Fic: The Silent World Within You (HP, Harry/Draco, NC-17) 2/4

[femme]

Title: The Silent World Within You 2/4
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 One

2. Autumn

August passes slowly.

Harry waits on the pitch for Malfoy every evening. He never comes. Harry barely sees Malfoy as it is. The few times they pass in the hall Malfoy doesn’t even look at him. Harry’s certain Malfoy’s going out of his way to avoid him. Meals are silent affairs when Malfoy shows up--a rare enough occurrence. McGonagall just gives Harry a disappointed look the nights Malfoy’s seat remains empty. Hagrid pulls him aside and asks him if he and Malfoy have had a falling out. Harry just shrugs and mumbles something about Malfoy being moody. He knows they blame him. He supposes in a way they’re right.

Still, even if he could go back and change that night, he wouldn’t.

He tries to talk to Malfoy. Tries to find him at work, but somehow he never can. He suspects Malfoy’s using a Disillusionment charm.

And so Harry gives up. Malfoy’s made it clear he doesn’t want anything to do with Harry. Fine then. Harry throws himself into the warding of the castle until he exhausts himself again and ends up in the infirmary once more.

“Honestly, Harry,” a frowning Pomfrey says, rubbing at her sunburnt nose, “I don’t know why your magic’s still so fragile. The potions should have stabilised you more.” She gives him a worried look. “Are you sleeping at all?”

Harry nods. He’s been tired nearly every night, dropping off into a deep sleep the moment his head touches the pillow.

Pomfrey sighs. “Well, I’m sending you back to St Mungo’s for the weekend. If Healer Guhathakurta has no objections, I’m recommending an intravenous potion and a strong lecture on pushing yourself too far.”

Guhathakurta agrees. Forcefully. “One hour, Harry,” he says, and Harry’s rather certain they can hear him down a level in Potion Poisoning. “One hour a day of intensive magical work is all you were allowed.” He throws up his hands, sending parchment fluttering around them both. A mediwitch quietly flicks her wand at the multicoloured scraps and they fly back into Harry’s file.

“Headstrong idiot!” Guhathakurta grabs the file and pulls out a piece of blue parchment. He waves it in Harry’s face. “This. This is your most recent scan. Magic everywhere! Patterns that are absolutely not normal in any way for a healthy wizard.” He slams the paper back into the file. “Two months ago you were stronger. More stable. Now look at you. Pale and shaking and--”

The mediwitch barely makes it over with a bedpan before Harry sicks up. Guhathakurta’s hands are on his back, steadying him.

“Fluids,” he tells the mediwitch, and she nods, Vanishing the bedpan and Summoning another bag of potion to add to the one floating above Harry’s bed. A thin silver tube runs from it, disappearing beneath Harry’s skin. With a touch of her wand, it spilts into two tubes, and she attaches one to the new potion. This one’s a virulent lavender, but it’s cool as it runs into Harry’s arm, and he leans back against his pillow, his nausea subsiding, the roil of magic across his torso subsiding.

“Sorry,” Harry picks at the rumpled white sheet over his hips. He hates being tired like this. Hates collapsing because his magic’s overextended again.

With a sigh Guhathakurta runs his hand through his dark hair. His light green robe swings open slightly. He’s wearing jeans and an Oxford shirt beneath it. He must be Muggleborn—or a halfblood at least. He sits on the edge of Harry’s bed. “We’re going to run some more tests,” he says. “And take some blood.” At Harry’s groan he holds up his hand. “If you’d done what I’d told you to in June we wouldn’t be here trying once again to make certain your magic’s stable for classes in a week and a half.”

“You’re trying to guilt me,” Harry says weakly.

Guhathakurta smiles. “Is it working this time?”

“Maybe.” Harry looks up at him. The bed is hard beneath his hips and he shifts uncomfortably. “I’ll do whatever you need me to.”

“You’d damned well better.” Guhathakurta smacks Harry’s chart lightly against his leg as he stands. “I’m getting tired of seeing your face.”

It’s Tuesday before Harry’s sent back to Hogwarts, with a bag of potion phials and strict orders to rest. McGonagall’s barely been settled in his room before there’s a knock on his door.

“Come in,” she says, with a frown at Harry when he tries to get up off the bed.

The last person Harry expects to see when the door creaks open is Malfoy.

He stands in the doorway, hesitantly, his hands in his pockets. Neither of them says anything for a long moment. McGonagall looks between them, her sharp eyes taking in everything.

