if i told you i thought there was a sin in your heart, could you honestly tell me i'm wrong

It wasn't love.

Hermione knew that much. For Merlin's sake, she had experienced it enough throughout her life to distinguish the feeling from the barbed vines that were currently wrapping, twisting, and disfiguring her heart. No, this suffocating, obsessive mess she felt every time her attention drifted from the paperwork in front of her to the silver-eyed sin just a few desks to her left was nowhere near that.

Love, from her knowledge, was pure and true.

No one could say that about Draco Malfoy. Let alone about the fingerprints he had left marked on her hips and throat, or the way his mouth and tongue had conquered hers.

What had plagued Hermione all these years was guilt. It was having to live with the consequence of allowing him to crawl under her skin, to further tear open the scars her weary, exhausted body carried before the world tried to fill her emptiness with a light that was an artificial shade of gold. In that moment of reckless selfishness, she believed she became the last warm touch Malfoy had felt before being locked up in a lonely, cold cell, robbing him of a better memory to last him a lifetime. It was also knowing that her unexpected indulgence had produced an unexpected life. A life that Malfoy would have never known he helped create because she would have never found the courage to reveal it.

Guilt. That was it.

That was all Hermione felt these years. It was what she felt now as she observed him bent over a stack of files with a MACUSA Auror, a crease between blonde brows that was so similar to the one Scorpius wore when he concentrated on coloring inside the lines.

"Look what we have here." A familiar coffee cup and a familiar freckled face obstructed Hermione's view to the left. "Someone's favorite flat white from her favorite little Mexican cafe."

With narrowing eyes, Hermione leaned against the back of her chair, giving her stiff shoulders some relief. "Pansy likes the flat whites from Herrera's. I like their cafe de olla."

Ron's overly-eager smile wilted. "Right. Well, it's the thought that counts, isn't it?"

"Oh, do forgive him already, Granger," Blaise teased from beside Hermione, his messy pile of archives overtaking her neat space. "You know there isn't much going on inside Weasley's head. If this is what his best thought buys, I can't imagine you two will ever be friends again."

"Are you sorry, Ronald?" she questioned just as he aimed daggers at Blaise. "Because the words have yet to actually leave your mouth. Or Harry's. But he doesn't think he's wrong here. Do you?"

The coffee cup flew out of Ron's outstretched hands and into Blaise's. He then grinned, sliding his chair out so he could kick up his feet. "This is why you two broke up, isn't it? Because if it came down to it, Weasley would always choose Potter's side over yours?"

"We never dated!" both Hermione and Ron hissed, one slightly louder than the other. When a few heads turned their way, the jumble of murmurs and quills scratching against parchment quieting, she reached over and smacked Blaise upside the head. Before he could let out a curse at the coffee that dribbled down his chin and onto his robes, Hermione waved her wrist at him, his chair suddenly zooming across the bullpen.

Ron let out a snort, a precursor to an obnoxious laugh, but she turned her glare at him, effectively stifling the noise into a nervous clearing of the throat. "Listen, 'Mione—"

"I don't want to hear it," she interrupted, sitting up straight again. "It was difficult enough to get Atlas Greyback's Durmstrang files the first time, but borrowing them again alongside Salem Crump's did not earn me any points with the Headmaster. I promised I'd return them by tonight—and even you can understand that this conversation is the last thing on my priority list."

"I very much doubt Dumb Krumb can get cross with you," Ron grumbled. "What did he want in exchange for the files? Last time it was dinner and a movie. You do know he only pretends to like muggle shit when it comes to you, right?"

She raised a sharp brow. "You did the same when you wanted to impress me."

"Yeah, but I'm not a pumpkin head, am I?"

"Debatable."

Ron scoffed, moving around the desks so he could take up the space Hermione had forced Blaise to vacate. Although she had assumed he was going to prop himself on her desk, determined for her to hear him out, Hermione found herself surprised when he gingerly reached for her hand instead. Years of friendship meant Ron knew she was going to grip onto a file, plant her feet firmly on the ground, refusing to be moved, but he gently caressed her knuckles with the pad of his thumb.

