you were written in the stars that we are swimming in

Another foul word was scarring her skin.

Hermione couldn't see coward the same way she saw the mudblood on her forearm, but it still felt like it had been carved in with slanted letters. Each one burning and drawing out blood like Bellatrix Lestrange's blade had done. Still, after tossing and turning for hours, whispering a bitter farewell to the moon as the sun erupted orange and pink across the sky, she felt the word embedded down her spine. She kicked off the tangle of cold bedsheets and shuffled to her vanity, tugging Ron's old Chudley Cannons hoodie off to examine her back. Of course, there had not been a new, bleeding wound there, only old scars collected from old battles and old freckles collected from old summer days scattered across tawny skin.

What are you really afraid of?

Pansy's question kept echoing inside her skull, rattling perfectly placed barriers that had long kept the truth contained. She had known the answer, of course; not a lot escaped Pansy Parkinson, not when she had been bred to find and exploit faults, strengths, and sins. However, while Pansy had always been compelled to use such discoveries for her own personal gain, Hermione happened to be her friend. So she left Hermione alone with the ghost she had created for herself.

She had always been haunted by it—how could she not be when she had to look into Scorpius' eyes every day? But Hermione had learned to build walls. Brick by brick, she stacked each and then cemented those barriers in her mind, blocking out the taste, the sight, and the smell of Draco Malfoy.

Take your knickers off, Granger.

Come for me.

I never wanted you to die.

A child and a demanding job had taken precedence over the past. These had also forced her to heal, too; pushing her forward, even if she had to crawl on her hands and knees to overcome the war and the Death Eater serving a life sentence in Azkaban. And yet, despite excelling at everything, Hermione had not completely succeeded in taming the memory hidden behind those walls. She could occlude into her dying day, but she knew she would never truly forget—not the taste of Draco's tongue, tangy and sweet, even as he whispered filthy things against her throat, or the view from beneath him, all glowing grey eyes and flushed, bruised skin, or the metallic stench of blood and ash wrapping around them, let alone the faint traces of bergamot lingering in the crook of his neck.

Building him that cell inside her head had only made Hermione want to break him out. On occasion, she had stood before it with the key in her hand, but she knew there would be consequences if she set him free. So she forced herself to take a step back and leave him there, serving a life sentence in the darkest corners of her mind just like the one he had been serving in Azkaban.

But Draco had never been there.

"Oh, come look, Wendell!"

Looking up from the page she had been stuck on for the past hour, Hermione had to shield her eyes from the warm sunshine as a woman with an even warmer gaze marveled at the sandcastle Scorpius was putting together.

It was her mother.

"Well, that's Buckingham Palace," said Wendell Wilkins with a critical eye that never proved to be harsh, not when there was always an impressed tone weaved into every word. He put a hand on his wife's shoulder, both of them leaning in for further inspection. "Great architectural choice, lad."

Scorpius opened his mouth, a grin already pulling at the corners, but he turned to Hermione first. His amusement was quickly fading, like the waves of the ocean behind them had reached out and claimed it, ready to take back his happiness to unchartered depths.

Hermione would tie mountains around her ankles and drown to get it back, to assure herself that her child would always keep his smile, but all she had to do now was give him an encouraging nod.

"Mummy's teaching me about Queen Elizabeth," he told Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins. "But the queen doesn't always live in Buckingham Palace since she has so many castles!"

It still hurt.

No matter how many times Wendell and Monica Wilkins turned to face Hermione, it still hurt. It ached and destroyed what was left of her heart to see herself in their eyes—to only be a young stranger sitting on a beach towel, a discarded book on her lap, and a flowy, pale lavender sundress on. Because when she looked at them, all eternal sunshine wrapped up in thin colorful linen, she saw her parents.

She saw home.

"Another Brit in Australia," Monica said with a laugh. "Do you live here or are you on holiday, darling?"

"On holiday," Hermione offered, her voice thick with emotion she usually was quick to swallow down. She cleared her throat next, attempting a smile that could match the genuine excitement on her son's face. "The little one loves the beach. Wouldn't even entertain the idea of Paris in autumn."

Wendell let out a loud laugh as Monica scoffed.

"Women," he told Scorpius as he plopped down beside him, his wrinkled hands already scooping up mushy sand to help fortify the walls of Buckingham Palace. "There's something about Paris that they can't get enough of."

