Punch Drunk Love. Repost.
The rather groovy lissinthecity has betaed Punch Drunk Love for us, so here is the revised version of chapters one and two. The final chapter will be posted in a few hours when alexathain gets her ass online.
Title: Punch Drunk Love. 1/3.
By: Mexx & Lex
Disclaimer: All characters (except Val who is Mexx's to shag and love) are property of JKR.
Summary: A meeting between a much older Draco and Hermione leads to some heartbreaking discoveries.
Genre: Fluffy!Drama.
Rating: R.
Pairing: Draco/Hermione.
Author's Notes: Mexx: All credit should really go to Lex, as she did all the good stuff; I just drabbled a little fluff and angst, and drooled over Val.
Lex: to Mexx, for all the crack - one story, and I was addicted. And for creating the most shaggable OC I've ever encountered.
M&L: Uber-thanks to Kat for the beta! Also, we bow to the lovely, lovely LadyVader who allowed us to pay homage to her wonderful fic Matinee with usage of the Seventh Year Slammer. She is cool.
Also, we're going with the theory that Hermione's birthdate is September 19th 1979. This fic is set November 2017.
**
Fortnightly, the self-titled 'Girls of Gryffindor' met in a little London bar, reputed to be the best piano bar in Soho. Their group consisted of Hermione Granger, Lavender Brown, Ginny Weasley, and Parvati Patil, though the latter two now went by their married names, Longbottom and MacMillan, respectively. Hermione and Lavender were the resident bachelorettes, though Lavender was more likely to be seen on a date (or two) than Hermione was. In fact, Hermione had chosen this Muggle bar in the hopes that they would not run into anyone the other three could set her up with.
Hermione, having declined her friends' attempts to set her up with numerous Wizarding males - and, at one point, Ginny had actually suggested a female -- was quite happy being single and thirty-eight and not in the least bit interested in any of Ernie's work colleagues that Parvati was trying to set her up with. She was quite content with spending every second Friday meeting her friends for a girls' night out, if only to get out of her flat for once in awhile, as opposed to enjoying Ginny's endless prattle regarding how she should settle down. As Hermione had pointed out on several occasions, she was already quite settled, despite her suitable lack of a male partner.
The evening was winding to a close, as Lavender was now approaching the point where she could barely string two words together. Plus, she was eyeing up a bloke at the bar, whom Hermione thought looked a good bit like a young David Beckham, and when it came to Lavender's bedroom sports, the other three girls knew when to say goodnight.
Hermione meandered towards the bar to deposit her empty glass, freeing up the table for latecomers to the bar, suddenly feeling the effects of the few too many Cosmopolitans and Smirnoff Ices she'd had. Her journey to her destination, however, was halted when she bumped into a rather solid object. She teetered on her heels for a few seconds, trying to regain her footing before she lost her balance.
Having regained her composure and salvaged most of her dignity, Hermione looked up, intent on discovering just what - or who -she'd bumped into, only to find herself staring into the rather amused eyes of one Draco Malfoy.
"Well, well, well..." he smirked, and Hermione inwardly scowled, wondering how he still managed to exude boyish impudence and at thirty-eight look as young and annoyingly good-looking as he always had. Even on first glance, Hermione recognised him to have retained his youthful charisma and sickening Slytherin charm. "If it isn't Granger. Isn't it a bit late for you to be out on a week night?"
Hermione rolled her eyes and he grinned, showing he intended no true malice. "Come on Malfoy, aren't we a little old for hurling insults?"
"Ah, Granger. One's never too old for friendly banter," he returned.
"Friendly?" Hermione arched her eyebrows in casual disbelief. She couldn't recall their ever being friendly with each other.
"Well, I'm a friendly bloke," he flashed her another Malfoy smile. "And when last we met, we were on rather - shall we say - *friendly* terms."
Hermione couldn't believe he had the audacity to bring *that* up. She averted her eyes from his mocking gaze and found Ginny, Lavender, and Parvati throwing looks of surprise and confusion her way. She motioned for them to leave without her. As far as she could tell, they couldn't see with whom she was chatting, and she really wasn't keen on having a group reunion at the moment.
"You... I, erm..." Hermione found she was at quite a loss for words, "there was drinking," she finished lamely.
"Mmm, indeed." Draco nodded sympathetically, although his eyes seemed to be laughing. Hermione allowed herself a small chuckle.
Their laughter died, and they found themselves in silence, quite at a loss for what to say. Hermione broke the silence, giving him a hasty goodbye for fear he'd embarrass her any further. "Well, it was nice seeing you, Malfoy, bye!"
"No goodbye kiss?" he teased, and enjoyed the blush that stained her cheeks.
"How could it possibly be a goodbye when we've barely said hello?" Hermione smiled, pleased to have gotten out of his question without embarrassment.
Draco smirked knowingly, "You didn't say 'goodbye' last time, either. And regardless of whether I was drinking, I definitely remember there being a 'hello' then."
"You were unconscious!" she protested, annoyed.
"As I said, I'd been drinking. I was an eighteen year old with a hangover, what do you expect?"
"What is this? 'Twenty Questions'?" she spat at him, not wishing to answer his last question. Though still smirking, he looked incredibly confused, the Muggle reference clearly lost on him. For a brief moment, she wondered what he, of all people, was doing in a Muggle bar, but her desire to get out of this awkward situation won over her curiosity. "Never mind. Gotta dash - bye!"
Like a champion sprinter at the start of a race, Hermione bolted from the spot and deposited her empty glass at the bar. She was halfway to the door when a hand on her shoulder stopped her. "Malfoy, what..." she whipped around, sputtering. However, it wasn't Malfoy who had halted her progress; it was some bloke she didn't know who was clearly tanked.
"Hey pretty lady... what's the rush?" He slurred. Hermione could smell the alcohol on his breath.
"I'm not in a rush," she answered him kindly but firmly. "I do not, however, have time to converse with someone who's clearly had too much to drink and who is a complete stranger to me."
"I'm no stranger!" he grinned sloppily, showing a set of yellow, crooked teeth. "I know all the pretty ladies."
Rolling her eyes, Hermione stepped away from him. "I'm sorry, I just don't have the patience for this." Before she could turn around to leave, though, the drunk grabbed both her shoulders and pulled her into his arms.
"Hey!" she exclaimed. "Let go of me, you ruddy... sodding... drunk!" She struggled, but his hold on her was too strong.
But then, before Hermione could struggle further, a different set of strong arms were holding her and the drunk lay on the floor nursing a bloody nose.
"Tosser," her saviour muttered at the drunkard, and Hermione turned around to find herself standing in Draco's arms.
"What are you-" she began, and then stopped herself. "Thanks."
Draco shook his head and released Hermione from his protective embrace, only to slip his arm around her waist and guide her back into the bar. "Some wankers don't know how to treat a lady."
Hermione paused and looked up at Draco quizzically, "Wait a minute, did Draco Malfoy-- hater of all things Muggle-- just call me a lady?"
"Will wonders never cease?" he smiled, "Come on, I'll buy you a drink."
**
"I should really be getting home." Hermione smiled at Malfoy, quite keen on getting out of his presence, despite the rather nice conversation they had been having. Getting drunk anywhere in the near vicinity of Draco Malfoy was never a good idea. And, as far as she could tell, she was one drink away from loosening her inhibitions enough to give him an invite home, which she knew could never happen.
Malfoy frowned at her, though there was a playful glint in his eyes. "But the night is still young, Miss Granger!"
Hermione smirked. "How trite. No, Draco, I really do have to get home." She pulled away from the bar, scooted her stool back a foot, and stood up. Draco followed suit.
"Let me at least get you a taxi." He could really be a gentleman when he wanted to. Winking at her, he offered his arm and she took it, linking hers with his. "Did you just call me Draco?"
"Hmmm," she murmured, "You don't have to get me a taxi, you know. I live close by."
"Then I'll walk you," Draco offered, and guided her out of the bar. Hermione found herself grateful for the sturdy comfort his body alongside hers offered her, without which she knew she would be quite likely stumbling all over the place.
"We have to go left," Hermione informed him as they exited the bar. The night air was cool and damp, making Hermione shiver and secure herself closer to Draco.
"To your place?" he queried.
Hermione nodded, and Draco turned them right.
She spluttered for a moment before demanding hotly, "I said left. Where are we going?"
"You need to walk it off or else you're going to wake up with a nasty hangover tomorrow. You know the sobering charms never work for shite."
They walked in silence for a few moments, Draco guiding them toward the park in Piccadilly Square. "So what are you doing?" Hermione inquired.
"Walking around London with a hot brunette on my arm." He winked at her, and her alcohol-addled mind couldn't decipher if he was being entirely serious or not.
"No, not *now* you idiot, with your life..."
"Well, I'm a writer. Technically a journalist, but you try not to tell people that. They have a tendency to get carried away with the idea that you stalk celebrities and what not. I'm more one for politics and serious news."
Hermione was surprised at how passionate he seemed to be about his work. She had never before seen him so intensely serious about something that didn't involve killing and maiming Muggleborns. Still, she lapsed from her serious repose, landing on the lurid image of a Rita Skeeteresque Draco, complete with lime green reading glasses and a dragon hide handbag. She suppressed a giggle, to which Draco responded by casting a disparaging look her way.
"Very amusing. Alright, missy - what do you do for a living then? Something grand, I reckon, like saving the world on a regular basis." In the midst of her giggling, Hermione veered off to the right, but Draco grabbed her arm and brought her back on course. She composed herself.
"Hardly, that's more Harry's line of work," Hermione answered as Draco rolled his eyes. He was obviously still not Harry's biggest fan. "I'm an Administrative Assistant at the Ministry. I work for Mr. Weasley."
