Chapter Text
June 8th 2012
He had been reading the same paragraph for the last ten minutes, the words blurring together while his mind remained firmly on the other side of the office door. Something metal had just hit the floor, he’d heard someone curse loudly and had to restrain himself from jumping up and running into the chaos. Trying to read potential supplier contracts and business plans inside a cramped office squeezed into the back of a restaurant kitchen was hardly an easy task, especially when all Draco wanted was to be in the kitchen himself.
Nobody screamed, Eleanor didn’t rush through the door to tell him someone had lost a finger, and a few seconds later Callum’s steady voice carried through the kitchen, too muffled for Draco to hear the words, but followed by a burst of laughter.
He took a deep breath. Everyone and everything was fine.
Draco turned back to the business plan, making a couple of handwritten scribbles where he intended to make adjustments. The service bell went off and he glanced back at the door. His nerves were ridiculous, he knew. Callum had been running service without him for well over a year. Draco took two evenings off most weeks now, a development Hermione was delighted about as it meant they could actually spend some time together, and Cinders functioned in his absence. Customers were fed, critics and reviewers were satisfied, staff remained alive, and the restaurant hadn’t burned to the ground. So there was no reason for him to need to know what was happening in the kitchen tonight. He still wanted to, though. Sitting in an office in pristine clothes felt wasteful.
End of service was underway, he could hear it without needing to look at the clock. Earlier, the noise had been faster, full of shouted timings, oil sizzling and pans on burners as the doors opened and closed constantly and the bell rang every three seconds. Now the rhythm was slower, longer gaps, the occasional smattering of conversation when two hours ago nobody would have wasted their breath on anything unrelated to food. He knew every sound instinctively, like when someone dropped a pan rather than a plate, the specific scrape of the heavy stockpot being dragged along the counter. Merlin, he even dreamed of the service bell.
Draco shifted in his chair and picked up another sheet. He’d mapped out a prospective kitchen in fine detail, complete with measurements from the surveyor, and an additional sheet from the architect about features that could be retained. The architect was more optimistic; Draco wanted to rip the entire kitchen out and start fresh. The range was in the wrong place, the cold storage was too small, and whoever had designed the existing layout had apparently believed chefs enjoyed walking unnecessary distances while carrying hot pans. No wonder the previous restaurant went out of business.
He’d said as much to Hermione during the viewing, and she’d only laughed and reminded him that he’d insisted they were ‘only looking at options’. But looking didn’t prevent him from having opinions, nor did it stop him from spending the following few days sketching alternative layouts. Now, a few months on, it was looking like a real possibility that he would open a second restaurant in Wizarding London. One of his primary questions was whether it would be a second Cinders, or an entirely new venture altogether.
A ripple of applause sounded from somewhere beyond the office and Draco frowned, looking up. What in Godric’s name were they applauding?
He half rose from the chair before catching himself, one hand already braced against the desk. No, he was supposed to be sitting out of the action. He’d loudly proclaimed it was Callum’s kitchen for the entire week. If it mattered, someone would come and tell him. Hopefully.
Draco sat back down and glanced at the clock. It was just after nine thirty. The restaurant would be mostly empty with only two or three tables lingering over dessert or coffee. Eleanor would no doubt be attempting to make them feel welcome while also trying to usher them out the door so they could close at ten.
Someone in the kitchen started singing loudly and Draco cringed. Yes, everything was definitely fine. He focused on the sheets of paper in front of him, drowning out the telltale sounds of cleaning, and managed to get through another two pages of the business plan before the office door swung open and Callum appeared in the doorway. His chef whites were stained in several colours at the middle, a dark smear streaked his forearm, and his hair had taken on the greasy, damp state it usually did after service. He reeked of oil and spices. Draco looked down at his own clothes, offensively clean. He hated the contrast.
“Well,” Callum said with an easy smile. “You didn’t come in.”
Draco nodded, glancing back at his papers before he spun round in the wheelie chair to face Callum fully. “I didn’t. It sounded like you had it all under control.”
“I was impressed. I thought you’d come running through when we were behind on fish,” Callum said. “You did two nights ago. Thought you’d find another excuse.”
He chose to ignore the comment, although Callum was right, it had taken all of his willpower to stay put. “How was service?”
“Good. Table six didn’t like the duck—”
Draco’s brows pulled together. “Why?”
“Too much blackberry,” Callum said with a shrug, his expression apologetic.
He fought the urge to roll his eyes, a twinge of irritation unfurling in his chest. “It says it has a blackberry reduction on the menu.”
“Apparently he didn’t realise how much it would taste of blackberries and doesn’t like them.” Callum rolled his eyes and Draco joined him.
Sometimes he thought people should be forced to pass a basic comprehension test before being allowed to order from a menu. The idiocy he’d seen while working a public-facing job was astounding. Draco didn’t know how half these people managed to get out the house with their robes buttoned and shoes on the right feet, never mind holding down a job or passing exams in school.
“Fish was ten minutes behind, as you heard,” Callum went on, “but nobody complained. Dropped the stockpot on the floor by accident, but all in all, a good service. Tables were booked all night.”
That wasn’t a surprise. Since they’d opened they’d had a steady stream of customers and had become one of the top spots in the country. They had reservations booked solid for weeks ahead of time. Sometimes he was able to cram in an extra table should someone like Theo ever decide to drop by, but it was rare. This was partially why he was looking at a second location, as the only complaints they received were that people couldn’t get reservations without calling a month in advance.
“What has this been about, anyway?” Callum asked, leaning against the doorframe as the sounds of people cleaning the kitchen emanated through. “You being here but hiding in the office and making me run it all.”
Draco paused, turning back to the plans that were spread across the cluttered desk. “You remember I said I’d viewed another property,” he said, turning back to face Callum. “I already knew you could run service when I wasn’t here. I wanted to see what happened if you did it for a full week while I was still in the building. To see if you could run a kitchen full time, rather than just the few nights a week I’m not here.”
Callum’s eyes widened and he stood up straighter, tugging his dirty chef whites down. “You mean—”
“I’d want you to be Head Chef, yes—if I were to go ahead with it,” Draco confirmed with a nod. He watched as his sous chef processed the news, surprise and accomplishment evident in his features. “You know the menu and the staff. It makes perfect sense,” he explained. “Eleanor already listens to you better than she listens to me.”
Callum cracked a toothy grin. “That’s only because I’m nicer than you.”
Likely true, he had to admit. “If I take it on, I can’t possibly run both kitchens. So I can develop menus, deal with suppliers and the background administration, interfere when I consider it necessary—”
“So constantly, then,” Callum said with a chuckle.
“—but it would be your kitchen day to day.”
The man quietened, turning to look over his shoulder at the kitchen, now in a complete state of calm, prepped and ready for service to begin again tomorrow. “You’re sure about this?”
Draco frowned. “I’d hardly have said it otherwise.”
“I know, just…” Callum rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, laughing as though he were embarrassed by his own reaction. “Head Chef is a big fucking job.”
“I’m well aware. I currently do it,” Draco drawled, moving his tone into teasing territory. “But I have faith in you, Callum. You can do it. You’ve been doing it every night that I’m off, and all week.”
Over the last two years he’d watched all of his staff grow both in skill and confidence. Callum had started suggesting dish ideas for specials, other staff had come forward with ideas on better organisation systems or dining room layout. Draco took them all on board, implementing the ones he liked and agreed with. He could hardly begrudge his team for being passionate and enthusiastic, could he? So he knew Callum was capable. He’d known for a long time. Draco would be an idiot to give the job to anyone else. He’d briefly considered madly Apparating between the two locations to run the pass in both but Hermione had quickly shot that idea down. Admittedly, it had been one of his more outrageous ones.
“Nothing is concrete yet,” Draco added quickly. “I haven’t signed anything. But when I do—if I do—we can announce to the kitchen that you’ll be stepping up as Head Chef, and we’ll have to look into a new sous chef to take over your role, do some rejigging and see if we need to hire externally.”
