Chapter 1: Road to Recovery
Chapter Text
It's the sight of his mother screaming his father's name that convinces him that he hates Harry Potter.
In this moment, as curses fly around him, lighting up the spaces between black smoke and fluttering robes, Draco hates Harry with all the passion and vitriol that he's capable of feeling. It burns inside him, acidic in the back of his throat, ash on his tongue. He would say Harry's name and choke on the poison of it, just from how much he hates him. More than he's ever hated him before.
In the distance, he can see the stark shock of his father's hair, whipping around as he slashes his wand at anyone who dares come too close. Nearer to him, his mother is running, stumbling over uneven ground and crashing into people who try and grab her. She has never, never looked as broken and human as she does in this moment. He almost doesn't believe it, doesn't understand.
People rush past him, heading the way he came, and he lets them. He fights against the current, ducking and sprinting, avoiding brushes with death. There is the scent of something otherworldly outside, a bit of ozone and the sharp metallic of magic meant to kill. He gags on it, and he runs. He keeps running.
He doesn't care what he looks like. Doesn't care that he's screaming for his parents, throat raw. Doesn't care that he's disheveled, betraying the Malfoy facade that has carried him through life. Pride does not exist here, cannot when his father is fighting for a side he never wanted to be on, when his mother is disappearing between jets of lights that could swallow her whole and take her away from him.
It's all Harry Potter's fault.
And Draco's. He's to blame for this. It is because he does not and has never truly hated Harry enough that they have ended up here. But, in this moment, Draco is learning how. Too late, says the rustic taste of cruel irony in the tears that spill into his mouth.
He reaches her, somehow. Shoves the right amount of people aside, keeps running without caring what will come of him just ahead, gasps for air despite how he is not breathing. His lungs hurt. His heart does, too. If Harry does not die, Draco will murder him, and it will be for vengeance, not sacrifice.
They collide—Draco and his mother—and she gasps when her hands land on him, fingernails digging into the fabric of his robes. Her eyes are wide, glittery, full of terror. He always wished he had her eyes, not his father's, because he always thought they were so pretty. But not now. Not now.
"No," Narcissa breathes out, panicked, "darling, no. You mustn't be here! Draco, go back! Go back!"
"Come with me," Draco pleads. He can't lose her, too. He has already accepted that he will lose too much, but not her. He gets to keep her. He needs her, if he is to lose everything. "Mother, come with—"
A Spell connects with the ground between their bodies, sending them both flying back. Draco shouts as he goes careening into a mass of passing Death Eaters. They catch him, cackling, clawing at him before he can stand on his own two feet. Hands press against his throat, fingers yank at his hair, and someone is jabbing their wand against his chest.
It hurts. Everything about this does, but this is a physical pain. He reacts to it, lashing out and fighting back on instinct. He thinks he gets an elbow into someone's nose before there is a sudden tug on his ankle, and then he goes sailing up into the air upside down, hovering above those that wanted to rip him apart before.
Narcissa flicks her wand, expression cold and sharp, eyes glinting. The Death Eaters scatter, some fleeing on good sense, some being backed off by the stream of Spells she's throwing at them. Draco dangles helplessly, gasping and fumbling for his wand so he won't drop it. He manages to help his mother, even from up here, and there's a brief break where he can be dropped to the ground in an undignified heap.
Her fingers grapple under his arm, yanking him up with no care to be gentle. "Do not leave my side," she snarls, her wand raised.
"Father," Draco chokes out, "is he—will he—"
"We will get your father," Narcissa declares fiercely, flicking her wand again and sending someone a few paces away crumbling to the ground. She starts tugging Draco forcefully. "Use what Spells you know, and don't fall behind. Come."
Draco does as she says. She is his mother and she will protect him. He knows she will. She always has.
Narcissa marches along, halted when someone dares to step up to her, fighting with frigid precision. She is cold and ruthless, using Dark Magic as much as she doesn't. She makes a Death Eater's legs turn in the opposite direction. She flicks her wand and tongues and hands fall at her feet. She slices divots in the earth and buries people in them, dragging Draco over the mounds of screaming people beneath. She is not merciful, and she is as adept as her insane, cruel sister.
Draco has no idea why he never thought her capable of it. He helps her where he can, dazed and in awe. He's never seen his mother like this. She's brutal and striking, digging out a path to her goal, driven only in what she means to do and nothing more.
It is this, more than anything, that convinces Draco that this is war. Not the screams, not the flash or curses all around, not the duels that press in from all sides. People all around are dead or dying or trying to avoid becoming one of the two, and it is the feral harmony of his mother cutting a path to reunite her family that helps him understand how utterly detrimental everything is at the moment.
There is a second, just one, where things pause. It is brief and comes in the form of Severus Snape. He halts before them, wand aloft, eyes dark and blazing. Narcissa has her wand on him, chin tilted up, and he hesitates only a moment before he steps aside. Then, just like that, he's gone in a flutter of robes as he is caught in a duel with those he is meant to be helping. Draco wants to Curse him and thank him, and he does not know why.
There's a loud crash, like a clap of thunder right beside them, far too close. Draco sucks in a sharp breath and reaches out to grab his mother, yanking her rather rudely by the back of her dress. She slams back into him, barely missed by a spray of rubble and glass, a mass of dark smoke whipping by with rough growls and mad laughter.
Lucius is still so far away.
The crowd changes like a tide, crashing in the wrong direction, rotating like one machine with far too many broken parts. Beside them, someone's head goes missing, popped out of existence. Draco watches in horror as the headless body stumbles frantically, jerking and spinning, skin melting off in a blaze of fire that no one can see. The last thing he sees before his mother drags him away is the singed flicker on the Auror robes.
They keep pushing, keep fighting. Draco is not meant for this, not war, not death and blood. He cannot kill. He is not capable of it, for all his bravado, for all his posturing. His parents are murderers, and he can't follow in their footsteps.
He fights anyway. He binds hands and Stuns people unconscious and sends wands flying. He disarms, and he captures, and he puts to sleep, but he does not kill or maim. It is not enough, not against those who are more than ready to do it to him, and perhaps that makes him weak.
Narcissa ensures that it doesn't make him dead.
There's too much all around. Noise and movement. It feels like all the air has been drained from the world, feels like ants crawling underneath his skin and in his veins. Draco wants to be anywhere else. He wants to run until he can breathe.
He can't leave his mother, and she won't leave until they find his father. But Lucius is no longer visible. They've lost him. For a second, Draco is paralyzed with fear that his father is dead. If he is, then what?
Draco never told him that he loves him. Draco never told him that he hates him.
"Mother!" Draco screams in alarm, even before he realizes they're in danger at all. He shoves at her hard, likely leaving bruises on her arm, and casts Protego as harshly as he can.
Something slips through, and he tries to twist out of the way, only just barely missing the worst of it. There is something that connects, however. Sharp and stinging at the side of his neck, leaving something warm and wet in the aftermath. He reaches up with trembling fingers to feel, pulling his hand back to stare. Red. Blood. His.
That would have been his whole neck if he hadn't acted quickly enough. His head gone, just like that, so simple and easy. He doesn't know how to make sense of that. He doesn't know how he's alive.
Narcissa is locked in a fierce fight with a Death Eater, jets of light flying back and forth. People run in between, and someone takes a Spell his mother cast. Draco watches, numb and choked, as the woman goes sailing through the air limply, flopping in a disconcertingly lifeless way. The Death Eater doesn't even stutter, kicking aside the woman and focusing on Narcissa once more.
The woman wasn't a Death Eater.
Draco is distracted by someone narrowly hitting him with a Curse from behind. He whirls around, suddenly back-to-back with his mother as he's drawn into a duel of his own. He's only there for a moment before he's back to ducking and dodging, avoiding Spells that will leave him a corpse.
The Death Eater he's fighting is ruthless, an opponent that bats away all his Spells like they're nothing. He goes for Draco with no mercy, opting to try for a kill every time. Draco dodges green the color of Harry's eyes and hates him for that, too.
He's a coward, a shameful coward with nothing good to offer in this world, and that is how he will die. And when he does, his mother—
She's fighting behind him. She won't know. He won't be able to protect her, and because of him, she will die, too. He can't let that happen, won't. Not her. He needs her because he is going to lose everything, and he refuses to lose her as well.
"Sectumsempra!" Draco bellows, rather intimate with the Spell since he bears the fruits of it.
It's not technically murder, is it? He's not sure. Either way, he thinks he won't be strong enough to cast it, but he does. The Death Eater just dodges out of the way in time, and Draco sees a Death Eater behind him stumble, blood immediately pooling in the back of their shoulder, staining their robes. The Death Eater who's hit doesn't even pause, unaware that they'll bleed out slowly.
Draco thinks he's going to vomit, but he doesn't have the time for it. The Death Eater who dodges the Curse rallies and goes right back to the fight, continuously backing Draco up. He feels himself stumble into his mother and struggles to breathe.
"What's this, then?" the Death Eater taunts, raising his wand. "What were you going to do to me, poppet? Let's see. Sectumsempra!"
Draco can't move in time.
In the end, he doesn't have to. His mother abruptly whirls around from her own duel, having just won, and she pushes him aside as she flings her hand out. The Spell connects with her arm just as her other waves and she casts a Spell Draco has never heard her use before in his life.
"Avada Kedavra!" Narcissa shrieks, just as her arm is sliced clean off, cut with a Spell meant for Draco.
The Death Eater immediately falls, hitting the ground at the same time that Narcissa's arm does. Draco stares, wide-eyed, as blood instantly paints the front of her dress and spills to the ground. She goes stumbling back, gasping, pale as a ghost.
Someone runs by, and Draco's horrified to see his mother's severed arm kicked and trampled on, disappearing further away as Narcissa keeps tumbling backwards. She tries to reach out and grab her arm that is no longer there, staring at Draco with a glassy gaze full of confused agony. In the next second, she falls, her eyes rolling back.
"Mother!" Draco screams, surging forward to scramble to her side, slipping in her blood and not caring that it's covering him everywhere.
She's already unconscious, just that quickly. Her blood pours out rapidly, and Draco can't stop it. He doesn't know the counter-Spell. He can't heal her, can't fix her, and she's—
She's dying.
There's a roar in Draco's ears, a pulse of something hot and unforgivable in his chest. He is angry, furious, ready to burn the world and everyone in it. He needs Snape. He needs—
And, suddenly, Harry Potter is here. Lucius is here. Draco does not care. He hates them both. He wants them to go away, to die, to leave him with his mother. His mum. She took the Curse meant for him, and though she isn't dead yet, she will be. He's already going to lose everything; why does he have to lose her, too? Why? It's not fair.
Everything goes in a rush that does not stop. Harry is speaking to him, Lucius dares to try and touch Narcissa, and Draco knows she isn't dead yet. Not quite, but she will be. He needs Snape, and he tells them as much. He doesn't care about anything else.
Fingers press into his sleeve, and Harry says, "Draco," like he feels the name cut through him.
"It was meant for me," Draco gasps. "The Spell was coming right for me, Harry, and she—she pushed me aside and took it. Before she fell, she killed him. Why? Why did she do that? It was supposed to be me."
He needs someone to tell him, someone to make sense of it, someone to make him understand why this is happening to him. Harry looks at him, stricken, and he can't. Draco hates him for that, too. He hates him for everything. Hates him and hates him and can't stop hating him.
Then, eventually, Snape is there. Draco barely pays attention to what comes out of his own mouth, making demands for help, bargaining with death. He can save her. He can, if only Snape will help.
Snape does.
Draco is not meant for war, no, but perhaps he is meant for the aftermath. He is no killer, but he can heal. He can fix those who break themselves apart, just as he always wanted to fix himself. He can take what's wrong with them and make it go away, make it mend and make them live, just as he's always wanted to for himself. He's never quite learned how, not for himself, but there is something liberating about doing it for others.
Now, he stabilizes his mother's condition. He can prolong her life, but not during war. Not in this environment. He needs too much, needs potions and Madame Pomfrey and the fighting to stop.
"Alright," Harry says.
Draco looks up, freezing in place. He searches Harry's eyes, his brilliant eyes, scans his face. It's there, all of it, all that he's going to do, there in the strength of his jaw and the set to his lovely, rough mouth. Draco hates him. He hates him without stopping, hates him so much that it feels like dying.
Harry nods firmly, continues and goes on to calmly declare, "It's alright. I'm going."
Going to die. Going to end it all. Going, going, going. And Draco hates him in ways that he's never hated anything, hates him obsessively and ardently. Hates him because this is all his fault, all of it, and hates him because he's going. Hates him because he's everything, and hates him because he doesn't.
"Harry," Draco chokes out, the name strangling him, wrenching at his heart. "Harry, please, I can't—I don't want—"
"Shh," Harry soothes, and Draco feels the heat from Harry's forehead as they press together. "It's alright, Draco. It's alright. I love you."
I hate you, Draco thinks and kisses him, tilting his face up to catch Harry's lips with his own. It's like every kiss Draco has ever experienced with him, no matter that they're in the middle of a war, no matter who is dying around them.
It is the most freeing feeling in the world to have Harry's lips against his own. It is like flying, like the taste of rebellion, like running away and never getting lost. And he loses himself to it, scattered in the wind from the press of soft warmth against his mouth, shaken loose and rattled by Harry's hands on him, holding him like something precious.
Harry breaks away, and Draco can only say the truth, can only let the words rip out of him. Because, oh, oh how he hates Harry Potter, but, "I love you, too."
And then, Draco forces himself to peel his grip away, letting go and giving up everything.
And everything gets up and walks away.
The Death Eaters fall. They scream. Lucius is among them, and Draco watches with a strange detachment floating through him. He's in shock—the physical, medical kind that allows no feelings at all.
It is much easier to win a war when one half of it crumbles to the ground for a few moments, writhing and clutching at their arms, lost in obvious agony. Not many people get back up, bound and captured and unconscious before they can gather themselves back together in the aftermath. Lucius gets back up, crawling towards his wife with shaking hands.
"What can we do?" Granger is suddenly right next to him, staring down at Narcissa in horror. "Draco, tell us, what can we—"
"Fucking hell," Weasley chokes out, pale and trembling as he sinks down beside Granger, blood coating his arms. "Is she—"
"Get her to Madame Pomfrey," Draco snaps to his father, frozen in place. "She's stable and will be, but she needs Madame Pomfrey. Go, now!"
Lucius forgoes using magic, arching forward instead to scoop Narcissa up in his arms, stumbling to his feet and running towards the Castle. Draco watches him go, numb, stuck in place.
"It's over, it's over, it's over," Lovegood is chanting like a soft melody, cradling the girl Weasley close, rocking them as they lean on each other.
"How is it over?" Theo chokes out, sounding stunned, disbelieving.
Draco closes his eyes. It doesn't feel real. He thinks, rather dramatically, that he'd know the second that it happened. He would be able to tell, because his heart would surely shatter into exactly thirty-nine pieces because that's how many true stars the Apus constellation has. He thinks he'd be able to feel the difference in the world once Harry no longer exists in it. But nothing feels different at all.
He feels nothing at all.
Maybe Harry isn't dead yet. Maybe all of this is some sort of wild dream that Draco will wake up from. He'll jerk awake in his bed, blinking in surprise, and he'll go crawl into bed with Harry instead. Harry will be there, draping over Draco like he always does. Harry won't die. Maybe he's just too stubborn, maybe he'll heroically come back with the Dark Lord's body in tow. Maybe he's not dead.
Except, there are sudden screams all around, and Snape is picking himself off the ground, looking so pale that he might be bleeding out, too. He just looks right at Draco, and there's something in his eyes, something like confirmation.
"I know what it means," Snape says, and it's a ghost of a whisper. He stares at Draco. "You do, too."
And then he's gone, running towards the horrified shouting, pushing past the sway of bodies. There's a mournful cry from a bird, a low croon that makes Draco think of sobbing statues and grief-stricken poetry. Draco knows what it means. He knows.
Granger's hand covers his, gentle and warm, and he does not try to move away. He stays kneeling on the ground, covered in blood, trying to come to terms with Harry Potter being dead. He fails to do so.
There's a break in the crowd, and Draco looks up, only to wish he hadn't. Harry is floating limply in front of Dumbledore, a phoenix perched on his legs, head bent over his bloody chest. Dumbledore is ushering forward, bellowing for people to get out of the way, so loud and harsh that people automatically scramble back. Not Draco.
"Let me see," Draco gasps out, surging to his feet and stumbling forward.
Snape reaches out and catches him, grunting a bit as Draco continues to try and shove forward. He pushes against Snape's chest, his vision blurry as he tries to go forward again, but Snape remains solid. He does not move. He lets Draco shove at him, but he doesn't let him get to Harry. Draco pushes forward anyway, fighting against him, shoving him away so hard that he skips back a few steps.
"Draco," Dumbledore says shortly, "now isn't—"
"Is he alive?" Draco demands, scrambling forward to reach Harry's side, watching the phoenix cry into the bleeding wound on his chest. In the next second, the bird takes flight, and Draco whips his head towards Dumbledore. "Put him down! Let me—just let me check. I need to—please, I need—"
"We cannot be sure," Dumbledore says, gently flicking his wand so Harry is gingerly lowered to the ground. "He needs Madame Pomfrey, young Draco. We must hasten to—"
"Shut up!" Draco snarls, dipping down quickly and seeking Harry's pulse.
There isn't one.
Draco ducks his head, taking in a shuddering breath. Even now, with proof, he can't wrap his mind around it. He searches for the pulse, internally begs for it, and there isn't one to be found. Behind him, Granger lets out a choked sob.
"Draco," Dumbledore murmurs, soft and careful.
"Snape," Draco barks, "when I get on him, you lift him back in the air. Headmaster, come press on his wound. Do it! Do it now!"
Draco doesn't wait, swinging his leg over Harry's waist and holding his wand in one hand while the other stays pressed at his throat, just where the pulse is meant to be. He feels Harry body lift again, sees Dumbledore's healthy hand cover the pulsing wound, blood seeping through his fingers.
It takes some focus, but Draco knows the Spells. He's read enough on Healing to know the basics, and trying to restart a heart after cardiac arrest is rather common. It requires a shock, and the measure of the Spell has to be precise. Too little and the heart will give out prematurely; too much and the heart might burst entirely.
Draco drowns everything else out, waving his wand, murmuring quietly. Harry jolts beneath him, and Draco can feel his blood covering everything and anyone who gets too close. Draco feels like he's drowning in it, like he's been painted in it, macabre and grotesque, art all the same.
The pulse flutters beneath his fingers, shaky and faint, but it's there. Draco almost sobs.
"Almost to the Castle now," Dumbledore says.
Draco doesn't know if he's trying to reassure him, or maybe just keep him updated, but he doesn't actually care. Harry's heart is beating. He's alive. For right this second, he's alive.
And, in the next second, he is not.
The pulse is gone as quick as it came, fluttering out, and Draco quickly runs diagnostic Spells. The readings aren't good. Harry is technically dead. Dumbledore makes a small sound, a defeated one, and that angers Draco like nothing else has.
"Press harder on his wound, you old bastard!" Draco shouts at him, then turns his attention right back to Harry. He's speaking, gritting words out and whispering them, crying and snarling, not even sure of what falls from his lips. "Come on, you fucking idiot. I'm not letting you do this to me! You don't get to die, you ignorant, brainless waste of space!" He shocks Harry's heart and gets nothing from a pulse or the diagnostic Spells. "Harry, please. Please. Just—just, please, I need you to—Harry, I need you. Please. Please, please, please…"
That's his mantra for the next few minutes as they're rushed into the Castle, more people gathering, so many people sobbing. Draco is among them, shamelessly crying and pleading right there in front of anyone who dares to look, and everyone does.
A litany of please, please, Harry, please echoes in the sudden silence of the Hospital Wing. People are everywhere, but even the injured fall quiet when they're ushered in. Draco is begging, frantic and desperate, shocking Harry's heart over and over as much as he dares, waiting for any sign of life and getting absolutely nothing in return.
In the background, he hears Dumbledore talking in a rush with Madame Pomfrey, and she's suddenly hovering beside them. Draco barely registers that he's being lowered on a cot, still straddling Harry while Dumbledore's hand is replaced with Madame Pomfrey's. Her wand starts waving with his, doing the same diagnostic Spells and getting the same exact readings as him.
No pulse, no heartbeat, dead.
"Mr. Malfoy," Madame Pomfrey says softly.
"No," Draco snarls, his vision a blur, something wild and unhinged rattling him to his core. "No, I can fix him. I can—he saved me; I can save him. I can."
There's a sudden hand on his shoulder, broad and warm, a touch he'd recognize anywhere. His father has never gripped him so gently before, and he's never sounded as careful and tender as he does when he whispers, "Draco, son, you have to—you have to let him go. He's—"
"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Draco bellows, swiping a hand back to knock his father away. "You don't fucking know, alright? You don't know everything! You don't know me or him or anything, and I hate you! I fucking hate you! Get out, get out, get OUT!"
He doesn't check to see if his father listens.
Draco tries to shock Harry's heart yet again, and there's nothing. There's only the thick scent of blood, rust and metal, suffocating him. There's only a stillness in a body he has curled around at night, a stillness that Harry has never had before. He always fidgets, even in his sleep, always moving. Draco always thought he'd only be motionless if he was dead, but he's not, he's not, he's not.
"Draco."
"No!"
"Draco," Dumbledore says again, unbearably kind, solemn and soft and crying right along with him.
"No," Draco chokes out yet again, and then he shoves Madame Pomfrey's hand away from Harry's wound, covering it his knee and putting pressure as he leans in close. "I'm not doing this. Harry, I'm not. You said you weren't leaving me, and you're not! I won't sodding have it, Harry Potter. Please."
Maybe it's a miracle. Maybe it's magic. Maybe it's because of Draco's pleading, or the force of his love, or simply because he refuses to allow it. Maybe it's because Harry's a Horcrux, or because he's just too stubborn, or maybe it's just his own special brand of stupid, dumb luck. Maybe it's fate.
They'll never actually know truly why, but it hardly matters, not when the next shock works.
The pulse flutters back, the diagnostic Spells get a reading, and there's a response. Life. Chance. Draco breaks down crying immediately, slumping to the side as Madame Pomfrey instantly takes over to stabilize his condition. He goes sinking off the cot, off Harry's lap, and strong arms wrap around him, easing him down to the floor.
Lucius didn't listen.
Draco has no memory of ever being held or hugged by his father, if he ever has been. That does not matter. He knows these arms, knows the sharp, spicy scent of his father, knows the cadence of his voice, even as he speaks so gently in a way he never has before. He knows that feeling inside him, that withered ache of wanting his father to be proud of him, wanting his father to love him, and he feels it now in his father's arms.
He sinks into Lucius' grip, clutching at him and weeping so hard that he can barely breathe around it, falling apart right there on the floor while everyone watches. He's covered in blood, shaking like the limbs of the Whomping Willow in the winter, and his father cradles him close.
"It's alright," Lucius whispers in his ear, calm and quiet and dulcet. "Draco, it's alright. You must breathe, Draco. You must. It's alright…"
It isn't, but it could be, and that's enough for Draco to press his face into his father's shoulder and want, for the very first time, to do exactly as he says.
"Draco."
"Granger, Weasley," Draco says without looking up.
"Have you rested at all?" Granger asks quietly, moving over to sink down in the chair next to Draco's, her eyes on her best friend, who lays still but breathing on the cot.
"Have you?" Draco replies.
Weasley leans against the side of Granger's chair, crossing his arms. "Not many of us have, I think. Everything has been too busy."
"How is your mum?" Granger murmurs.
Draco swallows, his fingers clasping tighter together in his lap. "She's alright. Thank you for asking. She doesn't—she'll need a prosthetic."
"A lot of people have a new need for them," Weasley murmurs. "Too many people hurt. Or dead."
"I heard about—about Crabbe," Granger whispers carefully. "I'm—Draco, I'm sorry."
"His own father killed him, aiming for Pansy," Draco says woodenly. "Blaise recognized him. Pansy is—she's not handling it well."
"No one's handling anything well," Weasley says.
"No," Draco agrees, "no one is."
There's a long silence after that. They all stare at Harry for a while, just watching him breathe. He's in an induced coma, healing, and Draco hates it. He knows, realistically, that it's incredibly lucky that Harry's alive at all, but…
Draco wishes he'd wake up. Right now, Harry looks rather small and broken where he lays. The usual strength in his face has softened without his glasses or the flash of his eyes or the clench of his jaw. There's no flash of a smile, no crooked tilt to his head, no fidgeting fingers or loud barks of laughter.
He's so still.
"Malfoy," Weasley says, "we—we wanted to thank you. For not—for trying when everyone else wanted to stop. He—you saved his life."
"I didn't do it for you," Draco murmurs.
"I don't think that matters," Granger admits. "He's our best friend. You kept trying, and because of you, he's alive. We can't thank you enough."
"Do you know how you can thank me?"
"Name it," Weasley mutters wearily.
Draco never takes his eyes off Harry's face. "Never thank me for it again, that's how. It wasn't for you. It wasn't even for me. It was for him. He didn't—he never should have—"
"We know." Granger reaches out and touches his shoulder, a light touch, meant to be comforting. It's not, really, but he doesn't shake her off. "Draco, we know. We won't thank you again. But. Well."
"Thanks," Weasley says.
"When he wakes up," Draco murmurs, "I'm going to kill him."
Weasley snorts and says, "Get in line."
Granger hums in agreement.
Perhaps Draco should have offered sooner, but it honestly hadn't crossed his mind. The Hospital Wing is full, ridiculously so, and there's people everywhere. He's spent the majority of his time at Harry's bedside, not moving, just staring at him.
He still hasn't slept, and he's jittery with it. He's reaching the point he can't sit still, so he gets up and tells Madame Pomfrey he can help her.
She is notably...uncertain at first.
Impatiently, he runs down the list of things he knows and what exactly he can do, and Merlin, he bloody saved Harry Potter! He'd think that would count for something, but no…
In the end, she gives him the patients who have been waiting the longest, the ones with minor injuries—or, injuries that aren't a priority, at least. It takes a lot of strain off her and gives him something to do, so he goes around and sets bones, heals gashes, distributes common potions, and fixes the things he can. Not even eager to help, just desperate not to fall asleep.
This is how he eventually comes face-to-face with Lupin, who is sitting on a cot, his leg propped up and a mild discomfort twisting his face. He looks vaguely surprised when Draco marches in through the curtain, and a young Witch with a bright spot of pink hair watches him with suspicion from the cot beside him, arm cradled close to her chest.
Draco turns to Lupin first, saying, "Professor, I can help heal you, if you'll let me. It's your leg, isn't it?"
"Not—I'm not your Professor anymore, Draco." Lupin frowns slightly, then gestures to his propped up leg. "Bit of a nasty Curse, actually. My knee won't stop sliding all about. I think it's sentient."
"That's not…" Draco trails off, unwilling to say anything is impossible. Not when it comes to healing. There's always absurd cases. But, even still, this is supposed to be low-level, and sentient kneecaps very much aren't. "Why hasn't Madame Pomfrey taken a look at it yet?"
Lupin looks briefly chagrined. "Oh, the poor woman's all about, so busy she hasn't been able to breathe. Mungos hasn't sent anyone over yet, dealing with the aftermath of Death Eaters there, and I've heard reports of a rush of people going in alarm after coming out of the Imperius Curse. I didn't want to bother Madame Pomfrey, is all."
"You didn't—" Draco inhales sharply and glances to the ceiling, exhaling slowly. He can't hex the wounded patients. He just can't, because that would be improper and counterproductive. In the other cot, the woman lets out a snort, and Draco focuses again with a sigh. "Alright, sir, let me see it, then."
"Interested in Healing, Mr. Malfoy?" Lupin asks as he leans forward with a wince, whipping aside his patchy robe to reveal—
Oh, bloody hell, his kneecap is sentient.
"Draco's fine," Draco says faintly. "Mr. Malfoy is my father, and I have no desire to be compared to him."
A brief flash of sympathy lights Lupin's eyes. Everyone in the Hospital Wing had seen his breakdown, absolutely everyone who was awake and present, and they saw the aftermath of it, too.
It's not enough to know that his father loves him. He thinks he's known that for a long time, but that doesn't help the fact that his father loves him out of obligation, nothing more. His father doesn't approve of him, isn't proud of his choices, and Draco no longer cares to try and change that. He's just tired. Exhausted with trying to be someone he isn't, pretending to care about the things that he doesn't, especially when he's not very proud of who his father is, not anymore.
Lucius will call it rebellion, but Draco will call the rest of his life his own.
Harry almost died, and Draco isn't… He nearly lost everything, just like that, but he hasn't. Not yet. He's incredibly lucky, in this war, and he knows it. He doesn't want to waste his future on his father. All he wants is for Harry to wake up and support him, and to make his mother proud, because she approves of him and loves him for him.
Or, she did…
Shaking it off, Draco steps forward to peer down at the knee with a grimace. "Yes, Draco will do just fine, sir. I'm about to get intimately familiar with your knee, and it's going to hurt. Might be best to get formalities out of the way."
"Oh, lovely," Lupin mutters, side-eyeing his knee like it might bite him. "Ah, what are you going to do with it?"
"In a moment." Draco swivels to the pink-haired woman. "You, your injuries are more common, are they not? Your hand or arm?"
"Hand and wrist," the woman says, holding out her injured arm with a frown. "I'm Tonks. Actually, I'm your cousin, you know. Aunt Cissy talks about you often enough, I feel like I know you."
"You don't," Draco replies flatly, moving forward to wave his wand over her arm. Splintered wrist, broken fingers, a strain on a nerve. He can fix that easily enough. "Nymphadora, isn't it?"
"Don't call me that," she snarls, her hand spasming in a way that makes her wince, hair going from pink to bright, angry red.
Draco arches an eyebrow. "Dramatic. You do have Black blood in you, after all. Dora, then, as my mother calls you when she mentions you. I can fix your injuries, if you'll let me."
"Have at it, cousin," Dora murmurs, holding her arm out towards him. He touches her elbow, steadying her. "My dad's dead, you know. Have some family obligation and tell your mother, will you? Aunt Cissy will help my mum in the way I can't."
"I'm sorry about your father," Draco tells her, the words rolling off his tongue. He's apologized to so many people he's healed as they told him who they've lost. At least Dora isn't crying. Her hair is grey now, sad and limp. "I'll let my mother know when she—when she wakes up."
"She hasn't?"
"Not yet."
"Oh, well— ahhh! Bugger, bludgering, bloody bappity bitch-sickles!" Dora squirms in place as her bones snap back together under Draco's wand, the fractures healing like glass brought back together. Her fingers crack and pop, and her litany of odd obscenities only slow once the pressure on her nerve eases. She sags back into the bed, whimpering and panting, staring at him with dazed eyes. "Oh, warn a woman next time, won't you?"
"You might've tensed up," Draco tells her mildly, taking her hand and gingerly moving the fingers, carefully rolling her wrist. She grimaces. "Yes, I know. It'll smart for a bit. I'll bring some pain relieving potions when I get through with Professor Lupin. Also, what is a bitch-sickle?"
"You know," Dora pants, "I'm not quite sure, if I'm honest. Thank you, cousin."
"Don't thank me, Dora," Draco murmurs. "I had nothing else better to do anyway."
He swivels back to the other patient in question. Lupin is watching them with a small, tempered smile. There's a tension around his eyes as his kneecap moves around beneath his skin, flitting about like a bloody Snitch. Draco can't help but grimace in sympathy. That can't feel good.
"Got an idea for it?" Lupin gestures lazily to his knee. "It's alright if you don't. Madame Pomfrey will get around to me at some point."
"I'll handle it," Draco says, and then does.
It's not easy, Healing. It takes focus and direct work with magic—both your own and your patient's. But there is something rather...tediously wonderful about it. For Draco, the whole world slips away when he's healing, narrowing down to the broken thing before him, something he can lose himself to and forget his own wounds that can never be healed, forget the things he's always tried to escape before. Healing makes him feel like he isn't trapped, not in the world or in his own mind or anywhere.
And it feels—it's nice. It's good. Putting someone back together makes him feel better. It makes something warm surge in his chest when he can ease pain, because he most definitely isn't skilled at causing it. He wants to be skilled, though, and he can be in this.
It takes some time, and it's not very pretty. Draco's half-tempted to pull a Lockhart and vanish the kneecap entirely, but that's the last resort. If he can get his magic in there and strip away whatever Curse has his knee like this, he can maneuver it and set it where it's meant to be. If it's Dark Magic, vanishing the knee can make the magic spread elsewhere and cause the problem again.
The first thing to do—the most important—is to access the injury, so he does. Both with his wand and his hands. The knee jerks under his cold hands, and Lupin hisses through his teeth. Draco offers no apologies, just moving along as he needs to.
Lupin curses rather colorfully with what comes next, whatever his pain tolerance is. In his defense, this most likely hurts more than most things do. There are bones scraping against bone, cartilage denting and twisting, muscles and tendons and nerves a complete mess. He has to go in and sort it all out, a slow and agonizing process that he can't stop once he's started. The Curse itself is foreign, not meant to be in the body, and it's slippery. Elusive and evasive. He has to cut it away one sliver at a time, holding Lupin's leg still while he writhes around on the bed.
In the end, he has to grab the kneecap and shove it into its rightful place, setting it and mending the displacement with magic. There's a loud crack and Lupin howls in pain, though it sounds nothing like a Werewolf. For now, he's all human, sweating and gasping and twitching in the bed.
"Bitch-sickles," Lupin mutters weakly, voice faint as he settles back into the bed, shuddering.
"Indeed," Draco allows, patting his leg gently, way down below his knee. "That'll do it. I'll bring around pain relieving potions for you both and something to help you sleep. Alright now?"
"Better," Lupin wheezes. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me," Draco tells him. "Like I told Dora, I didn't have anything else to do."
With that, he pivots on the spot and takes a step forward, only to come to a screeching halt. Madame Pomfrey is standing inside the curtain, watching him with sharp, calculating eyes. He shifts a little nervously. Technically, what he just did wasn't exactly considered low-level. He knows she would have preferred to handle it herself.
"With me, Mr. Malfoy," Madame Pomfrey declares, whirling around and marching out.
"Draco, please," Draco mumbles, following her a touch warily. "I would understand if you would have rathered I didn't help Professor Lupin, but I—"
"Draco," Madame Pomfrey cuts in, "what you just did was advanced Healing. I begrudge you nothing, and I'm happy to see a student so taken with it. I see what you can do, and if you promise to alert me and call upon me if you get out of your depth, I will allow you to help with more difficult cases. You must report to me with these patients, Draco, and you cannot do things you're not sure of. You could cost someone their life. If I catch you trying something you aren't sure of, I'll never let you back into my Hospital Wing again, not even to see Mr. Potter. Am I understood?"
"Yes ma'am," Draco blurts out, eyes going wide. "I understand. That's—I would be happy to—"
"Come," Madame Pomfrey says tersely.
And so, they go. She barks at someone to take potions to Lupin and Dora, then leads him to a patient who has lacerations pop up every time he moves. Madame Pomfrey works alongside him, austere and efficient. Her bedside manner has never been particularly gentle to begin with, but it's even less so when it comes to triage.
Hours pass this way. Draco gets caught in the current of wounds and patients, lost in the sea of faces and moans of pain, astray in the mechanical routine of Healing and Healing some more. People thank him, and cry, and curse him. Someone dies, and it's not their fault. Madame Pomfrey ducks her head, releasing a shuddering breath, then touches his shoulder gently and marches him to the next person. They save that one.
Sometimes, he's actually a great help. Growing up a Malfoy isn't something he regrets, no matter who his father is and how much he doesn't care about Draco, and the knowledge of the Dark Arts that he has actually comes in handy at some points. Just knowing the Curse can be the thing that tips the scales to save someone's life, and there are a few times that his knowledge does.
Other times, he's no help at all. He's too out of his depth, unsure what the right procedure and Spell is. He's ashamed, but at risk of not getting to visit Harry, he's honest about it. Madame Pomfrey doesn't look down on him for it, just teaches and explains with a kind of patience he never really imagined her capable of. He learns a lot this way.
Eventually, way later, the Medi-Witches and Wizards arrive from St. Mungos, escorted in by Dumbledore. They spill out all over the Hospital Wing, working as a unit, hands and wands everywhere. Finally. Draco and Madame Pomfrey are swaying on their feet, exhausted but determined to keep going, but Dumbledore orders them in no uncertain terms to sit down and rest.
Draco starts to go back to Harry, only to see a gaggle of redheads near his bed, and he's in no mood to deal with any Weasleys. He finds a corner near a man who's unconscious, finally resting after a healed head injury. Draco sinks down into a chair with a sigh, only to start when Madame Pomfrey drags one next to him and does the same.
"You did well," she says.
Draco shifts awkwardly. "I didn't do—"
"Don't argue with me," Madame Pomfrey cuts him off, sharp and severe. "You helped, Draco, very much so. Saved lives. Many people are in your debt."
"They're not," Draco says quickly. "I just—I knew what to do, and you were—"
"I can't say what will happen to the school," she interrupts yet again, sternly. "I haven't seen all the damage, but I suspect the repairs will be finished by the next term. Exams will have to be rescheduled, but I can't imagine that the Headmaster will cause much fuss about it in light of the battle. That said, when you return for your Seventh Year, I would like to take you on as an apprentice."
Draco stares at her blankly. "I—you… Sorry, what?"
"Throughout my years here, not many students have shown an interest or an aptitude in Healing the way you have," Madame Pomfrey informs him. "Many do go on to train at St. Mungos, which is just as well, but very few think to come to me for guidance. I do not offer it often, not when the training at St. Mungos will suffice. However, Draco, I would like to teach you and help you in this field, if you would let me. It would look good on your records as well when you graduate, especially if you wanted to join the training program at St. Mungos."
"I don't know if I want to do that," Draco admits, swallowing thickly. He does know, is the thing. He's just not sure if he's too much of a coward for it.
"You're very skilled in this area," she says, watching him shrewdly. "It would be a waste of talent if you let the experience pass you by. I will need to speak with your parents, but the offer—"
"No," Draco cuts in sharply. He stares at her, cold and unrelenting. "The answer is no. I don't want your offer or your help."
"Draco—"
"No. Leave me alone. Leave my parents out of it."
Madame Pomfrey narrows her eyes, watching him, assessing. Finally, she says, "Very well."
Draco turns his head away from her, blatantly and rudely ignoring her presence. She doesn't leave or try to pressure him, and she doesn't say another word. Neither of them go to sleep, and Draco wonders vaguely if she's refusing for the same reason that he is.
He doesn't want to dream.
The bustle of the Hospital Wing provides enough distraction to keep Draco awake for two days straight. He's alert, but on tenterhooks, avoiding sleep like it might end with his death. He makes rounds over the patients he's helped, those recovering slowly but steadily, not even caring that a lot of the Medi-Witches and Wizards from St. Mungos watch him curiously.
He keeps his distance from Madame Pomfrey, who also hasn't had much rest, no matter what the Headmaster ordered her to do. Draco has caught her catching short naps here and there, quick kips in uncomfortable chairs that always end with her jerking awake and ushering off to someone else.
Twice, he's crossed paths with Granger and Weasley. He makes sure to nod at them before beating a hasty retreat, because he doesn't really like the way they look at him. Careful and uncertain, like maybe he's about to pass out. Granger is blatant about her concern, and Weasley looks uncomfortable about being concerned at all.
They're not his friends.
Pretending for Harry is one thing. They all did it for him because he planned to die and that's all he wanted. So they played nice and didn't murder each other, but that's all it was.
Draco's actual friends are likely going to murder him. He's been avoiding them, too. He catches sight of Blaise and Pansy sometimes, usually near Theo and Daphne and Astoria. He's always sure to duck away and find a curtain to hide behind before they can catch sight of him. They shouldn't take it personally; they're not the only ones Draco has been keeping a wide berth from.
He hasn't visited his mother, though he was informed that she woke up a few hours ago. He also hasn't looked his father in the eye since he shoved himself out of Lucius' arms and got as far away from him as utterly possible.
The sight of Blaise walking beside Greg towards the other end of the Hospital Wing steals his breath. Blaise is rubbing Greg's shoulder, and Greg is staring listlessly down at the floor, not seeming to see anything at all. They're heading right for Draco, even if they haven't seen him yet.
Draco sucks in a sharp breath, jumpy and jittery, and he ducks behind the first curtain he comes across. His hands shake when he draws it closed once again, turning around with a deep sigh. He hopes he hasn't interrupted something. He's already ducked into too many moments where people are crying, grieving, mourning.
But, when he turns, he freezes in place.
"Mother," he breathes out, trembling in place.
And it's her. Of course it is. She leans back against the pillow behind her, one hand laying daintily over her lap, missing the other one that's meant to gently splay over it. Her residual limb is wrapped in a clean, white bandage. She's folded into elaborate robes with corners and sleeves pinned out of the way, giving access to her injury.
She looks heartrendingly beautiful and achingly small. She smiles at him, gentle and adoring.
"Darling," she murmurs. "Your father just left to go find you for me."
"Mother," Draco says again, and it cracks on its way out, a shattered thing, broken and hurt.
He doesn't know how she can smile at him. He doesn't understand how she isn't tearing him limb from limb like he deserves, both with magic and with words. He should be raked over the coals, figuratively and literally.
It's all his fault. She nearly died because of him. She lost her arm because of him. His mother, his fierce, deadly mother. She had fought valiantly and almost lost her life, all because her son was too weak. She should hate him, not smile at him, not look at him with such warmth and love in her gaze. He sees it, even if no one else would. She's always so secretive and sheltered away, even in her emotions, especially in her emotions, but he's always known what love looked like in her eyes.
"Oh, don't cry, Draco, darling," Narcissa says softly, reaching out with her hand, reaching for him. "Come here, Draco. Come here."
And he does, nearly falling to his knees at her bedside as he sobs out, "I'm sorry. Mother, I'm so sorry. I never—it's my fault. I'm so sorry, I'm—"
Narcissa shushes him, pressing her fingers through his hair, cupping his cheek and forcing him to look at her through his blurry tears. "Draco, listen to me. You have absolutely nothing to apologize for."
"It was supposed to be me," Draco argues, gagging on the truth of it. "The Curse was meant for—"
"Stop talking," Narcissa hisses, gripping his chin in a tight grasp, fingers pressing in. Her eyes are flashing, bright and fierce. "I am your mother, Draco. I will always, always protect you. Even if that Curse would have killed me, I would do it a hundred more times so that you would be safe, and you will not tarnish my decision with your foolish and misguided sense of guilt. I did what I wanted, and nothing you could have done would have stopped me, nor will it ever. You may be thankful, just as I am for you saving my life afterwards, but you will not blame yourself for something that is not your fault. I won't allow it, and you will not disobey me."
Draco's head drops, shoulders hitching up as his own tears strangle him, and he curls into her. He presses in close like he used to when he was child, long before Lucius stepped in to tell him to stop, that it was not how a man acts. He doesn't care anymore, not about propriety or image, not about how utterly terrible everything is now.
He tucks his face into her lap, wrapping his arms around her, trembling and weeping like he's young again, clinging to his mother after a nightmare. She hasn't forgotten what she used to do then, because she does it once more now, soothing a hand over his hair and humming quietly. She sings, soft and gentle and sweet, and she holds him with only one arm, still so capable of making him feel safe.
"I love you," Draco sobs out for the very first time since he was seven years old.
And, like a day has not passed since, Narcissa croons a quiet, "I love you too, my sweet darling. Come up here, lay with your mother."
He does, crawling into the small bed with her, curling into her good side and weeping with no end in sight. She tucks him close, soothing him with her soft melody, her hand wrapped around his back and rubbing calming circles on his shoulder.
This is where he falls asleep.
When he wakes, he talks to his mother for a long time. He talks to her in a way he hasn't in a while, in a way he hasn't since he told her that he was gay and had no desire to marry Pansy. She had accepted him then, and she does so again.
He tells her, quiet and furious, that everyone had wanted to give up on Harry, but he had refused to. She touches his cheek and tells him she is proud. He tells her sincerely and only once more that he is sorry, and he shakes as he thanks her for protecting him, and he shudders as he begs her to never do it again. She sighs and tells him that she always will.
She asks about Harry, and she holds his hand as he gives her the whole story, embarrassed throughout the explanation of falling apart in his father's arms. She only clicks her tongue lightly and urges him to go on, listening intently, wanting to hear everything that she missed. And he tells her, tells her absolutely every single detail of what's happened, tells her about how the Dark Lord has vanished, rumored to be defeated, and how the Death Eaters are being rounded up even now, and how the Ministry is currently in shambles in the aftermath.
He's still telling her when there's a loud shout from outside, and he pushes to his feet in panic, going for his wand immediately.
"Stay," Draco says sharply, swiveling on his heel and pushing his way out into the rush of people.
"He is not to be injured!" Professor McGonagall is shouting, standing tall and imposing at the doors to the Hospital Wing where a group resides.
It looks to be Aurors, binding people in chains, clearly intending to take them out. Just as his mother steps outside of the curtain, ignoring what he told her, he realizes with a jolt that his father, Theo, and Snape are the people being led away.
"Father," Draco breathes out at the same exact time that Narcissa whispers, "Lucius."
They move in a rush, shoving through the gathering people who want to witness this, stumbling forward with sounds of alarm. Professor McGonagall looks absolutely furious, and she's not the only one. Granger, Weasley, and Longbottom are standing a step behind her, all glaring at the Aurors.
"What is the meaning of this?!" Narcissa demands, sweeping forward towards Lucius, only to be halted by one of the Aurors. She freezes in place, snapping up straight, her voice like ice when she speaks next, sending the otherwise silent room into a chill. "I want an explanation for why an esteemed Professor, a child, and my husband are being arrested."
"We've been reliably informed that these three men all bear the Dark Mark and are Death Eaters," one of the Aurors says calmly. "That is grounds for arrest. They will be taken in to await their trial."
"That's ridiculous!" Of all people, it's Mr. Weasley who steps forward behind his son, his face red with indignation. His wife looks equally grim at his side, lips twisting. "I, and many of us here, can vouch for all three of these men! They fought alongside us in the battle! You can't arrest them."
Draco feels like that might just be the most surreal thing that has ever happened in the universe, to see Mr. Weasley standing up for Lucius, of all people. He can recall when they fought back in his Second Year, and so much has changed since then. Everything feels different now. Everyone does.
"The Headmaster of this school is currently away on urgent business," Professor McGonagall says tightly, her eyes narrowed. "He would be most displeased to hear that you've wrongly accused those in his care and arrested those who do not deserve it."
"I'm sorry," the Auror says tiredly, looking absolutely knackered, possibly sporting a rather painful headache. Draco can't imagine that things have been easy as of late. "I am here on orders. We are leaving with these men, and it's best not to resist. Tell Albus Dumbledore that if he has an issue, he can come to the Ministry and declare it. Thank you and good day."
The Hospital Wing all but explodes with shouts of anger, people all around shrieking in various stages of protest. It makes Draco's head spin, but it only surprises him a little. In fairness, Lucius and Snape and Theo were spotted by many, fighting Death Eaters and protecting some of those who are injured now, some who would be dead without them.
The Aurors, however, do not care. They ignore everyone and march their captives out. Snape and Lucius show absolutely no fear, heads held high, eyes alert and open. Theo, on the other hand, has his head ducked, his eyes screwed shut. He looks completely and utterly terrified.
"That's rubbish!" Weasley Twin One yells, shaking his fist at the Aurors as they walk away.
Weasley Twin Two, who is missing an ear, snarls and shouts, "So much for justice, you great lumps!"
"Dad," Weasley protests, "they can't just—"
Mr. Weasley heaves a sigh and puts his hand on his son's shoulder, wearily shaking his head. "They can, unfortunately, Ron. It's alright. Dumbledore will see to it when he returns."
Draco wonders what that's like. Having such unshakable faith in someone like that. Knowing they'll come to your defense.
Granger shuffles towards Draco and his mother, cautious but determined. She stops in front of them and says, "We'll testify, Draco, Mrs. Malfoy. All of us. I promise we will. They don't deserve to go to Azkaban, any of them."
"My father does," Draco says blandly, face stiff, body tense. Narcissa sucks in a sharp breath beside him, and he ignores it. "He's done terrible things, Granger, or have you forgotten? One battle can't erase all of that."
"No," Granger agrees, "but it's not like he's going to be much of a Death Eater anymore, is he? No matter the reason, he fought for the right side in the end. If we crucify him for it, that would be…"
"Not fair?" Draco suggests coldly. "When is life fair, Granger? When does anyone but the precious, righteous Gryffindors with their stupid, stupid determination to never fuck up, to do the right thing always and hate those who don't, anyone but them, but you, get to bask in the fairness of being on the right side? We should all be taken in, shouldn't we? All the Slytherins and all the wives and children of the Death Eaters, and then their children too, and maybe their friends as well. Anyone who's ever said Mudblood, anyone who dares—"
"Draco," Narcissa says softly, touching his shoulder.
"Don't," Draco snaps, wrenching away from his mother and whirling around, marching out of the mass of people who are all staring at him.
He slips around the curtain blocking Harry from view, drawing it shut with a rapid snap of his hand, leaving no room for anyone to doubt that he doesn't want to be disturbed. He drags a chair to Harry's bedside, throwing himself down into it, rage burning bright in his chest.
He stares at Harry, tense and strung tight, holding still so he won't shake and break apart. He holds his breath until it explodes out of him, and then everything else does as well.
Crying again, about everything, about his father and Vince and his mother and Harry and all of it, he folds forward and presses his face against Harry's limp hand, sobbing hard enough that he's sure everyone outside the curtain can hear it.
No one disturbs him.
For the next few days, the Hospital Wing slowly starts emptying out. People are starting to recover enough to either be sent to St. Mungos or sent home. Draco ignores everyone—his mother, his friends, absolutely anyone who comes near him.
He almost doesn't even realize anyone is around.
He feels like he's been submerged in water. The world around him is disconnected and out of focus, cloudy and thick and far too hard to make sense of. Everything is too slow, too stilted, and he can't seem to get his footing. His balance is off. Wonky. Shite.
Sleep comes in snatches, stealing him when he can't run from it anymore. He dreams of blood and death, of trying to save people and failing. He always wakes with a jerk, gasping, choking on screams and tears.
He barely feels alive sometimes.
It's one such time when there's a brief moment where he resurfaces. There's displacement to his right, a shift in the air, the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. He tears his gaze from Harry for just a moment, only to see Weasley sitting next to him. Weasley doesn't speak or look at him, staring at his best mate with some sort of shadows in his eyes. He's weary and scarred, just like everyone else.
Draco goes back to looking at Harry. Lost in it. Tracing the shape of his nose with his gaze. The softened line of his usually harsh jaw that always spoke of strength and courage. The slack slope of his eyebrows, both of which Draco has trailed his fingers over with an odd reverence. The line of his throat, his chin tucked into it, making him look younger than he did when he showed up in the meadow at the Manor a year ago.
"You said it again, that word," Weasley murmurs.
"Yes," Draco agrees. And again, he says it. Repeats it, flat and toneless. "Mudblood. Mudblood. Mud—"
"Mudblood," Weasley says, and Draco snaps his mouth shut, glancing over at him in—not alarm, but something like discomfort. Weasley doesn't say that word. He never has. It's wrong. Yet, once again, he does. "Mudblood. Blood-traitor. Half-breed. Mud—"
"Stop it," Draco whispers. "Please stop."
Weasley glances at him, tired and worn and wearing a crooked grin that reminds Draco of Harry. They have the same defiance, Harry and Weasley, and it shows now. "Do you want to know something?"
"No," Draco says instantly.
"I wanted you to say it," Weasley tells him anyway, and Draco sucks in a sharp breath. "Before, I mean. Before all of this, I wanted you to say it and keep saying it. I wanted you to be everything you've always been, that evil prat Harry and Hermione had no problems hating. It was easier for me, I think, if you were bad. I kept waiting for you to show it, because I couldn't—I didn't see you past that."
"Weasley," Draco rasps, frozen in place.
"But then," Weasley plows on, "you said it. You said it just like I knew you would, o'course, and it was the first time I didn't want to hurt you for it."
Draco clenches his jaw, breathes out, breathes in, then closes his eyes. "I shouldn't have—"
"No," Weasley agrees, "you shouldn't have. It's a bad word. It hurts people. It hurts Hermione. But you know that already. I think I get it now, what Harry meant by it all. The—the complicated morals and reality of the world and such. Because, I don't know, Malfoy. Do you think it's any better for me to wish you'd say it than you actually saying it, all for my own comfort, all because I didn't like things to change? I knew it would hurt people, I knew it was bad, and I still wanted you to say it. What does that say about me, d'ya think?"
"You're selfish," Draco whispers. His eyes slide open, and he exhales slowly. "That's what it says."
"Yeah, I know." Weasley blows out a deep breath, shaking his head. "He told me, you know. Harry did. The world isn't as simple as we wish it was. I think you could do with a little bit of understanding of that, too."
"I think I understand it better than most."
"Then you should know we're not—we aren't what you think we are. You, your family, your Hogwarts House. What you all think of us…we're not that. I've said that word now, too. Just like you have. I'm selfish. Hermione has done illegal things. Harry's bloody murdered people. It's—we aren't perfect. It took all of this for me to see it, to really see it, but Harry was right. I wish—I don't know."
"I get it, Weasley," Draco mutters, because he does.
Weasley sighs heavily. "All I'm saying is, I don't think there's a right side like we hoped there would be. Nothing is fair, not really. There's just...doing our best, I suppose. Shouldn't blame each other for what our bests are."
"I don't blame you."
"I blamed you."
Draco swallows. "I know."
"You shouldn't blame yourself, either," Weasley murmurs, then gets up and walks away before Draco can even try to lie and deny it.
Draco closes his eyes again.
Dumbledore apparently does take care of things, so perhaps he's reliable when he's determined to be.
Lucius, Snape, and Theo's trials get moved up quickly, and people rush to testify. There's no shortage of people who have things they want to say, things they believe will help the three of them. Draco refuses to go because his mother isn't allowed and Harry is still here. He doubts his word will tip the scales anyway, not any more than Dumbledore's and those Weasleys will.
The Hospital Wing is almost empty now. Just a few students remain, those who refused to go to St. Mungos like the girl Weasley and Lovegood and Longbottom. Their injuries were minor, at least, so all they're doing now is resting. Draco's no Healer, but he thinks they'd be fine to go home except they don't actually want to.
Harry's still here, after all.
On the day of the trials, there's more traffic than there should be. Narcissa is getting fitted for a prosthetic, Madame Pomfrey is still bustling around dealing with the remaining patients, and a lot of Harry and Draco's friends are lingering.
Draco is sitting at Harry's bedside again when a hand lands on his shoulder, making him jolt. He whips his head around, only to freeze when he sees Blaise and Pansy.
"Draco," Pansy murmurs, then proceeds to throw herself into his lap and break down into prompt hysterics, sobbing loudly.
Draco glances at Blaise, helpless, and Blaise just dips his head with a tired sigh. His shoulders are slumped, looking the opposite of relaxed and careless as he usually does. His posture is atrocious, so Draco kicks out the chair beside him, then he leans back and wraps his arms around Pansy.
"Come on, Pans," Draco mumbles, "there's no need for the show, love. You'll ruin your face."
"Vince," is all Pansy chokes out, and then she's back to weeping, spilling hot tears against his throat.
Draco soothes a hand up and down her back, shushing her, and he doesn't say a word about Blaise hooking his foot around Draco's ankle, as if he just needs to touch him. Blaise is already holding one of Pansy's hands, letting their fingers tangle.
"I know," Draco says. "I know, Pansy. I'm sorry, darling. It's alright. It wasn't your fault."
"It's awful," Pansy whimpers, pulling back to stare at him with watery eyes and puffy cheeks. "Greg is a mess, Draco. How am I supposed to—how do I—"
"Shh." Draco cups the back of her head as she starts hufuffing again, trembling and hyperventilating. He tucks her face back in against his neck, letting her hide there and cry all she likes. "Greg will be alright. We'll take care of him, Pansy, I swear it. You didn't do anything wrong. It was Vince's father. I'm sorry."
Pansy doesn't reply, just crying, and even that tapers off into sniffles and wet breaths after a while. Draco thinks she's falling asleep in his lap, and he lets her.
At some point later, Blaise says, "Theo can't go to Azkaban, Draco. He'll—it will—"
"He's only just seventeen."
"Still a legal adult."
"I know," Draco croaks, pausing to press his face against Pansy's hair, then lifting away to let out a shuddering breath. "It won't come to that. You know those Gryffindor idiots will find something to stop it. That lot are determined to stay on the honorable path, as always. Might be helpful for us now."
"Pansy and I talked about testifying, but we were worried that—well, we might make it worse," Blaise tells him quietly.
Draco understands that intimately. Being Slytherins and closely involved with known Dark Wizards, including their own parents in some instances… Well, it's not a good look. Any testimony they would give would only make things worse, because it's not as if they have much integrity in the eyes of the court. Right now, in light of everything, being a Pureblood or a Slytherin or friendly with known Death Eaters—or those related to them—won't do them any favors. They all just happen to be all three.
The best thing they can do is stay as far away from it all as possible, no matter how much they want to get involved. Removing themselves is the only way they can help. Draco hates it.
"I don't know what to do anymore," Draco admits softly, his eyes on Harry, wanting him to wake up and smile and tell him that everything is alright.
Blaise lets out a soft sigh. "I don't either. Pansy isn't getting any better. Astoria and Daphne have been locked away by their mother. Greg has gone mute. Theo's been arrested. You're—"
"I'm," Draco prompts when Blaise cuts himself off.
"You're… Draco, you're like a ghost," Blaise whispers, reaching out to touch his arm, pressing into him. "You're not sleeping. We can tell, you know. Those bruises under your eyes are a dead giveaway. When is the last time you ate? You just sit here and stare at Potter all day."
Draco doesn't remember the last time he ate. He vaguely remembers Madame Pomfrey handing him water and a sandwich in passing, ordering him to take them or else she'd tell his mother. He thinks it had all tasted like ash. He thinks it has happened multiple times, at least once a day, and then sometimes he just gives it away instead of taking it. He thinks it's gone two days since he last ate anything, and maybe he hasn't had water today at all.
Like a ghost.
"Theo will be alright," Draco says, and he's not even sure if he believes it.
Pansy whimpers in her sleep.
When Theo returns, Draco hugs him. Blaise hugs him. Pansy hugs him for a long time and cries. Greg doesn't move, doesn't look at anyone, doesn't say a word. Theo is shaking from head-to-toe.
"A month in Azkaban," Theo says, hands trembling, eyes wide. "They gave your father and Professor Snape a month in Azkaban."
"Mother told me," Draco murmurs.
She did. She'd told him through tears, but she'd told him. He had let her hug him for a long time, let her cry silently into his shoulder, and he'd felt absolutely nothing throughout.
He's glad Theo's back.
"It's utterly ridiculous!" Granger spits as she charges in through the curtain, a group of gingers and gingers-by-association following behind her. Her eyes are bright with fury. "The Ministry is in shambles, and they want to put away anyone with a Dark Mark, no matter who testified! Dumbledore was furious about it, of course, as he should be."
"Granger," Draco snaps, glaring at her.
The group suddenly seems to freeze, realizing all at once that they're all stuffed inside Harry's little sectioned-off space, staring at a tiny huddle of Slytherins who are all either in the midst or the aftermath of crying. Granger looks contrite almost immediately, settling down.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly.
Theo swallows and whispers, "Thank you. All of you. For—for what you did. I—thank you."
"S'alright," Weasley Twin One mutters, leaning up against Weasley Twin Two with a smile that's more of a grimace. "We did see you fighting, the whole lot of you. Harry had his own little army, it seemed like. Bit odd, the mix of Slytherins and Gryffindors, but you've got to admit, there's some style to it."
"Zabini saved my life," Weasley muses, nodding his head at Blaise. "Took a Curse for me. Rather nice, that. Thanks."
Blaise curls tighter around Pansy and doesn't reply, pressing his face against her hair.
"My arm's alright, thanks for asking," the girl Weasley says awkwardly, lifting her arm that has a burn scar stretched across it.
Draco looks away, too.
"We're not leaving," Longbottom says softly, throwing a pointed look at Harry.
"We'll go," Draco rasps, reaching out to touch Theo's wrist, jerking his head.
"No, Draco, it's—really, it's fine," Granger says earnestly, looking at him with wide, sad eyes. She reaches out like she's going to touch him, only to abort the movement halfway through. "Don't leave. We can all stay. Don't go."
Draco is about to argue, already going through the motions of gathering his small pack of Slytherins and leave the Gryffindors—and Gryffindors by association—to their well-earned visit with Harry, only to stop when a soft, heavy voice speaks for the first time in many days.
"Where did Vince go?" Greg asks, his voice small and hoarse, big hands shaking in front of him. He looks at them all, sweeping his gaze over every single one of them, wild confusion and undeniable pain in his eyes. "He's jus' gone now, is he? Where'd he go, then? Won' he be comin' back?"
"Oh, Greg," Pansy whispers mournfully, her voice cracking. "Vince is—he's—"
And she doesn't say anything else because she can't. She breaks down, clinging to Blaise and crying as quietly as she can. Theo steps up behind her, sweeping his hand up and down her back, coincidentally blocking her from view.
Draco takes a deep breath and sets his shoulders, turning to Greg, taking his focus. Greg responds like it's muscle memory. They've known each other since they were toddlers—him, Greg, and Vince. He wasn't always kind to them. Actually, he rarely was. They were nothing more than bullies he could boss around, honed lackeys that he could point in a direction and get them to do his bidding. He didn't even really like them that much, not most of the time, which stings in the back of his throat now.
But.
But he has always been there with them. When they couldn't do their essays, he sat them down and revised them. When Greg got sick from over-eating, he called him an oaf while dragging him to the loo. When Vince was hurt about Greg getting a girlfriend, he sat him down and tried to make sense of his feelings in all his grunts and short answers. He gave them sweets Narcissa sent, and he laughed at their stupid jokes throughout the years, and he gave them something to cling to, a purpose, even if he was only using them most of the time.
Greg and Vince have always been a pair. It's always been Greg and Vince, Crabbe and Goyle. In some ways, they were like the Slytherins twins, just the same as the Weasley Twins were the Gryffindor ones. They always understood each other, they always did everything together, and they were like extensions of one another. To imagine them apart seems impossible, and yet, it is reality.
And Draco has always looked out for them in some way or another. Mostly out of obligation, mostly for his own gain. He was mean to them, cruel, careless. Thought them nothing more than fists and heads without brains. He never thought he cared about either one of them.
But, looking at Greg now, he thinks he always did. Draco aches for him. He wants to bring Vince back, not for himself, not to ease Pansy's guilt, but just so he won't have to crush Greg with the truth.
Except he has to.
"Greg," Draco says gently, wishing with everything in him that no Gryffindors were here to see this, but they are, "do you remember what they told you? Vince isn't coming back. He was—he died in the battle. Do you remember that?"
"I wasn' with him," Greg says, eyes wide like he's stunned by the admission. "I was—they put us in differ'n groups. I was jus' tryin' to find him, but I never did. I couldn' find him. Mum says I might've saved him if I fought with my father."
Granger makes a small, pitiful sound.
"That's not true," Draco tells him, his voice shaking, his lips trembling. "Greg, that's not true. Listen to me, Vince—he was killed by a stray Killing Curse that his father cast. If you fought with your father, you would be in Azkaban. If you found Vince, you might be dead, too."
"Me an' Vince do everythin' together." Greg has gone pale, sort of waxy, his throat working. "We'd've done this, too. Should've. Should've found him. Should've saved him. Should've killed his dad. Should've died with him if I couldn't."
"No! No, Greg, no!" Pansy rips away from Blaise and launches herself at Greg, wrapping her arms around him and sobbing into his chest. He doesn't even seem to notice that she's there. "Greg, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I'm—it's all my fault. The Killing Curse was meant for me. It's my fault, I'm sorry, I'm so—"
Draco darts forward quickly, yanking her away and gently pushing her towards Blaise, who draws her back into his arms. Draco puts his hands on Greg's shoulders, staring into his glassy eyes, swallowing around a thick, scratchy throat. Everything hurts.
"Greg," Draco murmurs, "I'm sorry about Vince. We're all sorry about Vince. It was no one's fault but Vince's father, alright? And I know—I know you're upset. That's alright, too. It's alright. Everything is going to be alright, I promise."
"When Vince gets back," Greg says, "it will be."
There's nothing that Draco can do. He can't say anything to make this any easier. Greg's barely hanging on by a thread, and they can all see it. He's shaking so hard that his teeth are clacking together. There are tears on the cusp of falling, but he keeps blinking them back, like letting them fall will evict him from the safety of denial.
Draco draws in a deep breath and says, "Greg, he's not coming back. He's never coming back."
"Then it's never goin' to be alrigh'," Greg tells him, his voice cracking like it never did when puberty hit.
"I know," Draco whispers, because he does know, and there's nothing he can do to fix it.
Greg's face twists then and the tears fall. He stumbles into Draco, dropping all his weight on him, making the most horrifically ugly sounds as he starts wailing. His large hands fist the back of Draco's robes, yanking on them, and he's blubbering out incoherent sentences that no one can make sense of. The only thing that comes through clear enough is Vince's name.
Draco stands there and holds Greg's weight, trying not to slump beneath it, even if his legs are shaking. He can't even lift his arms to hug Greg back because Greg had his arms pinned to his sides. So, he just lets himself be clung to, not saying a word.
Greg cries himself into exhaustion. He cries and cries and cries, and then he cries some more. And then, finally, he goes lax and just breathes heavily, his grip loosening. His arms drop, but he stays leaning against Draco, not moving. Draco has the feeling that Greg would just drop to the floor and lay there if he stepped back, so he doesn't.
Instead, he swivels his head and gives Granger a pointed look. She looks utterly horrified, tears brimming her eyes, but she seems to understand what he's asking for. A flick of her wand sends the largest, comfiest chair skittering forward.
Draco heaves Greg down into it with a grunt, moving his limbs like he's nothing more than an overstuffed doll. Greg lets him, no longer crying, just staring at nothing and breathing like he's just been running for miles. When Draco squats down in front of him, Greg doesn't even seem to see him.
"Greg," Draco says. "Greg, look at me. Greg."
No response. Catonic. Nothing.
Draco swallows thickly. "Alright. That's alright, Greg. Can you do something for me, yeah? We're all going to step outside for a bit, and I want you to stay right here for a while. Sleep if you like, or just watch over Harry for me, okay? Can you do that, Greg?"
Again, nothing.
"Alright," Draco whispers. "Thank you. We'll be back, Greg, I promise."
He stays there for a bit, feeling helpless in a way he hasn't since the battle, and Greg doesn't so much as twitch. Draco lets out a slow breath, pats Greg's knee, then gets up. He turns to the others and jerks his head towards the curtain.
Everyone files out, non-Slytherins included.
Draco carefully closes the curtain and ushers everyone father away, reaching up to run his hands over his face. When he drops his arms limply to his sides and stares at everyone, he can see how utterly rattled everyone is by what just happened. He feels it, too, that stricken, shaken up sensation, as if someone has reached into his very being and wrestled it all around, knotted it up.
"That was awful," Lovegood whispers, wrapping her arms around herself and looking very small.
"Is there anything we can do?" Granger asks.
"Short of bringing Vincent Crabbe back to life," Draco says, "there's nothing."
"His mother won't let him come home," Theo says slowly, the skin around his eyes tight with anger and grief. "She told him he wasn't welcome because he didn't fight with his father. She disowned him, Draco. He doesn't have anywhere to go."
"We'll take him," Pansy says instantly. "Mother might not let him stay very long or very often, but we have rooms at our Manor. He can—I'll figure something out."
"Mother's mostly gone all the time anyway, and I'd murder whatever husband she has before she can if they dare tell me he can't stay with me," Blaise murmurs, eyes sharp and glinting with promise.
Theo swallows, shoulders tense. "I don't—with me in charge of everything, it's all mine. I can't—I will try to keep him as often as I can, but I won't always be there, Draco, you know that. I'll be at the Manor with you more often than not."
"It's alright." Draco reaches up to run a hand through his hair. It's stringy and greasy. He needs a shower. "Between all of us, he'll be fine. We'll take care of him. It's fine. It's—it's—"
"He can stay with me and my dad if you ever need it," Lovegood says lightly. "Dad won't mind."
"Mum wouldn't turn him away, either," Weasley pipes up, just a touch nervous as he says it.
Draco heaves a sigh and shakes his head. "It's—yes, thank you. A last resort, I assure you. We just have to look after him until Hogwarts opens back up. By the time Seventh Year ends, we can get enough money to get him a flat. We'll—we can work it out. Just have to figure out this summer."
"Is he going to—" The girl Weasley pauses, chewing her bottom lip. She looks preemptively apologetic, like she knows what she's about to say isn't very kind, and it isn't. "He's in a right state. I'm not trying to say anything bad, I swear it, but I've heard of people dying from heartbreak and grief. Is he—"
"We won't let that happen," Pansy snarls, inhaling deep, chest swelling, eyes glittering with tears and blazing with determination. "We will take care of him. He stays with us. He will be fine!"
"Alright, Parkinson," the girl Weasley murmurs, nodding and looking so sad that it stings.
"Don't pity us," Draco snaps. "We wouldn't pity you if roles were reversed, so just don't."
"Stop it," Granger says harshly. "Now isn't the time for—for fighting, alright? Goyle needs help. Anything we can do, we will, and you'll let us."
"Right now," Draco grits out, "he needs rest. If he's not responsive in any way when he wakes, he might need to go to St. Mungos."
"So we let him rest," Weasley murmurs easily.
"That's good. I have something I was hoping you would all help us with anyway," Granger declares, tilting her chin up.
Weasley Twin One and Weasley Twin Two exchange a look, and the first one says, "We can stay with the mental patient and the unconscious speccy git, right, Gred?"
"Yeah, that might be best if we don't want to end up as cat litter, Forge," Weasley Twin Two agrees.
"What, exactly, do you need from us?" Blaise asks tersely, eyes narrowing, suspicious.
Granger sighs. "First, Harry's wand. Does anyone know where it is?"
"I have it," Draco says. He does. He'd nicked it from Harry's pocket once he was stable, carrying it around in his own. "Why?"
The Weasley Twins stuff their fingers in their ears, singing, "We know nothing, we know nothing, we know nothiiiiiiing," and then slink over to disappear behind the curtain they all just left.
"They call it plausible deniability if this all goes to shite," Weasley says, rolling his eyes.
"If what goes to shite?" Theo demands.
Granger takes a deep breath, then stands taller, tilting her chin up. "We all know what Harry did during the battle. Yes, he's being hailed as the Savior now, but we have no idea what will happen when the trials start more frequently. The Prophet is starting to release stories and information, and we think it's best if no one ever finds out the things Harry did during the battle. They might just twist it and make him look bad, even when he isn't."
"Killing and torturing people, is what we mean," Weasley mutters, lowering his voice.
"Yes, we caught onto that," Draco says sarcastically.
"The only people who can say for definite that they saw him do anything is everyone standing here right now as well as Daphne, and one other. Daphne has already promised to keep it a secret," Granger murmurs, glancing between everyone.
"Well, we're obviously not going to mention it," Blaise hisses, glaring at her.
"Oi, relax," Weasley mumbles. "No one is saying that you would. We want you all to come with us to help convince the other one not to report it."
Theo sucks in a sharp breath. "Oh, you've got to be joking. Are you mental?!"
"What is it?" Draco asks.
"Professor McGonagall," Theo grits out. "She's the other one who saw Potter use the Cruciatus Curse."
Draco jolts. "Harry used the—"
"On my father," Theo says. "He didn't know it was my father at the time. It's—my father spit on Professor McGonagall, and Harry just… I don't know what came over him, but he lost it."
"It was a bit frightening, honestly," the girl Weasley murmurs, a wrinkle between her brow.
"So she knows he cast an Unforgivable," Draco croaks, exhaling sharply through his nose. There's a throb in his temple, a headache. Merlin, why is everything so hard? "And you all just want to go to her and...what? Demand she doesn't report him for the very illegal, very Dark Magic that she most certainly should report him for?"
"What else are we supposed to do, Draco?" Granger asks, her voice cracking. She stares at him, looking as lost as he feels. "We have to—we need to protect him. Everything he did… You know, Draco. You—"
"Yes," Draco cuts in, "I know. It's—yes, fine. I'll go. I won't ask them to." He nods at his friends, looking at them. "You don't have to."
"Of course we're going," Pansy rasps, sniffing. She straightens up and takes a deep breath. "Granger is smart to ask about his wand. We have to erase the last Spells he used. We should all take turns casting with it, if it will let us. We all know how fickle wands are. Do it, Draco."
And so, Draco pulls out Harry's wand. He's never tried to use it before. He frowns, holding it in his grip. It doesn't feel warm or alive with magic, not like his own wand does. He flicks it, casting wordlessly, and the Spell fizzles out quickly.
Huffing, Draco tries again, out loud this time. "Protego!" he declares forcefully.
The wand sails out of his grip and hits him directly in the face before clattering to the floor, shooting out a small puff of sparks and smoke that somehow seem to be mocking. He blinks. There's a long beat of silence, then the girl Weasley is snorting, trying so hard to smother it, and then multiple people are chuckling and giggling. Even his own friends are.
"Doesn't seem to like you that much, Draco," Lovegood says airily, a small smile curling her lips as she steps forward to dip down and scoop up the wand. Her eyes sparkle as she flicks it and calmly says, "Bulla Affero."
Blue bubbles drift from the tip of Harry's wand, floating through the air, and the girl Weasley giggles as some brush past her hair, never popping. Lovegood passes the wand to her next, and on it goes. For some, the wand works easily—like Lovegood, Blaise, and Granger. For others, the wand has some resistance—like Weasley, his sister, and Theo. For one, for Draco, wand doesn't work at all and seems to try and attack him every time he tries.
But, for Pansy, the wand absolutely lights up. The first time she touches it, she gasps in delight and laughs, flicking it. The wand responds instantly, straightening her robes and adding a shine to her hair. She grins for the first time in days, no tears in sight, and then she proceeds to cast Spell after Spell with no resistance at all. The wand seems to like her quite a bit, and Draco can't even be upset about it because he hasn't seen her happy lately.
Once they're sure that the Killing Curse and the Torture Curse has been suitably replaced, Draco takes the wand back and pockets it.
The rather large group all come together and make their way to Professor McGonagall's office, tense and not saying a word. This could go very badly. It might go badly. Professor McGonagall doesn't show favoritism. Draco hasn't ever particularly liked the woman, but he has nursed a hidden respect for her for the past six years.
It's utterly nerve-wracking when they get called into her office after knocking. She's sitting behind her desk, and if she's surprised to see them all huddling in front of her desk, she doesn't let it show. She just stares at them for a few moments, then sighs.
