Fic: The Silent World Within You (HP, Harry/Draco, NC-17) 4/4

[femme]

Title: The Silent World Within You 4/4
Authors: femmequixotic and noeon
Summary: Harry only wanted Malfoy for one night, one birthday. It wasn’t meant to be anything more.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Mpreg
Word Count: ~96,000
Written for: The 2011 harrydracompreg fest for nursedarry's prompt of a one-off (or very rare and on/off, in-denial-about-it-relationship at school (AU 7th or EWE 8th year) results in one (or both!) of them pregnant. How do they each find out? How do the teachers find out? Their friends, the other students? I would like this all about how they come to terms with the situation and less about their changing body(ies) and how they'll cope in the future.
Author's Notes: We owe a huge debt of gratitude to absynthedrinker and wemyss for being fantastic betas, willing to tackle this monster, not to mention how thankful we are to the mods for their forbearance and patience as we broke deadline after deadline, realising that we weren’t done yet. Also, halfway through writing this fic, we discovered another Harry/Draco that also began with Draco serving a probation with Hagrid post-war. All similarities are completely unintentional, but we loved oldenuf2nb's fic so much that we’d like to make sure everyone goes and reads it too: you can find Rising from The Ashes on The Hex Files or on Livejournal.

To Part Three

4. Spring

Harry leans over to check his Potions notes again and curses. His belly’s so big now that he has to turn sideways to reach the table, and it’s beginning to hurt his back. He has to get this material read; his last practical with Slughorn was a complete disaster and it’s only two weeks to Easter hols. He glances at the small grey and white jasperware clock with cupids Narcissa had sent them for Valentine’s Day. Draco’d been very quiet when Harry opened the wrapping to reveal it, then said it’d been his mother’s favourite since he could remember and he can’t believe she sent it. Harry views it as a good luck token, but right now, he’s ready to throw it across the room in frustration. He only has forty-five minutes before he’s supposed meet Hermione and Ron and review the material he’s just now reading. His brain is sluggish and refusing to take in the specifics and he has to keep going back to understand what he’s just looked at. It’s altogether infuriating.

And, of course, the baby seems to have woken up again and is now dancing on his bladder.

He gets up and shuffles into the hall, his bottle-green dressing gown open over his t-shirt and school trousers. He’s surprised he hasn’t worn a path in the stone with how often he treads this path daily to the loo. After a quick slash, he refastens his trousers and heads back for the room. He’s brought up short as he sees Minerva McGonagall standing in front of the door, her mouth set in an utter rictus of Scottish disapproval, fury radiating from every detail of her posture.

“Harry, I’d like a word with you. And Mr Malfoy when he arrives. I’ve sent for him.”

Harry blinks. “I have to meet Ron and Hermione for Potions revising, but--”

“I can assure you this is more important.” She stares back at him. Her eyes flick down at his attire. “Put on your school robes. I’ll wait outside until you tell me to come in.”

Harry throws his robes on, terrified at what has happened now and utterly at a loss as to why the Headmistress should be beyond furious at him or anyone else. He hasn’t broken a rule in weeks, if not months. Surely shagging the man the Headmistress made you live with isn’t against the rules. Living with him was her idea in the first place.

He fingers the Resurrection Stone and tucks it under his shirt. The baby kicks him fiercely and he bends over, gasping. Breathing heavily, he opens the door. “Please come in.”

McGonagall sweeps into the room and wrinkles her nose at the stacks of books and papers spread out on the table Draco’d enlarged with a charm so Harry could study. It takes up nearly half the room now.

“Would you like tea, Headmistress?” Harry asks, walking slowly to the corner.

“Yes, thank you.” Her voice is brittle and resonant with fury.

Harry takes his time, considering how to best defend himself from a completely unknown charge. He sends a teacup over to Minerva with a flick of his wand and then picks up the pot, pouring her tea. Draco’s changed the cosy again, he notices. This one’s black with snitches knit around the edges. He pours a cup for himself and sits down. The Headmistress doesn’t take a seat, but instead prowls the room, looking out onto the lawns and then back to the door, waiting.

Harry sits on the sofa, leaning back on a cushion to take the weight off of his back. When Draco opens the door and Harry sees his familiar white blond head and broad shoulders, he breathes a sigh of relief.

Draco’s brow is furrowed with concern, which lightens the moment he sees Harry sitting comfortably, or what passes for comfortably these days. “Oh thank goodness. You’re all right.” He sits down next to Harry and takes his hand, stroking it with his thumb. Harry’s nerves settle further.

“I’m sorry to have worried you, Mr Malfoy.” McGonagall doesn’t sound sorry at all, Harry thinks. “I assumed I made clear that it was urgent but that it didn’t involve the baby.”

Draco nods slowly, clearly sizing up McGonagall’s mood. “Yes, Headmistress. But I wasn’t sure it wasn’t Harry.”

“I see.” She takes a sip from her cup and sets it down on a side table, then walks over and unfurls a tabloid. She holds it in front of them and Harry notes that it’s the Quibbler. “Would you please explain the meaning of this?”

Draco takes the issue from her hand, holding it so he and Harry can look together. On the front page, an enormous headline in bold black type reads Malfoy and Potter Spring Fever. Draco frowns and pages to the middle, where half a page is taken up by a large photo of Harry leaning against Draco.

“Oh my God...” Draco says, blanching.

“What--” Harry looks horrified. He grabs the Quibbler from Draco’s hand. He watches as the Harry in the photo takes a bite of the strawberry Draco’s teasing him with, and then he turns his head and kisses him, ending with red juice on both of their chins.

Harry’s pregnancy is very clear in the photo, and the accompanying text talks about the aphrodisiac qualities of strawberries and the comparatively rare condition of male pregnancy.

“Fuck.” Harry says. McGonagall glares at him. “Sorry, Headmistress.”

She clutches at her scrawny bosom. “What I do not understand is how you could bring such ignominy and disrepute upon this school by appearing flagrantly in a publication. And after we’ve gone to such great lengths to protect you and to protect Hogwarts.”

Draco inhales sharply. “Do you really think we would advertise this, Professor McGonagall? We’ve more to lose than the reputation of the school.” He looks at Harry. “At least I do.”

They stare at each other, gazes locked.

