{Christmas Eve, 2003.}

Their first Christmas together is cold. As the wind grows chilly with the passing days, Draco watches Granger's spirits dim a little more with each new sunrise. When the calendar finally announces it's Christmas Eve, she curls as tightly as she can on the corner of the sofa and stares longingly into the empty alcove where the tree she'd asked for would have sat. The floor there is bare and Draco shakes his head at her passiveness. Sipping his tea, he ignores her as she sighs deeply and shifts further into the cushions. It's not the ideal Christmas for either of them. He misses Malfoy Manor, fairy lights and plates over-flowing with warm treats. He's sure she's missing Christmas with the Weasleys – their boisterous riots of laughter and the lowly hovel she once called her home-away-from-home.

The flat they share is nothing like what either is used to. There are no glittering fairy lights dancing between wide branches of the Scots Pine – no tree at all. The smell of biscuits isn't wafting through their kitchen, making their mouths water or their hearts palpitate with the excitement they should be feeling. No one is merry, dancing around with a glass of something strong (and inexpensive, if this was the Weasley-like Christmas Granger had wanted) and drawing laughter from familiar bystanders. Most of all, though, there is no desire – just disappointment.

Granger stands and stretches her arms toward the ceiling. The motion pulls her shirt up and reveals her rounded belly. Draco frowns at it – the pink lines that decorate her flesh and the odd shape her stomach has become – before he looks back to his Daily Prophet, attempting to ignore her as she moves about the room. The door of the cupboard creeks as she opens it, creaks again as she shuts it and then creaks once more when she pulls it open a second time. He looks up, his eyes searching for her in the dim hallway. When he finds her, she returns his gaze, clearly expecting he would look her way.

"What?"

"Nothing," she replies, shaking her head.

He thinks that he should have allowed her at least the tree. She'd promised to forgo the glaring red and gold ornaments for something more classy – green and silver, for example – but even then, he'd shaken his head disinterestedly and repeated "no" until she'd grown flustered enough to leave. Maybe if he had agreed, she would be puttering around it now, adjusting branches and whispering to the fairy lights instead of bumping into everything as she makes her way down the hall. The doors open and shut as she passes through the rooms and the cupboards, searching for something or attempting to drive Draco mad.

Draco thinks she's aiming to annoy him.

"What are you looking for?" he asks, speaking loud enough for her to hear as she rummages around in whatever room she's ended up in.

There is a muffled shout that draws him to the edge of his seat. Leaning forward to peer further down the hall, her voice announces, "I don't need your help! I have it!"

Granger's feet slap against the wooden flooring as she returns. When she rounds the corner Draco says, "I thought I told you to wear socks." But he doesn't say anything more as she wobbles just a little before righting herself against the wall. The blankets in her arms are piled high, tucked under her chin so she can see and hiding the disfigurement of her stomach as she moves to the sofa, blatantly ignoring him.

"I told you to wear socks," Draco repeats. He pointedly eyes her feet, making sure she catches his glare before he looks away.

"It's hard enough to put them on when I need them," Granger says, her tone annoyed. "I can hardly see my feet, Malfoy, much less bend far enough to put socks on them when I'm not planning on leaving."

Granger returns to her usual spot in the corner and arranges the blankets on her lap. The fireplace lights with a wave of her wand, flames rising and warmth filling the small room quickly. Draco watches as her fingers move to pull her shirt up over her stomach, the bare flesh open for the entire world to see before she pulls a book free from under the cover of her lap.

"The mole had been working very hard all morning spring cleaning his little home," she starts, her voice low and warm as one hand holds the book open while the other rubs slow circles over her distended stomach. "First with brooms, then with dusters–"

Draco raises a brow, glaring at her suspiciously.

"– then on ladders and steps and chairs –"

"What are you doing?" he asks.

She continues, ignoring him as she reads. "–with a brush and a pail of whitewash–"

"Are you reading a Muggle book to yourself – aloud?"

"–till he had dust in his throat and eyes–"

Stepping toward her, he pulls the book free from her hands and looks down at the aged cover. "The Wind in the Willows?" he questions, flipping the book over and peering at the back for a moment before shaking it. "What is this?"

Granger reaches forward, pulling the book away from him and setting it to rest on her belly. "Clearly it's a book," she replies, frustration eating at her every word. "One I was attempting to read."

"Must you read it aloud?" he asks, seething as she rubs her stomach soothingly. He looks away, unable to watch the sight for too long without feeling ill. "This isn't my idea of a fucking wonderful Christmas either but–"

"Go elsewhere, then," Granger says quickly, cutting him off before he can continue. "Go to Malfoy Manor and visit your mother. The baby and I will read alone, much like we do everything else."

His fingers tense, balling into fists at his sides as he stares down at the book disapprovingly before looking to the crackling fireplace. "I won't be kicked out of my own flat," he bites, "much less by a mudblood who thinks I owe her something."

Granger's eyes widen a fraction before she returns the scowl that had blossomed across his lips. "No one is making you leave," she says, "but I'm not asking you to stay, either. Go home if you'd like, Malfoy; we'll be just fine without you."

Draco hates how she says 'we'll' like the thing growing inside of her is alive already, having feelings and loathing him as she does – as though it needs company. Granger speaks to it as though it can hear, take in her voice and understand what the mole on the cover of her sodding Muggle book is doing – attempting to teach it Muggle methods of cleaning before it's even taken its first breath.

When she gasps, both hands dropping to her belly, and smiles down at the aberration as though she's pleased with it, he realises he's had enough and moves away. Draco leaves his cloak on the rack as he attempts to leave as quickly as possible. He takes determined strides to retrieve his shoes from their neat row against the wall before he tosses a pinch of Floo powder in the hearth and steps in.

Before the familiar lurch pulls him away from his flat and toward his childhood home, he catches sight of her eyes, excited and warm as they stare down at the creature hidden under pale, stretched skin – the thing that caused all of his, that ruined his life as he knew it. The flames burn green, enveloping him in warmth and spinning him into oblivion.

When his feet touch the ground, he feels a little queasy but rights himself and makes his way toward the drawing room despite. The fairy lights from the tree glimmer brightly through the open doorway, their colours flooding the floor and the walls of the hall. He's missed them.

"Draco?" his mother asks, standing as he enters. She opens her arms in welcome, pressing a kiss to his forehead when he gets near. Looking behind him, she frowns. "Where is our newest Mrs. Malfoy?"

Offering her a glare she's familiar with, Draco takes a seat in one of the high-backed chairs. His body seems to meld with fabric, only twenty-three and already feeling as though he's years older. "Granger," Draco pauses, letting the name sink in, "is alone, where she belongs."

"If I would have known you were coming, I would have had something prepared," she says. Draco knows she won't respond to his correction, she hasn't since the wedding – the last minute, thrown together function that was the beginning of the end of his life. She sighs, taking her seat. "I thought you'd like to spend your first Christmas together alone. Most couples–"

"We're not most couples," he interrupts, shooting her down before she can finish. "We're not a couple at all. A piece of parchment with our names on it hardly determines a relationship, Mother."

The silence that answers him is disheartening. His mother, of all people, should be on his side – a little more understanding to his feelings, at the very least. Instead, she says, "You should attempt to be a little more understanding, Draco. This isn't easy for her."

"She probably did it on purpose," he mutters, turning to watch the pale silver light flicker across the emerald ornaments on the tree. They've had the same decorations for years, beautiful works of glass and clay specially made for his family. Draco remembers pushing them to swing gently on the branches, turning every moment or two to make sure no one was watching before resuming his deviance. If someone would have told him he'd end up here, in the drawing room while his mother told him to be more understanding for a pregnant Muggleborn, he would have broken one of the ornaments and let his life end right there. Surely his father would have killed him for breaking one.