"Which one?" he scoffed, and Hermione gave him a withering look.
"Arthur-Ron's father."
"You could be doing a lot better than that, I'd have thought you'd be saving the world from sin with Potter. Did you not think to become an Auror?"
"I thought about it," Hermione answered, and sat down on the nearest bench before adding "but something came up."
"I thought about it, too," Draco replied thoughtfully, and sat down on the bench next to Hermione. "After the war... after I saw what Father... well, suffice to say I saw my Father in a different light, and I just let him get on with it. I thought about becoming an Auror just to annoy him, but reconsidered when I realised I'd have to work with Potter."
Hermione sighed and wriggled closer to Draco, relishing the warmth of his body compared with the cool night air. "You make it sound like something out of Shakespeare; thwarting your evil father before changing job prospects to avoiding your childhood nemesis."
"Trust you to associate anything in life with literature... you always were obsessed with that bloke." Draco jeered.
"Shakespeare is not just 'that bloke'!" Hermione protested, "He was one of the greatest playwrights ever. And I seem to recall you telling me so at one point."
"No," Draco contradicted her, "I think you'll find I just said 'Hamlet' was a bloody good play."
Hermione tensed at the memory - he *had* said that, and she remembered precisely when. They were both celebrating their last night at Hogwarts and they were very sloshed at the time.
The Seventh Year Slammer was a little-talked-about, much-anticipated event on the last night of term before the end of the year. Seventh years from all four houses united for one night of reckless fun and lots of boozing. Needless to say, most students came away from it all with very little memory of the events that transpired, to their great relief.
Unfortunately, Hermione remembered every minute of it, though she couldn't quite figure how, as she was totally smashed at the time. They say you never forget your first drink, so perhaps that's why her memory of the evening was so crystal clear. In a very unHermione-like fashion, she had consumed her first Firewhiskey on an empty stomach, and before long was practically dancing on the tables.
Ron and Harry had crept away with a mad glint in their eyes, which had reminded Hermione suspiciously of Fred and George before one of their usual exploits. Alone at the party, Hermione had soon fallen into silence until Draco had appeared beside her and offered her what would be her second drink of the evening.
Draco had engaged in conversation with her with great trepidation, for fear the Wonder Boys would return and kick his rather drunk (but nonetheless quite fine) arse into the twenty-first century. Unable to think of something to say to her, having spent the last six and a half years taking great delight in insulting her, Draco had settled on neutral territory; literature. How was he to know they'd end up arguing which of Shakespeare's works was undeniably the greatest? Draco had insisted upon 'Hamlet' to which Hermione had teased that he could relate.
"But my father's not dead..."
"Yes, but you're awfully fond of your mother."
Hermione's favourite, unsurprisingly enough, had turned out to be 'A Winter's Tale'-her namesake. Draco couldn't think of a reason to insult her for this, so he offered her a drink instead.
Her third drink had turned into her fourth, and her fourth into her fifth, and by this point Hermione had found herself admiring Draco's finer attributes in a darkened corner of the room, while he had found great-and a somewhat intoxicated-delight in letting his hands wander beneath her robes.
It was half an hour into their grope in the corner when Harry had found them. Draco had the courtesy to look abashed as he helped Hermione button up her blouse whilst Harry had looked caught between anger and amusement. Much to Hermione's relief, he'd not said anything other than a friendly and rather slurred 'have a nice night'.
After Harry's interruption, Draco had practically dragged Hermione into his bedroom, which had been only a short walk from the previously undiscovered dungeon that had been designated the location for the Seventh Year Slammer, and continued where he'd been before Harry' interruption. Several of the buttons on Hermione's blouse got lost in the process.
For someone who was very drunk, had never experienced sex before, and had
been in very few intimate situations, Hermione had a particular talent for attending to Malfoy. He'd wondered at the dexterity with which she unbuttoned his black silk shirt and flung it across the room, where it joined her discarded blouse. She had ran her fingertips across his supple skin, tickling him as she fingered the white-blond hair that ran down from his navel. Suppressing a moan, Malfoy had shivered slightly as she gingerly feathered kisses across his collarbone.
He'd thought she was a virgin, but this display cast his notions into doubt. Despite his pleasure, Draco had wished to explore her body just as she did his, so he'd pulled away from her and indicated with a soft touch to the underside of her breast that it was his turn.
As much as Hermione had loved touching him, his touching her , she had found, was even better. Draco had run his fingers down from her breasts, over the curve of her waist, and settled his hands at the base of her spine. He then had allowed his mouth to explore the contours of her breasts, taking one into his mouth as he nipped at the fine lace cloth covering them.
She'd wondered whether or not it would hurt when they had sex, though she'd known that her trepidations regarding the pain would not deter her from proceeding. She wanted this and had wanted it for some time. Over the romantic notions of her childhood, Hermione knew that she wanted to be taken, to be ravished. She'd imagined the act a million times in her head and fantasies, always featuring one intense and passionate Slytherin. At this point, she'd known what she and Draco were going to do, and she'd relished in the idea of it.
Hermione shook her head to rid herself of the memories of that fated night almost two decades ago and turned her attention to the present day Draco, who was still talking about the merits of 'Hamlet'. Draco, it seemed, was still awfully fond of his own voice.
"It's raining," she announced softly as she felt the first drops of rain hit her head, trickling down from between the barren branches overhead.
"We should get going then, before we get soaked." Draco suggested, grabbing Hermione's hand as he stood up, pulling her with him.
"We'll go to my place, it's only over the road." Hermione suggested, and began walking toward the exit.
Draco halted. "Can't we Apparate?"
"I'm over the limit... come on, it's not far. And I promise not to tell anyone if I see your hair in rat's tails."
**
"This is it," Hermione proclaimed with a deep sigh, partly from their mad dash to the door and partly due to her nervousness with regard to his coming in.
"I see. Lovely from the outside. Wet, but lovely." Draco smirked at her, little raindrops falling from his soft blond tendrils and light eyelashes. Hermione smiled nervously at him, her back to the door, as if guarding it against his entrance. "Aren't you going to invite me in, Granger?" HE asked her silkily.
"Yes, yes - of course," she flashed him a mock-confident grin. "Just let me pop in and tidy up a bit."
"Of course," he drawled slyly. Draco was rather sure that her flat was anything but untidy, but he indulged her. Women could be funny like that sometimes.
Hermione turned the key in the lock and dashed inside, leaving the door slightly ajar so Draco could shield himself from the rain slightly but not so much that he could see inside. After a moment's pause in which he heard her mutter a few spells, she appeared once more and let him in. As he suspected, her flat was immaculate. They walked through a small foyer, in which Hermione deposited her clutch-bag and her soaking coat, through to the living room.
"Won't you sit down? I could make us some tea, if you'd like," Hermione played the gracious host, though inside her stomach was doing flip-flops. He probably shouldn't be here, in her flat.
"Hmmm, sounds brilliant," Draco muttered as he meandered about the room, gazing at the various pictures that adorned the walls and mantelpiece. She was obviously still sweet on Potter and Weasley, as there were pictures of them everywhere.
Potter, Weasley, and Granger by Hagrid's hut during their.... third year at Hogwarts? The three of them standing in front of the restored fountain in the Ministry of Magic, Harry proudly showing his Auror certificate with Hermione on his arm and Ron gawping in the background. The Golden Trio, with eyes slightly glazed over, toasting to the future (he presumed) at the Seventh Year Slammer. God, she'd been beautiful. Still was.
Draco moved to the couch and sat down as Hermione bustled in with two steaming cups of tea. She juggled the two cups in one hand as she produced a pair of coasters with a flick of her wand. God forbid they get cup stains on the coffee table. He chuckled at her meticulousness. Some people never changed.
She plopped down next to him, sinking into the squashy couch, almost touching him. She cradled her mug between her two hands and blew at the steaming drink absent-mindedly.
"I meant to ask you," she began cautiously, "what on earth were you doing in a Muggle bar?"
"I wanted a drink," Draco answered plainly.
Hermione raised an eyebrow, "In a Muggle bar?"
"Just because most Muggles are ignorant prats does not mean that they don't make bloody good liquor."
"That's the only reason?" she inquired softly, taking a careful sip of her steaming tea.
"What else would there be?"
Hermione shrugged, "It just seems a little odd that you-who finds most things Muggle despicable-should choose to spend an evening in a Muggle bar in the middle of Soho."
"Maybe," Draco smiled devilishly, "I don't have quite the same opinion of Muggles that I did all those years ago."
"Maybe?" Hermione smiled, and took another tentative sip of her scalding tea. Draco, she noted, had yet to even touch his.
"Maybe that one Muggleborn introduced me to just how delightful Muggles can be."
Hermione snorted into her drink at the thought that she'd caused Draco's turnabout behaviour.
Draco averted his eyes, almost embarrassed. "Listen, that wasn't quite how I meant it... I realise I was an absolute bastard to you through most of our time at school, and yes, it took me getting absolutely blitzed to realise you're not as bad as I thought, but I'm not some dumb kid anymore. And I don't need to be smashed to know that what I really want to do right now is kiss you."
Hermione's eyes flickered to meet his, briefly. How was she supposed to look at him now that she knew how he felt, now that she knew he felt the same way as her, and that all that separated them now was the airspace between them?
"You're acting like one shag with me reformed you, Draco. It was just one night..."
"It was more than that," he argued somewhat desperately, "it was..." Hopelessly, Draco tried to convey his feelings, but found himself unable to. He finally relented, and leaned closer to her, his lips only a breath away from hers.
