I was.”

He brought a fist to his mouth and bit down on his knuckles. Hard. “Can I ask where your other hand is right now?”

“Where do you think it is?”

“I’ll tell you where mine would be. If that’s alright, of course.” He still had some of his wits about him. Maybe it wasn’t the sexiest time to get consent, and it was infinitely more awkward over video, but it was important to him all the same.

“It’s more than alright. Is this alright with you?”

“Yeah. I fucking love it. How do I make you feel good?”

“That. That right there makes me feel good, when you care. It’s so fucking hot.”

Hermione was even sexier when she swore. Gods above.

Draco decided to say whatever depraved thing popped into his head. “If I were with you right now, I’d take my time with you; put you in my lap and unwrap you like a present. Then I’d run my thumb over your lips and drag it down between your breasts. Tease you a little. And then I’d retrace my steps with my mouth.”

“Mmm,” she said. “Good start.”

He appreciated the praise.

“Are your nipples sensitive?”

“Very.”

“Then I’d tweak them; roll them between my fingers. Make you writhe on top of me until you begged for me to suck on them.”

“Yes please,” she said, her breaths turning shallow.

She begged so prettily. He slid his free hand over his pyjama bottoms and opened the fly, touching himself through his pants.

“What colour are they?”

“What?”

“Your nipples, sweetheart. What colour are they?” He’d always wanted to know.

Her eyes fluttered closed. “They’re pink. Maybe a darker pink now, since you’ve been teasing them. Biting them just a little.”

Draco stood, anxious to shuck the rest of his clothing. He didn’t want her to see everything; that would be for tomorrow, if things went well. But he needed his cock in his hand right now. He dipped underneath the waistband of his pants and took himself in hand, gripping his shaft and giving a firm pump. Pleasure raced up his spine and he knew it wouldn’t take long for him to spill if he kept at it.

He kept painting a picture for her. “Now imagine I lift you up and lean your back against the headboard so I can lick my way down your body. Imagine I’m taking my time, almost too long, and you’re lifting your hips looking for my touch.”

“Yes,” she said, and it was almost a moan.

“I’d pin your hips to the mattress with one arm. And then I’d put my mouth on your pretty cunt and see how good you taste.”

“Fuck. Are you hard?”

“So hard. Just from thinking about what I’d do to you and telling you how I’d make you come.”

She turned her head to the side, and he saw her right shoulder rotating. Salazar, Merlin, and Muggle God, Hermione was bringing herself off to the sound of his voice. He sat down and kicked off his pants, mirroring her strokes with his own hand.

“More,” she whined. “Say more.”

“You’d taste so good. I want to devour you.”

“Yes,” she sighed.

“I’d spread you wider, then massage your clit with my tongue. Gentle strokes, at first. Then I’d demand more from you, put my fingers in your cunt and stretch you out. Three, if you think you can take it.”

“Oh, oh.”

“I’d fuck you with my fingers, lick you within an inch of your life. Give it to you exactly how you want it.”

“Mmm.”

Hermione was so flushed, eyes closed and mouth open. He had to loosen his hold on himself even as the tip of his cock reddened and glistened with precum.

Focus. Focus on her and not your cock.

“You’re so pretty when you’re close. I’d pause to look at you now and then, thinking about how good it’d feel to slide into you. So hot, so wet.”

“I’m so wet. Need it.”

Shit. He had to back off again. He couldn’t beat her to this, no matter how bad he wanted to come right now.

“What do you need, sweetheart? I’ll give you anything,” he said, his voice rough and ragged.

Her face scrunched up. “I don’t know. I’m close, it’s just hard sometimes. I get… I get in my head.”

Draco grabbed the armrest, and his cock throbbed in protest. “Don’t think. Just feel. I’m swiping my tongue up, up, up, and swirling it right over the spot that makes your legs shake. I’m lifting you to my mouth, taking everything you’re giving me. Put your fingers in my hair, tug as hard as you want as I make your back arch and work your clit even harder. You can do this, Hermione. Come. Come for me.”

His heart raced at impossible speed when he saw it happen. She let go, biting her lip to keep quiet, her face transforming from grasping tenseness to bliss. Somehow her grip on the mobile remained firm, but the angle changed, giving him just the briefest glimpse of a dusky pink nipple freed from her top.

So they were pink. Draco planned to make them his tomorrow.

He let the mobile slip from his grasp and stroked his cock with one hand while fondling his balls with the other. Heat coiled, tense and molten, at the base of his shaft. He thought of filling Hermione up with his come, and his orgasm spiked and ripped through him, like a gust of wind tearing through the skies. He shouted as he flew up, up, up in the clouds, and for a few seconds he was absolutely weightless, drunk on brandy and pleasure and Hermione.

Draco heard her voice coming at him from the floor.

“So, tomorrow,” she said, a little shyly.

He picked up the mobile and grinned, knowing he looked ridiculous. He didn’t care.

“Tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Sunday, 31st December, 2023

Draco woke at five-thirty. He saw the time, pulled his pillow closer to his chest and fell back asleep.

Three hours later, he pulled on grey joggers and trainers, ate a quick breakfast and hit his in-mansion gym for a workout.

He grabbed a jump rope, found an upbeat playlist and warmed up, immersing himself in the rhythm of the music and the sound of his feet hitting the floor in time to the beat. If he observed himself in the mirrored wall, it was only to check his form. Shoulders back, chest taut, jumps only a few centimetres off the floor for maximum burn.

After that, Draco pulled weights from the rack and did four sets, eight reps each, until his muscles ached and left him with a buzzy feeling in his brain. A good workout high could be better than sex.

Were he and Hermione going to have sex tonight? If you asked him yesterday morning, he wouldn’t have thought he had even a sliver of a chance. But after last night, Draco felt like she’d be open to it. After all, he’d told her to charm her bed how he liked it and she’d teased him right back. But they’d been flirting, and he’d been drinking. Mutual masturbation over video didn’t mean the next step had to be sex. And he didn’t want to just sleep with her. Their connection was much more than that.

Draco leaned his head back and rolled his neck. They should talk some more before they did anything physical. This was his chance to be with Hermione, and he was absolutely not going to fuck it up by moving too fast. That strategy worked for Rhysand with Feyre, although Draco felt things might’ve gone better if Rhysand had been honest earlier. Although the resulting angst — and scorching sex scenes — might have been worth it. (Hermione was not kidding about the smut. Circe. The bent spine made much more sense now.)