"You're behaving as a petulant child would," she replies sternly. "It takes more than one, you know? Unless you believe she impregnated herself?"

"If anyone could do, it would be her."

She tsks. "Quiet, Draco. Someone might think you're complimenting her."

Silence settles between them. The wind whistles outside and flakes of snow scatter across the window panes. When he'd pictured his first Christmas as a married man, he hadn't imagined a snowstorm and a pregnant Muggleborn making her new home in the spare room of his flat, her bare feet padding back and forth from the loo to her bedroom keeping him up all night. Hermione Granger had never been a prospect for a possible wife either. For a single night, he'd allowed himself to find her to be somewhat beautiful and forgotten the risks that came with lust – like how it could rob someone of the life they'd always expected. Neither of them had planned for what happened, for the night they spent tangled with each other to result in what it did – her on his doorstep three months later, a note from a Healer in her hand declaring her flu-like symptoms not to be the flu at all.

Their wedding was a hasty affair, meant to be kept quiet for his sake though she seemed even less inclined to be there than he did. Draco had seethed through the reception, angry with her and himself – furious most of all with the thing that grew inside of her, still hidden from view. It was their deep, dark secret – his shame in the body of someone else, growing with every passing day.

"There are many things in life we have done," his mother starts, her voice low and careful, "that we deserve punishment for." She reaches for his hand, clasping it tightly within her own. "This child is not part of that punishment, Draco. You realise that, don't you?"

Her skin is cool and soft, slightly comforting despite the sternness of her voice. Children are treated this way – coddled as they're spoken down to – and Draco can remember her doing something similar when he was a child himself. Fathoming that soon, he will be forced to be a parent to a child of his own, seems impossible.

Draco refuses to meet her eyes. His hand lies still in hers, fingers aching from the force with which she squeezes them as she sighs. The sound is low and filled with disappointment. He shakes his head, unwilling to respond when he knows he'll just be shot down. She will tell him that a child is a gift and that he's very lucky to have such a bright witch as a wife. After so many weeks of hearing the same strange speech, he is certain he can recite it better than she can.

He hates them both – Granger and his mother – and thinks he'll never have a happy Christmas with either of them around. They will never allow him the quiet needed to find peace during such a stressful holiday.

"Have you found out the sex yet?" she asks. Her voice is warmer now, sweet to the point of annoying. Her attempts to involve him are wearing on his patience, tugging on a fraying rope and threatening to release the catapult of anger hovering beneath the surface of his expressionless face.

"I told her I wasn't interested," he replies steadily. "Knowing my luck, she'll tell me it's a girl. The last thing I need is news worse than I've already received."

She sighs again; Draco longs to sigh as well, to mock her for the constant release of breath she makes as though he's inconveniencing her with deep, emotional talk. He came for silence, not for lecturing. "Oh, Draco... One day you'll look back on this evening and know how very wrong you are."

The windows shake, the wind growing more harsh with the passing time, and he thinks that if he waits much longer, it's likely that they'll be snowed it. If he cuts off the Floo, Granger won't be able to get to him for at least three days. It would be a welcome break.

It's a shame his mother would never allow it. His father would have, if he'd allowed Draco to live this long after finding out the news.

A lone snowflake sticks to the glass. He watches it as it shivers in the cold before blowing away, becoming lost in a sea of white blanketing the earth. Draco ignores his mother as she stands, runs her fingers through his hair and presses a kiss to his cheek as she did when he was younger. She wishes him a happy Christmas, tells him to go home to "your Missus Malfoy" before she leaves him in the vast silence of the drawing room.

He watches the snow as it cascades from above, the only bit of brightness in the wide expanse of black sky above him before he attempts to make his way home.

{Christmas Eve, 2004.}

Their tree is thin and crooked against the wall, flashing Muggle lights casting shadows down the halls at all hours and haphazardly covered in ornaments. One clatters to the floor, startling the child crawling beneath the wilting branches of their tree. Draco watches as her pale grey eyes turn, glancing at him for a moment before her tiny hands reach for the edges of the wrapped gifts under the tree. She pulls at wrappings and shrieks when the paper refuses to tear from the box.

"Enough of that," he says, shaking his head when she glares at him balefully. "You can wait until tomorrow."

With a scowl, she lays back on the floor and lets her feet kick at the hanging branches. The glass ornaments are higher up, out of her reach and perfectly safe, so he allows her continue as she pleases. Draco can't help but find her tantrums slightly... heart-warming. He remembers stories of his own similar hysterics as a child, spoiled and always expecting more. It doesn't help that her colouring makes her a female replica of himself – pale hair and grey eyes on a slightly pointed face. Granger's rounded cheeks and the almond shape of her eyes make her appearance less sharp, more cute than aristocratic and plebeian enough to remind him that she is only half-pure.

Hardly worth all he's given up for her already.

She rolls to her stomach, rising on her knees as she shifts forward. From the corner of his eye, he watches as she glances his way. Her attempts to assure that he's not going to catch her are all too similar to his own childhood memories of Christmas.

"No," Draco warns, stopping her before her outstretched fingers meet the poorly wrapped package in the corner. She pauses at his voice, hand still inching toward the gift as she makes a noise he swears is a growl. "Come," he says, waving her toward him. She refuses to move and Draco raises a brow as she shakes her head. "Come, Lyra. We'll read."

She moves quickly at his offer, crawling to the sofa to pull herself up. She takes the three quick steps from the sofa to his arms. Draco finds himself unable to fight the excitement he feels as he watches her independent ways – how she moves to walk on her own already, climbing to help herself to the things she wants and refusing to accept 'no' as an answer to anything.

Pulling her to his lap, Draco welcomes the additional weight that settles over his legs and against his arms while she adjusts herself to get comfortable. Her head presses against his chest and her short legs stretch across his own. She points to the cracked image on the cover of the book, speaking words Draco doesn't understand. He nods with her anyway as he flips through the pages, pausing when Lyra grips the book demandingly to gaze at the pictures before changing the page herself. Her palm presses against a page, just past the beginning and she smacks against the words, babbling until Draco asks, "Start here, then?"

Lyra smiles, new perfect white teeth shining slightly in the flickering Muggle lights of the Christmas tree. Draco wants to deny her and start from the beginning as he knows he should but finds himself unable to form the words. Instead, he says, "Okay, we'll start here."

Clearing his throat, Draco peers down at her for a moment before he begins. "He thought his happiness was complete when, as he meandered aimlessly along, suddenly he stands by the edge of a full-fed river." Lyra gasps in his lap, pointing to the picture of the mole as he stood on the river bank and Draco nods when she looks up at him with wide eyes and parted pink lips. "That's the mole," he tells her. "See him on the river?"

She 'hmmm's, as though inspecting the image before she begins to make garbled noises, looking up at him with curious eyes when she quiets down. "Right," he says, unsure of how to handle the situation. Granger reads to her, changes her nappies and feeds her. On the rare occasion he does spend time with her, it's usually in Granger's company. Time alone with Lyra over the last ten months has been so limited that he feels like a stranger in his own chair, sitting with someone else's bright-eyed, flaxen-haired offspring in his lap. He hasn't had the desire to spend time with her, aiming to provide Granger with enough to handle the little girl on her own. He's secured Granger's position in the Ministy, though her name was more of a help than his, and works long hours to make up for the lack of income but he doesn't find himself rushing to the Floo in an attempt to get back to them. Some days, he considers not coming home at all. His mother tells him he spends too much time away, that he'll never connect with either of the girls permanently integrated in his life if he continues to hide from them or ignore them when they're around.

