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DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Harry Potter.
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“Are you sure you’re going to be alright? You know, I really think we ought to see a Healer today.”
Hermione Granger-Malfoy wrapped her around her husband’s neck and stood on the tip of her toes to plant a chaste kiss on his lips. It was nearly eight-thirty in the morning, and he was going to be late for the Malfoy Annual Board meeting, but there he was, fussing over her like she were a six-year-old girl instead of the thirty-eight-year-old woman that she was.
“I’m gonna be fine, Draco,” she replied, smiling. “You, on the other hand, are going to be late. You know your father isn’t gonna be too happy you kept him waiting.”
“Like he can really fire me?”
“You’re awful, you know that,” she said, as she playfully spanked his arm. Hermione tried to keep herself from laughing at her husband’s smug expression, but she’d once again failed to resist his charming smile. She had to admit he had a point - Draco owned fifty-one percent of the company’s stocks, but she also knew he respected his father too much to rub it in the older Malfoy’s face.
Draco snickered as his wife continued to struggle with keeping a straight face. They’ve been married for over three years, yet it still amazed at how easily they got along with each other. He was glad she asked him to dinner four years ago when he was still a right mess after Astoria’s untimely passing. His smile faded at the thought of his first wife, and he pulled Hermione closer.
“Will you promise me that you’ll stay in bed today?” he asked, as he dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Promise me you won't leave the house today, Granger.”
She gazed up at the dashing blond, who had the most worried expression on his face, and nodded. “I’m still in my jammies, aren’t I?”
“Alright. Promise me that you’ll call me the minute you feel dizzy or throw up again, yeah?”
She rolled her eyes. “I promise, Draco. Now, why don’t you go to your office and when you come home, we’ll order Thai,” the Minister of Magic’s Undersecretary said, in an attempt to appease him.
“Thai?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow at her to appraise her response.
She nodded. “Yes,” she said, sighing dreamily. “I’ve been thinking about having Pineapple seafood rice with some curry, maybe we can even order Pad Thai and those prawns that you like so much. What do you think?”
The dashing young President and CEO of Malfoy Industries blinked a few times and looked at his wife like she’d grown two heads. In all the years he’s known this woman, he knew for certain she disliked three things: losing, fake people, and Thai food. If her retching all week was not a tell-tale sign that something was wrong with her, craving Thai food definitely was. He recalled reading an article in one of the medical journals about several new magical illnesses that were still tagged as incurable and started to wonder if his wife had contracted any. But while he was concerned about her health, the blond was more concerned about her reaction when he brings a Healer home to check on her.
“Draco darling, I really think you should leave. It’s almost nine,” she said, shaking his arm.
“Alright, alright,” he said, saving the thought of contacting a Healer for later. Dropping another kiss on his wife’s lips, he added, “but remember what you promised, Granger. And I’m coming home immediately after the meeting.”
The comely brunette watched her husband walk to the fireplace and Floo to his office at the prestigious Malfoy Tower. She smiled and waved at her husband, who didn’t look too happy as he vanished into the thick, green smoke.
“Finally,” she sighed, as she padded to the kitchen where her mother-in-law appeared, sipping on a nice hot cup of tea. Hermione smiled at the statuesque pureblood, who placed her cup aside the minute she entered and sat straight. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Narcissa. Your son didn’t seem like he was in a hurry to leave for work today.”
“That boy hasn’t changed. He stalls when he’s panicking,” Narcissa Malfoy said, as she beckoned at her daughter-in-law to come and sit with her by the counter.
“I don’t see any reason for him to panic. Malfoy Industries did so well this year,” Hermione muttered, helping herself to a chair.
“I didn’t mean he was panicking about the board meeting, dear. He’s been contacting me all week about your retching at odd hours,” the beautiful middle-aged woman told her matter-of-factly, as she summoned her House-elf to make more tea. “He’s been deathly concerned about your welfare. I’m sure you know why.”
Hermione nodded as she took a sip off the tea that Binky, the House-elf, gave her. She never had a chance to interact with Draco or any of her Slytherin classmates after they’d graduated from Hogwarts. Except for occasional news about their milestones, the brown-eyed Gryffindor knew nothing about their lives. That changed four years ago when she was worked as the Associate Director for the Department of Magical Trade and Industry for the Ministry and was tasked to inspect the newly constructed Malfoy Laboratories. When they met, she was recovering from her divorce from Ron, and he was trying to piece his life together after Astoria passed away. What started as a routine inspection to get the Ministry’s approval to operate had turned into a dinner date where he admitted that he still beat himself up for Astoria’s death and that if he had set up the Laboratory years before, he reckoned they would’ve found a cure for her illness.
“Hermione?”
The sound of the older woman’s voice shook her back to her senses. “I know he’s worried about me, and that’s why I want to surprise him,” Hermione said excitedly. “When you’re done with tea, I can show you the stockings I made last night. You’re going to love it.”
