Becoming

Draco didn’t feel he was overreacting once he retrieved his post from the owl office a scant hour later. The clerk handed over a thick bundle of letters tied with twine, and informed him in a brusque tone that no less than twelve Howlers and two hexed parcels had been received and incinerated just that morning – no return addresses, of course. Draco thanked the clerk in a low voice, accepting the dreaded bundle and moving away. He and Theo had made it most of the way to the door when he called out to their backs.

“Oh, and Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco turned to meet his gaze.

“Congratulations to you and Ms. Granger.” The clerk indicated the copy of the Prophet laying open on the counter. “You treat her right.”

Draco was speechless for a moment, and only Theo’s hand clapping him on the shoulder broke his trance. He nodded firmly and offered a sincere, “Thank you. I will.”

The clerk’s eye held an appraising glint as he dismissed them with another nod.

The moment of reprieve was broken once they emerged back onto Diagon. Draco felt eyes on him from every direction, and the small cluster of older witches surrounding the newsstand sneered at him without attempting to hide their disdain or whispers. Draco kept his hand clenched around his wand in the pocket of his coat, his shoulders squared and a muscle ticing in his jaw.

Theo ambled alongside him much more assuredly. Only Draco, who had known him from infancy, could see that his casual steps were carefully calculated, and his open movements allowed for exceptionally fast reflex times – Theo hadn’t made it through the war without his own healthy dose of self-preservation, after all. Though his face appeared calm and almost bemused as he strode down the alley beside Draco, there was a shrewd, calculating sensibility just under the surface. That uncanny duality about him was what had made Theo’s time at Hogwarts under Death Eater rule survivable all those years ago, Draco surmised. The instincts had lingered long after the war ended.

Draco’s own war-time luggage was much more visceral – literally burned in his flesh. Though faded, the Dark Mark still sometimes itched and made his skin crawl if he thought too hard on it. His arm twitched, almost imperceptibly, as they strode into Twifit and Tattings.

Once Theo had greeted the assistant and sent her bustling off for his order from the back, Theo turned to Draco.

“You should consider getting it covered, since it still bothers you.”

Draco shot him a confused glance. Theo only raised his eyebrow and flashed his eyes down to Draco’s arm: of course he had noticed the anxious tic.

“A friend has shared some exceptional things about Muggle tattooing. It apparently covers cursed wounds quite well.”

“A friend?”

“A mutual one. A recent mutual friend, in fact.”

Draco quirked an eyebrow back at him. Granger. Theo knew her better than Draco did, he supposed, and after Padma’s revelation of their closeness at university, Draco really shouldn’t be surprised they would know of Hermione’s proclivity for body art.

“I’ll ask for a recommendation,” he said vaguely.

The shop assistant returned with Theo’s suits at that moment, and the two were shortly on their way back down Diagon Alley. Draco ducked into Eyelop’s Owl Emporium briefly to snag some owl treats before they exited through the Leaky Cauldron. Whispers continued to follow them – snippets of conversations ringing in his ear.

Death Eater. Scum. Knocked up. Bastard child. Ruining her. Imperius curse. Gold digger. Mudblood.

All the things he had been dreading.

Theo clapped a hand to his shoulder as they stepped back into the relative calm of Muggle London. The whispers lingered in his mind long after.

“It gets better,” Theo murmured reassuringly. “It really does.”

“How long?”

He shrugged noncommittally. “It comes and goes. You remember when the school first opened? We couldn’t step foot in Diagon without someone screaming at me.”

“And you weren’t even marked.”

“No, but with my father being the nasty bastard he was, I never stood a chance at making a different impression on the general public at the time, did I?” Theo surmised. “And Padma is my world, but she doesn’t have the clout of Hermione Granger. Hermione, who has almost single-handedly forced more changes to legislation in the last two years than the entirety of the last five sessions of the Wizengamot. The cases she brings forth set legal precedent. She has changed the lives of thousands of people, if not half the population of wizarding Britain. Aside from your standard blood-purists, the people like her. They owe her. They’ll remember that again in a few days. It’s just a shock right now.”

“It’s the old guard I’m worried about.” Draco’s voice was low and strained to his own ears.

