Once again, they found themselves en route to a baby shower at Nott Manor, a sprawling estate that seemed timeless in its grandeur. The manor held a peculiar place in their hearts, brimming with memories both fond and bittersweet.
The summer sun bathed Nott Manor in a golden glow, its warmth spilling over the sprawling estate like a celestial blessing. The usual air of quiet, aristocratic dignity had been cast aside in favor of something grander, something more magnificent, something fit for a child destined to be worshiped. From the moment guests arrived, they were met with a spectacle so breathtaking, so utterly unapologetic in its decadence, that even the most seasoned of high society stood in stunned silence.
The cobblestone path leading to the manor had been transformed into a floral promenade, lined with towering archways woven from enchanted wisteria and trailing ivy. Roses in every shade of pink imaginable climbed the entrance columns, their petals shimmering under enchantments that made them bloom in elegant slow motion, as if bowing to those who passed beneath them. Gold-trimmed parasols floated lazily in the air, providing soft, dappled shade over seating areas where the finest silk cushions had been arranged for guests to lounge in absolute comfort.
The gardens—already legendary in their beauty—had been utterly reborn. Theo had ensured that nature itself bent to his will for this day, and it had obeyed spectacularly. The usually pristine hedges were now adorned with cascades of pastel-colored orchids and peonies, their fragrance thick in the warm air. Trees bore delicate fairy lanterns that bobbed playfully between the leaves, their glow reminiscent of fireflies trapped in an eternal midsummer's dream. The fountains had been charmed to bubble with pink-tinted water, the scent of fresh strawberries rising with the mist. Even the breeze seemed to dance differently here, carrying the scent of vanilla and honey, mingling with the golden champagne being poured into crystal goblets as if the very wind itself wished to partake in the celebration.
And then there was the pavilion—the heart of the spectacle, the crown jewel of the afternoon.
A grand, open-air structure had been erected at the center of the estate, draped in silks so soft they billowed like clouds with every passing breeze. Chandeliers of intertwined vines and enchanted crystal hung above the extravagant dining tables, which were adorned with gold-rimmed china and delicate lace runners, each embroidered with Seline's name. The chairs—hand-carved and dusted with the faintest shimmer of magic—were each tied with silk bows, a soft nod to the femininity Theo had so ruthlessly embraced for his daughter.
The food was a banquet of the gods. Delicate tea sandwiches filled with the finest cucumber and lavender cream, scones with rose-infused butter, honey-drizzled pastries shaped like blooming flowers, fresh summer berries topped with spun sugar, and an endless cascade of desserts designed with such precision that they looked like miniature pieces of edible art. Towers of éclairs, macarons in every pastel shade imaginable, cakes so intricately designed they belonged in a gallery rather than on a plate. And at the center of it all, the pièce de résistance—a towering cake adorned with handcrafted sugar roses, its layers infused with flavors that tasted like summer itself.
No, this was not a simple baby shower. This was a coronation. This was Theo Nott, staking his claim to the universe on behalf of the most precious thing he had ever been given. This was a father telling the world that his daughter, his Seline, was a force to be reckoned with before she had even drawn her first breath.
Hermione paused at the entrance, her breath catching somewhere between admiration and disbelief. The sheer extravagance of it all was enough to render even her speechless. "They've truly outdone themselves this time," she murmured, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.
Beside her, Draco stood with his usual air of effortless composure, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his bespoke slate-gray robes. His sharp, discerning gaze swept over the spectacle before them, taking in every detail with an amused sort of detachment. "Theo always had a flair for the dramatic," he said dryly, the corners of his mouth twitching with reluctant humor. "But now that it's for his daughter? Well, he's spared no expense. A little girl gives him the perfect excuse to go completely overboard."
Hermione chuckled softly, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders, though the evening warmth hardly required it. "And Luna let him. She's as ethereal as ever, but with that quiet, knowing smile of hers. I wouldn't be surprised if half of this spectacle was her idea just to watch him lose his mind over every detail."
Together, they stepped through the archway into the wonderland that had been conjured for Seline Nott's baby shower.
"Champagne?" A familiar voice chimed smoothly from behind them.
As they stepped inside, The transformation of the manor was nothing short of a spectacle, an opulent dream brought to life with an extravagance that bordered on divine. What had once been a sanctuary of dark woods, rich velvets, and centuries-old grandeur had been utterly reinvented, softened by an overwhelming cascade of pastels that bathed every inch of space in an ethereal glow. The walls, typically adorned with heavy tapestries and brooding oil paintings, were now draped in gossamer silks that fluttered with the faintest movement of air, shimmering like the inside of a pearl. The towering ceilings, usually a statement of quiet power, were transformed into a sky of floating enchantments—silken streamers of blush and ivory cascaded down like ribbons of light, intertwined with delicate crystal charms that caught the glow of the enchanted chandeliers and fractured it into soft rainbows that danced across the walls and floors.
The scent of fresh blooms infused the very air, a heady mixture of peonies, roses, and baby's breath, carefully arranged in golden vases that lined every surface. Yet it wasn't just the florals that carried the fragrance of celebration—notes of lavender, vanilla, and sugared citrus mingled with the air, woven together with the decadent aroma of honey-drizzled pastries and caramelized confections, a sweet perfume of indulgence that could make even the most reserved guest feel light-headed with pleasure.
The grand foyer, a space that once knew only the echo of deliberate footsteps and the hush of whispered conversations, had been utterly transformed into something alive, something breathing. The usual quiet dignity had been replaced with warmth, laughter, and an air of giddy anticipation. The long, polished floors now shimmered beneath an intricate charm that reflected the soft hues of the floating décor, creating an illusion as if guests were walking on a bed of mist-kissed petals.
The crowd that gathered was composed of familiar faces, a collection of those whose histories were deeply intertwined—friends, allies, and those who had fought, bled, and rebuilt together. Yet, here, in this moment, there were no battles to fight, no scars to tend to. Just celebration. Their usual sharp wit and carefully measured words melted into easy conversation and laughter that filled the space like music.
House-elves, dressed in immaculate robes of the softest ivory and adorned with tiny enchanted gold brooches in the shape of delicate crowns—a tribute to the true guest of honor—moved soundlessly through the throng. They carried silver trays that seemed to float just above their fingertips, laden with exquisitely crafted hors d'oeuvres, each a tiny masterpiece of flavor and design. Chilled goblets of honeyed wine and summer fruit nectars sparkled under the light, their surfaces kissed with tiny golden flecks that shimmered like trapped sunlight.
"Champagne?" A familiar voice chimed smoothly from behind them.
Blaise Zabini, ever the picture of refinement, appeared as if summoned from thin air, dressed impeccably in deep navy robes with gold embroidery, looking as though he had stepped straight out of an exclusive wizarding fashion magazine. In each hand, he balanced an elegant crystal flute of champagne, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief. "Or perhaps you'd prefer the rose-petal punch? I hear it's positively sinful."
Hermione arched an eyebrow, smirking as she shook her head. "None for me, but thank you, Blaise. Though I'd wager you've already had your fair share."
Blaise placed a hand on his chest in mock offense. "I am a guest , Granger. A picture of restraint." He smoothly passed a glass to Draco, his expression turning wicked. "Besides, you're going to need this. Theo's been waxing poetic for the better part of an hour about the 'transformative beauty of fatherhood.' You might want to fortify yourself."
Draco snorted, raising the glass in a mock toast. "To Theo's dramatic reinvention, then."
They moved deeper into the heart of the celebration, past elegantly set tables where enchanted floral arrangements hummed with soft magic, twirling lazily in the air. Everywhere they looked, there was a touch of something grand, something that spoke of endless devotion. The nursery was the centerpiece of it all, and the moment they stepped inside, the entire room seemed to exhale a sigh of serenity.
It was nothing short of a celestial dream—moonlight and stardust woven into the very fabric of the space. Delicate silver constellations adorned the pale lilac walls, shifting and twinkling as if they were part of the real sky. Soft fairy lights looped around sheer curtains, their glow mimicking the phases of the moon. A plush silver rug stretched beneath their feet, as weightless as a cloud, muffling their steps.
