Chapter Text
SIX WEEKS
She was going to kill Theodore Nott. She knew how to do it, too. She’d seen enough during her time in the war and as a Ministry official in the DMLE. She knew how things went wrong, and exactly what needed to be done to make it look like an accident. If there was anyone who could do it, it would be the “brightest witch of their age.” Hermione snorted to herself at the old title, curling into an even tighter ball on the bathroom floor. Her stomach was still churning, even though she’d long since lost the tea and cream crackers she’d tried to choke down at lunch. If only they could see her now…
Or perhaps she’d find a new charmed jar, and transfigure him into a bug. Keep him in there for a while and give him a good shake whenever she felt the rising tide of nausea come back up her throat. Which, it would seem, was every single day.
Yes, that sounded almost nearly as satisfying as throttling him to death.
Ridiculous Theo Nott and his charming smiles and his witty jokes and his stupid invasion into her perfectly good life—she never wanted him as a friend, but he had insisted. And now look at where she was. Curled up on the bathroom floor, sweating and sick. A price to pay for her own poor butterbeer and firewhiskey-fueled decisions.
Entitled Theo, who just had to hang around while she assisted with the decommissioning of his family manor. Who had been interested enough in the magic involved and followed her around, tinkering on his own projects while she worked, asking her questions in a way that just bordered on invasive, but only toed the line. And whenever she snapped at him, he would give her that same little sheepish grin that reminded her so much of Harry.
It’s no wonder they got along like fools. All of them… almost.
Spoiled Theo and his ridiculous birthday “bash,” insisting that she and Harry attend after work and drink until they couldn’t see straight. It didn’t matter that they only had a tenuous truce with his other friends, ones who could still only barely contain their amused smirks at her whenever she was around, and it was only supposed to be one drink. One drink that turned into three, four, five, group traveling from the bar to Theo’s house and stumbling through the floo, laughing and reaching for more alcohol… until it was too late.
Another cramp twisted around her stomach, and she stifled a groan, leaning into her knees as she panted through the worst of it. Her mouth was watering, her tongue ached, and if she wasn’t so certain that giving in to the urge to retch wouldn’t be a futile attempt at gagging over the toilet again, she would have tried to give in to find some relief.
But as she’d learned over the last two weeks, this kind of nausea wasn’t temporary. She’d thought so, at first, chalking it up to a bad sandwich from the Ministry cafe, then assuming it was a bad stomach bug once the worst of it hadn’t passed. It had come on swift and sudden, but hadn’t gotten worse. Which should have been her first clue, really, that something was amiss.
A bead of sweat tracked down her spine, and Hermione shivered. Sweet Circe, this was bad, and the empty testing vials on her counter echoed the dawning horror in her stomach. It was buried underneath the hot churn of stomach acid, but she could feel it there nonetheless.
It had occurred to her as a passing thought, a wisp of nothing that was as almost absurd as her friendship with the former Slytherin and his gang of reformed bullies. She had been standing in her kitchen that morning, sniffing the bowl of fruit she kept on her counter. The apples had gone bad, considering the sickly sweet smell radiating from a good distance away. It had turned her stomach even more than she’d already been dealing with, and even her tea smelled bitter.
Could it—No, she’d laughed, shaking her head. There was no way. She wasn’t— It felt like her heart had stopped in her chest, and she immediately began counting the days back in her head. Hands shaking, she set down her tea and leaned against the counter, shuddering through breaths to try and stay calm.
Four weeks… Five weeks… Six.. Oh, Merlin.
It had been six weeks since Theo’s birthday debauchery, and she hadn’t even realized that her cycle should have come and gone two weeks earlier. Her schedule was busy, yes, and sometimes she skipped months—which normally wasn’t a problem.
Normally.
Because normally, she didn’t have drunken one night stands in an empty room of the Nott Manor, pressed up between the wall and a lean, fit frame. One that eagerly shoved himself against her writhing body, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin of her neck, practically growling as her clumsy, drunken hands fumbled at the buttons of his trousers.