“I imagine you’ll get some sternly-worded owls about what a disappointment you are –”

Draco snorted and brandished the stack of letters in his hand.

“– but how much room do they have to talk, really? There are what, perhaps six families of concern? Most of the old families have dropped out of pureblood status in the last century anyway, and the rest of them are either in prison or were never militant enough to care that the Malfoy line is being sullied. Who are you really worried about?”

“Aside from the Greengrasses?”

Theo nodded.

Draco huffed a sigh. “Parkinson –”

“Oh, fuck off. Pansy’s marrying a bleeding MacMillan next month. Her father’s dead.”

“– Flint –”

“With the exception of Marcus, the threats are in prison. And he’s in my Quidditch pick-ups – he’s calmed down a lot over the years.”

“– Bulstrode –”

“Most moved to the continent after the war. I’ll give you that Millie never cared for Granger, but she’s hardly a threat.”

“– Rosier –”

“Will probably have something to say, but they’ve been out of everyone’s favor since 1998.”

“-- Yaxley –”

“In maximum security without parole, and the nieces are pretty relaxed. They went to Beauxbatons.”

“-- Travers –”

“They’re half-blooded at best, and their Head is dead.”

“-- Selwyn –”

“Same.”

“-- I guess that’s the bulk of them,” Draco finished off.

“Let’s face it, mate. Of the old guard, the only families that would have actually done anything about you breaking tradition here would have been your parents, and my father, and some of the worst people from the war who are dead, like Dolohov. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re not exactly paragons of blood supremacy ourselves, as the Heads of House, so we're already on their shit lists.” Theo tittered at his own joke. “The other pureblood houses may have their own preferences for who they marry, but I can’t picture most of them giving a rat’s arse about you anymore.”

“You heard the clerk, Theo. Twelve Howlers. Two cursed packages. And all the people in the streets. The Prophet was published only four hours ago.”

“I can just about guarantee you two of those Howlers were from Ron Weasley alone. The rest were probably old grannies upset that you’re not married.”

“And the curses?”

Theo shrugged. “There’s always going to be someone, mate. We still get threats sometimes, too, for what we’re changing up at Nott Corp and with the school. Do you remember fourth year, when the Triwizard Tournament was going on?”

Draco nodded.

“Granger got a bunch of hate mail then, because of Krum and Potter, and Rita Skeeter saying she was having some sort of sordid love triangle going on as a fifteen year old. She got sent cursed letters, and an envelope full of bubotuber pus, remember?”

Draco recalled Hermione coming to class with bandaged hands that year, but had never known for certain why.

“It was from fangirls and people angry that she was breaking Potter’s heart and only going after Krum because he was famous. And she can handle that rubbish. You can handle that rubbish. I bet half those letters in your hand are the same type – someone mad that you stole the Golden Girl’s heart away. It’s just jealousy, and you should just chuck ‘em in the flames.”

“And the legitimate threats? The slurs?”

“When has Hermione ever backed down from being called a slur?”

“Never,” Draco admitted. He recalled vividly the punch to his own nose and her resolute strength under his aunt’s torture.

“When has she ever backed down when she or someone else is being threatened?”

“Also never,” Draco muttered, begrudgingly.

“Then calm down. If anything seems like a real threat, talk to her, and take it to Senior Auror Harry Potter, who is one of her best friends, after all. And if something gets ‘round to Scorp, talk to him. He will hear it eventually – you can't protect him from it forever, unfortunately.”

Draco was silent as they walked the streets.

“I know you’re scared, mate, and not just about this, but I think you’re underestimating just how much change has happened in the last couple of decades. And you’re underestimating yourself.”

Draco ducked his head in acknowledgement, but stayed silent for the rest of their walk to the Apparition point.

When Draco finally got around to opening the letters, he discovered Theo had been correct. At least half were generic, anonymous hate mail that he tossed straight into the flames. Three containing the expected threats of death or retribution, with only one explicit enough as to make him blanch. A handful, though, were pleasant.

Drake,

Well done with Granger – but did you have to knock her up right before my wedding? I've added a plus one to your invitation, and you had better bring her. I already reworked the seating chart, damn you. I expect some details soon.

