What Malfoys Do Best by sunnyjune46 [Rated PG-13]
Celebrate the Season fic request for Saiyachick/kuroineko07
Title: What Malfoys Do Best
Author: sunnyjune46
Rating: PG-13 for language . . . (I know, I NEVER use heavy swear words in my writing, but this time I let it slide a little . . .)
Disclaimer:Ahem. “Should auld Jo Rowling be forgot, and never brought to mind. Should auld Jo Rowling be forgot, and wish Harry were mine. . .”
Author's Notes: ‘Twas the night before the due date, and all through the house, not a Kreacher was stirring, except for one computer mouse. The exchange mods were posting the stories with care, in hopes that my story soon would be there. And I in my pjs and Squeakers in my lap, just settled down for a long night’s write . . . Phew, finally finished this thing (what a pain real life can be). I do hope that you enjoy your story, Sayachick, and that everyone else gets a laugh out of it too. I tried to include all of your requests but I went about them in a more roundabout way - you’ll see.
A thousands thank-yous to my dear, sweet, wonderful and incredible Lorett for the fantastic beta job - without her, this story wouldn’t have merited anything other than rotten fruit . . . Thanks love, you’re a doll! Cheers!
Summary: The Malfoys are great at many things. They can antagonize servants like no other, spend money like it’s going out of style, sway the current government to their liking, and change a light-bulb without looking. But what is it that Malfoys do best? Join Draco as he discovers the answer . . .
What Malfoys Do Best
* * *
[Hour Negative One]
Swoosh.
“Malfoy, what the hell are you doing here?” Was the hospitable greeting I received as I stepped out of the floo, brushing the inevitable soot off of my clothes, and thus entering the home of Harry ‘Hero-Worship-Me’ Potter.
“None of your damned business, Weasel,” I replied, surveying the scene. Potter was lounging lazily in a black leather recliner, wearing nothing but an undershirt and gray sweats. Weasley, also stretched out in a matching recliner, didn’t look much better in a worn Cannons jersey and faded blue jeans. I looked down at my finely pressed trousers and crisp collared shirt. The distinctions of hierarchy were still obvious - good.
Like zombies, Potter and Weasley were staring at the flat screen television I bought Potter as a house warming gift two years ago. I had it custom built to run off of magic, as opposed to whatever primitive source of energy Muggles used, so it could not only run in a magical home, but air magical programs - like the current Cannons -Wasps Quidditch match for which the two men were currently engrossed.
“Beer, Malfoy?” Potter asked and without sparing an eye, reached into a cooler beside him, withdrew a butterbeer, and offered it to me as I crashed onto the black leather couch sandwiched between the two recliners. It wasn’t the most dignified method of sitting, but you know what they say, “bad company corrupts good character” - and manners.
I accepted the proffered drink and took a large swig. “Got anything stronger, Potter?”
“No,” Potter huffed.
Weasley snickered. “Luna’s not letting any alcohol in the house. If she can’t have any, Harry can’t have any.”
Potter glared at Weasley but didn’t do anything to dispel the statement.
Ever since he put his bun in Luna’s oven, Potter had been forced to give up vice after vice. First it was all sweets - if she was going to get fat, she wanted to do it naturally; whatever that meant. Then it was swearing - apparently babies can hear everything from the womb; which would mean some very colorful things in my household. And now - no alcohol? You might as well strip Potter of everything that makes him a man.
“Cough-whipped-cough-cough.” I smirked and took another swig of my butter-not-so-much-beer.
Potter extended his arm towards me with a very obscene gesture. I’ve seen better.
“You’re one to talk, Malfoy. Hermione’s had you by the balls since day one.”
I snorted into my drink. It could have been taken in the ‘Ha, you humor me my four-eyed-foe; I’m the man of my house; M-A-N man!’ sense . . . But it was really meant in the ‘Don’t remind me, I’m doing my best to forget’ sense . . . But nobody needed to know that.
I intended to prepare a scathing retort for Potter but at that moment the Wasps managed to score a goal against the Cannons, placing them in the lead, causing a chorus of groans from the Wonder Twins and me.
Weasley cursed and threw his empty butterbeer bottle to the right of the screen. I noticed a pile of glass shards had already collected on the floor - that temper of his must be expensive; no wonder Pansy uses a sticking charm on everything.
We continued to watch the game in silence, an integral rule to the art of game-watching. Noise might disrupt the delicate balance in the air, sending unnecessary energy into the mainstream that might possibly manifest itself a hundred miles away on the Quidditch pitch, and possibly cause the Cannons Chaser to drop the quaffle. Or the Wasps Keeper to miss the save - which would be great, but not worth the risk.
Occasionally Weasley would curse loudly and throw random objects, which is okay because curse words run on a low-frequency and won’t tip the scale in an appreciable way. Potter would remove his glasses and rub his eyes whenever the Cannons Seeker did a particularly stupid move and I, having no temper for bad Quidditch, would jump to my feet and threaten to hex the Cannons Keeper only to realize that hexing the television would not only be ridiculous, it would also shut off the game. And we couldn’t have that.
Luckily, the Cannons scored three goals in a row, bringing them back into the lead and back into our good faith.
“So what are you doing here, Malfoy?” Potter asked, turning his head for the first time toward me.
“Yeah, aren’t you supposed to be helping Hermione with something?” Weasley asked as he scratched himself unashamedly.
I looked from Weasley’s hand to his unassuming face, curled a lip and then thought against it. I turned toward Potter. “I told her I was going to the bathroom.”
“Twenty minutes ago?”
“I really had to go.”
Weasley snickered again then groaned as the Wasps Beaters managed to tag team the Cannons best Chaser.
The Cannons Beaters began to retaliate against the Wasps by bludger-ing the hell out of their Keeper and soon a brawl erupted on the pitch between the uninjured Wasps and furious Cannons. I was instantly reminded of the three or four scuffles I caused on the pitch back in my day. Good times.
We became so involved in the melee on the screen, encouraging the Cannons Beaters unorthodox use of their bats on the Wasps Chaser’s noses, we did not notice when an owl arrived at the window and began tapping his desire to be let in.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The brawl on the screen eventually subsided, and the twenty or so penalty shots were taken between the two teams. The Cannons were up by three goals again. The room rejoiced.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Owl,” Weasley said, taking a swig from his new butterbeer.
“Yup,” supplied Potter.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Still there,” said Weasley.
“Sure is,” I replied. I began to scratch myself subconsciously, realized what I was doing, then withdrew my hand as if it had been burnt. I made a mental note to ask Hermione about the Contagious-Scratch Phenomenon and if it possibly related to the Domino-Yawn-Effect. I scowled at my hand and then at Weasley, who was none-the-wiser as he emitted a string of curses at the television that would make an Auror blush.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
“Gonna get that?” Weasley asked Potter.
“Nope, got the last one.”
“Malfoy?” Weasley asked.
“You’re closer,” I stated.
TAP! TAP! TAP!
…
TAP! TAP! TAP!
…
“Fine!” Weasley said in exasperation as he got up to let in the owl.
“Sucker,” I jibed.
“You owe me five galleons, Ron,” said Potter, who had obviously made a prior bet to Weasley that possibly was a challenge against who would be the first get to up from their recliners. Simple minds, simple pleasures.
I wish I had known about it, I would’ve doubled it.
