Chapter Text
The Ministry office was small—too small, really—for two people who had spent their school years trying to hex each other into next week. Yet here they were, six years out of Hogwarts, sharing a cramped space in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's research division. Hermione had fought tooth and nail for the promotion that landed her here. Draco Malfoy had... well, he'd simply been assigned. Apparently redemption came with paperwork and awkward silences.
She'd managed, mostly. Kept her eyes on parchment, on case files, on anything except the way his pale hair caught the light from the single high window, or the precise way his long fingers turned pages. It was unfair, really, how attractive he was when he wasn't sneering. Quiet concentration suited him far too well.
Today, though, concentration was impossible.
The door opened with a soft click, and Draco stepped inside carrying a small blond boy on his hip. Scorpius Malfoy—barely three, from what she'd overheard in the break room—was clutching a stuffed dragon to his chest and staring around the room with wide, curious grey eyes that were painfully identical to his father's.
Hermione's quill froze mid-sentence.
Draco looked... dishevelled in the best possible way. His usual crisp robes were sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened just enough to show the hollow of his throat. A faint flush sat high on his cheekbones—probably from chasing after an energetic toddler through the Atrium—and there was a tiny smear of what looked like jam on his collar. He was murmuring something low and soothing to Scorpius, bouncing him lightly as the boy pointed at the enchanted quills hovering above her desk.
And Merlin help her, it was the most devastating thing she'd ever seen.
She swallowed hard and forced her gaze back to her notes. Useless. Her heart was thudding too loudly.
"Morning, Granger," Draco said, voice softer than usual. He set Scorpius down carefully. The boy immediately toddled toward her desk, clutching the dragon like a shield.
"Morning," she managed. Her voice came out higher than intended.
Scorpius stopped in front of her chair, tilting his head. "Hi," he said solemnly. "I'm Scor. This is Norbert." He held up the dragon.
Hermione felt something inside her chest crack open. "Hello, Scor. Norbert is very handsome. Did you name him after a famous dragon?"
Scorpius nodded vigorously. "From Harry's book."
She laughed before she could stop herself—soft, surprised. Draco watched them both, expression unreadable.
"I hate to ask," he said after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. "But I've got a consultation with the Wizengamot liaison in twenty minutes. It's non-negotiable—they've already rescheduled twice. Astoria—" He stopped, jaw tightening briefly. "His mother isn't... available. I can't take him in there. Would you mind terribly watching him? Just a couple of hours. I'll owe you."
Hermione blinked. "Of course. I'd be happy to."
Draco exhaled, shoulders dropping a fraction. "Thank you." He crouched to Scorpius's level. "Be good for Miss Hermione, all right? No flying the quills, no turning the ink into frogs. I'll be back before lunch."
Scorpius flung his arms around Draco's neck. "Promise?"
"Promise." Draco pressed a kiss to the top of his son's head, then stood. His eyes met hers for a beat longer than necessary. "I won't be long."
And then he was gone.
The next two hours passed in a gentle blur.
Scorpius was, quite simply, the most adorable child she'd ever met. He asked endless questions in his soft, precise little voice ("Why do quills float? Do they get tired?"), listened with rapt attention when she explained basic levitation charms, and insisted on "helping" her organize case files by stacking them into wobbly towers. When he got tired, he climbed into her lap without hesitation, tucking his head under her chin like he'd done it a thousand times.
She read him a picture book she'd had in her drawer (a Muggle one about trains she'd brought for nostalgia), and he traced the illustrations with one chubby finger, whispering the story back to her in mangled sentences. When he yawned, she summoned a soft blanket from the supply cupboard and let him curl against her side.
By the time Draco returned, Scorpius was fast asleep on the small sofa she'd transfigured from spare chairs, thumb in his mouth, Norbert tucked under his arm.
Draco paused in the doorway, watching them.
Hermione met his gaze over the boy's head. Something unspoken passed between them—gratitude, maybe, or something warmer. She couldn't name it.
"He was perfect," she whispered.
Draco crossed the room quietly and knelt beside the sofa. He brushed a lock of hair from Scorpius's forehead with aching tenderness.
"He likes you," he said, almost too low to hear. "He doesn't warm up to people easily."
Hermione's throat tightened. "He's... wonderful."
Draco looked at her then—really looked. For a moment she thought he might say something else, something that would change everything. But he only nodded.
"I'll let him sleep a bit longer. Thank you, Granger. Again."
She nodded mutely, unable to speak around the sudden ache in her chest.
When Draco eventually gathered Scorpius—still half-asleep and mumbling protests—into his arms, the boy reached out blindly toward her.
"Hermy," he mumbled, small hand waving.
She caught it gently, squeezed. "Bye, Scor. I'll see you soon, okay?"
Scorpius smiled sleepily and nestled into Draco's shoulder.
Draco gave her one last look—soft, searching—before he left.
The door clicked shut.
Hermione sat alone in the suddenly too-quiet office, staring at the empty sofa.
She was in trouble.
Deep, irreversible trouble.
Because it wasn't just Draco anymore—the sharp jaw, the careful hands, the way he looked at case law like it personally offended him. Now it was Draco and Scorpius. The way he'd whispered to his son that morning. The way Scorpius had trusted her instantly. The way she'd wanted—fiercely, instantly—to keep them both safe and loved and close.
She pressed her palms to her eyes.
She was in love with Draco Malfoy.
And now she was halfway in love with his son, too.
She wanted to be the one Scorpius ran to after nightmares. The one who read him stories and kissed scraped knees. The one who belonged in that small, perfect family picture she'd glimpsed today.
But Draco hadn't said anything. Hadn't hinted. And she wasn't brave enough—not yet—to risk shattering the fragile truce they'd built.
So she sat there, heart too full and too bruised, and wondered how she was supposed to keep working across from him every day now that she knew exactly what she wanted.
And couldn't have.
Not yet.