Draco Malfoy, for all his public charm and carefully polished composure, had officially lost his mind. And not in a sweet or vaguely endearing way, either. He had transformed into a full-time, silk-robed menace with far too much money, far too much time, and absolutely no concept of personal boundaries when it came to his pregnant wife.
Hermione had expected a bit of melodrama. She wasn't naïve. This was the same man who once rewrote his entire will because she had a mild cold. But she had hoped, maybe foolishly, that impending fatherhood might bring with it a little perspective. Some grounding. At the very least, a bit of moderation.
Instead, she got color-coded nutritional charts, late-night fetal charm readings, and a full-blown argument over whether she should be allowed to lift a stack of parchment thicker than five inches.
She wasn't exaggerating. He had measured.
This was Draco at his most unhinged. The full force of his aristocratic anxiety and buried affection had burst into reality in the form of handcrafted anti-nausea teas and custom-fitted slippers enchanted to follow her around the house. She loved him. She really, truly did. But if he tried to spoon-feed her another calcium-enhanced potion disguised as hot chocolate, she was going to scream.
Maybe into a pillow. Maybe into his very expensive shoes.
What started as genuine concern for her health had somehow spiraled into what could only be described as a one-man surveillance state dressed up as a wellness plan. These weren't thoughtful reminders anymore. They weren't gentle nudges. Draco had drawn up an entire meal schedule for her, annotated with unsettling precision, divided into nutritional categories by trimester and vitamin requirement.
Naturally, he'd added his own little notes, scribbled in that elegant, infuriating handwriting. Things like no more caffeine, love, not even if you cry and eat the bloody spinach or I will.
Then he laminated it.
Actually laminated it.
And stuck it to the fridge like it was a sacred decree from the Ministry itself. As if lamination made it law.
But it didn't end there. Of course it didn't. He had gone on to create a full daily itinerary, mapped out in time intervals so precise she wouldn't have been surprised if he'd borrowed a time-turner just to format it. Morning walks. Scheduled reading. Enforced rest periods. A midday protein snack that he prepared himself. A curated meditation playlist. And, worst of all, an afternoon nap he expected her to take without argument, as if she were some porcelain creature from the nineteenth century who might swoon from standing too long.
She was finished. Emotionally, spiritually, metaphysically finished. If she had to sit through one more soft-spoken reminder that lifting books was considered "exertion," she was going to scream.
Loudly. And probably while throwing a prenatal vitamin at his flawless, overbearing face.
And yet underneath the irritation, beyond the eye rolls and exasperated sighs, there was this ridiculous little glow in her chest. Because he did it all out of love. Because he was scared. Because, in that frustratingly Draco way, he would rather control every variable than risk losing the one thing that made him feel safe.
Still. If he handed her another planner, she was going to turn him into a coffee table. And then she was going to set her decaf tea on him out of spite.
°°°
Hermione had barely cracked the window open, just enough to let in a breath of fresh air, when she heard his voice echo from the hallway. Sharp, concerned, and entirely too much. It carried that unmistakable edge she knew too well, the one that meant Draco Malfoy was in full overprotective mode and had no intention of backing down.
"I'm fine, mon cœur," she called over her shoulder, her tone polite but strained, clinging to the last shred of her patience. "Truly. I just need five minutes. Alone. With air."
There was a pause. Long enough to give her the faint, foolish hope that he might actually listen and leave her be.
He did not.
His voice came again, closer this time, too calm and too steady. That particular calmness he only used when he was trying to sound rational, while every word betrayed the opposite.
"No. Absolutely not," he said, his footsteps growing louder with each syllable. "You are carrying my child, and that fact is, without a doubt, the most important thing that has ever happened in my entire life. In my whole arrogant, expensive, thoroughly cursed existence. So no, Hermione. I am not leaving you alone. Not now. Not later. Not ever."
And that was it.
That was the moment something inside her gave way. Something small and weary, something that had been clinging to composure by a thread.
Without thinking, Hermione turned and hurled the nearest object she could reach — a thick, hardbound copy of Magical Midwifery: A Journey Through the Trimesters — straight at his infuriatingly handsome, perfectly coiffed head. It missed him by barely an inch and hit the wall with a dull, glorious thud.
Draco flinched, eyes wide, one hand pressed to his chest as if she had aimed a Killing Curse instead of a book. "Woman!" he shouted, appalled, as though he hadn't spent the last two weeks breathing down her neck like a mother dragon guarding an egg.
But Hermione was already moving. Her body acted before her mind could intervene. There was no hesitation, no pause for effect, no second thoughts. She was finished. Coat forgotten, wand still upstairs, she stormed out the front door with the single-minded fury of someone hanging by a thread. The door slammed behind her, echoing through the hallway like a declaration of independence.
She didn't look back. She couldn't.
If she stayed in that house one second longer, surrounded by color-coded meal plans and morning affirmations about her cervix, she would lose her mind. Draco meant well; she knew that. But there was only so much hovering and micromanaged tenderness a person could take before something cracked.
She didn't need a personal wellness dictator. She didn't need to be wrapped up like a sacred artifact from some ancient fertility cult. What she needed was a walk. A deep breath. One small, quiet moment of peace where no one asked about her iron levels or reminded her to align her chakras before lunch.
And more than anything, she needed to remember who she was. Hermione Granger. Not a vessel. Not a fragile ecosystem. Not the orbiting body of Draco Malfoy's anxious devotion. Just herself. A woman who still knew how to breathe without supervision.
°°°
She came back long after the sun had slipped beneath the horizon, the sharp click of her heels cutting through the marble silence like a challenge. She didn't pause. Just ran a hand through her curls, calm and collected, and walked straight into the sitting room as if she hadn't left without a word. As if she hadn't been gone for hours, leaving him behind in a mess of silence and spiraling nerves, pacing holes into the manor floor and unraveling thread by thread.
The dress she wore was cruel in how simple it was. Black. Sleeveless. Cut just high enough to turn his blood to fire and his mouth dry. It clung to her body like it had been poured onto her skin, soft fabric brushing the curve of her hips, sliding gently over the subtle swell of her belly. No one else would have noticed. Not yet. But he did. He knew every line, every inch, every breath. It wasn't just a dress. It was deliberate. A reminder. His reminder.
Draco hadn't moved from his place in front of the fireplace. He stood exactly where he'd been for the past hour, arms crossed over his chest, shoulders locked in tension. His jaw was set, his face unreadable. The flames behind him cast a golden glow, but it did nothing to soften him. If anything, the fire made his stillness look colder.
"Where the fuck have you been?"
The words came out flat. No heat. No softness. Just danger, stripped of patience.
Hermione didn't blink. She walked to the bar cart, lifted the decanter, and poured herself a glass of water with a grace so slow and practiced it made something in him seize. She took a sip. Unhurried. As if he hadn't just flung his temper across the room like a blade.
