“What the hell were you thinking running off like that?” Draco shouted. In the years they’d worked together in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Hermione witnessed Draco Malfoy in high dudgeon on several occasions, but this time she had to admit his face was starting to take on a rather alarming puce color in his ire. “We are partners, Granger! Partners! You can’t just leave me behind when the mood strikes you,” he continued. He raked both hands through his silver-blonde hair and Hermione tried not to be jealous of the ease in which he could do that. Whenever she tried a similar performance of frustration, her hands got tangled in her curls by her ears making her look, according to Malfoy, “Like a petulant child trying to block out bad news.”
“Rowle’s made us. You ignored the plan and you gave us away, Granger.” His voice had gone quiet and Hermione’s stomach dropped. Despite actively working on recognizing and addressing her people-pleasing tendencies, a small piece of her quivered at the hint of disappointment she sensed in her partner. She inhaled a shaky breath and turned to look out the car window at the snow storm outside. She bit the inside of her cheek and tried to force her brain to a sort of static reset. She would not let her chin quiver.
“We don’t do this!” Draco continued, unaware that Hermione was barely holding on. “We are better than this. We don’t wing it. We don’t improvise. We are meticulous and we have one of the highest closing rates in the entire department. And we do not ever compromise safety!”
The snow was quickly starting to stick to the road. Hermione craned her head to look behind them. They were pulled to the side of the road, or as far over as she was able to get on the little two lane country road, and her hazards were on, but she worried an approaching driver may not be able to make them out in the haze of the storm.
“Merlin! Are you listening to a word I’ve said?”
“Malfoy–”
“Oh and now we’re back to ‘Malfoy,’ are we?”
She gritted her teeth and said, “Yes, when you’re cross with me, you’re Malfoy.” She rushed on before he could retort. “Did you notice the anti-apparition wards when we crossed into town?” she turned to face him. He looked stricken. “So that’s a no then?”
“I’m sorry. I was a bit distracted by the fact you gave away our position, lost us Rowle, and then stole a muggle vehicle!”
“Please stop yelling. I find it very grating,” she said primly. If possible, Draco looked even more like he was about to combust. She refocused her eyes on the swirling snow in front of them and adjusted the car’s heaters to blow more directly on her. Since those days of camping with Harry and Ron in the woods, she could not stand to be cold. The only other sounds were Draco’s furious breathing and the clicking sound of the hazards. After a solid two minutes of what Hermione imagined was very focused breathing on Draco’s part, he broke the silence.
“So we cannot apparate.” His voice was softer. He wouldn’t apologize for shouting, neither of them ever did when they were upset about the other endangering themselves. However she knew he struggled to be soft when he was scared and that he was trying... this was an apology in a way.
“No apparition,” she confirmed.
“And this vehicle is…?”
“Just about out of gas and has a flat tire.”
“Splendid.” Another minute ticked by. “Shall I send a patronus to Robards to owl us a portkey?”
“He’s on holiday.”
“Still?” Draco asked incredulously.
“Still? Christmas was just a few days ago. Anyway, he’s out until after the New Year. Harry is covering.”
Draco groaned.
Hermione ignored him and fished her mobile phone out of her coat pocket. Malfoy sneered at the technology out of habit, rather than any true derision, as Hermione waited for Harry to pick up.
“What’s happened?” Harry’s anxious voice answered on the other line. Hermione hit speakerphone and replied, “We’ve had a little mishap. We lost Rowle, are in a town with anti-apparition wards, and a car that can’t take us any further.”
“And a fucking blizzard!” Draco added.
“Malfoy’s in fine form then?” Harry said dryly.
“That as well,” Hermione conceded.
“Well, have you any emergency portkeys?” Harry asked. If Hermione thought Draco had been irate before, it was nothing on what he was feeling now.
“Yes, Potter. As agents of the DMLE’s Artifacts Division, we have emergency portkeys.”
Harry didn’t reply and Hermione shook her head. He didn’t really get how she and Malfoy weren’t Aurors. By rights and by job description, they shouldn’t even be involved in fieldwork, but the department was rather short staffed and she and Draco hated to wait on others when they knew they were perfectly capable of handling themselves in the field.
“We aren’t issued emergency portkeys, Harry.”
It was a testament to how tired Harry was that she only heard a grunt on the other end of the line. She imagined that somewhere in the future there was a lecture waiting for her.
“Merlin ‘Mione, so where are you?”
