Draco could think of a thousand ways a man of his age might choose to spend his Saturday night.
Twenty six, single, good-looking, and heir to a not-insubstantial fortune—any other man in his position might have preferred to go out, socialise, maybe find somebody to take home for the night.
And yet, here he was. Twenty-six, single, good-looking, rich, and… currently babysitting a precocious six-year-old with a knack for worming her way into his cold, cold heart.
But he wouldn’t have it any other way.
He’d never thought much about children, and therefore had had little to no opinion on them other than having them was necessary. To continue the bloodline, the Malfoy lineage. Children were, he had supposed, an obligation.
Which was an absolutely fucked way to think about it, because these children were people . They had thoughts and feelings and lives of their own outside of familial obligation and outdated traditions. If he would ever choose to have a child of his own, he’d make sure he actually wanted to be a father. Someone that would provide love and care and presence, outside of societal presentation. Not someone who trained and primed their child like a prize stallion, bound by duty and expectation.
Draco had gone through enough of that to know better.
Beside him on the sofa sat his goddaughter. Elena Ginevra Zabini had hair dark and curly as her father’s (Ginny had whacked Draco when he’d remarked on the absence of the trademark red hair the Weasleys were known for, and Blaise had rather belatedly warned him about his wife’s penchant for physical retaliation). Bright, brown eyes now gazed up at him, all too aware that she had her godfather wrapped around her little finger, and would almost certainly grant her any request. Tonight, she wanted a story.
“Uncle Draco, will you tell me a story?”
From the corner of his eye, he could see Granger lower her book, just slightly. Watching the exchange.
If someone had told him 15 years ago that this would be his life—babysitting with Hermione Granger on a weekend, at his best friend's house, where a picture of the two of them holding a baby Ellie on the mantle—he would have laughed in their face, in equal measures of disbelief and disgust. Now, though, he often reminisced about how far removed he was from his younger self. How long of a way he’d come from being that little boy, indoctrinated in hateful ideologies and prejudices. All thanks to Granger.
Granger, who’d walked up to him in their eighth year and introduced herself to him like it was the first time, offering him a clean slate he knew he didn't deserve in the least.
Granger, who’d stubbornly asserted herself again and again into his life, sitting with him during meals and volunteering to be his partner in classes when everyone else sneered at him and shunned him.
Granger, who he’d been angry with for months before he accepted that her seemingly-forced friendship wasn’t some disgustingly noble charity situation, and was instead a way for her to move forward—for all of them to move forward.
Granger, who seemed to be all he could think about as of late. Who was, perhaps, one of the reasons why Saturday nights like these had become the highlights of his week.
Granger, Granger, Granger. If you asked him what his favourite word was, her name would be the first to come to mind.
Granger, looking between him and their goddaughter with amused expectation.
A story. Right. He could do that.
“Of course, Ellie. What do you suppose we’ll read tonight?” He reached for the copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard by the coffee table, but small hands immediately shot out to stop him.
“No, no! We already read those,” she pouted. “I want you to tell me a story, not read me one.”
He looked to Granger for help, but the witch just quirked an eyebrow and smiled like, You’re on your own, mate.
Ellie had also apparently caught his look. “Aunt Hermione tells me lots of stories, all the time. Like princesses learning magic, travelling through time, riding dragons, and fighting off evil wizards!”
Draco suppressed a smile and wondered if Aunt Hermione had mentioned what the princess did before riding off on a dragon. Robbing high-security banks might not be the kind of story one should be telling to impressionable young children.
“Alright, then. Has she told you the story of the—the dragon prince?”
Ellie’s eyes brightened, and she shook her head quickly.
“Well, er.” He cleared his throat awkwardly, feeling self-conscious because now he could see that Granger had placed her book down on the table beside the armchair she was perched in, tucking her feet up and settling her face on one palm as she watched them. “In a faraway kingdom, there once lived a dragon prince. He came from a very well-known family, who had the power to turn into dragons.”
“Ooh, like animagi?”
“Something like that, yes. One day, an evil wizard came and wanted the dragon prince’s powers for his own.”
“Oh, no!”
“He captured the dragon prince and forced him to do his bidding, or else he’d—he’d hurt the prince’s family.” Draco swallowed. Maybe his wasn’t the best story to tell young children, either. It certainly wasn’t a happy one by any means.