She’d responded well to his honesty so far. They had even more in common than he’d thought before he agreed to catsit Crooks. The more they talked, the more that gut feeling he had about her solidified into something more akin to certainty.

Recent experience told him the best thing to do would be to tell Hermione exactly how he felt, and ask her if she felt the same way. But a very real part of him was frightened by the prospect of laying his heart on the line. He’d never had to do that before. But she was worth the risk; more than worth it.

To cool down, he engaged in deep stretch work, lunging across the room to open his hips, and planking to engage his core one last time. By the time he finished, sweat trickled down his abs and he was ready for a long, hot shower.

His mobile vibrated as he was towelling off.

Hermione Granger: Hi.

A wide smile spread across his face. He couldn’t help it. His fingers flew across the keyboard.

Draco Malfoy: Hi sweetheart.

She hearted the message, and he leaned back against his porcelain sink, relieved.

Hermione Granger: Are you still planning on coming over today?

Draco Malfoy: If you’ll have me. What time should I come by?

Hermione Granger: I was thinking of eating dinner at eight, if you’d like to join? I’ll cook us something delicious. And then we could find something to do until midnight.

It was a wide open shot at the hoop. He had to take it.

Draco Malfoy: Hmm. Do you have any ideas on how we could occupy ourselves?

Hermione Granger: I’m sure I could come up with something.

Hermione Granger: Last I heard, I’m the brightest witch of my age.

Draco Malfoy: That so? What else can I do for the lady?

Hermione Granger: Would you bring some wine?

Draco Malfoy: White or red?

Hermione Granger: Red for dinner. You pick. Champagne for later.

He had a 2010 Château Montrose Bordeaux in the cellar that would do nicely for the red. He might have to Floo call his mother for an appropriate champagne recommendation.

Draco Malfoy: As you wish. What’s the dress code?

Hermione Granger: I’m wearing a dress, but you don’t need to wear anything fancy.

Draco Malfoy: Colour?

Hermione Granger: It’s a surprise. I know how you like those.

Draco Malfoy: Touché.

Draco Malfoy: Is it green?

He might die if he saw her in emerald green.

Draco Malfoy: Never mind. Don’t tell me.

Hermione Granger: I’m looking forward to it. I told Crooks and the Darkling you’re coming, and they’re excited, too. Don’t forget my book!

Draco Malfoy: I won’t. See you at eight.

He spent the rest of the day meal prepping for the week and taking down the many Christmas decorations at the Manor. It wasn’t difficult, but it further emphasised how empty the place was as the wreaths and trees came down.

Draco couldn’t bear the idea of giving up Malfoy Manor. He’d put so much time and energy into improving it, weeding out the dark magic and burning the dreadful racist portraits. It was where Scorpius grew up. And, not for nothing, but his quidditch pitch was the nicest in Wiltshire. But it was indisputable fact that the Manor itself was much too large for a single wizard. Even his parents didn’t want to live in it anymore, preferring their smaller home on the back half of the estate.

He could move out, but where would he go? It didn’t make sense to start paying rent when he had a perfectly good home. And he didn’t want roommates; living in the Slytherin dorms during his school years solidified that position.

Well, there was one roommate he might not mind. Three, if he counted the cats. He had room enough for them and a hundred of their closest friends.

Draco thought about the kittens up for adoption at Dr. Gupta’s office. What happened to them if they didn’t find homes? Was it harder to place them as they aged? His heart ached at the memory of the Darkling huddled in the back of his cage after being returned. What were the odds of him getting adopted a second time? They couldn’t have been good.

He walked down the corridor to his bedroom, passing countless guest rooms, parlours, tea rooms. Everyone, human and animal alike, should have a warm, safe home. It had sickened him when he’d found out Harry Potter had spent his early years in a cupboard under the stairs with people who loathed him. Worse, those people were Harry’s only living family. Draco didn’t agree with his father on, well, anything really, but he would never shove him in a cupboard.

It didn’t seem right that he should have so much unused space.

Though, did it have to remain unused? A seedling of an idea took root. He resolved to run it by Hermione. He had a feeling she’d love it.

Draco padded into his closet and flicked his wand at his rack of dress shirts. They whirred by, sleeves flapping in the air, until he found the one he wanted. It was his lucky shirt; crisp white with his initials embroidered on the French cuffs in his favourite shade of green. A grey sleeveless pullover paired nicely, as did a striped tie. He pointed his wand at his watch drawer next, selecting a vintage Patek Philippe with a sapphire dial, and debated between two different pairs of cufflinks before going with a classic round in white gold.

He shook out his arms and paced the length of the closet. Getting dressed was as much ritual as it was art. He needed to look like he always looked this good; like it was effortless, but not so effortless that he didn’t put any care into what he wore for their first date. Tempting, but not rakish. Cool, but not unbothered.

Draco imagined Hermione, fresh from the bath in one of her fluffy towels, standing in front of her closet, having the same debate. Did she ask Crooks for fashion advice?

Trousers were next, as was a matching navy suit jacket. His mother always said it made his eyes pop. With any luck, he’d get cat hair on it and have an excuse to take it off. He owned dragonhide boots in every colour, and coordinating belts, so he chose his favourites. He laid everything out on his bed and put both hands behind his head, exhaling a little harder than he usually would.

The clock struck seven. In just an hour, he would be alone with Hermione Granger. On New Year’s. When it was customary to kiss at midnight.

She’d alluded to doing more than that, and far before midnight. And he wanted to, Merlin help him, he wanted to. But he was also more nervous than the first time he’d suited up for Slytherin.

Draco dressed and styled his hair in record time. He summoned the wine, and at the last minute made a mad dash for the greenhouse to cut fresh flowers and put them under a stasis charm. Gardenias, of course, but he added bright orchids, roses, and greenery to fill out a large bouquet.

At the last minute, he added a repelling charm to keep the cats away from the flowers. He didn’t fancy racing to the vet tonight.

After one more thorough hair touselling, he was ready.

“Well,” he said to his reflection in the large entryway mirror. Talking to the cats had been much more natural. He flexed his hands. “Here goes… Maybe everything.”