Merlin. He was sorry.

Although Hermione quite loved the idiot—had even been in love with him, too—she wasn't blind to the bad parts of their friendship. Whereas her frustrations with Harry's stubbornness often stemmed from his self-sacrificing tendencies, Hermione's vexations toward Ron were frequently rooted in his fragile pride. One she shared. Consequently, when they were fighting, their anger tended to be mean-spirited and physical in a way that had one or the other (all right, both) unwilling to give an inch. Immovable. Resolute on decaying where they stood, convinced they were right and would always be so.

It was the norm for an apology to hardly ever be exchanged.

Because they loved each other, however, they just let their hot tempers return to a simmer, resigning themselves to sweeping their grievances under a rug. At least until one or the other (all right, both ) tripped over the pile again. Now, with the careful way he was touching her, his blue eyes shimmered with a sadness Hermione had not seen directed at her since she pointed out that the rose of their love had wilted just as it started to bloom.

"I don't want to lose you." It was the same thing Ron had said to her back then too, a plea latching on to each word. "I love you. You know that, right?"

She released a breath through gritted teeth. While this time she was not about to crush his heart, Hermione still felt an ache in hers. "You don't lie to those you love, Ronald. Even if you think you're doing the right thing."

"Maybe I didn't do it because I thought it was right," he muttered, looking down at his hand resting over hers. "Not entirely, at least." Then, with a breath that seemed to have filled his chest with resolve, Ron said, "I wanted revenge."

His thumb pressed a little harder against one of her knuckles before he pulled his hand away. While Harry had many tell-tale signs that revealed his moods, Ron only had three: his ears burned red when he was angry (smoke would sometimes manifest itself when he was forced to run after fugitives or when hand-to-hand combats had him flat on his back more times than his ego could take), bubblegum pink would stain his freckled cheeks when he was feeling shy, embarrassed, or overwhelmed (it was the color that appeared when Hermione had first kissed him, and the vibrant shade that popped in every photograph after he'd gotten down on one knee to ask Pansy to marry him), and the last was biting at his nails when he was uneasy or upset (the fingers on his left hand were raw for weeks after she broke his heart).

It was instinct that had her reaching for his wrist, tugging it before Ron's thumb ended up between his teeth.

"I was so angry at you, Hermione," he confessed, the words so low she was tempted to lean in and catch each one before they were overpowered by the background noise. "I couldn't understand why you'd done it. Why you'd choose him. Maybe I would've been just as angry if it'd been anybody else...But it wasn't. It was him. He had marred a lot of what I cherished, and now he had you, too."

She did not have to turn to look over her shoulder to see what Ron was looking at. The blue in his narrowing gaze darkened by a shadow of loathing Hermione recalled from their youth. Even if it hadn't, she could feel Draco Malfoy a few feet behind her.

"As much as that fact had destroyed me, I didn't keep the secret to spite you. I kept it because there was a part of me that assumed I could get you back. But you were gone. He took so much of you with himself and what was left needed to be planted and grown so Scorpius could have his mother." Ron looked at her now. "Harry kept the secret because he wanted to protect you and your son, Hermione, but I clung onto it satisfied by knowing Malfoy would rot away never having either of you."

"Ron—"

"I hated him more than I loved you," he spoke before Hermione could untangle the memories of that past. "I came to terms with that a while back and...that's what I'm sorry for. Not the choice I made alongside Harry, but why I did it."

Hermione had no qualms about being furious at Ron any day of the week. More often than not they were at each other's throats, anyway; she was willing to let the embers of betrayal flickering at the pit of her stomach ignite into a wildfire, but her heart was not in it. Without a shove of encouragement from someone else, Ron was being honest. Open. Even when he suspected she would be disgusted at what he was laying bare.

