Work Text:
Dry Your Eyes, My Love
He finds Draco sitting in Scorpius’ room, Chopin’s Prelude in E Minor wafting softly from the Wizard Wireless. Harry leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching Draco as he sits on Scorpius’ bed, his back propped up against the headboard, his white-blond hair spilling over his forehead. He sits very still, staring into space, his fingers twisting his wedding band again and again. If Harry didn’t know any better, he’d think Draco was ignoring him, but because he knows his husband so well, he knows that Draco hasn’t even realised that Harry is there. This is just what Draco does.
Every year for the last thirteen years, on Scorpius’ birthday, Draco sits in the dark and cries for a few hours. Harry knows from experience that there’s nothing he can do to help. He’s tried. He’s even cried with him once or twice, but Draco is largely unwilling to put his hurt away; to forget the way Harry has. Harry’s glad that at least this year, Scorpius is away visiting Rose for the summer and he doesn’t have to witness his father’s fall into depression.
When their son was very young he would hang around Draco, asking his father what was wrong, but Draco would never answer. As he got older, Scorpius began to avoid his father on his birthday. It hurts Harry’s heart too much to watch the pain in both of their eyes, so this year, he finally said yes and let Scorpius spend his birthday away from them both.
Hermione didn’t mind, she just gave Harry a sympathetic look when he described Draco’s mood. She, like Harry wishes Draco could just move on, but they both know it’s unlikely. Harry recognised the signs at breakfast; Draco picked at his eggs and didn’t hear much of what Harry was saying. Harry alone saw to sending off the owl with their son’s birthday gifts to Hermione and Ron’s place, along with a generous helping of Scorpius’ favourite sweets. Draco had only signed the card, his eyes lingering on Harry’s little note signed, ‘From your loving fathers.’
Chopin is on repeat. As it always is on this day. Harry wishes, that just one year it could be different, but it never is.
This is the day Harry almost died giving birth to their son, and Draco will never forgive himself for it.
They’d been fucking each other on and off for years before Harry got pregnant. Draco hadn’t wanted to settle down and Harry was just beginning to enjoy his role as England’s premier Seeker. He was, at the time, content to take whatever Draco would give him. Even if he did long for Draco to come to a match sometimes, or stay the night, he wasn’t about to ask for things that Draco told him from the beginning he wasn’t ready to give.
There were times, late at night, when Harry would watch Draco sleeping and trace the shape of his lips with his fingers, times when Harry was sure he could feel himself falling in love with the way Draco holds him when they kissed, or the way Draco likes to trace the shape of his lower lip with his thumb. He was content to have just that.
Harry had taken to cherishing those moments just before dawn, when Draco’s face was still slackened with sleep, blurring the frown lines on his forehead. In the mornings Draco wasn’t all snark with a curled lip, he was only soft breaths and long lashes and warm, supple skin.
One such morning, Harry lay on his side, propped up with one arm, stroking his fingers slowly through Draco’s hair. Draco’s eyes flew open, and he turned to face him. Harry froze. Draco licked his lips slowly, saying nothing, and Harry snatched his hand away, blush on his cheeks, mouth working to form an apology.
When Harry opened his mouth, Draco pressed his finger against his lips and said his name, his real name, under his breath. He pulled Harry close and kissed him softly on the lips. Harry’s hand gripped Draco’s hair and they rolled, Draco pinning him under his weight. Draco hovered over him, his hair brushing Harry’s forehead, eyes wide, breath puffing softly through his lips.
They made love for the first time that morning. Draco looked into Harry’s eyes as when he came inside of him, instead of shutting them closed as was his usual way. Harry arched his back, digging his nails into Draco’s spine, blowing hot puffs of air that fanned against Draco’s cheek. They didn’t leave the bed save for bathroom breaks and a shower where Draco took him from behind, Harry’s palms pressed against the warm, slick bathroom tiles.
When Harry got sick, he mostly ignored it. He and Draco were doing something new and scary and Harry hadn’t the time to think about the way he couldn’t hold much down in the mornings, or the way he couldn’t stand the scent of Draco’s cereal anymore. Draco spent more time at his flat. He showed up at a Falcon’s match and held Harry’s hand when they lost, and with that, Harry was happy. But as he got worse and worse, the team’s Healer had insisted on a full work-up and he learned he wasn’t sick at all. He was only pregnant.
