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Chapter Text

Chapter One

"No, Hermione, for the hundredth time, I am absolutely not returning to school to take seventh year," Ron, red faced and irate, stabbed a sausage off of her plate and glowered at her from across the worn wooden surface of the Weasley's dining table

"There are still three weeks of summer, Ronald," Hermione pleaded, "I'm sure if you just asked Headmistress McGonagall, she'd be willing to-"

Harry, who was sitting next to Ron, sighed and laid down his Daily Prophet. "Look, we've been over this loads of times. There's really no point in us returning to Hogwarts. We have learned so much more this past year than we ever will there. Plus, the Ministry is in shambles, Hermione. They need as many able wands as possible." He cast her a pointed, guilt inducing look.

She chose to ignore it and press on. "That's not true, Harry! There are absolute heaps we haven't learned in practically every subject. Not to mention the N.E.W.T.S! This one over here," she pointed her fork at Ron, "is severely lacking in Transfiguration. How can you go off into the world to hunt for…for Death Eaters without a proper education, for Merlin's sake?"

Hermione knew her voice had taken on that shrill quality they both teased her over, knew her cheeks were flushed a brilliant crimson and her eyes wet with tears, but she couldn't help herself. The Ministry needed properly trained wizards, and she needed her best mates to be there with her for their last true year at Hogwarts. How could they not understand that?

Ron rolled his eyes, oblivious to her anxiety, and still managing to look irritated with half a sausage in his mouth. "Well, when we capture a Death Eater and transfiguring a mouse into a teapot is the only way we'll get answers from him, we'll owl you, how about that?"

He turned to Harry, a sudden brainwave having struck. "They're so short staffed, I can't imagine who they'll have to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts this year. Snape's portrait?"

While the two boys debated the positives and negatives of a portrait for a professor - "It could work; we did have a ghost professor," or "He technically couldn't enforce detention," Hermione let the issue lie for now and left the table, breakfast untouched.

Out in the garden, summer was making its stalwart presence known. A sweltering heat wave had overcome the countryside at the beginning of August, bringing record breaking temperatures and rolling afternoon thunderstorms that did nothing but add to the intense humidity.

Hermione looked upon Molly's sagging, rain beaten tomato plants in sympathy from her shaded bench.

Left alone with her thoughts, bile began to rise in the back of her throat. Hermione swallowed and tried to refocus her attention to the rustling hydrangea bushes to her left and the tiny gnome feet peeking out. Anywhere, but to the growing concern deep in her heart.

She looked down at her somewhat bloated stomach, having before laughed it off as eating too much of Molly's delicious home cooking. It started out with a little niggling at the back of her mind - the stray thought here, a doubt there. She was losing weight, not gaining, Hermione thought, absently rubbing her temples as another round of nausea struck her. Her monthly had come, not regularly, but a couple of times in the last few months with occasional cramps waking her up in the middle of the night.

Hermione would have noticed something sooner after it had happened.

The school year is approaching and loss of sleep is making me delusional, she had concluded last night as she refolded her Gryffindor scarf over and over in her hands until it was a tight rectangle, laying it neatly in her already packed trunk.

Hermione had much preferred to deny that night in April had ever occurred. To give it her thoughts was to make it real, she liked to think. And except for the occasional, every-other-day nightmare, she felt ignoring the incident at the Manor was the most logical thing to do.

The Dark Lord had been defeated, and the wizarding world, her world, was left in tatters. She was one among many survivors tasked with picking up the pieces Voldemort and his followers had left ruined in their wake. Her friends had all had terrible things happen to them, she reasoned. There was no point in making them bear the burden of her ordeal.

Three more weeks and the summer would be over. Three more weeks and life would begin to become normal again. No more horcrux hunting. No more sleepless nights in a dingy tent.

No more cackles of laughter and slimy lips on her own…

No, no, no…. she clutched her hands tightly, rubbing them back and forth. No, don't think about that. It's over and done. You're safe here. Look at the hydrangeas, she thought frantically to herself. You're safe here.

But as she forced her eyes upward, the shadows being cast from the eastern sun twisted and transformed, and a man crept slowly towards her, dogged and hungry.

Jus' a little taste, huh? I bet I can touch ya there an' you'll be as slippery as an eel. Oh, ya like that, ya filthy Mudblood slu-

Hermione barely made it to the hydrangeas before she was violently ill. Yellow bile and a bit of last night's steak and kidney pie coated the cones of pink flowers. The dry heaves that followed didn't cover up the wails of indignation from the gnomes who ran for cover into the surrounding bush.

"Hermio – oh no!" She heard Harry's voice call from the back door then grass muffled footsteps as he ran towards her. "Are you ok? Is it your stomach?" His warm palm gently massaged her sweat soaked back and she nodded. "That pie last night didn't settle well with me either."

"Yeah, too much I suppose," Hermione looked up from her kneeling position in the dirt at Harry who was giving her an odd look, brows furrowed in concern.

"I was going to ask you if you'd like to accompany Ginny and Mrs. Weasley to Diagon Alley for school supplies seeing as you're all here. Looks like you could grab a tummy tonic from the Apothecary as well."

With a gentle smile, Harry helped Hermione to get feet and brushed back a sweaty strand of curly brown hair from her forehead. "Are you sure you're ok?

Hermione, hand at her mouth to wipe away the imagined spittle, couldn't meet her friend's eyes as she nodded an affirmation. "Um, yes, yes, just an upset stomach, I think."

Even the dreadful summer swelter couldn't eradicate the cheerful hum of energy all along Diagon Alley. In the nearly four months since the victory of the light, the previously barren, burned, or boarded up shops hastily reopened or made repairs, giving everyone a much needed sense of a return to normality.

Shops were brimming with customers and new products to entice them with, and despite the occasional blasted roof or boarded window that spoke for the troubles these last few years, the Alley burst with laughter and joviality.

Perhaps they want to remind themselves that they are still alive, Hermione pondered, navigating through the overcrowded path behind her two brightly haired companions. Witches and wizards have spent so much time living in fear, they need to know there are still some things that have survived the war.

A tawny owl being toted around in its cage by a lively eleven year old stared at her and hooted morosely. She understood how it felt. While she longed to feel the same joy and excitement the crowd emitted, Hermione felt a chill in her bones that wouldn't warm and an anxiety that twisted her stomach into coils. The answers to her fears were going to be resolved shortly, and that in itself brought another round of dread.

Steeling herself against the sudden urge to run, Hermione quickened her pace to catch up with the Weasley women.

"The Apothecary is just up this alley; I can pop in then meet you both at Flourish and Blotts, yeah?" Both Molly and Ginny agreed it was best to divide and conquer their supply list as Hermione could purchase Ginny's potion ingredients there as well. After an exchange of sickles, she quickly darted down the small side lane off the north end of the main alley, and walked into the small, unassuming shop.

The much cooler interior chilled Hermione's sweat covered skin and made goose pimples rise on her arms. When her eyes finally adjusted to the dark, she looked around at the neat rows of shelves and barrels of ingredients lining the walls, each meticulously labeled and sealed so some of the more difficult items could not escape. The shop was quiet, and besides a pair of older witches measuring the length of bat wings, it was quite empty. Nabbing some empty vials and pouches near the entrance, Hermione quickly acquired the ingredients needed for seventh year Potions for Ginny and herself.

And now the difficult part, she thought and, bracing herself, made her way to the rear of the shop to speak with the Apothecary.

The back counter where the elderly woman usually waited on customers to pick up their potions was vacant. Hermione drummed her fingers lightly on the oak counter and looked around.

She'd never spoken to the apothecary except to ask where a hard to find ingredient was every now and then. She hadn't much need to purchase tummy tonics or pepper-up potions as she would either make them herself or ask Madame Pomfrey when she was in school. Hermione was rarely ill, in fact. However, this particular concoction was needed with some urgency. A week was too long to wait when she needed the answers today, and what would she tell her friends she was brewing if they were to ask?

Molly would certainly recognize a pregnancy detection potion, of all people.

Having picked up and put down a small plaque reading 'Sworn by the Vow to Keep Your Private Matters Private' a few times, Hermione looked up and there, staring at her with a small smile, sat the witch she'd been waiting for. Hermione jumped back, having not heard her at all, and almost dropped the plaque.

"What can I do for you, dear?" Inquired the witch, her dark blue eyes twinkling in the low candlelight.

Nerves badly rattled as was, Hermione stammered to answer her after glancing around to see if they were indeed alone, "Um, yes, hello. If-if you could just, ahem, please tell me if you have a…" she paused and lowered her voice further," a pr-pregnancy detection potion?" She rushed to say the last bit as a deep flush creep from her neck to her cheeks.

"Of course we do! Just one moment, lovey" was her blithe response, and then quite unexpectedly leap from her stool to peruse the back shelves, moving with a speed that was surprising of a woman her age.

"Yes, let's see here, hmm, no no, not this one. Right, here we are!" She placed a rectangular glass bottle of clear liquid on the countertop. "Freshly brewed by me last week, and quite accurate, if I do say so. Can't keep 'em in stock very long; they're flying off the shelf!"

Hermione couldn't help but grimace at the witch and her appalling amount of energy and cheer. She gripped the bottle, ready to stow it deep within her knapsack, but stopped and set it back down in hesitation.

"Could you…I mean to say…how, precisely, does it work?"

"Ah, it's as easy as sneezing. You just gulp it down and wait an hour. When you make your waters, if it's blue colored, you've got a little one. If it's normal colored, you're free and clear. Now, make sure to drink plenty of water and remember once it's uncorked, you've got to use it within a fortnight, or the stinging nettle will separate."

Giving the little bottle one last reluctant glance, Hermione nodded.

Stepping back into the muggy alley, potion ingredients tucked under her arm and an empty rectangular glass vial carefully hidden in her bag, Hermione emitted a long sigh and turned left toward the bookstore.

"No, oh no…" Hermione whispered as she hunched against the porcelain sink in her small sea themed bathroom. She had closed the lid on the toilet and flushed, not wishing to see the blue contents any longer, but it wouldn't make the results disappear.

When she had returned home from Diagon Alley that evening, she had dropped her packages on the floor and rushed upstairs past her parents to the loo. It had been much more than an hour after ingesting the potion, and she had not relieved herself when she was with the Weasleys for fear it hadn't been long enough.

Blue. Why did it have to be blue? I shouldn't have waited so long. I should have done something, taken another potion sooner. Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age, what're you going to do? The water was blue…

An abrupt knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

"Hermione," her mother's concerned voice carried through the door, "are you alright?"

She cleared her throat and willed her voice to remain calm, "I'm fine, mum. Just a bad reaction to lunch, I think. I'll be down in a bit."

"Alright, darling. If you like, there is some Imodium in the medicine cabinet. Take a capful with plenty of water."

At the sound of her retreating footsteps, Hermione let out a bitter snort and ran her hands through her hair again.

I don't think drinking any more water will make this go away.

After picking herself off of the bathroom floor, and informing her parents that she was turning in for an early night, Hermione resolved herself to owl the only person who would understand, or at the very least should be aware of, her predicament.

A/N:

Hello! Thanks for reading the first chapter to the sequel of Flowers of Flesh and Blood. Hermione and Draco are just at the beginning of this journey, for better or worse. This fic will probably for 20 to 25 chapters long so please be patient with me. I have the plot and chapters mapped out and the first few finished.

Please, please comment and review even if you have nothing nice to say. Feedback is the kindling to my creative fire.

If anyone out there in a void can spare an hour or two to beta some chapters and spitball minor details with me, I would be truly appreciative!

Thank you for reading and stay tuned for more chapters coming soon!

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

Draco Malfoy laid fully clothed on his bed, the light of dusk having long faded and given way to the darkness of night. His eyes followed the obnoxious pattern of the curtains surrounding his bed frame. The dizzying swirls and random dots made his headache, and he decided to burn them first thing tomorrow morning.

Turning to his side, he closed his eyes. His mother had offered him a sleeping drought, but he declined. He'd taken so many these few past months, he feared an addiction.

Draco flipped to his other side, and opened his eyes, just making out his closed school trunk as the slightly darker blot amidst the gloom. Sighing, he turned again, finding it difficult to get a comfortable position. He knew it wasn't the bed that was making him unrestful, but the knowledge that he had to return to Hogwarts. That didn't still his fists as he pummeled them into the mattress until they stung.

The last year at Hogwarts under the control of Voldemort and his Death Eaters had been fruitless, and he had hardly attended classes, choosing instead to get as far from the castle as possible. Days were spent wandering the grounds instead of attending Charms or Transfiguration.

As such, he wasn't able to pass his N.E.W.T's. After his brief trial and exoneration in front of the Wizengamot, the school's board of governors and Headmistress McGonagall had given him a second chance to graduate, and his mother had absolutely insisted upon it. What other chance did he have to obtain a normal career in wizarding society?

He rolled his eyes at that. Normal career. He can barely walk down Diagon Alley without people practically spitting on him. Any possibility he had at normality had flown out the window the second the Dark Lord had returned and claimed Draco's future. Their family name was ruined, and he was now a social pariah, a cautionary tale parents will tell their children about the consequences of choosing the wrong side.

As far as Draco was concerned, he rarely had a choice in anything the last year. The one time he tried to do the right thing, to be good…

He banished the thoughts from his mind, flipping over onto his stomach and squeezing his eyes shut. While his mother was doing an admirable job of removing all evidence of the Dark Lord's presence from their home, there were parts of the Manor that he avoided. Draco had blasted apart the cellar, what remained of the entrance now rubble and splinters, but destroying it could not demolish the images that caught him unaware.

How many nights had he woken to her sobs and found himself immobile on his bed, stuck in a terrible paralysis. He'd lay there in a panic, helpless and weak.

Weak, pathetic, useless...

Draco reached for his down pillow, attempting to smother his thoughts when he heard a faint tapping on his window. Pulling himself from the discomfort of his bed, he walked over and let the owl in.

Malfoy,

Please meet me at Gatton Park, Surrey this coming Tuesday at 2 o'clock pm.

The matter is quite urgent.

With Regards,

HJG

A thrill of anxiety raced through him after he read the parchment. What could she possibly want? Was she going to tell the Ministry what happened? Draco imagined a squad of dark-robed wizards marching up to the gates demanding he come with them.

The note crumpled in his hand as he contemplated how he would respond. If he simply ignored the message, she would send more, he knew, and that would raise questions with his mother as to why there were owls pecking at the windows. But if he did meet her, what would she want to talk about?

Certainly not about that night...no, why would she?

Frowning, Draco hastily jotted his response, and attached it to the patiently waiting owl.

Though Hermione had received his confirmation, she was still surprised to see the back of Draco Malfoy's pale blond hair bent over a book under the shade of a sprawling oak when she arrived at the park.

She recalled the last time she had laid eyes on him, just one month ago at his trial. He had been sitting stiffly in a high back wooden chair in the center of the room, immaculately dressed and face a blank, emotionless mask before the packed Wizengamot court. Even amongst the shouts and curses coming from the crowded seats, Malfoy remained composed, staring straight ahead as the court heard from witnesses on both sides.

The only time he shifted his eyes was when she took the stand, the briefest look of surprise on his face before the invisible mask slid back in place. Her testimony had been brief, and she had stayed long enough to hear the verdict of "Not Guilty," and left before he was presumably whisked away by his mother to the relative safety of their manor.

The Tuesday afternoon was pleasant if overcast and windy, the air thick with the promise of rain, and this spot atop the hill was devoid of people except themselves. This suited her just fine. She wasn't sure how this conversation would go, and having laid awake the night before examining all of the possible reactions he could have to her news, she felt somewhat prepared for the backlash. Not having an audience certainly put her more at ease.

Hermione settled on the bench next to him, and it was a few moments of awkward silence before she cleared her voice to speak.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I've asked you to meet me here," she paused, waiting for his jeer, a snide remark, the well-worn Malfoy sneer, but he remained silent, eyes still on the open pages of his book, but no longer moving.

She breathed deeply to calm her rapidly beating heart, looking ahead at the rolling hills and distant gardens, and continued. "It's…it's about that night. In April. That night, when we –"

The book snapped shut, and Malfoy cut her stuttering off before she could finish. "Of course I know what you mean. How can I ever forget?" He looked at her finally, his grey eyes narrowed, lips tight with contained anger, and Hermione was startled to see how haggard Malfoy appeared. He had always been lanky, but he seemed to have dropped a stone from the last time she'd seen him. Now his shirt hung from his shoulders, and his normally styled hair was in sore need of a haircut. Dark smudges rested under his pale grey eyes making them seem larger. If Hermione hadn't known of his immense wealth, she could have mistaken him for an addict.

"Here to blackmail me? Upset that I didn't get sent to Azkaban with my father?" he spat. "I've been waiting all summer for the quaffle to drop and now here it is. Well, go on then, send your friends in the Ministry after me. It's not like I give a rat's arse anymore."

Malfoy stood, book gripped in long, pale fingers, and turned to leave.

"I'm pregnant," Hermione whispered, her words barely louder than the rising wind, but he heard them if his sudden jerking stop was any indication.

Shaking his head, Malfoy turned toward her, his eyes suddenly darker than the approaching storm clouds. "No, that's not possible." His eyes moved from her despondent face down to her abdomen, her over sized t-shirt effectively hiding the small swell. "You would be, what, five and a half months along now? You look thinner than when I saw you last. You can't be…with child," he trailed off, his eyes searching hers, begging her to tell them it's all a mistake.

It was Hermione's turn to shake her head. "It's not uncommon for a woman to lose weight, I have read, at least in the, in the second trimester. I've not seen a doctor yet, but-"

"See!" Malfoy pointed a finger at her triumphantly and started pacing back and forth in front of her. "See, you could be wrong. You don't know with absolute certainty, not one hundred percent. You could just have a stomach ache or…or woman issues. And even if you were," he waved a vague hand in the direction of her midsection, "expectant, you can't be certain it is my child, and-"

"Pardon me?" Hermione cried, raising from the bench, and surprising even herself, gripped the front of Malfoy's button up shirt as he passed. He stopped, face frozen in shock. "How dare you imply that I would lie to you about this! That I would ever contact you, the last person on the face of the earth that I would want to see to make wild paternity accusations! It has to be yours. It can't be... be...his." She was sobbing now, hands falling back to find purchase on the bench and slumping down upon it.

Releasing a lungful of air, Malfoy pulled his hands through his disheveled hair, and willed himself to inhale. A gust of wind rustled through the leaves of the oak tree above them, and after a few moments when Hermione's sobs had quieted to sniffles, he finally sat down next to her.

"Do you want to keep it?" He said, much more brusquely than he had intended, and conjured a handkerchief with his wand.

"I don't- I'm not sure. I thought about it. A lot, actually, but taking a potion this late…" She dabbed at her nose with the tissue, and subconsciously rubbed her abdomen. It was dangerous, she knew, to abort a foetus at almost six months. Muggle clinics rarely perform them and even the books she had found at Flourish and Blotts warned against the practice. Hermione had read on in fascinated horror at the descriptions and illustrations of potions and procedures gone horribly awry.

She paused a moment, gazing up at his tense face, and cautiously continued. "Adoption is something I am considering. I'm returning to Hogwarts in two weeks, and then moving on to a career at the Ministry. I will hardly have the time, and it would be better if it were to have a proper family," Hermione rushed out, worrying the handkerchief between her fingers.

When he didn't respond, Hermione glanced at Malfoy to see he was staring off into the distance, eyebrows furrowed in thought.

"No," he finally stated and turned toward her, his silver eyes piercing hers. "I'll not have a child of mine raised by strangers. Or worse, muggles."

Hermione sat straighter in indignation, "I was raised by muggles and I turned out perfectly fine. Besides, it's none of your concern what I will or will not do-"

"None of my concern? This child is most likely mine," he countered, heedless of her icy glare. "Why bother telling me, why bother meeting me if you didn't want me to play some part in-"

"I contacted you because you have the right to know! It would be wrong to have this child and put it up for adoption with it's father none the wiser," she interrupted, her voice rising to meet his,

Malfoy rolled his eyes, "Thanks for the courtesy." He exhaled, and Hermione could see the gears clicking in his mind.

"What if," he stated with hesitation, "what if instead of placing it for adoption, we have my mother raise it. She could tell everyone it was my parent's child. No one would have to know what happened, Granger - that it was ours. Mother wouldn't mind, she really wouldn't. We would have to come up with some sort of explanation about the baby, of course. She would see through a saccharine love story straight away…."

Hermione considered his suggestion as he rambled on next to her, his voice racing in excitement as if he had just discovered the missing potion ingredient to a much needed antidote. Could she allow her child to be raised by a family who loathed her kind? Who willfully and intentionally harmed Muggleborns and sowed the seeds of prejudice within the wizarding community?

On the other hand, she reasoned, Narcissa was the child's grandmother whether they liked it or not. If Hermione did give it up, at least it would be with a relative.

Unwillingly, Hermione's mind conjured a vision of a very small baby crying alone in an enormous and cold manor. Then of the genteel Mrs. Malfoy pushing a pram down Diagon Alley, and herself watching them from a distance. The images caused an odd sort of possessive feeling to rise up.

Draco's solution made an odd sort of sense, but something within Hermione blanched at the thought of letting that woman raise her child. It's true that Narcissa Malfoy lied to Voldemort about the death of her best friend, Harry, but one kind act did not erase decades of hate and pureblood bigotry.

"...and if it had your hair or eyes, Mother could cast a disillusionment charm or colour it's hair or something and-"

"Listen, Malfoy," Hermione rose from the bench and he, out of ingrained etiquette she was sure, stood as well just as the first fat drops of rain fell upon them. "All of this, you, me," she pointed to her abdomen, "it. I need some time to sort out what I'm going to do."

"Well, you better hurry. It's not likely you'll be able to hide it for much longer," Malfoy said staring pointedly at her stomach. "School term starts back in two weeks and if-"

Hermione looked up at him in surprise, "Wait, you're returning to finish seventh year as well? I thought you already did." She was genuinely curious as to why the heir to the Malfoy fortune would even bother finishing out schooling. What did he need N.E.W.T.s for if he didn't really need a job?

Malfoy shrugged, "What do you bloody care, Granger?" And with that turned to walk opposite her towards a crowd of trees to apparate away leaving Hermione standing in the rain with a lot to think about.

A/N:

Stay tuned for the next chapter when they return to Hogwarts. What's in store for the returning eighth years, and just what will Hermione choose to do?

Thanks for reading and if you could, please leave a comment. I needs my fix!

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

Hermione glanced around Platform 9 3/4, the tightly packed crowd of students and their families giving her a sense of unease. She recognized the friendly faces of her former school mates and some not so friendly ones as her eyes fell upon the disdainful face of Blaise Zabini.

She wasn't sure if it was her paranoid imagination or not, but there seemed to be a hush amoung the crowd - eyes darted furtively around, and the small groups seemed to huddle closer in on themselves. Perhaps it was the foggy gloom of the morning, but she never remembered her departure to Hogwarts being so somber before.

Hermione brushed against Ron as Ginny leapt at Harry for one last passionate snog before her final year at the prestigious school of witchcraft and wizarding. There was certainly a larger security presence if the two men accompanying them was any indication. Ron and Harry had pretended to act as their security, but as she glanced awkwardly at the two in full embrace, she knew at least Harry had other motives.

As what always happens when traveling with her best friend in public, people stopped and stared openly, whispering amoung their friends at the sight of The Boy Who Lived. Hermione pretended they weren't looking at her as well.

Ron blushed and scratched the back of his head, looking anywhere but at the two next to them as they approached the Hogwarts Express.

"Well…" He started, finally looking down at her when they were meters from the train steps.

"Ron, it's…" She said at the same time, and they both shared a brief, embarrassed laugh.

"I just wanted to say that...well, I'm going to miss you," Ron turned to her fully, his hand reaching out to brush a stray curl from in front of her eyes then gently skimmed down her cheek to rest on her shoulder. Hermione's heart sped up in apprehension. "The holidays can't come soon enough, really," he nervously rushed out. "And this summer, it was so chaotic with the cleanup and all. We never had time to chat. In private. A proper private chat about, well, you know-" Before she could hear the words she knew he was going to say, the warning whistle blew.

"Ron, the train-" Hermione took a step away from him, out of reach of his warm hand and his gentle heart.

A brief look of hurt flashed across his face, but he gave her a lopsided smile nevertheless and nodded. "I'll be owling you, I promise. And I'll come to Hogsmeade when I get the time off for a weekend visit. Just me, yeah?"

Hermione looked up into his cobalt blue eyes and wanted to reach out to him, to pull him into a warm hug and never let go. She wanted things to go back to how they were between them before they were captured by the Snatchers. Before the dungeon and the cold and the pain. Ron deserved someone better than her, someone who could return his affections and endure his touch without feeling sick.

He deserved someone clean.

She returned his smile for a wan one. "Yes, of course, Ron," and before her brain had time to stop it, the words erupted from her mouth "I'll miss you." Ginny and Harry finally parted lips as Hermione bid her best friends farewell and stepped aboard the train.

Held captive to the sea of students trying to find an empty compartment, Hermione fell into her own thoughts. For the last two weeks, she had stayed awake most nights, anxiety ridden and unable to move as her mind raced with thoughts of the future. She knew she was running out of time, that this child would make its way into the world soon, and she would have no alternatives left. And a vast, silent part of herself no longer cared. It wanted her to lock herself in a room, never come out, ignore her friends and her parents and shut the world away.

Hermione wished she could ignore her body and the new aches she was experiencing, but they would not be ignored. While she hadn't had much weight gain, her belly was more pronounced, the disillusionment charm the only reason no one knew yet. The skin of her stomach itched, her back ached, and her feet were already throbbing. She felt exhausted and frail, as if this thing within her was sucking out her life's energy.

She no longer recognized the woman she had become. Before, Hermione would have had an action plan, would have charted out her course for the next five years. She would have had this mess sorted out straight away. Now, Hermione barely had one foot in front of the other let alone a plan for what to do next.

In her mind, she was standing in the middle of a bleak, empty field, and in every direction an impenetrable grey fog hung in the air. No direction was more alluring than the next, no choice more desirous than any other.

She was alone in that field, falling deeper and deeper into despair.

