Chapter Text
“Okay so now I just need to do a read-through and send this out before…” she mumbles to herself, pausing to check her watch, “... sh*t.” It’s nearly half noon and she promised to get these edits done by 2pm.
Only a few hours back in London and she is already running behind schedule – if Theo hadn't insisted on dropping her off in their new car rather than letting her catch a portkey back to the city, she could have saved herself the time and now literal headache forming behind her left eye after listening to him drone on about the merits of buying theirs ‘vintage’.
She was quite sure no one was still purchasing Fiat Multiplas new, let alone used, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him. Honestly, how Harry deals with that man's obsession for muggle technology is beyond her. She will definitely be floo’ing back to their estate after her meetings tomorrow evening.
It also doesn't help that the cafe she’s chosen to settle at is filled with a ridiculous amount of young people enjoying their lattes, not at all showing the respect for the sanctity of peace and quiet a House of Caffeine should afford its customers. She bites angrily into her scone, eyeing a particularly raucous group of men laughing every few minutes and jangling her nerves to their already frayed ends. She needs to really focus this next hour if she has a hope of meeting her deadline.
“Excuse me, miss? Are you using this chair?”
Hermione pauses typing mid sentence, rolling her shoulders to help dissipate the bubble of irritation that surfaces in her chest at the interruption. She is nearly done with this new chapter and now she's completely lost her train of thought.
Giving a mild huff, she pulls her readers down, lifting her chin to give her full attention and very best ‘Swot the the f*ck off’ glare to the newest addition on her growing list of vexations today.
But when her eyes meet their mark, they very nearly bulge out of their sockets as she fights the urge to keep her mouth from gaping like a puffed up plimpy out of water – her snarky retort fizzling on her tongue.
Looking down with an amused expression at her display, is a very familiar though entirely foreign face.
His features are more delicate – possibly rounder at the jawline, definitely softer around the nose. And his hair – an unmistakable blond shock of locks. Only it isn't pasted down on his crown or combed into a fetching quiff she’d seen more recently in the papers, but instead pulled back in a rather sexy messy bun atop his head.
His eyes – they're also not quite right. The pair staring back at her are a deep blue – nothing like the steely gray of her memories, typically emoting some variation of disdain or boredom in her direction. These eyes are bright, almost kind in their assessment of her.
“Are you alright?” The almost-duplicate speaks, his amusem*nt fading to one of mild concern at her apparent mutism.
“Erm – yes. Sorry.” She licks her lips, which have suddenly gone very dry, “Just have a deadline for work and have completely lost the plot now, I'm afraid.” Tapping her keyboard absentmindedly, she gives a tight smile, not quite meeting his eyes again.
“My apologies. I didn't mean to intrude on your work. It's just more crowded here than usual and my incredibly thoughtful mates didn't think to save me a seat.” He gestures behind himself to the particularly loud group of young men she was shooting daggers at moments before.
“I thought I'd take my chances with asking a beautiful woman to rescue me from the embarrassment of having to sit on someone's lap.” He shrugs, stuffing one hand into his pocket while bringing his other to the nape of his neck in playful pretext.
Recovering quickly from the initial shock of this clone's sudden presence, she eyes him warily. His casual posture suggests that he is nothing like the man she initially believed him to be. But there's something in the way he carries himself, his outright flirtation with someone clearly many years his senior, that suggests they may not be so different after all.
Taking in his 6-foot stature and defined physique, she replies. “Yes, well that would be quite a sight. I'm not sure the furniture here is equipped to handle it.” She eyes the flimsy rattan chairs pointedly before she flicks her gaze back up to his. “Though I'm not sure I care to avoid the spectacle now that I've pictured it,” she quips, aiming for something between coy and coquettish. Merlin, it has been ages since she’s attempted any form of flirting, and certainly not with someone so – spritely.
He places a hand over his chest in mock offense. “You know, I’d read about that sharp tongue of yours – shame I must have missed the bit about your sad*stic streak,” he returns, giving a small bowing of his lips; not quite the smirk, but an impressive forgery nonetheless.
She gives a small laugh, her eyebrows raising at his passing confession. “You know who I am?”
He rocks back on his heels. “I believe I do, yes.”
Not to be outdone by his admission: “And, are you, by chance, a Malfoy?”
