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Bless the Broken Road	By : Lissa & snowblind12 Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 10182 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I make no money off of my stories.

Chapter List
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- 2
- 3
AN: To all our wonderful, wonderful readers. Your response to the reposting of this story has been so incredible. Snow and I are just thrilled. Thank you so much! We realize that this chapter is...very short. And we'll give you the heads up that chapter four is also very short. Especially for us. However, I really felt that this chapter and chapter four needed to stand on their own. We'll try and post chapter three a little early to make up for it! Thank you all again! Love, Lissa
BETAs: RaynePhoenix2 & sab81790
Chapter Two
What Hurts the Most
“It’s hard to deal with the pain of losing you everywhere I go, but I’m doing it.” *
February 11^h, 2006
“What’s the matter, ‘Mione?!” Ron asked worriedly as he rushed to the table where his wife was sitting, quietly sobbing into her coffee cup as she stared, empty eyed, at an open copy of The Daily Prophet.
Ron dropped his hands on his wife’s slender shoulders while leaning over her to take in what she was reading. “Obituaries? Merlin, Hermione, who died?”
“A-astoria Malfoy,” Hermione wept. “She had a brain aneurysm that ruptured d-during childbirth. Her funeral is today.” She broke into more quiet sniffles and reached to pull a few tissues out of the box that was sitting on the table to dab her eyes as Ron leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head.
He reached next to her and moved a chair so he could sit down close to her before he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his chest. “Draco Malfoy’s wife?” he asked in a soft voice. He felt Hermione nod against him. “Wow, ‘Mione. That really…sucks.” He wasn’t sure what else to say. He felt bad for Malfoy, he couldn’t imagine losing Hermione. If he was being honest with himself, however, it didn’t really affect him as it seemed to be affecting his wife.
“Yeah,” Hermione sighed, nuzzling her face into Ron’s chest as his body heat seeped into her skin. She already felt better, just having Ron hold her and agree that Malfoy’s lot in life really had taken a turn for the worse. Part of her was upset because of all the “what ifs” running through her head. What if something happened to her during childbirth? What if something happened to the baby? What if she had to have magical cesarean section and had to be put to sleep?
Another part of her felt beyond awful for Malfoy, though. The poor bloke had been through more than his fair share of shit in life. Being raised by bigoted parents who brainwashed him, being forced to take the Mark because of his father’s failures. He had been assigned to murder Albus Dumbledore – at sixteen! He had just been a child! Living with that monster in his home…just. She was heartbroken for him…and for his innocent son. Why did his life have to continue to be so miserable? And why do I care so much?
Draco stood in the master suite of the West Wing at Malfoy Manor, staring at himself in the mirror of the bathroom he had shared with his wife and best friend for the last three years. His reflection would be perfect if it weren’t for the purple bruises under his steel grey eyes and the hallow, sallowness of his cheeks. Grief changed one’s features, however.

He had grown into himself. No longer was he gangly limbs and awkward movements. He had shot up a few more inches since leaving Hogwarts, topping out at just over six feet. Always vainly liking the way his hair fell in his eyes, he kept his platinum blond locks shaved up the sides, but longer on top. Draco was what people liked to call a beautiful man. He boasted a chiseled face with a strong jaw, a straight nose, and full lips. His brow line and eyes were unique as he had received them from his mother. His wide eyes and long lashes gave him a face of beauty versus the more masculine word handsome. He had filled out and remained very active and his muscles were thick, defined, and ropey. His broad shoulders and chest tapered into a slender waist with jutting hip bones down to thick, powerful legs. He turned away from the mirror, not wanting to see how haunted he looked.
They had buried Astoria Greengrass Malfoy in the family plot earlier that day. Underneath the large willow she was so fond of. The image of the casket holding his beautiful, twenty-three-year-old wife lowering into the ground replayed in his mind. The roiling sick from that moment came back full force and he barely made it to the toilet before losing what little he had in him. As he retched into the black porcelain, his thoughts raced. For what seemed like the millionth time in the last week, all he could things was, I can’t believe she’s gone. This can’t be happening. Life was just starting. It was just getting good. I was just starting to feel happy. He spat into the toilet as the contractions of his stomach subsided and flushed it before moving back to the sink to rinse his mouth and clean his teeth.