The Floo flares green. It’s some sort of Firecall, but the wards are not allowing it through. McGonagall takes one look and unlocks the wards. “What is it, Miss Lovegood?”

“May I come through?” Luna’s head is wavery in the green flames. Harry thinks she’s crying but he’s not sure.

A moment later, she steps through, her face red with tears. “I’m so sorry, Harry. Draco. My father found the photo among the ones for my Scottish worricow piece and thought it was human interest. I took all the rest out for the baby album, but I missed the one. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but he doesn’t really understand how most people think. He just thought it was interesting.”

McGonall’s mouth tightens. “Oh, for the love of--” She breaks off, pressing a hand to her temple. “You absolutely foolish girl. This has done a great deal of damage, you realise.”

“I know.” Luna looks like she’s about to burst into crying again. She dabs at her nose with a purple floral handkerchief. “I don’t know how I can help but I’m willing to do anything.”

“Can you pull the issue?” Draco asks, eyebrows raised thoughtfully.

Luna shakes her head. She sniffles again. “It sold out immediately, and Father had more printed. I did talk him out of a third run, but I’m afraid not much can be done to stop the rest of the circulation now. The Prophet’s already firecalling Father. Barnabas Cuffe’s furious we scooped him.”

McGonagall sighs heavily. “The school is already being barraged with owls and I have to answer to the Board of Governors tonight,” she says. “You’ll come with me, Miss Lovegood, to explain the situation.”

Luna’s face is pale and nervous, but nods. “I’ll bring my father if you like.”

“Heavens, no.” McGonagall’s eyes widen. “I can’t imagine what he’ll say, and the Governors are very tetchy at the moment. The last thing I want is Xeno riling them up further. I promised them there’d be no publicity of this sort.” She looks miserable. “We worked so hard...”

“Very well, Headmistress.” Luna twists the fabric of her flowered skirt in her fingers. “Tell me where to be and when. Harry, Draco, I’m so very sorry.”

Harry nods and bites his lip. He loves Luna but at the moment, he wants to throttle her. From the look on Draco’s face, he can see he’s not the only one.

“It was an honest mistake,” he says finally, his voice dull. “And I suppose the news would have come out eventually.”

None of them say anything. Harry looks back down at the photograph of him and Draco. He’s struck by how peaceful they look. He traces a finger across the newsprint, following the angle of Draco’s jaw.

They ought to have known they couldn’t stay in this bubble. He looks up at Draco, their eyes meeting.

“It was too good to last,” Draco murmurs.

Harry can’t help but agree.

***

Despite McGonagall’s best efforts, and overnight work on the other staff members’ parts, some Howlers do succeed in getting through the next morning. Draco is sitting at his usual place, tired and irritable. He didn’t sleep much last night, and Harry’d been too uncomfortable for much more than a hand job and an awkward cuddle. They’d been miserable and short with each other this morning, both barely able to speak.

The owls swoop down on him with red envelopes, their contents opening as they drop to the table before Draco’s plate of hash and eggs. As the hateful, vile words shower over him and the smoke and ashes explode, something inside him grows cold, colder even than the March rain lashing the windows. Opal aims her wand and incinerates the next bunch as it arrives, shouting to Hagrid to have the Owlery closed.

The first-years are exchanging horrified whispers. As Draco stalks from the room, he hears Perdita bitterly protesting the audacity of anyone who would say negative things about Draco, Harry, and their precious baby.

Harry comes after him; Draco’s almost at the door when he shouts, “Draco, wait.” Draco pauses for a moment, then turns the handle and stalks out into the rain. He’ll be damned if he can talk to anyone right now. Not even Harry.

He doesn’t look back. He can’t.

Late that afternoon, cold, wet, and still furious, Draco returns to their rooms to wash up before dinner. Harry is sitting in an armchair, reading an Advanced Charms book that’s hovering in the air. Three goggle-eyed hobgoblin heads bubble up from his wand and explode with wet, sucking noises in the air. He’s already turned the fire violet and Draco knows this is a bad sign, or at least the small part of him that still cares about the outside world knows this.

“Hullo,” Harry says in an awkwardly indifferent voice.

Draco nods. “Hi.”

“Are you better now?” Harry’s green eyes are large behind his glasses. He’s been combing his hand through his hair so much, it’s standing almost straight up.

“Your hair looks ridiculous,” Draco says. He hangs his soaking jacket on the hook. He supposes he should have bothered with an Impervius, but he just hadn’t given a damn.

“So that’s a no.”

“Maybe,” Draco says, grabbing a towel to get dry his sodden hair a little. His boots are dripping muck onto the carpet. He could care less.

Harry sets down the book he’s not reading. “Are you going to be a drama queen about this all night?”

Draco’s chest clenches. “A what?”

Harry’s chin juts out. “You’re acting like this only affects you, Draco. And you’re being a beast.”

“I’m being dramatic about this.” Draco says in a flat tone. “Me. I think not, Harry.” He throws the towel to the corner of the room, not caring where it lands.

“You walked away from me.” Harry raises his voice.

“I just needed some time. It’s all so horrifyingly public now.” Draco catches a glimpse of the ring hanging from the chain around Harry’s throat, and he tenses. He wishes he could forget everything Severus had told him about it.

Harry struggles out of the chair. “I knew it. I knew you were ashamed of the baby. And of me.”

Draco glares at him. “It’s all very well for you to be odd. You are the fucking Saviour of all Wizarding Arses everywhere. You could wear your pants on your head and everyone else would start doing it. Some of us have to care about our reputations, Harry.”

“And you think I don’t care?” Harry is shouting now. “Merlin, Draco. You’re such a shallow git.”

“I may be shallow but at least I don’t lie and ruin other people’s lives with my lies.”

This stops Harry cold. “What do you mean?”

Draco walks over and jerks the chain out from beneath Harry’s shirt. The ring dangles between them, glinting in the lamplight. “Severus told me about the Resurrection Stone. That it’s not just a family heirloom.” He drops the chain and the ring thuds lightly against Harry’s chest. A wave of recklessness crests through Draco. “No wonder the baby likes it, Harry. It was fucking conceived with it.”

Harry’s hands grip his swollen belly. His breath is shallow, but he doesn’t look away from Draco. “What exactly are you saying, Malfoy?” he asks coldly.

It’s almost as if the words come from outside of Draco. “You did this on purpose.”

