A/N:

Forgive me for being terribly late to this bandwagon. I grew up with these books, loved the depth and characters, but always wanted something...else. I guess maybe this was it? As this is my first Harry Potter fic, I appreciate all feedback on the world or characters or writing (this is fanfiction after all :D). This fic will jump between two different times (2017 - ? and 1998), and attempt to keep things mildly canon. No promises. But if you wanted canon, you'd read the books, right?

This story is rated M for language (teenagers) and future content (also teenagers). The plot in this is just falling out so I'm hoping to update pretty frequently. Thanks to all who stumbled upon this and took the time read it!

-KJ

The Lost Years

Chapter 1: An Epilogue & A Beginning

September 1, 2017

If he were acting on the firm basis of normality, he shouldn't have given a flying fuck. Passing feelings and would-have-could-have-should-ofs, were meant for idiots and Hufflepuffs (one in the same, actually, the more he thought about it). But here he was, watching his only son smile up at him in dark robes, and he felt positively hollow. It was a wide smile –foreign for a Malfoy—plastered proudly on Scorpius' face, and Draco almost felt the need to bend his knee, ruffle the boy's hair and say something completely paltry like "Be a good boy and make us proud!" or "Home won't be the same without you! Write to us all the time!".

He sneered at the thought. Draco held his head high while Astoria gave their son a quick hug and peck on the cheek. Her eyes were glossy, shining even in the dismal lighting of King's Cross. His heart quickened at the sight of his wife like this. He hated to see her upset—something normally reserved for the taut meetings with his parents—and he knew the upcoming year would be hard on her. Astoria was the perfect picture of a Mrs. Malfoy. Pureblood, beautiful, intelligent, well-respected. Her responsibilities were running the household and raising Scorpius, and suddenly those responsibilities had been slashed in half. Her face looked pallid, ashen, and Draco's heart squirmed even more. She had been selfless when it came to Scorpius, in an infinite amount of ways, and now her son was leaving and staring at him, expecting some fatherly words of advice. Draco blinked, grey eyes dulling. What the hell am I supposed to say?

"Darling, our son asked you a question."

He did? Draco had obviously been too engrossed in whatever thoughts in his head to notice. "What was it?"

"That you won't be mad? If I'm not in Slytherin?"

He didn't entertain the thought. "You'll be in Slytherin."

Scorpius frowned, shoulders hunching, "But if I'm not…"

"You will be." Draco blinked. "I'm not sure why we're wasting our time talking about this."

Astoria's faint smile faded even more, but Draco didn't take back the words. His son would be in Slytherin. Clearly he wanted to be, and if Draco had any recollection of his own sorting when he was eleven, he knew that the musty old hat took some consideration of what you wanted. I would have been the worst Ravenclaw. He smirked at the memory, which Astoria mistook for smirking at their son's anxiety. Shit. "Scorpius…" He did bend down at that and looked at his son. Scorpius' eyes were his, his hair was his, every physical ounce of this child's body screamed Malfoy. But there was a softness and an empathy that Draco certainly did not possess at eleven. He had to credit Astoria for that.

"Scorpius…" He started again. "I don't care if you're in Slytherin."

Grey eyes blinked. "You don't?"

"No, that's a lie. I bloody do."

"Draco!" Astoria hissed.

But Draco gave her a soft smile before turning back to their son. "I do, but it's not the most important thing. Not by a long shot. Just…be happy. That's all I want. Be happy and get good grades, and do not get in as much trouble as I did."

Astoria snorted but did not speak. Draco stood back to his full height and was about to do the ever so clichéd ruffle of hair gesture when his son pointed. "Who's that?"

He turned and his eyes immediately narrowed. It had been a while, over a decade, since he had seen the Weasleys. He had been invited to their wedding but sent over an enchanted vacuum cleaner in his stead (Granger barely seemed the type to be committed to housework). Out of etiquette, he had invited them both to his and Astoria's wedding, and they, surprisingly with Potter and the other Weasley, showed up and gave some bizarre mini-oven. A Muggle invention for sure, but Astoria seemed to appreciate it decently enough.