Draco doesn't want them – not really. He's accepted that they're there, that they'll be with him in some way for the rest of his life, but he can't look at either and think, 'This is the way I wanted things to be.'

He pulls the book closer, dislodging her hand slightly when he begins to read on. "Never in his life had he seen a river before – the sleek, sinuous full-bodied animal, chasing and chuckling, gripping things with a gurgle –"

Draco pauses again, watching Lyra as she gurgles, adding sound effects for the story. "What kind of Muggle children's tale is this? What child is meant to know the word 'sinuous'?"

She offers him a disinterested look, as though she is the child meant to understand the word and would really rather he not interrupt her over such nonsense. For a moment, he feels like he's standing before a gender-changing, age-reducing mirror while Granger asks him one of her inane questions.

Draco continues with the story. "– and leaving them with a laugh, to fling itself on fresh playmates that shook themselves free, and were caught and held again."

"This is all very sexual sounding," he comments. "Are you sure there's nothing else we could read? The Wizard and the Hopping Pot? Something less Muggle, better suited for a Malfoy?"

Lyra shakes her head, clearly exasperated with his interruptions before she pushes the book away. Draco lowers his arms, frozen for a moment as Lyra snuggles closer to his chest.. Her lids droop a little when she yawns, the sound soft and feeble against the material of his shirt as she buries her head closer. He sits still, not knowing what to do or how to move. Daring to put the book aside, he wraps his arms gently around her small form. He's not sure what he expecting holding her would feel like, but he never predicted the warmth she radiates or the softness of her hair as he pushes a lock away from her eyes. There is an odd desire to just stare at her building in his chest, something drawing him closer despite having felt little more than frustration toward her for the ten months she's been alive.

Draco had thought of her as punishment in the beginning. After her arrival in the world, he'd watched her screaming, writhing form from the doorway of her nursery as Granger spoke softly to her and he'd known for sure that no matter what his mother thought, the little girl he'd ended up with was sent straight from his own personal hell. She'd kept him up at night with her cries, Granger never settling her down long enough for him to fall back to sleep before the morning light beckoned him out of bed.

Now, though, as she wriggles a little in his arms before sighing sleepily in contentment, he thinks that maybe he'd judged too soon.

"Draco, I've finished with–"

"Shhh," he hisses, glaring at Granger as she steps from the Floo. "Have you no sense?"

Granger seems unable to respond, her eyes locked on Lyra in Draco's arms and her mouth parting slightly before clamping shut. The corner of her lips twitch just slightly before she looks away, gaze roaming the room. "I see the flat is still in one piece. She behaved then?"

Draco refuses to meet her eyes as he nods just once – a firm jerk of his head in agreement – and hopes she'll go away. When Granger reaches for Lyra, instinct takes over and Draco finds himself pulling her closer – keeping her. "Never wake a sleeping dragon," he reminds Granger through his own shock. He's only ever held Lyra when he's been forced to and he's never felt like he handed her back to Granger a moment too soon.

He appreciates that she doesn't comment.

"Right," she agrees, stepping back. "I'll just leave her then."

Left alone in the room once more, Draco leans back in his chair and wishes he'd bought something less extravagant, more comfortable. The high back and wooden arms are regal and well-suited for a Malfoy, but allow him little room to settle with a child still sleeping passively in his arms.

There is a shift in Draco's peripheral vision, a flash of colour that attracts his attention. When he turns, he scowls at Granger as she adjusts herself against the door jab. "What do you want?"

"Nothing," Granger replies quietly. "I was just watching. It's... It's nice that you've finally taken to her. She adores you, you know?"

Draco looks away. "I've not taken to her. You left her here, she was acting obscene and I read to keep her from damaging anything."

Nodding, Granger smiles slightly. "My favourite thing about Christmas was always when my dad read to me. I loved The Wind in the Willows – more than The Night Before Christmas, even."

"I don't care."

"What was your favourite thing about Christmas?" she asks, ignoring his scoff. "Did your parents read to you?"

"No, Granger," Draco replies tightly as he stands, jostling Lyra as he presses her into Granger's arms. The loss of warmth against his chest is distracting as he walks away, moving past her to the hall where he finds his room and shuts the door with a snick behind him. He hears her whispered voice as she passes, promising Lyra sweet dreams and gifts in the morning. Draco rolls away from the sound, closing his eyes. He attempts to ignore Lyra's mumbled, "dada" and Granger's whispered, "I know, sweetheart – I know" but finds it's not as simple as it once was.

He doesn't sleep.

{Christmas Eve, 2006.}

Draco is above listening in on private conversations. He isn't the sort of man who leans against the same wall as a pair of fellow party-goers and overhears them chin-wag about the personal business of others. Gossip is his definition of disinteresting – except when it involves him, of course. He tells himself it's okay if he listens just this once. After all, the laugh that interrupts the conversation is his mother's and if anyone deserves to eavesdrop on Narcissa Malfoy talking about her only son, it's her only son.

"Don't give me that look," his mother says, laughing again. "I know how it happened, I just wonder... Well, I wonder how! They don't argue–"

"Not any more," her companion interrupts. Draco finds the voice vaguely familiar but can't pin it to a face in his mind.

His mother continues, "Not any more, true. But when I see them, they hardly acknowledge each other. If anything is worse than fighting, it is indifference . At least when they argued they spoke to one another."

The other woman 'hmmm's in agreement. "But you don't have to say much to get someone pregnant, do you? It can be a silent job."

"There's just so much between them, don't you think?" The woman 'hmmm's again and his mother says, "I imagine the frustration just... explodes! They spent twenty-three years bickering and then one night, it hit a point where they couldn't stop themselves from – Well, you understand, I'm sure."

"I do," agrees the second voice and for a moment, Draco wonders who exactly his mother feels comfortable discussing his sex life with and how she can stomach even thinking about he and Granger –

"Maybe it happened again?" the other woman suggests. "Children are stressful. Lyra is – how old now? Nearly three? – the terrible twos wear a person down, don't they? And they're still young, not nearly ready to give up that part of their lives!"

There is a clink of glass; his mother murmurs a 'thank you'. "You're right, of course. Probably better this way, rather than seeing other people. Affairs make it even more complicated, I think–"

"I wouldn't know."

"–and Lyra is so excited. Another February baby, Andromeda! There is something about the month of May for them, isn't there?"

Her sister. Of course. Making up lost time with useless talk about his personal life. He tells himself he shouldn't be surprised and decides he should just be happy it's a conversation taken up with a quiet guest. It could have been Molly Weasley she'd decided to share secrets with, though he doubted Mrs. Weasley would have time to talk between chasing her ill-behaved grandchildren around the room.

From the corner of his eye, Draco watches as Lyra bounces between guests. She smiles at them all, wavy blonde hair over her shoulder shifting as she exclaims to anyone who will listen that there is a baby in her mummy's belly. Her hands rub the red silk of Granger's dress unashamed, the little fingers practically tearing at the fine material in her efforts to drag her mother closer so they can feel the baby as well. Granger smiles and pulls Lyra away kindly. Draco doesn't miss the way everyone's gazes follow them, though. The other guests lean in close to each other, smile and gesture toward Lyra and Granger and he knows they're discussing what a perfect duo they make – Granger, the patient mother and Lyra, the dominating toddler.

He watches them, too. Draco watches as Granger retrieves a glass from a floating tray, making sure it's sparkling cider before she allows Lyra a sip. She shows her how to hold the glass for herself with two hands and doesn't get ruffled when it takes a few moments, a couple extra tries and a broken glass to show her how. When Granger rights herself, one hand moving to her lower back and the other rubbing a soothing motion over her stomach, their eyes meet and for a moment, Draco is embarrassed to be caught watching her.

