Chapter Text
It had been two years since Voldemort had won the battle of Hogwarts, and Hermione still held herself partially responsible, though Harry had long since forgiven her.
Of course, if she was guilty, then so was her accomplice, the one and only, Draco Malfoy. It had been his change of heart that led Hermione to come into possession of an international portkey, allowing both her and Harry to escape the Battle of Hogwarts alive. In the months afterwards it was also Draco, along with his mother, and Theodore Nott, who had taken up aiding and abetting Harry and Hermione until the Order had a chance to recalibrate. This time, with a few additional members.
Draco had done a lot of growing up in the past few years. Between being indoctrinated into Voldemort’s ranks, falling for Hermione, and consequently turning to the Order of the Phoenix, he hardly resembled the petulant boy he once was.
Draco and Hermione had gone from avid academic rivals to working together with far more ease than anyone had been comfortable with, initially. They had bickered spectacularly on many occasions, but in the end one of them always conceded.
Until Hermione had accused Draco of being in love with her.
“Pull your head out of your arse, Granger, I’m trying to help your precious Potter,” he had rolled his eyes at the accusation, “I don’t give a damn what happens to you.”
“Oh yeah?” she fronted up to him, “Then I suppose you won’t mind if I go along as well?”
Draco rolled his eyes, “As I’ve said a thousand times - you are the most idiotic swot I have ever laid eyes on.” And boy did he lay eyes on her, Hermione felt like she could hardly make a move without his gaze following, “It’s like your stupid little Gryffindor brain doesn’t even have ‘danger’ in its' vocabulary.”
“Not when it comes to helping my friends, or you know, saving wizard-kind as we know it,” Hermione had scoffed, objecting to his blatant Gryffindor-bashing.
“Consider this, brightest-witch-of-her-age ,” he jeered, “If you die, who exactly is going to keep Potter in line? Who is going to come up with all the actually half decent ideas? Who is going to read through the damn night about bloody goblin ironworking and brief everyone the next day? Who is -”
Hermione cut him off by kissing him, and they hadn’t looked back since.
Draco had been ferociously protective of her from that moment onwards, and Narcissa began treating her like her own daughter. Had Hermione been told either of these things just a few short years before, she likely would have laughed herself silly.
Now, after Draco had argued with Kingsley Shacklebolt tooth and nail that his Hermione Granger, most valuable witch in the resistance, would not be sleeping in a damn tent like a common camper, she had been relocated to a proper safehouse.
The cottage had once belonged to Narcissa Malfoy’s distant relation, Cedrella Black, who was cast off the family tree for marrying a Weasley. Hermione also shared her dwellings with Luna Lovegood. Since Luna’s involvement in the war, she had been a notable target, but she also had a brilliant knack for herbology, which paired excellently with Hermione’s proclivity for potions. Together they made an exceptional duo of healers.
When Hermione found herself with a little spare time, which was not as often as there were typically patients to treat and potions to brew, she and Luna tended to a flourishing magical garden. The greenhouse in which they worked was based at the edge of the property and housed many kinds of plant; both magical and non.
Hermione had never fancied herself especially interested in herbology, but it was now more valuable than ever to be able to source their own materials for brewing healing potions. While Voldemort and his followers were still at large, there was not a shopfront in England that she could step foot in without being turned in to the Ministry. With Pius Thicknesse as Minister for Magic, the black market for potions was more hazardous than ever.
It was Luna who managed to cultivate the offcuts of once legally acquired ingredients; Draco had managed to skim off the top of his own potions supply without arousing suspicion.
The house stood alone on the Isle of Skye, and both for better and for worse, it was entirely isolated from civilisation. A long since decommissioned estate from the Black portfolio, the small house was in workable shape, and over the months that the duo had lived there, they had made it into somewhat of a home. It was said that revered witch, Flora MacDonald, had smuggled the Bonnie Prince Charlie to this very place in the 17 th Century, and in turn saved his life. Flora was suspected to be a member of the Black family, or at least a very close friend of one, and the residency had consequently remained a safe house throughout the centuries.