They both, generally, looked the same. The Weasley boy seemed to have the Butterbeer sneak up on him a bit and this wisp of red hair dotting his chin, but he was all in all, incredibly recognizable. Granger had a few more wrinkles but the same bird nest of brown frizz. She seemed to be positively glowing and that whole idea had Draco swallowing and running his hands through his own tied-up hair. He hated it long. How Astoria convinced him that the shoulder length hair looked good on him he would never know. It reminded him of his father, of the decade and a half he spent trying to impress his father. I need to cut this bloody thing off.

"That's Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and their daughter," Astoria answered promptly. Merlin bless this woman and her lack of history with Potter and his gang. Time and social obligations had led to a slightly tainted indifference to Potter and Co., but Draco couldn't help what memories were drudged up at the mere sight of Potter, Weasley, or Granger. His left arm tinged just thinking about it, about all the stupid shit he had gone through, about how absolutely fucked up his childhood and adolescence actually were. His eyes fell to Scorpius again. You won't have to deal with any of that. I promise you.

"She's pretty."

Those same grey eyes widened, and Draco half-choked. "Granger?! Scorpius, she's at least…"

"I think he means Rose, darling." Astoria snorted again, but something in her tone made him think she did not find anything currently funny. "That's what their child's name is, isn't it?"

Rose Granger-Weasley. Astoria had been wrong before; of course the bloody witch kept her last name and her child had a hyphenation. Draco looked at Rose and couldn't help but think how much she looked like Hermione at that age, if Hermione had fire-red hair. She was a pretty girl, he admitted, though that admission made him realize that some part of him also thought Granger was pretty and he refused to voice that thought. Draco didn't answer his wife. "Their son is Hugo." Merlin knows why he knew that little fact.

Potter was on the platform as well, a thin messy haired boy currently wrapped in his arms and two other children roaming about. The Hogwarts Express hummed and called all of its passengers, blowing steam across Platform 9 ¾. It felt hot as the waft hit Draco's face and he gave his son a quick, loose hug, words failing to come to him. "Be good," he finally murmured, mouth leaning close to his son's ear. Please be good.

The children were on. The train started to move and this whole flood of unwelcomed nostalgia practically floored him. Draco grabbed his wife's hand. He had been a nervous, petulant child. He had been scared and determined and cocky all wrapped in one weird, tormented bundle. He had wanted nothing more than to be in Slytherin (easy), be friends with Harry Potter (ha), and make his father proud (double ha).

"Astoria!"

Someone, a woman, had called after his wife. Astoria seemed to be shocked by that as well and turned her dark head to see that it was, in fact, Ginevra Potter. She hesitated, and with a small pulse of her palm, loosened her grip on her husband and walked on over to the red head. It was a small circle of women—Astoria, the new Potter, and Granger—huddled in small talk. They all had children the same age, all had some sort of connection, and as much as Draco wanted to deny it, he had a huge connection to their husbands as well. Granger looked practically peevish when Astoria joined their small circle. But seeming to catch herself, her reluctant scowl morphed into a small grin, patting the woman on the back before introducing her son.

"Malfoy."

The familiar voice of his rival always seemed to irk him, even now. Draco bit back the visceral reaction and lowered his shoulders. "Potter." His grey eyes jumped to the taller man next to him. "Weasley."

Harry Potter was still skinny. He still had messy hair and crooked glasses and a scar that marked his fame and heroism. He was also still, as far as Draco was concerned, a complete arse. "Is it a bad time to tell you we are still coming over tomorrow to inspect the Manor's dark artefacts?"

Business. Draco wished he had a business, but after being a Death Eater, at however young he was, most jobs seemed to be out of his reach. But Golden Boy and Weaselbee were heroes and Aurors. Forget the fact that Potter and Weasley never even finished their N.E.W.T.s. Forget the fact that Draco had forced himself to go back to the mess he made at Hogwarts and complete seventh year with Gr—

Stop that. He bit his lip. Would-have-could-have-should-ofs were meant for idiots and Hufflepuffs. "Is it a bad time to tell you that Scorpius is going to slog your brat in Quidditch?"

Potter laughed. "I plan to see you at every match."

"Get out your red and gold then."

