Archive of Our Own ^omega

At thirteen-years-old, Scorpius Malfoy was far too adult to hold hands with his father. But standing outside of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes amidst Diagon Alley’s bustling summertime crowds, Draco Malfoy wished he weren’t.

The garish storefront should not have inspired such fear. Decades had passed since the war, and Draco had done his time for the role he’d played in it. He’d paid reparations and made amends with those he’d hurt. He was even on friendly terms with some of them, mostly the parents of Scorpius’ school friends. Yet public appearances still produced a curl of nausea in his gut. Not everyone had been so forgiving. And while Draco had been truthful with his son about his past mistakes, he had no intention of exposing the boy to public ire. Scorpius had dealt with enough in his short life; he didn’t need to endure the public shaming of his father, too.

As such, the temptation to hand over a load of Galleons and let Scorpius venture in alone was strong. It’d be the easy decision, and his son would spend the money as responsibly as one could in a joke store.

“Father?”

Scorpius’ concerned, blue-grey eyes sat beneath a pale, pulled brow. Draco looked down at him and, for a moment, didn’t see his son. Instead, he saw Astoria. It wasn’t only in the shape of his face or the slant of his eyes, but in what ran beneath: dark shades of worry, of knowing more than he should and bearing the burden of that knowledge in silence.

Tides of emotion washed over Draco, one after another. Love for his son, grief for his late wife, rage at the world’s unfair turns. And though Draco considered himself a selfish, changeable man, one thing was constant: he would do anything for his quiet, serious child.

Including a visit to his favourite shop.

Besides, it wouldn’t be like this forever. Time would inexorably tug them apart. It had already started. Over the past year, Scorpius’ Hogwarts letters had grown shorter and more infrequent. Draco didn’t need Legilimency to know that there were things his son didn’t tell him. He hoped the secrets were mundane—the conventional sort often harbored by a teenager seeking independence—and not something worse.

Regardless, Scorpius would eventually leave Hogwarts, leave the manor, and thrive in a future they had both helped create. Draco needed to take advantage of these moments while he could.

He forced a smile and opened the door.

Scorpius studied him a moment longer, and Draco wondered if the time he could effectively fool his son had passed. Then Scorpius grinned. He rushed inside, Draco following with a relieved sigh.

The joke shop was just as he remembered. The shelves were full to bursting, a floor to ceiling selection of mischief-making supplies guaranteed to drive Hogwarts’ professors and maintenance staff spare. Draco tucked himself into a corner, trying to fade into the background. An impossible task against the bright orange and aggressive purple packaging of the Weasleys’ flagship products.

Scorpius flitted through the store like a magpie. After only five minutes, his arms were overflowing with merchandise. Draco stepped forward to relieve the burden when something slammed into him at waist-level.

“Hugo.”

A pair of hands darted out to grab the shoulders of a curly-haired young boy. Draco’s stomach dropped as he met a pair of brown eyes.

Hermione Granger stared up at him, mouth slightly agape as she pulled her son close.

“Draco, hi.”

“Hi.” The words came out in something like a wheeze.

Hermione’s son looked up at her. “Stay with your sister and watch where you’re going.” She squeezed his shoulders before releasing him with a smile.

Hugo darted into the crowd. Hermione watched him go, then set her bags down and tucked herself into the same corner Draco had occupied. He debated the wisdom of remaining next to her. Scorpius seemed fine. Better than before, even: Rose Granger-Weasley had found him, and the pair were in deep discussion over the merits of next generation Puking Pastilles. But a conversation with Hermione… Draco sent her a sideways glance. Where to start?

“Hard to believe,” she said, as if sensing his discomfort. “I swear they were babies just a year ago.”

Draco made an affirmative noise in the back of his throat. “You’ve been well?”

“Well enough.” She rolled her shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “The Ministry is… The Ministry. One step forward, you know.”

He nodded, well acquainted with bureaucratic dysfunction.

“What about you?” she asked. “You dropped off the planet after…”

Draco kept his face impassive. Following his brief stint in Azkaban, he had limited his public appearances. After Astoria died, isolationism had become akin to dogma. He conducted his business from the comfort of his office in Malfoy Manor, interacting with the Ministry only as required for audits and tax purposes, which were far more onerous and frequent than he thought necessary.

Draco was not a social creature. He had no reason to be.

Hermione, on the other hand? Her divorce from Ron Weasley had made the Daily Prophet’s front page for weeks, and her name was on the short-list for Minister. Draco glanced out the shop window and saw a pair of broad-chested wizards standing with rigid backs, their hands clasped before them. Her security detail, undoubtedly on long-term loan courtesy of Harry Potter and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Perhaps that Ministerial short-list was shorter than he’d thought.

