Nineteen years later

Draco caught sight of Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny staring at him, nodded curtly, and turned away again.

“So that’s little Scorpius,” said Ron under his breath. “Make sure you beat him in every test, Rosie. Thank God you inherited your mother’s brains.”

“Ron, for heaven’s sake,” said Hermione, half-stern, half-amused. “Don’t try to turn them against each other before they’ve even started school!”

“You’re right, sorry,” said Ron, but unable to help himself, he added, “don’t get too friendly with him, though, Rosie. Granddad Weasley would never forgive you if you married a pure-blood.”

...

The words turn in Hermione’s heart like a blade, releasing a flood of feelings she had thought she’d outgrown.

Instinctively, she seeks out Draco again, and finds that he is looking back at her. Their eyes meet, and—for several moments—she can’t tear her gaze away.

...

One week later

For the past few days she’s felt that someone is watching her.

It’s nothing she can really pin down, just a vague mental image, which fades the moment she tries to focus on it, and one or two odd shadows, which have proved impervious to disclosing charms.

She’s sure it started the day after Rosie left for Hogwarts and—because of the timing—she has certain suspicions, but she dismisses them as paranoia (or, sometimes, as wishful thinking).

Whatever it is, she hasn’t told Ron about it.

...

She’s come to Flourish and Blotts to buy Rosie a copy of The Clever Girl’s Guide to Difficult Charms, but she can’t resist slipping into the History section, and consulting several volumes that she could never afford to buy.

She’s just finished reading a very rare account of the wizarding presence at the Battle of Hastings when, as her mind returns to everyday reality, she senses something close by, and she whirls round and—catching sight of a stray shadow—she aims her wand, and casts the most powerful disclosing charm she knows.

And, suddenly, he’s standing before her—tall and lean, and immaculately dressed in robes of black silk brocade, his long, platinum hair drawn back and bound with a silver cord.

“Hello, Granger.”

“Malfoy...” She knows she should be angry—should hex him to oblivion and back for stalking her and taking Merlin-only-knows-what liberties when she couldn’t see him—but her heart is hammering in her chest, and the sight of his face—with the slightly receding hairline that seems so unbearably intimate—is provoking a flood of moisture between her legs.

At her age!

“It’s good to see you,” he says, without a trace of embarrassment or apology.

She swallows, unable to reply.

“Scorpius tells me that he and your daughter are friends.”

She nods.

“I’m glad.” He moves a little closer, and she can feel the warmth that radiates from his body, and smell the scent that always made her his willing slave, enhanced now by a subtle cologne. “It’s so good to see you, Granger,” he murmurs.

And she steps back, trying to escape his enchantment, but she stumbles over a pile of The Wizard’s History of England, and loses her balance, and Malfoy catches her.

...

There’s no need for words.

He takes her out into Muggle London, to a ancient hotel that he has obviously used before. She waits whilst he checks them into the bridal suite, turning her back on the pretty receptionist who’s looking her up and down and clearly finding her wanting.

Malfoy is the perfect gentleman, ushering her into the ornate lift, but she knows his blood is boiling, just like hers.

By the time they reach the suite, they’re in a state of frenzy—he captures her mouth before the door is fully closed, propels her across the room, groping her hips, her waist, her bosom, and shoves her against the wall.

She rests her cheek on the cold marble and waits, chest heaving, arms outstretched, legs shaking and already spread for him, as—behind her—he dissolves her clothes with a silent charm. Then his long, hard length pierces her and, oh God, she had almost forgotten how big he feels inside her! His thrusts make her body arch and twist, reaching some part of her that cannot withstand the pleasure, and—within moments—she’s coming hard, crying out in near-desperation as something shatters inside her and its splinters rush out from her core.

Then her arms give way, and she collapses against the smooth, white stone, and Malfoy, wrapping his arms around her, rests his head beside hers.

...

He carries her to the bed and, now, he’s gentle, reclaiming her body with a long, deep thrust.

“Let’s take it slowly this time, Granger,” he murmurs. “Let’s get to know each other again.”

He grinds himself against her, rocking them back and forth and, at first, she feels nothing—nothing but the glorious weight of him, pressing down upon her, and the wonderful length and thickness of his cock, and the soft caress of his mouth, exploring her face and her throat—but, gradually, a whisper of release begins to stir inside her, and she arches her back, and tries to push herself towards it.

“No, don’t chase it, Granger,” he whispers, “just let it happen...”