Harry is ashen with fury. “I--you think I fucking chose this?”

Draco’s detached inside, in that way he’d been the entirety of last year. It’s better this way, he thinks, and he’s almost relieved at the comforting familiarity of not-feeling. He’s cold, even, and it’s spreading from his heart throughout his body. Everything suddenly seems so clear. How could he have been such a fool? “Yes,” he says harshly, and the stunned look on Harry’s face pushes him on. Rage wells up inside of him; he can still hear the screams of the Howlers echoing in his ears. “Yes I do. I think you knew what would happen and you chose it. You did all of this on purpose to embarrass me and get revenge on my family.”

“Get. Out.” The papers on Harry’s desk start to flutter, a few of them rising off the worn wood. Harry’s eyes are a deep, dark green that almost frightens Draco. “Just get out.” The fire flares in the hearth, singeing the chimneypiece and casting black soot smears across the carpet.

“Fine, Potter. I will.” Draco knows the switch in names will hurt Harry. He wants to. He pauses at the door. “I should have stopped this insanity long ago.”

He barely makes it into the corridor before, with a flick of his wand, Harry slams the door in response.

Draco slumps against the wall, shaking, as his anger slowly drains. He stares at the door beside him. He reaches towards the thick wood, only to jerk his hand back when sharp sparks sting it.

Bastard.

He refuses to look back as he storms off down the hall.

***

Harry rubs his eyes. The fire in the Gryffindor common room is burning low and the lower years have gone to bed. He, Hermione, and Ron have been working all night. It’s so late even Hermione has nodded off. Harry suspects she hasn’t slept for two days, although the notes she brought them tonight were absolutely brilliant, so he doesn’t really care how she did it.

“Are you and Malfoy still fighting?” Ron asks. He looks away from Harry and over at Hermione. His face softens and he leans over to gently pull the brown and orange afghan over her sleeping form.

Harry looks up from the parchment he’s copying. “Yeah. We haven’t spoken in a week.” His heart clenches. He’s barely seen Draco. The only indication he’s even there any longer is the small bag next to his favourite chair filled with balls of blue and white yarn and an increasingly bigger baby blanket. He’s still furious with him, of course, but he’s beginning to have regrets about losing his temper.

They’ve gone back to separate bedrooms. Draco leaves before Harry’s awake and goes to bed before Harry comes back in from revising. On the nights Harry comes back at all, that is. He’s been sleeping mostly here in his old room.

“Have you, um, done anything else?” Ron shifts, looking a little embarrassed.

“No, Ron. We haven’t fucked either,” Harry snaps. Ron flinches at the sharpness of his tone and Hermione mumbles in her sleep, putting a hand over her eyes.

“Keep it down, Harry. I’ve been trying to get her to sleep for hours.” Ron frowns and looks from his girlfriend to his best friend. “Have you tried to mend things with him? At all?”

“I don’t know what’s to mend,” Harry says mulishly. He misses Draco, but he doesn’t want to be the one to give in. And he doesn’t know how they can go back on what’s been said. “He started it and he’s the one who decided to go back to his own damn room.”

“Oh come on, Harry, Malfoy’s mad about you.” At Harry’s words of protest, Ron holds up a hand. “Honestly. He hasn’t been able to keep his hands off of you and the baby for weeks. Even in public. Every time you’re in the room, his eyes follow you. He must be really upset by this to fight with you.”

“And I’m not upset as well?” Harry slams his book shut ,and Hermione’s soft snores cease for a moment before starting up again. “He didn’t have to make it worse by yelling at me and acting as though his reputation is the only thing at stake here.” Or blaming me, Harry thinks privately, even though he’s wondered himself whether Draco’s right.

Ron sighs. “Harry, you’re really thick sometimes. Malfoy’s reputation is in tatters. His dad’s in Azkaban, his mum’s being shunned by everyone they know, their Gringotts accounts have been mostly put under investigation, and he’s been sentenced to manual labour for two years. He’s just trying to protect whatever he can, but his life has really been destroyed. Except for the part with you and the sprog and all, but now that’s being dragged through the mud by people who don’t know a damn thing about either of you. So perhaps he’s a little sensitive.”

“Well at least he’s not pregnant,” Harry says petulantly. He shifts and hopes he can hold off pissing for another ten minutes. He doesn’t want to get up now even though he wants the conversation to end. “And preparing for NEWTs.”

“Yeah, well, the Howlers aren’t coming for you, are they?” Ron shakes his head. “You know, I’m not one to defend the Ferret, but I think you should at least try to understand his position. I know you’re angry, but you’re about to have a baby and fighting with its father’s not going to help.”

Harry knows Ron’s right. He even feels a bit guilty about what he’s saying. It’s true. Draco is lashing out because he’s angry and afraid. He also feels guilty that he blocks the Malfoy family’s situation out of his mind most of the time in order to focus on the present. He doesn’t want to connect himself to Lucius or even to what they all did during those years. For Christ’s sake, Lucius tried to kill him--not to mention Ginny--and Draco spent all of sixth year working up the nerve to murder Dumbledore. Even Narcissa only saved his life because it was convenient for her. And this was the family his baby would be a part of? Sometimes Harry doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this situation. Sure, everyone has issues with their in-laws, but really, Harry thinks this is beyond the pale.

And he’s not telling Ron about the Resurrection Stone, no matter what. The last thing he needs is for Hermione to tell him what a complete idiot he’s been. It’s not as if Harry doesn’t know that.

He sighs. “Look, there’s not much I can do about it. You know Draco. He has to wear himself out.”

Ron sighs. “Suit yourself. I need to get Hermione to go to bed.”

Harry nods. “Yeah. I need to sleep too.”

“C’mon then,” Ron gives Harry an arm to help him get up. “Let’s go upstairs. I’ve got your bed ready.”

As he climbs the stairs back up to his old dormitory, Harry wonders if Draco’s thinking about him. His hand rests on his enormous stomach.

The baby kicks him.

Harry thinks maybe he’s earned it.

***

Draco watches Harry at breakfast. The idiot barely eats, dragging his fork across his plate listlessly. Not even the Weasel or Granger seem to be able to talk him into more than a forkful or two of eggs, and Harry doesn’t bother to look up when the Weaselette leans across the table.

“Yeh two still fightin’?” Hagrid asks, wiping his hands on his napkin and dropping it next to his plate.