“It’s for you, Malfoy -”
“Of course it is -” Who would be writing to Weasley, other than his whiny wife? And Potter wasn’t due for his second bout of fan-mail for another hour - the post liked to collect the letters and send them twice a day with a courier albatross.
“And it’s from Hermione -”
“Of course -” That little woman of mine . . . always sending me love notes.
“-and it’s a Howler.”
“Of cour - what?” What?
I jumped from the couch as if I’d been thrown from it and grabbed the red envelope from Weasley, who was laughing, clearly at my expense. I supposed that was okay. I could afford it.
“You make a great door, Malfoy,” Potter whined, leaning out of the chair so he could see the television from around my body.
I cursed loudly and began tearing the Howler into tiny pieces, then dashed towards the fireplace, grabbed a handful of floo powder, shouted “The Manor!” and with an eruption of green flames, was gone.
* * *
[Hour Zero]
Swoosh.
I stepped cautiously from the floo and looked to my left, then my right. The coast was clear . . . phew.
I started to cross the tiled floor of the receiving room, cursing my loafers as they made an obvious tap-taping noise that was sure to give me away. I raised my wand to utter a silencing charm on my shoes and -
“Just where have you been?”
Damn.
Busted.
“Hello, Hermione, you’re looking lovely this -”
“Save it,” she said, silencing me with a wave of her hand. Leave it to a woman to figure out how to silence a man without magic. “Whatever you have to say, whatever excuse you might have for leaving me, I don’t want to hear it.”
I opened my mouth to speak but I met the hand again.
“No, I don’t want to hear it,” she said tersely. “I completely understand. You were just asserting your male dominance by leaving me at home while you were out, gallivanting with your friends, boasting about your latest kill and comparing egos - it’s okay, I get it. You needed validation; you needed to be reminded that you’re still the man of the house -”
I was about to tell her that’s not it at all but then a rather pointed finger was digging into my sternum in a most uncomfortable way.
“-but let me tell you something, Draco Malfoy. While you were out celebrating your manliness with those little friends of yours -”
“They would be your friends . . .”
“-Immaterial,” she dismissed with a wave of her hand, “While you’ve been out, I’ve been working hard trying to get the nursery finished so your child will have a place to sleep when she finally arrives.”
“He . . .” I muttered under my breath.
“The least you could have done” she began, punctuating her words with jabs to my sternum, “is,” jab, “brought,” poke, “home,” stab, “chocolate!”
Oh the joys - horrors, rather - of having a very irritable, intelligent, annoying to the point of nauseating, pregnant . . . wife.
The extra weight I could deal with; she looked good - rotund and gorgeous. I could handle the weird cravings - it took me a while, but marmite, sardines and pickles really is quite tasty. The hormones were a bit of a problem, but we worked through that. She had them, I ignored them. But the poking was a habit I had rather she not picked up.
“Malfoy!”
“What!” I snapped. Hermione was halfway up the staircase and was giving me a look that clearly stated ‘follow.’
I swept past her, taking the stairs two at a time out of spite. My chest hurt and I’m sure there was a bruise. I considered taking photographic evidence and mailing it to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Domestic Bureau, but then I realized she had the whole damned Ministry wrapped around her pinky finger - no thanks to that blasted Potter and all his little Auror friends.
That’s what I get for marrying the Minister of Magic.
She won’t let me be half as evil as I’d like to be. I have to settle for disgruntled malcontent.
I cursed, grumbled, and muttered like a petulant child all the way down the hall - just ‘cause, damn it.
I stopped in front the door just before the master bedroom - a door that led to the most ominous room in the house. The dungeons? No.
The nursery.
I took a fortifying breath and entered.
“What the . . .?” I muttered, looking around at the room in shock. Pink, lots and lots of pink; ruffles, dear Merlin, there’s ruffles, and - oh no. No. No. No.
“NO!” I shouted as my pregnant wife finally waddled into the room, breathing heavily.
“No, what?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at me in a very challenging manner.
“No,” I said, picking up a stuffed rabbit, “this!” Then I threw it across the room for effect.
“It’s a bunny.” She rolled her eyes.
“Precisely.”
“Do you have a problem with the bunnies, Malfoy?” She raised her chin defiantly.
I crossed my arms. “Yes, I do,” I said, and as an afterthought, added: “Granger.”
“Well that’s what you get for leaving the decorating to me, Malfoy. You could have had a say in the matter, but you left me . . . You left me!”
“Well I’m here now and I say no rabbits!”
“And what would you suggest instead?”
“Dragons,” I said matter-of-factly.
She scoffed. I looked at her indignantly. “No daughter of mine is sleeping in a room full of dragons. She’ll have nightmares!”
“No he won’t!”
“Yes she will!”
“No,” I said through gritted teeth, “he won’t.”
Hermione drew herself up to her full height, an easy task. “Yes . . . she . . . will.”
“Fine!”
“HA!”
“But -” I quickly amended, “rabbits are out! No rabbits.”
Hermione huffed. “No dragons.”
I really cannot possibly fathom why she doesn’t like Dragons. She likes me, doesn’t she? The wedding band on her finger would indicate so, and my name, after all, is Draco . . .
“Teddy bears?” Hermione suggested after a moment.
I considered the animal. Bears could be fierce and mean and soft and squishy. They’ll do. “I suppose that’s acceptable.”
“Fine then,” Hermione flicked her wand and the rabbits were replaced by pastel colored bears.
“Change the color.”
“No,” she said and poked me, again.
I raised my hand to retaliate her poke with a flick.
“Ow!”
“I didn’t even touch you yet!”
She glared at me then gasped again. “Owww!”
“Seriously, I haven’t even touched you and there’s no one around to act for so -”
“Not that kind of ‘ow’ you idiot!” Hermione shouted. “This kind of ‘ow’!” She pointed at her belly.
Oh.
“Don’t just stand there, Draco - do something!” Hermione groaned, clutching her stomach.
“Do what?” I’ve never had a baby before; I don’t know what to do. It’s not like they teach you these things. There’s no Baby Education 101 at Hogwarts. Hell, I was taught the facts of life by Aunt Bella . . . and err . . . that wasn’t a very pleasant experience and I still bear the emotional scars. Anyway, Bella didn’t have children, so really, Hermione just expects way too much from me -
“Get the bag, Draco!”
“What - now?”
“No, next week - of course now!” Hermione said sarcastically.
“You’re not having the baby right now?” I said in disbelief. Aren’t there normally five or six false alarms before the real thing?
“Well not at this exact moment - but yes! Yes I’m having the baby!”
“Oh . . . Shit!”
Before I realized what I was doing, I dashed from the nursery and into the master bedroom, where I grabbed the overnight bag for Hermione’s hospital stay, and ran back down the hall, down the stairs, past Hermione who was waddling slowly down, and into the receiving room.
I grabbed the floo powder, jumped in, and shouted “St. Mungo’s!”
* * *
[Hour One]
The St. Mungo’s lobby was surprisingly empty, a fact I was immediately grateful for - I loathe queues. A Malfoy waits for no man (or woman, or elf, or goblin, you get the idea).
I walked to the reception desk with as much dignity and grace I could muster, despite the fact that my heart was pounding a tattoo against my chest.
“We’re having a baby,” I said to the receptionist.
She looked at me, and then to my right and left. “We?” she asked.
I looked around.
Shit.
Swoosh.