Draco had brought a gift from his mother the first time he’d visited Hermione here, a small vanishing cabinet that Narcissa frequently deposited a new book into for Hermione’s perusal. Whilst spells had always been her forte, the Death Eaters’ reliance on potions had become a topic of keen research for Hermione. This was initially due to Severus Snape’s involvement with Voldemort, but upon his death, his protégé had taken over and was expected to continue Snape’s research and upkeep his position.
Draco had often lamented to Hermione that he wished he had no set of skills to offer the Dark Lord. He might have faded into obscurity, but being the Malfoy heir and Snape’s understudy made him indispensable. It was a funny thing that history had repeated itself, at least to some extent. Rather like Snape, Malfoy had fallen for someone who had challenged his every belief. Now, just as his predecessor, Draco Malfoy risked his life every day to draw himself closer to the Dark Lord. Unlike Snape, however, Draco's love was requited.
Supply chain constraints had posed interesting challenges to their potion making that required creative solutions. Some three months prior, an embargo on laserwort, a new measure put in place by the Ministry as it encouraged repopulation efforts, had lead them to explore pennyroyal as a stand-in. Having proven wildly successful in other potions, though requiring thrice the amount, they concocted a substitute contraceptive potion that had worked perfectly.
Until it had failed spectacularly.
It had been five weeks since Hermione had last seen Draco, and three since she had realised that she was pregnant. It had taken her far longer than she would have liked to discover her affliction, but given the stress of living through a war, Hermione’s cycle hadn’t exactly kept regularity.
After feeling unwell and uncharacteristically immune to a Pepper Up Potion, Luna had flippantly asked, “Is there any chance you could be pregnant, Hermione? Your head is usually very wrackspurt repellant, but you seem to be riddled with them now.”
Hermione had had to think back to when her last period had been, though that was a fairly unreliable marker, “It’s not impossible,” she had conceded.
The pair then put their heads together and ran a range of diagnostic charms that eventually confirmed the only logical conclusion. Hermione was approximately 10 weeks pregnant.
Hermione fell into an inner despair that she didn’t want to plague Luna with at first. Not only was she pregnant in a war where the father of her child was a double agent and likely at the greatest risk of them all, she had also been subjected to a horrific blood curse that nobody else knew of.
Restless nights and fitful sleep became her bread and butter as the weeks passed. Though Luna had encouraged the use of Dreamless Sleep, Hermione had been opposed, citing a decided lack of requisite, even if she was barely functioning.
When Luna confronted Hermione for being particularly grumpy one morning, Hermione had snapped. Her jaw tightened before she blurted everything out, beginning, most concerningly, with, “I’m losing my magic.”
It finished with her confiding that in their fateful encounter with Bellatrix Lestrange at Malfoy Manor, the torture that the dark witch had imbued upon Hermione had not merely been for interrogation purposes. No. The purpose of her cruelty had been to ensure that Hermione could not have a child without losing her magic.
Luna, level-headed and kind-hearted, spoke gently as she approached Hermione with her first solution, “You need some sleep.” Handing over the Dreamless Sleep that Hermione had been avoiding, she proposed, “Once you’re feeling better we can start researching.”
Hermione hated to admit it, but her lack of sleep had played a rather large part in her foul mood, and having had her first decent nights sleep in a while really was conducive to new ways of thought.
They had begun drawing out what Hermione could remember of the curse, which admittedly wasn’t much given that she was in excruciating pain throughout the duration.
Then they had revisited Curses and Counter-Curses , as there was a convenient copy already residing within their library, but this proved unhelpful. They scoured their resources for any other books on curses that they might access, but the library was small and largely outdated.
Their means of research inhibited, Hermione began to panic, but more so when she received a coded message from the vanishing cabinet.
In the days leading up to a visit from Draco, Hermione always received word via the vanishing cabinet. Hermione and Narcissa had found an unconventional way of keeping in touch, using the lost language of flowers to convey their messages to one another. They had strict rules to not have any written communications, lest they be intercepted and caught, so this was quite the workaround.
Using flowers as code had been a muggle tradition in centuries past, and it had struck Hermione as oddly endearing that Narcissa had taken such an interest. Hermione noted that though the noble house of Black had traditionally named their children after constellations, Narcissa carried a name from Greek mythology, yes, but hers also meant flower.
