69.

They told Ron the day after they told Malfoy's parents – or rather, Hermione told Ron. She called him to break the news, and he took it fantastically. In fact, he laughed for a good two minutes. Apparently Hermione being knocked up was utterly hilarious to her ex-husband, and she supposed she couldn't blame him for finding it amusing. There was a certain irony to it. Part – a very small part in retrospect – of what had driven her and Ron apart, had been her unwillingness to have more children. And now here she was with Malfoy for all of five minutes, and already expecting.

But it was different.

Malfoy didn't want her to give up her whole life and self for this baby – no, he was going to do all the heavy-lifting, once the baby was here, at least. Ron would never have. He had wanted more children, but he hadn't wanted to be the main caregiver; no, he'd wanted Hermione to shoulder that burden alone. Malfoy would never expect that.

Merlin, she loved him.

He didn't tell Astoria about the pregnancy, and Hermione couldn't blame him. To tell the witch that would feel like rubbing their happiness in her face. Cruel, and unnecessary. No, in her case it was probably better if she found out via rumour, or the press. Hermione worried slightly that she might turn up at the office in a rage when she did find out, but they couldn't do much about that.

And once Malfoy's parents and Ron had been informed, they didn't mind if the press got wind of the pregnancy. Hermione relaxed and happily stopped wearing such figure-hiding robes and coats when out in public, or outside of the privacy of her office, which was a relief because the weather was getting warmer. Summer was creeping ever closer.

Before long, news of her pregnancy was emblazoned across the pages of Witch Weekly and The Daily Prophet, with lurid, mostly unflattering headlines, which for some reason Hermione's father found very humorous. At his request she sent him the papers in gleefully received bundles every few weeks, and she began to suspect he was making a scrapbook. Merlin only knew why.

MUGGLE-BORN WAR HEROINE CARRYING DEATH EATER BABY, and, MALFOY BLOODLINE NOT SO PURE ANY MORE? were the most recent headlines from The Daily Prophet, but Hermione and Malfoy were able to roll their eyes at all but a few. They received several irritated owls from the Malfoys, distraught by the way their name was being brought into disrepute, and Malfoy told them to sue if they were so inclined. They decided not to in the end; a wise idea.

Hermione explained the Barbara Streisand effect to Malfoy.

"Encourage your parents to just let it just blow over," Hermione said as Malfoy gave her a foot massage on their couch, his skilful hands reducing her to a puddle. "Something more juicy will eclipse it in the news eventually."

Unfortunately, pictures of Hermione's growing bump continued to feed the news and the gossip columns – War Heroine's Fall From Grace: Pregnant and Divorced! – being one such column byline. Not being from the wizarding world, Hermione mostly just found it amusing now that it had become clear the children weren't being teased for it. Any little incidents of nastiness were being swiftly dealt with by themselves, their horde of cousins, or Professor McGonagall.

And aside from the press constantly trying to stir up drama, and occasionally trying to finagle an interview they weren't going to get, their lives settled into a happy routine. Hermione's pregnancy went smoothly, and so did everything else for a blissful change of pace.

They went to The Veela's Folly for Malfoy's birthday, and Hermione gave him novelty pyjamas. Seven pairs, each one different. There were mooncalves, diricawls, unicorns, fwoopers, jackalopes, hinkypunks, and nifflers, and all the clothes had charms on them that animated the creatures in an admittedly rather distracting way.

"It should wear off in a few months," Hermione said, her voice strangled with mortification as she and Malfoy watched two unicorns copulate vigorously. The charm was a little too realistic.

"And in the meantime, I'll just walk around with fucking unicorns on me?" he asked. "Literally. Quite literally." He laughed so much he wheezed.

"Well, you're only wearing them at home. Perhaps don't wear those ones if the charm is still active during the summer holidays," Hermione added, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, thinking of the children's reactions to Malfoy in unicorn sex pyjamas. Horrifying. They'd be so mortified.

"Mm, probably best not to," he agreed drily, and then snickered. "Thank you for my present. Although I feel like it's just as much for your enjoyment."

Hermione smiled contentedly. "Maybe a little."

