63.

The rest of the Christmas holidays disappeared in a haze of sex and hedonism, the pair of them only resurfacing to go to Hermione's father's house for New Year's Eve, and for daily chats with their respective children. The day before term began, they took the children to Diagon Alley together for school supplies and lunch, and then all had a sleepover at Malfoy's, with Ron's permission. They transfigured some of the furniture into mattresses, ordered pizza, and let the children stay up late watching movies. They didn't have sex; not with the children in the house.

Friday dawned bright and early, and Hermione found herself standing on Platform 9 & 's with Malfoy at her side, chaos surrounding her. It was cold, and she was in her black wool coat, and grey hat, scarf, and gloves, a warming charm cast. And she still felt chilly, her breath puffing clouds into the air that were lost amongst the steam of the Hogwarts Express, her legs cold despite the thick tights she wore beneath her dress. She checked the time. They were due back at work today, and she didn't want to be late. And she wanted to be out of the cold.

"Morning." Ron appeared out of the steam in a puffy parka, a striped beanie pulled down over his ears. Hermione swallowed hard, acutely aware of her arm, hooked through Malfoy's. Ron's eyes drifted down to where they were linked as she slid her arm out, and he looked sad for a moment before his mouth firmed and he smiled. A small, tight expression. He stepped forward to greet her properly though and she met him halfway – a little half hug, as he kissed her cheek.

When he let her go, she immediately turned to look at Malfoy, whose expression was utterly unreadable, aside from a faint twitch of the muscle at the hint of his jaw. But he held out his hand to Ron. "Weasley," he said civilly.

"Malfoy," Ron responded in kind, and Hermione watched with interest as they shook hands, perfectly polite. And then Ron turned his attention to Hermione once more. "I just saw the kids. They seem full of energy this morning." He paused, and searched for words. "How are you?"

"Looking forward to getting back to work," Hermione said honestly, and Ron laughed.

"Course you are." There was a hint of bitterness there, tied up in old hurts.

"How's Chastity?" Hermione asked swiftly, seeking safe ground.

"Awful," Ron said. "Just terrible."

Hermione had visions of miscarriage, or a messy, sudden break up. "Oh no, is she –"

"No, no, she's fine," Ron forestalled quickly. "It's morning sickness. She's got a terrible case of it right now. Worse than you with Hugo."

"Oh God," Hermione said, genuinely sympathetic. With Rose she'd just been queasy – with Hugo she'd thrown up more than half of what she ate, the first trimester. She'd lost weight instead of gaining until the sickness had cleared up in her second trimester, and then she'd promptly put on a ridiculous amount of weight in such a short time she'd been the size of a small village. "Are you making her the ginger tea with the honey in it that helped me, when I was pregnant? Remember, I had to have it before I got out of bed."

She looked over at Malfoy, who stood there with his hands in his coat pockets like a third wheel, watching on silently, his expression still neutral. "I was dreadful. I had to drink two cups of tea in the morning, because I always threw up the first one," she confided, and he grimaced in sympathy. Or possibly disgust.

"Ugh, yes, and your bloody Weetabix," Ron said. "I never understood why you insisted on eating it when it was so difficult to throw up right after you'd just eaten it." It was his turn to look at Malfoy. "She told me it was like shi–"

"Ronald!" Hermione snapped shrilly, trying to drown him out.

"–ting out her mouth." Ron smirked cheekily, and Malfoy's lips twitched. Hermione glared at him.

"Traitor!" she snapped, and he pressed his lips together very hard, put his fist to his mouth and coughed, and then said: "Biscuits."

"Biscuits?"

"They always helped Tori, when she was pregnant," he explained. "Shortbread worked best, but extra sugary. I think having something sweet to nibble on helped." Oh. He was offering advice. That was nice of him. Hermione linked her arm back through his, smiling up at him, never mind Ron.

