I won't cry
“Are you feeling any better today?”
Draco popped his head through the doorway to check on Hermione where she lay curled up in their massive four-poster. They had just returned home after their honeymoon in Southeast Asia spanning multiple countries, including South Korea, Vietnam, Thailand, Hong Kong, and Japan. Several months were lost to their travels, where they wandered without the pressure of set schedules.
No matter how many times Hermione tried to map out an itinerary, the plans would suddenly disappear the next morning, leaving them to explore in the organic way Draco preferred and which she grew to appreciate even if she never admitted it (“We have magic, Hermione—we don’t need reservations”).
Yet against all expectations, Hermione caught a stomach bug somewhere in Japan, ruining her hopes for a self-led tour through Tokyo Station’s Ramen Street and a Michelin Star dinner at a restaurant specializing in tempura (“Why in the world do muggles take the culinary advice of a tire mascot?”). She blamed it on the raw chicken her local friends claimed was a delicacy, while Draco had suspicions about the last-minute train bento. She couldn’t go an hour without a trip to the loo, putting a damper on attempts to take in a final farewell to the cherry blossoms at the end of their bloom.
And now they were home in the comforts of familiar bed sheets, Winky waiting hand and foot on her missus.
“A bit, though I’ve finally figured out the source of my sickness thanks to Winky.” Even in her state, pale faced, messy bun, Draco’s old Quidditch jersey, she was beautiful.
Her smile drew him into the room to her side, where he sat and held her hand. “Should I be more concerned?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether or not you think we’re ready.”
“Ready? What, to go to St. Mungo’s?” He asked, brow furrowed in confusion. Leaning forward to run his hand from her forehead down her neck, he didn’t feel any hint of a fever.
“Well, yes, that would probably be wise, though Winky has already helped significantly.”
Right on cue, the house elf popped into place right next to them holding a tray of food.
“Winky is here to feed Mistress and young Malfoy!” She bustled over, swatting Draco’s hands aside to place the tray.
Watching the small elf with a bemused expression, Draco replied, “That doesn’t look like enough food for us both, or am I to go to the dining room?”
As Hermione tittered, Winky scoffed and shooed him in a manner she would have previously found offensive. “Winky isn’t talking about Master Draco. Winky is referring to the baby.”
“…baby?”
Light grey eyes shot to meet golden brown, and the upward curl of her lips confirmed all his hopes and fears.
“Are we…pregnant?”
“Winky is never wrong in these matters. Winky cast the detection charm, and if Master and Mistress would like, will also determine the sex?”
“No!”
At Winky’s insulted face, Draco cleared his throat and held his hands palm-side up.
“What I meant to say was ‘thank you’, Winky. And I do mean it. I—well, I think we—”
“What my dear husband means to say is that we’d like that at least to be a surprise.” Hermione was now fully grinning at the two of them. “And yes, thank you. I’d like to speak with Draco alone now, if you don’t mind?”
Bowing her head and shooting a glare at Draco, Winky disapparated with a crack that echoed through the now too-quiet room. He stared at where the elf once stood, threading his fingers repeatedly, desperately trying to still the fluttering in his stomach.
A baby. He was going to be a father.
How the hell was he going to be a good father when he only had his own as an example? What would the child think growing up with the Malfoy name, one that could be found in newspaper articles and new history books?
“Draco.”
His chest tightened and he struggled to breathe. What kind of future could he offer to his child?
As the thoughts and questions continued to crowd his mind, he flinched when he felt a cool hand grasp his, fingers rubbing soothing circles into his palm. The roar in his ears quieted and he focused instead on the motions, the pulling of her fingers on his own.
“Draco, we’re going to be parents…together.”
Together.
His face snapped back up to gaze at his wife, and the heavy weight that had hammered down on him lifted up and away, allowing him to breathe once more. He clutched at her like a lifeline, and for a horrifying moment felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes.
I won’t cry. I will NOT cry. Together, we will redefine the Malfoy name, and make it one this baby can be proud of.
As he settled on this life goal, he surged forward to wrap her in his arms. If there were happy tears, well, he would claim they were Hermione’s.