“Somewhere in Scotland. We’re in a town and on a very empty country lane, but I saw what looked like a main street further back a bit. There’s probably a pub or an inn of some sort.” Draco snorted in distaste. Hermione was willing to bet that other than his abbreviated stint in Azkaban, he’d never had to put up with less than five star accommodations in his life.
“Great. Get rooms and send me the address. I’ll send an owl with portkeys to get you out, but it won’t be soon if you’re in Scotland–”
“And it's pissing snow!” Draco added helpfully.
Hermione bundled her coat closer and tried to ignore the rising tide of anxiety in her chest. She tried to ignore the heavy crunching of Draco’s dragonhide boots in the snow and instead focus on his grumbling. It was no use. The crunching of snow reminded her of trailing Harry in a snowy graveyard at Christmas. Her breath misted in front of her and she shivered with an old remembered fear her body couldn’t let go of. Wide eyed she glanced around for something to ground her. Draco had a deep navy blue scarf wrapped around his neck. She stared at the back of it.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Draco’s steps didn’t even falter. “I’m sorry I lost us Rowle. I know you were looking forward to closing his file.”
Silence.
“Did your mum like her present?” He’d shared with her just last week that he was surprising his mother with a trip to Sydney for a performance of her favorite classical musician.
“Yes.”
“It was very thoughtful.”
“I’m a thoughtful bloke.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I don’t suppose you have muggle money on you, Granger?” he asked as they turned onto the main street of the town.
“Yes. I still keep a muggle account. We should be fine.” Draco stopped walking abruptly and she walked into him.
“Which of these fine establishments says ‘hotel’ to you?”
There were darkened shop windows, take away places with neon signs, and one tired looking pub with a live cover of Champagne Supernova blasting out of it.
“The pub may have rooms to let,” she said.
“Fucking splendid.”
The pub did indeed have rooms to let. A “deluxe suite” which, as far as Hermione could tell, simply meant it cost her twice what she’d expected to pay, had a single full sized bed that would barely accommodate Draco and came with a single window that looked out on what was perhaps a scenic view when it was daylight and one wasn’t blinded by what was turning into a furious snowstorm. Draco inspected the room with a grimace. He no longer held on to his family’s prejudices, but he appeared far from comfortable in muggle settings. (The first time he'd had tea with Hermione's parents he'd looked like he expected the tea cups to bite him.) He silenced the room and the hallway to keep the noise of the Oasis cover band downstairs at bay.
He walked back to the window to cast additional wards and, as he did so, a floorboard creaked loudly, setting Hermione’s teeth on edge. She dug her fingernails into the skin at the back of her neck and exhaled slowly. She was 26 years old. She was in Scotland. She worked for the Ministry. Neville killed Nagini. Neville killed Nagini.
Bathilda Bagshot stared vacantly at them and pointed up the stairs. The floorboards shifted and groaned as she and Harry walked.
Neville killed Nagini.
She wondered why her body was so comfortable insisting on reliving old traumas, rather than focusing on new concerns.
“Do you mind if I take the shower first?” Hermione bit out. Draco turned to her, slightly puzzled. And shrugged as if to say “Go ahead.”
She turned the shower on as hot as it would go and waited for steam to fill the tiny bathroom. It wasn’t until she could feel the warmth in the air that she finally removed her coat. Her fingers shook as she worked to undress. Once all her clothes were piled in the corner and she stood naked, she wiped her hand across the mirror to look at her reflection.
Exhausted.
Scarred.
Terrified.
She stood under the water and counted by odd numbers forward to 99 and then backwards to 1. She did it over and over until the water started to lose its warmth.
She hadn't bothered taking her hair out of its french braid or washing it. She knew it would be an absolute sight after the humidity of the shower, and she was sure Draco would smirk at it.
“Are you drowning in there, Hermione?” he called through the door. Back to ‘Hermione’ then.
“Out in a minute.”
She exited the bathroom in a puff of steam and a halo of frizz. Redressed in her work clothes, wrapped up in her coat with her fists balled up and her arms crossed tightly over her chest; she looked haunted.
In the time he’d known her as an adult, Draco had learned to read Hermione. In the time they’d been working together, he liked to think he’d achieved an expertise at reading her.
“I used your mobile to call Potter and he walked me through how to send him a picture of the address to this fine establishment.” He gestured to the inn’s stationary laid out on a squat dresser.
Hermione’s wide eyes strayed to the window where the snow continued to fly about. “An owl won’t be able to make it through tonight.”
