Hermione was comfortably sprawled on the sofa, lost in the pages of a book, when the Floo erupted with a violent crash. Smoke billowed out in thick, curling tendrils, momentarily obscuring the figure that came barreling through. Theo stumbled forward, eyes wild, face pale as death, looking like he had just barely survived an encounter with a Boggart on Firewhisky.
Before she could even process what was happening, he lunged for her, grabbing her arm in a near-death grip and yanking her up so fast she almost lost her footing.
"Granger, you're coming with me. Now." His voice was sharp with panic, the usual lazy amusement gone entirely.
She blinked at him, disoriented. "What in Merlin's name—?"
"It's Luna," Theo cut in, his voice cracking as if his throat couldn't even bear to form the words. His hands were shaking. "Something's wrong. She's—" He swallowed hard, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "You just need to come."
Her stomach dropped. A dozen worst-case scenarios flashed through her mind in rapid succession—Luna hurt, Luna unconscious, Luna worse.
Not wasting another second, she shoved the book aside, snatched up the nearest handful of Floo powder, and threw it into the fireplace. "Nott Manor!" she called out, stepping in after Theo just as the panic began to claw at her ribs.
She landed with a clumsy thud in the cozy living room of Nott Manor, just behind Theo, who had already darted toward the sofa.
She braced herself for the worst—Luna lying limp, feverish, hexed, injured—but instead, she found Luna curled up peacefully on the couch, wrapped in one of Theo's expensive silk dressing gowns, looking the picture of serenity.
Luna, however, seemed blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding around her. "Oh, Mimi, it's you," she mumbled sleepily, finally opening her eyes. "I'm okay, I'm just pregnant."
Relief washed over Hermione in a wave, followed by a flicker of amusement. "Pregnant? But how?" she stammered, her gaze darting between Luna's serene expression and Theo's wide-eyed panic.
Theo finally found his voice, a hint of amusement creeping into his tone despite the earlier terror. "Surely Granger, even you know how babies are made." His words were laced with a playful jab, a stark contrast to the urgency that had brought them here.
Hermione rolled her eyes, a familiar warmth returning to her chest. It was good to have some normalcy, even in these unsettling times. "Theodore, shut your mouth," she snapped, but a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Turning back to Luna, her eyes welled up with tears. "Luna babe, I'm so happy for you," she said, her voice breaking with a mix of joy and relief.
The weight of his fear hung heavy in the air, a suffocating blanket that threatened to steal Theo's breath. Luna, bless her oblivious heart, simply yawned and stretched, the sound echoing loudly in the tense silence. "Oh, Theo, don't be so dramatic," she said, her voice laced with her usual, airy unconcern. "I just felt a bit faint earlier. Perhaps you were a tad too… enthusiastic with your morning ministrations." Her brow furrowed in a rare moment of confusion, completely missing the storm brewing in Theo's face.
Hermione, watching the exchange unfold, felt a stifled giggle rise in her throat at Luna's innocent explanation, a welcome release from the tight knot of worry that had formed in her stomach. Theo, however, sputtered incoherently, his cheeks flushing a deep scarlet that rivaled the Gryffindor common room banners. "Anyways..." she said, stepping forward to break the awkward silence, a genuine smile replacing the tears that had welled in her eyes earlier. "Congratulations to the two of you," she continued, her voice warm. "I'm so incredibly happy for you both."
Good God, he'd simply perish if he couldn't be the most dramatic person in the room. The irony of simps—one moment, they're smug bastards, and the next, they're on death's doorstep because their wives sighed too prettily.
Theo needed to be physically removed from the room. Immediately. Preferably by force.
His frantic energy consumed the space like an unchecked wildfire, each agitated step across the kitchen floor only fueling the storm. His heart, a caged bird on the verge of breaking its wings, hammered wildly against his ribs. Panic wrapped around him like Devil's Snare, tightening with every breath, every tortured thought. "Granger, you had to see her!" he burst out, voice raw with hysteria. "Luna, my Luna—pale as death, crumpled on the floor like a broken doll!" His hands, usually so composed, trembled as he gestured wildly, pacing with all the grace of a man moments from combusting. "One minute, she was humming, her usual otherworldly nonsense, and then—nothing! Unconscious! Gone! Merlin's saggy—what if—?" His throat clenched around the words, the horrifying image flashing behind his eyes.
Hermione, whose patience had been strained within an inch of its life, pinched the bridge of her nose before reaching out with a calming hand. "Theo," she said, firm but exasperated, "breathe. I am begging you, for the sake of my own sanity, slow the hell down and tell me exactly what happened. Luna is fine. You, however, are one dramatic hand-wave away from being Stunned and forcibly sedated."