The format of the messages that came through were now as easy for Hermione to decipher as reading plain English. Two valerians in full bloom represented readiness, which Narcissa had always used to mean that Draco’s arrival would be in the same number of days. And then, for completeness, a pink carnation, which symbolised a mother’s love, a message of comfort that she had grown to expect and appreciate from the Malfoy matriarch.
Hermione was anxious to see Draco, though not because she was eager to tell him of their predicament. On the contrary, she had called Luna into the kitchen just as she located a vase for the flowers Narcissa had sent.
“We can’t tell him,” Hermione stared intently at the pink carnation, “about the – you know.”
“He’ll be happy about it, Hermione,” Luna spoke gently, pulling her hair over one shoulder. She had woven it into a braid as she often did when they were working on something that required her full concentration.
“I know, I know,” Hermione said, filling the vase with water and setting it on the dining table. Leaning into it as she held her head in her hands, “And that’s why we can’t say. Not yet.”
Luna seemed to see straight into Hermione’s soul in that moment, asking pointedly, “You don’t think he’d be able to go back to the Death Eaters?”
“I know he wouldn’t,” Hermione said, eyes darkening. She tried desperately to push the conjured image of Draco, herself, their child and Luna all safely hidden away in the estate until they were very old. It hurt too much to think of.
Luna touched Hermione’s hand compassionately, “You’re both very noble people, I’m sure he’ll understand why you’ve kept this from him.”
“I’ll tell him eventually,” Hermione assured her friend, squeezing her hand in acknowledgment, “I just need to be certain of what I’m telling him.” Luna certainly understood Hermione’s need to grasp a situation in its entirety before assessing. She had seen it take place too many times to count in their time as housemates, and before in their time together at Hogwarts. It made sense that Hermione didn’t want to endanger Draco’s life further, and if lying to him for a short period of time would save his life and potentially countless members of the resistance, then they needed to stick by it.
On the eve of Draco’s impending arrival, worry had made a sleepless night for Hermione, but a Pepper-Up potion that Luna served with breakfast worked wonders. Assured that she had some colour back in her face, Hermione was as prepared as she could be to lie to Draco’s face.
An obscenely gorgeous face at that. The years had lended a broadness to his shoulders, Hermione had termed it his ‘weight of the world’ physique. His muscles were lean and toned, but his skin remained pale, and often marked from his line of work.
She was terrified that he would see right through her. She knew logically that he would not be able to tell she was pregnant just from looking at her, but there were still precautions she needed to take.
Firstly, her limited wardrobe really didn’t give her much to choose from other than a mauve long sleeved shirt and the same pair of jeans she had worn in front of him a thousand times. Both items definitely felt tighter than usual, but she didn’t think they gave away her state, and transfiguring them into something more loosely fit was out of the question. She couldn’t afford for him to start asking questions, even insignificant ones.
Hermione passed by the bathroom mirror far more times that morning than she probably had for the entire duration of their stay in the cottage. She had stood at all angles in front of the mirror and even called Luna in to assure her that she didn’t suddenly look obviously pregnant.
Worried that she would drive herself mad, Hermione decided to occupy herself with preparing the wolfsbane potion that she had promised the Order would be prepared for the next full moon.
She had ruined two lots of the potion because she’d been caught up in her own anxieties. Finally managing to focus her mind, she busied herself with the intricacies of potion making.
Draco appeared in the door frame a little after midday and watched as she worked her way around the potions station, waiting for her to acknowledge him.
“What do we have here?” He folded his arms across his chest, amusement written all over his face.
Hermione barely looked up enough to notice, a combination of nerves and a tried and true concentration that was required to perfect another batch of wolfsbane potion. Aberforth would come to collect the finished brew in the coming days and Hermione knew it was critical that she provide it.
“Just a second,” she muttered, adding two drops of Hellebore Syrup, dropping in three murtlap tentacles before she reduced the temperature to a medium heat and stepped backwards. She signalled to Draco that he could now interrupt.
This occasion was one where he happened to look like he hadn’t been harmed in the last few days, but that may just have been because he was wearing a fitted black sweater that covered most of his arms.