"Well, I can't imagine what has brought all…" She trails off, flicking her gaze over each of them in a calculating manner. "Nine. There are nine of you. Yes, well, what seems to be the problem?"
They'd all agreed to let Granger do the speaking, and while she looks incredibly nervous, she steps forward and shakily says, "Professor, there are a few things we'd like to speak with you about. Things that have to do with the—the battle."
Professor McGonagall blinks, seemingly startled for a moment, then she sits up straighter. "Yes, of course. If there is anything any of you wish to talk about, I will listen. I know that it was not...easy to experience, and if you require a confidant, I will be that for each of you."
Well, now Granger just looks guilty.
"It's about Harry," Draco says shortly, getting straight to the point.
"Harry? Potter?" Professor McGonagall goes back to looking at all of them with that searching gaze of hers, seeming to realize that they are not, in fact, coming to her with sob stories and such. She purses her lips just a bit. "What about Mr. Potter?"
"A lot of...stuff happened during the battle," Granger says carefully. "We all saw things."
"Indeed we did," Professor McGonagall agrees.
"You saw things," Pansy reiterates.
Professor Mcgonagall's eyebrows twitch like she wants to raise them. "In fact I did, Ms. Parkinson. May I ask what, in particular, you are referencing?"
"My father," Theo speaks up, though he is quiet. He flinches when she turns her shrewd gaze to him.
"What about your father, Mr. Nott?" she asks.
Theo swallows. "You saw him get...tortured."
"Saw who get tortured?" Professor McGonagall asks, staring at them without blinking.
"My father," Theo repeats.
Professor Mcgonagall hums. "What about him?"
"He was tortured," Theo says very slowly, as if he's talking to a child.
"Who?" Professor Mcgonagall asks.
"You saw who tortured him, didn't you?" Granger bursts out, her eyes wide, so nervous that she's shaking with it. "You saw Harry—"
"Sorry," Professor McGonagall interrupts delicately, still just staring at them, "who was tortured?"
"My father!" Theo bursts out.
Professor Mcgonagall doesn't blink. "What about him, Mr. Nott?"
"He was tortured!"
"Who?"
"Stop it," Draco says, elbowing Theo in the side to get him to shut up. "She's just—bloody hell, she's winding you up."
"I would do no such thing, Mr. Malfoy," Professor McGonagall says in apparent offense. "I would not antagonize a student, as well as you all should know. My job as the Deputy Headmistress, Transfiguration Professor, and Head of Gryffindor House is to teach, guide, and most of all, protect the students in my care. That includes all of you, as well as Mr. Potter."
Oh, Draco thinks, and he almost wants to laugh and break out into hysterics, but he refrains.
"So—so on the subject of Theo's father," Draco prompts carefully, slowly.
Professor McGonagall arches an eyebrow, peering at him over her glasses. "What about him?"
"He was tortured."
"Who?"
Draco can't help but grin, just as everyone else in the room seems to understand and do the same. Professor McGonagall's lips twitch for only a split second, and then she looks as stern as she always does. She stands up and stares at them.
"If that will be all," she says, waiting.
"That's all, Professor, thank you," Granger whispers, barely holding back tears.
With that, they all leave, and Draco is the last to file out. When he dares to glance back at Professor McGonagall, he swears that she winks. But no, surely not, she wouldn't. Would she?
Draco thinks he'd rather not know and picks up his pace, rushing to get away as fast as possible. In the end, his respect for her has remained. The surprise comes with finding out he does sort of like her now.
Life's full of surprises, though.
"Draco, darling, it's time to go now."
Slowly, Draco rips his gaze from Harry to turn and stare at his mother. She stands at the edge of the curtain, like she doesn't dare invite herself inside.
Draco doesn't want to go. He wants to stay right here at Harry's bedside. Everyone else can leave all they like, but he doesn't want to. He's been helping Madame Pomfrey take care of him, mostly just to keep his hands busy. Off and on, Harry runs a low fever that they can't fix with potions, not with some of the others that he's already on, and those are a priority. So, they've been keeping the fever down with cool towels as much as possible.
Everything is going too fast. Most of everyone has already left. The Hospital Wing feels gutted these days, bled out and scraped raw. Empty. Draco feels the same exact way.
Greg is staying with Theo for a bit, the two of them alone in the chateau Theo now owns and has to learn to run. Pansy is back with her Mother, though she had been genuinely distraught about being away from Blaise. The Weasleys went last, and Granger is staying with them for the summer.
And here Draco is, sitting beside an unconscious Harry Potter, wishing he would just wake up.
"The induced coma will be lifted at the end of July," Madame Pomfrey informs him as she sweeps into the room. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye. "He should wake then if he's ready. Healing can be a shaky process, Draco, but it is very necessary."
He's not entirely sure if she's just talking about Harry with that last sentence.
Draco clears his throat. "If he doesn't wake up?"
"He may not," Madame Pomfrey warns him. "On his own, he should wake by September."
"And if he doesn't?" Draco presses.
Madame Pomfrey seems to weigh her next words, watching him, trying to see what he can handle. She finally answers after a long beat and says, "If he doesn't wake up by September, the chances of him waking up at all are very slim."
"How slim?"
"Draco."
"How slim?"
"Practically non-existent, but I have seen near miracles in my many years as a Healer, so I will not say that it will never happen."
Draco exhales slowly. "Lovely. Well, that's comforting to hear," he says sarcastically.
"Do not take that tone with me," Madame Pomfrey scolds, sharp and merciless, no room to be kinder to him because of his upset. He'd think she was targeting him for refusing to be her apprentice, except she's always like this to everyone. She flicks her fingers and waves him closer. "Help me with this before you go, Draco. You'll be back to visit, I'm sure, as many people will be, but I have rather gotten used to your assistance with Mr. Potter."
"Yes, of course," Draco says quickly, always eager to help with Harry and just a bit cowed by her tone.
As always, he helps her tend to Harry's wound. It's a ghastly thing, red and swollen and still prone to bleeding. Draco still doesn't know how Harry's alive, even though he's quite sure it's because he's a Horcrux. Madame Pomfrey is always fussing about how Harry often ends up in her Hospital Wing, but this is just a step too far. Draco always agrees.
Due to the coma, Harry never actually moves. They have to do careful exercises with him regularly to keep his muscles from deteriorating, though there are potions to help with that, too. Still, Draco hates how motionless he is. Harry's never motionless. It's disconcerting in the worst way.
Once he's finished, Narcissa once again says, "Come, Draco, let's go home. Well visit again."
"You'll let us?" Draco asks Madame Pomfrey, just to be sure, needing the reassurance.
Madame Pomfrey stares at him like he's grown a second head. "As if I could stop you."
"Yes, yes, that's—thank you," Draco breathes out.
"Gratitude is all well and good, but I'd much prefer if you'd take better care of yourself." Madame Pomfrey begins shooing him out of her Hospital Wing, berating him for not eating or sleeping properly, and it's a weird comfort somehow. As they're leaving, she calls out, "And Mrs. Malfoy, dear, the offer remains!"
"Yes, thank you," Narcissa replies, nodding.
"What offer?" Draco asks, heart stumbling in his chest with something stupid like hope.
Narcissa pats his arm. "I'll tell you when we get home, darling."
She refuses to say another word about it, tight-lipped and unwilling to budge. He already has an idea, but he has to hear it to believe it, and a part of him is terrified his suspicions will be confirmed. Just as a part of him is terrified that they won't.
As soon as they return to the Manor, Draco resists the urge to shudder. Dumbledore himself came here after Narcissa requested him to. He came and put up powerful wards in case the Dark Lord decided to come back, though he did say that he doubted the Dark Lord would. Draco doesn't think the Dark Lord will either, but that doesn't mean he's comfortable returning here after both his parents personally betrayed the Dark Lord himself.
That being said, Narcissa has made it clear that the Dark Lord can't reach them here, even if he wanted to, all because of the protection Dumbledore put on the place. Draco supposes it will get easier to believe each day that passes where the Dark Lord doesn't turn up to slaughter them for their disobedience.
He follows his mother into the sitting room, and once he's settled down, he says, "What offer?"
"Draco," Narcissa murmurs, "Madame Pomfrey spoke with me recently about how impressed she was by your skills in Healing. She told me she offered you an apprenticeship, and that you refused it. She explained that she changed her mind."
"Oh." Draco hates how his heart drops at hearing that. He gathers his pride and tilts his chin up, clearing his throat. "Yes, well, it's for the best that she did. I wasn't going to do it anyway."
"Why?" Narcissa asks.
Draco blinks, then frowns. "Father wouldn't let me, and you are very aware of that. I'm supposed to—the Malfoy name—"
"Darling," Narcissa murmurs, "is that the only reason? I had hoped to hear that you refused because you did not want to study underneath her."
"She shouldn't have told you about it," Draco mutters. "I told her not to. I—it doesn't matter."
"It does," Narcissa counters calmly. "You saved my life, you saved Harry's life, and you helped heal many others in the aftermath of the battle. You seem to enjoy Healing, Draco. Do you?"
"So what if I do?" Draco snaps. "I'm not going to become a Healer, am I? Father would—"
"Your father is currently in Azkaban and cannot hear you," Narcissa says. "Answer me honestly."
"I—I'm good at it," Draco admits, averting his eyes, dropping his gaze in shame. "Healing is… It's interesting, Mother. It's not easy, it's challenging, and when I do well at it...I like how it feels. I like fixing people. I'm not—I know that I'm meant for what Father requires of me, but I—"
Narcissa sighs quietly when he snaps his mouth shut, and she reaches out to lay her hand over his, drawing his gaze. "I have seen a great many errors in the traditional ways of Purebloods since Harry entered our lives, Draco, all because he cast them in a light that affects you. Children are not created for the sole purpose of living their lives as their parents wish for them to, though I never knew any other way growing up. I did not have you so that you could be another Lucius, or even another me. You are my son, and I wish for you to be happy. I wish for you to do the things that you want. Is Healing something that you wish to do?"
"I don't know," Draco rasps, and it is a lie. It's a bold lie that scalds his tongue on the way out. He doesn't want to disappoint her. Not her. Not his mother.
"If—" Narcissa pauses, taking in a deep breath, then slowly letting it out. She seems to be choosing her words carefully. "Draco, if you told me that you wished to chase rain on the back of dragons, or dance naked in lakes with leprechauns, I would support you if that made you happy. Admittedly, I would be very perturbed and concerned for your health, but I would still support you."
"Mother," Draco says slowly, "what are you on about?"
Narcissa blushes faintly, just a bit. "I'm only trying to say that I want you to tell me what would make you happy, darling, no matter what it is. Please."
Draco blinks at her, then says, "Harry."
"Oh, yes, I know he makes you happy," Narcissa tells him, lips curling up. "I am quite certain about that, if nothing else. I am referring to whatever path you wish to take in life."
"It's—I—" Draco stutters to a stop, then ducks his head, heaving a deep sigh. After a beat where his mother waits patiently, he gathers himself enough to confess. "Yes, Mother, Healing is something I wish to do. I know that I can't, but I—"
"You can do as you like."
"Father—"
"Let me handle your father, Draco," Narcissa interrupts yet again, though it's terribly rude. She meets his gaze when he looks up, and she doesn't look disappointed at all. "If you want to become a Healer, then you will do so. You will be the best Healer to ever grace this world, and I expect no less. I assure you, there will be no obstacles in your path, least of all your father. Do you understand?"
Draco stares at her, his heart squeezing in his chest, mouth incredibly dry. "Are you—Mother, are you certain? You don't have to—"
"I, like you, can do what I like," Narcissa tells him, cutting in yet again, stern in that cold way of hers. No arguments allowed. "I am very certain. You will study Healing as you wish to, and no one will impede your progress. Madame Pomfrey assured me that you would excel in the career."
"I sort of—" Draco pauses and grimaces. "I believe I offended her. I was rather rude, I think."
"Did you wish to be her apprentice?"
"That doesn't matter now, does it?"
"I asked you a question," Narcissa says.
"She's very experienced," Draco replies weakly, giving a half-shrug. "If I actually plan to study Healing, it would be incredibly helpful to have her guidance, but I—well, I fucked that up quite nicely."
"Draco, language," Narcissa chides him, and oh, now she looks disappointed, but only vaguely. When she sees that he's properly sheepish, her face clears and she sighs. "Don't fret, darling. I've already convinced Madame Pomfrey to allow you to study under her. You need only show up."
Draco's lips part, eyes going wide. "Mother! How did you do that?!"
"I'm very persuasive, Draco," Narcissa tells him, arching an eyebrow, a frosty undercurrent to her tone like she's mildly offended that he would ever doubt her abilities to get what she wants.
"You're lovely, Mother, did you know?" Draco asks in complete awe.
Narcissa smiles at him, a quick flash of it that settles into a smirk. All she says is, "Yes, I know."
"Thank you, Mother."
"You're welcome, my darling. You can repay me by never mentioning that I said I would approve of you dancing naked in lakes with leprechauns."
"Would you?" Draco asks curiously.
Narcissa winces slightly. "Don't push it. That was mostly a figure of speech."
"Oh, good," Draco says and laughs.
The next two and a half weeks are quiet.
Draco spends as much time in the Hospital Wing as he can, but when he can't, settles into the Manor like a stranger. His home has never felt less like a home than it does now.
Greg comes and stays with him for a few days, almost an entire week. He's not doing too well, honestly. He's prone to random bouts of tears, just suddenly breaking down and crying without much warning. Nothing seems to help, not the promise of food and sweets, not ordering him to calm down, not comforting him. He's just hurt, hollowed out and drowning in it, and there's no way to fix it.
But he's not completely mute anymore, and he doesn't ask where Vince is or when he's coming back, so Draco thinks that's progress.
Narcissa frets about Lucius very often, generally drifting around the Manor with worry tightening the skin around her eyes and mouth. She misses him, Draco can tell, and a small part of him doesn't even understand why. Personally, he's perfectly fine with Lucius being gone, except for how he's not really fine about it at all.
But, well, minor details. It's fine.
By the time Greg is gone to stay with Blaise, Aunt Dromeda and Dora start coming to visit Draco's mother. Because Aunt Dromeda's husband died, she's clearly in mourning, leaning on her sister for support in the metaphorical sense. Draco avoids them most of the time, usually by accident more than choice. He spends a lot of time in his room, and he doesn't really care to visit with them anyway.
A few days before Harry's birthday, Madame Pomfrey tells him that the induced coma is no longer necessary. Any Healing Harry has to do now is completely his own. He was stabbed. Literally fucking stabbed, and it's lucky he isn't dead.
It's a quiet affair. Madame Pomfrey gives him the proper potions to counteract the one that's been keeping him in a coma, and everyone waits with a bated breath to see if he'll wake. And by everyone, Draco means everyone. Literally all the Weasleys, all Draco's friends, even the staff at Hogwarts, including Dumbledore himself.
Everyone is there when Harry doesn't wake up.
Mrs. Weasley breaks down into hysterical sobs, of course, that old bint of a woman. Draco wants to snarl at her and tell her to shut her mouth, but he doesn't. Instead, he stands at the edge of Harry's bed and gently soothes his hair back from his forehead, trying to be comforting, trying to convey that he'll wait for however long he has to.
He goes home that afternoon and breaks down in his mother's arms, sobbing so hard that he almost passes out from it. No matter how much her hand strokes his hair, or how much she tells him she loves him, or how much she sings in her lovely, soft, and sweet voice...Draco does not stop weeping.
For three days, he doesn't even go back to the Hospital Wing. He clings to the edges of functioning as a human, flickering in and out. Barely sleeping, barely eating, not saying a word, avoiding any interaction with anyone. It's numbing, not having to try and exist all the time. Doesn't hurt as much.
However, on Harry's birthday, he forces himself to go to the Hospital Wing, as much as he doesn't want to. Harry would want him to, so he does.
He's the first to arrive—of many, he'll later learn—and Madame Pomfrey takes one look at him before she's fussing. She shoves juice and biscuits in his hands, forcing him to eat in front of her, and then she threatens to force Dreamless Sleep down his throat if he doesn't land in a chair and stay there for a bit.
He does as she asks because she's not really someone to argue with, and besides, he's more than happy to drag his chair next to Harry's bed and sit there. Draco likes looking at him, even if it feels hollow because Harry isn't awake to look back.
Harry is beautiful. Draco remembers the first time he realized that—sitting on the sofa at the Manor, explaining to Harry that he'd be disowned for loving someone he shouldn't, uncertain about the swoop in his stomach as he said it, staring at Harry and declaring that he'd deserve to lose everything if he didn't do as he should, and then Harry defiantly stated that Draco wouldn't.
It was the first time Draco had the passing thought. Oh, he's lovely, he's gorgeous, he's beautiful, and you're never going to miss it again.
And he hasn't. Draco hasn't laid eyes upon Harry Potter and thought him anything less than absolutely stunning since that day. Even now, right now, Draco thinks he's ridiculously handsome. He wants to reach out and touch him. He doesn't care about the sweat that seems to come from Harry having a perpetual fever, and he doesn't care about Harry's cracked, chapped lips, and he doesn't care about how small and thin and sickly Harry seems. He doesn't care. Harry is inarguably lovely, and Draco wants to touch him.
Mostly, he wants Harry to reach out and touch him back. But he won't, he can't right now, and Draco heaves a sigh as he settles at his bed.
For a moment, Draco remembers the story of the Hag and the Princess. The Hag, Leticia Somnolens, had poisoned the Princess with Draught of Living Death, only for a Prince to come along and wake her up by putting some Wiggenweld Potion against his lips and kissing her awake.
Draco wishes he had Wiggenweld Potion right about now, but alas. Not that it would work anyway, but an excuse to kiss Harry would be nice, seeing as Harry's not awake to actually show his approval for one.
"Oh!"
He turns around in vague surprise at the sound of Granger. He hadn't heard her and Weasley come in, but he's not going to pretend like he didn't expect to see them. It's Harry's birthday.
It's not the first time they've run into each other. A lot of people come visit Harry, and sometimes visitors overlap. Draco will be arriving just as Lupin and Dora are leaving, or Draco will be leaving just as the Weasleys are arriving. A few times, Draco has bumped into Longbottom on his way in or out, as well as Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall and, oddly enough, Professor Trelawney. More than a few times, Draco has come across his own friends stopping by for a quick visit, though they always say they're really hanging around to see him. He lets them think that he believes that.
So, they've all been rather civil towards one another. More for Harry's sake than anything, for Draco at least. He has no particular interest in caring about gingers or know-it-alls or loony girls or anyone else that Harry collects like strays. He'll stick to his own ridiculously dramatic, over-the-top, smarmy and unapologetically snarky friends, thanks.
Still, it's Harry's birthday and Draco can be polite when he needs to, so he says, "Granger, Weasley. Where's the rest of your tiresome cortège?"
Well, mostly polite.
"We talked Mum into visiting later in the evening," Weasley says as he moves over to drop down in the chair next to Draco with no finesse whatsoever. He cuts his gaze over Draco critically. "You look like shite, Malfoy."
"Yes, thank you," Draco says primly. "My boyfriend is half-dead, so I suppose I have an excuse. You look unfortunate year round, so what's yours?"
"Oh, stop it, both of you," Granger snips, moving over to perch on the arm of Weasley's chair, leaning in between him and Draco like a live barrier. "Harry would hate it if you had a row in front of him, especially on his birthday."
"He can't actually hear us," Draco says.
Granger huffs quietly. "Yes, well, I'll be sure to tell him as soon as he wakes up."
"Always knew you were a tattler, Granger," Draco drawls. "It's really no attribute for a young lady to have, you know."
"Piss off, Malfoy," Weasley mutters.
Draco smirks faintly, bitterly. "I will when Harry tells me to. Whenever that will be."
"He'll wake up, Draco," Granger murmurs gently, as if they're having two different conversations. She still insists on treating him like a friend.
"I'm sure," is all Draco replies, for he finds that his throat is too tight to say much else.
Thankfully, there is silence for a while after that. Granger leans forward to grab Harry's closest hand between both of hers, warming the cool digits. Harry's hands are usually warm, but his entire body has been cool and clammy, fever or not. Her skin is darker than Harry's, but only by a few shades, and Draco finds himself staring at the smooth motion of brown on brown as Granger massages Harry's hand with absolutely no shame.
She loves him. So much. So many people do, and Draco is not the first on the list. He's jealous sometimes without even meaning to be, but it only sprouts from envy. So many other people have had years with Harry, endless moments and experiences, and Draco feels like he hasn't had enough. He doubts he'll ever get enough.
The quiet breaks with the arrival of Longbottom, Lovegood, and the girl Weasley. Draco feels outnumbered in a second. He shrinks back in his chair and fixes his gaze on Harry's face, refusing to look away or participate in the exchanging of greetings as the others join them.
"What do you think he's dreaming about?" Lovegood asks softly, moving over to stand by Harry's head. She reaches out and brushes her fingers over his eyelids, curious and gentle.
"Draco and Madame Pomfrey say he's not dreaming of anything," Granger murmurs. "He's—there's just nothing at the moment, Luna."
Lovegood hums, a doubtful sound. "There's never nothing. Even the absence of something is something, so there cannot be nothing."
"Comforting, Luna," the girl Weasley murmurs, and she sounds like she means it, quirking a small smile.
"Draco, darling, you're positively drowning in Gryffindors, you poor thing."
Draco has never in his life been more thankful to hear Pansy's voice than he is in that moment. He glances up, relieved to see her sweeping through the curtain with a small smirk. She hasn't gotten much better, not really, but she's gotten good at hiding how terrible things are, at least. He can see it, though, because he knows her.
"I'm a Ravenclaw," Lovegood says.
Pansy snorts. "A Gryffindor by association, is what you are."
"Be nice," Draco chides softly as she comes to stand beside his chair. He tips his head back to smirk faintly up at her, a ghost of the real thing. "It's Harry's birthday."
"Yes, I know," Pansy murmurs. She reaches out to press her fingers to the back of his neck, cupping and squeezing there, a brief comfort. "Blaise is on his way. He's dropping Greg off with Astoria."
"He didn't want to come," Draco says.
Pansy shakes her head. "He doesn't really want to go anywhere. Daphne is coming with Blaise and Theo, and Astoria agreed to spend the day with Greg while her mother is away for a week."
Draco is painfully aware that Granger and the girl Weasley are listening to their conversation, while Longbottom, Lovegood, and Weasley are all talking in low tones a few steps away. He almost doesn't want to talk about these things, but it's not like he should have to censor himself. If the Gryffindors want to listen and judge them for it, so be it.
"Have you seen him?" Draco asks.
"No." Pansy swallows and tries for a smirk again, but it only curls at the corner of her mouth. "I don't think I'm good company for him. I can barely look at him without—"
Draco sighs. "He doesn't blame you, Pans."
"He's too stupid to understand why he should," Pansy tells him sharply.
Granger clears her throat. "If—if I may…"
"You may not," Pansy snaps, sneering at her.
If anything, this response only seems to give Granger more resolve. She takes a deep breath and calmly says, "What you're feeling now is Survivor's Guilt. That, and—well, I imagine a great deal of grief for the loss of a friend who you've known for years. I don't mean to pry, truly, but it's not healthy to blame yourself for something that's not your fault. You're struggling to grasp how you're alive when Crabbe isn't, and it's no more rational than Goyle thinking the same thing. It's—Pansy, I am sorry that he's gone...but you're not at fault."
"What do you care?" Pansy bites out. "Don't act like you have any concern for us. Don't talk about things you don't know about, you filthy M—"
She snaps her mouth shut so hard that her teeth clack, and she blinks hard. Her nails are digging into the back of Draco's neck, pressing in tighter and tighter as the silence around them grows more thick and dense. Her breath comes out choppy, eyes watering, and Draco can see how hard she's trying not to break down right then and there.
"I know you're angry and hurt," Granger says stiffly, shoulders tight with tension, "and I am sorry. I am. And I'm not talking about things I don't know about. I never do. My father was in Birmingham in 1974, drinking in a pub with friends from his childhood. A bomb went off. Twenty-one people died, and my dad was the only one out of his friends to survive. He still deals with Survivor's Guilt to this day, and it's been over twenty years."
"What's a bomb?" Pansy asks, blinking, her voice hoarse and cracking.
Granger sighs quietly. "A Muggle creation that results in an explosion."
"And your father…" Pansy swallows, her fingers spasming against Draco's neck. "He still feels terrible about it. Even twenty years later?"
"It makes him sad," Granger murmurs. "It hurt him for a long time, but he got better. He says it helps to think that all of those that didn't survive wouldn't be upset that he did. Do you think Crabbe would?"
Pansy says nothing.
"Don't you think we'd take our chance and have a go at you if you were to blame?" Weasleys asks rather seriously. "You've said some nasty things over the years, Parkinson. Some true, most not. If you were at fault for this, don't you think we'd jump at the chance to use it against you?"
"You're all too upright for anything such as that," Pansy mutters, but she doesn't seem too sure. Her fingers relax against Draco's neck.
"We're really not," the girl Weasley assures her. "We were all there, weren't we? Most of us. I saw it with my own eyes. If you were the cause of Crabbe's death, I'd tell you. I'm honest like that."
"I don't need your pity," Pansy snaps, then clenches her jaw. She takes a deep breath, lets it out, and then focuses right on Granger. "I shouldn't have nearly said that slur. I apologize."
Granger's shoulders relax, just a bit, eyebrows folding together with even more visible concern than before. "Oh, Pansy, forget about that, would you? Harry always said that Slytherins react harshly when they're upset. You know, it's not really a House thing, I think. We all do it, too."
"We all do what?"
At Blaise's entrance—with Theo and Daphne filing in behind him—Pansy rips herself away from Draco and practically flies into his arms. She collides into him with a gasp, her whole body sagging like she can finally relax. He smiles into her hair, wrapping his arms around her, pressing a quick, hard kiss to her temple affectionately.
"I almost said the M-word," Pansy confesses, pulling back to stare at Blaise with a frown. "I'm sorry."
"What's she apologizing to him for?" Weasley mutters to Longbottom, and Longbottom shrugs.
"Got upset, did you?" Blaise asks easily, smoothing a hand down the side of her hair. "At Granger?"
"She was being nice," Pansy murmurs.
Blaise clicks his tongue. "How rude."
"You think she'd know better by now," Theo says, looking just as tired as the rest of them.
"She can't help it," Daphne says softly, stepping forward to smile at Granger and then Weasley, very specifically. "It's lovely to see you both again."
"Daphne!" Granger blurts, looking flustered.
Weasley coughs. "How've you been faring, then? We heard you got trapped by your mum."
"You heard correctly," Daphne confirms. "Mother was upset to hear that I was involved with the battle. She thinks it's no place for a lady."
"Hogwarts?" Weasley blurts, dumbfounded.
Daphne shakes her head. "War."
There's an uncomfortable silence after that one word. No one looks each other in the eye, like being a part of the battle is something to be ashamed of.
Draco wonders if everyone is handling it as terribly as him. He has nightmares about it, about the things he saw, about the things he did. If he closes his eyes, he can sometimes still hear the sound of the screams, can still smell the stench of death, can still feel the cloudy sense of panic and pandemonium pressing in all around him. He doesn't like to think about it, but sometimes he can't help what his mind turns to. Sometimes he thinks about it on purpose, wondering if he could have done things differently, pondering all the ways he fucked up.
None of them escaped unscathed. They all have to deal with the aftermath. And, somehow, they're all tied together by the one person who barely survived the war at all, the one person who isn't awake to help make things easier. Harry always made things easier, even when his life wasn't easy at all.
"Oh," Granger chokes out, "Harry would hate this."
She turns her gaze to Harry, looking completely distraught. She's entirely right, is the thing. Harry would hate this. He'd hate the tension between everyone, hate the visible drop in mood, hate the grief and pain hanging over everyone. He'd hate every single thing about all of this.
Draco is almost thankful that he's missing it.
"I don't think we're being very good friends to him right now," Lovegood says sadly. "Harry would want all of us to be friends. He would want us to bring each other comfort and laughter. It's his birthday."
"Well, it's not like he has to know," Theo says dryly, nodding pointedly to Harry's prone form. "He seems rather preoccupied at the moment."
"He could wake up at any time," Draco declares more sharply than he means to.
Blaise clears his throat and nods. "Of course he could. Suspect he'd wake up in a right state if he saw all of us not getting on."
"We were doing so well before," Granger whispers, reaching out to touch Harry's arm. She sniffles a little. "Or, I thought we were. It's different when he's not here."
"He's right there, Granger, or are you blind?" Pansy drawls, throwing her a pointed look.
"He looks dead," Draco notes tonelessly, staring at Harry. If not for the rise of his chest, Draco would think he was.
For some reason, that seems to set Granger off, and she's suddenly crying really hard. Weasley shoots Draco a venomous look and steps forward to comfort her at the same exact time that Daphne does. They each go to her side, reaching out to rub her arms and murmur to her quietly.
Draco drops his head forward and heaves a sigh, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes. Everything is shite. All of it's just...shite. He wants to turn back the hands of time and escape the present. He doesn't even dare to think about the future or what may come of it. The future has never been quite as daunting as it is right now.
Fingers press into his hair, gently stroking the strands to the side. It's a small hand. Must be Pansy. She's the only one brave enough to touch his hair. It's soothing, so he lets her. It makes his eyes prick with heat, with tears, and he doesn't even really care. He hasn't cried since Harry wouldn't wake up, and a part of him feels raw and wounded, like maybe he should be weeping all the time now.
"He—he would be happy that we're all here," Granger stutters out between her tears, hiccupping as Daphne and Weasley soothe her. "Harry cares about all of us. We're his friends."
No one denies it. That would be rude, honestly.
Draco takes in a deep shuddering breath and lifts his head, only to freeze. Lovegood is the one currently stroking his hair, and she's watching him with a patient smile. She stands next to him with her weird earrings and her odd clothes and her cloudy eyes, and Draco realizes for the first time that she's actually pretty. It's her hair, almost as white-blonde as his, though not quite, and her blue eyes. Striking features muted by everything else, but looking up at her, he can see that she almost seems angelic.
"He'll wake up, Draco," Lovegood tells him.
"Why do you call me that?" Draco asks.
Lovegood tilts her head, just a bit, and says, "That's your name, isn't it?"
"Don't mind Luna," the girl Weasley murmurs, lips twitching as she looks at Draco. "She does what she likes. If she's done calling you Malfoy, then you won't get her to say it again."
"Harry calls everyone by their first names," Lovegood announces dreamily. "It's so much kinder, don't you think? It gives us individuality and separates us from those who share our last name."
"Actually," Weasley says, turning to look at Blaise with a curious glint in his eye, "how do you lot know which Weasley you're talking about?"
The girl Weasley snorts. "He's right. There are a lot of us. Don't you get it mixed up?"
"We're not idiots, for one," Blaise drawls, rolling his eyes. "And we don't waste our time talking about Weasleys when they're not right in front of us."
"Harry only calls them by their names because I do and because he got used to pretending to be Arius Fawley," Draco says, gesturing to his friends.
Granger sniffles, turning her head to look right at him with watery eyes. "Oh, you know that's not all it is, Draco. Harry's determined when he really wants to be. He wanted everyone to be friends, he really did, and we're ruining it…"
"I don't know how to be friends with any of you," Pansy mutters, wrinkling her nose.
Longbottom quietly says, "Didn't you invite us to your wedding?"
"Did I?" Pansy asks faintly. "That seems like such a long time ago, now."
"I think Harry would like it if we were still friends, even if he isn't awake," Lovegood muses. "Didn't we all see the same things in the battle?"
"Lovegood," Theo starts.
"Luna," she corrects.
Theo pauses, looking distinctly uncomfortable, but he clears his throat and adjusts. "Luna, then. It's a bit more than that now, isn't it? All of you are being labelled war heroes, aren't you? I went out with Blaise a few days ago, and people were trying to shake his hand. It was mad."
"Are they, really?" Draco asks, vaguely stunned to hear it. He hasn't gone anywhere besides the Manor and here, so he wouldn't know.
"It's all in the Prophet and such," the girl Weasley says with a frown. "When we testified, we all got asked questions about the battle itself. Reporters were there. They heard the stories. All of us are considered heroes just like Harry now."
"It's dreadful," Granger whispers. "Everyone wants to ask us questions about what happened. It's not like we'd much rather forget or anything, no, not at all. And it's adults, too, which makes it worse. You'd think that they'd leave us be about it."
"There's a few articles about you, Draco," Pansy says with a grimace. "I thought Rita Skeeter would be kinder to you, seeing as you've helped her through the years, back when you hated Potter. Not so much, unfortunately. She's been writing exclusives on your love with Potter and how broken you are because he hasn't woken up."
"Ah," Draco says flatly, "lovely."
"Don't worry about that trash," Granger mutters, her eyes narrowing. "No one will believe it."
"It's utter rubbish," the girl Weasley agrees. "Even if you are broken, it's not like anyone will be able to tell. You're locked up like a vault, Malfoy."
"Am I?" Draco murmurs.
Longbottom makes a small, sad sound and says, "You just stare at everything with no expression and look tired, that's all. After what happened when you saved Harry's life, you've just been…"
"Dull," Lovegood suggests.
"Oh, Draco, we're doing such a terrible job of making sure you're okay," Granger chokes out, looking upset all over again. She looks at Weasley with glittery eyes. "We promised Harry that we'd—"
"I don't need anyone to look after me," Draco snaps, glaring at them. "I'm perfectly capable of handling myself. Besides, how are you meant to be taking care of me if you can barely take care of yourselves? Look at all of you! We're all as fucked up as each other."
"Yes, I would say so," Lovegood agrees lightly.
It's at this particular moment that Granger's leg buckles and she goes down before anyone can so much as lunge for her. Draco's out of his chair in an instant, wand out, kneeling on the floor beside her as Daphne and Weasley gasp and drop, too. Granger is clutching her thigh, whimpering through gritted teeth, and Draco doesn't like the sound of her in pain at all. Only a little over a year ago, he would have absolutely relished in it.
"It's fine. I'm fine," Granger wheezes, rocking forward and wincing. "This happens sometimes. It's the—I have nerve damage, but if I stand too long, I get a cramp. It's—ah, oh, shite."
"Move your hands, Granger," Draco says calmly, peeling her fingers away from her leg.
Granger slumps back into Weasley and Daphne, making the most pitiful sounds as she does. Draco reaches out and replaces her hands with his own, not particularly caring how it looks. Even through the coarse material of her jeans, he can feel the cramp on the back of her thigh.
Sighing, he waves his wand with his free hand to cast Warming Charms more involved with Healing, applying it to the affected area to help loosen the tightened muscle. Then he slides his hand along the bottom of her thigh, pressing into the muscle the whole way, and Granger lets out a groan that seems to be half-pain, half-pleasure.
Weasley and Daphne are blushing rather inappropriately, and if Draco weren't so focused, he would absolutely call them out on it.
Instead, he works the cramp out with his fingers, applying the necessary Charms—warm to cold, as most effective—and then runs the proper diagnostics. Granger does, in fact, have nerve damage. Rather unfortunate for her, but it's not detrimental to her health or life. She'll be fine, but she'll have random bouts of pain for the rest of her life. He can teach her the Spells to help with her cramps, though, if she has any more.
"Oh god," Granger breathes out when he's done, leaning into Weasley and Daphne with a soft sigh of relief, "that felt good."
"Good?" Weasley sputters.
"I think we should reevaluate those rumors that Hermione and Malfoy were dating," the girl Weasley muses, humor thick in her voice. "He just had his hands all over her leg, making her moan on the floor in front of us, and we don't think that's a bit suspicious? I'm just saying, is all. How do we know that they didn't have a—"
"Ginny," Granger grits out, "shut up."
"You are a naughty one, aren't you?" Blaise asks the girl Weasley in approval.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" she quips back.
Granger heaves a sigh and focuses on Draco, smiling at him slightly. "Thank you, Draco."
"Don't mention it. Ever." Draco elegantly pushes to his feet, leaving Granger to be helped up by Weasley and Daphne. He focuses on Harry instead, shuffling over to stand by his head. He looks down at Harry and shakes his head, murmuring, "Our friends are so stupid, all of them."
"Should we sing happy birthday?" Lovegood asks from right next to him, making him jolt.
"Absolutely not. Lovegood, I—"
"Luna."
"No."
"Please, Draco, just call me Luna."
Draco opens his mouth, glances at Harry's still face, then slowly closes it. He heaves a sigh. "Fine. No, Luna, we won't be singing happy birthday."
"We couldn't get him presents," the girl Weasley says with a frown. "I wish we could do something for him. It's not fair."
"We can do something for him," Luna says, tranquil and at complete ease. She turns her head, addressing everyone. "We can all be friends. He would love it."
"Well, we're all sort of…" Weasley grimaces, gesturing vaguely around at everyone. "We're not all the best of mates, but we're not trying to kill each other either. That counts for friends in our case, I think. What more can we be expected to do?"
"Friends call each other by their names," Luna declares simply. "Draco and I are friends now."
"Ah," Draco begins, "I didn't say—"
"Oh, come off it, Luna," Weasley says with a loud snort. "There's no need for it, is there?"
Luna looks faintly hurt by his response, and the girl Weasley instantly jumps to her defense. "What is it, Ron? Scared? You know you can't do it, is that it?"
"I could," Weasley mutters, frowning.
"We all should, and whoever slips up first has to tell Harry that none of his friends want to be friends with each other, even though he almost died and that's all he really seemed to want from all of us before he nearly did," the girl Weasley declares, her eyes bright with mischief.
"Please don't involve me in this," Longbottom says.
"Oh, come on, Neville," the girl Weasley teases, elbowing him playfully. "It'll be fun, I think, and Harry would like it. My bet is that Ron or Draco will slip up first."
"Oh, you shouldn't bet against Draco," Pansy tells her, arching an eyebrow. "He's nothing if not spiteful. He won't lose on principle alone."
"She's not lying," Theo agrees.
"Oh, I don't think so," Weasley counters, standing up a bit taller. "It's not like Draco will decide any of us are worthy of being called by our first names. Hermione has been saying that they're friends all year, and he still won't call her by her name!"
And oh, oh, it is now a matter of pride.
"Hermione," Draco says instantly, "how's your leg?"
The girl Weasley—or...Ginny? Draco's pretty sure her name is Ginny—throws her head back and crows with laughter, looking absolutely delighted. It's the first time the mood lifts, and Draco manages to smirk at her brother pointedly.
"You're actually doing this," Ron blurts, gaping at him, looking vaguely annoyed.
Draco blinks at him, innocent. "Of course, Ron. Why shouldn't we? After all, we are all adults here, or very close to it." He pauses, throwing a quick glance at Harry. "Besides, it's Harry's birthday."
"Blimey, this is going to be so odd," Ron mutters, wrinkling his nose. "Alright, fine, Draco. We'll see who slips first, then."
"I suppose we will," Draco agrees.
Maybe it's because it's Harry's birthday. Maybe it's because he hasn't woken up yet. Maybe it's because they all know what it was like during that battle, or because they all are struggling in the aftermath. Maybe it's because they all do want to be friends in some way, or because they're simply connected by too many things. Or, maybe it's because no one wants to be the one to tell Harry that his friends can't be friends, which doesn't really feel true anymore.
Whatever it is, no matter how strange this all is, no one slips up at all.
And Harry sleeps on, not dead but looking to be, while absolutely no one else is okay at all. But, for just a bit, as they all visit him on his birthday, things don't seem as terrible as they always do. The only thing that would make it better is if Harry would open his eyes and join them.
But he doesn't.
The thing about healing is, it takes time.
It's painful and requires effort and there's absolutely no magic in the world that can speed up recovery. Long after wounds heal, there are still scars. Long after limbs are lost, there are still phantom aches. Long after someone is gone, there are still moments of grief. And no one, not one person in the world, can make any of that different.
There is a brutality to reality, but Draco finds himself appreciating that. It gives him room to breathe. There are no ways that he can convince himself he's failing, not when he doesn't have a choice in what goes on anyway. There's just healing, and he's sucked into it.
His father comes back from Azkaban a different man for all of a week. Quieter, meeker, shadows in his eyes. Dementors. Draco knows what they feel like. For all that he teased Harry for them in Third Year, he's scared of them, too.
Yet, a week is all it takes for Lucius to drag the scraps of his image back together. And maybe he's not okay, but he's terribly good at pretending that he's unbothered. Back to a head held high, back to sneers and derision, back to effortlessly exuding what power he believes he has.
These days, Draco's convinced that his mother is far more powerful than his father. It's a sharp difference to what he thought growing up. But, in fairness, his mother was going to die for him. His father was not.
Draco avoids his father with relish. Lucius doesn't seem to notice, honestly. That comes from a combination of his mother's efforts and Theo being a proper distraction, Draco knows, and he's mostly thankful for it. A part of him—just a tiny part that likely will never go away—wishes that his father would look at him and see him. Wishes that he would care, or even pretend to.
Lucius does not.
The highlight of one of his weeks is when Aunt Dromeda verbally rips Lucius to shreds in front of a dinner party Narcissa is hosting in celebration for Lucius being back. It is, without a doubt, one of the most immaculate things that Draco has ever seen. While his mother isn't pleased, he does a terrible job of not snickering while his father clenches his jaw and works not to hex his sister-in-law.
In the end, Aunt Dromeda has a go at Draco, too. She turns to him and snaps, "And you, Draco, you're nothing more than a spoiled brat! Every time I come here with my daughter, you hide away in your room like you're too good to be seen with blood-traitors. What nonsense you must believe from your father if you're willing to abandon your mother in her time of need! She is wounded, as are many, but you scraped by just fine, didn't you? You're—"
"Andromeda," Narcissa interrupts coldly, and she never calls her that anymore, "you go too far. I will not allow you to come into my home and speak to my son in such a manner. I understand that you are grieving, but I simply won't stand for it."
Aunt Dromeda looks a lot like Aunt Bella, especially when she's ranting about ungrateful heirs too much like their fathers. Draco listens to his aunt snarl insults about the difference in her child and Narcissa's, and how that's all Lucius' fault, and why did Ted have to die when Lucius isn't even a good father, when he's not a husband worthy of his wife, when he's not even a good man, and then she's crying and sweeping out of the room.
It's hours later when Aunt Dromeda finds him in the Second Library. He's watching the rain like he always does, wishing that Harry were here to watch it with him. He doesn't even notice his aunt standing a few steps away until she clears her throat.
"I would like to apologize sincerely for my earlier outburst," Aunt Dromeda says stiffly.
Draco snorts quietly. "I'm sure you would. Don't fret about it. I'm not offended."
"I see that," Aunt Dromeda murmurs.
"Do you know that I'm in love with Harry Potter?" Draco asks her.
Aunt Dromeda blinks. "I—I had heard the rumors, but I did not believe them. So it's true, then? What they say about what happened at Hogwarts?"
"They?"
"Nymphadora might have mentioned it. I rather thought she was being dramatic."
"Oh no, it's likely as dramatic as it sounds. I did, in fact, make quite the scene that day," Draco tells her, drawing his legs up and leaving space for her to sit down. "You can sit, if you like."
"Thank you." Aunt Dromeda sweeps forward to sit, perching at the edge with her legs crossed. She reminds him of his mother, cold and distant and polite, but there's a sharp edge of something untamed to her. She's a Slytherin, raised as a Pureblood, and she turned her back on everything for love. A love that is now lost.
"You should know that my father doesn't like me very much for all the reasons that you would, if you actually knew me," Draco says. "Blood-traitors are the last thing I care about. I'd be one if my mother would allow my father to do as he truly wishes. Well, he said he wouldn't disown me, but it's not as if he's proud of me, either."
"Because you love Harry Potter?" Aunt Dromeda asks curiously, one eyebrow arching.
Draco smirks faintly. "I know. Such rebellion. I suppose it's more than that, too. I don't actually care about doing what he wants me to anymore, and I've stopped thinking the way he has for a while now."
Aunt Dromeda looks chagrined for a second. "Then I truly do owe you an apology, it seems. I've judged you unfairly."
"You didn't do anything wrong, not really." Draco laughs and turns his head to look out the window, watching the rain trickle down. "I used to be just like you said, in any case."
"It's all trot, Draco," Aunt Dromeda tells him with an inelegant snort. "All that stuff we learn growing up, it's just...stupid, honestly. No shame in ignoring it and doing what's best for you. It's what I did, and I don't regret it at all."
"Don't you? Even now, with your husband dead, you don't?" Draco asks, glancing at her.
"No." Aunt Dromeda's face softens, and it makes her look even more like Aunt Bella. She turns her head to look at the rain, too. "I would do it all over again. I would choose the same thing, even knowing how it ends, because it was so very worth it."
Draco thinks about Harry, about the slick of his blood on Draco's hands, about him lying in the Hospital Wing and not waking up. He thinks about all their fights, all their kisses, all their smiles and their touches and—
And he says, "Me too."
Despite knowing this, Draco still struggles every day. They pass too quickly, getting closer and closer to September, and Harry doesn't wake up.
Other things get easier. Time helps. Pansy doesn't stop crying when she looks at Greg, but she does manage to mostly dry her tears quickly and talk with him. Greg doesn't get much better, not yet, but it's clear that he will in the future. He's more responsive, at least.
Draco still has nightmares, but they're not as frequent. Sleeping is easier, just a bit. He eats more, mostly to appease Madame Pomfrey and his mother. Food still doesn't have much of a taste, but it no longer tastes like ash in his mouth. He's starting to have less and less flashes of the battle every time he closes his eyes. Starting to adjust. Heal.
Though he won't ever admit it, the others are helpful as well. The Gryffindor lot, he means. They all have their own issues, of course, but it's easier with them all together. Even the Weasleys aren't so terrible anymore, and Draco doesn't know if that's because he's softened, or because they were never really terrible to begin with.
He actually has more contact with Harry's friends than he means to. Once, he really does have to send Greg to stay the night with the Weasleys, all because he doesn't have anywhere else to go. It's the first time he ever floo-calls them, but it isn't the last.
They also do continue to bump into each other over visits with Harry. One time, Draco spends an hour with Neville in comfortable silence, and it's the most relaxed he's felt in days. More often than he likes, he spends time with Hermione and Ron, sitting at Harry's bedside and talking to them. They always draw him into their conversations like they're on a mission, and Draco keeps forgetting to stay silent.
It's not horrible, honestly.
And then, one morning in mid-August, Draco walks into the Hospital Wing with his mother and father, because they sometimes escort him for his visit, and Madame Pomfrey comes bustling up to them with a small smile that he's never seen her wear before.
It's a tiny, pleased thing. Her eyes are bright. She looks undeniably relieved. He comes to a screeching halt, heart lurching in his chest, and he knows.
He knows before she even opens her mouth that Harry has woken up. And he's not—
He isn't reacting to it well. Actually, he's not reacting to it at all, which isn't the way he expected this to go. He stands there stupidly, frozen in place, and he doesn't think he can move. He doesn't know if he's going to be able to take one more step.
"Mr. Potter woke up last night," Madame Pomfrey announces, standing up straight with no tension, as if she has finally felt relief for the first time.
Narcissa sucks in a sharp breath. "Oh, that's lovely. Draco, darling, isn't that—Draco?"
"I thought—"
Draco snaps his mouth shut, not at all enjoying the way his voice sounds, hoarse and choked. He doesn't want to finish that sentence, either. Ashamed of it. Ashamed of the truth in it. I thought he wasn't going to wake up, ever.
People don't always get their happy endings. That's just reality. Sometimes, those who deserve them the most will never get them at all. Sometimes, those who deserve them the least will know nothing else. That's just the way the world works.
He doesn't know where he falls on that scale. Is this a happy ending? Can it be? Does he deserve one?
He doesn't feel like he does.
"Draco," Madame Pomfrey says calmly, "he is still resting now, but he is out of his coma. I should warn you, he is an unruly patient. He will not like taking his potions, and I'm sure he'll put up a fuss about having to stay on bedrest for some time."
It feels like a scab. That's the only way to describe it. That rough piece of healing that you want to peel away to expose the soft, weakened skin beneath. Feel the tenderness of it, watch it bleed. But you can't, not too soon, not before it has healed enough.
And maybe Draco has, not even noticing it happen, because he takes a shaky step forward and sets his shoulders. Whether or not he deserves a happy ending, Harry Potter certainly does, and by some miracle, Draco just so happens to be included in that for him. There's so much more time ahead of them, and he's ready for it. Willing and waiting.
"He won't be a problem for me, Madame Pomfrey, I assure you," Draco says seriously. "I'll handle him. I'll help him get better."
Madame Pomfrey hums. "We shall see."
With that, she turns around and sweeps away, no doubt going to disappear through the curtain to where Harry is waiting. Draco watches her go for a beat, then jolts when he feels his mother's prosthetic touch his arm.
"I'll wait here while you see to him," Narcissa tells him gently, her eyes soft, her smile tender. She loves him, she loves him, she loves him so much. "Do let me know when he wakes when you can, darling."
"I will," Draco vows. He cuts his gaze to his father, who is standing there with no expression, then looks back to his mother. "Thank you, Mother."
"You're welcome, Draco," she replies.
The thing about healing is, it's absolutely necessary. It starts with the injury first, and then the decision to live past it, and then the whole journey unravels ahead. Sometimes, there is no end in sight. Most times, there is an improvement before anyone even notices it. Always, always, it's worth it.
Draco had thought he lost everything. Had been prepared to. Had convinced himself that he still had, even when Harry lived. And now… Well, now, he takes the first step towards Harry, going forward to have everything return to him once more, finally.
He doesn't plan to let it go, not ever.
Chapter 2: Bargaining for Marriage
Notes:
Not me having practically all the soft fluff coming your way after the first chapter. Bahaha, enjoy it. Mostly everything is happy from here on out.
MOSTLY. We do have some sad every now and again, but nothing too bad or not eventually resolved.
Oh also, this chapter contains smut scenes of a sort. Like...there's smut, but also not very in-depth smut. It's atmospheric. 😂
Anyway, enjoy!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Draco feels absolutely no shame in stealing his boyfriend's Invisibility Cloak. He probably should, but he just doesn't. It's for a good cause, anyway.
He's sure Harry won't mind. Probably. Maybe.
No regret and no shame, not in this. Draco is doing something that might just be the most idiotic thing that he has ever done or will ever do. His current level of stupidity is unmatched by anyone other than Harry, who technically did it first. At least Draco has enough sense to show up invisible.
Except, well, he can't actually stay invisible. He recalls in perfect clarity how Harry said that the Dark Lord was going to make it so that he can't be found. Draco does not doubt his abilities in the least—because he doesn't have a death wish—so this is only more complicated now.
For all Draco knows, the Dark Lord could be standing right beside him. While this would be a comforting thought for Harry, who is undeniably mental, Draco doesn't find it a relief at all. Especially not here. Not this horrible place.
The Injurious Jungle is a very dark, dank, cramped, and daunting place. Draco feels cold to the bone, a heavy sense of unease sliding through him, making all his hairs stand on end. He listens with his ears perked, shivering in response to the creaking bark of the trees, the groaning branches as they sway, the rustle of the breeze that feels like a taunt. It's too quiet otherwise, as if nothing actually exists here, or survives. No animals, no people, no life.
It's what one would expect for a Dark Lord, honestly.
Draco doesn't know all the details. He has no idea where, exactly, Harry found the Dark Lord the first time, or whether the Dark Lord stayed there. He does know that the Dark Lord won't be found. If Draco wants to see him, he's going to have to let the Dark Lord come to him. If he even will.
This is, without a doubt, the most ridiculously foolish thing he's ever done in his life. While he isn't personally responsible for the Dark Lord losing the war and never actually betrayed him as such, his parents weren't very quiet in their disloyalty when they were killing Death Eaters that they were supposed to fight with. There's also the vague idea Draco has that the Dark Lord never really liked him that much, and while that feeling is wholeheartedly mutual, it's doing him no favors now.
Coming here is a risk. It's also Draco's only option. No matter what his mother thinks, his father isn't going to eventually, magically give into the request for Harry and Draco to get married.
Sure, they can just do it anyway, but Draco's quite certain that his mother will be disappointed in him and Harry both for not waiting for Lucius to give in—because she honestly believes he one day will, even if he won't, ever. Not only that, but Harry already knows that Draco wants to do it traditionally, so he'll stubbornly fight to do it that way as well, to no avail. And, well, a small part of Draco wants to beat his father at his own game, which has pushed him to do something so incredibly vacuous that he's a little disappointed in himself for it. This is not how a Malfoy acts, or a Slytherin for that matter.
But alas, the things you do for love and pride.
An abrupt, quiet hiss from behind him has Draco whirling around and taking a stumbling step backwards. He forgets for a second that the Invisibility Cloak doesn't block sound and yelps when he sees a medium-sized snake with glinting red scales and yellow-slitted eyes slithering right for him, hissing at him.
Oh, lovely, he's come all this way for a fucking snake to scent him in the air and bite him. He's going to die, and literally no one will ever know what happened to him. Harry's going to be so upset.
And it just has to be a snake, doesn't it? Because that's not ironic at all. Draco prefers his snakes as decorative pieces, thank you very much. Honestly, he's actually rather terrified of snakes, not that he'd ever admit that to another soul. After the Dark Lord's snake slid around the Manor at her leisure, snakes have always just put him off.
This one in question lunges for him lightning-fast, and he trips backwards with a small shriek, trying to get as far away as possible. The Cloak slides off him, landing in a heap on the ground, and he considers just leaving it there as he tries to get his balance. Only, he freezes in place mere seconds later.
"Ah, the Malfoy child."
That voice never fails to make him break out in goosebumps, a violent shudder rippling down his back in response. Harry claims that he simply got used to the Dark Lord, but Draco has no idea how. One doesn't just grow accustomed to staring death and agony in the face, but Harry apparently did. He's a complete nutter, that one, and Draco's the mad one who's in love with him.
The Dark Lord comes floating out a tiny break in the trees, robes billowing, eyes gleaming red. There's an otherworldly, monstrous aura to him. He reeks of power, of danger, and all instincts lead to the proper response—revulsion and fear. He doesn't even have a wand on him, but Draco doubts he actually needs one. He has a new pet snake now, which is far from comforting, and how can Harry actually miss this person?
Draco doesn't understand. He pretends to, sometimes, or teases him, but in truth...he doesn't understand how Harry can care for the Dark Lord. Draco can barely stand in front of him without pissing himself. Merlin and Morgana both, what was he thinking, coming here?
The Dark Lord is hissing at his snake, and his snake is hissing back, and Draco feels like his heart is going to burst free from his chest. The Dark Lord is pale and grotesque and there's something about the way he moves, the way he responds to the world around him, like it's his and bows to his command, like he's a cryptid who revealed himself in pursuit of causing destruction. Draco might pass out.
But no, no, he's had some practice with this. He has stood in front of the Dark Lord before, even without Harry. He knows how to at least act like he's not picturing his own torture on a loop in his mind. He doubts he acts very well, but he does his best.
"My Lord," Draco greets by rote, a mere instinct at this point, even though it feels sort of wrong to say.
"Am I?" The Dark Lord surveys him like he's nothing but the dirt beneath his bare feet. His head tilts to the side in one jerky motion that creaks, and it's so terrifying that Draco will definitely have that starring in his nightmares from here on out. "Tell me, why are you here? Nagini almost took you as a meal. She forgets that she is too small to be a man-eater these days. You'll have to forgive her for her brief misunderstanding; she remembers you, it seems, and would like to swallow you. Or try to."
Draco almost whimpers, but manages not to by swallowing thickly and audibly. "I thought she—ah, I'm...pleased that she's returned."
"No, you are not."
"Harry will be."
"You will not tell him," the Dark Lord says instantly, sharp and cold. "He will wish to visit her, and he must not. He cannot."
"I won't tell him," Draco agrees quickly, resisting the urge to forget everything this is about and just take off running.
The Dark Lord regards him with slitted eyes, suspicious and sinister. Draco tries to comfort himself with the thought that this is someone who is soft of (?) like Harry's father figure, whether Harry himself wants to acknowledge that or not. It says a lot about Lucius that a literal Dark Lord has better parental tendencies even when he created no actual children of his own. Trust Harry to find the most dangerous man-slash-creature on this earth and secretly hope it would be his guardian.
Draco might be, possibly, freaking out, just a little. If he dies, he's going to—well, he'll do nothing because he'll be dead, but alas. He has no true desire to die or even push the constraints of risk on his continued survival, but by Merlin, he wants to do this. It is stupid, immeasurably so, and here he is anyway. Now he just has to...live to tell the tale.
If he can.
"Why did you come here?" the Dark Lord asks, staring at him in visible irritation. "Leave. I do not wish for you to be here."
Draco flinches, then clears his throat. "I'm—it's important. It's about Harry."
"Harry." The Dark Lord's eyes flutter briefly like red fireflies, and then his gaze sharpens on Draco, serious and intent. "He is alive."
"Ah, yes," Draco agrees awkwardly.
The Dark Lord doesn't blink for a long time, which is inhuman and creepy and making Draco want to shift restlessly, and then he doesn't blink even as he slowly asks, "Is he well?"
"Is he—" Draco snaps his mouth shut, blinking rapidly and halting the incredulous echo that nearly left his mouth in full. Again, he has to control himself here. If the Dark Lord wants to ask after Harry because he cares, then it's in Draco's best interest to give him the information. "Yes, he's quite well. We, er, don't live in the Manor. We have a flat. He's working on becoming a teacher—or, well, an instructor of sorts. He's… He's happy."
"I see." The Dark Lord hums, watching him, giving nothing away in his reactions or expression. "If Harry is well, and he is happy, then explain to me what has brought you here."
"Right," Draco whispers, shaking all over and feeling absolutely boneless with fear. "Ah, I'm—I—"
He can't get much farther from there, sort of just frozen in terror, and he's very sure of his own death. Harry wouldn't blame him for fleeing like a coward at this point, would be? It's better to never get married than have Draco die trying. Merlin.
The Dark Lord looks increasingly annoyed every second that passes where Draco can't get his clamped teeth to unlock and open, and he's borderline furious when he snaps, "Speak, boy! You waste my time now, and I won't have it. What do you have to fear? I will not harm you. You are not and have not ever been mine to harm. Speak!"
Oh, is that still in effect? Because if so, Draco's going to deflate and possibly sink to the ground from the force of his relief. He will be crying about this later, that's a promise.
"Harry, ah—well, he sees you as a guardian," Draco starts carefully, hesitant, still so scared that his vision blurs not from tears but from how hard he's rattling with the need to flee.
"I'm aware," the Dark Lord says, looking displeased at Draco's halting speech. He's impatient.
Right, this will be best to just get out of the way, won't it? Keeping the Dark Lord in suspense isn't doing him any favors, clearly, so Draco takes a deep breath and forces himself—with only just the barest tremble to his otherwise calm voice—to say, "I want to marry him."
Finally, after such a long time, the Dark Lord blinks, just once. It's not a very...reassuring one. It's slow, calculating, a flicker of movement that matches the tilt of his head. It's like he hasn't blinked at all, and the intensity of his gaze makes Draco's skin prickle.
"You wish to marry him," the Dark Lord repeats softly, his words wrapped in velvet malice, a threat that comes with warning.
"Yes," Draco squeaks. "In fairness, he wants to get married, too. It's a joint effort, really. Ah, I mean—"
The Dark Lord lifts his hand, shutting Draco up in an instant. "Would it not be easier to get the approval of your parents, young Draco?"
"My father…" Draco resists the urge to snort in distaste, then doesn't even try and hide his grimace. It's not like the Dark Lord won't be able to notice anyway. He knows everything as it is, which is part of why he's so frightening. "While my mother already approves of us, my father is set on never doing so. He's a very stubborn man."
"And so you've come to me," the Dark Lord murmurs, words spun with silk so fine that it could slice skin. "Lucius is the eagle, and you are the arrow. We often give our enemies the means of our own destruction. I would know better than most."
Draco doesn't actually know what he's talking about, so he decides not to risk replying. He just stands there and internally tries to reassure himself that the Dark Lord probably isn't going to kill him. Didn't he promise Harry he wouldn't do that? He wouldn't break a promise to Harry, would he? Draco doubts it, seeing as he knows everything that Harry's told him and can infer the rest.
Right, Harry 'I-live-to-do-the-impossible' Potter somehow managed to get the Dark Lord's favor.
The Dark Lord surveys him for a long, cold moment. His eyes are red like a rare blood-moon, peering endless and unmoving, roses of death from eyelid to eyelid. Draco can't help but shiver under the gaze.
"What makes you believe you are worthy of him?" the Dark Lord asks.
"I don't. I'm not." Draco swallows and shifts in place, trying not to show how much that knowledge wants to make him wilt. He can't figure out why Harry loves him. He's never been able to. He fears he'll never know. "I—I don't claim to be, but he wants me. Doesn't he deserve to be happy?"
It's stupid to ask such a question. It's meant rhetorically, but not really. It's a daring thing to say, especially when he means it, especially to the monster who has surrendered for it.
The Dark Lord narrows his eyes. "Do not attempt to manipulate me, boy. I care very little for love, or for the romantic whims of the heart, his especially. He is a fool, as are you. Everyone is."
Even you? Draco doesn't ask. He doesn't really need to. After all, the Dark Lord is here in forfeit, on the edge of survival, and for what? For love? For caring? Draco doesn't admire him for it, but he is thankful nonetheless. It allows him to have Harry, safe and alive and well. Draco would bow to him for that, if asked. That makes him dangerous, too.
"You've declined my request, then, My Lord?" Draco asks, not entirely sure.
"I am not your Lord, nor have I ever been. You were always singularly devoted to Harry." The Dark Lord sneers, eyes flashing with anger. "Foolish, not unlike your father."
"I know," Draco says shakily, because it's true and he gets the feeling that lying would only end with him face-down in the first, dragging in his last breath. "I—I do respect that he cares for you."
He does, is the thing. He may not understand why, or even how it works, but he respects it. Harry is loved by so many, as he should be, even the worst of them all. And, in turn, Harry loves with ferocity that knows no constraints, and not even the force of his own shame and guilt can stop him. Draco doesn't begrudge him that, not when it's one of the things that led to him being lucky enough to get Harry's love in the first place. No one else would love him like Harry does, because he does not deserve it.
"Do you?" The Dark Lord regards him with faint curiosity, but the dangerous kind. As if he hasn't decided whether to kill him or not, no matter who he claims owns Draco. "You must, if you are here. What makes you think I would grant permission?"
Draco swallows. "Nothing. I just—I had to try."
"So it would seem," the Dark Lord murmurs, watching him. His snake—Nagini, isn't it?—coils in a slow circle around Draco's feet, nearly touching, hissing without pause. Draco is doing his best to ignore it, but the Dark Lord flicks his gaze to it and hisses quietly at length. When he stops, he looks almost...thoughtful. "You love him."
"Yes."
"To your detriment?"
It's a test, a quick one, and Draco can't afford to fail it. No hesitation, not for this. The response flows quick and easy from his lips, more honest than he's prepared for. "Yes," he says, and it rings true.
"Devoted, loyal," the Dark Lord muses softly, watching him closely. "It laughs in the face of self-preservation. It's not very Malfoy, nor very Slytherin. Your father must be so disappointed."
"He is," Draco admits. "It's a bit hypocritical of him. He feels the same for my mother."
"He does. He always has, no matter how he tried to hide it. There is a pattern in many Slytherins that I have noticed. Would you like to hear it?"
Not particularly.
"I would be eager to listen, My—er...sir?"
The Dark Lord looks cruelly amused for a second, viciously delighting in watching him squirm. He tilts his head and says, "When I was your age, I studied a theory on empathy. There are different forms of it. Some feel empathy for those they have no connection to, or even those who may not deserve it, like Harry. Some feel empathy only for those that they are connected to whether they deserve it or not, and they feel it for no one else. I've found through the years that many Slytherins fall into the latter category."
Do you? Draco almost asks, before he remembers that the Dark Lord doesn't feel empathy at all. Right? Well, if he does, it's only for Harry. He was a Slytherin, too, after all.
"So it's a common trait," Draco says hoarsely.
"Indeed." The Dark Lord releases a quiet sound, almost a sigh. Tired. It makes Draco's head spin because it is most unusual. "The Malfoys through the years, I have noticed, feel this more than most. Your father is the same, mostly centered around your mother, and now this curse befalls to you in regards to Harry. Such is the way that ends with you before me, recklessly making a request."
"I take it most people who feel the different forms of empathy aren't usually…compatible," Draco murmurs, curious despite himself. He doesn't know why he's surprised that the Dark Lord is intelligent. Or, well, maybe he's surprised that he finds himself a little intrigued in spite of his own fear.
"From what I have observed over the years," the Dark Lord says, "it appears they aren't. Too much strife in those caught up in what they cannot see in the other person. Too different. Those with the former empathy believe the others cruel and careless. Those with the latter empathy believe the others idealistic and benighted. It is not often that those individuals see past that."
"It's the difference between the Houses, isn't it? Is that what the Sorting Hat judges in a person?" Draco asks, too surprised to care that he's having a conversation with Lord Voldemort of all people. "Levels of empathy?"
"I believe that is part of it, yes," the Dark Lord answers, clearly having given this some thought. "Gryffindors have an instinct for the former, while Slytherins have only the latter. Hufflepuffs have too little of neither, and I suspect that Ravenclaws have the balance of both—hence the praise for their intellectual ability. Balance is coveted."
Draco blinks rapidly. "Are you saying that the—the best House is Ravenclaw?"
"No," the Dark Lord declares sharply. "Houses are a foolish system children cling to. A matter of pride that holds no true value. I am a Slytherin and therefore I am evil. Would I not be if I had been sorted into Gryffindor?"
"I'm not sure if that's how it works," Draco admits, thinking of Peter Pettigrew and Severus Snape and Harry Potter himself. He swallows.
The Dark Lord inclines his head. "It is not. Hogwarts Houses are not a quintessential element. It is, however, a homage to the incompatibility that you are right to fear. You and Harry do not have the same level of empathy. You and him fall on different ends of that spectrum. Do you expect your relationship to deteriorate with time because of it?"
"No."
"I see. How are you so certain?"
"He already knows." Draco takes a deep breath and stands as tall as he can, refusing to budge. "I don't care about the world. I never did. He knows that. I already know how much he does care about the world, and how he always will. We already broke past the strife and seen past it."
"You do not think he will change his mind?"
"No, I don't."
"Why?"
"If anyone could have led to him changing his mind, it would have been you. But you didn't."
"Ah, indeed," the Dark Lord murmurs. "He is a very troublesome child. Determined to be reckless, especially with himself."
Draco sighs. "I know."
"He is immortal," the Dark Lord tells him.
"We all are," Draco says, picking Harry's words right out of his own mind, because they have stuck with him for so long. "Until we aren't."
The Dark Lord regards him with a sharp, knowing gaze. "That is a very imprudent way to think, boy. Harry's influence, is it?"
"He's very influential," Draco says weakly.
"Yes," the Dark Lord agrees shortly. His next words come out cold, but Draco gets the feeling that there's something almost wistful about them. "He could, should he so wish, take over the world and run it as he desires. With or without me. What would you do if the notion struck him?"
Draco feels a violent shudder run through him at the reminder of Harry's power—of his influence. Harry doesn't ever seem to realize it. He could have the world crumbling at his feet with enough attention to detail, with a plan set in motion. He's powerful. He's strong. His magic burns as bright as stars sometimes and he doesn't even notice it.
What Harry has is the capability to kill. He can if he wants and has. He can do the exact same thing that the Dark Lord has, and he can probably do it better. The people that are loyal to him are loyal to a fault. If Harry decided to burn the world, many of his friends and those he loves would help feed the flames.
People are right to fear him, though Draco hasn't since he reached out in the window seat in the Manor to touch Harry and realized why he was scared of him to begin with, two years ago now.
When Harry gets angry, he's capable of destruction. If he decides to fight, he can't actually lose because he can't actually die. He has the good people on his side, and the questionable ones as well, and even the worst that stands before Draco now. Harry literally has the Dark Lord at his disposal, if he should decide to come and demand they take over the world together, and Draco doesn't doubt that the Dark Lord would.
That's not it, either. Harry's friends are fierce and smart and devoted. Draco has witnessed it. For Harry, they all marched up to Professor McGonagall, ready to do what they could to protect him, even when he was objectively in the wrong. And, even then, there was no need for it. Professor McGonagall protected him, too, as so many people would.
It is why Dumbledore fears him. Draco knows he does, though he's never told Harry this, and never will. Harry doesn't see it, doesn't understand his own grip on the world, all because he'd never abuse it. Harry's life was split in half, and he did the impossible by sowing it together, all because he wouldn't have it any other way.
That is why Dumbledore is the way he is towards Harry. Because he loves him just as so many people do, and perhaps he knows what could come of it.
Dumbledore wouldn't be able to stop him, or defeat him, if it ever came to it.
Harry doesn't even know.
"If he did," Draco says slowly, "I would support him. But he won't. You know he won't."
"I do know," the Dark Lord agrees. "Pity."
A terrible part of Draco can't help but agree. No, he doesn't want the streets and rivers to run red with blood, but a twisted part of him could picture appreciating the art of it, if it was at Harry's hands. He'd said it once, that he and Harry could be a very dangerous couple if they wanted to be. They could. Half of him wishes they were, while the other, slightly larger half is thankful they are not. Murder actually does put him off, honestly, though never when Harry does it. Loyal, devoted—just as the Dark Lord said—and also in love.
"He's good," Draco murmurs, because Harry is.
"I know," the Dark Lord says, sneering faintly. It's half-hearted at best, as if he's long come to terms with this fact, and maybe it's the reason he cares for him to begin with. It's clearly a part of it, at least. He narrows his eyes again. "What would you give to marry him, Malfoy child?"
Draco's response is instantaneous and comes out in a soft breath. "Anything."
"Your life?" the Dark Lord asks.
"That...defeats the purpose, doesn't it?" Draco replies cautiously, frowning.
The Dark Lord hums, low and almost a sinister hiss that makes Draco shiver. "Very observant, I see. Very well, I shall word it differently. Would you risk your life on the chance?"
I already am, Draco thinks, but he indulgently says, "Yes, I would."
"What would you do for him to be given that chance?"
"What would you ask of me?"
"Wrong." The Dark Lord narrows his eyes in warning, fingers gracefully flicking through the air as he suddenly hisses. Parseltongue. Nagini immediately starts winding her way up Draco's leg over his trousers, and it takes everything within him not to whimper or shake apart. The Dark Lord stares at him coldly, angry, so angry. "I will not ask again, but you will give the correct answer."
Draco shakes almost violently, standing frozen as Nagini slides up his body, hissing menacingly. He doesn't even want to know what she's saying. He wracks his brain, trying to work out where he went wrong, and the thought comes to him quickly. Oh, right, this is not a negotiation.
"Everything," Draco amends, and it's not a lie. "I would do everything. He deserves that."
The Dark Lord watches him for a moment longer, then hisses something, and Nagini slithers her way back down, circling his feet once more. "He deserves nothing less," the Dark Lord hisses. "He could do away with you in an instant if he wishes, but he has chosen not to. Let it be known, boy, that I will do it in his stead if you do not treat him well."
The shovel talk. He's getting the shovel talk. From the Dark Lord. On Harry's behalf.
Wonders never cease.
"Ah, right, of course," Draco says, his voice cracking. He stares, wide-eyed, as the Dark Lord abruptly turns and sweeps away, disappearing in between the trees. He glances down to see Nagini still slithering around his boots. She hisses at him. Or, well, it looks like a male snake now, which sends Draco's mind spiralling. Still, he thinks that she was fond of Harry, once, and he's not above using that in his favor if he can. It won't hurt, at least, so he tells her, "Harry misses you."
He gets a hiss in response, but he can't actually tell if it's a good thing or a bad thing. So, he stands there in silence and tries to stop shaking, to no avail.
For a long time, Draco stands in place, well aware that he can't move. He doesn't dare try, not with Nagini circling his feet like a prison warden. He wonders what's going to happen to him now. The Dark Lord isn't very forthcoming about his plans, and Draco has no idea how he plays into them.
One thing he is sure of, though, is that the Dark Lord cares for Harry. It's like Harry is his ward. It's only so obvious because the Dark Lord has never cared for anything else. It's clear that he thinks of Harry as something to protect, and while that is absolutely bizarre in so many ways, Draco can't help but find himself a little relieved.
Finally, after some time, the Dark Lord comes floating back out from between the trees. With him, he has a quill and a piece of parchment. Draco's heart positively leaps into his throat. No, surely not. Is this—it can't be. Can it?
"I presume you know of how this works," the Dark Lord says sharply, watching him as he comes to a halt, one naked eyebrow arched.
Draco does know how this works. He was there when his father and Pansy's mother drew up the agreement when they were only seven. He remembers being utterly disgusted with the idea of marrying a girl, as most young boys are, a trait he never actually grew out of—though, he did grow into the trait of respecting women, thankfully, even if he doesn't desire them. Pansy would kill him otherwise.
The Pureblood tradition of getting permission to marry from the parents sprouts from the intricate dance of arranged marriages anyway. Usually, it's the parents who come together on the behalf of their young children to arrange everything. It consists of terms, and consequences if those terms aren't met. On rare occasions, when an arranged marriage isn't planned in advance, the permission has to be granted from the parents later, such as now.
The terms usually consist of money and land and properties, things such as that, as well as the requirement for an heir. It's rarely discussed what will become of the happiness of their children, since arranged marriages aren't about that.
The consequences of the terms not being met are usually the loss of pretty much everything the one failing to comply owns, as well as their reputation in Pureblood society. Draco got lucky with Pansy, because he never actually started courting her. When Narcissa terminated the arranged marriage under Lucius' nose, she did so with grace and with Pansy present, which was a tactical decision on her part because she just so happened to suggest that Pansy already had a Pureblood she wanted to marry more than Draco anyway.
Mrs. Parkinson is an unusually kind woman to have such a nasty daughter, and she only really cares as long as Pureblood traditions are met. Pansy marrying Blaise fulfilled all her requirements with ease, so she has no reason to be upset. Draco doubts it will go over well when Blaise and Pansy adopt, but that's not really his problem.
Draco doesn't know what terms and consequences he will be met with here, but he's already resolved to agree to them, so he just says, "I know how this works, yes."
"You will be faithful, loyal," the Dark Lord says, and it is not a question. "He has the desire to be wanted wholly. You will fulfill it."
"Yes," Draco agrees.
"You will make him happy, as much as you are capable, and never endeavor to hurt him."
"Yes."
"Though you will never manage it, you will try to be worthy of him."
"Yes."
The Dark Lord narrows his eyes. "What I will tell you now is not a term or obligation, but rather a warning. Do not break his trust. Never, no matter what. If you do, you will live to regret it."
"I—I won't," Draco rasps, and he hopes that it's true. He doesn't know the future, but breaking Harry's trust is the last thing he wants to do.
