Eight and Eighth--Chapter 31
Title: Eight and Eighth
Author: Marmalade Fever
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, and more.
Genres: Romance, Drama, weird combo of in-Hogwarts and post-Hogwarts, and Humor. I can't write a fanfic without humor leaking its way in.
Spoilers: DH (though no epilogue)
Overall Rating: PG-13
Summary: Up from the ashes of seventh year grow the roses of the eighth. Eight students return for their final year at Hogwarts, and Hermione Granger would never have thought Draco Malfoy would or could be one of those roses.
Eight and Eighth-Chapter 31-Of Ermines and Roses
The ermine and the stoat are the exact same creature, save one minor difference. The ermine is white during the winter, and the stoat is brown during the summer. Interestingly, in Leonardo Da Vinci’s painting, “Lady with an Ermine,” the ermine is said to more closely resemble a white ferret.
Ermine young are born in May or June.
O
When Hermione held hands with Malfoy, the silver charm on the bracelet Ron had given her for her birthday tended to make a tinkling sound as it tapped against his manacle. She normally wasn’t sure whether she liked that sound or not. Today, however, there was something reassuring about that sound. It might have had something to do with the fact that Ron and Ginny were currently smiling like idiots, having received word that Bill and Fleur Weasley’s daughter, Victoire, had just arrived into this world. She’d nearly forgotten Fleur was even pregnant, and now, here it was, the second of May, the one year anniversary of The Final Battle-and Pansy was one day overdue.
Hermione’s knees were wobbly.
It was half-past seven in the morning, and a Sunday. Strictly speaking, Ginny was not supposed to be in the Eighth Year common room, seeing how she was a Seventh Year, but Head Girl had to have some perks, after all. Besides, this was a momentous occasion, a day of celebration. It wasn’t everyday that Ginny became an aunt and Ron an uncle. Harry, Hermione supposed, was as good as an uncle now too, by extension. Even August, sitting and looking sleepy with her head on Ron’s shoulder, might be considered an aunt of sorts.
“Mum says it’s hard to tell so far, but she might be strawberry-blonde,” Ginny said, beaming. “Not that she has much hair.”
“Funny thinking of Bill as a dad,” Ron commented. He was wearing his pajamas, which, despite the fact that he’d stopped growing, were still two inches short at the ankle.
“Yeah,” Ginny agreed. “But he is twenty-eight. It’s not as if he’s overly young.”
Ron frowned. “I know. It’s just weird, is all.”
Malfoy’s hand was being very still in Hermione’s. She didn’t dare look to see what his expression was like.
“What’s that face for?” Harry asked, looking straight at her.
“Hmm?” she asked.
“You look a little scared,” Ginny filled in. She took a glance at Malfoy. “You both look out of sorts. Is the baby talk getting you down?” she asked, stifling a smile.
“We’re fine,” Malfoy replied bluntly. His hand pulled away from hers, and he disappeared down the spiral stairs.
“That… was odd,” Ginny said.
“It’s Malfoy. What do you expect?” Ron asked, his head lolling over to rest on top of August’s. “Should we call her Vicky or Toire?”
O
Hermione was starting to feel… jumpy. Maybe she wasn’t just starting to feel that way. She did feel that way. Anytime now, there was bound to be an owl swooping down, bidding her to go to the Manor. She knew better than to expect a smiling head poking through the fireplace, like Mrs. Weasley’s had done when she’d alerted Ron and Ginny that morning.
“You really don’t look good,” Harry said, sitting across from her at breakfast. “I mean, I don’t mean you look bad, just not well,” he hurriedly corrected himself before stuffing a slice of toast in his mouth.
Hermione gave him a small smile. “Good save.”
Harry finished chewing his toast and frowned at her. “Anything you want to talk about? You’ve been kind of off for the last few weeks. Malfoy too, actually.”
Hermione sighed, looking wistfully up at the open windows where owls usually entered the Great Hall. “What are you going to do?” she asked him.
“About…?” he asked.
“I mean after Hogwarts. Are you taking the teaching position? Something else that would let you see Ginny more often? What’s Harry Potter’s life going to be like once he’s out of school?”
Harry coughed. “Er, thought maybe I’d give McGonagall’s offer a go, at least for a year. See if the position isn’t cursed still,” he added. “Visit Gin when I can.”