He dragged a shaking hand through his already disastrous hair, his frustration practically tattooed across his forehead. "It was nothing! A faint, that's all! But seeing my Luna, my moonbeam, my everything, like that—Granger, it ripped the ground out from under me faster than a rogue Hippogriff." His voice cracked, the vulnerability slicing through the theatrics for just a second before he spiraled again. "The fear—it squeezed the breath from my lungs like a rogue Bludger to the chest. What if I lose her? What if—what if my child…" His voice wavered, his eyes shining with something she recognized instantly.
Pure, unfiltered, catastrophic love.
And as much as she wanted to throttle him for acting like a Shakespearean widow, she couldn't bring herself to blame him.
She took a slow breath, bracing herself against the storm raging in Theo's eyes. "Theo," she said gently, her voice a steady balm against the chaos in him, "Luna is strong. And you… you love her, don't you?"
The moment the words left her lips, something in him snapped. He slammed his fist against the table, the force of it rattling the teacups and making her flinch, but she held her ground. His breath came ragged, his entire body taut with barely restrained emotion. "Love her?" he repeated, voice hoarse, almost disbelieving. A tremor ran through him, as if the very word was too weak to contain the weight of what he felt. "Granger, love is a feeble, paltry thing—a pathetic excuse of a word. Calling what I feel for Luna 'love' is like trying to describe the sun as merely warm, or the ocean as just wet. It's—" he broke off, running a shaking hand through his hair before looking at her, truly looking at her, as if she could possibly understand the wildfire consuming him from the inside out.
"It's like a hurricane tearing me apart from the inside," he continued, his voice breaking. "A raging, endless storm that drowns me whole, yet somehow, I never want to breathe again. It's like Fiendfyre, unstoppable and all-consuming, but I don't fear being burned—I welcome it. I crave it. But what good is this all-consuming, ruinous devotion if I can't protect her? If I can't be the man she deserves? If I'm nothing more than a broken boy playing pretend at being her knight in shining armor?"
He collapsed into the chair beside him, burying his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with the weight of everything he had never spoken aloud.
She exhaled slowly, her heart twisting at the sight of him unraveling. "Theo…" she murmured, but he wasn't done.
"She deserves the moon and the stars, all the beauty this world has to offer, and instead, she has me," he whispered harshly, his fingers digging into his scalp. "What if she sees it,? What if she finally understands what I've known all along—that I am nothing but the darkness trying to swallow her light? What if she realizes the monster I truly am?"
His voice cracked on the last word, and for the first time, she saw past the sharp wit and carefully composed mask. She saw the frightened boy who had spent years caged by the sins of his father, the boy who had lived in the shadow of war, terrified that one day, he might become the very thing he despised.
She reached out, not touching him, but close enough that he could feel the warmth of her presence. "There's a famous quote," she began softly, choosing her words carefully. "'The sins of the father are to be laid upon the children.' But Theo, listen to me—you are not your father."
His head lifted slightly, eyes hollow, guarded, but listening.
"He chose darkness," she pressed on, her voice unwavering. "He let it consume him. You, Theo, chose differently. You survived. You fought for a different life. You hid because you refused to become part of their war. You have never hurt anyone—not then, not ever. And this love you have for Luna, this desperate, unrelenting need to protect her and your child? That is proof of who you truly are. Not a shadow, not a curse waiting to unfold, but a man who has the power to break the cycle. You are the one who gets to rewrite history—not as a Nott, but as Theo."
Her voice softened, but the conviction in her eyes never wavered. "You think you're the darkness in her world? No, Theo. You are the light. And if you let this fear control you, if you let it convince you that you're unworthy of them, then you let your father win. You let him take from you what could be the greatest love of your life. And I refuse to let that happen."
A silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of her words.
Theo's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his eyes burning with something unreadable. Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, he asked, "What if she regrets choosing me?"
Her lips curled into a small, knowing smile. "Luna Lovegood is many things, but foolish is not one of them. She saw something in you worth choosing. And I think, deep down, you know that too."
For the first time since he had stormed into the room, Theo let out a shaky exhale—something between a laugh and a sob. "Merlin, Granger," he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. "You should've been a Slytherin."
She smirked. "Too late now."
He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "So what do I do?"
"You go to Luna," she said simply, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "You tell her the truth. And you love her with every ounce of that ridiculous, overdramatic heart of yours."
The weight of his confession pressed heavily between them, stripping away every ounce of his usual bravado. Theo's eyes shimmered, unshed tears clinging stubbornly to his lashes, but his pride refused to let them fall. He dragged a shaking hand down his face, his composure splintering as raw vulnerability took its place. His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, as he asked, "Are we friends, Granger?"
She blinked, momentarily taken aback by the tremor in his voice. It was rare to see Theo like this—unguarded, stripped of his carefully curated indifference. And in that moment, something fierce and unrelenting swelled in her chest. "Of course, we are, Theo," she said, her voice unwavering as she squeezed his shoulder.
