Chapter Text
The first chill of January seeped through the walls of Malfoy Manor. Hermione sat on the edge of the bed in Draco’s room, her place of refuge and captivity. Her hands rested protectively over her stomach, and her mind swirled with anticipation and uncertainty.
She thought of Draco and how he had unleashed something inside her, that fire that she hadn’t been able to set without him. She had unapologetically burned down her old life, fully embracing her terrible side, the one unafraid to cast the Killing Curse, the one who cared only for her own survival, her own desires. She glanced down at her hands and saw the faint tremor that came with the weight of all she had done. How many Avada Kedavras could a soul endure before it was irrevocably corrupted?
The corruption didn’t scare her though.
The only thing that scared Hermione was how much she needed Draco. She loved him fiercely, irrationally, and with the part of her that still had the capacity for tenderness. But loving him was so terrifying. It was strange; before him, she never knew fear. But due to her own choices, her world had become small. He was her world, and she couldn’t bear to lose him or have him turn on her. She was now vulnerable in ways she had never thought she would be. Of course, she felt his love in his touch, in the way he shielded her from the worst of Voldemort’s wrath, but a fearful, weak voice inside her whispered that love could just as easily turn to ash. If she lost him, she would lose herself entirely.
Hermione lay back against the bed, her fingers splaying again over her middle. The thought of a baby growing inside her filled her with a tingly sensation. Maybe the child would be something precious, a light threading its way through her own darkness and the War that surrounded her.
The faint pop of Apparition shattered her reverie, and her head snapped toward the sound. Draco appeared in the room, his silhouette outlined by his Death Eater mask. His shoulders sagged, his hair damp and clinging to his forehead as though he had just emerged from another winter storm. The edges of his cloak were tattered, and as he removed his mask, his pale skin bore the grime of battle. He looked utterly spent, the weight of his mission etched into the tight lines of his face.
“You’re back,” Hermione said softly, rising to her feet. Her voice trembled, betraying the relief that surged through her chest.
Draco crossed the room, pulling her into his arms without a word. His embrace was tight, almost desperate, and she felt the subtle tremble in his hands as they pressed against her.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, pulling back just enough to scan his face. His grey eyes were clouded, their usual sharpness dulled by exhaustion.
“No,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “Just tired.”
She cupped his face, her thumb brushing against the faint smudge of blood on his jawline. The sight of it sent a shiver through her, but she pushed it aside, tilting her head up to press a kiss to his lips. He responded slowly at first, but then his hands tightened around her waist, and he pulled her in closer as he kissed her like he wanted to consume her.
Hermione thought of telling him then, of whispering that she was actually carrying his child. But the words caught in her throat. She hadn’t gotten her period yet, but it wasn’t enough proof. And something about his weary expression told her it wasn’t the right moment.
Instead, she settled for resting her forehead against his, her fingers threading through that mussed hair she loved. “You’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”
Draco exhaled a shaky breath, his hands sliding down to her hips. “I miss you being out there, with me.” His voice sounded exhausted though his eyes still held that gleam of admiration. “It’s something to behold—watching you fight. Watching you end them without hesitation.”
A devious, crooked smile tugged at his lips, the kind that sent a shiver down her spine. "But don’t you worry? I’m going to bring you something you’ll like," he murmured, his tone dark with promise. “Something you deserve.”
She kissed him again, harder this time, as though the press of her lips could convey the secret swirling with her. She was sure they would find out the news soon enough with Healer Alden. Tonight, she needed him to hold her, to remind her that amid the War that always threatened to tear them apart, they would forever cling to each other.
The following day passed in an eerie haze. Draco had left before dawn, summoned spontaneously to a nearby battle. Hermione stayed in bed, her body draped in one of Draco’s shirts. He had tossed it over her as he dressed; she liked how the fabric carried his comforting scent, a scent of cedarwood.
As it was still dark, her eyelids grew heavy. The world around her blurred, and she surrendered to sleep, slipping into a dreamscape that felt both alien and achingly familiar.
She was in a manor, but it was not the Malfoy Manor she knew. This version was like a castle, darker even, with spires that pierced a dark and stormy sky. Hermione stood in some great hall, its vastness filled with shadows and the flicker of torchlight. Death Eaters knelt before her, their masked faces tilted downward in subservience.
Her voice, commanding and cold, echoed through the chamber as she issued orders. "You will sweep through the villages. Leave no survivors. Burn everything."
The Death Eaters bowed and dispersed, their black cloaks swirling like ink spilt on parchment. Hermione turned, and her gaze fell upon the small bundle in her arms. A baby, wrapped in silken blankets, nestled against her chest. She couldn’t discern whether it was a boy or a girl, but the child’s presence filled her with a fierce protectiveness. The baby gurgled softly, its tiny hand grasping the edge of her black lace dress.
Hermione felt powerful, untouchable. Yet, as the dream shifted, an icy dread began to seep into her bones. The walls of the castle seemed to close in, and the baby began to cry. The cries of the child grew louder, more desperate. Hermione’s grip tightened, but the child began to fade, its form dissolving into shadows that slithered through her fingers.