“No, and the portkeys are backed up anyway due to holiday travel; most likely we’ll be getting ourselves out of here tomorrow morning.”
Hermione didn’t visibly react to that.
“How about you order dinner while I shower.”
She blinked and looked at him. “Okay.” She turned away from him and sat on the end of the bed. Wandlessy, she accioed the limited dining menu to her hands and began looking it over. He was willing to bet the heat and humidity of the bathroom wreaked havoc with the protection charms he had on her coat. He sighed as he closed the bathroom door behind him and made plans to redo the charms when she fell asleep.
When the tepid water of his shower turned cold approximately a minute in, he leaned his forehead against the wall and chuckled darkly. “Well, this is familiar.”
Draco was just getting out when he heard Hermione’s voice talking to someone. He assumed she’d called Potter. When he heard an unfamiliar man’s voice reply, Draco accioed his wand and burst through the bathroom door to find a startled elderly bloke holding a receipt. And Hermione holding a plastic tray of food.
“Well then,” the grizzled old man said as looked Draco over. “He’s a big lad, isn't he?” he shot Hermione an appreciative, if lecherous wink, and a coy “Enjoy!” over his shoulder before tromping out of sight and presumably back downstairs to the kitchens.
Hermione kicked the door to their room shut and resolutely did not look his way as she brought the tray over and set it on top of the dresser.
“I got us the roast dinner. I figured it was the least dodgy option.”
Incredible. He was literally starkers in front of her and she was on autopilot. Not a blush or an eye roll in sight. Something was definitely wrong.
Once he was properly attired, Draco transfigured one of the bed side tables into a longer dining table and sat beside Hermione on the bed to eat.
“Do most muggle ‘deluxe suites’ neglect to provide chairs, or is this just our typical good luck?”
“I panicked.”
Draco had a forkful of roast potatoes halfway to his mouth and froze.
“With Rowle?”
“Yes.”
“Okay… Do you know why you panicked?” He knew she’d encountered Rowle during the war. Hell, he’d been forced to torture Rowle after Hermione had managed to modify his and Dolohov’s memories after a fight in Muggle London that led to her, Potter and Weasley escaping.
“The talisman we’re after… is highly dangerous.”
“Yes. You and I deal in exclusively cursed objects,” he said lightly.
“It is especially dangerous to me, so I may have been jumpier than usual.”
They’d dealt with any number of cursed objects that were specifically designed to hurt, maim, and otherwise incapacitate muggleborns. It was one of the reasons they’d initially been partnered together in the first place. Hermione was brilliant, but having an equally brilliant pureblood with insider knowledge of dark artifacts meant they’d become an indispensable part of the DMLE in short order.
“Jumpier than usual, which led you to alert Rowle we were there?” Still, artifacts targeting muggleborns were practically what they'd built their reputation. He couldn't fathom how this particular talisman would alarm her more than other cursed objects they'd dealt with and disposed of.
“I tripped,” Hermione admitted. “And then he had the talisman and he was aiming for me and I –”
“Went after the bastard like we were back at the Battle of Hogwarts.”
“--Panicked.”
They continued to eat in silence while Draco contemplated how this day had gone so spectacularly sideways. Rowle was not supposed to be in residence; his last known whereabouts were Spain. His hovel in Britain was monitored by the Aurors, or at least it was supposed to be. That Rowle had never been brought before the Wizengamot was a thorn in Draco’s side, but it was no longer his job to chase former Death Easters all over the world. Once his parole had been up, he’d had the freedom to choose how he used his talents and by then, well, there really had not been much of a choice at all.
He’d been forced to admit to himself that he was, in fact, quite gone on Hermione Granger. It was pathetic, really. Sappy, chivalrous, lay-down-his-life-but-never-say-a-word-love. She was angling for the Dark Artifacts Division and he made himself indispensable to ensure he was partnered with her.
The Rowle family talisman had cropped up for sale on the black market in the last year. He and Hermione had been carefully tracking any mention of it. They’d put in hours upon hours researching in Malfoy family archives, the Ministry archives, and disguised as hags in any number of Knockturn Alley bars hoping to hear mention of the blasted necklace.
“Are you sleeping alright?” Draco asked. She snorted. She regularly had fits of insomnia, but lately he’d thought it was getting better. He liked to think he played a role in that, now that they were together.
“No.”
“Since when?” he asked. He’d been distracted with the holidays. His trip to Sydney with his mother.
“The Burrow.”