Theo exhaled sharply, like he'd been holding his breath for far too long. His fingers dug into the wooden table as if steadying himself against a force greater than he could handle. "Because if we are," he choked out, his voice rough with something that bordered on desperation, "then I need you. I'm begging you—help me show Luna how much I love her. Merlin, Granger, I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be the man she deserves. I'm terrified I'll ruin it, that I won't be enough for her, for our child. But the thought of losing them—" His throat constricted, and he shook his head, unable to finish the sentence. It was as if voicing the fear would give it power, would make it real.
She studied him for a long moment, her heart twisting at the sight of him unraveling before her. "Did you ever just… talk to her about your feelings?" she asked gently.
Theo looked at her like she had suggested he voluntarily jump into a nest of Acromantulas. "Oh, fuck no," he blurted out, his voice laced with sheer horror.
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose before leveling him with a knowing look. "Then show her," she said simply, her voice firm. "Show her how much you love her, Theo. Actions mean more than any poetic declaration you think you need to make. Be there for her, support her, remind her every single day that she's cherished, that she is your world. That's how you love someone."
Theo swallowed hard, nodding slowly as if her words were sinking into his very bones. Then, because he was Theo, he exhaled dramatically, running a hand through his already-messy curls. "Granger, you really missed your calling as a marriage therapist."
"And you missed your calling as a bard with all that over dramatic poetic nonsense," she shot back, smirking.
The heavy atmosphere gradually lifted, and somehow, they ended up spending the rest of the afternoon drinking, laughing, and playing board games. The earlier intensity melted into something familiar, something warm. Their friendship, battered but unshaken, held strong.
As Theo downed another glass of whiskey, his face set with renewed determination (and a mild buzz), he pointed a finger at Hermione. "I will win her over, Granger. Just watch me."
She chuckled, raising her own glass. "To love, friendship, and the courage to actually express our goddamn feelings. May they always win the day."
Theo clinked his glass against hers, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Merlin help us both."
(Weeks later, Hermione would learn the full story of Theo's grand gesture, a tale that would forever solidify his reputation as Luna's most devoted, and slightly eccentric, admirer. It seems Theo, in his quest to impress Luna, envisioned a grand gesture, something that would sweep her off her feet. Flowers? Too ordinary. Jewels? Too cliche. No, Theo needed something grand, something magical, something that screamed, "Luna, I love you more than words can express!"
His initial idea involved a veritable mountain of blooms, every color and variety imaginable. Several frantic Floo calls and near disasters involving exploding Dungbombs (don't ask) later, Theo found himself with a much less floral, and considerably more feathery, solution perched on his doorstep: a live Hippogriff.
Now, Luna, bless her wonderfully whimsical heart, simply giggled when the magnificent creature graced her doorstep. She accepted the gift with her usual equanimity, even offering the Hippogriff a plate of Crumple-Horn Snorkack Horns (a questionable snack choice at best). Yes, Luna loved the Hippogriff (though mostly as a large, feathery friend), and Theo? Well, Theo was left several Galleons lighter, and forever remembered as the boy who tried to win her heart with a Hippogriff.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She was thoroughly and delightfully sloshed by the time she arrived home, her coordination slightly betraying her as she stumbled through the Floo. The moment she stepped into the penthouse, she was met with the sight of Draco pacing in front of the fireplace like an anxious father waiting for news of his heir's birth. His usually pristine appearance was slightly disheveled—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, and a deep crease forming between his brows. He stopped dead in his tracks the moment he saw her, his sharp eyes scanning her from head to toe.
"Where were you, darling?" His voice was steady, but the concern laced within it was unmistakable. "I was worried sick." His gaze flickered over her again, taking in the slight sway in her stance, the undeniable flush on her cheeks. "What happened to you? And why do you reek of Firewhiskey?"
Hermione, utterly unbothered, flopped into the nearest armchair, the motion a little too dramatic to be graceful. "Just handling some… Hippogriff-sized drama," she wheezed, waving a hand lazily as if the sheer act of explaining was already exhausting. "Luna fainted, and Theo—Merlin help us all—went into full catastrophic meltdown mode. Honestly, I half-expected him to build a shrine in her honor and start preparing a eulogy before she even woke up."
A sound erupted from him that could only be described as an undignified snort. Not quite a laugh, but close enough that Hermione felt victorious. He pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head in amused disbelief. "That man has the emotional stability of a Cornish Pixie in a thunderstorm," he muttered, though there was no real bite to his words. "I swear, if Luna so much as sneezes, he'll probably demand a Healer be permanently stationed at Nott Manor. And you stayed for this circus?"
"Obviously," she said with an exaggerated sigh, stretching her legs out as if she were settling in for a long tale. "Someone had to be the voice of reason, and clearly, it wasn't going to be Theo. But between you and me, I think he deserves an award for Best Overreaction in a Dramatic Leading Role. He nearly collapsed when she said she was pregnant."
