—June 2017—

The young man with the platinum blond hair walked purposefully into the Entrance Hall of the Department of Mysteries, and spoke the appropriate words of command.

One of twelve identical doors opened, and he stepped inside.

Ignoring the seductive sparkle of the dancing light, and the almost soporific ticking of the clocks that covered every surface, horizontal and vertical, he marched up to a large, empty, glass-fronted display case, and opened it.

Sitting on the topmost shelf, so small that it might easily have been overlooked, was a single Time-Turner.

The young man picked it up and slipped it into his pocket.

It was an odd thing to do, but none of the other Unspeakables working in the Time Room thought to question one of Lord Voldemort’s most favoured wizards, and the young man simply closed the case and left the department, exuding the same air of haughty self-confidence he’d entered with.

...

A few hours later, the young man was hurtling across the Scottish landscape on the four-thirty train to Hogsmeade, watching flurries of hail swirl out of the darkness and rattle against the windows of his private, first-class carriage. Every now and then, a flash of lightning illuminated a dilapidated Muggle village or, in the far distance, highlighted the ruins of a Muggle town, still smoking against the inky sky.

The young man sighed, and glanced nervously at his watch.

Time for another dose.

He withdrew a flask from his inside breast pocket and, uncorking it, raised it to his lips...

Then, changing his mind, he replaced the cork and, leaving his carriage, hurried down the corridor to the lavatory where, safely locked inside, he braced himself against the train’s swaying motion, pulled out the flask again, and took a swig.

The potion flooded his body, scorching his bones and skimming his flesh before gathering together and pooling, hot and heavy, in his balls.

Merlin!

The young man shuddered, grimacing to himself in the wall mirror as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The sensation in his groin was exquisite torture, and he’d been struggling with it for hours.

He re-corked the flask, slipped it back into his pocket and then—though he’d promised himself he wouldn’t—he unbuttoned his fly.

His cock seemed huge—perhaps a side-effect of the potion. He touched it, tentatively.

Oh, Merlin! The caress evoked a sensation far beyond relief, though the relief it provided was indescribable.

He curled his fingers round the sturdy shaft, and stroked it a few times.

Ohhh, God!

He reached into the basin, picked up the cake of soap, and lathered his hands.

Now his grasp was slippery, and—Oh—it was bliss!

Clamping his left hand firmly on the towel rail, he got to work with his right, letting nature guide him, not stopping to wonder how he could be sinking so low as to masturbate in a train lavatory and spill himself into a dirty wash basin—thinking only of the movement of his hand, of the pressure growing in his balls and spreading along his length, of the promise of imminent, explosive, and blessed release—

A sudden braking threw him off balance, and the hoot of a steam whistle announced that the train had reached its destination.

“No,” he cried. “Oh, please God, please Merlin, no! NO!”

But he’d missed his chance.

Sobbing, he quickly made himself decent and, casting a Disillusionment Charm to hide his physical condition, returned to his carriage.

...

“The Dark Lord has said nothing to me about an inspection, Malfoy,” said Alecto Carrow, Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

“The Dark Lord has far more important things to spend his time on, Carrow,” replied the young man, his sexual frustration giving him a menacing edge. “And if he’d had one of his assistants inform you, it wouldn’t be a surprise inspection. Would it?”

Carrow’s piggy eyes scanned the parchment he’d given her, her mouth moving silently as she read each word; when she came to the end, she peered up at him, suspiciously.

“Very well,” she said, at last. “But I shall be owling the Ministry to double-check. And if I find anything irregular about this visit, Malfoy, you,”—she jabbed a stubby index finger at his face—“will wish you’d never got off that train.”

“Knock yourself out.”

...

Despite the declared purpose of his visit, the young man walked straight past the classrooms—where a new generation of witches and wizards were practising the Cruciatus Curse on their unfortunate schoolfellows—and headed instead for the Room of Requirement which, after a few moments’ heart-stopping uncertainty as he approached, revealed its doors to him, and admitted him.

Inside, he checked his watch.