Narcissa hurriedly finished her tea and followed the younger woman to the living room, and settled in one of the couches as her daughter-in-law instructed the House-elf on how to set up the tree. The Malfoys were never big on Christmas, but since her son married the brilliant Muggle-born, the traditional pureblood family started to embrace all the things she loves, including Christmas, and the frills that came with the season. The Malfoy Matriarch squealed when Hermione handed her three red stockings with white trimmings, knowing for sure that Christmases from hereon were going to be her absolute favourite season as well.
xXxXx
“Well done, Draco!”
The Board of Directors immediately congratulated and shook hands with the young CEO and President of the esteemed Malfoy Industries following his presentation of the company’s gains and profits for the year. The Annual Board Meeting had gone without a hitch for the first time in years, and everyone in attendance was delighted; All, except the younger Malfoy, whose mind seemed elsewhere. Draco politely excused himself at three in the afternoon and hurried back to his office to read the latest medical journal one more time. He was so engrossed in researching on what disease his wife had probably contracted, he barely noticed someone enter his plush office.
“Son, I wanted to show you -”
“Merlin’s saggy balls!” Draco exclaimed, nearly jumping out of his seat.
“Not quite,” Lucius Malfoy said, clearing his throat, pretending that he hadn’t jumped in surprise at his son’s utterance.
“Father, I’m so sorry. You startled me,” Draco said, rising from his seat to welcome the older Malfoy.
“Yes, I’ve come to realize that. I’ve come to show you the new project we managed to win because of the impressive work that everyone in your laboratory put in this year.”
Somewhere in the middle of his father's unusually animated discussion, Draco’s thoughts have once again drifted back to the woman he left all by her lonesome in their modest townhouse in one of Muggle London’s upscale communities. He hadn't heard from her since he left this morning. With eyebrows furrowed, he wondered if she hadn't contacted him because she was feeling alright, or because she'd passed out and was lying cold and lifeless somewhere in their cosy little home...
“Draco? Son, what is the matter with you?”
“I’m sorry, father, I -”
“You’ve been distracted since you stepped into the boardroom this morning,” his father said, eyeing his son keenly. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, father.”
“Are you sure,” Lucius probed, knowing his son wasn’t exactly being truthful. “I’m aware we haven’t had the best father and son relationship in the past, but you know you can talk to me about most things.”
Draco snickered. Since he reconnected with Hermione four years ago, he noticed that his parents had also started to change. The couple who once despised half-bloods and Muggle-borns slowly curbed their biases and welcomed his new love with open arms. It didn’t take long before he saw his mother go on shopping trips with Hermione in Muggle London, and his father read Shakespeare and Poe to keep up with her lively Literary discussion during Sunday Lunch. Indeed, if someone had told him years before that Lucius Malfoy was a big softie, Draco would’ve laughed at their faces; but now was a different story.
“Son?”
“Hermione’s been acting strange,” he said, looking at his father and sighing.
“Did she finally realize she was getting the shorter end of the deal,” Lucius retorted, attempting to make a light of the situation. Whether he admitted it or not, he didn’t like seeing his son upset.
“Very funny, father,” Draco said, pretending to be offended by his old man’s jab. “But seriously, I really think there’s something wrong with her.”
“How so?” Lucius asked, summoning a bottle of Firewhiskey and two whiskey glasses. The middle-aged pureblood poured some of the precious amber liquid into each glass. “Here, this will probably help you loosen up, and help me keep an open mind.”
The dashing young Malfoy smirked at his father and drank it straight up, draining the glass of its contents in less than a minute. “Hermione’s sick, father. I’m scared she might be dying,” Draco said, the minute he put his glass on the table. “I don’t think she knows I notice, but she’s lost weight over the past couple of days. She looks so pale and the circles under her eyes have become a lot darker. She’s also been throwing up a lot, usually past midnight when she thinks I can’t hear her.”
“Is she on a diet? You know women go on all these crazy diets all the time. Your mother, for one -”
“No, I don’t think she’s on a diet. She eats quite regularly. I just think that she's got one of those diseases where your body rejects the food you eat,” Draco said, as his father poured him another glass of whiskey. “I think I read it this medical journal, father. I’ve been trying to find it before you arrived.”
“Oh,” Lucius muttered, sipping his glass. “Well have you gone to St. Mungo’s to have her checked?”
“See that’s the tough part,” the younger Malfoy said, as he downed his shot once again and started flipping the pages of the journal. “Except for today, whenever I suggest we go see a Healer, she starts crying and insisting nothing’s wrong.”
The older Malfoy looked at his son thoughtfully. The poor boy was clueless, he thought. Cradling his glass of Ogden's Best, he thought back at his own predicament with Narcissa a good thirty-seven years ago and smirked. If his suspicion was right, he and Narcissa needed to work on convincing the pair to move back to the Manor, even if it meant hosting Muggle birthday parties and allowing them to pet his white peacocks. He winced at the thought of his precious birds being violated by other people, but before he goes into panic mode, the handsome Lord of the Manor thought it best to probe some more. “So tell me more about this strange illness, son. Does Hermione tend to avoid certain smells?”