His not-smirk widens into a sheepish grin. “Ah– what gave me away?”
Her lips twitch slightly – hearing him a few more times now, she can detect the subtle differences between the man she knew and this near carbon copy. The one before her definitely maintains a similar level of confidence, but his tone suggests he's interested rather than bothered by her presence; very unlike what she’s come to experience from a Malfoy.
“Ah well, you bear a very striking resemblance to one I went to school with,” she responds, taking a necessary sip of her tea to soothe her suddenly parched throat.
He nods slowly. “Yes, that would be my father. Draco.”
His father? Oh gods. Well, of course. Albus is nearly 20 now. And she knew he had had a son – saw it plastered across the papers – overheard him speak about him at Theo and Harry’s events in the past. Gave him some ridiculous name she can’t quite recall now; it only made sense that a Malfoy would continue on with his duty to produce an heir.
And, Merlin, what a smashing success he’s had in that.
She crosses her legs, lowering her computer screen and casually tucking a curl of hair behind her ear. She knows she’s no spring chicken, but to see the progeny of your old school rival staring you back in the face – is almost transformative, reversely so, like she has just used a special time turner and entered her youth again.
And, the way he’s looking at her now certainly gives her that feeling of being youthful anyway. Desired even.
“Yes. That's the one.” She tilts her head, flashing him a bright smile in return. “Don't worry, though– I won't hold your parentage against you.” She leans forward to whisper conspiratorially, “You can still have the chair.” She uses her foot from underneath the table to scoot it out towards him.
He gives a small chuckle, catching the offered seat and gripping the back. “Well just wait until my father hears about the rather charming classmate of his I ran into today.”
Hearing those words, though not said entirely the same way, she nearly chokes on her tea.
Coughing as demurely as she can manage, she purses her lips and responds, “Oh, well I highly doubt he'll share those sentiments – we weren't exactly friendly back then.” Or now, come to think of it.
She’s only physically seen Malfoy a handful of times over the years and has tried to avoid thinking about him regularly for far longer. There was, of course, Harry and Theo's wedding, though that would be…eight years ago now? And last spring when she popped in for another stay at the NottPott Estate after one of her writer’s conferences – he was decidedly stand-offish and cold despite her attempts at casual conversation. They exchanged a few stilted words but he ultimately left with some brunette while she returned home to her vibrator and smutty romance novels.
As her job affords her little time to stay in one place, her current flat has only the essentials with the rest kept in her trusty handbag for easy on-the-go access. Her trips home are always brief, purposefully so, so she really had no idea what Malfoy senior was up to these days.
“And it’s been ages since I’ve seen him, I’m quite sure he’s lukewarm to the idea of me at best.”
The blonde narrows his eyes slightly, as if he doesn’t quite agree with her assessment, but rather than contradict her, he replies, “Hm, his loss then.” Before he's turning the chair around and straddling it to face her.
Hermione sits up then, a quick glance down at her computer to confirm the time before she closes it completely and meets his confident posturing.
“I'm Scorpius. And as I mentioned, I already hazard a guess as to your identity, seeing as it was part of our mandatory education at Hogwarts – but the photos hardly do you justice, Ms. Granger.” He throws a wink upon seeing her poorly disguised blush. “What brings you to town – or am I wrong in my understanding that you’re a travel writer now?”
Oh gods. The Malfoy charm directed fully at her for a change. Something in the way he said ‘Ms.’ makes her stomach clench, both in protest and in something she feels is far less appropriate.
She lets out a small snort then. “It’s Hermione, please. And, you seem to know an awful lot more about me than the updated Hogwarts: A History book would suggest.”
“In truth, I’ve heard about you my entire life – my uncle Theo won’t shut up about you really. And of course, Albus –”
“You know Albus?” She cuts him off, happy to hear any news of her godson. “Well – of course you must. I’m actually here for his birthday slash send off party.”
His smile is slow, but genuine, “Yes. I know Albus,” and the way he lengthens the ‘s’ sound and runs his tongue along his teeth suggests that it's more than a passing acquaintance they share.
“We were quite close in school.” He gives her a meaningful look.
“Oh. A-and not anymore?” She would need to ask Harry about this more – she really had missed so much being away.