He didn’t need any encouragement as he strode across the room, tangling one hand in the hair at the back of her head as he kissed the concentrated crease in her brow. “Wolfsbane?” he queried, “Probably for the best. There are ongoing negotiations with Greyback and his lot.”
“His lot?” Hermione chastised, “It’s hardly fair to paint all werewolves with the same brush, is it?”
“It is when they’re all taking the same side,” Draco countered, hoping that they wouldn’t have to verbally spar for long before Hermione would remember that they were on the same side now.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, shaking her head, clearly having the same thought, “I’ve been with my own thoughts too long, Luna’s been hand raising these – oh never mind, it’s good to see you.” She relaxed into his touch, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders and holding him tightly.
“Glad to be back,” he returned in kind.
“How are you?” she asked cautiously as she parted from him briefly to turn on the kettle.
When she turned to retrieve some mugs from the cupboard, she noticed his pinched brow and mentally berated herself.
“I’m sorry,” she apologised again, knowing full well that Draco didn’t much enjoy getting into the weeds of the abhorrent double life he currently lead.
“You’re acting very strange, Granger,” he observed, “I think I should be asking how you are?”
Hermione panicked, could he tell she was pregnant? Just by looking at her? It was a dreadful happenstance that she had ended up loving a man who knew her so intimately, when she had grown up around the two most obtuse boys at Hogwarts. All manner of hiding her feelings was completely out of her skillset.
When she didn’t answer, he just smirked at her and moved to stand over the potion station, “I’ve brought the Prophet,” he stated, by way of continuing the conversation. The Quibbler had been out of print since the Battle of Hogwarts, due to an obvious lack of staffing, so Hermione had had to lower her standards drastically (and often read between the lines) to be able to read the dregs of wizarding journalism.
“Read it after I’ve gone,” he reminded her, as if she would waste a minute reading that when she had him to talk to, “And no – I haven’t seen Potter or Weasel. So, no news is good news.”
The worst part of this exile was perhaps that the Golden Trio were each now far too valuable to be kept in the same safe house. Harry, the face of the revolution, and for all intents and purposes still Voldemort’s greatest threat, was likely stationed at Grimmauld Place, though no one would confirm that to Hermione. Ronald, who had somehow found himself the face of the resistance’s international relations - initially forged by his connection to sister-in-law, Fleur Delacour - was probably situated in Europe somewhere. And Hermione, the resistance’s best Healer, the brains behind many demonstrations of defiance, and brightest witch of her age, was relegated to the far west of Scotland. To her advantage though, she did have the company of Luna and the occasional patients that were brought to them.
If any one of them were to be compromised, the resistance would be damaged significantly. As tensions rose, Shacklebolt had determined that it would be impossible to let them even speak with one another for fear of being found out.
Leading Draco into the kitchen for some tea, the couple sat right next to each other at the small bench in the kitchen. It didn’t usually take them so long to defrost after their time apart, but they both seemed to have other things on their mind.
“You look tired,” he told her, to which she couldn’t help but laugh a little.
Her eyes crinkling affectionately, “You have no idea.”
“No, you’re right, the Chateau du Dark Lord is fit for a king unless you happen to be the clumsy Potions Master who mishandled a batch of magic suppressant potion lately,” Draco joked. Hermione knitted her brows together, “I’ve been sleeping on a bed of nails for weeks,” he continued the ruse, nudging her with an elbow as he lifted the tea to take a sip.
“That’s not funny,” Hermione admonished him, certain that what Draco was saying wasn’t far from the truth, and what's more, the punishment was probably far worse than he had let on.
Draco didn’t like to speak of what he had to do in his day to day deception unless utterly essential. By necessity, he was usually tasked with warning Hermione of a new concoction that he had been forced to think up, allowing her time to experiment and distribute antidotes or occasionally simply to warn the Order. That was why, alongside their skills, Luna and Hermione were best positioned to man the makeshift apothecary- cum -hospital.
The pair had tended to many resistance members who were gravely injured, cursed or poisoned. With all the time they had spare to study, the girls now proudly held an exceptionally well-stocked suite of remedies, and with a vague knowledge of muggle health practices, imparted by her parents, they proved to be an asset time and time again.