She wanted to tell him that she had once hated their reality post-war more than she had loved him, and she, too, was sorry her method of momentary escape had shattered his daydreams of a life together as a couple. Before she was able to stitch that lament together, however, their Head Auror entered the bullpen demanding attention.

"If you're not a part of the Greyback case, consider yourself dismissed for the day," said Harry to his gathered Aurors just as Head Auror Jasper and Lucius Malfoy walked in behind him. "If it takes you more than thirty seconds to gather your belongings and get out, you lot are volunteering yourselves to sort out the archive room. And just so you're aware, the trainees properly mucked it up and Robards is not in a good mood today."

Hermione was still clutching Ron's thumb by the time the last junior Auror dashed out. When at the Ministry, her mind was always on her work. After all, it was her job to stay vigilant at all times, but for a few seconds, she did not want to let go. She wanted to find the same courage it had taken Ron to tell her what had been festering inside himself—she wanted to tell him that while she was scarring over the wound of his betrayal, she was also sorry she never truly took ownership of how her own had damaged him.

He gave her hand a squeeze before pulling free.

"Do we have a lead?" asked Miles Bulstrode, standing from his chair just as Hermione watched Ron move to stand at Harry's right.

She did not miss the way Harry's rigid posture relaxed at Ron's proximity, especially with Head Auror Jasper turning his nose up at everything his eyes encountered around the bullpen. She was justified in her anger of course, but she missed the tossers, too. She missed taking up Harry's left; the Golden Trio strong and stupidly brave—together.

"Not necessarily," Harry informed through gritted teeth. "Jasper and I've been meeting with some of our partners in the Scottish area."

"Partners," Jasper scoffed. "Those were illegal informants, Potter. All werewolves are to register their identity, pack, and location to the DRCMC. That is not a British Ministry law or even MACUSA law, but an International Confederation one."

Copying the same look of disgust the American Head Auror wore, Blaise said, "MACUSA loves their registration acts, don't they? Good way to keep whom they deem as other nice and accounted for, right?"

"Our Auror department has an understanding with the unregistered werewolves," Ron told Jasper. "So long as they don't commit any crimes, we don't force them to register. Not to mention since taking office our Minister has worked alongside the DRCMC to revolutionize their Werewolf Support Services program—"

"And eliminating the Werewolf Capture Unit completely thanks to Granger's tenacity," said Miles, throwing an arm around Hermione's shoulders, grinning wide as some of their comrades clapped. "Or as the Head of the DRCMC would say, her obsessive personality to be a righteous little—"

"Shacklebolt and our current Auror department have gained trust among the packs," Harry continued, silencing Miles with just a raised finger, "but not enough to have them lining up to give us any testimonies of what they've seen or heard in relation to Greyback or any of his followers. To the packs, their code of honor is far stronger than our law. And given every government's mistreatment of them, we don't blame them."

Just as Jasper's lip curled at Harry's remark, Hermione had zeroed in on her Head Auror rubbing the back of his neck. It was a tell-tale sign of a plan starting to form. Because she knew Harry—and because she knew their informants—she said, "The packs won't tell us anything themselves, will they? They're going to make us work for it."

Harry's jaw unclenched slightly to offer her the shadow of a smile. "Fenrir Greyback still holds power over a lot of them."

"Loyalty?" asked Miles.

"Fear," answered a voice to the left that made a trickle of that same complicated emotion caress the coward carved down Hermione's spine. "It's a far more effective tool to manipulate the masses than loyalty."

"Malfoy's right," Harry agreed, earning an outraged look from Ron that made Blaise let out a loud snort. "The packs themselves aren't trying to break Greyback out of Azkaban because they worship him. They want him to die there. But if there's a small possibility of Atlas succeeding in freeing his father, the packs know the Greybacks will get their revenge if they conspire against them."

Hermione stepped away from under Miles' arm. "It has to be me."