“We're taking some time. To…broaden our horizons, so to speak.” He shrugs, crossing his arms over the back of the chair, leaning further in towards her.
“I see. And what do these horizons entail for you?”
“Well, in my immediate future, perhaps convincing a gorgeous travel writer who just so happens to be in town to spend some time with a very different Malfoy?”
She shakes her head at his forwardness, sure he is having one on. “I see the famed family magnetism is hereditary – though as I’ve said, I’ve never had the pleasure of receiving the full brunt of it myself.”
“Well, would you like to?” His voice lowers suggestively as he leans forward, the motion and tone the perfect combination of seductive, drawing her in towards the pleasant sound.
Her brain short circuits as he stares at her, the tip of his tongue poking out to wet his plump bottom lip.
“Erm – what now?”
“Would you like to see just how charming I can be? I'd hate to have you go about the rest of your life with such a poor image of us.”
He can’t be serious – surely this is some twisted joke? She wouldn’t put it past him, given who his father is.
Raising a single brow, she tentatively asks, “You do know I'm twice your age, right?”
“I assumed as much. But, like the obscenely expensive wine reserve my father keeps, something so fine and decidedly lovely only gets better with age, no?” He leans back. “If it doesn't bother you – I'd like to make it very clear how unbothered I am by it.” He licks his lips again, emphasizing his point with a slow raking of his perfect pearly whites against the moistened pink skin. “If you care to indulge me.”
He is serious.
Huh. She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms to consider things. This boy, because he really is just a boy, is absolutely gorgeous. A near perfect iteration of the man she has, admittedly, lusted after for years despite his indifference towards her – only this version seems to return her attraction.
The question is: are her reservations about entertaining his attention because of his age? Or something more? It’s not like she initiated this exchange and, sure, he may be old enough to be her child – had she ever had one – but he certainly seems sure of himself. She isn’t taking advantage here.
And then, there’s, of course, that bit about him being Malfoy’s literal son – but what did that matter now? Her hopes for riding that ship sailed long ago.
She eyes Scorpius speculatively one more time.
He holds his hands out to the side in offering, titling his head down with a co*cky lift of his brow, as if to ask ‘Do I pass your test?’
f*ck it. What’s wrong with a little bit of flirting with a young, handsome, and apparently interested man?
“And, how do you propose you change said image? It’s quite firmly locked in place I’m afraid.” Leaning forward, she rests her chin on her palm, attempting to meet his flirtatious tone despite her reservations.
“Well – it looks like you're otherwise engaged now,” he lightly taps on her closed computer, “But if you're free later? I'd love the opportunity to do so.”
Well. Then. One date couldn’t hurt? And it wasn't like she needed to ask his father for permission. Nor would she.
“Alright. Yes, sure. I'm available – that is to say. I have no plans later.” She fidgets in her chair, trying to maintain her air of cool and calm.
“Well, Hermione.” He nearly purrs her name. “You do now.”
With that, his features morph into someone else, as if a perfectly timed polyjuice potion has worn off. His expression no longer projects the sweet, innocent man he had been seconds ago; now it's almost calculating, assessing, and wholly predatory.
He looks completely Malfoy, er, Draco. And she isn’t quite sure if the response she’s having, namely between her thighs, is due to the father or the son.
—-------
“What the f*ck is the point of an extendable closet if I have f*ck all to wear,” she grumbles to herself, throwing yet another ‘conference chic’ outfit on her bed before storming back to her ensuite; perhaps doing her hair and make-up will help calm the nerves jangling her insides.
She’s grateful she told Harry and Theo she wouldn't be returning to their home until Albus’ party this weekend – prior to today’s meet cute. But, Merlin, she could use Theo’s input right about now. He would put together some scandalous yet perfectly paired ensemble with her horribly uncomfortable ‘f*ck me’ boots and call it a night.
That’s, of course, not an option, as she is certain she wouldn't be able to withstand their relentless questioning of who she deems important enough to break her practice of not dating locally. Lovingingly renamed the ‘Don’t Bone at Home’ rule by one of their lot, most likely Ginny, because her friends are horrible people.
And while they may be thrilled she is dating, she’s quite sure they would all have an opinion about her choice in company tonight.