His shallow breathing tickled Hermione's lips and, instinctively, she licked them. The look in Draco's eyes screamed 'I want to shag you right here, right now,' and if it weren't for the insistent look of hers that said 'don't even think about it,' he would have.
Instead, Draco settled for kissing her lips in a wanting yet gentle fashion. He liked whatever lipgloss she was using; it made her taste of rain and strawberries. Running his tongue across her lips, Draco asked for entrance to her mouth. She obliged, but at the same moment, the sound of a key being turned in the lock was heard. Hermione jumped nearly a foot in the air, and broke away from Draco.
Draco threw a searching look her way, but she refused to look at him. Instead, she picked up her mug of tea once more and began to sip at it incessantly.
The door to the living room opened, and Draco raised a curious eyebrow in Hermione's direction. She didn't meet his eyes, but peeked over her mug to smile at the man who had just entered the room.
Draco, upon getting no response from Hermione, turned to look at the man who'd broken up their near embrace. The very handsome, very *young* man who was in Hermione's flat at midnight.
For his part, the young newcomer looked as equally surprised to see Draco as Draco was to see him; both men turned their questioning glances toward Hermione.
Under the two piercing glares, Hermione shrank back, cowering behind her tea. Finally, after gaining her composure, and sick of the glares that seemed to be bouncing around the room, she spoke: "Draco, this is Val." Draco continued to glare at the newcomer, and didn't make and acknowledgement of the introduction.
"Val," Hermione continued, "This is Draco. He's an old scho-- we went to school together."
Val crossed the room, taking only a few long strides to reach the side where Hermione and Draco sat. "Pleasure to meet you," he smiled at Draco, and offered him his hand.
Draco didn't take the proffered hand, merely glowered at the young man. If one didn't take in Draco's own handsome and kept appearance, the look that Draco sent to Val could have been mistaken for something akin to jealous. Val was a handsome man, that couldn't be missed; Draco recognised the signs of a Quidditch player in his athletic build. He had grey eyes, shrouded in long black lashes. They would have looked pretty on a woman, but on Val they appeared piercing. His hair was dark, almost black, and fell in longish curtains around his face.
Val simply shot Hermione a withering look and excused himself, "Well then. I'll just let you two catch up. Goodnight."
"Night, love," Hermione called after him as he padded down the hall to his (or *their*, Draco thought) bedroom.
Once again, Draco and Hermione sat in loaded silence. Draco reckoned that she could really pick them. This kid (how old, no - young, was he?) could have been a model. That was it, wasn't it? Hermione liked to shag models. Shite. The kid was probably an actor too, considering the whole actor-slash-model thing. How was he supposed to measure up to that?
Draco covered up his sudden insecurity with his standard biting humour. "Jesus, Granger. How old is he? Twenty, Twenty-one?"
"No," Hermione corrected, "he's eighteen."
"Eighteen? God, you do like them young. And dumb, from the look of him. Reminds me of Potter, especially with that bloody hair!"
Hermione started, though she wasn't sure whether to call him out on insulting Val's (and her own) intelligence or for the jab at Harry. "For your information, he was Head Boy at Hogwarts. He just graduated. And he's training to be an Auror." There was a trace of pride in Hermione's voice, and Draco considered her to be proud of the fact her boy-toy wasn't as dumb as he looked.
"Fancy." Draco smirked, " What do you do, Granger? Put yourself on the Hogwarts mailing list, look for the Head Boy each year, shag his socks off and let him move in?"
"No, Malfoy, I don't," she sighed, resigned to telling him the truth. "If you must know, he's my son."
**
Part Two
//And all the pretty roses wilted up and paled themselves away today.
The guillotine of truth has fallen, somehow I'm the one you blame.//
"If you must know, he's my son."
Draco choked on the now cooled tea he'd been drinking. "Your... excuse me, what?"
"My son." She repeated, and then added sarcastically, "Offspring. Fruit of my womb."
"But Granger, you're only what-just turned thirty-eight? If he's eighteen...." Draco trailed off, doing some quick maths in his head. "Then right after Hogwarts? Jesus Christ, was it Potter? He has the look of him." That would figure, Draco thought. She'd obviously gone and forgotten him after that night. He reckoned she'd probably thought she'd decided to move onto Harry, whom she'd really have wanted, after getting her first shag over and done with.
'Bloody prat gets everything he wants - and everything I want too,' Draco thought, scowling.
Hermione read the look on Draco's face and corrected his assumption. "No, it wasn't Harry."
Draco briefly entertained the idea that the boy might be Weasley's but dismissed it quickly; "Well it obviously wasn't Weasel, otherwise you'd see his hair a mile off. Who?"
"No, it wasn't Ron either, but they both helped me to raise him."
"Then who?" He demanded persistently.
Hermione averted her eyes, abashed.
"How old did you say he was?"
"Eighteen," Hermione whispered numbly. "He was born February 25th 1999."
Draco was quiet for a moment, his eyes focused on Hermione's bowed head. "Nine months before... graduation?"
Hermione nodded dumbly, finding herself rendered speechless. How was she supposed to tell him *this*?
"No..." Draco shook his head in disbelief, "You can't mean..."
Hermione looked up, her eyes-glistening with tears-met with his. She nodded again.
"He's mine?"
They sat in silence, neither knowing what to say. A million emotions danced across Draco's countenance; a first for him, as he usually kept himself reserved.
"Wait a second," he burst out suddenly, "You named our son Val? What, like Valerie?"
"No," she protested, her cheeks stained pink, "Like Valentine!"
"Valentine? As in St. Valentine... lovey-dovey crap and fluffy bunnies?" Draco spluttered in rather unmanly disbelief.
"It's from Shakespeare, Draco."
"Shakespeare? Well *I've* certainly never heard of a Valentine in Shakespeare. You couldn't even name him after a bloody main character?"
"He's the main character in 'Two Gentlemen of Verona'."
Draco pouted. "Well, I haven't read that one."
Hermione didn't know how to respond to that. Nonetheless, she racked her brain for something that would smooth this over, or at least calm Draco down. "Listen, Draco - I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what, Granger?" Hermione winced as he referred to her by her surname once more. "Sorry that you got pregnant, sorry that you didn't tell me, or sorry that I found out your little secret?"
"I..." she stammered.
"No, don't answer that," he spat at her. "Answer me this: why the hell didn't you tell me you were pregnant?" At this point, Draco had jumped up from the couch and was towering above her, arms crossed against his chest indignantly.
"I wanted to!" She proclaimed, "Well, not really, but I knew I had to do the right thing. But you were nowhere to be found - you disappeared, Draco."
They lapsed into silence again, and Draco began making laps around the room. "I still can't believe you named him Valentine," Draco mused.
"Well, you weren't here to help me make the decision, were you?" she answered bitterly.
"No," Draco argued, "Don't do that. Don't make it out to be my fault. I didn't know you were fucking pregnant, how was I supposed to be there for you and him when I didn't know?"
"You left England Draco, you left the bloody continent! How was I supposed to tell you?"
"It's called an owl, Hermione," Draco bit back sarcastically, "It's how us wizards communicate."
"Yes of course, how silly of me," Hermione answered sarcastically, "'Dear Draco, You remember our drunken shag? Yes, of course you do-you moaned enough during it. Well guess what, somebody-me-ended up knocked up. Any ideas for baby names? Yours, Hermione.' Yes Draco, bloody spectacular idea that one."
"It wasn't easy for, despite what you think." Hermione added regretfully, "I did try looking for you."
"At the time I wasn't exactly too keen to be found, Hermione."
"What?" she sneered at him, "Too mortified that you had slept with a lowly Mudblood?"
"Jesus Christ, Hermione! You know that wasn't it; I never once regretted that night."
"You were drunk, how would you even remember it?" Hermione asked bitterly.
"You think that was it? That I was drunk and horny and you were the nearest vaguely shaggable girl? I'd been thinking about you for *months*. It killed me when I woke up alone the next morning."
"Draco..." She whispered softly, "I didn't know... I'm sorry, I-"
"No," he interrupted her angrily, "*I'm* sorry."
Hermione opened her mouth to reply, to apologise again and try and solve this mess they were in, but was silenced when Draco banged his mug on the coffee table and stalked out of the room, slamming the door into the hall way behind him.
Hermione remained sitting on the couch, her eyes wide and filled with tears. Her lips trembled as she waited for the inevitable slamming of the front door and Draco exit, possibly-given his mood-out of her life forever.
But the loud slam never came. Hermione's curiosity got the better of her, so she leapt to her feet and padded her way across the carpeted floor through the living room in the direction of the hallway.
On opening the door to the hallway that Draco had slammed Hermione felt her heart melt at the sight that greeted her; across the hall Val's bedroom door lay open and Draco stood in the doorframe, bathed in the light of the full moon that flooded in from the curtains Val had neglected to close. Hermione cautiously stepped closer so she was able to see Draco's face.
He must have noticed her presence behind him, she was sure, yet he did not flinch, nor blink away the tears that she could see building in his eyes. Hermione took another step closer yet to Draco, and smiled slightly as Draco's hand sought out hers, gripping it tightly.
Hermione resisted to the urge to grin; here stood Draco Malfoy, former badass Slytherin, awed into silence by the sight of a teenage boy snoring loudly in his filthy bedroom.
"Draco," Hermione whispered, "though Val's absolutely gorgeous when he's sleeping, I know, he's a bit of a light sleeper. If he catches here, he'll throw a hissy fit."
"My son would throw a hissy fit?" Draco pondered indignantly. No Malfoy ever had the word 'hissy' attached to his name.
"Ron's influence," she answered, laughing.
She led him back down the hall to the living room so they could talk further.