Moments later, Draco arrived on her doorstep, the bouquet in one arm, and a bag with the wine and champagne in the other. He hadn’t been so presumptuous as to pack an overnight bag, but he did have a spare pair of pants tucked in the inside pocket of his suit jacket alongside A Court of Mist and Fury, just in case. And breath mints. And a condom.

An icy wind blew, but the night was clear and starry.

Before he could even knock, Hermione flung open the door. He blinked first in surprise, then again because he couldn’t believe his eyes.

She wore emerald green.

The dress had the most charming bow detail around her middle, and a low neckline made for tugging even lower. Her hair was down, spiralling to the middle of her back. And she’d done her makeup differently. Eyeshadow, maybe? No. Lipstick, a red shade he hoped would transfer all over him.

“Hi,” Draco said, mouth dry. “You look… You look gorgeous.”

“Thank you. You clean up rather well yourself.” She smiled, eyes bright and eager, like she was pleased to earn his stunned reaction to her ensemble.

“These are for you,” he said, handing her the flowers. “And I brought the wine.”

“Oh, these are lovely. Come in, come in, you’ll catch cold.”

Draco stepped over the threshold and was immediately accosted by both cats. Crooks rubbed against his legs while the Darkling pounced on his shoelaces. It took him twice as long as it normally did to take his boots off and set them on the floor by the cat carriers.

“Whoa there,” he said with a laugh. He reached down and picked up Crooks, then the Darkling, and gave them both kisses on the tops of their furry little heads. “I missed you too.”

The flat smelled amazing, like pot roast, and the living room looked exactly like it had when he’d left it yesterday. He was amazed at how much better the place looked than when he’d come to catsit. Soft, festive music floated in from the kitchen radio and a fire crackled merrily in the fireplace. Hermione had even left the tree up. He wondered how many times she’d had to pull the Darkling out of it.

Hermione finished putting the flowers in a vase and strutted back into the living room, Draco caught sight of her heels and suppressed a grin.

“What?”

“I thought you didn’t allow shoes in the house,” he teased.

She crossed her arms. “I don’t. But the dress doesn’t look right if I’m in my stockings.”

“I don’t know,” he said, tilting his head and taking his time looking at every inch of her, starting from her toes and sweeping his gaze up until he met her eyes. “It’d work for me.”

She could wear anything and it’d work for him.

Hermione shook her head. “You’re incorrigible. Dinner’s almost ready. Let’s open the wine.”

Draco followed her into the kitchen and set the cats down so he could pour the wine. Hermione ladled pot roast, carrots, and potatoes onto two plates and set them on the table, which she’d decorated with a lit candle in a glass votive. Next she set out a side salad for each of them, and a plate of dinner rolls.

“This looks incredible,” Draco said, pulling out her chair for her.

She sat and set her napkin in her lap. “Thank you. I hope you like pot roast. I suppose I should’ve asked if you had any dietary restrictions–”

“It’s a favourite of mine. Thank you for cooking.”

Draco wished he could say conversation flowed between them like it had over FaceTime, but in reality, their talk was stilted and overly formal. He worried about making a good impression and getting gravy on his clothes, and Hermione kept fussing with her hair. Neither of them drank much of the expensive Bordeaux. The cats meowed desperate pleas for scraps from underneath the table, their tails curving into question marks.

Hermione sighed and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Is this weird for you, too?”

“It’s weird,” Draco confirmed without missing a beat.

“You’ve heard me come.”

“I have.”

“And I heard you!”

He took a sip of wine. “You did.”

Hermione mirrored him. “You’re loud, for a man.”

It sounded like a compliment, but he choked on his drink anyway.

“Er, thank you?”

She laughed. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I don’t usually—”

“Get off with a man you once punched in the face?”

“I was going to say host dates in my now-gorgeous flat, but yes, that too. I also haven’t dressed up like this in a while. I wanted to make a good impression. But I see you nearly every day… I don’t know,” she said, toying with the napkin. “Maybe I’m just nervous.”

“You’re not the only one,” he said gently.

“I’m not?”

“Have you had your vision checked recently? Common for eyesight to fade at our age, especially with all the reading. I’m practically sweating bullets over here.”

“You are a little paler than usual,” she mused. It was a relief to hear the teasing note in her voice, even though it was laced with caution.

Draco decided to take a risk. He reached out and held his hand palm up. “I’ve been hoping for this for much longer than a week.”

“You have?” She placed her smaller hand in his, and he squeezed it.

“Since last year. I would never have said anything to you, but, yeah.”

Hermione blushed, but didn’t remove her hand from his grip. “I might’ve had some idea. And, I mean, you know this, but you’re so different than you used to be. You don’t shy away from rigorous, demanding work. You’re exceptional, Draco. That kind of intensity, well, it’s rare. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested in you, too. I think Zabini knew, especially after I asked him about what you like to read. But I wouldn’t have said anything, either. And now that I know you better…” She trailed off and looked away, lashes shielding her emotions.

He didn’t want her to hide from him.

“I have an idea.”

Draco pushed back from the table and explained as he cleared the dishes, charming them to wash themselves and dry in the rack next to the sink. Hermione raised an eyebrow, but ultimately gave in and retreated to her bedroom. The cats followed Draco into the living room, where he tended to the fire and then returned Hermione’s copy of A Court of Mist and Fury to its proper place on her bookshelves.

Crooks and the Darkling climbed into Crooks’s cat bed, now the only bed, together. Draco shook his head and smiled, then turned his attention to his clothes. He removed his socks and tucked them into his boots. He unknotted his tie and stuffed it in his suit jacket, which he hung in the entryway. At the last second he decided to lose the jumper as well, and roll up his shirtsleeves.

Draco tried to focus on picking out a book while he waited for Hermione to reappear, but it was difficult to think of anything except what she might be wearing when she returned. His eyes slid over dozens of titles, but nothing jumped out at him. Finally, he settled on A Court of Wings and Ruin.

“How’s this?” Hermione asked, holding her arms out to her sides. She wore oversized flannel pyjamas, the kind that button up in the front, in rose petal pink. “Nothing in Slytherin green, I’m afraid.”

“Never mind what I think,” he reassured her. She could wear anything, or nothing at all, and Draco would find her irresistible. “Are you more comfortable now?”

“Definitely. And we’re just going to read in front of the fire?”

“That’s it.”

“What if we miss the New Year?”

