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Never again.
Hermione wasn’t sure why she volunteered to chaperone Rose’s trip, but she was having many regrets.
Actually, that wasn’t true. She knew exactly why she volunteered.
If Pansy, chair of the Parent-Teacher Association, hadn’t cornered her by the punch bowl, talking in that grating tone about just how many trips she’d volunteered for and given Hermione all the details about how much money she and Neville had donated, then she might not have been so eager to jump onboard. Hermione only showed up because she wanted to cast a vote on the budget for the following school year—not to further immerse herself in the world of Blackberries and yoga pants.
But Pansy had made those comments and had looked at Hermione in that way—the sort of pitying I’m-A-Better-Mom-Than-You-And-Make-It-Look-So-Effortless way. Hermione should have exercised some restraint, she should not have let it simmer and stew.
The cherry on the cake was when Pansy talked about how she hadn’t seen Hermione at any of the bake sales, or the car washes, or the fucking mixers. Then, and only then, did something really snap in Hermione’s brain.
She had shot her hand forward, nearly knocking over the punch she’d just spooned into her green Solo cup— ‘Go snakes!’ Pansy had cajoled, never missing a fucking detail or a chance to go the extra mile—and taken the pen thus signing over her weekend to...prove a point? she guessed.
What she’d really wanted to do was throw the damned punch in Pansy’s face and kick her in her legs that surely had laser hair removal. She was so...perfect and put together and did not give off the energy of having three grown sons overrunning her home. Hermione wanted to see one hair out of place, just one hair and then she would feel fine.
But no. Not with Pansy. Pansy had time to do everything.
It was just so irritating. Pansy had given her a puckered ‘aw’ of appreciation, then walked away without another word. Like Hermione had just thrown herself right into her trap.
It further imploded when Hermione told Rose what she’d done.
Rose was, rightfully, mortified at the thought of her mum ‘cramping her style’, but then again, Rose was always annoyed with Hermione these days. It came with the territory of fifteen. Hermione had thought she was prepared for it—thought she remembered what it was like to be a teenage girl, but Rose did not agree. Many-a-door were slammed in her face. She was forced to listen through the wall as some band called ‘The Front Bottoms’ sang, hearing about how when the leader singer was sad, he was sad, but when he was happy, oh God, he was happy and apparently that was really relatable, as Hermione heard it on repeat over and over and over again. She listened to it so many times that she almost started to get it.
So she added the song to her iPod, and then, late at night, as she laid in an empty bed, she tried to remember what she’d felt like when she was that age. If she’d hated her mum, or slammed as many doors, or felt like no one in the world got a single word she said.
Their lives had been so different. Hermione’s parents had stayed together, a fact she hadn’t been able to replicate and felt endlessly guilty for. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Rose’s dad, Ron was amazing with her and in general. Their relationship had just fizzled to scheduled sex, date nights that never actually happened, and feeling resentment in parts of her chest that she had earlier felt love.
It was draining.
And Hermione didn’t want to hate him, so she thought it would be easier for all involved parties if they just called it quits. Better to get out then than have it progress to something volatile.
But, of course, it was Hermione who was breaking up the family, a fact that Rose loved reminding her of. After she’d screamed at her as much, eyes tinged with tears, voice pitched a few octaves higher than normal, she would stomp off and slam her door and turn on her speaker and listen to the singer lament about lessons to be learned and consequences for all the stupid things said and how it is no big surprise you turned out this way what with the spark in your eyes, and the look on your face and well, the lead singer just would not be blamed.
Later, Hermione went into the computer room and used the Youtube-to-MP3 website that Rose had once shown her, on one of the days when things were good between them, and downloaded that song as well. The computer ran slower the next day, and she wondered if she’d gotten some sort of virus, but there were bigger things to deal with, like ensuring her daughter didn’t hate her forever. She listened to the song on her run and ran a personal best on her mile, which left her wondering if there was some correlation with moving quicker than she had in years and feeling the same sort of crushing sense of identity loss that came with being a teenager.
Hermione had packed her iPod for the trip, hoping there might be one moment she would have to herself where she could just sit and be alone. They were meant to go to Shropshire to visit a prison, which Hermione thought was nothing if not on the nose in terms of the school-to-prison pipeline, but that was neither here nor there. She didn’t think someone like Pansy Longbottom would ever lament on such things, and she was determined to be better than Pansy, and thus she wouldn’t think of those things either, but in a much cooler and more relaxed way.
The bus jolted, sending her smack dab into a back that felt like hitting a brick wall.
“Great boiling bollocks,” Hermione remarked, grasping her nose as a gush of heated pain concentrated there.
The back that felt like a brick wall was connected to a man that looked like...a Greek god.
“Oh, blimey, are you alright?” he said, suddenly putting his hands over hers.