“I’ll leave you both then.” She squeezes Harry’s shoulder. “Send for a house-elf if you need anything, Mr Potter.” She hesitates next to Malfoy. “Keep the door open,” she says tartly, and she sweeps out of the room in a rustle of black linen.

Malfoy looks at Harry. “St Mungo’s,” he says finally.

Harry shrugs. “Overexertion.”

“Right.” Malfoy’s eyes find the potion phials on the windowsill. “My grandmother takes fewer potions than that.”

“I didn’t know you had a grandmother.” Harry sits up in the bed.

Malfoy glances back at him. He looks horribly uncomfortable. “Everyone has grandmothers, Potter. Even you, I suppose.”

“I didn’t know either of mine.” Harry reaches for the glass of water McGonagall’s placed next to his bed. “And you know what I meant.”

“Grandmother Enfys,” Malfoy says finally. “My father’s mother. She’s the only one left. I don’t see her often. She prefers the Dublin house to London or Wiltshire.” He leans against the doorframe. “Nasty old woman.”

Harry feels a flash of bitterness. “At least you’ve met her.”

“Trust me,” Malfoy says. His mouth twists to one side. “I’d rather not have. She has a disturbing habit of whacking my bum in passing as an expression of affection.”

Harry can’t help a laugh, and Malfoy turns a baleful look on him. “You have to admit it’s a funny image.”

“Child brutality.” Malfoy smiles though. He pauses, studying Harry. “Are you all right?”

“I wouldn’t think you’d give a damn.” Harry pulls his knees to his chest. His feet are bare; he flexes them against the coverlet.

“I don’t,” Malfoy says, a little too coolly. “But Hagrid wouldn’t shut up about you.”

Harry gives him a long, level look. Malfoy glances away. “I’m fine,” Harry says at last. “You can tell him not to worry.”

Malfoy nods. “I’ll let him know.” He turns to leave, reaching for the doorknob. He stops at Harry’s voice.

“Malfoy.”

He looks back at Harry. “What?”

Harry licks his lip. His fingers smooth across his jeans. “I guess….” He trails off, then forges on at Malfoy’s impatient scowl. “Next week. Things will change, what with you being staff…”

“I suppose.”

Harry rubs his thumb across his bare ankle. “After everything…” He bites his lip. “Look, this is ridiculous, you and me. I don’t care if it was a one-off or not, all right? You don’t want to talk about it ever, we won’t. But we can’t just go around acting like it didn’t happen.”

Malfoy’s silent. Harry’s stomach twists, and then Malfoy sighs. “Yes we can, Potter,” he says quietly, “and it’s better for you if we do.”

“Malfoy—“

He closes the door behind him.

With a fuck, Harry falls back against the pillows. He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand Slytherins.

He reaches for his zip. At least he’s something proper to wank to now. His fingers slide past denim and cotton, curling around his already hardening prick. He closes his eyes and thinks of elegant hands and blond hair and a mouth made for sucking cock.

His groan covers the sharp sound of a ragged breath just behind the door.

Harry doesn’t notice.***

The Hogwarts Express arrives late on September first.

Draco sits at the Head Table, Professor Sinistra at his side, staring out at the empty tables. The students will arrive shortly; McGonagall’s just come in with news that the Thestral-drawn carriages have turned up the drive.

It’s odd, being at this table for the Feast. He barely remembers last September. He’d been terrified and shell-shocked, and all he can recall is Severus sitting in the Headmaster’s chair, flanked by the Carrows. He’d looked down at Draco, his gaze steady, and Draco’d known then that Severus would do anything he could to keep his nest of serpents safe.

The doors fly open, and Draco tenses, twisting his napkin between his fingers. The students pour in, all save the first years, robes fluttering behind them, ties askew as they find their tables, laughing and chattering. Draco’s struck by the normality of it all. Except for the sombre glances some of the older ones cast around the Great Hall, it might have been any other start of term.

Draco sees him then. Potter. He’s exchanged his t-shirt and jeans for grey flannel trousers and a Gryffindor jumper beneath his black robe, the scarlet lining of his hood catching Draco’s eye as he turns to say something to Weasley.

He’s surrounded by Gryffindors, all of whom form a wedge around him, keeping the other students at bay. Draco hears the whispers though, sees the eyes that turn towards Potter. Potter does too. His cheeks flush, and he ducks his head. Granger puts her hand on his arm and guides him to their table.

