Tides Will Change (the Sea Can't Help it)

by umbrellaless22

Summary:

Harry, his fledging relationship, and his occasionally trying children, attempt to survive his first year as the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.

Notes:

Hi everyone and welcome back, thank you so so so so much for sticking around.

I would definitely recommend reading the first fic in this series (The Illusion that One Can Make Things Right) before moving onto this one, or some things might not make a ton of sense.

This story will be told via 5 POVs: Jamie, Harry, Draco, Scorpius and Albus.

This fic contains smut between Harry and Draco only. I will keep it demarcated so you can skip the smut if you are just here for the story! Please see end notes for cues on skipping smut.

There will be some pre-slash between James and Scorpius. No underage sex in this fic.

 

And lastly, the biggest of all thank-yous to my superior beta, Mimbelwimbel. Thanks for all that you do!

CW: this fic will likely contain some ableist language and social alcohol use. A background character with a substance use disorder is also mentioned, and characters with a history of (non-sexual) child abuse. Please use caution if those are a trigger for you. I will note other CWs as needed. Please check the author's note before each chapter.

Chapter 1: Jamie

Tides will change
The sea can't help it
Nothing is forever
When it feels like
I'm in constant motion
You're my anchor in the ocean

- Anchor by AG & Lindsey Ray

 

 

Jamie

 

“Well, did Professor Slark approve your transfer?” Fortitude prodded as Jamie squeezed in beside her for lunch, grinning and nodding in response to the various ‘Afternoon, Potter’s that seemed to follow him about. It had always been like this, ever since he was a first year: The entire student body seemed to know who he was the moment he stepped foot on the Hogwarts Express. In the beginning, all that attention felt nice, like he was somehow important, but eventually he’d had to face that it wasn’t about him at all, or at least not his first name. 

 

Jamie was a little late for lunch, having just met with the Gryffindor Head of House to discuss switching from Care of Magical Creatures to Hexbreaking. He was feeling peckish by now and started to put together a sandwich for himself from the cold meat and cheese spread. Jamie was always partial to sandwiches.

 

“Yeah,” he replied, “I start tomorrow.”

 

His best friend grinned, her smile wide on her broad face. She had her masses of tiny black braids piled high on her head, today, and the wooden beads in her hair clacked cheerfully as she reached for her pumpkin juice. Fort’s dad, Lee Jordan, was a good friend of Jamie’s uncle George, and so Jamie and Fort had met a few times as kids. They’d both been sorted into Gryffindor back in first year, and Jamie had been happy to see the familiar face of someone his own age.

 

“So he bought the allergy bit?” Fort prompted over the hum of lunchtime chatter. It was good to be back at school, Jamie thought. It felt normal. He was happy to be back with his housemates and in his dorm, and he wasn’t even fed up with homework yet, despite Professor Malfoy having already demanded an essay on the various antidotes for Tickling Tonic. Fourth year felt more important than third year, somehow, like it was time to start sorting out his future. To hell with what Al said, Jamie was going to make something of himself one day. 

 

“I don’t know,” he admitted in answer to Fort’s question. “He seemed a bit, er, dubious that I would have developed that many rashes after two years of no allergic reactions when it came to Magical Creatures, but he said since we are only a week in, it should be okay to swap classes. Maybe I should have told him I just really want to be a Curse-Breaker. I think he knew I was lying.”

 

“Well, doesn’t matter either way,” Fort pointed out, her voice hushed. “You’re in. So you can get to work on figuring out the DADA curse!”

 

Before Jamie could reply, someone clapped a hand down on his shoulder.

 

“Hey, Potter! Good to see you.” It was Sterling Main, Head Boy, and a few of his friends. Main was big-boned and olive-skinned, and wore large wooden square-rimmed spectacles that should have looked ridiculous, but instead just seemed to make him  cool. He was in Slytherin, and Jamie always got the feeling every exchange with Main was about networking or some bollocks, and not because he actually liked the person. It didn’t seem particularly malicious, but it didn’t feel genuine, either. Although on the surface, it appeared as though Main liked everyone. 

 

“‘Lo, Main,” Jamie said back, mirroring the other boy’s overtly friendly grin. “Have a good summer?”

 

“Absolutely,” Main assured him, as though he’d had simply the best summer one could imagine. “Hope yours was splendid, too. So great to have your dad join us at Hogwarts; we’re all terribly humbled by his being here.”

 

Main certainly didn’t sound humbled. But Jamie only nodded and made some sound in the affirmative. With another squeeze to Jamie’s shoulder and a nod to Fort and Ri, Main moved off, his followers in tow.

 

“SIimy git,” Fort commented airily towards Main’s retreating back. “I hope your dad sees right through his sycophantism.”

 

“Eurgh, honestly, I’m not sure he will. Dad really loves giving people the benefit of the doubt.”

 

“That’s precious,” Fort determined, like she was looking at a newborn kneazle, and not talking about Jamie’s dad. “And all the more reason for you to find out what you can about the curse.”

 

“Tell me again why I’m the one in charge of this?” Jamie grumbled. Not that he didn’t want to, it was just so typical of Fort to delegate without lifting a hand. 

 

The witch shrugged. “I’m pants at research,” she announced, “It’s dull. But Ri will help. Ravenclaws like that shit.”

 

“We’re not supposed to call him that,” Jamie reminded her.

 

“Yes, well,” Fortitude tossed her head. “I’ll respect his pronouns, but I’ll not respect that mouthful. Januarius, you’ve got to be joking. That’s five whole syllables, Jamie. If he wanted me to call him by a new name, he ought to have chosen one I would bother with. He knows how lazy I am.” 

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be, like, supportive or something?” Jamie wondered. He had, until a week and a half ago, known their good friend Januarius Boone as Linda Boone, but on the first day back at Hogwarts, Jamie and Fortitude had been informed of some important changes. Jamie had been taken a bit by surprise by his friend coming out, but while he still slipped up occasionally, he’d found the adjustment easier than expected.  “Like, what if you hurt his feelings?”

 

Fort snorted. “Feelings? Ri? I wasn’t aware he had any.”

 

“She’s right, I don’t,” a flat, crisp voice said from behind them, and Jamie jumped in surprise and turned his head. 

 

Januarius was standing near Fort’s shoulder surveying them, impassive as always. His strawberry blond hair was styled into a sleek pompadour. It was quite a departure from the long sheets of hair that he’d hidden behind for the last few years. With those clipped short, his thin, pale neck and petite features were exposed. His little bow mouth and button nose were simply precious—and completely counter to his chilly personality.

 

“Well?” Januarius prompted. “Shove over, Jamie, and you two can fill me in on whatever you’re plotting.”

 

Switching tables in the Great Hall was not particularly common, but no one ever hassled James Potter and his friends, even when a plate was upset as he wriggled to make room. Jamie grunted an apology to the fifth-year beside him, and the fifth-year only smiled and magicked up the mess. People seemed to like Jamie—Albus excluded. 

 

“How did you know we’re plotting?” Fort demanded. 

 

“I wasn’t aware that you did anything else,” Ri fired back.

 

“You’re like my miserable brother,” Jamie teased Fort good-naturedly. “Only he fixates, whereas you only ever flit about.”

 

 “That’s about the size of it,” Januarius declared. “Hit Bludgers and meddle: the Fortitude Jordan way.” 

 

“It is a bit, isn’t it?” Fort replied, sounding pleased. 

 

“Unfortunately, without Jamie and me, those schemes go absolutely nowhere,” Ri looked down his adorable nose at her (which he could only do when he was standing, what with his being nearly a foot shorter than Fort) and climbed onto the bench between them.

 

Fortitude did not look at all offended as she speared a carrot with her fork. “I’m more of an ideas woman, really. I’ve not the patience for execution. How was your morning, Ri; survive Charms with the Hufflepuffs?”

 

“I told her not to call you that,” Jamie asserted, holding up a palm off to fend off any reprimands. He wasn’t about to be lumped in with Fort’s blatant disrespect.

 

“Ri is acceptable,” Januarius decided. “So long as it’s not Jan. I should have known my full name would be too many letters for Fort’s measly peabrain.”

 

“Oh, you and your overreliance on brains,” Fort said with a wink. The Ravenclaw’s barbs never bothered her. She wasn’t keen on booksmarts and wasn’t afraid of having it known. Jamie thought it made her and Januarius—oh, stuff it, it was too many syllables to even think; Ri, then—unexpected friends. “Don’t need a bunch of memorised trivia to take the Quidditch world by storm, now do I?”

 

“I wouldn’t call all of academia memorised trivia,” Ri pointed out. “And to answer your question, no, I barely survived Charms. Clifford Dunsdale is the thickest git to ever wield a wand. He turned his quill into a parakeet and we spent the rest of the lesson trying to switch it back. Transfiguration magic! In Charms! I can’t believe he progressed to fourth year. This school’s gone soft.”

 

“Oh, come on,” Jamie protested. “Cliff’s not so bad.”

 

“Being able to fly on a broom does not automatically equate to being ‘not so bad,’ Potter.”

 

“He’s nice,” Jamie tried. Clifford Dunsdale was the Hufflepuff Keeper, square-jawed and blond and friendly as anything. Ri was the only person to ever have a harsh word to say against him.

 

“I’m tired of nice,” Ri quipped. He started to fill his plate with the meats and veg on offer. “So, is one of you going to tell me the scheme of the week, or must I guess?”

 

The three’s friendship was an unlikely one, considering that Fort and Jamie had been well-liked since the day they’d arrived, whereas Ri hadn’t deigned to make a single friend during his first few months in the castle. Jamie hadn’t even known the Ravenclaw existed until halfway through first year. At the time, Fort had been complaining about Professor Malfoy’s essay requirements in the library. Her whinging had been so loud and obnoxious, that a tiny strawberry blonde girl (or, it turned out, a tiny strawberry blond boy, only Jamie hadn’t known that at the time) had stomped over and said: “I’ll write the damn thing, if that will convince you to shut it for half a bloody minute!”

 

Fort had only laughed, promised to keep it down, and invited the other kid to sit with them ‘to supervise’. Jamie suspected that Ri didn’t fancy anyone else clever enough for his company, and that the Ravenclaw’s acerbic wit hadn’t made anyone interested in pursuing it. It surprised Jamie, then, that even though he and Fort weren’t whip-smart like he was, Ri kept seeking them out simply to pretend not to enjoy their company, to grumble about every soul inhabiting Hogwarts (living and dead), and to huff and sigh at Fort’s lack of commitment to her studies. Ri didn’t like Quidditch, and he didn’t like slackers, and he definitely didn’t like Gryffindors, but somehow, he liked Fort and Jamie. 

 

“Same plan as last week, only this time it’s come to fruition,” Fort was explaining. “See? I get things done. I’m not a flitter, thanks very much, Jamie.”

 

“Is this the scheme where James would plead allergies to get switched into Hexbreaking?” Ri clarified.

 

“The one and the same,” Fort replied excitedly. “And it worked!”

 

“So, you didn’t have to do anything. Jamie had to do something,” Ri corrected.

 

“I told you,” Fort said, waving her hand dismissively, “I’m about the ideas. And it doesn’t matter, who did what, because the plan was a success! Jamie starts Hexbreaking tomorrow! Which means we can solve this damn curse, and keep his dad alive and teaching at least up until we graduate.”

 

Ri’s lips flattened thoughtfully. “Fine,” he agreed, as if he’d been posed a question. “I’ll help.”

 

“You will?” Jamie enquired, surprised. Ri was usually unwilling to stick his neck out for anything. 

 

“Yes.” Ri nodded firmly. “Professor Potter is the best Defence teacher we’ve had or are likely to get. My education would be impacted should he meet an untimely demise.”

 

“Very generous of you,” Jamie chuckled, but he really was grateful for the assistance. He doubted he could get anywhere on his own—he didn’t know the first thing about curses!

 

Ri gave him a disgruntled look. “It’s not. It’s born only of self-interest, as I’ve just said.”

 

“He is a fab teacher, Jamie,” Fort added. “Even I like him, and that’s rare as hens’ teeth. That obstacle course he made for us was nothing short of wicked. I might not be entirely dependent on Ri to pass a class for once!”

 

Jamie shrugged, embarrassed. He still felt weird about his dad being the DADA professor. He’d been ready for an onslaught of ribbing at the hands of his housemates, but from the first day, all anyone had seemed was impressed. Jamie was taken aback by the thunderous standing ovation that had erupted upon his dad’s introduction as a faculty member. And, admittedly, the obstacle course had been pretty neat, all done out on the Quidditch pitch, testing their skills from the term prior in rapid succession. It definitely beat Professor Stump’s dry, theory-heavy lectures from third year. 

 

“Doesn’t hurt that he’s a bit fit, either,” Fort said thoughtfully, snagging an apple from a fruit bowl and taking a large bite. 

 

“Merlin’s teeth, Fort!” Jamie sputtered.

 

“Well, you know, now he’s back on the market…” Fort gave an exaggerated wiggle of her dark eyebrows, then seemed to realise what she’d just admitted and cringed guiltily. 

 

“What?” Ri demanded sharply. Jamie blanched. He’d made Fort promise not to tell Ri just yet, because Ri was never delicate about these things, and Jamie still felt raw about it. 

 

“Shit,” Fort breathed. “I’m sorry, Jamie, I forgot—”

 

“It’s fine,” Jamie muttered quietly, not looking at her. He looked around to make sure no one was paying attention to them, and shifted his gaze to Ri. “My folks split up, is all.”

 

“Oh.” Whatever Ri thought about the news, it didn’t show on his face. 

 

“I should have told you,” Jamie offered. 

 

“Why?” Ri asked, sounding confused. “It’s nothing to do with me.”

 

“Yeah,” Jamie explained, “but I shouldn’t keep secrets from you, and I shouldn’t have gone the whole summer without sending you any post, seeing as how you’re my friend and all.”

 

Ri lined his cutlery up neatly on the side of his plate and spelled it all clean. He never could abide a mess. “Potter, I let you and Fort and the rest of the world think I was a girl for years. I know a thing or two about keeping secrets.”

 

“Oh,” Jamie considered. “I suppose you do.”

 

“Yes. Well. Are you...having feelings about the split?” Ri ventured.

 

“Probably, but no offense, Ri, I’m not likely to bring them to you, am I?”

 

“No, I shouldn’t think so. Good,” Ri said decisively, jerking his head to one side and then the other. There was a disturbing series of  loud, popping sounds. Fort made a disgusted face, and Ri ignored her. It was their typical pantomime. “That’s excellent. So, this curse then? What’s the plan?”

 

“Not really sure,” Jamie replied. “How does one even prove there is a curse?”

 

“It is a real failing in our education that we don’t go into the arcanology of the Dark Arts,” Ri remarked. 

 

“Merlin, Ri, do you ever listen to yourself?” Fort accused. “You sound like a little Lord Voldy in training.”

 

Ri had the decency to look alarmed. “Don’t be daft. Having to organize a great lot of sniveling people? To withstand their griping and orchestrate their actions? It’s out of the question.”

 

“Yes, you’d much rather find a nice cave somewhere and hermit away the remainder of your existence,” Fort teased.

 

“Sounds ideal, yes,” Ri agreed. 

 

“What’s the point in learning everything under the sun if you’re not going to do anything with it?” Fort pushed. 

 

“I’ll write my own spell books eventually,” Ri surmised. “And then I’ll accept bi-monthly post praising my intellect.”

 

“And what if you meet a special witch or wizard in the meantime?” Fort pushed, but Ri didn’t rise to the bait. 

 

“Well, then they’d better enjoy damp conditions, foraging, and long periods of being ignored.”

 

Fort cackled and Jamie looked about the Great Hall. Al and Scorpius were nowhere to be seen, as usual. Fort and Jamie really didn’t have anything on Al’s scheming. The kid was born plotting and inventing and jumping from subject to subject. Jamie found it all rather exhausting. His cousin Rose was seated a ways down the Gryffindor bench with the other second-years, and she waved brightly when he caught her eye. He nodded in return. 

 

His other cousin, his uncle Percy’s daughter, Molly, was Head Girl, and she presided at the other end of the Gryffindor bench, surrounded by her gaggle of friends. Her older sister, Lucy, had only just graduated the year prior, and his uncle Bill’s kids all went to Beauxbatons, where Auntie Fleur hinted they were less likely to die a grisly death. Jamie supposed it was nice to have family all around. He couldn’t imagine being an orphan like his dad had been, to have shown up at Hogwarts with barely a friendly face to be found, only having just learned he was a wizard.

 

Jamie glanced to the head table, where his dad was sitting with Professor Malfoy. It had been weird, this summer, having the professor show up at first, like seeing a yeti in the desert, something terribly out of place. When he was in primary school, he’d thought his teachers somehow lived in the school house full time, and even though of course he knew better now, it had still been a bit jarring to see Professor Malfoy step out of the Floo. But then he had kept showing up, and Jamie had gotten used to his being around. It had meant no more beans on toast, which was a major boon, in Jamie’s opinion. And Dad seemed relieved to have a friend as well, lighter somehow and less stressed all the time. Parents needed friends as much as anyone, Jamie supposed. 

 

He wondered then if that was where his mum was, with friends. She’d not had a great many, that Jamie could remember, besides his Aunt Hermione and his Aunt Luna (who was not a real aunt, but for some reason they had to call her that anyway). But the former was busy with her own work and Aunt Luna never stayed in one place for long. Mum had always been busy with dinner or mending Al’s clothes (which never seemed to stay neat), or running off to the shops. Jamie had never really considered parents being lonely before this summer, but maybe Mum had been. Maybe that’s why she’d left. 

 

This was a game Jamie tried to play now. It wasn’t a very fun game, but it was what he had. He’d come up with different explanations in his head. For a long time, the explanation was that his mum had been angry with Dad, or sick of Remy’s crying. Or maybe she’d gotten tired of the lot of them. But Jamie wasn’t keen on those ideas, so lately he’d been constructing new ones. Maybe Mum was on a trip to America, or was salvaging a special, medicinal plant that only grew at the top of a mountain and only she could pick it. 

 

He knew it wasn’t true, but it was sometimes better to pretend. 

 

“Oi, Jamie!” Fort called out, launching a grape over Ri’s head into Jamie’s temple. It didn’t hurt, but Jamie rubbed the spot all the same and glowered at her. 

 

“What?” he demanded. 

 

“Library tonight? I’ll read magazines while you and Ri research the whatsit-ology of the Dark Arts or what have you?”

 

“Yeah, alright—oh wait, no, I can’t! I’m assisting Professor Malfoy with Potions prep tonight, as his new assistant and all.”

 

“It’s dreadfully unfair that you obtained that position when you don’t even give a toss about Potions,” Ri grumbled. “Especially when he’s one of the few professors at this school from whom I can actually learn something.”

 

Jamie shrugged and grinned. “Yeah, but I need to be involved in stuff like this if I want a shot at being a prefect, and you’re not interested in that, anyway, since it involves, you know, people.”

 

“Hrm,” Ri considered. “You and your...school pride. It’s unsettling.”

 

Jamie laughed and clapped Ri on the shoulder. “Forgive me for preferring society to cave-dwelling.”

 

“I could, but I shan’t,” Ri informed him. 

 

/// ///

 

After supper that day, Jamie scurried down to the dungeons. He’d only helped Professor Malfoy once so far, the first week back, and that had mostly involved putting away jars and touching up labels. He’d quickly been taken off that job, though. He didn’t think his penmanship was quite up to the professor’s standards. 

 

“Hullo, Professor!” he called out as he entered the classroom and made his way towards the doorway into the storeroom. 

 

“Good evening, James,” came the reply, when Jamie reached the door. The room was small, but the ceilings were terribly high, with a wooden ladder installed so one could climb up it to search through what seemed like endless glass jars and phials and little wooden drawers. Professor Malfoy was standing over a counter, sharpening a little knife. The man was tall, about as tall as Jamie’s dad, with angular, severe sort of features. Fort said he was terribly good-looking, but she seemed to think a lot of men were terribly good-looking so it was hard for Jamie to know for sure. Usually, the man’s medium-length platinum hair was down, artfully framing his face, but whenever he was working back here, he kept it up in a tiny ponytail which stuck out at the back of his head. “Did you have a pleasant day?”

 

He always talked more formally than Dad ever did, but Jamie didn’t mind it. “Yeah, it was alright, thanks. I got switched into Hexbreaking!”

 

“Oh, Professor Lunate will be happy to have you, I’m sure. Is hexbreaking an interest of yours?” 

 

Professor Malfoy handed Jamie a small sack full of seeds, and motioned for him to upend it atop the counter. 

 

“I don’t know,” Jamie admitted. “I’m not sure what my interests are right now, besides Quidditch and graphic novels. I did Care of Magical Creatures last year, but this year I...wanted to try something new. Besides, I ought to start thinking about my career.” Jamie liked that word, career; it made him feel important. He wasn’t going to be trapped behind a desk all day like his dad had been. No, Jamie was going to be remarkable. 

 

“I think that’s wise,” Professor Malfoy asserted and the praise made Jamie feel clever as anything. He watched as the knife was then sheathed, and a long, thin, ivory box sailed down from a shelf, in response to a spell. The professor never seemed to have to hunt about for anything, as though every myriad ingredient had a particular place. “Unfortunately, some of these bull thistle seeds have sprouted. Separate those ones out, if you would,” he instructed.

 

“Sure thing,” Jamie said amiably. This work wasn’t exactly thrilling, but it was methodical and he liked the way Professor Malfoy talked to him, like he was interesting in his own right, and not just because he was the son of Harry Potter. That was all some of Jamie’s others teachers seemed to see, and Jamie was sick of it. “How about you? What did you want to be when you were my age?”

 

“I’d not thought I’d had much choice,” the man informed him, dicing some long reed-like bundles with quick, adept movements. “I was to be the Lord of Malfoy Manor, I’d manage the estate, as well as the other properties my father had acquired.”

 

“Oh,” Jamie said. “So, you were like, really rich, then?”

 

Professor Malfoy laughed: a quiet rumble that Jamie hadn’t heard often. “Didn’t your father teach you it’s rude to ask such questions?” 

 

Jamie blushed, but his teacher didn’t sound angry, so he reckoned it was alright to keep going. “My mum did, that’s for certain. She always said she grew up poorer than a church mouse and nothing made her feel more crumby than when people would draw attention to it. But we weren’t ever rich, so I don’t know what it’s like, and how will I know if I don’t ask?”

 

“I unfortunately was one of those people. Probably another reason your uncle Ron and I aren’t on the best of terms.”

 

“Well, I guess everyone does stupid things,” Jamie offered. “I definitely wouldn’t want to be remembered for the idiotic things I believed in primary school, that’s for sure. What was it like, though—having everything you ever wanted? I don’t know why my dad opted out of that part of being rich and famous.”

 

“You’d have to ask him about that last query,” Professor Malfoy began, “but as for myself, we may have been wealthy, but I was far from having everything I wanted. There are some deficiencies which material goods can never make up for. Mine was not a happy home, you understand, James. But coming from wealth, it felt normal to me at the time, and yet, paradoxically, I thought that made me special. It didn’t.”

 

“Whose managing all that, then? If you’re here?” Jamie pressed.

 

“I sold everything except the Manor and established a fund for the injured and orphaned following the war.”

 

“That’s awfully generous of you,” Jamie exclaimed. 

 

“A way to assuage my guilt, no more. And I kept more than enough to keep myself, and later Scorpius, comfortable. I’m hardly a martyr.”

 

“Still,” Jamie shrugged. “Sounds like a nice thing to do. I’m done with the seeds, what’s next?”

 

Jamie spent the next while grinding Moilygag hooves into dust and chatting about his classes. After a while, Professor Malfoy flicked on an old wireless in the corner. The music that came from it sounded a bit like opera or something, but Jamie didn’t mind. Everything about Professor Malfoy seemed classy-like, in a way Jamie wasn’t used to. 

 

“Seems a bit labour intensive to have me do all this,” Jamie commented, crushing a bit of hoof between the pestle and mortar. “Not complaining, just wouldn’t it be easier to have this done by magic?”

 

“It would be, yes,” Professor Malfoy agreed, bringing out a sheet of labels and a pot of ink. “But it is more potent freshly ground. Too much uniformity detracts from the character of many potions, I find. That is why I prefer to brew many myself, instead of purchasing them. As for the hooves, the seventh-years will be using it tomorrow for their Poultices of Invulnerability.”

 

“What’s that?” Jamie asked. He watched the professor start to make fresh labels, his characters neat, but a bit ornate. 

 

“A concoction that can be applied to the skin. It makes the wearer impermeable to spells and assault for a brief period of time.”

 

“Wicked,” Jamie breathed. Seventh-years learned all the coolest stuff. 

 

“Hm,” Professor Malfoy agreed. “The powdered hooves lend their strength, and also, more practically, give a pleasing consistency to the potion so that it can more easily be applied. Unfortunately, Moilygags are difficult to find and harder still to kill, so the poultice is not easily created, especially in any sort of abundance.”

 

“Did you kill them?” Jamie enquired, trying not to think about the ugly, spiny little beasts he’d seen pictures of in Lily’s storybooks. 

 

“No,” Professor Malfoy answered. “Headmistress Clearwater urges the use of ethically sourced ingredients for school use. I acquire animal products from an expedition company out of Galați—in fact, I think your uncle Charles has worked with them a time or two.”

 

“Wow, I never even thought of that. So they, like, scavenge dead ones or something?”

 

“Quite,” the professor nodded. “Which means I can’t always get the ingredients I seek, but that is no matter, there are always other potions I can teach. Besides, forcefully taken components can sour the magic, especially if one is not careful.”

 

“Yeah, of course,” Jamie agreed as if he knew all that already. He tried to memorise the facts to share with Ri later. But Merlin, there was so much to know, and Malfoy seemed to know all of it. He was endlessly tossing out little titbits like this while they worked. 

 

“Hey Professor,” Jamie began hesitantly. 

 

“Yes, James?”

 

“What do you know about curses?” he blurted the question out quickly, hoping it wasn’t foolish to ask. 

 

“That’s quite a broad question,” was the reply. “Perhaps you could narrow it down?”

 

“Right. Well, I know a person can be cursed, or an object, but can something less...tangible be cursed? Like, I don’t know, a marriage?”

 

The professor didn’t say anything for a moment. His quill was still in his hand. Jamie bit his lip and listened to the clear tenor singing an aria through the wireless and hoping he hadn’t bollocksed this all up. What if his professor thought Jamie was trying to get into the Dark Arts or something?

 

The question hung in the air for a moment, making Jamie queasy. 

 

“This wouldn’t be in reference to your parents, would it, James?” Professor Malfoy said tentatively. 

 

“Oh!” Jamie gulped. “No! Of course not, well, sort of. Not my parents, but my dad. Because it’s not really a marriage I’m trying to ask about, only I didn’t want to give it away what I am trying to ask about, because you’ll dismiss me just like my dad did, probably.”

 

“Why don’t you ask about what you actually want to know, and I’ll see what I can do,” the professor said kindly; he sounded slightly amused. That irked James a bit. 

 

“I was just thinking about the curse that Voldemort supposedly put on the Defence Against Dark Arts position.”

 

“Ah, yes, Hogwarts lore,” Professor Malfoy mused. 

 

“Yeah, that. But how would he have cursed something he can’t touch? Like where would he have even focused the spell?”

 

To Jamie’s relief, the professor didn’t dismiss him. “That’s an excellent question,” he began, instead. “And gets into some of the finer points of Dark Magic.”

 

Jamie sighed. “So that means it’s something you can’t tell me?”

 

“I’ll tell you what I know. I didn’t go down that path for long, however, your father would know better than I.”

 

“Yeah, well, he won’t tell me anything.”

 

“He’s very protective, your father. But I doubt what I have to share would cause any harm. As you know, all magic deals with intent, but some curses arise involuntarily, perhaps unwillingly, when a particularly powerful practitioner feels very strongly about something, and when they brood over it for a long period of time. I suspect if the Dark Lord had wished to curse the position directly, professors would not last a month in the role. Given that is not the case, and provided that the curse exists at all, I would expect it is a more insidious, noxious thing that hovers in the castle’s magic.”

 

“Well, how does one root that out!?” Jamie urged. 

 

“Another excellent question. I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for you.”

 

“Aren’t you worried, though?” Jamie pressed. “About my dad? Won’t you help me with this?”

 

Professor Malfoy waved his wand and the ingredients spread across the counter began to organise themselves and the fresh labels affixed themselves appropriately. The ivory box flew back to its shelf, the powered hooves poured into a jar which was stoppered and tucked neatly away. “I’ve no proof beyond coincidence that such a curse exists. I’m certain if it did, any one of the headmasters or mistresses would have addressed it by now. Besides, even if it does exist, I doubt I would have the capabilities to end it. I’m a potions master, James, not a hexbreaker. But believe me, if anyone could evade a curse issued by the Dark Lord, it is your father. As I’ve said before, he’s a very powerful wizard. Please don’t worry yourself.”

 

Jamie exhaled deeply and stuck his wand into the pocket of his cloak. That was adults for you: always brushing things off and promising everything would be okay, even when it wouldn’t be. “Yeah,” he said, resigned. “Alright.” 

 

He’d clearly have to tackle this problem himself. 

Notes:

The title for the fic is from Anchor, by AG & Lindsay Ray, which really feels like a theme song for the first story in this series. Give it a listen!

The title for the series is from The Sound of Music by Rodgers and Hammerstein. Listen here!

It is also from a kids' book called Something Good by Robert Munsch. I highly recommend giving it a listen here!

Chapter 2: Draco

Draco

Crabapple Cottage was almost nauseatingly dear. It was squat and stone with creeping ivy and the last of the yellow rose bushes in the garden were blooming full-faced and welcoming. The window panes and shutters had a fresh coat of bright white paint and a little creek burbled happily alongside it. The serenity was at odds with Draco’s mood, which had been swerving between irritated and distraught ever since Murgatroyd, his great horned owl, had dropped that damn letter in his lap at breakfast. Well, nevermind. Draco wasn’t going to spend a perfectly pleasant evening worrying over that. 

 

He forced his attention back to the present and the lovely cottage standing before him. The only blight on the whole place was the hedge that a well-intentioned landscaper had shaped into his best impression of Harry, then charmed it to wave to passersby. Harry had been dreadfully embarrassed, but also torn: He’d wanted it gone, but hadn’t wished to earn anyone’s ill will by destroying the leafy green monstrosity. Draco himself would have had no such qualms.

 

The initial week back at Hogwarts had been a rainy one, and it was refreshing to see the late summer sun, and to feel it on his skin. Draco had been dashing between Hogwarts, Eiderdown End, and the cottage, carting around bags and boxes of whatever was needed the first couple of days. Since then, his schedule had become cluttered up with meetings and class preparation and concocting the potion which kept Scorpius’ prophecies at bay, and he’d not seen Harry outside of the castle for nearly a week.  

 

Draco didn’t want to examine too closely how Potter had already become something of a fixture in his days, even if it was just to share a glance and a nod across a corridor. He likewise ignored the bubbly sensation that was far too akin to yearning and which had only mounted as he had taken advantage of the lovely weather to fly into Hogsmeade. 

 

Draco walked up the cobbled path to the front door. The picturesque serenity was juxtaposed with wailing coming from beyond the thick wooden beams of the entrance. Draco rapped smartly on it. He felt...embarrassinly nervous. Things between him and Harry had escalated so quickly, but after any amount of time apart, it was like some segment of him forgot this whole business was truly real, as though he couldn’t be sure Harry would be happy to see him at all. He knocked again, but his efforts clearly weren’t heard above the din, so he tried the handle. It was unlocked, because even a tragic past couldn’t teach Harry to distrust the world, apparently. He shook his head. Stubborn, foolish Gryffindor. 

 

“Harry?” Draco called out, stepping inside the cottage and shutting the door behind him. He snicked the lock into place and propped up his broom in the corner. 

 

Remy’s wails increased in amplitude as Harry hurried down the hall. He looked worn down and dark rings of sleeplessness were plainly visible under his eyes. Remy was squalling in his arms, his chubby face as red as his hair and his eyes squeezed shut and leaking. He had a little wooden rattle in hand, but was failing to use it. 

 

“Potter, what have I said about locking your damn door?” Draco demanded loudly, trying to force normalcy even though his heart was beating obnoxiously at the sight. He couldn’t get used to this notion of being together. 

 

Instead of looking cowed, Harry gave a lopsided grin. “I knew you were coming, didn’t I? And thought I might not hear your knock, what with Remy here displaying the strength of his lungs.” As if personally affronted by the accusation, Remy’s screams slowed and transformed into fussy whimpers. He latched onto Harry’s thumb with one hand, holding it tight, and flung the rattle onto the floor. 

 

Draco stooped to pick it up. Upon rising, he peeked over Harry’s shoulder for any sign of Lily, and, when he didn’t see her, dared to press a quick kiss to the other man’s unshaven cheek.

 

Merlin, even when he was a sleep-deprived mess, Potter looked delectable all surprised and pleased like that, like every act of affection on Draco’s part was something to be savoured. 

 

“Well, hullo, then,” Harry murmured. 

 

Draco granted him a small smile, clamping down on the outlandish one that threatened to bloom on his face because they finally had an evening together and he was disturbingly pleased to be here. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked forward to another adult’s company like this. 

 

Draco cleared his throat and busied himself by taking off his cloak and hanging it on one of the bronze hooks that hung above the bench fitted into the little nook to his left. He reached into the pocket of his trousers, ignoring the folded bit of parchment there which had been troubling him all day, and fished out the little phial filled with a dreamy, lavender-coloured solution and an eyedropper. 

 

“As promised,” he announced, handing it over. “Mrs. Warble’s Tremendous Soothing Tonic. Or her recipe, at least. I was forced to brew it myself, as she is no longer with us. Two drops on the tongue, and that should relieve Remy’s suffering.”

 

“Mrs. Warble? Of the baby wrap fame?” Harry asked. 

 

“The one and the same,” Draco agreed. “She was a dedicated force in the realm of home economics in the 1960s. Many of my favourite tidying charms come from her.”

 

“Well, the wrap’s been a wonder, and come to think of it, Ginny used this soothing stuff on the other three when they were young. Not home-brewed though. Goodness, you didn’t need to do all this,” Harry admonished, but he sounded grateful. Draco was still startled by how much he enjoyed doing little favours for Harry bloody Potter. His teenage self would be disgusted.

“I said I wouldn’t, didn’t I?” Draco reminded Harry, as together they headed for the kitchen.

 

“Yes, but that was yesterday. I wasn’t expecting such a quick turnaround! Not that I’m not thankful. I really could use the sleep.”

 

“Hm, you look it,” Draco agreed. 

 

“I know,” Harry winced, dragging a bashful hand through his perpetually dishevelled hair. “It’s been a long week. All these faculty meetings, and Lily’s not settling in as well as I would like, and now Remy’s going through a fussy period. And then I’m somehow supposed to come up with interesting lessons on top of that!” He removed the cork for the neck of the phial and used the eyedropper to let a couple of drops of the dark coloured liquid fall into Remy’s mouth. The baby sputtered, then licked his lips, thoughtfully.

 

“I don’t think you have anything to fear on that front,” Draco pointed out. “Every corridor at the castle is abuzz with your latest antics. Letting the children fling themselves off the Quidditch pitch stands is certainly one way to teach cushioning charms.”

 

“We started with just a few steps,” Harry protested. “No one was leaping off the top.”

 

Draco snorted. “Just don’t come crying to me when you have the school board on your case. Never mind, you’re you, no one will bat an eye.” 

 

“Got to have some perks to make up for the lack of privacy,” Harry said ruefully, shooting Draco a grateful smile. He attempted to set Remy down in his swing, but the baby was not having it, and threatened to start screaming again, so Harry quickly course corrected and cuddled him close, instead. “Hush now pumpkin, you’re all right,” he cooed, then looked back to Draco, once Remy had settled. “Have you eaten, babe, can I get you anything?”

 

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Draco told him, trying to ignore the little flutter in his stomach that reminded him this thing between him and Potter hadn’t evaporated in the few days of only connecting at Hogwarts, where their interactions were strictly professional. Harry made the transition to his typical, comfortable affection so easily. Draco could hardly fathom behaving similarly. It was too foreign, like working a muscle that never got enough attention, and had to be generously warmed up before use. “I had dinner at the castle. Have you eaten anything? And where’s Lily?”

 

Harry emitted a second, much more forceful sigh. He leant back against the low counter and bounced Remy gently. “We had some stew and bread, but Lily’s having a day, I’m afraid. Godiva Goodstrides, squib heroine extraordinaire, was besmirched at school, and you can guess about how well that went over.”

 

“Ah, I see,” Draco nodded. “How did she react?”

 

“I’m not entirely sure. I suspect she’s doing some reckoning in there,” he gestured to the hallway which housed Lily’s bedroom door. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How different they can be? Jamie’s always been careful with his tastes. He’s modified them to fit what he thinks is cool and acceptable. He can’t bear to be mocked. Meanwhile, the people who factor into Al’s algorithm for likes and dislikes are very few and far between. He couldn’t give a toss what people think of him, he’s far too busy.”

 

“And Lily?” Draco prompted, considering this analysis of Harry’s children. He thought it was rather spot on. 

 

The conversation was perfectly pleasant, but their days apart left his hands itching to touch Potter. He ought not to risk it, with Lily likely to make an appearance at any moment. He helped himself to a glass of water instead, waving away Harry’s attempt at offering to get it for him.

 

“Lily’s always been more like Al,” Harry reflected. “She is exuberant about the things that she likes, and isn’t afraid to let it be known, but instead of being an outsider, others around her tend to follow suit. At Hogsmeade Primary School for the Magically Inclined, however, there is one Anthea Embury who is also seeking the position of lead trendsetter, and seemingly does so by putting her competition down.”

 

“How ghastly, and yet strangely familiar,” Draco remarked, his lips quirking. Having been a professor for a decade had left him far too aware of  the politics at play between 11-year-olds. He therefore had some notion as to what Lily was going through, seeing as she was only a year younger than the latest crop of first-years. Daily, Draco watched them showboat and slander, always grappling for a spot at the top of the social heap. He’d been so relieved when Scorpius hadn’t seemed bothered with all that, although he’d wondered if he ought to have considered encouraging his son to make more than one friend. 

 

“Yes, well, I don’t suspect Anthea will keep her down for long, considering Lily can already rattle off a list of new friends as long as your arm,” Harry chuckled. 

 

“She’s very lively and game for adventure,” Draco agreed. “Children are drawn to that. I don’t have a doubt she will usurp or at least join forces with this Anthea.”

 

“I certainly hope so,” Harry said. He glanced down, and Draco followed his gaze to see that Remy had dozed off at last. “The tonic doesn’t make them drowsy, does it?”

 

“No,” Draco assured him. “The crying and the pain do, and when the pain is finally relieved, they are able to sleep.”

 

“Poor chap, he’s in sore need of that. I hope he’ll sleep through the night at last.”

 

“Give him another couple of drops to tide him over when you go to bed, and it should do.”

 

“Thanks, truly.” 

 

Harry wandered off, presumably to put Remy in his cot. Draco couldn’t help but fire off a couple of Mrs. Warble’s miraculous cleaning charms on Potter’s crumb-covered counters.

 

The inside of the cottage was every bit as quaint as the exterior. There were whitewashed walls with robust wooden beams and rafters giving it structure. The furniture was worn, but clearly handmade, and every merchant in the village had left a basket of goods or produce on the front steps during the Potters’ first week in town. Draco wondered what it would be like to be universally adored, or if his presence in Harry’s life would change that for the other man. Draco had made himself respected, certainly, but never beloved. 

 

Harry returned to the kitchen. “Are you literally always tidying?” he teased, surveying the neatened room. 

 

“Wasn’t doing anything else,” Draco offered by way of explanation. Harry shook his head but stepped in closer, a hand coming to Draco’s hip. 

 

“Thank you,” Harry said, kissing him properly. Draco leant into the touch, the now-familiar—yet curiously still novel—taste of Harry’s mouth. It was over far too soon. “Merlin, I’ve missed you.”

 

“You saw me during the lunch hour,” Draco reminded him, not admitting that he knew just what Potter meant. 

 

“Yeah,” Harry said, hand reluctantly falling away. “But it’s not the same, is it?”

 

“No,” Draco agreed, picturing the couple of nights they’d stolen together already since Harry had arrived in Hogsmeade. It was a bit of a production: Draco appearing only after Lily was asleep, placing wards on her door to warn them if she got up, and then Draco leaving again in the early hours of the morning. He ought not to be doing it so often. He was too old to be sneaking around Hogwarts at four a.m. and interrupting his sleep like he had been, and yet, he wasn’t inclined to stop. It felt too good to sleep tangled up with the larger man, the weight of his limbs a comfort Draco had never known. 

 

The post today had left Draco more in need of tethering than usual. Even though he’d known it was coming...Draco didn’t like feeling unsettled. 

 

“Are you alright?” Harry asked, a note of concern in his voice. 

 

“Yes, of course,” Draco answered at once. Harry had his own difficulties. Draco certainly didn’t need to add to them. 

 

Harry looked like he was about to argue the point when Lily appeared in the entrance to the kitchen. 

 

“Did you fly here, Professor?” she demanded. 

 

“Manners, please, Lily,” Harry chastised. “You could say hello first before bombarding Professor Malfoy with questions.”

“Sorry!” Lily chirped brightly, whatever drama she’d be embroiled in at school was clearly no longer troubling her. “Hello, Professor, enjoying the weather? And did you fly here? And is that your broom I saw near the front door?” 

 

“I am, thank you, Lily,” Draco told her. “And I did. And it is, yes.”

 

“Excellent,” Lily decided. “What kind of broom is it? Can I take a proper look? Do you want to play Snitch Snatch? We don’t really have hoops right now, but there’s a meadow across the brook and we’ve got a Golden Snitch. Sometimes we just release it and then whoever finds it first, wins. I’m going to be a Seeker like Jamie and like Dad, so I need practice.”

 

“I’ve never known a child with quite so many hobbies and aspirations,” Draco remarked. 

 

“I try not to limit myself,” Lily informed him, her chin held proudly aloft. “Granny says I can be anything I want to be.”

 

“And Granny is absolutely right,” Potter chimed in. “But I’m sure Professor Malfoy doesn’t want to—”

 

“A game of...what was it? Whatever it was, it sounds lovely,” Draco interrupted Harry’s protestations. It was decidedly better than having to confront the contents of his letter or Harry’s concerned expression. 

 

“Snitch Snatch,” Lily repeated emphatically. “Alright, let’s go. I might need to trial your broom though, just to see if I like it.”

 

/// /// 

 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Harry murmured, once pudding had been eaten, stories had been read, and Lily had been tucked up in bed. Harry had set the wards on her door and rejoined Draco in the cosy little drawing room. He sat close enough for Draco to feel the heat of him, but not quite touching. Draco wanted to crash into him, to flatten him against the faded old sofa. He didn’t, of course. He was too used to being the model of patience and restraint, and there was something within him that balked at the idea of being too eager, of tipping their careful balance. It felt like it carried a heavy risk of rejection, and that was one thing Draco could not bear. 

 

“Do what?” he asked, forcing himself to rejoin the conversation.

 

“Spend your evening in the garden. You deal with kids all day; you don’t have to come here and deal with mine, too, you know. Lily’s plenty capable of entertaining herself.”

 

“I wanted to,” Draco retorted, and it had been a bit of fun. Lily had given his broom—a Stampede 2 Ultra, a new model, light and swift—a trial run that had lasted the entire evening, leaving Harry and Draco trading back and forth between Harry’s Windstorm (reliable, but modest) and an ancient Cleansweep that was barely airborne. They’d caught and released the Snitch countless times, and everyone had a turn or three catching the thing. Privately, however, Draco thought the best part of the evening had been seeing Potter on a damn broomstick again, even one as unimpressive as the Windstorm. He really did move like he’d been born flying. “And I don’t mind, stop worrying. Your children hardly come as a surprise to me.”

 

Harry shifted beside him. Their upper arms pressed together casually and then Harry moved even closer, linking the fingers. The touch filled Draco with a reassuring sense of relief. He tried not to cling. For goodness sake, he didn’t know what was wrong with him tonight. He felt frayed and wound tight, wanting something he couldn’t name well enough to ask for. 

 

 “Yeah,” Harry said quietly, studying Draco’s face as though he were looking for something. “Well, thanks, then. Sorry Lily stole your broom.”

 

“If I’d minded, I would have said something,” Draco promised him. 

 

“Alright,” Harry conceded, squeezing his hand. “Still. Thanks.”

 

Now, Draco realised, would be an opportune time to speak up. ‘I’ve got some news,’ he might say, or ‘Can I show you a letter I received this morning? ’ And Harry would be all accepting and open and warm, like he always was, and would likely say considerate, helpful things. Draco knew this, he did, but he couldn’t force the words past his lips. Harry had enough on his plate. He was only just finding his feet again, and he didn’t need Draco’s problems heaped atop his own. Besides, Draco took care of things. He was good at it. That’s what he’d done since he’d been virtually orphaned at eighteen and that was what he would do now. The last thing he needed was Harry thinking he wasn’t capable.

 

“Merlin,” Harry yawned. “I’m all but ready to pass out on the couch. Do you mind terribly if we make an early night of it? Now that Remy’s finally got some sleep, I might be able to get some myself.”

 

/// ///

 

Harry hadn’t been joking, he fell asleep nearly as soon as he’d pulled up the covers. Draco wanted badly to do the same, but his consciousness was having a thing or two to say about that. Bloody hell, what was he going to do? He had Scorpius to consider, and his finances, and now Harry and his brood, and he certainly wasn’t willing to sacrifice any of that. 

 

Draco rolled over onto his side, staring at the plain, coarse wall of the cottage. Hell, what was he going to do? This wasn’t like him. He wasn’t a ditherer. He refused to dither. He would make a decision and that would be it, all would be settled. It wouldn’t hurt to hear Harry’s thoughts on the matter though, surely? 

 

Just then, Harry stirred, shifting closer, a sturdy arm encircling Draco from behind and pulling him close. 

 

“You really not going to tell me what’s been eating at you all evening?” Harry murmured gruffly into Draco’s neck. 

 

“No,” Draco admitted after a moment. He was oddly relieved to get at least that much out in the open. “Probably not.”

 

“But something is eating at you,” Harry confirmed. 

 

“Hm,” Draco acknowledged warily. 

 

“Are you having second thoughts about, you know, us?” Harry asked quietly, like he didn’t want to know the answer but was stepping up to ask anyway. 

 

The question took Draco by surprise. 

 

“Nothing like that, no,” he hurried to clarify, clasping Harry’s hand in his own. “I’ve...I’ve been looking forward to being here again.”

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“Don’t fish, Potter.”

 

Harry eased his head down, kissing the back of Draco’s shoulder in a way that sent a spray of gooseflesh down his arm. 

 

“How am I supposed to get better at taking compliments if I don’t fish?” Harry chided. 

 

Draco harrumphed and turned over, capturing Harry’s mouth to shut him up. Harry grinned into the kiss, before gently pulling away, a hand stealing up to curl around Draco’s cheek. 

 

“You’re really, truly not going to tell me?” he probed. 

 

“I’m not trying to be withholding,” Draco attempted.

 

“Trying or not, that is exactly what you’re being,” Harry pointed out.

 

“Very well,” Draco sighed. “I am, then, I’m sorry. Sometimes I just need to mull things over, and I don’t want to drag you into it when I’ve not yet reached a resolution. No one’s ill, no one’s injured. Nothing between us is changing, I assure you. I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d catch on and I don’t want to be secretive, I just...need a day or two. If that’s alright.” Draco felt a weird note of panic. Were they going to have a row? Because what would he do if Harry pushed him on this? Draco really didn’t want him to, ever since he’d left the Death Eaters, any sort of pressure to obey outside of sex put his back right up, and he was certain he’d become resentful if Harry wouldn’t respect his wishes. 

 

His anxieties must have shown somehow because Harry just trailed a comforting hand along his arm. “Yeah, of course that’s alright, babe, why wouldn’t it be? I just wanted to make sure you were okay, but that was foolish of me. When have you ever failed to have something well in hand?”

 

Draco felt his heart leaping in its cage, threatening to send his worries and his damnable dithering and uncertainty up through his lungs and out his mouth, but he dragged back the impulse, burying it. Harry doesn’t need this, he repeated to himself. Draco wouldn’t put this on him, he wouldn’t. 

 

‘Now,’ he wanted to say. ‘I've not got this well in hand, not even a little.'

 

That was what he wanted to say.

 

Instead, he said nothing at all.  

Notes:

Thanks soooooo much to everyone for sticking around and checking out the first chapter! I was a little anxious that established relationship/sequel wouldn't be as much of a draw as some other themes, so I'm so grateful you are all here!!! Thanks also for the well-wishes for my continued recovery! Still going strong.

Shout-out to my most considerate beta, Mimbelwimbel for her continued Herculean efforts!!

Chapter 3: Scorpius

Scorpius

 

“Alright, if we’re all feeling secure in our Protego Spells, we can put them into action,” Harry—Professor Potter, Scorpius really needed to remember to call him that—was saying. They were out on the Quidditch pitch again. Most Defence classes seemed to occur on the clipped lawn, and Scorpius couldn’t say he minded. It was a nice break from classrooms, and the September days were still plenty warm. 

 

“Will keep it simple this round: Slytherins versus Ravenclaws,” Professor Potter continued. “Ravenclaws: You’re on the offensive. Slytherins, you’ll be on the defensive. Remember, approved hexes only when attacking. No straying from that list, or there will be truly regrettable consequences.”

 

Scorpius felt Al bump shoulders with him. Glancing over, Scorpius saw his friend eyeing the wooden structure before them with shrewd excitement. Professor Potter had conjured a fantastic open-air series of ramps, ladders, platforms, tunnels, and slides, and Slytherins and Ravenclaws alike had been impatiently waiting for the go ahead to try it out. They’d not been allowed until they’d practiced their Protego Spells in two neat lines, facing off against each other. Now though, they were ready to attack and defend while on the move. 

 

Scorpius was a little less enthused. The idea of all those hexes zipping around made him nervous. He tried to shake the sensation off. The Ravenclaw second-years might be diligent, but they were always fair, and surely Professor Potter would put an end to any spells that managed to land. Besides, it was important to Scorpius that he succeed in all his studies, especially Defence. He wanted to be ready if anyone ever came for him again. He shuddered in the warm air, trying to force back the memories of strong hands clamping onto him in the disorienting darkness. If Father hadn’t heard him— 

 

“What is it?” Al hissed. 

 

“Nothing,” Scorpius whispered back. “Let’s do this.”

 

“Mr. Malfoy?” 

 

Scorpius snapped his focus back to Professor Potter, his face alight with humiliation. Merlin, Albus was always talking in class and getting them both in trouble, but it felt especially terrible to misbehave in front of Harry, who was so endlessly kind. 

 

“Sorry, Professor, I—”

 

“Whatever are you apologising for?” Professor Potter asked, looking bewildered. Scorpius felt the tension in his shoulders ease, realising he wasn’t in trouble.

 

“I was hoping you could assist me, actually,” the professor continued. “I need a timekeeper, so we know when to switch. Would you mind terribly if I asked you to sit this one out?”

 

Scorpius always tried to be obliging, but he couldn’t help but feel a bit of a sting at this. Surely Harry didn’t really need a student just to keep time. Had Scorpius’ fear been that evident? How embarrassing. 

 

“Certainly, Professor,” was all he said, hurrying over to his side.  

 

“Excellent, thank you. Alright, the rest of you, listen up! At the sound of the whistle, the Slytherins have one minute to find themselves defensive positions. At the second whistle, we begin! The third whistle means we’re stopping, and I want you all to return to here on the pitch immediately, is that understood?”

 

There was an exuberant chorus of ‘Yes, Professor ’s and Harry blew the whistle. 

 

Scorpius fumbled in his cloak pocket for his silver pocket watch. He tapped the crown, and the engraved case swung outward. Scorpius made sure to take note of the position of the second hand, lest he fail his first task as timekeeper.

 

He nodded to Harry when the hand completed a revolution, and the whistle sounded a second time, sending the Ravenclaws rushing forward, Grantly Owens leading the vanguard, as usual. Owens seemed to have a real chip on his shoulder. Everyone knew the Owens family had been Gryffindors since Hogwarts’ inception, but he’d broken that pattern, and seemed determined to prove that Ravenclaws could be just as brave. Scorpius found it honestly a bit exhausting. Houses only meant something because people pretended they did, that was his opinion. 

 

Behind his back, Al sometimes referred to Owens as ‘The Muskrat’ due to his endless industriousness, his oddly waxy brown hair, and the way his entire body seemed to be following his pointed nose as he strode about with excessive zeal. Scorpius knew it was unkind to make fun of people and he tried to rise above that sort of thing, but Al’s muskrat impression was particularly humourous, with a lot of gnashing of teeth and ordering people about. 

 

“Coldwell, Grimwood, with me!” Owens shouted, as though he were on a battlefield, and not having a go at a simple Defence exercise. In a tunnel somewhere, Scorpius knew Al would be rolling his eyes.

 

A cacophony of hexes and delighted shrieks sounded from the wooden structure, and Scorpius felt a twinge at being excluded, even if he was also a touch relieved. 

 

“Sorry for keeping you out of the fun,” Harry murmured from beside him, his gaze fixed on the milieu. 

 

“It’s no trouble,” Scorpius lied. 

 

“I was just concerned about your heart rate. I’d hate for you to overdo it, or be startled, and for that to expose your, er, condition to your classmates. It’s unlikely, I know, but I didn’t want to take any chances.”

 

“Oh!” Scorpius was surprised and a little ashamed. He’d not even thought of that, but of course that was it. Scorpius’ condition. Was just being something a condition, even, he wondered? As a Vates, a rare kind of Seer, Scorpius was plagued with prophecies, beginning at the brink of puberty. Scorpius had come into his unwelcome powers the summer before his first year at Hogwarts. Initially, the condition was so all-consuming that he could speak very little other than what his Sight showed him. His father had thankfully learnt of a potion that kept the soothsaying at bay, but some experiments Scorpius had allowed Al to conduct over the summer showed that a bunch of sugar or a greatly increased heart rate, could induce it. Of course Professor Potter was just being considerate.

 

“Why?” Harry asked earnestly. “Did you think I was just being cruel? Oi! Bingham! Try for a bigger arc with your Protego! That’s it, excellent, excellent! Lovely!”

 

“No! No, I just...never mind, it’s not important,” Scorpius mumbled, feeling foolish.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

Scorpius looked down at his watch. Five more minutes remained before the switch. He couldn’t just not say anything, could he?

 

“I was a bit nervous, is all,” he admitted. “Which is unwarranted, obviously.”

 

“I doubt you were the only nervous student,” Harry said comfortingly. “Lots of kids doubt their abilities, or are hesitant around anything that feels like competition, or having their skills assessed.”

 

“Yeah, but I want to learn to protect myself,” Scorpius explained, then stopped. He didn’t know all of what the professor knew. 

 

Harry’s expression grew solemn and he tore his eyes away from the class for a moment to glance down at Scorpius. “Yes,” he agreed, “I’m sure you do. But you’ve other people protecting you, too.”

 

“My dad, you mean?”

 

Professor Potter looked back towards the wooden platforms. “And others. Myself, for instance, or any member of the faculty.”

 

“I guess,” Scorpius shrugged. He wasn’t convinced everyone would protect him, once they knew what he was, or how valuable he could be. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I still want to learn for myself.”

 

“Of course. And I’ll make sure you do. I’ll make sure not to make you all run around every class.”

 

“I think I really have to try to get my heart going fast enough,” Scorpius offered, “and I’ve never gone off just by being startled, before.”

 

“Yes, alright,” Professor Potter agreed. “Just promise you’ll rein yourself in if necessary, or you’ll come to me immediately if you start feeling déjà vu, and I’ll think of something to get you out of there, how’s that?”

 

“I can do that,” Scorpius said. “I can definitely do that.”

 

/// ///

 

The Slytherin common room felt strange without Albus: lonelier, maybe, and larger than usual. Conversations echoed off the walls, distracting Scorpius from where he was proofreading his Charms homework. Usually Al would be here with him, either doing his own work or faffing about with some new invention or flight of fancy. 

 

Tonight, though, Al was with Scorpius’ dad and Harry, trying to work out counterspells for Praetereo Ante and Praetereo Retrosum, the memory charms Al had created. They’d invited Scorpius to join them, but he wasn’t brilliant like Al was, and now that school had begun in earnest, Scorpius didn’t have the energy. The potion to suppress his visions had that effect. He’d not noticed the fatigue as much in the summer, when he had fewer responsibilities, but now that he was back in the castle, it was all he could do to keep up with his studies amidst the thrumming dull exhaustion brought on by the medicine. By the time evening came, he felt he had nothing left.

 

Scorpius sighed inwardly and dipped his quill back in his pot of ink. He’d been so very hopeful that those spells would work, that something could be discovered to keep the prophecies at bay. Like many of Al’s wild ideas, however, they’d not come to fruition, at least not in a way that was helpful to Scorpius. It had also become apparent pretty early on that Al had become more attentive to the ways in which the spells could benefit him, and not what would be helpful to Scorpius. Al was like that, though, and his self-interest could be part of what made him brilliant. Scorpius didn’t begrudge him that. He was still the most loyal friend Scorpius had ever had. 

 

“Evening, Malfoy,” a voice sounded over his shoulder, making Scorpius jump. He turned from his scroll of parchment to see Sterling Main, Head Boy, smiling pleasantly at him. Main always made Scorpius’ skin crawl, even though he’d never been anything but friendly. His pretentious wood-framed glasses irritated Scorpius. To Main’s right was Dermot Mulligan, a narrower, bum-chinned version of Main. Privately, Al and Scorpius referred to Mulligan as ‘The Lackey’. The two even had the same hair, for mercy’s sake: dark brown and parted to the side with a faux-tousled appearance. Only Main was able to sprout some respectable stubble, whereas Mulligan’s was patchy at best. 

 

Scorpius forced a smile. “Evening, Main, Mulligan.” He wondered if he ought to enquire about their summers, but he couldn’t summon the energy to care. 

 

“Lovely penmanship you’ve got there,” Main commented, nodding to the homework Scorpius had laid out on the dark, stained table. Scorpius did have lovely penmanship, but he refused to be flattered by someone who so clearly wanted something. 

 

“Cheers,” he muttered. 

 

“Say, you’re rather chummy with one of the Potter boys, aren’t you?” Main asked, even though he most certainly knew that Scorpius was.

 

“Yes,” Scorpius replied, refusing to provide any more information. 

 

“Good kid, that Potter,” Main mused, and Mulligan made an affirming sound, like only a lackey could. 

 

Scorpius wanted very badly to roll his eyes, but that was rude and really rather common, so he didn’t. No one would ever say that Al was a ‘good kid,’ when really Al was much closer to chaos incarnate. 

 

“Sure,” Scorpius managed to agree. 

 

“And his father is, of course, an icon. His classes are unbelievable. We’re being trained by a living legend.”

 

Scorpius felt a pang of envy. He understood why Harry had sidelined him, but the way the other Slytherins and Ravenclaws had raved about the adventure course the rest of the day left Scorpius with that unsettled ache of having missed out. 

 

“Yes,” Scorpius forced himself to go along with Main’s obvious pandering. 

 

Main and Mulligan flashed him matching white smiles. 

 

“You know Professor Potter well, then? Being friendly with his kid and all that?” Main prodded. Scorpius pressed his lips together, holding back a scowl. Main was as transparent as glass, and every bit as self-interested as Al, with none of the brilliance, loyalty, or compassion. 

 

“No,” Scorpius lied. “Not at all, I’m afraid.”

 

“Interesting,” Main remarked, his grin remaining, but his eyes narrowing coldly. “Because word has it from Mulligan’s little sister, that you got some sort of special treatment in Defence class today. Didn’t have to practice like everyone else.”

 

Silently, Scorpius cursed dratted Francine Mulligan and her sneaky, snitchy ways. She was every bit as much as a tattler as Rose Weasley, but at least Weasley was obvious about it. 

 

“I’ve a medical condition,” Scorpius told the seventh year boys flatly. “You understand.”

 

Main was too polite to demand specifics after such a brush off, thankfully. He nodded instead, looking annoyed that his pathetically conspicuous attempt at connecting himself more closely to someone of status had fallen through. “Of course, such a pity. I do hope you feel better soon.”

 

“That’s very kind,” Scorpius told him. Then, just because he was feeling spiteful, and wanted to make the smarmy arsehole uncomfortable, he added: “But it is highly unlikely.”

 

“Oh,” Main replied, sounding genuinely surprised. “How tragic. I’m sorry to hear it.”

 

He wasn’t, but Scorpius didn’t care. 

 

“Thank you,” Scorpius acknowledged. Main and Mulligan didn’t move, they only stared at him curiously. 

 

“What’s wrong with you?” Mulligan demanded. “Is it serious?”

 

“Don’t be rude, Dermot,” Main scolded, but Scorpius could tell he was also hoping for an answer. 

 

“I’m afraid I’ve not time to chat, unfortunately,” Scorpius decided, making a show of checking his watch. “I’m expected elsewhere.” 

 

“Yes, yes of course. Night, Malfoy.” Main and Mulligan offered quick, synchronised nods, but didn’t leave, so Scorpius was obliged to follow his lie through. He stuffed his parchment and quill into his satchel, then screwed the cap back onto his ink pot and threw that in, too. 

 

“Goodnight,” he muttered with as much politeness as he could manage (it wasn’t much), and headed towards the door. 

 

The only problem was, once he was in the corridor, he didn’t have a single idea of where to go, not with Al busy. 

 

It wasn’t like Scorpius didn’t know why he didn’t have any other friends. There were too many secrets in his life, he was too afraid of someone finding out, of people coming for him again, of his dad having to repeat what he’d done to stop them. Scorpius shuddered, remembering the deadly calm of his father’s expression as his spells had sung through the air, slashing through the flesh of the would-be kidnappers. Scorpius could still remember the bloody footprints they had left on the Turkish runner in the hallway outside his room as they made their escape. Worse still had been the gurgling sounds made by the man who they’d lugged along behind them.

 

Scorpius still didn’t know what had happened to the lot of them. He remembered the bitter, earthy taste of the sleeping draught Father had  given him that night before tucking him into the big bed in the master bedroom. He remembered his disordered dreams and the acrid taste of bile. 

 

In the morning, everything had looked as it always did, just slightly more pristine.

 

Still, he remembered. 

 

Scorpius looked up. His feet had brought him to the library. It seemed as good a place as any.

 

A few students glanced over as Scorpius entered. Some faces were familiar, if not friendly, and Scorpius wondered if he ought to go instead to his father’s office, but he didn’t want to answer any questions or admit he was shaken. His dad was already too protective by far, and Harry seemed to be following suit. 

 

“Scor?” someone said, and Scorpius whipped around. James Potter was seated alongside Januarius Boone at the end of one of the long tables. A few candles bobbed above their heads, but there was still a little light coming in from the windows. 

 

Jamie smiled and jerked his head as if encouraging Scorpius to come closer. Scorpius couldn’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t. He also found he was more than a little relieved to see a welcoming expression. 

 

“Are you alright?” Jamie asked as Scorpius took the seat beside him. Boone eyed him with shrewd interest, but Scorpius couldn’t think why. Surely Jamie hadn’t told anyone that Scorpius was a Vates. Scorpius banished the thought. No matter what Al said, Jamie wasn’t a bad sort. 

 

“Fine,” Scorpius lied. 

 

“Sure,” James replied warily, clearly not convinced. “So what are you doing here?”

 

“It’s a library,” Scorpius pointed out. “I thought I’d find a book. Why, what are you doing here?”

 

“It’s a library,” Jamie echoed. “We’re doing some research. Oh, sorry, you know Ri, don’t you?”

 

“Not officially, I don’t think,” Scorpius noted, extending his hand. He’d heard the gossip, though. There weren’t that many out trans students at the school, and the rumours that first week had been flying. “Nice to meet you.”

 

The petite, strawberry blond boy took a moment to assess him, but he must have passed some test, because Boone accepted his hand, shaking it curtly. “Malfoy,” was all he said. 

 

“Scor here was at ours a lot this summer; he’s a good friend of Al’s,” Jamie explained. 

 

“Thrilling,” Boone muttered dryly, looking as though he couldn't care less about the nature of their acquaintance.

 

Jamie only laughed. “Sorry, I forgot that social niceties are so unbearably tedious.”

 

“Well, I would advise remembering,” Boone instructed.

 

Jamie leant back, arching into a stretch, and scratching casually at his stomach. The oldest Potter boy always seemed so comfortable in his body. He’d clearly never been betrayed by it the way Scorpius had been by his, what with it suddenly spouting all those damned prophecies. 

 

“Mmhmm,” Jamie assured the other boy in a tone that said he would be making no such attempt. He was so congenial and at ease here, in Hogwarts, alongside his friend, that Scorpius barely recognised him. Gone was the surly James, slouching around the house and sighing emphatically to signal his displeasure, and only ever a breath away from snapping at Al. 

 

“So, ah, what are you researching?” Scorpius ventured, not sure how to progress without social niceties. It seemed an acceptable question, though, because an answer was forthcoming.

 

“Curses,” was Boone’s succinct response.

 

“Oh,” Scorpius ventured. “For anyone in particular?”

 

It wasn’t any of his business, and he half expected to be told off by the tiny, sharp-tongued Ravenclaw. 

 

“No,” Boone said simply. 

 

“We’re trying to figure out if there is anything to the DADA curse rumour,” Jamie explained. “And if there is, we want to know how to break it.”

 

That caught Scorpius’ attention. He felt a twinge of excitement. “It’s real, then? I thought it was just a legend.”

 

Jamie shrugged. “Well, we won’t know if we don’t look, now will we?”

 

“Hm,” Scorpius assented, leaning in to get a better look at the spine of the books the two older students had stacked in front of them. He read:

 

A Complicated Compendium of Theoretical and Actual Curses by Jasper Toadberry

Curse-Breaking & Curse-Making by Gaius Schlurtz

Historical Curses to Bamboozle and Titillate by Elaine Grumbles

 

“Anything in any of those?” he asked dubiously. 

 

“We were just about to crack into them,” Jamie explained. “Care to join?”

 

“Yes, alright,” Scorpius agreed. He should get back to his Charms assignment, but helping Jamie investigate a decades old mystery seemed like it would be a lot more fun.

 

Boone slid the Toadberry volume across the table. 

 

“What am I looking for?” Scorpius asked. 

 

“Not sure,” Boone admitted. “I’m still grappling with the nature of such a curse. It’s not quite a physical presence, but it is not strictly metaphysical either. We want anything about lingering curses, curses that aren’t directly on people or objects, that sort of thing.”

 

Scorpius nodded and flipped through the first few pages to the introduction: 

 

Millennia of wizarding minds have toiled and strived towards a deeper, more comprehensive understanding of the complex matter of the obfuscated and contumacious discipline of Dark Occultology, which is not to be interchanged with Hexology—a distinct, six-part narrative style, best exemplified by the sixteenth century author Brigita Ó Duinn, in her series blending the little-known Herbological practice of Frondescence, Celtic pagan lore, and goatherding. 

 

Scorpius stifled a yawn, wondering if Toadberry would ever get to anything even resembling the point. 

 

Beyond myself, not one scholar can claim to comprehend the obscured and oftentimes minatory nature of the darkest of arts, and while to date I have yet to apply any of my vast knowledge to action, precisely, my theory is most certainly watertight and sound as steel. In fact, in my youth…

 

/// /// 

 

“Scor?”

 

Scorpius jumped, looking about. He was in the library, only the last of the light beyond the windows was gone and now there was only candlelight. Jamie had one hand on Scorpius’ shoulder, and had just given him a shake. 

 

“Wha—” Scorpius rasped. He must have fallen asleep. 

 

“Toadberry not really able to hold your interest, Malfoy?” Boone enquired. 

 

“Er, sorry, no,” Scorpius admitted. “He’s not exactly direct. And I, well, had a bit of a long day, you know how it is.” He didn’t want to whinge about the effects of his potion, and he couldn’t let on in front of Boone, anyway, but Merlin, he really was so very tired. “But I ought to call it a night. What time is it?”

 

“Nearly curfew,” Jamie said. “Come on, get your things, I’ll walk you.”

 

“I doubt he needs an escort to find the dungeons, Potter,” Boone noted. 

 

“Yeah, well beats spending another moment with your stroppy arse,” Jamie grinned. 

 

“You’d be stroppy too, if you’d wasted the better part of ninety minutes reading the gossipy drivel that is Ms. Grumbles’ literary arena,” Boone griped, but, to Scorpius’ surprise, he grinned back at James. Scorpius winced, inwardly. He never could understand these friendships that seemed entirely based on ribbing one another. He was glad Al never bothered with nonsense like that.

 

“Well, thanks for trying anyway,” Jamie said. “We had to start somewhere.”

 

“Yes, yes, well, leave me the volume you had. I don't trust your abilities to glean much from it anyway.”

 

Jamie laughed. “You’re so insufferable, Ri.”

 

“Odd then, that I am the one who suffers in your company,” Boone rejoined tersely, giving his neck a sudden, loud crack. It made Scorpius want to clutch his own neck in sympathy. 

 

Jamie snorted and clapped his friend on one birdlike shoulder. “Night, mate. Thanks for your help.”

 

Boone gave a grunt in return, then granted Scorpius a dismissive nod. 

 

“Let’s go, Scor," Jamie instructed.

 

Scorpius gathered his things, sliding the impenetrable Toadberry text into his satchel, and rose, allowing Jamie to lead him towards the entrance. 

 

“I really don’t need you to walk with me. The Slytherin dormitories are hardly on your way,” Scorpius reminded the other boy. 

 

“So?” Jamie retorted. “Maybe I want to.”

 

Scorpius didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t used to people wanting to spend time with him—besides his father and Al, at least. Scorpius didn’t usually mind not having masses of friends. He knew he could be quiet, and he’d got on with Al that first day and felt set after that. He’d thought that so long as he had one good friend, it would be alright. He hadn’t thought he’d ever need to account for evenings where Al wouldn’t be around. 

 

Scorpius had been relieved when he’d run into Jamie and Boone in the library, glad to just have had someone to sit with, even if he was a bit embarrassed that he’d nodded off and not been of any help. He couldn’t see why James would want him around after that, and so he didn’t reply. 

 

The two walked down an empty corridor in silence and Scorpius racked his brain for something to say. He realised that he wanted to impress Jamie, somehow, to make up for his own uselessness with the research. Unfortunately, the stronger the impulse to say something interesting became, the more inept Scorpius felt. He was tired and still a little muddled from his unexpected nap. 

 

“Scor,” Jamie began suddenly, “I know it’s not really any of my business, but are you alright?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Scorpius said quickly, because the last thing he wanted was Jamie to be worrying about him, too. That was all anyone did, from his father to Harry and all his other professors, as well. They’d all been warned that Scorpius was sickly, that they were to bring him to Father’s office immediately should Scorpius suggest it. He knew it was a safeguard, to protect him, but Scorpius could only assume the whole school thought he was the most pitiable of invalids.

 

Scorpius knew he wasn’t athletic or gregarious like Jamie, or wickedly bright like Albus or Januarius Boone, but that didn’t mean he needed protecting all the time. “A bit tired is all. Corin Bingham snores like you wouldn’t believe, and it keeps me up all night. I’ve got to readjust, that’s all.”

 

Scorpius felt mildly guilty for throwing mousy Bingham under the bus like that, especially when the boy didn’t even snore, but it felt like a better alternative than admitting weakness in front of James Potter, who seemed so effortlessly capable. 

 

Jamie laughed. “I’ll teach you a spell for that. Clovis Dawe is louder than thunder, but now all the blokes in our room know the Snore Silencer Charm.”

 

Scorpius said something about that coming in handy, and Jamie gave a display of the spell which Scorpius immediately forgot. His head felt full of candyfloss. 

 

“Scorpius?” Jamie prompted. 

 

“Sorry?”

 

“You look a bit pale. Like, even more so than usual.”

 

Scorpius blinked. He had the sudden feeling Jamie had said something like that before. No, he had a feeling they’d done all of this before. His stomach flipped in horror as he realised what had happened. He’d forgotten. He was supposed to have gone to his father’s office to get his potion, but he’d fallen asleep and now, Merlin, any minute now—

 

Scorpius wasn’t allowed to curse. His father thought it was uncouth, and rarely warranted. 

 

Right now, though, Scorpius thought it was pretty damn warranted.

 

“Shit,” he said. 

 

Notes:

I'm sorry this chapter took me an unforgiveable amount of time to post. I moved cities which is always way bigger of a job than I expect it to be! Also I'm sort of agonizing over this story a bit and am worried I can't make it measure up to what I have in my head, and then I just have a hard time writing anything at all!

Anyway, a major sincere thank you to everyone who has read the first couple of chapters and who has left kudos or commented. Like I said, I'm overthinking it, and having such kind and encouraging and supportive comments is the absolute best remedy, so thank you for that.

Shoutout to my attentive and generous beta Mimbelwimbel for her continued efforts and support! She's the greatest, 10/10 would recommend for all one's beta-ing and friendship needs.

Chapter 4: Harry

Harry

The evening was not going well. Al was yo-yoing between eagerly intent and oddly evasive, distracted even. After thirty minutes of offering helpful suggestions, Al now had his chin propped up on his palm and was eyeing the narrow window in Draco’s office as though wondering if he could use it to make a mad escape. 

 

“Al, love, what is it?” Harry asked. “We can’t hold your attention tonight.” 

 

“Look, I’ve been thinking,” Al started slowly, “and just because we can come up with counterspells, doesn’t mean we should. Like, what if Scor uses it to bypass a prophecy and then someone can simply undo it? Then all our efforts are for nothing, and any protection Praetereo Retrosum bestowed is totally useless.”

 

“That won’t be an issue if no one knows the counterspell, save for us,” was Draco’s patient contribution.  

 

“Besides,” Harry added, “you might want your own memories back one day.”

 

“Why would I?” Al demanded petulantly. “I don’t want to think about her for one second more than I need to.”

 

Harry sighed, feeling a tension headache mounting in the muscles above his temples and a pang in his chest. He’d have to ask Draco for more of that pain relief potion at this rate. But he could hardly blame Al for being angry at Ginny when he was equally furious himself. 

 

“You’re old enough to understand that creating a spell and putting it out into the world without a method of reversing it is beyond irresponsible: It is reckless,” Draco explained, his tone professorial and direct. Jamie had said once that Professor Malfoy spoke to him like a grown-up, and Harry understood what he meant, now. Draco didn’t coddle and he didn’t sugarcoat. He expected a certain level of maturity from his students, and they, in turn, sought to meet that expectation, Al included—perhaps Al especially.

 

“It would be permissible if you’d kept these spells to yourself, but you didn’t,” Draco went on. “You shared them with Scorpius and myself, and therefore we are also at risk. What if one of us were to execute a spell accidentally, or with too much force? They’re too new, too untested. With magic there are always margins of error. You might not care for your own sake, Albus, but for Scorpius’, I should hope you would.”

 

Al twisted his lips dubiously, but Harry could tell the words had struck a chord. 

 

“Yeah,” Al permitted. “It would be rotten if Scor erased a bunch of his brain.”

 

“Indeed,” Draco replied. “And so, the sooner we can come up with a workable solution, the sooner we can ensure that, should such a mishap occur, it could be easily remedied. Now, I suggest we return to the Restoration Spell, Restituere. I believe it would be an acceptable platform from which to improvise.”

 

Before either Harry or Al could comment on Draco’s plan, the door to Draco’s office burst open with enough force to send it rebounding off the stone wall with a loud thunk. 

 

The sight before them was a bewildering one. The first person Harry saw was Scorpius, his small face flushed and his pupils blown wide, and, most bizarrely of all, Jamie’s hand shoved half-way into his mouth. Jamie was wide-eyed and panicked, clenching Scorpius’ lower jaw. It was not enough to silence Scorpius’ vocalisations, but it was enough to render them unintelligible. Behind them, stood Sterling Main and another Slytherin seventh year, Dermot Mulligan. Their matching glossy hair and wood-framed glasses reflected the moonlight. 

 

Draco leapt from his seat, sending his chair clattering to the floor. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. He was frozen in miserable horror and Harry could only imagine what options for damage control were flooding his thoughts. Within an instant the terror seemed to dissolve, replaced with Draco’s usual steely resolve. He fired off a Somnium at his son, and Scorpius fell like dead weight, Jamie scrambling to catch him from his awkward position behind the smaller boy.

 

“I’m so sorry, Professors,” Main announced directly. “I tried to take him to the infirmary, but Potter insisted we come here at once. I—”

 

“I told him about Scorpius’ condition,” Jamie interrupted from where he crouched, with Scorpius’ limp body slumped against him. James threw Harry and Draco a desperate, meaningful look. “About how his tongue swells up sometimes? And how you have to clamp down on it so he doesn’t choke?”

 

“It didn’t seem like he was choking,” Mulligan chimed in. “Sounded to me like he was trying to talk.”

 

“He was just freaking out!” Jamie insisted. “You would, too, if your tongue were suddenly too big for your mouth.”

 

“Enough!” Draco commanded. “Mulligan, Main, thank you for bringing this to my attention. Scorpius does indeed have Intermittent Lingualitis and I have the antidote here in my private stores. You are dismissed.”

 

Main looked like he’d far rather prefer to stay and get to the heart of the matter, but knew better than to argue with Professor Malfoy in this dictatorial mood, so he only nodded and dragged a rubbernecking Mulligan out of the office, yanking the door shut behind them. 

 

“What happened?” Al demanded. “You didn’t give him loads of sweets or something daft, did you Jamie?”

 

“I’m not the one who spent the summer experimenting on him!” Jamie snarled back. “I don’t know what happened, but I didn’t do anything, and I don’t appreciate the implication that I did, you wanker!”

 

“Jamie,” Harry admonished tiredly, “I’ll ask that you avoid name calling, please. It isn’t helpful.”

 

“He deserved it,” Jamie glowered.

 

Draco held up a palm and the boys fell silent. “It’s my fault,” he stated quietly. “I didn’t realise the time. Scorpius is overdue for his potion.”

 

“He fell asleep in the library,” Jamie confessed. “I didn’t think.”

 

“It’s not your responsibility to remember,” Draco replied. He might have been attempting to be reassuring, Harry thought, but Draco’s face was so drawn and severe that it came off a little cold. He had to be thinking about every potential repercussion of this, Harry knew, and he felt the heavy weight of it as well. If any of his children were similarly at risk, he would be forever on edge, he was sure. “Tell me what happened.”

 

“We were just walking, and all the sudden he got really pale and then he swore and said he was having déjà vu and then he started to speak,” Jamie began breathlessly. “He only said a word or two before he fired off a spell at himself, I think it must have been the one Al made up, because he got this really blank look on his face, and he stopped talking for a minute, but then it started again, and he tried to cast it again, but I think the prophecies were coming on too quickly and too intensely; it was like he couldn’t keep up. So I grabbed him to bring him to you, only it turned out Main and Mulligan had been lurking about and suddenly they were there and the only thing I could do to get Scor to shut up was shove my hand in his mouth to get him to stop talking, and tell them the first lie that popped into my head.”

 

Draco nodded and flicked his wand, causing Scorpius’ unconscious form to levitate out of Jamie’s grasp and drift over the desk. “You did well, thank you, James,” he allowed, although his face was still severe in his concern. “It was quick thinking.”

 

Jamie looked relieved. 

 

“How much did they hear, do you think, Main and Mulligan, I mean?” Draco asked, and Harry felt his own stomach sink at the implications. Merlin, how Draco must be chastising himself.

 

“Not much, I don’t think,” Jamie hurried to reply. “I didn’t even hear more than a few words, and I got to him pretty quickly. He even bit me when he was trying to talk. Not hard, though.”

 

Jamie held up his hand in evidence. Sure enough, there were little inflamed indentations across his knuckles. Harry made a sympathetic tutting noise, but Jamie was clearly more proud than upset.

 

“What were you doing in the library?” Al demanded unexpectedly from where he stood beside Harry.

 

“What?” Jamie repeated, clearly confused. “Just studying, what do you think?”

 

“Since when do you and Scor study together?”

 

“Since you went and left him on his own!” Jamie fired back. 

 

“Boys,” Harry warned. He glanced at Draco who was settling Scorpius down on his desk and tucking a robe under his head. Draco’s movements were sharp and tense and Harry felt a wave of concern. He wanted to go to him; he needed comfort, Harry knew, but he had to deal with one crisis at a time, and Jamie and Al’s bickering was something he had a lot of practice diffusing. “That is enough. Albus, we’ve talked about this. But now isn’t the time. It’s past curfew. I’ll take you back to your dorms.”

 

The boys grumbled as Harry ushered them towards the door. Once there, he turned. Draco was stroking his son’s hair tenderly. 

 

“Draco…” Harry started. 

 

“I’ll deal with it,” Draco informed him tersely. “He can’t go to the infirmary, I won’t risk his waking up again in the midst of prophesying. I’ll take him to the Manor.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry retorted firmly. “It’s late. You’ve no food there, and if I know you, all your furniture is draped with dust covers. We’ll take him to the cottage. You two can take the boys’ room, it’s not as though they are using it. We’ll get him out and back in the morning with no one the wiser.”

 

“And how do you propose that?” Draco asked, sounding incredibly tired. 

 

“I know a route,” Harry insisted. “Trust me.” 

 

“Of course you do,” Draco shook his head, somewhat dazed, but he righted his chair and seated himself behind the desk. 

 

“Just wait here, yeah?” Harry pressed. “I’ll just be a moment.”

 

Draco gave a grim gesture of acquiescence. He looked so drawn, so stunned. Harry could hardly stand it. He resolved to fix this as best as he could.

 

First, however, he had to deal with ever-warring sons.

 

/// ///

 

Harry walked between James and Albus as they made their way towards the Gryffindor tower. Both were sulking and glaring. Harry wondered how outraged they’d be if he told them just how alike they looked when they did that. 

 

“How long is this behaviour going to continue?” Harry asked them. 

 

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Jamie protested immediately. 

 

“You’re a bloody poacher,” Al seethed.

 

"Scorpius showed up in the library alone. What was I supposed to do? Pretend I didn’t spend half the summer with him? He looked lost, Al. You could have invited him with you.”

 

“I did! He said he didn’t think he’d be any help. That doesn’t mean you just get to show up and—”

 

“I didn’t show up anywhere, I just said—”

 

“That’s quite enough,” Harry cut in. “Albus, like I said, we’ve spoken about this. Trying to dictate Scorpius’ friendships is not going to endear you to him. If anything it will drive him away.”

 

“Jamie’s just using him to bother me! He doesn’t even like Scor!” Al erupted, freckled face shining red in the candlelight. He all but stamped his foot in his obvious fury, arms crossed over his chest and his chin jutting out indignantly.

 

“That’s not true!” Jamie argued fiercely. “He’s a nice kid. I like him, okay? For once in my life, I’m not trying to piss you off, alright? I’m not going to do anything to mess with him. Honestly, Al, you really think I’m that much of an arsehole?”

 

Harry let the curse slide, this time. Jamie’s temper seemed to be somewhat in check, which was a rarity in itself. It gave Harry a touch of pride. 

 

Albus didn’t answer. He seemed to know he was in the wrong, but that certainly didn’t quell his anger. 

 

They arrived at the stairway to the tower. A flood of memories threatened to overwhelm him, but Harry had been carefully pushing those back since the beginning of term, not allowing himself to summon any images that might lead to thoughts of the war. The first week had been difficult, but Draco had been right: One could adjust. Sometimes the final battle felt very far away, and sometimes it felt entirely too recent. Harry didn’t think he had it in him to glimpse the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, though, not tonight. 

 

“You should be alright from here, love,” he murmured. “If anyone gives you trouble for being out past curfew, send them my way and I’ll clear things up.”

 

“Yeah, I know, it’s whatever.” Jamie shrugged. 

 

“Al?” Harry prompted. 

 

“Fine,” Al muttered. “I’m sorry for losing it with you, I know you didn’t mean Scor any harm. And I guess you can spend time with Scorpius. But only if I’m busy.”

 

“Merlin, you’re thick,” Jamie growled. “That’s not the damn point! Weren’t you listening?”

 

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” Harry interrupted. “Everyone’s tired, let’s leave it. Thank you for taking care of Scorpius tonight, Jamie. He’s lucky to have two good friends. Get some sleep, now.”

 

Jamie grunted and started for the stairs. 

 

“Good night, sweetheart,” Harry told his son’s retreating back. 

 

“Bloody hell, Dad, not at school!” Jamie called back over his shoulder. 

 

“I love you!” Harry added, partly to be irritating but mostly because he meant it.

 

Jamie made a disgusted noise. 

 

/// ///

 

After dropping a sullen Albus off in the dungeons, Harry made his way back to Draco’s office, half afraid he’d not find the other man still waiting there for him. He knocked quietly before stepping back into the orderly room.

 

“Hey,” he said softly. “It’s just me.”

 

Draco was seated at his desk staring blankly at the wall, Scorpius still fast asleep before him. He didn’t react.

 

“Draco,” Harry stated, a bit more loudly, and the man jumped, his eyes refocusing on Harry’s face. 

 

“Apologies,” he muttered. 

 

“You’ve nothing to apologise for,” Harry reassured him. “Let’s get home, yeah?”

 

Draco gave a stiff nod and Harry cast a Disillusionment Charm on the three of them, just to escape any questions from wandering prefects or Heads of Houses. Draco went to scoop up his son, but Harry stopped him with a light touch to his shoulder. “You’re exhausted. Let me.”

 

Draco looked for a moment as though he might protest, but didn’t, allowing Harry to take the small boy in his arms.

 

/// ///

 

“Of course you’d know about a thing like this,” Draco said dryly as they entered the passageway towards Hogsmeade. There was a forced quality to his words, as though he was trying to pretend this was all perfectly ordinary. Harry knew it was an act. They lit their wands to light the way. 

 

“I didn’t find it on my own,” Harry offered, and to fill the time, he told Draco about Fred and George Weasley and the Marauders and the Map things he’d not thought about in ages. Draco seemed content to listen, occasionally slicing at overgrown roots that barred the tunnel. He was unusually quiet and Harry didn’t like it one bit.

 

Eventually, they arrived in Hogsmeade and walked the quiet streets to Crabapple Cottage. The Harry-shaped hedge waved at them. 

 

“One day, I shall burn that thing to ash,” Draco vowed without any conviction. 

 

“By all means,” Harry agreed. The living room window glowed a welcoming orange, signaling a fire lit within. “How do you want to play this?” he asked. Molly had been minding Remy and Lily that evening so Harry had been able to return to the school. “I’m sure we can just tell Molly that Scorpius is sick, but if you’d rather not deal with her this evening, I can hide you in the back and let you in once she’s gone.”

 

“Whichever you like,” Draco deferred dully. His indecision did nothing to quell Harry’s concern. 

 

Harry knew Molly Weasley had no love in her heart for Draco Malfoy, but she’d never begrudge an ill child. Besides, she’d surely heard of Harry and Draco’s unlikely friendship by now. News always travelled fast in the Weasley family. 

 

“Let’s go in then,” Harry determined. “Can you take Scorpius?”

 

Draco nodded and Harry transferred the child between them.

 

Harry knocked to let her know he’d arrived, then entered. 

 

“Molly?” he greeted, keeping his voice hushed since Lily ought to be sleeping by now. 

 

“In here, dear!” Molly replied and Harry followed her voice to the living room where she was knitting by the hearth. She had reading glasses low on her nose and a cup of tea on the small table beside her. Harry felt his heart clench with affection. 

 

Molly looked up to say something in return, but then caught sight of Draco and Scorpius. Her brow wrinkled in concern. “Oh! Professor Malfoy! My goodness, what’s happened?”

 

“Scorpius has taken ill,” Harry explained, realising he didn’t have a good lie prepared a few seconds too late. 

 

“When he gets like this he sometimes shouts in his sleep,” Draco picked up the thread, making an effort to sound like his normal self. “It’s best to keep him out of the infirmary where other students are attempting to get some sleep. Malfoy Manor is shut up for the winter, and Potter here kindly invited us to spend the night, seeing as how Jamie and Albus won’t be using their room.”

 

“Of course,” Molly said, rising. “Poor dear, can I help? I’ve a pot of tea going. Shall I put on some soup, as well?”

 

“Thank you, no,” Draco replied. “He needs sleep, nothing else. I would ask only that you keep his illness to yourself. He doesn’t want others to know, you understand.”

 

“Oh yes, of course, boys that age are so sensitive,” Molly nodded sagely. 

 

“The room is down the hall, second door on the left,” Harry told Draco, pretending the man didn’t already know the layout of the cottage. “If you want to get settled?”

 

Draco made a noise to the affirmative and started down the hall. 

 

“Is the little lamb going to be alright?” Molly enquired. “He looked so pale.”

 

“He’ll be fine,” Harry supplied. “His condition is troublesome, but not dangerous. He’ll be right as rain come morning. How were the kids?”

 

“Well, that’s a relief. I hate to see a child suffer. Remy was a bit fussy, but I think he’s gone down for the night. Lily was her usual self, full of vim and vigor! Never a dull moment with that girl!”

 

“No,” Harry agreed fondly, “there really isn’t.”

 

“She converted her entire bedroom into a blanket fort which she’s called The Warren. I think she fancies herself too old to play pretend, but I could tell she wanted to. There was a lot of talk of a family of fictitious rabbits without her ever quite committing to a character.”

 

Harry laughed. “Yes, that sounds about right.”

 

“So, I’m sorry about the mess in advance, dear.”

 

“They’re kids, it’s what they do,” Harry shrugged. 

 

Molly smiled and patted his cheek. “Well, you go take care of your charges, but do call me if you need anything. I’ve a wonderful hearty oatmeal recipe from Mrs. Warble’s cookbook—”

 

“Mrs. Warble’s Exemplary Recipes to Nourish and Inspire?” Draco asked, returning to the living room. His expression was still drawn, but he seemed to be making an effort. “A favourite of mine.”

 

“You know it?” Molly looked amazed. 

 

“I learnt to cook from that book,” Draco elaborated. “I’ve committed half the recipes to memory by now, I’m sure.”

 

Molly was suitably impressed. “Well, aren’t you a modern man, Professor!”

 

“A man ought to be able to take care of himself and his family,” Draco noted.

 

“Well, isn’t that something!”

 

“I’m becoming something of a disciple of Mrs. Warble myself,” Harry informed her.

 

Molly beamed at him. “You’ll be alright, Harry, love. This was a good move for you, I can tell. You look so much better already.”

 

“Thanks, I think so, too,” Harry accepted, but he wondered how much of the change in him was due to his return to Hogwarts and how much was Draco being in his life. 

 

“Well, I’ll let you two get some sleep; seems as though you could both use it,” Molly told them. She stepped in to embrace Harry and to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Now don’t you forget what I said:” she reminded him, “If you need child minding, at any time, you tell me. If I’m not free I’ll track down Lucy or Fleur or Victoire or one of the cousins, don’t think I won’t! You’re not alone in this Harry, you hear me? You’ve a whole family on your side.”

 

“I know, Molly,” Harry murmured gratefully. “Thank you for coming tonight.”

 

With a final squeeze, a polite nod to Malfoy, and some well-wishes for Scorpius, Molly stepped into the Floo. 

 

Once she’d disappeared from view, Harry turned. Draco was standing on the rug, retreating back into himself after his burst of forced pleasantries. Harry knew the other man was drowning in self-blame. 

 

“Sweetheart,” Harry said gently and Draco glanced up. He looked small and lost and so unlike himself. Harry stepped in close, one hand curling around Draco’s cheek. Draco seemed torn between leaning into the touch and pulling away, opting instead for utter stillness. “It was an honest mistake. We’ll set a reminder going forward, it won’t happen again. And no one found anything out, not really. Main and Mulligan aren’t going to extrapolate that he’s a Vates with so little information, not when they are so rare. I’d never even heard of them before you told me about Scorpius. It’s going to be alright. Please don’t torture yourself.”

 

“I should have been paying attention to the time,” Draco muttered, his voice hushed and bitter. He pulled away from Harry’s touch, as though he didn’t deserve it. “It is a nightly occurrence, Scorpius coming round for his potion, how could I just forget?”

 

“Stop,” Harry protested. “Al was giving us both a headache, what with his uncooperativeness. He’s afraid I’ll make him reclaim memories of his mother, and I can’t blame him for not wanting that, but his hesitancy was hardly a treat. So we forgot. And Scorpius fell asleep, so he forgot, too.”

 

“He’s twelve years old for hell’s sake!” Draco cried out, acute grief rolling off his tensed muscles. “He shouldn’t be falling asleep in the early evening from sheer exhaustion. This bloody potion is robbing him of his childhood!”

 

“And constant soothsaying would prevent him from having a childhood at all. I know you want better for him. I want better for him, too. The current situation's not perfect, but it’s what we have,” Harry reminded him gently. “Come on, let’s have some tea and get to bed. Things won’t look so dire in the morning.”

 

Draco’s usually proud shoulders slumped and Harry rushed forward again to gather him tight, but Draco stiffened in his arms. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Draco whispered, shifting back and away. Harry begrudgingly let him go. “I’ll be fine, this is...unbecoming. Beneath me.” 

 

“Oh, shut up,” Harry scolded. “No one expects you to have it all together every moment of the day. Scorpius’ situation is vulnerable. You’ve had a scare in the past, and this all could have gone terribly wrong. It’s incredibly reasonable to be upset.”

 

Draco straightened his shoulders and gathered his cloak around him with deliberate efficiency. “You’ve enough going on,” he decided, voice taking on a professional bent that Harry didn’t at all care for. “I ought not to be dragging my self-flagellation into your home. I can return to the school and come back for Scorpius in the morning. I’ve administered his potion.”

 

“Draco, don’t be daft,” Harry stated firmly, vaguely horrified at Draco’s thoughts on the matter. “I’m not going to fall to pieces because you had one difficult evening. You’ll stay here and let me bloody take care of you, for once, is that understood?”

 

They stood a few feet apart, Draco’s pained expression meeting Harry’s determined one. For a difficult moment, Harry thought Draco was going to reject his offer, was going to walk away, to try to face his misery on his own, but then, thankfully, he caved. 

 

“Yes,” Draco agreed hoarsely after one agonising moment of indecision. His stoic façade fell away and he looked about ready to crumble. “Yes, alright.”

 

“Good. Well, to start with, come here and let me give you a proper hug. You look like you need it.”

 

This time, when Harry took him in his arms, Draco allowed it. 

Notes:

Hey folks, thanks for reading and for the wonderful comments left on the previous chapter. I'm really stoked that you're all enjoying this fic alongside me!

Also, thanks to the ultimate beta, Mimbelwimbel for all her hard work and suggestions! These chapters wouldn't be what they are without her.

Chapter 5: Albus

Notes:

CW (contains spoilers):
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Homophobia, bullying

Albus

 

Dad hadn’t said much on the walk to the dungeons. He hadn’t needed to; Al knew he was disappointed. Worse still, Al knew he had a right to be. It was hard to explain, the burst of hot rage Al got every time he even thought about Jamie talking with Scor. Al was aware his reaction wasn’t necessarily okay. He even believed Jamie’s intentions weren’t terrible, it was just...well, Al had found Scor first. Scor was therefore by rights, his.

 

Al had a vague suspicion he wasn’t supposed to think like that. He knew his interpretations of things could be off sometimes. It resulted in a lot of Serious Talks with his father. Dad usually said he understood; that he had had a temper, too, when he’d been Al’s age, but Al didn’t believe it. His dad was nearly always patient and rarely yelled, even when Al suspected he deserved a proper scolding. Al got snapped at a lot more frequently by his professors, but they ought to teach more interesting things if they wanted to hold his attention.

 

Al shook his head as he followed the corridor from the deserted common room into the dormitory. He felt an ugly mix of persistent anger and worse, shame. He oughtn’t to have talked about Scor like that. His friend wouldn’t have liked it and Al sometimes thought he would do anything to keep Scor’s friendship. Scorpius was never irritated when Al changed focus from one project to the next, he was always game for an adventure, but would stop Al from doing anything truly foolish, and, well Scor liked him. Not a lot of people felt that way about Al. He understood that he could be a bit off-putting, a bit weird, but he didn’t care much about that. He’d far rather do what he liked than worry about fitting in, but it was much more fun to do things with Scorpius than it was to do them on his own. He didn’t want that bit to go away. 

 

No one in the second-year boys’ dormitory was asleep. Raleigh Fife was holding court on his bed, presiding over the meek and mousy Corin Bingham, and the rowdy, enthusiastic twins Bernard and Franklin Ojo. Given that the latter two never seemed to stop wrestling long enough to listen to anything Fife had to say, Al assumed there had to be something interesting afoot.

 

“Where were you, Potter?” Fife demanded pompously, casting his dark, nearly feline gaze at Al.  Fife always acted as though he had a right to everyone else’s business. Probably because he was good-looking with a long glossy braid that he tied with a narrow velvet ribbon that was so pretentious it was all Al could do to keep from rolling his eyes every time he saw it. Secretly, he hoped that puberty would wreak absolute havoc on the boy; it seemed only karmic.

 

“Taking a dip au naturel in the lake with my mate the squid,” Al quipped, just to be difficult.

 

Fife pursed his lips, hating to be disobeyed, but refused to acknowledge Al’s facetiousness otherwise. 

 

Al badly wanted to ask what it was that was keeping everyone up, but he didn’t want to give Fife the satisfaction of appearing interested, so he simply went over to his trunk and began to get ready for bed. 

 

Thankfully, Bingham seemed unable to keep the news to himself. 

 

“Guess what, Potter,” he blurted out, and Al readied himself. Bingham was a nice bloke, but when he finally worked up the nerve to say something, it took him about seven years to get to the point. “I’ve just got a letter from my mum, and she says my aunt—she’s a singer, you know, on the wireless and everything—” Al did know. It was Bingham’s one claim to fame, and he seemed to think it was the only thing that made him interesting, and mentioned it as much as possible.“Well, she goes by Amethyst Howl, now, but that’s not her real name, obviously, her real name’s Esther Crumpet, but my mum says that name doesn’t have a lot of star power. She said she was personally very happy to marry out of the Crumpet name, actually—”

 

“Merlin’s teeth, Bingham,” Fife said sharply, and Bingham’s face coloured and he wilted where he sat. “Spit it out.”

