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Chapter Text

PROLOGUE

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Chapter Text

The library was silent except for the scratch of quills and the occasional rustle of parchment. Hermione Granger sat at her usual corner table, surrounded by towers of books, ‘Advanced Transfiguration Theory’, ‘Defensive Magical Theory’, ‘Ancient Runes Made Easy’ (which was, ironically, anything but easy). Each one bristling with color-coded tabs. Her notes were immaculate, her handwriting precise, every definition memorized, every wand movement practiced until her arm ached. And yet, she couldn't concentrate. The words on the page swam before her eyes, meaningless black shapes that refused to form coherent thoughts. She'd read the same paragraph on Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration four times now, and still couldn't tell anyone what it said. Her quill hovered uselessly above her parchment, a drop of ink trembling at its tip before falling and spreading into an ugly blot. Hermione stared at it, watching the ink seep through the fibers of the paper, and felt something cold settle in her stomach.

She was late.

Not late for class, though she had been uncharacteristically tardy to Arithmancy twice this week, much to Professor Vector's surprise. No, this was different. This was the kind of late that made her hands shake when she tried to write, that made her wake at three in the morning in a cold sweat, that made her count and recount days on her fingers until the numbers blurred together.

Twenty-eight days. Thirty five days. Forty-three.

It had been Forty-three days.

"Hermione?"

She jerked her head up to find Ron leaning over her table, his freckled face creased with concern. Harry stood behind him, hands shoved in his pockets, looking equally worried.

"You've been staring at that book for ten minutes without turning a page," Ron said. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Hermione said automatically, her voice coming out sharper than she'd intended. She forced a smile that felt like it might crack her face in half. "Just tired. OWLs, you know."

"We're all tired," Harry said gently. "But you look... I don't know. You haven't seemed to be yourself lately."

Because I'm not myself, Hermione thought wildly. Because I might be…She couldn't even finish the thought.

"I'm fine," she repeated, gathering her books with trembling hands. Parchment scattered, quills rolled off the table. "I just need some air. Fresh air. I'll see you at dinner."

She fled before they could protest, clutching her bag to her chest like a shield. Students parted around her in the corridors, their faces blurring together. Someone called her name, Lavender, maybe, or Parvati; but she didn't stop. She couldn't stop. If she stopped moving, she would have to think, and if she started thinking, she would fall apart completely.

Her feet carried her to the third floor, to the girls' bathroom that Moaning Myrtle haunted. No one came here unless they were desperate. The door creaked as she pushed it open, the sound echoing off the grimy tiles. The air smelled of standing water and old pipes. A single tap dripped steadily into a cracked sink. Hermione locked herself in the farthest stall and sank onto the closed toilet lid, her bag sliding from nerveless fingers to the floor. The walls pressed in around her, close and suffocating. She could hear Myrtle wailing somewhere in the pipes, a distant, mournful sound that matched the panic rising in her chest.

She had to know.

Her hands shook as she dug through her bag, past textbooks and quills and half-finished essays, until her fingers closed around her wand. The wand was warm against her palm, familiar, comforting. She'd performed thousands of spells with this wand. She'd learned magic that witches twice her age hadn't mastered. Surely she could cast this one simple diagnostic charm.

"Gravida Scrutinus," she whispered, her voice barely audible even to herself.

The wand tip glowed softly, then brightened. Pink light spilled across the stall, bright and unmistakable, painting the dingy walls the color of cherry blossoms. Pink like sunset. Pink like the ribbon her mother had tied in her hair when she was seven. Pink like the positive result she'd been dreading.

The light held steady, unchanging, undeniable.

Hermione's breath left her in a rush. The wand clattered from her hand, rolling across the filthy floor, still glowing that horrible, beautiful pink. She pressed both hands over her mouth, but it wasn't enough to contain the sound that tore from her throat— half sob, half scream, all terror.

She was sixteen years old.

She had OWLs in four months.

She was supposed to be focused on her career, her future, her plans to change the world and fight for house-elves rights and become the youngest Minister of Magic in history.

But she was pregnant.

The word felt foreign even in her own mind, too big and adult and terrifying to belong to her. Pregnant. With a baby. A real, actual baby that would grow and kick and cry and need her for everything, and she didn't know the first thing about babies except that they were loud and messy and completely, utterly incompatible with everything she'd planned for her life.

"Oh God," she whispered into her hands. "Oh God, oh God, oh God."

How did this happen?

Except… she knew exactly how. She could trace it back to a certain pale blond wizard. Draco Malfoy or Draco, who had stopped being just ‘Malfoy’ long before she’d ever admitted it to herself. Their strange, impossible relationship had begun after the Yule Ball in fourth year. At first they’d argued constantly, the way they always did— sharp words, quicker tempers, every insult thrown like instinct. But somewhere between the bickering and the stolen glances, something shifted. Their arguments softened. She started laughing at things he said. He started looking at her in ways that made her feel warm and breathless and seen. And before she’d even realised she’d crossed the line, Hermione had fallen into those storm-grey eyes, and everything,  everything had changed. Over time, what had begun as a strange, reluctant fondness between them grew into something quieter, deeper, and far more dangerous. The sniping softened, the charged silences lengthened, and then one night, they simply stopped resisting. The tension between them snapped, and they crossed a line neither of them had meant to approach.

One night became two. Then three. Then a string of breathless, stolen moments pressed behind heavy tapestries, tucked away in forgotten classrooms, and more than once in the Prefects’ bathroom after midnight, taking shameless advantage of the authority both of them held. They had been careful. Or at least… they had tried to be. Memories blurred around the edges now, a haze of want and recklessness, and she couldn’t swear they hadn’t slipped somewhere along the way. But every time she could recall, they’d used the proper contraceptive charms. Hermione had studied them meticulously, researched every counter, practised every wand movement, triple-checked everything. She was Hermione Granger. She didn’t make mistakes with things that mattered.

And yet somehow… something had gone wrong. Somehow she had made a life altering mistake.

Or the magic had failed. Or the universe had decided that Hermione Granger needed to be taken down several pegs, because clearly straight Os and teacher approval and being Gryffindor's golden girl wasn't enough challenge for one lifetime.

She doubled over, her forehead pressing against her knees, and let herself cry. Great, heaving sobs that echoed off the tiles and brought Myrtle floating down from the ceiling, spectral and curious.

"Why are you crying?" the ghost asked, hovering at the stall door. "Did someone flush your books down the toilet? Did they call you names? You can tell me. I know all about being bullied."

"Go away," Hermione choked out. "Please, Myrtle. Just… just go away."

For once, the ghost listened, drifting off with an offended sniff. Hermione was alone with her wand glowing pink and her racing heart and the knowledge that had just upended her entire world. She couldn't tell Harry and Ron. They wouldn't help, and they wouldn’t even take it easy on her if they knew she went behind their back and spent time with Draco. They'd look at her differently, and she couldn't bear that. Not Harry, who'd already lost so much. Not Ron, who still blushed when she held his hand, who she'd kissed once on a dare and felt nothing but friendly affection. She couldn't tell her parents. Her mother, who'd been so proud when her daughter got her Hogwarts letter. Her father, who'd helped her practice wand movements in their living room even though he couldn't do magic himself. They'd be devastated. Ashamed. Disappointed. And she'd already put them through so much, with the war looming and the danger and the knowledge that their little girl spent her time preparing to fight Dark wizards instead of shopping or dating or doing normal teenage things. She couldn't tell McGonagall. The disappointment in her favorite professor's eyes would destroy her. She couldn't tell Dumbledore. The Headmaster had enough to worry about with Voldemort and the Order and keeping Harry alive.

Which left exactly one person. The only person who had any right to know, who bore equal responsibility for this disaster, who she'd been avoiding for three days now because she'd been too terrified to say the words out loud.

Draco.

She had to tell Draco.

The thought made her stomach clench with fresh fear. She'd never said the word ‘love’ to him, and he'd never said it to her. What they had was complicated. Forbidden. Built on arguments and stolen kisses and the strange thrill of breaking every rule they'd both been raised to follow. He was a Slytherin, she was a Gryffindor. He was a pureblood, she was Muggleborn. On paper, they made no sense. But when he looked at her in the darkness, when his fingers traced patterns on her skin, when he murmured her name like a prayer— in those moments, nothing else mattered. In those moments, she could almost believe in something more than just physical attraction between them.

She had to believe in it now. Because if Draco abandoned her, if he turned his back and walked away and left her to face this alone...

Hermione picked up her wand with shaking hands and canceled the spell. The pink light died, plunging the stall back into grimy shadow. She stood on legs that felt like water, smoothed down her robes, and tried to compose herself. Her face in the cracked mirror looked pale and young, eyes red-rimmed and frightened. She looked exactly like what she was— a sixteen-year-old girl who'd gotten in over her head and was drowning fast. But she was also Hermione Granger. She'd faced trolls and Dementors. She'd rewritten house-elves liberation theory. She'd mastered NEWT-level spells as a fourth year. She was responsible for managing and training Dumbledore's army. Surely she could tell one boy that he was going to be a father.

It took her two days to work up the courage.

Two days of jumping every time she saw pale blonde hair in the corridors. Two days of rehearsing speeches in her head; calm, rational, logical explanations that fell apart the moment she tried to imagine actually saying them. Two days of feeling nauseous at breakfast, though whether that was morning sickness or pure terror, she couldn't say. She finally sent a note during Potions, a tiny scrap of parchment that read only—

Third floor classroom, 9 PM. 

Urgent.

Please come. 

H

She watched him from across the dungeon, watched him unfold the note beneath his desk, watched his brow furrow as he read it. His grey eyes flicked to hers for just a moment, and he gave the barest nod before turning back to his cauldron.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of anxiety. She couldn't eat dinner. She told Harry and Ron she was going to the library; her eternal excuse, her constant alibi and slipped away while they were still arguing about Quidditch tactics.

The third floor was deserted after dark, most students safely in their common rooms or the library. Hermione let herself into an unused classroom, one they'd met in before. Dust motes danced in the moonlight streaming through tall windows. Desks stood in crooked rows, waiting for students who would never come. The air smelled of chalk and old wood and abandonment. She paced the length of the room, her footsteps echoing. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking. She folded them together, pressed them against her stomach— still flat, still the same, though somewhere deep inside cells were dividing and growing and becoming something neither of them had planned for. She dropped them to her sides again.

The door opened.

Draco slipped inside, closing it softly behind him. He looked as he always did— impeccably dressed, his robes without a wrinkle, his hair perfectly styled. But his face was wary, his shoulders tense. They hadn't spoken since the night she'd practically run from him, muttering excuses about essays and early classes.

"Hermione," he said, and even that one word held a question. "What's wrong? You've been avoiding me."

"I know." Her voice sounded distant to her own ears, like someone else was speaking. "I'm sorry. I just…I needed to think."

"Think about what?" He crossed the room to her, close enough that she could smell his cologne, see the concern in his eyes. One hand reached for hers. "Did something happen? Is it Potter and Weasley? Did they…"

"I'm pregnant."

The words burst out of her in a rush, graceless and blunt, nothing like the careful speeches she'd rehearsed. They hung in the air between them, stark and impossible to take back. Draco froze. His hand, halfway to hers, stopped moving. The color drained from his face so quickly she thought he might faint.

"What?" he whispered.

"I'm pregnant," Hermione repeated, and this time her voice broke on the word. Tears spilled down her cheeks before she could stop them. "I did the diagnostic charm. Twice. It's… it's positive. I'm so sorry, I don't know how it happened, we were careful, we…"

"No." Draco took a step backward, then another. His eyes were wide, his face white as chalk. "No, that's… that's not possible. We used charms right? You checked them yourself."

"I know! I know we did, but something must have… maybe I said the incantation wrong, or the wand movement wasn't quite right, or…" Her breath hitched. "It doesn't matter how it happened. It happened. I'm pregnant, and it's yours, and I don't know what to do."

She watched emotions flicker across his face— shock, denial, fear, panic. His breathing was coming faster now, his chest rising and falling visibly beneath his robes. He looked around the room like he was searching for an escape route, his eyes darting from door to windows to anywhere but her face.

"Draco," she said softly, desperately. "Please say something."

"I…" He swallowed hard. "I can't… this isn't…"

"I know this isn't what we planned," Hermione said, taking a step toward him. He immediately took another step back, and the rejection stung like a physical blow but she carried on anyway. "I know this is terrifying. I'm terrified too. But we have to figure this out together. We have to…"

"Together?" Draco's voice cracked. "Hermione, do you have any idea what this means? What would my father do if he found out I… that you…" He pressed both hands against his temples, his fingers tangling in his hair. "For Salazar's Sake, Hermione, he'll kill me. He'll actually kill me. Both of us."

"Then we won't tell him," Hermione said, her own panic rising to meet his. "We won't tell anyone. Not yet. Not until we figure out what to do."

"What to do?" Draco laughed, a high, hysterical sound. "What exactly do you think we can do? You're sixteen, Hermione. I'm fifteen. We're students. We can't… I can't…"

He was backing toward the door now, his movements jerky and desperate. The walls seemed to be closing in around them, the room shrinking, the air growing thick and hard to breathe.

"Draco, please." Hermione reached for him, but he flinched away from her touch. "Please don't do this. I need you. I can't…I can't do this alone."

"I'm sorry," he gasped out, and then he was at the door, his hand on the knob. His face was a mask of terror, all the color gone, sweat beading on his forehead. "I'm… I can't… I… I have to go."

"Draco!"

But he was already gone, the door slamming behind him with a bang that echoed through the empty classroom like a gunshot. His footsteps pounded down the corridor, running, fleeing, leaving her standing alone in the moonlight with her hands outstretched and tears streaming down her face. She stood frozen for a long moment, unable to process what had just happened. Then her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the dusty floor, her whole body shaking with sobs that tore from somewhere deep in her chest.

He'd left her.

He'd actually left her.

She was sixteen and pregnant and completely, utterly alone, and the boy who'd put her in this situation had run away like a scared child. Like she was some kind of monster he couldn't bear to face. Like the baby, their baby was nothing but a problem to be escaped from.

"I hate you," she whispered to the empty room, to the closed door, to Draco Malfoy wherever he'd run to. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."

But even as she said it, she knew it wasn't true. Because if she hated him, this wouldn't hurt so much. If she hated him, she wouldn't have been stupid enough to fall into his arms in the first place. If she hated him, his absence wouldn't feel like a physical wound, like someone had reached into her chest and torn out something vital. She curled up on the cold floor and cried until she had no tears left, until her throat was raw and her eyes were swollen and the moon had moved across the sky. She cried for her lost future, for her destroyed plans, for the baby growing inside her who deserved so much better than two terrified teenagers who had no idea what they were doing. And she cried for Draco, because some small part of her understood his panic, his fear, his desperate need to run from something too big and overwhelming to face.

But understanding didn't make the rejection hurt any less.

Draco ran.

He ran down corridors and up staircases, his feet pounding against stone, his breath burning in his lungs. He ran until his sides ached and his legs trembled and he had to stop, gasping, one hand braced against a wall to keep from collapsing.

Pregnant.