She woke with a start, her chest heaving as she clutched her stomach. Everything came to her in flashes, the imagery of the castle and the Death Eaters vivid and unshakable. She sat up, her fingers shaky as they traced her still-flat belly. Her unconscious self had created it; this dream was a fusion of the future she longed for and her fear.
Draco arrived back that evening, much later than Hermione expected. She was in her usual chair, taking the last few bites of her cottage pie.
She set her plate down as he approached her, his cloak billowing slightly before settling around his lean frame. He took off his mask and then leaned down, pressing his hands to the sides of her chair, trapping her. His eyes met hers, dangerous with that alluring intensity.
“My girl,” he said, a smirk curling his lips as he crossed the room. Without waiting, he kissed her lips and then the top of her head. “Are you ready?”
Hermione sat up straight, her curiosity piqued. “What is it?”
Draco reached into his pocket and withdrew a box. It was black, its surface smooth and gleaming. He extended it toward her, his smirk deepening into something darker, more wicked.
Hermione hesitated before taking the box, her fingers trembling slightly as she lifted the lid. The scent of iron hit her first, sharp and metallic. Inside lay something grotesque and bloody—a heart, still faintly twitching, its rubbery surface glistening in the dim light.
She gasped, her stomach churning even as a strange thrill coursed through her veins. “Is this…?”
Draco’s voice was a low drawl, filled with dark amusement. “Thalia’s heart. She thought she could lay a claim to me, that her birthright, her father’s connection to the Dark Lord meant something. But she’s nothing now." He leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear. “Keep making me do the worst for you, Hermione. Because I will.”
Her lips parted in a stunned smile and then she laughed—a wild, unrestrained sound that echoed off the walls. Her emotions churned, chaotic and unbridled, her hormones leaving her teetering between exhilaration and madness. She couldn’t help it. As she looked down at the heart, a deep, primal satisfaction settled over her.
Thalia would never touch Draco again and that fact alone was enough to make her ecstatic. She knew this wouldn't be the end though. There would be some other threat, some other Death Eater's daughter that Voldemort would find for Draco.
“How did you manage?” She asked, not sure she wanted to know the answer.
He took the box from her and closed it. “We were meeting for dinner,” he said matter-of-factly. “Let’s just say she startled me in the alley when she arrived.”
Hermione nodded, still feeling bubbly. But as she stared at the black box, she started to wonder. “You, er, you won’t get in trouble for this, will you?”
He leaned down to kiss her again, slow and deliberate, grounding her in the moment. When he pulled back, he answered her. “For you, the trouble is worth it. I made sure Travers was hit by a stray Killing Curse in the battle today.” He shrugged then as if he wasn’t worried. “Her family back home will eventually realise she’s missing. They should never have trusted her with Travers who made a deal with the Dark Lord to give her to me.”
“Right.” Hermione found herself smiling at his twisted logic.
“Not to mention,” he continued, his voice low, “she should have known better. She should have known better than to date a killer.” He reached up to wrap a stray curl around his finger.
As Draco played with her hair, she studied his expression; it was laced with smugness. She was getting goosebumps thinking about how he had acted so brutally…all for her.
“Thalia should have known,” she said in agreement. “I say that, though I didn’t know what I was getting myself into with you.”
“Oh, Hermione...” He let out a dark chuckle. “I think you knew very well.” His grey eyes searched hers, and then he looked down at his hands, which held the heart. “I’ll bury it,” he said, decidedly. “Out in the back gardens. I’ll have the elves plant a tree over it in the Spring. That way, as it grows, you’ll never forget.”
Hermione looked to the window. It was pitch black of course. “Forget?” She questioned, her voice cracking.
Draco straightened, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “You’ll never forget everything we overcame…the way I killed for you so we could be together.”
The January days stretched on, bleak as ever. Snow blanketed the grounds of Malfoy Manor. The grey clouds overhead seemed endless. Hermione spent most of her days alone in Draco’s room, wrapped in layers of blankets.
She often found herself by the window, staring out at the sprawling, frozen gardens, dreaming of Spring and the tree that would be planted. It was too early for her to be this restless, she thought, too soon for the cabin fever Draco warned her about to set in. Her muscles still carried old soreness from months of battles and the slight chill from Dark Magic. Meanwhile, her mind was preoccupied with questions she couldn’t yet answer. Was she pregnant? What would happen to her once Voldemort found out? Once the baby was born?
Part of her needed for her and Draco to devise a grand plan, meticulously organised in its details and execution, that would guarantee their rise into power among whoever was left after the War, after the demise of both Harry and Voldemort. The Order, still weak and outnumbered, found enough support to stay active, especially as Harry himself stayed alive. And of course, Voldemort still made all the rules. His influence was spreading too, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing as it could bring about a final battle, the long-awaited confrontation to end it all. But there was of course the little issue that Hermine was nothing in the Death Eater’s eyes. She knew the day she and Draco would come into power, it would be by force. She would undo everyone’s assumptions about her…
Hermione was a planner through and through, but she knew War required waiting, acting in the moment more often than not.