 

“Shove off, Fife,” Al demanded coolly. Fife’s nonsense never bothered him or the Ojo twins, but he knew it laid Bingham low. “You don’t need to be an arsehole about it. Go on, Corin, I’m listening.”

 

Bingham looked up, equal parts discouraged and hopeful. “Well, my aunt’s doing a tour with a carnival, and apparently Headmistress Clearwater is permitting them to do a stop here around Halloween!”

 

Al was surprised; they didn’t get a lot of outside entertainment. He also thought it sounded like it could be quite a bit of fun. He’d never been to a carnival before. A memory popped into his mind of Jamie begging Mum to take them to one in Wiltshire, and her retort that carnivals were a great waste of Galleons. Al wondered if maybe he could erase that memory, too. He’d been trying not to do that so often these days, not since he’d had that talk with Dad about it a few weeks ago, but sometimes it was just easier. Besides, if Dad had his way and a counterspell was created, Al wouldn’t get to live without his horrid memories for much longer, so he might as well rid himself of it. That way he wouldn’t stew over it, like Jamie no doubt did. That would explain his permanently foul mood, anyway. 

 

Bingham was clearly waiting for a reaction, so Al grinned at him. “That’s wicked! What sorts of things will be there, do you know?”

 

“Have you never been, Al?” Franklin Ojo asked. 

 

Al shook his head. “No, do they live up to the hype, would you say?”

 

“Depends on the carnival,” the other twin, Bernard, replied. “But there are definitely some decent ones, and I’m sure Amethyst Howl wouldn’t travel with a dodgy one, she’s famous!”

 

Bingham beamed. 

 

“It’s only a carnival,” Fife sniffed.

 

“Well I think it’s cool,” Al told Bingham. The Ojo twins looked awkwardly around the room. They never liked an altercation, and whenever Al and Raleigh Fife were in the same room, there tended to be one, especially when Scorpius wasn’t there to mediate. Interesting, Al thought, how Scorpius’ presence seemed to make Fife act like less of an ass.  

 

“It is,” Bingham agreed with an emphatic nod. “They’ve a team of sprites who put on the most epic light show—”

 

“And who rifle through your pockets when you’re busy looking up,” Fife added pettily.

 

“That’s speciesist,” Al informed him. His Aunt Hermione used that word all the time. 

 

Fife scowled. 

 

“What else is there,” Al prompted Bingham. 

 

“Acrobats, jugglers, and performers, like my aunt, and seers and booths where you can buy things or win prizes—”

 

“Those things are rigged,” Fife interrupted again. 

 

“Shut up,” Al told him. “We’re not talking to you.” 

 

“Bingham’s the one sitting on my bed,” Fife pointed out.

 

“Then he can come sit on mine!” Al exploded, fed up with Fife’s nastiness. 

 

At that, both Ojo boys got up with a series of frustrated sighs. They were clearly tired of the bickering. Bingham sat frozen, not knowing what he should do.

 

Fife’s lip curled. “Won’t your little boyfriend get jealous? Where is darling Scorpius, anyway? It’s past his bedtime,” he goaded. 

 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Al said flatly. It wasn’t the first time Fife had used this taunt, and Al thought it was stupid, anyway. There was nothing wrong with being gay, not that he was, so far as he knew. He didn’t particularly notice girls or boys, not in the way people talked about. It seemed to him like a waste of time when there was so much else to do. Granny always loved to tease him and say it was only a matter of time. It was irritating.  “And none of your business.”

 

“So you know where he is then?” Fife prodded. “He run off with a fitter bloke?”

 

Al raised an eyebrow. “You seem awfully invested in his love life, Fife. You interested? I mean, I doubt anyone would go for you, seeing as how you’re an intolerable wanker with a bloated ego, but I guess you’re welcome to try. You’d have to ask Scor if he even likes blokes, though. Unlike you, I don’t make assumptions about people, not like that.”

 

“Fuck you, Potter,” Fife said. His cheeks were red and his voice full of vitriol. Bingham scrambled away at that, diving under his own covers and turning his back on the room.

 

“Shut up, the both of you,” Bernard Ojo muttered. 

 

“Hear, hear,” Franklin agreed.

 

Al pressed on though, tasting victory: “But really, Fife, I would stick to the bathroom mirror. It’s the closest thing to love that you’re ever going to get.”

 

Fife cursed a blue streak but Al started humming tunelessly, pretending he couldn’t hear a word of the other boy’s outburst. Bernard yelled at them both to shut up again, and so finally, Fife blew out his candle and went to bed. Shortly after, Al did the same.

 

Through the crack in the curtains, he could see Scorpius’ empty bed. He felt a pang of loneliness. He knew Scor would be okay, he always was after one of his episodes, but Al felt for him. It must be horrid to lose control like that, to see everyone as a potential threat, should they find out about him. Al shivered, remembering the night that summer when Scor had had that nightmare. He’d sounded so terrified, so alone. 

 

Tonight hadn’t helped, Al reckoned. Scor would be upset; he’d been miserable after his prophesying had been set off at the Leaky Cauldron that summer and he’d be extra exhausted tomorrow. Even Al had found it disconcerting, seeing Scor unconscious like that, and relying on Jamie to fill in the details. And then once he’d heard the facts, Al didn’t like them. If Main and Mulligan figured something out, would Scorpius be safe at the castle? Al didn’t trust Main and his lackey one bit. Would Professor Malfoy pull Scor from Hogwarts altogether and tutor him at home? Scorpius would hate that, being on his own, and Al had to admit he would hate it just as much.

 

Well then, Al just couldn’t let that happen, that was all. He’d come up with something. He always did. 

 

Notes:

Thanks for being here! This is just a tiny little chapter mostly due to the timeline. I originally wasn't going to do an Al POV, but it felt weird skipping him.

Thanks to everyone who read and commented on the last chapter, you are all stars!

Extra special thanks to my tremendous beta, Mimbelwimbel, for all she does.

Chapter 6: Draco

Notes:

CW (contains spoilers):
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This chapter contains the first smut of the sequel if you wish to skip it, I might recommend scrolling past the portion between the first and second /// ///. More detailed CWs will be given in the end notes if you want specifics!

Draco

Being taken care of was a foreign experience, Draco realised. After checking in on Lily and Remy, Harry had poured the tea and found some fresh biscuits left by Molly Weasley and brought them to the drawing room on a chipped saucer. Draco didn’t have much of an appetite, but Harry coaxed him into having a few sips and nibbling at a biscuit. 

 

The sofa upon which Draco was seated was worn and welcoming. On the other side of the coffee table, Harry was perched on a mustard coloured armchair, looking ready to spring into action should Draco request anything at all. He’d already made several trips between the kitchen and the drawing room, bringing cream and sugar (although Draco took neither), a small serviette, and a glass of water before Draco all but ordered him to sit down already. He wished he hadn’t now, though. Harry was leaning forward, eyebrows furrowed with concern, all because Draco had had a little scare and overreacted.

 

“For hell’s sake, Potter, stop staring,” Draco muttered, being suddenly and painfully reminded of his childhood house-elf. Dobby had treated Draco with more kindness than his parents ever had, and still Draco had scorned and mistreated him.

 

“Sorry,” Harry said quickly, stirring his tea unnecessarily. “I’m not used to seeing you upset.”

 

Draco narrowly managed to keep from wincing. The words were a bitter reminder of how badly Draco was bollocksing things up. He’d not told Harry about the letter that still weighed heavily in his pocket to prevent this very thing: Harry waiting on him hand and foot. That was the problem with Harry. He would do anything anyone asked if he thought it was the decent thing to do, but Draco didn’t want to be just another obligation. No, Draco was independent, he was capable. That was what he offered Harry—competence and company and a little fun in the bedroom. There, Harry indulged Draco’s interests, but in return Draco made Harry’s life easier. That was his role and that was what he would keep doing, because if he stopped being useful…

 

“Draco?” Harry prompted, possibly for the third time. “Can I do anything?”

 

Draco shook his head and forced a smile. “Certainly not. I’m fine. I’m sure you’re right. It could have been a disaster, but it wasn’t. James saw to that. I’m very grateful to him.”

 

“Yeah, well, just because it wasn’t the absolute worst case scenario doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to have feelings about it,” Harry pointed out. 

 

Draco scoffed lightly. That was Harry, always ready to talk things through. It was likely Granger’s influence, although clearly her own husband hadn’t learnt those lessons as fastidiously as Harry had. “I let myself get carried away,” Draco decided firmly. “I’m perfectly alright. It’s late. We ought to get some sleep.”

 

Harry pursed his lips dubiously. “If you like,” he allowed. “Or we can talk about it. I know with what Scorpius has been through in the past, this can’t be easy on you. I’d be beside myself if it was one of my lot—”

 

“Harry, leave it,” Draco murmured, weariness settling over him like a cloak. “Please.”

 

For a moment, he thought Harry might argue the point. There was a momentary stubbornness in the set of Harry’s jaw, but he swallowed it down with another sip of tea. 

 

“Yeah, alright,” Harry conceded. “Whatever you need.”

 

/// /// 

Draco couldn’t fucking sleep. Even having Harry’s warm limbs flung over him—containing him and keeping him close—wasn’t enough to slow his racing thoughts. Harry had been a pleasant distraction—muttering about the day and the children and errands he really ought to run as they settled into bed—but as the other man’s breath evened out behind him, Draco felt his own defences begin to crumble. 

 

His mind had flashed back to the scene in his office: Scorpius slumped against James’ chest as the sleeping spell took hold, the red flush draining from his face and leaving him pale. Physically, Draco knew, Scorpius would be fine. That wasn’t what was plaguing Draco’s thoughts. No, the most insidious anxieties were the creeping What-Ifs. What if James hadn’t been there? What if Scorpius had been in the middle of a crowded room? What if Main and Mulligan heard more than they were willing to let on? What if someone came for his son again?

 

Of all the horrors Draco had lived through, nothing came close to the idea of losing his only child. He didn’t even know what he would do. 

 

And so his mind went around and around in this manner, drifting from one devastating possible conclusion to the next, and, when he had been through them all, starting over again. 

 

Draco could feel the sick spin of worry burrow its way into his muscles. His heartbeat was accelerating and his abdominal muscles were cinching tight. He didn’t feel the least bit like sleeping. He needed—

 

He felt a jolt of abhorrence when he realised what it was he needed. Usually when things felt this out of hand, Draco would find himself a stranger to make it better, to shrink his concerns down to nothing but the brutal smack of leather against flesh, and his own desperate battle to maintain composure—and Draco never lost composure.

 

He felt his prick stir with interest as he thought of a firm hand circling his throat and a vicious assault on his body. Suddenly, urgently, he wanted to be taken, but he and Harry hadn’t even discussed that yet, and what was more, Harry was asleep after a long day and a long week, and he didn’t fucking need Draco waking him up and demanding a full-on scene, for fuck’s sake.

 

For a mad moment, Draco thought about leaving. Maybe he could just sneak away and find someone for the night. It wasn’t late, the clubs would still be open. That way he wouldn’t have to bother Harry, and besides, he’d be settled tomorrow if he could just take care of this compulsion. 

 

Harry’s words from earlier that evening came back to Draco then: 'let me bloody take care of you, for once' and Draco felt like the worst kind of traitor. It wasn’t as though he wanted someone else, because he very much didn’t. The thought of some stranger’s hands on him when he could have Harry’s filled him with revulsion, but still, he needed.

 

Frustrated, Draco spun in Harry’s arms and burrowed into Harry’s chest. This contact, this warmth, it would be enough, Draco would make it be enough, because now that he had it—the intimacy, the companionship, and Harry’s sprawling affection—Draco couldn’t bear the idea of living without it. Draco grimaced against Harry’s skin, crawling with self disgust. When had he become this dependent, insecure, desperate thing? Whatever happened, he wouldn’t let Harry see him like this. 

 

“Hey.” Harry’s voice was gruff and Draco froze in alarm, cursing himself for not just lying still.

 

“Apologies,” Draco murmured, striving for the appearance of normalcy. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

“Lumos,” Harry grunted and his wand lit up, casting a pale orange glow from its place on the bedside table. He blinked and reached for his glasses, looking rumpled.

 

“Really, Harry, go back to sleep. You need it,” Draco tried to burrow even deeper, but Harry wasn’t having it, tossing his head with frustration and keeping enough distance between their bodies to enable him to look Draco in the eye.

 

“You’ve been restless since we came to bed,” Harry pointed out, “and whether you’ll admit it or not, I can tell you’re upset; I’m not an idiot. So tell me, what can I do? Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“No,” Draco said at once, because he really, really didn’t wish to do anything of the sort. 

 

Harry studied him and Draco felt pinned like an insect in a Herbology lab: exposed and examined without his say so. 

 

“What do you need?” Harry asked quietly. 

 

“Nothing,” Draco answered quickly. “I’m just overthinking. It ought not to disturb both of our rests.”

 

“Draco, tell me what you need,” Harry repeated emphatically, with a trace of sternness. 

 

“I…” Draco swallowed. Harry was on alert now, no protests on Draco’s part would put him off. Draco didn’t respond right away, scanning his brain for something that would require very little effort on Harry’s part, but would still make him feel like he was helping, but his distracted mind couldn’t provide him with anything convincing. “I think it would help,” he began carefully, “if I could drown them out a little—my thoughts I mean.”

 

“Alright,” Harry replied easily, reaching out to cradle Draco’s cheek. Draco refused to let himself lean into the touch. “We can do that. What would work?”

 

Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t want Harry to do anything simply because he felt obliged to. “Nevermind. I’ll be fine. You needn’t smother me so.”

 

It was a lie. Draco wanted exactly that.

 

Harry ignored Draco’s attempt to keep his distance, pressing onwards as if Draco hadn’t said a word. “Pain?” he guessed and Draco’s chest tightened because yes, yes, yes, that was what he wanted and what he felt like he couldn’t ask for out of fear of being a bloody needy nuisance. 

 

Draco gave a nearly imperceptible nod and Harry moved in, kissing his cheekbone. 

 

“Are you certain that’s what you want right now?” Harry questioned and Draco wondered if he ought to renege the gesture. Instead, he felt himself nod more definitively. 

 

“Please,” he whispered, hating himself for asking, but still so relieved that Harry hadn’t rejected the idea outright. 

 

“It helps?” Harry pushed, gently slotting his mouth against Draco’s.  

 

“Yes.” The words felt easy to say when they had so little distance to travel. “It helps.”

 

Harry kept kissing him, and for a moment Draco wondered if he needed to repeat himself, but then Harry rolled reluctantly away, kicking off the covers and sitting up. Draco followed suit, feeling uncomfortably raw. He’d become unaccustomed to asking for things. If he couldn’t do something himself, then he’d learn the necessary skills. If that wasn’t possible, whatever it was likely wouldn’t get done at all. He slung his arms around his knees, only barely resisting curling into a tight ball, as though that would somehow bring him back together. 

 

Harry was studying him again. “Alright?” he asked. 

 

“Not terribly,” Draco retorted dryly. “So let’s stop asking, shall we?”

 

“Sorry. Want anything in particular?” Harry pushed. 

 

“To relinquish the arduous decision-making process into capable hands,” Draco quipped. His voice was sharper than it needed to be, because for a horrid, mad moment, he thought he might burst into tears. “Can we get on with it?”

 

“You’d think you would watch your mouth with your arse at my mercy,” Harry mused with a lazy half-smile. 

 

“A lot of talk and not a lot of action, Potter,” Draco pointed out. 

 

“Get undressed then,” Harry suggested, and Draco felt the edge of panic he’d been riding dull a little. This he knew. This was familiar. 

 

Draco stood with an orchestrated, unhurried air, and stretched, before slowly setting to work unbuttoning the silk top to his pyjamas. He could easily just pull the garment over his head and they both knew it, but Draco liked how Harry’s eyes tracked his every movement. Nudity didn’t make Draco feel vulnerable; quite the opposite. His body was tightly strung, alert, and powerful. Harry’s eyes were locked on him. 

 

“Bloody hell, the look of you,” Harry grumbled. “It’s hardly fair.”

 

Draco let his pyjama bottoms slide off his hips to pool on the floor. He rested his palms on his lower back and arched, grateful for the return of his confidence now that he was once again in familiar territory. 

 

“That’s quite enough of your bloody peacocking,” Harry decided, rising. “I want you at the foot of the bed.”

 

Draco gracefully obliged, looking to Harry for further instruction. The ritual of it all was somehow soothing. Yes, the mess that was this evening could just be packed away. Harry would see to that.  

 

“Far enough away that when you bend over only your hands and head touch the bed,” Harry went on. Draco fell into place, bowing at the waist and bracing his head in his arms on Harry’s homey eiderdown. “That’s it. Feet apart. Lovely.”

 

Draco obeyed, all but purring as Harry ran a warm palm along the length of his spine. What with the position and the touch, he was hard already, yearning for all the things Harry could do to him.

 

“This isn’t a punishment,” Harry stated simply. “Just so we’re clear. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

Draco felt a wrinkle form in the tenuous sense of calm he’d been leaning into. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to hurt. 

 

“Fine,” Draco muttered, hoping to hurry Harry along. 

 

“Tell me,” Harry ordered and Draco blanched, grateful Harry couldn’t see his face. 

 

“Come on, Potter,” he urged through gritted teeth. “Get to it, would you?”

 

“Not until we’re clear that you’re not to blame for earlier,” Harry insisted. His magic flared in gentle waves, settling over Draco’s back, securing him in place. 

 

“Harry,” Draco protested again, but the magic tightened warningly. “Yes, very well.” He swallowed down a lump, refusing to let his mind return to the endless What-Ifs. “It wasn’t my fault. This isn’t a punishment.” The words rang hollow.

 

“Let’s try again with a bit more sincerity, shall we?” Harry chided. 

 

Draco all but pounded the eiderdown with his fists in his frustration. This ritual was superfluous, he wanted to hurl past it to oblivion. Nevertheless, he took a shaky inhale. It was important to Harry to know he was understood.

 

“I know,” Draco promised simply. “You’re not punishing me.”

 

“And if you need me to stop?” Harry prompted.

 

Draco felt everything grind to a halt as an immense realisation swept over him. He very nearly couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. 

 

The silence grew. 

 

“Draco,” Harry urged. 

 

“What if I don’t want that sort of power?” Draco whispered, lifting his face away from his hands. Harry’s body stilled, and he didn’t reply, so Draco continued, words tripping out of him: “What if I don’t want to be able to stop you? What if I want those decisions left to you? I trust you. I know you won’t overdo it. I just...I don’t—”

 

“No,” Harry determined, looking torn. He stepped closer, stroking Draco’s hair. “I’m not saying not ever, we can talk about it, work up to it, but...I’m sorry, sweetheart. I want to help, to give you what you need, but, I’m sorry, I...I’m not ready for something like that. I couldn’t bear it if I took things too far. I can’t do this if I don’t know you’ll stop me if you have to.”

 

Draco felt disappointment curl low in his belly but he nodded, returning his head to rest against his forearms. He resolved to himself that he’d not stop Harry, no matter what. He wanted to take whatever was on offer tonight, no matter how difficult. 

 

“Say something,” Harry murmured. 

 

“I understand,” Draco managed. “I’ll ask you to stop if I can’t handle things. Of course I will. I was being unreasonable.”

 

“You were asking for what you needed,” Harry corrected. “That’s never unreasonable.”

 

Draco felt the magic encompassing him give a sweet squeeze before falling away, making him shiver in the cold air. 

 

“I’m not going to hold you down,” Harry explained. “I want you to do that yourself.”

 

“Yes,” Draco replied ardently, voice hushed, because yes, that was what he wanted exactly: to prove himself, to show Harry how strong and capable he was, to remind them both that tonight was an anomaly. 

 

“One more thing,” Harry decided. “Can you go up on your toes for me? Don’t want to make it too easy.”

 

Draco felt a keen ping of approval at that. Yes, another layer of challenge would do very nicely. He wanted to burn and hurt and struggle and come out the other side standing tall. He lifted his heels until he was balanced on the balls of his feet. It wouldn’t be long before he felt the strain of it, he knew, and he eagerly anticipated it.

 

“No one has any business having an arse like yours,” Harry groused, as he strode in a semi-circle, examining Draco’s position. 

 

Secretly, Draco preened. He preferred his men big and broad, like Harry, but if Harry appreciated a more compact view, who was Draco to argue. 

 

Harry’s hand skimmed over the swell of Draco’s arse, along the taught lines of his thighs. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “Ready?”

 

Draco nodded impatiently. He’d had enough tenderness. 

 

“Words,” Harry reminded him. 

 

“I’m ready,” Draco insisted, embarrassed to hear a note of petulance in his voice. 

 

Harry chuckled. Then, without any more warning, his palm crashed down against Draco’s arse. 

 

Draco jumped and made a noise that certainly couldn’t be described as a squeak, before clearing his throat. He didn’t know why, but he’d been expecting an implement. Harry’s hand felt...intimate. “Sorry,” he muttered, resuming his composure. 

 

“Catch you off guard?” Harry asked, resuming the more gentle ministrations of earlier, squeezing Draco’s arse affectionately. 

 

“It won’t happen again,” Draco assured him.

 

Another blow fell and Draco was ready for it this go round, savouring the sharp burst that faded far too quickly. Draco nodded fervently into his arms, relief blooming because Harry really did understand just what he was after. Unfortunately, Harry seemed intent on taking his damn time, adding too much of this teasing nonsense in between and Draco wished he wouldn’t. It gave him too much space to think. He wanted hard and fast, wanted to blot it all out with noise and searing pain. He wiggled his hips encouragingly. 

 

“Yes, yes, alright, point taken,” Harry agreed. “You’re hardly subtle, you know.”

 

“Learnt a long time ago that ‘subtle’ doesn’t work with you, Potter.”

 

That earned him an especially jarring thwack and Draco gritted his teeth at the flash of pain, which was followed by a rapid onslaught of Harry’s palm. He gripped the covers tightly, bracing himself, his cock swinging humiliatingly, full and neglected. 

 

Draco nearly sighed in relief as Harry found a steady, rhythmic pattern, striking Draco’s arse and thighs with a determined strength, only barely holding back. The endorphins stirred up Draco’s blood and clouded his mind. 

 

“Watch your posture,” Harry demanded, and Draco was horrified to notice that his heels had come dangerously close to the rug beneath his feet. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Draco rasped, his burning arches held high. His calves protested at the movement and he berated himself. He couldn’t even do this one thing right. Harry asked for so little and Draco had gone and let him down again. Draco cursed himself, forcing his body back into the demanding stance, methodical impacts raining down on him. They increased in speed, in intensity, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like enough to shut out the knowledge of all his shortcomings. 

 

“This isn’t working,” Harry announced suddenly. The hand that had been delivering a healthy hiding fell to his side, and he stepped away. 

 

Draco’s heart plummeted to his feet. Shaking, he turned. He realised distantly that his face was wet with tears he didn’t remember having fallen.

 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’ll watch my posture, I won’t let you down again, Harry, please—”

 

“That’s not what I meant,” Harry cut in quickly. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Draco felt a cold surge of fear in his throat because Harry looked concerned, he looked puzzled, he didn’t look like he was in control at all, and if he wasn’t in control then—

 

Harry’s features smoothed and he smiled. “Hey,” he murmured sweetly. He backed up a few feet and sank into the upholstered chair beside the window. “Come here.”

 

Draco forced his heels back to the ground, woodenly turning and doing as he was told. Soon, he was standing before Harry, naked and helpless.

 

Harry’s legs fell apart and he reached a hand out, encircling Draco’s wrist and giving a gentle tug. 

 

“Come sit with me,” he urged. 

 

An icy, panicky fist gripped Draco’s stomach and he stood there frozen and resisting. There was only one chair. Harry clearly meant for Draco to sit on his knee. 

 

“Don’t be absurd,” he hissed, desperate to get back to the familiar, the numbing assault of Harry’s hand on his arse. 

 

“Why not?” Harry demanded. 

 

“It’s...it’s humiliating. Undignified,” Draco spluttered. 

 

“Is it?” The question was genuinely curious. There was no hint of ire. 

 

“You know it is,” Draco insisted. “I’m not a child.”

 

“I’m aware,” Harry said simply. “That’s not what this is about.” 

 

“Then why are you doing it?” Draco pressed. He felt torn and frantic, half wanting to call things off this very moment and run away into the anonymity of night, and half mad with wonder what on earth Harry was playing at here.

 

“Come. Here.” Was the only answer he got in return. 

 

Stiffly, Draco forced himself to take the step that closed the gap between them, perching his aching arse on one of Harry’s knees, his hands clasped tight in front of him, refusing to cling to Harry like some cloying limpet. Harry was shirtless and the cotton of Harry’s pants ended halfway down his thigh. The wiry hair above his knee irritated Draco’s inflamed skin. He tried to focus on that, and not the billowing shame that seemed to suffocate him.

 

Harry cupped the back of Draco’s neck and gave a gentle squeeze. Draco shut his eyes. 

 

“What are you so ashamed of?” Harry asked quietly. 

 

“I told you,” Draco muttered through clenched teeth. “It’s humiliating.”

 

“Why? What’s the difference between this and letting me beat your arse until you bruise?”

 

“I don’t know,” Draco snapped, his voice reedy and petulant and pathetic. 

 

“A thing’s only humiliating if you think someone will think less of you for it,” Harry commented thoughtfully, his hand trailing down Draco’s back to curl around his hips. He pulled him closer, but Draco refused to give in or to relax. So Harry continued: “Do you think I’d think less of you for sitting on my knee?”

 

The question took Draco by surprise. It was a ridiculous position, being on someone’s lap. Juvenile and sentimental and— “Who wouldn’t?” he asked. 

 

“I wouldn’t,” Harry pointed out. “Nothing would make me think less of you, not now that I know who you truly are. You do know that, right?”

 

Did Draco know that? He couldn’t make his mind work. 

 

“Why’d you stop?” he asked instead, wishing they could go back to a few minutes earlier, when he was trying to get to that place where his world was nothing but diligence and reassuring blows. 

 

“Because you weren’t getting what you needed,” Harry explained. His free hand slid over Draco’s legs, gathering him close. He was always like this: affectionate and tender in a way Draco couldn’t help but want, even if the craving made his skin crawl with the shame of it. Draco Malfoy didn’t need silly comforts. He didn’t need kind words or understanding. He certainly didn’t need gentling, or protection, or reassurance. 

 

And yet he found he needed Harry. 

 

But he wasn’t about to confess to something like that. 

 

“How do you know?” he redirected. 

 

“You weren’t, like, whatsit...catharting,” Harry said with a shrug. 

 

“I’m quite sure that’s not a word,” Draco pointed out, evading. 

 

“You know what I mean. Having a good cry and getting everything out, or whatever your equivalent is. A release and all that.”

 

“Think you wrung some tears from me,” Draco countered. 

 

“Yeah, well,” Harry considered, “there are pain tears and there are tear tears. They’re different.”

 

“And how do you propose inducing the latter?”

 

“With a bit more of this,” Harry replied easily. He tugged at Draco again, manoeuvring him downward until Draco’s head was pressed against Harry’s shoulder. “Relax, would you?”

 

With a put-upon sigh, Draco allowed his muscles to release minutely, tucking his head against Harry’s collarbone and trying hard not to think about the absurdity of the position. 

 

“You want to know what your problem is?” Harry mused. 

 

“I suspect you’re about to tell me.”

 

“That I am,” Harry agreed. “You think it’s all about being strong. You want to show me just how tough you can be, how much you can withstand. And it gets you off, usually, and that’s great, and Merlin knows I’m happy to engage in all that with you. But for hell’s sake, love, you think I don’t already know you’re strong? That you can take a great deal more than anyone should ever have to? Of course I know all that. I don’t need your strength, babe, but I’d like to see your weakness. To let me know you trust me to take care of you every bit as well as you took care of me these last couple of months, when I know you’d not let another soul on earth lift a finger in your name. Hell, Draco, that would be a bloody gift.”

 

Draco shivered at the words and Harry drew him closer, magic exuding out and draping over Draco like a blanket. 

 

Draco didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure he could. Harry’s words sat heavy on his chest; they were difficult to absorb. It was so like Harry, never leaving things as they were, always pushing. Why couldn’t the man leave well enough alone? Things had been working as they were. But of course Harry wanted more, why wouldn’t he?

 

“What if I can’t give you that?” Draco finally whispered, after a long moment of anticipatory silence. Or worse, he thought, what if you don’t like what you see. 

 

In answer, the hand Harry had on Draco’s knees shifted to press against his stomach. He wanted to flinch away, the metaphor hardly subtle. It was effective, though, because yes, Draco had easily exposed his tender underbelly: He’d entrusted his safety to this man, offered himself up. And Harry had never mocked him, never taken advantage, had always been so careful and resolute. 

 

Harry’s other hand came up to cup Draco’s jaw, raising his chin so he was forced to look him in the eye. Harry’s thumb came to rest on  Draco’s lower lip. He waited. 

 

Swallowing, Draco forced his lips apart, trying to overpower the thrum of shame with the louder tattoo of obedience. Harry eased his thumb over Draco’s tongue and Draco closed his lips around it, refusing to think of the specifics of the action. He wasn’t sucking Potter’s thumb, he wouldn’t demean himself so. This was something else, it had to be. 

 

“There now,” Harry said gently. “See? You’re doing beautifully.” He trailed fingertips across Draco’s thigh, dangerously close to his cock, which perked up with the attention. 

 

The praise ate at Draco, creating a complicated tension between wanting to persevere, to go deeper, to earn more of those addictive words, and wanting to run from the pliable, feeble creature he had let himself become. He made a pained, tormented sound somewhere in his throat and Harry chuckled. He gave Draco’s cock a light, teasing stroke, and to Draco’s horror, he arched into it immediately, his self control seemingly vanished.  

 

“Suck it properly,” Harry instructed. “Merlin knows you need pacifying.”

 

Draco wanted to spit, wanted to snarl and shove himself off of Potter’s lap and protest this ridiculous treatment that made his face burn hot with mortification. He did none of those things. Because more than all that, he wanted to follow Harry down this twisting path, to see how far it would go. He took a steadying breath through his nose, and obeyed. 

 

“So good for me,” Harry crooned and Draco gave an irritated hum, which only seemed to amuse Potter further. “Want to know what I think you’re struggling with?”

 

Draco huffed to show he was not interested in hearing more of Potter’s opinion on his particular flaws, but Harry ignored him, instead lazily thrusting his thumb in and out of Draco’s compliant mouth.

 

“You want so badly to submit,” Harry explained, “but you’re terrified of giving up control. You say you don’t want to make decisions, but then you set the parameters. Only pain, for as long and as hard as you want it, nothing more, nothing less. I think you leave a lot untapped when you focus just on that. Not that you’re not beautiful when you’re holding so still for me and taking whatever I give you, but there’s that, and there’s this: you, embarrassed and miserable and yet still doing what you’re told.”

 

Draco could stop all this. He knew if he shoved Harry’s hand out of his mouth and told him to piss off, Harry would, in an instant, but Draco didn’t dare, and worse, he found he didn’t want to. What he wanted was to ask Harry if he meant it, if he truly liked Draco like this, even like this, trembling and strangely terrified and worst of all, fragile. 

 

But one glance at Harry’s serious, earnest face told him everything he needed to know. 

 

“I could perhaps do with some practice in that arena,” Draco finally managed, his voice sounding stiff and formal. 

 

“Only some?” Harry asked, arching an eyebrow and looking rather amused. “I don’t think that’s true.”

 

There was something in the tone Harry was using, a note of condescension that made Draco’s hips sputter upwards into nothingness, eager for Harry’s touch.

 

“You want more?” Harry murmured, rearranging Draco’s body with ease, until his back was flush with Harry’s chest, his knees spread wide by Harry’s. Draco’s traitor cock was hard in Harry’s hand, and being stroked in earnest now. “You know what I think might do nicely in humbling you? A bit of begging.”

 

Draco shuddered at that. He’d been with men who liked that sort of thing before, grovelling and cowering, but he’d never acquiesced. He would not do himself the indignity, not for anyone—anyone who wasn’t Harry, apparently, because Draco realised with perfect clarity begging was exactly what he would be doing tonight. 

 

He gave an infinitesimal nod and Harry groaned, sending the reverberations through Draco where their skin touched. “Yeah?” The hand on Draco’s prick tightened enough to make Draco echo the appreciative sentiment. Hell, if Potter kept talking like this, kept touching him, he might finish right then and there, spread and flushed and buzzing. 

 

Without warning, Draco was dumped unceremoniously off Harry’s lap. He scrambled to his knees, looking up at Harry with indignation. 

 

Harry was smiling at him mirthfully, his legs parted and his arms resting comfortably on the arms of the chair. He was still wearing only his pants, the sharp glint of arousal in his eyes belying his  disinterested posture. 

 

Draco went to complain, but before he could, Harry had him gripped firmly by the jaw. 

 

“I’d think carefully about what you say here,” Harry told him casually. “It could end poorly for you.”

 

Draco swallowed down his petulant words and nodded. He did like this, he realised, learning to navigate a new way to demonstrate his supplication. It was thrilling in a way simple pain never really was. 

 

“Do you want to come?” Harry asked nonchalantly. 

 

Draco nodded hesitantly, knowing there was no way Harry was letting him off with that little effort. 

 

“Touch yourself,” Harry insisted, releasing Draco’s jaw, and settling back into his chair. Draco was ashamed of how quickly his hand flew to his cock. “What do you say?”

 

“Please may I come?” Draco forced the words out through gritted teeth, naked and kneeling at Harry’s feet. 

 

Harry gave an exaggerated yawn and idly extended one of his large feet until it was resting, heel-up near Draco. 

 

“You may,” Harry agreed, and for a second Draco’s heart skittered, half in excitement, half in disappointment that this all would be ending so soon. It was a paltry bit of begging, after all. “But you can’t use your hands to do so. You’ll have to rut against me like an animal.”

 

Draco froze, stunned. With effort, he released his prick, looking up at Harry in disbelieving horror, then glancing back to his extended leg. The implication was shockingly base and Draco felt his cheeks flush afresh. He was torn between the deep rooted humiliation and the satisfaction of knowing he was doing as he was told. He willed his limbs to move, but they wouldn’t listen. 

 

“Harry, I can’t,” Draco admitted very quietly. It wasn’t a no and they both knew it.

 

“Not desperate enough yet?” Harry pondered mockingly, running his bare foot carelessly along Draco’s deplorable erection. 

 

Draco gasped at the jolt of pleasure, then swallowed hard, attempting to ground himself. “You know I am.”

 

“Let me help you, hm?” Harry offered. “You come as I say, or not at all. Does that make your decision easier?”

 

“It’s degrading,” Draco reminded him futilely. “It’s not attractive, it’s not pleasurable, and you...you can’t possibly get anything out of it.”

 

“Ah, and you like being of use, is that it?” Harry questioned. 

 

Draco bit his lip and gave a single, tortured nod. He could hardly hide that truth. 

 

“You think it won’t turn me on to watch you get yourself off against me like an overeager puppy?”

 

Whatever Draco thought was clearly immaterial because his blasted cock leapt at the idea. 

 

“I don’t see why it would,” Draco agreed. 

 

“Let me tell you something, sweetheart,” Harry said, his tone still deliciously patronising. He reached out, carding an unhurried hand through Draco’s hair. Draco tried to look away, feeling undone by the intensity of the moment, but Harry wouldn’t let him. “You, doing as I say, will get me off every single time.”

 

The hand in his hair went from gentle to harsh, yanking him closer and Harry kissed him, his mouth uncompromising as he took what he wanted, and Draco found it oddly reassuring. What was more, he did want to do as Harry asked. Making Harry happy seemed suddenly much more important than his own nebulous hesitancies. 

 

“Yes, alright,” Draco whispered. 

 

Harry tapped his cheek again in a condescending gesture that made Draco furious and furiously desperate. “I knew you’d be good, pet—with a little coaxing.”

 

With effort, Draco shuffled forward until he was straddling Harry’s leg. His heart was beating frantically, both with excitement and horror at what he was about to do. He went to rearrange his cock with his hand, but Harry batted it away. 

 

“I said no hands,” Harry scolded. 

 

Draco huffed out an apology and awkwardly maneuvered his hips in an exquisitely mortifying way, until finally his prick was settled in the natural hollow that formed between Harry’s shin bone and muscle beside it, and gave an exploratory thrust. It was nothing like fucking into his own hand or against a mattress. It was coarse and abrasive with leg hair which refused to let him pretend he was doing anything else. Nevertheless, Harry had told him to, Harry had said it pleased him to see Draco obey, and had promised to never think less of him no matter what. Maybe Draco could lean into this, maybe he could chase only the physical sensation, and not all the muddy complicated feelings tied up in it. With what could be described as a whimper, he thrust again, making himself continue. 

 

“There,” Harry cooed. “That’s lovely. Such a dutiful, pretty little thing when you get out of your own head.”

 

Draco sank forward, pressing his forehead towards Harry’s thigh. He half expected Harry to disallow it, to wrench his head up and force him to confront his action, but that didn’t happen. Instead, Harry’s fingers were surprisingly gentle as they found Draco’s hair and began stroking his scalp with tender little movements. 

 

“It’s okay, precious,” Harry murmured, deep voice low and soothing. “You can hide this time. You’re being so good, putting on such a show for me.”

 

Draco sped his hips up, the friction slightly painful and spurring him forward. He savoured all the ridiculous, saccharine words Harry heaped on him. 

 

“That’s right, gorgeous,” Harry prompted. “Can you feel yourself getting close?”

 

“I don’t know,” Draco whinged helplessly, face still buried against Harry. “It’s not enough, I can’t—”

 

“You can,” Harry told him. “Shall I tell you how you look, bent over and rubbing yourself off against me like some kind of obscene angel. Knowing you’d do this for me and only me, that you’ll let me have you anyway I please, that you’ll always be so flawlessly good, so fucking beautiful, baby—”

 

Draco came without warning. Potter and his fucking mouth, always talking, saying things he oughtn’t to, not yet, no matter how unfathomably true they might be. Draco shuddered, spurting off helplessly with a startled groan. 

 

Time slowed to something sluggish as Draco slumped in place against Harry’s leg. Before he could think anything at all, Harry was speaking again, any hint of playfulness and challenge utterly evaporated. “Come up here, sweetheart,” he coaxed softly.

 

Crawling up into Harry’s lap a second time was much, much simpler. Draco settled, straddling Harry, using one broad shoulder as a convenient place to hide, his own arms wrapped tightly around Harry’s neck. He wondered distantly if he was crying. His body felt somehow far away. 

 

Harry had one hand settled on Draco’s hip and the other running a smooth course over his spine. 

 

Seconds passed, then minutes, Harry’s voice a low thrum of sweet praise that Draco only partially absorbed. He was floating somewhere, serene and unaware, slowly being brought back to himself via all the places Harry touched him, imprinting him with a warm and pleasantly tingly sensation. His thoughts lighted on nothing at all; there was nothing but the certainty of safety. 

 

Eventually, reality crept back in. The back of Draco’s knee was itchy, and the creases of his hips protested at their being splayed wide over Harry’s thick legs. His arse also ached mildly, reminding him of the earlier spanking which felt eons away, now. 

 

He drew his head up to find that Harry was watching him. Their faces felt very close. 

 

Draco shifted, and was notified suddenly of Harry’s erection, ignored and tucked away inside his black pants. He felt a flare of panicked failure. He’d not even—

 

“What’s that look?” Harry enquired, one dark eyebrow crooked. His hair was a comforting mess of bedhead. 

 

“Sorry, I’ve been selfish. Your turn, I can—”

 

“Draco, don’t be daft. I got off watching you; you were just so lost that you didn’t notice. Then I got keen again with you on top of me, but my prick’s dreaming if he thinks he could go another round. We’re done for the night, yeah? I want to keep you like this. It’s the first time I’ve seen you relaxed all evening.”

 

The sting of disappointment grew. Harry shouldn’t be bringing himself off. That was what Draco was here for and if he wasn’t even doing that...

 

“I could try,” Draco decided, scrambling off Harry’s lap. He blushed faintly at the inelegance of his movements, but his muscles felt slack, wrung out and untrustworthy. “Let me suck you off, or you could—”

 

“Hey,” Harry said, reaching out to grab Draco by one wrist and hold him in place. “Sweetheart, stop. What are you doing? I swear I’m never privy to half of what’s going on inside your head.”

 

“Do you even want to fuck me?” The accusation burst out without Draco’s permission. It sounded petulant and insecure and made Harry rub the back of his neck in that bashful gesture of his that Draco couldn’t interpret. 

 

“Shit,” Harry muttered. His stupid, lovely eyes were bright in the wandlight. He lumbered to his feet and stepped close. Draco felt defiant, suddenly angry that they’d never spoken of it. It made Draco feel unwanted and useless when all he desired was to be the opposite. 

 

“Is that a no?” All at once Draco felt like a bit of an arsehole. There was plenty they could do if Harry didn’t want to do that. “I mean, if it’s really not something you’re interested in,” he backpedaled, “we’ll work around it, I’m just...I thought we’d work up to it and we haven’t and…” He trailed off, not wanting to admit to something as barmy as being insecure.

 

“No, it’s not a no!” Harry remarked. “Babe, of course I want to! I’ve been thinking about it for weeks now, I just...I’ve not done that, have I? And you like things a bit rough, and I’ve got to make sure I don’t hurt you, and we’ve not had a lot of time for it, and like, what if I do it wrong? So it’s been easier not to, but Merlin, please don’t read that as rejection. Hell, I’m off my head when it comes to you; I want everything you’ll give me.”

 

“Yeah?” Draco prodded, biting back a blossoming smile. 

 

“Yeah,” Harry echoed, kissing the corner of Draco’s mouth as though he couldn’t help himself. “‘Course.”

 

“Well, good.” Draco decided with a nod. “But I suppose that’s a discussion for another evening, because I, for one, am in need of a shower.”

 

“Want company?” Harry asked, but Draco waved him off. He wanted a moment away from Harry so he could collect his thoughts. After all, he’d finally cartharted, and rather thoroughly at that.

 

/// /// 

 

Once he was clean and dry, Draco eased under the quilt, mindful not to wake Harry. He felt much more in control of himself now, the flare of self-consciousness and anxiety from earlier had receded. He could acknowledge he’d been off kilter as a result of the events from the day, and perhaps he’d spiraled out. Also, he was finding that, when it came to Harry, giving voice to his concerns actually tended to bring on a rapid resolution. It was not a phenomenon to which he was accustomed.

 

“Alright?” Harry asked, rolling onto his side so they were face to face. It seemed he’d not been sleeping, after all. 

 

“I am now, yes,” Draco answered truthfully. “Thank you. I, ah, needed that.”

 

“I could tell,” Harry replied. “You’re so stubborn sometimes—not giving in when you need to, even when it will do you some good.”

 

“Quite the expert for someone who just dipped their toe in all this so recently,” Draco drawled dryly.

 

“I’m not an expert on sex,” Harry argued. “But I think I’m getting to be somewhat of an expert on you.”

 

“Arrogant Gryffindor,” Draco sniffed, but Harry only laughed and nuzzled closer, draping one comfortable arm over Draco’s waist. 

 

“Sometimes. But truly, thanks. For letting me do that for you, I mean. You’re not the only one who likes to be useful.”

 

Draco made an absent, agreeable noise and kissed Harry’s nose. It was a soppiness he usually wouldn’t be inclined towards, but he still was riding the edges of the light, fluffy feeling from before. 

 

Harry grinned. “What was that for?”

 

“Shut up,” Draco told him, but he allowed Harry a cuddle, anyway.

 

Just as Harry’s breathing started to even out, portending sleep, Draco finally made a decision: In the morning, he’d tell Harry all about the letter from Azkaban. 

 

Notes:

CW (specifics): kink negotiation, spanking, humiliation, frottage, oral sex annnnnnnd my favourite problematic trope: BDSM as therapy. Only fun in fiction!

 

Thanks to everyone for their patience! I hope a nice long chapter helps make up for the long wait. Double thanks to everyone who stopped by, and triple thanks for your amazing comments. I literally cannot properly quantify how encouraging I find them, but please believe that it is a whole lot.

Finally, quadruple thanks to my terribly clever beta, Mimbelwimbel, who HAS A NEW STORY OUT. It is an absolutely delightful 5th year romp with Alice in Wonderland cameos and also some serious themes behind all the hilarity. I highly recommend it, it is so much fun! Please check out Cuppa here!

Chapter 7: Scorpius

Notes:

CW (contains minor spoilers):
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Some moments that could bring up some covid-related feelings. Sorry about that, definitely not making light of it! To avoid, please skip the scene in the Herbology greenhouse (it is the last section of the chapter).

Scorpius

 

Scorpius didn’t know where he was when he woke up, but he figured it out pretty quickly. It wasn’t difficult, considering that Lily Potter was standing over him, gazing through a round bit of glass on the end of a stick. There was something wrong with the glass. It distorted Lily’s eye to an unnaturally large size. It was a disconcerting thing to see when one first awoke. 

 

“Lily?” Scorpius croaked, bewildered. 

 

Lily ignored the greeting. “Why are you so pale?” she demanded instead, leaning in even closer with the bizarre glass. 

 

“Erm. I’m not sure. Northern heritage?”

 

“I think you’re sick,” Lily decided, clearly not listening. “Jamie and Al are never home from school like this.”

 

“Er,” Scorpius replied. “Sorry, then? I think?” 

 

“No, it’s good,” Lily decided, finally straightening and lowering her hand. “I needed a mystery.”

 

“You...did?” Scorpius asked. 

 

“Uh-huh. Granny brought me this. She found it in Grandad’s collection of Muggle things.” She flourished the bit of glass. “It’s a magnetising glass. Makes everything bigger. Detectives use them. But detectives need cases, and a case is like a mystery that no one else has solved. Granny told me so.”

 

“Do you mean...magnifying?” Scorpius offered, starting to make sense of what was happening here. 

 

“That’s what I said,” Lily told him. “Now come on, I need an assistant.”

 

“Right…” Scorpius hazarded. How did he always get tangled up in every mad idea a Potter ever had? “Can your assistant use the toilet first, please?”

 

/// ///

 

“There,” Lily was saying, having thrown Harry’s Invisibility Cloak over Scorpius’ head. “Are you still here?”

 

“Yes?” Scorpius replied, resigned to his fate. Why hadn’t he just said ‘No, thank you, Lily, I ought to have some breakfast because I have to get back to school’? It was likely, he supposed, because she’d not given him a sliver of an opportunity. 

 

“Good. Alright, so. This is Mission: Vampire, because I’ve actually decided that you’re a vampire.” Her tone changed to one of pitying placation: “That’s okay, you know. It just means you’re different and not really sick at all, actually. Godiva Goodstrives’ Uncle Lester is a vampire, so I know an awful lot about them, and they are really pale because they don’t have any blood of their own.”

 

Scorpius was not sure this information was entirely accurate, but Lily continued, not at all fussed by things like absolute facts. 

 

“Okay, your mission is to sneak into the drawing room and listen carefully, because I’m pretty sure my dad and your dad are talking about you, and maybe you’ll overhear some clues about your vampirism.”

 

Scorpius sighed. That was likely at least partially true. What if right this very moment Father was deciding Scorpius was too much of a liability to be kept in school?

 

“Wait, are you still here?” Lily asked again. 

 

“Yes, still here,” Scorpius told her. 

 

“Alright, just checking. You have to be really quiet, got it? Dad doesn’t even know I’m up yet and I need to sneak down to the cellar to find some cloves of garlic.”

 

“To see if I react to it?” Scorpius ventured. 

 

Lily’s nose wrinkled in annoyance. “Yes,” she retorted, "garlic makes vampires' noses itch. Godiva Goodstrides' uncle is a vampire, so I know these things."  She spoke with the confidence of someone who had just now read something in a book. It reminded Scorpius of Al.

 

“Is that all?” Scorpius wondered.

 

Lily pursed her lips as though Scorpius was being particularly difficult. “You wouldn’t understand,” she told him. “Now go: Listen for clues and report back. And if you need blood...I don’t know, go find a rat or something. Don’t bite my dad; you’ll hurt his feelings.”

 

Before Scorpius could reassure Lily that he did not, in fact, require blood, she was gone. 

 

Scorpius stood there stupidly for a moment. He supposed the proper thing to do would be to put the Invisibility Cloak back into the closet and go find his dad, but a treacherous plan niggled at him. If he knew what Father was thinking, then maybe he could strategise a bit: come up with some counterarguments to plead his case. Not that Father would likely budge—once he’d arrived at a conclusion, there was rarely anything Scorpius could do to sway him—but Scorpius ought to at least try, or Al would be really disappointed with him. If Al wasn’t still mad about Scorpius’ spending the evening in the library, that was. Scorpius shoved that anxiety aside. He could only deal with one bellyache at a time. 

 

If Scorpius wanted to get back to school and to convince Al to forgive him and maybe try to broker some peace between the two brothers, this whole Invisibility Cloak plan was his only option. He wasn’t trying to be deceitful; he needed to be. Scorpius swallowed down a heap of guilt and stole down the corridor as silently as he possibly could. 

 

When Scorpius peered into the kitchen, he first saw Harry, who was leaning against the sturdy squat cabinets with a sheet of parchment in his hand. He wore a serious expression that Scorpius only ever saw when Jamie and Al were being particularly trying. 

 

Father was seated at the table. He had a copy of the Daily Prophet spread open on the table before him, and was feeding Remy a bottle. Scorpius had to admit that it was a bit strange to see his dad with a baby. He’d never given much thought to his own infancy, or what it had been like for Father to find himself a parent. He certainly looked at ease now, but surely he’d found Scorpius more cumbersome. His dad hadn’t grown up with younger siblings, or even cousins, so it wasn’t as though he’d had any practice before Scorpius had come along, but then again, he tended to be terribly good at everything—at least so far as Scorpius could tell.

 

Scorpius’ attention was drawn back towards Harry when the man sighed and folded the bit of paper. Father didn’t look at him, his face seemingly purposefully fixed on the newspaper. 

 

“Thank you for showing me this,” Harry murmured gently. 

 

After a strained moment, Father raised his gaze to Harry’s. 

 

“I suspect you have some opinions about it,” he said. His voice sounded guarded and Scorpius couldn’t guess for the life of him what they were on about.

 

“Not in the way you think,” Harry replied. “I honestly don’t know what you should do, one way or the other. I’m just sorry it’s a decision you have to make.”

 

The grip Father had on the baby bottle relaxed some and the unexpected tension in the air seemed to give. “Yes,” he agreed, “me too.”

 

“I should have known this was coming,” Harry offered. “You mentioned it before, only with the move and career change, I admit it flew out of my head.”

 

“It’s perfectly alright.”

 

They looked at each other for another long moment. Scorpius felt like he was intruding on something horribly personal, but he couldn’t think why. 

 

“What are you going to do?” Harry asked simply.

 

Father sighed and readjusted Remy in his arms. “I don’t know. I don’t have to respond at all. She is not my responsibility.”

 

“True,” Harry nodded. 

 

“And I certainly don’t want her interfering with my things, with my life, with Scorpius.”

 

“Yes, of course.”

 

She? Scorpius thought, who was she? His mother? His Aunt Daphne had told him that Mummy was ill; that she wanted nothing more to get better and to see him, but until she did, he’d have to be patient. Scorpius had just nodded, but in his secret, wicked heart, he didn’t miss his mother. That was likely a horrid thing to think, but it was true. His mother’s feelings had been always so wide and sweeping, her affection overbearing. She had often been reduced to sobs, holding him too tightly and scaring him with words that never quite made sense. Even before she’d had to go, Father had taken to never leaving the two of them alone together. His mother had resented Father’s presence there, but to Scorpius it had been a relief: his father’s stern temper keeping the worst of the unsettling antics at bay.

 

“But the Manor is a large place and we’re rarely there,” Father continued. “I could put her up in a wing, hire her some nurses or what have you, and ward the parts of the house to which she would not be privy.”

 

Scorpius didn’t like the sound of that. 

 

“Do you think she’s dangerous?” Harry enquired. 

 

Yes! Scorpius wanted to shout. She is! He couldn’t even name why, he simply felt nothing but unease at the thought of his mother being nearby again. This was one thing he had never revealed to anyone, not to Father, not even to Al, who loved his own mother so much he couldn’t stand to think of her: Scorpius felt nothing but a crawling wrongness when it came to his mother. He’d adored her as a small child, and he couldn’t say when the bad feeling had begun, but eventually, it had blotted out everything else. 

 

But children weren’t meant to be repulsed by their mothers, especially not before they were grown. Scorpius knew this. He heard the way his classmates talked about their mums, and while kids got angry or frustrated or embarrassed, they were never repulsed. It made him feel rotten at his very core.

 

“Mother?” Father said in response to Harry’s question, and Scorpius jumped back to attention. “Merlin, I don’t know. I don’t know her at all any more, do I? It’s been 20 years.” 

 

Scorpius nearly gasped aloud at that. They weren’t talking about his mother at all, but Father’s. Scorpius’ grandmother, who he’d never met, and barely knew a thing about, save for that she was a Death Eater, who had attempted to change sides at the very end of the war. She’d been imprisoned Scorpius’ whole life, and ages before that, even. 

 

“I obviously don’t know her well either,” Harry said, “but she always struck me as a self-preservationist. Unless prison changed her, I doubt she’d do anything to upset any balance you would establish.”

 

“I suspect you’re right, there,” Father responded. “You read the letter. She’s been a model prisoner, but that doesn’t definitively mean she hasn’t spent all these years harbouring a grudge she’ll attempt to unleash on me and mine.”

 

“It was her own actions she has to regret. You didn’t sentence her.”

 

“No, but I’ve kept my distance. She could very well be resentful,” Father pointed out.

 

“It’s not impossible,” Harry agreed, looking unhappy. “I can ask Andromeda for her view on things. She mentioned they’ve been corresponding these last few years, attempting to make amends.” It had always felt strange to Scorpius when he was reminded that the Potters were all but family with the great aunt he had never even met. 

 

“I’d appreciate her opinion,” Father answered, “but my mother isn’t beyond manipulation to achieve her ends.”

 

“I know,” Harry agreed. "Andromeda’s frail, but she is still plenty sharp. I wouldn’t say she’s even entirely put aside her suspicions, but I guess folks get to that stage of life, you know? Looking back and wondering what they could have done differently?”

 

“Suggesting something, Potter? That I should welcome my mother back into my life, my son’s life, so that I don’t live to regret it? Is that what you would consider the righteous choice?”

 

Scorpius thought his dad’s voice sounded dangerously icy, but Harry only seemed amused. He chuckled and strode over to the kitchen table, dropping the letter beside the Prophet. 

 

“Look whose back is up again, and so soon," Harry chided affectionately. “That is hardly what I was getting at. I’ve not sent so much as a letter to my aunt or uncle in over two decades, and believe me, it doesn’t keep me up at night. No, I was just thinking it might be nice, one day, to sit and rest, and think about things.”

 

“Oh?” Father’s face didn’t give anything away, but it was perhaps just a shade less stony than it had been moments before. 

 

Scorpius was confused. Harry sounded so fond, and Father gruffly irritated. Scorpius couldn’t decipher the exchange at all. Father never weathered fools, and he was nearly always sitting with Harry at meals at Hogwarts, so clearly he liked the man, and yet he seemed quite vexed by Harry’s behaviour.

 

“With you, I mean,” Harry added, looking pleased with himself. 

 

Father scowled. “Merlin’s teeth, Potter. You are prone to getting ahead of yourself. Planning our retirement already? I prefer to stay on this side of forty as long as possible, thank you very much. I can’t bear to think of all that my beauty regimen will entail at seventy.”

 

Scorpius had never thought about his Father having a beauty regimen. It seemed a somehow dangerous thing to say, especially when it didn’t quite sound like a joke. Such a remark certainly wouldn’t fly in the Slytherin boys’ dormitory, and yet Harry didn’t look at all interested in mockery. Instead, he stepped in closer until he was standing behind Father. Harry’s hand fell onto the place where Father’s neck met his shoulder and squeezed companionably. 

 

“I don’t think you’ve anything to worry about on that front,” Harry assured him. Instead of arguing, Father simply let out a long, slow breath and, closing his eyes, tilted his head back, so it was resting against Harry’s ribs in a shockingly intimate gesture. Scorpius had never seen him so physically comfortable with anyone, not even his Aunt Pansy. He couldn’t make sense of it and he couldn’t look away.

 

Harry and Father remained just like that as the teasing air fell away, and both their expressions became once again solemn—a temporary distraction replaced by the remembrance of reality. 

 

“I’m sorry, love,” Harry murmured, and Scorpius’s heart leapt to his throat as the shoe finally dropped, with a total, astounding clarity. “Whatever you decide, I’ll support you, you know that, don’t you?”

 

Without warning, Harry’s eyes darted towards Scorpius for a harrowing second. Only, he wasn’t looking at Scorpius. He was simply checking the doorway to make sure they were alone, because, immediately after that, with a comfortable quality that spoke of having done this many, many times before, Harry leant down, and Father tipped his head up, and their lips met somewhere in the middle.

 

Scorpius stopped breathing entirely. 

 

/// ///

 

Blinking furiously, Scorpius scurried as quickly and as silently as he could back to Al and Jamie’s bedroom. His heart was pounding rapid fire within his chest and he felt…

 

He didn’t know what he felt. He bundled the Invisibility Cloak into a ball and tossed it in the closet before hurtling himself back under Al’s comforter and pulling it over his head, pressing one palm to his chest where he could feel the shallow rise and fall of his breathing. 

 

His dad. Al’s dad. Kissing. 

 

But his dad wasn’t...was he? Gay? Scorpius had never thought to ask. Father had married Mother, but they'd hardly been affectionate towards each other, so it certainly wasn't impossible thar his father’s inclinations had something to do with that.

 

And what about Harry? Scorpius had seen homages to the love story of Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley splashed across magazine covers for as long as he could remember. Surely Al would have said something if he suspected his dad also fancied blokes. 

 

Then again, maybe that wasn't the sort of things fathers discussed with their sons. Scorpius tried to remember if his father had ever alluded to being interested in men, and came up short. Then again, he’d never heard his dad so much as mention being interested in women, either. It had been as though relationships—even the one with his own wife—played no role to speak of in his personal life. Scorpius wondered if that had been for his own benefit, or if his father had been too preoccupied with his career and his research to make time for such a thing as...love. 

 

Merlin. Scorpius felt his cheeks flame in a strange embarrassment. Did Father love Harry? 

 

Scorpius had never so much as considered his father remarrying after the divorce. He’d made no mention of dating, let alone anything more significant, but whatever was between him and Harry...well. It certainly looked serious. 

 

Scorpius wondered if he ought to be upset. He was surprised, certainly, but he wasn’t angry or hurt or jealous, or experiencing any other unpleasant feelings he supposed he might. In fact, the emotion taking shape within him was much closer to something nicer, something, he thought, that might be happiness. Because despite the gravity of the conversation, Father had looked comforted in Harry’s presence. Scorpius had never thought of his father as a person who required comforting. Then again, he thought, everyone needed to be comforted from time to time, so maybe Dad was just better at hiding it than most. 

 

Scorpius allowed his thoughts to spiral out towards what all this might mean. He couldn’t tell Al or Jamie, clearly. It was very obvious that the relationship was clandestine and he simply couldn’t imagine Jamie taking it well. Scorpius liked Jamie, he really did, but Jamie tended to think an awful lot of things were undertaken solely to aggravate him. To the eldest Potter boy, many things wholly unrelated to him were personal injustices. No, he wouldn’t like this development at all. Anything Harry did seemed to anger him, and Scorpius flinched at the imagined vitriol Jamie would spew if he found out his father was keeping such a large secret.

 

Al’s reaction was less easy to predict. It would depend largely on his mood and whatever he was invested in that hour or day or week. Scorpius could well picture his friend being anything from indifferent to furious to elated, especially when he realised what Scorpius was only just realising: If things went very well, Al and Scorpius could end up brothers. 

 

The thought thrilled Scorpius. He remembered pleading for a sibling when he was small, and he never quite felt at ease in the echoing Manor corridors, not like he did in the busy chaos of Eiderdown End. He could do without all the arguing, certainly, but to wake up in a bed across from Al’s every day, even in summer, seemed altogether wonderful. He’d never be lonesome again!  

 

It wouldn’t just be Al, either, but also Jamie and Lily and her endless ideas for games, and a baby who wouldn’t even remember a life before Scorpius had come along. In truth, it was more than Scorpius had ever thought to hope for. 

 

That wasn’t all that he needed to ponder on, however. There was also the news that his grandmother, an accused Death Eater who had been complicit in two wars, was being released from Azkaban. He knew very little of his grandmother. Father had said she was a cold woman, who had spoilt him nonetheless, but who had been too weak to stand up against the Dark Lord and his cruelty. Father had said her actions at the end of the war, in helping Harry, were just a selfish bargain to save her own hide and Father’s. Scorpius wondered if he’d ever meet her. He wondered if she really would end up tucked away in the Manor while he and Father spent more and more time with the Potters. He wondered if prison had changed her, and what she was like, and if she knew about him or wanted to meet him. Most of all, he wondered if he wanted to meet her. 

 

“Scorpius?”

 

His thoughts were interrupted by his father’s voice at the doorway. Scorpius schooled his features and tried to still the exhilarated patter of his heart, as Father was wont to see right through him. Scorpius wasn’t terribly good at deceit—not like Al, who was more deceit than truth, when he wanted to be—but he’d gotten better at it over the past year, trying to conceal how badly his nightly potion affected him. He took a final, steadying inhale and pulled the comforter off his face. 

 

“Good morning,” he managed. 

 

“Feeling alright?” Father pressed, his shrewd eyes scanning Scorpius’ features for any sign of illness or fatigue. He came and sat on the bed, pressing a cool hand to Scorpius’ forehead, more out of habit than any belief that Scorpius would be fevered. 

 

“Yes, of course,” Scorpius hurried to inform him, shaking off the touch. He felt the adrenaline rise as his father assessed him. He wondered if his dad was trying to figure out a way to let him down gently. “I’m sorry about last night. I should have remembered my potion. It was an accident and it absolutely won’t happen again, Dad, I promise. Please may I go back to school?”

 

“James told us you fell asleep; that is hardly your fault, my love. I’m not angry with you, only with myself. I ought not to have been so preoccupied. As for your returning to Hogwarts, I don’t see an alternative,” Father sighed. “You may resume your studies—with some caveats. Where is your pocket watch?”

 

“In my cloak pocket, I would think,” Scorpius answered, gesturing to the corner where his cloak and satchel were neatly organised. 

 

Nodding, his dad Accio’d the watch and cast an alarm spell. 

 

“This will go off every evening, although it will only be audible to you; it is a spell that I should have completed last year,” Father told him. “It was foolish of me not to.”

 

Scorpius briefly considered alluding to the fact that Father wasn’t nearly so preoccupied last year, but he thought perhaps that conversation should wait. 

 

“It’s alright,” he said instead.

 

“It’s not,” Father retorted sharply, then sighed. “I’m sorry, dearest. It really isn’t your fault; I should have been more cognisant of the hour.”

 

“I thought I’d have more leeway,” Scorpius admitted. “This summer you just gave me my potion at bedtime and if it was a little more than 24 hours between doses, it didn’t seem to matter. Do you think it’s getting worse? My condition, I mean?”

 

“It’s too soon to say. For now, I’ll brew a more potent batch,” Father decided, face grim. Scorpius very much wanted to protest the edict, he was already so very tired with the current dose, but he knew better than to argue. At least he was still permitted to return to Hogwarts, which hadn’t at all felt like a certainty. 

 

“Yes, Father,” he agreed. 

 

“I know it’s not ideal,” his father acknowledged gently. He looked pained, and Scorpius hated that. 

 

“It’s perfectly alright,” Scorpius insisted, even though they both knew it wasn’t. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, attempting to look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

 

“You’re endlessly forbearing,” his father commented, returning the watch to Scorpius’ cloak pocket. His hand came to Scorpius’ cheek. “I wasn’t half so stalwart at your age. Nevertheless, I wish you didn’t have to be.”

 

“Don’t worry about me,” Scorpius insisted, feeling miserable about the mournful expression on his father’s face, when before, in the kitchen with Harry, he’d looked so at peace. 

 

“I’ve little else to worry about,” Father pointed out, his hand drifting down to Scorpius’ shoulder. “I can’t promise anything, but I’m working at this, love, truly. We’ve Albus’ unruly brilliance, and Professor Potter’s brainstorming, too, and I’ll talk to your healers, see if they haven’t learnt anything more about your condition.”

 

Scorpius didn’t point out how Father had taken on Harry’s mannerisms; how Scorpius had always been my love in conversation, before now. 

 

“I know you’re doing everything you can,” Scorpius assured his father earnestly. “No one’s to blame for what I am.”

 

It seemed to be the wrong thing to say, because Father only looked more distraught. 

 

“I wish you didn’t view it that way, dearest. In another life, another era, you would have been revered,” his father mused distantly, pulling away. 

 

“But I wouldn’t have been free,” Scorpius reminded him, “and this way I am. You’ve seen to that.”

 

“It’s an imperfect solution,” Father sighed.

 

“It’s what we’ve got,” Scorpius pointed out.

 

“You sound like Profess—well. Like Harry,” Father said with a tight smile.

 

“Perhaps,” Scorpius replied thoughtfully, “that means Harry and I are onto something.”

 

"Perhaps."

 

Father's smile deepened a little and he nodded and slipped out of the room. 

 

Within moments of him leaving, Lily sneaked into the bedroom, a scrap of parchment and quill in hand, and her magnifying glass tucked under one arm. 

 

"Well?" She demanded. "What did they say?"

 

"Nothing at all about my vampirism, I'm afraid," Scorpius told him. 

 

Lily looked disappointed but undeterred. "You're not a very helpful assistant," she told him. "You'll have to make up for it by keeping your eyes and ears open at Hogwarts! Oh, I know! Maybe you can break into the infirmary and read your records! Brilliant. Do that. I expect a full report by the end of the week!"

 

"Er, I'll see what I can do," Scorpius evaded.

 

"See that you do!" Lily ordered. She crossed out something on her parchment and stormed out of the room. If Scorpius ever did end up part of the Potter family, he felt certain he would never be bored. 

 

/// /// 

 

Harry realised just as they were all leaving Crabapple Cottage that morning that he’d forgotten the bag with all Remy’s nappies. Scorpius’ father, who despised being late, didn’t even purse his lips when Harry said he had to run back inside to fetch it, and if that wasn’t the most telling signifier of Father being smitten with Harry, Scorpius didn’t know what was. 

 

The flight was uneventful but slow, seeing as Harry offered up his Windstorm to Scorpius and was riding a barely functional Cleansweep with Remy strapped to his chest. 

 

As such, Scorpius had just missed the beginning of class when they arrived at the castle. Harry gave Scorpius’ shoulder a squeeze and shot Father a smile which now seemed very significant where it wouldn’t have before, and hurried away to drop Remy off in the nursery. Father’s eyes watched Harry’s departure for just a moment too long. 

 

Scorpius was still a little in shock over the whole thing, he thought, and he was clearly staring when Father turned back towards him. 

 

“What?” Father demanded, and then he did something Scorpius didn’t know he was capable of: He blushed. 

 

“What?” Scorpius echoed, his voice high pitched and guilty, and surely Father could read him like a book, but Scorpius certainly wasn’t willing to broach the subject here and now. 

 

His dad opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. It hit Scorpius like a blow when he realised Father was at a loss for words. He hadn’t thought that possible. 

 

“You’re acting weird,” Scorpius blurted out, then covered his mouth in horror. That was something Al would say, not him! He knew far better than to be so rude. 

 

Father looked equally aghast. 

 

“Oh Merlin. I’m sorry, Dad. That was terribly vulgar.”

 

To Scorpius’ relief, his father’s face only softened. “Hazard of spending too much time with James and Albus Potter, I suspect.” 

 

Scorpius knew an out when he saw one. “Very likely,” he agreed, “but I ought to be more mindful.”

 

“Perhaps,” Father replied. “Perhaps not. It’s important to have...friends, Scorpius. I think I’d forgotten that.”

 

“And Harry is a good, er, friend?” Scorpius ventured, because while he certainly wasn’t going to bring it up, maybe he ought to give his dad a chance to. 

 

Father looked conflicted for a moment, but eventually just gave a firm nod. “Indeed. Now, I’ll write you a note for Professor Longbottom to excuse your tardiness and then you’d best get to class. I’ll see you this evening when your alarm goes off. Please make sure you keep your watch with you at all times so I don’t need to come searching for you.”

 

“Yes, Father,” Scorpius promised solemnly. 

 

Once the note was penned, Father dropped a kiss to Scorpius’ hair, and sent him on his way. 

 

/// ///

 

Corin Bingham was occupying Scorpius’ usual seat beside Al in the Herbology greenhouse. Al sent him a smile that was equal parts apologetic and guilty, as Scorpius was forced to sit next to the insufferable Raleigh Fife. 

 

“Malfoy,” Fife sniffed, flipping his dark braid over his shoulder. “Rumour has it you were out sick. I presume you’re not contagious?”

 

Scorpius only barely managed to keep from rolling his eyes. Instead, he let out a weak cough, and gave Fife a worried look. “Oh dear, I hope not!” he whispered fervently. “But I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we? Don’t worry, Intermittent Lingualitis is only a minor inconvenience, provided it doesn’t kill you.”

 

Fife’s expression became quite alarmed and he wriggled to the far side of his bench. Good, Scorpius thought, the farther off, the better.  

 

Ignoring Fife’s attempt to breathe in as shallowly as humanly possible, apparently in an effort to avoid inhaling any tongue-swelling germs, Scorpius turned towards the box of soil before him. 

 

Professor Longbottom had given them each a small bit of garden to tend to for the year, in which they were permitted to grow any non-illicit ingredient they so desired. As such, the first few minutes of every class were spent weeding their boxes and making notes on the progress of their sundry flora. 

 

Scorpius was growing Cloistered Flash Agaric, a type of fungus which remained under the soil for much of its lifecycle, bursting forth only to scatter its spores, shrivel up, and die. Scorpius had read about a potion called Cracker Flash, which gave the imbiber a temporary burst of energy. Given how exhausted he was all the time, Scorpius thought such a potion sounded heavenly, so he diligently cared for the mushrooms, although he had nothing to show for it, hidden as they were. 

 

Al, on the other hand, had been utterly obsessed with his patch of soil for all of a week, and then he’d forgotten about it entirely. He spent the first quarter hour of Herbology idly fiddling with the weeds in his box, which had easily overtaken the Gremlin Pods he’d originally planted, and trying to avoid Professor’s Longbottom’s disappointed flinches. 

 

Scorpius was lovingly tucking some dead dung beetles into the soil for his fungi to feed upon when he felt something small smack against his temple and fall into the dirt in front of him. It was a balled up bit of parchment. He didn’t need to look across the aisle of the greenhouse to know who it was from. 

 

He took off his gloves and unrolled the note. 

 

I’m sorry, it read in Al’s untidy scrawl. You’re allowed to be friends with Jamie if you want to be. (Though I don’t see why you would).

 

Scorpius glanced over at him, trying to express that all was forgiven, but Al was mid-launch, and another bit of parchment hit Scorpius right between the eyes, which caused Al to snort in hysterical laughter. He tried to hide his braying with a loud and obnoxiously insincere sneeze. 

 

Professor Longbottom, the kindest man alive, simply looked up, flinched at the state of Al’s garden, and said: “Oh dear, Mr. Potter. I do hope you’re not coming down with something. Just the pollen from Mr. Bingham’s Selkie Shrubberies, no doubt. No matter, we’ll soon put them away, how’s that?”

 

The class took the hint and began to carry their planter boxes to one wall. 

 

Scorpius followed suit, only glancing at Al’s second note once he was seated again. 

 

Sorry again. I shouldn’t have said it like that. You don’t need my permission to be friends with anyone. I know that, truly I do.

 

Scorpius was a little surprised. Al wasn’t always the best at recognising his own shortcomings. Someone must have offered him some advice, and Scorpius would put his money on it being Harry, one of the few people to whom Al was likely to listen. 

 

Once the class was settled and had their quills out to take notes on the reproductive cycle of the Carnivorous Crocus, a final projectile caught Scorpius on the ear. 

 

Please don’t be mad, it said. 

 

“What is this nonsense,” Fife hissed, his feline eyes looking down his nose at Scorpius . “Malfoy, bring your rabid pet to heel or the Professor will be hearing about this. How am I expected to concentrate with Potter’s love notes whizzing about?”

 

It was an empty threat. No Slytherin, not even Fife, would ever sink low enough to snitch, and Professor Longbottom’s detentions were notoriously pleasant. Nevertheless, the words rankled. Fife was the only person Scorpius knew who still thought jokes like that were funny, or even acceptable, and after Scorpius’ revelation that morning, the jab felt particularly objectionable. 

 

Nearly every student in the school was at least a little afraid of Scorpius’ father. Professor Malfoy had a reputation for being strict and uncompromising. If he’d overheard Fife’s words, it would land the boy with a weeks’ worth of detention. 

 

Scorpius wondered if his classmates knowing the truth about his father would change things, if his being gay would make him less revered or respected and more open to ridicule. Scorpius doubted it. Most kids knew better than to think that way, and besides, his father could be an imposing figure. Besides, Scorpius reckoned, dating Harry Potter of all people would likely bolster his dad’s reputation rather than harm it. Nothing Harry could do would make people think less of him, of that Scorpius was certain, and Father’s social standing would therefore only be elevated by their connection and not diminished. 

 

They would seem an odd match, though, Scorpius thought. Harry was warm and enthusiastic and universally adored, whereas most people mistakenly thought of Father as cold and austere, and a little frightening. He’d been a Death Eater, after all, and didn’t shy away from speaking openly about his experiences. 

 

Raleigh Fife could stand to learn a little of Father’s humility. 

 

“You shouldn’t make jokes like that,” Scorpius muttered. 

 

“Why, because they’re true?” Fife countered. 

 

“No, Fife, you absolute muttonhead. Because they’re ignorant and they make no one want to be your friend!” Scorpius informed him sharply. 

 

Fife glowered at him, but didn’t retaliate. Scorpius felt a little guilty. Fife really didn’t have any friends, and it was likely a sore point, which was why Scorpius usually at least attempted to be civil to the other boy. Al and Fife fought loudly and often, but Scorpius usually kept out of it, so when he did make a point of speaking up, Fife tended to listen. 

 

Scorpius tore off a strip of parchment from his own notes. 

 

Thanks, Al. Please don’t worry. I’m not mad. We’ll talk later.  He scribbled, tossing it at Al’s cheek only once Professor Longbottom had turned his back. 

 

Al beamed as he read the words, and immediately wrote a reply, balling it up and taking aim. 

 

“Mr. Potter,” Professor Longbottom sighed. “I’ve ignored not one, but three instances of note passing, and I simply cannot allow a fourth. Ten points from Slytherin, and I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid you’ll have to spend your evening here replanting your Gremlin Pods.”

 

“Yes, Professor,” Al acknowledged, sounding genuinely guilty. “Sorry.” No one liked to upset Professor Longbottom. He always sounded so dejected when he was forced to reprimand someone. 

 

From beside him, Scorpius heard Fife made a smug noise.

 

Scorpius turned and fake sneezed directly into his stupid face. 

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Scorpius said saccharinely. “How clumsy of me. I’m sure it’s fine, but Fife, I would keep an eye on your tongue for the next few days, if I were you.”

 

Notes:

My goodness I wish had more time to work on this story! But thanks to everyone for their enduring patience and kindness! I'm so touched by your lovely words every time!

Extra special thanks to my divine beta Mimbelwimbel for being such a committed friend and editor! Thanks for catching my failures in tense usage and my repetitive language!

Chapter 8: Jamie

Jamie

 

“Well, Jamie, you’ll be happy to know that all your problems are solved,” Fortitude announced, dropping her satchel onto the floor. “We’ve figured it out.”

 

Jamie was sitting cross legged in an overstuffed, legless chair and re-reading Volume 12 of Charms and Vigilance. He looked up at Fort’s intrusion. She appeared slightly breathless, as if she’d run all the way here, and Januarius was scowling at her shoulder. Ri did not enjoy having to tax himself on the best of days, and clearly running through the castle to tell Jamie the news had not warranted Fort’s exuberance. 

 

Since the three of them couldn’t meet in either the Gryffindor nor the Ravenclaw common rooms, they had fashioned themselves a little nook off the corridor at the base of the Ravenclaw Tower. The Alcove, as they’d unofficially dubbed it, was not really a room so much as the dead-end of a corridor with a view of the lake and a window seat that Ri had frequented during his first lonely year at Hogwarts. Jamie had figured he and Fort had really earnt Ri’s trust when he had shown it to them last winter. 

 

Fort had been instantly charmed by the cosy little space, and when she’d stumbled across some rather battered furniture in a storage room during detention one evening, she’d recruited Jamie to help her lug up the best of the lot. So now they had both the legless chair that Jamie preferred, a yellow and purple striped chesterfield that looked as though it had been shredded by a single swipe of massive talons, and a table that stood on precarious, spindly legs, no more than three of which ever touched the floor at the same time. In the corner was a large sculpture of a large toadstool shielding a rather put-out looking kneazle. That one had been a beast to drag to the Alcove, but Fort had absolutely insisted. Occasionally, the kneazle would pace around the stalk of the mushroom, and then settle back down, glaring at them. 

 

“We have figured it out?” Ri asked Fort pointedly. “Once again claiming the achievements of others as your own, I see.”

 

“I’m here to tell him, aren’t I?” Fort replied dismissively. “You needn’t be so possessive of your ideas, Ri, really. It’s not very collaborative of you.”

 

“Have I ever once denoted an interest in collaboration?” Ri fired back, grimacing on the last word to make his distaste known. 

 

“For hell’s sake, is anyone going to tell me what exactly has been figured out?” Jamie demanded, using a bit of parchment as a bookmark and returning his graphic novel to his satchel. His knuckle twinged at the movement from where Scorpius’ teeth had left their mark the night prior. 

 

“Loci,” Fort announced, wiggling her fingers in the air for dramatic effect. Jamie was nonplussed.

 

“Erm, what?” he asked eloquently.

 

“Yes, go on, Fortitude, explain it,” Ri prompted snidely, crossing his arms and raising his sandy blond eyebrows. “Dazzle us with your expertise on technical arcane theory.”

 

“It’s like...you know. A thing. In a place,” Fort attempted. “Oh, toss it. Fine. So I’m pants at the details, happy?”

 

“Enormously,” Ri responded, a prim smile forming on his delicate features. Instead of getting to it, however, Ri took a long moment to position himself on the non-shredded end of the chesterfield, tucking his legs beneath him. Fort followed suit, kicking off her trainers and sprawling out with her back against the tattered end. She wriggled her toes under Ri’s thigh, which earnt her another glare that she easily ignored. Jamie only rolled his eyes. The kneazle in the sculpture flicked its tail impatiently. 

 

“Merlin’s teeth! What. Are. Loci!” Jamie demanded. Everything was always such a production with these two.

 

“Well,” Ri began, “while ignoring Professor Binns in class today—I read a complete history of the Goblin wars when I was eight and prefer intersectional perspectives to Binns’ antiquated—”

 

“Yes, Ri, we all know what a very big brain you have, and we are overwhelmed with awe,” Jamie informed his friend. “Nevertheless, I am begging for you to get to the point.”

 

“I felt it important to the narrative to explain why I was slacking off!” Ri protested. 

 

“Nah, mate, really wasn’t,” Fort retorted unhelpfully, opening a package of crisps. 

 

“Fine,” Ri sighed. He rifled through his satchel and pulled out a large volume that Jamie had last seen in the library. It was, telling by the rich aubergine of its binding, Curse-Breaking & Curse-Making. “As I was perusing Mr. Schlurtz’s thorough discussion on curse construction, something caught my eye. It reminded me of what you said you’d talked about with Professor Malfoy, Jamie, as it references unintentional curses. Here, it’s easier if I just read it:

 

 

The most concentrated curses rely on binding themselves to something concrete. During my years in the Improper Use of Magic Office, I saw many a cursed object — most notably handheld items such as jewelry and minor accessories and books, and even on one humorous occasion, a toupee. 

 

While artifacts on a larger scale such as wooden chests or mansions may carry a curse, such enchantments tend to lose potency when spread over a large volume. That is to say, I would be far more wary of a cursed seed than I would a cursed Quidditch pitch. Indeed, the energy of the object itself acts as a locus for the curse’s power, and the smaller and more compact an object, the more concentrated the curse. Scholars refer to this melding of object and curse as a locus (Pl.: loci). This theory is confirmed by the examination of unintentional curses which over time tend to centralise themselves within a physical object, even one not originally selected by the perpetrator.

 

Ri snapped the book closed, as if the passage spoke for itself. 

 

“Er, I’m not sure I follow, entirely,” Jamie admitted. 

 

“If a curse has been around long enough, it will settle into a physical object!” Ri explained. “So like a brick or a beam or a book. If there is a curse, then it is mostly in the DADA classroom! We’ve clearly got to start there!”

 

“And do what exactly?” Jamie pressed. “Just burn the whole place to ash? How are we supposed to tell which stone or which desk is secretly containing a curse? It’s not like it’s going to tell us.”

 

“We’ll use a Sneakoscope,” Ri announced. “I didn’t bring mine to Hogwarts for obvious reasons—school children are hardly trustworthy and the damn thing would forever be wailing—but I suspect I can pick one up from a vendor at the carnival this weekend—preferably one that can be deactivated. Sneakoscopes are the sort of gimmicky item that's always for sale at fairs and carnivals and what have you.”

 

“Ri,” Jamie breathed, finally understanding. “That’s brilliant! We can take it to the classroom and see if it gets louder in a certain place!”

 

“And then what?” Fort demanded, snacking casually on her crisps. “Either of you expert Curse-Breakers?”

 

“Remove it from the castle at the very least,” Jamie exclaimed. “We could just bury it in a bit of mud? A curse that simply removes a person from their post is hardly going to hurt anyone there.”

 

“Must upset the king of the earthworms. He probably likes his post as is, thanks,” Fort suggested. 

 

“Earthworms actually act communally,” Ri corrected her. “So, such a curse would hardly be disruptive to their social structure.”

 

Fort scowled. “Do you have to know everything about everything?" she grumbled. 

 

“Yes,” Ri told her, “I do.”

 

“Ri, this is fantastic,” Jamie continued, ignoring the bickering. “If we can’t find a Sneakoscope at the carnival, our first Hogsmeade weekend is coming up and Zonko’s carries them, don't they? Or else Uncle George will send me one if I ask, I’m sure. It’s perfect!”

 

Ri looked quietly pleased. “Thank you, Jamie. I’m glad someone here appreciates proper research.”

 

Fort pulled one foot out from under Ri’s leg and used it to give her friend a playful shove. “We can’t all just fawn like Jamie,” she pointed out. “Then you’d be even more insufferable than you already are.”

 

Ri emitted an insulted huff.

 

Fort crumpled up her crisps package and shoved it into her bag, the beads in her hair clacking musically as she did. “Well then, mystery solving’s on hold until we’ve got the necessary materials. Excellent. We can finally stop spending our free evenings in the bloody library. There’s a bit of time until dinner. Fancy some Quidditch practice, Jamie?”

 

“Can’t,” Jamie admitted. “I’m not sure your plan of me transferring to Hexbreaking was good for anything except saddling me with epic amounts of homework. If I don’t have this damn cipher solved by tomorrow, I’m cooked. I’ll see you at dinner though.”

 

“Heading to Fortitude's most favourite of places, then?” Ri asked. 

 

Fort groaned her distaste, but Jamie nodded. "Yeah, might as well. Besides, I think one of those library chairs is starting to really take on the shape of my bum, it's quite nice."

 

"Don't talk about your bum, James," Ri told him, gathering his things. "I hardly want to sit with you as it is." 

 

/// ///

 

“Look,” Fort was saying after the three of them had finished dinner and were making their way out of the Great Hall. “I’m just saying, I happened to be around the Quidditch pitch when Hufflepuff was having their practice.”

 

“Which you know always happens on Thursday nights. That’s spying, Fort,” Jamie reminded her. 

 

“Well, how are any of our Chasers supposed to get a Quaffle past Dunsdale if we don’t examine his play!” Fort argued. 

 

“The reason Dunsdale is so effective,” Ri informed them, “is because his head contains nothing but bone with no brains to speak off, so balls can just bounce right off it without him even noticing.”

 

“You needn’t be so mean to poor Cliff,” Jamie protested. “He’s a nice chap.”

 

“Well, I’m hardly mean to his face, am I, Potter? That ought to count for something,” Ri replied. 

 

“No, like everyone else in this damn school, you refuse to acknowledge his existence,” Jamie muttered.

 

“At least I’m an equal opportunity curmudgeon,” Ri declared. “It’s probably better than only ignoring some people.”

 

“You do only ignore some people,” Fort quibbled. “You pay attention to Jamie and me.”

 

“An anomaly,” Ri assured her.

 

They were just about to turn down the corridor when Jamie caught sight of a familiar bright blond head. The scene from the evening prior came unbidden to Jamie’s mind and he winced. It must have been a pretty rotten ordeal for the poor kid.

 

“You two go on,” Jamie said. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

 

“Why?” Fort demanded, never one to be dismissed. 

 

“I told you how Scorpius Malfoy was ill last night. I thought I’d just check up on him, see how he’s doing.”

 

“You’re very doting,” Fort observed. 

 

Jamie shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “He was pretty sick, that’s all.”

 

“Fine,” Fort conceded. “Later, mate.”

 

Ri gave a nod and the two left him. 

 

Jamie jogged towards the Entrance Hall, where he’d seen Scorpius heading moments before, but stopped short when he saw that the boy was, as ever, in Al’s company. 

 

For a moment, Jamie thought about turning back to join his friends, but hell, he was hardly going to let Al scare him off. 

 

“Hey,” Jamie said, stepping into stride with the two second-years. 

 

Al’s lip curled when he saw Jamie. “What do you want?” he demanded. 

 

“Oh piss off, Al,” Jamie ordered. “Just wanted to see how Scor’s doing, is that a crime?”

 

Al looked like he wanted to say a great number of things, but after a quick glance at Scorpius, he swallowed them down. 

 

“I’m fine,” Scorpius said, his pale face looking anxious as he registered the first signs of conflict. “But thank you for asking.”

 

Scorpius’ manners were always impeccable. They sounded so formal coming from a twelve-year-old. It was a little odd and a little endearing. Jamie wondered for the hundredth time how his terror of a brother had managed to befriend a boy so polite and decent.

 

Al shoved through the main castle doors. 

 

“Where are you two headed anyway?” Jamie asked. 

 

“Al’s got detention in the greenhouses,” Scorpius replied.

 

“Detention already?” Jamie exclaimed. “Haven’t we only been in classes for like three weeks? Does Dad know?”

 

“None of your business,” Al scowled. 

 

“You have detention too, Scor?” Jamie asked. 

 

“Nah, didn’t get caught. I’m just walking him there; it’s not like I’m doing anything else.”

 

“Ah. Well, I’ll go with you, then,” Jamie offered. 

 

Al looked even more furious, but he didn’t argue. 

 

It was an awkward walk to the Herbology greenhouses, to say the least. The air was cool enough that Jamie wished he had a jacket, but there were still plenty of students about, sitting on the grass or zipping by on brooms. Jamie asked after Al and Scorpius’ days and Scor tried to make pleasant conversation while Al stomped on a few feet ahead of them. 

 

Finally, after a few more miffed huffs from Al, Scor caught him by the arm. 

 

“Al,” he said in a more stern voice than Jamie had ever heard him use. “You said you’d try.”

 

Albus stiffened and turned. “Sorry,” he muttered, looking chastened. Clearly he wasn’t used to being reprimanded by his friend. “I don’t know how to...do this.”

 

Do what? Jamie wondered. It was clear that some discussion had occurred between the two. Scorpius must have advocated for Al and Jamie to arrive at a truce of sorts. 

 

“You could start with not being...you know, an arsehole?” Scorpius offered. He whispered the  curse word as if it was dangerous to utter aloud, and it made Jamie suspect it was the first one he’d ever said.

 

Al’s eyebrows rose, clearly impressed. He gave his dark hair a shake. It fell in a tangle, possibly because he was his father’s son, but more likely because Al didn’t take the time to bother with it. It was another thing in the long list of things that made Jamie irrationally irritated. Al never seemed to care how he presented himself, or what other people thought. 

 

Scorpius, it seemed, was the exception, because the half-stubborn, half-frustrated look on Albus’ face suggested that he cared very much. 

 

“You’re right,” Al admitted. “Sorry. It’s fine.” He took a deep breath and turned towards Jamie. “How was your day?” he asked. The civil question seemed to take a large quantity of restraint. Clearly, it was too much for Al, because he immediately blurted out: “Did you read your dumb books or play your dumb sports or hang out with your dumb friends?”

 

“Al!” Scorpius scolded. 

 

“There’s nothing interesting about him!” Al announced. “What do I even say!?”

 

“I don’t know,” Scorpius said coldly. “Maybe you should think of something, but I’m not waiting around while you do.”

 

Two pink splotches of anger were high on Scorpius’ cheekbones as he whirled around and started marching back towards the castle. 

 

“Scor, wait!” Al called out. “I’m sorry, I’ll…”

 

“You’ll do better, Al, that’s what,” Scorpius demanded, not turning to look at him. “You’re my best friend, so start acting like it.”

 

Jamie had never seen Scorpius so angry before. 

 

Al took a step towards his friend, expression hurt and lost, but then lost his nerve, standing uselessly on the grass, looking between Scorpius and the greenhouses now visible on the horizon.

 

His brother’s uncertainty was almost enough to make Jamie feel sorry for him. But Scorpius was who Jamie came here to check on, and so Jamie turned his back on Al, vindication and guilt warring within him. 

 

“Hey, Scor, wait up!” Jamie called, hurrying after the boy. “You okay?”

 

Scorpius scoffed, his lips pursing and his pace quickening. Clearly, Al wasn’t the only one he was mad at.

 

“I’m sorry,” Jamie offered, “I didn’t mean to stir things up.”

 

“Didn’t you, though?” Scorpius asked. 

 

Jamie’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “What do you mean?”

 

“You know.” Scorpius retorted. “He wouldn’t be so mad about us being friends if you two got along in the first place. You could make an effort to be kind instead of needling him when he’s already got detention.”

 

Jamie was more astonished than affronted. This was not a side of Scorpius he had seen before. “You’re rather feisty when you’re angry,” he observed. 

 

“Yes, well,” Scorpius yanked ferociously on his cloak, gathering it closer around him. His spine was ramrod straight and his cheeks still aflame as he stormed through the quad. “You won’t hear it from your dad so maybe you’ll hear it from me. I just...I want you two to get along, okay?” He paused, blond brows knit close together, conflicted, but Jamie couldn’t think why. “It’s...look, it’s important to me, alright?”

 

A wave of well deserved chagrin washed over Jamie. He found he didn’t at all like upsetting Scorpius, who was usually so mild and sweet. “It’s not about you, Scor,” he explained ruefully. “That’s just how Al and I get. We don’t mean anything by it.” He gave Scorpius a gentle, companionable nudge. “Why’s it matter so much?”

 

Scorpius looked to be in some sort of personal agony, catching his lower lip between his teeth, and making a plaintive, helpless sound. Finally, he shook his head as if determinedly  dismissing a thought. “It just does,” he informed Jamie firmly. “You’re both crap to be around when you’re fighting. I don’t like it. I know you’re going through it with your mum but guess what, I went through something with my mum, too, and I manage not to be a complete beast, so maybe you two could find a different way of coping!”

 

Jamie felt suitably cowed. He was the older brother after all. He felt ashamed at his immaturity, now that Scorpius had pointed it out so clearly. 

 

“I’m sorry, Scor,” he murmured guiltily. “You’re right.”

 

“I know I am,” Scorpius muttered. He strode ahead for a few paces and for a moment, Jamie thought maybe he ought to head in a different direction, but he really did feel terrible for upsetting the kid, and wanted to make amends. 

 

“Wait,” Jamie said, jogging after the smaller boy for a third time that night. “I really did want to ask if you were alright after everything last night. I wasn’t just trying to antagonise Al, honest.”

 

“I’m fine,” Scorpius relented. “Father and your dad took me to the cottage in Hogsmeade for the night. I’ll be more careful not to miss another evening, and my dad says he’ll make the potion stronger.”

 

“I kind of thought the side effects were already a bit much,” Jamie wondered. “Aren’t utterly exhausted by it? Most kids don’t randomly fall asleep in the library at seven p.m.” 

 

“Yes, well, what other choices do I have? I can be tired all the time and at Hogwarts, or I can be kept in a cage somewhere spouting off fortunes for the profit of others.”

 

Jamie felt as though he’d had a bellyful of cold lead. He’d never properly thought about what being a Vates could mean for Scorpius. 

 

“Hell, really? You think that could happen?”

 

“If what I am gets out? Yes. I think I’m very much at risk. Father thinks so, too. Business owners, Aurors, the Department of Mysteries, foreign agents, think of how valuable something like me could be to them,” Scorpius hissed. 

 

“You’re not a thing, Scor,” Jamie said gently. “You’re a person.”

 

“And I’d like to keep it that way.”

 

“Yeah,” Jamie said quietly. “‘Course you do. And the spell Al thought up wasn’t enough?”

 

“I can’t cast it fast enough, and besides, I don’t have wandless let alone wordless magic. It was never going to work; it was just another one of Al’s pipe dreams.”

 

“Shit,” Jamie breathed. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Not your fault.”

 

“Yeah, but still. Can’t they give you something to counteract the exhaustion? Coffee or the like?”

 

“I’m puny enough already,” Scorpius muttered unhappily. “Doesn’t caffeine stunt one’s growth?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Jamie admitted. “Something else then?”

 

Scorpius gave him a doleful look that said he didn’t wish to discuss it further. “I’ll ask Father. It doesn’t matter, though. I ought to stop whinging.”

 

“You’re allowed to whinge, Scor. It’s a crap situation.”

 

“And whinging won’t change that,” Scorpius decided flatly. 

 

Jamie didn’t have much to say to that, so he just walked beside Scorpius in silence. They made their way past the Great Hall, which was mostly cleared out by the time, and along the west corridor. Jamie didn’t know if they were headed anywhere in particular, or if Scorpius was walking just to walk, now.

 

The Slytherin emitted a quiet sigh. The pink in his cheeks had faded and his anger seemed to have burnt itself out. “Look, Jamie, I never thanked you for last night, for, er, silencing me. I owe you.”

 

“You really don’t,” Jamie assured him. “I wasn’t just going to abandon you, was I? I’m only happy there was something I could do.”  

 

“Well, I’m terribly grateful, and I know Father is, too,” Scorpius said graciously, then froze as if just thinking of something for the first time. He looked suddenly horrified.

 

“Merlin, I didn’t bite you, did I?” Scorpius whispered, mindful of a group of Ravenclaw students walking by them. 

 

“Er…” Jamie couldn’t lie fast enough. “Nothing major, don’t worry about it.”

 

“Hell!” Scorpius exclaimed, grabbing Jamie’s hands to examine them. 

 

There was a small red scab forming over where Scorpius’ incisor had broken skin on Jamie’s knuckle. 

 

“I’m sorry, Jamie,” Scorpius implored, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the wound as if he could erase it. 

 

“Hey,” Jamie said kindly. “It’s not like you meant to. I’d lose more than a bit of skin to keep your secret, you know. You could take a whole finger and it would still be worth it.”

 

Scorpius looked up, face still pinched, but the hint of a smile coming through. “Yeah?” he asked. 

 

“You have your pick,” Jamie extended his fingers as if to present them. 

 

“Thanks,” Scorpius repeated, then as if noticing he was still holding Jamie’s hands, he blushed and let go. “Sorry.”

 

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

 

There was a break in the conversation, and Jamie thought he ought to say goodnight, but he found he didn’t want to. Not only did he feel like rubbish for bickering with Al, but he also found he enjoyed Scorpius’ company. The boy was insightful and earnest, and Jamie had a responsibility to cheer him up, really.

 

“What are you doing now?” he heard himself asking. 

 

“Now?” Scorpius repeated, surprised. “I don’t know. I usually just hang out with Al in the evenings, but he’s in detention, so homework, I guess.”

 

Jamie nodded. “Right. I was thinking...you, er, well, I know you don’t like Quidditch, but what about flying?”

 

Scorpius looked up. “I like flying alright. So long as it’s not a race or something. I’m just not...I don’t like how at school everything feels like a competition.”

 

“That is something I cannot relate to,” Jamie joked. “I love winning. But I won’t make it a contest, I promise. Just an easy fly over the lake or something. You have a broom of your own, right?”

 

“Yes, of course. Father bought me a Needletail last year. I think he was hoping I’d be a bit more sporty than I am.”

 

Jamie let out a low whistle. “You’re telling me you just have a Needletail you never use? Those are seriously brilliant brooms, Scor!”

 

Scorpius shrugged and looked down, embarrassed. “Oh, you know Father. He can be a bit of a snob. He prefers quality and all that. You can ride it if you like, I don’t mind.”

 

“You’ll mind when I trade you my ancient Nimbus Fleet X for a Needletail!” Jamie told him. 

 

“I really won’t,” Scorpius promised. 

 

“Well, let’s get our kits then!” Jamie said excitedly, feeling the giddiness of a free evening laying before him. To his delight, Scorpius looked pleased at the idea also, gracing Jamie with a tiny smile. 

 

“Yes, alright,” Scorpius agreed. “Better than randomly falling asleep at seven p.m., after all.”

 

Notes:

Last chapter of Al and Jamie being completely terrible to each other, I promise!

I know I'm slow to respond (and to post!) but I really am just incredibly touched by all the incredible comments you leave me chapter after chapter. Lots of long days, lately, and they really get me through.

Equally huge thanks to my impeccable beta, Mimbelwimbel, for sharing her wisdom. All remaining mistakes belong to my stubborn and/or careless self!

Chapter 9: Albus

 

Albus

 

Albus was an expert at staying out past curfew. He’d explored the castle from dungeon to turret in his first month there and he knew all the corridors the prefects never wandered (nearly all of the fourth floor), the best bribes to exchange for Peeves’ silence (anything from Uncle George’s shop) and that if he brought the little oil can he'd inherited from Grandad, he could even appease the animated suit of armour that guarded the north wing by spritzing its joints.