The word kept echoing in his head, over and over, a drumbeat of disaster.

Hermione is pregnant. 

With my child. 

My baby. 

I'm going to be a father.

He was going to be sick.

Draco stumbled to a window and pressed his forehead against the cool glass, trying to control his breathing, trying to think clearly through the panic clouding his mind. But all he could see was Hermione's face, pale and frightened and desperate, tears streaming down her cheeks as she'd reached for him. The way she'd looked when he'd backed away from her. The devastation in her eyes when he'd run.

"I'm a coward," he whispered to his reflection in the dark glass. "I'm a bloody coward."

What would his father say? Lucius Malfoy, who'd been grooming Draco for greatness since birth, who expected perfection and loyalty and the continuation of the pure bloodline with a proper pureblood witch, not a Muggleborn, not Hermione Granger of all people. The girl his father had called Mudblood a hundred times. The girl whose existence was an insult to everything the Malfoy family stood for. His father would disown him. Or worse. Lucius Malfoy didn't accept failure, didn't tolerate mistakes, and getting Hermione Granger pregnant was more than a mistake. It was a betrayal of everything he'd been taught to believe in.

Except Draco didn't believe in those things anymore. He hadn't for a while now, if he was honest with himself. Not since he'd first kissed Hermione and felt something shift in his chest, something that had nothing to do with blood purity or family honor or any of the poison his father had fed him since childhood. 

Not since he was in love with her.

The realization hit him like a bludger to the chest, sudden and undeniable. He loved her. Her brilliant mind and her fierce loyalty and her generous heart. He loved the little furrow that appeared between her eyebrows when she was concentrating. He loved how she'd once spent twenty minutes explaining house-elves rights to him even though she knew he didn't care, just because the subject mattered to her. He loved how she looked at him like he could be better than what his father had made him. And when she'd needed him most, when she'd been terrified and vulnerable and asking for his help, he'd run away like a scared child.

Draco's stomach churned with self-loathing. What kind of man abandoned the woman he loved when she told him she was carrying his child? What kind of person saw fear in someone's eyes and responded by adding to it?

A Malfoy, apparently. A coward and a failure.

He couldn't go to the Slytherin common room. Couldn't face his housemates, couldn't pretend everything was fine, couldn't play the role of Draco Malfoy, Prince of Slytherin, when inside he was falling apart. Instead, he wandered the castle like a ghost, taking staircases at random, walking corridors he didn't recognize. He ended up in the Astronomy Tower somehow, looking out over the dark grounds. The lake glittered under starlight. The Forbidden Forest was a black mass on the horizon. Everything looked peaceful, normal, like the world hadn't just tilted sideways.

Draco sank down with his back against the stone wall and dropped his head into his hands. Hermione was pregnant. With his baby. A tiny person who would have his eyes maybe, or her nose, or some combination of both of them. A child who didn't ask to be created, who had no say in having two teenage parents who had no idea what they were doing. A child who deserved better than a father who ran away.

The thought hit him like a physical blow. His own father had been cold and distant, more concerned with family legacy than with actually being a parent. He'd taught Draco to value money and power and blood purity, but he'd never once asked what Draco wanted, what he dreamed about, whether he was happy. Draco had sworn to himself that if he ever had children, he'd be different. Better. He'd actually be there for them. And the first test of that promise, he'd failed spectacularly.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered into the darkness. "Hermione, I'm so sorry."

But she wasn't there to hear him. She was probably still in that classroom, crying, thinking he'd abandoned her completely. Thinking she was alone. Draco pushed himself to his feet, his legs unsteady beneath him. He had to fix this. Had to find her, apologize, promise her that he wouldn't run again. That he'd face this with her, whatever happened. But it was well past midnight now, and even if he could find Hermione, which was unlikely, given that she'd probably returned to Gryffindor Tower; what could he say that would make this better? Saying sorry seemed pathetically inadequate. Promises meant nothing when he'd already proven himself unreliable.

He needed to show her, not tell her.

And that meant he needed a plan. He needed to figure out what they were going to do, how they were going to handle this, what options they had. He needed to be the person she deserved, the person who didn't run when things got difficult.

Draco spent the rest of the night in the Astronomy Tower, watching the stars wheel overhead and trying to think. By the time grey dawn light crept across the sky, he was exhausted and terrified and more determined than he'd ever been in his life. He was going to find Hermione. He was going to apologize properly. And he was going to prove to her and to himself that he could be better than his worst moment.

Hermione hadn't slept.

She'd returned to Gryffindor Tower long after curfew, slipping past Lavender and Parvati's beds to her own. She'd pulled the curtains shut and cast a silencing charm, then curled up under her covers and stared at nothing until the darkness outside her windows began to grey. Her eyes were swollen from crying. Her throat ached. Her whole body felt heavy and wrong, like she was moving through water. She couldn't stop replaying the scene in the classroom. The way Draco's face had gone white. The panic in his eyes. How he'd backed away from her like she was contagious. The sound of the door slamming behind him.

I can't.

Those were the last words he'd said to her. An apology and an abandonment all at once.

Hermione pressed one hand against her still-flat stomach. There was a person in there. A tiny cluster of cells that would become a baby, become a child, become a whole person with thoughts and feelings and a life of their own. Half her, half Draco. The thought was equally terrifying and miraculous.

She couldn't do this alone. She knew that with bone-deep certainty. She was sixteen. She had no money, no job, no idea how to take care of a baby. She couldn't even tell her friends without risking everything— her reputation, her place at Hogwarts, maybe even her safety if the wrong people found out that Hermione Granger was carrying Draco Malfoy’s child.

But she also couldn't get rid of it. The thought had crossed her mind,  of course it had, she'd researched every option, every charm, every potion before telling Draco, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. This baby hadn't asked to exist. It deserved a chance at life, even if its parents were a complete disaster. Which meant she needed Draco. Needed him to step up, to be brave, to choose her and their child over his fear and his father and whatever future he'd imagined for himself. But what if he didn't? What if last night was his final answer? What if she really was completely alone?

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut against fresh tears. She was so tired. Tired of being afraid, tired of crying, tired of carrying this enormous secret by herself. She wanted her mother. She wanted to crawl into her childhood bed and have her mum stroke her hair and tell her everything would be okay, even if it was a lie. But she couldn't have that. She couldn't have anything except this heavy weight of responsibility and fear.

The sky outside her window was turning pink with dawn. Soon her dormmates would wake, and she'd have to put on her Hermione Granger face— competent, confident, in control and pretend everything was fine. She'd have to go to breakfast and classes and act normal while her whole world was falling apart. She forced herself out of bed, wincing at how stiff and sore she felt. Her reflection in the mirror looked terrible— eyes red and swollen, face pale, hair even more wild than usual. She cast a glamour charm to hide the worst of it, then dressed mechanically, her movements slow and dreamlike. She left the dormitory before anyone else woke, unable to face questions or concern. The common room was empty, the fire burned down to embers. The portrait hole swung open with barely a grumble from the Fat Lady.

The corridors were silent this early, the castle still sleeping. Hermione walked without thinking about where she was going, her feet carrying her on autopilot. She ended up at a window overlooking the grounds, watching the sun rise over the mountains, painting everything gold and rose. It would have been beautiful if she could feel anything except numb.

"Hermione."

She spun around, her heart leaping into her throat. Draco stood a few feet away, looking worse than she'd ever seen him. His robes were wrinkled, his hair disheveled, dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept either, like he'd spent the whole night wrestling with demons.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice hoarse.

"Looking for you." He took a hesitant step closer. "I've been searching the castle since dawn. I thought… I hoped you might come down early."

"Why?" The word came out harsh, defensive. "So you can run away again?"

Draco flinched like she'd struck him. "No. So I can apologize."

He crossed the distance between them and dropped to his knees at her feet. The gesture was so unexpected, so completely un-Malfoy-like, that Hermione could only stare down at him in shock.

"I'm sorry," Draco said, his voice breaking. "I'm so, so sorry, Hermione. What I did last night… running away, leaving you alone… there's no excuse for it. I was terrified and I panicked and I acted like a complete coward."

"You did," Hermione agreed, her voice tight and grim.

"I know." He looked up at her, and his eyes were red-rimmed, desperate. "But I'm here now. I'm not running. I will never run from you again, I swear it."

"How can I believe that?" Hermione whispered. "You left me."

"I know. And I’m hating myself for it." Draco reached for her hands, and this time she let him take them. His fingers were cold, trembling slightly. "I spent all night thinking. About you, about the baby, about what kind of person I want to be. And I realized something."

"What?"

"I love you."

The words fell into the silence between them, simple and devastating. Hermione's breath caught in her chest.

"I love you," Draco repeated, squeezing her hands. "I've loved you for months, maybe longer. I was just too much of a coward to say it. Too afraid of what it meant, of what my father would say, of breaking every rule I've ever known. But I don't care anymore. I don't care about any of it except you and our baby."

Tears spilled down Hermione's cheeks, hot and fast. "Don't say things you don't mean…"

"I mean it," Draco interrupted fiercely. "I love you, Hermione Granger. I love your brilliant mind and your stubborn loyalty and your beautiful heart. I love how passionate you are about house-elves even though everyone thinks you're crazy. I love how you look at me like I'm worth something more than my family name. And I love that you're carrying our child, even though it terrifies me more than anything ever has."

Hermione tried to pull away, but he held tight to her hands.

"I'm scared," Draco admitted, his voice raw. "I'm absolutely terrified. I have no idea how to be a father. My own father was terrible at it. He was cold and distant and more concerned with appearances than with actually caring about me. And I'm only fifteen. I'm not ready for this. I don't know if I'll ever be ready for this. But if I have to do this, I want to do this with you."

"I'm scared too," Hermione whispered.

"I know." Draco's thumb traced circles on the back of her hand. "But we'll figure it out together. Whatever happens, whatever we decide to do, I promise you won't face it alone. I'll be there. Every step of the way. Even if, especially if it's difficult."

"Your father…"

"Can go to hell," Draco said flatly. "I'm done living my life according to what he wants. I'm done pretending to be someone I'm not. If he disowns me, so be it. You and our baby are worth more than my inheritance."

Hermione stared down at him, this boy who'd been raised to hate everything she represented, who was kneeling at her feet promising her the world. She desperately wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that he meant every word, that he wouldn't panic and run the next time things got difficult. But she was also exhausted and heartbroken and so, so tired of being strong.

"I can't do this if you're going to leave again," she said, her voice shaking. "I can't… I won't survive it, Draco. Last night nearly destroyed me. If you run again, if you change your mind, it has to be now. Before I let myself hope."

"I'm not leaving," Draco said firmly. He pushed himself to his feet, still holding her hands, and looked into her eyes with an intensity that stole her breath. "I'm not running. I'm here, Hermione. I'm staying. Whatever comes next, we face it together."

"Together," Hermione repeated, the word feeling fragile and precious.

"Together," Draco confirmed. He raised one hand to her face, his fingers gentle as they brushed away her tears. "I love you. I know I've made a mess of showing it, but I do. And I'm going to spend every day proving it to you."

Hermione closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. She was still terrified. Still had no idea what they were going to do or how they would manage. But for the first time since that pink light had appeared on her wand, she didn't feel completely alone.

"I love you too," she whispered. "I think I have for a while. I was just too stubborn to admit it."

Draco laughed, the sound watery but genuine. "Of course you were. You're Hermione Granger. Admitting you have feelings would be showing weakness."

Despite everything, Hermione found herself smiling. "Shut up, Malfoy."

"Make me, Granger."

She kissed him instead, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that tasted of salt and relief and desperate hope. Draco's arms came around her, holding her close, and for a moment everything else fell away. There was no upcoming war, no pregnancy, no impossible choices to make. Just the two of them, together, facing the dawn. When they finally pulled apart, Hermione rested her forehead against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Strong and steady and there.

"What do we do now?" she asked quietly.

"We figure it out," Draco said. "One day at a time. But first," He pulled back slightly to look at her. "You need to rest. You look exhausted."

"I am exhausted."

"Then let me take care of you." The words came out gentle, almost tentative. "Please. Let me do this."

Hermione nodded, too tired to argue. "Okay."

"Okay," Draco echoed, relief flooding his features. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, tender and reverent. "We can do this, Hermione. Together."

She wanted to believe him. And maybe, just maybe, she did. "Together," she whispered back, holding tight to the boy who'd promised not to run, and choosing, despite everything to trust him.

Chapter Text

WIP Schedule

The first thing Draco noticed was that Hermione couldn't keep down breakfast.

It was three days after their reconciliation, and they'd fallen into a careful routine of stolen moments between classes. Early mornings before anyone else woke. Late nights in empty classrooms. Brief encounters in deserted corridors where they'd update each other in whispers, hands clasped tight, before parting ways to maintain their public facades. But this morning, when they met in their usual spot— an alcove behind a tapestry on the fourth floor, Hermione looked grey. Her skin had a sickly pallor, and she kept one hand pressed against her stomach like she was trying to hold something down through sheer willpower.

"You look terrible," Draco said, then immediately winced. "I mean…"

"I feel terrible," Hermione interrupted. She sagged against the wall, her book bag sliding from her shoulder. "I couldn't eat anything at breakfast. Even the smell of toast made me want to be sick."

Draco's stomach clenched with worry. "Is that normal?"

"I don't know." Hermione's voice was small, frightened. "I don't know anything about this, Draco. What if something's wrong? What if I'm doing something that hurts the baby?"

"You're not," Draco said firmly, though he had no idea if that was true. "You're brilliant and careful and we'll figure this out. There must be books, information somewhere."

"The library doesn't have anything useful. I've looked." Hermione's eyes were suspiciously bright. "All the medical texts are too clinical, too focused on complicated deliveries and magical ailments. Nothing about what's normal, what I should expect, how to… how to take care of myself."

An idea sparked in Draco's mind. "Then we'll get books from somewhere else."

"Where? We can't exactly walk into St. Mungo's and ask for pregnancy guides without raising questions."

"Flourish and Blotts," Draco said. "There must be books there. Practical guides for expectant mothers. I'll go this weekend during the Hogsmeade visit."

Hermione blinked up at him. "You'd do that?"

"Of course I would." Draco cupped her face in his hands, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. "I told you I wasn't running. I will take care of you. That includes buying you books on how to stop throwing up every morning."

Despite her obvious misery, Hermione laughed with a small, watery sound. "That's very sweet, Draco."

"I try," Draco said dryly. Then, more seriously: "But right now, you need to eat something. Your body needs fuel, even if it doesn't want to keep it down."

"I can't go back to the Great Hall. Everyone will question if I keep running out due to sickness."

"The kitchens.” Draco thought quickly. “The house-elves will give us whatever you want, and you can eat there in private. Come on."

He took her hand and led her through the castle's hidden passages, the ones he'd learned from years of sneaking around after curfew. The house-elves were delighted to see them, or rather, delighted to see Hermione, who they still remembered fondly from her SPEW campaign, misguided though it had been.

"Miss Hermione Granger!" Dobby squeaked, bouncing on his toes. "How can Dobby help Miss?"