Hermione nodded and flipped the fried egg on her plate over with her fork, sunny side down. “That’s nice,” she said, not knowing when her throat had started closing up in that usual harbinger of tears. She took a long sip from her water goblet, hoping to dull the ache.
“And, er, you?” Harry asked, his head bent at an angle, trying to look into her eyes, which were averted.
She shrugged, staring determinedly at the open window as her vision started to blur, but she wouldn’t blink.
“Hermione?” Harry tried again tentatively. “Is something wrong?”
“You could say that,” she said, her voice cracking slightly.
“Did Malfoy… do something?”
She shook her head.
“But it has something to do with him, doesn’t it?” Harry asked, and she nodded. “Can I have a clue?”
She sighed and turned back to face him, still not quite meeting his eyes. “You remember the egg project?”
“Yes,” Harry said, sounding tentative. “Did Malfoy send your egg to the kitchens?” He looked pointedly down at her plate, probably hoping to break the tension.
“No.” There was a pause, and suddenly Harry’s eyes were wide.
“You’re not… you’re not….” He seemed unable to finish his sentence and pointed toward her stomach.
“No! Though I almost wish-.” She bit her lip.
Harry looked confused again. “I don’t get it. Is he… impotent?” he asked sourly.
“No!” she repeated. “Ugh.” She set her forehead in her hands. “Pansy’s pregnant.”
Harry’s mouth opened slightly. “Oh.”
“I know,” she said, wiping her forearm across her eyelids.
“He’s leaving you, then?”
“No,” she said again. “He’s not.”
“Okay,” Harry said, looking like he was trying and failing to rationalize the situation. “Then, what?”
“Pansy’s dying.”
“Oh,” Harry repeated, for lack of anything else to say. “And the, um, baby?”
“Is due.”
“Hermione, I-” Harry started, and his face fell. “So if you aren’t breaking up and Pansy’s… then, what? Are you going to help raise it?”
She paused before taking a stab at her egg with her fork. “What else can I do?” Harry opened his mouth. “That was a rhetorical question.”
“All right,” he said slowly. “It’s not like I wish anything against the kid, or even Malfoy for that matter, but I don’t like seeing you forced into this.”
“Nobody’s forcing me, Harry. Just fate,” she added in a quieter voice. She let her eyes wander to the window again, and then down a little to the Slytherin table, where Malfoy was sitting and looking dejected. “I love him.”
“The post’s here,” Harry said, redirecting her to the window again. Out of the corner of her eye, Malfoy’s head had turned in the window’s direction as well. They all watched as the owl made a lazy arc before fluttering to her side.
O
Nausea. Draco was experiencing nausea. One little trip across the Great Hall, and his world was now changed forever. Granger was holding the letter from his mother in one hand and squeezing his hand with the other. “She’s in labor. Your mother sent for a healer, and she’ll owl again when it’s closer to time. Do you,” she paused, “do you want me to go there? Later?”
He glanced at Potter, who was watching their exchange with a bothered expression on his face. Draco nodded, just slightly.
“All right, then,” she replied, putting on a braver face than could possibly be real. “It may be awhile, so we’ll wait.”
“Right,” he agreed. “I’ll just….” He gestured vaguely at the door before walking away. He wondered if the house-elves would be willing to give him something alcoholic at half-past eight in the morning.
O
The house-elves were, apparently, not too keen on the idea of giving a student “tipsy drinks,” of age or no. Bloody things were probably afraid that McGonagall would give them clothes if she found out. He couldn’t even barter a butterbeer out of them, though they did give him a cup of tea. Considering the present state of his stomach, that was probably for the best, loath as he was to admit it.
He needed to calm down, think rationally. Tea always seemed to help with that.
He had never been in love with Pansy. He’d liked her, he supposed. She’d been his friend, even if their friendship had been of a fairly superficial nature. It was sort of the same way he’d been friends with Crabbe and Goyle. He’d taken them for granted and used them for his own gains, more than anything else.
If he’d felt guilty about Crabbe, he now felt doubly guilty about Pansy. Truthfully, he’d barely even thought of her since she’d left for Azkaban. He hadn’t missed her, had had random musings about her that were more comical than anything else.
There wasn’t anything he could do about that now, only hope she’d live.
What if the baby didn’t live? No one had said anything about that possibility. If Pansy were that weak, then wouldn’t the baby be as well? But then, maybe there was more to his mother’s vision than she’d let on. Maybe the baby was meant to live. He hoped so.
