Chapter Text
…Six Years Later
December 24, 2015
“Draco…don’t stop.”
Draco’s thrusts echoed through his quaint Tudor bedroom, the cacophonous sound weaving between the mess of red sheets, antique furniture, and discarded books. And underneath him, Hermione smiled into her gasps, holding his neck as she kissed him through every pleasurable dip.
“Please, Draco…”
“Hermione,” he whispered back, her name like a prayer as he kissed her forehead. “Gods…you’re so beautiful like this.”
Her curls were scattered wildly against her pillow, hovering like a halo around her flushed, golden skin. Her dark eyelashes fluttered with every move of Draco’s hips, and her lips panted with breathy gasps.
She was perfect.
She had always been perfect.
“Draco,” she whispered. “Draco, right there…”
“There you go,” he hummed back. “Tell me what you like.”
Draco kept his thrusts slow and deep, just like Hermione asked. And as her brows pinched together, Draco looked down and admired the way her breasts swayed to his touch—her emerald necklace twinkling just above them.
Twinkling just like her wedding ring.
“You’re mine,” Draco whispered. “Now take what’s yours.”
Hermione moaned with want, her jewels still shining in the night—the dim candlelight highlighting every angle and edge. Likewise, the flickers accentuated his wife’s every curve, emphasising the stretch marks on her breasts and her stomach—each one shining like silver threads that stitched a story of love.
The marks of a mother.
The proof of power.
The proof of life.
“Let’s have another,” Draco whispered, his eyes heavy with longing and lust. “Let's have a baby.”
Hermione smiled up at him, teasing with the bite of her lip.
“Please,” he whispered. “You’re so perfect, Hermione…let’s grow our family. Let's have another.”
Her smile didn’t fade as she whispered, “Do you really want to?”
“Yes,” he gasped. “Gods, please.”
“Yeah?” she grinned, caressing Draco’s cheek as he continued to rock back and forth. “But I have to ask…do you want another baby, or do you just want to see me pregnant?”
At that, Draco matched her smirk with his own.
“Both.”
And it was true.
The memory of his wife’s body brimming with life drove him mad. The swell of her breasts…the glow of her skin…the demands and the doting…it was pure beauty and magic, and it madr Draco wild.
“I love you, Hermione.”
“I love you too, Draco.”
Gasps peaked to moans, and moans rose to supplications—each one offered at the altar of their union. For six years, Draco and Hermione had worshipped each other. And for six years, their unions were no less enchanting. The heat of skin…the mess of kisses…the desperate touches as Draco thrust over and over and over. The sounds rose in the air like a song—the song that Draco had memorised through time and space. And as their bodies and magic entwined, both husband and wife reached their peak.
And together, they came undone.
“Hermione.”
“Draco.”
For six years, Draco’s evenings looked the same—always ending with gestures of devotion, no matter how they were expressed. And tonight, Draco kissed his wife’s brow and cleaned her of cum—all before tucking Hermione into the crook of his arm and twisting his finger around her curls, just as he always did. And as sleep took over, Draco succumbed to the lull…unsure where life ended, and dreams began.
For ten years ago, Draco had lived a waking nightmare—ignorant of his torture and woes.
But now? His life felt like pure fantasy.
…Except it wasn’t.
It was real.
The life that Draco had glimpsed six years ago was now the life that he actually lived. But this time, he hadn’t just stumbled into the perfect life.
This time, he earned it.
Draco’s confessions of remorse and examples of redemption may have begun that day at Diagon Alley, but not once did they cease. After Hermione agreed to give him a second chance, Draco spent every day proving that he was a man worth the leap. Through dates, dinners, affirmations, and gestures, Draco proved that he was the man he claimed to be. He was doting. He was caring. And he listened—whether it was to Hermione’s fears, doubts, or stories from their ten years of separation—always, he listened.
Through love and devotion, Draco proved his intentions. He did not stumble upon a life. Instead, he consciously built it.
He built a legacy of love, and that legacy earned Draco the forgiveness he had begged for.
