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The soft murmur of morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, casting gentle beams across the rumpled duvet. Hermione stirred with a soft hum, arm reaching instinctively across the bed for her husband. Empty.
Instead, she was met with a small, warm lump crawling determinedly across the mattress.
“Scorpius!” she gasped, bolting upright, her voice sharp with sleepy panic.
Their one-year-old son was on all fours, happily babbling to himself as he teetered dangerously close to the edge of the bed. Hermione’s heart slammed against her ribs until she felt it, the gentle thrum of a protective barrier humming around the mattress.
She exhaled, long and shaky, flopping back onto the pillow with one hand over her heart.
“Merlin’s trousers,” she muttered, then peeked over at the giggling boy. “Your father’s lucky he remembered the charm, or he’d be sleeping with a P etrificus Totalus tonight.”
Scorpius, oblivious to his mother's distress, beamed at her and waved something clutched tightly in his chubby fist.
“What's that, sweetheart?” Hermione cooed, holding out her hands. “Come here, darling.”
He crawled eagerly toward her, still gripping the object. As he plopped into the crook of her arm, she gently pried the item free and blinked in surprise.
It was a folded piece of parchment.
Unrolling it carefully, she smiled as she recognized Draco’s handwriting, all sharp lines and elegant curves, but messier than usual, as if he’d been trying to keep a squirming toddler occupied while writing.
Good morning, love.
Scorpius and I had a boys-only kitchen adventure this morning. I may have convinced Milly to take the morning off. (She hexed my ankles again, if you're wondering.)
Come downstairs. Breakfast is on. I promise everything is edible. Mostly.
Love,
D
Hermione couldn’t help the snort that escaped. Poor Milly. The poor elf had been beside herself when Draco first decided he wanted to try cooking like a Muggle. After the third exploded soufflé, she began threatening to walk off the job entirely, until Draco cleverly put her on “supervisory leave” whenever he stepped into the kitchen.
“Well,” Hermione said, kissing the top of Scorpius’ head and shifting him into her lap, “shall we go see what Daddy’s managed to burn today?”
Scorpius blew a raspberry in response, smearing a bit of drool onto her shoulder. Hermione smiled, already picturing Draco in an apron, sleeves rolled up, flour dusting his pale hair and nose, absolutely in his element.
She stretched, slid out of bed with her son on her hip, and padded barefoot down the hallway, following the smell of something distinctly… not burnt.
Which was either a promising sign.
Or a very well-cast illusion charm.
As Hermione walked hand-in-hand with Scorpius, guiding his chubby, wobbly little legs down the familiar corridors of Malfoy Manor, she felt her heart give that strange, delicious flutter it always did in the quiet moments.
Scorpius waddled beside her, gripping her fingers with fierce determination, his balance still comically unpredictable. Every few steps, he'd plop onto his padded bottom with a tiny oof , then beam up at her with two front teeth and stubborn pride, demanding, in babble and grunts, to try again.
"You're so much like your father," she whispered, helping him up again. "Headstrong. Stubborn. Surprisingly charming."
They made it past the grand staircase, down the long stone hallway that led to the kitchen, the familiar scent of baking bread and something suspiciously cinnamon-y wafting toward them. Hermione tilted her head.
Cinnamon? That was new.
Her mind wandered as they walked, well, waddled , down the corridor. It still amazed her how this place, once cold and daunting, had transformed into a home. She’d spent the first year of their marriage redecorating the manor, softening its hard edges with bookshelves, Muggle art prints, overgrown houseplants, and wildly inconvenient baby gates.
But it was Draco who’d surprised her most. He’d taken to Muggle life with a fervor that bordered on obsession. Especially cooking.
It started innocently enough, a fascination with the toaster. Then came the pasta phase. The Great Spaghetti Incident was still a sore spot with Milly, who’d had to scrub tomato sauce off the ceiling for a week. But he kept at it. Because when Draco Malfoy decided he wanted something, whether it was to master crepes or win over a war-hardened Muggleborn witch, he committed.
Scorpius squealed and let go of her hands as they neared the arched doorway to the kitchens, making a break for the warm light spilling through. Hermione laughed and followed, brushing a loose curl behind her ear.
And then—
“Molly?” she blinked.
There she was. Molly Weasley. Sleeves rolled up, cheeks flushed, lifting Scorpius in the air like he weighed nothing at all. “There’s my favorite little dragon!” she cooed, kissing his cheeks until he squealed with uncontainable glee.
Hermione froze. Not because of Molly, no, seeing her here was a joy. A wonderful surprise.
