Chapter Text
Hermione cursed the Wizengamot -too often for her liking. As if it was not enough that they fought her on every inch of the way towards what Hermione would call retribution to the part-human, non-wizard population, they also did not live up to their incredible high standards.
Hypocrites! While Hermione could not even dream of being one minute late to any hearings - she had nightmares aplenty - the same expectation of punctuality did not apply to the members of the Wizengamot. Usually, Hermione squared her shoulders and forced a smile onto her lips, but today of all days she would have rather pummeled the incompetent members with the hefty stack of proposals she had scheduled for a hearing one month in advance.
She had seen the meeting through and had made the tiniest bit of progress. Her minuscule, almost not worth mentioning victory had come at a cost. Gazing at her wristwatch as she sprinted down Diagon Alley told her that it might have cost too much. She had barely squeezed in enough time to run - now quite literally - her errand to begin with, and the minute finger drew ever closer to the full hour mark. The shop’s closing time.
Grasping onto a lamp post, Hermione sped around a corner and nearly collided with an elderly witch. Her breath sufficed for a curt “sorry”, but nothing more. Finally, she screeched to a halt in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies. To her surprise and utter delight, the shop sign read ‘Open’. Somewhere at the back of her mind the voice of her mother scolded her for bothering the shop clerks two mere minutes before closing, but Hermione pushed the thought aside. She would be in and out in no time. After all, her shopping list contained a singular item.
Standing in front of the respective shelf in the children’s section, Hermione came to realise that she might have underestimated the task at hand. As if it was not bad enough that Wizarding society loved to use words instead of scores, such as Outstanding, Acceptable, and Troll , they had taken it upon themselves to also substitute children’s sizes with utter nonsense. Instead of a simple classification by age or circumference, the sizes for toddler Quidditch helmets were labelled as diminutive, minute, little and Occamy . Hermione put her hands on her hips and sighed. They did not call her ‘the brightest Witch of her Age’ for nothing and she refused to be beaten by 50 shades of ‘small’. She had placed countless kisses atop the crown of her godson’s hair. How hard could it be to recall the size of his head? Easier said than done, especially with the growth spurts he had over the last month alone.
Her hands abandoned her hips and rose to massage her temples instead.
Out of the corner of her eyes, she noticed a figure stepping next to her. Predicting an impending kick-out, Hermione had to act quick. Despite her bravado against her mother’s words on entering the shop, she would not be able to withstand a real reminder of the closing time.
“Could you help me find the right size for-?” Her mouth fired the syllables like they were bullets from a machine gun, but the sight of the man next to her had her brain short circuit. It turned out to be none other than Draco Malfoy.
“Uh- sorry,” she quickly apologised. Had she had any back-up plan for Albus’ birthday, she would have fled the shop. Not because she was scared of him or still harboured any ill feelings towards her former classmate, but because of the awkward silence that followed her screw-up. Thankfully, Malfoy broke eye-contact with her before the heat crawling up her neck could reach her face. He did not avoid her gaze, but turned to his other side entirely. And down.
A boy, who looked a miniature version of Malfoy himself, clung to Malfoy’s leg. No, Hermione had to correct herself. Although the boy was the spitting image of his father, his whole demeanour differed from what she remembered from their school years. His brows were raised in curiosity and eyes wide in awe as he peeked past his father up at her.
The boy gave Malfoy’s sleeve a short tug and as if on command Malfoy lifted him up and onto his hip. While Hermione could not quite catch what he whispered into his father’s ear, she could imagine it to be something embarrassing judging from the tips of Malfoy’s ears taking on a pink hue. From the tone of Malfoy’s whispered reply, he meant to tell his son off, but the little boy had none of it, staring his father down.
Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. The pink of his ears had spread to his cheeks as he fully turned back to her. Between him clearing his throat and speaking so fast that the words blended together, Hermione almost had not caught what he said. Almost.
“A Zouwu?” Giggling at the thought, she fluffed up her hair. She could not fault the little boy for comparing her locks to the wild mane of the lion-esque creature.
“And you have Veela hair.” Hermione’s own comparison drew a dimpled smile onto the boy’s face.