So, rather than watching his wedding on a screen, Draco was there. He was the one who kissed Hermione to the thunderous applause of supportive friends and guests. He was the man who bought his wife the perfect home in Rowan’s Glade—the exact Tudor as before, with all its antique charm. And not long after, Draco was the man who cried with joy when Hermione found out she was pregnant. He was the husband who massaged her swollen feet and supplied her strangest cravings. He was the man who wept when he held Lyra in his arms for the first time, and he was the father who would have moved mountains just to see his daughter smile.
Draco was the husband who supported Hermione in her career—cheering her on every time she thwarted the firms and solicitors who had once turned her down. He was the Malfoy who turned his life away from greed and selfishness, choosing to build up the Malfoy Foundation instead. And as the formative years continued to pass, Draco was the man whose heart soared when he found out that Hermione was pregnant yet again. He was there to hold her hand through the labour pains, and he was the one to guide Scorpius into the world—a world where Malfoy men were raised to be kind and selfless, unlike all the ancestors before them.
Draco was the father his children relied on. The father who taught Lyra how to ride a broom. The father who laughed when Scorpius mashed the keys of their little piano. Draco was the man who cared for his children without demands or conditions.
And Draco was the father who woke Lyra and Scorpius up on that snowy Christmas morning.
“Get up, get up!” he cheered, flicking on the lights as Lyra rubbed her amber eyes. “It’s Christmas, little love! Come on!”
“It’s Christmas!” Lyra repeated, yawning through her burgeoned cheer. “Let’s go get Scorpius!”
Draco ran down the hall with his daughter and found Scorpius already standing in his cot, his cherub cheeks pinched with a smile as wide as could be.
“Happy Christmas, Scorpius!” Lyra cheered. “Father Christmas is—oh. Daddy…I think—”
“I know,” Draco laughed. “I’ll take care of it.”
There was not a soiled nappy in the world that could have soiled Draco’s mood. And now—with years of parenting behind him—Draco was not so easily thwarted by the demands of domesticity.
Now, he thrived.
He vanished the mess and redressed his son without a single fuss. And then it was Draco, Lyra, and Scorpius who rushed back to the main bedroom to find a beaming Hermione.
“It’s Christmas!” they all cheered. “Wake up!”
“Alright,” she laughed. “I’m up, I’m up!”
“Let’s go!” Draco exclaimed, his enthusiasm all for the smiles it earned from his children. “Let’s see what Father Christmas brought us!”
But of course, Draco already knew.
For he was the one who had taken Hermione through Diagon Alley weeks earlier, dragging her in and out of every store imaginable—even the discount shops—to find his children the perfect gifts. He was the one who picked out the toy cars for Scorpius and the training broom for Lyra. He was the one who picked out the wreaths, the garlands, and all the kitschy Christmas decor that now adorned their perfect home. He had even covered the exterior in twinkling fairy lights, just for the festivities of it all.
Because these days…Draco loved Christmas.
And he loved his family even more.
“Daddy, look!” Lyra yelled. “Look, I got my own broom!”
“Cars!” Scorpius added, his thick lisp ever adorable. “I got cars!”
Draco and Hermione laughed as their children continued to rip open their presents, each one earning a squeal of delight. And as the morning went on—which included cars, brooms, dolls, puzzles, an abundance of Peppa Pig, and no less than four cups of coffee and a quick shower for Draco and Hermione—the cosy couple continued to savour every moment.
For every moment—every memory—was precious.
And they went by so fast.
All six years had practically flown by, each one feeling quicker than the last. Four of them were with Lyra. One of them with Scorpius. But all six could be found underneath their wooden-beamed ceilings, monumentised in the frames that hung on the walls. Some held portraits of friends and of family, but others—like the ones in the study—framed articles that detailed the couples’ numerous achievements.
“Disgraced Tiberius McLaggen Arrested for Violating the Tenant Rights Act of 2011!”
“The Granger Firm Wins Again: Centaur Border Agreement Finalised Into Law!
“The Malfoy Foundation’s Winter Gala Raises One Million Galleons for Werewolf Shelter!”
Everywhere—from the broom cupboard to the attic—were mementoes of humility and excellence. And everywhere—from Edinburgh to Cornwall—Hermione was known as the most successful solicitor, and Draco the most generous philanthropist.
And though they were not wealthy with Malfoy gold, the pair remained the richest couple around.
“Happy Christmas, Malfoys!” a voice yelled at the door. “We’re here!”
