She finally broke down and raged at him until she had a panic attack.
He just stood there without a word while she vented it all. Until she started hyperventilating and collapsed on the floor with her arms protectively wrapped around her stomach. He shushed her and rubbed circles on her back while she cried and tried to shake him off.
“Don't do this to me, Draco. Don't do this. Don't — don't — don't — don't—”
Afterwards, he was called away, and she was left to seethe and obsess and realise he was doing it intentionally.
He could read her thoughts. He knew the ways her mind tilted. Prior to Montague's attack, he'd gone out of his way to needle her and make her hate him. He'd given her a target, something to focus on; a way to channel her stress. If she was angry at him, she was less self-destructive. Her rage dampened her guilt.
Then leaving would be easier for her.
She didn't want to be managed.
She swallowed her anger after that. She didn't want to waste the time she had by being angry.
But when she was alone, she wanted to scream and break everything within reach. The manacles physically prevented her from doing anything but cry. She was burning with rage, and devastation, and guilt without any capacity to channel it. She felt as though it was poisoning her from the inside, as though the emotions were corroding the blood in her veins.
She obsessively kept going through all the stacks of books that covered the floor of more than half of her room. If she read them enough times, maybe she'd have a breakthrough, maybe she might see something she'd overlooked before.
When Draco visited, she tried to ignore the fact she was leaving.
He had an unusual amount of availability leading up to the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. Lucius was responsible for “hunting”, and executions had been placed on hold until the anniversary celebration.
Draco was able to spend most of his time with her.
She poured herself into him. She wanted every detail of him.
They made love several more times. After the first time, it was easier. She was confident that she could handle it, that she could stop if she needed to. She could communicate things to him physically that she struggled to verbalise without crying.
She could hold onto him and wish to never let go.
He held her in his arms and kissed down her body. He touched and tangled his fingers in her hair. He traced along her neck and shoulders as though he were measuring and memorising the way she fit in his hands. He pushed into her, and she stared into his eyes, watching the way they flickered and changed colour when the pupils dilated.
Mine. Mine. Mine. She felt it like a heartbeat.
She pulled his lips desperately against hers, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, tangling her fingers in his hair, absorbing the sensation of being with him, the rhythm of his heartbeat with her.
She ran her fingers along his runes, feeling the implacable magic that resided there. She kissed each of his scars, and he kissed hers. They entwined their hands, brushing their noses together, and whispering to each other.
They took every moment slowly. They had barely any time left; they didn't want to waste it by rushing.
Afterwards, Hermione lay curled up in his arms, her back against his chest.
She took his left hand and pressed it against the swell in her lower pelvis.
“That's her,” she said. “I'll—” her throat tightened, “—I'll probably be able to feel her move within the next month. The book says it feels like fluttering at the beginning.”
Draco's fingers twitched in her hand, and he pressed a kiss on her bare shoulder.
She stared down, studying his hand beneath hers as it splayed across her stomach. “It's called quickening — when you first feel a baby move.”
After lunch, Draco led her past the hedges running along the South Wing of the manor. As they walked around the hothouse, Hermione stopped with surprise. There was a stable of winged horses on the Malfoy estate.