The moment Hermione's first contraction hit, Draco became an absolute menace.
It had been a quiet evening, the fire was low, the lights were soft, and the air smelled faintly of sandalwood from the candle she had lit earlier.
Hermione was curled up on the sofa in one of Draco's old jumpers, the book she had been reading resting against the round curve of her stomach. Her ankles were tucked under a blanket, her hair falling loose around her shoulders, and Draco sat at her feet, dutifully massaging her arches with the precision of a man handling a priceless artefact.
He looked smug about it too, which Hermione had tolerated for the better part of ten minutes before threatening to revoke his "foot privileges" if he didn't stop narrating his technique like a Quidditch commentator.
That had shut him up, briefly.
Until she gasped.
It was sharp. Sudden. Her whole body went still. The book slid from her lap and hit the rug with a dull thud.
Draco's head snapped up. "What was that?"
She blinked, breathing shallowly, one hand tightening around the armrest. "I think…" She winced, her face scrunching as a ripple of pain travelled through her. "I think it's starting."
For one disbelieving second, he just stared at her. Then he stood so quickly that the tea tray went flying. China clattered. Hot water splashed across the carpet. The biscuits he had so carefully arranged in a neat little row went bouncing in every direction.
"Starting? Starting what? Oh my God—"
Hermione glared through the pain. "What do you think?"
Draco paled. "Right. Yes. Okay. Breathe. I'm calm."
"You're not calm."
"I'm calm adjacent."
"Draco."
"Yes, my love?"
"Sit down before you faint."
But he didn't sit.
He was pacing, muttering to himself, hands moving wildly in the air as though trying to grab hold of the situation by force. "It's fine. Perfectly fine. We've prepared for this. We have the plan. The colour-coded plan. The emergency bag. The checklist. The backup checklist. Where's the checklist?"
Hermione pressed a hand to her stomach, breathing through the next contraction. "In the bloody cupboard where you hid it from me."
He froze. "Right. Yes. The cupboard."
He spun on his heel and bolted down the corridor. From the living room, Hermione could hear drawers being yanked open and a string of muttered curses that would have made his mother blush.
"Where's the—why is there an unicorn toy in here? We don't even own an unicorn! Who put the nappies next to the potions—oh, for fucks sake—"
Hermione closed her eyes, gripping the armrest and trying very hard not to laugh through the pain.
By the time he reappeared, he looked like he had run a marathon. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, his shirt was half untucked, and he was clutching a bag that looked suspiciously heavier than it had any right to be.
"I found it!" he declared, triumphant. "Everything we need is in here. Absolutely everything. Towels, potions, back-up potions, snacks, a first-aid kit, three spare robes, a copy of Healer Byrne's Birth and Binding Manual—"
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Snacks?"
He nodded seriously. "For me. I get low blood sugar when I'm panicking."
She let out a short, incredulous laugh that turned into a grimace as another contraction hit. Draco froze again, eyes wide, every instinct in him screaming to fix this, to make it stop.
"What do I do? What do I do?"
Hermione breathed through gritted teeth. "You could start by breathing yourself."
He inhaled sharply, then exhaled so dramatically that it looked rehearsed. "Right. Breathing. Done."
"Good boy."
That earned her a look that was half outrage, half helpless affection. "You're mocking me during labour?"
"I'm multitasking."
He moved towards her again, crouching at her side, eyes darting between her face and her belly like the next step might be printed somewhere on her skin. "Do I need to time it? We're supposed to time it, aren't we?"
Hermione nodded through the ache. "Yes. The contractions."
Draco whipped out his wand. "Tempus!" The clock appeared mid-air, glowing softly. "How long was that one? Forty-five seconds? That's too close together, isn't it? Oh no, that's definitely too close together—"
"Draco."
He blinked at her.
"Breathe."
He obeyed, taking another massive, unnecessary gulp of air. "I'm fine. Perfectly fine."
She reached out and caught his wrist. "You're panicking more than me, and I'm the one actually giving birth."
"That's because I can't do anything. I can't cast a spell. I can't fix it. I can't stop it hurting."
His voice cracked slightly at the end, and that was enough to make her soften. She reached up and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, her fingers shaking just a little. "You don't have to fix it. Just be here."