Wasn’t. It wasn’t happy, a more sensible voice in the back of his head whispered. It’s in the past, Draco. Your future is in your hands.
The voice sounded a lot like the voice of the witch across from him.
When he looked at her, he saw only encouragement in her eyes as she mouthed, “ Go on. ”
“What happened next?” Ellie prompted, bouncing lightly in her seat.
“For a time, the dragon prince couldn’t break free. The evil wizard’s hold on him was too strong. But then, one day, the evil wizard captured the princess and her friends, who were trying to stop him from hurting more people. The dragon prince saw this and, with a big flash of light, broke free from the wizard’s hold on him, and transformed into a great, big dragon!”
Ellie cheered, and even Granger clapped from across the room.
“So he saved the princess and her friends?” Ellie asked.
He flushed. “He didn’t save them, exactly. Just gave them a little help, is all.”
“Well, I think the dragon prince was very brave,” quipped Granger.
“Me too,” Ellie nodded. “Is that it? What happens to the dragon prince? And the princess and her friends?”
Just then, the Floo burned brighter as Blaise and Ginny stepped out.
“I’ll tell you next time, okay?” Draco said. “When mummy and daddy ask us to come over again.”
She grinned in response, nodding before she jumped up from her seat and ran towards her parents. ”Mummy! Daddy!”
“Hello, darling. Nice night with Aunt Hermione and Uncle Draco?” said Ginny, scooping the little girl up into her arms and pressing a kiss to her head.
“She didn’t give you too much trouble, did she?” Blaise asked, affectionately ruffling his daughter’s hair.
“Never,” replied Hermione, standing up from her chair and giving Blaise a quick hug.
“Uncle Draco told me the story of the dragon prince!” As Ellie babbled on about the story to an amused Ginny, Blaise turned to Draco.
“Dragon prince, huh?”
Draco rolled his eyes in response, punching Blaise’s arm lightly. “Just a bit of fun. See you tomorrow for lunch at the Potters’?”
Blaise clapped him on the shoulder. “Yeah. Thanks for watching Ellie tonight. Both of you.”
Ellie squirmed out of her mother’s hold, throwing both arms around Draco’s legs. “Thank you for the story, Uncle Draco.”
She went to Hermione next, hugging her tight. “Bye, Aunt Hermione.”
“Have a nice night, you two!” Ginny called as Draco and Hermione prepared to leave out the front door, after Hermione said she wanted to walk for a little bit, since their homes weren’t far from each other.
Out in the street, Draco nudged Hermione with a teasing smile. “Fancy yourself a princess, Granger?”
She shoved him lightly, laughing. “Fancy yourself a dragon prince, Malfoy?”
“What’s so funny? I was named after dragons, you know.”
“You’re named after the constellation. That one right there, in fact.” She stopped walking to look up and trace the stars with her finger. Finding him in the night sky.
He smiled. “Fine. Maybe I was. That dragon prince couldn’t be me, anyway. I think he’s far better than I could ever be.”
“Hey, none of that.” Hermione chided, poking him in the chest. “Better than you were, maybe. Not better than you could ever be. Your future is in your hands, remember?”
Maybe it was the cool night air, or the way she looked, or the transformative winds of time and awful decisions and consequences and Granger, Granger, Granger, but something prompted him to catch her hand as she let it fall from his chest.
Your future is in your hands. His future, her hands. Small and cold and closing its fingers over his.
“I know, Granger.” His favourite word. His favourite person. Maybe ever.
Draco looked up, only to find her looking at their hands clasped together with a small smile on her face.
“It’s a little early, don’t you think?” He ventured, running a thumb across the back of her hand.
Hermione bit back her smile. “A little. You know, I have a bottle of that wine left. The one from Neville and Pansy’s wedding.”
He let go of her hand and bowed low. “Lead the way, Your Highness.”
She shoved him again, shaking her head. He caught her arm just as she turned on her heel, catching her by the shoulders and planting a soft, gentle kiss on her lips.
Granger, Granger, Granger. Her name in his head, the taste of her on his lips.
Draco could think of a thousand ways a man of his age might choose to spend his Saturday night, but not a single one of those ways would ever top this: with Hermione Granger in his arms and his future in his hands.