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Draco Malfoy had been in a suspiciously good mood lately. So much so that nearly everyone in his orbit, including his own mother, had questioned him about it. And each time, with the reflexes of a seasoned Seeker, he dodged and deflected. He wasn’t ready to share his little secret, though if he were being honest, he rather wished it wasn’t a secret at all.
But the truth was embarrassingly simple. He’d found a witch.
The problem with falling for a woman who was fiercely independent, wickedly smart, and unfairly beautiful was that it left you painfully aware of the inevitable: she was going to break your heart. He had realized that the moment after their first glorious tumble between the sheets—when he’d asked her to stay—and she had laughed. Not cruelly, not even mockingly. Just a startled, impossible-to-misread laugh before she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek and left him blinking, rumpled in sweaty sheets.
For three weeks she’d given him nothing. She ignored his owls. She avoided him at the Ministry. He’d even shown up at her office with her favorite coffee, only to have her secretary accept it with a polite smile and the same message each time: She’s in an important meeting. Five times in two weeks. There was no universe where that wasn’t deliberate.
It was driving him mad—restless, irritable, and embarrassingly lovesick.
So in a moment of unrestrained desperation, he’d struck a deal with Potter: two months of paperwork in exchange for information on her plans for the day. Then he’d purchased the most obscenely beautiful bouquet of tulips he could find and parked himself at her favorite bookshop like a criminal staking out a target.
Bloody cold day for a stakeout, too. The December wind kept whipping through his perfectly styled hair, undoing hours of careful effort, and every icy gust only made him more anxious. What if she saw him and laughed again before rejecting him outright? The thought alone made his stomach twist.
Perhaps he was being dramatic, Merlin knew he had a flair for it, but he truly couldn’t piece together why she had cut him off so abruptly. They’d had two genuinely wonderful months together. Situationship, Theo had called it with a smirk, but Draco hadn’t minded the term. Whatever it was, he’d adored every uneven, unpredictable minute of it.
He’d taken only what she offered—never pushing, never asking for more than she was willing to give. Even when those offerings were small, scattered like crumbs he eagerly gathered. After the first month, she had actually stayed the night, falling asleep in his bed with her back pressed against his chest. She was gone by the time he woke, but he’d spent the entire day floating.
Two weeks later, she’d accepted his invitation to dinner—a proper one. He’d cooked for her, watched her smile at him over candlelight before they tumbled into bed in a blissful, tangled heap.
And then, after a perfectly ordinary Tuesday night—normal, spicy, easy—everything stopped. No owl. No message. No explanation.
Just… silence.
And now here he was, freezing in front of a bookshop, clutching a bouquet like a lovesick fool, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong.
He watched from the café across the street as Hermione stepped through the doors of Foxglove & Fable, an older woman beside her—same curls, same posture, same air of brisk intelligence, just silver-threaded with age.
Brilliant.
Absolutely bloody brilliant.
Her mum was with her.
Shit.
A cold spike of panic twisted in his stomach. Would Hermione even want him to meet her mother? Highly unlikely. The last time they’d spoken face-to-face she’d been putting back on her knickers with his cum dripping down her thighs. Introducing him to her family was probably somewhere near the bottom of her to-do list—right under “Respond to Draco’s increasingly pathetic owls.”
But this was his chance. His only chance. He’d already crossed the line from “concerned” to “lightly stalking,” and if he didn’t straighten things out with her soon, he was fairly certain he’d unravel entirely.
So he made a decision that felt equal parts brave and idiotic. He crossed the street.
He caught his reflection in the shop window, flattened his wind-tossed hair, tried to look like a man not spiraling into emotional ruin, and stepped inside. The warm scent of parchment and cinnamon hit him like a charm, but he ignored it, scanning the aisles with laser focus.
He found her in the potions section. Hermione browsed quietly while her mother was already absorbed—for Merlin’s sake—in a bodice-ripping romance featuring a centaur with sculpted abs clutching a swooning woman in scarlet silk.
Like mother, like daughter, he thought, and despite himself, nearly grinned.
He quickly cast a wandless drying charm on his clammy palms—no way was he greeting anyone with nervous sweat—and just as he finished, Hermione’s mother looked up. She gasped softly. Hermione’s head snapped up too, her curls bouncing.
For one brief, traitorous second she looked stunned.
Then her expression hardened into a frown, arms crossing, hip cocking in a display of irritation so sharp it nearly winded him.
Well. At least she still had feelings about him. That was… something.
He approached with every ounce of Malfoy composure he possessed. Best to start with her mother. Women over fifty adored him, always had.
He offered a polite, charming smile and extended his hand.
“Hello,” he said smoothly, voice velvet-soft. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Draco Malfoy.” His smile widened just a touch: wicked, warm, perfectly calibrated. “And you must be the brilliant woman responsible for raising Hermione.”
“Oh, goodness.” Hermione’s mother flushed, tucking a curl behind her ear in a gesture he had seen Hermione do a thousand times. “You never told me he was so incredibly handsome.” She lightly scolded her daughter before thrusting her book into Hermione’s arms and seizing Draco’s hand between both of hers. “I’m Helen. It is such a pleasure. I’ve heard so much about you—”
“Mum!” Hermione hissed.
