November

I detest bright light. And sterile cleanliness. And, the color beige. Mostly, I detest hospitals. And healers. And, the young witch who came to take away the dinner tray.

My boots slap quietly against the linoleum as I stalk up and down the hallway. Make note – I am stalking, not pacing.

There are few visitors at this time of night, and the healers are giving me wide berth. Because they know I detest them. And really, who can blame me? It's been thirty six hours.

I promised my Lila I would be at her side the entire time. Instead, I'm out here, pacing – no, stalking. Malfoy's don't pace. I'm out here stalking the deserted hospital ward. I stalk past a window and catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a glass window. At the moment, I am quite lucky it's going on 11 pm. I would frighten children and small dogs if I were to come across any. Which, admittedly, is possible, in the maternity ward.

I glanced at my watch at the end of the hallway. 36 hours, four minutes. What is taking so bloody long!? My feet move of their own accord back to Lila's room. The door is closed and I can not hear any sound from within. There is a chirping of some sort emanating from the reception desk a few feet away; a baby cries from an undisclosed location, but as it is not my child, I find I don't much care about its woes.

I can see some movement through the drawn curtains within Lila's room and I'm suddenly filled with hope.

Perhaps it will be now.

Several seconds pass.

The several more.

My hope begins to deflate as nobody had come searching for me.

I am not allowed back into Lila's room until I gain control over my stressed nerves. She promised pain if I don't comply.

Actually, she gave very vivid descriptions of inflicting said pain. I am curious where she learned such methods.

I slump into a chair outside of her door, resting my head in my hands. A most undignified posture. Fortunately right now, I care less about looking sloppy than if someone threatened me with a fire-breathing dragon. For the first time, I notice the wall clock. 11:39. The clocks here must be charmed to move backwards. How is one expected to muster confidence in an establishment of healers who can not manage to properly set a clock?

Another ping from the elevator. Likely another father-to-be who is going to want to celebrate. The thought is disturbing, and I find myself scowling up at the newcomer.

"Draco."

The voice of comfort. If I weren't nearly twenty-seven years old I would climb into her lap and weep. My Mother.

"Oh, darling," she purrs. I jump to my feel and offer a proper welcome, kissing her cheek softly.

"Mum. Dad. It's late, you really didn't have to come tonight." Though I'm glad they did. I haven't been this happy to see my parents since I was three and they were the only people I knew.

"How is Lila?"

I frown. "I don't know. I'm not allowed to go in there," I confess.

"Things are progressing normally, then, I see," Father grins wryly. His voice sounds both teasing and reassuring.

"Lucius, be nice," Mother scolds. "I'm going to go in and let Lila know we're here. Take your son for some air before he paces himself to exhaustion."

"I'm not pacing!" I interrupt. My protestation is overlapped by my father's assertion that "Malfoy's don't pace!" She smiles indulgently and pats my shoulder comfortingly before disappearing into Lila's room.

Then I look at my father questioningly.

"The ministry isn't going to give you grief for being here, are they?" I ask.

"No. Potter himself floo'd and suggested we come."

This baffles me. Harry Potter always seems to know everything, but how he knew my wife was in labor is puzzling. Father must sense my confusion.

"Ginny was with Lila when her pains began," he explains, which makes sense now, as Ginny is Potter's wife, and would have told him straight away.

"Come," he continues, and I follow him mindlessly. There is a visitor's lounge not far away, and it is deserted. He closes the door and locks it with a charm. I raise a perfectly manicured brow at this.

"I've brought you something," he announces, reaching into his robes. I can't help but chuckle at the bottle he extracts. "This is the same gift my father brought me the night you were born." He hands me a double shot of firewhiskey.

While far from the first drink I've had with my father, this one may be the proudest. We drain the tumbler's, and I reach to refill them. He stops me.

"You'll want to be sober for this, believe me," he quietly promises.

I nod, accepting his advice. "We should get back."

I am much calmer as my father and I return to Lila's room. I push the door open slowly. Mother is holding her hand, coaxing her through the pain.

I take my wife's other hand and wipe the hair from her sweaty brow.

"Better now?" I ask when her features ease.

"Yes. You?" I kiss her lips in reply. "Good. Because I think you're just in time," she smiles.

And, indeed, it seems only minutes later when someone – I don't even know who – place the first newborn in my arms. Nikolas Lucien Malfoy.

"A very strong name," the healer approves. I must have spoken aloud. I look up in surprise to see my father smiling proudly. They do not know our choices of names.

"And his sister?"

"Anya." It was Lila's choice. She is enamored with our baby girl, and I can see she's already forgotten her pain.

I settle beside her on the bed and together we memorize every inch of the children.

Lila looks to me with wonder in her eyes.

"Draco? We've made something perfect, haven't we?"

"Brilliantly done, my angel," I praise her. She's sleepy now, and I bid her to rest. With Lila resting comfortably and Mum and Dad returning home, I spend the remainder of the night gazing in wonder at my daughter and my son.