According to Draco, Voldemort had an offensive strategy to start off the new year, which was to have too many battles in too many places at once. The Death Eaters were trying to spread the Order thin, keeping everyone constantly moving, and constantly fighting. Draco was supposed to go off on another campaign like had been on, recruiting Death Eaters in Romania but he was needed closer to home to manage the chaos.
He came and went throughout the days, always returning with a dark mood that he tried to mask. Hermione watched him closely, studying the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw. He didn’t speak much about the battles he’d fought, and she didn’t press him. She knew about the blood he spilt on both sides, and she saw the stress of it under his eyes. At night, when he finally collapsed beside her, she would hold him, running her fingers through the back of his hair as if trying to soothe him.
The days felt long without him. Alone in the room, Hermione drifted through idle thoughts and muted anxieties. She’d started to notice a faint ache in her lower abdomen, a dull, persistent sensation that made her wonder if her body was trying to tell her something. It wasn’t pain, exactly, but an awareness of something different. She still hadn’t gotten her period, and the waiting—for confirmation, for certainty—was beginning to fray her nerves.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed one afternoon, staring blankly and lost in her mind, when Tilly appeared with a soft pop. The house-elf, as always, was a bundle of perkiness and orderliness, her large, round eyes darting about the room as if expecting to find something out of place.
“Miss Hermione,” Tilly said, her voice full of eagerness. “Does Miss need anything? A tray of tea, perhaps? Or fresh linens?”
Hermione hesitated, her fingers twisting in her lap. She’d grown fond of Tilly in her time here. The elf had a simple kindness about her that she liked, a loyalty that she couldn’t help but trust. Taking a deep breath, she decided to broach the subject that had been weighing on her mind.
“Tilly,” she began softly, her voice uncertain, “I think I’m pregnant.”
The elf’s eyes grew impossibly wider, her hands flying to her mouth in a gasp. “Oh, Miss Hermione! That is wonderful news! Tilly remembers that the Master and Miss was making a baby!” she exclaimed, her excitement bubbling over. “A baby! A little Master or Mistress for Tilly to serve! Oh, Tilly will help Miss with everything—the nursery, the clothes, the—”
“Thank you,” Hermione interrupted gently, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “It’s not certain yet. The Healer will have to confirm it. But I’m pretty sure. I’ve been feeling different. My stomach sort of hurts. And I’m late. Really late.”
Tilly nodded vigorously, her ears flapping with the motion. “Tilly understands, Miss. But Tilly thinks this is very good news. Very good indeed.”
Hermione’s smile faded, her gaze dropping to her hands. She hesitated, then asked in a small voice, “Tilly…if something bad were to happen, to me…would you protect the child?”
The elf’s expression shifted, her giddiness giving way to solemnity. She stepped closer, her expression earnest. “Tilly would do her best, Miss. But Tilly cannot make an oath. Not until Miss is married to Master Draco. That is the rule.”
Hermione’s heart sank. She had forgotten about the ancient magic that bound house elves to their masters. The realisation left a bitter taste in her mouth. “You once told me,” she murmured, “that Draco would never marry me because I don’t have the right blood.”
Tilly’s ears drooped slightly, and she looked down at her feet. “Yes, Miss. Tilly did say that. But Tilly hopes she is wrong. Tilly hopes Master will find a way.”
Hermione studied the elf for a long moment, her chest tightening. “So do I, Tilly,” she said softly. “So do I.”
The elf gave her a hopeful smile and then disappeared with a snap, leaving Hermione alone once more. A few minutes later, she returned with a steaming cup of peppermint tea.
“This tea will make the Miss feel better.”
Hermione accepted it gratefully. She didn’t know if Tilly was assuming she had early pregnancy sickness or just sickness over her thoughts about her worthiness for marriage. She cradled the cup in her hands, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. The tea had a calming effect, easing the ache in her stomach and quieting her restless thoughts.
The setting sun allowed for faint shadows to be cast across the room as Draco sat at the edge of the bed, magically healing some of the day’s battle wounds he had acquired. Hermione watched him as he worked carefully, hissing in pain every so often, the tension in his shoulders palpable.
He hadn’t touched her yet since returning from his latest fight; his injuries needed to be dealt with first.
“Voldemort is ordering me to go away.” His voice was distant, sort of resigned-sounding. “I have to leave tonight.”
Hermione straightened. “Where?”
“Moldova.”
Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing, waiting for him to explain. He had told her a while ago that this was coming.
Draco exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “The Dark Lord effectively has his alliances with dark wizards in Romania now. There are new Death Eaters—some spies who’ve embedded themselves among the Order’s foreign ranks. He wants me to help recruit more in Moldova, strengthen the numbers.”