His persistent erection, and the way his every movement teased its sensitive flesh, was making it harder and harder for him to think straight. But there was no time, now, to deal with it, and he consoled himself with the thought that it would soon—Please, Merlin—be irrelevant.

He searched the room quickly, pulling the dust sheets from the jumbled heaps of furniture, pushing broken chairs and wobbly tables aside, until he found exactly what he was looking for—a tall, elegant cheval glass, its ancient mirror still clear enough to reflect his image.

He stood before it, waiting, watching himself, flushed with arousal and breathing heavily.

Come on...

The signs were almost imperceptible at first—just a slight darkening of the hair and a rounding of the features—but each small change quickly built upon the others and soon, like an avalanche, the individual changes became a single, flowing transformation, turning the tall, elegant Draco Malfoy back into the bushy-haired Hermione Granger, wearing a well-cut suit and a tailored, silk shirt made for a broad-shouldered man of six foot two.

Back to normal.

Hermione sighed. No. Not quite.

She’d reasoned that the excessive sexual arousal she’d been experiencing was due to the increased testosterone flowing through her veins, and to the novelty of having a penis, and she’d assumed that it would disappear the moment she had her own body back.

She’d been wrong.

Every last, humiliating pang of need was still there.

Deep inside her.

...

—Twenty-four hours earlier—

Hermione closed the door behind her. “I’m home!”

Number twelve, Grimmauld Place had changed little since the Order of the Phoenix had first made it their headquarters—Hermione still had a room on the first floor; Ron and the other members of the Resistance still made their plans in its cavernous kitchen; Molly Weasley still fed them, fussed over them, and—afterwards—tended their wounds...

But now the house had a permanent resident.

Severus Snape, the wizard whom Voldemort had thought his most trustworthy lieutenant, who had suffered the terrible consequences of betraying the Dark Lord and was now the most wanted man in Britain, appeared in the doorway of the Dining Room. “Miss Granger...”

It had been a long time since Hermione had heard his voice resonate with such oily self-satisfaction, and she knew exactly what it meant: “You’ve found a way!”

“I believe so.”

“Show me.”

“I shall do better than that.” Expertly, he manoeuvred his wheelchair back into the Dining Room.

This was his bedroom, his library, and his potions workshop—a narrow bed stood in one corner; bookshelves, crammed with volumes rescued from Spinner’s End and smuggled out of various private and public libraries, filled every inch of wall space; the former dining table, covered in an orderly chaos of jars and bottles, burners, cauldrons, and parchment scrolls, was part desk and part work bench.

“Take a seat.” Snape wheeled himself over to the table, and picked up a small glass vial.

For several years he’d been working on a plan.

Tracing the time lines and plotting the alternative possibilities had convinced him that one event—one brief and terrible moment in time—had changed the entire course of the Second Wizarding War and, thus, had ensured Voldemort’s victory.

It therefore followed—he reasoned—that if someone were to go back to just before that event, and prevent its happening, the wizarding world could be saved. He had learned that a single Time-Turner, a special instrument capable of taking the user back not hours but years, still survived in the Department of Mysteries and, recently, he’d been devoting his every waking moment to working out a foolproof way to obtain it.

He handed the vial to Hermione.

She held it up to the light. It contained a platinum blond hair. “Where did you get this?”

Snape’s expression was neutral. “From the collar of your cloak.”

Hermione blushed.

Snape didn’t ask her how the hair had come to be there, and she didn’t offer him any explanation, though she knew that he must already have used Legilimency on her, if only to make sure of her continued loyalty. “Polyjuice Potion,” she said.

“Indeed. It will allow you to enter the Ministry of Magic unchallenged, and—since Mr Malfoy is an Unspeakable—to access the Department of Mysteries, and the Time Room, where the Time-Turner is kept. I am confident that you’ll succeed.”

Hermione was rather less confident, but she knew that if she didn’t succeed, she would certainly have died trying. “And when I have the Time-Turner?”

“You’ll proceed directly to Hogwarts—still disguised as Mr Malfoy—and talk your way into the Room of Requirement, where you’ll go back in time, and change history.”