Draco shrugs. “I suppose.”

Hagrid gives him a long look. “Yer worse than two Blast-Ended Skrewts set tail to tail,” he says with a sigh. “Just with a baby between yeh.”

“It’s not here yet,” Draco says. He looks down at his own plate. He’s managed to choke down half of it. Another Howler had slipped through the wards this morning, this one informing him that he was going to burn in Hell with the Dark Lord. Hagrid had just stabbed it with his fork, cutting it off with a calm Never did care much for that sort of religion. The scarlet remnants of the parchment are shredded across the tabletop.

“Soon enough tho’.” Hagrid pushes his chair back and stands. “Might want to be thinkin’ about that.”

Draco stays at the table. He can’t stop looking at Harry, even though he knows the first-years are watching him. An elf sets a bun in front of him, warm and melting with thick white icing. Just the kind Harry loves. Draco turns; Winky is clearing Hagrid’s plate.

“This,” he starts, but Winky cuts him off.

“Is being for Mr Harry Potter, sir.” Large black eyes fix on him. Even Winky’s mouth is set in disapproval. She looks towards Gryffindor table expectantly, her meaning clear.

Draco sighs and picks up the bun. “He won’t eat it if I give it to him,” he says.

“Mr Draco Malfoy ought to be seeing.” Winky frowns, and Draco finds himself stepping down from the staff table, curious eyes on him as he walks towards the Gryffindors. Things must be dire indeed if he’s getting relationship help from a house-elf.

“Draco,” Perdita whispers urgently as he passes her, but he doesn’t look over. The first years have been glaring at him all week, their ranks closing around Harry and the baby every time Draco passes. Only Perdita and Agnes have been even the least bit sympathetic, and Draco realises how absolutely pathetic it is that he even cares what they think of him, for Circe’s sake. House-elves. First years. His life is out of control.

The Weasel sits back as Draco approaches. Draco doesn’t think he looks entirely unfriendly, but it’s hard to tell with all that awful red hair distracting him. Granger, on the other hand, is shooting daggers his way.

“Hey,” Draco says softly.

Harry looks up at him. He doesn’t say anything.

Draco sets the bun next to Harry’s elbow. “You should eat something.” He eyes the bun. “Maybe it’s not the most nutritious thing, but you always like them.”

This earns him a small nod. Harry’s face is pale and Draco can see the dark circles under his eyes. He stands there for a moment, uncertain of what to say and disconcerted by the direct stares he’s getting and the animated whispers all around him. He’s never been one to dodge attention--what Malfoy is?--but this is different. Draco doesn’t like it, doesn’t like them all knowing what’s going on between him and Harry, doesn’t like them gossiping about something so private. He shifts from one foot to the other, then sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I should go check on the Thestrals.”

He’s a foot away when Harry says, “Malfoy.”

Draco looks back. The entire room swivels their heads to watch.

Harry picks up the bun. “Thanks.” He takes a small bite, and Draco smiles.

He turns and walks away.

***

Harry comes back to the room that night.

Draco stays in his own bed, listening intently to the noises in the common room. When Harry comes to the door of Draco’s room, his wand tip bright with a Lumos, Draco sits up and his coverlet bunches around his waist. “Gryffindor Tower too crowded?” he asks, trying to keep his voice light. He holds his breath.

“Something like that,” Harry says and then he yawns. He slips out of his robe and drapes it over one arm. His jumper is stretched taut across his huge bump. He brushes his fingers over it, and Draco’s heart aches. He misses touching Harry, misses feeling the baby move beneath his palm. “I’m going to lie down.” Harry hesitates. “By myself.”

Draco nods. “Okay.” When Harry turns to leave, Draco calls his name. He looks back. “I’m glad you’re here tonight,” Draco says quietly.

“Thanks,” Harry says, and then he’s gone. Draco can hear him move about his room, getting undressed, then the familiar squeak of the mattress as he settles onto his side of the bed. A lump forms in Draco’s throat. Harry’d crawled into the side he’d always taken when Draco was with him. Draco’s side never squeaked. They used to joke about it.

Draco rolls over and stares at the wall that separates them. He wonders if Harry’s doing the same.

“Night, Draco,” he hears Harry call out, and he smiles faintly.

“Good night,” he says, closing his eyes.

For the first time in days, Draco sleeps.

***

It all happens so quickly in the middle of a normal day. From one moment to the next, his world changes.

It’s almost lunchtime and Harry’s in the first-floor corridor. Students are streaming past him and a knot of fourth years is forming near the far end. Harry sees someone pull a wand, and he reacts without thinking. He shouts for them to stop and pulls his own wand, coming closer. There’s a blue flash, something hits the wall and then a numbness spreads across his side, followed by wrenching, twisting pain. He falls to the floor as white hot agony seizes his body. He can hear voices and shouts through the haze. The baby’s shifting.

Ron’s saying something to him, but Harry can’t make it out, and then he’s gone and Hermione’s leaning over him, her long hair brushing his cheek.

Harry cries out as another wave of pain shoots through him. Pomona Sprout pushes through the throng of students gathering around him and kneels down, resting a cool hand on his brow. It breaks through the wave of pain.

“It’s going to be okay, Harry,” she says, her dark eyes meeting his and for a moment Harry almost believes her. At least until McGonagall comes running down the hallway, shouting at everyone to get out of her way.

They transport him to the Infirmary, levitating his body but not putting any other spells on him for fear of harming the baby. Harry feels like he’s being ripped open by a hot knife and his face is streaming with tears and clenched with pain. Every moment lasts a lifetime, followed by shaking breaths and fear that the pain will start again. Hermione’s beside him, her hand tight around Harry’s, and he knows from the look on her face that it hurts when he clutches her fingers, but she doesn’t stop him.

“Ron,” he says.

“I’m here, mate.” Ron’s on his other side, and he smoothes back Harry’s hair gently.

And then they’re gone, and Madam Pomfrey’s leaning over him, her hand on Harry’s belly. Harry can see the bright white light of the Infirmary lamps behind her, and he squints his eyes.

“He’s in labour, Poppy. He was hit by a spell,” Professor Sprout says. Harry turns his head, but he can’t see her.

“Do we know what it was? Could you tell?” McGonagall’s voice is clipped and audibly concerned.