Draco knows Potter finished moving his trunks from his summer room to Gryffindor Tower this afternoon with the help of the house-elves, none of whom seemed to want to let him pick up anything heavier than his satchel, Draco’d made damned certain of that. They haven’t really spoken in a week, although Draco’s been more regular at meals. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything to Potter, so he’s contented himself with just watching him covertly.

Potter doesn’t look well. Draco doubts most people would notice, but then they haven’t spent seven years studying the prat--obsessing over him, Pansy would say. Still, Draco can tell that behind Potter’s easy smile and crinkled eyes he’s exhausted. The circles under his eyes are a shade darker. When he looks away, his mouth pulls down in the corners. He’s barely eaten all week at meals.

Draco doesn’t want to think about what it might mean that this concerns him. It’s bad enough that he’s spent his nights wanking to the memory of overheard groans and soft breaths, to the thought of Potter beneath him again, his legs wrapped around Draco’s hips.

He’s glad he’s pushed Potter away. He’s a temptation Draco can’t give into, as much as he’d like to spend another night buried inside of him. It’s a horrible idea. At best, Draco’d be nothing but Potter’s toyboy. At worst, whoever found out--and they would, Draco is certain--would claim he’d seduced the Boy Who Lived for his own gain.

They might not be wrong.

A flash of bright red hair catches his eye at the Gryffindor table. He ignores whatever Sinistra has said to him. Ginevra Weasley pushes her way through the throng around Potter’s bench, and Draco tenses. She touches Potter’s shoulder. He turns.

The two of them look at each other for a long moment, and then Ginevra’s fingertips brush Potter’s cheek. Draco’s jaw clenches. He wants to look away. He can’t. They speak quietly, heads bent together. The Weasel watches from across the table, his arm draped around Granger. Draco wants to punch the smug look off his stupid weasel face.

When Potter stands up and pulls his ex-girlfriend to him, burying his face in her hair, Draco pushes his chair back and stands.

Sinistra grabs his arm. “You can’t leave yet.”

Draco looks back at Potter and the Weasley girl. He doesn’t care that Sinistra follows his gaze. “I want to check on Ismene.”

“After the Sorting.” Sinistra draws him back down into his seat. “It can wait.”

The doors are thrown open again, and Hagrid’s there, surrounded by first years following him between the tables. They look so small and innocent.

When he looks back at Potter, Ginevra’s gone. Potter meets his gaze. Were we that young? he mouths.

Draco shakes his head, a faint smile curving his lips. Potter’s mouth quirks at one corner. Draco sees the Weasel frown at them both, then lean over to say something to Potter. He shrugs and looks back at Draco.

McGonagall stands, the Sorting Hat in her hands. She peers at the first years over the rims of her spectacles. “Welcome to Hogwarts,” she says and a shout goes through the Hall.

Another term has begun.***

Harry shifts his satchel from one shoulder to the other as he heads from the Defence classroom down to the Great Hall for lunch. They’re a month into classes now, and it’s finally got to the point that he’s not bombarded the moment he steps foot in public.

Three fifth year boys come hurtling out of the classroom behind him, nearly knocking him aside. “Sorry, Harry,” Stewart Ackerley shouts over his shoulder, and Harry hears a snort behind him. He turns.

Opal Adoyo, the new professor of Defence, closes the classroom door. “Ravenclaws,” she says. Her teeth flash white against her dark skin.“I find them the most difficult.”

“They can make you want to hex their toes inside out,” Harry says with a smile in return. He likes Professor Adoyo, with her tightly curled hair and the long string of polished hematite she wears draped around her graceful neck and her sharp words when the class buggers up. She reminds him in some ways of Snape, and he finds that oddly comforting. McGonagall’d assigned him to work with her for the year: the Ministry had insisted if Harry, Ron and Hermione were to return for their final year that they assist professors as well as take their NEWTs classes. Hermione had been thrilled to be placed in Vector’s Arithmancy classes, and Ron was pleased to find he’d be assisting Hagrid. Until, that is, he also discovered that meant dealing with Malfoy as well.

Adoyo stops at the top of the stairs, her hand on the banister. “You’ve been a great help with the younger years. I was wondering...” She hesitates, then purses her mouth. Harry waits, curious. “Well. I’ve heard about your tutoring the other students in your year in Defence. A club, Minerva says. Dumbledore’s Army?”

Harry nods. He twists his satchel strap around his fingers. It feels strange to be back at Hogwarts still. He hasn’t quite got used to his robes again. Or the fact that he shares classes with Ginny. “We met in the evenings.” There’s more to it than that, but Harry doesn’t quite know what McGonagall’s told her. He’s hesitant to ask.

