After the ROUGH last chapter, we finally begin to heal. I promise we'll get there.

Hopefully this chapter adds a little to the brightness that today already has brought.

Major thanks to MsMerlin and Graceful Lioness

Over the course of the next week, Draco hardly saw Hermione. She didn't come back to their flat. When he managed to pull Ginny aside in an alcove one morning after breakfast, she revealed that Hermione and Shiloh had been sleeping with the seventh year girls in Gryffindor tower.

He turned his heel and marched down the corridor before she could interrogate him.

A brief stop by the library on Tuesday after the blow-up revealed that Hermione had reserved her usual table and spent all hours sitting there, her nose buried in a colour-coded time table.

Draco found his own table, tucked into a far corner of the library. He couldn't see her from it, but if he took a little stroll every thirty minutes or so, he could peer down an aisle and get a perfect view of her bushy head buried in one volume or another. On one such stroll, he took a chance and dipped right past her table. She was away, likely off visiting the loo or grabbing another text and he took the opportunity to steal a glance at her work.

Amongst the books, he noticed a neat stack of letters that looked nearly ready to be posted. Upon further but brief inspection, he discovered that they were letters of inquiry to various departments at the Ministry of Magic.

If he knew Hermione as well as he thought, then he knew exactly what she was doing.

Keeping busy. Preparing for the future. Trying to think of anything but Scorpius—anything but the life they had begun to imagine for themselves.

He scurried away back to his little corner before she returned.

He was terrified of the moment they would start talking again, terrified to see her expression when they finally came face to face.

Most of all, he was terrified of seeing her eyes.

Would she look at him the way she used to when they were children, eyes narrowed in suspicion, pupils dilated with hatred?

His stomach clenched at the thought.

Had it really been less than two weeks since his life had seemed so easy, his future so solid? Their little flat felt so empty at night, the air far too still for his liking. In the absence of his girlfriend and his daughter, Draco spent his nights pacing in the nursery, regret gnawing at him from the inside out from all of the horrible things he had said to Hermione.

The words played over and over in his head as the clock ticked well past one a.m., two a.m., and beyond.

They don't want anything to do with you any more.

They're scared of you.

They think you're a monster.

He had been cruel.

You have no right to be hurting, Hermione! You made the decision to get rid of our son without even blinking an eye.

His words had been untrue.

I don't know how I can even stand to look at you, when you never wanted our son. You're glad he's gone aren't you?

You're just a small, damaged Mudblood who should know her place.

The look on her face when those words had slipped out of his mouth… Draco couldn't describe how it had nearly ripped him in two. How it still tore at him, bit by bit, each time he remembered the look of utter betrayal in her eyes.

In the dead quiet of the night, he felt so overwhelmed by regret, stomach roiling, legs buckling, eyes dry from running out of tears, that he had found he couldn't move. Some mornings he woke up on the floor of the nursery, curled in on himself, streaks of long-dried tears painting his face.

Draco didn't know if or how Hermione would ever forgive him—if she even could forgive him.

And the thought of a life without Hermione…

Draco wondered if that would even be a life at all.

Before all of this… before he had said the worst possible things to Hermione… before they had lost their son…

He had wanted to propose to Hermione. At the end of the year when they finished school. To get down on one knee in front of their family and friends.

Draco had had a vision of their lives so clear in his head. They'd be planning a wedding while he trained as a paediatric healer and Hermione worked hard at the Ministry. They'd come home tired at the end of the day, but spend their evenings playing with Shiloh, bathing her, feeding her, and putting her to bed. And then he'd hold Hermione close at night, kissing her, feeling all of her pressed against him...

That would be their life, and it would be beautiful.

The very idea seemed ridiculous now.

That vision was gone, carried away like the spring blossoms on the wind. Ephemeral. Here one minute, gone the next.

And Draco was left alone with his regret and his grief.

Another week passed, and Draco had yet to work up the courage to speak to Hermione. He had hardly seen Shiloh. The only time he caught glimpses of his daughter was at meals, where the little girl was surrounded by those who remained steadfast at Hermione's side.