“Come on, Granger,” he taunted her, his long fingers pulling up the skirt of her dress until it settled around her hips. “I figured you’d have sharper claws than this…”
A strangled moan from her throat made him chuckle, the sound vibrating against her ribcage, but his hands only teased her further. This is what they did. They might not have been enemies anymore, but they weren’t exactly friends. They pushed and pulled at each other, poking and prodding any weak spots they could find, until one of them got so flustered and angry they would leave.
But this time? They were doing it with less clothes.
“Gods, stop talking.” She bit his bottom lip and pulled with her teeth, giving in to the urge to be rough with him.
When she finally worked her hand under his waistband and wrapped her heavy fingers around his length, his teasing stopped. A hiss of air through his teeth, and he was back at her, ravaging and pushing and pulling until she didn’t know where she stopped and he began.
This time, she couldn’t stop the heave that shuddered through her frame, and she dove for the toilet just before losing what little stomach acid she had left. Moments later, with the back of her throat and tongue burning, she stood on weak legs to rinse out her mouth from the sink. Eyes bloodshot and watering, she eyed the vials of unopened potions on the counter and her stomach sank even further. She didn’t need to drink them to know. If she did and she went to the bathroom, her urine would be bright blue. She could even cast the diagnostic charm that Ginny had shown her years before, or go to the muggle shop a few streets over to buy a test just to be certain.
Hand drifting down to her abdomen, she knew. When she was younger, she’d known that there was something different about her. About her abilities. Her certainty had been palpable, and was only confirmed when Professor McGonagall had shown up on her doorstep with that fateful letter in hand. And now, just over ten years later, she felt that same sense of certainty again.
She was pregnant. And it all because she’d gone and had a one night stand with the worst person in the world… Draco Malfoy.
Perhaps she’d transfigure him into a bug, too.
TEN WEEKS
Hermione took measured sips of her tea, trying to steady her breathing through her nose. The morning sickness hadn’t gotten any better, but she’d found tricks to keep the worst of it at bay. Ginger biscuits and plain toast seemed to be some of the few items she could keep long enough to digest, and if she didn’t let her stomach get too empty, the retching wouldn’t come on nearly as swift. Tiny bites throughout the day, and she would be lucky to only get sick once or twice.
It figured that Malfoy’s child would be a constant pain in the arse, as well.
A soft knock at her office door drew her eyes up from the memo she was writing.
“Feeling any better?” Harry’s question was cautious, and she could see the genuine concern in his green eyes. He didn’t know—no one did—but he knew something was up. One didn’t get sick for weeks on end and not look like they’d taken a few shots of Living Death.
She mustered a smile. “Getting there.” It wasn’t quite a lie.
For weeks, she’d been toiling over her options, researching magical and muggle pregnancies alike. There was no telling how things were going to go, given her muggle parentage and Malfoy’s pureblood lineage, but one thing was certain—he couldn’t know. Not yet, at least.
Not until she had a plan. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be a clear one, no matter how much she read or researched.
She had options, yes, but those were different. Although she was still in her early twenties and not yet ready for any kind of settling down, the thought of termination made her chest feel achingly hollow. She had a thousand things to do with her life, and even more things she wanted to make up for from her lost years as a teenager, but something told her that losing a pregnancy would just add to her pile of regrets.
With termination out, it left two equally hard choices… Adoption, or single motherhood. Both of which made her skin crawl, but for very different reasons.
“Have you gone to see that specialist at St. Mungo’s I mentioned the other day?” Harry’s hands tapped at the sides of his Auror robes, and he shot her another weary glance.
“Stop fussing, Harry, I’m fine.” She waved him off. “I think it’s just stress with this case, that’s all.”
His look quickly morphed from concern into impatience. “I keep telling you to take some time off. You shouldn’t be working this much anyway.”
Shrugging, she took another small sip of her tea. “I will, once we’re through the Bechman case.”
In approximately 7 months, give or take a few days.
That was another part of her plan that she hadn’t quite figured out yet. Work. Since getting hired as a Specialist Researcher within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, she’d yet to take more than a handful of her allotted days off, and even those were mostly reserved for visiting her parents in Australia on birthdays.