“Yeah,” Callum agreed, his tone distant and expression far off. He looked like he was in shock. “Yeah, absolutely.”
Draco rose, moving to stand beside Callum at the door and together they surveyed the kitchen. Heat from the burners and ovens still lingered, but the place had been entirely reset now, all the other staff members having gone home. Exhaustion lined Callum’s face, mixed in with the satisfaction of having completed yet another successful service.
Part of this week had been about proving to himself that he could be in the building without jumping in to help, and he’d failed that on the first two nights. Another element had been seeing if the staff would still answer to Callum when Draco was in the office, and they’d done so. So Callum was ready, and perhaps Draco was ready too, to step back from Cinders and let Callum run it.
“There’ll be a pay rise too,” Draco added, since he suddenly became aware he hadn’t mentioned that and money tended to be rather important when getting promoted.
Callum scoffed. “Well, I’d bloody hope so.”
***
When he got home, Hermione had left a light on downstairs for him as she always did. The sight always brought a smile to his lips. His wife always ensured he didn’t step out of the Floo into complete darkness. A blanket was strewn across the couch, indicating she’d been curled under it before retreating upstairs, and a coffee cup was abandoned on the table beside it. Draco picked it up and took it through to the kitchen.
Turning the light on in there revealed a much bigger mess. It was his pride and joy, this room, but it had recently fallen into a messy state with both of them bringing work home. The custom-built island that dominated the space was covered in Ministry paperwork and blueprints for the possible second location, a combination of both their working lives intertwined. He pretended it irritated him, but part of him secretly liked seeing their goals and ambitions stacked together.
Draco placed the cup in the sink and headed upstairs. He found Hermione propped up against the headboard in one of his old t-shirts, her hair piled up in a messy bun, reading a paperback. Crookshanks noticed him arriving and stretched languidly on his pillow, extending each paw leisurely as though he’d been waiting for Draco to come back and witness his defiance.
He stopped in the doorway, one hand on the frame. “That’s my pillow.”
Hermione turned a page, pausing to glance up at him with a smile. “Good evening to you too.”
Crookshanks, seeing the pillow’s actual owner had returned, reluctantly got to his feet and let out a big yawn, exposing his fangs before he trotted off and curled up on the duvet near Hermione’s knees. Draco tried not to think about the countless ginger hairs the cat likely left behind or how many of them he would wake up with stuck to his face.
“Is this a regular activity of his?” he asked, unbuttoning his shirt as he approached the wardrobe.
“He likes your pillow. I think because it smells like you,” Hermione said, placing a receipt in the book to mark her place.
“That’s not as endearing as you believe it is.” Draco shrugged his shirt from his shoulders and dropped it into the laundry basket, catching her watching him unabashedly. “How was your evening?”
“Productive,” she said, putting the book down on her bedside table. “I reviewed the MAP plans for the summer, organised my meetings for tomorrow and read seventy-eight pages of this.” She held up the book as Draco turned to face her. “And I did no Ministry paperwork after eight.”
Draco grinned, tugging off his trousers and letting them join the shirt in the basket. “I’m so proud of you,” he said with exaggerated sincerity, crossing the room in a couple of steps and leaning over to kiss her. She returned it with a chuckle against his lips, a chaste peck that lingered for an extra second before he straightened again. “Growth. At this rate, by forty you may discover weekends.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” Hermione said with a laugh, shifting in the bed so she was comfier. “Saturday mornings are useful.”
Draco climbed into bed beside her. Crookshanks had the audacity to look affronted by the movement of the mattress as he slid under the covers, shooting him a furious look and flattening his ears, even though this happened every night.
He paused with one hand still on the duvet. “I own this house and buy your food, you know.”
Hermione snorted. “I’m sure that will be very persuasive.”
“I contribute significantly to his standard of living,” Draco pointed out, tugging the duvet up to cover his chest slowly so as not to disrupt Crookshanks, who seemed to expect the entire house to run completely to his whims.
“And he contributes significantly to yours.”
“How?”
“Emotional enrichment. Life is always better with an animal around.” Hermione’s tone was light and playful. She leaned forward, giving Crookshanks a scratch behind the ears.
“He vomited on my shoes last week,” Draco huffed.
He lay down properly, as did she, and reached out to smooth a loose curl back from her forehead. After all this time, he remained utterly obsessed with her hair.
“How did it go?” she asked. “Did you tell him?”
“I did.” Draco tucked an arm behind his head and stared up at the ceiling for a few moments, aware of Hermione watching him. “I also managed to stay in the office for the entire service.”
She looked genuinely impressed and surprised, shuffling on the pillows until her head was against his chest. “The entire service?”
“Yes.”
“You didn't even go in once?”
Draco smiled. “No, I didn’t.” He pulled her hand into his, lifting it and brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “He was happy, and a bit nervous, I think. He’s more than ready. He asked if I was sure, though. Which was silly. Of course I’m sure or I wouldn’t have said it.”
“He might not have been questioning whether he could do it,” Hermione said, studying him. “He might have been asking whether you were really ready to let him.”
Draco looked over at her and she gave him an innocent smile.
“Careful,” he warned. “You’re beginning to sound like Pemberton.”
She giggled. “And how does that make you feel?” she asked, putting on an almost perfect imitation of Pemberton, who he still saw once a month.
Draco groaned and let his head fall back. “I pay her to ask me irritating questions, I don’t accept them in my marital bed.”
“Sounds like avoidance to me,” Hermione said solemnly, although the twitch at the corner of her mouth ruined the effect.
“It sounds like grounds for divorce.”
“Eight months in? How embarrassing.”
Draco looked at her, pulling her in close and pressing a kiss into the mess of curls at the side of her head. “It’s strange though, being there but not being in there.”
“Bad strange?” she asked, tracing circles on his chest.
“No.” Draco thought about it for a moment, listening to the rumble of Crookshanks’s purr from the bottom of the bed. “Just strange. I knew when something was happening because the noise changed, but I didn’t know what.”
Hermione settled more comfortably against him, her leg sliding across his under the duvet. Draco stared at the ceiling again, his fingers moving lazily against her skin. “And you still want the other place?”
“Yes,” he admitted quietly. “Yes, I want it.”
She leaned up and ran a thumb along his jaw, giving him a serious look. “Then you should do it. But we have to work out how you do it without disappearing into a kitchen for months like you did whe—”
“I have no intention of repeating that,” Draco said earnestly. “I rather like seeing my wife.”
He kissed her lazily, neither of them having enough energy to turn it into anything more. Hermione hummed against his mouth before she settled back onto his chest. Truthfully, he had no clue how to open a new restaurant without spending every waking moment overseeing the operation. He and Hermione were both workaholics, both controlling. It was part of the reason their partnership worked so well. He understood when she was caught up in work, reading endlessly, practising arguments ahead of meetings, and she understood when he had to spend sixteen hours at the restaurant.
It was give and take. Neither of them intended on being the reason the other couldn’t fulfil all their goals. He fully expected her to be Minister for Magic one day, and where that left him he wasn’t sure. Running a restaurant empire? Possibly. Although he couldn’t imagine a situation where he wasn’t working in the kitchen every day.
Draco pondered this for a while as Hermione’s breathing evened out. Crookshanks shuffled around the bottom of the blanket before dropping like a dead weight on his ankles. He reached over and switched off the lamp before sinking properly into the pillow with her warm body against his.
“Goodnight, darling, I love you,” he whispered into the darkness.
June 11th 2012
Arguing about fireplaces for the better part of forty-five minutes was not the career she’d imagined for herself when she had accepted the transfer to Magical Law Enforcement six months earlier. There had been vague ideas about justice, empowerment, institutional reform, and the exhilarating moment in which some archaic piece of legislation was struck from the books, and that did occasionally happen. But mostly, the Post-War Statutory Review project she was heading up consisted of sitting in windowless rooms with people who had worked at the Ministry longer than Hermione had been alive and explaining, with diminishing patience, that a law did not have to contain the words ‘Muggleborns are prohibited’ to discriminate against Muggleborns.