His voice was throbbing with anticipated triumph; it made Hermione nervous. “You are sure about this, Severus?” she asked, softly. “I mean, we’ve no way of knowing how saving Harry will alter things. He may still die, just,”—her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard—“just not on that particular night. This way, more of us may die. And You-Know-Who may still win.”

“It is a calculated risk, Miss Granger—and it’s the only chance we have.”

Hermione nodded, though his answer had done little to remove her doubts. “Severus... Why me? If Ron went, he could overpower Draco, and—”

“Miss Granger,” Snape interrupted, holding out his hand for the vial containing Malfoy’s hair, “I have chosen you because I am convinced that you have the best chance of success.”

...

—June 1997—

Hermione gave the Time-Turner a final twist, and the Room of Requirement disappeared.

She was flying, backwards, through a tunnel of indistinct shapes that seemed to stretch on and on, for ever and ever—until, abruptly, her feet touched solid ground again, and the room came back into focus...

And the first thing she saw was Draco Malfoy, standing with his back to her, directing spell after feverish spell at the Vanishing Cabinet.

He was so much younger than when she’d last seen him but, already, his broad shoulders and his long, lean frame spoke of sex and stamina and, at the sight of him—to her intense shame—Hermione’s poor, tortured pussy spasmed hard, sending spears of longing up into her chest.

She took a deep breath and, trying to ignore her baser urges, reached for her wand.

“Who’s there?” Malfoy turned, his hand already raised, and pointed his wand into the shadows. “I’m warning you! I’ll Avada you! I know how to!”

“But you have to mean it, Draco,” said Hermione, remembering the children she’d seen practising the Dark Arts, “or it won’t work.” She stepped into the light.

“Who...? Granger?” His face was ashen, his eyes haunted; his wand hand sank to his side, forgotten. “What the fuck has happened to you?” he demanded.

Hermione took another step. “I’m a bit older, Draco; that’s all. I’ve come back from the future.” She reached inside her shirt, and fished the Time-Turner from between her breasts. “Look. Do you know what this is?”

Malfoy’s eyes dropped to her chest.

And whether it was the sight of the Time-Turner that spooked him, or whether he could sense the disgraceful lust seething inside her, she didn’t know, but he suddenly raised his wand again. “Get back!”

...

—June 2017, a week earlier—

In Voldemort’s brave new world it was almost impossible for anyone but a member of the Dark Lord’s inner circle to use magic, and Hermione’s work with the Resistance had made her an expert at good, old-fashioned breaking and entering.

Trusting to the latest intelligence on the state of Theodore Nott’s wards, she found the vulnerable window, applied Muggle insulation tape and a Muggle glass cutter, and was soon inside.

Her search of Nott’s study proved fruitless, however, and she was hurrying back to the window when Draco Malfoy appeared from nowhere, saw right through her woefully weak Disillusionment Charm and, grabbing her by the wrist, wrenched down her hood to look at her face.

“Granger? What the fuck are you...?” His voice trailed away as he realised the only possible explanation for her being there. “Shit.”

Hermione’s mind was racing, trying to find something—some common ground, some special pleading—she could use to persuade him to let her go but, before she could even open her mouth, Malfoy tightened his grip.

Someone was coming.

“In here.” He pulled her through a door.

It was a tiny cloakroom—really no more than a cupboard; Malfoy drew his wand, muttering “Colloportus,” and then “Muffliato.”

“Why—”

“Shhh! Keep quiet! Locking and Muffling Charms can only do so much in a Death Eater’s house.”

They were standing chest to chest, their bodies all but touching. Silently, Malfoy raised his hands and planted them either side of Hermione’s head, holding himself away from her; Hermione shrank back against the wall, closing her eyes and screwing them up tight.

Outside, the voices grew louder and louder until Nott and his companions, Hermione realised, were standing right outside the door!

Her heart was hammering. Her senses were hyper-alert, magnifying the tiniest stimulus—she could hear Malfoy’s breathing, harsh and ragged; feel his body heat flushing her skin, raising her temperature like a fever; she could feel...

Feel...

Oh, Merlin! She could feel something so strange, so unexpected that, at first, she couldn’t make any sense of it but, no matter how much she tried to ignore it, it refused to go away...

