Forget Me Not (Draco/Hermione)

Chapter Seventeen- Showers

Now and then- well, no, more regularly than that, she thought of him. She wondered what he was doing. What he had eaten. If he slept well. If his insomnia was bad again. Daily, she would pore over the Prophet in hope of a mention, just to see what his name looked like in print. One day, a good day, there had even been a photo of him in the society section. He had been snapped at a black-tie event, a charity ball, decked out in his tuxedo with his hair neatly gelled down. The camera had caught him off-guard at the time; his lips moved to smile at it awkwardly, a champagne glass in hand, before turning away time and time again. He looked… well enough, Hermione had thought, a bit worn down. Maybe his insomnia was bad again. Not that she dared ask. She had kept the clipping though, hidden under her pillow. Now and then, she would bring it out and watch him smile awkwardly up at her.

Daphne’s loud knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

‘You haven’t drowned in there yet, have you?’ she called through. ‘Because I really don’t want to have to explain to the landlord why I have a dead, naked, pregnant chick in my shower.’ Hermione quickly switched it off, stumbled out and wrapped herself in a towel.

‘Coming,’ she said, unleashing a thick torrent of steam as she opened the bathroom door. ‘Better?’ Daphne leaned against the opposite wall and raised her eyebrows.

‘Better but not good enough,’ she said, herding a soaking wet Hermione into her bedroom. ‘Now, let me dress you for a change. No excuses.’

An hour later, having been subjected to a range of beautiful treatments and squeezed into a bright-yellow maternity dress (‘I swear if you even look at your pyjama bottom drawer one more time, I will swap the pain meds at the birth with Tic-Tacs,’ Daphne growled. ‘Yes, I know what they are.’), Hermione was ready. Eyeing herself nervously in the mirror, she pulled uncertainly at a strand of straightened hair.

‘I look so… bright,’ she said eventually. From behind her, Daphne raised an eyebrow as she peered over Hermione’s shoulder, drawing on her eyeliner.

‘You look like a glowing mother-to-be. Which you are so it fits.’ She casually threw her eyeliner onto the bed and grabbed Hermione’s arm. ‘Time to go.’

The early March sunlight was horrendously bright in contrast to the darkened living room. Hermione had to squint as they clambered down the two flights of stairs and out onto the street. Already out of breath, she took a moment to lean against the door, panting wearily.

‘Did you call for a taxi?’ she finally gasped.

‘We’re only going down the road, Your Majesty,’ replied Daphne but she held out her arm and Hermione gratefully took it.

Whilst Daphne’s flat overlooked the back of a busy supermarket car park, the road she lived on was relatively quieter with a few other blocks of flats, a couple shops and a small church next to a community centre. Hermione shot Daphne a puzzled look as they stopped outside of the church.

‘We need to pray for your soul, you pregnant hussy,’ Daphne smirked, before gesturing to the door of the community centre. ‘Our destination is there, never fear. Now go inside!’ Hermione hesitantly did.

Inside, it was pitch black. Having become accustomed to the sunlight again, Hermione squinted into the darkness, just about making out the odd shape. Assuming it was closed, she was just about to turn back when-

‘SSSUUURRRRPPPPRRRRIIIIIIIISE!’

She nearly jumped back straight into Daphne as the lights suddenly flew on and she found herself surrounded by a room full of laughing people. For a moment, she could only gape at them, clutching her chest.