“I’d like you to help me start something similar.” Adoyo gives him a sober look. “After what the students went through in May...”

“It’d help them.”

“They’re frightened still,” Adoyo says, and for the first time her voice is gentle. “Battle shock. It’s not uncommon, and Merlin knows you must have some of it as well.”

Harry shrugs. The nightmares have settled some, but he still wakes up frequently, his heart pounding and drenched in sweat. “I’m all right.”

She eyes him. “Well, then, you’ll help? I’d thought to start it up Saturday next, right after lunch. In the Defence classroom, of course.”

A rush of second years passes between them. One of the boys gives Harry a shy look, but he doesn’t stop.

“Yeah,” Harry says after a moment. “I’ll be there.”

“Brilliant. I’ll see you then.” Adoyo gives him that brilliant smile again. She’s nearly halfway down the stairs when she glances back up at him. “Oh, Draco Malfoy will be joining us as well. I thought he might be a good resource for Dark hexes.”

A group of sixth-year girls pass by, their laughter drowning out Harry’s curses.***

“You can’t be serious,” Ron says. He pokes at his Yorkshire pudding, eyeing it suspiciously. “She wants Malfoy to help?”

“She does.” Harry shoves another bite of sausage in his mouth. He doesn’t bother to swallow before he says, “Are you going to eat that?”

Ron pushes his plate across the table. “Keep eating like that, mate, and you won’t be fit to be Seeker.”

“Don’t listen to him, Harry.” Hermione lowers her Ancient Runes text and frowns at Ron. “You know he barely got enough nutrition when he was a child, Ronald. There’s nothing wrong with Harry putting on a bit of weight.”

“There is if it’s going to affect his catching the bloody Snitch.” Ron pushes his hair out of his eyes. “You’ve got to think about broom dynamics--”

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter if Professor Adoyo asks Malfoy to help,” Hermione says, cutting Ron off. She tucks her book in her satchel. “The wand the Ministry gave him can’t cast hexes. Everyone knows that. It’s part of the Community Order requirements the Auror Office insisted on.”

Blond hair catches Harry’s eye and he turns to watch Malfoy coming into the Hall. There’s a gaggle of first-year girls following him--at least one or two from every House judging by their robes. Their adoration is obvious as they whisper and giggle; Malfoy merely looks bitterly resigned.

Ron snorts. “Look at them. Honestly, I don’t know what’s wrong with the world when Malfoy of all people becomes their little idol. Gryffindors, even! It’s enough to put me off my food.”

“I’ll take your tartlet,” Harry says absently. He can understand what they see in Malfoy. Tall, tanned, his hair bleached nearly white from the sun and his shoulders wider than they’d been in the summer, Malfoy was bloody gorgeous. Shaggable even, and that thought makes Harry’s cock twitch.

“The hell you will.” Ron puts his hand over his lemon tartlet. “I suppose we should be glad whatever was making you sick up after every meal is over.” He wrinkles his nose. “Really awful, that.”

Hermione watches Malfoy cross over to the staff table. “I have to admit, he doesn’t favour the Slytherin girls. I’m surprised.”

Harry’s not. The Slytherin boys, on the other hand... His eyes narrow as one of them approaches Malfoy, and Malfoy smiles down at him. Bastard.

Ron tears a roll in half and shoves it into his mouth. “You should see him in class,” he says. “I think Hagrid calls him in to help with the first years just to torment him. They’re all over him. Draco this and Draco that, and can you please help us with our flobberworms, Draco?” He makes a face. “And this is the arsehole who tried to have Hagrid sacked.”

“I think Hagrid’s got over that,” Harry says. He turns back around and stabs his fork into the Yorkshire pudding. “You know how he is. Likes dangerous creatures and all.”

“Broken ones, too,” Hermione says quietly. Harry doesn’t like the way she’s looking at him.

“I suppose,” he says shortly. He jumps when Ginny drops down next to him on the bench. She grins.

“So I hear I’m being knocked back to Chaser on the team.”

Harry gives her an apologetic look. “Sorry?”

Ginny laughs and bumps his shoulder. “I’m fine with it, Harry. You’re a better Seeker than I am, Sloper’s right about that.” She throws a roll over at her brother; Ron catches it with ease. “Ready for practise tonight?”

“Been keen all day.” Ron hands the roll to Harry. “Now can you jolly this one up? He’s been in a funk for days.”