She had other presents for Malfoy too; a few other novelty accessories like socks, and a Waterman Hémisphère Rollerball Pen that was luxurious, beautiful, and criminally expensive – and that she hoped would stop him from constantly stealing her cheaper Muggle ballpoint pens. He was fascinated by them and kept thieving them off to work. The last time Hermione had been by his office he'd had a bouquet of stolen pens on his desk, half of which he'd returned with what seemed to be genuine reluctance.

She'd also splashed out on a handheld Doppler ultrasound machine that had cost nearly £200, and which had made Malfoy ecstatic – both at the prospect of figuring out a new Muggle gadget, and at the ability to listen to their baby's heartbeat any time that she let him. The testing and ultrasounds had helped ease his fear, but he was still nervous and constantly asking about the baby's movements – still unable to feel it just yet – and she suspected he would be nervy until the baby was there in their arms. But maybe listening to the heartbeat would be reassuring.

Hermione had a feeling that she was going to wake up in the middle of the night to Malfoy moving it over her gel-covered belly, eavesdropping on their baby. The thought made her smile.

And then later that night they had sex that involved one of her rather naughty fantasies. One of those things she would never actually want to happen in real life, but that was incredibly fun when she and Malfoy thoroughly bought into it. It was a good birthday, he told her later as he curled her boneless, satiated body close into his, kissing along her hairline, his hand rubbing up and down her back. The best, he added, as he tenderly drew the sheet up over her, and there was a blissful contentment in his voice. Hermione fell asleep happy, knowing that he was too.

It was the peak of summer when he first felt the baby.

It was a scorching Sunday afternoon during the holidays, the children were all off at the Burrow for the weekend, and they'd been discussing names. Hermione rather liked the challenge of trying to stay within the Black tradition, while still picking a name she liked. Cygnus, Cassiopeia, Lyra, and Ursa were all off the list, of course. Several weeks ago, she'd suggested that Malfoy erect named headstones for each of the children he'd lost, and once he'd composed himself, ashen and grim, his eyes wet, he'd embraced the idea. Hermione was glad. It felt necessary to acknowledge them properly.

That left them with Ara, Carina, Delphini, Norma, or Vela. Maybe Phoenix, but Hermione wasn't sure, for a girl. And on the odd chance the ultrasound had somehow been wrong, and the baby a boy, she liked Caelum, Leo, Orion, and again, Phoenix, she supposed. Malfoy didn't seem to mind too much what the baby was named out of those, happy to let Hermione choose – but she couldn't make up her mind.

"Maybe I'll know what her name is when I see her," she said to Malfoy, as they lay sprawled on the cool wood of the foyer floor.

He'd been bemused to find her lying there when he'd walked past. I thought you were in the kitchen, he'd said, and she'd beamed up at him, shaking her head. I am not in the kitchen, she had told him. It's cooler down here. The heatwave this summer was vicious, and even with a light Cooling Charm cast – it wasn't good to interfere with the body's internal heat regulation too much during pregnancy – she was roasting.

Her hair was twisted into a messy top knot on her head, bits escaping and sticking to her sweaty forehead, and she wore a cotton dress that was so thin it was see-through in the light; she'd change when it was time to collect the children. Malfoy – in thin pyjama trousers and a vest – had stretched out beside her. He'd fixed his mouth over the breast closest to him – her right – enclosing her nipple in his hot, wet mouth and suckling gently. She'd whimpered and moaned, and curled her fingers in his hair, pulling his head up. Too warm, she'd told him, and then sighed, disappointed.

Later I'll suck on an ice cube first, and then do this again, he'd said, blowing on the wet cloth, her nipple dark beneath the translucence, and she'd made an extremely interested noise.

And then they'd sprawled there, she on her back and he on his side, his fingers trailing over the mound of her bump as they talked, lazy and relaxed, and the baby had decided to do somersaults, as if she knew they were talking about her.

"She's so active," Hermione said, and then grunted as the baby crashed into something inside her. "Oof. God, very active. Here, give me your hand." She took charge of his hand, shifting it flat and firm around the curve of her bump, down and to the right, where the baby – Norma? Delphini? – was currently trying to chest-burster out. "Here." She pushed his hand in hard enough that he tried instinctively to pull back, sure it was too much pressure.

