Chapter Ten

Dean had set up a Portkey for Hermione months ago for precisely this moment. With a hurried – but heartfelt – thank you to everyone who had attended her surprise birthday party, Hermione Apparated home to find the Portkey. It was a special silver rattle that Hermione kept it in one of her kitchen drawers next to a cookbook she had bought years ago in a deluded, temporary bout of culinary optimism.

Suddenly, she found herself in front of the Parkinson-Thomas estate. She had never been here before. She'd always assumed they lived in one of the wings at the Parkinson Manor, since it was certainly big enough to live in and never cross paths with Pansy's parents, but she could see how that would still be awkward.

The Parkinson-Thomas estate was smaller than Parkinson Manor, but still impressively large for just the two (and soon three) of them. It was three stories and still had that regency era architectural feel to it, with tall, looming windows and balconies. There were lush, neatly trimmed bushes and trees that lined the building. It was magnificent and daunting and Hermione almost felt unclassy half-running, half-walking down the long pathway to the front door in heels, but that's what she did anyway.

One of their house elves greeted her and led her to the living room.

"Is she all right? How is the baby?" she asked, still slightly out of breath – as if he would know. She didn't see anyone else around to ask. She had never been invited to (read: forcibly manipulated into attending) a birthing before, and she was trying to subdue the panic she suddenly felt thumping in her chest. This was the worst situation to find oneself in after having had six birthday shots.

"Mrs. Parkinson-Thomas is fine. The baby hasn't arrived yet," he said.

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows at him. "Can I see her?"

"Riory would currently not advise it."

Hermione sighed. She thanked the elf, then she took a step back and collapsed into one of the lux couches. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, the room spinning around her. She half-expected to hear screams of agony echo through the house, but there was nothing. Just silence. Where had this silence been when she received that Howler in front of all her coworkers and friends? Why had her group been the one chosen to be traumatized?

She opened her eyes again when she heard footsteps.

She stared at the tall figure that had just entered the room with a glass of whiskey in his hand. She wasn't sure why she was so surprised to see him here, especially since she knew that he was the godfather. But there he was, in all of his suited, perfectly postured glory. He looked like he had come here straight from work. Hermione didn't doubt that he probably had.

He stared back at her, saying nothing. He appeared to be a little stunned, too. She wished she could say this comforted her, knowing she wasn't the only one in the room to be shocked by the presence of the only other person in the room. But her erratic heartbeat had returned, making all of her blood surge to her brain. She felt present, now. Too present. She could feel everything in the room, all of its little atoms bristling against hers, trapping them here. Watching.

"Hi," she said. Hi. It was such a little, insignificant word in her dizzying arsenal of the English vocabulary – two mere letters. But they were swollen to the brim, bursting with something she could only clumsily call hope. It meant so much and she didn't know how to explain that. All she could muster – right now, right this very moment, in her half-sober mind – was "hi." A mere fucking hi. Hi. Like a Hi ever saved the world, or stopped it.

In her loopy, labored brain she couldn't even remember a time they'd ever said hi. It was just never needed – completely eclipsed by the shadow of words more important, more urgent, more cruel. Mudblood and bastard and fuck and loathe and I and you but never us. Never hi. Never love. Never the words that terrified her the most. Never those.

Until now.

"Hi," he said back.

It was so full of something. Was she just imagining it? He was trying to look at her so distant, so detached, so much like a stranger who had never once kissed her in a hidden alcove on a battlefield until her heart raged in her ears like thunder. He wasn't kissing her now but she heard it. It made her thoughts hard to shepherd and rein in. She could hardly stand it. She could hardly keep her knees together. Please behave, she thought, more desperately than sternly. Please let me just say what I need to say.

"What are you doing here?" His tone had a sharp edge to it, eyes narrowing with suspicion. He looked at her as if she had come here with a bomb strapped to her chest.

She closed her mouth, suddenly annoyed that he was so blatantly annoyed.

"I'm the child's godmother." Fuckwit.

"Oh," he said, his pale eyebrows drawing down. "I thought they were joking when they told me that."

"Well if it was, I've waited months for a punch line," she snapped. She took a deep breath. It was hardly the time to get into one of their verbal matches, not while Pansy was having a baby in the other room. One of these rooms. "Have you seen her? Pansy?"

"The glowing mother-to-be? She's with her midwife."

