"Ready, Hermione Granger? Ready to face my perhaps slightly arrogant parents?" Draco asked, his tone light and easy.
Outside the window, shadowy fields gave way to the grey, vaulted platforms of King's Cross Station.
He bent his head slightly, a strand of fair hair falling between his brows, his slender fingers working slowly at the top two or three buttons of her shirt.
She was still a little breathless, clutching the loose silver-green tie she had straightened, and looked up at his focused, faintly flushed face.
"Ready —" Hermione let out a soft breath, refusing to show any shyness or hesitation.
She lifted her chin. "If you are."
Draco pinched her chin lightly and studied her eyes in the carriage light, searching for any flicker of worry or apprehension in them.
There was none. Only righteous indignation, fearlessness, and unwavering determination.
"Very good." Draco smiled and leaned down to press a quick, brief kiss to her lips.
Then, quietly: "Hermione — I must say, you are entirely my type. Inside and out, top to bottom. You are wonderful."
At that, a visible shyness crept into the girl's expression — blooming warmly across her face. She turned her eyes away, as though the girl who had just been nestled enthusiastically in his arms had absolutely nothing to do with her, and found herself staring at the ice cream cup on the table instead.
The cup was empty. Clearly, not a drop of that sweet flavour had gone to waste.
The Hogwarts Express slowed to a halt. A few wisps of steam curled from the locomotive and drifted away.
They had arrived in London.
---
Ginny Weasley stretched her arms as she stepped out of the compartment, making room for Ron to haul their luggage down from the overhead rack.
Just then, she spotted Hermione and her boyfriend making their way slowly along the corridor.
The girl, her face still a shade pink, was saying to the boy behind her, "Draco, I can carry my own luggage. I'm not completely helpless —"
"I insist," the Slytherin boy said in a tone that brooked no argument. "I'm not questioning your ability. I simply want the satisfaction of looking after you — it's a boyfriend's prerogative."
Hermione looked deeply embarrassed about this.
Under Ginny's openly teasing gaze, she stood blushing beside the luggage trolley and watched the boy deftly stack her bags onto it, turning now and then to give her a look of quite unashamed satisfaction.
Harry and Ron exchanged a knowing look, and neither of them moved toward Hermione's luggage — wisely allowing this possessive Slytherin to make a good impression on his girlfriend without interference.
"Hermione, I take it all back," Ginny said thoughtfully, falling in beside her. "Your boyfriend isn't cold to you at all. He's actually extremely attentive."
As Lavender Brown passed by with a cheerful, "Ron, remember to write to me over the summer!" Ginny lowered her voice. "Honestly, to me, he looks nothing like a Slytherin in front of you. He looks rather more like a white peacock — using every trick available to show off his plumage at every possible opportunity..."
"Ginny, that's a complete exaggeration! What's the difference? Your brother helps you with your luggage too, doesn't he?" Hermione said, embarrassed.
"Brother... yes... but do you remember what you told me before term started last year?" Ginny pressed on, without mercy. "You said he treated you like a little sister. I actually believed you, Hermione. I spent quite a long time feeling sorry for you—"
"Don't say that in front of him —" Hermione said anxiously, tugging at Ginny's sleeve, trying to prevent her words from reaching Draco's ears, lest the already far-too-pleased-with-himself boy become even more so.
---
Out on the platform, there was the usual great commotion.
Students pushed their laden trolleys out of the train and gradually disappeared into the crowd. Amidst the noise and the insistent hooting of various owls, they passed through the barrier at Platform 9¾, looked around, and began searching for their parents and guardians.
As Draco scanned the platform, an extraordinary hat adorned with a taxidermied vulture suddenly blocked his sightline. Beneath it, an elderly witch was grumbling, "No, Neville! You should be proud of your father's wand — not thinking about getting a new one! How dare you suggest such a thing!"
She swept her green robes aside, her moth-eaten fox fur stole trailing behind her, and strode forward. Longbottom followed, pushing his trolley anxiously. "But, Gran," he said, "Hermione said —"
Once the hat had moved, Draco spotted Sirius Black in the crowd.
That signature sweep of dark hair, those melancholy eyes, that height — he stood out effortlessly. The heir of the Black family looked as darkly distinguished as any portrait in his family's ancestral gallery. He wore a black casual suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone — exactly the sort of effortlessly dashing attire that Draco had come to recognise as quintessentially Sirius.