It took him a long while to accept it. After all, as far as he knew, men couldn't get pregnant. But his Healer assured him that while very rare, and unaccountably dangerous, it was possible, and he was, in fact, carrying a child.
He didn’t tell Draco for weeks, and even though Hermione kept telling him he was being selfish, he kept holding off as long as he could. It never occurred to him to terminate. He just wanted to keep Draco to himself for a little longer. He wanted to pretend their weekend morning lie-ins could go on indefinitely.
When Harry finally told him, he was three months pregnant and Draco didn’t move an inch. Harry kept talking; he let Draco know he planned to keep the baby; he said he thought maybe they could work things out. For the first time, with a deep breath and an unsteady voice, he told Draco he loved him. That he didn’t want to lose him. Draco took it all in without a word. And then, when Harry closed his mouth and waited for Draco to speak, Draco turned on his heel and left.
Harry gave him time. He knew Draco was scared. But as the weeks passed, Harry was forced to realise that Draco didn’t just leave. He vanished. No one, not even Narcissa knew where he was.
Harry fell apart. He couldn’t eat. He didn’t move. He refused to leave the house. He took an extended sick leave from the team. When the newspapers caught wind of his condition, they spent hours camped outside his flat, asking who the other father was. But Harry couldn’t speak. His health deteriorated. Hermione put her foot down when he collapsed at home and had to send a Patronus for her help. He started to eat, for the baby, but otherwise he felt nothing. Did nothing.
It was Hermione who suggested adoption. Harry vetoed to the idea immediately. He didn’t want anyone else to have his baby. Their baby.
Narcissa showed up at Harry’s flat and offered her help. She didn’t know where her son was, but she swore to him that she would never abandon her grandchild. Harry immediately sought comfort in her, and she was a constant presence at his side, helping when Hermione was busy with work, or dealing with her own pregnancy.
The baby started taking more of a toll on him than was healthy for them both, and he spent the final trimester of his pregnancy bedridden and pale. Every day he he wanted to ask Narcissa tell Draco he was sorry. Sorry about the whole mess, sorry that he ruined everything. Sorry he pursued Draco; sorry he got pregnant; sorry he decided to keep the baby without asking.
When he woke with a sharp pain in his spine, he knew that it was time. But it wasn’t. It was too early.
He doesn’t remember much of Scorpius’ birth. Only flashes of colour. Healers bombarding his room; a strong steady hand in his. Ron’s voice. Ron’s hand on his forehead. Narcissa’s blonde hair touching his face. Her voice. ‘Hold on, Harry,’ she kept saying.
Ron was murmuring something, something about blood, but Harry couldn’t summon any interest. He pulled Narcissa close to him and finally found the courage to say what it is he wanted to say.
‘Tell him, I’m sorry,’ he said.
Ron gripped his hand. ‘Don’t you dare, Harry,’ he said. ‘Don’t you dare.’
But Harry slipped away.
When he rose again there was only the scent of blood.
Hermione was beside him, holding something small and squalling and beautiful.
Scorpius he thought, and then he slipped away again.
When he rose again from the darkness, the early morning light was streaming through the windows and Ron’s head lay next to his palm. With supreme effort he raised his hand as stroked his bright red hair. Ron startled awake and gripped his hand hard. His eyes were red and puffy.
‘You’re awake!’ he said, a broad smile splitting his face.
‘I want―’ Harry was too tired to finish, but Ron, being Ron, knew exactly what he needed and he rose quickly, and then returned with Scorpius in his arms.
His head was full of white blond hair, he face red and scrunched, his eyes grey. He was the imprint of his father, and Harry’s heart broke just a little more. How was he supposed to get through each day knowing that Draco left them both? How could he look at his son and not think about Draco? Would he ever be allowed to forget? He’d be stuck in an endless cycle of regret. Then and only then, did Harry consider giving his son away.
‘Scorpius,’ he said, softly.
Ron’s lifted his brows. ‘A Black name,’ he said, frown on his forehead. ‘Harry maybe—’
‘Ron. That’s his name.’
Ron sighed and nodded.
‘Promise me you’ll look after him,’ Harry said.
‘I won’t need to,’ Ron said, voice cracking.
‘Promise me.’
And when Ron nodded firmly, Harry slipped back into the darkness.
The pregnancy was too much for his body, and when they took Scorpius from inside of him, the stress caused an internal bleed that would not stop. Try as Harry might he couldn’t summon the strength to fight. He wanted to be there for his son, but not without Draco. And Draco didn’t want either of them.