The meagre overhead light cut stark shadows along his features, which were sharp and almost chiselled. She thought, if she had a gun to her head and was forced to comment on it, that he was pretty in a male model, silver spoon sort of way. He looked like someone had taken their time when crafting him.
And now he was panicking, holding her bloodied nose in his hands. Eyes of students looked on, murmurs spreading amongst them.
“Oh, oh! Hold on. Let me get—uh, something!”
The man moved, keeping one bloodied hand cupped over hers, and reached above the seats, rifling through the bags for something. Hermione watched in horror, and tried to remember if she was supposed to tip her head forward or backward to stop the bleeding.
She settled on backward and tilted, feeling the blood rush down her throat. There was some adage about pinching the bridge of her nose, but her hands were mostly trapped as his one palm dwarfed both of hers. Chiselled hands, that ran a little bit hot if their touch was any evidence. She tried to not think about his size – he was tall, really tall and instead focused anywhere but him. Tilting her head back helped. She was afforded a view of the roof, something that didn’t look like it was carved from marble by some romantic artisan wearing a tunic.
This was her luck, truly.
She hadn’t dated or been on dates since her divorce, and now, the first time she got knocked around by a man post-break up, it was her slamming into his back and giving herself a bloody nose. Of course.
“Mum?” a voice asked.
And, of course, it would get worse. Hermione wished she could evaporate on command.
“Hi, sweetie!” Hermione said, nostrils pinched as she tilted her head to look at Rose sidelong. Rose, who was standing next to a boy with brilliant blond hair.
“Dad?” he asked, voice hanging in the in-between baritone of a boy becoming a man.
The frantic rustling of the man carved from marble ceased momentarily.
“Oh, Scorp bud! What’s up?”
“Jesus, Dad. Don’t say ‘what’s up’.”
“That’s not how the kids are getting down these days?”
“Stop. Just...God. Stop.”
“I’m just yanking your chain, my man.”
The boy named Scorp groaned while Rose let off a giggle. A sound Hermione hadn’t heard in some time.
“Oh Mr. Malfoy, you’re so funny,” she said. Hermione cut another glance. She did not recognize this girl who replaced her usually brooding daughter.
“Thank you, Rose. I only wish my son shared your understanding of comedic timing. Perhaps you could teach Scorpius a thing or two?”
“We’re trying to get to our seats,” Scorpius complained.
“Right, right,” his dad agreed, shuffling slightly. “Before you’re off, mind grabbing the gauze. Actually, just the whole first aid kit.”
Scorpius sighed, apparently very put out by this task, but quickly reached up, the angle just out of reach, and handed the box to the only slightly bloodied free hand.
“Thanks, my man.”
“C’mon, Rose.”
“Uh, one sec,” said Rose, before turning back to glance at Hermione. “Are you okay?”
The man stuffed a piece of gauze under her nose and she tilted her head forward, looking at her daughter.
“Oh, yes, sweetie. I’m fine. I’m fine. Who’s your friend?”
“Oh!” Rose glanced behind her. “That’s uh...Mum, this is Scorpius.”
“Scorpius Malfoy,” he said, stepping forward. He put a hand out, smiling then grimaced slightly. “Actually, maybe we could shake on it later?”
“Right,” Hermione blurted, laughing a little, probably looking incredibly sane with the large swatch of gauze stuffed into her nostrils.
“Proper gentleman I raised,” the dad commented, about to clap a hand to his shoulder when Scorpius sidestepped the touch.
“Gross, Dad. You’re all covered in blood, stop.”
“Right, right,” he said, nodding. He looked at Hermione with a grin. “Best pop off to the loo. Care for a chaperone?”
Hermione swallowed, and unfortunately tasted only the metallic tang of her own blood.
“Sure, thanks.”
Then the four of them were shuffling, awkwardly, everyone trying to avoid touching, which only drove them further into one another in the small aisle of the bus.
“No, I think if you–” the dad said, nearly stepping on her toes.
While Hermione instructed, “Rose, just—just go left—”
Which earned a snapped “I am going left,” from her daughter.
And Scorpius heaved a giant sigh, tugging Rose back by her shoulders until they were standing in an empty row that hadn’t yet seen its occupants.
“Go,” he instructed, surely wise beyond his years.
And they were off to the tiny bathroom located at the back of the bus. He swept a blood-covered hand in front of him after opening the door. Hermione sidestepped into the small space, which felt humid and was incredibly stinky, exasperated when he crinkled the folded door shut and she was locked in with it.
Hermione glanced in the mirror. She was sweaty—looking haggard and insane, from the weather, the stress and her most recent assault of the very good-looking man who stood just steps away from her. She washed her hands slowly, still staring at her reflection and wished, for one moment, that she felt some semblance of maturity.
At present, she just desired a good cry, to curl up and stuff her headphones into either ear, perhaps stare out the window, and pretend that this wasn’t her life but rather a music video.
She sighed.