"And how about Dean?"

"He should be here soon," he said to her, a little curtly.

"Is she all right? She sounded like she was in labor. The Howler I got – she was screaming—"

"Olga's given her a potion to relax her. There won't be much screaming now." He didn't look at her while he sipped his drink. She hated how cool he seemed to be, so deliberate and unaffected. Definitely not the look of someone who had received a screaming Howler announcing the pending birth of a baby. Or perhaps, someone all too familiar with frequently receiving Howlers that they now left him unmoved.

"I take it you were out when you received her Howler."

"Yes, I was…" Hermione looked down at herself and suddenly felt very conscious about what she was wearing. In all of her panic of getting here, she'd forgotten that she had been dressed for a celebration. She almost laughed to herself when she realized that she was the overdressed one in the room, for once. That almost never happened with Malfoy.

"At a party," she finished, quietly. "A birthday party."

"Whose?"

"What?"

"Whose birthday?"

Hermione almost didn't tell him. The impulse to withhold came so naturally when he was around. Even trivial details like birthdays made her want to hug it close to her chest and hide it from his eyes. "Mine," she answered, lamely.

There was a pause of silence between them while he took another sip. She could hear the tinkle of the ice cubes in his glass, and they sounded like tiny fairies laughing at her. "Happy birthday," he finally said, still not looking at her.

"Thanks."

For so long, she'd detested it when he looked at her. The way her entire body felt it, and how it halved her focus and attention, no matter how much she concentrated. But now that he wasn't looking at her, she felt worse. All jumbled up inside.

Suddenly, Draco called for the elf.

"Riory, get Miss Granger a glass of water," Draco said, when the elf appeared. The elf bowed and disappeared, only to reappear a few seconds later beside Hermione with a tall glass of cold water.

Hermione took it and drank. She must have downed half of it before she set it aside. "Thanks," she said, softly, confused as to how he'd known what she needed.

"I can smell the tequila on your breath from here," Draco said icily, putting his glass down. "Pansy'll murder you if she smells it on you."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Unfortunately, I forgot to schedule my surprise birthday party around the unexpected birth of Pansy's baby. How horrible of me."

Draco finished off his drink and then stood back up, heading out of the room.

"Where are you going?" Hermione called after him.

"I'm going to check on Pansy."

"Can I come?" she blurted. The last thing she wanted to do was wait here in this common room all by herself. She needed to feel less useless.

Hermione got to her feet, watching his back. His hair had gotten a little longer than she was used to. The ends were almost about to kiss the edge of his collar. For a second she had the urge to walk up behind him and run her fingers up the nape of his neck, making trails in his stupidly blond hair.

"Come on, then," Malfoy said stiffly, and Hermione followed after him. She cringed at the sound of her heels clicking on the tile. They sounded obnoxious and grating to her ears. Hermione was used to wearing flats with sturdy, rubber soles. They were better for stealth.

She followed Malfoy up the staircase and down a long hallway. The place smelled like lavender and mahogany. She observed the expensive-looking art pieces on the walls. It appeared Pansy and Dean had more of a modern taste than those she had seen at the Parkinson Manor. She would definitely be hard-pressed to find an ancient suit of armor standing guard around here.

Draco knocked on some large double-doors with gold, decorative doorknobs. There was a muffled female voice on the other side that told them to come in.

Draco opened the door, revealing the spacious room that was the Parkinson-Thomas master bedroom. It was vast – Hermione couldn't help but begrudgingly notice that the room alone encompassed about as much square footage as her entire flat. Pansy was in bed with an elderly woman standing by her side, whom Hermione assumed was her midwife. The woman was dressed in a plain white dress, with her hair neatly pulled back in a bun. She was organizing some vials on a side table.

"Draco," Pansy said, before Hermione stepped out from behind him. Pansy's eyes narrowed. "What's she doing here?"

"Sending someone a Howler at a party kind of gets them places pretty quickly," Hermione said, dryly. The door shut behind her.

"A party?" Pansy said. "Whose party?" She took in Hermione's outfit. Her eyes thinned so much that they practically disappeared into her face. "Were you on a date?" Pansy sniffed. Once. Then twice. "And what's that smell?"

Hermione ignored everything Pansy had said. She found this was the best way to avoid leaving tonight having punched a pregnant woman in the face. "How are you feeling? Where's Dean?"