So she trusts him, and lets him set the pace, and it’s so slow, and so beautiful; and when it does happen, and they both come—each gasping the other’s name—she’s gazing into his pale grey eyes, and it’s the most profound and intimate thing she’s ever known.

...

It’s when he eases himself out of her that the full horror of what they’ve done hits her like a curse.

She’s betrayed Ron—she’s betrayed her children—all because of some foolish memories of a first love, and a selfish hankering after some fabulous sex. And now it’s over, and Malfoy’s reaching for the telephone!

“I’m just your latest shag, aren’t I?” she says, bitterly.

“My latest...? No!”

“Yes I am! You have your elegant pure-blood wife, your beautiful pure-blood son, and now,”—she knocks the receiver from his hand—“who are you calling, Malfoy?”

“Granger? What’s wrong with you? I was going to call room service—I thought you might like champagne and strawberries.” He sighs. “Please don’t pretend you didn’t want me, Granger—not now—because I felt the truth.” He moves in closer and, using his strength to overcome her slight resistance, he wraps his arms around her. “Please don’t, Granger...”

Then he’s cradling her head against his shoulder, and his voice is soft. “Please don’t spoil it...” He sounds young and uncertain, and he seems to be making some sort of confession. “I had to marry Astoria,” he says. “I had to have an heir—”

“A pure-blood heir,” she whispers.

“I’m not apologising for Scorpius,” he says. “Fathering him is the best thing I’ve ever done. But, Merlin, Granger, I wish he was yours.”

He draws back from her and, looking down at her, smiles sadly.

Then he lifts his hand, and gently brushes a thick strand of her frizzy hair back over her shoulder, watching it fall into place as though it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. It’s a loving, tender gesture, and it makes her heart leap, and she realises that, far from seeing her as his latest conquest, he’s hoping that this will be a new beginning.

“When you turned me down,” he says, kissing her shoulder, “my father pressured me to marry Astoria. I really didn’t care—nothing seemed to matter any more. But Astoria...

“Astoria isn’t a bad woman, Granger—I wouldn’t want you to think that—it’s just that she was brought up to think of sex as a woman’s way of getting what she wants. She withholds sex,”—he kisses her neck—“and I just can’t handle celibacy, Granger, you know that—so yes, I have other women—a lot of other women—but only because I can’t have the one woman I want...

“I’ve loved you since that first night in Grimmauld Place. You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved—there’s you, and Scorpius, and my parents.”

“Malfoy...”

“Are you happy, Granger? With him?”

The question throws her off balance. She knows that she should say, Of course I am, but Malfoy’s just told her that he still loves her.

Ron is decent, and loving, and a good father and, if she sometimes feels that he takes her for granted, well, that’s because he’s Ron.

Her Ron.

And if she’d never loved Malfoy, if Malfoy hadn’t been her first, she would never have known that there could anything more...

Than Ron.

And Malfoy’s so lean, and sweaty, and he smells of sex...

“No one could make a life with you,” she says, bravely. “You’re champagne and strawberries for every meal—”

“You could live with me, Granger,” he says. “You did.”

“For a while, when you were broken and needy. But, now, you’d burn me up—we’d destroy each other in days—”

“But think what those days would be like, Granger!”

She does—she can’t help herself.

She remembers how adventurous they were, making love in the attic at Grimmauld Place; she remembers how happy they were, two intellectual equals, gazing at the stars through the tiny skylight, talking of anything and everything...

And she wants to be with him so much, she thinks that she might die of the pain.

But she closes her eyes, and she forces herself to say, “I should never have done this, Malfoy.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Nothing wrong! I’ve betrayed my husband!”

“No,” he insists, crushing her in his arms, “you betrayed me when you left me for him; all you’ve done now is come back to me. You belong with me. Marry me, Granger. Divorce Weasley, and marry me.”

“I can’t. I have children—”

“I would love your children. I’d love them, and you’d love Scorpius. They would be our children.”

“It doesn’t work like that, Malfoy!” she cries. And she thinks of Ron, and Rosie, and Hugo, and—tears spilling from her eyes—she sobs, “I can’t Draco. I just can’t. I love Ron.”

She feels his body stiffen, then feels his arms release her, and she looks up at him and sees something die inside him, and her own heart breaks. And she knows that it’s a measure of how much he’s grown as a man that he doesn’t lash out at her with bitter words, or worse.

But she can’t let that sway her. “I must go,” she says.

She gets out of bed, cleans and dresses herself, and leaves, pausing at the door for one last, brief glimpse of the man she loves, but can never have.