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After waving off their eleven-year-old son, Scorpius, on the Hogwarts Express, Hermione Granger Malfoy jetted off to Rome with Harry and Ginny Potter, whose daughter, Lily, had just started at Hogwarts too.
Years of juggling her Ministry career and parenting had left Hermione drained, and she declared it high time for a proper holiday. Draco, however, was chained to the manor—new contracts flooding the Malfoy family’s business empire demanded his attention. So, without so much as a head’s up, Hermione embarked on her grand adventure.
By the time Draco realized he’d been left to manage both home and business alone, Hermione was already basking in the Mediterranean breeze. At first, he thought it wasn’t such a bad deal—the whole bed to sprawl across, no lectures about house-elf rights and uninterrupted hours to admire his vintage Firebolt collection.
But within days, owls began bombarding the Potters’ villa with letters.
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My Most Esteemed and Admired Potters,
No flattery here—just genuine admiration for you two, the golden couple of wizarding Britain.
I bet Hermione’s turning your holiday into a whirlwind of timetables and to-do lists. I don’t miss her, per se—why would I? But I know she’s probably driving you both mad. I was ready to put up with her chaos a bit longer, but she’s ditched me for you lot.
Given our long-standing friendship, I cannot let her ruin your trip any longer. Please send her back as soon as possible. I’ll deal with her—Merlin knows I’m used to it.
Your faithful and ever-so-magnanimous friend,
Draco Malfoy
P.S. Ron Weasley is not there, is he?
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My Dearest Troublemaker,
You left your allergy potions on the nightstand, you scatterbrain, I’ve had to dispatch the fastest owl to deliver it—consider me your personal St. Mungo’s errand boy.
Scorpius keeps saying he misses his mum, and, alright, I’ll admit it—I’m counting the days too. The mountain of contracts on my desk isn't much company either. Hurry back home, love, though I doubt Ginny’s cooking will tempt you to linger. After all, you two are Gryffindor “Blasting Sisters”.
Enjoy your vacation, but don’t get too comfy.
Your abandoned hubby,
Draco
Meanwhile, in Italy, Hermione read Draco’s letter aloud, her shoulders shaking with laughter. “He’s cracking already.”
“He’s got the nerve to mock my cooking!” Ginny huffed, hands on hips.
“Sweetheart, he’s not entirely wrong,” Harry said, dodging her playful swat.
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My Dear and Revered Ron Weasley,
Writing this is awkward, but here we are. Considering our history—you and Hermione, then me and Hermione, then you……well, let’s not dredge up old drama.
You are single now, right? Allow me to call in some Malfoy strings to find you a decent match, but here’s the deal: help me get my less-than-decent wife back home. If she’s driving you lot spare, don’t hold back for my sake—tell her straight!
Let her come torment me and spare the innocent.
Oh, and please tell the Potters: if they don’t send her back soon, I shall resort to extreme measures. Such as setting Scorpius loose to charm their Lily every chance he gets.
Draco Malfoy
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Mione, Love,
We’ve got a crisis! Can you believe Scorpius and Lily are already together? By Merlin’s soggy socks, it’s barely been a fortnight! Are they growing up too fast? Of all my traits, why’d he have to inherit my charm?
But enough about our little Casanova. The house-elves are on holiday, and I’m drowning in parchment—French apothecaries are hounding me for Pepperup variants. Please come back, Mione—I’m begging you. I swear I’ll never mock your cooking again. You only make pots disappear; I nearly set the kitchen on fire trying to fry an egg.
In desperation, I raided a Muggle supermarket and discovered “instant noodles”. I now fully appreciate Muggle genius and nearly fell in love with whoever came up with that (unless it’s a woman, in which case, forget I said anything).
Also, the bed’s too empty without you. You always steal the blankets, but now I’d rather catch a cold than sleep alone.
Come back and steal my covers, please.
Your drowning husband,
Draco
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Mione,
You heartless witch! Half a month for a reply, and all I get is a scribbled note? “The Milan Cathedral is stunning.”? Like I’ve never seen it.
I’m surviving on these wretched Muggle noodles—beef, shrimp, mushroom—between conference calls with the French apothecaries. My stomach’s staging a revolt. I’m one slimy packet away from tracking down the Muggle who invented them and cursing him.
Now you’re off to Venice, a city built on water? What is the appeal? You are not a mermaid.
COME HOME!!!!!!!
Your desperate husband,
Draco
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Mione, Darling,
I waited and waited until the roses in the manor wilted, yet still no word from you. So, I gave up and went to a singles bar with Theo last night. That bar was wild—strong whiskey, gorgeous girls, and no one talking about elf welfare. I stumbled home at dawn, greeted only by sweet, blissful silence. This is the life I forgot I could have.