Malfoy had an erection.

Oh, God!

Hermione had little experience of sex. There had been a time when she and Ron were lovers, but now they were no more than friends with the occasional benefit and, aside from that and a brief and disappointing encounter with Seamus Finnigan, she was pretty much a virgin.

Nothing had prepared her for being trapped in a confined space with a man whose sexual exploits were legendary, and whose obvious arousal was awakening appetites she’d never known she had.

Dimly, she realised that the voices were moving on, but that hardly mattered any more—she was Malfoy’s prisoner, and he could do whatever he wanted with her. She could see no other reason for his hiding her. And although she still had her wand, she knew that any attempt to use it on him would almost certainly betray her to Nott and his cronies.

How could she possibly resist?

Supposing she wanted to resist...

Oh, God.

No, she didn’t want to resist.

She wanted Draco Malfoy to ravish her!

She opened her eyes, and looked up at him, seeing in his face a mirror image of her own desire.

How could that be?

He was a Death Eater and she a member of the Resistance.

But there’d always been a spark between them, from the very first moment they’d set eyes on each other—if not an attraction then, at least, a fascination—a fascination they’d passed off as dislike.

And, in any case, Malfoy wasn’t troubled by the whys and wherefores. Even before the voices had gone, he was lifting Hermione’s skirt and wrenching her panties aside, his other hand going straight to his fly. Hermione knew that he was freeing himself, and a part of her longed to see it, to touch it, to—God help her!—kiss it, but another part was insisting that she wasn’t that sort of woman, and she kept her eyes focused on his face, even when she felt the tip of his cock nudge her, and his fingers briefly explore her, before he found her slit and—with a single firm stroke—pushed himself inside.

“Merlin, Granger,” he sighed, nuzzling her ear, “your pussy’s like a furnace.” He grasped her hips and, lifting her onto her toes, thrust up into her, groaning appreciatively: “Fucking amazing...”

His strokes were strong and—Oh, God!—wonderful, so much better than Hermione was used to, but their position was awkward, and she was suddenly terrified that he’d exhaust himself, and have to pull out of her...

She scrabbled above her head, found two coat hooks, and pulled herself up, lifting her feet and bracing them against the opposite wall.

“Oh, clever girl,” gasped Malfoy, rewarding her with a spate of powerful thrusts. “Oh, Granger...”

Oh, Malfoy! Oh, how can this be happening?

In their new position, he could fuck her hard, and Hermione recognised in him her sexual soul mate, a man who understood the needs she was only just discovering, and who enjoyed satisfying them, finding the angle that made her beg and pounding her clit until she thought it might burst from the pressure.

She was coming apart—approaching a climax bigger than anything she’d ever felt before—and her body was thrashing as if she were being Crucio’d, because Malfoy’s fucking was too much to bear—“Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Please don’t stop!”—and then she was coming, letting everything out with a furious roar that would have brought down the walls had Malfoy not clamped his mouth over hers, and devoured the sound.

...

Afterwards, he gave her no explanation, offered no reason for letting her go free; he simply pulled himself out of her and, whilst she slid down to the floor, made himself presentable, and left.

But as he was reaching for the door knob, he paused. “You were fantastic, Granger—you outdid all of my teenage fantasies,” he said.

...

—June 1997—

“What do you want?” Malfoy demanded, holding her back with his outstretched wand—but he was far too clever, even in a state of panic, not to fathom the answer for himself: “You won’t stop me!”

“Draco...”

“Stay back!” He thrust his wand at her. “I’ll... I’ll...” Then his brow suddenly cleared: “Wait—you can help me!”

“No.”

“I’ll make you, Granger! I’ll use the Imperius Curse!”

“It won’t work if I know you’ve done it, Draco.” She edged closer.

“Look, Granger,” he said, changing tactic again, “I’ve no choice. I’ve got to get it working, and I’ve got to kill... I mean, if I don’t get it working, he’ll kill my mother and father. He’ll kill me.”

“But you can’t trust him, Draco. Whatever he’s told you, he won’t keep his promises.”