"You're stereotyping, sweetheart," Monica chastised with a pointed look that Hermione could recognize in her own reflection. "You just don't like cities."

Wendell waved her off before gathering more sand and inquiring after Scorpius' building method. Hermione could have spent the rest of her life watching her father and her child interacting, coming up with different lives where Mr. Wilkins was still Mr. Granger, equipped with all of his memories and a love so profound for a grandchild Hermione wouldn't have had to raise on her own.

No, Hermione held her breath, there was Harry.

There was always Harry.

They had been orphans together, watching from the sidelines as the Weasleys had attempted to sow themselves back together, missing pieces leaving them jagged and less vibrant. Of course, they pierced Harry and Hermione's sides with their needle, yanking gold thread through their skin to tie the two to them, reminding them they belonged—reminding Harry and Hermione that they were Weasleys, too.

While they adored the Weasleys with everything they had, Hermione would only have to look at Harry to find him already watching her, the bitter concoction of longing, grief, and anger simmering just beneath forced smiles. They had always been grateful for having something tangible, but they had wanted something of their own.

Hermione would have happily carved her beating heart out of her chest to have her mother smiling down beside her hospital bed, smoothing a cool, comforting hand across her drenched forehead, telling her to push, darling, push. Baby's almost here.

"Are you all right, darling?"

Feeding her lungs sea salt air, Hermione managed to find her voice as Monica Wilkins studied her, gently taking a seat beside her. Even after five cruel years of not being her mother's daughter, Hermione could still decipher every quirk of Monica's face. There was always genuine curiosity, tangible concern, and glimmers of respect in the woman's rich brown gaze. Like a child clinging on to fairytales where magic and love could solve it all, Hermione wanted to believe what she saw in Monica's eyes was the soul of a mother recognizing her daughter.

Outside of fairytales spun to enchant the naive, magic and love only cured certain things. Hermione was reminded of that every time the Wilkins' decided to go, their interest and adoration fading into the void where their real lives resided.

Every single time.

"I don't think I am," Hermione confessed, her bones aching desperately for her mother's comfort. "But my son needs me to be."

Monica made a noise of understanding, her hand coming to pat Hermione's knee softly. "I cannot say I'm familiar with motherhood, but I fully comprehend the concept of true love. It comes in different forms, of course, but its basis is the same. You want to be the best version of yourself to ensure your love's safety and happiness."

Hermione nodded.

"It's a beautiful notion," said Monica, "but impossible."

She could have cried at the echo of her mother's words being carried away by the crashing waves. Hermione recalled herself in her early teenage years, sitting at their kitchen table, her heart bruised because Ronald Weasley decided he fancied Lavender Brown. Her mother had said a variation of the same words then, her hand gently patting Hermione's cheek as the other wiped tears away.

"You're under a soul contract to protect that little boy with everything you have, darling, but you're only human," Monica continued. "You're allowed to hurt. In doing so, you become the truer version of yourself. That's who you want your son to know. Because one day, quicker than you might think, he will grow and he won't be perfect, but you would've shown him it's okay to be a little rough around the edges."

Hermione shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I almost lost myself once when he was born," she murmured, shame overpowering the taste of regret she had been savoring since Draco Malfoy came back from the shadows. "I put myself back as quickly as I could, needing to save him, needing to make sure he always felt loved, but in doing so—"

"Mummy, look! Grand—Mr. Wendell made an angel!"

"It's the monument made as a tribute to the late Queen Victoria," said Wendell as he molded sand together, encouraging Scorpius to come closer. "It was designed in 1901, but was actually finished in 1911—"

"I took pieces from him," Hermione finished, her fingernails sinking into the delicate binding of her book. "I hid parts of my child that I was too terrified to keep. Now it's all come back."

Monica moved her hand to Hermione's left, carefully dipping her fingers into the latter's grip, nudging it loose. "His father?"

Even as a stranger, Hermione was easily read by her mother. All she had to do was tilt her head to the side, narrow brown eyes slightly, and hear all the things Hermione had left unsaid.

"His father has a habit of breaking things."

"When you said you had to put yourself back together—"

"Oh. No," Hermione clarified with a quiet laugh. "I wasn't whole when our paths truly crossed. Neither was he, actually."