At the very center of the room stood the crib—a masterpiece carved from pale ashwood, its intricate designs inlaid with mother-of-pearl, depicting phoenixes rising among the stars. Within, nestled in a cocoon of blush-pink silk, was the heart of it all: Seline Nott.
The baby was breathtakingly delicate, her features so impossibly perfect they seemed crafted by magic itself. Wisps of silvery-blonde hair curled against her tiny forehead, her lashes dark against petal-soft skin as she slumbered, utterly oblivious to the adoration surrounding her. She was the very image of something ethereal, something dreamt into existence rather than simply born.
Hermione drew in a quiet breath, the sheer innocence of the moment washing over her. "She's perfect," she whispered, leaning slightly forward, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the magic that had settled over the space.
Draco tilted his head, his gaze lingering on the infant with an unreadable expression. "Perfect and aptly named," he murmured, his voice softer than usual. "Seline—the goddess of the moon. Fitting, really." He smirked faintly. "Theo must be over the moon."
Luna, seated nearby with her ever-present air of tranquility, smiled with knowing warmth. "He's completely smitten," she admitted, her voice a gentle hum of amusement. "He's already planning her first stargazing trip. I told him she can't even hold her head up yet, but he insists it's never too early."
A sharp click of heels against polished wood announced the arrival of Pansy Parkinson, who swept into the nursery with a dramatic flair that was equal parts feigned exasperation and genuine affection. At five months pregnant herself, she still carried herself with the effortless poise of a queen, her emerald-green silk dress hugging her figure in a way that was both sophisticated and unmistakably deliberate.
"This little one is going to be spoiled beyond measure," Pansy declared, leaning over the crib, her dark eyes alight with something almost reverent. She extended a manicured finger, allowing Seline's impossibly small hand to curl around it. For a moment, her usual sharp wit faltered, replaced by something achingly tender. "She's magic," she murmured, almost to herself. "Truly magic."
Draco, standing just beside her, caught the flicker of longing in her gaze. He didn't say anything—he didn't have to. Instead, he reached out, brushing his fingers lightly over her forearm in a silent exchange of understanding.
Around them, the nursery filled with soft conversation and warm laughter. Blaise recounted Theo's tragic misadventures with changing nappies, dramatizing every detail to the point where even Luna had to wipe away a tear of mirth. Ginny teased about how the once-imposing wizard had become an utter sap, checking in on his daughter every five minutes, as if she might vanish into thin air if he wasn't watching.
Draco and Hermione drifted slightly apart from the others, coming to stand near the window where golden evening light poured in, casting a soft glow over everything. They watched as their friends cooed over Seline, the sound of laughter weaving through the air like a gentle melody.
"She makes you think, doesn't she?" Draco murmured, his voice contemplative, as though he were lost somewhere between past and future.
Hermione turned to him, her gaze searching. "About what?"
"The future," he said simply. "How even after everything we've been through, there's still this. Still hope. Still beauty."
Her expression softened, and without thinking, she reached for his hand, her fingers threading through his. "It's moments like these that remind us what we're fighting for," she said quietly.
He exhaled, his thumb brushing absently over her knuckles, grounding himself in the warmth of her touch. "It's easy to forget, sometimes," he admitted.
She smiled at him, gentle but knowing. "Then we just have to remind each other."
They stood there for a moment longer, the weight of the past momentarily lifting, giving way to something lighter. Something unspoken, yet understood.
The living room of Nott Manor was a world unto itself—a warm, golden cocoon where time stretched and softened, where the weight of the outside world dissipated into the flickering glow of firelight. Shadows waltzed along the polished wood floors, elongated by the soft candlelight that flickered atop the antique sconces. The walls, lined with shelves of well-worn books, seemed to hum with the quiet history of stories shared and memories made. Thick emerald curtains framed the towering windows, keeping the winter's chill at bay, their rich fabric a striking contrast to the gentle warmth within. Beyond the glass, the wind howled through the trees, but inside, there was only peace—a sanctuary wrapped in the quiet symphony of crackling flames, the soft clink of porcelain against saucers, and the occasional murmur of laughter drifting through the air like a spell woven into the very foundation of the house.
The scent of mulled wine and cinnamon curled through the room, mingling with the honeyed sweetness of steeping chamomile and the faint trace of lavender from the bundles Luna had tied above the hearth. It was the scent of home, of safety, of the life they had built, rich with magic in ways both seen and unseen. House-elves moved gracefully through the space, ensuring every cup was full, every flickering candle remained alight, their presence barely noticeable but deeply felt.
Hermione sat curled into one of the plush armchairs near the fire, a woolen throw draped across her legs, her fingers wrapped around a delicate china teacup. The warmth seeped into her palms as she let her gaze drift to the bassinet nestled in the corner of the room, where a tiny miracle lay swaddled in the softest blush-colored blankets. Seline, impossibly small and breathtakingly perfect, slept soundly, her tiny chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that felt almost sacred. Hermione found herself smiling, her heart swelling at the sight of her friends' child, a girl who already seemed woven from the stars themselves.
Across the room, on the velvet loveseat, Theo and Luna sat close, the picture of quiet devotion. Theo's arm rested along the back of the couch, his fingers absentmindedly tracing along Luna's shoulder, a touch that spoke of familiarity, of possession, of reverence. Luna leaned into him with effortless grace, her presence as ethereal as ever, her silvery hair spilling over his forearm like moonlight caught in motion. They looked like something out of an ancient painting—two figures perfectly in sync, orbiting each other as if the universe had designed them to fit.
"Seline and Lysander," Hermione said softly, the names rolling off her tongue like something sacred. "They sound like they belong in a story—something timeless, something that will be remembered long after we're gone."
Luna's dreamy expression brightened, her silver-blue eyes shimmering with something deep and boundless. She reached for Theo's hand without looking, her fingers slotting between his like they were meant to be there. "We wanted names that carried meaning," she murmured, her voice like the whisper of the tide. "Names that would remind them of who they are, of where they come from. Names that would tie them to the stars."
Theo's gaze softened, the firelight reflecting in his stormy grey eyes as he studied his wife. His thumb brushed over her knuckles in a slow, reverent caress. "Seline is our little moon goddess," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, each syllable carefully measured. His eyes flickered to the bassinet for a moment, as though grounding himself in the overwhelming reality of their daughter, before shifting back to Luna as if she were the only thing that had ever truly mattered. "And Lysander… he's our bright, curious star, always reaching, always searching. They have brought more light into my life than I ever thought possible."
He paused, the weight of his words settling between them like something tangible, something rare. Then, in a voice barely above a breath, he added, "But Luna…" His fingers tightened around hers, pulling her attention back to him completely. "She remains my greatest treasure. My Moon."
Luna's breath hitched, her cheeks flushing with a warmth that had nothing to do with the firelight. It wasn't the kind of blush born of shyness—Luna Lovegood had never been shy—but rather, a glow that came from love so deep it ran in her blood, in her bones. She tilted her head slightly, strands of her hair catching the light, making her look even more like the celestial being Theo so often compared her to. A knowing, affectionate smile played at her lips as she gazed at him, and in that moment, nothing else in the world existed for them but each other.
Theo, never one to let a moment pass without claiming it as his own, leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek—slow, lingering, a silent vow written in the way his lips moved against her skin. Luna turned into him just enough that their foreheads nearly brushed, her eyes shining with quiet joy, and for a moment, the entire world held its breath.
Hermione watched them, her own heart swelling at the sight of something so pure, so utterly unshaken. It was a love that had endured, that had been tested and strengthened by every storm they had weathered together. She sipped her tea, letting the moment settle into her, warm and reassuring, like the fire crackling at her side.