"Assuming he's in Gryffindor."

That seemed to shock both the Weasel King and Draco. "Pardon?"

"James was almost in Ravenclaw." Potter paused. "I was almost sorted into Slytherin. Who's to say what house Albus will get."

"His name is bloody Albus." Draco thought that reason enough.

The Weasel was getting red in the cheeks, as if the thought alone that his daughter could be in anything else besides Gryffindor would lead to his death. And he voiced as such. "Rose is a Gryffindor through and through."

Draco shrugged. House loyalties were almost as dumb as blood purity. Almost. Green and silver still looked best on the Malfoy complexion.

Potter and Trio Member #2 looked back to the group of wives, and then #2 decided to say something completely baffling. "Astoria seems nice."

Draco looked for the snide comment, for the underhanded insult wrapped somewhere in that sentence. But what was he doing? Weasley wasn't smart enough for that. "She is." He focused on the women as well. Granger had her hand on his wife's shoulder, laughing. Something deeply buried was making his stomach churn. "Sorry, but have either of you noticed that we're having a decent conversation? No weasel or ferret jokes? No Potter-branded sass?"

Potter blinked behind his frames. "I know. Bugger me."

The women had decided to end their chit chat and soon, Potter's wife had her arm on her husband's shoulder, leaning profusely. Draco had to admit that Albus had genetics working in his favor what with Harry's history as a Seeker and Ginny's stint on the Holyhead Harpies. But no matter. It wasn't like Astoria had been a pushover, well before all of…

Astoria interrupted his thoughts as she snaked an arm through his, her head doing the leaning. Draco fidgeted, unaccustomed to any sort of public display of affection from this woman and saw that she was staring not at him, or Weasley or either Potter. Her gaze was firmly set on Granger who just stood there, one hand holding her son's and the other loose at her side. Ron coughed. "Hugo, are you going to miss your sister?"

The shy, red-headed boy said nothing, but his mother was staring at Astoria. And then, for some damn reason, those brown eyes decided to look at Draco and he felt his body flinch. Fuck. "Hi Draco."

His name took him off guard, though it really shouldn't have. She had called him by his first name the last time they truly talked to each other. But that was so long ago. He had a million and one things he wanted to say to this woman, but she just seemed to stand there, calm and fucking glowing. Endless words were on his tongue: bad, horrible, life ruining words. He swallowed deeply, unsure what to call her. "Hello."

He expected some nonsense like, "I haven't seen you in a while" or even "How have you been?" but there was nothing. Hermione's gaze shifted down to her son and soon she was heading back to apparate with her son and husband.

Her husband.

Merlin, why the fuck was that so weird to think about? They had been married for what? 12 years? Astoria leaned more into his shoulder before they headed their own way. "Strange seeing them, isn't it Draco?"

He nodded. He swore Astoria had some absurd ability in Legilimency. The barriers in his own mind started building. "It was strangely…" Pleasant was the wrong word. "Sufferable."

"And think, we'll see them again in December and then June and then…"

"Yes, yes." He knew what his wife was driving at. She was about as discrete as a troll.

"All the time. Just like seventh year."

He wanted to correct her and say that it was more like eighth year for him and sixth for her. And that Potter and Weasley hadn't even been around his weirdly unnatural final year at Hogwarts. But that was entirely the wrong answer. And he loved his wife enough to say, "It'll be nothing like seventh year."

She kissed his cheek. It was warm, wet, and brimming with sadness. "I love you."

"I love you too."

.

.

September 1, 1998

She didn't want to be best friends with Ginny Weasley because, as far as she was concerned, it was incredibly not normal to be best friends with your boyfriend's little sister. Sure if and when she and Ron got married they could become friends, even sisters. But anything before that made Hermione uncomfortable. That and the fact that she really had no desire to know what it was like to snog Harry.

So she had said hello to the girl, asked her if she had any anxiety going back to Hogwarts after the battle (aptly named The Battle of Hogwarts), and then proceeded to find an empty compartment on the train, a N.E.W.T-level Care of Magical Creatures text in hand.