"Draco," Hermione said cautiously, as soon as they were both sitting, "I know it doesn't mean anything, but I am sorry. I never meant for things to go this way. When I found out I was pregnant, I was so scared - to be pregnant at eighteen, without anywhere to go or anyone to turn to. And I couldn't find you...."
"I never imagined..." Draco started, but was cut off by Hermione.
"I know, Draco. It's not your fault."
"But you had to raise him on your own, Hermione." Draco protested, "*Our* son, and you had to raise him alone."
Hermione sighed and clutched his hand in her own, "It was difficult at first, I'll admit, but he never went without, and I wasn't the only influence in his life. Harry and Ron have always been around. Lord, I don't know what I'd have done without Harry. I was a wreck when I found out I was pregnant, especially when I couldn't find you... Harry helped me through it, he's been an angel through everything, from being there while I gave birth right through to holding my hand while I sat home worrying through Val's first date."
"Wait a minute," Draco halted her, "Potter knew?"
Hermione nodded, "I never told him, but he figured it out-he saw us together that night, remember?"
"Potter knew that Val was my son? Potter knew? He fucking knew?" Draco exploded, and leapt from the couch in anger.
"Draco I don't understand, why is Harry knowing such a big deal?" Hermione asked, but feared she already knew the answer.
"I was in Venezuela in 2003. I bumped into Potter in a bar, we didn't talk much or anything, but we exchanged a brief conversation. And you know what's funny? He neglected to mention I had a four-year-old son! Not married or even dating, was he? Too busy raising *my* child to bother about his own family or letting me know that I was a father!"
"Draco..." Hermione pleaded, laying a hand on Draco's arm and leading him back to the couch, "Don't blame Harry, he was only doing what he thought was best for Val and me."
"You knew, didn't you?" Draco asked in a disbelieving rhetoric, "You knew Potter had seen me... you knew where I was!"
"Yes, Draco, I did," Hermione asserted, peering straight at Draco. "Things had changed for me, though. I was on my feet, raising Val with Harry and Ron to help out; I had a job and I didn't have to be afraid anymore. And, frankly, I didn't think it was fair to push this responsibility on you. I was fine doing it on my own."
Draco looked affronted, and he raised his voice a notch higher than it had been before. "Who are you to decide what is and isn't fair to me - you had no clue what I would and wouldn't have wanted."
"What?" Hermione scoffed at him, "Like you would have welcomed having a half-blood for a son with open arms? I didn't think you'd be exactly thrilled that the heir to the Malfoy dynasty was the product of one drunken tryst with a Mudblood."
"Hermione, though I may not have been *thrilled*, I would have welcomed him with open arms - he's my son! And, contrary to what you seem to believe, I am not the prejudiced, heartless bastard that you make me out to be," Draco declared angrily, though his expression softened slightly as he continued. "And it wasn't a drunken tryst, Hermione. You make it sound dirty."
"It was hardly the romance on the century," Hermione replied wistfully.
"What ever it was," Draco smiled, almost nervously, "It resulted in something good, right? You have a son..."
"*We* have a son, Draco," Hermione corrected. "Just because you missed out on the first eighteen and a half years of his life doesn't mean you won't be a part of it now."
"I want you to tell me about him, tell me what I've missed..." Draco's tone had an almost begging quality to it, and although it was one A.M and she was both physically and emotionally exhausted, she could not deny him. "Start at Hogwarts, tell me what he's like as a wizard."
"He was sorted into Slytherin, much to Harry and Ron's chagrin," she began. "I didn't mind, it just reminded me of just how much like you he is; he excelled in Potions too. You can only imagine the heart attack Snape had when he realised that a Granger was in Slytherin."
"So, wait a second. You're telling me that, not only was my son Head Boy at Hogwarts, but that he was a Slytherin as well?"
"And Captain of the House Quidditch Team," she mumbled.
"And Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch Team!" he practically shouted. "Well, this is bloody brilliant. My son is the fucking Golden Boy and I wasn't even there to see it."
"Draco, please calm down. You'll wake him up," Hermione hushed Draco impatiently, "You should be proud of him, not angry, God knows he's in awe of you."
"Of me? How does he even know who I am?" Draco asked, his temper abiding to give way to his pride and curiosity.
"He was in Slytherin! By the time he got to Hogwarts you were practically a legend. Of course he'd heard about you - he wanted to *be* you. You were everything he wanted to be, and he didn't even know how close he was to being you."
"I'm sure," Draco responded in a despondent tone, "that should he find out his ancestry his opinion might be swayed. I'm sure that if he's a bright kid-and given your love for books I'm sure he is-he'll know well enough what the Malfoys are like."
"Well, yes he does, Draco. But he's in awe of you, not your family. He's proud of what you did."
"Me? And what did I do that was so spectacular?"
"Don't you know?" she asked him softly, amazed that he didn't seem to understand what he could mean to her son as a Slytherin. "You're the Slytherin who chose the other side - the one who went against what he was to defy Lord Voldemort. You proved that it truly is our choices that make us who we are, that ambition and cunning can be used to do good. You made it acceptable to be a Slytherin again. You're a hero to him, Draco."
"Oh," Draco said, dumbfounded that he could be so important in such a way. "I thought maybe he'd heard what an excellent Quidditch player I was."
Hermione smiled. "Oh, well, yes. He heard about that too. Although it was mostly in the context of how Harry used to play against you. Val thought your Dementor prank was priceless, though Harry didn't seem to think so."
"Potter, eh? What was he doing recounting his old Quidditch glory to *our* son?" He smirked at her.
"Harry would tell him stories when he was going over strategy and moves. He taught him how to play."
"You let *Potter* teach *my* son how to play Quidditch?" Draco queried, incredulously.
"But he played like you, Draco," defended Hermione, "He has your style."
"And what's that to being tutored by the famous Harry Potter?" Draco continued bitterly, still rather angry about Potter's whole relationship with his son and his own lack thereof.
"But what's that to having Draco Malfoy for a father?" Hermione replied sweetly, hoping to win him over.
"But I never was his father, was I? I never got to watch his first steps or hold his hand as we walked down the street or teach him to shave or... Hermione, I missed out on everything..."
"Draco, you know now..." she said, trying to appease him, "You've got a chance to make things right with him. He's still so young, you've plenty of time to spend with him."
"You don't get it, do you?" he shouted angrily, "I can't make anything right or recover any of the time I've lost that I could have spent with him. His childhood's gone and I can't ever-"
"I know, Draco. I... I fucked up, okay. Is that what you want to hear? I made a mistake."
"Damn right you made a mistake!" Draco exclaimed. "And I'm the one who's had to pay for it. I'm the one who's been alone every day for the past eighteen years, while you've had a happy little family with Potter, Weasley, and Val. And frankly, Hermione, though I love all the fluffy bits you're telling me, I'm more than a little pissed off."
"What is all the fucking shouting about?" demanded a sleep-bleared voice from the hallway. Unbeknownst to Draco and Hermione, they'd disturbed their sleeping son.
Hermione mentally chided her son for his language, but felt it was not the time to tell him off out loud. And apparently, she mused, his colourful language was something he must have inherited from his father as she'd taken care not to swear in front of him, and had forbidden Harry and Ron from doing the same-perhaps it was a Malfoy gene. Of course, it may also have just been the result of adolescence.
"Val, love... I- we didn't mean to wake you," Hermione rushed, worried that Draco might not be exactly in the right frame of mind to meet his son properly for the first time.
"Yeah?" Val grunted, and strode across the living room into the kitchen clad only in boxers and a well-worn Quidditch shirt, "Well, you did."
He emerged from the kitchen seconds later with a glass of water in hand. He eyed Draco suspiciously.
Draco seemed to shrink back into the couch, and eyed Val back. His grey eyes were wide and wary.
He could see himself in this kid. He had the same confidence, grace, and temper that he had. In hindsight, Draco couldn't believe he had ever pegged him for Potter's child - Val had his eyes. The hair was Hermione's, not Harry's.
"Val, love, why don't you come over here for a minute," Hermione soothed her son and motioned for him to sit in the armchair that sat beside the couch. Reluctantly Val complied, sitting down slowly, never tearing his eyes from Draco's.
"As you're up, I should introduce you to my... friend," Hermione smiled nervously at her son, stealing a glimpse at Draco to be sure he was all right with this. He nodded silently.
"This is Draco Malfoy, sweetie." Val's weary eyes flew wide open as his mother finished speaking. His cold look shifted suddenly, to be replaced by one of extreme eagerness.
"Draco Malfoy?" he questioned, not entirely believing that this could be the famous Slytherin. "*The* Draco Malfoy? Wow. I... it's an honour!" He offered Draco his hand as he had earlier that evening, but this time Draco accepted it. He found it very funny. Val was addressing him as if he were a famous athlete or something. On arriving home that night Val had considered the stranger's first name, but had been put off by his stand-offish attitude. Now, it seemed, he was fully prepared to gush.
"Val..." Hermione continued nervously, "there's more; Draco was more than a friend at school, he was--"
"Do you still play Quidditch?" Val interrupted, speaking eagerly to Draco.
"Val, will you listen to me for a moment?" Hermione demanded impatiently.
Val looked abashed to be to scolded by his mother in front of the legendary-and therefore eternally cool-Draco Malfoy, "Sorry, Mum."
The feeling that he experienced at hearing those words surprised Draco; hearing his son call Hermione 'Mum' brought home the realisation that this boy was in fact his son; his own flesh and blood and quite possibly the only good thing he'd ever been a part of in his life.
"At school Draco and I were..." Hermione continued, and looked at Draco for support. Draco raised an eyebrow, but did not come to her verbal aid. Hermione carried on, "Val, this is so hard for me to tell you - but Draco is your father."