Harry frowns at him as he butters the roll. “I have not.” He stops when all three of them just look at him. “What?”

“You’ve been a beast, darling,” Ginny says as she stands up. Harry looks at Hermione, and she nods hesitantly.

“You have, Harry.”

He sighs. “Fine. I’m cranky.” He doesn’t know why. He supposes because he’s tired and can’t seem to get enough sleep. Or food.

“And we still love you.” Ginny ruffles the back of his hair. Harry can almost feel the poisoned glare he’s certain Malfoy’s sending his way. He leans back into her touch. “Must needs run,” she says. “I promised Dean a letter before the end of the week, and this is the only free time I have to write it.”

Harry glances up at the staff table. Malfoy’s pointedly avoiding looking at him.

“Are you all right with the Dean thing?” Ron asks after his sister walks off. “I told her she should tell you before we came back--”

Harry cuts him off. “I’m fine with it, Ron.” And he is. He’s glad Ginny’s found someone else. She and Dean are good for each other--they always were--and he hopes it lasts. He can’t stop his quick glance back at Malfoy. One of the first years--the one with long dark blonde curls, Perdita, Harry thinks her name is--has wandered up to speak to him. She looks thrilled when he bends down to speak to her.

“What an arsehole, eh, Harry?” Ron asks with another snort.

“Yeah,” Harry says. He tries to sound annoyed, but he doesn’t think he manages. “A complete arsehole.”

When Harry turns back to his friends, Hermione’s watching him thoughtfully, her brow furrowed.

He reaches for his pumpkin juice and looks away.***

Draco sits in the Quidditch stands, alone. Well, not entirely, he supposes. He’s awash in a sea of blue and bronze, surrounded by Ravenclaws cheering on their team against the Gryffindors in the first match of the season.

Still, he’s given wide berth by all but the first year girls, who sit two benches below him, occasionally turning to look at him and giggle. He’s fairly certain he sees Perdita scrawling hearts and Perdita loves Draco in a lurid green ink across the cover of her bright pink parchment case. He’s not certain if that or the fact that the case is trimmed in faux Hippogriff skin with a gaudy rhinestone clasp is more humiliating. He’s still bemused by their adoration, although, if he’s forced to honesty, he’s rather taken with Perdita herself. She reminds him of Pansy their first year.

Draco wraps his dark green scarf tighter around his neck. It’s barely mid-October, but the wind is chilly at this height.

A roar goes up from the Gryffindor side as Potter swoops after the Snitch, his scarlet robe whipping behind him, his focus on nothing but the fluttering gold ball. A Bludger barely misses his shoulder, and he jerks his broom to the right. The Snitch disappears. Draco smirks at the grim look on Potter’s face as he circles back up above the fray. He misses playing against Potter, Seeker against Seeker. They’d been well-matched, really, or so he likes to think. If nothing else, he’d made certain Potter had to work for the Snitch, unlike Pemberton. Circe. If the idiot manages to stay on his broom, Ravenclaw’ll be lucky.

Draco watches Potter. It’s familiar to him; he’s been doing it nearly half his life now. He wonders what it will be like, after this year, when Potter will be away, training to be an buffoonish Auror, most likely falling back in with the Weasley girl if staffroom gossip is to be trusted. Even last year, though Potter’d not been at school, his presence had been felt everywhere. Death Eaters had whispered his name in corners where His Lordship couldn’t overhear. Gryffindors had chanted it loudly during Quidditch matches, to the point that the Carrows had demanded Severus suspend the remainder of the season. He’d refused.

Sometimes Potter reminds Draco of Severus. He’s sure neither one of them would be pleased by their similarities. Still, there are moments when Potter’s willingness to ignore Ministerial expectations seems remarkably like his Head of House’s quiet defiance of the Dark Lord.

Draco’s wand, for example. He’d never expected Potter to return it. To be honest, he hadn’t even assumed Potter still had it. If he’d been in Potter’s shoes, he would have snapped it the moment he’d purchased a new one of his own.

Instead, Potter had watched him struggle through the first of Adoyo's Defence Club meetings with a wand borrowed from one of the students that had barely managed to cast a Jelly-Legs Jinx. The next Saturday he'd caught Draco after lunch, motioning for him to follow. Draco had, of course. It wasn't every day Potter abandoned his friends in favour of Draco.