A cold, heavy silence settled between them. Hermione’s fingers curled into the sheets, her heartbeat drumming against her ribs.
“How long will you be gone?” she asked finally.
“I don’t know.” He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “It’s not a mission that I can end quickly. We recruit a lot of the Death Eaters by force.”
Of course, Voldemort didn’t like uncertainty, and he didn’t like waiting. The more Death Eaters he had at his disposal, the more certain he was that the Order would give up…Harry would turn himself in.
Draco’s gaze shifted toward her, his silver eyes haunted-looking. “He’s also…curious.”
Hermione’s heart skipped, and a cold knot tightened in her stomach, though she knew. “Curious?”
Draco hesitated, his hand lifting to rub the back of his neck, his usual composure unravelling as he struggled to find the words. “About you. About the pregnancy.”
A strange feeling came over her. She wanted to believe she wasn’t pregnant, that her cycle was just off and that those stomach cramps meant nothing at all. Draco’s words struck her with the force of a curse—Voldemort’s interest was a threat.
The coldness in her veins deepened.
“Nothing can be known for sure until Alden confirms it,” she whispered.
“Of course.” Draco’s eyes darkened even further, his features tightening. He looked like a man at war with himself. He continued, sighing. “He will take it as the ultimate sign of victory for him. He might make me publicly humiliate you.”
The words stung, but it wasn’t just the pain of them that gripped her. It was the depth of agony in Draoc’s voice, the way he was already dreading what sick display Voldemort would demand. Hermione’s mind raced, torn between the urgency of the threat and the growing weight of the life they were creating together.
Her breath faltered as she thought about the future—if she was truly with child, then that child was theirs. Not Voldemort’s. Not anyone’s. Hers. And Draco’s. This baby would be more than just a Prophecy fulfilled.
She met his gaze, her heart pounding in her chest, the truth slipping out before she could stop it. “I am. I know it. I haven’t had my period since November. I have cramps sometimes though,” she explained, touching her lower abdomen.
Draco froze. The air thickened around them. His breath hitched, and his hands tightened into fists at his sides, the action betraying his calm facade. For a long moment, he said nothing. His facial features, usually cold and sharp, softened, at first with disbelief and then awe and fear. “He can’t make me do that—I won’t…”
Then, as though driven by an instinct he could not control, Draco surged forward, his hands reaching out for her. He tangled his fingers in her curls, pulling her into him, his mouth crashing against hers in a kiss so fierce it felt like an explosion.
His lips were soft but demanding, moving over her with desperation like he thought he could lose her at any moment. His hands slid from her hair to her neck, tracing her skin, memorising her. His touch was possessive, urgent—he was claiming her while establishing himself in the reality of what they had created together.
Hermione kissed him back just as hard, losing herself in him and the sense of relief; it was overwhelming for him too. They had intended for this to happen, but the realness of it was hard to comprehend.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless and shaky, Draco pressed his forehead to hers, his voice crackling, hoarse with emotion. “I never thought I’d be a father,” he confessed, the vulnerability in his tone making his words even more profound. “I never wanted to be. I never thought I’d be good enough for it. And I still don’t know if I will be…I don’t know if I’ll be good enough for you.”
“You are,” she insisted, her own voice raspy. “You will be.”
His hand moved to her stomach. “All I can think about is what we’re making. What we’re creating. A life. Ours.” His voice dipped lower, a possessiveness creeping in as he kissed her forehead, his lips lingering on her skin.
He pulled back, eyes intense, almost feverish. “No one will take this from us.”
The words sent a shiver down her spine, a mixture of that familiar fear and longing flooding her heart. His obsession was overwhelming, but it was beautiful. It was love. It was wonder. It was the terrifyingly beautiful realisation that, despite everything they’d faced and everything they stood to lose, they had something of their own now—something pure in the midst of their descent, something that belonged to them.
Draco took a shaky breath, his own emotions still settling. “I will protect you. Both of you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
His words settled over her like a blanket, warm and comforting, temporarily pushing away all the danger that loomed ahead. He didn’t know if he would be a good father, but Hermione could feel the intensity behind his words. She didn’t think his promise would be hollow. Draco would be the best he could be for her…for the baby.
“I can’t leave you for long. I’ll come back to see you.” He stroked her arm, right in the place where his mark was. “I’ll feel if you’re in danger. Tilly will let me know, too. You can trust the elves, as well as Theo and Blaise.
He kissed her reverently one last time and then pressed his forehead to hers. “Open one of your gifts tomorrow,” he murmured. “Distract yourself.”
The morning was quiet without him. Hermione sat curled up in the chair, her untouched breakfast in front of her. She had finished her tea and toast but had been too nauseous to touch the eggs.
She traced her fingers over the wrapping of one of Draco's gifts before deciding to open it. Except for the small box, she was sure the gifts were books. She could tell by the shapes, by the way they were stacked, and by the weight of them.
She opened the package on the bottom, the heaviest feeling one.