“The regulation applies equally to every household,” Benjamin Buckworth said, nudging his wide-rimmed glasses up his nose for the fifth time in ten minutes. He was a small, balding wizard from the Floo Network Authority who looked and acted exactly like someone who had worked at the Floo Network Authority for decades. “There is no mention of blood status anywhere in the provision.”
Hermione pressed her lips together. Beside her, her colleague Clara moved the plate of biscuits further away from her, presumably because she had noticed Hermione was starting to snap them in half too aggressively and that was generally a sign she was about to lose her temper.
“I’m aware there is no mention of blood status,” she said, gesturing to the papers spread across the large conference table. “I can read.”
Buckworth blinked and adjusted his glasses again. Hermione drew in a steady inhale, holding it before she let it go.
“The problem is—” She pulled a piece of paper toward herself and ran a finger beneath the sentence she’d already read aloud twice since the meeting started. “As I’ve said, look at the definition of an ‘eligible applicant’. ‘A domestic Floo connection may be sought by any witch or wizard of age who is ordinarily resident at the property in question’. That means an adult magical resident must live in the house before the house can be connected.”
“Yes,” Buckworth said slowly, dragging the word out as though he were speaking to someone intellectually challenged. “For security purposes.”
“Mr. Buckworth, imagine an eleven-year-old witch receives her Hogwarts letter this summer.”
He frowned at the sudden change in direction. “Alright. And?”
Hermione leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “She lives in Birmingham with her parents. Both of whom are Muggles. Who sets up their Floo connection?”
Buckworth paused. He glanced down at his papers, opened his mouth to reply and then thought better of it. His glasses slid to the edge of his nose before he pushed them back up. “Well,” he began slowly, scanning the documents. “The child could apply upon reaching seventeen.”
“And for the six years before that?” Hermione asked.
“There are public Floo points.”
“In Birmingham, there are only seven public Floo points,” Hermione explained, pulling up a paper in which she’d listed all the public Floo points in England. Many of the major cities had a few, the most appearing in London. The more rural a person lived, however, the less chance they had of having access to one. “Three are inside buildings that require visitor clearance, a couple charge per journey. The closest unrestricted Floo connection to this hypothetical family in Birmingham is the back room of a magical apothecary the parents would need assistance to access, because they are Muggles themselves. Assuming this hypothetical eleven-year-old even knows it’s there, which is unlikely.”
Buckworth didn’t have a response, instead choosing to open and close his mouth a few times like a fish.
“I checked,” Hermione said.
“Of course you did,” he muttered under his breath.
She chose to ignore it. “Now imagine the same eleven-year-old lives two streets away, except both her parents are magical. Her father sends in his form, pays the registration fee, and the fireplace is connected within fourteen working days.”
“But the regulation isn’t based on blood,” Buckworth protested. “It’s based on whether there is an adult magical resident in the household.”
Hermione stared at him. Perhaps Buckworth really was this dense. Twenty-five years in the same post at the Floo Network Authority had apparently allowed his critical-thinking skills to ooze out of his ears. “That is exactly the point.”
Buckworth didn’t look remotely convinced and Hermione had no clue how to lay it out any clearer. She let out a huff of irritation and crossed her arms.
Clara leaned forward and addressed Buckworth herself. “How many pureblood children live in homes without an adult magical resident?” she asked.
Buckworth shifted in his chair, which loudly creaked under his weight. “I don’t have that figure to hand.”
“It’s approximately none,” Clara clarified. “And how many Muggleborn children do?”
“All of them,” Buckworth admitted, removing his glasses and polishing the lenses on his shirt.
Hermione resisted the urge to smile. Clara had transferred from Magical Transportation to the Review unit two months ago, and had developed a potentially alarming level of enjoyment watching Hermione argue with visiting departmental representatives. She’d slowly been finding her voice, speaking up more in meetings. Hermione was grateful for her input.
“I see,” Clara said, nodding slowly. “That does seem to make this issue appear rather straightforward, then.”
Buckworth looked from one woman to the other as though this was a planned ambush. In a way, it was. Hermione and Clara had discussed beforehand that Clara could step in when needed. Her voice was softer; she came across as more likeable and well-meaning, whereas Hermione had… issues with that.
“But changing the provision would mean allowing Muggles to make applications to the Floo Network,” he said.
“Yes.”
“They aren’t registered magical citizens.”
“But they are the legal guardians of registered magical citizens.”
Buckworth cleared his throat loudly. “They can’t use wands.”
“Fortunately.” Hermione managed to keep her tone light. “The application form requires no complex demonstrations of spellwork.”
He sighed and leafed through the ancient statute that hadn’t been updated in the last fifty years. “There would be some security concerns.”
“Then we address those,” Clara said, reaching for her notes. “Identity verification, proof that a magical minor is ordinarily resident, perhaps even confirmation or a referral from Hogwarts. Those are solutions, but we cannot solve a security problem by excluding an entire category of family from a public service.”
“It isn’t exclusion,” Buckworth protested, before collapsing into a coughing fit so bad his eyes watered.
Clara and Hermione made brief eye contact while they waited for him to collect himself.
“A family is legally prevented from accessing a service because the magical person in their household is an underage Muggleborn and therefore does not have a magical parent,” Hermione said through gritted teeth once he’d finally stopped coughing.
He adjusted his glasses. “The legislation doesn’t say—”
“If you tell me one more time that the legislation does not contain the word ‘Muggleborn’, I am going to put you through that fireplace,” Hermione snapped. It wasn’t the first time she’d lost her temper during one of these meetings. “And for Merlin’s sake get smaller glasses!”
Silence fell and Buckworth gaped at her. Clara was shooting warning glances at her and Hermione closed her eyes. Right, she was meant to be breathing. In. Out.
“That was hyperbole, of course,” she said on the exhale. “I apologise.”
He nodded cautiously and she scribbled down ‘work on threatening stakeholders’ in the margin of her notes. It had been a long six months, and she had many more to go. She could already imagine Draco’s hysterical laughter when she told him about this. He’d almost fallen off his chair when she’d told him about her meeting with Augustus Poliver, when she’d thrown the papers off the table in frustration.
Six months ago, she would have viewed this as a failure. The law was still present, Buckworth was still defending it, and she’d just threatened him with physical violence. However, she’d been with the Review project for some time now, and could recognise progress where before she would have dismissed it. Buckworth was still arguing, but he was arguing about the implementation now, which meant he’d already lost, whether he realised it or not.
“Fine,” he said at last. “I’ll ask Legal to draft an alternative eligibility provision and send it to your office for review.”
Hermione smiled. Progress, indeed. “That would be excellent.”
“Transport will need to conduct a security review.”
“Of course.” She nodded.
“There may be additional costs involved—”
“We can discuss those,” Clara interjected and Buckworth smiled at her. “Once we establish why a Muggle household should pay more than a magical one for the same service.”
The smile dropped and he blew out a long breath. “Alright, fine.”
They said their goodbyes and Hermione remained seated while Buckworth left the room. Once he was gone she let her head drop onto the table and groaned.
“It wasn’t that bad,” Clara chuckled, slowly inching the plate of biscuits back in her direction.
Hermione begged to differ.
Some elements of the Review had been easy. There were laws that did explicitly use terms like blood lineage, or wizarding parentage. Nobody had seriously argued that they should survive. They’d been highlighted and sent on for repeal without a question. Everyone was desperate to remove all remnants of pureblood ideology from the Ministry as quickly as possible. The difficult, hidden ones were far more interesting, the laws nobody thought to question, like the regulation requiring a magical adult to request a Floo connection, or a Ministry relocation grant available to households displaced by magical disasters that calculated compensation based on the number of registered wandholders in the property, rather than the number of people actually living in the property.