He looked down at her hand, then at her face, as though the words had short-circuited his brain. "I am. Always."
Another contraction came. This one stronger. Hermione gripped his arm so tightly he nearly lost feeling in it, but he didn't complain. He just held her, murmuring something that sounded like nonsense but felt like comfort anyway.
When it passed, she slumped back against the chair, sweat dampening her hairline. "You might want to call the Healer."
"Right," Draco said quickly, reaching for his wand again. "Yes, of course. The Healer. Code Emerald!"
"Don't call it that."
"Operation Emerald Birth Commencement?"
"Draco."
"Fine, fine." He lifted his wand to his throat. "Healer Byrne, it's happening. It's—well, it's happening. She's in labour. And she's terrifying me."
Hermione groaned. "You're an idiot."
He grinned faintly, though he still looked pale. "Your idiot."
The fire in the hearth flickered green, signalling the Healer's arrival. Hermione exhaled a shaky breath, one hand finding Draco's again.
"You're not going to faint, are you?" she asked.
"I might. But I'll do it gracefully."
She laughed, even as the next contraction began to build, the pain cutting through the room like a pulse of lightning. Draco tightened his grip, eyes locked on hers, every trace of arrogance burned away until all that remained was raw fear and love and awe.
And in that moment, she realised that no amount of lists, charts, or plans could have prepared either of them for this.
Draco was already on his feet, pacing like a caged animal, running both hands through his hair like he could physically pull the panic out by the roots.
"Oh my God. It's happening. We're having babies. Right now. Fuck. Right now." His voice cracked. "Okay. No need to panic—WE NEED TO PANIC."
Hermione, who was currently trying to breathe through a contraction that felt like her spine was being crushed from the inside, glared at him through gritted teeth. "Draco."
He didn't hear her. Or he pretended not to. Hard to tell with him in this state. He was already halfway across the room, casting a Summoning Charm for the hospital bag with far too much force, nearly knocking over a bookshelf in the process. The bag hit him square in the chest and bounced to the floor.
He didn't notice. He was yanking open the floo like a man possessed, dropping to his knees in front of it, shoving in a handful of powder.
"MOTHER! SHE'S IN LABOUR. DO SOMETHING!"
Narcissa's face appeared in the flames within seconds, her expression perfectly composed despite the fact that her son was howling like a lunatic. "Draco, for heaven's sake, I told you not to shout through the floo. You'll frighten the elves."
He turned to her like a desperate man clinging to the last branch on a cliff. "Mother, I say this with all the love in the world—this is not the time. She's having contractions. Right now. We need to get her to St Mungo's."
Hermione, clutching the back of the armchair for balance as another contraction hit, let out a strangled groan. "I'M STILL HERE, YOU KNOW."
Draco spun back around, rushed to her side, and dropped to his knees. He gripped both her hands, his thumbs stroking across her knuckles like he thought he could soothe the pain through skin alone.
"Love, I am so sorry. I got caught up. I'm calm now. I'm focused. Let's get you to the hospital. You're doing amazing. You're so strong. I love you. You're glowing."
Hermione's eyes were fierce. "You're rambling."
"I'm just so fucking proud of you," he whispered, pressing frantic kisses to her fingers.
"Then stop rambling and get me to the bloody hospital."
"Right. Yes. Of course."
He scooped her into his arms without waiting for further input.
"Draco, I can walk."
"No. No wife of mine is walking while in labour. Are you mad? Absolutely not. I'm carrying you like the goddess you are."
Hermione slapped his shoulder. Not hard. Just enough to get his attention.
"You're going to throw your back out and I'm not waiting while you recover. Put me down."
"Never."
"Draco."
"I said what I said."
She groaned again, and he took that as vindication.
The second they stepped out of the floo at St. Mungo's, Draco switched.
His body moved before his mind caught up, instincts sharpened by years of training rising to the surface like smoke through cracks. One moment he was supporting Hermione with steady arms, murmuring soft reassurances into her hair, the next he was striding up to the reception desk with murder in his eyes.
"We need the best healer available," he snapped, slamming his hand on the counter. "No, scratch that. Find the one who delivered the last royal baby. If they're still breathing, I want them in front of me in sixty seconds."
The mediwitch blinked, startled.