If she started taking time off, everyone would get suspicious.
“Speaking of, did you hear his trial got moved up?” Harry moved to the far wall, inspecting the clock on her bookshelf. It was nearing the end of the day, which meant he was probably wasting time and avoiding his own office, lest anyone need him for something after hours.
Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. That was quick. Gerald Bechman had been laundering counterfeit gold through businesses in Knockturn Alley, but they had just finalized their initial load of case paperwork. “Really? But what about-
“There’s my two favorite Ministry employees!” Another voice resounded from the doorway, this one much louder than he should have been for the small space. Like he didn’t care who overheard him. Theo. “Hope you’re not scheming to come steal more of my family heirlooms.”
“Are you saying there are other Ministry employees in the running?” Harry quirked a dark eyebrow at him and ignored the second comment. The Ministry was well aware of what Theo Nott did, and did not, possess after the war. Half of his estate had been seized for reparations when his father was sentenced to life in Azkaban, and the other half had been forcibly decommissioned of all dark magic.
Not that he’d seemed to care much.
Theo paused, his features morphing into an easy smile, and shrugged. “You never know. Perhaps I’ll make it a point to expand my network a little further, garner some good old fashioned political goodwill. Seems like a good place to start, eh?”
Hermione snorted at his wink. He was incorrigible, and that was probably how she’d gotten suckered into being his friend in the first place.
“However, I did come with a more important purpose. Did you not get my owl last week?”
Shying away from his question, she glanced back down at her tea. It was growing cold, but she’d found that warming charms made it taste just the slightest bit sour. Something she’d never noticed before, but her pregnancy hormones were making everything over-sensitized. Food, shampoo, perfume—even her skin . Her breasts were swollen and aching, she felt bloated all the time, and she couldn’t seem to get enough sleep. Honestly, if she was this miserable this early on in her pregnancy, she didn’t have high hopes for the coming months.
“Sorry,” she apologized. “It’s been a busy couple of weeks. Honestly, I’d love to come, but I really need to get caught up—”
Shaking his head, Theo strode into the office and dropped his frame into the chair across from her desk. “Ah ah, no way. I will not be accepting your refusal this time, Granger. You skipped my Beltane celebration last year, too.”
“Theo-” she started, but he cut her off again.
“Harry, help me out here. Tell her she must come.”
Ever the good friend, Harry scratched the back of his neck and avoided Theo’s pointed gaze. “Ahh, it has been a bit busy. Hermione’s been pulling extra hours to get evidence sorted for the case we’ve been working on, and she really does need some rest. Look at her.”
Truth be told, Hermione hadn’t wanted anything to do with Theo’s Beltane party because it would mean forced proximity with the one man she absolutely did not want to see. One who’s grey eyes would inevitably zero in on her fatigued state and make some kind of sharp remark about how awful she looked.
Yes, well, one would be expected to look awful carrying your spawn, wouldn’t she? Hermione almost snorted at the retort as it formed in her mind, but she brushed it off and tried to school her features before Theo caught it.
Theo’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Just a bit of a stomach bug, that’s all.”
Harry’s snort was pure betrayal.
“A bit of a stomach bug that’s lasted for a month now.”
When she shot him a heated look, he had the decency to at least appear somewhat sheepish. Gods, she must be getting rusty. That look used to make him cower. “What? It’s true.”
“Is that why you skipped out on our standing reservation for drinks the other week?” Theo referenced their normal outing, usually every two weeks at the pub just outside Diagon Alley.
Rolling her lips, she nodded. Nausea was beginning to brew in her abdomen, swirling around with each passing moment. Don’t get sick. Don’t get sick. If she could keep breathing through it, she might be able to hold off until they left her office.
Theo’s features softened. “Granger, you’ve got to—”
“Are you done in here yet?” A third, and more impatient drawl interrupted whatever he was about to say, and stomach acid spiked up the back of her throat.
Malfoy. Standing in her doorway, hands in the pockets of his trousers, stood the man she never wanted to see again.
“You know how much I hate it in here. It’s stuffy and it smells like mildew.”