None of them said purebloods first, but they didn’t need to. They’d simply been written by people who had imagined a wizard when they imagined a citizen, or a magical family when they imagined a household. It was both fascinating and infuriating, meaning she loved and hated it at the same time.
When Robards had approached her about the transfer late last year, she’d almost refused. She’d spent more than a decade in the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She knew its systems, knew the people. She was prepped for office politics, knowing who responded to assertiveness or flattery, knew the forms inside out, and she’d built a career there. At the time, she’d felt that was where she was best placed, and that she was well on track to one day becoming Minister for Magic if she stayed there. That was still the goal. It had always been the goal.
But when she found out what the specific project was, it had been a no-brainer. It was something enormous she could sink her teeth into, and something that would allow her to become intimately familiar with every single piece of Ministry policy affecting the magical world.
When she got back to her office, a paper aeroplane shot through the gap, circling above her head before it landed neatly beside the next piece of legislation she had to look through. She approached and dropped her documents onto the desk, unfolding it.
Hermione—McGonagall Flooed while you were in review. Two student mentors have pulled out of the July Diagon Alley orientation. She needs replacements confirmed.
She groaned, slumping down into her seat. MAP was still ongoing, of course. If anything, it had expanded considerably since that first frantic summer. Now the programme included a Hogwarts visit, support groups, multiple visits to Diagon Alley, instructions on magical life so parents could understand Floo connections, currency exchanges, and the definitions of basic spells so parents weren’t left behind. She had lists of mentors and volunteers, and information packs Hermione revised each spring. In theory, she shouldn’t have needed to be so directly involved, but every July seemed to bring some brand new crisis nobody—even her—anticipated.
The mentors were easy to handle. She pulled open the bottom drawer of her desk and retrieved her folder, flicking through applications until she found the reserve list. There was a pair of Muggleborn Ravenclaw twins going into sixth year who had written beautifully earnest paragraphs about wanting new students to feel less frightened than they had, but they’d handed in their applications late. Hermione circled their names and scribbled a note to Neville asking him to contact them. Perfect. Crisis averted.
***
Hermione arrived nine minutes late and found Ginny at the table already eating a sandwich. “You started without me?” she asked, dropping into an empty chair.
Sophie was sitting opposite, with a lemonade and waiting for her own food.
“You said one,” Ginny said, still chewing. “And I’m starving.”
“I was in a meeting,” Hermione argued.
Sophie grinned and pushed the menu towards her. “Did you threaten anyone this time?”
Her antics in meetings were becoming well-known. She paused as she looked down at the sandwich options. Ginny chuckled, wiping the back of her mouth as she swallowed. “You did, then.”
“I didn’t—Well, I may have threatened to throw a representative from the Floo Network Authority into a fireplace.”
Both Ginny and Sophie burst out laughing, Ginny’s sounding more strangled around food. Hermione didn’t rise to it, inspecting the menu even though she knew what she was ordering. They’d been coming to this Muggle cafe regularly for well over a year and the menu never changed.
“Oh Merlin,” Sophie wheezed, her shoulders shaking. “And?” “Well, he agreed to have new policies drawn up provisionally,” Hermione said, fighting a smile.
“All’s well that ends well, then. Sounds like you were just being effective,” Ginny added with a shrug, already reaching for her sandwich again. Crisps lined her plate, and Sophie reached over and swiped one. Ginny turned to her in disbelief. “You ordered your own food.”
“I’m pregnant,” Sophie said innocently, as though that were the answer to everything.
Ginny rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t make you immune to social etiquette, wait until your own food comes.”
Sophie responded by reaching for another crisp and Ginny slapped her hand away. The American laughed, her other palm moving over the rounded swell beneath her dress. “I feel so huge and I’m only halfway there.”
“You’re not even that big yet,” Ginny said.
“Easy for you to say. You’re not my jeans.”
“Buy maternity trousers,” Ginny said flippantly, taking another bite of her sandwich.
A waiter approached with Sophie’s BLT and a side of crisps and coleslaw before taking Hermione’s order, thankfully ending an in-depth conversation about maternity trousers.
The issue with being the only person in the group who had neither been pregnant before nor had a baby meant there were now long conversations Hermione couldn’t offer much advice or insight to. Since Sophie announced her pregnancy, she’d ended up taking a backseat during their catch-ups, listening more than talking. It was no bad thing, Hermione reminded herself. Friendships could remain deep and meaningful without her adding to or understanding every single detail. Sometimes that meant listening and adding the appropriate non-verbal responses when being asked her opinion on baby clothes and pregnancy symptoms.
“How are you feeling?” she asked once the waiter was gone. “Are you still travelling?”
Sophie nodded. “Yes, mostly. I’m fine, but tired sometimes. And I now get heartburn after every meal, which is fun. Ron is still acting like I’m made of glass, though.”
Ginny snorted as she took a drink of her coffee. “Harry did that too. I think it’s the only way they feel useful.”
“He means well,” Sophie said fondly. “He felt the baby kick for the first time the other night and lost it.”
“Did he cry?” Ginny asked, clasping her hands together. Sophie hesitated, and Ginny slapped the table with her excitement. “I knew it! Of course he did.”
The waiter returned with Hermione’s sandwich, and conversation stalled as all the women focused on their food for a few minutes. Eventually, Sophie looked up at her.
“So, how’s MAP going?” she asked, gesturing to Hermione’s face. “You’ve got that familiar June manic energy again.”
Hermione snorted. She supposed she did always get a bit more fraught when everything was happening. Every summer she thought it would get easier, but it never did. “Letters have gone out, and everyone has questions. We’re organising the mentors, setting up the communication coins… It’s busy.” She shrugged, popping a crisp into her mouth. “But we’ll get there. We always do.” She turned to Ginny. “How’s James?”
“Oh, ferocious as ever. He bit Harry yesterday.”
“Why?” Hermione asked, chuckling.
“Because Harry stopped him climbing onto the dining table. He’s discovered climbing, and now thinks everything is a jungle gym. Chairs, shelves, the lot. I found him halfway up the bookcase a couple of days ago.”
Sophie was grinning, her eyes misting over. “He’s so cute. I can’t wait until I have one that age—”
“Oh, no,” Ginny said, turning to Sophie, shaking her head and wagging a finger for emphasis. “Do not wish the time away. You get to enjoy the newborn stage for as long as you can. It’s all problems once they start moving and talking. Trust me.”
Hermione laughed lightly. Unfortunately, because of work, she didn’t see James as much as she’d like. She was there for all the important moments, birthdays and the like, but with how busy she was she couldn’t carve out weekly time to see him, so whenever she did see him, she was amazed by how much he’d come on. He’d started talking, but wasn’t quite able to pronounce words properly. Hermione was Aunt Mimi, and Sophie was Aunt Soapy. Hermione preferred her own moniker.
And despite Ginny’s complaints, motherhood suited her. She always wore a wide grin when she talked about James, showing people pictures when they hadn’t asked.
Sophie gave an impish grin to Ginny. “Are you still… thinking about that thing we talked about?” she asked, her voice teasing.
“What thing?” Hermione said, her brows pulling together. She’d caught up with Ginny last week and she hadn’t mentioned a ‘thing’.
Ginny shook her head. “Nothing.”
“She and Harry are talking about having another baby!” Sophie blurted out, then yelped as Ginny kicked her under the table.
Hermione’s eyes widened and she almost dropped her sandwich. “Wait—you’re—really?!” she asked, biting back the sting that came from learning Ginny had spoken to Sophie about this first and not her. Again, different life stages.
Ginny sighed, rolling her eyes. “Yes, thinking, talking, nothing is official yet. Nobody is pregnant.” She glanced at Sophie, her eyes communicating murder. “Well, except for Miss Tattle-Tale over there.”