As if stung with a hex, Hermione's attention was pulled upward when her eyes spotted a familiar white-blond head across the train. Draco Malfoy was halfway through a compartment when his eyes rose as well as if sensing her. Quickly looking away, he entered and snapped the door behind himself. Though only seconds had passed while she was locked in his frosty gaze, Hermione's heart had jumped to her throat, halting her ability to breathe.

Neither had been in contact since their meeting two weeks prior. During that time, her mind had raced with the possibilities of his suggestion, of any other options she had. She had made her mind up in that regard, but couldn't bring herself to send him an owl. Now that he was also at school, it would seem she had no choice but to face him.

Hermione chastised herself. She had never thought she could be so cowardly.

A sudden tug on her arm pulled her sharply from her self-castigating thoughts, and she violently pulled away and turned.

Neville blinked down at her. "Here, Hermione. We have a compartment," he said sheepishly and led her a few doors down.

The compartment was full of her friends, warm and welcoming and Hermione felt the chill of her thoughts temporarily disappear in their company. Ginny was already seated next to the window, staring out of it with a forlorn expression, no doubt mentally tallying the days when she would see Harry again. Neville sat next to Luna who was sporting an incredible jumper that seemed to be made of fresh leaves and moss.

Hermione took a seat next to Dean, who was in the midst of a debate with the ethereal Ravenclaw.

"The only reason I asked, oh hey Hermione, the only reason I asked was because Muggles use those type of clothes to go hunting. They're called gilly suits. I didn't mean to offend you, Luna" Dean said, flopping back in his seat.

"What's this?" Hermione inquired, stroking Crookshanks who had jumped into her lap after being released from his cage and was furiously nuzzling her hand.

"Dean asked Luna if she were dressed like that because she was hunting which seemed to insult her since she no longer eats meat or uses animal products after a sheep spoke to her," Ginny informed Hermione, her eyes glinting mischievously.

Luna appeared mildly affronted, "It didn't communicate verbally. Through its eyes I saw the fear and humiliation of its very existence. To be shaved naked every year for the use of clothing. To be butchered and eaten on Easter day with mint jelly. That is the plight of so many creatures…"

As Luna prattled on about her reasons for not wearing a proper jumper, Hermione and the others looked at each other and smiled.

Some things, I suppose, never change. Hermione thought, and settled into the comfortable companionship of her friends.

Hogwarts was not, as it seems, entirely the same. The hulking frame of Hagrid did not greet the first years as they finally arrived at Hogsmeade later that day to take them to the lake and the boats. They were instead unceremoniously shuffled into the thestral-drawn carriages with all of the other students by a handful of aurors. Draco briefly wondered how many more people could see the gaunt, haunting creatures now.

Draco watched curiously as two of the aurors broke away and entered the train, wands at the ready. He was nudged by Blaise Zabini to his right who was looking over his shoulder.

"What do you think that means?" Blaise asked curiously at his polished voice would allow.

Draco willed his hand to unclench the new hawthorn wand in his robe. "Haven't the slightest," he said, shrugging. But as the carriages brought them closer and closer to the castle, Draco couldn't ease his mind at the strange welcome they had received.

After the first years were pulled aside by Professor Flitwick, the rest made their way to the Great Hall where another curious sight greeted them. The Hall itself seemed little changed with the exception of a fallen archway or two and some large chunks of stone missing from the walls - remnants of the battle. Above, the velvet black ceiling was dotted with stars and the waxing crescent moon was just peeking up from the north.

Thousands of candles floated overhead as usual, but the four long House tables that ran down the length of the hall were gone, replaced instead with four rows of two tables. Placards were at their center, the first one on the left closest to the staff table reading "First Years".

Draco wasn't the only one taken aback. All around him, his fellow returning students looked perplexed, but following the cues on the tables, sat with their year. The table marked "Eighth Years" was by far the smallest of the bunch with, Draco counted, only seventeen returning students.

Tracey Davis was the first to say what he was thinking, "It's strange, don't you think, being here again. The last time we were all in this hall, it was after the final battle and we were helping bandage each other up and moving the bodies and…" she tapered off, her fingernails scratching at a dent in the table.

Daphne Greengrass patted her back consolingly, her hazel eyes averted downward. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

Draco heard, but said nothing, his face set in stony apathy. The memories of the aftermath of the battle still gave Draco nightmares, and the smell of death and charred flesh lingered long after he'd awoken.

He was surprised that some of his classmates from Slytherin house had returned at all. They all sat at one end of the rectangular table, apart from the other eighth years. Blaise was the only other male and Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis rounded the Slytherins out to four.

Blaise, ever the elitist, held his head high and vehemently ignored anyone who dared look his way.

Draco knew Daphne's father had prompted her to return with her sister, Astoria, but knowing Tracey, she had done so out of pure spite and vindictiveness.

A Slytherin through and through. He couldn't help but admire her.

The Hufflepuffs had the same amount: Ernie Macmillan, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott sat next to their group, though there was a large gap, followed by the Ravenclaws. As could be expected, they had the most returnees of any house with Michael Corner, Terry Boot, Anthony Goldstein, Padma Patil and Mandy Brocklehurst.

Amoung the Gryffindors, only four returned to complete their final missed year at school. Neville Longbottom, Dean Thomas, Pavarti Patil and Hermione Granger.

Granger, Draco thought, and willed his eyes to stay to the front of the hall. He'd heard nothing from her the last two weeks. He had started a hundred letters asking her what she had decided, but they all ended up in the bin. Draco told himself he didn't care to know, the child was her problem, and he offered her all the help he could at their last meeting. It was in her hands to take care of things from this point forward, but a tiny nagging voice in the back of his mind still wondered, whether he would admit it or not.

As the last students took their seats, the Great Hall doors swung open and the first years spilled out, led by Professor Flitwick, to stand before the High Table, and the Sorting Ceremony commenced.

It was much longer than Draco recalled it ever being, and as the last girl "Willowby, Britney" was sorted into Hufflepuff and the cheers subsided, he had counted more than forty-five new students.

Odd, Draco thought as Headmistress McGonagall took to the podium. The largest lot I've seen yet.

The headmistress cleared her throat, and the hall was hushed. "Welcome, new students and old, to Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry! We have quite a year of magical education planned for all of you," McGonagall declared in her stern Scottish brogue, the corners of her lips lifting upwards.

"Now onto business. I would like you all to welcome Professor Tagget to our staff." A tall, black witch sitting next to Sprout stood briefly at the student's mild applause. "She has previously taught at Ilvermorny in America and will be taking on the role of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Professor Sinistra, while continuing to teach Astronomy, will be taking on years one through five of Transfiguration, and I will be instructing the N.E. students myself until a suitable replacement can be found.

"As many of you have noticed, there is and will continue to be an Auror presence on the grounds for the foreseeable future." There was a sudden outbreak of murmuring amoung the students. McGonagall raised her arms and all was quiet once more. "Now, now, there is nothing to be concerned about, simply a precaution as construction continues throughout the castle."

The headmistress paused for a moment, her eyes passing over the students slowly, and when she spoke again, her voice had taken on a solemn quality. "These last years have been difficult, to say the least. We have lost so many in the war against the dark. Yet this castle remains. This beacon of light and learning is still standing in the face of those who would have burned it down and had ignorance and intolerance stand in its place. We are here, all of us whole and triumphant, while others cannot be. We must learn from the past and press forward to create a better world for ourselves.

"I am proud to assume the mantle of so many esteemed witches and wizards that came before me. I hope to add to the legacy of Hogwarts by improving house unity. Students will now be seated by year rather than house from this point forward, however, living quarters and classes will still be with your house." The eighth years were now talking amongst themselves so loudly, Draco almost missed what McGonagall said next. "Eighth years, please meet me in the North Tower after the feast."

After the usual notices and warnings, the start of term feast commenced

Draco tried to pretend he didn't care about the hard stares and the contemptuous murmurs that followed him as he walked out of the Great Hall. They didn't mean anything to him.

When he finally reached the last door atop the former Divination Tower, he sunk down, head falling into his knees.

Anything.

A/N:

First, let me apologize for how late this chapter is. That certainly wasn't my intention, but Lady Fate makes liars of us all.

I moved across the country last month, and somehow, somewhere, someway, I lost my laptop. It's most likely underneath a motel bed in Tennessee. Unfortunately, 80% of my story notes were on there and not backed up. Sooooo….yeah. Having to remember my chapters and plot details from memory is not at all fun. I threw a week long tantrum and now am back to writing.

Please forgive the grammar and other errors - I'm trying to push the words out of memory as fast as I can and don't have a beta reader.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four

Hermione huffed as she finally made it to the top of the steps of the North Tower, bending over the stitch in her side. For the first time, she was thankful that she was the last person to a room as she briefly leaned against the cool stone wall, exhausted from the day's events.

And to think, I'll only have to do this many times a day…

As Hermione entered, she was sure this wasn't the same cramped Divination classroom she had briefly attended during third year. Gone were the overstuffed chairs and small round tables covered in shawls. The air was clear of all cloying perfume, and the walls devoid of the dusty knick-knacks Professor Trelawney had accumulated over the years. The room looked larger now, open and airy with a tall vaulted ceiling. Despite it, it resembled the Gryffindor common room a bit with cozy looking armchairs and tables for studying. It gave her a warm and homey feeling. Instead of the usual red and gold lion banner, however, all of the house banners were on display along the circular stone walls.

At the whoosh behind her, she turned to see McGonagall walk out of the enormous fireplace amid green flames.

Hermione and Neville shared a brief, curious look. The steepled witches hat McGonagall had worn for the feast was gone. Now that Hermione was closer to the Headmistresses, she noted that throughout her tightly pulled back black hair, streaks of grey were more pronounced, and the worry lines on her forehead seemed to be etched deeper than before. Having to repair and take on the burden of the school after the battle had clearly taken a physical toll on her former head of house.

She regarded them each thoughtfully. "I have to say, having an Eighth year is quite unprecedented. You are the first ever in Hogwarts history. This has been a year of many firsts, to say the least," she said then cleared her throat. "Because of this unusual situation, I've decided your own quarters would be best. Occupant lists are posted on the doors. I expect you all to lay aside your house differences for the promotion of harmony after these troubling times."

She glanced sternly around the encircled group. "You are all adults now, and as such, you will be afforded more freedoms. From Saturday morning until Sunday evening, you will be allowed to leave school premises."

Many of the students turned to each other and grinned, the curious atmosphere becoming one of excitement. "Of course, you will have to sign out with your heads of houses, and if there are any problems, this privilege could be revoked. As adults, I expect you all to act with responsibility and decorum. All other school rules will apply to you as you complete your education here. Are there any questions?"

"Professor?" Mandy asked, her hand in the air.

"Yes, Miss Brocklehurst?"

"Are we allowed to play Quidditch? On our house team I mean?" Amoung Hermione's vague Quidditch memories, she recalled the swarthy Ravenclaw as the Beater for her team in their sixth year.

Professor McGonagall smiled, "Considering the reduction in size of the other years, I wouldn't object to any eighth years playing for their Quidditch team."

With no other questions at that time, Professor McGonagall bid them all goodnight, but before turning back towards the fireplace, she beaconed Hermione to her. "Miss Granger, a word please?"

Hermione's heart thudded loudly against her ribs. Does she know? How could she know? She swallowed thickly and walked to the fireplace, out of earshot of the disbursing eighth years.

"I'm sure you are aware that Miss Weasley was awarded the privilege of Head Girl," she said, her green eyes softening. Hermione was, and had been present when Ginny read the letter aloud to her proud family. Molly had been absolutely beside herself with joy, whipping up a cake for her only daughter that even Fleur had admired.

Deep down inside herself, a part she now called "Old Hermione", she had seethed with jealousy.

"I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry that it couldn't be you. You obviously would have been had..." she trailed off and Hermione filled in the blanks.

Had you returned last year. Had a murderous lunatic not invaded the school. Had you not ruined your own future.

"Of course, I understand. Ginny will do a great job." The words rang hollow in her own ears.

Professor McGonagall seemed to want to say more on the matter, but instead gave Hermione a thin-lipped smile, a pat on the shoulder, and said "Well, you'll have more time for your studies this term, anyway" before turning to exit how she had come in.

Hermione sighed wearily, heading up the staircase along the wall to her room and wished with all her might that there was a spell that could halt time itself. She could live forever in a time in-between and hide like the coward she now knew she was.

In a small way, she was glad she would no longer be confined in the tower with her fellow Gryffindors. She didn't deserve the right to call herself a brave lion anymore.

Her journey to her room was blocked by the group of students gathered on the balcony before the four doors. Well, technically it was two groups, Hermione realized - the Slytherins and everyone else.

"I meant what I said, Macmillan. It is absolute rubbish that I'll have to share a room with you. Tell me, do all of you Hufflepuffs burrow under the rug when it's time for lights out? I need to know so I don't trip, you see," Zabini said scornfully, his handsome features marred by cruel, dark eyes and a smirk.

But he doesn't do it as well as a Malfoy, Hermione's sleepy brain rambled. Malfoy's are the best at smirking and sneering and all manners of ridicule.

The two Slytherin girls stood at either side of him, facing the others. Malfoy stood away from them, closest to the last door on the left, and watched the exchange with boredom as if a fight was the least interesting thing in the world to him. His eyes briefly caught hers for the second time that day, and she quickly looked away.

Ernie Macmillan looked about ready to explode with anger. His face was blotchy red and a vein pounded at his temple as he inched towards the taller boy. "Well no one wants to sleep in a dorm with a bloody Death Eater," he glared pointedly at Malfoy, "or any of you slimy lot for that matter either! You should slither back to the hole you call a dormitory!"

At that, Zabini's hand shot into his robes.

Hermione was suddenly wide awake, and her wand out of her pocket and in her hand faster than she had time to mentally process what she was doing. Her non-verbal protego charm caused the two encroaching groups to spring apart from the invisible shield she had created between them.

She tried her best to keep her voice from shaking as she addressed the two in the center of the commotion. "Listen, it has been a long day for us all, and we could use some rest. If you want to discuss sleeping arrangements with McGonagall, it will have to wait until the morning. How about tonight we enact a temporary truce and head to bed?"

Ernie paused in thought, his jaw still grinding, but slowly nodded at her and begrudgingly held his hand to Zabini.

Zabini, his eyes now slits of disdain, walked past the hand extended of truce and into his shared room. Everyone else followed suit soon after.

Hermione's thumping heart had settled by the time she susssed out her own sleeping arrangements. Each of the four four-poster beds had its own corner with their school trunks sitting at the end. The girls she would be sharing the dorm with - Parvati, Hannah, and Susan - were in the process of getting changed into their pajamas.

"Good call on the shield, Hermione," Parvati smiled at her as she buttoned up her silk nightshirt. "I hope the boys won't be that mental for the rest of term."

She huffed a tired laugh, "Yeah, I hope so, too," and accio'ed her own PJ set from her open trunk, heading to their shared lavatory with them in hand.

I really, truly hope so.

The letter in Hermione's hand was already crumpled in her excitement as she hurried along the corridors to the west tower on her first Friday back at school. While she knew her free period would be better used for catching up, she just couldn't wait another minute to reach the owlery.

Her first week had rushed by in a flurry of parchment and ink as she acclimated back to the hectic pace of Hogwarts. Others in her year were already floundering at the new pile of assignments and books to read, but Hermione welcomed their return with open arms. She had easily fallen back into her old study habits, and while she hadn't read her textbooks before the start of term as normal, she was confident she could finish them before the coming weekend.

The endless summer days of disquiet already seemed light-years away as she fell back into the regimented structure of school days.

With her confidence returning slowly, she was treated to good news that had flew in with the post that morning at breakfast.

Harry had owl'ed her, inquiring about Hogwarts and the repairs and how she was doing. Auror training was difficult, but not impossible, and, oh, he and Ron were able to get time off next weekend to celebrate her birthday.

Her heart had leapt at reading the words, and for the first time in a while, she had beamed.

While classes proceeded like normal, Hermione sometimes felt she wasn't in the same place that had held such wonderful memories. It was lovely see see Ginny, Luna, Neville, Hagrid, and even Pavarti, but the two faces she wanted to see the most were gone, and a part of her heart with them.

Just as she reached the steps to the owlery, Hermione was not prepared for the arm that reached out and yanked her into a classroom.

She twisted out of the grip of her assailant, and the expression on Malfoy's pale, pointed face turned to shock as he dropped to the ground to avoid her binding spell. It barely missed his ear.

"Malfoy! How dare you manhandle me, you-"

"Bloody twit, you could have taken my head off!" He wailed and jumped up, brushing the dust from his cloak. "You've been avoiding me this whole week. What other option did you leave me?"

"I have not been avoiding you. You could have sent me an owl!"

"And have it ignored? Or better yet, get the whole castle gossiping as to why I would be sending you a note? My owl is quite recognizable, you know."

"You could have used a school one," Hermione seethed, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

Malfoy chose to ignore her logic. "So?" He asked instead, avoiding her eyes by staring at the entrance behind her.

"So, what?" She asked, flicking an invisible bit of lint from her arm. If he wanted to be a prat, well then, so could she.

"The baby!" He shouted then looked at the closed door nervously as if Filch were just outside it, preparing to pounce.

She cast a muffliato spell behind her and took a deep breath, willing her rising blood pressure to settle. "I scheduled a doctor's visit tomorrow to get checked out. A doctor is a muggle heal-"

"I know what a bloody doctor is Granger!" Malfoy exclaimed, starting to run his hand through his blond hair in agitation, but quickly stopped himself as if he were ashamed he had such a pedestrian habit. "What are you planning to do with it? I know you haven't told anyone yet. Everyone's treating you like the princess of Gryffindor, same as always. That disillusionment charm isn't going to last forever. Were you planning on hiding the baby in the castle?"

When she gave no response, he scoffed. "Maybe you think that oaf Hagrid could raise it in his hut." His hard expression softened just a bit, and his eyes bore into hers. "Have you considered what I suggested? About my mother?"

How could she tell him that she has barely thought of what she was going to do with the baby at all? That she felt no connection to the thing within her, yet the thought of someone else raising it...it sent a thrill of dread through her soul.

"Oh, so you've told your mother?" Hermione fired back. "Or better yet your father in Azkaban? Did you write to tell him about impregnating a Mudblood? That your precious heir will be a half-blood monstrosity? Or better yet, what you did that night?"

She knew she was being irrational, that his question was legitimate, and she could have easily told him 'no' and left it at that, but she there was a certain satisfaction in this.

Her heart raced, her blood pumped wildly through her veins as a heat rose throughout her body. She wanted to curse at him, to grab his shiny, blond head and smash it into her knee over and over.

She felt enraged, frenetic, alive.

Then she felt the tip of Malfoy's wand graze her collarbone. His face had lost what little color it had, his breath coming in heavy pants. "Don't ever mention my family again, Mudblood."

Hermione's chest grew tight as bile rose in her throat. Her fingers convulsively gripped the bottom of her jumper as fear fogged her brain, and her eyes darted around the room full of unused desks, searching for one to duck under. Before she could lift her suddenly leaden legs, however, Malfoy had pushed past her, unlocking the door with his wand, and rushed out.

It's alright, it's alright, it's alright, Hermione chanted to herself like a mantra, willing her body to unseize. The sight of the wand pointed at her had triggered that reaction.

Shaking her head, she released a shaky laugh, embarrassed that she had let him stun her so thoroughly. That will never happen again, she vowed, but the sound of a familiar voice shook her from her thoughts.

"Watch it, Ferret!" Ginny's voice echoed around the stone corridor, and Hermione barely had time to exit the classroom and duck behind a column before she rounded the corner.

"Hey, fancy meeting you here!" Ginny said smiling. "What are you doing at the owlery?"

Her jovial expression turned to one of confusion as she accessed Hermione's drawn face. "You're paler than a ghost. Was it Malfoy? Did he say something to you or try to hurt you? I can't believe they let that bigoted prat back in after all that he's done."

"No, I'm ok, he just….just startled me, and I ducked behind here." Hermione said and plastered a small smile on her face. "After everything that happened here last year, sometimes I'm so jittery. I jump at the slight creaking of a door sometimes."

Stepping closer, Ginny regarded her thoughtfully. "Do you want to talk to me Hermione? Tell me something? Because ever since this summer, you've been acting...strangely. Jumping at every sound, sleeping more. Some days you barely eat and others you act like you're starving. Yesterday at breakfast, I thought you were going to stab me with your fork for eating the last sausage."

Hermione was oddly touched that Ginny had noticed anything out of the ordinary at all. She hated lying to her, hated lying at all, but telling her the truth would lead to more questions, questions she wasn't ready to answer yet.

"It's strange being back here after all that happened barely four months ago," she said, telling her at least part of the truth. "Sometimes I will walk down the corridor and remember that was where we found Tonks or Lupin or-" she cut herself off before she said the name she knew was on Ginny's mind. Fred. "I miss Harry and Ron most of all. It feels like the castle is empty without them."

"I-I think about that, too," Ginny admitted. "When walking to classes or sitting in the Great Hall. It's difficult, but we need to put that all behind us and focus on what remains." She threaded her arm through Hermione's and tenderly patted her hand. "Look, when you're ready to talk or just need someone, let me know. I'm always here for you." Squeezing her friend's side, Hermione nodded.

"So this was supposed to be a surprise, but we're planning a birthday party for you at the Burrow next Saturday," Ginny said as they walked up the steps to the owlery.

"But I've made plans with my parents already, Ginny. I'd feel awful having to cancel on them and -"

"I've kinda already owl'ed them to ask if you could visit on Sunday instead," she confessed a bit guiltily. "C'mon, it'll be great! We'll get that somber look off your face. George says he has some new products he wants us to circulate around the school, test 'em out and-"

"Ginny, you're Head Girl! You couldn't possibly be thinking of-"

Ginny burst out laughing, "There's the old Hermione! I was joking, I promise. So you'll come?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and laughed as well, the previous tension all but forgotten. "Of course I'll be there. Mainly to make sure you lot don't blow your own heads off."

"Well George had mentioned making improvements to the Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-bangs, and it wouldn't hurt if we tested one or two during the Quidditch match against Slytherin-"

"Ginny, really."

A/N:

This was a difficult chapter for some reason, but thank you for sticking with me! I'm more on track now, so stay tuned. Updates will be coming about every two weeks.

Next Chapter: More drama at the Weasleys!

Chapter Text

Chapter Five

As the sun fully ascended over the lake to the east, the diamond-pane windows were struck with the first morning light, casting prisms of brilliant color across the walls of the girl's lavatory in the north tower. Hermione Granger stood in front of the full length mirror between the enormous bathtub and shower stalls, and inspected her underwear-clad form. She had always been an early riser, and though she was sure none of the other eighth year girls would be awake yet on the cold Saturday morning, she had cast a locking charm on the door just in case.

The steam of her recent shower still curled around her feet as she ran her hands down her neck, her ribs, and resting them just above the swell of her abdomen that seemed to have grown decidedly larger since the last time she dared look at herself undressed. Her bra, a recent, slightly embarrassing gift from her mother from a boutique shop in France, barely contained her swollen breasts. Hermione wrinkled her nose. She would have to use a resizing spell on it soon, and hoped she was skilled enough at the useful charm Molly had taught her to not ruin the delicate red lace and careful stitching.

Hermione's hands traveled further down until they rested on her expanding hips, rubbing at the sore joints. The extraneous walk across the castle and up the tower steps several times a day were causing her immense pain in her legs. Her pelvis felt heavy as if she were wearing a belt of rocks with another one being added every day. The cushioning charms she had cast on her shoes were the only things keeping her from refusing to walk at all.

How do women do this every day without magic?  Hermione pondered, finally resting her hands upon her distended stomach. She ran a light finger up one of the faint red lines that were starting to appear lengthwise along her belly.

It had been difficult to see the muggle women sitting in the waiting room last week as Hermione attended the obstetrician appointment she had delayed for so long. Most of them had come with their partner, and amoung them the joy was evident. Their expectant mother's eyes shone brightly as they caressed their abdomens with tenderness. One was reading a parenting magazine while the women next to her chatted happily with her husband, their fingers twining together, pulling back, then seeking each other's warmth again.

Hermione felt a twist of envy at their looks of devotion as she sat alone, absently skimming a gossip magazine.

Before, when she had thought about the future and the children she might have, she had imagined a scene such as the one next to her. The child in her future had been wanted, born of love with a doting father. She bit her lip, and stared guiltily down at her swollen belly.

This poor creature, to have such a cold mother and such a cruel father.

"I'm guessing twelve weeks. Am I right?"

Hermione looked up, pulled from the inner world of her thoughts where she spent so much time as of late, and stared blankly at the woman who had taken the seat next to her.

"Pardon?" She asked.

The woman smiled, her caramel skin glowing even under the harsh fluorescent lights of the office. "Whenever I come for my appointments, I try to guess how far along everyone is. Staves off the boredom of the wait. So, twelve weeks?"

"Um, well no. Nearly twenty-three weeks along," Hermione said, pulling herself up straighter.

The woman tisked and adjusted the purse that was sitting on top of her stomach. "You're so tiny! Are you sure you're eating enough, darling?"

Hermione could feel her face heating up in embarrassment, and before she could politely tell the shaming woman to mind her own bloody business, a clipboard-yielding nurse came to the check-in counter and called her name.

If Hermione thought the mortification was done, she was mistaken. Inside the office, the doctor subjected her to a slew of tests and a pelvic examination all the while chastising her for not coming to the clinic earlier in her pregnancy. When she was finished with the exam, and everything appeared to be normal ("Though you need to gain more weight, Miss Granger"), the doctor gave her a dozen pamphlets on proper nutrition and the development stages of the fetus as well as book recommendations.

After scheduling a follow-up appointment for the results of her bloodwork and an ultrasound, Hermione had popped over to the adjacent chemist to purchase some prenatal vitamins then headed back to Diagon Alley.

Before disapparating back to school, she discreetly purchased some books: "The Witches' Essential Guide to Expectancy", "The Witching Womb", and "Baby and Brew: Practical Potions for the Magical Pregnancy".

The last book had certainly come in handy. Rubbing an ointment she brewed for the stretch marks, she felt the tiniest of movements flutter against her fingers.