"She needs something light," Draco said before Hermione could protest. "Plain crackers, maybe some ginger tea. Her stomach's upset."

The elves scattered immediately, returning moments later with a tray laden with simple foods— dry toast, crackers, sliced apples, steaming ginger tea that smelled sharp and cleansing. Hermione managed a few crackers and half a cup of tea before her stomach rebelled, but it was something.

"Thank you," she whispered to Draco as they left the kitchens. "For this. For everything."

"You don't have to thank me," Draco said quietly. "This is my responsibility too."

But as he watched her walk away toward Gryffindor Tower, her shoulders hunched and her steps slow, he felt the weight of that responsibility settle over him like a cloak. He was fifteen years old. He had no idea how to take care of a pregnant witch or a baby. And the clock was ticking— every day that passed, it brought them closer to the moment when Hermione's condition would become obvious, when they'd run out of time to hide.

And he needed to do better. Be better.

Starting with those books.

Saturday dawned cold and bright, with frost coating the castle windows. Draco waited impatiently through breakfast, through the seemingly endless process of students gathering for the Hogsmeade visit. He'd told Hermione to stay behind, to rest. She'd been sick every morning that week, and the exhaustion was starting to show under her eyes.

"Going somewhere, Draco?" Pansy sidled up beside him as they walked down the path to the village, her arm linking through his with practiced ease.

"Just for a bit," Draco said, carefully extracting himself. "I have some shopping to do. Boring stuff. You don't want to come."

"Try me." Pansy's eyes were sharp, curious. "You've been acting strange lately. Distant."

“I’m not,” Draco replied too quickly.

“You even turned down my offer to go to Hogsmeade together. TWICE.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did!” she snapped, folding her arms. “Are you,” her eyes narrowed further, “seeing someone?”

"Don't be ridiculous," Draco said smoothly, though his heart was hammering. "I'm just stressed about OWLs."

"Since when do you stress about exams?"

"Since they determine my future?" Draco forced a laugh. "Look, I'll meet you at the Three Broomsticks later, all right? I just need to take care of something first."

He didn't wait for her response, lengthening his stride until he'd left her behind. The village was crowded with students, which made it easy to slip away unnoticed. He headed straight for Flourish and Blotts, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his heart racing.

The bookshop was warm and cramped, every surface covered with teetering stacks of books. Draco had been here a hundred times for school supplies, but he'd never paid attention to anything beyond the required texts. Now he found himself scanning the shelves with desperate focus, looking for— There. 

Tucked in a back corner, a small section labeled "Family & Home." Draco approached it like he was walking into battle, his pulse pounding in his ears. He scanned the titles quickly, praying no one he knew would walk in.

‘The Expectant Witch—  A Complete Guide’, ‘Magical Motherhood—  From Conception to Birth’, ‘Your Pregnancy Journey— Week by Week’, ‘Caring for Your Magical Infant’.

Draco grabbed all four, plus two more that looked useful. The stack was heavy in his arms, the spines proclaiming his secret to anyone who cared to look. He glamoured his features before carrying the books to the counter where an elderly witch was reading the Daily Prophet, her half-moon spectacles perched on her nose. She glanced at his purchases, then up at him, one eyebrow raised. "Bit young for all this, aren't you, dear?"

Draco's cheeks burned. "They're for my mother," he lied smoothly. "She's helping a friend."

"Mm… hmm." The witch didn't look convinced, but she rang up the books without further comment. "That'll be three Galleons and seven Sickles."

Draco paid quickly, grateful when she wrapped the books in plain brown paper. He shoved the package under his arm and fled the shop, not breathing easily until he was back on the street. His hands were shaking. Such a simple thing, buying books and yet it felt like he'd just committed high treason.

He couldn't go back to the castle yet. Pansy would be looking for him, and he couldn't risk her seeing the package. Instead, Draco found a quiet spot on the edge of the village, behind the Shrieking Shack where no students ventured, and unwrapped the books.

The covers were cheerful, decorated with illustrations of smiling witches cradling rounded bellies. Inside, the pages were dense with information, chapters on nutrition and exercise, symptoms and remedies, fetal development and magical safety precautions. It was overwhelming and strangely comforting all at once.
Draco found a chapter titled "First Trimester: What to Expect" and started reading. Morning sickness was normal, apparently. Most witches experienced it between weeks six and twelve, though some unlucky ones dealt with it throughout the entire pregnancy. Ginger helped. Small, frequent meals were better than large ones. Rest was crucial. He'd been doing the right things, then. That was something.

But as he read further, the reality of what was coming began to sink in. Hermione's body would change dramatically over the next few months. Her magic might become unpredictable. She'd need regular check-ups with a Healer, potions to support the pregnancy, eventually specialized care for the birth itself. None of which they could get without revealing their secret.

Draco's hands clenched on the book. They couldn't hide this forever. In upcoming months, Hermione's condition would become obvious. Her robes wouldn't hide the swell of her belly. People would notice, would ask questions, would demand answers.

And then what?

The school would have to notify their families. Hermione's parents would be devastated. His own father would—

Draco couldn't finish the thought. Lucius Malfoy's reaction to learning his son had impregnated a Muggleborn witch would be furious. He'd force Draco to abandon Hermione, to deny the child, to pretend it had never happened. He thought about possibilities of hiding this from his father. Except he realised that couldn't. Not really. Because when the baby was born, it would appear on the Malfoy family tapestry. Every child born to the line was recorded there, their name appearing in silver thread beneath their parents. It was ancient magic, unbreakable, a record that couldn't be falsified or hidden.

Lucius would know. Eventually, inevitably, he would know.

And that's when things would become dangerous.

Draco stared at the pages before him, his mind racing. His father was many things— cold, calculating, obsessed with blood purity but he wasn't stupid. He wouldn't directly harm his own grandchild. The risk would be too high. Killing or seriously injuring one's own blood would create a curse that will affect the entire family line, a stain that could last generations. But indirectly? That was different. An accident could be arranged. A convenient illness. A tragedy that couldn't be traced back to the family.

Fear coiled in Draco's gut, cold and viscous. He couldn't let that happen. Wouldn't let his father hurt Hermione or their child. But how could he protect them? He was still in school, still financially dependent on his family, still bound by his father's expectations and control.

Unless he broke free entirely.

The thought was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. What if he simply left? Took Hermione away somewhere his father couldn't reach them, and started over completely. He could find work, maybe. Learn a trade. They'd be poor, probably, struggling to make ends meet, but they'd be safe. Would Hermione ever agree to that? She had dreams, ambitions, plans for her future that went far beyond becoming a teenage mother hiding from her past. And he couldn't ask her to give that up. Wouldn't.

There had to be another way.

Draco closed the book and stared out at the Shrieking Shack, its boarded windows and sagging roof. His mind turned over possibilities, discarding each one as quickly as it formed. They could go to Dumbledore— no, the headmaster would contact their families immediately. They could run to the Weasleys— no, they'd never accept him. They could—

Wait.

His mother.

The thought crystallized with sudden, startling clarity. Narcissa Malfoy. Not his father, Lucius would never understand, would never forgive. But his mother... His mother was different.

She loved his father, yes. Supported him, stood by him, echoed his beliefs about blood purity and proper wizarding society. But Draco had always known, deep in his bones, that if it came down to a choice between her husband and her son, she'd choose Draco. Every time. Without hesitation.

A mother's love was supposed to be unconditional. Wasn't it? And if she loved Draco that much, surely that love would extend to his child. Her grandchild. The continuation of the Malfoy line, even if that line was now mixed with Muggleborn blood. More than that, Narcissa was a mother herself. She'd carried Draco for months, given birth to him, and raised him. She'd understand, on some fundamental level, what Hermione was going through. The fear and vulnerability of pregnancy. The fierce protectiveness toward an unborn child.

She might be sympathetic. She might help.

It was a gamble. A huge, terrifying gamble that could backfire spectacularly. If Narcissa sided with Lucius, if she reported this to his father immediately, then Draco would have lost any chance of controlling how the news broke.

But what other choice did he have?

Draco looked down at the pregnancy books in his lap, their cheerful covers at odds with the turmoil in his chest. One way or another, his parents were going to find out. The only question was when, and whether Draco had any control over the circumstances.

Better to tell them on his terms. Better to have allies, if such a thing was possible.

Better to try than to wait in terror for the inevitable.

Decision made, Draco rewrapped the books and stood, brushing dirt from his robes. He had a letter to write.

It took Draco eight days to actually put the quill to parchment. Eight days of starting and stopping, of crumpling failed attempts and throwing them into the fire. Eight days of finding Hermione in hidden corners and reading to her from the pregnancy books, watching her face cycle through fear and wonder and determination as she learned what was happening inside her body. Eight days of sneaking her ginger tea and crackers, of holding her hair back when the morning sickness hit, of promising her over and over that they'd be okay. He had to believe that. Had to make it true.

Finally, on Tuesday evening, Draco locked himself in an empty classroom with fresh parchment and his best quill. His hands shook as he dipped the tip in ink.

Mother,

No. Too formal. He crossed it out and started again.

Dear Mother,

I hope this letter finds you well. I need to speak with you urgently about a personal matter. Could you meet me in Hogsmeade this Saturday? The Three Broomsticks, perhaps, or somewhere more private if you prefer.

It's important. I wouldn't ask if it weren't.

He stared at the words. Too vague. She'd worry. Might even alert his father, asking what Draco was playing at. He burned the parchment and started over. The third attempt came easier, words flowing once he stopped trying to hide behind formality.

Mother,

I'm writing to you and only you, because I need your help with something I can't handle alone. Something that will change everything, but that I hope you might understand better than anyone else.

Please, can you meet me in Hogsmeade this Saturday? Just you, no Father, no one else. I'll explain everything then, I promise. But I need to tell you in person, and I need your wisdom and guidance more than I ever have.

I know I'm asking a lot. I know this sounds dramatic and worrying. But please trust me. Please come.

With love and desperation 

Your son,

Draco

His hand cramped from gripping the quill too tight. Ink had spotted the parchment where his hand trembled. It wasn't eloquent or clever or any of the things his father had trained him to be. It was just honest. Raw. A plea from a terrified son to a mother he hoped loved him enough to help. Draco read it over three times, his stomach churning. Was he making a horrible mistake? Was he about to destroy whatever fragile safety he and Hermione had managed to build?

We can't hide forever, he reminded himself. And she's my mother. She has to understand. She has to.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Draco folded the letter, sealed it with wax, and addressed it in his neatest handwriting. Then he carried it to the Owlery, climbing the spiral stairs with leaden feet.

The Owlery was cold and drafty, smelling of feathers and bird droppings. Dozens of owls dozed on their perches, occasionally ruffling their wings. Draco found his eagle owl, a magnificent bird his mother had given him in first year; he attached the letter to its leg with trembling fingers.

"To Mother," he whispered. "And don't let Father see it, understand? This is private."

The owl hooted softly, as if it understood. Draco watched it launch into the night sky, wings beating steadily as it disappeared into the darkness.

There. It was done. No taking it back now.

Draco stood in the Owlery for a long time, watching the empty sky and trying not to think about all the ways this could go catastrophically wrong. Eventually, the cold drove him back inside. He didn't return to the Slytherin common room. Instead, he wound through the castle until he found his way towards the aclove, the tapestry infront of it hid their usual meeting spot. Hermione was already there, curled in the alcove with one of the pregnancy books open in her lap. She looked up when he entered, and her face softened with concern.

"You look tired," she said quietly.

"I just sent a letter to my mother," Draco said. "Asking her to meet me this weekend."

Hermione's eyes widened. "You what?"

"I had to." Draco slid down the wall beside her, suddenly exhausted. "We can't hide this forever, Hermione. In a few months, everyone will know. And when the baby comes, father would know too, and then ..." He trailed off, unable to voice his darkest fears.

"You think he'll hurt the baby," Hermione said softly. Not a question.

"Not directly. He can't. The family magic won't allow any Malfoy to harm another Malfoy tied by either blood or marriage. But indirectly? An accident or a curse is a distinct possibility." Draco's hands clenched into fists. "I can't let that happen. I won't."

"So you're telling your mother first."

"She's different from him," Draco said, willing it to be true. "She loves me. I know she does. And maybe, maybe that love will extend to our child. Maybe being a mother herself, she'll understand what you're going through. Maybe she'll help us."

"Or maybe she'll tell your father immediately, and we'll lose any chance of having this baby," Hermione said, but her voice wasn't accusatory. Just tired. Realistic.

"I know. It's a risk. But it's the best option I can think of." Draco reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together. "We need an ally, Hermione. Someone with power and resources and connections. Someone who can help protect you and the baby from whatever fallout comes."

"And you think your mother will be that person."

"I think she's our best chance," Draco corrected. "Which isn't saying much, I know. But I have to try."

Hermione was quiet for a long moment, her thumb tracing patterns on his palm. Finally, she nodded. "Okay. I trust you."

Those three words hit Draco harder than any spell. She trusted him. After everything, after he'd run from her in panic, after his family's well known history of cruelty toward Muggleborns, after all the ways this could go wrong; she still trusted him. He didn't deserve it. But he'd spend the rest of his life trying to earn it.

"Thank you," he whispered, pulling her close. Hermione tucked herself against his side, her head on his shoulder, and they sat in silence as the castle settled into sleep around them.

The reply came faster than Draco expected. He was at lunch Wednesday morning, pushing pie around his plate while Blaise complained about homework, when a familiar eagle owl swooped through the enchanted ceiling. It landed directly in front of Draco, scattering his pumpkin juice, and extended its leg imperiously. Draco's heart hammered as he untied the letter. His mother's handwriting was elegant and precise, the parchment expensive and scented with her signature perfume.

My dearest dragon,

Your letter arrived last night and has filled me with considerable concern. Of course I will meet you on Saturday. I've already arranged a private room at the Hogshead, less conspicuous than the Three Broomsticks, and the proprietor owes me a favor.

Come at two o'clock. And, my dragon, whatever this is, please know that I will help you overcome this.

With all my love, 

Mother

Draco read it twice, his hands shaking so badly the parchment rustled. She'd come. She'd agreed immediately, no questions, no demands for explanation in advance. And that last line:  I will help you overcome this.

He wanted desperately to believe it.

"Everything all right, mate?" Blaise leaned over, trying to read the letter. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Fine," Draco said, folding the parchment quickly. "Just family stuff. Nothing important."

But it was important. It was possibly the most important conversation of his life. Draco excused himself from breakfast early and went to find Hermione. He found her in the secluded corner of the library, bent over a Transfiguration essay with fierce concentration. She looked up when he approached, her quill stilling.

"She agreed," Draco said quietly, sliding into the seat across from her. "Saturday at two. The Hogshead."

Hermione's face cycled through relief and terror. "That's good. That's…that's what we wanted."

"Are you sure you don't want to come with me?" Draco asked for the third time since sending the letter. "This affects you too. You should be there."

"And say what? Hello, Lady Malfoy, nice to meet you. By the way I'm pregnant and your son is the father of my child?" Hermione shook her head. "No. This needs to be between you and your mother first. Let her process the shock, come to terms with it. Then, if she's willing to listen, we can talk about me being there."