Then, from the bassinet, a tiny sound broke the spell—a soft, breathy sigh followed by the delicate stretching of limbs. The ancient cradle creaked faintly as Seline stirred, her impossibly tiny fingers unfurling from the folds of the blanket as if reaching for something unseen. Instinctively, Luna was already rising, her movements fluid, effortless, as if she had been doing this for a thousand lifetimes.
She crossed the room with that same unearthly grace, the silk of her gown whispering against the floor as she leaned over the crib, her hands feather-light as they brushed against her daughter's cheek. The way she looked at Seline was unlike anything Theo had ever seen—something reverent, something celestial.
"She's magic," Luna murmured, her voice barely more than a breath.
Theo joined her, his tall frame folding beside her, his arm wrapping around her waist as they gazed down at the tiny miracle they had created. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and hushed, but filled with something that could move mountains.
"She is," he agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of Luna's head, his voice thick with love, with devotion, with something unbreakable.
"She's everything."
Across the room, perched gracefully on the armrest of a plush chair, Ginny arched a knowing brow, her voice slicing through the tender moment with the precision of a well-aimed hex—sharp, teasing, and laced with affection. "Well, isn't that sweet enough to put Honeydukes out of business?" she mused, arms crossing as she cast a mock-critical glance in Theo's direction. "Honestly, Theo, you're setting the bar so high I might have to start checking Blaise for memory charms, because he certainly doesn't remember to water the plants."
Blaise, sprawled in the chair beneath her, one arm draped lazily over the back while his other hand swirled a glass of rich, red wine, shot her a look of deep, theatrical offense. "I beg your pardon," he said smoothly, as though personally insulted. "That philodendron is thriving, thank you very much. And, more importantly, I never forget to water you—with champagne and compliments, of course."
Ginny let out an exasperated laugh, rolling her eyes before grabbing a throw pillow and chucking it at his smug, infuriatingly handsome face. Blaise caught it effortlessly, because of course he did, his smirk widening. "You're absolutely impossible," she said, though the laughter in her voice betrayed her.
"And yet, you adore me," he countered with practiced ease, his smirk shifting into something devastatingly charming. "Face it, Weasley, I've grown on you. Like the aforementioned philodendron. Only more dashing."
She scoffed, but her lips twitched upward despite herself. "Keep talking, Zabini, and you'll be growing on the couch tonight."
Blaise feigned consideration, tilting his head slightly. "If that means more space and no dogs stealing my pillows, I might take you up on that offer."
Draco, observing from across the room, exhaled long-sufferingly. "It's like this every single time," he muttered under his breath, lifting his glass to his lips.
Luna, ever composed, ever ethereal, turned her luminous gaze toward them, her voice drifting through the room like a soft breeze. "Ginny and Blaise's banter is merely their way of expressing devotion," she noted, as if remarking on the alignment of the stars. "Some constellations shine with quiet brilliance, while others burn with the intensity of a dying sun."
Blaise turned his head toward her, brow lifting slightly, caught between amusement and curiosity. Before he could retort with something cuttingly charming, Luna's expression took on the serene seriousness only she could pull off. "That being said," she continued lightly, tilting her head ever so slightly, "you really should water your plants more often. They're living beings, Blaise. They feel things."
For a moment, Blaise simply stared at her, as if debating whether she was being serious or whether she had just bested him in a game he didn't even know he was playing. Then, much to his own surprise, he threw his head back and laughed, rich and warm. "Well, Luna, if you insist," he conceded, raising his glass in her direction. "I'll add 'plant caretaker' to my long and impressive list of talents."
Ginny nudged him with her elbow, grinning. "See? She's always right," she declared, ever the victor.
Luna only smiled serenely and lifted her teacup in quiet triumph. "To new beginnings," she said, her voice carrying the weight of something more—something that felt like a blessing, like a promise, like a spell cast upon the air itself.
"To magic, family, and the moments that remind us what really matters," Hermione added softly, her gaze flickering between them all, eyes shimmering with something warm and unspoken.
The others echoed the toast, raising their glasses, their voices blending in quiet celebration. And as laughter hummed in the air and firelight flickered against familiar faces, the room seemed to take a deep, collective breath—a moment of pure, undisturbed contentment.
Theo, who had remained unusually quiet throughout the exchange, let his eyes drift across the room, landing on the bassinet where his daughter lay swaddled, a tiny piece of his heart sleeping soundly in the soft glow of the firelight. He exhaled slowly, then turned to Luna, pulling her closer, his voice low enough for only her to hear. "Can you believe we made her?" he murmured, his breath ghosting over her temple. "She's everything good in this world."
Luna leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder, her fingers tracing slow circles over the back of his hand. "I can," she answered simply, her voice a whisper of stardust. "Because she's part of us."
Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Ginny leaned toward Blaise, lowering her voice into something conspiratorial. "You know," she murmured, eyes twinkling with mischief, "Seline's got Theo wrapped around her tiny, perfect little finger already. I give it a year before he's sitting at a tea party in full wizarding robes."
Blaise took a slow sip of his wine, entirely unbothered, before shooting her a knowing smirk. "Oh, no doubt," he agreed, setting his glass down with a satisfied hum. "And I'd be willing to wager a hundred galleons that I can get photographic evidence of it."
Ginny's brows lifted, impressed. "A hundred galleons? Confident, aren't you?"
He extended a hand toward her, all smooth arrogance. "You in, Weasley?"
Her grin turned positively wicked. "You're on, Zabini."
And as the evening stretched on, filled with the sound of clinking glasses and shared laughter, the weight of past burdens felt lighter, the promise of the future felt brighter, and in that room—surrounded by love, friendship, and the quiet, unshakable magic of new beginnings—time, for once, seemed to pause just long enough for them all to hold onto the moment.
Little Lysander wobbled across the room, his steps still carrying that delightful toddler uncertainty—half charging forward, half catching himself before he could tumble. His tiny arms swung at his sides for balance, fingers splayed as though he could steady himself with sheer determination alone. When he reached Hermione, his chubby hands latched onto her knee as he peered up at her with wide, sparkling eyes, his mouth stretched into a toothy grin.
"Mimi!" he chirped, bouncing slightly on his heels, his excitement bubbling over. Before she could respond, he scrambled up onto her lap with all the confidence of a child who knew he belonged there, wedging himself against her chest with a happy sigh. His little fingers immediately began patting at her arm, his version of an affectionate greeting.
"Hello, my love," she murmured, her voice warm as she smoothed back a lock of his golden curls. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, inhaling the soft, sweet scent of him—the faint traces of lavender from his bath, the lingering hints of honey from whatever snack he'd gotten into before making his way to her.
Lysander pulled back suddenly, his entire body perking up with excitement, as if a very important thought had just crash-landed into his mind. "Kitty!" he gasped, twisting in her lap as he craned his neck to scan the room, his chubby fingers clutching at her sleeve.
Hermione bit back a chuckle at his sheer enthusiasm. "Crooks isn't here right now, little love," she told him gently, running her hand soothingly down his back. "But you'll come visit tomorrow, and then you can see the kitty. How does that sound?"
Lysander considered this very seriously, his lips pursing in thought. Then, with a decisive nod, he declared, "Tomorrow!" as if it had been his idea all along.
Satisfied, he let out a deep, contented sigh—the kind only small children seem capable of, as if all the world's worries had been solved in that single moment. He burrowed his face against her shoulder, his tiny arms wrapping around her in a clumsy but utterly devoted embrace. Hermione instinctively began swaying, rubbing slow circles along his back, her heart swelling at the pure, unguarded love wrapped up in his little form.
His breathing grew slower, heavier, his warm weight settling deeper against her. She held him closer, letting the quiet moment stretch between them, feeling, for the first time in what felt like ages, a true and steady sense of peace.
Across the room, Draco leaned against the mantle, his gaze fixed on Hermione and Lysander. His typically composed expression softened as he took in the sight of her cradling the child so naturally, her smile tender and unguarded. She seemed radiant, as though this moment of quiet nurturing had unlocked a piece of her he rarely got to see.