He actually laughed, a real one this time, rich and deep, the kind of sound she rarely got to hear from him. "Pregnant?" he repeated, his smirk growing. "Merlin's saggy left—Nott reproducing. I knew this day would come, but I wasn't prepared for it." He poured himself a drink and took a slow sip, considering. "The thought of miniature Notts wreaking havoc on Hogwarts is enough to make me consider a donation to St. Mungo's mental ward in advance. They'll need it."
Hermione, emboldened by the Firewhiskey still dancing through her veins, giggled. "Oh, don't be so dramatic. Luna will tame the wild Nott streak within a generation."
He arched a skeptical brow. "Lovegood taming anything? Please, darling. That woman sees the world through a kaleidoscope of magical creatures that may or may not exist. She'll probably raise those children to communicate with Wrackspurts before they even learn their first spell."
She laughed so hard she nearly slid out of her chair. "Oh, admit it. You can already picture tiny, curly-haired Notts running around, hexing things and quoting Shakespeare at the same time."
He groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Darling, don't. The visual is haunting." He took another sip of his drink before muttering, "And if Theo cries at the birth, I'm never letting him live it down."
"You know he's going to cry," she countered smugly, tilting her head back against the cushion. "And you also know you're going to be their favorite uncle."
He scoffed, but there was no real conviction behind it. "Merlin help us all."
He imagined her with a baby in her arms, her hair falling gently over her shoulder as she smiled down at their curly haired child. The thought warmed his heart in a way he hadn't expected. He wanted to protect her, to provide for her and their future family. The idea of being a father to her children filled him with a sense of purpose he hadn't felt before. He is going to make everything possible to make Hermione love him. He'll try to fuck a baby into her. Even if that's the last thing he does in his miserable life.
Theo had always been one of Draco's closest friends—the kind of friend who had seen him at his lowest and still stood by his side. They had weathered the war together, navigating the wreckage of their pasts, and now, somehow, they were standing at the precipice of something neither of them had ever dared to dream of—fatherhood.
He watched the city lights flicker below, his glass resting loosely in his fingers, but his mind was elsewhere. A tight knot of longing coiled in his chest, a sensation he wasn't quite prepared to admit to himself. Theo had Luna. He had a future growing inside of her, a child who would carry his name, his legacy. And Draco… Draco wanted the same. Desperately. With Hermione.
The image flashed unbidden through his mind again—her belly round with his child, her lips curling into a soft smile as she rested a hand over their growing heir. He imagined her sitting in their library, reading with one hand idly stroking her stomach, completely at ease in the life he had built for her. The possessiveness inside him snarled its approval. He would have that with her. He needed to have that with her.
Clearing his throat, he forced his thoughts back under control before his obsession bled through too obviously. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling an unusual warmth creeping up his neck. "Actually," he began, voice carefully casual, "there's something else. The lads are planning a get-together tonight. Just a night out—nothing fancy. A bit of bloke time, you know how it is."
Hermione, lounging comfortably with a book and a midnight snack, arched a brow but didn't look particularly concerned. "Mmm. And this 'bloke time' involves what exactly? Discussing Quidditch and cursing Ministry policies over expensive whiskey?"
He smirked, grateful for her lack of interrogation. "Something like that," he replied, feigning nonchalance.
She popped a crisp into her mouth, eyes glinting with amusement. "Enjoy yourselves. Try not to commit any crimes."
His smirk widened. "No promises, darling."
She waved a dismissive hand. "Just don't get arrested. I refuse to bail you out."
He chuckled and took a step toward her, leaning down to press a slow, lingering kiss to her lips—one he let linger just a fraction too long. A quiet hum of satisfaction vibrated in his chest when she didn't pull away. Instead, her fingers brushed against his jaw absentmindedly, as if she didn't even realise she was touching him.
Mine.
He straightened, trying to fight the smugness creeping into his features. "I won't be out too late," he assured her, though he suddenly had the overwhelming urge to stay right where he was.
Hermione merely shrugged, taking another sip of her drink. "Take your time. I'll be here, enjoying this firewhiskey and a healthy dose of scepticism about whatever 'blokes' business' truly entails."
He gave a low chuckle, warmth settling in his chest. Merlin, he adored her. He had to make her his completely. One step at a time.
"Be good, darling," he murmured before heading out, already itching to get back to her before the night was through.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The three of them were deep into their third bottle of Firewhiskey, conversation growing looser and louder with each pour. Blaise, his smirk widening as he refilled his glass, eyed Theo with an exaggerated air of curiosity. "So, I hear you're about to become a father, Theo?"
Theo let out a laugh, swirling the amber liquid in his glass with a nostalgic sigh. "Aye, mate. Feels surreal, really. Seems like only yesterday we were sneaking Firewhiskey into the Slytherin common room, and now—Merlin help me—I'm about to be a dad." His expression softened, and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Luna, though… she's something else. Glowing like some goddess from a Renaissance painting. Botticelli would've tossed his brushes in frustration trying to capture her."