“Can I touch it?” This time the boy needed no middleman to speak with her. The request had Malfoy visibly flabbergasted. Hermione had heard far more outrageous things from the Potter offspring, so she remained unfazed and nodded her head.
Malfoy managed to utter a “gentle hands” before his son took one of her looks into his tiny hands and caressed it.
“Sooooo soft,” the boy breathed. The look the boy shot at his father demanded him to touch her hair as well or else he might not believe. Malfoy’s eyes pleaded for her understanding and she gave him an encouraging smile.
“Yes, it’s really soft,” Malfoy confirmed, but would not meet her eye as he paid her such an unheard of compliment.
“Not like a bird’s nest?” Hermione could not hold back from teasing him with his go-to comment. Her lock glided from between his fingers. Once more, he cleared his throat and changed the topic not too subtly.
“So, what did you need help with? Oliver is fetching an order for me and will close shop afterwards.”
“I can’t seem to make sense of the children’s helmet sizes.”
“What age are you looking for?”
“My godson turns three tomorrow.” At that, the boy perked up and held up three fingers, announcing proudly, “I’m 3, so you need Scorpius-size.”
An unfamiliar sound met her ear. Malfoy chuckled. A genuine, happy chuckle.
“Scorpius?” The name was rather odd - not by Wizarding standard - but Hermione wanted to make sure she had heard him correctly.
“Like the c-con-”
“Constellation,” Maloy came to the rescue of his son struggling with the rather complicated word. Hermione gave it her all to look mighty impressed and cooed, “That’s rather special.”
“And what’s your name?”
“Hermione.” She had to suppress a giggle as the boy’s features matched Viktor Krum’s reaction to her name. It really was a mouthful for a boy his age. “You can call me Minnie, though.”
“Like the mouse?” Of course Hermione understood who Scorpius was alluding to, but that he would know the Muggle cartoon character rendered her speechless for a second. Her brain needed time to digest the information that the son of Draco Malfoy knew of anything Muggle.
“Actually, yes. I can put my hair into buns and it will look just like ears.” She motioned with her hands on top of her head and earned herself a giggle from Scorpius and a quirked brow from Malfoy.
“You can call me Scorps.” The boy reached out his little hand and shook hers in a rather solemn fashion for his age.
“This is Daddy,” Scorpius introduced Malfoy and stared at his father expectantly.
Following his son’s example, Malfoy extended his hand to her and added, “You can call me Draco.”
“Draco,” she rolled his name over her tongue. An experiment with syllables she had only heard and never spoken herself. Scorpius grinned and nodded to himself, as if he was congratulating himself for making such a good introduction. His father swallowed and turned his eyes towards the helmet display.
“You should go with little . It might be too big at the start, but with children’s sizes I rather lean towards the bigger size, since they’ll grow in no time. Either that or Occamy, which magically adjusts up to a size minute.” While the prospect of magical size adjustment sounded great, the prize took Hermione aback. Quick mental maths told her that she could indeed buy at least two regular helmets, or even three if she went with one of the discounted models. The fact that she took a bit long to make her decision, or even inspect one, did not go unnoticed. Malfoy graced her with a lopsided dimpled grin, his eyes brimming with understanding and compassion.
“I got this brand for Scorpius.” He motioned towards a selection of helmets , branded with a ‘Q’ on top. They came in grey, brown and a light tan colour. Her fingers had hardly made contact with the grey one, when Scorpius exclaimed, “That’s the best one.” A stern gaze from his father had the little boy duck his head and place a finger to his lip in a shushing gesture.
“The best, huh?” Hermione challenged. In reply, Scorpius sat up straight in his father’s arm and pointed towards the patch on his chest: a falcon.
“The Falmouth Falcons are grey,” he explained and Hermione marvelled at his ability to pronounce the city name. Besides the Chuddley Cannons and Puddlemere United, her knowledge of Quidditch teams was rather lacking. At her rather lacklustre reaction, Scorpius pouted. Clearly, he expected great enthusiasm when it came to his team.
