A/N: Love to reviewers and to Countess Black

A maternity band is a piece of clothing that Pureblood women wear during pregnancy. Picture a wide belt of material, fastening at the back, with a round, padded part at front to keep cold drafts and miasmas from chilling the womb or hurting the baby. It's based on a real garment worn by some Victorian women after childbirth.

*Voltaire

'We have a natural right to make use of our pens as of our tongues, at our peril, risk and hazard.' Aloysius Nott, On Discourse, 1801*

Hermione was only vaguely aware of her own celebrity. Unlike the Malfoys, who were keenly aware that theirs was a household name, Hermione practically never thought of herself as famous.

Why should she? If asked, she would have defined herself as an average person, more or less, perhaps a bit more studious than most. It had taken her years even to get that far-surely others she wasn't that much smarter than her peers, even if they had a puzzling hesitance to show it?

And as to bravery, that was something else she rarely parsed much. In Hermione's experience, doing a thing didn't take as much courage as planning it. Once one was in the moment, things seemed to fit together like blocks, one atop the other until the deed had been done.

So while she reacted to being denounced with a startling degree of sang-froid, the incident which occurred at the door of the Chelmsford Witches' Club was a terrible awakening.

They'd had a most successful meeting (by now their ranks had swelled to almost fifty, and several women at the meeting indicated they'd be willing to help.) and had broken in a most satisfied mood.

The club had assured that no other males would be present, but no one had thought to vet the grounds, which, in hindsight, was a bad idea. As the ladies exited, a figure in a woolly brown cloak sprung forth and threw something from a bucket. A shimmering, foul smelling shower of red, with lumps of darker maroon, arced through the air and hit Hermione directly. She was surrounded by a smell of copper and salt, spoilt even in this cold weather.

Hermione gasped as she was soaked in a foul miasma of the stuff. Beside her, Draco had started forth, wand raised. A number of thoughts went through her head at once, and the main one was that someone would be badly hurt in the ensuing confrontation if she didn't intervene.

She acted with speed which shocked the onlookers, and managed to do the one thing which saved her assailant. She snapped her wrist at the figure in the woolly cloak and said, very clearly 'Levicorpus!'

The woolly cloaked stranger flew upwards just as Draco was reaching him. Draco spun, and Hermione approached very calmly. 'Let him down.'

'No, Draco. We need to call the aurors.'

'Let. Him. Down.'

Hermione could feel his rage crackling in the air, as his magic making her skin tingle. Her own was tingling, but with a cooler anger, tinged with worry that Draco might well maul the idiot to death.

She stepped closer and calmly replaced her wand, and then, in front of nearly one hundred witches of good family, threw both arms about her husband as tightly as she could.

'You promised you'd never hurt me. So don't, all right?'

Draco hugged back, feeling his anger calming slightly at her touch, her smell enveloping him. 'Are you hurt, precious?'

She shook her head. 'No. Just animal blood, I think.'

Draco grimaced, feeling even darker anger fighting his urge to honour the promise he'd made not to hurt or frighten her. Fortunately, the aurors arrived in record time, and collected the man in the brown woolly cloak.

Having narrowly averted disaster, Hermione became conscious that she was covered in cold and stinking blood, the analyses of which proved it to be porcine beyond all doubt.

Bilquis Rocheford, taking one look at the girl's bedraggled condition, swiftly announced the next stop was her townhouse, where she and dear Steerforth would be glad to receive the Malfoys for an early dinner.

Giving her cloak and shoes for evidence to an auror, Hermione climbed into the carriage, wrapped in Draco's own cape. Draco tugged her into his lap, heedless of his mother's surprised, not wholly approving look, and said nothing, face still tense.

'Draco?'

'Hmmm?'

'Are you quite all right?'

'No. I would have rather liked to kill that fellow.'

Hermione wasn't sure he meant it figuratively. 'It was only some blood, Draco. We knew people would feel strongly about all this. This sort of thing is a lightening rod for the unbalanced.'

'He might have hurt you, love.'

'I don't think so. He had time to and didn't.'

'Still...'

'Well, the aurors will sort it all out. Have you been to Bilquis' before?'

'Of course.' Draco wouldn't be distracted. He was deeply glad not to have upset Hermione, but he'd had visions of what he might have done to the man, and as loath as he was to admit it, part of him wished he might have acted on it.

'And the baby?'

'Fine. Probably didn't even wake up.'

Draco snorted. 'Fat chance there. A Malfoy is always alert when there's scandal in the air. Never know your luck when there's a free for all.'

Narcissa started. 'Draco Lucius!'

'Mother?' Draco smiled guilelessly, and Narcissa gave a helpless chuckle. He could be so like his father sometimes, it never failed to amaze her. Not that it was a bad thing, mind; she adored her husband, and their son, and their life. But it could vex a bit as well.

'What would Grandfather say?'