Draco chose to sit at a far corner of the Slytherin table with his old friends, who seemed content to let him stew over his untouched food. She needed space, that much was obvious, and his fear seemed to dictate his own freewill now. His friends carried on with their lives, talking about Pureblood familial gossip or some socialite gathering happening this summer. It was in these moments, when he needed support over apathy, that the realisation hit him. These friends were good for many things, but offering comfort for not one of them.

As he wandered about the castle, his feet carried him around without much direction. Eyes followed him everywhere these days. It seemed that the only thing worth staring at more than a redeemed Death Eater turned teenage father was a redeemed Death Eater turned teenage father who was now estranged from his girlfriend.

Draco was tired of those eyes.

The only eyes he wanted to see were Hermione's, and right now, even those terrified him.

With every step he took—every spell he cast—every night he spent alone, the weight of it all piled on until he felt like he might explode.

On Saturday afternoon, he sat on the bed he was supposed to share with Hermione, the window open and carrying in an April breeze. The feel of the warm air on his cheeks might have cheered him at some point, but now, its caress left him feeling empty as he always seemed to feel these days.

All around him were the reminders of the life he'd had. Could have kept having if he hadn't opened his mouth and spat out the worst kind of words.

This flat was now filled with ghosts.

He needed to get out of there. To go somewhere—anywhere else. Wasting away in this eerie silence was slowly driving him mad.

Grabbing his wand, he strode out of the flat, down the staircase, and right to the fireplace. As before, only a smattering of eighth years remained inside on a beautiful day. Finnegan and Thomas. Bones. MacMillan. Goldstein.

Draco paid them no heed as he grabbed a handful of Floo powder and cast it into the flames, turning them the same sickening green as the Dark Mark when it floated high in the sky.

He stepped through as he choked out his destination.

Draco could have chosen a number of places to go. Shell Cottage, for one. The Burrow. There would always be arms to welcome him there.

But it wasn't Mrs. Weasley's arms he wanted, or the soft roll of the shore at Bill and Fleur's.

For some reason, at this moment, he wanted his own mother.

Draco landed with a soft thud in the parlour of Malfoy Manor.

From the moment he landed, Draco felt that something was… off. He stood and dusted his knees before making his way past the familiar dark draperies and austere portraits into the main corridor of the house in search of his mother.

He didn't have to search long. Only twenty steps into his journey, a head poked out from the library at the end of the hall.

Draco felt his whole body relax at the sight of his mother. A comforting warmth filled his chest to see her light-coloured head and familiar smile.

"Draco!" she cried, her voice higher than normal. "What in Merlin's name are you doing here?"

"I wanted to come for a visit. Is that all right, Mother?"

He felt the words fall off his tongue, though he hardly believed them himself. He supposed it was better to break the news about Scorpius to his mother gently, gradually.

"Of course it's all right, darling." Narcissa ushered him closer, and Draco walked the rest of the distance down the corridor. As he approached, he noticed a distinctly manic look in his mother's wide eyes. "You've come at an interesting time."

Yes, there was definitely something odd going on.

When Mother wrapped her arms around him, it was not the tighter hugs he had come to expect during the past few visits, but rather, a barely-there embrace. Narcissa's grip on him was weak and uncertain. Yet, as they hugged, her spine straightened and she felt rigid in his arms.

Draco narrowed his eyes as he laid his chin on Narcissa's shoulder. This was not like his mother. He couldn't help the nerves building inside of him as his mother pulled back, holding him at arm's length.

"Look at you, my dragon. You're looking peaky. It must be stressful, having Shiloh and another on the way. And N.E.W.T.s! Why don't you—" She paused, looking over her shoulder. "Why don't you come to the kitchens and Moppy can fetch you some—"

"Is that Draco?" A voice carried from inside the library.

Draco's stomach dropped to his feet.

It was a voice he hadn't heard in nearly a year.

A voice he wasn't prepared to hear—didn't think he'd hear for years, if ever again.

Draco side-stepped past his mother and into the library. There, sitting in a dark, velvet, wingback chair was none other than his own father.

