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Draco can smell the sausages frying, but it’s not what wakes him. Instead, it’s the unmistakable sound of retching that jerks him from his Christmas Eve lie-in, and he’s halfway to the loo before he even realizes he’s out of bed. Concern churns in his gut. He’s known Hermione for most of his life, and he can count on one hand the times she’s been sick. He’s definitely never seen her throw up before, and has a wild, sleep-addled thought that she’s dying.
The toilet flushes as he knocks on the door, and Draco releases the breath he’d been holding. Good. Not dead then.
“Hang on.”
“Are you all right?”
Hermione sighs, and the sound is followed by a heavy thunk.
Alarmed and assaulted by visions of an unconscious Hermione, concussed and bleeding on the cheap linoleum, Draco opens the door anyway. He nearly falls into the cramped room. For some reason he’d expected resistance, to have to fight his way into his own bathroom, which is just ridiculous.
But he’s always been a bit ridiculous when it comes to Hermione.
He finds her sitting sideways on the toilet with her forehead resting on the sink’s edge while she halfheartedly attempts to brush her teeth. Her normally golden complexion has a distinctly greenish hue and her eyes are dull and damp when she rolls her head to the side to look at him.
“Trying to catch flies?” she mumbles around the hot pink toothbrush.
Draco snaps his jaw shut with a click and blinks rapidly, trying to force his brain into gear. Hermione snorts, then makes a pained expression and presses her hand to her stomach.
Seeing Hermione in such a state makes something uncomfortable twinge behind Draco’s lungs. He sits on the edge of the tub, their knees brushing. Most of their money goes back into the firm, which is still fledgling enough to require the attention and they have politely, repeatedly refused to use his family’s money. It’s small, but it’s theirs.
He checks her forehead for a temperature, like his mother used to do for him, but he doesn’t really know know what he’s looking for.
“Do you need to go to St. Mungo’s? Or shall I Firecall Ginny? I’m sure she’d come—”
“I’ve been to see her already,” Hermione says, meeting Draco’s gaze. “And I’m not sick.”
It takes Draco too long to process this. He hasn’t had any coffee yet; sue him. Then it clicks.
Draco swallows hard, trying to sort through the assortment of emotions crashing into him like a tsunami. “Just to avoid any confusion or misunderstanding, I’m going to need you to be very explicit. What exactly are we talking about?”
Hermione rolls her eyes, makes him wait while she finishes brushing her teeth, then takes his hand. “I’m pregnant, you idiot. You’re going to be a father.”
Draco grins. He grins so wide and so hard his cheeks hurt and his heart feels like it just grew three sizes. They’re going to have a baby. Images of curling blond hair and rosy cheeks flash through his mind. He kisses her only to be suddenly shredded by a lance of pure terror.
He’s going to be a father.
“Hell’s bells.”
“Draco,” Hermione says, gripping his bicep. “Breathe.”
Right. Breathing. He hadn’t realized he’d stopped. Draco sucks in a deep, ragged breath, feeling woozy with the sudden influx of oxygen.
“I’m going to be a father,” he gasps, clutching at her knees.
Hermione’s eyebrows dance in amusement. “Yes. That’s how it works, darling. Just keep breathing.”
“But I’m going to be a father. Whose bright idea was that?” Hermione’s fist tightens around his arm again and he sucks in another breath and lets it out in a woosh. “I mean. I barely survived to adulthood. What am I supposed to do with a tiny, defenceless human? How did this happen?”
His voice breaks on the last question, alarmingly reminiscent of his fifth year self, and Hermione, damn her, looks like she’s trying not to laugh.
“Well, when a man loves a woman very much—”
“Oh ha-fucking-ha.”
“I thought it was funny.” Hermione smiles, but it’s soft around the edges, a little uncertain. “But you are pleased, aren’t you?”
Draco’s insides melt into a puddle of emotional goo. How long had she known? And not told him? They’d never really talked about kids before, not in a concrete way. He can only imagine how nervous she’s been, walking around with the knowledge and not knowing how he’d react. And he went and made it about him.
“God, am I a git.” He tugs Hermione into his lap. She lets him, curling into his chest and tucking her face into his neck. “Of course I’m pleased. Who wouldn’t want to procreate with you?”
Hermione snorts and swats him on the arm. “You are a git.”
“But you love me.”