"'Mione—"

"Sir," she cut across the beginning of Harry's protest, reminding him of his position as her Head Auror, "I am the logical choice. You know that."

"Absolutely not," Ron all but shouted as he, too, forgot the role he held when inside the Ministry, elbowing Harry hard in the ribs. "She's always been barking, we've always known that, but this is completely out of line."

"I know," Harry told him, rubbing at the back of his neck again before turning to Hermione. With a heavy sigh, he repeated: "I know."

"We don't know," said Blaise, rolling his eyes as his fellow Aurors made noises of agreement. "In case you three forgot, no one but you inconsiderate twats speaks righteous Gryffindor."

That brought back the dim smile on Harry's mouth as he looked at his team. When his green eyes settled on Head Auror Jasper, Hermione saw his posture change. His shoulders squared and he lifted his chin, looking every bit a man that earned and deserved his title. "We were given an in with a small pack residing in Varna. With help from one of our informants, one of us will join them. From there, we will work our way to tracking Atlas Greyback's whereabouts and the plans he has set in motion to free his father."

"Potter," Jasper hissed before this new development could start to settle among the other Aurors, "we've been over this. This is clearly a trap. Werewolves do not trust our kind. If we send an undercover Auror in, we mind as well Avada them ourselves. They will sniff out the traitor in a second."

"Jasper's right," Hermione said, now earning herself the same look of outrage Ron had given Harry prior. This time, her team joined him, too. "Well, he is. The packs don't trust us, that's not news to us, but some of them trust me. You lot make jokes about my work for werewolf rights, but it has earned me a degree of respect among them. If I travel to Varna, I can—"

"Auror Granger is the obvious choice," Lucius Malfoy silenced what was left of Hermione's fervent discourse as he commanded attention with the same refined drawl that time and error had not humbled. "Which is why it is the wrong one. If Greyback hears so much as a whisper of her presence among a pack he frequents, the Ministry and MACUSA will have lost the only solid opportunity they have had in three years to capture him."

Mr. Malfoy did not only steal the words out of Hermione's mouth, but he had quieted the murmurs among the Aurors. Their eyes scrutinized him like the case study he had been during their training courses, learning not only about his past as a Death Eater, but the psychology behind a murderer and corrupt politician. He had been exactly that and a participant in Hermione's nightmares, but the way his grey eyes analyzed her now made it seem like he was seeing her for the first time.

Like he had not belittled and loathed her since she was a child.

Immediately, she turned toward Draco Malfoy, the mother etched across her chest scorching.

I gave you something of mine that day, Malfoy, but I left with something of yours, too.

Panic started to flare beneath her skin—had he told his father about how, just mere hours after the war had ended, they had turned into reckless teenagers that sought comfort from each other? Had Malfoy told his father how Hermione had touched him first, obliterating the lines of their common hatred so she did not have to face what was left of their world and herself? Had he told his father that impulsive and selfish choice had borne him a son?

Had he told his father that she had given birth to a Malfoy heir—a half-blood that had their infamous silver eyes and white-blonde hair, but her muggle father's surname?

"The packs need neither a hero nor an activist," Draco Malfoy then spoke, his unsympathetic gaze narrowed at Hermione as she attempted to calm the trembling of her hands. "They need connections and gold."

Fingers wrapped around her right wrist. "We need to play the Death Eater card," said Harry as he gently guided Hermione behind himself, just like he did every time he sensed danger, believing his body could stop the onslaught. "The Greybacks hold a lot more influence on the packs than we originally thought. Be it loyalty or fear, they'll still listen to Atlas if it comes down to it. And if he's running around with fugitive Death Eaters seeking refuge, then that's the card we have to play. After all, the Greybacks believe they're owed a debt by what's left of Voldemort's servants."

