November 2006

Hermione sat in the Tulip guest room in Malfoy manor, her shoulders hunched and her brown eyes glued to the sapphire blue carpet beneath her bare feet as she squeezed her hands between her thighs nervously. She had received word two days prior that Narcissa had fallen down the garden steps. If it weren't for the house-elves who tended to the garden every mid-morning, she likely would have gone unnoticed until she and Draco showed up for their Sunday tea.

Rushing to aid her mother-in-law, Hermione left work after receiving a Floo call from Draco's assistant. Unfortunately upon her arrival, Hermione walked in the parlor while Draco was mid-conversation with his mother's personal healer, who was explaining that these occurrences of Narcissa losing her balance were increasing to the point of concern.

The news of the Malfoy matriarch's sudden ungainliness was more than a little alarming. In the two years she had come to know and love Narcissa, never once had she seen her so much as falter in her heels after sipping on wine during the cocktail hour. Healer Cobblestrom's accidental confession must have triggered warning bells for Draco as well, because by the time the conversation had ended, a full blood panel and diagnostic scan had been ordered.

The first test lead to another and then another, and by the end of the first day, both Draco and Hermione knew something was very wrong. More healers began arriving, their Quick-Quotes Quills writing furiously in their floating charts as they spoke in hushed tones around the east wing of the Manor. It wasn't until Healer Cobblestrom requested audience with Draco—and only Draco—that evening did Hermione realise how bad the diagnosis was doing to be.

The stress of her mothers-in-law's potential ailments coupled with being back in the Manor for a prolonged period of time was wearing her thin. It wasn't that the house wasn't beautiful and Narcissa didn't make her feel welcome, but she still felt an overwhelming sense of dread course through her veins every time she walked down the west wing and passed the drawing room, or Merlin forbid she needed to go into the kitchens. Passing the door that lead to the basement still caused a knot to form in her lower abdomen. To say she had conquered her demons from her past was far from a lie, but there was something about being back in that house that took her back to one of the worst moments in her life.

The sound of the bedroom door opening pulled her attention up from the floor, and when she looked up to meet the sorrowful gaze of her husband, her heart instantly shattered. "What did he say?" Hermione whispered, "Is she going to be okay?"

Draco pursed his lips together, her questions hitting him much harder than they should have, and that was the only confirmation she needed in the moment. "No. S-she's—she's not going to b-be okay," was all he managed before two large tears trickled down his cheeks. It was obvious he had fought hard to remain composed, but now that they were alone, he could allow himself to fall into the helpless surrender of sadness.

No words were spoken as she moved off the bed to envelope him in a tight hug. Underneath her touch, she could feel his body tremble in silent, wracking sobs. His arms wound around her waist, and she felt his fingers curl into the back of her gray jumper, pulling at the material tightly, holding her impossibly close as his face buried into the side of her neck. His hot tears splashed against her skin. Hermione lifted her right hand from his back and used it to smooth down the flaxen hair on the back of his head and neck in slow soothing strokes, trying to soothe him the only way she knew how.

"S-she isn't— S-she," Draco stammered into her skin in between deep breaths, pulling her close, as if she were a security blanket and he a scared child. "She has G-Gytrash Dystrophy."

Hermione's hand paused on the back of his neck, her fingers pressing against his taut muscles. She wasn't too familiar with this particular wizarding ailment, but she could only assume from the root word that it was similar to Muggle dystrophy. Her heart clenched; the idea of her mother-in-law literally wasting away was almost too much to take, but she couldn't allow herself to give in to grief yet. She needed to be strong—she had to be for her husband's sake. "I'm so sorry, Draco."

They stayed wrapped in each other until Draco's tears dried and his labored breath evened. He pulled back from her shoulder to look down at her, and Hermione nearly lost her composure. His beautiful eyes were reddened from his tears, his hair disheveled, and he looked grey—similar to how he did in their sixth year at Hogwarts. Lost. Broken. Afraid.

Hermione lifted her hand and stroked her fingertips across his cheekbone, smoothing away some of the residual wetness from his skin. Her eyes softened, and she offered him a silent sympathetic smile, unsure what she could do or say that would ease the pain he felt.