Pansy sighed, although still looking a bit irritated. "Olga here's given me a relaxant potion to keep the contractions at bay until Dean can get here."

"At bay?" Hermione furrowed her eyebrows. "You mean – are you delaying the birth until Dean can get here?"

"Isn't that what I just said?" Pansy snapped.

Olga shushed the both of them. She was grinding up some herbs now. "Stress is not good for the baby."

Pansy pursed her lips. "I'm not doing this alone."

"But you're not alone," Hermione said. "You've got Olga. Me. Malfoy. Technically that's a small crowd."

"Dean," Pansy leered. "I'm not going this without Dean." And, for a second, Hermione was terrified that Pansy was about to cry.

"He'll be here," Draco assured her.

"He was supposed to be here two hours ago," Pansy said loudly. Her voice was whiny and full of water. "I told him not to go on this sodding trip. I asked him to stay. I knew the baby was going to come. That's how these things work. As soon as someone leaves, the universe snaps its fingers and makes exactly the thing you don't want to happen, happen."

For some reason, Hermione realized she was looking at Pansy's pregnant stomach for the very first time. It protruded underneath the sheets: swollen, round and heavy. It moved when she sighed and stifled a sob. It amazed her. So this is what Pansy had been hiding for so long.

Pansy's face was now red and blotchy, wetness trailing down her cheeks. It was almost disconcerting for Hermione to see her this way. Pansy had always been Draco's female equivalent – perpetually kempt, all even edges and smoothness. Like origami. But now there was this roundness to her, this evidence of blood rushing all hotly and quickly under her perfect, cool skin. Hermione didn't know whether to walk out of the room and just wait downstairs or to sit down next to her and hold her hand.

But before she could decide, Draco was already there. He had sat down next to Pansy. He was the one holding her hand. His other hand was smoothing the stray strands of hair from her face. "Pans. You're going to be all right. Dean's going to be here. He's going to be here to catch the little bugger in his hands."

His voice was so gentle, so calming. Gone was the sharpness and the acidity she knew of him so exclusively. Hermione stood there and witnessed this, Olga fading into the background as she ground her herbs, and she suddenly felt… like leaving. She was an intruder. No wonder Pansy hadn't wanted her up here. No wonder Draco was the godfather. No wonder Pansy held him in such high regard, why Pansy would show up to Hermione's flat to defend him, why Pansy protected him.

Pansy let out a wailing sob. "Draco, if you're wrong, I'm going to kill both of you. You and Dean. And then my parents. I'm going to raise this child in St. Mungo's, I swear."

"Have some water," Olga said, her thick arm suddenly in front of Pansy. "Keep hydrated."

Pansy took it and drank a little, her face still miserable.

Olga took her pulse and then put her hands on Pansy's stomach over the blankets. The midwife was concentrating, muttering to herself.

"I'm afraid we can't wait too long now," Olga said. "The baby's moving its way down. In a few minutes, you'll have to start pushing."

"But Dean—"

"It's the baby's decision when it comes, Mrs. Parkinson," the midwife gently reminded her. "Even magic can't change that."

"It's Mrs. Thomas," Pansy snapped. She looked down at her stomach, scowling. "Listen here, baby. I created you. I let you live in me. I fed you. I kept you warm. The least you can do is just wait for a few more minutes until—"

Suddenly, there was a loud bang as the double doors flew open. Someone had run inside the room.

It was Dean. He was disheveled and breathing hard, but he went right to Pansy's side. He didn't even scan the room. It was like Pansy and the baby took up his entire vision, and there was no room for anybody else.

"Where the bloody hell have you been?" Pansy yelled. But she was crying again. With joy, with relief, with rage – nobody knew anymore.

Dean had her hand in a death grip. "I'm sorry, Pans. I'm so, so sorry. I had to go do something very important. But I'm here now. I'm here for as long as you want me here."

Pansy ground her teeth, holding Dean's hand. She was breathing quickly and raggedly. Olga the Midwife was on her other side now, and when Hermione looked around she noticed that Draco had left Pansy's bedside and was near her, towards the foot of Pansy's bed.

"You're going to have to push," Olga was saying, lifting the blankets from the foot of the bed.

Just then, Hermione felt the softest touch at the small of her back. A voice beside her, then the feeling of someone behind her. "Let's go," Malfoy quietly said to her.