No, no. There would be no headphones. Tonight, she was a chaperone and needed her ears about her to stop any sort of co-mingling before it moved into dangerous territory.
Speaking of co-mingling, who was this Scorpius Malfoy? With his handsome father? Rose had looked like she was blushing—which was strange. Rose never talked with Hermione about that sort of thing, and she couldn’t imagine her daughter having that conversation with Ron, who was...not the person to give preemptive safe sex talks.
Oh god, was Rose...sexually active? Hermione started to hyperventilate.
No, she would tell her, right? She wouldn’t just...jump into that sort of thing. No, Rose wasn’t the type. Not that Hermione believed that there was a type of teenage girl to engage in sexual proclivities but surely, if there were, Rose would not. Or at least, she would ask for advice, or perhaps some method of protection beforehand.
Hermione thought that, as a mother, she had created a kind of space where Rose could be honest and open about that thing, should she so choose to be.
But then again, Hermione had recently upheaved any previously built-up trust between them with the divorce. This could be Rose lashing out—engaging in reckless behaviour to get back at Hermione. A half-panicked ghost of a sob escaped her throat as she descended further into the maladaptive daydream.
Rose, sitting next to Scorpius, on their settee—admitting to Hermione that she was four months along. Rose, rounded stomach, still looking like a baby in the face herself. Rose, two under two in tow, dropping them off at Hermione’s house. Rose, hating her mum forever.
When she caught a glimpse of her reflection, she looked green.
“You okay in there?” a voice drawled outside the door.
“Uh, yes!” she yelled back, far too loud. Then quieter: “Just...using the bathroom!”
A pause. “Oh, okay!”
No. No he would think she was...pooping. She couldn’t have that.
“Wait, no! I’m not–” Hermione pinched her eyes shut. “I mean, I’m just—I’ve finished.”
Jesus Christ. Why? Why would she say that? She willed the bus to pull forward, slam her into the mirror, and knock her out. Maybe then, she would finally, finally shut the fuck up.
Hermione pulled the door open brusquely, finding him leaning against the wall. The brisk opening of the door and his languid sort of position put them nearly nose to nose. Hermione, acting on zero tact, said the first words that came to mind.
“I’ll have you know that I was not...” Her voice dropped down into the lower register as she spared a whisper. “Using the restroom.”
Mr. Malfoy peered down at her, lips tugging up on one end.
“No?” he asked, tilting his head.
“No,” she echoed, sucking in a breath. Some nice scent—his cologne, she realised belatedly—churned in the space, and sent a thrill through her spine. “I don’t know why I said that.”
“Ah,” he replied coolly, a real grin on his face—cheeks indented, eyes slightly creased. “Alright then. Glad we’ve sorted this.”
She nodded once, and then made her way to her seat.
Once out of his direct line of vision, Hermione blew out an exasperated sigh. She walked by Rose and Scorpius, seated together and her eyebrows raised. Rose and Scorpius seated together, Scorpius’s hand on Rose’s stomach in a possessive sort of way—smirking at Hermione and calling her his new mum-in-law.
She halted, gnawing on her lip. It was so unlikely. She should really act with some forethought – have some tact about this whole thing. She passed at first, then on second thought—the one wherein Rose was currently practising unsafe sex and had not had any sort of talk with her very concerned mother—turned around and backtracked to their seats.
They had had their heads leaned in, sharing a set of earbuds. Scorpius looked up first, feeling the peering and sort of crazed glint in Hermione’s eyes.
“Oh...hi, Mrs. Weasley.”
“Granger,” Hermione corrected.
Rose cut her a glance, one that begged her to go away, then turned back to shuffling her thumb against the phone in between them.
“Hi Mrs. Granger,” Scorpius tried again.
“No, just...just Ms. Granger is fine.”
“Hello,” he settled on, giving her a charming grin. He looked similar to his father, only his eyes were brown. Hermione thought that Mr. Malfoy’s eyes might have been a dashing blue-grey.
Not that she was thinking of his eyes. She wasn’t.
She sucked in a breath.
“So...kids.”
Scorpius’s lips revealed an amused grin, leaning back in his seat. Rose sent a deathly glare in her direction.
“What are you two doing?” Hermione chickened out.
Scorpius kept a grin as he responded. “Uh, listening to music.”
“Anything I’d know?”
“Big fan of Nirvana?” Scorpius asked.
Hermione smiled. “Oh, sure!”
“Mum,” Rose hissed.
“Hm?” Hermione pursed her lips, letting her eyebrows raise in a look of feigned innocence. Perhaps she could really sell it that she was just popping by for a chat about music and not engaging in a spell of dizzying hysteria.
“What’d I miss?” Mr. Malfoy asked, appearing at her shoulder. Hermione sucked in a breath to keep from hopping away from him.
Scorpius groaned, dropping his head into a hand.
“Shouldn’t you be sitting somewhere?” Rose snapped to her mum.
