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Now, I'm looking' to the sky to save me
Looking for a sign of life
Looking for something to help me burn out bright
And I'm looking for a complication
Looking ‘cause I'm tired of lying
Make my way back home when I learn to fly
-Learn To Fly.
January 2004.
It was a grey, drizzly January day when Draco’s whole world changed forever.
He was in a great mood as he sped through the sky. The Wasps were up by fifty points. Johnny Flitterwick had put the Quaffle through the goalpost twice already. The Arrows were trailing far behind. All Draco needed was the Snitch. Somewhere, far below, the fans were chanting Malfoy, Malfoy, over and over.
Victory was close. Draco could almost taste it. Up here, the wind was ferocious, and he lent his weight into it, refusing to be intimidated. His face was slick with sweat and rain, and visibility was poor but, in the corner of his eye, he could see the Snitch. It was soaring a few metres above Potter. It was almost in snatching distance, but not quite. He had to bide his time. He had to be clever.
Nothing beat the adrenaline rush of Quidditch. Nothing. Flying was freedom. Flying was Draco’s life. The moment he mounted his broomstick, he left the rest of his world behind.
Draco dug the fingertips of his gloves into the groove of his Firebolt. He pulled it into a razor-sharp left. Draco knew what to do next. It was a move that he’d practised all week in training. A feint to the right, before twisting his whole body so he was flying on his side.
After that, swing himself around, and try to get around Potter’s side. Wimbourne fans had nicknamed it the Malfoy Screw, and it always worked like a charm.
Every single Omniocular in the stadium would be pointed in their direction. The mythical rivalry between Potter and he was the reason that games between Wimbourne and Appleby were so popular. Their story was Prophet fable. Competing Seekers from rival school houses, turned competing Seekers for rival teams? The story wrote itself, sold papers, and filled the stadiums. Everyone not-so-secretly hoped they'd see a fight or a sly hex between the famous enemies.
Draco relished these games more than anything else in his life. Nothing was better than a game against the Arrows, except from a win against the Arrows. The atmosphere was exhilarating, the air vibrated with tension, and each set of supporters were frantic for victory.
With seconds to spare, Draco flung himself right, moving his body in unison with his broom. He and his Firebolt were two parts of the same being. Blood raced through his veins as Draco raised his hand from the polished wood, anticipating his fingers curling around the slippery cold of the Snitch.
Potter was close by, broomstick and body getting into his face, trying to trip him up. Draco wasn’t having that. Not today. The damned Arrows weren’t having this game, not at their home ground, not when a win would put them at the top of the Quidditch League.
At the last possible moment, Draco spung to the side, twisting his broom so that his whole body rotated.
That was when it happened.
Draco felt his hands slip from the handle, and though he reached out, there was nothing to grab onto. Draco didn’t understand. He didn’t fall from his broomstick. He never had, not once in a dozen years. There was a stomach-turning weightlessness as he dropped, untethered, through the air. Draco saw the ground rushing up to meet him.
Everything went black.
~~
Draco came back into himself, not sure where he was, or what had happened.
His legs, his belly, and his arms all hurt. The mattress beneath him was hard and uncomfortable. He wasn't at home, then. Slowly, very slowly, Draco opened his eyes and blinked against the bright Monitoring Charms that shimmered above his bed.
St Mungo’s, it had to be. There were nauseatingly green lime curtains pulled around him, making everything shadowy. The competing stink of antiseptic potion and starch filled his nose. His head pounded painfully as his memories began to return.
It’d been matchday. Draco remembered the weight of his leathers and the smell of broomstick oil. There’d been a pep talk, beforehand. Flint had said he wanted a win. He’d said he wanted to knock the Arrows off their perch.
Suddenly, sickeningly, everything came back to Draco. The Malfoy Screw. He'd buggered it up. Made a fool of himself in front of the whole stadium. Overbalanced and tipped off his broomstick.
Humiliation flooded Draco’s body; hot, sticky and infuriating. The match. He must have been subbed. Quidditch stopped for nothing and nobody. Not that bloody Olshansky! That git was useless. He couldn't catch the Snitch if it'd been Engorgio'd to the size of a crystal ball. Had Wimbourne got the win? Or had Potter swiped the Snitch from under Olshansky's nose? Draco groaned. He could already see the Prophet headlines. The Malfoy Screw Up. Perfect Potter Pinches Prize.
Fuck, but he needed his wand. He needed to find his clothes. He got up, grimacing at the sharp pain that ripped through him. Flint ought to be around somewhere. Draco needed to talk to him and find out exactly what he had missed. Bringing up his hand, Draco sliced directly through the Monitoring Charms. That would summon the Healers and get them running.
It did the trick. Moments later there was a knock. Draco heard the door push open. He heard a snippet of conversation. “No, no. I’m sorry. I’m afraid that you can’t be in here,” came a clear, professional voice. Then the door was shut with a determined click. A Colloportus was cast for good measure.
The Healer, clad in green robes that exactly matched the unpleasant bed curtains, pulled the drapery back. A card pinned to her chest announced her name as Healer Mayhew.
“You’re very popular Mr Malfoy,” Mayhew said, sliding her wand out of her sleeve. “You’ve got all manner of people out there wanting an update on your prognosis. You created quite a stir around the hospital. It’s rare we have celebrities around the place.”
Draco winced internally. Quite a stir meant Prophet paparazzi would already be hovering like voracious crows wanting to steal a juicy worm.
Well, they could all sod right off. The last thing Draco wanted to spy on the back of the newspaper tomorrow wss a photograph of him banged up in a hospital bed to go alongside their hideous headlines. “When can I go home?” Draco asked, hoping very much that she’d answer ‘immediately’.
The green-robed witch said nothing of the sort. Instead, Mayhew swished her wand through the air. She watched a trail of silky green magic fill the space over his torso, turning first a sparkly silver, then fading onto a light mauve before fading into nothingness.
“Ah,” Healer Mayhew murmured. “Very interesting. Very interesting indeed.”
Taking a Muggle pencil from her top pocket, the witch wrote on the chart hung at the end of his bed. “Please don't be anxious. It won’t be long before you’re released, Mr Malfoy. We just have to complete a few final tests.”
That wasn’t the answer that Draco had been expecting. What tests was Mayhew talking about?
Yes, Draco’s body hurt, but he knew that that was par the course with an Arresto Momentum. You still hit the ground, which meant you still ended up with a body full of bruises. Draco had seen it often enough with teammates. Nothing felt broken or bandaged. There wasn’t a dreaded bottle of Skele-Gro in the witch’s hand. Thank Merlin, but it seemed as if he was all in one piece.
True, he was nauseous, and very, very dizzy but that ought to pass. He wanted his own bed, a cup of sweet tea, and a sleep. Then he’d be back on his broom at the crack of dawn tomorrow, proving to Flint, to the other Wasps, and the rest of the wizarding world that there was no better Seeker alive.
Get straight back on your broom, that was Flint’s motto. Show it that you’re its master, not the other way around.
Another twist of Healer Mayhew’s wand drew a series of thin orange lines in the air. They criss-crossed over one another before they, too, faded away to nothingness. “How are you feeling now?” she asked, sliding her wand back onto her sleeve.
“Like I’ve duelled a ruddy Horntail,” Draco answered. “What happened?” Picking up the metal jug that sat beside the bed, Healer Mayhew poured out a glass of water. “Drink this first,” she said, handing it to him. Draco swallowed a mouthful. It tasted wonderful. He was more dehydrated than he’d realised.
Pulling up a chair, Healer Mayhew sat down. “You fell from a height of about three hundred metres,” she answered, “and, luckily for you, Mr Flint was on hand with a Velocity Reducing spell. Even so, you still hit the ground with quite a thump. We’ve talked to Mr Potter. He saw everything. He says that when you swung your broom to the side, you simply tumbled off-”
Annoyance flared through Draco. So, Potter had been at St Mungo’s, running his mouth off? Shouldn’t he have been in the air, winning the game for the Arrows? Anyway, he hadn’t simply tumbled off. It had to be some sort of hex or charm. He was a Malfoy. Malfoys didn’t tumble anywhere.
“Impossible,” Draco interrupted. “And I’m perfectly fine. Please. If you let me go home, I promise to faithfully take every potion you want to give me. I’ll come back in for a check-up tomorrow.”
“No can do, I’m afraid,” Mayhew said cheerily. “It’s St Mungo’s policy to keep the subjects of all broomstick accidents in for observation until we determine the reason you lost control. If there’s an underlying reason, then we need to know what it was.”
Draco hmphed. There wasn’t any point in arguing over hospital policy. There were more rules and regulations inside this infernal building than there had been at Hogwarts.
Taking another sip of water, Draco decided to make the best of it. If he were confined to bed, then at least he wouldn’t have to face the damned reporters and their foolish questions. He placed his water glass on the bedside table and opened his mouth to ask whether he might procure a sandwich, when there was a sudden hammering on the door.
It swung open. Harry Potter strode inside.
Gods, but he looked an impossibly gorgeous sight. He’d obviously come straight from the stadium. Preposterously snug tracksuit bottoms were topped with a pale blue Arrows tee-shirt, emblazoned with a silver arrow. His hair was a tousled mess. Healer Mayhew stood up abruptly, pushing back the chair with such force that it nearly toppled over. Draco rolled his eyes. Potter tended to have that effect on people.
“Mr Potter!” Healer Mayhew chided. “We had this discussion only five minutes ago! I’m sorry, but the guidelines are very clear. Only family members are allowed by the bedside of patients. We can’t break the rules,” she said, her voice hopelessly high. “Not even for the Saviour.”
Potter, of course, turned on his famous charm and directed the full beam of it onto Healer Mayhew. “None of that Saviour nonsense, I beg of you. Harry, please.” He flicked his eyes from her face over to Draco’s bed. “And I won’t take up much of Mr Malfoy’s time. A few minutes at the very most. The Appleby Arrows take in-air accidents very seriously. Dougal Mackenzie, my coach, wants to ensure that Draco is getting the very best care.”
That was the biggest pile of flimflam Draco had heard in twenty-four years on the Earth.
Dougal Mackenzie didn’t give the first fig that he was in hospital. The red-faced old git would be only too overjoyed if Draco was out and benched for the rest of the season. Without a shadow of doubt, he’d be drinking a double shot of Firewhisky at this very moment, toasting Draco’s clumsiness.
Healer Mayhew didn’t know that though. She didn't realise that Potter was fibbing. She hesitated for a moment, before glancing back at Draco, her face apologetic. “I need to collect extra parchment anyway,” she said, her cheeks pink as two ripe apples. “Two minutes,” she warned in Potter’s direction, before scuttling past him, green robes rustling, making for the door.
The spectacled wizard stood, motionless, waiting for it to click shut.
Once it had, Potter closed the space between them and slid fluidly into Healer Mayhew’s vacated seat. Reaching over, he tried to take hold of Draco’s hand.
Draco snatched it away. Of all the impudent, daft ideas, this one took the chocolate-covered biscuit. He wouldn’t have put it past the Prophet to have set Listening Charms around the room, or to have offered his Healers a bribe.
“Bloody hell,” Draco hissed. “What in Circe’s name are you playing at, Potter? Why have you come here, you absolutely gigantic prat? Don’t you think Rita Skeeter might wonder why you’ve come to visit your mortal enemy at the hospital?”
Potter had the audacity to look hurt. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nobody suspects,” he answered, leaning back in the chair like he was sitting in his living room. Potter managed to make himself look comfortable wherever he settled himself. “We had a tussle over the Snitch, you got injured, and so I’ve come to St Mungo’s to enquire about your welfare. I’m a nice chap, Malfoy. I'm thoughtful. I’d do the same for any Quidditch player.”
Draco huffed, not mollified in the least. He leant back against his pillow, flinching at the fresh bolt of pain that shot through his shoulder blade. “Like hell you would,” he replied, giving Potter his best scowl. “Well, you might if you were shagging them too, which you jolly well better not be.” He sighed. “You ought to go. There’s no reason for you to be here. I’m fine.”
The scowl didn’t work on Potter, because it never did. The two of them spent far too much time together. Potter knew all his tricks. “Bit rich of you to mention shagging other people,” he answered, quick as a hex. “You’re the engaged one, not me, and didn’t look very fine when all the colour drained out of your face, and you lost your grip on your Firebolt. I remember thinking you were attempting that stupid screw manoeuvre, and I remember thinking how easy it’d be to block you. Then wham! You were freefalling. You scared the fucking skin off me.”
Of all the times and places, Draco couldn’t believe that Potter had brought up Astoria now, and here. Potter knew very well that it was a low blow. “You’re a complete arse sometimes,” he answered.
Draco would have liked to have said more. He’d have liked to have reminded Potter that he was a war hero, with a vault filled with gold, and a home he’d inherited from his godfather. Potter was footloose, fancy-free, and able to enjoy relationships with anyone he wished. Potter had the luxury of choice, whereas Draco didn’t.
He didn’t say those things, though, because there was another knock on the door. Healer Mayhew pushed it open, reappearing with another, much older wizard flanking her side.
Potter slipped out of the chair in a single smooth movement and took two steps back. This was their habit. They never let themselves be seen stood too closely in public. Healer Mayhew took in the tableau and appeared to see nothing suspicious.
“Did you get everything you wanted?” she asked, directing her question to Potter. The other Healer, transparently less starstruck, ignored Potter’s presence completely. He made straight for the notes pinned to the end of his bed and picked them up. He furrowed his brow as he examined them.
“Unfortunately, no,” Potter said, keeping his voice mild. “Mr Malfoy here wasn’t very forthcoming. It's fine. I'm used to his prickly manner.”
Had Draco had his wand, he would have chased Potter from the room with a Stinging Hex. As it was, there was very little he could do. “And Mr Malfoy is still here,” Draco said pointedly, “lying in an uncomfortable hospital bed, wearing borrowed pyjamas. I would very much like to go home, if it’s the same to you? Apparently, there were some final tests that still need completing?”
“And that’s why I’m here, Mr Malfoy,” said the green-robed wizard. The lanyard around his throat named him as Healer Higginbotham. He had a long Dumbledore-esque beard and warm brown eyes in a wrinkled face. Draco, whose own grandparents had been the total antithesis of caring and paternal, decided he liked Higginbotham immediately. “And, as Healer Mayhew ought to have safeguarded, you’re entitled to privacy. Only family members are allowed by the bedside of patients. Mr Potter shouldn’t be here.”
Draco glanced at Potter. His face was set in the same determined expression that he wore on the Quidditch Pitch. The idiot could be stubbornly persistent when he wanted something. Draco didn’t need the hassle of him digging in his heels and refusing to leave. Raised voices would attract the paparazzi. That, more than anything, would risk exposure of their secret.
“He can stay,” Draco answered, shooting the other Seeker a warning look. “Potter knows better than to gossip to his teammates. He says one word about me, and I’ll magically close that Saviour mouth permanently.”
Unwilling to waste any more time on the conversation, Healer Higginbotham nodded his consent, letting Potter remain in the room.
“Would you mind pulling up your top?” Higginbotham asked, taking his wand from a pouch on his belt, “and pulling down the waist of your trousers by a few inches? Some of this charmwork is a touch delicate. It’s easier to cast without a layer of cloth in the way.”
Draco complied, wanting very much to get the examination over and done with. St Mungo’s was always kept chilly, and he shivered as the sudden cold goose-pimpled his skin.
Flat against the wall, Potter was fidgeting. He was knotting the hem of his tee-shirt in his fingers, unable to disguise his keen interest in Higginbotham’s spells. Draco supposed it was his upbringing. Mother and Father had schooled him from a young age never to show his own reactions. Never let people know you were upset. Potter teased him about it, calling him a cold fish. Healer Mayhew stood at Draco’s side, her Muggle pencil scurrying over parchment.