Hermione, tearing her eyes away from the dramatic scene unfolding before her, numbly followed after Malfoy. He closed the door behind them, muting much of the sound from inside the room, and they quietly walked down the hallway. She assumed they were going back to the living room to wait. But instead, he stopped right before the stairs. He leaned over the staircase overlooking the foyer, resting on his elbows.

"Her parents are downstairs," he said. "That's why Dean was late. He went and got them."

It took her a moment to understand what he was talking about. She blinked at him, remembering what Pansy had told her about her parents. "But I thought they –"

"They never approved of Dean or their marriage. They haven't spoken to Pansy since her wedding day. Even when she sent news of their pregnancy, they didn't hear back. Dean's been visiting them and writing them letters, mostly to little success. But today, when he got word that Pansy was in labor, he went there first, and he brought them."

Hermione watched him, drinking in his profile. She didn't think she could miss how much a person looked: the nape of his neck, the curve of his chin, the disconcertingly generous length of his blond eyelashes. But when she looked at him, now – this one moment she allowed herself to fully allow herself to get lost in the sight of him – she felt this pang in her chest. She could think of a million things she despised about him, but that had stopped being a convincing deterrent long ago. All she could think about was the dry throbbing she felt in her throat. She knew what that was. They were the words "I miss you" running in place, waiting for her to have mercy and finally release them.

"Why are you telling me this?" Her words were cracked and hoarse.

"Because I want you to know Pansy's not a bad person."

"I know she's not a bad person," Hermione replied. "She's unlikeable snob with an aversion to tact. But she's not a bad person."

"Is that why you agreed to be the godmother?"

Hermione hesitated for a moment. "I did it for Dean. Originally."

Malfoy didn't say anything. He kept looking out, at anywhere but her, and Hermione just stood there. Fidgeting in her own skin.

"Draco," she said then, quietly. Deliberately. "I want to talk to you."

"Talk," he echoed. There was the faintest hint of derision, but she figured this was just residue from how he normally was. "Funny. I didn't think we did that."

She opened her mouth but didn't know where to start. Here he was, his full attention on her – despite what he may have preferred otherwise – and there was too much to say but too few words to say them. The entire English language, sure, but even in her impressive vocabulary rolodex they all seemed to fall short. They just kept looping in her mind, like a maddening carousel. Words. Words, words, words.

"In fact, I believe our version of 'talking' is often mistaken by other people as 'very loud declarations of hostility'," he continued.

But Hermione charged on. Possibly possessed by the spirit of tequila.

"You were right," she finally said.

He snorted. "About what?"

"About me. About us. About all of it."

Malfoy turned and looked at her, allowing her full view of his annoyance.

"It took you this long to figure that out? 'Brightest sodding Witch of Her Age' and she can't take a minute to muddle through her feelings?"

"It's not exactly the most palatable epiphany to have," she said back. "Give me some credit."

"You think I didn't know that? You think I didn't stand where you stood?" he said. "You think I didn't torture myself with denial? That I didn't try whatever I thought could possibly make it go away?" He closed his mouth, still glaring at her. He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Every excuse in the book, Granger. I used them all. I recited them like lullabies to help me sleep. And there you were, fighting me off, thinking you're the only one in agony, who wanted so badly not to want what you wanted."

"And do you?" she said, quickly.

His face was serious, grim. "Do I what?"

"Still want what you want," she repeated. "Me. Do you still want – me?"

He stared at her. At first she thought his facial muscles had finally frozen. That all of those years of scowling and leering and smirking had finally been enough, and now his face was stuck that way. But then his face softened. The crease between his eyebrows went smooth again. He wasn't glaring anymore. He wasn't hissing, he wasn't snapping. He was looking at her again. Really looking. Really seeing.

Nobody had ever looked at her the way Malfoy did. Like when he looked at her, she grew and grew until she was all that was left in his peripheral. It reminded her of the way Dean had looked at Pansy. Like there was no room for anything else.

Then, suddenly, footsteps. They were both thrown out of the moment as they both looked to see Dean running down the hallway. His eyes were glazed over, his face shiny with sweat. He was glowing, vibrating happiness. Complete happiness.

"Baby's out! Come meet the baby!" he said, out of breath. Then he ran past them, down the staircase, to grab the baby's grandparents.