“Draco Malfoy, you are uncommonly negligent,” Hermione said as she ambled out of the floo. I rushed to her side and aided her across the reception.
Fortunately, the nurse spared me any further embarrassment by wheeling out a chair for Hermione. “Here you go, Minister,” she said.
Hermione placed herself in the chair with the grace of an elephant seal. She rewarded the nurse with a smile and then fixed me with one of her best glares. “Malfoy, can I trust you to inform the family or should I call Harry and have him do it?”
I bristled. Potter is many things - ugly, arrogant, luckier than hell to have survived Volde-whatever’s wrath - but one thing he is not and never will be . . . and that is Hermione’s husband! That job belongs to me and me alone.
“I can do it,” I said. I kissed my wife on the cheek and watched as she was wheeled down the corridor.
I grabbed some powder, tossed it into the floo, stuck my head in and called “Harry Potter.”
Within a second Potter’s ugly mug was staring at me from the other side of the floo. “Did you get in trouble, Malfoy?” he asked, eyes alight with glee. Sadistic bastard.
“Look I’m at St. Mungo’s -”
Weasley’s head popped into view. “Shit, she hurt you that bad eh?”
I shook my head as the two dimwits snickered. Morons.
“No you idiots - Hermione’s gone into labor.”
“Oh wow . . .”
“Yeah, so, Weasley, notify the troops. Potter, call the Grangers.”
I’m a natural born leader. Delegating tasks is like breathing.
“And what are you going to do?” Potter asked.
“I’m going to call my mummy.” I smirked at his scowl.
And with that, I disconnected.
* * *
[Hour Six]
The contractions were getting longer and Hermione’s temper was getting shorter. I’d already been called a bastard more times than I have fingers or toes and I had to duck four or five times when Hermione’s ice cup attempted to collide with my face. And that was after I had confiscated her wand.
I rubbed my head absently where a stray ice cube managed to hit its target a few minutes earlier. I was broken of my daze when my wife emitted a scream that rivaled Finnegan’s half-banshee mother.
“Breathe, Hermione, breathe . . .”
She fisted a handful of my shirt drawing me closer to her as she writhed in agony. “The next,” growl, “time,” groan, “you tell me,” moan, “to breathe,” sigh, “I’m going to,” scream, “KILL YOU!”
She continued to scream as the contraction peaked, tightening her fist in my shirt so that it began cutting off the circulation to my brain.
“Hermione,” I coughed.
She didn’t hear me. I tried pulling at her hand but it was like stone.
“Her-Hermione . . .” I said breathlessly.
Her hand slackened slightly, but I was beginning to see white and black dots. . .
“’Mione . . .” Air restricted, mind fuzzy . . .
And then . . . there was darkness.
* * *
[Hour Seven]
I heard laughing. No . . . it was more like snickering.
I could hear voices, but the words were vague. I couldn’t make them out . . .
“Hermione . . . . contraction . . . passed out . . . pansy . . .”
“Hey, I resent that.”
I knew that voice.
“P-Pansy? What the hell are you doing here?” I said, opening one eye slightly. I could see a face hovering over me . . . it was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen. “Merlin, Weasley, get up off me!”
“Ha, he’s alive - told you,” he said to somebody, I’m not sure who.
“All right there, Draco?”
I turned to see Pansy on the other side of me. I was in a bed. A hospital bed. What the?
I sat up quickly and then the room went spinning. I grabbed my head to make it stop.
“Fred, George, stop making the room spin. We thought it was funny the first time but now you’re just going to make people sick,” said the unmistakable voice of Molly Weasley.
I groaned - I was surrounded. At least the room stopped spinning.
“So your wife goes into labor and you passed out. Just couldn’t go one day without seeking attention, could you, Draco?”
“Sod off, Pan,” I muttered as I swung my legs over the bed and attempted standing.
No spinning. Legs firm. Head not dizzy. Check and double check.
“Where am I?” I said, looking around. I wasn’t in a hospital room, but I was definitely lying in a hospital bed before . . .
“He must’ve hit his head harder than we thought,” said one of the twins - Fred or George, who cares? Same DNA? Same person.
“Listen carefully, Malfoy, you’re in the hospital,” said the other.
“You’ve just had a sex change operation-”
“And it’s going to take getting used to-”
“But I must say, you’ve got the best rack I’ve ever seen-”
“And your pretty face isn’t half bad, either -”
And then one of them pinched my cheek. The whole room was laughing.
I scowled then trained my wand on one of the twins’ faces. “Take me to my wife and you lose your manhood,” I threatened.
The red-headed fiend gulped. “Don’t you mean ‘keep’?”
“No.”
* * *
[Hour Fourteen]
“How much longer is this going to take?” I asked the Medi-witch as she entered for the seventh time that day to check Hermione’s dilation.
“She’s only at six centimeters, Mr. Malfoy. She’s got to reach ten,” she stated in a tone that conveyed the message ‘ask me one more time, and I’ll throttle you.’
“Can’t you speed it up a bit?”
“And how would we do that, pray tell?”
“Well I don’t know,” I gestured wildly, “perhaps with magic? You are a witch, are you not?” I narrowed my eyes. I had my suspicions.
The Medi-witch glared at me, clearly offended by my accusations.
“Draco, stop fighting with the healer,” Hermione said weakly. I looked down at her tired form, sweat beading around her flushed face. She was breathing heavily yet her eyes were half closed, as if sleep was soon to take her.
I sat down beside the bed again and brushed the hair from her face. “I’m sorry, love; I just want it to be over.”
She considered me for a minute before narrowing her eyes. “The Cannons lost, Malfoy,” she said meekly.
“What! Who told you?”
“Harry . . .”
“Potter . . .” I growled.
Damn. Well I did hope that the baby would be born before the end of the match - it was nearing hour seven when I had recovered from my ‘spell’ and I had wanted to stay and watch the ending, but Hermione’s screams, which I could hear over the surround sound, guilt-ed me back.
I cursed Potter under my breath again. I owed him ten galleons.
I looked back at Hermione. She was watching me wearily; tears were streaming down her face. Guilt washed over me again. I leaned across the bed, cupped her cheek and kissed her softly, then rested my face near hers on the sweat-soaked pillow.
“It’ll be over soon, baby,” I whispered. She smiled at my choice of words.
I leaned over to kiss her temple and -
Wham!
The door flung open and a blur of red flew into the room, landing with little grace in the chair on the other side of Hermione’s bed, knocking over the fifth ice cup and causing Hermione’s bed to roll slightly to the left.
“Hermione! I just got the news!” Ginny cried as she grasped Hermione’s hand in hers. I glared at the little red-headed chit and the way she was manhandling my wife.
“Didn’t Draco floo you?” Hermione asked breathily.
“No,” Ginny said angrily, shooting me her best glare. “And neither did Harry or Ron. I found out from Phlegm only because she wanted to see if I was willing to baby-sit for Gabriel and Ann Marie while she waited here at the hospital - like I didn’t want to be here too!” She huffed indignantly and then softened. “I couldn’t just sit idly by while my best friend gave birth to her first daughter.”
“Son . . .” I said under my breath. The She-Weasel glared at me again.
“I can’t believe you let him touch you,” she whispered in not-so-much a whisper, since I could hear her perfectly.
I scrunched my face in resentment. I happen to recall Hermione likes being touched by me. In fact she begs for it on occasion . . .
“Oh, Ginny, he’s not all bad,” Hermione said.