 

What Al was not an expert at, was doing all this without Scorpius at his side. Nothing could hold Al’s attention that evening; he felt bored and listless, sneaking around without purpose. If Scor had been there, it would have been exciting—creeping into the kitchens or exploring Uncle Hagrid’s old hut where he’d lived before he’d set off globetrotting with Aunt Olympe. Together, Al and Scorpius had marvelled at the massive bed and the overgrown garden which was still known to sprout a giant pumpkin or two. Tonight, though, the hut just looked lonely and Al kept his distance.

 

He whiled away the hours doing not much of anything, just sitting on a window ledge in one of the flanking turrets and watching the stars. He looked south, automatically seeking out the familiar collection of stars which together formed Scorpius. He’d done just this many nights with his friend. Scor was clever with Astronomy, rattling of facts and pointing out planets, falling silent only if he thought he heard footfalls on the stairs, then shooting Al a guilty grin when he realised it was nothing.

 

Most people thought that Scorpius Malfoy was an obedient child. He was always a model student, and yet he seemed exhilarated on nights when he and Al would have their run of the castle, scurrying like mice into all the endless chambers and giggling silently over near-misses. No, Scor was just as much a rule breaker as Al was, only Scor minded when he got caught. 

 

Detention was just a way of life for Albus. He wasn’t good at listening because he always had something more interesting on his mind, so he was used to spending at least a few evenings a month with one professor or another. Tonight’s detention had been easy, chatting with Uncle Neville as they replanted the Gremlin Pods. Al had been let go early (he nearly always was with Uncle Neville), and he’d rushed back to the Slytherin common room, but Scor was nowhere to be found. 

 

Now, though, it was just past midnight and the dormitory would be asleep. Al doubted very much that Scorpius would have ventured out on his own, just as he knew Fife wouldn’t break the Slytherin code and rat Al out for being out past curfew, no matter how much he itched to. Surely Fife and the others would be asleep now, though. The Ojo twins slept through anything, having expended so much energy in endless horseplay during the day, and Fife and Bingham weren’t night owls, either. It was time to end his cowardice, Al decided.

 

So, with one last glance at the stars, he made his way to the dungeons. 

 

As he’d hoped, the dormitory was quiet, only the normal steady breathing of the other boys. No one stirred when he came in—Al always made certain to keep those hinges well oiled, as well.  Al slipped quickly into his pyjamas and brushed his teeth and then crawled under the covers of Scorpius’ bed. 

 

“Pst, Scor, hey, wake up,” Al hissed quietly, because Scorpius, like Dad, didn’t like to be startled when he was sleeping.

 

“Al?” Scor’s voice was sleepy but aware, and Al quickly pulled the covers up over both their heads to muffle their voices. 

 

“How’d you guess?” he grinned. The bed wasn’t really built for two, and they crammed together, face-to-face. 

 

“Not a lot of other people crawling into my bed at…” Scor yawned and reached into the shirt his flannel pyjamas and retrieved his ever present pocket watch. The cover sprung open, emitting a faint light. “Seven past one in the morning.”

 

“I suppose not,” Al agreed. 

 

Then, he found, he didn’t know what else to say. 

 

Al despised this feeling. It was foreign and uncomfortably self-aware. 

 

“Where were you?” Scorpius asked, placing the watch between them. The faint silvery glow alighted both their faces.

 

“Just faffing about,” Al admitted. “It wasn’t any fun without you, though. I came by earlier but I didn’t see you. You weren’t in the library either.”

 

“I went flying,” Scor offered. 

 

He didn’t have to say it was with James, Al realised. He knew his friend well enough to know he didn’t often fly for fun. 

 

“I don’t want to have to keep apologising,” Al blurted out, voice still hushed. “Hell, that’s wrong; that’s not what I mean. You deserve apologies because I keep bollocksing everything up, but I don’t want to keep doing that. I want to stop doing that so there is nothing for me to apologise for! But I am sorry, you know, for earlier.”

 

“Jamie was helping things,” Scor offered, not raising his voice above a whisper. “But thank you. I don’t want you to have to keep apologising either.

 

“I’ll be better. I mean it,” Al declared, matching Scorpius’ volume. “I know you don’t like fighting.”

 

“I don’t,” Scor agreed. “I can’t make out why you and Jamie seem to enjoy it so much.”

 

Al considered that. “I’m not sure we do,” he pondered. “It’s more that it’s just something we do. I guess because Jamie’s always wanted to be everyone’s favourite, and I came along and messed that all up.”

 

“You think you’re the favourite?” Scor’s voice sounded skeptical. 

 

“Of course not,” Al retorted. “You know my dad, he’d literally die rather than say he loved one of his kids more than the other. I just...well, I get in trouble a lot, don’t I? Not on purpose or anything, it just seems to happen and then all this attention that Jamie wants and I don’t really want nevertheless gets heaped on me, and Jamie thinks it’s because I’m special, when actually it’s because I’m odd.”

 

“You’re not odd, Al,” Scorpius argued, reaching out to squeeze Al’s arm. 

 

“I don’t dislike odd,” Al shrugged. “It seems a lot easier than trying to be something you’re not.” 

 

“Well, I don’t see why Jamie would have a problem with you being yourself. Januarius would be an outcast if it wasn’t for James, and they are best friends. You’re no odder than Ri, and you’re much nicer, besides.”

 

“It’s strange that you’re on...nickname basis with my brother’s friends,” Al muttered. 

 

Scorpius’ fine, pale eyebrows creased, and his lips thinned in disappointment. 

 

“Not bad strange!” Al hurried to add. “Just…‘I’m adjusting’ strange.”

 

“Well, I’m not sure I’d ever call him Ri to his face,” Scorpius confessed. “I’m a bit scared of him.”

 

Al scoffed. “Scared of Januarius Boone? Scorpius, you could be the right hand of kings if you wanted to, that’s how powerful you are.”

 

“Yes, but I don’t want to be,” Scorpius said sharply.

 

“Sorry,” Al murmured quickly, another stab of guilt biting into his guts. Why did he keep doing and saying such stupid things? “Sorry, I know you hate that. What do you want to be, then?”

 

“Right now?” Scorpius asked. “Well, currently I want to be at school with my very best mate, and I want us not to be fighting: not presently and not ever again because I hate it.” Scorpius’ expression was serious and determined and Al vowed to make it all so. 

 

He gripped Scor’s upper arm just as Scor held his, tipped their foreheads together and whispered: “I want that, too.”

 

It felt somehow momentous, that promise, made just then. Something grave and important swelled inside of him and Al became suddenly resolute. He’d get on with Jamie even if it killed him. 

 

With a final squeeze to his best friend’s arm, Al scampered back to his own bed.

 

/// ///

 

By Friday, the entire student population was buzzing like the day before the Quidditch Cup match. The carnival was coming that night and no one could talk about anything else. The professors ran the gamut from indulgent (Dad) to unrelenting (Professor Malfoy), and all were verging on (or well past) impatient by the end of the school day. 

 

The Great Hall was a roar of chatter. Rumour had it that the carnival would be starting off with an opening performance. Corin Bingham had said his aunt’s name, Amethyst Howl, at least 86 times over the dinner hour alone, but even Raleigh Fife’s retaliatory barbs couldn’t dull anyone’s spirits, and Al found himself getting swept up in the excitement. 

 

“Have you ever been to a carnival, Scor?” he asked. 

 

“When I was small,” Scorpius replied. 

 

“Which one?” Franklin Ojo demanded. 

 

“Oh, I’m not too sure,” Scorpius replied. “It was in the south of France, somewhere.”

 

Had anyone else said that, it would have sounded boastful, Al reckoned, but Scorpius was never like that. He might not realise that most kids didn’t get to have expensive vacations, but he also never seemed to take them for granted. 

 

“Surely not the Le carnaval du ciel ouvert?” Fife demanded, with an irritatingly practiced accent. He sounded jealous. Al suddenly very much wanted that to have been the carnival Scorpius had attended.

 

Scor looked perplexed. “I’m not sure.”

 

“Carnival of the Open Sky?” Fife translated obnoxiously. 

 

“Oh!” Scor said brightly. “That sounds familiar, yes, that’s it.”

 

Bernard Ojo whistled under his breath. “Not cheap, that,” he pointed out.

 

Scorpius’ cheeks coloured. He never liked to draw attention to his family’s wealth, Al knew.

 

“Well,” Scor muttered dismissively, “I don’t remember much.”

 

“Must have been quite extravagant, surely!” Fife pressed, his cat-like eyes widening in disbelief. 

 

Scor only shrugged. “Might have been. I remember seeing a unicorn in a golden cage. I got terribly upset, inconsolable, really. I think I begged Father to let us leave.”

 

Only Scorpius would freely admit to feeling something so deeply, Al thought, and only Scorpius wouldn’t be mocked for it. 

 

“That’s rotten,” Franklin decided, giving Scorpius a companionably, yet slightly too-hearty thwack on the back. “I hope there are no animals at this one. Seems cruel.”

 

“Oi, Hercules, mind your strength!” Al scolded as Scor winced. 

 

“Wha…? Oh, Merlin, sorry, Malfoy,” Franklin offered sincerely. “Forgot you’re...a bit little.”

 

“Frankie, you doorknob!” Bernard laughed. “That’s a shit thing to say!”

 

“It’s not like he’s wrong,” Scor muttered, flushing.

 

“Oh, forget him, mate,” Bernard insisted. “He’s just gone and hit puberty a year or two ahead of us mere mortals, but I can still kick his arse, and plan to later. I hear they have a whole room that’s charmed to bounce you off it, and then they charm you to be bouncy too. It’s going to be a riot.”

 

The twins’ conversation turned at once to a familiar, exuberant repartee about just who would be kicking whose arse. 

 

“There are no animals with this troupe, are there?” Scorpius asked Bingham. 

 

“No,” Corin assured him. “The Carnival Chromatica doesn’t have animals.”

 

“What about the sprites, though?” Al asked. “Didn't you say they were part of the thing?”

 

“Don’t be ludicrous, Potter,” Fife exclaimed snootily. “Sprites are sentient beings, not beasts! They’re independent contractors, to be sure.”

 

“Exactly,” Bingham said with a firm nod. “I’m sure they take a whopping big cut; they’re brilliant!”

 

“So nothing locked in cages?” Al pressed. 

 

“Nothing,” Bingham promised solemnly.  “My aunt would never perform with that kind of carnival, I’m sure of it.”

 

/// ///

 

Corin Bingham did appear to have the right of it. Albus thankfully didn’t see any cages or any trained animals amidst the brightly coloured banners and drapes spanning the Quidditch pitch, and spilling out into the fields beyond. Bleachers had been arranged in front of a makeshift platform at one end, and Headmistress Clearwater was standing with the Head Boy, Sterling Main, and Head Girl, Albus’ cousin Molly. 

 

“We want to thank the Carnival Chromatica, the Niishian sprites, and of course their special guest, Amethyst Howl, for thinking of us, and fitting our school into their busy summer season,” the Headmistress was saying. 

 

Al was only half listening. He scanned the crowd instead. His cousin Rose was sitting at attention with her hands clasped, doing her very best to show everyone just how attentive she was being. The girl nerd squad which was ever flanking her was doing just the same. Jamie and his friends were surrounded, as ever, by nine-tenths of the Gryffindor house. It was like the whole lot of them moved as one mindless pack, with the one token Ravenclaw shoved in between Jamie and Fortitude Jordan. 

 

Near the back, Al caught sight of his dad, bouncing Remy in his arms, the baby change bag slung over his shoulder. Remy was sporting a pair of adorable, knitted ear muffs, no doubt of Granny’s making. The baby was looking around at the crowd and the lights curiously. Beside Dad and Remy was Professor Malfoy, and he, Al noticed, was holding an overexcited Lily by the hand. It struck Al as a bit unexpected, but then again, Lily clearly needed restraining. She looked about ready to dart off to explore at any second, and only the professor’s firm grip was preventing that. Besides, Al figured, Lily warmed up to people easily, and it wasn’t like Professor Malfoy hadn’t been around a lot in the summer. With all the buzz, Al had forgotten the families of faculty would be here, but he was pleased to see his sister again. Lily was always her own self, and Al appreciated that about her. 

 

Nearby were Uncle Neville, Aunt Hannah, and their kids—looking similarly restrained. While they were all younger than Al, he’d known the lot of them since birth, and viewed them as just another set of cousins. Al had an awful lot of cousins, Scor had commented once, and Al had been shocked to realise that Scorpius had none to speak of. Al had replied glibly that Scorpius was welcome to any of his. There were a few, like Rose, who he could do without, really.  

 

Dad caught Al’s eye then, and smiled before cocking his head towards the stage, indicating Al ought to be polite and listen. Sighing, Al did so. 

 

Main was smiling his massive, gleaming smile and reminding everyone to watch their manners. Mols was also grinning cheerily, but there was a hint of irritation in her eyes. 

 

“What’s happened?” Al hissed quietly. 

 

“Main won’t let Molly speak,” Scorpius explained furtively. “He keeps talking over her.”

 

Suddenly, though, the Head Boy was overcome with a fit of coughing and Mols was all at once looking awfully smug.

 

Molly clapped Main on the shoulder. “Rotten luck,” she said sweetly, her charmed voice soaring clearly out over the mass of chattering students. “But I think we all know how to be decent, thanks all the same. Now, can we please get a warm welcome for the Carnival Chromatica!”

 

Main’s cough disappeared as thunderous applause rang out throughout the pitch.

 

Headmistress Clearwater ushered the two seventh-years off the platform, and suddenly, all the Quidditch lights, the bright baubles on around the stalls, the torches lighting the footpaths, the faerie lights twinkling in the fields, everything went absolutely black. 

 

Al felt Scorpius clutch at his sleeve, and Al pressed a little closer to his friend as a collective gasp went up. There was a suspended moment of silence, and then a massive fuchsia fireball exploded on the stage like a firework. Only it wasn’t a firework, it was a thousand little specks, and they weren’t just fuschia now, but a multitude of hues, breaking apart and reforming into elaborate, precisely orchestrated shapes. Some changed colour as they formed a spinning ring, spiralling in on itself like a mesmerising whirlpool, only to explode out into a brilliant starburst of yellows and oranges, bright as the sun. 

 

“The sprites!” Scor whispered, voice full of awe. 

 

The show was as spectacular as Bingham had promised. The sprites blurred through the air, forming a hippogriff, then a kneazle, then a giant scaled dragon, which swooped out over the crowd, making some people duck in reaction, then laugh at their own reactions. Again, the specks of brilliant light shifted, filling the night air like so many stars, then raining down onto the spectators, zipping around their heads. 

 

The sprites were humanoid, but absolutely tiny, each with a glowing light behind their sternum.  Two sets of rounded honey bee wings sprouted from each miniscule back, and when in motion, they beat as fast as hummingbirds’. The sprites were pantomiming little dances and aerial acrobatics, but wouldn’t stay still long enough for Al to get a good look at their features. 

 

“This is how they get you,” Fife muttered in warning. “Hold onto your Galleons!”

 

Al didn’t see how a creature the size of a dragonfly could lift a Knut, let alone a Galleon, and he was about to say as much when one sprite shot away from the group to sink two tiny teeth into Fife’s ear lobe. 

 

“Serves you right for being speciesist,” Bernard Ojo bellowed, clearly delighted, and all the boys, save Fife, laughed. The sprite looked appeased, and launched themselves into the air again with two fists lifted, victorious, before darting back towards the platform to join their brethren, forming a kaleidoscope of images, morphing and changing, faster and faster until, all at once, they went dark.

 

Everyone jumped to their feet, in uproarious applause. 

 

“That was magnificent, just like you said, Corin!” Al cried out. 

 

The mousy boy gave his dull brown hair a shake, grinning bashfully, but clearly pleased. Just then, a wizard in a vivid, patchwork cloak materialised on the centre platform. His head was shaved bald, and it shone white and bright under the lights. He had a long, brown beard, and a rounded paunch. He smiled affably, and Al got an uncanny feeling: It was as though the man were looking everywhere all at once. 

 

“Thank you and welcome to the Carnival Chromatica!” he boomed. “Here for one night only: to delight and inspire, to engage your every sense and indulge your every desire! Please, join me in once again thanking the glorious sprites, hailing all the way from the mysterious Isle of Niishe!”

 

The audience responded accordingly, hushed only when the wizard flourished a hand to indicate silence.

 

“Now, we have more performances to come, but those will close out our evening. First, we invite you to explore our many gamemasters and vendors! What wonders we have in store for you! Challenge your wit, your strength, your power...perhaps the fates will be good to you tonight!”

 

Another roar of approval from the crowd, and the stage lights went dark. On cue, the booths and vendors bustled to life, melodies floating on the wind, chimes and whistles sounding and voices calling out: “Caramel apples!”, “Fresh Faeire Floss!”, and, “Come, put your keen minds to the test!”. Soon the specific criers were drowned out by the hubbub of the masses, funnelling their way towards the promised festivities. 

 

“Come on, Scor!” Al urged, embracing the thrumming enthusiasm all around him. “I’m going to hit up Dad for some pocket money!”

Notes:

Have I mentioned recently how wonderful y'all are for reading? Thanks so much, means a ton to me! Your comments give me wings!

Extra special thanks to my fantabulous beta, Mimbelwimbel. Have you checked out her stories yet? You should!

Chapter 10: Harry

Harry

 

“Well, what did you think?” Draco asked once the light show ended. 

 

“Spectacular,” Harry breathed. “I’ve never seen anything like it. And I’m especially glad that Remy didn’t scream through it.” Remy looked up at the sound of Harry’s voice and smiled. A bit of drool leaked out of his mouth. Harry shook his head. He’d miss a lot about the baby stage, but all the drool and spit-up wasn’t something he’d regret saying farewell to forever. 

 

“Truly remarkable,” Hannah Longbottom concurred, gazing wistfully at the now empty stage.

 

“Daddy, can we go now?” Alice-May, the oldest Longbottom girl, pleaded. Her younger sisters echoed her request, and were subsequently shushed by their mother. 

 

“Not yet, lovey, we’re still visiting with Uncle Harry, and you want to see the boys, don’t you?” Neville replied. 

 

Alice-May looked as though she really could have passed on seeing her makeshift cousins, but she was far too polite to say it aloud. 

 

“Professor,” Lily demanded, tugging on Draco’s hand and looking up at him. “Can I have one? Please?”

 

“Have one what?” Draco said, nonplussed. He glanced around at the nearby stalls, as if to see if there was anything for purchase. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

 

“A sprite!” Lily informed him.

 

“Not unless you are very rich and willing to offer them an excellent, watertight contract,” Draco told her. “Sprites are sentient beings, I’m afraid. You can employ them, but you cannot own them. Why, whatever do you want one for?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know. I just thought it might be funny to hide one in Anthea’s desk at school and have it wee on her notebooks when she’s being rotten.”

 

Alice-May clapped a hand over her mouth in astonished alarm. “Lily!” she scolded. “You wouldn’t!”

 

“I might,” Lily challenged, lifting her chin to show she was serious. 

 

Before Harry could reprimand her himself, Draco chimed in: “I’m quite sure no sprite would be willing to do that, no matter how much you paid them. I see your rivalry continues, however. Whatever did Miss Embury do this week?” 

 

He’d become quite familiar with Lily’s tumultuous relationship with her classmate, Harry knew. Draco always listened to the endless drama of Lily’s primary school with patience and interest. He had a memory for it that Harry certainly didn’t. 

 

Harry thought he might love that about him. 

 

“Oh, but Anthea’s lovely!” Alice-May attempted. 

 

Lily curled her lip disparagingly. “You say that about everyone, Alice-May, even when it isn't true. Anthea’s a real toad, and I can prove it, too, because on Thursday she said I was her best friend, but then on Friday I found out she’d given Tamara Clank a friendship bracelet and she didn’t give me one. And Tamara doesn’t even like Quidditch and I do! How is anyone supposed to be friends with her? I mean, I suppose I’m friends with her, but that is because she is quite good at drawing and she lets me use her fancy coloured inks, but there’s no reason why Anthea would be friends with her.”

 

“Well, I like them both,” Alice-May said primly. 

 

“That’s my girl,” Neville smiled, squeezing his daughter’s shoulder. 

 

Why did Neville and Draco have sweet, thoughtful children, Harry wondered with mild amusement, when he was stuck with his unruly, uncouth, and clearly unfiltered lot? 

 

“You could perhaps all try to be friends together, sweetpea,” Harry attempted kindly. “Like me with your Uncle Ron and Auntie Hermione.”

 

“But they’re married,” Lily protested. “That’s different.”

 

“They weren’t married when we were back at school,” Harry remarked. 

 

Lily wrinkled her nose dubiously. “I guess,” she shrugged. “But Uncle Ron says that’s just because he’s got more skull than brains and it took him ages to realise he loved her.”

 

Draco sniggered. Harry shot him a look. 

 

“Oh please,” Draco remarked. “Everyone and their owl knew those two would end up together; it’s a shockingly self-reflective assessment, really.”

 

“He’s not wrong,” Hannah added. “They were both utterly smitten. I think we even had a running bet on when they’d finally figure it out. It was definitely a subject of gossip in the Hufflepuff common room!”

 

Before Harry could remark on that bit of news, Al and Scorpius burst through the crowd on his left, and Jamie, Januarius Boone, and Fortitude Jordan appeared on his right. 

 

“Dad,” Jamie and Al said, coincidentally in tandem, “can I have some pocket money?”

 

/// ///  

 

“Mind Lily!” Harry shouted at the retreating backs of his children and their friends as they raced off, Galleons and Sickles jangling merrily in their pockets. 

 

“Can we go now?” Alice-May urged her parents.

 

“Yes, angel,” Neville acknowledged, giving Harry and Draco a rueful look. “How about you lead the way?”

 

The Longbottom family headed off, turning down one of the beautifully lit aisles. 

 

“Do you ever get the feeling you’re no longer needed?” Harry marvelled. He bounced Remy, whose oversized earmuffs made the baby more darling than Harry thought possible. “Thank goodness I’ve got you, eh, pumpkin? You wouldn’t use me like a Gringotts vault and then vanish into the night.”

 

He felt Draco’s eyes on him and glanced up to meet them. 

 

There was a tender look there that Draco sought to cover up the moment he’d been caught out. Harry only grinned, wishing not for the first time that he could link his fingers with the other man’s, casual and affectionate. It was a sentimental notion, and even if their relationship ever did become public knowledge, Harry wasn’t convinced Draco would be receptive to such an obvious display.

 

“I would say you’re not obsolete just yet,” Draco declared. “Besides, I need a word, so this is quite convenient.”

 

Harry didn’t like the anxious, unexpected lurch in his stomach. His worry must have shown on his face because Draco gave an impatient snort. 

 

“Oh, it’s nothing dire, don’t look at me like that. Come. Walk with me.”

 

The knot behind Harry’s solar plexus relaxed some at Draco’s prickly reassurance, and he easily fell into step with the other man. Harry thought for a moment they might wander the booths and see what the vendors had on offer, but it became clear Draco did not wish to converse where anyone might overhear, and Harry supposed that was probably wise. 

 

They wound their way past the ostentatious barkers and delighted clusters of students towards the outskirts of the event. Harry rearranged the baby change bag that accompanied him nearly everywhere these days. Remy had nodded off once they were away from the worst of the noise and bustle. He seemed to enjoy being in motion, Harry thought. Morning broom rides tended to be calm, with Remy safe and snug in his baby wrap, snoozing or peering out curiously at the world below. 

 

They wandered aimlessly until Harry realised that they’d arrived at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. 

 

He was struck suddenly with a memory he’d nearly forgotten with all that came after.

 

“Remember that detention? With the unicorn?” he asked without thinking. 

 

“I do,” Draco agreed. “Not exactly one of my finest moments, dashing off and leaving you there, frozen in place.”

 

“I was just as scared, clearly,” Harry commented. “I would have sprinted after you if I’d been able.”

 

“Hm. Doubtful.”

 

“Oh, I’ve always known when to do a runner,” Harry declared, startled by Draco’s disbelief. “No shame in saving your own skin.”

 

“There is when you leave someone behind,” Draco muttered darkly. 

 

“Well, thankfully the sins of our eleven-year-old selves stay firmly in the past where they belong,” Harry offered lightly, trying to buoy Draco up a bit. He was regretting bringing the memory up at all. “I didn’t bring it up to place any blame on you. Just funny that we didn’t know how much was at play already, that night.”

 

“Hysterical,” Draco retorted dryly. 

 

“Hey,” Harry chided softly, glancing about. They were quite alone. He grabbed Draco’s wrist, halting him. “You don’t need to be so hard on yourself.”

 

Draco shrugged, but he didn’t pull away. “If I don’t hold myself accountable, who will?” he asked bitterly. 

 

“No one?” Harry suggested with a little shrug. “That’s kind of the point. You don’t have to be responsible for all that forever.”

 

Draco sighed, and shook his head. Nevertheless, he allowed Harry to link their fingers together as they continued their walk. Harry was grateful for it.

 

“Very well, I’ll leave it be. The past does have a way of bubbling up with you here: at the castle, on these grounds, the Quidditch pitch, the Forbidden Forest, Hogsmeade,” Draco confessed. “You feature prominently in a not insignificant number of memories—and unfortunately our shared history isn’t exactly flattering, at least not on my part.”

 

“Well, I think you’ve more than made up for that in recent history, and that’s rather the bit that matters, if you ask me. Oh hell, I hope you’re not telling yourself some tosh about not deserving me or what have you.” Harry’s pulse increased with dread; he felt vaguely nauseous at the very thought. “I’ll remind you what a wreck I was when you Flooed back into my life. Merlin, that’s not what you wanted to talk about, was it?” 

 

He decided then and there he wasn’t above throwing an absolute fit if Draco decided to walk away out of some misguided belief that he somehow wasn’t enough.

 

“No, no,” Draco assured him hurriedly. “Nothing so self-sacrificial or sensational. I’m far too invested in my own happiness to just give you up.”

 

“Well, good,” Harry determined, squeezing Draco’s fingers in his. Unexpectedly, Draco lifted their hands and kissed Harry’s knuckles. Harry was still caught off guard by how easily the other man gave and accepted affection. It seemed like such a contradiction to his practiced veneer. “Definitely don’t. What did you want to talk about, then?”

 

Instead of answering, Draco motioned to a large, arching tree root a little way ahead. “Let’s sit.”

 

Harry obliged, dropping the baby change bag and hopping up onto the root, feet swinging, Remy still bundled close to his chest. Draco didn’t join them. Instead, he paced a line through the soil and fallen leaves, before heaving a sigh and coming up to stand before Harry. He had his hands in his pockets, which didn’t suit him, Harry thought, and his expression was uncertain, which suited him even less.

 

“Draco, what on earth is it?” Harry pressed, when still no words were forthcoming.

 

“Now I’ve made it out to be a bigger deal than it is,” Draco began, sounding frustrated with himself. “I just—I’m not sure how—but, well, I believe Scorpius has figured us out.”

 

“Oh,” Harry said thoughtfully, resting his chin gently on Remy’s head and stroking the baby’s back. He was at once surprised and relieved. Scorpius' discovery was unexpected, but it certainly wasn't any number of the crisis situations he had been anticipating. Unless, Harry supposed, the boy was very opposed to the idea. “Is he...upset?”

 

“Scorpius?” Draco asked, evidently bewildered at the child’s welfare being Harry’s primary concern. “No, not at all. He seemed to almost encourage it, I don’t know. Perhaps I misread things; we didn’t exactly discuss it.”

 

“I see,” Harry tried, not quite sure what to feel about this news. His initial reaction was almost excited—he immediately imagined a version of the future in which their giant secret was no longer a threat—but Draco seemed so cautious, so tense; Harry didn’t know what to make of his behaviour at all. “Wait, are you upset?”

 

“I don’t know,” Draco admitted irritably. “I wasn’t expecting it to come to this so soon! I thought we had time to, oh hell, perhaps strategise or what have you.” 

 

“That’s completely understandable. What did he say? Maybe he was only guessing.”

 

“No, I’m certain he saw something. He didn’t say anything of consequence. He only asked if we were friends. It wasn’t what he said but how he said it. He knows.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Harry stated. “I should have been more careful.”

 

“Hm,” Draco agreed, then gave a sharp jerk of his head. “Only, no. I don’t want you to be careful. I—”

 

He cut himself off, tearing his hands from his cloak pockets and making a helpless, frustrated gesture. 

 

“Oh, would you just come here,” Harry insisted and Draco didn’t hesitate, stepping in closer and slotting his hips in between Harry’s knees. Draco’s hand curled gently around Remy’s head where the baby was sandwiched obliviously between them. He seemed to want a distraction, because he wouldn’t meet Harry’s eyes. 

 

“I like it, too, you know,” Harry acknowledged easily. “Being with you. Touching you. I’m not scared to say it.”

 

“Of course you’re not,” Draco muttered miserably. “Adoring monogamy is your comfort zone. It isn’t mine.”

 

Harry jolted as if struck. Dread threatened to overwhelm him. He’d had no idea that the other man felt somehow trapped. Draco finally lifted his head, grey eyes reflecting the moonlight. He looked tormented. Harry wanted desperately to touch him, to catch him and hold him near, but he didn't dare. 

 

“I didn’t mean to corner you into anything,” he said instead. His words were careful, his chest tight. Perhaps he had rushed things along. Draco spent more nights at Crabapple Cottage then he did at Hogwarts, and dinner routines and nights curled together were no longer entirely novel. Harry enjoyed the routine and companionship, especially now that the initial nerves had settled. “I thought you wanted this, too.”

 

“For hell’s sake, Potter, I do,” Draco spat, words coming rapid fire as he seemed to chase after his thoughts. “Desperately, I do. I want it so badly the thought of losing it makes me ill—which I hate admitting, by the way, but apparently I just out and tell you things like that now, my dignity be damned. So yes, I want it, but that doesn’t address the fact that I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

 

“Sweetheart—” Harry tried, relief finally enabling him to catch his breath, but Draco steamrolled over his protestation.

 

“No, listen: I’ve made it my practice to only attempt things I’m confident I’ll master, and being a capable, long term romantic partner is not on that list. I’m selfish and I’m...I’m needy, and I’m not warm like you; I’ll eventually say something to alienate your children, and I don’t want you in a position where you feel like you have to take sides. And I certainly don’t want to get Scorpius’ hopes up over something I can’t guarantee I can make last, when I’m so utterly inexperienced at looking out for anyone beyond me and mine!”

 

Draco looked so terribly despairing that for a moment Harry could only compare him to a bedraggled, soaked cat. It almost made him smile, but he managed to suppress it, knowing Draco would not take too kindly to anything akin to being laughed at just now.

 

“How can you simultaneously have such bloody, untouchable self-assurance and think so little of yourself?” Harry marvelled. “You’re well aware that you are an exceptional teacher, potions master, father, hell, you’re even an excellent cook, and you never question yourself on those fronts. Why all the apprehension around this one thing which boils down to you just continuing on as you have been these last few months?”

 

“I’m a realist,” Draco sniffed. “I’m well aware of my own strengths and weaknesses.”

 

“I don’t think that’s true,” Harry informed him. “Merlin, where do I even start? Well, first off, surprise, babe, but we’re all a bit selfish and needy, that’s just human nature, and you know that as well as I do. And secondly, you think I haven’t alienated my children in a hundred tiny ways in just the last few months alone? That is what parenting is! Mucking it all up, and then apologising and having a think and hoping you do better the next day. You’ve got all these ideas that you ought to be perfect at things, but you are literally the only person who is holding you to those standards. And I don’t know if this thing will last either, how can I? All I know is our options are try or don’t try, and that first one sounds a lot more appealing to me, yeah?”

 

Draco exhaled and leant inwards, knocking his forehead against Harry’s temple. He made an aggravated sound in his throat, like he wanted to keep arguing, but he couldn’t come up with anything. “Yes,” he conceded with a hint of tartness. “Yes, alright.”

 

“Merlin, you do tie yourself in knots, don’t you?” Harry murmured. Draco harrumphed, then shifted, seeking Harry’s mouth with his own. The kiss was slow and sweet, much more comfort than heat, but still they only broke apart when Remy stirred, giving a little wriggle to indicate he’d had quite enough of the wrap. 

 

While Harry set about unravelling the swath of fabric, Draco fished through the bag at Harry’s feet and pulled out a brightly painted set of wooden toy keys on a ring passing them to the newly freed infant. 

 

“You know,” Harry said thoughtfully, “maybe it would be helpful for you to just expand who falls under the heading of ‘me and mine’.”

 

Draco gave him a grim look. “Shut up, Potter. We both know I already have.”

 

Harry grinned and Draco narrowed his eyes in annoyance, scooping Remy up out of Harry’s arms and giving him a tiny toss into the air. Remy babbled in delight, so Draco did it again. 

 

Watching the man fuss over Remy was something Harry didn’t think he could ever grow tired of. 

 

“You want to tell them, then?” Draco asked after a few minutes. “James and Albus and Lily? With the risk of the not insubstantial Weasley clan therefore learning shortly after? Your charming friend Ronald will be disgusted with you, and James...well, he might not be pleased.”

 

“When is Jamie ever pleased these days?” Harry pointed out. “And it’s best if he hears it from me. Clearly Scorpius can keep a secret, mind you, but he shouldn’t have to.”

 

“What will we tell them, even?” Draco wondered aloud.

 

“The truth?” Harry proposed. “That we fell in together this summer and things took a bit of an unexpected but not unwelcome turn?”

 

“Hm,” Draco nodded. “Very well. When?”

 

“The first Hogsmeade visit is just after Halloween,” Harry reflected. “I could pull Al from Hogwarts that day, say we’ve got some family business.”

 

“Samhain ends on the Thursday,” Draco remarked. “So it wouldn’t be out of the question for Scorpius to be home that weekend. But James might not forgive you for ruining his day away from the castle.”

 

“We’ll chat in the evening, then, or just before dinner. Do you have any particular celebrations? Do you need to return to the Manor?”

 

Draco shook his head. “That was Astoria’s faith, not mine, and I’m not sure how Scorpius feels about it, especially after the events of last year, but I can certainly ask him.”

 

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, shuddering at thoughts of Scorpius’ would-be abduction. “I can only imagine.”

 

“As for the Manor...well, you read the letter yourself. My mother is being released next week. On Andromeda’s recommendation—thank you for putting us in touch, by the way—I’ve warded off a section of the Manor in which Mother will be permitted to live. I’ve made arrangements for her to be transported there upon her release. I’ve also preemptively hired a housekeeper and a cook, as domesticity was never my mother’s forte.”

 

“Shit, sweetheart,” Harry said gently, a wave of empathy welling up in him. No wonder Draco had burst like a dam tonight, his rush of feelings erupting in a mess of worry. “Merlin, you’ve had one or two things on your plate lately, haven’t you?”

 

Draco dismissed the words with a wave of his hand. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

 

“Are you…” Harry began hesitantly, wondering if he should even ask. “Are you going to see her?”

 

“I don’t know yet,” Draco admitted honestly, toying with Remy’s wooden keys. “I suppose I should. I ought to make sure she won’t be a menace to the staff.”

 

“I can go with you if you like,” Harry told him. “Though I’m hardly sure if that would help or hinder things.”

 

Draco’s head shot up. “You would?”

 

Harry was surprised by the response. It didn’t seem like a big deal, really. “Why not?”

 

“You needn’t get tangled up in my family affairs,” Draco decided. 

 

“Maybe not, but you’ve been around for plenty of nonsense from my kids, and in case you haven’t noticed, I would never mind getting tangled up when it comes to you. Besides, I’d feel better knowing I was there if she tried anything dodgy.”

 

“I can take care of myself,” Draco told him sharply. That was Draco, armouring up immediately after any hint of vulnerability. 

 

“I’m not saying you can’t, love,” Harry contended. “But it wouldn’t kill you to let me do it, too.”

Notes:

Thanks to everyone for their patience! Life has been hectic right now, so I haven't really had a chance to finish this whole chapter, but I wanted to post something so you all didn't think fic this was abandoned because it is most definitely not! As a result, the next chapter will also be a Harry POV. It is mostly written, I'm just struggling with some logistics and I don't have time to sort it out right now! Hopefully it will be up in a couple of weeks!

Thanks to everyone who commented, it means so much to me! And of course, thanks as always to my indescribably awesome beta, Mimbelwimbel for everything (but especially for the snacks! 😂).

Chapter 11: Harry

Harry

 

“Uncle Harry, er, Professor!” 

 

Harry looked up to see his niece Molly Weasley waving him over to a booth. Harry and Draco had eventually wandered back to the carnival, after a few more minutes together near the woods, and had been spotted by Percy’s youngest as they’d reentered the fray. She was solidly built, like her grandmother, but tall like her uncles, and had a sheath of red hair that fell to her waist. It was pulled back from her face with a knotted headband of dark velvet.

 

“Goodness, is that Remy? Weird to see you with a baby, Professor Malfoy,” Mols exclaimed when they approached. She gave them both a bright smile and then reached out her hands for the infant. She was clearly at ease with Draco, and Harry supposed she would be. He’d been her potions master for seven years now. Besides, unlike her bookish older sister, Molly was outspoken, vivacious, and not easily cowed. She reminded Harry very much of Ginny at that age. He felt a strange twinge of...something. Not longing, he didn’t think, just melancholy, perhaps, over how things had ended, so sudden and so jagged. “Granny made those ludicrous ear muffs for Lucy and me when we were just little, too,” Molly was saying, “I think mine were lime green and what with my hair, they made me look like a Christmas tree!” 

 

Draco passed off the infant, who threatened to cry at the exchange, but was easily placated by trying to fit the bit of jade dangling from Molly’s necklace into his mouth.

 

“He’s got so big! Merlin, Uncle Harry, he’s precious. You have got to take him round to see my dads, they are always whinging about you never accepting their invitations. Remy’s the only baby we’ve got left in this family, you know! It’s not fair to hog him all to yourself.”

 

Harry didn’t want to admit to her that Percy and Ralph’s dinner parties always left him feeling poorly dressed and hideously uncultured. The majority of their friends were quick-witted, sharp-tongued, and fabulous in a way Harry admired, but could never emulate. They knew everyone, and spouted an awful lot of opinions. Save for Ralph, who was always so gracious and welcoming, the social circle mostly cared about being able to name drop Harry, without making any effort to engage him in conversation. Would it be different, he wondered, were he to show up with Draco at his side? He shook the thought away. He really was forever getting ahead of himself.

 

“What’s this, then?” Harry said, looking up at the banner over the booth, where the words Tempest-Tossed were printed in a stylised font. Frothy waves rolled beneath the lettering and bunting of green and white and blue was strung merrily at either end of the banner.

A goblin with a gold tooth and tricorn hat was currently staffing the booth, grinning at Harry amiably. He looked like the very archetype of a pirate, if the pirates Harry had seen in storybooks had been goblins.

 

Harry gave a friendly smile in return.

 

“You need to join my team,” Mols announced. “Bloody Sterling Main got my back up and I bet him ten Galleons I could take him at any game here that involved actual skill. Thing is, I don’t exactly have ten Galleons, and even if I did, I wouldn’t want to waste it on him. I won’t even take his money if we win, I just don’t think my pride can stand losing to him. Please, Uncle Harry?”

 

Before Harry could reply, he heard Al’s voice call out from one stall over.

 

“Dad!” Al shouted, rushing towards him with Scorpius at his heels. “Oh hey, Professor, hey Mols,” he added breathlessly. “Look what I’ve won!”

 

Clutched in his victorious fist was a strange, long trumpet, coated in a gaudy gold. Albus tipped back his head, the broad end of the trumpet up towards the sky, and blew. 

 

A full on firework hurtled into the sky, whistling and bursting into a shower of dancing lights in shades of aquamarine and gold. 

 

“Well, won’t this week be a treat for the faculty,” Draco commented dryly from Harry’s side. “I’m certain the bounty collected this evening won’t pose any distraction whatsoever for our pupils.”

 

“Surely the novelty will have worn off come Monday,” Harry replied, but Draco’s answering look was dubious to say the least. “Al, where’s your sister?”

 

“She’s with Jamie, somewhere,” Al promised, scanning the crowd. “Oi! Jamie!” he bellowed, his eyes lighting on his brother who was pocketing a recent purchase from a vendor. 

 

Jamie jumped at the sound of his name, but gave them all a little wave. He said something to his friends and they nodded and departed. Soon, Jamie and Lily had joined the rest of their family. 

 

“Get anything good, Lils?” Al asked his sister. 

 

In response, Lily shoved one hand into her pocket, pulled something out, and popped it into her mouth. 

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Lily said, only she didn’t say it with her voice at all, but with Al’s. 

 

“How’d you do that?” Al demanded, brows furrowed. Harry couldn’t help but smile. Al hated not knowing things. 

 

Smirking, Lily stuck out her tongue, upon which sat a glowing orange sweet, pulsating with light. 

 

“Mockingbird Mints, totally epic!” Molly cried. “Where’d you get them?”

 

“I got the last batch,” Lily crowed, still in her brother’s voice. Harry found it more than a little disconcerting. “Well, Jamie did, but he gave them to me.”

 

Jamie averted his eyes, but he did stand up a little straighter. Harry felt a burst of affection for his son. 

 

“That was kind of you, love,” Harry told him. 

 

“Indeed,” Draco echoed.

 

“It’s whatever,” Jamie muttered, his ears pinked in embarrassment, and he looked around for a distraction. “What’s the game here, then?” he asked, jerking his head toward the booth beside them.

 

“I’ll show you,” Mols informed them all. “But tough toodles for you, Jamie, because your dad’s already agreed to be on my team, so you’ll have to find your own partner.”

 

“What makes you think I’ll even want to play?” Jamie fired back. 

 

“I’ve known you since you were in nappies, you berk. I think I have a pretty good idea of what you like,” Mols laughed. “Believe me, you’ll want to.”

 

“Main won’t think it’s cheating to have me on your team, will he, Mols?” Harry asked, glancing at the booth to try and discern what kind of supposed ‘skill’ was even involved. The game did seem like a bit of fun, and it had been some time since Harry had last sought out any sort of outdoor entertainment beyond the occasional Quidditch scrimmage with Lily.

 

“He said he reckoned he could beat me even if Merlin himself was on my side,” Mols crowed. “I figure you're the next best thing.”

 

“Well, I would hardly say that,” Harry protested, “but if Professor Malfoy will be a sport and hold Remy, I’d be happy to give it a go.”

 

“You will, won’t you, Professor?” Molly said brightly to Draco, and the man gave an uncertain nod. Harry wondered guiltily if Draco was worried about what people would think if they saw him holding the red-headed baby with Mrs . Potter conspicuously absent. Harry realised suddenly that he wouldn’t care if the whole world knew, hell, things might even be easier if everyone was already aware, but then he supposed he wouldn’t be taking the brunt of the public’s scrutiny. That would inevitably fall on Draco, who may be respected, but certainly wasn’t wholly trusted, not by society at large.

 

“Although I’m not handing this darling over until the last possible moment,” Molly was saying. She tapped Remy on the nose and waved Harry around to the side of the booth. Draco and the children all followed.

 

There was a small crowd of cheering students there, sending up whoops and shouts of encouragement over a long wooden trough with something moving inside it. Harry realised quickly that the trough was divided into little three lanes, each hosting a meticulously detailed toy boat bumping its way through waves that seemed to appear out of nowhere. The boats all sported a differently coloured sail: deep teal, royal purple, and a cheerful pumpkin orange. 

 

“See?” Mols explained. “Each team gets a boat. You have to propel them through the water to the end without losing all their cargo.”

 

As if on cue, one of the little ships toppled over and miniscule gold coins and jewels tumbled into the water below. 

 

It was then that Harry realised there were two little sailors aboard each vessel, and, to his horror, they were all attired in Hogwarts school robes. The ship hit another crest of waves, and one of the—surely, they couldn’t be students—was thrown into the makeshift sea. 

 

Before Harry could cry out, a boy materialised on the grass beside the tub, laughing uproariously and quite soaked through, as his friends helped him to his feet, clapping him on the back and firing off drying spells. 

 

“Molly!” Harry exclaimed. “You mean to tell me that it would be us down there? Are you quite mad?”

 

“It’s fine!” Mols told him. “The water is spelt to dislodge you and reverse the shrinking spell the moment you fall in it, there’s truly no risk, Uncle Harry, I swear.”

 

Harry didn’t know whether to be horrified or intrigued. The Seeker in him did think it might be a real lark, but the father in him wasn’t so sure. Percy and Ralph would be less than pleased should anything happen to Molly.

 

“Don’t ye be fooled, Mr. Potter,” a voice said from behind him. “There’s no danger in these here waters.”

 

Harry turned and was faced with the goblin who had been manning the stall. “Er, hullo,” he managed. 

 

“Greetings,” replied the odd little fellow. “I’m Captain Glurgglod, queller of the seven seas. No creature alive can harness the wind like I.”

 

Harry wanted to suggest that if this creature really was some sort of weather mage, it would be unlikely he’d have found himself working at a carnival, but he bit his tongue. Surely the performance was all in jest. Then again, Harry hadn’t really spent many of his History of Magic classes exactly awake, so his grasp on goblins’ innate abilities was limited to say the least.

 

“Right,” Harry allowed instead. “Well, sounds like fun. How much for a go?”

 

He handed the goblin the requested Sickles to cover his and Molly’s fees, feeling only a little bit foolish. Molly was clearly excited and waved over Main and Mulligan who were currently cheering on one of the little boats from the edge of the crowd. 

 

“Weasley,” Main greeted her as he elbowed his way through the boisterous students with a lot of jovial smiles and winks at the younger students he good-naturedly shoved out of the way. “Picked something, then?” 

 

Main and Mulligan—who Harry still struggled to tell apart, apart from how Main was always talking whereas Mulligan rarely opened his mouth—peered over to examine the waves and the little boats being buffeted about.

 

Harry observed the Main's face carefully. The Slytherin had a strong jaw and a curtain of mid-length brown hair that reminded Harry of the ‘90s sitcoms that used to play at the Dursley’s house. His expression went from curious to determined as he pieced together the game. 

 

“Looks like a partnered event,” Main observed. “Dermot’s with me, clearly, but I don’t see any of your hangers-on about. Surely you’re not planning on facing this thing on your own? Even you can’t be that egotistical.”

 

Mols grinned wolfishly. “Kind of you to worry, Main, but I wouldn’t. Professor Potter here has agreed to give it a go with me, actually.”

 

“Not confident in your own skills, then?” Main demanded, his tone was playful, but there was a nasty edge to it that made Harry suddenly want to win this thing rather badly. Mulligan sniggered unpleasantly. 

 

“I thought you said you could beat me no matter what?” Mols fired back, her tone equally affable. She tucked her necklace into her robes. “So I’m sure Uncle Harry here is no threat.”

 

Main’s expression went momentarily sour, but he quickly schooled it into a sparkling smile. “Just a bit of old fashioned house rivalry, eh, Professor?” he reached out to shake Harry’s hand.

 

“I’m no stranger to that,” Harry remarked. At least Draco had never tried to camouflage his disdain back when they were in school. All this phoney camaraderie really was unpalatable. Harry supposed he should attempt not to dislike one of his students this much. He offered his hand.

 

 “Now, that’s two of the boats,” Molly calculated, turning her back on the two Slytherin seventh years. “Anyone else up for a little sailing practice?”

 

That seemed to pique Al’s interest, because he elbowed Scorpius in the ribs. “What do you think?” 

 

Scorpius looked down at the little boats, two of which were still being thrashed about by the miniature waves. He took a step closer to his father. 

 

“Maybe not for me, Al,” he said, palming his chest to telegraph the reason for his hesitance. 

 

“Oh, right, yeah, sure,” Albus replied, quick to accept his friend’s reticence. He turned to assess his options. “Lils?”

 

Lily shook her head. “No way,” she determined, her voice once again her own. “It would dissolve all my Mints!”

 

“I could hold them for you,” Scorpius offered earnestly. 

 

Lily narrowed her eyes suspiciously, shoving a hand into her cloak pocket to guard her treasure. “Not likely,” she determined. “You might seem nice, but something tells me you have a lot of secrets.”

 

Two more students exploded onto the sidelines beside the trough, giggling as they scrambled to their feet. A moment later, a couple of Ravenclaw witches popped up on the grass and were proclaimed the winners. They were handed their prize: a ship in a bottle, with waves crashing all around it, causing the little boat to bob precariously. Harry had to admit it was an intriguing piece of spell work. 

 

“Fine sailing, you two,” cried the goblin who was running the game, his voice accented and rough. He turned to face Harry and Molly and the rest. “Captains!” he called out. “Grab yer first mates and choose yer banner, the sea waits for no one!” Three triangular flags in different colours sprouted from the ground.

 

“Well?” Molly prodded. “Jamie? Al? You game?”

 

Al looked very torn, clearly wanting to try the game out, and not wanting to be partnered with his brother. 

 

“Oh for hell’s sake,” Jamie said decisively. “Let’s just give a go, Al, alright?”

 

“Why, so you can drown me when we’re too small for people to see?” Al retorted. 

 

“Pretty much,” Jamie concurred. “Well, now that you’ve found me out, shall we?” He motioned to the flags. Main and Mulligan were already standing beside the teal flag. Mols grabbed Harry’s elbow and tugged him towards the orange one. 

 

“Fine,” Al grumbled, stepping ahead of Jamie to stand next to the purple flag. “Just don’t muck it up.”

 

“Ah, more Potters,” Main exclaimed in his overly friendly voice. “Excellent, excellent! This will be a laugh for sure!” 

 

“Here, Professor,” Molly urged, her jaw twitching as she held back a retort. She had a lot more self restraint than Harry remembered having as a teenager. Mols gave Remy’s cheek a final kiss then held him out for Draco to take. 

 

“Thanks,” Harry murmured, also passing Draco the baby change bag. He felt his excitement growing at the mission before him. It reminded him of his old Auror training exercises. It would be only him and Molly and their wits and their magic and really Harry couldn’t believe how much he was looking forward to this competition devised for children. 

 

“Bon voyage,” Draco said dryly. He looped the strap of the bag over his shoulder before taking the baby. He stepped back, Remy easily cradled in his arms, Lily and Scorpius at his side. Harry couldn’t help but to give him a wink. Draco shook his head minutely at Harry’s ridiculous jubilance, but Harry didn’t care. He was bloody happy, and he was damn well going to enjoy it. 

Notes:

This is more like a continuation of Ch. 10, but oh well! Here it is now!

Thanks to everyone for your encouraging comments <3

And double thanks to the marvelous Mimbelwimbel for her beta skills! All remaining mistakes are due to my own carelessness!

Also: I 100% accidentally stole the idea for shrunken characters from her most recent story, Cuppa, which is chock full of delightful antics. I cannot recommend it enough! (And thanks for being so gracious about my plagiarism, friend!).

Chapter 12: Albus

Albus

 

“Jamie, you knob!” Al shouted, yanking on the helm. Ahead of them, a sinister whirlpool was forming, and the great billowing clouds over their heads were spitting down lightning which, without fail, hit the deck of the ship with a terrific crash. And what was Jamie doing? Staring at some rocks (which Al had deftly navigated) as if bewitched. Al squinted through the pelting rain, trying to sort out just what had Jamie so enthralled. Now that he was paying attention, there did seem to be some figures on the rocks.

 

Al looked more closely. The figures had bright white hair and pale skin tapering into glinting scaled tails, emerald green against the dark slate below.  He couldn’t pick out much more detail, but then, between claps of thunder, he heard it: singing. It was sweet and pure, ringing out like a bell and carried to him upon the wind. 

 

For a moment, Al couldn’t think of anything. All he knew was that that sound was calling him, promising him something so precious, something he couldn’t even name. He didn’t think he’d ever yearned before, but now that sensation was blossoming in his chest like so many daffodils, drawing him in. 

 

He had to go to them. He simply had to. He was bereft of reason, of thought, there was only this, those welcoming figures and their crystalline song. 

 

His hands went lax on the helm, and it spun wildly, cracking him on the knuckles. 

 

That broke him out of his stupor, all right. Al gave his head a shake, his tricorn hat (not the captain’s hat; Jamie had insisted on taking that for himself) jostling. Merlin, he thought, cursing his own credulity, sirens. 

 

Securing the wheel quickly, Al just managed to skirt the edges of the mighty whirlpool. He shouted again at his brother, to no avail. Jamie looked about ready to dive head first into the depths and swim to the things, the tosser. 

 

It was a quandary, Al had to admit. He couldn’t let go of the helm, or they’d be half drowned in the whirlpool, but he supposed he couldn’t let Jamie just jump overboard, either…or could he? He could just as easily finish the race on his own, he reckoned. 

 

But, no, no, Dad wouldn’t like that. Then again, Dad was two ships over with Molly—Al could just make out the cheerful orange of their sail—and they were undoubtedly facing their own maritime treacheries. Al could always say he’d tried his best, and it had been Jamie who’d been hell bent on bollocksing everything up. 

 

But Scorpius would know. Al had seen his friend’s giant face towering above them, even through the angry clouds; so no doubt Scorpius was peering down on him in return, taking in the spectacle.

 

Al sighed. He didn’t care about doing the right thing nearly as much as he cared about Scorpius thinking he was doing the right thing. 

 

He scanned the deck of the ship for an idea: wooden planks, wooden masts, and an overturned wooden bucket which had been rolling about on the deck since the waves had knocked it over. That might do, Al thought, if only he could find… yes ! His gaze fell on the accompanying mop. He levelled his wand at it and used a sending spell, compelling the implement to careen across the deck, its frayed ends ruffling in the wind. With not a small amount of satisfaction, Al let the mop take Jamie out at the ankles, causing the older boy to cry out in surprise as he landed hard on his back, his captain’s hat careening towards Al. 

 

“What the hell, Al!” Jamie shouted, scrambling to his feet and rubbing his backside. He looked stunned and a little confused at having his reverie so rudely interrupted. He was bristling and shaking out his limbs, reminding Al of a housecat caught at some diversion beneath its dignity. 

 

“That hurt,” James grumbled, searching the deck for his hat. Al spotted it first and scooped it up rapidly, swapping it out for his less impressive one. 

 

“Don’t think you’ve earnt this,” he told his brother. “Considering you can’t even be trusted to keep your eyes where they belong! I can’t even believe you, mooning over some sirens while I’m trying to keep us afloat. Bloody useless, you are.”

 

Jamie was clearly embarrassed, his cheeks flushed red and spine erect, ready for a fight. “You arrogant little shit,” he started, but his expression changed suddenly to round-eyed panic. “Er, Al…”

 

Al pivoted quickly, eyes skimming the seas around them. Mulligan and Main’s vessel had a slight lead on them. Al could hear Main shouting orders to his lackey, but surely that wasn’t what had Jamie flustered, so what…

 

Al saw it then, a great sinewy tuber-like appendage breaking through the waves. It was covered with suckers the size of dinner plates and it was coming straight for them. 

 

“SEA MONSTER!” Al shouted stupidly, a rush of exhilaration beating bright and brilliant all through him. He knew wouldn’t truly be hurt, but his body clearly rejected this notion in favour of its senses and Al was thrumming, muscles coiling in preparation to spring out of harm’s way.

 

“Protego!” Jamie yelled, just as the massive tentacle plummeted down toward the ship. 

 

It must have been a strong spell, Al reckoned, because the mottled black arm of the beast bounced uselessly off the shimmering, clover green protective layer now surrounding not just Al and Jamie, but their entire schooner. Al had never seen anything like it.

 

“Wicked,” Al breathed, shooting a rare grin at Jamie. 

 

“Might not hold,” Jamie warned through gritted teeth. “Do something!”

 

Al gave a curt nod, thinking hard. In the water, he saw the rounded, barnacled head of the sea monster crest, two bulging inky eyes glaring at them through the storm. Another tentacle was raised, and brought down with a vengeance. 

 

Jamie’s spell failed and both boys sprang out of the path of the slimy appendage as it hit the deck with a worrisome crack. Al fell back, slamming his back against a wooden beam. His feet skittered out from under him, and he only just managed to catch himself on a large wooden box of cargo.

 

“Mast!” Jamie croaked, pointing up to where the once solid pole teetered precariously before plummeting to the deck with an earsplitting boom, pulling the plum coloured sail down with it. 

 

There wasn’t time to deal with that. 

 

Al eyed the monster, who looked ready to bring forth a third attack. It  truly was a ghastly sight: the slimy, bloblike body bobbing about, the many appendages slapping wetly aginst the waves as they buoyed the creature in place. 

 

Al felt the cargo box was solid under his elbow. 

 

“Any ideas?” Jamie demanded from round the other side of the crate. “A distraction? Something?”

 

The thought came to Al with such delightful clarity that it made him want to laugh. He felt his magic flooding his fingertips, mirthful and restless and at the ready. 

 

He stepped back and pointed his wand at the cargo bin. Jamie likewise scrambled backwards, eyes darting between Al and the looming shape beside them.

 

Al didn’t know an exact spell for what he wanted, not really, but the idea felt so potent and perfect that it was as though no words were needed at all. The crate levitated into the air and began to spin wildly, recklessly, only to plop right back down, no longer a crate, but a writhing fishnet teaming with herring. Some nearby seagulls took notice, flapping excitedly and hopping over to nip at the fish from between the webbing of the net.

 

“What?” Jamie asked, nonplussed.

 

Al waved him off, turning his attention to the sea monster.

 

“You like this?” he crowed, gesturing towards his creation. “Want a snack?”

 

The cephalopod made a gurgling sound that Al interpreted as interest. A rush of bubbles surfaced near where Al thought its mouth might be, and its eyes were fixed on its would-be meal.

 

“Al, you brilliant idiot,” James shouted, rushing to Al’s side. “You deserve that damn hat.”

 

“I was thinking we might target the competition, what do you think?” Al asked, tipping his head towards the teal sails of Main and Mulligan’s ship. 

 

“It would be my pleasure,” came the response. 

 

With a whoop of glee, Jamie again levitated the mass of squirming fish into the air and used his own sending spell to catapult it through the air, its movement clearly being tracked by the bulbous eyes of the creature beside them. A cloud of gulls rose up in its wake, cawing and flapping and chasing after their feast.

 

Jamie had, Al realised at once, been a bit too zealous with his sending spell, because the fishnet overshot the other Slytherins’ vessel by a good amount and…

 

“Oh shit,” Jamie exclaimed looking horrified, the load of fish dropping directly on the deck of the orange-sailed ship. 

 

“Jamie, you didn’t! That’s dad and Molly’s boat!” Al erupted. The sea monster dipped beneath the waves and disappeared. 

 

Al and Jamie watched in horror as within seconds, eight fat tentacles sprang forth from the salt water and wrapped around their father’s boat and dragged it wholly under, the merry orange sail bobbing on the surface in surrender. 

 

Al heard Sterling Main’s victorious cackle even over the sound of snapping wood and whipping wind. Al didn’t think he’d ever wanted to trounce anyone so badly in his life.

 

“Oh Merlin,” Jamie was objecting, as if accused. “I didn’t mean to, I was aiming for Main and Mulligan’s, I swear.”

 

“Well, nothing doing now, is there?” Al scolded, quickly checking to make sure his dad and Molly reappeared up above the clouds. They did almost immediately. Dad was laughing, stepping into place beside Professor Malfoy, who offered a tolerant half-smile. Molly looked a little less jolly. She was competitive like Jamie, and used to winning at things. Nevertheless, she seemed to be taking the loss on the chin. 

 

“Come on, Potters!” Molly trumpeted, wringing out her hair and making it rain. “You’re our only hope, now!”

 

Al quickly assessed the situation. Main and Mulligan were still ahead by more than a ship’s length, and seemed to be gaining speed. 

 

Meanwhile, Al and Jamie’s boat was nearly at a standstill, they were spun sideways from their encounter with the sea beast and their mast was broken and their sail heaped upon the deck. Al sprinted for the helm, cranking it wildly. 

 

“What now?” he asked, trying to fend off a sense of defeat. “Know anything that could propel us along? Wind won’t be of much use.”

 

Jamie shook his head. 

 

“Damn it, what about water spells? Anything?” Al urged. 

 

“Wait,” Jamie puzzled aloud. “The fish, could you do that again?"

 

“I expect I could,” Al said tentatively. “What have you got in mind?”

 

“I was just thinking,” Jamie started, motioning to a suitable crate for Al to transfigure, “do you remember that story Aunt Hermione read to us when we were small? About James and the peach?”

 

“Vaguely. I more remember being bitter there weren’t any Muggle stories about Albuses,” Al commented. “That’s about it, really.”

 

“They harness the peach to a flock of seagulls. Why can’t we do the same? They were attracted to the herring, you saw that yourself. We coax them here, hitch them to the boat somehow, then dangle the fish just out of their reach.”

 

“Hm,” Al pondered, holding back a sneer. He wasn’t quite ready to reject the only idea on offer, especially when his own mind hadn’t been particularly forthcoming. “A bit time consuming, don’t you think? Collaring a whole colony?”

 

“I think I have something for that,” Jamie said. He reached into the pocket of his cloak and held out a little jar. “I won these at a trivia tent earlier, when I was with Fort and Ri.”

 

“What are they?” Al asked, trying to get a look at the contents. From his perspective, all he could see were little black beads.

 

“Sprouts of Fiend’s Snare,” Jamie told him. 

 

Al huffed. So much for this idea.

 

“Sure they are,” he sighed sarcastically. “Because Devil’s Snare—a deadly and strictly regulated plant—is going to be given out to children at a carnival for knowing, what, the name of the World Cup Champtions circa 2007?” 

 

Al shook his head in disgust. He’d not expected even his muttonheaded older brother to be this gullible. 

 

“It’s not Devil’s Snare,” Jamie protested, “precisely because this is a children’s carnival! This is Fiend's Snare, it's a really toothless version of the same that just trips a person up a bit. It isn’t lethal and only lasts about ten minutes, at least according to the witch running the game.”

 

"Whatever, Jamie," Al said sourly. 

 

"I'll prove it!" Jamie argued and without warning, opened his jar, pulled out one of the supposed sprouts, and pelted it at Al. Immediately, it sprung to life, coiling around Al’s wrist and crawling halfway up his forearm. For a moment the plant pulled taut and Al staved off panic, imagining the plant circling his throat and choking him. But just like that, the tendrils came to rest just past his shoulder. They were snug, certainly, but Al could hardly claim they hurt. Still, he was nonetheless put out that Jamie had tried them on him willy-nilly like that.

 

“Careless bastard!” he cried. “Those could have been anything! And that could have been my wand arm! Then who would transfigure your stupid fish!”

 

“Oh, stop whinging. Are we going to give this a go, or what? We’re running out of time here.”

 

Al glanced starboard to see that Mulligan and Main had gained a significant lead. Even if their plan was flawless, he doubted they had much chance, but he reckoned that they ought to at least try.

 

“It could work,” Al relented. “Fish at the bow, snare around the gulls’ feet, spur them forward with some levitating herring. It’s ridiculous, but what else have we got?”

 

“Well?” Jamie said with a lopsided grin. “What are we waiting for?”

 

/// /// 

 

The plan was ridiculous, Al reflected, but at the same time it had a mad sort of brilliance, because pretty soon, their ship was was being yanked unsteadily along by a squawking mass of seagulls bound by their ankles to the bowsprit and taffrail, a squirming sack of herring just out of their reach. 

 

The volume of guano was inconceivable. 

 

“I can’t bloody believe this,” Al muttered under his breath. His arm was still pinned to his side by the Fiend's Snare.

 

“It’s daft,” Jamie agreed, his grin giving way to a chuckle. 

 

The sound was clearly contagious because within a minute, both boys were doubled over, hardly able to catch breath, they were laughing so hard. Every time Al would look up, to try to gauge where the teal-sailed ship was, or to catch sight of Al’s face above the clouds, he would inevitably be distracted by the stupid, stubborn seagulls struggling fruitlessly, and be caught in a braying peel of laughter all over again. 

 

“Merlin, Al,” Jamie managed to get out between gales, “I’m quite sure I’ve never seen anything as absurd in my whole life. We won’t win, but we won’t be forgettable either.”

 

Al grinned at him and Jamie clapped him on the back. 

 

“Al! Jamie! Look out!” 

 

Even at a volume well above booming, Al could recognize Scorpius’ voice, and he straightened immediately, hunting for danger. 

 

Massive, towering cliffs were erupting out of the water like reanimated corpses: threatening and unexpected. Al’s heart dropped at the sheer scale of the things, which were now looming ahead and aggregating to form a tight pinch point and turbulent waters. The gap was far too narrow for their ship to fit through and it was too late to manoeuvre their bulky ship around the outskirts of the newfound mountains. 

 

“HOLD ON!” Jamie bellowed, throwing an arm around Al and slamming them to the deck, one his wand arm linking around the broken stump of mast. 

 

Without thinking, Al used his free arm (damn weeds) to cling to his brother’s robes, heart rabbitting in his chest as he tried to sort out just what Jamie was planning. 

 

His stomach gave a massive heave as the deck of the ship shifted vertically, and suddenly, Al found his feet dangling in the air. 

 

"What the hell!?" he shouted, but Jamie didn't reply, he was too focused on steering the net full of herring high into the sky. The bloody seagulls had taken after it, plucky the ship fully from the sea and dangling it over the cliffs. 

 

“Jamie!” Al screamed, floundering to get his arms fastened tightly around the other boy’s middle “Are you mad, this isn’t going to hold!”

 

“It doesn’t have to hold for long,” Jamie announced, his eyes steely. "Just long enough."

 

Flummoxed, Al followed his gaze to where Main and Mulligan’s boat was moving full speed ahead, despite their frantic efforts to avoid their own set of cliffs. 

 

The Slytherin team didn’t make it. 

 

Main and Mulligan’s ship crashed head first into the rocks, tossing the Seventh years into the frothing waves like action figures off a garden wall. 

 

The appeared livid and glowering overhead just as the Fiend’s Snare gave way. 

 

Al heard the snap of the foliage and he felt himself fall. 

 

/// /// 

 

Finding himself back on solid ground came as something of a shock to Al. 

 

He felt certain he would spit up sea water, but his robes were dry and his mouth empty as Jamie yanked him to his feet. The Fiend's Snare had miraculously disappeared from his arm.

 

Or maybe all that wasn't too miraculous, he surmised, catching sight of Professor Malfoy's wand gripped casually between long fingers. 

 

Flanking him and the Potter family was a veritable crowd of students, all cheering and chattering and remarking on face off between the Head Boy and Head Girl, not to mention their DADA professor and his eldest sons. 

 

Dad jostled Remy in his arms and winked at Al, who grinned back before finding himself nearly toppled over as Scorpius flung one arm around his neck and another around Jamie’s and squeezed the life out of both of them.

 

“Scor,” he chided. “Oxygen.”

 

“Oh, Merlin, I’m sorry,” Scorpius replied breathlessly, relaxing his grip. “But you should have seen it, the two of you! Fantastic! Truly, Al, Jamie, I mean it!”

 

Al found himself feeling more than a little chuffed. His cheeks and abdomen were still aching from laughter.

 

Nearby, Mulligan and Main were arguing with Molly, who was clearly refusing to budge. 

 

“You said you’d win, Main,” Molly was pointing out. “Not that you’d beat me. Last I checked, second place doesn’t count as a win.”

 

“They cheated,” Main hurled back, all his pretence of his smarmy, shiny exterior evaporated. His robes, Al noticed, were still soaked through. “This was a sailing race, not a flying race—”

 

“I’ll be the judge of that, I think,” Captain Glurgglod announced, striding round from the other side of the trough. Al could barely believe he’d just been in there, and that it had felt like the size of an ocean. His sense of scale felt terribly skewed. “The rules state,” the goblin announced, pulling out a scroll from the pocket of his fitted coat, “The first boat to cross the finish line with at least one sailor left aboard may rightly call themselves the winner.” He nodded towards Al and Jamie. “The Potter boys here surely crossed the line, whereas ye and yers would have been long drowned beneath the waves.”

 

Main looked fit to kill and ready to argue, but Professor Malfoy cleared his throat.  

 

Any student at Hogwarts would recognise that sound. They all knew better than to disregard Professor Malfoy who concocted detentions spanning from desperately tedious to infuriatingly meticulous and exhaustingly labourious. Al had maybe sat through a half dozen of them himself last year, and he wasn’t keen on a repeat. Main clearly wasn’t either. 

 

“Right,” the Head Boy muttered, clenching his jaw shut. “Congratulations, Potters. I concede. Come, Dermot. I’m sure the concert is starting shortly.”

 

With that, the two Slytherins stalked off, looking not nearly as dignified as Al suspected they’d hoped to.

 

“You ought to be proud, Professor Potter,” Captain Glurgglod was saying in that oddly accented, weathered voice of his. “Never have I seen such resourcefulness, but having heard tales, I can guess where yer brood came by it.”

 

Without a small amount of pomp, he awarded Al and Jamie their own little bottled ships. 

 

Al had never cared a toss for the Quidditch Cup before, but for the first time, he thought he might understand the appeal. Scorpius was beaming. Jamie kept clapping him on the back. Lily had darted forward to take him by the hand.  Al felt he could take on the whole wide world and still come out on top.

 

“Believe me, Captain,” Al heard his dad say. “I am.”

Notes:

I'm so sorry for the long hiatus! I have a million excuses but mostly this was an action chapter and I don't know why I make myself write action chapters when I only ever want to write feelings chapters, but here we have it. Thanks to those of you who are still reading and for those of you who gently encouraged me to get a move on. The next chapter is a feelings chapter so hopefully it will come more promptly.

Thanks to my astonishingly patient beta, Mimbelwimbel for her thoughts on first half! I was in too much of a hurry to post (I have been feeling so guilty) to get her advice for the second half (and I'm sure the quality has suffered as a result) so all mistakes are, as always, on me.

Seagull plot point stolen from James and the Giant Peach by the incomparable Roald Dahl.

Chapter 13: Draco

 

Draco

 

Amethyst Howl’s last haunting note was met with an abundance of hooting and hollering. Neither the songstress nor the ruckus was to Draco’s taste, but Harry appeared enthusiastic, one hand clapping against Remy’s back. Remy was nonplussed and tugging at the miniature earmuffs dampening the noise of the concert. Draco had borrowed them from one of the greenhouses and shrunk them down to size.

 

“You really do think of everything,” Harry had marvelled when Draco produced them from a pocket. Harry was like that, always speaking in hyperboles and superlatives, and seeing any small gesture as a singular miracle.

 

“I thought of one, small thing,” Draco had corrected. 

 

He relieved Remy of the earmuffs as the applause faded away. He tucked them back in his cloak, making a mental note to return them to Neville when next he saw the man. He checked his pocket watch and was relieved to remember that tomorrow was a Saturday. Then again, Remy hardly recognized weekends as anything out of the ordinary. 

 

“Shall we?” he asked Harry. He looked around to catch sight of Scorpius, but his son was nowhere to be found, off gallivanting with the Potter boys, no doubt. It was, Draco thought, as it should be. 

 

“Yeah, about that time,” Harry agreed. 

 

“Not yet, Daddy,” Lily pleaded, tugging her father away from the bulk of the crowd. Draco was compelled to follow. “I’m sure there are loads of things we haven’t seen! We definitely didn’t make it past the jack-o-lantern quartet!”

 

As if on cue, one of the jack-o-lanterns struck a note, and the other three joined in, harmonising on the subject of Hallowe’en dreams. The tune would surely take root in his brain for the next fortnight, Draco thought sourly. He longed for a proper aria, although he couldn’t quite picture Harry at the All Hallows annual opera. He shook off the foolish thought. Whatever he and Harry were to one another, they didn’t go out, and with good reason. Harry had enough going on in his life; he didn’t need a media firestorm on top of everything.

 

“We’ll head that way since it will take us back to the castle,” Harry relented, “but we’re not stopping to ogle at every single booth.”

 

/// ///

 

Lily did stop to ogle at every booth, carefully counting out Sickles and Knuts for candied apples and gaudy rings and other trinkets to add to the menagerie on her window sill. 

 

“Come on, love,” Harry prompted her as they at last made it to the last stall of wares. “Let’s find our brooms.” He put an arm around her shoulders to steer her towards the castle gates. 

 

“Wait,” Lily protested fiercely. “I want to go there.” She pointed a half-eaten skeleton lolly towards the very outskirts of the pitch. 

 

Draco had to admit he would have missed the little tent entirely. It was a shimmering silver, as though a splash of moonlight had touched down onto the far corner of the Quidditch pitch. 

 

“Huh,” said Harry without any real sense of wonder. “Just a vendor, I should think.”

 

“I want to go!” Lily repeated emphatically, shoving the lolly back in her mouth and darting towards it like a moth to a flame.

 

Harry shook his head at the incorrigible girl, but followed in her path. 

 

As they approached, he examined the tent academically. It was a deceptively simple thing: a long, seamless swath of softly glittering fabric stretched over a bit of golden rope, the two ends of which were tied into bows and suspended in space, as if affixed to the very air. Two triangular flaps of the same silvery material made up the front of the tent. 

 

Draco startled as the tent flaps parted, and Sterling Main crawled out, a curl of incense smoke lingering behind him. The smoke was disturbed by Dermot Mulligan, his usually kempt hair mussed and his glasses foggy. 

 

The boys appeared slack-jawed and stupid for a moment.

 

Main was the first to get his wits about him.  “Professor,” he said, giving Draco a dazed nod. 

 

Mulligan, looking at Harry, echoed the greeting.

 

“Fortune telling,” Main attempted to explain, gesturing to the tent.

 

“Ah,” Draco acknowledged, not sure of what to make of the encounter. 

 

“Alright, you two?” Harry asked. 

 

“Of course,” Main replied, “It’s a lark. You’ll have fun.”

 

He took Mulligan firmly by the arm and the two set off towards the bustle of the carnival. 

 

"What was that about, then?" Harry wondered aloud.

 

Before Draco could answer, the reason for Main’s slack-jawed stupidity presented itself: a slender, androgynous Veela gracefully peered out from the curtains, smiling serenely. 

 

Draco felt a hint of arousal. He glanced at Harry guiltily, but Harry remained congenial and unfazed. Then again, Harry had shrugged off the Imperius curse at thirteen, making his impulse control quite literally the stuff of legends. 

 

“Mr. Potter,” the Veela said, long hair flowing like a river across their shoulders. They wore a crimson satin robe with intricate black embroidery. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

 

They did not make it sound like the meeting was unexpected whatsoever, and Draco did not care for that.

 

“May I offer you a fortune?” the Veela prompted. “On the house, of course, for your service.”

 

“I’m alright, thanks,” Harry said easily.

 

“Well, I would like a fortune!” Lily announced, shouldering her way in front of her father and the baby. She held her lolly like a scepter, her tongue black from the dye. “Dad’s old and has nothing to look forward to except Remy growing out of nappies! But I’ve got a lifetime of adventure ahead of me and I want to know it all!”

 

“And who am I to disappoint Harry Potter’s only daughter?” the Veela asked, giving a half bow from within the tent and motioning to a large velvet cushion. A wrought silver censer swung hypnotically overheard. “Please, join me.”

 

Draco felt a twitch in his legs, his body wanting to draw itself closer to the alluring creature, but he remained resolute. He was long past puberty, after all. This feeling was an annoyance, nothing more. 

 

Lily stepped towards the tent with enthusiastic curiosity, but Harry halted her, his free hand tugging on her cloak. 

 

The little witch opened her mouth to protest, but Harry’s serious expression seemed to catch her off guard. 

 

“Sorry, love,” Harry said gently, “but I’d soon as not shackle you with a prophecy.”

 

Harry turned towards the Veela, still unmoved. “No offence intended,” he offered amiably.

 

“On the contrary, Mr. Potter,” came the reply. The scent of incense was thick in the air. Draco felt like he was choking on it, his cloak suddenly too warm and tight round his neck. The Veela ignored him, their eyes never leaving Harry, and Draco didn’t care for that, either. “I’m tickled you suspect me capable of something more than a parlour trick.”

 

“I’m sure it’s a wonderful bit of mesmerism,” Harry declared with an air of finality, “but perhaps another time.”

 

“Certainly,” the Veela answered with another truncated bow. “I look forward to it.”

 

/// ///

 

Even the tireless Lily had begun to flag by the time the three of them touched down in Hogsmeade. Her usual chatter faded away and Draco suspected some whinging was imminent. Harry headed it off by handing Draco his broom and scooping Lily up onto one hip. 

 

“You’re getting too big for this, LiLu,” Harry muttered, taking care that Lily’s knee didn’t bump Remy, who was secured to his chest. The note of tenderness in his voice was not at all well hidden. 

 

Lily didn’t respond, already asleep on Harry’s shoulder. Harry smiled at her and Draco caught himself smiling, in turn, at the three of them. Only Harry could be so overburdened with children and still simultaneously so content.

 

The streetlights glowed a gentle yellow and the air wasn’t yet so cool as to make the walk unwelcome. The little town was quiet and their arms bumped as they walked, footsteps echoing pleasingly on the cobblestones. 

 

They were exposed only to the darkened windows of the residences of Greengrocer Lane and Draco felt their small party was quite alone in the world. The anonymity made him daring and the next time his arm glanced off Harry’s, he let their fingers brush. 

 

Harry caught the hint and  Draco’s hand, and Draco felt his pathetic little heart stutter in response. Harry's skin was warm and Draco ran a thumb over the familiar broomstick callouses on the edge of his palm. It was such a simple thing, to hold the hand of someone he cared for, and while Draco chided himself not to lay too much onto the gesture, he allowed himself to admit that it certainly felt nice. 

 

“Did you have a good time?” Harry asked, and to Draco’s surprise, he sounded very nearly shy. 

 

“I had a lovely evening,” Draco answered honestly. “Thank you.”

 

“You’re sure it wasn’t too…chaotic?” Harry pressed.

 

“It’s always chaotic with your lot,” Draco reminded him, “and I never mind it.”

 

Harry looked chuffed at that and took a few more steps, tightening his hold. 

 

Draco turned his head to look at Harry, wondering if they might brave a kiss in the lamplight, when Harry stopped suddenly, dropping Draco’s hand with a shocked intake of breath. 

 

A figure was standing at the edge of the garden of Crabapple Cottage, watching them. A hood was pulled up, shielding the face, and the person had their arms wrapped around their torso. They didn’t appear threatening, but Draco gripped the wand in his pocket nevertheless. He squinted through the darkness of the garden, but he couldn’t make out any distinguishing features. 

 

The figure stepped forward into the yellow glow of the lamp and pulled back their hood to reveal thick, red hair pleated neatly in a braid. 

 

“Gin?” Harry said, “What are you doing here?”

Notes:

I've no excuse for abandoning my WIP for nearly an entire year. Thanks to everyone who is still here. Thanks to themockturtle for all their comments the last few days; you reminded me how much I enjoy this hobby.

Hope you're all well. Unbeta'd, sorry! I'm sure mistakes abound.

Also unbelievable thanks to all the commenters on the last chapter. It feels a bit silly to do individual comments on each one a year after the fact, but I've read them all twice and I soak in the praise like an iguana on a heat rock. <3

Chapter 14: Harry

***Please see the end of the chapter for content warnings***

 

 

Harry

 

 

“I thought you wanted to talk.” Ginny’s voice was quiet and gravelly like she hadn’t used it in a while. 

 

Harry felt his heart pounding like he’d been caught sneaking around past curfew, cornered and guilty. 

 

The guilt was a piss off. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He had every right to be with Draco, it was Ginny who ought to be the guilty one. He focused his racing thoughts, trying to take in what was unfolding before him. 

 

Ginny, to Harry’s numbed surprise, appeared plenty guilty, her usually proud posture deflated and withdrawn. She also looked tired and, perhaps understandably, confused. 

 

“Malfoy,” Ginny said to fill the space that Harry left unoccupied. The word wasn’t quite a question, but it wasn’t far off. 

 

Draco didn’t respond, but Harry felt his careful grey eyes watching him, making it clear he would follow Harry’s lead. 

 

Harry couldn’t find his words, his jaw felt locked on its hinge, his tongue thick and sluggish. All the overwhelm, the rage and disappointment, and worst of all, the bloody heartache, were all warring for release. The emotions stumbled over each other in a choked mess of an exhale. 

 

“I’ve got to get the kids to bed,” Harry finally managed. Lily felt heavy in his arms and the last thing he needed was the over-exhausted child waking up to see the mother who had abandoned her. 

 

He stepped forward to walk past Ginny, Draco quickly falling into step beside him. It felt careful and loving and protective and Harry felt a sweep of gratitude. 

 

“Wait,” Ginny said, her voice cracking, “Can I…Can I see them?”

 

Draco snorted derisively. His silent stoicism had a limit, apparently. 

 

“Oh, is it convenient for you to see them now?” Draco hissed. The words were a sharp whisper and Harry loved how even in his wrath the other man was still mindful of the slumbering Lily. Nevertheless, antagonism was hardly helpful and served only to make Harry feel the stress of the friction.

 

“I don’t see what business it is of yours,” Ginny spat back. Whatever had transpired for her in the past six months, she clearly wasn’t diminished enough to be left without her backbone, or her temper. 

 

“It’s alright,” Harry managed, pressing a hand to Draco’s forearm. “Let her have a minute.”

 

Draco seethed silently beside Harry, but made no more arguments as Ginny took a shaking breath and stepped in close. She reached out, her hand hovering over Lily’s face, but she didn’t touch her. 

 

Her hand wavered there before falling to Remy’s shoulders. She leant in and kissed the baby’s head. She stayed pressed against him for a minute, and Harry knew she must be feeling Remy’s sticky-soft cheek and inhaling his sweet baby smell. He wondered for the millionth time how she could ever think to walk away from it all, from their everything. He wasn’t sure if that thought made him furious or just desperately sad.

 

When Ginny pulled away, tears streaked her face. She didn’t acknowledge them. “Thank you,” she breathed.

 

Harry nodded and Ginny stepped back with what looked like some effort. 

 

“I’ll be out in a bit,” Harry muttered. With Draco at his side, Harry made his way to the entrance of the cottage.

 

His hand was trembling so much that Draco had to take the key from him. 

 

Draco propped the broomsticks up against the corner of the veranda and ushered Harry inside, shutting the door firmly behind them. 

 

“What can I do?” he asked, face serious. 

 

Harry’s shoulder ached with the weight of Lily, and yet he couldn’t seem to bring himself to put her down. “I don’t know,” Harry admitted, half desperate, “I don’t know.”

 

His vision swam and he realised with defeat that it was because he had tears in his eyes. His muscles felt weak and useless and not guaranteed to hold him upright. 

 

“Sit,” Draco insisted. 

 

Harry nodded and sank onto the sagging sofa. It seemed to swallow him up, and Harry thought maybe that was for the best. 

 

Lily stirred in his arms. 

 

“Daddy?” she asked. 

 

He shushed her, laying her beside him, her head on his knee. She seemed to drift off easily enough. He stroked her hair like a talisman, while Draco started a fire in the hearth.

 

As the room began to warm, Harry set to work trying to untangle the ends of the wrap strapping Remy to him. His hands felt blunt as blocks of wood, and about as adept. He blinked his eyes tight and then Draco was kneeling before him suddenly, displacing Harry’s numb hands to take on the task himself. Draco’s actions were fluid and capable and Harry felt like he was watching them from far away. He went back to stroking Lily’s hair. 

 

“It’s alright,” Draco murmured impossibly, because Harry was certain nothing was alright, but Draco’s voice was firm and soothing, like it would be completely okay if Harry splintered apart, leaving Draco behind to handle the wreckage. 

 

Remy was lifted from his chest, thankfully still asleep, and then Draco was standing, cradling the baby. 

 

“Let me get him fed and changed and to bed,” Draco was saying, although Harry felt like the words were coming through a wind tunnel. “One thing at a time.”

 

One thing at a time, Harry repeated to himself silently. Draco would take care of it, he was good at taking care of things, especially when Harry was a mess, always a fucking mess, and why on earth would anyone stick around for this? How could anyone choose to stay? Ginny certainly hadn’t. 

 

Harry tried to tether himself, but his racing mind insisted on staying the swift, spiraling course. Draco would surely leave because that was what people did, they left, and Harry would be alone trying to convince his broken-hearted children that their fate would somehow be different. But how could Harry give them what they needed when he was hollowed out like this, incapable and bereft?

 

He didn’t know what was happening. His skin was tingling and cold, his breaths shallow and jagged as his brain supplied him with only too much too much too much. 

 

He was drowning and needed something to cling to, but he couldn’t imagine asking, because Draco was busy with the baby and Lily was asleep and Harry couldn’t let her know what an utter disaster he was. All he could do was sit, paralyzed, and try to keep from going under. 

 

He didn’t know how long he stayed there uselessly, counting his lighting-quick heart beat and trying to ignore the cold crawling numbness encroaching upon his throat and mouth. Draco was there again, saying something and squeezing Harry’s arm. Harry looked at his lips, trying to force himself to comprehend the words. 

 

“I’ll be right back,” Draco promised. He roused Lily enough to get her to kick off her shoes. 

 

Harry forced himself to smile at her and kiss her goodnight. His body felt as plastic and rigid as a mannequin's. 

 

He tried to focus on Lily’s and Draco’s voices instead of his own horrid thoughts threatening an endless loneliness. He couldn’t pick out words, but knowing Draco was in the cottage with him helped ground him a little. Eventually, he processed the firm snick of her bedroom door closing and Draco reappearing in the sitting room.  

 

“Harry?”  Draco asked, and Harry looked up at him helplessly. “What would you like to do?”

 

“I don’t know,” Harry choked out. “I don’t fucking know. I thought I wanted this. In June I wanted nothing more than a bloody conversation with her and now, I can’t think, I’m so. I’m so…I don’t know, so everything.”

 

He wanted Draco to come to him, to wrap those confident arms around him and set everything to order like he’d done that summer, but Draco was positioned a few steps back. The distance between them felt like an impassable chasm, filling Harry with terror. 

 

Harry stared at him helplessly for a moment before his brain finally caught up with what it was seeing. 

 

Draco looked uncertain, Harry realised suddenly. It was the first bit of clarity he’d had since arriving home. In his crisis, he’d ignored what Draco must be feeling in all of this and how could Harry be so stupid and selfish and fuck up this shining good thing they’d managed to build since his whole life burned to ash. 

 

“Can you…come sit?” Harry tried, panic mounting at the thought of losing this lifeline. “Please, I’m sorry, I’m off my head a little, but please, just, I don’t know, just be here with me, okay? I want you here, I do.” 

 

Draco didn’t hesitate, to Harry’s massive relief. He crossed the floor in two quick steps, curling one leg under himself to sit on the sofa, facing Harry. His expression was grim but determined and Harry didn’t know what it meant. 

 

“Are you alright?” Draco asked quietly. 

 

Harry shook his head, scrubbing his hands over his face. 

 

“Okay,” Draco accepted, reaching over to run his palm up Harry’s spine. “What are you feeling?”

 

“Too many things all at once,” Harry told him truthfully, grateful that he was able to form words at all. “I’m furious and I can’t think straight and I’m fucking hurt.  What gave her the right to just show up here, at my home, at our home? I wanted to talk, but not like this, not when I’m so fucking tired and she’s here without notice, and Merlin, what if Lily had woken up, what in hell’s name was Ginny thinking?”

 

“I don’t know,” Draco said calmly. “I struggle to understand any of her decisions in recent months. I’m sorry. Do you want me to send her away?”

 

“Yes,” Harry replied automatically, before thinking better of it. “No. Probably not. I should talk to her. Hear her out. Let her know she can’t just show up when the kids might see her without a fucking conversation. Or at least that is what I will say when I stop feeling like this.”

 

“That sounds reasonable,” Draco nodded. 

 

Harry made a miserable noise and turned, gracelessly shoving his face against Draco’s neck. Draco slid his hand up to Harry’s nape, and kissed his head. 

 

Harry realised his heart rate had slowed to something approaching normal. He clenched and unclenched his hands on Draco’s cloak, convincing his blood to flow and sensation to return. He steadied his breathing.

 

“Thank you,” he said. 

 

“For what?” Draco asked, sounding genuinely curious. 

 

“For not losing your cool even when I’m in shambles. For doing what needs doing when I can’t even think. For not running even though you have every right to.”

 

“And where would I go, hm?” Draco wondered aloud, “Back to the empty, echoing halls of the Manor? To my safe and meaningless routine? I’ll decline that offer, thank you very much. No, Potter, for once in my life, I’d like to brave the storm at your side.”

 

Harry nodded fervently into Draco’s neck. “I’d like that, too,” he managed. 

 

/// ///

 

Harry led Ginny to the back garden where a couple of squat stone benches sat around the base of a young oak tree. 

 

The glow from the hearth slipped through the window and cast Ginny’s hair in bronze. Her face was drawn but resolute. She tugged at the tip of her braid, reminding Harry achingly of a much younger Ginny, a Ginny who had loved him. 

 

“Has Malfoy left?” Ginny asked. 

 

“No,” Harry replied without further comment.

 

“Oh,” was Ginny’s answer. “Right then.”

 

“You have a problem with that?” Harry challenged, clinging to anything that would at least keep him coherent, and anger seemed to fit the bill. 

 

“Even if I did, I suspect you would say that my opinion doesn’t factor in.”

 

The insight took Harry off guard. Then again, who knew him better? He hated that fact, just then, that she could know him so intimately and still gouge him so deeply. 

 

“I would,” he agreed. 

 

Ginny nodded. 

 

Harry said nothing, so Ginny said nothing. They sat in heavy, unbearable silence. 

 

Harry watched a mustard coloured leaf slip from the oak tree. It spiraled lazily downwards, landing at Ginny’s foot. He knew those boots, had seen them kicked off onto the front mat dozens of times as he and Ginny and the family poured into Eiderdown End from whatever errand they’d been running, Ginny’s arms usually laden with groceries or coats the children had discarded during the trip. He knew her, too. 

 

He swallowed, painfully. 

 

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” Ginny said, finally. “I know it’s not enough, not even close, but I need you to know how bitterly sorry I am.”

 

Harry shrugged. “Doesn’t help,” he pointed out. 

 

“Yeah,” Ginny agreed. “I figured it wouldn’t.”

 

They lapsed into silence again. 

 

“Is that all you have to say?” he demanded, perhaps churlishly, but this whole encounter was fucking agony and he just wanted to get through it. 

 

“Of course it’s not,” was Ginny’s tired response. “I’ve thought through every possible iteration of this conversation, and nothing is ever enough. I can’t undo my decision. I can’t wholly regret my decision, either.”

 

That made Harry rage. He looked up at her pale, proud face, and for the first time, wanted to do her real, lasting harm. He felt his magic gather around him threateningly. Ginny looked like she wouldn’t even fight it. 

 

Harry’s anger frightened him and he shut it down immediately, reining in his magic in horror. He’d never once felt inclined to strike Ginny, in all their years of marriage, and it disgusted him how quickly his temper had surfaced. 

 

“Sorry,” he muttered, knowing she had sensed it. 

 

Ginny shrugged. “Not like I don’t deserve it. Might have been a relief.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Never mind.”

 

That irritated Harry. “Don’t fucking play games, Gin. Say what you came here to say.”

 

“It would be a relief to know I wasn’t the only one capable of something unforgivable. That you’re human, too.”

 

“You know I am, better than most.”

 

“I do,” Ginny acquiesced.

 

It was another stake in his chest. Harry hadn’t invented twenty years of closeness and understanding. Ginny was the person who’d seen every bit of him, in every situation, day after day, year after year. He couldn't forgive her, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t a gaping loss. 

 

“What did I do?” Harry asked, hating the quiet, pathetic timbre of his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me how to fix it?” 

 

“Oh, Harry,” Ginny murmured. Her face was full of sorrow. “You couldn’t fix it; you couldn’t change what you wanted.”

 

“What did I want?” Harry demanded, feeling like Ginny was still talking in riddles. 

 

“You wanted Remy,” Ginny shrugged. “You wanted him, and I didn’t.”

 

Harry shot up at that, he didn’t lunge at her but he felt the injustice of the remark so brutally. “I told you it didn’t matter, I told you that you were the important thing, I would never have made you—”

 

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Ginny said, gently. “You’d never have made me go through anything I didn’t want to. But I remembered your face when I told you, how much you wanted him when he was still barely an idea. You’d taken Dad’s death just as hard as any of us, and I know Remy felt like healing to you. And I know how much you wanted a big family, how you’d have kids forever if I was keen, how vital it was for you to build something of your own. I loved you, Harry, and you loved him. I couldn’t bear to take that from you.”

 

“But you didn’t want him,” Harry repeated, disbelieving.  He thought of Remy’s darling little face, his giggles and his perfect chubby thighs.  “Why would you—how could you not want him?”

 

Ginny closed her eyes tightly, exhaling. 

 

“I was someone, once,” she began, finally meeting his eyes. “Sixth year, at Hogwarts, I felt like a lieutenant, like I was doing something important.”

 

“You were,” Harry protested, “we all were!”

 

“I know. We were until we weren’t and our lives went back to normal and I loved you, Harry, and Merlin knows I thought that was enough. It was for a long time. I felt important at our charity events and speeches and we were war heroes and we had so many big plans about all the things we could do. We felt so powerful, so fearless, so brave. And then James came and I didn't want you to keep doing the dangerous work, I didn't want to be left alone with our child who looks so much like you, but then money became tight, and then there was Al and Lily and somewhere along the way, and we settled into a rut somehow. And then one day I woke up and all I was was Harry Potter’s wife, the mother to his children. And I wanted to give you that, Harry, I loved that I could give you that, I loved how blissfully happy you were with our life, but I lost myself along the way and it left me feeling like nothing, like no one.”

 

“You weren't no one to me.”

 

“I’m aware,” Ginny sighed. “But that's not enough for me.”

 

“So why didn’t you say something? You could have done anything you wanted, I could have—”

 

“That’s not what you wanted!”

 

“How do you know? You never even asked!”

 

“You're right. And I did want to, Harry. I thought of a million ways to tell you how desperately unhappy I was with our life, but I couldn't do that to you, not when what was suffocating me was giving you life. And then Remy came and you loved him so and you wanted me to love him the same way and I do, I do, but at the same time he feels like a millstone around my neck; he is another decade I devote to someone else and push down my needs and pretend family life is enough for me the way it is for you, surrounded by children bearing names of the dead, and the grief of Dad left me empty and one night I was changing Remy and I…I wanted to hurt him. I had horrid thoughts of pressing something against his dear little face and it scared me, Harry, it left me shaken to the very core of me and it wasn’t right but I ran, because surely you were better with Remy and without me.”

 

Harry stood frozen. He didn’t know what to say. Ginny was crying and he felt only cold.

 

“How could you want that?” he asked stupidly. 

 

“I guess it’s normal,” Ginny supplied, then gave a panicked little laugh. “Not normal, I mean, but like, common, or maybe not common, but not uncommon. The hormones and everything, especially after a loss, and I swear even I don’t think I was actually going to do anything, but the very thought of it scared the living daylights out of me.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me, Gin? I would have helped you.”

 

“You would have,” Ginny acknowledged. “I know that now, but I didn’t know it then. I was fucked up, Harry. I wasn’t right in the head, I felt very alone and I didn’t believe that you would understand.”

 

“Maybe I wouldn’t have,” Harry allowed, “but I would have tried.”

 

“I know. You’re terribly decent.”

 

“I don’t understand,” Harry murmured, finally allowing himself to sit down on the bench. “When you realised it was just hormones or what have you, why didn’t you come home? Why did you stay away for so long?”

 

“I was ashamed. It’s not a nice thing to have to admit. And the longer I stayed away, the worse it got. I convinced myself that you and the children would never want to see me again, that I didn’t deserve to have you in my life. Who knows, maybe I don’t.”

 

“I would have wanted to be there for you, I just wanted you to be okay,” Harry told her, leaning forward, propping his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. It all felt like too much.

 

“Of course you did. I should have never doubted you, or tried to protect you the way I did. I followed the wrong impulse. I have no excuse. I’m sorry. I love you. I love the kids and I want to be in their  life. But I don't want to come home. I can’t have the life we had before, and,” she tilted her head towards the cottage, where she knew Draco was waiting inside, “it seems likely that you can’t, either.”

 

Harry felt a ridiculous urge to apologise for rushing into something new. He bit it back. He never wanted to apologise for Draco. 

 

But it felt a bit shit looking back and realising he had given up on his wife who had clearly been struggling with something pretty fucking terrible while he'd been bumbling along, oblivious.  

 

“What do you want?” he prompted. “I don’t know what I can offer, but maybe I can try.”

 

“I’m still figuring it out,” Ginny admitted. “I just know I love my children and I want to see them.”

 

“That will be up to them,” Harry gave in. 

 

“Okay,” Ginny accepted. 

 

“James will be a hard sell.”

 

“When is he not?”

 

“Albus, too.”

 

Ginny swallowed. Harry could tell she was hurting. He thought he might want to hug her, but he didn't. He was too overwhelmed, too confused. 

 

“Okay,” she said again. “I won’t force it.”

 

“Are you going to run again?”

 

“I don’t know,” Ginny admitted.

 

“Right,” Harry said, a bite of the anger returning. He stood up abruptly and crossed his arms. He was done with this conversation. “Maybe let me know when you do.”

 

/// ///

 

Harry was all out of words by the time he came back into the welcoming comfort of Crabapple Cottage. 

 

Draco was standing uneasily at the kitchen counter, watching Harry studiously over a mug of steaming tea. 

 

"Hey," Harry offered.

 

“I hope you don’t expect me to do the noble thing,” Draco blurted out, unexpectedly. He didn't raise his voice, but his words were serious.

 

“What?” Harry asked. 

 

“I’m not a martyr. I’m not a toy you can return to the shop. I’m not backing down simply because she’s decided waltz back into your life, like she wasn't the one responsible for the carnage. If you tell me to leave, I will, but I won’t be making this easy on you, Potter, I’ll not slink obligingly away into the shadows. I’ll fight for this.”

 

Draco’s sullen and prickly pride warmed Harry’s exhausted heart. It was such a welcome relief and helped staunch his earlier anxieties.

 

“She’s not asking me to choose,” Harry explained, “But if she did…well. Ginny ran from disaster. You ran straight for it.”

 

“I do have a veritable CV of foolish decisions when it comes to you,” Draco muttered dryly.

 

“For my sake,” Harry said, crossing the small kitchen to press his mouth to Draco’s, “I hope you always will.”

Notes:

Content Warning: Discussion of abortion, panic attack & description of post-partum depression including intrusive thoughts of infant harm/infanticide. Oops, sorry, got super dark?

 

Y'all broke my heart in the best way with your super lovely comments on the last chapter. I can't express how happy you made me. Thank you thank you thank you! Unbeta'd and I'm careless, pls forgive me.