Xoxo,
Pansy

A few notes of congratulations and support from acquaintances, including Ginny Potter (with Harry’s name scrawled haphazardly under her own signature and an invitation to their holiday festivities tucked within). A few interview requests that he tossed aside.

Another that made him pause.

Draco,

I was thrilled to see your announcement this morning in the Prophet, but must chastise you for neglecting to tell me in person. I expect you and Hermione around for dinner soon. Teddy will be home for the Christmas holidays and we’d love to see you and darling Scorpius, if you’ve time.

Hugs,
Andromeda

And another surprise.

Draco,

Hermione has been keeping us updated on where everything stands with your announcement, but I wanted to make sure you knew that you have friends in us. Everything from our days at Hogwarts is long forgiven, and it would be my pleasure to get to know you now that we’re both adults – Hermione assures me that we’re apt to get along nowadays. My door is open anytime if you want to chat. Metaphorically, that is, because I basically live at Hogwarts most of the year, but the offer stands. I’ll be sure to keep Minerva out of your hair whilst you’re here, or we can meet in Hogsmeade one evening – we’ve a cottage in the village, and Hannah runs the Three Broomsticks, so wherever you’re more comfortable. We'd also love to have you both (and your son, of course) over sometime soon. Hermione knows my schedule to plan a dinner or something.

Best,
Neville Longbottom & Hannah Abbott

That last one was a bit unexpected, but as Draco re-read the missive, it wasn’t unwelcome. He hadn't had cause nor opportunity to speak to Longbottom since their time at Hogwarts, and that time period was irrevocably tinted by the shades of war.

Draco set his letters aside and resolved to answer them over the weekend. For now, he busied himself with mundane tasks around the house. Keeping his hands busy distracted from the compressed deadline they were facing. Now that the news was out, they had a scant week before the Potters' Yule masquerade Saturday next, and then Draco would now need to discuss whether Hermione would be interested in attending Pansy's wedding the weekend following. Then, they would be solidly mid-December and the Ministry's Yule Gala would follow rapidly, as well as the Nott School's annual fundraising ball. Can't forget the Malfoy Corp holiday social, either, as he'd have to make an appearance there. There was no telling how long the suit against the WRC would last, but Draco knew Hermione hoped to have arguments wrapped up before the Yule recess, so her time was limited. Add a visit with Andromeda and Teddy to the list of events, and his Christmas obligations with the Greengrass family, and Draco was, well, fretting.

After washing the same plates for the third time, Draco gave in and retreated to his office. He pulled out his planner, quickly duplicated the page for December, and began writing out his commitments and deadlines in a way he hadn't done since the early days of his own marriage. He carefully penned in all the personal commitments and holiday events for the following month, and tried to quell the anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

It had been years since his social calendar was this full. Astoria had organised and accepted all manner of events and invitations on his behalf, and she had kept his calendar busy. It was as much a distraction for her as it was helpful for himself to network, and Draco knew it was so she could live vicariously through his attendance in the latter months of her life. Now, though, after putting in the bare minimum of effort into his own social life for the last two years, he was dreading the repeated public appearances. He no longer felt any joy in assuming the persona of his aristocratic upbringing. His world revolved around many smaller, more important events, and he was loathe to re-enter the fray.

Even so, he forced himself to make lists. Events for which he'd need to secure a carer for Scorpius, outfits to coordinate, and gifts to purchase.

Gifts to purchase.

Draco realized with a start that he had nothing for an infant in his house. Scorp hadn't needed dummies or nappies in years, and none of the toys in the toy chest were the soft, gentle toys that babies needed.

Draco started a new list, and was several items into it before a jolt of panic gripped him. What if Hermione didn't want him to see Sage after she was born? What if she wasn't allowed to be at his home? Hermione was adamant about staying on her own. What if she didn't want help with Sage. What if Scorpius hated having a baby around? What if Hermione changed her mind about being with him after Sage was here? What if. What if. What if.

Draco's chest tightened, and his breathing grew shallow as his hand gripped his fountain pen so tightly the metal dug into his flesh. He was sweating – gods, why was he sweating so much?