Draco wanted to argue, wanted to insist that Hermione shouldn't be excluded from decisions about her own future. But he also knew she was right. His mother needed to hear this from him, needed to see his commitment and determination before she'd ever accept Hermione as anything other than a problem to be solved.

"All right," he conceded. "But I'm telling her everything. About us, about the baby, about my intentions. No half-truths, no hiding."

"Good," Hermione said firmly. Then, softer, "Draco, whatever happens on Saturday... Thank you for trying. For not just running away and leaving me to handle this alone."

"I meant what I said," Draco told her, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. "I'm not running. Not from you, not from our child, not from this situation. Whatever my mother says, whatever happens next, we're in this together."

"Together," Hermione echoed, and managed a small smile.

The next two days crawled by with excruciating slowness. Draco threw himself into taking care of Hermione with almost manic intensity. Partially because she needed it, partially because it was the only thing that made him feel useful. He memorized the pregnancy books, learning which foods would help with nausea and which to avoid. He started carrying ginger candies everywhere, pressing them into Hermione's hand when he caught her looking green. He charmed a cushion to be extra-soft and left it in their alcove or her designated sit in library chair for her to sit on when her back ached.

Friday night, they stayed up late reading about fetal development. At eight weeks; which is where they thought Hermione was, based on her calculations— the baby was the size of a kidney bean or a raspberry. It had a heartbeat now, too fast and fragile. Tiny fingers and toes were just starting to separate from the webbed hands and feet, and the major internal organs were all beginning to form.

"It's real," Hermione whispered, her hand pressed flat against her still-invisible belly. "There's really a person in there. Growing. Becoming."

"Our person," Draco said, covering her hand with his. "Half you, half me. Probably brilliant and stubborn as hell."

Hermione laughed wetly. "Probably."

They fell asleep like that, Draco's hand over Hermione's over the place where their child was growing, and for a few hours, everything felt almost peaceful.

Saturday morning dawned grey and drizzly, the kind of weather that matched Draco's mood perfectly. He dressed with excessive care, choosing his best robes, making sure every hair was in place. Armor, of a sort. A mask to hide behind when everything inside him was chaos. The walk to Hogsmeade felt simultaneously too long and too short. Draco's stomach churned with nerves. His hands were clammy inside his gloves. He rehearsed what he'd say a hundred times in his head, but every version sounded wrong. Too defensive or too casual or too dramatic.

The Hogshead was dim and shabby, smelling of stale butterbeer and something vaguely goat-like. His mother had chosen well. The place was nearly empty, and what few patrons there looked too absorbed in their own business to pay attention to anyone else.

The barkeeper, a grizzled wizard with an absurdly long beard, jerked his head toward the stairs. "Private room. Second door on the left. She's waiting."

Draco climbed the stairs on wooden legs. The second door on the left was slightly ajar. He pushed it open with trembling hands. Narcissa Malfoy sat at a small table by the window, elegant even in the shabby surroundings. She wore deep burgundy robes that brought out the color of her eyes, the same grey as Draco's. Her blonde hair was pulled back in an intricate style that probably took an hour to achieve. But her face, when she looked up at him, was soft with concern.

"Draco," she said, rising. "Come here, darling."

She pulled him into a hug, and Draco had to fight the urge to break down completely. She smelled of expensive perfume and home, and for a moment he was seven years old again, running to his mother for comfort after a nightmare.

"Sit," Narcissa said gently, guiding him to a chair. "You look exhausted. Are you eating enough? Sleeping?"

"Not really," Draco admitted. Now that the moment was here, he had no idea where to start.

"Tell me what's wrong," his mother said, taking the seat across from him. Her eyes searched his face with the kind of perception only a parent possessed. "Your letter frightened me, darling. What happened?"

Draco opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. The words stuck in his throat, too big and terrifying to voice.

Just say it. Rip off the bandage. She said she will help you overcome this.

"I got a girl pregnant," he blurted out.

Silence. 

Complete, deafening silence.

Narcissa's face went through a series of expressions too quick to name— shock, disbelief, confusion, concern. She opened her mouth, closed it, then tried again.

"I see," she said finally, her voice carefully neutral. "And... how far along is she?"

"About eight weeks, we think."

"Eight weeks." Narcissa processed this. "So this happened in December?"

Draco nodded miserably.

"And the girl… does she want to keep the child?"

"Yes. We both do."

Something flickered in Narcissa’s eyes, relief, faint approval. “I see,” she murmured. “Well. That’s… unexpectedly responsible of you both. Many young wizards in your situation would choose differently.”

She straightened, sliding effortlessly into the composed calm of a woman trained her entire life to manage crises with grace. “May I ask who the young lady is? We’ll need to contact her family at once. A formal betrothal must be arranged quickly.”

She continued, already mentally drafting the social planning, “And of course we must handle the press. People will talk, naturally gossip always travels, but if we control the narrative from the start, the rest will be dismissed as baseless rumours.”

Draco grimaced. His stomach twisted, he felt the ground tilt beneath him. Of course she assumed the girl was a pureblood. She thought she was offering her support to a pureblood alliance. That’s why she is being so cooperative. That was the only reason she was being so gentle, so patient. The relief in her eyes felt like a betrayal. All the fragile hopes he’d carried of understanding, of support crumbling piece by piece in front of him.

“Draco,” Narcissa pressed, her tone tightening with expectation. “Who is she? Tell me about her. We must honour her virtue as soon as possible.”

Draco swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “Mother… there will be no betrothal.”

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed. “Why not, my dragon? I will not have my grandchild born out of wedlock.”

“It’s… complicated,” he whispered.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy.” Her voice snapped like a whip. “You will tell me this instant. Who is the young witch carrying my grandchild?”

He stared at the carpet, the heat of shame and fear warring on his face. He was second-guessing every desperate move that had led him here. Informing his mother, hoping for an unprecedented moment of maternal understanding, daring to believe this dangerous conversation might remain safe. His hope, once a tiny, flickering thing, was rapidly diminishing under his mother's gaze. But she was Narcissa Malfoy; secrets did not survive her scrutiny. If he didn’t confess now, she’d pry, and if she pried, his father would soon follow. This was his only chance— give the name, then throw himself on her mercy. Beg her to keep the secret, beg her to protect the girl he loves, beg her to save the life of his child. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight. His heart hammered like a dangerous warning against his ribs. This was it. This is the moment either everything could collapse or, impossibly hold together.

“Draco, tell me. Who's she?”

Draco said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Hermione Granger."

Chapter Text

“Mother… the girl who’s pregnant…” Draco swallowed hard, his voice tightening, forcing the rest out in a whisper. “It’s Hermione Granger.”

Narcissa’s sharp gasp cut through the room. Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes widening, fingers trembling. Draco watched the colour drain from her face. His stomach lurched. It was done. Said. Irreversible.

“Hermione Granger,” she repeated, each syllable slow, deliberate and disbelieving, almost foreign in her mouth. “The Gryffindor Muggleborn? Mr. Potter’s… friend?”

“Yes,” Draco whispered.

The silence that followed felt suffocating— thick, cold, suffused with the weight of a hundred unspoken consequences. Narcissa’s expression settled into something that felt like the ground had vanished beneath her feet and she had yet to decide how to land. Without wasting any second, Draco lurched up from his chair and dropped to his knees, his arms wrapping desperately around her legs as if the contact alone could hold her in place, could keep her going back to his father, could keep his world from collapsing. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts against the fabric of her gown.

“Mother… please…” he choked, terror shaking through him. “I… I didn’t know what else to do. I know I… I fucked up. I should’ve been careful. I should’ve thought. But please… Please help me. Help us. We can’t do this without you. You have to… you have to save our baby.”

“Draco. Get up.”

“Please, Mother, don’t abandon us.” His words tumbled out faster, more broken, as if begging could change his impossible fate. “Father… don’t tell him, not yet, please. Hide this from him. Protect Hermione. I want this… I want them. Please… please Mother.”

“Draco. Please get up.”

Her voice was quiet, almost gentle, but he couldn’t read it, couldn’t tell if it hid fury or heartbreak or disgust. The uncertainty hollowed him out. He stayed kneeling, trembling, his hands wrapped desperately around the silk at her ankles.

“Mother, please,” he whispered, the words scraping out of a tightening throat. “I know this isn’t what you or Father would’ve chosen. I know she’s not pureblood. I know she’s everything we were raised to hate. But I love her. And she’s carrying my child… your grandchild.”

He sucked in a shuddering breath. “I need your help. I need to know you won’t…” His voice broke again. “That you’ll stand with us. That you won’t turn away… not from her. Not from the baby. Not from me. that you'll…"

He couldn't finish. Couldn't articulate all the fears of losing both Hermione and the baby swirling in his chest. The terror that his mother would turn away, would choose her husband's ideology over her own son's desperate plea.

Narcissa was quiet for a long moment, her eyes distant. She looked down at her son— the son she'd raised to be proud, to stand tall, to never show weakness, now grovelling at her feet freely, begging for his witch and child without any shame. Her heart swelled with an odd mixture of pride for his devotion and fear for the challenges her little boy would have to face. When she again spoke, her voice was soft, but steady. "Your father can never know about this. Not yet. Perhaps not ever, depending on how things unfold."

Draco's heart sank. So she wasn't going to help. She was going to—

"However," Narcissa continued, and Draco's head snapped up, "I am not your father. And I remember what it was like to be pregnant and mother, even if my circumstances were quite different."

"You'll help?" Draco hardly dared to hope.

"I'll help," Narcissa confirmed, though her expression remained serious. "Though I'll need time to think about how, exactly. This is complicated, Draco. More complicated than you probably realize. The way things are unfolding, both Miss Granger and your child face dangers we can't even fully imagine. But you're my son, and that child…" She cupped Draco’s face with one hand. "That child is my blood, regardless of who the mother is. I won't let harm come to either of them if I can prevent it."

The relief was so intense Draco thought he might cry again. "Thank you. Thank you, Mother, I…"

"Hush." Narcissa reached down and gripped his hand firmly, pulling him up from the floor. "We have much to discuss. Starting with Miss Granger's health and safety, and how we're going to keep this quiet until we have a proper plan."

They talked for two hours. Narcissa asked a hundred questions about Hermione's symptoms, whether she'd seen a Healer, what they'd told their friends, how they were managing emotionally. She made notes on a piece of parchment, her handwriting as precise as ever, creating what looked like a strategic battle plan.

"I'll send you some prenatal potions," she said finally. "Discreetly, labeled as something innocuous. And I'll research options for when the baby comes— concealing tapestry, safe houses, private Healers, places we could hide the baby that your father wouldn't think to look, we really have to ensure proper planning before we can tell your father about this."

"You really think we'll need to hide from him?"

"We can hide it easily from him until the child is born. Our tapestry only updates when a child is born." Narcissa's eyes were sad but calculating. "I know that your father will not react well to this news, Draco. And while I don't believe he'd physically harm his own grandchild and if we tried hard enough he may even come to some agreement about acknowledging the child, though likely as a... bastard. But I wouldn't put it past him to try to separate you from Miss Granger permanently. We need to be prepared for that possibility."

Draco's jaw clenched. "I won't leave her. And my child won't be raised as a bastard."

"I know," Narcissa said gently. "And I admire your loyalty, truly. But you must be smart about this. Strategic. Don't let pride or emotion cloud your judgment when Miss Granger and your child's safety is at stake."

Draco felt his throat tighten with emotion.

"I need to meet her," Narcissa added. "Miss Granger. If I'm to help you both, I should speak with her myself, to ensure she's taking proper care of herself."

"She's brilliant," Draco said immediately. "Top of our year. She's read every book I brought her cover to cover, she's researching everything, she's being so careful,"

"I'm sure she is," Narcissa said with a small, tight smile. "But I'd be the judge of that. Perhaps next Hogsmeade weekend? Or I could come to the castle if you can arrange a private meeting."

"I'll ask her," Draco promised. "Though she's nervous about meeting you. Worried you'll hate her."

"I don't hate her," Narcissa said simply, though her tone was measured. "Neither am I fond of her. But she's carrying my grandchild, which means she's family now, whether I expected it or not. And I protect my family, Draco. Always."

The words settled over Draco like a warm blanket. For the first time since Hermione had told him she was pregnant, he felt like they weren't completely alone and helpless in this. "I love you, Mother," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

"And I love you, my son." Narcissa replied, squeezing his hand one more time before releasing it. "Now, let's discuss the practical matters. First, those prenatal potions..."

They talked until the grey afternoon light began to fade. By the time Draco left the Hogshead, his head was spinning with information and plans, but his heart felt lighter than it had in weeks. He had an ally. They had a chance. And when he met Hermione and told her everything, her eyes filled with tears of relief and she threw her arms around him.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," she whispered in gratitude. 

The relief in her voice made Draco knew he'd made the right choice. His mother had extended her protection to them both. To the child growing between them. To their impossible, terrifying, wonderful new future. Whatever came next, they'd face it together. All four of them now. Draco and Hermione and their baby and Narcissa, the grandmother who'd surprised them all with her capacity for love beyond the boundaries of blood purity. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't safe. But it was hope, and right now, that was everything.

The days that followed took on a new rhythm. Every morning before dawn, Draco would meet Hermione with ginger tea he'd collected from the house-elves and the pregnancy book marked with new pages to read. They'd curl together, his hand resting protectively on her stomach while he read aloud about what was happening inside her body.

"Week ten," he murmured one morning, his finger tracing down the page. “The baby's about the size of a strawberry now. All the vital organs are in place and beginning to function. The eyelids are fully formed, though they'll stay fused shut for a while. The arms and legs are fully developed, and the baby can actually bend its elbows and knees."

"A strawberry," Hermione repeated softly, wonder in her voice. "So small."

"So perfect," Draco corrected, pressing a kiss to her temple.

The prenatal potions arrived three days after his meeting with Narcissa, disguised as ‘Digestive tonics’. The package also contained a note in his mother's elegant handwriting— 

One vial each morning. They'll help with the nausea and ensure the baby receives proper nutrients. I'm working on longer-term arrangements. Be patient. Be careful. Be safe.

The potions helped immediately. Hermione could finally eat breakfast without feeling sick, though she still had food aversions that changed daily. One morning she'd crave toast with marmalade, the next day the smell would make her gag. Draco learned to bring variety, to let her choose what her body wanted.

"You're going to make me fat," Hermione complained one morning as he presented her with a selection of pastries and fruits.

"I'm going to keep you healthy," Draco corrected. "Both of you. Besides, you're supposed to gain weight. The book says so."

"The book says a lot of things."

"And we're following all of them," Draco said firmly. "Proper nutrition, adequate rest, gentle exercise, stress reduction."

"I'm studying for OWLs and managing DA, Draco. There's no such thing as stress reduction right now."

"Then take breaks," Draco insisted. "The book says stress hormones can affect the baby's development. Your OWLs and DA are important, but not more important than…"

"I know," Hermione interrupted gently. "I know. I'm trying. It's just hard to manage everything when I have exams in upcoming months, training the DA members and carrying a secret that could destroy both our lives if anyone finds out."