“Oh, what? I’m not allowed to say I’ve heard about him?” Helen blinked innocently at her daughter before turning a warm smile back up at Draco—still firmly holding his hand. “She can be a bit of a drama queen sometimes. She gets it from her father.”
Draco laughed good-naturedly. “I fear I have the same quality.”
“Oh, well there’s nothing wrong with a little dramatics. Keeps things lively.” She winked, and Hermione groaned, covering her face with one hand and leaning against the bookshelf in sheer mortification.
Before Draco could respond, Helen’s attention snapped to the flowers in his other hand. She finally released him to point, a smug little smirk forming.
“And look at these lovely flowers,” she said, clearly projecting toward Hermione. “Isn’t that just the sweetest thing, Butter Bean? I swear, I’ll have to tell your father. He hasn’t bought me flowers since our twentieth anniversary and they weren’t nearly this beautiful.”
Draco plucked a single bloom from the bouquet and offered it to her with a charming flourish.
“Then please,” he said, “allow me to make him jealous.”
Helen giggled like a schoolgirl, earning a sharp shush from the nearby librarian.
“Oh, can it!” she shot back at the woman before accepting the flower, beaming. Well, Draco thought, that explains where Hermione gets her boldness. “Thank you, Draco. This is incredibly kind. I’ll be sure to tell my husband that a strapping young man gave it to me.”
She sent him a conspiratorial smile.
“By all means—”
“Will you two stop it,” Hermione hissed, her whisper harsh and sharp. “Mum, will you give me a minute, please?”
“Of course, dear.” Helen gave Draco one last sugary smile before tugging Hermione close. They exchanged a whisper far too loud not to be intended for him.
“He’s trying,” Helen said firmly, giving her daughter a pointed look before plucking her book from Hermione’s grasp and drifting down the aisle.
Once she disappeared behind a shelf, Hermione rounded on him.
“What are you doing here?”
“You weren’t responding.”
“Yes, well, not responding is usually how people signal they want to be left alone.”
“Yeah if you’re a third-year. Adults usually communicate their feelings.”
Her frown deepened. “I needed time to think.”
“Then bloody say that, Hermione.” His frustration cracked through his careful restraint. “I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out if I insulted you or did something wrong. Just—” He dragged a hand through his hair. “If you need time, or don’t want to see me again, at least reply to one of my many owls.”
She wilted a little, eyes dropping to the floor and after a long moment conceded, “You’re right,” she said quietly. “I should have said something.”
Feeling marginally vindicated, he held out the bouquet. She accepted it, hesitantly.
“I miss you,” he said after a long, charged beat. “And I want to see you again; however you want. If we were moving too fast—”
She scoffed. The sound hit him like a physical blow, hollowing his chest, twisting his stomach. Mockery. Rejection. Confirmation of his worst fears.
His expression shut down instantly. He turned on his heel, fully intending to walk out before he embarrassed himself further, but her hand shot out, gripping his forearm.
“Draco, wait. It’s not—” She faltered, swallowing, then sighed shakily. She cast a muffliato around them.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words didn’t hit him all at once. They seemed to hang between them, suspended in the air: impossible, absurd, world-tilting.
Draco blinked.
Once.
Twice.
His mouth opened, closed, opened again. No sound came out.
“I—” His throat tightened. “You’re… what?”
His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out the rest of the shop. The smell of parchment, the soft rustle of pages, distant whispers: they all vanished into static.
Pregnant.
Hermione.
Pregnant.
His legs suddenly felt unsteady, and he leaned back against the nearest shelf as if it might hold his body together where his sanity was rapidly slipping.
“Merlin’s sake,” he breathed, barely audible. “Are you- are you certain?”
But he already knew she wouldn’t have said it unless she was.
“Yes, I’m certain.” She huffed, crossing her arms tight across her chest. “And I don’t want anything from you. I don’t want your money, I don’t want a marriage proposal so you can reassure your parents they don’t have to worry about their bastard grandchild, all right?”
He blinked: slow and disbelieving. Her words landing heavy and sour in the space between them.
“I- Merlin, could you give me a second to process this before you start berating me with my family’s prejudice?”
Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t argue. She just watched him, wary and guarded, as he tried to assemble his splintered thoughts.
His eyes dropped to her flat stomach.
“You’re… pregnant,” he whispered, like the words were fragile and he might break them by speaking too loudly.
And then the world seemed to tilt.
A baby.
Their baby.
Images slammed into him: tiny fingers curled around his, soft blonde curls, sleepy grey eyes, a wobbly toddler taking first steps. A small voice calling him Dada.
His knees nearly gave. His stomach dissolved into molten warmth. His eyes burned.
He was going to be a father.
“You’re pregnant,” he said again, but this time the words were reverent, awed, almost holy. A stupid, unstoppable grin burst across his face as he stepped closer. Hermione startled at his sudden movement, but he didn’t even notice—his mind was too dazzled, too full of her, of them.
He lifted a trembling hand and pressed his palm gently to her stomach, as though afraid she might vanish if he didn’t anchor himself to her. Then he leaned in, resting his forehead against hers, eyes fluttering shut.
