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At the height of his thirty years (a mark he never believed he would achieve, by the way), Draco Malfoy had had his fair share of missions.

At twelve, his father sent him to Hogwarts with direct orders to outdo Hermione Granger and Harry Potter’s outstanding achievements during their first year of school.  Granger had been top of her class, and Potter had not only been the youngest seeker in centuries, but also managed to win Gryffindor the house cup despite Slytherin having won all years prior and being in the lead that year. So, Lucius Malfoy - always the gentleman- bought seven brooms of the latest and most expensive model for the Slytherin team and managed - after a long dinner with the Flints - to get Draco as a seeker. 

Draco failed that mission.

At sixteen, the Dark Lord sent him to Hogwarts with direct orders to kill his headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. He didn’t specify how, so it was understood that he should do it by whichever means necessary. Draco imperiused a witch, nearly killed the Gryffindor’s chaser with a cursed necklace, nearly killed Weasel with a poisoned mead and managed - with quite effort and talent, one must say - to fix a transporting cabinet that got Death Eaters into the school. Dumbledore died that evening.

But Draco, nonetheless, failed that mission.

At eighteen, his mother sent him to Azkaban (alright, the Wizengamot sent him, but his mother was the one who accompanied him on the boat ride) with direct orders to survive, not get crazy and write. The wind coming from the sea was surprisingly warmer (or rather, less cold) than the damp stone walls. The cries from other inmates were surprisingly better (or rather, less frightening) than the whispering approach of the dementors. Two years went by slower than flobberworms and quite as disgustingly, if anyone asked Draco about it. Not that anyone did.

Draco, much to his surprise, succeeded in that mission. (Well, except for the letters, there were no owls in Azkaban, what was his mother thinking anyway?)

At twenty, his ministry assigned probation agent sent Draco to the Elowen College of Healing Arts with direct orders to become a healer and, therefore, mend his damaged public image as well as his very private image of himself. Draco Malfoy could be a good person, despite his upbringing and his ridiculously large and full Gringotts vault. He could do better, get better by helping people get better.

Draco was, also shockingly, successful in that mission.

Which was probably the only reason why he, drunk in his rare successes, assigned himself his following mission.

At twenty-three, after his first day working at St. Mungus ward for damages caused by dark magic, Draco Malfoy went back home with direct (and self-inflicted) orders to woo Hermione Granger, head of the Department of Magical Creatures. 

She had been his first patient. The leader of an international trafficking mafia who profited on selling unauthorised body parts from unicorns, acromantulas and centaurs sent her a cursed letter. She opened it and was bombed with a dark powder that suffocated her. She was admitted in a bit of a hush that morning, accompanied by her two moron friends Potter and Weasel. Of course, the worst of them was Weasel who had managed to somehow lose Granger after having an affair with another witch at the Auror Department. Not that Draco would complain. It made his mission easier.

The damage to her lungs and skin was such that she needed to stay hospitalised for ten days. It hadn’t been as much for the morality of not breaking the rule against patient-healer relationship, but more for the fact that Draco Malfoy was, in fact, very scared of asking her out, that he used those ten days to first build a friendship with her. He apologised for everything that happened during the war, she forgave him. He brought her books, helped her write owls to her department (because she wouldn’t stop working, obviously) when she couldn’t use her hands and stayed at her bedside, just talking, even when he wasn’t on call. He didn't have anything better to do, really. He also sent her lots of gifts and flowers daily, but was too much of a coward to admit.

A week after she was gone, they ran into each other at Diagon Alley and she invited him for a coffee. Which was very lucky for him, because he had been digging a hole at his study for the previous days while pacing frantically and trying to come up with the balls and the means to ask her out. 

From then on, Draco is proud to say he took the lead as the man he was.

Of course, Granger was the one who suggested the second date, but he accepted it like a man and a leader.

And she was also the one who kissed him first, but he did manage to make her gasp with his performance.

Furthermore, he made up for his lack of initiative exactly seven months later when he proposed to her with the largest ring in his family vault, during a leisure walk by the manor grounds.

She said no, because frankly, they hadn’t been together for even a year, and she had a lot going on at the ministry.