Healer Higginbotham began his examination, and Draco bit his lip against the unfamiliar magic prickling his chest and belly. Flickers of green and yellow flowed from the tip of his wand until it reached a spot just below his navel. The flickers grew more perfuse, deepened in colour and, as Draco inhaled, a hot ball of pressure began to grow, deep inside of his belly. It was a profoundly unpleasant sensation. Higginbotham shifted his wand sharply to the left and the pressure immediately lessened. The older man knit his temple, concentrating hard on casting the magical spell.
“Ah,” Higginbotham said, raising his wand, and putting it away. “I do believe I’ve determined the reason that you lost control of your broomstick today, Mr Malfoy.” He paused. “But, before I talk about such private matters, can I remind you of your right to a confidential consultation? I’m not sure that Mr Potter needs to be here. Perhaps if he could step outside of the door? Healer Mayhew, if you could show Mr Potter back to the Waiting Room-“
All of Draco’s goodwill towards the grandfatherly wizard was rapidly evaporating. All he wanted was to go home, go to sleep and consign what had turned into a really rubbish day to the past. Potter didn’t speak, but he didn’t make any moves to leave either, and Draco didn't need the stand-off.
“Out with it,” Draco demanded, cutting through the Healer’s professional spiel. “I’ve fallen off my broom, got myself banged up and bruised, and woke up in St Mungo’s. I assure you, having Potter’s ugly mug leering at me from across the room isn’t going to make this sour tit of a day any better. If you could, please, just tell me,” Draco finished, “then we could all get on with our lives.”
The Healer bristled, blatantly unaccustomed to being spoken to in such an impudent manner. Draco didn’t care in the slightest. There was a pause that seemed longer than half a millennium before Higginbotham answered. “Pregnant,” he said, loud and clear, and without a hint of doubt. “You’re pregnant.”
It wasn’t true.
It couldn’t be true.
It was bloody hard for a wizard to get pregnant. The stars had to be aligned, their mutual magic had to be wholly in sync, and powerful potions had to be brewed and drunk. It had to be planned for, ahead of time. Wizard pregnancies were deliberate. The sight of a pregnant wizard ambling along the cobbles of Diagon Alley was a rare one. Besides, Potter and he were usually so careful. They nearly always said the Contraceptive Charm.
Healer Higginbotham was a fool and an imbecile. Gods, but Father had been right to employ private healers and have them visit the Manor when he was a child. St Mungo’s was every bit the pit of idiocy that Lucius Malfoy had always claimed it was.
“No, I’m not,” Draco answered, pleased that his voice didn't waver in the slightest. “It’s totally impossible. I’m not gay. I have a beautiful fiancée. We’re to be wed in the spring. Perhaps you’re in the pay of the Prophet! This is the sort of nonsensical fib they thrive on!”
“I most certainly am not,” Higginbotham answered curtly, “and neither are any members of my staff. As for your fiancée, beautiful or not, I’m afraid that her existence doesn’t negate the four-month-old foetus who currently resides inside your magically formed uterus. You’re pregnant, Mr Malfoy, and the foetus is taking their fair share of your magic. That’s why you slipped from your broom. You fainted.”
Draco reached for the glass of water he’d abandoned only a ten or so minutes before. His mouth and throat were terribly dry. Higginbotham was, obviously, demented, but he sounded so very sure of himself.
“I’m not pregnant,” Draco insisted. “I think I’d know! I haven’t been tired or sick. Gods. I played a three-hour Quidditch game last weekend. I never blinked."
Higginbotham didn’t answer. Instead, he wrapped his fingers around the handle of his wand, dragging it from his belt once more. Flicking it in a gentle arc over Draco’s belly, he incanted, “Infantem Revela.” It was a powerful piece of magic. Draco felt a great warmth sink through his skin and spiral through his limbs.
Straightaway, a cerulean blue mist began to gather in the above same area where he’d felt so uncomfortable minutes before. Focusing hard, Draco stared as the mist began to coalesce. He was anxiously aware of Potter’s presence across the room, but he couldn’t risk a sideways glance. He wasn't sure what he'd see in Potter’s expression.
The cerulean was fuzzy, and indistinct, and Draco couldn’t really make out anything until…
Oh. There they were. He could make out a little head, a pair of tiny arms, and two tiny, scrunched up legs. Perhaps Healer Higginbotham wasn’t quite the charlatan Draco had imagined.
All of a sudden, Draco felt dizzy and nauseous. Gladly, he already lay in a prone position.
“And there’s the reason you fell from your broomstick,” Higginbotham said. “You’re in excellent health, Mr Malfoy. A powerful wizard and sportsman at the peak of his physical fitness. I’m not surprised you’ve been able to carry on playing Quidditch and going about your normal everyday life. Wizard pregnancies are magically supported, so until the four-month-mark, there isn’t much of a physical effect on the father. Of course, as your baby gets bigger, those effects get more pronounced. You can expect increased tiredness in the next few months”
Draco gulped, wondering whether all this was real. Perhaps this was all a terrible dream. Maybe he was still unconscious. Perhaps these were his last, nightmarish moments before he hit the unforgiving ground.
But Draco didn’t wake. Instead, things got even worse. Healer Higginbotham estimated that Draco was around sixteen weeks in, judging by the size of the foetus and the level of pregnancy hormone present in his blood. “So, unfortunately you’re legally too late for an abortion,” Higginbotham said, casting a Finite. The cerulean foetus vanished, like it had never been. “I do understand this all must have come to you as a big shock.”
This was more than a big shock. This was an absolute, unmitigated fucking disaster.
Draco couldn’t have a baby. He couldn’t be a father. He was a Quidditch player, in the middle of the most important season of his life. What would Marcus Flint say? The Wimbourne owners? The Prophet and the fans? Pregnant people couldn’t fly. The British Quidditch League strictly forbade it. He’d be grounded. That idiot Olshansky would get the first place Seeker spot that Draco had worked his arse off to claim for his own.
Fuckity-fuckity-fuck.
His wedding. Astoria. All his plans would be ruined. Mum wanted their summer wedding so very much. The gold-edged invitations had already been sent out. Narcissa Malfoy so coveted the respectability their union gave back to their ruined family name. The gold Galleons that Hyperion Greengrass would place in their vault once Astoria and he were decorously wed would have restored Mum’s fine standing in wizard society. Marrying Asti would have given his precious mum her life back.
Draco turned, and placed his legs over the side of the bed. He had to get out of here. The world had tilted on its axis, and Draco’s whole existence had been thrown into disarray.
“Malfoy,” Potter said, lunging forward when he stumbled. “You’re-“
“Shut up,” Draco shouted, hating Potter every bit as much just then as he ever had when they were schoolboys. Bloody Potter, with his stupid smarmy smile, and his stupid come-to-bed green eyes. He wouldn’t be lying here, life in tatters if he wasn’t for him. “Don’t open that fucking trap, and don’t you dare say that word aloud. Don’t you bloody dare. Not a word to Flint or any of the Wasps. This isn’t… It’s none of your business, Potter. Go, would you? You shouldn’t even be here.”
Tension hung, thick as Hippogriff hide, for the next few seconds. Potter’s jaw was set, and furious. Draco knew if Potter spoke now, he’d say that it was his bloody business, and the baby who’d made themselves at home in his belly was as much his as it was Draco’s. He’d out himself, out their secret affair and ruin his life in the process.
“Go,” Draco repeated, breaking the moment. “Please.”
For a second, Draco didn’t think that Potter would leave, but then he shook his head. He spoke, but to Higginbotham, and not to him. “The, er… Mr Malfoy’s condition. Are he and…? Are they both okay? From the tumble, I mean? There isn’t any other damage?”
The Healer gave Draco’s notes a cursory glance. “There isn’t,” he answered, signing his name at the bottom of the clipboard with a dramatic flourish. Higginbotham turned to face him. “Mr. Malfoy, it mightn’t feel like it right now, but you were exceedingly lucky today. Both yourself and the child escaped serious injury. Of course, next time, fortune might not shine so brightly. No more flying until your pregnancy has ended.”
At that, Potter made a face that looked a little bit too much like relief for Draco’s liking. It wasn’t clear whether it was Draco's healthiness, the premature ending of his season, or indeed both, but he wasn’t about to ask. The very last thing Draco wanted was Potter to get the wrong idea, and ask to stay, or, Merlin forbid, offer to keep him company.
Draco couldn’t bear that. He needed to be alone, and to have a miniature nervous breakdown in the privacy of his own home.
Draco waited resolutely, watching as Potter realised that he really wasn’t wanted. He didn’t speak until Potter had left the room, Healer Mayhew following hot on his heels. No doubt the young witch would be hastily trying to convince Potter to keep Draco’s secret. Little did the young witch know that it was Potter’s secret too. Not a soul in the wizarding world had the first clue that Potter was into blokes.
Healer Higginbotham waited until the door clicked shut before speaking again. “You and I will need to meet monthly at the St Mungo’s Paternity Clinic,” he said, jotting some details down on a square of parchment, before ripping it from the pad and pushing it into Draco’s hand. “That’s my secretary’s details. No alcohol, no shellfish, no Apparition after twenty weeks and, like I said before, absolutely no Quidditch.” His face softened. “And please try not to worry, Mr Malfoy. Wizard pregnancy can be a tricky thing, but you’re young, fit, and in the prime of life. There’s absolutely no reason why your pregnancy shouldn’t have a successful outcome.” He smiled genially. “I’ll give you five minutes to compose yourself. Then I’ll send in a Welcome Witch with your clothes, wand, and discharge papers.”
With that, Healer Higginbotham left. The small room was plunged into dimness and silence, and Draco sagged against the hospital bed, his mind swirling with everything that had taken place in the last ten minutes.
Young, fit, and in the prime of life. Those were Higginbotham’s words. He should be racing through the air and leading the Wasps to the top of the league. He shouldn’t be – couldn’t be – pregnant. Part of him still wouldn’t accept it. Part of him still felt like a casual observer to this entire debacle.
Bringing his hand up, Draco slid it beneath the hem of the pyjama top he’d been given to wear and tentatively brought it to rest on his belly. How could he not have noticed how tight and firm the skin had grown over the last few weeks? Perhaps it was his imagination, but he felt sure his tummy was ever so slightly more rounded beneath his palm.
Draco knew he’d gained a couple of pounds around his middle, but he’d blamed those squarely on the new dietician that the Wasps had brought in for the squad. He’d blamed his recent tiredness on additional training sessions and his occasional nausea on Muggle germs and out-of-date food.
He wasn’t supposed to be pregnant. Babies weren't ever on the cards. He’d never even thought about the possibility of carrying a child. Now his whole private life would be public news, dissected and laughed about. Quidditch players weren’t gay. They were buff, muscular, and masculine. They didn’t take breaks in the middle of the season to swell up like a balloon, as lumbering and as slow as an Erumpent.
That image alone was enough to make his body rebel. A cold shudder ran the length of his body, and Draco felt his stomach convulse. Fortunately, it’d been hours since breakfast. All that flew into his mouth was sour bile.
For a short moment, Draco wondered whether he ought to attend the Wasp’s scheduled post-match discussion tomorrow, or whether it’d be easier to go to his locker, pack up his things, and send an owl with his resignation letter. Perhaps he could Floo to France, and have the baby in secret? Pass them off as an adoption?
No. That wouldn’t work. He’d still have to cancel the wedding that had been booked and paid for. He’d still have to tell Mum and Astoria. Myranda and Hyperion Greengrass wouldn’t be pleased about their precious pureblood daughter being stepmother to her husband’s bastard from another wizard.
Draco felt tears welling up in his eyes and angrily swept them away. He didn’t think that he’d ever felt this alone in his whole life. His head spun, and he clutched desperately to the crumpled hospital bed sheets.
Father had known about his preference for men. When he’d been a teenager, Father had found the pictures that Draco had torn from Quidditch magazines, and kept hidden under his mattress. Father had called him unnatural. He’d said Draco’s homosexuality would be his ruin. He’d been right, hadn’t he? That bloody, bloody evil bastard had been right, all those years ago.
Draco didn’t know how long he stood there, trying not to break down completely, the anxiety, terror and panic washing over him in waves. He was pregnant, and in only five short months his baby would arrive.
Everything in his happy, controlled existence was going to have to change, and there wasn’t a single thing that he could do about it.
~~
That night, back home and wrapped in his own, lavender-scented bed sheets, Draco found it difficult to get to sleep. Thank Merlin, but the deafening panic of earlier had finally faded. It had left in its wake a ceaseless stream of thoughts that ran through his mind.
Weariness seeped through Draco’s bones, and whatever he did, he couldn’t get comfortable. Every bruise from his tumble throbbed. He must have switched positions ten or more times.
The same thoughts chased themselves in circles around his head and refused to let him rest.
Would the rest of the Wasps turn on him? Initially, he’d been tough for the Wimbourne team to accept him as one of them. They’d been scuffles, nasty words and uneasy silences whenever he’d entered the Changing Rooms. Draco hadn’t blamed them, not really. He had a Dark Mark tattoo, and a father serving life in Azkaban. He’d had to work damned hard to win their trust, make friends, and get the team behind him.
Then there were the fans. It’d been several seasons before they’d chanted his name. Would they turn on him too? Tell him he had no place in the sport? Would they claim that his secret love affair was a betrayal of their gold and black uniform? Would his past accomplishments – the Snitches he had caught, the games he had won – pale away to nothing compared to the child growing inside him? Draco didn’t know. The wizarding world was formal, antiquated, even. Not a good place to be an unmarried, gay single father.
It took hours but, at last, Draco fell asleep. It wasn’t a reprieve though. Instead, he was plagued by nightmares. Stands of fans, all of them pointing and laughing, the stadium filled with derision and fury, his body swollen to vast, ridiculous proportions, and Healer Higginbotham’s kindly brown eyes turning cold and lifeless as he slashed a Diffindo across his belly. The worst part of his dream was Potter, wearing a look of cold disgust behind his wire-frame glasses, staring impassively as Draco writhed and shouted.
When he finally awoke, knotted in sweaty sheets, dawn hadn’t broken yet. The bedroom was still pitch black, and, for a second, Draco was confused. His Tempus alarm hadn’t sounded. It was only once he’d gotten his bearings that he realised what had woken him.
Sitting up, he heard the familiar scrape of claws against glass and, throwing off his too-thick sheets, Draco made his way to the window. Who in green blazes was sending him owls at arse-end o’clock in the morning? It wouldn't be Potter. Owls weren’t their thing. They always spoke via Patronus. Nothing between them was ever written down. Letters were too easily stolen and copied.
Pulling the curtains back, Draco looked through the pane. On the other side was an impressive eagle-owl, and tied to its leg was a copy of the Daily Prophet. Draco’s heart sank. He supposed that he could refuse the bird entry. It’d soon get bored and fly back to Skeeter, or Cuffe, or whomever. Doing that wouldn’t achieve anything.
Draco knew he couldn’t hide from whatever was written in that newspaper’s pages, not forever. Even though Draco didn’t feel brave at all, he cracked open the window, the cold blast of the frigid January air hitting him square in the face. The owl swooped in, landed on its perch, and, with trembling hands, Draco untied a hot-of-the-presses edition of that morning’s paper from its leg.
Those bastards. Those utter, utter bastards.
Not only was his pregnancy front-page news, but he took up most of the second and third pages as well. Wimbourne’s surprise loss the day before made up all the sporting coverage. Operating mechanically, Draco gave the owl a handful of treats, sending it on its way, before collapsing back on his bed.
Skeeter was the author, because of course she was. That witch had never once let the chance of sticking her sharp green quill into a member of his family pass her by. ’Malfoy: Screwed in the bedroom and on the pitch,’ screamed her headline in huge, black letters.
The contemptible insect had written a vicious hatchet job. To add insult to injury, she had pasted a big picture of him bent out of shape on the grass beside her words, unconscious after he’d fallen from his broomstick. Draco felt sick at the sight of it. With everything that Healer Higginbotham had told him, the realisation of how close he’d come to actually dying yesterday hadn’t hit home.
Draco read on. Skeeter hadn’t spared his feelings or those of the people he loved and cared about.