Hermione has had plenty of lovely experiences with partners worldwide, some downright filthy, but there is something about being back at home that has given her cause for caution in the past; wizarding England is quite a small pool to fish from – or at least that’s what she tells herself. If she thought about the real reason for too long, she would definitely not be going through with this madness tonight.
Standing in front of her floor length mirror in nothing but her knickers, she takes a few steadying breaths – she is a f*cking ten, she knows this. So, why is she so bloody nervous to meet up with Scorpius tonight? Possibly because he is essentially the carbon copy of the man she’s wanked to for years. And also that man’s literal offspring.
She groans. Her conscience chose the most detestable times to show up. But, as she turns to appreciate her profile, rubbing a hand over her rather well defined arse, she reasons that that man has never shown any interest anyway. So, why not enjoy the next best thing?
Resigning herself to a night of terrible choices but possibly excellent outcomes – she completes the ritual of getting ready.
Hermione arrives at Romp Le Pain around seven that evening. It took her nearly two hours to settle on what to wear, finally giving the proverbial ‘f*ck it’ and selecting a slinky strapless number in her favorite shade of blue that’s earned her the occasional rubber necking at the bars. Don't fix what isn't broken, she muses.
She's waiting outside for all of ten seconds before the lithe figure of Malfoy – Scorpius; she would really need to start thinking of them both on a first name basis to avoid slipping – arrives. He is dressed in charcoal trousers and a snug fitting cashmere jumper that is the exact color of his stormy, blue eyes. His bun is secured a little more purposefully than earlier today and his undercut styling helps define the lovely angles of his jawline.
Quite frankly, the man looks mouthwatering. Hermione has to remind herself that she’s a grown woman who’s entertained plenty of partners, and that drooling over your date in the first ten minutes is still considered a faux pas.
But the way he moves, navigating with such confidence like a river flowing, its course sinuous and smooth over small bumps and breaks – he’s mesmerizing. And insanely alluring.
“Well damn,” he states, coming up short just a meter away, a rough hand pulling at his top knot in apparent dismay. Glints of silver on his fingers catch in the lamplight overhead.
“Is something wrong?” She looks down, wrapping her shawl a little closer to her body as a wave of self-consciousness crashes over her.
“Yes.” He takes a large step closer, reaching a hand up to tug softly on one of her loose curls, “You see, I had every intention of being a gentleman this evening, but now, seeing you looking like that, I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to maintain any sense of honor.”
She relaxes at his compliment, a bloom of self assurance spreading in her chest at his appraisal, “Well, you mentioned plans to change my mind about your kind, didn’t you? I can’t see that happening if you're unable to contain yourself?” A quiet laugh escapes her.
He nods, mischief over taking his features. “Failure is not an option, though I believe containing myself may prove to my detriment, as I can be very pleasant when I have the opportunity to… let loose.” He releases her hair, offering her his elbow, “But, I assure you, I’ll be on my best behavior, Ms. Granger.”
His words cause her stomach to do that little flip again. “I told you, it’s Hermione.”
“So you did. Well, Hermione, shall we?”
She wraps her hands around his well-defined bicep as he leads her inside.
Settling into a private booth complete with privacy screen, Hermione tucks herself in the corner, giving as much space to accommodate Scorpius’ rather large frame.
“Trying to hide me back here?” she asks, her tone playful.
“Not at all. I figured you'd be more comfortable given your earlier reservations about this evening,” he settles in next to her, his thigh not quite touching hers. “Plus, I very much like the idea of having you all to myself,” he leans in conspiratorially, adding, “Easier to hear you, of course,” before sitting upright, looking the picture of decorum.
“Of course,” she replies, matching his pragmatic tone.
Circe, how is he so good at this? Is this what she should expect from men his age now? They certainly weren’t this smooth when she was in her 20s. Or maybe this is a Malfoy thing – perhaps just a Scorpius thing?
“Alright there, Hermione?” He gently bumps her shoulder with his, thus closing the gap between them.
“Yes,” she answers quickly, turning to face him and allowing herself a little bit of breathing room. “Just wondering how you learned to be such a proficient flirt?”
“Ah well, a combination of excellent genetics I’m told. But truthfully, I believe it’s the partner that makes the act easier – at least in my experience.” He signals for the waiter and two wine glasses appear in front of them along with a bottle of some lovely French wine. She’s always been partial to South and Central American wineries, thanks to her travels, but she wouldn’t begrudge the man such a smooth offering.