Blaise snorted into his drink, shaking his head. "Radiant goddess, you say? Sounds familiar." A mischievous glint sparked in his eyes as he leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink. "Ginny's got that beat any day. I mean, have you seen that redhead recently? She's pure fire."
Theo nearly choked on his drink, spraying Firewhiskey across the table in a wild laugh that earned a disgruntled grumble from a snoring goblin in the booth next to them. "Ginny? Fiery?" Theo wheezed, catching his breath. "Blaise, have you been hit with one Bludger too many? That Weasley menace?"
Blaise leaned forward, his smirk deepening. "Oh, come on, Nott. Don't be daft. Look past the hand-me-down Weasley jumpers for a minute. The girl's got hair like a bloody sunset—no, better than a sunset. Fiery waves that'd put a phoenix to shame. And those green eyes? You can't tell me they don't put your heart through the wringer just looking at them."
Theo shook his head, his laughter bubbling up again. "Alright, alright, Zabini. But I'm telling you, Luna's got a magic of her own—wild, unpredictable, and utterly uncontainable. Botticelli couldn't do her justice, and neither could any sappy line you come up with for Ginny."
Blaise threw his head back, laughing loudly enough to draw a few raised eyebrows from the nearby patrons. "Touché, but we'll see who wins this battle of the muses."
Blaise smirked as he elbowed Theo, his voice carrying across the pub with a teasing lilt. "Look who's finally decided to crawl out of his moody abyss. Draco's been sitting here brooding like a bloody thundercloud. What's the matter, mate? Did your little lioness sink her claws into you? She's a right handful, isn't she? A proper minx."
Draco's jaw clenched, his grip tightening around his glass. His voice came out low, dangerous. "Don't ever talk about my wife like that again."
Blaise merely raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "Relax, Malfoy, just having a bit of fun," he chuckled. Then, as if finally realizing something, his smirk widened. "Wait—have you actually done anything about it? You're looking a bit… pent up."
Draco exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face before muttering, "We kissed. A few times."
A beat of silence. And then Blaise howled with laughter, slamming a hand against the table so hard their Firewhiskey nearly toppled over. A startled pixie, perched on a dusty shelf nearby, let out an indignant squeak and took flight.
"Kissed?" Blaise wheezed, gasping between fits of laughter. "You're telling me that's all you've done? Merlin's bollocks, Malfoy, I thought you were supposed to be the smooth one! You're living with the woman, you married the woman, and yet—kisses? What are you, a fourth-year?"
Theo, shaking his head in mock disappointment, leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink with an air of faux sympathy. "That's just sad, mate. Absolutely tragic."
Draco scowled, but the blush creeping up his neck betrayed him. He stared down at his drink, swirling the amber liquid with a brooding intensity. "You think I don't bloody want to?" he snapped. "Every damn day, I wake up and see her—her hair, her skin, the way she bites her lip when she's concentrating—I'm losing my fucking mind. But if I do anything, if I push too far, she'll hex my bollocks into another dimension. So yeah, I'm stuck with wanking."
Theo snorted into his drink, while Blaise nearly fell out of his chair with laughter. "That," Blaise managed, breathless, "is the most tragic thing I have ever heard. Draco Malfoy—wealthy, handsome, legally wed—and he's still wanking like a desperate schoolboy. Pathetic."
Draco glared at him, his frustration bubbling dangerously close to the surface. Theo, sensing impending doom, raised his hands in a peace offering. "Alright, alright, let's not push him into full meltdown mode. But mate," he added, his voice taking on a conspiratorial lilt, "you need to take some initiative. A well-timed compliment, some candlelight, a little—"
"Don't even suggest the fucking candlelight, Nott," Draco growled, his voice sharp with exasperation.
The way he slammed his nearly-empty glass onto the table made even Blaise momentarily pause. Theo blinked, then, attempting to lighten the mood, gestured to the bar. "Another round, then? Maybe some liquid courage will help."
But Draco was already pushing himself up from the booth, his movements jerky and agitated. "Where do you think you're going?" Blaise called after him, his smirk still firmly in place.
"Air," Draco muttered darkly, shoving his chair back and stalking towards the exit.
The cool night air hit him like a slap, doing little to calm the fire burning beneath his skin. He braced his hands against the wall of the pub, inhaling deeply, trying to steady himself.
Blaise was right. He was being a coward. And that was unacceptable.
Drunk Italian Blaise had the sharp tongue of a viper and the accuracy of a cursed arrow. Mean, brutally honest, and annoyingly right.
His jaw tightened, his usual sharp retort dying on his tongue. Instead, a flicker of something dangerously close to resolve crossed his face. He shot Blaise a murderous glare, muttered a string of expletives about obnoxious, oversized Italian mouths, and stormed out of the pub with the kind of purpose usually reserved for duels.
