Chapter 5
Hermione moved into Malfoy Manor on a hot summer’s day.
A lazy breeze curled its way through the grounds, carrying with it the sweet scents of sun-toasted wisteria and ivy greens. All around were the sounds of the country. Cooing birds, singing insects—all the little signs of a bustling natural world that were so conspicuously missing from a great grey city like London.
The Malfoy estate was much larger than anywhere else Hermione had ever lived. It was hard to not feel a little self conscious here—like she was out of place.
Hermione didn’t know what Draco’s parents thought of her; they’d only been dating for two months and she’d met them once at a polite but rigidly formal dinner. Surely they didn’t approve of how fast their son had moved Hermione out here? Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if Draco’s parents would have preferred him to be with a woman who had experience managing an estate like this.
She’d expressed this self-consciousness to Draco last week, but he’d been so vehemently reassuring—as well as visibly anxious that she might change her mind about moving in—that Hermione hadn’t had the heart to voice the thought again.
Draco always seemed so worried that Hermione might one day come to her senses and break up with him. It was endearingly silly. Didn’t he know he was a catch?
Hermione walked around the grounds with Draco now, holding her two tomato plants from the balcony at Flora Place in her arms.
The terracotta pots of the tomatoes had always been cold and a little damp to the touch in London, sitting in the shade on Hermione’s little balcony. But now they seemed to absorb all the sun and light around. Like the clay was breathing a sigh of relief to finally be out of the metropolis.
Draco walked next to her, one of his hands surreptitiously bracing the bottom of one of the tomato pots. Hermione had told him she was fine to carry the plants, but it was clear that Draco didn’t love the sight of Hermione carrying things. She smiled to herself; he was so old-fashioned sometimes.
“It’s beautiful, right?” Draco asked. Gauging her reaction to the grounds. “The loveliest this side of the Atlantic. Or so we’ve been told.”
Hermione laughed.
“What’s on the other side of the Atlantic?” she asked.
“Nothing worth leaving here for,” he said firmly, and she laughed harder.
“Cute,” she teased. “I don’t need much anyway. All I want is a corner to stick my tomato plants in.”
“Thank you, tomato plants,” Draco said seriously, looking down at the withered leaves. “For giving Hermione incentive to move here. I hope you’ll do much better than in London. Trust that we have servants who know how to garden, and so you’ll no longer be victims to Hermione’s overeager pruning and forgetful watering—“
“Stop!” Hermione laughed, snatching her plants away from him. “How dare you insinuate it was my doing? You give it a try.”
“What an unbelievably perfect segue,” Draco said, turning her a little by the waist. “To my surprise.”
Hermione peered in vain around the leaves and wooden poles of her tomato plant.
“What is it?”
“Here,” Draco said with a laugh. “Give me that.”
Draco took the plants from her. He set them on a stone bench, next to what appeared to be a vast, empty square of fresh dark soil.
It was divided into little rows, and there were wooden signs along each row with cute etchings in the shapes of flowers or vegetables.
It was—
“A garden!” Hermione screamed.
The delighted noise was so abrupt and loud that a small group of birds took flight with an alarmed flutter.
“Tomatoes are going to be in a row over here,” Draco said eagerly, showing her. “The ones you have already will go in the corner, and I have more seeds we can use to fill in the rest. I’ve never planted anything before, but you kept talking about the garden in your parents’ backyard and I just wanted you to have everything you want here—“
It was so beautiful. The garden was surrounded by a neat row of pink quartz tiles, and everything they needed was already laid out. A silver tray with two new trowels and two new hand rakes on it. Two sets of gloves, and even a picturesque gingham blanket laid out with paper packets of seeds. Two chilled glasses of lemonade on the side.
Hermione was on the verge of tears.
“We’ll do it together?” she asked, turning to him and flapping her hands. “I thought you hated gardening!”
“I never said that!” he protested. “I just said I never spent any time in gardens. I want to learn with you, now.”
Hermione could think of one time she’d asked Ron to do something with her—ballroom dance lessons. He’d told her he’d never be any good and to just go without him.