“You think we’re going to read for over three hours?” He asked, and then remembered who he was talking to, and that he might’ve done the same thing alone at the Manor. “If we do, I’m sure we’ll hear the fireworks.”

“Okay,” she said, eying the armchairs. “I’ll take the left?”

“Sounds good.”

They spent the next hour reading in companionable silence. Well, Draco assumed Hermione was reading. He, on the other hand, had been attempting to read, but his eyes kept scanning the same sentences over and over, failing to comprehend whatever they said. He could only think about how close he was to her, and how weirdly happy he was just to be there with her and the cats, cosy and domestic and normal.

“This is nice,” Hermione whispered conspiratorially.

Of course she’d been thinking the same thing.

“It is,” replied Draco. “Why are we whispering?”

She tilted her head towards the sleeping cats. “Look at the Darkling’s paws. I think he’s dreaming about a giant ball of yarn.”

“Or he’s shredding another cat bed.”

They both snickered.

“It never occurred to me to adopt a kitten,” Hermione said.

Draco dropped all pretence of reading and set his book down on the coffee table. “I’ve actually been thinking about getting a few more.”

“What about our custody agreement?”

“Any additional animals of the feline persuasion are heretofore included in the agreement, which, may I remind you, has not been drafted, and so I’m free to amend it. It’s the holidays, you know. Even solicitors get time off.”

Hermione smiled like she was holding in a laugh. “Good. How many are you thinking?”

“A hundred.”

Her jaw dropped. “A hundred?”

He shifted his body towards hers. “To start. I’ve been thinking about turning the Manor into a sanctuary of sorts. For cats like the Darkling, who are having trouble finding homes. It’s a massive estate, and I’m all alone there. I don’t know. It seemed like a good idea in my head.”

“It’s a lovely idea,” Hermione said softly. “Have you ever thought you might be less lonely if you moved to the city? You might try living in a flat.”

Draco considered it. He’d always been against leaving the Manor, especially since it held so many fond memories of life with Scorpius. But Scorpius was grown now, and lived in London, in a flat nearly as small as Hermione’s. What might it be like to be neighbours with his son?

It might be quite nice. And now he knew he could make serious improvements to a tiny space. Take that, IKEA.

“I’d be open to it. But who will care for my theoretical cats if I relocate to London?”

“What if you operated it as a charity? You could run it, fundraise, hire a staff, and spend time with the cats whenever you liked.”

Draco looked over his glasses at her. “You’re brilliant. Do you know that?”

She preened. “I do. And I never get tired of hearing it.”

“I’ll tell you anytime you like.”

“I really love the idea, Draco. You should do it.”

He knew he had the stupidest grin on his face, but Draco couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Maybe I will.”

“When it takes off you can’t leave me at the Ministry by myself, though,” she insisted.

“Ah, well, McLaggen’s there to bear witness to your meteoric rise to the top. And Harry.”

“McLaggen doesn’t — Wait, since when are you calling him Harry?”

Draco shrugged. “Since yesterday, I think? I’m going to Grimmauld tomorrow. Scorpius and Albus are back and we want to show our support. We’ve got rainbow flag pins and everything.”

“I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Am I still surprising you?”

“Very much so,” she said, twisting her lips with mirth. “And I think I’m starting to like your brand of surprise.”

“Good.”

He almost said that there was more where that came from, but he didn’t want to press his luck. It was enough to be here, basking in her presence.

“Do you think it’s mad that I’d like to be Minister someday?”

“Not at all,” Draco said, and meant it. “You’d be excellent. You’re a strong leader, and Salazar knows you’ve got the CV. Is Shacklebolt stepping down?”

She nodded. “In two years, give or take.”

“That’s a lot sooner than someday. Hermione, that’s incredible. I’m sure he’ll help you campaign.”

“He’s already offered. I think I’ve got a good chance,” she said excitedly. “There are rumblings about a few other people throwing their hat in the ring, but…”

“But they’d be fools to run against you.”

Hermione beamed. “Thank you.”

He wondered if being with someone like him might ruin her chances. Maybe being with anyone at all, especially after divorcing another member of the golden trio, would thwart her ambitions. Perhaps it was why she was single. She could always remarry after she became Minister.

Merlin, he had no idea what he was doing here.

“Well, I should—”

She spoke over him, her words a little rushed. “You know, you’re not the villain you think you are.”

His heart stopped. Her words were music to his ears. “No?”

“No,” Hermione said, running her hands up and down her arms. She changed the subject before Draco could ask her why she thought so. “I’m freezing. Are you freezing?”

“I’m fine, but I can throw another log on the fire.”

Draco rose and tended to the fire, adding logs and stoking it higher until heat billowed from the hearth. He was sweltering from the proximity and effort, but when he turned around, Hermione was shivering.

“I don’t know why I feel so cold all of a sudden.”

“Maybe you got used to the weather in Sydney,” he said thickly.

Their eyes met.

“I don’t know if that’s it.”

He took a step towards her. Maybe he was reading her wrong, but he hoped he wasn’t. Draco had never felt so undefended; so eager. Hermione was so beautiful in the firelight. He traced the outline of her curves with hungry eyes, drinking in her hips, waist, and truly incredible tits. He wanted to rend the clothes from her body, lay her on the rug in front of the hearth, and kiss every inch of her skin until she begged him for more. Her collarbone, her neck, her jaw… When he met her gaze, the golden flecks in her irises shimmered and glowed like beacons.

“I can make you warm,” he offered.

“Draco,” she said, a little breathlessly.

He took another step, and she didn’t shy away, so he lifted her in his arms like she weighed nothing at all, and sat her in his lap in one of the armchairs. They were both breathing hard, just looking at each other. Hermione licked her lips, and he smothered a groan.

All he’d wanted this entire year was to dance with her at the New Year’s Eve gala. But this… This was so much better than a dance. They were alone, with her most sensitive parts pressed against his. The air between them was charged, as if the slightest bit of friction might make their shared oxygen burst into flame.

She moved first, raking a tentative hand through his hair, and his throat bobbed with the intimacy of the motion. Her touch was soft; exploratory. He thought about leaning into it further. He’d been around cats too much lately.

“How long has it been for you?” she whispered.

“A long time,” he admitted. “I took a few swings at dating Muggle women after my divorce.”

Her brows shot up. “Really?”