"Hermione," Draco breathed, turning his head towards her touch, nuzzling against her wrist with the tip of his nose, seeking the comfort he so desperately needed. "We… we need to move in—"

Although he continued to speak, Hermione stopped listening at the end of his first sentence. His words caused her heart to temporarily stop beating. Logically she knew that there was no question of them needing to move in to help with Narcissa's end of life care, but the rest of her was instantly terrified. This house… it was not a place where she felt particularly welcome. For generations, it had housed wizard and witches who hated people like her for just existing. Their portraits still lined the walls, and although they didn't throw insults at her like Walberga had in Grimmauld Place, their judgmental stares were nearly as bad.

"—she's not expected… she's not expected to make it to spring. She's hidden it for months now, Hermione. She needs my help. I-I can't—"

"Draco," Hermione interrupted, dropping her hand from his cheek to press her index finger to his lips to silence his rambling. This was not an aspect of her marriage she was ready for. Draco knew of her feelings regarding the Manor, but he was also logical enough to know it made little sense to pull his mother from the comfort of her own home at the end of her life. She knew what he was asking was not something he came to easily. She trusted the strength of their relationship enough to know he would not ask this if it wasn't important. And she needed to trust that this was the right thing for them. That she could make it through living in the Manor for however long Narcissa decided to stay on this earth. "Of course we will. We'll do whatever we can to help."


February 2006

Living in the Manor went exactly how Hermione had imagined: absolute hell. Her nightmares returned with a vengeance, and she poured herself into work to try and hide from her demons. Her relationship with Draco was strained. He was stressed from being the primary caregiver for his mother, in addition to taking on the responsibilities within Malfoy Enterprises. He had left his career at the Ministry in order to make sure the family business continued, and in the process he tried to establish with his new employees that he was not his father's son.

Hermione had requested the week off work, as Draco was in the process of reviewing his company's financial records with a Gringotts auditor, which required many late nights spent between the office and the bank. She didn't mind. The break from work had proved needed, and these moments with Narcissa were proving to help aid her in her own grief. Narcissa's physical deterioration had set in. Her body was literally wasting away. She could no longer stand or hold a book in her hands. The past week had been the first time she had needed an aid to help her eat. Lately, all Narcissa would do was sleep. The healer had warned them that the end of her life was coming soon, as the excessive exhaustion was an indication that her ailment had spread to the muscles around her lungs and heart.

While caring for her, Hermione was forced to deal with the fact that she was losing her stand-in mother. Over the years of being with Draco, she had come to value the Malfoy matriarch and found they had much in common. Without her own mother in the picture, she had viewed Narcissa as a surrogate. And just like with her own mum, she was going to have to say goodbye to her forever. Except instead of sending Narcissa off to live a life without her—or danger—in Australia, she would have to entomb her in the Malfoy Mausoleum.

Hermione shifted on the red velvet wingback armchair, crossing her right leg over her left before she rested her book against her thigh. After a quick lunch with Narcissa, Hermione had settled into the chair while the witch napped and busied herself with some light reading while she waited for Narcissa to wake up. She had good news to tell her and knew that during this trying time it would bring some light into their dark situation.

As she turned the page, Hermione lifted her eyes from her book to check on Narcissa and was surprised to see the witch awake. "You're awake." Hermione said as she picked up the bookmark that was resting on the arm of the chair. "Have you been up long? You should have said something; I would have stopped reading."

Narcissa gave her a weak smile and a frail hand lifted off the bed to give her a small wave. "It's alright, dear. I didn't want to disturb you. You looked enthralled in whatever it is," she explained. Her white blonde and black hair had been pulled back in a loose braid, gray growth from her roots peaked at her hairline, and the normal vanity that would have cause Narcissa to request a hair stylist come take care of it was gone. She didn't have the strength to worry about aesthetics for much longer.

"How are you feeling?" Hermione inquired as she lay the book face down in her lap, her hands resting on the back cover. Although she knew Narcissa would likely not be able to make out the words on the book from that distance because of the Dystrophy, she didn't want to risk ruining the surprise. "Can I get you anything?"