What if Sage didn't make it? What if Hermione didn't make it? She was sick, after all. And even that was his fault for not stopping his mad aunt. What if all the hate mail was right?

Some small corner of his mind knew that he was spiralling in a way he hadn't in some time, but he couldn't control the way his lungs seized in his chest and his muscles locked up.

A small voice sounded off in the back of his head. One he hadn't heard in years but was still instantly recognizable as the rich, haughty tone of his mother.

Occlude, Draco.

Draco seized onto that thought, focusing on the four simple syllables that sounded out his salvation.

Occlude, Draco.

Grayness settled around the edges of his vision as he fought to regain control of his lungs and slam shut doors on his mind. When he finally settled into full awareness of himself some indeterminate amount of time later, Draco felt exhausted and scarcely capable of standing up from his desk.

He shoved the shopping list of baby items and his calendar into a drawer, vowing to look at it when he had a better handle on himself. Instead of moving to the kitchen and toward his liquor cabinet or the kettle, Draco retreated into the room that served as his potions lab, where he spent the next few hours making a calming draught and Pepper-Up for Nottingham. As he labeled and filled the small vials, Draco saw flashes of his sixth year play across his mind before he could lock them away in their neat, orderly boxes. He didn't want to remember the terror and anguish of that year, nor the destructive ways he self-medicated himself through it. The copious amounts of terrible firewhiskey and the near-constant swigging of calming draught. And the bliss the draught brought in the moments after its consumption. Before the hard come-down, that is.

Draco palmed a phial, rolling it between his fingers and inspecting the swirling blue liquid. These were mild variations, perfectly safe for use in small children who were having tantrums or stressful responses to being in new environments, and a single dose couldn't hurt. Surely it couldn't. Not after his first panic attack in nearly a year.

He could stop Occluding if he took it, Draco reasoned. And he couldn't Occlude around Scorpius, because his child deserved his full attention and emotional connection and would get it even if it was the only thing Draco could offer.

The thought of Scorpius seeing his anxiety was enough to have Draco toss back the contents without any further hesitation.

The peppermint tingled on his tongue and Draco felt his heart rate drop dramatically as the cooling sensation of the mint spread through his stomach. As the pleasant tingling permeated the rest of his body, Draco dropped his Occlumency shields. As the blissful nothingness settled over him, Draco realized just how on-edge he'd been the last few weeks. November had been a wild thestral ride, to be sure.

He tried to get back on schedule for the day. A glance at his watch told him he had time to go to the market for the weekend's groceries, but a tapping at his kitchen window brought his attention to an owl perched on the casement.

Gertrude.

Draco fumbled with the latch and eventually wrenched the window open to allow Hermione's owl entry. She dropped a small envelope onto Draco's bench counter and flew off back out the window. Clearly, she wasn't waiting for an answer. He unwrapped the missive, and a metal square about the size of a business card fell into his hand. It was tin, perhaps, and a dark grey. It was imprinted with his name and address as if engraved into the metal. He set it aside curiously and picked up the letter.

Draco,

I would love to do dinner Tuesday but I'm not sure what time I'll be out of the courts. I would be happy to meet you somewhere after, but I can't promise we'll make a reservation. We'll save sushi for another day, perhaps? There are several restaurants around the Ministry that I frequented when I worked there, and they're generally open late and easy to get a table.

I hope you're doing alright today. The article was as I expected, frankly. Parvati and I rarely got along in school, so I'm not surprised she dragged it out a bit to sell copies. I'm sure Theo has teased you mercilessly about your new nickname (I know Ginny has been enjoying it – she actually sent me a copy of the article where she had circled it in bright red to be sure I saw it – don't be surprised if she won't call you anything else for a while). I swung by my owl box at lunch and had gotten some mixed post, as I'm sure you have as well. Have you had a chance to go check it today? Only old Gregor at the counter told me we'd both received quite a few each. He's a bit gruff, but I've always liked him.

In an effort to keep in touch more easily, I've charmed us these cards. They're sturdier than parchment, but will allow us to send one another short messages using a two-way Protean charm. You tap it and you can change the text to any message you like as long as you've got enough letters. When you do, it will show up on the twin of it in my possession, and vice versa. When you get this, let me know via the card and we'll test them. Distance doesn't matter to them, so they'll be useful in scheduling and checking in. Sort of a magical version of texting, like Muggles have with their mobile phones.

