A/N: I won't even try to excuse the four-and-a-bit years that have elapsed since my last update. It's been a minute. Let's continue the story.

For good people with bad habits.

You had taken several steps inside the entrance hall of St. Mungos Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries before you realised that you were alone. You looked back to see Draco staring a little blankly behind the doors which separated the outer entrance with the cavernous hall, looking uncharacteristically apprehensive. The veneer of self-assuredness which you had grown accustomed to seeing since the day you first met melted away before your eyes, framed by a comically useless perspex sliding door and a clinically white corridor.

Arranging a neutral expression on your face and exhaling softly, you walked slowly (slow was about as fast as you could manage these days) back towards him. You realised it had taken you almost 30 weeks to get him to come with you to one of these appointments. It was a momentous occasion. Given how vehemently he had first rejected the idea of attending an appointment at St. Mungos, you might have been convinced he was allergic to healers.

"Draco."

His eyes twitched to yours as you approached, calling his name in what you hoped was a reassuring manner. He looked away instantaneously, eyes suddenly fixed to an invisible mark on the pristine, white wall. Pride. Fittingly, it was a vice that connected you with him in as many ways as it put you at odds with each other.

The sliding doors dissolved as you stepped through the invisible wards, coming to face him in the empty corridor. You looked down at his hands, rigidly at his sides and took one of them gently in your own. His eyes focused on yours again, letting you clasp his hand, interlacing your fingers, in a way that was still foreign.

Tactile interactions like this had only recently become the new normal. In typical Draco-and-Astoria fashion, it had been an unsaid understanding that these seemingly mundane interactions were not part of your story. Like somehow the passionate, fiery and irregular interactions dispersed with polite indifference and a chaste kiss every now and again were enough to sustain a marriage.

But apparently it only took seven months to change your world.

It had started with the fights, the teasing, the unexpected embrace, the occasional coital interaction which took you interstellar. But the real catalyst had been a kiss (as things most often were) when he'd stepped out the door in late April to apparate to Blaise's offices and looked back at you like he'd forgotten something. Not something unimportant in the mildly irritating way, but in a way that looked as if he'd left the Manor without it, Earth might have spun right off its axis. You were still processing his hesitation when you found him right in front of you, forefinger softly lifting your chin up and his lips pressing down hungrily onto yours.

It was probably the hormones running hot through your body, but you were so intoxicated by his unexpected closeness; the warmth of his hands; the light smell of his cologne and the urgency of his lips practically melting into yours, that you found yourself moments later wrapped around him (so much as was possible given there was a quaffle-sized stomach in between you). It was as if you were so captivated by the closeness and the spontaneity and urgency that you completely lost yourself in his touch. You couldn't have known how long that kiss had even lasted. It was as if it took all of your concentration just to remember to breathe.

Whether it was seconds, minutes or an eternity later, he had slowly broken off the kiss, smirking at the way your body had involuntarily reacted. Infuriatingly, and with no further word of explanation, he turned, walked swiftly down the gravel path and apparated outside the wrought iron gates. You were sure you were going to spontaneously combust.

Another night he came home later than usual (no doubt pouring over the lab reports prepared by the French bubotuber company) to find you sleeping on the couch. You'd tried to stay awake but sleep was a fickle thing these days - sometimes eluding you for hours on end and at others hitting you like a bludger to the head. You were in his arms by the time you stirred, carried up the staircase to bed. Faintly, you remember wondering how someone with so little body fat could possibly lift the equivalent of one and a half people, but then again, you might have dreamt the entire thing.

By early May he had abandoned his reclusiveness in the library all together and had taken to spending most of the weekend in your presence. One Sunday morning, whilst eating breakfast together, you had been picking at a croissant with your right hand, in a way very unbecoming of a Greengrass and most definitely a Malfoy, when he had reached across the table. He grasped your left hand in his, squeezed it once and smiled at you over the top of the Daily Prophet. Smiled in a way that wasn't even remotely a smirk.

Later that week you'd been standing in the shower, eyes closed, warm water cascading down your shoulders and soothing the tightness in your lower back when his arms wrapped around you, sitting comfortably on top of your protruding belly and pulled your body flush against his. His lips dropped to your neck and kissed it softly, a hand reaching up from your stomach and lazily pulling your long curls to the side, leaving a prickling trail of desire that felt hotter than the water itself.

In a strange way, these new interactions felt more intimate that anything you had experienced before. There was unspoken things in those touches, the looks, the kisses, that had never existed. Longing, trust, affection. Something else that was deeper than want and more significant than lust.