For a fleeting second, he let himself imagine it—Hermione cradling their child, her laughter spilling through the sunlit room as they built a life together. He pictured her brushing a kiss across their baby's forehead, her smile soft and full of love, and the thought wrapped itself around his heart with a gentle but unrelenting grip. It was a vision that felt both impossibly distant and tantalizingly real.
The warmth that spread through his chest was unfamiliar, a heady mix of longing and quiet determination. He wanted this—not as a fleeting dream but as a future he could hold in his hands. The kind of future that made all the chaos and pain of the past worth enduring.
His reverie was interrupted by Pansy's voice, slicing through the lull of conversation like a playful breeze. "All right, Granger," she teased, her smirk as sharp as ever. "What's your perfect baby name? Come on, let's hear it."
Caught off guard, she blinked, her cheeks coloring faintly as a laugh escaped her. She shifted Lysander gently in her lap, his tiny fingers brushing against hers. "My perfect baby name?" she echoed, glancing around as if the answer might be hiding in the corners of the room.
Her gaze flicked to him, lingering just a moment too long, and he fought to keep his expression neutral. But something in his eyes must have betrayed him—a spark of curiosity, of hope—because she hesitated before answering.
"Yes, Granger," Pansy pressed, leaning forward with exaggerated interest. "You're the ultimate planner. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it."
She chuckled, shaking her head as she ran her fingers lightly over Lysander's tiny hand. "I suppose I'd want names that carry meaning," she said slowly, her voice soft and thoughtful. "Something timeless, yet unique. Maybe... Scorpius, Lyra, Cassiopeia or Leo."
Draco's eyebrows lifted slightly, the faintest twitch of surprise betraying him. Scorpius. The name resonated within him like a note struck on a perfect chord, echoing deep and true. It felt impossibly intimate, as if she'd reached inside him and uncovered a piece of his heart he hadn't yet dared to examine.
Pansy tilted her head, intrigued. "Constellations, huh? I'd have pegged you for something more… literary. Edward, perhaps? Aemelia?"
She laughed, her cheeks flushing a shade deeper. "The stars have always fascinated me," she admitted, her gaze dropping to the baby in her arms. "They're constant, even when the world feels chaotic. I think I'd want a name that reflects that—stability, wonder, and beauty."
His lips curved into a soft, almost imperceptible smile. Her words reached him in ways he hadn't expected, wrapping around his carefully guarded heart and pulling him closer to her in ways he couldn't quite explain.
"Well," Pansy said with a knowing smirk, giving Hermione a light nudge, "here's hoping you get your Scorpius, Lyra, Cassiopeia or Leo someday."
Hermione smiled back, her eyes flicking to Draco once more. "Maybe one day," she said softly, her voice carrying an unspoken depth that made his chest tighten.
The room seemed to still, the air between them charged with something unspoken yet undeniable.
His breath caught, and he allowed himself a single, fleeting thought: One day could be today, or tomorrow, or some far-off moment—but it could happen. And he wanted it more than he could say.
Ginny, ever the spirited one, broke the moment with a teasing grin. "Speaking of babies," she said, her voice light and mischievous as her gaze darted between them.
"If Hermione's naming her kids after stars, what about you, ferret? Got any celestial favorites you're hiding?"
He leaned back in his chair, his composure returning like a well-worn cloak. A slow, deliberate smirk spread across his face. "Oh, I think I'll leave the naming to Hermione," he said smoothly, his grey eyes glittering. "She seems to have excellent taste."
Sherolled her eyes, though her lips quirked in amusement. "Flattery will get you nowhere," she retorted, though her voice betrayed the warmth of her smile.
"Is that so?" he drawled, one brow arched in that infuriatingly elegant way he had. "Then I suppose I'll just have to rely on my charm instead."
The group erupted into laughter, the moment lightening as the easy camaraderie filled the room once more. Her cheeks ached from smiling, but her heart carried a quiet flutter—a sensation she tried to brush aside but couldn't quite ignore.
As the evening wore on, Lysander drifted into a contented sleep in her arms, his tiny hand clutching the fabric of her sleeve. She rocked him gently, her eyes soft with affection.
Across the room, he watched her, his heart swelling with a mix of longing and certainty. The way she held Lysander, the tenderness in her gaze, the quiet strength in every movement—it all made the vision in his mind burn brighter.
One day, he thought with unwavering resolve, this moment—this life—would be his reality. And when that day came, he would cherish it with everything he had.
~~~~~~
They barely made it through the front door before he had her pinned against the wall, his body pressing against hers with an urgency that bordered on desperation. His hands braced on either side of her head, caging her in, his stormy grey eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath stutter.
"Scorpius? Lyra? Leo? Cassiopeia?" His voice was a low, gravelly whisper, rough with unspoken emotion, with need. "Are you toying with my soul, witch?"
Before she could respond, his lips found the sensitive column of her throat, trailing slow, searing kisses that had her arching into him, her fingers tangling into his hair with an aching kind of need. His name left her lips in a breathless plea, and he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his pupils dark and blown wide with desire.
"My perfect baby names?" His voice was both accusing and desperate, a rasp that sent shivers down her spine. "Do you have any idea what you've done to me? Do you want me to lose my fucking mind?"
Her lips curved into a teasing smile, her chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. "No," she murmured, her voice laced with mischief and something softer—something raw, unguarded. "I just… I like them."
He let out a low, dangerous chuckle, his hands gliding down to her waist with a deliberate slowness, his fingers tracing the curve of her hips as if savoring every inch of her. His touch was possessive, reverent, yet edged with a hunger so primal it made her shiver in anticipation. With almost torturous patience, he slid the straps of her dress from her shoulders, watching with hooded eyes as the fabric cascaded down her body, pooling at her feet like a silken offering.
His gaze darkened as he took her in—bare, vulnerable, utterly his. "I'll show you exactly what liking those names does to me," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. Then, with a single, impatient tug, he tore away the last scrap of lace separating them, the delicate fabric shredding beneath his fingers. The sound of it ripping was swallowed by the heat of the moment, a visceral declaration of his need.
She gasped, a thrill shooting through her at the raw, unrestrained hunger in his actions. "Draco…" she stammered, her breath catching as his hands roamed freely, claiming her curves with greedy intent. "What—what's gotten into you?"
He pressed his body flush against hers, his lips brushing over the shell of her ear, his breath hot and uneven. "You," he growled. "You drive me insane. Every time you open that brilliant mouth of yours, every time you challenge me, tease me, love me—I fucking unravel."
Her head tilted back against the wall, her eyes fluttering shut as his lips trailed down her neck, tasting, marking, possessing. His hands were everywhere, gliding over her skin like he was memorizing her all over again.
"Please," she whimpered, fingers clutching at his shoulders, desperate to pull him impossibly closer. "More."
His smirk was devilish, his eyes a blazing storm of lust and love. "More what, princess?" he taunted, his fingers teasing a slow, searing path down her spine.
"More of you," she confessed, her voice trembling with want, the words barely escaping her lips.
He exhaled sharply, as if her plea had stolen the breath from his lungs. "My very being is yours," he murmured, his tone low and reverent, as he reached behind her, fingers expertly unclasping her bra. The garment slipped away, leaving her bare to him, her skin glowing in the dim light.
His mouth descended on her, lips capturing one nipple as his hand palmed the other, kneading it with aching tenderness. She arched against him, her back pressing against the cool wall as her chest pushed into his face, her body yielding to him with an eager surrender.
He groaned against her skin, his tongue flicking over her sensitive peak before sucking it deep into his mouth, his other hand traveling lower, gripping the back of her thigh as he lifted her, hooking her leg around his waist. She felt the hard length of him pressing against her core, the anticipation sending molten heat spiraling through her veins.
His breath was ragged as he freed himself, his cock springing to attention, hard and thick against her. He dragged the tip against her slick folds, teasing, making her squirm with need. "Tell me how badly you want this," he rasped, his lips ghosting over hers, his restraint hanging by a thread.
Her nails scraped down his back, her voice shaky, desperate. "Draco, please—I need you."
That was all he needed.