Have a great evening, Draco. Give my love to Scorpius.

-H

Draco picked up the small metal card curiously, inspecting it with new eyes now that he had been informed of its magic. If he closed his eyes, he could nearly feel the subsonic thrum of the spells imbued in the metal.

He poked at the letters, using his intention to shape the characters into new ones, shrinking to form punctuation or twisting to make entirely new letters.

You should patent these.

The metal warmed slightly in his hand, flashed gold, and then grew cold in his fingers.

Scarce moments later, it warmed again.

Already have one. How're you?

Post was a lot today. But ok.

Scorpius ok?

Picking him up at 4, unknown

DP delivered before school?

At Theo's. Others would have gotten it early too.

Kids are resilient.

I know.

Draco hesitated before sending a second message.

But I'm not as much.

U home?

Yes.

The card fell cold in his hand, and Draco wondered where she'd gone. Suddenly feeling listless, Draco leant heavily on his elbows on the kitchen bench, scrubbing his hands over his face.

Her absence was explained a couple of minutes later when Draco heard his Floo go off in the other room. Instinctively, he knew it had to be Hermione, so he took his time pulling himself together and straightening up from his bent position. When he did turn around, Hermione was standing silently in the doorway to his kitchen.

For a long moment, he let his gaze take over her form. She was barefoot and wearing a pencil skirt made of a stretchy wine-red fabric, which rose high on her waist and hugged her pregnant belly and hips snugly. Over it, she had a creamy roll-neck knit shirt tucked loosely into the waistband. A black blazer – unbuttoned – finished the look, but Draco noticed she was barefoot. A final glance at her face revealed a look of concern etched onto her features.

"What happened?" she asked in a quiet voice.

Draco waffled on what to tell her, opening and closing his mouth several times before deciding on the truth.

"I had a panic attack."

Hermione frowned but said nothing. Draco was grateful she didn't rush to console him with platitudes, but he wasn't sure how to continue.

"It all just got to me, I suppose. The post this morning was about what I expected, but I got in my head about it."

"What specifically set it off? Do you know?"

Draco nodded hesitantly. "I realized I didn't have anything here for a baby," he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. "And then I spiraled into the 'what ifs.' I didn't realize what I was doing til I was already mid-fit."

"Do these attacks happen often?"

"Not anymore. They started back in – back in sixth year. I had a lot of them the first year after Astoria died, as well, but my mind healer got me sorted out. It had been a while, so I didn't feel it coming."

"Do you take anything for them?" The calm, nonjudgmental tone of her voice was soothing.

"I had some calming draught when I could. I'm alright now – just still tense."

"What are you thinking you need to buy that set you off?"

"I have nothing here," Draco confessed. "I haven't a cot nor nappies, or any safe toys. Books, clothes… I have nothing for an infant."

"She won't need much, Draco," Hermione said gently. "She's not even here yet."

"But I want to be ready," Draco muttered. "I – Astoria picked out most everything with Scorpius, you know? Years before he arrived, if I'm honest. Had it all sent over and it was ready in the nursery before I had even thought about it. I didn't get to do this with him. I want to be prepared."

"If it's any consolation, the furniture you helped me put together is the only thing I've truly done to prepare," Hermione confessed. "For a bit, after I found out and decided to continue the pregnancy, I was hesitant to buy anything – like something would happen if I acknowledged how real it was. Does that sound familiar?"

Draco nodded, running his hands through his hair and closing his eyes.

"She's fine, Draco. She's not in distress, and she's healthy even if she's small. She may not be due till February, but she'll likely be early, remember? Buying clothes and nappies isn't necessary yet, because we don't even know what sizes we'll need. I've only got about four things for her aside from the cot and chair, really," Hermione finished with a sigh. "I only had a few weeks of notice ahead of you, you know."

Draco nodded and leaned back against the worktop again, eyeing Hermione. The longer he looked at her, the more apparent it became that she was exhausted. Underneath the sheen of cosmetics, he could make out the darkened tissue under her eyes, and there was a tension around her mouth.