"Wonderful, darling," Narcissa lied, "Like I could fly to France and back." Pushing up on the bed, she struggled to lift herself so she could sit more upright against the pillows.

"Oh really?" Hermione let out a small laugh. Narcissa's macabre humor was endearing; it was as if she had not completely lost herself to the terrible disease just yet. Rising from the chair, Hermione laid her book in the seat before she moved to Narcissa's side, gently helping her mother-in-law into a sitting position on her bed. "I've heard Paris is quite lovely this time of year," she teased as she fluffed the pillows.

"It really is," Narcissa agreed as she folded the blanket down from her chests to rest in her lap, revealing a beautiful cream-colored nightgown. "Perhaps you'll let my son take you there soon. Then you can see the city instead of reading about it in your books."

"Perhaps," Hermione said as she sat on the side on the edge of Narcissa's bed and folded her hands in her lap with a small smile. Since moving into the Manor, it was rare for them to leave for prolonged periods of time, if at all. She knew Narcissa felt guilty about temporarily halting their life, but the truth was that neither of them minded. How could they? They were trying desperately to make the most of the time they had left with her. "But I'm afraid to tell you Apparition and Portkey travel are strictly off the table for a several months. We both know about how Draco feels about cars, so it'll have to wait."

Narcissa's brow knit, and she looked up from her lap where she was struggling to smooth the wrinkles from her comforter. Grey eyes swirled with confusion as she looked at her, trying her best to read between the lines of Hermione's travel ban admission.

Hermione held no doubt that if Narcissa had not been ill, then she would have been able to pick up on her symptoms right away, but she was sure it had already begun to affect her mind. Lifting her hand she gestured to the book. "Accio book." Wandlessly, it floated across the room towards Hermione, and she caught it before turning it over. She laid it in Narcissa's lap. The cover was a beautiful water colour of pinks and blues, splashed across a cream canvas. The title read Magical Pregnancies and Me: A Witches Guide to Navigating Nine Months.

She watched as Narcissa's eyes widened when the words came into focus, her withered hand reaching out to touch the cover, a slight tremble in her fingertips and when Narcissa's gray eyes found hers, the sparkle of tears already glistened. "y-you're with child?" Narcissa asked, her voice cracking.

Hermione nodded, reaching out to lay her hand on top of her mother-in-law's comfortingly. "yes. The Healer said nearly nine weeks."


March 2006

"Is she going to be okay?" Draco asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Physically speaking? Absolutely," Healer Cobblestrom replied, "But emotionally, it will be quite some time before she's… herself again."

The morning had started perfect. Narcissa had felt well enough to have the house-elves bring her boxes from storage that contained Draco's old baby items, and she was having Hermione go through the momentos with her. Each time Hermione had pulled an outfit or toy from the box, it brought back waves of memories to the ailing witch. Narcissa knew she did not have long left—and likely would not live to see the birth of her grandchild—which is why she had wanted to be sure to pass these items on to her before that day finally came.

They had only just started on the last box when it started: a sharp pain in her womb. Similar to a period cramp. Hermione did her best to ignore it, but eventually the pain became too much. She excused herself from Narcissa's room to go lay down, but she never made it to the bedroom. She collapsed in the hallway, and soon after the blood appeared. She'd never experienced something so painful in her entire life. The Cruciatus curse held no candle to the gut ripping pain of losing your child.

Denial curbed all rational thought despite the obvious, as Hermione lay crying on the marble floor, she prayed that her baby was fine. The house-elves retrieved Draco from the office where he had been reviewing a contract for Malfoy Enterprises as soon as they heard her screams. Hermione wasn't sure she'd ever forget the look in his eye when he found her. Horror. Pain. Concern. He didn't hesitate to scoop her up, the blood that ran down her legs ruining his clothes as he ordered the house-elf who summoned him to fetch the healers.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. Upon arrival, the Healers immediately sedated Hermione. The last thing she could remember was clutching Draco's hand, both of their fingers covered in her sticky blood, as she begged him to make sure the baby would be okay. She remembered the feeling of a needle press into her arm before the world went black.