“Mrs. Tattle-Tale, thank you very much,” Sophie said proudly, showing off her wedding band and engagement ring.
“I thought—” Hermione turned to Ginny. “I thought you said you were never doing it again?”
“I know,” Ginny said, still sounding annoyed at Sophie and herself. “I know what I said.”
“You told Harry if he wanted a second child then he could carry it,” Hermione pointed out.
Ginny’s irritation ebbed away and she looked down at the table, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I know I said all those things… but I’ve always wanted two. James is getting that bit older and I find myself… missing the early days again. Now he’s laughing, and walking, and climbing, and—” She cut off and shook her head, smiling to herself. “And I wouldn’t trade any of it. Harry’s a bloody good dad, and… Anyway, we’ve talked about it. That’s all.”
Sophie started idly counting something out on her fingers.
“Ginny, I think that’s great, if it’s something you and Harry want to do…” Hermione offered. “You’ll be great at it, for a second time—”
“WAIT!” Sophie gasped, slamming her hands down on the table and commanding everyone’s attention. “I just worked it out. If you got pregnant in the next few months, our kids would be in the same Hogwarts year!” She clasped her hands beneath her chin. “They could go together, wouldn’t that be cute? Cousins, possibly in the same house…”
Hermione laughed into her tea, grateful she wasn’t on the receiving end of this wheedling.
Ginny shook her head. “I’m not organising my next pregnancy based on Hogwarts years,” she insisted, turning to Hermione for support.
“I’m staying out of this,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “I know when not to involve myself.”
“Coward,” Ginny muttered.
Sophie’s gaze snapped to Hermione. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You and Draco,” she said, arching her brows. Hermione did not like where this was going. “You want children, don’t you?”
Hermione sighed and sat back in her chair. “Yes, eventually.”
“When’s eventually?” Sophie asked innocently.
Hermione groaned. “You sound like my mother-in-law.”
It was no secret Narcissa was desperate for grandchildren. She’d started hinting before the wedding, in fact. And then the morning after, when they’d been checking out of the hotel, the first thing she’d commented on was that she hoped they’d consummate the marriage so there would be a mini-Malfoy running around in nine months. It was nauseating. A child spends their entire adulthood hiding their sex lives from their parents, never once discussing it, and suddenly it was all Narcissa wanted to know about. She’d bought them gifts as ‘hints’. Even Hermione’s parents had mentioned it once or twice before she firmly shut that down.
“I can picture Draco with a baby,” Sophie said, her expression distant. “He’s so good with James.”
He was. Once they’d been over visiting, and James had shown Draco every single one of his toys, and Draco had gazed at each one with equal measures of astonishment. Hermione’s mind—and body—betrayed her instantly when she thought of Draco with a child. Occasionally, broodiness did take over. But they had a plan and they were sticking to it. This year was not the year for a child. He might be opening a second restaurant, she’d only just transferred to the DMLE, and MAP was expanding. There was plenty of time, they weren’t dead yet.
“Oh, but he’d be a nightmare,” Ginny added with a laugh. “Can you imagine? Nothing would be good enough. Everything would have to be specially made. He’d research everything for weeks.” She turned to Hermione, her eyes full of sparkle. “You two really are made for each other.”
“I know,” Hermione murmured, smiling. Then, desperate for a subject change, she asked, “How’s Madison?”
It worked. Sophie’s smile fell before she said, “She’s good.” But her voice was higher-pitched.
Hermione turned to Ginny, but she was looking down at her plate. “What is it?”
“It’s nothing,” Sophie said quickly. “It’s just—” She sighed. “Madison is still in L.A.”
“How long has she been there now?” Hermione asked.
“Five weeks,” Sophie said.
“Six,” Ginny corrected.
Hermione pursed her lips in thought. “Has George joined her?”
“The shop got busy,” Sophie said, her tone flat as though she didn’t really believe this excuse.
Ginny made a little sound, and Sophie shot her a warning glance.
Sophie said, “Don’t make your little judgemental Weasley noise—”
“I am a Weasley,” Ginny said.
“Yes, unfortunately.” Sophie shook her head. “They’re fine, I’m sure. They were in Japan a few months ago, and then Madison was here for a few weeks. It’s just busy. She wants George to come out for a couple of months, but he says he can’t leave the shop for that long. They’re married, they’ll work it out.”
Ginny arched her brows and picked up her cup of tea. There was clearly more to the story, but Hermione didn’t think it was wise to push it. Whatever was going on there, George and Madison would either work it out eventually, or they wouldn’t.
Sophie had just gone back to her food when she suddenly froze, eyes wide, and her hand went to her stomach.
“What?” Hermione asked, her voice laced with panic.
But Sophie’s eyes were bright. “Oh, she’s moving,” she said, reaching for both Ginny and Hermione’s hands. “Feel! Feel!”
She pressed their hands to the side of her stomach and both women waited silently. There was nothing for a few seconds, although Sophie kept staring at them expectantly. But then, Hermione felt a flutter against her palm, and all difficult conversation evaporated. Hermione’s eyes widened. Ginny was already tearing up.
“That was her?” Hermione asked.
“That’s my little niece!” Ginny said, her voice already thick.
It was one thing to be shown scan photographs, and another entirely to feel the physical evidence of the life being created right now inside Sophie. That pang of broodiness returned before she shut it down.
***
June 18th 2012
Draco turned the keys over in his palm, studying the dull brass as though it might have changed or warped in the thirty minutes since the estate agent handed them over. They hadn’t. There were two sets of keys, each with three on the keyring, and a small label with the property number written on it. Across the room, Blaise sat at an old, weathered table that he’d turned into a makeshift desk, dressed far too smartly for a dusty space that was once a restaurant and now wasn’t much of anything. He shut the folder loudly, sending a cloud of dust into the air and coughing.
“That—” Cough. “—was cooler—” Cough. “—in my head,” he got out, still wheezing after.
Draco’s mouth pulled into a faint smile but he couldn’t manage much more than that. The former restaurant looked even worse now than it had during the viewings. The previous tenants had removed everything of value, leaving a dark wooden bar, a few mismatched tables, and a hideous kitchen that was designed in the worst possible way. The dining room floor was scratched, and the yellowing paint on the walls felt like it was staring at him. He had a horrible feeling he’d just made an awful mistake. Why leave pristine, beautiful Cinders, for this?
“Are you alright?” Blaise asked, sensing his discomfort and rising from the table.
“I’m not sure,” Draco admitted, looking at the keys again.
Self-doubt had been his friend for a long period after the war ended. Since opening Cinders and carving a name for himself, and marrying Hermione, he thought he’d bid it farewell. But here it was, worming its way back into his brain. What if his success was a fluke? What if he couldn’t repeat it? What if he failed?
Blaise caught up to him, his dark eyes scanning his face as he clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Are you spiralling?” he asked. “Because I am not the spiralling friend. That’s what Theo is for. Or Hermione, she’ll know what to say—”
“I’m fine, Blaise,” Draco muttered, even though he absolutely was not fine.
Merlin. He looked up at the lights, awful, grotesque fluorescent things. They were going to need to rip everything out and start again. It’d take months. Years, maybe. This hellhole would never pass for a restaurant of the calibre he wanted it to. He’d clearly taken a leave of his senses.
Blaise slipped his hand into his trouser pockets and walked across what he had envisioned being the dining room, his expensive leather shoes leaving footprints in the dirty floor. “There are people who would consider acquiring a second successful business as an occasion for happiness—”
“But it’s not successful,” Draco cut in. “It’s not going to be successful for at least a year. Merlin, we’ll be lucky to open before Christmas.” He scoffed, staring at the scratches on the floor. “You’re my business partner, you’re supposed to stop me from making foolish decisions like this.”
“You’re right.” Blaise stopped walking and turned to Draco. “That is my job. And I didn’t this time because I do not believe this is a foolish decision.”