“Thank you,” Hermione said to Draco, crying in earnest now. “Thank you—I’m so excited to plant things with you. You’re so sweet for thinking of all this—“
Hermione, too overcome with gratitude to be able to formulate a more coherent response, grabbed Draco by the collar and got on her toes to kiss him.
They planted tomato and radish seeds that day, despite learning that it wasn’t quite the right season to be planting either. It was just fun to be out in the sunlight, fun to watch Draco read the gardening book with a serious frown. Hermione teased him until he gave up and climbed on top of her on the gingham blanket instead.
Two weeks later, around when the seeds had grown into sturdy little shoots, Draco proposed to Hermione.
They had spent a Saturday afternoon drinking aperol spritzes and reading sonnets to each other on the great stone terrace outside their bedroom. Evening had fallen and now Draco and Hermione were lying on the cooling stone tiles, holding hands and looking up at the brilliant, serpentine twist of the Milky Way above.
There was no light pollution here. Hermione could see for galaxies. She could see the rest of her life.
“Hermione,” Draco said quietly.
“Mm?”
She turned to look at him, resting her cheek on the terrace stone.
Draco was already watching her.
She could only just make out his features in the dark. The white sweep of his blond hair, the stark edge of his jaw.
His eyes were black in the dark, hard to see. But the shine from the stars overhead glittered in them like the lanterns of undersea creatures, glowing their way to her.
“Hermione,” he said again, his voice a little tight. “Will you marry me?”
Hermione didn’t answer right away.
“What?” she whispered. “But—it’s so soon.”
Only three months.
But a balloon of joy was expanding in her chest. She felt tears on her cheeks. Was he serious?
Draco crawled to her and kissed her.
“Marry me?” he asked, holding her cheek. “Please…”
“Yes,” Hermione said, sobbing. “Yes, Draco! Oh my god—yes—”
Later that night, as Draco thrust into Hermione again and again, he hissed into her ear that she was his, that he would take care of her forever and ever.
Hermione’s new diamond ring glittered on her hand, splayed out onto the sheets before her.
“I love you,” she whimpered, and he groaned in response to the words.
“I love you,” he said. His thumb slid from her wrist down to the ring, and he pressed the platinum band, as though reassuring himself it was there. “I love you, I love you.”
Draco brought her breakfast in bed the next morning and Hermione was certain that her life was completely perfect. That there was nothing else she could possibly want.
But she was wrong.
On a crisp October morning, Hermione stood with bare feet on the warm marble tile of the master bathroom and stared down at a glimmering charmed line on a positive pregnancy test.
She and Draco were going to be parents.
Hermione cried joyful tears in the bathroom, trying not to let him hear. She wanted to surprise him.
Her husband worked so hard to make her happy. She sometimes felt she must have been a saint in a previous life, to have deserved someone like Draco. Hermione often worried she couldn’t even come close to being as good of a partner for him—but finally, finally, she could give him something perfect.
Draco would be thrilled.
He was outside at the moment, building a low wooden fence around the newest addition to their garden: a daisy patch.
Hermione would take advantage of the time to pick a room to convert into the nursery. She had rosy imaginings of setting up a crib with a gift bow on it, and of Draco’s face when he learned the news.
“Your daddy is going to be so excited,” she whispered giddily to the baby. Already she was starting to talk to her stomach, even though she knew it would be at least a month before the bump appeared. “He’s going to want your nursery close to our bedroom. So we can say hello to you first thing in the morning and last thing at night.”
Their bedroom was upstairs. The halls were quiet and peaceful on this long fall afternoon. Hermione kept her hand on her stomach as she walked softly down the wide, gleaming floors.
She wanted the nursery to have big windows, windows that would face south so the baby could see the daisy garden.
On this floor, there was only one room other than the master bedroom that fit that criteria.
It was all the way down the hall, round a corner. Draco had once mentioned that the room held some old furniture from his school days, and that because of all the dust and possibly even mold in there, Hermione should avoid going in. He’d promised her that once he managed to clear everything out, they could turn the room into whatever she wanted.