"If you fail to meet these terms," the Dark Lord murmurs, low and laced with threat, "I will personally come out of seclusion to ensure that you do not live past it. You may run, you may hide, but I will find you and rid the world of you if you are foolish enough to break the requirements."
Draco blinks. That's...it? Surely that's not all the Dark Lord will require of him. Just that he be faithful, try and make Harry happy, and work to be worthy of him? Don't those in love try to do those things anyway? Draco has already decided to do them before it was asked of him.
And death? That's the consequence? It's not like he honestly expected anything less. This is almost too good to be true.
"Yes," Draco agrees readily, earnestly, unable to help himself from how eager he sounds. "Yes to all of it. I agree to the terms and consequences."
"Then you will have your tradition." The Dark Lord writes in silence, then rolls up the parchment with fluid precision. With a flick of his hand, a small trip of his robe tears off and drapes over his hand, and with one touch it shimmers into a ribbon that he ties deftly around the scroll. It's a show of magic that seems flippant, as if the Dark Lord can do anything with just a wave of his hand, and perhaps that is why he does it. He flicks his gaze up and reaches out, offering the scroll. "He may disregard this if he doesn't agree to the implication of me being his guardian. You know this?"
"He won't," Draco says quietly, moving only when Nagini slithers to the side to give him a path. He carefully steps forward and takes the scroll, almost expecting something to happen, but the Dark Lord just gives it to him. "He—Harry sees you that way. I think. Sort of. It's complicated."
"Yes," the Dark Lord confirms, lowering his arm and watching Draco intently. "I believe I do not need to tell you to inform no one of my location."
Draco shakes his head. "No."
"Do not forget, young Draco, that I am in seclusion for Harry's happiness. I will just as quickly leave it if you endanger it."
"Right. Yes. Got it."
The Dark Lord hums. "Then you may act as you wish. You have what you need. Leave."
"Thank you," Draco blurts out, then hurries to scoop up the Invisibility Cloak and duck underneath it, relieved to get as far away from death as possible.
He leaves.
When he gets home, it's just in time that he usually gets out of St. Mungos. Harry's head snaps up when he steps into the kitchen, following the strong scent of something savory and spicy, and his green eyes light up with delight just as they always do.
Draco stands in the doorway, taking a deep breath, then slowly lets it out. The things people do for love.
"Long day?" Harry asks. "You look knackered."
"You have no idea," Draco tells him, because he really doesn't.
Harry grins wryly at him. "Go have a shower, then. Wash the day away. Supper's nearly ready."
"Join me?" Draco asks, sidling up to him, reaching out to slide his hands over Harry's arms.
"I'm still cooking," Harry replies with a quiet laugh, smacking his hands away lightly.
"Let it burn," Draco suggests, curling in close and nosing at Harry's cheek, pressing a kiss to his jaw, chasing as he chuckles and leans away. "We can get take-out. Didn't have much of that growing up, you know. What's all the fuss about? I can get a new experience, and you can come shower with me."
Harry snorts loudly in his ear. "If you think I'm going to waste the food I've been cooking, you're absolutely barking. Go have a shower alone, and we'll shag after Supper."
"Where's the spontaneity, Harry?" Draco teases, pressing the words warm and wet into the skin of Harry's throat, delighting in his shiver.
"What has gotten into you today?" Harry asks, mildly breathless as Draco pushes him back towards the counter. He lets out a strangled laugh when Draco starts tugging insistently at his shirt. "Oh, bugger. Draco, if the Shepherd's Pie burns, I will—"
Draco carelessly reaches over to the oven and fiddles with the nozzles until the flame from inside goes dim, cutting it off with a distinct click. Harry yelps, trying to reach out and turn it back on, but Draco just tugs his arm down and leans into him. He kisses him before he protests, and that shuts him up quite nicely, as it usually does.
He always used to want Harry Potter to shut up, and now he loves making that happen. He's going to marry Harry Potter, and a part of him is utterly giddy with the knowledge. For all that he's hated Harry and still does, he's always loved him much more, which is, perhaps, where the hate sprouts from.
But, of course, Draco doesn't hate him at all.
Harry is laughing against his mouth, reeling back and rocking forward to keep the kiss from breaking, warm hands sliding up Draco's chest to weave around his neck. Yes, good, that's very good. Draco hums in approval and reaches up to slide his fingers into Harry's unruly hair, knowing it will render him completely useless for at least an hour if he just so happens to yank on it.
Merlin, Draco loves Harry's hair. He could wax poetic about it for days if it wouldn't be terrible for his reputation. Harry's hair is wild and coarse and black like spilled ink, thick against Draco's knuckles, smelling of Harry, just Harry, always.
"Come shower with me," Draco breathes out, the words a mere whisper against Harry's lips.
Harry hums, a soft dazed sound. "Yeah, alright."
It's a celebration, of course. One that consists of hot water beating down on slick skin, soapy hands roaming over entwined bodies, gasping and finding relief in each other. Union. One among many, and the promise of another sings in Draco's veins.
Harry has no idea, because he is an idiot, but Draco can't wait to tell him.
He can't wait to marry him, either.
"They're more of an idea."
Draco wraps the scarf tighter around his neck, shivering a little in his overly large coat. Harry's words catch up to him a beat later, and he cautiously glances at him. He's just standing there, breath escaping his lips in white puffs, a slash of red in the undertones of his brown cheeks and nose.
Again, Draco casts another Warming Charm on Harry, then himself. They've already been outside long enough for the first to wear off. Harry hasn't said a word until just a moment ago, simply staring at the names on the gravestones in silence.
Draco had left lilies.
"I mean," Harry continues quietly, "that's all they could ever be, for me. Just a—just an idea. I wonder sometimes if it's even fair for me to be so...upset about them. I never knew them, did I?"
"Harry," Draco mumbles, "I think it's more than fair for you to be upset. Not knowing them is why you're upset. It's… It makes sense."
Harry sighs. "What do you think they'd be like?"
It's likely a rhetorical question. How would Draco know? It's a query better suited for someone older, someone who knew Lily and James. Not him. It's a soft sentence, tempered with longing that makes Draco's heart pang. He's not equipped for this.
Still, he tries.
"I suppose they'd annoy you sometimes," Draco muses. "They'd scold you for being an idiot. They would have forced you to do more studying, that's for certain. Probably tell you about your family on your dad's side, and your birthdays would have been a lot lovelier than they were, and they would have bought you your first broom. You would have hated them at times, but always love them, too. They'd be around, and you'd—well, you would take them for granted, I imagine. Aunt Dromeda says all children do, so I assume you would have as well."
"I don't want them to be dead," Harry says, staring at the gravestones without blinking. "Years later, and I still don't want them to be dead."
Draco takes a deep breath, then slowly lets it out, careful and hesitant. "I don't imagine they're too happy about it, either. Harry, parents aren't—they can be disappointing, you know. They're not always perfect. They make mistakes. Even dead, they can still hurt you, just by being dead."
"I hate them sometimes," Harry whispers, confessing like it's the worst thing he's ever done. He turns to look at Draco, swallowing thickly. "I don't want to. I don't mean to. I just—"
"I know," Draco says quickly, because he does.
Harry lets out an explosive breath, shaking his head and looking back at the gravestones. "Even when I'm angry with them, I'm still—I still wish they were here. Is it strange to love people you don't know? Because I do. Or maybe I just love the idea of them."
"I don't think that's strange." Draco doesn't. He tilts his head, then clears his throat. "You know, if I could, I'd trade my father's life in for one of your parents. Honest."
"You don't mean that," Harry says idly, glancing at him with a sad quirk of his lips. "You don't hate your father more than you love him."
Draco wrinkles his nose. "It's close. I do hate him almost constantly."
"Almost is still too far away from always," Harry murmurs, leaning over to nudge his shoulder into Draco's. "He's a git."
"Yes, he is."
"And you love him, despite how much he hurts you."
"I don't care about him."
"Sure you don't," Harry replies easily, clearly not believing him. He smiles and looks back at the graves, still smiling a little. "You know, I'd even take that. A strained relationship with my father, I mean. Hating him and loving him. At least he'd be here. What does that say about me?"
"Fuck all," Draco drawls. "You're human, Harry. Merlin, you have to stop acting like your emotions are ridiculous. And you dare call me dramatic."
"Draco," Harry mutters, laughing quietly. Here he is, where his parents are buried, and Draco can still make him laugh. It warms his chest to know. Harry reaches up and rubs his hand over his hair. "You really are a prat, you know that?"
"So you've mentioned."
"I think they would have liked you. Or, well, they would have understood why I do. My mother would, in any case. It seems like I took after her when it comes to falling in love with arrogant toerags."
"I beg your pardon," Draco sputters, his head whipping around in utter disbelief.
Harry grins at him. "Oh, come off it. That's what my mum called my dad once when they were teenagers. I saw it in a memory. My dad was a prat, but he's said to have changed and gotten better. Bit like you, now that I think about it."
"You know what, Harry?" Draco takes a solid step back, huffing. "You stand out here and freeze if you like, and chat all you want with your parents about your arrogant toerag of a boyfriend."
"No, no, come back," Harry blurts out, half-laughing and half-groaning as he reaches out to tug Draco into his side, wrapping his arms around him. He clamps down so Draco can't squirm away, then hums and drops his head to Draco's shoulder, staring at the gravestones once more. "Don't go. I don't want you to go. I like that you're here."
Draco clicks his tongue. "Even though I'm an arrogant toerag?"
"Even though you're an arrogant toerag," Harry agrees indulgently, then barks a loud, inappropriate laugh in this setting—because they're literally in a graveyard—when Draco smacks him lightly on the arm. "I'm only joking, Draco."
"Yes, well, your parents are dead, so I'll allow it just this once," Draco says meanly, because he is mean.
Harry just hums. "There are perks, it seems."
"Merlin, Harry, don't be morbid," Draco chokes out.
"What, you're the only one who gets to joke about my dead parents? That doesn't seem very fair, does it?" Harry asks mildly.
"You're ridiculous."
"No more than you."
Draco tolerates that with grace because they're standing in front of Harry's dead parents' graves and he does have manners. He hums quietly and sweeps his hand up and down Harry's back, not saying a word. Harry drifts back into a contemplative mood, something bittersweet, not maudlin and not at ease either. He's just quiet, thoughtful.
Until, softly, he says, "I wish they could see me get married."
"Me too," Draco murmurs.
"I still can't believe you went and asked anyone who could be considered my guardian for permission, dead or alive," Harry whispers, lifting his head to look at him. "You're so…"
Draco arches an eyebrow at him. "So…"
"You're so sweet when you want to be," Harry says, lips curling up. "Why Dumbledore, though?"
"I was covering all my goal posts," Draco answers easily. "Even if you don't have any good feelings for the man anymore, you did tell me that he was something of a mentor to you."
Harry sucks his cheeks in, then blows them out, his nose scrunching. It is unbearably adorable. He relaxes his face and says, "I forgave him, you know."
"Did you?" Draco asks dryly. "Wow, Harry, I didn't see that coming at all."
"You think I shouldn't have?" Harry murmurs.
Draco would push Dumbledore off the nearest cliff if he could, given half the chance. That man could shower him in gifts and gold, begging for Draco to stop hating him, and Draco would gladly kick him while he was down. In fact, Draco would let the giant squid in the great lake drown Dumbledore, and then he would act like he had no idea what happened or where his body was if someone asked.
To put it lightly, if Dumbledore were bleeding out in front of him, Draco would let him—no matter the oath he has made as a Healer. He has no positive feelings for the man. Absolutely none. Harry, however… Well, that's different.
"I think," Draco says, "that you have a particular habit of forgiving those who may not deserve it."
Harry quirks a small smile. "I do, yeah. It's not...for him, really. I forgave him for me, if that makes sense. I spent so long conflicted and confused and angry, and I didn't want to do that anymore."
"Well, I will keep the grudge enough for the both of us," Draco informs him tersely.
"Alright, you do that," Harry agrees. "It's not like he and I are alright or anything. We're not. We won't ever be. I used to think he'd be a part of my life always, but now… Well, I'm glad he won't be."
"Good." Draco heaves a quiet sigh and shakes his head in bemusement. "I thought I was going to have to forbid you from inviting him to our wedding."
"Our wedding," Harry says breathlessly, gazing at him with shimmer-bright green eyes, seemingly unable to stop the smile spreading across his face. He looks far too earnestly happy to be standing in front of his mum and dad's gravestones. "We're going to get married."
"Mhm," Draco agrees smugly.
Harry makes a small sound that comes dangerously close to a repressed whimper of ecstatic delight, which Draco would tease him for if he didn't immediately start talking after it, saying, "You know, when I was younger, I thought about getting married like a fairytale. Like I was a noble, heroic Prince in love with a pretty Princess. All those books I read that Dudley didn't want because they were too girly, or stupid, or he thought he was too cool for them—when, in reality, he struggled to read. In any case, I used to daydream about it in my cupboard, when the people in the books got married and had their happy ending. I thought—well, I wanted that, too. I thought it would make all the bad things worth it if I got my Princess in the end."
"Ah, so you've always been an idiot, then?" Draco asks lightly, only to cover up the lump in his throat. He wraps his arms tighter around himself, casting his gaze down to the ground.
Harry snorts, completely oblivious. "I was idealistic, not an idiot. Like you didn't do it. Tell me, what did you think when you thought about marriage when you were younger?"
Draco...didn't, for a long time. Marriage, to him, has always been a contract more than anything else, just like it is to most Purebloods. But, despite this, he knew how much his mother and father loved each other. He caught glimpses of it—on Christmas, on birthdays, when they left the country for vacation, when Draco peeked through the cracks in doors to see his mother and father laughing quietly together.
They've always been radiant together, glowing, but they keep their happiness hidden. Draco didn't understand why for a long time, especially as a child. A part of him still doesn't, not when his own relationship is so very different. Still, a realistic part of him knows why they're so quiet and sneaky about it. They protect it and keep it from harm, just how much they love each other, because it could be used against them and they both know it.
Paranoid. Probably for good reason. A defense mechanism from the very first war that the Dark Lord started. Lucius knew that he'd do whatever he had to if the Dark Lord threatened Narcissa, and vise versa, so they were cold and distant. It seems ingrained in them now, and they don't appear to mind it so much.
Draco wonders how much they'd panic if they knew that the Dark Lord was always aware of their weakness for each other.
Harry is still watching him, waiting patiently, and Draco doesn't want to tell him. He doesn't think he can. Marriage, for him, was never really something he looked forward to, not when his betrothed was Pansy. A happy marriage always felt out of reach back then, and he's always been bitter about it.
When he was young and very foolish, he used to picture himself marrying a boy. Someone who was worthy. Someone strong and heroic and amazing. He thought about Harry Potter back then, not even knowing what he actually looked like, only an abstract idea that wouldn't quite leave his head. It was because of the awed whispers that people gave about the boy, like he was something magical in and of itself, and Draco thought that he'd marry someone just like that one day—maybe even him.
His father would have disapproved if he'd known, and Draco hadn't ever told a soul about that fantasy. He'd hated himself for it when he actually met Harry Potter, and he turned out to be terrible. He'd hated himself even more for how the fantasies turned to dreams that never quite left him.
He understands now, of course, what all that meant. What it meant that he hated Harry Potter because he wanted him so badly that it hurt. What it meant that he was cruel and terrible because he could never have him, no matter what. What it meant that he wanted to hurt Harry Potter as much as Harry Potter hurt him without even trying, by only existing.
Love—all forms of it—is a funny thing.
"Draco?" Harry prompts when he has been too quiet for too long.
"You," Draco says, grimacing as soon as the word leaves his lips. No, no, he's not doing this. He's not. It's far too humiliating.
Harry raises his eyebrows. "Me? What about me?"
The Dark Lord's words ring in his ears. He has the desire to be wanted wholly. You will fulfill it.
"When I thought about marriage, when I was younger," Draco grits out haltingly, hating himself even as he says it, "I thought about you."
"You thought about—" Harry cuts himself off, blinking rapidly. He always looks shockingly stunned when anyone—but especially Draco—admits to something like this. He stares at Draco in open astonishment. "You—you… Did you, really, Draco?"
Draco scowls. "Before Hogwarts, I thought about marrying someone great. A boy. In my mind, because of how everyone talked about you, that boy would be you. I didn't—I never understood what it meant, not back then. When I met you, I hated you because you were horrible, obviously."
"Obviously," Harry says faintly, gaping at him.
"I forced myself not to think about it," Draco explains with a huff. "Not just marriage, but about you at all, but you saw how well that went. I was bloody well obsessed with you. After Fourth Year, when I figured out I was never going to fancy girls, I understood the marriage idea a bit better. I only hated you more for it, of course. I hated you a lot, frankly, and it didn't help that I still had dreams about it. About wanting you, about wanting to marry you, about...a lot of things, really. I wanted you dead and out of my life because of it."
Harry releases a soft, amazed laugh. He doesn't even flinch when Draco throws him a glare for it. "Oh, Draco, you were so wound up and repressed, weren't you? All you wanted to do was snog me and marry me and shag me so badly it made you want to kill me. That's—that's… Merlin…"
"Piss off," Draco bites out. "Don't pity me, you wanker. I was a very cruel child who bullied you relentlessly, or did you forget?"
"No, no," Harry says quickly, "I didn't forget. I did forgive, however. You, at least, deserved it. I think it's lovely, actually."
Draco scoffs, tense with embarrassment. "Lovely."
"Yeah," Harry insists. "Just, you know, that you've gotten what you wanted. Or some of it. Me, I mean."
"But you didn't," Draco whispers.
Harry frowns at him. "What?"
"You wanted a—you wanted—" Draco snaps his mouth shut with an audible click. He doesn't know how to speak past the tightness of his throat. He's all too aware that he's not what Harry wanted, just as he's aware that Harry deserves much better.
"A Princess?" Harry blurts out, staring at him with increasing incredulity. "Draco, I was eight years old and locked in a cupboard. Made-up stories in my head was all I had. It wasn't even about wanting a wife or—or anything like that; it was just...I wanted to be happy someday. I did get what I wanted. I have what I want."
"You could have anyone," Draco says softly.
"I don't want anyone," Harry snaps, looking genuinely irritated. "Stop being a prat."
"I still don't—" Draco shakes his head, frustrated. Even to this day, he doesn't understand. He's asked so many times before, and he can't work it out. "I don't know why you love me, Harry."
Harry exhales slowly, his face softening, and he says, as he usually does, "Why wouldn't I, Draco?"
Those words never fail to spring something loose in his chest, a sharp expansion that feels too big, like his soul is stretching and trying to make room. It always spurs him into action, desperate with it, needing so badly to just grab Harry and hold onto him. He swipes for him now, dragging him in with a sharp inhale, leaning in so their lips can meet.
He feels like he could rattle apart from all the stupid, unabated feelings that crash through him. All he can do is trap it between their bodies, between their mouths, trying to transfer it into the tangle of their tongues. He wants Harry to taste it.
Draco becomes aware that they're doing something grossly inappropriate in a graveyard when Harry makes a rough sound and tries to push him down into the dirt. Absolutely not. They won't be shagging in front of Lily and James Potter's gravestones, no matter how wound up their son is.
"Really, Harry?" Draco gasps out, ripping away and dancing out of his grip. "In front of your parents? How unseemly."
Harry has the good grace to look bashful as he throws a quick glance at the gravestones. He reaches around to scratch the back of his head and clears his throat. "Sorry, Mum, Dad."
It's disgustingly endearing. Draco is going to die.
"So naughty," Draco teases fondly, scooting back in once he's sure Harry isn't going to shove him down to the ground and ravish him. He still might, because he is a boor, but he seems mostly abashed now.
"You're an arse," Harry decides calmly, even as he reaches out to drag Draco to his side. Their arms wrap around each other, automatic, and Harry lets out a small sigh. "I love you."
"I hate you," Draco replies, because he does, because he absolutely and irrevocably does not.
Harry smiles.
They stand there together in comfortable silence, shivering a little as the Warming Charms fade once again. Draco can't be bothered to cast them, too caught up in the slight reflection of him and Harry on the plaque on the gravestones. They are leaning into each other, and Draco is moon-pale, aware of his own luminescence. Even still, he cannot help but feel that Harry's sun-kissed brown skin is brighter, a warmth that seems to glow, outshining him like a beacon to draw everyone home.
Draco has been addicted to Harry's incandescent love for so long that he's weak for it. He wants it always, always, and it's his.
Inexplicably, it's his.
Ron looks vaguely surprised when it's Draco that comes through the floo. He blinks at him, that mop of red atop his head flopping into his eyes as he cranes his neck to peer in the swirling flames.
"He's not coming," Draco says. "He had errands to run. It's actually me who needs you today. Well, you and Hermione. Where is she?"
"Hermione?" Ron frowns and tosses his head back to yell. "Oi, 'Mione, Draco's here!"
Draco grimaces at that spectacular display of utter oafishness, but he doesn't comment on it. Not today, not when he needs Ron's help. Merlin, just the thought makes him want to gag. Needing help from Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Draco's younger self is sobbing right now, and he has absolutely no idea why.
"Who's here?" Hermione comes out of the hallway, blinking in surprise, then smiling warmly. "Oh, Draco. Hello! How are you?"
Mortified, but determined, he thinks. "Fine," he says.
"Draco says he needs us for something," Ron informs her, raising his eyebrows. "That's a first, isn't it? Should we say no?"
"You can't," Draco snaps. "It's for Harry."
Hermione straightens up. "What's for Harry? Is he alright? What happened to—"
"He's fine," Draco cuts in quickly. "I just…"
"Spit it out, mate," Ron urges, rolling his eyes. "Best not keep Hermione in suspense, yeah? She always gets a bit frazzled about Harry, you know."
"That's because Harry has no regard for his own health. He's a hazard walking," Hermione grumbles, frowning a little. "Trouble follows him absolutely everywhere. What has he done now?"
Draco heaves a sigh, closes his eyes, and quietly confesses. It's like being gutted, but he does. His pride is obliterated. "I need your help. Both of you. I'm going to—I need...advice. Opinions."
There's a beat of silence, and then Ron chirps, "Oh, yeah. Whatever this is about, I want to be there for it. This is going to be brilliant."
"What is this about?" Hermione asks suspiciously.
"Rings," is all Draco can get out, and his voice leaves him weak and ever so slightly frantic.
Hermione—ever observant and know-it-all Hermione Granger—gasps immediately. "Oh! Oh, Draco, that's—oh! This is—of course we'll help, of course we will!"
Ron—ever oblivious and idiotic Ron Weasley—grunts and repeats, "Rings? What do rings have to do with—oh. Oh, bugger. Bloody hell!"
Draco—ever prideful and Gryffindor-opposed Draco Malfoy—makes a weak sound and begs, "Help me."
They do.
The flat is quiet when Draco opens the door and steps inside. This is suspicious because it's rarely quiet when he gets home. Usually, there's at least the sound of Harry moving around somewhere, humming or muttering to himself.
Today, there's nothing.
Maybe he's gone out? Draco refuses to allow himself to be disappointed by that. It's technically his last day at St. Mungos as a trainee, and he has time off before he returns back as a Healer. He's supposed to go with Harry in a few hours to the Manor to have dinner with Mother and Father, but he'd hoped Harry would be home before they left.
Draco frowns and shuts the door, ears perked to listen for any sound of movement. There's none. It's quiet. Hollow, almost. Usually is, without Harry.
A quick sweep of the flat informs him what he already knows, which is that Harry is gone. He likely has something he needs to do for Grimmauld Place or his miniature school for the Muggle-borns. That's fine. That's life. It's normal.
In silence, Draco has a quick shower and then comes out to root around in the cabinets for the stash of Pumpkin Pasties Harry thinks he's hidden well enough. He hasn't. If he didn't want Draco to find them and eat them, perhaps he should have been home to stop him.
That's a very petulant thing to do, and Draco gives up halfway through, shoulders slumping. Because he is still vindictive and terrible sometimes, he moves the Pumpkin Pasties to a new location and looks forward to the inevitable fallout for the offense.
Harry's going to be cross, but they'll shag about it eventually. They always do.
Out of sorts and, admittedly, a bit unhappy at being alone, Draco moves into the sitting room with a book and curls up on the sofa with a frown. He tries reading, but the words swim in front of his eyes, so he just stares vaguely at the wall across the room. And then, after a while, he falls asleep.
He dreams of Vince. He dreams of him dying, calling out and pleading for help. He dreams of Greg trying to wake him up, except Vince will never wake up again because he's dead. He dreams of drowning in his Mother's blood as she bleeds out. He dreams of Harry's heart never beating again.
He dreams, and dreams, and dreams, and then he's waking up to warm fingers on his cheek. He shoots up with a small gasp, whole body trembling as he scrambles to sit up, glancing around wildly.
"Draco, shh, Draco, it's me," comes a soft, warm voice he'd know anywhere. "It's me. It's Harry."
"Nightmare," Draco chokes out, though he's fairly certain that it was obvious. He blinks rapidly and exhales on a heavy gust of air, settling down as the last remnants of the dreams fade away. Harry is watching him with visible concern. "I'm fine."
"I don't believe you," Harry whispers.
"I will be fine," Draco amends, because that's the truth. That's how Healing works. You get better, and time is on your side. He reaches out and cards his fingers into Harry's hair. "Come here."
Harry makes a small sound, displeased. "Don't you want to talk about—"
"I don't want to talk about anything," Draco says, sucking in a sharp breath as he tugs Harry closer, guiding him onto the sofa. He lays back down so that Harry's body covers his own. "I don't want to talk, or—or think."
Harry looks like he's going to protest, so Draco shuts him up before he can, surging up to press their lips together. He deepens the kiss before Harry can even try to stop it, slipping his tongue in and moaning more for show than anything. Tugging at Harry's shirt a bit restlessly, he snogs him fiercely until the unease goes quiet within him, until his moans become real, until he's trembling in the reassurance of Harry's heart beating against his own, fast and unfalteringly alive.
Draco breaks away long enough to get Harry's shirt up and over his head, carelessly tossing it aside. He presses his fingers to Harry's shoulders, dragging his hands down slowly, memorizing the feel of divots and skin and scars and hair and Harry. He's touched him so many times, all over, and it never feels like he'll get bored of it. He digs his nails in, delighting in Harry's shiver.
"We have to be at the Manor in less than an hour," Harry wheezes, groaning when Draco hooks his fingers into his belt and starts working it open.
Draco hums. "Best make it quick, then. I relocated your Pumpkin Pasties. Shag me about it."
"You're an absolute arse," Harry mumbles, shifting closer to put his mouth against Draco's throat and latch on. "Tell me where you put them."
"Make me," Draco challenges, head falling back as his breath stutters out of him.
Harry's warm fingers start at the buttons on Draco's shirt, fumbling and familiar. "I can make you, Draco. You know I can."
"Prove it."
"I hid them for a reason, you prat. I knew they'd never escape your sweet tooth."
"They did by a narrow margin, but they'll stay where I put them for later. Unless, of course, you can manage to get their location out of me."
"You're always so confident to start with," Harry says, gently amused. He smiles in victory when he finally gets Draco's shirt off and tossed aside. "Just give me forty-five minutes."
"Always so arrogant, aren't you? What do you take me for? You can't just—oh, oh." Draco sucks in a sharp breath and closes his eyes as Harry leans forward to lavish attention to the place where his pulse is trapped beneath skin, fluttering wildly. When Harry bites it, he whines. "Ah, fucking hell."
"Thirty minutes," Harry corrects himself, chuckling throatily as he rocks his hips forward.
It unravels from there, and Draco tries to hold out. He makes it through their trousers and pants coming off. He makes it through the whisk of air as Harry summons the bottle of lube. He even makes it through the truly heartstopping sight of Harry's head between his thighs, bobbing away, which actually might be a new record for him.
He does not make it through the actual act of being fucked into their sofa, however. He never actually planned to, is the thing.
It's a mess of slick skin sliding together, sweat gathering, hands clutching hard enough to leave bruises. Draco yanks on Harry's hair, scratches his back possibly too hard, groans and squirms and demands more. Harry fucks him at a brutal pace, sucks and bites his neck hard enough to leave marks, holds him down and digs his fingers into Draco's thighs without restraint.
It's not always this rough. Sometimes, it is soft. Sometimes, it is slow. There are times when it is so sweet that Draco can barely handle it. There are some nights when it's lazy and relaxed, lulling them into sleep, intimate and warm. There are some days when Harry climbs into his lap and shags him like a man possessed, helpless with it, broken by it. There are some mornings where it feels like a haze of sloping sunlight and soft whispers against each other's lips, sheets pooling around them as they wank each other off, or they just rock together until everything spins out of control.
And then, sometimes, it's like this.
It's desperate and rough, almost like a fight, except infinitely more sensual and lovely. Almost like they're trying to break each other apart for the sole purpose of putting the other back together again. It's all-consuming, dizzying, and impossible not to lose himself to. Like the world is ending and this is all they have, like this is all they'll get, like the need burns so hot that they're on fire.
It makes Draco shameless. He doesn't care, doesn't care, doesn't care about anything except how good it feels. He wants it, wants it harder, faster, harder, wants it and keeps wanting it and can't stop wanting it, begging for it to never end.
He sobs through it, chanting, "Oh, oh, oh, oh," and rambling, "Harry, fuck, I—fuck, fuck," and he claws his way towards release like he's breaking through a cage, shaking apart with it.
He unspools with it, after, completely rendered boneless and stupid. He always does. He feels fundamentally shifted and changed afterwards, like he's never the same person he was before Harry shagged him so thoroughly.
And, of course, Harry collapses on top of him, panting, and says, "Where did you put the Pumpkin Pasties, Draco?"
"In my sock drawer," Draco mumbles sleepily, too limp to move, his brain so completely mush that he can't even remember why he's not supposed to answer that question.
"Prat," Harry mutters, then shakily raises a hand and casts a Tempus Charm. He tuts. "Thirty-three minutes. I was close."
"Love you," Draco informs him, only distantly aware that he's wrapping around Harry like Devil's Snare, clinging to him, his voice gone soft and sweet. "I do. So very much. You're lovely. I love you."
He gets like this, too, after.
"Yes, I love you too," Harry says fondly, far used to this by now. "We have time for a shower if we go take one quickly now."
"Don't leave yet," Draco whispers. "Stay. Please."
"They'll know we shagged when we show up at the Manor," Harry warns half-heartedly.
Draco hums carelessly. "Yes, fine. Stay."
"Alright," Harry agrees, then proceeds to go limp and bury his face against Draco's throat. He's a bit clingy as well, sometimes. It depends on the intensity of it. Mumbling, his words muffled and biting out on a groan, he speaks directly into Draco's skin as he whines, "You smell so good."
"Apples and Autumn," Draco says, because he's heard this many times before.
Harry makes a weak sound. "Bloody hell, it can't be normal to want someone so much."
"Remember the Pumpkin Pasties, Harry. I moved them. You can't want me with me doing horrible grievances such as that."
"I already shagged you about it. Shut it, you."
Draco laughs softly and melts into Harry, dragging his lips over Harry's cheek, a reverent kiss that never breaks. "You did do that, yes. Thank you."
"Wasn't exactly a hardship," Harry mumbles, jaw cracking around a yawn. He pauses around a beat, then sighs. "You have to stop doing this. I can't believe I didn't notice it once again."
"Doing what?"
"Distracting me with shagging to get out of talking about the things you should most definitely be talking about."
"I don't—"
"Your nightmare, Draco. I didn't forget."
"I didn't—it isn't like that," Draco murmurs, closing his eyes and soothing himself with the feeling of dragging his fingers through Harry's hair. "It wasn't to get out of talking about it. I just...I wanted to feel better. You always make me feel better, you know."
"You can still talk to me about it," Harry says.
"I know. I don't like thinking about it. Mostly war stuff, you know. It's still hard sometimes."
Harry goes still, then swallows. "It's different for me because of—of how everything went. I'm sorry."
"It's alright," Draco says. "It's just life, isn't it?"
"Can't be perfect all the time," Harry agrees.
"It's mostly happy, though. For me, I mean. Because of you," Draco admits.
"Not just because of me. Because of you, too."
"Maybe a small bit. You could say my life is like the sky, if you want. It's fine during the day, sometimes stormy, sometimes clear. But, at night, there are the stars. Those are you. You're the stars."
"That's very sweet," Harry says, his words coming out strangled and thick with emotion. "You have such a way with words, you know."
Draco hums. "I only say what I mean."
"I love you so much," Harry whispers fiercely, squeezing him a bit tighter, sounding ridiculously choked up. "So much, Draco."
"Sap," Draco says mildly.
Harry huffs out a weak laugh. "Hypocrite."
They're silent after that, just holding onto each other, still covered in a mess and sticky in places they're both doing their best to ignore. They stay that way until they have to get up and get ready to go to the Manor, separating to get clean. Before they do, Harry catches Draco's face in his hands and kisses him so softly and so slowly that Draco thinks he might break down and cry.
He doesn't, thankfully, because he has some composure. It's a close thing, though.
They make it to the Manor just in time, and Dipsy greets them with a low bow and the flash of a small grin, then Mother comes sweeping into the foyer before she can even be summoned. She looks at them, and as she always does, she smiles.
Dinner is a quiet affair. It usually is, even with Harry here. Things have been stilted ever since Christmas, and Lucius' icy silence is rather loud. Narcissa eats quietly to be polite anyway, and she's not one to make conversation. To liven things up, it generally rests on Harry's shoulders, but he's especially distant this evening. Draco isn't sure why.
After the table is cleared, Lucius pushes to his feet and says, "Draco, a word."
Then, just like that, he's sweeping out of the room without waiting to see if Draco will follow. For a second, he considers not going after him, just to show him up, just to piss him off. Still, before the idea is even crossing his mind, his feet are moving because it is somehow still instinct for him to listen to what his father tells him.
Harry makes a disgruntled sound as Draco goes, but he can hear his mother soothing him and distracting him by drawing him into conversation.
She's very persuasive, after all.
Draco finds his father in his office. It's a room he's been in many times. He's been scolded here, verbally ripped to shred here, and even punished here. He remembers being younger, kneeling for hours with his back straight and a heavy bamboo post lying across his outstretched arms. His father wouldn't let him move, and every time he squirmed, he got another twenty minutes added to his time.
He thinks he kneeled there for hours under his father's watchful eye, and it was a ritual that became very familiar over the years—at least until he was sixteen and the Dark Lord declared that Draco wasn't Lucius' to punish anymore. Funny, how that worked out, really.
In retrospect, it worked wonders for his posture, even if it was dreadfully painful. Everything is a lesson with his father, though, so it's not very surprising.
Lucius is standing by the window, watching Draco with absolutely no expression, hair crowned by the moonlight—the same shade as his own. He's formidable, his father, and Draco has never really worked out if he's scared of the man, or if he just respects him. Both. Probably both. Even now.
"Yes, Father?" Draco asks calmly, ensuring he's mirroring Lucius' posture and blank mask to perfection. It took many years to get anywhere close to it, and it's still not the same, but it's enough.
"Your mother informs me that you have graduated from the training program at St. Mungos," Lucius says, his lip curling in open disdain.
Draco nods. "Yes."
"You will become a Healer, then." Lucius does not phrase it as a question.
"Yes," Draco agrees, refusing to blink or show any sign of wavering. He won't. He has already made his decision, and there's nothing his father can do to change his mind now.
Lucius stares at him, eyes cold. "Do you know, Draco, there has not been one Malfoy—ever—to hold a position? Tracing back centuries, no Malfoy has taken a career."
"Malfoys also used to fuck Muggles, Father," Draco says crudely, inwardly satisfied when Lucius twitches, his composure breaking. "Yes, you're not the only one with access to the records. I've read all about it. How does it make you feel? Shall we carry on all the traditions of the Malfoys before us?"
"You vulgar child," Lucius spits, glaring at him. Then, as quickly as his anger flared, it goes out. His face smooths into nothing once more. "Though, I suspect you would not protest carrying out such tradition, would you, Draco? Not with the company you keep and the beliefs you've shed. You are a Muggle-lover now, are you not?"
Draco resists the urge to roll his eyes. "I would not say that I love them, but I won't claim to hate them, either. Maybe I'm a properly traditional Malfoy. We did dabble in high-end Muggle society before the Statute of Secrecy, no matter how the recent generations have tried to hide it. I don't think you'd enjoy it if I happened to let that slip to the public, would you, Father?"
"You should not make threats you have no intentions of following through on," Lucius tells him succinctly.
"I don't," Draco replies pointedly, arching an eyebrow at him. You taught me well, whether you know it or not, he thinks, bitterly amused about it.
Lucius tilts his chin up, eyes narrowing. "You wish to be a Healer this badly. You will throw away everything, for this?"
"Are you disowning me?" Draco asks calmly.
"I have considered it," Lucius admits.
Draco shakes his head and looks at a fixed point over his father's shoulder. Quietly, sarcastically, he murmurs, "Oh, but what would Mother think?"
"Draco," Lucius says, and his voice is softer, almost imploring, "I do not know where I failed you. I've impressed upon you the importance of your name from early childhood. You understood it for so long, until Harry Potter came into our lives."
"Do you think I would have been happy doing as you wished?" Draco asks, genuinely curious.
"Happiness is not the goal. It is a state of mind. What you possess in this world, from your power to your reputation, reflects on that state of mind. Do you not think I had dreams in my youth?"
"What were they?"
Lucius looks briefly thoughtful, gaze going foggy like he's glancing into the past towards a person he's long forgotten. He says, without even flinching, "I wanted to be a dancer. I wanted your mother to be my partner. It was foolish to want such things, and I learned that with time. Responsibilities cannot be ignored, Draco, and avoiding them will do little good for your future."
Draco blinks at him. For a second, he just mulls over his father's words. A dancer. His father wanted to be a dancer with his mother. It's almost...innocent, compared to who he turned out to be.
He thinks about Christmas for a split second, thinks about his father dancing with his mother for hours. They always seem to shine in those moments, and Draco recalls looking forward to it every year. He remembers realizing that it was the happiest he'd ever seen his father, dancing with his mother.
Living out his dream. Allowing himself that, just that, just one day out of the year.
"You should dance with Mother more often," Draco informs him quietly. "She enjoys it."
"Draco," Lucius snaps, visibly irritated now as he smacks his walking cane to the floor.
"I'm not worried about my future, Father." Draco takes a deep breath and allows his shoulders to ease, to slump, his posture relaxing in a way that makes his father's mouth twist in disapproval. "Things change with time. Malfoys stopped involving themselves with Muggles long ago, and maybe Malfoys will stop being slippery, scheming bastards in the future. Who knows? You certainly won't. The future of the Malfoy name rests on me once you can't influence it anymore, and it's far too late for you to find a spare heir laying around. Either let the name die out by disowning me, or entrust it to me as I decide to handle it, but either way...stop trying to make me do it your way. I'm not going to."
"You've become so unruly because of Potter," Lucius grits out. "Your whole life is wasted on—"
"You're right," Draco cuts him off, which is rude and makes Lucius' knuckles turn white from how hard he grips his cane, "it is my whole life. Mine. And I'll do what I want with it. Mother supports me, so why can't you?"
"Do you have any idea how important a legacy is, Draco?" Lucius hisses.
"I couldn't possibly have missed it. You practically beat it into me."
"I never beat you."
"You did whack me with your cane a few times, usually following a lecture on aforementioned legacy you're referencing now. Should I back away?"
"You're ruined. Harry Potter has ruined you."
"Yes, you've mentioned before," Draco says stiffly, because Lucius has. "I wonder what you would have done if Mother turned out to be a Muggle-born after you'd already fallen in love with her."
Lucius goes pale. "Draco," he grits out.
"What if she was a Gryffindor?" Draco arches an eyebrow, watching his father closely. "What if she was the exact same as she is right now, only she was a Muggle? What if she was a Weasley?"
"Are you aiming to be disowned?!" Lucius shouts, his voice rising with his ire. "Your disobedience is foolish, Draco! You have no sense for—"
"Do you think I care?!" Draco explodes, watching his father snap his mouth shut and rear back. "Don't you get it? I don't need your money! Harry has plenty and I'm going to have an income. I don't need this Manor, because I have my own flat! I don't even need to worry about my own last name because I can marry Harry and take his if I want it! I don't need to change my life or do anything I don't want to so that I can see Mother, because she'd sooner abandon you and this place than lose me, and you know it! I don't need it, Father. Not your money, not your lessons, not your things, and not you. Not anymore."
Lucius has his lips pressed into a thin line, eyes blazing with anger, and he looks so strung tight that it seems like he might shatter if touched. He's almost trembling with his poorly restrained rage.
And Draco is suddenly very, very tired. Tired of being the disappointment his father sees him as. Tired of the ache that exists in his maw, a steady throb that never goes away, all because his father will never, never be proud of him.
He could be anyone, but as long as he's Lucius' son, Lucius will love him. He could do anything, but as long as he's Lucius' son, Lucius won't be proud.
"Then why are you here?" Lucius demands tightly, always so prideful, even in this. "Why do you remain in my presence? Why do you continue to come home and return to me over and over? Why?"
"Because you're my dad," Draco whispers, reaching up with one hand to scrub his fingers over his forehead. He sighs, exhausted and wrung out. "I keep trying with you because you're my Father. It's pointless, I know that, but I—I can't help it. I guess I'm always going to wish I could make you proud, but that's impossible, isn't it?"
"Draco," Lucius says, taken aback, eyes slightly wide. The name comes out strangled, thick.
Draco releases a soft laugh, and it's bitter, so bitter that it sours in his throat. He tosses up his hand carelessly and lets it flop back to his side with absolutely no grace. "It's fine. I'm tired of it, I think. Maybe it's time I give up."
"Malfoys do not give up," Lucius snaps, slamming his cane on the floor again, louder this time.
"That's historically inaccurate, but even so," Draco whispers, "I'm not much of a Malfoy, am I?"
Before Lucius can so much as respond, Draco turns around without being dismissed and walks right out of the room, his stride quick and unhindered. He flees, because he is a coward, because he is good at escaping from his problems until they inevitably catch up to him. This one, however, won't reach him if he keeps running from it. And he plans to.
Without saying goodbye to his mother, without notifying Harry, Draco leaves the Manor entirely and walks. He keeps walking, almost sprinting, his breath coming out fast and hitched. His hands are shaking when he gets past the wards, and he turns with tears in his eyes to stare at the Manor in the distance. He wonders if he'll ever come back.
Before that thought can send him into hysterics, he swirls around and disappears with a sharp crack.
Harry finds him an hour later, easing into the flat with wariness infused in every inch of his frame. When he sees Draco sitting on the sofa, curled up and a mess of tears, his shoulders slump. Silently, without judgement, he walks over and drags Draco into a warm, tight embrace.
This time, Draco doesn't distract himself from it. He lets it happen. He cries, and he clings to Harry, and he aches all the way through.
It's an ache that won't go away, no matter what.
The maze is beautiful.
It's everything Draco imagined it would be. Tall walls of dense shrubbery with finely woven flowers intermixed with the green, the tops turning into an arch above their heads, and the comforting swish of softening leaves beneath their feet. It's like being in an open, expansive forest without any trees, encased in the scent of spring with the feel of fall on their cheeks. It's not dark, and the spots of light filter through from nowhere, hearth-warm and glowing.
He sees why it's easy to get lost inside it. At the entrance, they were put under a tracking Spell and given a few instructions. Their guides were present through the Spell, but not in the flesh, and they would show up either one of two ways. If Draco and Harry triggered the tracking Spell to let them know they wanted out, or if they'd been in there for longer than a day. Because time really does stop in here.
The feeling of it is subtle, but it's there. They've been walking for some time, but Draco has no idea if it has been seconds or years. He feels like he's been existing for a long time and also no time at all.
It should be an uneasy feeling, but it's not. Draco's enjoying himself immensely. All human concerns don't seem to exist in here, and why should it? Time is suspended—they will not age, they will not need to eat, they will not need to sleep. Everything is frozen, and hanging in the balance is peace and the search of pure joy.
"I'm surprised the Ministry even allows this," Harry murmurs as they stroll around another corner and start down yet another long path.
"This is France," Draco muses. "They do things differently here."
Harry sends him an amused look. "Yes, but isn't this terribly dangerous?"
"A small bit, as a lot of magic is," Draco agrees with an unbothered shrug. "But you heard what they said. No one has gotten lost inside here in decades. They keep it under control."
"The last one who did get lost was stuck for three years," Harry says dryly. "Can you even imagine? They said the poor bloke didn't know a second had passed since he entered."
Draco clicks his tongue. "Time isn't to be trifled with, no. Terrible things can happen to those who do. It's a bit terrifying, isn't it?"
"So why did you dream of coming here?"
"I...don't actually know."
"Can I take a guess?" Harry glances at him, oddly serious. When Draco nods, he tugs them to a sudden stop, blowing out a deep breath. "It's like the epitome of freedom, isn't it? Time doesn't exist here. You wouldn't have to grow up or do anything you didn't want to, not unless you found Paradise."
"Still worried I'm trapped, Harry?"
"Not anymore, no, but I know that you were. Even if you didn't. If you dreamed of coming here, you were literally wanting to be trapped on your own terms. You wanted control of your own life, even then."
"Ah," Draco rasps, "so what you're saying is, I've always wanted to be the family disappointment. My aspirations were bold, I'll give myself that."
Harry huffs a weak laugh. "You're not the family disappointment, Draco. Honestly, you're so dramatic. Most people would be ecstatic to find their son in such a nice career and doing so well in their lives, happy and such."
"Most people are not my father," Draco says.
"And thank Merlin for that," Harry quips cheerfully, reaching out to take Draco's hand and thread their fingers together, pulling him back into a stroll.
Draco leans into Harry, sighing softly. "Can I tell you a secret, Harry? You mustn't tell anyone."
"Mhm," Harry agrees in a hum, throwing him a curious glance. The idiot loves secrets. "You know I won't. Go on, then."
"I never wanted to come here and find my own way out," Draco whispers. "When I thought of this maze, I always expected to be lost in it forever. That was going to be my Paradise. The world was going to leave me behind, and I would wander this maze forever, because being here would be better than being out there."
Harry frowns at him, squeezing his hand. "That's rather morbid, isn't it, Draco?"
"Perhaps. It's because I'm a coward."
"You're really not."
"Agree to disagree," Draco says with a faint smirk, his free hand slipping into his pocket to finger the ring box, tracing the velvet outline of it.
He must be a coward if he's hesitating for this. After all that he's done to make this happen, he still can't find the right words to say. He still doesn't know how to make it happen, how to ask for what he wants, how to reach out and take what's practically his anyway. He had said that he would ask properly, and Harry had demanded that he do so, and an underlying agreement had already been there.
Harry wants to marry him. He's practically already said yes. All Draco has to do is ask. That's it.
And yet, he's so stupidly nervous that it doesn't make sense. Even with knowing he won't be turned away, there's a wary prickle underneath his skin. Everything within him is a war—protesting that he seeks out his own happiness like this, all the while demanding he helps Harry's along.
It's very odd to love someone so wholeheartedly that your life unravels and shifts into something you never expected it to be. This is not how it was supposed to go. This is far too good to be true.
Draco thinks about his own mistakes. There's a long list of them. He was a bully as a child, and he did things that no one should, things that don't deserve to be forgiven. It's not all his fault, he will admit that, but he certainly wasn't an innocent party. The one person he wanted the most, he hurt on purpose, as well as anyone who came too close to him.
He wanted to be powerful and cruel. As a child, he looked forward to being a Dark Wizard. He used to smirk and boast to his friends that he was going to be as crooked and superior as his father. When he first heard of the Dark Lord's return, he was eager to kneel at his feet, practically shaking with the thought that he could become a Death Eater.
Until, of course, he was met with the reality of it all. Aunt Bella was cruel in a way that Draco couldn't be. The Dark Lord was so horrifying and evil that it repulsed him, instead of drawing him in. He was terrified most of the time, in over his head, and he had absolutely no idea what to do.
And then...Harry.
And now, Draco has no idea how he got so lucky. He certainly hasn't earned this. The only good he has done in his life is Healing, and even that doesn't come without complications. To be a Healer is to change everything about the Malfoy name, to give up a legacy that has existed far longer than he has or ever will, to disappoint his ancestors and the one man he always ached to make proud.
He'd do it all again and keep doing it. He'd choose Harry every single time in every single way. That is what love does to someone, he suspects.
Still, he runs his finger over the ring box with a lump in his throat. Everything within him insists that Harry deserves better. He does. He really, truly does. He deserves the absolute best, someone bright and instinctively good, someone without a past laden with stupid mistakes, someone who isn't a coward.
Draco knows Harry loves him. He can't deny that. He just doesn't understand why. It makes no sense. Why would someone like Harry love someone like him? Why does he want Draco? Why, why, why?
"Hey, er, Draco," Harry says, yanking him out of his swirling thoughts.
"Hm?" Draco blinks, looking up when Harry pulls him to a halt. "What is it?"
Harry must have unknowingly picked up on Draco's mood because he looks nervous, too. He licks his lips, shifting a bit restlessly. "Kiss me?" he asks.
He doesn't really have to ask for that. Draco's more than happy to oblige. He hums and dashes away all his confused tangle of emotions, choosing instead to fold into Harry and fulfill his request.
It's a warm kiss. Slow. Intimate. Harry's hands come up to frame his face, warm palms cupping his cheeks. He's kissing Draco with intent, with purpose, not deepening it. Draco curls into it with a hum, losing himself to it, finding freedom in it. He thinks, sometimes, that he can taste Paradise from the wet heat of Harry's mouth.
Harry doesn't often break the kisses between them, but he does now, pulling back only enough that their eyes can flutter open and lock. Harry's eyes are beautiful as they always are, but it's more than just the striking green of them. It's the brilliance of the spark in them, bright and strong and lovely. Draco would recognize his eyes if he forgot everything else.
"Harry," Draco breathes out, a little stunned by the amount of emotion that flickers through those eyes he loves a ridiculous amount.
"Do you know that I love you?" Harry whispers, thumbs stroking under Draco's eyes, unbearably tender in this moment. "I do, Draco, so much."
"Why?" Draco asks in a croak, the question coming out without permission, and he's suddenly desperate to know. He needs to know.
Harry swallows, and for once, he doesn't reply the way he usually does. Why wouldn't I? He says, instead, "I know you don't see yourself the way I do, but I don't think anyone truly sees themselves as the way they actually are. I think we all sell ourselves a little short, though some—like you—sell themselves short, more than a little."
"Do you?"
"Possibly, but that's not the point. I'm answering your question, so listen. I love you, Draco, because I want to. Because you're brave. Because you're witty, and dramatic, and emotional. You're defensive, you're helpful, you're beautiful. You're not kind, but you are capable of kindness. You're loyal, but only to so few people, because you're guarded and won't trust easily. You're fussy and vindictive, and you're sweet and care so, so much that it pisses you off. You're a lot of things, and I love them all. But, mostly, I love you because I want to, because I see you and can't fathom how I'm not supposed to, because you deserve it. You deserve it, Draco, so let me. Please just let me."
Draco's a little taken aback by how sincerely Harry Potter is pleading with him on this. It draws him up short, halting all thoughts in his head, stealing his breath right from his chest.
He thinks that he understands. Perhaps only in a distant, untouchable way, but he does.
It's possible that there aren't reasons for everything, and if there is a clear, concise reason for this, maybe he's not meant to fully make sense of it. Because he does not see himself as Harry sees him. He thinks there might be someone better out there for Harry, even when he selfishly doesn't want to give him up, and Harry thinks that no such person exists.
He has made his choice. He actively wants to love Draco. Somehow, that's infinitely better than if Harry said he loved him because he couldn't help it, or because it was fate, or because it was an accident. Harry looks at him, knows him, and wants to love him—not in spite of what he sees, but because of it.
Draco's self-esteem, which he only realizes now had been in shambles—thanks, Father—carefully starts knitting itself back together. It's only the starts of it, the first burst of confidence that he's felt in a long time, but it burns hot and lovely in his chest. He blinks around it, exhaling slowly.
Harry loves him. He wants to. He loves him because he sees Draco and likes him, because he sees Draco and knows he deserves it, because why wouldn't he?
Ah.
Yes, well, Draco will cry about this later, certainly. It's a lovely thing to think about yourself positively after not doing so for a long time. After all, if Harry can see him—all parts of him—and love him because of what he sees, how can Draco dislike who he is? Why hasn't he forgiven himself? He should.
More people should do so after change, letting go of who they used to be, treating themselves with the care that they deserve.
With time, he suspects that he will figure out how to do so in full. For now, he finds ease in the start of it. Like the first step of Healing—locating the injury. He can heal. Everyone can, and he's no exception.
"Alright," Draco says softly, giving Harry permission and himself the beginning of forgiveness all at once.
Harry beams at him. "Yeah?"
"Yes," Draco agrees with a small laugh at the unabashed delight in Harry's face.
"Brilliant!" Harry bursts out, taking a solid step back and fumbling for something in his pocket. "I—I have something for you. It's—well, here…"
Draco stares in surprise as Harry finally pulls out an envelope and holds it out to him. He takes it carefully, not entirely sure what this is. There's nothing on the outside, no name, just blank. Hesitantly, he reaches in and pulls out the folded parchment, opening with a simple flick, only to nearly drop it as his fingers spasm.
Permission granted with all requests upheld. Tradition fulfilled as required. All terms of the suitor agreed upon with promise of consequence if not maintained. Consequence: none.
"What," Draco says.
Harry clears his throat. "The terms were the same as yours, ironically enough. Be faithful, try to make you happy, work to be worthy of you, even I'll never actually manage it—that was your father who said that, by the way, not your mother."
"My father wrote this. This is his handwriting," Draco says woodenly. "I—I..."
"I spoke with him after you left the Manor," Harry murmurs, nervous and endearingly earnest. "Well, actually, I yelled at him quite a bit. I wouldn't let Mrs. Malfoy get involved. I don't know, really, but I had a go at him. Anyway, I told him he was going to lose you—lose his son—if he didn't do better, and if that wasn't important to him, then he should just let you go and accept that. Your mother seemed like she wanted to say something, but she didn't interfere and let Lucius make his own choices. It seemed like it killed him to do it, but he said—well, he knew that this would convince you more than anything that he'd rather you throw your life away with him around than without. His, er, words. Sorry."
Draco's knees actually, physically buckle under the weight of shock that courses through him. Harry snaps out a hand to steady him, looking alarmed.
That's fair.
He's well aware that all the color has drained from his face. He's even more aware that he's shaking from head-to-toe. He can't actually help it, is the thing. Can't get that fuzzy feeling in his mind to go away, can't get the tightness of his throat to ease, can't get the stinging in his eyes to just bloody stop.
Lucius did this. His father did this. Lucius sodding Malfoy swallowed his own pride to—to—
It hits Draco all at once that his father doesn't want to lose him as a son. So much so that he went to desperate lengths to ensure that he wouldn't, doing the one thing that not even Narcissa could sway him into doing. Whether or not he will ever be the son that Lucius wanted, it's abundantly clear that Lucius will not let him walk away.
It's a complicated thing, really. Draco knows that his father isn't proud of his choices. But this? This says, loud and clear, that Lucius acknowledges Draco as his son and won't let that go. It's a conundrum, but his father has always been a complicated man, just like his mother always says.
"That's—this is—" Draco blinks rapidly and looks up at Harry. "There are no consequences."
Harry bobs his head. "He said he did that on purpose. You wouldn't want consequences."
Draco chokes on a hysterical laugh, eyes bulging. Merlin and Morgana both, his father truly does know him, doesn't he? Bloody buggering fuck.
"That fucking bastard," Draco says, and it is meant to come out harsh and unforgiving, only to escape him weak and emotional.
He wants to crumble the parchment in his hands because he doesn't need it. He doesn't. He's above it. He outwitted his own father and got what he wanted on his own, and his father's permission now shouldn't mean a damn thing.
He gingerly eases the parchment back into the envelope anyway, refusing to cry.
"Yeah, I feel the same," Harry agrees with a weak laugh, lips curling up, "but I'm thankful anyway. He loves you, Draco, no matter how complicated he is. I know it makes you happy, so don't say it doesn't."
"It pisses me off, too," Draco mutters, because it does. It makes him feel quite a lot, actually.
Harry bites his lip, reaching back to rub at the back of his neck. "Well, I only thought it was fair. If you could go risk your life in front of my, er, guardian who just so happens to be Voldemort, then I figured I could go threaten your father until he gave in."
"Stubborn," Draco whispers.
"A bit, yeah," Harry admits. "So that's—I did that. That's a thing I did."
"Yes," Draco agrees.
"It's, er, not the only thing I did," Harry says slowly, clearing his throat. "Your mother told me—well, I mean, I asked, but she said that she had just the thing for a ring. It was supposed to be Sirius' to give to whoever he married, but that was before he was disowned. Then it was supposed to be Regulus', but he ended up dying. Bellatrix ended up in Azkaban, and Andromeda was disowned, so the ring ended up with Mrs. Malfoy instead. She thought—well, we thought it would be nice because of Sirius and such, but it's actually a really nice ring. So, I wanted to give it to—er...I mean, I'm going to…"
Harry's nervous rambling trails off, his explanation filtering out as he shifts awkwardly and goes for his pocket. He's so endearingly anxious that Draco's heart actually squeezes in his chest with fondness and love like he has never known.
And then it hits him what Harry is doing. He tenses in disbelief as Harry finally retrieves the box, flicks it open to reveal a ring, and the first thing that Draco blurts out is a violent, "No!"
Harry actually squeaks, reeling back like he has been slapped, nearly dropping the case holding the ring. He goes a bit peaky, some of the color draining from his face, making him look waxy brown. Panic and blatant hurt flashes through his eyes, and Draco lets out a groan, grimacing.
"Not—that's not… Harry, I'm not—" Draco huffs in annoyance at his own ability to string a sentence together, absolutely capsized by the surreality of this moment. Shaking his head, scowling, he reaches in his pocket to draw out the ring box he's been carrying around all this time. "I was going to do it. You can't just—I had it all worked out, you idiot!"
"Oh," Harry whispers, his voice small. He relaxes in an instant, gaze landing on the ring Draco presents to him and not moving. "I didn't know. I mean… I don't know why, I just—"
"I can't believe this," Draco mutters, his face softening against his will. "Do you have any idea what I went through to get this ring? I had to ask Hermione and Ron for help."
"Did you?" Harry asks in astonishment, head snapping up as he stares at Draco with wide eyes.
Draco smiles. "Yes. They were insufferable about it."
"Oh, I—I…" Harry looks at a loss for words, blinking slow, mouth hanging open. His gaze drifts back to the ring, sticking there, entranced. Then, after a beat, he looks at Draco and opens his mouth and—
"Marry me," they both say in perfect unison, all at once, with the same inflection of hope.
There's a beat where they stare at each other, then they break out into bright smiles at the same exact time. It's like they're linked in this moment, hearts synched, of one mind. Led by their love and guided towards the next step of their lives, walking into it right beside each other.
It is, quite possibly, the most amazing feeling in the world. It's like flying, like an embrace, like a kiss, like laughter and lingering and loving. It's home, and healing, and happiness. It's everything.
There's a rustle beside them, the wall of the maze shifting and shaking, breaking apart. Their heads turn, watching in exhilaration as an exit forms right beside them, opening up to the daylight outside. No one escapes the maze without first feeling pure joy, and that says yes for them both without them even having to open their mouths.
Still, Draco turns to Harry and drawls, "So I take it that's a yes, then?"
"Yes, you absolute prat," Harry breathes out, beaming, his eyes shining. "And you?"
"Obviously," Draco says, then sweeter, "Yes. Of course it's a yes."
That seems to snap all of Harry's restraint, and he launches himself at Draco with a bark of laughter, both of them still gripping their respective ring boxes as they wrap their arms around each other. They're still grinning when they kiss, and Draco's heart feels like it's going to swell right out of his chest and land at Harry's feet, which is fitting since it belongs to him anyway.
Perhaps it always has.
Moments later, they will break apart and swap rings with shaking hands and visible excitement, still too elated to let each other go entirely. And the exit to the maze will remain, waiting, where they'll walk out together, riding the high of happiness.
But, for right this second, they stay wrapped up together, holding on, basking in this.
His mother is doing a poor job of hiding her tears.
"Mother," he says gently.
Narcissa sniffs once, hard, drawing herself up to full height—still shorter than him. With her prosthetic, she smooths a hand down his robes, erasing wrinkles that aren't there. "You look so very dashing, darling," she whispers hoarsely.
"You're not going to cry, are you?" Draco asks warily, scanning her face. "Please don't do that."
"Of course I'm not," Narcissa replies instantly, tilting her chin up. "I have some decorum, Draco."
Draco doesn't try to hide his smile. "Oh, of course. It's only that there are tears in your eyes, Mother."
"You've become so much more...playful with Harry in your life," Narcissa murmurs. "It's because he is a malapert boy. It was foolish of me to think you could influence him into having manners."
"I influenced him to be a bit more Slytherin, not a bit more Pureblood," Draco explains calmly. "It's better if he's less polite, really."
"How so?"
"I like him mean."
"Draco," Narcissa scolds lightly, but there's a spark of amusement in her eye. She'd understand better than most, considering who her own husband is, so she has no room to judge.
"Help me with this," Draco mutters, sneering down at his bowtie. He's tried and failed to tie it on his own, knowing better than to use Charms that could fade before the end of the night. For all that he knows about knots—which Harry enjoys immensely, thankfully—a bowtie is something else entirely.
"Oh, I can't help you with that, darling," Narcissa says, clicking her tongue. "Not only will my prosthetic not allow me, but I don't know how. Your father does, however. I'll go get him."
"Mother, wait, don't…do...that…" Draco trails off into a sigh, shoulders slumping as she whisks out of the small room. He glances at the mirror and frowns.
"You would look better if you smiled," the mirror informs him snootily.
Draco ignores it, turning back to glance at the flap his mother disappeared through. She'd been dressed beautifully, as usual, but it's clear she went the extra distance this time. Wearing a floor-length gown in a lovely cream color, woven patterns of crimson red towards the end of her poofy skirt, red lace wrapped around her sides, making her look tiny and delicate and ridiculously stunning. Her prosthetic is made of garnet and flows like water, all except the stiff fingers as per usual, and it's a sparkling red that matches her dress and the necklace at her throat that he got for her long ago.
Draco himself is wearing blue with silver accents, both because it matches his eyes and because he knows Harry likes it. They're traditional robes, though more modernized than any Malfoy has ever worn at their own wedding. Change is good sometimes, and it looks good on him, too.
He fiddles with the bowtie with fumbling fingers, frowning, a distant part of him hoping he can get it done before his father enters the room. Maybe if he does, his father will leave. He'd like that.
Instead, because the world is cruel, he's still trying and failing when the flap flutters and Lucius steps inside. No matter what he feels about the occasion, he hasn't missed the chance to go the distance with his own appearance either. He's dressed to match Mother, but in reverse, wearing red with cream accents, though all of his accessories are silver and glinting. He stands tall and imposing, not a hair out of place, face blank and cold as always.
"Stop that," Lucius snaps, sweeping forward to smack his hands away from his tie. He's scowling now, looking displeased. "You'll crease it."
Draco sighs and resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Of course, Father. We wouldn't want that, would we?"
"If you wish to look second-hand and thrown away at your own wedding, be my guest," Lucius says tightly, even as he continues to work on the tie at Draco's throat. "Do as you please. You always do."
Draco is half-tempted to snark back and tell his father in vivid detail just how much Harry likes seeing him rumpled and messy. He does not do that because he's not trying to start a row, not today, and also because that might be a tad too much.
"Thank you," he says instead, stiffly, "for the help."
Lucius eyes him, looking down his nose at him, then releases a tiny huff. "Yes, well, you certainly can't do it. Don't tug on it until you plan to remove it."
"Yes, Father."
"Don't attempt to adjust it."
"Yes, Father."
"Don't marry Harry Potter."
"Father," Draco says, arching an eyebrow.
"Contumelious boy, you and him both," Lucius mutters, frowning. "Well-suited, at least."
"I know you mean that in a bad way, but an underhanded compliment is still a compliment," Draco says, smirking a little. "Thank you."
Lucius scoffs, then flicks his fingers once again and tightens the tie at Draco's throat, not even making it too tight. He steps back, flicking his gaze over Draco critically, then—infinitesimally—his expression thaws out and softens, just a tiny bit.
He says, calm and collected, "If your mother had turned out to be a Muggle-born, a Squib, a Muggle, or even a Weasley, I would not have loved her any less. Perhaps I would have hated myself instead."
Draco goes very still. They have not—in the four months since it happened—discussed their argument at the Manor. He has been back, of course, and Lucius treated him as if nothing happened at all. Draco has been more than happy to ignore not only how close he came to being disowned or turning his back on the family name himself, but also the fact that his father gave permission for Harry to ask Draco to marry him.
They don't talk about it due to mutually agreed upon desire to avoid the weight of such a subject, though they never actually came to the agreement out loud.
Perhaps his father didn't get the message.
Draco releases a quiet breath and says, "You would have hated yourself, and you would have hated her as well because of how much you loved her. And still, you would choose her over everything else."
"Speaking from experience?" Lucius asks coolly.
"Yes," Draco says. "He's—I have always loved him, Father. I got incredibly lucky with how everything happened, whether you see it that way or not."
"I would not give up your mother," Lucius replies shortly, his eyes—just like Draco's own—bright with unnamed emotion. "I shan't blame you for something even I would not do myself."
"I don't care if you do," Draco admits.
Lucius sneers at him. "Yes, I know. How I wish you could have loved anyone else, someone more respectable, but alas… He is a terrible influence on you and will only succeed in helping ruin your life further with time."
"I look forward to it," Draco says, lips twitching.
"Yes," Lucius mutters dryly, "I see that."
Draco clears his throat and averts his eyes. "I don't need you to be proud of my choices, or even—"
"I am not," Lucius cuts in, sharp and harsh, but the way he reaches out to put a hand on Draco's shoulder takes away from the derision in his words. He heaves a very, very deep sigh, which is rather unseemly. "Draco, I do not agree with where you wish to take your life. I will spend the rest of my time alive hoping to clean up the messes you have made and will surely continue to make for yourself, as I have always tried to do. I will wait for you to come to your senses, but should you remain steadfast in this...foolishness, I feel it is crucial to make you aware that I have always been and will always be proud to have you as a son, in spite of the ridiculous things that you do."
Draco gapes at him, at a loss for words, and all he can choke out is, "Did Mother make you say that?"
"Do you think she could if I did not wish to?" Lucius asks, arching an eyebrow. He waits a beat, then withdraws his hand. "Close your mouth, you look ridiculous. Do not cry, it is unbecoming. And for Merlin's sake, stand up straight."
With a huff and nothing else, he whirls around and marches out of the room, robes flapping as he goes. Draco stares after him and works very, very hard not to cry because he doesn't want to look like an idiot for his own wedding. No wonder his father chose to do all of this now; it's utter sabotage, obviously.
Malfoys do not play fair, after all.
Pansy, Blaise, Theo, Daphne, and Greg find him trying to swipe his face clean of tears about ten minutes later. He glares at them as they coo over him, teasing him for being emotional on his wedding day. It's not that, but he doesn't dare correct them, even though they would know better than most what it's like to have complicated relationships with fathers.
"You look gorgeous," Blaise tells him with a surprising amount of sincerity and a shocking lack of leering. He smirks, just a bit. "Harry's going to swallow his own tongue."
Draco laughs softly, pleased. He's vain, always has been, and this is the day for it. "Have you seen him?"
"We have," Theo admits, amused. "He's absolutely panicking. It's glorious."
"Panicking?" Draco asks.
"He's gone round the bend," Ron says, poking his head in through the curtain and grinning at everyone, completely at ease with the group of Slytherins regarding him shrewdly. "Has himself all worked up with the idea that you might realize there are more attractive people out there in the world than him. He almost cried about his hair, which came as a right shock. First time for everything, in any case. Hermione sent me to you and said that she requires Greg's help."
Greg blinks. "Me? Wha' can I do?"
"You'll apparently give Harry something to fret over besides himself," Ron says, grinning. "Go in there and let him fuss over you. Complain about your robes or shoes or something, mate."
"Yeah, alrigh'," Greg says easily. He glances over at Draco. "You'll be fine, won't you?"
"Oh, I'm perfectly fine," Draco lies, smirking. "Go be the big baby we all take care of, Gregory."
Greg smiles a little toothy grin, then disappears through the curtain, smacking Ron on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble a bit. It's probably an accident. Greg honestly doesn't know his own strength except when he's angry and ready to utilize it, though it's always been that way.
"Bloody strong baby, he is," Ron grumbles, rubbing his shoulder and huffing. He rolls his eyes and then raises his eyebrows at Draco. "Sure you're alright, mate? Hermione kicked me out because I made it worse. Kept telling Harry it wasn't too late to break up with you."
Draco scowls.
"Don't tease him," Pansy says. "Can't you see how stressed he is? He has been crying."
Ron squints. "Have you? Bloody hell. Don't do all that, Draco. Harry's mad for you, and you know it."
"I wasn't—I am fine," Draco snaps, standing up straight and resisting the urge to fiddle with his tie. He doesn't realize he's chewing on his bottom lip until Blaise reaches out to press on it with his thumb, releasing it. "Stop it. I'm fine."
"We're we this nervous, love?" Blaise asks his wife.
Pansy tuts. "Oh, no, I spent most of my time up to the ceremony on a warpath. The dress wasn't right, the music was all wrong, everything was just terrible and couldn't be fixed. I wasn't nervous, I was out for blood. And you… Well, you took a nap until it was time, if I recall correctly."
"Ah, yes, that I did," Blaise agrees. "How about it, Draco? Would you like a kip?"
"I want to die," Draco moans, his composure breaking in an instant as he covers his face with his hands, actually close to tears for seemingly no reason at all and with no warning.
His father is proud to have him as a son, and Harry Potter wants to marry him, and he has more friends than he knows what to do with and—
Ugh.
"So dramatic, darling," Pansy coos, moving over to fuss over him. "Yes, yes, I know you're overwhelmed. It's alright, my love, it's alright."
"Why did it have to be Harry Potter?" Draco mutters, tipping his head back and addressing the universe, sighing mournfully. "Why, why, why did it have to be him? It's not fair. No one gets to me like he does."
"Suspect that's the reason it has to be him, mate," Ron says easily, like that's not the wisest thing he's said this year. "Same in reverse, I reckon."
Draco moans again, rather dramatically, and his friends flutter around him as friends are supposed to do on a day such as today. They come and they go, filtering in and out, swapping out places between his and Harry's rooms. He sees them all at least twice, the whole lot of them—his Slytherins and the Gryffindors, too. Neville is here, as is Luna and Ginny, as is all the Weasleys.
Weasleys Twins One and Two pop in briefly and try to poison him with one of their inventions on the slight chance that he might like to puke rather than get married, and Pansy screeches at them so loud it drowns out their cackles as they wisely flee.
Dora and Aunt Dromeda visit him, and they're rather comforting, surprisingly. Dora chatters cheerfully and trips over air while Aunt Dromeda talks about her own wedding to her late husband with a small, pleased smile on her face. It soothes him more than he'll ever admit, but he's absolutely sure that they can tell.
Remus also pops in, cradling little Teddy in his arms as he comes. He's around two, Draco thinks, and he likes Draco quite a bit. In truth, Draco still isn't sure if Dora and Remus are two gay people who agreed to have a child together, or of they're actually in love. At this point, he's too polite to ask.
The person with him last, right before the ceremony begins, is his mother. She's doing nothing to hide the tears in her eyes, even if she refuses to let them fall, and Draco loves her so much that it hurts.
"I'm so proud of you, darling," she says, choked and gentle. "So proud. I'm so happy for you."
"Thank you, Mother," Draco tells her, and he means it for so much more than her words, for everything.
The way she smiles tells him that she understands, and she reaches up to cup his cheek. Softly, she murmurs, "Let's go get you married."
And so, they go.
They decided to get married in the meadow that they often came back to after their first meeting in the beginning of that fateful summer. It had been, surprisingly, Harry who had suggested it.
Draco thinks it's rather fitting, honestly.
The tent that was put up is extravagant, far more lavish than Harry himself had been comfortable with, but compromise had to happen. Draco did, in fact, choose the wine, and they're all having treacle tart for dessert. The music had been left up to Mrs. Weasley and Narcissa, and Draco had feared that they'd come to blows before an agreement, but apparently their respective husbands kept them relatively calm—about the only thing Lucius and Mr. Weasley could agree on, it seems, is that they do not want their wives fighting each other.
Rather ironic, that.
In any case, the ceremony passes like the haze of a dream, mostly because Draco is far too focused on looking at Harry to pay much attention to anything else. He is elated to be getting married, of course, but Harry looks so mouthwateringly good that Draco actually cannot focus.
The horrible idiot who he is marrying decided to fucking wear green. It's painfully unfair how utterly perfect he looks in it, his eyes bright behind his stupidly endearing glasses, the emerald depths of his robes gleaming and smooth against the russet glow of his brown skin. And Draco wants to cry. Draco wants to die, and he wants to lick every inch of him.
He's so disgustingly distracted that he barely hears it when they're instructed to kiss, but Harry perks up like he's been called on. He surges forward with an eagerness that betrays him and kisses Draco with far too much ferocity for this setting, and Draco is helpless to do anything but allow it. He stands there and curls around Harry a bit desperately, not caring about their audience, equating letting go to dying.
It's so bad that the officiator has to clear his throat three times—he'd been oh so eager to do this for Harry Potter's wedding, and Draco can't help but distantly wonder, as the man goes ignored yet again, if he regrets it yet. Snickers are breaking out in the crowd. Draco recognizes the Weasleys Twins when they whistle. All of it comes from a distance, like everything is all underwater and kissing Harry is the only true part of the real world.
Draco has to be the one to break the kiss, because he usually is, and he can't help but radiate smugness when Harry audibly embarrasses himself by whimpering. More laughs ring out from the crowd, and Harry groans and buries his face in Draco's shoulder, still breathing hard.
After that, there's the first dance, and Harry absolutely does step on his toes, so Draco makes him step on his feet like at Pansy and Blaise's wedding and spins him elegantly around the dancefloor.
"It is very attractive when you do this," Harry whispers, letting himself be tugged around.
Draco laughs softly in his ear. "Is it? I'll have to do it more often, even at home."
"Can we sneak off like Pansy and Blaise did?"
"Naughty, naughty. While I would like nothing more, my mother is far more observant than Pansy's. She would have our heads."
Harry groans, his hands tightening on Draco, head dropping on Draco's shoulder. "We're married . I should not want you this badly."
"I rather think you should," Draco says, amused.
"Yeah, well, I'm glad you think that way. You're stuck with me now. You can never, never want anyone else, ever, not even someone with better hair," Harry informs him a bit ridiculously.
"I like your hair," Draco says simply.
"Do you?" Harry murmurs.