Draco was not proud to admit how long he cried against his pillow that night.

Six months later, he tried again, this time with a trip to a private island in the Caribbean sea, magical fairies illuminating a picnic by the beach at night under the star filled sky. The ring was even bigger, custom-made by a Muggle jewellery store, with a giant ruby circled by a golden snake. 

This time, she said yes. Which was very great because the bangalow they were in only had one room, and how would he cry without privacy?

Yes. Despite all the money, luxury and status of his family (of course, the latter was sort of messed up with the whole war criminal thing, but he did make up for it by becoming Head Healer and marrying war hero golden girl), Draco Malfoy had had a hard-working life, with several missions, the most important of which he succeeded in.

Which was why he was now, at the height of his thirties, pretty comfortable in just enjoying the rest of his life with his perfect wife, getting her whatever she needed and giving her all the pleasure he could muster.

That was until that bloody thursday.

Of course, Saint Potter would be the reason for his dismay.

He had to go and impregnate the scary SheWeasel. They had to go and make a round, pink faced and drooling baby. 

Not only that. They had to go on and make his perfect wife the godmother. 

Now, she was holding the bundle of blankets and looking at it. She was smiling, her thumb wrapped in the little chubby fingers. A little unknown lullaby - probably Muggle - escaping her lips (the ones he loved to kiss) to caress the baby’s ear.

And then she looked up from the baby and beamed at him. “Isn’t he lovely?”

It was all it took.

The entire axis of his world shifted and Draco had a new mission.

He needed to get his wife pregnant. 

He needed to have her belly swollen with his heir so he could see her holding their child like that. It needed to be that night, even, because he wouldn’t wait any longer than the nine months a pregnancy lasted.

It took all of his willpower not to throw his wife over his shoulder and apparate directly on their bed. They unfortunately had just arrived at Grimmauld Place and therefore had to endure a long dinner with loads of red haireds. 

He was ignoring something Weaselbee was saying about Quidditch while he outlined his strategy for that evening. He’d offer to knead her sore muscles for her. Usually, whenever things were intense at the Ministry that would mean her shoulders. But that night, he assumed it would be her feet. She was wearing high heels and had been standing for a long time now. He loved that heels, they made her arse pop out and…

Focus.

He would massage her feet, then he’d start kissing his way up into her skirt. He’d lap on her until she was nothing but a wanton mess, begging him to make love to her. And he would casually forget about the contraception spell. He did that sometimes, she’d take the following day's potion. Not that time, no. After he made her come three— No, four times, he would say how beautiful she was, how wonderful she looked holding Potter’s offspring and how even more wonderful she would look holding their marvellous baby. She’d smile back and agree with him. He would then remember that he had forgotten to do the contraceptive spell and she would say that it was destiny. Perfect.

Draco was not successful in his plans that evening. 

It started because Hermione bloody Granger was too much of a swot to forget anything, so she cast the spell herself before he entered her. Then, after the four orgasms, when he began his speech she raised one, then two eyebrows and quickly squirmed herself off of his embrace into a seated position. 

“What do you mean our baby?”

“Well...” He smirked. “You see, love, when a wizard and a witch love each other very much—”

“Draco!” she gasped. “We talked about this. I don’t want children.”

Yes, they had indeed talked about it. It came up during their seventh or eighth date together. Hermione said she loved children, but couldn’t see herself as a mother. She said she wanted to focus on helping as many people as possible, that she wanted to climb up the ministry ladder and one day hopefully become Minister for Magic. A child would need more attention than she would be able to give. 

At the time, he wanted her so badly that he would agree with anything Hermione said. But, being honest, Draco himself didn’t want to be a father. The war traumatised him so much that he didn’t think bringing someone into this world would be a good idea; he didn’t want to breed a child soldier. Besides, his own daddy issues made him sure he’d be a lousy father, and he wanted to enjoy as much time as he could with his future wife. He would be perfectly content with the Malfoy bloodline ending with him. 

But obviously everything went to shite when Harry Potter had one kid and Hermione looked great holding it, and his school nemesis had a kid and now he was being denied one.

Draco Malfoy was going to be a father. That much was decided. He wouldn’t give up just because his first course of action was not successful. He just needed a new strategy.