It was time to grow up now. There were things to be done. If Granger brought his child back here, then there were a few essential items needed for that to work. Formula, nappies, a crib….
He should probably go talk to McGonagall and see if she’d even let him have the baby here or if his mother would have to babysit for the remainder of the term. Yes. He needed to talk to McGonagall right away, before his baby was born without the basic essentials of life, including somewhere to live.
Where had all of this responsibility come from?
O
Quick steps, up a hallway, turn, panting sounds, the rattling of a doorknob in shaky hands, and Hermione caught sight of Pansy’s sweating red face, scrunched up in pain. And then the door was in her face again as Narcissa Malfoy ushered her out of the room.
“I’m glad you came,” she said. There was blood on her hands.
“Is everything…?”
“As well as can be expected.” Narcissa gave her a look, almost in chastisement. “Did you tell Draco?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Narcissa wiped her hands across her thighs, smearing red on her apron. “It shouldn’t be too much longer. She’s very close.”
Hermione nodded, looking nervously at the closed door. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she offered, though she knew the answer before it was given.
“No, no. There’s nothing we can do, really.” Narcissa shifted. “How is he?”
That was the million pound question, wasn’t it? “Nervous.”
“Yes, well….” She cleared her throat. “And you?”
Hermione almost wanted to bark out a laugh. “What about me?” she asked bitterly.
That chastising look was back. “No need for the cheek. I’m not exactly pleased about the situation myself.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re not.” Hermione frowned darkly just as a strangled yelp resounded from the room within. Pansy sounded more than just pained. Pansy sounded like she was struggling just to scream. And then there was silence and the hush of whispers. The door opened.
The healer’s face was grim as he leaned toward her. “She wants to speak with you.”
“Me?” Hermione asked, but Narcissa was already pushing her through the door she’d barred her from earlier.
Pansy was slumped against a pillow, her chest heaving. The healer took up his station at the foot of the bed, his wand hovering and emitting a purple glow, and Hermione was left standing at the back of the room, not entirely sure what she should be doing. Pansy’s lips moved, and a faint mumble came from between them.
“You’ll have to get closer,” the Healer said, not looking up from his task.
Hermione skittered forward, trying not to look too closely at the blood (and other) stains on the linens. Despite the redness, Pansy’s face looked sallow, and there were dark shadows below her eyes. “Can’t feel them,” the pregnant girl mumbled.
“Can’t feel what?”
“She means her legs. She broke her spine a minute ago. She’s too weak.” The Healer’s wand quivered back and forth in a purposeful arc.
“Less pain,” Pansy added, though she was still wincing.
Hermione nodded. She really didn’t think she, of all people, should be the one at Pansy’s side at this moment. Where were her parents? Were they really that ashamed of her? “Got a list,” Pansy hissed, her hand lifting feebly to point to her left. “Names. Good,” she groaned, “names.” On the nightstand was a small piece of folded parchment. Hermione pocketed it, any hope that Pansy might survive this quickly diminishing. “Granger… take care of them.” Her eyes fluttered shut, her breathing even more ragged than before.
“Unless you want to watch, I’d suggest you leave.” The Healer pointed to the door.
And she really, really didn’t want to watch.
O
Professor McGonagall’s eyebrows lowered. “Mr. Malfoy, are you quite sure you’re prepared for what you’re asking of me?”
“All due respect, Headmistress, but I don’t think I have much of a choice.” Draco shifted uncomfortably. He knew all too well that Dumbledore’s portrait was looking at him, judging him, most likely pitying him, and probably doing that twinkly eyes thing.
“Surely your mother or Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson would be able to watch the child for the remainder of the term,” she suggested.
“My mother’s done enough already. As for the Parkinsons, they’ve already made it clear where they stand on the issue, otherwise Pansy wouldn’t have been rooming with my mother. Besides,” Draco added, “I don’t like the idea of being separated for a whole month. I mean…. You don’t have children, do you, Professor?”
McGonagall pursed her lips. “Maybe not, but I suppose I understand your point.” She sighed. “But the fact remains that you will not be available to provide the needed supervision, not while you’re in classes. Taking care of a newborn is a fulltime job. And where will it sleep? In your dormitory? You may room with three extraordinarily mature young men,” she looked a little uneasy as she said mature, “but I’m sure they won’t take well to having their sleep disrupted every few hours.”