Malfoy and Hermione looked at each other, before heading in the direction Dean had sprinted from. They opened the double doors to see Pansy in bed with a little pink thing in her arms, all swaddled up. Olga was to the side, packing up her supplies.

Pansy was teary-eyed and beaming.

"Finley, meet your godparents," Pansy cooed to the baby. His eyes were still closed, his little fists softly clenched. "Godparents, meet Finley Parkinson-Thomas."

He was a beautiful little thing, Finley Parkinson-Thomas. He already had a generous amount of dark fuzz on his head. He looked peaceful in Pansy's arms, so precious and delicate.

"He's beautiful, Pansy," Hermione said. Pansy didn't look up. She just kept looking down at her baby, in pure affection and awe.

"He is, isn't he? He's a real looker. I'll probably have to lock him up when he gets older, just to protect him from his good looks."

There was the sound of the doors opening again, and Dean came in, followed by an older man and woman. They had the air of wealth and sophistication about them – with their pin-straight postures and expensive clothes. The man had a full head of silver-gray hair, and the woman was a tall, pale brunette with a pinchy-looking mouth. Hermione recognized them as Pansy's parents. Pansy had finally looked up, too, and stared at them. There was a flicker of tension in the room as the three Parkinsons just looked at each other.

"I take it Dean brought you," Pansy said. Her voice was lukewarm, but not exactly brimming with joy.

"As a matter of fact, he did," her mother said.

"He shouldn't have."

"Pansy, please," her father said. He looked uncomfortable. "We just want to see our grandson."

Pansy watched them for a few seconds, her eyes calculating. "Fine. But only because I know you'll fall hopelessly in love with him and will want to atone for being horrible."

Stiffly, her parents made their way to Pansy's bedside. Dean was on the other side of her, his arm wrapped around Pansy as she held the baby. Pansy's parents leaned in, peering at him. Although begrudgingly, Pansy moved the baby closer so her parents could see him a bit more closely. Her mother reached out and softly caressed Finley's sleeping face, a faint smile on her lips.

"He looks strong and healthy," she said. "Finley, was it? A nice, upstanding name."

Pansy looked up at the both of them. Hermione hadn't realized that she and Draco were standing together. Strange that she'd only now noticed how their bodies instinctually did this: unknowingly gravitate towards each other. Even at room temperature, the realization made her shiver.

"Well?" she said, expectantly. "Are you two halfwits going to hold your godson or not?"

Hermione couldn't help but smile at this because her tone didn't hold the usual Pansy bite she'd gotten so used to. Feigned, sure. After all, Pansy still had her dignity to maintain. Being a new mother (drowning in an influx of post-birthing hormones) didn't change that.

Pansy's parents stepped back and Draco took their place at Pansy's bedside. He crouched down to delicately take the baby into his arms. The baby didn't stir, not even once. His face was this pink, blooming thing in a sea of white. Draco held a finger to his cheek. It made Finley's face look even smaller.

Hermione noticed how comfortable Malfoy seemed to be at holding newborns. There was no clumsy fumble or look of barely suppressed terror at holding a fresh, incredibly fragile, tiny human being. This made her wonder about him, for the umpteenth time. What else was he capable of surprising her with?

Draco smirked. "He feels like a Slytherin already." Dean snorted. Pansy beamed. "Shall we start taking bets?"

"He's a Gryffindor lad if I ever saw one," Dean said, shaking his head. "Practically came out of Pans's womb with the sword of Godric Gryffindor himself."

"Please!" Pansy interjected, cringing. "No talk of swords bursting out of my womb. I've already had to push out a small child. There's no need to add sharp weapons to that, too."

Both men were deviously grinning to themselves. Dean kissed Pansy on the forehead. Malfoy looked up at Hermione, and her heart jumped.

"Granger?"

Hermione nodded and stepped beside him, carefully taking the baby. Finley was warm and smelled like... softness. Pink and softness. Hermione took in his tiny eyelashes and fingernails. How small his nostrils were. How fine his hair. She felt her chest swell and had to hold back tears. She'd never cried looking at a baby before, and she certainly wasn't going to start now.

"Try not to breathe too close," said Pansy warningly. "Or else he'll wake up drunk."

Dean furrowed his eyebrows. "That - is that tequila?" He laughed. "Hermione, is that really you?"