Nevertheless, you had never taken his hand like this before in a public setting. Sensing his hesitation you gave it a reassuring squeeze before dropping it. His eyes left yours as his right hand reached into the pocket of his immaculately tailored trousers.

"I'll meet you in there," he said, and you could imagine his long fingers closing around the packet of cigarettes stuffed somewhere in there, disguised by an undetectable extension charm.

~.~

The healer had already run the required diagnostic tests by the time he entered the small consulting suite.

"Sir, you have to wait-" she began, plainly incredulous at seeing a seemingly random person enter while you were flat on your back, stomach fully exposed from the examination.

"He's my husband," you explained quickly, hoping that the explanation came out sounding more as an apology.

"My apologies," she said, speaking directly to you instead of him. It was clear from her appraising gaze of Draco that she was going to direct her irritation toward him. As one hand steadied the in-utero projection from her wand, the other pulled a chair out from somewhere behind her. "Please sit, Mr Malfoy."

He obediently sat at her direction, but his eyes didn't waver from the projection spilling out into the open space between you, a three dimensional replica of the contents of your uterus out for everyone to observe.

Taking one look at Draco's entranced gaze, the healer addressed him again. "Have you attended any of your wife's other prenatal appointments, Mr Malfoy?"

"No," he said simply, seemingly without thinking. There was no hint of hesitation in his voice, his eyes glued, captivated, to the sight before him. You'd never seen him look so intensely at anything in your life. An emotion prickled at your subconscious, and you recognised it incredulously as jealously.

You found Draco difficult to read at the best of times. Unless he was displaying clear anger, derision or irritation, his cool expression could mean a variety of things. It was infuriating to see him staring so intently at something without being able to gauge his internal reaction.

The healer began taking him through the basic parts of the life that was projected from you. Where the head sat, the approximate location of the toes and fingers. She explained it had begun to grow fingernails and was developing lungs full of amniotic fluid. He acknowledged her words with the appropriate short acknowledgement until she mentioned something about 'tactile response.'

"Tactile?" he said, alarmed. He was suddenly very alert. "Astoria can feel him?"

The healer's eyes shot to yours with a look of bemusement.

"Astoria, I would estimate at the fetus' rate of growth that you have been feeling it move around for approximately twelve weeks now?"

"Approximately," you said in a small voice, feeling guilty without knowing exactly why you felt that sense of betrayal.

Draco tore his eyes away from the projection to look at you. His confusion was quickly hidden under the restored mask of normalcy. The aristocratic face was rearranged to reflect his usual benign indifference. You supposed he had never bothered to learn anything about the pregnant human condition.

"Have you not yet felt it move, Mr Malfoy?" the Healer asked, turning to face Draco.

"Not yet," he responded carefully. "But I have been travelling on business frequently so haven't been present for much of the last few weeks."

A lie, albeit a small one. The truth was, although the advances in your relationship felt lightning-paced, the intermittent touches were still so rare that it was unlikely Draco would have had the opportunity to feel the baby move, unless it had kicked hard whilst you had both been in bed. Sleeping, or otherwise.

"You should be able to feel it move quite regularly now," the healer explained. "Especially since it should be able to recognise your voices."

The mask flickered. "He can recognise my voice?"

He said it more as a question to you, rather than the healer. His face looked as if his brain was reeling, trying to recount every swear word he had uttered in the last few weeks. Good luck, Draco.

The healer cocked an eyebrow. "Yes, the fetus can typically differentiate familiar voices at this stage. Which is usually its mother and father." Clearly, the business trips had not impressed her. "If you have the time, you should try speaking around it and gauge any reactions."

The veiled criticism appeared to have little effect on Draco. You watched his gaze, transfixed on the life form in the projection.

"After birth, where are you planning to have the baby sleep?" the healer asked, snapping you out of your reverie. "We have a prenatal class on monitoring charms if you need assistance."

To be honest, you were yet to discuss this sort of logistical issue with Draco. Until this very moment you had presumed he would want the baby on the opposite side of the Manor at all times. Now, you weren't so sure.

"It's not something we have concretely established," you trailed off, hoping you sounded like you had progressed this issue further than you had. The healer didn't need to know you that you hadn't even thought about what it would sleep in, let alone where it would go.

She raised an eyebrow again. You had clearly convinced her.

"You'll need to start establishing these things sooner rather than later, Mrs Malfoy," she chided, "the fetus is slightly underweight, and as it is your first child, the likelihood of it being born premature is higher."