“But…” Draco began, though he wasn’t having much success in thinking of a way to refute her points.
“So,” she said, looking thoroughly harassed, “perhaps some new arrangements will have to be made.”
For the first time that day, Draco felt something like relief flow through him. “What kind of arrangements?”
McGonagall stood, paced a few steps, and turned to pace the other direction. “I’ll arrange to have you take your NEWTS early. If all goes well, you’ll have them done within the week. I’ve noticed your newfound devotion to your studies, and I’m sure you’ll do well enough to pass them.”
He wasn’t entirely sure if that was more relief or sudden panic he was feeling now.
“Second, since you have been offered a teaching position here, I suppose it wouldn’t be too imprudent to arrange your new quarters early as well. That’s assuming you’ll be taking the Potions position?” He nodded vigorously. “Then that should help alleviate some of the concern, though I do wonder how you’ll manage to continue your single-parenting once the fall term begins.”
“I’m sure I’ll come up with something,” he said quickly, trying to keep her from changing her mind.
“I’m sure you will.” McGonagall reached for a tin atop her desk. “Have a biscuit, Mr. Malfoy. You look like you could use the sugar.”
O
The bundle in Hermione’s arms was warm and squirming and so small-so unbelievably small. She was suddenly thankful that she’d had some practice with Teddy Lupin, otherwise she might have been unsure about the right way to fold her arms, how to balance the head so that those tiny steel-blue eyes were looking up at her in the dull confusion of newborns rather than in terror. Narcissa spent one long moment with her finger trailing up and down the baby’s cheek, and then she’d cleared her throat and begun to lead them to the nearest Floo.
“Take care of them for me,” she repeated.
“You’ll see them again. Draco’s year is almost up, then he’ll be able to leave the grounds again. He’ll probably want to stay here for the summer.”
Narcissa nodded quietly. “We’ll see.” Her fingers returned to the baby’s cheek. “All those months… and she guessed wrong. Let me know what name you decide on.”
“We will.” Hermione hugged the infant a little closer to her as she activated the Floo, covering the baby’s face with its blanket to keep the soot out of the miniature mouth and eyes. Five very long seconds later, and she stepped into McGonagall’s office.
O
McGonagall turned, looking surprised, and Draco dropped the biscuit that had been halfway to his mouth. Granger stood there, looking only slightly overwhelmed, with his child in her arms. His child. “Let me see him,” he said.
She shook her head. “Her.”
“What?”
“Pansy was wrong,” she said simply. “You have a daughter,” she added, just as she placed the baby into his arms. From the corner of his eye, he saw her reach into her pocket. “And apparently,” she continued, unfolding a piece of parchment, “Pansy’s number one baby name choice for a girl… is Ermengarde.”
“Ermengarde?” McGonagall repeated, looking back and forth between the three of them.
“Ermengarde,” Granger confirmed, a funny look on her face.
Draco almost laughed, looking down at the tiny, scrunched face that was looking back up at him, just a little cross-eyed. “My little ermine.”
Granger stepped closer to look over his shoulder. “I’d say we call her by her middle name, except Pansy wanted Buttercup.”
This time he did laugh, which was odd considering how close he felt to tears. “I think we can scrap that one. Something simpler?”
“You don’t want a star or a constellation?”
He looked at her, really looked at her. “Erm here is as much yours as mine now. How about you choose.”
She smiled sadly, looking down at their baby. “I’ve always liked Rose.”
He nodded in agreement. “Ermengarde Rose, then.” The steely-blue eyes fluttered shut. He smiled with pride at the rose that had grown from the ashes.
O
A.N.: Hi! How do you know when a chapter gives me trouble? When there are a billion tiny little scenes and over a month between updates. Ick.
Well, hopefully none of you are too upset about the baby being a girl or the rather odd name I just gave her. Ermengarde came to me a few weeks ago, and I knew I had to work it in somehow or another. (It’s a German name; you might remember it from Sara’s friend in A Little Princess.) As for Rose, the whole “Ron and Hermione’s canon daughter” thing is almost just a happy coincidence, what with the flower theme and the fic summary. Buttercup is the result of my scrolling through lots and lots of flower meanings, looking for something that would be suitable and mostly failing. (That one happens to mean childishness and riches.) Roses, on the other hand, have so many meanings that pretty much anything goes.