Granger is unfazed. She smiles slightly, gestures toward him and watches as Lyra rushes across the floor, little heels clacking against the hardwood and hands clasped tightly around the glass in her hand. The cider makes waves, splashing over the side and on to her hand but she doesn't seem to notice. Her eyes and mind focus solely on Draco as she stops before him. "Have some?" she asks, extending her drink for him and scowling slightly when he tries to reach for it. "Mine."

"You're worse than your mother," he tells her with a raised brow, smirking when she laughs as though she understands what he means. He's not as comfortable with her as Granger is. He doesn't understand her half-sentences, the reason she cries or how to quell her after nightmares. On more than one occasion, he's woken up to her teary-eyed form at the edge of his bed, pulling at his coverings and silently begging for comfort he doesn't know how to give. It was on one of those nights that they managed to make the same mistake as before. Draco had been so enraptured by Granger's kindness, the way she'd woken quickly when Draco had opened her door, pulled Lyra in to her arms and settled her back down in her bed for sleep once more. He'd kissed her, unable to help himself – driven by the absolute desire to have her as well – and it had been all down-hill from there. Two months and a Healer visit later, they were expecting again.

There is something about the month of May for him. Every day when the patter of rain hits the glass of his windows, he remembers their first night together – the warmth of her skin, the depth of her eyes and the flex of her fingers against his chest. Even the second time it was raining. She had changed, though. Her skin was still warm, her fingers still strong against his back and her eyes still their familiar shade of deep brown, but she was different. Granger had stayed with him after, curled against his side and pillowed her head against his shoulder. She'd pressed her lips against his, kissed him for the very first time and taken his breath away. She'd grown during the two years they hadn't touched, changed emotionally more than physically.

He remembers the way his stomach rolled at the sight of Granger's first pregnancy. He hated to watch her lift her shirt, hands moving over the bare flesh of her midsection. This time around he finds himself peering over the edge of his book and watching as she subconsciously strokes her belly to calm the child within. Lyra has gripped his hand more than once, tugged at it insistently to press it against her mother's stomach and feel the baby move. He tells himself he does it because he's forced – because she dragged his hand to the warm bulge, pressed it against the skin and said, 'Feel the baby! Feel it!' – but he knows he could turn her down if he really wanted. Draco watches the days pass as the swell of Granger's abdomen grows. He waits for the moments when Lyra tugs at him, invites him to press his hand against the rounded mid-section and allows him to feel the child there shift under his palm – reacting to his touch as though they know who he is, how he is intertwined in their life before they're even born.

It's a pure feeling – so human that some days, he doesn't understand it – and he struggles more and more to not suddenly reach over and touch her all on his own. The draw is undeniable and he thinks that he's slowly losing the battle to refuse to join both Lyra and Granger in their excitement over the new member of their... family.

"Lyra," Draco says, kneeling down to meet her eyes, "go ask your mother if she's ready to leave."

Nodding, Lyra turns and calls, "Going home now, mummy!" across the room. The guests look up, turning to her as they laugh warmly at the scene. She smiles at them all, delighted by their attention and Draco knows that he could never deny that she is very much his. If she'd been a replica of Granger, her personality would still scream his name.

Even Granger laughs. She offers a smile that belongs to Lyra alone, nodding as she makes her way toward them. "Going home already?" she asks, speaking to Draco though her eyes never leave their daughter's ever-moving form. "It's still early, isn't it?"

"The Wind in the Willows is waiting," Draco replies dryly. Lyra squeals, hands moving to tug at his cloak as she says, "Mister Badger!"

He watches as Hermione looks away, both hands moving to her stomach as she nods. The pull at the corner of her lips is small, nearly undetectable, but he finds himself seeing her half-smiles more and more as of late. He hates the way she struggles to hide her happiness when she looks at he and Lyra – wishes things were easier for them both, that things had worked out the way they'd both wanted. She'd be happier with a doting husband who respected her intelligence aloud, complimented her parenting skills and was willing to be an active part of her life outside of their three bedroom London flat. But this is the rest of both of their lives, he realises, as he lifts Lyra in his arms, holding her as he steps into the Floo.

A bit of pity for Granger settles in his chest. More than once her friends have pulled him aside, declared in varied tones of voice and levels of volume that she deserves better. Or, at the very least, someone who cares about her.

Later, as Lyra curls in his lap – larger and warmer than the first time he held her this way – he thinks that though this isn't the way he planned things, he might be able to accept Christmases like this in the future.

"Draco?"

He looks up as Granger leans against the door jamb, the familiar place he always finds her settling when she's prepared to ask him something uncomfortable. Her hands find their familiar spots on her stomach, fingers stroking tenderly over her stretched cotton t-shirt. The flickering lights on the tree flash across her form, lighting her face as she nods towards Lyra's sleeping form. "You should probably take her to bed. I know you'd rather not wake the sleeping dragon but..."

"I will," he replies.

"Okay," she says, turning slightly away. He admires her from his seat – the curls across her shoulders, still styled from his mother's Christmas party and her pyjama pants stretched across her waist. Shocked by the wonder he feels, he almost misses when she says, "I'm off to bed then."

"Good night."

She is silent for a moment. Draco looks up, confused by her lack of response just in time to catch her smile – the same one she offers Lyra when she's proud of her or excited for her. "Good night," she replies quietly, nodding before she turns away. Her feet are quiet against the flooring.

She's wearing socks, he realises, as he watches her disappear down the hall – just as he suggested so long ago. It's the first time she's heeded his advice and the first time he's ever wished her a good night.

{Christmas Eve, 2009.}

"Mummy, make her stop!"

"Please," Granger says, reaching amid the bickering girls before her to retrieve the blanket being tugged between them, "stop this nonsense."

Draco stops in the threshold of the flat. Turning around and leaving before they notice him is an option still. A home filled with bickering girls is not a home at all.

"Draco, please."

Caught.

"Enough," he says firmly, making sure to look them both in the eye. "You're too old for this and if you continue, Father Christmas will keep all your gifts."

"No! I'm too old," Lyra corrects snootily. "Ara is a baby."

Her sister rises, nose scrunching as she lifts it in the air angrily. She stamps her foot, little winter boot smacking against the hardwood floor and tiny fists bunching at her sides. "Not a baby!"

"The flat is too small," Granger says. She presses her hand over her eyes, blocking out the girls as they continue to argue. "They do this because they can't get away from one another. Sharing a room is awful at this age and with them both being such dominate little girls..."

"They get that from you."

She rolls her eyes, smiling just slightly. "And their features as well."

Draco smirks. "Clearly."

"I'll look in to expanding the flat after Christmas," he tells her a moment later. "I'll make an extra room."

Lyra turns, hands still gripping the edge of her sister's pale locks and says, "Why can't we have a new house? A big house?"

A house would be best – would suit them all better than the average-size flat they inhabit now – but there is something in him, begging him not to let it go. It was his first step toward independence, his first purchase on his own and there are so many memories etched in every corner that he's not sure he's willing to part with just yet. There are moments in his life that he doesn't want to let go, most of which he experienced here, within these walls.

"Lyra, enough," Granger says tiredly, cocking her head to the side. He's learned over the years that she does it when she's most tired, in need of time to rest. "The flat is fine."

Lyra frowns. Her feet dart out to kick at her sister's leg and Ara screams, tossing her stuffed toy in frustration. The sailing creature hits the Christmas tree, ornaments shaking slightly before one tumbles from a branch. It crashes against the floor, shattering into shards of pale green and silver. Both girls gasp, practically tripping over one another as they move away.