Draco hums and turns him in a slow circle, pressing his lips to the top of Harry's head, feeling the thick strands brush his lips. "I like everything about you. Every single stupid, wonderful thing."
"Marry me again," Harry demands hoarsely.
"Alright," Draco agrees immediately, and Harry barks a laugh as they take another twirl.
After the first dance, anyone is welcome to it, and Harry abandons him to go dance with Narcissa, the traitor. He watches them for a bit, something soft unfurling in his chest from the sight of his mother's pleased smile and Harry's warm grin. They have something of a bond themselves, and Draco finds himself thankful for it.
Scanning the crowd of people, he sees Hermione stepping out of an awkward dance with Ron, and so he sweeps back in. Before she can get fully turned around, Draco catches her around her waist, ignoring her squeak and Ron's squawk as he whisks her away into his arms.
"Draco!" Hermione gasps, stunned.
"Hush, listen, I'm only saying this because I've married your best friend today," Draco tells her calmly, spinning her around with skill. She stares at him with wide eyes. "I want to say thank you. For everything. You were the first person to forgive me for the horrible things I've done, though I had not earned it, and you were the first one to approve of my relationship with Harry. You may never know what your support meant to him and me, and so I can only thank you, Hermione Granger. You are undeniably brilliant and bright, even without trying, and I am fortunate to be your friend."
"I—I—" Hermione stammers for a second, nearly tripping over her own feet in her distraction, but she manages to correct herself and let him lead her around the dancefloor. "Oh, Draco, you've turned out to be such a good man. I'm glad we're friends. You make Harry so happy, and he makes you so happy, and I just want you both to be happy. Now, kiss me on the cheek. Rita Skeeter somehow managed to get on the guest list, and she's watching us for a scandal. Let's give her one, shall we?"
Draco laughs, delighted. "You can be quite devious, Hermione." He ducks in and presses a lingering kiss to her cheek, listening a touch fondly as she giggles in his ear. When he pulls back, he winks at her, smirks, and says, "I like it very much."
"Pansy's fault," Hermione tells him. She pauses, tilting her head. "Can I have another song? You're a really good dancer."
"I get it from my father," Draco says, and then grins brightly when she laughs like it's a joke.
For a while, there's just the dancing. Draco's feet are sore by the end of it. He's danced with so many people that he can barely keep them all straight. Luna, Pansy, Hermione, Daphne, Astoria, Ginny, Blaise and Theo a few times, Mrs. Weasley, his mother, and Harry—he always goes back to Harry. Not that Harry hasn't done his own fair share of dancing, as terrible as he is at it, because he has.
It should rankle a bit that his father shows him up at his own wedding, but it doesn't. The entire dancefloor clears when Lucius and Narcissa start waltzing around together, and they don't even seem to notice, too caught up in staring at each other as they twirl in quick circles. They look like something out of a painting, majestic and magical, spinning and moving with elegance and grace that goes unmatched by anyone here. They keep going and going, locked entirely on each other, and it does not stop until Lucius dips Narcissa in a move that has everyone drawing in a collective breath. Narcissa tilts her head back, hair flowing around her like a halo, and then she releases a soft peal of laughter, ringing as clear and lovely as a bell. When Lucius draws her back up, he is smiling.
"Who knew Old Man Malfoy could dance?" Ron asks, chewing obnoxiously on the Canelé that serves as alternatives to the treacle tart.
"You really do get it from your father," Hermione muses in wonder.
"Could you dip me like that?" Harry murmurs, his interest in that rather evident, and Draco cannot believe that something Lucius has done has somehow given Harry inappropriate ideas. Lucius would absolutely hit the roof if he knew.
Best not to tell him, Draco decides and calmly replies, "We could always try later."
Harry grins.
And then, after that, they're passed around by a forming crowd as the reception winds down. Everyone wants to congratulate them, even people they don't really know, those that somehow got themselves on the guest list without actually earning a slot by being close to him or Harry. They allow it, however, far too giddy about being married to care who's congratulating them for it.
The paid house-elves—because Draco and Harry had insisted, no matter how much Lucius had fussed about it—see to the clean-up in an unnoticeable manner. Food starts disappearing and various glasses of wine pop out of existence. The only house-elf that shows himself is Dipsy.
He bows low in front of them and says, "Dipsy is very happy for Masters Draco Malfoy-Potter and Harry Malfoy-Potter. All the elves wish the Masters a life of endless joy."
"Thank you, Dipsy," Harry says, genuinely touched because he's ridiculous like that. When Dipsy pops away, Harry turns to Draco with a small smile. "He really was my favorite house-elf at the Manor."
"I'm telling Dobby," Draco teases, because Dobby has been hired by Harry to help with Grimmauld Place and the Muggle-born school, and he can only imagine Dobby's reaction if he actually did tell him.
Harry winces. "Oh, don't do that. I said my favorite elf at the Manor, not altogether. Dobby wins that."
"I can't believe you let a house-elf bully you, Harry," Draco says fondly. "You're such an idiot."
"He's very forceful in his hero-worship. He's been bullying me since I was twelve, really, but in a rather loving way." Harry pauses, considering him, then grins a little. "Besides, I let the biggest prat in the world bully me for most of my childhood, so why not? It works out in the end, one way or another."
"Your optimism is grating," Draco says, leaning into him. "I can't believe I married you."
"Life's full of surprises," Harry murmurs.
Draco hums. "That it is. You're my favorite."
"You're being so sweet. You smell so good. You're so beautiful," Harry says earnestly, gazing at him with bright, shiny eyes. "Ah, I love you so much, so much. Can we go? Let's run away from our own wedding. It'll be fun, I think."
"Where would you like to go?" Draco asks, already steering them subtly for the exit. "We'll have to hurry. Mother will try to stop us. It's very unseemly to run out on your own event, you know."
"We've just took the plunge," Harry says. "I rather think we can do whatever we want, yeah? And where would you like to go?"
"Anywhere, as long as it's with you."
"Then let's go home."
Draco grins at his husband, threading their fingers together. "Let's."
And so, freshly married and falling in love all over again, that's exactly what they do, escaping amidst the laughter and cheering of their friends, rushing to go nowhere but each other's arms. It feels like freedom, it feels like love, it feels like Paradise.
Without a doubt, it must be.
Notes:
We got to see Voldemort again 😭😩
Also they got married?!?! WHY DID I CRY WHILE WRITING IT? IM SO CHEESY.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Let me know your thoughts in the comments ☺️
Chapter 3: Securing the Family
Notes:
Okie dokie, folks! Let's see. No serious, heavy warnings for this chapter. There's a lil smut scene. Discussions of death/murder, but like, in a fun way? You'll see. Oh! Actually, yes, there is a small warning for a character being injured, but it's quickly resolved; mentions of bleeding from facial features and bones breaking. Other than that, I...am pretty sure that everything is fine. Overall, it's just a nice, amusing chapter.
Enjoy :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Harry falls into bed with a groan, and Draco refuses to let his amusement show. The perfect picture of a doting husband, he reaches over and smooths Harry's hair off his forehead. It's getting longer now, so long that he can almost put it in a bun with flyaway strands slipping free. It is, without a doubt, fucking with Draco's ability to function.
"Long day?" Draco asks lightly.
"Everything is so detrimental when you're eleven," Harry mumbles, turning to stare at him with wide eyes. "Were we so dramatic back then?"
"We were worse, I'm sure," Draco says. "If I recall correctly, you and Weasley snubbed me on my very first day, in which I decided to hate you both forever. So yes, worse, I think."
"Alright, yeah, but you are always that dramatic."
"I react appropriately to all situations."
"You absolutely do not," Harry tells him.
Draco smirks slightly. "Tell me, who was it this time? Marietta? I get the sense that she's the dramatic one out of that lot. She runs and hides every time I stop in."
"That's because she has a very major crush on you, and it's killing her slowly," Harry explains, lips curling up. "Her words, mind you. Did you know she asked if she could marry my husband? Her parents were absolutely mortified."
"Poor Marietta," Draco muses. "Her taste is impeccable, though. Good for her."
Harry snorts, then rolls his eyes. "No, it wasn't Marietta this time. Actually, it was Wilson."
"Wilson?" Draco asks in surprise. "But he's the sweetest boy I've ever met."
"Yes, I know. He waited until the end of class before he promptly went into hysterics. He thought that his magic would escape him and do something terrible. Try explaining intent to an eleven year old. I've never met someone so willing to believe that a part of themselves is just evil."
"Oh, I have."
"Have you?" Harry asks in surprise.
"I was talking about you, you idiot," Draco mutters, huffing out a quiet laugh. "You used to get so tied up about your own morality. Never your magic, though, I'll admit. Did you calm Wilson down?"
Harry sighs, dropping his head down on Draco's shoulder. "I think I did. He stopped crying, at least. He just doesn't want to hurt people."
"Watch him get sorted into Hufflepuff."
"Stop it. Don't talk badly about my students."
"That implies that you think being a Hufflepuff is something to be ashamed of," Draco says, grinning at the top of his head.
"Not at all," Harry replies, tilting his head back to look up at him with narrowed eyes. "I just know that you do, you prat."
"You...may have a point," Draco allows.
"In any case, I'll talk to his mum about it. I think they come from a religious household, so I'm sure this is a right shock for her. I'll make sure she understands and helps rather than accidentally makes it worse," Harry mutters.
Draco hums. "Sound course of action."
"Mhm." Harry shifts closer to him, releasing a soft sigh. "What about you? How was your day?"
"Ah, not—not the best," Draco admits, swallowing and going a little limp in their bed. He tries for a smile when Harry glances at him, but he doubts it actually resembles one. "We lost a patient today. The whole team had been working for a solid month to heal her, but she—it was… There wasn't anything we could do. She was only fifteen."
"Draco, I'm sorry," Harry murmurs, watching him seriously, his gaze genuinely filled with sorrow.
"It happens. It has happened before and will again. I know that, I just… I don't know. She was always so cheerful and kind to everyone. Never once complained about pain, never even questioned it when we wanted to try something new, never seemed unhappy in the slightest."
"Draco…"
"She reminded me of Luna."
"It's alright to be upset or angry about it, Draco. It's alright to care, you know."
Draco frowns and shakes his head. "It's not that, not really. I'm sad, certainly, because she was a lovely girl, but it's not—it's different. You'll think me callous, truly, but she was a patient. I didn't cry. None of the other Healers did either. It just comes with the job, I think. People just die sometimes. It's not that I cared, or didn't; it's just that it can be very tiring sometimes when you're trying to save someone, but you can't, that's all."
"Hm." Harry surveys him closely, then nods carefully. "Well, I'm sorry anyway, yeah?"
"Thank you," Draco says.
"You'll help others. There's always more."
"Yes, yes there is."
Because, in life, there are as many chances to recover than there are not to. Sometimes, it's just finding out which one it will be and deciding to live no matter what while you can.
"Draco! I want Draco!"
With a start, Draco snaps his head up at the sound of Hermione's panicked shouting. He's careening around his desk and bypassing Dior without a second thought, bursting out into the main hall with his heart running away in his throat. Hermione takes one look at him and crumbles to the ground.
"Hermione?!" Draco barks in alarm, rushing forward to hit his knees beside her.
"Stupid, useless leg!" Hermione snarls, cringing and shaking as she tries to push to her feet again, only to crumble with a pained cry.
Draco pushes her back down and makes quick work of the cramp at the back of her leg. "Stop it, Hermione, you're making it worse. Have you been doing the exercises like I told you?"
"Yes," Hermione grits out, "but that's not important now. Ron's here. Something happened on one of his cases. Draco, they won't let me see him and Daphne hasn't come back yet and—and—"
"Alright, hush now," Draco murmurs calmly. "I need you to sit here for a moment while I deal with your leg, yes? Tell me what happened."
"I don't even know. Robards got in contact with Daphne, seeing as she's his fiance. She had to floo me from work, and she was frantic. He was apparently injured, but—but they won't let me see him or tell me anything. Harry's on his way now, as are all the Weasleys. I'm—Draco, I need to—"
Hermione cuts herself off with a loud groan, flinching as Draco digs into the cramp at the back of her thigh. For a second, she twitches and digs her nails into her arm, clenching her teeth. Once he works it out, she sags back and sighs in relief.
"Alright, let's get you up. Careful now."
"Draco, you have to go see him," Hermione begs, looking at him with imploring eyes. "Please. At least check to make sure he's alright. If—"
There's an overhead ding that fills the hall, and shortly after a soft voice echoes as it says, "Healer Malfoy-Potter, assistance needed in room two-twelve. Procedure Yellow. Healer Malfoy-Potter, assistance needed in room two-twelve. Procedure Yellow."
Draco goes pale. "Hermione, I need to—I have to go handle this. Just wait here, alright? I'll find you as soon as I'm available, I promise."
"Draco," Hermione starts, clearly fretting, but he's already pulling away and darting off.
Procedure Yellow is bad. It's very bad. It involves Dark Magic, which he specializes in, and it means he has a very small window to save someone's life. He can't stay and try to reassure Hermione, no matter how much he wishes he could.
This turns out to be a good thing.
The moment he bursts into two-twelve, he is instantly thankful that he ran as fast as he did. None other than Ron is sprawled out on the bed, surrounded by flummoxed Healers, seizing and shouting indistinctly as sharp cracks that can only be the sound of bones breaking fills the air.
Daphne is backed up into a corner, her eyes wide, hand covering her mouth in horror. She looks utterly terrified, and it's likely due to the frantic work the other Healers are doing that she has been forgotten.
"Out!" Draco snaps at her, then turns to the closest Healer who isn't doing much. "Get her out of here."
He doesn't check to make sure that she actually goes while the other Healer darts away, instead focusing on Ron. He looks terrible, all twisted up and red all over, shouting in agony as his limbs jerk around like they're being yanked on by invisible forces. He's bleeding from his eyes, ears, and nose. Thankfully, they've already got something between his teeth to keep him from biting his tongue off.
Draco refuses to panic, no matter who is in front of him now. Yes, this is Ron, the last person he expected to consider a friend, but a friend nonetheless. He looks on the verge of death, and as terrifying as it is to see, it's Draco's job to ensure that doesn't happen. He draws his wand and gets to work, grim and determined.
It's close. Too close, in fact.
He spends the entire time tersely making commands to the other Healers and fighting against the Dark Magic that courses through Ron. It drains him, makes him exhausted, but he keeps going anyway. He has no idea how much time has passed after he's stuffed a ridiculous amount of potions down Ron's throat, after he's stripped all the Dark Magic away, after he's mended all thirty-six of the broken bones.
Ron's heart nearly gives out a total of six times, which is absolutely petrifying, but he does pull through in the end. He looks a little worse for wear, drenched in sweat and trembling despite being unconscious. However, once he goes still, his heart rate settles and his breathing returns to normal.
He's going to be sore for a few days and will need to take potions every day for the next eight weeks, but he will live. He absolutely will, and Draco's knees nearly buckle when he comes to the realization.
"Great work, Draco," Huxley says, nodding at him.
Draco sways on his feet and shakily waves a hand to bat away the compliment. "You too. All of you. We should have him cleaned and put comfortably. He'll be out for the night, I think, but we should administer the proper draughts to keep him asleep. I'll go speak with his family."
"Are you certain?" Huxley asks. "You've been at this for hours with no break. You look ready to drop. Someone else can handle the family if you're—"
"No, no, it's fine," Draco mumbles, taking a step back. "Some of them are my family, too. Sort of."
Huxley blinks. "Oh. You know the patient?"
"He's my husband's best friend," Draco replies, giving a wan smile when multiple Healers in the room jolt when they realize who, exactly, they're dealing with. Draco's husband is Harry Potter, and Harry Potter's best friend is Ron Weasley, which means they've been healing a war hero. It'll be the gossip of the Hospital for some time. "See to it that he's comfortable. His family will want to visit soon, but I'll hold them off for an hour at least. Oh, and expand the room. He's a Weasley, and they breed like their namesakes, so there will be a lot of them."
"Well," Huxley says as Draco walks away, "you heard the lad. Let's get to it, then."
Draco feels like he's going to faint any second. He'd used more energy than he cared to while healing Ron. He needs to sit down and eat something. He needs to steal a quick snooze. Instead, he makes his way to the waiting room.
As expected, it's absolutely overflowing with people, an uncomfortable number of them redheads. The first thing he sees is Hermione practically glued to Daphne's side, both of them looking wrecked. Harry is pacing, Mrs. Weasley is crying, Ginny has her head in her hands, and Seamus—Ron's Auror partner—is unnaturally still and silent.
"Draco!" Harry bursts out, noticing him first. He whirls towards him, eyes wide. "Bloody hell, you look like shite. Are you alright? Is Ron?"
"I look like shite because of Ron," Draco snarks, but it lacks any heat. He holds up a hand when everyone immediately tries to bombard him with questions all at once. Once everyone has fallen silent, watching him in fear, he drops his hand and speaks. "Ron is fine now. I've been working on him this whole time. He'll be recovering for the rest of the night and likely the next few days. You're welcome to visit him in about an hour, but he won't be awake."
"Oh, thank Merlin," Mr. Weasley breathes out, his eyes sinking closed in relief. He holds his wife close as she weeps—now in respite, thankfully.
"What happened to him?" Seamus bites out. "I've never seen any Curse like that. He—he—"
"It was a nasty one, yes," Draco agrees, flicking his gaze towards Daphne. "Not pretty. He ended up with thirty-six broken bones and some muscle atrophy, but we have a recovery plan for all of that. What matters now is that the Curse has been stripped away and he'll get better. I'm not actually the Head Healer for his case—they only called me in because of the Dark Magic—so you'll need to get details from Healer Phillips."
"Thank you, Draco," Mrs. Weasley sobs out, launching herself out of her husband's arms to fall into his, holding onto him tightly. "Thank you so much for helping Ron."
Draco grimaces and awkwardly pats her shoulder once, twice, and then carefully yet forcefully pushes her away. "Don't thank me, Mrs. Weasley. I didn't have anything else to do today. For now, you should all relax and perhaps nip over to the canteen for a spot of lunch, yes? Go on, Ron isn't going anywhere, I promise you that."
It takes another solid ten minutes before he can get the majority of the room cleared out, leaving behind only Hermione, Daphne, and Harry. They all huddle around him, staring at him with wide eyes like they're all still waiting for bad news. He doesn't have any to give them. Sometimes, things just work out, and sometimes they don't.
Fortunately, this seems to be the case of the former.
"Is he really alright?" Daphne asks cautiously. "I saw him, what he looked like. It was—"
"I'm sorry you had to see that," Draco says, because he actually is and also because he's halfway still in Healer mode out of sheer self-preservation so he won't pass out at any second. "He really is alright. Hurt, needing rest, but alright."
Hermione shifts anxiously. "Can we—"
She doesn't seem to know how to finish, but Draco understands. "Go on. You and Daphne can have a few minutes alone with him before the others rush in. Why don't you start that way first, Hermione?"
"Just me?" Hermione asks, darting her gaze to Daphne warily, like being away from her right now is the absolute last thing she wants to do.
"You and Harry," Draco amends, offering her a calm smile, then turning to meet Harry's gaze.
Thankfully, Harry rarely fails to pick up his cues these days, so he gingerly wraps an arm around Hermione and starts leading her to the door. "Come on, then. We'll just go visit him and see that he's fine for ourselves, yeah? Daphne will be right behind us, I'm sure."
Draco watches them go, disappearing through the door and setting off down the hall. He expels a slow breath and glances at Daphne. She looks more concerned than she ever has, and he's known her for a long time. He met her when he was ten years old, and she has always been rather distant. They were never particularly close before Sixth Year, before they had something in common like loving a Gryffindor—or, in her case, two.
"What is it, Draco?" Daphne asks softly, seriously, straight to the point. She's always like this, always blunt and ready to carve her way to the heart of the problem. She doesn't dabble in subtleties, but rather uses her candid demeanor in a cunning way, befitting a Slytherin. "If it's about Ron, you should have let Hermione stay. I know I'm technically his fiance, but she has every right to—"
"You need to do something about this," Draco cuts her off tightly, staring at her without wavering, using her own straightforward tactics against her. "You and Ron have been engaged for a long time, and you have ample opportunity to call it off. Theo and Astoria's are married. Either you marry Ron and figure out how to include Hermione in that, or you back off."
Daphne is visibly startled for a split second, then her entire face goes blank. Quietly, she says, "And what has brought you to this conclusion?"
"You didn't see her," Draco hisses. "You know Hermione, I know you do. She doesn't like being helpless, and she certainly doesn't like not knowing something. When Ron was hurt, you got all the information because you're his fiance. She got nothing. You are more than welcome to pretend all you like that you do not want them both, that's fine, but I will tell you that if you do nothing to secure them, you will lose them."
"Is this friendly advice, Draco?" Daphne asks acidly.
Draco heaves a sigh, very weary. "It's honest advice. No one cares if the three of you are all in love and such. Just—you have to do something about it before things get out of hand."
"I see," Daphne says stiffly.
"Daphne," Draco murmurs, "do you know they have been jealous of every person who got close to the other before you? Ron nearly killed me for the mere idea that Hermione and I were dating. Hermione was a mess about Lavender, if you recall. For some reason, you fit with them. I don't particularly know why, nor do I care to, but doing nothing about it will do no good for any of you. I thought Hermione would handle it, but…"
Daphne just stares at him, her jaw working. "Are you quite finished?"
"Daphne." Draco stares at her, waiting for her facade to crack, waiting for her to give him something, anything. She doesn't. He sighs and waves her off. "Yes, I'm finished."
"Good," Daphne spits. She leans forward to glare at him, eyes blazing. "Stay that way. Mind your own business and stay out of mine."
With that, she pivots and marches out of the room with her head held high. Draco stares after her, then tosses up a hand. Yes, alright. There goes the last time he ever tries to help a friend. Perhaps being brutally honest, to the point of being harsh, especially in light of Ron's injury, was not the best route for him to take.
He doesn't really know how to be anything else, though. Not when it comes to advice, not when he actually cares, not when it is best to be honest—even to the point that it hurts—whether anyone wants to hear it or not. Giving her ample warning...well, she may not appreciate it now, but she may thank him later. That will just have to do.
Swaying on his feet, Draco stumbles over to one of the generic chairs against the wall, sinking down into it. He leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. It's not very professional, but he's allowed a break after gruelling cases such as Ron's. He just needs a moment, that's all.
He's halfway to sleep when he feels gentle fingers brush along his hairline. He snaps his hand out, catching the wrist and opening his eyes with the coldest glare he can muster when he's very close to passing out. He does not let many people touch him, and the only two people in the world who can touch him like this are Harry and his mother. Fortunately for the body connected to the wrist he just so happens to be holding, it's Harry.
"I came back to check on you," Harry tells him softly, carefully moving to sit in the chair next to him, watching him. "Everyone is visiting Ron now."
"That's good," Draco mumbles.
"You look knackered, Draco."
"That's because I am."
Harry hums. "You did quite a bit to save Ron's life, didn't you? Healer Phillips was telling everyone about it, you know. He said you did amazing."
"Huxley should shut his mouth," Draco says, eyes drifting closed, "before I tell Dior that he doesn't actually hate her and wants to shag her on every available surface in St. Mungos."
"Why can you never take a compliment when it applies to the goodness of your character?" Harry asks, audibly amused and exasperated.
Draco grunts and sleepily retorts, "Why can't you shut up and be my pillow while I recover from saving your best friend's life?"
"Lean on me, then," Harry murmurs, his voice sounding fuzzy and far away. "Lean on me."
"Yeah, m'going t'do that," Draco replies in a faint whisper, sleep dragging him down so hard that he doesn't stand a chance at fighting it.
Just before he's out like a swiftly blown candle, he feels lips brush his forehead and a warm, familiar voice fondly saying, "That's it, Draco. Rest now, you ridiculous thing. Lean on me, love, lean on me."
Draco watches Pansy swirl her wine, her fingers delicately curled over the stem of her glass. He rubs her knee from where her legs are draped over his lap, toes tucked under the cushion on his sofa.
"Men," he declares simply, "are idiots."
Pansy is doing her absolute best not to show that she's been crying profusely, but he can hear it in the tremble of her voice when she says, "Even you?"
"I am the only exception," Draco murmurs.
"I should have married you," Pansy whispers, and her voice cracks on every syllable.
Draco doesn't tell her that he had no desire to marry her. He doesn't mention that she doesn't mean what she says. Right now, for her, she's in the midst of a fight with her husband—Draco's other friend—and she doesn't need him to be rational right now. It doesn't matter who was right or wrong, not with tears shimmering in Pansy's eyes.
Annoying as she can be and has always been, he does have something of a soft spot for her. She feels quite a lot, though she covers everything in derision and harsh insults. He knows her too well to think she's anything other than a mess right now.
"I'll hex his bullocks off," Draco suggests, only partially joking.
Pansy sniffs. "I'll help."
"Er," Harry says awkwardly, shifting a bit in the doorway, looking very unsure how to proceed.
"What do you want?" Pansy snarls at him, glaring and curling in closer to Draco, the only person who won't serve as a target of her hurt at the moment. Harry, unfortunately, is not granted the same luxury. "Do you think this is funny? Do you think it's trivial and means nothing? Just a small fight? You'd probably take his side, just like all stupid men! What do you want? Why are you still standing there?! Go away, get out of my sight!"
Harry startles like a stunned deer, eyes wide, and he throws Draco a panicked look before he goes darting back into the kitchen. There's the faint sounds of pans clanking and dishes scraping. He's stress-cooking, or baking. Poor sod.
"Tell me more about how we're going to peel all of Blaise's skin off his bones," Draco coos indulgently, petting her hair just how he knows she likes it.
Pansy sets out to do just that, going into excruciating detail that does not bode well for the state of Blaise's well-being. She won't actually do it, of course, but if he ever made an unforgivable error, Draco doesn't doubt that she has the means and the will to do exactly as she describes. A woman scorned and all that. Draco knows Blaise is too smart to let it get that far, at least, and he does actually love Pansy, even if he's being a prat at the moment.
Pansy and Blaise don't often fight, but when they do, it's very bad. It leads to moments such as this, Pansy stumbling into Draco's flat and explaining all her fantasies of killing her husband, crying and hurt and trying so hard to hide it. It's all very dramatic, really, and Draco doesn't doubt that they'll reconcile, but now isn't the time to push for it.
It's funny, Draco thinks, because he and Harry are the exact opposite. They do fight a lot, nearly every day, bickering and fussing and throwing insults back and forth like passing a Quaffle. Nearly every conversation they have is full of snark, calling each other rude names the same way others speak endearments, discussing how much they hate each other like it's not a lie—and maybe, just a small bit, it really isn't. After all, love and hate is something they're both capable of, especially for each other, and being happily married doesn't always erase that.
Still, despite this, they don't often have bad fights. Not like this. They haven't had an explosive argument that led to tears and distance in nearly a year, and even then, it had been quickly resolved.
It's a curious thing, really, and one that Draco would not trade for the world.
He likes not feeling like this. He likes hating Harry in a mild way, even as he doesn't at all. He likes that, for all their teasing arguments, they can be sweet and open and discuss whatever they need to. He likes not feeling the way he did when they were younger, uncertain of the future and the solidity of their relationship, worried about the foundation that they had stacked their love upon. He has no need for it, not anymore. He has never felt steadier.
Of course, he doesn't say these things to Pansy. She's clearly the one in distress right now, so he lets her be dramatic all over him, hissing threats against her husband that ring hollow because of the tears on her cheeks. She's very beautiful. Blaise is a lucky man.
Harry, bless him, keeps poking his head out of the kitchen, wringing his hands, looking unsure. It's clear that he wants to help, but Pansy doesn't want anyone but Draco right now. She considers him her best friend, and everyone else is an enemy at the moment. Regardless, Harry keeps checking in on the conversation, wincing in sympathy at whatever grotesque torture Pansy is planning for her husband, coming out with varying degrees of flour on his brown skin and in his black hair.
Draco wants to shag him, desperately, but now truly isn't the time for it.
Finally, Harry must finish whatever task he gave himself in the kitchen, because he comes out with a small plate. On it is the Cherry Crumble he makes when he's in the mood for dessert—Draco can attest to how good it is. Hesitantly, Harry approaches Pansy like she's a rabid animal, and she watches him draw closer with suspicion in her gaze like he might be an animal tamer. Ridiculous, the both of them.
"I made it for you," Harry says cautiously, holding out the plate to her, so endearingly awkward and well-intended that Draco's heart hurts. "Just—well, if you wanted, I thought… Er, it tastes good?"
Draco sighs softly and nudges Pansy. "It truly does. You should have it. Pretend the Cherry sauce is Blaise's blood, darling."
Harry blanches, but Pansy takes the dish with relish, huffing. "Thank you," she says stiffly, picking up the fork and gingerly dipping it in the flaky crust, taking a bite and smearing the cherry-red sauce on her lips, tongue gliding over it slow. She blinks, then regards Harry with narrowed eyes. "Yes, this is good."
"I've made a whole pan," Harry says. "You're welcome to it. More wine?"
"Yes, please," Pansy says, holding out her glass with a prim sniff, tilting her nose up in the air.
Harry darts off to get the wine.
"You slag," Draco teases. "Don't abuse his desperate need to save people, even from their own hurt feelings. He could be convinced to do anything, and I won't have you bossing my husband around to wait on you hand and foot."
"Is that what you do?" Pansy asks, arching an eyebrow as she scoops up another bite and offers it to him.
"I earn it, with him," Draco tells her with a lewd gesture, winking before leaning forward to let her feed him. He chews thoughtfully, humming in approval, then swallows. "You're more than welcome to stay over for the night, you know. Harry won't mind if you sleep in the bed with us."
Pansy actually looks a little relieved. "Really?"
"Of course not," Draco says. "He's Harry."
"Will you two shag with me there?" Pansy asks with a leer, recovering from her palpable gratefulness, too prideful to show it for long. "I'd like it if you would."
"His Gryffindor sensibilities won't allow for it, I'm afraid," Draco murmurs, biting back a smile when Pansy pouts. "Perhaps some other time."
Pansy hums, says, "I'll hold you to that," and then takes the next bite for herself.
She does end up staying over, and Harry's only response when he realizes that she's going to be sleeping in the bed with them is a small frown as he stops himself from removing his shirt as he usually would. Draco has no such qualms and climbs into his bed half-naked as always, falling into his pillows with a sigh. Pansy—dressed in one of Harry's too-big t-shirts and her knickers—scoots into the middle and sprawls out without batting an eye.
Harry pauses for a second, head tilted like an owl, surveying them with a soft curl around the corner of his lips. He looks—he's amused, fond. Shaking his head, he douses the lights and slides in on the other side of Pansy, not saying a word.
They fall asleep like this: Pansy curled into Draco's side, back to Harry, her leg tossed across Draco's waist and her head tucked under his chin. It's brazen and bold, far more intimate than they've been in years, and this is how Draco knows that Pansy really is upset about fighting with Blaise.
They wake up like this: Pansy draped over Harry, clinging to him like a vine, his arm thrown over her waist and his fingers grazing Draco's hip. It's vaguely surprising, the same sort of oddness that would come if Draco somehow found himself cuddling Hermione. Like a sister-in-law.
It's utterly adorable.
Draco leaves them to their snuggling, escaping the overbearing heat they both exude, getting dressed and flooing over to Blaise's instead.
Blaise looks like shite, and Draco tells him so, to which Blaise sharply retorts, "Get out."
"No, I don't think I will," Draco drawls. "Your wife is at my flat, currently draped all over my husband like a particularly clingy shawl. Be a dear and stop letting your pride get in the way of making up with her, yes? Shag about it already and get over it."
"She sends me around the twist," Blaise grumbles, and it's a testament to how much he trusts Pansy—and probably Draco and Harry—when he doesn't even bat an eye to hear that she's all over him at the moment, even without context. "She's absolutely maddening, she is."
"Yes, well, you wouldn't have her any other way, I don't think," Draco says mildly.
Blaise harrumphs. "No, I wouldn't. Bullocks. I made her cry, didn't I?"
"You did. Don't be too hard on yourself about it. Pansy cries about everything."
"She cried when she stained the carpet last week."
Draco smirks. "See? She's fine. Well, no, she's actually not. She will be, though, when you get yourself together and stop being a prat."
"I will when she does," Blaise snaps.
"Oh, in that case, I'll just let her stay at mine indefinitely, then." Draco raises both eyebrows in challenge. "I'm sure she'd love that."
"You're a bastard."
"Oh, if only."
Blaise huffs, scowling. It makes him look less handsome than his usual smooth rakish looks. "Why does it have to be me?"
"You're an adult, Blaise, don't be ridiculous about this. Sometimes, as loathe as we are to do so, we have to...swallow our pride for those who drive us mad the most," Draco says, shrugging.
"Do you?" Blaise asks curiously. "With Harry, I mean. For some reason, I just can't picture it."
Draco remembers the huge fights they've had in the past. He had, in fact, swallowed his pride many times to see them make amends. It may have taken some time, but he eventually always did.
"I do, more than you'd realize," Draco admits, less ashamed now that he's a bit older. "The question can't be why you have to be the one to do it, or it will never get done. The question is, and always should be, what will happen if neither of you do."
Blaise looks uncomfortable at the thought immediately, shifting restlessly. Draco can understand that. It's not easy to imagine never reconciling with the person you love the most. Those thoughts sting the worst. In that vein, understandably, it's easier to swallow your pride.
"Is she awake?" Blaise asks tentatively.
Draco huffs a quiet laugh. "Not quite. Come on. I'll show you to your wife if you've decided to stop making her cry. She is my best friend, you know."
"And who's mine?" Blaise grumbles, letting himself be led to the fireplace.
"Theo, and you know it," Draco retorts sharply. "He was here with you last night, wasn't he?"
Blaise looks sheepish. "How'd you know?"
"Because while Pansy comes running to me, you go running to Theo," Draco says simply.
Blaise doesn't deny it, wisely, and he's quiet once he enters Draco's flat. He says not a word when Draco leads him to the bedroom, easing the door open to reveal Pansy and Harry in the same exact position as he left them. Blaise takes one look at his wife and his eyes soften, lips curling up reflexively.
Without a word, Blaise slips his boots off and marches over to ease into the bed, scooting in close behind Pansy and cupping her small body with his own. Harry, in his sleep, attempts to drag them both closer, huffing in a vaguely grumpy way with reaching fingers. Draco has to stifle a laugh and back away, refusing to wake them up by snickering. He goes to the kitchen instead, making coffee and waiting for the inevitable fallout.
It happens less than thirty minutes later.
There's an ear-splitting shriek, a shrill shout that can only come from Pansy. Moments later, Harry is scuttling from the bedroom, darting into the kitchen in a frazzled state, eyes wide, hair a wreck. He gapes at Draco in blatant distress.
"There were the wrong Slytherins in our bed," Harry tells him, voice cracking from sleep still in his throat. "I thought I lost the plot."
Draco smirks behind his coffee mug, taking a delicate sip, then he says, "You seemed rather comfortable, actually."
Harry glares at him. "She nearly blew out my ear, waking me up with all that shouting. She's a bloody banshee, she is."
"It's quiet now," Draco muses curiously as he goes about making Harry's coffee.
"I put up a Silencing Charm," Harry says, tone so dry that the hottest desert would be envious. "If she kills him, I'm not helping hide the body. I'll call Ron. He'll arrest her. He has to, he's duty-bound."
"She won't kill him," Draco replies mildly. "If anything, they'll just shag in our bed."
Harry grimaces. "Please tell me you're joking."
"I am not." Draco holds out Harry's coffee once it's as light and sweet as he likes it. "Here, drink. We have a long wait ahead of us."
"You know," Harry muses, face softening as he takes the mug, "you're a really good friend, Draco."
"Shut up, Harry."
"No, really. You took good care of her."
"Harry."
"It's the same thing I'd do for Hermione, you know. Well, maybe not...exactly what you did and what you're allowing them to do, but the intentions are the same. You've gone soft, Draco."
"Soft," Draco echoes icily.
Harry nods, grinning. "Mhm. You don't do anything terrible and naughty these days. What's this? The prat of all prats turning out to be mild? No surprises from you lately. You used to be so flagrant."
"Is that right?" Draco murmurs, dropping his mug to the counter with a thunk.
"Mm," Harry continues, utterly oblivious as he twists to face Draco with a grin. "I'd even go far as to say you've become reputable."
"I see," Draco says, then takes a step forward, gripping Harry's hips and slamming him back against the counter, holding him in place.
Harry yelps, jolting and holding his coffee away as some spills over the rim. His eyebrow furrows. "What the—Draco, what are you—"
He swallows the rest of his words as Draco—despite the door standing wide open and the current guests in their home—falls to his knees without a second of hesitation. Harry sucks in a sharp breath, hastily sitting his coffee down, eyes wide.
"Well, we wouldn't want that, would we?" Draco drawls, arching an eyebrow, tilting his head back to look up at Harry with a taunting smirk.
"Pansy and Blaise are in our flat, Draco," Harry hisses, fingers flexing, breath hitching. "The door is open! They could hear us, or—or see us!"
"Best be quiet, then."
"They still have eyes!"
"So what if they do see? You don't want them to? You wouldn't like it if they saw me on my knees for you, just you, naughty and not reputable at all?" Draco keeps his tone slow and sultry, soft and teasing, smirking wider when Harry gives a full-body flinch. He twitches, blatantly horrified by his own response to Draco's words, unable to hide the shudder he gives. "Oh, you would like that, wouldn't you? Harry, Harry, darling Harry, you need only allow me, you know. I'll handle it, no matter how flagrant of me it is."
"Draco, what the fuck?" Harry blurts out, bewildered, then proceeds to squawk and squirm when Draco yanks his pajama trousers and then his pants down, pinning him to the counter and baring him naked from the waist down. "Oh my—fuck. Fuck. Merlin, Draco, are you mad?!"
"Are you stopping me?" Draco asks patiently, crooking one eyebrow in challenge.
Harry darts a frantic gaze towards the doorway, then bites his lip as he looks at Draco again. His legs tremble. Poor thing is barely breathing right. With a shaking hand, he pushes his fingers through Draco's hair, then releases a muffled groan of defeat.
Draco wipes the smirk of victory off his face and leans forward, closing his eyes and losing himself to sensation.
The thing is, he knows exactly how to do this. He knows how Harry likes it. He knows when to press his tongue flat, when to swirl it, when to suck harsh and when to suck soft, when to let Harry's moans and frantic tugging on his hair guide him into a hum that reverberates right through him.
His knees ache, his jaw does as well, and there's nothing else he'd rather be doing at the moment. It is incredibly obscene to be doing this at all—Pansy and Blaise levels of licentious. However, Harry is making the most pathetic whimpers, a lot louder than he should be if he's trying to keep quiet, and he's gasping for air like Draco is sucking the life right out of him. It's exhilarating.
Harry babbles a bit uselessly, giving in rather quickly and taking back all the things he said about Draco being an upstanding human being, as he should. He declares, instead, that Draco is cruel, and terrible, and so fucking fetchingly incorrigible that he just can't resist. Draco is humming around a laugh when Harry spills in his mouth, ridiculously pleased with himself and so smug that he could live off that feeling alone for days.
"Bugger," Harry wheezes, after, sinking down into a trembling heap on the floor as his legs all but give out. He blinks at Draco in a daze, limp, letting Draco adjust his clothes and provide him with his decency once more. "Draco. Draco. You—I—"
"Don't forget who you married," Draco tells him, crouched in front of him, perfectly put together and poised while Harry remains a mess in front of him. He arches a cool eyebrow. "I'll have to remind you if you do, so take care where and when you decide to let it slip your mind."
"You're so fucking—argh! Come here, you prat," Harry gasps out, reaching for him, dragging him into his lap and snogging him fiercely.
This is how Pansy and Blaise finds them about twenty minutes later, Draco perched in Harry's lap on the floor, Harry's hand in Draco's trousers, snogging and groaning in a very indecent manner.
"Oh," Pansy says, amused, "it seems we've interrupted, love."
Harry squeaks and tries to withdraw his hand, but Draco clamps his fingers on his wrist, keeping him still. He tilts his head back, knowing he's flushed, knowing his pupils are blown wide, knowing his lips are swollen and spit-slick and his hips are still rocking. He doesn't actually care, even if Harry has ducked his head and let out a mortified sound.
"Leave," is all Draco says, his voice hoarse.
Blaise grins at him. "Oh, we are. Might be best if you clean your sheets when you clean your clothes. Thought you'd like to know."
"Good day, boys," Pansy says, cackling as she drags her husband from the kitchen by the hand. "Have fun, my darlings!"
The moment they're gone, Harry gets over his humiliation and they do, in fact, have fun.
They get kidnapped.
Well, alright, kidnapped is a bit of a strong word. Harry would say he's dramatic for calling it that, even in his own head. But, well, that's certainly what this feels like, in any case.
To put it lightly, Draco doesn't want to be here. He wants to be at home, in bed, sleeping in since he's not required to go into St. Mungos tomorrow. He wants Harry's heavy arm draped over him, wants the tangle of their fingers, wants the distant click of the pendulum clock that Dumbledore had sent to them as a wedding present—likely knowing that Draco would get addicted to listening to it as he drifts off to sleep, that utter bastard.
Instead, Portkeys! Friends being secretive! A redhead being nervous! Lovely. Brilliant. Draco wants to murder the three who dragged Harry and him to some unknown location around the world, but that certainly is a tad dramatic.
"I do hate it when you get like this, Hermione," Harry says warily, throwing Draco anxious glances as they're marched further down an alleyway.
"And you, Ron, why are you fidgeting so much?" Draco challenges, glaring at him.
Ron won't meet his gaze.
"Oh, shut up, both of you!" Hermione snaps, careening around the corner of a building and pivoting on the spot so sharply that everyone else has to draw to an abrupt halt. "This is important, alright? Now, I'm going to explain everything, but you'll both need to be changing as I am."
She proceeds to draw her beaded bag closer to her chest, flicking it open with her fingers. After a beat, she reaches her hand in, then her whole arm, and Draco raises both eyebrows. Now that's some excellent Charm work. Brightest Witch of her age, most certainly, though the bag itself is a bit tacky. It's an uncharitable thought, but Hermione never was the most fashionable.
Still.
"I want that bag," Draco tells her seriously.
Hermione rolls her eyes. "It's quite complicated to Charm, you know. Very handy, though."
"Make me one," Draco says.
"I'll consider it," Hermione replies, and she gets his sweetest smile in response for motivation. Unlike Harry, she seems impervious to it.
Draco watches her draw out fabric and shove it towards Harry before reaching right back in. "Let me provide you with the bag, please. Not that yours isn't… Ah, well, I'll give you the bag I'd like Charmed, yes?"
"You could Charm it yourself," Daphne mutters.
"I could, but then Hermione wouldn't get to show off how much smarter than everyone she is," Draco drawls. He has long since gotten over her being smarter than him, especially now that he knows he can use her need to prove herself to his advantage. Harry tells him he's terrible for doing so, but Draco can't help it if people just show him their weak points so he can manipulate them. He's a Malfoy. That particular talent is in his blood.
"Hermione, am I meant to change here?" Harry asks, voice pitching high with discomfort.
Daphne smirks at him. "Yes, Harry, that's exactly what you're meant to do."
"It's alright, mate," Ron says gruffly, arms crossed over his chest, attempting to chew a hole in his bottom lip. "Just—just do it, yeah? Please?"
Ron so rarely pleads for anything, and Harry's always been a bit weak for the whims of his best mate. It shows in how he immediately—despite his visible confusion and wariness—starts discarding his clothes. Draco watches in blatant interest, only distracted when Hermione holds out clothes for him as well. He frowns as he takes them.
"Now is when you start explaining," he says.
"We're in Gabon, Africa," Hermione murmurs as Draco carefully starts peeling his clothes off. "I looked into it, and apparently it's technically illegal to get married to two people in England."
Harry chokes on air, Ron is as red as his hair, and Draco's eyebrows shoot up. "Is it? You say technically like you've already worked around that pesky little law."
"Yes, well, I might have done," Hermione says with a faint smile, her hands wringing with nerves. "For some reason, this is also a law in the Wizarding World of England, but they have the same exact loophole that Muggles do."
"The Wizarding World is incredibly old-fashioned until it suits them, and it's been many centuries since Purebloods insisted on having more than one wife," Daphne tells Harry, apparently elaborating at his scrunched look of confusion. "It used to be a thing to prove status—the more wives a Pureblood man had, the more influential he was. He took only Pureblood wives and had children with them, ensuring his bloodline would go on the longest and such. That's why there were so few purely Pureblood families at the end of it all—only Twenty-Eight, when it started out as many, many more—and it also contributes to why everyone is so related and inbred. Malfoys were notorious for it, you know."
"Funny, that. Malfoys are now known for their singular devotion to one and only that one," Draco muses, lips curling up as he slips his trousers down his thighs, not even batting an eye at Ron taking a peek. Draco winks at him, and Ron flushes harder.
"In any case," Daphne continues, "it had to be outlawed when it became obvious that the Pureblood population was shrinking at an alarming rate. So, that's why you can't get married to two people in the Wizarding World. I have no idea why you can't in the Muggle World."
"Taxes, I imagine," Hermione mutters.
Draco blinks. "What's that?"
"A conversation for another time," Hermione says quickly, which is alarming. She almost always wants to give people information. "I looked into it to be sure, but while you can't get married to two people in England, you can be married to two people in England. So...well…"
"Oh," Harry chirps in delight, "this is a whirlwind wedding, isn't it?"
"Multiple, it seems," Draco drawls, equally amused.
"I told you they'd be horrible about it," Ron says with a groan, his shoulders hiking up around his ears defensively. He sends a pitiful look to Daphne, who gently pats his arm. "Why didn't we bring Blaise and Pansy? They wouldn't have teased us for it, I don't think."
"That is where you're very wrong," Draco assures him. "They would have teased you worse."
"We brought them because Harry is our best friend and Daphne likes Draco more than all the other Slytherins," Hermione snaps.
"That's not saying much," Draco mutters, shooting Daphne a glance. "She barely likes anyone that isn't her sister as it is. Speaking of, I know you're not getting married without Astoria."
"Obviously not," Daphne retorts, tilting her chin up pointedly. "She's already waiting."
"Oh," Harry says softly, pulling on the bright red shirt with the odd buttons and ties, his gaze incredibly gentle as he looks between Ron and Hermione with an adoring gaze. "You're all going to get married. That's—oh…"
"Shut up, Harry," Ron mumbles, scuffing his shoe.
"The people of Gabon have a beautiful culture, so appreciate it while you're here, but do not do any magic. African Wizards are usually located in Kinshasa and don't often leave the busiest cities, so you must be cautious," Hermione explains rapidly. "We're British Wizards, so if we break any laws here, we'll be arrested here."
"Well, we're here to help you three break England laws, so it's not like we'll be innocent if we're arrested," Draco says.
Hermione huffs. "It's not technically breaking a law, Draco. Anyway, I had to work very hard to make this happen, alright? You can't just insert yourselves as tourists into every country or city in the world and get married as you please, especially not with Muggles, especially when it goes against their customs. So, Harry, Draco, you both will be respectful and on your best behavior, yes?"
"Of course," Draco says mildly.
"Mhm." Harry grins. "Breaking laws back home is enough trouble for me. Merlin, I can't believe I ever thought you and Ron needed me for chaos."
"Really, at this point, you're more reasonable and cautious than they are," Draco muses. He smirks at the offense on Ron and Hermione's faces. "Actually, just which one of you had this idea?"
"I suggested it," Daphne says.
"I insisted on it," Ron admits.
"I made it happen," Hermione declares.
Harry barks a quiet laugh. "Oh, bloody hell, you three are so well-suited. This is brilliant!"
"Took my advice then, did you?" Draco asks Daphne, delighting in the delicate flush that takes over her face, her silence more of an answer than if she'd just admitted to listening to him.
"I'll actually murder you both if you don't shut up," Hermione hisses at them. "Hurry up and finish getting dressed. I won't be late to my own weddings!"
Draco laughs brightly in tandem with Harry, but they both speed up their movements. They don't particularly want to be late and miss any of this either. It's going to be wonderful.
It is, actually.
For the most part, it's fast. Draco has no idea what Hermione did to make this possible, but it goes rather smoothly, all things considered. The only person who understands what anyone is saying is Hermione, who apparently learned enough of the local language just for this, and she does most of the talking and translating for everyone.
She cries when she gets married to Ron, and then she cries when she gets married to Daphne, and then she cries when they get married to each other. So, basically, she cries nearly the entire time. Harry does, too, which is so funny and sweet that Draco has to smother a smile behind his hand.
The ceremonies are quick, but they're legal, so that's all that matters. Draco stands in between Harry and Astoria—who does not cry, because Purebloods rarely do in public, but her soft smile is enough to show just how much she approves of this. They all watch people they care about get married, basking in the fact that there are, at least, some parts of the world that allows it.
Draco has been taught a lot from the moment Harry came blundering into his life like a bull in a shop full of delicate things, and one of them is that love is not and cannot be restricted to what anyone actually believes it is or should be. While he, personally, doesn't ever want to marry more than one person, he doesn't dare to begrudge anyone else who might have that desire. Why should he, as long as it makes them happy? Who is to say what is proper or not?
He sees how the three of them glow in joy, and he can't think of it as anything else other than proper, because the way this brings them such happiness can only be the right thing. He'd hex anyone in the world who would try and argue against it, including his own damn family. He'd even verbally rip Harry to shreds if he had to, but fortunately for him, Harry is not an idiot when it comes to love—just fiercely protective and supportive of it in any form, instead.
So, Daphne gets her two Gryffindors, and though he's never understood why those two were the ones she wanted, he is very proud of her for securing them. And, well, he's happy she is, he supposes. Not that he'd ever admit it.
Still, when it's all over and done with, Daphne glances over Astoria's shoulder from where they're hugging, meeting his eyes and catching his smile, and her soft grin in response tells him that he doesn't have to admit anything.
She already knows.
Pansy waits patiently.
Draco stares between her and Blaise, also waiting patiently for this to be a joke. It becomes abundantly clear a few silent beats later that it is not. They're actually, genuinely serious about this.
"You want us to what?" Draco sputters.
Harry clears his throat from beside him. "Isn't that a bit...inappropriate, Pans? I—I mean, that should be something you and Blaise do alone."
"We think this is important," Blaise says seriously, in a way he so rarely is. "We've discussed it, and Pansy and I agreed that we want you both to be the godparents, if you're agreeable."
"Wait, are you joking?" Draco asks, eyes bulging as he looks between his best friends.
Pansy rolls her eyes. "Of course we're not joking. Don't be daft, darling."
"I'm literally a murderer," Harry says.
"Yes, well, no one's perfect," Blaise replies easily, waving a hand. "I told you, Pansy and I discussed it. There's no others we would want to take our child in the event of our untimely demise. Indulge us?"
"Theo?" Draco suggests weakly. "Daphne?"
"No and no," Pansy snips. "Draco, you're my best friend. Harry killed someone for Blaise once. You two would protect our child with your lives if it came to it. Of course we don't want it to come to that, but it's best to be prepared anyway, isn't it?"
Harry chews his lip and shares a look with Draco, his eyes slightly wide. Draco can relate.
It's nice, of course. Honestly, Draco's genuinely touched that they're being asked. It really shouldn't even come as a surprise, to be fair. But all of this is so sudden. He didn't even know they were planning to adopt so soon because they didn't bloody well tell anyone until the day of, and now they're asking Harry and Draco to come along like it's a shopping trip rather than picking out the child that they're planning to raise.
"We'd be honored, of course," Draco says, because they would, "but I'm still not sure it makes sense for us to be there when you pick out your child."
"Right," Harry agrees. "We'll happily agree to be godfathers, but we shouldn't have any say in anything else, honestly. We'll adore the kid either way, you both know that."
"The godparents are generally around for the birth of a child if the godparents are chosen beforehand. We've already decided on you two, so you'll come and support us, and that's final," Pansy snaps.
Draco feels himself soften, just a little. Oh. Oh. They're nervous. He doesn't know how he didn't see it before, but he can't miss it once he realizes it. There's tension in Blaise's frame, making him hold himself like an uptight Pureblood boy rather than the smooth Slytherin aura he usually gives off. There is a subtle difference. Pansy's features are tight, scared, a little tremble around her mouth. She's anxious, more so than she ever has been before.
Harry must notice it as well, because he looks at Draco, then sighs quietly and says, "Alright, sure. Where are we going, exactly? Are Wizarding orphanages like Muggle ones?"
"None of us know what Muggle ones are like," Draco reminds him flatly.
"Oh. Right." Harry rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh, shrugging. "Well, just tell me about them, then. I might have gone to one, you know, if my life were a lot different. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious."
"They're handled by the Ministry," Pansy informs him. "Very standard, you understand. It's rare that a Wizarding child doesn't have some sort of extended family to take them in if they're closest family members are dead. Well, rarer now that the Dark Lord isn't out and about killing everything that moves, I mean."
Harry doesn't react to that outside of a small twitch of his fingers, so Draco reaches out to take his hand. Harry squeezes it in a silent thanks.
"You really can just go in and pick out a child, just like that?" Harry asks curiously. "I don't think that's how it works for Muggles these days. I imagine it's a whole process now."
"The Ministry is more than happy to give the chosen child to a family," Pansy mutters, rolling her eyes, sneering faintly. "Less funding for them. Hermione and I have been looking into it recently. I asked her to, so she might already suspect that Blaise and I have decided to adopt already. It'd be nice if we had the support of the Savior of the Wizarding World, as well as the influence of his Galleons."
Draco bites back a smirk. Pansy is always shameless in asking for Harry to use his money and name for whatever projects she and Hermione have set their sights on these days. Harry, being exactly who he is, always lets himself be used with a certain type of relish that Draco finds incredibly amusing.
"Yeah, of course," Harry says, rather predictably. He bobs his head. "Just send me the paperwork and I'll sign off on it. You know I will."
Pansy smirks. "Oh, I know."
"That's not the point," Blaise says, coughing. "We're off to pick out a child, in case you've forgotten."
"Wait, I have a question," Harry says, raising both eyebrows. "Does the child have to be a Pureblood to be an heir? Actually, if the child is a Pureblood, they'll have family to take them in, won't they? What Pureblood children are orphans?"
"Pureblood children aren't, generally," Pansy replies with a sigh. "You're right to say they always have family to take them in. But, well, it's not that simple either. A Pureblood is classified as a child with two Wizarding parents, in which one of them isn't a Muggle-born. So, for example, if you and Draco were able to birth a child, they wouldn't be seen as two-thirds half-blood; they'd be seen as Pureblood, especially with Draco's status. Children of the Sacred Twenty-Eight have that regard anyway, and the child will be a Zabini once officially adopted, so as long as they're a Pureblood… Well, there you have it. There are no orphans from the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but that doesn't mean there aren't Pureblood orphans."
Harry hums, regarding them curiously. "And what happens if the child you fall in love with is a half-blood?"
"People don't just fall in love with children upon meeting them, Harry, don't be ridiculous," Pansy says, rolling her eyes.
Blaise huffs. "Stop talking about it, and let's go. We've wasted enough time already."
"He's eager to be a father, can't you tell?" Pansy asks, arching a sardonic eyebrow.
"I just want to get this over with," Blaise mutters, wrinkling his nose. "We get in, pick the prettiest one with the best lineage, then we get out."
Harry has never looked as disappointed in Blaise and Pansy as he does in this moment. "You don't actually mean that. Tell me you don't actually mean that, Blaise. Please. Children aren't—they shouldn't be seen as—"
"Harry," Draco says gently, dragging his hand up Harry's arm, watching him cautiously. This is a serious thing for Harry, a bit too close to home for him in more ways than one. Unfortunately, this can't be about their own personal views. This is for Pansy and Blaise, and how they go about it is up to them, because—for all their blustering—they really will be good parents to some child, no matter what reason they pick the child for. "I know it's upsetting, but—"
"No," Harry cuts him off, going firm and unforgiving like he does when he's dreadfully serious about something. He's a force to be reckoned with when he's like this, and Draco knows better by now than trying to stop him. He drops his hand and falls silent as Harry focuses entirely on Pansy and Blaise in front of him. "Children aren't something you take care of just because you feel like you have to, no matter the reason, whether it's to further your stupid bloodline or legacy, or because someone dumps them at your doorstep. You—you have children because you want them, and that's it. So, if you don't want the child just because you look at them and can't help but love them, then leave them where they are and don't ruin their fucking life."
Well, he does have a point. Draco shrugs when Pansy and Blaise throw him vaguely panicked looks, unused to Harry targeting them so strongly.
Draco certainly isn't going to argue with Harry, not about this. He knows better than most what it's like to feel as if the only reason you were born and wanted was because of the plans your parents had for you. A lot of Purebloods know that feeling, Pansy and Blaise among them, so they should know better than to follow in their parents footsteps.
He doesn't think that they actually plan to, really. They're so obviously nervous that he can see right through them. While they're saying things that upsets Harry, he can peek underneath all that ridiculous posturing to see how much they actually want a child. They must have been discussing this for some time now.
Still, Harry has issues when it comes to orphans and being wanted and such, so they'll have to deal with his wrath for being idiotic enough to stoke it.
"Yes, alright," Pansy says finally, "we won't take a child we don't want to spoil and love to death. Is that alright with you, oh Chosen One? Should we screen every child through your superior skills for detecting possible mistreatment, or do you think we, as adults, will manage on our own?"
Harry frowns at her. "I'm not trying to say that you'd be bad parents. I just don't want you to become parents for the wrong reasons."
"Harry, they're not," Draco tells him, catching his gaze, willing him to just trust him.
"Really," Blaise agrees, flat and toneless.
"Oh, let's just go," Pansy growls, reaching out to snag Draco's arm. "I'll side-along with Draco. Blaise, you've got the grumpy Savior. Ta, good luck!"
With that as the only warning, Draco disappears along with Pansy with a sharp crack, swirling away from Blaise's weak protests. They're at the Apparation point in front of a tall brick building with bland grey shutters and doors, the small grounds wrapped in an iron wrought gate. In the distance, Draco can see children peeking out the windows from the top floors with curious eyes.
"Alright?" Draco asks Pansy, who has frozen.
"Is he right?" Pansy blurts out, sounding a little frantic. "Harry, I mean. What if we don't love it the right way? The child, of course. Shite. I called my future child an it. Am I fit for motherhood, Draco?"
"Pans," Draco says very, very carefully, "do you want to be a mother?"
"I—yes, obviously, or why else would I be standing here, making a fool of myself?" Pansy hisses, and at least she's self-aware.
Draco sighs and gently pats her arm. "Don't fret, darling. If nothing else, you have a few ideas of what not to do, drawing from our own life experiences. I understand that you and Blaise do want to pass a legacy on to a child, and while Harry doesn't quite get why that's so important, I completely do. Just… As long as you're passing on the legacy to a child with the knowledge that you'll let them do whatever they want with it, which you'll support and be proud of no matter what, then it should be fine."
"You already know Blaise and I have stopped believing in most of the Pureblood nonsense we grew up on, Draco. Yours and Harry's influence, no doubt, but also because some of it is ridiculous."
"Yes, you've given up most of it, but not all. Never all. I'm the same way, you know. I try not to be, but sometimes it's very hard. It's all we knew for so long."
"Well, it's my job to ensure the child knows other things as well, isn't it? Better things. Whatever they want. Right?" Pansy says quietly.
"If you didn't think that, I'd think you weren't ready for motherhood," Draco murmurs, "but here I stand, and here I wait to meet my godchild."
Pansy's lips curl up in relief.
A few minutes pass where they wait for their respective husbands to show up. Draco is mildly curious what sort of lecture Harry is giving Blaise at the moment, but he has the vague idea that it's best if he doesn't know. Draco would bet a lot of money on the fact that it's a very personal conversation that perhaps Harry and Blaise both need to have.
Eventually, thankfully, they do show up with resounding cracks. Harry looks less angry about everything, so Draco assumes the conversation went well enough. Blaise, however, looks even more nervous than he did before, poor bastard.
"Mr. Curell should be waiting for us," Pansy murmurs, taking an uncharacteristic pause to gather herself, breathing in deep and existing in one moment of hesitation. Then, more like she usually is, she exhales and marches onward.
Mr. Curell is, in fact, waiting for them. He's standing by the door, dressed in tweed robes and wearing an actual monocle on his eye. His mustache is long enough to curl into his bottom lip. He's very skinny and wears far too many rings, and Draco looks at this man and instantly thinks of Fudge, though they don't resemble each other that much.
He's clearly just as smarmy and obnoxious, though, which becomes immediately clear when he snootily asks, "And which of these men is your husband, miss? You seem terribly close to all of them."
Draco almost groans out loud when Harry's eyes narrow. Oh, bloody hell. Mr. Curell just had to be a prat, didn't he? Filthy, old dodger. This is going to turn into a rescue mission, Draco can feel it.
As such, he's tempted to tell Mr. Curell that he has no idea just how close they all are. He'd be scandalized to know just how entwined their group of friends are. After all, it's not very normal for such a mass of people to be so codependent on each other, but what would anyone expect from a group of people who all went to war together?
It really is quite unusual, honestly, by societal standards. Draco is admitted into all the wards of all his friends' residences, just as they are his. He's narrowly missed popping into rooms where his friends were in the midst of shagging multiple times, and the same can be said in reverse. Blaise and Pansy have slept and shagged in his bed.
Harry sometimes goes and sleeps in the bed with Ron, Hermione, and Daphne—or any variation of the three, depending on who's home—when Draco has to stay overnight at St. Mungos because he's working far too hard. Draco and Harry got kidnapped and taken to Africa to be witnesses to a whirlwind wedding, times three. Sometimes, Draco wakes up to find Luna and Ginny asleep in their living room, or sprawled at the foot of their bed.
Occasionally, Draco will pop over to Theo's and raid his collection of wine, nicking bottles and pretending he did no such thing when Theo accuses him later, even though they're both aware that he did. Draco and Pansy took turns paying for Greg's flat before he got enough money from working for Fred and George to do it on his own. Once, Draco walked in on Harry and Neville having a very intense discussion about cock sizes, and he'd turned around and walked away without another word.
The point is, they're all very close. A certain type of bond that's born from an underlying understanding that only they all will know. Just a group of adults who sometimes don't know where to draw the line, but they can't know, because they've all seen each other covered in blood, because they know the origins of each other's scars, because they've all been at odds and coexisted at their lowest of lows, because they've all Healed in tandem.
Mr. Curell has absolutely no idea who he's dealing with here, and that is rather obvious when Pansy smiles sharply, showing teeth, and she says, "In some ways, they all provide marital support, really."
Well, she's not wrong.
"Hmph." Mr. Curell sniffs and turns up his nose, watching in blatant disapproval. "Well, I was told you and your husband would be looking into adopting. I expected...one man. Not three."
"We're going to be the godparents," Harry declares flatly, watching Mr. Curell in obvious distaste as he gestures between himself and Draco.
"Lovely," Mr. Curell replies in a strained tone that suggests he means the exact opposite. "Allow me to explain the children. At this particular orphanage that I run, we have a total of fifteen children—three of which are under the age of five, seven of which are under the age of thirteen, two of which are under the age of fourteen, and three of which are under the age of seventeen. We have eight girls and seven boys. There are two that have...behavioral records you will most certainly wish to avoid. Most are well-mannered, as I would not have it any other way, but those two… Well, there's a reason they haven't been adopted."
Harry snaps up so straight and tense that Draco winces in sympathy for his back. He's going to pull a muscle if he isn't careful.
"How long have you been running this orphanage, Mr. Curell?" Harry asks tightly.
"Nine years," Mr. Curell replies, looking none too proud of it. "Now, if you'll all come along…"
Draco's already uncomfortable with all of this because Harry is. He's distantly worried—in the way that he actually doesn't care—that Harry is going to kill Mr. Curell. It only gets worse when they're led room-by-room to meet the children and Mr. Curell smacks the doors as he enters, making the children jolt and then sit up straight, well-behaved and demure. Harry looks like he's about to explode.
The first few that they meet are perfectly polite and calm, even though a few of them are young. They seem...trained. It makes Draco's skin crawl.
It's as they're passing a door that Mr. Curell doesn't even slow down at that things take a sharp turn. Harry comes to a screeching halt and says, "Wait, this is a room, isn't it? Why aren't we meeting whoever is in there?"
"That's one of the troublesome children," Mr. Curell mutters, waving a hand. "He has a record. You're not going to want to—"
"We want to meet them all," Blaise says firmly.
"Very well," Mr. Curell grits out. He steps up to the door and knocks on it like he didn't the others, clearing his throat. "Fanpan. Fanpan. I know you hear me, boy. Open this door!"
Draco can't resist letting out a sigh at the sight of Harry's hands balling into fists. Rescue mission, indeed. He's not making it out of this building child-less, is he? Bugger.
"What?" A small crack appears in the doorway, and a little boy with dark eyes and asian features peers out at all of them suspiciously. He's adorable, admittedly, freckles dusting the small bridge of his nose, the bitten-moon lips puckering in distrustful pout, thick eyelashes fluttering over thin eyes and high cheekbones. He's absolutely going to break hearts when he gets older, if only he learns to smile, but as of right now, he doesn't seem capable.
He also happens to be rather short and small, seeing as he can't be older than six.
"Fanpan," Mr. Curell starts, "these people—"
"Li Fanpan Yao," comes the sharp correction. "You can't call me just Fanpan. A-die told me that it wasn't allowed. It's Li Fanpan Yao, or Ronan—my English name."
Mr. Curell huffs. "The names are too confusing, Fanpan, I've already told you. It's not—"
The door shuts with a loud slam.
Pansy makes a low, thoughtful sound and steps up to the door, knocking on it again. "Ronan, was it? I'm quite interested in knowing the rules on your name. I didn't know that names could come with rules."
The door peeks back open, and Li Fanpan Yao—or Ronan, because Draco doesn't actually know which the little tyke would prefer and Mr. Curell obviously won't know—peers out at Pansy with only a little bit less hostility, though not very much. He stares at her for a long beat, and she stares back.
"Ronan is my English name," he says. "That's what you can call me. Ronan Li. A-die named me."
"And who is that?"
"My dad."
"Ah," Pansy says, nodding. "It sounds like a strong name, Ronan. And the other…"
"Fanpan Yao is my given name," Ronan says, his words clear and sharp. "Li is my family name. I had to have an English name because my dad said it would be easier. I like my English name."
"I like both names," Pansy tells him, crouching down in front of him so they're the same height, balancing on the balls of her feet, even in heels. This woman, honestly. "Mr. Curell says that you've gotten in trouble here. Is it because of your names?"
Ronan narrows his eyes. "Sometimes. Other times, it's because the others are mean to Vellevita. They get mad when she's mean back, so I punch them."
"Vellevita?" Blaise asks. "Like the cheese?"
"How do you know about that?" Harry blurts out, startled into being surprised. "That's Muggle!"
Blaise arches an eyebrow at him. "Is it?"
"Don't pick on her name!" Ronan abruptly bursts out, glaring at Blaise. "She'll make you do a funny dance if you do. I'll punch you. Sir."
"Ah, he's so respectful," Pansy murmurs, completely disregarding that he just threatened to punch her husband before addressing him respectfully. "My husband didn't mean to pick on her name, Ronan. He was just surprised, that's all."
"Everyone picks on her name," Ronan says, glaring at them all with unhindered vitriol.
Draco knows a thing or two about unusual names, as well as being teased for them—he grew up compared to Dragons in every single way possible, both as insults and praise. His heart goes out to whoever this Vellevita is, honestly. Poor dear.
"I think it's a pretty name," Blaise muses.
"Do you? Really?" Ronan asks, seemingly doubtful. It doesn't take a genius to work out that Ronan feels some kind of understanding when it comes to people picking on Vellevita's name. Names are clearly a delicate subject for him, and Draco's sure that Mr. Curell doesn't help matters. "You should tell her that her name is pretty. No one does but me. They're all too scared she'll make them dance."
"We'll be sure to do that," Pansy assures him. She reaches out a hand. "Will you step out and talk to me for a few moments, Ronan?"
"Why?" Ronan asks suspiciously, though the door does ease open another inch, revealing more of his thick black hair. "You're not trying to adopt me, are you? Mr. Curell said no one was going to do that if I insisted on being serious about my names like my dad taught me. But my dad is dead, and I think he would have wanted me to. You can't call me Fanpan, you're not allowed."
"Alright," Pansy says easily. "I'll call you Ronan, if you like. Or, is there a way I can say your non-English name that is allowed?"
"You can call me Xiao Li," Ronan offers, shuffling a little more out the door. "Or...I think so. I don't remember everything. My parents died before they could teach me everything."
Draco's heart gives a very soft pang.
Pansy clears her throat. "Right. Right. Well, how about I call you Ronan until I know all the proper ways to handle everything, yes? How does that sound? Would that make you feel better?"
"I guess," Ronan mumbles, but he does step fully outside of the door.
"Why don't you tell me and my husband everything you do remember?" Pansy asks. "We're very interested in knowing."
"I actually am," Blaise admits quietly, raising his eyebrows pointedly at Mr. Curell before stepping forward to crouch down beside Pansy, looking effortless as he does, elbows on his knees. "Go on, then, Ronan. Tell us all that you like."
Mr. Curell looks queasy.
Harry and Draco listen while Ronan launches into a not-so-brief rundown of the things he does know. From what Draco can gather, Ronan's parents were originally from China before moving to England, where they eventually had their son. They'd apparently started out raising him on both Asian culture and the Western culture, despite the major differences in both. Unfortunately, they never got to finish doing so when they were—as Ronan so eloquently puts it—made to go away forever, which was very rude of them, according to him.
Draco has no doubt that Ronan clings to what customs he does know to feel even closer to his parents, which is well within his right. The fact that Mr. Curell doesn't respect that and apparently challenges it is, frankly, discourteous. Harry is about to hit the roof, and Draco is more than happy to let him. He doesn't doubt that there will be many trips to the Ministry in Harry's future, and poor Mr. Curell might be out of a job soon.
But he wouldn't have that problem if he was doing his job correctly to begin with, so Draco feels no pity for the man. Not that he would, in any case.
Three things become immediately obvious about Ronan Li. First, he's absolutely unapologetic about being rude and accusatory. Second, he is quick to threaten to punch people, which reminds Draco so much of Vince that it hurts. Lastly, Ronan is, without a doubt, a Gryffindor in the making.
It's so terribly ironic how many Slytherins are historically weak for Gryffindors, because Pansy and Blaise are so obviously enthralled by this small child, claimed openly and shamelessly right there in front of everyone. Draco idly ponders the hilarity in Daphne, Blaise, Pansy and himself being susceptible to the charms of brash Gryffindors. And there's no way that Ronan isn't one. Draco would bet his life on it, and he's quite fond of his life.
It eventually comes out that Ronan is, in fact, six years old—nearly seven, to hear him tell it—and he's apparently had multiple cases of accidental magic. Mr. Curell confirms this by regaling a story in which Ronan once shattered the glass in his room when he got particularly angry, and it's clear he's trying to use the story to point out how troublesome Ronan is. What he doesn't know is that Pansy did far more horrible things when she was a child doing accidental magic, so he's not successful.
In the end, Pansy smiles at Ronan and says, "We should go visit the other children for a bit, Ronan, but I think we'll stop by and see you again. Is that alright with you?"
"It's alright," Ronan says, abruptly bashful, looking down at his small hands. "You're really nice."
"Oh, no, we certainly aren't," Blaise tells him. He leans in like he's telling a secret, grinning. "My wife and I are actually very, very terrible, Ronan. The worst of the worst. So, keep that in mind when people are getting your names wrong. Just let us know, and we'll handle it."
Ronan blinks at them. "Oh," he whispers, "okay."
"That's right," Pansy agrees. She holds her hand out to Ronan, waiting for him to take it if he wants, and when he does, she shakes it like they've just made a business transaction. "Blaise and I are wicked sharp with words and wands."
"I want to be wicked sharp with words and wands," Ronan says almost instantly, nearly a whine.
"Who doesn't?" Blaise asks lightly. "Now, we're going to go, but I imagine we'll be back."
"Mhm," Ronan hums, his cheeks bright red as he abruptly darts back into his room, slamming the door shut behind him. After a beat, there's a very high-pitched squeal that, up until this moment, Draco thought only Pansy was capable of.
"Onward, then?" Mr. Curell asks bitterly.
"Certainly," Pansy agrees calmly. "Tell us more about Ronan Li, please."
So, on the way to the next visit, Mr. Curell does. He apparently relishes in talking about how misbehaved Ronan is, but he doesn't make the mistake of calling him by the wrong name again, which is wise. Pansy and Blaise are actually wicked sharp with their words and wands, so Mr. Curell is smart to proceed with caution.
It's right before they get to the next floor that Mr. Curell says, "His mum was a Witch, but his dad was a Muggle. I don't know how Wizards do it in China, but it's clear that Ronan's bad habits come from the Muggle influence of his father. Bad blood, I say. It's all in the blood, the breeding."
Draco has to physically yank Harry's wand out of his hand and march him past everyone else, leading them further and further up the stairs, just to keep Harry from attacking Mr. Curell right then and there. Draco shoves him quickly and harshly up the steps, taking him to the highest floor and pulling him to a halt on the landing. Harry is shaking.
"Harry," Draco says sharply, "you have to control yourself here. You can't attack Mr. Curell. Unless you plan to kill him, violence won't actually solve anything and you know it. The only way to handle this properly for the better of all the children is to kick up a fuss at the Ministry."
"Oh, don't worry, I will," Harry says darkly. He snaps his hand out with a huff. "Give me my wand back."
"If you're going to kill him, I need to know," Draco says, raising his eyebrows.
Harry's nostrils flare. "I'm tempted, but...I won't."
"Alright," Draco murmurs, softening his voice as he holds out Harry's wand. It warms up as soon as Harry's fingers curl around it, never quite liking Draco enough to be anything other than dull wood in his grip, the rebellious little bugger.
"Sorry, sorry," Harry mutters with a wince, pocketing his wand and ruffling his hair a tad sheepishly. "It's just—he reminded me of something my Aunt Marge said. It pissed me off then enough to blow her up, and it pisses me off now."
"Mr. Curell is an old bastard who probably leeches off the idea that Purebloods are superior. You know it's common in ancient people these days." Draco offers a small smile. "Don't fret over it. They'll all die out soon enough."
"Wish they'd hurry up and get to it," Harry mumbles, borderline pouting about it, then he grimaces again. "Oh, I'm being horrible again. Draco, stop me, don't let it happen."
"But you're so fit when you're being horrible."
"You're a terrible influence."
Draco laughs. "Yes, as we've established."
"Oi, you don't think—" Harry pauses, looking mildly uncomfortable. "It's just...Ronan is a half-blood. Pansy and Blaise…"
"Oh, they're arse over tits for him already," Draco says with a snort. "As callous as they may seem, they're really not going to let his blood be the reason they don't adopt him. They want him. You saw it."