The poor florist, on the other hand, had not been prepared for a half-drunk, disheveled Malfoy bursting through her door well past closing. She had opened her mouth to protest—perhaps to demand whether he'd mistaken her shop for a brothel—but the obscene pile of Galleons he dumped onto the counter swiftly killed any objections.
Five minutes later, he staggered out of the shop, victorious but slightly bewildered, clutching what could only be described as a floral explosion—deep red roses, elegant white lilies, a handful of startled-looking tulips, and an absurd amount of violently pink peonies. He had no idea if flowers could scream I want to ravish you and make you mine, but if they could, this was definitely the bouquet to do it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sudden roar of the Floo startled Hermione, dragging her from the pages of her book. Before she could react, he stumbled into the living room, looking thoroughly wrecked—his usually pristine hair was a windblown disaster, his cheeks were flushed, and he was gripping what could only be described as a botanical catastrophe.
The bouquet was an utter monstrosity. A chaotic mess of roses, lilies, confused-looking tulips, and what appeared to be an excessive amount of aggressively pink peonies. It looked less like a romantic gesture and more like he had wrestled a flower shop into submission and barely lived to tell the tale.
Hermione blinked, completely speechless.
And then—before she could even question the absurdity of it all—he dropped to one knee with a graceless thud.
Her book slipped from her fingers, landing with a soft thump on the rug. Her heart, however, was far less composed, hammering against her ribs as she stared at him—disheveled, red-faced, and thoroughly sloshed—clutching his absurd bouquet like a man on a mission.
And then, as if this fever dream couldn't get any worse, he opened his mouth and dramatically declared:
"Je te reconnaîtrais dans l'obscurité totale, même si tu étais muet et moi sourd. Je te reconnaîtrais dans une autre vie entièrement, dans des corps différents, à des époques différentes. Et je t'aimerais dans tout cela, jusqu'à ce que la toute dernière étoile dans le ciel s'éteigne dans l'oubli."
She blinked. Several times.
Because if drunk Italian Blaise was bad, then drunk French Draco was a Shakespearean catastrophe in the making.
She sat there, utterly bewildered, her mind scrambling to piece together what in Merlin's name was happening. The flowers—an atrocious mess—clearly meant something. The French speech? Also meant something, though it was delivered with the linguistic grace of a man who had, without question, drowned himself in Firewhiskey.
But mostly? She understood absolutely none of it. Not a single word. Because he was so piss-drunk that his poetic monologue came out in a dramatic, slurred mess that rendered any attempt at translation completely futile.
"Alright, Draco," she said, shaking her head with a chuckle. "Let's see what we can salvage here. Maybe if we break them up into smaller vases, we can make them look less like a botanical crime scene." She ran her fingers over the pink peonies, the only part of the chaotic bouquet that didn't look like it had been assembled by a particularly aggressive toddler. "And thank you, by the way. These are my favourite."
Draco, in response, made an unintelligible noise that sounded vaguely like "mmphf," which was, at best, a halfhearted acknowledgment.
Hermione sighed and grabbed a glass of water, setting it on the coffee table with a quiet clink. "And perhaps a drink for the poor little boy who spent all his energy romancing me in several languages tonight."
Silence.
She turned, expecting another grumbled retort, but instead—
He was sprawled across the sofa, utterly unconscious, his dramatic, whiskey-fueled declaration of love lost to the world. His usual aristocratic precision had completely abandoned him—his shirt slightly rumpled, one arm dangling off the side of the couch, the other tucked behind his head in a manner that suggested he thought he was reclining in the height of sophistication.
And, to top off this absolute travesty of a scene—
Curled on top of him like some smug little king, purring loud enough to shake the furniture, was Crookshanks.
She had spent years trying to get Crookshanks to even tolerate people, and yet here he was, sprawled across Draco Malfoy's chest like they had been lifelong companions.
A mix of amusement, betrayal, and sheer disbelief washed over her.
"You absolute traitor," she muttered at her cat, who flicked an ear but otherwise showed zero remorse.
As for Draco—well, asleep, he looked different. The usual sharp lines of his face were softened, his ever-present scowl wiped away, leaving something strangely peaceful in its place. The sight of him like this—unguarded, unfiltered, completely at Crookshanks' mercy—sent an unexpected warmth through her chest. It was absurd. It was ridiculous.
And yet—she found herself smiling. Perhaps, she thought begrudgingly, just perhaps, Draco Malfoy wasn't as impossible as he pretended to be.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sunlight speared through the curtains with all the subtlety of a hex, stabbing directly into his skull. He groaned, rolling over in a desperate attempt to escape the onslaught, but it was futile—his head was pounding, his mouth was dry as sandpaper, and his body felt like it had been personally cursed by Merlin himself. Every muscle ached, a dull, throbbing reminder that he had, in fact, made very poor decisions the night before.