In one fluid motion, he thrust into her, filling her completely, stretching her, claiming her. She cried out, her head falling back, her body molding against his as he set a relentless pace. The wall at her back did little to muffle the sound of their bodies meeting, the quiet room filled with the symphony of skin against skin, gasps, moans, the whispered echoes of their love.
"Say it," he demanded, his voice rough, almost desperate. "Say what you need, doll."
Her breath hitched, her hands tangling in his hair as she clung to him. "Please," she pleaded, her words broken and raw. "Please make me cum. Please, Draco!"
His eyes gleamed with satisfaction, and his hand found its way between them, his fingers pressing against her clit with precise, devastating pressure. The cool metal of his signet ring sent a delicious shiver through her overheated skin, adding to the overwhelming pleasure.
It was too much. The sensation of him inside her, the possessive way he touched her, the absolute adoration in his gaze—she shattered beneath it all. A scream tore from her lips as pleasure crashed over her, her body shaking, convulsing, lost in the dizzying heights of ecstasy.
He held her tightly as she came, his own release barreling through him as he thrust deeply one last time, spilling into her with a low, guttural groan. He buried his face in her neck, his breath hot and heavy against her damp skin, their bodies locked together in the aftermath of something devastatingly powerful.
Minutes passed in a blissful haze, neither willing to let go. He pressed lazy, reverent kisses along her jaw, her collarbone, anywhere he could reach, as if grounding himself in the reality of her.
"You drive me mad, love," he murmured, his voice still thick with the remnants of their pleasure, his lips brushing against hers in a lingering kiss.
~~~~~~
He paced in front of the fireplace, the soft crackling flames in the fireplace cast flickering shadows across the room, their warmth doing little to soothe the storm raging within him. For the past week, he had spent every evening rehearsing the same words, shaping and reshaping his confession to her. He had crafted countless versions in his mind, each one striving for the perfect balance of honesty and vulnerability. But every time he opened his mouth, the words betrayed him, lodging in his throat and suffocating him with fear. The ghosts of his past, the weight of his mistakes, and the unspoken guilt he carried held him hostage.
But tonight, he vowed, would be different.
His eyes flicked to the clock on the mantle, the hands seeming to mock him as they crept closer to the moment of truth. She would be home any minute now, and the gravity of what he was about to do pressed down on him like a physical weight. This wasn't just about telling her how he felt; it was about proving to her—and to himself—that he could be the man she deserved. A man she could trust. A man willing to stand vulnerable and unguarded before her, despite the scars of his past.
The fire behind him flared suddenly, filling the room with a roar that echoed his pounding heart. The sound barely registered as the front door creaked open, and his breath caught in his throat when he saw her step into the room.
She looked utterly spent, the exhaustion of the day etched into every delicate line of her face. Her hair fell in soft, disheveled waves around her shoulders, a few stray strands clinging to her cheeks. The weariness in her posture was undeniable—her shoulders slumped, her usual grace weighed down by the burdens she had carried throughout the day. Yet, as she stepped into the room and her gaze landed on him, standing stiff and uncertain by the fireplace, something shifted. The sharp edge of her fatigue softened, replaced by an expression of quiet curiosity and something far gentler, almost hopeful.
"You're home," he said, his voice tinged with hesitance, as though the very act of speaking might break the fragile quiet between them.
"Long day at the Ministry," she replied simply, setting her bag down on the side table. The way she said it was almost dismissive, but the faint tired smile she gave him told him she was glad to be here, in this space they had carved out together.
He nodded, the flicker of firelight playing across his features as he worked to find his words. His heart beat heavily in his chest, the thrum of it a constant reminder of how much this moment mattered. He had been preparing for this all week, crafting the perfect way to say what had been on his mind, yet now, with her standing there, every carefully planned phrase dissolved like smoke.
She tilted her head slightly, her perceptive eyes narrowing as she took in his tense posture, the way his hands twitched at his sides. "Mon coeur," she said softly, her voice gentle yet probing. "Is something wrong?"
"No," he said quickly, his tone faltering as he shook his head. "Nothing's wrong. I just—" He hesitated, clenching and unclenching his fists. "There's something I need to tell you. Something I've needed to say for a long time."
She remained quiet, leaning against the table, her arms crossing over her chest. Her expression was patient but wary, as though bracing herself for whatever was to come. "I'm listening," she said, her tone steady, though he caught the faintest trace of apprehension in her eyes.
He took a step closer, the fire casting long shadows across the room, the warmth of it doing nothing to ease the chill running through him. "I've spent so long trying to prove that I've changed," he began, his voice low and deliberate. "To prove that I'm not the man I used to be. And I know I haven't made it easy for you to trust me again. I've given you every reason to doubt me, and you had every right to walk away."
Her brow furrowed slightly, but she said nothing, allowing him to continue. The weight of her gaze pressed on him, but he welcomed it—it was grounding him, forcing him to stay honest.
"But my love," he said, his voice growing stronger, "you need to know that everything I've done, everything I've been trying to do, is because of you. You've been my anchor, even when I didn't deserve it. You've been my reason to keep fighting to be better."
Her lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across her features, but she still didn't interrupt. He took another step forward, his hands trembling slightly as he reached out, hesitating for a moment before gently brushing his fingers against hers.
"I love you," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, but it carried the weight of every unspoken word, every fear, and every hope he'd held onto. "I love you, darling, more than I thought I was capable of. And I'll spend the rest of my life proving that to you, if you'll let me."
The silence that followed was deafening. Her breath hitched, her chest rising and falling as she processed his words. The vulnerability in his voice, the raw honesty in his eyes—it was almost too much to take in. She had built walls around her heart after everything they had been through, walls that had felt impenetrable. But in that moment, those walls began to crumble.
"Draco," she finally said, her voice thick with emotion. She stepped closer, closing the gap between them. Her fingers curled around his, and she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "You've been trying to prove you've changed, but you don't need to anymore. I see it. I see you."
The fire crackled behind them as he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Her words were a lifeline, a balm to the self-doubt that had haunted him. He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles as his eyes met hers, full of unspoken promises.
"Does that mean—" he started, but she silenced him with a small, tender smile.
"It means," she said softly, stepping into his arms and resting her head against his chest, "that I love you too. I always have."
Her words lingered in the air, warm and fragile, yet powerful enough to shatter the tension that had been building between them for years. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to melt into the comfort of his embrace. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear was both grounding and disarming, unraveling a part of her she had kept tightly wound for so long.
His arms tightened around her as though he feared she might disappear if he let go. "Hermione…" he began, his voice unsteady, raw with emotion. "You have no idea what it means to hear you say that. I—" He stopped himself, exhaling shakily. "I've dreamed of this moment, but I never thought I deserved it."
She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her gaze searching his. Her throat tightened as emotions welled up inside her, and she found herself struggling to speak. "Draco, I'm not saying this will be easy," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "The past… it still hurts. And I don't know if I can just forget everything that's happened."
His heart clenched at her honesty, but he nodded, the determination in his eyes unwavering. "I don't expect you to forget. I wouldn't even ask that of you. The things I've done…" He swallowed hard, his voice faltering. "I'll carry that guilt for the rest of my life. But I swear to you, I will spend every day proving that I'm not that man anymore."
She studied him closely, her brow furrowing as she processed his words. There was a sincerity in his tone that she couldn't ignore, a vulnerability that had been absent from the Draco she once knew. And for the first time in what felt like forever, She allowed herself to hope—tentative and cautious, but hope nonetheless.
"I can see that you've changed," she said softly, her fingers brushing against his as she took a tentative step closer. "And I want to believe in this… in us. But it's going to take time. I can't promise anything except that I'm willing to try."
His breath hitched at her words, and he felt an overwhelming sense of relief. He took her hand gently in his, holding it as though it were something precious. "That's all I need," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Time. And the chance to prove to you that I'm all in. That I'll always be all in."
She gave him a faint smile, her fingers curling around his. "I want this too," she whispered, her voice steadier now. "But you have to understand—trust isn't something I can give easily anymore. You'll have to earn it."