Hermione gasped and poked the spot on her abdomen, hoping to feel it move again. The feeling was odd like something was tickling her from the inside. It didn't feel so alien anymore, so intrusive. It was a part of her.

"Could you feel me, baby? Did you know my hands were near you?" Hermione whispered softly, patting her skin where she had felt its movement. She didn't know if it was a boy or girl, didn't care to know, as long as it was healthy.

A stab of guilt flashed through her as she thought of the last few months. After finishing all of the books and pamphlets, Hermione had unexpectedly burst into tears at her own negligence. The last year had been filled with terror and uncertainty, and she had endured things that would have broken others. A part of her old self had died on the cold, hard floor in Malfoy Manor.

Those were things that she had lost, but she was not lost. The grey fog in her mind was starting to clear, slowly, and the first bits of light she'd seen in months were shining through. Had she lingered in the gloom much longer, Hermione knew it would consume her. She had survived and must survive for herself.

For us both, she thought as she caressed her belly. She had been indulgent in her misery, but was it the fault of the child within her? It was a victim of circumstances it had no control over, like herself.

But now, now she had control, and after she had finished mourning her past mistakes, Hermione sensed a strength she hadn't felt in months return to her. She could handle this. She would eat healthily, take her vitamins, consult a mid-witch.

She would do what she had known in her heart she could do months ago - love and care for this child who had not asked to be born.

The realization had been a confusing mix of anxiety and fear, but also relief and optimism. Finishing school, telling her friends, her parents….she pushed those thoughts away before they engulfed her again. She had finally chosen a path to walk and those obstacles would be dealt with when the time came.

The first hurdle, thought Hermione as she finished dressing for the day and cast a disillusionment charm on herself, is to get to breakfast before Neville eats all the bacon.

"Ok, when we open the door, pretend to be surprised," Ginny instructed after side-apparating meters from the front steps of the Burrow.

Hermione's vision blurred, her stomach twisted violently, and she lurched forward to throw up in the grass.

"Is there something about our garden that always makes you sick?" joked Ginny.

"Ugh, I hate side-apparating," Hermione groaned, closing her eyes to stop the spinning.

"Well, here," Ginny said, casting a clean-up charm on her ailing friend, "and don't forget to appear shocked and awed by how wonderful and thoughtful we are," Ginny whispered theatrically as they opened the front door.

"SURPRISE!" came the cheer from the Burrow as they both entered.

"Happy 19th" hovered in the air like lit sparklers as George, Angela, Lee, and Seamus heralded their entrance with little trumpets that sounded like blowing raspberries. Harry, Ron, and the Weasley parents stood smiling, front and center.

Hermione laughed and glanced about the house in authentic surprise. The Weasley's long table was filled with all manner of tasty food with a large, gold cake in the shape of a lion at the center. The ceiling could hardly be seen with all the red and yellow streamers and glowing balloons littered across it. Shimmering white lights zipped across the room, creating the illusion of a hundred fireflies - no doubt an invention of George's.

"Happy birthday, Hermione!" Harry and Ron cried in unison, coming around the table to envelope her in a tight hug. She turned just in time for them to not feel her bump, and was eternally grateful she decided to wear the largest, fuzziest sweater she owned.

Harry pulled away from their group embrace, but Ron held her a few moments longer, giving her the slightest peck on the cheek. His cheeks had a smudge of scarlet across them as he let her go. Her heart fluttered to her throat, and she was sure she was as red as him.

Hermione cleared her throat, "Thank you! This all looks brilliant. You didn't have to go through the trouble, Molly."

The Weasley matron waved her hand as Bill handed her more plates for the table. "S'no trouble at all, dear! You're practically a member of the family, and we all need more reasons to celebrate."

"Oy, I helped, too," Ron protested, snatching a plate from his passing mother.

"Helped eat most of the meat pies, more like," George chimed in and winked at Hermione. "Are there any more steak ones left?"

Ron shrugged as he carefully piled food onto his already-crowded plate, "Dunno. I need the protein for my auror training. They have us running drills every day at the crack of dawn, haven't they Harry?" Hermione couldn't help but notice the way Ron's arms and chest filled out his long sleeve shirt that had always been baggy on him before. The additional food and exercise didn't seem to be hurting him one bit.

"Yeah, but at the rate you're eating, mate, they'll have to have you running two a day," Harry answered, laughing, and pulled Ginny in for another kiss.

"Ha ha," Ron said sardonically and sat next to Hermione. "And, gross. Get a room, you two."

"Gladly. How about yours, Ron?" Ginny replied, smacking her brother's head as she joined them at the table.

Hermione chuckled and tucked into her birthday feast, surrounded by the comfort of her friends.

The Burrow was, for the most part, the same as it has always been - full of the warmth of love and laughter and Molly's multitude of knitting projects - but it took Hermione a moment to discern the differences.

Some of them were obvious changes. The Weasley's now only had two children living at home, and with Arthur's long-overdue promotion to Head of the Muggle Liaison Office, it had allowed them to finally update some of the older furniture and hire magical contractors to make repairs to the house.

The other changes were more subtle. The lack of errant school supplies and Quidditch gear; the silence in the rooms above them; Arthur's prematurely white hair; the missing hand of the Weasley clock.

Hermione watched as one of the shimmering fire-lights fell onto the tablecloth, leaping about and buzzing intermittently before it stopped, and it's light dimmed forever. She touched it and it dissolved to ash.

"Are these an invention for your shop, George?"

George smudged the ash further into the cloth, frowning, "Yeah, they're only in the prototype stage. Lee and I are testing them out, but can't get them to last longer than an hour."

"Hope you get these working before the end of the year. My mam would love them for my sister's birthday," Seamus added.

Hermione hadn't been surprised to learn Seamus wouldn't be returning to Hogwarts and instead joining her two best friends in auror training. It was an open secret that his mother struggled financially while raising her children alone, and having her son help out was a huge relief, she was sure.

"So, how's Hogwarts been, Hermione? Are they teaching you all the secrets of the magical universe that we'll never be privy to?" Seamus asked.

"Oh, just the mystery of life after death, how to achieve immortality, and why cats always land on their feet. Stuff you'll never need to know, what with being an Auror and all," she quipped in amusement. "No, it's not all that different from before, really. Easier, in fact, without all of the adventurous distractions." Hermione elbowed Harry in the ribs, and he choked on his food.

"I never made you come with me…" he muttered and Ginny guffawed.

"Of course you wouldn't mind the impossible list of assignments we have, Hermione. I have to bring my textbooks to the loo with me just to keep up! Flickwick is requiring all charms to be cast non-verbally, and if McGonagall spots one tiny little mistake in anything you transfigure, you don't receive full marks. It's maddening!"

"I don't envy ya that!" Ron chimed in. "Being on the field is tough, but at least it's fun. Last week, Croyston let us come along for a real manhunt."

Harry snorted, "It was more like an 'all hands on deck' situation. The death eater that escaped custody is one of the most dangerous and unpredictable wizards they've faced. They need everyone they have out there looking for him."

At that, the whole table quieted, and Harry's mouth snapped shut, a look of guilt on his face.

"Who was it?" George asked at the same time Angela whispered, "What do you mean escaped custody?"

Hermione's stomach tightened as she asked, "Nothing was in the Prophet about an escapee."

Ron answered, his mouth a grim line, "They're hushing it up; don't want to cause a panic, you see. He escaped while being transported from Azkaban to a special facility on the continent. It'll make the Ministry look like idiots if the public finds out some aurors bungled the job. After all the troubles recently, the last thing they want is to seem incompetent."

"Why was he being transported?" Angela pressed on in the tense silence.

Harry ran a hand through his already disheveled black hair, releasing a sigh, "We're not really supposed to be telling you lot all this," he paused and looked at the concerned faces around him. "With the Dementors leaving and the chaos after Voldemort's death, the Ministry threw a bunch of death eaters or anyone suspected of being one into a cell at Azkaban. It started to get overcrowded."

"All slapdash like. Weren't paying attention to names," Seamus added darkly.

"One of them was a werewolf," Harry explained. "The guard's found that out the hard way the night after a full moon."

"I heard the other prisoners in his cell were so mangled and torn up, they couldn't tell who was who, or what went where."

"Thanks, Ron," groaned Ginny.

Dread seized Hermione's breath like a hand of ice around her throat. No, it can't be him. Please anyone else, but him.

"And you haven't caught him yet?" Angela demanded.

"Greyback is a right slippery bastard. We'll get the drop on him soon. He was spotted heading north just yesterday..."

The frantic pounding of her heart drown out Seamus' defensive voice, and Hermione ambled towards the back of the Burrow, unaware that she had stood at all.

The air had abandoned her lungs, and she gasped for breath, "no, no, no, no" repeating relentlessly in her increasingly foggy mind.

Hermione?

Hermione!

Her name was the last thing she heard before passing out.

A/N:

I'M NOT DEAD! YAY!(?) Depression is a bitch, guys.

This chapter is dedicated to Titasha, the bilingual woman who has patiently beared with me and my terrible writing habits from the get-go.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six

The gentle chiming of glass on glass woke Hermione from her fitful slumber, and she opened her blurry eyes towards the sound.

In front of a window, a small glass dragon hung, its tiny red wings expanding and flapping in as big of a circle as the twine that held it would allow. It was no doubt magicked to seem as if it were in flight. Dim light from a bedside lamp highlighted posters of prancing dragons hung on the wall to her left.

This must be Charlie's room. Hermione groggily thought. But why…

Something cold pressed against her forehead, and she was startled to find Molly Weasley sitting by her bedside, a look of deep concern on her freckled face. Looking down, Hermione realized her large jumper had been removed, and her belly was clearly visible under her thin shirt. The disillusionment enchantment was gone.

Dread seized her and Hermione bolted upright, pushing away the cool cloth from her forehead. Her head swooned as she attempted to stand upright, but Molly held her arms and gently pushed her back onto the bed.

"It's not what it seems, Molly…" she whispered.

"Shhh shhh, it's ok, Hermione. Here, have some water," Molly said soothingly, handing her a glass.

She took a gulp, bidding a few moments to construct a believable excuse. Her mind raced wildly in an attempt to lie. "It's- it's a transfiguration spell gone wrong. I was...I need to ask Professor McGonagall for help when I get back to Hogwarts and-" She faltered at the look of disbelief in Molly's eyes.

"Hermione if anyone could catch a fibber, it would be the mum of Fred and George, and I dare say you're not very good after it," Molly's lips turned slightly upward in her attempt at humor, but her concerned eyes remained. She sighed and placed the washcloth in a bowl on the nightstand.

Hermione sat up against the mound of pillows and covered her stomach with a crocheted shawl. Oh God, she knows… There was no more point in lying to this woman who had been like a mother to her when her own was a world away. What would she think of her when she finds out the truth? Hermione closed her eyes and willed herself to breathe.

"So, when did this happen?" Molly asked lightly.

"Mid-April," Hermione whispered.

Molly pulled the shawl over Hermione's middle tighter, and stood up. "I had Bill when I was about your age, you know," she said, and stopped to fiddle with the items on top of the dresser. "I would have preferred you and Ron to have been married before you had a child, but, it's all a bit too late for that, isn't it?"

Molly caressed the spine of the book she was holding, and sighed. "Though I suppose you still could. It'd have to be soon so the wedding couldn't be too grand - just close friends and family. A simple bonding spell. I'm sure Arthur knows someone in the registration department who could keep this hushed up, perhaps fudge the date…" she paused in contemplation, laying the book back where she found it.

"I can't believe Ron kept this from his father and me," Molly lamented in frustration, eyes still looking anywhere but at Hermione. "And to think I let you lot run around willy-nilly searching for horcruxes, sleeping together in tents, oh, Merlin knows what else! Oh course this would happen," she flopped back into the seat next to Hermione.

Shame seeped out of every pore, and Hermione wished she could dissolve into the mattress.

"Molly, it's...the child. It's not Ron's," she finally managed, unable to look her in the eye.

"What? You mean it's...Harry's?" Molly gasped incredulously. She looked at Hermione with an odd expression then, one she had never seen Molly look at her with before. It was akin to repulsion, as if Hermione were a foul bug she found in her white frosting.

"Merlin no! He's not! I just...I just need to go," Hermione pleaded, flinging the crocheted shawl off and attempted to stand as dizziness overtook her again. She was trembling in indignation and shame, but she wanted to get out of there immediately. She needed to be somewhere with fresh air and light - anywhere but in a room with the judging glare of Molly Weasley. Hermione hadn't thought through how this would go, how she would tell the people closest to her, but she certainly hadn't expected it to be like this.

A hand gripped hers before she could dash towards the door across from the bed.

"Hermione, please, you need to lay down…"

"Where's my wand?" She weakly muttered, pulling against Molly's hand.

"It's ok, you can talk to me. Please, Hermione!"

Her heart started to pound, and panic took over again as Hermione determined what she was going to tell Molly. Deep in her heart, she knew she couldn't lie anymore. For months she had carried the burden of her ordeal, and it was smothering her to exhaustion. She needed a release.

"Do you remember," she stopped and sat on the other side of the bed away from the Weasley matron, her eyes following the glass dragon flap around in it's pointless little circles. "Do you remember last April when I had apparated here unexpectedly?"

Hermione had arrived, bloody and haggard, to a suspicious welcome. When she at last answered all of the questions put to her by Arthur and passed the screening tests Mad Eye had taught them before his demise, Molly had helped clean her up and gave her a place to rest. Hermione had left the next morning for Shell Cottage, the location she knew Harry would've told Dobby to take them next.

"Yes," Molly hesitated, "you told us you had just escaped from Malfoy Manor, but that's all you would say. You testified later that Draco had helped you."

Hermione nodded, "He did. But...but I didn't tell you what happened before I left."

Molly's trembling breath filled the awful silence, "Oh God, he didn't. Please tell me he didn't…" and before Hermione could respond, Molly's warm weight was next to her, her arms holding her securely.

"It wasn't his fault," murmured Hermione in her shoulder.

Molly pushed back hair from her face, compassion warming her amber eyes. "Whose fault? What happened?"

"Draco's. It's just...he tried to help, I think, but it made it worse. And, and Greyback, he-" she is able to stammer before succumbing to her tears. A tidal wave of shame, loneliness, and grief consumed her.

She had been assaulted in the worst possible way, the most carnal and personal violation she had ever experienced, and she hadn't been able to stop it. All of her magic hadn't halted his vile hands as they gripped her hair, forced her to disrobe, forced her to…

Hermione hadn't let herself think of it before, had pushed the memories of the trauma of the past to the darkest corner of her mind, but now it all came flooding out in the compassion of Molly's embrace.

It was a long while before her sobs subsided, and she was able to speak again. She told Molly of the Imperius used on herself and Draco, of what the werewolf made them do for his own sick amusement, but, for some reason, couldn't bring herself to tell her what Greyback had done after Draco was finished. Instead she skipped to him being called away by Voldemort, how they shed the curse, and the familial escape route in the Malfoy cellar.

Though she left out Greyback's assault on her, Hermione felt lighter as if the burden of the curse had pulled her down deeper into murky water, and she had finally cut off it's terrible anchor.

Molly didn't speak for some time after Hermione was done confessing, just continued holding her, though from her shaking breaths and sniffling, she could tell she was crying as well.

"I'm sorry, Hermione. I'm so terribly, terribly sorry this happened to you. To have had this load on your shoulders to carry by yourself; you must have been so lonely. You are brave for telling me."

Hermione shook her head. "I don't feel like I am. I should have done something after it happened. Taken a potion or… or told an Auror. Anything, really. I'm such a fool-"

"Don't say that!" Molly asserted. "You are not a fool, Hermione. You are brave and you are strong. It is not your fault this happened, do you hear me? It's not your fault." The crushing hug Molly gave her caused Hermione to pull back and rub her belly.

"Molly, the baby!"

"Oh, right," she looked sheepishly down at her abdomen. "Have you thought about what you're going to do with the child? Have you told Draco?"

"I did. He wants me to give the baby to his mother and have her raise it as her own, but I'm keeping it," she said firmly and squeezed Molly's hand. "I don't care how it came into this world; it's my responsibility now, and I'm keeping it."

Molly gave her a watery smile, "Of course, dear. What do you need me to do?"

Throughout her life, Hermione had taught herself to start with the most difficult task. She started her schoolwork by completing the longest essay first and ate all her brussel sprouts before she touched her chicken. As she thought of all the people she loved, she knew she would have to tell the most problematic of them first.

Hermione hesitated before saying, "I need to talk to my parents. I don't think they need to know the whole truth - they wouldn't understand what the Imperius curse can do, even if I explained it. But they have to know."

Molly nodded, "Alright. Now here, lie back down. Drink a bit more - that's it," she settled the shawl over Hermione once more as she laid back into the cushions. "I'm going to talk to Arthur, yes I have to, and then he'll fetch your parents. I'll talk to them first, how's that? Not about the...the cellar. But, perhaps, you and Draco had a, well, tryst. One that resulted in pregnancy. They'll understand that, right?"

Hermione closed her eyes. "Yes, I think they will." And as the lights dimmed and the door closed behind her unexpected confidant, she felt the tiniest bit of hope flutter in her heart.

A/N:

Almost done with the heavy revelation stuff, and then I can move on with the plot!

There are some who would disagree, but in my opinion, with her circumstances being the way they are, I think Hermione would want to tell her parents first. She's best friends with Harry and Ron, but she's still barely 19. A girl needs her mom and dad. Idk why, but it's always bothered me that Hermione was never seen interacting with her parents much. There will definitely be more of Charles and Maureen in future chapters.

Also, thank you for the love and support sent my way! I really appreciate the words of encouragement ^_^

Next chapter: Meet the Grangers! And the Malfoys receive a visit from a certain Headmistress

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?"

Hermione flinched as if struck. She had faced murderers, lunatics, a werewolf, and a dark wizard, but her mother's voice could always make her feel like a naughty child.

"Obviously, you weren't thinking or you wouldn't be in this situation. How could you do this to your future, Hermione? You're a child! What are you going to do with a baby?" Maureen Granger cried.

Hermione's parents sat across from her; Mr. and Mrs. Weasley to her left. Her father's eyes remained fixed on a spot on the table, silent as his wife fumed.

Ashamed, Hermione thought. She inhaled deeply and tamped down her urge to break apart.

It hadn't taken Arthur long to retrieve her parents after Molly had left. Hermione had them connected to the Floo network as soon as she retrieved them from Australia, partially as a symbolic gesture to make them feel more connected to her other life.

After they had arrived and a muffled conversation with the Weasley's commenced, Hermione had heard a rapid knock and urgent whispers on the other side of Charlie's door. The bolt slid back as someone cast alohomora and she hastily locked it again.

"Hermione?" Ron urged and jiggled the doorknob. She could hear Harry and Ginny whispering behind him. "Are you ok? Why are your parents here?"

She bit her lip, a million excuses running through her head, and responded: "Could you...could I talk to you later?"

There was a pause, more whispering and then, "Ok."

Hermione had sighed. She waited a few minutes longer, then crept into the living room to face the music.

Now, sitting in front of her parents, she could barely meet her mother's eyes. They were so similar to her own, but now filled with ire and disappointment.

Maureen's normally tidy, short hair was a mess of salt and pepper waves as she glared at her daughter. She gripped her cup of tea with white fingers. Hermione was afraid the porcelain would shatter in her hand.

"It just happened. It was a confusing time and we didn't use proper protection. There isn't much I can do about it now," Hermione's voice rushed out.

"What is going on with you? I don't feel like I know you anymore, Hermione. When you're home, you're either hiding in your room or you're off with your friends. We didn't even know you had a boyfriend-"

"I don't," Hermione said through gritted teeth. She felt her face flush crimson in exasperation. Tears hung on the edge of her eyelids but she refused to shed them.

Arthur cleared his throat. "You see, Draco and Hermione had a tryst. A bit of love during the war. They met up, so to speak, when Hermione was held captive and….well, you know. Never knew if they'd see each other again, that sort of thing," he said, laughing awkwardly.

His eyes widened in realization at his mistake when both his wife and Hermione glared at him. Charles Granger's head shot up, and both of her parent's voices practically shouted at once.

"What?" Her father exclaimed.

"Held captive? When was this? What is he talking about?" Maureen demanded.

"It-it wasn't for long, Mum. And Malfoy helped me escape. I mentioned it after-"

"Malfoy?" Her father asked, looking at her then to Molly and Arthur in confusion. "Is he the son of that blond fellow we met at the book shop? Wasn't he one of those death seekers?"

"Death eaters," Arthur corrected.

"The father of this child is one of those people? The ones you were fighting against? Who tried to kill muggles; people like ourselves?" Maureen questioned, pointing between herself and husband. "Is this man the reason you were a captive? Why would you and his son-"

"A son isn't his father," Molly hastily interjected, looking nervously between Hermione and her mother. "Draco doesn't hold those same prejudiced ideas. Anymore."

"And where is this man?" Maureen demanded, ignoring Molly. Hermione and her father had once likened her to a bloodhound - when she got a scent she wouldn't let it go until she found what she was searching for. "Is he okay with his son having a child?"

"Lucius, well... he's in Azkaban. It's a prison in the middle of the North Sea. So you needn't bother worrying about…" Arthur trailed off as Molly furiously elbowed her husband.

Hermione recognized that look on her mother's face. Maureen's brown eyes were narrowed, her lips drawn tight, and her posture impeccable.

She was beyond furious.

"Prison," Maureen said flatly and shook her head. "I don't understand this, Hermione. I don't understand how you could be so reckless, so irresponsible. It's not like you at all. Why didn't you tell me before it got so out of hand?" Hermione heard the hurt in her mother's voice and it was like a knife twisting into her heart.

"I should have….I'm sorry, Mum," Hermione whispered.

There was a pause, and the silence seemed to drag on for ages.

Charles massaged his forehead, exhaling deeply through his nostrils. "The new house in Dorset only has two bedrooms and a small office upstairs. We could convert it into a nursery, hopefully by the time the baby gets here."

He looked at his wife who returned his glance with a tight lipped nod. "I suppose we'll have to have a chat with your headmistress... let her know you won't be going back to school."

"What?" Hermione exclaimed in confusion.

"Obviously you won't be returning to Hogwarts. Not in your state," her mother's clipped voice responded. Hermione barely heard through her madly racing thoughts.

"Of course I'll be returning. I'm sure Professor McGonagall could accommodate me, I mean us, after the baby is born…" She trailed off as uncertainty took hold.

Was she so sure McGonagall would approve of her continuing on as a student, child in tow? Now that she thought of it, she had never seen or heard of a pregnant student at Hogwarts. Hogwarts, A History certainly made no mention of it. How did the school deal with such matters?

Maureen tsked and set her cup down with a thunk. "This nonsense with the wizarding world. Look at what it's done to you. What you did to us. We do forgive you, but it's hard to forget that year in Australia. Not even remembering our own daughter. These talents of yours have brought you nothing but grief, and honestly, it's as if we've lost our daughter," she said, her voice catching. She looked off in the distance for a moment, clearing her throat, and continued.

"You've fought everyday against people who think you don't belong in their world and they're right. You belong home with us."

Hermione was stunned. She had known for a long time how hard it was for her parents to come to terms with her magical talents. The Grangers were practical, realistic people. After she was born, they had expected her to grow up to be a bright, normal child with a bright, normal future. That future had literally flown out the window with the owl when her Hogwarts acceptance letter had arrived.

The newfound knowledge of a different, hidden world filled with magic and mystery had shaken them to their rational cores.

"No," Hermione said in a tone that brooked no argument.

"I will never be able to convey how sorry I am about what I did to you. I truly, truly am. You both taught me to be brave and true to myself, and this is who I am. I am Hermione Jean Granger, witch in training. Running away won't change anything. I'm going to complete my final year regardless of the baby."

Maureen's face was blotchy red with suppressed emotion as she stood. "Then I suppose I have nothing else to say." She then turned on her heel and left through the front entrance.

Hermione stood as well. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through her nose as the door clicked shut behind her mother. Charles' large hand reached for her and he pulled her into an embrace. Hermione closed her eyes and rested her head for the briefest of moments against her father's shoulder, inhaling the scent of mint that always clung to him even outside of his dental office.

"Happy birthday, Hermione," Charles murmured into her hair. "We love you, you know. Whatever happens with you, we'll always be there. Your mum will come around. She's just, well, your mum."

Hermione sighed and pulled away. "I know. I love you, too. Would it be alright if I still came over tomorrow? We could talk more."

"Of course," he said with a small smile, then turned to leave the same way as his wife.

The Weasleys shuffled behind her as Hermione watched the closed door in silence. She heard Molly fiddling with the teapot as Arthur brushed past her.

"I should probably go after them," Arthur said and pulled on a light cloak, a small sympathetic smile on his lips. At her quizzical stare he explained. "The nearest village is quite a walk from here. I'll apparate them home, safe and sound. Perhaps chat to them a bit more."

Alone with Molly, Hermione twisted her fingers in her hand. She hadn't expected the revelation of her pregnancy to be easy, but not that difficult either.

If they only knew the truth. What would they think of me then? Feelings of guilt and grief and anger raged inside her. She pushed it all back down to deal with another day.

"Here dear, why don't you sit and have something to drink?" Molly said. She gestured to the steaming cup waiting on the table. Hermione nodded her head and didn't miss the nip of whiskey Molly quickly slipped into her own glass.

Hermione tried to keep her voice from wavering as she voiced what she feared. "Do you think she'll ever want to see me again?"

Taking her hand in her own, Molly said in a soothing tone, "I don't think your mum meant to say all that, Hermione. Finding out you're pregnant - it's all quite a shock. She'll come around like your father said."

"But why would she-"

"You're her daughter. She's upset because you kept this from her. But more than that, she's hurt because you are hurting."

At Hermione's skeptical look, she continued. "When you become a mother you'll know. It's terrible watching your child suffer and not be able to do anything about it. We - Arthur and I that is - take it for granted that we were born into a world of magic, and all of our children were, too. It must be difficult for them to love you, but not be able to be involved in your life as a witch."