Skeeter made sure to mention how the Manor and all the Malfoy fortune had been taken in war reparations, and how ‘poor Narcissa Malfoy, forced to scrape out an existence of genteel poverty at the home of her sister, would be waking to the news of her only son’s sexual and moral disgrace.’
The next paragraph was worse. Skeeter had gone on to speculate about the identity of his child’s other father, his sex life, and the future of his engagement to Astoria Greengrass. ‘It is doubtless that this unblemished heiress will be carefully considering her next move. The Malfoy-Greengrass wedding, previously considered one of the brightest events of the upcoming summer, must be in serious doubt.'
The rest of Skeeter’s article was filler, a collection of the Malfoy family’s most notorious stories and headlines from the past decade.
She talked about Father, serving twenty years in a tiny cell, and Draco’s Wizengamot court case, aged eighteen, and how Harry Potter’s testimony had saved him from the same fate as Lucius's. Draco sighed. He’d learn long ago that dwelling on the past wasn’t good for his mental health.
Draco flipped to the back of the paper and recoiled from the large picture of Dougal Mackenzie, waving an Arrows flag and leering at the photographer. 'Of course, we at Appleby had no idea that Mr Malfoy was pregnant,' Mackenzie told the Prophet sport journalist. 'We would have insisted that Olshansky, or another player substituted from the beginning of the match. It speaks volumes that our star Seeker, Harry James Potter refused to continue playing. He accompanied Mr Malfoy to St Mungo’s, even though the antagonism between the two is renowned. That’s just the kind of respectable, decent man he is.'
That was enough to make Draco’s blood boil. Bloody Skeeter, bloody Mackenzie, and bloody, bloody Potter. He didn’t doubt that Mother already knew he was pregnant. They’d be swarming around her and Andi’s house at that exact moment, trying to get her reaction. He balled up the newspaper and dashed it against the wall. None of this was fair. He’d worked so hard to make a life for himself, had trained day and night to become the star athlete of the team, to become a respected member of the team, and now it was all shattered.
Going back to sleep wasn’t possible, so Draco lay on his back. He watched as the grey stripes of dawn slowly brightened and painted stripes across the room.
Usually, Sundays were his favourite day of the week. First came the regular post-match discussion the morning after a match. Afterwards, Draco enjoyed taking Asti out for afternoon lunch at one of the posh eateries on Diagon Alley. Sometimes they ate alone, and sometimes ate in the company of Pansy and Theo. It was all so wonderfully civilised. Afterwards they might take a walk in Regent’s Park, or visit Greengrass Manor. Everything was exactly how Draco had envisioned their married life would be.
They’d planned to have brunch at La Capannina today, one of their favourite Italian restaurants, but Draco supposed that wasn’t happening. Likely it wouldn’t happen ever again. The Prophet would have surrounded Greengrass Manor by now, hoping to get a nifty photograph of Astoria looking grief-stricken and red-eyed.
As he lay, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, Draco let his hands slip under his pyjama tee-shirt. His skin felt warm against his fingers, and when he prodded gently, he realised that it did feel different to what he was used to, different even from just a couple of weeks before. There was a baby in there, growing steadily, and entirely unaware of all the difficult predicaments they had placed him in.
Bloody hell. What did one actually do with a baby? Draco didn’t have the first clue. Could they come with him to work? There was a small crèche at the Wimbourne offices, where some of the witches left their children. Perhaps that was an option?
It hit Draco again, just how fantastical the whole situation was. Male pregnancy was unusual and infrequent. He supposed it must be Potter’s fault. His lover’s magic was off-the-charts powerful. If any wizard alive could have created a spontaneous pregnancy, it was Harry Potter.
Draco decided to get up. He selected a loose, grey jumper from Louis Vuitton that he’d brought the previous month, and black jeans that were luxuriously soft to the touch. They were both tailored very tightly, and he supposed that he ought to enjoy them whilst he still could. Gods. The top button already felt snug.
He showered and dressed quickly. Getting back into bed, and pulling the sheets over his head felt tremendously appealing, but Draco knew he had to go out and face the world. It was better to do that with neat hair, clean teeth, and tidy clothes.
He might be a gay, pregnant single-father-to-be, but he was still a Malfoy, and so he still had some semblance of pride left.
~~
Usually, Draco enjoyed the lively post-match discussion, especially when Wimbourne had trounced their opposition. It was a sacred tradition for the Wasps to get together in their clubhouse, drink Butterbeer, eat crisps, and talk strategy and a chance to celebrate what had gone well, or discuss what they could do to improve before they played again.
Today, though, Draco thought he’d rather walk into a cage with a dozen feral Basilisks than meet the teammates he considered some of his best friends.
He deliberately delayed stepping into his Floo, holding off the moment when he’d have to face them. But, at five minutes past ten, Draco knew he couldn’t put it off any longer. He stepped into his hearth, picked up a handful of Floo powder, and said ‘Wimbourne Clubhouse’ clearly.
By the time Draco arrived, the get-together had already started. He could hear the voices of his teammates in the conference room, Olshansky louder than anyone else’s, and the sound of Richardson, their coach, doing his best to rein them in. Draco straightened a stray lock of hair that had come loose in the mirror and set his jaw. He wouldn’t be cowed. He’d won more games for the Wasps than anyone else that season. He deserved to be here as much as the next wix.
Draco pushed open the conference room door, and all sound stopped. It was as if a Silencio had been cast. Every eye swivelled to look at him.
Olshansky raised a hand to his face, making very little effort to hide his laughter. Flitterwick whispered something in his neighbour’s ear. Draco's cheeks turned red, and he wasn’t sure whether it was from anger or embarrassment.
“Take a fucking photograph,” Draco snapped, keeping his eyes trained on his fellow Wasps, daring them to look away. “It’ll last longer.”
Draco pulled out a chair. He was about to sit with the rest of his teammates when he felt a hand wrap tight around his elbow. It belonged to Marcus Flint. Draco had known and played Quidditch alongside Flint for more than a decade, and rarely had he seen the other man look as upset as he did right now. There were dark smudges underneath his eyes and a grey pallor to his skin.
“Brentwood and West are here,” he muttered into his ear. “They’re waiting in my office, Malfoy. Have been for half an hour. You need to come now.”
Draco thought he might be sick. Leo Brentwood and Fortescue West were Wimbourne’s owners, and they very rarely drop in at the training grounds. The fact that they were here at all spoke volumes. He’d expected their visit, but for them to come this quickly could only be bad news.
Draco allowed Flint to lead him from the room, feeling the stares of his so-called friends on his back as he left.
At that moment, Draco would have cursed every single one of those pathetic cowards deep into the ground. Not one of them had a single kind word to spare for him.
As soon as they were out of hearing range of the conference room, Marcus came to a halt. “Listen up, Malfoy,” he said, his tone brusque, “and don’t interrupt. We’ve spoken to Healer Higginbotham at St Mungo’s. He believes your hospital notes were compromised. I think the same, specifically by Rita Skeeter in her Animagus form. It’s despicable behaviour. Team Management are writing to the Wizarding Press Complaints Commission, but an apology two weeks hence won’t help us now. Brentwood and West are acting like the complete tossers they are. They wanted to sack you for bringing the Wasps into disrepute. I’ve talked them down from there. Told them that I’d leave too.” Flint paused. “Fucking hell, Malfoy. I always knew you preferred men, but I never expected this. Gods, a kid? Don't you have to take potions?”
It only took a minute or so for the two wizards to arrive at Flint’s office. Brentwood and West were sitting on one side of the table.
Neither man rose when they entered. West shot Draco a derogatory glance. There was icy fury in his eyes, one that reminded Draco compellingly of his father. West was an older wizard who was a wiry, quick-to-temper person, and it was well known amongst the Wasps players that he was here for the Galleons, not the love of the game.
Flint and he sat down in front of them. Draco clenched the armrests of the chair so tightly that he could feel the pattern of the fabric digging into his palms.
West was clearly the irater of the two, and he was the first to break their stalemate. He pulled a copy of the Prophet from his robe pockets and threw it across the table.
“You’ve let everyone down,” he spat, contempt dripping from every syllable. “Your teammates. The fans. The sponsors. The two of us. We’ve spoken to Higginbotham at St Mungo’s. He told us every word of this… This depravity is fact. You’ve ruined the season, Malfoy. Ruined your career. Ruined your reputation on behalf of some infatuation! We'll be a laughingstock. We’ll be known as the team with the shirt-lifting Seeker! You’ve brought your degeneracy into our changing room, sullied us with your presence and now you can’t ever fly.” West laughed, but it was mocking. There was no warmth in the sound. “And, of course, you’ll still want your wages-"
Flint banged his fist on the table, drawing all eyes on himself. “We’ve already had this conversation,” he said loudly, silencing West mid-sentence. “The Wizengamot has laws protecting the rights of pregnant people. Those laws apply to Malfoy just as well as to any witch.” Flint sighed and rubbed a hand across his chin. “This isn’t what any of us expected or wanted, but we’re going to have to acclimatise.” Flint glanced in Draco’s direction. There was an apology written across his face. “That's why I'm giving Olshansky the number one spot until your baby is born, Malfoy. He’s inexperienced, but he’s the best we’ve got without you eligible for the squad. You can fight for your spot when you’re back on your broom.”
Bloody Olshansky. Draco had suspected as much. Flint was Wimbourne manager, and Draco knew his friend was only doing his job, but it was still painful. Olshansky was prone to bouts of rashness in the air, and that led to mistakes. He was still wet behind the ears, and only a few years out of Hogwarts. Potter would make mincemeat of him in the sky.
Brentwood spoke next. He was the more reasonable and approachable of the two owners. “This is all very unexpected,” he said, stating the obvious. “But we have to keep moving forward. The most important thing we can do now is damage control. Are there further revelations about the… About your child that we can expect the Prophet to be interested in? Is the other, er… Is the other father still on the scene? It’s absolutely vital that the Wasps, and playing Quidditch is the story we're telling, and not your private life. Your pregnancy is the hottest gossip of the season, Mr Malfoy. We can’t fan the flames.”
Draco took a deep breath. At least one of the two Wimbourne owners hadn’t resorted to detestable, homophobic slurs. Nevertheless, Draco wasn’t about to tell Brentwood the identity of the other father. That wasn’t anyone else’s business, and it never would be. He knew for a fact that Brentwood and West hadn’t the merest hint that Harry Potter was the wizard they were discussing. If they had, there would have been a Warding Charm around the room an inch thick, and the entire Wimbourne Press Office in attendance.
“There won’t be any more negative headlines,” Draco promised, speaking for the first time since he’d entered the room. He’d have liked to have hexed the noses off both owner’s faces and then laughed at their astonishment. He kept his voice placid though. Draco wanted to fly again, and be picked as Seeker for the England team at the next Quidditch World Cup. He knew that wouldn’t happen if he raised his voice. He'd be thrown out faster than he could breathe.
“I promise that faithfully. The other father… Well, he won’t be a problem. That last thing he wants are Prophet headlines. I’m still a Wimbourne Wasp,” Draco added for good measure. “Black and yellow, through and through. Staying a part of the team means the world to me.”
“Then the best thing you can do is come to training sessions and to matches,” Flint answered, rotating his body so that he was facing Draco. The apology had left his face. It had been replaced with something closer to enthusiasm. “Make a statement with your presence. It sends a message to the fans, appeases our sponsors and, best of all, it’ll remind the rest of the team that you aren’t going anywhere.” Turning back to the owners, Flint gave Brentwood and West a glare that would have curdled milk. “And it’ll keep you both happy, won't it? It’ll justify every single Galleon that gets paid into your vault.”
Draco was a lot of things, but he wasn’t foolish. He knew that Flint’s suggestion was an excellent one. Nowhere was the maxim out of sight, out of mind more significant than in Quidditch. He knew that warming his arse on the bench while he watched the other Wasps have their fun would really sting, but he’d take that if it meant staying relevant.
His presence at the games would change the narrative. It’d remind the fans – and the Prophet – that there was more to him than being gay, pregnant, and unmarried: it’d remind them that he was a damned good Quidditch player and that he remained committed.
“Alright,” Draco promised. “Every training session. Every match. I’ll be there.”
West hmphed, but didn’t speak. Draco supposed the bigot would have liked to have sent him packing. He wouldn't get that chance today. Brentwood was a bit harder to read. “These are trying times for the Wasps,” he warned, “and I’m concerned this pregnancy will change the team dynamics in a way that might be hard to fix. There can’t be any more headlines, Mr Malfoy. There can’t be any more negative publicity. Otherwise our hands will be tied.”
The goodbyes after that were stiff and formal. Draco probably had the deities above to thank for the fact that he still had a job. As he and Flint left the room, Draco could feel the Wimbourne owners staring at his back. West’s rage still simmered hot, and Brentwood’s veiled threat hung heavily in the air. He was glad that the meeting was over
When they got outside, Flint looked at him wryly. “Only you, Draco Malfoy,” he said, “could have managed to get yourself sprogged up in the middle of the most important season of your life. Bloody hell. It’s like you’ve got some sort of curse on you! Go home,” he suggested, voice sympathetic. “Get yourself to bed. You look exhausted.”
Draco nodded. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this tired, ever before. All bruises from the day before ached, and his heart felt sore and sad. Flying was all he'd ever wanted to do. He already missed it.
As he Flooed back home, he thought about Flint’s words. There was a curse on him, Draco supposed, and it consisted of the feelings that he’d never, ever been able to shake for Harry bloody Potter.
~~
It was just after ten in the evening, and Draco yawned deeply. He was sat on his settee, pretending to read Quidditch Today, but in reality, he wasn’t doing anything of the sort. The words swam on the same page that he’d been staring at for twenty minutes.
He supposed he ought to go to bed, but that didn’t appeal much either. Once he lay down, his fingers would fly straight to his belly, poking and probing, and then he’d start panicking about none of his clothes fitting anymore.
Picking up his mug from the coffee table, Draco drank a mouthful. It was unpleasantly cold, but casting a Reheating Charm felt like too much trouble. He yawned again and threw the magazine on the floor. Why bother reading about flying when he wasn’t allowed to do it for months?
The sound of the Floo, announcing a visitor, drew Draco from his gloomy daydreams. He panicked, for a short second, wondering if one of the Prophet journalists had managed to finagle his coordinates from one of his friends.
Then he watched the flames rise, and blaze in a deep red. It wasn’t Skeeter, or one of her cronies. Draco’s stomach twisted painfully. He'd charmed the flames to turn that colour when Potter arrived.
The red blaze died away, and Harry stepped out of his hearth, vanishing the soot and the scent of burning with wandless magic. He was dressed casually, in a loose knitted jumper and jeans that had tears across the knees. Draco didn’t think he’d ever understand Potter’s partiality for clothes that looked too scruffy for even a House Elf to wear.
“Sorry that I came unannounced,” Potter said, taking a couple of steps forward so that he was standing in the middle of the room. He didn’t look apologetic in the slightest. “I knew you’d tell me to piss off if I sent a Patronus. I thought we ought to talk.”
Draco had expected Potter’s opening gambit, and he gestured to the seat opposite.
“Sit,” Draco said, “as you’re already here. I’m not sure what there is to talk about. You heard what Higginbotham said. I’m pregnant. My season’s up the spout, and so am I.”
Potter dropped down into the seat. It felt a little odd, seeing him sitting there, amongst the chic modern furniture that Draco had chosen to kit out the place. Theirs wasn’t a relationship where they spent a lot of time talking. When Potter came over, their time was usually spent in his bedroom.
“I saw the Prophet,” Potter said, his green eyes finding Draco’s. “Skeeter’s an utter cretin. I’m so sorry. I don't know what to say.”
There wasn’t anything to say, was there? Draco shrugged. It wasn’t as if anything Skeeter had written was a lie. “You and the rest of the world,” he answered. “Mum’s heartbroken, of course. Apparently, she thought I’d grown out of, and I quote, ‘my silly predilection for boys.’ She doesn’t seem to give the first fig that I’m gay and pregnant. All she’s bothered about is our ruining our connection with Hyperion Greengrass. I told her that the dragon had flown its nest.” He shook his head ruefully, replaying their earlier conversation in his head. “And Mum also asked who you were. She wants to know if you’ll be making an honest man out of me.”