**
More soon!! Until then, comments welcomed ^_^
Title: Punch Drunk Love. 1/3.
By: Mexx & Lex
Disclaimer: All characters (except Val who is Mexx's to shag and love) are property of JKR.
Summary: A meeting between a much older Draco and Hermione leads to some heartbreaking discoveries.
Genre: Fluffy!Drama.
Rating: R.
Pairing: Draco/Hermione.
Author's Notes: Mexx: All credit should really go to Lex, as she did all the good stuff; I just drabbled a little fluff and angst, and drooled over Val.
Lex: to Mexx, for all the crack - one story, and I was addicted. And for creating the most shaggable OC I've ever encountered.
M&L: Uber-thanks to Kat for the beta! Also, we bow to the lovely, lovely LadyVader who allowed us to pay homage to her wonderful fic Matinee with usage of the Seventh Year Slammer. She is cool.
Also, we're going with the theory that Hermione's birthdate is September 19th 1979. This fic is set November 2017.
**
Fortnightly, the self-titled 'Girls of Gryffindor' met in a little London bar, reputed to be the best piano bar in Soho. Their group consisted of Hermione Granger, Lavender Brown, Ginny Weasley, and Parvati Patil, though the latter two now went by their married names, Longbottom and MacMillan, respectively. Hermione and Lavender were the resident bachelorettes, though Lavender was more likely to be seen on a date (or two) than Hermione was. In fact, Hermione had chosen this Muggle bar in the hopes that they would not run into anyone the other three could set her up with.
Hermione, having declined her friends' attempts to set her up with numerous Wizarding males - and, at one point, Ginny had actually suggested a female -- was quite happy being single and thirty-eight and not in the least bit interested in any of Ernie's work colleagues that Parvati was trying to set her up with. She was quite content with spending every second Friday meeting her friends for a girls' night out, if only to get out of her flat for once in awhile, as opposed to enjoying Ginny's endless prattle regarding how she should settle down. As Hermione had pointed out on several occasions, she was already quite settled, despite her suitable lack of a male partner.
The evening was winding to a close, as Lavender was now approaching the point where she could barely string two words together. Plus, she was eyeing up a bloke at the bar, whom Hermione thought looked a good bit like a young David Beckham, and when it came to Lavender's bedroom sports, the other three girls knew when to say goodnight.
Hermione meandered towards the bar to deposit her empty glass, freeing up the table for latecomers to the bar, suddenly feeling the effects of the few too many Cosmopolitans and Smirnoff Ices she'd had. Her journey to her destination, however, was halted when she bumped into a rather solid object. She teetered on her heels for a few seconds, trying to regain her footing before she lost her balance.
Having regained her composure and salvaged most of her dignity, Hermione looked up, intent on discovering just what - or who -she'd bumped into, only to find herself staring into the rather amused eyes of one Draco Malfoy.
"Well, well, well..." he smirked, and Hermione inwardly scowled, wondering how he still managed to exude boyish impudence and at thirty-eight look as young and annoyingly good-looking as he always had. Even on first glance, Hermione recognised him to have retained his youthful charisma and sickening Slytherin charm. "If it isn't Granger. Isn't it a bit late for you to be out on a week night?"
Hermione rolled her eyes and he grinned, showing he intended no true malice. "Come on Malfoy, aren't we a little old for hurling insults?"
"Ah, Granger. One's never too old for friendly banter," he returned.
"Friendly?" Hermione arched her eyebrows in casual disbelief. She couldn't recall their ever being friendly with each other.
"Well, I'm a friendly bloke," he flashed her another Malfoy smile. "And when last we met, we were on rather - shall we say - *friendly* terms."
Hermione couldn't believe he had the audacity to bring *that* up. She averted her eyes from his mocking gaze and found Ginny, Lavender, and Parvati throwing looks of surprise and confusion her way. She motioned for them to leave without her. As far as she could tell, they couldn't see with whom she was chatting, and she really wasn't keen on having a group reunion at the moment.
"You... I, erm..." Hermione found she was at quite a loss for words, "there was drinking," she finished lamely.
"Mmm, indeed." Draco nodded sympathetically, although his eyes seemed to be laughing. Hermione allowed herself a small chuckle.
Their laughter died, and they found themselves in silence, quite at a loss for what to say. Hermione broke the silence, giving him a hasty goodbye for fear he'd embarrass her any further. "Well, it was nice seeing you, Malfoy, bye!"
"No goodbye kiss?" he teased, and enjoyed the blush that stained her cheeks.
"How could it possibly be a goodbye when we've barely said hello?" Hermione smiled, pleased to have gotten out of his question without embarrassment.
Draco smirked knowingly, "You didn't say 'goodbye' last time, either. And regardless of whether I was drinking, I definitely remember there being a 'hello' then."
"You were unconscious!" she protested, annoyed.
"As I said, I'd been drinking. I was an eighteen year old with a hangover, what do you expect?"
"What is this? 'Twenty Questions'?" she spat at him, not wishing to answer his last question. Though still smirking, he looked incredibly confused, the Muggle reference clearly lost on him. For a brief moment, she wondered what he, of all people, was doing in a Muggle bar, but her desire to get out of this awkward situation won over her curiosity. "Never mind. Gotta dash - bye!"
Like a champion sprinter at the start of a race, Hermione bolted from the spot and deposited her empty glass at the bar. She was halfway to the door when a hand on her shoulder stopped her. "Malfoy, what..." she whipped around, sputtering. However, it wasn't Malfoy who had halted her progress; it was some bloke she didn't know who was clearly tanked.
"Hey pretty lady... what's the rush?" He slurred. Hermione could smell the alcohol on his breath.
"I'm not in a rush," she answered him kindly but firmly. "I do not, however, have time to converse with someone who's clearly had too much to drink and who is a complete stranger to me."
"I'm no stranger!" he grinned sloppily, showing a set of yellow, crooked teeth. "I know all the pretty ladies."
Rolling her eyes, Hermione stepped away from him. "I'm sorry, I just don't have the patience for this." Before she could turn around to leave, though, the drunk grabbed both her shoulders and pulled her into his arms.
"Hey!" she exclaimed. "Let go of me, you ruddy... sodding... drunk!" She struggled, but his hold on her was too strong.
But then, before Hermione could struggle further, a different set of strong arms were holding her and the drunk lay on the floor nursing a bloody nose.
"Tosser," her saviour muttered at the drunkard, and Hermione turned around to find herself standing in Draco's arms.
"What are you-" she began, and then stopped herself. "Thanks."
Draco shook his head and released Hermione from his protective embrace, only to slip his arm around her waist and guide her back into the bar. "Some wankers don't know how to treat a lady."
Hermione paused and looked up at Draco quizzically, "Wait a minute, did Draco Malfoy-- hater of all things Muggle-- just call me a lady?"
"Will wonders never cease?" he smiled, "Come on, I'll buy you a drink."
**
"I should really be getting home." Hermione smiled at Malfoy, quite keen on getting out of his presence, despite the rather nice conversation they had been having. Getting drunk anywhere in the near vicinity of Draco Malfoy was never a good idea. And, as far as she could tell, she was one drink away from loosening her inhibitions enough to give him an invite home, which she knew could never happen.
Malfoy frowned at her, though there was a playful glint in his eyes. "But the night is still young, Miss Granger!"
Hermione smirked. "How trite. No, Draco, I really do have to get home." She pulled away from the bar, scooted her stool back a foot, and stood up. Draco followed suit.
"Let me at least get you a taxi." He could really be a gentleman when he wanted to. Winking at her, he offered his arm and she took it, linking hers with his. "Did you just call me Draco?"
"Hmmm," she murmured, "You don't have to get me a taxi, you know. I live close by."
"Then I'll walk you," Draco offered, and guided her out of the bar. Hermione found herself grateful for the sturdy comfort his body alongside hers offered her, without which she knew she would be quite likely stumbling all over the place.
"We have to go left," Hermione informed him as they exited the bar. The night air was cool and damp, making Hermione shiver and secure herself closer to Draco.
"To your place?" he queried.
Hermione nodded, and Draco turned them right.
She spluttered for a moment before demanding hotly, "I said left. Where are we going?"
"You need to walk it off or else you're going to wake up with a nasty hangover tomorrow. You know the sobering charms never work for shite."
They walked in silence for a few moments, Draco guiding them toward the park in Piccadilly Square. "So what are you doing?" Hermione inquired.
"Walking around London with a hot brunette on my arm." He winked at her, and her alcohol-addled mind couldn't decipher if he was being entirely serious or not.
"No, not *now* you idiot, with your life..."
"Well, I'm a writer. Technically a journalist, but you try not to tell people that. They have a tendency to get carried away with the idea that you stalk celebrities and what not. I'm more one for politics and serious news."
Hermione was surprised at how passionate he seemed to be about his work. She had never before seen him so intensely serious about something that didn't involve killing and maiming Muggleborns. Still, she lapsed from her serious repose, landing on the lurid image of a Rita Skeeteresque Draco, complete with lime green reading glasses and a dragon hide handbag. She suppressed a giggle, to which Draco responded by casting a disparaging look her way.
"Very amusing. Alright, missy - what do you do for a living then? Something grand, I reckon, like saving the world on a regular basis." In the midst of her giggling, Hermione veered off to the right, but Draco grabbed her arm and brought her back on course. She composed herself.
"Hardly, that's more Harry's line of work," Hermione answered as Draco rolled his eyes. He was obviously still not Harry's biggest fan. "I'm an Administrative Assistant at the Ministry. I work for Mr. Weasley."
"Which one?" he scoffed, and Hermione gave him a withering look.