Ron briefly glanced at her, his ears starting to turn red by what he must have seen on her face. Before, when they were young and he was foolishly in love with her, he would have thrown himself in front of the crossfire without a scrap of a plan, only set on protecting her—but a lot had changed since then. He was still rash and messy, but Hermione had broken his heart. He would still protect her, of that she knew without a shadow of a doubt; he would even lay down his life for her if need be, but now he knew his place. He knew to step closer to Harry's side, adding width and cover to the barrier that kept her safe.

"MACUSA will send in the Malfoys—"

"No," Harry told Jasper, cutting him off as the American Aurors started to close in on them. When the other Head Auror raised a brow at him, he then added, "We can't play that hand yet. The story of their life sentence in Azkaban is well-known. We can't just have them in Varna out of the blue."

There was a loud laugh that was distinctively Blaise. "We need drama," he announced. "A falling out between Auror and Head Auror. An ex-Death Eater and The Chosen One."

"Can't be you, mate," said Miles with a snort. "You're very publicly dating Luna Lovegood. She's practically Potter's sister."

"Bulstrode," Blaise grinned, "we're very good at roleplaying."

"Do shut up," Harry said with a groan, his thumb rubbing a circle on Hermione's pulse point. "But he's right anyway, Zabini. It can't be you. It'll have to be Bulstrode."

Hermione stepped from behind her best friends to see the determination that took over Miles' face. He liked a good laugh; the whole team did, and while that mostly annoyed Hermione, especially when she tended to be the only one who poured over extensive research regardless of the crime, she always could count on Miles Bulstrode to know when it was time for the games to end.

"I can do it," Miles told Harry with a firm nod.

"I know you can, mate." A proud smile tugged at the corners of Harry's lips. It didn't waver this time when he turned to look at Jasper. "We'll meet with Robards and the Minister before we strategize."

Jasper scoffed but did not acknowledge him any further. Instead, he signaled for his MACUSA Aurors to follow him out of the bullpen.

"If this wasn't an International Confederation case, you do know that twat would be at war with the werewolves by now, right, Harry?" Ron said, his nostrils flaring as he watched them go. "We need to keep an eye on him or he'll jeopardize our plans. Or worse, he'll put Bulstrode at risk."

Harry let out a scoff. "It's because this is an International Confederation issue that Jasper will stay in line. If he breaks any laws, they'll have his title."

"I'll be going with Miles, right?" Blaise asked, the determination that had crossed his partner's face was now locked in on his, too. "Promise me, Potter, that you won't let Robbards nor Shacklebolt make the ridiculous choice of sending a MACUSA Auror with him for the sake of diplomacy."

"Jasper will have to send someone, too, but—" Harry was quick to put a hand on Blaise's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze, "you and Bulstrode are a team. You'll be there. I swear it."

Hermione could have laughed at the look of disgust that settled on Malfoy's pale face as his childhood best friend and nemesis stared at each other like comrades—like brothers that had never known a past where they were once on opposing sides of a war that had torn their world apart, but there was something far more pressing than the irony of their lives.

Atlas Greyback.

"We can't afford any mistakes," Hermione sliced through the quiet comradery of the two unexpected friends. "Play the Death Eater card, fine. But I need to be there, too, Harry. There are two packs in all of Varna and I am on good terms with both alphas. I can negotiate with them."

"Fuck sakes, here we go," Ron grumbled as Harry removed his hand from Blaise's shoulder, his arms now crossing over the chest of a ruffled button-up. At the same time, Miles looked torn between being insulted and hurt when he asked her, "Don't you trust me to get this done, Granger?"

She let out a frustrated breath. "I want all of our bases covered. This isn't personal, Miles, it's just—"

"That's exactly why it can't be you, Hermione," Harry said through gritted teeth, his emerald eyes dark and sharp. It triggered a memory that sometimes still haunted her during troubled nights, one where Voldemort's locket hung from his neck, fury and hatred changing the color of a gaze she adored. "Because it is personal. And, fuck, Malfoy's right—it is predictable, too. You're lucky Kingsley and Robards are allowing you on the case at all. Were it any other Auror and they'd be on desk duty until the job was done."