“No,” Professor Sprout says. “The fourth-year Hufflepuffs swear they were only casting Jelly-Legs Jinxes and the like, but it’s hard to tell what happened. They do think it went through a mirror.”

McGonagall swears loudly, and if Harry weren’t in so much pain, he’d be laughing. It’s a first in his experience.

“That’s bad,” Pomfrey confirms. “It could be anything. We have to keep him as comfortable as possible. I have an urgent Floo into his specialist at St Mungo’s. He should be getting back to us any minute, but he was out of surgery on a break.”

Draco, Harry thinks. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a groan.

Still, McGonagall pauses. Her face appears over him. “We need to tell Mr Malfoy. Pomona, would you send the Patronus? I’ll step out and ask Miss Granger and Mr Weasley to retrieve Mr Potter’s things. Poppy, how else can I help?”

The aged mediwitch sighs. “I’ve put a monitoring spell on Mr Potter and one on the baby. So far, they’re both fine, but we need Healer Guhathakurta soon.”

A cool cloth soothes his brow and Pomfrey gives him ice chips to suck on in between the shocking bouts of agony. Harry’s world turns to sobbing and exhaustion and searing pain. He prays that he’ll make it, that he’s not dying, that the baby will be okay. He’s terrified but he can’t maintain terror as another spasm grips him.

“Poppy,” Professor Sprout shouts.

Harry sinks into darkness.

***

Draco’s working at a stone in the hoof of a Thestral when the Patronus arrives. It’s a wispy silver beaver that moves straight to him and announces, “Mr Malfoy, come to the Infirmary at once. Mr Potter’s in labour.”

Draco startles up, dropping the hoofpick. He stares for a moment, his mouth open and his brain refusing to form thoughts. It’s too early. Harry’s not scheduled for another week.

The Thestral snuffles and nudges at his arm with his nose.

Hagrid rouses him from his stupor. His face is worried. “Go now, Draco. Druella’ll carry yeh back to the castle. Yeh can land on the Astronomy Tower.”

In complete and utter shock, Draco mounts Druella when Hagrid brings her over.

“Careful,” Hagrid says, and a slap of his heavy hand against Druella’s flank sends her galloping across the clearing.

Draco ducks his head as they barely make it above the trees in the clearing. His fingers are twisted tight in Druella’s mane, and his legs slip against her smooth sides.

“Sorry, girl,” he murmurs, and she tosses her head and snuffles softly as the wind ruffles his hair.

She flies over the roof of Hagrid’s cabin, her shadow following the path below. In almost no time, they’re rising to the flat plane of the tower and circling to land on the stone. Draco pats Druella’s side and thanks her, then runs down the stairs as fast as he dares, trailing a hand on the wall for balance.

At the bottom of the stairs, he’s met by a familiar voice, raised in alarm. “You idiot. Where have you been?” Severus is standing in the midst of a painted farmyard, the hem of his robe dragging in the mud.

Draco doesn’t need this. He ignores him and races down the hall. Severus jumps from frame to frame following him, pushing aside drowsy wizards and angry monks, bored looking cattle and Morris dancers. “Go to your room first, boy. Get the Resurrection Stone.”

Draco stops and wheels on him. “Why?”

“Because it will help.” Severus says. His face is grim, and it frightens Draco. “Because the brat needs it.”

Draco doesn’t stop to ask which brat. He runs through the corridors, dodging armour and flying around corners, taking staircases in bounds. He bursts into their rooms, the door opened ahead of time by Severus who skipped the run and came straight down. He dashes into Potter’s room, praying that he can find it, and there it is on the side table.

The ring is warm in his hand, almost thrumming with magic, as he turns around and runs for the Infirmary. The first-year girls are clustered outside and they part instantly, forming a path for him.

“Good luck, Draco,” Agnes says, and she’s clutching her tattered copy of What Every Witch Should Know About Childbirth.

Perdita looks like she’s about to burst into tears. “Good luck,” she chokes out, and the rest of them take up the chorus.

He thanks them inwardly for their kind words, which is a sign of how utterly out of his mind with terror he is.

When he bursts into the room, Healer Guhathakurta is pulling on his green robes, his face half-covered by a white mask.

“Where’s Harry?” Draco shouts. No one scolds him.

He hears a groan and sees a white cotton sheet. Running over, he sees that Harry’s hair is damp with sweat and his face is pale and twisted in anguish. Draco drops to his knees, holding Harry’s hand.

“I brought you the ring,” he whispers. “I have it here.” Carefully, he puts it around Harry’s neck and Harry relaxes a little. Draco squeezes Harry’s fingers, then presses them to his mouth. “It was a stupid fight.”

“Not entirely,” Harry says. And then he convulses, crying out in pain, his whole body rippling with spasms. His hand nearly crushes Draco’s. He gasps and falls back against the pillows. “You were right. Just not about me doing this on purpose.” He’s breathing hard and his face is drenched in sweat. He grasps the ring between his fingers and breathes out. “That’s better.”

“I need to remove the baby now,” Guhathakurta says curtly. He steps up to Harry’s bedside. “Mr Malfoy, if you’re going to stay, you need to be disinfected.”

Pomfrey flicks her wand at Draco, and a shiver of magic tingles across his skin, sinking into his clothes. She hands him a white robe. “Put this on, dear.”

Draco slips the robe over his work clothes and stands by Harry’s side. “I’m here.”

Harry looks up, his green eyes unfocused without glasses. His body tenses again and he bites back a groan of pain. “Fuck.” He pants, his fingers digging into the mattress beneath him. “I swear to God, Draco, if I live through this, I’m going to kill you for doing this to me.” His shoulders press into the pillows behind him and he shudders, his eyes screwing shut. “Rip your fucking balls off.”

Draco can’t stop the smile that breaks across his face. He wants to kiss Harry, but he’s fairly certain Guhathakurta would throw him out of the room. Instead he strokes a fingertip across Harry’s mouth.

Harry swears again, arching forward with a sharp cry, and Pomfrey has to push him back against the bed. It’s all Draco can do not to shove her away as Harry struggles against her.

“Mr Malfoy,” Pomfrey says sharply. “A little help, if you please?”

The next minutes are tense and horrifying. Even though he’s under a localised pain block spell, Harry goes into shock as Guhathakurta’s spell slices through the muscle walls of his abdomen. Draco holds him and prays, mostly that he won’t faint because Harry would never forgive him--or stop reminding him what he went through was so much worse.