Hermione felt herself flush, but she turned her head up so that she wouldn't breathe on the baby. "I was at a birthday party, all right? I came straight over - as was instructed to do so by a Howler screaming bloody murder."

Dean was still laughing. "I love you, Hermione, you know I do. But maybe you should give the baby back now."

Hermione obliged, handing baby Finley to Dean. With Finley in his arms, Dean walked over to the large windows, talking softly to him.

Pansy was scowling at her. "Is this your clever way of setting a precedent? Shall I expect you to show up to all of your godson's events sloshed?"

"If I was sloshed, Pansy," said Hermione dryly, "I highly doubt you'd let me hold your baby. That would be child endangerment. You'd be an accessory. You could go to prison for it."

And then there it was. Barely, and only there for a second, but Hermione caught it. A smile. A rare and once-assumed-to-be-mythical Pansy Parkinson-Thomas smile.

Hermione and Draco left shortly after to give them some privacy. The Parkinsons stayed behind. Maybe Pansy was right. Maybe Finley's arrival would fix Pansy's relationship with her parents. Pansy would make sure they'd atone for at least the first fifteen years of Finley's life.

She and Malfoy walked down the hallway in silence. The adrenaline and euphoria from the new baby's arrival were slowly dropping, and she found herself remembering that they had been in the middle of something when Dean had interrupted them. Her mind sobered, and she felt nervous again. She wasn't used to being nervous around Malfoy - at least, not like this. Not without the cover of blinding hatred to accompany it.

Before she knew it, they were outside. The sky was still dark and the air was temperate; cool against her skin. It was an idyllic and clear summer night. There were no other buildings in the distance, just acres of green grass underneath a veil of distant, sparse stars. They walked along the neatly manicured bushes and trees, his footsteps soft against the dirt path.

As always with Malfoy, the silence was pregnant and heavy. Full of racing thoughts and the weight of the unsaid.

"It's beautiful night to be born. Hopefully that means he'll have a good life," Hermione said. She said it just to have something to say. And to test out her mouth. Test, test. One, two, three. One, two, three.

He turned towards her. "Granger—"

"The thing is, Malfoy," she said quickly, taking a sharp breath. She stopped walking. So did he. "I thought that if I punished myself enough, I could get you out. Out of my head - out of my system. You and I, during the war, during Hogwarts - I accepted it because the world, then, was rotating backwards. Or at least, it felt like it was. And that made it okay. If not okay, then tolerable. Because then one day, we would wake up. And the war would be over. The world would be back to normal. And so would we.

"But that never happened. The war ended, and the whole world started to rebuild... but I didn't wake up. And neither did you. I didn't know that at the time, but I don't think I would have believed you, even if you'd told me."

Hermione took a deep, shaky breath. "I'm sorry it took me so long to get here. But I wanted to be sure, for you. You deserved that," she said. "So I'm here. I'm here, now."

She looked up at his face. He was looking at her intently, doing that thing with his eyes that only he could do. Making her feel like she was the only thing worth looking at, smack dab in the middle of this beautiful night in this beautiful place. Except it was different now, because she wasn't fighting it. She wasn't trying to rationalize it away. Hermione felt a clarity she hadn't felt in a very long time. The haze was gone. Standing there, her heart felt both undeniably whole and light at the same time.

He just looked at her. Looked at her, looked at her, looked at her. With a million things flickering through his face, but none that she was used to. Which was good. Very good.

"So here you are," he said. He stepped closer to her, his hands lightly tracing up the back of her neck. "Finally. Here you are."

And then he kissed her. And she kissed him back. They were all lips and open mouths and roaming hands and even in heels she had to get on her tiptoes to kiss him, just to get close enough.

When he pulled back, his fingers were still in her hair. He was smiling down at her - unironically smiling. Her favorite kind. She realized in a cloud of giddiness and serotonin that she would have to get used to that, now. What a magical thing to have to get used to. How special she felt, how rare, to know that she would be one of the very few who would get to see how Draco Malfoy looked when he was happy.

"Happy belated birthday, Granger," he murmured to her, closing his eyes.

When he kissed her again, she was smiling.

It was going to be a bloody good year.


A/N: Let's just say Pansy's one of those super lucky pregnant women who gives birth in less than an hour (including labor). Magic has to be good for something, right!? :)