For the first time in quite a long time, Hermione was dumbfounded. While she knew it was confusing for her parents to comprehend her obligations to the wizarding world and the responsibility she felt her magic imbued her with, she rarely considered how they felt about being seperated from her life. The holidays and summers she spent with her friends; the letters she forgot to write back to because she was busy; all the things other girls her age did with their parents. Little cuts that added up to hundreds.

How many nights had they sat together in their living room missing her while she spent so little time thinking of them?

She was interrupted from her remorseful thoughts by Molly. "Should I perhaps call upon Minerva?"

"No, I honestly only have the energy for one more confession tonight. She'll have to wait until the morning." Downing the rest of her tea, Hermione walked the first steps up the stairs where she knew her friends were waiting in trepidation, her heart thumping madly in her chest.

A/N:

MANY MANY MANY thanks to my lovely beta, Gabrielle! She is fantastic and so incredibly helpful 3

Also, sorry for the delay. Midterms, amiright?

If you like the fic so far, please leave a comment! If you hate this fic and continue to read it out of either masochism or some misplaced sense of obligation, please write me a two page explanation, 12pt font, double-spaced, as to why I suck. Extra credit will be given to those who provide pictures.

Next Chapter: Meet Narcissa Malfoy, disgraced socialite and future Grandmum!

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight

The east wing of Malfoy Manor had a dreary quality to it, being the oldest part of the estate. It was the last remnant of the original house built during the high medieval period by the first Malfoy to set foot on English soil.

The ceilings were low with rough-hewn stone floors and walls. Small, arched windows barely allowed any light though, and it invariably smelled of rot and mildew. Ancient, decayed oak doors dotted the walls periodically; entrances to rooms long since forgotten by the inhabitants and house elves alike.

It had given Draco the feeling of disgust when he was a child.

He remembered asking his father once why he allowed this crumbing wing to remain. Other sections of the manor had been added and updated, but the east wing stood, ad infinitum.

"Ah, but don't you feel it, Draco?" Lucius had asked, placing the hand that wasn't holding his son's against the chill stonework of the wall.

"The place our forefathers built upon was one of primordial power. Its magic is old and deep, rooted deeper than the foundations. It is the legacy they left us, the sovereign calling we endeavor to pursue in this world: to use the magic that is in our blood and govern over the base, vulgar people. We have the gift of magic and none shall stand in our way."

Draco had nodded his head then, pretending to understand his father's meaning.

But now as his hands skimmed the rugged surface he felt it. The hum of magic ignited his senses. The power of it drew him back to the manor's crumbling, humble remains, away from the ostentatious artifice of aristocracy the other parts were rife with.

The pretense was gone here. The magic wild and raw. And as he walked alone with his thoughts, Draco was glad of it. There was a comfort here in the ruins that he barely understood, but nonetheless sought out.

Though he had only been in Hogwarts a week, Draco was the first in line at Slughorn's office on Saturday morning to sign out for the weekend. He had fallen face first onto his bed on Friday evening, exhausted by the constant casting of shield charms. As he learned on his first day back to classes when a sneeze hex had forced him to leave Potions before the class began, and later when a tripping jinx had left him with a broken nose and a burning urge to punch someone - without protection this was going to be an excruciatingly long year. The accompanying applause that proceeded each incident did nothing for his broken pride.

As he slowly started back toward the foyer, a small figure stood shadowed in the entrance of the east wing. Draco waited for it to speak.

The house elf twisted his long fingers in his hands as he regarded his master nervously. The elves knew not to bother him in his solitude since the summer.

"Mistress Narcissa requests your presence in the parlor," Quincy squeaked, then quickly apparated away with a faint pop.

It was just past breakfast, and having dined alone in his rooms, Draco realized he hadn't seen his mother since luncheon the day before. A touch of guilt added to his dark mood as he walked briskly past the portraits of stern-faced ancestors lining the halls.

He knew his mother was lonely; the house elves her only company in their vast, empty manor. Social invitations had dried up, and family friends were nowhere to be found after their fall from grace.

Though he hadn't picked up a Daily Prophet in ages, he was sure there was plenty written about the Malfoys in the society pages.

He could almost hear bitter witches' quills scratching away in celebration at their glorious humiliation. Posh Narcissa Malfoy, who had never invited them to her exclusive balls, now as undesirable as a pickled slug.

Draco wished he could be a better son to her, wished he could be better company to anyone, really, but the dark void inside him overwhelmed everything else.

Who would want to be around you? You can barely stand yourself he inwardly seethed.

As he approached the parlor doors, he heard his mother's muffled voice filtering through, and a certain dreadful curiosity filled him.

With whom was she speaking?

"...Miss Granger's parents...expectant...see no need…"

The words flitted in and out of his hearing as he snuck closer to the doorway to get a better listen. He recognized the tart Scottish brogue, had heard it scold him dozens of times in his years at Hogwarts.

Draco's heart sank into his stomach, hands reflexively balling into fists as the realization of why Headmistress McGonagall was there dawned on him.

She knew.

Before his cowardly feet could turn and make a run for it, Draco steeled himself, and entered.

His mother's face, pale and elegant, was a mask of cordiality, but he could see she was upset. Her posture seemed to droop in the settee, her dark blue eyes holding a hint of sadness as she watched him take a seat beside her.

McGonagall's expression remained neutral as she regarded him. "Eh, Mr. Malfoy, I'm sorry to interrupt you at your home. As I was discussing with your mother, I've just come from the Weasley's residence. Hermione Granger had a concern that needed to be addressed with some urgency. Do you know of what I speak?""

Draco nodded his head, but offered no explanation. He didn't miss the quick, sharp glance his mother gave him out of the corner of his eye.

"And you hadn't thought to mention this to me?" She asked quietly.

Draco's expression didn't betray the guilt lacing through him like a poison. "Granger wanted to wait, to see if she could find any other alternatives to the pregnancy."

The lie rolled smoothly from his lips, and his eyes remained fixed on the rug behind McGonagall's chair.

"If I might be so bold, Mr. Malfoy, I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around this. Are you telling me Hermione Granger and yourself had a liaison in the midst of a war? I recall you both despising one another at school," the headmistress said. Draco didn't miss the accusation implied in her hard stare.

"Stranger things have happened in times of war," Narcissa said sharply, her spine straightening as she rose to her son's defense.

"I suppose they have. But by some coincidence, she came to be with child around the same time she was held in this manor as a captive-"

"I hope you are not suggesting my son did anything untoward to the young woman," his mother retorted, smoldering fire tempering her words. "By Miss Granger's own admission at his trial, Draco freed her from captivity and assisted in her escape."

There was a pause as the two women glared at each other in tense silence.

Draco stood suddenly, his mouth set in a grim line. "I'll send a house elf to collect my belongings from Hogwarts."

Every bit of him longed to make a dash from the parlor, escape the looks and suspicion, and get as far as he could from anyone who would recognize his face.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Malfoy. However, I would like to see both you and Miss Granger before breakfast tomorrow morning to discuss your arrangements."

She took another long, shrewd look at Draco, then rose as well. "I'll see myself out."

After the headmistress's departure through the floo, the silence yawned between Draco and Narcissa. A house elf from the kitchen briskly refilled the tea pot and departed before his mother spoke again.

"I suppose congratulations are in order," Narcissa said as cold as an arctic night. "You are to be a father, after all."

"It's not like I wanted any of this to happen, Mother," Draco seethed through gritted teeth.

"You make quite the star-crossed pairing," she continued, ignoring him. "The Prophet will have an absolute field day when they learn the news."

"The Prophet can sod off! All of them can!" Draco shouted, his breath coming out in heavy pants as his bottled-up rage finally boiling over.

Narcissa sat stock still, her eyes blue plates of surprise as he paced back and forth before her.

"It was a stupid, bloody mistake. I shouldn't have gone down there, I didn't want - fuck! It doesn't matter. Nothing fucking matters," he raved, no longer caring if he used vulgar language within her hearing.

It was all a mess. His life, the situation with Granger - bloody everything. And it was all his fault.

Remorse intensified within him. If he had the chance, he would have done a great many things differently. He would have told his mother first; would have stayed in his chambers all those months ago; would have taken Dumbledore's offer when he still had a chance.

"What happened, Draco? In the cellar. We thought she had escaped on her own." Or that was what they had told the Dark Lord when he had arrived in a vengeful wrath.

"Greyback," he said, collapsing into the nearest chair, his head in his hands. He breathed deeply to calm the tremendous thundering of his heart. "Greyback happened. It doesn't matter." He couldn't explain it to her. The imperius curse or what he did to Hermione or how weak he was.

Narcissa's hand gently touched his head, and he started, having not heard her come stand by his side. She gently ran her fingers through his fine hair and Draco's eyelids drooped closed, immediately relaxed by her massage. It brought him back to when he was a child sitting in her lap as she read him stories. Back when everything was right with the world.

"I'll send for the barber later. Your hair is an awful mess, Draco," she said, tucking a shaggy blonde lock behind his ear. He was grateful she didn't ask him to elaborate on the cellar and Greyback.

"When she told me about the baby, I wanted her to give it to you; to pretend it was yours. I suppose she's keeping it now."

"I always wanted more children," Narcissa sighed, coming to sit beside him. "We never told you this, but I had several miscarriages before you were born." Her eyes were far away when he turned to look at her.

"Will you- are you going to tell Father?" He changed the subject. He had, in fact, known this about his mother. Her old, long dead house elf, Runi, whom Narcissa had owed since she was a child, would ramble on and on when she played with Draco.

She paused, examining him for a moment. "He'll know eventually, Draco," she said. "Let me deal with him."

Draco rolled his eyes, "He'll be happy for the social advantage having a child with that muggleborn will bring us."

Narcissa tsked, "Do not think so despairingly of your father. He won't be thrilled with the knowledge, however, you know how he feels. He won't let any harm come to his family."

Draco snorted, but didn't say anything. Oh yes, quite the protector. Letting that monster into our home.

"You'll dine with me tonight, and we will discuss this further. Devy is making veal scaloppini, your favorite," her mother stated, then stood.

"Where are you going?" Draco inquired as Narcissa swiftly walked from the parlor, her elegant Sunday dress sweeping across the room after her.

"I have some inquiries to make."

The Office of the Headmaster had changed drastically since Hermione had last seen it. Gone were the wizarding gadgets emitting noises and puffs of smoke from their spindly little tables.

Books now lined the lower walls of the circular room and above them the portraits of the former heads of Hogwarts hung in neat order. Most of them had abandoned their sleeping act and were rather pointedly staring at the two sitting in front of the claw foot desk.

The events of the last two days swirled together in Hermione's head, and she wondered how everything had changed so suddenly.

Perhaps McGonagall kept Dumbledore's pensieve somewhere in office, Hermione pondered. She would love to be rid of the dizzying array of thoughts dancing madly around her mind.

After her parents had left Saturday evening, Hermione had trudged up the stairs, summoning what remained of her strength, and finally told her best friends the truth.

They had indeed been waiting impatiently, and Ginny jumped back as Hermione swung Ron's door open. The trio's look of shock was plainly written on their faces when they noticed her swollen belly.

"Hermione?" Harry questioned, his dark brows knit in confusion.

"Oh, Merlin!" Exclaimed Ginny, her hands coming up to cover her mouth in shock.

Ron's mouth was a tight line on his pale face, and he said nothing.

"I think you all better have a seat," she said, and she finally told them.

Tears spilled from her eyes as the words flowed from her lips. The torture she had endured at the hands of Bellatrix and being chained in the cellar. Greyback's Imperius and what he had forced her and Malfoy to do. She withheld nothing except what the werewolf had done to her himself.

The truth had gotten easier to unload. She laid bare her ordeal with relative ease having had to do so twice just that day, but she felt the sting of every memory she tried so hard to repress keenly in her friend's reactions.

Harry's green eyes were startling against his sheet white face. His eyebrows furrowed in that particular way they did when he was feeling an overwhelming emotion. Having spent so many years at his side, Hermione could guess which ones.

Ginny had her eyes closed, her fist holding her head up on her knee, and her other hand clutching Harry's. She finally looked up at Hermione when she was finished.

"Hermione-" Ron mumbled, shaking his head. She reached for him then, but as soon as her fingers brushed his arm, he stood and left, slamming the door behind himself.

Dismay filled her with his reaction, and Ginny made to go after him, but Harry held her back.

"Let him go, Gin. I'll talk to him later. It's just so much to take in. We- oh God, Hermione. We had no idea. We should never have left you, never...," and Harry cried, leaning into the doorframe as tears escaped from under his glasses.

Hermione stifled a sob. "No, I should have told you lot straight away and-"

"Oh hush," Ginny pulled her into an embrace. "I knew something was up with you. I bloody knew it…" she murmured into Hermione's thick hair.

Harry came to them and rested his head on hers. Hermione's heart soared at finally being able to tell them the truth. Ron's reaction hurt, but now they all knew.

It could be ok again, surely?

After a fitful slumber due to nerves or relief or Ginny's light snores, Hermione had woken early the next morning to make her final confession to her headmistress.

Even with Arthur and Molly's support, it had been difficult to reveal her circumstances to her teacher and mentor of seven years. Of course McGonagall had been understanding and reassured her she could remain at Hogwarts. She had to make some arrangements, but they would discuss them later.

True to her word, the headmistress had summoned her to her office before breakfast on Monday morning.

It didn't surprise her to see Malfoy sitting stiffly in the chair already, arms crossed in front of his chest, his eyes adamant in their avoidance of hers.

"Miss Granger?" McGonagall inquired again, and Hermione's thoughts returned to the present, not realising she had drifted.

"Pardon?" Hermione asked, mildly embarrassed.

Headmistress McGonagall gave her a sympathetic look. "The baby is due by mid-December, correct?"

"Oh, yes, Professor."

"As I told you yesterday, you both still have a place at Hogwarts. Your professors and I held an emergency meeting last night, and they have agreed to leniency regarding your attendance to their classes."

At that, Malfoy's head shot up.

"That mercy does not extend to you, Mr. Malfoy, as you are not the one physically affected." He looked crestfallen and slumped further into the hard chair.

She continued. "The house elves have been at work all night restoring your new quarters in the west wing on the second floor. It will be prepared before midday today."

"Restoring it, Professor?" Hermione asked. "Was it damaged during the battle?"

"No, no, it just needed sprucing up. Peeves had quite a bit of fun in the turret, and the elements did the rest. The school hasn't had an expectant mother in some time, and it's been neglected."

"Wait, there have been others before? In Hogwarts, A History-"

"You're a practical girl, Miss Granger. Do you truly believe this is the first pregnancy at Hogwarts?" The portrait of a gaunt faced witch in an enormous bycocket hat shook her head and let out a hardy chuckle, accompanied by some other former heads of Hogwarts who exchanged knowing looks.

There were at least two portraits who did not join in the jesting. While Hermione avoided looking at Dumbledore directly above Professor McGonagall, her eyes briefly met the portrait of Snape then looked away. Still, she could feel his black eyes burning holes into her face.

"Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger, please pack your belongings after breakfast. The house elves will move them when everything is ready this afternoon. Now, let me show you where you will be situated going forth." Professor McGonagall started to rise, but stopped when Malfoy released a loud "Pft!"

"I beg your pardon?" Demanded Malfoy, his dark blonde eyebrows crinkled in confusion. "We will be sharing these quarters?"

"Of course. In these circumstances, it would be prudent to have Miss Granger closer to her classes to save her the burden of walking. And after all, it would be best if both parents were close by to help after the child's birth, wouldn't you agree?"

Draco muttered something that sounded like "my mother" under his breath, but McGonagall made no indication that she heard him.

"Now, if you will follow me…"

For the first time since entering the office, Draco and Hermione's eyes met, sharing a look of trepidation, and followed her out of her office.

A/N:

FINALS ARE OVER!

I took a bit of a creative winter and lost touch with the Dramione fandom for a sec, but FEAR NOT, I am going to finish this fic if it kills me!

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine

Thursday, 24 September

Hermione jolted from her slumber, hand to her wand and pointed at the door in the span of a breath, drowsy and confused. Sounds of a muffled conversation and small, scuttling footsteps came from outside her door. A loud thump, as if something was dropped on a rug, awakened her fully.

The long crimson curtains of her west-facing window were drawn, revealing the sherbert orange sky of an early evening, and it took her a breath's moment to remember where she was through her sleep-addled fog.

Home, or what was her new home for the remainder of the school year. All in all not a terrible trade-off. She thought as she sat up on her new bed with a grunt. At least she had a room to herself, and no longer shared it with three other women. Though they weren't girls any more, exchanging whispered gossip and giggles after the candles were blown out, Hermione appreciated the privacy of her new room, especially as her condition became more burdensome.

The turret was much larger than Hermione had anticipated when the headmistress had led them down to the third floor. The statue of Elfrida the Mender guarded the door of their rooms, and with a whispered Infans, she leapt aside, revealing a rough stone passage. Inside was a circular stone room, much like the other towers, but smaller. Next to the entrance, flames licked at the logs in the large fireplace, across towering windows looking down into the courtyard and giving the cozy room abundant natural light.

A couch and several tables and comfortable chairs were spewn about the room. There were three doors: two on the left and one on the right of the entrance. The right door led to Malfoy's room, similar to her own with its own bathroom. On the left was her room next to a smaller one.

The baby's room, had been McGonagall's answer when Hermione had ducked her head in. It was devoid of all furnishings, empty except for the entrance door and the one that led to her bedroom.

Hermione had owl'ed her parents later that night to ask for a mother and daughter shopping trip to buy baby stuff. It wouldn't be the most pleasant experience, shopping wasn't her favorite pastime, but if it could repair any of the damage she had created between her mother and herself, she would swallow the thorn. Her mother had yet to owl her back.

Living with Malfoy wasn't as tense as she expected it would be. To her surprise, she barely saw the boy. In the four days since they had been living together, she had seen him thrice in passing, each exchanging a quick nod of the head and separating as quickly as a blink. His only presence was the faint glow of light underneath his door when she was on the couch studying.

This was what puzzled her as she left the comfort of the bed to investigate the noises coming from their living area. She very much doubted he would have friends over. Hermione wasn't quite sure if Malfoy had friends, to be honest.

A selfish part of her hoped he wasn't the one creating the cacophony; she rather liked having the cushy chair and table next to the window to herself to study in quiet.

After her late afternoon nap, she planned to start the sanskrit rune research project due at the end of term, not to mention the five feet of parchment due in arithmancy regarding the geometry of wand casting. And the book she just checked out about the components of advanced warding was calling to her. After their meeting about her situation, Professor Tagget had agreeably allowed her to skip the N.E.W.T class with the 7th and 8th years to instead complete an independent study.

Pregnant or not, she would receive an O in every single one of her N.E.W.T.s.

Hermione stepped out of her door frame and said, none-too-kindly, "Malfoy, if you could keep the noise d-"

But it wasn't him out there after all. Or rather, not the Malfoy she thought it would be.

Mrs. Malfoy turned her cool blue gaze towards Hermione. "Ah, Miss Granger, I see you've found your nap….restful." Her veiled eyes skirted across Hermione's form, still dressed in her school uniform, though likely disheveled.

Hermione felt herself blush, subconsciously flattening her wild hair as she approached the Malfoy matriarch, just missing stepping on a house elf running by with a load of boxes in its arms. "May I ask, what exactly are you doing in my quarters?" She asked, hoping her irritation was not too evident in her tone.

"These are my son's rooms as well, and he was the one to invite me, if you must know," Mrs. Malfoy said in a chiding tone. She turned to the box-wielding elf waiting at her feet and pointed to the baby's room. "I'm here to help with the arrival of my grandchild. Much higher, Fivette," she said in the direction of the windows, and Hermione glanced up to see another house elf balanced precariously on a ladder and adjusting green velvet curtains.

"Not to stay, of course?" Hermione asked, incredulous. She was sure there was absolutely no way McGonagall would allow that to happen, if only for Hermione's peace of mind.

Mrs. Malfoy laughed, a soft, tinkling sound, "Oh my, no. After being made aware of the sorry state of the nursery, I've come to furnish it, and perhaps," she paused, glancing around the room then shrugged primly, "assist elsewhere."

Hermione crossed her arms, suddenly defensive of her little room. "We didn't need curtains. The windows are magicked so no one can see in."

"As they should be. It couldn't hurt to add a bit of style to this room, especially since you'll be sharing it with my son." From her intonation and the subtle upturn of her lip, Hermione was sure Mrs. Malfoy didn't approve of the living situation at all, let alone the drapery.

"Your son can go back to the dormitory if he's so unsatisfied living here; we'll be fine on our own. Without the added decor." Hermione huffed, the annoyance at this woman's unwelcome intrusion boiling over.

The house elf hanging onto the ladder stared between Hermione and its master, eyes wide in apprehension. Mrs. Malfoy's lips thinned, her voice as soft and deathly sweet as arsenic dipped toffee.

"I'm sure you're unaware of this, Miss Granger, being that you are new to our ways, but in wizarding culture, the expectant woman's mother is usually the one to help prepare the home. Seeing as your mother is, well, non-magical and unable to be of any use, I've kindly volunteered to take up that duty for the sake of my family." As if that were the end of the conversation, Mrs. Malfoy turned her back on Hermione and continued rearranging the room.

Hermione seethed where she stood. The gall of this woman to come into her personal space and insidiously insult her family. So what if her mum was a muggle? She would still be involved in their lives, take care of the baby if they need anything, love her grandchild just as much as the prim witch currently transfiguring Hermione's favorite furniture.

The fragile, unspoken truce she and Malfoy had between them did not extend to his mother.

She felt the sudden, impulsive urge to tell Mrs. Malfoy this child might not be her kin, not a Malfoy at all. She was tempted to tell her every sordid, filthy detail of her and Draco's time on the cellar floor.

But instead she took a breath then another until her blood no longer boiled, until her heart beat at its normal rate, and she could think more clearly.

Changing into jeans and a jumper- her more comfortable, muggle clothing - Hermione grabbed her bag and headed to the library to study.

The lanterns of the library had already been lit by the time Hermione arrived, giving the place a charming glow. She inhaled deeply and smiled. She loved the smell of the library - the scent of leather and musty pages, of old magic and dried ink. She could sit here for hours indulging in her yearning for knowledge and feel not one bit of guilt. It was a welcome change to her now claustrophobic quarters.

When does Madam Pince retire? Hermione thought absently as she made her way to the back to the large room, heedless of the whispers and stares she was receiving from behind bookshelves. The vulture-like librarian had to be getting on in the years, and last spring's battle had aged the woman even further.

Perhaps a ministry job isn't in the future for me after all, she pondered then halted as she came to the end of the aisle where her favorite study spot was. The desk was under two, bright lanterns with enough table room for her usual stack of books. But most importantly, it was hidden behind a bookcase, away from most prying eyes.

This time however, it seemed to be occupied by a slim, blond haired Slytherin with his nose in a book.

Hermione rolled her eyes, accepted the fact that she'd have to share table space, and took a seat at the other end. A library table was the least of the things she was sharing with Draco Malfoy, after all.

"Good evening," she said hesitantly, removing scrolls of parchment and textbooks from her bag.

Malfoy didn't bother looking up.

Setting her final book down, she sighed. "If we're going to be living together, we may as well start talking, Mal-Draco," Hermione said, trying out his first name. It felt odd in her mouth, like a sour lemon tart that needed more sweetness.

After a few minutes of his stony silence passed, she continued. "You could have warned me that your mother was coming today."

Draco slammed his book closed, and he finally regarded her with cool grey eyes and a sneer. "Just as you could have warned me last weekend. McGonagall's presence was just what I wanted with my afternoon tea. You should have owl'ed me before you told the whole bloody world, Granger. I'd have preferred to talk to my mother on my own instead of her having to hear it from someone else's mouth," he snarled, his voice raising a pitch at the end in his anger.

"I'm sorry!" She whisper-shouted, "It just sort of came out at the Weasley's when I heard about Greyback's escape and-"

"Pardon? His what?" Draco asked, his posture changing from a slouch to rigidly upright, and his normally hooded eyes flashing open with the news.

Oh, blast. She hadn't told him yet. Though it was rather difficult to have a discussion with someone who would barely make eye contact with her, let alone engage in any conversation. This was the most they'd spoken in, well, months.

"He-well, he escaped ministry custody a few weeks ago. It hasn't been in the papers yet, but Harry said-"

Draco snorted in an entirely undignified manner. "Potter, of course that wanker has something to do with this."

"Well it isn't as if he's personally responsible." Hermione felt herself redden. "There's a full manhunt going on for Greyback as we speak. Monsters like him can't hide in the shadows for long," she finished with a conviction she could almost trick herself into believing. Almost.

"You'd be surprised," Draco muttered darkly, and brought his book to his face as good as ending their brief chat.

The reminder of that heinous werewolf sent a cold shiver down Hermione's spine. Without hesitation, she pulled the advanced warding textbook from her satchel and began reading.

Many hours passed as the two of them sat in silence, consumed by their respective work. Thoughts of Mrs. Malfoy, werewolves, and baby furniture evaporated from her mind as Hermione scribbled out the complexities of wand movement in protection spells, the scratching of her quill overlapping with his. She briefly looked to see him hunched over his parchment.

"Why are you reading that?" Hermione inquired, recognizing the light blue cover of Baby and Brew floating in front of him. The pregnancy potion handbook had saved her more than a few aches and pains. Was he planning on making her potions? While it would be useful and save her time, it was quite out of character of him.

Draco didn't look up, his quill still moving furiously across the curling surface. "There are more than a few potions in here I've found to be useful."

Hermione marked her book on the page she'd get back to, her brows bunching in curiosity. "How are tummy tonics for expectant mums useful to you?"

"Page 214," Draco articulated in an annoyed voice. "Paternity potion. I've sent an order to the apothecary for the ingredients this morning. In a week's time we will know whose child you really are carrying. And if the fates are kind, it won't be mine."

A/N:

I know I'm slow to update. I hate that I am, too. My muse is fickle and unfeeling and frequently runs off into the Marvel universe to play with the X-men. I'm *extremely* hard on my own writing and toss away a lot of it…and I'm trying to repeat to myself every time I put my fingers to the keyboard that this is fanfic, not a dissertation, and, yes, I'm going to upset some people with the direction I decide to take their beloved characters, and THAT'S OK. The fact that some of you have stuck around and are so lovely and supportive means I can't be *that* bad, right?