Click the tag for a list of chapters.
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Author: Marmalade Fever
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, and more.
Genres: Romance, Drama, weird combo of in-Hogwarts and post-Hogwarts, and Humor. I can't write a fanfic without humor leaking its way in.
Spoilers: DH (though no epilogue)
Overall Rating: PG-13
Summary: Up from the ashes of seventh year grow the roses of the eighth. Eight students return for their final year at Hogwarts, and Hermione Granger would never have thought Draco Malfoy would or could be one of those roses.
Eight and Eighth-Chapter 31-Of Ermines and Roses
The ermine and the stoat are the exact same creature, save one minor difference. The ermine is white during the winter, and the stoat is brown during the summer. Interestingly, in Leonardo Da Vinci’s painting, “Lady with an Ermine,” the ermine is said to more closely resemble a white ferret.
Ermine young are born in May or June.
O
When Hermione held hands with Malfoy, the silver charm on the bracelet Ron had given her for her birthday tended to make a tinkling sound as it tapped against his manacle. She normally wasn’t sure whether she liked that sound or not. Today, however, there was something reassuring about that sound. It might have had something to do with the fact that Ron and Ginny were currently smiling like idiots, having received word that Bill and Fleur Weasley’s daughter, Victoire, had just arrived into this world. She’d nearly forgotten Fleur was even pregnant, and now, here it was, the second of May, the one year anniversary of The Final Battle-and Pansy was one day overdue.
Hermione’s knees were wobbly.
It was half-past seven in the morning, and a Sunday. Strictly speaking, Ginny was not supposed to be in the Eighth Year common room, seeing how she was a Seventh Year, but Head Girl had to have some perks, after all. Besides, this was a momentous occasion, a day of celebration. It wasn’t everyday that Ginny became an aunt and Ron an uncle. Harry, Hermione supposed, was as good as an uncle now too, by extension. Even August, sitting and looking sleepy with her head on Ron’s shoulder, might be considered an aunt of sorts.
“Mum says it’s hard to tell so far, but she might be strawberry-blonde,” Ginny said, beaming. “Not that she has much hair.”
“Funny thinking of Bill as a dad,” Ron commented. He was wearing his pajamas, which, despite the fact that he’d stopped growing, were still two inches short at the ankle.
“Yeah,” Ginny agreed. “But he is twenty-eight. It’s not as if he’s overly young.”
Ron frowned. “I know. It’s just weird, is all.”
Malfoy’s hand was being very still in Hermione’s. She didn’t dare look to see what his expression was like.
“What’s that face for?” Harry asked, looking straight at her.
“Hmm?” she asked.
“You look a little scared,” Ginny filled in. She took a glance at Malfoy. “You both look out of sorts. Is the baby talk getting you down?” she asked, stifling a smile.
“We’re fine,” Malfoy replied bluntly. His hand pulled away from hers, and he disappeared down the spiral stairs.
“That… was odd,” Ginny said.
“It’s Malfoy. What do you expect?” Ron asked, his head lolling over to rest on top of August’s. “Should we call her Vicky or Toire?”
O
Hermione was starting to feel… jumpy. Maybe she wasn’t just starting to feel that way. She did feel that way. Anytime now, there was bound to be an owl swooping down, bidding her to go to the Manor. She knew better than to expect a smiling head poking through the fireplace, like Mrs. Weasley’s had done when she’d alerted Ron and Ginny that morning.
“You really don’t look good,” Harry said, sitting across from her at breakfast. “I mean, I don’t mean you look bad, just not well,” he hurriedly corrected himself before stuffing a slice of toast in his mouth.
Hermione gave him a small smile. “Good save.”
Harry finished chewing his toast and frowned at her. “Anything you want to talk about? You’ve been kind of off for the last few weeks. Malfoy too, actually.”
Hermione sighed, looking wistfully up at the open windows where owls usually entered the Great Hall. “What are you going to do?” she asked him.
“About…?” he asked.
“I mean after Hogwarts. Are you taking the teaching position? Something else that would let you see Ginny more often? What’s Harry Potter’s life going to be like once he’s out of school?”
Harry coughed. “Er, thought maybe I’d give McGonagall’s offer a go, at least for a year. See if the position isn’t cursed still,” he added. “Visit Gin when I can.”