What? Yes I am. I’m all bad. Every last inch of me is bad. I’m bad to the bone. I’m . . .
Right.
“It’s okay, Hermione. I know how much you like your charity cases,” Ginny said, giving me a derisive glance. “Anyway, I should leave before the Medi-witch kicks me out.”
“No, please stay,” I drawled. “I’d rather enjoy that.”
Choosing to ignore me, the She-Weasel planted a kiss on my wife’s cheek and, with the threat of checking in on her later, left.
Good riddance, I thought, as I wiped the lip gloss smudge off of Hermione’s cheek.
“I wish you two would get along,” Hermione said softly.
“But you and I get along, and I think that’s all the ice hell can handle,” I said as I patted Hermione’s face dry with a towel.
She smiled wryly before her face turned into a grimace at the onset of another contraction.
Here we go again.
* * *
[Hour Sixteen]
“AHHHHHHHHHH!
“It hurts! It hurts! Oh god, it hurts!
“Owwwww! Make it stop . . . please, make it stop . . .”
“Oh do shut up, Malfoy - your hand will be fine. Here,” the Medi-witch snapped. She grabbed my hand and poked it with her wand. It instantly felt better.
Five contractions in four minutes left my hand in rather pitiable condition . . . and it hurt, all right? Just because Hermione refused an epidural doesn’t mean everybody’s a masochist . . .
“Ohhh . . . ohhhh . . . oh god . . . ohhh,” Hermione began groaning, another contraction beginning.
“Come on, Hermione, you can do this, you can get through it,” I encouraged as I wiped her brow.
The contraction increased in intensity and Hermione’s hand flew out, seeking mine. Hesitantly I put my hand in hers -
Mistake, big mistake, but I couldn’t let my selfish complaints override Hermione’s cries.
“Come on baby, you’re almost there, come on,” I said through gritted teeth. Hermione was panting heavily, the veins in her neck were strained and sweat was pouring from her face like a faucet.
Finally, the contraction ended and she fell limp again. She released my hand and I began to rub the blood back into it.
Hermione turned her head to me slowly, eyes half closed, chest heaving with every breath. “Draco,” she whispered barely inaudibly.
I leaned in closer to hear her.
Suddenly she grabbed my shirt in a familiar move and I was overcome with déjà vu.
“You are never, ever, touching me again!” she hissed, releasing my chest with a shove. I fell back into the chair.
Phew.
Well that’s fine - if touching her means in nine months I will pass out, be ridiculed by my friends, break my hand, and suffer through another Cannons defeat , then -
Who am I kidding?
It was worth it.
“Okay, Minister, you’ve reached full dilation. Are you ready?” asked the Medi-witch.
“Are you ready, love?” I asked, smoothing the hair from Hermione’s face. She was soaked in sweat, her hair as damp as her body, and her face was pasty and white save for the deep flush on her cheeks.
I’d never seen her look so beautiful.
She smiled at me and nodded.
I nodded to the Medi-witch and said: “Let’s go.”
“All right, Hermione, you’ve got to start pushing. On three. One, two, three . . .”
Hermione pushed with all her might, then gasped, and fell back.
“Very good, Hermione,” said the Medi-witch. “Again.”
And again, my wife forced all of her energy into this singular act of bringing my baby into the world . . .
My baby . . .
Baby . . .
Holy shit!
“Come on, baby, come on, Hermione, come on,” I chanted, half conscious of what I was saying.
I’m having a baby. We’re having a baby.
In a few minutes I’m going to be a father of Hermione Granger’s child.
Dear Merlin, I’d like to meet whoever invented irony . . .
“Mr. Malfoy.”
“Huh?” I said, barely aware of Hermione pushing away.
“The baby’s head has crowned, would you like to see the birth of your child?” the Medi-witch asked.
Mutely and still holding fast to Hermione’s hand, I stretched our arms until I could see between Hermione’s legs.
It was . . . gross.
And beautiful.
Beautiful and gross.
Oh my . . . that’s a head.
“Push, Hermione.”
And a shoulder. Nasty, something ripped - that had to hurt . .
“One more time, Hermione.”
Merlin . . . there it is . . . that’s my . . . whoa, something’s missing!
“Congratulations, Hermione. You have a beautiful, healthy baby girl.”
I stared at the Medi-witch as she handed my daughter to the attending nurse, who cleaned her, muttered a few spells over her tiny body, and wrapped her in a blanket. She then turned, smiled at me, and placed the baby in my arms.
“Congratulations, Mr. Malfoy,” she said, but I was too stunned to thank her.
My daughter was whimpering softly.
She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. She was also the tiniest; she couldn’t weigh more than four ounces. I held her like she was made of porcelain. I didn’t want anything to harm her. She was perfect.
“Draco, I want to see her,” Hermione said hoarsely. I brought my daughter - our daughter - to my wife and placed her gently into her mother’s arms.
Hermione smiled at our daughter’s tiny face and then smiled at me. “She’s gorgeous,” Hermione whispered in complete rapture of her creation - our creation.
“What, this ugly thing?” I smiled in return. “Beautiful . . .”
Definitely worth it.
* * *
[Hour Twenty]
The family was crowded into Hermione’s room - a spacious, comfortable, private room; one of the many perks of being the Minister of Magic. The mothers - i.e. Molly Weasley, Kate Granger, and my mother, Narcissa - were crowded around Hermione, clucking like hens over the new baby.
The younger women - She-Weasel, Luna, Pansy, and Fleur - were gathered around Hermione as well, giggling over the baby and shooting furtive looks at their respective husbands. Luna was rubbing her own protruding belly absently, smiling wistfully at Potter.
I was standing in the corner, observing, when She-Weasel’s husband invaded my space.
“Well you’re lucky, Malfoy,” he drawled.
“And why is that?” I raised an eye brow at him.
Zabini grinned cheekily. “She doesn’t look a thing like you.”
“Nonsense,” one of the twins added, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. I tensed immediately. “Malfoy’s very pretty,” he said, pinching my cheek again.
I shrugged his arm off my shoulders, as he and Zabini laughed. I glared at them both before marching over to the bed. I parted the women like Moses and the Red Sea, and sat on the bed beside my wife.
I ran a finger along the smooth skin of my daughter’s sleeping face. She wrinkled up her brow, her tiny nose scrunched very much like her mother’s, and she opened one eye and then the other and looked at me.
I couldn’t breathe. She looked right at me.
“I love you,” I whispered as I kissed my baby.
Then I said the same thing and kissed my wife.
The women sighed and tittered like love-sick school girls, then, one by one, sought out their husbands, probably cajoling them into procreating.
They could do a lot worse.
“What are we going to name her?”
“We never did consider names, did we?” I asked.
“We were too busy fighting.”
“Well it is what we do best.”
Hermione looked down at our child. “No, it isn’t,” she said, then looked up at me, smiling. “This is what we do best.” She cradled the baby closer to her body.
I watched as our beautiful, nameless baby blinked at her mother, opening and closing her tiny hand. I placed my pinky in her palm and she gripped it tightly.
She was right.
Making beautiful babies is what Malfoys do best.
Like me, for example.
Wink.
- Fin -
Three things you want your fic to include:Blaise/Ginny, a reunion, children.
Three things you do not want your fic to include:Rape/incest, unhappy ending, too much fluff.