Draco stared at him, waiting for something useful to follow. Blaise only stared back, and several seconds passed in silence before it dawned on Blaise that Draco apparently required further reassurance.
“You opened Cinders,” he said eventually, gesturing to the room around them, his voice unsure as he ventured into unfamiliar territory. “You know how to do this. You’ve done it once.”
Draco shoved the keys into his pocket. “Exactly. Once.”
Blaise’s eyes swept over the room, searching the dilapidated space for inspiration. Draco wished him luck. There was none to be found here.
“Cinders wasn’t a one-off,” his friend said carefully. “People don’t just keep a restaurant full for two years for the sake of it.”
“They might,” Draco argued. Maybe it had never been about him. Maybe it was all his staff, and he’d just got lucky by hiring the perfect team.
“No.”
“If the novelty carries them for long enough.” His stomach was a pit, dread seeping into his bloodstream until it was all he could feel. “Come see Malfoy the former Death Eater try to make a name for himself—”
“Draco,” Blaise interrupted. If his tone got any closer to pity then Draco would throw him out the front door.
“It was practically made for Prophet fodder. They’ve probably just been waiting to see if I poison someone,” he ranted, acutely aware his argument was ridiculous, but now he’d started he couldn’t stop.
Blaise’s brow furrowed, and he ran a hand through his cropped hair. “An extraordinarily insulting assessment of your own restaurant.”
“It’s realistic,” Draco said, his voice getting more strangled with every word. His heart was pounding, and beads of sweat were forming on his brow. He could already picture Cinders tonight, everything polished and spotless, the dining room glowing, and everything functioning perfectly without him. There, he knew it all.
Here, he knew nothing. What had possessed him?
“It took me two years to get Cinders to where it is now,” he said, more to the floor than Blaise. “And that was while doing almost nothing else.”
“You were also dating Hermione,” Blaise pointed out.
“I said almost nothing else.”
“I’m sure she’d be delighted—”
“I was there every day. If something went wrong, I fixed it. If somebody was sick, I covered them.” He gave an exasperated sigh and ran his hand through his hair. It was already falling over his forehead. “I can’t do that here. I can’t do that at Cinders while I’m doing this.”
“You’ve done plenty of things in the two years since you opened Cinders. You planned an engagement, bought a house, renovated the house, planned a wedding, went on a honeymoon,” Blaise pointed out without moving from his spot.
“I have so many more obligations now than I did before,” Draco said, shaking his head at his own stupidity.
Blaise nodded and leaned one shoulder back against the wall before immediately recoiling when plaster dust transferred onto his otherwise pristine suit jacket. “Oh for fuck’s sake.” He let out a snort of disgust and started brushing the fabric. “This place really is disgusting.”
Draco let out a sharp laugh, surprising even himself, and Blaise gave him a smug smile. He shook his head and stared down at the keys. Pemberton would ask him to provide evidence that the restaurant would fail, and he’d argue that all he needed was common sense. He could see it now.
“You have spent weeks going through the numbers,” Blaise said, still idly rubbing at his jacket. “You’ve had the building surveyed twice, Hermione has looked over the projections and the plan, and asked a million questions, and you’ve designed the kitchen multiple times. This hasn’t been an impulsive decision. So perhaps—” He paused, choosing every word delicately, “—perhaps the fact that you are terrified doesn’t necessarily indicate the decision itself was wrong.”
The front door opened, letting a burst of welcome fresh air into the otherwise stale room. Both of them turned as Hermione appeared, a heavy bag over one of her shoulders, her curls escaping the loose knot she’d put them in this morning.
“Thank Merlin,” Blaise breathed, his eyes momentarily shooting skyward before he straightened his jacket.
“What’s happened?” she asked, catching both of their expressions and picking up on the tone of the room. She hesitated in her steps. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Draco said.
At the same time, Blaise said, “He’s having an existential crisis.”
Bastard. Draco whirled around to him with narrowed eyes but Blaise only raised his hands in surrender. Hermione’s gaze flicked between them as she dropped her bag onto the nearest table with a heavy thud. Her eyes settled on Draco again and he almost recoiled under her gaze, hating that she knew him so well, that she saw far too much.
“An existential crisis?” she asked.
Blaise quickly caught her up, much to Draco’s chagrin. He even included the line about his customers only waiting to see if he’d poison someone despite Draco glaring at him. It did sound rather ridiculous now he heard it back.
“On that note,” Blaise said, already stepping backwards toward the door. “My work here is complete. Emotional support is exhausting.” He stopped by the table to pick up the folder and documents. “Hermione, congratulations on the additional financial liability. Draco, get your shit together before I have to reverse this legally binding decision.”
He was gone before Draco could retort. Hermione didn’t say anything. She only looked at him. She’d clearly come straight from work. There was ink on her hands, and her blouse was creased at the shoulder from the bag. But at the same time, the scent of her familiar perfume and jasmine shampoo washed over him, and that knot of tension in his chest loosened.
“Don’t,” he warned, his voice raw.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You were about to,” he argued.
Hermione took a few steps closer to him, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. “I was going to congratulate you.”
Draco was still tense. He eyed her, seeing nothing but sincerity on her face. Of course she was sincere. What was he expecting? For her to shriek ‘I told you so’ and do a dance?
“The lights are horrible,” she murmured, looking around the room slowly.
“Atrocious,” Draco readily agreed.
“And that paint needs to go.”
He nodded. “Immediately.”
Her eyes scanned the floor, taking in all the dust and scratches. “The floor is worse than I remembered too.”
“This is a strange way to tell me I haven’t made a mistake,” Draco murmured suspiciously.
She reached for his hand and pulled it from his pocket, turning his palm upwards. Her thumb brushed over the small red indentations left by the keys. “It is a mess, yes—”
“It’s a fucking disaster,” Draco interjected, looking around again painfully.
“But you knew all of this before today,” she finished, acting as though he hadn’t interrupted at all. “You knew the kitchen needed to be ripped out. You knew the floor needed replacing. You complained about the lights during the first viewing.”
All unfortunately true, which spoke more for his madness, truly. Maybe they were all mad, to have gone along with his insanity.
Hermione smiled up at him, directing his attention to the tall arched windows with stained-glass transoms. “But you loved those windows, and the light that spilled across the floor.”
“I did,” he admitted reluctantly.
“And you liked the size of the dining room.” Hermione released his hand and walked further into the space, her heels leaving faint marks in the dust. “You said Cinders gets too loud when it’s full, and can be a bit cramped, but this room was wider so you could space the tables properly.”
He did remember saying that. He’d stood almost exactly where he was standing now. “The acoustics are better,” he agreed.
“Yes, you did talk about that for ten minutes.” She smiled, moving over to the old bar and trailing her fingertips through the grime. “You liked this too. You said it was the only thing worth keeping.”
Also true. Draco looked at it again. Beneath the neglect, the wood was good, solid oak, with carved panels across the front that could be restored. Hermione walked to the kitchen door, pushing it open with a little effort. He winced at the shrill shriek of the hinges. Another thing he’d need to fix.
“This is the worst part,” he said as he followed her into the kitchen. “It needs to be completely gutted.”
“I know. But you stood there—” She pointed at one side of the room. “And you made me stand… here.” She stepped a few feet to the left. “And you measured out where the pass would go.”
Draco slid his hands into his pockets, his fingers brushing the keys again as he surveyed the room. He’d hoped to remove a wall, shift prep to the right, and expand the cold room into the old storage space and bring the pass forward to allow better flow through service. He could see it all again now she was talking about it.
“You loved this place when it was still someone else’s problem,” Hermione finished, her voice steady. “It was all awful before you signed the lease too, so that’s not what’s scaring you.”
Merlin, he hated it, hated that she could see right through every action and cut right to the core underneath, and loved her for it all the same. He walked over and pulled her close, his hands on her waist as he inhaled the calming scent of her hair. Sometimes he was unsure how he’d managed to go so long in life without this steadying smell. His chin rested on the top of her head, and she didn’t push him, instead pulling him into an embrace and holding him close while she waited patiently for him to open up.