The prospect of mold was certainly frightening—especially since Hermione knew pregnant women had to be very careful about air toxins like that. But she decided to be brave. The promise of a perfect surprise for Draco was too hard to ignore.
She cast an air filtering charm over her face and promised herself to leave the room after only a minute or two.
When she tried the door, she found it was locked.
Undeterred, Hermione tried Alohomora. But whatever locking spell was on this room was stronger than that. It was clear Draco didn’t want to take any chances with Hermione breathing in that air.
She finally managed to get it open after trying a series of more robust breaking-and-entering spells she’d learned from Fred and George back in their Hogwarts days. With a groaning, admonishing creak, the heavy door opened.
Hermione smiled. She stepped inside.
It was terribly dark.
The windows were fully covered, drawn shut and keeping out the sunlight. If Hermione squinted, she could just make out the dark silhouettes of a few covered pieces of furniture, evidently in storage.
But—even in the dark—it was clear that this room was a very promising size and shape for a nursery.
Hermione pulled the curtains open, trying to get a better look. She paused at the window for only a moment. She could see Draco in the daisy patch, and she smiled.
Just the sight of him gave Hermione butterflies. He was so handsome.
Draco’s usually white blond hair was a little dark at the temples with sweat, and he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. His arms were strong; the lines of his forearm flexed in the sun.
“Daddy is so good-looking,” she said to the baby, running her palm over her stomach. “Like a knight in shining armor.”
Hermione let herself daydream about her husband’s tall, strong body for a little longer. He seemed about to take off his shirt…
But she finally forced herself to turn away from the window. She would get nothing done at this rate.
The room was absolutely perfect for a nursery. Not too big and not too small—and the windows were beautifully large, letting in plenty of country sunlight. They would just have to make sure the crib was somewhere the baby couldn’t accidentally get a sunburn.
Actually—the crib would look very nice where that old desk currently stood!
It was partially covered by a heavy white sheet, which Hermione tugged to the floor, trying to see what color the wood was. It would be easiest to imagine the crib there that way. The fabric fell with a rustle and a large plume of dust. Hermione covered her nose and mouth with one hand; with the other, she waved the tiny motes away. They floated off, effervescent with the afternoon light from the window behind them. Once the air was clear, Hermione checked to make sure her air filter charm was still solidly in place, then lowered her hand.
The desk was warm, honey-toned. How lovely! A crib in the same hue would look perfect.
Hermione ran her hand over the reddish wood, brushing off some of the lingering dust. Then, her attention caught on a cardboard box, shoved back against the wall. It had been covered by the sheet.
The box was sealed tightly shut, the opening wrapped with multiple layers of Spell-O-Tape. Hermione had never seen another cardboard box in the Manor. Much less one that looked so ominously closed-off.
Part of her worried she was about to stumble upon evidence of an affair. Maybe sordid love letters? Details of secret properties for Draco's second family?
Outside the window, Draco was still diligently at work. Hermione bit her lip. Then, before she had time to second guess herself, she used her wand and slit open the tape on the box.
She almost laughed at the sight inside. How silly she’d been to be worried! The box was just full of pictures.
Relieved (and chastising herself for her paranoia), Hermione reached in and pulled the top few out. How sweet. They weren’t just photos—they were photos of her. It seemed Draco was preparing to make a collage of some kind? Perhaps for a Christmas gift? The photos were clearly old. There was one from her Hogwarts years that Draco must have had to call Harry or Ginny to procure. In it, Hermione had just won the Arithmancy competition, and was beaming at the camera.
She smiled, then leafed to the next photo. It was one her old Ministry boss had taken the day their department had won a new grant.
Hermione flipped to the next photo.
She froze. Then she held the photo up closer to her face.
This was a photo she'd never seen of herself before. She was in her Flora Place flat, and half-naked. In just a bra and sleep shorts, facing off to the left, photographed through a window. Her nipples poked through the bra—it seemed she had just taken a shower.
Hermione stared uncomprehendingly.