Anything specific that you do not want to write:Incest/rape/gay pairings/threesomes
Thank-you for Celebrating the Season with Draco and Hermione!
Title: What Malfoys Do Best
Author: sunnyjune46
Rating: PG-13 for language . . . (I know, I NEVER use heavy swear words in my writing, but this time I let it slide a little . . .)
Disclaimer:Ahem. “Should auld Jo Rowling be forgot, and never brought to mind. Should auld Jo Rowling be forgot, and wish Harry were mine. . .”
Author's Notes: ‘Twas the night before the due date, and all through the house, not a Kreacher was stirring, except for one computer mouse. The exchange mods were posting the stories with care, in hopes that my story soon would be there. And I in my pjs and Squeakers in my lap, just settled down for a long night’s write . . . Phew, finally finished this thing (what a pain real life can be). I do hope that you enjoy your story, Sayachick, and that everyone else gets a laugh out of it too. I tried to include all of your requests but I went about them in a more roundabout way - you’ll see.
A thousands thank-yous to my dear, sweet, wonderful and incredible Lorett for the fantastic beta job - without her, this story wouldn’t have merited anything other than rotten fruit . . . Thanks love, you’re a doll! Cheers!
Summary: The Malfoys are great at many things. They can antagonize servants like no other, spend money like it’s going out of style, sway the current government to their liking, and change a light-bulb without looking. But what is it that Malfoys do best? Join Draco as he discovers the answer . . .
What Malfoys Do Best
* * *
[Hour Negative One]
Swoosh.
“Malfoy, what the hell are you doing here?” Was the hospitable greeting I received as I stepped out of the floo, brushing the inevitable soot off of my clothes, and thus entering the home of Harry ‘Hero-Worship-Me’ Potter.
“None of your damned business, Weasel,” I replied, surveying the scene. Potter was lounging lazily in a black leather recliner, wearing nothing but an undershirt and gray sweats. Weasley, also stretched out in a matching recliner, didn’t look much better in a worn Cannons jersey and faded blue jeans. I looked down at my finely pressed trousers and crisp collared shirt. The distinctions of hierarchy were still obvious - good.
Like zombies, Potter and Weasley were staring at the flat screen television I bought Potter as a house warming gift two years ago. I had it custom built to run off of magic, as opposed to whatever primitive source of energy Muggles used, so it could not only run in a magical home, but air magical programs - like the current Cannons -Wasps Quidditch match for which the two men were currently engrossed.
“Beer, Malfoy?” Potter asked and without sparing an eye, reached into a cooler beside him, withdrew a butterbeer, and offered it to me as I crashed onto the black leather couch sandwiched between the two recliners. It wasn’t the most dignified method of sitting, but you know what they say, “bad company corrupts good character” - and manners.
I accepted the proffered drink and took a large swig. “Got anything stronger, Potter?”
“No,” Potter huffed.
Weasley snickered. “Luna’s not letting any alcohol in the house. If she can’t have any, Harry can’t have any.”
Potter glared at Weasley but didn’t do anything to dispel the statement.
Ever since he put his bun in Luna’s oven, Potter had been forced to give up vice after vice. First it was all sweets - if she was going to get fat, she wanted to do it naturally; whatever that meant. Then it was swearing - apparently babies can hear everything from the womb; which would mean some very colorful things in my household. And now - no alcohol? You might as well strip Potter of everything that makes him a man.
“Cough-whipped-cough-cough.” I smirked and took another swig of my butter-not-so-much-beer.
Potter extended his arm towards me with a very obscene gesture. I’ve seen better.
“You’re one to talk, Malfoy. Hermione’s had you by the balls since day one.”
I snorted into my drink. It could have been taken in the ‘Ha, you humor me my four-eyed-foe; I’m the man of my house; M-A-N man!’ sense . . . But it was really meant in the ‘Don’t remind me, I’m doing my best to forget’ sense . . . But nobody needed to know that.
I intended to prepare a scathing retort for Potter but at that moment the Wasps managed to score a goal against the Cannons, placing them in the lead, causing a chorus of groans from the Wonder Twins and me.
Weasley cursed and threw his empty butterbeer bottle to the right of the screen. I noticed a pile of glass shards had already collected on the floor - that temper of his must be expensive; no wonder Pansy uses a sticking charm on everything.
We continued to watch the game in silence, an integral rule to the art of game-watching. Noise might disrupt the delicate balance in the air, sending unnecessary energy into the mainstream that might possibly manifest itself a hundred miles away on the Quidditch pitch, and possibly cause the Cannons Chaser to drop the quaffle. Or the Wasps Keeper to miss the save - which would be great, but not worth the risk.
Occasionally Weasley would curse loudly and throw random objects, which is okay because curse words run on a low-frequency and won’t tip the scale in an appreciable way. Potter would remove his glasses and rub his eyes whenever the Cannons Seeker did a particularly stupid move and I, having no temper for bad Quidditch, would jump to my feet and threaten to hex the Cannons Keeper only to realize that hexing the television would not only be ridiculous, it would also shut off the game. And we couldn’t have that.
Luckily, the Cannons scored three goals in a row, bringing them back into the lead and back into our good faith.
“So what are you doing here, Malfoy?” Potter asked, turning his head for the first time toward me.
“Yeah, aren’t you supposed to be helping Hermione with something?” Weasley asked as he scratched himself unashamedly.
I looked from Weasley’s hand to his unassuming face, curled a lip and then thought against it. I turned toward Potter. “I told her I was going to the bathroom.”
“Twenty minutes ago?”
“I really had to go.”
Weasley snickered again then groaned as the Wasps Beaters managed to tag team the Cannons best Chaser.
The Cannons Beaters began to retaliate against the Wasps by bludger-ing the hell out of their Keeper and soon a brawl erupted on the pitch between the uninjured Wasps and furious Cannons. I was instantly reminded of the three or four scuffles I caused on the pitch back in my day. Good times.
We became so involved in the melee on the screen, encouraging the Cannons Beaters unorthodox use of their bats on the Wasps Chaser’s noses, we did not notice when an owl arrived at the window and began tapping his desire to be let in.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The brawl on the screen eventually subsided, and the twenty or so penalty shots were taken between the two teams. The Cannons were up by three goals again. The room rejoiced.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Owl,” Weasley said, taking a swig from his new butterbeer.
“Yup,” supplied Potter.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Still there,” said Weasley.
“Sure is,” I replied. I began to scratch myself subconsciously, realized what I was doing, then withdrew my hand as if it had been burnt. I made a mental note to ask Hermione about the Contagious-Scratch Phenomenon and if it possibly related to the Domino-Yawn-Effect. I scowled at my hand and then at Weasley, who was none-the-wiser as he emitted a string of curses at the television that would make an Auror blush.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
“Gonna get that?” Weasley asked Potter.
“Nope, got the last one.”
“Malfoy?” Weasley asked.
“You’re closer,” I stated.
TAP! TAP! TAP!
…
TAP! TAP! TAP!
…
“Fine!” Weasley said in exasperation as he got up to let in the owl.
“Sucker,” I jibed.
“You owe me five galleons, Ron,” said Potter, who had obviously made a prior bet to Weasley that possibly was a challenge against who would be the first get to up from their recliners. Simple minds, simple pleasures.
I wish I had known about it, I would’ve doubled it.
“It’s for you, Malfoy -”
“Of course it is -” Who would be writing to Weasley, other than his whiny wife? And Potter wasn’t due for his second bout of fan-mail for another hour - the post liked to collect the letters and send them twice a day with a courier albatross.
