Chapter Text
Hermione smiled as her boots clicked against the familiar cobblestones of Diagon Alley, the air filled with the hum of magic and laughter. Beside her, Harry chuckled at something she’d just said. It had been five long years since she returned to England from France, and everything—every smell, every sight—felt both foreign and achingly familiar.
“I still can’t believe you’re back,” Harry said warmly.
“I can’t either,” Hermione laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she glanced around. “Feels like yesterday… and also a lifetime ago.”
As they walked, catching up with ease, Hermione’s steps suddenly slowed. Her gaze landed on a familiar sign swinging gently above one of the quaint storefronts: Flourish and Blotts.
She stopped in her tracks.
“It’s been so long… I’ve missed this place,” she murmured, a fond smile playing on her lips as memories rushed in—stacks of books, the scent of parchment, afternoons lost in words.
Without waiting, she grabbed Harry’s arm and pulled him toward the shop, laughing as he groaned playfully in protest.
Inside, the bookstore was just as she remembered: shelves towering with magical tomes, ladders that rolled across the walls, and the comforting rustle of pages being turned. She wandered through the aisles, trailing her fingers along the spines of new arrivals.
Then, from somewhere nearby, a small voice rang out.
“Mommy! Mommy!”
She barely registered it until a small body bumped into her legs, nearly knocking her off balance. Startled, she looked down—and froze.
A young boy, no older than five or six, clung to her legs with tiny arms. His hair was a striking shade of platinum blonde, his wide grey eyes filled with joy and wonder.
“Excuse me—” Hermione said gently, trying to ease him off her. She crouched down to meet his eye level. “Are you lost, sweetheart?”
But the boy wasn’t listening. His entire face lit up with uncontainable excitement.
“Are you here for my birthday, Mommy? Are you finally coming home?”
Hermione blinked, confused. “Oh… no, I’m sorry,” she said softly, resting a hand on his small shoulder. “I’m not your mummy.”
The boy’s smile didn’t fade. “But Mommy, it’s me—Scorp! It’s my birthday! And Winky said if I wished really hard, it would come true! I wished for you to come home… and you did!”
Before she could respond, he threw his arms around her again, holding on tightly.
Hermione’s heart ached. She couldn’t bring herself to push him away. There was something so sincere, so hopeful in his voice. She glanced up helplessly, still kneeling on the wooden floor, her arms loosely around the boy.
Then came the sound of books clattering to the ground.
Hermione turned her head toward the noise and saw Narcissa Malfoy standing just a few feet away, her expression frozen in pure shock. Older now, yes—but still regal and unmistakably formidable.
Before Hermione could speak, another voice cut through the air.
“Mother, are you alright?”
It was a voice she hadn’t heard in years—cool, composed, and unmistakably familiar. Draco Malfoy stepped into view, concern etched into his features.
And then he saw them.
His eyes widened in disbelief as he took in the scene: Hermione Granger, kneeling on the floor, holding a boy who clung to her like she was the center of his world.
“Look, Daddy!” the boy cried joyfully. “Mummy came home!”
Hermione stared at the boy, then up at Draco, her brow furrowing in confusion. She opened her mouth to speak but found no words.
What in Merlin’s name is going on?
She had never had a child—and certainly not with Draco Malfoy.