It started with the books. Stacks of them.

You woke up one morning to find The Ultimate Midwitch Pregnancy Guide floating above your pillow. It was followed by a rotating pile of other absurdly titled tomes: So You’ve Impregnated a Goddess, Charms for the Cranky & Glowing, Magical Birth: The Modern Malfoy Approach.

You hadn’t even told him you were pregnant yet.

He just… knew.

“You rearranged the spice rack,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

“So?”

“Alphabetically. You hate order.”

“I live with you,” you muttered.

“You also cried because we were out of strawberry jam.”

“It was emotional.”

“You don’t even like jam.”

You sighed.

“Alright, Sherlock. I’m pregnant.”

He blinked.

And then, without a word, turned around, left the kitchen — and promptly fainted in the corridor.

From that moment on, Draco Malfoy was a man on a mission.

He became a menace to every Healer within fifty miles. Sent owls at all hours with questions like “Is breathing too fast a symptom of early labor?” or “Is it safe for her to levitate socks if she’s seven months in?”

He insisted on walking you everywhere. Even to the bathroom.

“Draco, I’m peeing. You can let go of my hand.”

“You could fall.”

“Into the toilet?”

“It happens.”

He warded the stairs. Enchanted the doorways. Planted anti-slip charms on every tile. Once, he tried to charm your shoes to hover two inches above the ground “to reduce pressure on your ankles.”

You hexed him.

Gently.

Mostly.

But he meant well.

When the nausea got bad, he brewed five different versions of anti-sickness draughts — taste-tested them all and nearly vomited in the process.

When your back ached, he read fifteen chapters on magical massage techniques, and practiced on you until you dozed off snoring.

And when the baby kicked for the first time, he dropped his teacup in shock and muttered,

“Bloody hell. It’s real.”