Draco had been so, so proud, after the birth. He carried his newborn son with him all the time while she healed, and she had seen the satisfaction in his face every time. He'd treated her like a queen during the pregnancy and onwards since, acting as if their procreation had been consensual on her part, like she had wanted it all along. He had presented his son to his followers, proudly named him his heir, while Hermione was forced to watch silently, gripped with a fear so big it rendered her frozen as she imagined her son, grown and the spitting image of his father, standing there beside him in front of the congregation in their black and gold robes. One by one they had all lined up and knelt before them, the family, swearing fealty and service until their death. It was the most absurd, frightening thing she had ever seen.