“Ever heard of Tinder,” he asked, laughing nervously. “Yeah. I thought maybe dating someone outside our world might work out, but I eventually realised my magic is too much a part of me to hide it for the rest of my life. I haven’t had any long-term relationships since the divorce.”

“How can that be?”

Her hand still played in his hair, making it hard to think.

He took a ragged breath. “If anyone but you asks me this question, I say that not that many witches want an ex-Death Eater in their beds. Which is true, but it’s not the whole truth.”

“What’s the whole truth?”

“I’m sure I could find someone who wants to play house as Lady Malfoy. They want to have Malfoy babies and throw soirees at the Manor and wear a different pair of diamond earrings every day of the week. But they don’t want me. They don’t care about me,” he said emphatically.

His marriage hadn’t been cold, just his bed. That had been survivable. But he had no desire to create the opposite problem. Obligatory sex sounded awful.

He’d gone quiet, his nerves getting the best of him. He could be honest with Hermione, couldn’t he? With no distance or screen separating them, the words caught in his throat. Why was it so hard to say what he wanted, especially when he was this close to the woman he’d been dreaming of for so long?

“I want to have sex with someone I care about, and who cares about me too. I want intimacy. I want Saturday mornings where I wake up with your mouth already on mine, but then we shower together and walk to the farmers market and I buy you the biggest bouquet of gardenias you’ve ever seen. I want to hold hands with you, and touch the small of your back when we move through a crowded room, and bring you a glass of water in bed when you ask even though I’ve already gotten comfortable under the covers.”

“You’d bring me water?”

Hermione’s voice was small and thin, and he wondered if he was too much. But her hand fell from his hair to trace his jawline. Now it was his turn to shiver.

“I’d bring you anything,” he said, and lifted his hand to brush a thumb across her lips. “How long has it been for you?”

“I fooled around a little, right after Ron and I separated. I wanted to know what it was like to not take everything so seriously, you know? I wanted to have sex with no goal in mind except pleasure.”

“And what did you think?”

She blew out a breath. “It was fine, I guess.”

Draco chuckled and stroked her cheek. “Why just fine?”

“They didn’t know me. And I think most of them wanted to be with me because of how they see me, not who I am.”

“Hmm.”

“Are you going to ask me how many men I’ve slept with?” She asked, leaning away slightly.

He tugged her back, and the side of her breast brushed against his chest. “No. I don’t care.”

“Then why the ‘hmm’?”

“I want to make sure when I take you to bed you know it’s because I want you.”

The confession hung in the air, and Draco worried he’d scared her. But her tongue swept across her bottom lip, and her eyes sparkled even more than usual, and he knew honesty had been the right move.

“We have so much in common,” Hermione gasped as he rolled his hips underneath her, pushing the ridge of his erection into her centre. “I want you, too. But I don’t want you to feel used.”

“Used?”

He held her closer and dragged his mouth along her throat. She whimpered, and he retraced the path his mouth had made with the flat of his tongue.

“That’s… That’s so good,” she said. “I don’t want you to think that I’m just after you for your body. I like the way you make me feel, even when I’m on the other side of the world. And we have the same values. We work hard. We want community and family, but not more children. I never thought of it before, but, we make sense. I feel like I somehow make more sense with you.”

Like calls to like.

“So if tonight goes well…” Draco found her earlobe and nibbled on it gently while he kneaded her hips.

“Then I want to give it a shot. The farmers market and the holding hands and everything else.”

“I guess I better make it good, then,” Draco said, and captured her mouth in an ardent kiss.

She tasted like summertime. Like fresh raspberries and sun-drenched afternoons spent on picnic blankets. Like blue skies. Like heaven. Draco opened for her curious tongue; relished the way she pressed her lips to his. He let her lead. He was in no hurry.

Hermione pulled away first. Draco looked at her dazedly, drunk on his long-awaited dream becoming reality. She reached shyly for his glasses, and he allowed her to take them and fold them on the coffee table. He ran his thumb over her dimple.

There you are. I’ve been looking for you.

“Let’s go to bed,” she whispered. She slid from his lap, and even that minute distance left him bereft.

Draco didn’t bother hiding how aroused he was, but he eyed the cats as he got up, ready to defend against the Darkling’s penchant for climbing trouser legs. But the cats seemed content to pretend he and Hermione weren’t there. They slept on, cosy in their bed by the fireplace, and Draco smiled as he followed Hermione to the bedroom.

She dimmed the lights as he closed the door behind him. He leaned against it and took a moment to admire the witch he adored amongst the furniture he made for her. She caught him looking and blushed.

He decided to keep being honest.

“You’re beautiful. Do you know that?”

The flush spread to her collarbone, and Draco wondered how far down it went.

“Thank you,” she said. “You make me feel beautiful when you look at me like that.”

“Good. I like looking at you.”

“More?” Her fingers clutched the hem of her pyjama top.

“Please,” he said, pushing off the door and moving towards her. He closed his hand over hers. “May I?”

She nodded, and he traced the path of her buttons from her collar to the band of her pyjama bottoms with one finger.

“You like to take your time,” she observed, her throat bobbing.

He stopped. “Is that okay?”

“Yes, sorry. I’m just nervous.”

“I’m nervous, too,” he said, holding his hands in front of her. Adrenaline mixed with fervent need shook his normally steady frame. “See? You’re not alone. But we can take it even slower if you want. We don’t have to shag tonight.”

Gods. Draco was desperate to shag her senseless. His cock ached so badly he felt like he might die. But he didn’t want to rush her.

“No, we’re definitely going to shag,” Hermione said with a little laugh. “It’s just… Intense.”

“I know,” he said.

She reached out and wrapped her arms around him. “I’m not used to it.”

Draco rubbed her back in slow circles. “Neither am I. I can’t help it, though.”

“I know. And I like that,” Hermione said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him.

“All I can think about is…”

“What?”

Her lips were on his neck now, and he couldn’t hold back.

“Everything I want to do with you. To you,” he said, and dipped his hand under her top to explore the smooth skin of her lower back. “Sweetheart, you really have no idea.”

Draco had imagined her in every position he knew, and some he made up that might defy the laws of physics and magic. He couldn’t think of all of them at the moment, because he would unman himself prematurely. That wouldn’t do at all.

She burrowed in closer. “You’re giving me chills.”

“Good chills?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s try again. Talk me through it.”

“Hermione,” Draco breathed her name like a sacrament. He moved his hands back to her buttons. “I want to see you.”