Chapter 15: Scorpius

Scorpius

 

 

A thing that helped with being deadly tired, Scorpius found, was being deadly curious. 

 

Ever since he had chanced upon Father and Harry in the kitchen at Crabapple Cottage, he could think of little else. He felt like the Auror detective in Jamie’s graphic novels, reading the cues in Harry’s warm smile when Father sat down to lunch with him in the Great Hall, or the way that Father always left the school grounds almost immediately after Scorpius had downed his potion, never staying late to mark papers the way he had when Scorpius was in first year. 

 

Today, however, things were different. While Father looked much as he always did (perfect posture that Scorpius tried to emulate, and a general expression of indifference that Scorpius had mostly given up on ever trying to achieve), Harry appeared drawn and tired, picking absently at a raisin scone. Had he and Father had a row, Scorpius wondered anxiously. He desperately hoped not. A break-up (could people break up if they were possibly not dating?) would surely end Scorpius’ plans of permanently moving into Al’s room at Eiderdown End next summer. Worse, it would put a stop to Scorpius’ more fantastical flight of fancy, in which the Potters would come along on his and Father’s next vacation to Malta, where he would clamber over the rocky shoreline and hunt for sea life with James and Albus. Scorpius was ashamed at just how much daydreaming he’d done on the matter in the last few days, especially when neither Father nor Harry had confirmed that he had anything to get his hopes up about in the first place.

 

Harry seemed to sense Scorpius watching, because he looked up suddenly. Scorpius didn’t look away quickly enough, and Harry caught his eye. He smiled kindly and quirked his head, as if to ask if anything was the matter. Scorpius blushed as though Harry might be able to read his thoughts. He returned the smile quickly and refocused on the conversation at the breakfast table. 

 

Fife, Bingham, and the Ojo brothers were arranging their carnival treasures studiously amongst the plates and goblets. Scorpius examined the sweets and trinkets. 

 

“Anything to barter, Malfoy?” Raleigh Fife demanded. 

 

“No,” Scorpius replied. He’d been steering clear of sweets since the incident in the summer, and Father’s disdain for carnival baubles had influenced Scorpius to hold onto his pocket money, save for a small pouch of brightly-packaged owl treats he’d purchased for his sweet little owl, Angelia, and for the Potters’ surly owl, Meat Pie, who, Scorpius secretly suspected, liked him best. 

 

“Potter?” Fife tried. 

 

Al shrugged. He had likely lost the trinkets he didn’t care about and squirreled away the ones he did. “I hardly trust you to trade fairly,” Al retorted, as carelessly antagonistic as ever. 

 

Fife narrowed his eyes, but didn’t rise to the bait, already distracted by a flamingo pink ring of fire breathing produced by Bernard. Scorpius had been gifted one by his mother when he was small, he remembered suddenly. "Dragon breath for my little dragon," she had cooed. She had always talked like that, like he was still a babe-in-arms, even when he was old enough to fly on his own broom in the garden alongside his father. 

 

Scorpius had never used the ring, afraid of damaging any of the lovely things Father had placed in his bedroom. He was embarrassed to admit that it was only this past week at the carnival that he'd learnt the fire was merely an illusion which failed to even produce any heat. It was odd how quickly one's understanding of the world could shift with just a little scrap of new knowledge, he thought. 

 

Scorpius kept an eye on the marketplace proceedings; he felt it his duty to ensure Fife didn’t make off with something from the easily-cowed Bingham for an unreasonable price. His thoughts kept slipping back to Father and Harry, though, and the slow roil of disappointed hopes deep in his chest. 

 

/// ///

 

Scorpius’ mood didn’t much improve throughout the course of the day or even into the evening, although he tried his best to keep his feelings hidden from Al. Thankfully, his best friend was clearly diverted, delivering a lengthy diatribe on his chosen minutiae of the week. Scorpius wasn’t listening as attentively as he perhaps should be, but he did think it was awfully lovely to have a friend who enjoyed talking to him so much, and who always had something interesting to say. Scorpius sometimes worried that he himself had very little to say, especially when faced with the magnitude of Al’s eclectic intellect. 

 

Al’s pleasant prattling stopped as Jamie jogged up beside them. 

 

The tension between the brothers felt settled since the carnival, and Albus didn’t scowl at the interruption, which was perhaps a low bar, but a hurdle he cleared, nonetheless. 

 

“Hey,” Jamie greeted them. He had his broomstick in one hand, and his Quidditch kit in the other. He looked like he was about to say something, but didn’t. He appeared a bit flushed, maybe from trying to catch up with them, Scorpius thought, dubiously.

 

“Training tonight?” Scorpius asked, simply for something to say.

 

Jamie looked stunned for a moment, then glanced down at his full hands, “Oh! Yeah, training.”

 

He was behaving oddly and Scorpius didn’t quite know why. 

 

“Did you get hit in the head?” Albus demanded. “What is wrong with you?” 

 

Al shot a quick, contrite glance at Scorpius, as though he might get scolded for speaking rudely to his brother. The words were more confused than accusatory, however, so Jamie didn’t mark them and Scorpius didn’t feel obligated to intervene. 

 

Before Jamie could get around to saying whatever it was he had stopped them to say, Scorpius’ pocket watch chimed. 

 

Jamie startled disproportionately. 

 

“Potion time,” Scorpius explained.

 

Jamie looked strangely relieved. “Oh, yeah, of course,” he said. “I’ll walk you?”

 

Scorpius looked at Al, concerned his friend’s jealousy might flare again, but Albus was glancing at his own watch. “Dammit,” he muttered, “I was due for detention at half six.”

 

“Who's given you detention this time?” Jamie demanded, sounding scandalised, and privately Scorpius agreed. He’d never landed himself a detention—Father would not have borne it—but Al collected them like trophies. 

 

“Dad,” Al shrugged. “Well, he gave it to me, but Uncle Neville’s seeing to it so Dad could get home for dinner.”

 

“Dad gave you detention?” James marveled. “I don’t think Dad’s handed out a detention yet this year!”

 

“He didn’t like my spin on the Jelly-Legs Jinx,” Al explained, unperturbed. “I thought Fife looked quite funny with literal marmalade for legs, but apparently it took some undoing in the infirmary.”

 

Jamie stared at his brother in bug-eyed horror, and Scorpius felt oddly defensive. Al was more curious than truly malicious, really. 

 

“He did look a bit funny,” Scorpius offered tentatively. 

 

Al beamed. 

 

“That doesn’t mean you ought to keep doing it!” Scorpius course-corrected, lest his friend get any ideas. “And really, Al, you’d best get going, since Professor Longbottom is wont to give you detentions for the rest of the week as it is!”

 

Al looked unmoved. “There are worse things than drinking tea and potting plants,” he commented, “but I guess I will. See you tonight, Scor. Bye, Jamie.”

 

“See you!” Scorpius called as Jamie gave his brother a farewell nod. Scorpius' watch chimed again.

 

“Shall we?” Jamie asked, waving a hand towards the direction of Scorpius’ father’s office.

 

“Don’t you have training to get to?” Scorpius questioned. 

 

Jamie shrugged. “I'll only be a couple of minutes. Besides, I have something I want to ask you.”

 

Scorpius felt surprisingly pleased. He liked the knowledge that Jamie had sought him out, that he wanted to talk to him especially. 

 

“Oh,” Scorpius replied, “what is it?”

 

“It’s nothing,” Jamie replied quickly. “I mean, it is something, but it’s not a big deal and you can say no and I won’t be mad or anything.”

 

“Is it…a favour?” Scorpius asked, nonplussed. 

 

“No—I mean yes,” Jamie stumbled, “Kind of, I suppose. It is just...well, apparently there’s a couple of scouts coming out to the Quidditch match this Saturday. I’m too young to be considered for anything right now, obviously, but who knows, maybe if I made an impression, they will remember me in a few years’ time.”

 

“That would be wonderful,” Scorpius told him earnestly, although he wasn’t quite sure what James might expect Scorpius to do about any of this. 

 

“Yeah,” Jamie breathed. “So, it will be a wicked game, probably.”

 

Scorpius waited for the older boy to say something else, but he didn’t. 

 

“Sounds like it,” Scorpius agreed. “Who is it against?”

 

“Hufflepuff,” Jamie answered, “So not your team, I guess.”

 

“I don’t really have a team; Al and I aren’t much for Quidditch," Scorpius reminded him.

 

“Yeah,” Jamie sounded a little crestfallen. “I know, I just...You won’t come, then?”

 

“Pardon?” Scorpius asked, still bewildered. 

 

“I was just hoping…” Jamie trailed off. 

 

“Oh! Were you asking me to?”

 

For the life of him Scorpius couldn’t understand why James hadn’t just said that. 

 

“Yeah,” Jamie muttered, "only if you want."

 

“Yes, I mean, sure, I can come,” Scorpius sputtered without grace. “I don’t mind. Might be fun.”

 

“Yeah?” Jamie exclaimed enthusiastically, “You’ll be there?”

 

“Of course. Most of the boys in my dormitory go, I’m sure they won’t mind if I sit with them.”

 

“Fantastic,” Jamie grinned, “That’s excellent, Scor, really, thanks!”

 

“It’s no trouble,” Scorpius assured him.

 

Jamie clapped him on the shoulder, giving it a squeeze, “Just fantastic. I’ll see you then, then, mate.”

 

“I mean, you’ll probably see me before Saturday,” Scorpius remarked, “since we go to school together and all.”

 

“Yeah, ‘course we do. See you tomorrow then?”

 

“Probably,” Scorpius agreed. 

 

“Okay. Great. See you tomorrow,” Jamie repeated. He gave Scorpius an odd little half wave, and then fled down the corridor as quickly as he had arrived. 

 

Scorpius watched him, wondering what on earth that had been about, and worrying about what it would mean for this burgeoning friendship if Harry and Father stopped whatever it was that they had started. 

 

The thought was a blow; he’d been momentarily distracted by Jamie’s bizarre behaviour, and Al’s company before that, but Harry had been tense in DADA that morning (which no doubt had contributed to Albus’ detention that evening), and appeared just as stressed at lunch. There, Father had been chatting casually with Professor Longbottom but Harry hadn’t looked much involved in the conversation at all. He’d looked…looked what, Scorpius considered, dejected? Stressed? Heartbroken? 

 

The uncertainty gnawed at Scorpius, even as he knocked on the solid, dark wood of his father’s office door. 

 

“Good evening, dearest,” Father said, opening the door, phial in hand. “I was just coming to look for you.”

 

Scorpius’ expression must have given him away, because Father’s pale eyebrows shot up. 

 

“Scorpius? Whatever is the matter?”

 

The concern in Father’s voice brought Scorpius’ feelings to this surface and all his agonizing bubbled over at last. 

 

“Did you and Harry have a row?” he demanded miserably, utterly unable to keep the words in, “Are you two not going to be together anymore? Will everything just go back to how it was before, when we were all alone?”

 

Father’s lips parted in surprise. “Oh,” he murmured, “oh, I see.”

 

He pulled the door the rest of the way open to reveal a similarly shocked-appearing Harry, leaning against Father’s desk, his hands in his robe pockets. 

 

“You’d best come in,” Father determined, steering Scorpius gently with a hand on between his shoulder blades. “It seems as though we have some pressing matters to discuss.”

Notes:

Thanks for sticking with me and for the comments, they are verrrry good for my heart.

 

(I'm going to put a bit of a spoiler below so if you don't want to read it, stop here!!!)
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I think something that has been delaying my writing is that it is my intention that this story will turn gently towards a hint of Scorpius/James pre-slash. I've been worried because that decision will inevitably ick people out. I was very undecided, but finally realized that I had to just commit, because that is the story I want to write! For the record, they are just kids so this will be very innocent/G-rated and not at all fully realized, and obviously the Explicit rating is only for the Harry/Draco relationship and it will remain that way! Sorry to those who are unenthused by this, and thanks to those of you who continue to stick around <3.

Chapter 16: Draco

Notes:

***Please see content warning in the author notes at the end***

Draco

 

 

Draco shut the office door behind Scorpius, handing his son the phial as he did so. Scorpius dutifully placed the required droplet under his tongue and then returned the potion to Draco, who pocketed it. Harry hadn’t moved from his spot at the desk, although the tension radiating off of him fell somewhere between surprise and anguish. They’d been deliberating how best to talk to Harry’s children about Ginevra—Harry was beyond stricken at the manner of her return—and neither of them were on sound emotional footing at the moment. Harry was, as always, torturing himself with undeserved guilt, and Draco was making a poor attempt to stifle his bitterness and, although he was disinclined to admit it, jealousy. The reappearance of Harry’s wife had quite dispelled any planning that Harry and Draco had done in terms of divulging of their own relationship, and Draco wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed about the deferral. 

 

But never mind his own feelings; Scorpius was looking up at them with anxious distress. 

 

Draco was thoroughly remorseful, of course he was. What had he expected, keeping a long string of secrets from his inquisitive, intuitive child? He'd has his suspicions that Scorpius was onto them, but facing the reality of his son's inferences was another situation entirely. He should have addressed it when he had the chance. He knelt in front of Scorpius, so the boy didn’t have to look up to meet his eye. He gently took hold of Scorpius’ upper arms and caught his gaze. 

 

“Harry and I have not had a row, my love; we’re perfectly content with one another,” Draco spoke plainly, trying to address what he understood to be the most pressing of Scorpius’ concerns. “Isn’t that so, Harry?”

 

Harry sounded tongue-tied for a moment, but managed to clear his throat and contribute. “Your dad and I are just fine, Scor, nothing to worry about between us.”

 

Draco was grateful to Harry for being able to shift focus easily enough. That Harry had abundant affection for Scorpius had never been in doubt, and Draco wondered if evidence of that hadn’t been a factor in his initial decision to pursue Harry. He’d never had any intention of dating, let alone introducing a man to his son; but Harry already knew Scorpius, and had quickly come to care for him, erasing an otherwise insurmountable barrier. 

 

“There,” Draco confirmed soothingly, “I hope that, at least, has put your mind at ease. But you should know that even if Harry and I did have a row, we’d never allow our personal conflict to interfere with your relationship with Albus and James. You'd not be left friendless and alone.”

 

Scorpius did not yet look convinced. “Even if you…” Scorpius began then trailed off. He wet his lips nervously. “Even if you broke up?”

 

“Even if we broke up,” Draco promised, forcing himself not to wince at the indignity of the phrase. 

 

“So that means you are together, then?” Scorpius verified, voice hopeful and daring.

 

“Yes,” Draco said simply. “We are.”

 

Scorpius’ expression contorted through several muddled emotions, his lips pursed and his brow knit. He seemed full of relief, and excitement, but also confusion, hurt and finally pure overwhelm, as he crumpled into Draco’s chest with a sob. 

 

Draco didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms tightly around his son. 

 

“I’m sorry, dearest,” Draco breathed. “I should never have surprised you with something like this. I can certainly see now my own foolishness and selfishness. I never intended for you to fear losing those you love. I wouldn't ask that of you.”

 

“I didn’t think you would,” Scorpius said thickly, his voice muffled by Draco’s robes. “I just overthought everything until I didn’t even know any more, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, I just...”

 

“Oh, my love,” Draco tutted kindly. “It’s alright. You’re perfectly alright. No one is displeased with you.”

 

A quiet moment passed as Scorpius sought to process and contain himself. At last, the child hiccupped against Draco’s chest and his sobs gave way to sniffles. 

 

Harry had a handkerchief at the ready, which Scorpius obligingly took, wiping his face and blowing his nose. He wouldn’t meet either Draco’s or Harry’s eyes. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Scorpius repeated. “I shouldn’t make a fuss, I promised myself I wouldn’t, and I’ve not told anyone, not even Al. I–I, oh I don’t know, I think I let myself get my hopes up and I got ahead of myself, and started thinking about how things might be if it was like this summer all the time, with all of us together. It was childish of me. I’m sorry, truly.”

 

“You’ve nothing to apologise for,” Harry said, one big hand squeezing Scorpius’ shoulder, “And what’s more, I’ll let you in on a secret: I often find myself thinking those very same thoughts.”

 

Draco very nearly blushed. Harry’s inclination toward sentiment and his buoyant optimism were quite inconceivable. Draco questioned each day if what they were building was too fledgling, too tenuous to withstand the pressure of the world outside Crabapple Cottage. When they were alone it felt as natural as gravity, but surely that wouldn't last once the rest of the Weasleys, or worse, the press, caught wind of it; once Harry was facing pressures from his wife, his children, and the entire wizarding world. No, Harry was too naïve; that, or Draco was far too cowardly when it came to things like hope.

 

Scorpius finally glanced up at Harry, “Yeah?” he asked shyly. 

 

“Absolutely.” 

 

Scorpius bit his lip. “I should confess to something, at least,” he whispered.

 

“Oh?” Draco enquired, raising an eyebrow. He led his son to the stout-legged loveseat in his office, sitting him down.

 

Harry pulled up Draco’s office chair, while Draco sat on a staunch old wingback that usually went neglected. Scorpius appeared small even on the petite sofa. His face was pale save for the bright flush over his cheeks and his eyes were big and round and again, full of worry. 

 

“You’ll be cross with me,” Scorpius informed him. 

 

“I doubt I’ll be terribly cross,” Draco corrected him, “but perhaps you should fill Harry and me in on the particulars.”

 

“I spied on you,” Scorpius revealed, tone contrite. Given his son’s nature, Draco suspected there was more to this story, and so he didn’t respond, only waited. “Only it was mostly by accident," the boy continued. "I was just trying to appease Lily, she was playing a little game about vampires and detectives and sent me to eavesdrop on you with the invisibility cloak. I didn’t expect to hear or see anything, but you were talking about—about my grandmother, and I was just so curious and then I saw you, ah, well…” 

 

“Er, I see. And then you saw your father and I…show affection?” Harry guessed. 

 

Scorpius nodded, his hands clenching and unclenching fistfuls of his robe.

 

“Merlin save you from the machinations of the Potter children, Scorpius,” Draco muttered, but not unkindly.

 

“I do try to mind myself!” his son protested, and Draco believed him. Whatever force gave Draco such a well-intentioned and sweet child, he wondered. It certainly wasn't karmic.

 

“That can be a bit easier said than done around my lot,” Harry said with a chuckle, as if reading Draco’s thoughts. “I will remind Lily that coercion is not the ideal way to win friends.”

 

“Hm,” Draco agreed. “Nor is allowing oneself to be thusly coerced. Eavesdropping is an uncivilised pastime, Scorpius, and I’m disappointed in that. I would rather you made efforts to avoid it.”

 

“Yes, Father,” Scorpius vowed solemnly, “I will.” 

 

“Nevertheless,” Draco continued, “I am terribly sorry that you found out the way you did. Eavesdropping is a deplorable habit, but secret-keeping is often not much better, and I was wrong to do so. You have my most earnest apologies, but I trust you will believe me when I say it came from a place of wanting to protect you and your feelings. Harry and I had every intention of telling you and the Potter children when we felt certain our relationship was secure and lasting.”

 

Scorpius’ expression became again troubled. “Does that mean it is not secure or lasting now?” he entreated. 

 

Draco shook his head gently. His expectations had been for Scorpius to be angry, perhaps, or anxious, confused, even jealous. He’d certainly not expected his son to be this attached to the idea. 

 

“No, that’s not what I mean, not precisely. What I mean is this: what is developing between Harry and myself is very new and very unexpected. His children have been through a great deal of turmoil this summer, and your own mother was never a source of stability, at that.  We didn’t want to overwhelm any of you with another sudden change like this.”

 

Scorpius nodded silently again. A little furrow between his eyebrows suggested he was contemplating a great many things, and Draco did not blame him. He’d been contemplating a great many things, himself, these last few months.

 

“I imagine you have a lot of questions, Scor.” Harry’s voice was gentle. “I know finding out how you did must have been a shock, and I’m also sorry for that. People close to me kept me shielded from important things when I was your age, and I know how rotten and unfair it can be. How are you feeling?”

 

“I don’t know,” Scorpius replied, tentatively. “Relieved, I think? You seemed, I don’t know, upset today, and I thought it was to do with Father.”

 

“I was preoccupied today, you’re not wrong,” Harry acknowledged, “but it’s nothing to do with your Dad or how I feel about him, yeah?”

 

“Okay,” Scorpius said. “I’m sorry you are stressed, though.”

 

“That is very sweet of you, bug,” Harry smiled.

 

“Is there anything else you’d like to know?” Draco asked.

 

“There is, yeah,” Scorpius divulged. He seemed to steel himself for what came next. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

 

“About Harry and I? I’ve just said, it was–”

 

“No, not that,” Scorpius uncharacteristically interrupted. “About you. Being gay.”

 

“Ah,” Draco contemplated, taken aback somewhat at his son’s forthrightness. He paused, seeking clarity for himself prior to answering. He’d not been ashamed of his desires for many, many years now, and so why hadn’t he shared that piece of his identity with his son? “That’s a very reasonable question, and, I find, one to which I don’t have a wholly acceptable explanation. I suppose the timing never felt right. Perhaps I was waiting until you were older, but in reality, I had no intention of dating anyone of any gender, and so I presumed my sexuality would just never present itself  as a topic for discussion. There may have been some cowardice, as well. I knew you’d already face discrimination as the son of a death eater. I didn’t want you to have to be further ostracised because of my preferences.”

 

“You didn’t have to worry about that,” Scorpius told him sincerely. “No one has ever made me feel badly about your past.”

 

“That’s because no one could dream of being harsh with you, love,” Harry said with a wink. 

 

“I suppose,” Scorpius replied thoughtfully, “but I think it’s more that Al would hex them something awful if they did.”

 

Harry laughed at that, a boisterous, warm sound. “You’re not far off. Well, I’m glad you’ve got each other.”

 

Scorpius smiled at them both and Merlin, Draco loved him. 

 

“It’s getting late, dearest,” he said. “We can talk more if you like, but I’m mindful of the time, as Harry’s got to get home to relieve Mrs. Weasley from her child care duties.”

 

“I’m alright, Father,” Scorpius assured him. “Thank you for not…treating me like a child, even though I am one.”

 

“You are. You are also an introspective and attentive person,” Draco replied, “and you deserve to be treated as such. I will try to be more forthcoming in the future. For now, however, Harry and I need a little bit more time. James and Albus are likewise deserving of consideration. We won’t make you carry this secret for much longer.”

 

“Yes, Father, I understand.”

 

Scorpius hugged Draco again and then, a bit more bashfully, extracted a hug from Harry, also, who seemed more than happy to oblige. 

 

At last, Scorpius trotted out of the office and Draco sagged into his wingback chair. It creaked sympathetically.

 

“You look exhausted,” Harry commented, unhelpfully. 

 

Draco groaned and rubbed one temple halfheartedly. “Well spotted.”

 

“I’m awfully sorry, that can’t have been an easy conversation; unexpected at the very least.”

 

“Not what I had on the agenda for this evening, certainly,” Draco agreed dryly.

 

“Well, of all the children to find us out, Scorpius seems like the best case,” Harry pointed out. “Although it moves forward our timeline of informing Al and Lily and James. All day long I flip-flop, wondering who will take it the worst. Al might not give a fig, depending on the day, but Jamie and I only just established a truce and Lily, well, it will mean her mum’s not coming back. Only her mum is back, for hell’s sake. What the fuck are we supposed to do? Get it all over with at once, I reckon, rip off the plaster.”

 

“There are worse ideas,” Draco considered the suggestion. “Presenting them with all the information at once is perhaps preferable to hitting them with a one-two jab.”

 

“Yes, only telling the kids doesn’t just mean telling the kids. It means spilling the news to the entire extended family,” Harry griped, morosely. 

 

“Ah, yes, of course. Some of whom loathe my existence, and most of whom would prefer to see you reunited with your wife.” Merlin, even his bones felt tired.

 

“Balls,” Harry summarised succinctly. 

 

“Quite.”

 

Harry stood and stretched, making his neck crack abhorrently. 

 

Draco grimaced and Harry chuckled, holding out a hand, which Draco took, only to be yanked to his feet and into Harry’s arms. 

 

"I'm sorry we've gotten ourselves into such a mess," Draco offered. "It's regretful that everything seems to be coming to a head at once."

 

“Yeah, well," Harry murmured lazily into Draco’s hair. "That's how it goes sometimes. And for the record, I don’t regret this, sweetheart. I could never regret you, and I don’t need to keep you a secret.”

 

The words were a balm Draco hadn’t realised he’d needed, and he let the comfort and promise of them seep into his skin. He felt quite unexpectedly and curiously precious. It frightened him a little, and perhaps Harry sensed that, because he went and ruined the moment with: “Besides, you’re far too pretty to be kept under a bushel.”

 

Draco hummed disapprovingly. “Oh, get stuffed, Potter.”

 

Harry laughed in earnest then, a booming, delighted noise which vibrated through his chest and into Draco’s. Harry’s grip tightened affectionately and Draco allowed himself to just be held. 

 

“I love you, you know that?” Harry said, airy and sure-footed, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. 

 

Such things were categorically not easy for Draco and he stilled, finding himself all at once utterly incapable of speech. With a steadying breath, he curled inwards, hiding his face in Harry’s neck and giving a minute nod. And to Harry, miracle of men that he was, it seemed to be enough.

Notes:

CW: referenced homophobia

 

Hiiii thanks ily

Chapter 17: Jamie

Jamie

 

 

The Gryffindor Quidditch team was in high spirits that evening. That scouts may well be in attendance for Saturday’s match against Hufflepuff infected Jamie’s teammates with a jittery excitement. Usually, Jamie would have found the high spirits and higher energy contagious, however Jamie was in a mood, or at least that’s what his dad would say. Jamie thought that was a stupid thing to call it, everybody was always in some kind of mood.  

 

His current mood, however, affected his performance during practice, and that did not go unnoticed by his cousin Molly, who was Gryffindor Captain. She pushed him on his agility drills and he snapped at her, earning him broomless laps around the pitch in the drizzling rain. 

 

The chastisement did nothing to help Jamie’s attitude, and with every step he cursed his perfect cousin (achieving both Head Girl and Quidditch Captain really didn’t seem fair) and cursed the scouts who were coming, rumour had it, especially to watch her and Clifford Dunsdale. Jamie cursed Dunsdale, too, for good measure. He cursed the Hufflepuff Keeper's thick head, long arms, and expression that suggested even he was surprised by the breadth of his talents. It wasn’t fair that some people could be accidentally good at things, when Jamie felt like he always had to work his arse off to end up just above middling. He had decent grades, but he wasn’t the smartest in his class. He wasn’t a half-bad Seeker, but nothing compared to his own father, the world’s youngest Seeker in a century. Jamie hadn’t made the team until last year. 

 

While he was busy cursing people, Jamie added his dad to the list. The Boy Who Lived, the saviour of the wizarding world, Harry bloody Potter, a supposedly mighty powerful wizard, who instead spent his time changing nappies and playing make believe with Lily. His dad, who squandered his massive talent, while Jamie didn’t have the foggiest idea what career he might pursue, because he wasn’t particularly skilled at anything. He didn’t even know if he’d be made a prefect next year. In short, he was utterly unexceptional. 

 

Molly blew her whistle, calling practice to a close. Jamie marched off, not interested in her closing pep talk. He knew he’d get an earful for it later, but right now, he didn’t much care. 

 

His stream of consciousness did little to improve his mood, but he continued in a similar, self-pitying vein as he stomped through the chilly evening, wet grass squelching unpleasantly under his trainers.

 

“Oi, Jamie, wait up!” Fortitude called. 

 

Jamie didn’t, but that didn’t stop Fort from catching up with him. 

 

He didn’t acknowledge her, but Fort didn’t seem fussed. Indeed, she was oblivious or otherwise uninterested in Jamie’s inner turmoil and was instead practicing her surfing. To this end, she had both of her feet planted on the shaft of her broomstick and her arms outstretched. She held herself low with bent knees and a determined expression, her broom zipping and halting and jerking, as though trying to buck her off. The broom won more often than not, but Fort was quick and athletic, landing upright and triumphant with every upset. Usually, Jamie would be right there beside her, hovering a meter off the pitch on his own broom, attempting to out-stunt her. He was in no mood for horseplay tonight, however. 

 

“Watch this!” Fort urged, lurching forward and adjusting her posture to centre herself for the unsteady ride. “I’m going to try a backflip, think I can?" 

 

Jamie continued along in his stubborn silence while Fort's broomstick accelerated, sending her braids streaming behind her in the wind, wooden beads clacking. She squatted low, then leapt upwards, completing one tightly coiled flip, and stuck the landing with a satisfied whoop. 

 

Jamie didn’t comment, even though it was a legitimately impressive trick. Instead, he stomped onwards towards the castle. 

 

Fortitude grabbed her broom out of the air and slung it over her shoulder before catching up to Jamie and giving him a little kick in the calf.

 

“Alright, I give up, what’s your problem, Potter?” she asked, frank and forthright as ever. “You’ve been a sopping wet blanket all night.”

 

“Nothing,” Jamie glowered. 

 

Fort snorted. 

 

Jamie returned to ignoring her, less so because he wanted to, and more because he couldn’t think of an alternative. He couldn’t speak aloud what was bothering him, even if inside he knew exactly the source. What was wrong was that he’d felt like a stupid, stumbling oaf with Scorpius that evening. He’d felt tongue-tied and dull-witted and awkward as anything. It was just Scor, for hell’s sake. He’d spent the summer with the kid, they were friends now, surely, and yet…

 

Jamie bit down on the memory that had been swirling in his head since the carnival. If he didn’t let himself think about it, then it wouldn’t have happened. 

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered. 

 

“Your mum?” Fortitude guessed. 

 

“What?” Jamie scowled. “No.”

 

“Your dad, then?” Fort tried, clearly unperturbed by Jamie’s churlishness. 

 

“No! Merlin’s teeth, leave it alone would you?”

 

“I don’t think I shall, no,” Fort mused, “Albus?”

 

“Hang Albus.”

 

He was the one who’d gotten Jamie into this mess in the first place. He was the one who wanted to go on that stupid tiny ship in the first place. And if Jamie hadn’t gotten on the ship, then he wouldn’t have seen the sirens. There was the damn thought again. 

 

“Oh! What did he do this time?” Fortitude asked brightly. Jamie tried to focus on her words.

 

“What? Who?”

 

“Al!” Fortitude said, exasperated. “You literally just said, ‘Hang Al’!”

 

“I meant generally,” Jamie clarified. “Not specifically.”

 

“You’re impossible,” Fort grumbled. “What then? Mid-term grades from Professor Malfoy? You’ve got to remember with him an A is basically an O.” 

 

“I don’t want to talk about the Malfoys,” Jamie snarled. 

 

Instead of being cowed, Fortitude seemed delighted with his outburst. “The Malfoys, you say,” she noted. “I can’t imagine Scorpius has done anything. He’s such a sweet little pumpkin.”

 

“No,” Jamie agreed grudgingly, “he’s not done anything.”

 

“Then I surrender, Jamie,” Fortitude said with an irritated sigh. “Either spit it out or suck it up, but either way, stop being a killjoy.”

 

Jamie sighed. His friend was onto something he supposed. He couldn’t undo how he’d behaved earlier that evening, just as he couldn’t undo what he might have seen when he’d looked at those damn sirens—what he might have seen and might have felt.

 

It was magic. Magic could affect the head as well as the senses and there was nothing more to it than that. 

 

He grimaced to himself, disturbed by the insistence of his thoughts despite his best efforts to muffle them. All he knew is that he didn’t want to discuss them with Fort, or anyone else for that matter, and if he didn’t wish to talk about them, then he ought to stop displaying them where anyone might see. 

 

“You’re right,” he relented.

 

“What?” Fort gaped, “I am?”

 

“Yeah. I’ll lump it.”

 

“Good. I mean, for now. If you need to, er, unlump it, let me know, I s’pose.”

 

Jamie huffed, but he was more amused than irritated. “You’ll be the first.”

 

Fort seemed to accept this readily enough. She bumped her shoulder against his companionably, and Jamie appreciated the silent show of support. He didn’t want to talk, it was true, but perhaps it was enough to know he could. 

 

“You all set or tomorrow?” Fort asked. 

 

“Hm?” Jamie replied, confused.

 

“The plan!” Fort chided him. “Our first dalliance with Dark Magic! Tomorrow’s the day!”

 

“Oh!” Jamie kicked himself, of course it was. In the morning, the plan was for Fort and Ri and him to take their newly acquired sneakoscopes to the DADA classroom to see if they could uncover anything sinister in the room.

 

Jamie was especially excited, because upon writing to Uncle George, he’d received the latest Weasley prototype: A SneakComp-5, in other words a sneakoscope that had directionality built in in the form of a compass, and that would mobilise itself in the direction of the imposter. 

 

It was their first mission and Jamie was quietly thrilled that he was finally doing something.

 

“Yeah,” Jamie told his friend. “I’m set.”

 

Fort flashed him a grin then released her broom to hover over the grounds again. She climbed up with one foot, then the other, stepping along it as though it were a tightrope. He joined Fort in her antics this time, floating his own broom a few feet above the grass and hopping up onto it, flailing a little to steady himself. Fort grinned and turned to face him. 

 

“Ready?” she challenged, and before Jamie had a chance to react, she went in for the shove. 

 

Jamie yelped and snatched at her cloak, retaining his balance, but only just. Fort twisted out of his reach. 

 

“Arsehole!” Jamie laughed. Their brooms pitched forward synchronously, and then they were off, hands on one another’s shoulders, sailing along over the school grounds, each trying their damnedest to overpower the other. 

 

/// ///

 

The following morning, Jamie, Fort met Januarius early in the Alcove at the base of the Ravenclaw Tower. Ri was curled on the striped sofa reading a large, cloth-bound book. He looked up lazily when they arrived. 

 

Jamie’s bad mood from the evening previous was forgotten, replaced with a simmering exhilaration for what was to come. His muscles ached pleasantly from Quidditch practice, or more likely the roughhousing with Fort afterwards. She’d gotten the better of him at least half a dozen times. He had his SneakComp-5 in rolled in a pair of thick socks in his pocket. His Uncle George had advised that as the best way to keep the thing quiet until needed.

 

“I was beginning to think you two wouldn’t show,” Ri sniffed. 

 

“When have I ever been known to oversleep?” Fort asked, a hand to her chest in mock offense. 

 

“Tardiness is for you a quotidian experience,” Ri reminded her loftily. “It’s why you have detention nearly any day that starts with Potions.”

 

“Well, Professor Malfoy could really stand to relax,” Fort shrugged, “but whatever, this morning is no regular morning, for today, we adventure!”

 

Ri scowled. “Surely the theatrics aren’t necessary.”

 

“But first,” proclaimed Fort, ignoring Ri’s disdain, “we breakfast!”

 

Notes:

Thanks for reading.

Chapter 18: Albus

Albus

 

 

It was early when Al woke up. He wasn't sure how he knew that exactly. It was always dark in the dungeon dormitory, but something must have awoken him, and so he opened his eyes and looked around. The only light in the room was a greenish-yellow glow peeking out from under Bingham's pillow.  It was a nightlight that the Slytherin boys, save for Fife, pretended Bingham didn't use on a nightly basis. Al was glad for it now, however, because it lit the room enough for him to see that Scorpius' bed was empty.

 

That was all the prompting Al needed to get out of bed, his curiosity piqued. He dressed quickly, and checked the dormitory bathrooms and the Slytherin common room, but Scor was nowhere to be seen. 

 

Al decided to venture forth. It was nearly six in the morning, which was not unconscionably early. It meant there was a chance Al would find Scorpius studying in the library. Scorpius studied diligently for all of his classes, which Al couldn’t understand. Al wasn’t much for studying in the first place, and only ever chose to spend his time on subject matter that was interesting or useful and what precisely fit that criteria could change from day to day. Al rather thought Scorpius should prioritise sleep over school, since his friend always looked very nearly dead on his feet, but Scor would not be swayed from his studies. 

 

Al didn’t have to wander far. Scorpius was sitting at the Slytherin table, the only living soul in the expanse of the Great Hall. His platinum hair reflected the orange of the sunrise unfolding across the ceiling, making him look as carrot-topped as any Weasley.

 

Yawning, Al shuffled up beside Scorpius, helping himself to a cup of tea. 

 

“Morning, Scor,” he said. 

 

Scorpius had been taking diligent notes from his charms textbook, and jumped at Al’s approach. 

 

“Oh! Morning, Al. You’re up early.”

 

Albus hummed in acknowledgment, still feeling a little fuzzy. He added a generous spoonful of sugar to his tea along with a splash of milk.

 

Scorpius went back to studying. The text was open to a page about scent charms, Al noted. He considered their purpose. Uncle George used them for dungbombs, he presumed. He couldn’t think of any other good uses for such a charm just now, but wasn’t scent memory important? He wondered idly if that could be turned to his advantage, somehow. Maybe putting Dad in a better mood when it came time for pocket money to be doled out. Then again, Dad would know it was magic, and wasn’t likely to fall for it, unless it was really subtle. Albus let his thoughts wander to what scents might do the trick. Treacle, maybe. 

 

Al shifted, turning his back towards Scorpius and pulling his feet up onto the bench. He leant against the other boy, his back coming to rest against Scor’s side, teacup balanced on his bent knees as he watched the sunrise continue to bloom overhead. He felt Scor’s arm move from time to time, turning pages in his book. Neither of them said anything, and Al didn’t feel pressured to fill the silence. Scorpius never seemed to mind if Al prattled on or if he said nothing; indeed, he never seemed to have any expectations for Al at all (save for getting on with Jamie), and in a school full of professors and students who treated Al as a curiosity, it was a nice reprieve. 

 

The quiet moment was shattered by footsteps and a familiar, not to mention unwelcome, voice. 

 

“Do you think we head straight for the centre of the room, or start in the far corner and do a sort of grid, like?” Jamie was asking his friends, Fortitude Jordan and Januarius Boone. 

 

Jamie stopped suddenly, looking up from a bulky lump of wool in his hands to where Scorpius and Al were seated. 

 

“Hey,” he remarked with forced nonchalance, shoving the lump into his robe pocket. His surreptitiousness could use some work, but then again, what did Al except from a Gryffindor?

 

Scorpius, to Al’s irritation, did not seem bothered by the intrusion and brightened. 

 

“Good morning, James, Fort, Januarius,” he greeted them, politely. 

 

Jamie grinned, walking up to the Slytherin table and grabbing a seat across from Scorpius, his friends flanking him. They helped themselves to breakfast. This irked Al, even though the behaviour was honestly normal, considering the five of them were the only people in the Great Hall, and it didn’t so much matter who sat where these days. Al knew Boone sat with Jamie and Jordan at the Gryffindor table for nearly every meal even though he was a Ravenclaw, and no one seemed to give him any guff about it, so far as Al knew. Then again, people around here seemed to half worship James, simply for looking like his father, being half competent on a broomstick, and his affected affability (which only Al ever seemed to see through). This string of thoughts only served to irk Al further. He did his best not to scowl. 

 

“What are you three up to, then?” he asked, trying for friendly. 

 

Jamie looked at Al as though he had forgotten he was there. 

 

“Nothing,” came the automatic reply, but then Jamie’s gaze slid back to Scorpius. “Well,” he corrected, “that’s not exactly true.”

 

Jamie sent a furtive glance towards the entrance of the Great Hall before leaning forward, voice hushed. “Actually, we’re trying a bit of hexbreaking.”

 

“Let it out of the bag, why don’t you, Potter,” Fort grumbled. “You’d make a rotten spy.”

 

She didn’t seem genuinely upset and Jamie likewise was unbothered by her chastisement.

 

Scorpius’ nose scrunched up as he closed his charms textbook. “Coursework?” he asked with a degree of confusion which Al also felt. 

 

Jamie shook his head solemnly. “Nope. Real.”

 

Scorpius’ eyebrows raised, looking intrigued. Al resented that Jamie could have that sort of effect on his friend. 

 

Boone, for his part, snorted derisively. “Bit rich to be calling yourself a hexbreaker when we’ve yet to determine the existence of said hex,” he pointed out. 

 

Al quite suddenly warmed towards the Ravenclaw. 

 

“Tell us or don’t,” Al insisted, stabbing a bit of fried egg with his fork to move it to his plate, “but stop with this tiresome insinuation.”

 

Jamie appeared too intent on his mission to be bothered by Al’s brusqueness. He reached into his pocket and retrieved what Al now saw to be a large pair of woolen socks. 

 

“Before I show you, you have to swear not to tell anyone, especially not Dad.”

 

“I’m not a snitch,” Al said automatically. 

 

Jamie quirked a disbelieving eyebrow. 

 

“I won’t snitch about this,” Al corrected. 

 

Jamie gave a quick nod of agreement and unfurled the socks, dropping something silver and blue and shaped sort of like a Christmas bauble with a pointy end onto the table. 

 

A sneakoscope, Al barely had time to process in the instant before the thing started whirling and whistling shrilly. Fort and Boone clamped their hands over their ears, and started looking around the hall for someone or something suspicious, but Al only looked at his older brother with fury in his heart. The idiot had brought a sneakoscope into the same room as Scorpius. 

 

“Jamie, you knob!” Al hissed, and Jamie looked up, helpless and stupid. He’d not realised, of course he’d not realised, the absolute bloody moron. He'd just casually forgotten that Scorpius walked around with a giant secret that could quite literally cost him his freedom were he ever to be found out. 

 

“Shit,” Jamie cursed, shoving the thing back inside the socks and into his cloak again. The socks must have been charmed with some sort of muffling spell, because the whistling disappeared entirely.  “Shit, I…I…”

 

He looked completely stupid, scrambling for a lie, but Scorpius beat him to it. 

 

“I have a secret,” Scorpius announced. "A big one. That's why it went off at me so."

 

“Scor, don’t!” Al and Jamie warned at the same time. 

 

“You don’t have to tell us anything,” Al corrected, trying not to make Jamie and him appear less guilty by association. “I’m sure you have a secret for good reason.”

 

Boone and Fort were looking across the table at Scorpius expectantly. Boone had his lips pursed and Fort was grinning like it was all sport. 

 

Scorpius’ life was not fucking sport. 

 

“I do,” Scorpius admitted. 

 

“Well?” Boone pressed. 

 

“He doesn’t have to tell you,” Jamie repeated emphatically. 

 

“Then how do we know he’s not hiding something important?” Boone challenged.

 

“Whatever it is, Scorpius hasn’t anything to do with the DADA curse!” Jamie’s words deterred Al’s panic momentarily. 

 

“The DADA curse,” Al considered. “Is it real? What have you found so far?”

 

“None of your business,” Jamie muttered. 

 

“You were about to make it our business,” Al argued. 

 

“It could be related,” Fort argued, interrupting them. “Malfoys don’t exactly have a squeaky clean record, do they?”

 

Jamie whirled on his friend with an anger Al had only ever seen directed at him. 

 

“Shut your mouth, Jordan, that’s ancient history," he hissed.

 

Fort waggled her eyebrows to show that she was mostly joking. Al pondered if it was a low blow. No, he decided, it was accurate, even Professor Malfoy would agree. The Malfoys had been on the wrong side of the war. The low blow was suggesting that his bloodline somehow implicated Scorpius in all that. Fort hadn't done that, strictly speaking. Jamie did tend to lose a grip on logic when he felt someone somewhere had been slighted. Really who he should be angry at was himself.

 

“Maybe, maybe not,” Fort said mulishly. Al was beginning to think the witch’s stubbornness was her sole motivation. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I want to know Malfoy’s secret."

 

“And I’m saying it’s not any of your fucking business,” Jamie growled.

 

“Scor doesn’t owe any of you his secrets,” Al added, he did at least agree with Jamie on that point.

 

“Why don’t you both let Malfoy speak for himself?” Boone determined with finality. 

 

“It’s fine, Al,” Scor murmured gently. “Fort and Boone deserve to know I’m not pulling one over on them, what with the sneakoscope going off like that.”

 

“They really don’t,” Al grumbled.

 

“Well,” Scorpius said with an edge of severity to his clipped tone, “I wouldn’t want them imagining something much worse than the truth.”

 

Al swallowed, understanding the implication of Scorpius’ words. If Scor didn’t say anything, he would be opening himself up to scrutiny from Fort and Boone, so a misdirect was sorely needed. At least it meant Scorpius didn’t feel backed into a corner enough to admit to the prophesying. 

 

Lie, Al tried to communicate telepathically with Scorpius, Just one decent lie. But Scorpius was much better at half-truths and evasion than bold-faced lies, and they both knew it. 

 

“It’s nothing to do with the war or the DADA curse or my family or—” and then Scor, of all things, blushed. “Well, I suppose it is about my family, a bit.”

 

“See?” Fort said smugly. "Family secrets."

 

Jamie glowered at her before giving Scorpius a quizzical look. He clearly couldn’t think where this was going. Al had to admit that he couldn't, either.

 

“I think,” Scorpius began carefully, his eyes meeting Jamie's, “that our dads are dating?”

 

“What?” Al asked. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it hadn’t been this, and even if Scorpius' voice had gone up at the end like that, it wasn't like him to declare something he wasn't certain about. Al didn't get it. “Dating who?”

 

“What?” Jamie echoed, suddenly looking quite red in the face. “Why would you think that?”

 

“Oh, is that all?” Boone shrugged as if gossip was never of interest. 

 

Fortitude, for her part, guffawed. “Really? Merlin’s tits, that’s a right scandal, isn’t it?”

 

“Dating who?” Al repeated more forcefully.

 

“Each other,” Jamie’s voice was cold and hard. “He means they’re dating each other.”

 

Jamie appeared fit to explode, flushed and furious, which seemed a bit uncalled for. For his part, Al didn’t know what to think or what to feel. It was a shock. Who would want to date Dad? Mum, obviously, but she’d gone off, hadn't she, so he must not be that good to date. It was a bit ew, wasn’t it, but then again Al figured he could probably not think about it too much and it wouldn’t be so awful. 

 

“That’s…weird,” he managed. He supposedly they had been spending a lot of time together, recently. He'd just not known it was like that. He'd not really imagined his dad with anyone new, let alone a man, least of all Professor Malfoy. Perhaps Scorpius was mistaken. “How do you know?”

 

Scor was busy sending worried glances at Jamie, who looked like his head really might pop off.

 

“I saw them,” Scorpius started, which made Fort shriek with astonished delight. “Just kissing!” Scorpius hurried to amend. 

 

Kissing, Al supposed, was hard to mistake. He wrinkled his nose. No, he’d rather not with all this. In fact, he was beginning to think he might just erase the whole conversation from his memories. Less messy and confusing that way. He'd promised Dad he'd not do that anymore, but Dad was keeping secrets now, again, so what did Al really owe him?

 

Fort was laughing, and Boone had tugged Scorpius’ charms book over to his side of the table. He was perusing it with a bored expression. Scorpius’ pointed face appeared tormented. “Please don’t tell anyone,” he whispered. “It’s new and…it could go really badly for them if this gets out.”

 

"I don't tell anyone anything," Boone pledged, just as Fort gave her assurances:

 

“I won’t, I won’t,” she promised. “Who would I tell other than my best mates who are sitting right here, anyway.”

 

“Speak for yourself,” Jamie spat, launching himself up and over the bench. “You’re no fucking friend of mine, Jordan.”

 

“What?” Jordan sputtered, “Oh, come off it, Jamie, it was just a lark. I wasn’t really going to force Malfoy into confessing anything!” 

 

She shoved her bench back from the table and chased after the storming Jamie, still shouting: "And I didn't mean anything about Scor, you know I just love a bit of goss, I can't help myself, really!"

 

“Hrm,” Boone commented, turning a page before unhurriedly rising. “I suppose I’m expected to referee. Work on a more relevant secret for next time, Malfoy.” 

 

/// ///

 

“Are you angry with me?” Scorpius asked quietly, once they had the Great Hall to themselves again.

 

Al thought about it. “No,” he replied honestly. “Don’t think so. How long have you known?”

 

“Not long,” Scorpius assured him. “I saw them the night after my attack, but I only confronted them about it recently. Your dad wanted to tell you himself and I promised I’d not say anything, but I couldn’t come up with a decent enough lie to get Jamie’s friends off my trail.”

 

“Jamie’s an arsehole for being friends with them and a bigger arsehole for bringing a sneakoscope around you,” Al determined. “If I’m angry with anyone, then I’m angry with him.”

 

“It was a bit thoughtless,” Scorpius admitted, his expression injured.

 

“I’ll punch him in the mouth,” Al vowed kindly. “Next time he crosses my path.”

 

“Please don’t, Al,” Scor pleaded. “I’m sure he didn’t do it on purpose.”

 

“Doesn’t matter if the effects were the same.”

 

“It matters a bit.”

 

“You don’t have to defend him.”

 

“I know,” Scor agreed. “I’m frustrated with him, I am, but you two only just started getting on and I’d hate to undo it all already.”

 

“Fine,” Al caved. “I’ll not punch him in the mouth if it bothers you that much, but I will be thinking about it.”

 

"I'd never dream of telling you want to to think or not to think," Scor replied solemnly. "That's a deal."

 

“Deal,” Al repeated. 

 

Al reached for a scone. Other students were filtering in through the entrance and the quiet of the morning was well and truly shattered now. He cut the scone and put butter on one half, lemon marmalade on the other.  

 

“Al,” Scorpius prompted quietly.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Are you…upset, then? About your dad and my dad, I mean?”

 

“Oh,” Al said thoughtfully, munching on the first half of his scone, sweet first, then savoury, that was how he liked to eat them. He didn't want to think about his dad kissing anyone, particularly, but he wasn't upset. Professor Malfoy was certainly a better cook, and he had more money, and that couldn't hurt, surely. He was a bit more strict, but he was also wickedly smart, and didn't try to sugarcoat things like Dad always did. Al wouldn't mind having Scorpius' dad around more often, he reckoned. “I don’t know. It's not bad, I guess, just weird. What do you think about it?”

 

“I thought,” Scorpius told him timidly, “it might mean we’d get to spend the summer together.”

 

Al nodded. He’d not considered that. “The whole summer,” he remarked. Scorpius and he could do a lot with a whole summer. “That’d be excellent.”

 

“Yeah?” Scorpius asked. 

 

Al grinned and slung an arm around Scorpius’ shoulders. Jamie was an absolute baby and a shit friend. He'd put Scorpius in danger and had too many obnoxious feelings. Soon enough, Scorpius would see that and things would go back to normal, and Al could stop pretending that Jamie had any redeeming qualities and wouldn't that be a relief?

 

“Yeah," Al said.

Notes:

Thanks for all your comments!

Chapter 19: Harry

Harry

Harry found Jamie in a half hidden corridor at the base of the Ravenclaw tower. He’d received instructions from a guilt-stricken Scorpius who’d come to him and Draco at lunch with a convoluted story about a sneakoscope and the need to divulge their secret and Jamie once again storming off in a rage. 

 

Harry remembered being a teenager and how big everything felt. A fight with Ron felt every bit as devastating as the impending war. Anger and grief swirled together and made any emotional modulation quite impossible. He could hardly blame Jamie for the realities of hormones.

 

Jamie was curled into the corner of a lurid yellow and purple chesterfield that was more shreds than furniture. He had his feet up and his arms wrapped around his knees. He was stalwartly refusing to look at Harry. 

 

“Just when I think I know every nook and cranny of this castle,” Harry remarked mildly. 

 

Jamie didn’t respond. 

 

“Headmistress Clearwater told me you didn’t go to classes this morning, and I’ve heard from Scorpius the reasons why,” Harry tried instead. “I don’t suppose you’d like to talk about it?”

 

Jamie put his cheek on his knees, facing away from Harry. It wasn’t subtle. 

 

Harry sat down at the other end of the tatty sofa. Jamie didn’t do a runner so Harry supposed he should consider himself lucky. 

 

“When I was your age, or just a little older—” Harry began gently.

 

“I don’t need a lecture about how much worse you had it,” Jamie blurted out, his head popping up, green eyes burning. 

 

“I wasn’t going to give you one,” Harry said simply. “Give me some credit. I was going to say that back then, a lot of things were happening in my life and that I didn’t feel like I had anyone I could properly talk to. I didn’t fully trust any of the adults in my life. I had your Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione, of course, but they were only kids, too, and when things got really bad, I didn’t know where to turn.”

 

Jamie’s jaw was still set in a rigid hold that seemed to say, “So?”

 

“I didn’t want that for my children,” Harry disclosed. “I know you’re furious with me. I know I’ve kept a big secret from you, which is exactly the sort of behaviour that made me distrust adults when I was in school. So you don’t have to talk to me. I’ll absolutely understand if I’m not the person you want to talk to just now, but I hope you know there are a dozen other people who you could talk to. Teddy, your Granny, any of your aunts and uncles, your cousins, your friends. Just don’t lock all this stuff up too tight. It’s been a wretched year, love. Everyone knows that, everyone would love nothing more than to be there for you, but you’ve got to let someone into your head. We all need that.”

 

Jamie gave a very slight jerk of his head to indicate that he was, at least, listening. Harry supposed this was as much of a chance as he was going to get.

 

“You don’t need to talk to me,” he repeated, “but there is something else I have to tell you. I hate to drop another anvil on you, Jamie, but I don’t wish to keep any more secrets from you, either.”

 

Jamie lifted his head, eyes round with concern. “What is it?” he demanded.

 

Harry pushed a knuckle into his forehead. There was no good way to do this.

 

“Your mother reached out,” he said finally. “She would like to see you.”

 

Jamie leapt to his feet, whirling at Harry, hand on his wand. He raked his other hand through his hair, causing it to stick up almost as much as Harry’s own did. 

 

“What?” James repeated, his voice quavering with disbelief.

 

“She’s come back, sweetheart.”

 

“Where was she? What did she say?”

 

“I don’t know where she was, specifically. What I do know is that she had a difficult time, a bit of a mental break, I think, when Remy was born,” Harry expounded. “It happens to people sometimes, after a baby, but she’s alright, Jamie. She misses you.”

 

“Fuck her,” Jamie said automatically, but Harry could see at once that Jamie didn't mean it. His hand was trembling around his wand and his eyes were shining with unshed tears. Harry can’t bring himself to have any bitterness at that. Ginny was the boy’s mother, for hell’s sake. A few months of bad decision-making was never going to change that, not for Jamie. “Is she coming home? For good?”

 

There was a pleading note to Jamie’s voice that broke Harry’s heart all over again. 

 

“Not quite,” Harry said, as kindly as he could. “Things have changed, Jamie, you must know that. Our lives can’t go back to how they were before, no matter how we might wish it.”

 

“You don’t wish for that,” Jamie hurled the words at him, “you’ve taken up with Professor Malfoy and Mum knows and now she doesn’t want anything to do with you!”

 

“That’s an awful lot to levy at me, love, and some of it is a bit unjust. I have been seeing Professor Malfoy, yes, and I didn’t hide that from your mum.” Harry forced himself to stay calm, to not be tempted into matching Jamie’s seething, roiling energy. “But believe me when I say that her intention was never to come back to me. She’ll always be your mum, but that doesn't mean that she still wants to be my wife. She made that decision on her own, before she ever knew that Draco was in the picture and I’ve accepted it. I know that hurts, it does, it hurts me too, but what has happened between Draco and I has nothing to do with that.”

 

“Why not? Why can’t you fix it? What happened to her, why did things have to change?”

 

“She…Oh, Jamie,” Harry wanted to reach out to his son, to hug him, but he could tell from Jamie’s squared shoulders and clenched fists that that would not be welcome. “It’s her story to tell, really, but the long and the short of it is that she doesn’t think she can cope with another baby. She doesn’t think she can do a proper job of being Remy’s mum.”

 

“So this is Remy’s fault!” Jamie said wildly, “If he—” 

 

“No!” Harry interrupted sharply, allowing himself to raise his voice for the first time. “Remy is an infant, James. He is your brother. He is helpless in all of this, and his mother ran off and left him, same as you. I was raised by people who despised the very fact of my birth and I’ll not stand by and watch that happen to another child, especially not my own. You can be angry with me and you can be angry with your mum, but resentment towards an innocent baby will get you nowhere, and I think you know that.”

 

That seemed to take the wind out of the boy’s sails. Jamie wilted. He looked small in that moment, despite yet another growth spurt. 

 

“I do,” Jamie murmured. He put his wand back in his pocket and scuffed his trainer against the stone of the corridor floor. “Sorry. I don’t hate Remy. I don’t.”

 

“I know that.”

 

“I just. I don’t know. I think I just hoped she was off doing something important, that she was trying everything she could to get back to us.”

 

“She was, in a way. She was taking care of herself so she could come back and be your mum and also be herself, more herself than before. There’s nothing more important.” Harry tried his best to believe his own words. Despite his own resentment, he didn’t want to speak ill of Ginny in front of his son. Nothing good could come from that. 

 

“She didn’t have to run off. She could have just told us. We would have understood.”

 

“You might be right, I don’t know. I’m sure she would have if she felt strong enough to. Either way, I think it would be okay for you to tell her that when you see her. You are allowed to tell her how her leaving made you feel.” 

 

Jamie only shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe it will just scare her off again.”

 

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “But I hope it won’t.”

 

“Will you be angry if I see her?” Jamie asked tentatively, still attentive only to the stones below his feet.

 

“Of course not,” Harry felt terribly that Jamie even had to ask. “You aren’t picking sides, sweetheart. She loves you and I know you love her, too. I think it best if she gets a chance to explain to you, the way she did to me. My only concern is that I don’t know her plans. I don’t know if she knows her plans, not yet. I’m a touch afraid that she’ll hurt you all over again, but I can’t know that. I’d hope she wouldn’t be so careless a second time. I won’t force you to see her if you’re not ready, either. It’s your choice. We both want you to be happy.”

 

“I’m not,” Jamie’s voice broke, his gaze flicking up to Harry’s at last. “I’m not happy, I’m miserable and I can’t make it stop. It goes away sometimes, when I’m with my friends or playing Quidditch, but so much of the time I’m just so, so angry. I thought things were getting better, but then I messed up so badly today, bringing that stupid toy around Scorpius when I was just trying to do something important, and instead I put him in danger. I only wanted to impress him and I ruined everything. And I’m not speaking to Fort and Ri, I’m furious at them for prying the secret out of him, even if they were joking, and I’m even more furious with Al, who was so rotten about it. He’s rotten about everything, even when he says he’s not, and I try to be a good brother, I do, but he makes it so bloody difficult. I don’t know why he doesn’t like me, everyone else seems to like me, but never Al. He’s such an arsehole sometimes that I can hardly bear it. And I know you don’t like name-calling, but I can’t help it, it’s true.”

 

The words tumbled out of Jamie’s mouth and his expression was pitiful, cheeks red and eyes pleading with Harry to listen, to understand. 

 

Harry didn’t say anything, just pulled Jamie in for a hug. His son was trying valiantly not to cry, his breaths coming in great hiccupping gulps and Harry loved him for it. He’d love him if he beat his chest and screamed, too, or gave Harry the silent treatment for a week, a month, a year. He just loved him. 

 

Jamie pulled away from the hug eventually, scrubbing his face with his palms, mussing his hair in the process.

 

Lily was Ginny’s daughter, for certain, and Al sometimes seemed like such a little alien: callous and self-sufficient and clever, he reminded Harry more of Draco at that age than of any of the Weasleys, and wasn’t that a thought. But James, James was Harry’s child through and through: broody and lonely and desperate to be wanted.

 

“Right then,” Harry said, determined.

 

Harry had always preferred to deal with things head on. 

 

Wandlessly, he released his Patronus with a single, forthright message: ‘Albus, follow.’

 

The silver stag felt like an old friend that Harry hadn’t seen in some time. It looked at him and Jamie for a solemn moment before turning and swiftly departing. 

 

“Dad, what?” Jamie asked, perturbed. 

 

“We’re putting this to rest, for good,” Harry declared. “It’s time.”

 

/// ///

 

Albus arrived in a sprint on the tail of the stag, who glimmered away to nothing, its task complete. He skidded to a halt in front of Harry and Jamie. 

 

“Oh,” Al commented, unimpressed. “Jamie’s here. Dad, it’s kind of embarrassing when you send me a stag message in the middle of Potions. Professor Malfoy was not pleased. It’s a bit showy, yeah? Also don’t you have a class right now?”

 

“I’ve a free block, Albus,” Harry replied dryly, “but I thank you for your concern with my work ethic.”

 

Al shrugged. “Well, you might not have class, but surely Jamie does.”

 

“Jamie’s schedule is none of your business,” Harry told him. He made a mental note to catch Headmistress Clearwater later that afternoon to explain Jamie’s absence. “Sit.”

 

Albus seemed nonplussed by Harry’s unusual curtness. 

 

Jamie was already seated on the settee and he shifted as far to one end as he could, avoiding his brother. 

 

“Scorpius told me you knew about this morning,” Al remarked, plopping onto the opposite end of the sofa. He traced the claw marks with curiosity. “What caused this? A hippogriff, do you think?” 

 

“We’re not here to discuss the sofa, Al,” Harry said. He couldn’t help but be softened by the boy’s curiosity. It was hard to stay angry with Albus, but one look at Jamie’s hurt face reminded him what needed doing. “Your brother is upset.”

 

“So?” Al retorted. “Jamie’s always upset. All he does is clomp around and pout. Besides, he was the idiot who brought a sneakoscope around Scorpius! He should be upset!”

 

“Albus,” Harry sighed. He regarded his sons: dark haired and slight, the both of them. Jamie’s head down and he was picking at a thread in his trousers. Albus’ arms were crossed, blue eyes defiant.

 

Harry had been wrong, Al was definitely Ginny’s son, too. 

 

“I didn’t do anything!” Al proclaimed. “Okay, I called him a knob. Once. But he acted like a knob. Scorpius was there, he’ll vouch for me, I didn’t say anything else against him, not to his face.”

 

“It’s not just what you say to one's face, Al, it’s how you act, you always sneer and snicker and whisper and spout off about me behind my back. You make me feel a bit shit, always,” Jamie’s voice was low and earnest.

 

“Well maybe you should feel that way,” Al countered, “think about what could have happened to Scor!”

 

“Jamie knows that, Al!” Harry thundered, fed up and frustrated. "He knows!"

 

Al froze, mouth agape. He tucked his chin, staring up at Harry in surprise. Good, Harry thought. An impression needed to be made.

 

“Al, we’ve been over this,” Harry continued. He lowered his voice, but his tone remained stern. “You care about Scorpius and so does your brother. Jamie wouldn’t do anything to intentionally hurt him.”

 

Jamie was looking away again, forcibly cracking his knuckles like maybe they were his little brother’s neck. 

 

“Well, he nearly hurt him anyway,” Al rebutted pettily, but the fight had gone out of him. 

 

Jamie was bleeding heart and Al a needle drawing wound after nettling wound. How could one child feel so much and one so little?

 

“Albus, love,” Harry said softly, “I know empathy doesn’t come easily to you, it never has. Sometimes that’s your strength, but right now it’s your weakness.”

 

“What do you mean?” Al demanded, looking offended. 

 

“You’re not thinking about how your brother feels right now. You don’t need to rub his face in a mistake about which he already feels awful.”

 

Al just stared stonily at him. Harry knew he had to come up with something else to get his point across.

 

“Could you try something for me, please?” Harry asked. 

 

“Maybe,” Al replied dubiously. “What is it?”

 

“I just want you to imagine something,” Harry pressed on. “I'll help a bit, help make a picture in your head. Can you do that?”

 

“I guess,” Al’s curiosity thankfully seemed to have gotten the better of him; he seemed intrigued with the idea. That was Al, anything novel would do.

 

“Thank you." Harry said. "Now, let’s see. Alright, how's this: imagine this summer when you were running those experiments on Scorpius.”

 

“With Scorpius,” Al corrected.

 

“With Scorpius,” Harry amended. He pushed the smallest bit of his magic forward with the words, pulling together an image to from in his son’s head. “Can you picture that?”

 

“Sure. Yeah, I can actually!" Al sounded excited at the development.

 

“Good.” Harry swallowed, hoping this wasn’t a terrible idea. He continued to project a story: Scorpius’ pale face save for his pink cheeks, blond hair shining in the sun. “Imagine he’s running in the back garden and his prophesying starts. Imagine I run out with his antidote, and put a drop under his tongue, but it doesn’t work. I give him the whole bottle, but nothing changes. Think about that, think about that as hard as you can. Imagine if your experiments had stopped Scorpius’ potion from working altogether.”

 

Harry warped the image to one of Scorpius, wide-eyed and petrified, mouth moving endlessly, Harry running up alongside him, frantic, the antidote failing. 

 

“But they didn’t!” Al dissented, sounding genuinely distressed. 

 

“That’s why he said imagine,” Jamie growled. 

 

“I am!” Al screwed up his little face, smooshing his mouth and nose towards the centre, eyes screwed tight and dark brows furrowed. 

 

“Imagine Scorpius could only speak in prophecies, that he had to drop out of school, that there was no cure. Imagine his life became suddenly even more dangerous, that we weren’t able to keep him safe. Imagine that happened and it was your fault.”

 

Harry ended the image, pulling his magic back in towards himself.

 

Albus’ eyes snapped open, all humour and vexation gone from his features, like he’d been bled dry. 

 

“I don’t like imagining that,” he whispered. His voice was very quiet and very solemn. “I don’t want to do that again.”

 

“How did thinking about that make you feel?” Harry continued, forcing himself to stay the course, hoping he'd not made a dreadful mistake with this confounded experiment.

 

“Sick,” Al admitted. “All twisted inside. It’s horrid.”

 

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “I’ve hurt people I’ve cared about, put them in dangerous situations for my own agenda. It’s not a good feeling. I’ve felt it. It is horrid.”

 

Al was only blinking up at him. He looked a bit afraid. Harry was torn. He reached out and squeezed Al's shoulder comfortingly. Maybe it had been too much, but Al struggled with this stuff, he really did. Harry had never been able to properly teach the boy to be kind, and it was a lesson that needed learning. 

 

“I suspect,” Harry said very quietly, lowering himself to kneel before his younger son, “that’s a bit like what Jamie felt when he realised his mistake today.”

 

Al’s dark brows furrowed as he thought that through. His expression was conflicted, wanting to consider Harry’s words, but also wanting to reject them, to protect himself.

 

“But I never messed up like that,” Al puzzled aloud, after a minute. “Jamie did. It’s different.”

 

“I know,” Harry acknowledged. “It’s not literally the same, but it is generally the same, the feeling is. People make mistakes, sweetheart, even you, as clever as we all know you are. And if you were to make a mistake that made you feel that nauseated, that low, I’d never kick you when you were down. I’d never call you names or try to turn your friends against you. I’d like to think Jamie wouldn’t either. I know it’s not obvious to you, I know you have to really think about stuff like this, but I know you can understand that, can learn to think about all this from other people's perspectives.”

 

“Why would anyone want to?” Al wondered genuinely. “It’s dreadful!”

 

“Because you can’t be a great wizard or a great man if you don’t care about people, Al. And sometimes caring about people means thinking about what it is like to be them. It is work to be considerate.”

 

“I do care about people,” Al pointed out. “I care about you. I care about Scorpius. And Lily and Granny and Teddy!”

 

It was not a long list, but Harry reasoned it only needed to be long enough.

 

“That’s how I know you can also care about James,” he coaxed. He cupped Al's face. "You could try."

 

“Why?” Al asked. It wasn’t malicious or sarcastic. He seemed genuinely confused. “It’s not like Jamie cares about me.”

 

"Oh, Al," Harry shook his head, dropped his hand, and stood up. However had things ended up here.

 

“That’s not true!” Jamie exclaimed, quite obviously taken aback. “Of course I care about you.”

 

“You do?” Al appeared to be taking this in like it was brand new information. “Why?”

 

“Because you’re my brother, Al! That’s what people do!”

 

“Oh,” Albus said. “But I’m awful to you.”

 

“Yes, you are!” Jamie agreed, exasperated. “But I care about you anyway!”

 

“He does, love,” Harry told his younger son. “He always has. Jamie wanted you so badly. When your Mum was pregnant with you, Jamie would toddle about talking about his baby brother and all the toys he was going to show him. He was so excited when we brought you home, Al. He was just little, but he worked so hard to be gentle, stroking your hair and kissing the top of your head, mindful of the soft spot. It was the sweetest thing.”

 

“Dad,” James squirmed uncomfortably.

 

“You did,” Harry said.

 

“Yeah, well, I thought I’d have a brother who’d want to do things with me,” Jamie shrugged. “I feel like I waited and waited for Al to finally be old enough to fly on his own, but then he didn’t care.” He turned towards his brother, “You never even try to be interested in anything I like or anything I do.”

 

Al considered this. Harry was just relieved he didn’t instantly say something along the lines of all of Jamie’s interests being dull and stupid. It was only a mild improvement, but it wasn’t nothing. 

 

“I’m interested in what you’re doing about the DADA curse,” Al admitted unexpectedly. 

 

Harry scratched the back of his neck. Scorpius had mentioned Jamie’s latest ploy. It wasn't ideal, but it seemed harmless enough, and at least it was finally some common ground.  “Sounds like as good a place to start as any,” Harry offered.

 

“Yeah?” Jamie asked, he’d stopped fidgeting and was looking to Albus with renewed hope. 

 

“I’ve never done any hexbreaking,” Al explained. “Could be cool.”

 

“There is no hex,” Harry reminded them, “but by all means look into it, so long as you are looking into it together without sniping at each other or calling each other terrible names.”

 

“Could do,” Jamie hitched up one shoulder and let it drop, nonchalantly. 

 

“Alright,” Albus said. 

 

“Alright,” Jamie repeated. 

 

Harry was a bit stunned. He hadn’t half expected any of this to work. The three of them were silent for a long moment. Harry wished he knew exactly what the boys were thinking, but the tension that always seemed to pervade the air between them had dissipated, or deflated, maybe. Nobody looked thrilled, but nobody looked murderous either, and Harry supposed he had to take what he could get when it came to Jamie and Al.

 

Jamie cleared his throat. Harry and Al both startled at the sound.

 

“Erm, Dad, does Al know about Mum already?” Jamie asked cautiously

 

“Shit,” Harry cursed, rubbing his forehead. It was all too much to juggle. “No. Sorry.”

 

“What about her?” Al asked. 

 

“Mum’s back. Sort of. Not back with Dad,” Jamie muttered, giving the most truncated explanation possible.

 

“Oh,” Al processed the news. The explanation, shockingly, seemed to be enough for him. He blinked a couple of times, but was otherwise still. “Yeah, I don’t think I care.”

 

“Are you sure, love,” Harry tried. “We can talk about it…”

 

Al continued as though Harry had not spoken. “And I’ll not be doing any more thought experiments so you can make me care, got that, Dad?”

 

“Getting on with your brother is enough for one day, Al,” Harry relented. “We can talk about your mother another time, but we’re not putting a conversation off like that indefinitely.”

 

“Fine. But not today.”

 

“Not today,” Harry agreed. 

 

“Or tomorrow either.”

 

“Or tomorrow, either,” Harry promised.

 

Al nodded. “Can I go back to Potions, now? Otherwise Professor Malfoy will probably get worried and come looking for us.”

 

“Right,” Harry murmured. He was feeling off kilter, that a conversation of this magnitude had settled so peaceably, that Al didn’t have a hundred more questions. “Yes, but, er, first…did you want to talk about Professor Malfoy and, ah, me?" Harry blushed. He felt ridiculous. 

 

“Ew,” Albus told him. “No.”

 

“Right,” Harry said again. “You’re not upset?”

 

“It’s whatever, Dad.” Al’s tone was one of pure disinterest. Harry supposed he couldn’t expect a complete about-face in a single hour.

 

“Jamie?” Harry offered. 

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

“Alright then.”

 

Harry sucked in his lips and crossed his arms. Was parenting supposed to feel this awkward, he wondered? Merlin, it had never been this difficult when the kids were little. Teenagers were a whole new, terrifying, world. 

 

“If you do, you know where to find me, yeah?” he said, feeling foolish. 

 

Albus and Jamie rolled their eyes in perfect synchronicity.

Notes:

Thanks for reading. Sorry I'm behind on replying to comments, I really appreciate every one!!! Thanks for bearing with all the angst. Definitely don't want an Order of the Phoenix so will try to have more levity soon, but had to get through the reveals...

Chapter 20: Draco

Notes:

CONTENT WARNINGS AHOY! Please see end notes and stay safe, amigos.

Draco 

Lily had been difficult to put to bed that evening. Harry had broken the news about Ginevra’s return and the little girl was beside herself. It was hard to explain to a 10-year-old how a person could be back but not home. It would have been easier if the Weasley woman had just stayed gone, Draco thought bitterly, but Harry was predictably too magnanimous to even consider such a thought. 

 

Draco was grading papers in the drawing room. Harry was singing to Lily and Draco could hear the notes carry faintly from the hall. He did tend to coddle his children. Draco didn’t disagree with his parenting, necessarily, Harry wasn’t overindulgent where it really mattered, but expectations were much more fluid in the Potter household than in Malfoy Manor. Thankfully, Harry never seemed to mind if Draco imposed a bit more structure and routine into things; he didn’t ever make Draco feel like he’d overstepped when it came to dealing with the children. In fact, he usually seemed relieved that Draco was willing and able to be firm and uncompromising when needed. Nevertheless, they surely would reach a point of conflict over their different philosophies as Remy grew older. 

 

Draco froze, quill hovering above an essay by Sterling Main on the properties and applications of will-o’-the-wisp essence. A drop of ink dropped from his quill, leaving an ugly smudge which Draco quickly spelled away. 

 

What was he doing playing house with Potter like this? Imagining raising Remy as his own when the boy already had a mother who’d suddenly reared her ugly head again. Surely this wasn’t sustainable, surely there wasn’t a place for him in this cottage, in Harry’s bed, indefinitely. It was a fantasy, a game to which he was clinging, one he refused to let go. Inevitably, it would pop like a bubble, via internal or external forces, Draco didn’t know. All he knew was that he would hold a tight grip on every speck of residue until it all dissolved. It was pathetic, but what else could he do? He wanted it, wanted this, even though he’d done nothing in all of his life to deserve Harry’s love, the adoration of Harry’s children. He felt like an imposter, a cuckoo’s egg, because really, wasn’t he just borrowing Harry’s goodness for his own selfish ends?

 

/// ///

 

“Lamplight looks good on you.”

 

The sound of Harry’s voice made Draco jump. He’d been too consumed by his own thoughts to hear the other man coming. 

 

He looked up from his work to where Harry was standing behind him. Harry's very presence had a way of quelling the ridiculous fears and anxieties that plagued him when Harry wasn’t close. Draco drank in the look of him: so solid and strong, broad shouldered, a bit of scruff, cowlicks giving him careless bedhead which somehow managed to make him even more appealing. 

 

“You’re so lovely,” Harry continued, leaning down to kiss Draco’s mouth, his neck. Harry was always so liberal with his praise in a way Draco could scarcely reciprocate without bringing that awkward, curdling sensation to his belly. Harry seemed happy to dole out compliments rather than receive them, but Draco hated that he struggled so with such a simple thing. He gripping Harry’s shirt and pulling him closer, kissing him fiercely. At least he could give him this.

 

Draco felt Harry’s grin, felt himself being maneuvered upright until he was half-seated on the desk, papers scattering. Draco felt an irrepressible impulse to pick them up, he couldn’t tolerate a mess. As if reading his thoughts, Harry’s magic worked like wind, organizing the parchment into a tidy stack on the mantle. 

 

“Thank you,” Draco murmured. 

 

“I’m starting to understand you,” Harry teased, pressing forward to further assault Draco’s neck. 

 

Draco let his head fall back, exposing more skin as Harry devoured him, stubble scraping along skin, leaving Draco feeling wonderfully raw. Harry followed a path downwards, unfastening buttons, nipping at Draco’s collar bone, the opening at his throat. Harry pressed deft fingertips into the scar on Draco’s chest. It burned keenly and Draco gasped, leaning hard into the pain. 

 

“I love how you like that,” Harry murmured into Draco’s chest, the edge of his teeth catching a nipple. “How you suffer for me, so sweet, so beautiful.”

 

Draco heard himself whimper as he thrust up against nothing. His head was a swirling mess of pain and Harry’s adorations. Draco dreaded them and was desperate for them all at once. Harry was too frank, too honest, it never felt like just words with him, but like gospel. It made Draco want to be the person Harry seemed to see in him. 

 

“I want to,” Draco whispered. “Want to hurt for you, be good for you.”

 

Harry groaned like Draco’s words had spurred him onwards and he latched his lips onto a rough cord of scars. 

 

Draco could have wept from the pain of it, it flashed bright and hot like a migraine. He locked his legs around Harry’s waist, arching into it, chasing the pain. 

 

“I’m yours,” Draco told him, hands winding in Harry’s hair, “that’s your mark on me, always.”

 

“Fucking hell,” Harry said reverently, finding Draco’s lips again, “that’s fucking hot, why is that so bloody hot, Merlin, Draco, let me take you to bed.”

 

Draco nodded fervently and allowed himself to be led down the hall to the bedroom. Harry shoved Draco against the closed door once they were inside. He stripped Draco wildly, clothes strewn carelessly on the floor and for once Draco couldn’t bring himself to care, they were only clothes, it was only a floor, and besides, Harry’s mouth was engulfing Draco’s cock and it was good, so good, so good. Harry was fast and adept and capable and Draco cried out, certain he was going to—

 

Harry pulled off. Draco made a miserable, pained noise, slamming the edge of his fist into the door. “Harry,” he pleaded. “I was so close, I just need…”

 

“Shush, love,” Harry told him, “I know what you need. I know best, isn’t that right?”

 

“Don’t patronise me,” Draco hissed, irritated at being edged and denied so effortlessly. It took next to nothing for him to get there with Harry, sometimes. 

 

“You love when I patronise you,” Harry informed him smugly, patting Draco’s cock affectionately. It was so stupid, so humiliating. It made Draco so hard.

 

Harry stood then, he was at a height with Draco, but bigger, broader. He bracketed Draco against the door and Draco felt trapped in the best way. Harry languidly sucked a hickey into Draco’s neck. Undignified, Draco’s brain supplied. Hot, his cock corrected. 

 

“You also love when I mark you up,” Harry noted, gripping Draco’s erection loosely to make his point. “Why is that?”

 

“I don’t know,” Draco growled. There wasn’t enough friction, tightness, warmth. Harry was teasing him, it was infuriating, and worse, it was effective. 

 

“No?” Harry mused, voice playful, nonchalant. His hand found Draco’s neck, caught Draco’s eyes briefly, asking permission. Draco nodded eagerly. Harry smiled wolfishly, hand tightening around Draco’s throat. “Better take a guess.”

 

Draco felt a growing pressure against his windpipe. It was nowhere near enough to be dangerous, but his body interpreted it as that anyway, a primal, protective spike of adrenaline quickening his heart beat. Draco shook his head. Knowing why was one thing, saying why was another. 

 

“Stubborn,” Harry tsked. His hold tightened, collapsing Draco’s pulse points, making his vision swim. It was a warning, a threat. Harry wanted all of him, but it wasn’t easy to give. 

 

“Do you need me to stop?” Harry breathed, examining him. 

 

Draco shook his head in protest. That was the last thing he wanted. He felt himself sink deeper into his submission, pinned like a butterfly against Harry’s bedroom door, every bit as helpless and exposed. 

 

“Then tell me,” Harry ordered. His fingers dug in deeper, and Draco’s vision greyed out at the edges. Harry wasn’t afraid of extremes; it was reckless and so bloody exciting. Draco was painfully aroused.  

 

“Makes me feel like I’m yours,” Draco gasped, his body fighting to spread his oxygen supply between his head and his lungs. 

 

“You are mine,” Harry affirmed, unflinchingly. His vice-grip on Draco’s throat relaxed and he dug a knuckle into Draco’s scar. “That’s my brand on you, isn’t it?”

 

Draco drank in the air in deep, choking breaths, nodding his head. “Yes,” he managed, “Yes, Harry. Yours.”

 

Harry smirked and kissed his cheek. The softness felt treacherous. 

 

“Mine,” Harry agreed. “And that means what, exactly?”

 

Nine hells, Draco hated when Harry made him fucking speak. It was so much easier to disengage, to get lost in feeling, in pain, in never having to admit to anything. 

 

Harry gave Draco’s face a sharp, stinging slap. “Stay with me,” he demanded. “Here. Now, Draco.” Draco winced and Harry leant in, gracing his burning skin with another gentle kiss. “You’re alright,” Harry promised. “Talk to me.”

 

“Means you can do what you want with me.” The words were a confession. They left Draco terrified. 

 

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Harry told him. “You’re mine and I can do what I like with you.”

 

Draco thought he might have been waiting his whole fucking life to hear Harry Potter say those words. 

 

“Want you,” he begged. 

 

“I know, love,” Harry acknowledged. He stepped back, giving Draco space he didn’t want. Harry pulled Draco along by the wrist. “Get on the bed, on your back.”

 

Draco did as he was told and then Harry was over him again, kissing him, fingers digging into flesh, strong enough to bruise. Draco would hurt tomorrow. He loved when he hurt the next day, when every step reminded him of Harry reveling in his body. 

 

“Draco,” Harry murmured into his hair. “I want to fuck you tonight. May I?”

 

“Gods yes,” Draco replied. How long had he been waiting? It felt like an eternity. “Please.”

 

Harry pushed closer, pressing adoring kisses to Draco's face, his neck and chest. 

 

“So good to me, so fucking good to me, baby,” Harry marveled, but Draco didn’t feel like he was being good, he felt selfish and needy. He’d wanted Harry inside him so badly for so long, some days he thought of little else.

 

Harry seemed prepared, he fumbled with a phial of oil retrieved from a drawer at his bedside, and then without preamble was breaching Draco with practiced fingers, making him cling to the quilt below, writhing with the unexpected, intense pleasure.

 

“I don't want to hurt you with this,” Harry told him, kissing Draco’s sternum, just above his scar. “Going to do this properly this first time, while I get my bearings. We can push the envelope more next time, yeah?” 

 

Draco nodded, half delirious, he didn’t need pain, he needed Harry. He threw his arms around Harry’s neck with what might have been a sob. 

 

“So desperate, love you like this, letting me take and take and take,” Harry whispered.

 

You can have anything you want, Draco wanted to say, but he couldn’t get his mouth around the words. 

 

Harry replaced his fingers with his cock and Draco felt his body stretch to accommodate him. There was no burn, no pain, and yet Draco still felt himself unraveling. Harry was steady, smoothly hitting home with every stroke, a litany of praise rolling off his tongue. “Merlin, Draco, you feel so good, you’re so gorgeous, so lovely, so mine. Can’t believe I get to keep you, sweetheart. I’m not going to last, where—”

 

“Inside, please, inside, mark me, claim me,” Draco pleaded “make me yours for good.”

 

That tipped Harry over and he was finishing, filling him, making Draco in turn go off between them. 

 

Harry collapsed, still inside, forehead on Draco’s clavicle. They were both breathing in gasps, chests heaving. 

 

“Fucking hell,” Harry said finally. He carefully extricated himself, rolling onto one side. Draco tried not to mourn the loss. “You’re unbelievable, fucking perfect.”

 

“Hardly,” Draco retorted, but Harry was not one to be rebuffed. He shifted closer on the bed, one hand over Draco’s still racing heart. 

 

“Hey, who’s in charge here, hm?” Harry chided, chin propped on Draco’s shoulder. “If I say you’re perfect, you’re perfect.”

 

“You’re ridiculous,” Draco pointed out.

 

“Says the man with a hidden werewolf kink,” Harry teased. “Mark me, claim me, bloody hell, where did that come from?”

 

Draco froze, feeling suddenly queasy. “Don’t mock me,” he forced himself to say. “It wasn’t about that.”

 

He turned onto his side, curling away from Harry. He felt exponentially more naked than he had twenty seconds ago.

 

Harry realised his error at once, sitting up, trying to catch Draco’s eye. “Oh, shit, sweetheart, I wasn’t, I didn’t mean, I meant…It was spectacularly hot. I’m a convert. Fully on board with every last bit of it. It was just a surprise, is all. I’m sorry, that was a shit thing to say.”

 

Draco nodded, rationally he knew Harry hadn’t meant to be cruel, but it felt cruel nonetheless. 

 

Harry spooned his body around Draco’s, threading their arms together, nuzzling Draco’s neck. “I’m so sorry, baby. I love your kinks, yeah? I never want you to feel afraid to be open up and let me in. You’re fucking stunning when you let go.”

 

Draco sniffed, trying to let himself settle into Harry’s words. 

 

“I love getting to be so possessive with you,” Harry admitted hesitantly. “I think...I think I said that idiotic thing because I was embarrassed about just how much I liked it. I’m not used to it, and it was just so good, like a drug, and maybe that scared me, how good things can be with you, how every time you show me more and more.” 

 

“It’s fine, Potter,” Draco managed. 

 

“It’s not,” Harry said simply. “I love you and I hurt you. I won’t do it again, at least not in this way. I can be a bit of a muttonhead sometimes, or so Jamie informs me.”

 

Draco felt his mouth twitch into a smile. “An apt description.”

 

“Hey!” Harry laughed, nudging Draco in the ribs. “Come here.”

 

He manhandled Draco even closer, Harry’s chest to Draco’s back, their hands entwined. 

 

“I love you so much, sweetheart,” Harry repeated, like he knew just how much Draco needed to hear it. 

 

Draco wriggled out of the embrace, twisting so he could kiss Harry, hard and certain, hoping his actions could say what his words could not. 

 

/// ///

 

“So, how was today?” Draco asked, slipping into the covers after they’d both showered. “We’ve barely had a moment to talk, considering you opted to maul me the moment you finally got the children down.”

 

“Is this you complaining? I thought you enjoyed being mauled,” Harry remarked with a yawn. He threw a casual leg over Draco’s, wrapping an arm around his chest. 

 

“I may, on occasion, enjoy a mauling,” Draco permitted. “But really. I can’t imagine that was a fun conversation to have with James and Albus.”

 

“It was pretty shit, yeah,” Harry professed. “Or maybe not, I don’t know. Jamie’s devastated. He felt terribly about the incident with the sneakoscope.”

 

Draco made a derisive noise. “He needn’t be. It was Scorpius who overreacted. Show me a student without a whole host of secrets and I’ll show you a liar; sneakoscopes are virtually useless at Hogwarts. Any harmless little secret would have served. Then again, my son has a hard time even with white lies, so I can’t say I’m surprised at his decision. It simply forced the issue, I suppose.”

 

“Is he alright?” Harry queried.

 

“Yes, yes,” Draco said, waving off the notion. “Scorpius is always alright so long as I am not upset with him, and I forgave him the minute I saw his devastated little face.”

 

“He is a remarkably difficult kid to be upset with,” Harry observed. 

 

“Mm,” Draco agreed. “He’s either the sweetest child or the world’s greatest Slytherin, we may never know.”

 

Harry snorted. 

 

“Did you manage to smooth things over with James?” Draco continued. Harry had seemed stressed that afternoon. Draco supposed they both were, these days.

 

“I hope so. It was a lot for him to take. He wants to see his mum. He wants Al to like him. Poor Jamie. He wants so badly to be loved. I’m furious with Ginny, and even with Al, for making him feel like he isn’t.”

 

“Albus is not an easy child to win over,” Draco considered. 

 

“No,” Harry agreed. “If you have his loyalty, he’s loyal to a fault. If you don’t, you’re nothing, or less than. I’m trying to work on that, a bit, but I’ve also asked the Headmistress about the counselor she mentioned. The boys need someone they can talk to who isn’t me, not because I don’t want to listen, but because I’m sure they need someone to vent to about me.”

 

Draco wasn’t certain. He couldn’t imagine himself ever spilling his secrets to a stranger, or to anyone, really, who wasn’t Harry. Besides, he couldn’t put Scorpius in danger like that. He barely tolerated the limited number of healers at St. Mungo’s being familiar with Scorpius' condition. No, Draco didn’t care for the idea of therapy at all. Then again, the Potter family was less reserved with their thoughts and feelings. One didn’t exactly need to be a mind reader to know precisely what was going on inside Harry’s head, for instance. It was something Draco had exploited to his own benefit when they were back in school. 

 

“Perhaps that will be helpful,” Draco granted. “Are they upset about…us?”

 

Harry sighed. He drew lazy circles over Draco’s chest with his finger. “I don’t know. Al is refusing to care. Jamie is certain you’re preventing me from taking Ginny back. I tried to explain that Ginny doesn’t want to come back and that I wouldn’t have her if she did, with or without you, but I’m not sure he believes me. He’s so unhappy, I don’t know what to do.”

 

Draco frowned in the darkness. He supposed he’d hoped all the children would feel as Scorpius did, excited and hopeful, but Scorpius was never attached to his mother in the same way the Potter children were to theirs. Draco could certainly understand their fear and their sense of loss. 

 

“You do a lot,” he told Harry, and he found he meant it. “You’re patient with him, accepting of his feelings. Sometimes teenagers are just miserable.”

 

“Yeah,” Harry accepted. “I suppose so. I sometimes wish I had a normal childhood.”

 

“Only sometimes?” Draco quipped. 

 

“Well, always,” Harry corrected, “but in this particular instance, I wish I’d had one so I could know what is a normal amount of sadness. Although Ginny’s leaving ruined any chance of even a normal amount, I guess.”

 

“Yes, I can appreciate that,” Draco remarked. “I’ve not much advice on that topic, I’m afraid.”

 

Harry hummed his understanding and went quiet. He pressed his lips to Draco's shoulder. He was always so close, so affectionate, and he chose to be those things with Draco of all people. Draco, who had never dreamt of tolerating such things from anyone. Now, he craved them. It was disconcerting.

 

“Was it bad at home?" Harry enquired, unexpectedly. "Before the war, I mean? Before things got really wretched?”

 

Draco shrugged. “Comparatively, no. No one was locking me up or starving me.”

 

“It’s not a pissing match,” Harry told him, expression serious. “You can have had a shit childhood without the Dursleys having had anything to do with it.”

 

Draco thought about it. Growing up in the Manor, he’d certainly not suffered the deprivation that Harry had, but he didn’t remember feeling happy there, either. He'd been constantly anxious while simultaneously trying not to show it, always testing the waters, attempting to stay out of his father's way.

 

“It was tense,” he offered, finally. “It wasn’t as though my father regularly beat me unconscious or anything dramatic. I just never knew when the next strike would come, or for what. Shifting ground, you know. I became very cognizant of the slightest changes in his moods, when Mother or I would do or say something to irritate him. I dreaded being summoned to his study. That was reserved for when I’d done something truly injurious.”

 

Draco repressed a shudder, he’d spent a great deal of time avoiding reminiscing on such things. 

 

Harry squeezed him, kissing his hair. “Shit, sweetheart. I’m sorry. That is absolutely awful. Did that happen often? Sorry, nevermind, you don't have to talk about it.”

 

“It was, yes. Thank you. And I don't mind talking about it. I try not to shrink away from such things. It didn’t happen terribly often, no. But...do you remember that day in Flourish and Blotts? When my father got into it with Arthur Weasley?”

 

“Of course,” Harry said. “He slipped Tom Riddle’s diary to Ginny that day, began that whole business with the Chamber of Secrets.”

 

“That was a bad day,” Draco murmured. It was an understatement. “He said I was weak for not standing up for him, that I had no pride in my family. I think he was just humilated that he embarrassed himself in public and I was a convenient scapegoat. After Father got through with me, Mother had to take me to St. Mungo’s for a ‘broomstick accident’. The accident being that Father broke a rib badly enough to puncture my lung. But he did use a broomstick, so I suppose there was some truth to it.”

 

Draco was trying for a wry joke at the end there. It fell horribly flat. He’d been Scorpius’ age, slight, a Seeker’s build, utterly incapable of protecting himself. And still he’d been loyal to his Father for years following the incident, told himself if he was just good enough, it would all stop. He’d been a fool. 

 

“Bloody hell, love.” Harry was clearly shocked. His touch became gentle, feather-light over Draco's neck and jaw, as though Draco was something delicate and precious. “That is despicable, unforgivable. What sort of monster would do that to a kid?”

 

“It got better, after that,” Draco explained, oddly determined to try and comfort Harry in return. “Or at least it didn’t get that bad again, until the war. I don’t think he wanted the authorities looking in on him.”

 

“He’d better pray he stays in Azkaban,” Harry muttered darkly. “Or else the day he gets free is the day I will fucking kill him.”

 

Draco felt quite certain that Harry meant it. That was probably a red flag, a tendency towards violence or what have you, but Draco found he liked it. Harry made him feel secure and protected in a way he never had but always wanted.

 

“He’s not worth it,” Draco shrugged. “He’ll die old and weak and alone, as he deserves.”

 

Harry made a discontented sound but didn't press the issue. 

 

“I never had any clue, you know,” Harry admitted. “I knew he was an arsehole and cruel, but I had assumed you were at least partially exempt.”

 

“Well, then my plan worked," Draco remarked with a breeziness he didn't really feel. "I went to great efforts to hide it. I was ashamed. I didn’t want anyone to know what I had brought down upon myself.”

 

“That’s sick, Draco. Not you, but the fact that you felt you had to, that you thought anyone had a right to do that to you. You never deserved any of that, you were a child, for hell’s sake.”

 

“I appreciate the passion, Potter,” Draco said. “Of course I realise all that now. I just…didn’t. At the time.”

 

Harry’s arm was tight around him. Draco liked how Harry always just stayed. Loyal to a fault, Albus came by it honestly. 

 

“I wish I could go back in time, take you somewhere safe,” Harry whispered into Draco’s hair. 

 

“I wish that you had had somewhere safe to take me,” Draco reminded him. "But you didn’t. Things weren't easy for you, either, Harry."

 

Their lips met in the darkness, hot tears smeared against Draco’s cheeks. He didn’t know why he was so touched that Harry cared so much.

 

“I’m okay, darling, truly,” he felt compelled to say.

 

“Yeah,” Harry acknowledged. “I know you are. And I know that you got that way all on your own. You're a wonder. It’s just a lot, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes. It is.”

 

Harry nuzzled at Draco’s throat and shoulder sweetly until he stilled, his breath slowing. Draco was wondering if he’d fallen asleep when he spoke again. 

 

“There’s no delicate way to ask this…”

 

Draco gave a rough chuckle. “Then don’t be delicate.”

 

“If you went through all that,” Harry said carefully, “I mean, I can’t imagine you liked it then, pain, I mean. Why now?”

 

It was a fair question, and one Draco had contemplated himself. “Because I can control it, I suspect,” he said. “I’m not sure I buy that all our desires are simply products of our past, but I’m no mind-healer, so what do I know? You’re right, I didn’t like it then. It didn’t develop until much later, when I realised there were places I could go where the pain would stop the instant I wanted it to. It made me feel powerful. It still does.”

 

“You are powerful,” Harry affirmed solemnly. 

 

“Not compared to you.”

 

“And yet you can bring me to my knees.”

 

“Hm, and here I thought I’d been trying to help you get back on your feet.”

 

Harry barked a laugh at that, cupped Draco’s face in one hand, and kissed him soundly. 

 

“Harry,” Draco said, feeling suddenly brave. 

 

“Yeah, babe?”

 

“I know I’m rotten about saying it back, even though I do. Feel it, I mean. But…well. I like hearing it.”

 

“Then I’ll tell you every day until you wish I wouldn’t,” Harry grinned. “I love you, Draco Malfoy, and I’ll never let you forget it.”

Notes:

Content warnings:
Generally: sex (you can skip this by reading before and after the page breaks: /// ///), severe child abuse (in the past, not explicitly described)
Specifics: Sex - BDSM, choking/breath play, slapping, power dynamics, mild humiliation, anal penetration, oral, marking, orgasm denial/edging, less than perfectly negotiated kinks (in the context of consensual sex) and possessive behaviour.
Abuse - physical, emotional, mental.

 

Thanks everyone for reading. Y'all are the best. <3

Chapter 21: Harry

Harry

 

Harry tried, generally, to be patient and understanding with his children. That did not mean, however, that he necessarily felt patient or understanding when Lily began tapping at his bedroom door at half three in the morning, especially since Draco had been out to feed the baby not ninety minutes earlier.

 

“Shit,” Harry grumbled, fumbling for his glasses. “Lumos.” 

 

“What is it?” Draco said groggily. 

 

“Lily,” Harry explained.  

 

“Shit,” Draco echoed. “Do I…”

 

Harry hadn’t fully explained the situation to Lily yet. He had planned to do so the night prior, but the news about Ginny’s sort-of return had really thrown the girl for a loop and Harry hadn’t wanted to worsen things. He and Draco had not been particularly subtle around the house, but Lily was innocent and oblivious and thought that they were just having a lot of sleepovers. She’d get stroppy about it occasionally, saying that she wasn’t allowed to have sleepovers on school nights. Mostly, however, she seemed happy enough to have another adult around to indulge her whims. 

 

Lily had always been a good sleeper. She rarely had nightmares and usually could distract herself when she did. Harry should have known that after an evening so charged with emotion, the norm might not hold true. 

 

In classic Lily fashion, she didn’t wait for him to answer the door. He could have sworn he’d locked it. She was holding a training wand supplied to her by her Uncle George. Harry remembered too late that one of the spells that the wand could perform was Alohomora. Lily looked quite surprised. She’d not managed any magic before, so far as Harry knew. 

 

“I did it!” she exclaimed, half to herself. “I did magic!”

 

“That’s wonderful, Lily," Harry offered. "I'm very proud of you, but perhaps you could not do it on my bedroom door in future?" 

 

Lily looked up from the wand in her hand to the light at the end of Harry’s. 

 

“Daddy?” she asked, tentatively, her little nose wrinkling. “Why aren’t you wearing any clothes?”

 

Harry glanced down in horror. Everything vital was covered, by some miracle, but he’d kicked off enough of the covers to make it obvious he wasn’t wearing any pants. Merlin’s great sagging bullocks. 

 

He yanked the covers up to make himself decent.

 

“Could you give me a minute to pull on some clothes, please, sweetpea? I'll be out in a minute and we'll chat, how's that?”

 

Lily nodded and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her. 

 

Harry flopped back on his pillow. “Fuck,” he said. 

 

“Indeed,” Draco acknowledged. “How much, ah, education will be needed?”

 

Harry rubbed his forehead as he hunted around for his pants and yanked them on. He pulled on some pyjamas over them, then added a robe for good measure.

 

“She knows the basics,” Harry explained. “Thankfully. Other than that, we’ll have to see.”

 

Draco yawned and started to hunt for his own clothing. 