“And it’s from Hermione -”
“Of course -” That little woman of mine . . . always sending me love notes.
“-and it’s a Howler.”
“Of cour - what?” What?
I jumped from the couch as if I’d been thrown from it and grabbed the red envelope from Weasley, who was laughing, clearly at my expense. I supposed that was okay. I could afford it.
“You make a great door, Malfoy,” Potter whined, leaning out of the chair so he could see the television from around my body.
I cursed loudly and began tearing the Howler into tiny pieces, then dashed towards the fireplace, grabbed a handful of floo powder, shouted “The Manor!” and with an eruption of green flames, was gone.
* * *
[Hour Zero]
Swoosh.
I stepped cautiously from the floo and looked to my left, then my right. The coast was clear . . . phew.
I started to cross the tiled floor of the receiving room, cursing my loafers as they made an obvious tap-taping noise that was sure to give me away. I raised my wand to utter a silencing charm on my shoes and -
“Just where have you been?”
Damn.
Busted.
“Hello, Hermione, you’re looking lovely this -”
“Save it,” she said, silencing me with a wave of her hand. Leave it to a woman to figure out how to silence a man without magic. “Whatever you have to say, whatever excuse you might have for leaving me, I don’t want to hear it.”
I opened my mouth to speak but I met the hand again.
“No, I don’t want to hear it,” she said tersely. “I completely understand. You were just asserting your male dominance by leaving me at home while you were out, gallivanting with your friends, boasting about your latest kill and comparing egos - it’s okay, I get it. You needed validation; you needed to be reminded that you’re still the man of the house -”
I was about to tell her that’s not it at all but then a rather pointed finger was digging into my sternum in a most uncomfortable way.
“-but let me tell you something, Draco Malfoy. While you were out celebrating your manliness with those little friends of yours -”
“They would be your friends . . .”
“-Immaterial,” she dismissed with a wave of her hand, “While you’ve been out, I’ve been working hard trying to get the nursery finished so your child will have a place to sleep when she finally arrives.”
“He . . .” I muttered under my breath.
“The least you could have done” she began, punctuating her words with jabs to my sternum, “is,” jab, “brought,” poke, “home,” stab, “chocolate!”
Oh the joys - horrors, rather - of having a very irritable, intelligent, annoying to the point of nauseating, pregnant . . . wife.
The extra weight I could deal with; she looked good - rotund and gorgeous. I could handle the weird cravings - it took me a while, but marmite, sardines and pickles really is quite tasty. The hormones were a bit of a problem, but we worked through that. She had them, I ignored them. But the poking was a habit I had rather she not picked up.
“Malfoy!”
“What!” I snapped. Hermione was halfway up the staircase and was giving me a look that clearly stated ‘follow.’
I swept past her, taking the stairs two at a time out of spite. My chest hurt and I’m sure there was a bruise. I considered taking photographic evidence and mailing it to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Domestic Bureau, but then I realized she had the whole damned Ministry wrapped around her pinky finger - no thanks to that blasted Potter and all his little Auror friends.
That’s what I get for marrying the Minister of Magic.
She won’t let me be half as evil as I’d like to be. I have to settle for disgruntled malcontent.
I cursed, grumbled, and muttered like a petulant child all the way down the hall - just ‘cause, damn it.
I stopped in front the door just before the master bedroom - a door that led to the most ominous room in the house. The dungeons? No.
The nursery.
I took a fortifying breath and entered.
“What the . . .?” I muttered, looking around at the room in shock. Pink, lots and lots of pink; ruffles, dear Merlin, there’s ruffles, and - oh no. No. No. No.
“NO!” I shouted as my pregnant wife finally waddled into the room, breathing heavily.
“No, what?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at me in a very challenging manner.
“No,” I said, picking up a stuffed rabbit, “this!” Then I threw it across the room for effect.
“It’s a bunny.” She rolled her eyes.
“Precisely.”
“Do you have a problem with the bunnies, Malfoy?” She raised her chin defiantly.
I crossed my arms. “Yes, I do,” I said, and as an afterthought, added: “Granger.”
“Well that’s what you get for leaving the decorating to me, Malfoy. You could have had a say in the matter, but you left me . . . You left me!”
“Well I’m here now and I say no rabbits!”
“And what would you suggest instead?”
“Dragons,” I said matter-of-factly.
She scoffed. I looked at her indignantly. “No daughter of mine is sleeping in a room full of dragons. She’ll have nightmares!”
“No he won’t!”
“Yes she will!”
“No,” I said through gritted teeth, “he won’t.”
Hermione drew herself up to her full height, an easy task. “Yes . . . she . . . will.”
“Fine!”
“HA!”
“But -” I quickly amended, “rabbits are out! No rabbits.”
Hermione huffed. “No dragons.”
I really cannot possibly fathom why she doesn’t like Dragons. She likes me, doesn’t she? The wedding band on her finger would indicate so, and my name, after all, is Draco . . .
“Teddy bears?” Hermione suggested after a moment.
I considered the animal. Bears could be fierce and mean and soft and squishy. They’ll do. “I suppose that’s acceptable.”
“Fine then,” Hermione flicked her wand and the rabbits were replaced by pastel colored bears.
“Change the color.”
“No,” she said and poked me, again.
I raised my hand to retaliate her poke with a flick.
“Ow!”
“I didn’t even touch you yet!”
She glared at me then gasped again. “Owww!”
“Seriously, I haven’t even touched you and there’s no one around to act for so -”
“Not that kind of ‘ow’ you idiot!” Hermione shouted. “This kind of ‘ow’!” She pointed at her belly.
Oh.
“Don’t just stand there, Draco - do something!” Hermione groaned, clutching her stomach.
“Do what?” I’ve never had a baby before; I don’t know what to do. It’s not like they teach you these things. There’s no Baby Education 101 at Hogwarts. Hell, I was taught the facts of life by Aunt Bella . . . and err . . . that wasn’t a very pleasant experience and I still bear the emotional scars. Anyway, Bella didn’t have children, so really, Hermione just expects way too much from me -
“Get the bag, Draco!”
“What - now?”
“No, next week - of course now!” Hermione said sarcastically.
“You’re not having the baby right now?” I said in disbelief. Aren’t there normally five or six false alarms before the real thing?
“Well not at this exact moment - but yes! Yes I’m having the baby!”
“Oh . . . Shit!”
Before I realized what I was doing, I dashed from the nursery and into the master bedroom, where I grabbed the overnight bag for Hermione’s hospital stay, and ran back down the hall, down the stairs, past Hermione who was waddling slowly down, and into the receiving room.
I grabbed the floo powder, jumped in, and shouted “St. Mungo’s!”
* * *
[Hour One]
The St. Mungo’s lobby was surprisingly empty, a fact I was immediately grateful for - I loathe queues. A Malfoy waits for no man (or woman, or elf, or goblin, you get the idea).
I walked to the reception desk with as much dignity and grace I could muster, despite the fact that my heart was pounding a tattoo against my chest.
“We’re having a baby,” I said to the receptionist.
She looked at me, and then to my right and left. “We?” she asked.
I looked around.
Shit.
Swoosh.
“Draco Malfoy, you are uncommonly negligent,” Hermione said as she ambled out of the floo. I rushed to her side and aided her across the reception.