Hermione nodded and flipped the fried egg on her plate over with her fork, sunny side down. “That’s nice,” she said, not knowing when her throat had started closing up in that usual harbinger of tears. She took a long sip from her water goblet, hoping to dull the ache.
“And, er, you?” Harry asked, his head bent at an angle, trying to look into her eyes, which were averted.
She shrugged, staring determinedly at the open window as her vision started to blur, but she wouldn’t blink.
“Hermione?” Harry tried again tentatively. “Is something wrong?”
“You could say that,” she said, her voice cracking slightly.
“Did Malfoy… do something?”
She shook her head.
“But it has something to do with him, doesn’t it?” Harry asked, and she nodded. “Can I have a clue?”
She sighed and turned back to face him, still not quite meeting his eyes. “You remember the egg project?”
“Yes,” Harry said, sounding tentative. “Did Malfoy send your egg to the kitchens?” He looked pointedly down at her plate, probably hoping to break the tension.
“No.” There was a pause, and suddenly Harry’s eyes were wide.
“You’re not… you’re not….” He seemed unable to finish his sentence and pointed toward her stomach.
“No! Though I almost wish-.” She bit her lip.
Harry looked confused again. “I don’t get it. Is he… impotent?” he asked sourly.
“No!” she repeated. “Ugh.” She set her forehead in her hands. “Pansy’s pregnant.”
Harry’s mouth opened slightly. “Oh.”
“I know,” she said, wiping her forearm across her eyelids.
“He’s leaving you, then?”
“No,” she said again. “He’s not.”
“Okay,” Harry said, looking like he was trying and failing to rationalize the situation. “Then, what?”
“Pansy’s dying.”
“Oh,” Harry repeated, for lack of anything else to say. “And the, um, baby?”
“Is due.”
“Hermione, I-” Harry started, and his face fell. “So if you aren’t breaking up and Pansy’s… then, what? Are you going to help raise it?”
She paused before taking a stab at her egg with her fork. “What else can I do?” Harry opened his mouth. “That was a rhetorical question.”
“All right,” he said slowly. “It’s not like I wish anything against the kid, or even Malfoy for that matter, but I don’t like seeing you forced into this.”
“Nobody’s forcing me, Harry. Just fate,” she added in a quieter voice. She let her eyes wander to the window again, and then down a little to the Slytherin table, where Malfoy was sitting and looking dejected. “I love him.”
“The post’s here,” Harry said, redirecting her to the window again. Out of the corner of her eye, Malfoy’s head had turned in the window’s direction as well. They all watched as the owl made a lazy arc before fluttering to her side.
O
Nausea. Draco was experiencing nausea. One little trip across the Great Hall, and his world was now changed forever. Granger was holding the letter from his mother in one hand and squeezing his hand with the other. “She’s in labor. Your mother sent for a healer, and she’ll owl again when it’s closer to time. Do you,” she paused, “do you want me to go there? Later?”
He glanced at Potter, who was watching their exchange with a bothered expression on his face. Draco nodded, just slightly.
“All right, then,” she replied, putting on a braver face than could possibly be real. “It may be awhile, so we’ll wait.”
“Right,” he agreed. “I’ll just….” He gestured vaguely at the door before walking away. He wondered if the house-elves would be willing to give him something alcoholic at half-past eight in the morning.
O
The house-elves were, apparently, not too keen on the idea of giving a student “tipsy drinks,” of age or no. Bloody things were probably afraid that McGonagall would give them clothes if she found out. He couldn’t even barter a butterbeer out of them, though they did give him a cup of tea. Considering the present state of his stomach, that was probably for the best, loath as he was to admit it.
He needed to calm down, think rationally. Tea always seemed to help with that.
He had never been in love with Pansy. He’d liked her, he supposed. She’d been his friend, even if their friendship had been of a fairly superficial nature. It was sort of the same way he’d been friends with Crabbe and Goyle. He’d taken them for granted and used them for his own gains, more than anything else.
If he’d felt guilty about Crabbe, he now felt doubly guilty about Pansy. Truthfully, he’d barely even thought of her since she’d left for Azkaban. He hadn’t missed her, had had random musings about her that were more comical than anything else.
There wasn’t anything he could do about that now, only hope she’d live.
What if the baby didn’t live? No one had said anything about that possibility. If Pansy were that weak, then wouldn’t the baby be as well? But then, maybe there was more to his mother’s vision than she’d let on. Maybe the baby was meant to live. He hoped so.