With an effort that felt equivalent to fighting a troll barehanded, he dragged himself upright, blinking blearily at his surroundings. His vision swam, and as he turned toward his nightstand, something caught his eye—a neatly placed glass of water and a small potion bottle labeled in Hermione's meticulous handwriting: "Remedial Potion for the Incapacitated. Use liberally, you absolute idiot."
A groan rumbled deep in his chest. Fuck.
The witch clearly had no faith in his ability to function like a normal human being after last night's… whatever the fuck last night had been. He swiped up the potion, downing it in one go, grimacing as the taste of overripe cherries and something vaguely sulfuric coated his tongue. Almost instantly, the throbbing in his skull began to ebb, though the mortification creeping in? That wasn't so easily remedied.
What the hell had he done?
He scrubbed a hand over his face, raking through his already disheveled hair as flashes of the night before failed to materialize. He could remember drinking. A lot. He remembered Theo and Blaise being insufferable, probably goading him into something idiotic. There had been a Florist?
His stomach lurched.
Oh fuck.
The memory of him stumbling through the penthouse, clutching a chaotic bouquet like a deranged court jester, surfaced with horrifying clarity. And—Merlin's saggy left bollock—he had been speaking French, hadn't he?
Dear gods, just kill me now.
With a resigned sigh, he threw on a robe and padded downstairs, following the heavenly scent of frying bacon. The kitchen was quiet, save for the occasional pop of sizzling fat, and there, waiting for him on the counter, was a plate stacked high with his favorite breakfast—perfectly crispy bacon, eggs cooked just the way he liked, and fluffy pancakes that made his stomach rumble on sight.
Beside the plate lay a neatly folded piece of parchment. Oh, no.
Dreading what fresh hell awaited him, he hesitantly picked it up and unfolded it. Hermione's elegant script stared back at him, mocking his fragile state:
"Dearie,
I hope this will help. See you tonight.
Yours,
Hermione."
He groaned loudly, dropping the letter onto the counter as his mind spiraled into pure panic.
What else had he done? What else had he said?
Did she know?
Had he—had he confessed anything? Had he, in his drunken wisdom, spilled the truth—that he had been pathetically, miserably in love with her for far longer than he cared to admit? That every inch of him ached to have her in every way, that he had been playing the longest fucking game of self-control in wizarding history?
The thought alone made his stomach twist into knots. No. Surely not. He would remember something like that. Wouldn't he?
Panic clawed at his throat, drowning out the faint relief of the meal in front of him. There was only one thing he knew for sure: He was so fucked.
Dread twisted into something sharper, something darker, as the Floo roared to life, sending emerald flames licking at the hearth. He didn't need to turn around to know who had just barged into his home, uninvited and utterly unwelcome. The moment he heard the clumsy scuffle of boots against the pristine marble floor, he knew.
The fucking Weasel.
Draco's entire body went rigid, the headache from his hangover vanishing in an instant, replaced by the white-hot clarity of anger. His fingers twitched toward his wand before his mind even caught up.
Slow. Calculated. A predator circling prey.
He turned on his heel, and in one fluid motion, his wand was drawn, aimed squarely at Weasley's chest. His voice, when he spoke, was low and lethal, every syllable sharpened to a razor's edge.
"My wife isn't home right now, so I can behave however the fuck I want, Weasel. And since there's no one here to save your pathetic life, I strongly suggest you rethink whatever idiotic reason brought you here."
Before Ronald could sputter a response, he flicked his wrist, and with a muttered Stupefy, Weasley hit the floor like a sack of bricks. The resounding thud was a satisfying punctuation mark to his entrance.
He exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders back as he crouched beside the unconscious Gryffindor. He tilted his head, watching as Ronald groaned, his eyelids fluttering. He was coming back to himself—good.He wanted him awake for this.
Weasley's blue eyes cracked open, unfocused and groggy. Before he could fully grasp the situation, he grabbed him by the collar and slammed him back down, his wand pressing against the soft underside of his jaw.
"Now you're going to listen to me, Weasel."
Ronald choked on air, his hands weakly grasping at his forearm. The terror in his eyes? Sublime.
"You and Hermione?" He spat, his voice dripping with venom. "That chapter is closed. She doesn't love you. She never loved you. I am the only one who understands her. I know how she takes her coffee, how she loses herself in a book and forgets the world exists. I know exactly how to kiss her, how to touch her, how to pull those fucking perfect sounds from her lips. She's my wife, and you? You're nothing."
The words were steel-tipped, each one stabbing into Ron with precision.
He let go of his collar, letting him slump back against the cold floor—but the reprieve was short-lived. The next thing Ron felt was his fist slamming into his face.
The crunch of cartilage breaking under impact sent a thrill through his veins.
Another punch. Blood smeared across Ronald's mouth.
Another. His nose was definitely broken now.
And another. Just because he fucking could.
"You were supposed to be the man, but you acted like a bitch," he snarled, his breath coming fast and sharp. He grabbed Ronald by the front of his robes and dragged him closer. His voice dipped into something quieter, more terrifying than any shout. "She. Only. Wants. Me.