 

“You really don’t have to deal with this,” Harry told him. “You ought to get some sleep.”

 

“Pish,” Draco dismissed him. “Unless you don’t want me there?”

 

Harry heard a moment’s uncertainty in Draco’s tone. He didn’t like it. Surely Draco must know how desperately Harry desired his company at all fucking times. “I want you everywhere, sweetheart.” Harry remarked. “You’re twice as articulate as I am on a good day, and today is decidedly not a good day.”

 

/// ///

 

Lily was sitting at the table in the little kitchen. It had one leg shorter than the other, which was something Harry kept meaning to get around to fixing, but hadn’t. It seemed likely to require a finicky, specific spell, not one to which his magic was at all well-suited without a wand and the right word. Lily had her chin propped up on her fists and was using her elbows to subconsciously rock the table this way and that. 

 

“Aequo,” Draco said crisply, pointing his wand at the troublesome table leg. It grew a half inch to match the others. The rocking stopped. 

 

Harry looked at him admiringly. “Is there any spell you don’t know?” he wondered aloud. 

 

Draco only hmphed derisively, as if Harry was too easily impressed, but Harry thought he looked at least a little pleased. 

 

Lily was watching them with astute blue eyes. 

 

“Couldn’t you sleep, lovey?” Harry asked her. 

 

“I could,” Lily corrected, “but then I couldn’t.”

 

“Ah,” Harry replied, noting the clarification. 

 

Draco poured some milk into a pan and began heating it over the stove. Harry sat down heavily in the chair across from his daughter.

 

“Daddy,” she began, solemn as a barrister, “is Professor Malfoy your boyfriend?”

 

Well. Lily had clearly inherited some of the Weasley frankness. 

 

Harry cleared his throat, stalling for time. He considered of all the times Draco and he had refused to address that particular question, how they simply referred to their relationship as 'this things between us' or 'whatever it is we’re doing'. They said they would see where things went, how things turned out, that there were a lot of variables to consider, all as though Draco wasn’t sleeping in his bed nearly every night and helping to raise his children; as though they’d not had earth-shatteringly good sex only a few hours ago; as though Harry wasn’t deeply in love. 

 

 No, instead of naming any of it, they’d just gone on and on, forever circling. 

 

“Yes,” Harry determined. He was far too tired to get into the specifics of it. “He is.”

 

Behind him, there was a clattering sound, followed by a hiss and the smell of burning milk on the element. He heard Draco yelp and then curse under his breath. Harry felt a touch smug about that. 

 

“Is that why you’ve been having so many sleepovers?” Lily enquired. 

 

“Yeah, that’s about the long and the short of it," Harry agreed. "How do you feel about that?”

 

“I thought you liked girls,” she said bluntly.

 

“I liked your mum, LiLu. And now I like Draco. I reckon that what I like changes depending on the person I find myself liking.”

 

“I didn’t know that could happen,” Lily observed. 

 

“You know, I didn’t either,” Harry reflected. “Or I at least I hadn’t thought it would happen to me. I guess now I know better.”

 

“I understand why mum isn’t coming to live with us, then,” Lily determined. “You can’t have a boyfriend and girlfriend at the same time.”

 

Harry blinked at her. His thoughts were sluggish and weak and no match for his daughter’s.

 

“Some people do,” Draco jumped in. He seemed to have regained his composure. He took the chair beside Harry’s and slid a mug of warm milk over to Lily. Under the table, Draco gave Harry his hand. Harry clung to it like a lifeline. “But your father and I both prefer to be with only one person at a time.”

 

“Oh.” Lily took that in. Not for the first time, Harry marveled at the flexibility of children’s minds: how they learnt and adapted and rejigged their understanding of things over and over again, day after day. 

 

“But Professor Malfoy’s not the reason your mum isn’t coming to live with us, pumpkin,” Harry felt compelled to repeat his earlier argument from the evening prior. “Like we talked about, the reason is that you Mum hurt my feelings very badly when she left and I’m having a hard time forgiving her.”

 

Lily pursed her lips at that. She tucked a runaway bit of hair behind her ear and her posture straightened. “I will forgive her,” she declared righteously, “when I see her.”

 

“I’m sure she will be extraordinarily happy to hear that,” Harry told her. 

 

“You could, too,” Lily informed him. 

 

“I could,” Harry agreed. “But even if I forgave her, it wouldn’t change that your mum and I don’t want to be married to each other any more.”

 

“You mean…you’re getting a divorce?” Lily demanded, as if the idea was just occurring to her for the first time. Her eyes went wide and she grimaced in a way that Harry recognised as her being seconds away from crying. He sprung into action, dropping Draco’s hand and slipping round to the other side of the table to gather Lily onto his lap. He realised with self-directed irritation that he might not have been as clear with Lily the evening before as he had thought. He’d explained that Ginny wasn’t coming to live with them at Crabapple Cottage, or at Eiderdown End come summer. He’d left the actual idea, the actual word, divorce, to be implied. Of course Lily wouldn’t have known that. 

 

“I’m so sorry, princess,” he murmured, stroking her hair as she progressed from teary to weeping. “We both love you so very much. Your mum can’t wait to see you. Nothing will change that.”

 

It wasn’t enough for Lily, and Harry knew it. He met Draco’s sympathetic gaze from across the table. 

 

Harry knew there was no explaining anything away. No words could soothe the finality of it all, the vastness of the transition. Ginny and he had been her whole world, all that she knew. He hummed and rocked her. He’d stay there as long as she needed. 

 

/// ///

 

Lily cried herself out eventually, as Harry knew she would. The knowledge didn’t make her sadness any easier to bear. Harry had to forcefully remind himself that this was not his fault. Ginny left. Regardless of her motives, which he could understand, truly he could, she had left, not only him but their children: their children who adored her and were now standing devastated in the wreckage. Instead of asking for help, for space, for explaining a single thing, she’d bolted. It was an action so foreign to Harry's perception of her, that he could barely recognise her anymore. After nearly twenty years together, she felt like a stranger. 

 

“Should we get you back to bed?” he asked Lily finally. She was toying with the end of his checked housecoat belt. 

 

“Draw on my back first,” she commanded. 

 

Harry chuckled and used the tip of his finger to draw a little square house with a little square door and little square windows. He finished it off with a triangle roof and a chimney with a spiral of smoke. 

 

“House,” Lily proclaimed immediately. “You always do a house, Daddy. Do something new.”

 

Harry drew a little five-pointed star. 

 

“Star. Try harder.”

 

Harry scrunched up his face in thought. He wasn’t at his sharpest at this time of night, or morning, rather. 

 

He looked across at Draco, who was watching them. His mouth was in a flat line, his grey eyes patient but weary. Harry felt a flare of concern. Draco was prone to self-doubt and brooding, especially when it came to if and how he really fit into Harry’s life. Harry wished he could convince him. 

 

Harry drew a face with two eyes, a sharp nose, and a straight mouth. 

 

“A face!” Lily triumphed. 

 

“Yes, but whose?”

 

“Professor Malfoy’s,” Lily answered promptly. “He doesn’t like smiling.”

 

Harry had to laugh at the apt description. He stood up, shifting Lily to one hip. She wrapped her arms around his neck.

 

“I think he does a comparatively large amount of smiling around you, sweetpea.” Harry contemplated. 

 

“Maybe, but it's still not much. That's okay, Professor, you never have to smile if you don’t want to. I know it doesn’t mean you’re angry.”

 

“Thank you, Lily,” Draco replied, “that is very benevolent of you.”

 

“It is, isn’t it,” Lily said thoughtfully. 

 

Harry only shook his head and made his way down the corridor to her bedroom. 

 

“You come too, Professor,” Lily entreated. 

 

Wordlessly, Draco acquiesced, following them in. Harry at last put Lily back down on her feet, pulling back her covers. 

 

“Alright, love, into bed,” Harry instructed. 

 

“You first, Daddy,” she insisted. “You have to stay until I fall asleep.”

 

“Oh, I do, do I?” Harry asked, but he was already burrowing into the mass of stuffed toys, collapsing onto a frilly pillow.

 

“Professor, get your giant squid,” Lily ordered, “and put it here, next to my bed.”

 

Draco did her bidding, as always. Harry gave Draco a tired smile. ‘Sorry,’ he mouthed. Draco gave a dismissive wave of his hand, and settled on the blobby squid. Lily wriggled about until she was lying on her stomach. She reached out and grabbed Harry’s hand, putting it onto her back. 

 

“No more guessing, sweetheart,” Harry told her. “It’s time to sleep.” 

 

“Please, Daddy,” she beseeched him. “Just designs, not pictures, I won’t guess, I promise.”

 

“Only for a few minutes,” Harry allowed, scritching his fingertips aimlessly over her back.

 

Lily made a contented noise, then moved a raggedy toy niffler out from under her chest and shoved it towards Draco. “Here, you can use this as a pillow.” 

 

“Thank you,” Draco replied solemnly, taking the niffler and tucked an arm around it, dropping his head down. He must be exhausted, Harry thought. 

 

Lily reached out and curled her fingers around Draco’s. 

 

Draco didn’t move for a moment, then, very slowly, he stroked his thumb along her knuckles. 

 

/// ///

 

Lily fell asleep before long and Harry was able to extricate himself from the tumbled mess that was her bed. He made a mental note to try and tidy her room up a bit tomorrow, not that that ever lasted. Lily was forever rooting about for costume jewelry or dress-up clothes or Merlin-knew-what, never caring about the carnage she left in her path. 

 

Harry tapped Draco lightly on the shoulder and the other man twitched. He’d been sleeping hunched over, niffler under his head, still holding Lily's hand. Harry nodded towards the door, indicating they could make their escape. 

 

When Harry had closed, and locked (great lot of good that did) his door, he turned to Draco. 

 

Those familiar grey eyes were watching him. Draco looked so ridiculously dear in his formal pinstriped pyjamas. They were a far cry from Harry’s typical pants-and-not-much-else. 

 

“Thanks for that,” Harry told him. “You really didn’t have to.”

 

“I’m aware,” Draco said. “But I suppose this is what one does for one’s…boyfriend?”

 

Harry laughed at the barely repressed grimace on Draco’s aristocratic features. The title clearly lacked the necessary gravitas for a Malfoy.

 

“Like it or not, babe, it gets the point across,” Harry yawned. He crawled under his covers, dreading tomorrow already and praying that they’d have no more disturbances from Lily or Remy, for at least a few hours.

 

“And what point is that exactly, Potter?” Draco muttered, fluffing his pillow fussily. 

 

Harry looped an arm around his waist and yanked him bodily close. 

 

“That you belong right here, with me. Problem?”

 

Draco relaxed in his arms, letting Harry press kisses to the spot behind his ear. 

 

“No,” Draco admitted. “I don’t suppose there is.”

Notes:

Thanks to everyone for reading and for the encouragement.

Chapter 22: Jamie

Jamie

 

 

“You missed team breakfast,” Fort informed Jamie frostily when he arrived on the pitch for the pre-match huddle. The hour was something unholy; his cousin Molly was a touch overeager in her preparations, the promise of scouts fueling her professional Quidditch aspirations.

 

Jamie shrugged. He had. He didn’t have a good reason, it wasn’t as though he’d been asleep, too stuck in the cogs of his cyclical thoughts; he’d just not particularly wanted to get up, either. “Sorry,” he said. 

 

“Oh, so you do know that word,” Fort muttered. Jamie didn’t have it in him to respond. He was still barely speaking to Fort and Ri, and while he had privately accepted he’d probably overdone things a bit, he’d not brought himself to issue an apology.

 

“Poor showing, Potter,” Molly informed him. There was no familiar bias in her Captaincy, that was for certain. “Don’t make it a habit.”

 

“I won’t,” Jamie agreed. “Understood.”

 

Molly gave a curt, reproachful nod. “Good. Alright, team, come in, let’s go over strategy one more time, just so everyone’s clear.”

 

Jamie obeyed mechanically, but Molly’s pep talk wasn’t penetrating. He’d been so ecstatic about this match when Scorpius had said he might attend, but obviously that wouldn’t happen now, not after Jamie’s royal foul-up, putting Scorpius in such a rotten position.

 

That was just one miserable thought amidst a constant, rotating set of fretting points. There was the strain he’d put on his friendships with Fort and Ri, distrust of the tentative truce he had reached with Al, his refusal to confront whatever those carnival sirens had meant or didn't mean. He’d also been avoiding Dad outside of class and not showing up for Potions prep with Professor Malfoy, who’d surely not tolerate disrespect like that for long.

 

And Mum. Mum who was maybe back, but not back the way he wanted her to be. Mum, who wanted to see him. 

 

He put that thought away. After the match, maybe he’d have the space to think about that. 

 

His team gave a spirited cry. The pep talk must have come to an end. Jamie kicked off, automatically, floating upwards on his old Nimbus Fleet X. He wondered idly if Professor Malfoy would buy him a Needletail now that he was dating Dad. He cringed at his own thoughts, that his loyalty has such a low price. It was another shame to add to the heap. 

 

“Are you well, Potter?” Tore Pettersen asked.

 

Jamie started, catching his broom for stability. The sixth year Beater was soaring neatly beside him, bat slung over his shoulder as he neatly yanked at the strap on his glove. 

 

Jamie didn’t know the older boy well, but blond, broad-shouldered Pettersen seemed quiet, precise, and determined. Although he was the senior player, he tended to let Fortitude, his counterpart, lead the show, reining her in when she was getting reckless. 

 

Jamie gave his best approximation of a smile. “Just need to warm up,” he assured his teammate. 

 

“Needed on a cold day,” Pettersen agreed with a nod. He accelerated, leaving Jamie behind. 

 

Jamie cracked his knuckles, noticing the weather for the first time. It was bloody chilly, now that he was aware of it: well past crisp, the first real threat of winter. The pitch was grey and misty and a stinging wind chafed his cheeks. 

 

Molly’s whistle sounded. He fell into formation for drills. 

 

/// ///

 

Jamie was almost relieved when the nerves set in, at least it was a change from the constant, agonising regret. He loved Quidditch, he told himself, he did. He’d managed to switch on a bit in warm-up, focus in. Fort wasn’t being openly hostile so at least that was a plus, and Eudaimonia Cloverfield, team Keeper and the team’s youngest player, was openly admiring of his skills, and, well, a little flattery never hurt.

 

They were on the pitch again, allowing Hufflepuff their time for warm-up, watching the crowd of students and professors stream into the stands. Well, everyone else was watching. Jamie was doing his best not to, afraid of who he wouldn’t see, afraid he couldn’t summon the hopeful grins expected of him by his fellow Gryffindors. 

 

“Jamie!” he heard, and he reacted without thinking, glancing up to catch sight of Lily walking in step with Professor Malfoy and Dad, who had Remy strapped to his front. Lily had a giant balloon of a Golden Snitch bobbing above her head, spelled to stay close. She gave him two exuberant thumbs up, expression so earnest and encouraging that Jamie felt his own features echo it back at her. Professor Malfoy gave him an acknowledging nod, and Dad a warm, sympathetic smile. Jamie had to admit it felt a bit good, knowing they were all there especially to support him, even though he wasn’t being particularly friendly with them just now. 

 

“Alright, Gryffindors,” Molly was saying with a solemnity of a Captain leading her troops onto the battlefield. “I want sporting play,” she muttered tersely. Clearly the nerves were getting to her, too. “Communicate, hustle, don’t back down. Hands in.”

 

Jamie and his teammates obeyed, shouting a quick Gryffindor and spreading across the pitch. 

 

Jamie took a deep, steadying breath, eyes on the empty sky, waiting for the shrill sound of the whistle. The moment seemed to have a similar effect on the crowd, who fell silent with anticipation. He blew his whistle. Jamie tightened his grip on his broom and kicked off, wind whipping his hair, burning his cheeks, fueling the excitement. He nearly scanned the stands to see if he could spot the supposed scouts, but thought better of it. Scorpius’ absence would be a distraction he didn’t need.

 

“And they’re off!” came the amplified voice of his insufferable younger cousin, Rose, who was responsible for the Quidditch commentary. “Today is an awfully important match for several of our players here today,” Rose continued in her most authoritative voice. “It’s the final game before professional Quidditch trials, and any hopefuls amongst our seventh years will want to be in top top shape. This includes, of course, the Gryffindor Chasers: Molly Weasley, Dhurga Ghosh, and Dorita Chalmers, and Hufflepuff Beater Candida Finch-Fletchley-Williamson-Witt, who is not to be confused for her sister Sabine Finch-Fletchley-Williamson-Witt, who we all know is a promising Hufflepuff Chaser, a newcomer to the team as of this year. In fact, her style of play is reminiscent of…” 

 

Jamie grit his teeth in irritation. Rose was a fairly useless Quidditch commentator, always getting lost in the weeds and gossip and missing the action. She prattled her way through an absolutely stunning play by Molly and Ghosh which scored Gryffindor their first 10 points. 

 

A roar from the crowd reminded Jamie why he loved this sport, loved his team.

 

“Go Jamie!” a high-pitched voice cried out, and Jamie recognised it at once as Lily’s.

 

He couldn’t help but feel a titch chuffed at that, that Lily was so gung-ho to celebrate him when all he was doing was hovering 20 feet above the skirmish, watching for any glint of gold. 

 

A Bulger sailed towards his head and Jamie dodged it deftly, curving leftward as he did. 

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Jamie caught the first glint of gold of the game, down at the Hufflepuff end of the pitch. Hadrian Bright, the Hufflepuff Seeker, was stationed midway between Jamie and the Snitch, and even if Jamie made a mad dash, he’d never reach the Snitch before Bright noticed what he was doing, especially not on his old broomstick. Instead, he’d have to hope Bright didn’t catch on. He instead made a feint for the Gryffindor end, head low, shooting out like an arrow. 

 

He peeked back to see his trick had worked, Bright was on his tail, eyes scanning the horizon, trying to see what he thought Jamie had seen.

 

Without warning, Jamie veered hard, making a wide arch of the pitch and heading the other way. He knew feints weren’t entirely sporting, but to lure one’s opponent away from the Snitch, even Molly would agree that was warranted. 

 

He looked to where he had seen the Snitch previously, searching intently for any sign of movement, but it had vanished. 

 

Ah well, he rather wanted Molly to have her due, enjoy a few more spectacular goals before the game came to a halt. He was happy to have delayed Bright, for her sake. 

 

The Hufflepuff Seeker caught up to Jamie, sailing shoulder to shoulder with him. Bright was a year older than Jamie, skinny but with a round head and an unflattering orange bowl cut that overall gave him the look of a friendly pumpkin. 

 

“‘Lo, Potter,” Bright said mildly, once he was in speaking distance. Below them, Pettersen had just made a phenomenal hit, sending a Bulger careening towards one of the Hufflepuff Chasers, who’d dropped the Quaffle directly into the waiting arms of Chalmers.

 

“Open on the wing, Chalmers!” shouted Ghosh, zipping into position for the pass.  These three had been playing together since second year, and it showed. 

 

“Bright,” Jamie nodded, half his mind on the play, half reminding himself to look out for the Snitch and not be trapped into any sort of conversation by Bright’s affable nature. 

 

“Clever feint out there! You had me quite convinced!”

 

“Mm,” Jamie acknowledged. He really didn’t understand Bright’s propensity for chatter on the playing field, unless, he supposed, it was supposed to be a distraction. 

 

“I’ll have to see if I can’t quite repay the favour,” Bright commented gamely. “A bit of fun, a feint!”

 

Jamie was embarrassed that he had ever lost to Bright, the boy was someone who Al would likely refer to as a bit more than a bit of a twit. 

 

“Guess so,” Jamie offered begrudgingly. 

 

Bright flashed him a gregarious smile and sailed off, leaving Jamie…flummoxed. If he believed Bright capable of mind games, he would be suspicious that he had just fallen victim to one.  

 

Jamie executed one more survey for the Snitch from his present angle to no success. 

 

He glanced over at Bright, to make sure he wasn’t on the move. Bright winked at him and gave him a thumbs up. 

 

“Good grief,” Jamie muttered to himself. There was such a thing as too cheery. 

 

Without warning, Bright torpedo upwards in a log roll, spiraling high towards…nothing. Jamie was certain. He’d only just looked and there had been no sight of the Snitch. 

 

Bright looked back over his shoulder and slowed. “Oh, good show, Potter!” he lauded. “I thought I had you!”

 

“Uh huh,” Jamie offered. “Well. You didn’t.”

 

“No, I didn’t!” Bright boomed, his voice too loud for his body somehow. “Good show, good show.”

 

A bit more than a bit of a twit, indeed. Jamie averted course just to be rid of him, weaving between his teammates at the level of play. 

 

“Anything, Jamie?” Fort panted, bat at the ready for an incoming Bulger. “I’m getting damn tired.”

 

“Not yet,” Jamie said, relieved to have even this level of congeniality from his friend. “But I’m on it.”

 

“Good,” Fort murmured, her bat giving the Bulger a solid crack and sending it rocketing towards Dunsdale. The play was almost immediately countered by Finch-Fletchley-Williamson-Witt, the Beater, not the Chaser.

 

“Damnation,” Fort growled. “Cracking that thick skull of Dunsdale’s would do us all a bit of good. I like the guy, mind you, but he’s too bloody good. He’s making our Chasers look bad!”

 

The words were hardly out of her mouth before Ghosh deked by Dunsdale, Quaffle sailing neatly into a goal. 

 

“Oh my!” Rose’s voice filled the pitch. “Another play I missed! I really must learn to pay attention, only I think a robust historical education is also a boon to us all,” she tittered nervously while Fort and Jamie shared an irritated look. “That brings us to 50-40 for Gryffindor! Oh, my mistake, 60-40 for Gryffindor!”

 

“End this, Jamie, I’m begging you!” Fort implored. “I can’t stand another minute of Rose Granger-Weasley’s useless, miserable commentary. I’m honestly glad my Dad is not here to hear this!”

 

Jamie laughed as Fort moved off in search of Bulger. Maybe their friendship wasn’t as irreparably damaged as he’d feared. 

 

Now to find the damn Snitch. 

 

Jamie made a wide sweep of the pitch, starting low and spiraling slowly upwards, keeping to the outskirts, muscles tense and ready to bolt. He was so focused that he’d not realised how close to the spectator stands he must have drifted, because he nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a voice only a few metres off from where he was flying.

 

“Oh, Jamie, where’d you come from?”

 

Jamie spun in place, jaw almost falling off because he could have sworn that was–

 

“Al!” he managed, stunned. “What are you doing here?”

 

Albus shrugged. “I’m reading. Only Scorpius said it might be nice of me to do that here. So I am,” he explained. He tilted his head towards his friend, who Jamie hadn’t even noticed in his shock. Scorpius was beaming at him, his green and silver scarf pulled up to his chin, cheeks and ears bright pink from the wind and cold. He’d come. Jamie had asked so he’d come, and he had. And he’d convinced Al to come, too. 

 

“Oh,” was all Jamie could manage. “Uh, thanks. I’m glad you’re here.”

 

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Scorpius assured him with wide-eyed sincerity, as though the thought of missing the match hadn’t even occurred to him, despite Jamie’s failures of friendship.

 

 “Scor promised I wouldn’t have to watch until you were just about to catch the Snitch,” Al inserted, biting the head off a chocolate frog. “You’ve not caught it have you?” 

 

“Shit,” Jamie said, how could he let himself be so stupidly distracted, he was way off his planned path, Molly was shouting at him from below.  He turned wildly again, broom bucking tempermentally at his indecision. Where was the bloody Snitch? 

 

His eyes found Bright, desperately hoping he wasn’t too late, that his surprise and momentary distraction hadn’t made him look like a complete idiot. 

 

To his horror, Bright seemed to be hurtling directly towards him . Jamie looked around confusedly, he didn’t see anything, the pressure, the time, Bright coming closer and closer. 

 

“Jamie,” Scorpius’ voice was calm but serious, even pressing. Jamie spun around for a third time. The Snitch was hovering there, in the space between Scorpius’ face and his. 

 

“Oh,” Jamie said. He lifted his hand. 

 

“This doesn’t look hard,” Albus commented.

 

Jamie’s hand closed around the Snitch. Its wings fluttered in his palm, but he wasn’t looking at that. He was staring, dumbfounded, at Scorpius. 

 

“I got it,” he muttered stupidly.

 

“Well done, Jamie!” Al amended. “Now we can all get out of this blasted cold. Go you. Best Quidditch match I’ve ever attended.”

 

“Al!” Scorpius chided.

 

“What?” Al demanded. “I’m being nice!”

 

Jamie didn’t care if his brother couldn’t help his snark. He had the Snitch. Scorpius had had to point it out to him, but here it was, clenched in his fist and it felt fucking good. 

 

“Thanks, Al,” Jamie said serenely, as his team hollered and crowed beneath him, soaring up the pitch towards him. 

 

Jamie had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from grinning like…like a bit more than a bit of a twit. 

 

His team was circling below him, flying into formation, arms crisscrossing to form a sort of platform between them. 

 

Jamie knew what this was, one of Fortitude’s hairbrained dare-devil plots. 

 

“Potter!” Fort cried out, “Dead Man’s Drop!!!!”

 

Jamie didn’t think twice, instead falling backwards off his broom onto the linked arms of his teammates, who sailed him down to earth like a prince on a litter, chanting his name. 

 

It was all even better than flying.

Notes:

Holy moly, I've never had a work take off like this series did after that TikTok came out??? I just woke up one morning and had like 100 new kudos??? I'm honestly very flattered and kind of shocked. Thanks to the creator and to everyone who came to read this fic as a result. I'm so glad you're here!

Thanks so much for the support and, as always, for your patience with my slow writing!

Chapter 23: Scorpius

Scorpius

 

The Slytherin common room that evening was raucous as anything. The Ojo twins had smuggled in a Bulger and while they’d lost interest in it shortly after releasing it, the thing continued to careen from brick wall to brick wall, occasionally smacking the thick glass diking the lake water. It was equal parts exciting and nerve-wracking. It was only a matter of time before Professor Slark, the Slytherin head of house, would find them out.

 

Scorpius liked being Slytherin. He liked green and silver and being around Al and being in the same house as his father had been. What he didn’t like was the damp of the dungeons. He shivered and pulled his hands into the sleeves of his jumper. Well, it wasn’t his jumper, but instead a lumpy vomit-coloured thing that Albus had received last Christmas from his Gran. “She’s run out of colours with so many kids and  grandkids,” Al had explained upon Scorpius’ borrowing of the item, “so I’ve been assigned puke-yellow. Which looks ghastly on you, by the way. No offence.” Scorpius hadn’t been offended; Albus would tell him the truth and Scorpius preferred it that way. Besides, he didn’t care what it looked like or what colour it was; he cared that it was gloriously warm and kept out the chill and that Al had given it to him unprompted, because very occasionally, Al remembered to be considerate. 

 

Scorpius was under a sturdy black-stained wooden table in the common room. Al had hauled his eiderdown from the dormitory to the common room and spread it over the table, forming a dark green canopy. He and Scorpius and Bernard Ojo were hiding out in the makeshift cave, avoiding a wallop from the errant Bulger and Fife’s endless recapping of the Quidditch match that morning, which didn’t paint Jamie in the most flattering of lights. 

 

Al and Bernard were playing Gobstones–Al’s uncle had just sent him a set that ejected colourful, semi-permanent dye–and both boys looked as though they were trying to camouflage in a particularly exotic jungle, streaks of aubergine and peuce and aquamarine staining their cheeks and lapels. Scorpius didn’t want to muss his clothes, and had therefore declined a trial of the new set, opting instead for a hex-breaking primer he’d found in the library. Every so often, the Bulger would thunk heartily against the eiderdown-covered table, making Scorpius jump. Something crashed; it sounded like a lamp. 

 

“Aren’t you going to do anything about that thing, Ojo?” Scorpius entreated. 

 

“Yeah, in a minute,” Bernard replied unconvincingly, lining up his shooter with one eye squeezed shut and his tongue poking out from one corner of his mouth in his efforts. Anxiously, Scorpius peeked out from under the eiderdown, surveying the damage. Most of the upper years had opted out of the situation, heading to their respective dormitories or steering clear of the Slytherin quarters altogether. A few of the first years, however, had taken to their brooms, whizzing about the common room, darting in and out of the path of the Bulger and hooting with laughter. Scorpius’ own attempts at Stupefy had fallen rather short, and to be honest he wasn’t even sure if that spell would work on a Bulger. He wondered how they put the Bulgers away at the end of a match; he’d been so taken with Jamie’s antics he’d failed to notice the logistics of the match wrap-up. 

 

Jamie really had been something today. The actual capture of the Snitch had perhaps been underwhelming, but all the dashing about before that, Jamie’s showy bit of theatre upon victory, the cleverness of the gameplay. Scorpius could see why the rest of the school was a bit mad about the sport. He’d certainly go to another match, if Jamie was playing, at least. 

 

“Curse you, Ojo,” Al muttered good-naturedly as a splatter of purple dye exploded over his right ear. Ojo chortled delightedly in return. Scorpius eyed the playing field; there were many stones yet to be played, Al and Ojo would be creative masterpieces by the end of it. Scorpius amused himself by thinking of Father’s face if he were to show up looking like Al did just now. He felt a little guilty even considering it. Malfoys did not mess about and more often than not Scorpius liked the certainty of knowing what was and wasn’t done. Al and Jamie never seemed to abide by a single rule or restriction, and Scorpius felt that while being around them could be thrilling, the chaos and commotion could be a bit much. The Slytherin common room felt rather like an afternoon at the Potters: noise and bustle and fun. Scorpius didn’t want to be in the middle of it, but he liked being around it.

 

He’d take it over the silent, vacant halls of Malfoy Manor any day. 

 

Scorpius’ silver pocket watch trilled brightly. It was time for his potion. He sighed, feeling tired and unmotivated to brave the hazards of the common room. This was hardly an errand he could postpone, however, so he wriggled up to hands and knees to exit the den. 

 

“Want company?” Al asked, but Scorpius could tell the words were half-hearted at best. Al’s mind was on the game in front of him and when Al was focused, he was loath to change tack. The effort to even offer was a true stride in the direction of thoughtfulness, Scorpius decided.

 

“That’s kind, Al,” Scorpius replied, “but I’m alright.”

 

Albus nodded, attention once again on the game. 

 

Scorpius stuck his head back out between the eiderdown and the stone floor, which gave him the ability to map the trajectories of both the Bulger and the first years for a moment. When he thought it was safe, or at least as safe as it was going to get, he made a break for it, scrambling for the exit. He grimaced as he hopped across the remnants of a lamp, casting a quick Reparo over his shoulder as he made for the door. 

 

“Heads up, Malfoy!” one the first years bellowed as Scorpius fumbled for the doorknob. He ducked as the Bulger smacked into the broad side of the door, opening it. Scorpius stepped on the bottom of his robes and overbalanced, landing heavily on the floor, limbs askance, only barely managing to elbow the heavy door shut behind him. 

 

“Ow,” he said to no one. 

 

“Scorpius?” a familiar voice said. “Are you hurt? What happened?” 

 

Scorpius flushed and looked up from where he sat in an undignified heap on the floor. Jamie Potter was in the corridor, and he was taking long strides towards him. Scorpius grimaced. He would have rather this moment had gone unwitnessed.

 

“Jamie?” he replied, rubbing his elbow and looking blankly at Jamie’s hand while his brain caught up with him. “What are you doing down here?”

 

“Are you hurt?” Jamie repeated, ignoring the question.

 

“No,” Scorpius determined. “I’m perfectly well.” His words were belied by the jumble of his limbs on the stone floor. He couldn’t seem to get his legs under him, at least not with anything resembling grace. 

 

Jamie reached him, putting out a hand to lever Scorpius to his feet. Scorpius stared at the hand for a moment, ungainly and disproportionately mortified. Why did Jamie of all people have to mark his mishap? He shook off the feeling and instead took Jamie’s hand, allowing himself to be hoisted to his feet. There was a loud thump on the stone wall beside them. Scorpius flinched and Jamie braced him with a hand on his shoulder, head quirked, poised for danger. 

 

“What’s that?” Jamie demanded, while Scorpius dusted off his robes. 

 

“The Ojos have brought in a Bulger,” Scorpius explained.

“Ah,” Jamie responded, visibly relaxing when he realised there was no threat. His hand dropped from Scorpius’ shoulder and they began to walk together towards a narrow staircase which led up from the dungeons. “Aren’t those the boys who are always brawling in the Great Hall?”

 

Scorpius nodded. “The Great Hall and everywhere else besides. Any situation is grounds for a fight when it comes to them. It’s odd, actually, because they truly seem to like one another; they just also like a scuffle.”

 

“Hrm, maybe Al and I should try that instead,” Jamie remarked. “Then again, Al fights dirty, so better not.”

 

As much as Scorpius wanted to stand up for his friend, he could hardly argue that Al would use anything at his disposal when under duress. He gave Jamie an understanding half-smile. 

 

“Hey, is that a Weasley jumper?” Jamie asked, as if sensing Scorpius’ trepidation at once again being caught between the brothers. 

 

Scorpius looked down to where the chartreuse wool was visible at the collar of his robes. 

 

“Oh dear,” he said, flustered. “I don’t usually leave the dormitory in this. Not exactly smart, is it?”

 

“Not quite, but don’t let my Granny hear you say that.”

 

“Oh, I didn’t mean to–” Scorpius started, horrified. 

 

“I know you didn’t,” Jamie grinned easily. “I don’t wear mine outside the dormitory either, trust me. But I wouldn't worry, it, ah, looks nice on you.” 

 

Scorpius liked the truth, but perhaps he also liked a lie that was told in an effort to be friendly. Or at least he did when that lie came from Jamie, it seemed.

 

“No, it doesn’t,” Scorpius retorted, echoing Jamie’s grin. 

 

Jamie bit his lip and grimaced. “You’re right. It doesn’t. I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, Weasley jumpers don’t look good on anybody. Mine are beige, which might, impossibly, look even worse on you.”

 

“Not to mention that yours would be a bit big,” Scorpius pointed out. “What with your, you know. Shoulders.” He made a vague gesture to his own. 

 

Jamie slowed, glancing at him. “Right,” he murmured. He blinked once or twice and then turned away. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. 

 

Scorpius kicked himself. Making personal remarks was most certainly a breach of etiquette, but Jamie did have shoulders. He played Quidditch for Merlin’s sake, and what was more, he was on the other side of puberty, and surely he knew that.

 

“Right,” Jamie said again, clearing his throat. He started walking more quickly. Scorpius scurried to keep up. 

 

There was a strained silence between them and Scorpius detested it, especially as he had been the cause. He hunted through his thoughts for something neutral to say. 

 

“What…what are you doing down in the dungeons, anyway? Getting supplies for potion preparations for Father?” Scorpius tried. 

 

“Er,” Jamie began, “no. I was looking for you, actually. Figured it was time for your potion and I could maybe walk with you.”

 

“Oh,” Scorpius said, dumbfounded. Jamie was making a habit of intentionally seeking him out, and Scorpius found he rather liked it, even if he didn’t understand it. Jamie was a fourth year and a Quidditch player and well regarded by the whole school and Scorpius was…none of that. He was quiet and known perhaps for being his father’s son, but his only true friend was Al. He was happy with that, but Jamie was so solemn and intense that his attention made Scorpius feel unexpectedly important. “That’s terribly nice of you.”

 

“Well,” Jamie muttered, shrugging. “I wanted to say thanks, you know. For coming to the match and for dragging Al along. And for pointing out the Snitch before Bright got to it. I felt a bit stupid, really. Glad we won, but not my most spectacular catch, that’s for certain.”

 

“I thought you were spectacular,” Scorpius dissented truthfully. 

 

“You…did?” Jamie said, uncertainly. He stopped and turned to face him, eyebrows raised like he couldn’t quite believe what Scorpius was saying. 

 

“Yes,” Scorpius determined, tilting his chin up to look at Jamie squarely. “I did.”

 

Jamie blushed, pleased, his eyes dropping, scanning Scorpius’ face. 

 

“Thanks,” Jamie murmured finally. He was very still, Scorpius thought, except for a flicker of his fingers, like he wanted to reach out and…and what? Scorpius didn’t know. 

 

“What–” Jamie asked suddenly, grabbing for the collar of Scorpius’ jumper, his expression worried. “Are you bleeding?”

 

Scorpius’ hand flew up to his neck, bumping against Jamie’s. He felt a dry crust of Gobstone dye, which rubbed off in his fingertips. It was bright red. 

 

“Oh bother!” Scorpius muttered, rubbing furiously and fruitlessly at the smudge. “No, no, I’m fine. It’s not blood. Just Al’s ridiculous new set of Gobstones. It’s so, so messy!”

 

Jamie smiled, shaking his head. “Oh, Scor,” he chuckled fondly. “You are a bit prim, aren’t you?”

 

Scorpius’ brow furrowed. He didn’t know quite what to make of that, but it hurt a bit. He batted Jamie’s hand away and kept walking. He preferred some things just so, but he was never a snob about it, at least he didn’t think that he was. “I like to be neat and presentable,” he responded coolly. “Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

 

“No, no wait, Scor,” Jamie protested, catching up. “I didn’t mean—I meant, I like it. You care, you know? You think about things, you notice. It’s different, sort of refreshing. I like it. I like you.”

 

Scorpius was wary from the perceived slight, but the earnestness in Jamie’s voice made him relent. “I guess I could be described as a bit—only a bit, mind you—prim. And I like you, too.”

 

“You…do?” Jamie sounded a bit choked. Scorpius looked at him, confused. Jamie’s expression was wide-eyed and hopeful.

 

“Yes, of course,” Scorpius said, certain they’d been over this. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

 

Jamie turned away, shoulders squaring. “Yeah, of course. Friends.”

 

To Scorpius’ confusion, Jamie didn’t sound thrilled at the thought.

 

“Are you alright?” Scorpius asked, nonplussed. 

 

“Sure,” Jamie replied. It was a non-answer and they both knew it. 

 

There was a long stretch of silence. They passed the doorways to empty classrooms, storage cupboards, and unexplained passages. The castle had every bit as many secrets and unanswered questions as James Sirius Potter. 

 

“Father told me your Mum’s back,” Scorpius commented gently, wondering if that was what was weighing on Jamie all of the sudden. 

 

“Yeah,” Jamie sighed. “Sort of.”

 

“Are you…going to see her? Sorry, you don’t have to tell me, it’s none of my–”

 

“I think so,” Jamie answered. “I want to, but I’m, I don’t know, it feels odd. Last time I saw her she was my mum, you know. She was making me lunch and flying with me in the garden and laughing with dad, at least before Remy came, and now she’s not that. Now I don’t know what she is.”

 

“She’s still your mum, I reckon,” Scorpius tried. “But I see what you mean. I’m sorry.”

 

“Do you miss your mother?” Jamie questioned. 

 

“No,” Scorpius admitted, bravely. He'd never voiced that aloud to anyone other than his father. “Maybe I should, but I don’t. She never felt, well, safe, I suppose. I was relieved when Father finally sent her away. I didn’t want to be around her. I know it’s rotten of me to say so.”

 

“I’ll not tell. You feel how you feel, Scor. Not all parents are good ones, I suspect.”

 

“Is your mum a bad one?”

 

Jamie chewed on his lip a moment. “No. I don’t think so, I hope not.”

 

“It’s good of you to give her a chance.”

 

“Yeah,” Jamie’s voice was thick. “I miss her, I think. I’m pissed, but I miss her.”

 

“Then she must be a good mum, at least mostly.”

 

“Maybe. Yeah. Thanks, Scor.”

 

Jamie looked like he didn’t want to say more and Scorpius didn’t want to push. 

 

They reached the door of Father’s office. 

 

“You go,” Jamie directed. “I’ll wait out here.”

 

“It’s only my dad,” Scorpius pointed out, “you can come in.”

 

Jamie shook his head. “I really can’t. I've sort of been avoiding—”

 

The door opened. Father was standing there, checking his watch. 

 

“Ah, Scorpius, I was just coming to look for you," Father said.

 

“Sorry, Father. Jamie and I were just—”

 

Scorpius inclined his head, only to realise that Jamie had vanished round the corner.

 

The boy was inscrutable, honestly. 

Notes:

Thanks for reading!

(Unbeta'd and a bit rushed since I have been trying to get this chapter our for ages and am struggling to find time, so apologies for errors!)

Chapter 24: Jamie

Jamie

 

 

Jamie let his head fall back against the stone wall with a thud. His heartbeat was a rapid flutter in his chest, as though he’d just run a mile, not the few paces necessary to disappear from view. 

 

Fuck. 

 

He liked Scorpius. Liked, liked. He’d been avoiding thinking it, facing it, but the words had popped out and hell’s teeth if they weren’t true. He couldn’t properly say even when it had happened, only that it had and now he was finding himself hunting down any excuse to see him. Jamie liked talking to Scorpius, liked being around him, he wanted to…Merlin, he didn’t even know. Touch his adorable, pointy little face and bloody hell, whatever that meant about him, he didn’t know, because he hadn’t felt this way before. Mild interest, maybe, with some of the students in his year, but not this, never this, this giddy bloody obsession. 

 

Jamie groaned and let himself sink to the floor, covering his face. What the fuck was wrong with him? He’d known. Of course he’d known— those cursed sirens wouldn’t have appeared as Scorpius Malfoy doppelgängers to just anyone—but he hadn’t wanted it to be true. It was too complicated, too messy, and Scorpius hated a mess. So far as Jamie could tell, Scorpius wanted nothing from him save for friendship, and he was just a kid, for goodness’ sake. Jamie knew he was just a kid, too, but fuck, this was awkward, this was strange, Scorpius was halfway to being Jamie’s step-brother and—

 

“Fuck!” Jamie slammed a fist against the wall behind him, then froze as he heard the sound of a door shutting and of footprints.

 

“Jamie?” Scorpius asked, appearing around the bend in the corridor. “What are you doing on the floor? Are you quite alright?”

 

Jamie surveyed the concerned expression on Scorpius’ serious, pale face. He wanted to touch, to smooth away the lines of anxiety. He wanted to smile and reassure and maybe even, like, hug. 

 

Merlin, this was so embarrassing, Jamie was so embarrassing, existence in general was So. Bloody. Embarrassing. 

 

“Mum stuff?” Scorpius enquired, voice curious and kind. 

 

“Yeah,” Jamie lied, standing up, running a hand through his hair, then trying uselessly to flatten it again. He would bury this, he would. “Mum stuff.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Scorpius said. The remark was simple, yet simultaneously so much more than just something that people said, like Scorpius got it. 

 

“Thanks. And sorry for bolting," Jamie replied. He paused, wondering how much to expose, then gave in. "I’ve been avoiding your dad, honestly. Which I’m not proud of, but, Merlin, I don’t know, I can’t seem to stop. Can we get out of here?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Scorpius agreed. “Come on.” He turned, and Jamie followed. 

 

They walked in silence for a little while, past snoozing portraits and dusty tapestries until they reached a winding staircase in the easternmost end of the castle, where Jamie had never spent any time. Scorpius led the way up the cramped spiral passageway to what turned out to be a small turret, large enough for maybe only two or three people at most. The day had cleared up. It was bitingly cold, but there was no wind and the stars were bright. He braced his elbows on the short wall and looked down over the dark greenhouses and the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Everything was dark and still and he felt like he could breathe again. So he did, drawing in lungfuls of bitterly cold air. It should have hurt, but just now, it felt good, necessary even.

 

“Do you want to talk?” Scorpius enquired. He still looked concerned. 

 

“I don’t know,” Jamie admitted miserably. 

 

“You don’t have to.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Scorpius didn’t push, instead pulling his hands into the sleeves of Al’s jumper. Jamie had a flash of jealousy, wishing it was his jumper Scorpius was wearing, size discrepancy be damned. Jamie ground his teeth, pushing back the impulse. The last thing he needed was to reignite his feud with Albus. 

 

“You talk,” Jamie told him. “Please.”

 

“Oh,” Scorpius sounded surprised and Merlin, between Jamie and Al, it must be a miracle that Scorpius ever got a word in edgewise. Jamie berated himself for his own selfishness, why couldn’t he be a better friend? “What should I talk about?”

 

“I don’t know,” Jamie replied uselessly. “What’s…going on in your life?” Jamie grimaced at his own awkward inadequacies. 

 

“About the same as yours, I expect,” Scorpius offered cautiously. “School, Al, our dads. My condition, I suppose.”

 

“Right,” Jamie acknowledged. “How’s…that?”

 

Scorpius shrugged. “About the same.”

 

“Ah. Hell, I’m sorry, Scor, I’m pants at this.”

 

“Pants at what?”

 

“Asking good questions? Conversation? Everything?”

 

Scorpius gave him a quizzical look. “I don’t think your pants at anything, Jamie,” he objected, clearly dismayed. “Except maybe getting along with Al, but you’re doing better at that, even. You’re awfully hard on yourself. And you’re asking lovely questions, I’m just not giving very good answers, but that's only because I'm not sure what to say.”

 

“Your answers are fine!” Jamie insisted. 

 

Scorpius gave him a pained expression, like he didn't believe him, then brightened.

 

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “I have something. Going on in my life, I mean.”

 

Jamie wasn’t sure he’d ever felt so relieved. “Yeah?” he asked hopefully, just grateful to shift the topic away from his ineptitudes and Scorpius' failure to acknowledge them. 

 

“My grandmother is being released from Azkaban,” Scorpius told him, voice hushed. 

 

Jamie hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t that. “What!” he exclaimed with surprise, “When?”

 

“This weekend. My father and your father are going to get her.”

 

Jamie was dumbfounded. “What? Really? Dad never tells me bloody anything! Merlin, that’s a lot, isn’t it? Is your dad on good terms with her?”

 

Scorpius shook his head conspiratorially. “Not at all. He hasn’t spoken to her since she was put away after the war.”

 

“That’s, wow, that’s intense,” Jamie breathed. 

 

Scorpius shrugged. “She was a Death Eater. That and she stayed with my grandfather even though he was really not nice to Father.”

 

"Merlin." Jamie shook his head. “Hard to imagine anyone’s granny being a Death Eater, isn’t it?”

 

Scorpius nodded. 

 

“What’s she going to do?”

 

“Father is converting a wing of the Manor for her to stay in.”

 

“That’s good of him,” Jamie remarked. 

 

“I don’t think it has anything to do with that,” Scorpius said thoughtfully. “I think he wants to keep an eye on her. I think that is maybe why he let my mother stay with us for so long, too, even though she was…unpredictable.”

 

“Ah,” Jamie didn’t know what to say. He had been so wrapped up in the disaster that was his own life that he didn’t always remember to think that Scorpius’ life hadn’t exactly been smooth sailing. “Are you going to see her? Your grandmother?”

 

“I suppose at some point, if we are living in the same house, that is. Maybe at Christmas.”

 

“Of course.” Jamie gnawed his lip in thought. “Huh.”

 

“What?”

 

“I just realised I’d sort of been assuming you’d be with us for Christmas, at Eiderdown End. I hadn’t noticed I’d been thinking that, but I must have been. They way our dads fell into together at the end of summer and how you were just around all the time. I must have gotten used to it.”

 

“In a good way?” Scorpius asked timidly.

 

“Yeah, Scor. Definitely.”

 

Jamie lapsed into another silence, thinking about how horrid it would be if Dad and Professor Malfoy broke things off, how Scorpius would just be an occasional visitor instead of a fixture in the Potter household. It was odd how much he wanted and didn’t want his dad and Scorpius’ dad to be doing this thing, how it made things so much easier and so much harder all at once.

 

“Jamie,” Scorpius said, propping his arms up on the stone wall next to Jamie’s. He sounded tentative. “Are you angry with my father?”

 

Jamie had to chew on that for a minute. Was he angry? Up until a minute ago he had thought he had been.

 

“It’s not anger, exactly,” he tried to explain. “More discomfort, maybe.”

 

“Oh,” Scorpius looked disappointed. Jamie couldn’t stand it. “Because…?”

 

“Because of a hundred things, I expect. Because I had maybe held out hope that my mum would come home for real, in a way that mattered, to be a part of the family. If that was never going to happen, my dad should have been frank with us. Instead he was also so bloody vague about everything. It was always ‘oh, we’ll see what happens,’ or ‘I can’t talk about this right now, Jamie.’”

 

“And my dad is the reason that isn’t happening?” Scorpius guessed.

 

“I don’t know. Dad insists it’s not, and I have no proof that he’s lying. Maybe he was waiting for mum to come home, too, at least until he wasn’t.”

 

“I…” Scorpius trailed off. He licked his lips, looking nervous. 

 

“I’m not angry,” Jamie said quietly, pushing the side of his arm against Scorpius’ shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. “Not with your dad, and certainly not with you.”

 

“I think Father truly cares about your dad, if it helps,” Scorpius told him quietly. “He hasn’t been with anyone for as long as I’ve been alive, he wasn’t even really properly with my mother. I know he doesn’t do this sort of thing lightly. It really matters to him. He’s much happier, I think, with your dad.”

 

“Yeah,” Jamie was forced to agree. “My dad’s happier, too. So much happier, I can tell, and I think that pisses me off? He just gets to find someone new and get a new job and everything is splendid for him, but what about Al and I? What about Lily and Remy, we don’t just get a new mum out of the blue. And don’t get me wrong, your dad, I…I mean I’m a bit intimidated by him because he’s not, you know, friendly, is he? But I like him. He takes me seriously when my dad doesn’t, but he’s not, he’s just not—”

 

“Your mum” Scorpius finished for him.

 

“Yeah,” Jamie sighed. It felt like a relief. “And I know he’s not trying to be, or whatever. It’s like I said, uncomfortable.” Now that Jamie had finally started saying things that mattered, he wasn’t sure he could stop, but Scorpius was just looking at him, like he’d listen as long as Jamie needed. “I mean, I didn’t know my dad was bi or whatever. Which I know doesn’t matter, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a shock. He could have told me that, any time in my life he could have mentioned that.”

 

“Maybe he didn’t know,” Scorpius considered. 

 

“Yeah, maybe.” Jamie had to give the idea some credence, given his own current crisis of sexuality. He’d assumed he was straight, honestly, or maybe he just wanted to be and so he had ignored any signals to the contrary. There were people he liked looking at and people he didn’t. Perhaps some of those had been boys, but he’d filtered that out, not liking the complication of what that might have meant. It was just easier to like girls. A bloke didn’t have to explicitly tell anyone they liked girls when they liked girls, it was the standard. 

 

“What if I don’t?” Jamie muttered before he could stop himself. 

 

“Don’t what?” Scorpius asked.

 

“Know. I think I am, actually. Bi.” Merlin's tits, this was not what he had been expecting himself to confess to tonight, but it was all happening now in a way Jamie didn't think he could walk back. He held his breath. 

 

“Oh,” Scorpius said, with maybe a hint of surprise, but certainly no horror. “Well, that’s alright, isn’t it?”

 

Jamie couldn’t look at him. Scorpius hadn’t pulled away from where their arms were touching; it felt like a lifeline.

 

“Yeah,” Jamie murmured, finally releasing the air tightening his chest. It was a bit of a revelation, really. “I guess it is.”

 

Scorpius nodded and his breath formed a cloud which mingled with Jamie’s in front of them. It was damned cold, but Jamie didn’t want to go inside, not just yet. 

 

“What about you?” he asked, wondering how he dared, how his hopes could be smashed against the side of the turret and leave Jamie feeling like nothing but a creep. 

 

“I don’t know,” Scorpius admitted, and Jamie wondered if a non-answer was worse than a definite no. “I haven’t really, you know, felt that yet.”

 

“Of course. That’s normal, probably.”

 

“Who knows,” Scorpius shrugged. 

 

“You want to go in?” Jamie asked, deflated. Whatever Scorpius had said, Jamie’s feelings certainly weren’t requited. That was all he needed to know. 

 

“Yes, it’s freezing,” Scorpius remarked. “Nice, though, I mean. Thanks for coming out here. Al doesn’t have much patience for standing about and looking at things.”

 

“It’s easy to stand about with you, Scor. You’re good company.”

 

Scorpius blushed a little at that, which didn’t help Jamie’s stupid fucking futile crush. 

 

“Thank you,” Scorpius accepted. 

 

Jamie held the door so Scorpius could go ahead, onto the staircase and out of the cold. 

 

“I’ll walk you back to your dormitory,” Jamie offered. He didn’t want to go back to the raucous Gryffindor common room just yet, where the post Quidditch celebration was still taking place. He’d made up with Fort, which was a relief, and had enjoyed the first few hours of celebration, but he certainly wasn’t feeling it right now. He half doubted he'd ever feel it again. 

 

“I’d like that.” 

 

Scorpius smiled up at him. 

 

Jamie thought it might kill him.

Notes:

<3

Chapter 25: Draco

Draco

 

 

As serenely as the night of breaking the news to Lily had ended, Draco was a fool for hoping the peace would last. He flinched as Lily slammed the bathroom door for the third time that morning. 

 

Harry grimaced over the top of his cup of tea as Remy smeared applesauce over everything within reach of his pudgy little arms. 

 

“Sorry,” Harry remarked unnecessarily. “Lily isn’t one for repressing her feelings.”

 

“You don’t say,” Draco remarked dryly, as though the last few days hadn’t consisted of endless bouts of temper flares and tears. 

 

“I know you don’t need this today.” 

 

Draco shrugged. He was feeling shockingly little about collecting his mother from Azkaban. It was a task to be done, a mildly unpleasant burden, that was all. “Neither do you,” he pointed out. 

 

The bathroom door opened and slammed again for good measure. Harry closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Draco knew Harry felt his kids' suffering keenly, and while Harry was forever trying to be loving and understanding about Lily's outbursts, Draco could tell they were wearing on him. 

 

“What set her off this morning?” Draco enquired. “Besides the obvious.”

 

“I had the nerve to suggest a veil with a 6 foot train might be impractical, as she will most likely want Teddy to play with her in the garden. Speaking of…” Harry checked his watch, and as he did the hearth in the parlour flashed green and Edward Lupin stepped onto the hearth rug. 

 

“‘Lo, Harry!” the Lupin boy called out, striding towards the kitchen. “Ah, Professor! Nice to see you.” He didn’t sound entirely surprised by Draco’s presence, but then again, he knew the nature of Draco and Harry’s errand.  Draco positioned with spit up cloth over one shoulder and a spoonful of applesauce held to Remy’s stubborn mouth was perhaps more of a revelation, but if Edward was bewildered by the tableau, he certainly didn’t show it. 

 

“Mr. Lupin,” Draco greeted him, summoning as much dignity as one could with infant drool crusting the sleeve of one's robe.

 

“Ted!” Harry boomed, crossing the kitchen in two long strides to wrap his long-haired godson in a hug. “You’re an angel for giving up a day of your study break.”

 

“It’s not a chore to see you and the kids, Harry,” was Edward’s reply. 

 

“With the strop Lily’s in, you might recant those words later,” Harry sighed. “She’s not taking the divorce in stride, not that I would expect her to. I’m sure you’ll be a welcome distraction.”

 

Harry took another sip of tea. He was nervous, Draco noticed at once. His grip was unnaturally tight on the handle of his mug, and his gaze was shifting anxiously from surface to surface. 

 

Draco cursed himself for putting Harry in the position of having to explain himself again and again, for having to reveal private aspects of himself: his sexuality, his choice of partner. Perhaps Draco should have worked harder to convince him to keep their relationship a secret, but Draco was unfailingly selfish. He liked being claimed by Harry too much; it felt impossible to give up. 

 

Draco's self-reproach was hardly what Harry needed from him currently, Draco knew. He needed tensions eased and attentions shifted, and the clawing ache to be whatever Harry needed was surely Draco’s hamartia. 

 

“How are your studies?” Draco forced himself to ask before an awkward silence could take hold. Besides, Edward Lupin had always been a bright pupil. No doubt he had already figured them out. There was no need for Harry to spell it out.

 

“Great,” the boy replied casually. Not missing a beat, he pulled out a chair next to Draco’s and took over Remy-feeding duties. “I’m actually taking an elective in Potions, you’ll be happy to know, Professor. Well, sort of, it is looking at the historiographic crossover of potion-making and cooking. It’s more theoretical than practical, really a history course than anything, but I’m finding it has really informed my research. I’d never thought about how ingredient lists are some of the few remaining documents we have to link us to certain root words, and common ones, too! Like how the desiccation spell contains that root word, sal , for salt, which shows up again and again. Just a little thing, but roots hold so much power!”

 

Harry visibly relaxed as Edward graciously pretended this was all entirely ordinary. 

 

“Yes,” Draco agreed, quietly pleased. “Have you come across the Mnesitheus Collections?"

 

“They’re on our reading list!” Edward answered excitedly.

 

“Excellent,” Draco remarked. “You’ll enjoy them, I think. A rich vein to be sure.”

 

Draco stood and moved to the sink to wash his hands. Harry mouthed a thank you, which Draco dismissed. Idle talk was the least he could do, given everything. 

 

“Right,” Harry said, setting his mug of tea down on the countertop. “I suppose we should be off.”

 

“Mm,” Edward acknowledged. “Nan sends her best. Says you should bring Narcissa round for a visit once she’s settled.”

 

“I’m not sure if that is a wise idea,” Draco declared. “I understand your grandmother believes my mother to be reformed, but I am less convinced.”

 

Edward cooed and successfully coaxed a spoonful of applesauce into Remy’s mouth. “She protected Harry, didn’t she?” he said simply. “And she and Nan have been writing each other for years.”

 

“She was attempting to protect me. Harry’s survival was merely a means to an end. I have no evidence of my mother acting in any way that wasn’t wholly self-interested.” Draco inwardly winced at his own words, hating how much the description fit not only his mother, but also himself. “That isn’t to say I don’t appreciate the civility of you and your grandmother, Edward–”

 

“You could probably call me Ted, given we’re out of school,” the boy said breezily. “And considering…all this.” He gestured to the air between Draco and Harry and gave them both a gentle smile.

 

Draco flushed and Harry shoved his hands in his pockets contritely.

 

“Teddy–” Harry started. “I’m sorry. I ought not to have left it up to inference. That was cowardly, I should have…”

 

“It’s fine, Harry,” Edward — Ted — interrupted. He had a steadfastness to him that was reminiscent of his father. “I think I’ve known for a while, or guessed, at any rate. At the end of the day, it’s hard for me to begrudge you someone who has clearly been a life raft. You weren’t well this summer. I was worried about you, we all were. I’m not worried any more.”

 

“I know it’s…unexpected,” Harry offered. “Messy, even. With the war, your parents, everything.”

 

“Yes, well. If you can forgive where it’s warranted, I expect the rest of us can, too.”

 

Harry looked near tears. Draco placed a supportive hand between his shoulder blades. 

 

“Thanks, Teddy, love,” Harry managed. “I’ve not told the Weasleys, yet. I will, I just…”

 

“I get it,” Ted replied. “Just don’t wait too long.”

 

“I know. I’ll make sure they hear it from me,” Harry promised.

Notes:

I'm so sorry this is so short, I had more planned for this chapter, but not sure when I will have time to get to it, so thought I would at least post what I have!!

Thanks so much for reading and sorry for the delay!

Chapter 26: Harry

Harry

 

 

They took a Portkey to a designated square of damp, well-trodden trail feet from the edges of a sheer cliff face. The sky above and the waves below were endless stretches of equally dull greys, and even the usually pleasing sound of waves crashing against rocks sounded hollow and desolate. Before them was a rocky path winding its way along the jagged coastline, leading to a towering stone fortress every bit as bleak as its surroundings.

 

Harry felt Draco shudder beside him, and he suppressed an impulse to wrap an arm around his shoulders. Draco’s whole body was taut as a bowstring and Harry had a sudden grotesque image of Draco shattering like glass should Harry so much as touch him. Draco had seemed alright up until a few minutes before they were due to leave, when he’d become quiet and, while not short—he was never short with Harry—certainly terse .  

 

Damn this place. Even without the Dementors, some frisson of hopelessness pervaded the very air leaving Harry unsettled. He could tell Draco felt it, too. 

 

“Anything you want me to do? Take charge or step back and follow your lead or…?” Harry asked as they approached the massive stone wall which formed the first security checkpoint. He had no idea why he was feeling nervous. He didn’t believe Narcissa to be dangerous. If Andromeda was to be believed, Narcissa was reformed. If Draco was to be believed, then Narcissa would act in self interest, and surely good behaviour was advantageous to her at present, as she had no other sanctuary besides Draco’s mercy. She was reviled by Death Eater sympathizers and Order members alike. 

 

Draco shook his head. “I shouldn’t have made you come here.”

 

“You didn’t make me,” Harry reminded him. “I want to be here. Well, no one wants to be here , but I want to be here for you .” He attempted a smile, but he knew it was every bit as weak as it felt.

 

“Let’s just make this brief,” Draco determined, increasing his pace. His footing was neat on the uneven path. Harry nodded. Draco felt far away in a way he hadn’t in months: buttoned up, his speech crisp. Harry tried to understand it, but it was an admittedly alien circumstance. He imagined running into Petunia Dursley after all this time, aging and dependent on him. Harry wasn’t sure if he would be decent enough to show her grace. He certainly wouldn’t be willing to put her up in his home, as Draco was doing for his mother, and Petunia had mistreated only Harry, not the untold Muggles Narcissa had been implicated in terrorizing. 

 

Her crimes had unfolded in the Wizengamot, Draco had told him. At that time, Harry, had been subject to the twin agonies of being alive and grieving the dead, and he hadn’t paid careful attention to the proceedings, apart from giving his own statements. From what he understood, Narcissa’s turn of face at the end hadn’t been enough to wash her hands clean. She’d participated in raids and kidnappings, tortures and worse. From what Harry could make of it, she was never the sole aggressor, but neither was she an innocent bystander. She watched atrocities unfold, again and again. When ordered, she’d participated without hesitancy, an obedient Death Eater.

 

Harry privately blamed Lucius. Had Narcissa simply chosen the wrong partner and found herself in too deep with no hope for escape? She never seemed cruel to him, and Harry didn’t doubt her love for Draco, just as he never questioned Petunia’s love for Dudley, but clearly Narcissa had been too weak or too fearful of Voldemort and her husband. If only she'd taken Draco and ran! Then again, where could they have gone? If two Malfoys had shown up at Phoenix Headquarters at the height of the war, they would have more than aroused suspicions. They would have been detained, absolutely, but they wouldn’t have been maltreated. How were they to know that, though? A dog once kicked is wary thereafter.

 

Harry looked up and was surprised to find they’d nearly reached the end of the trail, the outermost structure looming over them. In silence, they approached the rampart. A bland looking middle-aged wizard was sitting in a cold cell of an office carved into the great wall. His expression was completely emotionless. A candle sputtered on his crude stone desk. He dipped a quill into blood red ink. 

 

“Identification papers and purpose of your visit,” he stated monotonously.

 

Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of parchment asserting his identity. Draco did the same. 

 

“Horse shite,” the man exclaimed seeing Harry’s name. He squinted up at them for the first time. “Mr. Potter? I don’t believe it. What brings you to this hell hole, then? Also spit here. No exception for celebrities.”  He held out a squat phial. “Tests for polyjuice.”

 

Harry obeyed without answering, waiting to follow Draco's lead.

 

“Mr. Potter and I are here to collect Narcissa Malfoy,” Draco reported, flatly. “She’s being released today.” He spat deftly into his proffered phial, as well. 

 

The guard grunted and corked the phials before shaking them, and then eyeballing them in the dim light of the day. He seemed satisfied with what he saw, because he set them down on his desk before reaching for something.

 

“Wands,” he ordered, holding out a long, thin box. 

 

Harry acquiesced without thought, but Draco was clearly disconcerted with the act of relinquishing his wand. Harry remembered that naked, paranoid feeling. He’d had it often enough before he’d honed his wandless magic. He wanted to tell Draco it would be alright, Harry would watch out for the both of them, but he knew that was a ridiculous idea. Draco would bristle and the guard would ask what on earth he meant by that.

 

The guard stepped out from his depressing hole in the wall and cast a Finite Incantatem upon their persons. 

 

“Sorry,” he said gruffly. “Procedure.”

 

“By all means,” Harry replied, aiming for cordiality.  The guard nodded led them to a narrow twisting, iron gate topped with piercing spikes. He unlocked it with a key that was almost definitely more than just a key. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter,” the guard remarked, sounding devoid of any such sentiments. He locked the gate behind them.

 

Harry grunted dully and matched strides with Draco to the next set of doors with guards and questions. And so it went, through another rampart, then into a side door and down dark, unvaried hallways. They were handed from guard to guard, their papers checked at least three different times,  until at last they were delivered into a bare little chamber with another door at the end of it. 

 

They waited there for ages. Draco stood unmoving, unspeaking. Harry felt as helpless as he did on the morning he woke up to find Ginny gone. 

 

There was a strong knock on the inner door. 

 

“Alright?” Harry couldn’t help but whisper in their final moment alone.

 

Draco only nodded curtly just as the door swung inward and a female guard accompanied Narcissa Malfoy into the room. 

 

Harry heard Draco inhale sharply beside him, and Harry could understand why. Harry recognised that sunken, sallow look from the first time he saw Sirius. Narcissa’s hair, swept back into a neat bun, was white through, with a single remaining shock of dark hair at one temple. Her eyes were bright jack-o-lantern candles shining in her haunted face. 

 

“Draco,” she murmured, half to herself. “You’re here.”  Her voice was hoarse and only after a long moment of silence did her gaze slip from her son to Harry. 

 

“Harry Potter,” she remarked. His name sounded almost like a question

 

Harry attempted a smile. “Nice to see you again, Narcissa,” he said pleasantly. Not knowing what else to do, he opted for courtesy, stepping forward to shake her hand. She looked at his extended hand as though it was a foreign object, then seemed to come back to herself, and placed a paper dry hand in his. He squeezed it gently, still smiling, but Narcissa’s focus was somewhere past him, fixated, Harry was sure, on Draco. 

 

“Draco?” she murmured again.

 

If Draco heard the plaintive note in her words, he didn’t acknowledge it. He simply stood and addressed the guard. “Anything else for me to sign?” Harry watched Narcissa’s eyes continue to track Draco’s subtle shifts and movements. 

 

The guard slid a small burlap sack across the table. “Her belongings, save her wand. You will receive that before you leave the island. We’ll need her forwarding address, and she will have to check into the Ministry of Magic: Department of Criminal Reform tomorrow, and once monthly following that, until she can show that she has been reassimilated into society.”

 

“Understood,” Draco said. He filled out the necessary form on a clipboard procured by the guard. “We’ll be off then.”

 

He turned on his heel without a word to Harry or his mother, and began his egress.

 

“Erm, thanks,” Harry said to the guard, awkwardly.

 

He went to step towards the door, but Narcissa didn’t follow. She was staring at Draco’s silhouette receding into the darkness of the hallway. 

 

“It’s a shock, for him, I think,” Harry offered, although he wasn’t sure that was the truth. “And this place…” he motioned to the room around them. “Disconcerting, yeah? Let’s get you to the Manor. More familiar ground. He’s got comfortable quarters arranged for you, I hope you’ll like them. And he’s hired a house-elf, house-elfs get wages now! Not sure if you’d heard...” He trailed off stupidly. Narcissa didn’t care about this useless babble—it was devastatingly clear that she only cared about Draco—and Harry simply didn’t know how to make this any better for anyone. 

 

Narcissa nodded vaguely and allowed herself to be led away. 

 

/// ///

 

At the gate, the bland wizard returned Harry and Draco’s wands. He then disappeared into a narrow awning. When he reappeared, he had another wooden box and a large ledger tucked under one elbow. He opened the latch and presented it to Narcissa. 

 

It was light in colour, thin and willowy as Narcissa herself. 

 

“One wand,” the guard read aloud from the ledger. “Narcissa Malfoy, beech, 11 and ¾ inches, unicorn hair.” 

 

For a minute, Harry thought Narcissa might lunge for it. Her eyes flared and her fingers twitched, but she didn’t move, hunching slightly in the bitter wind that had kicked up while they were inside the prison. 

 

“I'll take it.” Draco remarked, stepping in front of his mother. His voice remained cool and distant. “Portkey?”

 

“It will be waiting for you in...” the guard checked his pocket watch. “4 minutes and 15 seconds. Where you came in, better hurry. You’re looking for a rusted sardine tin. Bit tricky to get everyone’s fingers on it at the right time, best be careful and coordinated.”

 

Draco only nodded in response, once again leaving Harry to give his cumbersome thanks, and lead Narcissa towards home.

Notes:

Thanks to everyone who is still here after the long stretch between chapters! Your comments really filled my cup!!

Please forgive any discrepancies between book Azkaban and this (also I haven't seen the movies so this is just my imagination based off of vague memories and a little bit of Googling to remind myself...)

<3

Chapter 27: Harry

Notes:

**CWs at the end of the chapter**

Harry

 

 

Harry would never call Malfoy Manor his destination of choice. Lying vacant, it was somehow even more unpleasant. The furniture was obscured by heavy white drop cloths, themselves miraculously devoid of dust. The vague, uncanny shapes made each room branching off the main corridor appear lifeless and unwelcoming. Harry suppressed a shiver, searching for signs of life in the draughty old house. He wondered which rooms Draco and Scorpius occupied in the summers, or if Draco allowed himself the sentimentality necessary to hold onto Scorpius’ old stuffed toys or baby booties. Harry hoped so.

 

Draco was walking ahead at a brisk pace, leading them to the east wing. Their path was lit only by dim blocks of light from the too sparse windows. Draco clearly had neither the patience nor inclination to ignite any of the sconces on the wall.

 

Harry kept his mouth shut after his awkward display at the prison. He didn’t know if Draco wanted him to break the tension, to fill the empty halls with chatter. By the straight arrow of Draco’s spine, he wanted this over with, so Harry focused on only trying to facilitate that. 

 

He’d not been sure how the day would go. He’d not been expecting Draco to be outwardly shaken, because Draco abhorred to be so transparent, but Harry couldn't help but wish that Draco would just tell him what he was feeling, what he wanted. It was easier to address the core of an issue when one knew exactly the size and the shape of the problem. Withdrawal and shut down, however, seemed to be the order of the day, and Harry could hardly blame Draco for that.  

 

At last, up ahead, was some natural light spilling from a hallway. Draco led them in that direction, and Harry and Narcissa followed. No one seemed inclined towards conversation. The corridor opened into a parlour, and Harry saw the first uncovered furniture they had encountered. It was far more posh than anything Harry had ever owned, with chairs and settees freshly upholstered in a tidy, striped sky blue satin. There was a full tea service tray at the ready. 

 

“Your sitting room,” Draco said to his mother. It was the first time he had acknowledged her at all, his tone impersonal and impassive. “I’ve had the white room made up for you, as well. You may make use of the library, the east office, and the grounds. There’s an owl on order. It should arrive in the next couple of days, for your correspondence. You will seek express permission in regards to visitors.”

 

Narcissa’s pale face was drawn and shuttered. She nodded once in acknowledgement, eyes downcast. Harry could scarcely bear the exchange. Part of him wanted to comfort Narcissa, who clearly had held out hope for Draco’s love, but that wasn’t his role here. If Draco needed him in his corner, that was where Harry would stay.

 

Draco picked up a small silver bell off a marble-topped side table and rang it. 

 

There was a loud crack and a plump house elf appeared in the parlour. The elf was wearing a heap of skirts layered upon one another, a dark-coloured blouse and no fewer than six necklaces. 

 

“Dorinda,” Draco greeted the elf. “My mother.”

 

The elf dipped in a deep curtsy. “Mrs. Malfoy, welcome home. Dori has made you some tea.”

 

Narcissa observed the scene as though viewing it through a fog. 

 

“Dorinda is an employee, not a slave,” Draco informed his mother. “You will treat her with respect, or you will be doing your own cooking and cleaning thereafter. She works for me, mind you, not you, just so you are clear where her loyalties will lie. A small allowance will be allotted to you for your clothing, toilette, stationery, and books. If you have further needs, please bring them to Dorinda and she will bring them to me. Do not attempt to contact me directly. Dorinda, please take my mother’s things to her room.” 

 

Draco handed off the small sack of goods and the beech wand to the elf, who disappeared out the doorway, leaving them alone with Narcissa.

 

Harry knew Draco had his reasons, and he understood precisely where this callousness was coming from, but he could tell that Narcissa was taken aback. She grasped the back of a chair in an effort to steady herself. She looked weak and suddenly quite old. 

 

“Draco,” she managed. “When I was told I was to live with you…”

 

“I agreed to see to your basic needs, to keep you off the streets. This house lies vacant most of the year. It seemed sufficient.”

 

“I’m not doubting your generosity, I am of course grateful,” Narcissa tried again, stricken. “I know you’re angry with me—”

 

“I’m not angry with you,” Draco interrupted, coldly. “I want nothing to do with you.”

 

“Draco,” Narcissa pleaded, her voice breaking on the sounds of his name. “You are my son, I loved you from the first.”

 

“You may have done,” Draco acknowledged. “But you didn’t protect me.”

 

“Please, Draco. You must understand. Your father, Voldemort, I was weak. Had I left, they might have killed me, killed you, I couldn’t take that chance,” Narcissa offered. Tears spilled over, unheeded.

 

“Harry was seventeen when he plucked me out of fiend fyre,” Draco retorted, his accent clipped with barely repressed fury. “He despised me, yet saved me, risking his own hide without a second thought. His hatred was more valuable to me than your love ever was.”

 

“I tried,” Narcissa begged. “Please believe that I tried.”

 

“What? Standing outside the door with tea and healing salves while Father took his failings out on me, while Voldemort branded me, cajoled me into crimes I don’t care to remember? If that was your idea of trying, then you are even more pathetic than I knew,” Draco spat. 

 

“Draco, please!”

 

“Do not test me!” Draco snarled. “When it comes to you, this is all I have to give.”

 

Harry couldn’t help it. He loosed some of his magic, cocooning Draco silently, exuding comfort like a warm cloak in a storm. Harry wasn’t sure he could wrap his arms around Draco just now, so this was the next best thing. Draco’s eyes closed momentarily, mouth pursed, but he didn’t shrug it off. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Narcissa whispered. “At least believe I am sorry.”

 

“I do believe that,” Draco said finally. He sighed, sounding hollowed out and exhausted. “I don’t know, Mother. Perhaps another day, another time, I’ll feel differently. But when I look at my son and imagine anyone attempting to hurt him the way that Father hurt me, there is nothing I wouldn’t do to prevent it. I would suffer any blow. You may have loved me, I don’t doubt that you did, but you loved yourself more.”

 

Narcissa shook her head, but she didn’t try to argue. She looked deflated, emptied. 

 

“We’ll be going, then,” Draco determined. “Please inform Dorinda of your needs.”

 

Draco left briskly, Harry’s cloak of magic dissipating behind him. Narcissa stared after her son, bereft. 

 

Harry didn’t know what to say. He needed to go to Draco, that much was for certain. “It was good to see you, Narcissa,” he murmured. “Draco is…he’s alright. He’s safe. He’s happy. He’s done well for himself. You don’t need to worry about him.”

 

Narcissa nodded slowly. She blinked, clearing her eyes, and looking up at him. “Thank you. That is…a kindness you have given me, Mr. Potter. Harry. I’m glad he’s found a friend in you.”

 

“He has,” Harry assured her. “I ought to go with him. I’ll be seeing you, I’m sure.”

 

/// ///

 

Harry found Draco pacing near the main hearth, nervous energy radiating off of him like a caged animal. 

 

“What do you need?” Harry demanded at once. 

 

“You should leave,” Draco announced. “I don’t need you here, I’m perfectly—”

 

“Let’s not do this again, love,” Harry said as gently as he could. Again, he wanted very badly to touch Draco, but he still wasn’t convinced it would be well-received. “Something happens, you close off, you pull away, you don’t dare admit you’re vulnerable.”

 

“I don’t need you coddling me, Potter,” Draco snapped, raking a hand through his hair. “She’s here now, it’s over with. I’m fine. Leave off.”

 

“Right. Is that what you actually want, or are you saying something irritable in an effort to put me off?” Harry clarified. “If you really need time and space, it’s yours, of course it is, but if you’re just trying to show me how stoic you are and how you are above needing anyone or anything, maybe quit it and let me bloody help.”

 

Draco’s eyes narrowed and Harry thought for a moment he had pushed this strategy a bit too far. Then Draco simply sagged, his hand falling over his brow like he had been overcome with a sudden headache.

 

“I…can we please just go somewhere?” Draco muttered, finally.

 

“Of course,” Harry soothed. “Come here.”

 

Draco hesitated for one long moment, helplessness and self-disgust paying over his features, before at last, he stepped in to meet him, grabbing a fistful of Harry’s cloak and sinking his face into Harry’s shoulder with a fragmented sob as Harry’s arms went round him. 

 

“I thought this would be easier,” Draco admitted. “It’s been twenty fucking years. I had all but buried her, buried all of it, it was done with, and now it's all burbling back to the surface like some sort of dormant parasite.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said earnestly. 

 

“Just her standing there, staring at me.” Draco went on, “Her pleading with me to understand, trying to force me into a position where I will comfort her and absolve her, and why should I, when for seventeen years, she repeatedly chose Father and herself and never me?”

 

This was Draco at his most exposed, and Harry was terrified of wrong-footing it. “It wasn’t right,” Harry breathed, smoothing Draco’s hair. “You deserved someplace safe.”

 

“We both did. Don’t see you falling to pieces over it,” Draco said, voice bitter with self-resentment. He stepped back, wiping a handkerchief over his face with impatient irritation. 

 

“You’ve not seen me after a bottle of firewhisky on a holiday,” Harry pointed out. “I just had the good fortune of having a surrogate family around to get me through the worst of it. Put me in front of Petunia Dursley, though, and I’m positive I’d fare worse than you did just now. Not confident I wouldn’t spit in her face, really. I wouldn't be nearly as dignified as you.”

 

Draco looked dubious, but he didn’t say anything. He was busying himself with refolding the handkerchief, and Harry could tell he was starting to feel like he’d said too much. 

 

“Sweetheart,” Harry said, trying to prolong the intimacy and stave off Draco’s anxieties about being too raw for too long. “Are you sure you want her here? You owe her nothing.”

 

Draco shrugged, letting out a low, stuttering breath. “It’s done now.”

 

Harry wondered if that was exactly true, but he didn't press it. 

 

“We have the afternoon,” Harry reminded him. “What would help? We could go to Eiderdown End. We’d have the place to ourselves. No food in the pantry, but I can run for take-out, or I’m sure I could scrounge up some tea. Or I could put sheets on the bed if you think a nap would do you some good.”

 

Draco didn’t say anything for a long time. Harry had to force himself to be patient. Silence wasn’t his strong suit, but it was Draco’s natural habitat and Harry was learning.

 

Draco looked down. He tugged impatiently at his knuckles, eliciting a sharp crack from each one in turn.

 

“I hate asking for it,” he said finally. 

 

Harry hated that he had to. He should have guessed. 

 

“You want to hurt?” he confirmed. 

 

Draco nodded.

 

"We can do that."

 

"I'm sorry. You shouldn’t have to. It's incongruent. I don't want to be thinking about all that right now, and I'm not, not really, it just is the only thing I know that stops me from feeling this miserable and powerless.”

 

“Hell’s teeth,” Harry shook his head, frustrated by his own inability to make all this apparent. He shifted forward, hands coming to Draco’s cheeks, their foreheads touching. “It is the absolute opposite of a hardship to have you naked and begging,” he hissed. “I love you. I love the way we fuck, and I especially love fucking you. Clear?  You need pain, you tell me. With or without sex, just let me give you what you need, alright? I should have offered in the first place.”

 

Harry kissed him then, digging his fingertips into the muscles under Draco’s jaw until the other man winced and gasped, sounding almost relieved. Harry grabbed a fistful of Floo powder off the mantle and held out his hand. 

 

“Let’s go someplace,” he said. 

 

Draco took his hand and together, they stepped into the flames.

Notes:

CW: references to child physical abuse/neglect. Mentions of masochism/sex (consensual). Reference to alcohol use.

 

Thanks for reading!

Chapter 28: Draco

Notes:

***Hi, it's porn (and angst) but mostly porn! Please see end of chapter notes for specific content warnings. Or, skip this one if you're not here for the smut!***

Draco

It was a relief to be at Eiderdown End after the echoing emptiness of The Manor. The Potters’ home, even vacant, felt lived-in and accepting and Draco took a steadying breath. Even the dust felt friendly. Merlin’s teeth, surely he was losing it. 

 

He was apprehensive in the way he always was before a scene. Tense but not uncertain, wanting it to start already, to know how it was going to proceed, but Harry would not be rushed. Draco allowed himself to be led to the kitchen, Harry’s insistent hand on his back. They sat at the table and Harry poured him a glass of water, which Draco hadn’t known he needed until he was urged to take the first sip. Then, Draco felt absolutely parched, aware of body all at once. The ache in his shoulders, the throbbing of his head, his dry mouth. Harry was sitting close, a chair pulled up, an arm bracketing Draco between the wall and the table. Claustrophilia, Draco thought, unbidden. He wanted Harry to sandwich him into the tightest of spaces, compress his lungs, staunch the grief, the anger and bitterness. 

 

Harry was unusually silent, gaze fixed on Draco, as if trying to read cues from his body. Draco couldn’t help but suspect that Harry would rather just sit together on the sofa, sharing a cup of cocoa and talking. Surely Harry preferred soft and gentle conversation over Draco’s violent needs, no matter what he said, but Draco couldn’t conjure words, he was wrung out with the effort of it. He wanted nothing but sensation and adrenaline, enough of both to make the world shut off. Maybe it was wrong of him to drag Harry into this. He’d never felt so conflicted when it was just strangers. They didn’t care or need to know what was going on inside Draco’s head, what he was intent on drowning out. But Harry cared, Merlin, Harry cared, too much probably, and yet not enough; Draco could amass rooms and vaults full of Harry’s care and it would never be sufficient. Draco felt as hollow and bleak as The Manor and Harry was a bloody sunbeam.

 

“What is it?” Harry asked. 

 

Draco looked up, studying Harry’s serious, concerned face. 

 

A thousand things came to mind, Draco’s ceaseless anxieties clogging up his throat. It had been a moment of weakness accepting Harry’s offer to come to Azkaban with him. It would have been better if Draco had taken care of that himself. That way, he could have had this little hiccough of a meltdown in private, and Harry would never know. Harry had four children and an unpredictable soon-to-be ex-wife, and a new job with which to contend. Draco had promised himself he would stop being a hindrance. He had managed perfectly well before Harry, and he could continue to do so now. 

 

He knew just what Harry would say if Draco gave voice to all this. There would be reassurances and promises and the pet names that Draco feared and longed for. Harry would be wide-eyed and horrified and determined to convince Draco he wasn’t a burden. But just because Harry wouldn’t admit something didn’t mean it wasn’t true. 

 

Draco simply shook his head. 

 

“It’s alright,” Harry told him. “Finish your water.”

 

Draco did, relieved to be given a task. 

 

“Are you…worried?” Harry asked curiously, like he couldn’t quite hit on what Draco was feeling. And no surprise there, Draco was hardly being forthcoming. 

 

Draco swallowed. “Yes,” he admitted. 

 

“About what’s coming?”

 

 “Please, Harry, I don’t want to–”

 

“You don’t have to talk,” Harry interrupted. “Just yes or no, nod if you’d rather. Are you worried about it?”

 

Draco shrugged. He was and he wasn’t. 

 

“Hm. Your mum, then?”

 

Draco shook his head, surprising himself, but it was the truth. He would deal with his mother, if necessary. 

 

“Right,” Harry remarked thoughtfully. He reached out casually, smoothing a piece of Draco’s hair between his fingers. “Are you busy coming up with all the things I may or may not be thinking or feeling about you? Like before? That night Scorpius nearly…”

 

Draco flushed. It was humiliating to be this transparent. Harry wasn’t stupid, but he could be oblivious a bit, sometimes, or perhaps distracted, and Draco had been counting on that today, too. 

 

“Ah,” Harry said. He let the syllable hang between them, his mouth twitching a little in consternation. His hand drifted quietly from Draco’s hair, sliding down to cradle Draco’s cheek.  “Have I…” Harry began anew, tentative and curious, “said or done anything to make you assume I’m thinking shit things about you?” 

 

“No!” Draco protested. “Of course not. It’s nothing like that.”

 

“Right,” Harry replied, tone still kind, always kind. “If that’s the case, then do you think you could try to focus more on what I say and less on what you think I'm secretly thinking? It’s just that I’m not that complicated, sweetheart, I promise. You don’t need to go about looking for hidden depths with me. If something’s on my mind, you’ll know about it, yeah?”

 

Draco froze because it was all too bloody simple, wasn’t it? Harry wasn’t overtly frank, but he was open. There was no game-playing with Harry, one always knew where one stood. It had always been that way, even back in school. If Potter was furious, Draco knew about it. If Potter was miserable, the whole world could tell. 

 

It was perhaps what had drawn Draco to Harry from the very first, that clarity. Every input had a delightfully predictable output. Needle Harry Potter, and he would eventually explode. It had posed a striking contrast to Draco’s home life, which had felt like it was built on shifting sands: every smile or gesture holding a secret second or third meaning. Home had been where Mother’s smiles expressed anything but happiness and Father’s temper could strike at random and Draco, by necessity, had been on constant look-out for the subtlest signs of an impending storm. Even with his parents put away, there had been the volatile mess that had been Astoria and after that debacle, there remained a very short list of people whose opinions Draco minded. Hurtling headlong into a romantic relationship had never been his plan. 

 

“I don’t know,” Draco admitted, voice hoarse. “But I could try.”

 

“Thanks,” Harry smiled. He kissed Draco’s temple, then stood up and stretched. He looked damned relaxed and unhurried. “Go put sheets on the bed. I’ll be in shortly.”

 

/// ///

 

Draco didn’t want the suspense of the build-up. He wanted to be mid-scene already, overwhelmed by everything that wasn’t his own thoughts. 

 

He paced Harry’s bedroom. He wished Harry had said whether he ought to get undressed or not. He busied himself, removing his cloak and his pocket watch and storing them neatly. He fussed with the button on his cuffs. 

 

The door creaked open and Harry entered, barefoot and perfectly at ease. He stepped closer, reaching out to take over the fiddly duty of Draco’s shirt sleeves. Harry smiled warmly at him, leaning in close to nuzzle Draco’s cheek and kiss his mouth, sweetly. He unclasped the buttons on Draco’s other cuff and then the ones down the front, dropping Draco’s shirt off his shoulders and hanging it off a bedpost. 

 

“Hard and fast?” Harry asked casually, pulling away to fully gauge Draco’s response. 

 

“Please,” Draco entreated. 

 

“Face okay?” 

 

Draco nodded, probably too eagerly. 

 

Harry chuffed out a little laugh at Draco’s enthusiasm. “Alright, then. Choking?”

 

Draco hadn’t engaged in that often. He didn’t trust his neck in the hands of a stranger, but the thrill that flickered up his spine assured him it was different with Harry. He felt his cock fill and harden in his pants. The idea appealed very much. “Yes,” he hissed. 

 

“How close to the edge can I take you?” Harry asked curiously, clear he would be happy with whatever Draco gave him. 

 

The question caught Draco off guard. He never thought Harry would be willing to even consider…

 

Draco nearly shuddered with need, imagining that ultimate drop, the oblivion of Harry using his unconscious body, Draco’s pleasure not even an afterthought. 

 

Draco shook the idea away. Not yet, he decided. Maybe one day, but today, he wanted to feel it. 

 

“Just the edge,” he decided. “Always bring me back.”

 

“Fuck,” Harry breathed, sounding somehow awed. He pressed their foreheads together, kissing Draco again, still so tender, so gentle. “I love you,” he murmured. “Stop me if you need to, even if only for a break.”

 

Draco nodded and closed his eyes, sinking into the kiss, wishing he could give Harry back the assurances so freely given. It was another deficit— 

 

The first blow was like diving into cool water. Harry’s open hand cracking across Draco’s cheek, sudden and unforgiving. 

 

Draco gasped, a hand flying up to his cheek in surprise, his cock already straining at his flies. It was sharp and brutal and Draco‘s mind fell quiet, clear as crystal and focused only on this. 

 

Harry smiled wolfishly, wrapping a big hand around the back of Draco’s neck and pulling him in for a filthy kiss. No sweetness this time, only Harry’s insistent tongue and sharp teeth nipping and pulling at Draco’s lips, sucking bruises into them. 

 

Harry walked them one or two steps backwards, until Draco was pressed up against the bare wall. Harry pulled back long enough to slap Draco’s face again, twice in quick succession. It was unusual for them, and Draco was shocked and excited by the brutality of it, craving it and fearing it all at once. He tilted his chin up, silently egging Harry on, wanting to show him how much he could take. He got another slap for his efforts, leaving his face flushed and hot, ears ringing. 

 

Harry kissed him again, slow and thorough, his magic creeping up to form a warm breadth of power around Draco’s throat. It was a presence only, for now, no pressure or constriction, but the threat of it was as obvious as Harry’s erection jutting into his hip and every bit as exhilarating.

 

Harry shifted, their lips separating. He raised his hand and Draco jumped in anticipation, but Harry only chuckled and slid gentle knuckles over Draco’s cheek. 

 

“Easy, baby,” Harry chided. Pulling his hand back a second time, only to let it fall with a patronizing little tap against Draco’s burning cheek.

 

“You like this?” Harry whispered, his magic pulsing threatening at Draco’s throat. 

 

“Yes,” Draco hissed. 

 

Harry grinned and dragged his teeth along Draco’s jaw, before slapping the same cheek for a third time. Draco felt his eyes water. 

 

“Why?” Harry demanded, finding Draco’s cock with his hand and palming it roughly. 

 

Draco bit back a groan. “I don’t know.”

 

Another slap. 

 

“Try,” Harry ordered. 

 

“Feels…” Draco cast about for the right word. “Feels intimate.”

 

“Mm,” Harry acknowledged. “You don’t get slapped by strangers. Only by me.”

 

The magic around Draco’s throat tightened slightly, as Harry’s hand tightened around Draco’s cock. 

 

“Yes,” Draco agreed breathlessly. He wondered if Harry meant that— 

 

“With me,” Harry said sharply, a smack highlighting his words, his magic momentarily squeezing round Draco’s throat. “Feel me. Did I tell you to think?”

 

“No, Harry.”

 

“That’s right. No thinking, just feeling.”

 

“I’m sorry, I’m trying, I can’t shut it off—”

 

“Yes, you can,” Harry promised, kissing Draco’s cheekbone. “You just need a little help.”

 

There was another strike across his face, and another, a third, a fourth, interspersed with Harry’s mouth on his, Harry’s teeth against his jaw, Harry’s magic ebbing and flowing around him leaving Draco breathless, shaking with adrenaline, a cold sweat shuddering through him. He pressed his palms flat against the cool wall, grounding himself. He felt his heartbeat in his throat, slamming into Harry’s magic, mind blissfully blank to everything but his body, this moment.

 

“You look so pretty in my handprints,” Harry whispered, pressing his forehead into Draco’s temple. He swept back the sweaty strands off Draco’s face.  The praise was a balm into which Draco sank. Harry hadn’t really choked him properly, not yet, but Draco was having a hard time filling his lungs. 

 

“Okay, love?” Harry asked. “Need to stop?”

 

That was the last thing Draco wanted, much preferring to be lost in these depths for as long as he was able. He managed to shake his head.

 

“If you’re sure,” Harry told him. “Tap the wall if you change your mind, yeah?”

 

Draco nodded not because he thought he would need it, but because placating Harry was the only way to get more.

 

Harry’s magic tightened further, flattening the blood vessels supplying Draco’s head with much-needed oxygen. Just as Draco thought he might panic, it released and he gulped for air, his hips stuttering, orgasm threatening him, as all he could feel, and see, all he could taste was Harry, and nothing else and it was Harry who had given that to him. A ruthless, perfect peace.

 

“Not yet,” Harry murmured. “Almost there.”

 

He bit into Draco’s shoulder, one hand gripping Draco’s hair as his magic surged, controlling Draco’s breath before forbidding it altogether. Their bodies rocked together and Draco’s lungs burned and his tears flowed. 

 

“You’re okay, sweetheart, we’re almost there,” Harry coaxed. “Let go. You’re safe.” 

 

The sweetness was what broke him, more than any of the blows or constrictions. Harry’s magic dropped and Draco collapsed into him with a sob. 

 

Harry hushed him, a hand stroking over his head. Draco felt feverish, burning, filling his lungs with air until bursting. He'd not come, he realized, hazily, it was a different sort of release, more mental than anything. His cock was still not satisfied, and he ground it into Harry's leg as a reminded.

 

Harry kissed him. “More?” 

 

Draco nodded shakily and Harry dropped to his knees, stripping Draco of his trousers and pants, taking Draco’s cock into his mouth briefly, making Draco shudder and cry out. He was so sensitive and his cock had been neglected for so long. Harry’s mouth was insistent, efficient, bringing Draco towards the edge. Harry stopped as suddenly as he started. 

 

“Going to fuck you,” he determined, stripping quickly, before shoving Draco towards the bed. Draco collapsed forward, bent at the waist. Harry grabbed him behind one knee, forcing his leg up, exposing him. “Hell’s teeth, the look of you,” Harry growled. 

 

He kissed Draco between the shoulder blades, up his spine, trapping Draco under his body, still open and exposed. One hand was running over Draco’s arse, gripping and slapping, fingertips teasing Draco’s hole. 

 

His lips found Draco’s ear. “Want to eat you out,” Harry breathed and Draco felt a cold spike of nerves spear through him. They’d never, hell, he'd never. It was so much easier to say no to bloody strangers who didn’t want anything, who he didn’t give a fuck if he disappointed. Merlin, he didn’t even know if he wanted 'd say no, he just…

 

“With me,” Harry directed again, quietly. His hands had stopped moving and he wasn’t kissing Draco any more and what if Draco had ruined it all and why hadn’t he just said yes? 

 

Harry smoothed a palm over Draco’s hair, half rolling off him, so he could look Draco in the eye. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

 

“I don’t know,” Draco admitted, ashamed at how pathetic his uncertainty made him, that he couldn’t give Harry this little thing he asked for, that seemed so simple, something so commonplace amongst lovers. 

 

“That’s alright,” Harry told him, earnestly. “Another time maybe. Or not. It’s okay to not want something.”

 

Was it? Draco didn't know. That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Before Harry, he didn’t have to care what people thought or what they wanted from him, but now that he was in this, what Harry wanted was all he could fucking think about, and he hated that about himself, this incessant need to anticipate Harry's thoughts— 

 

“Draco,” Harry kissed his forehead. “Stay with me. Please.”

 

Draco blinked. “I’m trying,” he said. “I need…Hell’s teeth, just fuck me.”

 

“You sure? We can—”

 

“Fuck me, Potter!”

 

Harry nodded and shifted, man-handling Draco until he was on all fours. He was mercifully rough, providing only the most obligatory of prep before the blunt head of his barely oiled cock was stretching Draco’s hole, painful and perfect. Harry gripped Draco by the hair, forcing his back to arch. His other hand was on Draco’s hip, bracing him as Harry took what he wanted, what Draco wanted to give, raw and long and all-consuming. 

 

They came together, Harry’s hand bringing him off onto the sheets, their bodies sweat slicked and satiated. 

 

/// ///

 

Draco must have dozed off, because he awoke to a warm cloth along his spine before dipping low, between his buttocks. 

 

He stirred and Harry gentled him, disposing of the cloth before coming back to bed. He smelled showered and clean and Draco wondered if he ought to shower, too, only his limbs felt heavy as lead. Before he could make a decision, he was pulled up and against Harry’s chest, Harry’s arm encircling his shoulders. 

 

Draco wondered if he ought to say something. He didn’t want to. 

 

“Sleep,” Harry demanded. 

 

Draco obeyed.

Notes:

CWs: BDSM, face slapping, choking, breath play, penetrative sex, discussion of rimming, less than perfect BDSM etiquette. Also anxiety, angst and vestiges of childhood trauma?? And my favourite trope of BDSM as therapy.

 

Thanks for reading!

Chapter 29: Harry

Notes:

**CWs at the end**

Also I've posted two chapters rather close together, so if this isn't making sense, you might have missed the previous chapter!

Harry

The clinking of a spoon against porcelain woke Harry up. He groped about for his watch, the late afternoon sun trying its best to get through the drawn curtains of the bedroom. Draco, presumably, was in the kitchen. 

 

Harry stretched and pulled on his pants and a grubby old t-shirt that had been left behind for the term. He found Draco in the kitchen, concentration held by two mugs on the countertop. His hair was damp and swept back off his face. He was fully dressed, clothes neat and pressed, although Harry couldn’t for the life of him think where there was an iron in Eiderdown End.

 

“Whatcha doing?” Harry yawned, pleased that Draco had anticipated Harry joining him. 

 

“Making cocoa,” Draco replied. 

 

Harry was surprised. Draco wasn’t partial to sweets. 

 

“Oh,” he said. “Well that’s nice, isn’t it? Thanks.”

 

“Yes,” Draco agreed. “And then I thought we could sit on the sofa and…talk.”

 

Draco’s lip curled to signal his displeasure with the proposition. 

 

“Don’t sound so delighted,” Harry laughed. He stepped in to wrap his arms around Draco from behind and kissing his neck. Draco relaxed slightly and his eyes fell closed, cheek pressing against Harry’s temple for just a moment before seeming to steel himself for the task ahead. 

 

“Needs must,” Draco declared with a sigh. He picked up the mugs, and made for the drawing room.

 

“Should I be nervous?” Harry asked lightly, following along. “Are you giving me the boot?”

 

“Of course not,” Draco shook his head. “This is, to my utmost dismay, about me.”

 

The words were inscrutable. Draco was hardly an open book, but Harry thought they were doing alright. 

 

Draco sat himself on one end of the sofa, scowling into his cocoa. Harry wasn’t clear if he wanted space or not. He hesitated, then sank onto the middle cushion, facing Draco. Holding his cocoa with one hand, he slung his other arm over the top of the sofa, in easy reach of Draco. To his relief, Draco didn’t rebuff the gesture. He waited. 

 

Draco took a sip from his mug before setting it on the end table. He looked at Harry, then looked away. 

 

“Never mind,” he said, standing abruptly. “I can’t do this.”

 

“Oh, come off it,” Harry objected, grabbing Draco’s wrist and pulling him back down. “Merlin, Draco, what is it? I’m hard to scare off, you know.”