“Yes, actually I’m sitting—” Hermione's eyes glanced around, checking for an empty seat. Naturally, there were only a few. Luckily, one of these seats was directly in front of the teenagers.
“Right here,” Hermione finished, throwing her purse into the seat against the window. She shot Rose a winning grin, then sat down, making a great effort to throw a nonchalant sort of look to her daughter through the crevice where the armrest lay.
Rose’s face had twisted into a look of horror, and she held her mother’s stare with a slack jaw.
“Looks like I’ll be joining,” said Malfoy, which earned another groan from his son, as he sat in the seat next to Hermione.
She ignored the jolt of heat when his knee brushed her thigh as he adjusted. Truly, was the man running a fever? Why was he so hot?
Her eye twitched and she focused ahead of her.
Okay. She could do this.
He probably wouldn’t even talk to her. Really, they had nothing to talk about. She didn’t even know his first name for fuck’s sake and she was over here—
“I would be remiss if I did not take the opportunity to introduce myself properly,” the damned male model-esque father said. “Draco Malfoy.”
He stuck a hand into the small gap of space between them and grinned at her.
She forced a smile back, feeling a touch untethered to her body at present. She slid her palm into his and verified that yes, he was far hotter than normal for any one person.
“You’re quite hot,” she responded back almost automatically.
His eyebrows raised. Hermione sputtered and debated a DIY lobotomy.
“No, I just—I mean...are you sick?” she finally managed.
“No,” he responded rather slowly after a few seconds of stretched silence. “I don’t– I don’t think so. Feel my head.”
He brushed his hand up, sweeping back the blonde fringe that hung over his brow bone. Hermione drew her hand into her chest, prepared to say ‘no’ when his hand caught hers. His calloused thumb swiped along the back of her palm as he tugged her hand up, pressing it to his forehead.
“Am I?”
“What?” she murmured, seeming in a daze from proximity.
“Am I hot?”
“Yes,” she replied, still lost. Then almost immediately after, like she’d been slapshot back into reality, she yanked her hand back and amended, “I mean, no. No, you’re probably fine.”
“Thanks for checking. Never been good for that sort of thing. Wouldn’t know I was dying if death was on my doorstep.”
“You’re...welcome.”
She stared at him for another moment, then looked forward, locking her eyes on the collapsed tray table.
“Rose’s mum?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Weasley,” Draco mused.
“Actually, um. Just Granger. Ms. Granger.”
“Ah,” he breathed, looking at her for a second longer before tearing his gaze away.
“Ah,” she echoed.
“Am I permitted to know your first name?”
“Hermione,” she spouted automatically.
“Shakespeare?”
“The crown and comfort of my life,” she recited sardonically, eyes still cast forward.
“Your favour, I do give lost; for I do feel it gone, but know not how it went,” Draco finished. She looked up in surprise, and he smiled. “Was unfortunately a bit of a prat at Uni. Girls like boys that can recite Shakespeare from memory.”
“That’s horrible,” she breathed in a surprised laugh.
His grin just widened. “Yes, well, admitted to being an arse. I would say I’ve outgrown it, but...I’m not sure minor assault is all too great a means of picking up women either.”
Her brow furrowed and his smile faltered slightly.
He continued. “Not that I’m picking you up per se. I wouldn’t–”
She frowned.
“No.” The light afforded her a view of the spectacular flush that bloomed on the high points of his cheeks. “I mean—I think, I would–”
It was an agonising blaze of stuttered continuances that she halted with a raise of her hand.
“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Malfoy.” Hermione nodded once and turned towards the window.
“I fear that I’ve buggered this.”
“It’s memorable at the very least,” she murmured.
He was silent for a minute. Then, he asked, “First time?”
“Pardon?”
“Chaperoning.”
She felt the same sort of irritation she’d felt with Pansy.
“If you’re insinuating that I am not an active participant in my daughter’s life–”
“I assure you I do not–”
“Then you’re sorely mistaken,” she huffed.
He paused, looking at her once more, before he glanced away. She watched him draw in a breath.
“I think that I would have noticed you at a chaperoning event before. That’s all I meant.”
“Well,” she relented, feeling heat creep onto her face. She needed to calm down, but the flurry of emotion seeped venom even into the simple response. “Yes. This is the first time that I’ve chaperoned a trip.”
“I was pretty nervous the first time, too.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“Ah, well then, I was nervous for my first time. Though I think I’ve settled rather graciously into my newfound role as the uncool dad.”
Hermione couldn’t help laughing at that, especially as she thought of Scorpius’s paired groans and looks of immense suffering each time his father appeared.
“It’s funny, isn’t it? The way their opinion of you seemingly changes overnight. I swear I used to be the coolest person in the world to Rose, but now I feel like we’re from two different continents most days.”
