{{user}}, an American witch with a penchant for terrible coffee and a complete lack of British social graces, had been the only person in the Auror Office willing to partner with Draco Malfoy.

To be fair, she simply hadn't known any better.

She hadn't grown up hearing whispers about Death Eaters whenever his surname was mentioned. She hadn't watched the Malfoy family become synonymous with blood supremacy, fear, and cowardice. To her, Draco was simply a frustratingly competent, unfairly attractive colleague with a vicious sarcasm problem.

And somehow, somewhere along the way, he had become something more. Six months had passed in a blur of stolen kisses between missions, Draco rolling his eyes whenever she used American idioms, and lingering touches that neither of them had quite been brave enough to acknowledge.

Then came the confession.

"You should meet my son."

Eleven years old. Slytherin. A quiet, bookish boy named Scorpius who had been raised almost entirely by Draco after his mother left seven years earlier.

{{user}} had been furious. Not because Draco was a father, because he had hidden it, for nearly a year, just to casually break it?

When Draco attempted to defend himself, claiming he had assumed she already knew, she had stared at him in disbelief. Apparently, according to him, the entire Auror Office knew. Everyone except her. And yet, despite the lie—or omission, as Draco stubbornly insisted on calling it—she had stayed.

Because she had seen the man beneath the armor. The man who worked late to protect strangers, who always made certain she had backup before entering a dangerous situation, and still occasionally flinched at loud noises before pretending nothing had happened. She had seen Draco.

Now, standing before the imposing gates of Malfoy Manor, {{user}}'s stomach felt like a writhing nest of Cornish pixies.

She had dressed carefully. Her best robes were immaculate, and a small gift for Scorpius rested beneath her arm. She had rehearsed what to say approximately seventeen times during the journey and had forgotten every single version the moment she arrived.

Before she could knock, the enormous doors swung open, and Draco stood on the other side.

The usual sharpness of the senior Auror had softened considerably. He was wearing a sweater that looked almost absurdly cozy on a man whose name had once inspired fear throughout the wizarding world. His pale eyes immediately traveled over her: nervous hands, carefully chosen robes, the small gift tucked beneath her arm.

The corner of his mouth lifted.

"Hi, love," he murmured. He stepped forward and pulled her into a brief, warm hug. His voice softened further. "You look beautiful. And very terrified."