Hermione let out a strained groan behind him, her fingers crushing his hand with more strength than should've been physically possible for someone in that much pain. "Draco," she hissed. "If you don't calm the fuck down, I will hex your bollocks into the Thames."
He turned to her immediately, face softening like she'd flipped a switch. "Yes, love. Of course, love. Whatever you say, love." He kissed her knuckles. "You're doing brilliantly."
The mediwitch, now flustered but clearly used to the theatrics of magical births, rushed them down a corridor and pushed open a door to a private birthing suite. White walls, floating candles, sterile charmwork humming beneath the surface. Too clean. Too quiet.
Draco walked in and immediately decided it was unacceptable.
"This bed is a joke," he snapped, running his hand over the stiff white sheets. "Where's the silk? She deserves silk."
"She doesn't need silk," the healer said, appearing in the doorway with a clipboard and an expression that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else.
Draco turned, expression dark. "She deserves silk," he repeated, this time with ice behind the words. Not a suggestion. A demand.
"Draco," Hermione snapped, gripping the nearest bit of him she could reach and yanked him down to her face. Her voice was low, her breath hot against his jaw. "I don't give a flying fuck about the sheets. I care about getting these babies out of me before I start levitating."
He gulped. "Yes. Right. Priorities." He nodded, cowed for now. "Of course. Babies."
She gave him a look that suggested she might actually murder him if he spoke again.
The healer cleared his throat. "Right, if the father could just sit—"
Draco's eyes snapped back to him. "If I could just what?"
The healer hesitated. "Sit down, sir. Out of the way."
"Out of the way?" Draco repeated, voice flat.
Hermione's head dropped back against the pillows. "Oh, here we go."
"I'm not in the way," Draco continued, stepping forward. "I am the way. She's my wife. She's carrying my daughters. And if you think for one second you're going to treat her like some cursed textbook case, I suggest you rethink your entire career path."
"Mr Malfoy," the healer began.
It was the wrong tone.
The wrong inflection.
Too casual.
Too dismissive.
Draco's patience snapped clean in half.
Before Hermione could blink, he'd crossed the room and grabbed the man by the front of his robes, dragging him bodily out into the hallway.
The door slammed.
Hermione groaned. "I don't have time for this bloody testosterone drama. I'm literally crowning."
In the hallway, the healer found himself shoved back against the wall with enough force to make his teeth click.
Draco's hand was firm on his chest. Just enough pressure to remind him this was not a negotiation.
"You know who I am," Draco said, quiet but razor‑sharp. "And if you don't, that's a mistake you won't live long enough to make twice."
The healer's breath caught. "M‑Mr Malfoy, I—"
Draco stepped in closer until their noses almost touched. His voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried more weight than a shout. "You are not just treating a patient. You are touching the only thing keeping me tethered to this world. If you hesitate again, if you so much as make her flinch, I'll open your throat before you can raise a wand, and I'll smile while I do it."
The man froze, eyes wide, trapped against the wall.
Draco's gaze didn't waver. "Do you understand me?"
A single, shaky nod.
"Good," Draco murmured. "Now go back in there and make sure she never has to scream twice for the same reason."
Draco returned to her side like he'd never left it, dropping to his knees beside the bed as if that was where he belonged. He grabbed the cloth that had fallen off the side table and ran it gently across her brow, his movements quick but careful.
"Love, breathe," he said, voice low and urgent. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
"You just left to threaten the healer," Hermione muttered, glaring at him through clenched teeth.
"I'm here now," he said, as if that made up for it. "He got the message."
"You threatened him, didn't you?"
He gave her an innocent look that fooled absolutely no one. "Professionally."
She let out a weak laugh that turned into a grimace as another ripple of pain passed through her. "I cannot believe this. We talked about you behaving."
"I am behaving. I didn't kill him."
"You love causing scenes."
"No," he said, leaning closer, brushing a kiss to her temple, "I love you. The scenes are just a bonus."
She groaned. "You are unbearable."
He grinned, entirely unapologetic. "And yet, tragically, you married me."
"I was forced."
He reached for her hand and kissed her knuckles. "You were. But you were brilliant and brave and completely in your right mind. You knew what you were getting into."
"That's the worst part," she muttered.