"Ha," Harry says smugly, "I told them."
Draco rolls his eyes. "You're ridiculous. And don't think I haven't seen you making moon-eyes at all the lost causes here, Harry. You want to take them all home like strays, I can see it."
"I—well, can you blame me?" Harry grumbles, shrugging a bit mulishly. "Mr. Curell is a twit. Why can't we take them home, Draco?"
"One, we don't have the bloody room," Draco mutters. "As much as Mother adores us, she's not going to house fourteen children in the Manor for us. That's just too much chaos for so few people."
"I bet I could talk Hermione into—"
"Harry, they haven't been married for even a year. Mrs. Weasley still nearly faints every time someone casually mentions Ron's two wives. They're not ready for children."
Harry pouts harder. "Theo?"
"You know they're not going to adopt. Astoria will birth her children."
"Ginny—"
"—is well on her way to being a famous Quidditch player, while her girlfriend travels around the world to find creatures that probably don't even exist. They barely have time for each other, let alone children."
"And Neville still hasn't gotten the confidence to make it official with Susan," Harry mutters. "Dean and Seamus, maybe? No, they'll never go for it, not even as a favor to me. Do we know anyone else?"
"We know a lot of people, Harry, but that's not the point," Draco says gently. He sighs and reaches out, bracing his hands on Harry's shoulders. "I know you want to save them, alright? It'll drive you mad if you don't, but taking them home and trading them out like expensive antiques isn't the way to do it. You said it yourself. People shouldn't have children unless they want them, really want them."
Harry's shoulders slump and he whispers, "I want them. I want all of them."
"No," Draco murmurs, "you want to save them, and I'm sorry to tell you this, but that's not the same thing. Find one that you want to let break your heart, and then we'll keep that one. Mother says all children break their parents' hearts in some way or another at some point. Find the one you'd let absolutely destroy you and me, and then it's not just about saving them, alright? Until them, save them by working to make this place better however you can. You know Hermione and Pansy will help."
"Yeah, yeah, alright." Harry groans and shuffles closer to him, dropping his forehead on Draco's shoulder, heaving a sigh. "Merlin, I hate it when you're sensible."
"At least Ronan is getting adopted, right?" Draco asks, lips curling up.
"He should be taken away from here," Harry agrees. "I definitely think he's a troublesome child."
"No, you don't. You actually—"
Draco cuts himself off in surprise when Harry suddenly jerks back with a yelp. He nearly topples over, his mouth dropping open as he leans back, frantically grasping the banister of the staircase. His legs jerk in front of him, hips waddling side to side in the most ridiculous jig that Draco has ever seen.
Harry looks hilariously bewildered. His entire upper-half of his body is stiff with tension, while the lower-half moves around with no apparent direction. He keeps trying to tug his body closer to the stairs, but his legs seem to be running away from him, quite literally.
"Draco, do something!"
It should not be so funny, but Harry sounds so baffled that Draco snickers quietly as he draws his wand. There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with Harry; just can't stop moving.
"Finite," Draco tries, to no avail.
"That's not going to work. Mr. Curell tries it all the time," says a soft voice from behind him.
Draco ignores his squawking husband entirely to turn around and see which child has snuck up behind him. It's a little girl who can't be older than nine. Her hair is a chestnut brown, seeming darker in comparison to her pale skin—so pale that she's lighter even than Draco. She's pretty in a muted way, no defining features, nothing particularly striking about her. In fact, her face is completely expressionless as she watches Harry move about, not laughing as most children would.
"I take it you did this and you're the only one who knows how to stop it?" Draco asks curiously.
The girl looks at him, not blinking. The eerie shrewdness to her gaze somehow reminds him of Artimus before he managed to gain her favor. "Yes. Mr. Curell doesn't like me to do it."
"Mr. Curell is a stuffy old pillock," Draco informs her, twirling his wand. "I, for one, am severely entertained by this display."
"Oi!" Harry protests.
Draco waves him off, smirking at the girl. "You take it off when you're good and ready. I'll enjoy the fool you're making out of my husband until then."
"Ronan isn't troublesome," the girl says to Harry, staring him down.
Harry coughs loudly, yelping as he nearly goes careening to the floor again. "No, I—I know that! It was only a joke. Merlin."
"Vellevita, isn't it?" Draco asks, recalling how Ronan spoke of her, how he said that she makes people do a funny dance. "Ronan was talking about you."
"Ronan doesn't know when to shut up," Vellevita replies, glancing at him again.
"My legs," Harry moans pitifully.
Draco sighs. "Alright, Vellevita, why don't you tell us what it's going to take to get you to let Harry have control of his own body again, hmm? Gold? A gift? I'm very rich, you know."
"Your jokes aren't funny," Vellevita tells Harry, then his legs stop moving all about, and he slumps to the ground with a huff.
"The joke wasn't meant for you," Harry snipes, reaching out to poke his thighs. After a beat, he shakily stands up, wobbling in place a bit. His gaze sharpens as he takes in Vellevita. He blinks.
Oh no. Oh no. Harry looks curious. This does not bode well for Draco's chance at leaving this place without a child in tow.
"Do you really want to kill Mr. Curell?" Vellevita asks, staring right at Harry like she's giving him a test that she thinks he won't pass.
Harry, as always, is utterly oblivious to how she's looking at him. He reacts to the question like any sensible adult would, regardless of the fact that he's absolutely a murderer. He winces. "Ah, well, I won't do that, of course. Er…"
"That's not what I asked. Do you want to?" Vellevita just keeps looking at him. "It's alright. I want to sometimes, too."
Ah, marvelous, Draco's about to adopt a child with murderous tendencies. This is just the best day, really. Note the sodding sarcasm.
"He is a bit of a prat," Harry allows, instead of being uneasy at the thought of a literal child casually contemplating murder. "How'd you do that, anyway? Make me, er, dance, I mean."
"I don't know," Vellevita says, glancing away, her hair brushing her cheek. She looks rather normal, overall. Almost too normal. "It's easy to do. I can make it happen to anyone when they're mean to me, when they say stupid things, like you did about Ronan. Mr. Curell says it's accidental magic because it happens when I'm angry, but I can take it off and put it on people whenever I want."
"Are you angry all the time?" Harry asks.
Vellevita doesn't answer, still looking away.
"Ah, that's a yes, then," Draco drawls, biting back a laugh when her head whips towards him like she forgot he was there. "Can't say I blame you, really. Being around Mr. Curell all the time would make anyone angry."
"He's stupid," Vellevita says.
Harry snorts. "Yeah, I can't argue that. Might be best not to tell him that, though, yeah?"
"I've been telling him since I was three. He tells everyone that it's my first word," Vellevita murmurs, looking between them the same way Draco has seen Hedwig look at house-elves, with the intelligence to understand that they're a different species and the confusion that comes with not knowing precisely what house-elves are.
"You've been here since you were three?" Harry asks, his shoulders going taught.
"Mr. Curell says I've been here since I was an infant," Vellevita tells him. "He says my dad was a Wizard who wanted to raise me like a Muggle because my mum was, but when my mum died giving birth to me, my dad dropped me off here and went to kill himself. When he gets really angry, he says my dad died because I killed my mum."
Draco draws back in disbelief, and Harry sucks in a sharp breath, icily asking, "Does he?"
"Does that make you angry?" Vellevita asks, blinking at him. "Are you going to kill him for it?"
"I—Vellevita, I'm not going to kill Mr. Curell," Harry tells her firmly. "It's not nice that he said that to you, though."
Vellevita sighs. "Oh. Well, he didn't. I just thought you might kill him if you thought he did. My dad did kill himself, though. Mr. Curell never said it was my fault. I've tried to get him angry enough to say it because I know he thinks it, but he never does. I think he's scared of me. He's a liar."
"Master manipulator, you are," Draco mutters, raising his eyebrows.
"What is a manipulator?" Vellevita asks.
Harry coughs. "Probably shouldn't teach you that word, I don't think. Say, Vellevita, I'm sorry about your parents. My parents died when I was a baby, too. I know it can be confusing."
"I'm not sad about it," Vellevita says.
"That's alright," Harry replies.
Vellevita regards them curiously. "Is Ronan really getting adopted? He's the only one who isn't scared of me. He's stupid, but you have to be nice to him, or I'll make you dance forever. You'll die."
"Wouldn't want that," Draco says lightly. "We do think he's getting adopted, yes. We're here with some friends, and we think they like him enough to want to take him home."
"Not to save him," Vellevita murmurs. Troublesome child, indeed. She was eavesdropping.
"No, not to save him," Harry agrees. He tilts his head, pursing his lips. "Well, not just to save him. I suppose we could see him getting a home as being saved, couldn't we?"
"If someone wants a home, then yes," Vellevita answers promptly.
Harry hums. "Do you?"
"Mr. Curell says no one will adopt me because I'm too troublesome and scary," Vellevita tells him, not seeming too terribly upset about this—not angry, not sad, not anything but...accepting.
Ah, shite. Draco's heart is doing something. It's doing something it absolutely should not be.
"Mr. Curell is stupid, though, as you've said," Harry reminds her. He arches an eyebrow. "Besides, that's not what I asked, is it? Do you want a home?"
"I want to leave here," Vellevita replies, which is a non-answer that speaks volumes. "I will one day. No one has to take me away. I've done the math. I have two thousand, one hundred and fifty-three days until I'm seventeen. I can leave then."
"That's a lot of days," Draco notes.
"I've already been alive for more days than that," Vellevita tells him, like that knocks aside his argument, like she's had to tell herself that before.
"Are you good at math?" Harry asks.
Vellevita nods. "I'm good at a lot of things. I'm good at counting and reading and making the other children cry. No one can make me cry. I've never cried. Mr. Curell says I didn't even cry as a baby. He said I was a monster."
"That's not nice," Harry says.
"It isn't. Will you kill him for it?"
"No, I won't."
"Oh." Vellevita sighs like she's being terribly inconvenienced at the lack of murder going on around her. "Well, he didn't actually say that. He said I cried day and night. I even cried in my sleep. He said I had a terrifying set of lungs on me, which is strange because I'm so quiet now."
"Are you?" Draco asks dryly. "I didn't realize."
"You know, Vellevita, you can't just make up lies about people to try and get them killed," Harry tells her, amused.
"Why not?" Vellevita asks.
"Most people can't kill others," Harry says. "It's very hard, and it's not very nice either. Wanting people dead won't make the mean things they said go away. You'll always remember."
"You can kill people, though, can't you?" Vellevita stares at him without even flinching.
Harry clears his throat. "It's not a very nice thing to do, so I don't do it." Anymore, he doesn't say. "It's actually very distracting, if you think about it. If you're worried about killing people, when will you find the time to do math and read like you want?"
"When they're dead," Vellevita replies, rather reasonably. Merlin, this kid.
"No, no, that's never going to work," Harry tells her, shaking his head. "Because then, you see, you have to worry about making sure no one ever finds out. And what if your friends don't like that you did it? It's not very nice, after all."
"I don't have any friends."
"What about Ronan?"
"He's a child."
"Oh, and what are you?" Draco asks curiously, lips curling up in amusement.
"Also a child," Vellevita admits, "but not a very stupid one. He's stupid. He says my name is pretty."
"I think it is," Draco tells her.
Vellevita wrinkles her nose. "I don't like it. Everyone laughs about it. I wish they'd shut up. I didn't choose it, did I? My dad did before he died, I think. He should have picked something else."
"My name is Draco. It means Dragon in Latin," Draco says. He hums. "You said your dad was a Wizard, right? Your name has meaning in Latin, I think. Velle means to wish, or to want, or desire. Vita means life. So, your name means to desire life. I think that's very lovely."
"That's stupid," Vellevita declares, her favorite phrase, apparently. "Why would he name me that if he was just going to die?"
"Sometimes parents do stupid things," Harry admits, shrugging. "The name is pretty, though."
"What's your name?" Vellevita asks, then presses her lips into a thin line, nose scrunching like she's annoyed—likely at herself. Oh no, it's adorable.
"Harry," Harry breathes out, equally enchanted.
"Your name is normal," she says.
"I know," he agrees.
Vellevita sizes him up in silence, then apparently reaches some kind of decision. She says, "They think I'm not normal. Are you?"
"The truth is, no one's normal, not really," Harry tells her. "Who would want to be?"
"Normal is so boring," Draco drawls. "Where's the fun in being like everyone else?"
"Everyone else is stupid," Vellevita says, which sounds like an agreement.
Harry snorts. "Well, that's just not true. I know quite a few smart people. You'd get on well with them."
"He doesn't mean himself," Draco says, gesturing lazily to his husband. "He's an idiot."
"That's not nice," Vellevita tells him.
Draco nods. "No, it isn't. It's true, though."
"Mr. Curell says I can't say honest things if they're not nice. It makes the other children cry."
"Well, you shouldn't want to make other children cry," Harry says.
Vellevita shakes her head. "I don't. I only make them cry when they won't leave me alone. If they didn't want to cry, they'd leave me alone."
Draco has to work very hard not to laugh at that childish logic, which is something he would have thought of at her age. Actually, he might have. It's been a long time since he was nine, but he's pretty sure that was his same logic, too. Oh, she's for sure a Slytherin. No wonder Harry likes her.
"Well, sometimes, we have to be nice, even when we don't want to," Harry says.
"Why?" she asks.
"Because that's just the way the world works."
"Why?"
"Because being mean and making people cry doesn't really solve anything."
"What does?"
"You just have to know that their words don't mean anything," Draco tells her. "If someone says something mean to you, then they're stupid and not someone you should listen to. Just ignore them. If they still won't leave you alone, make them dance until they promise to go away."
"Do not make them dance," Harry says quickly, throwing Draco a sharp glance. "Just...er…"
"Well, what else is she supposed to do?" Draco asks, raising his eyebrows. "Just let people bully her?"
Harry considers that, then sighs. "Yeah, alright, fair enough. The first thing you should do is tell someone, and if that doesn't work, you make them dance. You shouldn't hurt them, though, because then people will blame you for things they shouldn't. That's not very nice, either."
"Mr. Curell doesn't listen to me," Vellevita explains patiently, like she's talking to children, rather than being the child herself. "He says I'm troublesome."
"Does he actually say that?" Harry asks.
Vellevita nods. "I'm not lying this time. There's no point if you won't kill him."
"Vellevita, what do you think dying is?" Draco asks, watching her closely, curious.
"It's when people go away and leave you alone forever," Vellevita replies without missing a beat.
"Ah," Harry says in sudden understanding. "Well, not quite, but you're not far off. It's different than that, though. It's not nice to kill someone because dying is permanent. You can't ever take it back."
"What does permanent mean?"
"Everlasting," Draco tells her. "It means that something stays a certain way forever and ever and can't be changed."
"So killing Mr. Curell would make him go away forever and ever?" Vellevita checks.
Harry blows out a deep breath. "Well...yes, but it isn't very nice to want that to happen. It's nicer to want him to just...go away for a bit. Like out of the room, or out of your space. That's all."
"Well, I want that, too," Vellevita says.
"Alright," Harry mutters, "I can work with that."
"Do you want us to go away?" Draco asks. "We will, if you'd like. Seems like it gets lonely up here."
"What's lonely?" Vellevita asks him.
Draco clicks his tongue. "It's… This one is a bit harder to explain. I suppose it's when you feel like you have nobody. When you feel alone, no matter who you know or who's around."
"I feel like that all the time," Vellevita informs them without hesitation, and it is quite possibly the absolute worst thing she could have said.
Harry makes a small sound, hand snapping out to latch on Draco's arm, nails digging in. Draco resists the urge to do the exact same thing. His heart is very stupid, as Vellevita would say, because it is throbbing in his chest.
She has no idea what's happening, but why would she? Vellevita is clearly a strange child. She talks about murder and death like she understands the concept, even if she doesn't. She talks about being cruel like she does it every day, and maybe she does, and she clearly doesn't care very much.
In the small bit that they've known her, she's told multiple lies to try and manipulate them, even without knowing what that is. She is clearly a very angry child, though she doesn't show it. In fact, she doesn't really show much. Even admitting to being lonely, her face didn't so much as twitch. She hasn't smiled once during this conversation.
She's curious and argumentative, but she's not very expressive. She has already confirmed that she's mean, and so has Ronan. Mr. Curell has said that she's troublesome and no one wants her, and she seems like she believes the same.
Draco thinks that she could absolutely break their hearts, that she might have just now, and he's never seen Harry want something so wholeheartedly and so quickly in his life, no matter the consequences.
She could destroy them, and they'll let her.
"Draco, Harry?" Pansy calls from down the stairs, making them twist around in unison. "Are you two up there? Come on down!"
"Right," Harry breathes out as they turn back to Vellevita. "Right. Er, we have to…"
Vellevita stares at them for a beat, and then her face twists into a very, very furious scowl. Complete with collapsed eyebrows, a pinched mouth, and previously empty eyes blazing with sudden life. She looks far too enraged for a nine-year-old.
Without a word, she turns on her heel and runs away, disappearing into a room and slamming the door so hard that it rattles in the frame. It continues to shake and vibrate like it might explode for far longer than it should.
"Oh hoo, she is going to be a handful," Draco mutters, raising his eyebrows.
Harry's already got the imploring eyes turned to full-blast, bottom lip caught between his teeth, hands wringing together. "Draco," he says softly, gazing at him, "she's—I—"
"You're ridiculous," Draco tells him flatly.
"You said—"
"I know what I said."
"Draco," Harry rasps, being completely serious.
Sighing, Draco nods slowly. "Yes, yes, I know. I can tell you actually want this one. Bullocks."
"Don't you?" Harry asks cautiously.
"Obviously." Draco rolls his eyes when Harry visibly perks up. "She's absolutely going to be trouble, you do realize? She's all Slytherin."
"She reminds me of someone," Harry murmurs, eyebrows drawing together. "I think—I think it might be me. When I was her age, I was lonely, too."
"Get in line," Draco says. "Besides, it can't be you. I don't think you were telling lies and daydreaming about murder when you were nine."
"No," Harry agrees, "but I did look forward to the day I'd get to leave the Dursleys. I used to tell myself that I'd gotten through another year, so I could make it through the next."
"Well, she reminded me of me when she said the thing about making people cry," Draco admits, lips twitching. "I was a rather cruel child."
"I remember," Harry says dryly.
"Oi!" Blaise calls up. "Get your arses down here and greet your godson!"
Draco huffs a quiet laugh. "Like we didn't listen to him talk for half an hour already."
"Let's indulge them, then ask Mr. Curell about Vellevita," Harry suggests.
"You'll play nice?" Draco asks, arching an eyebrow.
Harry grimaces. "If I must. Come on."
As they head back down the stairs, Draco looks back to see, and sure enough, Vellevita's door is still rattling from the force of her fury. His heart clenches in his chest, and everything in him wants to go talk to her again, but he walks away instead.
Ronan is standing in between Pansy and Blaise with a small bag draped over his shoulders. His eyes are wide, staring between Pansy and Blaise like they're walking miracles. It is unbearably adorable, and Draco spends a few moments teasing him like any godfather should. This seems to make Ronan blush furiously, which is utterly delightful. Children are hilarious. And painful. And...so many other things that Draco can't even begin to think about.
He and Harry have discussed adopting. They'd agreed to it, especially after seeing each other interact with Harry's students. They'd sat down and had long, in-depth conversations about it. They'd even agreed to start delicately looking into the idea within the next few months.
This, as most things in their lives, is surprising.
"Mr. Curell," Draco says when Ronan is distracted by Pansy and Blaise, "what can you tell us about Vellevita?"
Mr. Curell grimaces. "Oh, she's a troublesome child. Terrible with the other children, jealous, rude, doesn't like to share. Her magic is powerful to a worrying level. She does this—this thing where she makes people dance, and no one has worked out how to make it stop. It's like a bloody Imperio."
"What about her parents?" Harry asks stiffly.
"Her mother died giving birth to her. A bad omen, really," Mr. Curell mutters. "Her father dropped her off all swaddled up on our doorstep. It was my first year here, so I had no bloody clue what to do. All he left was a note that gave her name. Had to contact the Aurors, I did, and they found him dead a few days later. There's whispers about him, of course. They said he drugged his wife with Amortentia, which is why she didn't survive the birth. She was Muggle, you know, couldn't withstand it. And you know what they say about children born from that. Can't say for sure it's true, but I wouldn't doubt it with that girl. She's troublesome, I tell you."
Harry sways in place, his eyes wide, which is not at all the response Draco expects from him. He watches him cautiously, unsure what exactly is going through his head at the moment.
"Harry?" Draco asks hesitantly.
"We want her," Harry says fiercely, blinking hard and glaring right at Mr. Curell. "She's—if she wants, we're taking her with us. I'm Harry Potter, you can't stop me. We want her."
Draco's eyebrows hike up his forehead. He's never, not once, heard Harry use his name like that. Sure, he's let his name be used by others, but he's never spoken his name like it earned the right to sway the entire world until this moment. It's the first time he's ever seen Harry take his sacrifices for the world and let his reputation appear exactly as it is. He usually hates that his name has so much power, but for Vellevita, it's apparently perfectly fine.
Interesting.
"I—well, I—" Mr. Curell sputters, clearly at a loss as he realizes exactly who he's talking to. It's not like Harry is instantly recognizable these days, not with his hair long enough to hide his scar, not with how he dresses so casually like he's not the Savior of the Wizarding World. Harry just isn't what people expect from Harry Potter. "I—Mr. Potter, there's quite a bit of paperwork and—and—"
"I'll handle it, then," Harry snaps, his eyes blazing as he stares Mr. Curell down, clearly not taking no for an answer. This is incredibly arousing. "Draco, go get Vellevita. If she wants."
Draco blinks. "What?"
"Harry," Pansy says cautiously, watching him with genuine uncertainty.
"Go get her," Harry grits out. "Now."
"Oh," Draco breathes out, "alright, yes, I will...go and do that right now. Yes."
Draco's entire body tingles as he goes to fetch the child Harry apparently has his heart set on. Now is a very inappropriate time to be weak-kneed, but Harry is so very compelling when he gets like that. Besides, it's not like Draco's heart isn't set on Vellevita, too.
He's worked himself down to a calmer state by the time he makes it all the way back up to the highest floor. He can't help but wonder if Mr. Curell keeps her up here on purpose. Out of sight, out of mind. Locked away in a tower, unable to do harm.
Draco remembers the Muggle story Harry told him about post-shag months ago, idly talking about whatever crossed their minds. That day, Harry had been happy to talk about the story of the princess locked away in a hidden tower, guarded by a dragon, and she had to wait for a noble Knight to come and save her. He wonders vaguely if that story could be applied here, except Vellevita somehow fits the role of the princess and the dragon.
What an intriguing concept.
He stops in front of her door. It's still rattling, though with less vigor now. She must be calming down. He's curious to know what angered her so much. The fact that their conversation was interrupted, or the thought that they were going away to leave her lonely once more?
"Vellevita," Draco says as calmly as possible, knocking on the door.
Briefly, the door shakes harder and seems to knock back, smacking into his knuckles. Then, like it's curious, the door goes still. It's quiet for a long time before there's the sound of springs from a bed. That won't do. No bed should creak like that, like it is made of rust and discomfort. If she comes, Draco is absolutely getting her a new bed.
Oh, he can spoil her. The idea of that strikes quick, but hard. He's never been so delighted by a thought in his life. The things he could buy for her…
"You're back," Vellevita states when she opens the door, and it comes across as accusatory. Her face is blank, which seems to be normal for her.
"I am," Draco agrees.
Vellevita stares at him, giving absolutely nothing away in her face. "Why? Are you here to tell me goodbye? That's stupid."
"That would be stupid, wouldn't it?" Draco asks, lips twitching. "I'm not very stupid, so you can trust that isn't the reason I'm back."
"What is?" Vellevita asks.
"I'm going to give you a very quick rundown of what life is like in the Malfoy-Potter routine," Draco tells her. "Harry and I have too many friends. They come and they go, and they're around a lot, and some of them are annoying. I work at St. Mungos, so I'm sometimes gone all day and occasionally overnight. Harry works during set months of the year, but he runs his own school, so he can do whatever he wants. We have a flat. It's not small, but it's not very big. We have a guest room. No pets. We're now the appointed godparents of Ronan, who you think is stupid. Harry's parents are dead, but mine are not. They live in a Manor, and we visit them often."
Vellevita blinks, just once. "Why are you telling me this?" she asks carefully.
"Because, being a Malfoy-Potter means dealing with a lot of people, some that are stupid. It means that the public looks at you wherever you go, and they always say stupid things that you have to ignore. It means you're very rich, and very powerful, but you can't use that to take over the world and burn it down, no matter how much you might wish to."
"Being a Malfoy-Potter sounds stupid."
"Yes, well," Draco murmurs, "there are some benefits. You get to be happy when you're a Malfoy-Potter, even if it's not always easy to be. You're never lonely because all the other Malfoy-Potters and their friends make sure to take care of you. Being a Malfoy-Potter means you can be honest to other Malfoy-Potters without worrying what they'll think of you, because Malfoy-Potters tend to love very fiercely and without stopping."
"Being a Malfoy-Potter still sounds stupid," Vellevita informs him.
"I'm beginning to think that most things are stupid to you," Draco says, amused.
Vellevita hums. "Well, yes."
"I know you overheard my conversation with Harry earlier before you made him dance," Draco tells her, arching an eyebrow. She nods, not apologetic about it in the least. "So you know that we agreed not to take any children home unless we really wanted them. Remember?"
"You also said that it had to be one you and Harry would let break your hearts and destroy you," she replies, like she's stating a fact.
"That was an exaggeration."
"What's an exaggeration?"
"It's… Ah, it's when you say something that's either way better or way worse than what you mean."
"Which was it? Better or worse?"
Both, Draco thinks. "I'm not going to tell you because I don't wish for you to know," he says bluntly, instead.
Vellevita's eyes flash with that same anger from before, but her face remains smooth. She says, almost too calm, "That's not very nice. I'll make you dance if you don't tell me."
"I'm not scared to dance, Vellevita," Draco replies easily. "You can't threaten me with that. I'm a Healer, a very skilled one. You wouldn't be the first case of accidental magic from a child I had to handle, nor the last. I'm not going to tell you right now, and you'll just have to accept that. Malfoy-Potters know all about accepting things that they don't really want to, you know. It's not always easy, but sometimes that's just how things are."
"I don't like it," Vellevita says plainly, honestly. "I don't want to."
"I know, me neither," Draco admits with a sigh, shrugging his shoulders. "Unfortunately, things aren't as simple as we wish they were. That's another thing Malfoy-Potters know all about."
Vellevita watches him in silence for a long time, then she very slowly says, "I'm not a Malfoy-Potter."
"No," Draco agrees, "but you could be, if you wanted. Harry and I would like to take you home."
She slams the door in his face.
Draco blinks. Well, that didn't go well. He's about to take a step back with a sigh when the door wrenches open as quickly as it shut. She's staring up at him with absolutely no expression, but her eyes are strangely intense. They're a simple blue, not bright or dark, not distracting or eye-catching. She looks, for the most part, like a very plain girl.
"You're lying," is the first thing she says.
"No, I'm not," Draco replies.
"Mr. Curell said no one would ever adopt me," Vellevita tells him sharply, harshly, the words coming out angry but at Draco, like he's done something unforgivable by wanting her.
"I'm sure he did, but we all agreed that Mr. Curell is very stupid," Draco murmurs. "I'm not a very nice person, but I wouldn't be cruel to a child...anymore, so I'm not lying to you."
"I think you're stupid," Vellevita snaps.
"Well, you're wrong," Draco drawls, arching an eyebrow at her. "Do you want to go with us or not?"
"I don't want to."
"Harry and I won't take a child who doesn't want to come with us, so if that's your final answer…"
Vellevita scowls at him, the one from before, the most emotion she's shown this entire time. She says nothing, little hand gripping the door so hard that her already pale hand turns bone-white.
"Vellevita," Draco says softly, "it's alright if you don't want to be lonely anymore. Harry and I will keep it a secret, if you like. We'll keep all your secrets and listen when you talk to us. You don't have to tell anyone else about your feelings if you're not comfortable enough to, and Harry and I will never tell anyone else, I promise."
"Is that what parents do?" Vellevita whispers.
"I'm not sure if all parents do, but I think that they should," Draco admits honestly.
Vellevita is silent and still for a while, then she swallows, just once, reflexively. "I'm just angry. That's all I ever am."
"Is that what you are now?"
"Yes."
"Is that all?"
"No."
"What else?"
"I don't know."
"Scared?" Draco suggests. "Happy?"
"I don't know what those feel like," Vellevita tells him, swallowing again. "How do I know?"
"Well, some people just know, I suppose. Maybe because of how it feels. They have effects. Being scared can make your heart beat very fast, make you sweat, make you want to run away or hide or fight. Being happy can make your heart beat really fast, too, and it feels really good." Draco pauses, trying to figure out how to explain emotion to a child. How do children understand emotion, really? "I suppose it has to do with your thoughts and wants, too. What you think in response to something, what you want to do, how you want to react."
"I want to go with you," Vellevita blurts out, then slams the door in his face again.
Draco waits patiently this time, turning his head to hide a small smile. When it opens once more, Vellevita is expressionless again, and he says, "Alright, well, Harry's handling the paperwork now. Why don't I help you get your things?"
"You're not allowed in here," Vellevita says, then slams the door in his face again, only to yank it right back open. She pauses, looking at some fixed point to the right of him. "Wait here. Don't leave."
"Alright," Draco agrees easily.
The door shuts again, and Draco bites back a grin, ridiculously amused despite himself. The next time the door opens—nearly twenty minutes later—it is for the last time, and she shuts it behind her, hugging a black bag to her chest as she follows him down the stairs.
"Vellevita!" Ronan bursts out excitedly as soon as he sees her. He bounces in place. "We're being adopted! Isn't it wonderful?!"
"No," Vellevita says flatly.
"She's so excited," Ronan tells Blaise, beaming up at him in undeniable delight.
"Is she?" Pansy asks, shooting Draco a curious look before focusing on Vellevita. "Hello, darling."
"Do I have to be nice to her?" Vellevita asks Draco, looking at him with clear eyes.
Draco smirks at Pansy's huff of offense. "Only a small bit. She's my best friend."
"Vellevita, your parents are my godparents!" Ronan declares, practically vibrating in place. "Did you know they do that? It's like you get an extra set of parents. Isn't that cool? I had no parents, and now I have so many!"
"We still don't have parents," Vellevita tells him bluntly. "Our parents are dead."
"Yeah, but when people want to be your new parents, you should let them," Ronan tells her with all the intelligence of a six-year-old. "It's not fun having no parents."
"You're stupid," Vellevita declares.
"Draco," Pansy says, raising her eyebrows.
"That's her favorite word, don't take it to heart," Draco replies. He does fix Vellevita with a serious look, however. "Be nice to Ronan, yes? I'm sure you've told him multiple times that he's stupid. It doesn't bear repeating."
"Draco!" Blaise scolds. He's been a father for all of an hour, and he's already reformed.
Vellevita sighs like her life is ruined, but she nods in acceptance, so Draco's very sure that he's just won this whole parenting thing.
"Where's Harry?" he asks.
Pansy winces. "Ah, he was yelling at Mr. Curell a few moments ago in his office. It's quiet now, but I'm suspecting Silencing Charms."
"Oh," Vellevita says, sounding interested, "is he going to kill Mr. Curell?"
"Draco," Pansy hisses, mildly horrified. She sounds like her mother, poor thing.
"Vellevita, let's not talk about murder in public, alright?" Draco murmurs, shaking his head at her a little.
"What's murder?" Ronan asks.
Blaise groans.
"It's killing someone, isn't it?" Vellevita asks, turning curious eyes to Draco like he knows every answer to all the questions in the universe.
It's a look he's fixed on his own father before, and it makes his chest tighten for a beat. He clears his throat and says, "Yes, that's what murder is. It's not very nice, and we shouldn't discuss it in front of polite company, alright?"
"Why?"
"Because it's not very nice."
"Why?"
"Because it makes people scared or upset or uncomfortable. It's just one of those things that's best not to do, Vellevita."
"Okay," Vellevita says, finally.
"I should go retrieve my husband before discussing murder turns to bearing witness to it." Draco sighs and shakes his head at Pansy in exasperation, then looks at Vellevita. "I have to go get Harry. Stay here with Pansy and Blaise and Ronan, alright?"
"No, I would like to go with you," Vellevita tells him, not even batting an eye.
Draco shakes his head. "You can't. I'll only be a moment. This is one of those things that you just have to do, unfortunately."
"Why?"
"Because I do not wish for you to see Harry shouting at Mr. Curell."
"Why?"
"I've told you why, and you just have to accept that."
"I don't want to," Vellevita informs him.
"I know, and I understand why, but you're going to have to," Draco replies simply. "Stay here. Harry and I will be out in just a moment."
With that, he swivels on the spot and makes for Mr. Curell's office. He doesn't knock, choosing instead to barge right on in. Sure enough, Harry is in the midst of verbally skinning Mr. Curell alive, and it's so bad that Draco would be sympathetic if the man hadn't earned every word. It's also extremely attractive, but Draco has to be an adult here and wait to ravish Harry later. Unfortunately. Just one of those things he has to accept.
Once Draco gets his attention, Harry swings around towards him, snapping, "Vellevita?"
"Waiting," Draco answers simply. "The paperwork?"
"Done," Harry growls.
Draco inclines his head. "Good, then let's go. We'll handle the rest later, knowing your pesky need to save things. I wouldn't get too comfortable if I were you, Mr. Curell. Harry, a child awaits."
Harry sets his shoulders. "Right. Let's go."
And so, they go.
Harry of course waits until they've gotten home to tell Draco that he's worked out who, precisely, Vellevita reminds him of. It's apparently Voldemort, because who the fuck else?
Draco very carefully does not scream, and once that dramatic urge passes, he finds himself not minding so much. After all, Harry somehow managed to get the Dark Lord to love him. He did it once, he can do it again, if Vellevita really is like him, and Draco is determined to do the same.
After all, how hard can it be?
Notes:
don't @ me. I already know the cliches, okay, but it's not what you think, I swear.
Couple of thinky thoughts for this chapter!
I did a lot of research on poly relationships and marriages and was woefully unimpressed with its legality all over the world. But it is actually true about the loophole that you can't get married to two people in some places, but you can BE married to two people.
Also! I have a small bit of knowledge on the whole names situation that pops up with Ronan, and I wanted to accurately portray that character and provide further representation, because JK honestly dropped the ball on that one (like with most things), and like...honestly? It's just fucking important, plain and simple. In any case, I researched as well as went off what knowledge I did have, but with that being said, if I got ANYTHING wrong or accidentally made a mistake, do not hesitate to educate me and I will fix it!
Also...yes, childrennnnnn ❤️
Anyway, thank you so much for reading! Don't hesitate to drop off some kudos and leave a comment; I honestly appreciate every single one! The next chapter will be out in 4-5 business days! 😊
Chapter 4: Earning the Trust
Notes:
So, like, the chapter count went up because I wanted to split the last chapter. I didn't really want it to be as long as it was, and I think it makes more sense to flow this way. Absolutely no warnings for this chapter. It's literally 99% fluff.
Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"This is hard."
Narcissa looks vaguely amused. "Well, no one said it was going to be easy, darling. You're the fool who went off and adopted the first child you came across. Harry's doing, no doubt."
"Not the first child," Draco mutters, then grimaces slightly. "And it was a joint effort, really."
"She's still adjusting, Draco," Narcissa murmurs gently, patting his hand. "Give her time."
Draco sighs and throws his head back. "She never comes out of her room. Mother, never. We told her we'd respect her privacy and not go in, but it's getting to a worrying point. She rushes through meals and then scampers back off to her room."
"It's been a little over two weeks, Draco."
"Yes, and that's why I don't want her to fall into that routine and think it's perfectly alright when it isn't. I was very secluded in this Manor, and it wasn't—"
"Wasn't what?" Narcissa asks, raising her eyebrows.
"Well, Mother, I'm not saying anything against you, but it wasn't...wonderful for me. Not having interaction with my own family, I mean," Draco says carefully, unwilling to offend her.
Narcissa sighs. "Yes, well, there are a lot of mistakes your father and I made that I wish I could go back and fix. Fortunately for us, you turned out perfectly fine despite your less than...wonderful childhood."
"Not to hear Father tell it," Draco mutters.
"Well, let's not listen to him, hm?" Narcissa smirks faintly and pats his hand again. "I couldn't be more proud of you, darling."
"I suppose I—Vellevita!" Draco's head whips around at the sight of her hovering around the doorway in his peripheral. "What did I just say?"
"I was only going to go exploring," Vellevita murmurs, staring at him with her usual blank expression, not even blinking.
Draco arches an eyebrow at her. "And I told you that you can go exploring when Harry gets here."
"When is that going to be?"
"In half an hour."
"You said that half an hour ago."
"And I'm saying it again. He'll get here when he gets here. You know he has an important meeting at the Ministry, as I've already told you. Sit down."
Vellevita narrows her eyes. "I don't want to."
"Why?" Draco asks.
"Sitting is boring."
"Would you prefer to stand?"
"I'd prefer to go exploring."
"Well, you can't."
"That's stupid."
"Yes, unfortunately, a lot of things are stupid. Now, stand there and wait if you like, but sit if not."
"Can't you go exploring with me?" Vellevita asks, watching him intently. "It's your Manor."
"I'm in the middle of a conversation with my mother at the moment," Draco tells her. "If I finish before Harry gets back, then yes. Until then, no."
"You've been talking to her for ages. What are you even talking about?"
"You're more than welcome to join the conversation."
"Can I?" Vellevita inches away from the door, and it tastes like victory. She approaches the open chair beside Draco, bypassing the seat next to Narcissa entirely, and she sits. Draco has to work very hard not to smirk. "Alright. What are we talking about?"
"You," Narcissa answers.
Vellevita cuts a sharp look at Draco. "What about me? Are you telling secrets?"
"No one is telling secrets," Draco says, refusing to roll his eyes like he aches to. Harry says it's not a good thing to teach Vellevita, but it's painful to stop at this point. "I was just telling Mother how things have been going at home."
"They haven't," Vellevita tells Narcissa primly. "I stay in my room. He's lying to you."
Narcissa looks openly amused now. "Well, actually, he's not. He knows better than to lie to his mother. He told me you've been staying in your room a lot."
"You don't lie to your mother?" Vellevita asks, looking at Draco like he's a creature she's never heard of before.
"Of course not," Draco lies, because he has most certainly lied to his mother before—not very well and with varying degrees of success, but he has. "It's not very nice to lie to the people who take care of you."
"People shouldn't use caring for a child as an excuse for the child to behave correctly," Vellevita says.
"That's...true," Draco allows, narrowing his eyes. She's been eavesdropping on conversations again, the sneak. "It's also true that lying to people can hurt them, so if you don't want to, don't lie."
Vellevita opens her mouth, then closes it. She looks away. Ha! Draco—one. Vellevita—eighteen.
She wins a lot.
"May I ask why you stay in your room often, Vellevita?" Narcissa murmurs.
"It's my room," Vellevita says.
Narcissa hums thoughtfully, seeming to think that over. She chews on it for a bit, then says, "Well, their home is your home. You know that, don't you? Harry and Draco won't mind if you go wherever you like in the flat. It's your flat, too."
"I can't afford it," Vellevita tells her, a breath away from calling Narcissa stupid, Draco can feel it. She doesn't because he already told her that she can't under any circumstances.
"Oh? Are you required to pay? What's their price for letting you stay in your room?" Narcissa asks.
Vellevita frowns, just a barely-there twitch of her lips. "No, that's just where I stay. There's no price."
"Then why do you have to afford the rest of the flat?" Narcissa challenges, raising her eyebrows.
"Don't I?" Vellevita mutters, throwing an uncertain look at Draco. "That is how life works, right? You have to pay to live."
Draco cannot believe that this child has been shutting herself in her room because she understands the ridiculous intricacies of life that includes payments and products. Of all the reasons he could have thought of for her secluding herself, financial issues wasn't one. She's nine.
"Vellevita, you are so incredibly smart," Draco tells her with a tiny smile, unable to help it. He does not say that she is way out of her depth here but trying so, so hard. She's only a child, a very strange one, but a child all the same. "When you're young and people take care of you, you don't have to worry about paying to live. Harry and I pay for you."
"That's stupid," Vellevita says.
"It's not," Draco retorts. "We decided we wanted you around, in our space, in our lives. We want your company and to watch you grow up, and help where we can. That means providing a good life for you."
Vellevita hums, considering it. "That's still stupid. I never want to do that."
"Alright," Draco says. "You don't have to, if you don't want to. Not everyone does."
"Yes, but what do you get out of it?" Vellevita asks suspiciously, narrowing her eyes again.
Draco smiles at her. "We get you."
"That's it?"
"That's enough, isn't it?"
Vellevita mumbles, "That's stupid," and then turns away and refuses to say another word.
She doesn't talk for a long time, ignoring Draco and Narcissa when they ask her questions. They eventually realize that she is serious about her apparent vow of silence and leave her to it. She does this sometimes, just not responding, and he wonders how long it will last this time.
It lasts right up until Harry steps into the room, wearing a broad grin and the pocket-jumper Draco got him in France on their very first trip there. It's a little tight these days, seeing as Harry has grown up and out, stockier and a bit taller. He's absolutely delicious, so much so that Draco has to drag his gaze away from the broad line of his shoulders.
Harry's eyes are bright as he steps into the room and declares, "Mr. Curell is no more!"
"You killed him?!" Vellevita bursts out, head snapping up as she shoots out of her chair, looking far more excited than anyone should about murder. Especially a bloody nine-year-old.
"No, Vellevita, I didn't kill him," Harry says with a sigh, amused. "I got him sacked, is all. There will be a new orphanage director and far more checks and balances going into the whole thing. Hermione and Pansy were utterly brilliant."
"Can we go exploring?" Vellevita asks him.
Harry blinks down at her. "Exploring? You mean the Manor? Or, er, the world?"
"Is the world an option?"
"At the moment? No."
"Then the Manor," Vellevita says, then carefully tacks on an unsure, "please?"
"Oh, sure," Harry says easily. "I'm going to say hello to my husband and Mrs. Malfoy first, though, if that's alright with you."
"If you must," Vellevita mutters grudgingly.
Harry snorts and sweeps over to hug Narcissa, humming as she titters at him, blushing for literally no reason. Draco shares an exasperated look with Vellevita. Well, she doesn't look exasperated, just flat, but that will do.
"I'm glad your meeting went well, darling," Narcissa says sincerely.
"Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy," Harry replies. He turns and moves over to Draco, standing over him. When Draco tilts his head back, Harry ducks down to kiss him quickly on the lips, laughing when Draco flicks his nose for it. "How has your day been?"
"Nice, overall," Draco drawls. "I've learned that Vellevita has recently been having financial anxiety. Do ask her about that when you go exploring."
Harry's eyebrows jump. "Financial anxiety?"
"The very same."
"She's nine."
"I'm aware. She, apparently, is not," Draco informs him, lips curling up. "Now, leave me and my mother alone to drink wine and fuss about things to our heart's content, thank you."
"Yes, dear," Harry murmurs, face softening as he ducks back in for another kiss. Draco allows it, then still flicks him on the nose for it. Harry whirls away with a grin. "Alright, Vellevita, let's go exploring. Have you seen the peacocks yet?"
"The what?"
"They're basically Draco in animal form. Come on, I'll show them to you."
Draco leans back in his chair, exhaling softly as he watches them leave the room. Harry is explaining in jokes what peacocks are, and Vellevita isn't laughing because she doesn't find much of anything funny, but she's still listening curiously. Draco can't help the warmth that pools in his chest as they turn the corner and disappear from sight, entirely focused on each other. Love is, as always, so very effective.
Narcissa clears her throat, drawing his gaze and making him realize that he's been smiling softly this whole time. She raises her eyebrows high and calmly says, "It's hard."
"It is," he agrees.
"And yet," she murmurs.
Draco huffs a quiet laugh. "And yet."
Vellevita doesn't like to be touched by people.
This is just something that Draco knew about her instinctively. She steps away when anyone gets too close, never reaching out, never meeting anyone halfway. She's not like Ronan, who took approximately three days to go from bashful to tactile, touching practically everyone he meets, hugging those he's fond of in every greeting and every departure—except for Vellevita, who does not allow him to hug her. That child has never met a stranger, but Vellevita has never met a friend.
If, by accident, she touches someone—usually Harry and Draco—she pulls away and backs off. She rarely puts herself in situations that has her at risk of contact, not even in her own home. She keeps her distance, and Draco isn't willing to push it. Harry isn't either. They've had a lot of conversations, usually revolving around the need to respect boundaries and the fear that they're too complacent.
Seven months after they bring her home, when she's ten-years-old, Vellevita looks Draco right in the eyes and says, "Ronan heard his mum and dad talking about some war that you all fought in. Is that true?"
"Ah," Draco says delicately, sharing a glance with Harry. They've discussed this, too. They can't hide it from her because it's well-documented, but they agreed not to bring it up before she goes to Hogwarts, unless she brings it up first. Which is apparently now, so that's brilliant. He takes a deep breath, then nods. "Yes, Harry and I fought in a battle. It was...almost eight years ago, now."
"Did you nearly die?" Vellevita asks.
Harry clears his throat. "It was a very hard battle, Vellevita. Very dangerous. We don't like talking about it that much."
"I won't ask anything else," Vellevita says. One thing about her, she respects their boundaries as much as they respect hers, for some reason, even though she's only ten.
"Then...yes," Harry whispers, "I almost died."
Vellevita turns her eyes to Draco. "And you?"
"I suppose you could say that I nearly did, but I wasn't injured the way Harry was," Draco says, determined to be as honest as he can be.
They've already worked out not to lie to Vellevita if they can help it. She doesn't like liars. She has some sort of issue with those who lie, and Draco suspects that is Mr. Curell's doing, somehow. Her trust is hard-won, and they've been working on it, but she's generally suspicious about everyone and everything.
Harry keeps saying that she's like him when it comes to trust, but in reverse. Rather than giving it freely and feeling it wholeheartedly as long as the person who has it doesn't ruin it, she holds her trust like it's her source of life, unwilling to let it go or give it away. He speculates that once they have her trust, it will be equally hard to lose as it is for him to give his trust once someone has lost it.
He thinks she clings to it because, once she gives it, she can't take it back. He thinks she's scared that she'll give it to the wrong people. So, they've been doing whatever they can to not be the wrong people.
"I don't want you to die," Vellevita tells them without warning.
Then, out of nowhere, she slips out of the armchair she's been sitting in—because she comes out of her room now that she knows she doesn't have to pay to do so—and she calmly walks over to the sofa they're sitting on. They're on opposite ends, legs tangled in the middle, but they jerk apart and create space as soon as she gets close.
It's something of a miracle to get her this close, and Draco nearly drops his book when she slides into the seat between them. Her little legs bump into their socked-feet, and she doesn't pull away at all. She just sits back and looks between them.
"Don't die," she says with just a bit of force.
Draco clears his throat. "We will do our best not to. Are you—Vellevita, you left your book at your chair. Do you want me to—"
"You read out loud to him, don't you?" Vellevita asks, tilting her head towards Harry.
"Sometimes," Draco admits faintly.
Vellevita stares at him expectantly, waiting. So, after sharing a brief look with Harry, Draco opens his book back up and starts reading. She listens intently, leaning back against the cushions, her eyes never leaving his face as he reads. When Draco checks as he's turning pages, she's focused and Harry is just looking at her with the most ridiculously adoring gaze that Draco has ever seen.
They all sit there without moving, and Draco reads. He keeps reading, and keeps reading, and doesn't stop reading even when hours pass and Vellevita eventually sags a little towards Harry, drifting off to sleep right there between them.
When Draco closes his book later, he and Harry share a long, weighted look. Then, by mutual agreement, they ease off the couch together, standing side-by-side to watch her sleep.
Vellevita looks sweet in her sleep. Innocent. Her face is not blank, not like when she's awake. There's a tiny furrow in her brow, her lips are slack and rounded as she breathes, and part of her hair sticks up a bit adorably from her head. She looks like anyone would expect a ten-year-old child to.
Harry eventually leans down carefully, hesitating only for a moment before he scoops her up into his arms. She smacks her lips, but does not wake. Her head leans on his shoulder, pale hands limp in her lap. Draco wonders if she's dreaming.
He follows Harry to Vellevita's room, watching transfixed from the doorway as Harry gingerly puts her to bed, tucking her cover in around her. He pauses there for a beat, then brushes her hair off her forehead in a move so tender that Draco either wants to cry or hex something, or both.
They're silent all the way back to their room.
As soon as the door closes behind them, though, Silencing Charms sliding into place, Harry blurts out, "Oh, fuck. Merlin. Draco, that was so—"
"I know."
"That was so sweet, what the fuck?"
"I know," Draco agrees.
"She's never done that before, has she? Gotten that close or fallen asleep around us," Harry whispers.
Draco shakes his head. "She hasn't. That's good, isn't it? Progress. You know, I think it's because she found out we nearly died. I don't think she likes the idea of that. Merlin."
"This is good, yeah," Harry agrees. He swallows thickly. "Your voice put her to sleep, Draco."
"You carried her to bed," Draco replies breathlessly, staring at him with wide eyes.
In the next second, they're colliding together to kiss and stumble towards the bed because, apparently, there's nothing sexier to them than seeing each other be a father.
"We're very proud of you, Vellevita."
Draco's eye very carefully does not twitch. He is fine. This is fine. He will not throw another fit, not today. He refuses to rant about his father and his diabolical actions of doting on Draco's child. He vows not to let his mind spiral with the mixture of disbelief, suspicion, anger, and the tiniest bit of jealousy that flows in both directions in regards to Vellevita and Lucius. Not today. Not when it's an important day.
The thing is, Lucius absolutely spoils Vellevita. And not in the way he spoiled Draco. No, he dotes on her without restraint, fluffs her up like the most important person in the world, showers her in praise and support and literally anything she could want. Draco's half-sure he only does it to drive him mad, except for the small fact that there's undeniable adoration and love in Lucius' eyes when he looks at Vellevita, nothing hidden, nothing mysterious. She just has him, as simple as that.
And, what's worse, Vellevita adores him back!
Well, she doesn't show it in a way any other child would, but for her, she most certainly does. She tolerates him more easily than others. She will occasionally let him touch her, and she is clearly very aware that she has him wrapped around her finger. It's obvious that she likes how simply she can manipulate and get what she wants from him.
The first time Vellevita ever smiled, it was for Lucius. It was only a few months ago, but she had tried it out all of once, watching everyone in the room melt, including Draco and especially Lucius, and she's been doing it frequently ever since. It's a big, beautiful smile that lights up her face and makes you want to mirror it on your own.
She's gotten a lot of things she's wanted by simply smiling. It's obvious that she's figured out that there's power to be found in smiling at people and appealing to them, rather than insulting them and threatening them. She's bloody well charming, really, when she wants to be.
It doesn't fool Harry or Draco for a second.
They know her too well by now. She is, without a doubt, one of the most troublesome children in the world. She angers quickly, and it's always straight to the peak—it's never a gradual anger, just an instant flash of pure rage. She's curious, asking questions about anything and everything, even normal things that people instinctively understand. She's argumentative, and she can debate circles around weaker minds, even at the age of eleven. She's distant sometimes, cold and withdrawn, and she thinks everyone else in the world is stupid—not Draco and Harry, though. Never them, not anymore.
(She has confessed that she thinks Lucius, along with everyone else, is stupid. She just refuses to tell the man that herself, apparently having the vague idea that he won't be so easy to manipulate after, if she did. Draco should perhaps not be so amused and smug about this, but...well.)
And then—on rare, miraculous occasions, when the stars align—Vellevita is unintentionally the sweetest child Draco has ever met.
Draco and Harry love her, regardless, but there are times when they nearly drown in affection.
Vellevita will pickpocket Galleons from an oblivious Harry when they're in Diagon Alley, yes, but then she'll turn around and buy them something with that money, shoving it at them and falling silent for at least half an hour. Vellevita threatens people who try and touch her, family and strangers alike, but she always allows Draco and Harry to touch her whenever they want—they don't push it, because they don't want to make her do something she doesn't like, but a hand on her shoulder or an occasional ruffle of her hair isn't so bad.
She'll get angry at them and make them dance, even though they've worked out how to stop it by now, but she also made Lucius dance once when he made a sour comment about Harry, then smiled sweetly after and apologized. When something really upsets her, she'll lock herself in her room with the door rattling like a threat, but the next morning they'll find her asleep on the floor outside their door and have to put her back to bed.
Just once, only one time so far, she actually snuck into their room in the middle of the night and stood at the end of their bed, watching them sleep. When Draco had woken up and asked what she was doing, she had quietly confessed that she'd had a nightmare that they were dead and so she came to make sure they were alive. It had broken his heart, of course, and so he'd gotten out of bed and had late-night early-morning tea with her until she eventually fell asleep again.
She's a strange child, no doubt. Death is just an interesting topic of conversation to her mind, just as long as she's not relating it to Harry and Draco. She is mildly polite to their friends, but she has more of a visible preference for Hermione, Daphne, Ronan, Lucius, and Weasley Twin One but not Weasley Twin Two—she claims she knows which is which, even though they've left the facade up all these years; everyone still has no idea which one of them lost an ear. The rest—Blaise, Luna, Theo, Astoria, Greg, Ron, any of the other Weasleys, and even Draco's own mother—are people she only barely tolerates, at best.
In other words, she's very fickle and very complex and very complicated. She's also the co-owner of Draco's heart, so there's that. Just as well, he shares Harry's heart with her, too.
Draco's favorite thing about her is a tad complicated as well. Yes, she's incredibly intelligent and will no doubt excel in studies and life. Yes, she's so Slytherin that her entire color scheme tends to be silver and green, and even Harry doesn't try to argue that it's presumptuous. Yes, she is very simple to take care of in some ways—feed her, answer her questions, give her as many books as she wants, and she's perfectly set. Yes, she makes him laugh, makes him happy, makes him proud.
But…the thing he likes most about her is her consistent, daily struggle with emotions.
This is, perhaps, unfair of him.
He can see it, how hard it is for her. She never knows what she's feeling, and she usually can't grasp why others feel the things they do. She's not a particularly sad child, but she's not happy either. She tries to mimic things sometimes, trying to get the hang of it, trying to copy it to perfection. Her smiles are for manipulative purposes only. She's never shed a tear. Things aren't funny to her, he's never heard her laugh, and she has no interest in acting like a normal child.
And yet, her anger is bright and strong and destructive. She understands that and only that, but it is clear that's not the only thing she feels.
Her face softens, sometimes, when Draco reads to her. She has started rolling her eyes, usually at Harry when he's being a lovable idiot, which Draco is quite sure is her version of a laugh. She likes to paint, not like any child would, but it's a hobby she partakes in for the sole purpose of enjoying it—they have so many of her paintings hung around their flat that they'll run out of room soon.
And, most importantly, she never properly mimics emotions that aren't real. He can see right through her, always, and that means he can see the emotions that are real. Even if she doesn't understand them.
No, she's not the happiest child in the world, not outwardly, but he knows when she is happy, and it's more often than she realizes. They make her happy. They make her feel safe. They give her family and home. That's his favorite thing about her—that they get to love her, and though she doesn't seem to know it, she loves them back in her own way.
Harry tells him sometimes that Vellevita is so like Voldemort in some ways that it's uncanny, but also so very different that he can't imagine thinking they're similar at all.
It's a head-scratcher, really, but they don't usually sit around drawing comparisons. It's not a social experiment, not for them. They're not loving and raising a child similar to Voldemort just to see if the outcome will be different. They're not trying to prevent the rise of the next Dark Lord—Dark Lady?
They just...love her. That's all.
Even right now, with Vellevita glaring at Narcissa like a brat, Draco loves her so much it hurts.
"What has she done to you now?" Harry asks in exasperation, having caught the glare as well.
Narcissa gives a faint smile. Vellevita seems not to like her that much, which is so bizarre that Draco can't wrap his mind around it—imagine not liking Narcissa Malfoy. It's strange. Still, Narcissa likes Vellevita quite a bit, no matter what the child feels for her, which is incredibly nice of her, really.
"She wanted me to take my prosthetic off again," Narcissa murmurs, amused.
Draco pinches the bridge of his nose. "Vellevita, we've talked about this. That's her arm."
"It's not," Vellevita retorts, narrowing her eyes. She immediately swivels to Lucius, gazing up at him, trying out a pout she's been perfecting recently. "I am not wrong to say that, am I, Grandfather? If she can remove it, then it can't be her arm. That's not at all how limbs work."
"You do have a point," Lucius allows, reaching out to pat her head, which she takes with grace. Of course he'd say that; he gives in to Vellevita so much that it's pathetic. He tilts his chin up when Draco glares at him. "What? She does have a point."
"How about I cut off your arm, Vellevita, and see how you like it?" Draco asks, raising his eyebrows at her. "It's terribly rude to claim that her arm isn't her arm, when it is. She purchased it. It's hers."
"It's not!" Vellevita exclaims, her face blank as ever, even though her voice rises. "It's her property, yes, but not her actual arm. It's made of—what is that, is that gold?"
"Yes," Narcissa answers indulgently.
Vellevita hums in triumph. "Yes, so it's her gold, not her arm. It is not flesh and bone."
"Do not talk logistics and technicalities with me, Vellevita, I won't have it," Draco says sharply. "We are meant to be going. Do you or do you not want to get a wand? If so, I should think you'll behave."
"Father," Vellevita says, making it sound vaguely like an insult, "don't be stupid about—"
"Vellevita," Harry cuts in, stern and short, staring her down with all his usual stubbornness.
Draco waits it out, far used to this by now. Vellevita only addresses family members by their relation when it works in her favor. It took her a long time before she ever called Draco 'Father' and Harry 'Dad'. Narcissa still hasn't been called 'Grandmother' yet, and Vellevita simply doesn't address her at all, choosing to make eye contact when she needs to speak with her.
As far as stubbornness goes, Harry remains the best at it. He will stare down Vellevita at any time or any place, firm and unwavering, and it usually ends in a stalemate. Vellevita is stubborn in the sense that admitting defeat is the equivalent of dying, so she never quite surrenders, but she will back off a bit and fume in silence. While Draco is the first to scold Vellevita, Harry tends to have to be the last.
It's a good system they have, in any case. Discipline isn't something they really do. Generally, they sit down and explain as patiently as they can why she did something wrong and why she can't do it again, and once she inevitably figures out their reasonings and can make sense of it, she never does it again.
She's being particularly rebellious when it comes to Narcissa's prosthetic. For some reason, she wants her to stop wearing it, claiming it's not her arm.
In her mind, it is a lie. She has problems with lies and those who tell them, which might be the only reason she doesn't like Narcissa. It might be the most ridiculous thing Draco has ever encountered, but until they can figure out how to properly explain that Narcissa's prosthetic is not a lie, they'll just all have to be a stalemate about it.
It's impolite and, frankly, just plain wrong, but children don't often care about things such as that. They state what is, or what they see things as, and Vellevita is no exception. She might be the pure definition of it, actually.
Fortunately, for now, Vellevita drops it. She presses her lips into a thin line and looks away from Harry, no doubt biting her tongue.
"We really must be going," Draco tells his mother, shaking his head in weary exasperation.
Narcissa smiles and reaches out to pat his arm, cold gold brushing his skin. "Enjoy it. You only get to see your child claim their first wand once. Vellevita, we are very happy for you, darling. Your Grandfather and I eagerly wait to see which wand you get."
Vellevita very pointedly does not respond.
"Alright, alright," Harry mutters, rolling his eyes a little, "let's get going, then. Vellevita, who would you prefer to Apparate with?"
"Father," Vellevita says stiffly, apparently still angry with Harry for being an adult who has all rights to scold her when she's being ridiculous.
Harry's lips break out into a grin. "Fine by me!"
They head out with a few more murmured goodbyes, Vellevita treating everyone to silence and refusing to look at anyone. Draco thinks she is very dramatic, but he does not tease her for it. He remembers being eleven. Everything really is so drastic at that age.
Outside of the wards, Vellevita takes his arm when he offers it to her, and she doesn't let go even when they land in Diagon Alley. He doesn't draw attention to it, unwilling to make a big deal out of it. She either forgot she's holding onto him, or she doesn't want to let him go, and he won't disturb either option. He leaves her to it, leading her along until they meet up with Harry.
The first stop on this trip for Hogwarts things is a wand. Draco remembers getting his, and he remembers how incredible it had felt. There's something genuinely special about bonding with your wand for the very first time.
Ollivander's has not changed through the years, and the man himself hasn't either. When they enter, he comes waddling out between the shelves to greet them with his usual amount of creepiness that generally puts most people off. Especially children.
Not Vellevita, of course.
She takes to him almost immediately, and Draco has never seen her relax so quickly before in his life. As he withers on about wands and shows off about remembering every wand he's ever sold—using Draco's and Harry's wand down to the exact measurements as examples—Vellevita listens to him with intent, openly and shamelessly curious. She's like that about most information, and she tends to like adults who know a lot about things, so it doesn't surprise him that she likes Ollivander.
It does surprise him that she seems enthralled by wands in particular. She asks so many questions about wand lore that Ollivander actually breaks out into laughter, trying to answer her as much as he can. It is oddly endearing for such a creepy man.
In the midst of all of this, Vellevita tries wand after wand after wand, to no such luck. Some respond, so it's not as if she's lacking in magic—with her, that was never a concern. But, even still, Ollivander continuously plucks wands from her every single time, seeming to grow more delighted with each failure, staring at Vellevita like she's very interesting, indeed. Draco wishes he wouldn't.
Finally, Ollivander yanks yet another wand from her and says, "Curious. Very curious."
"Oh, bloody hell," Harry mumbles.
Vellevita blinks at the man. "What's curious, sir?"
"You have to understand, young Vellevita, that wands choose the Wizard," Ollivander tells her. "There is magic in the wands themselves, and it is that magic that makes the bond compatible. The wands respond to magic, yes, but also intent and character. It seems a wand does not yet exist that will be compatible with you."
"What?!" Draco barks in alarm, eyes bulging.
"Don't fret, Mr. Malfoy-Potter," Ollivander says softly, turning his gaze from Vellevita. "Just because such a wand does not exist yet, it does not mean that it will not. I will have to travel to gather the correct wood and cores. I believe that your daughter requires a combination that would not work for anyone else in the world. It is a very curious thing, indeed, but nothing is impossible."
"Oh," Harry says weakly, "so what combination do you think will work?"
Ollivander hums. "Have you ever heard of dual-wooded wands, Mr. Malfoy-Potter?"
"I...have not," Harry admits.
"It is when the wood of the wand comes from two sources rather than one. Yours, for example, is made of Holly and only Holly. I believe hers will need the combination of two."
"Does that usually happen?"
"It never has before," Ollivander murmurs, turning his gaze back to Vellevita, staring at her with something like wariness and delight. "It's so very curious what combination it seems she will need."
"Curious how?" Draco grits out.
Ollivander never takes his eyes off of Vellevita as he says, "It is said that no Dark Wizard has ever owned a Rowan wand, for it tends to bond with those of a pure heart and is very protective of its master. Just the same, it is mostly known that the more notorious Wizards own wands made of Yew, as it is believed they give their masters the power of both life...and death. From what I've gathered from her trying out wands today, she will need one specially made that has such contradicting natures. It's curious. Very, very curious."
"Brilliant," Harry murmurs, exchanging a glance with Draco. This is...surprising. But, well, life always is. "Alright, we trust you know how to go about handling it. We'll pay what we must, of course. Er, I hope it's not too much of a bother."
"It's not, I assure you," Ollivander says.
"I would like to go with you," Vellevita tells him in a clear, steady voice. "If you would be willing, would it be alright if I accompanied you to see how wands are made, sir?"
Ollivander, for the very first time, seems startled. It's a strange look for him. "Ah, well…"
"Would I be imposing?" Vellevita asks, giving absolutely nothing away in her expression that tells anyone how she feels about this.
"No, young Vellevita, you would not be. I would be happy to have you along, but I do think that's entirely up to your parents," Ollivander admits.
Draco is already on the verge of refusing such a request. There's no way he's letting Vellevita go off with Ollivander without an escort. He doesn't know the man, nor trust him. Harry looks equally unmoved, his arms already crossed.
But then, Vellevita turns around with a look of naked hope, a look that she has never worn before. She wants to go. She wants to go badly.
"Dad," Vellevita says, appealing to Harry first because she is very tactical, "I would really like to go. You could come with me, if you must. Or—or send Aunt Hermione, or Uncle George, or Grandfather, or anyone. Please."
"Why do you want to go?" Draco asks, a furrow in his brow. He's never seen Vellevita this passionate about anything without being angry.
Vellevita turns beseeching eyes to him. "I want to learn more about wands. Please, Father. Mr. Ollivander already said it was okay."
Harry wavers first, very predictably. "Are you certain it's alright?" he asks Ollivander.
"More than," Ollivander replies. "Not many children take up such an interest in wands. I find her curiosity compelling. I'd like to teach her if she is willing to learn, for however long it holds her interest. You're welcome to come along as well."
"I can't," Harry mumbles, turning a wary look to Draco. "You know I'm busy with the Muggle-borns. You're busy at St. Mungos. Would Lucius…?"
"I'll ask Mother," Draco offers.
Vellevita doesn't even protest, which says a lot about just how much she wants to go.
"Alright," Harry says slowly, turning back to watch Vellevita closely. "If Mrs. Malfoy will accompany you, then you may go. You have to listen to her, Vellevita, do you understand?"
"Yes, of course," Vellevita replies readily, that spark of light in her eyes that she never seems to realize is there shining brightly, an indicator of her happiness.
"When will you take the trip?" Draco asks Ollivander, still a little unsure, but soothed by the thought that his mother will be there.
"Tomorrow, if it is convenient for you everyone," Ollivander says.
Harry nods. "We'll be in touch. Thank you, sir."
"It is my pleasure," Ollivander tells them, and it is quite obvious that it is.
Draco is still wary about it, but he won't stand in the way of Vellevita's happiness, interests, or chance to learn about something she's clearly passionate about. So, he speaks to his mother later that night, and she agrees because she is the best woman to grace this earth, and it is the very first time that Vellevita seems to like her.
"Thank you, Grandmother," Vellevita says through the floo, and Narcissa laughs softly and assures her she'll be around tomorrow to pick her up.
In the end, Vellevita gets a new wand—Unicorn hair, Rowan and Yew, eleven inches exactly, and unsurprisingly sturdy. Vellevita also gets a new obsession—that being, anything and everything to do with wands.
But, perhaps the most delightful thing—to Draco, at least—is that Vellevita never once brings up Narcissa's arm again, and in fact, seems to like her Grandmother more than she ever has.
Draco wants to snatch Vellevita up and run away with her. He hasn't had enough time. Just a little under two years. That's not enough to be prepared to let her go already.
And yet, here they stand at Platform 9¾, surrounded by bustling families, the gleaming red glare off the train, and the sounds of laughter and tears.
Vellevita, of course, stands perfectly still and calm right beside her trunk and her owl—named Clay by a very determined Vellevita, who learned that the name meant someone mortal that's always subject to death at any given time. Very morbid, his child. She likes her owl as much as she likes anything, meaning she tolerates it at best and refrains from killing it at worst. Draco catches her petting it sometimes.
In any case, she stands there and stares at them, and they stand there and stare at her. Draco can't say that he doesn't want her to go. He can't. That is a very cliche and selfish desire for a parent to have, and he wishes he could be above such a thing. He isn't, though. Looking at Vellevita now, he wants to scoop her up—no matter how much she would protest it—and run away with her.
He doesn't want to keep her from experiencing Hogwarts, not really, but he also doesn't want to let her go. He won't see her for so long. It's terrible.
"You're trying to act like you're not sad," Vellevita informs him, which is very spot-on and also rude. She does a lot of analyzing feelings, so it's no surprise that she can see right through his poor act.
"Not very well, it seems," Draco admits grudgingly. He heaves a sigh and kneels down so that they're at the same level, meeting her eyes. "It's just that I will miss you, Vellevita, that's all."
Vellevita surveys him for a moment, then says, "I'll write. I already promised I would."
"We know," Harry mumbles, and he's doing an even worse job at hiding how close he is to crying at the moment. He's so much more obvious in his emotions, the idiot.
Behind them, Ronan is sobbing loudly, which is so heartbreaking that Draco nearly can't stand it. Pansy and Blaise are no doubt trying to soothe him, but Vellevita has made no moves to do so, despite the fact that Ronan is crying for her. In his mind, Vellevita is his life-long best friend, and whether or not she agrees with him on that—which she very firmly does not—he takes that sort of thing to heart.
If Draco were to turn and look, he'd see everyone else there as well. A whole group of people who insisted on coming and seeing Vellevita off. Hermione, Ron, and Daphne, of course. The Weasley Twins, because at least one of them is liked by Vellevita, even if the other isn't. Narcissa and Lucius came as well, wanting to see their Grandchild leave for Hogwarts for the very first time.
It's a large group. An eclectic one, too. But it's family. Vellevita has a lot of that.
"I would really like it if you wouldn't cry," Vellevita tells Harry in a rather strained voice, her eyebrows twitching in her version of a grimace.
"I know, I know, I'm sorry," Harry says with a weak laugh, sniffling a little as he also drops down to kneel in front of her, right next to Draco. "I'm going to miss you as well, is all. We both are. So much."
Draco clears his throat. It's thick and tight. "Now, you remember that you're going to behave at Hogwarts. No calling people stupid, no making anyone dance, none of that. You're going to study and learn and—and make friends, even."
"Friends," Vellevita echoes flatly, as if she's never heard of a more ridiculous thing in her life.
"Friends," Harry repeats more firmly. "Yes, those. People you like more than the rest that are around your own age. Try and make at least one, please."
"Why?" Vellevita asks, and it's almost a frustrated whine. Almost, but not quite.
Harry blows out a deep breath. "Vellevita, your friends don't have to be smart or—or mature. They don't have to know everything. They can be a little stupid and ridiculous, it's fine."
"I don't like people who are stupid and ridiculous."
"That's not all that people are," Draco murmurs. "There is always more than meets the eye."
"Think of it as a lifelong investment," Harry suggests with a small smile. "Friends are important. They're the ones who will support you because they know you and like you for you. It's different from family. Not bad, not better, but still important. At least try to make one friend, alright? Just one?"
Vellevita releases a sigh. "I will...consider it."
The shrill whistle of the Hogwarts train used to fill Draco with excitement; now, it fills him with dread. The children all around are getting in their last goodbyes, rushing off towards the train, disappearing inside with their things. Draco absolutely refuses to have a meltdown about this.
It's fine. Vellevita is a Witch. She has magic. She should go to school and learn. That's the natural order of things, and she would have done so even without being adopted by Draco and Harry. He wonders how different it would have been. She would have been alone, no one there telling her goodbye, no one to be sad to see her go. It breaks his heart in a rather devastating way.
"I need to go now," Vellevita says calmly, her face blank as always, simultaneously more intelligent than any eleven-year-old in the world and also untouched by the many things she doesn't fully grasp yet. She's so lovely. Draco loves her so much.
"Alright," Harry whispers, and it sounds like he's choking. "Well, if you must. We love you. You do know that, don't you?"
"We do," Draco agrees, equally hoarse. "Very much."
It is clear that Vellevita is experiencing a Real Emotion because her face twitches through it. She goes still like she does when she's trying to hide it. Her hand grips her own sleeve in a tight hold, so tight that her skin goes bone-white. If she had a door, she would slam it in their faces.
They do not often tell Vellevita this. That they love her. Not because they don't want to, but because the first and only time they did, she went into her room and refused to come out for two days straight, not even to eat. They couldn't even break in, no matter how they tried, and they did try because they weren't just going to let her sodding starve herself. Still, she eventually did come out and she wouldn't look them in the eye for days after, so they decided not to overwhelm her with such a statement anymore.
Because it does overwhelm her. Visibly so. Even right now, she's clearly overwhelmed by it. They decided to show her rather than tell her, but this moment calls for words more than just actions. They don't want to upset her, no, but they also need her to know that they love her. It's very important.
Vellevita swallows and says, "That's stupid."
Draco is getting ready to argue this, and he knows Harry is gearing up to do the same, but they both snap their mouths shut when Vellevita steps forward in the small space between their bent legs, crowding in close and easing one arm around each of their necks. It takes Draco a moment to realize that she's hugging them, or trying to.
It becomes immediately clear that she's not doing this to mimic the other children she's watched do the same with their parents. Her body is stiff, movements wooden, and she's not awkward exactly, but there is an uncertainty that clings to her. She wavers on the action, leaning away from it even as she does it, teetering on the edge of aborting the motion entirely before finishing it.
They don't let her, choosing instead to help her see it through. Draco reaches out with one hand to touch her back, bumping into Harry's hand as he does the same. They tuck her in, letting her hide against their shoulders, letting her hug them if she wants to or feels the need to. For a long moment, they all simply pause there in the midst of the embrace, holding on possibly too tight.
It's a miracle that Draco doesn't cry. Harry, unfortunately, can't swallow his own tears. The poor sod has them running down his cheeks when Vellevita tugs away sharply. She stares at them for a beat, then whirls around to gather her things and leave without another word. She doesn't even look back as she boards the train.
"Draco," Harry mumbles.
"I know," Draco whispers, because he does know.
He helps Harry to his feet, releasing a long exhale. They lean against each other, holding hands, watching the train leave. They don't catch another glimpse of Vellevita—they wouldn't, seeing as she would never hang out a window to wave goodbye. And yet, they still stand there in complete silence, bearing the weight of letting her go.
"She's going to be alright," Harry says.
"Yes," Draco agrees, "she is."
Vellevita is a hat-stall.
"She said it took almost forty minutes," Draco informs Harry, rereading that sentence in the letter with vague surprise. "You were a hat-stall as well, weren't you?"
"I was," Harry admits, propping his head up on his chin, trying to read the letter from the side, eyes wide and curious. "The Sorting Hat thought I'd be great for Slytherin, which was ridiculous."
"Indeed," Draco agrees absently. "I would have hated you being in Slytherin. You know, I wasn't a hat-stall. I think I'm one of the quickest sortings in history. It barely touched my head."
"Slytherin, through-and-through," Harry mutters, rolling his eyes. "You're being horrible again. What did she say? Which house did she get? A hat-stall is interesting, isn't it? I thought she'd be sorted as quickly as you were."
"She said the hat couldn't seem to decide between Ravenclaw and Slytherin," Draco murmurs, eyebrows jumping in surprise as he reads on. "It did tell her that she'd never be a Hufflepuff, so that's a comfort, at least."
Harry smacks his arm lightly. "Oh, shut up, you prat. And stop leaving me in suspense! Which did she get? Ravenclaw or—"
"She got Slytherin, of course," Draco interrupts with a small smirk. "She's a Malfoy."