"Arthur-Ron's father."
"You could be doing a lot better than that, I'd have thought you'd be saving the world from sin with Potter. Did you not think to become an Auror?"
"I thought about it," Hermione answered, and sat down on the nearest bench before adding "but something came up."
"I thought about it, too," Draco replied thoughtfully, and sat down on the bench next to Hermione. "After the war... after I saw what Father... well, suffice to say I saw my Father in a different light, and I just let him get on with it. I thought about becoming an Auror just to annoy him, but reconsidered when I realised I'd have to work with Potter."
Hermione sighed and wriggled closer to Draco, relishing the warmth of his body compared with the cool night air. "You make it sound like something out of Shakespeare; thwarting your evil father before changing job prospects to avoiding your childhood nemesis."
"Trust you to associate anything in life with literature... you always were obsessed with that bloke." Draco jeered.
"Shakespeare is not just 'that bloke'!" Hermione protested, "He was one of the greatest playwrights ever. And I seem to recall you telling me so at one point."
"No," Draco contradicted her, "I think you'll find I just said 'Hamlet' was a bloody good play."
Hermione tensed at the memory - he *had* said that, and she remembered precisely when. They were both celebrating their last night at Hogwarts and they were very sloshed at the time.
The Seventh Year Slammer was a little-talked-about, much-anticipated event on the last night of term before the end of the year. Seventh years from all four houses united for one night of reckless fun and lots of boozing. Needless to say, most students came away from it all with very little memory of the events that transpired, to their great relief.
Unfortunately, Hermione remembered every minute of it, though she couldn't quite figure how, as she was totally smashed at the time. They say you never forget your first drink, so perhaps that's why her memory of the evening was so crystal clear. In a very unHermione-like fashion, she had consumed her first Firewhiskey on an empty stomach, and before long was practically dancing on the tables.
Ron and Harry had crept away with a mad glint in their eyes, which had reminded Hermione suspiciously of Fred and George before one of their usual exploits. Alone at the party, Hermione had soon fallen into silence until Draco had appeared beside her and offered her what would be her second drink of the evening.
Draco had engaged in conversation with her with great trepidation, for fear the Wonder Boys would return and kick his rather drunk (but nonetheless quite fine) arse into the twenty-first century. Unable to think of something to say to her, having spent the last six and a half years taking great delight in insulting her, Draco had settled on neutral territory; literature. How was he to know they'd end up arguing which of Shakespeare's works was undeniably the greatest? Draco had insisted upon 'Hamlet' to which Hermione had teased that he could relate.
"But my father's not dead..."
"Yes, but you're awfully fond of your mother."
Hermione's favourite, unsurprisingly enough, had turned out to be 'A Winter's Tale'-her namesake. Draco couldn't think of a reason to insult her for this, so he offered her a drink instead.
Her third drink had turned into her fourth, and her fourth into her fifth, and by this point Hermione had found herself admiring Draco's finer attributes in a darkened corner of the room, while he had found great-and a somewhat intoxicated-delight in letting his hands wander beneath her robes.
It was half an hour into their grope in the corner when Harry had found them. Draco had the courtesy to look abashed as he helped Hermione button up her blouse whilst Harry had looked caught between anger and amusement. Much to Hermione's relief, he'd not said anything other than a friendly and rather slurred 'have a nice night'.
After Harry's interruption, Draco had practically dragged Hermione into his bedroom, which had been only a short walk from the previously undiscovered dungeon that had been designated the location for the Seventh Year Slammer, and continued where he'd been before Harry' interruption. Several of the buttons on Hermione's blouse got lost in the process.
For someone who was very drunk, had never experienced sex before, and had
been in very few intimate situations, Hermione had a particular talent for attending to Malfoy. He'd wondered at the dexterity with which she unbuttoned his black silk shirt and flung it across the room, where it joined her discarded blouse. She had ran her fingertips across his supple skin, tickling him as she fingered the white-blond hair that ran down from his navel. Suppressing a moan, Malfoy had shivered slightly as she gingerly feathered kisses across his collarbone.
He'd thought she was a virgin, but this display cast his notions into doubt. Despite his pleasure, Draco had wished to explore her body just as she did his, so he'd pulled away from her and indicated with a soft touch to the underside of her breast that it was his turn.
As much as Hermione had loved touching him, his touching her , she had found, was even better. Draco had run his fingers down from her breasts, over the curve of her waist, and settled his hands at the base of her spine. He then had allowed his mouth to explore the contours of her breasts, taking one into his mouth as he nipped at the fine lace cloth covering them.
She'd wondered whether or not it would hurt when they had sex, though she'd known that her trepidations regarding the pain would not deter her from proceeding. She wanted this and had wanted it for some time. Over the romantic notions of her childhood, Hermione knew that she wanted to be taken, to be ravished. She'd imagined the act a million times in her head and fantasies, always featuring one intense and passionate Slytherin. At this point, she'd known what she and Draco were going to do, and she'd relished in the idea of it.
Hermione shook her head to rid herself of the memories of that fated night almost two decades ago and turned her attention to the present day Draco, who was still talking about the merits of 'Hamlet'. Draco, it seemed, was still awfully fond of his own voice.
"It's raining," she announced softly as she felt the first drops of rain hit her head, trickling down from between the barren branches overhead.
"We should get going then, before we get soaked." Draco suggested, grabbing Hermione's hand as he stood up, pulling her with him.
"We'll go to my place, it's only over the road." Hermione suggested, and began walking toward the exit.
Draco halted. "Can't we Apparate?"
"I'm over the limit... come on, it's not far. And I promise not to tell anyone if I see your hair in rat's tails."
**
"This is it," Hermione proclaimed with a deep sigh, partly from their mad dash to the door and partly due to her nervousness with regard to his coming in.
"I see. Lovely from the outside. Wet, but lovely." Draco smirked at her, little raindrops falling from his soft blond tendrils and light eyelashes. Hermione smiled nervously at him, her back to the door, as if guarding it against his entrance. "Aren't you going to invite me in, Granger?" HE asked her silkily.
"Yes, yes - of course," she flashed him a mock-confident grin. "Just let me pop in and tidy up a bit."
"Of course," he drawled slyly. Draco was rather sure that her flat was anything but untidy, but he indulged her. Women could be funny like that sometimes.
Hermione turned the key in the lock and dashed inside, leaving the door slightly ajar so Draco could shield himself from the rain slightly but not so much that he could see inside. After a moment's pause in which he heard her mutter a few spells, she appeared once more and let him in. As he suspected, her flat was immaculate. They walked through a small foyer, in which Hermione deposited her clutch-bag and her soaking coat, through to the living room.
"Won't you sit down? I could make us some tea, if you'd like," Hermione played the gracious host, though inside her stomach was doing flip-flops. He probably shouldn't be here, in her flat.
"Hmmm, sounds brilliant," Draco muttered as he meandered about the room, gazing at the various pictures that adorned the walls and mantelpiece. She was obviously still sweet on Potter and Weasley, as there were pictures of them everywhere.
Potter, Weasley, and Granger by Hagrid's hut during their.... third year at Hogwarts? The three of them standing in front of the restored fountain in the Ministry of Magic, Harry proudly showing his Auror certificate with Hermione on his arm and Ron gawping in the background. The Golden Trio, with eyes slightly glazed over, toasting to the future (he presumed) at the Seventh Year Slammer. God, she'd been beautiful. Still was.
Draco moved to the couch and sat down as Hermione bustled in with two steaming cups of tea. She juggled the two cups in one hand as she produced a pair of coasters with a flick of her wand. God forbid they get cup stains on the coffee table. He chuckled at her meticulousness. Some people never changed.
She plopped down next to him, sinking into the squashy couch, almost touching him. She cradled her mug between her two hands and blew at the steaming drink absent-mindedly.
"I meant to ask you," she began cautiously, "what on earth were you doing in a Muggle bar?"
"I wanted a drink," Draco answered plainly.
Hermione raised an eyebrow, "In a Muggle bar?"
"Just because most Muggles are ignorant prats does not mean that they don't make bloody good liquor."
"That's the only reason?" she inquired softly, taking a careful sip of her steaming tea.
"What else would there be?"
Hermione shrugged, "It just seems a little odd that you-who finds most things Muggle despicable-should choose to spend an evening in a Muggle bar in the middle of Soho."
"Maybe," Draco smiled devilishly, "I don't have quite the same opinion of Muggles that I did all those years ago."
"Maybe?" Hermione smiled, and took another tentative sip of her scalding tea. Draco, she noted, had yet to even touch his.
"Maybe that one Muggleborn introduced me to just how delightful Muggles can be."
Hermione snorted into her drink at the thought that she'd caused Draco's turnabout behaviour.
Draco averted his eyes, almost embarrassed. "Listen, that wasn't quite how I meant it... I realise I was an absolute bastard to you through most of our time at school, and yes, it took me getting absolutely blitzed to realise you're not as bad as I thought, but I'm not some dumb kid anymore. And I don't need to be smashed to know that what I really want to do right now is kiss you."
Hermione's eyes flickered to meet his, briefly. How was she supposed to look at him now that she knew how he felt, now that she knew he felt the same way as her, and that all that separated them now was the airspace between them?
"You're acting like one shag with me reformed you, Draco. It was just one night..."
"It was more than that," he argued somewhat desperately, "it was..." Hopelessly, Draco tried to convey his feelings, but found himself unable to. He finally relented, and leaned closer to her, his lips only a breath away from hers.
His shallow breathing tickled Hermione's lips and, instinctively, she licked them. The look in Draco's eyes screamed 'I want to shag you right here, right now,' and if it weren't for the insistent look of hers that said 'don't even think about it,' he would have.