The comforting hand on Hermione's knee squeezed once before Monica settled her palms over her lap. "What's your head telling you, darling?"

Hermione laughed a little louder. Her mother had always been the heart. Her father the head. Even from a young age, she had known which parent she had inherited all logical reflexes from. Sure, her mother's heart beat inside Hermione's chest, too, reminding her to care, to love, to forgive, but it was her father's wisdom that paved a straight path to the library.

Anticipate the next move, dear, her father had said once, then you'll always keep your head.

The times she had ignored reason in favor of emotion, Hermione had lost more than she had gained.

Until Scorpius.

"My head's telling me to run."

"And your heart?" asked Monica as she looked up from her husband and Scorpius, meeting Hermione's tear-filled gaze. Every time she did, Hermione wished upon the giant, burning star in the sky that her mother would remember, that she would recall the same deep color of Hermione's eyes and the stray freckles across the bridge of her nose and recognize them as her own, but memory charms with irreversible damage did not adhere to silly dreams.

"To run faster," Hermione murmured, "but I know I shouldn't. I know what it's like to lose my family, I can't let my son lose his, too."

_______

Maybe it had been cruel to tell Scorpius who Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins were.

She had planned to explain why they often took so many day trips to that Australian beach when he was older, when he was capable of understanding the war Hermione had fought in and the consequences their magic could have. But in between bedtime stories involving her own youth, Hermione knew it was crueler to have Scorpius grieve two people who were not actually dead. Not when she would never stop sitting on that beach towel, a discarded book on her lap, and wearing a flowy sundress the same shade as her Yule Ball gown.

At first, Scorpius had been confused and frequently had to hear the rules of never revealing who they were to his grandparents, but Hermione's little boy was sharp. He understood quickly what it meant to her to watch him with the Wilkins'—he understood quickly what it meant to Hermione to know there was someone who loved her parents just as much as she did.

"What other buildings does Granddad like, Mummy?" Scorpius asked as he walked into their little house, his previously sandy bare feet now wrapped in thick socks and sturdy boots. "I can have Aunt 'Dromeda teach me how to paint them first. Georgie gave her special watercolors for Teddy, but he likes to share his things with me. We can paint Granddad's favorite buildings together."

"Andromeda knows better than to trust anything George gives Teddy—"

"Teddy knows better than to take anything with George's brand stamped on it—"

Hermione suppressed a groan just as Scorpius let out a peal of loud, delighted laughter when he clocked in on the intruders sitting around their living room. She had allowed each person access past her impeccable, unyielding wards, but now she recognized that she had not stressed the importance of boundaries when telling them they were allowed into her home when necessary.

Not that she trusted Slytherins and a Weasley to know what boundaries were, but she always had a little more faith in Luna Lovegood.

"I better still have a tin full of biscuits," Hermione warned as she dropped her satchel and Scorpius' beach bag of toys by the door, her eyes narrowing at Theodore Nott before looking at Pansy and Blaise. "And I better still have wine."

"Your Tesco wine is safe," said Blaise with an amused huff just as Pansy wrinkled her nose. "The same can't be said for your chocolate biscuits. You know they're Theo's favorite."

"Mummy knows," Scorpius told Blaise as he crawled out of Ginny's tight embrace, moving over to Luna's outstretched, inviting arms. "She likes the cinnamon ones, so she buys the chocolate for Uncle Theo."

Hermione scowled at her son's betrayal before pointing a threatening finger at the leering Slytherins. "Shut it," she threatened.

"You pretending like Nott isn't your favorite is annoying as ever," said Pansy as she stood from the overcrowded sofa, her smooth hands running down the intricate silk of her dress. "I know you're angry there appears to be an inquisition waiting for you, but next time you decide to skive off work with the little dragon I babysit, warn me."

"She was worried," Luna told Hermione, her gentle, whimsical tone making Pansy aim her glare at her now. It did not make Luna stop smiling, however; she continued to press kisses on Scorpius' cheeks and nose, all while Blaise and Theo marveled at her like she hung the moon in the night sky. "Scared, too. She quite loves you, Hermione."

"I do not," Pansy hissed, but still crossed her arms like a petulant child. "It took ages for Mrs. Weasley to like me, you think I would risk her fury if she knew I was the last person to have seen Granger and the monster before they disappeared? No, I was merely trying to secure my wedding to Ron."