“And have you had much of that in your what? 20 years?” She knows pointing out their age difference again is probably the wrong tack, but she can’t help the small urge to challenge him. Must be a Malfoy thing.
“Well, no. I haven’t quite earned the level of prowess some other Malfoys have, but I’m a quick study and an excellent student in all things I feel are crucial to my overall betterment.” He tilts his head, the innocent act completely belying the seductive nature of his words.
She nearly chokes on her wine, “You know, I’m not sure you’re helping the family name when you make such salacious comments like that.”
He laughs, “Probably not – but that’s where I feel I differ from my father.”
“Why? Because he prefers to keep his personal–” she waves her hands searching for the right word, “proficiencies to the shadows whilst you enjoy your dalliances in the light of day?” She co*cks an eyebrow.
He rocks his head side to side in contemplation. “Not the worst comparison I’ve heard to be honest. But, more so, my father is more calculating, always needing a plan or angle before making a decision, whereas I–” He shrugs, a confident smile forming on his lips, “Well, when I see an opportunity – I take it.” He eyes her pointedly.
“How very Gryffindor of you,” she remarks.
He snorts, “I’m not that far gone. I’m all for scheming and plotting – it’s hard not to when you’ve been raised the way I have, I think. But,” he reaches across the table, his chest bumping her shoulder as he leans further into her space to select a bread roll, “Life’s too short not to take a bite of what’s being offered. I try to remind my father of that often – push him when I can.” He rips into the bread unceremoniously for emphasis, casually draping an arm around the backrest – not quite touching her but the movement causing her heart rate to pick up as if he had.
“Well then – I suppose he’s lucky to have you,” she replies quietly, attempting to lower her voice in the hopes it will also lower her heightened response to him.
“Yes, well the man would be a mopey mess without my good humor to pull him from his daily brooding, I'm afraid.” He gives a theatrical sigh, heavy with the weight of feigned obligation.
“Well, who wouldn't be – I’m dreading our parting already, such humility and grace you've shown already.” She rolls her eyes, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “So you two get on then?”
He chuckles between bites. “Mm most days. Though our opinions have differed on a few key points as of late.”
Suddenly, she’s incredibly invested in knowing everything she can about this man and by extension Malfoy. “Such as?” she asks, aiming for aloof. She really should be veering away from this topic.
He eyes her for a moment before sighing again, and suddenly she can see the twenty year old boy he is, rather than the adult tempter he’s been playing. “He wants me to travel. Get out of England. See the world or some rot.”
She blinks. “Oh gods, what a monster! However do you deal with him, you poor darling.”
“Har har, yes laugh at the privileged arsehole. But, why would I want to leave everything I have here? Everything I’ve ever known?”
She considers his point, before cautiously stating, “You know, our generation – well, when everything was said and done back then – getting out seemed like a pretty wonderful option given the horrors we all experienced.” She worries her lip slightly. “I’m not sure your father ever did manage to.” Her voice trails off and she knows she’s killing the mood, but she can’t help but side with Malfoy.
He nods slowly, opening his mouth to say something before closing it. Instead he thrums his fingers softly along the back of her chair. “Yes, but that was his life. Not mine.”
“Fair point,” she concedes, because it really isn’t her place. And she should be more interested in engaging this man, possibly even snogging him, rather than creating some bastardized Oedipal complex by trying to mother him. Oh gods. More wine.
She reaches forward and takes a heavy gulp.
“Anyway,” Scorpius continues, clearly accepting of her rather lush moment, “We have an arrangement and after it’s done I’ll be able to have a little more freedom with my life I think.”
“Sounds very – businessy.”
He laughs, “Yes, well, it is. A business arrangement anyway. I go abroad and complete an apprenticeship he’s secured, thereby making myself an asset to the family company. Then, I have the option to run whatever department I wish, so long as I consult whenever needed.”
Hermione considers the merits of the plan. And, while she never chose to enter the world of motherhood – she’s certain she would have employed very similar tactics with her own children. Not quite outright manipulation but practical options. Her esteem for Malfoy grows infinitesimally.
“Sounds like you’re both winning then?” she hedges.
He shakes his head, “You sound like him.” But there’s a fondness in his expression as he takes another sip from his own glass.