Malfoy frowned, slowly processing her words, then his eyes dropped to the Time-Turner. “What do you know?”

His fear almost broke her heart.

She remembered the confident man who’d saved her, seduced her, and—in more ways than one—had set her free. She’d wondered, again and again, why he’d let her go, and she’d concluded that there must be some good in him—that, perhaps, after twenty years of torturing and killing, he’d had enough.

“You’re not safe on his side, Draco,” she said, “and nor are your parents—go to Dumbledore and ask for his protection.”

“What? No way! I’m going to get the cabinet working!”

“Listen to me, Draco! If you get that thing working tonight, and let the Death Eaters in, Harry Potter will die. He’s keeping watch, right now, outside the Room of Requirement. He’ll try to stop your aunt, and she will kill him—”

“So?”

Hermione moved closer. “It’s not what you want, Draco,” she said, taking a gamble. “Trust me. I’ve come from the future, and I know you—I know it’s not what you want—”

“You don’t know anything, Mudblood!” he yelled, grabbing her angrily, and trying to man-handle her towards the Vanishing Cabinet.

And Hermione felt something so strange, so unexpected that, at first, she couldn’t believe it.

Malfoy had an erection.

...

It didn’t take much to break free of his grasp.

She took a few steps backwards.

Merlin, why did she want him so much?

True, she knew his cock—knew its length and its thickness, the way it stood almost upright and curved slightly towards his belly; she knew how good it felt to ride it, but—more than that—she knew what it felt like to possess it, to long to sink it into something tight and silky and to thrust it in and out—to be able to think of nothing but the need to relieve its marvellous, maddening itch...

“Draco...” she said seductively, shrugging off her jacket and letting it fall to the floor.

Malfoy stared at her, wide-eyed and disbelieving.

She lifted her hands to her bosom, slowly unbuttoned her loose, silk shirt, and slipped out of it. She wasn’t wearing a bra and, as she dropped the shirt on top of the jacket, she heard Malfoy moan.

She kicked off her big shoes and, bending forward—giving Malfoy a lover’s-eye view of her breasts—she pulled off her socks. Then, straightening up again, and with a wicked smile, she slowly, slowly unbuckled her dragon hide belt, unbuttoned her trousers, and eased them—together with her boxers—down her legs.

The expression on Malfoy’s face, a ravenous, adult need barely contained, was like a drug. Hermione stood before him, naked and suddenly full of confidence—a sex goddess on fire, more aroused than she’d ever been in her life. At that moment, nothing else mattered—she would have abandoned her mission, and betrayed Harry, just for the chance to rip open Malfoy’s fly, impale herself on him, and ride him into oblivion.

That thought—so alien to her—reverberated like an echo... And, suddenly, everything became clear!

Oh, Severus Snape, you clever, devious, unscrupulous bastard!

Snape had known that reason wouldn’t persuade Malfoy, but he’d found the hair on her cloak, and he’d seen their love-making in her mind, and he’d given her an incentive to use another means to distract Malfoy, and keep him occupied until Harry called off his watch and went to bed.

An aphrodisiac, mixed in with the Polyjuice Potion!

Her mission was to seduce Malfoy!

The thought turned her insides to molten metal. She reached for him, pressed herself into him, rubbed herself against him, knowing exactly what she was doing to him. “Fuck me, Draco,” she said.

He swallowed hard. “What?”

“Fuck me. It’ll be good—I promise—just—please, Draco. Fuck me!”

She could see that he wanted it as much as she did, but something was holding him back. Something...

“It’s your first time,” she whispered.

“No!” he cried. “No, of course it isn’t!”

But she knew that he was lying. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and whispered, “I know you’ll be good at it, Draco.”

He swallowed hard.

“It’s been terrible for you, all these months; I know that. I know how frustrated you are, how you feel like you’re going to explode. And I can help you, Draco; I can make it better.”

He glanced at the Vanishing Cabinet: “There isn’t time,” he said.

“I’ll be quick,” she replied, though she had no intention of keeping her promise. “But I want you naked, Draco. I want to see you—touch you. I want to undress you.”