"I forgot about the tea. And I'll try the biscuits, too. I'll try anything that will stop her from feeling so miserable right now. I'm reduced to flooing to the Burrow just to use the loo, she's hanging over the toilet so often." A pause. "Thanks."

"Give her our best," Hermione offered, and Ron shot her an awkward look.

"I will. Well, I've said hello and goodbye to the kids. I'd better get back to Chastity."

"They have the tea I liked at –"

"Tesco. I remember," Ron said, and smiled faintly, a whole shared life stretching out behind them. Malfoy slid his arm around Hermione's waist, staking his claim on her from this point onward, and the rest of their lives ahead of them, and she leaned into him.

"I'll talk to you when I have news about the house," she said to Ron, and he nodded.

"Yeah. Okay. Um, take care, yeah?"

"You too," Hermione said, and Malfoy nodded, and then Ron disappeared back into the swirls of steam, and the crowd, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders hunched. "Sorry," she said to Malfoy, resting her head against his chest.

"For what?"

"Ron. That." She waves a hand helplessly, aware of the way she and Ron had still communicated like an old married couple, all half finished sentences and long-suffering looks. Old memories that no one else knew about, but the two of them. "It's just…"

"It's just history," he said mildly, and kissed her on the top of the head even as Harry came strolling over, lifting a hand in greeting. "We both have it." Malfoy huffed a quiet laugh. "At least your ex is polite."

The next several weeks passed by blissfully but busily, and before Hermione knew it, it was mid-January.

Someone had put in an offer on the house already, though they wouldn't be accepting it just yet at the estate agent's advice, and Malfoy was looking into converting the spacious loft into extra bedrooms for the children. They weren't sure whether that would be better, or whether they should just look to buy or build elsewhere in Ilkley – he preferred to stay near the primary school he'd helped fund, and Hermione didn't mind. She was just glad Malfoy could help handle organising at least some of their housing issues – it took the burden off her.

She was absorbed with work. A complicated case regarding a – totally fruitless – attempt by a group of young people to revive Voldemort had recently come across her desk, and she'd ended up becoming more involved in the love potion case. And this on top of her usual case load of more minor, straightforward trials. She was worn out. Thank Merlin for Malfoy – she got home to dinner and questions about her day, and most nights, a round of delicious sex before bed, which kept her up far too late.

Eventually though, those late nights and busy days must have caught up with her, Hermione thought as she pried herself out of bed, exhausted, at 7 am, in nothing but knickers. Her head was aching, and her body weary. They'd been up until the early hours despite it being a Tuesday, and Hermione rather regretted it now. Malfoy's side of the bed was empty, and she imagined he was already making coffee. She yawned and sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbing her hands over her face, and then felt immediately ill.

Hermione ran for the toilet and after shutting the door quietly behind her, bent over the bowl, retching acrid bile that stung her throat, counting in her head. It was the fifteenth. Her period had been due five days ago. A chill ran through her, goosebumps springing up as she coughed one last time, flushed – not that there was much in the bowl – and then rinsed out her mouth at the sink, washing her face. She stared at herself in the mirror, water droplets trickling down her chin, and caught in her eyelashes. There were dark circles under her eyes, and a hectic flush to her cheeks, and she knew, almost without a doubt, that she had to be pregnant.

Oh God.

The nausea had passed, but she still felt faintly sick as she stared at herself, reeling. She was never this late. Unless it was the beginnings of an early perimenopause? She grasped at straws as she clutched the edge of the sink, staring into the mirror. It was ridiculous, Hermione told herself. She'd been using the contraceptive charm, and as far as she could tell, she'd been doing it exactly right. And on top of that, most of the time Malfoy had been pulling out anyway. And yet here she was, vomiting and late. And somehow she just knew.

There was a knock at the door. "Granger? I've got your coffee. Where do you want it?"

Oh God. What should she say to Malfoy?