But because—
Her breath caught. Her steps halted.
Her mind emptied.
Because there, standing over the stovetop like a sinfully handsome fever dream, was her husband.
Draco Malfoy.
In. An. Apron.
His white Oxford shirt clung far too tightly across his broad back and even broader shoulders, clearly borrowed from a younger, less physically blessed version of himself. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, lean arms corded with muscle and dark ink, the elegant sweep of a serpent winding along his forearm, ancient runes trailing up the inside of one bicep.
The apron, a cheeky Muggle one that read "Kiss the Cook (Or Else)" in bright red letters, was tied around his waist. Flour dusted his front, a smudge of chocolate streaked across one temple, and his hair, Merlin help her, was messily perfect, falling over his brow in soft platinum waves.
He turned at the sound of Scorpius laughing, a spatula in one hand and that stupid, smug, completely undeserved smirk on his face.
And Hermione forgot how to breathe.
She forgot why she was here.
Forgot she was standing in the middle of the kitchen entrance in mismatched socks and one of Draco’s old pajama shirts with baby spit-up on the shoulder.
Her mouth went dry. Her brain fizzled.
Oh no.
He was so obscenely hot she could feel her knees threaten rebellion.
She watched him gesture something to Molly, then glance toward her with mild curiosity, clearly waiting for her to say something, anything.
But she couldn’t speak.
She couldn’t even blink.
All she could think was:
I married that. I made a baby with that. I survived a war and the least fair part of all of it is that my husband somehow looks better in an apron than I do in heels.
Hermione was still staring, somewhere between enchanted and completely undone, when Draco caught her eye properly.
His smirk deepened, and then, just to be infuriating , he licked a bit of batter off his thumb.
Her knees actually buckled.
“Godric,” she muttered under her breath.
Before she could come up with an actual sentence, Draco flicked his wand lazily at the stove and the breakfast scene froze in mid-action. The eggs stopped mid-sizzle. A wooden spoon hovered mid-stir in a pot. The scent of cinnamon and sugar hung frozen in the air.
"Milly," he called over his shoulder, voice smooth as butter, "keep an eye on the flame, will you? It’ll all hold fine, but I’d rather not set fire to the bacon again."
The tiny elf popped into view with a dramatic sigh and a fussy swish of her apron. “Master Draco is hopeless in the kitchen, but Milly will protect the food,” she huffed.
Draco ignored her and turned toward Molly, who was bouncing Scorpius on her hip. “Molly, would you mind taking Scorp for a little walk through the garden? I need a word with my wife.”
Molly's eyebrows rose knowingly as she nodded. “Of course,” she said with a grin. “Come on then, little one. Let’s go count the gnomes.”
Scorpius squealed with delight as they disappeared through the side door, and suddenly the kitchen was very, very quiet.
Hermione swallowed.
“Draco,” she started, but the words fell apart in her throat when he took a single step toward her.
She instinctively stepped back.
He took another.
She backed again, heart thrumming, pulse skittering wildly, until her back hit the cool stone wall just beside the pantry door. Her breath hitched, chest rising and falling in shallow waves as he stopped in front of her, far too close, smelling like cinnamon and sugar and something darker, something utterly him.
He didn’t touch her. Not yet. But his hands braced on either side of the wall, caging her in gently, his smirk fading into something quieter. Something more serious.
"You’ve been looking at me like that for almost ten minutes," he said softly, one brow rising. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were thinking positively filthy things."
Her eyes darted to his tattoos, to the way his apron cinched around his waist, to the way his sleeves hugged his arms, and back up to his maddeningly smug face.
“I wasn’t,” she whispered, even as her body screamed the opposite.
“You were.”
She swallowed again. “You…you said you needed to talk to me.”
“I do,” he said, dipping just slightly closer. His voice lowered, velvet and rich. “I need to ask you if it’s too soon to try for another one.”
Her mouth parted in a gasp.
Draco’s smile softened. He lifted a flour-dusted hand and brushed a stray curl from her face. “Because you just looked at me like you wanted to.”
Her throat tightened, heat blooming under her skin like a spell gone wild.
“Draco—”
“I’m a mess, Hermione,” he murmured. “I’ve burnt six things this morning. Milly threatened to quit again. I got flour in my hair and chocolate on my ear. But if you look at me like that again, I swear to Merlin, I’ll carry you upstairs and you’ll forget breakfast entirely.”
She pressed her lips together, chest rising fast.
“…How much time do we have before the eggs burn?” she asked, voice barely above a breath.
His grin turned wicked. “Five minutes.”