Ginny snorted. "Anyone else still absolutely confused as to why Parkinson is so infatuated with my brother?"

"I still think she's having a laugh—"

"Ron is rather very funny—"

"Maybe Weasley's got a huge—"

"Enough ," Hermione hissed, aiming a kick at Theo's ankle before he could finish creating that disturbing image in the presence of her child, one that Pansy was not helping as she grinned wickedly. "Scorp and I went to the beach. Now we're home. You lot can leave now."

The bubble of amusement that wrapped the group slowly started to fray around the edges. They all knew by now why she had not made it to the Ministry, unable to face the ghost that haunted them just as it haunted her, but they also were aware who she went to see during those travels to the sea.

Luna clung on to Scorpius a bit tighter just as Theo put a hand on the back of his blonde head, fingers tenderly running through the messy, sea-salt scented strands. Blaise, ever the master of masking his expressions, allowed something like sympathy to glitter in his gaze as Ginny narrowed her eyes at Hermione, studying every centimeter of her body like she could find where her grief was leaking from.

Pansy was the only one willing to say what they were all thinking: "You've made a choice. About him ."

Blaise stood from where he sat tucked between his two partners. Theo's free hand reached out to wrap around his wrist, but Hermione knew it was not to force him back in his place; she had spent enough time around them, knew them enough to know when they were communicating without words.

"How about dinner over at ours, hmm?" Luna asked as Scorpius stopped playing with the bottlecap necklace around her pale throat. "I promise we can have pudding before our vegetables."

Scorpius beamed. "Yes, please."

"Sounds perfect, Luna," Hermione offered a small, grateful smile as the latter stood, her son still in her friend's slender arms like Scorpius was still three years old and his second favorite resting place was against Luna's chest.

"Uncle Theo can't have pudding, huh, Auntie Lu? He already ate so many biscuits."

"He never has to know, Granger," Blaise murmured when Theo stayed beside him, his fingers squeezing, giving him support to further add, "We'll keep the secret. We'll make the Unbreakable Vow."

Hermione looked away from Luna distracting Scorpius; she brought her hands to her eyes, rubbing at them before letting out a sigh. "You don't owe me loyalty."

"You're our friend— "

"Malfoy is, too," she reminded Blaise. "An Unbreakable Vow will only serve to hurt everyone in the end. Just...Just promise me you will always protect Scorpius no matter what happens next."

Blaise did not bother to conceal the emotion beneath his next words: "He will always come first, Granger. We swear it."

"I know," Hermione whispered, looking between Blaise and Theo, "I trust you."

Both reached out to touch her. Neither had to say how much it meant to them to hear those words, even if Hermione had said it to them before. They had earned her gratitude, loyalty, and affection, just as she had earned theirs.

"For the record, Granger," Pansy informed as she raised her chin, "I wasn't worried you'd run off."

"She'd find you anywhere you went—"

"You're her best friend —"

Pansy narrowed dark, deadly eyes at Blaise and Theo. They laughed obnoxiously at the expression as they walked over to Luna and Scorpius. "Come to dinner or don't, I don't really care," she said to Hermione with that glare firmly in place, even though Pansy's sharp tone suggested the latter had no choice but to show up to the Zabini-Nott-Lovegood home, "but I am keeping your little monster overnight."

"My son isn't having a sleepover, Pansy. He's got lessons with Andromeda tomorrow morning."

"Coming, Ginny?" Pansy inquired after rolling her eyes at Hermione just as Luna and Scorpius went through the Floo, the flames glittering in different shades of emerald just as Blaise and Theo followed right behind them.

"Yes," said Ginny, but she made no move to stand. Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest.

As she fastened her cloak around her shoulders, Pansy leered at Hermione, " That ," she pointed a manicured finger at Ginny, "is what you get for not telling me where you were going. Had you owled or Flooed me about your whereabouts, I would've warned you about Hurricane Weaslette touching down."

Agitated as she was at the intruding, overbearing Slytherins, Hermione almost asked Pansy to stay, but the latter was already throwing Floo Powder into the fireplace, cackling until the flames ate her up.

Hell hath no fury like a righteous Weasley woman, after all.