*exhale*

When this is all finished and Draco and Hermione get to where they're going, I absolutely promise to re-edit and streamline this mess. I have so many more Dramione stories I want to tell, but ideas are a dime a dozen. It's the execution and the actual *doing* that matters.

Anywhos. Comments and kudos are always greatly appreciated.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten

It was an open secret amoung the gossipmongers that the rooms she now occupied with Malfoy were reserved for expectant parents. Hermione had never before listened to such twattle, preferring to ignore the rumors and hearsay whispered behind cupped-hands and in dark alcoves. She should have realized that not all truths were printed on parchment.

Word had quickly spread after they moved out of the eighth-year tower; the gossip mill at Hogwarts moved with lightning-fast speed. By dinner of the same morning they had met with Professor McGonagall, half of the student body seemed to be gawking at her as she walked to her classes. The other half were polite, or rather discreet, enough to shoot her occasion looks whilst muttering to their companions under their breath.

The official line, spread by the invaluable Miss Ginny Weasley, was Hermione and Draco had a brief tryst, and it led to her ill-begotten pregnancy. Only a handful of people knew the whole truth, mainly her three closest companions, two of which were no longer at school. Those closest to her knew better and if the others were curious, they kept it themselves.

Dinner that first evening had been awkward, to say the least. Before the food was magicked to the eighth-year table, she made the brief announcement to all seated that she was expecting. Not that they had any doubts; she stopped casting disillusionment charms on her sizable belly.

They didn't have to know the whole truth; it was Hermione's to keep. She informed them on her own terms, looking each of her fellow students in the eye, refusing to be shamed. Malfoy was mercifully absent.

Hermione had not been prepared for Pavarti's tight hug after her confession.

"Oh, I knew you'd been acting odd. Well, odder, since we returned. How lovely, a baby!" She had practically squealed into Hermione's ear.

Neville stood and hugged her as well, his expression an odd mixture between concerned and confused. "Well, that's just, um, yes, congratulations. If you need anything, of course…" His wan voice petered out, and he sat back down, red-faced and overly concerned with his goblet of pumpkin juice.

There was some mutterings on "Congratulations," amoung the group of eighth years, mixed with looks of discomfort, and in one case anger.

Lips pursed in a hard line, Dean Thomas' stood without a word and left the table. The others awkwardly avoided looking his way, and Hermione felt a faint stab of hurt at his departure.

After he left, the food appeared, and they delved in, and the burden on Hermione's mind seemed a little bit lighter.

"Chicken?" Ernie Macmillan asked, handing her the plate of the heavenly-scented roast dish, and she gladly took it. "You'll need the extra protein. I've read that the developing fetus needs as much as it can get. You should drink more milk as well as the added calcium will be greatly beneficial…"

The Slytherin's didn't say anything to her, no surprise there, though one dark haired Slytherin girl in sixth year who was at their table next to Daphne Greengrass shot her several sharp glares.

If she only knew the truth, Hermione thought ruefully as she endured Ernie's unwarranted advice, content that he was chatting with her at all.

She was glad she could, at least for now, focus on her schoolwork. The fog was lifting ever so slightly and her future wasn't so terrifying. Only now it included a plus one.

"What's this one called again?" Ginny asked, taking a nibble of the biscuit swirled with chocolate, her school books laid open and forgotten on the table.

"A jaffa cake," answered Hermione, as she opened a packet of prawn cocktail crisps for herself. Her pleading letter home was answered in the form of a box full of her favorite muggle sweets and treats. Her pregnancy cravings were longing for the familiar taste of hobnobs, jaffa cakes, and hula hoops. She's even requested a jar of peanut butter much to the bemusement of her father.

She dipped a crisp into the smooth peanut butter, relishing the fishy savoriness with the nutty sweetness. Being pregnant was weird.

"There's an awful lot of green and silver in here. Seems like the decorator was a tad biased," Ginny joked, taking a break from pillaging the snack stash and walking around her newly designed quarters.

Hermione rolled her eyes and chuckled, "Yeah, I'd noticed. Would you believe there used to be more?"

After the last elf disapparated, Hermione set about breaking up the profusion of green and silver Mrs. Malfoy had left in her wake. The once serpentine-patterned silver rug was now a cheerful motif of blues, purples, and greens. The tall, stiff-backed chairs that had been her favorite cushy reading seats were immediately transfigured back. Other items throughout the shared space were converted back to their former selves as well. Not that she had a problem with the colors themselves, in fact she had kept the dark green brocade curtains, but she didn't want to live in the Slytherin common room.

Thankfully, the house elves and their mistress of chaos had left her own quarters alone. The same could not be said for the baby's room.

Ginny poked her head into its room, "Oh, fancy!" She exclaimed as they entered.

"More like pompous," Hermione retorted, grudgingly. An ornate mahogany teester hung above the cradle, creating a small canopy with bolts of silver satin that fell to the richly carpeted floor. The cradle itself was wrought iron and baroque in its design. The head and end were identical scenes of an iron tree sprouting upward, it's twisting branches and leaves wrapping themselves around the four circular pillars and along the two longer sides. A similarly designed changing table, wardrobe, and rocking chair cushioned in green velvet completed the set.

"The set is a family heirloom, and was Draco's when he was a baby," or so the house elf who had moved it there had told her when he apparated in the next morning to add the finishing touches.

"Oh, it's Draco now, is it?" Ginny asked coyly, moving back to their impromptu study area on the couch.

"I can't go calling the father of my child by his surname its whole life, can I? That would be ridiculous," Hermione reasoned, falling back onto the couch with a grunt.

"Draco Bloody Malfoy," Ginny said, shaking her head. "I still have a hard time wrapping my head around it all."

"How do you think I feel?"

Ginny shifted in her seat, embarrassed. "I'm sorry Hermione. What happened to you...and with him of all people. If you ever want to, you know, talk about what happened. You know I'm here for you, right?"

"I know, thank you. I just honestly wanted to get through one school year without something mad happening, and, well, too late for that," she said, half-jokingly, and gestured to herself. "It's bizarre thinking there will be an actual, real life baby in that hideous crib soon."

Ginny only nodded, her hand coming to rest on hers.

Hermione, not wishing to dwell on her own thoughts for much longer, smiled slightly, and changed the subject. "How are you managing your Head Girl duties?"

Groaning, Ginny, slumping back onto the couch and throwing her arm across her face dramatically. "You would not believe the absolute insanity that happens at this school. I was so blissfully unaware until now. Did I tell you about the added patrol hours the Prefects have to do? They're acting like Voldemort is still alive and hiding in the girl's loo! Being head girl seems to be little more than breaking up fights and scheduling patrols and listening to unending complaints. Just this morning, I had to hex two Hufflepuffs apart…"

Hermione listened while Ginny ranted about the nuances of her new role as head girl. The role she would have had. Being head girl was something she wanted before, but now it seemed such a trite and petty thing to have been jealous over. She was going to a mum soon. The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying, and Hermione laid a hand upon her belly to assure herself it was all still real.

"-and you know how they are. Oh, before I forget, Mum wanted me to ask you where you'll hold the birth rite ceremony," Ginny asked nonchalantly, moving her wand to hold her potions book in the air. "She says the Burrow might do, if you wanted."

Hermione looked up from her arithmancy book. "Birth rite?"

"Yeah, after the baby is born." At Hermione's quizzical expression, Ginny asked, "Well, what do they do in the muggle world to celebrate births?"

"Well, if the family is religious, they have a christening. It's basically a Christian blessing after the baby is born. In America, they have baby showers. Like a pre-birth party where people, mostly women, bring gifts to the expectant parents."

"It's kinda like that, except it's after the baby's here."

"Really Ginny, I don't think we need to make a big deal out of-" Hermione started, flustered.

"Hermione, this isn't some silly get together - it is a tradition going back ions. The celebration of life is a very important one in wizard culture. I haven't heard of a witch or wizard not having a birth rite, even a small one. It's bad luck. On the first new moon after the baby is born, the parents, friends, and family gather to officially give the child a name and bestow gifts and blessings. The godparents will then take an Unbreakable Vow to protect and care for the child should any harm come to the parents."

Ginny continued to explain, her floating potions textbook all but forgotten. "In the old days, the Birth Rite was also when the Officiant and midwife would check the child for magic before naming it. Sometimes parents would end the rite, and the baby might not be seen again. The old tradition was to never mention this child again as it might bring great shame to the parents who had either sent it to muggle schools or simply gave away their squib child."

"That's ghastly!" Hermione exclaimed. So what if her child was a squib? She would love it just the same. She thought of all those poor children, discarded by their parents for something they had no control over, of old Filch who roamed the halls of Hogwarts, miserable and lonely.

"It is! But we don't do that anymore, thank Merlin."

"What do they all do afterward? Are only women invited?"

"Anyone's invited to come. It's pretty much a big party afterward. When our neighbors, the Wrens, had a daughter a few years back, they had a massive bonfire with half of England there. The party ended around four in the morning and only because someone called the aurors when Fred and George challenged Juan Comadreja to a duel after Juan insulted one of their inventions, and that almost turned into a brawl between our families."

Hermione laughed at Ginny's no doubt accurate account. There were times, such as these, where Hermione forgot she was new to this world of magic. After all the years of learning about the rudimentaries of magic in a far-off school, and reading about the past in an abstract, distanced way, she didn't know their way of life as others such as Ginny did. She was born with magic all around her, where all the folklore and norms of this world were as innate to her as breathing.

Jotting down a mental note, Hermione vowed to go to the library and discover all the wizarding traditions she should know.

Next Chapter: The results of the paternity potion are in.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven

Saturday, 3 October

"And Gray takes the quaffle for Gryffindor! Oh, and down he goes. Nice throw, Brocklehurst, and now Ravenclaw Chaser, Andrews, has possession and is speeding toward the goals…."

A cheer arose from the stands as Ravenclaw scored another ten points. A crowd of their supporters waved small blue and bronze pendants, jeering at the morose looking Gryffindors who returned their laughs with sour expressions. The wide seventy-point lead they had over the other house, thanks in large part to Chaser Ginny Weasley, was swiftly closing as Ravenclaw scored a third goal in a row.

The new Gryffindor Seeker, Martin Mwangi, hovered above his teammates, scanning the arena for any flash of gold. He shot off suddenly, his body a streak of crimson as he raced for the Snitch; his rival, Anthony Fangori, hot on his broomtail.

The brisk October morning wind cut a swatch of chilly air through the crowd of students and spectators, and, shivering, Hermione cast another warming spell onto her mittens.

"Was it always this bloody cold during my matches?" Harry asked, his teeth clattering together.

"Oh, just wait until the ones in November."

"I'd have already had the Snitch in hand," he groaned, watching the seekers move across the pitch with longing.

Hermione gave him a sharp, sideways glance. "Then you should have come back for eighth year," she said, a bit haughtily.

"You're never going to let me live that down," Harry chuckled, nudging her with his body. Gryffindor won back the quaffle, scoring three more goals on the Keeper, before it's repossession by Ravenclaw.

The score was one-hundred thirty points to forty, in Gryffindor's favor, when Hermione and Harry crept off the stands, breaking away from the crowd of rowdy Quidditch fans.

"I'm sure Ginny will understand later," Harry whispered as they made their way past the edge of the wards and apparated to the entrance of Hogsmeade.

An unexpectedly early chill of winter had settled upon the Scottish highlands, turning the grass pale with frost and prematurely coloring the trees. The vibrant oranges and reds set the mood for Halloween, and decorations were already being put up in the small wizarding village. A full sized skeleton danced in the window of Zonko's Joke Shop, and Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop had magicked cutouts of colorful paper leaves to fall continuously on their new stationary display.

"Hungry?" Harry asked, his breath coming out a small, white puff.

"Ravenous," she chuckled, rubbing her belly, and Harry steered them toward the Three Broomsticks.

Despite the crisp afternoon, Hermione was content. It had been a long time, since the tent in the Forest of Dean to be precise, that she had had her best friend to herself. She missed the familiarity and feeling of belonging they had together, as if he were the brother she never had. As much as she cared for Ginny, Hermione was not in the mood to listen to Quidditch talk or watch them snog.

Though they walked to the Three Broomsticks, she couldn't help but feel the empty presence that nagged her just on the fringes of her psyche. Ron's absence hurt more than she would ever admit.

The warm rush of air immediately brought feeling back to Hermione's numb face as they entered the pub, and the smell of stew and fresh baked bread practically had her salivating.

Not many students populated the normally busy pub, especially for a Saturday. Hermione was sure the flood would come once the game was finished, but she was glad for it being mostly empty as they secured a booth toward the back. On the other side, a mixed group of fifth year Hufflepuff and Slytherin students stared at them. An animated one touched his forehead where Harry's scar was and spoke in whispers to his friends. One of the group, the younger Greengrass sister, Hermione realised, turned around to get a glimpse then quickly back to face her friends.

Rosemerta swept by, took their orders then retreated to the back to bring them a pumpkin juice each.

Hermione was the first to break the easy silence. "So, how's Ron?"

Harry's fingers played with a cork coaster, "He's….well, he's still a bit bothered with the news," he said, then added in apology, "Not that there's anything wrong with you or you having a baby or the whole thing…."

She rolled her eyes. He was bothered? After he stormed out of the Weasley home, she had hoped he would come to his senses. It had been weeks now with no word from him, though. She wished she could coldly throw away the thought of him, wished she could rid herself of the worry and heartache he caused, but Hermione was not so callous. Their seven years of friendship was worth more to her than that.

"How are your new living arrangements working out?" Harry asked, quickly changing the subject.

"It's alright. Having privacy again is wonderful."

"And Malfoy? How is he?" Hermione doubted Harry gave a fig about him; the animosity in his voice was palpable.

"He's alright, too."

Brooding and distant, she thought. But he left her alone, for the most part.

"Are you making sure your doors are locked? If he does or says anything to you, Hermione, you promise you'll tell us straight away?"

"Harry, he hasn't done anything, I promise. I mean, he's still a bit of a wanker, not sure that will ever change, but otherwise, he's civil."

She was loath to admit it aloud, but Draco's presence provided an odd sort of comfort. Even with his surly and combative disposition, he knew what she was going through. He had experienced the same trauma, and for all her friend's condolences, he had felt the same hurt she did, knew the pain as deep as herself, and they were connected now and forever because of it.

They were survivors at sea, clinging to the same driftwood as they watched everyone else sail away.

Harry paused for a moment, looking down at his filled mug in contemplation. His next words burst out of him unexpectedly. "It's just bullshit! I don't understand why they can't give you a separate room. After everything you've been through, and you're stuck with him, the one who did this to you. I'm so sorry, Hermi-"

"Stop. Just, bloody stop. I'm so sick of hearing how sorry everyone is! Things happened and there's nothing I can do to change it," she snapped, much harsher than she intended. Her voice softened at his sheepish expression.

"I know things can never go back to how they used to be; we always knew it would be different after you defeated Voldemort. We just didn't realize it would be this different," she gestured to her belly. "But for my sake, can you please try to get along with Draco? He's not our enemy anymore."

Harry signed and gave her a small smile as their stews arrived. "I'll...I'll try. For you."

As they ate, they fell into an easier conversation about her studies and his training.

"Look, Hermione, I need to tell you something." Harry rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and met her eyes with his piercing green gaze. "We have intelligence that Greyback is here in Scotland."

Hermione's skin itched and her throat tightened. Thinking of Greyback made her nauseous, made every inch of her feel dirty and disgusting. And now imagining him free in the world, wrecking havoc wherever he went, doing to others what he did to her...she felt herself flush with rage.

"I'd gleaned that from your owl last week."

"Yes, but," Harry paused and cast a quick muffliato. "Look, keep this between the two of us. Don't even let Ginny on that I told you. The wards of Hogwarts aren't what they used to be. The Death Eaters seriously damaged the ancient protective magic surrounding the castle. And now that Dumbledore isn't around anymore…"

"We're vulnerable," Hermione finished. Harry nodded. "Is that why there are more aurors at the school?"

He nodded again, his expression pained.

"A witch and a wizard were bitten on the night of the last full moon, in Essex….by Greyback. They were taken to St. Mungos, but have escaped. We think he's creating a werewolf pack."

"Just because they were bitten doesn't mean they will become like him," Monsters, the thought sending a shiver through her. "Think of Lupin, of Bill."

"He's not biting people at random, Hermione, we think he's choosing them for a reason. Almost all of them have a history of violence and records with the aurors longer than my arm. There was a wizard on probation and two more with ties to the Death Eaters who've all disappeared within the span of a couple months. And they've been spotted in northern Scotland as well."

Hermione shook her head to rid herself of the baffling questions. Why here? Why now? Her mind raced regardless of her efforts. Of all the places in the world in which Greyback could hide, he came back here in the midst of a full manhunt. What does he want?

Harry was thinking along the same lines. "It makes no sense why he'd come back to the UK."

Unless, she finally reached the unthinkable conclusion. Unless he's coming back for them.

Unbidden, the words he spoke to Draco in the cellar came back to her: When the full moon comes, I'm lookin' for you, boy. Was he still preoccupied with his threat, still infatuated with ruining their lives?

And what else might Greyback know? Though word of her pregnancy hadn't made the Daily Prophet yet, she was sure word had spread back home from student to parents by now.

Her mind stopped cold as she touched upon the thought she had been avoiding for months now - the very real possibility that her child was that monster's and not Draco's.

It sent a shiver of anticipation and dread through her. What would she do if it was Greybacks…

Today, today I will finally know.

"But whatever his plans are, we'll stop him," Harry continued, unaware of her internal battle.

Elfrida the Mender had barely leapt back into place in the stony passage when she heard a voice call out: "About time you got back."

The sun had just touched upon the western horizon when Hermione made her way back to the castle after Harry's visit. "You told me we would start after dusk," Hermione replied, hanging her cloak and scarf and walking over to his side.

Draco's blond head hung over an iron cauldron set on their sitting room table. The brew bubbled and hissed, it's frothy contents roiling and ready to spill over. He lowered the flame with his wand, and gave her an irritated look.

"Well, we can't wait much longer or the nux myristica will start to deteriorate. Do you know how expensive it was?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, and peered down into the cauldron. The potion had settled and now reflected back a creamy pearlescent color.

"Yes, you've mentioned it once or twice," she muttered. In fact, the only conversations they'd had since the library seemed to be about the paternity potion. When the ingredients would arrive, the proper cut for the angel's trumpet leaves, who he would invite to the party when they discovered he wasn't the father...

"And difficult to acquire," he continued, rummaging around in his potion kit. "Where in the bloody hell…"

Considering its frequent use in poisons, Hermione wasn't the least bit surprised that a Malfoy had difficulty in procuring the rare plant, but she kept that to herself.

"Ha! Found it," Draco cried, pulling a slim knife from its sheath. He brought the razor-sharp edge to his left palm and cut. Vivid red blood started to pool there, and he raised his hand above the cauldron.

"Wait!" She gripped his elbow. "We need to wait a bit longer - it's still too dark. The recipe says to wait until the potion is white," she said, looking about for the Baby and Brew potion book.

Draco shook her hand off, adding the three droplets of blood required heedless of her cry.

"Draco, it wasn't ready! You've just wasted-"

"It is ready, Granger! It looked white enough to me. Between the two of us, I far surpass you in potion making, just ask Slughorn."

"That is absolutely rubbish," she huffed and then paused, turning back toward the cauldron.

The potion was now emitting clouds of grey smoke, dissolving the liquid and filling the room. As quickly as it expanded, the smoke constructed back to tendrils that crept along the rug as if searching for something.

Draco's face was an open book of curiosity as they both watched the slithering smoke crept toward him, it's arms gliding up his body, stopping at his waist. He looked at her then, brows creased in uneasiness. Then in a flash of white, the smoke was gone, leaving an empty cauldron and an answer to their question.

Hermione's hand covered her mouth, her eyes blurry with sudden tears.

"No…." Draco whispered, his voice as faint as a breeze.

Hermione didn't need to read the results page to interpret the smoke's meaning.

The child she was carrying was going to be a Malfoy, afterall.

A/N:

Are you satisfied with the answer, my thirsty readers? Yes, I always planned for the child to be Draco's. Yes, I did love torturing you, thank you for asking ^_-

Thank you SO SO much for the reviews and words of encouragement! I hope you will all be satisfied by the end of the story, I just ask for a little more of your patience. Draco's perspective is up next with MUCH more interaction between the pair.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve

No.

The word wouldn't stop repeating itself in his head as Draco thought again of the white flash, the fatal beacon of his cataclysmic circumstances.

"There has to be….this is a mistake," he muttered, feeling faint. He was sure he had brewed the potion correctly, had measured each component as precisely as one could, and cut each piece to within a millimetre of accuracy. Unless it was the ingredients themselves that were off, Draco reasoned.

As he turned towards his bedroom door, he was surprised when a hand gripped his forearm.

"No," said Granger, her brown eyes narrowed in anger. "You're not running off to your room and avoiding me again. We're going to sit down and have a chat."

Draco surprised himself by allowing her to lead him to the couch where he plopped down, still nonplussed.

Granger gingerly leaned back into the chair, her hands coming to rest on her pregnant belly.

Pregnant with….with my child, Draco thought, running his hands through his hair and breathing deeply. Oh, Merlin.

There was a pause as neither one of them spoke.

Granger cleared her throat, breaking the awkward silence. "Look, Draco, you insisted we conclusively know who the father is, and now we do. We need to figure out where we go from here."

He had insisted, he knew that. He had also been convinced this child wasn't his, so absolutely certain that the potion would prove him right that he hadn't even thought of the alternate possibility.

But now the answer was as plain as day. He was going to be a father. He was going to have a child with Hermione Granger.

Draco didn't know which prospect was more alarming.

Where did he go from here? He was sure Granger had everything mapped out for the next five years, had a concrete plan for both herself and the baby while he sat there, mute, in utter disarray. Draco remembered her in class, dragging around her two oafs, always one step ahead of everyone else. He wouldn't be surprised if she was going to make a bid for Minister for Magic right out of Hogwarts.

Probably had the speeches already written.

Draco blew out a huff of air, sat back on the couch, and finally looked her in the eye.

"Under normal circumstances, we'd get married," he said, his lip turning up in distaste.

Granger snorted, sharing his sentiment. "I'd rather eat every book in the library, one page at a time."

"Well, what do Muggles do with bastards?"

"Stuff them into burlap sacks, and let the river decide their fate," she said acerbically. "We're not monsters. Children born out of wedlock aren't treated any differently. Anymore, at least."

"The child won't be entitled to any inheritance from my family." It's not a matter he had any choice in; it's just the way it was. Wizarding laws were antiquated, but the magic powerful and hard to circumvent.

"We'll be able to support ourselves with or without your heirlooms, Draco," she bit out his name, fingers interlocking over her extended abdomen protectively. "I plan on working after we graduate. We'll be just fine."

"You plan on working? With a child that's only a few months old? What nonsense," he waved his hand dismissively.

A dusky flush crept up Granger's tan neck. "My parents can help, and I could sign them up for a nursery when we're busy. It's not that expensive"

"Brilliant. Put it in a pen with a bunch of dirty, runny-nosed little muggles," he drawled.

"They'll be fine," she gritted through her teeth, her whole face now blooming crimson, making the light freckles on her nose stand out.

The words gliding out of his mouth faster than he was able to catch them. "Well, it seems a ludicrous waste of money to pay strangers when I could mind the baby during the day," he muttered awkwardly.

"You're…you're going to be around?" Her eyes widened slightly at him then, her expression open and filled with question.

Draco shifted on the couch in discomfort. "Yes, of course," he grunted, his arms folding across his chest. "As we've literally just established, Granger, the child is mine, too."

For all his flaws, Draco understood blood obligations. Family always came first, a line his father had repeated endlessly throughout his life, and now as an adult, Draco agreed by his own volition. They had stuck together through the horror of the Dark Lord, through the turbulence and fear, racing across the maelstrom of spells during the battle in search of each other.

Of all the things he was coming to realise about his parents, both the good and the ugly, their love of him and each other was never in question. Who would he be as a man if he didn't do the same for his child, wanted or not?

"Hermione," she shot back, her surprised expression shifting back to irritation.

"What?"

"My name is Hermione. We're having a child together, Draco. The least we could do is refer to each other by our first names."

"Whatever," he grumbled.

"It's important that-"she started then was interrupted by a loud grumbling from her stomach. If at all possible, she turned a darker shade of crimson. "Pardon me. I'm a bit hungry."

Draco gestured toward the large windows, darkened by evening, where a silver cloche, dinnerware, and a goblet with a pitcher were laid upon the table she normally used for studying. The house elves knew to leave him dinner there as he hadn't frequented the Great Hall in some time.

"It's all yours," he drawled, rising. His stomach was a tight ball inside his chest, and he was no longer hungry.

He heard a soft thank you before his door clicked shut.

"Granger?" Draco's words echoed back to him in a thousand mocking voices as he crept down the narrow cellar stairs.

granger….Granger? Granger! They spat and shrieked, whispered and begged. The words repelled off the walls, crawling back up his throat, and he choked, coughing.

The pinprick of light at the end of his wand was eaten by the dark, and he descended further deep, deep down into the mouth of hell.

He heard the grunts, the sounds of flesh meeting flesh before his bare feet touched the soft earth of the forest floor. The canopy of trees above shook and shuddered, stark black against the luminescent full moon.

Two figures struggled in the shadows beneath a thin, dead hawthorn strangled by vines, and he approached, moss silent.

The great beast's hairy back was turned away from him, moving above the naked girl, her bronze limbs frail as a sparrow, her blood as bright as her fear. Her eyes found his in the fading light.

Please,  they begged.

But Draco was struck still as stone, his wand the only thing moving, trembling between impotent fingers.

It paused, sensing him, muzzle slick and sharp and dripping red down his shaggy chest, and glee reflecting in his predator eyes.

And in a moment the Beast was upon him.

The stone slabs sweat where Draco fell on them, the wet chill permeating his naked flesh, and he moaned and writhed upon the floor, looking up and begging for help from the indifferent sky as the Beast feasted.