She had been fifteen weeks—or at least that's what she'd heard when she finally woke. A hundred and five days she had carried the little baby inside her body. It had been a boy. A tiny little boy. He'd had a heartbeat. Little lips and eyes. He even had fingers and toes. He had been a person until suddenly he wasn't—until her body decided he wasn't allowed to be.

Spontaneous Abortion. The healer said it was common with Muggleborns. Something about magical properties overloading their bodies. Muggle pregnancy was already difficult, but magical pregnancies were worse. They depleted not only the magical power of the mother, but they physically took a toll. The low birthrate for most pure-blood families was not simply due to infertility. Multiple pregnancies could result in death for some witches. Historically speaking, families like the Weasleys were unheard of in their world.

Knowledge of how common it was did little to help ease the ache. She felt like a piece of her soul was missing the instant that the healers and her husband broke the news to her. They'd tried all they could, but they were already too late by the time they'd arrived. They said the fetus had already begun the process of aborting itself. The fetus. Hermione hated them for calling her son that—like he wasn't a person. A baby. A helpless, perfect little person that died because she couldn't keep him alive. Because her body was too weak to continue.

She had cried herself to sleep, curled up in a tiny ball on the king sized bed in the Tulip room. The healers stayed. Talking her vitals. Administering calming draughts, pain potions, and blood replenishing elixirs. The whole time, Hermione didn't utter a single word. What could she say? That she hated them for not saving her son? That she hated herself even more for being so bloody weak?

Just as the mid-afternoon sun drifted through the thick curtains and cast its warm rays across her body, Hermione's mind finally stopped berating herself enough for her to drift to sleep. The pain was gone, and while she welcomed the relief, she hated herself more for needing it. By the time she woke, it was pitch black outside and the room was empty. She had heard Draco and Healer Cobblestrom discussing her potion regimen in the hallway. Her bedroom door was ajar, shining just a sliver of light across her bedroom floor.

"I… I know." Draco's voice quivered. "Thank you… for trying."

"Of course; it's my duty," the Healer replied a bit too clinically. Hermione could hear the sound of his leather bag closing and the sound of his footsteps retreating down the hallway before they paused. "Mr. Malfoy." His voice was louder than before, increasing in volume due to his distance. "I'm sorry."

Draco didn't respond. Hermione couldn't blame him. What would she even say to that? It's okay? Absolutely not, because everything was not okay. Her baby was gone. Her life was over. She failed her first job as a mother: keeping her child alive.

As renewed tears began to leak from her eyes and splashed silently onto the blue pillowcase, she watched the light cast on the wall opposite of the door grow wider, and the silhouette of her husband blocked some of the shine as he entered their bedroom. She could feel the bed sink behind her as he crawled in next to her, laying on top of their covers beside her.

Hermione bit her bottom lip, trying to will herself to roll over and face him, but she was too scared to see how he would look at her now that her body had failed them—she'd failed them. Gulping down the lump in her throat, a shaky breath escaped her. "I-I'm sorry." Her voice quivered. She felt a hand on her shoulder, slowly easing her onto her back, and she shut her eyes tight, tears running across her temples. "I'm so sorry."

She felt his knuckles drag across her wet cheeks, and temples, wicking the salty tears from her skin as his soft lips brushed her hairline. "Love, this isn't your fault." His gentle touch and soft words broke her further. She didn't deserve his kindness. She didn't deserve his love, or affection. Not now. Not after… what happened.

Hermione shook her head no, still refusing to open her eyes, and her hands rose to cover her face from him as a new wave of grief swallowed her whole. Her body rolled into her husbands, and she felt his arms encircle her petite frame, holding her tight as she cried. She could feel his own tears splash against the crown of her head as he spoke in hushed tones, telling her it wasn't her fault, and that he would do anything he could to change what had happened. But most importantly, he told her that he loved her.


May 2006

The drawing room. Hermione fucking hated the drawing room. She hated the Tulip room more now, but she still loathed this fucking drawing room. But with the amount of guests that attended Narcissa's entombment, there was simply no other room in the house that would have worked. Hermione donned the classically cut black dress for the second time within the span of two months and laid her mother-in-law to rest next her grandson. The gold name plates shone brilliantly beside each other, causing her stomach to twist painfully.