He'd been shocked to see Potter pull a familiar wand out of the waistband of his jeans. Ten inches of polished hawthorn with a smooth ebony hilt that Potter was now turning towards him. Draco'd just looked at him, oddly confused.

"Take it," Potter had said. "It's yours."

Draco had hesitated. "It won't work for me any longer. You won it. You're its master."

Potter'd just given him a half-smile. "Try it."

The wand had felt heavy and warm in his palm. When his fingers curled around the hilt, it sparked just a bit, then settled against his skin comfortably. Draco's breath caught. For that moment he'd been eleven again, standing in the middle of Ollivander's with his parents, his new wand in his hand and the realisation that, after years of anticipation, he'd truly be going to Hogwarts finally hitting him.

"Figured it might want to have you back," Potter said. "It's just been rolling around in my trunk since I got my new one." He'd leant against the wall, watching Draco as he flicked the wand, sending a rolling ball of sparks down the hall. "It likes you."

"It shouldn't." Draco had stroked the hilt lightly. "Wandlore says—"

"Wandlore probably doesn't take into account the fact that nine weeks ago you were inside of me," Potter said bluntly.

Draco stilled, just looking at him. It'd been the first time they'd mentioned what had happened that night. They're both silent. Potter doesn't look away. "I suppose," Draco said at last.

"Right." Potter had pushed himself off the wall. "And now I'm giving it back to you. Relinquishing mastery, so to speak."

"The Ministry won't let me keep it," Draco said. "If they find out—"

Potter turned to look at him. "I'll make sure they don't." At Draco's raised eyebrow, he'd shrugged. "You need your wand. Keep it hidden outside of Defence Club and you'll be fine."

Draco hadn't been able to say thank you before he'd walked away. He's still not entirely certain if he would have.

Now he studies Potter as he soars above the stands, the wind ruffling his dark hair. Ginevra--even now Draco refuses to use that ridiculous nickname for her--flies up beside him, leaning in to say something to him. Draco’s eyes narrow. He’d never given a damn about the girl before; she was an irritant, but less annoying than her brothers. And yet, he’s beginning to find her loathsome, always hanging about Potter, laughing at what he says, putting a hand on his arm, watching him across the table at meals, a furrow in her brow. She’s his ex-girlfriend, for fuck’s sake. She’s supposed to despise him, at least for half a year, and go out of her way to make his life utterly miserable before she’s back at his side, laughing, or so his experience with Pansy has taught him.

Every time he sees Ginevra hanging over Potter as she does, he wants to shout, I’ve had him too, but he’s managed to restrain himself--so far at least. He wonders what she’d think if she knew her precious Potter had wrapped his thighs so tightly around Draco’s hips that he’d left a bruise Draco hadn’t healed for days.

The first years below him giggle as they huddle over a parchment in Perdita’s hand. When the breeze blows Perdita’s curls out of the way, Draco catches a glimpse of the roughly drawn picture of what obviously is himself striding across the Hogwarts lawns, Fang trailing behind him. He flinches.

This is what he’s become. An assistant groundskeeper. A first-year idol. A laughingstock.

Draco tugs his woollen robe tighter around him. It barely fits across his shoulders now. The seams pull slightly as he stands up, what little pleasure he’s had in the match dissipating. With one last glance at Potter flying above him, he starts down the starts. The first-years move to follow, and Draco turns his fiercest glare on them. All but Perdita shrink back. She eyes him curiously, but she settles back onto her perch on the bench with a nod.

That one, Draco thinks, will be dangerous one day.

His boots thunk as he stomps down the stairs, and he ignores the frowns the Ravenclaws cast his way. He slips his hand in his robe pocket. His wand is still there, warm and tingling against his fingertips. He strokes his thumb against the smooth hilt.

He owes Potter, he knows, and he hates that feeling.

The roar of the Gryffindors echoes behind him as he escapes to the forest.***

“I’m telling you, Harry, I think he’s up to something,” Ron whispers. Slughorn’s broad back is turned to them as he scrawls a potion recipe across the chalkboard at the front of the room.

Harry balances his silver knife on the point, twisting it lightly into the scarred desktop. Today’s been a good day so far. No flares of magic, no sudden rush of nausea, and his nightmares have been easing now that he’s back in a dormitory with Ron. There’s something comforting about his best mate’s snores. Pomfrey had been pleased when he’d gone to see her this morning for his weekly checkup, and she’d packed him off quickly, bustling to the Floo to send her report to Guhathakurta at St Mungo’s.