Draco suddenly understands why Granger is at her wits' end.

"Is it eight o'clock yet?" he asks, sighing despondently when Granger shakes her head. Her finger points to the clock, the short hand seemingly frozen to the five.

"Not quite," she replies, yawning as she speaks. "I'll go finish dinner now. Can you keep them busy until I–"

"I survived the Dark Lord," he says, cutting her off. "I think two little girls are pretty simple after that."

She laughs, shaking her head and offering him a rare smile – full-fledged, unhindered – as she walks away. "Good luck," she calls over her shoulder. He doesn't think to thank her, his mind stuck on the perfect flash of teeth and the simple kindness she'd given him a moment before.

"Daddy reads it better."

Draco pauses outside of his bedroom door, eyes scanning the darkened hallway for the owner of the small voice before taking a step back. He peers across the hall, finding two empty beds and not a sign of life. Frowning, he moves toward Granger's room. Her door is cracked, a sliver of pale yellow light stretched across the floor as he leans forward to peer through the open space.

There have been few times in Draco's life where he's looked at Granger and thought of her as beautiful. Growing up, he believed wives were meant to look like his mother – skin the colour of porcelain, fair hair always perfectly styled and limited expressions to all those who weren't family. Granger is the exact opposite – tanned skin, flyaway hair in the most ordinary shade of brown he's ever encountered and always showing others how she feels through her eyes and her smile. She is shorter than his mother, not as thin and talks far more than a Malfoy wife ever should, but as he watches her through the small space the parted door offers, he can't help but think he's never seen anything more beautiful.

With curls piled on her head in a messy disarray and stray strands laying over her cheeks, she looks maternal – as though she were made for this very moment – with Lyra and Ara on either side of her, both curled against her and snuggling closer in her arms as she embraces them. Draco thinks he will never see three girls more awe-striking as the three cuddled together on Granger's four-poster, each with a different expression but all so completely content with where they are.

Granger frowns mockingly down at Lyra and says, "Well then perhaps I should wake him to read to you."

"He doesn't like to wake up," Ara says. She pinches Lyra's arm, smiling smugly when her sister yelps. "Let mummy read."

"You're too much like your Father," Granger tells her, shaking her head as she pulls Ara's hand away from Lyra. "Now keep your voices down or you'll wake him. You know it's too late for this."

"Just read, mummy," Lyra replies. She waves her hand dismissively, a habit Draco knows she's picked up from Granger. He smiles.

Granger lifts the book from her lap. The worn cover of The Wind in the Willows is worse than when he'd read it to Lyra for the very first time. Looking at her now, it's hard to believe that she was once that small – so little that her legs barely stretched across his lap and her hair was still barely present at the crown of her head, a striking difference to the perfect blonde waves he watches Granger brush out every morning.

"Indeed," Granger reads, "much that he related belonged more properly to the category of what-might-have-happened-had-I-only-thought-of-it-in-time-instead-of-ten-minutes-afterwards. Those are –"

He steps forward, attempting to hear more clearly. The door creaks, jostled by his motions and three pairs of eyes swivel to meet his. Grangers' widen a fraction, those damn brown orbs always expressing everything she feels – shock, surprise and wonder most often – before Lyra and Ara rise at her side, hopping on their knees as they shout together in excitement.

Draco finds himself breathless, air stolen from his lungs by Granger's eyes as they welcome him. Lyra and Ara chatter excitedly in his peripheral vision as they bounce and wave their arms but he can't find the strength to look away from Granger's face – her soft features, the slight pout of her lips as she watches him. Even when she beckons him forward, nodding toward the empty space of bed beside Lyra and says, "I'm told you read it better than I do," he can't seem to place one foot in front of the other.

"Daddy," Ara insists, "come read."

"He's my daddy," Lyra corrects, "and he doesn't have to read if he doesn't want it."

He smirks at his eldest, knowing a moment ago it was she who was complimenting his skill. She's never happy unless she's arguing, insisting on things being the opposite of what everyone else wants. She'd rather be right than happy and he can't help but see himself when she glares at her little sister, smirking challengingly.

Granger shakes her head, laughing dryly. "I can assure you that you're both his and that he belongs to both of you." She glances away from them, looking up to him and seeming relieved when, after a moment, he nods in agreement. Patting the area next to Lyra, she says, "Come read with us. It won't be too much more. If we all stay up too late Father Christmas won't come. He'll see the lights and skip us."

Draco takes his spot next to Lyra, laying on his side to fit as the girls move closer in an attempt to offer him more room. Ara insists he wrap his arm around them all, gripping his hand and pulling it toward her despite Granger's protests. "Don't pull on your father, he's –"

But Draco lets her, moves himself closer to Lyra and wraps his arm across them all, rubbing his thumb comfortingly against Ara's shoulder when she finds a place to set his hand. His bicep presses over Lyra's side and his forearm stretches across Granger's mid-section. Oddly enough, it's the first time he's ever spent time this close to all three of them at once. They don't do things like read together or curl in bed during a storm. Draco is surprised at the comfort he feels with Lyra's back against his chest, Granger's stomach under his arm and Ara's shoulders under his palm.

Granger clears her throat, adjusting the book in her hands and continues to read. "Those are always the best and raciest adventures – "

"– and why should they not be truly ours," Draco says, having long ago memorised the line – Lyra's favourite, "as much the somewhat inadequate things that really come off?"

Lyra giggles at the confused look on Granger's face before she presses the book shut and asks Ara to set it on her bedside table.

"Go on," she welcomes, yawning.

"When it began to grow dark, the Rat," Draco recites aloud, "with an air of excitement and mystery, summoned them back into the parlour, stood each of them up alongside his little heap, and proceeded to dress them –"

"Daddy," Lyra whispers, interrupting him. "Mummy is sleeping already."

Her eyes are shut, breathing rhythmic and hands still around the girls' waists. Draco knows it's been a long day, that she's been tired for hours and that sleep was something she'd been awaiting for quite some time. He taps Ara's shoulder, motions for her to rise from bed and whispers, "Never wake a sleeping dragon."

The girls nod, Lyra slipping quietly off the bed when Draco stands. The slap of their bare feet against the wood doesn't grate his nerves as it once did. He watches them passively as they leave, the shifting of their coverings audible from their room when they reach it. Running a hand through his hair tiredly, he turns to leave as well. His fingers move to the lamp, prepared to turn it off before his pauses to look at Granger. She rustles in her sleep, lips parted slightly and hand moving to the empty space behind her. She frowns when she encounters nothing but cooling sheets.

Draco tells himself he should just leave, turn off her light and retire to his room as he usually does. Damning his thoughts to hell, he leans across the bed and pulls the coverings over her shoulders. She shifts again, murmuring quietly in her sleep and for a moment Draco thinks she's said his name. His fingers brush stray locks away from her face before he presses a quick kiss to her forehead. Thoughts that tell him that Malfoys don't do things like this remind him of their presence but he's made a habit of doing things a proper Malfoy heir would never do – like impregnating a know-it-all Muggleborn for one. Then he'd agreed to marry her for the security of both of their family names, only to impregnate her again years later despite only really being together for the little girl that roamed their halls at all hours, ate them out of house and home and left messes in every room she entered.

"Me and Ara want kisses too," Lyra whispers, surprising Draco when he turns to face her. She leans against the doorjamb, the unicorn on her pyjamas dancing across her shirt as she pouts. "You never came to tuck us in. Father Christmas will skip us if we stay up any more."

"Go to bed," he tells her, nodding toward the door. "I'll be there in a moment."