"She's a Malfoy-Potter," Harry corrects, then his lips curl up. "Oh, bloody hell, my child is in Slytherin. This is just...ha!"
Draco arches an eyebrow as Harry busts out laughing, almost wheezing from it. "Harry? Harry. What is so funny?"
"Just—just picturing Snape's face, is all," Harry chokes out, shaking wildly as he tries to stop uproariously laughing, to no avail.
"Ah," Draco says, picturing Snape's reaction in his mind, had the man been Head of House still.
In the next second, he's wheezing with laughter, too.
Exchanging letters with Vellevita is nice, but that doesn't compare to not seeing her for literal months. Draco doesn't know how parents do it. All he and Harry do to pass the time is work, shag, work, talk about their child, shag, work, talk about adopting a younger one, shag, work, shag, shag, and shag.
When Christmas break comes around in Vellevita's First Year, Draco is unfortunately at work and won't be able to get home until after she's already arrived. The knowledge that she's at home, just waiting, itches underneath his skin the entire day. It's so bad that the Senior Healers take pity on him and just send him home early.
When he gets home, he can hear Harry and Vellevita talking in the kitchen—the low murmur of their voices soothe something in his chest. He picks up the sounds of pans clanking together, the oven opening and closing, Harry's laughter and Vellevita's dry tone she uses when she finds things funny. Draco stands outside the door and closes his eyes, listening in for a while, which is odd and strange but he can't help it. He truly can't.
That's what Paradise sounds like, he thinks with a strange desperate adoration coursing through his veins. It's the best thing he's ever heard.
He releases a slow breath and eases the door open to see what waits beyond it. Vellevita is sitting at the dining table, twirling her wand in between her fingers with an oddly deft movement—she makes it look effortless, so much so that Draco instantly knows that she practiced it. Harry is bustling around the kitchen, baking, the counters covered in flour and multiple bowls of batter sitting around.
"Here, do this one for me," Harry says, lazily flicking his hand to send a bowl wordlessly and wandlessly floating over to Vellevita.
"Is there a Spell for this?" Vellevita asks curiously, peering down into the bowl as she sets her wand aside and picks up the whisk.
Harry snorts. "You know, there probably is, but I don't know it. There's a project for you."
"You could look it up if you wanted."
"Now, why would I do that when my child will do it for me, hm? Are you telling me you aren't going to try and find the Spell, just to know it? Come on, make my life a little easier, Vellevita."
"I'll check the Library when I get back to Hogwarts and let you know what I find in a letter," Vellevita tells him, mixing the batter with easy precision. There's a pause, and she clears her throat. "When did you say Father was getting home again?"
"I didn't," Harry says with a sigh. "He'll pop in before we know it, I'm sure."
"Maybe even right this second," Draco drawls, leaning in the doorway, watching them fondly.
Vellevita drops the bowl in uncharacteristic clumsiness, the batter splattering all over the floor, and her head whips over towards him so fast that he's a little startled. He's even more than a little startled by how intense her eyes are as she looks at him, staring him down and drinking him in as if she thinks he might just be a mirage. A beat later, the piercing gaze softens and relaxes into her usual blank, dullness. She blinks at him.
"I dropped the batter," Vellevita informs him, with absolutely no inflection in her tone, as if he didn't actually watch it happen.
Draco smirks and shakes his head, pushing away from the door to march over and crouch down in front of her. He reaches out and scoops up the bowl and what batter is salvageable, passing it off to Harry, who takes it with a small smile. After, he gently catches a small clump of batter in Vellevita's hair with his fingers, clasping the clean portion of the strand and waving the mess in front of her eyes.
"You have some in your hair," Draco says.
Vellevita takes the strand and proceeds to drag it over his forehead, squeezing out the batter to smear on his skin. Flatly, she declares, "Not anymore."
"Ah, yes, children," Draco mutters, heaving a deep, put-upon sigh. "Messy, terrible things with no regards for manners. I can't believe I missed you."
"Did you?" Vellevita asks curiously.
"Against my better judgement," Draco teases, "I missed you terribly. We both did."
Predictably, Vellevita says, "That's stupid."
Less predictably, she leans forward in her chair to wrap her arms around his neck and hug him. Draco blinks rapidly, freezing in shock for only a moment, and then he hugs her back. She is warm and smells like cake. He never wants to let her go.
Vellevita pulls away a beat later, hopping up from her chair and wandering from the kitchen without a word. Draco blows out an explosive breath and pushes back to his feet, turning to look at Harry.
"I know," is Harry's response to whatever Draco's face is doing at the moment. "She's doing that now. I think she's indulging us. Isn't that sweet?"
"It's lovely, actually," Draco admits, and his voice does not crack, thank you very much.
Harry smiles at him, soft and beautiful, putting down his bowl and sidling up to him. "She's probably having a shower. You should have one afterwards. The cake will be ready by the time you're out, and then we'll be set to go to the Burrow."
"And then, off to the Manor," Draco says with a sigh, wrinkling his nose when Harry reaches up to swipe the batter off his forehead and wipe it off on his apron. "You don't think Mother will be upset that you, Vellevita, and I will be exchanging our gifts here this year, do you?"
"It's Christmas where Vellevita has been at Hogwarts," Harry murmurs. "I think she'll understand. Doing it with everyone is always nice, but it's also nice to just...do it as a little family."
"You had fantasies about this when you were younger, didn't you?" Draco asks, amused.
Harry smiles sheepishly. "Shut it, you. I'm strange about family dynamics, you already know this."
"It's adorable. You're so fucked up," Draco tells him, punctuating his words with a kiss.
"Yeah, I know," Harry breathes out when they eventually separate. "Do you think Vellevita will like having a smaller Christmas?"
Draco snickers. "Honestly, Harry, I think that she'll consider that her present."
Ironically enough, later that night, she does. After they get home in the evening, earlier than normal for a usual Christmas, Vellevita expresses that exact thought—that they're cutting it short and saving her from the horrible festivities as a present. She is only mildly displeased to find that Christmas isn't over yet, but less annoyed than she would be if they were spending more time with more people.
Vellevita doesn't like to make a fuss about Holidays of any sort—not her birthday, not Christmas, and Valentine's day repulses her. She sees it as any other day, but she has long since surrendered to Draco and Harry's determination to celebrate.
That being said, in the quiet warmth of the evening, when it's just the three of them exchanging presents and enjoying each other's company, Vellevita doesn't seem to mind the Holiday so much.
In fact, as Draco whirls Harry around their flat, the both of them laughing and carrying on a tradition that Draco himself grew up on, there is a certain kind of light in Vellevita's eyes that suggests that she, just like him, has found her favorite Holiday.
Draco is absolutely devastated by how much Vellevita has grown. He watches her step off the train and is struck by how much taller she has gotten. It is unfair. It is illegal.
All his thoughts stop in his tracks when Vellevita pauses on the platform before even looking for them, glancing over her shoulder, clearly waiting for someone. After a few moments, a boy with brown skin and bleach-white hair comes tripping off the train, nearly falling flat on his face. Vellevita stares down at him in an unimpressed fashion, but she waits for him to stand before she nods at him and they start walking together.
The moment Vellevita sees him and Harry, she says something to the boy and they both head in their direction. Draco watches them approach, trying to mask his surprise. The boy is so thin that he looks like he'd be carried off by a stray wind. He's also tripping every other step as he tries to keep up with Vellevita, who has no qualms about weaving through crowds and marching forward with a stride that demands people to get out of her way.
"Hello," the boy says as soon as they come to a halt in front of him and Harry, and the boy's voice is so soft and quiet that Draco almost can't hear him.
"Hello," Harry chirps, as cheerful and easy with children as always. "Who might you be?"
"Dad, Father, this is Faron Spencer," Vellevita introduces flatly. "Faron, these are my parents. You've met. Now, where are yours?"
The boy—Faron—nervously hops in place, craning his head until he finally spots them. His shoulders visibly relax. "Oh, they're over there! Come on!"
"Excuse me," Vellevita tells them, then swivels on the spot and follows after Faron without a word.
Draco blinks rapidly, tracking them through the crowd. Vellevita and Faron come to a halt in front of a man and woman, both wearing robes, clearly not Muggles. Neither of their hair is white, so Draco is having a hard time understanding why Faron's is. His hair is not blonde—it is white, so stark that it stands out against his brown skin.
For a few minutes, it seems like Vellevita is talking to Faron's parents, and Draco is oddly anxious about it. Vellevita isn't known for her tact, to be fair. Still, Faron's parents seem at complete ease, laughing and smiling like they're charmed. After a few more moments, the parents look over to him and Harry, offering a friendly wave, and he and Harry automatically wave back.
"What is happening right now?" Draco asks out of the corner of his mouth.
"I think Vellevita made a friend," Harry says, sounding bemused.
They did tell her to, yes, but they hadn't gotten any updates in letters or on Christmas or Easter break. They've never once heard of Faron. However, if she has made a friend, that's wonderful. Draco is more than happy to encourage it.
When Vellevita wanders back over towards them, they don't immediately jump into bombarding her with questions. Draco desperately wants to, but he refrains with grace. Instead, he and Harry trade quick hugs with her—because she does that now, always in greeting and parting, acting as if she is doing it for them, like a gift bestowed.
Immediately after, though, Draco says, "Who is Faron? Is he a friend of yours, Vellevita?"
"He is a Hufflepuff," Vellevita informs him flatly, glancing over her shoulder to where she last saw Faron, who left with his parents already. Without preamble, she says something that makes Draco's heart drop to the pit of his stomach. Calmly, as if stating fact, she says, "I'm going to marry him."
Draco almost vomits.
Notes:
Vellevita: mini-Voldemort
Also Vellevita: picks a Hufflepuff out of crowd and decides to marry it
Life's full of surprises 😂🤷
Chapter 5: Encouraging the Growth
Notes:
Okay, yes, I know I added yet another chapter, but the last one really was too long. However, the last one really IS the last one, I promise. Also, I will get to answering comments soon! Thanks for all the support ❤️
There are no warnings for this chapter, in particular. Just Draco being mean as a weird sex thing. Oh, and Mrs. Weasley has Issues that need to be addressed. Otherwise, it's all fine. Minimal angst.
Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Vellevita is in her Second Year when Draco and Harry have to be called into Hogwarts for the first time (and not for the last).
Still, it is the first time. They're notified by Patronus, Dumbledore's phoenix sweeping into their flat and cordially asking if they would come to Hogwarts right away, for there is an issue involving their daughter. Harry groans and buries his head in his hands for just a moment, then they're both up and off of the sofa like Spells from a wand.
Less than twenty minutes later, Draco is walking in beside Harry, entering Dumbledore's office for what might either be the second or third time in his life—he can't actually remember. Harry, however, has been in this office so often that he doesn't seem ill at ease inside it, even though he and Dumbledore have never quite recovered from their past.
It's just Dumbledore and Vellevita inside, which isn't very promising. Draco isn't very pleased with the idea that Dumbledore was talking to his child alone. He doesn't like the old bastard—never has and most certainly never will. Carefully, he scans Vellevita for any sign that anything is wrong, but she is sitting calmly in the chair and staring at him and Harry placidly. She's fine.
"Headmaster," Harry greets.
"Harry, Draco, it's a fine night, isn't it?" Dumbledore replies. He tips the bowl on his desk towards them, smiling benignly. "Lemon drop?"
"No, thank you," Draco answers for them, possibly just a bit too frigidly. He doesn't try to smooth it over or act any more polite.
"Alright, Vellevita?" Harry asks, pausing at the side of her chair, looking down at her.
"Fine," Vellevita says. "I'm in trouble."
Harry sighs. "That's what I was afraid of. Why, exactly, are you in trouble?"
"I was sneaking out to the Forbidden Forest," Vellevita answers promptly.
"You what?" Draco hisses, twitching. "Why in Merlin's name did you do that? We don't go sneaking off to Forbidden Forests, Vellevita! It's literally in the name. For-bid-den."
"How did you get caught?" Harry asks, which is not at all the correct way to approach this situation.
"I forgot the Invisibility Cloak." Vellevita frowns like she's disappointed in herself. "I was in a rush. Filch has been on my case all year."
"You gave her your Invisibility Cloak?!" Draco snarls, whipping around towards Harry, his eyes bulging in disbelief.
Harry rolls his eyes. "Of course I did. Why wouldn't I? It's practically tradition, you know. My father got it from his father, then gave it to me, so I—"
"Stop talking," Draco bites out, glaring at Harry forcefully enough that he shuts up. He takes a deep, calming breath. His nostrils flare as he turns towards Vellevita. "Why did you go into the Forbidden Forest?"
"I was hoping to study different types of wood out there that reacts to magic. I think that certain trees might be perfect for future wands, but no one goes out to check because—"
"Because it is forbidden! It is dangerous. There are so many things out there that—that—"
"Man-eating spiders," Harry lists off casually, tipping his head to the side. "Werewolves, probably. I've ran into at least one, in any case. Oh, there's probably a Giant out there somewhere. Lots of things that will kill you. Very dangerous. And, of course, there are centaurs as well. They don't like people going into their territory uninvited, and it is rude not to respect that."
"Man-eating spiders," Draco wheezes, feeling all the color drain from his face as he whirls towards Dumbledore. "There are man-eating spiders out there, and you—you—"
"Draco," Harry says gently, reaching out to catch his hand, squeezing it, "please calm down. It's fine. Vellevita is fine. I was practically in the Forbidden Forest every year, and I was fine. Er."
Draco's eye twitches.
"That is to say," Harry quickly backtracks, "I barely scraped by with my life sometimes. I mean—well, it was...er, complicated. The point is, Vellevita, no going in the Forbidden Forest, yeah?"
Vellevita sighs. "But I want to study—"
"No!" Draco shouts, the word exploding out of him so loud that Vellevita is visibly startled. He has to suck in a sharp breath to calm down. "The answer is no. You are not to go out into the Forbidden Forest unless Dumbledore himself is willing to go along with you, which is highly unlikely. I recall him leaving many a student to their own devices."
"Draco," Harry mumbles, wincing.
"This is not a joke, Vellevita," Draco says sharply, holding her gaze. "This is just one of those things that you have to do. It is not safe. You could be seriously injured or worse, and Harry and I would be very upset, do you understand?"
"I understand," Vellevita says, staring at him passively, her face blank.
Draco inhales, exhales, takes a moment. "Was Faron involved in this at all? Don't lie to me."
"Not...this time," Vellevita admits carefully.
"If I catch word that you're doing this again, I will inform Faron's parents and I will take the Invisibility Cloak away from you," Draco tells her firmly.
Vellevita jerks in her chair. "No, you can't do that. Dad gave it to me. It's mine."
"If you're only going to use it to put yourself in dangerous situations like your idiot of a dad," Draco grits out, "then I will confiscate it."
Harry heaves a sigh. "Draco."
"Shut up, Harry," Draco says tightly.
"Just—er, excuse us one moment," Harry mutters, grimacing a little in the Headmaster's direction, which reminds Draco that he's here and has been here this whole time. A little bit of guilt clogs his throat; he hadn't meant to scold Vellevita in front of another person, especially not him.
"Of course," Dumbledore says diplomatically.
Harry snags Draco's arm and drags him to a far corner of the office, lowering his voice to say, "Don't you think you're being a little harsh on her?"
"Harsh?" Draco hisses, aghast. "Harry, she's been off in the Forbidden Forest who knows how many times, likely using the Invisibility Cloak to do it. Why didn't you tell me you gave it to her? Has she had it ever since First Year? Do you know how badly things could have gone? She could have died or gone missing, and then what? You think this is harsh? I should set that idiotic cloak on fire."
"You're panicking," Harry notes calmly.
"Yes, I bloody well am!" Draco snaps. "Of all the dangerous things that happened to us, under Dumbledore's nose and encouragement no less, and you're not panicking??"
"Draco," Harry says softly, "Vellevita is fine. She is a smart girl. She was only going out there to study, not to go off on some grand adventure. She is not me. You know she's not the type to risk her own life so carelessly; she's already more intelligent than I was at her age. Give her just a little bit of credit, yeah? You've never been this way to her."
Draco looks away, jaw clenching, willing that tight feeling in his chest to go away. It doesn't, but a few beats pass, and he can at least acknowledge that Harry has a little bit of a point. Draco does not and has not ever spoken to Vellevita like that. It reminds him too much of his own father.
"I'm—it worries me," Draco murmurs.
"I know. That's fair. It's alright to be worried. I'm also worried," Harry assures him.
Draco exhales slowly, then shakes his head. "It doesn't help that the old bastard has no idea what the meaning of safety is."
"Be nice," Harry says wearily. He shakes his head and reaches out to rub Draco's arm. "No matter his faults, he does care about the students and their safety. Why do you think he called us instead of just punishing her, hm?"
"To see you, maybe?" Draco suggests.
Harry shakes his head. "It's not that. Just trust me, yeah? Also, you can't take the Invisibility Cloak. I gave her that. It's important to both of us."
Draco scowls. "You and your idiotic tradition. So help me, Harry, if anything happens to her because of that cloak, I will actually murder you."
"Fair enough," Harry says, smiling faintly. "Better now? Ready to go?"
"Fine." Draco huffs and twirls on his heels, marching back over to step up beside Vellevita without looking at her, staring right at Dumbledore without flinching. He thinks about how it's nearly been a decade since the man asked Harry to die, and he has never forgiven it, and never will. It makes him strangely fearless. "What's her punishment?"
"Well," Dumbledore says, that damned twinkle in his eye, "in light of her explanation, I rather thought a few detentions with me in the Forbidden Forest would be fitting. Her interest in wands should be encouraged, not punished. If you are comfortable with it and were serious about me escorting her, I will do so with your permission."
Vellevita sucks in a sharp, excited breath from beside him, squirming in her seat just a little, but then she falls silent and goes still. Waiting. Hoping.
Dammit.
Draco turns to look at Harry, glaring at him, making it very clear that he won't be the one to say the actual words. He can't foresee a scenario in which Vellevita being escorted by Dumbledore would end in injury. Harry and Draco would kill him, and he absolutely has to know that.
"That's acceptable," Harry answers for him, nodding his head. "Preferably during the day, sir."
"I agree," Dumbledore murmurs.
"If that will be all," Draco grits out, "I will walk Vellevita down to the dungeons."
Dumbledore smiles at him. "Of course. I'm quite sure you haven't forgotten the way."
Draco hasn't. You don't just forget. No one does. He takes a step back and waves Vellevita out of the chair, arching an eyebrow at Harry, who watches them go with a small smile.
Vellevita is silent the entire walk down. Draco does remember the way, taking the same steps that he walked for seven years of his life. Vellevita has already walked it for two. He wants to stop time and shield her from anything that could go wrong. He hates trusting her in the hands of a man who once asked her dad to die.
But Draco has to be mature, ridiculously enough. He has to do what's best for Vellevita, not for his own peace. He can't be like his father, demanding that her life go a certain way. He refuses.
"Vellevita," Draco says softly when they come to a halt in the silent corridor. Vellevita doesn't even look at him, her arms crossed over her chest. He can see her swallow, a telltale sign that she's experiencing Real Emotions. "Vellevita."
"Yes?" she asks tersely.
Draco sighs and dips down to crouch beside her, elbows braced on his knees as he reaches out to unravel her arms and turn her towards him. She moves woodenly, not saying a word. "Vellevita, darling, I have to apologize to you now. Will you let me? It's only fair for me to do so."
"Why do you have to apologize?"
"Because I spoke harshly to you out of anger and worry. In front of someone else, no less. I have no desire to embarrass you or lash out at you. In truth, I was just very scared of the thought of you getting hurt, that's all. You were wrong to do what you did, but that doesn't mean I am right to react as I did."
The best thing Draco has ever learned in this whole parenting business is that he doesn't always have to be right. He isn't going to be. He's going to make mistakes; he and Harry both do all the time. It's only worse if they try and act like they're never in the wrong. He's learned a lot more about parenting from his own parents, more than he ever expected to.
Vellevita seems to consider his words for a long pause, and then she says, "You're not really going to take the Invisibility Cloak away, are you?"
"No," Draco murmurs. "It is not mine to take. That is something special between you and Harry, and I shouldn't have threatened to take it away either. I will ask that you use it wisely and for things that have absolutely nothing to do with danger. Will you do that for me? I'd appreciate it."
"I'll try," Vellevita offers, which is...not very comforting, but it's something, at least.
Draco grips her hands in his. "I worry for you. You will think it's stupid, but I can't help it. I don't want to see you harmed, ever, alright?"
"That is stupid," Vellevita says. "People get hurt every day."
"I know that," Draco agrees. "I don't have to like it, though. It won't stop me from worrying. I just want you to be safe, that's all."
"I don't want to worry you," Vellevita admits.
"I'm glad to hear it," Draco says honestly. He squeezes her limp hands and lets them go with a sigh. "Alright, I'll let you get to bed. It's late. As nice as it is to see you, I'd appreciate it if you would stay out of trouble."
Vellevita gives a noncommittal hum, then calmly says, "It is nice to see you and Dad, too."
Draco's heart hurts at that, hurts in ways Vellevita can't possibly imagine, hurts and doesn't at all. He adores her. He truly does.
"I'll let him know," Draco whispers. "Now, go on. Go get some sleep. We'll see you in a few months."
"Alright," Vellevita agrees.
Before she goes, she rocks forward and hugs him, leaning into him, her face buried against his throat, her hair brushing his cheek. She is small, but not nearly as small as she was when he first met her. She is growing up far too quickly. It terrifies him.
Vellevita hugs him for longer than she normally would. She's getting better at it, less stiff, less cautious about it. He winds his arms around her and feels something settle. She's fine. She's safe.
When she pulls back, she walks away without waiting, just as she always does. This time, in the ways the others sometimes aren't, the hug feels like perhaps it was more for him than her.
She was comforting him.
Draco waits until she disappears into the Slytherin Common Room, then stands back up and makes his way back towards Dumbledore's office. Halfway there, he runs right into Harry, quite literally. They bump into each other and nearly fall into a suit of armor, reaching out to steady each other.
"Watch it, Potter," Draco says with a sneer that hasn't felt at home on his face in a long time.
In the dim corridor, Harry's eyes light up. "You're one to talk. What's your rush, Malfoy?"
"Outrunning emotions invoked by children," Draco admits in his most haughty voice. "You?"
"Getting far away from the Headmaster I have an uncomfortable history with," Harry replies, wrinkling his nose.
Draco raises his eyebrows. "That bad, was it?"
"He's been visiting his long-lost lover in Azkaban frequently over the past decade, which is scandalous enough, I should think. Worse than that, though, the man is incredibly intelligent and easily noticed the...similarities between my child and my guardian, though they've never met. You know how he is. Existing in smoke and mirrors and stupidly wise advice that makes my brain hurt."
"And what did he say about your child?"
"Just that he has all intentions of doing things better this time around."
"And?"
"And I kindly and promptly told him that there was no need," Harry admits, lips twitching. "I've never told the man to fuck off before, not in so many words, but you'd be surprised how thrilling it is."
"I would not be surprised, actually," Draco assures him, chuckling. "Is there anything to worry about?"
"Not at all," Harry says, sounding so sure that Draco doesn't have the room to doubt him.
Draco hums. "If you say so. Shall we go?"
"Oh, yeah, we should do that." Harry pauses, glancing up and down the hall, then he grins and reaches out to fist his shirt. "But first, I rather thought we could revisit our schooldays."
"Oh, that should be fun, but you'll have to be more specific," Draco drawls, his heart already racing wildly in his chest. "I remember that a good portion of our time at school was taken up with me hating you obsessively and bullying you at every chance I got. Is that what you're aiming for?"
"You know," Harry says lightly, "I'm shockingly not opposed. Be mean to me, Draco."
"Your mother is dead, your hair is atrocious, your glasses are ugly, and you're nothing more than a bumbling fool with idiots for friends."
"Is that all you've got? I remember you being much more vicious than that."
Draco narrows his eyes. "Oh, you want me to hurt your feelings, I see. I can't do that if I'm limited to insulting you like a teenager. We've both outgrown that, I think. Or, well, I have, at least."
"Oh, is that why you're struggling?" Harry asks with a grin, backing him up one step at a time towards the wall, looking amused. "Go on, then. Hit me where it hurts, if you can."
"You really don't want me to do that," Draco warns, arching an eyebrow. "I've learned to soften my words through the years, you know."
"A pity," Harry muses, arching an eyebrow right back in challenge. "You used to have a tongue sharp enough to make someone bleed. I rather fancy finding out if you still do. I can take it, if you think you're still capable."
Draco hums. "Alright, but just remember, you literally asked for it." With a sigh, he slips right back into bad habits, drawing in on the hatred he still has for Harry to this day, as entwined with love as it has always been. "Do me a favor and give me your ring."
"What, why?" Harry asks, visibly startled. He closes his fist like he can physically stop anyone from taking it off his finger.
"Why else?" Draco drawls. "Use your brain, if you even have one. I don't want you to have the ring, obviously. It's not meant to go on your finger. Honestly, I really lowered my standards if I settled for you. As if you could be what I want."
Harry purses his lips. "Alright, going right for it, then. You'll have to work harder than that, though."
"I don't have to work hard for anything," Draco says, eyeing Harry in distaste. "You do whatever I want anyway, don't you? Actually, you're rather like my bitch, in fact. Did you think I wouldn't get bored eventually? I've wasted far too much time on you as it is, and what did I get in return? A man with far too much trauma. Waking me up in the middle of the night with nightmares, complaining about your dead parents and the Dark Lord leaving you all alone after everyone else did as well."
"Yeah, that stings, I'll give you that," Harry mutters, huffing a little as he pushes Draco back another step, clenching his shirt just a little tighter.
"What's worse," Draco continues, "you've completely invaded my life like you actually believe you fit in there. You're the most ridiculous addition. Do you truly believe that I would want you hanging around like last summer's trend? My father isn't wrong to say I could do much better. Even my mother will treat you like a stranger the moment she realizes I never loved you in the first place."
"Piss off, your mother adores me," Harry snaps.
Draco smirks. "How would you know? It's not like you know what a true mother's love actually feels like. When I tell her I'm happier without you, she'll cast you aside like you're nothing. Which you are. You must know that. Please tell me you already know that. I've been telling you all this time that you're an idiot, but if you don't actually know that, then you're an even bigger idiot than I realized."
"You're a real prat, you know that?"
"You're only saying that because you know, deep down, just how simply I could ruin your life. I could take away all your happiness. Half of your friends? Gone. My family? Gone. Me? Gone, and I wouldn't come back. What would I be coming back to? You? An idiot with ridiculous glasses, hair that shames me everywhere I go, no manners and no sense."
Harry exhales sharply through his nose. "This really isn't working, you know. It's not."
"Oh, you think this is a joke." Draco laughs, quiet and cruel. "If you think I'm not taking this opportunity to finally, finally be rid of you, then you're honestly confused. I haven't wanted you for so long. You're too much and not enough. The Dark Lord had the right idea, I'd say. Getting as far away from you as possible can only be a relief. I—"
Draco is cut off rather violently by being shoved roughly back into the wall, Harry chanting, "Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the fuck—"
Harry forces him to by kissing him rather fiercely, practically rattling like he might explode, and Draco laughs in an odd sense of exhilaration. He arches closer, winding his arms around Harry's neck to drag him in, humming in approval when Harry snogs him so hard that it's on the knife's edge of being painful. Harry pins him to the wall, holding him hard enough to bruise, groaning in both frustration and pleasure as he makes it very clear just how skilled Draco is at riling him up in every single way available, even after all these years.
This is the thrill of hating the person you love, and not hating them at all. Draco never wants to upset Harry, yet he has perfected the best way to do exactly that and thrives on it. Just the same, Harry has the same exact knack, though he hasn't done it in so long. Draco wonders if there's any possible way that he can convince Harry to be mean to him.
Probably.
For now, he is being snogged stupid in an empty corridor at Hogwarts, a thing they haven't done in years. It is both ridiculous and thrilling, and Draco lets himself arch into it, squirming in delight, asking for more without ever saying a word.
Harry breaks away with a gasp to choke out, "You're such a fucking terrible, vile, evil person. I hate you so much. So much, Draco."
"Yes, yes, I know," Draco pants, threading his fingers into Harry's hair and yanking. "I'm well aware. Come on, snog me again."
"You prat," Harry groans, then proceeds to do exactly as he's told.
They're still snogging and drifting into dangerous territory when there's a loud mewl from down the hall, and it's a sound that instantly causes a knee-jerk response of panic. They jerk apart like they're not fully grown men, eyes wide. Draco is already plotting how the fuck he's going to make it back to his Common Room without being caught by Filch before he remembers where, who, and when he is. Harry seems to be experiencing the same thing.
"Just to be clear," Draco says hastily, "I'm completely and irreparably in love with you, and if you ever try and give me my ring back, I will sew it to your cock."
Harry blinks. "That might be the most romantic threat I've ever heard."
"That wasn't a threat, Harry, that was a promise."
"Oh. Well, yeah, fair enough. You know, I didn't believe you for a second."
"Sure," Draco says mildly. "Now, can we go home so I can fuck all those silly little doubts out of your head?"
"Please," Harry says with a sheepish smile.
Vellevita is going into her Third Year when Ronan and Teddy enter their First. It's a crowded platform that year, and Vellevita is about the only one out of the combined family that's calm.
"What if they kick me out?" Ronan whines, hanging off Blaise's arm, staring up at him with wide eyes. He has grown quite a bit since he was six, but he's still as rambunctious as ever. Blaise spoils him.
"They're not going to kick you out, honey-pug," Pansy assures him, smoothing a hand over his perfectly done hair.
"Vellevitaaaa," Ronan groans, flapping a hand towards her dramatically—he gets that from Pansy, without a doubt. "You won't let them kick me out, will you? If they do, you'll follow, won't you?"
"No," Vellevita says flatly. "Why would I?"
Ronan practically flops over onto Teddy, all but ripping him away from his spot between Dora and Remus. "She's no use. Where's her loyalty, huh? You'll go with me, won't you, Teddy?"
"Of course," Teddy agrees, his hair changing colors in rapid succession to show just how utterly nervous he is at the moment. His loyalty is not that surprising, seeing as him and Ronan get along very well and consider each other best mates. "If they won't have you, then they can't have me."
"Stupid," Vellevita mutters, rolling her eyes—she has been doing that with increasing frequency since she turned thirteen.
Ronan wrinkles his nose at her. "As if you wouldn't do the same thing for Faron!"
"I'm going to marry him one day, so I would be expected to," Vellevita replies without an ounce of hesitation. "That makes sense. What, are you going to marry Teddy?"
"If I want to!" Ronan shoots back, possibly to just be argumentative.
Teddy frowns. "But I don't want to marry you."
"You don't?" Ronan turns to stare at him, both offended and hurt. "Why not? I'm a delight! Mother and Father say so!"
Draco tries very hard not to laugh, turning his head to press his face against Harry's shoulder. Pansy clicks her tongue and reaches out to pet Ronan's hair again, soothing his ruffled feathers. He's possibly one of the most spoiled boys in the world, honestly. Remus and Dora look like they're trying not to laugh at their own son's gentle rejection.
"I don't fancy boys," Teddy says simply.
Ronan huffs. "I don't either, but… Well, you don't fancy boys yet."
Teddy frowns harder. "I'm not sure if—"
"We're still too young for all of that," Ronan says easily, waving a hand carelessly and brushing the issue aside. He falters a second later and shoots a glance at Vellevita. "We are too young to know, right? How did you know you fancied boys?"
"I don't fancy anyone," Vellevita says.
"But you're going to marry Faron," Ronan tells her slowly, visibly confused.
Vellevita nods. "Correct."
"So, you—"
"Alright, that's enough of this discussion," Draco cuts in quickly, reaching out to tweak Ronan's nose just to hear him huff. "Stop fretting about everything, alright? Just enjoy your First Year. And you, Vellevita, you'll stay out of trouble, yes?"
"Perhaps, Father," Vellevita replies with that ridiculously mysterious air about her, as if she has any right to be like this at thirteen.
"We'd appreciate it if you'd look out for these two, if you're able," Remus tells her cordially, nodding towards Teddy and Ronan.
Vellevita side-eyes the others with slight disdain, but she hates Remus less than most people, so she doesn't automatically say no. Instead, she offers, "I will consider it."
The shrill whistle of the train steals everyone's attention, and the next ten minutes pass in a flurry of rushing children and fretting parents and hugs exchanged. Vellevita still hugs them, despite being at that age where most children get embarrassed about receiving affection from their parents. She's tall enough now that they don't have to crouch down in front of her, and her hugs are no longer stiff or uncertain the way they used to be.
"Be good this year," Harry tells her, running his fingers down her neat braid, playing with it idly as he speaks to her. "Promise me."
"It's counterproductive to make promises that you're aware that could be broken and likely will be," she informs him as she pulls away, her face twitching only a little through a Real Emotion.
Harry gives her a wry smile. "You know, I wish someone would have told me that when I was a teenager. You have no idea how many promises I made that I ended up breaking, or nearly breaking."
"Unfortunate," Vellevita says.
"Tell me about it," Draco deadpans, smirking and ignoring Harry's light huff. "Behave, be nice, and we'll see you at Christmas, alright?"
"Alright."
"We love you," Harry tells her.
"We do," Draco agrees.
Vellevita's face twitches again, and without a word to either of them, she turns around and walks away. They watch her go with smiles, fond and adoring.
"Oh, Ronan's a Gryffindor," Harry murmurs, fiddling with Vellevita's letter.
Draco hums and looks up from his file—paperwork for St. Mungos has always been relaxing, no matter how his co-workers complain about it. "Yes, that doesn't surprise me. I knew he would be. I wonder how Pansy and Blaise are taking the news."
"As if that child could do any wrong in their eyes. He's their angel," Harry says, snorting.
"Shall I have them over for supper?" Draco asks.
Harry hums distractedly. "Yes, I should think so. Invite Hermione, Ron, and Daphne as well, yeah?"
"Shall I reach out to Theo and Astoria, too?" Draco mutters sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
"Yeah, do that," Harry murmurs, completely oblivious to Draco's sardonic tone. "Actually, just invite everyone over. It's been ages."
"We all have a meal together every month, and that's not even including Pub Night!"
"Mhm, whatever you say. Oh! Teddy…"
Draco's eyebrows shoot up. "What about him? I was thinking Hufflepuff, like Dora."
"Takes after his dad, it seems," Harry corrects in amusement, lips twitching. "Gryffindor. Well, at least he and Ronan have each other."
"That's nice," Draco allows.
Harry nods and waves him off. "Just lovely. Now, go on. Get everyone over while I start cooking."
"Shag me first," Draco drawls.
"Not in the mood," Harry says.
Draco shrugs. "Fair enough. Also, I'm getting absolutely plastered with Pansy tonight, so go ahead and locate all the wine in the flat. I've hidden some that I stole from Theo in the top of our closet. Do you think he'll notice?"
"Not sure," Harry muses, grinning at him, "but it'll be fun to find out. I'll grab it."
"You're a treasure," Draco tells him, rolling over lazily to press a quick kiss to his lips, then rolling away to slip from the bed.
"And don't you forget it," Harry calls after him.
Draco snorts and mutters to himself, "Haven't worked out how to after all these years, so I doubt I ever will," and then continues on his way.
It's during February of Vellevita's Third Year when Ron nearly murders his mum.
In all honesty, Mrs. Weasley has never quite settled into the idea of Ron having two wives. She doesn't particularly understand how the trio works. Whenever they all get together for Christmas, she's always watching the three of them like they're a puzzle she can't ever solve. It baffles her, but even so, she has long since realized that her derisive comments and sometimes rude observations will not go unchecked by both Hermione and Daphne, and they're two forces that no one smart actually wants to go against, really.
It's always vindictively interesting to watch Mrs. Weasley be outmatched by Hermione and Daphne. It's amusing. Daphne takes the 'kill-her-with-kindness' route, always being sweet and polite and letting Mrs. Weasley's disdain towards her dissolve without ever touching her. Hermione, however, has always been fierce and surprisingly quick to anger, and she has no qualms about knocking Ron's mother down a peg or two, usually with harsh facts that everyone knows better than to argue.
Ron, in contrast, has always been a bit cowed by his mother. He stands up to her, sure, but never quite in a permanent way. It's like he's resigned himself to having a disapproving mother for life, and by the accounts of the Weasley Twins and Ginny, it's something they're all a little used to.
The thing is, Mrs. Weasley means well. Draco knows that she does. She wants her children to be happy and successful and good, which has led to her unwittingly creating standards in her head that she believes has to be met for those things to happen. It's not that much different than Lucius, though his intentions were far from good.
Draco doesn't always enjoy going to the Burrow, but Harry does, so he never says a word about it. And, well, it's not so bad. Draco doesn't have a high opinion of Percy whenever he opts to show his face, and Bill and Charlie don't often come around. It would make Draco wonder if that had to do with Mrs. Weasley as well, except he doesn't care.
In any case, Fred, Ginny, and George usually make things bearable. They're a cunning little trio, generally causing chaos and disrupting any tension that might be in the air between anyone.
However, he's not so sure that any antics from anyone will be able to save the day this time.
Upon Ron's request, the Burrow is absolutely flooded with people on a seemingly normal Saturday evening in February. Every single Weasley is present, drowning Draco in a sea of red that makes his just a bit nauseous, even to this day. Most of the significant others are here as well—Luna, Draco, Fleur, Penelope, Hermione, and Daphne. Harry, of course, is an honorary Weasley at this point, having more family than he knows what to do with.
Everything is fine. For an evening with all the Weasleys, in any case. It's all very loud and chaotic and mildly terrible, and Draco still hasn't quite gotten used to it after all these years, but it's not completely abnormal. It's all going as he would expect for such a situation.
Until it isn't.
In the middle of dinner, the magically elongated table is packed with so much noise that everyone is practically shouting over each other. That's why the sudden, stark silence following Ron beating his hand down on the table until everyone shuts up seems to ring in Draco's ears.
"Sorry 'bout that," Ron says gruffly, clearing his throat as all eyes turn to him. He visibly swallows, his ears turning pink. "Er, I—we thought it best to tell all the family at once, that's all. We have an announcement to make."
There's a long beat of silence.
Ginny breaks it by gasping. "Oh, Merlin! Which one is it? I'm going to be an Aunt! Again!"
"What?!" Mrs. Weasley blurts out, her eyes bulging as she flicks her gaze between Hermione and Daphne—switching between hope and despair in regular intervals.
Ron turns steadily more red, but he sets his shoulders and sits up taller. "Yeah, that's true. Er, surprise? We're pregnant."
Weasley Twin One snorts. "Well, you can't be pregnant, Ron. Unless, don't tell me. Is my life a lie? Is our sweet Ickle Ronnikins actually a—"
"Shut up, Fred," Hermione cuts him off, rolling her eyes at him.
"I'm not Fred!" Weasley Twin One exclaims, reaching up to touch the spot his ear no longer is, not covered by his hair. "I'm George!"
"No, Freddie, I'm George," Weasley Twin Two argues. "It's my turn to have the ear."
"George is the one who lost it!" Weasley Twin One practically shouts, grinning.
Weasley Twin Two shakes his head. "He's having everyone on, really. It's Fred who lost his ear, not me. Except, well, maybe not? No, it must have been Gred, I think. It's just been so long."
"Terrible memory you have, Forge," Weasley Twin One says with a mock-sigh.
"Terrible," Weasley Twin Two agrees, smirking.
"Boys!" Mrs. Weasley shouts, careful not to name any names, seeing as she actually has no idea which is which at this point. "Now isn't the time! Ron, dear, you say that—that—"
She doesn't seem able to continue, so Ginny takes over with a grin. "Well, go on, Ron! Which one is it? Which one did you get pregnant?"
"Ah, well, you see...about that…" Ron tugs at his collar, his face so red that it matches his hair now. He stares down at the table, embarrassed. "It's a bit of a rare occurrence, really. They said it was really unlikely to happen, but...well, you know. We didn't actually mean to, o'course. You don't really plan for something like this. Not that we're not pleased. We all are, really. I just—I mean—"
"We both are," Hermione cuts in calmly, gesturing between herself and Daphne matter-of-factly. "We both are pregnant down to the exact...day."
Draco blinks. He's a Healer, so it takes him a little less time than everyone else to understand what she's delicately saying. It's far more than what he would like to know about their sex life, really. It seems Ron got Hermione and Daphne pregnant on the same day, likely all at once.
For a bit, Draco ponders the mechanics of three-way shagging, then grimaces and firmly shoves those thoughts away. It's not something he wants to think about in regards to Hermione, Ron, and Daphne.
But, well, good for them.
Once everyone else gets it, though, chaos takes over. The Weasley Twins wolf-whistle, Ginny cackles like this is the best day of her life, Harry is beaming so brightly that he rivals the sun, and everyone else is either smiling, laughing, or offering congratulations.
Well, almost everyone.
Luna says, "That's absolutely lovely. I'm so happy for all of you. It's like having twins!"
And then, sharp and harsh, Mrs. Weasley says, "No, it's nothing like having twins, and I should know! What it is, in fact, is getting two women pregnant, which is just—just—"
"Molly," Mr. Weasley snaps in the sudden silence.
"No!" Mrs. Weasley is staring at Ron in a mixture of fury and horror. "No, I've held my tongue on this matter for far too long, Arthur. It no longer just affects Ron! There are children involved now! How can this be right if—"
"Mum," Ginny cuts in wearily.
Mrs. Weasley glares at her harsh enough that she actually shuts up and ducks her head, then she fixes that same look on Ron. "I do not know what has possessed you to think that this is okay, Ronald Weasley! Have you even thought this through? Have you considered how difficult this will be for your children? Coming from different mothers? What will you tell them when they—"
"Enough!" Ron bellows, slamming his hand down on the table as he stands. It is so abrupt and so harsh that it's like a clap of thunder, and in a way, it is equally terrifying. "That is enough, Mum. I don't care if you understand it! I love them, they love me, they love each other, and we will all love our children. They won't have two separate mothers; they'll have two altogether! Our children will be loved completely, and they'll grow up happy, and I will not let you stand in the way of that."
Mrs. Weasley—much like her son—turns as red as her hair, eyes flashing. "I am your mother, and I won't stand for you to speak to me like that!"
He stares her down, solid and steady, not blushing and not cowed. "I'm speaking to you how I should have a long time ago. You will not speak another word against Daphne or Hermione. I'm married to them, and they're married to each other, and that's not going to change. If you can't accept that this is how things are, that we're happy this way, then I'll just as surely make sure your grandchildren grow up knowing only two grandmothers—my wives' mothers, in particular."
"Ron!" Mrs. Weasley bursts out, aghast.
"I mean it, Mum," Ron says firmly. "I don't care how you feel about it. You can be polite and respectful, I know you can, and you will if you want to meet your grandchildren. I won't risk them growing up hearing the rubbish you say. So, tread carefully if you must, because the first time you muck it up, I'll go and take them with me and that will be that."
"Ron," Daphne says gently, reaching out to touch his arm, looking up at him with tender sadness.
Ron shakes his head jerkily. "We've braved it for too long, and we won't do it anymore. None of us."
"He's right," Hermione agrees, standing up and pulling Daphne with her, tilting her chin up proudly. She is steady and calm, but her anger is bright in her eyes. "I've known you a long time, Mrs. Weasley. I love your son, and I love Daphne. The child that grows in her is just as much mine as the one growing in me. You're right, there are children involved now, and so we won't stand for the way you speak about us any longer. Just as Ron said, I can't simply stand by while you insult our wife or our family that we're all creating together."
This time, it is Mrs. Weasley who looks cowed.
The silence rings on and on, surrounding them all in a thick tension that Draco would very much like to escape. Harry grabs his hand, squeezing it, holding on tight with his own stress.
See? Draco wants to joke. Parents are not all that they're made out to be. Truly, you dodged a Curse.
He does not make that joke because it is tasteless and would not go over well at the moment, but it does make him have to bite his lip hard to hold in the hysterical laugh that crawls up his throat. Seeing Mrs. Weasley—formidable, fretting, kind, and well-intended Mrs. Weasley—be put in her place so sternly is such a shock that Draco feels like it might be a dream. She really does mean well, which is why it's so hard to imagine that she could get it so wrong.
Finally, the silence is broken when Mrs. Weasley abruptly bursts into tears and scrambles from her chair to flee the room. Everyone watches her go in various states of sadness, surprise, or exasperation. Luna takes a bite of dinner, humming in approval.
"I'm not apologizing," Ron tells his dad.
Mr. Weasley heaves a sigh and waves him off as he stands. "You have nothing to apologize for, Ron. Give her time. She's—she'll come around. You know how she is. Though, really, you could have been just a touch more respectful. She is your mother."
"I really couldn't," Ron mutters.
"Yes, well…" Mr. Weasley shakes his head and turns to look at Daphne. "Really, I hope you know that we are happy for all of you. Congratulations, truly. Take it from Molly and I, children are the greatest gift this world can give you. Or, that's always the way it felt for us. Excuse me."
With that, he sweeps off to, presumably, go tend to his wife. Ron looks mildly chagrined, but not by much. He's still very firm.
"Blimey, Ron," Weasley Twin One murmurs in awe, staring up at him, "that was wicked!"
"Didn't know you had it in you," Weasley Twin Two agrees, equally amazed.
"Only I've ever managed to to stand up to her like that," Ginny muses. "Good on you, Ron."
"You completely just broke her heart, you know," Percy says with a prim, disapproving sniff.
"Piss off, Percy," Bill says. "Let the man stand up for his family! Honestly."
"As he should," Charlie agrees. "Though, Dad really does have a way of making you feel guilty for everything you've ever done wrong, doesn't he?"
"Dads are very good at that," Luna agrees.
Draco snorts.
"Should we go?" Daphne asks quietly, watching Ron and Hermione with hesitation. "I wouldn't want to be an imposition after—after that."
"I…" Hermione rarely looks unsure, but she does now. She focuses on Ron. "Should we?"
"I dunno," Ron admits. "Maybe? Er, Bill?"
Bill, being the oldest, makes the decision for them all. "It might be best if we all go, at this point. Give them their privacy, I mean. We could—yes, Luna?"
"Harry and Draco have the biggest flat," Luna says, after lowering her hand. "We'll just go there! Harry can cook. He loves to cook."
"Oh, that's true," Hermione agrees idly.
"Brilliant," Ron chirps, looking relieved at the idea of getting out while he can. "The others will just pop on over, but I'll lead the ones not in the wards through the floo. Open it for us, yeah?"
"Of course," Daphne agrees.
There's a lot of bustling as everyone starts moving about, trying to clean up and get out as quickly as they can. Draco stays sitting with Harry, slightly bemused at the people just inviting themselves over to his flat. His home cannot become the new hub for this mass of redheads. He'll be ill all night.
"I have no idea when our home became the safe space for everyone," Harry murmurs, "but I really don't mind. Do you?"
"As long as they're all out the door before ten, I really can't complain," Draco mutters, rolling his eyes. Harry looks stupidly pleased. "Oh, I thought of a terrible, horrible joke earlier. Do you want to hear it? You'll think it's cruel."
"Does it in any way pertain to the misgivings of parents?" Harry asks knowingly.
Draco bats his eyelashes. "You know me so well."
"Save it, you prat," Harry says with a laugh, lightly smacking him on the shoulder. "You can be mean when the rest of our friends are gone. For now, be nice. Ron, Hermione, and Daphne are going to have babies! This is something to celebrate."
"If you say so," Draco says dubiously.
Harry rolls his eyes. "Aren't you happy for them?"
"Immensely," Draco replies flatly, sarcastically.
But, in truth, he really is.
Vellevita's Fourth Year at Hogwarts is very eventful. She apparently comes into her troublesome streak with full heart, gathering detentions like they're something to collect. She gets in trouble for sneaking into the Restricted Section of the Library. She gets kicked out of class by Binns for upsetting the ghost with corrections for his own lessons. She makes a Second Year cry.
Her worst offense, however, comes in mid-June. It's so bad that Harry and Draco are called to the school again, but this time, they're not the only ones.
Along with Vellevita, Faron and his parents are also grouped up in Dumbledore's office, as well as a Gryffindor boy with his parents—two fathers, it seems, by the looks of it. Draco smiles tightly at Shirley and Jim—Faron's parents, who Harry and Draco speak to regularly at Platform 9¾ when seeing Vellevita off and picking her up. Their children are friends, so they've become somewhat friendly over the last four years as well. The other student and parents, Draco does not recognize.
"What seems to be the problem, Headmaster?" Shirley asks, putting her hand on her son's shoulder. Her surprise is palpable.
That's fair, really. Faron is possibly the most mild-mannered boy Draco has ever met. He is quiet, unobtrusive, and very shy. He doesn't have much to say when he does speak, and despite his void-white hair, he often goes unnoticed. He's very clumsy, almost like Neville at this age, made up of polite awkwardness that most people tease him for.
Draco has absolutely no idea why Vellevita tolerates him, but he doesn't question it. She doesn't talk about Faron very much, outside of stating that she's going to marry him, and Draco tries to avoid that as much as possible. Maybe she'll grow out of it.
"Ah, well, there was an altercation involving these three," Dumbledore says, gesturing between the three children. "It has been ongoing throughout the year. They've all been punished for it by various Professors. I had hoped that things would not escalate, but I...stand corrected."
"Potter," the man who stands behind his Gryffindor son says tightly, "your daughter—"
"Excuse me," Draco cuts in coldly, not at all liking his tone, "who are you? Harry, do you know him?"
Harry clears his throat. "Draco, that's—that's, er, Flint. Marcus Flint, right? Your old Quidditch captain. Don't you remember him?"
Draco blinks, then squints. "Is it, really?"
"Yes," Flint snaps. "Nice to see you too, Malfoy."
"Not quite," Draco drawls.
"Well, it's good to see you, Harry," the man standing next to Flint says, and he's smiling warmly as he does. He reaches out for a handshake that Harry readily returns, huffing a quiet laugh. "I can't believe you married Malfoy."
"You know," Harry says, amused, "sometimes I can't either. Funny, how life works out."
Draco narrows his eyes. "And this one? Am I supposed to know who this is?"
"Oliver Wood," Harry tells him, lips twitching. "He was my Quidditch captain. Mighty coincidental, isn't it? You're one to talk, you know. I can't believe you married Flint."
"Life's full of surprises," Wood says, eyes sparkling with humor, completely unbothered by the scoff Flint gives.
Harry grins. "Tell me about it, mate."
"Well, isn't this lovely?" Jim chirps. "It looks a bit like a school reunion. It's unfortunate that our children are fighting. Faron, care to explain?"
"Faron didn't do anything wrong," Vellevita speaks up as Faron ducks his head.
"Are you joking?!" The Gryffindor boy whips around with a scowl, pointing a finger harshly towards Faron. "That air-for-brains snapped my sodding wand, and you're saying he did nothing wrong?!"
"Don't call him that," Vellevita says. "And it wasn't a very good wand anyway."
"Vellevita," Harry scolds lightly.
"What? It's not," Vellevita insists, rolling her eyes as she cocks her hip and remains unapologetic. "The core is Kneazle Whisker, and it's made of Poplar. The flexibility was a joke, too."
"It's—I—I didn't mean to," Faron whispers, shuffling a little in place. He grimaces. "I didn't know that Vellevita had disarmed him, and so when I tripped, it just—it snapped. I'm sorry."
"You disarmed him?" Draco asks, arching an eyebrow down at his daughter.
Vellevita's face remains impassive and blank, even as she plainly says, "He was going to hex Faron, so yes, I disarmed him. If he hadn't been trying to fight him, he would have never lost his wand, and it would have never snapped. He brought it on himself. No, I won't apologize, and neither will Faron."
The Gryffindor boy, for some reason, looks extremely stricken in response to her words, rather than outright angry. Wood and Flint, however, wear matching expressions of annoyance.
"Just like Potter," Flint spits. "Arrogant—"
"Like Harry?" Wood argues. "No, that has Malfoy all over it. Prideful, pompous, and—"
"Ahem," Shirley interrupts, raising her eyebrows at Flint and Wood pointedly. "Let's not get carried away whilst insulting literal children, gentlemen."
Wood has the good grace to look sheepish. Predictably, Flint does not.
"It's alright, Mrs. Spencer," Vellevita says softly, turning to look at her with a tiny smile and just a touch of tears to her eyes. A wonderful actress, this one. "I'm used to being treated unfairly because of who my parents are. You and Mr. Spencer never have, and for that I'm grateful. Please don't be angry with Faron. He was only trying to help me, you see. This is all Flint-Wood's fault."
"Me?!" the boy blurts out. "You—you—"
"Ivan," Flint cuts in sharply, "tell us what happened. You said that Hufflepuff snapped your wand, but he says he only tripped on it after you'd been disarmed by Potter's br—daughter."
The boy—Ivan—snaps his mouth shut, turning red and glancing down at his feet.
"Ivan," Wood says, raising his eyebrows.
"Vellevita," Faron whispers, throwing her a panicked look, "I'm really sorry. I should have told you, but I—I—"
"I was only trying to ask you out to Hogsmeade!" Ivan bursts out, blushing furiously but determinedly looking right at Vellevita. "I've been trying to all bloody year, but Faron has blocked my every attempt in some way or another! I finally just asked him if he'd help, and he said he'd tell you, but I found out that he hadn't told you at all!"
Draco grimaces, resisting the urge to grab Vellevita and tuck her out of sight of Ivan. No. Absolutely not. She can't go on dates. Ever. He won't allow it.
"Ah," Harry says, like they've found the solution and not the problem. Draco begs to differ. This is a huge problem. Boys are going to notice Vellevita now. There are hormones approaching, and Draco isn't ready for it at all. Harry, however, just looks faintly amused. "So, I take it that you all haven't been fighting all year?"
"No, sir," Ivan mutters. "I was just...you know…"
"Trying to ask my daughter out to Hogsmeade," Draco grits out, grinding his teeth.
"And he was making that perpetually difficult!" Ivan snaps, gesturing to Faron. "We all kept getting into trouble because he stopped me every time!"
"Why are you trying to ask me to go to Hogsmeade with you?" Vellevita asks. "You always go with your friends. I always go with Faron."
Ivan blushes harder, and Draco wants to hex him. He doesn't, even when Ivan mumbles, "For—well, you know, like a date, Vellevita."
"A date," Vellevita replies with absolutely no inflection in her tone. She blinks, then looks over at Faron. "You stopped him?"
"I never meant to, I swear!" Faron blurts out, louder than he ever has been, his eyes wide. "I just—it was an accident every time, I promise it was."
"But you knew and didn't tell me," Vellevita states plainly, arching an eyebrow at him. Faron won't meet her eyes. "We don't keep secrets from each other, Faron. Or I thought we didn't."
Ivan looks like Christmas has come early. Faron looks like he wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Vellevita shows no emotion.
"M'sorry," Faron mumbles, "really. I just—I don't know. I didn't want you to go. You're my friend, and we always go together. It was selfish of me. I really am sorry, Vellevita."
Vellevita tilts her head, her version of being genuinely confused. "What are you talking about? I wouldn't go with him, even if you did tell me."
"You wouldn't?" Faron asks, head snapping up.
"You wouldn't?" Ivan echoes mournfully.
"No," Vellevita says bluntly. "Why would I? Actually, why did you want to take me on a date anyway?"
Ivan stares at her incredulously. "Vellevita, you're the smartest girl in our year! Everyone likes you. Everyone wants to be your friend! Everyone thinks you're pretty and mysterious and—" He stops, looking shocked. "You know this, don't you? Please tell me you're aware how popular you are?!"
"I never actually cared to notice," Vellevita admits. She eyes him in consideration. "Interesting."
"So...you don't want to go to Hogsmeade with me?" Ivan asks, frowning.
Vellevita doesn't even bat an eye. "Oh, no, definitely not. I don't like you."
Multiple people in the room wince in sympathy. Draco has to work very hard not to smirk. Yes, good. People can like Vellevita from afar. Very, very far away from his daughter, preferably. She's fourteen, focused on her studies, and often ignorant to any sort of feelings that others have, as well as her own. She doesn't need to date people, or come into her hormones, or grow up. Draco will avoid all of that for as long as he can.
"Oh," Ivan says, openly dejected.
"I'm angry with you," Vellevita tells Faron, holding his gaze. "We're not meant to keep secrets from each other. We agreed."
Faron looks like he might cry. "I know, I know, I'm really sorry. Vellevita, I'm—"
Vellevita turns away from him entirely, ignoring him, pretending as if he doesn't even exist. It's possibly one of the most petty things Draco has ever seen her do, especially in regards to Faron. At that, Draco can't help but wince a little.
No, he doesn't enjoy Vellevita saying anything about marriage with Faron, but in truth, he's never really put much stock into it. Vellevita just doesn't seem like the type for attraction or love or romance. He never really worries about that when it comes to Faron especially, because he's a nice boy and Vellevita's only close friend. Besides, despite the marriage Vellevita has claimed since she was eleven, Draco doubts that will actually come to fruition.
"Well," Harry says weakly, "at least they weren't fighting. Er, we will pay for Ivan's new wand, though. No harm done."
"Just some broken hearts, it seems," Jim murmurs, inclining his head towards Ivan.
"Such is life," Wood declares, patting his son's shoulder with a sigh. "Could be worse."
And, well, that's true.
It's not very often that Draco is alone with all the children. To be fair, there are a lot of them.
Vellevita and Ronan, of course, as well as Teddy. But, now, there's also Hugo and Rose—the not-twins born on Halloween that look very different and act too much alike—as well as Theo and Astoria's daughter, Adeline. They all vary in ages, with Vellevita being the oldest, but they are all close because their parents are.
From the other room, Draco can make out the sounds of their guests. Greg fretting over Katherine, who is so pregnant she can't see her feet. The Weasley Twins cackling loudly as they tease Pansy about something. Luna dreamily speaking with her fiance—Ginny had proposed only a month ago and hasn't stopped grinning since. Hermione talking to Blaise, Ron and Harry joking with each other, Theo and Astoria murmuring to Daphne.
The flat is full, nearly bursting. It often is, really. Gathering at Harry and Draco's has become the new normal now that it's not so easy to go out, seeing as there are more children involved and marriages on the horizon. It's not so bad, usually, and Draco honestly doesn't mind checking on the children that always gather in Vellevita's room, no matter how much she protests it.
For a bit, Draco leans in the doorway and watches them all. Hugo and Rose have only just started walking around everywhere, so it's up to the eldest children—Vellevita, Teddy, and Ronan—to keep them from getting into any trouble. Adeline is still crawling, and she's content to bounce around on Vellevita's bed, nearly falling off if not for Ronan hastily reaching out to snag her ankle and drag her back. The youngest three want to be around the older three, absolutely enamored with them, and the older three, of course, despise this.
Vellevita does not like children. She thinks they're stupid, even being fifteen years old and close to starting her Fifth Year at Hogwarts. Ronan and Teddy, on the other hand, are going into their Third Year and have far more patience, even if they're blatantly annoyed at being bothered by babies.
In truth, Draco can see how much the older three care for the younger three.
"Vita, Vita, Vita!" Rose shouts happily, toddling towards Vellevita at a rapid pace, nearly falling over when she collides into Vellevita's legs. She beams up at her, raising her arms, bouncing in place. "Up!"
"No," Vellevita says, then turns back to her book, even as she hooks her foot around Adeline's middle and gently pushes her back from the edge of the bed before she can fall on her head.
"Up!" Rose demands again, louder this time.
Vellevita sighs and holds out her hand, swinging Rose up on the bed and returning to her book without a word. She ignores it when Rose squirms up to her side, trying to look at the book, even though she won't be able to read it.
"Velle!" Hugo cries from the other side of the bed, making little fists and pounding them against Ronan's head. Ronan grimaces, but he takes it with grace. "Velle, read! Read, read, read!"
"No," Vellevita says.
"Velle!" Hugo shouts.
"Vita!" Rose finishes.
Vellevita lets her head fall back against the headboard, heaving a deep sigh. Without a word, she snaps her book shut and offers it to Teddy. "You do it. Maybe it'll shut them up."
"Merlin, when will dinner be ready?" Ronan groans, trying to peel Hugo's hands out of his hair.
"I think Uncle Ron is helping Dad," Vellevita murmurs as Teddy takes her book. "Maybe another hour? We still have time to kill them, you know."
"Vellevita," Teddy says, "you can be really scary sometimes, did you know that?"
"I'm only saying the option is there," Vellevita tells him calmly. "If you don't have the stomach for it, I'd be more than happy to handle it."
Ronan snorts. "Oh, please, as if you're ever happy. You've been especially sad this summer. Don't think I haven't noticed."
Draco jolts a little in the doorway, turning a shrewd gaze towards Vellevita. Has she? He hasn't noticed anything such as that. She seems as she always seems. She's… Well, she's Vellevita.
He doesn't like the idea that Ronan has noticed something that he missed. Has she been sad? Sure, she's spent a lot of time in her room this summer, but she's also fifteen. He remembers being fifteen. He knows what it's like. Vellevita has always been incredibly mature for her age, and that hadn't changed as she got older. If she wants to indulge in spending time in her own space, he won't begrudge her of that, especially when she seems fine.
And she does. She hasn't seemed upset at all. She still hugs them in parting and greeting. She still reads like she can live off literature, still studies wands and paints when the mood strikes, still argues about things she wants to and struggles with Real Emotions at times. Sad? No, not that.
Draco would have noticed. Wouldn't he?
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Vellevita tells Ronan, closing her eyes like she can block out his stupidity if she doesn't look at him.
"I always know when you're sad," Ronan tells her, sharing a look with Teddy. He lowers his voice, sounding serious. "You were the same way in the orphanage. You haven't been honestly sad since. Do you know how I know?"
Vellevita doesn't even answer him.
"You're not as mean when you're sad," Ronan says, and now he sounds slightly concerned. "Whatever it is, I'm sure it's fine. You can tell me, if you want."
"There's nothing to tell," Vellevita murmurs, then opens her eyes to stare at Teddy. "Read."
Teddy does.
Draco frowns, taking a moment longer to consider Ronan's words. It makes more sense than he likes it to. He's never actually seen Vellevita be sad. Angry, yes. Happy, yes. Passionate, furious, amused, rude, unforgiving, suspicious… So many things. Upset, even. But sad? Genuinely, sincerely sad? No.
And Draco realizes that Ronan is right. Vellevita has been less...mean. Even before, she gave into the younger children fairly quick, when she usually doesn't. She didn't even snap at Ronan for getting into her business. She hasn't said one rude thing to any of them, threatening to murder children notwithstanding. Truthfully, all summer, she has been rather mild in that regard.
Draco had just assumed that she was growing out of her blunt, harsh, sharpness. He hadn't considered that she might be sad. That all over her cutting words and painful observations she has never cared to hold back before has fled her because she might be too upset to simply be herself. The thought makes his chest ache. He hates it.
He tucks the knowledge away for later.
Later comes much later, as later implies. He's impatient anyway, ushering their friends out of his flat much quicker than he usually would. Harry keeps shooting him curious looks, but Draco ignores him. By the time everyone is gone, Vellevita has managed to sneak off to her room.
Before, he wouldn't have thought twice about it. He would have assumed that she was fine and just wanted to be alone. Now? He's worried. Very much so. If she's sad about something, he wants to help.
"What's wrong?" Harry asks the moment that they're alone, picking up on his mood easily.
Draco blows out a deep breath. "I think Vellevita is sad about something. I think she has been sad all summer. When I went to check on the kids, I overheard Ronan saying that he knew she was sad because he remembers what that was like back in the orphanage. Apparently, she hasn't been sad since, until now."
"Really?" Harry frowns, look confused. "She doesn't seem sad. Are you sure?"
"Ronan said she's not as mean when she's sad, and honestly, she's been borderline polite this summer. It's not like her, is it?"
"Well...no, not really. Alright, you may have a point, but what on earth is she sad about? Could it be her menstrual? I know you handled that, but you did say it could possibly affect her mood."
Draco resists the urge to roll his eyes. He had, in fact, handled the whole ordeal of Vellevita getting her menstrual. He's a Healer, so he knows all about it. Harry, being a man who has never really been with a woman, only knew what information he got from his female friends, which wasn't much. He'd been horrified to find out how truly painful it can be between the cramps and such, and he'd doted on Vellevita even more than usual for the entirety of her first menstrual cycle, only to promise never to do it again when Vellevita flatly told him to stop.
Like most things, however, Harry took it in stride and tried to help where he could. He ended up making a bigger deal out of it that Vellevita had, and Draco has never quite let him live it down. Still, Harry has trusted Draco's knowledge on it wholeheartedly, so he's not entirely misguided to ask if it's her menstrual this time.
Except for one thing.
"Harry, you idiot, she hasn't been dealing with it all summer," Draco says, shaking his head. "She could just be sad for the sake of being sad, you nitwit. Or maybe something happened. Either way, not everything has to do with her menstrual."
"I didn't say it did," Harry mumbles, abashed. "Don't be a twit, Draco. I just—I would rather her be sad because of that than because something has happened. Does that make sense?"
Draco softens. "It does. There's only one way to find out, though. We have to talk to her."
Harry squares his shoulders, and then they go.
When they knock on her door, she calls them in after only a brief pause. They don't immediately walk in, hanging in the doorway, leaning into each other as they watch her.
Vellevita is at her desk, crumbled pieces of parchment all over the surface and in small piles on the floor. Her quill is snapped in two. She has her fingers in her hair, almost as if she's been running her hands through it and got distracted halfway through. She glances over at them, blank-faced.
"Alright?" Harry asks tentatively. "Looks like you're working on something."
"I am," Vellevita replies, not clarifying which of his sentences she's responding to.
"What is it?" Draco murmurs.
Vellevita glances back at the blank parchment in front of her, face twisting into a scowl, then she wipes her face clean and looks at them. "Nothing. It's absolutely nothing. I can't—it doesn't matter."
Draco's eyebrows shoot up without his permission. He doesn't think he has ever seen her this discomposed. She looks angry about it, certainly, but it's still there. She's upset. Visibly so.
"We could help," Harry offers.
"We can," Draco agrees. "What are you trying to do? Is it wand lore again? If you'd like, I can reach out to Ollivander for you. I'm sure he'd love to help."
"No, it's not...that." Vellevita's lips twist. She leans back in her chair and sighs, craning her head to look at them. "I'm trying to write Faron."
Ah.
Well, that explains it. Really, that's all he needs to know about this whole situation. Vellevita has been at odds with Faron ever since the incident last year. From what Draco heard, Vellevita had ignored him for the remainder of the year, and she hasn't said one word about him since. Anytime someone brought him up around her, she simply got up and left the room entirely.
Admittedly, Draco had just assumed that Vellevita had stopped caring. Usually, when someone lies to her, or breaks her trust in any way, she treats them like a complete stranger. She won't have anything to do with them and doesn't hide her disdain for them. He hadn't expected Faron to be an exception.
But, well, he was her only friend for four years. No matter how she may act, Draco has always known that Faron is someone she chose to trust. Why, he doesn't know. They've been friends since First Year, and to have that go away must have upset her, even if she would hate to admit it.
Honestly, Draco should have seen it coming.
Cautiously, Harry says, "I thought we were angry with Faron."
"We are," Vellevita retorts sharply.
"An angry letter, then?" Draco suggests. "I'm all for those. Very therapeutic."
Vellevita shakes her head. "Just a letter. I'm trying to write a letter, but everything comes out—wrong. It's all wrong. I don't know how to—"
She falls silent, lips pressed into a thin line.
"Alright," Harry says softly. "Alright, well, I might have something to help. You'll have to—there is a lot of reading involved. Some of it won't make sense."
"What is it?" Vellevita asks, curious as always.
Harry taps the doorframe and smiles. "I'll go get it. Be back in a pinch."
"He's so embarrassing," Draco confesses as his husband darts off, shaking his head in despair.
"Yes," Vellevita agrees.
Draco sighs and shuffles into her room, moving over to lean against the desk beside her chair, arms and ankles crossed. He stares at Vellevita; she stares back. He's come to learn a lot in the six years that he has had her—and, a lot of times, it feels like it has been much longer and also not nearly that much.
He's learned through trial-and-error that Vellevita does, in fact, feel a lot of things. He had thought, just for a bit there, that she didn't feel a variety of emotions at all. But no, she completely does. She's terrible at identifying them, knowing their purpose, and expressing them, but she certainly has them.
It's easy for many people to forget, or simply ignore, or never even notice. She's a very private person, and she doesn't trust easily...ever. It's not very obvious, not with her blank face and toneless words, not when she only smiles for manipulation, not when she never lets anyone touch her or get too close. Only Draco and Harry have the privilege of getting to know her so completely, of getting to see her at her worst and best, of getting her hard-won trust.
She's fifteen. She falls asleep in a side-braid that grows every year. She paints places she has never seen, and she watches them like they might disappear sometimes, and she's never so clear about her happiness, but he knows she's been happy.
Except, looking at her, he can see what he thinks is her version of sadness. A deep-seated frustration, the curls of the short hairs at her temple escaping from behind her ears, the sudden depth to her blue eyes, resembling the fathomless blue of the oceans she paints in a way they don't usually—her eyes have always just been...blue, muted and simple.
Draco gently sighs and reaches out to cup his hand to the side of her head, brushing his fingers through her hair. It becomes immediately clear that she's honestly upset, because her eyes close and she leans into the touch like she actually wants it. She never does that. She grants contact like it's a gift, like they're lucky to have it, not like she needs it.
"Do you wish to talk about it?" Draco asks softly.
Vellevita doesn't open her eyes. She swallows, the one motion that lets him know she's overwhelmed by feelings she doesn't understand. She confirms this when she says, "I am trying, very hard, but I don't understand what I'm—what's happening."
"Welcome to being fifteen, darling," Draco whispers, lips curling up sadly. "It's hard. It gets easier, though, I promise."
"I don't think it will. For me." Vellevita opens her eyes, staring at him. "Father, I don't think I'm ever going to understand how to...feel."
Draco strokes her hair again, his chest pinching with an ache that throbs. "Vellevita, listen to me. I'm going to tell you something, and I want you to hear me very well, yes?"
"Yes."
"Feeling is—it is a human experience. Some people feel more than others. Some feel less. Some understand their own feelings, and others struggle with it every day. I struggle with it, you know. You don't have to make sense of everything all the time. You don't have to speak often, or express yourself, or force yourself to be something, anything, that you are not. We're all just...trying, and sometimes feeling things—or not feeling things—can make things harder, but that doesn't mean you stop trying."
"It would be easier, though," Vellevita whispers, staring up at him, her voice going strained like her throat is tight. "If I could just—if I knew how to—"
"Vellevita, it's alright," Draco assures her, stroking her hair again, blinking hard so he won't cry. "It really is alright to be—"
"When you take a bath," Vellevita interrupts, "do you ever go under the water?"
Draco blinks, pausing, momentarily startled. "Well, yes, I suppose I have. Why?"
"It's like that." Vellevita swallows, blinking a little more rapidly. "That's what it feels like to be—to be me. It's like I'm underwater, and when I try, I can see and hear things as long as I'm familiar with the surroundings. But I can't—I don't get to come up for air, not unless I'm angry. That's what it's like. It didn't used to bother me, I don't think, before you and Dad came along. But now...just, sometimes, I want to know what it's like. What it's like to break the surface, I mean. And I can't. And I hate it. I really do hate it, being like this. I don't want—"
Vellevita cuts herself off when her breath hitches, and she closes her eyes again like she can block out her own vulnerability. She squeezes her eyes so hard that tears leak out, and it's the first time she cries.
Draco carefully pulls her out of her chair, tugging her into his arms, stroking her hair as he holds her. She is crying, still. He can feel it, can feel the wet warmth hit his shirt. Her tears are silent, and she holds herself so stiff that he rubs at her arms, shoulders, and back. Trying to loosen her up, willing her to relax, encouraging her to let go.
She doesn't. There's a chance that she can't.
"Darling, my sweet darling," Draco breathes into her hair, working very hard not to cry right along with her. "Listen to me, love. You feel. I know you do. I've never doubted it. You think you're underwater, but perhaps it's just that your feelings are, and you can't quite make them out in the ripples. And that's okay. You're okay, and you're not drowning, you're not. You can breathe, Vellevita, it's alright."
Vellevita doesn't reply. She just holds onto him, her face buried against his chest. She's quiet and still, warm in his grip, leaning into him without her usual restraint. She has been sad. He knows that, now, and it rips him up inside to have missed it.
When she pulls away, he doesn't let her get far, reaching out to brush the tears off her cheeks, even as she twitches through Real Emotions.
"I'm going to be honest with you," he tells her, staring into her eyes. "I'm a Healer, but I'm not qualified for this sort of help, no matter how much I wish I was. I will help you in whatever way I can, and in that endeavor, I have a suggestion. You don't have to answer, not right away, but I want you to seriously consider it, alright?"
"What is it?" Vellevita asks.
Draco takes a deep breath. "Do you know how Uncle Greg goes to a Mind Healer?"
"Yes," Vellevita answers promptly.
"I know a couple that I genuinely trust, and they give wonderful advice. Seeing them can—it really can help," Draco says.
"Why don't you see one?" Vellevita murmurs.
"Honestly?" Draco blows out an explosive breath, raising his eyebrows. "With my schedule, it would be hard to manage. That's no excuse. I probably should have gone to a Mind Healer when I was younger, honestly. A lot of us should have. I've gotten better, though, with age."
Vellevita considers him in silence, blank all around. Even her eyes are empty. "You think I'm—"
"Vellevita," Draco cuts in sharply, already knowing where this is going, "I don't think there's anything wrong with you. I think you're lovely. I love you, as is, as was, as you'll ever be. Always."
"Then...why?"
"Because I want you to feel better. I want you to be at your best in every single way, healthy, physically and emotionally. That's all."
"I just want to write a letter," Vellevita says, and her voice cracks. "I just want to be normal enough to write a fucking letter."
Draco pauses, taking that in. He's appalled, briefly. She has never spoken vulgarly like that, so it's a little unexpected. He should probably reprimand her, but at this moment, he can't bring himself to do it.
"Well, Harry's gone off to go get something that might help you with that," Draco murmurs, brushing his thumbs under her eyes yet again, not protesting when she pulls away. "Why don't we start with that, hm? You think about the Mind Healer, and you let me know when you're ready, yes?"
"Alright." Vellevita is silent for a moment, and then she lifts her hand to brush away a stray tear. Her lips tick down by a small bit. "Is that what crying is?"
"Yes," Draco confirms with a sigh.
"It's dreadful."
"Isn't it?"
"I don't want to do it again."
"Understandable."
Vellevita eyes him shrewdly. "Do you do it a lot?"
"More than I'd ever admit to anyone other than you," Draco tells her, lips twitching. "Your dad is terrible about it, you know. His feelings are spewing all over the place, all the time."
"I don't want...that," Vellevita says.
Draco hums. "Neither do I, honestly."