Merlin. She wasn't unreasonable; Hermione knew Harry was right, but she still could not contain the rage that had begun to burn just beneath the first layer of her skin. She was not afraid of Greyback. And, yes, maybe it was pride and arrogance that made her want to corner him, put him in a cell next to his father, but it was also an overwhelming need. Greyback had gotten too close last time. Too close to tearing her away from this world.

From her child.

The thought never escaped Hermione. Every time she looked at Scorpius' loving, innocent eyes, she prayed to a God she stopped believing in and asked for more time. More life.

To watch Scorpius grow.

To watch him live a happy, colorful life full of scraped knees, laughter, beach days, good books, and a mother always at his side.

"I know what this means for you, 'Mione," the sharpness in Harry's tone changed as he took a step in her direction, a softness now to the green eyes that reminded Hermione of cherished, warm spring days laid out on the grass of Hyde Park (Scorpius playing at a distance with a kite Harry swore he did not enchant to fly higher than the others kids'). The pad of his fingers touched the still-bruised side of her face. "Can't you trust that I know what I'm doing here?"

She reached for his wrist. This isn't about trust, she conveyed through a squeeze, her nails slightly indenting his flesh.

Harry pinched her chin. Isn't it?

A loud gag disrupted Hermione's silent conversation with Harry. She turned to see Ron scrunching his freckled nose at them. "Oh, I get it now," he said, glancing over at Blaise and Miles, "that really is annoying."

"Glad you see it, Weasley," Blaise said with a snort.

"This is why Witch Weekly always writes articles about them dating," Miles pointed out. "Those two are always in their own world and you, mate, are just third-wheeling most of the time."

Ron stuck his middle finger out. "Some would say Hermione's the third-wheeler, actually. Besides, Witch Weekly only writes that load of rubbish because you tell your girlfriend everything that happens here."

Miles slapped Ron's hand down. "Not true, sir," he quickly assured Harry, who was now frowning in their direction. "I'd never tell Parvati anything that happens here."

"You gave a statement when she wrote an article on the top five couples that would cause a frenzy if they got together—"

"It was an opinion," Miles hissed, cutting Ron off again by wrapping a muscular arm around his neck, holding him still. "Don't be bitter because popular opinion was that you and Granger were a terrible pairing since Hogwarts."

Ron flailed, his face redder than Hermione had seen it in a while. "Let go, you fucking—"

"Oh, are you sparring right now?" Although it was nearing the end of their workday, Hermione was not surprised to see Luna's ethereal features glowing under the terrible lighting of the bullpen. Most days, she would look up from a pile of research and see Luna smiling sweetly, her fingers already threading through Blaise's as he loudly announced his departure before Hermione could scold either of them about proper work ethics. "Can I make a wager on Miles?"

This time, however, Luna's hand was not holding that of her partner's. Instead, she gently swung Scorpius' in hers, both looking at the gathered group with wide, curious eyes.

Hermione wasted no time sending a nonverbal at Ron and Miles, both falling onto their arses just as Harry swooped in, tossing Scorpius up and into his arms.

"What's this surprise?" he asked the child, ruffling his blonde curls. "I thought you and Teddy were having a sleepover?"

"Teddy's got dragon pox," Scorpius told Harry, reaching for his glasses and readjusting them. It was a habit he picked up from his mother; throughout the years, Hermione had witnessed him copying a lot of her actions, feeling happy when she recognized pieces of herself in him. But he wasn't all hers.

Guilt stung again when she turned to look behind her shoulder and found Malfoy's silver eyes zeroed in on their son.

Instinct made her want to bury Scorpius under her robes, hide him from the things she still could not decipher—the things that terrified her about Draco Malfoy—but she had made a choice the moment she had asked him to follow her to her house.

Hermione wanted Scorpius to know his father.

