A/N This new extension is for Jasperandgemma (thank you for the request lovely!), and I am posting to celebrate the redraft of this entire fic, which is now live. This has been something of a monumental undertaking, every word has been reconsidered, and around 40k new ones have been added to the overall length. Big bestie love to Kreeblim Sabs who kept me sane while I worked on this, thank you for listening to my endless whining.

Antonin walked through the townhouse floo, pausing to dust off the remnants of soot, before making his way up the stairs. Yax had wanted to stay for another drink, as usual, but Antonin had declined. He hadn't seen a lot of Hermione over the last couple of weeks, and he was eager to get home to what he hoped, was a slightly less preoccupied wife. Between sessions at the Wizengamot and last minute party plans, they had barely been in the same room for more than an hour in days. Antonin missed her, missed how she would let herself relax when it was just the two of them. Hermione was a caregiver, it was inherent in her nature, but when it was just them, she would let go, at least for a moment, and allow him to take over. Until she wanted to smother him in affection, which he protested, in the mildest forms imaginable.

Antonin felt all of his years when climbing the stairs, stopping for a moment to rest his hand against the gilt frame of their wedding picture as he continued his ascent. The party had made for a full on day, and despite the ample moments of hilarity, he was tired, bone tired. Hermione and Luna had been correct, as they so often were, it had been the right thing to do to invite more people. Perdy had been in her element, running around, getting messy with the other children, once her balloons had been removed. Even though it had made him tense so often throughout the afternoon that his shoulders now ached, it had been worth it.

When Antonin made it into their bedroom he heard running water in the adjoining bathroom and, hoping he could convince his wife to remain in their rooms for the rest of the evening, Antonin lit a fire in the ornate fireplace at the back of the room. Hermione's sanctuary might have been the sunroom, but his was the bedroom. They had extended it years before, putting in the cosy, snug-like area on the far side, and moving in some comfortable chairs. Once he had showered, he wanted to spend the remains of the day languidly planning their next trip away. Somewhere warm, tropical, somewhere secluded, where he could hole up with Hermione and map the contours of her skin to his heart's delight.

Antonin shrugged off the outer jacket of his robes and sat down on his side of the bed to take off his shoes. Something caught his eye as he bent to untie his laces, something that was blocking a treasured picture of himself and Hermione, one so familiar that he could recall from memory. Both of them smiling up at the camera, their heads resting against each other on soft white pillows. His hand, that had come up automatically, began to shake a little, it was a minute tremble, you could barely see it on his wrist, but by the time the vibration reached his fingers, it was almost violent.

Antonin picked it up, the parchment square, unsteadily, and sucked in a breath, moving to set it down safely on the cover of the bed, lest he drop it and somehow creased or mark the grayscale image.

Heartbeats.

His mind supplied the word, drawing out the sound until it remained on a prolonged hiss at the s.

Heart. Beat. Heartbeat. Heartbeats.

When he rose to his feet Antonin felt his blood travel to his feet, and he wobbled slightly, but he didn't hang around long enough to wait for his equilibrium to return. Instead, he ran, as if death itself were on his heels, straight into the steamed up bathroom. He fumbled with the frosted glass shower door for a panicked moment, until he could wrench it open, and walk, fully clothed, inside.

Their shower was a large, and one of the myriad improvements they had made to his family home when they had established it as their home. Usually it would feel as if there was ample room, in fact, Antonin spent a significant portion of his existence showing Hermione just how much room there was, but right now it felt as if the condensation lined walls were pushing in on him. Antonin closed his eyes, trying to will himself to concentrate on the sensation of the water cascading against his head, instead of the burning behind his eyes and in his lungs. He was positive Hermione must have been saying something, how could she not have been, after his unexpected arrival? But he couldn't hear her; all noise was drowned out as he lost himself to the panic brought on by extreme emotion.

It was like this at the start, when he had first got out, Antonin couldn't use the shower without violent memories surfacing. The sound of the sliding door too similar to the slamming of cells. The space sealing around him made him want to smash through the glass, to ball up his fists and pound at the toughened surface until he shattered it. The door would close, and he would have to fight the urge to tear the 'too-white' tiles from the walls, one by one if he had to, to break the cage.

It was different if she was there. Antonin had resented the idea of asking, admitting just how badly he was functioning, but as it turned out, he didn't have to. For the first month after he was released Hermione followed him around everywhere, barely leaving his side for a moment. When the first crash of rage came, it was when he had tried to take a shower, only two days after she had clung to him on the jagged rocks. He had panicked as the steam billowed around him, then, he heard her voice, cutting through the fog like a lifebuoy tossed to a drowning man. Hermione's words soothing him as she sat, crouched on the other side of the bathroom door, not even seeing him, and yet, still able to anticipate his pain.