At that moment, the healer re-entered the room. He was paler than before and moving with a noticeable stiffness, like someone had just come back from a very quiet, very intense brush with death.
He didn't look at Draco. Not once.
"Right," the healer said, clearing his throat and adjusting his robes with unnecessary care. "We're ready to begin."
Draco didn't take his eyes off Hermione. He pressed his forehead gently against hers, his fingers tangled with hers now, knuckles white with the force of it.
"I'm with you," he whispered. "Every second."
"You'd better be," she whispered back, voice rough but steady. "Because the second this is over, you're getting a taste of your own pain."
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"I'm cursing your dick."
He nodded solemnly, utterly unfazed. "Understood."
She let her head fall back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. "Good."
Then she tightened her grip on his hand.
"And I mean really cursing you. Like a week of phantom contractions. With back pain."
His voice cracked with a half-laugh, half-groan. "That's horrifying."
"Welcome to my life."
Draco kissed her knuckles again, murmured something in her hair, and stayed glued to her side as the healer began the procedure — no longer muttering, no longer smug, and absolutely, unquestionably aware of who exactly he was dealing with.
As the contractions grew stronger, Draco was by her side for every agonising second.
"You're doing amazing," he whispered against her temple, kissing the damp skin. "You are the strongest witch in existence. I swear, love, I will buy you an entire country after this. Whatever you want."
"I want you to shut up," she moaned.
He nodded immediately. "Yes, of course. Silence. Effective immediately. No more words."
"Draco," Hermione whimpered, her fingers digging into his arm with a strength that sent a bolt of panic straight through his chest. "It hurts so much."
Draco nearly lost his mind on the spot. His world shattered at the sound of her pain. Every part of him was screaming to fix it. To fight it. To destroy it. But there was no one to hex, no one to kill. Only this, this relentless, sacred thing tearing her open from the inside.
He cupped her face with trembling hands, brushing back her damp curls, pressing frantic kisses to her forehead, her temple, her knuckles.
"I know, my love, I know," he murmured, voice thick with helplessness. "You're doing so well, ma chérie. Just breathe with me. That's it. Breathe with me."
Then he turned, silver eyes blazing, rounding on the healer with the kind of rage that had ended empires.
"Do something! Help her! She's in pain!"
The healer raised a brow, unimpressed. "She's in labour."
Draco's fury flared like wildfire. "I know that, you incompetent twat, but do something to make it easier."
The poor man barely had time to respond before the mediwitch swooped in like a saint in uniform, all warm smiles and steady hands.
"Alright, sweetheart, anything you're allergic to before I give you a potion?"
Hermione, drenched in sweat, blinking through the haze of pain, blinked at her. "Penicillin… and penises."
The room went silent.
Then the mediwitch giggled. The healer choked on his own breath. Draco, despite the sheer panic coursing through him, let out a breathless laugh and pressed his lips to her knuckles.
"That's my girl," he said softly, wiping away a tear with his thumb. "Still got bite, even while cursing my existence."
The mediwitch prepared the potion swiftly. "Well, good news then, Mrs Malfoy. We're only offering magical relief today. No penicillin. No uninvited body parts."
Hermione huffed out a ragged laugh, still gripping his hand like a lifeline. "Good. Because the only thing going near me after this is a hot bath and an entire bloody cake."
Draco nodded like he'd just been given sacred instructions. "Done. You'll have both. I'll bake it myself. In fact, I'll make you six cakes. A whole cake buffet. Name your flavours."
"Less talking," she hissed, squeezing his fingers hard enough he swore he felt bone shift. "More holding."
He shifted instantly, sliding in behind her and letting her lean back against his chest. His arms wrapped around her, steady and warm, as he murmured soft reassurances into her hair. Kisses landed on her curls. His breathing matched hers.
His heart ached with every groan. But if there was one truth in the world, one thing as fixed as magic, it was this — she would never do anything alone, not as long as he was breathing.
Another contraction hit like a tidal wave.
Hermione screamed and dug her nails into his thigh. "YOU DID THIS TO ME."
Draco nodded, tears in his eyes. "I did! I did, and I am so, so sorry, my love. I am in awe of you. You're magnificent. I will never so much as look at you suggestively ever again if you don't want me to."
Hermione let out a gasping laugh, even through the pain. "I don't believe that for a second."