“How’s your Mother?” She finally settled on, interested to hear just how Narcissa Malfoy spent her days now that she had finally managed to recover Malfoy Manor for her own.
“She sends her love,” Draco said sincerely, “She’s organising a rather high-profile ball over Yule. If she has any concerns about it, she hides it exceptionally well. Narcissa Malfoy always rises to the occasion when it comes to parties, even if the attendees are mostly murderers.”
Hermione could attest to having seen that in action, it seemed that Voldemort had charged Narcissa Malfoy with the international publicity of the Death Eater campaign. The Dark Lord’s way of validating his chosen ideology came about by inviting international guests to view the grand affairs that Narcissa Malfoy put on. The responsibility was hers alone to assure the world that the British Isles were better than ever.
Having finished their tea, Hermione set their mugs on the counter and the couple migrated to a far comfier seating arrangement in the converted sunroom, though the sun was nowhere to be seen on this particular day.
This was their preferred place to enjoy each other’s company, they had spent countless hours equally prattling on meaninglessly and delving into their darkest secrets. It was here that Hermione learned just how desperately Draco wanted to have his own family. He’d said he wanted to protect them fiercely, as he saw his father fail to do so time and time again.
She couldn’t help but think back to that conversation now, wondering if he would be irreparably upset with her that she hadn’t afforded him the opportunity to protect them both. The thought alone had her stomach in knots.
Thankfully, it seemed that he hadn’t at all picked up on the uneasiness she was feeling. Or if he had, he had his own idea of what she was so anxious about. Such was being in a war.
“Read anything good lately?” Draco asked Hermione, interrupting her thoughts abruptly with a mischievous smile.
“How long do you have?” she countered playfully, doing her best not to let her inner turmoil sallow their time together.
She drew him in with an impassioned retelling of the biography of Thaddeus Wilt, a Dragonologist who had made a breakthrough discovery in dragon communications. Although this was a book Hermione had read for leisure and had no real benefit to the cause, she knew that Draco would be grateful to hear something that didn’t provoke a reminder of his impending departure.
At least one of them should have a little reprieve from their concerns.
They talked for what might have been hours but only felt like minutes, and by the time night had fallen they were splayed across the couch with limbs entwined, Hermione’s back pressed against Draco’s chest as he twirled one of Hermione’s brunette tendrils round his finger and sighed mournfully.
“You have to go,” she announced for him, a sad smile haunting her lips.
“I wish I didn’t,” he said, just as he did every time, “this never gets any easier.”
“I know,” she acknowledged, “And here, you should take this with you,” Hermione stood up now, heading into the small apothecary and retrieving a deep blue bottle, “For your headaches.”
He had access to as many potions he wanted, she knew, but that didn’t take away from the gesture. The longer that Draco was around the Death Eaters and especially Voldemort himself, the more it had been necessary for him to practice occlusion. Hermione had noticed that when he came to visit he was often stung with debilitating and pounding headaches that hardly budged when treated with the stock standard draught. That day had been one of the rare times he hadn’t been plagued with this affliction.
He took the draught in his hand and held it up to the light, examining it as if he were her potions professor, and Hermione had to cut him off before he could say anything, “Do not grade my homework, Draco.”
He let out a proper laugh then, drawing her in to squeeze her backside, “Be careful, Granger.”
“You’re welcome ,” Hermione retorted, before Draco captured her mouth with his own, lingering on a kiss she never felt ready to end.
He pocketed the potion and looked her over intently, gaze suddenly more serious than she’d seen in hours. It was always like this, the guilt spread over his face like clockwork. He’d confided that he was never sure he deserved the happiness he felt with her. That, she supposed, was made worse when the pleasure of her company was book-ended with devastating moral and physical trials.
“You don’t need to feel like -” she began rationalising, her concern evidenced by her pinched brow.
“You’re ruining this for me, Granger,” he interjected, his silver grey gaze unrelenting as he smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear. He was the only person in the world who she would keep her mouth shut for, anyone else and she would tell them where to shove it.
Keeping his hand at her face, he cupped her cheek and smoothed his thumb across her cheekbone, and then her bottom lip as if savouring every inch of her.
