Chapter 7: The Conspirators
The gardens were a whisper around him, a quiet symphony of neglect that suited his mood perfectly. The scent of damp earth and crushed lavender underfoot did nothing to clear his head. He’d been home for fifteen minutes, the Floo powder barely dusted from his sleeves, and he could still feel the phantom pressure of Hermione’s mouth on his, the desperate clutch of her fingers in his coat.
It was happening too fast. Too recklessly. He’d spent eleven years building walls, neat and precise as the Ministry’s filing system. And one night, one conversation, one kiss, had sent them tumbling like loose bricks.
He ran a hand through his hair, the too-long strands cool against his fingers. The memory was visceral: the taste of her, the shock of her warmth, the way she’d initiated the final, decisive pull. Granger.Hermione. A force of nature even in surrender.
“You look like a man considering the value of Azkaban’s concierge service.”
Draco started, his spine going rigid.He turned.
Scorpius leaned against the archway of a sunken arbour, one ankle crossed over the other, a familiar, infuriatingly smug expression on his face. His school robes were gone, replaced with dark jeans and a simple grey jumper. He looked younger without the uniform, more like the boy Draco remembered building pillow forts with, less like the near-stranger who’d returned from Hogwarts with sharp eyes and sharper questions.
“Don’t sneak,” Draco said, his voice a rough croak.
“I didn’t. You were just… extremely elsewhere.” Scorpius pushed off the stone and sauntered over, the gravel crunching under his trainers. He stopped a few feet away, his grey eyes—Astoria’s eyes, always Astoria’s eyes—scanning his father’s face with unnerving acuity. “So? How was the gastronomic summit?”
Draco didn’t answer. He looked back out over the dry fountain, its cracked basin a monument to a history he was still trying to escape.
A low whistle cut the air. “Merlin’s pants. It was that good?”
“Language,” Draco muttered automatically, the parental reflex a flimsy shield.
“Right, sorry. Merlin’s trousers.” Scorpius grinned, unrepentant. He moved to stand beside Draco, following his gaze to the broken stone. “She said no, didn’t she? Don’t tell me you got all the way to a posh dinner and then talked about the Ethical Decree on Experimental Charms for two hours.”
“She didn’t say no.”
The silence that followed was profound. The rustle of a hiding bird in the yew hedge seemed deafening. Scorpius went very still.
“She didn’t say no,” Draco repeated, softer, testing the truth of it in the open air. He could feel his son’s stare burning into the side of his face. “She… stayed.”
“You’re being obnoxiously cryptic. Did she stay for pudding? Or did she stay, full stop?”
The image flashed, unbidden and blazing: the dark bridge, the river’s whisper, her body aligned with his, the desperate, hungry connection. It wasn’t a memory for dissection. It was a raw, private scar of pleasure.
Scorpius let out a long, controlled breath. “Okay. Alright. So, a tactical success. This is good. This is excellent.”
“It’s complicated,” Draco ground out, finally looking at his son. The boy’s expression was one of pure, unadulterated triumph, and it set something off in Draco’s chest—a mix of affection and deep, unsettling fear. “This isn’t one of your little plots, Scorpius. This is… real.”
“All the more reason to be strategic.” Scorpius reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small, clear vial. He held it up between thumb and forefinger, where the late afternoon light caught it. Inside, a few strands of curly, brown hair coiled against the glass. “Phase one,” he declared, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “Complete.”
Draco’s blood ran cold. He stared at the vial. “What is that?”
“What does it look like?”
“Where did you get it?”
“Her office. It was on the back of her chair. She shed, Dad. People do. It’s not like I hacked it off with a Severing Charm.” Scorpius’s tone was breezy, but his eyes were watchful. “Relax. It’s just… insurance.”
Draco snatched the vial from his son’s hand. The glass was warm from his pocket. The sight of Hermione’s hair, a part of her so intimately disconnected, held captive in this tiny prison, made his stomach turn. “Insurance for what? What exactly are you planning?”
“Phase two,” Scorpius said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He met Draco’s horrified gaze head-on, his own unwavering. “You like her. She clearly doesn’t hate you. But you’re both monumentally terrible at this. You’ll overthink. She’ll over-prepare. You’ll get lost in a maze of your own making. So, we create an opportunity. A controlled variable.”
“We?” Draco’s voice was dangerously low. He closed his fist around the vial, the glass digging into his palm. “There is no we. You are my son, not my… co-conspirator. You will not involve yourself. You will not use her hair, or anything else, for some… some adolescent scheme.”
Scorpius’s grin finally faded, replaced by something harder, older. It was the look he’d worn during the war memorial service last year, a silent, shared burden. “I’m not an adolescent. I’m eighteen. I watched my mother die. I watched you disappear into your work and your guilt for a decade. I’m not plotting for fun. I’m intervening because you’re both too… damaged to do it yourselves.”
The word hung in the air between them, brutal and accurate.
Scorpius took a step closer, his voice softening. “When was the last time you were happy? Truly, stupidly happy? Not just content. Not just ‘getting by’ for my sake. Happy.”
Draco couldn’t answer. The memory that surfaced wasn’t from last week or last year. It was from before the war, a fragment of sun-drenched arrogance that felt like it belonged to another person entirely. He looked at his son’s face, saw the hope and the fear and the fierce, protective love there, and felt his anger dissolve, leaving only a hollow, aching exhaustion.
“This,” he said, opening his hand to reveal the vial, “is a violation. It’s not a game. This kind of magic… it has consequences.”
“I know,” Scorpius whispered. “I do. But I also know what loneliness looks like. I see it in you every day. And from what I’ve heard, she wears it too.” He gently took the vial back from Draco’s unresisting hand. “I’m not going to brew Polyjuice, Dad. I’m not an idiot. But magic leaves traces.Connections. This is a… a tangible link. In case you need it. In case the maze gets too thick.”
He pocketed the vial again. The gesture felt less like a threat now and more like a solemn vow.
Draco looked away, back to the dead fountain. The ghost of the kiss was still on his lips, but now it was tangled with the reality of his son’s desperate, clumsy attempt to help. The weight of it all—the past, the future, this fragile, terrifying present—settled on his shoulders, heavier than before.
“Phase two,” he said finally, the words tasting like ash. “What is it?”
Scorpius leaned in, his voice a mere breath in the quiet garden. “You invite her here.”