She turns her head, just a bit, and plants a soft kiss on his neck. “Merlin knows why.”
“We’re going to have to tell our parents.”
“Mum will be ecstatic.”
“So will Mother, no doubt.”
“What about Lucius?” Hermione says, fiddling with the hem of her shirt.
“Lucius is probably having mysterious heart palpitations at the breakfast table at the mere prospect of a Malfoy child being born out of wedlock.”
Marriage.
Draco would be a liar if he said he’d never thought about marrying Hermione. He thinks about it quite a lot, actually. More than is probably healthy. They’ve been together six years already, and he’s not stupid enough to think he could ever do better than the clever witch perched in his lap. She’s his best friend, his partner in so many ways, and now she’s going to be the mother of his child.
“We should get married.”
“You know,” Hermione says dryly, “for being such an eloquent litigator, you’re rather shite with words when it counts, Malfoy.”
“Rude.”
Hermione sits up properly to employ the full force of her glare.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. I love you, Draco, but I don’t want you to marry me just because of this. We don’t have to be married to make this work, your father’s high blood pressure notwithstanding, and I can’t bear the thought of you resenting me one day. It would destroy me.”
Well, that settles it. Draco unceremoniously places Hermione back on the toilet, and hurries into the living room in search of his work bag.
“Draco!”
“Don’t move!” he calls. It’s next to the sofa, right where he left it. The latch gives him some problems, his fingers dumb with urgency but it gives before he has to resort to cursing. He reaches in, hand unerringly landing on the small velvet box at the bottom.
“But—”
“I mean it, Hermione! Not an inch.”
Draco hears her huff of annoyance from across the flat and smiles, imagining with perfect clarity the way she’s probably rolling her eyes, crossing her arms across her chest. He looks at the box, rotates it in his palm. This isn’t exactly how he imagined this playing out, but he can’t say he’s surprised. They’ve always been a bit unconventional.
Hermione is exactly as he pictured, still sat on the toilet with her arms over her chest. She’s trying to look annoyed, but the slight curve of her lips belies her body language.
“Nice of you to—” Her jaw clicks shut and her eyes go comically wide when her gaze lands on the box.
Draco experiences a brief flash of satisfaction—there’s not much that can shut Hermione up with such efficacy—before the nerves strike. She’d essentially turned him down about two minutes ago, and Hermione’s right. When it comes to matters of the heart Draco’s words fail him with distressing regularity.
“I understand what you’re saying, and I agree, but the idea of marrying you is hardly brand new. In fact, at this point, I’d call it Exhaustively Considered.”
Hermione swallows. “Define exhaustively.”
“Oh, these last two years at least,” Draco says, reclaiming his perch on the edge of the tub. Hermione turns, slots her knees between his, drops her hand into her lap to twist the hem of her shirt. “But I didn’t buy the ring until this time last year.”
“Really?”
Draco shrugs. “I figured anyone worth wearing one of Molly Weasley’s handmade torture devices for must be the one.”
Hermione tries really hard to glare but ends up laughing, a light, airy sound that fills the tiny room and warms Draco to his core.
“You’re the worst, Draco Malfoy. So are you going to ask me properly, or what?”
Draco opens the box, revealing the ring, a simple teardrop set in white gold. It’s not enormous, or ornate, but that’s not Hermione’s style anyway, even if he did agonize over the decision. Most girls want a big ring, right? But when her breath catches, he knows he made the right decision.
“Hermione Granger, you are the very best person I know, and I will never, ever deserve you. But I am perfectly willing to spend the rest of my life trying. Marry me?”
“Well,” she replies, eyes sparkling with mischief, “when you put it like that, how could I say no?”
The fist gripping Draco’s lungs eases its grip and he suddenly feels like he could float away. His fingers shake as he pulls the ring out of the box, and he nearly drops it before finally working it onto her finger.
Hermione beams, then grasps the front of his shirt and drags him in for a kiss. Her lips are cool and minty on his but soft, familiar, intimate. She’s still smiling when she pulls away, resting her forehead against his. Draco can’t help it, then. Gently, reverently, he places his hand over her still-flat stomach, doesn’t even bother trying to still his stampeding heart.
“We’re going to be a family,” he whispers, voice suddenly thick in his throat, like all those emotions are trying to crawl out with his words.
Hermione cups his cheek with the same reverence. “I can’t wait.”
This time, Draco kisses her.