 

Draco made a noise of irritation, but Harry had a feeling it was directed inwardly. He didn’t let go of Draco’s wrist, smoothing his thumb over the underside, tracking the veins visible through Draco's pale skin.

 

“I believe,” Draco began tersely, his fingertips tapping a nervous rhythm on the back of Harry’s hand, “that you hit upon something earlier that I…didn’t like.”

 

“Oh!” Harry said, reflecting back and feeling immediately guilty. He’d likely said something stupid. “I’m sorry, love. What—”

 

“No, no,” Draco interrupted, exasperated. “Not that I minded your saying it. More that I found it to be true, when I rather wish it wasn't.”

 

“Ah,” Harry noted. “Which bit?”

 

Draco still wasn’t looking at him. He was studying their hands instead. Harry wished he knew how he could make this easier, but perhaps he simply couldn’t. Perhaps he had to hope that Draco could trust him enough to say what he wanted to say. He’d already trusted Harry with so much. Harry didn’t understand how anything could be more difficult to express than what Draco had divulged about himself, his father, Astoria and Scorpius. 

 

“I…worry.” Draco managed. His face flushed, as though the statement was incredibly shameful, instead of just, well, incredibly normal, so far as Harry could tell. 

 

“Alright,” Harry replied carefully, his movements on Draco’s wrist slowing. “I mean, it goes without saying, but everyone worries, babe.”

 

Draco directed his scowl at Harry, now. “Yes, I’m aware, thank you." He flexed then straightened his fingers before gripping Harry's hand tightly. "Fucking hell," he remarked, miserably. "I'm finding it fairly excruciating to get to the material point.”

 

“You're doing fine," Harry said softly. "Just start somewhere. We’ve got time.”

 

Draco sprang up to his feet again, making for the hearth, then turning. 

 

“As you know, for the entirety of my adult life, I’ve not pursued romantic relationships, my own marriage included,” he prefaced. 

 

“Right,” Harry acknowledged.

 

“I believed I could get what I needed when I needed it, and kept all that carefully delineated from everything else: my family, my work and interests.”

 

Harry didn’t reply. He didn’t quite know what Draco was getting at, let alone how any of this related to anything Harry had said earlier that day. He trusted Draco to get there eventually. Harry took a sip of the cocoa. It was rich and sweet, perfectly executed, like everything Draco set his hand to. 

 

“In some ways,“ Draco continued, “I was right in my beliefs, but in other ways, the truth was, denying myself romantic entanglements was simply easier.”

 

“Sure,” Harry agreed. He could understand that. 

 

“I had convinced myself that I didn’t want anything of the sort.”

 

“But here we are,” Harry pointed out, nonplussed.

 

“Indeed. Here we are.” Draco sighed again. 

 

Harry was bewildered. He still couldn’t put his finger on what Draco was driving at, but he had a sudden, unbidden suspicion that Draco was trying to end things. Harry tried his best not to panic. 

 

“And you don’t…” Harry struggled to find the right words, “like that?”

 

“No!” Draco exclaimed sharply, expression anguished. “Quite the opposite. I like it very much. Possibly too much.”

 

Harry felt stuck in a maze. “Yeah, I like it too. And we’re doing alright, aren’t we?” He sounded obtuse, he knew, but he felt it, too, slow and stupid, like he wasn’t keeping up.

 

“Yes,” Draco answered, despondently. 

 

“Not sure why you have to sound so glum about it,” Harry said, attempting levity to ease the tension. 

 

Draco gave him a pained look, silently asking for patience. 

 

“Sorry,” Harry murmured, taking another sip of his cocoa. “Go ahead.”

 

“It was easier,” Draco tried again, “when we first got together. When it was clear what you needed and I could simply do it. I felt confident, capable.” 

 

“You are confident and capable,” Harry asserted. 

 

“Thank you,” Draco said. “I am. Typically.”

 

“Today was a hard day,” Harry acknowledged. “I’m not sure I made it better. I know I was terribly awkward at Azkaban. I should have clarified what you needed.”

 

“You were exactly what I needed,” Draco corrected him stiffly. “I felt on the brink of hysteria the entire bloody time. I was barely processing our surroundings and it was an absolute relief that you could just handle things.”

 

Harry privately suspected that what Draco saw as hysteria in himself would barely register as a muted reaction to the average onlooker. Draco held himself to such ludicrous standards when it came to emotional control. It seemed like any aberrance from baseline was amplified for him to the point of being unbearable, and worse than that, humiliating. Harry wished he could convince him it wasn't, that such a reaction was ordinary,  expected. Given everything, Draco had been dignified, graceful even, but he wouldn't believe that, Harry was sure. Now didn’t feel like quite the time to dig into it, either.

 

“I was happy to do it,” Harry said truthfully, instead. “Even if I behaved like a bit of silly arse.”

 

“Stop, you were fine. I know you were happy to help. You always are,” Draco placated. “As I said, this is not a remonstration of your actions, only an explanation of my own. I had to rely on you today. I wanted to rely on you. And while I am inexpressibly grateful, I also find that I’m significantly less comfortable being on the receiving end of support. I can’t help but suspect that my reliance on you makes me brittle, insufficient.”

 

“Shit, love. I didn’t know you that was still going on for you,” Harry said. He set down his cocoa and crossed the drawing room to cup Draco’s neck and bring him closer. He felt rotten finding out that Draco had been carrying all this anxiety and unease. He ran his fingers over the muscle and bone at the base of Draco’s skull. Draco was tense, poised to run, but also he was staying—for Harry, he was staying. “This thing goes both ways, you know that. I like taking care of you. Hell, I’m touched when you ask; you so rarely do. I know that sort of thing doesn’t come easily to you. Have I said something daft to make you think I feel otherwise?”

 

“No,” Draco shook his head with frustration. “You’ve said and done plenty to demonstrate your affection. It’s not that I’m misinterpreting your actions, it’s that you were shockingly on point when you identified the disparity between what you say and what I believe.”

 

“Like…” Harry said, trying to puzzle it out. 

 

Draco pushed a knuckle against a hole in the chest of Harry’s t-shirt. He seemed to fixate on it, or maybe was just avoiding Harry’s eyes. He took a steadying breath, face shuttered and drawn, but driving on anyway.

 

“Like how you look after me and care for me and are so bloody good and kind and I have endless examples of your love, and yet I can’t seem to convince myself it isn’t temporary.” Draco’s voice was so low, Harry had to strain to hear him. “I’ve wracked my brain and I know absolutely that that fear isn’t rooted in anything you’ve done, and yet I cannot seem to cast off these damnable, interminable worries.”

 

Harry couldn’t imagine what it took for Draco to disclose all that. Draco, who could barely admit a vulnerability even when naked on Harry’s lap, who handled all his own shit and everyone else’s besides. 

 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Harry breathed, tentatively smoothing his hand along Draco’s spine, half-afraid the other man would bolt. He brought his cheek to the side of Draco’s head, lending him strength. “I wish you hadn’t been struggling with this alone. I hope you know it’s bloody admirable of you to speak up.”

 

“Only once you’d already figured it out yourself,” Draco grumbled, mercifully not rejecting Harry’s comfort. 

 

“Don’t minimise it,” Harry entreated. 

 

Draco didn’t reply, but he didn’t pull away either. 

 

“What sort of worries are we dealing with here?” Harry asked. “Anything I can put to bed?”

 

“A common thread,” Draco began, voice fraught, “is...hell, I don’t know.”

 

“Love,” Harry murmured gently, pressing a kiss to Draco’s temple. “Just tell me. Let me make it better. At least let me try.”

 

“I’m afraid that if I’m not of enough use, you’ll end things,” Draco muttered bitterly, his self-disgust brutally apparent.

 

Harry’s stomach dropped out in horror. “Merlin’s tits. You’re not serious. How can you…when have I—”

 

“You're not hearing me, Potter! You haven’t!” Draco exclaimed in agitation, eyes flashing as he finally looked up and met Harry’s gaze. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! You’re right. You don’t say it, you don’t even imply it, any of it, but I think it, and it feels bloody real.”

 

“Fucking hell, sweetheart,” Harry said quietly. He leant in, taking Draco’s face between both hands, searching his eyes and trying to figure out how he had missed this for all this time. “I don’t know how else to convince you.” 

 

“Yes, that’s the trouble,” Draco retorted.  “I need to convince me.”

 

“You might be right, but still, it bears repeating,” Harry determined, mapping the fine bones of Draco’s face with the pads of his thumbs. “Me and the kids, we love you for you, not for what you do for us. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate your help, always, but I would love you just as much if you’d rather we hire someone to help out around the house so you can put your feet up once in a while.”

 

“It’s not too much,” Draco protested, wrapping his arms around himself. Harry couldn’t bring himself to let go, hands sliding to Draco’s shoulders. “I like doing those things for you.”

 

“And I like doing things for you. Maybe we can just, you know, keep doing things for each other.”

 

“Yes,” Draco swallowed. “I suppose we could.”

 

“Thank you.” Harry took a moment to examine Draco’s forlorn features. Harry kissed his cheek, his mouth. Draco returned the kiss like it was a life raft, one hand bunched in Harry’s old t-shirt. 

 

“Alright, what else?” Harry asked after they broke apart. He decided that while they were in it, they might as well keep pressing forward. 

 

“Must we?” Draco implored. 

 

Harry shrugged. “I can’t help if I don’t know what’s troubling you. Once it’s spoken out loud, it’s there, and we can deal with it.”

 

“Oh, it’s all variations on a theme,” Draco huffed. “That you want things from me that you simply aren’t saying. I know, I know, we’ve covered that, too. I didn’t say these thoughts are rational, only that they are present.”

 

“What sorts of things?”

 

“Merlin, you will not leave off, will you?”

 

“What sort of things, Draco?” Harry said sternly.

 

“The latest worry cropped up fresh today,” Draco admitted, deflating. “I know you say you like our dynamic, but then I was struck by a new, unwelcome seed of doubt: what if you are only doing it because it is what I like and you’re trying to please me? What if it’s against your nature, only you’re too noble to tell me it’s actually hurting you, or, oh, I don’t know, your morality, or what have you.”

 

It was all Harry could do to keep his jaw from falling open. “You’re thinking that?”

 

“I wasn’t. Until today, and then it just took hold and I couldn’t shake it and I don’t know where all this, this noise, is coming from, I only know I can’t seem to shut it off once it gets started.”

 

“Sweetheart, I love getting that part of you, I can’t—”

 

“I know!” Draco cut him off. “I know you don’t think all that. I know it is absurd, especially now that I’ve said it out loud, but earlier, in the moment, it was there, and I was too terrified to tell you because what if I did and you confirmed it and wouldn’t do it any more, and I lost this, lost you, because of what I am, what I need?”

 

Draco was ramping up, nervous energy pulsing off of him in waves, his eyes wide and his words tumbling out in rapid succession.

 

“Draco, stop!” Harry commanded, squeezing his shoulders tightly to keep him present. “You’re not going to lose me.”

 

“I know you believe that,” Draco said quietly, collapsing into himself, but still allowing Harry’s touch. 

 

“Why don’t you?” Harry marvelled.

 

Draco didn’t answer the question, just ran a hand through his still-damp hair. “I don’t know. I just don’t. I can’t. So I convince myself if I just do enough, if I never disappoint you, if I don’t need too much, if I don’t let on how much I want then…then...” 

 

Draco trailed off and Harry could tell he was doing everything in his power to keep himself from tears.

 

“Okay,” Harry breathed. “Okay. Come here.” He pulled Draco into a fierce hug. “You think I want to go back to being without you, either? Of course not. Not a chance, babe.”

 

Draco nodded into Harry’s shoulder, his hands settling on Harry’s hips. “I know. I do know that. I’m working myself up, I’m sorry, it’s unbecoming.”

 

“It’s not,” Harry murmured. “I think I get it. It makes sense, in a way.”

 

“How does it make sense?” Draco demanded. 

 

Harry created enough space between them to talk, keeping close.

 

“Come sit?” he asked. Draco nodded and let Harry led him back to the sofa by the hand. Harry kept his fingers entwined with Draco’s as he spoke.  “I’ve thought of something,” he began. “Might fit, I’m not sure, but hear me out. Right. So, as you can imagine, after the war, I was angry. Well, I was a lot of things, but anger was definitely up there. The mind-healer I saw, we talked about it. I was angry about the war, the people I lost, the childhood I lost.”

 

Draco nodded in understanding.

 

“She pointed out that I had never had a childhood to begin with. She wasn’t wrong. Being with the Dursleys was hell, as you know. But with them…I had them figured out, yeah? I knew nothing I ever did would please them, they hated what I was. It made it easier, in a way, I think. There wasn’t any love to earn.”

 

“Those bastards,” Draco growled. 

 

“Yes," Harry agreed. “But what I’m thinking is that it wasn’t quite like that for you. I could be totally wrong here, and feel free to tell me to sod off, but maybe, for you, it did feel like you could earn it. Like if you worked hard enough and behaved just so, maybe you could keep your father happy, be the son he wanted, stop him from hurting you. I know you don’t believe that now, but you were just a kid, and you were so bloody hard on yourself, even then. I would imagine that’s a hard pattern to break, especially now that your mum’s here, reminding you of it all.”

 

Draco’s expression was grim, but he didn’t deny it. “I would have thought I would have dealt with all that by now.”

 

“Yeah, I’m not certain that refusing to think about something is quite the same as dealing with it, sweetheart,” Harry said, kindly but sardonically. "Not that I’m one to talk. Only lasted a couple of months with the mind-healer before it just got too bloody hard to trot it all out for her. Easier to just focus on what I did have.”

 

“I’m not sure I could bear that, just now, either,” Draco admitted. “I’m wary of strangers.”

 

“I know.” Harry collapsed back against the sofa, his arm pressing against Draco’s in solidarity.

 

“So, how do you expect one could break this sort of pattern?” Draco asked, letting his own head fall back against the cushions before turning to look at Harry.

 

Harry didn’t have a good answer for that. “Wish I knew. Catch yourself in the act, I suppose, and set the record straight. And don’t shut me out, please, if you can help it. I can’t do anything to reassure you if I don’t know what you’re worried about.”

 

“Turns out it is easier to be direct when that doesn’t include a parade of my fallibilities,” Draco groused. “I despise the state I’m in.”

 

“And what fallibilities are those, hey? You’re scared of losing something good. I’m scared of that, too. That’s only natural, right, when people have lost as much as we have?”

 

“I suppose,” Draco capitulated. “It’s quite an indignation, isn't it? I could always trust my mind. I fancy myself rather clever. And now I find that I can’t even rely on my own wits, my intuition. My thoughts get twisted to the point where I can’t differentiate what I want with what I think you want.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Draco’s lips pursed in thought. He didn't speak right away.

 

Harry beat him to it, sitting upright with the cold shock of realisation. “Shit. Do you mean today? When I asked if I could...?”

 

Draco gave a single, uncertain nod. It was a punch to Harry’s gut. He hadn’t even thought—

 

“Merlin, love, I’m sorry,” Harry told him wholeheartedly. “I was caught up in the moment, you looked so bloody beautiful and I didn’t realise it was so different from other things we’ve done, but that’s no excuse, obviously. I should never have put you in that position when you were already vulnerable.”

 

“I couldn’t sort out if I would be saying yes for me or for you, and that frightened me,” Draco confessed, his voice low and heartbreakingly uncertain.

 

“Of course,” Harry soothed, drawing one leg up onto the sofa, so he could face Draco fully, reaching out to cradle his cheek with an open palm. To Harry's relief, Draco turned in to the touch. “Of course it did, baby. I'm awfully sorry. That was so thoughtless of me. I should have brought it up beforehand, or not at all. The last thing I want is for you to say yes when you want to say no, yeah?”

 

“I know,” Draco sniffed. “You always give me a way out; I know I can say no and you’d never be angry with me. It caught me off guard, that's all. I suspect I’m more comfortable giving pleasure than receiving it. Which is hardly a surprise, all things considered.”

 

“It’s alright,” Harry responded, anxious to fix what he broke. “We can take it off the table, I don’t want you to feel pressured into anything.”

 

“Well, maybe not entirely off the table,” Draco objected, sitting up and tugging sharply at one smart shirt sleeve. He flushed lightly and hells below, he really was the most gorgeous thing. “Perhaps only reframed. I don’t fully understand why it appeals to you. It's harder for me to accept something when I don’t think you’ll get anything out of it. That you were doing it because you thought I wanted it.”

 

Harry had to smile a little at that. “Merlin’s teeth, that’s circles within circles, isn’t it?”

 

“If you wanted a simple lover, you ought to have looked elsewhere,” Draco said primly, finally sounding more like his own proud self. Harry loved him for it.

 

“That’s not what I said,” Harry mollified. “I’m only attempting to understand you. Let me get this quite right: you were uncomfortable with the idea that I would want to rim you for your pleasure?”

 

“Yes,” Draco confirmed. 

 

“But if I ate you out for my own selfish reasons, and you happened to enjoy it as a byproduct, that would be acceptable to you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“But you don’t want to do something just because I want it,” Harry clarified.

 

“No.”

 

“Unless it is framed in such a way as to make you want it as well.”

 

“Now you’ve got it.”

 

“You’re a complex man, Draco Malfoy,” Harry chuckled affectionately.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Harry wrapped an arm around Draco’s shoulders. “I love you,” Harry said quietly, kissing the spot in front of Draco’s ear, silver blond stubble rough against his lips. “Worries and complexities and paradoxes included. You got that?”

 

Draco closed his eyes and nodded. “Thank you,” he repeated. Harry knew what he meant.

 

“We’d better get home,” Harry told him. “Before Despot Lily exhausts another babysitting option.”

 

“Kiss me first,” Draco demanded. 

 

And so Harry did.

Notes:

CWs: brief Discussion of BDSM and rimming, mentions of childhood abuse/neglect, anxiety

Chapter 30: Albus

Albus

“What the hell is this?” Jamie said, standing over Albus and thrusting a familiar piece of parchment in Albus’ face. 

 

Al raised an unbothered eyebrow. He was seated at one of the heavy, old tables in the library, studying with Scorpius. Well, Scorpius was studying, Albus was thinking, mostly about codes. He’d found a book on them the week prior, read it twice, and then spent all his free time—and, truthfully, a lot of class time as well—devising his own. 

 

Scorpius looked up from his Transfiguration textbook, probably to ensure civility between the brothers.

 

“It’s a secret,” Albus replied coolly. He’d sent the message the day prior by way of the family owl. 

 

Jamie snorted. “Meat Pie delivered it, Al, not exactly a mystery as to where it came from. Also, your cursive is unreadable, by the way.”

 

“It’s in code, obviously,” Al retorted. 

 

“Why would I waste time deciphering a code when I could just ask you what you want?” Jamie demanded. 

 

Jamie was talking too loudly for a library. Al gave a quick scan of the stacks for any skulking eavesdroppers or curious eyes. He found none, which was perhaps a disappointment.  

 

“Sit down, would you?” he hissed. “And be quiet.”

 

For once in his miserable life, Jamie didn’t argue, just slid onto a chair across from Scorpius. He smiled briefly. 

 

“Hey Scor,” he said. 

 

“Hi!” Scorpius replied brightly. 

 

Jamie’s eyes snapped back to Al. 

 

“You really think a cipher copied from a library book is going to be uncrackable?” Jamie sneered.

 

Al didn't know why everyone always assumed he started the disagreements, when Jamie was the one who was constantly so peevish and unpleasant.

 

“It’s not copied!” Scorpius interjected, and Albus felt a flicker of pride, and relief, maybe, that Scorpius was on his side. “Al made it himself!”

 

“Did you really?” Jamie said dubiously, looking down at the odd characters of Scorpius’ own invention scrawled upon the parchment. “What, just each symbol for a letter then, or what?”

 

Al curled his lip. “Not likely,” he said. “Bit more advanced than that.”

 

“If you say so,” Jamie replied. His brow furrowed and he drummed his fingers on the tabletop and he continued to squint at the note, as if by staring hard enough, he could make sense of it. “Well, what does it say then?”

 

Al thought with a vicious pleasure about refusing to answer. With any luck, it would drive Jamie absolutely mad with wonder. Albus pictured his brother tearing at his hair and pleading for answers.

 

“Only that we need a favour,” Scorpius told him, interrupting Al’s fantasies.

 

“Scor!” Al whined. 

 

“We’re working together, remember?” Scorpius told him. 

 

Albus gave an irritated grumble. Scorpius patted his arm. “Come on, Al,” he coaxed.

 

“Look, I didn’t know you had made the cipher yourself,” James allowed. “That actually is kind of neat.”

 

His face was pinched, like the compliment was physically painful to give, but even Albus knew an olive branch when he saw one. 

 

“Thanks,” he muttered. “I could show it to you, I guess. “

 

“It’s really good,” Scorpius asserted. 

 

“I thought we could use it if we wanted to send each other messages about the curse,” Al explained. “Stuff we don’t want anyone else to know.”

 

Jamie nodded. “You never know; it couldn’t hurt. If you tell me what it is, I will see if I can decode the message properly.”

 

Al took the scrap of parchment from Jamie’s hand and flattened it out. He knew he was being placated, but he also wanted to show off, just a little.

 

“Okay, so, it’s a two step thing, part magic, part brains.”

 

He tapped the bit of parchment with his wand. “Assemble!” he spoke firmly and watched, pleased, as his admittedly messy cursive rearranged into new little clumps of still nonsensical letters

 

“Erm, anagrams?” Jamie hazarded. 

 

Al made a sound of disgust. “Anagrams! Hardly. Well, sort of. They are anagrams, but each of the letters is offset by the date and all the vowels are removed.”

 

“What?” Jamie blinked. “Offset?”

 

“Yes!” Albus explained, eager despite himself. “So, today is November, so that is eleven, and it is the seventeenth, so you add one plus one plus one plus seven is ten, but zeroes don’t count, so it is one, but tomorrow it will be two. And then you picture the alphabet, with no vowels, mind, and shift everything by one. So any ‘B’ is a ‘C’ or what have you.”

 

“I’ll have to write that down,” Jamie muttered. 

 

“You can’t write it down!” Al contradicted, scandalised. “Then all anyone needs is the scrap of parchment and all my work is undone!”

 

“Well I can’t really sort that all out by myself if it is a seven or an eight, can I?” Jamie scowled. “I’d at least have to write that bit down.”

 

“Just do it in your head,” Al protested. 

 

Jamie only barely managed to bite back what Al suspected was going to be a nasty retort. 

 

“How about he throws the parchment directly into the fire after reading it?” Scorpius asked, an attempt at reconciliation. 

 

“Fine,” Al said. “If you can’t do it in your head, then at least destroy the evidence.”

 

Jamie gave a long-suffering sigh. “You have my word.”

 

He was on the verge of sulking, Al would bet. Jamie didn’t like to be reminded that Albus was more clever than he was. The sat there staring at each other, waiting to see who would throw the next barb.

 

“It’s certainly involved,” Jamie offered after a minute. “And incredibly secure. I would never have cracked it on my own.”

 

Al was shocked. He couldn’t remember the last time Jamie said something so…nice. He almost made a snarky comment out of habit. Instead he gave a short nod and looked down, feeling, he didn’t know, pleased, maybe, that or just in shock. 

 

“Thanks,” he managed. 

 

Scorpius beamed at them. 

 

“Can I borrow a bit of parchment and a quill, Scor?” Jamie asked. “I’ll give it a go.”

 

Scorpius handed them over and Albus watched as Jamie got to worked, hunched over the parchment and scribbling out the anagrams, and a vowel-less alphabet, carefully counting out the letters until he had finally unscrambled the message:

 

JM W ND T BRRW YR SNKSCP

 

“You need to borrow my sneakoscope?” Jamie muttered dryly. “I thought you said it was a secret.”

 

“The code was the secret,” Al explained. 

 

“But we do need to borrow your sneakoscope, please,” Scorpius continued, closing his book and leaning forward on his elbows conspiratorially. “Or you and your sneakoscope, preferably.”

 

“Why?” Jamie demanded. 

 

“Why do you think?” Al said. “We still ought to investigate the DADA classroom for anything suspicious.”

 

"I can’t just leave Fort and Ri out of this,” Jamie whinged. 

 

“Well, we can’t very well expose Scor’s secret all over again!” Al muttered accusingly.

 

“I’m not saying that, am I? Merlin, Al, give me some credit. I just don’t know what to tell them.”

 

Albus shrugged. “We might not even find anything.”

 

“If we do find something, we’ll tell you,” Scorpius said solemnly. 

 

“And if it comes, you can tell your friends I nicked your sneakoscope. Or you can come with us if you must,” Al forced himself to offer. “If you think you don’t have any secrets to keep. Scor and I haven’t any between us.”

 

“Right,” Jamie replied. He cleared his throat, gaze shifting away. 

 

“So, what will it be?” Albus demanded. 

 

“Saturday,” Jamie answered quickly. “You and Scorpius go. I’m meeting Mum that day, but it’s a Hogsmeade weekend, so most of the prefects won’t be around and the classrooms will be free.”

 

“You don’t want to come with us?” Scorpius enquired and Al didn’t particularly like how disappointed he sounded. They would have a better time without Jamie, anyway. 

 

“It’s too good an opportunity to miss out on,” Jamie decided. “You two go. I trust you.”

 

Scorpius looked altogether a bit too chuffed at this pronouncement, Al thought. 

 

“Saturday’s a good thought,” Al acknowledged. He could be nice, too, if he really tried. 

 

“If you’re sure you don’t want to see Mum,” Jamie added. 

 

Albus narrowed his eyes. “Oh, not you, too. Did Dad put you up to this?”

 

“No!” Jamie objected. “I know you don’t want advice, least of all from me—”

 

“Then have you considered not giving me any?”

 

“I would hate for you to regret—” Jamie tried doggedly.

 

“I’ve nothing to regret,” Al seethed. “She is the one who should have regrets. If I had my way, I’d never think of her again.”

 

“Come on, Al,” Jamie entreated, voice unexpectedly gentle. “You don’t mean that.”

 

“Yes,” Albus replied coldly. “I do.”

 

Jamie glanced awkwardly at Scorpius, who was sitting quietly, simply observing. Albus was getting fed up with this whole business of Mum being back. Part of him wished she’d just stayed away, so he could have gone on forgetting her one memory at a time. Instead, here she was, wanting to kiss and make up like she hadn’t walked out of his life without looking back. 

 

While Dad didn’t push, exactly, he did keep asking, and now Jamie had something to say about it, too. Only Scorpius hadn’t tried to talk him into anything; he trusted Al to know his own mind. 

 

“Just…just think about it,” Jamie urged. “It could be good—”

 

“Jamie,” Scorpius’ voice was quiet, but uncharacteristically firm. “It’s Al’s decision. Please leave him be.”

 

Jamie at least had the decency to look chagrined. 

 

“You’re right. Of course it is. Sorry, Al.” He gave him a sad, searching look, but thankfully changed the subject. “I’ll make sure you get the sneakoscope before I leave with Dad,” Jamie told him. 

 

Albus nodded.

 

“Thanks,” he muttered.

 

“Right, then,” Jamie stood, awkwardly, passing the quill back to Scorpius and pocketing the parchment. “I’ll burn this as soon as I can,” he promised.

Notes:

Thanks for reading!

Chapter 31: Scorpius

Scorpius

 

Scorpius couldn’t help but feel like they were doing something thrilling. Despite his ever-present fatigue, he’d awoken early on Saturday morning. He’d waited restlessly in bed, listening to the rustle of the fabric as Bingham tossed and turned in his sleep, nervous even at rest.

 

“Hey,” Al hissed. Scorpius rolled over, meeting his best friend’s eyes by the light of Bingham’s nightlight. “Ready?”

 

Scorpius nodded. 

 

The two slipped out from under their matching green duvets and dressed quietly, careful not to wake any of their dorm mates. 

 

Scorpius loved Hogwarts early on Saturday mornings. There was no one about, what with most of the student body still asleep, and the professors either home with their families or else busy grading papers in their offices. It was a grey, snowy day, with light gusts blustering about outside the castle windows, but Scorpius liked that, too. He thought the snow was beautiful. Even the cold didn’t bother him, once he was cosied up in Al’s bile-coloured jumper. He made a mental note to remove the hideous thing before the rest of the castle was up and about.

 

Albus had his book bag with him, which Scorpius knew contained the sneakoscope, still bundled up in a pair of Jamie’s woollen socks. 

 

“Do you think we will find something?” Scorpius asked. 

 

“Dunno,” Albus shrugged. “But I hope so!”

 

Another tendril of excitement unfurled in Scorpius’ chest. Scorpius dug his fingernails into his palms, trying to contain himself. What if they, he and Al and Jamie together, were able to do this thing? Find the curse, and destroy it, saving Harry’s position, or maybe even his life. Scorpius swallowed at the magnitude of it all. He’d never felt so important. 

 

“What if we do?” Scorpius pressed. “If we find it, will we burn it? Crush it? Throw it in the lake? Presumably the curse persists so long as the item does, but it must be location specific, mustn’t it? Otherwise why would it be called a locus?”

 

“I suspect we’d have to obliterate it, just to be safe. I don’t want anything bad happening to my dad,” Al determined, sounding rather pleased with the idea of destryong a bit of dark magic. He had a habit of declaring unknowable things with perfect certainty that left Scorpius half exasperated, half admiring.  

 

“I don’t either,” Scorpius assured him. Scorpius didn’t want anything to happen to Harry for countless reasons, he was the saviour of the wizarding world, after all, and Al’s dad, of course, but there were selfish reasons, too, which Scorpius knew he ought to feel guilty about. Only, he wanted more summers like the last, more days at Diagon Alley, more running around in the Potter's large garden, surrounded by Al's loud, unruly family who loved one another even when they were fighting. He wanted more time sleeping in a cot in Albus' room, reading the next volume of Charms and Vigilance with Jamie, humouring Lily by applauding through her endless skits and concerts. He wanted that, and so, he thought, did Father. He could tell how happy Harry made him. Scorpius watched them sometimes, during breakfasts in the Great Hall. Harry speaking animatedly about one thing or another, and Father simply sipping his tea and nodding, comfortable and content. 

 

Scorpius ran a thumb over the little crescents he’d imprinted on his palm and tried not to hope. 

 

/// ///

 

They arrived at the fourth floor classroom; its large windows revealing that the gentle flutter of snow was turning into a proper flurry: large fat flakes carpeting the grounds. Classrooms had only just resumed indoors; Harry seemed to prefer teaching outdoors, where there was space for everyone to practise at once, or where the students could run elaborate conjured obstacle courses. Scorpius was a bit relieved to be back inside, where he didn't have to sit out on many of the activities. 

 

The classroom itself was unremarkable: single desks and chairs, which were typically pushed to the sides of the classroom to make space for demonstrations and introductory duels, which mostly consisted of the second years shouting Expelliarmus at one another. There was a rickety old cabinet in one corner and bookshelves with outdated texts, and of course, the large professor’s desk at the front of the room, painted in Harry’s honour with stylized starbursts exploding from the end of an ornate wooden wand. 

 

Al shut the door behind them. 

 

“Ready?” he grinned, slipping the bag off his shoulder. 

 

Scorpius felt nerves spark behind his solar plexus as he nodded. They were actually doing this. 

 

He and Albus crowded together over one of the smaller, student desks, as the SneakComp-5 was revealed. Albus placed the contraption in the centre of the desk. Together, they held their breath and waited. 

 

Absolutely nothing happened. 

 

Albus glowered. 

 

Scorpius chewed his lip, hating to see his friend disappointed as much as he hated the newfound unease gnawing at his own insides. Maybe they were just two foolish kids wasting a morning in an empty classroom. He glanced around the room again, feeling quite stupid. This was a newer room, rebuilt after the war. The brick stones weren’t as dusty or worn as those in the main halls; the wooden desks weren’t dry and splitting. Perhaps the locus had been burnt to a crisp already, and the short duration of DADA professors truly was simply coincidence, or—

 

“Wait!” Scorpius hissed, “Al! Was this always the DADA classroom?”

 

Al looked up from the sneakoscope and blinked. “Dunno,” he admitted. Then his face brightened at the implication. “You mean that maybe we are looking in the wrong place altogether?”

 

“Yes!” Scorpius nodded emphatically. “Haven’t you read Hogwarts: A Frank and Updated History by Her—Oh, your Aunt Hermione, actually.”

 

Al stood still for a moment, eyes looking skyward as if shifting through a complex filing arrangement in his head. 

 

“No,” he decided. “I can’t say that I have.”

 

“You really ought to,” Scorpius scolded. “It’s excellent.”

 

/// ///

 

The next hour was spent in the library scouring the pages of Hogwarts: A Frank and Updated History (which Doesn’t Gloss over the Nastier Aspects of the School). 

 

“Second floor!” Al determined. “Look here, Aunt Hermione says that the classroom was here—” he stabbed at a page with a finger.

 

In 1996, the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was moved from the second floor to the third floor, as Professor Severus Snape requested a space with blackout curtains in an effort to improve student focus. There, the classroom remained until the Second Wizarding War. 

 

After the war, so as not to remind students of their suffering at the hands of Professor Amycus Carrow, the classroom was again moved to its current (as of this edition) location in the west block of the 4th floor. 

 

Al flipped hastily through pages, until he reached the map labelled Hogwarts, 2nd floor, 1991-1992.

 

It looked innocuous, a small black box with tiny, cursive script reading: D.A.D.A. classroom. It was right there, at the top of a commonly used staircase off the corridor. Scorpius must have walked by the room two hundred times without ever giving any thought to what it might be. 

 

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Al was saying.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“It’s powerful.” Al looked rather too excited about this. Scorpius felt he would rather they were dealing with a weak curse than a strong one. 

 

“What makes you think so?” he asked. 

 

“The cursed object is on the second floor and has been in effect for what, some 60 years and counting? But not a single Professor has lasted in the position for more than a year, even once the classroom was moved two floors away! The magic is potent, it must have an impressive radius of at least two floors, if not the whole castle!”

 

“So we are looking for something small,” Scorpius realised. “That’s what Jamie, said, right? The smaller the object, the stronger the magic?”

 

“Exactly.”

 

/// ///

 

Taking on an air of utmost nonchalance, Al and Scor made their way to the second floor, avoiding the obvious staircase in favour of an impossibly narrow and poorly lit one that they had found during a late night castle reconnaissance mission in first year. It led from the back of a mop cupboard off the Great Hall and popped out behind a sinister tapestry depicting a rook perched on a wrought-iron gate.

 

This end of the second floor was thankfully empty, and, with mounting anticipation, Scorpius and Albus approached the door. 

 

It was a normal door, a matched set to the myriad other classroom doors speckling the hallways. Scorpius chided himself for expecting anything different. He watched Al reach for the doorknob, trying to dismiss the ridiculous fear that Al would be struck with dark magic upon contact. 

 

Al touched the handle. Nothing happened. He turned it. The door swung open silently. With an unvoiced veneration, the two stepped into the room. It was dust-laden and bare, as though a clean sweep had been done of it prior to it being shut up. Grimy windows spread a pale light across the slate floor. Leaving footprints in the thick layer of dust, they stopped at the centre of the room. Al smiled grimly at Scorpius. The moment felt heavy with expectation. It was going to work; it was. Albus took out the sneakoscope, putting it on the floor and taking a step back.

 

It didn’t start to wail directly, but the compass went wild, the golden needle swivelling in place, faster and faster. Scorpius caught himself looking frantically around the room, as if any suspicious object would just jump out at them.  A low pitch hum began, then grew, crescendoing into almost a violent pitch. Scorpius slammed his hands over his ears. Al’s brow was furled and he was looking at the dial spinning on the SneakComp-5.

 

“What does it mean?” Scorpius shouted above the cacophony, watching the arrow spin and spin. 

 

Slowly, Al tilted the device, which continued to scream. Once vertical, however, the arrow came to a sharp, sudden stop, pointing directly downwards. Scorpius and Al stared at each other for a long, shocked moment. Perhaps neither one of them had expected to find anything; perhaps they still hadn’t found anything. The sneakoscope could have gone off for all sorts of reasons. All they knew was that whatever it was, was beneath their feet. 

 

Al shoved the sneakoscope back into the socks to stop its wailing. Scorpius dropped his hands away from his years. 

 

“Wicked,” breathed Al. 

 

/// ///

 

Albus and Scorpius spent the rest of the morning crouching, then crawling, as they systematically reviewed the classroom floor, inch by tedious inch. What had started out filled with adrenaline had faded to monotomy as they traced the edges of each stone with now-filthy fingers to feel for any abnormalities. 

 

“Just our luck and it will be a grain of sand,” Al muttered. 

 

“Better not be,” Scorpius replied, “for I’ve come across roughly one million of those so far, and I wouldn’t have a chance of picking one out from the next.” They only had a few square feet of floor left to examine and Scorpius was giving up hope. “What if it’s hidden in a stone or a support beam?” 

 

“Then we’ll have to find some sort of spell that lets us see through solid objects, or something, I suppose."

 

“Is there such a spell?” Scorpius asked, eyes scanning the latest dark stone before him. It was smooth, polished with decades of students coming and going, practising their spells, and perhaps even meeting in secret. 

 

“If there isn’t, I’ll make one up,” Albus said, ever self-assured. 

 

Scorpius looked up to meet Al’s bright shining eyes and the secret grin that Al mostly kept just between them. Of course he would; Scorpius didn’t doubt that for a second. So long as something held Albus’ interest, his determination was unflagging. This endeavour, Scorpius knew, would remain front of mind until the end. Al only loved a few people in this world, but Harry was one of them, and he would do just about anything to ensure this hex was broken—if it even existed in the first place. 

 

Scorpius smiled back, then went back to work, running fingertips over the slate, on the off chance that something would feel inconsistent. 

 

That was when he felt something. Smooth stone transitioned into something coarse and divoted. Scorpius looked down. At first, he could see no changes to the face of the stone. He used his nail to scrape around the edges of the rough patch which was only an inch or so in diameter. To his surprise, it seemed to loosen. Scorpius scrambled for his wand, using the tip to pry it loose, leaving behind a hollow in the granite face. He held the object in his hand, reverantly. His heart was galloping wildly and he knew, he simply knew, that this was it. He half expected it to singe his hand. Using a corner of his robe, he shammied off the dirt and the grit until he was holding in his hand what appeared to be a shrivelled, blackened peach pit.

 

“Al,” he breathed, scarcely believing it, “I think I’ve found something.” 

Notes:

Thanks for reading and for all your comments.

I hate writing plot, so plotty chapters always take me ages.

Happy you're here!

Chapter 32: Jamie

Jamie

“Ready?” Jamie’s dad asked, forcing cheeriness. He had Lily’s hand in his and was looking at Jamie expectantly while they stood in the parlour at Crabapple Cottage. 

 

Lily’s party dress was an explosion of tropical birds, some of them enchanted to squawk and trill. She was twisting her hips to make it swirl. The birds fluttered their wings with the movement. Lily’s cheer was not forced; she looked as though it were Christmas come early.  

 

It felt like the farthest thing from Christmas to Jamie. He was, he supposed, relieved that at the very least his mother wasn’t dead in a crypt somewhere. Then again, he couldn’t help but feel that would have been the only truly acceptable explanation for her absence.

 

He’d barely slept the night prior. What would she look like, what would she say? Would she apologise? Would he forgive her if she did?

 

Jamie shrugged. 

 

His father studied his face, as if trying to make a decision. 

 

“I’m fine. I’m ready,” Jamie insisted.

 

“You don’t have to do this today,” his dad offered, gently. “It’s alright if—”

 

“I’m doing it,” Jamie interrupted. 

 

His dad’s mouth flattened, the false cheer dropping away, but he nodded. “It’s your choice,” he affirmed.

 

A croaking sound erupted from a toucan on Lily’s sleeve and she giggled. Jamie wanted to snap at her, his nerves were frayed and his temper short, but held himself back. He knew that would only make him feel worse than he already did. 

 

“It’s a good dress, Lils,” he made himself say instead. 

 

Lily beamed. “I picked the one I thought Mum would like best.”

 

The buoyancy of her excitement worried Jamie sick. What if this visit turned out to be a one-off, what if Mum left Lily bereft all over again? “She’ll love it,” he managed. 

 

Dad checked his watch, expression guarded. “I’ll go meet her in a minute or two.”

 

Professor Malfoy appeared in the doorway, with Remy on his hip. He didn’t appear any more at ease with the visit. Only Remy seemed unbothered. He had half of his own fist shoved inside his mouth and was drooling on his sleeper. 

 

“James,” Professor Malfoy said. 

 

“Hey, Professor,” Jamie greeted, trying to pretend it wasn’t completely weird that his professor was basically living with his father. It was weird, though, utterly weird. Jamie didn’t know where to look when they were both around. They mercifully kept a respectful distance, at least when Jamie was there. He didn’t know if he could handle seeing what Scorpius had seen, it was too uncomfortable, too unbelievable. He didn't even want to think about it. As it was, Jamie could almost convince himself that they were just really good friends. 

 

Jamie did have to admit that his father was happier these days, the happiest he had been since Mum left, or even before. Jamie could remember exhaustion that settled over the Eiderdown End after Remy's birth. His mother’s tired, lifeless smile and the uptick in Dad’s impatience, his flashes of anger. Jamie didn’t remember it being like that when Lily was a baby. Those memories seemed much more joyful. Al had been young enough that Jamie had still thought they would be best friends, and Lily had been darling, all smiles and noise.

 

They had been happy for a time, Jamie was sure. He and Al had fought, of course, but Mum had been good at distracting them without taking sides. She had seemed content then, really she had. Then Grandad had died and Remy came so soon after and nothing ever went back to how it was. Now, especially with Professor Malfoy in the picture, Jamie was having to confront that likely it never would.  

 

“Are you alright?” Professor Malfoy asked quietly. His voice was serious; he was always serious. He had none of Dad’s goodnatured jocundity; he was solemn and stern with occasional flashes of dry wit. Jamie didn’t understand how they made sense together, and yet, he knew the professor cared about his father, and Jamie felt cared for, too, albeit in a reserved, non-demonstrative sort of way. It was hard not to contrast Professor Malfoy’s tidy concern with the memory of Mum’s effusive affection. They were very different, and the professor had only been around for a season, while Jamie’s mother had been there for 13 years. Jamie supposed the comparison it wasn’t fair to either of them. 

 

“Yeah,” Jamie said. It was a knee jerk response and hardly honest. “I don’t know,” he amended. “I don’t think I’ll know until I see her.”

 

“That is likely true,” Professor Malfoy acknowledged. 

 

He didn’t say anything more, but he, like Dad, didn’t look away, either. 

 

Jamie had a sudden, unexpected wish that Al was there. He didn’t like all this focus being on him, like he was fragile or unpredictable, a caged animal. 

 

“I’m fine,” he repeated gruffly. 

 

“Right then,” Dad determined. “I’ll go get your mother, let her past the wards.”

 

Jamie wondered what it meant that the wards were still set to keep his mother out.

 

“I want to come!” Lily informed him. 

 

“I know, LiLu,” Dad responded, “but I want a moment alone with your mum first, just a quick word and then we will be right in, I know she is dying to see you.”

 

Jamie couldn’t help but scoff. He dropped onto the sun-bleached sofa in the parlour. 

 

His dad raised a questioning brow. 

 

“If she’d been dying to see us, it wouldn’t have taken her eight months to do so,” Jamie pointed out bitterly.

 

His dad gave him a sad sort of look. “I know, love. You don’t owe her the benefit of the doubt and I’m not going to tell you how to act or what to feel. It is brave of her, though, to at least try to make amends, knowing how unhappy everyone has been made by her actions.”

 

Jamie thought it was a bit rich to call his mum brave after literally running away. Professor Malfoy’s stony expression made it clear he wasn’t buying it either, but he didn’t say anything. Jamie thought he sided with his professor on this one. Then again, if that was the case, why was he even here? Just to say his piece, to unleash all the hurt and anger and never speak to her again? He didn’t know if he would have the resolve.

 

“I want to come with you,” Lily whinged, tugging at their father’s hand. 

 

“We’ll just be two minutes, sweetpea,” Dad insisted. “Why don’t you help Professor Malfoy with the tea?”

 

“I don’t want to help Professor Malfoy with the tea,” Lily argued. “I want to come with you to see Mummy.”

 

“Come along, Lily. The tea won’t brew itself,” Professor Malfoy instructed firmly. He handed Jamie the baby. 

 

Lily begrudgingly followed him as Jamie settled Remy onto his lap. He brushed a hand over the impossible soft orange fluff that was Remy’s hair. It seemed cosmically cruel that Remy looked so much like the mother who walked away from him. Jamie had never cared much about his looks, but he was suddenly grateful that he took after his father.

 

Dad was watching them still. Jamie bounced Remy on his knee and Remy gave a burbling squeal of laughter. 

 

“If you change your mind or things get too intense, you don’t have to stay,” his father told him. “I don’t want you to feel trapped if it all becomes too much.”

 

“I said I’m fine, didn’t I?” Jamie countered irritably. “Get on with it.”

 

His dad nodded and slipped out the front door. Jamie continued to distract himself by entertaining Remy, using a cushion to play peek-a-boo, which Remy seemed to find endlessly diverting, just as Lily had when she was small. 

 

The kettle whistled from the kitchen. Jamie could hear Lily chattering away to Professor Malfoy in the kitchen. There was the sound of metal on porcelain and the scrape of a chair. 

 

Finally, there were footsteps and the twisting of the doorknob and the squeak of hinges. His father entered, and then, his mother. 

 

Jamie didn’t know what to say, where to look. 

 

“Where’s Remy?” he crooned instead, hiding his face behind the cushion. “There he is!” He pulled the pillow down, mugging for his brother. 

 

Remy shrieked with delight, as though he’d not seen this particular trick 15 times in a row already.

 

“Jamie,” Dad said stiffly. “Your mum’s here.”

 

Before Jamie had a chance to think of what to do, Lily burst out of the kitchen like a shot, the aviary on her dress squawking and trilling excitedly at the movement. 

 

“Mummy!” Lily cried out, launching herself across the room. Lily wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck and allowed herself to be scooped up. Once she was distracted, Jamie chanced a look at his mum. Her hair had grown, almost reaching the small of her back. It wasn’t as glossy as it was in his memories, and she didn’t seem as tall as Jamie remembered. He realised with a shock that he might have surpassed her in height. She looked tired, but Jamie couldn’t think why. Hadn’t she just been relaxing for the better part of a year?

 

“Hello, LiLu,” Mum said, her arms sweeping around Lily. She swayed in place. Lily was not small any more, but Mum wasn’t letting go. Jamie watched as she brought one hand up to stroke Lily’s long hair. 

 

“Do you like my new dress?” Lily demanded. 

 

“Like it? I love it! Look at all the colours, all the birds!” Mum told her. 

 

“Professor Malfoy found it at Gladrags and brought it home especially for me,” Lily explained. 

 

“Well, that was very thoughtful of Professor Malfoy, wasn’t it?” Mum’s voice was strained.

 

“I want to show you my room,” Lily announced. “I’ve got so many new stuffed toys that you’ve never even met or might have forgotten. And Uncle George just sent me a mountain of sweets. Only Daddy makes me keep those in the kitchen, but he’ll probably let me have some since you’re here.”

 

“I’d love to see your room and all your things,” their mum said solemnly. “Just give me a moment to see your brothers.”

 

She gently set Lily on the ground and stepped fully into the parlour. Lily stayed close.

 

“Hello, Jamie, love,” Ginny murmured. 

 

Jamie wanted to go to her. He wanted to be encircled in her arms and held like a little kid. For a moment, he almost stood, almost hugged her. He only glanced back down at Remy. Remy, a perfect happy baby,  who’d done nothing wrong. 

 

“It’s James, now,” he said coldly. 

 

It wasn’t. Jamie was used to being Jamie; he felt like a Jamie. Professor Malfoy was the only one who called him James, and when he did it, it made Jamie feel mature and capable, but this was different. This was a punishment. His mother didn’t deserve to call him anything so fond, not any more. He wanted to take something away from her. 

 

“Oh!” she replied. She smiled, sort of, but it somehow didn't look like a smile. “James, then. How are you?”

 

The question felt absurd. It had no answer, not a cogent one, at least. How he was shifted from moment to moment and the majority of moments since his mother had left had ranged from vaguely tolerable to wholly terrible. The devastation of finding out she had gone, the numb realisation that she might never come back. The furious hatred, the swirling grief, the flat new normal, and the hope, the bloody fucking hope. 

 

She didn’t have a right to any of that. 

 

“Fine,” he said instead. It was more grunt than word.  

 

His mother waited a moment to see if he would elaborate. He didn’t give her the satisfaction.

 

“How’s school?” she tried again.

 

“Good.”

 

“Ah, I’m glad to hear it,” she smiled more forcefully, but it didn’t make her look happy. “Fourth year now! What classes did you decide upon? How are they?”

 

“Everything’s fine, Mum,” Jamie muttered. He bit back the 'not that you care,' but only just. 

 

“Here, I can hold Remy,” she offered. “You’re so good with him.” Remy was gumming at the sleeve of Jamie’s jumper, soaking it with drool, his new front teeth snagging at the weave.

 

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got him,” Jamie told her, drawing away. He felt a sudden impulse to protect his baby brother. Not that he thought his mum was dangerous or even that her intentions were suspect, he just didn’t want Remy to be held by someone who was only going to hand him back and walk out the door. 

 

Jamie’s father stepped further into the room. 

 

“Why don’t you tell Mum about your Quidditch success the other day, love?” he suggested.

 

Jamie shrugged. “You kind of had to be there.”

 

Mum’s lips twisted into something despairing. “Jamie—James,” she began. “I understand you’re angry, I really do. I’m angry with myself—”

 

She was talking, but the words weren’t coming through. Jamie felt pins and needles buzzing in his fingertips and creeping up his hands. There was a roar like stormy seas in his ears and the cold November sunlight suddenly felt too bright. 

 

He rose awkwardly, shoving Remy towards his father, who took him quickly, and made for the door. 

 

“I can’t be here right now,” he muttered. “Sorry. I thought I could but I can’t.”

 

“It’s alright,” Dad was saying, stepping in, but Jamie shouldered past him, yanking on his boots, just as Professor Malfoy appeared from the kitchen with a tea tray. 

 

Jamie snatched a cloak off a hook, he wasn’t even sure if it was his, but he didn’t care. He pulled it around his shoulders and escaped out the front door, letting the frigid air fill his lungs. He stalked past the absurd hedge of his father waving from the garden and down Greengrocer Lane, ice crunching underfoot.

Notes:

Thanks for reading and for all the wonderful comments, my true life's blood.

The chapters are shorter these days, but time is scarce and I like to get something posted when I can.

Hope you enjoyed <3

Chapter 33: Draco

Draco

 

 

Harry stood stunned, wearing that agonisingly familiar and terribly lost expression that Draco hadn’t seen for a few months now. That the Weasley woman could take Harry back to that miserable place so easily incensed Draco, but for Harry’s sake, he refrained from an outburst. 

 

Lily was tugging doggedly at her mother’s wrist, her little face screwed up with the earnest impatience of childhood. Draco remembered the magnitude of that feeling: attempting to be on his best behaviour as his father, refusing to excuse him, entertained whichever Death Eater happened to be visiting the Manor. The urge to fidget, yawn, or itch was never as strong as in those moments and sometimes Draco had slipped, all the whilst knowing he’d pay for such impudence later. He was grateful that Lily wasn’t forced to smother her impulses to such a degree.

 

“I’ll go,” Draco decided when he saw James trudge determinedly past the garden window and towards the street. Honestly, Draco was glad for the excuse to leave before he said or did anything he might regret—not that he would regret tearing into the woman, but he would regret further upsetting Harry. 

 

“Are you sure?” Harry asked searchingly, as Remy wriggled in his arms. Ginny was watching them carefully. Lily made a frustrated, whining noise in the back of her throat. 

 

Draco loathed this. He despised the woman for Harry’s devastating uncertainty and Lily’s neediness, desperate for proof that she was, in fact, loved. Draco, in a moment of sheer bloody-mindedness, vowed then and there he would never make them doubt, not any of them. 

 

“Yes,” he confirmed. It took effort to maintain a neutral tone. “You three stay here, have some tea and a visit. I’ll check in on James.”

 

“He might lash out,” Harry warned, clearly conflicted. 

 

“Then he lashes out,” Draco replied. “It is nothing I can’t handle, I assure you.”

 

“Sometimes, it helps if you—” Ginny began, voice low and cautious.

 

“I assure you, I don’t need advice,” Draco interrupted, cuttingly. “James is not the same boy you left behind.”

 

Harry dug the heel of his free hand into one brow, just below his scar. “Draco…” he murmured plaintively. 

 

“Apologies,” Draco capitulated, only out of care for Harry. Tempestuously, he stepped in and took Harry’s face in one palm. It was reckless: possessive and frankly beneath him, but he did it anyway.  Harry’s eyes belied the stress and the strain of the situation. Draco could feel the Weasley’s woman’s gaze on them. “I’ll be home soon,” Draco told him, selecting his words with precision. “There’s tonic for your head in the ensuite cabinet.”

 

“Thanks,” Harry said. “We’ll be fine here.”

 

“Hm,” Draco acknowledged. He leant in and deliberately pressed a brief kiss to Harry’s cheekbone, then another to the top of Remy’s head. The actions were not subtle, nor did Draco intend for them to be. 

 

Harry closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. “Get on, then.”

 

/// ///

 

James had not made it far. A biting wind had picked up, and Draco could see the boy, shoulders hunched, cloak wrapped tightly around him as he trekked along. It was Draco’s cloak, James had grabbed it in his haste, and it was too big on him, just as Harry’s cloak currently dwarfed Draco.

 

Draco caught up to James easily enough. He didn’t say anything as he matched his strides to Harry’s eldest son. 

 

“Dad, I—” James began, then stopped short as he turned his head and realised his mistake. “Oh. Professor.”

 

“Given the circumstances, James,” Draco offered, neatly rolling up his sleeves, “you perhaps ought to call me Draco when we’re not at school.”

 

James swallowed and nodded noncommittally, stuffing his hands deeper into the pockets of Draco’s cloak. 

 

“I took your cloak, didn’t I,” James remarked, embarrassed. 

 

“It’s no matter,” Draco replied. 

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Don’t mention it.”

 

They walked in silence down the blessedly quiet Greengrocer Lane. The cold was at least good for a bit of solitude.

 

“Are you going to try and convince me to go back and make nice?” James asked at last. His cheeks were pink and his tone was surly and he reminded Draco painfully of Harry at that age.

 

“Not at all.”

 

James seemed to accept that. He continued to march along, turning onto Trifle Way. They passed the fork to High Street, avoiding locals doing their weekend shopping, and trod along until they stood at the edge of the frozen duck pond. 

 

“If you're not trying to talk me into anything, then, and no offence, Professor, what are you doing here?”

 

Draco shifted his weight, feeling the cold find a home in his toes and his ears. 

 

“I was going to ask if you were alright, but I believe you’ve been bombarded with that question a few too many times today as it is.”

 

James huffed in agreement. 

 

“I don’t suspect anyone in your position would be alright,” Draco observed. 

 

“Lily seems fine,” James pointed out. He scuffed the front of his boot on the ice and squinted out over the barren pond. 

 

“Lily is at an ingenuous age,” Draco said, “which I think you know.”

 

James made a noise of assent. 

 

“How did Scorpius handle it?” he asked tentatively. “When his mum left?”

 

Draco paused to consider. He watched a waxwing light upon a bare rowan branch. Scorpius’ moods were less evident than those of any of the Potter children. Even Draco, who knew Scorpius best, had only limited insight into Scorpius’ true feelings. His son had taken his mother’s leaving in stride. If anything, he’d seemed more settled without her. If Scorpius was deeply affected by the loss, Draco hadn't known about it. 

 

“I don’t think it will be helpful for you to juxtapose your situation with his,” Draco said as gently as he could. “There never really were any good years with Scorpius’ mother. She struggled even at her most stable, and the lack of predictability was hard on Scorpius. I wouldn’t presume to know exactly his thoughts on the matter, but I think her absence was a relief to both of us. I’m quite aware that that was not the case with your mother.”

 

James was silent for a long moment, and Draco wondered painfully if he’d said too much, or the wrong thing. When James did speak, his voice was tenuous and so low it was nearly lost to the wind.

 

“I'm so bloody angry with her, but...she was a good mum. She—” James cut himself off with a clearing of his throat that Draco suspected was to cover up a cracking voice. 

 

“She was,” Draco agreed. 

 

“I want to believe she could be a good mum again,” Jamie all but whispered. 

 

“I would like that very much also, for your sake,” Draco told him. 

 

James wrapped his arms around his body. His breath left miniature puffs of cloud in the air. “You would?” he questioned dubiously. “But what about—”

 

“Just because your father and I are involved, doesn’t mean that I would want any of you left motherless,” Draco clarified. "I'm exceedingly sorry if I ever gave you that impression."

 

James seemed to grapple with that, a flicker of confusion on his features. “You didn't, not really. I just thought, like, aren’t you, I mean, wouldn't you...if they…”

 

The hope lingered for a parental reunion lingered, Draco could see. He supposed that was natural. 

 

“Neither of your parents see reconciliation of their marriage as an option, insofar as I know, James,” Draco explained softly. “I accept that that is not necessarily what you want to hear, and I’m certainly aware that it would be simpler to assume that I was the only obstacle, but I assure you that I am but a small piece of the puzzle.”

 

“That’s what Dad said,” James admitted, “I just didn’t really believe it, I guess.”

 

“Entirely understandable.”

 

James nodded again. He was clearly contemplating this new information. 

 

“I sort of figured you hated Mum,” Jamie divulged. “Like, I can tell you don’t think well of her.”

 

“My feelings on the matter are rather more Gordian than that, but I don’t hate her, no.” 

 

“Well, you don’t like her, either.”

 

“I haven’t cause to like her,” Draco allowed. “I’ve seen only the detritus left by her actions. I’ve none of the good memories which remain with you and your family. My liking or not liking her is entirely immaterial, however, and I hope you can appreciate that. My only objective in this is facilitating the happiness of your father, which is largely dependent on the happiness of you and your siblings. Am I worried that your mother will once again become overwhelmed and flee? Yes, of course I am, I’m sick at the thought of it, of what it would mean for your father, for you and Albus and Lily and Remy. I want to protect you from it, and truthfully, my impulse is to shield you from rebuilding that connection. I am, thankfully, aware that that impulse is neither rational nor helpful, and so I must instead do something to which I’m poorly suited: hope for the best.”

 

James looked mildly astonished at the outpouring. The waxwing took to the air and the his eyes were drawn to the movement. James chewed his lip. 

 

“So you think I should see her,” he summarised. 

 

“You misunderstand me,” Draco amended. “I think my opinion should not matter here whatsoever. I think this is a decision that can only be made by you. I do know this, though, James. No matter your choice, your father will support you on your path, as will I, whatever that may look like.”

 

James finally tore his gaze from the sky and met Draco’s. It was still anguished and unsure, and Draco suspected he would not be the one to solve that. 

 

“I want to see her,” James said. “Only, I’m not sure I want to get into everything, you know? I don’t want her explanations and apologies or to talk about my feelings and to make her cry, which I know she’ll do. At least not yet. For now, I just want to, I don’t know, be around her? To drink tea and play Exploding Snap like we used to, and pretend as though the last year simply didn’t happen. Do you think I could do that, instead?”

 

“I think that is a very sage compromise for the time being.”

 

“Okay," James exhaled. "Okay. Thanks."

 

“You’re very welcome. Sometimes it helps to say things aloud. It’s cold. Shall we return?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess.” Jamie turned back towards Trifle Avenue and began to walk. “Hey Professor? I mean, ah, Draco?”

 

“Yes, James?”

 

“I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you. At school, I mean. I know I’ve not been showing up to help like I said I would.”

 

Draco had been wondering if that was something they were ever going to discuss. He was impressed that James took the initiative to bring the subject up unprompted.

 

“It is understandable given our unusual situation,” he granted. “You are under no obligation to continue. I am certainly conscious that your father and I ought to have conducted ourselves better and not kept a secret from you, Scorpius, and Albus for so long.”

 

“It was a bit of a shock,” James confessed. “Still is, I think. Can I think about things for a while longer?”

 

“Of course. I'll consider the position filled until I am informed otherwise.”

 

“Thanks,” Jamie said again. They wound their way back to the narrow lane and Crabapple Cottage. The obnoxious Harry-shaped hedge winked at them behind its giant iron wrought glasses. 

 

“I hate that thing,” James groused.

 

“That makes two of us.”

Chapter 34: Harry

“And what if Honey Dazzle really wants to come to Maple Sunshine’s birthday party,” Lily was expositing over her array of little porcelain unicorns. She set a little tawny one in front of Harry. Remy, seated in Harry’s lap, reached for it with one pudgy fist. Harry shifted the toy out of reach. “Dad, you’re going to be Honey Dazzle, and you have to be really really sad.”

 

“Oh boy, I sure wish I could go to Maple Sunshine’s birthday party,” Harry said gamely. His headache subsided, he was trying now to throw himself into the make-believe instead of dwelling on the awkwardness of the current situation: crammed elbow to elbow with Ginny in Lily's unkempt room.

 

Lily gave him a look which suggested his acting skills weren’t up to snuff. 

 

“Mum, you’re Acorn Twinkle. You’re Maple Sunshine’s best friend. I’m playing Maple Sunshine,” Lily dictated, as though there was ever any doubt as to whom the protagonist of this story was going to be. “You just listen to me and tell me how great my party is going to be.”

 

Harry heard the click of the front door and the stomp of snowy boots in the entrance.

 

“Maple Sunshine’s party might have to be postponed, sweet pea,” Harry warned. “I don’t think you’ll have much luck convincing Jamie to play the role of Cinnamon Cupcake.”

 

“Professor Malfoy will,” Lily argued, unperturbed. “Who cares if Jamie won’t, he never wants to do anything I want to do, anyway.”

 

The statement was one of pure fabrication. Jamie, out of all of Lily’s siblings, was most forbearing when it came to her flights of imagination. 

 

“I know it feels that way, love, but this is Jamie’s only day to see Mum. You’re at home still, so it will be easier for you to have more visits,” Harry explained. He met Ginny’s eyes questioningly and she gave a confirmatory nod. That was a relief, at least. Harry wasn’t sure he could witness Lily’s heart break a second time. 

 

“I don’t care!” Lily exploded, standing up, the birds on her skirt flapping and warbling. “I want to play unicorns!”

 

“Soon,” Ginny said suddenly. “I’ll can come back later this week, if that’s okay with your dad, and we can play unicorns as long as you want.” Ginny returned Harry’s meaningful glance. It was his turn to nod his agreement. 

 

Lily’s eyes narrowed as though she was getting a raw deal. “I want Daddy and Professor Malfoy to play, too.”

 

“That will be up to them,” Ginny told her. “I can’t make promises for other people.”

 

“Daddy…” Lily began.

 

“We’ll talk about it later,” Harry said firmly. 

 

“What does that mean?” Lily whinged. 

 

“That we are not discussing it now,” Harry replied. 

 

Lily made a noise of protest, clearly ready to die on this hill, but just then, Draco and Jamie arrived in the doorway to her bedroom. Harry was relieved to see Jamie looking significantly less distressed. Draco’s expression remained stony, his shoulders square. This wasn’t easy. 

 

“Do you want to play unicorns?” Lily solicited in a last ditch attempt to get her way.

 

“Erm,” Jamie replied. 

 

“Nice try, LiLu,” Harry laughed, grudgingly impressed with his daughter’s tenacity. “Let’s find something everyone can enjoy.”

 

/// ///

 

As Harry suspected, Lily’s attention was easily diverted by Bog King. It was a board game of Weasley Wizarding Wheezes’ creation, with plenty of foul auditory and olfactory offerings. Lily shrieked with delight as Jamie’s little wooden piece was sucked into a swampy square and spat out in a miniature geyser, sending him back to the start. The flock on Lily’s dress echoed her enthusiasm.

 

“Hold on, now, Lils, that’s not fair!" James groused, his competitive spirit already roused. 

 

Harry abstained from the game under the guise of supplying snacks. Draco had taken over Remy duty and stepped into the drawing room. Harry supposed it was an improvement to the tense silence and barely concealed glowering that had been occupying the last thirty minutes. 

 

“You’re done for now, Mummy!” Lily crowed as the game made a frankly lewd slurping sound. 

 

Jamie chuckled at Ginny’s playing piece straining against bog vines. 

 

“Damn this game,” Ginny muttered, but her eyes were light and Harry felt for a disorienting second that things could be as they were before. The thought was scratchy and abrasive like a too-tight sweater. He twitched involuntarily, shaking off the whole idea. 

 

Harry placed a fresh teapot near Ginny’s elbow just as Draco re-appeared in the kitchen with a drowsy Remy in his arms. 

 

“Thanks, love,” Ginny said. 

 

It was clearly just a slip of the tongue, a habit formed over their years together. Nevertheless, everyone froze. Jamie was staring intently at Harry, as if trying to decipher some secret meaning there. Lily’s expression was one of hopeful confusion. Draco was a thundercloud. 

 

The moment stretched for an agonized eternity. For a mad minute, Harry considered Apparating to the middle of a forest where no one would ever find him. 

 

Ginny cleared her throat. “Sorry. I mean, Harry. Thanks, Harry.”

 

“Of course,” Harry said with an artificial lightness. “I’ll, ah, leave you all to it.”

 

It was cowardly, he supposed, deserting Ginny to field their children’s questions, but that was all Harry had done for months now, and she deserved a turn, for fuck’s sake. 

 

Harry escaped to the bedroom, where he sat, winded as though he’d tried to run a marathon rather than having strode the few steps down the corridor. He set his elbows into his knees, interlocking his fingers behind his neck. 

 

“Want company?” Draco asked, closing the bedroom door behind him softly. Harry looked up. Draco must have put Remy down for his nap, he registered.

 

“Yes,” Harry said plainly. “Not sure I’m fit for any, though.”

 

Draco shook his head dismissively and sat beside Harry on the bed. Harry was grateful for the warmth and solidity of Draco’s shoulder against his, even if he did find himself rather at a loss for words. He couldn’t decide how or what he was feeling, and his body seemed to be shutting down in response. 

 

Draco didn’t seem to mind. 

 

“I love you,” Harry heard himself say through the encroaching numbness. 

 

Draco nodded. 

 

“You don’t—you shouldn’t have to be here for this,” Harry managed, struggling to string the sentence together.

 

“I’m aware.” 

 

Harry swallowed. “This is hell,” he admitted. “I’m in hell watching her with them and I’m in hell knowing this is fucking hell for you, too.”

 

“It is,” Draco agreed. His honesty was painful and consoling all at once. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Harry breathed. 

 

Draco shrugged stiffly. 

 

Harry let the misery drape over them like snowfall, cold and heavy. He didn’t know how to do this right, couldn’t identify the best path forward. Draco was wooden and distant beside him and Harry loathed it. He cast about for something comforting to say, but the well was dry.

 

“You looked like a family,” Draco admitted suddenly, his voice tight. “Obviously. It was foolish of me to expect otherwise.”

 

Harry’s chest ached. “Draco,” he murmured.

 

Draco shifted, creating a small gap between their shoulders. He was staring straight ahead, and for a uncertain moment Harry thought he might bolt. 

 

Without thinking, Harry loosed his magic, letting it encase Draco’s wrist, his forearm, tugging him gently. Draco turned his head, ice grey eyes desolate. Harry’s mouth was dry and he was bloody terrified he’d hit the limit of what Draco was willing to endure when it came to the perpetual disaster that was Harry’s life.

 

“You’re my family,” Harry corrected, incredulous that Draco somehow didn't already know this to be true. “Obviously.” 

 

Draco closed his eyes at the reassurance and let his forehead drop to Harry’s chest. He didn't protest when Harry traced his palm along the path of his magic, until their fingers were linked. He was so fiercely self-sufficient that Harry forgot sometimes the depth of the fear Draco hid from him, and likely even from himself. He needed constancy. Harry could give him that. 

 

Harry kissed his head. “This is shit,” he acknowledged.

 

“Hrm,” Draco concurred. 

 

“Should we go back out there and pretend somehow that it isn’t shit? For the kids?”

 

“For the kids,” Draco allowed, straightening. “I’ll be civil. But you daren’t ask me to be pleasant, Potter, are we clear?”

 

He rose gracefully and pulled Harry to his feet.

 

Harry gave him a wry smile. 

 

“Sweetheart, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

/// ///

 

That night, with the dishes done, and Lily having finally cried herself to sleep, Harry watched as Draco settled himself down in the drawing room with a book. Harry marveled that the other man had any extant cognitive capacity. He collapsed beside him, letting his legs fall over the arm of the settee and his head drop to Draco’s lap. He was pleased when Draco’s free hand came to rest in his hair. 

 

Despite Lily’s pleading, Harry hadn’t invited Ginny to stay for dinner, and so Ginny had hugged the kids and promised to come back soon, retreating with a forced smile and eyes full of sorrow.

 

The evening had been grueling. Lily had been unsurprisingly inconsolable, and Jamie had retreated within himself, flying back to Hogwarts before eating, giving only gruff, muttered excuses. Harry tried to tell himself that this was all to be expected. 

 

Only Remy remained content, belly down on the rug in the drawing room, back lit by a warm fire in the hearth. He pushed his chest up off the floor with two stocky arms.

 

Nine hells, Harry loved him. 

 

“Buh!” Remy said. 

 

“Buh,” Harry agreed. 

Notes:

Thanks so much for your patience and for reading! <3

Chapter 35: Jamie

Notes:

No CW, I don't think, except teen angst!

Jamie

 

 

Jamie scarcely remembered the flight back to Hogwarts. His head was a scramble of memories—his mum, young and warm and bright and loving—colliding with the reality of the tentative, withdrawn, and sombre woman with whom he had spent the day. She was still Mum, of course, Jamie knew that. It was her hair, her clothes, her smell, her tone of voice and the way she stood. None of that had changed, really. He’d almost let her hug him. He’d wanted it, only he couldn’t forget the aching anger which was bad enough to steal his breath some days, and how it was It was her fault, even if he'd spent months blaming Dad. It was her fault that Remy barely knew his mum, that Lily had cried probably five times that day, and that the hours at Crabapple Cottage were spent in stilted, unnatural cheer. Mum was back, and yet she remained very far away. 

 

The grass beneath Jamie’s feet very nearly took him by surprise. Muscle memory had steered him true; he hoisted his Nimbus over one shoulder, wanting nothing more than to slip through the common room unassailed, and head off to bed. 

 

“Jamie!” someone shouted from the east wing doorway, as if to prove that his plans were continuously dashed.

 

He sighed deeply, wondering if he could get away with pretending he didn’t hear whoever it was disturbing the quiet of the evening. 

 

He hunched his shoulders and skulked another few steps, not giving into his impulse to look up. 

 

“Jamie!” the voice called again—Al, he decided. Albus’ persistence was one of the most disagreeable things about him, Jamie decided tempestuously. 

 

“Jamie!” Another voice this time, and one that made James stop despite his peevish intentions. Scorpius. Jamie swallowed and glanced towards the doorway and startled. There weren't two figures, but four. Squinting, Jamie made out Fort’s height and Boone’s slight figure standing behind the two second years. They’d found something, Jamie knew at once, and a thrill of excitement coursed through him, despite his foul mood. They’d definitely found something, but what?

 

/// ///

 

“It’s a peach pit,” Jamie said dubiously. 

 

Al had refused to say anything until they’d all reached The Alcove, and Scorpius, Fort, and Ri had joined this pact, moving quickly through the hallways with an air of urgent secrecy—refusing to give Jamie even a clue of what they had discovered. Jamie had to admit it gave the revelation a sense of grave import, but he couldn’t help but feel underwhelmed when Al had unfurled a wrinkled hanky on the precarious little table. 

 

“It’s cursed,” Scorpius breathed, his hushed voice honest and unwavering.

 

Jamie pried his gaze away, first to Fort, who only shrugged, and then to Boone. To his surprise, instead of aloof disinterest, Ri wore an expression of rapt fascination. Jamie didn’t think he’d ever seen Ri this intently curious about anything. That sealed it. If Ri, the cleverest of them all, was convinced, then Jamie was too. 

 

“What makes you think so?” Jamie asked. 

 

“First, the SneakComp-5, it sounded the alarm and helped us locate it,” Al responded immediately. “Then, just the feel of the thing. Touch it, you can sense the dark magic somehow—”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“See for yourself, Potter,” Fort urged, shoving his shoulder from where she stood behind the old striped settee. 

 

Jamie found he didn’t want to. The thing looked innocuous enough, dusty and desiccated, but hardly dangerous, and yet he had a natural revulsion to the very idea. He was hardly about to be outdone by his younger brother, though, and so with a confidence he didn’t feel, Jamie reached out and clasped the pit in his hand. 

 

Nothing happened. There was no pain, no movement, no uncanny heat or any hint that something was amiss, and yet the reptile part of his brain rebelled, determined to keep him safe. Without his say so, his fingers extended, dropping the thing back onto the scrap of cloth. 

 

“Are you alright?” Scorpius asked, concerned. 

 

“What is it?” Ri demanded, simultaneously.

 

“Fine, it’s nothing,” Jamie replied, wiping his hand thoroughly on his cloak. “Feels like a peach pit. A dirty one.”

 

“You didn’t feel anything?” Ri pressed. 

 

“No,” Jamie admitted. “I just didn’t like it. Why, did you feel something?”

 

“None of us did,” Ri told him. “Mild unease, only, and that could simply be psychological. If we found this out of context, I don’t know if we would feel the same.”

 

“Whatever it is, it can’t be destroyed,” Fort said eagerly, as though attempting to destroy things was a jolly good time. “We’ve already tried burning it, crushing it, slicing it, nothing.”

 

Jamie felt a pang of something. It was envy, maybe, the feeling of being left out and forgotten. 

 

“Sorry, Jamie,” Scorpius said quietly. “We probably should have waited.”

 

“Waited for what?” Ri and Al demanded in unison. 

 

“Waited for Jamie, before we set out trying to do away with it,” Fort pointed out, sounding a little ashamed. Jamie was grateful that at least some of his friends weren’t completely selfish. 

 

“Oh,” said Ri. “Yes. Right.”

 

It wasn’t an apology, exactly, but it was an acknowledgement, and with Ri that could sometimes be as close as one got. 

 

“Only, we wanted to know,” Ri continued, as if that were ample explanation.

 

Fort groaned. “It had been sitting there for sixty-odd years, Ri. We could have waited another couple of hours. Jamie’s right, it was shit of us to do it without him.”

 

“Well, he’s welcome to try again,” Ri pointed out. “It was hardly exciting watching absolutely nothing happen.”

 

“It’s fine,” Jamie said, but he knew he sounded surly.

 

“I tried to tell them,” Scorpius urged. Somehow, that helped, and Jamie felt himself soften towards them all. He knew Ri well enough to know the Ravenclaw could not leave an intellectual challenge well enough alone, and honestly Albus was the same—bloody-minded to the point of obsessive whenever his interest lit upon a new hobby. 

 

“Really, it’s alright,” Jamie capitulated. He considered other ways to remove the curse. “I don’t suppose anyone’s tried Finite Incantatem?”

 

“Oh,” Al said. “Yeah, I guess we didn’t really think of that.”

 

Ri shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt. Be our guest.”

 

Jamie rolled up his sleeves and pointed his wand resolutely at the pit. 

 

“Finite Incantatem!” he uttered, clearly and firmly. 

 

The spindliest leg of the table gave way, and the whole thing clattered to the ground, the pit rolling a few feet over the stone floor. 

 

Fortitude snorted. “Guess my Reparo needs work. You’d better do it this time, Boone.”

 

“Something you ought to have asked to begin with,” Ri sniffed, piecing the fragments back together with a tidy little spell that left the table far sturdier. 

 

“But how do we know if it worked?” Al demanded. “On the pit, I mean?” He had rescued the thing, and clearly didn’t have the same reservations as Jamie about handling it, holding it outstretched on his palm. “It doesn’t really feel any different.”

 

“You oughtn’t touch it,” Jamie scolded. 

 

“Why?” Al argued. 

 

Jamie found he didn’t know, only he didn’t like the sight of it in Albus’ bare hand. “Dark magic,” he muttered. 

 

“Yeah, but it’s awfully particular dark magic,” Al shrugged. “All I have to do is decide not to become a DADA professor and it won’t do anything to me.”

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

“Hundreds of students probably have stepped right on it,” Al protested. “It was just in a crack on the floor. So far as we know, nothing terrible happened to any of them.”

 

“Would be hard to say for sure if it had,” Boone ventured. “Your brother’s probably right. Best not to touch it, just in case.”

 

To Jamie’s irritation, Al didn’t even try to argue with Ri the way he always did with Jamie, instead dropping the blasted pit back on the handkerchief. 

 

“What do we do with it?” Scorpius asked. 

 

Jamie looked at Boone. 

 

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Boone admitted. “I honestly didn’t think we’d get this far.”

 

A gentle trill interrupted their brainstorming. Scorpius discreetly checked the watch in his pocket, silencing the alarm. Jamie knew it was time for his potion. 

 

“I have to go,” Scorpius remarked. 

 

“Why?” asked Ri.

 

“None of your business,” Albus countered mulishly. So much for subtlety. Boone’s interest would definitely be piqued now. Jamie didn’t like keeping secrets from his friends, but he hated the idea of Scorpius coming to harm even more. It wasn't that he mistrusted Fort and Ri, on the contrary, but he also knew the more people that knew a secret, the harder it was to keep. He had promised his dad and Professor Malfoy never to say a word, and it was a promise he intended to uphold.

 

“I’ll walk you,” Jamie said automatically. 

 

“Something wrong with Malfoy’s legs, James?” Ri enquired, tidy, sandy-brown eyebrows arched. Jamie felt himself blush hotly.

 

“Shut up, Boone,” Al said. 

 

"Leave it, Ri," Fort sighed. "They obviously don't want to talk about it. People keep things to themselves for a reason." Jamie shot his friend a grateful look. He hoped it expressed that he would tell them if he possibly could. 

 

Ri only appeared amused. “Very well. Fort and I will head to the library to do some research. Well, I will do research. Fortitude will likely doodle unflattering sketches of our professors and whinge about being bored.”

 

Fort flashed him a big, white smile. “You love it.”

 

“I most decidedly do not.”

 

But Jamie thought he probably did. 

 

“Potter, are you joining us?” Ri asked, and Jamie realised he was addressing Al and not him. It was odd he hadn’t encountered this mix-up before, but then again, he and Al never really spent time together outside of family events. 

 

“Oh, um,” Al looked split between his new fixation and his unwavering loyalty to Scor. He settled on the latter. “You two go ahead, we’ll meet you there in a bit.”

 

Jamie privately wished he could convince his brother to go with his friends, so he could get some time alone with Scorpius. Time alone to do what, he didn’t know, just to be together, to talk, to say things he wasn’t sure he could was comfortable saying in front of Albus, who could be so careless with Jamie's feelings. 

 

“Let’s go,” Al said. 

 

/// ///

 

As the three of them headed towards Professor Malfoy's office, Albus recited what sounded like an entire chapter of A Complicated Compendium of Theoretical and Actual Curses. Merlin, Jamie thought, he could go on. He was again reminded of Boone. He was surprised that he never noticed the similarities between his brother and his friend before, but now that he had seem them together, fixed upon a common interest, it was obvious. Ri and Al both preferred a small number of close friends (Al seemed perfectly content with only a single friend), and both were clever and curious. So why was Ri one of Jamie’s very best friends, when Al could barely tolerate him?

 

There were differences, too, Jamie supposed. Ri cared a lot more about academic success and good behaviour, which Jamie assumed came with being a Ravenclaw, whereas Albus’ fascinations seemed utterly random and he scarcely cared what any of their professors thought of him. Ri also tended towards sarcasm where Al was more oblivious than anything. Protectiveness towards Scorpius aside, Jamie wondered if Al and Ri would become friendly with one another. 

 

Jamie didn’t know how to feel about the idea. He anticipated jealousy, but to his surprise, he thought it might be rather nice if they did. If Al and Scor could integrate into Jamie’s friendship with Fort and Ri, well, maybe Al would start to like Jamie more just by association. 

 

“How was your visit with your mum, Jamie?” Scorpius asked when Albus paused for air. 

 

Al’s face soured, but he didn’t interject. 

 

“It was fine, yeah,” Jamie muttered. “Thanks”

 

“What did you do?” Scorpius pushed gently. 

 

Jamie found he did want to talk about it, only he felt uncomfortable in front of Al, afraid of some blunt, obnoxious retort, but whatever, Jamie decided. Scor was his friend, too, and he was asking. 

 

“Not a lot. Just had tea, played Bog King.”

 

“What’s that?” Al asked. 

 

Jamie turned to his brother, confused. “Bog King. You know, Uncle George's game, the one Mum got for you for your birthday the year before she left? You were obsessed with it, you and mum played it together every night for a fortnight.”

 

Albus shrugged his shoulders. 

 

“With the swamps and the quicksand and the geysers and the terrible odours?” Jamie pressed, confused. 

 

“Must have snipped it,” Al said casually. 

 

“What?” Jamie demanded. 

 

“Cut it,” Al explained, “from my memories.”

 

“What do you mean, cut it?” Jamie felt an undifferentiated panic rise in him. “You can’t just cut your memories, Al.”

 

“Yes, I can.”

 

Jamie turned to Scor, desperate for clarification. 

 

“I guess we didn’t think to tell you,” Scorpius admitted dolefully as they approached Professor Malfoy’s door. “After your mum left, Al didn’t care to be reminded of her, so he created a spell to, well, not. Sort of a memory-editing spell.”

 

"No, he made a spell to help you—" Jamie said. 

 

"He did that, too," Scor agreed. "He just also...did this."

 

"Started pick and choosing his memories?" Jamie could scarcely believe it, it seemed so cold, so heartless. 

 

Scorpius gave a slight, anxious nod. 

 

“But it wasn’t just her,” Jamie argued, feeling his vision blur and his voice tighten, “it was us, too, those memories, they had all of us. Al, we’re your family, how could you just, how many, why—”

 

The door opened, and Professor Malfoy was there, Scorpius’ potion in his hand. 

 

Jamie looked up at him. “Did you know?” he asked, tears slipping humiliatingly from his eyes. He scrubbed at them impatiently with his palm. “About Al’s memories?”

 

“I see,” Professor Malfoy said solemnly, handing Scor his potion and pushing open his office door. “You’d better come in."

Notes:

Thanks for reading! I know some people have voiced concerns that I will abandon this fic, but I am very committed to completing it and have a plot sketched out! I am also aware I am far from the fastest writer on this site. In my heart, I would love to do nothing but write fic all day, but sadly I do not have the luxury! I understand if readers would rather wait to read until the fic is completed or feel frustrated by the wait. I hate waiting for my favourite fics, too!

In the meantime, you have my gratitude for your patience and your absolutely lovely support and, best of all, your comments which really do motivate me when I'm not in the mood to write!!!! Thanks for sticking with me despite the months-long gap between updates. I'm hoping to have another chapter up soon, as I am on winter break, so hopefully you will forgive me for being inconsistent during the busier times of year.

Much love and all my thanks! I'm so glad you're here!

Chapter 36: Albus & Jamie & Scorpius

Notes:

This is the first chapter with multiple perspectives! Hope the flow is okay. I just wanted to have multiple POVs for these moments so thought I would give it a try. Just a head's up to keep an eye out for the shifting POV!

Albus

 

Jamie was crying and Al was uncomfortable. So far, this had been a wholly unpleasant exchange. Albus hugged his arms to himself, elbows pointy against his palms, digging in. He pushed harder, trying to sink back into the unforgiving wooden chair.

 

He and Scorpius and Jamie were all in a row, with Professor Malfoy facing them from where he leant against his broad, old desk. He looked tired, reminding Al of how Dad had been in the summer, like maybe Al and Jamie were too much to put up with—but Al hadn’t meant to upset Jamie, he really hadn’t, he just hadn’t thought. Again.

 

Professor Malfoy had made Albus explain everything about the spells he’d made, how he started snipping away the memories he didn’t care to dwell on, even if they included Jamie, Lily, Remy, or Dad. 

 

Al didn’t know why he’d thought Jamie would at least be a little impressed. Instead, he’d only sagged, weepy and snotty and flushing wretchedly. Al had explained again and again. Hell’s teeth, they’d all talked around the whole thing ceaselessly, how Jamie was hurt, how Jamie took it personally, how Jamie cared for Al and how he didn’t feel like Al cared for him. Al tried to say he was starting to care for Jamie, too, he pointed out that they’d been getting on lately, but Jamie wasn’t having it, too caught up in his blubbering. He burrowed down in his cloak like an owl in its ruff, refusing to look towards Albus, even when Scorpius, who was mercifully perched between them, reached out to lay a comforting hand on Jamie’s knee. Al let the flare of jealousy hit him full force like a plane of glass shattering over him. It left a bitter tang of copper in his mouth. 

 

“I didn’t mean to,” Al muttered dejectedly for probably the fifth time. It was hard not to feel like a villain when even his best friend was turning against him.

 

Professor Malfoy sighed deeply, also for probably the fifth time. Albus deflated. He was trying to be better and no one even realised, and what was even the point if he was just going to be in endless trouble with Jamie or Dad or Professor Malfoy, or any of his other professors? He was sick to death of being told to apply himself, to focus, to be considerate. Hadn’t he already done more than the whole student body? Creating not one but two spells, spells that worked, and yet no one was proud, no one was awed, they only cared if he was sweet and kind and minded Jamie’s feelings and handed in his essays on time. 

 

“I know you didn’t mean to–” Professor Malfoy began. 

 

“May I go now?” Albus interrupted. He was being rude and he didn’t give a toss.

 

“Albus–”

 

“I’ve explained. I’ve apologised. I feel rotten, if that was what you wanted. I don’t see the use of sitting here any longer.”

 

“No one wants you to feel rotten, Al,” Scorpius said quietly. 

 

“May I go?” Al repeated, voice steely. He met Professor Malfoy’s gaze, unflinching. The man was strict but he didn’t scare Al. No one did. Al could take care of himself. Hadn’t he been doing just that?

 

“I think it would be better if you stayed, so we could all talk this out,” Professor Malfoy stated evenly, “but you’re not a prisoner. If you feel you must go, I won’t stop you.”

 

Al didn’t wait, instead hopping up and striding out of the room and closing the door with not quite a slam. Let Scorpius deal with Jamie’s feelings; Al was done with them.

 

His steps towards the dormitory were brisk and purposeful. He tried not to notice that no one came after him. 

 

/// /// 

 

“What’s wrong with you, then?” Fife asked, from where he was fussing with his cuticles atop his bed. Bingham’s curtains were drawn, but Al suspected he was reading and trying to avoid the ever-present threat that was Fife. Bernard was passed out face down on his bed, one trainer off, the other still dangling from his forefoot, and his brother wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Albus couldn’t help noting how entirely allyless he had become. 

 

Al opted for a no-nonsense “Fuck off”, which earned him a raising of Fife’s overly groomed eyebrows, followed by an insulting little cat noise, which Al supposed he was to interpret as a reflection of his pissiness. 

 

He didn’t humour Fife with a response, just changed quickly into his pyjamas and released the curtains of his canopy with a violent jerk of the silver cord, encasing himself in darkness. 

 

Al flopped onto his pillow, facing purposefully away from Scorpius’ bed. His ribcage felt like it was digging into his lungs and his heart was beating rapid fire, flailing against his breast bone, innards boiling with anger and hurt and he didn’t know what else. 

 

He slid one hand under his pillow, not consciously knowing what he was searching for until he found it. 

 

His fist closed around the dry, shriveled pit and squeezed. 

 

Jamie

 

Scorpius was walking Jamie back to his dormitory, this time. Or at least, they had started off in that direction.

 

“Can we go somewhere?” Jamie had asked instead, feeling immediately guilty. The last thing Scorpius needed was a late night. “I mean, sorry, never mind. It’s almost curfew.”

 

“Of course we can; I don’t mind,” Scorpius replied, and he seemed genuine. “I’m best friends with your brother, remember? I know how to not get caught.”

 

Jamie chuckled, trying to shake off the edge of envy at that idea of getting to be out with Scorpius far past curfew. He led Scorpius to The Alcove. It was shadowy, as there were no sconces in that pocket of corridor. Jamie collapsed despondently on the settee. Scorpius sat with him, waiting, patiently expecting another onslaught of Jamie’s outrage and hurt, probably. Jamie’s guilt surged again. 

 

“How are you doing in all this?” Jamie asked instead. It must have been awkward for Scorpius, stuck once again between his best friend and, what, his best friend’s older brother? Between his two friends, Jamie revised hopefully. 

 

“I’m alright,” Scorpius replied, sounding surprised, but honest.

 

“You probably didn’t have to be caught up in it,” Jamie acknowledged. “I’m sorry about that.”

 

“Don’t be. I knew about Al, and I didn’t say anything.”

 

“It wasn’t your secret to tell.”

 

Scorpius was studying his hands in the dim light. He wanted to say something, Jamie suspected. 

 

“That’s the thing, Jamie. It wasn’t a secret, not really. I hope you believe that. No one was purposefully trying to conceal anything from you. Which doesn't mean you didn't get hurt, and I know that. It's only that Al acts on instinct, right? And I don’t think he is even willing to accept the breadth of what he’s done, what he's lost. Or maybe he has and that is somehow worse. It’s not about you or your dad or anyone else, he just does what he is going to do. And I know he could stand to be more considerate, but I also think he’s actually been trying, which isn’t easy for him.”

 

“I know he has been,” Jamie relented. “I don’t want things between us to go backwards, but I get upset and he shuts down, he won’t listen, you saw him tonight.”

 

“I think he’s…sensitive,” Scorpius attempted. 

 

Jamie snorted. “Al? Sorry, mate, but no. Al’s not sensitive.”

 

“He is!” Scorpius responded forcefully. “Think about it. He cuts out memories because he’s strictly logical and doesn’t want to be bothered?”

 

“Doesn’t he?” Jamie asked. 

 

“Hardly,” Scorpius huffed. He drew his knees up towards himself, looking conflicted, like maybe he didn’t want to say more than Al would want him to. “It’s the opposite. Truly. It's as though even the passing thought of one of those memories is so brutal that he can’t bear a second of it. I'm sorry, Jamie, I appreciate that you're upset, but you’ve been thinking about Al all wrong! It’s not that he feels things too little, it’s that he feels things too much, so in the end, I reckon he opts not to feel at all, and I know that is sad for you, I do, but doesn’t it also make you desperately sad for Al?”

 

Scorpius

 

After Scorpius’ hurried outburst, Jamie went quiet. Scorpius could feel Jamie’s gaze searching his face in the scraps of candlelight reaching them from around the curved stone walls. 

 

“Well it’s not like I like feeling things either,” Jamie said, finally, tone churlish. “I just can’t help it.”

 

Scorpius shot him a sceptical look and Jamie grinned sheepishly then shuffled closer to him until their arms were touching. The warmth was comforting but Scorpius still felt coiled, tense and protective. 

 

“Now I feel like an arse,” Jamie admitted. “You’re right. I really hadn’t thought about it like that, and maybe I should’ve. It wasn’t like trying to hurt Al back, I was just trying to tell him that he hurt me.”

 

“You’re allowed,” Scorpius said. “I don’t think it’s wrong to remind Al that not everyone works like him, once in a while.”

 

“But maybe I should remember that he doesn’t work like me, sometimes, too. I just got caught up in the moment. I hope I haven’t bollocksed everything up. Again. I should talk to him.” Jamie sounded tired and defeated, but Scorpius was thawed by Jamie’s willingness to try to get on with his brother. 

 

“Maybe try not talking?” Scorpius considered after a minute. “Maybe try just showing up and being game to spend time with him and work on the curse together? I think that would be better.”

 

“I guess I could give that a go,” Jamie agreed, and it sounded like he really meant it.

 

Scorpius relaxed, letting some of the distress of the evening drain away. He imagined the place where Jamie’s arm touched his like a stone breaking the surface of a pond, sending peaceful ripples out along his shoulder, neck, and fingers. 

 

They lapsed into a thoughtful silence. 

 

Scorpius liked this, he found, being here in the silent closeness, confronted only with the open predictability that was Jamie. He liked how he never had to wonder what Jamie was thinking, or fear the flare of his temper, because Jamie was so relentlessly careful with him. Jamie was steadfast, solid, safe. 

 

“What about you?” Jamie murmured. 

 

“What about me?” Scorpius replied, trying to pick up the thread.

 

“Do you like it? Feeling things?”

 

“I don’t mind,” Scorpius decided. “Feels good sometimes, yeah? Except being scared. That’s the worst one, don’t you think?”

 

“How’s that?” 

 

Jamie listened, Scorpius thought. He listened in a way no one ever listened, maybe not even Father, who could be distracted and even, at times, distant, or at least accepting of answers instead of choosing to keep on asking, charging forward. James wanted to know about him and Scorpius wanted to tell him. 

 

“Well, there’s the good ones,” Scorpius hazarded, “happy, excited, all that, those are great, obviously. And then there are the bad ones, sad, or angry, but those come from me, mostly. Like maybe I’ll let them ramp up, but they will usually fade away. Scared though, it could not end. Something bad could happen and I could just keep on feeling scared because bad things could keep happening.”

 

Jamie circled a hand around Scorpius’ forearm and squeezed. “Like if someone found out about you? Do you think about that a lot?”

 

Scorpius nodded. Sleep was starting to take him. He could feel it encroaching, his eyelids heavy, but he wanted to stay awake and listen to Jamie ask him things, real things, things that no one asked. “Yeah. I worry…if they found out about me and took me away, and I just didn’t know what was going to happen, and I kept on not knowing. That’s what I don’t like thinking about and what I especially don’t like feeling.”

 

“I don’t want you to ever feel like that,” Jamie determined valiantly. 

 

It was a fruitless thought. Jamie might be older, but he was still just a kid. What could he do in the face of grave danger? What could either of them do? The sentiment warmed Scorpius nevertheless. He let his chin fall against Jamie’s shoulder, exhausted. 

 

“I know you don’t. You’re a good person, Jamie. I know Al sometimes makes you feel like you’re not, even if he doesn’t mean to. I just hope you know that you’re very, like, noble, I reckon.”

 

“I’m not anything,” Jamie retorted.

 

“You are to me.”

 

“You are to me, too,” Jamie whispered, very, very quietly.

 

What Scorpius was to him, Jamie didn’t say exactly, and Scorpius didn’t press. Whatever it was, it felt important. Scorpius let his eyes fall shut, head heavy on Jamie’s shoulder. 

 

Jamie’s hand slid along the inside of his arm until they were palm to palm, then hesitated. Scorpius slipped his fingers between Jamie’s. Jamie’s hand closed over his and Scorpius felt a rush of dreamlike exhilaration. He couldn’t name this emotion, not exactly, but he knew that he liked it.

 

Jamie

 

Even after Scorpius’ breath evened into sleep, Jamie didn’t dare stir. Scorpius was holding his hand. Scorpius had chosen to hold his hand. Jamie couldn’t bear to disrupt it. Today had been so grueling, so hellish, but Scorpius drifting off like this, cuddled close and looking so peaceful, somehow managed to dampen all the mental noise concerning Mum, concerning Al. Jamie didn’t want to think about anything but this very instant.

 

He ran his thumb along the knuckle of Scorpius'. The skin there was paler, less calloused than Jamie's, who still had the last remnants of a fading summer tan and Quidditch-roughened hands. Scorpius' legs were curled up on the couch, his body firm and cosy beside Jamie's, his stick straight silver-gold hair contrasting against the dark fabric of Jamie's school robes, glinting in the scant light. Jamie briefly considered just staying here on the old frayed sofa the whole night long, even if his legs cramped, even if his arm fell asleep under the weight of Scorpius' arm. Jamie reckoned he could remain unmoving for hours just to prolong this moment.

 

That was selfish, though. He saw first-hand how tired Scorpius was, day after day. Hell, it was only just after nine and Scorpius was already dead asleep. He clearly needed a proper rest in a comfortable bed, and Jamie needed to make sure that happened.

 

“Scor,” Jamie whispered, after another few minutes of probably pathetic gazing at their hands clasped together. It was just that he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance again. 

 

Scorpius didn’t respond. 

 

“Scor,” Jamie repeated. 

 

“Hm?” Scorpius lifted his head up and blinked adorably up at Jamie. The wrinkles of Jamie's robes had left subtle indents in Scor's cheek. Jamie wanted to touch them. 

 

“You fell asleep,” Jamie said, instead.

 

“Hm,” Scorpius agreed. 

 

/// ///

 

By some miracle, Scorpius let Jamie hold his hand all the way back to the Slytherin dormitory. It could have been that he was half asleep, because he didn’t say much. 

 

Even though all Jamie wanted to think about was the feeling of Scor’s hand in his, he kept one ear out for passing professors and prefects. He couldn't stand to have someone else trample in on this fragile, precious thing between them. 

 

The walk was over far too quickly. Jamie regretfully unlinked their hands at the dormitory entrance. 

 

Scorpius looked up at him, smiling softly and sleepily. 

 

“G’night, Jamie,” he said. 

 

“Night, Scor. See you tomorrow, yeah?”

 

“Mm,” Scorpius agreed. “Definitely.”

 

Albus

 

Albus was still awake when he heard the creak of the door, fingers sliding over the coarse surface of the cursed pit. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt somehow better, like the pit had drunk up the bad feelings that had been swirling about earlier, and left Al feeling oddly placid. 

 

Since Franklin Ojo had stumbled in a half hour earlier, Albus knew it was Scorpius entering the room—which meant Scorpius had been out past curfew comforting bloody Jamie. Al squeezed the pit again. There was an imprint of it in his palm. He could run a fingertip along the ridges and hollows.

 

Al knew if he poked his head out, Scorpius would talk to him, but he stubbornly refused. Let Scorpius come to him if he wanted to talk. 

 

Al’s curtains shifted and a pale face appeared between them. 

 

“Al?” Scorpius whispered. 

 

For a long moment, Al considered pretending to be asleep, but that seemed unfair, given that Scorpius was here, trying to make peace. 

 

“Yeah?” Al replied, rolling over. 

 

Scorpius had scrambled up and under the canopy and was seated on Al’s bed, expression uncertain. 

 

“Hi,” Scorpius said, giving him a tentative smile.

 

“Hey,” Al murmured. He didn’t want to admit how glad he was that Scorpius was here, or how much he’d feared their friendship was over just because Al was a complete shit of a brother. Which was maybe a bit of an exaggeration, but still. 