"Out," she said, like that was all she owed him.
His eyes narrowed. His jaw twitched.
"Don't turn your back on me." His voice dropped to something quieter. Sharper. "I asked you a question."
She set the glass down with the softest clink, then turned to face him fully. One brow lifted, cool and amused.
"And I told you. I needed air. I took a walk. Had dinner. Took more air. You'll survive."
His fists curled at his sides.
"You're carrying my child," he said, low and rough, his voice lined with something darker than anger. "You don't disappear for half a day and come home like nothing happened. Not when this isn't just about you anymore."
Her expression shifted. Sharpened.
"I'm still a person, Draco. I didn't stop being me the second I got pregnant. You don't get to put a leash on me and call it love."
His stare deepened.
"You think this is about control?"
She stepped toward him. Her voice didn't rise, but it cut through the air anyway.
"I think you're terrified. So scared of losing this, of losing me, that you're trying to manage everything. Even the air I breathe. And if you don't stop, I won't be able to breathe at all."
The silence that followed was brittle. The kind that threatened to splinter under the smallest weight. Only the fire spoke, crackling behind him, while the room held its breath.
"You're mine, Hermione," he said, quiet now. But his voice coiled with something that made her chest tighten. "And now you're carrying what belongs to me too. So don't start lecturing me about freedom when I'm the one who put a life inside you."
Her breath hitched. Whether it was from rage or something else, she couldn't say. But she didn't flinch. She didn't look away.
He took a step forward, closer, his voice rising with heat that clung to the air between them.
"You're carrying my child. That means every decision you make matters to me. Every move. Every time you walk out looking like sin and vanish without a word, it matters. Because it's not just about you anymore."
She laughed, short and bitter.
"So now you think you own me? Just because I let you fuck me? Just because I'm pregnant? That gives you the right to act like some entitled, controlling bastard?"
He didn't think. He moved.
Two steps, and he was in front of her, his hands grabbing the front of her dress, yanking the silk into his fists just above where her belly began to swell.
"You don't understand," he said, his voice raw, breaking into something too sharp to hide. "You walk around like nothing's changed. But you're mine. And now you're more than that. You're carrying what we made. So yes, I'm furious. Yes, I worry. And yes, I lose my mind when you disappear for hours and walk back in here looking like that."
Her eyes narrowed, fury glowing behind them. But her body betrayed her, just enough to make his chest ache.
She didn't pull away.
If anything, she leaned in.
"I'm not playing your twisted little game, Draco," she said, her voice trembling with more than just fury. "You don't get to treat me like some possession just because I'm pregnant. Not tonight."
He leaned in, breath hot against her ear, voice low and dark, with that razor-sharp intimacy that made her pulse skip.
"Then don't play at all," he murmured. "Submit."
The word hung in the air like a spell gone wrong. It tasted of power, and hunger, and everything neither of them would dare say aloud.
Her fingers clenched in his shirt. She looked up at him, breath ragged, lips parted, her whole body wound tight with something wild and dangerous.
"You don't get to control me just because I let you fuck me," she spat, the heat behind it undeniable, even as her voice shook.
He gave a low laugh, humourless, hungry.
"You didn't let me," he said, stepping in closer. "You begged for it."
And that was it.
She shoved him, hard enough to make him stumble back a step, the tension snapping between them like a bloody tripwire.
He barely moved. But his eyes lit up, and in the next breath, his mouth crashed onto hers.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a war. Teeth. Tongues. Fury. Her back slammed into the wall as he pinned her there, one hand gripping her dress, the other tangled in her hair like he couldn't bear the thought of letting go.
Their breaths tangled, hot and erratic, like they were clawing at each other with mouths instead of words.
He pulled back just enough to rasp, "You think I don't see what you're doing? Strutting about like that. Driving me up the bloody wall. Making me lose my fucking mind."
"Good," she gasped, yanking at his belt. "Now you know what it feels like every time you try to play puppet master with my life."
"You are mine," he growled, catching her thigh and dragging it around his waist. "Say it."
"Piss off."
He grinned like the devil himself and spun her, shoving her face-first against the wall. Her breath hitched at the roughness of it — the certainty, the way he knew exactly how to pull her apart.
One hand slid up the inside of her thigh, pushing her dress higher.
"I am fucking you," he muttered against her neck, voice wrecked. "And you're going to take every bloody inch like the brat you are when you're pissed off."
"Draco—"
"Shut it, love."
His palm slid down her stomach, over the gentle curve of her belly. Her breath caught. Just for a second. There was something reverent in that touch, something tender buried deep under the fury. His fingers splayed there, holding her still. Like a claim. Like an anchor.
Then it broke.
With one sharp tug, he hooked his fingers in her knickers and yanked them down her thighs, letting the soaked lace fall at her ankles. The rasp of his belt opening cut through the air — leather and metal, loud and final.
She didn't have time to think before his hand found her hip and the other shoved her dress up over her arse. Cool air kissed her skin. Then he pressed into her, chest to back, cock thick and hot at her entrance.
"Don't move," he growled into her ear.
She didn't. She couldn't.
Then he drove into her in one brutal thrust, bottoming out in a single, punishing stroke.
She cried out, a broken sound somewhere between a sob and a curse, hands braced on the wall. The stretch was too much. Too sudden. Too perfect.
He didn't wait. Didn't let her adjust. He set a rhythm straight from hell, slamming into her over and over, fucking her like he was trying to shatter every bit of defiance left in her body.
Every thrust was deliberate. Cruel. Desperate.
His grip on her hips tightened to the point of bruising, dragging her back onto him like he needed to leave marks. Proof. Ownership.
She arched into it. Needed more. Needed all of him — around her, inside her, claiming her completely.
Her nails scraped down the wall, shallow crescents of frustration and pleasure, as her moans cracked free from her throat.
"Louder," he hissed, voice thick and wrecked. "Let the whole fucking house hear what I do to you."
"Fuck off," she spat, even as her body clenched around him.
"You already are," he snarled, fucking into her harder. "And you're loving every fucking second."
His pace didn't falter. If anything, it grew more savage — hips slamming into her, rough and hungry, like he was trying to fuck the fight out of her and brand her in the same breath.
The only sounds were skin against skin, the rhythm of their bodies colliding, the ragged gasps she couldn't hold back.
Her cheek pressed to the wall. Legs trembling. She couldn't hold herself upright much longer, but she wouldn't ask him to slow down. She wouldn't give him that.
Not when he already had her moaning his name like it meant salvation.
He gripped her harder. Thumbs digging into the soft flesh just above her arse, dragging her back onto every thrust like he wanted to bury himself in her bones.
"Look at you," he groaned. "Still mouthing off, still soaked for me. Fucking perfect."