He squirmed and twisted in his father’s arm until Malfoy set him down. Once his feet touched the floor, he darted off and disappeared between the shelves. Next to her, Malfoy found his shoes rather interesting, or rather embarrassing, for his head slowly but surely turned a scarlet to rival the Weasley’s hair. Hermione had half a mind to ask him whether everything was okay, when Scorpius reappeared. He proudly shoved the source of embarrassment into her face. Clutched into his tiny hand, a miniature figure of his father shot her a cocky wink.
“Oh.” The sound left her lips half surprised and half awkward. All the times she had droned out Quidditch talk at the Burrow came to bite her in the butt at that very moment.
“Oh, that's quite something, huh?” She tried to salvage the situation, but only made it worse with her choice of words.
“They are the best team in the league.”
“Oh, really? I'm afraid I've never seen them play.” Scorpius eyed her like she was indeed a rare creature. Hermione knew the look too well. Ginny called it the impossible! stare.
After a moment,Scorpius snapped his mouth shut and grabbed a fist-ful of his father’s shirt, dragging him down to his level. Instead of whispering into his father’s ear, he slipped his hand into the breast pocket and produced two grey snippets of paper. Hermione took the proffered snippets and realised that they were tickets. She glanced at Malfoy in search of approval for her to accept the tickets, to which he nodded.
“For you and…” Scorpius’ voice trailed off, leaving the rest of the sentence hanging in the space between them.
“Albus,” she provided her godson's name. “Like the former headmaster of Hogwarts.” The effect her statement had on the both of them could not have differed more. Scorpius uttered a ‘wow’ in awe, while the colour drained from his father’s face. No possible way to remedy the situation came to her mind, and she did not need one, because in that moment a loud voice boomed, “I’ll ring you up, then” from the cash register. Within the blink of an eye the awkwardness dispelled around them and brought them into motion. Living up to their pureblood upbringing, the two blonds nodded their heads and motioned for Hermione to go first. She disliked cutting in line, but Scorpius grinned up at her so cutely that she could not object.
“Heya, Hermione. Had not seen you come in,” Oliver greeted and pushed the crate of miscellaneous items on the counter to the side. As Scorpius had advised, Hermione bought the grey helmet, which Oliver wrapped in dark blue wrapping paper with golden snitches printed all over. Oliver was in the process of adding the finishing touch of a golden bow, when someone tapped her on her shoulder. Back on his father’s hip, Scorpius met her at eye-level with the most adorable flushed face. He inhaled once, twice, three times, but no words came. In the end, he turned towards his father with pleading eyes. As if a blush could be transferred via exchange of glances, a soft pink settled onto Malfoy’s cheeks.
“May Scorpius gift”- he paused for a moment - “Albus the figurine?” On cue, Scorpius set the miniature Malfoy onto his father’s hand.
“Sure, Albus will love it.” She placed her palm next to Malfoy’s and the miniature waltzed over and proudly squared his back to her, presenting the number 5 five of his jersey. If her memory served her right, this meant that he was a chaser.
When the figurine shot her another wink, Hermione giggled and added, “But I think his father will like it even more.” Malfoy could suppress neither a rather unrefined snort nor a chuckle at the idea of Harry laying eyes on the figure. Oliver joined in with his own boisterous laughter. Scorpius, who was not in on their private joke, looked a little confused, but grinned widely with all his teeth nonetheless. Galleons and tote bags changed hands and Oliver turned the shop sign to ‘Closed’ the moment he shut the door.
Sometime in between their shared mirth and stepping out onto the cobblestone street, Scorpius had fallen asleep, his head nestled into the crook of Malfoy’s neck. As Malfoy readjusted his grip on his son, Hermione took a moment to observe them. Never in a hundred years would she have guessed that Malfoy would be such a gentle and loving father, but there he stood, cradling his son in his arms.
“Thanks for the help,” Hermione said. but earned a head shake in response.
“Promise you’ll attend the game with your godson. Scorpius will keep an eye out for you.” If that was what he demanded as repayment for his advice, she would oblige.
“Promise.”
“You’ll also have to cheer for me or Scorpius will be cross.” Like his miniature, Malfoy smirked and winked.
This one hit different.