He smirked, brushing damp curls from her forehead. "Okay, you're right, but still, I am forever at your mercy."
Hours passed, and the delivery grew more intense. She was exhausted, sweat beading along her brow as she pushed through each contraction. Draco never left her side, never stopped whispering encouragement in her ear.
And then— finally the first cry rang through the air.
Draco froze, his breath catching as the healer held up a tiny, wriggling baby with a head of impossibly soft blonde curls.
"It's a girl," the healer announced.
Hermione let out a sob, relief and love flooding through her. Draco simply stared in stunned silence as the healer placed their daughter in Hermione's waiting arms.
"She's perfect," she breathed, cradling the tiny bundle against her chest.
He swallowed hard, his heart hammering. "She's… she's an angel."
"Would you like to hold her, Mr. Malfoy?" the healer asked.
He reached out with shaking hands, his breath shuddering as he took his daughter into his arms for the first time. She was impossibly small, impossibly delicate, and she blinked up at him with wide, sleepy eyes.
"Oh, I am so fucked," he murmured, absolutely and completely undone.
But there was no time for further sentimentality because a moment later, Hermione groaned loudly, gripping his arm.
"Draco," she gasped. "She's not the only one."
And just like that, the labour continued.
Draco nearly fainted.
By the time the second baby was delivered, a perfect little girl who was the spitting image of Hermione, Draco was utterly wrecked. Emotionally, mentally, physically. He held both daughters in his arms, his breath uneven as he took them in.
His girls. His family. His world.
He turned to Hermione, who was exhausted but glowing, watching him with tired amusement. He pressed the softest, most reverent kiss to her lips, his voice breaking as he whispered, "You are everything, Hermione. Everything."
She smiled sleepily, her fingers brushing over his knuckles. "So are they."
His chest ached with a love so fierce it stole his breath. He looked back down at the babies in his arms, his heart swelling until it felt like it might burst.
"I think I need a calming potion," he finally muttered.
Hermione laughed softly, reaching for one of their daughters. "You'll be fine, love."
He sighed dramatically, cradling his other daughter closer. "I just… I don't know how I got so lucky."
And as Hermione pressed another kiss to his temple, he realized—he didn't need to understand it.
He just needed to cherish it.
The room was finally quiet.
The lights had been dimmed, the healers long gone, and the world had shrunk to the hush of a private suite with drawn curtains and the faint scent of lavender drifting from Hermione's pillow. She was asleep at last, curled on her side, one hand still outstretched toward where the babies had been resting before he scooped them into his arms.
Draco sat in the armchair beside the bed, cradling both girls against his chest, their impossibly tiny bodies wrapped in warm cotton and tucked close. One of them let out a little snuffling sound in her sleep. The other yawned, eyes fluttering shut again as her fist curled instinctively around the edge of his shirt.
He watched them both for a long time.
He didn't speak at first. Just breathed with them. Let his heart settle into something he hadn't felt before. Not power. Not pride. Not even the thrill of survival.
This was something quieter.
"You two," he said finally, his voice low, barely above a whisper. "You are the love of my life."
One of them shifted slightly, as if she'd heard him. He smiled down at her, brushing a knuckle gently along the downy curve of her cheek.
"Everything I have," he went on, his throat tightening, "everything I am, is yours. Forever."
The words didn't feel borrowed. They felt earned.
He glanced at Hermione, her face soft in sleep, her chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. The strongest woman he'd ever known. The only one who'd ever seen him properly and still stayed.
"You've no idea," he murmured to the girls, voice rough with something fragile and bright, "how much your mother terrifies me. And how much I'd die for her. But you lot—" He looked back down at them, his girls, his blood. "You lot have ruined me entirely."
One of the babies let out a tiny hiccup. Draco grinned.
He pressed a kiss to the top of one little head. Then the other.
And sat there, long into the night, keeping watch.
Because there was no part of him that would ever leave now.
~~~~~~
The event of the century had arrived, and if anyone in the wizarding world had ever accused Pansy Parkinson of being dramatic, it was only because they had never seen Draco Malfoy in the first delirious hours of fatherhood.
Because this was not drama. This was a spectacle of devotion, of reverence, of sheer emotional lunacy disguised as composure.
