Chapter 4
Harry had never thought of himself as someone who needed domesticity. After all, he had grown up without it—no warm welcomes, no home-cooked meals, no one waiting for him at the end of the day. But now, coming home after long, grueling hours at Auror training, he realized how nice it was.
The manor, once an intimidating place, had become something else. Warmer. Not because of the grand architecture or the expensive furnishings, but because of Draco.
Draco, who was always there when he arrived.
He never made a fuss, never demanded anything. He would simply be there, waiting in the sitting room with a book or finishing up paperwork, greeting Harry with a quiet, “You’re late again.” There was no accusation in his voice, just a simple observation, like he had already adjusted to Harry’s schedule, to Harry’s life.
And it wasn’t just that. Draco agreed with everything Harry said.
At first, it seemed practical. They were married for convenience, after all. Draco was used to maneuvering through the expectations of high society, and Harry was busy with his work—having a partner who simply went along with things made everything easier.
But then Harry started noticing things.
How Draco would nod and agree to Harry’s plans without hesitation, even when it was clear he had an opinion. How he would eat whatever Harry made, even if he barely touched his plate. How he would never ask for anything, never complain, never express discomfort, no matter the situation.
And then, there was the bedroom.
Harry wasn’t sure when it had started bothering him. Maybe it was the first time he noticed Draco wincing but saying nothing. Or maybe it was when he whispered a quiet, “It’s fine,” even though Harry could tell it wasn’t.
Draco never pushed him away. Never asked him to stop. Never protested.
And that was the problem.
One night, after another long day of training, Harry came home to find Draco already in bed. He looked ethereal in the dim candlelight, silver-blond hair spilling over the pillow, eyes lidded but watchful.
Harry joined him, hovering over Draco, waiting. But Draco just looked up at him with the same expression he always did—calm, obedient, waiting for Harry to decide.
Something twisted in Harry’s chest.
He reached out, tracing a hand down Draco’s arm. “Do you actually want this?” he asked, voice quiet but firm.
Draco blinked, surprised by the question. “You’re my husband.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
A pause. Draco’s lips parted slightly, but no words came.
And that silence told Harry everything.
His grip loosened, and he pulled back, heart pounding. “Draco… you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
Draco hesitated, as if trying to process the idea. Then, finally, he nodded.
And Harry realized how much work there was still left to do.
Harry had always been rough with Draco in bed. It wasn’t intentional—at least, he never thought it was. Draco never told him to stop, never fought back, never even flinched. It made it easy to keep pushing, to take and take, because Draco always let him.
But tonight was different.
Harry didn’t notice at first. He was lost in the heat of it, in the way Draco always felt so small beneath him, the way he never resisted. But then he heard it—soft at first, but unmistakable.
Draco was crying.
That, in itself, was shocking. But then, in a weak, broken voice, Draco whispered, “Stop.”
Harry froze.
Draco never told him to stop.
His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, and Harry pulled back slightly, staring down at him. Draco’s face was turned away, his silver-blond hair messy against the pillow, his body trembling.
His hands clutched at his stomach.
“It hurts,” Draco whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut. “Harry… it hurts too much.”
Panic shot through Harry like ice. This wasn’t the usual discomfort Draco ignored—this was real pain.
He scrambled off the bed, heart pounding. “Draco—what—what’s wrong?”
Draco just shook his head, curling in on himself, his arms wrapping around his stomach like he was trying to shield it.
Harry didn’t think—he just grabbed his wand and sent a Patronus to summon a healer.
The wait felt like an eternity. Draco wouldn’t stop shaking, his face pale, his breath shallow. And Harry—Harry just knelt beside him, helpless, his hands hovering over Draco’s body but too afraid to touch him.
When the healer arrived, she took one look at Draco and cast a diagnostic spell. A soft, golden light spread over Draco’s stomach, pulsing gently before revealing a shimmering outline.
The healer inhaled sharply.
Harry barely had time to react before she turned to him and said, “Mr. Potter… your husband is pregnant.”
Everything stopped.
Harry’s mind went blank.
Pregnant?
Draco was pregnant?
His gaze snapped to Draco, who looked just as stunned—except his expression wasn’t just shock. It was something else. Something raw, something fragile.
Harry thought back to everything—the way Draco never complained, never fought back, never said no. The way Harry had been rough with him, careless, never stopping to consider that Draco might not be as unbreakable as he seemed.
And now… now Draco was carrying his child.
Guilt hit him like a curse.
Because if Draco had never told him to stop before, then how many times had Harry hurt him without realizing it? How many times had Draco simply endured?
And worst of all—if Draco hadn’t told him to stop tonight, would Harry have ever known?