Malfoy was lost. He stepped back, a single tear running down his cheek, and surrendered.

Taking her time, Hermione removed his jacket, his tie, and his shirt. He was lean, and surprisingly well-muscled. She undid his trousers, carefully working them round his erection, and slid them down, sinking to her knees; she kissed his balls, moaning with appreciation, wrapping her fingers around his cock and massaging its root with her thumb, drawing it down, towards her mouth. “I want to taste you, Draco.”

“Oh, fuck,” he sobbed.

He was already hard but, as she bobbed her head, she felt him stiffen—

“GRANGER!” he shrieked, coming abruptly in four or five spurts and, although she’d never done it before, Hermione drank him greedily, only releasing him when his legs gave way and he collapsed on top of her.

“Granger...” He seemed exhausted, but he was young; he hadn’t even lost his erection and, the moment they’d righted themselves—with Hermione on her back, and Malfoy nestling between her thighs—his cock was eager, if too inexperienced, to find its home.

Hermione reached down between their bodies and, grasping him, guided him in. “There,” she said, proudly.

Malfoy flexed his hips, and gasped.

“How does it feel?”

“Good...”

“Make it good for me, too, Draco.”

His breathing was already ragged. “How?”

“Like this.” She grasped his shoulders and, pushing gently, made him rise up on his hands until she felt him against her clit. “Like that, Draco,” she said. “Fuck me like that.”

He knew enough to thrust, and Hermione found herself lying back and watching him learn. He was slow and tentative at first, moving uncertainly, in and out, but he quickly grew in confidence, experimenting until he found his rhythm—

“Oh, God,” she moaned, “yes, Draco, like that!”

She could see his climax starting to build as, eyes closed, he fucked her, his lips curving in a smile of pure joy—but, by then, the urgency of her own need was overwhelming her fascination, and she began to meet his strokes.

“Granger,” he gasped, “you’re—you’re so—so pretty—all flushed and—and sweaty, and—”

Hermione suddenly grasped his arse and pulled him in deeper, crying out, “Draco! I’m coming—oh!—oh yes!—I’m coming!”

And the world seemed to shift towards her as lightning filled her head and her vision shrank to nothing but the boy—the man—moving between her legs.

...

She awoke to find herself lying in Malfoy’s arms, feeling warm and deliciously contented, wrapped in a fur blanket that he must have conjured or found somewhere amongst the hidden things.

She raised herself on one elbow, and looked down at her lover.

Asleep—And, she thought, smiling, thoroughly satisfied—he looked like an angel, his mouth relaxed, his brow smooth, his pale hair falling over his forehead.

What happens now?

“You got what you wanted,” he sighed, and she realised that she’d been so intent on looking at him, she hadn’t seen that he’d woken up. “I didn’t finish it tonight, Granger. But I’m not giving up.”

“I know,” she said and, at once, it was clear to her what must happen now. She wasn’t of this time; she couldn’t stay. Malfoy must be trusted to do the rest alone. She had delayed him and, by doing that, she had changed history. She could only hope that it was enough. “I must go back now, Draco.”

He raised a hand and cupped one of her breasts. They hadn’t kissed, and this gentle caress, she realised, was their equivalent.

He released her, and she smiled.

Then she scrambled to her feet, and hastily dressed, raking her hands through her messy hair and trying to twist it into some sort of order.

“The other you,” said Malfoy, “is pretty—sort of—but you’re hot, Granger.”

She grinned.

“Will this change things?” he asked. “With her, I mean.”

“That’s entirely up to you, Draco,” she answered. “Everything is up to you, now.” She found the Time-Turner. “Remember what I told you about Dumbledore. He’s ready to protect you—you and your parents.”

Malfoy didn’t answer but, as Hermione gave the Time-Turner a last twist, and felt it begin to take effect, she heard him ask, as though he were noticing it for the first time, “Why are you wearing my clothes?”

...

—June 2017—

Before leaving the Room of Requirement, Hermione took another dose of the spiked Polyjuice Potion.

It was a risk, but she was fairly certain that—whatever the world outside might now be like—she’d be safer as Draco Malfoy than as Hermione Granger, and she would try to control the effects of the aphrodisiac using memories of the previous night’s love-making.