Narcissa would never have allowed her son to dress so casually for an important occasion.
Sirius himself, however, appeared entirely pleased with the arrangement. Or rather, the female students passing by admired it enormously, casting curious glances at him as they went.
He remained utterly unmoved by any of it. He leaned against a pillar, stifling a yawn behind his hand, looking thoroughly bored with the world and everything in it.
That was, until his gaze landed on Harry.
The moment he saw Harry, everything changed. He straightened at once, his face breaking into a wide grin as he waved — all his former languor gone in an instant.
A cluster of older girls nearby dissolved into giggles.
Harry called a quick goodbye — "Keep in touch, write often!" — and hurried his trolley toward his godfather.
Sirius took Harry's trolley, gave Draco a brief nod of acknowledgement, and walked away quickly with his godson. Harry followed, waving again, smiling shyly and happily.
"We're off!" Ron said to the rest of them.
And indeed, who could overlook the Weasley family?
The vivid red hair, bright as a sunset, stood out startlingly on the platform. Draco and Hermione watched as Ron and Ginny joined the rest of that red-haired cloud, making it appear even larger.
A moment later, they were gone — trailing laughter and noise behind them.
"Draco, where are your parents?" Hermione asked softly.
"I'm not sure," Draco said, genuinely puzzled. "They don't seem to be here."
That was very strange. He saw no other head of platinum-blond hair anywhere on the platform.
He did, however, see Mrs. Granger waving at them.
"Hermione, should I go and say hello to your parents?" he asked, feeling a faint unease.
"Of course!" Hermione perked up at once, her voice lighter. "They'll be so happy to see you."
He pushed the trolley, and she gave him a small nudge, and they headed toward her parents.
"Draco, you've grown quite a bit taller since I last saw you." Mrs. Granger's gaze swept over their clasped hands and she asked with a pleasant smile, "How was your school year?"
"Absolutely brilliant," Draco said politely. "Though I must say — I owe much of it to Hermione."
Mrs. Granger glanced at her daughter and noted the rosy cheeks, the easy smile, the complete absence of last year's quiet melancholy.
Relieved, she said to Draco, half-teasing, "Has anyone ever told you that you look rather like a model in a magazine...?"
"Mum, please don't say things like that to him directly —" Hermione winced, glancing at Draco, and finding him already smirking at her.
"What's wrong with it?" Mrs. Granger said firmly. "I'm simply telling the truth."
Hermione couldn't help taking another look at him — he really did. His sculpted profile was almost unreasonably perfect, and his long-limbed stride had a way of making King's Cross look something like a runway.
He would be a runway designer's dream.
Her ideal man caught her looking and winked. Then he turned to Mrs. Granger and smiled — "Thank you for the compliment. You look even more radiant than last time."
His smile was too bright. His detached, unapproachable air vanished entirely, and for a moment there was nothing but warmth.
This unexpected flash of warmth stirred a pang of sharp regret in Hermione's chest.
She should have kissed him more. Held him longer. She really should have—
Good heavens, she was starting to look exactly like the "fangirl" Ginny had described. No — no, she couldn't do this. At least in front of her parents, she needed to stay composed. Hermione quietly reminded herself, entirely forgetting that she was still holding his hand openly, in plain sight of both parents.
Mrs. Granger, blissfully unaware of her daughter's internal struggle, looked at Draco cheerfully and said, "I must mention — the magic toothpaste you sent for Christmas was excellent. Thank you so much."
"Yes!" Mr. Granger couldn't resist as soon as the subject came up.
He smiled, taking the trolley, and said with great enthusiasm, "Toothpaste that can change the colour of your teeth to a different shade within half an hour of brushing — extraordinary! I've found myself brushing several times a day, just to see what comes next..."
"Dad, really?" Hermione said, feigning severity. "As a dentist, you know very well there are limits to how often one should brush. Honestly, you're behaving like a child."
Mr. Granger raised his eyebrows and made a face at his daughter, making her laugh.
He always had a gift for keeping the atmosphere easy.
Draco chuckled. "I'm very glad you like it. I was also genuinely delighted by the birthday gift you sent — that Keemun black tea."
"Tea leaves we picked ourselves on holiday in China, mid-March," Mr. Granger said, striding toward the station exit. "Hermione said you had a fondness for them. That trip is quite the long story — though I suspect we won't get to it today. The car's still in the drive, and from the look of things, there may well be a demonstration later. We mustn't get stuck."