"I know why you're here," Hermione cut through the silence before it could linger. Not that it would—not when Ginny narrowed her eyes the way she had been doing even before they were left alone. Her glower reminded Hermione of the one she often wore in the quidditch pitch, readying herself to pummel anyone from the opposing team. Hermione would have been more concerned for her safety if she was not especially skilled with defensive skills, or if, despite all that visible, bubbling frustration, Ginny did not love her like they weren't sewn together by gold thread.

"Good. Then you know you're being a right arsehole."

Hermione scoffed as she waved her wand over Scorpius' things, sand being pulled from them, gathering up like a deformed castle before it vanished. "I hope you said the same thing to Harry before he convinced you to come fight his battles for him," she told Ginny as she then proceeded to put her son's belongings into a toy chest she allowed in the living room.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Of course I did," she stated with a scoff of her own, conjuring the bottle of Tesco wine Pansy had open the night before. She adjusted herself down against the sofa, taking a large gulp as she tucked her knees beneath herself. "Gave him a good smack on the head, too. Ron as well, of course. Both are complete twats."

"And yet you're still here to plead their case?"

"I'm here," Ginny grit out, pointing the bottle accusingly at Hermione now, "because you happen to be my friend, too. And if it hadn't been for a panicked Floo Call from Harry or an extremely vague, extremely annoying owl from Parkinson, I wouldn't know the Malfoys were back from the dark depths of hell—otherwise known as fucking Azkaban. If I hadn't shown up, you wouldn't have told me until my training was over."

After shutting the lid of the chest closed, Hermione used her wand to steal the bottle of wine from Ginny's grip. "You're training," she reminded. "You shouldn't be drinking. Nor should you be troubling yourself with my ghosts coming back to haunt me."

"For the Brightest Witch of the Age, you sure are stupid," huffed Ginny, a smirk tucking itself into the corner of her mouth. "If you truly were smarter, you'd know true friendship isn't dependent on only good times, but the bad ones, too. And this is bad, 'Mione."

Hermione refused to meet Ginny's perceptive gaze a second too soon so she settled on bringing the bottle to her mouth, tilting it back and taking a long, desperate drink from it. She knew it was too sweet for Pansy's refined tastes, but for Hermione, it was enough to mask the memory of green apples and regret she couldn't swallow away.

"I have no intention of forgiving Harry nor Ron," she told Ginny, clearing her throat as she set the bottle on the coffee table. "They lied. For years, they looked at me and kept the truth to themselves. Even after I had Scorpius."

"It's because you had Scorpius that they kept lying." When a glare that could cause terror in others took hold of Hermione, Ginny only settled further into the soft, comfortable cushions of her furniture. "I'm not justifying their choice, so please stop looking at me like Moaning Myrtle did my Fifth Year after she found out Harry and I were a thing."

"This isn't funny, Gin—"

"I'm not laughing, am I?" With a steady breath, Ginny then said, "I'm doing what I've always done for you three—I'm seeing things from each side. And yes, you have absolutely every right to curse them, hate them, never forgive them, but see it from their end, too. They thought the war stole more than your parents and your childhood, Hermione. They thought someone raped— "

"My virginity didn't belong to Harry nor Ron—"

"Of course it didn't!" Ginny shouted, her legs coming out from under her as she leaned forward, fire burning in her eyes. "But what the hell were they supposed to think when you told us you were pregnant a few weeks after the war? You three always had an eye on each other, protecting each other's backs, until one night when Harry and Ron were forced down into a cellar and all they could hear was you screaming."

Hermione shook her head like she could get the memory to fall out one of her ears.

"It never made sense, 'Mione," said Ginny after a moment of silence, her ferocity and volume dialing down. "It never made sense that you got down on your knees and begged Kingsley to spare Draco Malfoy. Nor did it make sense that you tried time and time again to see him in Azkaban before his trial."

Toeing off her sandals, Hermione sat on the edge of the coffee table, swiping the bottle of wine back. Her fingers wrapped around the neck, twisting. "So which theory was the worst? That Malfoy had his way with me or that I loved him?"

Ginny raised a sharp, auburn brow. "Did you?"

"I didn't know him well enough to love him."

"But well enough to give him what was left of yourself?" asked Ginny. "Enough to bore him an heir?"