She checked herself in the cheval glass, making sure that ‘Malfoy’s’ hair was smooth, and that his tie was straight, before she opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

“Mr Malfoy?” The voice, with its Scottish accent, was much-loved, and most welcome.

“Minerva!” Hermione turned, saw the look of surprise on her former teacher’s face, and stammered, “I—I mean, of course, Professor McGonagall.” ‘Malfoy’ bowed his head respectfully. “Good morning, Professor.”

“Good morning, Mr Malfoy. What on earth are you doing here?”

“I—er—I had a sudden hankering to see the old place again,” ‘he’ said, lamely.

“Well, you’re welcome, of course, but I’d be grateful if, in future, you’ll come and see me before you go gallivanting off around the school.”

“Of course, Professor—er—Headmistress. I apologise.”

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to take young Scorpius down into Hogsmeade?”

Hermione’s heart leaped. Draco has a son? “Um—no, Headmistress; sadly, not today. In fact, I really must be getting back to the train station...”

...

The journey home to London provided more and more evidence that her mission had been successful—fluffy white clouds floated across a bright blue sky; the fields were green, and there were crops, and sheep and cows; the Muggle world was thriving.

It was wonderful!

Half way home, however, she was forced to give in, retreat to the train lavatory, and relieve the effects of Snape’s aphrodisiac with a combination of blissful memories and deft handwork. By the time the train pulled into King’s Cross, she was back in her proper form, exhausted, but on a sexual high.

She walked back to number twelve, Grimmauld Place smiling, her sense of well-being brightening everything around her—the colourful shop windows, the cheery people passing by—even the old house seemed warmer and friendlier, its door painted a welcoming red, its window sills bearing boxes of violas.

Hermione closed the door behind her. “I’m home!”

She almost screamed when Harry Potter, alive and well and a good twenty years older than when she’d last seen him, came running up from the kitchen—and then it was all she could do to stop herself throwing her arms around him and hugging him senseless.

“Home?” he said, laughing. “I know you spend a lot of time here, Hermione, but I’m sure that Ron would have something to say about you calling it home!”

Ron...?

Hermione smiled, feebly.

I have a lot to learn. And fast.

She followed Harry down to the kitchen, glancing through the Dining Room door as she passed.

Above the mantelpiece, which was dressed like a shrine with a pair of church candles in silver candlesticks, hung a superb portrait of Severus Snape, looking dark and imposing in fine black robes, his left hand resting on a gravestone that bore the inscription,

SEVERUS SNAPE
1960 – 1998
The Bravest Wizard
Who Ever Lived

As Hermione stared at him, he left his graveside, and came to the edge of the frame and, after studying her for a long moment, he nodded.

...

She found her way home by the simple method of inviting Harry and Ginny for dinner and insisting that they go through the Floo before her.

The house was both very strange and very familiar, obviously furnished by her, with pieces that were old and well-loved, and which made the place feel homely. Photographs of two beautiful children—the elder a girl with Hermione’s bushy hair and Ron’s colouring—told her that she was a mother, and the heights marked on the kitchen wall revealed that their names were Rose and Hugo.

As she worked in the unfamiliar kitchen, with Harry and Ginny sitting at the table, drinking wine and talking cheerfully, she tried not to think about Draco—or his son—and found herself, instead, wondering whether she and Ron were happy.

She couldn’t tell when he got home from work, nor during dinner, though he reminded her so much of the boy she’d known at school, and nor could she tell later, when they went to bed and, after kissing her cheek, he turned off the light and, only moments later, was fast asleep, snoring.

...

—June 2017, the following day—

Hermione’s office, in the depths of the Ministry of Magic, was just as strange and yet just as familiar as her house. She hung up her cloak, and approached her desk, scanning the mountains of paperwork—all the folders, the ledgers, and the scrolls of parchment—wondering how long it would take her to orient herself, and how she would cope in the meantime.

She heard the door open and close behind her and, before she could turn to greet her visitor, a strong pair of hands seized her about the waist and bent her over the desktop.

