Author's Note: I don't even have any excuses to offer. So yeah, I really did not envisage such a lengthy delay between this and the last chapter but, as those of you who follow me on tumblr know, I'm having extreme Dramione inspiration issues at the moment.

But the next chapter is here! It's shorter than usual but I didn't want you to wait another 7 months and also it seemed like a good place to leave it!

Many thanks to pagan who got this back to me super quickly despite having lots of rl commitments.

Portraits and Scans

This wasn't the first wizarding funeral Hermione had attended. No, that had come at the end of her sixth year when Professor Dumbledore had been murdered. That was followed two years later by a rash of funerals she would rather never have had to go to; the image of George having to be dragged from Fred's graveside screaming and sobbing was seared into her memory.

This, however, was the first traditional pureblood funeral, and it was a vastly different affair. There was no crying, not even from Narcissa, who sat stoic and controlled behind a large pair of sunglasses. If Hermione didn't know better, she would assume that Lucius' passing had had no impact. Such was the lack of emotion displayed by Narcissa.

It was a vast difference from the scenes she had witnessed in the Manor over the last few days, where Narcissa had refused to crawl out of her bed, hiding under a mess of blankets and pillows, her face raw and red from the constant tears, having to be coaxed like a small child to take small sips of soup.

The sheer emotion displayed by Narcissa behind closed doors was understandable. She and Lucius had been deeply in love and no matter how calm and collected Narcissa currently appeared, Hermione knew she was going through the steps of grief.

However, it was Draco that worried Hermione. Narcissa's reaction was healthy, expected, and something easily managed, no matter how draining. The icy façade Draco was hiding behind was much more difficult. He had withdrawn into himself, closed off and cold. He had efficiently dealt with the funeral details, following Lucius' wishes to the letter, but she had not seen him shed a tear. She found the lack of emotion disturbing.

She turned to him now, squeezing his hand. She had slipped her hand into his early on in the ceremony. He hadn't pushed her away, which was encouraging, but neither had he wrapped his fingers around hers. His hand had remained straight and unmoving, but Hermione refused to be discouraged. She knew that Draco needed support, even if he failed to acknowledge this himself.

"Come," he said to her in a clipped tone. "The unveiling is happening back at the Manor."

"The unveiling?" Hermione asked, but Draco didn't hear her. He had dropped her hand and strode off as if this whole event was nothing more than an inconvenience.

Hermione patted Narcissa on her shoulder, trying her hardest not to throw Draco a disapproving look. As expected, the media were in attendance and any disharmony between the chief mourners would be seized upon with glee.

"Narcissa," Hermione whispered soothingly, as the older woman remained in the front pew. "Come on, it's time to go."

"Oh yes," Narcissa replied. "The unveiling."

Lucius' widow rose, tottering a little in the pump heels she was wearing, so Hermione tucked her hand around her elbow, giving Narcissa some support. Curious as she was, Hermione knew now was not the time to ask Narcissa what an unveiling was.

Twenty minutes later, they stood in the gallery where Malfoy paintings lined the walls. Hermione found herself standing next to Millicent.

"So, Lucius' portrait is to be unveiled?" she asked.

Millie nodded. "It's tradition for it to be done here in the gallery, but the portrait can be moved later."

Hermione nodded. She had seen portraits of various Malfoy relatives scattered throughout the Manor. Some of them had taken to hissing disapprovingly at her whenever they saw her, but there was one that Hermione had taken a liking to. It hung in the nursery, and was the portrait of a long dead Malfoy relative, Helena. Narcissa had explained that Helena was used as extra set of eyes and ears, able to keep an eye on the children and call for help if any was needed. Hermione had smiled at that; it took the idea of a baby monitor to new levels.

She had been wary of the portrait at first, and had sought assurances from Draco that it would be moved if she had any nefarious plans towards their half-blood baby. Draco had shot her an amused glance, but when he had seen just how serious she was, he had agreed. Then he had taken her hand and introduced her to Helena officially.

The portrait had cooed over Hermione's small bump, asked a stream of questions about the pregnancy and about how Hermione was feeling that made Narcissa seem uninterested by comparison. Hermione had elbowed Draco hard in his side when he had told Helena of her fears, but the portrait had laughed them off, letting Hermione know that she was not offended. She had then sent Draco away for tea and told Hermione to pull up a chair.