Lyra nods, grey eyes glancing between Draco and Granger. "How come you never say you love mummy?"

Draco stills.

"She tells us all the time how much she loves you and how much you love us but you never tell her you love her. Do you not love mummy?"

"Don't speak nonsense," he tells her, shaking his head as he turns off the light. Her body is warm when he gently pushes her away from the door to shut it. Peering through the darkness, he watches Granger's body shift again on the bed, her lips moving though her mumbled words are inaudible. Glancing down at Lyra, he smiles slightly at the worry on her face. "Do I tell you I love you every day?"

Shaking her head, Lyra says, "But you do."

"Exactly," he explains, lifting her into his arms as he moves to carry her to bed. He hopes it will settle her. Really, he's not sure he's prepared to attempt to explain the strange situation they're all in. Is there a way to tell children that their mother is just that? A mother.

Because that's all Granger is – their mother, the mother of his children.

Of course.

{Christmas Eve, 2010.}

Draco doesn't understand how such a small flat could fill such a large house. Weeks after moving in, boxes still line the walls and on more than one occasion, he's found himself wishing Granger would let him sort the things with magic rather than pulling each item out hand-by-hand. He'd consented to new furniture, painting the Muggle way, and even allowing the strange Muggle appliances Granger had returned with from her weekly shopping.

"Ara? Lyra?" he asks as he makes his way past the line of boxes that are set haphazardly over one another in the entrance way. The room is quiet, devoid of the blondes who usually thunder through it and cause mayhem. The tree is in perfect condition, gifts underneath it stacked in pyramids – the final sign that his children are not home.

"You're home early."

Draco turns, finding Granger in the archway of the kitchen. Her hands are full of the fine porcelain dishes his mother bought them last year for Christmas – the ones they never pulled out. Inexpensive ceramic has become their staple after one too many broken plates.

"I brought most of it with me. It's going to be quiet for the next couple of weeks," he replies. "Where are the girls?"

Granger looks away. She disappears through the archway, the sound of clinking china moving with her. "They're with Harry and Ginny at the Burrow. I thought they might like some time in the snow..."

It's hard to accept that Potter is the one entertaining his children. They will come back with 'Uncle Harry' on their lips and squeal in delight as they tell him the stories of their adventure to the Weasley hovel. Draco contemplates being angry with Granger for allowing them to leave. Potter has children of his own to frolic in the snow with, plenty of real nieces and nephews to call him 'Uncle Harry' and if his daughters should be anywhere the day before Christmas, it's at home.

"I would have told Ginny 'no' if I'd known you were going to be home so soon," Granger calls from the kitchen. When she arrives in the doorway, her hair is a mass of wild curls. Clearly she's had a long day of unpacking. He hopes she's at least finally finished the kitchen. He's grown tired of searching for spoons and forks, being reduced to Accio for everything. "I can go get them, if you'd like."

Draco shakes his head as he turns away, fingers moving to the clasps of his cloak to loosen them. "It's fine."

"They have a great time with James and Albus, you know?"

There is a moment of silence. Draco is unsure of what to say – how to verbalize his discomfort without offending her – before he settles with, "I don't want them to get too cosy with them."

"Worried they'll tarnish the bloodline further than you already have?" She walks past him, dropping an empty folded box on the pile with the others before grabbing another. Carrying it past him, she says, "They're older than James and Albus by two years, the likelihood of them falling in love and marrying one another is slim."

"Some men prefer older women," he argues as he toes off his shoes, pushing them against the wall in a neat line. He notices that she's painted 'shoes belong here' in deep red on the wall, her neat script bright against the white paint.

"Do you?" Granger asks. It's rare he hears her ask questions so firmly. After years of talking to children – placating the girls (and him, on occasion) – she had seemed to settle in to speaking with less boldness.

His brows crease, confusion settling over his features. "Am I interested in older women?"

Rounding the corner, her hands tugging at the end of her jumper as she leans against the wall. She shrugs, cocking her head to the side. "You don't have to answer."

He's not too uncomfortable to answer, he's just not sure how. There has been little thought about women over the last seven years other than Granger, Lyra and Ara. They've become his world and where most men his age are just now beginning to settle, he's been settled since before his life even really began. They've never discussed the opposite sex before – what they like, what they don't, who they would have ended up with if they hadn't attended the same Ministry gala, Apparated to his flat and started raising a child together nine months later.

Draco has avoided the topic because he doesn't want to hear about the life she would have had if she'd married Weasley – the ginger-haired army of children they would have shared and the house in Ottery St. Catchpole they would have built. He was certain she hadn't wanted to hear about Astoria Greengrass – the wedding they were meant to announce and the perfect, pureblood children they wanted to raise.

There is nothing to be gained from dreaming about the way their lives could have been – not after all this time.

"I'm married to you," he says simply, "and you're older."

"So clearly that's a 'no', then."

"Are you fishing for compliments?" Draco asks. He smirks when she flushes slightly, her blush crawling up the sides of her neck and settling over her face. "Anyone else might think you are."

She shakes her head, waving her hand dismissively as she walks away. "I was hardly fishing, merely stating a fact."

He moves past her. "You're a decent wife," Draco admits. "I could have done worse."

It's true – probably the most honest thing Draco has ever said. There have been times when he's thanked fate for letting it be her after all of the other nameless, faceless girls he took home. She has been good to him, allowed him to live his life as close to normalcy possible. There has never been a hissed word of anger at him for their circumstances and he's never been accused of being the reason for it all. Lyra and Ara have never been spoken a word against their father, about Draco's past and the world he fought to tear apart.

Granger has been wonderful – pure, kind and resilient to every nasty word he's ever said and every cold shoulder he's ever presented to her in her times of need. He's not too proud to admit he was wrong about her from in the beginning and though he is slightly ashamed to have taken so long to realise his mistake, he knows he is lucky.

Eyeing the clock, he notices that the time is drawing on four and that they'll need to leave soon for his mother's Christmas ball.

Draco predicts it will be a long, tiresome evening.

"Your great-grandmother was Gryffindor," his mother announces from the blue. Her eyes follow Lyra has she dances between the Potter boys. Draco eyes her too, making mental note to tear them limb from limb if they dare to step any closer.

"Really?" His tone is unamused – bored. "I had no idea Gryffindors were allowed to hold the Malfoy title."

"Pardon me for dispelling your idea that you were the first to wed a lion."

Draco eyes her darkly, frowning slightly when she attempts to hide her laugh behind her napkin. The monogram 'M' is stitched perfectly in Slytherin green. Granger would never consider using something so verdant. "How does this concern me?"

She replies, "She was a pureblood – more beautiful than any Slytherin of her Year and very powerful."

There's always a point to her stories but Draco isn't feeling inclined to wait for this one. Scoffing, he says, "She wasn't the first pureblood to wear red and gold, I'm sure."

"She was the first Malfoy to wear them," she says simply. Taking a sip from her flute, she smiles across the room as Ara and Lyra bicker over something; Draco is sure it's inconsequential and probably related to unicorns or some other female-like creature. "Your great-grandfather had custom jewels made for her. Gold, rubies and topaz – all hand-made pieces."

"I'll show them to you," she offers a moment later. He can see her smiling from the corner of his eye, his gaze attempting to focus on Ara as she reaches for one of the glass ornaments on the tree. "If you'd like, of course."

Granger reaches for their daughter, kneeling down meet Ara's eyes before she presses a kiss to her cheek. Her lips are moving slowly, patient as she points to the ornaments. Ara nods, blonde curls bouncing with the rapid motions of her head before she turns away. Her little heels click across the floor as she runs to Lyra, linking their fingers together before they return to Granger's side.