“Huh well– probably the first time we'll ever agree on anything I'm sure.”
“I’m sure you’d find you have a lot more in common these days.” He gives an almost wistful expression before scrunching his nose in thought. “The truth is, well he’s always been quite fair to me. Not sure I’ve always deserved it really.”
“Let off the fair few dung bombs in your school days did you?” She smiles widely, the image of the Weasley twins wreaking havoc coming briefly to mind.
He snorts, “Not exactly. But I did go through a bit of a rebellious time – my mind healer said it was due to,” he holds one hand up in air quotes, “‘Difficulties coping with dysfunctional family dynamics.’” Before smoothing it over his hair.
“Ah – well divorce can be hard on children I imagine…” She trails off, unsure where to go from there.
“Yes,” he nods slowly, scratching his chin in thought, “Though I think the other bits about my mother's repeated affairs,” he looks off, seeming to perform some mental calculations, before continuing “My grandmother’s persistence that we remain in the public eye – despite my father’s wishes to maintain our privacy, and,” he raises a final finger in dramatic fashion, “Of course, my loving grandfather threatening to disinherit my father and, in turn, me for befriending a Potter…all very taxing on my poor young heart, you see.” He places his hand on his chest in jest.
“Oh gods, I hadn’t heard about that part.” Though she isn’t surprised by the revelation, knowing what she does of the Malfoy patriarch. Apart from what was reported in the Prophet, she really never knew details about the illustrious Malfoy family. And never wished to ask Theo because that would be showing interest, which was absolutely not something she needed that meddling man to press her on about further.
He looks off a bit distantly for a minute. “The legal battles were quite a lot to deal with I think. An impressive feat to accomplish from Azkaban, but Lucius has always been a crafty bastard.” He swirls his glass and looks on thoughtfully. “I’m not sure I’ll ever really understand the lengths my father went to protect me from that sort of hate.” He laughs softly, “But all the sh*te I pulled at school afterwards, well, it wasn’t quite the thank you he deserved.”
“If he’s half the man you say he is now – then I’m sure he is aware of how much you appreciate him.” An errant thought occurs to her and she can't fight the smile that breaks out despite the somber topic. “I’m just trying to picture an irate Malfoy storming into the headmaster’s office to defend you for your liberal use of puking pasties.” She gives a small giggle.
“Mm it was more often their ‘Erecto Peen-tronus’ Pops – slipped one into ole Flitwick’s tea a time or two. Father was…not impressed.”
Her lips widen to a full blown grin as she fights back a bubble of mirth at that mental image, her hand slipping boldly onto his thigh to give a small squeeze. She’s met with a thick, firm hardness.
“Oh!” she gasps, unable to contain her surprise at the discovery.
He bowls over in boisterous laughter then at her apparent shock.
“And, what’s so funny? I mean, usually when men experience that kind of – response – the reaction isn’t quite so enthusiastic –”
He continues to chuckle, wiping a tear from his eye, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Your face–” She narrows her eyes at him. He sobers immediately, “What I mean is your lovely face – it’s not what you think, though I would very much like your hand to return to where it was,” he removes his arm from her shoulder, requiring two hands to fidget with his pocket before pulling out a small cylinder, maybe three times the width of a wand base and about as long as her hand. “It’s my mobile – well my magi-phone.”
“Your what?”
“Something I've been developing at Malfoy Industries. A way to bridge muggle technology and magic – this design seems to be more appealing to the, erm, older generation.” He flourishes it like one would their wand.
She grabs the cylinder from his hand, unclasping a hinge down the center and opening it to reveal a slim, clever looking mobile screen – complete with runes and a few other nobs and bits.
“This is brilliant. I assume this functions as a magical conductor of sorts as well as a mobile?” She runs her fingers over the small runes before handing it back to him; her hands brushing over his smooth ones as he tucks the device back in his pocket. “It looks quite advanced. Is this what you're planning to do then – magical tech?”
A slight blush spreads across his cheeks at her flattery. “Yes, I hope so. This is the prototype – Al and I actually worked on this bit together as part of our 7th year final project. The apprenticeship I have is focused on arithmancy and charm work, but I’ll be working with a muggle tech company in the US.”