"Has anyone told you anything about me?" she had asked Hermione, once Hermione was ensconced in a comfortable nursing chair.

Hermione had shaken her head.

"I didn't think so. You see, I am often swept under the Malfoy carpet. The skeleton in the closet that they are ashamed of."

"What did you do?"

"I fell in love with a Muggle."

Hermione could not have helped just how round her eyes had grown at that statement. "Wha-? When?" she had stuttered inarticulately.

"Oh, many years ago. I was alive in the fourteenth century, when the barrier between magic and Muggles was a lot thinner. We had Muggles working at the Manor then, and I fell in love with a stable-boy."

Helena had gone quiet for a minute, her eyes growing sad as she seemed to shrink back into her memories. "Of course, my father found out," she had whispered. "But I had fallen pregnant by then. He killed my lover and banished me to my room. I was not allowed to leave and I was refused any medical help. With the lack of support, my baby died a mere few hours after birth. It was only then that my father allowed the Healers to examine me. They declared that I was healthy but I was never allowed to the leave Manor grounds again. My father banished all our Muggle workers and a Muggle has never stepped foot in the grounds of Malfoy Manor since."

Silence had fallen between them and Hermione had found herself crying. "I am so sorry," she had said, the words feeling hopelessly inadequate.

Helena had smiled. "I did not lead a very happy life, or indeed a very happy life as a portrait for a long time afterwards, until Draco's grandmother unearthed me when she was pregnant with Lucius. She hung me in the nursery and I have been here ever since."

By the time Draco had returned, Hermione had been chatting with Helena with the ease of an old friend.

Now, Hermione felt the tears pool in her eyes as Draco drew back the velvet curtain that covered Lucius' portrait and she looked upon his face once more. It was strange to think that this man had actively fought against her existence in the magical world for most of his life. All the anger she had felt towards him had disappeared. All she could think was that her baby would only know its paternal grandfather as a painting on the wall, and she wished once more that a cure could have been found.

Once the curtain that had covered his portrait had been opened, Lucius opened his eyes, blinking rapidly as if waking from a deep sleep. He scanned the small crowd who had been invited for this intimate ceremony before catching Narcissa's eye. Hermione watched, her heart aching painfully, as the Malfoy widow moved forward, tears streaming freely down her face, her outstretched fingers trembling as she stroked Lucius' painted cheek. Narcissa did not move as Lucius exchanged greetings with those present, and soon it was just Narcissa, Draco, and Hermione left.

Lucius turned his grey eyes to her for the first time, and Hermione was struck by how dull they seemed compared to the real ones that had gazed at her just over a week ago, smiling at something Narcissa had said. It was Lucius but not Lucius at the same time, and this was probably the one aspect of magic that Hermione had the hardest time adapting to, even after all these years.

"Take care of the little one," the portrait said, as Draco reached out for her hand, leading her away from the gallery and back down to the ballroom where the guests were milling about.

"Should we not wait for Narcissa?" Hermione asked as they turned the corner, craning her neck to check that the other woman was fine.

"No, she wants to spend some time with Father."

"Draco, are you sure you are ready to go down right now?"

"It is my duty," Draco replied, eyes staring ahead as they approached the head of the main staircase. "My father would not wish for me to leave our guests unattended for long."

Hermione wished she could voice more concern. That she could drag on his arm to stop him relentlessly marching into the ballroom. Wished that she was familiar enough to force him to look at her by twisting his head around, and that she could just break through this icy barrier Draco had erected. But she wasn't, and so she rather helplessly followed him downstairs, anxiously watching as he made polite small talk with the other mourners, looking for all the world as if this was an everyday occurrence.

The twenty-week scan was meant to be a happy moment. A time where they would find out the sex of the baby, and the planning could really commence. It had been the moment Hermione had marked in her calendar from the beginning of her pregnancy.

But with Draco walking stiffly at her side, she was feeling anything but excited. Instead, there was anxiety. Worry that he would stay withdrawn and that their relationship would go backwards, the mutual trust dissipating in the face of his cold demeanour. Give him time, she told herself for the umpteenth time, but the bubble of unease would not pop. There had been nothing from Draco. Not even a slight crack in the wall he had assembled around himself.

Hermione had hoped that it had been built to help him get through the funeral. A much needed defence so that he could organise and deal with all the bureaucracy that had descended unfairly on a mourning family. But the funeral had been five days ago, and there was still nothing from Draco.