"Careful, you'll – oh fuck –" He broke off, eyes widening and lips parting. Hermione felt from the inside the baby twist and do something vigorous – she imagined pirouettes and elegant somersaults, a smile curving her lips as she watched Malfoy. Flushed from the heat, his hair shoved back and his jaw unshaven, his eyes molten steel and wonder, filled with awe. Love swelled in her chest as she watched him feeling their baby for the first time. "I can feel it," he said softly. "Her."

He looked up at her, eyes shining. "That's amazing." He kept his hand there until the baby settled back down, movements no longer discernible from the outside, and then he pushed himself up to his hands and knees.

"Where are you going?" she asked, looking up at him and weakly flailing a grasping hand in his direction – this weather left her feeling like a walrus. All she needed to do was start groaning, and flop around a little, and she'd be the picture of one. And she wasn't quite seven months yet, even. She was sure it had been easier with Rose and Hugo. She supposed she had been over a decade younger then.

"I'm getting the Doppler," he said, with a little flash of a wry grin. "Do you want a drink when I come back?"

"Ooh, do we still have ginger beer?" The idea of drinking icy cold ginger beer through a straw while flopped on the foyer floor was wonderful.

"I'll have a look," he said, and then eyed Hermione. "I think I'm going to put a paddling pool in the back garden," he said contemplatively, as though he could see the resemblance to a walrus as well, and her eyes lit up.

"Oh Merlin, yes. Transfigure me one now? Please? The ginger beer can wait." She smiled sweetly up at him.

Malfoy grumbled something about how he'd bet a galleon the Doppler machine wasn't waterproof, but he nodded and sloped off in the direction of the back garden, with a sigh of resignation.

"Ms Granger," the Minister for Magic said, smiling warmly at Hermione as she crossed his office at a waddle; she was quickly approaching eight months and she felt rather like a small sailing ship. A dirigible. A mobile mountain. She'd been reduced to maternity wear for the most part, and today she wore an empire waisted yellow dress that Malfoy said made her look radiant, and she thought made her look like the fucking sun. Enormous and far too hot – the late summer weather was melting her.

"Minister Shacklebolt," she greeted him equally warmly, sinking into the available chair and peeling escaped locks of hair back off her face – stuck there by sweat and humidity.

"How are you feeling, Hermione?" he asked sympathetically, taking her in.

"Don't get me started, Kingsley," she said wryly, matching his more casual form of address. They didn't catch up a lot outside of work events now, but they had been part of the Order together, and both worked at the Ministry for nearly a decade, and she considered him a friend, if not a close one. "I could complain for hours. But ultimately, I'm well, and the baby is healthy, and that's what matters the most."

They exchanged small talk for a few minutes more, before Kingsley finally arrived on the reason he'd called her into his office in the first place.

"I saw you put in an application for maternity leave."

"I did. Is there an issue?" she looked at him worriedly and with a ripple of irritation, poised to jump down his throat for any unfairness.

She'd brushed up on her knowledge of employment law over the past weeks, and was well-armed with her rights, which surprisingly weren't too bad. The expectation was usually that upon having children a witch would end her career until the children were old enough to go to Hogwarts. Hermione supposed that was why most witches seemed to have children very young – with the advanced ages that witches and wizards generally lived to, it was easier for a witch to have her children in her early twenties and begin her career in her mid-thirties. Which of course, gave witches a massive disadvantage compared to wizards. The sexism of that had always irritated Hermione to no end. Although it did tend to level off by the time a person hit their seventies.

Despite those expectations however, the actual paid maternity leave was fairly generous. Hermione had requested leave two weeks ahead of her due date and for three months after the birth, and three months of paid leave was provided, with another three months of leave at half-pay available, and then six months of unpaid leave after that, for a year in total. She didn't want longer than the three months though; she imagined that by then she'd be clawing at the walls to get back to work, even if she would miss the baby while she was there.