To his credit, Potter didn’t look away. He lent back in the seat and looked more comfortable than he had any right to.
“You were the one that wanted to keep us a secret,” he said, raising his palms in a gesture of resignation. “You let your mum and Hyperion Greengrass arrange your wedding, and you went along with it, Malfoy. Never said a single word. It was you that said our clubs wouldn’t approve of our relationship. You who said the fans wanted us to be rivals. I… You know that I only went along with that because it was better than not having you at all.”
Gods, but the last thing Draco wanted was to have this same futile conversation. This wasn't the first time that Potter had made these points. It always turned into a squabble, and those always left Draco feeling out of sorts for days afterwards.
“You don’t understand,” Draco answered, quick as a hex. “She’s my mum. The marriage to Astoria would have restored her position in society. She lives in Andi’s spare bloody room in a tiny village in the arse end of nowhere. It’s no life for-”
“I don’t ‘understand’ because my mum’s dead?” Potter snapped, his eyes narrowing. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it Malfoy? Yeah, she's dead, and there isn’t a day that passes where I don’t wish she wasn’t. That still doesn’t mean I’d have given up my future and married a woman. You’re gay. Whatever you enjoyed with Astoria might have been convenient, and oh-so-civillised but it wouldn’t have been real, would it? Not like what we have together.” His eyes shone brightly. “Not like what we’ve always had.”
Bloody Potter. What a stupid, naïve prat he truly was. He’d saved their world and been feted and treasured ever since. Everywhere he went, people wanted photographs and signatures. Potter didn’t know what it was to be scorned. To be the object of ridicule.
Potter probably believed the wizarding world would be happy about his preference for men. That they’d accept their precious Saviour as one half of a gay couple who’d made a baby.
“Percy and George were gossiping over Sunday dinner,” Potter said quietly. Standing up, he took two paces forward so he was looming over Draco. Then he crouched down so that they were eye to eye with one another. “Trying to guess who’d fathered the baby. They kept making stupid, coarse suggestions, just to score cheap laughs. I wanted to punch them both. Wanted to tell them it was my fucking kid they were insulting. I got so close, Malfoy. I could feel the words on the edge of my tongue.”
Draco’s heart hammered in his chest. A shouted declaration over the Weasley dinner table was exactly the sort of drama he categorically did not want.
“Did you tell them?” Draco asked, his voice equally soft.
“No. ’Mione got there first. She called them a pair of thick-skulled narrow-minded morons,” Potter answered. There was the trace of a smile playing at the edge of his lips. “Said you had every right to have a baby if you wanted. Said that it shouldn’t matter if you liked men.” Potter closed the space between them, moving so close that Draco could feel each of his lover’s words as a hot breath of air on his skin. “You can’t wish this away, Malfoy. You’re pregnant. We need to make plans. Work out how we’re telling people.”
On that last word, Harry tilted his face, and found Draco’s lips with his own.
His kiss was passionate, and claiming, and Draco let himself melt onto it, the prickle of his lover’s formidable magic noticeable against his skin. They’d been kissing for six years but, every single time, the rightness of their coupling stuck Draco anew. Potter was the only person in Draco’s life that saw him for who he truly was. Potter wrapped one arm around Draco, and tangled the other in his hair.
When Potter broke their kiss, Draco chased his lover’s lips, hungering for more. “I won’t go away,” Potter told him. “You’re carrying my baby, and I want to be a part of their life. I thought it’d be best to tell Mackenzie first, in case I have to skip any of our big fixtures.”
Draco felt like he’d been doused in freezing water.
What was he thinking, letting fucking Potter cosy up to him and talk a fat lot of nonsense in his ear? No plans were going to be made. Nobody was going to be told a single word. The parentage of their child would have to remain a secret locked inside a mystery.
“No,” Draco snapped, wriggling out of Harry’s arms and pushing him off. Scenes from earlier that day spun through his head. He remembered West’s vile bigotry, Brentwood’s threats, and how the rest of the team had fallen into an embarrassed silence at his arrival in the conference room. “We’re not telling anyone. Granger might still hold a few farcical Muggle ideas about tolerance, but I assure you, the rest of our world thinks a lot more like the Weasley brothers. I’ve ruined my career, Potter. You’re not ruining yours.”
Potter glared at him. “I don’t give a Thestral’s arsehole what anyone thinks of me,” he answered, “and I never have. Not Ron. Not George. Especially not Dougal Mackenzie. Our baby… They’re not a game of Quidditch, Malfoy! Not something we can win or lose. They’re coming whatever we do or don’t do.” Some of the annoyance left his face. “And no one’s career is ruined. You’ll be back in the air before you know it.”
“Go home,” Draco told him eventually. “This isn’t your problem to deal with, Potter. It’s mine."
Scoffing, Potter stood. “Think I was there too,” he answered. “We might be magical, but unless wizards make babies by immaculate conception then they’re as much mine as they are yours.” He huffed out a breath. “And don’t call them a problem! You're having a baby. Not a problem. Don’t I get to be part of this? Have some say?”
Draco didn’t answer. Potter was always so apt at breaking down Draco’s defences. If Draco said yes now, and gave the go ahead, he’d owl Barnabas Cuffe and tell him everything.
A small part of Draco wanted so badly to believe his lover, and to fall back into his embrace. To pretend that, with patience, everything could return to how it was. Another, bigger part of Draco cursed himself for being so weak.
“No,” Draco answered, hating how stark the word was, but knowing that Potter would seize on any hint of surrender. Potter knew him too well. There couldn’t be any room for his lover to manoeuvre. “You don’t get to be a part of this. I’m not… I’m not ready to play happy families with you. I don’t want to.” He swallowed, pausing. The lump in his throat was as heavy as stone, and his stomach churned. “I’ll raise the baby,” he said, “maybe here, maybe in France, but it’ll be the two of us. Not you. You aren’t part of my plans.”
Potter was a wizard that wore his emotions on his sleeve, and so the piercing hurt and surprise of Draco’s words registered on his face like he’d been hexed. Draco watched the colour drain from Potter’s face, and watched him bite down hard on his lips, as if he were terrified of what he might say in response.
Bringing up his hands, Potter rubbed them through his hair. A raw ache raced through Draco at the idea he mightn’t ever touch Potter’s disorderly curls ever again. Yet he knew he had to stand firm. Any other choice was unfeasible.
“You don’t mean that,” Potter said, voice incredulous.
“Except I do,” Draco said, sitting up straighter in his chair, and looking Potter directly in the eye. “I do mean it. Go home Potter,” he repeated, calm, cold and tremorless. “You don’t need to save me.”
Taking his wand from his belt, Potter glanced back at Draco. “I wasn’t trying to save you,” he said. “I’ve only ever tried to love you.”
With that, Potter turned on the spot. Draco felt the rush of air against his face as his lover vanished, and heard the loud pop as air rushed to fill the magically vacated space.
He watched the empty space until every last sparkle of green magic had disappeared, before pressing his eyes with the heel of his hands. Disobedient tears were threatening to spill. He refused to let them.
He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t pathetic. He wouldn’t cry like some silly witch.
Telling Potter to leave was the only fair, reasonable choice he could have made. It was the only card he had left in play. Potter didn’t need to be outed, laughed at and mocked. Potter deserved better than the wizarding world’s narrow-mindedness.
Even so, Draco couldn’t understand why the ostensibly correct could make him feel like his heart had been ripped from his chest.
Standing up, Draco made his way to bed. He craved oblivion from the unrelenting dreadfulness that today had been.
~~
Astoria Flooed to Draco’s home the following morning. The news of his pregnancy and infidelity hadn’t perturbed his fiancée. As always, Asti was a haze of stylish chiffon robes and expensive, subtle perfume, and the very picture of poise.
She stepped into the room gracefully, and Draco rose to meet her. That was their long-accustomed habit. They’d been betrothed since his eighth birthday and, ever since, each had been an important part of the other’s lives.
Had the war and Lucius’s conviction not have happened, Draco and Astoria would have married soon after Asti had finished Hogwarts. Marrying young was the traditional pureblood custom because it meant there was more time for the begetting of heirs.
As it was, Hyperion Greengrass had negotiated several extra years before the ceremony would take place, claiming the Malfoy name was still too noxious to be associated with.
Draco hadn’t minded, not in the slightest. The delay had meant more lazy, sexy evenings with Potter, and more years where all he had to care about was playing Quidditch. Draco had compartmentalised his life, and been a fond and attentive consort to Astoria. Had the marriage occurred, he’d have been a fond and attentive husband.
“Oh darling,” Asti said, pressing a kiss onto his cheek. She took his hands in her smaller ones and gave them a squeeze. “What a dreadful conundrum we find ourselves in. The newspapers have been predictably vile. Rita Skeeter is an utter beast. Everything is such a mess. Mother spent yesterday in fits of tears.” She paused, and made a small noise of distaste. “Whereas Daphne wanted to talk to the Prophet journos that were sniffing around our Manor. Don’t worry,” she said, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial level. “no secrets were spilt. I told her she’d get a Stinging Hex for her troubles if she breathed a word.”
Drawing back, Draco gave Astoria a rueful smile. He couldn’t help but feel admiration for Asti. She had every right to shout, scream and tell the Prophet a cornucopia of lies if she wanted, but she hadn’t done any of those.
“My mum is the same,” Draco said, taking a seat on the settee. Astoria arranged herself beside him. “She cried for ten solid minutes during a Firecall yesterday afternoon. She was principally upset about the wedding cake, I believe,” he recalled. “Apparently, it cost sixty Galleons. The Elven bakery doesn’t do refunds.” He sighed sadly, knowing he was postponing the inevitable. “We need to talk.”
Asti stroked her fingertips over the back of Draco’s hand, a gentle, affectionate gesture.
“We do,” Asti said. “Father wrote to your mother this morning,” she said. “The pregnancy, Draco. He says you've breached our betrothal contract.” She lent in, wrapping her arms around him, giving a close hug. “He’s putting a notice of dissolution in the Prophet tomorrow.”
The two of them held onto each other for dear life. A curious bunch of emotions spilled through Draco. Astoria was a brave, kind person, and he’d never anticipated a life where he wouldn’t be her husband. She’d have their children, and make a beautiful home. He’d have Quidditch and Potter. That was how he’d expected his life would be. It was how all pureblood marriages worked. It was a business deal, with benefits on both sides.
Now nothing made sense. His whole existence was being rewritten before his very eyes. This was everything that Draco had expected from this conversation, but he hadn’t expected the knot of sadness that he’d feel in his belly.
“I’m not sorry, darling,” Astoria said, withdrawing from their embrace. Her cheeks were shiny with tears. “I always had an inkling about your preferences,” she said, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief she’d slipped from her sleeve. “So, I’m relieved, in a funny sort of way, about your pregnancy. You won’t be forced to marry me and hide who you actually are behind a brittle façade of gentlemanliness.” Asti lent in, giving him another kiss on the cheek. “We won't have to live a lie. It means we can, for the first time in our lives, really be friends.”
Draco’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. He hadn’t known how obvious he had been. Asti had tried to kiss him on a couple of occasions, but he’d always rebuffed her, claiming he was old-fashioned, and that he wanted to wait for their wedding ceremony.
“You deserve much better than me,” Draco said, knowing the words were inadequate.
“We both deserve to be loved,” Asti answered. She stood. “We both deserve to be the centre of our lover’s world.” She slipped her wand from the beaded bag that hung from her shoulder, and cast a Tempus. “I ought to go,” she said, frowning at the glowing clock dial. “I didn’t tell Mother I was coming here, and the last thing I want is Father and she Flooing through and making a fuss.”
“Anytime you need it,” Astoria said, bringing up a hand to cup his jaw, “I’ll be here for you. Just send me a Patronus, and I’ll come right over. I don’t care what Mother or any of Daphne’s ghastly friends think. I won’t kick you to the curb. I know it all seems awful right now, Draco, but I promise that things are going to get better. Your mum loves you, so she’ll come around. She’ll come to love your child as much as she loves you. The Prophet will move onto a different story. You'll be tomorrow's fish wrap. You’re having a baby,” she finished. “That good news, isn't it darling?”
As he watched Astoria step into the hearth, and watched the enchanted flames rise up, stealing her away, it occurred to Draco that, for the first time, his future wasn’t already written.
For the first time it was his to piece together for himself. The life he’d known had taken less than two days to crumble into dust.
Padding through to the kitchen, Draco decided to make himself a cup of tea. He didn’t know yet what his new life would consist of, but he knew he could do this, each tough day, and each hard decision at a time.
Potter had said as much yesterday: the baby was coming, whatever he did or didn’t do. In twenty or so short weeks he’d be a dad. He’d always wanted a child of his own. It was simply happening a little younger, and in a rather less conventional manner than he had expected.
Draco knew he needed to set his jaw, push the ground away, and keep flying forwards. Everything else he’d figure out as he went along.
~~
February 2004.
February was one of the coldest months on record and, despite Wimbourne’s under-pitch Warming Charms, there was still a stubborn layer of frost on the ground. The heavens were a miserable slate grey and, as Draco watched the other Wasps swoop and glide through a pair of Omnioculars, he was bloody glad that he’d thought to put on an extra jumper.
He brought his mug of scalding sweet tea up to his lips and sipped, never taking his eyes from the sky. Even after a month, it still felt bizarre to be sat, arse comfy on the wooden bench, while the rest of the Wasps were put through their paces during daily practice.
Draco could count on one hand the number of training sessions he’d missed since he’d been recruited, fresh from Hogwarts. If he were being properly truthful, he’d forgotten what it was like to actually watch a game and see the play from every angle.
Up on your Firebolt, lost in the hurly-burly of the game, all that mattered were your own tactics. All that mattered was catching the Snitch, and getting the Quaffle through the rings.
But, down here, Draco could see the Wimbourne Wasps from the fan’s perspective.
Draco wasn't enjoying the experience in the slightest.
Had he paid Galleons to watch this match, he'd have demanded a refund! Gods, but a team of First Year Hufflepuff reserves on their worst day would likely beat this bunch of tossers!
Draining the last dregs from his cup, Draco watched Richardson fluff yet another pass. The utter prat didn’t seem to understand that you needed to anticipate the ball heading in your direction.
Then there was Flitterwick. Draco grimaced in frustration just thinking about bloody Flitterwick!
Yes, the wizard was a talented flyer, Draco wouldn’t deny that. Flitters got the points where it was needed and had an almost mythic ability to get the ball from the opposition, but that didn’t change the fact he was a selfish player, out only for goals and glory. There’d been two… no, three chances where, had Flitters passed the Quaffle to O’Hara or Jones, they’d easily have scored.
Draco grimaced again. Had this been a real game, against dangerous opposition like Harpies, or, Merlin bloody forbid, the Arrows, then they’d have been screwed. They’d have been eviscerated.
The worst offender, by far, was Olshansky. What an idiot. Seekers had to communicate with the rest of the team. They had the privilege of hovering above, watching the action, and only they could see where the weak spots in the opposition were. Olshansky wasn’t communicating. There were holes in their defence so big you could fly a fucking Hippogriff through them!
As he watched, O’Hara fluffed another pass, and wobbled precariously on her broom, nearly coming off in the resulting melee. It was all so pathetically avoidable. Draco dashed the empty plastic cup on the floor, splashing a trail of brown tea across the floorboards, and was on his feet in seconds.
“Watch what you’re bloody doing!” Draco shouted, loud as he could manage. “Your passing is bollocks; your communication is non-existent, and the fucking Arrows will tear you to pieces! They wouldn’t bloody blink!”
His temper abated, Draco slumped back onto the bench, giving his most furious glare to any teammate that dived low enough to make eye contact. He folded his arms over the swell of his bump, feeling thoroughly pissed off by the entire state of affairs.