“Draco?”

He started, the nudge of her elbow bringing him back to the conversation.

“Fine,” he said. Hermione’s eyes narrowed, and Draco felt the same, careful assessment Scorpius had given him not ten minutes prior. He settled into the lie. “I’m fine.”

She waited a moment, and Draco held his breath until the tension left her shoulders. Whether she believed his answer or not was irrelevant. She had accepted it, which was good enough.

“What is your business, anyway?”

As if she didn’t know. His lip started to pull into a sneer, an old habit that earned him an admittedly deserved eye-roll.

“Humour me.”

“I run an investment firm,” he said. “I finance entrepreneurs by telling those who can afford the risk where to allocate their Galleons.”

“You make or break businesses,” she translated. “You make the rich richer while playing at omnipotence with those who are simply working towards a better life.”

He bristled. “That’s rather reductive.”

“But not inaccurate.” She raised an eyebrow in challenge. He yielded; this was neither the time nor place to debate the morality of his family’s business. “Chief Executive isn’t the only position you hold, is it?”

Another sideways look. What was her goal here?

“Astoria served on the Hogwarts Board of Governors for a time,” he said carefully. “I inherited her seat.”

“A good fit for you, I imagine. All those funding decisions to be made.”

“And curriculum, and staffing, and maintenance, and public relations,” he snapped, frustrated by her intentionally simplistic view. “But you know all of this already, so why don’t you cut the bullshite and tell me what you want?”

Hermione smiled. More of a grimace, really.

“You know where I’m going.” She was careful not to make eye contact. She hadn’t announced anything official yet, and Draco imagined she’d want a far grander venue than her ex-husband’s co-owned joke shop.

“I have an inkling,” he replied, just as careful.

“And what do you think about it?”

A loaded question. Draco set his jaw. “My politics are my own.”

“It’s comforting to think that, isn’t it?” She scoffed. “We all like to pretend we live in a bubble. That our decisions at the ballot box only impact us, and that our responsibility to society ends where the threat to our paycheck begins. That’s what your clients prioritize, at any rate.”

His clients. In reality, his peers. They both knew that the reparations levied by the Ministry had made a formidable dent in his family’s vault. They also both knew that the intervening years had been profitable. The wizarding economy had boomed post-war. People had money to spend and, for a fee, Draco told them where to invest it, how to make more of it and, most importantly, how to keep it.

He’d be a fool not to heed his own advice.

Yet she wasn’t lumping him in with them. She was playing some sort of game, only he couldn’t see the win condition.

A prickle of frustration crawled down his spine. He was out of practice.

“If you think my support for you hinges on your economic policy—”

“I don’t.” Hermione turned to face him squarely, and Draco felt an overwhelming need to escape.

He eyed the door; there were too many people for a clean exit.

“I pulled your records,” she continued.

“What an excellent use of your authority.” Sneering, he crossed his arms and leaned against the shelving, trying to create distance between them. “So noble.”

Her lips pursed. The jibe landed, but the rebuttal he expected never came. She’d learned to apply power for her own ends, then. Or, perhaps, she’d always known. The memory of what she’d done to Rita Skeeter sharpened his mental picture of her and reinforced a lesson he’d learned long ago:

Hermione Granger was not to be underestimated.

“Do you want to know what I found?”

“Would an answer in the negative deter you in the slightest?”

Her lips quirked, a quick concession before she continued. “You’ve challenged over 75% of the Board of Governors’ decisions since you assumed Astoria’s seat. Why?”

“Because I disagreed with them.”

“Why?”

His lip curled. “My objections have been transcribed and filed in our meeting minutes. Read them for yourself.”

“I have. You objected to Muggle Studies being restricted to Seventh Year students only. In fact, you argued that the class be mandatory from First Year. Why?”

Draco sighed. She’d cornered him, both literally and figuratively. Either he shared his reasons with her, or she’d recite them back to him.

“Because I grew up fearing and hating a group of people I didn’t understand. I didn’t want that for my son.”

“You wanted better for him,” she corrected. “Those were the words you used. You also objected to the removal of Divination from the curriculum. Why?”

Anxiety spiked within him. “That’s none of your business.”