Malfoy’s gaze tracked across her office, obviously unimpressed, until they settled on her face. She didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything, because she knew what would happen if she so much as opened her mouth. His grey eyes tracked across her features, catching on her shoulders, then back up to her eyes. They paused there for a moment, holding hers, until she blinked away first.
“Yes, yes, I know,” Theo said as he waved off his best friend’s impatience. “Nothing but the freshest air for Draco Malfoy. It’s a wonder you survived in the Slytherin common room, what with all your delicate sensibilities. Speaking of, Granger, perhaps that’s your problem. Too much time cooped up with this awful work and it’s slowly poisoning your healthy disposition. Potter’s right—you should take some time off.”
“What’s wrong with Granger?” Malfoy’s question was posed at Theo, despite the fact that she was sitting a mere reach away.
Gods, he was infuriating. If he couldn’t even ask her a question directly, then he surely couldn’t step up to be a father.
“She’s sick,” Harry supplied. Inching toward the door when she glared at him again. He knew his time was running out. “Been sick for weeks, really. Won’t go see a healer, despite all of us telling her to. Too stubborn even though she obviously needs the help.”
“And who comprises ‘all of us’?” Theo’s brows knitted.
Malfoy dutifully stepped out of the doorway when Harry neared. They weren’t as cold to each other as they used to be, and were probably more congenial than she and Malfoy were to each other, but they still gave each other a wide berth.
“Me, Gin, Molly, Ron, you know, the lot of us. Maybe she’ll listen to you instead since we can’t seem to get through to her. Good luck, though!”
Before she could hurl her teacup at him, Harry ducked out.
“I don’t need help,” she insisted, standing slowly and swallowing back the worst of the nausea. “I just need to get some sleep, that’s all. It’s not as bad as it was a few weeks ago.”
Draco went still. “A few weeks?”
Grabbing her bag, Hermione began to pack up her desk items, hopeful that the two men standing before her would get the idea and leave.
She huffed, stuffing her case notes back into their rightful folders and setting her spare quills aside to be sharpened in the morning. “Perhaps you should get your hearing checked, Malfoy. That is what Harry and I both said. Or is it a comprehension issue?”
“Theo, may we have a moment?”
“Why?”
“Theo.” Malfoy’s voice garnered no room for debate.
Standing, Theo stretched, taking his time. “Sure, then. I’ll be just outside, definitely not eavesdropping to make sure you two don’t kill each other."
When the door clicked shut, Malfoy pulled out his wand and cast a quick silencing charm. “Sit down.”
“I will do no such thing,” Hermione replied as she rolled her eyes and continued packing up her desk. “Or should I remind you that this is my office, and you have no power here?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she spied his hands flexing. His pale skin turned white against the knuckles, and he drew in a frustrated breath before speaking again.
“You look like you’re about to faint, Granger, and I’d rather not witness you giving yourself a concussion when your head hits the desk.”
“Mmm, sure.” His excuse was weak, at best. “Whatever makes you feel better, Malfoy.”
“You look like shite. When was the last time you ate?”
Ignoring the dig, she screwed the cap back on her ink pot and ignored the way her hands were beginning to shake. “This morning, thank you. Although I fail to see why my dietary habits are any of your concern.”
“Gods, must you be so purposefully frustrating all the time?” He stepped into her line of sight, his hip leaning on her desk just a short distance away. This close, she was practically forced to look at him. To look up at his face, features still sharp and angular, but not nearly as pointy as they were when they were children. He’d grown, too, taller than both Harry and Ron, but kept his lean build.
A memory flashed in her head, of narrow hips thrusting against hers and long arms wrapping around her waist to hold her in place.
No. She shook herself internally, her movements growing shaky. Don’t think about that. Not now. It wasn’t the first time it’d happened in the last few weeks… Her hormones were so out of control that some nights she woke up thinking about it, aching between her legs at the memory of him. It had to have been the hormones, because before their one night stand, she’d never seen him as anything except a pompous arse.