This was not intended to be a social year. This was not intended to be anything but a necessary year. When Ron and Harry had both announced their plans to not return to Hogwarts and finish up their schooling, Hermione practically lost it. She did not attend six years of magic school to not get a diploma. Her parents, memory now restored, would never hear the end of it. She could never live with herself, and she was surprised that her best friend and boyfriend could.

Ron had been rather annoying about it, actually. It still bothered her that the mere thought of going back to school and actually finishing what she started could be considered a waste of time. She loved the boy, but he could really be such a twit sometimes.

After last year, Hermione had been looking forward to just getting her life situated. Hogwarts would be a mess, she knew, but a part of her was looking forward to helping the institution get up and running again. McGonagall would need the help, she was certain, and Hermione would bend over backwards to help the school get back into some degree of order.

Though it would be weird without Harry or Ron. It would be…not like school at all. And a part of Hermione just wanted to go to class, lock herself in the library, take her N.E.W.T.s and get back to her friends. It'll be okay. She thumbed through the same page. The train had been moving for about ten minutes or so, and she counted herself lucky that no first years had gone searching for her or her friends. Thanks to that insatiably annoying Rita Skeeter, there had been quite a bit of press coverage about the dubbed Golden Trio. There was an especially disgusting personal series concerning her and Ron that she had no intention of reliving. It's Hogwarts. You can relax. No horcruxes or traveling across Britain. No unforgivables. No Death…

Her thoughts stopped as the door to her otherwise vacant compartment slid open. Hermione edged back, recognizing the blond hair immediately. Well, scratch that then.

Draco Malfoy looked at her briefly, a sharp streak of anxiety flashing over his face before he looked away. She expected him to turn right around and head out of her compartment. She wanted him to. But the boy simply sat across from her on the far end of the seat and kept his head down. His robes seemed…not new. Not old or shabby or threaded by any means, but they weren't the brand new robes that he would have normally received. In his hands were several worn, leather ripped books, and the whole thing seemed so completely bizarre to Hermione that she couldn't help but stare at him.

He was still incredibly pointy—sharp, aristocratic nose, high cheek bones, scowling mouth. His hair was the same white blond, his skin pale and lightly hued with the fresh tan of summer. There was no doubt that to the general student population Draco would be deemed attractive. There were many nights in the Gryffindor girl dormitories where all the girls (Hermione unfortunately included) sat up giggling and ranking every boy in each house. Slytherin was always one of the more heatedly combated, and if she had to hear another debate about Blaise Zabini and Malfoy one more time, she would throw herself from the train.

After being bullied by this boy for six years and having her arm mauled open by his aunt, it was hard for Hermione to ever consider him attractive. So all in all, Hermione thought he looked horrid and skinny, but somehow still better than sixth year.

And though the sympathetic and (she had to admit) pitying part of Hermione was glad he looked like he had actually been sleeping and eating, the majority of her hated his guts and wanted him as far away from her as possible. She stifled that though, acknowledging silently to herself that this was a free country and that horrible, terrible boys could sit where they wanted to. She was still thumbing the same page of her book, reading over and over how to properly approach a Chimera (no bowing—that shows weakness), when Malfoy got up from his seat, walked towards the compartment door and locked it.

Her hand immediately went for her wand. She pointed it straight at him, heart hammering, chest pounding. Her book fell carelessly on the floor as she saw Malfoy raise an eyebrow at her. Hermione was less than amused. "What do you think you're doing?!"

"Locking a door."

"Why?"

That blond eyebrow arched higher, if at all possible. His voice was cool, even. "I'm trying to get through this as painlessly as possible." His grey eyes narrowed at the wand pointed at his face. "Obviously you have other plans, Granger."

She ignored how calm he sounded as it seemed to have nothing to do with how he actually felt. His shoulders were raised, tense. His face looked pinched, and Hermione lowered her wand. He had done nothing, absolutely nothing, and she was basically threatening him. Get a hold of yourself. Her voice was lower than she intended. "Didn't you come back for seventh year? Why are you even here?"

"You mean, before Voldemort locked me and my entire family up in our house for letting Potter go?" His tone was laced with bitterness. It sounded dry, sore. Malfoy dropped his head on the back of the cushioned seat with a muffled clunk. "Why are you here? Don't you have enough wizards knocking on your door and singing your praises? What the hell do you need a degree for?"