Hours after the Christmas rush had died down, Draco and Hermione’s guests began to arrive for supper—a tradition that had quickly become one of their favourites. And most years, Jean and Henry were first to arrive. But with the couple still on their annual holiday to Spain, this year it was Pansy and Neville who showed up first.
They only lived two streets away, after all.
“Come on in!” Draco yelled. “We’re in the sitting room!”
“Alright!” Neville yelled back, just as Pansy shouted, “Everyone look out! My ankles are swollen, and I’m not stopping for anyone!”
Moments later, the couple appeared through the main hall—both of them still red-cheeked and dusted with snow, including a light layer over Pansy’s very pregnant belly.
“Aunt Pansy!” Scorpius yelled, rushing to greet his godparents. “Do you have presents?”
“Of course I do, darling,” Pansy cooed back, easing herself into the sofa as Scorpius followed along. “Neville, dear—can you pass over the boxes?”
“Certainly! Here you are, loves! We’ve got a present for each of you!”
“Don’t open them yet!” Hermione called from the kitchen. “We need to wait for the others!”
Mercifully, the other guests weren’t far behind.
Ginny and Blaise were the next couple to arrive, both of them sporting one twin on each hip—Mia and Nina—who had their mother’s red hair and their father’s clever grin. Moments later, Harry and Theo arrived looking especially cheery—a fact that took no less than five seconds to explain.
“We’re engaged!” Theo cheered, holding up the gold ring on his left hand. “I’m plighting my troth to Potter, and I want the whole world to know it!”
“…You’re doing what with your what?” Neville frowned.
“I’m plighting my troth,” Theo scowled back. “It means I’m marrying Potter, you simpleton twat.”
“Language!” Hermione yelled in the distance.
Draco looked at Lyra and sniggered.
“But why did you have to say it in such a convoluted way?” Neville continued.
“Because ‘plighting’ and ‘Potter’ both start with a P, and I was trying to be clever!”
“You could have picked something simpler,” Blaise scoffed. “You could have said you’re Humping Harry Hereafter—”
“LANGUAGE!”
“—Or Shagging Scarhead Sempiternally!”
Ginny elbowed her husband in the ribs just as Hermione rushed around the corner and gave him a look that could kill.
“Blaise,” Draco smirked, fighting the laugh tight in his chest. “If you don’t listen to my wife, I’m afraid I’ll have to murder you.”
“Fine, fine,” Blaise sighed. “Ginny, that reminds us—we need to write up a will.”
“You know,” Harry teased, joining the others as they all sat down. “It’s funny you mention that, because I just so happen to know the best solicitor in all of England.”
Hermione gave her friend an affectionate grin before she returned to the kitchen.
The evening went on much in the same way, sprinkled with snark, gifts, and one of the most delicious dinners that any of them had ever had the pleasure of eating. And by the end of it, the second Christmas lull had arrived.
Scorpius was passed out in Pansy’s lap—using her pregnant belly as a makeshift sort of pillow—while Pansy had fallen asleep on Neville’s shoulder. Neville was teasing Theo about something or other, Ginny and Harry were laughing about Molly teaching Astoria how to knit the family sweaters, and Blaise was playing dolls with Lyra and his twins—complete, no less, with Blaise’s best rendition of “Part of Your World” from The Little Mermaid.
It was terrible.
But unfortunately, Draco didn’t have a sofa-side seat to witness such a tragedy. Instead, he was in the kitchen, washing the dishes while Hermione rested on a barstool.
“So,” she sighed, gnawing on her lip while Draco hand-dried a pot. “Do you think you could take a break for a moment?”
“Why? What did Blaise say now? Do I need to smack him?”
“No,” Hermione laughed. “I was just wondering if you had time for our present exchange.”
Usually, the pair waited until their guests were home and their children were asleep before exchanging presents with one another. But as Draco looked over, he couldn’t miss the eager twinkle in his wife’s crinkled eyes.
“Of course,” he grinned. “I’m ready now, actually.”
“Wait..really?”
He patted his pocket—proving, perhaps, their usefulness even in plaid Christmas joggers.
“I’ve got your gift right here,” he smirked. “What about you?”
Hermione slid off the stool and opened a nearby cabinet, pulling out a red-wrapped present.
“I stashed mine in here,” she grinned. “Well…who first?”