There are several tense moments and utter silence while Guhathakurta works. Magic is bouncing around the room in waves, from Harry, from Guhathakurta, from the ring. Draco is dimly aware that McGonagall and Pomfrey are working to contain it, but he can feel the wash of it across his skin as it surges from Harry’s magical field.

A sconce shatters behind him, and he grips Harry tighter, leaning in to murmur encouragement in his ear.

And then there is a wet sound and squalling, another spell. And Guhathakurta says, “It’s a boy.”

Harry slumps almost lifeless on the bed, his face drained of colour. Tenderly Pomfrey wipes his brow and administers a pain draught. He sinks against the pillow, and Draco kisses his cheek, wiping away the wetness he finds there and then realising it’s his own tears.

After what seems like an eternity later, Guhathakurta returns with a neatly swaddled bundle. “Would you like to hold your son?” he asks Harry.

Harry hesitates, his exhaustion evident. “Draco first,” he says in a raw voice. “I’ve spent nine months holding him. Draco should have a chance.”

Draco carefully takes the impossibly light and strangely formed bundle from Guhathakurta’s large hands and then he and Harry are looking into the scrunched up, red, and bawling face of this strange new being they’ve somehow managed to help into the world.

Pomfrey moves them into a room in the Infirmary--the one generally used for Quidditch injuries--and wheels in a bassinet. Draco picks Scorpius up, for that’s what they’d agreed to call a boy even if Harry had wanted to call him Jack at first. Such a strange name, Draco thinks, outlandish, really.

Harry watches him. “He’s so little.”

“Yeah.” Draco touches Scorpius’s tiny nose. There’s a light fuzz of dark hair on his head, but Guhathakurta’s told them that’ll probably fall out at some point. Draco secretly wishes it comes back in blond, but he’s not holding out hope for that. He’ll be happy enough if Scorpius inherits the Malfoy eyes.

“I’ll need to rent a house in Hogsmeade,” Harry says.

Draco’s counting Scorpius’s toes and fingers again, just to make certain the proper number are there. He looks up sharply. “What?” He worries for a moment that Harry’s delirious.

Harry holds out his arms, and Draco reluctantly hands Scorpius over. Harry stares down at their son, brushing his cheek with a knuckle. “You’ve another year here on your Community Order, and Scorpius and I are going to need a place to stay.”

Draco stills. “Harry.”

“I’m sure McGonagall would let you spend weekends,” Harry continues softly. “You’re a dad now--”

“Harry,” Draco says again. He can barely breathe. “Aren’t you supposed to stop having mad sex all weekend when you’ve a kid?”

“I mean it,” Harry says. He looks up at Draco. “I want to try this.”

“This?” Draco’s voice comes out in a small squeak. He clears his throat.

Harry gives him a half-smile. “Whatever we have here.” He looks back down at Scorpius. “I mean, we should see how it goes. For him, right?”

Draco nods. “Yeah.” He’s suddenly afraid, but he reaches out and takes Harry’s hand. “So does that make you my boyfriend or the poor innocent lamb I’ve seduced into a life of perfidy?” he asks casually. He rubs a thumb over Harry’s knuckles. “Just asking in case another Howler lands on my plate.”

Harry’s bright grin dazzles Draco. “I think I like perfidy.” He considers. “But only if it involves a great deal of cocksucking.”

“Oh it does.” Draco sits on the bed next to Harry. “Budge up.”

“Prick.”

“Arse.”

They smile at each other.

Draco touches Scorpius’s tiny fist and his son stretches, his fingers flexing, then curling around Draco’s fingertip. Draco’s breath catches and he looks up at Harry.

“Beautiful, isn’t he?” Harry murmurs. Draco just nods.

A quiver of joy shoots through him. He thinks he could get used to it.

***

Late that night, while Harry’s sleeping, his even breathing rising and falling in the silent room, Draco holds Scorpius against his chest, strangely comfortable with this odd new person in his life whom he feels like he’s known all along.

He must have dozed off because when he opens his eyes, a hooded figure is bending over him, like a Dementor in a dark robe with a bony finger and glowing eyes. “I want what’s mine, Mr Malfoy.”

Slowly, Death reaches for the baby.

“No.” Draco is almost frozen in shock. He holds Scorpius tighter.

Death’s hood tilts. “I’ve been cheated once.” His voice rattles and wheezes. “Young Mr Potter--”

“Chose not to follow you,” Draco says. “He came back--”

“And cheated me.” That bony finger touches the edge of Scorpius’s blanket, leaving behind a small black mark. “I’m merely claiming what’s mine back.” Death turns to look at Harry, lying pale in the bed. “Of course if you’d rather I took him instead...”

A chill settles across Draco’s chest. “It’s not my choice.”

Death turns back to him. “I think it is.” Draco almost thinks he can see a hint of a ghoulish smile in the shadows of the hood. “Your son or your lover, Mr Malfoy? Which will it be? One brought back to life by my Hallows, and one created with it. I can assure you I’m not leaving empty-handed.”

Silence stretches out between them. Draco clutches Scorpius to his chest.

“Very well,” Death says. He turns back towards the bed, his hand stretching out to Harry.

“No.” Draco holds onto Scorpius with one hand. He grabs Death’s sleeve, his fingers burning with an icy heat the moment they brush the heavy wool. He hisses, dropping his burned hand.

Death stills, cocks his head. “You’re either very brave or very foolish, Mr Malfoy.”

“Most likely foolish.” Draco sees the glint of the chain around Harry’s throat. He pushes past Death, his heart pounding wildly. He grabs the chain, pulling it’s length over Harry’s head as he clutches Scorpius tightly against him, keeping him as far from Death as he can. The ring falls into his blistered hand, the Resurrection Stone glowing brightly against his skin.

“This belongs to you, I believe,” he says. “Will you take this?”

Scorpius is surprisingly quiet, his eyes wide as the hooded figure studies them. “This baby should not have come into being, Mr Malfoy. He is an anomaly.”

“Yes, but he belongs to me now.” Draco lifts his chin. “And so does Harry. So take the stone, that belongs to you.”