"Draco, your parents haven't arrived yet?" Mrs. Granger asked. "Would you like us to give you a lift?"
"That's very kind, truly — but there's no need," Draco said with a smile. "I'm sure they'll be here any moment."
Inwardly, however, he was filled with unease. Had something happened to Lucius and Narcissa on the road? Lateness on this scale, for them, was entirely unprecedented.
"Are you alright?" Hermione tugged gently at his sleeve.
"Perfectly." He gave her a calm smile. "Let me see you off first."
That was the right choice.
If her parents hadn't happened upon them today, she might at least have had a calm, undisturbed start to her summer. There was no reason for her to be weighed down by his worries.
He wanted to face this particular storm himself.
Even so — he was reluctant. He was so very reluctant to see her walk away, even for two months.
It's better this way, he thought. Better that his parents had arrived late, as long as nothing was truly wrong with them.
He ran through the possible causes quickly. The Dark Lord was severely weakened and in hiding, barely clinging to life. Lucius maintained his golden "friendship" with Minister Fudge, and any political enemies were currently at a disadvantage. As for business rivals — no one had gained ground on the Malfoys. The family was, by all accounts, doing very well.
As long as the Dark Lord had not risen again, the Malfoy family's situation was stable, even rising.
No one currently posed any real threat.
Keeping that quiet worry to himself, Draco gently squeezed the girl's hand and gave her an even warmer smile.
Like the flick of a switch, that smile lit something bright in Hermione's chest, scattering the shadow of worry that had gathered there.
She was simply happy that the two of them could hold hands and walk together for a few minutes through the bright station hall. However short the distance.
It was far too short. They had practically jogged through the crowd before they found themselves standing beside that blasted BMW.
She watched Draco help her father load her luggage into the boot, one piece at a time, the two of them exchanging a few words and a solemn handshake at the end of it.
"Thank you, son. I'm certain your parents are very proud to have a child like you," Mr. Granger said warmly.
He clapped Draco on the shoulder, opened the door for his wife, walked around to the driver's side, and started the engine.
"Well, goodbye then." Mrs. Granger gave Draco a hug and a smile. "Give my regards to your parents." Then she settled into the passenger seat.
"Hermione — two minutes," she called out through the open window, glancing at the street. "I can already see the demonstration from here. We really do have to go."
Hermione stood before him, reluctance plain on her face.
The station's dim lighting caught his hair, making it gleam, and she felt her eyes sting.
"Don't be sad, silly girl." He leaned against the car, his tone deliberately light. "It's only two months. It'll be over before you know it. You might not even have time to process the holiday before term starts again."
"Yes." She searched his grey eyes, as though she could not quite get enough of them.
"We have this —" He held his hand up slightly, showing her the silver ring on his finger.
"Yes." She traced his face with her gaze — his dark brows, his steady eyes, his straight nose, the curve of his smile, his pointed chin.
"I really hate to part with you," she whispered.
Draco felt a tightness in his chest at that look.
He was just as reluctant as she was — perhaps more so.
He held her gaze and traced her face in return, cataloguing the lines of it, catching the warmth in her eyes.
Then his smile widened slowly, as he let himself simply rest in the feeling.
"I'm so happy, Hermione," he said quietly. "You have no idea how happy I am, being with you."
Hermione's face flushed.
Acting on impulse — entirely forgetting that her mother might be watching in the rearview mirror — she rose on her tiptoes and pressed a firm kiss to each of his cheeks, though she desperately wanted to reach his lips.
"Darling, am I being sentimental?" Mrs. Granger whispered to her husband inside the car. "Am I about to lose our little girl?"
"No," Mr. Granger said quietly but firmly. "She will always be our darling. We will never lose her."
Mrs. Granger was briefly comforted by the certainty in his voice.
She leaned out of the window again. "We really must go now — Hermione — the streets are already backing up —"
So Draco abandoned his usual aversion to public displays of affection and pulled Hermione into a proper embrace.
He murmured low in her ear: "Next time I see you, I'll kiss you. Deeply. Twice."
Then he pulled open the car door and guided her in.
Hermione, thoroughly undone by those words, sank into the back seat with barely a thought for when the door had closed.
All she could remember was him leaning down to look at her through the slowly moving window, smiling. His bright grey eyes, fixed on her with an intent, burning warmth — as though he wanted to take her with him.
And yet what he said was perfectly ordinary.