“You’re very annoying,” he murmured.
“I know.”
He looked over her head at the miserable kitchen and drew in a long inhale. “What if I can’t do it again?” he asked, his voice somewhat small and pathetic.
“Do what again?” Hermione tilted her head and pulled back, looking up at him with her wide brown eyes as she studied his features.
“Make it work,” he said, not quite able to meet her eyes. “What if I just got lucky? With Cinders. With the team, and the review, and the timing. All of it.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “What if I just happened to be in the right place at the right time—”
Hermione let out a high-pitched laugh and cut off his words. “Draco, do you think you accidentally built Cinders?”
He gave a barely perceptible sheepish shrug.
She lifted her hands, cupping his face. “Draco, you did get lucky with some things, there’s no denying that. Callum and Eleanor were both excellent hires, and yes the Prophet review helped, and sure some people probably did come in the beginning because they wanted to see what Draco Malfoy was doing in a kitchen.”
His stomach sank. So he was right then. It was all—
“That curiosity might get someone through the door once,” she said, tightening her grip on his chin. “It doesn’t keep them coming back for two years.” Her thumb ran along his jaw and he leaned into it, craving that comforting touch. “Luck may have helped you at the start but you still had to be good enough to keep it. You had to show grit, tenacity, and perseverance. You did all those things and more.”
Draco pulled her closer, dropping his forehead against hers. The pit of dread had shifted. It wasn’t telling him he’d ruined his life anymore, but rather acknowledging he had a mountain ahead to climb.
“I still might fuck it up,” he murmured.
“Oh, you definitely will.”
He pulled back, surprised by her bluntness.
“What?” Hermione asked, utterly unrepentant. “You fucked things up at Cinders and then fixed them. You’ll do the same here.”
He hummed a response. Neither agreement nor disagreement. Her words had landed, though, and the tension melted away from his shoulders. She’d come straight from work just for him, walked into this filthy building carrying half the Ministry on her shoulder, and managed to resolve everything in less than ten minutes. In short, she was a miracle worker. It was almost annoying.
Draco tilted her chin with his finger and brought his lips to hers, communicating his gratitude with a kiss because he couldn’t find the words. It started off tender and slow. Her hands slid from his cheeks and into his hair. Initially, he didn’t intend for it to be anything more than affection, but when she pressed her body against his, he couldn’t help but feel the sparks of desire under his skin.
The kiss deepened, Hermione angling her head to the right as he instinctively moved to the left. They didn’t need hesitation or pauses to gauge anyone’s intentions, and Draco still sometimes found the ease of it all absolutely obscene. He knew how to kiss her when she was tired, knew what would be interpreted as a simple way of showing affection, and what meant more. He knew that when she pressed her body flat against him, she was desperate for his hands on her, and he obliged by tugging her blouse out of her skirt and sliding his hand underneath the fabric, groaning at the sensation of her soft, bare skin against his fingers.
Her breath hitched and her fingers tightened their hold in his hair. He knew what that meant too. Draco caught her by the hips and lifted her onto the nearest section of counter still standing. Hermione’s hands grabbed his shoulders as the old surface groaned under the weight. He stepped in between her knees and slid his palms slowly up her thighs, grateful for the heat of summer since she wasn’t wearing tights.
“This counter is filthy,” she murmured against his mouth.
“Everywhere is filthy,” he replied, pulling her lower lip into his mouth and teasing. “It’s my kitchen, we can overlook it.”
“I see circumstances have in fact improved,” Hermione said with a chuckle, her breath coating his lips.
He kissed her hard enough to end the conversation. His hand slid back under her blouse, tracing higher, and she pushed his jacket from his shoulders, letting it fall somewhere behind them before dragging her nails lightly down his back. Draco hissed, his lips parting enough that their kiss broke as his breath hitched. Just as he knew her body and what drove her wild, she was capable of perfectly mapping out his own. She knew exactly what she was doing when she pulled his shirt out of his trousers and raked her nails down bare skin. Draco responded in an instant and he was straining against the front of his trousers, desperate to feel her against him, desperate to close even the inch between them. Her skirt had ridden higher, and he slipped a hand along the soft planes of her inner thigh, feeling the heat of her before he touched her underwear.
Merlin, she was soaking. Had she arrived like this?
The plans were gone. He didn’t care about the lease, or the ugly lights, or the possibility of failure. All he thought of was her, her and the breathy little moans as his fingers danced over her sensitive bud, her thighs already trembling even though a scrap of fabric still separated his touch from her.
“Draco,” she whined, pulling away from him and tilting her hips to grant him better access.
Satisfaction rolled through him, only arousing him further. Sometimes he didn’t even need to be touched to finish, all it took was her gasping his name, her body warm and pliable beneath his touch and he was lost. Every time was still somehow the best. He’d decided a while ago it had to be either their exceptional compatibility, or a serious flaw in his ability to judge sex. Probably both.
Hermione shifted, pushing more deliberately into his touch, and he slipped his fingers beneath the damp fabric at last, swallowing a groan at the heat he felt when she opened her legs wider for him. Her head tipped backwards, escaped curls cascading down her back and exposing her throat. He took advantage, pressing his mouth to the pulse point fluttering beneath her skin while his fingers moved between her thighs.
“Fuck!” she gasped, sucking a breath between her teeth as he slipped a finger inside.
And unlike those early days, he knew that when her fingers tightened around his shoulder, it meant he had the pressure right, knew that low moan she made meant he should keep up the tempo and not change a single fucking thing, and knew that when her hips started chasing the movement of his hand she was nearly there.
Hermione caught his mouth again, kissing him messily as he added a second finger. Her moan disappeared between them, swallowed by his mouth, and his cock twitched painfully. Merlin, he wanted to tear through the rest of their clothes and sink into her immediately. But there was always something intoxicating about making her come first, watching Hermione Granger completely unravel in front of him.
His thumb circled her clit and she flinched, her legs locking into place as she threw her head back. “Sweet motherfu—” Her words collapsed into a gasp as her thighs tightened around his hips, one hand gripping the back of his neck while the other braced against the counter behind her.
Tension coiled through her body, and he knew that well, likely recognised it now before she did. She contracted around his fingers, every breath getting shallower until it seemed like each inhale couldn’t possibly reach her lungs.
“Draco,” she gasped again, sounding almost frustrated.
“Go on, Hermione,” he murmured against her ear, his voice low and gravelly. “Let me see my wife come.”
She clung to him, a strangled cry erupting from her throat as her forehead fell against his shoulder and she tightened around his fingers. He held her close, slowing his movements only when the trembling in her thighs eased. His lips brushed lazily over her temple while she caught her breath, riding the aftershocks that had her twitching every few seconds. He drew satisfaction from each one.
Before he could say anything, Hermione reached forward and cupped him through his trousers. His breath hitched, and he rolled his eyes back as her palm moved over him, the friction almost painful. When he opened his eyes, Hermione was studying him, clearly enjoying herself.
“You’re a witch,” he muttered, finishing with a groan as she undid his belt and popped the button. Her hand was inside his trousers and making contact before he could breathe, and he hissed at the sensation of her warm hand now wrapped around his length. “Fuck.”
“You were saying?” she teased, an erotic lilt to her voice.
Draco kissed her as a response, one hand curling around the back of her neck while hers remained wrapped around his cock. She stroked him slowly, expertly, squeezing out drops of precum onto her hand. If she continued he was going to utterly embarrass himself in his restaurant—although it wouldn’t be the first time that happened.
He caught her wrist and made eye contact. Her expression was full of taunting glee, and Draco shoved her skirt higher with his free hand. They didn’t need to speak. Hermione lifted her hips as he hooked his fingers into her underwear and dragged them down her legs. They made it past the knees before they decided that would do. There were times for elegant, drawn-out sex, and in the middle of the squalid kitchen of his new restaurant was not one of them.