 

“Sorry. Jamie was upset. And I was caught in the middle. But I didn’t want you going to sleep thinking I was mad at you. I know you didn’t mean to hurt his feelings."

 

Albus felt a lump in his throat. He squeezed the feeling into the pit in his hand and it dissipated.

 

“Jamie’s feelings are always bloody hurt,” Al grumbled, “but thanks. It felt shit that you had to be there for it all. And that you chose him over me.”

 

“I didn’t choose him", Scorpius replied seriously. "I just…it seemed like he needed me more. And you left. I didn’t know if you wanted me to follow you or if you wanted to be by yourself.”

 

Al thought about that.  “I don’t know what I wanted, either," he decided. "but I probably wanted you to follow me."

 

"Well, you didn't tell me that."

 

"Sorry," Al said gruffly. He swore he had apologised more today than any other day in his life and he would be happy to never have to do so again. 

 

"It's nothing. You’re my best friend,” Scorpius said. “You’re always going to be my best friend. Only I can't read your mind, not yet.”

 

Al tucked the pit back under his pillow and released it. He sat up to face Scorpius fully. 

 

"I’m just tired of Jamie being furious at me all of the time," he confessed.

 

“I know. I don’t think he is now. You know Jamie, he just has to get it out.”

 

“Yeah, I don’t understand it,” Al said scornfully. “It’s embarrassing.”

 

Scorpius laughed lightly. “It’s not embarrassing, Al. It’s just Jamie. You two couldn’t be more different, is all.” 

 

“Thank the stars for that,” Al remarked. 

 

Scorpius just smiled and shook his head without giving a scolding. Maybe the three of them could keep on keeping on, after all. Al was at least game to give it a try. 

 

"Sleep here for a bit?" Al asked. They'd done that the first few weeks at Hogwarts,  when Scorpius had had nightmares he'd never talked about.

 

"'Course," Scorpius said.

 

They settled back to back in the bed, not touching, simply being near each other. It was another kind of apology. 

 

"You're my best friend, too," Al told him. 

 

"I know," Scorpius agreed. "I like it that way."

Notes:

Thanks for the comments and understanding. I am in awe of how great you all are, and how kind.

Chapter 37: Draco

Summary:

**Please see CWs in the end notes**

Draco

 

 

“Stars above, who is this blond Adonis in my kitchen washing the world's ugliest mug?” Harry’s voice interrupted Draco’s meditative chore. 

 

Draco shook his head in a show of disapproval, but he knew the blush currently staining his cheeks would bely that gesture. It was so like Harry to give preposterous compliments that somehow smacked of sincerity. 

 

Harry stood in the doorway, an admiring expression on his face which only served to make Draco blush more deeply. 

 

Draco lifted the lumpy mauve mug Lily had made out of the sudsy water and held it up for appraisal. 

 

“Surely it is not the ugliest—no, you are right," he adjudicated. "In form, colour, and function, it simply could not be any worse.” 

 

Harry gave a broad, delighted grin. “My children are many things,” he began, “each talented in his or her own way. They are not, however, potters.”

 

Draco raised a single eyebrow and waited for Harry’s brain to catch up with his mouth.

 

“Ha!” Harry guffawed, once he'd realised the inadvertent joke. “Not that kind of potter, at least.”

 

Draco felt the tug of his cheek in an insuppressible smile. He did that a lot at Crabapple Cottage: grinning like a loon. It felt foreign, undignified, but not wholly unwelcome. He was grateful for a bit of lightness after his evening navigating James’ and Albus’ large and contradictory emotions.  He rested the hideous but much-loved mug on the rack to dry.

 

“You’re absurd,” he informed Harry, his face still warm.  

 

“Perhaps,” Harry acknowledged good-naturedly. “What happened to, you know, all the magic you like for clearing up?” He gave a little gesture with his hand as a stand in for Draco’s cleaning spells. It was endearing. Everything about him was endearing. 

 

“Molly Weasley is right,” Draco explained. “Sometimes things just need a good old fashioned scour.”

 

“I'm sure. Nothing to do with how repetitive tasks give you ample time to brood,” Harry teased, a loving warmth to his voice. 

 

“I’m sure I don’t know to what you refer,” Draco countered primly. 

 

“Of course not. You’re definitely not stewing over the mess with Jamie and Al and how you handled it. Which I’m sure was expertly, by the way. I am sorry I wasn’t there.”

 

Draco gave a half shrug, studiously starting on the next misshapen mug. He’d given Harry a summary of the exchange upon his arrival at the Cottage, but with Lily underfoot, they had not had an opportunity to fully discuss it. 

 

“I thought you were putting Remy down,” he remarked. 

 

“You're changing the subject,” Harry accurately pointed out. “But I will let it slide because Remy and I have something very important to show you." Harry's voice then shifted registers like it always did when he addressed his youngest son. It became sweet and soppy and bursting with affection. "Isn't that right, pumpkin?”

 

“Oh?” Draco asked, relieved that Harry wasn’t pushing, even if he was mostly correct. Draco would never do something as plebeian as stew. Reflect, perhaps, or analyse, but certainly not stew.

 

“You thought these last few nights of interrupted sleep and a particularly cranky baby were for nothing!” Harry accused jovially as he stepped in close beside Draco. “You thought wrong! May I present you now with this grand achievement!”

 

Harry used a gentle finger to tug Remy's bottom lip down, exposing a little flash of white sprouting up from Remy's bottom gums. 

 

Draco felt a ludicrous, nonsensical thrill of accomplishment. 

 

“That’s brilliant,” he managed, voice thick. He set the mug down and dried his hands, reaching for the child. Harry gladly passed him over and Draco settled the baby in his arms, gazing at his little face. “A tooth! Merlin’s beard, a whole tooth.  Well done, Remy, my love. Where’d that come from, hm? You did that all by yourself, imagine, what a feat!” 

 

Draco looked up to see Harry watching him, an expression so fond it made Draco redden all over again. It was just baby talk. Infants devolved everyone into some kind of idiot. Perhaps he held back, a bit, with Remy, only allowing himself to babble so egregiously when he and Remy were alone. Maybe because he knew he would never fully be his. 

 

“What is it?” Harry asked, sensing the shift. 

 

“Nothing,” Draco assured him, passing Remy back to Harry. “Hopefully he will have a few days of peace before the next one pops up. Poor Scorpius grew three in one day, I remember. Little thing was utterly traumatised.”

 

“Scorpius has not had an easy time of anything, has he?” Harry said. 

 

“No, he really hasn't.”

 

“Well, he handles the upsets all with an astounding amount of grace. As does his father.”

 

Draco felt itchy and abashed like he always did when met with Harry's relentless adoration, unable to decide if he wanted to bask or to flee. 

 

“Go put Remy down," he said. "I'll finish up here."

 

/// ///

 

“Was it truly awful? I’m dreadfully sorry you got stuck in the middle of all that. I should have brought the memory stuff up with Jamie. Frankly, I hadn’t put it together that he didn’t know. Stupid of me, I'm aware.” Harry yawned. They were facing each other in bed. Harry had one arm curled and tucked under his own head. He clearly needed to sleep, only he had this infuriating need to review every last thing before he would do so. Maybe he was making up for something, Draco thought, a fear that not doing so had resulted in his abandonment. Draco felt the standard prick of anger that always asserted itself when Ginny came to mind.  He focused instead on Harry’s face.  In the candlelight, he could see the sympathetic creases around Harry’s eyes, the concerned furrow of his brow. 

 

“Not awful, no,” Draco said carefully. 

 

Harry snorted dubiously. “A hair shy of awful, then.”

 

Draco took a moment to study his hands. He spotted a hangnail and went for it with a practised ruthlessness, almost hoping it would bleed, the pain providing him with some relief from Harry’s interminable gaze. Harry’s hand closed over his, forcing his fingers to still. 

 

“Draco,” Harry said softly. 

 

Draco stilled. 

 

“James is easy,” he attempted at last. “Enormous feelings, always, but at least I know what they are, that they always blow over. James wants love and attention and reassurance and it is easy to give, and he accepts it like parched soil in a rainstorm. Albus…” Draco trailed off helplessly. 

 

Harry gave a low laugh. “Al wants love, attention, and reassurance, too, you know.”

 

“Yes, but he spits it up at a person, or blocks it out, gives only a slate façade, or what have you.”

 

“He didn’t apologise?” Harry asked. 

 

“Oh, he apologised, but only because he wanted to be done with it. It wasn’t my intention to ostracise him, but nevertheless, I did.”

 

Harry gave an understanding hum. “Maybe I should have gone to see him. I thought about it, but I couldn’t get away until far past curfew. Remy was still miserable about his tooth pushing through, and Lily’s been all over the place since Ginny’s reappearance, and I couldn't finagle a babysitter so last minute. I detest that you were stuck trying to sort things between them, but I'm grateful you were there, and I’m sure Al will feel better about the whole thing in the morning.”

 

He gave Draco’s fingers a reassuring squeeze. 

 

Draco wished he could believe it. Albus was so evasive, so cagey. Of all of Harry’s children, he was the hardest to reach.  

 

“Probably best to leave him alone tonight,” Draco determined. “No second-year wants their father bursting into their dormitory, and Albus can only tolerate talking things through for so long.”

 

“Hm, now who does that remind me of?” Harry smiled, “You understand him better than you think you do.”

 

Draco made a sound of doubtful assent and looked away. 

 

“Having you here, with us, it really has been such a short time,” Harry murmured comfortingly. “You’ve just slotted in with us all so well, I almost forget that you’ve only been here for a little piece of it, and not for their whole lives. We shouldn’t be surprised that it doesn’t feel that way for Al yet.”

“I know that.” 

 

Harry touched the pad of his thumb to Draco’s knuckles, one by one. His lips followed suit, his teeth tugging sweetly and sharply at the skin he found there, giving Draco the anchor that he needed. 

 

“I feel…” Draco stopped the words from coming. A dark, creeping guilt nagged at him. The truth of it was rotten to express, surely.

 

“What?” Harry asked, nuzzling into Draco’s wrist, biting down harshly over the pulse he found there. The pain wasn’t even about arousal, Draco found. It was a promise, and a coaxing act, an intimate knowledge and understanding that only Harry possessed. 

 

“Envious,” Draco admitted. “I feel envious of all the time I missed with them. I begrudge the time I spent without you. Without your children. All the first steps, and chaotic birthdays, and the easy affection of toddlers. I wish I had that, with your boys, with Lily. I’ve missed out and I’ll never get to know them like that. Is that horrid of me?”

 

“No,” Harry’s voice was hushed. He drew his head away from Draco’s hand and Draco wished he hadn’t. The distracting sensations had been a much needed respite. “I know what you mean. I can't say I've never thought about how absolutely darling Scorpius must have been as a little kid, with his perfect manners, and earnest, adorable face. I hate that I didn't get to be in his life during those stages, but at least I get to be there now. As for my kids, I wish you could have known them, too, shared that bond. And it’s not even that I wish Ginny out of the story. I just wish I’d known what was coming. Or actually, that would have made it worse, by far. Maybe I just wish for parallel universes. These things are impossible to reckon with, I think. All I know is you and Scorpius are now a massive part of my life and I love you both so very much."

 

Draco let himself relax more fully on his pillow, his fingers entwining with Harry’s. In his jealous heart, perhaps he did wish Ginny out of the story, but Harry was too Good to be privy to those sorts of thoughts. Harry shifted, his age-worn T-shirt was soft against Draco's skin, and his presence was by now so familiar, that despite everything, Draco felt at ease. He didn’t know how something so materially not his—not his house, not his bed—could feel so very much like a place he belonged. 

 

“I’m protective of Remy,” he confessed. “Of my time with him, I mean. After Scorpius, I never thought I’d have another baby. Having a child felt cursory, something Astoria and I did so that it was done, but I revelled in it, Scorpius’ infancy. What I thought would be simply a duty was the greatest delight of my life. Exhausting, of course, overwhelming and new, but mine. Something I could do entirely out from under the shadow of the war. I don’t think I’d known I mourned the loss of that stage, not before Remy.”

 

Harry had that soppy look on his face again. “I know what you mean. I never felt like I knew who I was until I became Jamie’s dad. It felt more right than even flying, or solving crimes, or, I don’t know, Christmas morning. Babies are just, well, they are fucking miracles, aren’t they? Obviously, I hate that Remy didn’t feel like that for Ginny, and I wish I had known it, or acknowledged it, or done it all better, but I’m also so wildly glad he’s here, yeah? Like, I cannot imagine a world without him. And honestly, seeing you with Remy makes me wish for a dozen more. It’s the loveliest thing in the world to witness. He adores you.”

 

Draco’s heart clenched painfully. He’d not even considered the possibility of more children. He wasn’t even sure how they would make it happen, donors or adoption or the like, and now certainly wasn’t the time, but even still, the idea felt like a precious little pearl he wanted to secrete away and admire thoroughly in his own company. 

 

“I’m afraid I won’t get to keep him.” The terrible forthrightness of the words surprised even Draco as they burst out of him. He’d been trying to be patient, he didn’t wish to lock Potter into any promises, that surely wasn’t reasonable, but it was the truth. He was petrified to love Remy fully because what if this was all temporary, and yet at the same time, he couldn’t help but love the child with everything he had. Who could resist?

 

“Sweetheart,” Harry breathed. He slipped an arm around Draco’s waist, manoeuvred him closer, until Draco could safely burrow into Harry’s old shirt. “He’s yours. Of course he’s yours.”

 

“That’s not only your decision to make,” Draco stated. He hated the bitterness in his tone, knowing full well how intent Harry was on taking the high road. Nevertheless, the injustice of it burned at him. “I’m not trying to replace his mother, but she doesn’t want him, and she abandoned him! She doesn’t deserve him, because how dare she leave, when he's so faultless and perfect, she clearly–”

 

Harry sighed, pressing his face to Draco’s hair, shushing him. “I don’t know what Ginny’s feelings are,” he said judiciously. “I want to keep avenues open for her to have a relationship with him. Whatever she decides, though, I don’t think she is ignorant to what you’ve become, and I don’t even think she resents you for it. If anything, I wonder if you don’t have her gratitude, you know, for being here when she couldn’t. An additional parent can only be a good thing after all, right? More love to go around and all that. I know she made a mistake, a massive, unforgivable mistake, yeah, but she’s not evil, she’s not vindictive. She wants the best for the kids, I truly believe that. We're just trying to figure out what that looks like, but no one is edging you out, love.”

 

Draco made a face into Harry’s chest. He couldn’t help but think that Harry’s interpretation was a bit too rose-tinted. 

 

“We’ll see,” he replied grimly. “And sooner than we’d like.”

 

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, confused. 

 

“Well, what are we doing for Christmas?” Draco demanded, recklessly. His face heated. He’d not planned on having this conversation now, when they were both drawn down and depleted and needed sleep. Only the thought had been eating at him, a little voice forcing him to question his place in Harry's life beyond the golden bubble that was Crabapple Cottage. He didn't understand how all this could feel both so steadfast and yet so tentative. His life with Harry was a sure thing, he believed this, but the details felt so arduous and murky. He’d been waiting and waiting for Harry to let him know their holiday plans, to reassure him that all the Weasleys were aware of their relationship and accepting of it, at the very least, but now, the day was only weeks away and nothing had been determined or even deliberated.

 

“Oh,” Harry looked oddly both ashamed and astonished. “Right. I suppose I haven't thought about that.”

 

“Haven't thought about it?” Draco jerked backwards, staring at Harry, dumbfounded. He heard the high, irritated pitch of his voice and didn’t try to mask it. Was everything truly this easy for Harry? Did things just happen without thought or planning? Harry would just get swept up in the tide of the Weasleys and let himself be pulled about at their leisure?

 

“Yeah, I mean, I thought about thinking about it, I just never got to it,” Harry said glumly. “You’re right to be upset. I just…I’m not used to planning these things. Which is a damn poor excuse, and I know it. I never had any family, so naturally we always spent Christmas morning at Molly and Arthur’s. It was tradition. And of course I know things are different now, and of course I’ve been meaning to have the conversation about what the break will look like, only things keep happening and it keeps falling down the list of priorities. But I could have at least brought it up.”

 

“I’m not asking for your plans to change,” Draco tried to explain. “I certainly don’t want you to feel you ought to abandon Molly the first Christmas after her husband’s death, or keep your children from their beloved grandmother or even Ginny, however much I distrust her. It is not that I don’t appreciate how things are complicated.”

 

“Yes,” Harry said, “but the Weasleys are not the only family that matters. You’ve got people waiting on you, too, and we’ve not discussed if and how we want to integrate any of our plans.”

 

“Scorpius and I do have a few visits to make. Namely Andromeda, Pansy, and Scorpius’ Aunt Daphne, but we have no specific plans. Christmas Day has always been just for him and me.”

 

“Yes, of course, and I don’t want to interfere–”

 

“Merlin’s teeth, Potter, that is not what I'm getting at! I'm trying to tell you that I don’t anticipate Scorpius will want or expect to be parted from James and Albus this year, and, frankly, neither would I.”

 

Harry gaped at him, silently. 

 

“You’d come with us?” Harry managed at last, awestruck, as though Draco had just announced he bid the moon herself to rise. “To the Weasleys'?”

 

“If we were issued an invitation, certainly,”  Draco shook his head, disbelieving the extent of their miscommunication. “I should have thought that was obvious. I simply do not wish to be a surprise, and I especially do not wish to be where my child and I are not welcome.”

 

Harry pounced, his body delectably heavy and taut atop Draco’s, kissing him mercilessly. 

 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Harry said breathlessly between the flushed press of his lips. “I didn’t think you would want to, I didn’t want to push, not when this is new, and the Weasleys are a lot, like, I mean a lot, but it would mean everything to have you there, absolutely fucking everything.”

 

Draco felt the anxious uncertainty lift from his chest, let himself open up to Harry’s ardent kisses. As always, he’d completely misrepresented the problem to himself. He had assumed Harry had selfish intentions, that he had been ashamed to bring Draco around, or couldn’t be fussed to tell his makeshift family about what Draco meant to him, or simply didn’t want the hassle, and yet, all along, Harry had been worried about inconveniencing him. Draco felt like a fool: a silly, grinning, happy fool. 

 

“Harry,” he whispered against Harry’s lips. 

 

Harry pulled away, leaving just enough space between them to allow for words. 

 

“You can have me. The way you wanted to, the other night.” 

 

Draco felt his face burning in the darkness, his body hot and responsive to Harry’s touch, scared, but wanting. 

 

“Fuck,” Harry groaned into Draco’s ear.

 

“But I want to wash myself, first.”

 

Harry bit into his jaw. “No,” he said. “I’ll be doing the washing.”

 

“Yes,” Draco agreed. “Yes, please.”

Notes:

CW: ableist language. This could also be read as a slight reference to MPREG if you squint, but that is not my intention (no shade to MPREG fans, just not the vibe here, more just sappy dad chat). Also it gets a little horny at the very end of the chapter (make-outs with brief insinuation of rimming).

 

Thank you to everyone who is reading (and extra thanks to people who take the time to comment, ilysm). I just realized I entered year 4 of working on this fic and wow, I am so grateful to everyone who has stuck around and followed the fic despite my glacial pace. I didn’t quite realize how multiple POV fics balloon like this, especially when I like to investigate every single character's response to every single thing, hahaha. Thanks, everyone 🩵💜

Chapter 38: Harry

Notes:

So, this chapter is basically 5000 words of porn.

 

Please read CWs in the end notes, there are some significant kinks in this chapter and you may wish to avoid them!

 

I also have posted two chapters in rather quick succession! If this chapter isn't following a through line, that may be why.

<3

Harry

 

Draco was stripped down to his pants and halfway to the shower by the time Harry’s good sense managed to break through the fog of his lust. 

 

“Wait,” Harry said, his feet finding the woven rug beside the bed. He took a brisk, steadying inhale, his earlier exhaustion replaced with acute interest. What Draco was offering was the stuff of fantasy—Harry had spent more than a few leisurely wanks picturing Draco moaning and pleading in response to Harry’s devoted ministrations—but Harry  was wary of another blunder, which could easily arise from making assumptions about Draco’s complex desires. 

 

Draco paused, already following orders, and hell’s teeth, Harry didn’t think he’d ever get over the thrill of Draco’s obedience. 

 

“Come here,” Harry requested. Draco did as he was bade, coming to a standstill before Harry. It was impossible not to touch him. Harry reached out, palms firm against Draco’s jutting hip bones, thumbs circling over the smooth skin and lithe muscles he found there. 

 

“We should clarify some things,” Harry managed to say, touching his lips to angular geography beneath his hands. Harry wanted simply to worship this body before him, but Draco didn’t go in for that sort of thing, not directly, so Harry would have to find an in that worked for them both. 

 

“I said I want it, so you needn’t bother fussing,” Draco told him crisply. 

 

“Yeah, I’m not doubting you, babe,” Harry replied, keeping his tone light and easy. “Although I’d feel better if you’d actually say precisely what you mean, just so I know I’m not misreading the situation.”

 

A familiar flush crept up onto Draco’s cheeks. He blushed so easily for someone otherwise so unflappable, and Harry relished being the cause. 

 

“I want you,” Draco began, and Harry suspected a lot of effort was being put into the cultivated, unbothered air that he was projecting, “to eat me out.”

 

Harry bit his lip and groaned as his cock responded readily to the imagery. He dropped his forehead to Draco’s hip, and savoured the closeness of him for a long moment, before leaning back again, eyes meeting Draco’s. 

 

“Excellent,” he said appreciatively. He decided to push. “Why do you want that?” 

 

He heard the hitch in Draco’s breath. For Harry, coaxing Draco to give voice to his yearnings was almost as thrilling as actually acting upon them. 

 

“Because you want it.”

 

“Fuck,” Harry swallowed. “Fuck, sit down, we have to go over specifics and I’m too fucking turned on to think.”

 

Draco gracefully perched on the bed beside him with only a small huff of annoyance. Harry wanted to get things going, too, Merlin, did he ever, but he was wary of Draco pushing himself too far, too fast. 

 

“I just need to be crystal clear,” Harry said. “Doing things you would not necessarily be interested in at my behest makes those things more interesting to you? Do I have that right?”

 

“That is about the shape of it, yes.”

 

“And that’s going to be enjoyable for you?” Harry asked dubiously.

 

“Yes,” Draco affirmed without hesitation. 

 

“Can you explain it a bit, what you like about that?” Harry prompted. “Sorry, I don’t mean to delay, I really don’t, but I want to understand, so that I might get it right. When people tell me to do things I don’t want to do, I generally just dig my heels in; I don’t necessarily appreciate the appeal. What about all that does it for you?”

 

Draco gave him an aggravated look which suggested that all this blabbering was exactly why he stuck to one-night-stands in his past. After a moment he seemed to elect to humor Harry, and gave the questions some consideration. 

 

“This is…difficult,” he muttered after a long moment. “I thought I’d long shaken off any shame attached to my proclivities. I have in many instances, with pain, with my sexuality, but there are other things that I am more loath to unravel.”

 

Harry covered Draco’s hand with his, curling his fingers protectively. “There’s a lot under the surface with this sort of thing. I’m not asking so I can make a fool out of you. It’s the opposite, really.”

 

“I’m aware,” Draco replied sharply. 

 

“I know. Just reminding you. You needn’t reveal anything you don’t want to. Getting at the heart of it just helps me know what to do. I just want to make you feel good, that’s all.”

 

Draco sighed, dropping his face to Harry’s shoulder. 

 

“It’s a few things,” he determined, speaking more to Harry’s T-shirt than to Harry himself. “Loss of autonomy, doing as I’m told, I suppose. Serving you.”

 

The sentiment added fuel to the already roaring flame of Harry’s need but he tried not to react. He made an encouraging sound instead, kissing Draco’s head. 

 

“What do you like about that?” he prodded gently.

 

“I expect that it excites me to feel like things are not in my control, as though what I want doesn’t matter and my purpose is only to please you. It’s exploring that boundary between frightening and exhilarating. There is something enthralling about the unpredictability of taking whatever I am given, not knowing how far things will go.”

 

Harry marvelled at how Draco could detail his desires so eloquently, even when it clearly wasn’t easy for him. 

 

“This particular activity is also,” Draco’s voice wavered, sucking in an uneasy breath before continuing, “humiliating, a bit.”

 

“No, it isn’t!” Harry tried to assure him. The disconnect was so strange, Harry didn’t see rimming as an embarrassing act at all, simply an intimate one. “I don’t think that, I–”

 

“Oh hush!” Draco sat upright and waved an exasperated hand. “You’re the one pestering me, so you damn well have to listen to my answers.”

 

“Sorry, you’re right, of course you’re right,” Harry soothed. “I just have doubts about humiliation when you just said you have shame around your kinks, I don’t want to make that worse, muddy the waters.”

 

“Well, these waters are already a bloody swamp, so you’ll simply have to adjust. For me, humiliation…can be good. It can be very good. It is not like it is new to us, we just haven’t named it explicitly like this. It scares me, but I want it, I crave it, I think, from you. I don’t want to be degraded, like spit upon or treated coldly, but I know that is not your style. You are never demeaning, only the right kind of patronising. It leaves me in free fall. It makes me giddy with terror and abandon and arousal all blurred into one.”

 

Harry could scarcely believe he was capable of generating all that, but he had images branded on his memory, Draco splayed wide in the euphoria of those moments, Draco sucking his thumb or rutting against his leg, and of course that was humiliation, but Harry had never thought of it as such. He saw it more as peeling away Draco’s defenses, finding those delicious vulnerabilities that always served to bring them closer.

 

“Okay,” he said. “I can understand that. And I want to do that for you, take you to those heights. So long as I know you’ll stop me if I’m veering off track.”

 

“Hrm,” Draco replied, his hand tensing. 

 

“What?” Harry pressed. 

 

“I want to say no to things tonight.”

 

“Oh. You’ve...changed your mind?” Harry tried to sound cheerful even though he could admit to himself that he was a little disappointed. “That's fine, love, not to worry.”

 

“No,” Draco said sharply. “That is not what I mean. I want you to overwhelm me, rim me, humiliate me, and I want to say no at times and I want those noes to be ignored. I don’t mean there will be no safety net, I know you don’t want to go there yet, but I want to be tested, cajoled, not forced exactly, but brought to heel.”

 

“Fuck,” Harry said, struck dumb by scenarios already playing in his mind. It was unlike anything he had ever done, but with Draco, the appeal was evident. Draco didn’t want to just give this, he wanted it to be taken. And hell's teeth, Harry wanted to take. “So what should I listen out for if I’m to disregard the usual things?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know, ‘shove off?’ That’s always done the trick in the past.”

 

Harry threw his head back and laughed, then swept Draco up with one arm around his waist and kissed him soundly, loving how Draco’s lips automatically parted for him, an instant surrender that let Harry take his fill, as if there were such a thing. 

 

“'Shove off,'” he decided, “would certainly pull me out of the moment.”

 

“Good,” Draco replied superciliously. “Please say all this tedious talking is finally concluded, and we can at long last get to the main event?”

 

/// /// 

 

Harry gave Draco a few minutes alone in the shower. It would build apprehension, he reckoned, as well as give him some time to plot how he might want the scene to play out. It was hard to concentrate, though, because all he could think about was getting his hands—and mouth—on Draco’s pert, perfect arse. 

 

The ensuite shower in cottage was, luckily, ample in size, with an open design of a single sheet of glass dividing the room. The glass in question, much to Harry's delight, had not yet fogged up enough to provide Draco with any modesty to speak of.  

 

Harry granted himself a moment to play voyeur. Draco’s head was tipped back, and his eyes were closed. He was facing the spray, his hands pushing his sleek platinum hair back from his face. Streams of water accentuated the lines of his lean but developed musculature. Harry had no doubt that Draco had already done an initial cursory clean of the essentials. Draco was meticulous about everything, but particularly about that. He’d find any evidence to the contrary the absolute wrong kind of humiliation, of that Harry was certain. 

 

Harry had disposed of his clothing in the bedroom, and so he slipped quietly into the shower, back pressed up against Draco’s, hand circling his throat. Draco started at the contact, caught off guard just as Harry had hoped.

 

“Preparing for me?” he demanded, low and gruff in Draco’s ear. 

 

Harry felt the nervous bob of Draco’s Adam’s apple against the edge of his fingers, just above where his hand was settled. 

 

“Yes,” Draco said softly, his hand clutching Harry’s as though he might try to pull it away. 

 

“Did I tell you to prepare yourself?” Harry asked. “I clearly remember telling you that that would be my purview tonight. Misbehaving already, I see. I ought to keep you on a shorter leash.”

 

“Sorry, Harry,” Draco managed. 

 

“That’s alright, sweetheart,” Harry let his tone shift to something saccharine. “I know your pretty little head empties out entirely when your hole gets needy.”

 

“That’s not–” Draco’s protest at the gibe was silenced by a warning squeeze of his throat. 

 

Harry used his free hand to yank Draco’s hair to one side, exposing a long expanse of neck for assault. Harry used his teeth and lips to mark the unblemished skin with lurid bruises. He’d need a Glamour the following day, and Harry ground his full cock against the crease of Draco’s arse at the thought of having Draco so blatantly marked. 

 

Without warning, Harry gave Draco a small, restrained shove. Draco yelped and stumbled forward.

 

“Hands on the wall,” Harry instructed. “Legs apart. Let me inspect the source of our problems, hmm?”

 

Draco’s hand crossed one hand over the other on the dark slate. He pressed his forehead into his hands and stepped his feet apart, a full body shudder running through him. Harry crowded in close, reaching around to dig fingernails into the scars marring Draco’s chest. Draco cried out and Harry noted the evidence of his arousal in the straining of Draco’s cock. Harry used his magic to apply one slow, too-light jerk, then retreated. Draco made a frustrated, impatient noise, bucking forward into nothing. 

 

“That’s all the attention your cock’s going to get tonight,” Harry informed him and Draco whined in dismay. “We can’t have you distracted from what matters.”

 

Harry let one hand fall, trailing his fingertips from Draco’s thigh to the swell of his arse, light and teasing. 

 

“Now, I know thinking is hard for you right now,” Harry let condescension drip from every word. “I know your slutty body is making your mind all fuzzy, but I think you probably can guess what matters, isn’t that right, baby?” He gave a punishing slap to Draco’s one of the tenses cheeks of Draco’s arse, making him jump. 

 

“You,” Draco gasped. 

 

“That’s right!” Harry exclaimed, mock impressed, as though he was responding to a rather dimwitted dog. “Such a clever toy. And what do I want?”

 

Harry let his fingers drift centrally, ghosting over the confluence of Draco’s cheeks. 

 

Draco swallowed hard, his chest and face flushed from both the hot water and arousal, and, Harry hoped, a bit of the right kind of shame. 

 

“My c-cunt,” Draco stuttered, stumbling over the consonant. 

 

Harry nearly choked. They’d not used that word before, but it stoked something maddening and devious in him. It made him want to take Draco right here and right now, pressed against the shower wall, unprepared but yielding. 

 

To keep the impulse at bay, Harry bit down hard into Draco’s shoulder blade with an insuppressible moan. 

 

“Mm, your cunt, hey?” Harry repeated. The clipped, filthy word was so downright perfect on his tongue. He shoved two fingers into Draco’s mouth, and Draco hurried to attend to them, tongue and lips working diligently. “You might be onto something. I’d better have a look. Stay as you are.”

 

Harry slipped to his knees, spreading Draco’s cheeks with one hand to expose Draco’s hole and sliding a spit-slicked finger over it. Draco’s whole body was coiled with a fraught kind of energy. This was nothing they hadn’t done before, and yet the close proximity of this new position and the anticipation of things to come was having an obvious effect. 

 

“You’re right,” Harry told him, peppering the back of his thighs and the curve of his arse with tender kisses. “Definitely pretty enough to be a cunt.”

 

Draco made a pained noise back in his throat, trying to retreat closer to the shower wall. 

 

“Uh-uh,” Harry warned. “Don’t you dare try to hide from me. Arse out, arch your back. If I want you on display, then you’ll damn well display yourself, understood?”

 

“Yes, I–I understand,” Draco said, voice raw. He took care to arrange himself, elegant back curving in a way that compelled his arse back towards Harry’s eager hands. Harry tapped at Draco’s hole with one curious finger. “Harry, don’t, I’m not sure I can, I’m–” Draco whimpered. 

 

Harry’s impulse was to stop at once, to draw Draco close and check in with him, but he only paused, pressing a gentling kiss to Draco’s low back. He waited for a 'shove off,' but it didn’t come, and Draco didn’t move and his erection didn’t flag, so Harry proceeded.

 

“Are you telling me what to do with my things?” Harry asked disapprovingly. 

 

“No,” Draco replied.

 

“And this lovely little cunt belongs to me, doesn’t it?” 

 

“Yes,” Draco said tremulously. He sounded almost frightened.

 

“Need me to shove off, sweetheart? Is it too much?” Harry asked quietly. Draco immediately gave a curt shake of his head. 

 

“No,” Draco said without hesitation. “Please don’t stop.” 

 

Harry gave an affectionate chuckle and returned to the glory that lay bare before him.

 

“That’s what I thought,” he said, easily shifting back into his practised haughty tone. “It’s my present, and so I get to open it.”

 

He added a bit more saliva to his finger before pushing in, disrupting the clenched ring of muscle. 

 

“Let me in, Draco,” he coaxed. “I’m just loosening you up for me, hm? Nothing we haven’t done before.”

 

Draco’s eyes were squeezed tightly and he nodded his head, taking a few shaky breaths. He finally compelled himself to relax and Harry’s fingertip disappeared inside, stroking the hot velvety depths he found there. 

 

“I’m going to put my tongue here later,” he announced, matter-of-factly. 

 

“No,” Draco whined again. "Please, Harry, I can't stand it. It's too mortifying, please." He tossed his head, hair flinging droplets of water against the glass and slate. 

 

“It wasn’t a question.” Harry pointed out. He stretched and teased at Draco’s rim, encouraging it to release residual tension. “I’m going to taste you whether you want me to or not. I’m going to lay claim to every inch of you that I can reach. I’m going to show you that you cannot hide your shame or your desires away from me.”

 

He eased his finger in further, searching then curling to brush the nub of Draco’s prostate, eliciting a pained wail of surprise and need. 

 

“Are you going to behave?” Harry pushed, allowing more pressure as he circled round, making Draco buck, pre-cum beading at the head of his neglected cock. “Are you going to spread yourself and submit and let me eat my fill? Will you be good, or am I going to have to restrain you?”

 

“Good,” Draco managed to pant out. “I’ll be good.”

 

Harry retracted his finger and gave another sharp slap to Draco’s arse and stood up. 

 

“Dry yourself off. Get on the bed.”

 

Draco looked momentarily unsteady, like a newborn foal finding his legs for the first time. Harry pulled him in for a reassuring kiss. Draco seemed dazed, his cock bumping into Harry’s hipbone. Harry lifted a hand to stroke Draco’s cheek, then delivered a loving pat. 

 

“You’re absolutely lovely,” he whispered encouragingly. “You okay?”

 

Draco blinked and nodded again before nuzzling into Harry’s neck. Harry’s arm went around him. 

 

“I want more,” he pleaded against Harry’s skin.

 

“I know you do, baby,” Harry acknowledged. “What would be most comfortable for you? On your back?”

 

“Yes.” 

 

Harry smiled devilishly. “And what would be least comfortable for you? On your knees? Face down, cunt up, showcasing yourself for me like the needy, gorgeous thing you are?”

 

Draco glanced up at him tentatively. 

 

“Yes,” he repeated. 

 

“Hm. Knowing that, which position do you think I want you in?”

 

“The latter?” Draco said, voice wobbly with nerves. 

 

“Well done, angel. Go. I’ll be there shortly.”

 

/// ///

 

Harry stayed in the shower for several long minutes, giving his rapt cock several slow, long strokes, before finally turning off the water and reaching for a towel with which to dry himself. 

 

When he re-entered the bedroom, the view was resplendent. Draco’s pale form was lit by half candlelight and half moonlight. He faced away from Harry, one cheek pressed to the eiderdown, his body contorted into a lewd and wondrous shape, as he presented Harry with his prize. 

 

Harry silently Accio’d the tawse he had used one of their first times together from its place in the basket atop the bookcase. 

 

He stalked towards Draco slowly, eyeing all his beautiful flesh, the purple splotches already mottling his neck and the inflamed patch on his arse where Harry’s slaps had landed. 

 

He lashed out with the tawse without warning and Draco let out a cry, more from surprise than for pain, Harry suspected. 

 

“I need to tenderise the meat,” Harry explained mildly, “before I can enjoy it. Thighs apart. Stop hiding.”

 

Draco hastily acquiesced, exposing himself fully. No matter how many times he obeyed Harry’s instructions, it never seemed like any less of a miracle. His reward was a steady rhythm of increasingly brutal blows to his arse and thighs. They were hard enough to nearly make Harry wince with sympathy, but Draco seemed to find relief in the familiar, writhing and groaning into the bed, uselessly seeking friction for his deserted cock, only to be met with nothing but air. 

 

At last, when Draco’s skin was striped to Harry’s satisfaction, Harry stopped. He examined Draco's face briefly. A few stray tears glinted into the moonlight, but from what he could make out, Draco’s expression remained a mix of enraptured determination. 

 

“Spread yourself,” Harry directed. “Show me that pure, untasted cunt of yours.”

 

With shaking hands, Draco heeded the order, offering himself up for Harry’s unobscured scrutiny. 

 

“You should see yourself,” Harry said ruthlessly, eyes fixated on Draco’s fingers, white knuckled and rigid as he strove to please. “Have you any idea how wholly pornographic you look right now? How this one desperate hole is capable of stripping you of the entirety of your dignity?”

 

“I don’t know. I need you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s okay, baby. I know you can’t help it. I’ll take care of you. I adore you like this.”

 

Harry palmed one of Draco’s stinging cheeks, then allowed himself a bite, his teeth merciless against the rosy, tender flesh. Draco made an exquisite, wrecked sound. 

 

Harry considered delivering a final blow to the newly exposed area between Draco’s arsecheeks. The idea felt so delightfully cruel that he suspected Draco’s might love it, but they’d not specifically discussed it, so he put that idea away for another time. Instead, he moved in closer, letting his hot breath skate over Draco’s hole. 

 

“Harry,” Draco entreated, and Harry wasn’t sure if even Draco knew if he wanted more, or to pull away.

 

“Beg,” Harry commanded. “Convince me.”

 

“Harry,” Draco keened again, “please.”

 

“You want me to put my mouth on you?” Harry pressed. 

 

Draco tossed his head, agonised. “No. Yes—I don’t know. Whatever you want. Please use me. Please, Harry, take me. I want to give you whatever—I want to give you everything.”

 

Harry ran his tongue along a particularly vibrant stripe left by the tawse. “Everything?” he demanded. 

 

“Yes,” Draco promised. 

 

“Even this delectable cunt of yours?” 

 

“Yes,” Draco repeated. “Please. It belongs to you.”

 

“So fucking good for me,” Harry whispered reverently, and finally, finally, descended. 

 

He didn’t go slow, he didn’t ease into anything, instead lapping ravenously at Draco’s exposed hole with long, messy strokes of his tongue, pushing the tip insistently against the ridges. It was glorious, indescribably glorious, to feel Draco tense and mewl below him. Draco scrambled on the bedspread, urgently attempting to close his legs, to wriggle away from the onslaught. Harry forced himself to listen to Draco’s ragged exhalations, awaiting the safe words that never came. Harry’s magic billowed forth, taking a tight hold on Draco’s legs. He indelicately yanked them apart, hauling Draco back against Harry’s face, where a fresh torrent of swirling sensations awaited. 

 

Draco remained shut tight.  

 

Harry growled, wetting one finger and applying pressure to Draco’s stubborn rim. 

 

“Let me in,” Harry snarled, lust raging through him, bright and wild as a forest fire. “Give me what is mine!”

 

Draco emitted a breathless sob, but relented, the resistance lessening enough for Harry’s finger and tongue to breach his defences. 

 

Harry made a predatory noise, driving recklessly forward, tongue flicking and pulsing as his finger sought out Draco’s prostate insistently, again, again, steady as a drum beat, working towards a crescendo. He added another finger, his tongue working between them, purposefully invasive. One of Draco’s legs was shaking and jerking with the intensity of it all, Harry could feel it vibrate against his magic, but he held strong.

 

Harry reached down, fist tight and fervent around his cock. He came with abandon, tongue still greedily exploring Draco’s hole. With a lurch and a barely stifled scream, Draco’s orgasm swiftly followed, his untouched cock twitching, erupting in time with guttural sounds of release. His hands, which had been faithfully holding himself open throughout, collapsed, grasping at the eiderdown, extending and closing a few times, like spare energy was contracting them without his say so.

 

Harry slowed, gingerly removing his fingers, giving Draco’s crease a final few adoring swipes of his tongue, kissing his flank, his hip, his magic falling away with a comforting sweep over Draco’s skin. 

 

Harry magicked away the mess they both made, fell onto his side. Draco somehow managed to do the same. They lay there, panting hard, facing each other, positioned awkwardly halfway down the bed. 

 

Harry caught his breath, gaze flicking towards Draco’s face, taking him in. 

 

Draco’s face was wet with far more than a few tears now. Tears were not unusual, but Draco’s startled, panicky expression definitely was. Harry’s stomach seized in a tight, sickly mess. 

 

“Draco?” he said, tentatively reaching out. 

 

Draco’s own hand flashed to his face, wiping at the tears hurriedly. More came. 

 

“Oh,” Draco said, the word a sudden staccato burst. “Oh, I’m crying.”

 

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, not knowing quite what to do since he didn’t know exactly what was going on. Draco sounded a little disconnected from himself and Harry was terrified he was the cause. “You okay, sweetheart?”

 

“Yes,” Draco replied. His usually low tone was distorted, tight and high. More tears were flooding his eyes, falling rapidly from his eyes and rolling down his still-red cheeks. “It was good, really good. Every part, even the parts that I was scared of, I really liked it. Fuck, I—I don’t know what is happening.”

 

Draco’s chest was rising and falling in quick bursts.

 

“Okay,” Harry said, not convinced. “Okay. You’ve cried before, during sex, it’s intense, it happens.”

 

“During,” Draco said sharply. “Not after.”

 

Harry had no inkling as to what the difference was, but the distinction was clearly very important to Draco.

 

“Okay,” Harry said yet again. He felt his anxiety mounting, but he pushed it aside. No one was dying and Draco needed him right now. He could deal with his own emotions later. He put a tentative hand on Draco’s arm, relieved when Draco didn’t buck it off. “Sweetheart, you’re breathing awfully fast. Think you could slow down for me?”

 

Draco nodded, his hand coming to his chest as though to confirm Harry’s words. He took a deep, hungry breath. He was trembling, Harry noticed. Not just his hands put his whole body, waves of motion rolling through him. 

 

“Harry,” Draco entreated. 

 

Harry shifted closer, encircling Draco with one arm. 

 

“You’re safe,” Harry told him. “It’s a big reaction. It was something new, a few new things, actually. It’s okay to have a big reaction.”

 

“But I liked it,” Draco said, sounding so lost and confused it made Harry’s heart hurt. 

 

“I know, baby,” Harry murmured, trying to project a calm he didn’t possess. “I think it’s just like, I don’t know, getting a tooth pulled, well, hopefully more fun than that, but there’s all this anticipation and adrenaline and it has nowhere to go and it has to come out. Plus pain endorphins and it’s just, like, well, it’s emotional. You were so open, so vulnerable. I was so lucky to get to see you like that, and you were so very brave to go there. But if it was too much–”

 

“It wasn’t! It felt right. I don’t know why I’m being like this. I don’t want you to think I didn’t like it,” Draco’s tone was plaintive. 

 

“I don’t think that,” Harry said soothingly. “And we can deal with any specifics of what you liked and what you didn’t like later. Let’s just breathe through this, yeah?”

 

“What do I do?” Draco asked, trying to take another deep breath.  

 

“I’m not sure, sweetheart. What would feel nice? You want me to run you a bath or–”

 

“No!” Draco struck out blindly, gripping Harry’s arm. “Don’t leave.”

 

Harry pulled Draco close. “It’s alright. I’m here. I’m here as long as you need me.”

 

Draco made a series of odd, aborted vocalisations, mouth opening then closing as Draco swallowed hard, all the while the tears falling unabated. Harry wondered if he oughtn’t just give into them.

 

“Do you need a proper cry, do you think, love?”

 

Draco jerked his head. “I don’t do that.”

 

“Yeah, but it’s just us two here. No one needs to know. It might help.”

 

“No,” Draco said, steely-voiced. 

 

A moment later and it really didn’t seem like he had a choice. Draco’s entire body heaved as he tried to suppress the inevitable. A sob broke through and Draco’s face crumpled, misery and embarrassment etched in his features. Harry felt horribly, knowing full well how much Draco hated not to be master of his actions, outside of sex. 

 

“There you go, there you go, sweetheart,” Harry said. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. You cry as much as you need.”

 

Harry cradled Draco’s head against his chest. 

 

A wail crested and spilled over, Draco’s shoulder trembling in Harry’s arms. Over and over they came, like Draco was dredging them out from full decades past. 

 

Harry stayed close, a steady stroke of his palm from Draco’s light, still-damp hair to the small of his back. 

 

“That’s good, baby, really good,” he crooned. “This is just what you needed, yeah? Who doesn’t need a cry sometimes, hm? You’re so good, so sweet, so loved, so safe.”

 

Harry’s attempts at comfort only seemed to make Draco cry more ferociously. Harry hoped that was because he was freeing himself of something, and not because Harry had fucked things up between them so spectacularly they could never come back from it. 

 

He did all he could do, staying right where he was, even though his muscles were stiffening and he knew he needed to wash up. This was far more important. 

 

The tidal waves of Draco’s sobs turned to whitecaps, then ripples, and then at last, he stilled. Harry rocked him, all the while, pressing tender kisses to his temple, his jaw, his tear-soaked cheeks. Draco lay still for a long while, the rise and fall of his chest evening out until Harry, not daring to stir, wondered if he might be asleep. 

 

“Well,” the word was hoarse, but Draco sounded like perhaps he had come back to himself. “This ‘proper cry’ business is outright rubbish.”

 

Harry couldn’t help it, he let out a relieved laugh, flopping onto his back, and pulling Draco with him, so his head was resting on Harry’s shoulder. 

 

“Merlin’s tits, love, you had me worried. Are you quite alright?”

 

“I’m snotty as a schoolboy,’ Draco grumbled. “Have you a handkerchief handy?”

 

Harry used his magic to summon one and Draco blew his nose messily, an expression of self-disgust on his blotchy face. 

 

“I’m sorry about that,” Draco muttered. “I don’t know what came over me.”

 

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Harry retorted. “I mean it. It is normal to respond unexpectedly to this stuff, surely you know that better than I do.”

 

“Normal for other people, maybe,” Draco said petulantly. “I fancy I have more self-control than that.”

 

“I’m sorry it happened, then. I hate knowing you are feeling badly about it,” Harry amended, running his fingers through the soft, straight strands of Draco’s hair. They lapsed into another moment of silence. 

 

Harry couldn't stand it. He still needed to know. 

 

“You don’t have to rehash the whole thing,” he began, “but if I went too hard or ignored a sign I shouldn’t have, please, I need to know. I’m not looking for reassurance, I’m looking for the truth here, Draco, I’m quite serious.”

 

“I wasn’t lying,” Draco replied with real annoyance, now. “I enjoyed every second, and I appreciate you not questioning my own experience, thank you very much. In case you cannot tell, you did absolutely everything I said I wanted.”

 

“But perhaps you realised it wasn’t what you wanted after all, which would be completely okay, I just need to know!”

 

“No, for fuck’s sake, Potter, would you listen?” Draco shoved himself to his elbows, his pale brows pushed together in consternation. “I realised, in the middle of you buggering my arse with your bloody tongue, that I am utterly, categorically, and irrevocably in love with you and I never imagined, never even dared to hope, that I would ever in my life be this close or this safe or this connected to another living being, but I do and I am and I suppose I just found this newfound knowledge a little overwhelming.” Draco dropped his head back onto Harry’s chest with a huff of abject frustration. “There, will that satisfy?” he demanded. 

 

“I should think so,” Harry said, stunned. The words, he found, left him wondrously and achingly happy. “For the record, I’m utterly, categorically, and irrevocably in love with you, too.”

Notes:

CW: Dom/sub dynamics, kink negotiation, consensual non-consent (safe word in place, not used), slight consensual feminization (using the word cunt in place of asshole), rimming, pain play, magical bondage, humiliation, denial, coming untouched, crying during/after sex, large emotional response to a scene, ableist language

Kink negotiation off the bat, but the actual sex starts at the first /// ///

If you want to skip to the emotional portion (which contain references to sex acts), please start reading at the line: "Harry caught his breath, gaze flicking towards Draco’s face, taking him in."

 

This was a monster chapter and probably contains editing errors, but I am going cross-eyed having stared at it for 3 days, so please forgive my un-beta'd porn. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy!

Chapter 39: Draco

Summary:

CW in the end notes.

Draco

Even though Harry was clearly exhausted, he insisted upon fussing over Draco. This was, Draco presumed, a panicked response to Draco's mortifying reaction to what was supposed to have been a pleasant and enjoyable sexual interlude. 

 

Still, Draco couldn’t say he minded the hot bath. Harry was in his pants and dressing gown, perched on the tiled step leading up to the big tub. He had his lower limbs submerged with Draco leaning against them. Harry was washing Draco's hair in a manner that one could only describe as entirely indulgent. There was a cup of tea at Draco's elbow. There were candles. It was entirely too much. 

 

Draco loved it a horrifying amount.

 

Never in his life had he allowed himself to be thusly pampered, but in these secret, early hours, he found he could withstand it, so long as no one but Harry ever knew. He turned his head and kissed the soft inside of Harry's knee. Harry hummed appreciatively. 

 

“Shift forward,” he said. 

 

Draco did so, tilting his torso forward and tipping his head back to allow Harry to rinse the shampoo suds away using a small basin. It was the same way Draco remembered washing Scorpius’ hair when he was small, but Draco had no recollection of anyone doing this for him. His mother must have, but it was not something Draco could picture. Even after his father’s most vicious days, Narcissa was more wont to shower Draco with gifts than affection. 

 

Harry's hand tugged lightly on Draco's shoulder, as if sensing the tension there. He indicated that Draco could relax backwards again, and so he did, resting his head on Harry’s bristly inner thigh. He suspected he might be causing the leg of Harry's fitted black pants to become damp, but Harry didn’t seem to mind, so Draco was determined not to mind, either. 

 

Harry's blunt fingertips pressed into the muscles along Draco's scalp, down his neck and into his chest. It was a soft approximation of a massage. Draco thought again about how he ought not to permit such outrageous mollycoddling; he certainly didn’t require it.

 

Only, it was so very nice. 

 

“How are you feeling now?” Harry asked, breaking the silence.  

 

“Must we always talk about our feelings?” Draco muttered waspishly. 

 

“Well, it was a bit of a intense night, love,” Harry pointed out, not rising to the bait that was Draco's churlishness. “I've not seen you like that before.”

 

“By nature of the fact that I have never been like that before,” Draco said. He was exhausted, too. He took a sip of his tea. It was left black, as was his preference. It was such a little thing, that Harry knew this partiality of his, but it felt somehow full of meaning. 

 

“Fine, fine, I won't push. So long as you're alright. You want to stay here a while longer, or should we get some sleep?”

 

Draco considered. He both wanted to be both here and in bed all at once. Here was lovely. Bed was also lovely. But the space between here and bed was not lovely. Draco sighed. Soon the water would cool, and tomorrow was already going to be a miserable day, beset with fatigue as it would be, so he ought to mitigate that as much as he could.

 

“Bed,” he decided. 

 

He didn’t move and Harry didn’t pester, just continued his unhurried exploration of Draco's skin until at last, Draco yanked out the plug and forced himself to his feet. 

 

Out of the bath, Harry insisted on helping him dry off, then wrapped the large, cosy towel around Draco's hips. 

 

“I'm sorry I don’t spoil you more,” Harry told him, running a comb through Draco's hair. “The way you do me. You are always on top of everything around the house, not to mention your cooking is so far superior to mine.”

 

“Well, you are so much more adept at playing unicorn Honey Dazzle than I am,” Draco retorted. “I don’t mind the cooking, as you do more child-wrangling.” 

 

Draco prayed that Harry wouldn’t point out that Draco, frankly, need not do any childcare during the school year. He needn’t do housework, either, for that matter. He could instead be alone in the Manor, child-free with all the domestic labour outsourced to a house-elf. 

 

He couldn’t imagine anything more dreadful and lonely. 

 

“We are so lucky to have you,” Harry said solemnly. 

 

I'm so lucky to be here, Draco thought, but didn't say aloud. There was only so much sentimentality Draco could tolerate in a day, and he had far exceeded his limit. 

 

Draco observed how they appeared together in the mirror. Harry, unbothered, unselfconscious, untangling Draco's hair with affectionate ease. Draco looked a mess, his face still blotchy and pink, the breadth of his shoulders inches shy of Harry's, even if they were of a height. In their reflection, Harry's head peeked out from behind Draco's. He propped his chin on Draco's shoulder, one strong arm wrapping around Draco's waist.

 

"Not terrible for a couple of old blokes, eh? We don't look half-bad together."

 

Draco didn't reply, even if he did agree. His teenage self would never have imagined he'd one day be standing here like this, besotted and adored, in Harry Potter's bathroom. Harry kissed his cheek and Draco strained to touch his lips to Harry's. 

 

“Now,” Harry said after a slow kiss. He set the comb down and opened the drawer containing Draco's nightly skin care routine. “Walk me through all this.”

 

Draco was inordinately touched that Harry wasn’t neglectful of this part of him. “It's fine, I can do it,” he told him.

 

“I know you can,” Harry replied, “but I want to.“

 

“Hrm,” Draco uttered in weak protest, then capitulated. “Toner, serum, eye cream, moisturizer. That’s all.” He pointed to each of the small phials in turn. 

 

“Oh, is that all?” Harry chuckled teasingly. “Surely you don’t need this many. Your skin is flawless. Next to you, I’m as craggy as the bark of a Whomping Willow.”

 

It was far from the truth. Harry's boyish face had only some smile lines around his lips and eyes, and a strand or two of silver hair. All this, Draco thought, only stood to give Harry a smart, life-well-lived sort of appeal. 

 

“And these ointments keep me this way,” Draco retorted. “Permit me my small vanities, Potter.”

 

Draco turned and unwound his towel, folding it and setting it atop the vanity. He hopped up, seating himself languidly upon the towel, fully nude. He parted his thighs so Harry could stand between them.

 

“Had I the means,” Harry said, unscrewing the cap on Draco's homemade toner, “I would surround you with all the vanities you might desire, big or small.”

 

He inverted the bottle—a couple of droplets falling onto a cotton ball he had handy for such a purpose—then applied it, feather-light, over Draco's face and neck with careful focus. 

 

Draco was again struck by the multitude of intimacies that came so easily to Harry. Never had any lover combed Draco's hair or applied tonics to his skin. It was all done with such a casual yet studious air, like of course Harry would do this gratuitous thing, and of course he would think it right to do a proper job of it. 

 

A comfortable silence settled as Harry went diligently about his task. Draco let his eyes fall shut, Harry’s touch soft and sure.  

 

“There,” Harry announced at last, thumb rubbing smooth a final bit of lotion around the hinge of Draco’s jaw. “Now, should you ever find yourself in a magical coma, I can keep you fresh-faced and dewy-eyed until the appropriate antidote can be discovered.”

 

“My hero,” Draco replied dryly. 

 

Harry grinned wide and kissed him. 

 

It was, Draco admitted privately, something of a perfect moment.

 

/// ///

 

Harry curled protectively around Draco once they were under the covers. Draco could tell Harry was dying for reassurance, wanting to ask for the eighteenth time if he had done something wrong earlier, when the reality was really that he had done everything rather spectacularly right. 

 

“I'm completely fine,” Draco insisted. “I can feel you agonising and I wish you wouldn't.”

 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. It’s only that you were so distraught. I could handle it, I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide that stuff, but yeah, it concerned me, I can't say that it didn't. I will try to worry more quietly.”

 

Draco sighed and pivoted in Harry's arms until they were nearly nose to nose. “I simply was unprepared for the enormity that is being truly seen.” 

 

Harry blinked owlishly. 

 

“Oh,” he said. 

 

“‘Oh,’” Draco echoed in a huff, shaking his head with a new wave of affection. “I’ll take it as a compliment that I fully rob you of your faculties. Hell's teeth, Harry, I really do love you.”

 

Harry's anxious expression finally melted into a dopey, pleased look. “I really love you, too.”

 

/// /// 

 

The morning came too soon. The flight to Hogwarts was a chilly one and Draco wrapped his cloak around himself, flexing his fingers to keep the cold from settling into his joints. He'd left the cottage early and was making his way towards the greenhouses. The bright, variegated foliage visible through the glass and contrasting with the monotonous snow engulfing the surrounding grounds. 

 

Neville Longbottom was standing before a large stone sink, scrubbing out some old planters. The greenhouses were not much changed in the years since Draco had been in school. Neville had apprenticed under Professor Sprout starting shortly after the war, and had adopted her blend of organised chaos. Everything had a place, but where that place was was known only to Longbottom. Nevertheless, Neville had proved gifted at Herbology. Draco often opted for products of these greenhouses over anything he could find in Diagon Alley or beyond, especially when a potion was finicky. 

 

Draco let the greenhouse door close just loudly to alert Neville to his presence. The professor turned, and broke into a smile that was a measure too jolly for the early hour. 

 

“Draco!”  Neville greeted, drying his hands on his canvas apron. “What a pleasure!” 

 

Draco wondered how Longbottom could possibly be this happy to see him. Then again, he supposed, the man seemed this happy to see anyone, and Neville and he were friendly, certainly. Prior to Harry taking his post, Neville had been Draco’s closest friend in the castle, but their relationship had stayed firmly collegial. This was, Draco knew, entirely owing to his own wariness and lack of Gryffindor warmth.

 

Draco wasn’t at all convinced he deserved the forgiveness that Neville had given so freely, reaching out to shake his hand on Draco’s first day as faculty. Draco had already prepared himself to be outright rejected. He had readied himself for a friendless life at Hogwarts, reviled at worst, tolerated at best. Neville had been dogged in his congenial quest to include Draco, making a point to sit with him at mealtimes, chattering about students and plants and inviting other professors to their table. 

 

“Good to see you, Longbottom,” Draco said, and found the words to be true. He did like it here, breathing in the scents of blooms and soil which seemed so out of keeping with the winter day. “I see you’ve got some demiguise grass coming in nicely.” He ran a hand through the soft, ash-grey blades which hung suspended from a twisted branch. It was velvety to his touch, a mimic, apparently, to the pelt of a demiguise.

 

“Yes!” Neville agreed excitedly. “I’d not tried it before, this really isn’t the right climate, but it has been flourishing, with a little help.” He gestured to some glowing orbs suspended above the plant. “I’ve charmed these to give off very specific wavelengths of light.”

 

“Now that’s quite clever,” Draco mused.

 

“Nah, it’s a borrowed Muggle trick, really, but it’s been great. This grass is dead useful, I’ve a hundred ideas for it.”

 

Draco couldn’t name a single use for demiguise grass, himself, but Neville seemed awfully convinced, so Draco nodded. 

 

“Excellent,” Draco said. 

 

“Anyway, enough of me prattling on, what can I do for you?” 

 

“I was hoping you might have some waving cristata. I’m looking to introduce the fourth-years to  an animal calming draught. Professor Tack thought we might do a joint Care of Magical Creatures and Potions class as a little diversion before the holiday.”

 

“Wonderful plan!” Neville replied, delighted, “I’ve just the thing.” He led the way to the back of the greenhouse, where he pulled out a deep, wide drawer from what looked to be a converted armoire. A small carton about the size of a shoebox held rows of the ridged, lettuce-like bloom in all the colours of a sunset. They swayed slightly, as if caught outside on a windy day, despite the still air in the greenhouse. Hence their name, Draco supposed. They did look as though were waving hello.

 

“Oh, these will do very well indeed,” Draco remarked sincerely. “May I?”

 

“By all means. This has always been one of Hannah’s favourites. She even had a couple of them in her wedding bouquet.”

 

“It is definitely unique,” Draco acknowledged. He used a set of small, sharp shears to trim off a few leaves. He would dry and powder them in the following days. “How is Hannah? How are the girls?”

 

It wasn’t as though Draco didn’t speak to Neville regularly, but as with most faculty, their conversations tended to revolve around work. Draco hardly encouraged a lot of open dialogue about his private life. 

 

“Oh, they’re grand,” Neville told him. “Hannah loves Christmas, so she’s done up the whole place with streamers and trees and baubles. The house looks like a real winter wonderland, and the girls are all thrilled.”

 

Draco stifled a shudder, picturing the equivalent of the decor at Madam Puddifoot’s at any given holiday. 

 

“That’s a lot of Christmas,” he offered, as charitibly as he could. 

 

Neville beamed. “Do you…” he began, then stopped himself. 

 

Draco raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Yes?”

 

“Well, it’s only that we usually get together with the Potters over the break, just for a little holiday drink and so the kids can have a run around together. I was wondering if we might see you this year, as well?”

 

Neville didn't say it explicitly, but his tone was heavy with implication. 

 

“Oh,” Draco managed. He was admittedly surprised. Harry and he weren’t open about their relationship when they were at work. They avoided public displays of affection and kept conversation superficial, but they did fly in together as often as not, and Draco had run Remy to childcare once or twice, when Harry had early morning obligations. Draco willed himself not to blush. “Yes,” he said. “I suspect you might.”

 

Neville smiled softly. “Thought I should just say it,” he explained. “Seems a bit daft to just keep on pretending otherwise. I’m chuffed for you, Draco. I’m chuffed for you both. Seems to be a good fit. Harry’s a good man, and so are you.”

 

Draco swallowed hard at whatever emotion was clawing at his throat, trying to make itself known. Horror at having his private matters on display, perhaps, or some sort of misplaced sentiment at being so gracefully accepted. 

 

“It’s very decent of you, Longbottom,” Draco said gruffly. “You’ve always been terribly decent.”

 

Neville looked amused. “Have I?”

 

“When I first came to work here, you needn’t have been so gracious, not after what I put you through while we were in school, after my family's role in the wars. No, you’ve been incredibly and mercifully kind, and it is about time I thank you properly for it. You have my gratitude.”

 

Neville blushed and busied himself with some wispy yellow plants that Draco couldn’t name. 

 

“It’s nothing,” he said breezily. “I figured, you were bold enough to try to make a fresh start for yourself, I could try and start things off on the right foot. We were adults, after all. I reckoned…well. I find that kids who behave the worst often have the most going on at home, I just need to take the time to ask. I get the feeling no one did that for you, and I wish they had.”

 

Draco’s eyes felt hot. “Yes,” he replied with difficulty. Humiliatingly, there was a slight break in his voice. “I rather wish they had, too. If you’ll excuse me.”

 

He hurried out of the greenhouse before he made a fool of himself like he had the night prior. Hell’s teeth, he was going soft, and he was quite sure it was all Harry’s fault. This was the final straw, Draco resolved. He would allow no further pampering, no matter how persuasive Harry might be. 

Notes:

CW: slight reference to past child abuse/neglect

 

Just a little chapter of fluff.

Thanks for reading and for all the comments! Hope I didn't scare too many people off with the smut, haha.

Chapter 40: Harry

Notes:

CWs in the end notes!

Harry

Harry and Remy showed up at The Burrow unannounced. The kitchen was empty, and much tidier than Harry ever remembered it being in his youth. Molly must be finding the sting of her empty nest particularly sharp this year, and Harry suspected she might be putting that energy into keeping house. 

 

“Molly!” he called, thinking it better to alert her to his presence than to skulk about and give her a heart attack. 

 

“Is that you, Harry?” Molly replied, her voice coming from the sitting room. “I’ll be right there!”

 

“No, no, we’ll come to you!” Harry insisted, striding through the kitchen to meet her. 

 

She was seated in Arthur’s big chair, knitting. There was a plate of a few crumbly biscuits and grapes on a small table beside her and the usual fire glowing in the hearth. Molly was a powerful witch, Harry knew, but nothing suited her quite like being a grandmother. Harry could relate to that, a preference for the quiet life, well, a very noisy sort of quiet life.

 

“Harry, dear,” she greeted. “And you’ve brought Remy to see me! What a treat. I needed a pick-me-up today.”

 

Harry leant in to kiss her cheek. She immediately reached for Remy and Harry handed him off, along with a flannel cloth. 

 

“Careful, he’s at a particularly drooly stage,” Harry warned. “Teeth are coming in.”

 

Molly made some adoring tutting noises, touching her nose to Remy’s. “That’s because he’s a bright, strong boy. How’s it going with solids?” 

 

“Well, he is considering the shift from purees,” Harry told her, “but truthfully, more of it ends up on the floor than in his mouth.”

 

“Oh, isn’t it always that way,” Molly replied, shaking her head.

 

Harry plopped himself down on the old familiar settee in the cramped living room. The air felt heavy with nostalgia. So many Christmases and birthdays spent here, but funeral receptions also, endless gatherings of the only family Harry had ever known. Photos covered every possible surface. Harry caught sight of his much younger self grinning widely and throwing rice at Ron and Hermione’s wedding. The realisation struck him that Ginny’s departure had left him terrified that he’d not just lost her, but all of this. Perhaps that explained why he kept his distance, why Draco had been such a breath of fresh air, entirely separate from the Weasleys. It had been an uncharitable assumption, Harry now knew. He was deeply relieved he’d gotten wrong. A wave of affection towards Molly crested in his chest. She glanced at him, and must have noticed some shift in his demeanour, because she gave him a soft, fond look.  

 

“No Lily tonight?” Molly asked. “Is she at a sleepover with one of her friends from primary?”

 

“Ah,” Harry hesitated. “That’s a bit to do with what I was hoping to talk to you about.”

 

“Oh?” Molly looked up from her knitting, curious. “Oh, Harry, you’ve not forgiven Ginny already?”

 

She sounded much more aggrieved than thrilled, which Harry took as a small mercy. This would be a lot harder if Molly was holding out hope for a reunion.

 

“No,” he stated firmly, “Ginny and I are not back together. We never will be. Neither of us want that.”

 

Molly's lips pursed and she gave a determined nod. “Good. She doesn’t deserve you. And I told her so, don’t think that I didn’t. I said you would move on to someone new, that witches all across the continent would be tripping over themselves to replace her.”

 

“Er,” Harry said uncomfortably. He didn’t quite know where to start. “Have you seen her, then?”

 

“No,” Molly told him. “She’s made it clear that family is no longer a priority for her. I’ve written to her, to let her know my feelings.”

 

“Oh Molly, you’ve not sent her Howlers,” Harry grimaced. 

 

“And what if I have!” demanded Molly. “She needs to hear sense from someone! Your generation is afraid to say boo to a ghost, so endlessly understanding. There is nothing to understand here. She abandoned her family. And don’t you go saying I’m only this furious because she’s a witch. Hermione’s tried that one on me already and I’m not having it. I’d do the same if any one of my boys pulled such a miserable, selfish stunt.”

 

Harry sighed. “I hope you’re not feeling that way on my account, Molly, truly. Ginny and I are trying to muddle onwards. I think it is what is best for the kids. Jamie and Lily want so badly to spend time with her, you know? So, yeah. I don’t think I haven’t forgiven her, I’m not even sure I want to, but I am attempting to keep it civil.”

 

Molly’s eyes narrowed, ready to protest. Harry held up a pacifying palm. 

 

“I’m not here to change your mind,” Harry assured her.

 

Remy started fussing, a thin whiny cry. Harry was going to have to ask Draco to make up more of that wonderful Soothing Tonic. Molly shushed the baby, bouncing him in place. 

 

“No, you’re here to tell me about your special new someone!” she reminded Harry. “Tell me everything, Harry, oh, I’m so very happy for you. I hated to think about you and the children all alone.” 

 

“Yes,” Harry hedged, “and we haven’t been.” 

 

“What’s her name?” 

 

Harry palmed the back of his own neck, squeezing nervously. “I’ve not told Ron yet.” He was stalling and he knew it.

 

“Oh, Ron has a temper, don’t I know it, but he’s none too pleased with Ginny, either, even if he is a bit more hopeful than the rest of us. He’ll surely have to see that you’re an eligible bachelor with a life to live, and most of all, he loves you, he wants you to be happy. You can’t be expected to wait around for Ginny to come to her senses forever!”

 

Six months was hardly forever, Harry thought guiltily. He’d barely waited six weeks before inviting Draco into his bed. It wasn’t a good look. From an outside perspective, it was objectively absurd. Hell, from Harry’s own perspective, it was absurd, and yet here he was. Harry knew it was only Molly's rage that was convincing her this sort of timeline was normal.

 

“I don’t know how to say this, exactly,” Harry frowned. “It all happened very quickly.”

 

“As it does at this stage of life,” Molly placated. “Nothing to be ashamed of. You can't expect years-long courtships like people have when they are still in school!” 

 

 “Yeah,” Harry said. The moment suspended between them. Molly’s expectant expression, Harry’s anxiety manifesting as a prickling of sweat down his back.

 

“The truth is, Molly, I’ve taken up with Draco Malfoy.”

 

Molly stopped bouncing Remy. Remy started to wail. Harry and Molly stood at the same time, leaning forward as they did, nearly smacking their heads together. Molly’s plum-coloured knitting dropped to the floor. 

 

“Oh, shit!” Harry exclaimed, reaching out to place a steadying hand on Molly’s shoulder. He dropped to his knees, gathering her yarn and shoving it quickly onto the side table.

 

They looked at each other. Harry couldn’t read her.

 

“Sorry,” Harry said. “Do you want me to take him? Remy, I mean?”

 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Molly replied, staring at Harry. 

 

“Ah, okay.”

 

Molly remained silent, save for little tsking sounds which thankfully seemed to calm Remy. Harry waited, shifting awkwardly. Molly finally sat down again, so Harry did, too, just for something to do. He plucked uselessly at the end of his shirt sleeves. He felt like a teenager all over again, awaiting judgment from on high, his every action scrutinised. 

 

“Draco Malfoy,” Molly repeated, dumbstruck.

 

Harry was afraid to look at her, uncertain of what he might see if he did. 

 

“Yep,” he replied. 

 

“I see,” Molly said faintly. 

 

Harry chewed the inside of his cheek. Maybe he should just leave? Maybe it was selfish of him to drop this on Molly this close to the holidays. Maybe Draco and he should have packed up the kids and run off to, hell, Peru or Papua New Guinea or something, and stayed cosied up there for the holiday. That would have been the judicious course of action. Only, Draco was a sure thing. And hiding out from one's family was not how one treated a sure thing. Draco was the furthest thing from a dirty secret; Harry was endlessly proud to be by his side. Along with the kids, Draco was, without question, the brightest light in Harry’s life, and he bloody well deserved to be known as such. 

 

“How exactly,” Molly hazarded, still rocking Remy, “did this come to pass?” 

 

“Oh,” Harry responded. It was a good question, one to which Harry himself scarcely knew the answer. “He showed up one day. Al and Draco’s son are close, you know—inseparable really—and so he showed up for that. And then he just kept showing up. Day after day, there he was, anticipating everything and taking care of me in ways I’d not even realised I needed taking care of. Taking care of all of us, really."

 

Harry crossed his arms, gaze landing on a photo of all Molly's grandchildren, save Remy, from the Christmas prior. It has been such a happy time. Harry sighed. Perhaps he’d said too much. He really didn't talk like this with Molly, not really, but maybe he should start.

 

“That was very decent of him,” Molly reflected tentatively. “I heard plenty of whinging from Bill and Fleur’s kids as they were coming up. I got the impression he was a rather serious, severe sort of man.”

 

“He can be,” Harry agreed, although it had been so long since he had seen Draco like that that he nearly forgot the image that Draco projected to the world. “He’s strict—feared, a bit, maybe. He gives plenty of homework, and allows very few excuses, but he’s always fair.”

 

“Yes,” Molly said. “I never heard them say anything about him being cruel, only particular and rather stand-offish.”

 

“He’s not–I mean, he can come off that way, yeah.”

 

“But not to you.”

 

“I mean, not usually,” Harry chuckled wryly. “He is still him. Bit prickly when he needs to be.”

 

“You all hated him when you were kids,” Molly recalled. She reached for a grape, popping it into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

 

“He was awful,” Harry conceded. “I have a better idea of why, now, but yeah, first rate bully. Especially to me. The whole wizarding world was all so new, and everyone knew me, and I didn’t know anyone, and he was an absolute shit, right from the start, well before everything kicked off with the war.”

 

“I suppose we can’t ignore his role in that, too.”

 

“No,” Harry agreed. “I can’t sugarcoat it, and he wouldn’t want me to. He wears a Dark Mark. His parents were in Voldemort’s inner circle. It’s a kind of brainwashing, what he grew up with. I think by the time he started to question things, he was too enmeshed, too afraid of what would happen to his family.”

 

Molly gave a sad shake of her head. “I can’t imagine how terrifying that must have been. He was just a boy. You were all just children. Despicable.”

 

“He’d be the first to admit he was on the wrong side of history, and not just for show. He harbours a lot of guilt, I think, even more than he’s even willing to cop to.”

 

Harry finally braved a look at Molly’s face. She rewarded him with a small smile. 

 

“It’s funny the way things work out.”

 

“You can say that again.”

 

Harry leant back against the welcoming soft cushion at his back. He’d been afraid that Molly would be as unforgiving towards Draco as she was towards Ginny. She had reason to be. Harry wasn’t about to point out the hypocrisy; he was simply relieved she was hearing him out.  

 

“I’m sorry I’ve not said anything sooner,” Harry told her. “It was all so new and it felt like we had so much time before we had to announce it to the world, but the kids found out, and I’d rather you all heard it from me than reading about it in The Daily Prophet or what have you. That, and I was rather hoping you’d be open to having him and Scorpius for Christmas Day, if it’s not too short of notice.”

 

“Oh, of course, Harry, love,” Molly said, as if it wasn’t even a question. “Any partner of yours is always welcome, you are family. Although, I would break the news to Ron beforehand, and George. He’s never gotten over–well, none of us have, but George–”

 

Tears welled in Molly’s eyes. She didn’t rush to wipe them away, instead hugging Remy to her chest. 

 

“I know, Molly,” Harry told her quietly. “Fred was unforgettable. George has every right to his grudges. I’ll talk to him. If he’s not comfortable, we’ll do Christmas at Eiderdown End and pop over to say hello when we can.” 

 

“I’m sure he’ll understand,” Molly muttered, dabbing at her face. “And if he doesn’t, we’ll sort something out.” 

 

“On that note,” Harry said. “Al isn’t seeing Ginny. I assume you’ve not extended an invitation, but I reckoned I ought to check.”

 

“Definitely not,” Molly replied sharply. “Especially not if Al doesn’t want to see her.”

 

“Alright. Thank you. I’m not trying to bar her from Christmas or anything.”

 

“No, but you are trying to respect your children’s decisions.”

 

“I suppose,” Harry said glumly. “It’s tricky. Jamie and Lily would want her here, I’m certain. Christmas won’t feel the same without her, but Al is steadfast.”

 

“Like his father.”

 

Harry was caught off guard by the comment. He’d not felt particularly steadfast, especially not in the spring. He was at last beginning to climb out of the pit of overwhelm, clinging to Draco’s unerring forward stride, but some moments still left him floundering, never certain he was making the right decision. 

 

“Thanks, Molly,” Harry murmured. “I try my best, it’s just–”

 

“Nothing can make a person feel more inept than parenting, and I did it eight times over. Stand your ground, love. When things feel untethered, kids need deep roots more than ever.”

 

Harry considered the words. Molly was right, but it was hard to plant deep roots when so much had been in flux. Remy started to fuss again. Harry reached out and took him without thinking. “Someone’s hungry,” he remarked. “I ought to get home. Draco’s trying his hand at some sort of chimichurri pablum. Baby food that is more refined than 99% of anything I cook.”

 

“A man that knows his way around a kitchen,” Molly said approvingly. “I’m glad to hear it. Hermione reminds me often that I never forced you boys to learn. I think it has been a touch of a sore spot between her and Ron.”

 

Harry laughed, walking towards the kitchen. Molly followed him. 

 

“You taught us all plenty of other things,” Harry reminded her. “Things that matter.”

 

“Oh, give us a hug,” Molly said, looking weepy again. Harry made a mental note to visit more, and not just when he needed a babysitter. He stooped and wrapped an arm around her, Remy still squalling, squashed between them. 

 

Harry stepped into the Floo, heading home. 

Notes:

CW - slight reference to past child abuse

Thanks so much for reading and for comments, you all spoil me and I'm terribly grateful!

Happy Pride 💚💛🧡❤💜🌈. Wishing all my fellow queers a loving mother-figure that's there when you need one.

Chapter 41: Albus

Notes:

**Please see end notes for CWs (major spoilers for this chapter)**

Albus

“Oh, there you are,” Albus said, relieved, when Scorpius appeared in the Slytherin dormitory, his Stampede 2 Ultra over one shoulder. Scorpius had been out flying with Jamie, and Al was being really chill about it, even if he had been left all alone in the dormitory. He was absolutely determined to not say anything petty. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been invited. Although, Al thought privately, such an invitation hardly counted when both Jamie and Scor knew he hated flying. It was cold, especially on days like today, and it made him feel a little ill, and honestly, it was just plain tedious. 

 

But that didn’t matter. Al was committed to being unbothered. 

 

“Have you my jumper? The hideous one Granny made?” Albus asked. He had his trunk wide open, its contents strewn all over his bed, Scorpius’ bed, and the floor. Aside from his father’s Invisibility Cloak, which Al wouldn’t risk leaving out lest it be seen by his dormmates, his trunk was completely empty.

 

“Merlin, Al, are you not packed yet?” Scorpius asked. He glanced about at Albus’ scattered belongings with trepidation. 

 

“I was,” Al replied, “but I wasn’t packed properly. So I unpacked. I thought maybe if I could see everything all at once, it would be easier.” He didn’t admit that after the unpacking, he’d all but run out of steam, and repacking seemed an unbearable prospect. 

 

“Ah,” Scorpius said. “Is it?”

 

“No,” Al muttered miserably. 

 

It was particularly humiliating to confess this to Scorpius, who kept his trunk and dorm space so perfectly tidy that he barely needed to pack at all. 

 

“Can I help?” Scorpius offered, tentatively.

 

“Please.”

 

“Right. Let’s start with clothing.” Scorpius sat on his cluttered bed and started hunting through a crumpled heap of laundry, matching individual socks to their pairs. “Do you want to take any school books home for the break?”

 

Albus collected a pile of books and stared at them, undecided. “I probably won’t need them. Are you packing any?”

 

“A few,” Scorpius said. “We can always share, should you feel like studying.”

 

Albus nodded appreciatively and shoved a bunch of books in the general direction of his side table. 

 

“What’s next?” 

 

“Gifts? Do you have anything for your family?”

 

“Nah, Mum usually–” Al bit down hard enough to make teeth clack. He reached for his wand, Praetereo Retrosum at the ready. 

 

“Don’t,” Scor said quietly. “Please, Al.”

 

Al bristled. “Why not? So Mum used to take me shopping. Now she won’t. Why should I bother remembering that?”

 

“Because, we just don’t know what the spell could be doing to your brain–”

 

“You never cared about that before,” Al accused.

 

“That’s not true, I just didn’t want to upset you. Jamie says–”

 

“Oh, you’ve been talking to Jamie about me?” Al’s temper flared. He barely noticed that instead of his wand, his fingers had wrapped around the peach pit. He slipped his hand inside his cloak, so Scorpius couldn’t see. 

 

“He’s just worried.”

 

“That’s no excuse to be gossiping behind my back.”

 

Scorpius’ usually open face turned stern. 

 

“That’s not fair, Al. He just repeated the same things he said the other night in Father’s office. It’s nothing he wouldn’t also say to your face. You are on his mind, that’s all.”

 

That Scorpius was right and reasonable was somehow more unbearable than if he’d been wholly in the wrong. Al clamped his fist around the pit as tightly as he could, feeling the jagged surface dig into his hand. He wished it was sharp enough to make him bleed. He glared at Scor as hard as he could.

 

“And I’m worried, too,” Scorpius said simply. “You’re my best friend. I don’t want anything to happen to you, that’s all.”

 

Bitter retorts burned their way across Al’s tongue and he wanted to spit them out, a viper strike to Scorpius’ neck. The violence of the thought startled him. No, he didn’t want that. Of course he didn’t want that. He’d obliterate anyone who hurt Scor. 

 

Albus took a shaky breath, eyes squeezed shut. He took all the outrage and gathered it up until it felt like a dark, amorphous blob in the centre of his chest. He imagined shoving the blob out of his chest and down his arm, allowing the pit to absorb and destroy it. Zap, like the Muggle mosquito trap his Grandad had shown him. A satisfying fizzle of calm seemed to shoot back up. It was just his imagination, surely, but Albus felt better. 

 

He opened his eyes. Scorpius was perched beside him on the bed. 

 

“Sorry,” Al said, slipping the peach pit into his pocket as discreetly as he could. “I’m jealous, I think.”

 

The words came out before Al had even had a chance to analyse them.

 

Scor scrunched up his mouth, a sad sort of expression Al couldn’t name exactly. “I know. I don’t want you to be.”

 

“Yeah. I don’t want to be, either. I just am.” Al couldn’t figure out if finally naming this felt wildly freeing or absolutely rotten. He was ashamed. He hated this, hated feeling like a total arsehole.

 

“Why are you, do you think?” Scorpius wondered. 

 

It was a good question. Al didn’t have an answer for it, since he’d only just admitted this all to himself three seconds prior. 

 

“I dunno. Everyone likes Jamie. I’m afraid you’ll notice he’s popular and sporty and, like, nice. I don’t think I’m nice.”

 

“You’re nice to me,” Scorpius pointed out.

 

“Yeah, well, Jamie’s nicer,” Al sighed. “And I’m afraid you’ll notice and then you’ll want to just spend all your time with him.”

 

“If it helps, I’ve already noticed, and it doesn’t make me not want to spend time with you," Scor explained. "I just also want to spend time with Jamie. You should know by now that I don’t care how nice you are, Al, so long as you are not mean, and you never are.” 

 

“Thanks,” Al said, swallowing hard.

 

“It’s been alright, hasn’t it?” Scorpius asked. “Sort of being friendly with Jamie and his friends, too?”

 

“Yeah, they’re not so bad." Al didn't say more, lest it lead to Scor wondering about the location of the peach pit. 

 

“So, I’m thinking," Scor said instead, "we could both have more friends. Doesn’t mean we’re not best friends.”

 

“Yeah,” Al nodded. “I guess so.”

 

Scorpius reached out, an arm around Al’s shoulders and hugged him. Al gently knocked his head affectionately against Scor’s in an attempt at an apology.

 

“Should we finish getting you packed up?” Scor asked.

 

Al made a noise of agreement, but didn’t move. 

 

“Right,” Scorpius determined, then yawned. He hurried to cover his mouth, looking embarrassed, even though it was just Al here to see his mometary lapse in manners. “How about you start folding your pants. I’ll do your cloaks and jumpers. It will take no time at all.”

 

/// ///

 

Scorpius had been right. It had taken barely twenty minutes to finish packing Al’s trunk. Scorpius had volleyed him easy, straightforward questions, like ‘What do you want to do with the key for your cipher?’ and ‘Won’t your granny have a fit if you bring that awful set of Gobstones?’ and just like that they’d been done, Al’s things packed or put away and out of sight. The other boys had wandered in eventually, boasting about their holiday plans—as if Raleigh hadn’t been crowing about The Maldives for the better part of a month. 

 

The next morning arrived with a lot of bluster. Al and Scorpius met Jamie, Fortitude Jordan, and Januarius Boone on the grounds. Everyone was bundled up against the cold as the invisible Thestrals pulled the student body to Hogsmeade Station. Professor Malfoy and Al's dad had offered to Apparate Al and Jamie and Scorpius from Hosgmeade to the Apparition point near Eiderdown End, but they had declined. The train was a symbol of the end of term, a final holiday celebration without professors around to interfere. Plus, Al had a carefully curated book of chocolate frog cards, and the Hogwarts Express always gave him a chance to add to it. 

 

Aboard the train, Al ended up squashed against a window, with Scorpius sandwiched between him and Jamie. Fort and Boone sat across from them. Al was once again struck by how physically opposite they were. It was almost comical. Fort was tall, broad shouldered, and athletic. Boone was fine-boned and pale, the top of his head barely reaching Fort’s shoulders. Fort was loud and obnoxious, Boone was quiet and sharp-tongued. It was an unlikely friendship, but it seemed to work. 

 

“Looking forward to Christmas, Fortitude?” Scorpius enquired politely. 

 

“You can call me Fort, you know,” the witch said with a wink. Her hair was up in a towering heap of braids and she had long beaded earrings that appeared enchanted to endlessly shift and roll like a waterfall. Al liked watching them. “And not really. It’s always just a bit of a mess.”

 

“Why’s it a mess?” Al demanded. Scorpius elbowed him. 

 

“Merlin’s tits, Al, you can’t just ask that,” Jamie scolded. 

 

Fort shrugged. “Why not? I brought it up. Just typical divorced parents shit. Endless squabbling about who gets to parade me around to which set of grandparents on which night. Mum will be railing against my crap grades and Dad will be telling me not to listen to Mum and to stay focused on my Quidditch. It’s great.” She gave a sarcastic smile and a thumbs up. “Loads for you Potter boys to look forward to.”

 

Jamie looked a bit crestfallen at that. 

 

“Mum doesn’t want us at all, so I don’t expect any of that will be much of an issue,” Al stated plainly. 

 

“Al, that’s not true,” Jamie murmured urgently. “She does want to see us.”

 

“What about you, Scor?” Fort pivoted, clearly noticing the tension. “Your folks split, yeah? I should hope so, since your dad’s shagging Jamie’s.” 

 

“Eurgh! Fuck, Jordan,” Jamie exclaimed. “Don’t fucking say that.”

 

Fort only flashed him a wide, mischievous grin. “Oh, sorry, Potter. Did you imagine they were sticking to hand-holding and closed-mouth kisses?”

 

Jamie rammed his fists into his eyes as if he could scrub away the thought. “I wasn’t imagining anything, thanks very much.”

 

Al similarly refused to let himself think about it. It was weird, he knew, but it did mean that Scorpius would be around more often, so it was a net gain, so far as Al was concerned. 

 

“Anyway, sorry, Malfoy, we got interrupted,” Fort said leaning in with interest, as though she hadn’t been the cause of the disturbance in the first place. 

 

Scorpius’ cheeks were bright right, his expression scandalised. “Erm,” he managed, then seemed to recall the question. “Yes, that’s correct, my parents are no longer together.”

 

“So you split the holidays between them?” Fort pushed.  

 

“No,” Scorpius replied. “I don’t see my mother.” 

 

“Well, looks like Ri is the only one with a loving family,” Jamie said quickly. Al was glad he’d changed the course of the conversation and hopefully saved Scor from further interrogation.

 

“Oh?” Al prompted. 

 

Fort cackled happily. “Just wait until we get to Kings Cross,” she told Al and Scorpius conspiratorially. “You’ll know the Boones by their matching flannel collared shirts and how they walk around with their hands in one another’s back pockets. They call each other ‘honey bee’ and ‘honey bear’. It’s unreal.”

 

Al glanced at Boone, who appeared wholly unruffled.

 

“Really?” Al pressed. 

 

“Hm,” Ri agreed airily. “It’s disgusting.”

 

“It is,” Jamie agreed.

 

“What does that make you, Ri? Honey baby?” Fort gave a snort of laughter at her own cleverness, collapsing against Ri’s shoulder. Ri poked her in the ribs with his wand and Fort shrieked merrily. 

 

“Oh, go rot, Jordan,” Boone said with a yawn. 

 

“Whatever you say, honey baby!” Fort giggled breathlessly. “Nah, mate, I’m only joking. I’d kill for my parents to be that into each other. Okay, like one eighth that into each other, but still.”

 

“They sound sweet,” Scorpius offered kindly.  

 

“They are, actually,” Ri agreed, using one hand to shove Fort’s head off his shoulder. She resisted, smooshing her face into his palm. Ri caved, and let Fort squish her cheek against his.

 

“Then how’d you turn out so sour?” Fort retorted. 

 

“Practice,” Ri informed her. “I will bite.” Ri bared his teeth demonstratively.

 

Fort simply laughed again before sitting up, exhilaration shining bright in her eyes. 

 

Al wondered idly if this was what flirting looked like, teasing and finding excuses to touch one another. Al wondered if there was a witch at school that he would want to touch him like that. He couldn’t think of anyone. Then again, he decided, he wasn’t ruling it out—just maybe not someone as boisterous as Fortitude.

 

Jamie brought out a deck of Exploding Snap and soon the five of them were involved in a game so spirited that they got shushed by Al and Jamie’s cousin Molly—who was sitting three compartments down—not once, but thrice. 

 

/// ///

 

Just as Al’s stomach was starting to rumble, the squeaky wheels of the treat trolley were heard in their car.

 

“Everyone get chocolate frogs,” Al asserted. “I want the cards and I am open to fair trades.”

 

“I’ve got your damn dad like five times in a row,” Fort told him. “Disproportionate representation.”

 

“Same,” groused Jamie. 

 

“Useless,” agreed Al. 

 

The ancient witch who operated the trolley came to stop in front of them. “What can I do for you, dears?” she asked. 

 

“Chocolate frogs all round, please,” Jamie said. He scrounged around in his trouser pockets for some Sickles. “On me.” 

 

Al thought that was pretty decent of him. 

 

The witch gave them a watery, almost dazed look. “Chocolate frogs,” she repeated, pocketing the coins that Jamie had passed her. “Coming right up.”

 

Using a pair of metal tongs, she began to distribute the confections one by one. She was trembling slightly with age, and it seemed an oddly laborious task. 

 

Fort ripped into her frog immediately, sighing as she pulled out a sixth 'Harry Potter' card, which she tossed at Al. “All yours,” she said. 

 

Ri opened his frog much more daintily, and Jamie left his out on the table for later. Scorpius smiled kindly at the trolley witch, holding his palm out to catch the treat. The tongs released the chocolate frog and landed in Scorpius’ waiting hands. The witch paused. Scorpius cried out. 

 

And then, he disappeared. 

Notes:

CW: missing child

Thank you for reading!!

Chapter 42: Jamie & Draco

Notes:

**CW in end notes**

Jamie

 

“Scor?” Jamie and Al said at exactly the same time. The space between them where Scorpius had been seated was utterly vacant. Jamie thrust a hand into the air there, hoping madly that Scor had been made invisible or placed under a Disillusionment Charm. He felt only air. He looked up, meeting Albus’ gaze and mirroring the panicked confusion he saw there. For an impossibly stretched second, they sat in disbelieving silence, gaping at one another. This could not be happening. Scorpius had just been here shoulder-to-shoulder with Jamie, his leg pressed against Jamie’s under the table, a giddy bubble of possibility in Jamie's chest. 

 

The moment snapped shut like a released elastic band, the events of the last thirty seconds rushing through Jamie’s head like a hurricane. He whirled around to stare at the witch behind the trolley. Her expression was mild and pleasant. She was holding out a chocolate frog to Al, as if nothing had happened. Jamie smacked her arm away and the chocolate frog went skittering down the corridor. She wasn’t getting Albus, too. The trolley woman gave a little bewildered yelp. 

 

“Where is he?” Jamie commanded. 

 

“Where is who, dear?” the old woman asked, rubbing absent-mindedly at the arm still holding the tongs. 

 

“Where the fuck is he?” Jamie roared. His muscles felt coiled, ready to run, to fly, but he had nowhere to put all that, so it just swirled about inside of him, like the threat of a storm. 

 

“Merlin’s hairy fat arse,” came an irritated voice from the corridor. Jamie and Al’s cousin Molly elbowed her way into view. “I’ve asked you lot three fucking times–” Molly seemed to suddenly realise  the stunned expressions before her. “What is it? What’s happened?”

 

“It’s Malfoy,” Fort said.

 

“He disappeared.” Ri added. 

 

“There was a chocolate frog,” Albus explained, seeming every bit as frantic as Jamie felt. “I think it must have been a Portkey or something. He touched it and then he disappeared.”

 

Molly looked unconvinced. “Sure it’s not just a prank or something?” She looked up and down the corridor. “Oi! Malfoy!” she called out. There was no response. Jamie could hear more students gathering outside the compartment trying to find out what the ruckus was all about. Shit, the last thing they needed was an audience. 

 

“What would anyone want with Scorpius Malfoy?” Molly scoffed. “And what the hell have you done to poor Miss Shirley, here?” She put a protective arm around the frail old trolley witch. 

 

“She gave him the damn frog that made him disappear!” Fort said. 

 

“Are you alright, Miss Shirley?” Molly enquired gently. 

 

“What’s that, dear?” was the befuddled response. The old witch gave a muted smile, deepening the wrinkles on her worn face. Jamie wanted to shake her. 

 

“Can’t you see,” Jamie urged with frustration, “she’s not herself! I don’t know how she is involved, but Scorpius was right here and then she gave him a chocolate frog and now he’s gone and we need to bloody well find him!”

 

Fort looked between Albus, Jamie, and Molly, her expression serious. She grabbed Ri’s elbow and hoisted him to his feet. “We’ll go search the train, just in case.”

 

“Without alerting the entire student body, preferably,” Albus said, voice low and resolute. 

 

“Got it,” Fort nodded curtly. Jamie felt a burst of gratitude for his friends for believing him and immediately grasping the gravity of the situation. Fort strode out of the compartment, Boone on her heels. 

 

“Why? If he’s really missing, shouldn’t we be telling everyone? So they can be on the lookout, I mean?” Molly questioned. 

 

“No,” Al said darkly. “People can’t know he’s valuable.”

 

Molly stared at them both quizzically. “What on earth do you mean, that he’s valuable?” she demanded. 

 

“We can’t tell you that,” Al said. 

 

Hell’s teeth. Jamie’s heart had plummeted into his trainers, his whole body thrumming with a nauseating adrenaline. He’d been so distracted by the fact that Scorpius was gone that he hadn’t even thought about why Scorpius might be gone. Merlin, this was bad. This was so bad.

 

“Fuck, Al, you don’t think someone’s taken him,” he started, barely able to say the words.

 

“Seems a lot more likely than a random chocolate frog accident,” Al replied. 

 

“Alright boys, I think you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself,” Molly said, holding out two calming hands. “No one has said anything about kidnapping.”

 

“Shut up , Molly,” Albus hissed. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”

 

“Don’t tell me to shut up, Al, what the hell–”

 

“Can you cast a Patronus?” Jamie asked suddenly. 

 

“What? Sure,” Molly said. “Why?”

 

“You need to alert Dad and Professor Malfoy,” Jamie explained. “Please, Mols, trust me. This is not a joke or a prank or a misunderstanding. This is deadly serious. Send them a message, please. Please.”

 

Molly began to look concerned for the first time. “And say what, exactly?”

Draco

“If you were the sorting hat,” Lily said from where she stood beside Draco on Platform 9¾, “which house would you put me in?”

 

“Hm,” Draco considered. “I suspect I’d sit there for an hour wondering where on earth I could possibly place a girl who is so equally clever, brave, ambitious, and kind.”

 

“I always wanted to be in Gryffindor, like nearly everyone else in my family,” Lily informed him, not acknowledging the compliment as though she already knew it to be true.

 

“Sounds reasonable. Not Slytherin like your brother?”

 

“Were you in Slytherin?” 

 

“I was.”

 

“Oh,” Lily said. “Did you like it?”

 

Draco almost laughed. Now there was a question. “I met my best friend there,” Draco told her, “and for a time, I felt like I belonged.”

 

“Isn’t Daddy your best friend?” Lily challenged. 

 

“A person can have as many best friends as they please, remember, LiLu?” Harry said kindly. He paused from spooning applesauce into Remy’s mouth long enough to reach down and squeeze Lily’s shoulder. 

 

Lily looked unconvinced. 

 

Draco scanned the platform. It wasn’t prudent, he supposed, to be out so publicly with Harry just yet, but he was having a hard time caring. He saw a young witch halfway down the platform tugging on the sleeve of her mother’s teal robe and pointing at Harry. Her mother nodded and said something to her, and the girl quickly withdrew her hand. Draco could just imagine the scolding: ‘Yes, dear, that is Harry Potter, but it is rude to point, how many times do I have to tell you?’

 

Harry, for his part, seemed immune to the staring and the whispers. Draco supposed he would be, after all these years. Draco, however, had dedicated his post-war life to seeming inoffensive and unexciting in public spaces, and so found the attention unnerving, even if no one seemed to be noticing him, specifically. It wasn’t completely unexpected, he hoped, to see two Hogwarts professors having a conversation while waiting for their children. He wanted to cast the aversion spell he’d cast on Harry that day in Diagon Alley, causing onlookers to suddenly remember a very urgent task that required completing elsewhere. Unfortunately, that seemed likely to result in a lot of abandoned students milling about unsupervised at King’s Cross. 

 

“Harry!” a voice called out. Draco looked up to see Granger-Weasley and her husband weaving through the crowd. 

 

Weasley-Granger threw her arms around Harry and Remy and Harry returned the gesture, giving Draco a guilty, apologetic look over her shoulder. 

 

“Hell, mate, I don’t think I’ve seen you all term!” the Weasel said, clapping Harry on the shoulder once his wife had stepped aside to hug Lily. 

 

Weasley-Granger gave Draco a polite nod. “It’s nice to see you, too, Professor Malfoy.”

 

Draco gave her a terse nod. 

 

Of course. Of course they would be here to collect Rose. It had been idiotic of Draco to forget that fact. 

 

“Yeah,” Harry agreed uncomfortably. “New job, new baby, you know, it’s been a lot. I ought to have made time, though.”

 

“Well, I should have, also,” Weasley said. “We’ve just been working this big case, and Hugo’s been a handful, and Mum’s needed more time–”

 

“We’re both to blame,” Harry said congenially. “We’re seeing each other now, and we’ll see plenty of each other during the break.”

 

Weasley gave Harry a chagrined smile. “Thanks, mate. Still cosying up with Malfoy, I see.” There was jocularity and no malice in his tone, and he gamely stuck out a hand to shake with Draco, who deigned to return to the gesture. 