It was time to grow up now. There were things to be done. If Granger brought his child back here, then there were a few essential items needed for that to work. Formula, nappies, a crib….
He should probably go talk to McGonagall and see if she’d even let him have the baby here or if his mother would have to babysit for the remainder of the term. Yes. He needed to talk to McGonagall right away, before his baby was born without the basic essentials of life, including somewhere to live.
Where had all of this responsibility come from?
O
Quick steps, up a hallway, turn, panting sounds, the rattling of a doorknob in shaky hands, and Hermione caught sight of Pansy’s sweating red face, scrunched up in pain. And then the door was in her face again as Narcissa Malfoy ushered her out of the room.
“I’m glad you came,” she said. There was blood on her hands.
“Is everything…?”
“As well as can be expected.” Narcissa gave her a look, almost in chastisement. “Did you tell Draco?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Narcissa wiped her hands across her thighs, smearing red on her apron. “It shouldn’t be too much longer. She’s very close.”
Hermione nodded, looking nervously at the closed door. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she offered, though she knew the answer before it was given.
“No, no. There’s nothing we can do, really.” Narcissa shifted. “How is he?”
That was the million pound question, wasn’t it? “Nervous.”
“Yes, well….” She cleared her throat. “And you?”
Hermione almost wanted to bark out a laugh. “What about me?” she asked bitterly.
That chastising look was back. “No need for the cheek. I’m not exactly pleased about the situation myself.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re not.” Hermione frowned darkly just as a strangled yelp resounded from the room within. Pansy sounded more than just pained. Pansy sounded like she was struggling just to scream. And then there was silence and the hush of whispers. The door opened.
The healer’s face was grim as he leaned toward her. “She wants to speak with you.”
“Me?” Hermione asked, but Narcissa was already pushing her through the door she’d barred her from earlier.
Pansy was slumped against a pillow, her chest heaving. The healer took up his station at the foot of the bed, his wand hovering and emitting a purple glow, and Hermione was left standing at the back of the room, not entirely sure what she should be doing. Pansy’s lips moved, and a faint mumble came from between them.
“You’ll have to get closer,” the Healer said, not looking up from his task.
Hermione skittered forward, trying not to look too closely at the blood (and other) stains on the linens. Despite the redness, Pansy’s face looked sallow, and there were dark shadows below her eyes. “Can’t feel them,” the pregnant girl mumbled.
“Can’t feel what?”
“She means her legs. She broke her spine a minute ago. She’s too weak.” The Healer’s wand quivered back and forth in a purposeful arc.
“Less pain,” Pansy added, though she was still wincing.
Hermione nodded. She really didn’t think she, of all people, should be the one at Pansy’s side at this moment. Where were her parents? Were they really that ashamed of her? “Got a list,” Pansy hissed, her hand lifting feebly to point to her left. “Names. Good,” she groaned, “names.” On the nightstand was a small piece of folded parchment. Hermione pocketed it, any hope that Pansy might survive this quickly diminishing. “Granger… take care of them.” Her eyes fluttered shut, her breathing even more ragged than before.
“Unless you want to watch, I’d suggest you leave.” The Healer pointed to the door.
And she really, really didn’t want to watch.
O
Professor McGonagall’s eyebrows lowered. “Mr. Malfoy, are you quite sure you’re prepared for what you’re asking of me?”
“All due respect, Headmistress, but I don’t think I have much of a choice.” Draco shifted uncomfortably. He knew all too well that Dumbledore’s portrait was looking at him, judging him, most likely pitying him, and probably doing that twinkly eyes thing.
“Surely your mother or Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson would be able to watch the child for the remainder of the term,” she suggested.
“My mother’s done enough already. As for the Parkinsons, they’ve already made it clear where they stand on the issue, otherwise Pansy wouldn’t have been rooming with my mother. Besides,” Draco added, “I don’t like the idea of being separated for a whole month. I mean…. You don’t have children, do you, Professor?”
McGonagall pursed her lips. “Maybe not, but I suppose I understand your point.” She sighed. “But the fact remains that you will not be available to provide the needed supervision, not while you’re in classes. Taking care of a newborn is a fulltime job. And where will it sleep? In your dormitory? You may room with three extraordinarily mature young men,” she looked a little uneasy as she said mature, “but I’m sure they won’t take well to having their sleep disrupted every few hours.”