Antonin had been worried at first that Hermione would leave him, despite everything she had done, he convinced himself that she couldn't have been expecting the man he was now. Broken and struggling to adapt, dependant on booze to sleep, and company to keep the demons away, slipping into the madness that by that point felt inevitable.

Then he realised how much she needed him too.

The first time Antonin made to leave the townhouse with Yaxley for a drink, intending to test his tolerance for the outside world and hard liquor, Hermione had a breakdown. Her anxiety boiling over, and releasing a surge of feeling that she had evidently been bottling up for far too long. 'What if they take you away again?' She had screamed as he resorted to holding her against a wall, her limbs flailing violently, 'I can't be alone again Antonin, I can't do it again'. It was then that he remembered all of those months that he had prayed for her, wished that she would lean on him with her troubles.

'It ripped out my heart', she sobbed as he pulled her into bed, wrapping himself around her as she all but clawed at his skin, he realised then how much strength she had lost.

So he took her away.

They spent time convincing each other they were real, getting to know the people they were now, without the threat of constant war or separation. Through it, Antonin thought he might have picked up who he was, where the holes were, and he let her smooth them over. He woke up with Hermione in so many different places, sometimes a different location each morning, always turning to regard the little witch in his arms before he looked out at the new vista. He learnt everything there was to know about her, her body, her mind, her soul. Antonin fell in love with her again, every day. Hermione was everything he had never known that he had needed and now, now she was giving him more.

The roaring sounds in his ears dissipated and abruptly Antonin could feel small hands pressed against his forearms, wrapped around his sopping wet shirt.

"Antonin?"

He opened his eyes, looking into hers. "Is it… is it true?" he asked desperately, his voice as rough as sandpaper and fiercely urgent. Hermione looked back at him intently, as he lifted his shaking hand, the tips of his fingers just grazing against her belly button before they trailed downwards. Antonin laid his hand, his whole hand, against her stomach, feeling her soft skin that had been warmed by the flow of water. Her gaze had followed his movement before her head snapped up to face him again.

"Yes," she said, her voice quavering, "Yes," she repeated, nodding her head as he could see tears joining the water cascading down her face.

"Two?" Antonin asked choking a little. He shuffled forward, bending so he could drop his head to hers, swallowing before he moved his other hand to her delicate face, his fingers feeling the subtle movements of her jaw as she answered him.

"Two," Hermione breathed out eventually, before crashing forward and resting her head against his chest, nodding against the saturated clothes sticking to his skin.

He needed her to be closer, to be able to look in her face, Antonin stepped back and placed both hands on her waist, gripping her firmly but gently, pushing her back against the shower wall and coaxing her slim legs to wrap around his hips. She closed her eyes as her head fell back against the wall.

"Thank you," he whispered, as he kissed her eyelids. "Thank you."

Antonin carried Hermione out of the shower, placing her on top of the sink and levitating a towel to wrap around her. Standing in front of her, gently drying the damp curls that were stuck to her head.

"Antonin," she chastised, "you need to get out of those wet clothes."

His mind couldn't have been further away from himself at that moment but noticing the set of her jaw, he shrugged out of his shirt, his eyes falling from hers again. He parted the towel she was encased in before he stepped out of his trousers placing his hand over her stomach, as if more delicate touches would convince him it was actually happening.

"How long have you known?" he asked absently, kissing her forehead, and her temple, and her cheek.

"A week. I thought I might have been before that; I kept being sick, and when Luna kept looking at me funny-"

"You're sick?" he interrupted, the sharp jerk of his head sending drips from his wet hair onto Hermione's bare legs. She tutted, reaching forward to brush the damp locks of his face.

"I'm fine," she reassured, "It's normal."

Antonin nodded, wiping his hand over his mouth, he imagined that was going to happen often, he already knew he was going to be unbearable, and it hadn't even started yet. He rubbed the towel over her flat tummy, imagining a swell that wasn't yet there.

He would have to find a book, something that would at least stop him from having a heart attack before the baby, babies, arrived. Something to read when he could take time out from what would likely be continual adding to the wards.

A/N For any of you that would like to read more from the Pictures of You AU, my fic The Mixtape has a few one-shots, all which take place after the epilogue;

Side A: Track 1 Jealous Guy - Jealous Antonin while Hermione is pregnant.

Side A: Track 9 Wish You Were Here - Luna x Rabastan.

Side B: Track 5 Escape (The Pina Colada Song) - Ever wondered what happened on that girls night out Luna mentions in the epilogue?