Chapter Text
It was generally agreed (at least by everyone who had ever had to deal with small children) that there came a moment when even the most charming little creature had to be introduced to formal education, or at least somewhere with brightly colored carpets and adults who were paid to look cheerful.
“Draco, don’t you think Scory needs to start going to pre-schooling?” Blaise raised an eyebrow at the tiny creature draped across Draco’s back like a particularly affectionate hamster.
Draco, with the resignation of a man who knew resistance was futile, reached behind him, gathered the small hamster-like boy into his arms, and brought him forward. Scorpius giggled, then planted a gloriously wet smack of a kiss on Draco’s cheek, one of those heroic, saliva-forward efforts unique to toddlers and certain species of overly friendly dogs.
“Do you have any brilliant suggestions?” Draco asked, ruffling his son’s soft hair as if that might somehow summon wisdom.
Blaise (whose dark skin, sharp cheekbones, and general aura of “I know something you don’t” made him irritatingly persuasive pursed his lips, slid himself onto Draco’s desk with all the subtlety of a man who had never cared for boundaries) grinned.
“I heard Potter opened a childcare center. Why don’t you give it a try?”
Draco stared at him. It was the sort of stare that traditionally preceded phrases like Are you bloody kidding me? or Have you finally lost all sense? He didn’t speak, but his expression did all the heavy lifting.
Unbothered, Blaise leaned over and tickled Scorpius’s adorably pudgy little chin. The toddler squealed. Blaise arched an eyebrow at Draco as if to say, Well? Go on. I dare you.
“It’s just Potter,” Blaise said, in the tone of someone mentioning a hazardous magical substance that ought to come with warnings in three languages.
“For Merlin’s sake, of course I know!” Draco snapped, at which point Scorpius promptly slapped another wet, righteous handful of drool across his mouth and poked his sharp little finger against Draco’s chin as if cautioning him about his vocabulary.
Draco sighed, kissed his son’s cheek, and looked at Blaise with all the dignity a man wearing a toddler’s spit could muster.
“You know perfectly well Potter and I don’t get along.”
Blaise’s grin turned wicked. “You used to hate Muggles too.”
Draco glared at him as though personally offended by the accuracy.
“Well, who in their right mind would turn down money?”
“Oh, there are such people,” Blaise said, nodding sagely. “Like your father, Lucius Malfoy. I’m fairly certain that even if a Muggle chucked a sack of Galleons straight into his robes, he’d still pivot dramatically and stalk off in offense.”
“No,” Draco said, rolling his eyes heavenward. “You’ve got it wrong. He’d have a house-elf fetch the money back for him. Then he’d continue hating Muggles. It’s called multitasking.”
“Ha! Fair point,” Blaise said, breaking into laughter.
“What’s wrong with Grandpa?” little Scorpius asked, lifting a tiny hand with earnest seriousness and blinking those big eyes, the sort of weaponized cuteness that made Blaise lean in and chomp playfully on his chubby cheek.
“Oi! Gently!” Draco shot him a glare.
Scorpius giggled, entirely unbothered, sporting a small pink bite mark like a badge of honor.
“You’re going to spoil him into a miniature Dark Lord, you know.”
“He’s my son,” Draco said, wearing a smug, entirely unrepentant smile.
“Well, then,” Blaise huffed, “may Merlin have mercy on future Hogwarts.” He turned and pinched Scorpius’s cheek again. “Aren’t you supposed to be asleep, you tiny tyrant?”
“Not sleepy,” Scorpius declared while simultaneously letting out a yawn so adorable that Draco’s heart gave a little humiliating flutter.
Draco rose from his cushioned chair, scooped Scorpius up by his soft little backside, and began pacing the room in a slow, practiced rhythm, the ancient dance of wizards, Muggles, and exhausted parents throughout history.
“Absolute child-worshipper,” Blaise said with a snort.
Draco rolled his eyes without breaking stride.
Twenty minutes later, he laid his now-slumbering heir onto the small sofa, arranging him with the precision of someone setting a priceless artifact on display. He tucked a sky-blue plush dragon into Scorpius’s arms and piled a small mountain of soft pillows beneath him, creating a nest so cozy any self-respecting Niffler would have committed larceny to steal it.
“He really is adorable, isn’t he?” Blaise murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Scorpius’s forehead as if bestowing a blessing.
“He’s my son,” Draco said, wearing the kind of self-satisfied expression that suggested he personally took credit for inventing cuteness.
Blaise made an exaggerated gagging noise.
“I never knew you had a thing for this sort of sweetness. Back in school you were, how can I put this delicately, an insufferable jerk.”
