She gnawed at her lip. “It wouldn't address the immediate issue of getting the wound to close. You tried all the normal methods, even old Muggle ones like cauterizing and — tar, but I've just started. I'll find something.”
Draco nodded again and glanced away.
The conversation was painfully stilted. Draco did not want to talk about his attempts in any further detail than the notes he'd provided. He was distracted and kept glancing towards the clock. His expression was appropriately engaged, but his eyes were flat as she mentioned theories she wanted to explore.
She realised, as she watched him, that he was indulging her. The notes and the books were to appease her. They were the library. Something to preoccupy her while he continued with his own plans.
She stopped talking and just stared at her lap. There was a long pause, and he stood up.
“I'll have the books you mentioned sent later today.”
As he was leaving, he suddenly stopped and turned back.
He stood staring at her, and his mouth moved slightly several times before he spoke.
“Granger — you don't—” He stopped, and she saw his hand curl into a fist at his side before disappearing behind his back. He pressed his lips into a hard line and blinked before staring just past her.
“I never assumed you'd keep a pregnancy.” He was almost expressionless as he spoke, but his Adam's apple dipped briefly. “I can send a potion with you so you can — resolve it once you're out of Europe. Just tell me—” He cut himself off, and he looked down, setting his jaw. “No, never mind that, there's no need. I'll send it. There's no reason for you to have to tell me what you choose.”
He turned on his heel and left before she could speak.
Hermione lay in bed, tracing her fingers over her lower abdomen. If she searched, she could feel the small but firm beginning swell of her uterus just above her pelvis.
It hadn't occurred to her to have an abortion if she escaped, or that it would be the assumption Draco would be operating under.
She would have jumped out a window or poisoned herself in order to prevent a baby from being born into Malfoy Manor and left in the care of Astoria, but it hadn't occurred to her to abort it if she escaped.
It was a baby. To Hermione, it had been a baby since the moment Stroud had announced Hermione was pregnant.
Not a foetus. Not an heir. It was a baby, and one that she already felt intensely protective of. When she'd seen the fluttering light of the heartbeat, it had felt like her heart had been stolen.
But Draco was assuming she wouldn't keep it once she had any choice in the matter.
He'd raped her. She was pregnant. He expected she'd want an abortion as soon as she was free.
He was assuming that he'd stay behind to die, and she would leave and try to forget everything that had happened by erasing it.
Topsy came with a stack of books in the evening, several which were brand new.
“Is Draco here?” Hermione asked as she turned one of the books over in her hands.
“He is just returned.”
“Can you tell him that I want him?”
Topsy gave a bobbing curtsy and popped away.
Hermione went over to the portrait on the wall.
Narcissa Malfoy stared at Hermione.
Hermione had only seen Narcissa once, at the Quidditch World Cup more than a decade earlier. Narcissa was sixteen in the painting, the same age Draco had been when he took the Dark Mark.
“I want to save your son,” Hermione said. “But I don't know how to.”
Narcissa said nothing. She just sat in her chair, studying Hermione in silence. Eventually Hermione gave up and turned away.
She was flipping through the books that Topsy had brought when the door opened.
Draco stood in the doorway.
Hermione closed the book. Her throat tightened. He always stood so far away and every inch of the space felt weighted.
“Your mother's portrait won't talk to me,” she said.
Draco looked over. The portrait stood, looking at Draco for a moment before turning and disappearing out of the frame.
“It's not you. She doesn't talk to anyone but me. My father's spent hours begging her to just look at him. The frame used to be in the drawing room of the South Wing. The portrait saw everything that happened to my mother. It stopped speaking for a long time afterwards. When my mother was released, she took the portrait up to her rooms.“ His eyes were flat and unreadable. “She used to stand in front of it for hours, touching the portrait's hand on the canvas, as though they were trying to reach each other.”
Hermione stared at the empty frame.
Voldemort's influence was like poison in the Malfoy family. As though he'd branded himself not only onto Draco and Lucius' arms, but into the fabric of their legacy. He'd destroyed Narcissa and corrupted their home. Even the portrait, a shadow of Narcissa's memory, was silent and scarred.
Draco looked back at Hermione. “She asked to watch over you. She wanted to be sure you were alright while you were here.”
Hermione forced a wan smile before glancing down, hesitating for several seconds.
Her hands crept towards her stomach as she looked up. “I wanted to talk about what you said earlier, before you left.”
Draco's expression instantly closed, and his gaze sharpened like a blade.
Hermione's chest tightened. Draco was suddenly looming over her, that same cold expression on his face.
“You want me to look at you, Granger? Fine. I'm looking. It's delightful, I must say, to see all the guilt in your eyes. You know, I used to think the circumstances of my servitude to the Dark Lord were as cruel an enslavement as anyone could conceive. But I admit, it pales somewhat beside you.”
Her heart stalled, and she blinked repeatedly trying to refocus on the present.
“Can you come closer?” Her mouth felt dry. “It's easier to talk to you when you aren't so far away.”
He walked over, and her heart rate increased with every step.
His expression was guarded.
She gnawed at her lower lip. She looked up when he was standing only a foot away.
If she touched him, he wouldn't seem so cold.
He didn't look like he wanted her to touch him.
She forced herself not to dwell on it, lifting her chin and meeting his gaze. “I didn't realise you expected me to terminate the pregnancy if I escaped. I understand why you thought I might — before, but I'm not. I wouldn't.”
His expression didn't change. His eyes didn't flicker with even a slight reaction. “You may change your mind once you're free.”
Hermione shook her head. “I won't.”
His eyes remained flat, but she could see the tension in the corners of them. He straightened so that he loomed over her, and she felt as though she were being strangled.
His lip curled so that his teeth flashed. “There's no reason to make commitments to me regarding what you'll do once you're free. Do what you want.”
Hermione set her jaw. “I'm going to. And that's why I won't use it. I want you know that I won't. I would always regret it. I would — I would always wonder if the baby would have had your eyes. Every winter I'd think about how old they'd be and wonder what they'd be doing. I would try to guess what kind of wand they would have gotten, and what subjects they would have liked, and whether they'd have been a natural occlumens like you and me.” She was speaking quickly because her throat was growing thick, her cheekbones were beginning to ache. “I would wonder if they'd like to read. If they'd have hair like mine. If you — if you die — I would want to tell them all about you. Everything about you. I've — I've never gotten to tell anyone about you.” Her chest spasmed. “People should know what you're like.”