“Then shut up and kiss me, Malfoy.”
T he second she whispered, “Shut up and kiss me,” Draco was on her like he’d been waiting all morning for the invitation.
His mouth met hers in a rush of cinnamon-sweet heat, hands confident and warm as they slid around her waist, pulling her in like he owned the space between them. Hermione let out a soft moan against his lips, her fingers finding purchase in the flour-dusted fabric of his shirt. The kiss deepened, hot and consuming, and she melted into it like butter on toast.
When he broke away, just slightly, he murmured, “Pantry. Now.”
She couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up in her throat. It was ridiculous, how fast he could make her forget the world. But she followed him anyway, letting herself be tugged into the oversized pantry that had long ago been upgraded into a second kitchenette.
Before she could even blink, Draco had her lifted onto the cool marble counter, stepping between her thighs, lips on hers again like he needed her to breathe. Her legs curled around his hips on instinct, her hands cupping his jaw, her body pressing close, desperate and electric.
It was maddening how he still did this to her. Five years married. A baby. A Ministry job. A shared calendar. And he still made her feel like a swoony schoolgirl every time he so much as rolled his sleeves up.
His hands slid to her hips, grounding her, while his mouth trailed dangerously close to her ear. “You’re flushed,” he whispered. “And warm. And making little noises that are very, very distracting.”
She whimpered. An actual, physical whimper.
And just like that, she was no longer in control of her thoughts. Her brain had fizzled to static and was now floating off somewhere, replaced with soft, dangerous daydreams.
If we did have another baby…
What if it was a girl this time? With his grey eyes and that smug smirk? Maybe a little wild-haired version of both of us?
Her lips parted in surprise at her own thoughts. Where had that come from?
Then, before she could finish that dangerous little fantasy, the pantry door slammed open.
And a freezing-cold wave of water smacked her square in the face.
She screeched, flailing back as her hair and clothes went entirely, utterly soaked. Beside her, Draco let out a strangled noise that sounded like a dying fox cub. Hermione blinked rapidly through dripping lashes to see—
“Milly?!”
The elf stood in the doorway, arms crossed, holding an empty glass and looking utterly fed up.
“Missus Hermione,” Milly snapped, “what happened to waiting?! You said no more Malfoy babies until Scorpius is two years old! Did you forget?! Is Missus Hermione out of her MIND over one apron?!”
Hermione sat there, mouth agape, hair plastered to her face, soaked to the bone… and then—
She burst into laughter.
Not polite giggles. Not a lady-like snort.
Full. Belly. Laughter.
“Oh Merlin, I forgot,” she gasped, tears streaming down her cheeks, not sure if it was from the cold or the hilarity. “Three months ago, I made her promise! I was panicking, you kept wearing that awful open-knit jumper with no shirt, and I told her to stop me if I got any ideas!”
Draco looked over at her, drenched, apron sagging with water, eyes squinting in utter disbelief. “What the hell is going on?”
She couldn’t stop laughing.
“Milly,” she wheezed, “is just following orders.”
“I am soaked,” he growled. “I was making bloody breakfast. I have cinnamon in my shoes.”
Hermione wiped her cheeks and grinned. “Don’t be mad, love,” she said, reaching for him and cupping his face with her wet, cold hands. “You’re obscenely attractive when you cook. It’s not my fault I momentarily lost all common sense and decided I needed another child immediately.”
He blinked. “You’re unhinged.”
“I know,” she whispered, pressing a long, slow kiss to his lips. She let it linger, let him feel it, how much she adored him, how happy she was, how full her life had become.
And then, cheek against his, she added softly, “I’ll explain everything later. But I fully plan to use my mouth to apologize. Without words.”
Draco made a sound in the back of his throat and turned back toward the stove without another word. A drying charm rolled off his wand, but his ears were bright red, and she knew he was flustered to his core.
Hermione, still giddy, stepped back out just in time to see Molly returning with Scorpius, who was holding a pinecone like it was a priceless treasure.
“Did I miss something?” Molly asked casually, eyeing the small puddle forming by the pantry door.
“Just Milly doing her job,” Hermione said cheerfully, scooping up her son and snuggling him close. His soft curls smelled like sunlight and garden grass.
As Draco grumbled at the stove, something like, "Salazar help me with this woman," Scorpius babbled in her arms, and Milly muttered to herself about “hormonal witches,” Hermione looked around the kitchen.
And her heart nearly burst.
It wasn’t perfect. It was a messy, chaotic, loud, and cold-water-soaked scene.
But it was hers.
It was theirs.
And she wouldn’t trade it for anything.