disclaimer: i own nothing.

a/n: i just read some dramione family fics and i'm sorry. look at that horrible grammar though. i don't know what to do with myself.

a/n2: eh. fixed some things.

. . .

"Draco,"

He hums under his breath, distracted, still completely fixated on his papers.

"I'm pregnant."

And the papers drops and spreads all over the floor, abandoned, forgotten.

"What?"

. . .

They would argue over names.

Usually, Draco would back down (because it's Hermione and when she's mad and pregnant, she would be like a ruthless, erupting volcano) then calm himself because this is his pregnant wife and it's just her hormones going wild with the pregnancy.

But names.

He had wanted Scorpius for a boy but she thinks that even if it's a constellation, it's still an arthropod they are naming the child after and so she disagrees.

It was easy to settle for girls but the woman won't budge or agree to anything for a boy that it's starting to drive him insane.

And no, Draco Malfoy wouldn't sink that low and plead to his woman. If they are going to argue until the child is born, so be it.

If it's a boy, he will be Scorpius.

. . .

Hermione asks him to rub her feet this time and another jar of chocolate chip cookies.

He complies silently and thinks about the baby as he worked with her foot. Secretly, he hopes that the baby would look more like Hermione than him.

(He had done so many things and what if he turns to be a horrible, wretched father and his child will be just as horrible and wrong and—)

Then abruptly, he realizes that she has fallen silent. She is not eating or humming or talking to the baby like she loves to do nowadays.

Looking up from the sight of her toes, he looks at her as she looks at him, tight-lipped with glassy, red eyes.

His heart had almost jumped out of his throat in panic and the feeling of oh gods why is she crying what does she need what did I do wrong had nearly made him let out a small noise of desperation.

And then— then— she asks him if he hated her.

He is sure that his brain had shut down in either enormous relief that it wasn't something worse or an overload of bewilderment towards the questions itself.

She elaborates further that she is now fat, ugly, miserable, demanding, everything a woman should not be and—

Groaning, he then murmurs soothing words to himself and sighs.

"Granger, I wouldn't be here, giving you your chocolate chip cookies, rubbing your feet almost every day if I hated you now, would I?"

Seconds later, she is a pile of a grinning-crying-happy-runny nose mess in his arms.

. . .

These days, he can often see her smile.

A happier Hermione meant a better fate for him.

He favors this very much.

"Draco! The baby's kicking! Here, give me your hand."

Gently, she places his palm on top of her swollen belly. He feels a kick and the anticipating smile stretches to a fascinated, proud grin.

There is a fleeting feeling of rainbows and chocolates, of happiness and excitement when he shifts his eyes to her then to her growing stomach.

He is there with the person he loves, waiting for their child.

Draco Malfoy is a lucky man and he knows that all too well.

. . .

The uneasiness and fear coils around his stomach.

Thoughts of being unprepared, of making mistakes again, of being a coward, of not being worthy plaques his head. Day by day, it gets worse.

Of course, she notices. She always would.

And she knows what he is agonizing over because it had been too obvious to hide.

"Nobody is perfect, Draco. Just try your best and I'll be with you too, alright?"

She offers him a tentative smile and he finds that his heart lightens a little.

. . .

"I'll only accept Scorpius, Granger. That's it."

"You— You stubborn, insufferable prat!"

. . .

The experience had been strange.

She had screamed, the volume almost bursting his eardrums, while a whirlwind of emotion wrecked his insides and the bones of his fingers had felt as if it had been cracked under her grip.

The baby is a she.

When he had held his daughter, the elation, the delight, the joy— everything— was threatening to burst out of his chest, like gushing torrents of a waterfall.

He would never admit to anyone (ever) that his eyes had been redder than usual then.

And Hermione, though plainly exhausted, with matted hair and sweat on her neck, had laughed.

It was one of the most beautiful he had ever heard from her.

. . .

"Her name?"

She glances at him and he nods.

"Cassiopeia… Narcissa Malfoy."

. . .

—end—