Draco pulled her closer, tucking her against his side. "We'll get through this. Mother's working on plans, we're taking care of your health, and after OWLs we'll have the whole summer to figure things out."

"Your mother really said she'd help?" Hermione asked for the hundredth time, needing the constant reassurance.

"She really did. And she wants to meet you properly. Next Hogsmeade weekend if you want."

Hermione tensed against him. "What if she hates me?"

"She won't."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I love you," Draco said simply. "And she loves me. Therefore, logically, she'll learn to love you too. It's a transitive property. You should know that, you're the brilliant one."

Despite her anxiety, Hermione laughed. "That's not how emotions work, you idiot."

"Maybe not. But I have faith in my mother. She'll see what I see, that you're extraordinary and you’ve everything our child could possibly need in a mother."

Hermione's eyes glistened with tears. "You can't just say things like that."

"Why not? They're true."

"Because you'll make me cry, and I'm already an emotional mess thanks to these bloody hormones."

Draco kissed her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose. "Then cry. I'll hold you. That's what I'm here for."

And he did, time and time again. He held her when the morning sickness returned despite the potions. He held her when panic attacks hit in the middle of the day and she was convinced something was wrong with the baby. He held her when she broke down crying over her Transfiguration essay because the words wouldn't come and she was so tired she couldn't think straight. In return, Hermione held him too. When the weight of responsibility crushed down and he wondered if he was strong enough for this. When fear of losing both of them threatened to swallow him whole.

They held each other, and somehow, that was enough.

One weeks after Draco's meeting with Narcissa, another package arrived. This one was larger, heavier, wrapped in plain brown paper with no return address. Draco waited until he was alone in his dorm before opening it. Inside were two books, different from the ones he'd bought, more advanced. ‘A Healer's Guide to Prenatal Development— Safe Delivery Practices for Young Mothers’ and one slim volume titled ‘For the Father— Supporting Your Partner Through Pregnancy and Beyond’.

Draco picked up the last one, his throat tight. His mother had thought of him too. Had considered that he might need guidance, support, information on how to be what Hermione needed. Tucked between the pages was another note.

Dearest Draco,

Study these books carefully. These are more comprehensive than what you'll find in general bookshops. The monitoring spells in the second book will let you check on the baby's health without needing a Healer, at least for now.

I've also begun making arrangements. There's a cottage in Cornwall that belongs to me. I recently got it in inheritance from my great aunt's side. It's a Rosier property, and I'm yet to update the ownership details with our Malfoy solicitors. It's remote, protected by ancient, powerful Rosier wards, and entirely unknown to your father. When the time comes, when Miss Granger can no longer hide her condition, you'll have a safe place to send her, completely isolated and secure. 

I still haven't decided how to handle your father. Every scenario I consider ends poorly. But I'm working on it. In the meantime, be vigilant. Be smart. And take care of that young woman. 

I hope to meet her soon.

With love, 

Mother

Draco read the note carefully, committing every word to memory before vanishing it with his wand. A cottage in Cornwall. A safe place. His mother was actually planning for their future, making arrangements, preparing for the moment when they'd need to run. The reality of it hit him hard. This was really happening. In a few months, he and Hermione would have a baby. They'd be parents. Their lives would never be the same. And his mother, who'd never shown much warmth to anyone except her son, was helping them. Protecting them. Extending her love to a Muggleborn witch and a half-blood grandchild.

Draco found Hermione in the library that evening, surrounded by books as always. But when he showed her the new volumes, her eyes lit up with genuine excitement. ‘A Healer's Guide,’ she breathed, flipping through the pages. "This is exactly what we needed. We can check the baby's heartbeat, measure growth, even… oh, Draco, this is brilliant."

"Mother sent them," Draco said, warmth blooming in his chest at her reaction. "And she wants to meet you. Properly. I suggest we should go next weekend."

Hermione's excitement dimmed slightly, replaced by nervousness. "What if I say something wrong? What if she thinks I'm not good enough?"

"Impossible," Draco said firmly. "But if you're worried, we'll practice. I'll teach you everything about proper etiquette so that you can dazzle her with your knowledge."

"That's not funny."

"I'm not joking. Mother appreciates intelligence and composure. You have both in spades. Just be yourself and she'll adore you."

Hermione bit her lip, thinking. Then nodded. "Okay. Next weekend. I'll meet her."

"And we'll do it together," Draco promised. "Every step."

That night, they stayed up late learning the monitoring spells from the new book. The first one was a simple charm to detect the baby's heartbeat. It took three tries to get right. But when Hermione's wand finally glowed with a soft, pulsing light, when they heard the rapid flutter of their child's tiny heart, they both froze.

"That's our baby," Hermione whispered, her hand pressed to her stomach where the glow was strongest. "That's its heartbeat."

"So fast," Draco marveled. The sound was like bird wings, impossibly quick and fragile.

"The book says it's supposed to be fast. Around 150 beats per minute at this stage." Hermione's voice was thick with emotion. "That means it's healthy, Draco. Our baby is healthy."

Draco wrapped his arms around her from behind, both of them watching the light glow pulse in time with that impossible heartbeat. At that moment, everything else fell away. The fear, the uncertainty, the complications waiting in their future. There was only this proof of life, growing strong despite everything.

"I love you," Draco murmured against her hair. "Both of you."

"We love you too," Hermione whispered back.

And in the quiet of that empty classroom, with their child's heartbeat fluttering between them like a promise, they let themselves believe that everything would be all right.

The week before they were supposed to meet Narcissa, Draco noticed Hermione's robes were getting tighter. It was subtle, most people wouldn't notice. But he'd spent months studying her body, learning every curve and line, and he could see the small swell of her belly that hadn't been there before. When she sat down, when she twisted certain ways, when she wore her regular uniform instead of the loosened robes she'd been charming— there it was. Undeniable proof.

"We need to get you new robes," Draco said one morning as they reviewed Runes notes in their alcove.

Hermione looked up, confused. "What?"

"Your robes. They're getting tight around the middle. People will start to notice soon."

Hermione's hand flew to her stomach, eyes widening. "Already? But I'm only twelve weeks,"

"Twelve weeks is enough, apparently." Draco kept his voice gentle, watching worry bloom across her face. "It's okay. We just need to be proactive. I can have Mother send you maternity robes, charmed to grow with you. They'll look normal to everyone else."

"This is really happening," Hermione said faintly. "I mean, I knew it was happening, but,"

"But it's different when you can see it," Draco finished. He moved closer, placing his hand over hers on her stomach. "It's real. You're really pregnant. We're really going to be parents."

"I'm terrified," Hermione whispered.

"So am I," Draco admitted. "But we're terrified together. And that has to count for something."

They sat in silence for a moment, both acutely aware of the small life growing between them. Then Hermione straightened, that familiar determination settling into her features.

"Okay. Okay. We can do this. New robes, meeting your mother, finishing OWLs, and then… then we figure out the next step."

"One thing at a time," Draco agreed.

"One thing at a time," Hermione echoed.

But as he watched her gather her books and head off to her first class of the day, her hand unconsciously cradling her barely-visible belly, Draco felt the weight of time pressing down on them. They had maybe two more months before Hermione's pregnancy became obvious. Two months to finish exams, make plans, prepare for a future neither of them had ever imagined.

The Hogsmeade weekend arrived too quickly for Hermione's comfort. She'd spent the entire week in a state of barely controlled panic, rehearsing what she'd say to Draco's mother, practicing proper etiquette with Draco's patient coaching, and changing her outfit at least seventeen times before settling on her best robes, the ones that were good enough to show respect to the grandmother of her baby.

"You look perfect," Draco assured her for the tenth time that morning as they made their way to the Hoghead. Hermione had constructed an elaborate plan, not just to navigate the outing with his mother, but also to meticulously avoid Harry and Ron in Hogsmeade. Before stepping out into the public view, she and Draco had both cast powerful Disillusionment Charms and donned in their unusual style of outer coats.

"Mother will see that you're intelligent, composed, and taking excellent care of yourself and the baby."

"What if I say something wrong?" Hermione fretted, her hands twisting together nervously. "What if I accidentally insult her? What if she takes one look at me and decides I'm not good enough for…"

"Hermione." Draco stopped walking and turned to face her, his hands coming up to cup her face gently. "Breathe. You've faced down a mountain troll in your first year. You've argued with Professor Snape and proven him wrong on several occasions. You brewed Polyjuice Potion under the noses of our teachers. You even freed a house-elf. You freed Sirius Black from the Ministry. And you even saved him from getting dementor's kiss. You can handle one conversation with my mother."

"Those are easier," Hermione muttered. "At least with those situations, I know the objective. Your mother is... complicated."

"She is," Draco agreed. "But she's also surprisingly fair when she wants to be. And she promised to help us. That counts for something."

Hermione nodded, trying to calm her racing heart. The baby, now the size of a lime, according to this week's reading, seemed to sense her anxiety, making her stomach flutter with what might have been movement, though Draco's books said it was too early for that. Probably just nerves.

The Hogshead was as dingy and unwelcoming as ever. The same grizzled barkeeper barely glanced at them as they entered, just jerked his head toward the stairs. "Same room. She's waiting."

Draco took Hermione's hand, squeezing it reassuringly, and led her up the narrow staircase. With each step, Hermione's anxiety grew. What if Narcissa had changed her mind? What if she'd decided overnight that helping them was too dangerous, too scandalous, too much of a betrayal of everything the Malfoy family stood for?

Draco knocked softly on the second door, and a cool voice called out, "Enter."

The room was the same one Draco had met his mother in before; small, private, with a single window overlooking Hogsmeade's main street. Narcissa Malfoy sat at the table, perfectly composed in elegant robes of deep emerald green, her blonde hair swept up in an intricate style that probably took house-elves an hour to achieve. She was beautiful in that cold, aristocratic way; all sharp cheekbones and pale skin and eyes that missed nothing. Hermione felt suddenly shabby in comparison, her bushy hair refusing to stay tamed despite her best efforts, her robes wrinkled from the walk.

"Mother," Draco said, his voice steady despite the tension Hermione could feel thrumming through his body. "This is Hermione Granger. Hermione, my mother, Narcissa Malfoy."

Hermione stepped forward, her legs trembling, and executed what she hoped was an acceptable curtsy. "Lady Malfoy. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."

Narcissa's eyes, so like Draco's, swept over her in one comprehensive, assessing look that seemed to catalog everything. "Miss Granger," Narcissa said finally, her voice neutral. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss."

Hermione sat in the chair Draco pulled out for her, acutely aware of how close Narcissa was sitting across the table. The older witch's perfume was expensive and floral, a scent that probably cost more than Hermione's entire wardrobe.

"First," Narcissa began, folding her hands on the table with the precision of someone used to perfect control, "I want to make something clear. I am helping you because that child you're carrying is my grandchild. Not because I approve of this situation, not because I have any particular fondness for Muggleborns, and certainly not because I think this was a wise decision on either of your parts."

Hermione flinched but forced herself to meet Narcissa's gaze. "I understand."

"Do you?" Narcissa's eyebrow arched skeptically. "Do you understand that you've placed yourself and my son in extraordinary danger? That when this becomes known, and it will become known, both of your lives will be irrevocably changed? That my grandchild will face prejudice from both sides, accepted by neither purebloods nor Muggleborns?"

"Yes," Hermione said quietly, her hand moving instinctively to her stomach. "I think about it every day. Every single day, Lady Malfoy."

Something flickered in Narcissa's eyes, not quite sympathy, but perhaps understanding. "How far along are you?"

"Around thirteen weeks," Hermione answered. 

"And your symptoms?"

"Morning sickness, mostly. It's gotten better with the potions you sent. Thank you for those. Fatigue. Food aversions. Some mood swings, though Draco's been..." She glanced at him, finding strength in his steady presence. "He's been wonderful."

"He'd better be," Narcissa said crisply. "This is as much his responsibility as yours. More, perhaps, since he should have known better."

"Mother," Draco started, but Narcissa held up her hand.

"Don't. Both of you were reckless and foolish. Contraceptive charms are not infallible, any competent wizard and witch knows they require perfect execution and regular reinforcement. Did you reinforce them between each encounter?"

Hermione's cheeks burned. "I... I thought I did. The books said…"

"The books assume you're not engaging in frequent relations," Narcissa interrupted bluntly. "How often were you... together?"

"Almost every day a week," Draco admitted, his own face reddening. "For about six weeks before she got pregnant."

Narcissa pinched the bridge of her nose. "And you only relied on it without the potion to sustain that frequency."

"We didn't know," Hermione said miserably. "I researched them, I thought I'd done it right."

"Clearly not," Narcissa said, but her tone had softened slightly. "What's done is done. We can't change the past. We can only plan for the future." She pulled out a piece of parchment and a self-inking quill. "Now, tell me everything. Your health, your diet, your daily routine. Any complications or concerns. Don't leave anything out."

For the next hour, Narcissa questioned Hermione with the thoroughness of a Healer. She asked about nutrition and sleep patterns, stress levels and magical practice. She wanted to know if Hermione had experienced any unusual magical surges, apparently common in pregnant witches and whether she'd noticed any changes in her spell-casting ability.

"Your magic will become unpredictable as the pregnancy progresses," Narcissa explained, making notes. "Some witches find their power increases temporarily. Others lose control of simpler spells. You'll need to be careful, especially in class. If professors start noticing irregularities..."

"I've been practicing extra," Hermione said. "Making sure I can still perform everything correctly."

"Good. Continue that." Narcissa's quill scratched across the parchment. "Now, the more difficult questions. Have you told your parents?"

"No," Hermione whispered. "They don't know. They can't know yet, they'd make me come home, make me…" She couldn't finish the sentence.

"Make you terminate the pregnancy," Narcissa finished matter-of-factly. "Yes, Muggle parents often react that way. Especially when their daughter is sixteen and still in school."

Hermione's hands clenched in her lap. "I won't do that. I can't."

"I'm not suggesting you should," Narcissa said, though her tone remained neutral. "I'm simply acknowledging the reality of your situation. Your parents will need to be told eventually. When you're far enough along that the decision is effectively made for you, perhaps. But that's a conversation we can table for now."

She turned to Draco. "And your friends? Potter and Weasley? The rest of Gryffindor?"

"No one knows," Draco answered. "Just us and you."

"Keep it that way as long as possible," Narcissa instructed. "The fewer people who know, the longer you can maintain the secret. Once word spreads..." She shook her head. "The rumor mill at Hogwarts is vicious. Especially for something like this."

"We know," Hermione said quietly. "We've been careful. Meeting in secret, maintaining our public antagonism,"

"Which must have been quite the performance," Narcissa observed dryly. "Given that you're apparently madly in love with each other."

Hermione's cheeks flamed again, but she didn't deny it. "We've managed."

Narcissa studied her for a long moment, those sharp grey eyes seeming to look straight through Hermione's carefully maintained composure. Finally, she spoke, and her voice was marginally warmer than before. "You're braver than I gave you credit for, Miss Granger. Foolish, certainly. Reckless beyond measure. But brave." She paused. "Carrying a child at your age, in your circumstances, while maintaining your studies and hiding from your family and friends... I won't pretend to approve. But I can respect the strength it requires."