Instead, Draco settled for kissing her lips in a wanting yet gentle fashion. He liked whatever lipgloss she was using; it made her taste of rain and strawberries. Running his tongue across her lips, Draco asked for entrance to her mouth. She obliged, but at the same moment, the sound of a key being turned in the lock was heard. Hermione jumped nearly a foot in the air, and broke away from Draco.
Draco threw a searching look her way, but she refused to look at him. Instead, she picked up her mug of tea once more and began to sip at it incessantly.
The door to the living room opened, and Draco raised a curious eyebrow in Hermione's direction. She didn't meet his eyes, but peeked over her mug to smile at the man who had just entered the room.
Draco, upon getting no response from Hermione, turned to look at the man who'd broken up their near embrace. The very handsome, very *young* man who was in Hermione's flat at midnight.
For his part, the young newcomer looked as equally surprised to see Draco as Draco was to see him; both men turned their questioning glances toward Hermione.
Under the two piercing glares, Hermione shrank back, cowering behind her tea. Finally, after gaining her composure, and sick of the glares that seemed to be bouncing around the room, she spoke: "Draco, this is Val." Draco continued to glare at the newcomer, and didn't make and acknowledgement of the introduction.
"Val," Hermione continued, "This is Draco. He's an old scho-- we went to school together."
Val crossed the room, taking only a few long strides to reach the side where Hermione and Draco sat. "Pleasure to meet you," he smiled at Draco, and offered him his hand.
Draco didn't take the proffered hand, merely glowered at the young man. If one didn't take in Draco's own handsome and kept appearance, the look that Draco sent to Val could have been mistaken for something akin to jealous. Val was a handsome man, that couldn't be missed; Draco recognised the signs of a Quidditch player in his athletic build. He had grey eyes, shrouded in long black lashes. They would have looked pretty on a woman, but on Val they appeared piercing. His hair was dark, almost black, and fell in longish curtains around his face.
Val simply shot Hermione a withering look and excused himself, "Well then. I'll just let you two catch up. Goodnight."
"Night, love," Hermione called after him as he padded down the hall to his (or *their*, Draco thought) bedroom.
Once again, Draco and Hermione sat in loaded silence. Draco reckoned that she could really pick them. This kid (how old, no - young, was he?) could have been a model. That was it, wasn't it? Hermione liked to shag models. Shite. The kid was probably an actor too, considering the whole actor-slash-model thing. How was he supposed to measure up to that?
Draco covered up his sudden insecurity with his standard biting humour. "Jesus, Granger. How old is he? Twenty, Twenty-one?"
"No," Hermione corrected, "he's eighteen."
"Eighteen? God, you do like them young. And dumb, from the look of him. Reminds me of Potter, especially with that bloody hair!"
Hermione started, though she wasn't sure whether to call him out on insulting Val's (and her own) intelligence or for the jab at Harry. "For your information, he was Head Boy at Hogwarts. He just graduated. And he's training to be an Auror." There was a trace of pride in Hermione's voice, and Draco considered her to be proud of the fact her boy-toy wasn't as dumb as he looked.
"Fancy." Draco smirked, " What do you do, Granger? Put yourself on the Hogwarts mailing list, look for the Head Boy each year, shag his socks off and let him move in?"
"No, Malfoy, I don't," she sighed, resigned to telling him the truth. "If you must know, he's my son."
**
Part Two
//And all the pretty roses wilted up and paled themselves away today.
The guillotine of truth has fallen, somehow I'm the one you blame.//
"If you must know, he's my son."
Draco choked on the now cooled tea he'd been drinking. "Your... excuse me, what?"
"My son." She repeated, and then added sarcastically, "Offspring. Fruit of my womb."
"But Granger, you're only what-just turned thirty-eight? If he's eighteen...." Draco trailed off, doing some quick maths in his head. "Then right after Hogwarts? Jesus Christ, was it Potter? He has the look of him." That would figure, Draco thought. She'd obviously gone and forgotten him after that night. He reckoned she'd probably thought she'd decided to move onto Harry, whom she'd really have wanted, after getting her first shag over and done with.
'Bloody prat gets everything he wants - and everything I want too,' Draco thought, scowling.
Hermione read the look on Draco's face and corrected his assumption. "No, it wasn't Harry."
Draco briefly entertained the idea that the boy might be Weasley's but dismissed it quickly; "Well it obviously wasn't Weasel, otherwise you'd see his hair a mile off. Who?"
"No, it wasn't Ron either, but they both helped me to raise him."
"Then who?" He demanded persistently.
Hermione averted her eyes, abashed.
"How old did you say he was?"
"Eighteen," Hermione whispered numbly. "He was born February 25th 1999."
Draco was quiet for a moment, his eyes focused on Hermione's bowed head. "Nine months before... graduation?"
Hermione nodded dumbly, finding herself rendered speechless. How was she supposed to tell him *this*?
"No..." Draco shook his head in disbelief, "You can't mean..."
Hermione looked up, her eyes-glistening with tears-met with his. She nodded again.
"He's mine?"
They sat in silence, neither knowing what to say. A million emotions danced across Draco's countenance; a first for him, as he usually kept himself reserved.
"Wait a second," he burst out suddenly, "You named our son Val? What, like Valerie?"
"No," she protested, her cheeks stained pink, "Like Valentine!"
"Valentine? As in St. Valentine... lovey-dovey crap and fluffy bunnies?" Draco spluttered in rather unmanly disbelief.
"It's from Shakespeare, Draco."
"Shakespeare? Well *I've* certainly never heard of a Valentine in Shakespeare. You couldn't even name him after a bloody main character?"
"He's the main character in 'Two Gentlemen of Verona'."
Draco pouted. "Well, I haven't read that one."
Hermione didn't know how to respond to that. Nonetheless, she racked her brain for something that would smooth this over, or at least calm Draco down. "Listen, Draco - I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what, Granger?" Hermione winced as he referred to her by her surname once more. "Sorry that you got pregnant, sorry that you didn't tell me, or sorry that I found out your little secret?"
"I..." she stammered.
"No, don't answer that," he spat at her. "Answer me this: why the hell didn't you tell me you were pregnant?" At this point, Draco had jumped up from the couch and was towering above her, arms crossed against his chest indignantly.
"I wanted to!" She proclaimed, "Well, not really, but I knew I had to do the right thing. But you were nowhere to be found - you disappeared, Draco."
They lapsed into silence again, and Draco began making laps around the room. "I still can't believe you named him Valentine," Draco mused.
"Well, you weren't here to help me make the decision, were you?" she answered bitterly.
"No," Draco argued, "Don't do that. Don't make it out to be my fault. I didn't know you were fucking pregnant, how was I supposed to be there for you and him when I didn't know?"
"You left England Draco, you left the bloody continent! How was I supposed to tell you?"
"It's called an owl, Hermione," Draco bit back sarcastically, "It's how us wizards communicate."
"Yes of course, how silly of me," Hermione answered sarcastically, "'Dear Draco, You remember our drunken shag? Yes, of course you do-you moaned enough during it. Well guess what, somebody-me-ended up knocked up. Any ideas for baby names? Yours, Hermione.' Yes Draco, bloody spectacular idea that one."
"It wasn't easy for, despite what you think." Hermione added regretfully, "I did try looking for you."
"At the time I wasn't exactly too keen to be found, Hermione."
"What?" she sneered at him, "Too mortified that you had slept with a lowly Mudblood?"
"Jesus Christ, Hermione! You know that wasn't it; I never once regretted that night."
"You were drunk, how would you even remember it?" Hermione asked bitterly.
"You think that was it? That I was drunk and horny and you were the nearest vaguely shaggable girl? I'd been thinking about you for *months*. It killed me when I woke up alone the next morning."
"Draco..." She whispered softly, "I didn't know... I'm sorry, I-"
"No," he interrupted her angrily, "*I'm* sorry."
Hermione opened her mouth to reply, to apologise again and try and solve this mess they were in, but was silenced when Draco banged his mug on the coffee table and stalked out of the room, slamming the door into the hall way behind him.
Hermione remained sitting on the couch, her eyes wide and filled with tears. Her lips trembled as she waited for the inevitable slamming of the front door and Draco exit, possibly-given his mood-out of her life forever.
But the loud slam never came. Hermione's curiosity got the better of her, so she leapt to her feet and padded her way across the carpeted floor through the living room in the direction of the hallway.
On opening the door to the hallway that Draco had slammed Hermione felt her heart melt at the sight that greeted her; across the hall Val's bedroom door lay open and Draco stood in the doorframe, bathed in the light of the full moon that flooded in from the curtains Val had neglected to close. Hermione cautiously stepped closer so she was able to see Draco's face.
He must have noticed her presence behind him, she was sure, yet he did not flinch, nor blink away the tears that she could see building in his eyes. Hermione took another step closer yet to Draco, and smiled slightly as Draco's hand sought out hers, gripping it tightly.
Hermione resisted to the urge to grin; here stood Draco Malfoy, former badass Slytherin, awed into silence by the sight of a teenage boy snoring loudly in his filthy bedroom.
"Draco," Hermione whispered, "though Val's absolutely gorgeous when he's sleeping, I know, he's a bit of a light sleeper. If he catches here, he'll throw a hissy fit."
"My son would throw a hissy fit?" Draco pondered indignantly. No Malfoy ever had the word 'hissy' attached to his name.
"Ron's influence," she answered, laughing.
She led him back down the hall to the living room so they could talk further.
"Draco," Hermione said cautiously, as soon as they were both sitting, "I know it doesn't mean anything, but I am sorry. I never meant for things to go this way. When I found out I was pregnant, I was so scared - to be pregnant at eighteen, without anywhere to go or anyone to turn to. And I couldn't find you...."