"Hang on." She quickly dried her face and opened the door. "Thank you. I need this desperately." She knew that the advice these days was to not drink coffee while pregnant. Fuck that, she thought rather viciously. She'd stuck to a morning cup each day while pregnant with Rose and Hugo, and they were fine. Besides, maybe she was just late, and had caught a virus. In fact, viruses could do that sometimes, couldn't they? Interfere with your cycle? She smiled at Malfoy – in his pyjama trousers and a t-shirt, unshaven, his eyes silvered and wanting as he took in her mostly naked state. She decided in that second that she wasn't going to say a thing until she knew for sure.

"You do look tired." He smirked, kissing her forehead, his arm sliding around her shoulders. "We probably need earlier nights."

Hermione was dragged out of panic for a moment remembering last night. On all fours, and then on her back, and then draped over him, his cock in her mouth while he ate her out. "Mmph," she said, cheek resting against his chest. "But it was so good."

"Well then we need to start earlier," he said, and kissed her forehead again. "Now go drink your coffee, sleepyhead. I need to shave."

Hermione smiled at him and slipped past, for a moment caught in memories of last night. But as soon as she sat down at the kitchen island, reality slammed home. She sat drinking her coffee, quietly panicking once more. What was she going to do? They were both adults with children who knew what sex could result in, and they'd both been haphazard with contraceptives earlier on, even if they weren't anymore. But the last time it had come up she hadn't been sure if he'd been accepting of the possibility of a child, or implying she'd be able to just have an abortion at St. Mungo's. Maybe after so many losses, he didn't want to risk another.

And what about work? She wanted to go for the Head of Department job when Higgins retired at the end of the year. How was she supposed to do that with a three month old? Oh Merlin. Did she even want a baby? It was hardly the most practical time. And then she thought of a child that was half Malfoy and half her, and her heart squeezed. If she'd been totally opposed, she would've been more careful with contraceptives before Christmas, and she hadn't been. Not totally opposed at all. Just mildly terrified.

Oh God, Ron was going to think it was hilarious, too. He would have a bloody field day. She and Chastity both knocked up at the same time. Shit. How embarrassing.

She drank her coffee and stared blankly at the white kitchen splash-back, her mind in frantic turmoil, tying herself in knots. And then she heard the bang of a door closing, and shook herself free of her haze. First things first – perhaps she was worrying over nothing. She should make sure she was actually pregnant.

She was.

That evening she apparated to Boots on the way home and bought a three pack of pregnancy tests, and while Malfoy was cooking dinner, peed on all three. They all came up with double lines within thirty seconds. Hermione was most definitely pregnant. A terrified, thrilled joy swept over her, and she felt suddenly dizzy. Malfoy would be happy, wouldn't he? Surely he would. And what would she do if he wasn't? The irony of it, that it was when they'd actually started being properly careful with contraceptives that she fell pregnant.

Feeling so overwhelmed with emotion that she was nearly numb, Hermione gathered the tests up, took them all out to the kitchen, and tossed them on the kitchen island with a clatter of plastic. Malfoy laid down his knife and turned from where he was chopping up a courgette, his brows raised.

"What –?" He saw the unfamiliar tests on the bench, and the look on Hermione's face as she stood at the end of the kitchen island with her hands braced on it, and he went very still for a moment, going so ashen he was nearly grey. "Granger. Tell me you're okay," he demanded, full of a sudden, sharp fear. She nodded, a lump in her throat.

"I'm okay," she whispered, emotion making it hard to speak, and he stared at her in bewilderment, worry still etched into his face. And then he looked down at the tests.

"What are these?" He slid one over the bench toward him with a finger, eyeing it suspiciously.

Hermione took a deep breath. "They're Muggle pregnancy tests," she said, feeling light-headed and suddenly as though she wanted to cry. His gaze flicked to hers then, his eyes widening, and she saw him swallow and his fingers twitch on the test. "I'm pregnant," she said in a whisper.

