Draco Malfoy apparates to a spot one block west of their row house. The Floo is supposed to be locked when he’s away for work. She knows this. She rolls her eyes and insists that she’s a very competent witch who is perfectly capable of protecting herself. (She is a war hero, after all). But she knows that he prefers that it’s locked. Lately, though, she’s been more forgetful, and when he’s this tired, he knows he’s far more likely to pick a fight. As much as he wants to test the wards, he’d rather not fight tonight.
The world is dark and quiet at this time of night - perhaps morning? - but he still uses wandless, wordless magic to disarm the wards on the door. There’s the familiar rush of magic as he steps inside, the blood wards granting him entry. She had been upset about the blood he spilled there, too. Enough that she had dosed him twice with a blood replenishing potion before he could move from the couch. But Draco has seen the world at its worst, stared into the face of evil itself. Sometimes, even these wards don’t feel adequate enough.
A single light still burns in the living room, waiting for him. He drops heavily into the armchair beside it, feeling the raw ache in his feet, his legs, his left arm. As he bends to untie his dress shoes, his hands begin to tremble. It’s subtle at first. A small spasm. A tick. But then they begin to shake too hard for him to grasp the laces.
He sighs as he lets his head fall back against the chair. Closes his eyes as he squeezes his hands into fists. She had made him go to Healer after Healer after Healer the first time he wasn’t quick enough to hide the tremors. They had all said the same thing: an irreversible consequence of repeated use of the cruciatus curse. As if the curse had rooted itself into his soul, leaving aftershocks pulsing through him.
Maybe it’s the punishment he deserves.
He uncurls his fists and tries again, gripping the laces this time. There’s relief in how quickly it goes away, for now. Potter won’t be able to insist he stay on desk duty any time soon.
He leaves his shoes by the door, the way she likes. Takes note of the book she left beside her chair, a new one. Notes the toys carefully tucked away in their baskets with a pang in his chest. He had hoped he would be home before bedtime, but their suspect had been unconscious when they brought him in, which meant an examination of their wands, both his and Potter’s.
Sometimes, while he waits for them to read through his most recent spellwork, he wants to ask if they can comb through his whole history to tally it up. Sometimes, he wonders if the number of leviosas he’s used on makeshift mobiles and episkeys on skinned knees balances out the number of curses his wand has cast.
With another wordless wave of his hand, he ends the lumos keeping the living room lit. In the kitchen, dinner is under stasis for him. He leaves it untouched and reads over the to-do list she left pinned up (Birthday gift for Mum. Reschedule Healer appointment. Stock asphodel, lavender, and peppermint. Schedule playdate with Ginny.) He makes a mental note to ask about the appointment as he moves back towards the stairs.
At the top of the stairs, he stops at the first door, gently easing it open. Scorpius is fast asleep in his bed, tiny plush owl tucked beneath his arm. Small stars twinkle on the walls, a nightlight of constellations to honor every member of the Black family named for the tradition, including Scorpius. Draco created it nearly five years ago.
They hadn’t been trying. They were newlyweds with plans to travel. She wanted to move up in the Ministry first, he was trying to convince himself that he wouldn’t be his own father. But the potion she had been taking for her Black Cat Flu symptoms canceled out her contraceptive potion, and five weeks later, the Muggle test she insisted on taking turned positive. He had nearly passed out.
Babies are always a blessing, Molly Weasley had tearfully said as she embraced them both two months later. But Draco lost countless nights of sleep wondering how deep the curses in his own family ran. There were nightmares where he was doomed to repeat history, a tyrant to his own child. Others where his blood mixed with hers and only led to tragedy, sometimes taking her with their child. He held his breath until Scorpius entered the world, tiny and innocent and perfect. A blessing, just like Molly said.
Draco moves to the side of his bed to smooth down the boy’s unruly white curls. Presses a kiss to his warm temple. In the fall, he’ll begin primary school, their son who loves books and sugar quills and his Uncle Theo.
Just before he left for this latest trip, Scorpius asked about the numbers tattooed on Draco’s neck. His dark mark, scarred over from his haphazard attempts to remove it years ago, has been referred to as a booboo for years. The tattoo is much harder to explain. He had left her to stumble through it, afraid he might vomit if he had to tell his son about the evils he still carries.
He leaves one more kiss and dims the stars before leaving. In the next room, Lyra is fast asleep in her crib. She seems so much bigger than he remembers, a tiny giant in the bed she’s slept in ever since she moved out of their room. There’s a stirring of guilt, knowing they should’ve moved her to a toddler bed. But work has kept him away, and she’s been trying to accomplish six months’ work in three, so they’ve been busy. There had been so many sleepless nights when Scorpius left the crib. They don’t have time for sleepless nights right now.
It’s unhealthy the way they both work, he knows that. She wants to fix the world, make it a safer, more accepting place for their children. He wants to banish the evil that remains, like it’s his penance. It’s a curse, their shared ethic, despite the blessings it may bring.
He performs the same ritual: smoothing down curls so much like her mother’s. Fixing a tiny blanket knitted by their fairly employed House Elf, Kit. Peppering kisses to her round cheeks. When she stirs, he waves his wand to start the hum of white noise again and then eases out of the room.
At the end of the hall, there’s a light left on for him again. He moves gingerly around the room as he removes his wand and holster, his robes, his braces. He strips down to his trunks before he waves the light off and crawls into bed beside her.
He pulls Hermione into the circle of his arms, relishing in the soft, contented noise she makes. Her eyes are still closed as she turns over, the swell of her belly brushing against his front. Mentally, he counts weeks, and when he reaches the end just after he’s begun, he makes a mental note to remind Potter his Auror work can’t take him away from London anymore. He’s not sure his wife has forgiven him for the way he made it home only an hour before Lyra entered the world.
“Did you catch the baddie?” she asks, her voice soft and husky with sleep.
“I did.” His hand tangles in her curls as he presses her closer. There’s already no space between them, and yet, it still doesn’t feel close enough. “How were things here?”
“Fine.” She drapes an arm over his shoulder, sleepily returning his embrace. “They missed you.”
“ I missed them.” He lowers his head to press a kiss to the crown of her head, then murmurs against her curls, “I missed you, too. How are you?”
Her response is a yawn before she finally slowly opens her eyes. They look like pools of amber in the dark of their bedroom. “Alright. I finished the new dragon sanctuary regulations.”
“Good.” His nose is buried in her hair now, breathing in the familiar scent of jasmine and vanilla that now just is the scent of home. “Does that mean you’ll take it easier now?”
Her murmur is noncommittal, even as her eyes drift close. His hand moves from her back to the curve of her hip, then the swell of her belly. There’s something firm beneath his palm, an elbow or a foot. He presses harder, receiving a tiny jab in return.
Hermione groans, burying her face against his chest. “Draco.” She says his name like it’s a curse, and he can’t help the way his mouth curves into a smile. “They just stopped moving.”
“I’m sorry.” He runs his hand over that same spot, as if it’s possible to soothe the child inside.
“No, you’re not.”
His smile grows at the stubborn note in her voice. “No, I’m not,” he admits before leaving another kiss on her head. “But I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
It feels like a blessing she gives as she falls back to sleep.