Chapter Text
Hermione Granger was hiding a tiny secret.
Tiny, in this case, being somewhere between the size of a Quaffle and a fully grown Niffler, depending on how recently she’d had a treacle tart.
She was pregnant.
Six months pregnant.
With Draco Malfoy’s baby.
Now, it’s not that she didn’t want to tell Draco. In fact, in some distant part of her hormone-ravaged, thoroughly sleep-deprived brain, she had tried. Several times. But every conversation she started somehow ended in an argument about goblin rights, or worse, the proper pronunciation of “leviosa.”
And if she was honest, Hermione Granger—the brightest witch of her age, master of logical reasoning, and the only person who ever finished “Hogwarts: A History”—was... scared. Scared that Draco would panic, or worse, go full Pureblood Panic Mode™ and disappear into the Malfoy Manor wine cellar for three months.
So, naturally, she did what any rational, intelligent witch would do.
She pretended she wasn’t pregnant.
At all.
“Granger,” Draco said one morning, raising an eyebrow as she waddled into the Ministry cafeteria wearing what appeared to be three layers of robes and a floating stack of books around her midsection. “You look like you swallowed a Hippogriff.”
“Thank you, Draco, that’s just the body positivity I needed today,” she huffed, sitting down very, very slowly. The books floated politely to the side. “It’s just... retention.”
“Of what? Entire furniture sets?” he snorted.
She glared. “Some women bloat.”
“Some women also wear suspiciously anti-revealing cloaks in July and have cravings for pickled frogspawn.”
“I happen to like frogspawn!”
“No one likes frogspawn, Granger. Not even the frogs.”
Ron was the first to notice.
“Well, someone’s been hitting the Honeydukes hard,” he said one evening at the Burrow, poking her belly with a suspiciously elongated spoon. “Wait. Is that... moving?”
“That’s my digestive tract,” Hermione snapped, snatching the spoon. “Ever heard of gas, Ronald?”
“Oh Merlin. The gas has feet!”
By Month Seven, her disguises had become so elaborate that Ministry security flagged her as a highly suspicious walking fortress. Magical Detection Units tried to arrest her robe twice.
“Ma’am,” said one stern Auror, squinting at her profile. “We’re going to need to search that suspiciously rotund hump.”
“This ‘hump’ has three NEWTs and a law degree, thank you very much.”
Draco remained clueless. Absolutely, blissfully, unbelievably clueless.
Until one night, Hermione had enough.
She waddled (with great dignity) into his flat, looked him dead in the eye, and said:
“Draco, I’m pregnant.”
He blinked. “With what?”
She threw a pillow at his face.
“With your child, you dolt! What else would I be pregnant with? A Blast-Ended Skrewt?!”
There was a pause. A long one. Draco stared at her. Stared at the bump. Stared at the jar of frogspawn she was clutching like a teddy bear.
Then he said, “Well, I suppose that explains why your Patronus started lactating last week.”
In the end, he wasn’t angry.
Mostly confused. Mildly panicked. At one point he asked if the child might come out “wearing Gryffindor colours,” to which Hermione told him if it did, she would consider that punishment enough.
He took her hand in his, kissed her forehead, and asked the most Draco Malfoy question imaginable:
“So... do we have to tell my mother?”