He's never seen anything more amazing than Granger, standing in her scarlet robes with her hair pulled neatly at the back of her head. Her eyes are bright even in the distance, warm as she watches the girls race toward her.

"I'd like to see them," he says as Granger kneels once more to welcome them both into her arms. She smiles, her lips pulled tight from the width of her grin before her eyes turn to his. They meet and for a moment, Draco forgets how to breath.

His mother smiles, her hand reaching for his as she says, "I'll take you to them, then. Come with me, darling."

{Christmas Eve, 2011.}

Draco hates overhearing conversations on accident. They draw him in, keep him in his place despite hardly wanting to know the secrets shared within them, and when he hears a semi-familiar voice, he pauses in his attempt to escape.

"I look at James and Albus and I wonder how Lyra and Ara stand it. I mean, it must be difficult for them – facing two different doors and wondering who they want in the middle of the night when, really, they need you both at once."

Weasley – Potter – whatever the fuck her name is, then. Only she and Potter could ever come up with such trite names. He's been lucky with Granger in that area. She'd said, "What about Lyra?" as they'd passed each other in the kitchen, the first time they'd been in the same room for more than five seconds, and he'd nodded, deciding that he could handle a name like 'Lyra' for a girl. Silently, though, he'd hoped it was a ruse, meant to get a rise out of him. He'd planned for a boy instead.

He should have known better. Granger was too honest for such deceit.

Ara's situation had been handled the same way. Granger had taken a bite from a ring of pineapple, bits still stuck on her lip as he'd passed. Neither had even looked at each other as she said, "I want to name her Ara." Again, he'd nodded and hoped she was lying.

For the second time, she unintentionally proved he was a fool.

The Muggle contraption she bought a week before quiets. It's a loud machine, meant to simulate running as exercise and she insisted she needed it to stay healthy during the winter. He'd consented, handed her his Gringotts key and headed to work with little more than a nod.

Granger says, "The girls understand that things are different with Draco and I. They accept it and come to us when they need things. They're not without anything."

"But there's something about being able to climb in bed with your parents during a storm, isn't there?" Weasley asks. "Don't you remember that as a child – your mother's comfort and your father's strength? The girls don't have that."

Granger shifts into Draco's line of vision, her breasts heaving under her thin shirt as she takes deep breaths and sips from a bottle of water. Her hair is plastered to her forehead from exertion, loosening as she leans forward to rest her hands on her knees. Draco thinks her shorts are too short to be worn in front of anyone else – he's never seen so much tanned leg in his life.

With the exception of the two nights she was bare underneath him. Even then, it's been so long he can hardly remember what they'd looked like.

"They have me," Granger explains when she catches her breath. "And they have Draco, too. We're both there for them – just in separate ways."

Weasley scoffs, sounding affronted by Granger's disagreement. "When has Draco ever taken them for ice cream? Or to the park? Has he even thrown snow balls with them? Helped them shake out their boots and curled on the sofa with them to drink hot cocoa? Do they see Draco as a father or as a dad? They're very different."

For once, Draco agrees with Weasley. A father and a dad are different – a dad more interactive, teaching life lessons through time together while a father teaches lessons by word of mouth, demanding things be done a certain way to prevent failure.

He had a father. Weasley had a dad.

Perhaps years ago, when Lyra was still small, he had been little more than a hands-off father. He'd watched Granger from afar, hardly spoke a word about the little girl they'd shared and if it hadn't been for her leaving Lyra with him on Christmas Eve, he probably never would have batted a lash at the tow-headed monster he adores now.

But Draco doesn't do the interactive things that make him a dad, either. He didn't teach Lyra how to tie her laces or Ara how to write her name. And when it comes to understanding them, he is completely useless.

It's as though he is stuck in parental limbo – not a father, not a dad, just there.

His heart warms slightly as Granger says, "Draco is a dad, Ginny. He loves them. You haven't seen him with them. Maybe he doesn't do those things, but it doesn't mean he's any less of a parent than Harry."

"Getting someone pregnant doesn't take much, Hermione."

"I'm not saying it does," Granger argues, her tone rising slightly. Draco recognises the signs of frustration. He's heard that voice used against him more than once before. "I'm saying that Draco is a good man, a great parent and if you tried to see past out circumstances, you would understand him more."

Weasley's voice rises, too. "All I see is a coward. He married you because he was forced to, stays with you becomes he doesn't want to look like the man who deserted Hermione Granger and –"

"He's not!"

Weasley doesn't respond.

Draco doesn't breath.

"He's not," Granger repeats, he breath slightly ragged. Draco watches as her fists clench at her side. He can feel the steady pulse of her magic against his skin. Never has she been this furious with him. "He married me because he thought it was the right thing to do and stays with me because we're a good team for the girls. We love them – both of us, equally – more than anything else."

She pauses. For a moment, Draco thinks she's done. When her voice starts again though, it's soft – weak and disappointed. "Maybe I'll never have what you and Harry share – that great bonding of souls that creates a perfect marriage where my children can crawl between their father and I and seek both of our comfort at once but... I'm okay with the way things are."

This is deep and personal – something not meant for his eyes or his ears. Eavesdropping has never been his forte, even listening in on his own mother years ago had made him more uncomfortable than satisfied. Now, though, he watches Granger shake her head at the floor, refusing to meet Weasley's eyes. He thinks that this was the last thing in the world he was ever meant to see. As great as it feels to know Granger respects him as a parent, he wanted to go through life blissfully unaware of the fact that somewhere – hidden under layers of thick skin and warm smiles – Granger still feels as though she is missing something.

And really, how did he not see this coming? Everyone wants to be loved – even independent, know-it-all Gryffindors who act tough.

"I want to have another baby."

He looks up, suddenly confused. He's heard wrong.

"A baby?" Weasley asks. "Hermione, don't you think–"

"A boy – an heir. The girls can't carry on the line. It's important to Draco."

Weasley scoffs. "Hermione, this is silly."

"I'm strong," Granger says, "and I'm not passive or silly. We don't argue because we don't have to. This – all of this – could have been much worse. I have a beautiful house, two wonderful daughters and a career most would kill for because of him."

"You did that," Weasley corrects.

"Well then, what if I wanted to do it for myself?" Granger pauses, waiting for an answer that doesn't come. "If I wanted to have another baby just to see if he comes around a little more, would that make it more understandable? You weren't there – you didn't see him. With Lyra, it was almost as though he was disgusted by her. Then, with Ara he... He almost seemed like he enjoyed feeling her move, watching her grow. I caught him once rocking her in the middle of the night and she hadn't even cried. Draco just... picked her up and held her."

His collar suddenly seems warm and tight around his neck. He doesn't know which night she's speaking of. There were many when he woke up and longed to hold Ara, picked her up from her bassinet and watched her tiny face as she slept – in awe of her beauty, her perfection and all the magic that surrounded her.

Other nights he sat on the edge of Lyra's bed, ran his fingers through her hair and listened to her mumble as she slept. Something in him had changed when he'd held her for the first time, let her climb into his lap and read the damn Muggle book that all of them learned to love.

Granger has been much the same. At one point, his feelings for her had been pure hatred. He'd blamed her for their situation, for the smell of soiled nappies that flooded his flat and the assorted toys he tripped over on his way to work. Then there were mornings when he woke up and watched her stumble slightly from the nursery, suffering from a cold Pepper-Up potion couldn't cure and nursing one of their daughters' cries from the same illness. He respected her now, more than anyone else, and wondered why he'd never seen how Lyra had changed Granger's life even more than his.

And there was the night he'd watched her read to them – seen her with her guard down completely. He can't fall asleep without remembering the feel of Lyra against his chest and Ara under his hand – Granger's warmth spreading through his arm and the startling desire to kiss her still burning in his chest.