It turned out he needed a lot more than just that.

Hermione began taking the potion. She didn’t like it because it gave her period cramps. He didn’t like it because it made her cranky.

“Well, it’s your bloody fault,” she said one morning when he complained about it. “You’re not to be trusted with contraceptive spells!”

It took her three weeks before she’d let him anywhere near her cunt again. And for the first few days he was only allowed to use his mouth or fingers.

Two months later, while swiping a catalogue for cribs, Draco began to draw his new approach. His plan would be fail proof. There would be stages. 

First, he would remind Hermione of her mother's instincts by getting her a cat. She always wanted one since her orange Kneazle died while they were dating, but never had the time to do it, working so much.

She rode him like a horse that evening.

Then, he would impress her with his wonderful father skills by visiting the Potters weekly and holding their baby in his arms. In a couple of months, he was already James' favourite uncle, being the only one able to make him stop crying after nappy changes.

Hermione didn’t seem impressed, though.

When subtlety wasn’t working anymore, he asked her again. In fact, knowing his wife like he did, he made her a presentation, with precise time tables, pros and cons list, budget calculations and logical reasoning for them to have kids. He went as far as asking Pansy to sketch some possibilities of outcome, a little girl with pale blond locks and her button nose and a boy with brown hair and grey eyes.

“Draco!” Hermione was exasperated. “You know I won’t have time to care for th—”

“I’ll care for it! I’ll resign from St. Mungus and be a stay-at-home father. I don’t need the money anyway…”

“People need you at St. Mungo's, Draco.”

“My child will need us more; besides, it’s only for eleven years until they go to Hogwarts.” 

“Only eleven years? Draco! In eleven years, I want to be the minister!”

“Think how good it’ll look for your campaign to have beautiful children!” 

She pressed her lips tightly, but didn’t say yes.

When logic didn’t work, he tried bribing something else:

“I’ll donate a million galleons to the organisation that is researching a cure for lycanthropy.”

“I have access to Malfoy's vault, Draco. You can’t bribe me.”

Draco wasn’t proud to admit that the angry argument was the strategy that followed bribery. Obviously, he didn’t succeed in that. Hermione did look so sexy when she was mad at him. They ended up having (unfortunately pregnancy-safe) sex on the couch.

After a couple of days, when he approached the subject again, only to see she hadn’t changed her mind, he huffed and, for the next entire week, gave her the silent treatment. Went as far as sleeping at Blaise’s to show his discomfort. Well, he tried for a week but didn’t manage as much. He was back before 2 am the first night. Draco wasn’t strong enough to sleep separately from Hermione.

He resumed his negotiations during breakfast the next morning. Turns out, Draco didn’t have that many things to offer in return for his wish, because he already did nearly everything Hermione wanted. 

“I’ll be nice to Potty and Weaselbee.”

“Draco, you three went to Quidditch World Cup together last year.”

“I’ll cut my hair the way you asked me to.”

“I’ve grown fond of how it looks now.”

“I’ll free our house elves.”

“They’re already free and paid for.”

“I’ll double their salaries.”

“That’s a good idea.” She smiled over her Daily Prophet. “I’m not getting pregnant, though”

When he had nothing more to do, he was man enough to beg for it that evening.

“Please, please,” he pleaded between open-mouthed kisses to her inner thighs. “Give me a baby,” he said before cupping her sex with his full mouth and dancing his tongue between her folds.

“No,” she moaned, arching her back.

It was dirty, sick and a very slytherin move indeed, but a man has got to do what he must for his (future) family. 

“Oh well,” he sighed, lazily circling her clit. “It is probably for the best.”

“Huh?” She whined, squeezing his shoulder with her nails.

“You know, us not having kids...” He pressed one finger, the one with his family ring, inside her. “My ancestors would be so mad with me...” He pumped it harder, dragging the family crest on the spongy wall that made her eyes roll back. “For dirtying their bloodline…” He added a second finger. Hermione was panting, and it made him hard. “With a halfblood heir”

“What?” she gasped, nearly suffocating him when she closed her legs.

“Mmmm,” he said against her, gently tapping her hip.