A faint pink dusted Draco’s cheeks. He hissed under his breath, “Mind your bloody mouth.”
“Fine, fine,” Blaise said with a mock-angelic smile. “I won’t tell anyone that Draco Malfoy has always been secretly obsessed with cute things.”
Draco rolled his eyes so hard the motion could have powered a small generator.
They wandered back into the study, where responsibility lay waiting like a stack of unread parchment, because that was exactly what it was.
“Look, seriously,” Blaise said, picking up their previous thread of conversation. “Potter may be annoying as hell, but Scorpius would be absolutely safe with him. I’d bet that even if You-Know-No-Nose himself dropped off a kid, Potter would treat him the same as all the others.”
“Do not associate my son with Voldemort in any universe,” Draco snapped.
Blaise raised both hands in surrender. “Just think about it.”
When Blaise left, the study felt oddly large and too quiet. Draco stayed there, sitting amidst the scattered documents he wasn’t reading, thoughts circling like restless owls.
He pouted (just a bit) and stared up at the ceiling. Memory, that persistent nuisance, unrolled itself again.
Everyone had expected it, of course: Potter won, Voldemort went poof (dramatically) irrevocably, and rather messily. Potter shone even brighter as the Chosen One, while the Malfoys scrambled for redemption. Draco’s family managed to avoid prison through a mixture of political maneuvering, financial influence, and sheer stubborn refusal to be incarcerated by anyone they considered beneath them.
During that era, Draco had married Astoria, not out of romance, but because alliances were sometimes more potent than spells. It worked for a while… until people discovered the truth. They divorced. Draco kept their son; Astoria happily sailed off to France in pursuit of men who were, in her words, “far more appreciative of her finer qualities.”
Scorpius was all Draco kept. And the only thing he truly cared about.
Ding—ding—
The two-way mirror warmed in Draco’s hand, vibrating with that self-important hum magical objects tended to develop once wizards began over-upgrading them. In the past few years the wizarding world had discovered innovation, which was exciting in theory and deeply irritating in practice.
Draco flipped open the mirror, and the moment he saw that unmistakable curtain of snow-blond hair, he muttered something impolite under his breath.
“Father,” Draco said, clearing his throat in the manner of someone preparing for battle.
Lucius Malfoy stared back at him down the length of his patrician nose, a feat requiring both practice and a natural talent for superiority. He had aged in recent years; the wrinkles were deeper, the eyes sharper, and his general air of aristocratic disapproval had somehow intensified, as though he had doubled down on his personality out of spite.
Draco, who had spent the last several years slipping between the wizarding world and the Muggle one like a particularly elegant eel, no longer felt the old knee-jerk reverence toward his father. He’d outgrown that, possibly around the same time he learned Muggles were not, in fact, a disease.
“Where is Scorpius?” Lucius demanded, wasting no time on greetings or niceties. Lucius Malfoy had exactly one conversational setting these days: concerned about my grandson, unimpressed with everything else.
He never asked Draco how he was. Not that Draco expected him to. In the Malfoy family, emotional intimacy had been outlawed generations ago.
And yet, Draco found himself strangely grateful for the consistency.
“He’s taking his nap,” Draco said.
“Very well.”
“Is there… anything else you needed?” Draco asked.
Lucius paused, his expression bland in the way only deeply repressed emotions could be. “Scorpius is three now, isn’t he?”
“Mhm.” Draco answered a beat too slowly and Lucius, a master of conversational ambushes, seized the opening instantly.
“Send him to me,” Lucius said. “France has far better education.”
This was, of course, a lie.
If Lucius could have returned to Britain and if Malfoy Manor hadn’t been cheerfully occupied by the Ministry like a pack of bureaucratic termites he would never have suggested sending his grandson anywhere. But Lucius Malfoy had never admitted weakness. Not once. Not ever. Pride in the Malfoy line was hereditary and terminal.
Draco didn’t want to embarrass his father. But pride and appearances meant very little compared to reality and Scorpius’s future. So he didn’t even let his brain fully catch up before he replied,
“Father, Scorpius is going to study here. I’m planning to send him to Potter’s childcare center for now.”
“Potter?” Lucius repeated, his lip curling. “That Potter?”
“Yes.” Draco nodded, surprising even himself. But once it was out of his mouth, he committed to it like a man stepping onto a broom and hoping for the best.
“Harry Potter has returned and opened a childcare center. If Scorpius attends, no school in Britain will refuse him afterward.”
“But he’s a Potter!” Lucius exploded, suddenly furious, like everything wrong with his life could be traced back to Harry James Potter, which, to be fair, was at least partially correct.