On the fourth day of Scorpius life, Harry felt himself begin to slip deeper than he ever had before. Ron never left his side. Narcissa held Scorpius when he cried, and Harry longed for the strength to hold his son again. One last time. When Ron rose quickly to his feet, Harry’s eyes flew open at the loss of his best friend’s solid grip. But then he saw what Ron was looking at and his breath hitched. A surge of energy fluttered in his chest.
Draco stood in the doorway, dressed in a rumpled suit and tie, his hair dishevelled.
They locked eyes.
‘Harry,’ he said.
Harry didn’t have the words to speak, but when Ron moved forward swiftly and decked Malfoy hard in the face he found the strength to move. He sat up, feeling his skin pull painfully against the stitches in his belly.
‘Ron, no,’ he said weakly.
Ron looked back at him, rubbing his hand. He moved close to Harry’s side and kissed him on the forehead.
‘Five minutes, Malfoy,’ he said as he straightened up. ‘That’s all you have with him.’
Draco looked at Ron, wincing and massaging his jaw. He nodded slowly and when Ron left the room, he sat beside Harry, his eyes bright with tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Harry didn’t respond. Draco hesitantly rested his palm on Harry’s stomach.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said again, and then he buried his face into Harry’s neck and cried deep, gasping sobs that tugged on Harry’s heart.
He lifted his head and cupped Harry’s cheek. ‘I saw him,’ he said. ‘Downstairs-- my mother. He’s beautiful, Harry.’
‘He looks just like you.’
Draco nodded. ‘I couldn’t believe it.’
Harry feels a dead weight in his chest shudder and fall away.
‘How could you leave us like that?’ he asked, his eyes burning. ‘Why would you do that?’
Draco wiped a tear from Harry’s cheek and closed his eyes briefly.
‘I was scared. And I was stupid. I’m sorry.’
‘What about now?’ Harry says. ‘Will you be there for your son now?’
‘I’ll be there for you both. I’m not leaving either of you again.’
‘Draco, the Healers say I’m dying.’
‘The fuck you are.’
‘Draco—’
‘Harry, you’re not going anywhere, all right?’
Something tugged at Harry’s spine and he groaned. Draco shifted looking down at the Harry’s torso with a look of terror. The sharp metallic scent of blood was the last thing Harry smelt before he drifted off again.
:::
Draco was at a piano recital in Prague that night. He’d been there for months, living as a Muggle and growing a beard. Every time Harry sees the pictures now, he laughs in disbelief. Draco refuses to let his beard grow like that again, even for Harry’s amusement.
He’d been in Prague, he said, and every morning he cried. For Harry. For himself. But courage, he said, was what he lacked. Until that night, and the Chopin, and the young girl at the piano.
She was blonde, the way he imagined his little girl might look. She was playing her first recital. When he looked in the audience in the front row, there was a man, also blond. Her father. He was leaning forward in his seat, echoing her notes with his fingers in his lap, giving her his strength, willing her to finish, loving her like any father should.
In every one of mother’s letters to him she told him to come home, that she knew. She knew what he was afraid of. That he was not Lucius. That he would never be. That he loved Harry and Harry missed him and it was time to come home. When he got back to the small flat he’d rented and the owl found him, he opened the letter with shaking fingers. When mother’s words told him that Harry was about to die, he dropped to the floor on his knees and Disapparated.
:::
Harry shifts in the doorway and Draco looks up. His eyes soften immediately and he holds out his arms. Harry sits next to him on the bed and Draco holds onto him tightly.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says.
‘Draco.’
Draco pulls away, eyes bright, his cheeks tear stained. ‘I know. After all these years, and I still can’t listen to Chopin without carrying on like a tit.’
‘You’re not a tit.’
‘I’m an idiot, though.’
‘You were. You made a mistake,’ Harry says. ‘But, you took care of me. You raised Scorpius on your own for so long, when I was sick. You were perfect, Draco.’
Draco presses his forehead against Harry’s, his body shaking as fresh tears begin to fall. ‘I always think about it on his birthday,’ he says. ‘About how I could have lost you. Lost everything.’
‘I know,’ Harry says, stroking Draco’s back and reaching up to thread his fingers into his hair. ‘I know, love. But you didn’t. I’m still here.’
Draco grips him hard, as if to reassure himself of that fact.
‘You are,’ he says, sighing. ‘You are.’