Silence descends upon them, and they settle into it. Truthfully, it's a comfortable quiet. Vellevita normally treats any strong feelings like the scourge of the earth, like she can outrun it and never have to face it. The fact that she hasn't gone mute and shuttered away is a near miracle.
Eventually, Harry returns. He carries a small box in his hands, about the size of a textbook and nearly with the same depth. He smiles as he comes in, only to falter when he sees Vellevita's face. To his credit, he only pauses a moment, then he continues on his way, shooting a pointed look at Draco that clearly states he will be after an explanation later.
"What's this?" Draco asks casually, watching Harry sit the box down on the desk.
"Yes, what is it?" Vellevita echoes, curious.
"This," Harry says, tapping the box with a fond smile, "is every single letter your Father ever sent me through the years."
Draco jolts.
"What? You—you kept them?" he whispers hoarsely, his already-scattered strength against feelings broken down by Vellevita. He's practically weak now, and this isn't fair. Harry didn't even warn him.
"Of course," Harry replies, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing to do. "There's quite a lot, you know. The first is labelled in September of 1996."
"You're joking," Draco chokes out. "There's no actual way you kept—let me see. Harry, let me—"
"Alright, alright," Harry says with a laugh, opening the box and digging through it before he holds out a folded letter, a little love-worn like it has been held in cherished hands. "Here, see for yourself, then."
And there it is, starting off in his curvy handwriting, reading:
Idiot,
You would not believe the sheer amount of idiocy within the walls of Hogwarts. Well, actually, you likely would. To inform you, half of these twits have already irritated me beyond forgiveness and it's not even a month into term. It's not even a week!
To clarify, many of the students here think Harry Potter is dead. This annoys me because, as you know, I don't believe the same. The git is too stubborn to die, I think.
Draco makes a small sound and snaps his head up, not even finishing the letter as he stares at Harry with parted lips. Harry stares back, surprised, like this isn't something so inherently lovely and romantic that Draco wants to kill him for it.
"What?" Harry asks, because he's an idiot.
"I apologize in advance, Vellevita," Draco murmurs, his voice faint. "You might wish to look away from the incoming overt display of affection."
With that, Draco carelessly tosses the letter back into the box and shamelessly launches himself at his husband with no small amount of grace and finesse, because he's him, obviously. Harry catches him with a laugh, still mildly confused but easily coming round to the aforementioned overt display of affection. It doesn't take much to sway him, really.
It is inappropriate to snog his husband like a man gone wild, so he queues that up for later when they're in bed together and there are no children present. For now, he kisses him soft and slow, honey-sweet with adoration in every single nerve. Harry smiles into the kiss, warm approval escaping him in a hum that resonates through them both.
"I take it you liked that I kept them, then?" Harry murmurs when they pull away, just enough for their noses to brush. His eyes are sparkling, pleased, deeply and openly happy.
"You're a sap, Harry Potter," Draco whispers.
"That's Harry Malfoy-Potter to you," Harry replies cheekily, beaming at him.
Draco sighs softly. "You really kept them."
"Sentiment, possibly. I've reread them before, just for memories." Harry's eyes light up even more as he chuckles. "You would have thought we were being tortured back then, not being able to see each other as much as we liked. We were smitten."
"I was no such thing," Draco denies instantly. "You were, and you still are. Or, you better be."
Harry brushes their noses together. "I never quite figured out how to stop. I just gave into it at some point. Smartest thing I've ever done."
"Yes," Draco agrees instantly.
"What did you do with yours?" Harry asks.
"I couldn't risk anyone seeing them, not back then. You remember what it was like," Draco admits, leaning forward to peck Harry's lips again. "I burned them. I still—I loved them, though."
"I believe you," Harry says.
Draco pulls away, shaking his head, amazed. He turns to see Vellevita ignoring them entirely, reading a letter with a furrow in her brow. He steps up behind her, reading over her shoulder.
And no, there are no blokes within this castle that tick all my boxes, as it were. My standards are high, though that is no fault of my own. They were cultivated through childhood experiences and repressed emotions that I denied and did not understand at the time. There is only one who has ever met these standards, and I suspect no one else ever will.
Love is a cruel mistress because I say it is. Because, though you may wish to, you cannot escape it. You may remain trapped in it forevermore without any guarantee that it will ever be returned, or even the knowledge that it never will, and how does one live with that? One learns, but it is never easy.
Draco rips his gaze away, his eyebrows raising. He won't ever admit this out loud, but Merlin, he really was dramatic back then, wasn't he?
He remembers how hard things felt, how he thought about Harry Potter way too much to be normal, hating himself for it all the while. He remembers fretting about his parents, about rebelling against Pureblood traditions, about his friends. He remembers being desperate to go home, just to see Harry again, and also scared to, because of the Dark Lord. It was a dramatic time back then, if he recalls, so he won't judge his younger self too harshly.
"Father, you wrote a lot," Vellevita states plainly. Her lips tip down. "Why wasn't Dad in Hogwarts with you?"
"Long story," Draco says, snorting. "Don't worry about the contents of the letters so much. Just focus on the structure. Writing Faron doesn't have to be exactly like this, but...well, it's a start. You can simply just write to him about whatever crosses your mind. I'm sure he'd be happy to hear from you."
"I'm still angry with him," Vellevita mutters, even as her eyes scan the letter.
"That's fair," Harry tells her. "Do you think the letters will help?"
Vellevita nods slowly. "I...believe so. Thank you."
"Is there anything else you need?" Draco asks.
"No, you can leave me to my reading. This is sort of interesting," Vellevita murmurs, fixated on the words like they're something to study.
"Don't judge us too harshly," Harry says, amused. "We were sixteen, mind you, so it can be a little dramatic, especially since it's all Draco."
"Piss off," Draco snaps.
Harry winks at him, grinning. "They're all safe to read for the most part. You won't understand some of it, but you honestly don't need to."
"Mhm," Vellevita replies, barely paying them any attention as she slowly sits down, her focus settled on the letter and nothing else.
"Alright, we're going," Draco says, lips curling up at his daughter's ability to get fixated on things so easily. He reaches out to grab Harry's arm, tugging him towards the door. "Let us know if you need anything or have any questions."
Vellevita doesn't even respond.
The moment Draco has dragged them into their room, Harry blurts out, "Are you going to tell me why our daughter was crying? She never cries."
"I'm absolutely going to explain, yes. First, are you certain it's a good idea to give her those letters. It's a bit revealing about certain things from back then, isn't it?" Draco asks.
"Yes, it is, but I couldn't not help her," Harry mutters, shrugging sheepishly. "Besides, I don't think there's too much detail to give a lot of what happened away. We were careful then, if you recall. You've always been rather paranoid."
"With good reason," Draco says with a sniff. He relents, though, giving in. After all, he wants Vellevita to be helped however she can be.
"Now, why was she crying?"
"I'm going to tell you, and then after that, you're going to tie me down and fuck me until I can barely remember my own name, because you kept the letters, Harry, and that does things to me."
"Oh," Harry says, his voice cracking. He swallows, licks his lips, and Draco can see his pupils dilating as his breath hitches. "Yeah, alright."
Draco smiles and starts talking.
Notes:
Feelings are hard, sometimes.
Chapter 6: Life of Surprises
Notes:
Welp, here we are, lovelies. This is the final, official chapter of this long, long series. I won't get sappy in the beginning notes, I'll just give the warnings necessary, which are...
Things get a little ✨spicy✨ but not too, too explicit, and it's very brief. Outside of that, there is nothing that would run anyone off if you've made it this far. There is brief mention of Purebloods being horrible to their child (not anyone you know), but otherwise...
Honestly, y'all, this chapter is mostly sweet, fun, and wholesome.
Enjoy ❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
On Easter break in Vellevita's Fifth Year, Draco nearly murders someone for the very first time.
The invitation to the—well, it's a ball, really, knowing his mother. In any case, it's delivered by Narcissa's pretentious owl that has been hers for nearly fifteen years now, shaded grey and white with large, yellow eyes that seem to pierce the soul. Draco has been frightened of this owl ever since he was a child, rightfully so, and for Narcissa to use it, rather than just floo-call, means that this isn't an invitation that he can in any way refuse.
It's taking place at the Manor, of course, and the invitation includes a plus-one for him and Vellevita. Harry's automatically assumed as Draco's date, but Narcissa never specifies because she knows it winds Harry up, and even after all these years, she can be a little mischievous when she wants to be.
"What happens when you decide to be a git and bring some other date?" Harry asks, huffing.
Draco watches him get dressed in amusement, tilting his head. "That would never happen. I wouldn't let anyone less than the best be seen upon my arm, and fortunately for you, I've decided you have just barely met the requirements."
"How are you so sweet and such a prat at the same time?" Harry shakes his head, heaving a sigh.
"It's a talent. Now, stop complaining."
"Hm, well, Mrs. Malfoy is having a go at me again. Is this because I told her that the garden was looking a little sad this year? I only offered to have Neville come have a look at it."
"That's your fatal mistake. Never insult Mother's garden. She cherishes it more than me, you know."
"I sincerely doubt that, but alright."
"Do you need help?" Draco asks, amused. He watches Harry struggle with his tie, fingers itching to reach out and do it for him.
Harry narrows his eyes in the mirror. "By help, you mean actually tying it and not slipping it off, yes?"
"Of course," Draco says, offended. "Besides, your hair needs to be put up as well."
"Alright, alright, but keep your hands to yourself. If we're late, your mother will murder me," Harry mutters, watching him suspiciously.
Draco adopts an innocent expression and holds his hands up in surrender. He has no idea what Harry's on about. Whenever they're late to things, it's entirely Harry's fault. He always starts it.
Harry watches him in the mirror, still fiddling with his tie, so Draco starts with his hair. It's long, messy, and absolutely beautiful. Draco likes that he can fit his fingers into it and fist a handful of it, likes that the strands spill down past his grip like overturned ink, and Harry likes it even more. Paired with Harry's scruff, he looks a bit like a prince and something of an outlaw. He's delicious, is what he is.
They've both changed in appearance through the years, growing up and out, but they're still the same to the core of them—Harry's messy hair, his glasses, his green eyes, his strong jaw; Draco's perfect hair, his sharp blue-grey eyes, his aristocratic features, that ever-present pointy chin that Harry bites when he's in a playful mood, and even the small dimple-scar on his cheek that has faded as much as it's ever going to, though Harry still pokes it and randomly licks it when the mood strikes, regardless of Draco's protests. Their bodies are stitched together with scars, honestly. Draco's are thin and white, something like clean line-work for art. Harry's are rugged and macabre, raised from the skin and grisly-looking but no less attractive.
In simpler terms, Harry has only gotten more fit through the years, and not a day goes by where Draco doesn't want to ravish him.
But he's being good right now, truly. He doesn't even start anything. All he does is step up behind Harry, meeting his gaze in the mirror, and gathers up his hair. He has to run his fingers through it to smooth out lumps, and there's some strands that escape to hang loose but artfully, so Draco allows it. He holds his hand out for the band that Harry keeps on his wrist, still holding his gaze.
"Draco," Harry says, like a warning.
"I'm not doing anything," Draco replies.
Harry hums and passes him the band, waiting. Draco keeps staring at him through the mirror, grip reflexively tightening on the hair in his hand. Harry's eyes darken, a sharp inhale singing through his teeth. Draco can see the goosebumps rising on the brown stretch of his neck. He wants to lick them.
"Draco," Harry says, sharper this time, "don't you sodding start something."
"I'm not," Draco assures him, because he's really not. He isn't even doing anything! He shouldn't be accused just because Harry's insatiable. "Though, if I did, would you finish it?"
"I'm ignoring you, I'm not even paying attention, you're not even here," Harry whispers heatedly, but his eyes never stray from Draco's through the reflection. His hands are balled into fists.
Draco arches an eyebrow at him, poised and calm, unruffled in the way that often compels Harry to make a mess of him. But, again, how is that Draco's fault? He isn't doing anything but existing.
Smirking, Draco murmurs, "You've never ignored me a day in your life, love."
"I am. I completely am, right now," Harry says. His breath hitches when Draco readjusts his grip on his hair. "Get on with it before I—"
"Before you what?" Draco teases, leaning forward to press a small kiss to the side of his neck, never breaking eye contact as he does.
Harry makes a small sound. "Let me go. Merlin, Draco, let me go so I can turn around and—"
"No, I don't think I will," Draco says, gripping his hair harder and yanking it to the side, making Harry hiss as his eyes fall shut. "You're all wound up. Look at you. I'm only trying to fix your hair. What are you going to do when I get to the tie, hm?"
"Draco, just—just—"
"We'll be late, Harry."
"We're always late! Who sodding cares?! It's your fault, always is. Just—" Harry makes a frustrated sound, trying to lean back into him, rocking in place as Draco keeps him still by his hair. "Fuck."
Draco hums, pleased. He hides his smile in the bend of Harry's neck, kissing it, tasting the familiar skin on his tongue. He has mapped this space out with his mouth many times before, leaving bruises to claim him, but it never gets old. He does like showing up to places with a fresh mark on display, a thoroughly debauched Harry in tow, sated and smiling because his mood always improves after a good shag. Draco's does, too, to be fair.
"We probably shouldn't," Draco muses.
Harry groans. "When has that ever stopped us before? Let me, if you're just going to tease."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Draco asks softly, considering the merits of letting Harry drag him back to bed and fucking him brainless for a bit. "No, no, I have a better idea."
"Get on with it, then."
"What's your rush?"
"We'll be late," Harry mutters, shooting him a sardonic look through the mirror.
Draco laughs, then bites at the soft spot beneath Harry's ear, delighting in his shiver. "It's like you said, isn't it? We're always late. Hm, how about this? Whoever can get the lubricant more quickly can fuck the other up against this mirror."
"There," Harry says, hand outstretched as their lube smacks into his palm. He arches an eyebrow.
"That's cheating," Draco mutters. "Not everyone is all-powerful like Saint Scarhead, you know."
"I know. How unfortunate. How terrible it must be for you. Fine, I forfeit." Harry holds the lube out to Draco over his shoulder. "Shag me about it."
"Bossy."
"As if you're one to talk."
"Are you going to argue with me through this entire process?" Draco asks mildly, easily sliding the band into Harry's hair but leaving it out of a bun, meaning he can grab the ponytail without having to hold onto it.
Harry licks his lips. "You're more than welcome to shut me up, if you can."
"You'll be lucky if I don't slam your face into the mirror by the end of this."
"I might be into it."
"Kinky," Draco teases. "Very naughty."
"Don't you ever tell anyone," Harry replies breathlessly, his hands coming up to brace the mirror as Draco goes for his belt.
"No one believes me when I try," Draco admits mournfully. He pouts theatrically as he unclips Harry's belt and flicks open his button. "I try to tell anyone who will listen that the Savior of the Wizarding World likes edging me for hours, and likes being tied up as much as he likes to tie me up, and how he once bit me so hard that I bled...but everyone thinks you're too shy and honorable for all of that. It's dreadful. They believe I'm going through my life having very bland sex, and really, it's like your reputation has more weight than mine."
"Such a shame," Harry gasps out, his head dipping forward to settle against the mirror with a dull thunk as Draco gets his hand down his pants.
"Ah, ah, none of that." Draco lifts his free hand to grip Harry's hair and yank his head up, smirking when he moans and shudders, eyes snapping open to meet his gaze in the mirror. "Don't look away. Watch. It really is quite captivating."
"I'm going to die. You're going to bloody kill me," Harry wheezes, eyes already glazing over.
Draco hums. "It has always been a dream of mine, yes. We're indulging in fantasies today, I see."
"You are a prat."
"Of course, of course. Bend forward. We're staying mostly dressed for this. Oh, and you're cleaning the mirror after."
"You'll lick it off," Harry tells him, panting as he lists forward a bit. "If we're indulging in fantasies today, I mean, then you'll lick it off."
"That's not very sanitary."
"All part of the fantasy, Draco."
"You're a very naughty man, Harry," Draco says.
Harry's eyes are bright with both amusement and arousal. "Well, no one will believe it, so…"
"Stop talking," Draco murmurs.
"Make me."
"Oh, you're a bit randy, aren't you?"
"More than a bit. I'm about five seconds from coming, and you haven't started. It's your stupid mouth and the things you say and—" Harry huffs, tugging his head forward just to make Draco yank on his hair again. "Bloody hell, you're so—"
He never quite gets to elaborate from there, because Draco shuts him up with slick fingers. It's a wreck from that point on, really, one of their more rushed and desperate fucks that they haven't had in a while. Though, to be fair, Harry's likely all riled up because it has been a while. He regularly requires being mouthed-off to until he can't think straight, just like Draco regularly requires being pinned down somewhere and shagged until he can't think at all.
They really are well-suited when it comes to sex, easily and always fulfilling each other's needs, ending up satisfied every single time. Even when they have lazy shags, it's something to bask in.
For now, Draco watches them both fall apart in the mirror, Harry watching as well, and they both get a little lost in it. Somewhere, halfway through, Harry forgets that he's supposed to keep arguing, and Draco forgets that he's supposed to be teasing. It's rough and rushed, Draco's hand grasping Harry's hair to keep his head up, Harry holding onto the mirror for dear life. It's quick, and hot, and messy, and neither of them are steady on their feet by the end of it.
Draco does lick off the mess on the mirror, though, because he's feeling particularly indulgent, and Harry groans like his soul is leaving his body.
All-in-all, Draco's very sure that all of it was Harry's fault, but he can't say he's upset about it. And hey, he does get to fix Harry's tie without it leading to sex, so technically he was good, just as his original objective required. The fact that they don't have sex after some closeness and tie-tugging has everything to do with them having just finished shagging, and nothing to do with restraint, is inconsequential to him. He set a goal, he met it. How he managed to do it is just details. It's the Slytherin in him.
"Oh, look at that, we're not even going to be that late," Draco notes, pleased.
Harry rolls his eyes. "You're a menace, Draco Malfoy-Potter, you truly are. Come on. We've kept Vellevita waiting long enough."
They have, indeed. Vellevita is used to being late to things, however, and she usually prefers it. She doesn't like parties as it is, so any excuse to get less time at one is appreciated, though she never asks what the holdup was. Draco's fairly sure she has an idea that her parents get too distracted shagging, but she does some mental jumps and twists to avoid acknowledging it head-on.
Draco expects to find Vellevita waiting patiently in the sitting room, and she is. His breath catches when he sees her. She really is growing up so quickly, and it kills him a little bit inside every time. Especially when she's wearing a dress, her hair done in a soft up-do that leaves tendrils framing her face. She looks lovely like this, like a young woman growing into her previously understated beauty.
He has always known, of course, but it's becoming obvious and blatant, and it scares him.
Draco expects to find Vellevita alone, and she is not.
Faron, too, has grown a lot over the years. There was a period in Third Year when Vellevita was taller than him, but that period has long since passed. His hair is moon-white, just as it has always been, and Draco has learned that it turned that color when he was five and nothing could change it—not Muggle hair-dye, not any cosmetic Charms, not even any form of Transfiguration. It's bizarre, but it has become a normal sight, seeing as Draco has known Faron well through the years.
These days, Faron is leaving the gangly teenager stage and inching more and more towards the young man stage. He's always been thin, but his shoulders are starting to widen out. His acne is gone, leaving brown skin smooth and unblemished. And now, sitting beside Vellevita in a nice set of robes, he looks quite handsome for someone Draco has always uncharitably thought of as awkward.
"Ah, Faron, hello," Harry greets in surprise. "Sorry, we weren't expecting you. How've you been?"
"I've been well, Mr. Malfoy-Potter," Faron replies softly, smiling slightly. He's always been a good kid, quiet and respectful. "I wasn't expecting to be invited, but Vellevita floo-called. It's alright?"
Draco's eyebrows shoot up as Harry rallies quickly by saying, "Oh, yeah, of course. We'd love to have you. It's probably going to end late, so you're welcome to stay over. Do your parents know?"
"They do," Faron says, nodding. "They said it was alright if I stayed over. I can floo back in the morning. They've invited you all over for breakfast, if you have the time and want to come."
"Oh, that'd be lovely," Harry replies easily.
"We should be on our way," Draco declares, waving a hand to the fireplace. "Faron, do be sure to ignore all the older, stuffier Purebloods at the party; that's what we all do. Come on, come on, Mother will have my head if we're any later than we already are."
The others usher along with him.
Arriving at the Manor means stepping into opulence. Narcissa has gone above and beyond for this event, so it likely has to do with some charity function for the Ministry. It's old money and smarmy Purebloods and a lot of business deals (and bribery) being made with Ministry officials.
Hermione would hit the roof about it; Pansy, on the other hand, is no doubt already circling the room and watching to see what she can use to their advantage in the future.
The ballroom is dripping in goblin-gold and mermaid-charmed diamonds. Dishes float by with likely very expensive champagne and wine, charmed so children can't take a glass, though Draco knows from experience that there's a way around those charms. Some people are dancing, some people are networking, and Draco already wants to go home.
"Wow," Faron breathes out. "I knew your family had money, Vellevita, but this is...wow."
"Grandmother likes hosting parties," Vellevita murmurs, wrinkling her nose. She heaves a sigh and slides her hand through the crook of Faron's elbow, ignoring it when he jolts and looks at her in open surprise. "Come. You're here to help me avoid the other children. Speak to no one."
Faron's lips curl up. "Alright."
"Father, Dad," Vellevita says, throwing them a pointed look over her shoulder, "come and find me the moment we're free to leave."
"Yes, dear," Draco replies, amused.
Harry grins. "Have fun."
Vellevita tosses them both a glare as she drags Faron off, disappearing into the crowd. It is surprising that she has brought a date, but it suddenly makes more sense now. It's not about wanting to date Faron, not at all, which is a relief—Draco was beginning to get a little worried. No, it's about the other teenagers in her age group that come to these parties, Purebloods that try to flock around her, doing their own version of networking at such a young age.
Draco remembers what that was like. Just the same as her, people gravitated towards him, trying to form connections based on who his parents were, based on his name, based on his family money and power. He'd relished in it, or thought he did, but looking back, it always rang hollow.
Faron will be a good distraction for her. He's her friend for many different reasons that Draco isn't privy to, but he knows for sure that it's not for her name, parents, wealth, or power. If nothing else, he's the friend that likes her for her, and Draco is immensely relieved that she has that.
"Alright," Harry grumbles, "let's get this over with. If you leave my side, you're dead to me."
"The feeling is mutual," Draco agrees, sliding his hand into the bend of Harry's arm and tugging him off in the direction of his mother.
Harry likes these parties as much as Vellevita does, meaning not at all. He doesn't like the attention, nor does he like the undercurrent of corruption that travels like roots beneath the floor, hidden behind grand laughter and eyes without emotion and fake warmth that holds no weight. Long ago, Draco used to flourish in environments like this.
In truth, he still can and sometimes does. He knows how to play a room, how to treat every single part of it like an instrument he can tune to make beautiful music. It really is like a web of connections that he can transverse, tying and untying threads, solidifying bonds and making threats just for the sake of flaunting power. He can be everything his father wanted him to be, and he can do it with ease. He's good at it. Even to an extent, sometimes, he finds himself enjoying it in the moment.
At the end of the night, though...it all just feels empty. He doesn't gain anything from it. There's no joy in being able to manipulate people he doesn't actually care about or want to have anything to do with. The goal isn't something he's working towards, and there's just no point.
The only time he indulges in such activity these days is to either sneakily coerce people into donating money to hospital funds, or various important magical medicine research funds, or specific charities that have to do with whatever Ministry project Pansy and Hermione are working on at the moment. That, and occasionally, he will go around and lightly manipulate people for his mother's sake, if she ever hints at a specific target or a specific goal, and very, very rarely, he will do it for his father.
Either way, it's always like stretching a limb he hasn't forgotten how to use. Or, no, it's like getting back onto a broom. He'll never forget to fly, no matter how long it has been since he has done so.
Harry, of course, mildly disapproves, though it's not like the people Draco manipulate are innocent or anything. He never stops Draco, though. And, in fact, once they get home and Harry satisfies himself with giving Draco a basic rundown on why it's completely not okay for him to treat people like instruments, he turns around and admits just how arousing it is and proceeds to shag him about it.
In any case, it always works out.
"You're late," Narcissa says when they finally reach her. She pulls away from Mrs. Greengrass' side to step up to them, kissing them both on the cheek.
"We apologize profusely, Mrs. Malfoy," Harry says, blinking at her in his innocent, oh-woe-is-me way.
Narcissa hums in doubt, but her eyes soften. She's a sucker for Harry, which is rude, really. So is Draco. Someone around here needs to be immune to him.
"Just as you apologize every time, though you continue to push the bounds of what constitutes as proper manners for this family," Lucius says coldly, appearing at Narcissa's elbow.
Ah, well, Lucius is certainly immune.
Harry grins with all teeth. "No, I do sincerely apologize, Lucius. Your son kept me a bit preoccupied while I was trying to get ready."
Lucius twitches, lip curling. "Did he?"
"Oh, yes," Harry says, downright giddy about it, just as he always is when he gets to have a go at Lucius' mental stability. He has been steadily working on driving Lucius insane throughout the years, and Draco thinks he might actually succeed within the next decade. "Draco knows all about propriety when it comes to this family, and well, he certainly didn't seem to mind at the time."
"Harry," Mrs. Malfoy cuts in, "be a dear and fetch me a glass of wine. The red, please."
"Of course, Mrs. Malfoy," Harry replies immediately, gaze softening when he glances at her. He's as much of a sucker for her as she is for him, really. "You look lovely this evening, by the way. Excuse me, I'll return in a moment."
The second that Harry extracts himself from Draco's side—which is only allowed if Narcissa somehow insists on it—his parents focus on him. He can tell instantly that there's a specific target tonight. Even Mrs. Greengrass is watching him steadily, so it seems she's in on it, too.
"Do you see Mr. Bole over there?" Narcissa asks, her voice sharp and intent as she inclines her head to the right without ever looking away from him.
Draco does a quick scan of the entire room, never lingering on one person too long, not even when he locates who his mother is talking about. Bole. Yes, Draco knows him. He went to Hogwarts with him. That's the arsehole who broke some of Pansy's ribs.
"Mhm," Draco hums, focusing back on his parents.
"He's Daphne's most recent client," Mrs. Greengrass says. "He no longer trusts the Zabinis to oversee his family accounts that he recently just got full power over. Do you have any idea as to why?"
Draco nods. "I do, in fact. You could say he has schoolyard issues with Pansy. Why?"
"It seems Mr. Bole is holding a grudge," Lucius says flatly, one eyebrow sweeping up. "Not only against Mrs. Zabini, but likely those who were at her side when the altercation took place. I'm assuming that includes you and...Mrs. Weasley."
"You assume correctly, Father." Draco tilts his head a little bit. "Bole was always very...bitter about the way my group of friends and I handled certain delicate matters that cropped up in those last few years at Hogwarts. I daresay his pride didn't survive through graduation. I take it he's been lying in wait to get his revenge?"
Narcissa releases a soft sigh. "Indeed. You know the end result. Defamation. Dragged into the light of suspicion. The damage it could do to the children. You'll handle it, of course."
"Of course," Draco agrees, just as Harry appears back at his elbow with Narcissa's wine.
"Ah, thank you, darling," Narcissa says warmly, taking the glass with a flash of her opal-infused prosthetic that glints in the lights of the room. "I appreciate it. Now, don't let us be a bother. You two should enjoy the party. Go on."
"Yes, come along, Harry," Draco murmurs, flashing Harry a small smile. "We should have some fun."
Harry heaves a sigh. "Oh, bloody hell, here we go."
"Don't worry," Draco says, taking his hand and threading it through his own arm, patting his warm fingers with his own cold ones, "I'm handling it."
"That's what I'm worried about. I'm not going to have to murder anyone tonight, am I?" Harry mutters as Draco drags him off.
Draco hums. "It's a long night waiting ahead of us, Harry. Who knows what may happen?"
"Yeah," Harry mumbles glumly, "that's what I was afraid you'd say."
Draco just pats his hand again.
The truth is, Harry hasn't murdered someone since the war. The even darker truth is, Harry could murder everyone in this room right now with absolutely no issue, and he would, if there were reason for it. Draco is always very intensely aware of that, and in the same way that his own manipulation is wrong yet still very attractive, so is Harry's ability and willingness to murder people.
He's not even a little bit ashamed about it, though. Harry's power is not the best thing about him. That's not why Draco fell in love with him. That's not why Draco married him. Is it an attractive quality, however? Undeniably so.
The night drags along, and Draco follows the threads that connect Bole to various important people in the room, then proceeds to dismantle those connections with ease, untying the knots that keep him secure in Pureblood society. Before he leaves the room tonight, he'll have nothing to give his name weight. He comes in with some amount of power, and he'll leave with none.
Draco is good at this. Very good. He has the patience for it, has the charm, has the lessons he grew up on ingrained into his brain. There's also the fact that Draco is good at people, which comes from being a Healer. He knows how to follow a response, how to pinpoint a sign of discomfort, how to spread that discomfort or ease it. He might even be better than his own father at these things.
This is, of course, a point of resentment for Lucius. He hates to see Draco's natural talent go to waste. He sometimes never looks prouder than he does when watching Draco work a room, using and discarding people like toys. Shameful it may be in practice and theory, but Lucius enjoys knowing that his son could thrive in the life that he had planned for him, just as he's forever bitter that Draco absolutely and resolutely refuses to full-time.
Exceptions can be made, but that is all.
At some point during the night, Draco spies Vellevita and Faron on the dance floor. It's mildly surprising. He has never seen Vellevita dance before, nor Faron for that matter. It doesn't look awkward like it should for two teenagers. They're talking casually, arms loosely wrapped around each other as they calmly sway in place, seemingly relaxed.
They really are good friends. Draco feels calm when seeing Faron around his daughter. There's nothing to fear from that boy, honestly. Even now, his hands are sitting at respectful parts of her waist, and he's entirely focused on her face as he nods to whatever she's telling him. That's best friends if he's ever seen them, two people who are at complete ease with each other. It soothes his nerves.
Harry and Draco run into Blaise and Pansy, then Theo and Astoria, and they all spend a few minutes talking with each other. At events such as these, they don't usually group together. Draco and his oldest friends understand in a way Harry never really does that it's best not to flaunt how close they all are, not with this vulturous crowd.
Finally, finally, Bole is left untethered, with practically nothing to his name. The last piece to slot in place can be handled by Daphne herself when the time comes, and he knows he doesn't even have to tell her to do so. She'll do it instinctively. And, well, she'll likely be warned by her mother and sister at some point, so Draco's work here is done.
"Come, we can go home now," Draco says with a sigh, leading Harry back in the direction of his mother to say proper goodbyes.
"You know, it's sort of terrifying when you do things like that," Harry confesses, staring at him with a look that doesn't suggest fear, but rather an expression that says he'd like to devour Draco in front of everyone right here and now. "I just watched you singlehandedly destroy a man's life, basically. You did it so easily, too."
Draco smirks at him. "I never claimed to be a good person, Harry. You know that."
"You are a good person, though. Truly, you are. It's just that you have this whole...other side," Harry tells him, sounding amazed. "It's mad. No one is truly good or bad, are they?"
"I don't think that's the true measurement of what people can be," Draco admits.
"What do you think is?"
"There's too much...empty space. People don't exist in the large decisions they make that affect others. Those are too few and far between. No, I think people shouldn't be measured at all. Anyone can do anything, given the opportunity and the right circumstances, just as they can do nothing."
"Hmm, now there's an idea," Harry muses. "You know I've spent a great deal of time thinking about why people do things, or not do things. The idea that there's no rhyme or reason and that people aren't driven by personal morals or lack thereof is very...annoying, for me. It makes more sense in my head for people to do things because of who they are, rather than what situation they find themselves in. Does that at all make sense?"
"I suppose," Draco allows. "You're saying that it's easier for you to imagine that two people could go through the same exact thing, but choose differently because of who they are as people, rather than choose the same because of the situation itself."
Harry bobs his head. "Precisely. There has to be a difference, you know. For example, if someone tried to kill me, because of who I am as a person, I wouldn't run away. If someone tried to kill you, because of who you are, you would. I don't think either is right or wrong, I just think that situations are influenced by the people in them, that's all."
"Perhaps." Draco inclines his head, considering that seriously. "We are different, yes. I still think I'm right as well, however. Different as we may be, we'd react the same if someone were to, say, try and kill Vellevita, wouldn't we? Or, something smaller, even. If someone bumped into us right now, we'd brush it off and continue on our way. I think we're both right. It depends on the person and the situation. So, in a way, measuring a person is pointless without first understanding the circumstance that they were in, because no matter who someone is, they may find themselves doing things differently in certain situations. Does that make sense?"
"It does. Hm. So, what it all boils down to is, life is full of surprises and things are going to happen no matter what, so we may as well just try to do our best along the way."
"I would say so, yes."
"Lovely," Harry says, visibly amused.
Draco smiles at him. "I think we've done well so far, excusing a few...missteps."
"Yeah," Harry agrees softly, "I think so, too."
The conversation ends as they make it to Narcissa and Lucius, who pause in their conversation with Mr. Parkinson—who may as well be a ghost for all the impact he has in Pureblood society. The man rarely leaves his mansion, honestly, and he saw Pansy only a handful of times throughout her childhood, leaving Mrs. Parkinson to handle absolutely everything from the money, to the reputation of the name, to their own daughter. It's very rare for him to be here, but even still, Narcissa and Lucius take their attention away from him without a moment of hesitation.
"You're leaving?" Narcissa asks.
"It's late," Draco says.
Lucius hums. "No reason to stay?"
"I've done all I've come to do," Draco replies with a quick nod, receiving a nod in return. "Come see us and your granddaughter off, if you'd like."
"Of course we'd like," Narcissa murmurs. She offers a small, pretty smile to Mr. Parkinson. "Excuse us, Cassius. We'll return shortly."
The next twenty minutes pass in a flurry of activity. Vellevita is pleased to be leaving, so she rushes through greeting and saying goodbye to her grandparents. She allows Lucius to, very briefly, dote on her and interrogate a very intimidated Faron, then she smoothly and sweetly distracts him with practiced ease. Narcissa flutters and titters over Harry and Draco, hugging them and kissing their cheeks, then gets away with pressing a fleeting kiss to Vellevita's cheek.
And then, they're all going home.
It is late, but Harry insists on everyone getting comfortable in pajamas and meeting into the kitchen for tea and something to snack on. They crowd around the table, talking amongst themselves. It's the first time Faron relaxes since Lucius glared at him. Poor sod.
After, Vellevita asks if she and Faron can stay up a bit in her room because they're talking about wand lore again and she wants to show him her most recent painting. Draco doesn't think twice about it, waving them off and leaving them to it. Faron has already been instructed to sleep in the guest room they've made up with magic—a cupboard that Harry expanded and filled with proper furniture, all with a sardonic smile that Draco understood. Sleeping in cupboards as a child with no magic would make that entire process a bit ironic, admittedly.
It will last for twenty-four hours, so Faron won't wake up in a tiny cupboard, but Harry still frowns about it a little. Draco can't stop the pulse of something sad and pitiful in his chest at the sight of his husband refusing to step foot inside cupboards without first expanding the walls.
It's all that trauma. Draco wants to murder those Muggles, he really does.
Instead, Draco shuts him and Harry in their room together and lets Harry shag him about it, losing himself to Draco's body and forgetting about the bad memories that he never really shakes. They both have them. Draco already knows from Harry's mood that he's going to be waking up in the middle of the night from Harry having a nightmare. It's fine. They both struggle with that problem, but they're old hats at knowing how to handle it.
He nearly drifts off to sleep when Harry does, but he forcefully drags himself out of bed to make sure the children are settled. It's well past midnight now, so he fully expects Vellevita to be asleep and Faron to be tucked cozily in the guest room.
Instead, he sees that there is some light shimmering underneath Vellevita's door. He can't help but smile. They're good friends, wanting to stay up all night and talk, even when they have to be up in the morning to go join the Spencers for breakfast. Draco remembers what that was like, wanting to waste away the late night hours just to be around his favorite people—his friends and his future husband.
Faron has never stayed overnight at their flat. He has come over before, however. It's good for Vellevita, really. They've become even closer since she figured out how to write him letters last summer. She still writes letters, but now it's to her Mind Healer, who she only gets to have sessions with during breaks from Hogwarts and the summer.
Draco and Harry don't bother her about her Mind Healer, especially after she told them that she preferred to keep it all private. Draco trusts that the Mind Healer will reach out to them if it's necessary, and they've met her a couple of times to be reassured about the whole thing.
Vellevita isn't really that different. She's not sad anymore, though, so that's all that matters. Faron is good for her. She was right back to being blunt and harsh once they stopped fighting. It's important for her to have a friend, and Draco fully trusts that Faron is someone who will do good by his daughter.
He is thinking this, right up until he opens the door with all intentions of scaring Faron a little, only to see his daughter—his lovely, expressionless, rude, touch-averse, disinclined-to-Real-Emotions, and unromantic daughter—in the midst of snogging her best friend, Faron Spencer.
This. This is.
This is why Draco should knock.
For a split second, he's frozen in the doorway. He can't even react. His mind completely shuts down. It's obvious that Faron is just as surprised as him. He is in the middle of flailing, the end of a shocked noise tapering off. Vellevita is holding him by his face, completely handling everything, taking control like this is her plan.
It's very—well, it's clinical, even for two teenagers who shouldn't be very good at it. Vellevita is clearly treating it as something to do, rather than something she couldn't stop herself from doing. But that's just as quickly changing in front of his eyes. Draco can see her softening into it, can track the easy progression of her doing it for some reason only she knows to her actually enjoying it, can watch it all happen and unfurl right before him. He can even see Faron melt into it, hesitant hands landing on her hips to drag her closer, and—and—
No.
No, absolutely fucking not. Clarity does not exist in this moment. He should, perhaps, keep in mind that Faron is likely an innocent party in this, but he can't really make sense of that right now. In an instant, he goes from blank to enraged because his daughter is being snogged.
"Just what do you think you're doing?!" Draco shouts, his voice sharp and icy.
Faron practically falls all over himself to disentangle from Vellevita with a squeak, his eyes bulging in horror as he looks at Draco like his death is rapidly approaching. Vellevita blinks once, twice, a third time, and then she licks her lips and makes a thoughtful expression, not looking properly frightened in the least.
"You didn't knock," she says to him in sincere disapproval, like now is the time for it.
"It's a damn good thing I didn't!" Draco hisses, only vaguely aware that he's shouting. "Have you two gone mad?! Out! Out, right now! On the sofa, the both of you. HARRY!"
Draco marches Vellevita and Faron out of the room, jabbing a finger towards the sofa where they both sit. Faron whimpers when Vellevita lowers herself right next to him, unperturbed. Draco knows that his eye is twitching, knows that he's tapping his foot, knows that his wand is out and vibrating in his hand. In this moment, he feels like he could absolutely commit murder.
Harry comes stumbling out of the hall a few moments later, blinking sleep out of his eyes, his hair a mess and his glasses askew. Seeing him only tempers Draco's anger a small bit.
"What's wrong?" Harry asks gruffly.
"Tell him," Draco snaps, pointing his wand at Vellevita with narrowed eyes.
Vellevita's face doesn't so much as twitch. "Dad, I was in the middle of snogging Faron when Father burst in without knocking and made a scene about it."
"You—" Harry blinks rapidly, seeming to take that in. Panic flashes across his face as he, too, realizes that they're apparently going to have to deal with hormones in regards to their daughter, despite what they previously thought. "Ah, that's—oh no."
"What?" Vellevita looks between them with her version of a frown, just the tiniest downward curl of her lip and the smallest crinkle between her eyebrows. "I don't understand. What is it?"
Harry takes in a deep breath, eyes fluttering closed, then he slowly, slowly exhales. He does it once more, then once again, and finally, the dishes in the kitchen stop rattling. Draco didn't even realize that they started, but...ah, well, it's nice to know that they're both suitably angry about this.
"Just snogging?" Harry grits out, eyes snapping open and landing on Faron.
Faron shrinks back. "Y-Yes, s-sir. I didn't even know that she was g-going to—ah, I m-mean—"
Harry frowns, focusing on Vellevita next. "You snogged him? He didn't—it wasn't him that started it?" he asks stiffly.
"I started it," Vellevita says plainly. "I wanted to know what all the fuss was about. Besides, I'm going to marry him one day, so who better than him to try it out with, right?"
Faron makes a low, choking noise, head whipping towards her with wide eyes. He looks stunned and sort of enamored as he wheezes, "Married?"
"Yes," Vellevita replies evenly.
"She's been saying that since she was eleven," Draco mutters, staring at Faron in confusion. "I thought that you knew. Did she never tell you?"
"No," Faron whispers.
"Vellevita," Harry says sharply. "You can't just—"
"It's fine," Faron interrupts quickly, then makes another shocked sound, as if he's stunned that he just so rudely cut Harry off. He shrinks back further when all eyes turn to him. "I just—I mean, she sort of did tell me in her own Vellevita way, now that I think about it. She has been saying since we were eleven that we'd—that she and I would, ah, spend our lives together. I assumed she meant as friends. I didn't even know she liked people!"
"I do not," Vellevita tells him.
"I—Vellevita, it sort of seems like you do," Faron mumbles warily. "You, er, snogged me. That suggests you might...fancy me."
Vellevita eyes him shrewdly. She cocks her head to the side. "No, I just tolerate you more easily than everyone else. That's why you're the only person I'll marry. Don't you know that?"
"Oh, bloody hell," Harry whispers.
"Yeah, I—I know," Faron says with a sigh that borders on fond. His lips twitch. "That's not a good reason to marry someone, though."
"That's the best reason," Vellevita argues. "I'd kill anyone else I tried to spend my life with, but I can't ever imagine killing you."
Draco is struck with the sudden horror that his daughter is in love. Her version of it, anyway. She is, she actually is. It's clear as day, right in front of him, that she had fallen in love with Faron in her very First Year and has been in love ever since, that she's in love with him currently, enough to snog him.
"Vellevita," Faron says, drawing himself up, no doubt trying to be very firm.
"Faron," Vellevita replies, calm and expressionless as always.
Faron deflates, a smile flashing across his face as he shakes his head. "Yeah, alright, sure. You hate me less than everyone else and don't want to murder me. Very sweet. Practically romantic, for you. I know what it means, at least, even if you don't."
"And what's that?" Vellevita asks.
"It means you fancy me," Faron says cheerfully, and bloody hell, he's right. When Vellevita opens her mouth to argue, he reaches over and pats her hand, something he would not have the bravery to do without the recent knowledge that she fancies him. It makes her shut her mouth and stare down at his hand, distracted. "It's alright. I get it now. You know, I fancy you, too. Always have, I think. That's why I didn't want Ivan to take you to Hogsmeade, really. Sorry about that."
"I have forgiven you for it," Vellevita replies, looking up to scan his face. "I do feel bad for you now, though. You're under the impression that I—well, I don't, Faron. Truly. But, if it makes it easier, you can believe what you like."
"Mhm, sure," Faron says, "if you say so."
"It's late," Harry says softly, heaving a sigh. Faron snatches his hand away from Vellevita, clearly having forgotten their presence for a moment. Harry just reaches out to rub a hand down Draco's arm. "I have decided that we are all going to bed. Now. Faron, if you so much as step a toe into Vellevita's room, I will ensure that you lose whatever limb dares to cross her threshold. Vellevita, you are not to go into Faron's room tonight, and don't think we won't have alarms in place to let us know if you try. In the morning, we'll discuss this...situation with Faron's parents as well. Now, up, both of you."
What proceeds is a very chastised Faron shuffling off to the guest room and a less suitably chastised Vellevita tonelessly telling everyone goodnight before disappearing into her room. Harry wanders off to put up the proper alarm Charms, unwilling to take any chances. Draco slinks off to their room.
For a while, he just sits on their bed, staring into the middle distance. A part of him is shrieking in denial, refusing to admit that his daughter is in love. She's only just sixteen. It's too soon, it's—it's—
It's very hypocritical of him, is what it is.
At sixteen years old, he and Harry were sleeping in the same bed and struggling not to shag at every available opportunity. For him to be so upset is truly ridiculous, considering his own history with hormones and love. It's different when it's his child, though. He wonders how Narcissa and Lucius ever managed to stand it, what he and Harry got up to, and then he remembers that they didn't have a choice. They couldn't interfere without the Dark Lord swooping in to either punish them or kill them, and Draco can't imagine being powerless that way in regards to his own child.
It's cruel irony to see the situation from a parent's perspective now. He has the most absurd urge to reach out to his parents and apologize. He won't, of course, but the impulse is there.
When Harry returns, Draco stares at him while he climbs into his side of the bed with a heavy sigh. They both lay back, turning towards each other in the dim light, staring at each other.
"She loves him," Draco whispers.
"I know," Harry says softly.
Draco groans pitifully. "How didn't we see this coming? How did we miss it?"
"I didn't think it was possible," Harry murmurs. "I didn't—she always seemed to hate any sort of love, especially romantic. But...yeah, how did we miss it? She's been saying since she was eleven that she was going to marry him. That was a pretty big clue. How the fuck did we ignore that?"
"Wishful thinking," Draco replies sadly.
Harry snorts weakly and reaches out to tangle their fingers together. "Yeah, I suppose so. I'm not—I can't say I'm too upset about it. Faron is a good kid."
"He's a Hufflepuff."
"Draco, stop it."
"Fine, fine, he's...not so bad," Draco admits, the words escaping him pained. "That doesn't mean I want him anywhere near our daughter."
"You're being protective, and it's cute, really, but you know it's not substantial."
"Don't be sensible with me right now."
"Seriously, Draco," Harry insists, his voice softening a little, "we have to—we can't be all-powerful dads about this. She should get to experience love."
Draco sighs, his eyes fluttering shut. "I know. Merlin, I know. I just—"
"It's alright. It frightens me, too," Harry says.
"If he breaks her heart…" Draco trails off, hurt by the mere thought of it.
"I don't think he will," Harry says hesitantly. "He understands her better than most people do, almost as much as we do, if not more, maybe. They've been friends for a long time, Draco. Years. If we're going to trust anyone with her, it would be him and you know that. I know you do."
"I do know," Draco agrees. He thinks about how easily he has trusted Faron with Vellevita this entire time. "Still, if he does hurt her and she decides to murder him, we will support her."
Harry hums. "Of course."
"Merlin," Draco mutters, "we're going to have to let them date, aren't we?"
"I believe so," Harry admits, seemingly amused by his annoyance. "Jim and Shirley will be pleased, at least. They adore Vellevita. She has been manipulating them to love her for years."
"She has." Draco pauses, then frowns. "You don't think it's because she really has been planning to marry him since she was eleven, do you?"
"I do think that, yes," Harry says. "It seems impossible that she knew a day like this would eventually come, but...well, that's what it seems like. She didn't want them to be an obstacle. From only eleven. That's sort of terrifying, isn't it?"
"She's Vellevita, so yes," Draco murmurs.
Harry clears his throat. "Eventually, Faron will come to us with a request, you do realize?"
"Merlin, Harry, shut up."
"I'm just saying. He will. You can't be like your father about it."
Draco huffs, leaning forward to knock his forehead against Harry's mouth, getting the kiss there that he wants. "I know, I know. Just—just leave it. I don't want to think about it yet."
"Our daughter is growing up," Harry whispers.
"I know," Draco says softly, mournfully.
The sight of Daphne snogging Hermione in his sitting room—while Ron watches with a glazed look in his eyes—is not one that Draco is prepared to see first thing in the morning. He had a long night at St. Mungos, so he's already getting a late start. This is not at all what he wants to wake up to.
"Why?" is Draco's first question, spoken in honest despair, cracking in his raspy voice.
Honestly, though. Why? What did he ever do to deserve this? It's nice that his friends feel comfortable showing up to his flat, it really is. He'll never actually admit it out loud, but there is something warm and fulfilling and safe about the fact that people he considers family can come and go as they please. There's not a war on, his home swings wildly between being private and a hub of activity, and he likes it that way.
Even still, he does not want to wake up first thing in the morning and see friends snogging on the settee.
"Morning, prat," Ron greets goodnaturedly, glancing up at him with a lazy grin. "S'bout time you woke up, eh? We've been here for ages."
"Got bored, did you?" Draco grumbles, jerking his chin towards Hermione and Daphne. "That's no reason to shag on my blasted furniture."
Hermione extracts herself from Daphne with a small, breathless laugh. Her eyes are bright when she glances at him. "Oh, don't be silly, Draco. We weren't going to shag. No, Daphne just gave me some wonderful news, that's all. She talked a client into donating to the new project in the Ministry."
"Ah," Draco says, nodding his head, "that's that, then. You can count on my galleons, of course."
"Of course," Daphne agrees, sounding amused.
"Draco, you really shouldn't just promise your money away without first knowing where it's going to," Hermione lectures with her severe frown. "I expect it out of Harry, really, but I thought you'd be a little more cautious. You don't even know what the project is about!"
Draco shrugs and moves into the kitchen, starting the coffee. "Don't really need to know, do I? You and Pansy are for it, so we are as well, naturally."
"You can't just blindly trust us," Hermione says with a huff, her hair getting fluffier and her eyes getting more slitted in that way that suggests she's about ten seconds from going on a tangent.
"If it was anyone but you, I wouldn't," Draco soothes her with his sweetest smile. "I have no reason to be worried where you're involved, do I? You'd never take advantage of me."
Ron snorts. "She most certainly would."
"Alright, fair enough, but she wouldn't take advantage of Harry," Draco amends, waving a hand carelessly. "In any case, it doesn't matter, does it? I've got more money than I know what to do with, so take a crack at it all you like. Want some, Ron? You might find some spare galleons in the cushions."
"Piss off, you knob," Ron mutters, rolling his eyes. "I don't need your money. At the rate my wives bring it home, I'll be richer than you soon."
"Darling, that's quite literally impossible," Daphne says, shaking her head. "The Malfoy fortune went unmatched before any of the Potter money was sworn in. We could make the same amount of money at a triple rate, and we'd still never catch up in four lifetimes. Draco's a Healer, too, so he's only adding to his vault. Sincerely, he and Harry could do with losing some money. They wouldn't even notice."
"It's true," Draco confirms. "Also, don't sound so irritated about it. Harry and I throw our money to many good causes as often as we're able. It's not our fault that we're rich, you know."
"What good causes?" Hermione asks sharply, watching him with narrowed eyes. "This is what I'm talking about! Do you have any idea how many charities at the Ministry are corrupt? Pansy and I have been doing our best, but we can't cut them all off! You need to watch where you're sending your money, Draco, honestly."
Draco rolls his eyes. "Settle down, Hermione. I'm careful about it. Out of everyone, I would know where to look for corruption, wouldn't I? A lot of those corrupt charities were started by my own father, in case you've forgotten."
"Oh. Right," Hermione says sheepishly.
"Where's Harry?" Ron asks, craning his head like he can summon his best mate just by looking down the hallway hard enough.
"Asleep, still," Draco answers, flicking his wand to send his mug sailing to the counter. He idly begins making his coffee. "He got a letter last night that put him in a mood. He said he'd tell me later, but I suspect he's going to put it off. Ask him about it, would you? It might piss him off enough to tell me about it sooner."
"One of his Muggle-borns, I'll bet," Ron muses, heaving a sigh. "He gets himself all tied up about them, doesn't he? Oi, bring me some coffee, would you? Tea for the ladies, they prefer it."
"You know where my kitchen is," Draco replies scathingly. "All the times you've raided my pantry, I won't indulge your laziness."
"Ron, be a love," Daphne says softly.
"A bit of honey in my tea, please," Hermione says, reaching up to touch her throat. "I've a tickle."
Ron readily jumps up for them, without even complaining, and he starts banging around the kitchen like it's his own. "Anyway, he's had a lot of his Muggle-borns graduate, hasn't he? Maybe one of them is reaching out and asking for help. Could be one of the younger ones, too. Sometimes, the things those Muggle parents say infuriates me."
"You say that as if you're not a very angry person," Draco says sarcastically.
"Oi, I've been calm for years," Ron retorts in offense, and in his defense, he really has been. He's gotten even calmer and more relaxed after quitting being an Auror to look after Rose and Hugo.
Draco blinks, looking around the room and suddenly taking note of the lack of toddlers. "Where are Rose and Hugo, by the way?"
"With my Mum," Ron tells him, dipping his pinky in his coffee and popping it in his mouth for a quick taste. He wrinkles his nose and reaches for more sugar. "She's having all the kids not at Hogwarts over. You know how she gets about them. She did mention it was a shame that Vellevita, Teddy, and Ronan aren't around."
"Vellevita is currently taking her O.W.L.s," Draco mutters, ignoring it when Ron grimaces in open sympathy. "She's not at all worried, of course, but she has written that she's annoyed with everyone else acting ridiculous about it."
"Sounds like her," Ron says cheerfully.
"She told me Faron cried last week."
"Not faring well, then?"
Draco sends him an arch look. "Not quite. I have no idea what she sees in him. He's a Hufflepuff."
"Nothing wrong with a Hufflepuff," Ron declares, waving him off as he flicks his wand and floats two cups of tea to his wives—deep in conversation on the settee, and they don't even look up when they reach out to take their tea. "He's always been a good kid, hasn't he? Harry popped over a few months ago in a right state about it. Little girl growing up and all that. Hermione thought it was hilarious."
"Just you wait until Rose grows up," Draco mutters sourly, sipping his bitter coffee.
Ron goes pale, glancing at him warily. "Don't joke about it, please. If she could stay small and sweet like this forever, I really wouldn't mind."
"That's not how it works," Draco says. "One day, they're small and far off from being grown. Next thing you know, you look up and they're tall, older, more mature. They don't even need you anymore."
"Rather depressing, that," Ron mumbles, shooting him a frown. "Oh, bloody hell, you've gone all sad about it. Just adopt again, why don't you?"
Draco chokes on a swallow of his coffee.
"Harry!" Hermione cries happily as the man in question comes stumbling from the hall, still half-asleep, rubbing his creased cheek.
"Morning, H'mione," Harry rasps, blinking and squinting around at everyone. "What're you all doing in my flat?"
"I live here," Draco drawls, hiding a small smile when Harry flips two fingers at him.
Daphne hums. "We thought we'd pop over for a quick visit while we didn't have the twins. Ron and I even talked Hermione into pretending to be sick so she didn't have to go into the Ministry today."
"Nicely done," Harry says in approval. He moves into the kitchen, taking the coffee Draco has made him with a hum of gratitude. "You're lovely."
"I know," Draco replies.
"Draco's mentioned that you got a letter," Hermione says innocently, watching him curiously. "Ron suspects it might be one of your Muggle-borns."
"You're not lovely," Harry mutters.
"I know," Draco replies.
Harry grunts and ignores them all for a moment, drinking his coffee. When he sits the mug down, he scowls. "No, it's just—"
He doesn't say anything else, pushing a hand through his hair in frustration. Draco can immediately tell that this is something serious. It's in the set of his jaw, the crease of his eyebrows, the shadow in his eyes. Draco knows him too well, knows what he looks like when something is really and truly getting to him.
"Alright," Draco says sharply, "everyone out. The visit has been lovely, but you can all go home now."
To their credit, they don't complain. That's how it always is with everyone. Just because people feel at home in his flat doesn't mean they aren't aware of boundaries. When they're dismissed, they go.
Hermione does stop by to give Harry a long hug that he accepts, but then they're all gone. Draco gives Harry a moment, busying himself with Vanishing the tea and coffee that Ron, Hermione, and Daphne barely got to drink. Once he has the cups washed, dried, and put away, he glances at Harry.
"I don't want to talk about it," Harry tells him.
Draco sighs and moves over to lean on the counter beside him, staring at him. "It seems like you need to talk about it. Might be best to get it out of the way."
"It's just—it's—" Harry makes a small sound of frustration, shaking his head. "You'll think I'm being ridiculous, Draco."
"Probably," Draco agrees. "You're always a little ridiculous, Harry, no surprise there. Go on."
"My Aunt Petunia," Harry says stiffly, "she reached out to me for—for my cousin, Dudley. You remember me telling you about him, don't you?"
"I do," Draco murmurs.
Harry huffs and glares down at his coffee. "I haven't spoken to any of them in years, of course, but Aunt Petunia knows how to use an owl, apparently. I suppose Dudley had to beg her for help. She didn't seem particularly pleased to be writing me on his behalf, in any case."
"What did they want?" Draco asks.
"Dudley's got himself a little girl," Harry murmurs, blowing out a deep breath. "She's magic."
"Ah," Draco says with sudden understanding, raising his eyebrows. "They want your help."
"Dudley does." Harry nods, sitting his cup down, staring at it listlessly. "Aunt Petunia seemed sour about it in the letter, but he must have insisted."
Draco purses his lips, resisting the urge to encourage Harry to go murder the dreadful Muggles. The urge is there, but he knows better. Best to let Harry figure this one out. "So," he says, "what do you want to do about it?"
"Nothing," Harry whispers, his gaze downcast in shame. "Isn't that horrible, Draco? I don't want to do anything about it. I want to ignore it. I want them to—to struggle, and I want—"
"It's not horrible," Draco argues. "It's normal. It's what they get, isn't it? All those years being horrid to you, hating magic…serves them right, I think. But, Harry, when you say them, you don't mean the little girl. I know you don't."
Harry shakes his head. "No, I don't. You're right about that. It's—she isn't at fault."
"So," Draco says softly.
"So," Harry replies, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. "You'll come with me, won't you?"
Draco smiles. "Of course."
Dudley Dursley is a broad man with full, rosy cheeks, pinched features that soften when he smiles, and a round middle that he taps with his hand every single time he laughs, which is often.
In short, Dudley isn't what Draco is expecting. After years of hearing Harry talk about his relatives—the few times that he would—he truly expected someone a bit more mean-spirited and thick. By the way Harry blinks in a dazed state, he clearly was as well.
"It's been a right minute, innit?" Dudley chirps happily as he waves Harry and Draco into his house—a warm little spot of a place with color marks all over the walls, little kid drawings, the backyard alight with the sound of a dog barking, faint scent of something warm and sweet coming from further in the house. The place is decidedly Muggle, and it's surprisingly loud—there is the sound of the telly-box that Draco still has a fascination with to this day, as well as the distant sound of running from another room. Dudley doesn't seem bothered, turning to grin at Harry with something shockingly like delight. "Years, I'd say. All grown up now, aren't ya?"
"Right," Harry says with an awkward laugh, reaching back to rub at his head. "You, er, look well, Dudley. Nice place you've got."
"Eh, I've been here for years. Rounding 'bout nine now. I've just got the pies on, if you want to come into the kitchen," Dudley tells them, still smiling with the distinct ease of someone who does it every day. He nods at them over his wide shoulders, fixing a look at Draco. "Who's this, then, Harry? That roommate of yours you mentioned way back? God, it's been over a decade now, hasn't it?"
Harry coughs. "It has been, yeah. And yes, this is that roommate I mentioned. Boyfriend, actually. Well, we're married now, in any case."
"Draco Malfoy-Potter," Draco adds, drawling the words into sarcasm, arching an eyebrow.
"A posh one, isn't he?" Dudley asks, glancing at Harry in undeniable amusement. "Never took you for the type to be into those, but eh, I s'pose I didn't really get the time to get to know you. Shame, that. Nice to meecha, Draco. Tea?"
"Charmed," Draco says, flatly.
"Be nice," Harry hisses in his ear as they enter the kitchen through the swinging door. There are two rows of notches carved into it, measuring of some sort. It seems barbaric to Draco, but Harry doesn't even bat an eye at it. "Cheers, Dudley."
"Got married. Can't believe it," Dudley says as he moves over to his oven and pulls the two lovely smelling pies out. He barely sits them down before he's making for the kettle. "We really did grow up, didn't we? I went the marriage route myself, I did. Lovely thing, being married, isn't it? Absolutely dreadful for headaches, though."
Harry snorts. "Yeah, that's about right. You've married, then? A wife?"
"Sure did," Dudley says, his smile softer. He nearly drops the tea cup, then busts out laughing. "Bugger. I've got shite balance these days. All that football I've been coaching, gives me the damn shakes. The little tykes forget which goal posts to go for."
"You're a coach?" Harry asks, surprised.
Dudley clicks his tongue. "Just for fun. Daisy's been headed for the leagues since she could walk. Always took off running, even in her nappies. Real athletic, that one. I do some coaching on some off-time from work. Bloody bit more fun than finances."
"You're in finances?" Harry blinks, looking even more surprised. "You?"
"I know what you're getting at, but college knocked all that thickness right out of my head," Dudley tells him with a wry grin, seemingly not offended that Harry's questioning his intelligence. "You learn to study the right way, it's not so hard to figure out. Anyway, numbers are simple, aren't they? There's only one real right answer. Dad was proud, o'course. S'nough for me, getting him to shove off."
"Not a fan of your father either, are you?" Draco mutters as he takes the tea Dudley passes to him. He cocks his head, smiling sweetly. "Don't tell me, was it his overbearing demands from you, or did you happen to come to your senses when you stopped being thick and realize what a piece of scum he was? Couldn't be hard to figure out, after all. You'd only need to remember Harry's childhood."
Draco sips his tea as Harry heaves a deep sigh and Dudley blinks at him. There's a long beat of uncomfortable silence that Draco relishes in perhaps a bit too much. Good, let him be uncomfortable. He should be. He's lucky Draco hasn't hexed him, or worse.
"Yeah, a bit of both," Dudley finally replies, apparently taking this in stride. He turns a sheepish smile towards Harry. "Bit easier to understand when you've got children of your own."
"Children," Harry says, practically leaping on the chance to change the subject. "You've got more than one? Aunt Petunia only mentioned Daisy."
Dudley sighs. "Just like her, I suppose. She said she didn't want you meeting Grove, but she's got no right to tell me what to do with my own kids. Grove's nine, you see. Been having a rough go of it lately, 'specially since Daisy got her Hogwarts letter. He knows he's not Magic, so he's...well. In any case, Mum isn't helping. I don't want her help. She hasn't been the same with Daisy since—you know."
"Yeah, I do know," Harry says quietly. He glances down with a small frown, then straightens up and clears his throat. "Grove could be late with showing signs of Magic, so don't count it out yet, yeah? How's your wife taking all this?"
"I imagine it would have been a right shock," Dudley replies with a small, fond smile. He looks off to the side, gaze distant and warm. After a beat, he chuckles and glances back at Harry. "She'd have been brilliant about it, I think. No way of knowing, now. She passed away in a car accident two years ago. It's why Grove is—the change with Daisy is making it a bit harder for him, is all."
Harry opens his mouth, then closes it, pure shock flashing through his eyes. He blinks, then instantly looks sad, the soft-hearted idiot. "I'm sorry to hear about your wife, Dudley."
"S'alright, everyone always is," Dudley replies with a calm shrug. "Was a right mess over it for a while, honestly, but I had to keep it together for the kids. They're the reason I live and breathe, you know. I try my best, and if I know anything about the best for Daisy, it's got to be you, isn't it? Always a bit fancy with that stick of yours. I knew you'd know all about it, so I made Mum get in touch with you. Hope you don't mind, and if you do, thank you anyway."
"No, I don't mind," Harry says quickly, and it's likely not even a lie anymore, knowing him. "Actually, it's basically what I do for a career anyway. I have classes and such, if you're interested. Grove can come, too. I encourage it. Even if he's not magical, he should be involved. It just causes issues between siblings otherwise."
Dudley laughs loudly, patting his stomach. "Oh, know that honest, don't you? Between Mum, Dad, and me...you would know. Bloody hell, I was a right snot to you, wasn't I? Mum and Dad were worse. It wasn't right, what they did, raising you up in a cupboard like that, treated no better than a—"
"Dudley," Harry cuts in, "I don't really fancy talking about it, yeah? All in the past, mate."
"Uh huh. Don't suspect it is, but I have some tact these days. Pam—my wife—always complained that I didn't." Dudley shoots a wary glance at Draco, huffing a weak laugh. "Mind telling your husband to stop trying to murder me with his eyes, Harry? Wouldn't want to scar the kids."
"Draco," Harry snaps, "stop it."
"This is just my face," Draco informs Dudley, cool and sharp and flat.
Dudley makes an unsure sound, but waves Harry off when he winces in apology. "It's alright. Suppose I've earned a bit of that. All the Harry-hunting I got up to. I'd have beat Pam's old bullies bloody given half the chance, honest."
"Ah," Harry says, light and amused, "well, Draco has no right. There might have been a time, long ago, that you two would have bonded over how much you two enjoyed bullying me."
"Is that right?" Dudley asks, raising his eyebrows.
Draco hums. "Yes. It seems you took over for making Harry's life miserable over the summer. Me from the ages eleven to fifteen thank you. Me from sixteen and on do not."
"Oi, I didn't see Harry after he was sixteen! I didn't get to bully him then, seeing as he never came home. Was a bit worried about you, actually," Dudley says, glancing at Harry with a surprisingly serious look on his face. "I was rather thick back then, but I know now I was worried, in any case. Mum said you died. I got into a couple of rows with her about it because I refused to accept it."
"Why?" Harry asks, astonished.
Dudley shrugs. "You're my cousin, and you were always there. Even if I was taught not to like you and to treat you badly, I always thought of you as family. My strange, shameful cousin, but still my cousin."
"Lovely," Draco scoffs. "How sweet."
"Shut up, prat," Harry says sharply. "It sort of is."
Draco rolls his eyes, but he bites his tongue. In his very righteous and humble opinion, Harry shouldn't be so soft about this. He thinks it would be perfectly acceptable if Harry Cursed Dudley all through the house for being a little prick—not that he has very much room to talk, in that regard, but he's never cared about double standards unless it suited him. At this moment, they do not, so he simply pretends they don't exist. Dudley once hurt Harry, and those awful Muggles did things that still affect him to this day, so in Draco's mind, they all ought to be taught many, perhaps painful lessons.
But that's not in Harry's nature. He's the forgiving type, and honestly, thank Merlin he is, or Draco wouldn't even be here to be fussy about it. Besides, Harry's funny about family, even at this age, and Dudley is an actual, biological blood relative. It'll make Harry happy if they could get on, even if he'd never admit it out loud.
Draco can still glare at Dudley and be vaguely threatening, though. Harry will pretend to be annoyed by it, but Draco knows that he'll secretly love him being so protective on his behalf.
"Give me one tick," Dudley says, holding up one meaty finger and lumbering for the door. He sticks his head out and yells, "GROVE, DAISY, COME MEET YOUR UNCLE HARRY!"
Harry's eyes are suspiciously bright for a second at that title, but he ducks his head and sips his tea. By the time he glances up, clearing his throat, he looks completely calm, even as the sound of pounding feet approach the door. Dudley backs up, moving over to the pies, cutting them.
Daisy comes barreling into the room with Grove right on her heels, the both of them looking properly excited in the way kids do when there's something new happening. Draco surveys them for a second. Daisy is clearly older, wearing her hair in pigtails and dressed in pajamas with horses on them, despite the fact that it's in the middle of the day. Grove, on the other hand, is younger and wearing a jumper and crass jeans with holes in them, though it appears that the holes are on purpose.
"We have a new uncle?" Daisy blurts out, her eyes immediately landing on Harry and Draco with delight, thin lips parting in surprised.
"Did Mummy have a brother we didn't know about?" Grove asks, frowning.
Dudley chuckles. "No, Grove, he's my cousin. Grew up with him, though, like your mum did with your Uncle Wesley."
"Hi," Harry says, offering an awkward wave.
Grove squints suspiciously at his father. "I thought you said your cousin ran off to be a Rockstar."
Harry makes a choking sound as Dudley explodes into laughter, tapping his stomach again. "Oh, shite, I did say that, didn't I?"
"Penny for the jar!" Daisy cries, pointing at Dudley with a gleam in her eye. "Dad, you said a filthy word again! You'll have to wash your mouth out with soap by the end of the week if you keep this up!"
"Shite, you're right," Dudley mutters, then grimaces and tosses up his hand. "Ah, there I go again. Alright, alright, Daisy, that's two pennies."
"Are you really a Rockstar?" Grove asks Harry, staring at him with wide eyes.
"I never said he was a Rockstar, Grove, christ," Dudley says with a snort. "I said he was famous, and you assumed that's what I meant. In any case, he was famous the last I heard of it. How's that going Harry? Still a big name in your world?"
"More than I like," Harry admits.
"What're you famous for?" Grove asks, apparently enamored by Harry's status.
"Ah, nothing too important," Harry says with a small laugh. He shrugs slightly. "Something my parents did, long ago."
Grove frowns. "So, if you're not a Rockstar touring the world, how come you're never come round for Christmas or anything?"
"Don't be silly, Grove," Dudley cuts in easily. "How could your Uncle Harry come for a visit if he didn't even know where we were? I only reached out to him recently. He's Magic, you know."
"Really?" Daisy squeaks, eyes widening.
"Oh," Grove says softly, retreating almost immediately, looking away with twisted lips and a flash of anger in his eyes.
Harry clears his throat. "That's right. I'm a Wizard."
"And who is that?" Daisy asks, pointing at Draco.
"Er," Harry says awkwardly, glancing at Dudley.
"That's Uncle Harry's husband," Dudley tells her, not even looking up from his pies. He's taking portions out and wrapping them in separate containers. "His name is Draco."
"Hi, Uncle Draco," Daisy and Grove murmur.
Draco works to keep his face smooth. Somewhere, deep inside him, something is rioting at the fact that he's being addressed as an Uncle to this family. Most of them are Muggles.
Old prejudice flares up sometimes, no matter how hard he tries to stop it. He's talked to Hermione about it, half-hoping she would scold him and hate him for it. She'd always said that the first, worst thoughts someone has doesn't define them; it's the corrections they make to those thoughts that do, or the lack of remedy. If he lets the thoughts go unchecked, he's worse off for it.
So, for a split second, Draco has to give himself a stern lesson on how to not be a prat and stop letting the old, useless things he was taught growing up feel so much like instinct. Who honestly cares? Muggle or not, they're people—very important people, in fact, to someone who is important to Draco.
"Hello, Daisy. Hello, Grove," Draco replies calmly, once he's sure that he's unraveled all the ridiculous thoughts that pop first thing into his mind, even though it's wrong and he knows it.
"Are you a Rockstar?" Grove asks hopefully.
"I don't actually know what that is," Draco admits.
Grove stares at him in horror. "Are you joking?"
"I'm afraid not," Draco tells him.
"Dad, Dad," Grove hisses, turning to stare at Dudley with wide eyes, "can I show him my collection? You have to let me show him! What's good being Magic if you don't know what a Rockstar is?!"
"That's up to him, Grove," Dudley says.
"Come with me, Uncle Draco," Grove declares immediately, turning to him with a very serious, strangely pitying look. "Wouldn't want to be a Wizard if I had to go without knowing The Kooks. You do know Queen, right?"
"The Queen?" Draco asks uncertainly, slowly standing up as Harry watches him in amusement. "Never met her, but I hear she's real."
"Kiss?" Grove stares at him in despair. "Arcade Fire? Arctic Monkeys? Bowie? Led Zeppelin? Uncle Draco, you have to be joking."
"I am not," Draco says.
Grove scowls at Daisy. "Do you see? Look at what you'll be missing out on."
"You'll just catch me up," Daisy says, unbothered.
"No, if you want to go to that stupid school all year, then you'll just go without any good music, it looks like," Grove snaps. He huffs and focuses on Draco, stepping forward to reach out and grab his hand, as if he's not a complete stranger. He tugs on him forcefully, marching him for the door. "Come on, I'll educate you, Uncle Draco."
"Grove," Daisy whines, but he ignores her.
So, Draco is promptly marched through the house, cluttered with various furniture, toys, and other things that homes seem to collect—Muggle or not. Grove stops outside a door with yellow tape all on the front of it, with the word Caution on it. There's a black, glossy poster with a strange skull on it and bright red words with blood splatter that says, Death to those who enter.
Grove doesn't seem too worried about the warning and yanks Draco inside. The room is odd. There's a telly-box with another box sitting right next to it, an odd device with joysticks and a cord attached to it. A guitar sits in the corner, cherry-red and covered in stickers. Posters are all over the walls with various people on them, none of them moving.
"Alright, we should start with your era, I think," Grove tells him, waving him towards the bed as he goes over to a stack of CDs—he does know what those are! Hermione has some. Grove frowns and glances back at him. "No, that might be too confusing. We'll go in order. This is before your time, even, but it's good."
What follows is a very long lesson on what Grove deems as cool music, and honestly, it's not even that bad. Some of it is, admittedly. There's some screaming, for whatever reason, and Draco can't hide his wince at that. Why would anyone like to listen to people screaming? Grove seems to like it quite a bit, despite being a nine-year-old.
Still, it's not all screaming. Draco finds that he actually likes some of it. He pleases Grove by admitting that those queenly fellows are quite good, and Led Zeppelin might've been a god among men, honestly—that music quickly becomes his favorite.
Grove knows quite a lot about what he says is rock-and-roll. Music is apparently his passion, and he often snarks about how he'd never give it up, not even to be Magic like Daisy. Despite this, it becomes very clear that Daisy being a Witch is a sore spot for him. He brings it up frequently, always with anger.
Draco can't say if Grove is Magic or not. From what he gathers, there has been no accidental magic from him at all, so it's very unlikely at his age. He does not tell him this, nor does he tell him that there's still a chance he might get his letter. He doesn't want to squash his hopes, nor lift them.
This really isn't his area. This is what Harry's good at. He's the one who deals with situations such as these, and Draco's proud of him for doing so. It's not always easy, and there's never the perfect way to go about doing it, but it's better than nothing, which is often what the Professors who visit families with the same situations end up doing.
Harry has confessed to Draco before that he thinks his Aunt Petunia might have been scared of Magic, yes, but perhaps also jealous. Her need to cling to being normal suggests so, as far as Harry is concerned, as if she took spiteful pride in it because she never had the option of being special. It's an ugly feeling, Draco knows, to think of yourself as inadequate and ordinary. Still, it's absolutely no excuse for how she treated Harry.
That being said, Grove seems like an alright child. He's a bit odd, but Draco's quite sure that's just because he doesn't understand Muggles. Maybe it's normal for them to listen to music about anarchy and death, as well as being strangely passionate about the idea of rebellion and the color black—it's not like Draco would know.
Eventually, what feels like hours later, Grove runs out of CDs. He sifts through them anyway, not looking at Draco, and he says, "I'm not like her. I know I'm not. I've no Magic."
"Your father doesn't either," Draco muses. "He seems like he gets on alright."
"Daisy makes it easy on him," Grove says softly, staring down at the CD case—Korn, by the looks of it, one of the screaming ones. "I just make it harder, after Mum. He's proud of her for having Magic, I can tell. He says all the time that it's fine that I don't, but—well, why her and not me?"
Draco sighs quietly. "No one knows, honestly. The truth is, Magic just...does what it likes. There are some people born into magical families without an ounce of Magic in them."