Death ponders for a moment and then loops a skeletal finger through the chain and lifts the ring from Draco’s grasp. It swings between them, glowing brighter and brighter until the depth of the stone is nothing but pure light, and Scorpius whimpers softly.

“Well played, Mr Malfoy,” Death says finally. “I agree to your trade. Not every man can bargain with me. Then again, there are very few Resurrection Stones.”

When Draco wakes up, sunlight is streaming through the windows and Harry is feeding Scorpius from a bottle, the colour returned to his face.

Draco nearly throws himself on the bed, holding them both. “I had the worst dream.”

His gaze falls on Scorpius’s blanket. There’s a small black mark on the edge. Draco freezes, his breath harsh in the silence.

“Draco,” Harry says.

A heavy chill seeps through Draco’s body. He turns his hands over. They’re blistered. His whole body trembles.

“Harry,” he say softly, “the Stone.”

Harry’s fingers brush his bare throat, the bottle still in his hand. Scorpius fusses softly. “I know.”

Albus Dumbledore steps into a portrait across the room. He stands silently, looking at Draco. Their eyes meet. A curious look crosses Dumbledore’s face, and he tilts his head towards Draco in a gesture Draco’s seen many times over the years. But never directed towards him.

Well done.

Severus moves behind Dumbledore. He touches the older man’s arm, leading him out of the frame. When he looks back at Draco, he nods. A rare smile curves his thin lips, and then they’re gone.

“It’s all right, love,” Harry says softly. He touches Draco’s cheek. “It’s all right now.”

And Draco knows it is.

5. Fifteen Years Later

Draco stops under a large plane tree on the path to Hogwarts from the village and takes off his wool jumper. He’s surprised at how warm it is for May. Canberra’d been frigid at night and cool during the day and he hadn’t adjusted his travelling outfit for the summer of his destination. He rolls back the checked cuffs of his broadcloth shirt.

Presents and parting gifts from Rolf and Luna threaten to spill out of his satchel as he stuffs the rolled navy wool in amongst the clothes he’d packed at the research station this morning. His other things, his research, will be arriving by international Wizarding delivery later in the week. He hopes they don’t rifle through his samples again and ruin his sorting methods. He doesn’t want to have to restructure three months worth of work.

He shoulders his bag and sets off again with long, determined strides. After twenty minutes, he reaches his destination. He sets the heavy leather satchel on the worn stone stoop and pounds loudly on the wooden door. Fang II barks and Hagrid’s bushy face appears. His hair’s gone mostly white now, although his beard retains several streaks of brown, and he’s going deaf in one ear. His face splits into a grin when he recognises his caller.

“Draco, lad. Back so soon, are yeh?” Hagrid motions him inside. “I’ve made some rock cakes, and there’s a kettle already on.” He rustles around in the shelves by the sink and returns with two mismatched stoneware mugs. “Now how’re young Rolf and Luna getting on?”

“The twins are seven now, and complete terrors.” Draco hoists his long, lanky frame onto his favourite stool. His feet barely hit the bottom rung. “And the station is thriving. Luna’s working on some Aussie creatures that are half fungus and half mouse. I was never quite sure when she pointed them out in the forests what to look for, but she seems thrilled. And Rolf’s work on the classification of Graphorns and the hornless Australasian types is finally gaining international recognition.”

“And th’ breeding program?” Hagrid presses. “Tell me about th’ ‘orses.”

Draco blows on the surface of his scalding tea and takes a sip. “We went to Ulan Bator and the countryside this time. We’re trying to gather rare lines from all over Asia and I think we may even be able to repopulate some areas with herds in partnership with the local Wizarding authorities. I also talked to a visiting team from Slovakia working specifically with endangered Abraxan horses, and we may have work to do there, too. They said there are several local breeds that haven’t been properly classified.”

“Might check with Olympe.” Hagrid looks pleased. “Last I heard she has records of all the Abraxan bloodlines. European, at least. See if there’s some overlap. Did yeh see the Moon Thestrals?”

Draco nods, remembering the small group of four and the pale moonlight making their forms visible. “It was in Khankh, near Lake Khovsgol. We were only ten feet away when the moon shone on them. They almost looked like Patronuses, but they were too solid and too bright. And their eyes were jet black.”

Hagrid leans forward, spilling some of his tea onto the sleeping Fang, who leaps up and barks. “There, there,” Hagrid says, patting him distractedly while looking at Draco. “How long did yeh see them?”

“Only for a few minutes. The moon slipped behind a cloud and then they were gone.” Draco pauses. “It was astonishing really.” He points to his bag. “I have some of their mane hairs in there. And I got a hoof impression.”

While Hagrid is chuckling and pouring more tea, Draco reaches into the pocket of his trousers and fishes out a small tin. “Here,” he says, handing it to Hagrid. “Put this in the fire and then pour water on it once a day for ten days.”

Hagrid shakes it gently. “What is it?”

“Nothing too dangerous, unfortunately,” Draco smiles. “Although I’ll knit you a pair of gloves out of their hair when they moult. It’ll help you work with the Fire Crabs. Real Woolly Salamanders are hard to come by.”

Hagrid beams at him. “Yeh didn’t have to bring me anything.”

“I wanted to bring you some lovely exploding Crater Crabs from Indonesia, but I was afraid I’d be caught at customs.” Draco waits for a moment, watching the succession of looks on the half-giant’s face and his attempt not to look crushed. He laughs. “They should be arriving in a separate case next week. Rolf worked out how to pack them in rock with enough food for the journey.”

Draco lets Hagrid hug him, and then he pushes him gently back into his seat. “But tell me about the herd. How’ve they been getting on this summer? Are the new foals from Druella’s line still larger than the others?”

When he leaves the hut half an hour later, Draco is up-to-date on the progress of the Thestrals and the notable events from the past twelve weeks, at least as Hagrid sees them, which is a bit different from the standard perspective. Draco’d learned almost nothing about the students or teachers, but he knew more than he cared to about a large spider nest that Hagrid’d found in the Forest.

As Draco rounds the paths next to the greenhouse, he sees a familiar robed, dark-haired figure leaning against the fence around the vegetable patch and his heart leaps in his chest. He throws his satchel down in the ankle-high grass and runs. Harry just waits for Draco to reach him, a crooked smile on his face. Draco’s hands thread past the stems of Harry’s glasses, through the unruly curls and he pulls him in. Their lips meet, softly at first.