Caelum John Malfoy

2006 – 2006

Narcissa Isyphenia Malfoy

1955 – 2006

Shortly after Hermione's recovery from the miscarriage, Narcissa insisted that the baby be put the rest. It was unheard of, but neither Draco nor Hermione put up a fight. They had a small ceremony, just the three of them, in the Tulip room before the tiny urn that contained their sons ashes was placed in the Mausoleum. Narcissa had been unable to attend due to her rapidly deteriorating physical state, which allowed for the intimate moment to act as the final closure they needed. As they sealed the lid over the cover of their son's spot, so did they emotionally seal the wound his loss created.

On the eve of her passing, just moments before death welcomed her mother-in-law to the beyond, Narcissa had taken Draco's hand and whispered a promise of keeping a watchful eye over Caelum. The moment was already sad, as everyone in the room knew it would only be minutes until her heart finally ceased beating, but those words nearly tore Hermione's heart in two. She listened through silent tears as Narcissa promised him she would love her grandson and make sure he was taken care of in the afterlife.

The days following Narcissa's death had been filled with planning the funeral and dealing with her will. The Manor, the vaults and all of the amassed Malfoy empire had been left the Draco. And for Hermione, Narcissa left her personal collection of texts that sat in the far corner of the library. They had not been a part of the Malfoy estate when Narcissa married Lucius, and over the years, the small collection of books on her favorite subjects expanded to take up a whole section of the library. Hermione was humbled by the gesture. Knowing she would personally own a connection to Narcissa forever brought warmth to her heart.

Shifting her weight from one foot to the next, Hermione leaned her head on Draco's shoulder and her fingers brushed against his softly. Guests had been making their way to them in a steady stream most of the evening to offer their condolences. More than half of them were unrecognizable but mixed in with the business associates and old blood were familiar faces. Harry and Ginny. Pansy and Blaise. Even Arthur and Molly had shown up to pay their respects. It seemed, however, that there was finally a small break in the crowd, allowing them a small moment by themselves.

"You okay?" Draco questioned, his fingers lacing with hers, and he brought their joined hands to his mouth. His lips brushed softly against her palm. "You can sit down if you'd like."

Since her miscarriage, he had been handling her with gloves. Making sure she didn't push herself too hard. Not even being intimate with her–although truth be told, that part she was thankful for. She was not ready to do that just yet. She needed more time to emotionally heal. But the rest of it was beginning to wear on her. She had lived through a war. She had been tortured and run ragged. She'd fought for her life, and watched her friends perish at the hand of several family members to people in this very room. She was tougher than he gave her credit for. Biting the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from snapping at him, a small nod was given. "No. I'm fine. Just tired."

Draco nodded, gray eyes swirling with understanding as he gave her a weak smile before turning his attention to survey the room, watching the guests linger about the circular cocktail tables that floated around the room.

Hermione knew it was unfair to be upset with him. Every person processed traumatic events differently. She cried and wallowed in misery before picking herself up and moving on. While Draco, it appeared, was more like his mother than he knew. He was a nurturer. He wanted to help fix her—to take care of her, because it allowed him to ignore his own feelings. If he had something to do, something to busy himself with, it meant that he could ignore his own misery.

Just as she opened her mouth to inquire about how he was doing, an elderly couple approached from their left. Instead, Hermione gave Draco's hand a gentle squeeze before unlacing her fingers from his, and she reached out, plastering a fake smile on her face as she greeted yet another person she would soon forget.


August 2006

Hermione walked quickly through the hallway, her heels snapping against the marble tile as she made her way towards the dining room. She wasn't just late again. She was two hours late. When she left work that morning, she had promised she would be home by six to join him for dinner. Which is why when Ministry clock chirped at her, letting her know it was eight o'clock, she nearly fell out of her chair in a hurry to gather her things so she could Floo home.