She made a small, startled noise—something between a gasp and a whimper—before slowly exhaling, her body softening beneath his touch, tension bleeding out of her shoulders like someone had whispered a charm.
“We’re going to be parents,” he murmured, voice thick with awe.
“Draco—” she started, her voice tight with nerves. “I don’t expect anything—”
“How far along are you?” he cut in, pulling back just enough to search her face. Her defenses didn’t scare him; there were far greater things to think about now.
Her brows pulled down in a frown, then said, “I’m seven weeks.”
His mind did quick maths. “So- July? No, August?”
“My due date is August sixth,” she replied, weary, but it only made his smile bloom wider.
“A summer baby, just like their dad,” he said proudly. “We’ll just have to hope it’s not on the Chosen One’s birthday. Merlin knows he’ll never stop talking about it.” He shook his head at the thought, his smile unable to be tapered until a thought crossed his mind. “Who knows? Please tell me Scarhead and the Weasle didn’t know about my child before me.”
She was clearly dazed as she didn’t even correct his insult, merely shaking her head, “My mum is the only person I’ve told besides you.”
He felt himself relax, “Good,” He smiled running his thumb across her stomach.
She pulled his hand gently away from her stomach, keeping his wrist held tightly between both of hers—forcing him to look at her rather than the spot where their child grew.
“You’re—? You actually want to be involved in their life?”
“Involved?” He let out a bark of disbelief. “Hermione, I’m their dad. Of course I’m going to be involved. I’m fifty percent of this. More, if you ask my mother.”
His mind flitted wildly, hopelessly, to images he’d never let himself indulge in before.
Cozy mornings on the couch, a tiny body curled against his side while the wireless hummed quietly in the background. He could see it—his daughter still in her pajamas, hair a riot of soft curls, insisting he read her The Tales of Beedle the Bard for the tenth time. He’d pretend to sigh, pretend to complain, but he’d do the voices—all the voices—because she’d giggle and clap her hands, and he’d feel like he’d swallowed sunlight.
Then his mind leapt—because of course it did—to her first at-home spa day. Only the finest products from France, naturally; he’d owl-order them personally from the old apothecary in Paris that his mother used. Tiny slices of cucumber on her eyes, a little dressing gown embroidered with her initials, and him carefully painting her nails with a concentration he hadn’t displayed since his NEWTs. Hermione would roll her eyes and mutter something about “class consciousness” and “how expensive is that lavender serum,” but she’d be smiling, soft and hopelessly endeared.
And if it was a boy— well the spa day still withstood. Any Malfoy had to learn the importance of appearance and class. But he could also build him a full-blown jungle gym in the backyard. A proper one. With cushioning charms and a tiny slide and maybe even a miniature broomstick course that he’d absolutely claim was Hermione’s idea when she inevitably questioned the safety. He saw little hands gripping his trousers as the child waddled unsteadily toward him, saw chubby legs taking their first steps right into his arms. Saw the way he’d lift him high, high, high into the air just to hear him laugh.
Her silence lingered too long. When he lifted his gaze fully, he found her pale as a ghost.
“Hermione?” His voice dropped, hands rising to cradle her head. “Are you alright? If you don’t feel well—”
“No, I—” Her voice broke, the dam cracking. She shook her head as tears gathered in her eyes. “I… I thought I was going to be a single mum.”
He brushed a curl from her cheek, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Well,” he murmured, “I’d prefer there to be nothing single about you.”
She exhaled a trembling breath and pressed her face into his chest, shaking her head ever so slightly. “Draco…”
“Let me take you out on a date this Saturday,” he whispered, stomach twisting itself into anxious knots. Softer still: “Let me take care of you.”
The little witch trembling against him sniffed, then gave a small nod. Relief washed through him. He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close, savoring the warmth of her body seeping into his. He lowered his cheek to the top of her head.
He had no idea how long they stayed like that- just basking in one another's comfort- until Helen approached, laying a steadying hand on his arm.
“Alright, you two, if you stay frozen here any longer your father will think we’ve bought the whole store.”
Hermione jolted out of his arms, and Draco sent his future mother-in-law—because as much as Hermione protested, he fully intended to marry her—a warm, unbothered smile.
“That can surely be arranged,” he said lightly. “But for now—” He plucked the romance novel out of her hands. “We’ll start with this. Do we have time for you to grab one too, sweetheart?”
Hermione blushed; Helen beamed like she’d just won a prize.
“Normally I would protest,” the older woman said, “but Hermione holds all the magical money these days, so it’ll save me the maths later.”
“I don’t need a book,” Hermione murmured, uncharacteristically shy.
He sent her a soft, knowing smile, scanning the shelf she’d been browsing. A moment later, he plucked the book her finger had been resting on when he first approached.
“Well then,” he said gently, “hopefully this will suffice.”
And with that he sauntered toward the counter, feeling lighter than he had in weeks—like someone had cast a buoyancy charm on his very bones.
Behind him, Helen stage-whispered with all the subtlety of a marching band, “I like him already.”
His smile stretched even wider.