She opened her legs and he resumed lapping.

“Malfoy!” she complained, pushing him away. 

“It’s Draco, love” he chuckled.

“Are you seriously saying it’s good we won’t have children because that way your family stays pure?”

“No.” He kissed his way from her navel to her neck until he was able to whisper against her ear. “I said my ancestors would be glad you don’t want to have kids.”

She pushed him away and stormed off the room.

“Where are you going?” he shouted behind her. 

“I’m brewing an antidote to the contraceptive potion!” She snapped.

Well, well, that was a great turn of events. 

Draco had dozed off when she finally came back to the room. He woke up to her mouth around his cock. 

“What?” He was startled, but not at all unpleased.

“Get up,” she said, purposefully, to him and to his cock (that didn’t actually need the order but sure liked being bossed around by Granger). “We’re making a halfblood baby”

Draco didn’t need to be told twice; he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her up so he could smash their lips together in a hungry kiss while he deftly turned them around. Hermione yelped. 

“This position” He said, biting the strap of her night gown and ripping it off “Is better” he had his hands roughly gripping her hips and pushing the skirt up until her waist “For the seed to keep”

Hermione nodded, not focusing that much because Draco had his mouth on her neck, just how she liked it. He pulled her legs up so they’d wrap around his slim waist and muttered a lubrication spell just before thrusting inside her.

“I thought you hated those,” she said with a breathy moan as he began rolling his hips against her.

“I don’t hate them,” he said, moving slowly inside her. “I just think a wizard should get his witch properly wet without needing magic to do it…” Then he lowered his head so he could suck on her hardened nipple. “But desperate times ask for desperate measures.”

His rhythm was increasing as he braced himself with his elbows around her face, fucking her harder and harder. Her walls clenched around him, milking him, demanding his seed. He fucked her desperstely, calling her name, whispering sweet words of love that contrasted with how ravenous his actions were.

He slid one hand to get to her clit, and she broke around him at the first touch, having been on the edge with his ministrations before the brewing and (if she was being honest) during the brewing as well, with all the pent-up energy of hating the pureblood bigoted ancestry. He fucked her faster, the thought of filling her with his seed was making white spots appear on his vision. He wanted her full of him, wanted her round with him, wanted to brand her womb with his genes.

Draco came with a roar. Or maybe a whine. He couldn't say for sure.

He stayed there, wanting to hold his seed in place for it to catch. He distracted her (Hermione always wanted to shower the sweat after sex) by drawing lazy circles around her nipples with his tongue and nuzzling against her breasts.

“We’ll do this again tomorrow,” she sighed. 

“Yes.”

“And the following day.”

“Yes.”

“Until I’m pregnant.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck the Malfoys.”

“Oh, darling, fuck only this Malfoy, please,” he moaned, licking the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

His cock was softening, and he removed himself, gently holding Hermione down by her belly, while he collected his semen and fisted it back inside her. 

“I’ll bring food. Stay there.”

… A year later …

At the height of his thirty years (a mark he was glad to achieve, by the way), Draco Malfoy had already thanked Potter more times than he wanted to.

At seventeen, he thanked Potter for saving him in the Room of Requirement during the Battle of Hogwarts. 

At eighteen, he thanked Potter for testifying on his mother’s trial as well as on his, saying both of them had been crucial in his victory against the Dark Lord.

At twenty-one, he thanked Potter for standing up for him at Diagon Alley when someone called him a Death Eater scum.

At twenty-three, he thanked Potter for helping him plan Hermione’s surprise birthday party, because she had refused to celebrate her day due to loads of work at the Ministry.

At twenty-five, he thanked Potter for being his wife's best man during their wedding at the Malfoy Manor grounds on a sunny spring afternoon.

At twenty-eight, he thanked Potter for getting them tickets for the final match between Falcons and Harpies (they had been sold out and even with all the money Draco had, only the chosen one managed to buy them).

And at thirty-two, he was now thanking Potter for making Draco realise that his life would never be complete without Scorpius in his arms.

He looked up from the white blond curls and beamed at his wife, who was sipping coffee as she read the Daily Prophet. One look at his face and she was scowling.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she warned. 

“I want another one.”