Draco decided his baby must be equally distressed with the Wasps's abysmal performance, because they were giving him a thorough kicking. With a sigh, he rubbed a wide circle across the side of his bump with his palm. Draco had noticed that sometimes, when his little Snitch felt fidgety, the motion soothed them.
“Malfoy,” came Flint’s voice, as the older wizard landed only a few metres away from where Draco was sitting. He alit from the handle, and with a Finite, his broomstick dropped out of the air. Flint caught it with a practised hand before it hit the ground, and then he strode over to where Draco was sitting.
“Good to see you," Flint stated. "You’ve not missed a single practice. I've noticed. Good man.”
Draco didn’t answer, but he turned his head, acknowledging his manager as he slid onto the bench beside him.
“How’s everything progressing with your baby?” Flint asked, nodding towards Draco’s still-stroking hand.
Oh, bloody, bloody hell. The Snitch had already stopped kicking but, for some silly reason, Draco hadn’t stopped soothing them. He stilled his hand, pulling it away speedily, like he’d been stung. Mortification pulsed through his veins.
“It's, er… It's progressing well. I'm already five months gone.” Draco answered awkwardly. He wasn’t accustomed to talking about the babe whilst at work. His pregnancy was the elephant in the room that the rest of the Wasps whispered about and didn't mention to his face. “Higginbotham says they’re a good size. Healthy lungs and heart.”
Flint didn’t share Draco’s embarrassment, and instead smiled widely.
“Excellent,” he answered. “I know how it was when Annie and I had our first. Every day felt like something new to worry about.” He tilted his head back and looked up into the sky. “And you’re right, Malfoy,” he added, his brown eyes watching Flitterwick as he struggled to make corkscrew feint and almost lost control of his broomstick. “We’re ruddy awful. It fucking kills me to say this, but I’d bet my vault on any team before Wimbourne. They’re not connecting. The team… It’s not that they aren’t afraid to get stuck into the play, but there’s no thought behind their lines of attack.” Flint paused and turned his face back in Draco’s direction. “I’ve been talking to Len Richardson about our coaching,” he continued. “You know his wife hasn’t been well?”
Draco had heard some of the rumours. Len Richardson had been Wimbourne’s coach since the early nineteen eighties and was as much part of their fixtures and fittings as the stadium itself. The older wizard had achieved the status of Wasp living legend at least a decade before, and Draco felt nothing but a deep respect and love for the man.
“I remember O’Hara saying something about St Mungo’s,” Draco answered. “Gods. It isn’t serious, is it? Maureen and Len have been married for… Bloody hell. It’s got to be forty years?”
Shrugging, Flint Levitated Draco’s tossed plastic cup into a nearby bin.
“Think of a number nearer fifty. It’s a bad case of viral Scrofungulus,” Flint said, “so not serious, but also not pleasant. No wonder Richardson’s mind is elsewhere, poor chap. Doesn’t help that Brentwood and West are being a pair of unmitigated cretins about the whole miserable situation. Apparently, ‘we’ve used every Galleon allocated to wages already,’ so they won’t part with another Sickle”, Flint said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “which brings me to why I’m sat beside you, and telling you all this.”
Inside his chest, Draco’s heart skipped a beat. Here it was, then. That swine Brentwood had finally found the perfect excuse to get rid of both him and the increasingly visible pregnancy that was a permanent stain on Wimbourne’s reputation.
This was the moment he'd be sacked.
Of course, it’d all be prettier than simply being told to piss off. No Wizengamot employment laws would be broken. He’d get a decent reference, a tidy payoff, and hopefully another club would pick him up after the Snitch was born. Draco sucked in a breath and willed his stupid pregnancy hormones to at least let him get back to the changing rooms before he got visibly upset.
He wasn’t stupid. Something needed to change. The Wasps were playing appallingly, and they needed a coach. Len Richardson needed time to focus on Maureen. He needed to leave. Draco knew he had one of the highest wages in Wimbourne's legers.
Draco knew it made perfect sense, but it still wasn’t fair. All he’d ever wanted to do was play for the Wasps. He’d wanted to be the one that led them to victory in the League. He wanted to snatch the Snitch and hear his name chanted by the fans.
“Brentwood and West want me gone,” Draco said, too gentlemanly to make Flint say the words aloud. “I get it. I’m a waste of Galleons sitting down here. They’ve closed their purses to force the issue. I’ll leave,” Draco said, standing. He strode angrily over to the edge of the grass, his eyes pinned on the patches of thin muddy frost. “I get it.”
Flint didn’t rise from his seat. “Obviously you bloody don’t,” the manager answered. “Do me a favour. Would you please sit your arse back down on the wood, Malfoy, and actually listen before you engage that big posh mouth of yours?”
That wasn’t what Draco had expected at all. He’d been ready to flounce away, devastated and bereft. Instead, he perched back down, taking his wand from his jumper sleeve. The magic on his Warming Charm had broken, and he felt horribly cold.
“I don’t want anyone new in the camp,” Flint said, soon as he was satisfied that Draco was properly listening. “It’s too late in the season. A new face only risks compounding Wimbourne’s existing problems. Len’s renowned. He's trusted. Anyone new will feel like a betrayal. That’s where you come in.”
Everything that Flint was saying made perfect sense except the last sentence. Draco frowned. “Why do I come in anywhere? What can I do about it? I’m up the duff,” he said, tapping the side of his belly for emphasis. ”Otherwise, I’d be up in the sky.”
Flint waved that off. “Having a baby doesn’t matter. You’re perfect for the coaching job, Malfoy. Wasn’t it you that was yelling only five minutes ago that the Wasp’s ‘passing was bollocks and their communication non-existent’? We all heard your message, loud and clear.” Flint smiled drolly, blatantly amused. “While you’re doing nothing but sitting here, warming your backside, all you're doing is letting Brentwood and West win! You’re doing sod all. But, if you step into Richardson's shoes for the next few months, and get the offensive side of the team really scorching, then you’ll show what you’re worth every Galleon you’re paid. Then it won’t matter who you’ve shagged, or that you’ve growing a baby in your belly. Prove that you’re more than just a glitzy Seeker and the team, the fans and even the Prophet will fall in love with you again." He laughed. "Get me that League title, Malfoy, and I’ll fucking love you.”
Gods, but it all sounded so enticing. Since he’d been benched, Draco had been itching to tell his teammates the odds. With Flint’s permission he’d do more than tell them where they were going wrong. He’d show them. He'd drill them until they were a lean, slick Quidditch machine.
“You know I’d do anything for Richardson,” Draco answered, “I love the man. But remember what Higginbotham said? No flying. I can’t coach in the air.”
Shrugging, Flint looked up at the speeding figures of their fellow Wasps zipping through the sky above them.
“From down here you can see the entire game,” Flint answered. “I’ve known you a long time. I’ve known you since you were an irritating little shit who resorted to bribery and corruption because he was so desperate to make Slytherin’s first team. In all those years, I’ve never known anyone who understands Quidditch as well as you. Get the Wasps scoring, Malfoy. We can’t rely on Olshansky winning the Snitch. He’s a good Seeker, and yes, one of these fine days he’ll be a great one, but not this season. He’s raw. As green as fucking grass. In two month’s time we go back up against the Arrows. You and I both know how the last match between us ended! You in the hospital and Mackenzie humble-bragging to Rita Skeeter! Gods, but I’d love to wipe the smirks off Potter and Mackenzie’s smug, self-satisfied faces.”
Perhaps it was purely coincidental, but at the mention of their other father’s name, the little Snitch inside Draco’s belly gave a powerful kick. Draco caressed the sore spot, his rounded tummy firm and warm beneath his fingers. As one of the Wasp’s biggest threats, and the most famous celebrity wizard in England, there wasn’t a day that passed where Potter’s name wasn’t mentioned, yet Draco still felt the same ricochet of ache and desire every time the word was uttered.
Draco knew he had told Potter that he wasn’t ready to play happy families with him, and that Potter wasn’t part of his plans, but, deep at the bottom of his heart, Draco hadn’t expected him to take him at his word.
Potter hadn’t been back through the Floo, and he'd never sent a Patronus. Draco thought that he might have sent word after Hyperion’s notice of dissolution in the Prophet had made another crop of headlines, but he hadn't. Potter had, after all, been after him to break things off with Astoria since the two wizards had begun sleeping together, at the age of nineteen. Potter hadn’t even contacted him to ask about how their little Snitch was doing.
Potter had left a big hole in Draco’s life, and it was difficult admitting to oneself how much he pined for his lover. Part of him wondered whether he’d ever get used to Potter’s absence.
Flint was still talking, and Draco made the effort to focus on his manager’s words, and try to forget about Potter. Mooning over a lost love wouldn’t do him any favours, but winning the League and putting Wimbourne at the top might well do.
“I’ll do my best,” Draco promised when Flint finished speaking. “Let’s push Mackenzie and his pet Potter off their pedestal.”
~~
April 2004.
The worst part about pregnancy, Draco had decided, wasn’t growing a bump, being forced out of the sky or the spontaneous tears that spilled from his eyes whenever he heard anything the least bit sad on the wireless. No, the absolute worst part of pregnancy was that, now he’d entered his seventh month, none of his clothes fitted. It had felt like quite the disaster.
True, there were paternity clothes one could buy from specialist magical tailors, but they were ungainly, tight and unpleasant. As an alternative, Draco had taken to wearing a pair of soft, oversize boxer shorts around the house. He combined them with a loose, oversize Muggle tee-shirt that Asti had brought him from a shop in Covent Garden.
Draco wouldn’t have dreamt of dressing like this before the pregnancy but, as things stood, he hadn’t much of an option. Then again, Draco supposed it didn’t matter how he looked. There wasn’t, after all, anyone here to see him.
It was Saturday evening, the other Wasps were out drinking in the Diagon Alley pubs and clubs, celebrating a majestic win against the Harpies, and Draco was home alone. He smiled. Perhaps he wasn’t entirely alone. The not-so-little Snitch was there with him, round and heavy as a crystal ball in his lap, and their constant squirming and feet-shoved-in-his-kidneys left Draco very aware of their presence.
Shifting, Draco made a futile attempt to find a comfortable spot on his settee. There weren’t any to be had. Gods, but how did witches do this more than once? He was as big as Wiltshire already and still had a bit over three months left to go.
He sighed. He’d look at the copy of Witch Weekly Mum had left for him to read. That ought to be a laugh. She’d come over after the match had finished, fussing about filling his larder with healthy food and making sure that his bathroom cabinet was filled with expensive skin care potions.
Flourishing his wand, Draco cast an Accio on his water bottle, catching it easily as it dived towards him. Good. Not all of his Seeking skills had been lost, then. He took a gulp of the charmed chilly water, grimacing as it hit his throat. Healer Higginbotham had told him off at their last meeting about his hydration levels. Apparently, he hadn’t been drinking anywhere near enough. The last thing he wanted was a spell in St Mungo’s.
Mum had left the article face down on the seat of the settee, and Draco reached down. He flipped the Witch Weekly over to its cover as he did so. A wave of revulsion rolled through him at the sight.
Draco dropped the magazine like its mere touch had scalded him.
Potter’s picture adorned the cover, big, bright and surrounded by a ring of Appleby players. Their youngest, newest player was a gorgeous Canadian named Gabriel Gauthier, and he had an arm around Potter’s shoulders, and an adoring expression on his face.
Draco’s stomach flipped painfully. Mother couldn’t have known how much this cover would hurt him. She had stayed very quiet on the subject of her grandchild’s other father recently, as Draco wouldn’t budge about disclosing his identity.
Part of Draco wanted to screw up the offending rag, and then set it on fire for good measure, but another, bigger part of him was nosy.
With cautious, hesitant fingers, Draco picked the magazine back up, reading the headline as he did so. ‘Will Potter’s Arrows Shoot True?’ journalist Elfrida Evans asked, ‘Or Will Malfoy’s Wasps End Their Season with a Sting?’
Draco skimmed through the articles about magical make-up, and the latest Diagon fashions, until he reached the article.
Any publication with Potter on the cover sold well but, whilst they were usually puff pieces, this one was tolerably well researched. There were the usual paragraphs about his and Potter’s childhood rivalry, and the standard sentences lionising Potter’s wartime exploits.
Next, Elfrida Evans went on to discuss the current Quidditch season. 'Potter’s Arrows,' Evans stated, 'have only one serious contender, namely the Wimbourne Wasps. The Wasp’s recent dip in form has been reversed by acting coach Draco Malfoy, whose modern offensive strategies are the talk of the Quidditch League. Under Malfoy’s tutelage, the Wasps look like a new side. They're a force to be reckoned with.'
As Draco read on, Evans wondered whom the other father of his baby might be, and pondered about his future now the Malfoy/Greengrass wedding was cancelled. It was soapy, gossipy stuff, and there was even a decent picture of him, taken at a recent training session. Olshansky and two of the younger players hovered in the air, hanging off every word that photo-Draco was saying.
Overall, Draco supposed the article wasn’t quite as dreadful as the twaddle that Skeeter spouted with her vile green quill. Elfrida Evans concluded that the upcoming game between the Arrows and the Wasps would be the hottest match of the season, and that any wix in their right mind ought to be owl-ordering their ticket before they Apparate away.
Brentwood and West would be in raptures over Even’s article. Draco might be benched, but his and Potter’s famed rivalry would still drag in the gawkers.
As Draco turned the page, he immediately felt his good mood vanish. The next article continued the Quidditch theme, but this time the story was all about Gabriel Gauthier.
The younger boy’s puerile grin and stupidly floppy hair make Draco’s tummy roil with jealousy but, even though he felt annoyed, he still read the article. Draco knew immediately he shouldn't have. It didn’t make him feel better in the slightest.
Gauthier waxed lyrical about Potter, and what a wonderful role model and friend he’d been since the Canadian had arrived in London. “It’s been a blast! We’ve been out to some brilliant local pubs. The Leaky Cauldron was the best of them all,” Gauthier stated, “and Harry has introduced me to his friends. I’ve even had the honour of dining with Vice-Minister Weasley-Granger. Harry couldn’t be kinder on the Quidditch pitch. He’s so free with his talent and incredibly down to earth.”
Draco scoffed loudly, envy spiking in his chest.
What an utterly infatuated fanboy this Gabriel Gauthier was! It was obvious that the crush went two ways. Drinking in the Leaky? Dinner with Hermione Granger? They’d been lovers for five years, and he’d never had experiences like that with his ex-lover. Blatantly this fancy git, with his wind-swept hair, and his perfectly trim waist was more like Potter’s type than he had ever been.
Gods. He’d told Potter that he wasn’t ready to play happy families with him, and now the wizard had shacked up with that baby-faced prat? He’d told Potter that he wasn’t part of his plans, and he’d only gone and made plans with someone else. Draco thought he might be sick.
Losing his temper, he snatched up the magazine and threw it at the wall. The impact was pathetic. Draco watched it slide to the floor, landing in a crumpled mess of pages on the carpet. He stared at it, wondering how his life had gotten to this point, and whether Gauthier knew about his boyfriend’s impending fatherhood. Draco thought not.
Draco was about to stand and toddle off to his bed, when he was startled out of his daze by the sound of the Floo chiming.
Bloody hell. No doubt that’d be Mum, come to double-check that he’d drunk enough and eaten plenty of leafy vegetables with his dinner. You’d have thought she was the one carrying the Snitch. Draco watched the flames grow tall, and it was only as they blazed a deep red that he realised his visitor wasn’t Narcissa Black Malfoy.
The flames dropped away, and Potter stepped into his room. “Malfoy,” he said, low, rough, and ever so slightly slurred. “Fuck, I’ve missed you. Missed you so much.”
There wasn’t time for Draco to answer before Potter had dived across the room. He pushed one hand behind Draco’s head, knotting it though his hair. The other hand clasped around his back, hot and gasping through the thin cotton of his tee-shirt.
The position on the settee was awkward, and Draco did his best to resist. He pushed back against Potter’s mouth with all the strength he could muster.