Hermione was right—it was a book, bound in deep emerald leather, its pages yellowed with time. The Convergence of Life and Magic. The scent of aged parchment filled her lungs as she turned to the first page.
The first chapter she turned to described a lost tradition of powerful sorceresses who had, in their pregnancies, become conduits of unimaginable power. Hermione’s eyes scanned the page, absorbing the knowledge.
It spoke of how, in ancient times, during the period of their pregnancy, queens and sorceresses could summon magic like no other. Their wombs, not merely vessels of life but of arcane potential, became centres of dark, heightened magic. These women, in particular, could amplify spells of destruction, control, and manipulation to levels that defied even the greatest of wizards’ abilities. Their bodies became vessels of power, their very blood infused with potent magical energy that rippled through their veins like a storm.
The chapter then featured Queen Isolt of Vineshield, a distant relative of Morgana le Fay—a descendant not only of the ancient magical line but also of the mortal Tudor queen, Elizabeth I. The blending of her magical and royal bloodline was said to have created a being capable of shaping not just magical power, but the very course of history.
During her pregnancy, Isolt was said to have swayed entire armies with her magic, turning the tides of a war that had been thought lost. The page detailed how she would summon dark, ethereal manifestations—dragons made of smoke, serpents of fire, spirits that could crawl out of shadows and rip the souls from the living. It was a time of bloodshed, but it was also one of her most powerful moments. Her alliances—sealed by blood, magic, and the weight of her unborn child—reshaped the future of the magical world. She was feared and revered in equal measure.
However, the power came at a steep price. The book warned that if a sorceress became caught in battle too late into her pregnancy—during the final months—her magic could turn on her. Too much power, left unchecked, could destroy both mother and child. Many had died before they could even give birth, torn apart by their own magic in the heat of conflict. There were accounts of entire armies collapsing, not from curses, but from the sheer overflow of magic that these women inadvertently released. Once their child neared the final stages of gestation, the risk became unbearable.
Hermione’s fingers hesitated over the words, her mind dealing with conflicting emotions. The power, the potential to reshape everything...and yet, the risk. Could she find herself tempted into magic this dangerous?
Her gaze shifted to the section that followed—the second kind of magic—far darker still. It spoke of a different kind of magic used in pregnancy, one less about amplification and more about domination. That, too, would be a dangerous path.
She closed the book with a snap. She hadn’t intended to let her thoughts wander so deeply to her situation as it could be related to what was described within the pages, but now, the wondering refused to leave her.
Was this what Draco wanted for her? Did the Prophecy foretell of something like this?
Was he giving her this power, this terrible gift, because he wanted her to use it— to unleash it —to further cement their place in the dark future they had chosen for themselves? Or was it more likely that he wanted her to avoid it? To steer clear of the dangers that came with wielding such unbridled force, and all the ways it might destroy everything they have.
She knew, with a creeping certainty, that Draco had long since accepted the darkness that now defined them. She had seen it in his eyes—felt it in the way he touched her, in the way he held her gaze when he spoke of their shared future. He knew she was just as far gone as he was, both of them hurtling down a path that led to the point of no return. And neither of them seemed to care.
Still, Hermione couldn’t imagine either of them would ever want to harm their child—not ever. For all the darkness between them, their child would have to be something good, something untouched by Dark Magic.
But what would become of her if she didn’t take action, didn’t use the power at her disposal? Of them ?
She shivered as the thought crept over her, gnawing at the edges of her mind. The months ahead stretched before her like a vast, empty chasm. Draco would continue his rise, growing more ruthless with every passing day. His body count would climb—how many had already fallen at his hands? He would grow colder, sharper, and more dangerous as he carved his path through the ruined magical world.
And Hermione? She would stew in boredom. Alone, as always, waiting for the next command, the next dangerous moment to show itself. But together, they were always the most dangerous combination.
Her fingers brushed lightly over her stomach, where she knew the child was growing within her. Even with the Prophecy, there was a part of Hermione that hated for the baby to be a weapon wielded in the War. That wouldn’t be fair; the child didn’t deserve to be born into that life.
She hasn’t seen him in two weeks.
It was still dark outside when Hermione woke to the sound of frantic footsteps near the bed. Tilly stood beside her, tugging urgently at the hem of her nightgown. Her big eyes were wide with panic.
“Miss Hermione! Mistress Bellatrix, she is here! You must come now! She’s coming up—she's coming for you, Mistress!”
Her heart jolted as the elf’s words sank in. Bellatrix. She had been lying in bed, fast asleep, free from the thoughts of the future that plagued her.
“Help me get dressed,” Hermione whispered urgently, rising to her feet, but Tilly was already moving, pulling her away from the bed, and urging her out of the room. The elf opened the door.
Hermione barely had time to gather her bearings as she stepped into the corridor. Of course, she hadn’t thought to grab her wand, but then again, she couldn’t be caught with it.
The unmistakable sound of high heels echoed down the hall, a rhythm that could only belong to one woman.