His throat an open wound, Draco looked down at his bare chest, the long, pale torso of criss-crossed, uneven scars. His mouth hung open, a silent scream of agony while his limbs elongated, his chest expanded, and the silver fur sprouted from his body, every hair a razor sharp needle through his skin.

When he stood, sleek and beautiful in his gleaming new coat of fur, Draco raised his muzzle and howled at the moon.

The girl before him quivered, drawing backwards into herself. Her body naked and ready for the taking, he came to her, moving gracefully, hungerly toward his prey.

Long, chestnut curls fell to her front, and with a claw he moved them to the side, tenderly, so tenderly, revealing her soft, ripe breasts - a feast to his carnivorous eyes.

A slimy voice chuckled behind him. "Show this Mudblood how it ought to be."

And Draco grasped her clawing hands, trapped them above her head, ready to taste his reward...

Draco awoke gasping, his sweat-soaked sheets coiling around his body, his neck, choking him. The wild thud thud thud of his heart pounded. But it wasn't only the rapid beat of his heart he heard pounding.

"Draco? Are you ok? I heard yelling," came her reedy voice through his door.

"I'm fine, Granger," he meant to yell, but it came out in a raspy creak.

"Are you sure?" The doorknob turned after her cast alohomora, and without thinking Draco grasped his wand, slamming the door shut with a spell, and locking it once again.

"Stay out!" He screamed, and only when he felt her presence move back toward her room did his bow-tight body release, trembling, and his head fell forward into his hands. Looking down, he noticed his nightshirt had somehow come open in his tossing and turning, and his pajama pants were tented.

Acidic bile rose to Draco's mouth as disgust rippled throughout him, and he ran to his bathroom just in time to coat the pristine porcelain sink with the small contents of his stomach. Tearing off his sweat-damp clothing, he turned the handle of the shower and gasped as the freezing water hit him like a thousand little spikes.

Head down, he glared at his erection, willing it to go away. How could he be turned on by such a revolting dream? Why did his brain continue to live the moments of horror over and over again, his own personal tormentor?

Disgusting, he thought, moving his head under the frigid stream to wash the recreant tears from his eyes.

Draco lathered his brush, brought it to his skin, and scrubbed until he was raw and aching and clean. Until he thought of nothing but the smell of sandalwood and the tingle of every goose pimple rising upon his body, and no longer saw her terrified eyes or felt the heat of her breasts or the hot blood on his hands.

A/N:

I was originally going to have Draco leave dramatically, but, honestly, I write that way too damn much. Time for him to stop avoiding and get to accepting. This chapter is a bit plot lite, and shorter. I need to get more interaction between the two and Draco's POV, which I've kept in the back of my mind, but hadn't written.

Next chapter: Gender reveal!

Chapter Text

Note: I absolutely do not support JK Rowling's transphobic remarks. Trans rights are human rights. I also do not agree with some commentators' opinions that to read or write HP fanworks, one is supporting the author's worldview. I love the universe she created. That is all.

In fact, I believe that in *rewriting* her work, we are in a way sticking it to JK, and adding more complexity and diversity to the very white, heteronormative world she made, a world most of us do not live in.

Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but please do not blast this or other fanworks for the love we still have of the wizarding world.

*******

Chapter Thirteen

23 October

Loath as she was to admit it, a part of Hermione regretted being so stubborn in her insistence to come back to Hogwarts. Not because she didn't want to finish her schoolwork; the coursework itself was the best part of her day.

No, she would gladly take every class as an independent study if it meant she could avoid the students, the questions and judgment still lingering in their eyes whenever she passed.

For the most part, Hermione ignored the whispers and innuendo. Being close friends with Harry and Ron had prepared her to be the subject of gossip; she'd always been able to endure it with her chin held high.

But her friends weren't here now to act as shields against fellow teenage malice. Without her vanguard, she felt open and vulnerable.

Even as she sat in afternoon Potions, Hermione overheard the hushed voices murmuring.

"I heard Granger and Malfoy tried to run away together last year, but Harry stopped her. Didn't want her to break his best mate's heart." She rolled her eyes at the boy's words and refocused on her potion. As if she would have wanted to run away with Draco. As if Harry could have stopped her if she had wanted to run away with Draco.

"Well, I heard Malfoy slipped her a love potion, and now she's up the duff and has to stay with him. No other explanation for her shacking up with that cretin, mate."

To her gossipy classmates' benefit, those weren't the worst rumors. The worst were the ones with a shade of the truth to them.

"I heard he raped her," a voice whispered amoung the bookshelves one late night in the library while she was studying.

It was those times when Hermione wanted to disapparate away from the warded safety of the magical school, to hide, and withdraw from the wizarding community altogether.

The shadow of Professor Slughorn's frame pulled her back to her work as he stood by her table, examining her cauldron's contents with a tight smile upon his round face. "Ah, perfect potion, Miss Granger. Top marks, top marks. You may bottle it and clean up," he remarked, strolling away to the next student with his arms behind his back.

Hermione should have appreciated the high praise, but it rang hollow to her. The potion was supposed to be an effervescent bright fuschia; her's was lackluster at best and pale pink. It barely fizzled in the stoppered vials.

While she was grateful for the leniency her professors were giving her this year due to her rather unusual circumstances - Professor Flitwick even going so far as to excuse her from class when they practiced more dangerous charms - she missed the days when she was treated like any other student.

"Malfoy," Slughorn hissed the name like a curse, and Hermione turned to her left to see the portly professor looming over Draco's cauldron. "You were tasked with brewing a Wit-Sharpening Potion. What is this rubbish?" She could see the bright pink color from where she sat across the room, the contents within fizzling merrily - a perfect potion.

Draco's lips were compressed into a tight line, his fists balled on the top of his work table, yet he didn't move or say a word when Slughorn cleared the cauldron with a flick of his wrist, harrumphed and walked away.

The same whispering students snickered unkindly at the show.

Hermione sent him a sympathetic smile, having lived through years of Professor Snape's unfair treatment, but Draco was already packing his bag, his back to her.

Once, in a time that felt like another life entirely, she would have scoffed and joined in with the snickering, perhaps commenting about just desserts. Hadn't Draco, after all, been Snape's favored student, smugly gloating after receiving compliment upon compliment from the sour professor? His lowered status in the eyes of Slughorn would have delighted Hermione's vindictive fifth-year heart.

Yet now she felt nothing but empathy for him. That realization irked her less than she thought it would.

Something had shifted between them since the revelation three weeks ago. Their communication had become incrementally better, no longer avoiding the other at all costs, and it somewhat lifted the tension she hadn't realized she was holding in. Last week, Hermione had offered to help him with an advanced star chart assignment, and he declined, which she was expecting, but he was polite about it, which she was not. Draco had even sat in their shared living space a time or two to study, something he hadn't done before.

Perhaps it was because they now knew the undeniable truth which was both a relief and a burden. Perhaps it was because Draco's mother had given him a stern talking to about his new responsibilities, a possibility Hermione wouldn't put past the woman especially when she saw how many letter's Draco was receiving of late, the green Malfoy crest on full display at the breakfast table.

Whatever it was, Hermione was relieved the icy tension between them both had melted a bit, and they could go about their days in, if not friendliness, than at least civility.

*****

Hermione had just turned the corner of the corridor to her tower when a shoulder knocked into her, sending her reeling backwards into the wall, the contents of her knapsack spewing out onto the stone floor.

"Oy, watch where you're going!" snapped Tracey Davis, the beads in her braids clinking together as she twisted her head to glare at Hermione. The girl next to her, Daphne Greengrass, glowered, moving her wand in quick, concise motions and returning the items to Hermione's bag.

"I beg your pardon? You ran into me!" Hermione remarked, indignant, rubbing her shoulder where it slammed into the stone.

"Tracey, leave her be," the shorter girl said, handing Hermione back her knapsack. "She's expecting."

Tracey rolled her eyes, folding her arms in front of her. "She was walking down the middle of the way, not paying attention. Anyone else I'd do the same; why should she get special treatment? Granger walks around thinking she's better than us all, but she's just a mudblood slag who can't keep her knickers on."

Hermione felt her shoulders tense at this, her wand gripped harder in her hand, but before she could curse the Slytherin into oblivion, a voice cut through first.

"Funny you should mention knickers, Davis," Draco drawled from the top of the staircase, rounding the corner just next to Hermione. "Your's certainly couldn't be found when your thighs were wrapped around Sally-Anne Perks' ears under the quidditch pitch. As I recall, you begged me not to tell your girlfriend about that. How is Melonia, by the way?"

Tracey's face darkened in embarrassment. "Fuck you, Malfoy," she spat then took off down the stairs, Daphne fast on her heels.

An awkward silence hovered between them for a few heavy moments until Hermione broke it.

"Thank you for…defending me," she said haltingly, her breath still hitched from the near altercation.

"It's whatever," he responded, trailing off.

She came up beside him as he walked towards their rooms, and, keeping her voice low, she asked, "What did you tell them about us?"

"Who?"

"You know…the others. In your house. Slytherins."

"I've told them it's none of their bloody business. People are going to think what they want, regardless of the truth," Draco stated bluntly as they stepped into the main room.

Hermione nodded, depositing her knapsack on her favorite chair and coming back to stand by the fire. "Just as well. Most people think you've either love-potioned me or we're in some sort of forbidden, Romeo and Juliet-esque relationship," she continued, oblivious to his darkening expression. "Oh, sorry, it's a muggle play by William-"

"I know who Shakespeare is. I've read his plays. Seen them, too," Draco turned to her, his lip raised in a sneer. "You act as if wizards are so ignorant, as if you're above us because you're muggleborn. You didn't even know what a Birth Rite was until recently!"

Hermione was taken aback by his sudden viciousness. "You were eavesdropping on Ginny and me?"

"It's hard to ignore your chattering when I'm in the other room. Why are you bringing people into my chambers? What gives you the right-"

"It's our shared room, Malfoy! I don't have to ask your permission to have my friends enter. If you had any friends, I wouldn't mind them coming round, but you don't, do you?" Hermione said then immediately regretted the words after they left her mouth.

Watching Draco's fair skin become blotchy red with rage within seconds was a site to behold. He advanced toward her, slate eyes narrowed, but she stood her ground, hands on her wide hips and not allowing herself to be intimidated.

"If you had just gotten rid of the baby to begin with, we wouldn't be here! I wouldn't have to watch you waddling around the castle all day or have to lie to just about everyone I know or... or deal with any of this," he seethed through his teeth, breath coming out as short, angry huffs.

"And what - given it to your mother? It wouldn't have changed the fact that you'd be its father and I its mother. Would you have lied to the child its whole life, pretend to be a supportive big brother? Lies never age well."

He stepped away from her, shaking his platinum head. "It was a mistake. I never should have...should have gone down there."

"Why did you do it, Draco?" Her voice was soft as she asked the question that had haunted her ever since that fateful night last April. "Why did you go down to the cellar? You could have left me, but you didn't."

Eyes squeezed shut, a pained expression painted his face pale again. "Because you didn't deserve what Greyback was going to do to you. No one did. Not that it meant a bloody thing in the end," he said, his voice now barely a whisper.

Hermione took a step toward him, her hand instinctively coming up to hold his, but stopped short and clenched into a fist by her side instead. "It did. It meant everything, Draco."

Their eyes held together, amber and grey, as the words they hadn't yet spoken finally came to the surface.

Before those words could come forward, they were interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Who…?" Draco said instead.

"The mid-witch," Hermione exhaled out a shaky breath, recalling at once her appointment, and went to answer, her heart hammering in her chest.

What was that? She wondered. That moment between the two of them, now dashed.

Standing next to Headmistress McGonagall was a solidly built middle-aged witch with mop of salt and pepper curls haloing her head. The brooch upon the lapel of her velvet lavender robe was a white stork.

"Miss Granger," McGonagall said in greeting. "Your floo will have temporary exiting-only privileges for the next hour to accommodate your consultation." And Hermione remembered in a flash that the only floo entrance in the castle was within the headmistresses office. McGonagall gave her a slight smile then turned to leave.

"Thank you," Hermione said. Then to the mid-witch, "Come in, please."

The mid-witch gripped her hand and said in a vociferous voice, "Ernesta Havershack, pleasure to meet you, pleasure to meet you!" as she entered the room. "You must be the expectant mum, Miss Granger." Hermione nodded, half amused and half curious. Her only real dealings with the magical medical profession was Madame Pomfrey and many frantic emergency visits to St. Mungos with her friends.

Ernesta Havershack was efficient, to say the least, making several quick, wordless flicks of her wand at her carpet bag where miniature items began to float out and expand into a gurney-type bed and a small lab table complete with bottled potions.

Draco, who was turned toward his room mid-pirouette, was hooked about the waist by the stout witch. The apoplectic look on his face was one Hermione wished she could capture on camera and frame.

"Not so fast there, Mr. Malfoy, is it? Dad is welcome here, not like back in the day. You can take a seat here," she gestured to the chair that appeared next to the head of the gurney. Considering his mother was the one to recommend the attendant mid-witch, the best in the country in her opinion, Hermione thought it right that he be here as well. That there were flickers of doubt and worry troubling her stomach had nothing to do with it, surely, she reasoned.

When Hermione came back from changing into the medical gown provided by Ernesta, she was guided to lay on the bed while the mid-witch attached odd devices to her arm and drew a sample of her blood.

"Alright now, date of conception was the beginning of April. Is this correct?" Ernesta asked.

"Yes," Hermione replied, feeling herself flush as her eyes flicked to Draco and back. "April ninth to be precise."

The parchment and quill floating next to the mid-witch's head scribbled down her answer while she added drops of blood to several different potions positioned upright on test-tube stands. Both Draco and Hermione watched the process with curiosity as she moved between the bed and her miniature lab in silence.

"So you'll be seven and a half months, smack into your third trimester," Ernesta said, taking one of the unblooded vials and motioning for Hermione to drink. The acidic yellow substance burned its way down her esophagus, causing her to gag.

"Ugh…it tastes like bile!"

"It is bile," Ernesta replied bluntly. "Well, most part of it. From the gallbladder of a grockletooth."

Draco chuckled at this and Hermione elbowed him.

After a few moments, Hermione's nerves couldn't keep quiet. "So is…is everything in order? I've been to a muggle clinic before this and have been following all of the advice they provided as well as-"

"To tell you the truth, dear, muggle obstetrics is a bit archaic. Their methodology is hardly what I would consider worthwhile of a witch's time. The absolute barbary I've witnessed in the muggle birthing room," she tisked, and Hermione pressed her lips together to keep what was sure to be a rude response to herself. "And don't get me started on the inaccuracies of their testing. Speaking of which…" The mid-witch closely examined three of the vials which had now settled in their color. "Your sugars are good, Miss Granger, and you've been getting the proper nutrients. Good, good. And I see your mother was correct in there being no underlying genetic deficiencies in your line, Mr. Malfoy."

Unless you count madness, Hermione almost muttered, thinking of his twisted aunt. She didn't miss the unspoken message sent between the mid-witch and Draco. "Pure" bloodlines, for all their proclaimed superiority, were riddled with hereditary illness due to centuries of rampant inbreeding. Despite this, however, it was a relief to know her child would be free of at least some burden.

"Alright now, please lift the center part of your gown. Time to check on baby."

Hermione felt blood rush to her face as she revealed her distended belly and realized she wasn't alone; Draco's face was an interesting shade of fire-engine red as he averted his gaze..

Ernesta's chill, dry hands felt all along her abdomen, dictating notes to her scratching quill such as "Right position, good" and "Got quite a kick, that one", and eventually pressing the cold end of a stethoscope to Hermione's skin, making her jump.

"Ah, sorry; should've warned you. Would you like to hear the heartbeat?"

They both nodded, and then there it was, amplified by Ernesta's unspoken spell: the rapid little beat of a heart. Draco and Hermione shared a look, one she couldn't quite define, yet held the possibility of hope.

"Oh that's lovely," Hermione sighed, her hand coming to rest at the top of her belly right where she felt the smallest of kicks.

"Now let's see inside!" The mid-witch said in excitement.

"What?!" Exclaimed Hermione, hands moving protectively over herself.

"Huh?" Draco said simultaneously.

Ernesta looked to be on the brink of cackling as she rubbed a putrid yellow substance on Hermione's abdomen, moving the expectant's hands in order to get ointment higher.

"Bloody hell…" muttered Draco, and Hermione shifted her gaze to where he stared, realizing with dawning horror that they were all now looking inside of her.

From her angle, she could see the bottom of their baby, its red, wrinkly crossed feet tucked snuggly into what she deduced was the amniotic sac. One tiny knee moved outward, pushing up into her ribs. How odd it was to feel it move within her while witnessing it at the same time. Hermione felt momentarily faint. She'd seen so much in her years as a witch, yet somehow, in some ways, the miracles of magic still left her breathless.

The mid-witch produced a measuring tape while making approving noises in her throat. "Everything is looking quite normal."

Draco had moved across the bed from Ernesta, further down Hermione's body to inspect this extraordinary sight. The expression on his face indicated that magic still surprised him, too.

"What's that bit there?" He pointed to a spot outside of Hermione's line of sight.

"Ah, yes. That would be his penis," Ernesta stated matter of factly, continuing to study the moving fetus, and Draco's eyebrows shot to the top of his head.

Heart in her throat, Hermione struggled to sit up, trying to see as much as she could of her child, though with the baby's bottom in the way, she couldn't see much. She could just make out the fluorescent yellow liquid of the vile potion as it moved through the umbilical cord and into her son.

She was going to have a son.

Hermione caught Draco's eyes, spying the faintest of smiles on his lips before he looked away.

With the sound of the zipping close of her measuring tape, Ernesta motioned Hermione to stand up, and with Draco's help, she did.

"Any thoughts on what to name him yet?" Ernesta asked, magicking away the bed and lab back into her bottomless bag.

"Obviously a family name," Draco stated, matter of factly.

Hermione scoffed at his presumption. "To be honest, we haven't discussed it yet."

Ernesta nodded sagely. "Tis bad luck to name them before they are born."

Then to Hermione: "You're gestating quite nicely, though the edema in your ankles, the swelling, that is, might be a cause of concern. Stay off your feet as much as possible and reduce your salt intake. I'll make the suggestion to your headmistress as well." From within her bottomless carpetbag, the mid-witch pulled several vials out as well as a pamphlet. "Take this with a glass of water before you sleep to help with constipation. I'll be back next month. Floo-call me with any emergencies. Must be off to another appointment. Lovely to meet you both," and with that she disappeared into the green flame of the floo.

Hermione looked at the vial and pamphlet, blushing.

*****

A/N: Bet you didn't see this update coming! Well I didn't either. It isn't abandoned, but updates will be slow. Trying to get back in the habit of writing, and I hate that I left this unfinished. It's just...life, man. It sucks the life outta ya. I've had some major health issues these last two years and am somewhat recovering. It's hard to get motivated to do anything when you can't get out of bed.

As always, your reviews and comments are the sunshine on a cloudy day. The enthusiasm and kindness of the fan community never ceases to amaze me. I love you all :)

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen:

“Scorpius,” Draco said between sips of breakfast tea, reading the parchment in his hand.

Hermione nearly spat out her toast all over the eighth year table. She ended up coughing, garnering several concerned looks from other students. 

“Absolutely not.”

Draco swiveled his eyes away from his mother’s letter long enough to shoot a petulant glare at Hermione. “That was the best one yet,” he started.

“Better than Cetus? Surely not,” Hermione muttered, willing her eyes to remain firmly in place and not roll into the back of her head permanently. 

Draco had been on a naming kick after the mid-witch left involving a cascade of eccentric name choices that Hermione found both endearing and exasperating. Perhaps it was finally seeing the child, but he’d been much more concerned with them both, asking after her health almost daily and pestering her for more information about her pregnancy. It would be rather sweet if he weren’t so irritating.

Either way, Hermione felt disquieted in ways she couldn’t explain to have the concentrated attention of Draco Malfoy on her.

“-Cetus, Eltanin, Scorpius, all excellent choices and yet you want to name our child, a Malfoy , something bland like Charles or Larry or-” 

“Charles is not a bland name; it’s my father’s-” 

“-something dreadfully muggle .” Draco continued, icy eyes drilling into her across the table. “Celestial names are a Black family tradition going back-”

Hermione threw her hands up in the air, unable to contain her frustration at the same argument given over and over these last two weeks. “Of course - tradition! How can I forget about tradition,” she huffed, stabbing at her eggs with a viciousness they didn’t deserve.

“Yes, tradition,” Draco said. “Something which many of us still care about deeply.” He held an almost comically stern expression, lips tight with tension, gray eyes looking intently into hers.

I wonder if he’ll have Draco’s eyes , Hermione thought, mind deviating absentmindedly. They were lovely eyes, after all, sometimes ice blue, sometimes slate gray depending on the light. After a moment, he looked away from her, perhaps sensing her thoughts, and tidied up his letters into a neat stack.

Hermione shook her head of her unusual thoughts and sighed, rubbing her temples with her knuckles. “I do care, Draco, but can we talk about something else, please? This is all giving me a terrible headache.”

A look of concern settled on his face, dark blonde brows furrowing in a vee. “Do you need a tonic? I could go to Pomfrey or-”

“Oh no, it’s ok,” she replied, a tender feeling warming her insides at his considerate offer. 

Pregnancy hormones, she bemoaned. 

Lately, her hormones had been wreaking havoc on her. Earlier that morning she had snapped at Ernie for attempting to talk her into yet another portion of pancakes “for the baby”, and yesterday had left advanced transfiguration early because she couldn’t stop tearing up over the beautiful black kitten Pavarti had created. Feeling any sort of tenderness toward Draco must be another byproduct of her overtaxed body, she reasoned.

After a moment of concentrating on their breakfast, sensing his crestfallen mood, Hermione offered an olive branch. “What about Orion?” 

“Oh, absolutely not,” and before she could inquire as to why, he continued. “My mother had a great-uncle, Orion Black. Went mad after imbibing his own home-brewed absinthe and was sent to Azkaban after robbing an owlery.”

Hermione groaned.

*******

Despite Draco’s misgivings about Hermione’s understanding or regard for wizarding tradition, she had promised herself to learn more about the culture and she did. A trip to Hogsmeade’s books store, Tomes and Scrolls, had uncovered a fascinating book - Magical Birthing Rituals of Great Britain by Abigail Crimus-Smyth. The first chapter covered the basics – from preparing for pregnancy and labor to giving birth safely in magical households – but what caught Hermione’s eye were the rites and rituals mentioned in later chapters. 

After some more research and consideration, she decided to call together a wreath making ceremony. 

This was, of course, the most banal of the ceremonies described. The magical folk of old were quite primal in their most meaningful rituals. Dare Vita was exercised outside and naked under the full moon with one's coven of witches and required the purification of the pregnant witch in the blood of an animal sacrifice. Though modernized to just her coven dancing and chanting naked in the moonlight, Hermione still felt uncomfortable asking this of her friends.

With thoughts of the only witch-mothers she knew, she promptly sent letters to both Molly and Mrs. Malfoy for ideas.

Both responded that night, describing their own ceremonies and offering up their homes to the gathering. Mrs. Malfoy was insistent upon her hosting, her letter going into great detail about the food and decor she thought best for the occasion. 

Hermione’s mind immediately flashed to the Malfoy’s parlor, to bright red blood, cold floors and sharp teeth, and nixed that offer. 

The Burrow was comfortable and welcoming, one she certainly wouldn’t mind visiting, however, she was certain her child’s future grandmother would object in the snide and snobbish way the Malfoy’s were prone to, though she doubted any Malfoy had ever been there. After all the help the Weasley’s had been, she did not want to subject them to criticism and embarrassment. Hermione also sensed making Mrs. Malfoy happy with small concessions would temper issues with the haughty woman in the future, and nixed the Burrow as well. The thoughts of being in the pureblood’s life for the next several decades was one Hermione tried not to linger on. 

The ceremony must take place on neutral ground, Hermione decided. This was when a brainwave struck, and she hurried to the owlery as fast as her swollen feet would allow to send out her request. 

Harry responded by the next morning exuberantly supporting her notion of hosting the ceremony at Grimmauld Place and promising a spotless home, and she sighed in relief at having one less hurdle to jump over. 

*******

True to his word, the day of the ceremony, Harry’s place was immaculately clean, a stark difference from the last time Hermione was in his inherited home. Through some miracle - or in this case, magic - the portrait of Walburga Black had been removed and replaced with an oil painting of a field of wildflowers calmly swaying in the breeze, as had all the portraits of the various Black relatives with other, more eye-pleasing paintings and photos. Hermione smiled at the photo of herself, Harry, and Ron on the fireplace mantel.

The gloomy atmosphere was improved by the clean open windows, a good dusting, and replacement of the thread-bare carpeting and peeling wallpaper. While some furniture had been cleaned and repaired, leaving the space with its original classical Victorian style, all traces of serpents and troll feet were gone. Hermione suspected at least one Weasley woman’s assistance was required to create the newly welcoming space.

"See, I told you I could clean up when necessary," Harry teased, appearing in the doorway with a tray of tea and biscuits. Hermione smiled and shook her head.

"Thank you, Harry," she said, taking a biscuit from the tray. "This means a lot to me." He simply nodded, placing the tray amoung the food on the buffet.

"I'll be upstairs if you need anything, no boys being allowed and all," Harry said and was off up the stairs, closing the door behind him.

He wasn't entirely wrong. Men were never officially barred from the ceremony. It seemed to be an unspoken role that if one hasn't or isn't soon to be experiencing the miracle of birth themselves, they could only be spectators. Ginny, while helping with the cooking and gathering of flora, was not allowed to participate in the construction of the wreath.

Dusk approached from the west, darkening  the peach-orange sky into deeper shades of scarlet and indigo. Open windows allowed the crisp autumn breeze to blow open the curtains, and Hermione, breathing in the sweet late autumn air, was pulled back from her thoughts as Molly came to her side.

“Best get started, luv. The magic’s more powerful before the moon rises.”

In the middle of the sitting room was a table with a meter wide circular cedar frame in the center. Hermione sat between the maternal warmth of Molly and the icy elegance of Mrs. Malfoy, their auras both similar and yet at odds with one another. Ginny sat at a small table against the wall arranging the greenery by size, color, and purpose.