“Did Weasle–”
“No. It's fine. He didn’t do anything. Everyone was perfectly pleasant.”
He wondered what she wasn’t saying.
“It is just hard sometimes.”
“The holidays?” he asked. He knew he should have insisted she join him in Sydney. At the time, he’d thought her staying behind and keeping her traditions was the right thing, but if this hunted and exhausted Hermione were evidence, he had badly misjudged the situation.
“Everything,” she said. His stomach dropped. That sounded terrifyingly like she was in an incredibly dark place. He turned to her, but she was turned away and staring at the wall.
Draco leaned closer to her and wrapped his arms around her, hooking his chin over her shoulder and leaning his head against hers. She let out a choked sob and relaxed into him. He pushed away the transfigured table, what was left of their meal forgotten. He leaned her over onto the bed and pulled her toward the center. He could tell she was struggling to control her emotions– to keep from falling apart. He hated that after all this time, everything they’d been through, she still didn't feel safe enough with him to be completely open when she was this upset.
“Distract me?”
“Honestly, I don’t think I can get it up while you’re crying– ow!”
She dug her elbow into his ribs a second time for good measure. “Fine, evil witch. Shall I regale you with tales of my wayward summers in Nice or perhaps my daring feats of heroism while pressed into service with the Aurors?” She didn’t reply, just shifted her arms to hold herself more tightly. Draco couldn’t imagine she was comfortable in her coat still, but the lady had asked for a distraction.
“I know… I’ll tell you about the worst date I ever had.” He pressed a quick kiss to the base of her neck. “It was December of my fourth year and–”
“Our fourth year.”
“--well, yes, but is this your story? No, it is not. As I was saying. It was December of my fourth year and by a cruel twist of fate, I was precluded from participating in a tournament everyone knew I was a shoe in for.”
“You were too young.”
“And despite being the obvious candidate for Hogwarts Champion, I was forced to –”
“Obvious candidate?”
“I was the cleverest.” She snorted inelegantly. “I was the cleverest male and obviously a male is the best when one needs a champion,” he said in his most Lord of the Manor drawl. It had the desired effect, as Hermione shook her head and gave a little laugh. It had been a revelation the first time he’d realized he could entertain her with his put-on posh behavior. The more outrageous the better. Of course that only came after they’d built trust.
“I was forced to sit on the sidelines and lick my proverbial wounds, while my nemesis –” here she stifled a giggle “-- arch nemesis cheated his way into the tournament as the fourth of what is very clearly a tournament of three people.”
“So your worst date was the Yule Ball?” Hermione asked. She glanced up at him. “But you went with Pansy.”
With a very put upon sigh, he raised himself up on one elbow to get a better look at Hermione’s face. “You, madam, have no appreciation for the narrative arts.” She grinned slightly.
“Yes, I think I’ve been told that before.”
“Many times,” he corrected.
“Yes,” she agreed.
“By me.”
“By you.”
“Have you ever asked Pansy about the Yule Ball?”
Hermione flipped fully onto her back to stare up at him. “I can honestly say, on the rare occasion I see her and Neville at the Leaky, I have never been inclined to inquire even once about our school days.”
“Hmm, you should next time. I’m curious as to her take on my wretched evening.”
“What was so awful?”
“Other than the fact I was being kept from my destiny as a champion?”
“Yes, other than that?”
“There was this dreadful Bulgarian. Big, duck walking, ham handed, just awful internationally famous seeker.”
“Aww, did Viktor steal everyone’s attention from you?”
“I didn’t care about everyone’s attention.” Hermione raised a disbelieving eyebrow at this. “I only knew that he had the undivided attention of the most astonishing witch I’d ever encountered. He did a horrible duck walking dance with her, he had his ham hands all over her, all night and I was beside myself.”
“Because he didn’t follow your beliefs about blood purity?” she was not amused now.
“No. Because he could afford to neglect those views about blood purity. And because he got to spend all night basking in your smiles.”
“So your worst date was my date with Victor Krum?”
“You were fucking radiant and it really did a number on me,” he said petulantly. “Pansy snuck into my dorm and charmed all my socks and pants to suddenly sprout spiny spikes on the inside as soon as I put them on… for a week.” He grinned as she giggled. “A week! Do you know the look I got from Madam Pomfrey when I finally went to her for a healing salve for my balls?” At this Hermione loosened her hold on her coat and brought her hands up to her face as she cackled. “That batty old pervert made me show her. I had to strip for her.”