Hermione’s stomach twisted. She wasn’t ready for this—she never would be.
The madwoman's curly, tangled hair appeared first, framing her face like an angry storm cloud. Bellatrix stood in the hallway, eyes wide, lips pulled into a predatory grin.
"Well, well," Bellatrix’s voice was a low purr, dripping with derision. “What a disappointment to find you roaming freely again, not in the dungeon where your kind belongs.” She took a step closer, black eyes flicking up and down Hermione’s nightgown as if she were assessing her true motives. “Why are you up here, Mudblood? Don’t tell me you’ve decided to disobey Draco now that he is away.”
Hermione swallowed hard, drawing herself up to her full height, despite the knot of dread in her chest. “I’m pregnant,” she said, her voice steady, though her heart hammered in her chest. “I can’t sleep on a cold stone floor; I need a bathroom—”
Bellatrix’s expression flickered, a flash of something like interest hidden beneath her madness. But it was enough for Hermione to catch.
“You are pregnant, then?” Bellatrix’s eyes darkened with something almost akin to satisfaction. “The Dark Lord will be pleased,” she sneered as if the announcement annoyed her. "He has given me very specific orders."
Before Hermione could respond, Bellatrix waved her wand, and Incarcerous chains wrapped around Hermione’s entire upper body, binding her in tight, unforgiving ropes of magic. Bellatrix tugged the bindings harshly, dragging her towards the staircase.
“We will travel by carriage,” Bellatrix hissed, her face twisted with derision. "We’re going to Lestrange Manor. The Dark Lord is impatient.”
The carriage rocked violently as it rumbled over the uneven, winding hills, the creaking wheels and the rhythmic tug of the horses sending waves of nausea through Hermione’s stomach. The jolts made it hard to keep her balance, and each bump seemed to reverberate in her chest, tightening her breath. She was forced into the back compartment, isolated from Bellatrix, though she could still hear her cold, mocking laughter echoing from the front. She could barely see out of the small window, the thick white fog swallowing up everything beyond the glass, turning the world outside into a hazy blur. Every twist and turn of the ride seemed to push her deeper into a disorienting haze.
"All according to plan…" Bellatrix whispered.
The words barely registered in Hermione’s mind, her thoughts spinning in the suffocating atmosphere of the cramped space.
“You’re here.”
The carriage jolted to an abrupt halt, the sudden stop throwing Hermione forward, the chains around her wrists vibrating violently. Before she could steady herself, Bellatrix was there, yanking her roughly out of the compartment. The sharp tug of the Incarcerous spell sent a jolt of pain through her arms, the chains burning into her skin as the witch dragged her across the gravel path. The cold morning air hit her face, icy and biting, but there was no time to recover.
Hermione stumbled as Bellatrix’s grip tightened on her, forcing her up the stone stairs that led to the towering manor. The grandeur of Lestrange Manor once loomed before her, its presence dark and imposing as ever They entered through the heavy wooden door, and Hermione was yanked inside, her heart pounding faster with each step.
To her surprise, Bellatrix did not lead her to the dungeon or Death Eater as she had expected. Instead, she pulled her up the main staircase, past the lavish Black portraits and across the green marble floors. Hermione had never seen this part of the manor before, and the unfamiliarity made her stomach turn even more.
At the top of the stairs, Bellatrix dragged her into a small, sparsely furnished bedroom. The faint smell of potions lingered in the air, and standing by a small table was Healer Alden. She looked at Hermione with an unsettling calm, as though she had been expecting her.
“Good morning,” she said, greeting her in her usual monotone voice.
She released Hermione from the Incarcerous spell and guided her toward a metal table that was set up in the centre of the room. Though the table looked like something out of a mental institution meant for torment, Hermione released a pent-up breath. She didn’t think Alden was going to hurt her. But Bellatrix was hovering behind, eying her like some kind of experiment.
As she crawled up onto the cold metal table, Healer Alden approached without a word. Hermione gathered that she was a timid, perhaps to-the-point woman of few expressions, her face incapable of showing anything truly human.
“Lie back,” Alden instructed, her voice clipped.
Hermione did as told, her heart rate escalating, nerves racing as she settled onto the hard table, a nervousness settling in her bones. She kept her gaze fixed on the stone ceiling, focusing on the damp, uneven cracks in the mortar above her, anything to avoid the piercing intensity of Bellatrix's hateful gaze.
Healer Alden moved to stand beside the table, her hands already going through a set of practised motions. “When was your last period?” she asked, her voice unbothered as she adjusted her wand, preparing her diagnostic spell.
Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady her breath. “End of November,” she murmured, the memory foggy in her mind. “I don’t know the exact date.” The late autumn days, death on the battlefields, the darkening skies...everything was a blur.
Alden gave a slight nod, her expression unreadable as she asked the next question. “Did you have intercourse in December?”
Hermione bit her lip. “Yes,” she said quietly.
“When was the last time you had intercourse?”