Potter gave as good as he got, though, opening his mouth, and deepening their kiss. It was hard, hungry, and as much a contest as any they’d had on the Quidditch pitch. Draco battled with myriad conflicting emotions.
Two minutes ago, he’d been swathed in envy, but now Draco was enveloped by lust. He'd never had another lover like Potter, and fuck, the last few weeks had been so horrible without his presence. Draco had missed Potter’s voice, missed his company, and missed their lovemaking. Sensual lust trickled down Draco’s backbone. He’d really missed Potter’s thick, beautiful prick.
On that thought, Draco relented, gentling the kiss, and opening his lips so that Potter could slip his tongue inside. Making an unconscious moan of pleasure, Draco felt the butterflies in his belly start to flutter as Potter switched to leisurely and teasing.
As his eyes shuttered closed, Draco felt the Wasps, the stupid Witch Weekly article and all the nonsense of his life slip far away. Why had Potter and he ever stopped kissing? They ought to be doing this every single day of their lives.
At last, Potter broke the kiss, and Draco’s eyes flew open. Suddenly, abruptly, Draco felt aware of how he must look, clad in only boxer shorts and a gauzy tee-shirt. Potter’s face was devastatingly close. Draco could see the blown irises behind the frames of his glasses, and the slick, bitten red of his plump lips. He could smell the sickly-sweet scent of Firewhiskey too.
Ah. That’d be why Potter had felt brave enough to stride into his living room. “You’re been drinking,” Draco said, more a statement of fact than a question.
Potter didn’t deny it. “Ron poured me a glass,” he answered, “and one glass turned into a few. Dutch courage. Told him about the baby, Malfoy. I told him and ‘Mione that I was the other dad.”
Draco supposed that he oughtn’t be surprised. Hermione and Ron were Potter’s family. They were the other two parts of the Golden Trio, and the closest thing that Potter had to family.
“What shocked them more?” Draco asked, amused despite the bizarreness of the situation. “That Harry Potter fancies men, or that you fucked me? Bet bloody Weasley looked like he’d swallowed Phoenix piss.”
Potter snorted. “That searing wit of yours, Malfoy. You deploy it whenever a conversation threatens to get even slightly serious. Can’t pretend that I’ve missed that being shot in my direction. ‘Course Ron knows I fancy men! We shared a bedroom for seven ruddy years. They both reckoned it might be my kid. That was why ‘Mione shut Percy and George up so fast during Sunday dinner. They’re happy for me. Happy for us.”
“Us?” Draco questioned, repeating Potter’s words. “Didn’t know there was an us anymore. I read Witch Weekly, Potter. You and Gabriel Gauthier seem to have gotten particularly close. Has he been keeping your bed warm the last two months?”
“That article was a fat lot of nonsense,” Potter answered scornfully. “Half the team went out to the Leaky Cauldron, and ‘Mione came to lunch at the Arrows canteen. Gauthier was there and I introduced them. The two of them chatted for a bit. I wasn’t paying that much attention.”
Draco could always tell when Potter was tired of talking. Moving to sit beside him on the settee, Potter lent in close so that his hips were pressed snug against Draco’s thigh. The hard line of his lover’s erection was obvious, even though the denim of his jeans. If Draco hadn’t been six months gone and big as a house, he’d have crawled onto Potter’s lap, and frotted their pricks together.
He shoved at Potter, trying to make space, and trying to force their bodies fit together, but the other wizard was stubborn. Bringing his lips down to Draco’s throat, Potter began to bite, kiss and caress. The sensation was so erotic that Draco swore it ought to be illegal.
“Gabriel Gauthier is a nice kid,” Potter said, words slipping out between teeth and tongue. “But that’s all he is, Malfoy. I didn’t fuck him. You know that there’s never been another wizard in my bed.”
That was enough of an answer for Draco. Potter bit hard, just below his Adam’s Apple, before licking away the offence. Draco groaned his appreciation.
“I want you to fuck me,” Draco said, hoping to sound commanding. He didn’t. The words only sounded needy. Potter didn’t seem to mind. His strong hand curled around Draco’s bicep. Then he Side-Apparated them both onto Draco’s bedsheets.
Seizing the hem of Draco’s tee-shirt, Potter pulled it over his head in a single smooth moment. Then, without dallying, he pulled Draco’s boxer shorts over his thighs. His lover pulled off his own clothes.
Potter gently pushed Draco onto his back. “You’re so keen,” he said, and he pried Draco’s hand away, pinned it to his side.
With a blink of wandless, wordless magic, Harry’s fingers became wet with lube, and he pushed them inside of Draco, acclimating him for lovemaking and making him open and pliable. “And so tight,” Potter said. “You’ve not had another wizard in your bed either.”
Draco bit his lip hard, willing himself not to orgasm the first moment that Potter brushed over his prostate. He hadn’t felt remotely sexy for weeks, but now his whole body felt like an erogenous zone.
“Not too much,” Draco warned, jerking and twisting under Potter’s sensual attention. "Two months is too bloody long… I’m really fucking randy.”
Potter heeded his warning, and carefully removed his fingers. Next, Draco got onto his hands and knees, and found a place where he could brace himself against the sheets whilst also leaving room for his bump. Potter nudged his legs open a notch. "You look absolutely gorgeous," Harry complimented. “Are you ready?”
"More than," Draco answered.
With that, Potte pushed inside of Draco with a groan, and the sudden fullness was like heaven on earth. Draco pushed back his hips, wanting to have every inch of Potter’s brilliant prick inside of him. There was a edge to fucking Potter that felt brutal and raw, and so real. It was the only thing that came close to flying.
It didn’t take long for Potter to build up a steady, pounding pace. Draco cried out loudly as Potter found his sweet spot over and over.
Draco lived for these moments when they fucked, when they were so synchronised that he forgot they were two different people. Draco threw his head back, body shuddering and shaking, his sense of self dissolving with every one of Potter’s thrusts.
Like he’d predicted, Draco didn’t last long. He felt the heat of his orgasm begin in the tip of his penis, and felt the unremitting spread of pleasure unfold through his hips and belly. Hot cum streaked across his bump as Harry speedily followed him over the edge.
When Draco resurfaced from the pleasure of his orgasm, Potter was beside him, stroking him, and kissing him gently.
“I love you,” Potter said quietly, trailing a blunt fingertip across his side. “I love that you’re a stubborn, spiky git. Love that you’re so jealous of some stupid kid. I even love that razor-sharp tongue of yours. We’re right together, Malfoy. We always have been.” Leaning in, he brushed a kiss over Draco’s collarbone. “And I think you missed me just as much,” he added. “We should tell the Prophet now. Give them a chance to get their headlines out of the way before our next League match.”
Draco listened, really listened to Potter’s words.
This wasn’t the first time that Potter had said those three little words. Draco hadn’t ever felt able to say them back, though.
If he’d admitted that he loved Potter, then it would have been an admission that the rest of his ordered, organised existence was a lie. It’d have been a confession that he only really felt truly alive when Potter was beside him. Draco didn’t believe that love was something you could just say. For him, love meant action.
For a moment, lying on his quilt top with Potter’s arms draped across him, Draco allowed himself to indulge. What might a life with Potter and their Snitch be like? Would they live here, or at Grimmauld Place? Walk down Diagon on Sunday mornings, pushing a pram and prepping veggies for lunch? It seemed so tangible. So touchable.
What was a life except a series of days, stacked one after another? Draco imagined the joy of waking up each morning, and having Harry at his side. They’d have lazy lay-ins, and messy breakfasts. They’d walk in Muggle parks.
They’d raise their baby together, and they’d laugh, and they’d fly. They’d dive, swoop, and soar and own the heavens. Why couldn’t it work? Other wixen were allowed the luxury of love. Why not Potter and he? The obstacles were all gone. His wedding had been cancelled. The world and his wife already knew he was gay. Why not tell Rita Skeeter everything? They could throw their cards in the air and not give a damn where they landed.
Except they couldn’t, could they?
Draco remembered all the bad press he’d received. All the nasty, cruel digs in the Prophet. He remembered how so many of his friends had conveniently forgotten he existed. He remembered the derision of the fans, and the whispers and laughter of his teammates.
He couldn’t do that to Potter. His lover had died to save the wizarding world. He'd only been a child. Potter had a heart as big as the sky. Potter was respected, and loved, and Draco couldn’t, wouldn’t let him lose that. Not for him. Potter would have other children eventually. He'd have the family that he'd always wanted. Potter could still have his happy ending.
Beside him, Potter spoke again. “That’s why I came tonight,” he said, dispensing kisses between each word. “Ron and Hermione told me if I loved you, and wanted to be in our baby’s life, I had to tell you. Floo here, and not take no for an answer. Not walk away again. I love you, Draco Malfoy,” Potter repeated, voice warm, "and part of me always has, even when we were kids. We’re having a baby. Your betrothal is broken. There’s nothing left in our way. Tell me that you don’t feel the same. Tell me that it couldn’t work”
Draco did feel the same. That was the catch.
Turning his head, Draco half-buried his face in the cotton quilt. He couldn’t risk Potter seeing his expression. Potter knew Draco better than anyone else. He’d have known straight away that Draco was lying.
“I don’t feel the same,” Draco answered, fibbing through his teeth. “I never have. The sex was always good,” he said, “but, like I said before you weren’t ever part of my life plans, Potter. Go and play happy families with Gabriel Gauthier! He obviously fancies you. Floo to his. Talk dirty to him, and I bet he’ll let you fuck him.”
Draco knew his words were as cruel and as cutting as a blade. Potter and he had spent their entire youth at each other’s throats, so Draco knew the quickest routes to Potter’s jugular.
Reminding the other wizard of the words of his earlier dismissal would crush Potter, especially coming so closely on the back of a love confession. There weren’t many people in his life that Potter had allowed himself to love. The Muggles that’d brought him up had been spiteful and abusive, and all the adults that Potter ought to have been able to trust as he’d gone through adolescence had betrayed him, manipulating him like a lamb to slaughter.
Trust and vulnerability didn’t come easily to Potter. Draco knew he was rejecting something rare, something precious.
The silence between them seemed to stretch out for aeons, heavy as cauldron iron and stifling as the grave Potter’s hand stilled on his skin, and Draco heard his sharp inhale of breath. Then, suddenly, Potter shifted, getting off the bed. There was the rustle of jeans being pulled on and the slide of leather through a belt buckle.
“So that’s that, then?” Potter asked, deceivingly polite. “Are we finished permanently? I told Ron and Hermione that I thought we could make it. That our baby could be the making of us. Seems that I’m the same prat I was when I was a kid. So short-bloody-sighted that I can’t see what’s directly in me. I feel sick, Malfoy. Completely sick. You haven’t changed at all. You’re still the same selfish bastard you always were. You really don’t care about me in the slightest, do you?”
“You can’t really believe we’d have worked,” Draco answered, voice equally light. “If I hadn’t got knocked up, I’d still be betrothed. You weren’t anything except a bit on the side. My dirty secret.”
“Fucking, fucking hell,” Potter muttered, and Draco heard footsteps moving towards the bedroom hearth. They paused. “You know, I told Ron that I wouldn’t leave before we were a couple. Now it seems like I’m leaving forever! You don’t get to throw me out of my child’s life like a broken bloody wand! That won't happen. I don’t care how little you might think of me. I'm going to be a dad to them. You’re not shutting me out.”
Draco couldn’t bear to hear anymore. If Potter didn’t leave soon, he knew he’d falter. Potter hadn’t ever had a family of his own. To deny him his own flesh and blood was elegantly vicious.
“Oh, but I can,” Draco snapped. “As soon as you leave, I’ll change my Floo coordinates. You want to talk to me, talk to your solicitor.”
There was a loud scoff, and then the sound of steps moving forward across tiles. Potter called out Floo directions that Draco didn’t immediately recognise. The flames rose, and that was that.
Draco was alone once more.
All that was left of Potter was the cooling cum, slick between his arse cheeks, and the Snitch, fidgety and kicky in his belly. Draco wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Stupid, sodding hormones. He’d done the honourable thing, yet he still felt lower than a Flobberworm.
Had Potter gone to visit Gauthier? Draco supposed it was more than likely. It’d been he that had suggested that course of action, after all. Perhaps he was already there, whispering sweet nothings into the younger wizard’s ear.
Draco slid beneath the sheets, still nude, not wanting to wash the fading scent of Potter from his skin.
Draco knew he’d lost something, lost something significant and his heart was leaden with grief.
~~
May 2004.
It was the morning of the big Arrows versus Wasps match, and Draco, awake since five am, bellyful of butterflies, had been at the ground since sunrise. He’d always believed you made your own luck in the sky, so pre-match nerves weren’t something he’d ever had to contend with as a player.
Draco, however, was finding life as a coach very different indeed.
Once the starting whistle was blown, there was nothing more Draco could physically do to change the outcome of the game. That had been a lesson in humility, but alongside it had grown a powerful sense of pride. Those seven witches and wizards in the sky were his players, his team, his Wasps, and what’s more, everyone knew it.
Leo Brentwood and Fortescue West knew it, Flint knew it and, best of all, the Prophet did as well. Their journalists had stopped discussing his unmarried status and his unborn baby, and started writing about his Quidditch strategies instead. Instead of ‘Draco Malfoy: Forced from The Air Because Of Scandalous Unplanned Pregnancy,’ the newspaper headline last week had read ‘Draco Malfoy: Brilliant Coach Gives the Wasps Back Their Sting.’
Since he’d taken over, the Wasps had been on the most fantastic winning streak. It was as if everything they touched turned to gold.
Only last weekend, Flitterwick had gotten the Quaffle through the rings three times before Olshansky had caught the Snitch. Granted, the Tornados were pretty rubbish this season, but the flying had been fluid and exciting; a pleasure to behold. The fans had loved it too, and the sound of singing and shouting in the stand had been deafening. The Wasps had outscored the other teams in the previous two weeks as well.
Flint had been correct: improve the in-game communication, and get the offensive side of the team scoring, and the wins would inevitably follow. The Wireless presenters had celebrated their quick, slick Quidditch, the surprising new set pieces, and tactics the team displayed. Draco adored the praise. This wasn’t how he’d planned for the season to play out, not by a very long shot, but if he could get the Wasps to the League top spot, then he’d take that for a consolation prize. Of course, the fact that Potter, pretty-boy Gauthier, and the rest of the rotten-Apples would be deprived of said victory only made it that much sweeter.
Despite their contempt when Draco’s pregnancy had first been outed in the press, Olshansky, Flitterwick, O’Hara, and the rest no longer griped and grumbled whenever he put them through their paces.
Some of the team, in the beginning, had presumed that his being pregnant would have made Draco easy-going and a pushover. Draco had very much enjoyed dissuading them of that notion. He’d drilled them until they were almost in tears. Set pieces had to be practised not once, not twice, but a dozen times. Formations needed to be rehearsed until they were second nature. Draco didn’t want them proficient in tactics; he wanted the Wasps to see opportunities before they even presented themselves.
At first there’d been resistance – Len Richardson had been a bit of a soft touch – but then the victories had begun. Now they all listened attentively, and they practised keenly.
Winning, after all, was addictive.
Even so, today's game still felt massive. There was always that extra dash of pressure when the Arrows and the Wasps played. Their rivalry stretched back over generations and was held by each set of fans as an article of faith.
Gaggles of supporters had begun to gather in the stands and, as Draco made his way into the changing room, he could already hear their Firewhisky-fuelled songs ringing out. The Wasps were busy with their preparations and barely registered his presence. Draco didn’t care. He felt satisfied by what he witnessed.
Olshansky and O’Hara were both watching memories of Potter’s most famous games in the club Pensieve and working out where his weak spots were, while Flitterwick had his broom Levitating in front of him, carefully checking that it balanced flawlessly. Others were stretching or discussing manoeuvres. There was a palpable hum of excited single-mindedness in the room. They wanted this win, nearly as much as Draco did.
Even the Snitch had realised this was a big occasion. All morning they’d been wriggly and busy, almost as if they were keen to get on a broom and play themselves.