The sharp look on Draco’s face was more than enough to tell his father that the answer was yes. “She used to love the smell of my aftershave, but lately she’s been begging me to change it.”
“And do you notice any change in her level of energy throughout the day?”
“Yes,” Draco replied, his heart beating faster at each of his father’s questions. “She’s been having the most difficult time getting out of bed in the morning. She’s missed her early morning yoga class every day this week.”
Lucius nodded. “I see.”
“Do you know what’s wrong with her?”
“Relax, son. It’s nothing that won’t go away in about eight or nine months,” the stately Chairman of the Board assured his son before raising his glass to his lips.
Draco’s eyes shot wide open. All he heard were the words ‘eight or nine months’ - the very same words Healer Goldstein told him over a decade ago when he explained how long Astoria has had the disease prior to her death. He felt his chest tighten, and his stomach contract at the thought of losing Hermione. Suddenly, his vision was fogged by tears.
“Son?”
“I have to go, father -”
“Draco, are you alright?”
The younger Malfoy continued walking to the fireplace, as though he hadn't heard a word his father said. All he knew was that he should be with Hermione right at that moment. Scooping a handful of Floo powder, the dashing blond sprinkled it on himself and Flooed home.
xXxXx
“Granger?”
Draco stumbled out of the fireplace and into their warm and cosy living room, which he noticed had already been decorated with lots of red and green ornaments. From where he knelt after clumsily missing a step, he saw that their Christmas tree had already been assembled and decorated with bright light and shiny ornaments, he closed his eyes and inhaled the sweet scent of cinnamon rolls in the oven, and he smiled at faint sound of his wife’s voice as she sang her favourite Christmas carol. As he was tried to catch his breath, he saw Hermione approach the living room with a small kitchen towel on hand.
“Draco, what are you doing down there?”
“I tripped -”
“I can see that,” she retorted, smirking like a true Malfoy. “But why did you trip?”
“I was in a hurry to get to you,” Draco responded, as he stood and made his way towards her. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”
The brilliant war hero met him halfway and pulled him in for a kiss. He responded eagerly, slanting his lips to hers slowly. She sighed blissfully. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too,” he whispered against her lips. “But I see you haven’t kept your promise at all.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No, you didn’t,” he replied, pointing at their eight-foot-tall tree and its many ornaments.
“Oh, that! Binky helped me decorate. Your mother sent her to assist me after you left,” the curly-haired brunette explained. “She’s still in the kitchen helping me bake if you want to see for yourself.”
“I don't think that’s necessary. I just wanted to make sure you didn't wear yourself out,” he told her.
“I can assure you I only worked on three things,” Hermione said, as she gently spun her husband around to look at their fireplace where three stockings now hung.
Draco squinted his eyes as they moved closer to the red quilted stocking with white trimmings that bore three different sets of numbers. The largest stocking had 1980 and his name printed on it, beside his stocking was an almost similar stocking that had 1979 and her name printed on it, and to the right of his wife’s stocking was a small stocking he’d never seen before. The littlest stocking had 2018 and a question mark written on it. His eyes shot wide open as though someone had splashed cold water on him in the middle of a snowstorm. Suddenly, it all made sense -the unusual food craving, the emotional outbursts, the retching at odd hours… his wife wasn't dying, she was carrying the newest addition to their little family.
“Are you serious?” he asked, as he turned to look at his wife, who approached him with a present on hand. He nodded his thanks and eagerly unwrapped the gift to reveal a box containing a few important documents. With shaky hands, he took the paper and started to read.
“I couldn't believe it myself, Draco! I had always been told that I couldn't have children,” Hermione said, as she tearfully recalled that all the Specialists she visited over the years told her the exact same thing - her extensive exposure to the Cruciatus Curse had rendered her incapable of getting pregnant; however, her visit to Healer Patil’s office yesterday changed all that. She was informed that she was eight weeks pregnant and gave her a copy of the baby’s first picture, which Draco now held with shaky hands.
“We’re gonna have a baby,” he said, tears blurring his eyes, as he lifted his wife and spun her around merrily. “I’m gonna be a dad!”
“And you’re gonna be a great dad,” Hermione said when he finally held her in his arms. “So, do you like my Christmas present”
“Are you kidding? You just gave me a gift to remember, love - the best present I could ever ask for,” he replied. With a naughty twinkle in his eyes and a playful smirk on his lips, Draco lifted the comely brunette in his arms once more. “In fact, let me show you just how much I appreciate your present.”
Hermione giggled and peppered her husband’s neck with kisses while he carried her to their bedroom. She knew she had to write her mother-in-law and let her know how her plan worked, but that could wait til tonight… or tomorrow even. For now, she wanted to focus on the sexy former Slytherin Seeker, who also promised her a gift to remember.
The End.