You nodded, absorbing the instructions. She flicked her wand to a stack of leaflets on a nearby filing cabinet and assorted four or five in front of you. In doing so, the projection dissolved and Draco appeared to return to Earth.

"These will give you a comprehensive guide of things you may need to prepare for birth," she said, circling a few key items on the leaflets with her wand. "I'd recommend starting with this one," she pointed to a green leaflet with a list of goods, "it contains the basic physical items you'll need if you haven't already purchased them." She looked at you pointedly.

"Thank you," you said ruefully, "I'm sure as a first-time mother I'm forgetting a lot of basic things."

Like every single thing you thought, staring down at the vast lists in front of you. Merlin, you had not anticipated how much you needed to accumulate over the coming weeks.

You stood with Draco to leave.

"Mr Malfoy," the healer said, addressing him as you turned to leave, "I also would be neglecting my professional duties if I didn't mention that now may be a good time to think about quitting."

"I'm sorry?" Draco shot back, evidently perplexed.

"Smoking," the healer replied, clearly able to discern the faint smell of cigarettes through his cologne. "For your benefit, mostly," she finished, turning her back as she filed her papers, wordlessly dismissing you.

You saw Draco scowl, and shove the packet into his pocket a little deeper.

~.~

Unfortunately for Draco, his newfound interest in your child had coincided perfectly with the healer's unsubtle recommendation to hurry up in the retail department. It did nothing to improve his mood.

He had flat out refused to visit any store in Diagon Alley (probably to avoid another chance encounter with any of his alumni), and insisted that the much less extensive range at a shop in the small wizarding village just outside Malmesbury. The store was quaint, assimilating perfectly into the architecture of the village, and everything inside it was about seventeen times the recommended retail price. This was a common affliction of living in wizarding Wiltshire where the net worth of your neighbours far exceeded the ordinary.

It was clear from walking up and down the aisle of cribs and bassinets that the outrageous price tags were reflected in the designs of the furniture. Plainly, these items were made for your average wizarding Prince. You wondered whether Draco had truly been raised in a gold-gilded bassinet, which some babies in northern Wiltshire clearly required.

"Is this a throne or a crib?" you whispered to him, as you tapped the gilded bassinet with your wand appraisingly.

His sulking expression lifted slightly, turning to face the offending item. He smirked.

"Don't you think he deserves a gold headboard carved with the likeness of Merlin?"

"Honestly, I don't understand how you seem to know it's going to be a boy, Draco," you said, eyes narrowing in his direction, "maybe we should be going over to look at the dusted pink cribs."

He raised his eyebrows, looking infuriatingly self-assured. "You can if you wish, Astoria," he said lightly, "but you'll be wasting your time."

"And your money," you muttered, darkly.

He laughed softly in reply and continued down the aisle.

He ran his fingers along a wooden crib in the shape of a rowing boat. "Do you think we could cast him off in this on the Manor lake if he cried too much?"

"Maybe I could cast you off instead."

"I know how much you like the water," he replied, taunting you. "Maybe we should test you in it first."

You were about to express to him how greatly he was already testing you, but you stopped yourself. It appeared that the teasing had relieved his sulking about the cigarette issue and an irritating Draco was much better than a moody one.

"This is what we need," he said, directing your attention to the gaudiest crib you had ever laid eyes on. The baby blue egg-shaped bed was adorned by gold trimmings, false golden wheels and heavy drapery. It was evidently modelled on the ridiculous carriages used by the Beauxbatons academy.

"Do you think it comes with horses?" you whispered, voice rich with sarcasm.

"Do you think it comes with Veela?" He countered.

You scowled. "Do you think you might like to remain married to me by the end of this shopping trip?"

"You had better hope so," he smirked, implicitly reminding you that you could no longer apparate by yourself. "It's a long walk back to Salisbury."

"Prat."

You sincerely doubted anyone had called Draco Malfoy anything so childish, but you didn't care. Turning away from the carriage-crib you continued your quest down the aisle.

At the end, amongst the understated furniture (if anything in this store was understated at all, perhaps it was just less ostentatious than the rest) you found one you both agreed on. A plain, crib-esque crib in a rich mahogany. Something that would look at home in one of the various unused rooms in the Manor.

"We should get the matching chair," you suggested, pointing at a bewitched rocking chair that was slowly tilting back and forth.

He appraised it with a haughty gaze. "Why? It looks uncomfortable."

"Well it isn't as if you will ever sit in in it, Draco."

"Why not?"