He stared at her, frozen, his eyes wide and his pupils dilated, his lips parted as he sucked in a short, shaky breath. "Don't, Granger," he said hoarsely, still staring at her as though she'd ripped the bottom out of his world. "You can't be."

Her chin wobbled. Panic rippled through her, and tears welled in her eyes. "Tell the fucking tests that then. My period's six days late, I felt nauseated today and yesterday, and three pregnancy tests are telling me that I'm pregnant, Malfoy. I'm pregnant."

There was a second's pause. He swallowed again and looked down at her abdomen, and there was an unmistakable, heart-wrenching longing written all over his face. He wanted the baby. Their baby. "Do – do you want to keep it?" he said, and his voice was so unsteady and tight it was hard to understand, his expression filled with pleading. "Please –" And then he broke off, slamming his lips together, still ashen, his fingers curling almost unconsciously around one of the pregnancy tests as though it were something precious to him.

"Yes," she said, and their eyes met. "Yes."

The test clattered back to the bench top, and suddenly she was in the circle of his arms, tight around her shoulders as he kissed her forehead, and temple, and when she looked up at him, her nose and then lips. Wild, tender little presses as she hooked her arms around his neck. His hands slid under her bum and lifted her to sit on the kitchen island, cupping her face, and his hands were trembling as he kissed her properly on the mouth. Possessive and protective at once, sending shooting sparks of arousal through her as his tongue teased fleetingly over hers, and she whimpered softly as he pulled away.

His eyes were gleaming silver and dark as he stood there between her thighs, his hands sliding to rest at her hips, as though he were framing her abdomen. "You're pregnant," he said quietly, as though still wrapping his head around it, and the deep joy running through the words was enough to make Hermione come undone. Her chin wobbled as she nodded, and then with a hitching little sob, she burst into tears. "Oh shit, Granger, what –" he began, filled with worry, and she shook her head, crying like an idiot, and smearing the tears off her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she gasped. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm crying. I just – I'm happy, but I was so scared you wouldn't be, and I felt so stupid for letting this happen, and – and – I wanted to be Head of Department," she wailed, vaguely aware that it was probably hormones at least partly responsible for this small meltdown.

"Oh Merlin, Granger," he said, sounding vaguely amused as he petted his hands over her hair, and turned her face up to his. Hermione wanted to thump him for that note of amusement, but his expression was soft and sympathetic, as he swept her tears away with gentle swipes of his thumbs. "Trust you to be most upset about work." He smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting, and she thought perhaps she'd never seen him so happy. She sniffed.

"It's not funny, Malfoy. It's my career. My life," she said with emphasis, shoving indignantly at his shoulder and feeling rather like going off into proper sobbing, wailing tears. She was so happy and so bloody frustrated at once. Yes, she wanted to have Malfoy's baby – but her career was finally taking off. She was finally looking at advancement, and now because of this wonderful thing, she would miss out on that. Why couldn't she have both?

"And why can't you be Head?" he said in that uncanny way, as though he'd read her thoughts, although he denied any skill at legilimency. Occlumency only, Granger, he'd said drily. Your thoughts are safe from me, so long as you don't wear them all over your face.

"Because – because I'll be having a baby!" She stared at him, edging toward anger.

"Well, yes, you'll need some time off," he said contemplatively, "but Higgins isn't retiring until the end of the year, right? And the baby will be at least three months old by then."

"So?" She threw her hands in the air, anger rising. "It can hardly look after itself!"

Malfoy looked at her as though she was an idiot, and in retrospect, she was. "No," he said, as though speaking to a child. "But I can."

"…What?" She gaped at him dumbly, incapable of comprehension for some reason. Possibly because when Ron had been left at home with the children when they were under the age of five, he'd called it 'babysitting' and acted as though he was doing her a favour. Oh, he'd done it often and cheerfully enough, whenever she'd asked, but he'd always made it very clear that he was doing something for her, above and beyond what he thought was expected of him. And Hermione had done Malfoy a terrible disservice again, by treating him as though he was anything even vaguely like Ron. She felt immediately, quietly guilty.