Time vanished faster than sand through a timer and, before long, it was almost time for lift-off.
Olshansky and O’Hara pulled themselves out of the Pensieve and away from Potter’s finest moments. Flitterwick Finite’ed the spell on his broomstick. Players pulled on their boots and knotted the laces on their gauntlets. Draco couldn’t help the stab of envy that ran through him. Those final few minutes before striding into the stadium and straddling your broomstick were good ones. Your body coursed with adrenaline, and you felt like you could easily slay a Horntail with your bare hands.
As the rest of the Wasps made their final preparations, Olshansky made his way over to Draco’s side.
“Malfoy,” he said quietly, his pale cheeks pinking above his whiskery chin, “erm… Thing is, I wanted to apologise. That first day, after the big Prophet article? I know I was out of line, laughing like I did… Gods. ‘Suppose it isn’t exactly an excuse but the truth is, I hadn’t met any, um… A gay Quidditch player before. I was astonished.” Olshansky turned an even deeper shade of red. “You’ve always been my hero, Malfoy. You seemed to have it all. Beautiful fiancée. First choice Wasps Seeker.” He gulped, and his eyes flashed down to Draco’s prominent bump. “And then you were pregnant and none of us could believe it. It was like we hadn’t ever known you-”
“Is all this leading anywhere?” Draco interrupted, not really understanding what Olshansky’s vaguely insulting polemic was all about. He didn’t want to hear it. Today was about winning the Quidditch League. The rest of the team had already begun to gather around Flint for the pre-match team talk. Draco wanted to hear what he had to say and add a few words himself.
Olshansky nodded. “Yeah, well, I soon realised I was being a total prat,” he continued. “The last few weeks… You’re twice the man I ever thought you were, Malfoy. You believed in me.” He looked over to where the rest of the Wasps had, by now, come together in a circle. “And, thanks to you, I’m playing better than I ever have. We all are. We’re going to win this game for you, Malfoy. We all know how much beating Potter and the Arrows means to you, personally and professionally... You’ve had our backs. It’s time we repaid the favour.”
That was the most that Olshansky had ever said to Draco. He wasn’t immediately sure how to reply.
Olshansky wasn’t wrong. Beating the Arrows did mean everything to Draco. There’d been pictures of Potter and Gauthier in the sports pages of the Prophet, both wizards looking convivial. That, in turn, had led to rumours circulating about Potter talking to Canadian Quidditch teams.
His Appleby contract was up at the end of the current season, but Draco hadn’t really worried about that, at least not before Gauthier had arrived on the scene. Potter hadn’t mentioned leaving England while they’d been sleeping together, but Draco supposed that circumstances had changed now. The Canadian League must have added attractions nowadays.
Draco hadn’t changed his Floo coordinates, despite his pathetic threat the previous month, but Potter hadn’t visited again. There’d been several unknown owls tapping on his window, but Draco had turned them away without taking their envelopes. He couldn’t stomach the formality of a solicitor’s letter, not yet, especially one that bluntly informed him that Potter had decided to leave London, and him, behind forever.
With an effort, Draco snapped out of that gloomy spiral of thoughts. Now wasn’t the time to think about the Snitch’s other parent. Today was a Quidditch Saturday.
Quidditch Saturday meant Potter was nothing but an opposition player who needed to be taught that Malfoy’s Wasps were a force to be reckoned with.
“Repay the favour by winning that Snitch,” Draco gruffly told the younger man, not letting any trace of sentiment enter his voice. “Don’t ever underestimate Potter. He’s fast, tricky, and the jammy bastard has always had a sixth sense about which direction the Snitch will fly. One on one, he’d take you easily. He's that good. The best chance you’ve got is to lose him in a melee of other players. Dive if you see that Snitch. The confusion might give you a head start by a few seconds.”
Olshansky listened to that last piece of advice, nodding his understanding. The two of them turned to listen to Flint.
Flint went with a standard team talk. He told the players that the momentum was behind them, their fans were the best in England, and that they had the edge on the Arrows in terms of speed and flying agility.
“This is our season,” Flint bellowed. “Get stuck in, remember what we’ve practised, and give them a few bruises to remember us by.”
His rousing speech had the team cheering and yelling. As soon as they’d quietened, Draco added his two Sickles, telling them everything he knew about the Arrow’s defences.
“Mackenzie likes big players,” Draco told them, “but don’t let their size intimidate you! Keep your passes fast, unpredictable and make sure you’re getting as many shots on target as possible. As soon as our points start to roll in, those gits will soon start to get discouraged. You can do this! This season, Wimbourne's name will be charmed onto the League trophy!”
The Wasps took to the field, collecting their broomsticks as they went. Draco followed in their wake; his jaw set tight. Watching the rest of the team alight their brooms and take to the skies was the toughest part of any game. He always felt a little cheated as he took his seat on the bench.
Thank Merlin, but Potter was already airborne and hovering a few metres up in the air. Draco let his gaze wander towards his ex-lover. He looked as gorgeous as ever, his robes of pale blue laced tightly over his muscular body.
Draco swallowed; his mouth suddenly dry. Potter had been working out, that was certain. Was that to attract the attention of the Canadian League or, even worse, Gabriel Gauthier?
Gratefully, there wasn’t time to ruminate. The referee blew her whistle, told the teams she wanted a nice, clean game, and Draco felt a forceful flare of magic wash over him as the game began. Potter and Olshansky flew higher than the others, soaring far, far above the pitch. They were hardly discernible even with powerful Omnioculars.
But Draco couldn’t spare too much of his attention on Potter. There was a game of Quidditch happening beneath the Seekers, and it was as frenetic and as exciting as the Prophet had predicted. Flitterwick was doing brilliantly. He was whizzing around the opposition Chasers, weaving in and out of the confused Arrows, tying them in knots.
Draco yelled his encouragement, as loud as any fan in the stands. This was how Quidditch ought to be played.
Pride wrestled with nerves inside Draco’s belly. His team had practised new set pieces all week, and Draco had drilled them pitilessly and allowed no shirking. All that hard work was paying off. From where he was sat, the Wasps looked like they were playing a different sport to the Arrows.
The seconds ticked by, and Draco’s heart was in his mouth as he watched the game unfold. O’Hara dropped, barrelling straight for the Arrow player holding the Quaffle. She executed a perfect Malfoy Screw, and Draco couldn’t help but grin as she snatched the ball out of the air like it was weightless.
“That’s it!” Draco screamed. “Keep passing! Use your space! Trust your teammates!”
The only word to describe the next half hour of play was breathtaking.
The Chasers dipped and dived, forcing the Appleby players into empty space and making them vulnerable. Refusing to miss out on the fun, the Beaters go stuck in too. They were constantly on the move, zigging and zagging, erratic and quick. Draco got up, too thrilled to sit still. His team were doing exactly what he’d told them to do. Getting the Quaffle through the rings was just a matter of time.
Then, all of a sudden, everything went wrong.
The Quaffle was in play, and the players were weaving around one another, trying to get into position. Flitterwick dropped into position, ready to intercept.
Draco frowned. Gabriel Gauthier was there too. He was pushing in, flying belligerently, trying to get between Flitterwick and the ball.
But then Olshansky smashed into the set piece. He piled into the two at speed, from above. Bashing into Gauthier, the two were sent spinning at angles into the sky.
At the same moment, the Bludger was hurled toward Flitterwick. He saw it and went wide at the very last moment.
Potter, caught in a dive behind Olshansky, had no such luck.
Sick queasiness rushed through Draco as he watched the Bludger hit Potter dead on and smash into his shoulder. He heard Potter’s scream ring out in the suddenly silent stadium and watched, in slow motion, as he dropped from his broomstick. Draco’s own words flashed through his head. The best chance you’ve got is to lose him in a melee of other players. Dive if you see that Snitch. The confusion might give you a head start of a few seconds.
Draco’s heart skipped a beat.
He’d told Olshansky to pull Potter into the other players. This was all his fault. Potter was injured and Potter was falling.
He wasn’t conscious of standing or of sprinting across the Quidditch pitch. Draco wasn’t conscious of the screaming crowd, or of his feet slipping on the drizzly grass.
Draco only came back into himself as Potter plummeted softly downwards. Another wix had cast an Arresto Momentum, thank the deities, and he hit the ground with nothing more than a noisy groan.
Potter rolled onto his side, curling into the foetal position. Draco dropped to his knees, and he felt the wet soak through the material of his trousers. He didn’t give a Sickle.
Frantically, Draco’s eyes searched across Potter’s prone body. There wasn’t blood – that had to be good – but Potter’s face was unnaturally slack. His arm was bent at an ungodly angle. Worst of all, his eyes were shut. Draco’s mind swam. Was that concussion, or something much worse?
“You silly, silly bastard,” Draco cursed, taking Potter’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “Why’d you dive after Olshansky? You’re supposed to be better than that, and look at you now. You’re really bloody injured.”
“Mr Malfoy, you have to move,” came the brisk voice of the stadium Mediwizard. The green-coated medic crouched beside Draco and took out his wand. “You need to give us space to access the medical emergency. Perhaps you’d like to return to your seat? We can update you about Seeker Potter’s condition once he’s been transferred to St Mungo’s.”
Draco supposed it was a good thing that he was eight months pregnant and roughly the size of Wiltshire. If he’d have been in peak condition, he’d have punched the Mediwizard directly on the nose for that piece of impertinence. Going back to his seat wasn’t any kind of option. Nothing in heaven or earth would compel him to leave Potter’s side.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Draco snarled. His expression couldn’t have brooked any argument, because, after a second of hesitation, the Mediwizard nodded his acquiescence.
"Fine," the wizard snapped, "but don't get in our way."
Harry Potter being knocked out of the sky and injured was the big story of the game, and Draco heard the sound of cameras all around them, saw the flare of the lightbulbs. If he’d looked up, Draco knew he’d have seen reporters feverishly scribbling into their notebooks.
But Draco didn’t look up. The game continuing above them didn’t matter. The fans, rabid and wild, didn’t matter either. All that mattered was Potter, whom Draco needed to jolly well wake up and stop messing them all about.
Beside him, the Mediwizard worked unabated. Perhaps he didn’t really deserve a punch on the nose. Shapes and colours danced above Potter’s body as he swished his wand, all vivid greens and acid yellows. Draco recognised a Painkilling Charm and an Immobilising Spell, but the rest of his magic was a mystery to him.
At long last, Potter’s eyes fluttered open. “Malfoy,” Potter said, his voice barely a croak. “I came off my broomstick-”
“Don’t speak,” Draco hissed, relief flooding his system like the sweetest intoxication. “Yes, you’ve proved you're a clumsy git. Well done. You scared the fucking skin off me.”
Potter had the audacity to smile. “Think that’s my line,” he said. “And I think that you’re holding my hand.”
Those were the only words that Potter managed. Draco dropped Potter’s hand, and Mediwizard caught onto the fact that Potter had woken, which appeared to mean he was fit to be Levitated onto the waiting stretcher.
Potter’s arm still looked appalling but, after the Mediwizard charmed a length of bandage to bind it to his torso, the Appleby Seeker began to look a modicum better. Some of the colour started to come back into his cheeks. He managed a thumbs-up with his other hand, and the crowds applauded wildly as Potter was carried from the pitch.
~~
The Department of Artefact Accidents was just as frenetic as it had been in January, back when it’d been Draco that had been the one confined to a hospital bed. The same green-robed Healers bustled about, examining clipboards, or conferring with their colleagues in hushed tones. Draco was having an awful time of it. He’d been shoved into a chilly waiting room, with nothing to keep him company apart from ancient copies of the Quibbler and a machine that spurted out the vilest, most watery tea that Draco had ever drank.
A frazzled Healer had popped his head in a few times, assuring Draco that he’d have a report on Potter’s condition as soon as one was available, but that was completely bloody useless. He needed to be beside Potter, making sure that the other man was awake, uninjured, and ready to leap back on his broomstick.
All the nonsense that had occupied Draco’s brain for so many weeks – Canada, Gauthier, the Wasps winning the League, and his being grounded – none of that seemed to matter now. He’d trade all of that away, just as long as Potter survived his fall in decent shape.
After the Healer had checked on him for the fourth time, Draco began to pace in frustration across the greying carpet tiles, his bump sticking out in front of him.
His back ached horribly, and the Snitch was squirmy, kicking and heavy. Gods, but he was so big now. They were due in less than four weeks and, as far as Draco was concerned, the time couldn’t pass fast enough.
After another half hour had passed, another anaemic cup of tea had been consumed, and Draco had read the same poster about washing hands to avoid Mufflemumps for the billionth time, his patience reached its zenith. He’d waited long enough.
Draco strode out of the room and made his way to the private room where Potter was being held. Sequestering himself on a seat beside a cupboard full of clean linen, Draco waited. He suspected that St Mungo’s would be keeping an extra-enthusiastic eye on the Chosen One.
His intuition wasn’t wrong. After only minutes, a familiar witch appeared around the corner of the corridor. It was Healer Mayhew and, as soon as she placed her hand on the doorknob, Draco stood up and demanded that he be allowed entry.
“No. I’m sorry. I’m afraid that you can’t be in here,” came Mayhew’s answer, but Draco wasn’t having that. He gave her his best Malfoy glare and pushed inside. If they wanted to get security in, then so be it. He hoped they weren’t about to drag an eight-months-pregnant wizard out by his elbow, but he'd take the risk.
Potter was sat up in bed, propped up on a great mound of pillows, and looked considerably better than he had three hours before. Silvery monitoring spells twinkled in the air, and a potion drip slowly decanted into his arm.
Healer Mayhew spluttered her apologies, trying to explain that Mr Malfoy had forced his way into the room.
“St Mungo’s is a space for recuperation and recovery,” she snapped, folding her arms. “Your presence here does nothing to advance that, so please leave. Mr Potter’s treatment isn’t the business of the Wimbourne Wasps. Only family members are allowed by the bedside of patients.”
Draco knew this was the moment of truth, and he cast his eyes over to Potter, wanting to gauge his reaction. Potter nodded his agreement. “Malfoy can stay,” Potter said, addressing Healer Mayhew. “They’re my family,” Potter added, gaze flicking over to Draco. “Him and the baby.”
For half a second, Healer Mayhew looked befuddled by Potter’s comment. She narrowed her eyes and looked between them. It was only when her sights settled on Draco’s protruding bump that things seemed to click into place.
Taking a couple of steps forward, Draco settled himself into the too-small chair at the side of Potter’s bed. He let his hand rest on the quilt, and Potter’s unhurt hand slid over the top of it. Draco didn’t pull away. He supposed that he’d held Potter’s hand in front of the whole stadium. The opinion of Healer Mayhew hardly figured, not when a million rumours would already be flying faster than Firebolts.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Mayhew said finally. “If you’re family, then I'll collect Mr Potter’s release forms. We’ve patched him up to the best of our abilities, but unfortunately the injuries he received were serious ones.” She left then, tugging the door behind her shut.
“You look bloody terrible,” Draco opined, the first to break the silence between them. He looked Potter up and down. The other wizard’s arm was tightly bound in a neat sling. “Just how bad was it?”
Potter winced. “It wasn't the greatest day of my career,” he answered with a shrug. “I’ve broken my collarbone, three ribs, and my upper and lower arm. My shoulder joint was smashed to pieces. No more Quidditch, not for at least three weeks. Total nightmare.”
Draco couldn’t help but scoff. “Oh, total nightmare,” he answered, through there wasn’t any real heat in his voice. “I’ve been out of the sky for nearly five months now. If I can do that length of time, you can do three weeks without blinking.”