This photo had to have been taken from outside, from downstairs. By some creep—?
Hermione put the photo down. There was a sick, scared feeling in her stomach.
She emptied the rest of the box onto the desk.
God, there were so many. Even the innocent ones took on a garish, frightening significance now. At least a dozen of the photos were like the one of her in Flora Place. Unknowing that she was being watched. Sometimes fully dressed, sometimes in a bra, and once only in a towel. Always looking away from the camera, always unaware she was being watched.
Why did Draco have these?
It was a stupid question. Hermione tried not to comprehend the answer. But it was impossibly, terribly obvious.
Some of the photos had been taken last year. Before Draco had even moved into Number Eight.
Hermione’s breathing had gone ragged and unsteady. She was panicking. But even as she did, a little unignorable voice in her head was speaking up now, cutting through the turmoil. A voice that told her that this, finally, made sense. That it had never quite added up, how perfectly Draco had swept into her life. How he had always been utterly too good to be true.
Hermione covered her mouth with one hand, trying not to throw up.
She finally looked up, out the window and into the garden. A strange man she’d thought she known was tending to the daisies.
Draco looked every inch the gallant and devoted husband. Even now she couldn’t believe how handsome he was. Hermione watched as he carefully snipped some daisies and put them into a cut crystal vase.
He brought her fresh-picked flowers every afternoon. They’d been together almost seven months and he’d not forgotten once.
“You don’t have to be so intense about the flowers,” Hermione had giggled once, teasing him. He was fastidious about every broken petal, every scarred leaf. “You look almost—scary when you’re checking them.”
To her surprise, a flicker of shame had passed over Draco’s serious grey eyes. The expression was almost too quick to catch.
“I just want everything to be perfect for you,” he said, clearing his throat. “I want that a lot. That’s all.”
She remembered this exchange now as she watched Draco stand from the garden, twenty perfect daisies arranged in a perfect vase for his wife. A few moments later he was at the downstairs door. Hermione heard the telltale sound of him toeing off his boots at the door.
“Sweetheart,” Draco called. “I brought you flowers. And you’re never going to believe what I saw—I think the little brown rabbit we always see has found a little rabbit wife.”
His voice was warm, loving. Hermione could hear the affection thrumming in each word.
She stared down at one of the photos of herself, taken from the street outside Flora Place. This one had to have been December; her small Christmas tree was visible on the kitchen counter.
The angle of the photo suggested Draco had been standing in a shadowy section of the street. Partially covered by some trees.
Hermione tried to imagine him like that. Standing out in the cold, all alone. Watching her through the glass.
Daydreaming, maybe, of the day he would bring her daisies from their garden.
Hermione put the photos back in the box.
Draco loved her. He loved her more than anyone else ever had—and now, Hermione was fairly sure he loved her more than a normal man was even capable of.
She closed the cardboard lid and repaired the Spell-O-Tape. She threw the white sheet back over the desk, then left the room as quietly as she could.
“Sweetheart?” came Draco’s voice again from downstairs. Worried.
“Yes!” she said. “I’m coming.”
Her husband was strange. Maybe even a little frightening. But Hermione was surprised to feel a sense of pride at the fathomless depths of Draco’s love. Dark and unknown, maybe. But every iota of it for her.
Well—not just for her. Not any longer.
“Daddy loves us,” she said, resting her palm on her stomach. “So much. Look how hard he worked, just so he could love us.”
Maybe she was strange too.
“Draco,” she said, climbing down the stairs. “I have a surprise for you.”
She tried not to let her excited smile show as Draco instantly stopped what he was doing to come see her.
“A surprise?” he asked, his grey eyes lighting up.
His gaze went first to her face, to her eager smile. Then to her hand. Resting on her stomach.
Draco looked immediately back to her face. His eyes were wide, the sharp, strong line of his jaw tight with disbelieving hope. She giggled.
Hermione would tell Draco that she found the box of photos later, she decided, as he bounded up the stairs two at a time to her. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow…
Just as soon as they picked a name for the baby!