"What's wrong, Granger?"

Hermione looked at him sharply. "Nothing," she demurred.

He knew she was lying. They eyed each other for a long moment, a challenge present in both gazes.

"I can see that's not true," Draco finally said, "but you don't have to tell me if you don't want to." He felt himself deflate as he gave a sigh, and busied himself by turning around to fill the kettle.

It was only after the water began boiling and Draco pulled out an assortment of tea for her to peruse that Hermione spoke again.

"This isn't easy for me, Draco."

Draco nodded, intent on keeping quiet to let her speak.

"We've talked about it a little bit the other day, but I'm really not prepared for this. It wasn't something I ever wanted, and it's shifting my life around in ways that make me uncomfortable," she admitted quietly. "You talk about this being a gift, and I respect that it is for you, but it doesn't really feel like that for me most of the time. I'm trying to keep a brave face and level head about it, but pregnancy destroys my sense of self and I'm struggling. Between prepping for the hearings next week and everything else, I can't even remember if I brushed my teeth this morning. I spent ten minutes looking for my cat yesterday only to remember he died two years ago. I cried over an ice lolly being the wrong flavour last week when it's bloody November and I was surprised to even find them at the market," she huffed. "I love Sage with my whole heart, and it's very important you know that, but I hate what being pregnant is doing to my body, and to my mind. I can barely sleep anymore. It's changing my life drastically, in ways I don't like, and I'm not ready," she threw up her hands in exasperation, dragging them through her curls.

Draco stayed quiet, letting her get it off her chest and surprised by the frustration she was venting.

"I don't have much time to make this adjustment, to prepare myself mentally for something I didn't even want six months ago, or even two months ago. I'm in pain," she emphasized. "And it's not your fault, so don't even think about saying it," she said with a narrowed glare at the guilty look that spread unchecked across his face. "It's just how it is right now. You're an excellent father, Draco, and I know I'll be a good mum because I won't let myself be anything else, but that doesn't mean I'm not scared, too. I really am terrified, and I don't know if I made a good decision – maybe it was the right one, but I don't know, because it doesn't feel like it is for me all the time. I know you're excited, but I – I'm not. Not often. And that makes me feel guilty on those days when those feeling rear their head, because I should be thankful, right? I should be thankful. So many things were working against this, against her, that it should feel special. But instead I feel like I'm losing a bit of myself each day."

The guilt spreading across his cheeks in a wave of heat had less to do with her reference to her wartime trauma and more to do with his awareness of his own selfishness and the anguish evident in the glassiness of her eyes.

She had dropped everything to come console him because of a panic attack he shouldn't have even had. He'd centered telling his own family and friends the news and scarcely checked in with her on how she was handling it on her end, taking what she offered at face value. He didn't even know if she'd received the same threatening messages he had gotten only just today. His own worries and fears about everything had overshadowed the struggle she was also experiencing. The realization was humbling and made him a bit queasy.

"I'm –"

"I don't blame you for any of this," Hermione said, holding up a hand to halt him before he could apologize. "Please don't say it. This situation isn't ideal, but frankly I don't know why we would expect anything else from the two of us," she laughed humorlessly. "We're very different people and we wouldn't be us if we had approached it any differently. We've never really done things the easy way, have we? No matter how much I respect and like who you are as a person now doesn't mean we don't carry our scars with us every day. We've moved past our history, I feel, but there are bound to be bumps for us. This is still nee.."

"I've been selfish," Draco finally blurted out.

Hermione snorted, a sad smirk on her face. "You and I have always been selfish people, Draco. This is nothing new. We just need to find a way to move forward from here."

"Together," Draco emphasized. "We'll move forward together. As a family."

Hermione's eyes widened as she turned her whisky-glazed gaze to him. Draco surged on.

"We're hardly a traditional family, and after what I had with Astoria I don't think I could take anymore Pureblood tradition in my life," he added hastily, "but we are a family, in our own way. You, me, Scorpius, and Sage. We're family now."

"And what does that mean to you?" Hermione asked haltingly.