The chair across her was empty.

"Let us start," said Mrs. Malfoy and the three witches all raised their wands and started weaving.

It was a scene of domestic magic, three powerful witches gathered around a circular table, their wands weaving in unison as they intertwined branches of cedar and delicate white heather, creating a base for their enchantments. Hermione felt the energy binding the branches, twisting them in and out as their own magic twined and twisted with each other. 

“Hermione, how are you feeling being so close to the end? I cannot imagine how walking around Hogwarts is helping your ankles at your stage.”

While they worked, Mrs. Malfoy was being alarmingly nice to Hermione. It was both confusing and frightening to her. Their contact had been minimal since the incident in her rooms at Hogwarts, though pieces of furniture and baby items did keep unexpectedly popping up. Hermione didn't miss the stream of mail Draco received every day, who it was from, or who it was about.

“It's been manageable,” Hermione said casually, trying not to get caught up in the woman's intense, steely gaze. She kept her answers short and succinct, wanting to avoid the usual litany of suggestions every mother seemed to want to give her when they noticed her condition. 

“When I was as far along, I could barely manage the manor’s stairs,” Mrs. Malfoy said, a bit of ice melting in her eyes as she reminisced while she weaving chamomile and lavender amoung the cedar branches. 

Hermione gave her a small smile, understanding the peace offering for what it was. “I've found cushioning charms on my shoes to be dreadfully useful. Though my hips do start to hurt toward the end of the day.”

Ginny raised her wand as if to help wrangle some of the flowers which at the moment seemed to be twisting themselves enough to pop off their heads, but Molly stopped her with a flick of her own wand.

“Unless you’re a mother or about to become one, you can’t help with this wreath making. It’s bad luck! We need all the good luck charms we can get for our Hermione here!” She shot a fond smile at Hermione and gave her arm a reassuring squeeze.

Hermione understood the intent, she really did, but it stung a bit nonetheless. Molly wasn't wrong - her life had been anything but lucky for, well, some time she supposed. She was doing her best with the consequences, for better or worse. 

“When will your mother be joining us?” The matronly witch continued.

“Mum won’t be here for a bit. Dental emergency. She promised she would come,” she murmured, ignoring the strange look both witches gave her. Maureen agreed to be at the ritual, after much cajoling from her husband, Hermione was sure. Her and her mother's communication with one another had opened a bit since the Burrow. Her owl reply was short, but confirmed her presence at the ceremony. Stilted as it was, it was something. 

“Does she not understand the importance of this ritual?” Though her voice was soft, Mrs Malfoy’s disdain was apparent. “Of course a muggle would brush off a thousand year tradition for teeth , of all things. What does the protective magic of a mother's love matter to her, afterall?”

Before Hermione could unleash the verbal trouncing that sat just behind her teeth, Molly jumped in. “She said she would be here and she will. Maureen wouldn't miss an important rite for her only daughter's first child.”

Mrs. Malfoy harrumphed, an unexpectedly inelegant noise from the woman, and started weaving in dried hollyhock of dark red.

“Hollyhock? Oh no, no,” Molly tutted, flicking her wand to cast the offensive flower to the floor.

The scarlet bloom was back amongst the branches with a snap of Mrs Malfoy's wrist. “And why is ambition such a terrible trait? Perhaps your family could do with a bit more of it, Mrs. Weasley.” 

The particular shade of crimson creeping up Molly’s cheeks matched the color of her freckles, and Hermione sent a silent plea to whoever was listening to keep this ceremony as peaceful as possible.

Mrs. Malfoy continued, unaware of the white knuckled grip Molly had on her wand. “Will you be pursuing a career like your mother, Hermione?”

Hermione almost bit her tongue, having to hold back yet another scolding retort and said tartly, “Yes, I am planning to have a career in the ministry. They are always in need of talented young minds. And ambition, after all, is not such a bad trait.” She swore she saw a twinkle of approval in the woman's eyes, and continued on. “And besides, what active, intelligent person could tolerate staying at home all day? I would go absolutely mad.” 

She knew she stepped it the moment those words left her mouth. 

A heavy silence followed.

“Well I couldn't possibly understand the need for a career as I am neither active nor intelligent,” Mrs Malfoy commented in the same dry, scathing tone as her son.

Now I know where he gets it from, Hermione thinks. 

Her eyes cut over to Molly, a housewife just as much as Mrs Malfoy, and she cringed in embarrassment. 

Magicking a bouquet to the empty seat, Molly changes the subject, lips pursed in obvious irritation, “Let's save some flowers for your mother to add at the end when the circle is nearly complete, Hermione.”

Smiling in gratitude, Hermione nodded and tried to move on from her faux pas.

“Um, what should I add next?” Hermione was unfamiliar with the mythos and meanings of the plants Molly and Mrs Malfoy had brought. A plant's use outside of a potion was a mystery to her, never having the same interest or curiosity as some of her friends.

“Well, we've already added the white heather for luck and protection,” Molly said, happy to move on as well. “You could add English daisies with me to represent innocence and a mother's love.”

“Or you could replace that cheap and common plant for something else more powerful such as hibiscus.” Mrs. Malfoy disparaged.

Molly puffed up in pride. “I prefer local English flowers, common or not. The child will be born in autumn so hearty, English fall plants such as winter heather, verbena and primrose are useful as they are powerful protectors. I used them for my autumn babies, Bill and Charlie.”

She added gladiolas and wintermint, against Mrs. Malfoy’s warning that eucalyptus would do better, to help with breathing issues.

“Lavender for protection, happiness, and peace. Chamomile for a peaceful sleep.”

“Honeysuckle to help with feeding and it smells lovely!”

“Myrrh represents power, strength, and vitality.”

As they weaved their magic into the wreath, the candles lit up around the room, casting it in a soft evening glow. A knock came from the front door down the hall, some muffled chatter, and her mother walked in.

It must have started to rain. Her mother was drenched, her salt and pepper curls flattened to her face as she stood in the doorway.

“Mum,” Hermione stood before she could speak. “Did you forget your umbrella? Here, let me dry you off in the kitchen,” her nervous voice chattered and she led her to the other room.

The silence between them was a yawning chasm as Hermione cast a quick drying charm and ran it over Maureen’s soaked form. 

“Yes, I did…I did forget it. Foolish of me, really,” her mother said finally, her voice soft and eyes downcast, so unlike herself. “Hermione, I’ve-I’ve missed you and-”

“It’s alright, Mum, I know this has been a difficult for everyone-”

“No, it’s not alright! I haven’t been the mother you need at all. I’ve been a-a terrible mother, and I’m so very sorry.” Tears welled in her eyes, the first time Hermione had seen her mother cry in years. “You don’t have to carry it all alone. I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Tears spilled down Hermione’s cheeks as she stepped forward and embraced her. Maureen pulled her in tightly, holding her as if to make up for lost time. 

“Thank you for being here,” Hermione whispered into her mother’s now dry curls.

“Always.”

Maureen took her seat across from her as the women's hands continued to deftly intertwine flora, weaving a potent symbol of protection and good fortune. The fragrance of each carefully chosen flower infused the air./span>

Molly explained the ritual and its importance to Maureen. Wreath making or “weaving fates”, was used by witches in olden days to ensure that their child would be blessed with health and happiness throughout its life, as well as protection from any dark forces that crossed its path.

The witches laid their wands down as the last of the flowers were woven in.

Maureen stared around the table, her hands awkwardly placed in her lap. Hermione felt a tinge of sympathy for her as she was clearly out of her depth. 

“Now we recite the incantation,” Mrs. Malfoy said.

“But I-” Maureen starts.

“Remember that parchment I sent and asked you to bring?” She nods and takes it out of her purse.

Molly adds, “It will help. A mother’s love is always magical, regardless of, well, um, magic .”

Together the group chanted their love and protection, every word uttered seemed to be accompanied by a faint trail of sparkling stardust upon the centered wreath. Her mother’s eyes widened as in that fleeting moment, the boundary between the mundane and the extraordinary blurred and she finally, finally saw the beauty of magic.

“Benedicite puer, benedicta mater, benedicite patrem. Omnis conserva. Absit malum in domum. Clypeus lucem ac tenebras. A solis ortu usque ad occasum.” 

The magical aura around them shrunk into a shimmer of light and was then gone as the chant ended, sending chills down Hermione's spine at the closing of the circle. She felt a sudden jolt in her belly, and her hand instinctively reached down to feel the baby kicking.

She looks down at the wreath, marveling at the intricate weaving of the cedar branches and the delicate placement of the flowers. 

A work of love.

---

A/N 1:

This update took a long long long time. I am terribly sorry. To be blunt, I tried to take my own life shortly after the last update, and was hospitalized for a while. Thankfully, I live in a place with great mental health care. It’s been a very long and difficult path to normality with a lot of trial and error (especially with medications). Writing again is helping in that struggle. Please be patient with me.

A/N 2:

This is the scene that made this whole fic possible, and I’m beyond happy I was finally able to post it. I was googling tea mixtures for myself and ancient medicinal uses for flowers and roots when I started thinking about the traditions of the wizarding world, all the things we weren’t shown in the books and movies. What do witch mothers make their children for protection? How does family and other women in the community play a part? What kind of ceremonies would the wizarding community hold for welcoming a new life? I truly enjoy coming up with these new traditions and making Maureen a part of it all, whether she likes it or not.  

Also, please forgive the bad latin.

More than halfway through now!

Chapter Text

Chapter 15

1 December

The forest was endless.

Hermione ran, her bare feet tearing against roots and sharp stones, her lungs burning with the effort. Branches lashed at her face, drawing thin lines of blood that dripped down her neck, her collarbone, her—

Silver fur. A flash of teeth.

Then—

Falling.

She hit the ground with a force that knocked the breath from her lungs, pain exploding through her hips, her back, her—

Hermione jerked awake with a gasp, a hand flying to her stomach. With a flick of her wand, the time glowed 1:17 a.m. in soft green numbers.

Another cramp seized her, sharper this time—like a hand tightening around her spine and pulling. She bit back a whimper, rolling onto her side.

False labor. It has to be false labor.

She’d read about this. Braxton-Hicks contractions, practice pains, harmless and fleeting. But as she pressed her hand to the taut curve of her stomach, she felt the muscles beneath her palm harden. The ache spread downward, relentless, and—

Oh.

A hot, liquid trickle between her thighs. Hermione froze.

Then she was scrambling upright, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts. Wand in hand, she cast a hasty scourgify. Not sweat. Not urine. Her waters had broken.

The reality of it crashed over her like a wave. She was going into labor. Now. And for a moment Hermione panicked. Alone in the middle of the night, with no midwitch, no mother, no—

She needed help.

She needed him.

Breathe. Just breathe.

She counted the seconds between pains. Six minutes. Too close. Too real.

Hermione straightened with a whimper and reached for the doorknob.

It was time.

----

Draco was dreaming of Quidditch when the pounding started.

At first, he thought it was the beat of his own pulse, the rush of wind in his ears as he dove for the Snitch—but then it came again harder.

Bang. Bang. BANG.

He bolted upright, wand in hand before his eyes fully adjusted to the dark and ran to his door.

Hermione stood at the entrance, forehead glistening sweat and leaning against the frame.

His stomach dropped.

“What…took you…so long?” She gasped, one hand braced against her swollen stomach, the other gripping the wood like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

On reflex he snapped back, his voice rough from sleep and slight panic. “You could have alohomora’ed it open, but-” and abruptly stopped when he saw her wince in pain.

“I think—” She sucked in a sharp breath, fingers digging into her nightgown. “I think it’s time.”

“Time,” Draco echoed back, dumbstruck. He saw her eyes rolling in the dark, and he cast light about the rooms.

Without a second thought, he took her arm in his and guided her to the sofa where she was struck with another contraction.

“Okay,” he said, voice too high. “Okay, we—we need McGonagall. The mid-witch. Our mums-”

“Draco.” Her fingers dug into his arm, hard enough to bruise. “Breathe.”

He wasn’t the one who needed to breathe. She was the one in labor. She was the one about to—

Merlin’s balls, she’s about to have a baby.

----

Less than an hour later, the room was filled with people. McGonagall arrived first, face sharp and composed despite the hour, though her usual tidy hair was in total disarray. Behind her came Ernesta, carrying a worn carpet bag that smelled of dried herbs and clean linen. Narcissa followed, her presence cutting through the room like a knife of perfume and silk. Even at midnight, she wore robes of finest velvet and her pale hair was twisted into an elegant chignon.

“Molly’s gone to fetch your mother,” McGonagall said softly to Hermione, who was hunched over the back of a padded chair, breathing through her teeth.

Draco stood awkwardly near the door, as though debating whether to run or vomit.

“Do you want to see the birth?” McGonagall asked him, brow arched.

He stared at her like she’d asked if he wanted to amputate his own leg. “Absolutely not.”

“Well,” McGonagall murmured, “points for honesty.”

And with that, the women heading into Hermione’s room, Ernesta conjuring a birthing chair and, with a quick successive flick, closed the door.

Narcissa swept into the room without hesitation, removing her outer robe with a flick of her wand and conjuring a crystal jug and glasses which she promptly filled with water. Handing a glass to Hermione, she sat beside the birthing chair with a magisterial calm.

“I’ll remain with her,” she declared. “It is tradition, after all. The mother of the infant’s father is always present at a magical birth—to prevent any enchantments or swaps. If there’s no mother, the eldest female relative must stand in.”

Hermione blanched. “No one’s swapping anything—”

“It is tradition,” Narcissa said coolly, and that was the end of the matter.

Hermione groaned, leaning into the chair as another wave crashed through her. She’d been pacing as much as she could manage, following Ernesta’s instructions to keep gravity on her side. Her hands clenched around the carved mahogany arms of the chair which glowed faintly with runes of strength and endurance. The moment her skin touched the wood, warmth radiated through her, the magic in the grain responding to her body’s distress. Sweat soaked her hairline, sticking curls to her forehead.

"Breathe through it," Ernesta murmured, pressing a silver goblet into Hermione’s shaking hands. The liquid inside shimmered opalescent, swirling like trapped moonlight. "It won’t take the pain away entirely, but it will… soften the edges."

Hermione gulped it down. The potion burned like peppermint and lightning, then settled into her veins like liquid silk. The pain faded into a deep, insistent pressure that throbbed in rhythm with her heartbeat.

Ernesta transfigured a vase into a basin of steaming water infused with the essence of murtlap and arnica, the scent of salt and healing herbs filled the air. Her hands glowed gold as she hovered them over Hermione’s abdomen, her magic mapping the baby’s position.

"He’s eager," she observed, lips quirking. "Twisting like an ashwinder."

Time bent and shifted. People moved around her like dream figures—Draco pacing outside the door, McGonagall conferring quietly with Ernesta, Narcissa brushing invisible lint from her sleeves.

And then she heard the front door open.

“Mum?”

A warm, familiar voice answered.

“I’m here, Hermione. I’m right here.”

Her mother’s hands were cool and strong as they closed around hers. Maureen Granger’s eyes shimmered with tears, but her smile was steady.

Hermione sank into the birthing chair, legs trembling, the pressure now unbearable and total.

“Ready?” Ernesta asked gently.

Hermione nodded. The world narrowed to her body, her breath, her mother’s grip. The final moments were a blur of pain and exertion. She bore down with all her strength, her mother’s hand a steady anchor as she let out a great wail. And then, suddenly, it was over. The room filled with the sound of a newborn’s cries, sharp and insistent, and Hermione collapsed back against the chair, exhausted but relieved.

----

Draco paced the hallway outside Hermione’s room, his bathrobe hanging loosely over his pajamas, his slippers scuffing against the floor. He didn’t know why he was so anxious - he had no intention of being in the room for the birth - but the sounds coming from inside were impossible to ignore. Grunting, yelling, the mid-witch’s sharp commands to push. It was chaos, and it made his stomach churn.

House-elves scurried in and out, carrying linens and trays of food, but Draco couldn’t bring himself to eat. His stomach was in knots, his mind racing with thoughts he couldn’t quite articulate.

Then the door swung open, and a harried-looking McGonagall strode out, her sleep bonnet askew. She barely spared him a glance before ordering, "Malfoy, stop looming like a frightened thestral and make yourself useful. Go fetch another vial of essence of dittany from my office and a bottle of draught of peace while you’re at it, and for Merlin’s sake, don’t drop them."

Draco opened his mouth to argue, but a fresh chorus of shouts from inside cut him off.

He fled.

By the time he returned, the hallway had become a makeshift gathering point. Granger’s mother - Maureen, was it? - had arrived, her face pale but determined. A red-faced Molly Weasley followed, already rolling up her sleeves like she intended to single-handedly wrestle the baby into existence.

"Out of my way, boy," she ordered, shoving past him without ceremony.

A house-elf materialized at his elbow, thrusting a goblet of something amber into his hands. "Master Malfoy is needing fortification!" it squeaked, large ears flopping over his eyes before vanishing again.

Draco slouched into the sofa and took a long drink. Pumpkin juice.

Dawn approached, the first light of morning creeping through the windows, and still, he waited, slipping out of consciousness a time or two.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the door opened. Narcissa stepped out, her expression unreadable as she cradled a small, squirming bundle wrapped tightly in a white blanket. The creature wailed, tiny fists flailing as if outraged at being removed from his very comfortable home.

“Here he is,” Narcissa said softly, her voice tinged with emotion. “Little Corvus.”

Draco blinked, stunned. “She… she named him?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He had owled Hermione a list of acceptable names the week before, but she had avoided the subject entirely, leaving the room whenever he brought it up.

“Corvus Charles Malfoy,” Narcissa said, her voice catching. “He looks just like you did when you were born.”

Draco stared at the baby, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. The child was tiny, his skin red and wrinkled, his face scrunched and now quiet. A small puff of pale hair adorned his head, and his little mouth moved as if searching for something to latch onto.

“I was this ugly, too?” Draco muttered, but he reached out anyway, taking the baby from his mother. The moment the child was in his arms, everything else faded away. Corvus’s tiny hand gripped Draco’s finger with surprising strength.

Narcissa took the baby back after a moment, returning him to Hermione, but the imprint of his tiny, warm hand lingered on Draco’s finger.

----

A/N:
More to come over the summer. I've had the name Corvus for their kid in my head since I got into the fandom over 20 years ago and can finally use it :)

What would you like to see happen to the young family? Love this story? Hate it and want to punch me in the face? Drop me a line!

I'm getting inundated with messages from "artists" who "love my book" and want to know if I will pay them to illustrate it. If you are one of these people, **DO NOT CONTACT ME**. Thank you.

Chapter Text

Chapter Sixteen

19 December

The nursery was bathed in soft yellow candlelight, the only sound the quiet hum of the enchanted mobile above Corvus’s crib - tiny snitches, brooms, and quaffles drifting in slow circles. Hermione sat in the rocking chair, her knees drawn up beneath her oversized jumper, fingers wrapped around a cooling cup of tea. 

The exhaustion of childbirth still lingered in the dark bags beneath her eyes, in the aching of her hips and the softness of her belly, though she gave birth almost three weeks ago. Ernesta had left her a plethora of potions - a vitamin regenerator, milk-flow elixir, even a baby-safe dreamless drought - yet she was reluctant to take the last.

Hermione hadn’t meant to stay so long in the nursery. She’d come in to check on him - just once more before she tried to sleep, but then his little face had been so peaceful in the dim light, his rosebud lips pursed in some inscrutable dream, and she couldn’t bring herself to leave.  

The door creaked open.  

Hermione turned, startled, and found Draco frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, his expression caught somewhere between guilt and embarrassment.  

“I wasn’t -” He stopped, cleared his throat. “I just wanted to -”  

“See if he was still breathing?” Hermione finished, a small smile tugging at her lips.  

Draco’s shoulders relaxed. “Yes.”  

She stood up from the surprisingly comfortable ornate chair. “Come here.”  

He hesitated, then crossed the room with silent steps, his gaze flickering between her and the crib. When he reached her side, she tilted her head toward the sleeping baby.  

“Look,” she whispered. “He’s dreaming.”  

Corvus gave a tiny sigh, his fingers twitching against the blanket. Draco exhaled, long and slow, as if he’d been holding his breath for hours.  

“He does that sometimes,” Hermione murmured. “Little whimpers. Like he’s already arguing with someone in his sleep.”  

 Draco huffed a quiet laugh. “Probably you.”  

She elbowed him lightly, but didn’t deny it.  

For a moment, they just stood there, side by side, watching the rise and fall of their son’s chest. Then Draco reached out and brushed a gentle fingertip over Corvus’s downy hair - so pale it was nearly silver in the candlelight.  

Hermione’s throat tightened.  

“I never thought -” Draco started, then stopped. His voice was rough. “I never thought this would be my life.”  

She knew what he meant. Not just a child - but this. The quiet. The tenderness. The way the world narrowed to this single, sacred moment in the dark.  

And there, in the hushed stillness of the nursery, with their son dreaming between them, they stood together, anchored.

—-

Tucked away beyond the castle’s manicured lawns, on the edge of the Black Lake and half-hidden by overgrown ivy and time, stood the Orangery - an ornate, domed solarium built in the eighteenth century for grand wizarding soirées under the constellations. 

And then, in 1970, the parties stopped.  

The Dark Lord’s rise at the start of the First Wizarding War had turned such gatherings dangerous. The glasshouse was locked, the lanterns extinguished, and the stars in the ceiling went dark.

Now, the two stone griffins that flanked the entrance were draped in moss, their eyes dulled by decades of rain. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and forgotten magic.  

Its wrought-iron doors were veined with rust, and the glass lining the walls, though unbroken, bore a silvery patina of neglect. Their panes were warped with age but still held the ghostly reflections of long-ago dancers. In one corner, a marble fountain, dry for years, bore a statue of a witch and wizard mid-waltz, their stone faces still caught in silent laughter.    

Tonight, the night of the first new moon of the month, new magic and the very determined efforts of three young witches had stirred them back to life. For the first time in almost thirty years, the Orangery breathed again.

---

Hogwarts, quieted by the mass exodus of students that very morning for the winter holidays, held a rare stillness, broken only by the muffled creaks of its ancient stones and the howling wind rushing between its towers. The grounds were swallowed by an endless December night, the sky a void of starless pitch. It was the kind of night that made the castle’s enchantments feel thin. The kind where the bravest student might pull their blankets up a little higher, a little tighter, certain for the first time that the wards could not keep everything out.  

In defiance of the December cold, Ginny, Luna, and Parvati had transformed the lakeside solarium into a shimmering cradle of warmth. Hermione adjusted Corvus in her arms, his tiny fingers curling reflexively around hers as she surveyed the room. The decorations were breathtaking - crimson and emerald silks twisted around ivy-wrapped pillars, enchanted fireflies darting between bouquets of white blooms, and a long table was laden with delicacies that would have made even the Hogwarts feasts seem modest.

Near the dessert table, the air hummed with warmth and the scent of sugar-dusted pastries - floating lemon cakes that drifted lazily above gilded platters, their citrus glaze catching the light like tiny suns. A three-tiered chocolate cauldron fountain bubbled with dark velvet ganache, surrounded by miniature gingerbread broomsticks that dipped themselves in the rich stream before soaring back to their trays. 

Hermione’s stomach rumbled at the sight.

The air itself sparkled with charmed snowflakes that melted before touching skin, and outside, the frozen Black Lake pressed against the glass like a curious guest. Every detail - from Luna’s drifting Dirigible plums to Parvati’s color-shifting silks - whispered celebration, culminating in glowing constellations and words that rearranged above the white bassinet: 

"Welcome, Corvus."

Draco stood near the entrance in simple but elegant dark green robes lined in silver, his posture rigid as he greeted arriving guests with stiff politeness. Narcissa had insisted on a proper Birth Rite ceremony, Hermione had agreed though insisted it be held anywhere but the Manor. Thankfully, the Headmistress had the perfect place in mind that wouldn’t interfere with the school’s wards.

The Weasleys arrived in full force - even Charlie had shown up during his holiday from Romania - but Ron’s absence was a conspicuous one Hermione tried to ignore. Molly pulled Hermione into a crushing embrace, whispering apologies, but Arthur’s handshake with Draco was strained, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. Draco’s disposition remained formal, and his responses clipped, his discomfort palpable.  

Corvus was laid in his bassinet watched over by a fussing Narcissa while Hermione joined Draco to greet friends and family, mostly hers. Hermione was a tad bit surprised to welcome a small group consisting of Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, and the Greengrass sisters, muttering their congratulations and quickly booking it to the back of the Orangery. 

Professor McGonagall, sharp-eyed in deep red robes, approached the pair as the last guests came in. “This,” she said, “is the first time Muggles have been admitted to Hogwarts grounds in over three centuries.” She cast a nod toward Maureen and Charles Granger, who stood in a corner watching the magic unfold with the awed tension of travelers on foreign soil.

Hermione was about to respond that she hoped it wouldn’t be the last before she saw Ernesta waving them over. Instead, she smiled at the Headmistress and walked to the center of the room to Corvus.

A hush fell over the solarium, the fairy lights dimming everywhere except on them. Hermione and Draco stood with baby Corvus in Hermione’s arms, wrapped in silver-edged white velvet. Ernesta stepped forward to begin the ritual clad in solemn midnight-blue robes, silver threads sparkling in the light.

"Tonight, under the first new moon of his life," she solemnly intoned, her voice carrying the weight of millennia’s old magic, "we gather to bind guardians and grant blessings to this child. Should fate ever take his parents from him, who shall stand for Corvus Charles Malfoy?"

Hermione felt Draco stiffen beside her when Ginny stepped forward first.  

"I will," she declared, chin lifted in that unshakable, Gryffindor way. 

Draco’s fingers twitched at his side - whether from irritation or displeasure, Hermione couldn’t tell - when Harry moved to stand next to Ginny, his glasses catching the glow of the floating candles. “I will.”

The mid-witch didn’t hesitate. She grasped their right hands and looped a strand of gold light around their wrists.

“Do you, Ginevra Molly Weasley and Harry James Potter, swear the Unbreakable Vow to guard and raise Corvus as your own if need be, to protect his life and guide his heart?”

"We do," they said in unison.