“Because of Astoria’s talent in the subject. You want children who share her abilities—who might not understand what they’re seeing in their teacups or who are afraid to look into still water for fear of what might be looking back—to feel understood and prepared. You want to equip them with the knowledge they need to make sense of their world.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping an octave. “You want the option available in case Scorpius needs help in a way you can’t give. So, do I think your support hinges on my economic policy? No. I think it hinges on my educational policy. And that’s where I need your help.”

The shop was filled with noise: bangs, squeaks, yells, and laughter. But in that moment, Draco could hear every beat of his heart.

“What do you mean?” he asked weakly. “Help you? What does—”

She smiled, almost relieved, like his reaction was better than any she had imagined. “The Board is controlled by old men and old money. I need an ally. Someone who believes in my platform and the changes I’m trying to make.”

Draco shook his head. “You overestimate my influence.”

“You underestimate it. I did the math: in 87% of cases, the Board amended its proposals after hearing your objections. In the Muggle Studies and Divination cases, they dropped them entirely. You have power there, Draco. More than you realize. I’m asking you to use it to help me.”

“And what makes you think I’m the right man for your cause? What gives you the impression that I’m anything close to what you need me to be?”

“Aside from the fact that you’ve been a member in good standing for five years?” Hermione looked over her shoulder, to where their children stood with heads bent close, examining a collection of joke wands.

“Rose and Scorpius are friends, you know. She writes home with stories about him—the adventures they have, the classes they share, their arguments and study sessions.” In a conspiratorial whisper, she added, “I think she fancies him.”

Draco frowned. “You shouldn’t tell me that.”

“Why not? Has Scorpius not said anything to you yet?”

Draco grimaced; he hadn’t.

“I won’t discourage it.” Hermione gave him a knowing smile. “Maybe there’s a future for them.”

“Isn’t it a little early for that?”

“Early for them, late for us…” She shrugged. “What difference does timing make, as long as they’re happy?”

Draco’s cheeks flushed. “For us? Granger, I—”

“I’m not intending to fall into bed with you, Draco,” she said with a sly grin. “Just into politics. Arguably, that’s much more dangerous for the both of us.”

The notion of falling anywhere with Hermione was dangerous. Keen eyes, a generous mouth, respectable wit… Draco hadn’t been with a woman since Astoria. Hadn’t wanted to. At the moment, however, intimacy didn’t feel like the betrayal it once had.

He cleared his throat. “What, exactly, are you asking for?”

Her grin faded, back to business. “Your support, declared publicly and unequivocally. Your influence on the Board during my candidacy, with the intention to steer our educational system toward my objectives. When I’m elected, I’ll request your presence in my cabinet as Secretary of Education. If all goes well, you’ll govern the board you sit on by next January.”

“I won’t be a puppet.” Draco’s voice was stern. “I’m through serving tyrants, Granger.”

He flinched as her hand connected with his forearm. Her skin was warm, pressing firmly against his.

“I’m not a tyrant. I’m looking for a partner, not a pawn. Do I have ideas for our educational system? Yes. But I can’t micromanage every aspect of our society. I need someone who knows what I’m working towards and why. Who understands my vision and has the creativity, willpower, and tact required to execute it.”

“And you think I’m that person?”

Hermione tipped her head towards their children, who had drifted closer to the joke shop’s mature section. “They do,” she said. “If parenthood has taught me anything, it’s that children are reflections of their parents’ best intentions and worst behaviours. Scorpius has suffered more than any child has a right to with his mother’s death, but he’s a good friend. A good person. He couldn’t have been raised by someone who wasn’t working to be the same.

“I see the fight in you, Draco. I see it put to best use for his sake. You’ve worked hard for him, and I’m not asking you to stop that. I’m asking you to widen your scope. Shacklebolt got us far. I can take us further, but only if you help me.”

Draco’s lips turned in a wry smile. “You’re quite the politician.”

The pressure on his arm eased, and Hermione resumed her position next to him—closer than normal. Their bare arms brushed, and her sun-kissed skin made his look dreadfully pale in comparison.

“I have a knack for it,” she agreed. “It’s like chess. If you understand how the people around you move, it’s easy enough to avoid them, or to put yourself in their way.”

A thrilling realization raced through him. “You knew I’d be here today.”

“Rose and Scorpius have been exchanging owls over the summer hols. They wanted to meet up.” She smirked at him. “Diagon seemed sufficiently neutral for everyone’s needs.”

He huffed a laugh and shook his head, begrudgingly impressed at her cunning and, strangely, liking her more for it. “Maybe it isn’t too late for us, Granger.”

“No, Draco, quite the opposite.” She waved their children over from the mature section. “I think we’re right on time.”