Something tight in Hermione's chest loosened slightly. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Narcissa said briskly, returning to her notes. "We still have the matter of the birth to discuss. You're due in... September, by my calculations?"

"Around that time, according to the Healer's Guide Draco gave me."

"September it is," Narcissa repeated, writing it down. "Which means by summer, your condition will be impossible to hide. Your parents will notice when you return home for the summer holidays. The school will notice if you attempt to return in the fall. We need a plan."

She looked between them, her expression calculating. "I've secured a cottage in Cornwall. Remote, warded, unknown to my husband. When the time comes, when you can no longer hide, you'll go there. Both of you."

Draco blinked. "Both of us?"

"Did you think I'd let Miss Granger face this alone?" Narcissa's tone was sharp. "You made this child together. You'll deal with the consequences together. That means being there for the birth, helping with the infant, taking equal responsibility."

"I want to be there," Draco said quickly. "I wasn't planning to abandon them."

"Good," Narcissa cut him off. "Because if you had been, we'd be having a very different conversation." She turned back to Hermione. "The cottage has basic furnishings and household wards. I'll arrange for a private Healer to attend the birth, someone discreet, who won't ask questions or report to the Ministry. You'll be safe there."

"For how long?" Hermione asked. "We can't hide forever. Eventually, someone will find us. Your husband…"

"Will be managed," Narcissa said firmly, though Hermione caught the flicker of worry in her eyes. "I haven't yet determined how, but I will handle Lucius. He won't harm his own grandchild. But he will try to control the situation, to minimize the scandal. We need to be prepared for that."

She fixed Hermione with a stern look. "Which brings me to my next point. You need to understand what you're asking of Draco. If he stands by you, if he claims this child publicly, he risks everything. His inheritance, his family name, his father's approval."

"I know," Hermione whispered. "We've talked about it."

"And I've told her I don't care," Draco interrupted, his hand finding Hermione's under the table. "The money, the estate, Father's approval. None of it matters if I lose both of you."

Narcissa's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "You say that now. But when you're living in that cottage with a screaming infant and a single house-elves, you may feel differently."

"I won't," Draco said firmly. "I love her, Mother. And I love our child. That's not going to change."

For a long moment, Narcissa simply looked at her son. Then she sighed, "You really do, don't you? This isn't just a phase of rebellion against your father."

"No," Draco confirmed. "It's real. All of it."

Narcissa turned to Hermione. "And you? Do you love my son, or is this a moment of teenage infatuation? Or simply a matter of circumstance forcing you together?"

Hermione met the older witch's gaze steadily, despite her racing heart. "I love him. I didn't mean to, it would have been easier if I didn't. But I do. More than I thought possible."

Something in Narcissa's expression shifted, not quite approval, but perhaps acceptance. "Very well. Then we proceed on that assumption." She consulted her notes again. "You'll need maternity robes soon. I'll send a selection, charmed to adjust as you grow. Also some prenatal vitamins in addition to the potions, your body will need extra support. And I want you to monitor the baby daily. If there are any irregularities, any concerns at all, you contact me immediately."

"I will," Hermione promised.

"I'm serious, Miss Granger. Magical pregnancies can be complicated, especially for young mothers. The maternal magic has to support both you and the developing child. If something goes wrong..." She trailed off, but the implication was clear.

A cold spike of fear shot through Hermione. "Has something... could something go wrong?"

Narcissa’s expression gentled slightly, but there was a new seriousness in her eyes, one born from experience, not judgment. “The risks are higher for teenage mothers, yes,” she said quietly. “And miscarriage… it is far more common than people speak about. Especially in the early months.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted into a painful knot. Even though the possible uncertainty and dangers they would face, she couldn't bear the thought of losing her child, already so fiercely loved. She knew she wouldn't survive the loss of her firstborn.

Narcissa exhaled, her gaze drifting somewhere distant. “Even Draco was my only successful pregnancy out of four.” Her hand hovered near her abdomen as if remembering ghosts. “There is nothing more devastating than preparing your heart for a child you never get to hold. I do not want either of you walking into this blindly. I simply want you to be aware. And be vigilant.”

Draco felt his throat tighten. “We are,” he said quickly, needing her to understand. “She is… Hermione’s careful about everything.”

Narcissa looked at him, not unkindly, but with the weight of someone who knows too much. “Young mothers often don’t recognise warning signs,” she murmured. “Fever, bleeding, too much strain… even stress can be dangerous. Has she been resting? Eating properly? Keeping her magic steady?”

“Yes,” Draco insisted. “We both are. We check the heartbeat every night, and Hermione’s been following every guideline in the books you sent.” He swallowed, voice dropping. “She’s trying so hard, Mother.”

Narcissa softened fully then, her hand coming down to rest on his hair. “Good. That is all I ask. For her safety, and for the child’s. I worry because I know how fragile early life can be.”

“I’ll look for more advanced monitoring charms as well,” Narcissa said as she made another neat note on her parchment. “By sixteen weeks, you should be able to project a visual image of the fetus— its position, limb development, any structural concerns. That will give us far more accurate information.”

She paused, then asked, “Have you checked the gender yet?”

Draco shook his head. “No, Mother. We tried, but the charm requires a potion we haven’t had yet.”

“Yes, I’m aware.” Narcissa’s tone turned thoughtful. “Though statistically and magically, there is a very high likelihood the child will be male.”

Hermione blinked. “Really?”

Narcissa nodded. “All firstborn Malfoys are male. The family heirship magic ensures it. However,” her voice dipped, delicate but pointed, “there is a chance the magic won’t apply in your case. The child was conceived out of wedlock and therefore may not be recognised as a legitimate heir.”

Draco stiffened. “Mother, we’ve discussed this. I will not treat nor allow anyone else to treat my child as a bastard.”

“Calm down, Draco,” Narcissa said firmly. “I am not insulting the child. I’m addressing the reality of your situation.”

“Then I’ll fix it,” Draco burst out. “I’ll marry Hermione right now. You can perform the binding for us.”

“Draco!” Hermione breathed, startled.

But Narcissa raised her hand. “Draco, you must be rational. You cannot marry without your father. Marital bindings for underage wizards require a legal guardian to represent them.”

She looked at him pointedly. “And we have not yet determined how to inform your father or how he’s likely to react. Until then, you will do nothing impulsive.”

“But Mother!”

“No, Draco.” Her tone snapped into the cool authority of a matriarch. “For now, your only responsibility is to keep Miss Granger and the baby healthy. That is your duty.”

Draco fell silent, breathing hard, but nodding.

They talked for another hour, discussing everything from birth plans to feeding options to how they'd manage a newborn while still technically being students. Narcissa was thorough, practical, and surprisingly non-judgmental about the logistics, even if she remained cold about the situation itself. Finally, as the afternoon light began to fade, she sat back and surveyed them both with an unreadable expression.

"I won't lie to you. This will be difficult. Possibly the most difficult thing either of you will ever face. You're about to become parents at an age when most of your peers are worried about either exams or Quidditch matches. Your child will grow up marked by scandal."

She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in. "But if you're committed, truly committed to making this work, then you have my support. My resources, my protection, and yes, my concern for your wellbeing." She looked at Hermione directly. "That includes you, Miss Granger. You're carrying my grandchild, which makes you family in that way. I will not let harm come to you if I can prevent it."

Hermione's eyes burned with unexpected tears. "Thank you, Lady Malfoy. You have no idea what this means to me."

"I have some idea," Narcissa said dryly. "I was pregnant once myself, you know. Under vastly different circumstances, but I remember the fear. The uncertainty. The desperate need for someone to tell me that everything would be all right."

She stood, smoothing down her robes. "I'll send another package this week with the items we discussed. Continue monitoring the baby's health, and keep me informed of any changes. And Miss Granger?" She waited until Hermione looked up. "Take care of yourself. Not just for the baby's sake, but for your own. You're still sixteen. You still deserve to have a childhood, even if you're about to become a mother."

"I'll try," Hermione managed.

"See that you do." Narcissa moved toward the door, then paused. "Oh, and one more thing. When the time comes, when you can no longer hide, I want you to consider letting me tell your parents. Mother to mother. I may be able to help them understand in a way you cannot."

Hermione hadn't considered that possibility. "You'd do that?"

“If necessary,” Narcissa said softly. “Your parents may be angry, yes. Hurt, certainly. And frightened for you both. But they will still want what is best for their daughter and for their grandchild.”

She closed her notebook, the conversation settling into a gentle but firm finality. “That’s all I have to say for today. Take care, both of you.”

Then she looked at Draco, “Walk me out dear, please.”

Draco squeezed Hermione's hand once more before following his mother into the hallway. Through the thin walls, Hermione could hear their muffled voices. Narcissa's measured tones, Draco's earnest responses. She couldn't make out the words, but the tone seemed not warm, exactly, but not hostile either. When Draco returned a few minutes later, his eyes were suspiciously bright.

"She told me she was proud of me," he said wonderingly. "For standing by you. For being willing to give up everything for our little family. She said I was showing more courage than she'd ever seen from my father."

Hermione stood and wrapped her arms around him, feeling the tremor running through his body. "She cares about you so much, Draco. I could see it in every question she asked, every plan she made. She's terrified for you, but she's on our side."

"I know," Draco murmured into her hair. "I know. And now... now we really might have a chance."

They stood together in that dingy room above the Hogshead, holding each other as the weight of the future pressed down on them. They had Narcissa's support now, her protection and resources. But they also had her warnings ringing in their ears— the dangers ahead, the complications, the near-impossibility of what they were attempting. But for now, with Draco's arms around her and their baby safe inside her, Hermione let herself hope.

They would make this work. They had to.

Their child deserved nothing less.

Chapter Text

The morning Hermione turned fifteen weeks, Draco presented her with a small velvet pouch at their usual meeting spot.

"What's this?" Hermione asked, eyeing the pouch suspiciously. It was far too elegant to be anything practical.

"Open it," Draco urged, bouncing slightly on his heels with barely contained excitement.

Hermione loosened the drawstring and tipped the contents into her palm. A delicate silver chain pooled there, holding a pendant shaped like a tiny bird in flight— a songbird, its wings spread wide, rendered in such exquisite detail that Hermione could make out individual feathers.

"Draco, it's beautiful, but I can't…"

"It's charmed," Draco interrupted, his fingers gentle as he lifted the chain from her hand. "Here, let me show you." He fastened it around her neck, and the moment the clasp closed, Hermione felt a subtle warmth spread through her chest. 

"It has a monitoring charm. As long as you're wearing it, I can check on you and the baby through this." He presented his hand; a simple, unadorned platinum band rested beside his Malfoy signet ring. "If your heart rate spikes, if there's any distress, I'll know immediately."

Hermione's hand flew to the pendant, tears pricking her eyes. "You made this?"

"Had it commissioned," Draco admitted, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. "From a jeweler in Diagon Alley who specializes in protective charms. Mother helped me design it. The bird represents freedom, hope, new beginnings. I thought... Well, I thought it suited you. Suited us."

"It's perfect," Hermione whispered, standing on her toes to kiss him. "Thank you."

"You're carrying part of my heart now," Draco murmured against her lips. "Literally. So please, for the love of Merlin, be careful in Potions. I don't need to feel you getting harmed by a poorly-brewed Draught of Living Death."

Hermione laughed, the sound watery but genuine. "I'll try my best."

Over the following weeks, that necklace became her constant companion, a tangible reminder that she wasn't alone in this. Sometimes, during particularly difficult classes or stressful moments, she'd press her fingers against the pendant and feel its warmth, imagining Draco somewhere in the castle feeling the same pulse of connection.

By seventeen weeks, Hermione's belly had grown from a subtle swell to an unmistakable bump. Standing in profile, there was no denying what her body was doing— creating life, reshaping itself to accommodate the tiny person growing inside her.

"We need to use concealment charms," Hermione fretted one evening as she stood before the mirror in the Room of Requirement, turning sideways to examine her silhouette. Even with the maternity robes Narcissa had sent, beautiful things that adjusted to her changing shape, the bump was becoming harder to disguise with just loose fitting robes. "Lavender keeps giving me odd looks. And yesterday, Parvati asked if I'd been eating more at meals."

Draco came up behind her, his hands settling on her hips as he studied their reflection. "You're beautiful," he said softly.

"I'm huge."

"You're seventeen weeks pregnant. You're supposed to have a huge one." His hands slid around to cradle her belly reverently. "This is our baby, Hermione. Our child, growing strong and healthy because you're taking such good care."

"I know, but," Hermione's breath caught as she felt it. A flutter, like butterfly wings, deep in her abdomen. "Oh."

"What?" Draco's hands tensed. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just… I think I felt something." Hermione pressed her own hands over his. "There. Did you feel that?"

They stood silent, barely breathing, waiting. And then it came again, a subtle rolling sensation, like bubbles rising or a tiny fish swimming.

"The baby," Hermione breathed. "The baby's moving."

Draco's eyes were wide with wonder. "Really? I can't feel anything."

"It's still too small for you to feel from the outside. But I can feel it inside." Tears streamed down Hermione's cheeks as the flutter came again, stronger this time. "Our baby's moving, Draco. It's real. It's really real."

Draco turned her in his arms, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "Of course it's real. You've been carrying our child for almost four months."

"I know, but this is different. Before, it was just symptoms and monitoring charms and books. But now... now the baby's saying hello." She laughed through her tears. "Our baby's saying hello to us."

They stayed there for a long time, Draco's hands on her belly, both of them waiting for each tiny movement. And when the baby fluttered again, Hermione captured the moment in her memory— the wonder and question on Draco's face, the feeling of their child dancing inside her. This was why they were doing this. This moment, this perfect moment of pure joy.

Each morning became an elaborate ritual of deception. Hermione would wake an hour before her roommates, slip into the bathroom, and begin the exhausting process of concealing her pregnancy from the world. 

First came the simple, loose robe Narcissa had gifted her. The garment itself was enchanted to subtly adjust with Hermione’s growing body. But Hermione had layered her own magic over it, carefully placed folds that cast slimming shadows, adjustable draping that shifted with her posture, and a faint featherlight charm to make the fabric hang correctly even as her center of gravity changed.

Next came the glamour. She had modified it from a fashion charm she’d once read about in ‘Witch Weekly’. Standing sideways before the mirror each morning, she traced slow, precise patterns over her abdomen, watching the gentle curve of her belly smooth and settle back into something nearly flat beneath the robes. But glamours were unreliable, easy to pierce with sharp eyes or a strong gust of magic, so it could only serve as the first few layers of her concealment.

The final step was her newest creation. A subtle ‘notice-me-not’ variation she’d perfected after three weeks of relentless tinkering. Not a true ‘notice-me-not’ charm, that would have drawn more attention than it hid, but a quiet nudge in the surrounding magic, a soft persuasion that guided people’s gaze elsewhere. At her face, her hands, her bushy hair— anywhere but her middle.

The entire process took almost forty-five minutes and left her drained before the day even began. But it worked.