She moaned, louder now, as he hit something inside her that made her see stars.
"That's it," he rasped, lips brushing her shoulder. "That sound right there. You make that when I hit just there, yeah?"
She bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood, her pride clinging by a thread.
His hand slid down her front, fingers brushing her stomach again. This time he stayed longer, holding her like a prayer. Like a warning.
Then he moved lower, between her thighs, circling her clit with brutal precision.
She jolted. Nearly came undone right there.
"You're mine," he growled in her ear. "Every fucking inch. Especially this greedy little cunt. You think I don't know it aches when I'm not in it? You think I don't know it pulses every time you argue with me?"
Her body buckled, hips grinding down into his hand, breath caught somewhere in her throat. She was close. Too close.
"Say it," he demanded. "Say who you belong to."
She tried to fight it. Tried to hold on. But his fingers were relentless, and his cock never stopped moving.
Her pride crumbled with a gasp.
"Yours," she breathed. "I'm yours, Draco — fuck — I'm gonna—"
"Come."
He whispered it against her neck just as she shattered around him, her cry torn from deep inside. Her whole body spasmed, slick and hot, clenching around him as pleasure ripped through her like a storm.
He lost it.
With a ragged groan, he slammed into her, burying himself to the hilt as he came hard, spilling inside her with violent intensity.
He didn't pull out.
He wouldn't. Not yet.
He held her close, chest pressed to her back, breath catching in uneven bursts against the shell of her ear. A low, broken sound escaped his lips as he stayed buried deep inside her, his cock still twitching with the aftershocks of everything they had just done.
They were wrecked. Skin slick with sweat, breath tangled, limbs heavy from the way they had taken each other apart. The air clung to them, thick with the heat of it, the walls still humming with the memory of moans and half-spoken curses. That kind of touch didn't fade quietly. It left bruises and promises both.
His mouth hovered above her shoulder, breath warm on her skin, like he couldn't bring himself to pull away. His arms wrapped around her tight, no hesitation in it, just that deep, feral need to keep her close. Something in him still didn't quite believe she was here. Safe. His. Letting go didn't feel like an option. Not when she was still clenching around him, slow and aching, her body remembering even as her voice stayed silent.
For a moment, he thought that silence might mean peace.
Then she turned.
One sharp shift and she was facing him, skin brushing his, eyes burning. Not with lust. With something sharper.
Her hand moved before he could speak. The slap cracked through the room, clean and loud.
His head snapped to the side. His cheek lit up with the sting, bright and immediate. He froze. Time seemed to slow around the shape of her palm on his skin. His fingers brushed the heat of it, still tingling. She hadn't done it for drama. Or to tease. She had meant it. Every inch of it. A reminder that she was not something to be handled. Not like that. Not ever.
He looked back at her, and his expression shifted with it.
"Oh, still got some fire in you," he said, voice low, his tone curling at the edges with something far too close to hunger. His fingers dragged along his jaw, then his gaze dropped, slow and deliberate, taking in the flush across her chest, the rise and fall of her breath. "If that's what you wanted, you could've just said. Round two's yours any time, sweetheart."
She didn't flinch. Her chest rose fast, breaths shallow and tight, but her stare didn't waver. The anger in her eyes was real, but it wasn't just that. There was something older in it. Something tired. Hurt. Something that had gone unheard for too long.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, slow and deliberate. Her lips were still swollen, but there was nothing soft about them now.
"Say sorry," she said. Her voice didn't rise. It didn't shake. It simply cut straight through the air. "You do not speak to me like that. Not now. Not ever. You don't get to claim me if you don't respect me."
His mouth parted, just slightly, not with an argument, but because her words had knocked the breath right out of him. She had never said it like that before. Not even in their worst rows. There was no venom in her tone. Just truth. It echoed through the room with weight, solid and unmoving.
He looked at her properly then. Not just at the woman he'd touched, not just the body wrapped around his. He saw her. Fully. Standing there in the mess of what they'd done, still holding her ground, asking for more than just heat and possession. Asking for him to be something better than this.
He didn't know what to say.
For a long while, he didn't move. His chest still rose and fell with the aftershocks of fury and need, but his eyes never left hers. There was something quieter now in the space between them. It wasn't regret, not entirely, but it lived close enough to it.
And when he finally spoke, his voice had changed. It wasn't cold. It wasn't defensive. It was quiet. Honest.
"I would like to apologise for my behaviour."
The words came out like gravel, rough around the edges and stripped of that usual Malfoy arrogance. His gaze never left hers. If anything, it softened further, scanning her face like he might find forgiveness tucked somewhere between her silence and her stare.
"I shouldn't have spoken to you like that," he said, voice low and hoarse. "And I sure as hell shouldn't have touched you like I had the right to anything."
Hermione blinked, her breath catching as something in the room shifted. The weight in her chest didn't vanish, but it settled differently. Her hand dropped to her lower stomach, resting there without any ceremony, as though the gesture came from instinct rather than thought. And maybe that's exactly what it was. Something to ground her. Something to remind her what mattered.
"I just want to enjoy this," she said, finally. Her voice was soft, but it held. "The pregnancy. The quiet bits. The feeling of something growing inside me that belongs to me first, before the world decides to take a claim on it."
She paused, the words catching slightly at the back of her throat.
"I want to go on walks without someone tracking my every step. I want to read in peace. I want to choose my own food without a bloody meal plan pinned to the fridge."
Her eyes flicked up to his, but only for a second.
"I want to feel like I still belong to myself, Draco. Not just to you. Not just to whatever version of me you've built up in your head now that I'm carrying your child."
He didn't speak straight away. His jaw clenched tight like he was biting back the urge to say something, to defend himself or argue or plead. But it didn't come.
What came instead was quiet.
"Alright," he said, barely more than a whisper.
Then, after a breath that felt heavier than it should have, he added, "I apologise. I mean it. Properly."
He looked down at the floor, as if the answer to all of it might be hiding somewhere in the cracks between the stone. He didn't trust himself to say more. Anything else would sound like an excuse, and for once in his life, he didn't want to be the sort of man who needed excuses. He just wanted to be better. For her. For the baby. For whatever version of their life waited on the other side of this moment.
Hermione didn't move. She stood still in the silence, letting it stretch between them like a thread pulled too tight. She didn't step closer. She didn't step away. But when her voice came again, it was warmer. A little more familiar.
"Although," she said, letting the word linger with deliberate ease, "I do enjoy a rough round now and again."
That drew a flicker of something from him. Not quite a smile, but close. Something softer. Something bruised.
Her own smile was faint, but it held. "You just can't behave like that again. That wasn't passion, Draco. That was you losing control."
The room fell quiet once more.
Draco took a step forward, careful, like he didn't want to spook the calm. He paused for a moment, reading her, then reached out. His voice came low, shaking slightly.