“It was slow-moving with Scorpius,” he agreed, giving her a wistful smile that loosened some block in her chest. That warmth persisted. “Sometimes I’m still cool. Mostly when I look the other way on the nights he thinks he’s sneaking out.”
“He sneaks out?”
Draco looked at her with a raised brow. “They all sneak out. It’s a pick your battles sort of situation.”
Hermione chewed on her lip, worry moving into her gut. Had Rose been sneaking out? Meeting up with boys with cars?
“Ah, now I’ve made you think your daughter’s on a naughty streak.”
“You did say all. And they do seem close, though she’s never mentioned Scorpius’s name to me.”
“They’re good friends. Always spending time together, chatting about Albus.”
She paused. “...Potter?”
“Your nephew, I presume?”
“Why are they talking about Albus?”
Draco grinned, leaning in towards her.
“Don’t tell Scorpius I’ve told you, but he has a rather large crush on the bloke.”
Ah.
Hermione swallowed. “She’s a wingwoman then?”
“I’m told she’s the best.”
She smiled at that. Her maladaptive daydream disappeared from her mind in a wisp of smoke.
No teen pregnancy, then. She hated the part of herself that breathed a sigh of relief.
“So, they’re just friends?”
“Thick as thieves. Rose has swung by our home a few times.”
Gods, was she that awful that she didn’t know where her daughter was at times? She looked over at Draco and gave him a forced smile.
“Teens like to keep secrets. Rose is a good kid.”
“I know my daughter,” she muttered, feeling like she really did not.
“Take my word as a cosign to that, then. She keeps Scorpius in line. You should be really proud.”
Hermione felt the heat rising in her body yet again. She knew she was a good mother, and really didn’t need to be told of that, but it was nice to have it be noticed. Especially during a time when nothing seemed to swing in her favour.
“Thank you,” she murmured, suddenly feeling mannerless. “Scorpius seems great.”
“He is,” Draco agreed, smiling as he looked ahead of him. “He really is.”
“I’m glad that they’ve got each other then. I’ll have to have Scorpius over for dinner sometime. Things have just been rather hectic recently with the–” she trailed off, unsure.
Divorce seemed like the sort of thing you avoided speaking about with a perfect stranger. But his eyes cast back over to her, like he was waiting for more, and she suddenly found no reason to stop.
This might be a problem.
“Truth be told, I’m very recently divorced. So my focus has been a bit...lackadaisical.”
“Ah,” he breathed, smile melting to a sombre look. “I get that. We went through it when Scorp was eight, though our relationship had been suffering for some time.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He gave her a grin. “We’ve got a great relationship now. And her new husband is someone I’m happy that Scorpius has in his life. There’s really nothing better than having more people to love your kid.”
“That’s all you can hope for.”
“It really is. If you don’t mind me asking, how recently did you separate?”
“It was finalised in June, and the proceedings were quick. Ron is...stellar. So understanding. I was the ‘bad guy.’”
“Ah, no. The worst thing you can do is teach them that settling is the right choice. I’m sure Rose will understand one day.”
One day.
Hermione nodded, looking away and the overhead lights dimmed. The chatter of all the teens kicked up a smidge as the bus pulled forward, moving out of the lot from where they’d all loaded on.
She wanted to say more, but the words evaded her. He hadn’t been wrong, but it was hard to imagine a future where Rose was grateful for Hermione’s choice to uproot their family dynamic. She bit her cheek, casting a glance out the window.
“Enough of that,” Draco said, pulling her attention from the street. “I’ll test my luck and see how much more I can get you to tell me about yourself now that you’ve no escape.”
A surprised laugh, low and sudden, escaped her lips. “I can’t be the only one giving up confidential information.”
“I’m an open book,” he responded, smirking. “Ask me anything.”
“Anything?” she inquired, surprising herself.
“Well, try and keep it PG. We are the trusted adults after all.”
She grinned, then shook her head. What was she doing? What was he doing?
“I take it Scorpius is an only child?”
“Yeah, spoiled to boot. And Rose?”
“Figured I shouldn’t take any chances. She was such an easy baby, I knew it was an anomaly.”
He laughed, nodding along in agreement. “I did want more. Imagined having three kids. More people to take care of me when I am in diapers again myself.”
“Rather self-serving then?”
“I might call my intentions calculated,” he laughed back. “I was an only child. Always wanted a sibling to go through life with, but wasn’t in the cards for me.”
“So you haven’t remarried?”
He paused, and she flushed—no tact, apparently.
“Sorry, I–” she started to stutter, but he waved her off, grinning again. She bit her inner cheek at the sight.
“No, no, I—dating is hard. And time passes so quickly. One of those things you think will happen and then years go by without so much as a night out.”
She grimaced. Maybe she had made a mistake. Perhaps a comfortable and distant love was better than none at all.
“I’m still happy,” he added, taking note of the way her face fell. “I’m sure it’ll happen one day. Waiting for the right one to come along.”