"Morning, Hermione," Ginny chirped one day as Hermione emerged from the bathroom, looking flawless in her carefully charmed robes. "You're up early again."

"Studying," Hermione said automatically, the lie coming easier with practice. "OWLs are only two months away."

"OWLs aren't until June," Ginny pointed out, "You're being mental about them."

"Better over-prepared than under-prepared," Hermione said primly, gathering her things. 

Her stomach growled loudly. The baby seemed to demand food constantly now. But she couldn't just eat anything that was being served on the Great Hall dining tables. The baby had developed a frustratingly specific palate, as if even in the womb it refused to settle for anything less than high-quality, borderline-ridiculous meals. She’d learned to ignore the cravings until she could slip down to the kitchens, where Dobby would dutifully spoil her with whatever impossibly refined combination the baby insisted on that day.

Yesterday it had been ‘smoked salmon with enchanted lemon crème’. The day before, she’d somehow devoured an entire wheel of aged French cheese that Hermione swore cost more than her monthly book allowance.

Some days, the cravings bordered on the truly absurd spectrum. One day, she had apparently needed ‘hand-churned vanilla ice cream paired with crunchy, perfectly brined pickles’ that had to be served in a crystal bowl. Another day, only ‘roasted chestnuts drizzled with honey’ would do. And there were other nights too, when she found herself craving ‘dark chocolate infused with crushed rose petals’, or tiny sandwiches arranged with such precision they looked like they belonged at a tea table in Wiltshire.

Hermione was half convinced the baby had inherited the aristocratic taste through sheer osmosis. Or perhaps, she thought with a rueful smile as her stomach growled again, she was simply carrying a Malfoy. Thankfully, Dobby never questioned her odd requests, just squeaked with delight at being able to help ‘The Hermione Granger’.

"You rarely eat meals with us anymore," Ginny observed, her eyes too sharp for Hermione's comfort. "Are you feeling all right? You're not sick, are you?"

"I'm fine," Hermione lied, adjusting her bag to hide the way her hand instinctively went to her belly when the baby fluttered. "Just not very hungry at breakfast time. I usually eat later."

It was technically true, she did eat later. Constantly. In hidden corners and empty classrooms, wherever she could find privacy to demolish the snacks Draco smuggled to her.

"If you say so," Ginny said doubtfully. "But you've been acting really weird lately. Disappearing all the time, always tired, and you've put on weight,"

"I have not!" Hermione snapped, then immediately regretted it. Getting defensive only made people more suspicious. She forced herself to calm down, to breathe through the spike of panic. "I mean... I've been stressed. Stress eating. You know how it is."

Ginny looked at her sceptically but didn't push further. Hermione fled before Ginny could ask more questions, her heart racing. That had been too close. She needed to be more careful, more controlled.

The concealment charms held through strongly. Ron and Harry noticed nothing during morning classes, during lunch, during the afternoon. But by dinner, Hermione was exhausted. But maintaining the layered charms took constant magical energy, and her power was already being siphoned off to support the baby's growth. She could feel the spells weakening, the glamour starting to flicker at the edges.

"I'm going to the library," she announced abruptly, standing from the Gryffindor table before dessert even arrived.

"Again?" Ron complained. "You practically live there."

"Some of us care about our education," Hermione shot back, then immediately felt guilty at the hurt look on Ron's face. "Sorry. I'm just... tired. I'll see you later."

She hurried from the Great Hall, feeling the eyes of half the school on her back. How long could she keep this up? How many more weeks before her magic gave out entirely, before the charms failed in the middle of the corridor and everyone saw what she'd been hiding? Hermione made it to the alcove and sagged against the wall, finally letting the concealment spells drop. Her belly emerged in all its rounded glory— definitely bigger than yesterday, unmistakably pregnant to anyone who looked. She pressed both hands against it, feeling the baby's reassuring movements.

"Just a few more months," she whispered to her bump. "We can do this for a few more months."

The baby kicked in response, and despite everything, Hermione smiled.

"You're wearing yourself out," Draco said one evening as they curled together in bed in the Room of Requirement. His hand resting on her belly as it had become a habit. "I can feel it through the monitoring charm. Your heart rate is elevated, your magic is fluctuating,"

"I'm fine," Hermione insisted, but she was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open.

"You're not fine. You're exhausted." Draco's fingers traced gentle circles on her bump. "Maybe we should tell Mother, see if there's an easier way,"

"There is no easier way," Hermione interrupted. "Either I maintain the concealment or everyone finds out. Those are the only options."

"There's a third option," Draco said quietly. "You could leave early. Before OWLs. Go to the cottage in Cornwall, stop hiding,"

"No." Hermione sat up, her eyes fierce despite her exhaustion. "I am not abandoning my education because I'm pregnant. I am not proving every prejudice about Muggleborns right by dropping out of school. I am finishing my OWLs, Draco. I am proving that I can do this."

Draco looked like he wanted to argue, but then the baby kicked, hard enough that they both felt it. A definite thump against Hermione's belly and Draco's palm.

"He's getting stronger," Draco marveled, his anger dissolving into wonder. "Every day, he's getting stronger."

"Takes after his mother," Hermione said smugly.

"Stubborn as his mother, you mean," Draco corrected, but he was smiling. "Fine. We'll do this your way. But you have to promise me, if it gets too dangerous, if your health or the baby's health is at risk, we stop. We leave. Deal?"

"Deal," Hermione agreed, leaning back against him. The baby rolled and kicked, performing what felt like acrobatics. "He's very active tonight."

"He knows his dad is here," Draco said, pressing a kiss to her temple. 

"He does," Hermione agreed softly. "It's like he recognizes you."

They sat in comfortable silence, feeling their son move and shift inside Hermione's belly. These moments— stolen and secret and precious were what kept Hermione going through the exhaustion and fear.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too," Draco murmured back. "Both of you."

The second meeting with Narcissa was scheduled for Saturday during mid April. This time, they met in a private room at the Three Broomsticks. Narcissa had apparently called in a favor with Madam Rosmerta, who provided them with a warded room and promised absolute discretion.

"You're showing more than I expected," were Narcissa's first words when she saw Hermione, her critical gaze sweeping over the bump that was now impossible to hide without magic. "How many weeks?"

"Nineteen," Hermione confirmed, settling carefully into a chair. The baby had been particularly active today.

Narcissa pulled out her wand. "May I?"

At Hermione's nod, she cast a complex diagnostic charm, layers of golden light washing over Hermione's belly. The light pulsed and shifted, forming patterns that Narcissa studied with intense concentration.

"Everything looks healthy," she said after a moment. "Good size, strong heartbeat, positioned correctly. Have you been feeling movement?"

"All the time now," Hermione said, her hand moving to her belly automatically. "Especially at night. I think the baby's nocturnal."

“That’s common,” Narcissa said, a faint, knowing smile quirk to her lips. “Draco was the same. Kept me awake until three every morning with his constant movements.” She cast her son a pointed look. “Some traits seem to be inherited.”

Draco managed a look that was somehow both flustered and mortified, cheeks tinged pink. 

Hermione sighed. “The movement I can handle. It’s the cravings that are going to be the death of me.”

Narcissa lifted an eyebrow. “Cravings?”

“Ridiculous cravings,” Hermione said helplessly. “This child refuses to eat like a normal human being. Everything has to be fancy or obscenely specific. I tried giving it regular food, sandwiches, toast, you know. It was like the baby revolted. I felt nauseous for hours after eating.”

Draco snorted. “Posh little thing.”

“That’s an understatement.” Hermione shot him a look. “Last night I had to sneak down to the kitchens because the baby decided it desperately needed a ‘melon tart with moon-sugar glaze that drizzled with rose-infused honey’. At two in the morning!”

Narcissa blinked. “…That is rather sophisticated.”

“Oh, it gets worse,” Hermione said. “One day, I ate an entire wheel of aged French cheese, apparently the only cheese this baby approves of.”

Draco let out a weak laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… Malfoy tastes.”

Narcissa exhaled through her nose, a very refined form of amusement. “Yes. Unfortunately, our children are never cheap.”

Draco's chest swelled visibly. He beamed, looking immensely proud.

“Have you checked the gender yet?” Narcissa asked, her tone calm but curious.

“No, Mother,” Draco said. “We tried, but the book said Hermione needs to drink a potion for the charm to work.”

“We didn’t have it,” Hermione added quietly.

“Yes, I’m aware,” Narcissa replied. “Fortunately, I purchased the potion this morning.” She reached into her bag. “I thought… perhaps we could check.”

Draco’s breath caught. “So you can tell, then? If it’s a boy or a girl?”

Narcissa’s expression softened, “Would you like to know?”

Hermione looked at Draco, who looked back at her. They'd discussed this, whether they wanted to know beforehand or be surprised. But now, with the possibility right in front of them. 

"Yes," they said in unison.

Narcissa carefully set the vial of potion in front of Hermione. Hermione drank it, the liquid cool and tingling as it slid down her throat.

“Now,” Narcissa said softly, her voice steady, “remove your robes.”

Hermione obeyed, her fingers brushing lightly over the swell of her belly. The sight of it— round, alive, and impossibly real; made Narcissa’s eyes sting with unshed tears. Her grandchild, here, alive and moving inside her. Narcissa stepped closer, her presence calm and reassuring. Raising her wand, she murmured the spell, and slowly a shimmering projection appeared above Hermione’s stomach. A transparent, three-dimensional image of the baby curled inside, delicate and perfect.

“It’s a boy,” Narcissa said softly, her voice almost breaking with quiet joy. “You’re having a son.”

A son.

Draco made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, his other hand reaching out to clasp Hermione’s. He squeezed her fingers tight, as if anchoring himself to the moment. “A boy… we’re having a boy.”

Hermione couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. All she could do was stare at the shimmering projection of their son floating above her belly. Their son— so small, so fragile, yet already so alive. His thumb rested near his mouth, curled fingers twitching ever so slightly, and she imagined him beginning to suck it at any moment.

“He’s… he’s beautiful,” she finally whispered, her voice trembling.

Draco bent slightly, resting his head against hers. “He’s ours,” he said, and there was awe and fear and love all tangled together in his voice. “All ours.”

"He's a Malfoy," Narcissa said, though her tone held unmistakable pride. "See the shape of his nose? That's been in our family for generations. And his fingers are long and elegant. He'll be a talented wizard."

"Or a pianist," Hermione said, earning a surprised look from Narcissa. "My grandmother played piano. Maybe he'll inherit that."

For a moment, something passed between the two women, an acknowledgment that this child would be both their legacies, pureblood and Muggleborn, magical tradition and Muggle culture all woven together.

Hermione felt tears slip down her cheeks, warmth pooling in her chest. “I can’t… I can’t believe he’s real,” she murmured. “I’ve never felt anything like this.”

Narcissa stepped closer, resting a gentle hand over Hermione’s. “This… this is the beginning of everything. He’s lucky to have both of as his parents.”

The three of them stayed like that for a long moment, the room silent except for Hermione’s soft breaths and the almost imperceptible flicker of magic from the projection above her belly. For the first time in weeks, all the fear, the worry, the uncertainty— they melted away, leaving only wonder and joy.

Draco whispered against her temple, voice raw with emotion: “I promise, Hermione… I’ll do everything to keep him safe. I’ll protect both of you, always.”

Hermione leaned into him, clutching his hand, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself believe that they could pull this off. Narcissa let the projection linger for several more minutes, allowing them to simply look at their son. Hermione committed every detail to memory— the way he moved, the shape of his head, the tiny fingers that would someday hold a wand or hold her hand. When Narcissa finally vanished the projection with a flick of her wand, Hermione felt the loss like a physical ache. But the baby, her son, kicked strongly, as if reminding her that he was still there, still real, still growing.

"Have you thought about names?" Narcissa asked, pulling out her notebook.

Draco and Hermione exchanged glances. "Not really," Draco admitted. "We've been too focused on... everything else."

"Well, you have time." Narcissa made a note. "But you should start thinking about it. A Malfoy heir needs a proper name. Something strong, something meaningful."

They spent the next two hours going over prenatal care, the cottage arrangements, and what would happen when the baby was born. But Hermione's mind kept drifting back to that image, that perfect little boy curled inside her.

Their son. 

They were having a son.

After the meeting with Narcissa, something shifted between Hermione and Draco. Knowing they were having a boy made it more real somehow, more concrete. They started calling the baby "he" instead of "it," and started imagining what he'd look like, what kind of person he'd become.

"He's going to have your eyes," Draco said one evening as they lay together in bed, his hand on her belly. "Maybe Grey like mine, but with that sharp, intelligent look you get when you're solving a problem."

"He's going to have your hair," Hermione countered. "That perfect silver blonde that never gets messy no matter what."

"God, I hope not," Draco said with feeling. "Do you know how much work this takes?" He gestured to his perfectly styled hair. "I spend twenty minutes every morning,"

"Twenty minutes?" Hermione laughed. "That's ridiculous."

"Says the witch whose hair has a mind of its own," Draco teased, tugging gently on one of her curls. "At least mine is manageable."

"Our son is going to have impossible hair," Hermione predicted. "The worst of both of us. Silver blonde and completely untameable."

"He'll be perfect," Draco said firmly, his hand spreading wide over her bump. "Every single thing about him will be perfect because he's ours."

The baby kicked in agreement, and they both laughed. These conversations became their favourite pastime— imagining their son, planning for him, dreaming about the future. Would he be good at Quidditch like Draco, or would he prefer books like Hermione? Would he be sorted into Slytherin or Gryffindor? Would he have Draco's dry wit or Hermione's fierce determination?

"Both," Draco always said. "He'll have both. He'll be brilliant and brave and cunning and loyal all at once. He'll break every rule and rewrite all the definitions."

"He'll be extraordinary," Hermione agreed softly.

And when their son kicked, strong and sure, they chose to believe it was his agreement.

By the time May arrived, Hermione had perfected the art of concealment to such a degree that even she sometimes forgot she was pregnant, until the baby kicked to remind her, or until she caught sight of herself in a mirror with the charms dropped and saw the undeniable swell of her belly. She'd developed tricks for managing the physical challenges too. She knew which stairs to avoid because they left her breathless. She knew to sit near the aisle in every class so she could slip out quickly if nausea hit. She knew exactly how much she could carry before her back started aching, and she'd mastered the art of eating constantly without anyone noticing.

"You're like a spy," Draco said admiringly one evening after she explained her elaborate system. "A very pregnant, very brilliant spy."

"I'm exhausted, that is what I am," Hermione corrected, but she was smiling. "But we're managing. Only a few more weeks until OWLs, and then…"

"And then we can stop hiding," Draco finished. "We can go to Cornwall, and you can stop wearing yourself out with these concealment charms, and we can just... be. The three of us."

"The three of us," Hermione echoed, her hand on her belly where their son was doing his evening gymnastics routine. "I can't wait."

The DA meeting fell on a Thursday evening in late May. Hermione had felt off since morning— not sick, just strange. Her magic hovered too close to the surface, crackling under her skin like static, and her son had been unusually active, rolling and kicking hard enough that she’d had to reinforce her concealment charms twice before dinner.