"No issue; not at all," Kingsley said reassuringly. He smiled, dark eyes twinkling. "I'm just checking what your arrangements are, to make sure you'll be available to take over from Higgins as Head of Magical Law Advocacy and Interrogation, come the start of 2021."

Hermione's heart stopped and her stomach lurched, and she pressed her hand to her chest in shock, as her heart resumed by trying to beat itself right out of her chest. "I got the position?" she squeaked breathlessly, joy sweeping up. Kingsley's smile broadened to a grin.

"You got the position," he affirmed, seeming happy to deliver such good news. "In honesty, you were the best candidate by far, and you should have taken over several years ago, except Higgins was reluctant to retire." He grimaced. "You know how it is."

"I do," Hermione said sympathetically. Even being Minister for Magic, there were still certain traditions that Kingsley had to adhere to, and he hadn't been able to force Higgins to resign when the wizard hadn't done anything outright against the code of conduct. "Thank you so much, Kingsley. This is the best news that I've had in weeks."

They chatted a while longer – "And will you be having a nanny?" Kingsley asked, and Hermione laughed and shook her head. "No, Malfoy will be taking a long sabbatical until the baby's old enough to go to kindergarten, at least." – And discussed Hermione's plans for the department, her ambitions – "I'd love to be Head of MLE one day" – and the date she'd officially take over, at the beginning of January, when the Ministry spun back up to full speed after the holiday lull.

"Oh!" she said, suddenly remembering, as she levered herself up out of her seat to leave. "I will of course be allowed to bring my secretary with me, won't I?"

Kingsley frowned. "Mariska Liburd, is that correct?"

"Yes. She's been a fantastic secretary, and while I don't want to push out Higgins's secretary, I couldn't be without Mariska. She's a godsend."

Kingsley jotted down a few notes and nodded. "Of course. That can be arranged. I can organise an equivalent position for Higgins's secretary."

Hermione all but floated back to her office, the weight of her bump and the summer heat forgotten, a heady delight swirling through her. She had hoped she'd get the position – she'd been fairly well lined up to get it once Higgins had retired, but she'd been worried that pregnancy would throw a spanner in the works. It hadn't. She had the position. She was going to be the new Head of MLAI. She squealed inwardly and repeatedly, and grinned so widely at a nervous looking intern that she thought she might have frightened him.

She all but bounced into her outer office, beaming at Mariska, who looked up from her delicate leafing through a new copy of Witch Weekly, as perfectly put together as always despite the summer heat. Somehow her secretary took it in her stride; utterly unbothered, her make-up as flawless as always and her clothes unwrinkled and pristine.

"Ms Granger," Mariska greeted her – she'd called Hermione by her first name for a week or so before she'd slid into 'Ms Granger', apparently unable to manage the level of informality needed to keep calling her 'Hermione'. "You look happy. What did the Minister want?"

"I got the position!" Hermione was unable to hold it in, or break it to Mariska in anything other than a breathless exclamation. "I got it! You're looking at the new Head of MLAI, come New Year's!"

Mariska didn't look hugely surprised, but she did look pleased for Hermione. "Congratulations! Although I knew you'd get it. Who else were they going to give the position to?"

They both thought of the other candidates, and Mariska laughed while Hermione tried to hold hers in. No; no one else was really suitable for the position, not when compared to her level of enthusiasm and passion. The handful of other interrogators and advocates were phoning it in – they had no interest in improving the department the way Hermione did.

"Well, I hope you're ready to become secretary to the Head, because I'm bringing you along with me."

"Good," Mariska said, unruffled, although she looked a little lighter upon hearing that news. "As you should. I know too many secrets to be set loose into the secretarial pool." She grinned at Hermione. "Besides, I don't think anyone else would be able to cope with your insane level of filing organisation."

"No, probably not," Hermione said ruefully.

"I have some interesting news myself," Mariska said, turning the Witch Weekly around and sliding it sharply across the desk. Oh no. But when Hermione bent down to look at it, she saw a half page photograph of Astoria, looking glamorous and happy on the arm of a very tall, handsome man who looked to be in his early 30's. Astoria Malfoy (née Greengrass) with her new fiancé Alexei Belov, the caption beneath.