Azkaban had not done Lucius Malfoy any favours. His hair, once shining and thick, had thinned considerably. It now hung limply from his scalp. The proud face that had delivered glares and haughty looks throughout Draco's whole childhood was now gaunt, his cheekbones sunken in and his eyes bloodshot.

This was not the Lucius Malfoy he knew.

Draco approached with caution. He wondered if, like a wounded dragon, his father would lash out.

"Father." He made sure to draw himself up to his full height—made sure to keep his voice steady. "I wasn't expecting to see you."

"He has been released early." Narcissa patted Draco on the shoulder as she made her way across the library and settled into the armchair beside Lucius. "Isn't that lovely?"

Draco nodded stiffly. "What a surprise. Were you released for good behavior?"

Lucius grunted, tipping a tumbler of firewhisky past his lips. "Something like that." He reached to the cart beside him, gripping the rim of another tumbler in his fingers and holding it out to Draco, who accepted it with reluctance. Lucius tipped a finger of amber liquid inside.

"Well surely it must feel good to be out." Draco swirled the firewhisky around before taking a sip.

Lucius snorted. When he spoke in a drawl, it was more to himself than to the rest of the room. "Those bastards at the Wizengamot don't know what's coming to them. Send me to Azkaban? The fools. They'll never see a penny from the Malfoy vaults again."

He was muttering now, his lip curled in a petulant sneer.

Draco held the tumbler to his lips in an attempt to hide his discomfort.

"And you, my son?" Lucius looked at him, his gaze seeming to penetrate his very soul. "You're back at Hogwarts, are you not?"

"Yes, Father."

"And after?"

"Yes, Father?"

"What do you intend to do, exactly?"

Draco licked his lips. He had come clean to his mother about this and received surprising support. But to his father… that was a different story. As he opened his mouth, his throat nearly constricted with nerves, but he pushed through them.

"I'm hoping to train at St. Mungo's. Become a Healer—a paediatric Healer."

Draco never broke Lucius's gaze as he spoke, his chest puffed with pride and what he hoped was confidence. From just behind his father's back, Narcissa's lips tugged into a tight-lipped smile, and she looked at him with adoration shining in her eyes.

Draco couldn't help the tug of his own lips, knowing his mother was proud of him.

At least someone was.

"A paediatric Healer?" Lucius scoffed, pouring himself another glass with a dismissive shake of his head. "Where did you get a ridiculous notion like that in your head? Malfoys make charitable donations to hospitals. They don't dirty their hands by working in them."

Indignation tightened Draco's jaw. He blinked. "I got the idea from my daughter, actually."

Father's brow furrowed. "That's right. That child of yours. What's her name?"

"Shiloh." He pressed on before his father could interrupt. "When I helped with her delivery and helped take care of her, I realised how much of a calling I have. How much good I can do and how good I am at it."

"Funny name, Shiloh. Why didn't you choose a celestial name, Draco?"

"We—Hermione and I—we decided a celestial name wasn't right for her."

"And rightfully so!" Lucius set his tumbler down on the cart with a loud clack. "This child isn't really a Malfoy, after all."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Isn't a—?"

"Honestly, I'm surprised you're even involved with this child, Draco." Lucius leaned back in his chair, gazing upon him with… was that boredom? Disgust? Draco just couldn't tell. "Childrearing is usually reserved for house-elves, and besides, I assumed you would limit your contact to nothing more than… financial support."

Father's eyes landed directly on his, and Draco anger bubble up in his stomach, as it had so often in recent days.

"And why would that be?" He could feel anger begin to bubble, like a cauldron over high heat, years of his father's dismissive attitude resurfaced but Draco wasn't going to take the same verbal abuse. No. Not now. Not this time. Not after losing his son, and potentially the little family he cared so much about.

"Because of who the child's mother is, of course." He shook his head. "A public embarrassment, having a child with a Mudblood. A shame, really."

Draco was about to open his mouth, but he was cut short when he saw the look on Mother's face. Wide-eyed, her lips were nothing more than a tight line. He watched as Mother came to a clear realisation.

