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Draco Malfoy’s day had been chaotic. First, an intern sneaked into a field job and got himself cursed. Draco still needed to finish the paperwork on that. Then there was that useless Hackles, who should have been monitoring the interns in the first place, but instead panicked so much while taking the intern to St. Mungo’s that he ended up getting hexed as well. Sometimes Draco wondered if he had to do everything himself to get things right.
He almost lost it at Potter today when he came to the intern’s defense. Apparently, Potter’s rule-breaking affinity hadn’t withered despite him becoming the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Incompetent, all of them.
With his mood sour and his patience worn thin, Draco stepped into the Floo and arrived home. It was almost midnight. He had missed dinner with his family again. He sighed, rubbing his temple, and quietly made his way to Scorpius’s room. His son lay peacefully asleep, his blonde hair a mess against the pillows. Tomorrow, Scorpius would be returning to Hogwarts for his final term. Watching him sleep, so carefree and unburdened, finally brought a small smile to Draco’s face.
It had been almost twenty-five years since the war. Looking at his son, Draco realized that despite everything, he had done well. Even if his wife reminded him of it every day, seeing it for himself always hit differently.
Padding softly to his room, he carefully opened the door, not wanting to disturb Hermione. But then he heard it—the sniffling.
His heart lurched. Two decades in the DMLE as Head Auror, facing the worst criminals and dark wizards, but a single tear from Hermione took him back to darker days. His body moved before his mind could catch up, and in an instant, he was kneeling in front of the bed.
“Hermione?” he said, his voice laced with concern. “What’s wrong?”
She looked up at him from where she was huddled in a corner of their bed, clutching a blanket. Her puffy eyes, red nose, and wild curls forming a halo around her made her look heartbreakingly vulnerable. She sniffed again. “I died this time,” she whimpered. “In an ambush. And you didn’t even get to propose.”
Draco’s brows furrowed. He glanced at the abandoned e-reader beside her on the bed and everything clicked into place.
“Hermione,” he sighed, exasperated yet fond. “Baby, what did we say about you reading these Muggle stories about us?”
“I swear, I wasn’t going to!” she insisted. “I thought it was fluff! I misread the tags.”
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “Love, we got our happy ending. Everyone knows we’re married. We don’t even exist for Muggles—why are you so obsessed with what version of the story they tell?”
“You don’t understand, Draco.” She wiped her nose with the sleeve of his old Slytherin Quidditch jersey that she had stolen years ago. “I should never have let that beetle go free.”
Draco blinked, then let out a deep groan. “Rita Skeeter,” he muttered.
Hermione nodded solemnly. “She started it. And now? Now there are thousands of alternate versions of our story. Some are beautiful, some are heartbreaking, and some—” She shuddered. “Some are just wrong.”
Draco smirked. “Let me guess. One where I’m a vampire?”
“Actually, several where you’re a vampire.”
He sighed. “Do I at least get to be handsome in all of them?”
“Oh, always.”
Draco shook his head, climbing into bed beside her and wrapping his arms around her. “Well, that’s a relief. But if I catch you writing one of these, Hermione, I’m hexing your quill.”
She hummed in response, burying her face in his chest to hide her smile. He didn’t need to know about her secret author alias just yet.