"I will," he promised fervently, his grey eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. "Every single day, love. I'll earn it. Whatever it takes."
Her voice trembled with raw emotion as she met his gaze, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Draco, don't you see?" she whispered, her voice thick with anguish.
"Every horrible thing that's happened to me—it all traces back to you. I almost died because of you. And I nearly lost myself entirely when you were kidnapped. The pain of thinking you were gone, of losing you—it shattered me."
The weight of her words hung heavy in the air, suffocating the space between them. He stood motionless, his face pale, tears streaming down his cheeks. He had no defense, no justification, no way to ease the torrent of anguish in her voice. For so long, he had shielded himself behind walls of arrogance, self-loathing, and regret, but now, her words broke through every last one, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.
"I've tried so hard," she continued, her voice faltering. "To move past it, to heal. But the truth is, you've become such a part of me that I don't even know who I am without you. And that terrifies me."
His breath hitched as he took a hesitant step forward, his hands trembling. "Hermione," he choked out, his voice raw with regret, "I never wanted to hurt you. Merlin, if I could take it all back, I would. Every decision, every mistake—I would undo it all if it meant sparing you even a moment of pain."
Her gaze didn't waver, though her tears spilled freely now, carving delicate tracks down her flushed cheeks. "And this…" she whispered, gesturing between them, "This is not what I feel about you. This isn't what I think when I look at you." Her tone softened, the sharp edges of her pain giving way to something gentler, something infinitely more profound. "When I see you, I see my partner, the love of my life. In this lifetime, yes, because we were forced to marry. But in every other universe, I see you as my soulmate."
The air between them seemed to shift, the tension replaced by something electric, something unspoken yet undeniable. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor before her, clutching her hands in his own. His body trembled as he stared up at her, his silver-grey eyes awash with unfiltered emotion. "Hermione," he rasped, his voice breaking. "I don't deserve you. I don't deserve your love, your forgiveness, or this life we've built. But I swear to you, I will spend every moment of the rest of my days trying to become the man you deserve."
Her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping as the sincerity of his words pierced through her defenses.
He bowed his head, pressing her hands to his forehead as though seeking absolution. "I'm begging you," he whispered hoarsely. "I'm begging you to forgive me. I'm begging you to make me the love of your life in every universe . Please, Hermione."
She knelt down before him, her hands slipping free only to cradle his face. He looked up at her, his expression shattered, broken, and she felt the walls around her own heart begin to crumble. "Draco," she murmured, her voice a blend of pain and love. "You already are. You always have been."
His eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. "Mon trésor…"
"I can't promise I'll ever forget the pain," she admitted, her thumbs brushing away his tears. "But I can promise you this—I'll choose you. Every day, in every universe, I'll choose you. Because no matter how broken we are, I see a future with you. My own paradise."
The room fell silent except for the crackling of the fire, its light flickering across their faces as they clung to each other. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was as desperate as it was tender. It wasn't a kiss of passion or desire but of hope, of redemption, of a love that had been forged in the crucible of pain and came out stronger.
When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads pressed together, he whispered, "You are my paradise, Hermione. And I will never stop fighting for us."
Her heart broke at the sight of him—this man she had loved and hated in equal measure, now so raw, so vulnerable. She gently cupped his face, her thumbs brushing away the tears staining his cheeks. "I know you will. I've loved you in ways I never thought possible. And I will love you… until the very last star in the sky burns out into oblivion."
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to believe her. To believe that despite the darkness and the pain, there could still be light. In that moment, wrapped in the fragile promise of redemption, they clung to each other, hoping that together, they could find their way back from the edge.
Hermione turned toward him, her eyes a kaleidoscope of sorrow and resolve. Her voice was soft, yet it carried a weight that could silence a storm. " Memento Mori ," she whispered, each word deliberate. "Never forget, my love. We have to remember… to live. After everything that's happened, after all the loss and the pain, I remind myself daily: I need to live. I already know what death feels like. But now? Now, I need to truly live. With you."
His face tightened, his stormy grey eyes shimmering with unspoken guilt. He looked away, unable to meet the force of her gaze. "I know," he murmured, his voice barely audible, as though speaking louder might shatter the fragile moment between them.
The silence that followed wasn't empty; it was brimming with unspoken confessions, regrets, and truths too raw to voice. Her steady gaze stayed locked on him, her strength a stark contrast to the fragility beneath her words.
His hands trembled as he raked them through his platinum hair, his usual composure slipping like sand through his fingers. His voice cracked when he finally spoke. "Everything I've done," he rasped, his words a confession and a plea all at once. "Everything I've done was for you. To keep you safe. To have you. To protect you—even when I didn't deserve to. I've been selfish, Mon trésor . From the start, I dragged you into my darkness, into this twisted world I live in, and expected you to forgive me for it."
Her heart ached at the raw vulnerability etched into his features. She stepped closer, her voice calm but resolute. "Draco," she said softly, "you can't keep punishing yourself for the past. We've both made mistakes. But I'm still here, aren't I? After everything, we're still here."
His head dropped, shame rippling through him as he swallowed hard. "But you shouldn't be," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "You should hate me. I nearly destroyed you—your trust, your life—"
"Stop," she interrupted, her voice trembling but firm. "I'm not scared of death, not after what we've been through. I've faced it. I've felt it. I just wish to know how I die. What I care about is how I'll live—and who I'll live it with."
Her words hit him like a blow, and he recoiled slightly, his eyes widening in alarm. "Don't say that, love," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "Don't even think like that."
A faint, bittersweet smile ghosted her lips, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Preferably," she said lightly, her voice steadying, "I'd like to die at ninety, lying in your arms. But whenever it is, however it happens, all I know is that I want to live a full life—with you."
Her words shattered something inside him. His knees threatened to buckle, and he reached for her as though she were the only thing keeping him grounded. "I don't deserve you," he choked, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm the most selfish person on this earth."
She tilted her head slightly, her brows knitting together in quiet understanding. "Why do you think that?" she asked softly, her voice a mixture of curiosity and compassion.
He exhaled shakily, his gaze fixed on her as if she were the only light in his darkened world. "Because," he began, his voice breaking, "I'd rather have you hate me and stay with me than lose you forever. Because I'll never stop fighting to keep you, even if it means dragging you through the worst parts of my life. I'm selfish because I need you more than I need redemption."
Her heart twisted at the rawness of his admission, and she reached for his hand, intertwining her fingers with his. "You're not dragging me through anything, Draco," she said firmly, her voice steady despite the storm swirling in her chest. "I chose to stay. I chose to fight—with you. And if we're going to have a future together, we do it as equals. No more of this martyrdom. Do you hear me?"
He stared at her, his silver-grey eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You deserve better than me," he whispered, his voice hoarse and broken.
She stood tall, unwavering as she replied. "Your mother gave me a choice," she said quietly, holding his gaze with an intensity that made his breath catch. "To choose freedom. To choose happiness."
His heart pounded in his chest, the blood roaring in his ears as he asked, his voice trembling, "And?"
She stepped closer, her hand gently brushing against his cheek. "Unfortunately for everyone else," she said, her tone soft yet unwavering, "my happiness is with you."
For a moment, he could only stare at her, overwhelmed by the weight of her words. His carefully guarded defenses crumbled, and a single tear escaped down his cheek as he reached out to cup her face in his trembling hands. "I don't deserve you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
She leaned into his touch, her eyes never leaving his, filled with a fierce determination. "Definitely not," she admitted softly, "but we deserve a chance. And I'm not walking away from this. From us."
The weight of his words lingered in the stillness between them, heavy and charged. His hand tightened around hers, his grip firm yet tender, as though anchoring himself in the moment. He drew in a slow, steadying breath, his piercing grey eyes locked on hers, searching for something—reassurance, understanding, or perhaps courage.
"I want a baby," he said finally, his voice low but intense, the quiet declaration resonating like a thunderclap in the silence.