The last time Draco stood in this house, she had insinuated something similar. The only difference was that his mother had a conscience. As Father spoke, her face turned a delicate shade of green.

Draco pushed down the vitriol sitting on the tip of his tongue. He clenched his fists instead.

After a minute of silence, during which the only noise was the steady ticking of the tall clock in the corner, Mother spoke up. Her voice was tentative.

"How is Hermione doing? And the baby? She must be getting bigger."

It was like being cut open with Sectumsempra all over again. Draco steeled himself, but his father beat him to the punch.

"Baby?" Father shook his head, his sneer returning. "Don't tell me you got her pregnant again?"

"Well—"

"It's a boy this time," Mother piped up. Perhaps she hoped this news would appease his father. She turned to face him, eyebrows raised in apparent anticipation.

Father only shook his head again. "What an utter fool my son has turned out to be. What a disappointment."

He was no longer looking at Draco, but instead, up at an old family portrait hanging on the wall above the mantle. It had been painted when Draco was very young—four or five, perhaps. He stood stiffly in his dark robes, his little face serious. His parents sat behind him in the portrait, their own faces just as severe.

It all left Draco feeling rather cold.

He turned to Mother, decidedly ignoring Father. Somehow, it seemed easier just to tell her. Draco braced himself as he spoke, each word more difficult to say than the last. "About the baby—we… lost him a couple weeks ago. We found out at an appointment with a Healer from St. Mungo's."

"So—" Narcissa began, her eyes wide. "No baby?"

Draco shook his head. He could feel the familiar burn of tears welling just behind his eyes.

"No baby."

He had a feeling that if this had been a conversation between just him and his mother, they would both be crying now. He would have laid his head on his mother's shoulder and allowed himself to express the grief that had been growing like a tumour inside his body. She would have comforted him, stroked his head softly and said something to make him feel better.

But this wasn't that kind of conversation.

Father acted as a sort of barrier between mother and son, preventing any real emotion from reaching the surface. His sadness laid dormant instead. He pushed it down into the pit of his stomach. He didn't want his father to see him cry.

Draco looked at his toes, willing the tears to stay away.

Unfortunately, it was his father who broke the silence that followed.

"You should be grateful, Draco. A halfblood for the Malfoy heir? What a pity that would have been."

Draco's blood ran cold.

"And it's already bad enough that you have one halfblood spawn, but at least that one's a girl."

Draco had experienced many forms of anger in the last few years of his life. Some kinds of anger were explosive; they were the kinds that made you yell at your friends and destroy precious objects. Other kinds of anger bubbled inside, stewing for long periods of time until they either dissipated or evolved into the explosive type.

This kind of anger—this one was different.

Draco felt a rage that was white hot beneath every inch of his skin. It radiated into his fingernails and the tips of his ears. Yet when he went to open his mouth, he found himself frozen. Unable to speak. Instead, his whole body quivered as he stared at his father. They stared at each other for an unprecedented amount of time, and Draco hoped to Salazar that his eyes were giving off as much vitriol as possible. He hoped his gaze burned a hole in his father's soul.

Father, perhaps noticing Draco's anger or perhaps not, stood from his wingback chair and crossed the library to the door with such nonchalance that it lifted the lock on Draco's tongue.

"She's your granddaughter!" he managed to blurt as Lucius reached for the brass handle.

Father turned, his eyes more gaunt than ever, his sallow skin hanging off him in a near-ghostlike manner.

"She's your granddaughter." Draco heard the pleading tone in his voice, and hated himself for it.

His father paused, and for one brief, shining moment, something flashed in Father's eyes. Draco wasn't sure what it was, but he thought for that one small moment that there might still be some humanity left in him.

And then it vanished. Like it had never even existed in the first place.

Stone-faced and callous, his father turned away from him and pulled the door. As it swung open, he spoke into the hallway. "She is no granddaughter of mine."

Lucius was gone. Draco heard his footsteps echo through the corridor and up the steps to the first floor of their home.

He shouldn't have felt as empty as he did. His father had, after all, been relatively absent in his life for nearly a year. Before then, he'd been cold and distant, with unreasonable expectations.