Fortunately, the nurse spared me any further embarrassment by wheeling out a chair for Hermione. “Here you go, Minister,” she said.
Hermione placed herself in the chair with the grace of an elephant seal. She rewarded the nurse with a smile and then fixed me with one of her best glares. “Malfoy, can I trust you to inform the family or should I call Harry and have him do it?”
I bristled. Potter is many things - ugly, arrogant, luckier than hell to have survived Volde-whatever’s wrath - but one thing he is not and never will be . . . and that is Hermione’s husband! That job belongs to me and me alone.
“I can do it,” I said. I kissed my wife on the cheek and watched as she was wheeled down the corridor.
I grabbed some powder, tossed it into the floo, stuck my head in and called “Harry Potter.”
Within a second Potter’s ugly mug was staring at me from the other side of the floo. “Did you get in trouble, Malfoy?” he asked, eyes alight with glee. Sadistic bastard.
“Look I’m at St. Mungo’s -”
Weasley’s head popped into view. “Shit, she hurt you that bad eh?”
I shook my head as the two dimwits snickered. Morons.
“No you idiots - Hermione’s gone into labor.”
“Oh wow . . .”
“Yeah, so, Weasley, notify the troops. Potter, call the Grangers.”
I’m a natural born leader. Delegating tasks is like breathing.
“And what are you going to do?” Potter asked.
“I’m going to call my mummy.” I smirked at his scowl.
And with that, I disconnected.
* * *
[Hour Six]
The contractions were getting longer and Hermione’s temper was getting shorter. I’d already been called a bastard more times than I have fingers or toes and I had to duck four or five times when Hermione’s ice cup attempted to collide with my face. And that was after I had confiscated her wand.
I rubbed my head absently where a stray ice cube managed to hit its target a few minutes earlier. I was broken of my daze when my wife emitted a scream that rivaled Finnegan’s half-banshee mother.
“Breathe, Hermione, breathe . . .”
She fisted a handful of my shirt drawing me closer to her as she writhed in agony. “The next,” growl, “time,” groan, “you tell me,” moan, “to breathe,” sigh, “I’m going to,” scream, “KILL YOU!”
She continued to scream as the contraction peaked, tightening her fist in my shirt so that it began cutting off the circulation to my brain.
“Hermione,” I coughed.
She didn’t hear me. I tried pulling at her hand but it was like stone.
“Her-Hermione . . .” I said breathlessly.
Her hand slackened slightly, but I was beginning to see white and black dots. . .
“’Mione . . .” Air restricted, mind fuzzy . . .
And then . . . there was darkness.
* * *
[Hour Seven]
I heard laughing. No . . . it was more like snickering.
I could hear voices, but the words were vague. I couldn’t make them out . . .
“Hermione . . . . contraction . . . passed out . . . pansy . . .”
“Hey, I resent that.”
I knew that voice.
“P-Pansy? What the hell are you doing here?” I said, opening one eye slightly. I could see a face hovering over me . . . it was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen. “Merlin, Weasley, get up off me!”
“Ha, he’s alive - told you,” he said to somebody, I’m not sure who.
“All right there, Draco?”
I turned to see Pansy on the other side of me. I was in a bed. A hospital bed. What the?
I sat up quickly and then the room went spinning. I grabbed my head to make it stop.
“Fred, George, stop making the room spin. We thought it was funny the first time but now you’re just going to make people sick,” said the unmistakable voice of Molly Weasley.
I groaned - I was surrounded. At least the room stopped spinning.
“So your wife goes into labor and you passed out. Just couldn’t go one day without seeking attention, could you, Draco?”
“Sod off, Pan,” I muttered as I swung my legs over the bed and attempted standing.
No spinning. Legs firm. Head not dizzy. Check and double check.
“Where am I?” I said, looking around. I wasn’t in a hospital room, but I was definitely lying in a hospital bed before . . .
“He must’ve hit his head harder than we thought,” said one of the twins - Fred or George, who cares? Same DNA? Same person.
“Listen carefully, Malfoy, you’re in the hospital,” said the other.
“You’ve just had a sex change operation-”
“And it’s going to take getting used to-”
“But I must say, you’ve got the best rack I’ve ever seen-”
“And your pretty face isn’t half bad, either -”
And then one of them pinched my cheek. The whole room was laughing.
I scowled then trained my wand on one of the twins’ faces. “Take me to my wife and you lose your manhood,” I threatened.
The red-headed fiend gulped. “Don’t you mean ‘keep’?”
“No.”
* * *
[Hour Fourteen]
“How much longer is this going to take?” I asked the Medi-witch as she entered for the seventh time that day to check Hermione’s dilation.
“She’s only at six centimeters, Mr. Malfoy. She’s got to reach ten,” she stated in a tone that conveyed the message ‘ask me one more time, and I’ll throttle you.’
“Can’t you speed it up a bit?”
“And how would we do that, pray tell?”
“Well I don’t know,” I gestured wildly, “perhaps with magic? You are a witch, are you not?” I narrowed my eyes. I had my suspicions.
The Medi-witch glared at me, clearly offended by my accusations.
“Draco, stop fighting with the healer,” Hermione said weakly. I looked down at her tired form, sweat beading around her flushed face. She was breathing heavily yet her eyes were half closed, as if sleep was soon to take her.
I sat down beside the bed again and brushed the hair from her face. “I’m sorry, love; I just want it to be over.”
She considered me for a minute before narrowing her eyes. “The Cannons lost, Malfoy,” she said meekly.
“What! Who told you?”
“Harry . . .”
“Potter . . .” I growled.
Damn. Well I did hope that the baby would be born before the end of the match - it was nearing hour seven when I had recovered from my ‘spell’ and I had wanted to stay and watch the ending, but Hermione’s screams, which I could hear over the surround sound, guilt-ed me back.
I cursed Potter under my breath again. I owed him ten galleons.
I looked back at Hermione. She was watching me wearily; tears were streaming down her face. Guilt washed over me again. I leaned across the bed, cupped her cheek and kissed her softly, then rested my face near hers on the sweat-soaked pillow.
“It’ll be over soon, baby,” I whispered. She smiled at my choice of words.
I leaned over to kiss her temple and -
Wham!
The door flung open and a blur of red flew into the room, landing with little grace in the chair on the other side of Hermione’s bed, knocking over the fifth ice cup and causing Hermione’s bed to roll slightly to the left.
“Hermione! I just got the news!” Ginny cried as she grasped Hermione’s hand in hers. I glared at the little red-headed chit and the way she was manhandling my wife.
“Didn’t Draco floo you?” Hermione asked breathily.
“No,” Ginny said angrily, shooting me her best glare. “And neither did Harry or Ron. I found out from Phlegm only because she wanted to see if I was willing to baby-sit for Gabriel and Ann Marie while she waited here at the hospital - like I didn’t want to be here too!” She huffed indignantly and then softened. “I couldn’t just sit idly by while my best friend gave birth to her first daughter.”
“Son . . .” I said under my breath. The She-Weasel glared at me again.
“I can’t believe you let him touch you,” she whispered in not-so-much a whisper, since I could hear her perfectly.
I scrunched my face in resentment. I happen to recall Hermione likes being touched by me. In fact she begs for it on occasion . . .
“Oh, Ginny, he’s not all bad,” Hermione said.
What? Yes I am. I’m all bad. Every last inch of me is bad. I’m bad to the bone. I’m . . .