Draco pretended to think. 'He'd threaten to disinherit me and then slip me a galleon when he thought no one was looking.'

'That sounds about right. Hermione, my darling, are you certain you're well?'

'I am. Leesy, would you please go and get some clean things for Master and I?'

The elf, who'd been glued to Hermione, sobbing, bowed and vanished. Narcissa leant over and took Hermione's hand in hers.

'Love, we don't say please to an elf. It's bad for discipline.'

'I'd feel guilty if I didn't.'

Narcissa decided to query this later. 'I thought that was well handled, by the way, children.'

'Thank you. Draco, do you think Blaise will be there?'

'Doubt it. He goes to visit his grandparents in Bologna during the summer.'

Hermione nodded. She didn't know how to delicately ask the next part. 'And you don't think Mr. Rochefort will be a problem?'

'My word, no. He's a hundred and ten. Sort of a larger, balder version of Crookshanks, though I daresay he doesn't eat as many mice.'

'Draco!'

'Mother?'

'I've half a mind to Floo Father and tell him how irreverent you're being.'

Draco dropped his mouth to Hermione's ear and stage whispered. 'I think Mother wants Father to start practicing for when the baby's born.'

Narcissa looked ready to say something and starting laughing instead, harder than Hermione had ever seen her. Hermione looked at her husband's blandly smirking face and joined in helplessly as well, so that when the carriage touched down, all three were nearly convulsed with mirth.

Bilquis swept out to greet them, elegantly attired as always, followed by a number of small dogs. 'Welcome, welcome. I've asked my maid to help you bathe, Hermione, and your Leesy is here with clean clothes. Draco, you may use Blaise's shower, do you remember where it is?'

Half an hour later, both of them clean and attired in warm clothing, the Malfoys waited for everyone else to assemble. A strange sound caused them to turn round, in time to see a very elderly man, being pushed along in an old fashioned wheelchair by an elf.

'Bilquis, have you seen my top hat?'

'No, darling. What do you need it for?'

Steerforth appeared not to hear. 'Are these people from the Ministry? I wish to register a complaint.'

'No, love. They're friends of mine, remember?'

Draco rose and extended a hand. 'Draco Malfoy, sir. Blaise's friend?'

'Ah, yes, of course. And this is your wife, is that right?'

'Yes, sir.' Hermione also stood and made her way over to shake the old man's hands. He smiled rhumily up at her. 'You remind me of someone, my dear. Have we met? Do I know your father?'

'I shouldn't think so, sir.'

His brain, fogged with age, surged with electricity as his neurons, once as well oiled as ball bearings, strained tiredly to place where this girl had been that he'd known about. Suddenly his face lit up. 'You're the writer, is that right?'

'I, ah, suppose it is, at that.'

The old man appeared not to notice. 'Niobe, it's cold in here. Why don't we have Coggy...' His head fell forward, and the elf bowed and excused them both. Hermione raised an eyebrow and Draco raised one back, meaning to explain later.

Bilquis watched the encounter play out with something like sorrow on her face. 'He's having a bad day. I'm sorry.'

Hermione smiled. 'Not at all.'

'You reminded him of his first wife.' Bilquis handed out steaming cups of tea. 'Most unusual. He almost never says her name.'

Hermione didn't know what to say. She added some lemon to her tea and stirred. Draco had no such compunction. 'Your husband has quite a library, isn't that right? He was a medi-wizard.'

'He does, and was. Why do you ask?'

Draco sipped some tea. 'Hermione, this mystery thing is really yours. Would you want to explain?'

She did. Bilquis was intrigued. 'Do you think the library here might have some clues?'

'The one at Grimmauld place did, but someone tore up the book. Perhaps in a family with less of a stake in things, the book would be intact.'

Bilquis nodded. 'In return, may I ask a favour?'

'Of course, anything.'

'I will be frank: I am more nurse than wife to my husband. It can be lonely. I would greatly appreciate a visit from time to time.'

'We'd be glad to.' Hermione noticed there was a bit of orange fur on the cuff of her robes, and mentally smiled a bit. Dear grumpy Crookshanks.

'And you're always welcome to come and see us.' He felt himself being sucked into yet another hen party. But he liked Bilquis very much, and thought that perhaps it would help Hermione to have some friends, even if they were older.

Sometimes it rather gnawed at him, that. He had no use for Potter, but he wondered if he could tolerate a visit from him and the She-Weasel. But Potter was no ancient, senile invalid. He was virile, young, strong. He might actually be a threat (as much as Draco's human mind snorted at the idea, the veela was insistent.)

But might it raise Hermione's mood? She was happy enough these days, but she'd still showed no visible excitement about her pregnancy, and that worried him. She talked about the whole thing in neutral tones, as though it were something happening to another person, something that happened to involve her body.