Still… watching his father walk away like that did nothing for the growing pit in his stomach. All the anger that had burned his skin was suddenly extinguished. Draco was beginning to feel whiplash from the whirlwind of emotions that he had experienced in only the last few days.

He was tired. Tired of feeling angry. Tired of feeling regret. Just… tired.

In his father's absence, Mother moved from her spot to his side. She placed an arm around his shoulders.

"Oh, Draco. I'm so sorry." His mother embraced him fully this time. Not like the weak, awkward hug she had given him upon his arrival, but a real, true hug. Her fingers clutched his shirt, her ear pressing to his heartbeat. "If I had known you were coming, I would have warned you. I was planning on owling you this evening—"

"It's all right, Mother." He patted his mother on the back, forcing the calm tone in his voice. "It's not like the outcome would have been any different."

Narcissa sighed, pulling back. "No, I suppose not." His mother fidgeted with one of the heavy rings on her fingers. "And Draco, I am so sorry that you and Hermione lost the baby. For what it's worth, I've had some time to think since we had tea, and I realise—" She took a deep breath here, as if steeling herself. "—I realise that I was wrong to push the two of you to marry. I see the way you look at each other. She loves you, Draco. And it'll come with time."

Draco felt the pit in his stomach stretch wider. He looked down at his shoes.

"I don't know, Mother. I-I said some pretty cruel things to her after we lost him."

Narcissa's lip wobbled a bit when she took his face in her hands, but her eyes remained steadfast, with a look she had only seen in them a handful of times. It was a look he recognised more from Mrs. Weasley than from anyone else.

Love. Unconditional love.

For some reason, seeing that look in his mother's eyes made Draco want to cry even more.

"She does love you, Draco. But you're going to have to set things right. She is your family now. I don't want you to lose your family."

As Narcissa pulled her palms away from his face, Draco caught sight of the Malfoy family portrait hanging on the wall once more. Though Draco couldn't remember that portrait being painted, he remembered other parts of his childhood vividly.

Like the portrait, much of his childhood had been austere and formal. He had been largely raised by house-elves, only spending time with his parents when they wanted to introduce him to one important person or another.

His childhood hadn't contained much joy. Sure, he had racing brooms and all the latest toys, but that hadn't equated anything close to happiness.

Draco re-focused on the portrait. No one was smiling. No one was touching. He, Mother, and Father hardly looked like a family at all. Not the kind of family he had come to know more recently, anyway. At Hermione's childhood home, the walls and shelves had been covered in Muggle photographs. Candid and posed moments alike, they all had one thing in common: happiness.

Hermione had grown up with love as the central tenet of her life. She was her parents' world, and they had smothered her with affection. Draco had seen some of that familial affection, and it had shaken him out of a stupor.

He continued to stare at that cold, rigid family portrait for several minutes. With each tick of the clock, his heart began to beat faster, his mind settling on what he had to do.

Love hadn't been the priority in his home. But it was in Hermione's.

Then it clicked.

He didn't want Shiloh to grow up in a home like his.

He didn't want austere family photographs to hang on the wall of his home, glaring down at him.

He didn't want Shiloh to be afraid to hug him or Hermione to feel she had to hold her tongue around him.

Draco wanted them to be a proper, loving family—wanted to be there for Hermione and Shiloh and any other children that he hoped they would have one day. And more than anything, he didn't want to hurt them. Not anymore.

And that was going to start with him apologising to Hermione. It didn't matter if he had to get down on his knees and beg.

He had to fight for the family he wanted.

Chest heaving, Draco ripped his gaze away from the portrait. His mouth had gone dry and adrenaline began to pump through his veins. He knew what he had to do. He had to get out of here—had to get back to Hogwarts. Had to find Hermione. Had to make it better some way, somehow.

"I have to go, Mother."

He kissed Narcissa's cheek and tore through the door before she could respond.

Draco's shoes pounded on the marble floors as he made his way to the parlour.