"I'm sorry, my love."
The words landed softer this time. Not empty. Not defensive. They were thick with the weight of regret that had been building in his chest for longer than he wanted to admit.
He stepped closer, slow and careful, until he was near enough to see every flicker of emotion in her eyes. His gaze searched her face like it was the only thing left tethering him to sense.
"I'm just... I'm miserable without you," he said quietly. "I hate the thought that you need space. I hate that you need anything I can't give you. But I know I've got to let you breathe. You deserve that. You always have."
He raised a hand, hesitant at first, then steadier as he cupped her cheek. His thumb brushed softly along her skin, a touch so careful it almost felt like prayer. As though he half expected her to turn away. The warmth of her cheek beneath his palm rooted him. When he spoke again, his voice caught, just slightly — enough to reveal the fear he hadn't managed to hide.
"I never wanted you to feel trapped," he murmured. "I just don't know how to be away from you. Even for a moment. I don't know how to let go, not even a little, without feeling like I'm losing everything."
Hermione's breath caught. Not from the words themselves, but from the way he said them. There was no performance in his tone. No posturing. Just the barest edge of fear, threaded through affection that had always walked too close to obsession.
She leaned into his touch, only slightly, and reached for his wrist. Her fingers curled gently around it, steadying him as much as herself. Her eyes didn't flinch. They locked onto his with a quiet certainty.
"I know you don't want to lose me," she said, and there was kindness in her voice, but also steel. "But this isn't about stepping away from you. It's about staying with myself. I need to be me right now. Not your wife. Not the mother of your child. Just... me. Even if it's only for a little while."
Her voice didn't waver. It didn't rise. But it held the weight of truth. Not as a weapon, but as a line that couldn't be crossed.
She lifted his hand to her lips, kissed it with slow, deliberate care, then let it fall away from her cheek.
"I love you," she said softly. "But I need you to listen. Really listen."
Draco swallowed, throat tight, words lodged somewhere behind pride and shame. But when he managed to speak, his voice came clear. It shook a little, but it held.
"I hear you, Hermione," he said. "I swear I do. And I'll learn. Whatever it takes. I'll give you what you need. I won't keep making this harder."
She looked at him for a long moment. Just held him there, beneath her gaze, weighing the words. And whatever she saw in him — that openness, that rawness, the way he was finally showing her the part that didn't know how to fight — it was enough.
This wasn't the neat end to their argument. It wasn't a perfect resolution sealed with a kiss and clean promises. But it was something.
In the stillness that followed, the space between them felt thin. Fragile. Like a wrong word might crack it wide open. But it also felt real.
They had both said too much and not nearly enough. They had hurt each other. And yet here they were — still standing. Still reaching. Still trying.
And maybe that was love. Not the version people wrote in novels. Not perfection. Not peace.
Just the choice to stay. To rebuild.
Love me? Please. He can love himself and his precious control . I'm not shagging the apology back into him again.
But let's be honest, she would, every single time.
~~~~~~
Hermione had known for a little while now.
Long enough for the panic to fade. Long enough for the joy to arrive slowly and settle in her chest like a steady heartbeat. Long enough to let it root itself quietly, without interruption.
She had needed time. Time to sit with it. Time to let the truth unfold without anyone else's voice in her ear. Time to feel it bloom inside her on its own terms.
There was something sacred about those first few days. When it was just her. Just the quiet hum of something beginning. Her babies. Hers and Draco's.
Even thinking the words made her breath catch. Her hand drifted to her stomach as though the touch might steady her. It didn't feel completely real, not yet, but it was starting to.
And when it did start to feel real, when the fear stopped clenching so tightly around her ribs and her thoughts no longer raced with every flutter or twinge, she began to plan. Not just what to say, but how.
This wasn't news she could toss casually into conversation. It wasn't the sort of thing you mentioned over tea or while pouring a glass of wine. It was too big for that. Too important.
It was the beginning of everything.
And she wanted to tell them first.
The three women who had been there for every version of her. Who had seen her at her best, and at her most unbearable. The ones who had held her together when she didn't know who she was anymore.
But how on earth was she supposed to tell them?
Each one so wildly different, each one so important to her in ways that couldn't be measured.
Luna would already know, somehow. She'd smile that quiet, knowing smile and say something impossible. Something about moonlight and cycles and the breath of the universe. And then she'd sit back like she'd been waiting for Hermione to realise it herself.
Pansy would scream. There was no version of this announcement where Pansy didn't make a scene. She'd clutch her chest, gasp like a Victorian widow, and declare it a catastrophe. A catastrophe that required emergency planning, maternity robes with proper tailoring, and a minimum of two spa days before Hermione was allowed to do anything else.
And Ginny. Oh, Ginny.
She would go still. Not quiet exactly, but still. Her eyes would fill almost immediately, her chin would wobble, and she'd try to hold it together with some half-arsed quip before bursting into tears halfway through. Then she'd hug Hermione like she meant it, like love was something you wrapped around someone with both arms and refused to let go.
It wasn't just about saying the words. It was about marking the moment.
A memory they could all carry, years from now, when everything had changed and none of them remembered the exact day, only the feeling of it. The joy. The warmth. The way it had felt to sit in the same room, hearts too full, eyes a bit too shiny, laughter breaking through the disbelief.
Hermione didn't want it to be simple. She wanted it to be theirs.
Because this wasn't just her pregnancy. This was their celebration. Their miracle. Their shared joy.
She wanted to tell them in a way they'd remember.
She wanted to get it right.
It was one of those nights that came together without much planning, the way all the best ones did. Ginny showed up first, barefoot, hair still damp, holding a half-finished bottle of wine and a bag of salted caramel popcorn like a peace offering. She didn't knock. Just shouted up the stairs until Hermione emerged in pyjamas, already half-smiling.
Pansy arrived ten minutes later, gliding in like she owned the place, draped in silk loungewear and disdain. Her eyes scanned Ginny's oversized Harpies t-shirt with visible concern.
"You've got a hole under the arm," she said, handing over a bottle of champagne. "I hope it's intentional."
Luna floated in last, obviously. She wore what might have once been a ballgown, layers of soft grey tulle over leggings and a cardigan with half the buttons missing. She carried a bundle of crystals wrapped in gauze and an unlabeled tin of tea.
"I brought grounding things," she said simply, and began placing the crystals around the room like they were wards.
By the time the fire was roaring, they'd dragged every cushion and blanket off the furniture and thrown them across the floor in a heap. The wine was open. The popcorn had already spilled once. A soft jazz record was playing from somewhere, scratchy and old and perfect.
Pansy had painted her nails blood red and was waving them under Hermione's nose, demanding praise. Ginny was cradling the popcorn bowl like it might fight her for it. Luna was curled up near the fire, her knees pulled to her chest, toes pointed toward the heat.