Right.
“It’s okay, Hermione. I know how much you like your charity cases,” Ginny said, giving me a derisive glance. “Anyway, I should leave before the Medi-witch kicks me out.”
“No, please stay,” I drawled. “I’d rather enjoy that.”
Choosing to ignore me, the She-Weasel planted a kiss on my wife’s cheek and, with the threat of checking in on her later, left.
Good riddance, I thought, as I wiped the lip gloss smudge off of Hermione’s cheek.
“I wish you two would get along,” Hermione said softly.
“But you and I get along, and I think that’s all the ice hell can handle,” I said as I patted Hermione’s face dry with a towel.
She smiled wryly before her face turned into a grimace at the onset of another contraction.
Here we go again.
* * *
[Hour Sixteen]
“AHHHHHHHHHH!
“It hurts! It hurts! Oh god, it hurts!
“Owwwww! Make it stop . . . please, make it stop . . .”
“Oh do shut up, Malfoy - your hand will be fine. Here,” the Medi-witch snapped. She grabbed my hand and poked it with her wand. It instantly felt better.
Five contractions in four minutes left my hand in rather pitiable condition . . . and it hurt, all right? Just because Hermione refused an epidural doesn’t mean everybody’s a masochist . . .
“Ohhh . . . ohhhh . . . oh god . . . ohhh,” Hermione began groaning, another contraction beginning.
“Come on, Hermione, you can do this, you can get through it,” I encouraged as I wiped her brow.
The contraction increased in intensity and Hermione’s hand flew out, seeking mine. Hesitantly I put my hand in hers -
Mistake, big mistake, but I couldn’t let my selfish complaints override Hermione’s cries.
“Come on baby, you’re almost there, come on,” I said through gritted teeth. Hermione was panting heavily, the veins in her neck were strained and sweat was pouring from her face like a faucet.
Finally, the contraction ended and she fell limp again. She released my hand and I began to rub the blood back into it.
Hermione turned her head to me slowly, eyes half closed, chest heaving with every breath. “Draco,” she whispered barely inaudibly.
I leaned in closer to hear her.
Suddenly she grabbed my shirt in a familiar move and I was overcome with déjà vu.
“You are never, ever, touching me again!” she hissed, releasing my chest with a shove. I fell back into the chair.
Phew.
Well that’s fine - if touching her means in nine months I will pass out, be ridiculed by my friends, break my hand, and suffer through another Cannons defeat , then -
Who am I kidding?
It was worth it.
“Okay, Minister, you’ve reached full dilation. Are you ready?” asked the Medi-witch.
“Are you ready, love?” I asked, smoothing the hair from Hermione’s face. She was soaked in sweat, her hair as damp as her body, and her face was pasty and white save for the deep flush on her cheeks.
I’d never seen her look so beautiful.
She smiled at me and nodded.
I nodded to the Medi-witch and said: “Let’s go.”
“All right, Hermione, you’ve got to start pushing. On three. One, two, three . . .”
Hermione pushed with all her might, then gasped, and fell back.
“Very good, Hermione,” said the Medi-witch. “Again.”
And again, my wife forced all of her energy into this singular act of bringing my baby into the world . . .
My baby . . .
Baby . . .
Holy shit!
“Come on, baby, come on, Hermione, come on,” I chanted, half conscious of what I was saying.
I’m having a baby. We’re having a baby.
In a few minutes I’m going to be a father of Hermione Granger’s child.
Dear Merlin, I’d like to meet whoever invented irony . . .
“Mr. Malfoy.”
“Huh?” I said, barely aware of Hermione pushing away.
“The baby’s head has crowned, would you like to see the birth of your child?” the Medi-witch asked.
Mutely and still holding fast to Hermione’s hand, I stretched our arms until I could see between Hermione’s legs.
It was . . . gross.
And beautiful.
Beautiful and gross.
Oh my . . . that’s a head.
“Push, Hermione.”
And a shoulder. Nasty, something ripped - that had to hurt . .
“One more time, Hermione.”
Merlin . . . there it is . . . that’s my . . . whoa, something’s missing!
“Congratulations, Hermione. You have a beautiful, healthy baby girl.”
I stared at the Medi-witch as she handed my daughter to the attending nurse, who cleaned her, muttered a few spells over her tiny body, and wrapped her in a blanket. She then turned, smiled at me, and placed the baby in my arms.
“Congratulations, Mr. Malfoy,” she said, but I was too stunned to thank her.
My daughter was whimpering softly.
She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. She was also the tiniest; she couldn’t weigh more than four ounces. I held her like she was made of porcelain. I didn’t want anything to harm her. She was perfect.
“Draco, I want to see her,” Hermione said hoarsely. I brought my daughter - our daughter - to my wife and placed her gently into her mother’s arms.
Hermione smiled at our daughter’s tiny face and then smiled at me. “She’s gorgeous,” Hermione whispered in complete rapture of her creation - our creation.
“What, this ugly thing?” I smiled in return. “Beautiful . . .”
Definitely worth it.
* * *
[Hour Twenty]
The family was crowded into Hermione’s room - a spacious, comfortable, private room; one of the many perks of being the Minister of Magic. The mothers - i.e. Molly Weasley, Kate Granger, and my mother, Narcissa - were crowded around Hermione, clucking like hens over the new baby.
The younger women - She-Weasel, Luna, Pansy, and Fleur - were gathered around Hermione as well, giggling over the baby and shooting furtive looks at their respective husbands. Luna was rubbing her own protruding belly absently, smiling wistfully at Potter.
I was standing in the corner, observing, when She-Weasel’s husband invaded my space.
“Well you’re lucky, Malfoy,” he drawled.
“And why is that?” I raised an eye brow at him.
Zabini grinned cheekily. “She doesn’t look a thing like you.”
“Nonsense,” one of the twins added, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. I tensed immediately. “Malfoy’s very pretty,” he said, pinching my cheek again.
I shrugged his arm off my shoulders, as he and Zabini laughed. I glared at them both before marching over to the bed. I parted the women like Moses and the Red Sea, and sat on the bed beside my wife.
I ran a finger along the smooth skin of my daughter’s sleeping face. She wrinkled up her brow, her tiny nose scrunched very much like her mother’s, and she opened one eye and then the other and looked at me.
I couldn’t breathe. She looked right at me.
“I love you,” I whispered as I kissed my baby.
Then I said the same thing and kissed my wife.
The women sighed and tittered like love-sick school girls, then, one by one, sought out their husbands, probably cajoling them into procreating.
They could do a lot worse.
“What are we going to name her?”
“We never did consider names, did we?” I asked.
“We were too busy fighting.”
“Well it is what we do best.”
Hermione looked down at our child. “No, it isn’t,” she said, then looked up at me, smiling. “This is what we do best.” She cradled the baby closer to her body.
I watched as our beautiful, nameless baby blinked at her mother, opening and closing her tiny hand. I placed my pinky in her palm and she gripped it tightly.
She was right.
Making beautiful babies is what Malfoys do best.
Like me, for example.
Wink.
- Fin -
Three things you want your fic to include:Blaise/Ginny, a reunion, children.
Three things you do not want your fic to include:Rape/incest, unhappy ending, too much fluff.
Anything specific that you do not want to write:Incest/rape/gay pairings/threesomes
Thank-you for Celebrating the Season with Draco and Hermione!