He stood in the centre of the birthing suite like a man who had just been handed the universe and was terrified to drop it. Every polished part of him had been reduced to something unrecognisable. His tie hung loose, his sleeves rolled carelessly to the elbows, and his eyes, always calculating and precise, were soft in a way that no one alive had ever seen.
The midwife, perhaps sensing the magnitude of the moment, moved quietly, placing the two tiny bundles in his arms with the solemnity of someone performing a sacred rite.
The world seemed to still.
For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. The sounds of the ward faded, the crackling of magic in the air softened, and time itself bent inward around the sight before him. He looked down, and there they were. His daughters.
Cassiopeia and Lyra.
The names felt like ancient spells on his tongue, words powerful enough to tear the sky open. His hands trembled as he traced the smallest curve of a cheek, the soft line of a nose. They were impossibly light, impossibly real. Their little fingers curled and uncurled like the flutter of wings. One made a quiet, sleepy sound, a whimper that nearly broke him.
He had faced death and lived. He had walked through wars and come out the other side untouched. Yet this—this was what undid him completely.
Hermione watched from her bed, exhausted but smiling, her face still damp with sweat. There was something unbearably gentle in her eyes as she looked at him, as though she understood without words what was happening to him. That the infamous Draco Malfoy, the man who once commanded fear with a single look, was gone. In his place stood a father.
He knelt beside the bed, the girls still cradled in his arms, and the sight of Hermione watching him made his throat tighten painfully.
"They're ours," she whispered, her voice thin but full of wonder.
He could barely answer. His jaw worked uselessly before he finally managed to speak. "They're perfect."
One of the babies stirred, her small mouth opening in a soft sigh. He froze, terrified of breaking her, and then let out a shaky laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob. "I don't even know how to hold them," he said quietly.
Hermione reached up and brushed her fingers along his wrist. "You're already doing it."
Her words landed with the weight of truth. He was. Somehow, despite every mistake, every scar, every cruel thing he had ever said or done, here he was—steady, whole, holding life itself in his hands.
Cassiopeia blinked once, a drowsy flicker of grey eyes that mirrored his own. Lyra, smaller and darker-haired, shifted against her sister, pressing closer. He marvelled at the way they moved together, as if they had never been apart, two halves of the same quiet miracle.
He swallowed hard, his throat burning. "I don't deserve this," he murmured.
Hermione smiled faintly. "No one ever does. That's what makes it a gift."
He looked back down, tracing the edge of one blanket with his thumb, his heart swelling and breaking all at once. "I swear," he said softly, "I'll give them everything. The house, the world, my life. Whatever it takes."
Hermione's eyes softened. "They don't need everything. They just need you."
That was the moment he felt it—the shift. The one that took him from man to father, from someone always running from himself to someone finally willing to stay.
The room was still, filled only with the slow rhythm of tiny breaths and the faint hum of magic that always followed birth. He bent his head and kissed each of them in turn, reverent and terrified, his lips lingering as though memorising the shape of their futures.
"Cassiopeia," he whispered, tasting the name. "My star."
"Lyra," he murmured next, his voice catching. "My song."
He had never believed in destiny, not really. But as he sat there, holding both of them, Hermione drifting into quiet sleep beside him, he realised that maybe this was all the redemption he had ever needed. Not through power. Not through legacy. Through love.
Through them.
He stayed like that long after the midwife had left, after the lights had dimmed and the ward had fallen into hush. The girls slept soundly, one nestled in each arm, and Draco Malfoy finally understood what it meant to belong to something far greater than himself.
The weight of them was barely anything at all, yet it felt like the whole world had shifted into his arms. Cassiopeia was curled against his left shoulder, her impossibly tiny fingers twitching beneath the edge of her blanket. Lyra rested in the crook of his right arm, one foot peeking out like a petal from the swaddle, already a little rebel. Their warmth bled through his shirt, their weight tethering him to something real in a way nothing else ever had.
He couldn't breathe for a moment.
His eyes were glassy, his throat tight, and his heart… well, his heart didn't know what to do. It kept pounding on as if it hadn't just shattered and stitched itself back together in the space of a single blink.
"They're perfect," he whispered aloud, though no one had asked. "You're perfect. Both of you."