Blood dripped from Ron's split lip, his face already swelling with bruises. He gasped for air, dazed and barely conscious.
"I am a man, and you?" He sneered, giving him a rough shake. "You're a fucking boy, still clinging to the past like a lovesick fool. You will never see her again. You will never speak to her again. She is mine. Do you understand me?"
A ragged cough was all Ron could manage.
He dropped him like garbage. Ronald crumpled onto the floor, a pathetic heap of trembling limbs and labored breaths.
He straightened his sleeves, brushing off invisible dust. Then, he crouched again, his wand tracing lazy patterns in the air.
"You think you can just waltz back into her life?" he asked, voice almost mocking. "Disrupt everything we've built? Make her doubt what we have? No, Weasel. No more. You are nothing to her now. A footnote in a story she doesn't even reread."
Ronald, despite the agony wracking his body, forced out a ragged breath. "She... she deserves better than you, Malfoy," he rasped, voice barely above a whisper.
Draco went still.
Then, ever so slowly, he leaned in, lips curling into something that was almost amusement, almost something darker.
"And you think that's you?" he whispered, a sinister edge slicing through his tone. "You had your chance. You failed. Now? Now she's mine. And I will do whatever it takes to keep her."
He flicked his wand, and the spell holding him down released. Ronald gasped, curling in on himself, sucking in deep, shuddering breath "Kneel."
Ron's head snapped up, confusion flickering across his battered face. "W-what?"
His smirk was wicked. "I said, kneel, Weasel. Show some fucking respect."
Ronald shook his head. "No."
His jaw ticked. Without another word, he shoved Ron forward, forcing him onto all fours. He pressed his wand against the back of Ron's skull.
"You will learn your place," he said, his voice eerily calm now, a stark contrast to the violence that had preceded it. "You will understand that Hermione is no longer yours. That she will never be yours again. She is mine, and I protect what is mine."
A tense silence stretched between them. He could hear nothing but Ronald's ragged breathing.
Then, finally, he straightened, rolling his shoulders back.
"Now get the fuck out of my house," he ordered, his voice carrying the weight of finality. "And if I ever see you near her again, I won't be so merciful."
Ronald, with all the strength he had left, pushed himself to his feet. His body shook with pain and something deeper—something like fear.
He turned, one last look of sorrow and determination flashing in his eyes. "This isn't over, Malfoy," he whispered hoarsely. "She deserves to know the truth."
Draco's fingers tightened around his wand. "Does she?" he mused, tilting his head.
Before Ronald could even process it, he flicked his wrist.
"Obliviate."
A flash of light burst from his wand, engulfing Ron in its glow. His expression went slack, his body swaying slightly as the memories—the beating, the threats, the blood—vanished into nothingness.
Ronald blinked.
Draco lowered his wand, schooling his face into careful neutrality.
"Leave now, Weasley," he instructed, his tone deceptively calm.
Ron, confused, rubbed his temple. He hesitated for half a second before, without another word, he turned and staggered out of the penthouse.
For the first time in ten fucking years, he felt lighter. Like a goddamn breath of fresh air.
With a slow, measured exhale, he turned away from the dying embers of the Floo, the last traces of Weasley's presence dissipating like smoke. The penthouse was silent once more, save for the steady rhythm of his own breath. His fingers twitched at his sides, still thrumming with the aftermath of violence, the adrenaline not yet settled in his veins.
He rolled his shoulders, forcing his body to relax as he strode toward the kitchen. He needed a drink. Something strong to chase away the remnants of his temper, something to dull the satisfaction that curled in his chest like a pleased predator.
As he reached the kitchen table, his eyes landed on the folded parchment Hermione had left for him that morning. His hands, still marred with faint bruising from the encounter, brushed over the elegant script. A slow smile ghosted over his lips as he traced the familiar strokes of her handwriting.
"Dearie, I hope this will help. See you tonight.
Yours,
Hermione."
A warmth spread through him, different from the fiery possessiveness that had driven him mere moments ago. This was softer, deeper—his.
She was coming home. And tonight, he would make sure she never questioned where she belonged.
Lifting the note to his lips, he pressed a fleeting kiss against the parchment before setting it aside. He would make everything perfect. He would remind her, with every glance, every touch, every unspoken promise, that she was his.
She would never know what had transpired here tonight. There was no need. It would only burden her with unnecessary guilt, stir up old loyalties she no longer needed to carry. He had already handled the problem. Weasley was out of the picture—erased, forgotten.
Their life, their future, was secure.
And as he poured himself a glass of Firewhiskey, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat, he allowed himself to relish the quiet triumph of it all.
The loose ends had been tied. The irritation and resentment that had simmered for a decade had been resolved in the way it always should have been.
And Draco, for the first time in his life, felt truly unstoppable.