The question took her off guard. She wasn't comfortable talking to Malfoy about anything, let alone the same topic she last discussed with her boyfriend. Instead she brought her legs up to her seat and leaned against the window. She was in a thin jumper and Muggle jeans, comfortable clothes for the (now incredibly) long train ride. Hermione turned the page. She hadn't finished the previous one, but she could feel Malfoy's eyes on her and wanted to appear busy.

Malfoy had picked up his own text—Arithmancy it seemed like. He was quite good at Arithmancy if she remembered, and the dreadful feeling that they would actually have classes together started to sink in. Of course, something deep inside her bones knew that he wasn't evil, that he had saved their lives in Malfoy Manor and the Battle of Hogwarts and so on and so forth. She knew that without him, she and her two best friends would be dead. But then there was also the nagging (and accurate) voice in her head that repeated that without him, Dumbledore would be alive. That without him, she wouldn't have cried all through second year or thought herself worthless and wish that her parents had been wizards instead of dentists.

Though that had only been a passing thought. She loved her parents. They were safe and still living in Australia, preferring the dry, sinking heat to Britain's notoriously horrid weather. And now, staring at the pale prat, Hermione couldn't have been prouder of her Muggle heritage.

His grey eyes glanced up, and Hermione flinched as he caught her staring. Beads of sweat lined her hairline, and she quickly found that really, the Scottish Highlands were quite beautiful. It was a sunny day; the clouds moving so quickly across the blue sky that made her think it would rain soon. Malfoy shifted, about to speak, and Hermione braced herself for whatever cocky, insulting remark the boy could possible make. "That's the wrong edition."

It took her a few seconds to acknowledge that what he said was neither arrogant or obtuse. Hermione glanced at her book. "No, it isn't."

He shrugged and flipped a page of his Arithmancy text, and when she huffed and turned back to her own reading, she felt a leather spine lightly collide with her shoulder. Malfoy was still reading when he said, "Ninth edition, not sixth."

The colliding book was in fact a N.E.W.T-level Care of Magical Creatures text. It was also, to Hermione's dismay, a newer edition than the one cradled in her lap. If this had been any other boy, Hermione would thank him, ask to borrow the text for the duration of the train ride, and feel completely embarrassed over her earlier denial that she had the right book. But she felt none of that and instead tossed the book back to Malfoy. His year-old robes were open, revealing a high collared jumper and black trousers. The book fell inelegantly by his black boots.

Malfoy picked up the book and checked to see if the spine were still intact. "You're welcome, Granger."

Maybe it was the guilt from mishandling his text that had her talking. Yes, she'd go with that. "You're in Care of Magical Creatures?"

Grey eyes were only on Arithmancy. "It would appear so."

"I thought you hated that class."

"I thought you hated me but look at you, knowing all this about me. Who would have guessed?"

She shuffled in her seat and closed her own book before straightening against the window. The words that immediately fell on her lips were "No, I think you're an obnoxious, misguided twat, but I don't hate you" but that seemed a bit too argumentative this early in the school year. Hermione, although buzzing to fight with this boy, also wanted to avoid any sort of attention. Getting into verbal rows with ex-Death Eaters would be a bit attention grabbing, especially on her first day. So instead, the witch looked at the small stack of books by his side, noting that many of them were classes she also intended on taking. "You're taking a lot of N.E.W.T.s?"

He seemed too alert at the question, as if, like Hermione, he had also expected some sort of grating, witty backlash. "Something to keep me busy. You?"

The words were too shallow. Something to keep him busy. Something to occupy his time, his thoughts. Something to make him not remember what happened last year and (maybe even) the year before that. Hermione swallowed, feeling suddenly vulnerable across from him. "Me too."

He nodded curtly and went back to reading, and then after the sweets cart came and the rain truly started falling, he placed the ninth edition of Highly Advanced Care of Magical Creatures next to her.

It took her another ten minutes to start reading it.

A/N:

Thank you all again for reading! Any feedback would be much appreciated :)