It wasn't her fault though—truly, it wasn't. She had just taken a promotion in the Department of Magical Creatures. Deputy Director of Inter-species Marriage. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn't have been so busy. But there was a new wave of anti-vampire regulation following a string of bad press surrounding a witch and vampire union gone wrong, which meant her department was bombarded with not only media requests but also Wizengamot proposals to bar vampires from marrying outside their species.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't realise—" Hermione began as she walked through the dining room doors, her arms still full of loose paperwork from her desk. When she looked up, she expected to see Draco frowning at her over his cold dinner plate. What she saw instead was broken dishes smashed against the wall beside the fireplace, remnants of their dinner scattered on the floor around the shards of porcelain.

His back was to her, but she could tell he was tense by the way he stood in front of the fireplace. In his right hand, a glass of fire whiskey sparkled, mirroring the flames that flickered in front of him. On the mantle, a half-empty bottle of Ogden's finest sat uncorked. He grabbed the bottle from the mantle, the sound of glass sliding across wood sounded like nails on a chalkboard in this moment. The hair on her arms stood up in response.

She watched as he turned around, grey eyes turning to molten silver as he looked at her critically. "Didn't realise?" he questioned, "You didn't bloody realise you were two hours late?"

Hermione moved to the end of the table slowly, gently laying her work on the hard wooden surface of the table as she mentally prepared herself for the fight. "I'm sorry. I just got distracted and by the time I—"

"Who is he?" Draco interrupted, his fingers tightening on the tumbler.

"What?" Hermione questioned, her brows shooting up to her hairline. "Are you accusing me of cheating on you?" she asked in disbelief.

"Well, it's either that or you're avoiding me," Draco replied plainly, taking another large drink from his tumbler as he crossed the room towards the opposite end of the table from her. Setting down the heavy crystal with a loud thunk, he refilled his glass. The amber liquid sloshed over the rim and spilled across the oak tabletop. When Hermione didn't dignify his accusation with a reply, he cocked an eyebrow at her. "So which is it? Are you shagging someone else or just avoiding me?"

Hermione could feel her anger bubble beneath her skin like an electrical storm. She was many things—a swot, overbearing, dedicated to her work—but an adulterer was not one of them. "Maybe I'm avoiding this bloody house, Draco," she snapped, her fingers curling into fists at her side as she tried to temper her anger.

"Oh fuck. Not this fucking bullshite again." His eyes rolled towards the ceiling before he drew out his chair and plopped himself down haphazardly. "It's just a fucking house, Hermione."

"It's NOT just a house!" Hermione could feel unspent tears swell in the corner of her eyes as she spoke. "This place is… this place is fucking cursed. I was tortured here!"

"I WAS TOO!" Draco shouted back, slamming his tumbler on the table. Hi eyes flashed at her. "Do not think you were the only one to leave the war with scars, Hermione. Mine may not be as visible as yours, but they are equally as deep, my darling."

"Then let's leave!" Hermione threw her arms in the air in frustration, as if running away from here was the most logical thing in the world. The only reason they had moved in was Narcissa, and with her passing, there was no reason to stay.

"It's not that easy, Hermione!" Draco lifted his hands to smooth his disheveled hair back with an exasperated sigh. "I… I just don't bloody understand why this is so–"

"Because nothing good has ever happened for me here!" Hermione shouted, the tears trapped in the corners of her eyes finally breaking free and spilling down her cheeks. "This is where I was tortured. This is where your mum died. Draco, this is where… this is where Caelum died. Where I failed you as a wife and him as a mother."

Hermione watched as a light behind his eyes flickered, her words sinking in, and suddenly the look of frustration on his face morphed into a self-loathing. He moved from the chair and around the table towards her, his long legs making quick work of the distance separating them, and just as she began to succumb to her tears, his arms wrapped around her, supporting her as she clutched the crumpled front of his oxford. "D-Draco… I… I can't stay here anymore. I can't do it."

Draco's gently cupped her cheek, his thumb swiping the falling tears off her skin, and although his grey eyes were hazy from the alcohol, he was no longer lost to the madness of his wandering mind. "I won't ask you to. I-I'm sorry. I didn't think—" He took a deep breath, his brow furrowing as he struggled to find the right words. "We'll sell the Manor. Hell, we'll burn it to the fucking ground. I'll do whatever I need to. I'll go to the ends of the bloody earth if need be to make you never feel like this again."