"Oh my God, she's engaged?"

"She appears to be," Mariska said, spinning the magazine back around, and quoting the article. "Ms Malfoy, who split from her husband of seventeen years last winter, has been seen often in the company of the recently retired Keeper of the Bulgarian National Quidditch team, Alexei Belov, and from the ring on her finger, it appears Alexei has been keen to snare the beautiful socialite. Witch Weekly is pleased to be the first to congratulate the couple on their impending nuptials."

"Wow." Hermione ran her eyes back over the photograph. Astoria looked impossibly elegant drenched in some gold thing that was covered in elaborate beading and crystals, and she was smiling up at her fiancé with happiness in her uptilted eyes. For his part, the giant of a man looked pleased as punch.

"He's dreamy, isn't he?" Mariska said, and sighed, resting her chin on her hand. "That hair. And those blue eyes, oh Merlin, they're piercing." Hermione was not blind; Alexei was indeed a fine specimen of a wizard, with a lovely, olive complexion, a mane of black hair that came to his shoulders, and very blue eyes. He suited Astoria. "Maybe I should try to steal this one from her," Mariska said wickedly, and Hermione made an indignant sound, glaring at her secretary.

"I didn't steal Malfoy," she protested. "He all but threw himself at me."

Mariska giggled, perhaps at the imagery of Malfoy flinging himself at Hermione like some infatuated maiden. "That hussy," the witch teased. "And you didn't stand a chance in the face of his charms."

Hermione smiled. "I really didn't," she admitted wryly. She'd been doomed from the first time he'd kissed the backs of her fingers in greeting at Platform 9's, and said her name with that honey dark tone to his voice. She pressed her fingers over her lips as she smiled, remembering.

Mariska laughed, startling Hermione out of memories. "Go moon over Mr Malfoy in your office," the secretary said, amusement in her voice, and Hermione flushed.

"Do you mind if I borrow the Witch Weekly when you're done with it?" Hermione asked, thinking that perhaps Malfoy might like to see. As far as she knew, he didn't know about the engagement, and she didn't imagine he would hide that from her. "I'll bring it back in tomorrow," she added, aware that Mariska would want to add it to the stacks of magazines collected beneath her desk.

"Go for it. I'll leave it on my desk when I head home for the day."

Hermione flooed home late – 6 pm, although it was still rather too warm, and light outside – to Malfoy already in the kitchen, and an enormous bouquet on the kitchen island, which was a riot of colour in its vase.

"Granger," he greeted her, bent over and grabbing something from the bottom of the fridge, and she waddled swiftly across the room and swatted him on the bum with the Witch Weekly. He straightened up abruptly – a bottle of ginger beer in hand – and nearly smacked his head on the freezer door, and she couldn't help snickering at the disgusted look on his face, even as she made an apologetic sound.

"I'm sorry – are you oka–" He kissed the words from her lips, and she whimpered; his arm slid around her waist, the fridge door still open with the delicious cold swirling round their legs, and his tongue curling hot and sweet in her mouth. He tasted like actual beer.

"Mmph," she said enthusiastically, looping her arms around his neck and going up on tiptoes, the magazine still clutched in one hand. A long, sumptuous moment passed, her heart racing and her body sliding into arousal even as her legs were wonderfully chilled. "You got me flowers," she said breathlessly when he released her, feeling lightheaded and happy. "Did you hear the news then?"

"News?" He sounded curious as he passed her the ice cold bottle of ginger beer. "No, the flowers are just because you deserve flowers on a regular basis." Hermione smiled. The brown glass of her bottle was wet with condensation, and she pressed it first to one cheek, then the other. She dropped the Witch Weekly to the kitchen island.

"So you don't know?"

"Know what, Granger?" He narrowed his eyes on her even as he swiped up a bottle of Dragon Scale off the bench, and sipped at it. She set her ginger beer down and turned her attention to the bouquet first.

