A/N: Draco Malfoy is bisexual and if that will be an issue for you please do not read this fic. Please do not leave reviews asking about Draco's sexuality. Thank you for reading, please keep all hands and feet inside and remember you can exit the ride at any time.

Hermione Granger thought there were books to prepare her for everything.

She was wrong.

Her third anniversary as Healer-in-Charge at St. Mungo's was a great day. She bought herself a new pair of shoes, then let Ginny and Angelina Johnson get her way too drunk on firewhisky. It was rare that Hermione treated herself to an off-day that consisted of more than catching up on sleep.

When someone knocked on her door at six the next morning, Hermione's head ached like she had been hit with a dozen jinxes straight to the forehead. When she tried to sit up gravity seemed out for some sort of revenge. She massaged her temples and kicked the blankets off the bed, wishing she only imagined the knocks. She threw a pillow at her bedroom door like that would make the person outside go away.

Another knock and she mumbled a string of unintelligible curse words. Hermione squinted, fumbled her way to the bedroom door, and began the slow, treacherous journey down the stairs, one foot in front of the other, with one hand clutching the handrail. Once Hermione's fingers hit the handle on her front door she heard the unmistakable crack of Disapparition from the other side. She huffed as she opened the door to see her visitor had, in fact, left. Nothing but the sunrise and dew to meet her, all that early-morning effort gone to waste.

Hermione went to slam the door but stopped short when she spotted a newborn baby in a basket on her welcome mat.

"I'm hallucinating," she groaned.

Hermione shut the door and rested her head against it before she made for the kitchen. There was a hangover potion somewhere between the vodka and the firewhisky. She took a long sip and sighed as her headache disappeared. Still exhausted from the previous day's festivities, she made for the stairs but stopped when she heard something crying.

Hermione flung open her front door to see the baby was still there, wailing louder than anyone should be capable of at six o'clock in the morning. Hermione's eyes went wide and she slammed the door shut again, desperate for it all to be a nightmare. This only frightened the baby on the other side so it cried even louder. Hermione resigned herself to fate and opened the door.

"Shh," she cooed as she picked up the basket. "Please stop; you'll wake the neighbors."

It did not stop.

I'll take it to St. Mungo's. The Healers on the third floor might know what to do with it. They'll be able to put it in a nice home with a loving family—

In an instant, Hermione knew she couldn't do that. She placed the basket on her couch and sighed as the baby paused its caterwauling. She wiped the sticky goop from its eyes and when it looked up she felt her heart fall into her stomach. Those grey eyes were familiar. Nothing fond or friendly, it was something more akin to a challenge. Hermione had seen those eyes before, on more than one face that she couldn't place, but reasoned it would come to her in time. Its squished face was red but the rest of the baby was very pale. It had white-blond hair and was partially wrapped in a green blanket made of the softest fabric Hermione had ever touched. The baby reached up its makeshift bed with its tiny hands and Hermione tentatively offered a finger. When it grabbed hold, she sighed.

"If I'm not taking you to St. Mungo's I suppose I'll keep you until we find your parents. Why would anyone give you up? More importantly, who thought it was a good idea to bring you to me?"

The baby didn't respond but Hermione kept talking.

"Ronald wanted kids. Funny, I managed to beat him to that, too," she laughed. "He and Alicia have a baby on the way now, I think. Harry and Ginny don't talk about him much since we … Well, it's not for you to worry about."

An owl knocked on her window and Hermione untied the Daily Prophet from its leg. She closed the window against the morning chill as the owl flew away and turned back to the baby on her couch. Hermione remembered something about babies Ginny said years earlier.

Babies need to be wrapped tightly in their blanket. Start with a diamond, then wrap them up like a mummy. They won't be able to scratch themselves, or you for that matter. Then bounce them up and down a bit and they'll fall asleep faster than Harry in History of Magic.

As far as Hermione was concerned, swaddling looked like origami. She scooped the baby out of its basket and noticed a small note tucked into the cushion. Holding the child against her shoulder, Hermione pulled out the small piece of parchment.

"Name him after a star.

-Astoria"

"So you don't have a name," Hermione observed, "and you're a boy. Good to know."

It took three tries, but Hermione finally managed a decent swaddle. She picked him up, rested his head against her shoulder, and lightly patted his back. In return, he spittled all over her shirtsleeve. She groaned and mumbled a quick Evanesco, but the baby seemed exhausted and soon started softly snoring against her other shoulder. Hermione started bouncing like she'd seen Ginny do with baby James and Albus Severus.

What the hell am I going to do? I have no idea how to take care of a child and I can't call Ginny at this hour. There aren't any books about what to do when a baby ends up on your doorstep!

She absentmindedly flipped through the Daily Prophet. The front page featured a story about the annual Malfoy donation to St. Mungo's but Lady Narcissa was the only person in the photo. Lucius Malfoy died years earlier, but where was Draco? It didn't matter, Hermione had learned it was better not to dwell on thoughts of the Malfoys. She flipped through the pages, skimming over Quidditch scores and the obituaries when one caught her eye.

"The funeral service for Astoria Greengrass was held on June 10th."

That was it. No "survived by" or even a gravesite location. Just a cryptic one line mentioning her death like no one was going to miss her. Or that whomever would didn't want people asking questions.

"I'm so sorry, baby," Hermione whispered to the baby asleep against her shoulder. "It looks like you're here because your mother is gone. I just wonder … Who is your father?"

But there was something undeniably familiar about him, and if he was Astoria Greengrass's child he came from money. Something must have gone terribly wrong for this child to end up at Hermione's door. If she took him to St. Mungo's she would never find out why he felt so familiar. Something, some unknown force tugged on her heartstrings. She tucked the baby beneath her chin and whispered, "Don't be scared," as she Apparated to a familiar little house on the outskirts of London.

There was only one place to go at six o'clock on a Sunday morning with a newfound baby in her arms. He stayed asleep through the travel, a small miracle on its own, and Hermione prayed for another. She knocked on the door and held her breath, unsure what to expect. Hermione hadn't visited in three years, so the woman who opened the door was understandably surprised to see her. Hermione put on her bravest smile and said,

"Hi, Mum."