She was bound to be in the library. He just had to get back to school and make it to her. He'd run if he had to. Yell that he loved her at the top of his lungs. Draco didn't care if Madam Pince had him thrown out of the library for the rest of the year. He didn't care who heard or what they thought. This was his family, and it was time he stepped the fuck up.

Taking a handful of powder, he barely got the words "Hogwarts eighth year common room" out before he was twisting, spinning in a swirl of green flames and smoke.

Draco's heart was still hammering when he landed in the familiar space.

This time, it was empty.

He stood, his breath coming in pants. Why did his stomach feel like it was full of pixies?

Because he loved her. He needed to tell her. Needed her to know.

Draco took his first step toward the library.

"Erm... Malfoy?" A figure stepped out from the corner of the common room, interrupting his one-track mind.

He swiveled to see MacMillan standing in front of a study table. He seemed diminutive, his hands fiddling in front of him.

Draco did not have time for him.

"Later, MacMillan. I'm busy."

"Listen, I need to talk to you."

"I said later."

"It's important—"

"Later."

"I sent those notes!"

Draco froze. The pixies in his stomach fell away as his heart stuttered to a halt. It was like someone had doused him in a bucket of ice water. He swallowed. "You—what?"

MacMillan was wringing his hands. His eyes shifted back and forth. "I sent the notes. The… um.. The threatening ones."

Draco looked from the portrait hole to MacMillan, his body torn in two. Half of him wanted to ream out MacMillan and other half of him just wanted to say 'fuck it' and find Hermione as soon as he could.

So he remained stock still. A compromise of sorts. When he didn't say anything, MacMillan kept speaking.

"I was just so mad. I didn't know what else to do. After—at the end of the battle, my friend Wayne—you knew Hopkins, right?"

The name vaguely rang a bell, but Draco didn't say anything. MacMillian didn't give him a chance anyway.

"Wayne was in a bad way. Got hit by some curse and then near trampled. I managed to drag him to the Great Hall where everyone else was. And I went to go get Madam Pomfrey, but you got to her first. I saw you and Hermione leaving with her." MacMillan wiped away a stray tear from his flushed face, his eyes trained on the floor. He swallowed. "Wayne died while she was off delivering your sprog."

Draco felt his stomach drop. But only just.

"I was just so mad at you. I felt like you took him away from me. When I saw you back on the train in September, I dunno—something just snapped."

It was only then that MacMillan looked up, his eyes filled with tears. "It wasn't until I heard you yelling at Zabini the other day that I stopped and really realised what I'd done. I had no idea how much they'd really affect you." He wrung his hands more, eyes shifting nervously between the toes of his shoes and Draco. "...or how they'd… how they'd m-make Hermione lose the baby."

Draco was fully invested in this now. He turned away from the portrait hole, heart pounding, teeth clenched, fists balled tightly.

"Why are you telling me this now, MacMillan?" Draco grit out.

"Because I want to apologise. I… I should turn myself into McGonagall."

"The hell you should."

"And I should apologise to Herm—"

"Don't you dare go near her."

MacMillan's mouth snapped shut, his stupid, hippogriff shite-coloured eyes wide and clouded with fear.

"Go to McGonagall. Or don't. I don't really give a bloody fuck what you do. Just stay away from my family."

Draco turned on his heel and began to march toward the portrait hole.

Fucking MacMillan.

Draco clenched his fists tighter with each step he took.

Fucking MacMillan, standing there frozen with that stupid, shocked expression on his face.

He had promised himself that he'd control his anger. That'd he'd rein it in for the sake of his family.

He could just walk away with dignity. Take the high road.

Or.

Yes, or sounded good. Just one more time.

Twisting on the spot, Draco strode back to the spot where MacMillan stood, body rigid and frozen to the spot he'd left him in.

A tiny hope flickered in MacMillan's eyes at Draco's return, like perhaps the boy assumed he'd be willing to discuss his transgression, but before the arsehole could get in a single word, Draco drew back his arm and punched him square in the jaw.

This time, it felt good.

Okay, who saw that coming? My Beta did. Did you? Only one person as far as I remember predicted in the comments.

Lucius is almost always an ass in all my stories. Narcissa, far less so.

Take care everyone! Be well.