“If you haven’t seen a date in years, I’m not sure there’s hope for the rest of us.”
She hated it as soon as it got out. Her cheeks flamed, a heat filling her body from head to toe at the insinuation.
May as well have just told him you think he’s drop-dead gorgeous, idiotic woman.
Draco inclined his head, lips pulled up.
“I’m quite certain you’ll have no issues once you put yourself out there.”
Then he looked away, still smiling.
Well, what the fuck did that mean? Hermione pressed, feeling that heat of embarrassment melt to something else.
“Put myself out there?”
“You’re doing quite well now with all my questions. Keep giving me bits and I might be forced to ask you myself.”
“Are you–”
“Flirting with you?” he asked, turning back to look at her. His eyes were heavy, but full of something playful that had her sucking in a breath. “I won’t answer that. Afraid I might embarrass myself.”
She laughed—shocked, and his smile grew.
“This conversation has been nice. I’ll give you that.”
“Slowly wearing you down then. By the end of this bus ride, you might even call me charming.”
“I might,” she said, matching his stare.
He grinned, pleased with that much. She smiled back.
He was charming.
She’d realised as much about five minutes into their drive.
He’d asked her questions about her life, about her job, about Rose. He took all the appropriate pauses, asking for more information to clarify and better understand. It was aggravating, and also the best conversation that she’d had in years.
The trip to Shrewsbury Prison went off without a hitch. She was assigned a group of teens, though they were fairly self-sufficient and seemed to be non-trouble makers. She assumed it wasn’t always like this, but it was pleasant.
The tours were staggered about five minutes apart, and started in separate areas so Hermione didn’t see Draco for the duration of the time. Not that seeing him was what she was there for, but...she liked talking with him. And wouldn’t mind talking more.
Her body still hummed with the heat that’d been set that morning when he leaned into her, not denying flirting. He’d never said anything crass, but he’d given her a certain look that certainly carried her imagination for the length of the droning tour guide’s monologue.
By the time they broke for lunch, she realised she was actively searching him out. Seeing if she could find his hair amongst the crowd of kids.
It wasn’t too hard. He was a platinum blonde—‘Natural, obviously,’ he’d scoffed earlier with that devious grin, making her giggle like a hormonal schoolgirl. She had accepted that she’d gone insane.
They’d walked to nearby Poplar Island, each chaperone sticking with their aforementioned group, and settled for lunch at some picnic tables. Various teens had skipped lunch, instead opting to run over to the cricket ground some ways away and start up a half-hearted match. She could see Rose and Scorpius messing around in the distance, and watched her daughter interact with her peers—smile wide and toothy.
Her heart ached. She imagined Rose as a little girl, screaming her head off on the carousel as Ron gripped her firmly on the waist, ensuring she wouldn’t fall. Where did the time go?
“Mind if I sit?”
She looked up, mouth full of a bite she’d half-chewed, to find Draco standing over her, gripping two takeaway cups in his hand. He extended one to her.
“I brought an offering so you’d have no reason to deny me.”
She threw a hand over her mouth, which surely gaped, offering him a prize view of said sandwich and nodded profusely. Her other hand went scrambling in front of her in an attempt to clear all signs that she was a real human being who had to eat to maintain energy.
He settled across from her, still smiling, and slid the cup over the distance of the table.
“Here you are.”
Her hand reached out, their fingers meeting, and a surge of heat rippled through her. They both drew back at the same time, like they’d shared the shock.
“Thanks, uh thank you,” Hermione finally said, reaching again for the drink. “Where’d you find coffee?”
“Cafe that way,” he said. “Some of the kids didn’t bring lunch so I bought some pastries and just happened to offer them up.”
“You’ve great forethought. I let mine descend upon the public without a second thought.”
“I’m sure mine will follow suit. They never quite get over the sugar highs, do they?”
She smiled, picking up the cup and taking a sip.
“Do you always buy two cups?”
“No, I thought that it was obvious I’d done that just for you.”
“You’re sweet.”
“That’s a step above nice, wouldn’t you say?”
She shook her head, smiling at the cup as she picked at the rim. Finally, she looked up and shrugged. “Wearing me down.”
“Slow and steady wins the race.”
Draco still grinned as he looked behind him at the kids running in the field.
“God, I wish he’d cut his hair.”
“Who?”
“My son. He insists that the fringe over the eyes is in, but I must be old-fashioned.”
“Always been clean-cut?”
“My youth was very clinical. I was expected to look like a strapping little ninny.”
“I’m sure you pulled it off.”
“That’s generous. Very generous, Ms. Granger.”
“So...what now?”
“We drink our coffee and keep talking, of course.”
She flushed, but looked away so he wouldn’t see.
“I mean, now that that bit is done.”
“Didn’t you read the itinerary?”