“Okay. Yes,” she nodded.

He kissed her lips in an attempt to distract her from his fingers, which made quick work of her buttons. She whined when he tugged the fabric from her shoulders, and he swallowed the sound. Delicious.

When Draco opened his eyes, he nearly fell to his knees. Why had he thought she was wearing a bra under her top? He’d been prepared to negotiate with tiny hooks, but instead he was greeted by the most generous set of tits he’d ever seen. Her breasts were perfect teardrops, tapered up top and heavy at the bottom, with rosy nipples begging for attention. He crooked a finger and brushed the knuckle down the side of one breast, relishing the way Hermione quaked in his arms.

“Fuck,” he said.

“Keep talking,” she said, trailing kisses down his neck toward his shoulder. “Please keep talking.”

He blinked to make sure he was really in the presence of Hermione Granger and her glorious, delectable tits. The connection between his brain and his mouth seemed to be severed. He just stared.

Suddenly she bit him, firm but gentle. He said the first thing he thought of.

“I want to suck them. Like we talked about last night.”

“Please,” she gasped, throwing her head back.

Draco didn’t need to be told twice. He lowered his head to one nipple, pushing the breast to his mouth with one hot palm. Hermione cried out when he circled his tongue around the pebbled flesh, worrying the tip with his teeth.

“Okay?”

“Yes, yes,” she babbled, reaching for his hair and tugging. “This okay?”

“I love that,” he groaned. “Tug my hair like that when I go down on you.”

She shivered as he nuzzled at her other breast and repeated the same ministrations as before. He sucked, lightly at first, then harder as he registered her eager response. If she was this sensitive here, he imagined she’d be even more sensitive when he licked her cunt.

Draco let her nipple go with a pop and found Hermione’s lips again. He held her chin with one hand and kissed her a little harder than before. She gave as good as she got, mouth open and lush, her tongue finding his, and his balls tightened between his legs. He moved his hands down to her bum. He squeezed one cheek, then the other, praising her with pretty words. When her cheeks were flushed with want, Draco walked two fingers up to her hips and tucked them in her waistband.

“Can I take these off?” he asked between kisses. “And whatever you have on underneath?”

She hummed her assent, and Draco wasted no time. He yanked her bottoms and knickers down in one fell swoop. They’d been red and lacy and sweet Salazar did he want to admire her in them, but he would enjoy unwrapping her another time. They were past the nerves, and if he slowed down and she told him to turn back now, he’d die.

Hermione stepped out of the last of her clothes and Draco pulled her flush against him, hands roaming every inch of her skin. She stood on her toes and arched into him, touching him back over his clothes. He let her go only to wrench his lucky shirt off, immediately pressing her chest against his with a hiss of satisfaction.

And he was mindless again; head empty and without thought. All he knew was that she was soft, and warm, and kissing her while he raked his hands over her body was better than flying; better than casting his first on-purpose spell. Hermione ran her hand over his cock, which strained against two layers of fabric, and he moaned into her mouth.

“Bed?”

“Bed,” he confirmed.

She climbed atop the floral duvet and leaned back against the pillows, not bothering to cover herself. Gods, she was sexy. She seemed more comfortable now; ready for him. Draco’s eyes fell to the dark curls between her legs, short and neat. He couldn’t wait to bury his face in them, feel her cunt clench around his fingers as she came apart for him.

He joined her on the bed and skimmed her legs with his fingertips, starting at her ankles and moving up her shins, her knees, her thighs. She’d shaved recently, and he pressed his cheek to one smooth calf as he spread her, his nerves alight with the anticipation of her taste on his tongue. Her cunt glistened even in the low light of the bedroom. Draco adjusted himself so he was right between her legs, then lowered himself to his belly. He fought the urge to rub himself against the mattress. Thank the gods she’d followed through and made the bed soft again.

“I want to kiss you here,” he said, slowly lifting a finger to the apex of her thighs. He dragged it through her wetness, transfixed at the way she already panted at the barest touch. “I want to make you come just like this, with my mouth and my hands.”

“Draco,” she whined, and wrapped her warm hand around the back of his neck. “I need you.”

“I’m here, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”

Draco dragged his tongue up the inside of one thigh, and Hermione swore and let her legs drop all the way to her sides. He continued his slow assault until he almost reached her thatch of curls, then moved to the other side and repeated the process, licking and sucking at the delicate skin, listening for her cues. He made a note of every twitch, every sigh; mapping her for future expeditions.

Finally, when the torture was too exquisite for them both, he slid his hands under her bum and lifted her core to his mouth.

He allowed himself a little smirk. He was about to show her how a man who loved to eat cunt could turn her world inside out.

Draco ate her like a peach. He alternated between flicking her clit with the tip of his tongue in short bursts that made her claw the sheets, and long, leisurely licks. She dripped onto the floral sheets, writhing with pleasure, pulling him by his hair closer or further away. Hungry to please her, Draco let her guide him, applying more or less suction and pressure on demand. And Hermione wasn’t shy about giving vocal direction, either.

Sometimes more, like when he fucked his tongue into her. Sometimes too much, when he slid his thumb through her slick and pressed it to her clit, and at last, when he swung an arm across her hips and held her down to stop her from squirming away, don’t stop, don’t you dare stop, oh, I’m going to—

He didn’t change a thing, and his pride surged within him as he watched her thrash against the pillow, a damp curl clinging to her forehead. His view was obscured, but the two fingers he’d buried deep in her cunt had a front row seat, clutched tighter and tighter as she climbed, climbed, climbed, then shuddered in release, her legs briefly clamping around his ears before they collapsed under the blissful onslaught of her orgasm.

His name never sounded sweeter than when it tumbled from Hermione’s lips, half-mumbled, half-cried. He licked her until her grip slackened and she smoothed a palm down the back of his head, an apology for ripping out some of his hair. She was rough, but sweet, and if she’d pushed his face against her for more he would’ve been happy to drown in her.

But she seemed to be waiting for him, and he was eager for more. Draco placed a final (for now) kiss to her soaking wet centre and brushed her inner thighs with his knuckles before he lifted himself up. He drank in her lush form, limp and sated from his attentions, and wiped his mouth and chin on the back of his arm in a half-hearted attempt to hide his grin of satisfaction.

He’d done that to her. For her.