And Hermione? She had been waiting.
Not just for them. For the right moment. The right breath.
Luna spoke first.
"You're glowing," she said softly, not looking up. "More than usual."
Hermione stilled.
She had expected to say it over a toast. Maybe wait until someone asked the right question. But now it was there, sitting on the floor between them like something sacred.
She didn't bother with a preamble.
"Well," she said, fingers brushing her stomach, "that's because I'm growing actual people."
The room froze.
Ginny sat bolt upright, eyes wide. "Sorry — what?"
"I'm pregnant," Hermione said. Just like that. Clear and steady. "It's early, but I'm sure."
Silence.
Then Pansy let out a noise that could only be described as a high-pitched gasp-squeal hybrid and launched herself forward.
"You're lying. No. You're joking. You'd never be this casual about it. Merlin's tits, you're serious."
Ginny let out a bark of laughter, which caught in her throat and turned into a sob. "You're having a baby. Like, a proper baby. Inside you."
Hermione nodded, her smile small and wobbly. "Twins, actually."
That did it.
Ginny screamed. Pansy screamed louder. Luna clapped her hands once and whispered, "Of course," like the universe had told her last week and she'd just been waiting for everyone else to catch up.
Ginny launched herself across the cushions and tackled Hermione into the blankets, arms wrapped tight around her. "You angel," she sniffled. "I love you so much."
Pansy wasn't crying, but her hands trembled as she grabbed hold of Hermione's foot, as if touch might make it real. "I'm designing the nursery. No one else. I want mood boards. I want layered textures. I want a theme that says whimsy but in an expensive way. And if anyone gets you baby clothes with frogs on them, I'm setting them on fire."
"Pans," Hermione groaned. "Please. I am begging you. No chaos. I have Draco to deal with, and that's already a full-time job."
Luna, still curled by the fire, looked over and smiled. "You're going to have a peaceful, grounded pregnancy, my love. No stress. No madness."
She turned slowly and stared directly at Pansy, who glared right back like they were about to duel.
"Fine," Pansy muttered, crossing her arms. "But I'm still vetoing the mobile."
Ginny had settled back into the blankets and was now curled around the popcorn again, wiping tears from her cheeks.
"You're going to be such a good mum," she said softly. "And I can't wait to watch the ferret panic about hormone swings and tit sizes."
"Don't say tit sizes," Hermione said, laughing now. "I swear, the man's already Googling breast pumps like it's an academic pursuit."
Pansy cackled. "We're absolutely babysitting."
"No," Hermione said quickly.
"Yes," all three of them answered in unison.
And that was it.
The fire crackled. The popcorn went cold. Someone poured more wine. Someone added more pillows. And Hermione sat there in the mess of it — the laughter, the noise, the absolute lunacy — and felt something settle in her chest.
This was it. The moment she had been waiting for.
Not the words. Not the reveal.
The love.
The chaos.
The joy of being completely, hopelessly known, and still entirely adored.
~~~~~~
The house was far too quiet. That was the first sign something had gone horribly, absurdly wrong.
Hermione stood in the drawing room, arms folded, eyes narrowed, staring at the monstrosity that had been wheeled in by a house-elf with the grim ceremony of an executioner.
A whiteboard.
Not just any whiteboard. A full-sized, professional-grade monstrosity. Covered in colour-coded diagrams. Sticky notes. Sections.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she muttered, rubbing her temple.
Narcissa entered next, lips pursed into a shape that could cut glass. Her robes were pristine. Her expression was not. She looked like a woman who had tolerated many of her son's antics over the years but had absolutely no intention of tolerating this one.
Jane followed close behind, cardigan slipping from one shoulder, a proper cup of tea in hand, and the general air of someone who had not signed up for this nonsense. She dropped onto the sofa with a sigh that carried decades of weary tolerance.
"You told him ten minutes," Jane said flatly.
"I know," Hermione replied. "I lied."
The door creaked open like a curtain before a tragedy, and in swept Draco Malfoy, robes immaculate, hair irritatingly perfect, carrying three leather-bound notebooks, a quill that looked like it belonged in a museum, and the unbearable confidence of a man who thought he was about to deliver a keynote speech.
"Ladies," he greeted, giving them all a short, respectful nod, as if he were about to chair a summit at the Ministry.
No one responded.
Unbothered, he strode to the whiteboard, cleared his throat with theatrical precision, and opened one of the notebooks with a flourish.
"I've divided the pregnancy into trimesters," he began, tapping the board, "each with its own set of objectives and strategic action plans. We'll be using the A.L.B.U.S. Method. That's the Advanced Linear Breakdown of Uterine Support."
Jane blinked, once. Slowly.
Narcissa said nothing. She simply pulled a goblet of wine from her handbag and took a long sip.
Hermione dragged both hands down her face and collapsed into the armchair with the full-body despair of a woman who had faced Death Eaters and still somehow found this worse.
Draco, of course, continued without pause.
"Phase One," he declared, turning the board to reveal a new chart. "Weeks one through twelve. Primary goals: nutritional stability, magical interference reduction, and emotional equilibrium. Supporting actions include meditation calendars, a series of low-intensity wand-free exercises, and a rotating tea regimen. I've prepared three menus."
Jane made a sound like she was about to laugh or cry but couldn't decide which.
Narcissa clinked her goblet against the arm of her chair a little louder than necessary.
Hermione didn't even flinch.
Draco glanced around the room. "Ah. I see we're speechless."
"No," Hermione said eventually. "We're trying to work out which of us is legally allowed to smother you with a cushion."
He chose not to acknowledge the threat.
Instead, he flipped to another page and began reading aloud the weekly meal plan as if announcing award nominations.
"Breakfast shall include a calcium-rich item paired with one iron-dense selection. I've sourced enchanted kale from a supplier in Dorset, as well as organic duck eggs from a reputable magical farm. Full details on page fourteen."
"You made a menu?" Jane asked, disbelief sinking into her tea.
"Three," Draco replied proudly. "Weekday. Weekend. Travel version, in case of unscheduled Ministry duties or social obligations."
"I think I preferred him when he was casually elitist and left me alone," Jane muttered to Hermione.
"I heard that," Draco said, eyes still on his notes.
Narcissa finally stirred. "Darling," she said, "what, precisely, is wrong with toast?"
Draco blinked at her like she'd just insulted his entire bloodline. "Toast is a vessel, Mother. Not a meal."
Hermione leaned forward, face blank. "You've completely lost it."
"I'm trying to protect my child," he said, a bit too sharply.
"No," Hermione said, her voice calm but pointed. "You're trying to control everything within arm's reach so you don't have to feel how scared you are."
Draco's mouth opened, then closed again.