"I never imagined..." Draco started, but was cut off by Hermione.
"I know, Draco. It's not your fault."
"But you had to raise him on your own, Hermione." Draco protested, "*Our* son, and you had to raise him alone."
Hermione sighed and clutched his hand in her own, "It was difficult at first, I'll admit, but he never went without, and I wasn't the only influence in his life. Harry and Ron have always been around. Lord, I don't know what I'd have done without Harry. I was a wreck when I found out I was pregnant, especially when I couldn't find you... Harry helped me through it, he's been an angel through everything, from being there while I gave birth right through to holding my hand while I sat home worrying through Val's first date."
"Wait a minute," Draco halted her, "Potter knew?"
Hermione nodded, "I never told him, but he figured it out-he saw us together that night, remember?"
"Potter knew that Val was my son? Potter knew? He fucking knew?" Draco exploded, and leapt from the couch in anger.
"Draco I don't understand, why is Harry knowing such a big deal?" Hermione asked, but feared she already knew the answer.
"I was in Venezuela in 2003. I bumped into Potter in a bar, we didn't talk much or anything, but we exchanged a brief conversation. And you know what's funny? He neglected to mention I had a four-year-old son! Not married or even dating, was he? Too busy raising *my* child to bother about his own family or letting me know that I was a father!"
"Draco..." Hermione pleaded, laying a hand on Draco's arm and leading him back to the couch, "Don't blame Harry, he was only doing what he thought was best for Val and me."
"You knew, didn't you?" Draco asked in a disbelieving rhetoric, "You knew Potter had seen me... you knew where I was!"
"Yes, Draco, I did," Hermione asserted, peering straight at Draco. "Things had changed for me, though. I was on my feet, raising Val with Harry and Ron to help out; I had a job and I didn't have to be afraid anymore. And, frankly, I didn't think it was fair to push this responsibility on you. I was fine doing it on my own."
Draco looked affronted, and he raised his voice a notch higher than it had been before. "Who are you to decide what is and isn't fair to me - you had no clue what I would and wouldn't have wanted."
"What?" Hermione scoffed at him, "Like you would have welcomed having a half-blood for a son with open arms? I didn't think you'd be exactly thrilled that the heir to the Malfoy dynasty was the product of one drunken tryst with a Mudblood."
"Hermione, though I may not have been *thrilled*, I would have welcomed him with open arms - he's my son! And, contrary to what you seem to believe, I am not the prejudiced, heartless bastard that you make me out to be," Draco declared angrily, though his expression softened slightly as he continued. "And it wasn't a drunken tryst, Hermione. You make it sound dirty."
"It was hardly the romance on the century," Hermione replied wistfully.
"What ever it was," Draco smiled, almost nervously, "It resulted in something good, right? You have a son..."
"*We* have a son, Draco," Hermione corrected. "Just because you missed out on the first eighteen and a half years of his life doesn't mean you won't be a part of it now."
"I want you to tell me about him, tell me what I've missed..." Draco's tone had an almost begging quality to it, and although it was one A.M and she was both physically and emotionally exhausted, she could not deny him. "Start at Hogwarts, tell me what he's like as a wizard."
"He was sorted into Slytherin, much to Harry and Ron's chagrin," she began. "I didn't mind, it just reminded me of just how much like you he is; he excelled in Potions too. You can only imagine the heart attack Snape had when he realised that a Granger was in Slytherin."
"So, wait a second. You're telling me that, not only was my son Head Boy at Hogwarts, but that he was a Slytherin as well?"
"And Captain of the House Quidditch Team," she mumbled.
"And Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch Team!" he practically shouted. "Well, this is bloody brilliant. My son is the fucking Golden Boy and I wasn't even there to see it."
"Draco, please calm down. You'll wake him up," Hermione hushed Draco impatiently, "You should be proud of him, not angry, God knows he's in awe of you."
"Of me? How does he even know who I am?" Draco asked, his temper abiding to give way to his pride and curiosity.
"He was in Slytherin! By the time he got to Hogwarts you were practically a legend. Of course he'd heard about you - he wanted to *be* you. You were everything he wanted to be, and he didn't even know how close he was to being you."
"I'm sure," Draco responded in a despondent tone, "that should he find out his ancestry his opinion might be swayed. I'm sure that if he's a bright kid-and given your love for books I'm sure he is-he'll know well enough what the Malfoys are like."
"Well, yes he does, Draco. But he's in awe of you, not your family. He's proud of what you did."
"Me? And what did I do that was so spectacular?"
"Don't you know?" she asked him softly, amazed that he didn't seem to understand what he could mean to her son as a Slytherin. "You're the Slytherin who chose the other side - the one who went against what he was to defy Lord Voldemort. You proved that it truly is our choices that make us who we are, that ambition and cunning can be used to do good. You made it acceptable to be a Slytherin again. You're a hero to him, Draco."
"Oh," Draco said, dumbfounded that he could be so important in such a way. "I thought maybe he'd heard what an excellent Quidditch player I was."
Hermione smiled. "Oh, well, yes. He heard about that too. Although it was mostly in the context of how Harry used to play against you. Val thought your Dementor prank was priceless, though Harry didn't seem to think so."
"Potter, eh? What was he doing recounting his old Quidditch glory to *our* son?" He smirked at her.
"Harry would tell him stories when he was going over strategy and moves. He taught him how to play."
"You let *Potter* teach *my* son how to play Quidditch?" Draco queried, incredulously.
"But he played like you, Draco," defended Hermione, "He has your style."
"And what's that to being tutored by the famous Harry Potter?" Draco continued bitterly, still rather angry about Potter's whole relationship with his son and his own lack thereof.
"But what's that to having Draco Malfoy for a father?" Hermione replied sweetly, hoping to win him over.
"But I never was his father, was I? I never got to watch his first steps or hold his hand as we walked down the street or teach him to shave or... Hermione, I missed out on everything..."
"Draco, you know now..." she said, trying to appease him, "You've got a chance to make things right with him. He's still so young, you've plenty of time to spend with him."
"You don't get it, do you?" he shouted angrily, "I can't make anything right or recover any of the time I've lost that I could have spent with him. His childhood's gone and I can't ever-"
"I know, Draco. I... I fucked up, okay. Is that what you want to hear? I made a mistake."
"Damn right you made a mistake!" Draco exclaimed. "And I'm the one who's had to pay for it. I'm the one who's been alone every day for the past eighteen years, while you've had a happy little family with Potter, Weasley, and Val. And frankly, Hermione, though I love all the fluffy bits you're telling me, I'm more than a little pissed off."
"What is all the fucking shouting about?" demanded a sleep-bleared voice from the hallway. Unbeknownst to Draco and Hermione, they'd disturbed their sleeping son.
Hermione mentally chided her son for his language, but felt it was not the time to tell him off out loud. And apparently, she mused, his colourful language was something he must have inherited from his father as she'd taken care not to swear in front of him, and had forbidden Harry and Ron from doing the same-perhaps it was a Malfoy gene. Of course, it may also have just been the result of adolescence.
"Val, love... I- we didn't mean to wake you," Hermione rushed, worried that Draco might not be exactly in the right frame of mind to meet his son properly for the first time.
"Yeah?" Val grunted, and strode across the living room into the kitchen clad only in boxers and a well-worn Quidditch shirt, "Well, you did."
He emerged from the kitchen seconds later with a glass of water in hand. He eyed Draco suspiciously.
Draco seemed to shrink back into the couch, and eyed Val back. His grey eyes were wide and wary.
He could see himself in this kid. He had the same confidence, grace, and temper that he had. In hindsight, Draco couldn't believe he had ever pegged him for Potter's child - Val had his eyes. The hair was Hermione's, not Harry's.
"Val, love, why don't you come over here for a minute," Hermione soothed her son and motioned for him to sit in the armchair that sat beside the couch. Reluctantly Val complied, sitting down slowly, never tearing his eyes from Draco's.
"As you're up, I should introduce you to my... friend," Hermione smiled nervously at her son, stealing a glimpse at Draco to be sure he was all right with this. He nodded silently.
"This is Draco Malfoy, sweetie." Val's weary eyes flew wide open as his mother finished speaking. His cold look shifted suddenly, to be replaced by one of extreme eagerness.
"Draco Malfoy?" he questioned, not entirely believing that this could be the famous Slytherin. "*The* Draco Malfoy? Wow. I... it's an honour!" He offered Draco his hand as he had earlier that evening, but this time Draco accepted it. He found it very funny. Val was addressing him as if he were a famous athlete or something. On arriving home that night Val had considered the stranger's first name, but had been put off by his stand-offish attitude. Now, it seemed, he was fully prepared to gush.
"Val..." Hermione continued nervously, "there's more; Draco was more than a friend at school, he was--"
"Do you still play Quidditch?" Val interrupted, speaking eagerly to Draco.
"Val, will you listen to me for a moment?" Hermione demanded impatiently.
Val looked abashed to be to scolded by his mother in front of the legendary-and therefore eternally cool-Draco Malfoy, "Sorry, Mum."
The feeling that he experienced at hearing those words surprised Draco; hearing his son call Hermione 'Mum' brought home the realisation that this boy was in fact his son; his own flesh and blood and quite possibly the only good thing he'd ever been a part of in his life.
"At school Draco and I were..." Hermione continued, and looked at Draco for support. Draco raised an eyebrow, but did not come to her verbal aid. Hermione carried on, "Val, this is so hard for me to tell you - but Draco is your father."
**
More soon!! Until then, comments welcomed ^_^