Draco pulled the cravat from his neck and shed his dress robes into a heap at his feet – the house elves would take care of them later. He flicked his wand at the shower, and the multi-headed torrent of water started to pummel the black and green-veined marble walls and smoke-glass doors. He let the water warm before stepping into the punishing spray. The heat calmed him greatly, forcing his tense muscles to unclench and relax, but it also opened his mind. His thoughts were nothing but pain and loss and the tears of grief started to slide easily down his face and mix with the shower spray.
Sobs left him in great heaves of agony, and he leaned his forehead into the cool stone of the stall wall. After a long time, he calmed enough to straightened and shut off the taps. Wrapping his waist in a thick towel, he padded barefoot to the large walk-in wardrobe that joined the bathroom to the bedchamber. He avoided looking to the left, where Astoria’s things were kept along with her makeup vanity and all those odds and ends women think they need to be beautiful. Instead, he turned right, into his own wardrobe. Draco pulled a pair of soft, grey fleece pants from his dresser and a white cotton tee from a hanger and slipped into them. He was looking forward to the oblivion sleep would give him.
He walked back into his bedroom and stopped, something seemed out of place. Looking around for a moment, his eyes finally fell to the bed. In the middle of it, he spotted a bundle of blankets with a tiny fist was waving around outside of the folds of cloth. He panicked, quickly walking to his chamber doors with every intention to flee. They were locked, and the terror continued to rise.
“Tinny!” he exclaimed to no one, but the house elf heard him. He was stalking across the room, back to the bathroom to search for his wand, when he heard the elf crack into existence.
“What can Tinny do for young Master?” she asked, her bulbous eyes watching him warily from across the room.
“Why is my door locked?” He demanded, pointing his wand at the door with a silent Alohamora. It did not budge.
“Young Master will not be able to open the door,” Tinny said in an apologetic voice. “Master and Mistress forbid it. They is saying young Master must bond with the wee one.”
Draco looked at the elf in horror. “Tinny, I demand you let me out of here at once.”
“I is sorry, Master. I cannot be doing this.”
“Tinny!”
“Tinny is threatened with clothes, young Master. Tinny is allowed to bring young Master anything he wishes for personal comfort, sir. Anything he needs for the wee one. But Tinny is not being allowed to let young Master leave his room or to take the wee one out of his care. Mistress is telling Tinny young Master must look after the babe.” Tinny was very unhappy to be upsetting Draco, whom she helped bring up from infancy, but was more terrified of Lucius and Narcissa by far. Her ears were flat against her head.
Draco closed his eyes. His mother was a stubborn piece of work on her best days. She was furious with him for refusing to even look at the little monster on the bed, let alone touch or hold him. “Tinny, tell my mother she much come and fetch the child at once.”
“Tinny will let Mistress now of young Master’s discomfort.”
“Please, Tinny, and thank you. You may be dismissed.” It wasn’t that Draco would hurt the child, and he knew his mother knew this. He just…couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t touch him. He was struggling with the misguided notion that this little person in the middle of his and Astoria’s bed was the reason his beloved wife was gone. Deep down he knew this was utter rubbish, but the pain was just too new. The wounds were too raw. He glanced at the little, undefinable lump of fabric and, for the first time since he had been told his wife was dead, felt a tug of curiosity pull at him. Walking slowly across the room, Draco never even noticed the crack that sounded as the elf Disapparated.
He stood at the edge of the large bed, hands shoved into the pockets of his lounge pants, wet platinum blond hair dripping into his eyes. Slowly, so slowly, he crawled onto the bed and settled beside the child, who was starting to whimper. The little, pink infant rutted with his mouth in the folds of the blanket. Cautiously, Draco slipped his hands into the soft warmth of the bundle and pulled the blanket away from the face of the child. His child. Her child. Draco drank in the sight of a beautiful, tiny, perfect face. His eyes were wide open and a small, slightly distressed whimper left him as he continued to search for nourishment. The child had her nose and lips and his eyes. Draco’s breath caught. My son – our son.
*“What Hurt the Most” written by Jeffrey Steele and Steve Robson. Performed by Rascal Flatts from the album And the Crowd Goes Wild. Released October 2003.
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Bless the Broken Road