“I don’t know. Whenever I saw Draco last.” Hermione’s voice was terse; she was growing uncomfortable answering the questions, especially with Bellatrix in the room.
Alden nodded once more as if this information was nothing of consequence. “Have you been taking the Augendae Utero daily then?”
“Yes.” Hermione lied, as she could not remember the last time Tilly provided her the fertility potion with breakfast.
She raised her wand, and a faint, white light began to shimmer in the air above Hermione's belly.
“Ostende Fertilitatis.”
The glow pulsed softly, a steady, rhythmic beat that seemed to echo the thumping of Hermione’s own heart.
Alden's eyes narrowed as she examined the light, her fingers twitching as she began to mutter incantations under her breath. For a moment, Hermione’s eyes shifted to Bellatrix, and she felt a terrible tension in the air. Her stomach churned.
The light above her began to flicker before becoming steady once more, pulsing faintly, almost imperceptibly. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked up at Alden, her chest tightening with confusion. What was that? Did she misinterpret the spell?
The mediwitch, however, didn’t look surprised. She simply nodded to herself and turned to Bellatrix, speaking with the same cold professionalism she had used throughout the examination.
“Nine weeks along. This scan confirms it. She’s due in September, the 1st to be exact.”
Hermione didn’t say anything. This was the confirmation she was waiting for, but this didn’t feel like anything she could react to, not at this time or in this place.
“Make sure to rest, drink plenty of water, and nourish your body with wholesome foods—this will help both you and the child grow strong." With a swish of her wrist, Alden collapsed the scan. "Let’s check in again in a few weeks to make sure everything is progressing well. I will come to you; I understand Draco Malfoy is away "
Bellatrix, watching with a look of vague amusement, didn’t seem overjoyed by the news, but there was a glimmer of intrigue in her eyes nonetheless. She took a step closer to the bed, her face displaying that calculated grin again.
“How does it feel,” she rasped, her voice filled with dark glee. “Being nothing but a vessel for the Dark Lord?”
She turned sharply towards Healer Alden, her tone shifting to something demanding. “Report this news to the Dark Lord immediately. I trust you can handle that?” Her words were loaded with meaning, as though the task was both a privilege and an order that could not be refused.
Alden gave a curt nod, her expression unchanged. “Of course, Madam Lestrange.” She turned and left the room without another word, her footsteps echoing on the stone floor as she made her way out to deliver the news.
Bellatrix stood silently for a moment, her gaze lingering on Hermione with a twisted kind of interest. “You’re going to make the Dark Lord very happy, Mudblood,” she said, her voice softening with a malicious edge.
She paused, tilting her head as if considering something. “You must be such a disappointment to Potter,” Bellatrix added in a fakely sweet tone. “Enjoy your time while you can. Because your days are numbered.”
Hermione swallowed hard, fighting the urge to respond to her. But a presence filled the room—darker, colder, suffocating. Bellatrix’s smile widened, and she didn’t even need to look to know who had arrived.
“Ah,” Bellatrix purred, eyes flicking to the doorway. “There he is.”
Lord Voldemort entered the room with Alden in his usual manner, marked by unnerving silence. His suspicious gaze swept over Bellatrix first, before settling on Hermione. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, the very air thick with dark magic as his serpentine eyes locked onto Hermione’s belly.
“Bellatrix,” Voldemort’s voice was low and ominous. “Is it true?”
Bellatrix stepped aside, her expression one of adoration as she gestured towards Hermione. “The Prophecy, my Lord…it is coming to fruition. The Mudblood is pregnant.”
Voldemort turned to the Healer, his gaze unblinking. “Confirm it for me,” he ordered, his voice hard, the air around him growing colder still. "I must see it."
Alden, though composed, had a shakiness in her hand as she raised her wand and murmured the diagnostic incantation. The faint glow above Hermione’s stomach pulsed again.
Healer Alden’s eyes flicked to the light, then to Voldemort, her voice steady despite the weight of the moment. “Here it is. It’s this ball of light right here.”
Voldemort stepped closer, so close to Hermione she could smell his scent of decay and could feel his robe graze her arm. “What is that? That does not look like a child.”
Alden nodded, clearly nervous. If you take a closer look,” she paused to flick her wand, casting a spell to increase the size of the scan, “you can see the head most clearly, the formation of the limbs. These ridges will eventually be hands. It is too early to determine the sex.”
Hermione felt herself shiver as she looked at the enhanced scan. Her heart started to beat more quickly; there was already a sort of burning inside of her, this urgent sense to flee the room and protect herself and the baby.
“When is it due?” Voldemort’s tone shifted. He seemed less sceptical, more darkly curious.
“The first of September,” Alden replied. “Of course, the child could arrive sooner or later.”
“The sooner, the better.”
Voldemort’s eyes never left Hermione as he absorbed the news, his expression growing wicked. He gave Bellatrix a curt nod, his voice a low hiss. “Then it is done. The Order’s demise is inevitable. The mudbloood shall carry and give birth to this child. Potter can not evade me forever.”