“I know. He’s certainly not a Malfoy,” Draco said dryly.
Lucius cursed him, in elegant, pureblood phrasing, of course.
Draco couldn’t help it; he snorted a laugh and licked his lips, amused.
“All right, Father. That’s enough for now. Tell Mother I said hello. When Scorpius wakes, I’ll let him talk to you.”
With that, Draco snapped the mirror closed, tossed his long legs up onto his desk, pursed his lips for a thoughtful second—
—and then burst out laughing.
It seemed, for the first time all day, like an excellent decision.
```
Harry Potter had just returned from what could only be generously described as “a trip,” though calling it luxurious would’ve been a crime punishable by Hermione Granger’s eyebrow. And upon stepping back into the wizarding world, he had (much to everyone’s bewilderment) opened a childcare center.
“Well, fine, I can accept that you forgot to bring me a souvenir,” Hermione said, now very much Mrs. Weasley and every bit as formidable as the title implied. “But I simply do not understand why you’d open a childcare center.”
“I’ve written you dozens of letters about how exhausting raising a child is, and you walk right into it yourself.”
“Don’t say it like that, Hermione. If Hugo heard you, he’d be heartbroken.” Ron leaned over to kiss her cheek with the weary bravery of a man who had survived both Death Eaters and toddler tantrums.
Hermione froze, eyes darting around. “He didn’t hear that, did he?” When no small red-headed figure appeared, she exhaled and frowned at her own anxiety.
“I told you ages ago, I am not cut out to be a good mother.”
“Hermione, you’re the best. You practically acted like mine and Ron’s mother back at school,” Harry said with a grin.
Mentioning their school years was a strategic mistake.
Hermione’s expression darkened as she glared at her two best friends. “All because of you two. I’ve had more than enough practice.”
“All right, all right, our fault,” Ron said cheerfully, slinging an arm over Harry’s shoulder and making a face behind Hermione’s back. Hermione sniffed, unimpressed.
“Mummy, where does this one go?” Four-year-old Hugo toddled over, holding a plush toy roughly the size of his entire torso.
“Oh, my darling, you are so much better behaved than your father,” Hermione cooed, swooping in to kiss his cheek. Together, they placed the plush toy in a tidy corner, during which Hermione somehow managed to deliver an impromptu lecture about the history and structural purpose of stuffed animals.
Harry watched them with a smile. “See? She’s doing brilliantly.”
“You know Hermione. She’s demanded perfection from herself since day one,” Ron said, shrugging. “Mum always says Hugo’s the best-behaved child she’s seen straight from the womb. Well, second-best, if you count you.” He winked.
Harry punched him in the arm.
“But seriously, are you sure you can handle this on your own?” Ron asked, scratching at his red hair with the same worried energy he used whenever Hermione lectured him on wand safety.
“No problem,” Harry said brightly. “Besides, Neville’s here with me.”
“Well… all right then. If anything comes up, you know where to find us.”
“Sure thing,” Harry replied.
That afternoon, Harry accompanied Ron and Hermione back to the Burrow before heading out to pick up Teddy.
They’d spent nearly two weeks together now, long enough for Harry to realize that raising a child required the stamina of a Quidditch Keeper and the patience of a saint. Teddy, at five years old, was remarkably well-behaved. Like his mother, he was a Metamorphmagus, though he rarely used his abilities anymore. Harry suspected it wasn’t because Teddy lacked talent. It was because the boy didn’t want to stand out.
“Hey, Teddy! What do you want for dinner?” Harry asked, leaning against the doorway like a man trying to look relaxed while mentally tallying the contents of his fridge.
The boy with soft brown-blond hair turned and blinked at him. “Anything is fine, Harry.”
Teddy seemed to genuinely like calling him Harry (that affectionate, cozy tone) and Harry never corrected him. He’d never raised Teddy from babyhood, after all. He wasn’t entirely sure he deserved, or even wanted, the title of dad. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. Perhaps someday. Harry wasn’t great at these things.
“All right then.”
He rummaged through the fridge, actual Muggle appliance, humming faithfully and full of items wizards still thought were exotic. Thank Merlin, the wizarding world had finally decided Muggle objects weren’t inherently cursed. Even after more than a decade with a wand in hand, Harry still found himself unconsciously reaching for Muggle methods. There was something soothing about buttons and cold air.
And honestly, after everything he’d survived, a reliable refrigerator felt like the greatest modern magic of all.
“Carrots, potatoes, beef… and fresh sweet peas,” Harry narrated to absolutely no one, the packet of peas dangling from his mouth while his arms cradled everything else in a precarious tower. He wobbled toward the kitchen like a man reenacting a tragic comedy.