His cauldron sits patiently to one side, surrounded by the ingredients Slughorn has passed out. Dove entrails glisten wetly in the dim light from the hanging lamps that flicker above every desk. For once they don’t make him want to sick up. He looks over at Ron. “You’re mental.”

Ron pokes him. “Even Hermione thinks Malfoy’s acting weird. All he does is stare at you. You should have seen him at the Quidditch match, she says. All alone with the Raveclaws and she swears he never took his eyes off your broom.”

“So?” Harry shrugs, trying to look calm. Inside, however, his heart thuds against his chest. He’s tried to ignore Malfoy in the Great Hall, but he’s always aware of him. Always. Ron and Hermione had been surprised when Harry had put off going down to Hagrid’s hut for a visit, but Harry’s terrified of running into Malfoy there. “He’s probably just plotting how to irritate me next.”

Ron doesn’t look convinced. “He’s plotting something, that’s for certain.” He scowls at his sister when she throws the bud of a gomphocarpus physocarpus at the back of his head and hisses shut it. Hermione glares back at him from beside Ginny.

Pay attention, she mouths. Ron just rolls his eyes and turns back to Harry.

“Anyway,” he says, folding his arms on the desk and leaning over the parchment he’s been doodling on, “I’m watching the bastard, just so you know. Thinking about setting the first-year boys on him during Care of Magical Creatures.” His brow furrows. “They think it’s ridiculous the way the girls are mooning all over him. Bet they’d be up to a prank or two or three.”

Harry can’t help but feel a swell of fondness. They may have had their spats, but when push comes to shove, Ron’s always been there for him in the end. “Thanks, mate,” he murmurs. He feels a bit sorry for Malfoy. God only knows what Ron’ll come up with. He’d spent years deflecting the twins’ pranks, after all. A lump catches in Harry’s throat as he thinks of Fred, buried beneath the biggest headstone Arthur had been able to afford. George still hasn’t recovered; Ron’s told him they’re worried about how much George has been drinking lately.

Slughorn turns and claps his hands, sending up a small plume of chalk dust. “Now,” he says with a cheerful smile. “Page forty-eight in your textbooks, please. Libatius Borage has provided you with a basic outline for brewing a poison antidote. Using it and the preliminary recipe I have just written on the board, you will craft your own customised antidote based on Golpalott's Third Law: The antidote for a blended poison will be equal to more than the sum of the antidotes for each of the separate components. I have placed upon each of your desks a small phial of poison; you will identify it and use it to begin your research. A final antidote and a report of your brewing process will be due on my desk by the second of November, at which point we will conduct a test of the poison and the effectiveness of your antidote on each one of you.” He ignores Hermione’s waved hand. “You may begin.”

Harry and Ron give each other a dismayed look. Two weeks to come up with their own antidote? They’re utterly buggered.

“Just think of the Aurors,” Ron mutters and he reaches for the dove entrails. “I’ll chop, you dice?”

“Fair enough” For a moment Harry misses the Forest of Dean and their cramped, tiny tent. Damn the Ministry and their requirements. He’s jealous of his former classmates who are just having to study for their NEWTs instead of suffering through classes again.

He reaches for the gomphocarpus physocarpus with a sigh.***

It’s late on Halloween morning when Draco’s awakened by a house-elf gently shaking his shoulder. “Master Draco,” Winky whispers in that ridiculously high-pitched elf voice of hers, “you is being needed, sir.”

Draco sits up, shaking off the remnants of a lovely dream that involved a soft mouth and messy dark hair. “What?” he asks sleepily. He rubs at his eyes.

“The Thestrals,” Winky says. “Master Centaur Firenze, sir, he is sending for you. The Thestrals is being very, very sick and he is saying Master Draco is being needed. Right away.”

Draco’s already out of bed, reaching for the trousers Winky’s pulled from his wardrobe. “Go to Professor Adoyo,” he says sharply. “Tell her I might be tardy to Defence Club this afternoon.” He’s relieved in a way. Sparring against Potter nearly every Saturday afternoon for the past three weeks has set his teeth on edge. He’s considered bowing out, but he suspects Potter would see that as a sign of weakness, and Draco will be damned if he’ll break first.

Winky nods and disappears with a loud crack. Draco pulls his shirt on, still buttoning it as he slams his door behind him.

Firenze’s in the clearing when Draco pushes past the undergrowth, with Hagrid beside him. They crouch over a Thestral collapsed on the ground, shaking.