“So you and Albus?” She tilts her head, encouraging him to continue.
“Just friends currently. It’s another reason why I took the apprenticeship – we needed some space. Hogwarts was a fantastic place to grow up but it was also incredibly easy to outgrow – by the end of it.” She nods, understanding. But when he doesn’t say anything else, she decides to change the subject.
“How does your father have a connection with a muggle tech company?” The fact alone that Malfoy owned a mobile, let alone a company devoted to muggle anything, baffled her.
Scorpius looks away suddenly in a rare show of uncertainty, “Ah well, he bought a company a few years back when he was…trying to figure out how to use his own mobile. There’s something to be said about the man – never anything in half measures.” He gives a single shoulder shrug.
Hermione’s sure her face is one of stunned shock, the Malfoy she knew would never embrace anything muggle so wholeheartedly – but then again she didn't really know him anymore it seems. “What – could he not figure out how to send a tweet? Needed a whole bloody team to help him?” She laughs at the image of Draco Malfoy struggling with his hashtags. She, of course, has someone from the publishing company handle her professional accounts, but she is quite adept at posting, however rarely, on her private socials now. Though truthfully she hardly uses them.
Scorpius gives her a sly smile, “Yes, something like that. One day he was suddenly interested in understanding it all. For reasons he never openly cared to share. Though I have my suspicions. He’s come a long way since.” He raises both shoulders in a dramatic show, dropping them quickly in an effort to move on. “Aaanyway – it’s one of the reasons why I finally accepted his offer – couldn’t pass it up.”
Sensing a lull in the conversation, Hermione reaches for her wine glass, idly rolling it in her hands and watching the deep red liquid swirl along the inside edges. A warm hand comes to rest on her thigh giving it a light squeeze. “But that’s not for another few months so I have plenty of time to faff about with my own distractions while I’m forced to tend to whatever duties I have as heir apparent until then.” He throws his arm back over her shoulder, idly stroking her bare skin with his fingertips.
She leans in, inhaling a salty, earthy smell – sandalwood perhaps.
“Well, I’m happy to help in any way I can,” she replies, not entirely sure what she’s implying as she swallows. Hard. This Malfoy was possibly more dangerous to her than the elder ever had been – she’d need to keep her wits about her – at least for the moment.
“I hadn't realized the family business entailed more than the occasional charitable donations and public appearance?” Reaching for a roll, she decides some food may help clear her head from the sudden rush his proximity has caused.
He pulls back with a wry smile on his lips and she’s almost bowled over by the resemblance to Draco with just one simple facial tick. She inhales slowly, reminding herself that she is in a semi-public location, with a man half her age who also happens to be the son of possibly her longest crush.
It's a shame her traitorous body has completely shut off its connection to her usually logical brain. The pulsing she is currently experiencing between her thighs should probably feel more inappropriate.
But as it currently stands, her good sense has apparently f*cked off for the evening.
Christ, he smells good.
She needs more bread.
Unaware of her rather lascivious internal debate, Scorpius continues “Yes, well my mother and grandmother are quite adept at that bit.” He waves the waiter down then and Hermione can’t bring herself to hear what he ends up ordering for them both, as the hand not currently drawing lazy circles on her neck has begun to toy with the fabric of her dress. The silver rings scratch against the fabric, causing tiny snags to send titillating jolts to her system.
“Mm – I s-spose that’s nice that your parents work well together.” She says lamely, her voice a whisper as her eyes half close, the gentle ministrations of his fingers doing incredibly distracting things to her capacity for coherency.
He chuckles lightly, his breath pleasant, voice so much closer now; a warm breeze tickles at that deliciously sensitive spot just below her ear, “They most certainly do not.” He lingers but doesn’t quite close the gap. She can feel heat flooding her system and that deep throbbing between her legs is now causing an embarrassing amount of moisture to form.
Letting out a slow breath, she tries to come back to herself. Opening her eyes, she parses out what he just said. “Oh no?”
Reaching for his wine glass again to take a deep sip, “Not often during their marriage and certainly less in the last near decade they've been divorced.”
“O-oh…I hadn’t heard that bit…” She most certainly had. The tumultuous relationship between Malfoy and Astoria was a constant stream of headliner material for years – plastered all over the papers she desperately tried to avoid reading for that reason. Theo even threw him a Happy Divorce party in celebration that she was unable to attend for – reasons. In fact, she partially blames his disastrous public marriage and subsequent divorce for keeping her away from the dating scene at home – less risk of watching him parade his harem of women around.