“Draco–” Hermione gasped, “She is a mediwitch. Of course she needed to see what was wrong.”
“I showed her what the socks had done to my feet!”
“She probably thought you had some horrible venereal disease and were trying to cover it up.”
He sighed heavily. “No venereal diseases. Just a very put out girlfriend who’d been forced to watch me moon over Gryffndor’s Golden Girl all night.”
He looked down at her and nodded toward her coat, “You aren’t overheating in that?” She shook her head. “I promise I’m not attempting to seduce you in a grubby muggle pub.”
“You know I only allow myself to be seduced in libraries,” she said softly.
He did know. He knew it very well. In fact, their first kiss -- if one could refer to such a monstrously hungry convergence in as simple a term as "kiss"-- had been in the Restricted Section of Hogwarts Library when they'd been back for an alumni event two summers ago.
“Mmm, yes, only in libraries, and our office, and my townhouse, and that one alleyway in–” she covered his mouth to stop him.
“Are you calling me easy?”
“Never. I worked damned hard to become someone even moderately worthy of your attention.”
Hermione rolled toward him until he was forced to lay on his back. She curled into him, her face buried against his chest.
“Dolohov cursed me in fifth year.” Draco knew this. He traced his finger over her coat in the approximate location he would find her scars. “I told you there wasn’t any lasting damage.” He stilled his hand. She continued, “I lied.”
Hermione clutched at his shirt with both hands. He waited for her to continue. He’d learned these nonsequiturs were important. They were moments she’d had to work herself up to; things she struggled to share. He needed to wait for her.
“The healers said it was likely I would have trouble conceiving, but what is that when you’re in fifth year and Voldemort is back?”
He held her to him and ran his hand over her back, wishing she would shed the blasted coat so he could feel her.
“I told everyone the divorce was amicable. It was easier that way.”
Hermione’s voice had grown smaller and Draco grit his teeth. He’d suspected it hadn’t been as smooth a break-up as she and Weasley had played it for the press. How could it have been? Childhood friends, married right after the war and divorced three years later.
“I got pregnant and then…” she trailed off and he felt her tears soaking into his shirt. It didn’t take a genius to deduce what happened. She was here in his arms and Ron had married Lavender Brown. There weren't any Granger-Weasley progeny running about.
“I didn’t want to try again. I was so upset and I was so scared I’d just lose another and –”
He shushed her gently as he sat up to pull her into his lap fully. He kissed away her tears and wiped at the snot under her nose with the sleeve of his shirt.
“Of course you were scared. Of course you didn’t want to risk it again.” His heart broke for her. Draco had seen his mother go through three miscarriages before the healers had finally gotten through to his parents that to continue was to risk Narcissa’s life. For all his late father's many deadly faults, Lucius had loved his wife immensely. Bit of a Malfoy trait, that.
Draco couldn’t take it anymore. Hermione wouldn’t take off the coat, so he worked one of his hands up underneath it to run across her back.
“At The Burrow–” Draco stiffened. If Weasley had something to upset her –
“I found out Lavender is expecting twins. She’s quite far along and they didn’t know how to tell me.”
“Oh love–”
“That’s not all. I realized…”
He waited.
“I’m late.”
He couldn’t breathe.
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“How far along?”
“Six weeks.”
“You’ve been to the healer?”
"Muggle doctor."
“I’ll go with you.” She nodded. “Merlin, Hermione.” He felt her tense up against him and he chuckled. “Six weeks ago? Leave it to us to conceive the Malfoy heir in the family archive.”
“All those silenced portraits of your ancestors –”
“Probably learned a thing or two.”
“Always so modest.”
He relaxed against the headboard with a foolish grin on his face. He’d been proposing for months. True, it was usually ill-timed. The first time he proposed, they’d been in a heated argument in the lifts at work. Several other people had been around and Hermione had not spoken to him for a solid two hours afterward. Then, the next day, it was recounted on the front page of the Prophet and she had taken the day off work and warded him from entering her flat. The second proposal was over tea and breakfast in bed. She got in the shower and warded him from entering her bathroom. His most recent proposal, had been less a proposal and more of a decree. It had been six weeks ago in his family archive. He was slowly returning to his body after an earth shattering orgasm and kissed Hermione on the nose as she blinked at him blearily. “You don’t have to marry me, you know. I can give you just about everything I want to without the marriage contract. I can add you to my property, I can add you to the vaults, I can provide for you in my will. I will respect your space and your boundaries. I’ve been working on the magic that typically comes with the family wedding bands- the protection spells, the charms that would alert us if the other were in danger. We can have it all and you do not ever have to formally become my wife.”