“Draco?” she gasped.

“Well, I sincerely hope that no one else would be doing this to you, Granger!” His lips brushed the nape of her neck, sending shafts of red hot pleasure through her body. “Merlin,” he murmured, “two weeks in Belgrade with Astoria and no sex—it’s a miracle I didn’t go on a killing spree!” His hands moved up and cupped her breasts. “Oh, I am going to fuck your phenomenal brains out, Granger.”

“I’m an adulteress...” said Hermione.

Malfoy laughed.

Then—as if her meaning had suddenly come home to him—he drew back from her, and said, “Is it you?”

“Me?”

“My Future-Granger.”

“Yes.” She turned round. “Yes, it’s me.”

“So we’ve caught up, at last.” Malfoy eyed her uncertainly. “Are things different?”

“Very.”

They gazed at each other for several long moments.

“But you do still want me,” he said, softly, “and, Merlin, Granger, I’ve been wanting you for twenty years.”

“I’m married, Draco.”

“So am I...”

Neither of them moved; time seemed to be standing still.

Then he reached out, and took her in his strong arms, and crushed her to him, pressing his erection hard into her belly.

Oh, God!

He was raw and demanding—as exciting as he’d been in the cloakroom at Nott’s house—and her body loved his touch, every part of her responding to him, but Hermione knew that she couldn’t allow it to go on. “Why was she betraying her husband, Draco?” she asked, pushing him away. “Was she really so unhappy—”

“You and her,” said Malfoy, straightening up. “Weird.”

“I know.”

He sighed. “I’ve been waiting twenty years for you, Granger—to say nothing of the two desperate weeks I’ve just spent fantasising about fucking the other you—and I really can’t handle all this philosophical-ethical shit now.” He lifted her onto the desk and, grasping her thighs, brought her legs up around his hips. “Afterwards, we can discuss anything you want—how going back in time to shag a spotty schoolboy must surely have earned you the right to a bit of happiness...” He slid his hands down her legs, and cupped her buttocks. “How this world you’re so determined to save actually includes you and me...” He kissed her neck. “How divorce is our most honest option...”

“You’re as sharp as a tack.”

“I know. And I do enjoy a good talk. But,”—he pulled her closer, squeezing her arse as he rubbed his erection into her crotch—“please, Granger, I have needs. Very urgent needs. And,” he added, in her ear, “if that appeal to your better nature isn’t sufficient, I also promise to make you wail like a banshee.”

Hermione was somewhere beyond aroused; her mission seemed to have transformed her old, sexless self just as much as it had changed the wizarding world.

She slid her arms around Malfoy’s neck. “I think I love you, Draco.”

“I’ve loved you for twenty years, Granger.”

“Then why did we marry—”

“Because she wasn’t you. Now, sex. Please.”

A slow smile spread across Hermione’s face. He was right. Another woman had married Ron Weasley; this woman loved Draco Malfoy.

And this Draco Malfoy—whom she’d helped create—had a son, and would understand that she already loved the children the other woman had borne in her name, and would agree that, whatever else happened in the future, their well-being must come first. “All right,” she said, “sex now; serious discussion later.” She nuzzled his ear. “You know, Draco, I’ve never done it doggy-style.”

“Is that so?”

“Will you initiate me?”

“With pleasure, Ma’am.”

“Ma’am?”

“You’re my boss, Granger. Kinky, eh?”

“I’ll show you kinky, Malfoy...” Sliding down his body, she lowered her feet to the floor, turned and, spreading herself across the desktop, lifted her skirt, presenting him with her arse.

“Oh, yes,” he groaned, the lust in his voice prompting Hermione to wiggle her hips, and tease his cock with her buttocks.

“Oh, you hussy! You,”—he hooked his fingers round her panties, and ripped them in two—“have no idea what you’re doing to me!”

Hermione laughed, rocking her hips again. “As it happens, Draco, I know exactly what I’m doing to you,” she said, “and if you want to know how I kn-OH,”—he’d thrust himself into her, balls-deep—“I’ll tell you—OH—tell you—OH—tell you—OH—tell you later!”

THE END