“Mm,” he adds, placing the glass down and tilting his body to face her. He fiddles with an errant curl by her temple. “That’s surprising.”
“And why’s that?” He’s leaning in now, tentatively, waiting for her reaction to his growing proximity; lightly tracing the arch of her brow with his fingers. Each contact sends a rush of heat over her skin – making its journey down to her core. The subject of discussion somehow adds to her arousal rather than detracting from it – Circe, she is well and truly twisted.
Again, her body reacts of its own accord as her hand snakes its way further up his thigh this time, softly gripping between his puffs of conversation.
He lets out an almost pained noise. “Because he seems to be quite aware of you.” He leans back, bringing his hand to rest lightly on hers, stymying her progress. “Or at least, that’s what I’ve managed to figure out. If the revolving door of petite, curly brown haired witches leaving the house over the years is anything to go by – I daresay my dear old dad holds quite the candle for you.” He gives a half smirk, squeezing her hand with his, not removing it but keeping it firmly in place.
“O-oh that’s – ridiculous.” She furrows her brow, the mixture of arousal at his touch and consternation at his words doing strange things to her head again.
“Is it?” His fingers have jumped the short distance from his own thigh to hers now, tips dangerously close to exactly where she’d like them to be, she thinks. “It’s possibly one of the only things he and I can agree on these days.”
“That he has these apparent feelings for me?” She turns her head, her eyebrow co*cking in incredulity.
“No – our taste in women.”
Before Hermione can respond, plates of steaming veg and tender looking meats appear before them, abruptly ending the moment. Scorpius removes his hand from her thigh with a final squeeze, before reaching for his silverware.
They talk and eat, as he regales her with story after story of his time in school and on holidays with his family. While she misses the feel of his palm on her bare leg, she appreciates the vigor in which he uses those hands to talk. So different from her initial impression of flowing water moving down a winding river bed – now more like a live wire pulsing with unrestrained energy.
He asks her about her travels, her favorite countries to visit (most of Central and South America and a few central European spots), why she writes nowaday as opposed to doing the government work where she began her career (a need for change, a chance to find herself again) – he seems most fascinated by her tales of culture shock though. Apparently the idea that sarcasm is not a language openly accepted everywhere is quite the revelation.
And Merlin, the man could talk. She learned more about his eating preferences, favorite hygiene products and his irrational fear of muggle hot air balloons (it’s just fire and air holding you up) in the hour or so they spent eating together than she had with Harry and Ron in their first three years of school. She is reminded again of the striking contrast between him and his father – never one for long conversations unless they involved an insult or two.
While she finds she’s more charmed by Scorpius’ chatty nature than put off, her own stream of questions tend to continually stray towards his family and, ultimately, his father. If he minds at all, he never says so.
Wiping the last crumbs from his lips with a napkin, he turns to her, a pensive look on his face, “Now then, Hermione, have I succeeded?”
Her wine-addled brain struggles to keep up. “In what?”
“Convincing you that we Malfoys are capable of more than the doom and gloom persona you associate with us.”
She taps her chin, “Hm – you forgot poncey and entitled.”
“I'm not even sure I possess the skills needed to erase that image. Centuries worth of apologies to be made before we could even attempt it.”
She laughs because this Malfoy is everything she thought the other capable of but was never given the chance to explore. And she finds she quite likes him. “Well, I think you’ve managed to help, yes.”
He frowns. “Not quite the roaring triumph I was going for.”
“Well, the important thing is that I find myself hopeful for the next generation. I’ve had a lovely time, Scorpius. Truly.”
An idea seems to occur to him then, “Are you up for something else this evening?”
She glances at her watch, Circe it’s half ten, she would normally be in her jimjams cracking open a book or doing more last minute edits. Or possibly other things given how charged up her body currently is.
She should really call it a night – she has achieved her unintentional goal of boosting her ego and she could leave with what little dignity she has left before being completely seduced by Malfoy Junior.
Looking at him, her response to call it a night ready on her lips, she finds herself unable to say those words, instead, “What did you have in mind?”