They did not reply, of course. Cassie made a soft little noise that sounded like a sigh. Lyra wriggled, her tiny brow furrowing as though she disapproved of the air, or the blanket, or life itself. And yet Draco couldn't help the smile that overtook his face as he watched them.
He had never smiled like this before. Not once.
He lowered himself carefully into the armchair beside Hermione's bed, terrified of jostling them, as though even the slightest movement might be too much. It took him nearly a full minute to sit, but once he did, he didn't move again.
He just stared.
Hermione was sleeping soundly, her chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of deep, deserved rest. Her curls were plastered to her forehead, her lips dry and parted slightly, her body still limp from the aftermath of labour. She looked worn down to the bone. But he had never seen her look more radiant. Not at a gala. Not on their wedding day. Not even in those rare quiet moments when they had managed to steal hours from the world and pretend it didn't exist.
No, this was different.
She was still the centre of the universe. But now the universe had doubled.
He glanced down at the girls again, his breath catching as Lyra gave a little grunt and shifted against him. Her cheek pressed against his chest. Cassie curled tighter, her little mouth puckering into something that might one day be a scowl. His lips twitched, and the tears returned with a vengeance.
"Alright," he murmured to them both, voice rough with everything he could not say. "Here's the truth. I have no bloody idea what I'm doing."
It felt mad to admit it aloud, but they deserved honesty. Even now.
"I haven't the faintest clue how to be a father. I didn't exactly have a shining example. And your grandfather, well…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Let's just say he wasn't built for lullabies and bedtime stories."
He glanced at Hermione, then leaned his head back, letting it rest against the back of the chair.
"But I'll learn. I swear to you both, I'll figure it out. Because you're mine. You're ours. And I've never wanted anything more than I want to be good for you."
His voice cracked on the last word. He cleared his throat, blinking rapidly.
"You are the love of my life," he whispered, his eyes fixed on their tiny faces. "Everything I have, everything I am… it's yours. Forever."
A soft rustling from the bed made him look up.
Hermione stirred, her lashes fluttering before her eyes cracked open. She blinked, slow and heavy, the corners of her mouth lifting when she saw him.
"I have them," he said gently, as if she didn't already know.
Her smile widened, her voice no more than a breath. "Are you crying again?"
He scoffed, which only made his throat ache worse. "Don't be absurd."
"Love…"
"I am not crying," he insisted, though the tears clinging to his jaw betrayed him. "I am simply overwhelmed with profound, unshakable paternal awe."
She let out a soft chuckle, still half-asleep. "So, crying."
He gave a resigned sigh. "Yes, fine. I'm crying. Happy now?"
"Very."
Hermione reached for him, her fingers brushing along his wrist. "Let me hold one?"
He hesitated. It wasn't that he didn't want to share. It was that his arms didn't want to let go.
"Please," she added, her smile growing tired again.
He shifted slowly, carefully passing Lyra into her mother's arms. Hermione held her as though she had never held anything more precious. And maybe she hadn't.
Draco looked down at Cassie, still curled against him, and kissed her crown.
"I'm sorry you've got me for a father," he said, smiling softly. "But I'll try to make up for it by ruining you with affection and outrageously expensive things."
Hermione hummed. "She's already ruined. Look at her."
"I am looking," he said, eyes wet again. "I can't stop."
Silence settled between them. Not the heavy, awkward kind. The sacred kind.
The kind you get when the world has shifted forever, and the air still hasn't caught up.
Through the window, the sun rose higher, gilding the edges of everything. Draco blinked down at the bundle in his arms and then at the two girls beside him. Then at the woman who made all of it possible.
And for the first time in his life, he didn't care about tomorrow. Or appearances. Or threats. Or bloodlines. Or titles.
For the first time, all that mattered was here.
This moment. These people. This love.
His family.
Draco shifted carefully in the chair, arms tightening just enough to bring the twins closer against his chest. Cassie gave a sleepy twitch, her little hand curling into the fabric of his shirt. Lyri, barely stirring, let out a quiet sigh and pressed her face into the warmth of his heartbeat. He lowered his cheek to her head, breathed in the soft scent of baby skin and clean blankets, and closed his eyes for a moment. Just one moment. Just to feel it. To take in the impossible stillness of it all. The hush that had settled around them like a spell.