September 2007

When she and Draco moved out of the Manor and into a modest sized home in Tutshill a little over a year ago, it was like a switch flipping in their marriage. Everything seemed to fall back into place. She no longer feared going home, and the hesitation about being intimate with her husband vanished immediately. All of her fears and doubts had been tied to the bad memories that lingered in the halls of Malfoy Manor like the portraits of the deceased relatives that hung on the walls.

With the stressors in her life gone, she allowed herself to enjoy her time with Draco once again. And within months of moving out of the Manor, she fell pregnant once more. This time around, she did not allow herself to get attached to the baby. The defense mechanism might have made her seem cold, but she wasn't sure she would be able to handle the loss of another child if she allowed herself to.

Thankfully, it never came. This pregnancy was so different from the last. She had no extenuating circumstances to keep her stress levels high, and the nightmares that had plagued her for nearly a year were gone. Her belly grew, her body blossomed as it carried their child to term and on September 29th, 2007, she gave birth to a beautiful blonde baby girl.

Lyra Narcissa Malfoy was perfect in every sense of the word. She had ten fingers and toes—Draco had counted twice—and a perfect little Cupid's bow over a set of plush pink lips. She had entered this world precisely at her own time—nearly two weeks "overdue" and in the wee hours of the morning. Even now, Hermione could tell she was going to be a stubborn little thing, and the thought couldn't please her more.

It was nine a.m., and Hermione had not gotten a wink of sleep in over twenty-four hours, yet despite her heavy eyelids, she couldn't bring herself to close them just yet. Not when she could watch the beautiful babe swaddled in pink in her arms. Her fingers smoothed over the small smattering of flaxen hair on the top of her head, as she watched the infant sigh in her sleep. "She looks like you," Hermione whispered, lifting her tired eyes to her husband who lay next to her in the hospital bed at St. Mungo's.

Draco was running a single finger along the length of Lyra's arm. Since her birth, he had not left her side, even accompanying Lyra to the neo-natal testing. Instantly, the newborn had her father wrapped around her tiny little fingers. They had purposefully not performed the spell to determine the gender during Hermione's pregnancy, and when the mid-healer announced that they had a girl, Draco nearly collapsed in shock. Lyra would be the first girl born to a Malfoy in nearly fifteen generations.

"No," Draco whispered back, the silver lining in his eyes sparkling as he looked up from their daughter to lock eyes with his wife. "She looks like you. Beautiful… perfect." Leaning in, he pressed a kiss against Hermione's forehead sweetly before turning his attention back to their daughter.

Hermione looked back down to the newborn, lifting her hand from stroking Lyra's hair to run her index finger down the baby's nose. "No. This is not a Granger nose… and see this chin—" her finger ran along Lyra's little jaw lightly "–this, most definitely, is all her daddy. She's like your replica. She's beautiful." Before she could continue, a large yawn overtook her, and as she closed her eyes and fell victim to it's hold on her, she quickly realised how tired she was.

"Draco…can you hold her?" Hermione requested as she looked tiredly up to her husband. Before she could give any explanation, Draco nodded hesitantly. She knew he had never held an infant before. When James was born, he flat out refused, saying he would likely drop him because James was so wiggly. Then earlier this year, when Albus came, he had said he felt a cold coming on. All of the excuses wouldn't matter now though, because this little pink thing was his.

Sitting up, Hermione leaned toward her husband and carefully maneuvered their little girl into his arms, making sure to cradle her head so it didn't flop about. "There you go… see, not so hard?"

Draco nodded, speechless. His eyes had not lifted once from Lyra as she settled into his arms after the transfer, her little pink face scrunching as she fought against the confines of the pink blanket. Little grunts and whines filled the air, letting them both know that she was being woken from her slumber by their hand off, and just as Hermione opened her mouth to give him advice on what to do, Draco began rock her gently in his arms while humming what Hermione had come to think of as their song: the sonata from Harry and Ginny's wedding.