"It's a rash," Luna clarified when Harry's worried eyes looked at her. "The boys were playing in the fields behind the Burrow today and they ran into a new herb garden George is growing. He did say nothing was poisonous, but he'd still give Teddy a percentage for sparking the idea of an update on his skiving snack boxes."

"Teddy turned green," Scorpius informed with a grin. "Auntie 'Dromeda is very cross."

"As she should be," Hermione huffed as she approached her son, hands on her hips in a way that brought waves of nostalgia when she could hear her own mother in the reprimand. "You and Teddy know you should not be playing with anything George gives you."

"Mummy," Scorpius stretched out a hand to pat her cheek, "If I were to turn green, I could get galleons, too."

"A Slytherin in the making if I ever saw one," Hermione heard Blaise say as he came around to Luna's side, his arm already wrapped around her delicate shoulders. He pretended to miss the glare Hermione shot his way; instead, with a smirk, he said, "Need us to take the little dragon with us? I know you and Potter have a lot to discuss before his early meeting with Robards and Shacklebolt tomorrow."

Harry rolled his eyes, already moving to pass Scorpius over, but in the same way that Hermione could feel the focused silver gaze in the background, her son tuned in to it, too. He swung his little legs, eager to be put on the ground. Hermione could see her best friend tempted to clutch onto her son, hide him under his own disheveled robes, but Scorpius was agile and quick. He was already racing to Malfoy before Harry or Hermione could keep him beside one of them.

"Mr. Draco!" Scorpius exclaimed, producing a silence that echoed in the bullpen. His fingers gathered the fabric of his expensive jacket, tugging at the hem like he'd do to Hermione when he was either happy to see her or demanding all her attention. "You're an Auror like Mummy?"

For the first time all day, Hermione sought Malfoy's eyes and held his gaze. The rage darkening the grey was not surprising to her; it was the tenderness that was peeking through, searching for permission to settle upon their son.

Mother burned the flesh above her heart, encouraging Hermione to give Malfoy a nod of hesitant approval.

Even with Mr. Malfoy staring at her like he could see every one of her scars.

"Not an Auror, no," he told Scorpius with the same soft smile he had given him when they first met, every bit of it still warm and strange and somehow true. He bent down, silver eyes meeting silver that screamed the truth louder than if Hermione used Sonorous to reveal it. "What'd you think I am?"

"Rich," Scorpius said without pause. "I showed Teddy the ring you gave me and he said only rich people have those. Oh! " He tugged at Malfoy's clothes again, this time bouncing on his feet. "Uncle Ron once gave Aunt Pansy a bracelet that turned her hand green. She was so cross at him, Mr. Draco, but I won't be cross with you if your ring turns my finger green. You can just give me galleons so I can be rich like you and Teddy."

"Scorp—!"

"It was real gold! Ginny just jinxed it—!"

The noise that slipped out of Malfoy's mouth rang like laughter to Hermione. Had she not had only years of malice and degradation warping the sound, she would have recognized it as something enthralling and pleasant. But her memory only produced flashes of his endless, vulgar taunts, so she turned to Blaise to search for confirmation of what she had just heard.

"Maybe Draco can mind the little dragon for an hour or two," Blaise proposed, subtext telling Hermione that, yes, that was a man genuinely captivated by the light of his son. "While you and Potter sort things out, that is."

"Darling," Luna whispered against Blaise's cheek, pressing a kiss to it before adding, "Ron's looking at you like Pansy does to me when I cleanse her flat from bad energies."

Overstepping.

Hermione knew Blaise was doing exactly that; and, of course, she knew Harry and Ron were both avidly against the idea of Scorpius even currently being in the same room as both Malfoys, but they were his family. Even if she did not have the courage to yet tell Scorpius that, Hermione owed her child a debt that she might never repay.

She owed him wholeness.

She owed him selflessness.

"Can you?" And because she carried guilt with Malfoy's name on it, Hermione offered both father and son this: "Can you stay with Scorpius, Draco?"