“What about children- an heir?” she had whispered.
“Hermione Granger, if you do not ever wish to have children with me, it will be okay.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, how about this? To prove it to you, I’ll name Saint Potter the Malfoy heir. Put it in a legally binding document and everything.”
She’d laughed and rolled her eyes.
“I’m serious. Truly, it's a bit of a relief. This is an excellent idea. I feel tremendously unburdened. Let Potter worry about the sodding Manor and the galas.”
She poked him and gestured over his shoulder where one of Draco’s ancient forebears was purple with silent rage as he gesticulated wildly.
“Potter can worry about the sodding portraiture too.”
Draco pulled lightly on Hermione’s braid until she looked up at him.
“I meant it, you know. If you don’t want to get married– we don’t have to. If you don’t want our child named as the Malfoy heir, I can still name Potter.”
“My answer was always ‘yes,’ Draco. I just never said it aloud.”
He sat there stunned and then said, “You still bloody haven’t.”
“Well, ask me again.”
“Hermione Jean Granger, Gryffindor Princess, Golden Girl and Divine Leader of the Golden Trio, you already make me the happiest and proudest wizard in the world. And sometimes you also make me the most frustrated wizard in the world. Will you consent to joining me in the magical bonds of marriage and formalizing all the things I’ve already set in place?”
“Yes? What are you talking about?”
“Well, you see, your necklace?” She pulled it out from under her coat. “Yes, it isn’t quite what it seems.” He tapped his finger to the gold medallion engraved with a G and Hermione watched it glow and shift into a delicate gold band. He then did the same to his heavy silver signet ring. She watched the silver mold into gold and become a much thicker band.
“These are…”
“Malfoy wedding bands, imbued with all the protection and magic of a legally bonded ceremony without the bonding.”
"You said you were working on it!"
"And I was... years ago."
“Why?”
“I realized quite soon into my parole working for the Aurors that I was rather entirely in love with you as a person, it was damned inconsiderate of you to be married to Weasley at the time. Then you were divorced and the strongest person I’d ever known suddenly seemed so brittle. You put on a brave face, but I suspected you were miserable. I was furious at him. I was anxious and worried for you. We were friendly, but I doubted we’d ever get to the point where you’d be comfortable confiding in me.”
“You gave me this necklace for my birthday.”
“Well I could hardly hand you a gold necklace during a department meeting, could I?”
“Traditional wizard wedding bands alert the other party about danger.”
“Peril specifically rather than emotional danger. Centuries of arranged marriages didn’t lead to much empathy I’m afraid.”
“Don’t they also act as a beacon?”
“For apparating purposes, yes. If you were in peril, I could feel it and essentially follow that feeling and apparate to you.”
“The ministry gala four years ago, when you suddenly showed up in your work clothes, stole my drink, and then proved it was poisoned!”
“Precisely.”
“Theo’s birthday party– the wizard from Amsterdam! That’s what you meant when you said you “just knew” he had bad intentions? I thought you were drunk and completely out of line.”
He looked abashed. “Well, I was rather drunk and somewhat out of line. That wasn’t exactly the necklace that time.”
“Wasn’t exactly?”
“Wasn’t at all.”
She smiled.
“So we’re going to get married and our wedding bands have been calibrated to our magic since before we were ever romantically involved. Anything else I should know about?”
“Right. Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I already added you to the vaults and put you in my will with all the rights of a spouse, as far as I was able to.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, like five months into us being partners.”
“That was years ago--we weren’t even together yet!”
“Yes, but you see, I’m horrifically in love with you and it was never about whether or not you felt anything for me. I’m terribly selfish that way, you know.”
“Draco, be serious. I want to marry you, but I may not be able to carry this baby to term. I may not ever be able to give you a child.”
“Hermione. You have already given me the world. If we lose this baby, if you don’t want to risk trying for another, if we’re told we can’t– that it is too dangerous– I will still love you. I will still want to wake up every morning by your side. I will still yell at you in horrid muggle cars during snow storms when you ignore our meticulously calculated plan and I fear I’m going to lose you. If you still want a family with me, we can adopt. And if we never have children, we will still be a family. With Potter as our heir apparent.”
Through her watery smile she choked out, “Please make sure I’m there when you tell him he’s in the running for Malfoy heir.”