She blinked, the unexpectedness of his admission catching her off guard. "Right now?" she asked, her voice tinged with equal parts surprise and incredulity.
His expression softened, but his gaze remained unwavering. "Yes," he said simply, his tone resolute. "Right now. I want a family with you, Mon trésor . I've thought about it more than you know, and I want this more than anything."
Her heart skipped a beat, a rush of emotions flooding her all at once. This wasn't some casual statement, she realized. This was Draco Malfoy, stripped of his usual defenses, laying his heart bare before her. Vulnerability radiated from him, an unspoken plea for her to understand.
"Darling…" she began, her voice faltering as she tried to gather her thoughts. "Draco, this isn't something we can just decide on a whim—"
"I know," he interrupted gently, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her face with a tenderness that made her chest ache. "I know it's not simple. But after everything we've been through—all the loss, the pain, the darkness—we deserve something good. Something real. I want us to build something beautiful together."
His words tugged at her heart, leaving her breathless. She could see it in his eyes: the depth of his longing, the sincerity behind every syllable. This wasn't a fleeting desire or some attempt to soothe his guilt. It was a reflection of his hope—a hope she hadn't dared to fully believe he still carried.
Her thoughts raced, a whirlwind of emotions. A part of her had dreamed of this, of building a life with him, of creating something lasting and pure amidst the chaos of their lives. But the scars they bore, both seen and unseen, weighed heavily on her.
His thumb traced soft, reassuring circles over her knuckles, grounding her in the present. "I'm not saying it has to happen tomorrow," he said, his voice gentler now, though no less determined. "I just… I want you to know how serious I am. About us. About our future."
She felt a warmth spread through her chest, softening the edges of her doubt. Despite everything they'd endured—every secret, every betrayal, every battle—they had always found their way back to each other. And in his gaze, she saw a promise, one she knew he would fight to keep.
~~~~~~
He took his promise seriously. Perhaps too seriously, if anyone cared to ask him—which, fortunately, no one did. Yet here he was, navigating the labyrinthine aisles of IKEA, the pale overhead lights casting muted shadows over endless rows of baby cribs, rocking chairs, and pastel mobiles that spun hypnotically with the faintest hint of a breeze. The place felt like an alternate universe, surreal and slightly overwhelming, where everything screamed "domestic bliss" and "new beginnings."
Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, self-made "businessman", and master of control, was utterly, hopelessly out of his element. Yet, he couldn't seem to stop. Each step he took down the aisle felt like a page turning in a story he didn't know he wanted to write, a story of futures he had once thought impossible.
He pushed a cart that was already brimming with items he hadn't intended to buy—soft blankets, impossibly tiny pillows, a stuffed dragon with wings that he will transform, it will be flappy if you squeeze its belly. It was absurd, really. She wasn't even pregnant. Not yet, anyway. But the thought had taken root in his mind, and like the most stubborn of weeds, it refused to be ignored.
The idea of a family—a real one—had started as a quiet whisper, one he could ignore if he tried hard enough. But over time, it grew louder, more insistent, until it was all he could think about. It clung to him, this vision of a future filled with laughter and warmth, of chubby hands reaching for him, of Hermione with that radiant smile she reserved for moments when she was truly happy. The idea consumed him now, blooming into an obsession that surprised even him.
He turned a corner and found himself in front of a wall of cribs. They came in all shapes and sizes—white-painted wood, sleek modern designs, and whimsical creations that looked like they belonged in a fairy tale. His gaze lingered on one that was simple but elegant, a soft grey that wouldn't clash with any color scheme She might decide on. She'd laugh if she knew he was here, wouldn't she? She'd call him ridiculous. And maybe he was. But he couldn't stop imagining her standing in the middle of the room, her hands resting on her swollen belly, her face glowing with the kind of peace he desperately wanted to give her.
The penthouse had six empty rooms. Six. For years, they'd been nothing more than unused spaces, places he avoided because they reminded him of how hollow his life had once been. But now, those same rooms felt like possibilities waiting to happen. A nursery, a playroom, a space where their children could grow up safe, loved, and free from the shadows that had haunted their parents. He could see it so clearly: a crib in one corner, bookshelves filled with stories he would read aloud, a rocking chair where she would hum lullabies in the middle of the night.
He ran a hand through his hair, his other gripping the cart tightly as the sheer absurdity of it all caught up to him. He hadn't even had the conversation with her. Not a real one, anyway. Yes, he'd told her he wanted a baby, but that had been more of an emotional declaration than a detailed plan. He wasn't even sure she'd taken him seriously. And now here he was, standing in IKEA with enough baby items to outfit a daycare, preparing for a life they hadn't even decided on yet.
But it wasn't just about him anymore. He wanted this—for her, for them. He wanted to give her the kind of life she deserved, one filled with love and light instead of fear and uncertainty. He wanted to prove to himself—and to her—that they could create something beautiful together, something untouched by the darkness of their pasts.
As he stared at the cribs, he felt a sudden, overwhelming sense of determination. He would talk to her tonight, lay it all out there. Not just his desire for a child, but everything—his fears, his hopes, his need to make her believe in a future where happiness wasn't just a fleeting dream. And if she laughed at him, or told him they weren't ready, he would wait. He'd wait as long as it took, because she was worth it. They were worth it.
He reached for the grey crib, running his fingers over the smooth wood. It was perfect. They would be perfect—someday. With a small, almost sheepish smile, he placed it in the cart and moved toward the checkout line, his heart a little lighter than it had been in years.
For once, he wished the ground would swallow him whole. Of all the checkout lanes in IKEA, of course he had to end up at Kayleigh's register. She spotted him before he could make a discreet escape, her bright pink nails clicking against the counter as a grin spread across her face.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't my favorite customer!" Kayleigh chirped, leaning over the register like they were old friends. "Back for another round, are ya? Let me guess—you couldn't stop thinking about me."
He blinked, caught completely off guard. "What? No, absolutely not."
"Oh, come on," she teased, resting her chin on her hand. "You don't have to play coy. I knew I left an impression."
He glanced down at his cart, trying to steer the conversation back on track. "Actually, I'm here for… baby things."
Kayleigh's eyebrows shot up, her grin widening. "Ohhh, a baby? Didn't know you had it in ya. Good for you, love!"
He sighed, already regretting his decision to venture into IKEA without Hermione. "My wife and I are expecting," he clarified, emphasizing the word wife like a shield.
"Wife, is it?" Kayleigh said, undeterred. "Well, congrats to you and the missus. Bet she's over the moon. Or are you the one nesting, hmm? Big, bad daddy, picking out cribs and blankies—how precious!"
His ears turned a distinct shade of pink, and he cleared his throat. "I wouldn't call it nesting, exactly…"
"Oh, don't be shy about it, babe," she teased, sliding the baby blanket across the counter. "You've got that 'I'm scared shitless but also weirdly obsessed with tiny socks' look. It's adorable."
"I do not look—" he started, but Kayleigh was already scribbling something on a scrap of paper. Before he could stop her, she pushed it toward him with a wink.
"Here's my number," she said sweetly, though her tone was anything but innocent. "Just in case you need some, y'know, personal advice. Parenting's tricky, but I've got a few tricks up my sleeve."
He stared at the paper like it was cursed. "Why on earth would I—"
"You never know," she interrupted with a cheeky shrug. "Maybe you'll need help putting together one of those death traps IKEA calls furniture. Or maybe you'll just miss me. Happens all the time."
He grabbed the baby blanket and shoved it into his cart with unnecessary force, muttering something about "unprofessional behavior" as he turned to make his escape.
"Don't be a stranger, love!" Kayleigh called after him, her laughter echoing through the store as he practically bolted for the exit.
~~~~~~
Draco Malfoy exploded through the fireplace in a flurry of soot and panic, landing in their living room like a man who had just narrowly escaped death. His chest heaved, his breath ragged, and in his trembling hands, he clutched—of all things—a small, frayed baby blanket as if it were a portkey to salvation.
"HERMIONE!" he bellowed, his voice cracking slightly from sheer desperation.