“You.”
Draco extended his wife the little box before she could protest.
And when she opened the lid to find two emerald earrings, her reaction was worth it.
“Oh my god,” she gasped, her smile as bright as the jewels. “These are stunning!”
“Yeah?” Draco whispered. “You like them?”
“I love them!”
Draco watched his wife with the utmost admiration, feeling a utopian blend of satisfaction and awe. For what Hermione didn’t know—and what no one knew—was that Draco’s gift was a symbol.
They resembled the emerald earrings that he had given her in another life—the gift he had given when he stood on the precipice to redemption. That was the day when everything changed…the day when Draco admitted that he had been in love with his wife for far longer than he had ever been willing to admit. And that day, he had given her a simple pair of emerald earrings to match the emerald necklace he had once pulled from the Malfoy family vaults.
But these earrings weren’t the same.
They were emeralds, yes…but they meant something more.
“These were your great-grandmothers,” Draco whispered. “A family heirloom of yours to match the heirloom of mine on your neck.”
Immediately, Hermione stilled.
“…They are?”
“They are indeed. I noticed them in an old photo at your parents’ house, but your mother said she never recalled seeing them, and she supposed that they were sold at some point or another.”
Hermione’s eyes slowly went wide.
“Draco…you tracked them down?”
“I did,” he nodded, feeling almost bashful in his explanation. “I may not be a posh bastard, but I still have my connections.”
“Who?” she gaped. “How?!”
“Well…you know how the Foundation has been pushing to restore old goblin artefacts back to the creator’s descendants?”
“Of course. But what does—”
“Brerk,” Draco answered, a faint smirk playing at his lips. “He’s a goblin at Gringotts, and the Foundation helped him get back an old tiara that his great-grandfather created…so he helped me track down the earrings.”
Draco had barely finished his explanation before Hermione flung her arms around him and swallowed his words with a kiss.
“You’re incredible,” she whispered, laughing as if she still couldn’t believe what he’d done. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” he hummed back. “So…you like them?”
“Obviously!”
Draco laughed, running his hand through his hair in a relieved sort of way.
“Alright then,” he smirked. “My turn.”
For a moment, Hermione paled.
“…Mine’s not nearly as thoughtful as yours.”
“Granger, I highly doubt—”
“No, I mean it! I didn’t go through any great lengths like you did. I just bought the damn—”
“Granger, stop.”
“No! It’s not—”
Draco snatched the box from her hands, his height allowing him to open it well out of her grasp.
“Granger!” he beamed, staring up at the cufflinks sparkling back. “What the hells are you worried about? These are wonderful!”
“But a goblin didn’t track them down!”
“So?” he scoffed. “You remembered that I wanted a new pair, so this is—”
Draco stopped talking the second he looked back down. His arms fell limp at his side, and any thought of cufflinks or emeralds vanished from his mind when he watched Hermione pull a second gift from her pocket.
A gift that he’d seen two times before.
“I got you something else,” she whispered, her nerves as thick as the joy in her voice. “Well…technically, I made it. Or…I’m making it? However, you want to say it.”
Because there in her hand was a white little strip with a bow on it.
And even from a distance, Draco could clearly see the two pink lines staring back.
“…You’re pregnant?” he whispered. “Hermione…this isn’t a joke?”
“No,” she half-scoffed and half-laughed. “I still wish the cufflinks were better, but I would never joke about—”
Just as Hermione had swallowed Draco’s words with a kiss, so he silenced hers.
Draco held his wife’s face in his hands, both of them crying for joy before they even realised it. For whether it was their third, second, or first…they knew that every child was a miracle. Every family—every life—that overflowed with joy and unconditional love was a miracle.
Or at least, that’s what Draco Malfoy believed…because he—despite all odds—was a family man through and through.
“Thank you,” he wept. “Thank you, Hermione. You’ve given me everything I’ve ever dreamed of.”
She kissed him back in return, still crying and smiling all at once. And as Draco tasted her tears, it was just more proof of his reality.
Because Draco’s life wasn’t a glimpse.
It wasn’t a blip, and it wasn’t temporary.
This was a legacy.
“This is forever, Granger,” Draco whispered, pulling back to look down at his wife with glossy eyes. “This life…you and me…it’s us in every life. In every life…I love you.”