"Yeah?" Grove glances at him with a furrow in his brow. "So, it's not like I'm not...worthy, or something, right? It just has to do with luck?"
"Worth has nothing to do with it," Draco assures him with a short laugh. "There's a lot of magical people who probably don't deserve to be, honestly. Like I said, I don't know why some people are or aren't. I couldn't tell you. What I can tell you is that you're not going to be completely uninvolved. You've got it better than most, in fact."
Grove frowns at him. "How so?"
"Well," Draco murmurs, "you'll know all about the Muggle World, won't you? The non-magical world, I mean. Technology and 'cool' music and such. But you'll also know about the Wizarding World through your sister." He leans forward with a conspiratorial smile. "Besides, when she's seventeen, she'll be able to do magic without getting into trouble. I bet you can convince her to use her magic to help you with whatever you want in the future."
"I suppose," Grove says slowly. He looks thoughtful for a beat, briefly surprised. "Hm, well, I reckon I'll have the best of both worlds, then. Literally."
"Right," Draco agrees.
"Am I missing out on anything?" Grove asks, staring at him seriously. "Is it—is it better, being a Wizard?"
Draco pauses, then smiles slightly. "No, Grove, it's not better. Wizard or Muggle, not much of a difference, really. Life's what you make it either way, so I rather think you should make it how you want."
"I'll miss her when she's gone," Grove whispers, fiddling with the CD case distractedly.
"She'll likely miss you as well," Draco suggests, even if he's not sure. "You can write to her. There are classes that your Uncle Harry teaches. He'll show you how to use the owls. And really, Harry's generally weak for kids, especially the ones he's related to, so I'm sure you could convince him to come around here often enough."
Grove blinks at him. "You'll come too, won't you?"
"Ah," Draco says, surprised, "I suppose I could, if I've got the time. I'm a—my work keeps me busy."
"Yeah, alright," Grove replies, apparently cheering up at the thought that Draco will come around. "It's very clear you need someone to teach you the important things. I'll see if Dad will take me to get a record player, so I can show you more next time you're here. Anyway, music's not all Magical Folk are missing out on, I'm sure. But later. For now, fancy a game of Mortal Kombat?"
Draco frowns. "What's that?"
"Oh, you've got to be joking!"
Mortal Kombat, as it turns out, is a game on the telly-box, and it takes Draco a better part of an hour to even fully understand the mechanics. He asks so many questions, and Grove seems delighted to have the upperhand over a fully grown Wizard, so much so that he is fully convinced that he's the lucky one for turning out to be a Muggle.
Draco does get way too into the game, without even meaning to. It's distracting and colorful and loud, far too easy to get wrapped up in. Grove is having the time of his life, by the looks of it, cackling every single time the screen declares, "FINISH HIM!"
Draco does end up 'finished', every bloody time.
He doesn't even really notice that time has passed, not until there's a knock at the door. Grove grimaces, but he pauses the game right when both of their characters are in the middle of the air, trying to kick at the same time.
"Dad blows his top if I ignore him for the game," Grove explains with a huff, sitting down his controller—as Draco has been informed it's called. Rather nifty, that. Muggles are so creative. "What is it, Dad? Dinner?"
"Yeah, come on down," Dudley calls through the door, sounding amused.
Draco hadn't been aware that they were staying for dinner, but he also hadn't been aware of the passage of time, either. Rather ridiculously, Mortal Kombat had stolen all of his focus. Lucius would be absolutely horrified if he knew, which makes Draco smile as he follows Grove into the dining room.
Harry watches him in amusement, and Draco resists the urge to make a face at him.
Dinner goes well for the most part. Surprisingly, there is a clear line drawn in the metaphorical sand. Grove has shamelessly claimed Draco, while Daisy has claimed Harry, and they both seem to be trying to compete with each other who has made the better choice. Dudley does not seem to find it unusual that his children are claiming favorites and comparing them, so maybe it's normal for Muggles.
Grove and Daisy seem like well-rounded children, despite being raised by Dudley, and despite losing their mother at a young age. It must be hard, but Dudley is cheerful and at ease with them, never harsh, always making them laugh. Draco does not want to admit that Dudley is a good father—not with knowing who his father is—but, well, Draco knows bad fathers, and Dudley certainly isn't one.
After Dinner, Daisy and Grove are sent off to go wash up, leaving Harry and Draco to get ready to leave. Harry offers to help Dudley clean up, and Dudley snorts so loud that it seems painful.
"Shite, Harry, you practically cleaned up after me for my whole childhood," Dudley says. "Couldn't let you do it now. I'd toss and turn all night with the guilt."
Harry huffs a laugh and draws his wand, waggling it with a small smile. "A compromise?"
"Well, if you want," Dudley tells him. He smiles, rosy-cheeked and cheerful. "You're always welcome to do magic here, Harry."
"Aunt Petunia would go round the twist if she knew," Harry mutters, grinning, even as he flicks his wand and makes the dishes wash themselves.
Dudley watches in amazement. "Mum goes round the twist about everything. She's an uptight, old biddy, and we both know it. I bet her special china doesn't shine like that."
"Merlin, Dudley," Harry says with a choked-off laugh, "I never thought you'd talk like that about your mum. You've always been her precious Dudders, haven't you?"
"You'd think she'd stop treating me that way after all these years, but she hasn't," Dudley mutters, wrinkling his nose. "It's frustrating, honest. She hated Pam, you know, always hated anyone who was taking her baby boy away from her. I used to like it, being spoiled, but there's a point that it's just a bit ridiculous, innit? She didn't want me to go out and have my own life, and Dad always expected my life to be a certain way. They doted on Grove and Daisy, even helped out after Pam, but they didn't like me giving them rules on not spoiling my children. Then Daisy got her letter, and Mum's been—well, even Daisy has noticed by now."
Harry grimaces. "How bad?"
"Awful," Dudley admits quietly. "She said I shouldn't let Daisy go to Hogwarts. Claimed I could try and save her from being a freak. I've kept Daisy away from most of it best I can, but she notices that her grandparents are different now."
"And Grove?" Draco can't help but ask, even though it's not at all his business.
Dudley doesn't seem to mind. He sighs. "They've always been a bit different about Grove. His interests upset them. They're always on about how he's a delinquent and such, but ever since Daisy got her letter, there's been a notable shift. They praise him now for everything, and he doesn't like it. He sees right through it, he does."
"Dudley, I hate to say this…" Harry looks hesitant and resolute simultaneously. "Well, usually I try and help families in similar situations as yours, or anything close to it, but I—no, I won't get involved with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon again. Sorry, Daisy and Grove are lovely, but I just can't deal with your parents. I won't. Best piece of advice I can give you is that if even your child isn't an exception for them, then it might be best to…"
"They're my parents, Harry," Dudley says weakly.
Harry's face softens. "Yeah, Dudley, I know. Do what you think is best, of course. I hope they can—I hope they figure out how to be better."
"You don't have to worry about Daisy and Grove," Dudley murmurs. "Parents or not, I won't let them make my children feel the way they made you feel."
"I believe you," Harry says with a small smile, slightly sad around his eyes. He takes a deep breath and nods. "We best be off."
"Oh! Right, right, o'course. I'll have Daisy and Grove to your classes when they start, I promise. You two mind waiting? They'll want to say goodbye." Dudley doesn't wait, sticking his head out the door again, shouting for his children. "GROVE, DAISY, COME SAY GOODBYE TO YOUR UNCLE HARRY AND UNCLE DRACO!"
They do. Daisy gives Harry a very long hug, and Grove teaches Draco a very elaborate and baffling handshake that he's meant to remember, apparently, and between the two of them and Dudley, it takes another half hour to get to the door. Another twenty minutes pass before the conversation dies down enough for Harry and Dudley to say their proper goodbyes. Harry apparently expects a handshake, but Dudley snatches him into a hearty hug, cheerful when he lets Harry go, tapping his stomach as he laughs and waves as they leave.
When they get home, it's quiet in an odd way, strangely hollow, as if it's slightly colder here and without the same amount of life at Dudley's.
In that yawning moment before either of them move, Draco finds himself missing Vellevita so much that it hurts. She's off at Hogwarts, though, likely studying for her next O.W.L. and not thinking about coming home just yet.
That moment stretches longer, heavy and sort of crackling like the static of Grove's telly-box before he got Mortal Kombat to work. Draco feels the ache like a pit in his center, carving into him. He realizes belatedly that it's more than just missing his child; here he stands, thinking about having another one.
He glances at Harry, wondering if he feels even close to the same, but Harry is staring off into space, seemingly lost in thought. No doubt recovering from the experience with Dudley.
Draco brushes off his ridiculous yearning, focusing on what's more important at the moment, as well as easier to handle—that being: Harry.
"Alright?" he asks.
"He wasn't what I was expecting," Harry says softly, eyebrows threading together. "I met him once, after Seventh Year. He was different, sure. Better, even. But not like this, not so…"
"So…" Draco prompts.
Harry huffs out a weak laugh. "He turned out quite good, I think, Draco. He's a good father. He's a good man. I never once thought him capable of it."
"You're always the first to say it, Harry," Draco tells him. "We're all capable of change, aren't we? Capable of being better. Kinder. Happier."
"Yeah," Harry agrees fondly. "It's lovely, isn't it? That he's...great, I mean. He's—it's complicated, a bit, but I think I'd even be proud to call him family."
"You'll be seeing him more, as well as Grove and Daisy, in any case. Happy about it?"
"Yeah, I am. Feel bad about his wife, though."
Draco hums. "Yes, but people die. That's all they're guaranteed to do."
"I don't know why, exactly, but I sort of just didn't really consider that for Muggles," Harry tells him, shaking his head. "I mean, I know they die and such, but the tragedies they face seemed so far away from our own tragedies and so different, and I just—I sort of never thought about it. When Dudley mentioned his wife, I was truly stunned that he'd gone through something like that, you know? I just...didn't expect it, like Muggles don't deal with that, too. A bit small-minded of me, isn't it?"
"I'm the last one who'd judge you for that," Draco drawls, earning a snort from Harry. "No, I get what you mean, though. I think it's easy to forget that people without magic are—are…"
"People?" Harry suggests softly.
Draco sighs. "Not that, exactly. It's not like we forgot that, least of all you. It's just that we don't live like them, so we don't consider their lives, is all."
"Never had a reason to," Harry says softly. "Never even wanted to."
"And we probably never will," Draco replies. "It's alright. It doesn't make us horrible."
"Yeah," Harry murmurs, "I suppose not. We do what we can, where we can, and that's all we can do."
"Exactly," Draco agrees. He smiles and reaches out to tug on Harry's arm. "We've had a long day, and you don't have to make dinner now. Why don't you stop thinking yourself in circles and come shag me until you can't think at all?"
Harry gets a dopey smile on his face. "Merlin, Draco, you're so smart. I love you so much."
Draco smirks at him. "Do you? Come prove it."
Harry proceeds to do exactly that.
Vellevita's Sixth Year is eventful, even more so than all the combined years before it. Draco feels like he's getting letters every other week notifying him of something she's done wrong. It's bad enough that Jim and Shirley have popped over a couple of times to complain about Faron's behavior as well.
In short, Vellevita has been stirring up trouble.
She has Cursed a girl to have a head full of snakes, because apparently the girl said Vellevita is a snake and not suited for Faron. She has also somehow figured out the way to pop fellow Slytherins into the Great Lake outside the Common Room—taking care to give them Bubble-head Charms so they won't actually drown. Dumbledore has apparently been forced to have many conversations with the merpeople, and when asked why Vellevita has been sending her classmates into the Great Lake, she only says that they've been annoying her.
She Vanishes a boy's mouth entirely when he takes it upon himself to try and kiss her, which Draco really can't argue with, honestly—though, doing so after Faron punched him (because he apparently does have a mean streak, shockingly, when it comes to Vellevita at least) is a bit much. She sets Professor McGonagall's desk on fire—apparently she wanted to try out a new Spell—and this earned her a lot of detentions. She pushes a boy down the stairs for punching Ronan—again, Draco can't fault her for this one, though he's sure not to say it aloud.
Vellevita duels at least three other students, makes various younger years cry, and somehow manages to gain a following of devoted students who trail after her and claim her as some sort of protector. This last one apparently concerns Dumbledore enough that he pops over for a visit and a very long conversation with Harry, who blatantly doesn't appreciate the insinuation that his daughter is acting like the Dark Lord did at her age.
Dumbledore admits that there are differences. Vellevita is mean, yes, but she's not cruel. She also cares about very specific people, few as they may be—Faron, Teddy, and Ronan. He does insist that her magic is strong and influential, and he pleads that Harry will take the signs seriously. Apparently, the fact that her peers view her as some sort of force they want to be around and devote themselves to is just a little too memorable for comfort.
And, admittedly, when Dumbledore lays out the comparisons, Draco can admit that they're similar.
Vellevita is charismatic when it suits her. She can charm any Professor, please any peer, get practically everyone to see things the way she wants them to. She is powerful, far ahead of her fellow classmates, capable of Wandless and Wordless magic already, smart enough to help others who need it, endearing herself to the underestimated. She is quick to anger, lashing out without worrying about how it may affect her target, even sometimes getting borderline violent when she's pissed off enough.
But that's not all Vellevita is, either, and even Dumbledore has to acknowledge that.
Vellevita doesn't like having people following her around, often waving them off and demanding to be left alone. She has a boyfriend, Faron, and simply accepts affection from him like a prickly cat might, either ignoring it as it happens, or allowing it with the air of someone pretending not to like it. As careless as she is to murder and death, she has no special interest in it—in fact, she has no diabolical plans involving the state of the world. She has already decided what she's going to do after she graduates and has apparently known since the age of eleven. She's going to be a Wandmaker, and honestly, that's no cause for concern.
In any case, Harry basically tells Dumbledore to stuff it and keep his Deep Discussions to himself, which Draco approves of greatly. He explains that they have it under control, that Vellevita isn't a bloody threat, and that for all her similarities to the Dark Lord, she is not him.
She doesn't even know anything about him, really, and she isn't going to. She knows what all children growing up in the aftermath of the war know. The half-explained stories, the half-truths and the random articles saved from the past. People still whisper about Harry, still call him the Savior, still stare at him in public. Vellevita is used to this, however, and she knows enough. She knows that they fought in the war, and she knows Harry helped win it, and that's enough for her. She doesn't really care to know the details, which is just as well.
The Dark Lord, in particular, is still treated like a bad omen. People don't say his name. People don't talk about the things he did, or the carnage he wrought. To children, he is just You-Know-Who, the evil monster that Harry Potter helped defeat. The Dark Lord's story is known, never told, and people await the day that no one is around to remember.
By far, Vellevita's worst offense at Hogwarts comes in her Sixth Year. She has been tasked with writing essays on why it's wrong to threaten harm on other students, as well as follow through on those threats. This task has been recommended by her Mind Healer, and Dumbledore is the one who goes over the essays with her.
Draco knows he worries because sometimes Vellevita forgets that other people are people. Those that she doesn't care about could drop dead in front of her, and she'd just step over their bodies and keep walking. She's ruthless, really, but that doesn't mean she's a horrible person. She's capable of great emotion, but only for those she cares for.
In any case, her Mind Healer encourages her to remind herself that those she considers stupid or inferior, or both, are still people, whether she cares for them or not. Vellevita forgets, sometimes, that's all. She's not cruel; she wouldn't torture them or murder them. The thing is, she could, if she wanted, and it wouldn't bother her in the least. This is worrying for some people, but Draco gets it on a smaller scale, honestly.
It's partly being a Slytherin to the core, he thinks, perhaps in one of the worst ways possible. The coldest, more violent ways. It would sicken him to murder or torture, but his mind can rationalize why it wouldn't sicken her. But, just because she's capable of it, that doesn't mean she will.
Like Harry says, people are capable of many things, different sorts of people, not just their emotionally stunted, occasionally well-meaning daughter.
They're not really worried about it. Vellevita knows that people are people and it's wrong to harm them. They taught her this at a young age, not shying away from her just because it wasn't her natural instinct. They're not scared of her, or for her. They never have been, not even when she starts getting into more trouble, not even when Dumbledore shows concern.
For years, they've just loved her without even thinking about her likeness to the Dark Lord, because that's never been a factor for either of them. After all, it's not like she's going to follow in his footsteps. How can she? She doesn't even know who the bloody hell he is. No reason to worry at all.
This, as it turns out, is a grandiose mistake.
Four days before Vellevita is due home for Easter Break in her Sixth Year, Dumbledore gets in touch with them and asks them to visit the school. Draco is far used to this routine, as he and Harry have had to visit Hogwarts many times by now. He's not really expecting anything serious this time.
He turns out to be very wrong.
"Where is she?" Harry asks in surprise as soon as they reach the office, the lack of Vellevita inside notable enough to put them on edge.
Dumbledore looks incredibly weary, and he sweeps out a hand, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. "Have a seat, please."
They do not sit.
"Where is Vellevita?" Draco asks, tone sharp.
"At the moment, she is in her dorm, packing her things," Dumbledore murmurs, peering at them over his glasses. "She will be escorted back here soon."
"You're expelling her?!" Harry bursts out in shock, mouth dropping open. "What the fuck could she have done to warrant that?!"
"No, I'm not expelling her," Dumbledore assures them quickly. He clears his throat, delicate and visibly hesitant. "As you know, young Ms. Malfoy-Potter has been visiting my office for the past week to hand in her essays. Today, I was running a tad late, so she helped herself inside. I don't mind, of course. She was welcome to wait."
Draco crosses his arms, glaring at the man. "What happened? Something happened."
"Indeed it did," Dumbledore agrees with a sigh. He looks very old and tired, also sort of battle-weary in the way someone is when there's yet another battle right ahead of them. He's clearly expecting this to go badly. "You both know of your daughter's unending curiosity. I suppose it got the best of her, and she took it upon herself to stumble into my pensive, visiting one of my memories."
Draco is immediately struck with horror, and Harry snaps up straight in visible alarm. This is one of the worst things that could happen. Dumbledore is a man with a lot of memories, spanning back for generations. There's absolutely no way of knowing what she saw, but he can guess from the severity of this situation that it's not good.
"What did she see?" Harry grits out.
"The last thing anyone would ever want her to, myself included, Harry," Dumbledore tells him softly, staring at him sadly. "She saw you stabbed on the day of the battle, the day you took the sword for Voldemort. She saw it in full. I pulled her out as soon as I arrived, but I was...too late."
There's a long, tense silence.
Following that, Harry proceeds to get spectacularly furious in a way Draco hasn't seen in a great number of years. He all-out explodes on Dumbledore, making a mess of his office without even seeming to notice, glass shattering and various pieces of furniture crumbling to ash. He shouts and shouts, having a rather invigorating go at Dumbledore. It seems, even after all these years, Harry really doesn't trust the man, even if he has forgiven him.
In short order, Harry has accused Dumbledore of letting this happen, or encouraging it, no less than seven times. He's nearly paced a hole in the floor, ranting and raving and seeming an all around lunatic, honestly. Dumbledore takes this calmly, without defending himself, and Draco watches the entire time without intervening once.
Whether or not Dumbledore allowed it, or planned for it, or had no idea it would happen at all, they'll never actually know. That will always remain a mystery, one that will send Harry round the twist until his dying days, Draco suspects.
Harry eventually does relax, just enough to brace his hands on the back of the last remaining chair, his whole body rattling with rage and his head bowed.
Dumbledore says, calmly, "She had many questions that I chose not to answer. I assumed that you two would prefer to handle this matter at home."
"Of course, of fucking course." Harry gives a bitter laugh and raises his head, eyes flashing. "That's what you do, isn't it? You give just enough away, but you keep so much hidden. You've always been that way, haven't you? And now you're—you're doing it again with my daughter!"
"Harry," Dumbledore says, "I am not privy to the secrets you've kept from your child, so I cannot—"
"Don't you dare!" Harry shouts, jabbing a finger towards him. "The shite you put me through isn't something I ever wanted to burden her with! I haven't kept one fucking thing from her; it's not her life! Her life is happy and war-free and safe, and you've just gone and mucked it all up!"
Dumbledore watches him carefully. "Forgive my phrasing, Harry, I wasn't accusing you of anything. I only meant that I had no idea what to tell her, as I'm not entirely sure what she already knew."
"Oh, piss off," Harry snarls. "Up yours!"
"What he means is," Draco says coldly, "you needn't worry what you can and cannot say to our daughter, because you're not to speak with her ever again. You're going to stay away from her for the rest of this year and for her Seventh Year. I'm sure the Headmistress can meet with her if necessary."
Harry glares at Dumbledore. "Yes, that! After all, it's not as if you meet with students all the time, is it? Only the special ones, only the ones you have plans for, isn't that right? Stay away from her."
"At your request, of course," Dumbledore says softly, graciously inclining his head. When he lifts up again, he flicks his gaze to the door. "Your daughter is stuck outside at the Gargoyle, if you wish to retrieve her now. Again, I apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused."
"Yeah, I bet you bloody do," Harry says sourly, turning around and marching off, all in a tizzy, though Draco can hardly blame him.
"I never did like you," Draco declares, watching Dumbledore, taking in his deflated, docile portrayal. Who knows if that's who he truly is, though?
Dumbledore gives him a tempered smile, small and quick. "Yes, I'm aware. That's quite alright. I was very proud of you, nonetheless, and who you turned out to be, Draco."
"Save it." Draco snorts derisively and takes a solid step back. "That might work for Harry, even now, but I always saw you clear enough. You're a manipulative old bastard, and I don't know if you did this on purpose, but if you did, I hope you know you're even worse than I thought. Vellevita is a lovely girl, no matter what fears you face with your own past. She shouldn't have had to see that. She shouldn't have to know the things we all dealt with. We dealt with them so those after us wouldn't have to, Harry especially, and you've just spat in the face of that, of everything he experienced."
"I'm more aware of that than you can ever know, Draco," Dumbledore says with a sigh. "I never take any pleasure from seeing him hurt."
"And yet, you'd watch while you felt it was necessary," Draco snaps, lip curling in disgust.
Dumbledore opens his mouth, beard swishing, and Draco shakes his head before anything can be said. With a careless huff, he turns on his heel and marches away, going to meet with Vellevita and Harry out in the hall. He leaves Dumbledore behind and very firmly does not look back.
Vellevita stares at him when he reaches her and Harry. It's her usual blank expression, but there's a certain kind of knowledge in her eyes that he doesn't like being there. She knows things now, things they never intended for her to learn.
Harry looks very tired. "Let's go home."
And so, they do. They don't speak, not even when they get back home. Vellevita just keeps looking at them, watching them, knowing things that she should not. Harry can barely look at her, and Draco can't tear his eyes away.
They settle into the sitting room, a heavy silence joining them as the main guest. Draco wonders what Vellevita is thinking. He can't imagine what seeing that memory was like. Why Dumbledore had it in his pensive will always be a mystery, and Draco is once again furious about it. Those are the sort of memories that are best left in the past.
Vellevita doesn't seem angry, thankfully. They never actually lied to her. Ever since a young age, she has always respected boundaries—likely because she's thankful that they've respected hers. When the war was ever mentioned, they spoke honestly about having no desire to go into depth about it, and she never once tried to make them. After all, she has things she never wants to talk about as well—the orphanage, Mr. Curell, her parents.
"The scar," Vellevita says, staring at Harry's chest with a strange intensity. "That's where—"
She's seen it before, of course. Harry has walked out of their room, tugging a shirt on, flashing the scar. He's rolled around on the floor with the kids, shirt hiking up to reveal it. Draco has kissed that scar, has poked it, has traced it mindlessly.
"Yes," Harry answers her stiffly.
Vellevita flicks her gaze to Draco. "And you—"
"What's the last thing you remember seeing in the memory?" Draco asks, cutting in. He needs to know what she saw, just how far it got.
"You," Vellevita tells him, which makes his heart sink with dread. "You climbed on top of Dad and started shouting at everyone. You were crying."
Draco heaves a sigh, reaching up to touch cool fingers to his temple. "Yes, I was. It—that—"
"You don't have to talk about it." Vellevita glances at him and Harry, her blue eyes sharp and knowing, her hands lying slack in her lap. "Neither of you do. I saw—I saw enough. It's fine."
"It's not," Harry snaps, then immediately closes his eyes and exhales slowly. He takes a deep breath, lets it out, then opens his eyes. "We never wanted you to know how bad things were. I'm sorry you had to see that, Vellevita. If you want to talk about—well, I know you must have thoughts about it."
Vellevita stares at him, her version of a frown flashing across her face—slight crumble between her eyebrows, the smallest tick of her lips, dragging down. "I wasn't scared, Dad. They were only memories of a past I wasn't a part of. I was a baby at that time, I think. Everything I saw, it couldn't hurt me. I'm not traumatized, so you needn't worry."
"That's a very rational way to think about it," Harry murmurs. "I saw a memory of my parents once, and I spent ages brooding about it. I know what it's like to think something about your parents and then see differently than you expect."
"People change," Vellevita says slowly. "You taught me that. You've always said that people are capable of it, so why wouldn't you and Father be? You were both very young in the memory. My age, it seemed."
"Yes," Draco agrees, "we were."
Harry stares down at his hands, his throat working around a swallow. "Vellevita, we were very young and very stupid, and we were all caught up in something no one should ever be, no matter what age they're at. It wasn't fair for anyone involved. There's more, of course, that you didn't see. Good things, bad things, complicated things. We're not trying to hide history from you, but it's—"
"It's hard," Draco takes over, when Harry can't seem to say more. "That year… So much happened in that year, you can't even imagine."
"You don't have to talk about it," Vellevita says again, more firmly. "It's fine. I don't need to know."
"You have questions," Harry counters, lifting his head and giving her a weak smile. "Curious, lovely thing such as yourself, of course you do."
Vellevita shakes her head forcefully. "I can be curious forever, that's alright. You both look too sad to talk about it. Let's just leave it."
Draco and Harry share a look, communicating without words. They do it so easily now, after years of being married. Leaving it, letting the topic remain untouched, would be so much easier. It also would be incredibly unfair, considering the things that Vellevita had to see.
The fact that she's willing to just be curious forever is strangely sweet. Vellevita is generally relentless when it comes to seeking out answers for her questions, or knowledge that she wants to have. Someone else's emotions aren't usually a factor for her; she simply doesn't care if it upsets someone to give her the information that she wants to obtain. They're her exception, of course, because she loves them in all the ways she has never said it, even as she shows it without even meaning to.
"We think it's best if we do talk about it with you," Draco says softly, turning to look at Vellevita, holding her gaze. "No, we didn't plan to ever need to, but life's full of surprises, I suppose."
"You can ask," Harry murmurs. "Whatever it is that you feel the need to know, you can ask."
Vellevita surveys them for a moment, then focuses her gaze on Harry. "Tell me about Voldemort."
Harry's eyes drift shut, lips pressing into a thin line. Draco's heart clenches violently in his chest. Of course Vellevita wants to know about the last thing Harry will ever want to explain.
It's going to be hard, Draco thinks. Very hard. Harry has never once told Draco that he's terrified of what Vellevita would think of him if she knew everything, but he has never had to say it. Draco knows. He understands without ever being told that Harry fears how Vellevita may react to the truth buried in the past. He never talks about the Dark Lord anymore, but Draco knows that Harry thinks about him, knows that he often searches inwards, resurfacing with a small smile that Draco pretends not to notice.
If Harry wants to love the Dark Lord like a father, that's well within his right, especially after everything that has happened. He never grew out of it or changed his mind, and Draco doesn't blame him or judge him for it. So much changed in that year, but Harry's compassion for Voldemort never once has in the years after.
Draco knows why Vellevita is asking. She saw a great deal of the memory, meaning she saw Harry step in front of the sword for the Dark Lord, meaning she saw the Dark Lord ask Dumbledore to save Harry's life. It must be confusing. She likely has questions running obsessive circles in her mind.
"To start, I should tell you, my life is really quite bizarre," Harry says with a wry smile. "It's all rather complicated, but I suppose I should start at the beginning, or what counts as the beginning, in any case. There was a man, you never met him. His name was Severus Snape. He overheard a Prophecy…"
Draco gets up to go make tea.
It's going to be a long day.
Vellevita's Seventh Year goes so smoothly that her Mind Healer reaches out to Harry and Draco and asks them if anything has changed at home.
They can't tell her, of course. How does one broach that conversation? One simply does not. So, they say that they've moved and Vellevita is apparently excited about it. Technically, this isn't a lie. They have moved from the flat they've lived in for literal years, and Vellevita is excited about it in her own way, not obvious to those who don't know her.
Draco has never really given much thought to why he and Harry have never bought a house. They've had their spacious flat, and that's been enough. In fact, it has been home for a long, long time.
However, the owner of the building had recently died, and the children were selling the place. Draco and Harry considered just buying it, but they agreed to actually look at other options first.
It's strange, really. All their friends have houses, or mansions and Manors, in the case of the Purebloods. Draco won't ever admit it, but he's quite fond of Ginny and Luna's odd little cabin in the woods. Harry has expressed multiple times that he's partial to Ron, Hermione, and Daphne's home that feels like a fancier, more organized Burrow.
However, when Draco and Harry found their home, no one else's could ever compare. It's a nice house about an hour's broom-flight out of a Muggle town, and it has a large meadow as a backyard. The house itself looks expensive on the outside and homely on the inside, made up of large rooms and lovely spiralling staircases. Harry likes the kitchen, Draco likes the surprisingly lavish bathroom, and Vellevita likes that they have a Library—nothing as luxurious as the Libraries at the Malfoy Manor, of course, but she's pleased all the same.
Draco's favorite thing is all the window seats. There are quite a few, as all the windows are the type that bow outwards in the three parts, giving them plenty of room for nooks to settle into.
Christmas is especially warm that year, nestled away in their new home. Harry is a bit ridiculous about families and homes and such, so he's all smiles, glowing happily. Vellevita doesn't get attached to places, but again, she likes the Library, so that's enough for her. Draco is just comfortable, relaxed in the sitting room, curled up on the settee with Harry while Vellevita meticulously opens her presents.
It's all going fine until Vellevita abruptly stops in the middle of opening her last present, and she looks at them with an odd seriousness. She says, "You two will be lonely after I graduate."
"What?" Draco jolts a little, not at all pleased with the insinuation. "You'll come home often, Vellevita. You already said you and Faron won't get your own place for some time yet."
"We won't," Vellevita agrees, "but you know I'll be traveling. I'll come home when I can, but it won't be as often as you'd like. Wandmaking is very time consuming, as you know."
Harry sighs mournfully. "Don't remind me. Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?"
"Dad, you have your school," Vellevita says flatly, arching an eyebrow at him. "Besides, you have said multiple times that you've spent enough time away from Father in your life, and you have no desire to do so again. I don't need or want either of you to come with me. I want to do it alone."
"Why do you have to be all grown up, hm?" Harry asks her fondly, reaching out to tweak her nose, grinning when she glares at him. "It seems like the years have flown by. Do you remember when we first met you? You—"
"I made you dance, yes, I know," Vellevita declares, staring at him in an unimpressed fashion. "That's only your favorite story to tell anyone you meet."
Draco can't help but smirk. "You have to admit, darling, it's a very amusing story."
Vellevita makes a noncommittal sound, back to watching them seriously. "Get a cat. No, a snake, like Grandfather."
"No snakes," Draco says immediately.
"We had this conversation long ago, Vellevita," Harry tells her, amused. "Your father is a Slytherin only in name. Terrified of snakes, he is."
"Piss off," Draco snaps.
Harry grins at him. "It's not my fault I'm right."
"A child, then," Vellevita muses idly.
There's a long beat of silence, and Draco slowly turns to stare at her. "What?"
"A child," Vellevita repeats. "So you won't be lonely. Uncle Greg is already on his second child and Vince was only just recently born. Aunt Astoria is pregnant again, and I heard Uncle Ron mentioning to Uncle Fred that Aunt Hermione might be as well. Aunt Ginny and Aunt Luna keep saying that they're going to get pregnant at the same time, have two kids at once and be done with it."
"Are you convinced that children come in pairs or something?" Harry asks, laughing lightly.
Vellevita stares at him expressionlessly. "Obviously not, Dad. Uncle Blaise and Aunt Pansy never wanted children after Ronan, did they? Aunt Dora and Uncle Remus didn't after Teddy. Even Mr and Mrs. Spencer stopped with Faron. People who don't want kids try not to have them, but you wanted them, right? Before you adopted me, I mean."
"We wanted you, of course," Draco says, because that's very true. "You've always been enough. More than enough, even."
"I don't like sharing," Vellevita tells them, tone a little sharp. "What's mine is mine and mine alone. You're my parents." She pauses, face twitching through a Real Emotion, then she sighs. "Did you two want more than one child before that child turned out to be me?"
Draco doesn't really know how to answer that, honestly. Yes, he and Harry used to talk about having children, plural. Harry used to joke about having a whole Quidditch team worth of children, in fact, but that was years ago. That was before Vellevita, before they adopted her and never brought up adopting another. Draco's only very randomly yearned for another child, usually when he's missing Vellevita the most, but it hasn't ever been a desire that struck him the way meeting Vellevita had. He and Harry had fallen in love with her as soon as they met her, and that had been that.
In fairness, it's not like they've ever gone back to another orphanage in their free time. Their friends have younger children, obviously, but it doesn't often fill Draco with the need for the same.
They have never discussed adopting again, mostly because they were both very aware that it wouldn't go over well for Vellevita. She is very jealous and possessive of the things and people she thinks of as her own. A sibling would have made things a little bit more difficult than either of them ever wanted to deal with. They are happy to have her, just her, and it has been that way for years now.
"Oh, sure," Harry says loftily. "We used to joke about having enough kids to make a Quidditch team, but then we met you and knew we never needed any other child."
"Don't be stupid, Dad," Vellevita snaps, and now she's starting to scowl in the way that suggests she's about to start exploding pillows. "Don't feel the need to reassure me. I'm not nine. I'm not worried either of you wish to replace me."
"We don't," Harry tells her, fiercely. "It has never, never crossed our mind. We've never wanted any other child than you, Vellevita. We wanted you so much. We still do. If I could keep you at home forever, I would, even if I want you to live a happy life of your own as well. Never forget that, alright? Never. You're wanted. You always have been. You always, always will be."
"Christmas turns both of you into sops," Vellevita complains, but the skin around the corners of her lips have softened—almost a real smile. She shakes her head and sighs again. "I talked to Faron about it, you know. He never lies to me, even when the truth will anger me. His insight and honesty is invaluable to me, of course."
"Oh, wow," Harry says, surprised. Draco can relate. Is that why Vellevita likes him so much? Because he's unflinchingly honest and yet so awfully kind about it? Childhood experiences really do shape the rest of one's life—she has despised liars as long as they've known her, so it makes sense that she's gone off and fallen in love with someone who has been honest with her for years, excusing that one time.
Vellevita stares at them. "He had a lot to say about it. He said that I'm conflicted, and I suppose he's right. He usually is."
"Conflicted?" Draco asks.
"Yes." Vellevita nods and straightens up. "I don't like to share, no, and I'm not very eager for either of you to need another child besides me."
"We've told you, Vellevita," Harry interrupts quickly, seriously. "We only ever needed you."
"That's the thing I'm conflicted about," Vellevita tells them very slowly, seeming to choose her words carefully. Not on purpose, but as if she's trying to figure out her own feelings as she explains them. It's always a struggle for her. "Maybe you only ever needed me, maybe not...but that's not to say some other child out there doesn't need you."
Draco's heart constricts in his chest, aching, and Harry makes a soft, wounded sound. They both stare at her in astonishment, stunned, and she stares back with the same blank emptiness she always has. Neither of them can find the words to reply to that, which seems to be good, because Vellevita apparently isn't done talking.
"I never said it," she continues, haltingly, "but I needed you. Both of you. Back then, and still, right now. I...likely always will. It's—I don't care about other children who may be in the same situation that I was, before you two adopted me. Maybe I should, but I don't. That doesn't mean that there aren't children out there who need you, though. And even if my first instinct is to be selfish, I know that yours isn't. It would be unfair and wrong, wouldn't it? If I don't—if I can't—"
"Vellevita, darling," Draco says softly, watching her with something tender and brittle breaking and mending in his chest.
"Just do it, if it's right," Vellevita declares, just a touch harshly. She's frustrated the way she is when she feels like she hasn't explained her feelings well enough. "I'm not opposed, is what I'm saying. If you can do for someone else what you did for me, then do it. I'll even—I will try to be a good...sister?"
She scrunches her nose at this, almost disgusted, and Draco can't help but laugh gently. Harry snorts and slides to the floor, scooting across the space between him and Vellevita. He heaves a soft sigh and reaches out to wrap an arm around her shoulders, dragging her in. She allows it, not saying a word as he hugs her and smooths a hand down her hair with visible adoration.
"Don't worry about it, yeah?" Harry mumbles, holding her close. "Even if we did, it's not something to stress about now. Draco and I would have to discuss it, and we'd—well, this is a bit of a surprise, from you. Vellevita, you're so lovely, do you know? We're so proud of you."
"I don't want either of you to be lonely," Vellevita says, words muffled into his shoulder.
Draco clicks his tongue. "Well, we have each other, of course. We'll be alright, I assure you."
Vellevita pulls back to look between them, face blank as always. "I'll write."
"Do you know where you're going first?" Harry asks her, lips curling up.
"Oh, yes, I do," Vellevita replies. She glances down, then right back up. There's a mischievous little flash in her eyes. "I'm afraid you can't know. It's a secret."
"Vellevita," Draco mock-scolds, "we don't keep secrets in the Malfoy-Potter house."
"Oh, sure," Vellevita says flatly, arching an eyebrow pointedly, "you both only kept a whole grandfather a secret from me for years."
Harry sighs. "I've already told you to stop calling him that. He's not actually my father, and besides, we weren't keeping it secret; we were just…"
"Conveniently forgetting to mention that Voldemort is my grandfather?" Vellevita prompts.
Draco honestly is never going to get used to hearing Vellevita declare that, as she often has since learning the whole story. Why Harry worried Vellevita would be anything other than delighted about having such close connections to the Dark Lord, Draco will never know. She thinks it is both wonderful and amusing, and she gets great joy from tormenting Lucius about it, who always looks faintly horrified when she brings it up.
She also supports the apparent familial tradition of carrying no small amount of dislike for Dumbledore, after finding out about his role in things, and her main reason for being a model student in her Seventh Year is because she's made it her mission to stress Dumbledore out. She has worked out that the old man fears she might be like Voldemort—which she didn't find at all insulting, as Draco would have, in her position—and instead of being furious about it, she has taken it upon herself to make it worse.
Really, how does one explain that to her Mind Healer? As a family, they've decided not to.
It's for the best, really.
There's a loud crash from the kitchen that makes Draco wince and Narcissa's soft laugh tickle his ear. She pulls out of the hug, amused, watching him with her eyebrows raised. From beside her, Lucius' lip is curled in his familiar sneer.
Harry's stress-baking.
Draco shakes his head, heaving a sigh. "Come on, I'll fetch the wine and wait in the sitting room. Vellevita will be arriving soon."
"You've missed her, have you?" Narcissa asks knowingly, watching the wine and glasses sail out of the kitchen at the flick of his wand.
Draco leads her into the sitting room, pouring the wine for them both. "Of course. We get letters about her travels, as you know, but it's not the same. Everyone is looking forward to her return."
The fireplace chimes, making both of them look up eagerly. The kitchen door bursts open, and Harry comes tripping out with hope shining in his eyes. But it's just Faron, who rocks unsteadily on his feet when he comes stepping out of the fireplace.
"Oh," Lucius mutters sourly, "it's just you."
"Faron," Harry greets warmly, "how are you? It's been a while since you popped in for a visit! Here to greet Vellevita home, I wager."
Faron nods and smiles slightly. "Yes, sir. Sorry I've not been by as much recently. Was tied up with work. They had a bit of a complicated Curse at the some famous canyon over in America. Took the better part of a month to unravel it and break it. Bill Weasley sends his love, by the way."
"They've already got you out handling big cases such as that?" Harry asks with a frown. "What about training, Faron? Isn't it dangerous?"
"They do placement exams." Faron smiles sheepishly, openly embarrassed. "I, ah...well, I tested out, so to speak."
Harry looks surprised, then looks abashed at his own shock. "Oh, that's brilliant, Faron! Good on you, then. We're proud of you. I'm sure Vellevita was as well, o'course."
"Not particularly," Faron says with a fond smile, bashful and amused and adoring in a heartbeat. "She just said she expected nothing less. You know how she is, sir."
"Well, yeah, I do," Harry replies, laughing.
Faron's smile turns very shaky when he focuses on Lucius. "Hello, Mr. Malfoy. Lovely to see you again."
"The sentiments are not mutual," Lucius replies coldly, eyes narrowing.
Faron trembles a bit and inches closer to Narcissa, eyes wide. "And it's lovely to see you as well, Mrs. Malfoy."
"The sentiments are mutual, Faron," Narcissa tells him gently, taking pity. "Come, darling, sit with me and tell me about America. I'm afraid I've never been. Do you think it would be worth the trip?"
"Don't think so, Mrs. Malfoy," Faron admits honestly, moving over to sit next to her, relaxing in her presence. "Seems to be a right mess over there, really. Might be best to avoid it…"
Draco listens with half an ear as Faron talks to Narcissa, but he also watches in vague amusement as Lucius and Harry interact with each other.
"How is the school?" Lucius asks stiffly, barely hiding his grimace.
Harry grins up and shoots off talking, often not caring about the glazed look in Lucius' eyes. He doesn't understand half of the things that Harry is talking about, not knowing shite about Muggles. Harry watches all of this with a smirk.
His plan to drive Lucius to insanity seems to get more and more plausible by the day.
Draco goes back to missing his daughter.
As if merely thinking of her has summoned her, the fireplace chimes and she comes stepping through with the elegance that Faron had lacked. She looks unchanged, only slightly taller, her hair braided sensibly, her purple robes—nearly black—pressed neat and smart to her frame. She is not smiling, but then again, she never is.
"Vellevita!" Harry blurts, staring at her in excitement. "Did you make a new wand?"
"I did not make a new wand," Vellevita replies dutifully. "I did discover a new wand core, however."
"Blimey, Vellevita, that's wonderful!" Harry bursts out, grinning at her.
"I know," Vellevita says.
"Alright?" Faron asks softly as Vellevita moves towards him. He's scanning her face, taking her in blatantly and eagerly.
"Yes, of course. I said I would be," Vellevita tells him. She comes to a stop right in front of him and doesn't move, just staring at him.
Faron grins at her. "You'll have to ask for it this time, love. I've missed you terribly."
"Your absence was notable, and I won't ask for anything," Vellevita says, then steps forward again until she has her arms wrapped around him and her head resting under his chin.
Draco can see her eyes flutter shut, and his heart softens a little at the sight. Faron isn't a monster, so he's hugging her back in an instant, visibly delighted about it. He even kisses her forehead, and she allows it without even pretending it hasn't happened. She had missed him as well, clearly.
"You smell like strawberries and summer," Faron murmurs when she pulls back slightly. "Have I ever told you that? It's lovely."
"You've been telling me since Fifth Year," Vellevita says. "It's my shampoo and warmth, that's all."
"Let me be romantic." Faron chuckles and ducks in to give her a quick kiss that she also allows, which means she really missed him because she doesn't really do public displays of affection.
Vellevita has softened, minutely, when he pulls away. She touches his cheek very briefly, then turns her back on him like she doesn't even notice him, which would only be amusing if it were true, but it's clearly not. In a mere moment, she is back to her usual blank self, focused on Lucius and Narcissa.
"Grandfather, Grandmother," Vellevita greets, nodding at them, "I trust you've been well."
"We have," Lucius replies, smiling at her—actually smiling, the absolute tosser. "And you?"
"Of course," Vellevita confirms.
"We're glad you've returned," Narcissa says. "We have missed you dearly, my darling."
Vellevita merely nods again before turning her gaze to Draco and Harry, where they stand side-by-side, watching her with small smiles. "Father, Dad, I need a private word with you in the kitchen, now."
Draco shares a quick glance with Harry, but they follow Vellevita into the kitchen without a word. There must be something important that she has to say that she can't in front of anyone else. This is mildly surprising, but they don't particularly mind.
When they step into the kitchen, Vellevita further proves that this is serious by putting up some Silencing Charms. Draco's eyebrows climb up, and he's about to ask, but then she steps forward to hug him and Harry at the same time. She wraps one arm around them each, pulling them in for a long, long time. She's quiet, breathing softly, her head resting on their shoulders, body relaxed.
They hold her, because of course they do. If that's what she wants, or needs, then she can always have it. Draco has to blink a little harder than usual so he won't cry. He had missed her so very much, and he's ridiculously pleased that she's back for some time, right up until she's off to travel again. She has her life to live, that's true, but she has a home and family to come back to, always.
"There were whispers at the orphanage," Vellevita murmurs when she pulls back, "mostly from Mr. Curell. Whispers about—about my father, and my mother, and why I am the way I am. About what he did to her, and that's why I can't feel—love."
"Vellevita," Harry says gently, "those whispers are meaningless. Don't think about—"
"But I do," Vellevita interrupts, oddly serious. "I always have. I think it's true, but I'm not really sure if it actually matters."
Draco reaches out to squeeze her hand. "It doesn't. I don't think it's true. You feel love. I know you do. I've always known that."
"I know it's not true," Harry tells her. "You're not the first that people thought that about."
"Grandfather," Vellevita says.
Harry huffs out a weak laugh. "If you're still on about calling him that, then yes, sure. Him."
"I have the same story as him," Vellevita tells them slowly, her words clear and concise. "Almost. Perhaps we can't feel love, but we can be taught it. You taught me, both of you. And I—I do. I know it. I don't always understand it, but I know it. Love, I mean. Because I—I do… I do love you both."
"Oh, we love you too, of course," Draco says hoarsely, letting her cling to his hand, staring at her with wide eyes. She has never said that before.
Vellevita nods, twitching through Real Emotion, swallowing thickly. "I don't want to be like him. I would have if not for you two, I think. He's—he went so long without knowing anything that truly matters, and he did everything wrong. All of it. Until Dad, and then it was too late. But when you found me, you wanted me. Thank you."
"It wasn't about him," Harry murmurs. "You were ours the day we met you, Vellevita, no matter what your story was. You can be anything, and we'll always love you."
"I won't be him." Vellevita slips her hand into her robes, pulling out a neat piece of folded parchment. She flicks her gaze between them. "I found the new wand core in the Injurious Jungle when visiting my Grandfather. He was… He was more peaceful than I was expecting, I admit."
Draco feels like he separates from his body, his conscious escaping from the shock. "You went and visited the Dark Lord?!"
"Vellevita," Harry hisses, voice strained, "why would you do that? Do you—"
"Don't be angry," Vellevita interrupts softly, lips twitching down. "It was fine. I wanted to. I wanted to know him, to understand why Dumbledore thought I was like him. I do understand why now, because his story started the way mine did, and… Well, honestly, we sort of think alike, don't we? I mean, Grandfather is very stupid about certain things—Muggles and such—but he understands what it feels like to...be…"
"You spoke with him," Harry whispers.
Vellevita nods. "Quite a bit, actually."
"He was willing to see you?" Harry asks.
"He was when I told him I was your daughter," she replies, watching him closely. "It was very strange. Nagini was there. He made me tea."
Draco makes a low, choking noise as Harry nods and says, "Yes, he does that. Was he—did he seem—"
"Like I said," Vellevita murmurs, "he was a lot more peaceful than I was expecting. He does experiments with things from the Jungle. It was with his help that I managed to find a new wand core. Actually, we had a very long conversation about wand lore in general. He once held Mr. Ollivander captive, he said, so he knew quite a bit on the subject."
"Bloody hell," Harry mumbles, closing his eyes and releasing a deep sigh. He takes a second, then clears his throat and opens his eyes. "Right, so, you and Voldemort had a lovely chat, then? Brilliant. My child and my estranged—oh, my life is so bizarre."
Vellevita nods slowly. "He said you'd be worried that he would do something...I don't know, nefarious? Mostly, we just had very introspective discussions. He's very liberal with his honesty, which I appreciate. When I asked why Dumbledore might have been suspicious, he explained about his own past. He didn't mind that I called him Grandfather."
"You called the Dark Lord Grandfather?!" Draco sputters, his heart skipping a beat in his chest.
"Well," Vellevita says, "that's what he is."
"Faron knew about this," Harry declares suddenly, as if the thought has just struck him. "That's why he asked if you were alright. You told Faron?"
"Who else would I tell?" Vellevita asks, arching an eyebrow. "I'm going to marry him one day."
Harry groans, smacking a hand to his forehead. "Vellevita, sweetheart, you can't just reveal where Voldemort is to whoever suits your fancy."
"Grandfather didn't mind," Vellevita mutters, almost defensive about it. "He said I took after you in that way. You told Father, didn't you?"
"I—well, yes, I suppose I did." Harry heaves a sigh and shakes his head. "So, you've—you've met him. I can't say I'm too happy about it, honestly."
Vellevita tilts her head. "He assumed you wouldn't be. He also said that he has not broken your trust since earning it and had no plans to do so through me. He's very… Well, it's hard to put in words."
"I know what you mean," Harry says dryly.
"He's doing well," Vellevita murmurs, watching Harry seriously now. "Not lonely. Peaceful. He has things to occupy his mind and companionship in the form of Nagini—who, by the way, insisted that I pass along the message that you are not to be distressed about this."
Harry's lips twitch, then curl up. "I'm sure she did. And it's good to hear that—that he's—"
"He said," Vellevita interrupts very carefully, looking at Harry like he might explode, "that I would be in no danger if I—and I quote—forced my presence upon his unwilling space ever again, and that you needn't worry that he would hurt me."
"I don't," Harry admits softly. "Not really. I suppose I just—well, perhaps I envy you."
Vellevita seems to need a moment to understand what that means. "Because you miss him."
"I do," Harry confirms. He swallows and looks down at the floor. He clears his throat, then glances back up. "There is also the fact that he's a monstrous, murderous Dark Lord as well, and I'd be mad if I didn't at least ask you to stay away from him, though I suspect it to be a pointless request."
"I do not approve," Draco adds forcefully, though he also doubts this will matter. Vellevita—like Harry, like Draco, like all Malfoy-Potters—does things that others would undoubtedly consider insane.
Predictably, Vellevita says, "Monstrous and murderous as he may be, he is my Grandfather and poses no threat to me. He has decades worth of knowledge, and knowing him, speaking with him...it has only helped me understand myself more."
Harry squints at her. "Dark Magic. What's your opinion on it?"
"Necessary, not completely evil, sometimes consuming," Vellevita rattles off carelessly. "I have no interest in dabbling in Dark Magic, Dad, and you don't have to worry that Grandfather will encourage me to do so. Apparently, that would be breaking your trust somehow, so he refuses to talk about details. He wouldn't even tell me the whole process about Horcruxes when I asked."
"Oh, marvelous," Draco chokes out, "his moral compass is Harry."
"He doesn't have morals," Harry mutters, but his face softens. He stares at Vellevita seriously, then thoughtfully. "You'll visit him again, won't you?"
"Yes," Vellevita answers promptly, honest and unapologetic, not even blinking.
Harry exhales slowly, then nods. "You may never tell anyone, Vellevita. Ever. This isn't a family secret, do you understand? This is—well, I'm not quite sure what this is, but it's best not talked about."
"Obviously," Vellevita replies. "Faron will know, but he has no interest in meeting Grandfather. He says one is bad enough."
"Yes, I quite agree," Harry mutters.
"I would like to point out that I am not supporting this utter madness," Draco says, arching an eyebrow.
Harry snorts. "Oh, it's alright when we do it, but not when she does?"
"Too right! She's our daughter," Draco snaps.
"Trust me?" Harry asks, staring at him.
Draco huffs. "Of course."
"Then trust that she will be fine," Harry says softly, reaching out to catch his hand, squeezing it. "I would like to visit him, but I—I can't. He is not a threat, for all that he is dangerous, and I don't need to see him to know it. Besides, you can hate it all you like, but Vellevita is as stubborn as we are."
"Yes," Vellevita agrees. She holds out the parchment, clearing her throat. "He did something to it. I can't read what it says, but he said that you two would be able to. I asked him to tell me how to do it, but he refused."
"How did that go over?" Harry asks in amusement, reaching out to take the parchment. His hand shakes, but he's pretending that it isn't. Draco can always tell when he's acting stronger than he feels.
Vellevita's mouth twists. "I asked him repeatedly, he refused repeatedly. I made all his books fall off his shelves, he found it amusing and told me that I was a very troublesome child like my dad. I told him to never call me that again and exploded his pillows, and then he fixed them without a wand and called me a vexing child, which I said was technically the same thing, to which he replied that he didn't call me troublesome and that would have to do."
Draco arches an eyebrow. "You've met your match, then?"
"He's vexing," Vellevita says sharply, which is enough of an answer to make Harry smile.
"Yeah, that he is," Harry agrees fondly, the idiot. He fiddles with the parchment warily, avoiding it, chewing his lip. "I haven't, er, spoken to him in well over a decade now. Sounds like he hasn't changed."
"He looks the same as in the memory," Vellevita informs him. "He told me that he feels it when you're very happy, or scared, or sad, or angry. He said he thinks you're mostly happy."
Harry blinks, hard. "Yeah," he rasps, "I am."
"That's what I told him," Vellevita says. "I wanted to know how he felt about it, so I asked. He said that you would know. Do you?"
"Yeah," Harry murmurs. "Content. No, it's—he feels solicitude. Knowing I'm happy is—he cares. It matters to him when nothing else does."
Vellevita considers that for a beat, then she nods. She takes a step back. "I'll go now. I just wanted to—I felt it was important to explain."
"Thank you, Vellevita," Harry says softly.
She simply nods, turns around, and walks right out of the kitchen without another word. Draco is nearly capsized by the swell of pride that fills his chest when watching her go. Oh, how he loves her.
Draco glances back towards Harry, watching him rub his thumb hesitantly over the crease in the parchment. His eyes are wide and unfocused, his anxiety plain all over his face. That's fair. He hasn't had any sort of contact with the Dark Lord outside of their connection in years.
He misses him. Draco knows that. It's only because he wants to read the letter so much that he's holding himself back, drowning in thoughts. This is what Draco is here for, however. Husband, rival, and the prat that Harry loves without a doubt.
"If you're going to be ridiculous about it, I'll read it for you," Draco drawls, reaching out to pluck the parchment from Harry's loose grip.
Harry just stares at him with wide eyes, needing him to do it, unable to do it himself. So Draco does. He opens the letter and reads it out loud in tandem with every word his eyes brush across.
Harry,
Very few in this world have the benefit of witnessing the result of the sacrifices they have made, thus making it a sacrifice. When I surrendered to mine, I did so with no wish to see what would become of it. I only accepted that whatever it would be, it was what you deserved.
You did not disappoint.
Fear not for the girl. She is in no danger. Her insistence to visit is accepted only with your permission. As we are not bound by Prophecy, there will be no risk. If she so desires, and you allow it, she may return. Nagini is fond of her. A vexing child she is undeniably, but a welcome one all the same. If you find yourself in opposition, I will of course respect it and ensure that she cannot find me any more than you can. I trust that you will be able to alert me of this in some way. Otherwise, do not concern yourself.
Continue to live well, as you apparently have been, as I hoped you would.
-Voldemort, Retired Dark Lord, Grandfather
"He did not put Grandfather," Harry chokes out, reaching over to snatch the parchment. "Let me see that. He—he… Oh."
"Ah." Draco reaches out the moment that Harry starts crying, dragging him in with a sigh. "Yes, I know. There's a love. He's gone and made you cry again. Evil, rotten thing."
"He's always so good at that," Harry sobs with a wet laugh, pressing his face into Draco's throat. "Merlin, how is my life like this?"
Draco closes his eyes and thinks about the friends he has made throughout the years—some that he once hated. He thinks about falling in love with Harry, the long journey of it, and how it never really ends. He thinks about Vellevita, how much he loves her, how proud of her he is.
That's the thing, he supposes. Nothing is ever going to go the way one believes it will. Everything keeps going, even when it's expected to stop. Endings and goodbyes give say to beginnings and reunions. One does not prepare for the things that happen to them; they just happen, and one changes through it, grows and learns and finds peace in it.
"Complaining?" Draco asks softly.
Harry laughs weakly, holding onto him. "Never."
"Poor lad," Huxley says, staring down at the chart in his hands, his wand tucked behind his ear. "You did great work with him, Draco."
"Thank you," Draco murmurs, leaning back against the wall and nibbling on the cauldron cake as his energy steadily comes back to him. "Nasty piece of Dark Magic, that was. He's only a child."
"The Ministry is handling it." Huxley's mouth twists, eyes flashing. "The parents will be imprisoned for it, of course, but they were shouting their heads off about not wanting him after what they found out. I reckon they've been reaching out to relatives, but Dior says everyone keeps turning him down. Horrid people, Purebloods are."
Draco clears his throat pointedly and arches an eyebrow, then he smirks when Huxley's face turns red. "No, you're right. As a Pureblood myself, especially of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, I'll be the first to agree with you. They're all shite."
"Well, I didn't mean you, of course," Huxley rushes to say. "You're a bloody gem out of that lot."
"Thank you," Draco says, smug.
Huxley hums, then blinks. "Oi, I'll bet the Ministry will come around to asking you, won't they? He's a Burke. You lot are all related in some way or another, aren't you?"
"I… Well, I suppose so." Draco blinks, ever so slightly surprised. "Malfoys are related to Burkes distantly, I think. To the Blacks, too, and I've got that blood in me as well."
"Bully for you, mate," Huxley says. "Read all about that Black madness and such. How'd you end up so sane, then?"
"Not so sure that I am," Draco replies dryly, watching Huxley snort.
"What do you think, then?" Huxley asks, jerking his chin towards the room they're both lingering outside of. "If they do ask you, I mean."
Draco opens his mouth, then closes it. He needs a moment to consider his answer, but he doesn't get it. The Ministry official assigned to the case—a man Draco vaguely remembers from Hogwarts, Terry Boot—comes ushering up the hall, heading right for him. What are the odds? Say it isn't so.
But of course it is.
"A word, if I may, Mr. Malfoy-Potter?" Terry asks, smiling tightly, the skin around his eyes strained.
"Yes, of course," Draco replies as professionally as possible, nodding tersely to Huxley and leading Terry to his office. The moment they're inside, he turns around and raises his eyebrows. "This is about Mr. Burke, I presume?"
"Correct," Terry answers immediately, straight to the point. "You know his situation. I've been doing everything I can to avoid him becoming a ward. I haven't any idea what the Ministry would do with him if he became so. I've traced his lineage as far back as it will go and contacted as many relatives as I can, distant and close alike. I'm sure you're aware of your distant relation to him."
Draco nods. "I know of it. Purebloods usually do. Everyone has turned him away, then?"
"I've gotten very firm, very rude refusals every time. Many don't see the point, because he's…" Terry presses his lips into a thin line and shakes his head. He heaves a sigh. "No one wants him. I don't know you well, but I've always admired your place in the war, as well as your husband's. I knew Harry, vaguely, back in Hogwarts. He's a good man, and I always assumed you were as well, by proximity, no matter your family and past grievances. We're not children anymore, Mr. Malfoy-Potter, but he is. And he needs someone. I know it's a lot to ask, but—"
"Just—" Draco lifts a hand to get him to shut up, then blows out a deep breath. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Oh, bloody hell, Harry is going to absolutely murder me."
Terry grins.
Approximately three hours later, Draco is emerging from his office with multiple dates marked in his mental calendar. There are a lot of visits to the Ministry in his future. He says goodbye to a relieved Terry Boot, who is clutching the signed forms in his hand like they're a lifeline. He's a good bloke, caring about the children he gets assigned the way he does.
Speaking of, Draco sweeps off to the room he's visited all of three times in the last week. Bivitas Burke—poor lad, indeed, with a name like that, damn Purebloods and their need to name their children unfortunate things—is a seven year old little boy who has been in St. Mungos for the past week, recovering from the Dark Magic his own parents used on him. It had nearly killed him, which was the risk the parents decided to take, and once they got the answer they were after, they no longer cared what would become of their son. They were disowning him loudly while the Aurors carted them off to be locked up.
That's the thing about being an adult, Draco has learned. Some things change, and some things do not, and you can only do your best in what you're presented with. Of course, things in Pureblood society have improved a lot because of his influence, as well as Pansy, Blaise, Theo, Daphne, Greg, and Astoria. They have a lot of power, admittedly, and so they can make changes—good change.
That doesn't mean everything is fixed in a nice, neat little bow, gift-wrapped and singing of a better future. It's not often that people can truly change the world the way they believe they can when they're young. Growing up is realizing that changing the world, even a little bit at a time in small ways, is just as important and necessary.
Personally, Draco has never truly cared to change the world, because he doesn't care about the world. That being said, people he cares about have to go out and exist in the world and such, so he finds himself supporting the good changes a lot more than he ever thought he would.
The world, even now, isn't in Bivitas' favor, unfortunately. It's because of the world that he finds himself abandoned by his parents. A world that doesn't accept people like him.
"Hello, Bivitas," Draco says as he enters the room, watching the kid scramble to sit up. He has big, wide eyes and cute, round cheeks. His hair is almost as black as Harry's, his eyes a deep brown that it's nearly as black as his hair, and he's got really dark freckles all over his tan skin.
"Hello," Bivitas replies, his voice small. He sounds just like most esteemed Purebloods of the Sacred Twenty-Eight do at his age, cute and small and trying so very hard to sound grown up. Draco's quite sure that he sounded exactly the same, if not a bit meaner and slightly more posh. "Is it time for me to go home yet, Healer?"
Draco flicks his wand and makes a chair settle to a stop beside Bivitas' bed, then slowly lowers himself into it with a sigh. He surveys the boy closely, knowing what he's about to say isn't going to go over well, desperately wishing he didn't have to say it at all. The world can be so cruel.
"Bivitas," Draco says softly, calmly, "I'm afraid you won't be able to return home. Your parents—"
"They don't want me, do they?" Bivitas asks, his eyes flooding with tears almost immediately. "It's because I'm not—because I'm—"
"Your parents are currently facing consequences for the actions they took with you," Draco continues, ignoring it as Bivitas starts crying in earnest. "I know this is upsetting, Bivitas, but I want you to understand that what they did to you was wrong. They hurt you, and they shouldn't have."
"They—they said it wouldn't hurt if I wasn't a failure," Bivitas declares, small body curling in on itself. He draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs. "Mr. Boot says it wasn't my fault, but then no one else wanted me, and if I'd only passed the test...maybe, maybe…"
"The test itself was cruel, and they should not have done it," Draco murmurs, keeping his tone gentle despite his anger. "You're not a failure, Bivitas. You're just a young boy with a bright future ahead of you. I'm very sorry that you won't be able to go home, but as it turns out, I've been given the option to take you home with me. Now, I hope you don't mind, but I've already arranged it with Mr. Boot. I don't want you to have to stay here in St. Mungos for any longer than you have to. Is that alright?"
Bivitas stops crying for a moment, swiping his full cheeks with short, stumpy fingers. "I'm going home with you? For how long?"
"Forever, if you like," Draco says casually. "I've agreed to look after you. Is that alright?"
"You want to?" Bivitas asks, seemingly unsure about this. "Even though I'm a—I'm—"
"A young boy with a bright future ahead of you?" Draco suggests patiently.
"How can I be?" Bivitas blurts out, fat tears rolling down his cheeks again. "Mother said I'll never amount to anything because I'm just a filthy Squib!"
Draco takes a deep breath, then slowly lets it out, forcing himself to stay calm. If he could get his hands on Terra Burke, he would do some very un-Healer-like things to her. Honestly, speaking to a child like that! Her own, especially.
"Well, your mother was very wrong, Bivitas. You'll amount to many things, and I don't doubt it for a second," Draco assures him. "And yes, I would very much like to take you home. Do you know who Harry Potter is?"
Bivitas nods tentatively. "Father says he's the reason the world went to the dogs." He pauses, face scrunching up. "I like dogs."
"Ah," Draco says, swallowing a reflexive laugh at the infinite wisdom of a seven-year-old. "Yes, well, Harry Potter is my husband. He will be looking after you as well. He's a lot nicer than I am."
"Father never seemed to—to like Harry Potter very much," Bivitas mumbles. Tears well up in his eyes again. He's clearly a very emotional child. "But Father didn't seem to like me very much either. Even less after he found out I was a Squib. He shouted about it when everything was hurting."
"It was the Spell," Draco tells him honestly. "It's very old and not known by many people. It's usually used in cases when parents suspect their children might not have magic, and it's very bad, Bivitas. What they did was bad and wrong, and I'm very sorry that it happened to you."
Bivitas cries about that, too.
Draco spends the next hour with Bivitas, talking to him as calmly and casually as possible. Through experience with Vellevita, he knows it's best to not lie if he can help it, even if he does avoid some topics that Bivitas brings up.
He wants to know what will happen to his parents. He wants to know if they'll ever be allowed to see him again. He asks so many curious, innocent questions that tugs at Draco's heart. Will they ever want him again? Do they still love him? Can he keep loving them? Is adoption permanent? Will Draco change his decision when Bivitas doesn't get his Hogwarts letter? So on and so on.
Draco answers as much as he's capable and does his best to distract Bivitas with other things. He tells him what the house is like. He talks about Vellevita. He gets into a very long discussion about the group of friends and family that the Malfoy-Potters have, and how they'll all be excited to meet him.
Eventually, finally, Terry returns with what little the Ministry sanctioned him to seize from the Burkes on Bivitas' behalf. It's not much—just some clothes, really, and a plush Thestral that Bivitas dives for as soon as he sees it. For Draco, Terry has a thumbnail thick file on the process that awaits him, and he has the decency to look apologetic about it.
"It's really nice, what you're doing," Terry tells him quietly, watching Bivitas with pity in his gaze.
"Don't pity him," Draco says sharply. "There's nothing wrong with him, Mr. Boot. I'm not taking him because no one else will; I'm taking him because I want to."
Terry smiles slightly. "All's well that ends well, then. I'm glad for it. I'll write with updates on his parents in the future, so be prepared for that."
"It should be Azkaban for them," Draco grits out.
"I'm inclined to agree," Terry mutters, "but the Ministry is unfortunately relaxed about child abuse, I've learned in my career. We do what we can, but the laws are pretty outdated, honestly. My bet is, the Burkes will be out in a few months' time and pretending he never even existed. They'll probably try for another that's not a—well, you know."
"I know," Draco murmurs, because he does.
"It's going to be hard for him," Terry says.
Draco nods. "I'm aware. You've got your procedures to follow, so you'll be popping in and out until the adoption is finalized. We'll do our best with him."
"I'm glad someone will." Terry throws another sad glance at Bivitas. "Someone should."
After that, Terry takes a few moments to speak with Bivitas, telling him that he's going to be around for a while yet to make sure Bivitas is in a safe home with a good family. Draco doesn't take offense. Bivitas should get all the reassurances that he can.
It's a big change, of course, so Bivitas is rather quiet while Draco gathers his things and leads him to get cleared for discharge by the Head Healer on Bivitas' case. Huxley takes one look at Bivitas' small hand in Draco's and smiles slightly, nodding at Draco in approval while congratulating Bivitas on getting to go home—not mentioning that he's never going to get to go to his old home again.
Draco doesn't comment about Huxley's approval, very aware that few people will react that way. There are going to be numerous people in the future who will be blatantly rude and outright horrible about him and Harry adopting a non-magical child. It's not right, but it is reality. He's already preparing for the future altercations that will come from this, and he doesn't care one bit. He'll fight and argue with whoever is stupid enough to speak up about it.
To get back home, Draco has to scoop Bivitas up and place him on his hip to go through the floo, and Bivitas hides behind his stuffed Thestral the entire time. When they step out of the fireplace, however, Bivitas peers around curiously, taking everything in with large, watery eyes.
"Draco?" Harry calls from the kitchen. "About time you got home! Your shift ran late today!"
"That's Harry Potter?" Bivitas whispers.
"That is," Draco says.
Bivitas blinks big, brown eyes at him. "You said he's nice. He wasn't mad when you told him you were going to bring me home?"
"Ah," Draco mutters with a cough, "I haven't actually told him that yet, to be honest. But don't worry, you're a surprise. He'll love it, I promise."
Bivitas looks appalled and terrified in a second, and the moment Harry hip-checks the swinging door to the kitchen open and steps out, he buries his face into Draco's shoulder and goes very still. It is adorable, admittedly. He's hiding.
Harry stops when he sees that Draco has returned from work with a child attached. His eyebrows go up, but all he says is, "Oh, we have a guest. Lovely. I was worried I made too much dinner."
"Hungry?" Draco asks, nudging Bivitas' side, urging him to look up.
"No," Bivitas mumbles, then hides his face again.
Draco hums. "Alright, well, dinner is a bit off anyway. We have some toys here, if you're interested in seeing them."
"You and Harry Potter need to have an adult compensation, don't you?" Bivitas asks sullenly, pulling back to frown at him.
"An adult conversation," Draco corrects with amusement, "and yes, we do. The toys will provide suitable entertainment, I assure you. We've got some for all ages. Come, I'll show you."
"Fine," Bivitas says, resigned.
Nonetheless, the toys do their job of distracting him quite well. A lot of them are magic, so he loses himself to them fairly quickly. Harry stands at the edge of the room, watching in complete silence, his arms crossed. As soon as Draco is sure that Bivitas isn't paying them any attention, he moves over to stand beside Harry.
For a long moment, they just watch Bivitas play. For everything he's gone through, he seems an altogether happy child. He giggles when the toys fly, or dance, or do anything he deems fun. He doesn't let his stuffed Thestral go the entire time.
When Draco glances over at Harry, he finds himself being watched. Harry is staring at him, eyebrows raised as far as they'll go.
"So," Harry says.
"Round two?" Draco asks lightly.
Harry blows out a deep sigh. "You didn't. Draco, tell me you haven't gone and adopted a child without consulting me first."
"Technically, I haven't. There's quite a bit of paperwork and meetings at the Ministry I have to get through first," Draco admits, then grimaces when Harry stares at him incredulously. "Alright, alright, I know. In fairness, you would have done the exact same thing that I have. At least let me explain before you start thinking I'm impulsive."
"You bloody well are, if you've done this," Harry hisses at him. "Well, go on, then. Explain."
So, Draco does.
It takes Harry approximately three minutes into the explanation to soften and be on board entirely. He's so very predictable, soft sod that he is. Just like Draco, he's understandably furious about what Bivitas' parents did, and he's always going to be a lovely, righteous git ready to do the right thing, because he doesn't need any convincing. He hears Draco out, and then he's just as determined to do right by Bivitas as Draco is.
"So," Draco says again, "round two?"
Harry snorts. "Looks like. Merlin, I didn't expect you to bring home a child today. Bloody hell."
"You're looking forward to it, aren't you?" Draco asks him in amusement.
"Yeah," Harry admits with a grin. "I look forward to everything with you, Draco. Aren't you looking forward to it? Sounds like Paradise, doesn't it?"
"Yes," Draco says softly, "it does."
But, the truth is, he doesn't know.
He doesn't know now what the future holds. He doesn't know that Bivitas is going to grow up happy and loved, overcoming the struggles of being a non-magical child in a world that will scorn him for it. He doesn't know that he and Harry will call him Bivvie, and they'll be his biggest supporters, and they'll do everything they can to help make the world a better place for him. He doesn't know that Bivitas is going to be best friends with Grove, and that they're going to work at Harry's school, taking in non-magical children and giving them proper chances at a better future.
He doesn't know that Vellevita will marry Faron and become a famous Wandmaker, so famous, in fact, that her name will go into history books. He doesn't know that she'll visit the Dark Lord and care for him as her Grandfather, in the way only she can, bringing Harry updates that always, always make him smile. He doesn't know that she's going to love her little brother, and that she's never going to stop struggling to express her emotions, but she'll make peace with it. He doesn't know that she's going to tell them she loves them again, but she will, over and over, proving so many people wrong about who she is and what she's born from.
He doesn't know that his friends are going to remain close, that they're going to always feel like family. He doesn't know that they're all going to work together to change the world in whatever way that they can, small and impactful alike, bound by shared experiences and unspoken horrors and genuine friendship.
He doesn't know that he and Harry will spend many happy years together, full of laughter and joy, bickering through the days, falling in love and flirting with hate and claiming the time they always deserved. He doesn't know that they'll fight, that they'll make up, that they'll share hoodies and visit France and watch in pride as their children grow.
Right now, he doesn't know that these things await him. He doesn't know that paradise is not a place, but a feeling. He doesn't know that he doesn't have to search for it, that he already has it, that he has had it for a long time and will know it in the way he always dreamed of.
He doesn't know, but he will one day understand. Paradise is not something he needs to seek; it is something he carries with him every day. It isn't anything he will ever have thought possible, or believed himself capable of having.
But that's the thing about life, isn't it?
Full of surprises.
Notes:
A couple of things, first:
Bivitas, of Latin Origin, name meaning: a person who leads a good life.
I'm an American, so trust me when I say it's not worth the visit, if you're thinking about it.
Faron is a Curse-Breaker, yes. Vellevita never has children—she never wanted them, and Faron isn't particularly interested either, but they do get a pet snake that scares the piss out of Draco every time he visits. Yes, Teddy and Ronan DO end up falling in love, because I'm the author and I say so. Also, Greg 100% named his son Vince, yes. Hermione eventually does become Minister of Magic, and Pansy is a very important figure and advisor to her. Luna and Ginny do, in fact, get pregnant at the same time, but only when they're both settled enough to do so. Daisy and Grove are close siblings, no hatred between them. Bivitas never learns about Voldemort and doesn't care to, he's too busy living his absolute Best Life.
Harry and Draco, of course, are Harry and Draco.
Welp.
This has been a very long journey. I actually started rereading "Harry Potter and the Welcome to the World of Grey" and fucking WOW, this series goes far. Like, so far. It's absolutely wild. I'm proud of it. And to think, this was supposed to be like 5k of self-indulgent catharsis that was never going to go anywhere, and yet...here we are.
This is a bit of a softer, gentler ending for Voldemort, in particular. I know some of you will appreciate it, but I admit I wouldn't have written it if it didn't fit. But, well, Vellevita just does what she likes, honestly. Voldemort will never say it, obviously, but he comes to love her just the same way he did Harry.
This fic had an underlying theme. In the same way that "Harry Potter and the Welcome to the World of Grey" had the theme that things aren't always so black and white, this fic had a theme that life is full of surprises. And this series as a whole encompasses that things aren't simple, but that doesn't mean that it's bad. I really hoped everyone enjoyed the exploration of these things as much as I did.
With that, this is it. I can't thank you all enough for the support ❤️ you're all absolutely lovely, and I'm so glad you've all come on this journey with me.
Ta!
-SOBS
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