Hermione wanted to tell her friend she never had any intention of taking a piece of Draco Malfoy with her when she left him behind in their old Potions classroom. Had she known (had she remembered ) he had a habit of claiming things that were not his, she would've never let him take her body, conquering almost every inch of her skin with unforgiving, desperate fingers and a repenting, sweet mouth.

"Ron will never forgive Malfoy, but you know Harry tried," Ginny then said, her hands coming to settle on top of Hermione's. The same twisted, suffocating knot formed at the base of her throat, reminding Hermione of the excruciatingly brief comfort she had felt sitting beside her mother hours before. "He knew Malfoy never had a choice. Harry was prepared to fight the entire wizengamot to secure his freedom, but the murder charge was presented. Then you were pregnant. Harry could forgive the war crimes Malfoy was forced to commit, but hurting you? Malfoy was fortunate to have left with his life, Hermione, because Harry would kill for you."

With a shaky breath, Hermione closed her eyes: Mrs. Weasley was on her left, squeezing her shoulder, smiling wide as she shouted encouragements welcoming Scorpius into the world, but Harry had been on Hermione's right, clutching on to her hand, his terrified emerald eyes staring straight at her with an unvoiced but heard you're going to be okay, 'Mione. I've got you both. I promise.

"Harry's an idiot," said Ginny, a smile once again tugging at her mouth, "but he always means well."

"And yet you still broke up with him," Hermione huffed, letting Ginny wipe a stray tear from her cheek before stealing the wine back. "How come I'm not allowed to stay angry at him for a few years?"

"Cheers for still telling people I broke up with him," said Ginny with a laugh before taking a more moderate sip from the bottle. When she swallowed it down, she added, "Harry ended things between us because he thought I deserved to chase my dreams and not be worrying about him running off into battle so quickly after the war ended. If you recall, I was livid—"

"You burned half of Grimmauld Place down—"

"But, in time, I understood why he did it," said Ginny with a snort at Hermione's impeccable memory. "It didn't stop me from absolutely hating him—"

"And having the occasional angry, post-breakup shag with him—"

"The point is," Ginny emphasized with a smack aimed at Hermione's bare shoulder, "that despite being a complete dickhead sometimes, Harry always means well. He's learned to use his head, Hermione. You taught him to use that, not only as the fucking Chosen One, but as Head Auror and a friend. Be angry at him, burn down the other half of Grimmauld Place, shag him if you want to, but eventually hear him out."

She really didn't want to.

Despite feeling that coward weigh her down, etched down her spine like another burst of Dark Magic she couldn't conceal, Hermione knew she also avoided showing up at the Ministry because she couldn't face Harry and Ron. She was furious at them, had more than half a mind to curse and then punch their teeth in, but looking at them would force other memories she kept behind her barriers.

She would see herself sat in a cold, bright room in St. Mungo's, the projection of her womb before her, carrying a little seed she had never intended to plant.

She would see herself standing at the end of a corridor, a trembling hand on her stomach as the sound of Draco's chains still echoed in the distance.

She would see herself hiding in the corner of her bedroom, her palms pressed against her ears, sobbing just as loud as a week-old Scorpius alone in his crib.

"Malfoy's back," Hermione breathed, opening her eyes to find Ginny still watching her with patience and loyalty that was all ferociously Weasley.

"I know."

"What am I supposed to do now, Gin?"

The wine was offered back to Hermione just as Ginny's eyes turned to the fireplace. It made her look at it, too, like they both could still see Scorpius in Luna's arms, three old rivals flanking them, ready to protect, die, and love them until their last days.

"You might've not known the Malfoys were exiled, Hermione," there was a softness in Ginny's voice she had not heard in years, not since those dark, early treacherous weeks where Hermione had not known how to connect to her child, "but you always knew one day you'd bring them into Scorpius' life. After all, you chose to raise him among lions and snakes."

Bringing the bottle to her mouth, Hermione took a sip to dissolve the knot in her throat. "I have to tell him," she said, but those words sounded like a question she wanted Ginny to answer despite knowing she wouldn't. "I have to tell Malfoy we have a son."

"I know," Ginny said again. Then, "And he'll start a war because of it."

Hermione took a larger drink. "He will," she said, "and I still don't know if Malfoy and I will ever fight on the same side."