The ropes dissolved into their skin with a final, shimmering sigh and Ernesta smiled and looked down at the little boy happily gurgling in his cradle. “These are your new Godparents, Corvus.”  

And so the ceremony began.

One by one, the guests came forward with their blessings.  

The first in line were Molly and Arthur, their arms overflowing. A massive basket brimming with jars and bottles: salves, ointments, tinctures, and sleep-aids, all labeled in Molly’s careful hand. There were also enough knitted hats, mittens, and booties to clothe a Quidditch team. Arthur pulled from the pile a quilt of a massive red dragon which pranced across fields as it exhaled flames, drawing gasps of admiration from the crowd.

“May he never know hunger…” she started.

“And always know love,” Arthur finished.

Molly embraced Hermione with a fierce strength, then, surprisingly, turned and did the same to Draco. He stiffened for half a second before returning the gesture. “Thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” he said, his voice cracking just a little bit.

Daphne and Astoria Greengrass approached next, dressed in winter robes lined with white fox fur. Astoria’s face softened as she looked down at the infant. Their gift: emerald and silver onesies made with magical thread, promising to grow with him until age two and ever-clean nappies. 

“May his path be bright and burdens light,” Daphne started.

“May he grow strong and clever like his father,” added Astoria. Draco met her eyes, and Hermione didn’t miss the unspoken words passing between them.

Hagrid lumbered forward with booties the size of bread loaves and a bottle of his homemade mead. “A bit on the gums during teethin’,” he whispered in confidence to Draco, who nodded sagely and muttered his thanks. 

“May ‘e mend quick as a phoenix, ‘is blood be as strong as a unicorns, and ‘is heart be as sweet as a mermaid’s voice.” Hermione hugged the enormous wizard.

Ginny’s gift came next with a tether tot talisman which ensures babies stay within a safe radius of their caretaker.

“For when the little guy inevitably runs off,” she declared, grinning. “May his voice be bold when it matters most.”

Then came Harry.

With a sheepish smile he handed Hermione two boxes. When she opened the larger one, she saw a delicate gold charm bracelet with chain links of intricate runes instead of being round. Three golden charms were already attached to it - a stack of books, a lion, and tiny wings. The smaller box held a silver cuff, tiny enough to fit a baby’s ankle. 

“Both of your bracelets have been charmed to alert you when the baby is in trouble or in serious pain. Put the small one on his leg. The wings match Draco’s, too,” he added, handing a similar box to the man beside her which held a thin silver cuff, plain except for a pair of wings engraved in the center. “It also holds a protective spell, Ron’s idea, really. We got the idea from the Auror library. This is a gift from the both of us,” Harry states, apologetically, looking into her eyes. 

Hermione nodded, blinking hard. “Thank you, Harry. This is…so thoughtful.” she said softly, but Harry heard what she didn’t say: I wish he were here, too.

“May you find friends who feel like home.”

Luna gives the baby several smooth oval sleeping stones of amethyst and quartz crystal along with a hideous rag doll made of yellow fabric, its hair feathers and twine, its face constructed with leather and yarn and iron buttons.

“I’m aware it’s quite ugly. It’s meant to scare away the fae who would switch the baby with a changeling,” Luna said, serene as always and looking down at the doll with fondness. “It also helps with the gormles,” she added as an afterthought, and neither Hermione nor Draco asked her to elaborate on just what a gormle was.

“May he never be attacked by a blast-ended Skrewt. They really hurt.”

More guests followed, each with their own blend of magic and mundanity, blessings whispered in Latin, or simple “Good lucks”. Within an hour, Corvus’ pile of gifts had stacked above his bassinet.

Ginny finally stepped onto a small, conjured stage and announced, “Supper and refreshments are being served now so eat before the cake tries to eat you!” There was laughter as guests filled their goblets with mulled wine and sat around the conjured tables. 

As the evening wore on, the wine and whiskey flowed, and laughter filled the room. Fleur, radiant in her pregnancy, declared the ceremony “quaint” but eyed the decorations with poorly concealed envy. Narcissa, thankfully, tended to the baby with Molly hovering over the two while knitting with nervous intensity. 

Hermione found herself beside Draco as the guests began to disperse.  

“We survived,” she said lightly.  

“Barely,” he muttered, though there was no real bite to it. 

As she huffed her agreement, a bone-chilling howl split the night.  

The room fell silent, glass tinkering to the floor as people dropped them in surprise.

Outside the glass ceiling, the sky rippled as a massive, spectral wolf, its form woven from shimmering silver light, streaked across the stars above the Black Lake. Its eyes burned like twin moons, locking onto the castle before vanishing into the darkness, leaving behind silence and fear.

Hermione’s blood turned to ice. Draco’s hand clamped around her wrist.  

“What the hell was that?” he breathed.  

McGonagall’s voice was grim. “An omen.”  

The room erupted into loud voices as the spectral sparked panic amoung the guests. The remainder of them rushed out the Orangery toward the castle to Floo away as McGonagall, Harry, Neville, Ginny, and others ran toward the source, Hogsmeade.

Hermione looked down at Corvus, his tiny fingers gripping her bracelet.  

Whatever that wolf was, it had come for him, she knew it in her heart.   

And the way Draco’s grip tightened on her arm told her one thing:  

This was only the beginning.

---

Draco found Hermione in the dim glow of Corvus’s nursery, her wand tracing intricate patterns in the air as she muttered wards under her breath, her shoulders tense as her magic wove itself into the walls.  

He stepped forward, his fingers brushing hers before sliding between them, lacing tight. Her eyes were bright as they stared at him, startled, but didn’t pull away.  

Wordlessly, he raised his own wand, joining the incantation. Their voices tangled as the wards snapped into place, stronger for being cast in tandem.  

Corvus slept on, undisturbed.  

---

A/N: This chapter is almost entirely self-indulgent. It’s the second chapter I wrote after the wreath making one, mostly because I had a thousand ideas for magical baby items and nowhere to put them. NGL, I also love getting gifts so this chapter scratched my greedy itch.

Please drop a line and encourage a praise-starved writer!

To reiterate: I'm getting inundated with messages from "artists" who "love my book" and want to know if I will pay them to illustrate it. If you are one of these people, **DO NOT CONTACT ME**. Thank you.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seventeen

21 December

The scream shattered the silence like a slap across the face.  

Draco bolted upright, wand already in hand, heart hammering against his ribs until his sleep-adled brain registered the sound. Not an attack. Not an intruder. Just Corvus.  

This did nothing to settle the dread that rested in Draco’s stomach. His mind immediately going to the night of the Birth Rite, to the shimmering wolf watching them from the sky. When McGonagall returned to their tower that evening, she told them there was no trace of Greyback or his pack.

The wreath above Corvus’ cradle swayed faintly, as if disturbed by the force of the infant’s cries. From the next room, Draco could hear Hermione’s breath, deep and even, exhausted from weeks of fractured sleep. Draco hesitated. He could wake her. Should wake her. But. 

The crying stopped and a hush fell over the nursery. Draco crept forward, and there, in the dim glow of the enchanted glowworm nightlight, was Corvus, wide-eyed, tiny fists clenched, staring up at him with an expression that was almost accusatory.  

“What?” Draco muttered. “You summoned. Here I am.”  

Corvus blinked, then smacked his lips hungrily.  

Draco sighed. “Right. Of course.”  

He scooped the baby up with stiff, overly cautious hands, still unused to the fragile little thing, and settled into the padded rocking chair. Holding the baby still felt like handling a volatile potion. A flick of his wand summoned the self warming bottle of milk set out for midnight feedings, and Corvus latched onto it with a grunt of satisfaction, his tiny fingers splayed against Draco’s chest as he drank.  

Somewhere between the rhythmic rocking and the soft, milky sighs, Draco’s eyes drifted shut.  

---

“You’re both drooling.”  

Draco jerked awake to find Hermione leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, her brown curls a chaotic cloud around her head in the early morning light. A smirk played at the corner of her mouth.  

“He started it,” Draco grumbled, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. Corvus, still asleep against his shoulder, let out a contented burble.

Hermione’s smirk softened. “You should have woken me. It’s my week to get up with him.”  

“You were dead to the world.”  

“I am dead to the world,” she said with a yawn and a stretch, toes curling into the carpet. “He’s been feeding every two hours like clockwork.” She stepped forward, brushing a finger over Corvus’s downy hair. “Thank you.”  

Draco shifted, suddenly hyper aware of the intimacy of the moment, her standing so close, the warmth of the baby between them, the way her thumb had grazed his collarbone when she touched their son.

He cleared his throat, dislodging the peculiar tightness forming in his chest. “What time are we leaving?”  

She stretched again with a soft groan, her arms high above her head. The hem of her nightshirt rode up, exposing a pale strip of her stomach.

He gulped. 

“Minerva said she’ll open the Floo connection of our fireplace at nine,” she said. “So, about two hours.”

He just nodded, not trusting his voice.

A small, fussy gurgle came from Draco’s shoulder, followed by a more insistent cry. Hermione sighed, a sound of pure exhaustion. “Right on schedule.”

“I’ve got him,” Draco said, holding the baby in front of him, cooling the damp patch of drool darkening his shirt. Corvus’s face was scrunched, his little fists waving. The smell was immediate and unmistakable. “He needs changing,” he announced, his voice a mix of resignation and a newfound, grudging competence.

A ghost of a smile touched Hermione’s lips. “Thank goodness for ever-clean nappies.” She held out her arms, and he transferred the squirming bundle to her. Their hands brushed during the exchange, a fleeting contact that sent another shock through him. This time, her eyes flicked up to his, and he saw a flicker of something, surprise perhaps, before her expression shuttered again. She laid Corvus on the changing mat on the table, her movements efficient and gentle.

He needed space. The room felt too small, her presence too large. “I’m going to finish packing. And shower.” He gestured to the wet stain on his shoulder. “I’ve become a human handkerchief.”

“It’s a father’s privilege,” she said, not turning around. Her tone was wry, but it lacked its usual bite.

He retreated to his bedroom, closing the door with a soft click. Leaning against it, he took a deep breath. This was madness, becoming overwrought by the simple touch of her hand. He removed his jumper, the simple task grounding him. 

When he returned, Hermione had placed a peacefully clean Corvus back into his cradle and was now in their sitting room at a small desk, having changed from her own sleep-rumpled clothing into a simple crimson sweater and jeans.

“Thank You notes,” she said, answering his unspoken question about her scribbling. She held up a heavy, ornate silver rattle. “This is from your Great Aunt Agatha. And this,” she gestured to a delicate crystal vial containing a pearlescent liquid, “is from Professor Slughorn. Dragon’s tears for teething. I’ve cross-referenced it with three separate texts on infant potions. It’s… probably safe, but I’m not taking any chances.”

Draco picked up a quill and a stack of parchment. They worked in a silence that was now companionable, the scratch of their quills a peaceful counterpoint to the morning’s awkwardness. It was a temporary truce, built on the mundane logistics of decorum.

After a while, Draco broached the subject they had both been avoiding. “The omen,” he began, his voice low. “Has Potter told you anything more?” 

Hermione put her quill down, her expression turning serious. “Yes. The Aurors confirmed it’s a very old, very dark sigil. It’s called ‘The Withering Eye’. It’s not just a general threat; it’s a specific curse aimed at negating protective magic placed on children.” She met his gaze, and the fear in her eyes was stark. “They meant it for him, Draco. The wards of Hogwarts were the only things that could counter it.”

Draco’s blood ran cold. His grip on the quill tightened until his knuckles were white. “So it was a direct attack.”

“It was. Harry said they’ve doubled the patrols in Hogsmeade and have a team doing regular sweeps of the school perimeter, even during the holidays. He’s sending a team to watch over my parents house and the Manor. They’re taking it seriously.”

“They’d better,” Draco said, his voice dangerously soft. The protective fury that had been simmering in him since Corvus’s birth flared white-hot. His son was a target because of him. Because of the burden of the name he carried. Because of that unthinkable night.

He finished his last note with a sharp slash of the quill. “Is everything else ready?”

“Just about.” Hermione stood, her eyes falling upon the sleek, black ash-wood Porta-pram in the corner, a masterpiece of enchanted craftsmanship, a gift from his mother. It was lined with dragon-hide, warded against hexes, curses, and even unfriendly weather, and could shrink to fit in a pocket. 

They moved together to the cradle. Corvus was awake, blinking placidly at the mobile of charmed brooms racing above him. As Draco lifted him, the weight of his son in his arms felt more significant than ever. The conversation had stripped away any last pretense of normalcy. They weren’t just two students with a complicated situation; they were the frontline of a silent war, protecting their child from a shadowy enemy. He looked at Hermione, who was checking the pram’s safety charms, her brow furrowed in concentration. 

“Ready?” she asked, her hand resting on the pram’s handle as he set their son inside.

Draco met her brown gaze. “No,” he said, the honesty feeling like a confession. “But let’s go.” 

With a flick of his wand, he lifted Hermione’s trunks lining the wall, stuffed to bursting with presents, baby supplies, and at least twelve books she’d “absolutely needed” for the two-week break. They both agreed she would take the baby for the whole break, a thought that sent a jolt of something through Draco’s gut, a sensation that felt suspiciously like loss. 

“Luncheon at twelve on Christmas,” Hermione reminded him, adjusting Corvus’s knit hat, a violently orange creation courtesy of Molly. “Don’t be late; my parents are very punctual.”  

Draco scoffed, leaning against the mantel with what he hoped was an air of casual indifference. “When have I ever been late, Granger? Punctuality is the hallmark of a disciplined mind. Something you’d appreciate, if you weren’t too busy scheduling every moment of your life.”

Her head snapped up, a familiar fire igniting in her eyes. It was a relief to see something other than the weary tension that had plagued them for so long. “Is that so? I seem to recall you sauntering into Potions on a regular basis precisely five minutes after Snape had started his lecture, relying entirely on the fact that he’d never deduct points from his favorite little Slytherin.”

“I was conducting prefect duties. Duties you never felt obligated to perform beyond using the badge as an excuse to lecture people on the proper thickness of parchment.”

“Prefect duties?” she repeated, her voice dripping with mock incredulity. “Is that what we’re calling skulking around the dungeons with Crabbe and Goyle now? And for your information, proper parchment thickness is crucial for ink absorption and archival longevity. Not that you’d care about something as mundane as preserving knowledge.”

“I care about not dying of boredom before I turn twenty,” he shot back, taking a step closer, the fire in his own blood igniting. “And for the record, I was never late for anything that actually mattered.”

“Oh, really? The Yule Ball? I distinctly remember you and Pansy Parkinson making a grand, theatrical entrance after the music had started. You looked terribly put out that the world had dared to begin spinning before you graced it with your presence.”

Draco’s lips twitched. He had forgotten that. She remembered the most inconsequential details. “That’s called being fashionably late. There’s a difference. A nuance I wouldn’t expect a witch who considered using a frizz-ease potion a formal hairstyle to understand.”

The brief, absurd argument had dissipated the awkwardness. They stood there for a moment in a charged silence, the ghost of their old animosity a strangely comfortable blanket.

“Twelve o’clock, Malfoy,” she said again, her tone softer now. “My father sets his watch by the BBC news chimes. He’ll have a coronary if you disrupt his gravy-timing routine.”

“I shall endeavor to arrive with the solemnity of a funeral pyre,” Draco said dryly. “You have my word.”

“Good.” She hoisted the diaper bag onto her shoulder just as the green flames in the hearth roared to life, signaling McGonagall had opened the connection. She took a step toward the fire, then paused, glancing back at him. “And Draco?”

“What?”

“Try not to miss us too much,” she said, and with a whirl of her bushy hair and a flash of orange wool, she and the baby were gone, leaving him alone in the suddenly silent, cavernous tower.

---

The silence at Malfoy Manor was a heavy, suffocating blanket, broken only by the soft crackle of the enchanted Yule log in the drawing-room hearth. Draco stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the snow dust the skeletal remains of the gardens. The house-elves had outdone themselves with the decorations. Grand fir trees, shimmering with silver baubles and charmed fairy lights that flickered like captured stars, stood sentinel in every corner. Garlands of ivy and holly, their berries a painfully cheerful red, draped the marble mantelpieces. 

It was perfect. It was sterile. It was empty.

Two days. It had only been two days since Hermione and Corvus had left for her parents’ house, and the tower at Hogwarts, which he had often found claustrophobic, now seemed a haven of noise and life in his memory. The Manor, his ancestral home, felt like a gilded tomb. He missed the sharp, clean scent of the baby balm Hermione used. He missed the infuriating, constant rustle of parchment as she studied. He even missed the night cries that had once felt like a torture. He would never, ever admit it aloud.

Narcissa glided in, her expression neutral. She held two crystal goblets of mulled wine, the steam carrying the scent of cinnamon, clove, and elf-made brandy. She handed one to him.

“It’s too quiet,” she said, her voice echoing slightly in the vast room. It wasn’t an accusation, merely a statement of fact that cut right to the heart of his own thoughts.

Draco took a deep swallow of the warm, spiced wine. “It’s peaceful,” he countered, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue.

Narcissa allowed a faint, knowing smile to touch her lips. She didn’t press him. Instead, she took a delicate sip from her own goblet, her gaze drifting over the ostentatious decorations. “The elves used the golden tinsel again. I specifically instructed silver this year. It clashes dreadfully with the portraits.”

Draco grunted in agreement, his eyes straying back to the window. He wondered what Corvus was doing. Was he staring at some garish Muggle Christmas tree? Was Hermione’s father making silly faces at him? The thought sent an unpleasant pang through him.

“We are expected at Andromeda’s for dinner this evening,” Narcissa said, her tone as casual as if she were commenting on the weather.

Draco choked. A mouthful of mulled wine caught in his throat, sending him into a fit of coughing that made his eyes water. He slammed the goblet down on a nearby table, liquid sloshing over the rim onto the polished wood. “What?”

Narcissa watched him, unblinking, as he recovered. “Your aunt has invited us. I have accepted.”

“Aunt Andromeda?” Draco repeated, as if there were another. “The one we haven’t spoken to since… well, since before I was born? The one with the… the…” He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘Muggle-born husband’ or ‘werewolf grandson’. The words felt too heavy, too laden with prejudices he was desperately trying to outrun.

“The very same,” Narcissa confirmed, her composure unshaken. “It is Christmas, Draco. And circumstances… change.”

“Do they?” he snapped, his composure shattered. The emptiness of the Manor, the ghost of his father’s presence, the aching absence of his son, it all coalesced into a sharp, defensive anger. “What are we supposed to do? Sit around her kitchen table and discuss quidditch?”

“It is necessary. With your father… away-” She stopped abruptly, and after a few moments, she resumed, voice hardening just a fraction. It was the tone she used when negotiations were over. “Andromeda is my older sister. She is family. Teddy is family. However… unconventional that may be. We have all suffered losses. Perhaps it is time for forgiveness.” He knew she wasn’t speaking of her own, but that of her sisters.

Draco stared at her, seeing the resolve in her pale blue eyes. This wasn’t a suggestion. It was a decree. He saw in her the same loneliness that was inside him, but where he wanted to wallow in it, she was determined to forge a new path, no matter how uncomfortable.

He ran a hand through his hair, turning back to the window. The perfect, silent, snow-blanketed grounds seemed to mock him. A stuffy, awkward dinner with an estranged aunt and the Boy Who Lived’s godson suddenly seemed preferable to another minute in the crushing solitude of the Manor.

Draco gave a curt nod, unable to speak. He picked up his goblet and drained the rest of the mulled wine in one burning swallow. 

---

The cottage was smaller than Draco had expected, not the ramshackle hovel he might have imagined in his youth, but a snug, lived-in home that smelled of pine needles and cinnamon. The sitting room was a riot of color, strung with blinking Muggle fairy lights and paper chains in garish shades of red and gold. A lopsided angel sat atop the Christmas tree, one wing drooping sadly, while an alarming number of felt snowmen grinned from every available surface.  

Andromeda stood by the fireplace, her posture noble despite the homely surroundings, a neutral expression pasted onto her face. The resemblance to Bellatrix was uncanny - the same thick black hair, sharp cheekbones, heavy-hooded, penetrating eyes. Were it not for her soft expression and fuller figure, he might have bolted on the spot.  

A blur of blue shot across the room like a misfired firework.  

Teddy Lupin, all of nine months old and moving at a speed that defied both physics and infant development, barreled toward them both on a toy broom. He was dressed in a tiny wooley jumper, his chubby fists flailing, his shock of hair a violently bright blue. And then he caught sight of Draco.  

The baby skidded to a halt, nearly toppling over, the broom wobbling precariously. His hair flickered - blue to red, red to black - before settling on a deep Slytherin emerald, matching Draco’s jumper.

Narcissa gasped. "His hair…"  

Andromeda laughed, scooping Teddy up before he could faceplant onto the rug. "It's been like this since I put the decorations up," she said, bouncing him on her hip. "One minute he's a Weasley, the next he's trying to match the tinsel. I think he's confused."  

Teddy gurgled, reaching for Draco with sticky fingers. Draco took an instinctive, graceless step back.  

"Don't worry," Andromeda said dryly, raising a wry eyebrow that was purely Black family. "He doesn't bite. Much."  

The meal was a careful dance of polite conversation and loaded silence. Narcissa, ever  composed, inquired after Teddy's milestones in a voice that was unusually high-pitched. “And is he walking? Casting wordless magic?” She asked, as if inquiring after a rare and potentially dangerous magical creature. In some ways she was.

Andromeda, with a pointed glance at Draco, asked after Corvus. “How is your little one; settling into the castle?”  

Draco stared intently at his roast pheasant as if it held the secrets of the universe. “He’s….loud. And he has Hermione's temper."  

Narcissa's lips twitched. "A lethal combination."  

The unspoken truth hung over the table like mistletoe, prickly and impossible to ignore: until recently, the thought of a Malfoy sitting here, breaking bread with blood traitors and half-bloods, would have been laughable. 

The delicate ping of the doorbell sliced through the strained small talk. Andromeda rose with a quiet, “Excuse me,” and vanished into the hall. A moment later, the unmistakable sound of Harry Potter's voice, slightly breathless, carried into the dining room.

"Sorry I'm late. Happy Christmas."

Draco's silver fork slipped from his fingers, clattering against the fine china with a sound that echoed in the silent room.

Potter stood in the doorway, his arms piled high with clumsily wrapped presents, snow dusting his perpetually messy hair and the shoulders of his jean jacket. His eyes locked onto Draco and widened comically behind his glasses.

For a long, excruciating moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the crackle of the fire. Narcissa had frozen, a single green bean poised on her fork. Draco could feel the blood draining from his face.

Then Teddy, from his high chair, squealed with delight, and his hair shifted in an instant from its previous green to a perfect, chaotic imitation of Potter's own black mop.

"Well," Andromeda said mildly, reappearing behind Potter and brushing past him to resume her seat. "This should be interesting.”

The walls of the cozy dining room felt like they were closing in. Muttering, "Excuse me," Draco shoved his chair back, its legs scraping harshly against the wooden floor, and fled through the kitchen and out the back door into the frigid night.

The cold hit him like a physical blow, a welcome shock after the stifling tension inside. The gravel of Andromeda’s back garden crunched under his shoes as he started to pace the back garden. 

He should just Disapparate. Leave this entire, trying evening behind.

Predictably, the door creaked open again. Potter’s silhouette filled the frame before he stepped out, closing the door softly behind him. The two of them stood in the dark, their breath pluming in the icy air, the festive glow from the window’s holiday lights casting long, distorted shadows that shifted with the flashing lights.

“Listen, er, I know we haven’t spoken much. It’s been a ....an interesting year. But we need to talk, seeing as we’ll be in each other’s lives for the foreseeable future,” Harry said out of the blue, his voice low and steady. “I know. About Greyback. And what happened in the cellar. Hermione, she….she told me.”

Draco’s blood turned to ice. Every muscle in his body seized. The memory - the damp stone, the feral stench, Hermione’s whimpers, his own paralyzing fear - narrowed his vision, vivid and humiliating. “She what?” The words were a venomous whisper.

“She didn’t go into details,” Harry said quickly, holding up a placating hand. “Just that you…that you went down there. That you tried to get her out. And I wanted to say-”

Rage, white-hot and defensive, obliterated the cold. Draco’s wand was in his hand, the tip pressed against the soft hollow of Harry’s throat before the other man could even blink. “If you ever repeat that to anyone,” he hissed, his voice trembling with a fury that was as much self-directed as it was aimed at Potter, “there’s no place on earth you can hide where I won’t find you and make you wish Voldemort had finished the job.”

Harry didn’t flinch, didn’t even reach for his own wand. He just stood there, his eyes meeting Draco’s manic glare with an infuriating calm. “I won’t. I swear on my parents’ graves. I’m not your enemy, Malfoy.” He held Draco’s gaze, and the sincerity in his voice, his infuriating sincerity, the most disarming weapon he could have used. “You saved her. However it happened, that’s all that matters to me. Thank you.”

The truth of the statement, the sheer, unassailable weight of it, deflated his anger, leaving behind only a hollow, aching shame. Slowly, his arm trembling slightly, he lowered his wand. The connection between them, the electric flare of magic flowing through him into Potter, broken.

Harry exhaled a visible cloud of relief into the cold air. He rubbed his throat where the wand tip had been. “Look. Hermione’s my best friend, and I’m Corvus’s godfather now. So I guess that means we’re… stuck with each other. Or whatever.” He hesitated for a beat, then stuck out his hand, a gesture so blunt and Gryffindor it was almost painful to witness. “Truce?”

Draco stared at the offered hand as if it were a venomous tentacula. This was insanity. Shaking hands with Harry Potter in his blood-traitor aunt’s back garden. His father would have spontaneously combusted. He looked past Potter, at the warm, lit windows of the house where his mother was waiting. The world had tilted irrevocably on its axis.

With the reluctance of a man turning his lips toward a dementor, with fingers cold and stiff, he reached out and took Harry’s hand. The grip was firm, brief, and utterly surreal.

Somewhere inside the house, Teddy shrieked with uninhibited laughter, a sound of pure, simple joy.

---

A/N: Nothing much to say here except this is what I do instead of work. Hope you liked it :-)