Hermione reached for him, and he acquiesced to her demands, covering her body with his. Draco’s eyes flew open when she held his face in her small hands and kissed him without reservation. He’d never met a woman who didn’t hesitate, even a little, at her own taste.

“You’re incredible,” he said.

Her gaze was molten as she wove her arms down between their bodies and rested her fingers on his belt buckle. “More?”

More.

She made quick work of his belt and trousers, and soon he knelt on the bed in nothing but his pants. His cock ached with need, straining against the fabric, and a dark spot bloomed where he’d leaked a bit just from the throaty sound of her voice as she came.

“Let me find my wand for the charm, hold on,” he said, looking around the room. “And I brought a condom as well, if that’s better for you.”

“I suppose it’s my turn for a surprise,” Hermione said, propping herself up on her elbows. She held her chin high, but her eyes swam with curious emotion. “There’s no need for the contraception charm. I’ve actually had a sterilisation procedure. And I’m clean, so… if you are, too… We could…”

“You’d let me…” Her meaning sank in, liquifying whatever brain he had left. She was going to let him fuck her raw. No magic between them, no rubber, no nothing. Just skin on skin. “I’m clean, so, yeah, that would be…”

“Amazing?” She laughed.

“I like your surprise,” he said, kissing her again so he wouldn’t say a thousand other things he was thinking, like you’re perfect and I’m going to fill you up and maybe my shirt really is lucky.

“I thought you would. Take your pants off.”

“Bossy,” he teased, but he stood and did as she asked. Well, as she demanded.

It was much less weird than he thought it might be, being naked in front of Hermione Granger, Draco held his breath as she raked her eyes down his body, and didn’t miss the way she stared when he gripped his shaft and stroked down the length of it to the rosy pink tip. He knew he was a decent size; a little above average, but nothing intimidating. And the rest of him was nothing to sneeze at either; nice arms, a defined chest, and calves that had never skipped leg day.

Hermione stood and circled her fingers around his, moving her wrist in time with his powerful strokes. “How do you want to do this?”

“However you like. I just want to see you come again, sweetheart.”

He’d drive her into the mattress during missionary. Spoon her from behind until she shuddered. Whatever it took to get her there.

“I love it when you call me sweetheart,” she hummed and pressed into his shoulder, guiding him back down to the bed. “On top is probably best for me.”

“Very strawberry of you,” he said, thinking back to their conversation about her sexual tastes. He’d said he was more vanilla bean, but he was certainly open to exploring more flavours with her. Right now he simply enjoyed the view.

“Girl on top isn’t strawberry,” she said with a laugh as she pulled a bottle of lube out of her nightstand. She sat beside him on the edge of the bed, squeezed the slippery substance into one hand, and slid it along his cock. The lube warmed with her touch, and he arched on the bed, seeking more of it. She tightened her grip.

Draco groaned. “If you don’t stop, I’ll come like this. Come here.”

Hermione removed her hand and climbed on top, resting her knees on either side of him. He reached between them and notched his cock at her entrance, teasing her slit with the tip. Before he could take his time with her and guide her down onto him, she kissed him fiercely, leaned back, and sheathed him to the hilt all by herself.

“Oh,” she gasped, and he swore. “Oh my gods.”

Neither of them moved for a moment. Draco was astonished by the rush of finally, finally being inside her, surrounded by her wet heat. She fit him like a glove, and when her walls fluttered at his intrusion, his eyes rolled into the back of his head with sheer pleasure.

When he adjusted to the snug fit, he was met by the sight of Hermione, head tilted back, breasts jutting forward, hips rolling forward. Draco came to his senses and reached up to tweak her nipples, enjoying the low moan that rippled through her. She began to ride him, and he pressed her knees back so he could bear witness to the way her cunt swallowed his cock again and again.

As she found her rhythm, he licked the pad of his thumb and pressed between her folds until he found her clit. He rubbed it with the light touch he now knew she loved, alternating between small circles and gentle pressure. His other hand spanned her hip, helping her stay balanced while she bucked against him, her curls bouncing against her collarbone.

The scent of her arousal was everywhere. On her sheets, in the air, in the moisture pooling around the base of his cock. Her breaths became shallow, and her pace faltered. She was close.

He thrust up into her, taking control, fucking her in earnest. “I’ve got you. Come for me.”

“More,” she whimpered. “Please.”

He guided her hands above him to the headboard. She didn’t resist and leaned into the new angle, sighing as the wide head of his cock brushed up against the spongy spot at the front of her walls. He’d felt it with his fingers; knew the right pressure would send her into orbit.

Draco grunted as he drove into her harder, redoubling his attention to her clit. “You’re so beautiful like this. Taking that cock so well. Like you were made for it.”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to spoil you, Hermione. Give you everything you want, everything you need. Say the word, and it’s yours.”

“Please, please!”

She tried to take back control, the desperation for release twisting across her features, but he shushed her.

“No, no. Let me do all the work. You just come, sweetheart.”

She sobbed something; he wasn’t sure what. It was taking the concerted effort of every cell in his body not to blow this and come in her right now.

Draco dragged his hand up from her hips to caress her cheek. “I’ve got you.”

No sooner had the tender words left his mouth than he felt the orgasm rip through her. She fell on top of him with a shout, and he held her to his chest, still moving inside her, just slower now as the aftershocks kept coming. Hermione’s lips found his, and he smoothed the hair away from her face as he kissed her. She was so pretty like this; glowy and pliant in his arms. He’d dreamed of sharing a bed with her, of course, but nothing could prepare him for the way it felt to have her bare skin against his and hold her close.

Draco rolled them both to the side, keeping an eye on her reaction, and when she continued to kiss him, he hiked her leg over his hips and held her thigh in place. He was deeper inside her now. She was so wet that he met no resistance as he slowly glided in and out, in and out, and a thrill zinged down his spine when he felt her start to tighten around his cock again.

He let go of her leg and reached down to touch her between her legs, but she gasped at the slightest brush of his fingers.

“Too much,” she said, and he drew his hand away. “Just this. Just this. You feel so good.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm. Want to feel you come in me.”

Draco made a choked sound.

He’d been ready to come for ages now, but he was determined to give her another before he followed her over the edge. He held her closer, lost to sensation, listening to her breath and the way it caught every time he found a slightly new angle. She sucked at his neck, marking her territory, and Draco dragged his free hand up her ribcage to massage her breasts. When she grabbed his wrist and repositioned his grip to the base of her throat, he found her mouth with his again, too speechless at the display of trust to say or do anything else.