She thought back to when she’d received the scented parchment in Pansy’s elegant scroll, detailing the expectations and duties of her for the trip. She’d wanted to crumple it up and chew on it, but had, instead, settled for a dignified burn at her stove top like a deranged pyromaniac.
So no, she hadn’t read it.
“Of course I read it,” she lied.
“Tsk-tsk,” he tutted, eyes playful.
“I did, Malfoy!”
“Sure, Granger.”
“Jog my memory. No, wait – explain it to me as if I didn’t read it at all.”
“As I’m sure you know, after lunch, we are going to a museum. Another tour. A very late dinner, which will assuredly run over the scheduled time. Then back home.”
“I’m tired already.”
“Chaperoning is not for the weak.”
“I’m not weak,” she protested.
Several hours later, however, she was eating her words.
Apparently, ballet flats had not been the shoe to wear. After their reprieve, where Draco had made her laugh like she was fifteen again, they parted ways to collect their ducklings. The museum had been fine, until about an hour in, when her stomach started to roil.
She pressed a hand to her head, feeling hot, and when she pulled it away, she realised that she was also sticky.
She excused herself from her group, putting Rose in charge—much to the girl’s chagrin—and beelined for the restroom. She’d hardly made it into the first stall and latched the door before she was on her knees, vomiting into the basin.
After her throat was burning quite thoroughly and her eyes drooped, she leaned back against the door, heaving in a great breath.
Definitely not an experience for the weak then.
She gargled water in the sink, wiping a moistened towel over her face and smearing the touch of makeup she’d settled on earlier in the morning. When she caught her reflection, she nearly jumped. She looked like death personified.
Again though, just her luck. Hot man hints at potential flirting and she was vomiting mere hours later. Well, no more close quarters whispering for the two of them. Lest she kill him with her breath.
At the thought, she gargled again, then rifled around at the bottom of her purse before she found a loose Tic Tac. She hedged all her hope on it doing something and popped it into her mouth.
After explaining to a very understanding mother who nodded profusely and kept coo-ing at Hermione’s suffering, she absorbed the teens with her own group and sent Hermione off to go rest on the bus. She bought water and a ginger-ale for the trip, feeling heated and sluggish as her feet carried her the small distance.
“Damn, you too?” Merv, the bus driver, said as he caught sight of her coming down the road. He ashed his cigarette and heaved a great sigh as he opened the doors to the bus.
“Someone else is sick?”
“Think that Malfoy’s got some sort of bug. Showed up here looking whiter than a beluga’s arse.”
Did whales have arses? The world started to shift as the haze of sickness settled over her mind.
Wait, Malfoy?
“Yeah, he’s back there. Bit stinky. Throw up on my bus and I will quit, I swear.”
Had she said his name aloud? Dear god. She couldn’t do this.
But her feet carried her back and up the steps anyway, and when her eyes landed on his—he let off an expletive.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice pained. She shuffled back towards their seat, and he slid in, making space for her. She half debated sitting across the aisle so they could both spread and wallow in their misery, but it was such a gesture – making space for her, that she took him up on it and crashed down in the seat.
“Terrible first impression.”
“I would say we got off on the wrong foot, definitely.” He winced, shifting as he pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the window. “Ughhh.”
“I did think—” she groaned, hugging around her stomach “—that you were hot.”
He paused, peeking an eye open at her. “You think I’m hot?”
“Temperature wise.”
“Non-temperature wise?”
“You must be experiencing some sort of fever-induced delirium.”
“Maybe. I’ll blame it on that, sure.”
“I’ve only just met you.”
“That’s not true,” he said, a bit strangled in a pained laugh.
“What?”
“We’ve met...multiple times. Just this week I sat behind you at the PTA meeting and laughed at your joke.”
Had she told a joke? Maybe some muttering under her breath about Pansy holding a stick up her arse, but nothing outward.
“Are you...stalking me?”
“What?” His eyes went wide. “No, no, no, I don’t– no.”
“What do you mean that we’ve met before?”
“We have. It might be my fault that I’m not memorable. But even if I didn’t—nevermind. I tend to like to know the parents of my son’s friends.”
Had she met him before? She tried to recall. In truth, she had been so stuck in her own head the last year and a half that she could hardly recall what she’d eaten for breakfast.
Her stomach gurgled at the thought. No, she definitely should not be thinking about food right now.
“I’m—gods, I’m sorry. I probably come across as a huge boor.”
“Not at all.”
“A smidge surely.”
“Fine. A smidge rude. I’ve come up with thirty ways to talk to you, and fell on my face each time I’ve tried.”
“God, I feel horrible.”
“I think that’s the stomach acid.”
“Yes, that’s not helping,” she agreed, tossing her head back. “Surely I’d remember you.”
He chuckled. “It’s not your fault, really. You come across as someone that’s always in their head.”
“I am,” she sighed, pinching her eyes shut.
“Figures this would be the time you commit me to memory,” Draco groaned. “Now I’ll be ‘That Terrible Prat That Gave Me An Illness’.”
