Hermione took the baby with familiar, comfortable ease, propping him up against her shoulder and rubbing his small back with short, firm strokes. She murmured to the infant as she patted and stroked his back, swaying on the spot, and Draco couldn't pull his eyes away. She looked motherly and somehow ripe; a cloud of dark hair framed about her face, lips moving in whispers, slim hands soothing over Teddy's back and the swell of her breasts and hips and dip of her waist outlined well in her thin, clinging pyjamas. He realised, leaning against the porch railing, with his face ostensibly turned down to his feet but eyes fixed upwards on Hermione and Teddy, that there was a rightness, a contentment in watching her with a baby in her arms, that left him feeling disturbed and unsettled.