“Funny, that was about to be my next question to you.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, and he reached up to push a few errant strands of hair back into place. Another thing she’d noticed recently, as well, was how he carried himself differently from when they were children. He’d filled out and matured into his features, yes, but he also kept his hair parted to the side rather than combed back like his father used to. He still wore the same self-imposed uniform of custom-tailored suits and robes, but they weren’t all black anymore. His suit today was a beautifully cut charcoal piece, with a white shirt and diamond patterned navy tie that shimmered just-so when the light hit it.
And at this distance, merely a touch away, she could smell every single note of his cologne. Like bergamot and cedarwood and a light touch of leather, it resurfaced even more memories from their night together.
But today, it almost pushed her to the edge.
Holding her breath, she stepped away from him on shaky legs. “Please, Malfoy. I need you to leave.”
“Why?” he asked and took a step toward her, his eyes calculating. She continued her retreat around the back side of her desk.
Steady breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
“I need to—” bile began to rise in her stomach again, and she swallowed heavily, “—I need to go.”
She wouldn’t make it to the loo in time—it was too far down the corridor. Perhaps she could find an empty rubbish bin in one of the conference rooms nearby—
Strong hands grasped her shoulders, and she realized that somehow, in the span of a few steps, Malfoy had caught up to her and was now holding her steady. She was gasping for air, sweat beginning to bead against her temples, but it only brought the scent of his cologne back into her nostrils.
Ah, gods.
“I think I’m going to get sick,” she’d barely whispered the words, shutting her eyes just in time to see his face grow pale.
He bit out a muttered curse, but before she could react he was shoving something into her hands. Her rubbish bin. A cracked eyelid confirmed it, even if the texture of the cool metal against her fingertips didn’t.
“Keep breathing,” his sharp instruction was the same tone she’d heard him use a thousand times, but she didn’t have the energy to muster a retort. Not when she needed to focus on her breathing and swallowing, alternating in steady intervals so she didn’t embarrass herself by puking on Draco Malfoy’s pressed blazer.
“Come now, sit down.” His hands returned to her shoulders and he guided her back several steps until she felt the cushion of her visitor’s chair hit the backs of her knees. With a slow nod, she sat down and his hands disappeared. “I wasn’t kidding about you looking like you were going to faint, you difficult witch.”
Her stomach heaved, and she gagged into the bin. “Your cologne—It’s—” She barely suppressed another, thankful to the gods that she was keeping her tea down at the very least. “Too much.”
Eyes still closed, she heard fabric rustling and his quick Scourgify charm. “I’ve got to say, Granger, you’re the first woman I’ve ever brought to physical illness just through proximity.”
When a moment passed without another heave, she chanced opening her lids. He’d tossed his jacket into the corner, and the smell wasn’t nearly as overpowering. “The first of many, I’m sure.”
Gods, even her voice sounded pathetic, and she hung her head back down to hide her shame. There weren't many things she considered herself to be embarrassed by, but this definitely took the top of the list.
As the silence grew, so did the tension between them. She chanced a look back up at him, but thankfully, his eyes were trained on the far wall. The muscle in his jaw was ticking out, in, out, in, out, in, as he ground his molars together, and the strain was obvious in the stiffness of his shoulders. After a moment, he spoke.
“I’d ask you when, but I think we both know.”
“What?” Although the worst of her nausea had passed, she still couldn’t track what he was saying.
“Ten weeks, give or take a day?” His voice turned hard, but he still didn’t look at her. “How long have you known?”
Hermione’s chest tightened, her heart beating erratically in her chest. “What—no, Malfoy, this is—”
His eyes cut straight to her, stopping the lies before they could fall from her lips. “Stop it. Don’t lie. We both know what’s happened,” he said and cast a quick look toward her stomach, still covered by the bin, and back up to her face. “I’m not an idiot. You might be able to fool Potter and Theo, but you’re forgetting that I was only just behind you in marks during school.”
“I—” she swallowed past the lump in her throat, this time more for the stuttering nervousness that was taking residence in her chest. “About four weeks ago.”
Malfoy released a sharp breath and stood, turning his back to her. “You’ve known… for a month?”
