Work Text:
If you had asked him nine months ago what the worst thing he’d ever done was, he would have without a doubt said taking the dark mark. It wasn’t even a contest, that had fucked up his life so irreparably and his subsequent actions had ruined so many others. Without question, the consequences that had followed, the lives lost were by far the worst crime he’d ever committed.
But now, as he stands in the waiting room of St. Mungo’s holding a bouquet of white roses, now wilting steadily with his every aggressive pace back and forth, he thinks this must be worse.
So, so much worse.
Because he’s fucked up, fucked up so irreparably he doesn’t know if he can come back from it.
He's only waiting for the other shoe to drop, because he knows what’s coming, knows what he’s done.
There is yelling, and Draco pushes a hand through his hair before leaning back against the wall, flowers hanging limply from his grasp as he wishes for the earth would swallow him up. Blonde locks tousled, normally pressed suit rumpled, Draco Malfoy is in a state of utter disarray.
There are footsteps, heavy, dejected, angry, more yelling, some curses and Draco sinks further into the wall, a coward when he needs to be strong.
Finally, Ronald Weasley appears from around the corner, the same corner he’d ran past earlier in the night, filled with vibrance, with excitement.
Now, he shoots Draco a withering glare, murderous, cold and chilling.
It's only Ginny that stops him, the she-weasel having enough good sense not to add onto what’s happened here tonight.
“Hope you’re fucking happy,” the Weasel spits and his sister sighs, shoving him towards the floos unapologetically.
Ron disappears down the hall and Ginevra heaves a breath, giving him a look of utter exasperation, “She’s asking for you.”
Draco winces and she leaves without a backwards glance, shuffling her brother out before he can commit bodily harm.
He takes a deep breath, gripping the flowers tighter, composing himself before he starts down the hall.
The faint sound of machines whirring, a baby crying somewhere in the distance.
The cream walls of St. Mungos feel asylum like, clinical where they had been happy and welcoming before. Now they’re closing in, pushing him towards his fate.
Standing in front of the door feels like facing the dark lord all over again.
He pushes the door open and there she is in all her glory, hair barely wrangled into some semblance of a bun, eyes rimmed red from the tears, her cheeks puffy, but her irises are lit with fire, glinting amber in the light.
She’s propped up against the headboard of the hospital bed, a hospital gown affixed to her shoulder, the front parted just enough for him to glimpse the little bundle in her arms, a precious little lump attached to her breast and covered by a blue hat.
A boy.
He can barely breathe, a boy, a perfect, living breathing little boy, untouched by the war, unaware of his crimes.
Her lips purse as she sees him, tugging her little bundle up and the baby gives a sharp displeased little cry as he’s pulled from her breast.
She glares at him all the while, honey eyes tinted dark in her rage as she pulls the little one up into view, readjusting him softly, cooing. Draco releases a shuddering breath as he glimpses chubby little cheeks, a button nose, the perfect little cherub she’s brought into the world. As close to those angel babies she’d shown him in those muggle books as one could possibly get.
He's perfect.
Hermione readjusts the child just so, reaching up to tug at the little blue hat and finally, there, the evidence damning: a shock of hair so blonde it’s almost white, icy.
A characteristic so distinctly Malfoy, so utterly him that it’s undeniable, there is no doubt.
Her voice comes out sharp, cutting as she finally acknowledges him, “Explain.”
He holds out the flowers he’d brought half-heartedly, “Congratulations love,” his breathing is shallow, strained, “You have Malfoy.”
She throws the hat at him.
He’s lucky she doesn’t have her wand.
Nine months ago, Draco Malfoy fucked up… quite irrevocably if he did say so himself.
He’d popped into Hermione’s apartment to pick her up for trivia, just a quick moment to freshen up, to be sure that famous Malfoy hair was tousled to perfection, artfully messy in a way that would perhaps entice a certain curly-haired little swot to run her fingers through it.
He’d been perfectly normal, minding his own business, casting a few cleaning charms on his teeth, unbuttoning the top button on his shirt so just a sliver of pale skin would show, just enough to tempt his little witch into curiosity for more, a tease at his pectorals.
He hadn’t even meant to snoop, he would never, his mother and governess had raised him right. They’d been sitting right there on the counter; several muggle vials filled with thick white viscous liquid.
They had caught his attention because of how strange they were, just sitting there, waiting to be noticed, the glass gleaming in the sunlight, some strange new muggle complexity Draco had yet to explore.
He’d been on the verge of touching when Hermione had called through the door, her voice amused, “Don’t touch those vials Malfoy!”