Startled, she nearly dropped the book she'd been reading, blinking up at him with wide eyes from where she sat curled up on the couch. "Draco?" Her brow furrowed, gaze flicking to the absolute state of him. "What on earth—? Are you hurt? What happened?"
For a moment, he just stood there, his silver eyes wild and unfocused, as if his very soul had been rattled. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then, rather dramatically, ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. "I—I need to tell you something, and you have to listen carefully," he finally gasped, his voice so severe it made her sit up straighter.
Her concern deepened. She set her book aside, standing quickly. "Alright, I'm listening. What is it?"
Draco barely seemed to register that he was still gripping the tiny blanket in one hand, waving it around with the kind of unhinged energy usually reserved for lunatics on street corners. "What is a phone number?" he demanded.
Hermione froze. "…A phone number?"
"Yes!" He looked utterly frantic, his breath still uneven as if he had just dueled his way out of a hostage situation. "Explain it to me. Right now."
She blinked at him, utterly baffled. "Draco, it's—it's a number that lets you contact someone. On the phone. Why—?"
"This—this woman!" He cut her off, the baby blanket flapping wildly in his grip like a battle flag. "At the bloody store! She kept giving me her number! Repeatedly! I didn't ask for it! I didn't want it! I don't even know what to do with it!"
Hermione, once deeply concerned, now found herself biting her lip to keep from laughing. "Oh, love—"
"She just slid it to me like—like it was a damn portkey, Hermione!" he ranted, eyes burning with indignation. "I told her I was married. I told her about you, explicitly and repeatedly, and do you know what she said?" He threw his arms out, nearly knocking over a lamp in the process. "She said, 'Oh, that's cute, babe, but just in case you change your mind!'" He looked positively scandalized, as if he had been propositioned in the middle of a sacred ceremony.
Hermione was losing the battle against her amusement, but she tried—tried—to keep her expression neutral. "Oh, mon cœur," she murmured, placing her hands over his, stilling his frantic gestures. "You do know you're devastatingly handsome, right? I'm hardly surprised the poor woman couldn't help herself."
He reeled back as if she had personally betrayed him. "I didn't do anything!" he insisted, aghast. "I didn't even look at her! She could've been a Hufflepuff, for all I know!"
That did it. Hermione howled with laughter, doubling over as her body shook with mirth. "A Hufflepuff?" she gasped between fits of giggles. "Is that supposed to be your lowest insult now?"
Draco's mouth fell open in sheer, unfiltered outrage. "Hermione, this is serious!" he whined, running both hands down his face in despair. "I was just there to get a bloody crib and a stuffed dragon—for us, might I add—and this woman would not relent! You don't understand—I was in IKEA, holding six pastel-colored baby blankets while trying to fend her off like some ridiculous, domesticated gladiator!"
Hermione was laughing so hard she could barely breathe, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. "IKEA is a battleground," she admitted, clutching his arm for support.
Draco, however, was not finished. "I need you to come with me," he declared suddenly, his eyes burning with an intensity that could set the room aflame.
That sobered her, albeit momentarily. "What?"
"To the store," he said firmly, clutching her hands. "Right now. I need her to see you. To witness firsthand how utterly magnificent and perfect you are. That way, she'll know she doesn't stand a single chance in hell."
Hermione arched a slow, skeptical eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. "You want me to parade through IKEA just to ward off one very flirtatious cashier?"
"Yes," he answered without a moment's hesitation. Then, his voice softened, filled with an earnest plea. "Please. For my sanity."
She sighed dramatically, though her lips twitched in clear amusement. "Alright, darling. But don't blame me when she takes one look at us together and starts sobbing into the nearest throw pillow."
Draco's expression darkened. "That's precisely what I'm hoping for."
And so, hand-in-hand, they stepped into the fireplace, the emerald flames swallowing them whole.
Kayleigh never quite figured out how she ended up with a bruised face and beaten up that evening.
Allegedly she was molly walked in the parking lot by a brown haired woman…
~~~~~~
The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken fears and fragile hope. Hermione watched him carefully, noting the tension in his posture, the way his fingers flexed and curled against his knee like he was holding himself together by sheer will. His gaze was fixed on the far wall, unseeing, his mind clearly racing with thoughts he wasn't yet ready to voice.
She recognized that look. It was the look of a man standing on the edge of something terrifying and irreversible, caught between his past and the unknown future stretching before him. The weight of impending fatherhood hung between them, pressing down with a force neither of them fully knew how to navigate.
"Draco," she murmured, reaching out but stopping just short of touching him, as if afraid one wrong move might send him spiraling further into his thoughts. "You need to sit down."
He blinked, as though only just realizing she was there, his stormy gaze flickering to hers with a flicker of confusion before, wordlessly, he sank into the nearest chair. The leather creaked beneath his weight, the sound breaking the oppressive quiet in the room. She settled across from him, her hands clasped in her lap, a deliberate space left between them—a space filled with anticipation, uncertainty, and a quiet kind of fear.
"Look, my love," she began softly, choosing her words carefully, "we need to talk about this."
His jaw tightened at her tone, that telltale Malfoy stubbornness kicking in. "What happened?" His voice was gruff, laced with something bordering on dread. "What's wrong?"
Her heart clenched. He always assumed the worst. As if happiness was something that could slip through his fingers at any given moment. As if the universe was waiting to punish him for daring to believe he could have something good.
She inhaled deeply, steadying herself. "We need to talk about being parents."
His entire body went rigid.
"How we're going to raise our children," she pressed on, her voice calm but firm. "And how you're going to continue your… business while being a father."
His eyes darkened, a flicker of defensiveness flashing across his face. "You want me to stop?" The words were sharp, almost accusatory, and she saw the way his fists clenched, bracing for a battle he didn't want to fight.
Hermione shook her head, her expression unwavering. "Draco, why would I ask something when I already know the answer?"
His lips parted slightly, caught off guard by her response. "Then what are you asking?" he murmured.
She leaned forward, her gaze locked onto his. "I'm asking you to stay in the shadows. To stop putting yourself in the direct line of fire. Not for me, but for them."
A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes—doubt, guilt, hesitation. "I will do that," he said quickly, too quickly, as if trying to convince himself as much as her.
"But it's not just about what you do, Mon cœur," she pushed gently, tilting her head. "It's about the choices we make together. We can't live recklessly anymore. We can't throw ourselves into danger and expect everything to magically work out. Not when there's someone else in this equation now."
He exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand down his face. He looked exhausted, like the weight of the conversation had been sitting on his shoulders long before she had even brought it up. "I know," he admitted, his voice low. "I know I can't be the same man I was before. But Hermione, you have to understand—this life, this business, it's all I know. I don't have another way."
She reached for his hand, her fingers threading through his, anchoring him to her. "Then let's find another way."
He squeezed her hand, but his grip was tight, desperate. "And what if I fail?" he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "What if I can't change? What if I can't keep you and our children safe?"
Her heart ached at the raw vulnerability in his voice. He had spent his whole life chasing power, wealth, control—because the alternative, the idea of losing control, terrified him.
She reached up, cupping his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her. "Then we'll figure it out. Together. That's what families do. We fight, we struggle, we make mistakes—but we don't walk away."
He closed his eyes for a long moment, exhaling as if releasing some invisible weight. When he opened them again, there was something different in his gaze. A spark of determination, of resolve.
"You're asking me to be something I never thought I could be," he admitted, his voice raw. "To be a father. A good one."
She smiled softly, brushing her thumb across his cheek. "And I'm telling you that you can be. If you want to be."
He swallowed hard, as if the truth of her words was too much to fully accept all at once. But he nodded, just barely, and she knew—it was enough.
For now.
"Alright," he murmured, his hand coming up to cradle hers against his face. "I'll try. For you. For them."
Hermione's eyes burned with emotion, and she leaned in, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips. "That's all I ask."
And in that moment, surrounded by uncertainty but bound by love, they began to carve out the future they never thought they'd have—one fragile step at a time.