You stared blankly at him. "Well, are you biologically able to feed a child?"

He smirked. "Will he drink whisky?"

At your incredulous look he continued. "What if I want to hold him sometimes?"

"Babies are messy Draco; it wouldn't suit your aesthetic."

You imagined him for a minute precariously holding a baby in one hand and scrugifying his immaculate clothes with the other. You were surprised by his suggestion. You had imagined that child-rearing in the Malfoy household was very much left to the mothers. It would explain why Draco's relationship with Narcissa had endured despite it all, whereas his relationship with Lucius had burned amongst the wreckage of the war.

"You never know, Astoria. I might like him."

When you didn't say anything, he continued. "And perchance I do, I'm going to need something far more comfortable than that."

His eyes flickered to a large, leather sofa in a snowy white, sitting on the back wall of the shop. You followed his gaze, unspeaking. The revelation that Draco had not only accepted your unborn child's being but was actively seeking a parental role had rendered you somewhat dumbstruck.

Within ten minutes, he'd handed over a mouthwatering amount of Galleons for the sofa, the crib, a few throw rugs and the rocking chair and had arranged for its delivery the next week.

You followed him towards the store entrance, still unsure what to say or how to speak.

As you were about to exit he took your hand unexpectedly and pulled you over to a crib sitting at the front of the store. It was clear to you why this particular object was selling for a reduced price.

The crib was snowy white and adored with thousands of feathers. The headboard was in the shape of two enormous wings, covered in both fluffy down and substantial silky wing tips. You shuddered to think how many birds had to be sacrificed to make this atrocity.

"Buyers regret, Astoria?" he whispered, trying to provoke you.

"Definitely. A young Malfoy should always sleep in an animal graveyard," you shot back.

"It's rather morbid, isn't it?" he agreed, face bemused.

"Certainly for the birds."

"I was thinking more of a gravestone."

"I think it symbolises an angelic child rather than a literal angel, Draco."

"Angelic? Certainly not in Malfoy Manor."

"It would go perfectly in the dungeons."

From your peripherals, you saw him roll his eyes. "No Malfoy is ever going to be described as angelic, Astoria."

You reached your hands out towards your stomach to cover it with a look of mock outrage.

"It can hear you," you hissed.

He scowled again.

~.~

It wasn't until a week or so later that you found yourself startled from sleep by a cool hand on your stomach. Judging by the hand placement and the corresponding kicking inside you, you were apparently the only person in this room who kept to a normal sleeping schedule.

You turned your face to meet grey eyes, contemplative beneath the blonde and brown eyelashes. You inhaled deeply. He smelled suspiciously of his cologne and cigarettes.

You wondered whether this was the first time he had covertly attempted to feel for signs of movement.

"Midnight snack?" you whispered, still groggy from sleep.

"It was the last one in the packet," he replied softly. "I'm not going to buy another one."

You snorted, disbelieving.

"It is," he insisted, narrowing his eyes at you. "We discussed it."

"Did we?" you replied, genuinely unable to remember the point in time where Draco Malfoy had promised to give up his enduring proclivity for nicotine.

"Not with you," he replied, "you wouldn't have believed me." He answered your confusion by gently running his hand across you again.

You bit your lip in an attempt to keep the smile spreading across your lips. The thought of Draco having some sort of telepathic conversation with your unborn child was in equal parts endearing as it was terribly out of character.

"I'm glad that you listen to someone around here," you sighed with mock irritation.

"I do want to try," he said, barely audibly. Implicitly, you knew he wasn't referring to the cigarettes, or even speaking to you in particular.

You expected him to slip his hand away from you at any moment but he left it there, circling random patterns on your belly, as you settled into comfortable silence again. You let yourself be lulled by his deep, regular breathing.

"Are you scared?" he asked again after a long while, and you knew this time the question was directed to you.

"Terrified," you answered honestly. There was a vulnerability in his voice that you couldn't quite reconcile with his face, so you kept your eyes trained on the ceiling. "Are you?"

He hesitated, pausing to lay his hand flush against your warmth. He got a gentle kick in response but he didn't draw his hand away.

"I'm afraid of becoming what I don't want to be."

You let the words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. The truth was, you couldn't tell Draco he categorically wouldn't mirror Lucius in some ways. Not least because you had seen Draco emulate his father in a number of situations, and speak of him with a reverence that had only begun to falter in the last six months.

The Draco you knew and co-habited peacefully with (albeit ad nauseum) for the first year of your marriage had been almost completely replaced by someone else. Not a foreigner, but someone who had hidden deep within the hard exterior, and had never exposed themselves to you before.