"It means you tell Scorpius bedtime stories about your adventures, and I pull myself together so we can pick out baby clothes and books. We have dinner with the Weasleys and the Potters and whoever else, and we support each other in the awkward silences that are bound to happen. We tackle our shitty post and the press together, and I pick you up from the Wizengamot next week to try to sweep you off your feet. We stop walking on augury shells and you tell me when I'm being too self-absorbed and you need support, because you're not telling me how much you're struggling. I will do the same for you. We'll be partners in this, as we discussed."

Hermione was silent at his outburst. Draco took a deep breath to calm himself, feeling quite acutely that his draught had worn off.

"It doesn't mean marriage or buying a new home, if that's not what we want. It's just us – just us supporting each other and loving our children. Maybe even loving each other some day," he finished lamely.

Hermione stared at him for long enough that Draco began to feel uncomfortable.

"What changes if I were to move in next door?" she finally asked.

"Scorpius and I get to know you better, more easily, before Sage is born. Your commute would be shorter because you don't have to walk to an Apparition point, and we can see each other daily if we want. I'd feel better that you're close by and knowing you're both physically safe. I can help with getting things set up, or if you have another attack at night. We can have dinner together and you can spend time with Scorpius one-on-one, because he bloody adores you. When Sage arrives, I'll be right on the other side of the wall. And maybe Scorpius gets a cat sooner," he shrugged with a small smile.

"We're further from the hospital."

"St. Mungo's is connected to the Floo for emergencies. It's not like you're supposed to be Apparating much longer anyway, so Flooing is your option no matter where you live," Draco challenged. "And maybe it's me being selfish, but I want to be involved, Hermione," he added in a quieter voice. "You know that. I want to go to your bloody appointments and I want to touch you and talk to her and help you in all the ways I wasn't permitted with Scorpius."

Hermione fell silent again.

"Having you both close will relieve a lot of my anxiety, but only if it's not a stressor for you. Being a parent has been the best thing to ever happen to me, and I'm excited even though I'm afraid, too. I know you don't truly want this," Draco finished lamely, "but I really, really do. I'll do anything you need."

"I want you to know I don't regret her, Draco," Hermione said in a quiet voice. "I'm just very much struggling right now."

Draco rounded the kitchen bench and gathered Hermione in his arms. She melted into his embrace, burrowing her face into his shoulder.

"Thank you for telling me," Draco mumbled into her hair. He felt her shoulders shaking slightly and wrapped her tighter in his arms.

Draco was no stranger to depression. Years of his own anxiety and the war made him intimately familiar with the seeping dread and complete inability to function normally in the face of the impossible. It was not the same as what Hermione was experiencing, to be sure, but he knew what it felt like to not have control of the course of his own life.

"I'm going to owl my mind Healer, after my attack today," Draco decided, whispering into her hair. "If you haven't, I think maybe you should talk to someone as well."

"I have an appointment next week," Hermione. She pulled away, wiping the tear tracks from her cheeks.

"Do you want a calming draught?" Draco asked, mentally running through the list of counter indications he knew of. "I have a bunch of low-dosage phials – I just finished a batch for Nottingham."

Hermione shook her head in the negative. "No thank you. I need to get back to my office – I've a meeting soon."

"I know we're planning for Tuesday, but if you want or need anything before then, please let me know. Your cards are a beautiful bit of magic, by the way."

Hermione smiled at that, meeting his eyes as she straightened her blazer.

"I invented that in fifth year when we were sneaking around under Umbridge's toady-nose."

"We didn't learn spell-crafting till seventh." Draco quirked an eyebrow at her.

"You didn't, perhaps. I'd already created two charms by then. Modifying spells isn't that difficult, it turns out."

Draco shook his head and chuckled lightly. "You never cease to surprise me, Granger."

"I'll send you a message if I need anything as long as you promise to do the same. I still owe Scorpius a story and pasta, so we'll do that soon, yeah?"

Draco nodded. "Of course."

He walked her to the Floo, where Hermione slipped on the low heels she had been wearing – she had clearly discarded them by the hearth after exiting the flames. In them, she rose to the perfect height for Draco to lean down and captured her lips with his own.

"I'll see you soon."