She could not fault the attention he gave his mother: he made sure Narcissa was well cared for, and that she did not sit for days in front of Lucius' portrait. But his continued lack of emotion made Hermione's palms itch with a desire to slap him until he did something other than use that emotionless tone when speaking to everyone around him.

Now, there was an overlying feeling of irritation as they walked from the clinic at St. Mungo's. There had been nothing from him, no reaction when the sonographer had announced that they were expecting a little girl. The swell of emotion that rushed up from where she could feel the baby kicking gently had dissipated with the cool thanks Draco had uttered. The beaming smile and flush of excitement in her own cheeks had contrasted sharply with the lack of anything on Draco's face.

Hermione waited until they were out of sight of the main hospital before she grabbed his wrist, dragging him down a quiet road leading off Oxford Street with a speed that had Draco staring in shock.

"What?" he snapped.

"Just what is this? Are you annoyed the baby isn't a boy?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"One I want you to answer!" she replied angrily.

"Of course I don't care that the baby is not a boy."

"Or maybe you don't care at all!" she said, her temper rising.

Part of Hermione, the part that was objectively watching their stand-off, was pleased to see the flood of colour that rushed into his cheeks, staining them a deep red.

"I am so sorry I'm not jumping with joy right now. It may have escaped your attention, but my father is barely cold in his grave."

"No! You do not get to do that! You do not get to act as if I am being unreasonable in asking for something from you. Even Narcissa has shown more interest in this scan than you have, Draco."

His face twisted into the mocking sneer she had not seen since their Hogwarts days. For a brief minute, she wished for a return of his blank look.

"I am so sorry to rain on your happy parade, Granger, but we can't all be skipping around as if everything is sunshine and roses."

"I'm not asking for that. I'm not asking for you to pretend anything, but this is our baby, Draco."

"What do you want from me?"

"Something! Something other than this ice encrusted version of you that is running on autopilot."

"I thought you just said you didn't want me to pretend."

Anger suffused his face and his shoulders were so tense they looked as if they were about to crack that all her rage suddenly abated. She reached out. "Draco, if you would just let me in. I can help you. We can help you," she said, her other hand reaching down to touch the bump.

Draco shoved her hand away and spat, "No one can help. Not you or your baby."

Hermione reared back as if he had struck her. Her baby? It had been a long while since Hermione had thought of the baby in those terms. At one point, it had been all that she had wanted: Draco to wash his hands of the whole situation and pretend as if the baby did not share any part of him. But that had been before they had struck up this – at first, tentative – friendship. When the thought of dealing with the Malfoy family on a daily basis was nothing short of distasteful.

"My baby?" she whispered before swirling away from him and disappearing back into the heaving mass that was Oxford Street, tears pouring down her face.

Draco stared for a long while at the empty space in front of him. What is wrong with you? he asked himself. He had no idea why he had said that.

Yes, you do! You wanted to hurt someone as much as you are hurting and Hermione was an easy target.

He flinched from the truth of his thoughts. He had wanted to lash out. To be cruel and nasty. To inflict some damage on someone else. Just something that would drive away the anguish he felt every day, even for a brief moment.

The problem was that he now felt worse than ever.

He had been thrilled at seeing the little grey and white image on the screen. Our little girl, he had thought as he had gazed on Hermione's flushed cheeks and big grin. He had never seen her happier, but even that realisation, and the tenderness that had curled itself sweetly in the pit of his stomach, had not been able to break the rigid control he was maintaining over himself. He had feared that even a smile would cause his composure to break and the thick sobs that coated the throat at the thought of his father would claw their way out. He shied away from doing such a thing in the middle of St. Mungo's and, if he were honest, from breaking down in front of Hermione. He also wasn't sure he would be able to stop if he started. His rigid control was the only thing stopping him from collapsing right now.

And look where that has gotten you, the little voice in his head said snidely, sounding remarkably like Professor Snape, which seemed apt. Had he followed in the footsteps of his old Head of House and destroyed a friendship because of his inability to open up?

Pride, he thought. Over weaning pride was the curse of the Malfoy family.

A rush of anger infused him. He had destroyed all that he had painstakingly built over the past ten or so weeks. She would never trust him now. Not after those harsh words. He scuffed the floor with his foot, kicking a small pebble angrily across the pavement.