Jane spoke next, her tone far too gentle to be kind. "You laminated the vitamin checklist?"
"For longevity," he muttered.
"And Hermione's taken it down three times already," Jane added.
Narcissa set her wine down, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "Draco. You are clever. You are determined. But you are not a healer."
"No," Hermione said. "He's worse. He's a Malfoy with too much bloody free time."
Draco looked genuinely affronted. "I'm being proactive. Someone has to be."
"And someone has to actually live in this house with you while you pace about like a condemned man," Hermione shot back. "Do you know what you did yesterday?"
He tilted his head, considering.
"You followed me into the loo."
"I thought you'd fainted."
"I was brushing my hair."
"You were leaning slightly to the left," he replied defensively. "It looked suspicious."
Draco cleared his throat with the pomp of a man preparing to deliver a Ministry keynote speech. He turned to the whiteboard and, with a flick of his wand, unveiled the newest horror: a perfectly labelled flowchart in shimmering ink titled Hermione Granger-Malfoy's Pregnancy: Risk Mitigation and Wellness Execution Strategy.
It was even worse up close. Diagrams. Colour-coded timelines. Bullet points in gold ink. A constellation of miniature magical paper cutouts hovering mid-air, each labelled with terrifying precision: Magical Emergencies, Apparition Protocols, Potion Interactions, Sleep Cycle Disruptions, Wand-Free Zones, and Hermione's personal favourite, Hormonal Event Preparedness.
Jane closed her eyes like she was begging some higher power to intervene. Narcissa, without missing a beat, picked her wine back up and took a steady sip.
Hermione didn't so much as flinch. "You named it the War Room?"
Draco turned, hand planted firmly on his hip. "Yes. Because it is one. This is a campaign of precision and care. Unlike the rest of you, I'm actually taking this seriously."
"Darling," Narcissa said gently, in the tone one might use to soothe a very handsome toddler, "Hermione is pregnant. She's not invading France."
"She might as well be," Draco muttered. "She's carrying my child. The odds of chaos are astronomical."
Jane stood up, walked over to the board, and pointed to a section titled Labour Emergency Personnel Tiers. Her voice was flat. "Tier One: Myself, Jane, and Mother. Tier Two: Healer Olivia Byrne, Apparition-certified. Tier Three: Unspeakables on standby, in case of magical anomalies."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You're involving the Department of Mysteries now?"
"Only if absolutely necessary," Draco said.
"Oh my god."
Draco pointed to one of the tiny floating cutouts, which appeared to be a charmed paper version of himself holding a wand. "I've also prepared a list of spells to be used during labour, in case we encounter magical feedback loops, nerve damage, or premature magical discharge from the baby's core."
Narcissa nearly dropped her goblet. "Draco Lucius Malfoy. Are you suggesting our grandchild might cast spells in utero?"
Draco looked mildly insulted. "It's been recorded. There are case studies. I included them in the appendix."
Jane turned to Hermione. "He made an appendix."
Hermione didn't look up. "He made five."
Draco summoned another floating parchment, this one decorated with tiny silver stars. "Now then. The second trimester. I've divided the weeks into thematic sections. Seventeen through nineteen is focused on 'Stability and Stillness.' Daily affirmations are encouraged. I've written a suggested list. It begins with: 'You are safe, you are sacred, you are a Malfoy.'"
Hermione stood so fast her chair scraped loudly against the floor. "I swear to Merlin, I'm going to scream."
Jane nodded. "Please do. I'll join in."
Hermione did scream. Into a cushion. Then into another, just to be sure.
Draco didn't so much as flinch. He stood there, hands clasped behind his back like a schoolboy presenting a project, watching her with the quiet solemnity of a man who had prepared for this exact moment.
Narcissa took a slow sip of her champagne.
Jane muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like, "This is why I keep gin in the cupboard," and folded her arms as she leaned back into the sofa.
When Hermione finally resurfaced, face flushed, curls a bit wild, eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, Draco offered her a diplomatic nod. "Your hormones appear to be right on track."
"You are one more sentence away from sleeping in the bloody stables."
Jane raised a hand. "Seconded."
Draco sighed. "Right. Moving on."
He gave his wand a sharp flick. The scroll hovering beside the whiteboard spun round to reveal a new horror: WEEKLY SCHEDULE – Optimal Maternal Health Plan.
It sparkled. It was colour-coded. There were headers in cursive. Magical cursive.
Hermione squinted. "Why are there five daily blocks labelled 'emotional regulation interval'?"
"Because," Draco said, in that tone he reserved for moments he felt particularly clever, "emotions impact fetal development. I read three studies. Well, four. The fourth got pulled because of boggart contamination in the testing environment."
"You are not assigning me feelings, Draco."
"I'm not assigning them," he replied smoothly. "I'm encouraging you to process them at safe, consistent intervals."
Narcissa made a sound that might have been a laugh, though she disguised it behind her glass.
Jane leaned forward. "Draco, do you actually hear yourself when you speak?"
"No," Hermione said. "He doesn't. He's too busy enjoying the sound of his own voice."
"I'm not enjoying it. I'm being efficient."
"Tell that to your seven spreadsheets."
Draco reached into the leather folder tucked under his arm and produced a scroll titled in bold ink: Trimesters and Tragedy: A Preemptive Response Manual.
Hermione stared at it. "Did you write a military dossier on my pregnancy?"
He hesitated. "It's more of a wellness doctrine."
Jane groaned. "I swear to god."
Narcissa leaned over, voice low and conspiratorial. "Did he include a tactical retreat clause?"
Draco flipped the scroll open. "Page twenty-three."
Jane dragged her hands down her face and looked at Hermione. "I'm going to slice that board into kindling if he pulls out one more laminated sheet."
He blinked, genuinely surprised. "You'd burn my documents?"
"Yes. And I'll roast marshmallows over the fire while Hermione makes a list of all the ways you've become completely intolerable."
Hermione didn't laugh. Mostly because she was still weighing up the idea.
Draco's mouth tightened. "I'm only trying to provide structure."
"You are trying to launch a military invasion on my uterus."
"Technically," he said, "our uterus."
Silence fell.
Narcissa calmly topped up her champagne.
Jane looked at Hermione. "I will murder him. Say the word."
Hermione glanced at her mother, then at her mother-in-law, and finally at Draco, who remained infuriatingly proud of himself.
"You cannot schedule my emotions."
"I'm not scheduling them. I'm blocking out space should they arise. Think of it as a preparedness chart."
Hermione gaped. "Is he speaking actual English? Are we sure?"
"He's blacked out," Jane said. "Too much planning. He's gone."
Narcissa, who had not stopped sipping, tilted her head. "I rather like the headings. Very tidy. I'd like a copy."
"See?" Draco beamed. "Thank you, Mother. I can have one printed by tomorrow."