For a bachelor, this already counted as an impressively respectable dinner. But for a bachelor with a child in the house?
Harry suspected dessert was practically mandatory.
“Maybe a pudding?” he muttered around the crinkling package, reaching back into the cupboard to grab a box of pudding mix like a man declaring war on fate.
By seven o’clock, Teddy emerged from his bedroom, just in time to witness Harry Potter standing in the kitchen with an expression usually reserved for people who had accidentally summoned a boggart. In his hands he held what appeared to be… well… something that, in its earliest and more optimistic state, might once have aspired to be a pudding.
“Sorry,” Harry said weakly.
“It’s all right, Harry. Next time we can make it together,” Teddy said, smiling with the gentle patience of a tiny professor.
Then, with great seriousness, he tugged Harry by the hem of his shirt and guided him toward the washroom, because some disasters required immediate soap-based intervention.
Harry followed obediently, thinking (not for the first time) that for a five-year-old, Teddy Lupin had the soul of a saint and the exasperation tolerance of a seasoned Auror.
“Harry, your face is dirty.”
“…Thanks.”
Later that night, once Teddy had drifted off to sleep, Harry sat in his bedroom, hunched awkwardly over his computer, a Muggle device he operated with the same level of grace as someone trying to charm a teapot into doing taxes. He was sorting through the registration files of the children who’d soon be attending his childcare center.
Opening a childcare center had been an impulsive decision. But once he’d begun, Harry found he didn’t actually mind it. In fact, it came with an unexpected benefit: the Minister of Magic stopped sending him daily owls begging him to accept the Minister position himself. Frankly, Harry would rather change nappies.
Bang bang—
A sound tapped at his window. Startled, Harry grabbed his wand and opened it cautiously… only to find a very small, very offended-looking owl perched outside.
“Uhm… is that for me?” Harry asked.
The owl strutted to his desk, stared him down with the disdain of an aristocrat assessing inferior wallpaper, and waited.
Harry suddenly remembered what normal wizards did. “Oh. Sorry. No one really uses owls anymore, so I… don’t have any owl treats.”
The owl was deeply insulted by this revelation. It bit Harry (quite hard) right on the arm, then seized the small box of donuts Harry had set aside for a midnight snack and flew off triumphantly like a tiny feathered burglar.
Harry watched his pastry thief vanish into the night, helpless to do anything but sigh.
He picked up the gold-embossed envelope and paused when he saw the wax seal, an ornate crest stamped in familiar lines of arrogance and old money.
“Malfoy.” The word lingered in the air like a spell he hadn’t meant to cast.
Harry had spoken on Draco Malfoy’s behalf during the trials, but only because he’d told the truth, not because he’d done the Malfoys any particular favor. Which was precisely why he doubted very much that this was a belated thank-you letter.
So why in Merlin’s name was Malfoy sending him an owl?
Curiosity winning over caution, Harry broke the seal and unfolded the letter. A moment later, his eyes widened.
[“Dear Potter (I truly do not wish to begin this way, but etiquette demands it).
London’s weather remains as dreadful as ever (beginning with weather is not cliché, it's tradition, and kindly do not insult Malfoy linguistic artistry).
Yet the air seems far more breathable without you in it (this is sincere).
I have heard of your return to the Ministry, and allow me to say how very welcome it is (this is false; I swear upon my own arse).”]
Harry paused.
There were many things he’d expected to encounter in life (dragons, soul-splitting murderers, homework) but “Malfoy’s arse” in a formal letter was not one of them.
Also, since when were they on arse-joking terms? He shook his head and kept reading.
[“I understand you intend to open a childcare center, and I am honored to inform you that, given your fame and saintly tendencies, I plan to temporarily entrust my darling son to your care (you may thank me now).
Signed, Draco Malfoy.”]
“Malfoy’s lost his mind,” Harry muttered, rolling his eyes so hard they nearly dislodged. If he’d had an owl (or Draco’s email) he would have rejected him immediately, loudly, and perhaps with strong language.
Meanwhile, at Malfoy Manor- But-Not-Actually-Manor-Because-the-Ministry-Seized-It…
Draco plucked a familiar box of strawberry donuts from his owl’s beak and arched a finely practiced eyebrow.
“From Potter?”
“Hoo.” The owl narrowed its eyes in what could only be described as a smug little smile.
“Well then,” Draco said, smirking, “it seems he’s finally learned something about proper manners.”
And with that, the Malfoy heir shared Potter’s stolen strawberry donuts with his owl, utterly convinced he had done the more civilized thing.