Hermione laughed, even though the movement hurt her abdomen.
“You also bought me a coffee.”
“Coffee and the flu. A real Casanova, aren’t I?”
“Why didn’t you say something earlier? We spoke for hours during the drive.”
“I finally had your attention. Seemed risky to mention it wasn’t the first time. You’d’ve clammed up, I bet.”
Maybe. She really might’ve. Him guessing correctly made that heat flare. Or maybe that was whatever bacteria was hosting a free-for-all in her gut biome.
“And,” he added, voice dropping a little lower. He pulled his face off the glass and turned towards her, and even tinged slightly red, his eyes looked lovely. She didn’t glance away. “I wanted to talk to you. Why bugger that opportunity?”
“Why though?”
“Why what?”
“I mean...why did you want to talk to me? Some curiosity over knowing your son’s friend’s mum seems far-fetched.”
“It’s happenstance our kids are friends. Really, I’ve just, uh, noticed you. When you do go to PTA meetings. Your aversion to Pansy is funny.”
“God, I bet she’s never gotten the stomach flu or thrown up a day in her life.”
Draco laughed, his head tipping forward slightly. “She’s not so bad, you know? Outside of...all that. I think you’d actually be good friends.”
She grimaced—at his words or the sudden wave of nausea, she couldn’t be sure. She catalogued his earlier statement, then bit her lip.
“Noticed me?”
He glanced at her, and then looked away.
“Yeah, Granger,” he said slowly. “Noticed is a good word for it.”
She peered at him until he seemed to sense the attention.
“Well?” she asked.
His eyebrows flickered up.
“Well...what?”
“Aren’t you going to ask me out?”
“What?”
“Have I misread your interest? If so, please let me succumb to this fever.”
“No—I—would you? Say yes?”
“I might,” she responded.
“I’ve charmed you then.”
“It could be the fever talking.”
“Yes, we should probably sort the illness before we proceed any further. Lest you forget me once it breaks.”
“You’d be a very impressive hallucination.”
“Impressive?” he mused, lips pulling up.
“Well, I’ve called you hot already.”
“Temperature wise,” he amended.
“And non-temperature wise.”
He grinned and she rolled her eyes. Her hand snaked into her purse, pulling out her iPod. She stuffed a bud into her ear and watched his face fall, just before she extended the other to him.
“Music might distract us from the unrelenting urge to vomit.”
“You’re brilliant.”
“Thanks,” she responded with a grin.
He accepted the headphone, sliding closer to her as he put it in his ear. She drew in a breath, feeling heat at their proximity, heat from her own fever. She slid closer too, settling her head on his shoulder. She pressed shuffle and shut her eyes.
With you on top of me
And me underneath you;
I bet we go a 100 miles an hour
Through the ceili–
Hermione’s finger slammed against the skip button as her cheeks flamed.
“What was that?” Draco asked.
“Just...a band that Rose showed me.”
“Well, silence works too.” His hand fell over where her other hand lay in her lap. He patted once, then made to draw back until she flipped her palm, lacing their fingers.
“Kind of nice,” she said, as she looked at where they touched. “Reminds me that it’s real.”
His thumb ran along her knuckle, a soothing sort of stroke as he hummed in appreciation. She felt his head fall atop hers as her eyes closed once again.
Luckily, Rose and Scorpius decided to, for once, show up somewhere early. Rose knew her mum had the sick, saw her run off and look pale, but she had not anticipated this.
“Oh, I love this,” Scorpius hissed from behind her.
They both looked down on their parents, sitting in their seats with her mum’s head tucked into the crook of his dad’s neck. Her eyes flickered down to their hands, fingers interlocked.
“God, is your dad a bloody Lothario?”
“Excuse you. He’s been the one pining after your mother since god knows when. She must’ve put the moves on him. She’s a regular seductress.”
“No way.”
“I’m just saying. We might need to chaperone the next date, unless you’d like to end up with a half-sibling.”
Her hand went out automatically, punching him in the chest.
“Just thought of something terrible,” he said as he rubbed a hand over where he’d been hit.
“What’s that?” Rose asked, still looking at the two of them, how small her mum looked—how relaxed her face was. She looked years younger, almost like the photos of her that Rose used to trace, wishing she’d look like that when she was her mum’s age. She swallowed.
She knew she’d been hard on her recently. Knew she’d been trying and testing her patience. But her mum was always there. She didn’t think her mum would ever understand her, but she always tried.
She should be happy, she thought.
“Well, doesn’t this mean I won’t be free to date Potter? We’d be, like, cousins – or something.”
Rose rolled her eyes at his antics.
“Looks like we’ve got to chaperone then,” Rose said, finally pulling her attention away to look at her best friend.
He slung an arm over her shoulder and leaned in, grinning vulpine.
“C’mon, sis, let’s wake ‘em up.”