Pushing his trousers lower, he stepped back between her thighs and ran the head of his cock through her wetness. Both of them groaned, Hermione’s eyes fluttering shut as her hands tightened on his shoulders.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
Her eyes opened again, meeting his gaze, and he watched as she widened them while he pushed inside slowly, giving her plenty of time to adjust to the stretch and tight fit. A groan tore from his throat at the hot sensation of her so fully around him. Hermione wrapped one leg around his waist, pulling him close until he was buried completely inside her.
Every time felt like the first. His body responded the same way, no familiarity ever removed how viscerally he responded to her, like he was made to be embedded in her silken heat. The novelty never wore off. If anything, it had become more intense. Now the physical pleasure came entangled with the knowledge that this was his wife.
“Fuck me, Draco,” she breathed into his ear, pulling him back into the room.
He obliged, withdrawing almost the entire way before thrusting back in. Hermione gasped, her nails biting into his shoulders, and he did it again, watching her head fall back. It was too easy to get lost in his own pleasure, in her moans and gasps as her hips met every stroke.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she breathed.
“Fuck—” Draco groaned, words no longer quite making sense. He caught the back of her thigh and pulled her leg higher, allowing him to drive deeper inside. She pulled him into a frantic kiss, all tongue and teeth clashing together. He sucked on her lower lip as the counter knocked against the wall with their movements, getting louder with each desperate thrust.
Sweat gathered beneath his collar, briefly reminding him they were still half-clothed, although it didn’t feel like it. His pulse thundered, and every nerve was centred around where their bodies joined, little explosions bursting under his skin as his pleasure built. He knew she was getting close too. Her leg locked around his waist, her breathing changed, and she nipped at his neck with her teeth.
“So—fucking—ahh!” she gasped, her voice pitching up into a shrill shriek when his thumb found her clit after he’d slipped a hand in between them.
He had a mouthful of hair and didn’t care, only able to think about reaching that peak himself. “My wife,” he muttered into her shoulder. “My wife.”
Hermione slammed a hand into the counter, using it to anchor herself. “Say it again,” she moaned. “Say it again.”
Eight months in and the thrill hadn’t worn off. He repeated the words over and over, his fingers moving in tight circles as he fucked her harder and faster. His own control began to slip, his mind going empty as Hermione clung to him. His cock throbbed inside her, and she was right on the brink.
She tightened around him so suddenly Draco cursed under his breath. Her orgasm pulsed and pulled him over the edge so he joined her. He held on for dear life, burying himself deep with frantic movements, coming so hard his vision went black as his entire body tensed.
When the room came back, Hermione was still wrapped around him, the air thick with their sweat. His hands trembled, and her fingers smoothed the damp hair at the nape of his neck. A blissful haze settled behind his eyes. Sex cured all. Pemberton really ought to prescribe it, although he wasn’t sure how that would work.
“Well, that was—” they both said at the same time, before pausing to laugh.
“You first,” he murmured, planting a kiss against her cheek.
“Do you feel better?”
He lifted his head and looked at her. Her blouse was creased to hell, her curls completely out of the bun, wild and free, and her skirt was gathered around her waist. He knew if he looked down, he’d see his come spilling outside of her and onto the counter and want to start all over again.
She remained the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Especially like this, all dishevelled and ruined from sex. There was something deeply satisfying about knowing he was the cause.
“Much,” Draco said, capturing her lips in a languid kiss.
Hermione smiled against him, running her fingers through his hair as she returned it. Eventually, she pulled back and glanced at the room. “The kitchen really is filthy,” she muttered.
Draco turned and looked. She was right. The place was still a ruin. The old range was hanging on its last legs, the tiles were cracked and broken in places. The room was bathed in fluorescent light that highlighted every flaw.
“I don’t know,” Draco murmured, the haze of sex still settled firmly behind his eyes, softening the hard edges of his previous anxiety. His gaze dropped to the counter between Hermione’s legs, and his cock pulsed. “I think I like it much better now.”
***
July 17th 2012
She had spent the last month trying to find an hour of time that just did not exist. It was a nightmare. Hermione sat at the kitchen island, her diary open beside a half-finished cup of tea, wondering how she was going to do this again next year when work and MAP were both getting more demanding with no end in sight. The Diagon Alley visit had been last weekend, and had, for all intents and purposes, been deemed a success yet again. But now she had the Hogwarts visit to organise, and check-ins with the mentors, plus a meeting with McGonagall and Neville to discuss their progress.
Wednesday wouldn’t do, that afternoon was already taken up with two interviews for her work project. Thursday was worse, Friday was downright impossible, and Draco had claimed Saturday and Sunday were their days after ‘casually’ observing that she’d practically moved into her Ministry office. His comment was deeply hypocritical considering there were four versions of professional kitchen plans spread across his side of the island.
At least he’d been home more since signing the lease. The contractors had already stripped the place using magic, so it was faster. They were now starting on the bare bones of the kitchen. Draco had spent endless hours at home thinking of concepts despite insisting he wouldn’t settle on one until the kitchen was ready, as well as checking in with Cinders a couple of times a day and working the occasional service when his head needed to calm down, in his words. But today was the cold storage, something he’d deemed could only happen in his presence, for some reason. She’d not been inclined to argue.
“Monday,” Hermione murmured to herself, turning back a page.
Wait, it was Tuesday evening. Monday had already happened. For fuck’s sake.
She flipped forward again, checking next Monday and discounting it. She’d taken the day off to catch up with incoming MAP families. Tuesday could work if she moved lunch, although Clara might be miffed. Hermione had specifically promised to stop scheduling meetings during lunch. She skimmed back in her diary to check the details of the attendee from their meeting the previous month and then stopped.
Wait a minute. That couldn’t be right. She stared at the page, as though her intense eye contact would make it change.
There were five tiny red dots in the corner of the first week of June, marking five days. A discreet way of keeping track of something she didn’t want people to understand. No need to advertise her menstrual cycle to other Ministry staff, but it was always worth knowing.
Hermione flipped the pages to the current date before she went back to June.
Something had to be wrong. Had she forgotten to track her last one? She was meticulous about these things. Her cycle wasn’t perfect, occasionally lasting twenty-eight days or up to thirty-two. Stress and lack of sleep could both delay it, and she’d had them in abundance recently. She counted the days out, one by one.
No. It was far longer than a simple delay. She counted again.
She checked four times and the answer didn’t change. “How did I not notice this?”
Actually, that was easy to explain. June had disappeared, and now most of July had too. Her days were meetings layered over meetings, evenings spent reading reports or offering advice on restaurant layouts, weekends that acquired schedules before either of them had agreed to them.
As of now they had three calendars in the house, all meticulously updated with work and social activities so neither of them fell behind. She’d been tired recently, yes, but she was always tired when work and MAP were running concurrently. She’d not had any sickness, her breasts didn’t hurt. She just hadn’t thought about it.
Her eyes dropped back to June. The 18th sat innocently on the page, and Hermione cast her mind back to Draco’s panic, their sex in that dirty kitchen, and her cheeks heated. She’d absolutely been taking her contraceptive pill. She never missed it. Yes, she knew it had a small failure rate, but failure always felt like it would happen to someone else and not her.
They’d specifically said they weren’t doing it this year. Next summer they were going to reassess. Things were too busy, with MAP, her job, the restaurant. They had no time to see each other, never mind bring a child into this world. She pushed her diary away like it had personally offended her and swallowed hard, shivering despite the July heat.
With trembling fingers Hermione reached for her wand, casting the spell she’d only had to use once before when she was with Ron. She waited, praying for the single white cloud which would indicate stress and lack of sleep had just delayed things.
But the white cloud never appeared. Instead, her wand produced a small golden ring around the tip.
Fuck.