“But you’re pregnant,” Potter answered, “so at least you’ve got yourself a decent excuse. Not me. I piled into those players like an idiot and managed to get a Bludger for my trouble.” He sighed, but then some of the annoyance seemed to lift from his face. “Still, at least there’s a silver lining to this afternoon’s debacle-”
“That there is,” Draco interrupted, his lips curling into a sly smile. If Potter was well, then that meant teasing him was fair game. “The best Seeker on the pitch got stretchered off. Don’t know how the Arrows are going to get back from that. Mackenzie will have a face like a sore bloody Hippogriff when the Wasps swipe that League trophy-”
Potter shook his head. “I wasn’t talking about Quidditch,” Potter said, interrupting right back. “I was talking about you. You, running to my side when I feel off the broom. Coming with me to St Mungo’s, and then waiting in that dire little waiting room for all these hours. That seems like a lot of effort for somebody that was only a bit on the side. For somebody that was just your dirty secret.”
Draco was about to reply and say that none of that mattered now. His frantic prayers had been answered. Potter was all in one piece, wasn’t he, and he’d be leaving soon for a new life in Canada. He’d be left behind, but he’d have their Snitch. They’d be born soon, and then everything would change yet again. He didn’t have the chance. There was a knock on the door, and Healer Mayhew entered. The witch had a clipboard in her hand and, to Draco’s surprise, rather than giving it to Potter, she thrust it into his hands instead. There wasn’t time to ask why.
“As I was saying before,” Mayhew began, all of her previous surprise at the nature of their relationship now completely gone, “the injuries that Mr Potter received were on the more serious end of the spectrum for Quidditch. Had he been a Muggle, we might call them life-changing. However, with intravenous Skele-Gro, we’ve luckily been able to regrow most of Mr Potter’s bones. That does, however, mean they are considerably weakened. It’s St Mungo’s policy in such cases to only release into the care of a family member. If you sign on the dotted line,” she added, “then Mr Potter and yourself can both leave.”
The Healer pulled a pre-inked quill from her pocket and gave it to Draco. He hesitated, the nib of the quill hovering just above the parchment. “Care of a family member?” Draco repeated, knowing he sounded dim, but not sure what else to say. He turned to face Potter. “What about Gabriel Gauthier and Canada? The solicitor’s letters that you’ve been sending me?”
At first, Potter looked utterly confused. “You mean the letters that you send back without reading? Those weren’t from me, you daft prat. Those were from Hermione. She took it upon herself to write you letters. She wanted to tell you how much I was missing you. As for Canada, that was all my agent’s idea. You know as well as I do that my contract is up at the end of the season. It was all smoke and mirrors, Malfoy. Why would I ever leave England?” He gave Draco’s hand a sharp squeeze. “And, as for this Gauthier nonsense, could you please give it a rest? There’s only ever been one person for me, Malfoy. You, always you, even though you drive me completely up the wall. Now would you sign that bloody parchment, so we can leave this sodding place? You know full well how much I hate hospitals.”
So, with no further ado, Draco did as Potter had asked.
He scrawled his name over the dotted line, before handing the clipboard back to a very patient Healer Mayhew.
“Everything looks in order,” she said, her gaze flicking between the pair of them. “Now, if you’ll excuse me a further moment, there are several phials of Painkilling Potion that I’d like Mr Potter to take, mornings and evenings. I’ll just collect those for you, before you both leave.”
As soon as Healer Mayhew had left, Potter shot forwards, twisting his hand free of Draco’s and wrapping it around the back of his head. He pulled Draco to him for a kiss. They were still locked lip to lip when the door banged open again, this time without a knock. The bright flash of a photograph being taken made the pair of them spring apart.
Draco swung around to the open doorway. As well as the photographer, Elfrida Evans stood there, with a Witch Weekly press badge hung around her neck. Draco felt a sudden, awkward urge to laugh. It hadn’t been Rita Skeeter, or the Daily Prophet, who’d finally caught him red-lipped with Harry Potter. It had been Witch Weekly, the most innocuous magazine in all of wizarding England.
“Mr Potter, are the rumours true?” Elfrida Evans asked. “You've sustained injuries so bad that you’ll never play Quidditch again?”
Potter frowned. “Merlin, no,” he answered. “Today was a temporary setback, that’s all. I’ll be back on my broomstick next season; you can bet your wand on it.”
Another flash of the camera had lights dancing in front of Draco’s eyes.
“Mr Malfoy,” came Elfrida Evans again, “Wimbourne Wasps flew to a resounding victory today. Olshansky caught the Snitch roughly an hour after you left the stadium. Your tactics have won your team the Quidditch League. Do you plan to remain the Head Coach next season and consolidate your hard work?"
That was the first Draco had heard about a win, though he supposed he couldn’t blame Flint for keeping a low profile. He’d rushed away from the Wasps stadium like there’d been a Peruvian Vipertooth on his tail. Draco, however, had done plenty of media training, and he schooled his face not to show his surprise.
“Len Ricardson is Head Coach,” Draco answered smoothly, not wanting to ruffle any feathers. “And that still remains the case. His are very big boots to fill. Like you know, I’ve only been filling in while I’m grounded. After the baby is born, I’m planning to get back into the sky.”
Elfrida Evans’s eyes sparkled at Draco’s mention of his baby because of course they did. She, like everyone else in the wizarding world, was only just cottoning on to the identity of their other father. Draco could almost see the cogs working in her brain. This wasn’t just a Quidditch story anymore. This was the biggest piece of gossip that any reporter had uncovered in years. Elfrida Evans knew she’d be the one to break it wide open.
“While we’re talking about the baby,” Evans said slickly, “the wizarding world is on tenterhooks after your demonstration of erm… affection at the Wimbourne stadium. Seeker Potter, are you planning to raise Mr Malfoy’s baby alongside him?”
This time it was Potter that answered. “I want to, because they're my baby too,” he said, without a beat of hesitation. “And, if Mr Malfoy here will have me, then I can’t think of anything I’d like more.”
Even the photographer looked flabbergasted at Potter’s comment. Elfrida Evans kept her composure. She was playing the odds. The witch knew very well that Healer Mayhew would be back before much longer, and then the jig would be up. She’d be escorted out of St Mungo’s. “So, for the benefit of my readers, who will, I promise, be agog by your news, can I confirm that the two of you are indeed a couple?”
Potter looked at him. This was the fly or get off the broomstick moment. Everything Draco had feared, for so many years, was happening. He’d been outed and so had Potter. They’d been snapped kissing and Potter had even admitted he was the father of the Snitch. He’d lived half a life for years, lived in dread, but now that the worst had happened, it wasn’t anything like he’d imagined.
Instead of being an ending, being here with Potter felt like a new beginning. The rest of his life was an open doorway. All Draco needed was to step through it. He nodded, and he smiled. “If Mr Potter here will have me, then I can’t think of anything I’d like more.”
At that, Potter leaned forward once more and brushed his lips against his own.
“Nicking my lines again, eh, Malfoy?” he murmured. “Yes. That's my answer. There’s nothing I want more."
Potter closed the space between them. Their kiss felt warm, affectionate, and real. Elfrida Evans’s questions, the hospital bed, even Potter’s injuries, all of them fell away, and Draco felt the rest of the world vanish into nothingness. They only pulled apart, both grinning, when the camera flashed again and again, capturing the moment forever.
Potter waved Elfrida Evans away after that. “No more questions,” he growled. “You’ve had your fill of gossip. Go and bother Marcus Flint and Edwin Olshansky! In other news, they both happen to have won the Quidditch League today. I’m just an injured man in a hospital bed. I deserve a bit of privacy, please.”
The journalist didn’t argue. Evans knew her exclusive was solid gold.
As soon as the door closed, Potter looked across at Draco, “The Kneazle is out of the bag," he said. "We’ll be on every newsstand in wizarding London tomorrow. Are you alright about that?”
Draco realised that he didn’t care much. Mum had come around to the idea of having a grandchild and was excited planning for when they arrived. Astoria, free from their betrothal, had made plans to live with Daphne in Paris. She was going to resume her education. Everyone that mattered didn’t care he was gay and pregnant, and those who cared didn’t matter.
“I am. I’m happy,” Draco confirmed. “What about you?”
“I couldn’t be better,” Potter yawned, all of a sudden looking tired. “This is what I’ve wanted for a long, long time. Thank Merlin that your denial has finally fallen away. I’ve only got one request, Malfoy, if we’re going to do this living together and raising a baby thing properly. One small thing.”
“And what’s that?” Draco asked, taking Potter’s good hand in his own and gently rubbing the back of it.
“I want you to call me Harry,” Potter asked, “and, in return, I want to call you Draco. Harry is what my loved ones call me, and you’re counted in that number. It’ll make it easier if we start now. It’ll give us time to get used to it, and it’ll be less confusing after the baby is born. They’ll have both our names, won’t they?”
Draco supposed that they would. He hadn't thought about names yet, even though they'd be here soon. “Snitch Malfoy-Potter,” he said aloud, trying out the name for practice. “Or Potter-Malfoy. We’ll have to do a sprint race for it,” he suggested, only partly joking. “Winner gets to go first.”
“Snitch is a dreadful name,” Harry laughed, appalled. “Our child isn’t going to be called Snitch-anything. And, I'll have you know, it’s bloody good that I’m currently incapacitated. I’d win that race, and you know it. Fastest Seeker in England.”
Draco rolled his eyes at that. As soon as they were allowed, he’d get back on his broomstick, and he’d leave Harry chasing his shadows. Cautiously, Draco moved onto the bed, and kissed his lover once more. He could easily spend the rest of his life squabbling with Harry, if it only meant they got to make up afterwards.
“Oh, we’ll see about that,” Draco answered, once they’d finally pulled apart. “Let’s get you fixed up first, and let's have our baby. Then we’ll see who’s fastest.”
~~
Epilogue. August 2004.
Gods, but it felt brilliant to be back in the sky. Draco pulled in a lungful of warm August air and dropped lower, dipping beneath Harry’s Firebolt.
The Wiltshire countryside beneath them was a blur of hazy greens as he sped up, keeping pace with Harry without needing to exert himself. This was the third time he’d ridden since Lily Narcissa’s birth, and each time Draco was astounded anew at how easy it all felt. He’d been eight months off a broomstick, but that might as well have been eight minutes. Flying felt as natural as breathing, and just as necessary.
He dug his fingertips into the groves, and lazily swung himself to the left. Lily, magicked tight to his chest in a baby sling, gurgled happily at the movement. She might only be eight weeks old, but she already seemed happiest in the air. Harry said that was only natural. “Flying’s in her blood,” he’d said, only yesterday. “She’s our daughter, after all. She’ll spend half her life on the back of a broomstick.”
Draco pulled back on his broom handle, bringing Lily and him up beside Harry. The two of them kept pace with each other for a few minutes, before rolling and rising in formation, matching each other’s movements, entirely in sync.
Though Draco loathed admitting it, Harry was looking good. He’d been practising really hard since the accident in May, getting out on his broom every day, and doing all the rehabilitation exercises the Arrow Mediwizards had suggested. Harry hadn’t ever been in such great form, and filled his Quidditch leathers out attractively. He’d be a tough competitor to beat when the new season commenced in a few short weeks. Draco reckoned the Arrows would be in with a good shot of regaining the League title with Harry back to peak condition and getting picked for the first team.
Not that Draco planned to make it easy for them. The Wasps wouldn't give up that accolade without a very bloody battle. Draco planned to see to that.
“Let’s touch down,” Draco shouted over to Harry. “Those woods, over there. There’s a clearing.”
Harry nodded, and the two of them swooped downwards. They touched down, and Harry Finite’d the magic on their broomsticks and Engorged the tiny wrapped parcel that held their picnic. He unpacked their lunch and spread it across the blanket. The scene was quaint, and domestic, and a very long distance from snatched, secret nights and pretending they were enemies. Draco liked it. It was a life without artifice.
A small snuffling noise made Draco look down to the black mop of Potter curls. His daughter had been lulled to sleep by the flying. Merlin, but Lils looked so much like Harry. How had he ever thought that he’d be able to keep her parentage a secret? Their baby was wholly Potter, through and through. The overwhelming strength of his love for her had astonished him. Lily loved him, and trusted him completely. It was such a privilege to be called her father.
Harry popped the lids from the Butterbeers and passed Draco a cress sandwich. He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. There was something that he needed to talk to Harry about, and there wasn’t any better time than the present.
“I got an owl this morning,” Draco said, swallowing a mouthful of the sweet bubbly liquid and feeling it fizz in his throat, “while you were in the shower. From Leo Brentwood and Fortescue West. They want a reply before the end of the day.”
Harry placed his sandwich on the blanket. He frowned. Harry hadn’t quite forgiven Brentwood and West for their threats and homophobia after the Prophet had first outed him. “What did those two gits want? You’re doing great. St Mungo’s has cleared you to fly when the season begins. You even got them their League winner’s bonus! They shouldn’t be pressuring you about anything.”
Waking, Lily made a whimper. Draco stroked her cheek gently. “No, they shouldn’t,” he agreed, bringing up his face to meet his boyfriend’s eyes, “but they are. It was a job offer, Harry. Len wants to go part time. He’s getting on. His wife is getting better but the Scrofungulus gave them both a scare. They want me to share a job with him. Train up, basically, for after Richardson retires in a few years.” He sighed and glanced over to where his Firebolt was propped up against a tree. “It’s a good opportunity,” he said. “And I think I’m going to say yes.”
It took a minute for Harry to answer. That was fair. His news had, after all, been a bolt from the blue. “But you’re a bloody brilliant Seeker,” Harry said, very carefully, like he was afraid of making an argument between them, “the best I’ve ever come up against. I’m not denying it’s a good opportunity, but if you take this job, Olshansky will be the first choice. You know that. I thought Seeking was what you wanted, Draco? Getting back on your broomstick? Playing for England in the World Cup?"
It was, and yet, at the same time, Draco wasn’t sure. He remembered falling, remembered the weightlessness, and the sight of the earth rising up to meet him. Draco remembered Harry, lain on the floor, his arm bent at an unnatural angle, and his eyes closed.
He knew Quidditch was a dangerous game. When you played it, it was only a matter of time before you were injured. If that frightens you, Flint had told him, before his first game for Slytherin, then step away now. Draco hadn’t stepped away. Before Lily Narcissa, Draco hadn’t even considered it. But things changed. He’d brought Lily into the world, and he loved her. He couldn't let her down.
Draco glanced down, taking in her long eyelashes and her soft nub of a nose. He’d known since the day she was born that he hadn’t really got a choice.
“I’ve gotten back on my broomstick,” Draco said, gesturing to where it stood. “I belong in the air. Have done, ever since Father first took me flying. That’ll never change. But one of us shouldn’t play Quidditch. One of us needs to be on the ground when Saturday comes.” He smiled, surprisingly at peace with his decision. Change came, and one had to learn to accept it. Lily was worth that. “And that should be me. I’m a good coach. I’ll learn to endure watching Olshansky catch the Snitch. Besides,” Draco admitted, “it’s a bit of an ego boost, watching your team knock apart the opposition. Especially those sodding Arrows.”
Harry observed him with a calm smile on his face. “You’ve already decided.” It was a statement, not a question. He trusted Draco’s judgement. “You’re taking the job.”
Draco was, and Harry knew better than to try to talk him out of it. “I am,” he said mildly. “Your boyfriend is going to be the youngest coach in the Quidditch League, Harry James Potter.”
Harry grinned at that, taking a long swallow of his Butterbeer. “You’re going to be the best looking one too,” he said. He put the bottle down before wrapping his arms around Draco’s shoulder and pulling him into a passionate kiss, Lily in the space between them both. Reluctantly, Draco broke their kiss when their daughter made a noise. “I’m proud of you,” Harry added. “I love you.”
This time, Draco didn’t think twice. “Love you too,” he said, finding Harry’s gaze.
The look that Harry gave in return was wonderful. Warmth, optimism, and hope glanced over his features and finally settled into a smile of delight.
Harry packed up the remainder of their picnic in a comfortable silence. Harry hadn’t expected that today would be the one where he finally admitted his feelings, and neither had Draco. It felt right, though, and it was the truth.
Life surprised you. You thought you had everything worked out, and then it altered again.
“Race you home,” Harry challenged, as they mounted their brooms, and rose into the air. “Last one there’s a broken wand.”