"He won't know you, Draco" you said, relinquishing your insistence that the unborn child may, in fact, be a female. "You can be whoever you are comfortable being."

You knew there was a difference between what Draco wanted and what he could tolerate from himself. He was never going to be completely unguarded, spontaneous and wear his heart on his sleeve. But you hadn't wanted that when you'd made the decision to tie your life so inextricably to his.

Tellingly, he retracted his palm from your abdomen and propped himself up on his elbows to face you. Your body reflexively shuddered from missing his touch and you almost instinctively reached out to grab his hand and put it back where it belonged. Instead, you turned your face on the pillow to look at his, searching his eyes for reassurance.

The grey irises pooled with doubt.

His free hand now reaching out to touch your cheek. "I need you to tell me what to do. How to be."

Your eyes prickled. The truth was, you'd been having the same doubts yourself. You had no idea how to be a mother. You'd been hoping it would all come to you in the progesterone-fuelled experience of birth like some religious revelation.

It was as if he reached into your mind and plucked the thoughts out of your head. "Not like that, Astoria. Not in a practical sense. I mean, how do I make him like me? As a father I mean."

Another question you really didn't have the answer to. In all honesty, you hadn't worried about the child liking you. You had assumed that, for reasons of survival, it sort of had to like you. For Draco, it was another story.

"You liked your father," you said stupidly, wincing at your words. "How did that work?"

He swallowed, eyes flicking away from yours. He recoiled his hand from your cheek and twisted it into his hair. An action you had come to notice as reflective of his discomfort and anxiety.

"Did I? I don't think I can tell the difference anymore. Between truly liking him and appreciating him for the material things he gave me."

"You respected him," you said, with more conviction. That Draco respected his father was plain. Whether that was out of reverence or fear, you weren't sure. Lucius always appeared to have a firm grip on his son. A tight and inescapable mental leash.

"I suppose."

"That's not what you want for yourself?"

"Yes," he began, "and no."

He sighed, threading his thin fingers through his hairline and ran them through the crown to the nape of his neck. "I want something more than that."

"What do you want?" you whispered, reaching out boldly to lift his chin back to face yours. You could feel the palpable tension, the visceral anticipation in the pit of your stomach. You wanted to reassure him, to soothe him, to kiss him spontaneously and tell him everything was going to be fine. But that simply wasn't a Draco-and-Astoria thing to do.

He was quiet for a moment, then sighed deeply, resigned.

"He won't love me," he said. A statement, that sounded more like a question. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. I am remarkably unloveable."

His tone was sarcastic, but there was an element of sincerity. Hurt, even. Despondency.

You didn't even think about what you were going to say before the words tumbled from your lips. An involuntary reaction, part in reassurance, part by reflex. Wholly grounded in the truth.

"I love you."

You didn't have time to prepare yourself for rejection, because it had all happened so fast. But suddenly you were overwhelmingly aware of what the appropriate response to your unexpected declaration should have been. In that moment, you didn't need him to tell you that he loved you, you just needed him to acknowledge it.

As it happened, you didn't have time to process his expression, because in a matter of seconds he had propped himself up into a half-seated position, his lips devouring yours, one hand threaded into the dark curls at the back of your head, pressing your face against his in urgency.

Somewhere in the still-functioning part of your brain, you supposed he'd never been one for words. A physical reaction was far more authentic."

Your heart soared. He had liked it.

The tension dissolved into electricity; into pure excitement. Your body responded, chest arching slightly towards him as he continued to move his lips hungrily, tongue lightly brushing yours. His hand slowly migrated from the nape of your neck, tracing a line down over your collarbone and dangerously close to the top of your camisole.

When he pulled his face away you moaned, reaching a hand pleadingly towards him.

"Don't be greedy," he smirked, clearly satisfied with your reaction.

You furrowed your eyebrows, hand dropping to cover his on your cheek.

"If I say it again do I get more?" you challenged, biting your lip in a way that you hoped looked alluring and not ridiculous.

"Perhaps," he responded, his eyes following his fingers as they gently flicked the satin strap off of your shoulder, exposing more of your décolletage. Without further prompting he gently lowered his face to your skin and placed feather-light kisses along the length of your collarbone as you shivered involuntarily.

"I love you," you whispered again, the words filling up your mouth with warmth now, desire flooding every living cell in your body.

"As I love you," he murmured into your neck, lips parting to press into the soft skin between your neck and your shoulder and making you forget everything else.