“But…” Draco began, though he wasn’t having much success in thinking of a way to refute her points.
“So,” she said, looking thoroughly harassed, “perhaps some new arrangements will have to be made.”
For the first time that day, Draco felt something like relief flow through him. “What kind of arrangements?”
McGonagall stood, paced a few steps, and turned to pace the other direction. “I’ll arrange to have you take your NEWTS early. If all goes well, you’ll have them done within the week. I’ve noticed your newfound devotion to your studies, and I’m sure you’ll do well enough to pass them.”
He wasn’t entirely sure if that was more relief or sudden panic he was feeling now.
“Second, since you have been offered a teaching position here, I suppose it wouldn’t be too imprudent to arrange your new quarters early as well. That’s assuming you’ll be taking the Potions position?” He nodded vigorously. “Then that should help alleviate some of the concern, though I do wonder how you’ll manage to continue your single-parenting once the fall term begins.”
“I’m sure I’ll come up with something,” he said quickly, trying to keep her from changing her mind.
“I’m sure you will.” McGonagall reached for a tin atop her desk. “Have a biscuit, Mr. Malfoy. You look like you could use the sugar.”
O
The bundle in Hermione’s arms was warm and squirming and so small-so unbelievably small. She was suddenly thankful that she’d had some practice with Teddy Lupin, otherwise she might have been unsure about the right way to fold her arms, how to balance the head so that those tiny steel-blue eyes were looking up at her in the dull confusion of newborns rather than in terror. Narcissa spent one long moment with her finger trailing up and down the baby’s cheek, and then she’d cleared her throat and begun to lead them to the nearest Floo.
“Take care of them for me,” she repeated.
“You’ll see them again. Draco’s year is almost up, then he’ll be able to leave the grounds again. He’ll probably want to stay here for the summer.”
Narcissa nodded quietly. “We’ll see.” Her fingers returned to the baby’s cheek. “All those months… and she guessed wrong. Let me know what name you decide on.”
“We will.” Hermione hugged the infant a little closer to her as she activated the Floo, covering the baby’s face with its blanket to keep the soot out of the miniature mouth and eyes. Five very long seconds later, and she stepped into McGonagall’s office.
O
McGonagall turned, looking surprised, and Draco dropped the biscuit that had been halfway to his mouth. Granger stood there, looking only slightly overwhelmed, with his child in her arms. His child. “Let me see him,” he said.
She shook her head. “Her.”
“What?”
“Pansy was wrong,” she said simply. “You have a daughter,” she added, just as she placed the baby into his arms. From the corner of his eye, he saw her reach into her pocket. “And apparently,” she continued, unfolding a piece of parchment, “Pansy’s number one baby name choice for a girl… is Ermengarde.”
“Ermengarde?” McGonagall repeated, looking back and forth between the three of them.
“Ermengarde,” Granger confirmed, a funny look on her face.
Draco almost laughed, looking down at the tiny, scrunched face that was looking back up at him, just a little cross-eyed. “My little ermine.”
Granger stepped closer to look over his shoulder. “I’d say we call her by her middle name, except Pansy wanted Buttercup.”
This time he did laugh, which was odd considering how close he felt to tears. “I think we can scrap that one. Something simpler?”
“You don’t want a star or a constellation?”
He looked at her, really looked at her. “Erm here is as much yours as mine now. How about you choose.”
She smiled sadly, looking down at their baby. “I’ve always liked Rose.”
He nodded in agreement. “Ermengarde Rose, then.” The steely-blue eyes fluttered shut. He smiled with pride at the rose that had grown from the ashes.
O
A.N.: Hi! How do you know when a chapter gives me trouble? When there are a billion tiny little scenes and over a month between updates. Ick.
Well, hopefully none of you are too upset about the baby being a girl or the rather odd name I just gave her. Ermengarde came to me a few weeks ago, and I knew I had to work it in somehow or another. (It’s a German name; you might remember it from Sara’s friend in A Little Princess.) As for Rose, the whole “Ron and Hermione’s canon daughter” thing is almost just a happy coincidence, what with the flower theme and the fic summary. Buttercup is the result of my scrolling through lots and lots of flower meanings, looking for something that would be suitable and mostly failing. (That one happens to mean childishness and riches.) Roses, on the other hand, have so many meanings that pretty much anything goes.
Click the tag for a list of chapters.
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