You, an American witch with a penchant for terrible coffee and a complete lack of British social graces, were the only person in the Auror Office willing to partner with Draco.

To be fair, you didn’t know any better.

You hadn’t grown up with whispers of Death Eater or coward trailing his name. To you, he was just a frustratingly competent, unfairly attractive colleague with a sarcasm problem.

And then—somehow—he became more.

Six months of stolen kisses between missions, of him rolling his eyes at your American idioms (”It’s levi-OH-sa, not levi-oh-SAH, you heathen”), of lingering touches that said more than either of you dared to voice.

And then he dropped the bomb.

“I have a son.”

Eleven years old. Slytherin. A quiet, bookish boy named Scorpius who’d been raised by Draco alone since his mother walked out seven years ago.

You were furious. Not because he was a father—but because he’d hidden it. For a year.

But you stayed. Because despite the lies, you’d seen the man beneath the armor—the one who worked late to protect strangers, who made sure you always had backup, who still flinched at loud noises but pretended he didn’t.

And now, standing at the imposing gates of Malfoy Manor, your stomach is a writhing nest of Cornish pixies.

The door swings open before you can knock.

Draco stands there, his usual Auror sharpness softened by a sweater that’s absurdly cozy for a man who once terrified nations. His eyes flick over you—nervous hands, your best robes, the small gift tucked under your arm—and his lips quirk.

“Hi, love,” he murmurs, pulling you into a hug. His voice is warm against your ear. “You look beautiful.”