Theo swears he’ll never tie the knot, and I’m starting to get why. Enjoy your gondola rides, sweetheart.
Draco
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My Dear Mione,
That was a quick reply.
No need to wave your wand, I only had a couple of drinks. And those bartenders? Stunning, objectively speaking. Didn’t you say the same about that café in Diagon Alley once?
Might have plans tonight, so I’ll keep this short. Have a blast in Venice.
Draco
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Mione,
Good news! I finally sealed that blasted contract with the French apothecary—Pepperup variants are officially in production, and I’m practically a hero in the potion world.
In the process, I met a charming witch, Annie, their lead consultant. She’s a Ravenclaw grad with straight O’s, just like you—sharp as a tack and sweet as Honeydukes’ finest. I helped her review some formulae yesterday, and she thanked me with a home-cooked dinner that could rival Hogwarts’ feasts.
Afterward, I stumbled into a quaint coffee shop in Diagon Alley—Merlin’s beard, their espresso could wake a sleeping dragon!
If you want to keep gallivanting through Italy, I’m fine with it. Don’t worry about me.
Draco
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Mione,
Your reply was lightning-fast this time. How’d you know Annie and I grabbed coffee together? I didn’t mention that, did I? Anyway, she’s a vision—sharp in a suit, radiant in casual robes. Practically a Veela.
What’s with calling her “a conniving little snake” in your letter? That’s harsh, even for you. Annie’s clever, sweet, and whips up a mean roast—give her a chance. I’m thinking of hiring her for the business; she’s got a knack for potions.
Take your time in Italy, love.
Draco
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Mione,
Your letters are literally like Howlers now. I have to say, Annie’s got a flair for potions—she suggested tweaking our latest batch with moonflower essence, and it’s brilliant. She’s been helping me sort through the chaos of orders at the office.
No rush to come back, love.
Yours,
Draco
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Mione,
I must point out that your behavior is unbecoming. I gave your last letter to Annie before opening it, and she says you tore into her—threatening to hex her, no less! That Gryffindor fire of yours is fine with me, but why take it out on her?
The world’s too beautiful for your temper.
You claimed Annie’s meddling in our family business was uncalled for. She’s selflessly helping a poor, abandoned bloke keep the company running. The least you could do is thank her for keeping your husband company. And saying I can’t have a female friend? That’s absurd. What about you and Potter?
Anyway, there are still some contracts we need to go through. Enjoy your time in Italy.
Draco
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Mione,
You’re overthinking my last letter. Writing "Annie and I" as "we" was a slip of the pen, and I’m not about to let you sentence me to Azkaban over a typo. You don’t report your every move, so why must I? That’s not fair, love.
Speaking of which, I read in the Daily Prophet that a murderer has escaped Azkaban. With danger about, I can’t let a sweet witch like Annie work late at the office alone. So I’m going to her house tonight to keep an eye out. You, my big-hearted, compassionate wife, surely won’t mind.
And stop flooding me with letters. I’ve told you I’m fine. Enjoy your holiday.
Draco
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Mione,
No need to write back. I’ve planned a trip to Hawaii with Annie.
As colleagues, of course. Off to help her pack now.
Draco
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Mione,
You’re back next Monday? Merlin’s beard, that’s bad timing. Annie and I will leave in the morning. Just let yourself in. Rotten luck, really.
Draco
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My Dearest, One and Only, Beloved Wife,
Hearing you’re already sailing home has me grinning like a fool. I’m wasting away on instant noodles—cruel woman, you’ve left me to starve! If I see another packet, I might kill someone.
Truth is, I never went to any bar with Theo. We just lounged at the manor. He was banging on about how he comes home to an empty flat every night—no one to argue with, no one to share his food, no one to make life worth living. It makes me wonder what my life will be like without you. And he suggested that women ignore you when you beg but pay attention when you stir trouble. It clicked—that’s how I won you over. So, I cooked up this ridiculous Annie nonsense to stir you up and get you home.
Merlin, I was terrified you’d believe I was running off with some imaginary Ravenclaw. There’s no Annie, love! Just a mountain of potion contracts and a lonely husband who’s rubbish at managing without you.
You threatened to curse me? Bring it on, love. But please, Mione, come home. The manor’s too quiet, the bed’s too cold, and I’m hopeless without you.
If this letter makes you turn back to Italy, so be it. I’ll just take some Annie to Hawaii after all.
So will you come home? Or come home? Or perhaps…... come home?
Your sorry, loyal, and nearly fainting-from-malnutrition husband,
Draco