Hermione gawked at her. "Et tu, Narcissa?"
Narcissa shrugged. "You're carrying a Malfoy. There will be paperwork. Might as well start now."
It started with the nap chart.
Or rather, it started when Draco Malfoy, in full academic mode, began explaining the science of optimal maternal rest cycles while holding a pointer wand like he was lecturing a room full of junior healers. The whiteboard glowed behind him, diagrams neatly charmed into movement, each chart worse than the last.
"You see," he said, tapping a graph titled Maternal Fatigue: Week Eighteen through Twenty-Four, "the key is consistency. If we time nap intervals in line with hormonal shifts—"
Hermione stood.
Jane stood with her.
Even Narcissa, who had so far weathered the day with her usual elegant detachment, looked vaguely startled.
"No one," Hermione said, her voice tight with restraint, "is aligning my naps with a bleeding graph."
Draco blinked. "But it's based on very reliable—"
"My what?" Hermione snapped. "My serenity? My comfort? My safety?"
He paused. "Yes?"
She turned to Jane. "Hold me back."
Jane looked to Narcissa. "Shall we throw something?"
"I've already chosen a vase," Narcissa said lightly.
Hermione made a strangled noise that resembled Latin swearing and stormed toward the board, wand half-raised.
Draco tried to block her path with his body. "This is priceless work!"
"Draco," Jane said, sighing deeply, "you are a grown man. Let the woman nap when she bloody well feels like it."
"But how will we monitor outcomes—"
"Draco."
He backed away, clutching the chart like it was a newborn dragon, eyes full of betrayal.
Hermione dropped back into her chair with a groan, flinging one arm over her face. "I want one day. Just one. With no 'gestational movement protocols' or 'sanctioned snack lists.'"
Draco perked up. "I've scrapped the snack list. Effective immediately. No more laminated menus."
Jane raised her brows. "There were laminated snack menus?"
"There were tabs," Narcissa confirmed. "Quite a few."
"I will drown him in the pond," Hermione muttered.
"Not until the baby's here," Jane said. "We may still need him for heavy lifting."
"I have foot rub vouchers," Draco said brightly, producing a small envelope from inside his robe. "They're enchanted for authenticity."
Hermione stared. "You made magical coupons?"
"On thick parchment. Gilded edges."
"Oh, splendid," Jane said. "Romance by way of tyranny."
Narcissa stood and adjusted her robe with regal flair. "I would like to chair the Baby Shower Wardrobe Committee."
"There's a—what committee?" Hermione asked, already panicking.
"I've begun sketches," Narcissa said, serene as ever. "There's going to be a winter lookbook."
Jane leaned close and whispered, "It's becoming very clear where he gets it from."
Draco looked touched. "Mother, I was hoping you'd offer."
Hermione blinked. "There's already a committee?"
"We've had three meetings," Narcissa said, pouring more champagne. "The theme is moonlight and heritage."
Hermione stared at her. "Who's on it?"
"Pansy. And Blaise, but only for lighting design."
Draco cleared his throat. "If I might—"
"No," Hermione cut in, rising again. "If you summon another scroll or assign me one more planner or mention calcium, I swear I will file for divorce just to sleep alone for one bloody night."
Draco looked horrified. "You don't mean that."
"I do," she said, poking him in the chest. "I mean it with every sore vertebra in my body."
He turned to Jane. "Surely that's exaggeration."
"She said what she said," Jane replied flatly.
Draco turned to his mother. She was already sketching cradle motifs.
Five minutes later, he returned with a projection orb and another scroll.
Hermione didn't look up. "No."
"But—"
"I don't want to see it."
"You haven't even—"
"If it lights up or makes music, I'm leaving and never coming back."
"It doesn't sing," Draco said quickly.
Jane lifted a hand. "Does it sparkle?"
Draco paused.
"Draco," Narcissa said gently, "you promised not to charm the scrolls again."
"I disabled the glitter enchantment," he muttered. "Mostly."
Hermione dropped her face into her hands. "Why are you like this?"
He sounded almost proud. "Because I love you. And I'm preparing us for every possible scenario."
He tapped the orb.
It shimmered softly, casting a warm golden hue onto the far wall. Calligraphy appeared across the top.
Hermione didn't look. She didn't need to.
"I am going to hex that orb into the fireplace," she said calmly.
Jane nodded. "We'll toast marshmallows over it. Make a whole night of it."
Narcissa tilted her head, considering. "Actually, if the orb could display winter outfits during the baby shower—"
"I'm moving into the shed," Hermione said.
"No," Draco said, wounded. "You're my wife."
"You are a lunatic," she muttered.
"I'm a lunatic with a birth plan," he replied.
"You wrote five."
"They each serve a different potential outcome."
Jane got to her feet. "Right. We're going to the garden. Before I transfigure the tea set into a weapon."
Narcissa sighed. "At least take the orb. It's got mood lighting."
Hermione pointed at Draco on her way out. "When I come back, I want that chart gone, the orb buried, and all snack menus destroyed."
Draco watched her leave, still holding his scroll.
He looked at Narcissa. "Do you think she's serious?"
Narcissa patted his shoulder. "Oh, darling. She's never been more serious in her life."
Jane leaned over to Hermione and spoke under her breath. "You want me to kill him?"
"No," Hermione whispered back. "But I want him hexed. Just a bit. Something irritating that wears off by dinner."
Up front, Draco was pointing at the whiteboard like he was delivering an urgent wartime strategy.
"Slide one," he announced, flicking his wand with too much flair. "We begin with mood variability. As outlined in the twelve-week temperament forecast—"
Hermione blinked. "The what?"
"Twelve-week temperament forecast," he repeated. "Based on seasonal patterns, lunar activity, and recurring themes in your dreams."
"I dreamed you were eaten alive by a centaur," she muttered.
"Exactly," Draco said, looking pleased with himself. "Week twenty-three. High in symbolic aggression."
Jane snorted.
It escalated quickly into full-body laughter, the sort that made her wheeze and clutch a cushion as if bracing for collapse.
"Week twenty-four," Draco went on, completely undeterred, "marks a spike in hostility towards unsolicited advice. This coincides with what I've termed the crone irritation curve."
Narcissa inhaled her champagne the wrong way and had to set the glass down, coughing into her hand with alarming elegance.
Hermione stood up, eyes wild. "Right. No. I'm leaving. I'm done. I'm going to Luna's. She doesn't try to graph my subconscious."
"You dreamt she had wings," Draco said, as if that settled it.
"Shut up."
Jane wiped her eyes. "I feel like I should be insulted on your behalf, but I sort of want to see what he's got planned for me."
"Do not encourage this," Hermione snapped.
But Draco was already rifling through his scrolls. "Would you like a peek at the Jane Granger Postpartum Involvement Projections?"