He said, "Thank you, Mrs. Granger. Goodbye, Mr. Granger. Goodbye, Hermione."
Then, without another word, he mouthed something to her through the glass.
Hermione was momentarily stunned, not entirely certain she had read him correctly.
A faint smile appeared on his lips a moment later, and he straightened up — one hand in his pocket, the other raised in a wave, watching the car pull away.
Under the dimming light, he looked both handsome and heartbreakingly alone.
He was so alone — like a fallen prince abandoned by some wicked enchantment, left standing on the pavement.
The car turned a corner, and his figure disappeared entirely.
Hermione sighed and looked away.
For a moment, she truly wanted to take him with her.
It would be convenient if he could transfigure himself into something small, she thought. A Kneazle or something. Then she could tuck him in her jacket and bring him home.
"Little Peanut, you two seem to get along very well," Mrs. Granger said with a warm smile, turning from the passenger seat.
"Yes," Hermione said, her voice still catching slightly with the sadness of parting.
"Does he still call you 'sister'?" Mrs. Granger's eyes gleamed with barely suppressed curiosity.
"No," Hermione said simply. "It turned out to be a misunderstanding."
The painful, faintly absurd mix-up of being mistaken for a younger sister felt like something from a very long time ago.
Mrs. Granger was not entirely satisfied with this concise answer.
She tried a different angle, carefully casual: "Has our little peanut made any new friends this year?"
Had her daughter ignored all her advice to broaden her horizons — and instead thrown herself entirely at that charming boy?
"Yes, a few, but..." Hermione murmured, her mind still wandering, still turning over those lip-read words — what had he said, exactly?
Mr. Granger, who had been watching this exchange from the driver's seat with the patience of a man who had learned when to intervene, decided to cut straight to the point.
"Little Peanut — the Christmas ball last year, wasn't it? Who was your dance partner?"
He glanced quickly into the rearview mirror.
His daughter had smiled. Suddenly, fully, without reservation.
Her eyes sparkled — the most brilliant light Mr. Granger had seen in a very long time — radiating warmth. A soft blush rose to her cheeks, and her voice, when it came, was cheerful.
"It was Draco," she said.
This answer, he thought quietly to himself, explained everything.
---
As Mr. Granger had predicted, the intersection near King's Cross was congested that evening. Several Muggle mounted police officers were doing their level best to calm the chaos of honking, disoriented cars.
Narcissa Malfoy was extremely irritated.
At this moment, she and Lucius should have been standing on Platform 9¾, waiting for Draco to step off the train. Instead, their car had been stopped halfway by a marching crowd of Muggles, and although the station entrance was less than a hundred metres away, they were utterly stuck.
This appeared to be an organised strike by Muggle railway workers, who were demanding higher wages, more rest days, and better working conditions.
"This is precisely why I cannot abide Muggles," Lucius scoffed, glancing out the window at the workers chanting and waving their banners. "Inefficient, perpetually shouting about fairness. As though unfairness were something unusual. What is there to complain about?"
Narcissa said nothing.
She reached into Lucius's inner breast pocket, drew out his diamond-encrusted pocket watch, checked the time — and her expression darkened at once. "It's already late. Draco will be getting impatient."
"What's so dreadful about waiting?" Lucius sneered, rubbing his serpent-headed cane and leaning back with his eyes half-closed, attempting to appear perfectly calm.
He muttered under his breath, "That good-for-nothing — learning nothing worthwhile, getting along famously with Muggles and blood traitors. Have all these years of education amounted to nothing?" A sharp exhalation through his nose. "He's simply spoiled. He thinks he can do as he pleases and that his parents will never truly be angry with him. In my opinion, a little waiting will do him good — teach him that he is not, in fact, the centre of the world."
Narcissa kept her expression carefully neutral and said nothing.
She had returned from her trip to the United States only a few days ago and immediately heard that her son was still seeing Miss Granger.
It had surprised her.
She had assumed the whole affair would have faded by now — that Draco would have resolved the matter with appropriate discretion. Perhaps he was still too young, too inexperienced in handling complications of this nature.
But at this particular moment, she found she felt less resentment toward her son and rather more longing to simply see him. It had been ten months.
Ten months — an unprecedentedly long separation, for Narcissa.
She sighed softly and rolled down the car window.
Through the gaps between the marching Muggles, she looked across the street toward the station entrance.