"I'll tell you in a minute. First I want to appreciate my absolutely magnificent 'for no reason' flowers." She shot him a smile. It was a chaos of colour and shape – she recognised the honeysuckle dripping down the vase, and the tall, brightly coloured hollyhocks thrusting up, and of course the gillyflower. She shoved her face almost into it, and huffed a deep breath in through her nose, desperately glad she didn't suffer hayfever.

She smelt the sweet, honey-drenched scent of the honeysuckle, a spicy sweetness almost like cloves from the gillyflower – what gillywater was infused with, rather than the gillyweed people often assumed – and notes of cherry, almond, and vanilla.

"Oh Merlin, these smell good enough to eat," Hermione breathed, as she picked up the little label card that came with the flower.

"Now I'm hungry." She frowned in thought as she read the label. Gillyflower, hollyhock, heliotrope, and monthly honeysuckle. "For cheesecake," she said contemplatively. "Berry cheesecake."

"Huh. And do you want me to make you that, or buy you it?"

"Oh my God, you'd make me a berry cheesecake?" She stared at him, starry-eyed and agape, she was sure.

"With the help of a little magic." He waggled his fingers and slouched back against the bench with his beer in his other hand, smiling faintly. "I have all kinds of skills, Granger. Girls only want boyfriends who have –"

"Don't quote Napoleon Dynamite at me," Hermione cut in, laughing. She regretted introducing him to Muggle media sometimes. "And you don't really have to make me a berry cheesecake."

Malfoy shrugged equanimously. "Why not."

Merlin, he was perfect. Hermione looked at the flower label, wondering where her flower language book was, and then he leaned forward and pointed silently, beer bottle to his lips, and she saw the book there, near the bouquet. "Oh." She laughed. "You've thought of everything." It was lovely, because she didn't exactly feel like going off on a hunt for the slim, blue bound book.

"I aim to please."

"And you succeed." She smiled, cracking the book open and flipping through, pursing her lips in concentration. Gillyflower was beauty, unfading, which Hermione appreciated, heliotrope was devotion, which made her feel all gooey, and hollyhock – "Fecundity?" she burst out aloud, and Malfoy snickered, and gestured toward her belly.

"Well, I'm not wrong. You're the picture of fecundity right now."

"You're such a git," she protested, but she was grinning as she flipped a few pages and scanned down to find the last one.

Monthly honeysuckle – domestic happiness.

Oh. Oh, that was lovely. Hermione sniffled, feeling teary suddenly, and stupid for it. It seemed that everything sweet or sad made her watery-eyed these days. "That's so nice, Malfoy," she said, blinking hard, and he made a soft sound of amused dismay as he saw the tears shining in her eyes, setting down his beer and taking her into his arms. She nestled against him, still sniffling a little.

"You're so weepy, Granger," he said fondly, and kissed the top of her head. "I could brew so much Essence of Dittany, using you as a salt water tap."

"Shut up," she grumbled, poking him in the side and making him jerk amusingly, trying to get away. A small – careful – scuffle ensued. "Anyway," she said after she'd thanked him properly for the flowers and they'd composed themselves, her sitting up at the kitchen island with her ginger beer and him standing catty-corner to her, leaning his elbows on the surface, "I have news."

"I'm all ears."

"Kingsley told me today that it's official – I'm going to be Head of MLAI come the start of 2021!" Her voice went up excitedly toward the end, and she was beaming ear to ear again, all but kicking her feet with joy as she told him.

Malfoy's happiness matched her own – pride and pleasure spreading over his face, even as he said: "They'd be fucking idiots to pick anyone else, Granger, when you're an option." As though he thought she was amazing. "Congratulations," he said with simple sincerity and then leaned in across the corner of the kitchen island to kiss her, chaste and congratulatory, his lower lip damp with beer.

Hermione felt a little like crying again, and once more she thought fleetingly of Ron. He would never have been so happy for her. Never. But Malfoy was. He gave her a quick grin, his eyes crinkling up. "Well," he said, eyeing her, full of contained happiness as he straightened. "I suppose that berry cheesecake can be a celebratory one."

"Excellent idea," she agreed, and then sat there swinging her feet and drinking ginger beer, both of them chatting idly about their respective days as she watched him work.