Hermione was everything, in a way so sharp and bright that it left him dizzy, like he’d been staring at the sun too long.

She was close again, and he loved how easy it was to tell. Her fingers sifted through his hair, nails skating across his scalp as she squirmed against him. He applied more pressure with the hand wrapped around her throat; thrust harder, moaned louder.

Like a wand snapped clean in half, the tension in her body broke and she unravelled in his arms.

“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his movements jerkier as he approached the point of no return. Every cell in his body thrummed with pleasure. “Oh, fuck, I’m gonna come.”

“Inside,” Hermione said. “Come inside me, Draco.”

Those words, from her lips, were the hottest thing he’d ever heard. He resolved to dedicate himself to hearing her say them for the rest of his life.

He pulled her flush against him the instant before his orgasm hit. “Oh, fuck,” he rasped. His vision went white as his cock pulsed inside her, milked by the delicious clench of her cunt. The intensity gobsmacked him — he’d never come that hard — and he rode the wave as the throb faded to a twitch, then to a satedness he’d only dreamt of.

“Hermione, you… That…” He said as his breathing returned to normal.

She looked content to never leave his arms, pink-cheeked and sparkly-eyed. “Amazing?”

“Amazing.”

He kissed the tip of her nose, the place where her brow furrowed when something confused her, the cheek that housed her dimple. She kissed his temple, and along his jawline, where the barest suggestion of stubble grew.

After a time, he looked down at where they were still tangled up in each other, then back at Hermione. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

Draco withdrew from her, and Hermione cast a cleaning charm for him before disappearing into the loo with his lucky shirt. He let his head fall back on the pillows.

He’d just shagged Hermione Granger. In her flat, in her bed, on New Year’s Eve.

He didn’t smoke, but he felt the sudden urge to light a cigarette.

Draco scrounged around for the extra pair of pants he brought, then stripped the damp sheets and put them in the pink plastic laundry basket. When he was halfway through with remaking the bed, Hermione reappeared, her hair up in some sort of clip. She wore nothing but his shirt and a fresh pair of knickers, and his heart stopped.

“Is there anything you’re not thoughtful about?” she asked, a smile playing on her lips.

“Probably,” he said. “But I try to be thoughtful when it comes to you.”

He reached for her, and like magic, she came to him and kissed him until he was half-hard again.

“Tell me about the flowers on my headboard,” she said when they came up for air.

Draco told her about every bloom, tracing them on her exposed collarbone. When he was finished, she asked about the closet, and the dresser, and by the time they’d covered everything in the room, he noticed tears brimming in her eyes.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, skimming his hand down her arm.

She wiped her face with his shirtsleeves. “What if I’d never asked you to catsit? I can’t… Imagine if I’d never known how you felt, and I just went about my life.”

“I know,” he said. “Did I tell you Crooks licked me, by the way? You’re stuck with me now, I fear.”

“You’re kidding! That’s wonderful.”

As if on cue, two sets of claws scratched at the door, punctuated by plaintive meowing.

Hermione opened the door to the cats, who scurried in and jumped on the bed. Draco chuckled as they scrapped with each other, ducking under the sheets and pouncing on anything that even looked like it was moving.

“Hold on, you two,” Draco said, swatting off their paws while he finished securing the sheets and duvet. “Let us get in and get situated.”

While Hermione got settled in bed, Draco took Crooks to the kitchen and gave him his medicine. He cradled the cat like he had so many times before and stroked the soft fur of his belly. Crooks purred and nestled deeper into Draco’s arms, warm and content.

“I think it’s going really well. Thanks, Crooks. You’re the best,” he whispered. “Ow, what the —”

The Darkling, with no trousers to climb, had settled for biting Draco’s toes.

“Alright, alright,” Draco said, scooping up the kitten. “You’re both the best and I love you equally. Let’s go to bed.”

Hermione laughed when he walked in, and threw back one side of the covers for him. “Somehow we’ve consolidated two cat beds and one human bed to just the one human bed.”

“We’ll all fit,” Draco insisted. He set the cats down at the footboard where they quickly cosied up together and closed their eyes.

He slid in next to Hermione and wrapped his tattooed arm behind her back. Every time he touched her, the night became more real, as did the future already unfurling before him, like a good, long read.

“This is nice,” she sighed happily, and Draco planted a kiss on the top of her crown.

“I was thinking…” He trailed off.

She traced a finger around one of his pecs. “Yes?”

Steady on, he thought. Be brave.

“Would you come with me to Harry and Ginny’s tomorrow?”

Hermione stilled. “You want me to come with you?”

He didn’t panic; he knew it was a big ask. Most people would lead with defining the relationship, or have a few dates first. But Draco knew the only way to be with Hermione was to jump in the deep end alongside her.

“I do. I’m nervous. I think if you were there by my side, it might help. And I want to spend the day with you. Start 2024 as we mean to go on.”

She smiled, and he knew he had her. “Can we sleep in?”

“You can. Someone has to get up and feed the cats. But we’re not meant to be at Grimmauld until the afternoon.”

“Hmm. And you’ll get back in bed with me after that?”

“How could I ever refuse such an offer?” he murmured as he nipped at her ear, relishing her shiver.

“Good. Yes, I’d love to go with you,” she paused and laced her fingers through his. “So we’re together? Openly?”

“If that’s alright with you. I know it’s fast. A hard launch, as Scorpius likes to say. And I know I’m… Not a safe choice.”

“We’ve made safe choices,” she said, voice firm; unwavering. “Safe doesn’t mean right.”

“I know. I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into.”

“What I know is that I have real feelings for you. Feelings that I thought… Well, suffice it to say a lot of things are happening fast,” she said with a blush that made his heart soar. “But it feels right.”

“I feel the same way,” he said, planting kisses along her jaw.

“Then I won’t hold back.”

“Neither will I, sweetheart.”

Draco kissed her then, gently at first, then with all the pent-up passion from the last year of longing for the witch who finally, finally lay in his arms. He craved her even more now, savoured the marks she left on his back and the breathy sighs he drew from her lips.

It was impossible to get enough of Hermione. And now that he had her, like any good former villain, he would love her, treasure her, and most importantly, never let her go.