It was alive with activity — a great stream of students and parents pouring out. She even spotted several familiar faces among the crowd, guests who had attended her salon at one time or another. They wore all manner of Muggle clothing, some fashionable, some rather peculiar — but the owl cages on their luggage trolleys were immediately conspicuous to any trained eye.
The Hogwarts students had already come out.
Was her Little Dragon still waiting for them alone on the platform?
Narcissa felt a deep, anxious pull.
For a moment, she very nearly drew her wand and Levitated every last Muggle out of their way.
Her worry lasted only a few seconds before she saw him.
There was Little Dragon.
He seemed to have grown taller yet again.
He stood on the side of the lane, his platinum-blond hair unmistakeable in the crowd. Girls passing by were glancing back as they went, seemingly quite taken with this tall and handsome young man.
He maintained the composed, unhurried manner of the Malfoys, ignoring all of them without so much as turning his head.
He was relaxed — leaning casually against a Muggle car, one foot planted on the ground, the other resting lightly against the wheel arch, speaking with some intensity to the girl in front of him.
At that moment, whatever position Narcissa had been preparing to take regarding this Muggle girl became utterly irrelevant.
She understood everything from the way he was standing.
It was not the upright, careful, self-possessed posture of a boy who had been put through rigorous etiquette training since childhood.
He was more at ease than she had seen him in years.
This was the ease she had been missing from her son for a very, very long time.
And all of it was because of the girl in front of him.
The girl with brown hair.
She had her back to Narcissa, so Narcissa could not see her face.
But she saw her son's.
That open, unguarded, radiant face — smiling in a way she had not seen since before Hogwarts. So free and bright and alive.
He had not looked like this — truly, wholly like this — in three or four years.
Over the years, Draco had grown increasingly composed and reserved, shedding his boyish openness at what seemed an almost alarming rate. He had lost the natural wildness and vibrant energy of a boy his age, as though something invisible had him in its grip.
He no longer came to hover near her affectionately, calling her "Mum." With a mother's sensitivity, Narcissa had felt the growing formality, the careful distance her son was keeping.
His letters home had always been restrained — cautious, deliberately reporting only good news. Quidditch injuries, Dementor attacks, encounters with werewolves, the dangers of the Black Lake — all the things she had later pieced together through other channels: from Severus Snape, from Mrs. Zabini, from an offhand comment at a tea party, from a school governor's relative. Draco had never told her any of it himself.
He no longer shared his inner life with her. The troubles of growing up, questions about friendship, about love, about what he wanted from his life — he never went beyond the surface with her, always stopping short of any real depth.
When he came home for the summer, it was always Quidditch, or one increasingly thick book after another, or some increasingly complex potion — or, stranger still, the Muggle fighting techniques she could not begin to understand.
Draco was remarkable. He made Narcissa proud, always.
But the distance between them had been growing wider, as it inevitably does when children leave home for school.
She had told herself it was simply a particular quality of adolescent boys — that she should respect his growing independence and not let him see her confusion.
She had hidden her disappointment. Kept it carefully to herself.
But today she discovered, with a sorrow she could not suppress, that her Little Dragon was still capable of smiling like this — still so open, so full of life and energy.
Only it was not for his mother anymore.
It was freely, warmly, entirely given to this Muggle girl who had appeared from nowhere.
Merlin. The tenderness in his expression — rare, almost startling — was something Narcissa had not seen in years. Something she had longed for without fully knowing it.
He watched the girl with such concentrated, gentle focus that the rest of the world might not have existed.
The girl kissed his cheek. He drew her into a hug.
He smoothly opened the car door for her, one hand curved over the door frame to shield her head — careful, instinctive, attentive.
This was a child she had raised herself. Step by step, with everything she had.
Narcissa stared, a pang of sorrow going through her as she watched her son tend to this girl with such care.
Once the girl was seated, he closed the door, leaned down to say something through the slowly descending window — and gave her that smile. That radiant, warm smile Narcissa had been missing.
Then he straightened. One hand in his pocket, the other raised in a farewell wave, watching the Muggle car drive away.
He was no different from any other young man hopelessly in love.
Narcissa looked away from the window and closed her eyes.
She could no longer deceive herself.
She had known it, somewhere, for some time. But now there was no denying it:
Her son — her beloved Little Dragon, Draco Malfoy, future heir to the Malfoy family — had fallen irrevocably in love with a Muggle girl.
There was no longer any room for illusions.