"No," Jane replied at once.
"Slide eleven covers it in full detail."
"Draco," Narcissa said sharply, with the slow weariness of someone who had raised this man from birth, "sit down and stop trying to govern existence."
"But no one's governing it," he said, sounding genuinely heartbroken.
Hermione spun around. "You are not the Ministry of Creation."
"I'm not saying I am," he said solemnly, "but if the role is vacant—"
Jane lobbed a cushion straight at his head.
He caught it and tucked it behind his back like nothing had happened.
Hermione sat again, exhausted, one hand pressing against the swell of her belly, the other massaging her temple.
She didn't look at him. Her voice was quieter now. "Alright. Let's try this again. What do you actually want? No lists. No diagrams. Just you. What's all this about, really?"
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it again.
Narcissa set her glass down with a gentle clink and said nothing.
Jane watched him with raised eyebrows, finally quiet.
Hermione looked up at him, tired but waiting.
Then, after a long pause, he knelt in front of her.
"I'm scared," he said quietly, "that I'll miss something. That I won't protect you fast enough. That I won't be good at this. That I'll fail you. That I'll fail them."
She blinked. The room went very still.
"Oh, love," Jane said softly.
Narcissa turned away, eyes suspiciously damp.
Hermione reached out and cupped his face. "You're already good at this. You care so much it's terrifying. But I don't need a presentation. I need you. Just you. No graphs. No flowcharts. Just Draco."
He pressed his forehead to her stomach.
And stayed there.
Long enough for the orb to flicker out. Long enough for Jane to silently wipe her eyes. Long enough for Narcissa to pull out a tissue and pretend she wasn't crying too.
Hermione ran her fingers through his hair.
"You can still laminate things," she said, voice teasing but soft. "Just not my dreams."
He laughed against her belly. "Deal."
Hermione hadn't meant to drag it out quite this long, but somehow the mood had never felt quite right until now. The whiteboard was smudged with scribbles and bullet points. One of Draco's notebooks had been used by Narcissa as a makeshift coaster for her tea. Jane had resorted to peeling the label off a bottle of sparkling water, her hands far too twitchy to sit still through another plan about protein intake or third-trimester rest cycles.
And still, Draco pressed on.
He was standing with a marker in one hand and a notepad in the other, flipping between pages like he was revealing the secrets of the universe rather than repeating his projected napping schedule for the fifth time.
"We begin light stretches at exactly eight o'clock," he said, tapping the board with a level of seriousness better suited to an international summit. "Followed by the high-iron breakfast Hermione enjoys. Or will enjoy. She hasn't enjoyed it yet, but I remain hopeful."
Behind him, Jane let her head fall back against the sofa.
"I swear to God," she muttered.
Narcissa, perched delicately beside her with a goblet of something far too elegant to be called juice, offered a serene smile. "He was exactly like this when he chose the nursery paint swatches. I believe he interrogated three interior designers and one unsuspecting owl who happened to land on our windowsill."
Hermione rested her chin on her hand, watching him pace in front of the fireplace like a particularly exasperated general. His sleeves were rolled up. His hair had come loose from whatever charm he'd used that morning to keep it neat. He was frowning at his own diagrams like they'd betrayed him.
She loved him so much it made her ribs ache.
Still, she couldn't help the little laugh that bubbled up when he turned back toward the board and began another monologue on sleep hygiene.
"Draco," she said, softly at first.
He didn't stop.
"We'll need blackout curtains, obviously. Noise-canceling charms, perhaps a cushioning enchantment on the mattress—"
"Draco."
His head jerked toward her. The marker dropped slightly in his hand. "Yes, my love?"
She stood, slow and calm, and walked over to him. Her hands were trembling, just a little. Enough that she curled them behind her back as she spoke.
"I've let you go on about bassinet dimensions and scheduled naps and spell-resistant nappies for an entire hour."
He looked guilty. Not enough to stop her. But enough that he took a tiny, respectful step backward.
"I let you do all of this," she continued, "because I know it's your way of preparing. It's how you show love. You plan it into every corner of the room."
Jane was sitting up now, her expression sharp with curiosity. Narcissa had set down her glass with deliberate care.
"But I need to tell you something," Hermione said, her voice quiet, but steady. "Something you haven't planned for."
Draco's eyes narrowed, alert. "Did I miss something? Is it the baby registry? The warding updates? I knew it. I should have checked the spell tracking log again—"
"No," she interrupted, smiling through nerves that made her hands tremble slightly. "It's not that."
He stopped talking. Just stood there, watching her with the kind of cautious intensity usually reserved for cursed artefacts and Department memos marked confidential.
Hermione exhaled, slow and careful. "It's not just one baby."
The silence that followed was immediate. Heavy. As if the air itself had paused to listen.
She swallowed. "I'm having twins."
For one long moment, Draco didn't move.
He didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Just stared at her like the words were floating somewhere in the room and he hadn't quite caught them yet.
Then the marker slipped from his fingers. The notebook slid out of his grip. And in the next breath, he crossed the room in three staggering steps, as if gravity had finally remembered him.
He wrapped his arms around her so fiercely that she stumbled back a pace, laughing softly as he caught her. Then he kissed her. Not delicately. Not with caution. With the full, reckless force of a man who had just been handed the entire bloody galaxy.
His hands were everywhere at once. In her curls. On her lower back. Cupping her face. Pressed flat against her stomach like he might feel them already, like the weight of this new reality needed anchoring.
"Oh my God," he whispered, voice raw and stunned. "Twins. Hermione, you're—you're giving me two. Two of them."
She laughed, breathless against the curve of his shoulder. "That's generally how twins work, yes."
Draco pulled back, just enough to look at her properly. His eyes were glassy. His mouth opened like he meant to say something profound, but no words came out. Instead, he kissed her again and pressed his face into the crook of her neck, holding her like a man who had just survived something terrible and beautiful all at once.
"I need to sit down," he mumbled against her skin. "I think I'm going to faint."
Jane let out a sharp laugh from the sofa. "Please do. I've got the smelling salts ready and waiting."
Narcissa, who had been watching the entire scene with the stillness of a woman absorbing history, rose to her feet and walked over to Hermione. She didn't say anything at first. Just lifted a hand and pressed it gently to Hermione's cheek, her expression full of wonder.
"My grandchildren," she said at last, reverent as if casting a blessing. "Plural."
Draco finally lifted his head, arms still around Hermione like he couldn't bear to let go. He turned towards his mother with the wide-eyed dread of a man suddenly realising the implications.
"What if they both look like me?" he said faintly. "What if there are two of me? In the same house?"
Jane stood, arms crossed, grin devilish. "Merlin help us all."
Hermione, caught somewhere between laughing and crying, kissed him again and whispered, "We're going to need a bigger whiteboard."