Lyra's question plagues his mind as well. He doesn't love Granger – doesn't see them as the married couple the law says they are – but sometimes when he catches her smiling, laughing or just being content, he can't help but think that the stirring in his chest isn't from finally accepting their strange situation.

Maybe, just maybe, he's feeling something more. It scares him, worries him and leaves him feeling slightly weak.

He doesn't listen any more. Turning, Draco takes the stairs two at a time and shuts his door quietly before taking off his robes. He throws them in the baskets that Granger will collect later and wash because she's a fair wife and never complains about things like that. When Draco steps under the shower head, he relishes in the feel of the warm spray against his back. He's almost so lost in the calm that he doesn't realise Granger is knocking on his door, announcing that she is running to Eeylops Owl Emporium to pick up Lyra's last Christmas gift.

He sighs, presses his forehead against the shower wall and wonders what he's gotten himself into.

They read The Wind in the Willows together in Granger's bed, curled around each other as a normal family would before Lyra and Ara hop free from the sheets and race to their bedrooms. Granger yawns, lips parting wide as her eyes droop tiredly. "They've worn me out," she explains, her voice soft. "I've never seen them so excited for Christmas."

"There are more gifts under the tree this year," Draco replies.

He smirks when Granger laughs sleepily. "You're quite right," she admits. "You shouldn't spoil them. They'll begin to expect things like this."

"As they should," he says. "They're Malfoys, they deserve the very best and if they expect great things, they'll never marry a man unable to provide them with such."

Granger sighs, shifting into her pillows. "Oh, don't talk about things like that so soon. I feel like they're growing too fast. Lyra is nearly eight – practically off to Hogwarts already."

It's hard for Draco to believe it's been more than eight years already. He's slept under the same roof, shared the same sofa and been warmed by the same hearth as Granger for eight years and has yet to offer her a single gift for Christmas. She's never asked or seemed disappointed when gifts were passed around, her hands left empty though Draco always had a gift from Father Christmas and another stamped with a tag reading, 'To: Daddy, From: Ara and Lyra' in the perfect swooping script he knew to be Granger's.

He considers the box hidden in the drawer of his bedside table. It is thin and delicate, black as night and within it lies the necklace meant for her. The caged ruby sparkles in the dim light every evening when he examines it, reconsiders his choice and questions giving it to her over and over. An heirloom is hardly something to be taken lightly. Malfoy jewels are practically priceless and all unique. No one will ever wear something similar around their neck, will never have gold like it over their collars or such a pure ruby between their breasts.

Granger will have something shared with her by another Gryffindor and a Malfoy who was pure of blood and kind of heart. It's perfect for her; a ruby between beautiful twisting gold, anchored to a chain heavy enough to prove it's worth without being overly flashy – something simple, beautiful and perfect.

He'd chosen wisely, spent hours considering it before taking the box from its place and storing it away. His mother had smiled knowingly, her blue eyes following him as he turned to leave. She'd said, "Perfect for the second Gryffindor Malfoy, don't you agree?"

"I have something for you," Draco announces to Granger, torn from his thoughts as she mumbles while she dreams.

Granger's eyes open slightly, her lashes fluttering as she rouses from the light sleep she'd succumbed to. "Something for me?" she asks groggily. "Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

A lesser woman would have said, 'Now? After all this time?' and rushed for the opportunity. Granger, Merlin bless her, asked to wait a day longer.

"Yes, if you're sure," he says.

Yawning, Granger's arm crawls across his stomach. It grips him tightly as she mumbles, "Tomorrow – yes, tomorrow."

Draco is in awe of her patience as he rises from her bed, dislodging her arm from around him as he moves. He returns to her room a moment later, his hand clasped around her gift and moves to settle in beside her once more. There is no hope for him, he thinks as she mumbles warmly against his neck and snuggles closer. He is doomed to life with a selfless Gryffindor.

And he's starting to believe he'd rather not have it any way else.

Granger's finger's caresses the jewel around her neck, her eyes on Lyra and Ara as they rip paper away from their gifts. She's not seeing them, though. Her mind is elsewhere, turning over behind her gaze as she rolls the ruby between her fingers.

"Granger," he says, attempting to draw her attention.

Lyra and Ara cheer on the floor. Their excitement scatters the wrappings and jostles Granger from her thoughts.

"Are you well?" Draco asks. When she doesn't respond, he grows slightly weary, thinking that perhaps the necklace wasn't the greatest choice – the best way to convey the change she'd made in his life and the change he'd made in his thinking. "Hermione?"

He's started a new chapter in his life when Hermione turns, wide-eyed and disbelieving to face him. It feels like he's seeing her for the very first time.

{Christmas Eve, 2012.}

"Another girl," Hermione says. Her awe is heavy in the air, filling the room and Draco is glad the girls are outside in the snow. He's not prepared for another discussion about girls ruling the house he calls his own. She sighs quietly. "I wanted a boy, you know?"

"I'm rather fond of girls," Draco answers casually. He leans closer to the window, watching as Lyra hops in the snow toward Ara before throwing herself down beside her. They wave their arms across the ground, their moving limbs creating something like an angel in the snow. He's heard about them from others but has never actually seen one. His first snow angel, provided by his own personal angels. It seems fitting.

Hermione's head shakes, curly brown hair moving in all directions. Her eyes are weary, her lips tight, but her hands cradle her stomach lovingly all the same. "They'll marry, change their names and have children of their own one day. You'll be the last Malfoy."

"No," he replies, shaking his head, "you will. I have it on good authority that women live longer."

"I'm hardly a Malfoy –"

"You're every bit a Malfoy," Draco interrupts. He doesn't explain any further. He's not a fan of expressing his feelings through words. Some days he tells her he loves her three times in just as many minutes, other days he doesn't say it at all.

They've come to an understanding about his fear of words – how real they are, how permanent and how they can hurt as much as they can heal. Some can never be taken back and she knows better than anyone the power of those words. She doesn't argue or request more than he's willing to give. She nods, a small smile on her lips as looks away.

Lyra and Ara stick their tongues out, both cheering in excitement when they catch a snowflake. They're beautiful, wrapped up in their winter coats and with their pale hair hidden under woollen hats. Rosy cheeks, sweet laughter and wide smiles make Draco's Christmases; he can't imagine one without them any more.

"You asked me once what my favourite thing about Christmas was," he says. Pulling Hermione to lean against his side, Draco revels in how perfect she fits against him – her ear to his heart, listening to the gentle thrum that exists for her and their daughters. His hands wrap protectively around her, feeling the shift of the next member of their family under his palm and he offers a rare smile to the jumper-covered bulge.

"I did," she agrees quietly.

He considers his answer, watching Lyra and Ara as they dance just outside the window and feeling the warmth of Hermione beside him. "Snowflakes," he answers finally.

"Snowflakes?" she asks, faltering slightly when he nods his confirmation. "Why?"

"They're all unique," Draco says.

Lyra pulls Ara down to the ground. They roll together, giggling merrily despite the mess they're making.

"I find them amazing," he explains. "They start as something messy, undesirable and common like a drop of rain and become a one-of-a-kind... miracle that can never exist again when it leaves. They're similar, all of them, but the tiny differences make each one special – irreplaceable."

Lyra and Ara look up, twin heads of pale blonde hair and grey eyes shining as they wave at he and Hermione in the window before they resume their playing.

"You're right," Hermione agrees quietly. "They are truly amazing to overcome their fate and become something so beautiful and admired."

A foot presses against Draco's palm, their baby silently telling him that she agrees, too.