Hermione had guessed that he needed this to get him through the worst of his days, much like she would replay their conversations in her head when they were apart for some time. It wasn’t like either of them could go about with pictures of each other tucked into their wallets.
They knew very well that every time they saw each other could be the last, though admittedly it was easier for Hermione to be complacent than for Draco. Facing the Dark Lord regularly put Draco in an expectedly grim mood. It was no wonder it always took him so long to say goodbye, even when he knew he had to go.
It was Hermione who shifted to embrace Draco, pressing her now wet cheek against his collar. She had hoped it would go unnoticed, but he held her tighter then, voice barely above a whisper as he chastised, “What have we said about crying?”
“I’m not apologising for having feelings,” she spoke stubbornly, even if her words quavered. She ached to tell him about the child then, if only he’d known why she’d broken their longstanding deal.
He withdrew only after her breathing had returned to normal, and if her own eyes weren’t so dewy, she would have sworn that his eyes were a little red as well. “Say goodbye to Luna for me?” he requested, kissing her forehead once more.
“Of course,” Hermione agreed, watching as he reluctantly made to leave. He spared her one last glance before he closed the door behind him, and Hermione watched from the window as his unmistakable head of blond hair disappeared from view.
She hadn’t given herself a moment’s reprieve before she began thinking about their child, and what on earth she could possibly do to save them both. It had dawned on her that if the child syphoned her magic away, she could no longer protect either of them. The only thing she might have found calming was to read more on curses, but there was a severe lack thereof in the library she currently had access to.
Luna made herself known not long afterwards, likely because she had anticipated Hermione’s anxiety levels would skyrocket.
“Have I done the wrong thing?” Hermione turned to her friend, her stare almost vacant.
“You’re killing yourself here, Hermione,” Luna frowned, taking a seat on the couch and beckoning Hermione to join.
The brunette stiffly joined her friend, hands in her lap as if she were awaiting bad news in a doctors office and not relaxing into the couch they sat on every day. Her mind was churning through problems and solutions and more problems again.
“I need to write up a pros and cons list,” she declared, standing up from the couch once more, her movements almost erratic.
“Are you sure that will help?” Luna tilted her head, doing her best to appeal to Hermione’s rational mind.
“Nothing helps!” Hermione suddenly snapped, “We don’t have adequate resources here for me to even begin tackling this problem.”
Luna nodded her agreement, “Perhaps you could ask Narcissa -”
“Out of the question,” Hermione’s eyes narrowed, “Are you mad?”
Luna looked a little hurt then, the ridicule and name-calling of Loony Lovegood catching up to her for just a moment.
“Oh Luna, I didn’t mean that - I can be so careless sometimes,” Hermione apologised, “I just mean that telling Narcissa would almost guarantee Draco would find out.”
“Well, perhaps your pros and cons list will help you,” Luna offered, “But I think you already know the answer.”
Hermione exhaled, trying to stave off the frustration she felt, she certainly wasn’t annoyed with Luna, she was just in an impossible situation. Summoning a writing utensil and paper to her where she sat, Hermione wordlessly got to work, Luna leaning in for input every now and again.
By the end of the exercise, Hermione felt somewhat better knowing that she really had thought through all possible alternatives, of which, there were none.
Narcissa Malfoy had access to an impressive library, as well as having the privilege of still being able to enter Flourish & Blotts without being arrested on sight. And she had so far proven incredibly trustworthy, Hermione had no real reason to doubt that she would betray her. Even if the secret she kept was from her own son.
Hermione felt confident in her considered approach, Narcissa would likely come to the same conclusion that Hermione had. In order to protect Draco, this would need to remain a secret between them. For now.
Hermione and Luna made a trip out to their garden, gathering a few offcuts from the required plants. A single daffodil to symbolise danger, hemlock to indicate a curse, her very own pink carnation, alongside baby’s breath to ensure that there could be no misinterpretation of the message. Finally, a white rose, that was of the utmost importance, for secrecy.
Binding the flowers with a repurposed ribbon, Hermione left the pointed message for help in her twin cabinet, which she hoped Narcissa would receive by morning.