"I mean, I did everything but breastfeed when Scorpius was born," Malfoy said lightly, his hands back at her hips, eyes constantly shifting to her belly – oh Merlin, she was going to get so big – and his thumbs sweeping over her abdomen slightly. "And I'm sure we could figure out feeding somehow. Expressing? Or mooncalf milk? And you could floo home every day at lunch."

He looked at her hopefully, and all she could think was: mooncalf milk. She stifled her teary snickers. "But what about your job?"

"I'm a hereditary member of the Wizengamot." He shrugged. "There's no chance of advancement, and no reason I can't go on indefinite parental leave. Once the baby's old enough to go to kindergarten, we can reassess." And then his expression went horribly grim and he turned his face away as if to hide the look on his face, and Hermione knew what he was thinking.

If it lives.

She'd been thinking the same thing herself. Worrying. But not as much as him. Terror was suddenly printed over every inch of him, his hands dropping to the bench top either side of her as he looked away. And then he went to turn away altogether, tension thrumming through him and his jaw clenched, and now it was Hermione's turn to provide reassurance.

She grabbed his wrists and pulled him back. "Come here," she told him, and drew him in, he going with her without resistance. His arms slid around her as he bent to her, his face burying in the crook of her neck. She could feel his breath shuddering against her skin, in unison with the jerky movement of his shoulders as he tried not to cry. They stood that way for a long moment, she rubbing his back with her right hand, her left soothing through his hair as he slowly calmed, and then finally he spoke.

"What if it dies?"

She gulped. It was hard to hear, put so bluntly, and she wondered again how he had survived it happening four times, and still been capable of happiness. She didn't wonder why Astoria was such a mess. Hermione would be broken too, she thought. "Then we face that together," she said, her voice strangled, and his fingers flexed against her back, his breath catching and face still buried against her neck. "But I plan on Muggle healthcare this time." He straightened and looked at her, curious. His eyes were wet and red around.

"And not the NHS, either, she said with a laugh, although he wouldn't understand that. "Private healthcare, with all the tests, and maybe an obstetrician. You're paying. And it's not cheap."

"What will that do?" he asked hoarsely, wiping at his eyes.

"Well, I didn't have it done with Rose and Hugo, but one of my cousins recently had a baby, and they have all sorts of testing these days." She smiled at Malfoy reassuringly, grabbing his right hand in her left, and holding tightly. "There's genetic testing fairly early on, so they can see if there are certain genetic conditions. They can't fix those, but at least then you know, and you can abort very early on if you want, rather than waiting, and…"

"Oh," he said, and nodded, grief and worry rolling off him in tangible waves. "Okay. What else?"

"Ultrasounds. Which is where they take video of the baby while it's still a developing fetus, and they can make sure it's all actually developing right."

He looked thoughtful. "So, is it the same as genetic testing? If it's not working out, you just end the pregnancy early?"

"Well, yes, usually – but these days sometimes they can do surgery on the fetus while it's still in the mother, with certain issues at least." She remembered a video she'd seen of that online. It was incredible what Muggles were capable of now – outstripping magic in many ways.

"They what? " He sounded horrified and amazed at once and she explained further, as he listened while he tried to prepare their dinner, distracted and using magic more than usual. "You need to eat," he'd said, as soon as he'd pulled himself together enough to think mostly straight again, although he was still clearly shaken and trying to wrap his head around the enormity of the revelation. "Tell me about it while I cook."

They spent the evening googling everything pregnancy related, and Hermione compiled a list of private obstetricians to call in the morning. Malfoy had insisted on her going for the most expensive possible, although Hermione was sure it wasn't necessary, and the amount it would likely end up costing them made her choke on her cup of chamomile tea. Cost is no object. We have the money, Malfoy had said. And nothing is more important than this.