Something very primal roared to life in Draco's chest at the sight of Hermione with a baby held to her chest, its cheek pillowed against the gentle swell of her breasts, her arms secure around it, one hand splayed out to cradle its head. She looked so natural with the child, so at ease, cradling it to her with a protective, secure grace. His breath choked in his throat and the thought sprang into his head unbidden: mine – that should be my child in her arms. The sheer intensity of the unexpected, unasked for thought was almost frightening and Draco sucked in a sharp breath, eyes wide on Hermione, picturing her with his child. And then he blinked and shoved that feeling back down into his chest where it coiled around his heart, waiting pointlessly because that could never happen.