The room was quiet, but not empty. It never was, not when you were there.

Draco’s office—dimly lit by the green-tinted glass sconces and a flickering fire that had long since stopped offering warmth—smelled faintly of ash, ink, and you.

His fingers traced the edge of a parchment scroll with the absent rhythm of a distracted man, but the words blurred into irrelevance. Because you were asleep on his lap. Because your weight was curled against him, familiar and grounding. Because the way your head fit against the crook of his neck still undid him.

He hadn’t meant to stop working. But your breathing was steady, warm against the base of his throat, and his other hand, the one not holding the quill, had moved of its own volition—resting low on your abdomen, where your shirt had ridden up just slightly.

And it felt… different.

Not softer. Not bloated. Just fuller. Denser. As if the magic beneath your skin had changed cadence. Shifted to a rhythm not entirely your own.

Draco stilled.

His hand stayed there, fingers splayed, not pressing, not questioning—just listening. Like how he listened to ancient magic in cursed objects, to murmurs in old wood. He knew how to hear what was not spoken.

And he felt it. A pulse. Not quite yours.

He breathed in slowly. Once. Twice.

“No…” The word never left his mouth, but it echoed in his ribs.

Not disbelief. Just reverence. And a sudden, sweeping fear that bordered on awe. A flicker of something he hadn’t let himself want—not truly. Not yet.

He turned his head and looked down at you—your lashes resting against your cheeks, the faintest crease between your brows as if even in sleep, you were reaching for something unsaid.

You had no idea.

His thumb brushed the fabric just above your navel. Carefully. Tenderly. Terrified.

Could it be?

He tried to remember when it—the glow, like you’d been brushed with starlight and didn’t yet realize you were carrying it inside you—had first begun. Was it at breakfast last Tuesday, when you’d laughed into your tea and he couldn’t look away? Or that night on the balcony, when the moonlight had caught your face and he’d thought, absurdly, she looks like prophecy?

Draco closed his eyes.

The war had taken everything. Nearly you. Nearly him. Love had seemed a cruelty too sharp to hold onto back then.

But here you were. Here this was.

He swallowed hard, breath catching on the edge of an emotion he hadn’t named yet. It felt too fragile to speak aloud. Like it would vanish if called.

He kissed your temple, barely grazing skin. And then whispered—more to himself than you, a promise sealed in breath and fear and wonder, “If it’s true… I’ll make the world better this time. For you. For them.”