Perhaps a younger woman would help her feel better about it, show some enthusiasm. He had no doubts she would treat a child well, give it her attention and affection, teach it everything she knew, but he wanted more than that. He wanted her to be delirious with love for it, even as he was.

Draco was quite right. Hermione felt no especial excitement about the idea of a baby. She liked children well enough, but she'd never been one of those girls who went starry eyed at the prospect of motherhood.

But she felt little doubt she would do right by it, all the same. It would be cared for, and, like it's father, she would make peace with it. Him? Her? She hadn't even a preference, really. Whichever would be fine by Hermione.

Narcissa was quite fine one moment. The next her head had begun a low, nauseous throb which made her clench her teeth. 'Bilquis, I do hate to be rude, but my head is bothering me. Would you mind terribly if I left a bit early?'

'Of course not, Narcissa. Draco and Hermione can simply use our carriage to get home.'

They exchanged good byes and Bilquis rose. 'Hermione, may I have a word?'

Hermione's eyes flitted to Draco, who smiled encouragingly. 'Bilquis, may I go and have a look at that gallery of family portraits? I believe Steerforth and I have some common ancestors I rarely get to speak to.'

'Of course. If I'm not mistaken, Virgilia Malfoy herself is there.'

'Yes, through her sister Fulvia Crabbe Wilkes, I think, who's second marriage was to a Rochefort. Virgilia lived with them after her own husband died.'

Hermione shook her head. How did they manage to keep all this straight? She followed Bilquis to a set of rooms further into the house, where they sat. 'Now, how are you really feeling?'

Hermione laughed softly. No mincing words here. 'Well enough. We're lucky it wasn't something worse, I think.'

'Exactly. And your pregnancy?'

Hermione looked down. 'Fine.'

'You aren't excited?'

'No.'

'Understandable. I don't know how you do it.'

Hermione looked out the window, on the snow dusted landscape. 'What choice remains to me? It was this or throwing myself from the battlements.'

Bilquis nodded slowly. 'You know, people speak ill of me because my husbands are so old. Blaise's father wasn't. He was younger than I, actually. Giancarlo was the love of my life.'

Hermione wondered what this had to do with anything. Bilquis' face was smooth. 'He was trampled by a dragon. I was alone for a year, but Blaise needed a father, and...my second husband proposed. He was eighty six, and wanted company, I think. And I was not young-thirty five-and not rich enough to make up for my deficiencies.'

'I tell you this, my dear, because sometimes life takes us to place we might not have chosen ourselves.'

Hermione understood. 'It's the way we deal with things.'

'Quite. And things have a way of working out. My second husband was childless, and he adored Blaise. And when he died, I married his friend for much the same reason.'

Hermione sighed. 'I feel so guilty for not wanting this more. The pregnancy, I mean.'

'Feeling resentment about something that was forced on you is natural. And you've channelled it into something constructive.'

'Draco didn't-'

'No, no, not like that. I mean, you'd haven chosen differently, and it's normal to grieve that, I'd say.'

Hermione looked down at her stomach, still smooth and flat. 'The veela thing has been a challenge.'

'I'd imagine. How do your parents feel about it?'

Hermione swallowed. 'Upset, at first. But they understand that it is what it is.'

Bilquis felt a moment of pity for the muggles, who were doubtlessly confused by the sudden seismic change in their daughter's life. She studied the girl, who was very pale, almost ill looking.

'Interesting, that you've chosen this mystery to immerse yourself in. Any particular reason?'

'Something to do. It gets lonely out there.'

'I'm sure it does. I'd imagine Draco would know a thing or two about that.'

'Loneliness?'

'He's the only one of his kind that he knows.'

Hermione looked grim. 'So I am.'

'Yes, you are.' Bilquis wouldn't insult the girl by making the parrelel explicit, and suggesting she pursue this line of thought. Instead, she just looked at her levelly, and Hermione looked back, perhaps at peace with things.

Or perhaps not, or maybe it shifted. Hard to say. Grief, thought Bilquis, is a paper house on sand-it moves, stills, and moves again according to no pattern that could be discerned.

Hermione rose after a moment. 'Would you mind showing me the portraits?'

'I hope I have not offended you.'

'Not at all. But I feel as though I should meet Virgilia face to face, after all this time criticising her life's work.'

Bilquis led the way. Draco was deep in conversation with a man who bore the unmistakable stamp of Black ancestry. '...routed the lot of them.'

'Really?'

'Rather. Good plunder, boy, that day.' The man fell silent at the approach of the women.

'Hello, Bilquis.'

'Hello, Diogenes. How are you?'

'Well, well.'

Virgilia was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she'd gone to one of her many portraits. The two Malfoys borrowed the Rochefort coach to ride home in. Draco noticed that Hermione seemed thoughtful and slid his hand into hers as gently as possible. 'Love?'

'Draco?'

'Something wrong?'

'I've a lot on my mind, is all.'

'Oh.' He probed no further. Draco was learning.