He'd spent most of his life doubting anything he couldn't see or control. Faith had never come easily to him. Belief even less so. But this—this changed something. Two tiny bodies, warm and soft against his chest, their breaths rising and falling with his own. It felt like the world had tilted. Like maybe he'd been wrong about everything.
He'd been a lot of things in his life. Some dark, some sharp, all of them deliberate. He'd been a son raised in shadows, a man shaped by war, a husband who would tear through kingdoms for the woman in that bed. But now? None of it mattered in the slightest. Not here. Not now. He was their father. That was all. And that was everything.
Two daughters. Two. And they weren't just perfect to him—they were perfect, full stop. He would rewrite the laws of nature if he had to. Cassiopeia and Lyra Malfoy were exquisite. That was a fact. He'd dare anyone to say otherwise.
He never pictured himself in this role. A girl dad. Merlin. He'd spent so long preparing for a legacy. For a Malfoy heir who would carry the name forward, who would protect the line, hold the weight. But this—this had nothing to do with names or bloodlines. This was something else entirely. This was what he'd been made for. Not power. Not reputation. Not control. He was here to love Hermione, hopelessly and endlessly, and to raise these girls who had broken him open without even trying.
His arms tightened again, more instinct than thought, as that love swelled in his chest, sharp and endless. Nothing would touch them. Nothing. Not while he drew breath.
Cassie gave a small, almost questioning sound. He shifted slightly, rocked her with the gentle rhythm he'd already learned. His lips moved without thinking, whispering nonsense in the softest voice he had. Lyri stretched, her tiny fingers searching for something before tucking themselves neatly against the curve of his arm. They trusted him. Entirely. Without hesitation. That kind of trust didn't just happen. It rooted itself in the bones.
He looked to Hermione. She hadn't stirred. Her body lay slack against the pillow, utterly spent, curls wild across her forehead, cheeks flushed. His chest pulled tight again, a different kind of ache now. She had brought them into the world. Fought like hell to do it. And now she slept, still and safe, as if she'd never done anything more difficult than close her eyes.
He stared at her for a long moment, feeling something raw and wordless build behind his ribs. She had given him everything. More than he ever asked for. More than he knew how to deserve.
And just like that, the life he'd lived before this moment felt distant. Like some story that belonged to someone else.
This was the beginning. This was the point. His whole world had been waiting to arrive.
His life before this felt like a story someone else had told him once, one he hadn't quite believed. It was all blurred now, faded at the edges, like an old dream that no longer held weight. As if he'd been drifting through the years, restless and half-alive, waiting without knowing what for. Wandering without direction, without purpose, until now. Until this. Until fatherhood.
He bent forward, slow and careful, and pressed a kiss to Cassie's forehead. Then to Lyri's. His lips lingered, brushing against soft, newborn skin as if he could somehow pour all the love he had into them with that one gesture. As if that alone could keep them safe.
"My little stars," he whispered, voice trembling with the weight of everything he couldn't say out loud. "You have no idea how much you're going to be loved. Completely. Fiercely. Without reason or limit. You'll be safe. You'll be spoiled. And I won't feel a single ounce of guilt for any of it."
They didn't stir. They didn't need to. They already knew him. Knew his voice, his heartbeat, the steady promise in the way he held them. And he would give them everything. Not just comfort and riches and safety, though they would have that too. He would give them every ounce of himself. Every soft part, every sharp one, every lesson he had ever learned the hard way. They would never doubt where they came from or who they belonged to.
He drew in a breath and let it out slowly, the room still and quiet around him.
Then, as if the world was responding to the shift inside him, the first pale light of dawn slipped in through the curtains. It spilled across the floor in gentle gold, brushing the edge of the bed, warming the corner of the chair where he sat with his daughters in his arms. It found his face, found theirs, bathed them in something soft and holy.
Draco Malfoy, a man carved out of legacy and ruin, who had spent his life chased by names and haunted by choices, now held the sun itself. Not just in his arms, but in his chest. In the shape of two tiny girls who had never heard the word 'war.' Who would never carry the burden of a name that once made the world flinch. Who would grow up knowing only what love could build.
And he held them like a prayer. Like the answer to a question he hadn't known he'd been asking all along.