Draco had pouted only briefly, before she’d enlightened him further, with that sweet little giggle that drove him mad. A laugh like it was funny, as she upturned his whole world, “It’s Weasley sperm, and it’s going to get me pregnant!”
Draco of course, had been horrified, ripping open the door, “Have you lost the bloody plot?”
She had not, and to his horror on the way to trivia, in the way only a painfully oblivious beautiful swotty golden girl could, she’d turned to him and said, “I want to get pregnant Draco, and Ron volunteered, I just want a child before I’m too old.”
And then she’d explained in the crudest of terms, muggle IVF and how it was being adapted using magic, how she was going to be one of the first to get pregnant through magical sperm donation.
He’d wondered if it was a cruel joke?
To his immense displeasure, it hadn’t been.
The love of his life was scheming to get pregnant all alone.
And honestly, what was he to do? Let Weasley impregnate his witch? Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age, greatest auror the department had seen in years, minister of magic hopeful?
Contaminate her perfectly brilliant gene pool with Weasley-ness and general idiocy?
Now that just simply wouldn’t do.
“What did you do Draco?”
Hermione Granger has forgiven him for a lot of shit in this lifetime.
His perfect, stunning, brilliant girl, so sweet, so forgiving, so lovely.
This time, Draco is not entirely sure this is a forgivable offense.
“Granger, you have to understand—”
“Malfoy,” she growls, and fuck if she isn’t beautiful, isn’t just perfect cradling their son to her breast, the picture of maternal bliss as she nourishes their child and plots his demise.
He runs a hand through his hair nervously, “I couldn’t just let you have,” he grimaces, “Weasley’s child.”
“Draco,” her tone is sharp now, a warning, like she gets when he’s frayed her nerves a little too much at work, pushed a little too hard.
Might as well embrace just how pathetic he is in this moment.
“Love, you have to understand, I am completely and utterly besotted with you. Granger, you have me so wrapped around your little finger I’d do anything you wanted, kiss the ground you walk on you truly have to understand that.”
She quirks a brow up, tucking their child just a little closer, unmoved by his declaration. She repeats, her words, clear, concise, pointed, “What did you do Draco?”
He slumps forward, dropping his roses on the bed at her feet, just where he belongs, “I switched the sperm in those damned muggle vials for my own.”
The words just keep coming, the confessions torn from him like he’s swallowed a vial of veritaserum, “I came so hard at the very idea of impregnating you that I filled every single vial and then I left them there, and I didn’t say a word. I let you go to the fertility clinic, and I got hard to the very idea that you were walking around full of me, that Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age could be walking around pregnant with my child.”
He tangles his hands in the sheets of her bed, confessing his sins to her and begging for absolution, “I prayed to Merlin that it would take, read every fertility book in the manor, put powdered mandrake root in your tea and I watched the family tapestry every day until your name appeared with child and then I rejoiced.”
He's pathetic, utterly pathetic.
He looks up to her, throwing himself dramatically at the foot of the bed, seeking out her touch, her forgiveness, and yet – “And I’m not sorry.”
There is a sigh, a heavy breath as she looks up at him, “You really are a foul, loathsome evil little cockroach you know?”
“I know Granger —”
She tuts him, her hand coming up to grip his chin, tracing his cheek softly, almost lovingly and his breath hitches, “It’s only too bad you didn’t tell me.”
“You could have done it properly,” she murmurs, “But I suppose there’s always next time.”
She gives his cheek a brief tap, just a little smack for his insolence, before turning back to the child in her arms, sleepy eyes blinking open now, soft and heather grey, just like his own but softer, still innocent.
“Come meet your son you idiot, this is Scorpius Draco Malfoy.”
Draco has no words.
Well maybe he does, “He’s perfect.”
“He is.”
Draco brushes a finger over Scorpius’s nose, and his entire face scrunches up in a yawn, he’s so perfect.
“Thank god he doesn’t have red hair.”
Hermione hums as she leans into his him, sleep taking over her now, exhausted by the day’s events, birthing his child!
“I would have killed you if you let me have a Weasley.”
“What?”
She hums sleepily, but he is aghast, “Granger what are you talking about?”
She grins up at him cheekily, eyes barely open now, “You didn’t really think I’d let Ronald impregnate me did you Draco? It just had to be your idea, I couldn’t very well ask you to knock me up, could I?”
“What?! Granger!”
She’s out like a light and Draco is left wondering if he’s been had.
Even so, with his witch and his son nestled next to him, he finds he doesn’t mind too much.
That is until he hears the tell-tale click of heels and the chilling voice of Narcissa Malfoy, “Draco Lucius Malfoy what have you done?”
And that’s it, the best worst thing he’s ever done.