He glanced briefly again at Bellatrix, his lips curling into a cruel, satisfied smile. “Take her, Bellatrix. Do as you wish. She is of no use to me here.”
With that, Voldemort swept from the room, leaving a chill in his wake.
Bellatrix turned to Hermione with a deranged grin. “You’re truly going to make him proud, Mudblood,” she said, her voice dripping with delight as she took a step closer. “You are the Dark Lord’s greatest weapon!”
She didn’t wait for any kind of response from Hermione as she cast the Incarcerous spell and wrenched her from the examination table, dragging her roughly out into the corridor. The stone floors were slick with the dampness of the manor’s ancient bones, and the dim light from the sconces flickered in time with their footsteps.
“Off to the dungeons!” Bellatrix's laugh echoed through the cold corridor and down the staircase, the cackling rattling the walls themselves.
“You can’t keep me here!” Hermione protested, her voice trembling with more defiance than fear. She tried to pull away, but Bellatrix’s grip on the magical chains was ironclad. “I need a bed...a bathroom. “You heard Alden. I have to take care of myself.”
Bellatrix stopped abruptly, her eyes narrowing in cold amusement. “You are in no position to make demands,” she sneered. “You belong to the Dark Lord now. A bed?” She scoffed, continuing to drag Hermione down the narrow corridor towards the winding staircase that led to the dungeons below. “You’ll sleep on the ground. And if you need anything else…” Bellatrix trailed off with a mocking grin. “...it will be of no concern to me.”
Hermione clenched her jaw as they descended into the dark of the prison, the stone walls pressing in on her. The dungeon’s cold air had that familiar dampness, and the distant echo of dripping water only served to heighten the sense of desolation.
Bellatrix pushed her roughly into that same narrow cell from the last time, its bars full of rust and grim. The smell of mildew and stale air was already making her nauseous, and the space felt claustrophobic, like a tomb.
She gave a final, gleeful smile as she flicked her wand, sealing the cell door shut. "You’ll like it here," she said, the words thick with mockery. "You can make yourself...comfortable." She turned away; the sound of her heels clicking against the stone floor echoed throughout the dungeon.
Hermione stood for a moment, fists clenched, the damp cold creeping up on her. She swallowed, trying to steady her thoughts.
Then, her voice broke the silence. “I belong to Draco.”
Bellatrix had stopped dead in her tracks. She must have heard her. From out of the shadows, her form wandered back. When she approached the bars, her face had a contemptuous, accusing expression. “What did you say?”
“I belong to Draco,” Hermione repeated. “He has given Alden strict orders as well. This is his child, too. He would be livid to know you’ve locked me up.”
She didn’t know if she imagined it, but Bellatrix’s face grew pale. “Fine. I will take you back tomorrow. Or when it is convenient for me.” She narrowed her eyes and the hand that held her wand began to shake violently. She wanted to cast a Crucio, but was holding back.
Hermione could have let her walk away, but she couldn’t control the words that came out next. “I’ll never speak to you again,” she started, her voice firm. “But please forgive me for trying to understand why a witch born into such power and privilege would lower herself to appease the whims of a lesser wizard who wants nothing more than to take that power from her and control her…destroy her family and own her.”
Her words floated in the air, delicate in their sound but heavy in their meaning; Bellatrix was standing there outside the cell, her chest heaving. She wasn’t finished.
“I still think you are hurt,” she continued, her voice trembling with something between pity and determination. “You are hurt from losing Andromeda, and now Narcissa. You told me before—‘there are ties, blood vows, and loyalties in this family that you could never begin to understand.’”
Bellatrix’s breath hitched again, just for a moment, and Hermione saw something flicker—something fragile—beneath the fractured madness in her eyes.
“You won’t consider this baby your blood,” Hermione continued, pressing her words through the silence like a blade, “but what if this child made you more powerful?”
She didn’t know what she hoped for in that moment, if anything. Maybe there was some desperate part of her that still believed there was something that could be reached in the ruins of Bellatrix’s soul. Maybe, for her curiosity, she just needed to see if there was any sliver of a dark witch that could still feel, still understand. Or perhaps she simply wanted to see what would happen again when she was pushed.
Bellatrix didn’t move at first. Her eyes fixed on Hermione with a piercing intensity that made the space between them feel even colder. Then, her lips curled into a slow, assessing smile, as though the words were a game she’d been waiting to play.
She tilted her head, considering her for a long, agonising moment. “I can always be persuaded by power, Mudblood. Power that elevates me .”
The response cut through the air. Another smile, jagged and threatening, spread across Bellatrix's face, and for a moment, Hermione could almost see the remnants of her real self in the gleam of her eyes.
“But power—true power—can be claimed by those bold enough to do anything for it. Dark magic has a way of twisting everything,” she explained, her voice thick with satisfaction. “This is why,” she said with venomous delight, “Draco is about to become the next Dark Lord.”