 

“Something like that,” Harry agreed. 

 

Weasley then hugged his niece before taking Remy up in his arms. “Merlin’s warts, Harry, he’s doubled in size since the summer!” He looked adoringly at the baby and Draco clamped down on a protective flicker of jealousy that was threatening to alight. 

 

“Where’s Hugo?” Lily chimed in. 

 

“He is with his Uncle Percy,” Weasley explained. “In exchange, we agreed to collect Molly. I’d say we got the better deal.”

 

“About ready for him to go to Hogwarts, then?” Harry asked, amused. 

 

“Oh, Harry, mate, I cannot wait until he is largely your problem.”

 

Weasley-Granger swatted her husband’s arm. “He’s just got a lot of energy,” she clarified. “How’s Scorpius?” 

 

Draco’s answer was cut short as gasps and shouts rippled through the crowd. Harry’s eyes widened and Draco turned, only to be faced with Harry’s Patronus, a giant, stag galloping along the platform. No, it wasn’t quite a stag, it was impossibly larger, with a humped back and a massive rack of antlers. 

 

“Is that a moose?” Granger-Weasley asked curiously. 

 

"Whatever it is, it's heading straight for us," Weasley said. He was right. The shimmering, huge animal came to a stop before them. 

 

“Uncle Harry,” it said. It took Draco a moment to place the voice as belonging to Molly Weasley the younger. “We’re on the train and we need your help. Immediately. Please bring Professor Malfoy. I can’t say more than that; Jamie and Al won’t let me.”

 

Scorpius. Draco knew instantly. The blood froze in his veins and a ringing in his ears overwhelmed him as raw, unmitigated terror rose up like bile in his throat. Harry reached out to him, the briefest of touches to his back. Draco flinched away. 

 

Its message delivered, the moose dissipated. Everyone on the platform was staring. Harry’s eyes were bright, his gaze darting around, assessing for danger. For a moment, Draco couldn’t move, couldn’t think. He just stared at Harry, desperate for answers that he knew wouldn’t come. Was Scorpius sick, was he injured? Was he spouting off prophecies for all to hear? Draco’s heart clenched tight as a fist. No, it couldn’t be. He’d taken his medicine. He’d been careful all term, not increasing his heart rate, not eating too much sugar. And James would be looking out for him surely, but what was so wrong that it couldn’t wait for the train to pull into the station?

 

“Hermione, can we Apparate onto the Hogwarts Express?” Harry was asking. 

 

Draco’s brain sparked back into action. “No,” he said at once, in tandem with Weasley-Granger. 

 

“Shit,” Harry said. 

 

“We’ll take brooms,” Draco determined quickly. “Surely someone here has a bloody broomstick.”

 

“And what, fly through the bolted windows of a moving train?” Weasley sounded flabbergasted. Draco felt the mad urge to punch him in the face. The how was not the point, they could handle the how. It was the what that was the current crisis.  

 

“If we have to,” Harry nodded seriously. “Can you two–”

 

“Of course,” Weasley-Granger said, wrapping an arm around Lily’s shoulders. “As long as you need.”

 

Harry abandoned the large nappy bag on the cobblestones and dropped to one knee before Lily. 

 

“I have to go, sweetpea,” he told her quietly. “I need to make sure your brothers and your cousins are all okay.”

 

“Daddy, no,” Lily argued, shaking her head, “what if you get hurt?”

 

“I won’t,” Harry said. “Professor Malfoy will look out for me. You be good for your aunt and uncle, won’t you? I’ll be back before you know it.”

 

Lily wrapped her arms around his neck, her little face crumpling pathetically. “Daddy, you can’t go.”

 

Harry ran a hand over her hair and kissed head. “I’m so sorry, LiLu, but I have to.” He extracted himself from her clinging arms with a pained expression. “Just for the afternoon. I’ll be there to sing you to sleep, probably even sooner. Maybe even as the train pulls up to the station, I just don’t know yet, but I'll always come back for you.”

 

“I'll go,” Draco said, scanning the crowd for anyone with a broom. He didn’t want any part in making Lily feel abandoned, but he had to get to Scorpius immediately. "You can stay here, Potter. No point in us both flying headlong into trouble."

 

“I’m not leaving you,” Harry replied. “You know that.”

 

“Should I alert someone?” Weasley asked and it took Draco a moment to realise the man was talking to him. Merlin, of course, the Weasel was an Auror. 

 

“No,” Draco said sharply. “Absolutely not, say nothing.”

 

“I mean if someone is hurt–” Weasley argued. 

 

“Please, Ron,” Harry interrupted. “We will explain later, but the fewer people involved the better, at least right now, yeah?”

 

Weasley’s mouth thinned with an uncertain grimace, his gaze flicking suspiciously to Malfoy. 

 

“For fuck’s sake, Weasley,” Draco seethed. He did not have time for this. Every second he stood on this platform was a second he wasn’t there for Scorpius. “This is not some secret Death Eater conspiracy. This is about our children and their safety.”

 

“My kid’s on that train, too,” Weasley countered. 

 

“Then trust us to take care of it!”

 

“Why the hell would I trust you?”

 

“Ron,” Weasley-Granger scolded harshly. “This is not the time. Trust Malfoy or not, I don’t care, but at least trust Harry.”

 

“Fine,” Weasley relented finally.

 

“Will you be there to say good night, too, Professor?” Lily demanded from beneath teary eyelashes. 

 

“Yes, love, of course,” Draco replied in a hurried attempt to be reassuring, despite the hammering fear in his head. He looked to Harry, whose expression was set with grim determination. 

 

“What the–” Weasley said, “what does that–”

 

“Not now, Ron!” Weasley-Granger exclaimed. “Harry, Draco, go. We have the kids, as long as you need. Go.”

Notes:

CW: missing child

Sorry (not sorry) for the cliff-hanger! Hope I didn't make you wait for too long.

Thanks for reading!

Chapter 43: Harry

Notes:

Please see end note for CWs.

Also I have now posted a chapter two days in a row, so please make sure you haven't missed chapter 42!

Harry

The December air was needle sharp against Harry’s face. Draco was ahead of him, hunched low and tight against a broom Harry had borrowed from an obliging witch who’d only seemed too thrilled to lend it to him. 

 

Harry scanned the horizon. There was movement, the Hogwarts Express, a line of blood across the fields of white.

 

“Draco!” he shouted above the whoosh of the wind. 

 

Draco angled his broom and hurtled forward. They didn’t have a plan, they’d barely talked, just set off together, Draco’s shoulders rigid with the unbearable unease that was not knowing. Harry wanted to hold him, to take a moment to comfort and reassure, but there was no time. They had to get to Scorpius. 

 

Harry had known Scorpius was in trouble the moment Molly’s Patronus had mentioned Al and Jamie’s insistence on silence. Harry suspected Scorpius' condition had been set off somehow, and he hoped that Al and Jamie had had the good sense to secrete him away in a compartment, barred off from nosy fellow students. Surely that is what they had done. Did Draco have Scorpius’ potion handy? He usually had an extra phial in his cloak. It would be fine, Harry decided. They would arrive, Draco would give Scorpius his potion, and it would be fine. Harry would Obliviate anyone he needed to, students included, he realised, if it meant keeping Scorpius safe. Although, he suspected that Draco would get to it first. 

 

Urging his own broom forward, Harry caught up to Draco, until they were shoulder to shoulder. 

 

“Stay close when we get to it,” Harry shouted to be heard as they swooped lower. “We can’t fly as fast as a bloody train, so we only have one shot at this. I’m aiming for the platform at the end of the final car. It will have to be a bit of dead drop, you know, like straight down? I can buffer us a bit with my magic, but you need to be close so I can keep you safe.”

 

Draco didn’t say anything, gaze fixed on the train that they were rushing headlong towards. 

 

“Draco, you hear me?” Harry pressed. They were approaching now, the first car of the train rattling mere feet below them. 

 

“Understood.”

 

The rushing channel of air along the train nearly unseated Harry, but he tucked in close, watching car after car disappear beneath him. 

 

“Here it comes!” he cried. 

 

Both he and Draco plummeted towards the roof, dropping from the sky as the final train car passed beneath them. Harry wrapped them in a nest of unseen magic, cushioning them as they slammed onto the icy deck at the rear of the train, momentum shoving them into the metal railings. 

 

Harry stilled, limbs splayed out, one hand gripping Draco’s cloak, even as his magic sought to steady and cocoon them. He was disoriented, but not injured. He took a breath and called his magic back to himself. 

 

“Alright?” Harry asked and Draco stood, nodding, helping Harry in turn to his feet. He tried the door and shouldered it open, whether naturally or with his magic, Harry scarcely knew, but within moments they were standing amongst a group of very surprised looking students, including Sterling Main, the Head Boy, his ever-present sidekick, Mulligan, and several other prefects. The carriage layout was much more open than he remembered from his own Hogwarts days, rows of plush seating forming two lines facing towards the centre. It was the prefects’ carriage, Harry brain supplied belatedly.

 

“Professors!” Main exclaimed from where he was lounging with his sycophants. “What are you—Beg my pardon, but can we be of assistance?”

 

Harry tried not to think poorly of any of his students, but something about Main’s ceaseless brown-nosing really put him off. 

 

“We need to speak with Jamie,” Harry said, trying to appear nonchalant, as though hopping a moving train by broomstick was an everyday occurrence. “Do you know where he is?”

 

Main looked like he had about a thousand more questions when faced with Harry’s utterly uninformative response, but he didn’t push. 

 

“Anyone seen the Potters?” he asked the carriage, instead. 

 

“The next car,” one of the prefects responded. “They’ve been making a ruckus. Weasley’s dealing with them.”

 

“Thank you,” Harry said tersely. Draco had already made for the door at the end of the corridor, and flung it open, slipping through the gangway and into the adjacent carriage. 

 

Molly was there, worried fingers gripping her jade necklace. Between her and Draco was the treat trolley, and just beyond her, there was a small crowd of students trying to peek into a compartment. Molly wasn’t having it. 

 

“I’ve said move along, or I’ll be reporting you all to Clearwater, don’t think I won’t!” she was scolding the largely inattentive teenagers. 

 

Draco stormed in. “Everyone out this instant,” he ordered with a tone of pure ice.

 

The students stared at Draco like they had never seen him like this before, and truthfully, they likely hadn’t; Harry doubted Draco ever needed to raise his voice to corral his students in the classroom. 

 

Molly looked stunned, rooted to the spot as if not sure if she ought to stay or flee. The rest of the students had no such compunctions, all turning tail and rushing to the next car. Harry noticed the trolley witch sitting alone in a compartment, staring blankly ahead. 

 

“You can stay, Molly,” Harry said gently. “We need to know what’s happened.”

 

“Dad?” Jamie’s voice sounded from around the wall of the compartment. He stuck his head out. One look at him told Harry that whatever they were dealing with was likely the worst case scenario, or very close to it. Harry felt his stomach lurch with apprehension. “Thank fuck you are here.”

 

Harry maneuvered the treat trolley out of the aisle and followed Draco into Jamie’s compartment, alongside Molly. Jamie and Al were seated, faces both pale and fearful. Fortitude Jordan and Januarius Boone sat across from them, similarly grim.

 

Scorpius was nowhere to be seen. Harry’s chest felt tight. No, this was not possible.

 

“Where is my son?” Draco asked, voice taut with emotion.

 

“He’s gone,” Al said, stricken. “The trolley witch, Miss Shirley, gave him a chocolate frog and he disappeared.”

 

“A Portkey?” Draco demanded. Harry felt a stab of rage-tinged dread at the idea of Scorpius alone and scared witless, counting down the moments until his potion wore off. The idea of it made Harry sick, and Draco must only be feeling the same ten times over. 

 

“We think so,” Jamie said. 

 

“Boone and I searched the whole train,” Fortitude offered. “We didn’t say anything to anyone, Al told us not to, but we didn’t see him.”

 

“What do you know?” Draco inquired sharply. 

 

“Nothing,” Boone said solemnly. “I mean clearly there is something we don’t know about Scorpius, but Albus and Jamie haven’t told us anything, Professor, you have my word.”

 

Draco’s expression was unreadable, a blank, cold slate. He nodded once, and left the compartment, only to point his wand directly at Miss Shirley. 

 

“Legilimens.”

 

Harry stared, shocked. Draco was a Legilimens. Draco had been a Legilimens the entirety of their relationship, and Harry had not had a single bloody clue. Draco was a Legilimens and he was using his terrible power on a tiny, unassuming witch. Harry felt an involuntary shudder in his very bones, a ghastly chill. Memories were threatening to get in; memories Harry thought he had put away a long time ago, of Voldemort carding through his every thought with revolting proficiency. Harry felt certain he was being sucked into that dark, terrifying place.

 

Harry gripped his own wand. He had no use for it, but the familiar feel of it grounded him. He couldn’t go back there, not now, not when Draco needed him more than ever. 

 

Draco’s cause was just, Harry reminded himself. It seemed cruel, but this was the quickest route to answers that they desperately needed. Harry could only imagine what Unforgivables would spill forth from him should his children be threatened. Even still, he wanted to protect Draco’s conscience; he didn’t want this added to the already impossible load of regrets that Draco carried. 

 

“Draco–” Harry said softly, but Draco didn’t respond, his face remaining passive, eyes flicking oddly, sifting through the sounds and images that must be unfolding before him. 

 

Molly and Jamie and his friends had jumped to their feet, and were watching, appalled, as the old witch clutched her head. “Get out, get out,” she murmured miserably. “Too many voices, get out, you wretched–”

 

“Back in the compartment,” Harry commanded. 

 

It was then that he saw Al’s expression. Harry’s second son was not at all horrified. If anything, he appeared transfixed, lips mouthing the spell silently, as if committing it to memory. 

 

“Albus, not on your life,” Harry hissed. “Sit down.”

 

Al blinked and looked up at him, startled by the severity of Harry’s tone. 

 

“But Professor Malfoy is doing it, and what if I could learn, I could help find Scor–”

 

“You will stay out of this,” Harry told him, unequivocally. “Professor Malfoy and I will find Scorpius. You and your brother, no, all of you,” he waved his hands at Molly and Jamie’s friends, “have no role in this, is that quite understood? There will be no amateur sleuthing, no explanations, no involvement. You will answer our questions and you will keep your mouths shut. That is your part in this, is that entirely understood?”

 

The little cluster of students nodded fervently, eyes round. They’d not seen this side of Harry, either.  

 

From the corridor, Harry heard Draco curse bitterly. 

 

“Draco?” Harry asked, stepping out to meet him.

 

“Useless,” Draco told him. “She’s under Imperius, but whoever has done it has scrambled her up beforehand. There is nothing there, just random tableaux, nothing more. Someone’s anticipated me. Her brain is a bloody kaleidoscope. Meaningless. She’ll need to be taken to St. Mungo’s, but I doubt there’s any help for her.”

 

“Shit,” Harry whispered. “Shit. Okay, okay, come sit. Molly, keep eyes on Miss Shirley, please."

 

He pulled Draco into another empty compartment, pulling him down to the bank of familiar seats, hands circling Draco’s wrists. Draco didn’t relax one iota into his touch, his whole body poised to bolt, should he think it would do any good. 

 

“Who knows about Scorpius, about what he is?” Harry asked, 

 

“His mother,” Draco said. “Maybe some of her old crowd, but I thought I’d gotten to her, gotten to them all and Obliviated them, but I must have left some stragglers. I’ll not leave them alive, not this time.” 

 

Harry found the steel in Draco’s voice unsettling, but he didn’t question it, not right now. 

 

“Alright,” he replied calmly. “Astoria and affiliates. Who else?”

 

Draco broke free, standing to pace the compartment like a caged tiger. 

 

“A handful of paediatric Healers at St. Mungo’s. Pansy. You. Albus and James,” he listed the names off as though they tasted bitter on his tongue. “Perhaps Boone and Jordan now, I don’t know.”

 

“Right. Okay. Your mother?”

 

“I don’t think so,” Draco said. Harry could see his hands clench and flex at his sides. “But I don’t know for sure. I know she’s hungry for news of him, some demented projection of maternal instinct, but I’ve not said anything. Fucking hell, Potter, how did I let this happen? Why did I let him set foot on this bloody train?”

 

Draco whirled round, his cloak snapping with the movement, despair twisting his features. 

 

“Because you wanted to give him as normal a life as possible,” Harry told him. He stood slowly and reached out, cupping a gentle hand to Draco’s cheek. “This is not your fault. We are going to find Scorpius. We are going to find who did this.”

 

“And when we do, I will flay the skin from their bones,” Draco vowed, turning away. 

 

“If that is what it takes,” Harry murmured. “One thing at a time, yeah? We need a plan. I don’t suppose you have Veritaserum? Maybe we could try that on the trolley witch.”

 

Draco gave a jerk of his head. “Not in my stores. I didn’t want to be caught with that should the Ministry decide to do a surprise raid on former Death Eaters like they did after the war.”

 

“Right,” Harry said thoughtfully. “We need Hermione.”

 

“What does she have to do with anything?” Draco questioned. “Isn’t she an ambassador? What does she need with Veritaserum?”

 

Harry sighed. “She says she is an ambassador,” he explained. “She has maintained that fiction for nearly twenty years, but she is not so guarded with me. I suspect she works in Magical Intelligence, although she has never exactly said it.”

 

“Of course she does,” Draco barked a humourless laugh. He looked up then, meeting Harry’s eyes, totally bereft. “I need to find him, Harry. I’m a moment away from showing up on the Greengrasses’ stoop and beating the door down.”

 

“I know,” Harry said, pressing his forehead into Draco’s, one hand finding the back of his neck, holding him close. “I know, love, but we have to be smart about this. We have to pull at every thread until we have a proper lead, can’t let people know that he’s missing because that could just complicate things, set more people after him.”

 

Draco closed his eyes. “Yes, yes, you’re right. Bloody hell. I can’t believe he is gone. I don’t know what I was expecting, but not this, never this.” Draco’s voice broke as he continued. “What on earth am I supposed to do? Find him, of course, but how? Last time I at least knew who took him. This time–”

 

“We need to do this systematically,” Harry told him. “The better part of Auror work isn’t action, it’s thought. I need to make lists, talk to the kids, investigate the scene. I can speak with Ron and Hermione–”

 

Draco pulled away, eyes flashing angrily, “No, absolutely not. Weasley despises me.”

 

“He’d never put a child at risk,” Harry assured him, keeping his voice soft. “And he has all the resources of the Aurors at his disposal. He can trace things I can’t, make connections, name crime rings or shady dealings, black markets, that sort of thing. Please, love. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was important.”

 

Draco shook his head. “He has a temper and he’s bitterly jealous when it comes to you, how do I know he wouldn’t ever use this against me?”

 

“I know you don’t trust easy, believe me, I know that,” Harry said quietly. “And I also know that exposing Scorpius’ secret makes it feel like he is even more vulnerable, but an extra few smart, well-resourced, and carefully selected people knowing and caring can only help him, right? Ron and Hermione are my family. They’ve put their lives on the line for me and they’d do it again, whatever it takes to protect me and mine. And you and Scorpius? You’re mine.”

 

Draco ground the heels of his hands against his eyes. 

 

“Fucking hell, Harry,” Draco broke, expression that of pure anguish. “What if they’ve killed him?”

 

“No,” Harry said, gathering Draco into his arms. “Do not think like that. He’s valuable, remember? Valuable alive. Whoever did this wants his prophecies, his freedom. They have no reason to hurt him, and absolutely no reason to want him dead.”

 

“I know that,” Draco whispered, “I know that. I’m just, hell, I'm terrified. I’ve never this bloody powerless, not with my father, not even with fucking Voldemort. He’s my son–”

 

“And we will find him,” Harry promised. “I swear on my life, he will be found.”

 

“Fuck,” Draco said, pushing away to stride the length of the compartment. “Fuck. I don’t know–yes, fine, if you really think Weasley won’t completely fuck this up–”

 

“He won’t.”

 

“Fine. Do what you like. I cannot just stand here.” 

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“My child is missing.” Draco adjusted the clasp of his robe at his neck. “I have to go.”

 

“Draco, wait. Go where? I can go with you–”

 

Draco shook his head. “You have to get the children safely to the Weasley's. I suspect this is about Scorpius, but we can't know for sure. The last thing we need is another student going missing.”

 

“Unlikely, but a possibility,” Harry allowed. “Shit, I'd not thought of that. Look, 61 Library Mews, London. That's where I will be tonight. It is Ron and Hermione’s place. I'll be sure they add you to their wards. Come meet me so we can sort out what's next.”

 

“Fine. Do your investigations. Check the rest of the sweets. Make sure nothing else is enchanted.”

 

“I will. Please don’t do anything reckless. Reconnaissance only, Draco, please, love, I cannot lose you, too.”

 

“I will do what is necessary.”

 

Draco mounted his borrowed broom, spelled open the window of the compartment and was gone, the black wool of his cloak fading quickly into nothingness. 

Notes:

CW: references to violence, slight PTSD type flashback, missing child

 

Thank you so much for reading!! Sorry for any and all ulcers that are largely my doing. I'm evilly loving all your panicked comments!!!

Chapter 44: Scorpius

Notes:

**See end notes for CW**

Scorpius

 

The words pouring from his mouth didn’t register. They came like a waterfall, too voluminous, loud, and unruly to make any sense. His voice was hoarse, his lips burned with a dry thirst. His heart had been racing for what felt like hours, bruising his ribs from the inside. All around him was nothing but the void. The void and the relentless words spilling forth into it, and the brilliant, brutal shock of terror. Someone was close, maybe, or was he alone? He couldn’t think, he couldn’t see. He needed calm, needed order, needed to slow his rabid heart and let the potion in his blood take effect. 

 

If he wasn’t too late already.

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

CW: child abduction

Okay, I know it is brutally mean to update and only give a snippet, but it really felt like this needed to be its own chapter! I promise to post a proper update tomorrow, it is mostly written already, just needs to be polished up.

Chapter 45: Harry

Notes:

**CW in end note**

Harry

 

“What is it?” Hermione said, the moment Harry stepped off the train. Remy was awake, peering around at the bustle of the platform. The sight of him made Harry’s heart lurch. When he got his hands and his magic on whoever had taken Scorpius–

 

“Daddy!” Lily shouted, leaping at him. He wrapped her in a hug, lifting her off the ground. Her scarf tickled his nose. Jamie, Al, and Molly were standing silently behind him. Harry caught sight of Rose Weasley making her way towards their group. Miss Shirley was blinking quickly, like she’d entered sunlight too quickly. Harry wondered if the shock of the afternoon had caused the curse to lift. She didn't speak, and he didn't have time to find out. 

 

“Malfoy get lost en route?” Ron asked. “Cheers to that.”

 

Harry ignored him. “Harry,” Hermione repeated, “what’s happened?”

 

“Not here,” Harry said. “Look. Can you take Miss Shirley here back to yours? I’ll drop the kids with your mum, Ron, and then I'll come back and I promise I'll tell you everything. I need to talk to you both. I just–”

 

“Yeah,” Ron said, the shift in his tone making clear he understood the situation. “Of course, mate, whatever you need.”

 

/// ///

 

With some doing, Harry managed to Apparate all the children who needed to be at Percy and Ralph's to Percy and Ralph's, and all the children that needed to be at The Burrow to The Burrow. It was enough to make him feel like he was living the riddle with the farmer, the fox, a bag of grain, and only one boat. He skirted small talk as much as he could with Percy and his husband and gave only the scantest of explanations to his mother-in-law, telling her only that he couldn’t stay and that it was important. Molly must have sensed his urgency, or observed the miserable expressions on Harry’s boys’ faces, because she didn’t argue.

 

“Whatever needs doing, do it,” she’d said. 

 

Harry had urged her to recruit Teddy to help out. Jamie and Albus especially needed support and a watchful eye. It damaged a part of Harry to know he couldn’t be the one to see them through it, not right now, not with Scorpius in such acute danger. 

 

/// ///

 

He used the Floo to get himself to 61 Library Mews, stepping out of the light brick fireplace into the familiar sitting room. 

 

Ron was seated on a settee stuffed between towering, overflowing bookcases. It wasn't enough for Hermione to live near the library, she also had to have one of her own. Ron quickly tossed aside an issue of Quidditch Times and stood. He was still tall, still gangly, with his red hair thinning, but he was still Ron. He was clearly alarmed by Harry's behaviour. Harry felt a pang of remorse for his own role in the distance that seemed to stretch between them. Ron would bitch and gripe, but there wasn't a doubt in Harry's mind that he would also help, throwing everything he had at this awful business. 

 

“Harry,” Ron greeted, concern apparent. “What’s happening?

 

The door to the sitting room opened, slamming into the wall. Hermione appeared. Harry startled, nerves frayed. Ron put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Hell’s teeth, Harry needed to sort himself out. He couldn’t go back to the rattled shell he had been after the war, spooked by every little noise. He’d thought all that was long past; it felt a lifetime ago, another existence entirely. Harry couldn’t go there now. Draco needed him to keep it together. Scorpius needed him. 

 

"Sorry, Harry," Hermione apologised, wincing. "Too much oomph. I heard you arrive and I was hurrying and–anyways, that hardly matters." She wrapped him in a quick, tight hug. “Something terrible has happened, I can see it all over your face. Sit, please. Tell us everything.”

 

Harry didn’t so much sit as collapse onto the chair near the fire. “First off, can you change your wards?" he enquired. “I told Draco he could find me here.”

 

“What?” Ron gaped. “What’s he coming here for?”

 

“I’ll do it at once,” Hermione assured him. She directed her wand towards the hearth, the metaphorical heart of the home. Harry’s wards used the same. “Grata, Draco Malfoy!”

 

The hearth shifted and shimmered briefly, a confirmation that the spell had taken.

 

“Thank you,” Harry murmured. His lungs felt empty, a caved-in sensation in his chest. He forced himself to inhale. “There’s no other way to tell you this. Scorpius Malfoy’s disappeared, been abducted, most likely.”

 

“What?” Ron repeated, dumbstruck.

 

Hermione didn’t echo her husband’s surprise. Her mouth flattened into a line and she gave a single, serious nod. 

 

Harry’s heart jumped in a weird, icy panic. “What do you know?” he demanded. 

 

Hermione sighed. “I was rather hoping to take this to my grave, but I see now that I won’t have that option. I know what he is.”

 

“What do you mean, what he is?” Ron demanded. 

 

“How?” Harry said. 

 

“The news came across my desk within weeks of him presenting his…gifts,” Hermione explained. “In a missive from St. Mungo’s. We get regular updates about diseases of concern, creatures, and hybrids. He doesn’t fit into any of those, exactly, but some Healer clearly thought it was worth mentioning.”

 

Harry felt an anger surge in his chest. “So the whole bloody Department of Wizarding Intelligence knows?”

 

Hermione shook her head. “No. Such sensitive information is seen by a single individual in the Department. In this case, it was myself and I…purposefully misfiled it. I thought, well, I thought it was no way for a child to live. I wanted to keep him secure from prying eyes. The Department of Mysteries would love nothing more than to get their hands on a child like that, but I saw first-hand what prophecies did to your life. I wasn’t going to subject anyone else to that. The healer thought a potion might be able to keep the condition at bay. I wrote back instructing him that the Department of Wizarding Intelligence had no interest in such a child and to provide us with no further updates.”

 

“A child like what?” Ron all but exploded. 

 

“A Vates,” Hermione said.

 

“You’ve got to know that means nothing to me,” Ron muttered glumly. 

 

While Hermione explained, Harry thought about what he had just learned. If Hermione had not even shared the information with Ron, then she clearly took her commitment to Scorpius’ privacy very seriously indeed. It was, however, Voldemort-levels of fucked that the Ministry had this level of oversight in the first place. That was a battle for another day.

 

“Poor kid,” Ron was saying. “What’s that got to do with him disappearing, though?”

 

“People go mad over prophecies,” Hermione explained dolefully. “They are convinced that they will have the ability to decode and make sense of them. They are valuable, in certain circles. Sold like famous works of art amongst criminals and the elite. Something they think might give them an edge in gambling, in selling to another collector, or something to put on their shelf and display as a symbol of their wealth. Or they can use the contents of the prophecies to their benefit, blackmail, manipulation, all sorts of nastiness.”

 

Harry could picture some smug wizard polishing a spun glass orb, a trapped and terrified Scorpius shining faintly from within. Harry wouldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t. 

 

“That, or someone with a grudge against Malfoy is out to get him. Not everyone’s as forgiving of Dark Wizards as you seem to be, Harry,” Ron offered unhelpfully.

 

“Draco is not a Dark Wizard,” Harry ground out. “If you truly thought that, you’d never have allowed Rosie at Hogwarts in the first place, and we both know it.” 

 

“Still,” Ron shrugged stubbornly. “Lots of witches and wizards with lots of motive to hurt the Malfoys. You’ve got to look at these things from every angle.”

 

“Yes, I’m aware, I was also an Auror, thanks, Ron,” Harry snapped sarcastically. He rose to his feet, irritated by the direction of this conversation. The need for action was present in every shift of his muscles, every squeeze of his heart. It was a violent itch under his skin.  

 

“Sniping at each other won’t help anything,” Hermione interrupted. “Ron you’re right, we do have to consider every angle, but don’t let your school-boy jealousy distort reality. We’ve been over this. Malfoy’s been clean since Hogwarts. Harry trusts him. That’s enough for me.”

 

“I’ve a right to be upset if my best mate failed to mention he has had a Death Eater as a flatmate for the past four months.”

 

“Ex-Death Eater. And not a flatmate.” Harry whirled around. Draco was stepping out of the fireplace, eyes narrowed, words crisp. He strode into the room, every step purposeful, almost dangerous. His frantic distress from earlier had distilled down into a deadly focus. He pressed a dry kiss to Harry’s cheek and wrapped a proprietary hand around his elbow. 

 

“Draco!” Harry’s voice cracked. He’d not realised the true depths of his anxiety until that moment. Draco’s face was chafed red from the bitter December wind, his hair swept back in minor disarray, and his cloak damp with melting snow, but Harry didn’t care. He was here. He pulled Draco close, enveloping him in his arms, feeling the lean body he knew so well solid against his own. “Thank Merlin you're safe.” 

 

“Hello, darling,” Draco said softly, almost comfortingly. Harry felt rotten for needing the reassurance when Draco was the one in crisis, but hell if he wasn’t grateful for it. “Weasley, if you've completed your meagre attempt at marking your territory, perhaps we could turn our attention to my missing child?”

Notes:

CW: child abduction

 

As promised!

Thanks everyone for reading, it means so so so so much to me!

Chapter 46: Jamie

Notes:

**CW in end notes**

Jamie

Al and Jamie escaped to their Uncle Ron’s old room as soon as possible, leaving Teddy, Granny, and Lily folding paper chains in the sitting room. Teddy had eyed them warily as they made their escape, but thankfully hadn’t followed them. 

 

Jamie sank into the old armchair in the corner of the room that would be buried beneath jumpers and clothes by the end of the break, but for now was bare. Al sat on the lower bunk, the top of his head not quite reaching the wooden slats above him. It was the first time in recent memory that they’d not immediately argued about who would be taking the top bunk. Jamie wondered painfully if Al had any of those memories left. 

 

“Ideas?” Al asked, eyes bright and sharp in the dim room.  

 

Jamie sighed, pressing his elbows to his thighs and clasping his hands behind his neck. Scorpius’ disappearance was on a sickening loop in his head. Jamie should have noticed that something was off with the trolley witch. She’d never used tongs before, she didn’t dole out chocolate frogs one-by-one like that. He should have bloody thought. Instead, his focus had been on the press of Scor’s leg against his beneath the table, the thrill of his closeness, how their shoulders bumped together with the jostling of the train. He had wanted to reach out and slot his fingers between Scorpius’, had wanted simply to hold his hand. Now, he might never get the chance again. 

 

“Jamie,” Albus said, and for once in his life, Jamie was thankful for his brother’s ability to dismiss his emotions and purely fixate on the task at hand. 

 

“Sorry,” Jamie replied. “You’re right. We need to think. I can’t believe Dad’s leaving us out of this.”

 

Al gave a derisive huff. “I can. He only just told us about the war this summer, and that was only words. If he had his way, he’d wrap us up in cushioning charms and never let us leave the castle.” 

 

“Seriously,” Jamie agreed. It felt odd, being on the same side as Al, but odd in a good way. “Look,” he said tentatively, “I’m not accusing you of anything, but have you told anyone?”

 

Al gave an irritated jerk of his head. “Of course not. You?”

 

“No.”

 

“Did anyone see him? This summer, maybe, that day we all went to Diagon Alley? Or, I don’t know, has anything happened in your dormitory?”

 

Albus thankfully didn’t take offense at this line of questioning. “At the Leaky Cauldron, I don’t know, maybe. He felt it coming on and I think we got away fast enough, but it all happened so quickly. I don’t remember who was around us, or even that anyone would recognise it as anything more than an outburst.”

 

Jamie nodded solemnly. He didn’t remember either. All he could focus on when Scorpius was around was Scorpius. 

 

“And your dorm?” 

 

“No,” Al said slowly, musing. “Nothing in the dorm. The other boys would know he went to see his father every evening for a medicine, but that could be for anything. I don’t think anyone would have reason to suspect he was a Vates. He only ever had that one episode at school—when he was with you.”

 

“Only Mulligan and Main saw that, and I’m certain they didn’t hear him say any words. Merlin’s teeth, what else?”

 

“Are any of your dormmates’ parents Healers? Would that have tipped them off, help them put two and two together?”

 

Albus appeared to consider the question. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Bingham’s dad stays home with his younger sister, but I’m not sure about his mum. The Ojos’ parents run that toy shop, you know, with the clever little train criss-crossing above one’s head. Fife’s mum does little cosmetic potions and what have you. I don’t know if he even has a dad, I’ve not heard him mention one. I could write Bingham and see what he knows. I doubt Fife would be forthcoming, though, and they are hardly friendly.”

 

“Yeah, people probably don’t love being asked about absent parents. At least I don’t,” Jamie reckoned. “But can’t hurt. Nothing odd has happened this semester?”

 

“Nothing you don’t know about,” Al said. “I doubt this is related to our trying to solve the DADA curse. I can ask about that in the letters, too, I suppose. What about your friends? Do you trust Jordan and Boone? I don't know, did they let it slip that Dad and Professor Malfoy are—you know? Maybe someone thought Scorpius would be a way to get to Dad?"

 

"Fort and Ri didn't know enough to tell about Scorpius' condition, and if they'd told anyone about Dad and Draco, the press would have gotten hold of it by now, I'm certain, but I've not seen or heard wind of their, erm, relationship."

 

"Draco?"

 

Jamie waved it off. "He told me to call him that, you know, when we're not at school. We can't call him Professor Malfoy forever, right? Like, what if he becomes our step-dad? Be pretty weird to be calling him Professor at that point."

 

Albus took this in. Jamie couldn't tell what he thought of it. He wasn't sure Al knew himself; Jamie certainly didn't. 

 

"You think that will happen?" Al questioned.

 

"I don't know," Jamie gave a helpless shake of his head. Now was not the time to be considering that whole mess. "Who knows what will happen, especially if we don't find Scorpius. That's why we need some damn ideas."

 

They looked squarely at one another. Albus didn’t look any more hopeful than Jamie felt. “We've not a lot to go off of. Virtually nothing at all," Al stated bitterly. 

 

Jamie sighed and flopped back against the chair. He picked at the corner of an old Cannons poster that was peeling on the wall. He seemed to re-remember every thirty seconds that Scorpius was missing, and his stomach would drop, his heart would turn over in his chest, like the world’s most unnerving train ride.  “I’m sorry,” he muttered miserably. “He’s your best friend and I’m your older brother and I should have been looking out for you both. I should never have let this happen.”

 

Albus tilted his head and studied Jamie carefully, like seeing a new species for the very first time. “No one thinks this is your fault,” he pointed out. His tone was not comforting—Al didn’t really do comforting—but it was honest. “Whoever wanted Scorpius was going to try to take him. If this hadn’t worked, they simply would have found another way.”

 

“But at least then, we would have known to be on guard.”

 

Al didn’t respond, only drummed his fingers on the quilt. “I may have an idea,” he stated quietly. “But if I tell you, you cannot another tell a soul, Jamie, I mean it.”

 

“If it means getting Scorpius back, I’ll not say a word,” Jamie promised. 

 

“I wrote them down," Al said solemnly. 

 

“What?”

 

“Scor’s prophecies. When we were experimenting this summer. I thought they might be good for something, like maybe they could help us figure out how to control them.”

 

“Okay,” Jamie said hesitantly. He didn’t know what Al was driving at, but he seemed awfully serious about whatever it was. 

 

“Alright, look, I know Dad always told us not to mess around with prophecies, that you’re more likely to read them wrong than anything, but maybe—it’s not impossible, right? Maybe Scor made a prophecy about himself? And maybe we could use it to help find him.”

 

“No,” was Jamie’s instinctual response. “Come on, Al, that’s horribly dangerous and you know it.”

 

“Have you got any other brilliant ideas?” Al raised his voice slightly—as much as he could without running the risk of being overheard, at least. “We’ve got motive, but no suspect, and not a shred of evidence, and so far all you’ve proposed is writing a few letters to my classmates?”

 

“You know what a prophecy did to Dad.”

 

“But that was because Voldemort heard about it. What if Dad’s parents had heard it first, and no one ever passed the message along to anyone else? Who knows how things might have turned out?”

 

“This is reckless, Al, there’s got to be another way.”

 

“You said you wished you could protect Scor,” Albus sneered. “I’m giving you the only hope we’ve got and you instantly give up? Some bloody saviour.”

 

Jamie shot to his feet. “That’s not fair. I do want to help. I just don’t want us to do something foolish.”

 

“We’d just be reading them,” Al said coolly. “No one says we have to act on what we find there. I’ve read them all, and I’ve not attempted to decode a single one, and nothing’s happened to me, has it? If we don’t see anything that could be Scor, we’ll leave it, but we might as well try.”

 

Jamie crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, shoving his hands in his pockets. He could just read them, he supposed. There might not be harm in reading them. 

 

“Why not hand them over to Dad and Draco?” he pushed. 

 

“You know Dad won’t go near a prophecy.”

 

“For Scorpius, he might.”

 

Albus shrugged. “As a last resort, maybe, but we might not have time for that. Who knows who has taken Scorpius, or how far they have taken him? Haven’t you read enough Charms and Vigilance to know the worst thing you can do is let a trail to go cold?”

 

“Fine,” Jamie relented. “Where are they?”

 

“At home.”

 

“I don't know if we'll be sleeping there tonight, what with Dad gone,” Jamie considered. “We could just sneak away. Wait until everyone is distracted and Floo there, grab the prophecies, and pop back? Merlin, Granny will have a fit if she notices us missing.”

 

“Then we’d better be quick, hadn’t we?”

 

/// /// 

 

In the end, Jamie decided to let Al go alone. Jamie would keep the focus away from Al, and to that end, joined his family in the sitting room. 

 

“Look, Jamie!” Lily pointed towards the Christmas tree where Granny was arranging paper chains as directed. “I made the paper chains! Scarlet and gold for you, green and silver for Al. Works out that your house colours are all pretty Christmassy.”

 

“They look nice, Lils, really.” Jamie gave her an earnest, if tired, smile. 

 

“Where’s your brother?” Teddy asked. He looked his usual self today, long hair in a messy bun at the back of his head. He was wearing an old fisherman-type jumper, Remy cuddled against it. Jamie could tell that Teddy knew something was afoot, even if he couldn't sort out the details. Jamie held the secret that was Scorpius as tightly as he could, as though it were tucked into his very skin where no one would ever find it. The fewer people who knew, the better, even if Jamie trusted Teddy entirely. 

 

“Asleep,” Jamie said quickly. 

 

Teddy raised his eyebrows. “It’s half seven.”

 

Jamie did his best to look sincere. “Claimed he was exhausted. I figured I should just let him rest.”

 

“Poor little thing,” Granny tutted.

 

Teddy didn’t appear convinced by Jamie’s possibly very bad lie. “Maybe I should check on him.”

 

“No!” Jamie assured him. “He’s fast asleep already, please don't wake him. I'll make sure he's alright when I get to bed myself, don't worry. Besides, lots going on here, isn't there? What can I help with, LiLu?”

 

“I think the chains are a little lopsided,” Lily declared. "Perhaps you could help Granny shift those?"

 

“On it,” Jamie said. 

Notes:

CW: child abduction

 

Slightly shorter chapter for a bit just because more action seems to require more frequent POV changes, sorry about that.

(PS, please make sure you haven't missed a chapter, I've posted a few in a short period of time!)

Thanks for being here!

Chapter 47: Draco

Notes:

**Content warnings in End Notes, please review if needed**

Draco

Draco couldn’t claim to be proud of his behaviour, but the fact that Weasley was still beating the damnable Death Eater drum instead of focusing on Scorpius turned him murderous. If there had been any space in Draco’s heart for satisfaction, he might have enjoyed the way Weasley sputtered and sprung to his feet, clearly having the identity crisis that Harry had never had for himself. 

 

“Draco’s son is missing, Ron,” Harry said, turning on his friend, voice steely. “Either you’re going to help us, or we will be forced to go find someone who can.” 

 

Weasley’s eyes narrowed, his temper alight. He looked prepared to say something truly regrettable. His wife touched a hand to his shoulder. 

 

“Ron, love,” she murmured quietly. “I know it’s a surprise, but take a breath, would you? Whatever wrong you’re feeling at this moment, however valid, rather pales in comparison to child abduction.”

 

Weasley forced himself to inhale through gritted teeth. Draco watched as the tension seemed to leave his shoulders, his hands. Then, to his credit (not that Draco was feeling particularly generous), held up his hands. “You’re right, you’re fucking right. I’m pissed that you kept yet another fucking secret from me, but that’s not the point, not right now. Merlin’s tits, it’s all a bit much to take in, is all. But that’s never stopped me before.”

 

“I know,” Harry told him. “I ought to have told you. I understand why you’re upset, I do, and I promise you can have it out with me as much as you like when the dust has settled, but right now I need your help, we need your help.”

 

With a single nod and a look of stoic determination, Ron summoned a quill and some ink and parchment and sat down, pulling the squat coffee table in the centre of the room towards him. He muttered another spell to adjust the height of the legs so it was more like a desk. It was a tidy piece of magic out of keeping with Draco’s memories of Weasley at Hogwarts.

 

“Let’s go then,” Weasley directed. He made a gesture encouraging Harry and Draco to sit. “Tell us everything you know, exactly how you know it. Tell me who you think might be involved, who your enemies are and what the hell we are to do with the bloody decrepit old witch we’ve got in the spare room.”

 

“This is not a case for the Aurors,” Draco clarified. “Harry assured me it could be kept off the record.”

 

“Obviously,” Ron said. “From what I’m grasping, a few too many people already know about your son as it is.”

 

“You told them, then?” Draco clarified, only for Granger-Weasley to share an alarming bit of information. Apparently, a Healer at St. Mungo’s had leaked the newsof Scorpius condition the year prior. Draco felt another flare of rage, but he couldn't confront that now. 

 

“Thank you for your discretion,” Draco told Granger-Weasley as evenly as he could muster, “but you ought to have informed me at once.”

 

“I ought not to be telling you now that I work as anything other than an ambassador,” Granger-Weasley replied tightly, “even knowing that you are the trusted partner of one of the most loyal men alive. Telling you when I first learned of Scorpius' gifts, when I couldn't be certain of you or your affiliations, was certainly not an option.”

 

Draco felt the rolling boil of his anger spill over. “It could have made me better prepared the first time someone attempted to take him!”

 

Harry put a protective arm around his shoulders. Draco didn’t know if he wanted to shake it off, or tuck in close, to let Harry ease the red-hot fury Draco felt churning in his very blood.

 

“So, this has happened before,” Weasley stated carefully. “That sounds like as good a place to start as any.”

 

Draco hated to think on it. Even with the intervening months, the raw terror of that night was still very much present, covered only by a soft scab easily sloughed off, especially now that the worst case scenario had come to pass. Not the absolute worst, his brain supplied unhelpfully. Things could happen to him that would be worse. Draco shuddered, biting his lip viciously to keep himself from crying out. Harry’s arm tightened around him. 

 

“I’m here,” Harry whispered, leaning in. He pressed his forehead to Draco's temple. His voice was so soft only Draco could hear him. “I know it’s not alright, but whatever you can tell us could help.”

 

Draco swallowed, then drew himself up, sitting up straight on the edge of the settee, not allowing himself to stand and pace the sitting room. Harry's arm felt away, seeming to know Draco needed to do this on his own, that he needed a bit of distance to remain focused.

 

“Elixir of Bliss,” he said finally. “You know it?”

 

Weasley and his wife both nodded, brows furrowed.

 

“Elixir to Induce Euphoria with the intensity dialled up to about 100,” Weasley muttered. “Fucking poison.”

 

“Yes,” Draco agreed, “and my ex-wife’s poison of choice.”

 

“An impossibly expensive habit to uphold,” Granger-Weasley commented.

 

“Especially once I caught on and cut her off from accessing any portion of our fortune,” Draco agreed. “I tried to get her help, I did," Draco continued bitterly, memories of the endless volatile fights, the screaming and crying and tearing of hair, her dependence and the agonising horror of her withdrawal making her nearly bestial. "I know she loved Scorpius, I reckon she still does. Who knows what lies she was sold when it comes to her role in all this, how her mind was manipulated to cast me as the villain, keeping her son from her.”

 

“No,” Granger-Weasley gasped, her hand flying up to her mouth. She’d clearly predicted what came next.

 

“She didn’t do it herself; she likely heard prophecies could be worth something, and she needed something of worth. I suspect she was led to believe he would be treated well, given a better life than even I could give him. She knew I'd never let him go with her, so they sent some goons.”

 

“Names?” Weasley interrupted, quill poised. 

 

“Foster Epp and his brother Harald,” Draco answered. “Neither is much for magic and both make up for it in brute strength. That, quick reflexes, and a couple of decent blocking charms. They are the muscle for the clutch in which Astoria got herself tangled.”

 

Weasley nodded, clearly having some familiarity with organised crime. “Do you know the heads?”

 

“Furio Lodosi. Well, supposedly. I think his sister Allegra is likely pulling the strings.”

 

Weasley gave a low whistle. “Not a family one ought to get involved with.”

 

“What did you do?” Granger-Weasley asked. 

 

Draco hesitated. “I do not wish to implicate myself.”

 

“Believe me, Malfoy,” Weasley replied, voice low and serious. “Not much I won’t excuse when it comes to someone messing with kids.”

 

“I Obliviated them within an inch of their lives,” Draco shrugged. “I have set them back a full fifteen years, from what I could tell, and I've not a shred of remorse for it. What is important is that when I went sifting through their thoughts later, not a scrap of Scorpius or Astoria existed there.”

 

Weasley’s eyebrows quirked in surprise. He glanced fretfully at Harry. “Didn’t know you were a Legilimens.” 

 

“Hell’s teeth, Ron,” Harry scolded hoarsely. “Not on me.”

 

“It’s just you always were shit at Occlumency," Ron pointed out. "Sorry, mate, but it's the truth.”

 

Harry seemed ready to let the implication lie, but Draco was not having it. 

 

“If you believe me capable of such despicable things, Weasley, you ought not to help me at all," he said coldly.

 

“I didn’t say anything!” Weasley whinged. 

 

“You didn’t need to. Your tone and anxious looks did it for you. If you believe me capable of doing that to Harry, why even let me inside your house?”

 

“I mean you are, technically, capable,” Weasley mumbled. 

 

“And you are 'technically' capable of strangling your wife and children while they sleep,” Draco said dangerously.

 

“What the fuck, Malfoy, why the hell would you even say that?” Ron exclaimed, freckled face reddening. 

 

“I would view needlessly rifling through Harry’s thoughts with the same moral reprehension that you do murder. It is a fully invasive assault, one I would wish on only a very few select enemies, not on the man I love. I am a skilled Legilimens, I’ll not deny it, but outside of protecting Scorpius, I’ve never had cause to use it, and I’ll thank you to remember that.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, alright, Merlin, I didn’t mean anything by it,” Ron looked down, sifting needlessly through the rolls of parchment atop his makeshift desk. He was chastised and embarrassed. Draco was unsettled a bit himself. He was not used to such declarations. 

 

Harry cleared his throat. “Maybe we should get back to it?”

 

“If Weasley behaves himself,” Draco agreed.

 

“Oi, let’s remember who is doing who a bloody favour!” Weasley protested. “This is more than my job’s worth–”

 

“Ron,” Granger-Weasley reprimanded, “we are not at Hogwarts any more. This is not the war. Scorpius is a child. He is likely very frightened and feeling very alone and the sooner we get to him, the sooner we can quell that fear. Let’s keep that at the forefront, right?”

 

“Fine, fine. You’re right. Merlin, Malfoy, you piss me off." Weasley sighed with irritation, reviewing his notes. "And the rest of the Lodosi family and their clutch?" he prompted. "They are still in operation, so it is not like you did away with them entirely."

 

“They met a similar fate,” Draco replied unfeelingly. “The Lodosi siblings themselves had a greater measure of mental fortitude. I believe my Obliviate spells took, albeit to a lesser degree. I could not confirm my work—they are both Occlumens—but I had no reason to believe they had no effect.”

 

“They have been quieter on the whole for the last year,” Weasley nodded. “Only a couple of minor Elixir dealings, with a bit of fresh blood available to take the fall when the Auror team attempted a bust."

 

"Your area?" Draco asked

 

"No. I'm still rooting out Dark Magic, not potions dealings, but Aurors, you know, it's all one department. We talk. When exactly was the attack on Scorpius?”

 

Draco did his best to recall the exact details of the loathsome night and his dealings afterwards. How Scorpius had begged to go back to Hogwarts, and how Draco spent his evenings tracking criminals instead of marking papers until he was convinced not one memory of Scorpius' condition was remaining in any of the Ludosi family. Draco had pursued some of their associates as well, until it became clear that the Ludosi siblings had kept their knowledge close to their chests. Draco supposed one couldn't be too careful in crime circles, lest other criminals form designs on you. That was at least how it had felt when he was a boy, with all the Death Eaters attempting to eke out the Dark Lord's favour, not thinking twice about throwing one another to the wolves—occasionally literally. 

 

“What happened to Astoria?” Granger-Weasley asked when there was a lull in Draco’s story. 

 

“I Obliviated her, too,” Draco said stonily. “Enough for her to forget Scorpius’ condition, although not his existence. She now thinks I’m keeping her son from her purely out of cruelty and spite.”

 

“Is she still using the Elixir?”

 

Draco shook his head, “I don’t believe so. She is back with her parents. That is who I went to see today, after the train. She was at home, as furious with me as ever. Her thoughts contained nothing of Scorpius’ condition. I didn’t use Legilimens her parents, not without cause, but they assured me she’s not left the house in many weeks. She remains unwell and unpredictable. They have a Healer checking in on her, but with Astoria’s history of addiction, there is little that can be given or done.”

 

Granger-Weasley seemed to take this in, comparing and integrating it with whatever fount of knowledge existed inside her own head. 

 

“I suppose that brings us to today, then?” Weasley pressed onwards. 

 

Draco exhaled heavily. His head was spinning, overripe with possibilities and utterly without answers. He wanted his son back. He needed his son back, and heaven help the bastards who took him. 

 

“Potter, would you?” Draco waved his hand, suddenly depleted. Adrenaline was warring with exhaustion, not that he’d be able to sleep tonight. He felt it possible he would never sleep again, if that was what it took. 

 

Weasley looked confused at the shift from ‘darling’ to Harry’s surname. It was none of his business that to Draco, both were very much endearments. 

 

“Yeah, of course,” Harry said, taking Draco’s hand firmly in his. Harry had none of the reserve that Draco did when it came to outward displays of affection. Normally, Draco would rebuff them, but tonight, holding Harry's hand felt more like a port in a storm than some maudlin gesture. 

 

Weasley’s gaze flicked towards their clasped hands initially, but his glances became more sparse as he took in the narrative. He made every appearance of taking meticulous notes, stopping Harry only to ask specific questions to which Harry delivered rapid fire answers. What time, who was present, where were they seated—the two had clearly made a very efficient team in the past. 

 

“So what’s the plan with Miss Shirley, then?” Weasley directed. “You’ve already tried Legilimens.”

 

“I was hoping,” Harry said, “that you two might have a touch of Veritaserum lying around.”

 

“Not bloody likely,” Ron replied, just as his wife contradicted him:

 

“You hoped correctly.”

Notes:

CW: mentions of child abduction (that will probably be the next several chapters tbh--there will be no SA, no severe physical abuse just FYI), very brief mention of femicide, infanticide. Mentions of potion addiction, withdrawal. Not a very kind interpretation of drug users, it is really just for the plot, so please forgive me for that!

 

Thank you all for being here. I really hate writing plot and I find it hardest to keep motivated to get through it (even though I definitely want to write the emotional pay-off!), so your comments have been hella appreciated. I cannot thank you enough, but every single comment means a lot to me!!!

Also if any Brits are able to tell me if focussing or focusing (or focussed/focused) is more common, I would sure appreciate it. The internet is giving me mixed results and I don't have a Brit-picker.

Chapter 48: Harry

Notes:

CW in the end notes

Harry

Miss Shirley sat in a cream-coloured wingback chair in the sitting room of 61 Library Mews. She held a saucer and teacup with a delicate rose pattern and scanned the room, politely bewildered. She blinked at Harry and raised one tremulous hand, tracing a lightning bolt in the air before her. 

 

“Harry Potter,” she said faintly. 

 

“Yeah,” Harry replied, feeling awkward. “Hi.”

 

“What am I doing here, Harry Potter?”

 

Harry did his best to give her an encouraging smile. “Why don’t you have a sip of tea?”

 

The tea was laced with Veritaserum, but she didn’t need to know that. None of them wanted to make this any more traumatic for the frail old witch than they already had. Her prognosis was likely bleak enough as it was.

 

“Yes, yes, alright,” she replied. The teacup shook, some escaping over the rim and dripping into her saucer as she brought it to her lips. 

 

They waited in silence for a few minutes until she finished her cup. Her not clocking that anything was amiss was simply more evidence of something not being right upstairs. 

 

At last, her eyes went hazy and her head fell forward. Hermione darted in to take the saucer and teacup from her as her body went momentarily limp. When she next looked up, the confusion, at least, had cleared, leaving behind a blank expression. 

 

Harry looked at Ron. 

 

“Your witness,” he offered. 

 

“State your full name,” Ron began, quill at the ready. 

 

“Faustine Lisbet Shirley,” came the reply. Her voice was flat, eerily devoid of any emotion. 

 

Harry had seen many a suspect under the influence of Veritaserum, yet it never stopped being a little unnerving. Merlin, this was such a nightmare. They should be at Eiderdown End, eating supper or playing Gobstones with the kids, musing about who wanted what for Christmas and arranging a shopping trip to Diagon Alley, not interrogating an innocent old lady. How had their lovely holiday plans derailed so quickly?. He crossed his arms and felt Draco press a palm to his shoulder blade. He leant into the touch. 

 

“Do you know today’s date?” Ron prompted.

 

“December 1st, 2018.”

 

“So she knows that at least,” Draco noted. 

 

“Well, she would, wouldn’t she?” Harry said. “Presuming she was under Imperius, she would need to know the date and be aboard the train.”

 

“Hm,” Draco agreed.

 

“Occupation?” Ron continued on with his investigation. 

 

“Provision services for the Hogwarts Express.”

 

“How long have you been doing that?”

 

The witch’s face gave an odd, mechanical twitch, just her right side. 

 

“Some…years.”

 

“That’s odd,” Hermione commented. “Not very specific.”

 

“Whoever put her under the Imperius did something else, muddled her mind somehow. Presumably to cover their tracks,” Draco reminded her. “I’m not sure how much we’ll get out of her.”

 

“Are you under the Imperius curse right now, Miss Shirley?” Ron inquired, changing tack. 

 

“No.”

 

“What would win out, Imperius or Veritaserum?” Harry questioned. “How can we trust any of her answers?”

 

“Veritaserum,” Hermione explained at once. “Imperius overlays the conscious mind, Veritaserum, the unconscious one.” 

 

Draco gave a nod of agreement. 

 

“Were you under the Imperius curse earlier today, Miss Shirley?” Ron asked. 

 

“Yes.”

 

“And for how long were you under the Imperius curse?” The precise nature of Ron’s questioning was a reflection of his Auror training, Harry knew. It was necessary to be clear and specific, to not allow for assumptions or misunderstandings. 

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Roughly speaking. Days?” Ron pressed. “Weeks? Months?”

 

“Perhaps a week. I’m uncertain.”

 

“Who put you under the Imperius curse?” Ron asked. Harry knew they all doubted the answer would be enlightening, but maybe they would get lucky.

 

“I don’t know.” 

 

“A stranger?” 

 

“I believe so.”

 

“Did you see them?” 

 

“No.”

 

“Did you hear them?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Male or female?”

 

“Male, I assumed, but I could not say for sure.”

 

“British?” Ron continued, questions coming quickly now, rooting out information. 

 

“Yes.”

 

“Dialect?”

 

“Standard Southern. Nothing distinctive.”

 

“Where were you when you were first cursed?”

 

The witch sagged a bit in her chair. Harry felt Draco tense beside him, his arm dropping by his side. They weren’t getting enough, very little of use. 

 

“You’ve only a few more minutes before the potion wears off. It will take me another lunar cycle to brew more,” Hermione informed her husband, tone hushed. 

 

“Where were you when you were cursed?” Ron went on, a sharp, urgent note in his voice that hadn’t been there prior. 

 

“I was in my garden.”

 

“Alone?” 

 

“Yes.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“I heard a voice in my head. Then there was a horrible pain and confusion. I believe I fainted."

 

"Then what?"

 

"I woke up on the grass, but the voice was still there."

 

"What did it say?"

 

"It told me to get up, and to go inside, that it had use of me. It said I would be alright so long as I did as I was bidden. It felt so lovely to listen to that voice.”

 

“Have you seen any friends or family since?”

 

“No, the curse made me stay away. I was to wait until December 1st.”

 

“And what were your instructions for today?”

 

“To act as normally as possible. To cast Portus on a Chocolate Frog and to make sure that Frog went especially to Scorpius Malfoy at 12:45 exactly. Whether he bought one or not, I was to make sure he touched it.”

 

Draco inhaled shakily.

 

“It was definitely targeted then,” Harry acknowledged uselessly. He glanced at Draco, whose eyes were glassy with fury. Harry touched his arm and Draco flinched away. “Oh, sweetheart,” Harry murmured. It wasn’t like they hadn’t suspected it, but it still felt deeply awful to have confirmed. 

 

Ron startled at that, looking over his shoulder at them, gaze narrowing to where Harry’s hand reached for Draco’s sleeve. His expression was a mix of suspicion and discomfort. 

 

“Ron,” Hermione warned. “The potion.”

 

"Right," Ron looked down at his notes, his focus disrupted.

 

“What was the end location of the Portus spell?” Draco took over, voice strained. 

 

The witch closed her eyes. 

 

“It’s fading,” Hermione said, concern evident. Her hand curled around the arm of the settee. 

 

“The end location!” Draco snarled. “Where?”

 

“Miller’s...Green.” Her chin slumped down on her chest. 

 

“Where is that?” Draco entreated, but it was no use. The effect of the serum had ended. With a soft snore and a lurch, Faustine Shirley woke up. 

 

“Oh,” she said, expression still dazed. “Where am I?”

 

“Fucking hell, Weasley,” Draco cursed, turning on Ron. “You wasted precious fucking time just now, ogling us. Time we didn’t have.”

 

“Oh, fuck off, Malfoy," Ron argued. "Forgive me if I’m still getting used to this whole display. In case you’ve forgotten, Harry was with my sister—a witch, I might mention—for the better part of two decades, so I can’t help but find this sudden foray into blokes a little unusual. More unusual still that the bloke he's selected out of all the wizards in the whole wide world just happens to be you. It's not right. Helping out in the summer was one thing, but this is next bloody level. I don’t know what you’ve done, but when I find out–”

 

“Come on, Ron–” Harry started, but his protest went unheard as Draco fired back.

 

“Oh, not this shit again!” Draco lashed out venomously. “Harry’s twice the wizard I’ll ever be, that any of us will ever be. Do you even know what he’s capable of? His wandless magic? His bloody wordless magic? What power would I have against that? What precisely are you accusing me of?”

 

“I don’t know, but when I do–”

 

“Enough! Both of you!” Hermione interjected, standing. Her voice was authoritative to quell the squabble. “We all need to cool down.”

 

Harry sighed. He should have expected this. It wasn’t in Ron’s nature to hold his tongue.

 

“I don’t need to cool down, Granger,” Draco whirled on her. “I need to find Miller’s Green. I need to find my son.”

 

“Then I’ll summon an atlas,” Hermione replied steadily. “You and Harry can pore over that while Ron and I take Miss Shirley here to St. Mungo’s. We'll see if they can’t do anything for her. Once we return, Morgana help me, we will work through this. Together.”

 

/// ///

 

Harry led Draco to the kitchen. It was cosy and tidy, framed drawings by Hugo and Rosie as well as some family photos dotted the friendly daisy-yellow walls. Harry set the heavy atlas on the table and Draco sat, reaching for it at once.

 

“Draco,” Harry said gently. 

 

Draco only shook his head. “I don’t need coddling right now, Potter," he asserted. "What I need is answers.”

 

“I know. I’m just–I’m sorry about Ron. He’s like this, he has to burn through his feelings. They run hot and the next thing you know, he's over them.”

 

Draco sighed and glanced up at Harry momentarily, his expression was shuttered and Harry hated it. He wanted to reach out, wanted to touch him, but he knew Draco wouldn’t allow it, knew he was so brittle it might shatter him like spun sugar on marble.

 

“He’s agreed to help and agreed to keep Scorpius’ secret. We never asked for him to be pleasant while doing it,” Draco conceded.

 

“Yes, but he doesn’t need to be a complete arsehole, either.”

 

Draco dragged a hand through his already mussed hair. “I can’t say I fully blame him. You do remember how I was in school, surely?”

 

Harry raised a shoulder noncommittally. He did, but he didn’t see the point in having all that out.

 

“I was a bigoted little shit, actively trying to kill our headmaster, crowing over the Dark Lord’s exploits, repeatedly calling Granger a slur I won’t now repeat. That is his last real reference point for me. I’m now simply faced with the direct consequences of my own actions. They were choices I made, so the repercussions are mine to bear.”

 

Harry grimaced. It wasn’t as though it wasn’t true. Draco had been exceptionally terrible, but Harry wished Draco could be a bit more forgiving of himself. “Yeah, but that was years and years ago,” he said, “and there were some pretty disturbing extenuating circumstances, what with your dad and all. Besides, you got better.”

 

Draco raised a pale brow. A nearly imperceptible ripple of amusement flashed over his features, and was gone. “Thanks for that, Potter.”

 

“Just didn’t think I’d live to see you defending Ron.”

 

“Oh, I still think he is a belligerent, unbearable git. I also appreciate, as you were so quick to point out, his skills and resources may come in useful in the situation. I do wish he’d stop accusing me of somehow ensorcelling you, it’s beyond ridiculous given the expanse of your power, but it was frankly beneath me to snap at him or rise to the bait.”

 

“I mean, it’s understandable, given the situation,” Harry said softly. He always felt weird about Draco remarking on his power. It wasn’t as though Harry used it for much beyond a few bedroom games. He'd inadvertently made himself into weapon, and so avoiding using magic for anything of significance seemed like the safest path. 

 

“Yes, well, I expect better from myself. I’m sorry for any embarrassment I’ve caused with my outburst.” Draco moved to open the atlas, flicking to the index.

 

“You’ve nothing to apologise for,” Harry told him at once, tone serious. “I could never be ashamed of you. Ron’s angry at me, rightfully so, to a point, but it’s far easier for him to make you a target.”

 

Harry sat, pulling his chair close enough for his knee to press against the side of Draco’s. Draco pressed back, one nimble finger scanning along the tiny lines of the index. 

 

It was agony, sitting here silently, Harry realised. He wanted to hold Draco in his arms, to wrap him in tender reassurances, to comfort and to soothe him, and make promises he had no right to make. It was the wrong impulse, Harry knew without even looking at the resolution apparent on Draco’s face. Draco needed action. 

 

As a compromise, Harry let his magic unobtrusively drape across Draco’s lap like a heavy flannel blanket. 

 

Draco didn't mention the gesture, but he didn't reject it either, so Harry hoped it was okay. Draco flipped back in the atlas, landing on a map of Wizarding Cumbria. Harry shifted closer, following Draco’s fingertip where it lighted upon a pale expanse in hilly terrain.

 

Harry squinted: Miller’s Green. 

Notes:

CW: Homophobic or biphobic overtones, ongoing discussion of child abduction

 

Thanks for reading.

Also, a little shameless self-plug, but I've recently completed the very last instalment of my first ever Drarry series (A Forward Path) and am feeling a bit emotional about it, as it was a project fives years in the making. It's an eighth year fic with found-family vibes.

Please consider giving it a read if you haven't already. I would be incredibly grateful!

Chapter 49: Albus

Notes:

**CW in end note**

Albus

Jamie had outgrown the bunk beds. He was practically doubled over trying to fit on the lower bunk, where they had Al’s notebook open on the bed, Al's wand lighting the space between them. 

 

“Your cursive is shit,” Jamie remarked. 

 

Al scanned the page. “I can read it,” he shrugged.

 

“What’s this word?”

 

Al squinted in the Lumos light of his wand. 

 

“Scoured,” he decided, trying to ignore the little leap his heart made at seeing the letters ‘Sco’ together like that. He was very carefully not thinking about Scorpius. Once he started, he feared he wouldn’t be able to stop. He thought instead around Scorpius, turning his absence into a puzzle to solve, not a catastrophe. It couldn’t be a catastrophe. “As in ‘A darkened soul cannot be scoured clean; it must be grown anew.’”

 

“Not a lot of substance to some of these,” Jamie noted. “I feel like the one about Dad gave a lot more concrete details.”

 

“Depends on the prophecy,” Al shrugged. He leafed through a few pages of the bound parchment. “Look at this one: 'In the mid-day sun of the summer solstice, while tending to homely duties, linen rustling in the wind and the scent of wisteria in the air, the one that would make her heart fuller yet waits beyond the alcove. Forgotten, he never again will be remembered. Found, a love will blossom, pure as honey.'"

 

Jamie wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think that one applies to our situation, given we’re in the middle of winter and we're not witches.”

 

“I also don’t know why whoever is lurking in the alcove wouldn’t just come out and introduce himself,” Al said. 

 

“Fair point,” Jamie agreed. “Let’s go back to the beginning, see if we can at least narrow things down. I feel like we're going to miss something if we keep jumping around.”

 

Albus flipped back to the first page. “I don’t even know what we’re looking for.”

 

Jamie gave a hum of understanding. So many of the prophecies felt like bizarre strings of words without meaning. Maybe they were codes. Could prophecies be in code? Al thought idly about applying his cipher, but no, that wouldn't make any sense, either. 

 

“I guess anything that mentions, like, I don’t know, December?" Jamie suggested. "Or Christmas, or the twelfth month. Or something that has been taken?”

 

“This one talks about a missing thimble,” Al offered, pointing to a line of his page. 

 

Jamie’s gaze flicked to the passage, his mouth twisting with consternation. “I can’t think of many ways in which Scor is like a thimble. And I sort of doubt he will be found under a cushion.”

 

“Unless he’s been shrunken down?” Al asked dubiously. “No, you’re probably right. This one sounds like it really is just about a thimble.”

 

“I didn’t realise prophecies could be so bloody mundane,” Jamie remarked, turning the page.

 

“I mean, a lot more things in life are mundane than exceptional.”

 

“I suppose you’re right.” Jamie continued to survey the prophecies. “What do you think a Grastia is? Is that supposed to be a 'G'? Merlin's teeth, Al, your writing really is atrocious. What's a—what is that—a Bythia?”

 

“Dunno,” Al replied, “but look here, this one’s about Sagittarius. That’s right now, isn’t it?"

 

“Yes,” Jamie confirmed, a note of intrigue in his voice. “'Sagittarius sun, his sister cast aside for her season of darkness. A voice cries out. Without claw, without bite, without sting...and then something about 'thought,' but I didn’t quite catch it.’”

 

“Shit,” Al muttered. “I was trying too hard to spell ‘Sagittarius’ and I missed the end of the damn thing. Not that this is exactly helpful, is it? Someone is crying in December?”

 

Jamie didn’t reply. Al glanced over at his brother, cross-legged and hunched over, expression stricken.

 

“D’you,” Jamie started, then swallowed. “D’you think Scorpius is scared? Do you think he’s crying out?”

 

“Don’t think about it,” Al told him at once, shaking his head as if to prevent the idea from even reaching his ears. “Jamie, listen, you can’t think about it, you’ll drive yourself mad. Think about this.” All jammed a finger against the page featuring the frustratingly opaque prophecy. “Think about what this could mean.”

 

“I can’t just not think about it,” Jamie said thickly. “How can you just shut it out?”

 

“Because crying over it isn’t going to help. Look, ‘thought’ it says. So we need to think. Scorpio is the sign before Sagittarius, so, like, the sister, yeah? And scorpions have stingers. This could really be something.”

 

“Scor never had any bite or claw or sting to begin with,” Jamie whispered. “He’s the kindest, gentlest person I know. He didn’t deserve this. He's such a sweet kid; it's not hardly fair. Fuck, Al, I can’t bear it, I really can’t. Every time I think of him, I want to be sick.”

 

Al put a tentative hand to his older brother’s forearm. Privately, Al had still sort of believed that Jamie had made a play for Scorpius’ friendship just to get under Al’s skin. Whether that was true or not in the beginning, it clearly wasn’t now. Jamie was distraught, even for Jamie, who was always spewing his feelings all over the place. Really, truly distraught. Enough that even Al started to feel it, like Jamie was infecting him with his worry and his doubts, a uncomfortable, bleeding darkness deep in Albus' gut. 

 

“We can’t,” he beseeched again, quietly. “Come on, Jamie. I know you care for him. I know it bloody hurts. But think about it, this makes it sound like he doesn’t need claw or bite or sting, only brains, and Scor’s got those in spades, doesn’t he?”

 

“Yeah,” Jamie replied shakily. “Yeah, he’s awfully clever.”

 

“Boys!” Their Granny’s voice sounded from the floor below. 

 

Jamie started, smacking his head on the slats of the bunk above his head. He cursed, pressing a hand to his scalp. 

 

“Boys, your father’s here!” Granny called again.

 

Al and Jamie looked at one another.

 

“Do you think he’s found him?” Jamie asked, tone hushed.

 

“I don’t know. He would have brought him, don’t you think?”

 

“Unless he was hurt.”

 

“Don’t say that,” Al told him quickly. 

 

Together, they scurried off the bunk and raced down the stairs, finding Dad and Professor Malfoy standing in the cramped kitchen. Dad had his arms full of Lily, who was crying into his neck as though he’d been gone for weeks instead of hours. Granny and Teddy were nearby with Remy, who didn’t seem fussed about who was present, so long as someone was rocking him. Al could tell from a glance at Professor Malfoy’s withdrawn expression that there was no good news to be had. His heart sank, despite his best efforts. 

 

“What are you doing here?” Al demanded angrily. “You ought to be out looking for Scorpius.”

 

“I know, Al, love, and we are looking for him,” Dad said consolingly. He looked tired, even though it wasn’t late. “Only to do so, we need a proper lead. We can’t just search at random, can we? We need to be smart.”

 

“Well he’s not likely to be here, is he?” Al argued. He felt an unusual heat licking at his eyeballs. He clamped it down fiercely. No. He was not feeling that. “So this isn’t smart.”

 

“We know he’s not here,” his father said quietly. He kneeled, setting Lily down, despite her protests. Granny came over and coaxed Lily aside. Al's dad put his big hands on Al’s shoulders, meeting Al’s gaze. “Draco and I have to go. We’re not sure when we’ll be back and we wanted to see you all before we left.”

 

“You’ll be back when you’ve found Scorpius,” Jamie said pleadingly. 

 

“Yes, that is certainly our plan,” Dad said. “In the meantime, we came to say goodbye. Granny and Teddy will take good care of you, and your uncles and cousins will all be arriving over the next few days. Ask them for anything you need. Look after your sister until we get back—and we will come back, no matter what. I love you all, and I will be back. I need you to hear that, yeah?”

 

“If you’ve not got Scorpius, don’t bother coming back,” Al told him forcefully, freeing himself of his father’s grasp and stepping away. 

 

“Al, you don’t mean that,” Jamie objected.

 

“Yes, I bloody do.”

 

“We won’t,” Professor Malfoy said suddenly. “Until he is found, I will never stop searching.”

 

Al nodded. “Okay. Okay, good.”

 

Professor Malfoy observed him, like he was a potion that wasn't quite the right shade of muck brown as he was supposed to be at this stage. Albus stared back, chin jutting out in challenge.

 

“Give your father a hug, would you please, Albus?” Professor Malfoy asked. He was quiet and subdued compared to his usual austere self, but his words held no less weight. “He needs one.”

 

Al usually bristled at being told what to do, but he could tell from the anguish on his dad’s face that it was true. There wasn't much Al could do for anyone right now. He had no money, no broomstick, and most of all no clues, but he could do this. He closed the distance between them again, wrapping his arms tight around his dad’s neck, and feeling himself being squeezed tight round the ribs in return. He shoved his cheek ferociously against his dad’s stubbly one. Even when Al was angry, his dad still gave the best hugs. 

 

“I love you,” Dad said. “I’ll miss you every moment.”

 

“Don’t stop looking,” Al pleaded. The hug seemed to make his feelings worse, not better. His voice sounded weak, pitiful, and desperate. He hated it. “Okay, Dad? I don’t care how long you have to be gone for, giving up would be worse.”

 

“I hear you, love, loud and clear. I’ve got to talk to your Granny and Teddy now, and then we will say our proper goodbyes, yeah?”

 

His dad stood up and brushed off his trousers. “Jamie, see to your sister for a moment, hm?”

 

Jamie nodded dully. “Come on, Lils,” he said, reaching out his hand to take hers from Granny’s. “Let’s find you a hanky, hey?”

 

Lily’s face was soaked with tears, her eyes red, her nose dripping. “I don’t want a hanky,” she resisted. “I want Daddy and Professor Malfoy to stay!”

 

“I know, LiLu,” Jamie said calmly, stroking her hair. “And if they could, they would. This is important though, and in a couple of days, there will be loads of people here. There are games to play and a hundred different Christmas sweets, so many you won’t even be able to try them all. And Uncle Percy and Uncle Ralph will probably take us to Diagon Alley so we can get little presents for everyone. You’ll hardly even notice that Daddy isn’t here.”

 

“I’ll notice,” Lily dissented. 

 

“I know. Come on, yeah? Let’s go see what Uncle George has sent Granny since we were here last. Dad won't leave without saying goodbye. ”  

 

“Thanks, love,” Albus’ dad said quietly to Jamie. Then he, Professor Malfoy, Granny, and Teddy made for the hallway where Grandad’s study was, taking Remy with them. 

 

Jamie gave Al a pointed look and Al gave a quick jerk of a nod in response, understanding the request.

 

Jamie led Lily away to the sitting room, leaving Albus alone in the kitchen. Al took a deep breath. Merlin, he felt awful. His head felt full of cotton and his chest was aching and he kept having to blink away stubborn tears. It was like all that had happened in the day had all landed squarely upon his shoulders just now, and he couldn’t figure out how to get out from underneath it all. He wished his dad was still here to give him another hug. He was the one that needed it this time. Jamie was right, it was physically sickening.

 

Al couldn’t deal with this right now. He reached into his pocket, nearly without thinking, and fed all his worry and distress into the peach pit he found there. 

 

/// ///

 

“Miller’s Green,” Al heard his Granny repeat, his ear pressed to the door of Grandad’s study between his two cupped hands. It had taken them a moment to get to this point, his dad and Professor Malfoy explaining Scorpius’ disappearance to Granny and Teddy in full. Al had had to palm the peach pit repeatedly throughout all that, just to get by, but his interest was piqued now, even though the term wasn’t familiar. 

 

“It’s in Cumbria,” Professor Malfoy was saying.

 

“Yes,” Granny agreed. “I visited the Lake District as a girl. I believe we stayed at Miller's Green for a couple of days.”

 

“Anything there of interest?” Dad asked. 

 

“It’s a sleepy little town, or it was when last I was there,” Granny replied. “Picturesque and quaint. A wizarding village for those who wish to live quiet lives. I would expect shady dealings there to be noticed right away. It’s a very wholesome place, I should think.”

 

“So anything out of order might have been noted,” Dad said. “Well, that’s not nothing.”

 

“I’d go to the Inn on the Green,” Granny instructed. “Any strangers in town will go through there.”

 

“Yes, alright. Thank you, Molly. And thanks, Ted.” It was Dad’s voice again. “I’m so sorry for leaving you with the kids.”

 

“They’re my grandchildren,” Molly told him firmly. “Why wouldn’t you leave them with me? I wouldn’t have them left anywhere else. And we’ve plenty of helping hands to go around in this family, Harry, even if you did forget that this summer.”

 

“I made do,” Dad said, “but you’re right. I’m lucky to have you. Thank you.” 

 

“If there’s anything we can do, Harry,” Teddy added. “I’ll be going to visit Nan once the rest of the family arrives, but I’m only an owl or a Floo away.” 

 

“Give her my best. We will let you know. Thanks, love.” 

 

“Anything,” Teddy repeated. 

 

Albus heard the swish of cloaks and made a hasty retreat to the sitting room where the adults appeared soon after. 

 

“Well,” Dad said. “We’d best be off.”

 

Lily flew to him, wrapping her arms around first him, and then Professor Malfoy. Jamie’s efforts seemed to have helped her mood some, at least. 

 

“Professor,” Lily asked, looking up at him, eyes bright. “Have you got any pocket money?”

 

“Lily!” Dad and Jamie chastised at once.

 

“Not for me!” Lily interjected, affronted by the silent accusations, “I mean, for me, but only so I buy presents for Christmas.” 

 

“I might do,” Professor Malfoy said, pulling a small leather pouch out of his pocket and counting out some Galleons and Sickles. It was a heck of a lot more than any of them ever got for Christmas spending, Al couldn’t help but notice. “Practice your maths and divvy it up equally with your older brothers.”

 

“You don’t have to–” Dad tried, face flushed. “I can get something from Gringotts. Hogwarts doesn’t pay me nothing, you know.”

 

“Yes, and I have plenty here and now,” Professor Malfoy told him dismissively. “Of course the children need some spending money for the holidays.”

 

Dad sighed. “If you’re sure.” He leaned in to hug Al, and then Jamie again. “Be good.”

 

Jamie made a rotten, miserable sort of noise, breaking free only to look towards Professor Malfoy.

 

“Find him,” Jamie begged.

 

Professor Malfoy took Jamie tightly in his arms, pressing his face into Jamie’s dark hair. It was curious, Al found. He’d not realised really, how close they all seemed to have become. Al still viewed his professor as, well, as just that. Lily and Jamie seemed to have stepped across some invisible divide, leaving Al quite alone.

 

He watched as Dad hugged Molly and Teddy. Professor Malfoy pressed a kiss to Remy’s fuzzy head. Remy babbled, grabbing at the professor’s hand, pudgy little fingers tight around his little finger. 

 

“Albus,” Professor Malfoy said seriously, gingerly removing his hand from Remy's grasp. He reached out to grip Al’s shoulder. He seemed to intuit that Al was not at the hugging stage yet, not with him, not yet. “Trust us, would you? I know your cleverness gets the best of you sometimes, but the most helpful thing you can do in this situation is to trust your father and I and to stay here with your family, where it's safe.”

 

Al looked up at him. He was tall, like Albus’ father, but his hair was so light and his eyes were so piercing, as though he could read Al’s thoughts as easily as he could stir a cauldron. Probably, Albus reminded himself of the scene on the train, because he could.

 

“Yes, Professor,” he swallowed. 

 

“Do I have your word?”

 

Al found himself nodding. “I’ll stay here,” he promised. He felt oddly relieved he’d gone to Eiderdown End earlier for his notes, so as to not have to break his vow. It felt more serious to promise Professor Malfoy something than it ever did to promise his Dad. His professor’s disappointment would be a lot more palpable, he expected, and Al…didn’t want that. “I trust you.”

 

“We couldn’t bear losing any of you, too,” Professor Malfoy murmured. 

 

We, he’d said. Al felt a bubble of something behind his sternum. Maybe that divide didn’t feel so far, after all. 

 

At last they left, Dad telling them he loved them about eighty more times before Professor Malfoy all but dragged him into the fireplace.

 

The bubble persisted. For a moment, it felt too large, too expansive, and Al thought about shoving that into his peach pit, too. 

Notes:

CW: ongoing reference to child abduction

 

Thanks <3

Chapter 50: Draco

Notes:

**CWs in the end notes**

Draco

The keeper of the Inn on the Green screamed when she saw Harry. She was a plump, older woman in a tartan dress with lace at the hem and sleeves. She had rosy cheeks, frizzy grey hair pulled into a bun, and one hand clasped to her chest, delighted. 

 

“My stars! Harry Potter, in my humble inn, I can scarcely believe it!” she proclaimed. She reached over the counter to shake his hand. Then, deciding that wasn’t enough, she came out from behind the counter and threw her arms around him, crushing him to her abundant bosom, as though he were a long-lost grandson. 

 

“Erm,” Harry said, trying to wriggle out her grasp. “Hullo.” 

 

The innkeeper stepped back, her hands on Harry’s shoulders, squealed, and then hugged him again.

 

Draco glanced around to ensure no onlookers had arrived in the hotel lobby to take in the scene, alerted by the screaming. It was blessedly empty. The counter was built of thick, sturdy, dark wood, and the floors carpeted in worn, forest green. There were a couple of snoozing portraits on the far wall–one witch and one wizard, who thankfully hadn’t stirred at the commotion. Perhaps this innkeeper did a lot of screaming; Draco could believe that. 

 

The room was entirely unremarkable, what one would expect in a village inn. Draco didn’t know what he was expecting, really. Finding Scorpius wasn’t going to come with a series of large glowing arrows to point the way. There was an unpleasant tension in Draco’s neck and jaw. He tried to hide his irritation at the innkeeper's ludicrous display. He knew it wasn’t Harry’s fault he’d saved the country and was universally beloved, but it certainly was inconvenient.

 

“Harry Potter,” she repeated. 

 

“Yep,” Harry agreed from where he was sandwiched against her. “Hi.”

 

Only then did the innkeeper think to examine Harry’s companions. She also seemed to recognise the Granger-Weasley couple, shaking their hands and thanking them for their service, but she luckily drew a blank when it came to Draco. Her expression suggested something was tickling her memory—no doubt Prophet front page photos from the post-war trials—but she couldn’t seem to draw it to the surface. 

 

“My goodness,” she breathed, awed. “What brings you all to Miller’s Green tonight of all nights?” She thankfully didn’t seem interested in Draco’s role in all this, she was too star-struck to be particular on the details. 

 

“Auror work,” Weasley announced, his tone all business in an effort to redirect her. He and Harry had opted to wear their Auror robes to give their investigation the veneer of legitimacy.

 

“And Ministry work,” Granger-Weasley added with a bit more of a friendly air. “Joint investigation. May we start with your name?”

 

The innkeeper introduced herself as Mrs. Pennywhistle Humphries.

 

“Right, well it is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Humphries,” Weasley began. “I hate to skip the niceties, but it is rather urgent. We believe a child was brought here unlawfully, via Portkey."

 

The innkeeper was clutching at her chest again. 

 

“No,” she gasped. “How horrid! The poor lamb.”

 

“Yes,” Weasley agreed. “It would have been this afternoon at 12:45. Any idea where such a Portkey would land someone?”

 

“Portkeys to Miller’s Green typically arrive near the fountain in the village square,” Mrs. Humphries offered, finally giving them something of use. 

 

“And was anything happening in the village square at 12:45 this afternoon?” Weasley-Granger asked. 

 

“Of course there was!” Mrs. Humphries said indignantly, as though they all ought to have an intimate knowledge of the workings of Miller’s Fucking Green. Draco felt his teeth clenching and forced himself to release.

 

“And, er, what was that?” Harry pressed, aiming for amicable, but Draco could sense his frustration as well. 

 

“The 118th Annual Miller’s Green Holiday Fete and Pageant!"

 

“Right,” Weasley muttered. “How could we forget the fete? Or the pageant?”

 

“Are you meaning to tell me that not a one of you has been here to witness it? Why, it attracts dozens of tourists every year, and rumour has it that this year, we had nearly 200 attendees!”

 

“Quite a feat,” Granger-Weasley agreed with a forced smile. “What is the population of Miller’s Green?”

 

“43 year round, but quite a bit more during summer and the Christmas holidays, perhaps 100, 115.” Mrs. Humphries told her proudly.

 

“Ah. So some of these guests were from surrounding communities?” Granger-Weasley continued. 

 

“Yes.”

 

“Were you there?” Harry asked. 

 

“Was I there! Mr. Potter, of course I was there, where else am I to sell my red currant jam?”

 

“Where indeed,” Draco said drily. 

 

“What’s that, petal?” Mrs. Humphries asked, turning her attention to him for the first time. 

 

“Nothing,” Draco replied. “Anyone at this event you didn’t recognise?”

 

“Oh, certainly, I’ve a business to run, you know, I don’t spend all my time making new acquaintances. And then there are the traveling merchants and performers who do the holiday circuit, you know, fairs, Christmas markets, and what have you.”

 

“At the fete, did you see a small blond boy of about twelve?” Harry asked. “He may have looked confused or bewildered or scared.”

 

“Little Brucie Borden!" Mrs. Humphries announced excitedly. “He had a spice cake in each hand and was as blissful as a duck in a pond, the dear. Are you looking for little Brucie Borden?”

 

“No,” Draco told her, managing, but only just, to not tell her that little Brucie Borden could frankly go rot. “This would likely be a child you didn’t recognise.”

 

“And he would be very blond,” Harry contributed.

 

“Like him? He’s about the blondest fellow I’ve ever seen. Awfully pretty, really,” Mrs. Humphries commentrd, pointing at Draco. 

 

“Yes,” Draco allowed. They were only on their second witness and he was sick to death of this agonising interviewing process. How had Harry ever made a career out of this? At least school children would shut up and listen if one used sarcasm and severity to one’s advantage. 

 

“Oh dearie, you’ve not lost your child?” Mrs. Humphries murmured pityingly. 

 

“Just answer the question, please,” Draco replied, doing his utmost to remain prpfrssional and not alienate the doddering twit.

 

“I would have remembered a child that blond, surely,” Mrs. Humphries said. "I might have kidnapped him myself if I'd seen him, the little beauty! Only joking, Auror Weasley, a little joke to lighten the mood!"

 

/// ///

 

“Here we are now,” Mrs. Humphries declared. She’d only been too delighted to give the four of them a tour of the town square, leaving a harried-looking assistant to mind the front desk. “The fete began last night. The stalls were arranged around the edges of the square, and this platform here is erected by Mr. Webb every year.” She slapped a wooden platform about the height of her own head which stood beside a many-tiered fountain charmed to flow continuously, despite the sub-zero temperatures, “He’s a real talent for configuration, you know. Would you believe this is usually his gardening shed? He has two big Thestrals that pull it into the square every year, it is quite a sight to behold! He’ll come and take it back tomorrow, you know, if you want a show! The whole town usually comes out for it.”

 

Draco struggled to tolerate the incessant chatter and superfluous details, but Weasley was faithfully recording everything in his little Auror notebook. Draco wandered about the platform. If it had indeed started as a shed, then even Draco could appreciate the spell work. It was broad and wide, certainly large enough to feature an entire children’s pageant, and festooned with holiday-time paintings, ribbons, and bells that tinkled relentlessly—doing little to improve Draco’s mood. There were stairs on one side, and dark curtains below, hiding the struts and supports. 

 

While Weasley and his wife patiently questioned Mrs. Humphries on the details of the event, Draco ducked behind on the curtains, casting Lumos as he did. Harry followed, a hand to Draco’s lower back in unobtrusive solidarity. 

 

It smelled of potting soil and cut grass, which was odd in the midst of winter, but Draco supposed it made sense, given its typical existence as a shed. Beneath their feet were the same cobblestones of the square, and orderly planks of wood formed the stage above their heads. Both of them had to crouch to prevent banging their heads on the diagonal beams holding everything in place. 

 

Draco could tell Harry wanted to ask how he was doing, and prayed he wouldn’t. What was the use in Harry saying, ‘Alright, love?’ only for Draco to tell him, ‘no, not even fucking close.’ Harry thankfully seemed to understand this and so instead of speaking he simply kept close, offering comfort with the press of a shoulder or the touch of a gentling hand. Draco was grateful for that. Without it, he was want to fall entirely to pieces.

 

“Look,” Harry pointed. Ahead of them was a large storm drain grate. 

 

Draco did look. It was ordinary in appearance, with heavy metal slats and ‘Miller’s Green’ stamped across one side. 

 

“Do you think it’s possible–” he started. 

 

“That the perpetrator could have intentionally brought Scorpius here?” Harry picked up the thread. “Under the stage in the middle of a busy day where no one would hear him? And used whatever is down there to make their escape? I think it’s more than possible. I think it’s likely.”

 

Harry used his magic to lift the grate. Draco kneeled and peered inside. 

 

It was dark as pitch, preternaturally so. It was dim beneath the stage as it was, so very little light was coming in from above, and Draco couldn’t make out the sewer tunnel in any direction.

 

Draco lowered his lit wand into the space below. The light was swallowed up immediately, as though it had been dipped in a thick, black soup. 

 

He shook his wand and tried again, which was more an instinctual gesture than a logical one. Nothing changed. 

 

“Peruvian Darkness Powder,” Draco declared. 

 

Harry nodded in agreement.

 

“Hermione, can you come here for a moment?” Harry called.

 

Granger-Weasley, abandoning her husband to the loquacious Mrs. Humphries, slipped between the curtains, crouching to join them. Draco demonstrated the phenomenon, shoving his wand into the pit in explanation. 

 

“Don’t suppose you have a Hand of Glory?” Draco asked. “I misplaced mine some 20 years ago.”

 

“I don’t,” the witch said. “I try not to involve myself with Dark Artifacts, as a general rule. It would seem, though, that we are definitely on the right track.”

 

“How long must we wait for the powder to settle?” Draco wondered. 

 

“A couple of days,” Harry replied. 

 

“Shit,” Draco said, the desperate, acidic anger rising in his throat again. “Shit, what in the ever-loving hell do we do now, then?”

 

“I could check the village hall for town blueprints?” Granger-Weasley offered half-heartedly. “But little old towns like this are not always the best at record keeping. Or maybe Mrs. Humphries knows someone who knows something about the water system around here. Let me go ask.” She disappeared back out into the night air. 

 

Draco shook his head, pushing his hands into his eyes to stave off the hot tears threatening to fall. 

 

“I need to know where this fucking sewer leads,” he announced, as if Harry didn’t know that already. He turned towards Harry, hand gripping his wand, voice frantic. “What about your magic? Can’t you do anything? You do all sorts of mad things with it, at home!”

 

“It’s not like that, love,” Harry explained quietly. “I can cast any spell I know, and my magic can act, as, I don’t know, a sort of physical extension of myself and my motivations, but I can’t just create a spell that doesn’t exist.”

 

Without forethought, Draco directed his wand at the drain. “Expecto Patronum!” he commanded, doing his best to keep his voice from shaking, but he couldn’t seize upon a single happy memory long enough, and nothing but a wisp of silver smoke materialised. He went to try again only to find his wand arm stilled by Harry’s steady hand. 

 

“We don’t want to give ourselves away,” Harry said. “If Scorpius’ captor is still down there, we don’t want them alerted.”

 

“Then what do we bloody do?” Draco pleaded. He looked to Harry, bereft. “What do we do?”

 

Draco broke. 

 

He broke and he broke and he broke, like so much seawater flung upon jagged bluffs. His breath came in rapid, painful bursts, and he staggered out from under the platform, Harry following quickly behind. 

 

Draco stumbled towards the fountain, freezing water sharp against his hands, his face. His fingers were white and numb, and he was sure the shock of the water would snap him out of this, but he felt sticky with sweat in the frigid air, and his thoughts weren’t coming right. 

 

This was all his fault, he knew with sudden, brutal clarity. He’d been too greedy; he’d asked for too much. How dare he think he deserved his profession, his son, Harry, and a whole sprawling family in addition. This was some karmic force kicking him in the teeth, reminding him of every cruel, awful, unforgivable thing he’d ever done, and snatching happiness from his covetous, grasping fingers. He was Icarus at the moment of impact, shattered in every way a man could be. 

 

Harry said something to his friends and the old innkeeper and then took Draco by the elbow, Apparating them both with a booming crack. 

 

Draco started, pitching forward, only to be caught by Harry, who sat him down on the edge of a large four poster bed with a worn floral coverlet. He didn’t know where they were, but that hardly seemed to matter. Harry was kneeling before him, unfastening the clasp of Draco’s cloak, the top few buttons of his shirt. 

 

“Breathe,” Harry was saying. He sounded so calm. His actions were purposeful, but not hurried, refusing to match Draco’s intensity. Harry wrapped his fingers around Draco’s tingling hands and held them clasped between his large, warm ones. “Draco, sweetheart, keep breathing. It’s a panic attack. I had loads of these after the war. I know it feels like you’re dying. You’re not dying, I promise. You’re safe.”

 

“It’s my fault,” Draco confessed, frenzied and nonsensical. Harry’s face was blurring in and out of focus before him. “I wanted too much.”

 

“What's your fault, what are you on about, hmm?" 

 

“i don't deserve...The things I’ve done–”

 

“Are in the past,” Harry said firmly. “Breathe.” He shifted forward, sliding his palms around the curve of Draco's ribcage. “Here, push my hands with your breath, see if you can do it.”

 

The instructions were stupid, childish, but Harry sounded so sure, and Draco tried, air rushing into his lungs for the first time in full minutes. 

 

“Good, that’s so good, feels better, doesn’t it?” Harry told him. “Can you do that again for me, angel?”

 

“I don’t have time for this,” Draco said, his voice was high, thin and trembling. 

 

“We have time,” Harry assured him. “Ron and Hermione are working the case right this very moment, and they are the best there is.”

 

“I ought to be there.”

 

“For now, you need to be right here, breathing.”

 

Draco shook his head, but he obeyed, eyes squeezing shut as he focused on the press of Harry’s knowing hands spanning his ribs. Harry continued a steady stream of praise and adoration, as though Draco had won the Quidditch World Cup, simply executed the most basic of human tasks, exchanging oxygen in his lungs, letting it flow through his blood. Shame rushed in to the spaces panic evacuated.

 

When Draco braved opening his eyes, Harry wasn’t looking at him with pity or disgust, only a quiet sort of care. 

 

“Hey,” Harry murmured. He slid one hand from Draco’s chest up to curl around the side of Draco’s neck. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Draco told him. “You never should have seen me like this.”

 

“I almost was this,” Harry replied, a soft smile on his generous mouth. “Today on the train, when you did Legilimency. I was white-knuckling reality, clinging on for dear fucking life. It’s the damn war, you know? Left scars on all of us, and in the worst times, those scars turn into bloody fault lines, and this is just about as bad a time as one could have.”

 

“How do I keep them from happening?” Draco rasped. 

 

“You can’t always,” Harry shrugged. He swept fingers through Draco’s hair. “But you can’t feed the dragons. You let those thoughts in about what you deserve or don’t deserve or what you’ve done or what’s your fault, then you’re done for.”

 

“I never felt like this before you,” Draco said, defeated and frustrated. He couldn't understand how being with Harry had made him weaker, when it ought to have made him stronger. He needed to be stalwart and reliable, for Scorpius, for Harry and his children, who had somehow become just as essential to him. He couldn't afford these wretched little breakdowns; they were indulgent, humiliating, and foreign. Harry was worthy of something better. “I always kept it together.”

 

“Yeah, because you never let yourself have anything, babe,” Harry offered honestly. “You’d made yourself a tiny, inconspicuous speck of dust with no wants and very few needs.”

 

“I had what was necessary,” Draco refuted.

 

“You had what you thought you deserved,” Harry corrected.

 

"What do you know about it?" Draco dismissed him petulantly.

 

“I know that you’re Draco Malfoy. I know that ever since childhood all you've wanted is to be loved and admired and cherished. To indulge yourself in little luxuries, to be brilliant and beautiful."

 

"Shut up," Draco told him. Harry's words twisted uncomfortably inside him, far too close to truth to be bearable. "As a child, I also wanted to be a Quidditch star, the Minister for Magic, and the next Gilderoy Lockhart, all at the same time. Those are all just trifling whims. I don't need any of that. I made a life for myself without it."

 

"So maybe you don't need it, so what?" Harry pushed. "No one gives you a ribbon for a lifetime of self-deprivation." 

 

"Then what do you propose I do, Potter?" Draco entreated, not without aggravation. 

 

"Let me help," Harry told him. "Let me adore and admire and cherish you without worrying that the universe is going to come down and smite you for it. Believe me when I tell you you're brilliant, even when things are really fucking hard, and things are really fucking hard just now. No one expects you to be an automaton about this, and you wouldn't expect that of anyone else, so you can't keep expecting it of yourself. And hell's teeth, sweetheart, you cannot keep believing that this devastating thing that's happened is some sort of cosmic punishment for permitting yourself to be loved.”

 

Harry took a breath, and gave Draco a chagrined look, like maybe even he knew his outburst was a bit much. Draco let the words and sentiments roll over him, uncertain but wanting. 

 

“I don’t know if I can,” Draco said at last. It all felt too big, pulsing like the sun, a promise for which Draco ought not to reach, but Merlin, how he yearned. "But I could try."

 

Draco leant forward until his nose brushed Harry’s. He let himself be kissed. It was achingly reassuring. Harry's skin was warm, and his touch felt somehow thawing, hope seeping into Draco like sunlight. 

 

“I’m afraid,” Draco permitted himself to acknowledge. 

 

“I know," Harry said. "But we’ll find him, yeah? And once we do, we’re all going to hold onto each other, every day, with everything we’ve got.”

 

Draco dared to believe him. 

Notes:

CWs: ongoing child abduction, panic attack, references to PTSD

 

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Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Something Good