“You sure you’re up for this?” Harry asked as they walked toward the Room of Requirement. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine,” Hermione lied, tugging at her robes for what felt like the hundredth time. The charms were holding, but barely. At twenty-three weeks she looked unmistakably pregnant when they slipped, her belly round and firm beneath the fabric. “Just been studying too much.”

“When aren’t you studying too much?” Ron said cheerfully. “Come on, I want to practice Stunning spells. I nearly got Harry last time.”

The Room appeared with its usual helpful layout— practice dummies, mats, and plenty of space. Students poured in, buzzing with excitement, determined to learn what Umbridge refused to teach.

“Right, everyone,” Harry called. “Patronuses tonight. Think of your happiest memory, something strong, something that makes you feel untouchable.”

Hermione already knew hers— the first time she’d felt her son move, that tiny flutter of life blooming inside her. Wonder. Joy. Love. She raised her wand, letting the memory fill her. “Expecto patronum,”

That exact moment the baby kicked. Hard. A sharp, powerful jolt that knocked the breath out of her. And her magic snapped.

It was like nothing Hermione had ever felt before— a raw, primal surge of power that seemed to radiate from her very core and explode outward. Her wand blazed with light, and her Patronus exploded into existence. Not the silver otter she knew so well, but a massive golden eagle, radiant and magnificent. Its wings unfurled widely across the room, feathers gleaming like molten sunlight. Silver sparks trailed from its wingtips, and the heat pouring off it washed over the room like a living fire.

Everyone in the DA froze at the sight.

“Bloody hell,” Ron breathed. “Hermione… that’s incredible.”

“Hermione, that’s brilliant!” Harry said, stunned. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

Ginny stared, speechless. “How do you even have two Patronuses?”

Neville took a shaky step backward. “I’ve never seen a Patronus so powerful…”

Hermione hardly heard them. The roar of energy in her chest drowned out everything. She felt her concealment charms start to unravel, glamours fraying, the ‘notice-me-not’ spells slowly dissolving under the pressure of her own magic. Her son kicked again, harder this time, reacting to her fear with frantic insistence.

“No…” she whispered. “Not now…”

“Er… Hermione?” Ron asked, voice suddenly careful. “Are you… okay?”

“I’m fine,” she managed, but her voice shook.

Above her, the eagle rippled, wings beating in slow, thunderous sweeps. Each pulse of light sent another jolt of magic spiraling outward. Hermione gasped as her abdomen tightened with another fierce kick.

Luna stepped closer, eyes full of quiet wonder. “Your Patronus is trying to protect you,” she murmured. “Both of you.”

Hermione’s heart lurched. Both. She prayed no one else caught it. And thankfully every eye in the room was locked on her Patronus.

“Hermione,” Harry said, concerned in his gaze, “You look pale. Are you okay?”

The eagle suddenly flared brighter, wings stretching even wider. Hermione felt her concealment charms tearing, the edges of her glamour charm ripping like thin cloth. Panic clawed up her throat as the baby kicked again, frantic and forceful. Her stomach dropped. She had seconds, or maybe less.

“I’m… I’m fine,” she whispered, though it was nothing close to true. 

With every scrap of will she possessed, Hermione pulled her magic inward, yanking it back under control. The golden eagle flickered. Then vanished. Hermione gasped, one hand flying to her belly, the other gripping her wand so tightly her knuckles whitened. Her concealment charms snapped back into place, barely holding, trembling like overstretched threads.

Her voice came out strangled. “I need… air. Too much magic. Sorry…”

She fled before anyone could react, dodging confused questions, Harry’s worried call, Ron’s baffled “What just happened?” She pressed one hand to her belly as she ran, forcing herself not to cry, not to panic, just move. She reached the alcove by sheer willpower, shoved the tapestry aside, and slipped inside. The moment she was inside in the alcove, the charms collapsed. All of them. Her belly appeared in full view— round and undeniably pregnant, her robes stretched tight across it. The baby was still kicking, frantic movements that made her whole belly shift and ripple visibly.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," Hermione whispered, sinking onto the cushions Draco had charmed for her. Her hands spread across her bump, trying to soothe their son. "We're safe now. We're okay. I'm sorry if I scared you, baby. I'm so sorry."

But her heart was racing, her breath coming in gasps that bordered on sobs. That had been too close. Way too close. If she hadn't pulled her magic back when she did, if she'd lost control for even one more second… But what if someone had noticed? What if Harry or Ron had seen her hand fly to her belly? What if they'd wondered why she'd run, why she'd looked so panicked?

"Hermione?"

She looked up, tears already streaming down her face, to find Draco in the entrance. His face was pale with worry, one hand pressed against his chest where the monitoring pendant must have alerted him to her distress.

"I nearly lost control," Hermione gasped. "In the DA meeting. My magic just… it surged, and the baby started kicking, and I could barely hold the concealment charms,"

"But you did hold them, right?" Draco said, crossing quickly to her side and dropping to his knees in front of her. His hands came up to frame her face, thumbs brushing away her tears. "You got out before anyone saw. You're safe. The baby's safe."

"This time," Hermione whispered. "But Draco, what if it happens again? My magic is getting harder to control. Pregnancy is affecting everything. What if next time I can't pull it back? What if…"

"Shh, we'll figure it out," Draco promised, pulling her into his arms. "We'll talk to Mother, we'll find a way."

"There is no other way," Hermione said into his shoulder. "Either I control my magic or everyone finds out. Those are the only options."

Draco was quiet for a moment, just holding her, one hand rubbing soothing circles on her. Then he pulled back slightly, his eyes searching hers. "You're sure you're okay? The baby?"

"We're fine," Hermione said, taking a shaky breath. "Just scared. Both of us."

As if to prove her point, their son kicked again, not the frantic, frightened kicks from before, but a strong, deliberate movement.

"He's really going at it," Draco said, his worry momentarily overcome by wonder.

"He's been active all day," Hermione said, guiding Draco's hand to her belly. "But after the magic surge, he just went crazy."

Draco's palm spread flat against her bump, and they both waited. The baby kicked again, directly against his hand, a solid, distinct thump that Draco could definitely feel.

"It still blows my mind," Draco breathed, his eyes wide with wonder. "Every time he kicks, I can feel him. I can actually feel him moving inside."

"Me too," Hermione whispered, leaning into his touch. "It feels utterly surreal. Like a continuous, tiny miracle."

The baby gave another soft kick. Draco's other hand joined the first, both palms now pressed against her belly, shielding the area possessively. "Hello, little one," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Hello. It's Dad. I'm here. I'm right here."

The baby kicked again, then rolled, a movement so pronounced that they could actually see Hermione's belly shift and ripple beneath Draco's hands.

"Did you see that?" Draco's voice was awed. "He moved. I saw him move."

"He does that," Hermione said, laughing through her tears. "Especially when you're near. It's like he knows his father is here."

Draco looked up at her, his grey eyes shining with unshed tears. "Can I...?" He gestured to her belly, and when Hermione nodded, he carefully lifted the hem of her robes, exposing the bare, rounded skin beneath. The baby kicked again, hard enough that they could see the movement. A tiny foot pressing outward, creating a visible bump that moved across Hermione's belly before disappearing again.

"That was his foot," Draco said wonderingly, his fingers tracing the path the movement had taken. "A part of him. An actual, physical part of our son."

"He's real," Hermione whispered. "He's so real, Draco."

"He's perfect," Draco corrected, pressing his forehead gently against her belly. "Absolutely perfect."

They stayed like that for a long time. Draco kneeling before her, his hands and face pressed against her belly, talking softly to their son. Hermione ran her fingers through his hair, watching the wonder play across his features every time the baby moved.

"I love you," Draco murmured to her belly. "Both of you. So much. And I promise… I promise I'm going to protect you. Both of you. No matter what happens, no matter what I have to do, I'm going to keep you safe."

The baby kicked in response, and Draco laughed, a sound of pure, unfiltered joy.

"He heard you," Hermione said softly. "He knows his daddy's voice."

"Good," Draco said fiercely, looking up at her. "I want him to know me. I want him to know that his father loves him more than anything in the world."

"He knows," Hermione assured him. "Every time you're near, he kicks. Every time you talk to him, he responds. He knows you, Draco. He loves you too."

Draco's hands spread wide over her belly, cradling their son. "I can't wait to meet him. To actually hold him, to see his face, to count his fingers and toes."

"A few more months," Hermione reminded him. "A few more months and he'll be here."

"A few more months," Draco repeated, then his expression grew serious. "But Hermione, about what happened tonight,"

"I know," Hermione interrupted. "I know it was dangerous. I know my magic is getting unpredictable. But I'm not leaving before OWLs, Draco. I can't. I won't."

"Then we need to be more careful," Draco said firmly. "No more DA meetings for you. It's too risky. Please."

"I can't just stop going," Hermione protested. "Harry would ask questions…"

"Then we tell him you're sick. Exhausted. Overwhelmed with studying." Draco's grip on her belly tightened slightly. "I won't risk losing you. Either of you. Not for exams, not for DA meetings, not for anything."

Hermione wanted to argue, wanted to insist she could handle it. But the terror of those moments when her magic had spiralled out of control was still too fresh, too raw. "Okay," she finally agreed. "No more DA meetings. I'll make excuses to Harry."

"Thank you," Draco breathed, relief flooding his features. 

He pressed a kiss to her belly, then another, then slowly worked his way up until he could kiss her properly. The kiss started gentle, but soon it ignited sparks between them. Draco's tongue slid into her mouth, while his hands tightened on her hips, dragging her as close as he could against the swell of her belly. His lips never broke contact, tracing a hot, insistent line from her mouth to her jaw. He moved slowly toward her neck, his teeth gently scraping that sensitive spot just below her ear. 

Hermione’s head fell back, a broken gasp of "Draco," escaping her lips.

Her fingers scrambled at his shirt, tearing at the buttons frantically until she could shove the fabric completely off his shoulders. Pale, sculpted chest bared, she raked her nails down his skin hard enough to leave pink trails. Draco growled approvingly and yanked the ties of her robe apart. The silk exposed the curve of her body, now fuller, rounder, and heavier than before.

"Fuck," he rasped, his voice rough. He cupped one roughly, thumb flicking the sensitive tip, then lowered his head and took the other into his mouth. The wet heat, the slow drag of his tongue, the gentle scrape of teeth made Hermione arched hard, crying out as pleasure shot straight to her core. He sucked harder, rolling her nipple against the roof of his mouth while his hand kneaded the other one, pinching just hard enough to send pleasure through her core. She was dripping already; lately the hormones made her more sensitive and responsive to Draco's touch. She was grinding shamelessly against the ridge of his erection through their clothes. 

But the baby chose that moment to kick hard, right between them, and Hermione flinched audibly, one hand flying to her belly as her breath caught. Draco’s entire body went still, panic flashing across his face as he pulled back. 

“Hermione, hey… look at me. Are you alright? Did I do something?”

Hermione exhaled shakily, half a laugh, half a wince, catching his hand and guiding it to the exact spot where their son was still nudging insistently and possessively, as if trying to physically wedge himself into the moment.

“We’re fine,” she said softly. “Seems like he’s just… got jealous.”

Draco blinked. “…jealous?”

Hermione nodded, rubbing the spot gently, her voice low and teasing despite how startled she’d been. “He wants attention too.”

Draco’s expression melted into something warm and astonished. He laid his hand over hers, then bent down, touching his lips to the curve of her belly with reverence more intimate than anything else they’d been doing. “Alright, little man,” he murmured against her skin, “you have my attention.”

He brushed another soft kiss there, then another, speaking to their son like he was already here with them. “Can you hear me in there? Are you warm enough? Comfortable? Do you know how much your mummy and dad love you?”

As if answering, the baby executed a dramatic roll that made Hermione’s whole belly shift beneath Draco’s hand. Hermione burst into laughter, breathless and embarrassed and overflowing with tenderness all at once. “I think that’s a yes.”

Draco looked up at her, his eyes shining, cheeks flushed, expression undone in the sweetest way. He pressed his forehead gently to her belly as if he couldn’t decide which of them needed holding more.

The baby kicked sharply, that made Hermione catch her breath and brace a hand on Draco’s shoulder. Draco was upright in an instant, both hands steadying her. “Easy… easy. Breathe with me.” His voice had gone low and calm.

Hermione nodded, though her chest felt tight from the whirlpools of feelings— fear, love, leftover desire, and the baby’s energetic protest all knotted together. Draco’s hands slid up her arms, grounding her. He pressed his forehead to hers. 

“In,” he whispered.

She inhaled shakily.

“And out,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across her cheek.

The next breath came easier. The next, smoother. The baby finally settled, tiny limbs shifting into a quieter rhythm. Hermione sagged into Draco’s chest, exhausted and overwhelmed.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

She nodded, though her voice wobbled. “He just… startled me. It felt like he was doing a full cartwheel.”

Draco’s mouth curved into a small, helpless smile. “He probably was.”

He guided her toward the cushioned seating along the alcove wall, moving slowly, keeping an arm around her waist. Hermione lowered herself onto the velvet cushions with a sigh, and Draco sat beside her immediately, his one hand resting gently over her belly. 

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet was soft, safe. Hermione finally whispered, “I didn’t expect this to feel so… big.” Her voice trembled. “Every kick, every flutter… it’s like everything changes all over again.”

Draco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Yeah. It’s terrifying,” he admitted, surprising her. “And Merlin, Hermione… it’s the best thing I’ve ever felt in my life.”

She blinked at him, stunned. He traced a slow circle over her belly. 

“Every time he moves… It's like he’s reminding me he’s real. That we’re really doing this.” His voice cracked. “That I get to be part of this.”

Hermione’s eyes softened. “You’re not just part of it, Draco. You’re his father.”

His breath hitched. He lowered his head until it rested against her forehead. He wrapped an arm around her as if anchoring her to him. “I don’t ever want him to feel alone like I did,” Draco whispered. 

Hermione’s fingers slipped into his hair, stroking gently. “He won’t,” she murmured. “He has both of us.”

Draco closed his eyes, breathing her in, breathing the moment in. The baby kicked softly beneath his hand, gentler now, almost as if lulled by the quiet. They stay like that for a long while. Draco with his hand on her belly, whispering soft reassurances he probably didn’t even realize he was saying. Hermione rested her hand on his chest, feeling his warmth and the steady rhythm of his heart, feeling their little family settle into a rhythm all its own. And Hermione felt something she hadn’t let herself feel fully.

Safe.

Held.

Loved.

“Stay like this a little longer,” she whispered.

Draco didn’t even lift his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

They stayed in their alcove until well past curfew, Draco with his head pillowed on Hermione's belly, feeling every kick and roll and shift of their son. Hermione stroked his hair and watched the wonder never fade from his face, even as exhaustion began to pull at her.

"We're going to be okay," Draco murmured against her belly, so quietly Hermione almost didn't hear. "All three of us. We're going to be a family, and we're going to be okay."

The baby kicked one more time, gentler now, as if settling down to sleep.

"We're going to be okay," Hermione echoed, letting herself believe it.

And in that moment, with Draco's arms around her and their son safe inside her, she almost could.