“How do you know it’s even yours?” His tone bristled, and she couldn’t fight the urge to stand up to him. He didn’t get to come into her office and act like she had betrayed him somehow. “Perhaps this is none of your business in the first place.”
At her words, he spun, taking two long steps toward her. “Is that it, then? Off shagging a different wizard every weekend? Forgive me if I don’t quite believe it.” His pupils were black, blown out with anger and suffocating any sliver of grey that remained.
If she could have, she would have stood, pushing him back a few steps to force him out of her proximity. But as it was, she couldn’t risk another bout of sickness from the sudden movement, and that meant deciding—her indignation from his ire, or the embarrassment of getting sick in front of him.
“I could be in a relationship, not that it’s any of your business.”
Malfoy’s laugh was dry, and he flexed his knuckles, popping several in the process. “Sure, Granger. If that’s the case, we can just head off to St. Mungo’s to make sure.”
The force of her gasp rocked her back.
“Surprised?” he continued. “Don’t think for a moment that I would risk taking any chances with a potential child. Do you not realize the gravity of this situation? If you’re pregnant with my child, that is the heir to the entire Malfoy fortune and I will not fall prey to whatever silly little games you’re trying to play.”
“I’m not playing games, Malfoy,” she spat, finally moving the rubbish bin by her feet and standing slowly. With a few steady breaths, she looked up to face his anger directly.
“You don’t get to waltz into my office and make demands of me. This is my body, and my right to do with as I wish. I’m not up to some nefarious plot, either, where I try to steal your fortune. I have no interest in that or you, for the record. This isn’t something I want. ”
Her voice cracked at the same time her eyes began to sting, and she blinked toward the ceiling. Saying it out loud was different than hearing it in her own thoughts for the last few weeks, and as soon as it was out in the open, she realized the gravity of it. This was why she couldn’t figure out a plan or a solution.
When she finally looked back down at him, he was still staring at her with open hostility. “When were you going to tell me? Or were you going to show up on my doorstep, infant in one hand and a gift basket in the other?”
She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “As soon as I figured out a plan, you git. This is a mistake and we both know it. I didn’t want to blindside you and not have some kind of recourse ready.”
“You can’t research your way out of a pregnancy,” he hissed at her, reaching up to pull at the ends of his hair. Like he couldn’t contain himself, he stepped out from in front of her, pacing the length of the small office. “I can’t believe you—”
“Me?!” She choked out a humorless laugh. “If I remember correctly, you were the one sucking on my chest while I tried to cast the contraceptive charm, and you thought it was funny that I couldn’t get the wandwork right!”
As she remembered, he had. He’d made it into a game, trying to get her as flustered as possible. It was no surprise that the charm had failed, if it had even taken in the first place. Between her drunken reflexes and his mouth, she’d been doomed to fail from the very beginning.
“Not that,” he didn’t stop pacing. “I’m not surprised in the slightest. We were sloppy and made a mistake—but you should have come to me first.”
“Because that would have gone so well. Here, let me see…” she started ticking off the reasons on her fingers. “We used to be enemies, and you’ve hated my entire existence for how many years now? Oh, yes, your whole life. And it’s not like we’re exactly friends now, gauging by your response to me whenever we see each other with Theo. Add in the fact that I’m sure your mother has some wonderful pureblooded witch just waiting in the wings for you to be the perfect Malfoy wife, am I supposed to sit on the sidelines with your half-blood bastard and hope for scraps of your attention? I think not.”
At the word bastard, he stopped pacing completely. “Don’t ever say that again.”
“Why not?” she challenged. It was the truth, wasn’t it? It wasn’t like Draco Malfoy of all people would propose to her just because she’d gone and gotten knocked up. It was the practical way to look at it—this was a problem they were both stuck in, and like it or not, that problem was a child out of wedlock.
With slow, careful steps, he approached her again. “You have no idea the kind of man I am. And if you think that’s what I would do, you are sorely mistaken. From this moment forward, consider this as a promise or a threat, I don’t care which—but I will be involved, whether you like it or not. You will not hide anything else from me, Granger. Are we clear?”