Draco nips Harry’s lower lip.

Harry shifts and sighs and kisses him back harder. “I’ve missed you, love.”

“How’s my favourite Charms professor?” Draco murmurs. His fingers tug lightly at Harry’s hair. Harry’s held the position since Flitwick retired eleven years ago. Draco thinks if he told his eleven-year-old self that he’d be married one day to the Head of Gryffindor House, he’d have laughed himself into a nervous breakdown.

Harry smiles against Draco’s mouth. “Complaining terribly about his husband being halfway across the world for three months.”

“I’d hate to endure that,” Draco says. “Must have been horribly annoying at staff meetings.”

“According to Snape.” Harry pulls back and grins at him. “He marched into our bedroom one night to tell me just to wank and get over myself.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “And?”

Harry’s mouth quirks. “Imagine his complete consternation when he found me already putting his advice to use. At least the first half.”

With a laugh, Draco kisses him until they are both red-faced and gasping, on the edge of all possible restraint. Harry’s hand is twisted in the cloth of his shirt and he has both hands cupping Harry’s arse.

“I’d drag you off into a greenhouse if I could,” Draco murmurs, and Harry’s lashes lower.

As if on cue, the new professor of potions emerges from the greenhouse nearest them, her basket full of cuttings. “Not in Nev’s greenhouses, you wouldn’t. They’ve just been cleaned.” Her face softens, “You two never stop, do you?”

Draco reluctantly steps away from Harry, but keeps his fingers twined through Harry’s. Sunlight glints off the matching engraved platinum bands on their left hands. “Perdita, how are you?”

She smiles. “Well, thank you. And glad you’re back. The Deputy Headmaster’s been moping without you.”

“I have not,” Harry says. “I haven’t the time to mope.”

“That’s not what I heard.” Draco smiles, ignoring Harry’s mock indignation. “Will Agnes be coming up from London this summer?”

Perdita shakes her head. “No. I’m going to have to travel down more. She’s just been appointed to a new obstetrics ward at St Mungo’s, and she barely stops working to eat.”

Harry and Draco exchange glances. “She did always seem unnaturally interested in childbirth,” Draco whispers. “Especially for an eleven-year-old.”

“Twelve,” Perdita retorts with an amused gleam in her eye.

A shout comes from the direction of the castle as two girls burst out of the door. Peony Goldstein leads, her long legs propelling her in a dash. She’s just finished her first year and has her eyes set on the Ravenclaw seeker position. Rose Weasely-Granger chases behind her, her bushy red hair streaming. And behind them, Scorpius James walks at a more leisurely pace, not wanting to be caught running by his fathers as though he were eager. He stands back as the other two greet Draco, then walks forward slowly. Draco smiles and ruffles his son’s blond hair, noticing with a pang that he’s almost as tall as Harry.

“I didn’t expect such a reception,” Draco says dryly. His hand settles on Scorpius’s shoulder.

Scorpius ducks his head and grins, his hair falling across his cheek. “They’re just hoping you have presents.”

Peony eyes her godfather expectantly. “Of course he does. He always does.”

“In the satchel.” Draco gestures back behind him, and the two girls take off, robes flapping behind them. He looks back at his son. Scorpius’s Slytherin tie is slightly askew. Draco straightens it. “And you’re not running after them?”

Scorpius grins. “I’ll make them do all the work.”

“Wise boy.” Draco smiles as Harry slips both arms around his waist, resting his chin on Draco’s shoulder. “Where’s Teddy?”

“Off with Victoire again,” Scorpius huffs in annoyance, and Harry and Draco exchange a pointed look. They’ve had their suspicions about their son’s friendship with his cousin.

“Ah.” Draco leans back against Harry’s chest, enjoying the solidness of him.

Scorpius rolls his eyes as Harry nuzzles Draco’s neck. “Dad,” he says with a huff and the pained belief of a teenager that his parents only had sex once--to conceive him. “People--”

“Will not be surprised in the slightest that I can’t keep my hands off your father.” Harry says, and Perdita laughs.

“Too true. You should have seen them when they were younger.” She slips an arm through Scorpius’s elbow. “I’ve a new potion brewing if you’d like to see it. Professor Snape’s hovering over it right now, and I’m certain he’d be more than happy to tell us both how I cocked it up.”

Scorpius’s eyes light up, and he looks back at his father. “May I--”

Draco smiles indulgently at him. Severus had been thrilled to discover there was a potions prodigy in the family. ”Go on. I’ll come find you after I unpack.”

Scorpius whoops and takes off towards the castle, Perdita right behind him. Her blue dragonskin heeled boots kick up dust in their wake.

“Don’t get too engrossed,” Harry calls after them. “Your grandmother’s expecting us for dinner this evening.” He gives Draco an apologetic look. “She rescheduled Lucius’s birthday party last week so you could be there.”

Draco groans. His father’s mellowed somewhat in the past decade and a half, just not enough to make a family dinner with Harry palatable. “I wonder what he’ll accuse you of this time.”

“I’m rather looking forward to finding out.” Harry grins wickedly, and Draco sighs. Harry deliberately enjoys provoking his father, Draco’s certain of that, and after fifteen years, he’s starting to strongly suspect his father enjoys it as well.

“Put the wine near me then,” Draco says. His mother can fend for herself.

“Always.” Harry pulls Draco closer, leaning in to kiss him. “In the meantime, we’ve three hours to spare and a distracted teenager.” His mouth brushes Draco’s ear. “And I’ve been wanking myself raw for days thinking of having you inside me.”

“Not too raw, I hope.” Draco hooks two fingertips in the waist of Harry’s trousers. He breathes in the scent of Harry--spicy, warm, musky. God. He’s missed him.

Dreadfully.

Harry’s eyes sparkle. “Race you,” he murmurs, and then he pulls away, his fingers slipping from Draco’s hand.

“Cheat,” Draco shouts, taking off after him, and Harry just laughs over his shoulder as he dashes towards the castle.

Draco can hear Rose and Peony behind him, dragging the satchel between them and cheering him on.

In the bright blue sky above, a Thestral circles, her foal at her side. Her whinny echos bright and loud across the grounds, and Draco laughs, his hair whipping around his face as he runs after the man he loves.

This, he knows without the slightest doubt, is perfect happiness.

-------------------------



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