Draco’s heart quickens. “What’s wrong?” He runs across the clearing, stopping only when Hagrid catches his arm, his beefy fingers digging into Draco’s skin.

“Swamp fever,” Hagrid says gruffly as Draco stares down at Ismene’s stallion. Creon tosses his head against the ground, his eyelids fluttering over white eyes. It’s only then Draco realises the clearing’s silent. The herd’s gone, save for Ismene, who stands over her mate’s twitching body. The foal’s nowhere to be seen.

“Where are the others?” Draco drops down beside Creon, reaching out to stroke his mane. Creon snaps weakly at his fingers, but he lies still as Draco’s fingers smooth across his heated skin. Blood seeps from the corner of his mouth. When Creon coughs, it splatters across the cuff of Draco’s sleeve.

Firenze leans down to touch the sharp protrusion of ribs along Creon’s torso. The stallion’s muscles are wasted away; he looks like a skeleton with skin draped over his frail body. “My herd moved them deeper into the forest when we discovered Creon’s condition. Swamp fever’s highly contagious; it drains their magical energy first, then feeds off their bodies.”

Creon huffs softly. Draco can feel a shudder go through the stallion. “Is he going to be all right?” he asks, but he already knows the answer.

“We’ll have to put him down,” Hagrid says. He wipes at the corner of his eyes with a huge scrap of greying linen. “Don’t seem right, but it’s best for the herd.”

Draco’s stomach twists. “Isn’t there a spell to cure--”

“No.” Firenze shakes his head. “Euthanasia is the only course of action.” His eyes drift to Ismene. “For both of them.”

Draco freezes. He looks up at Firenze. “Both of them,” he repeats dully.

Hagrid blows his nose on his handkerchief. “Can’t be helped,” he says. “She’s got the symptoms too.”

“No.” Draco stands up and steps towards Ismene. “Not her.” He places a hand on her thin back. She’s burning hot and he can feel every bone beneath her skin. He looks at Hagrid, his face crumpling. “You can’t--”

“There’s no other choice,” Firenze says, and his voice is gentle. “They’ll both die as it is, and it will be a painful death, Draco. You see how Creon suffers already.”

Draco looks down at the once prideful stallion. He blinks back warm wetness.

“In another day, she’ll be the same.” Firenze ‘s hand settles on Draco’s shoulder. “It’s kinder this way.”

“And Druella?” Draco asks. The words are barely audible.

Firenze pulls him closer. “She’ll be cared for. She’s not ill, nor does she show any signs of the fever. Another couple will take her as their own. She’s already begun the weaning process as it is. It won’t be overly difficult for her to readjust.”

Draco turns on him. “She’s losing her parents. I damned well think that will be hard.”

They look at each other. Hagrid stands up. “Draco. She’ll be fine. Yeh and me, we’ll make sure of that, all right?”

There’s a long silence, then Draco nods slowly. It feels as if there’s a vise on his chest. He draws in a ragged, painful breath. “How will you...” His voice catches in the back of his throat and he coughs. “How will you put them down?”

Hagrid and Firenze exchange a glance. “Normally we’d break their necks,” Firenze says quietly. “But the Killing Curse would be more humane.”

Draco looks up at them. “Neither of you have a wand.”

“No.” Firenze meets his gaze directly. “But yours has been returned. I’ve seen you here in the clearing.”

He’d slipped away more than once over the past few weeks to practise here, to get used to the feel and heft of his wand in his hand. It’s heavier than the Ministry wand. Far more powerful. Draco looks at Ismene and shudders. “I can’t.”

Firenze looks disappointed, but he nods. “Very well.” He moves closer to Creon, bending down to take his neck in his wide, strong hands. Draco looks away just before the sharp whinny followed by a stomach-churning snap. His hands shake. He shoves them in his pockets; his knuckles brush both his wands.

Hagrid dabs at his eyes with his handkerchief. “Poor thing.”

When Firenze moves towards Ismene, Draco stops him. “Don’t.” Firenze looks at him; Draco’s stomach clenches. He doesn’t want to do this. He can’t bear it. But he knows he has to. For Ismene. He doesn’t want her to hurt. Doesn’t want her to feel any pain.

He presses his face against her flank. He can hear the rattling of breath deep in her chest. He strokes her hair, her mane. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and she nudges his shoulder gently. She understands what’s happening. He knows she does. He looks up at her, and she ruffles his hair with her beak and whinnies.

Draco touches her face. “I’ll look after her,” he promises, and Ismene jerks her head in a nod. Her wings stretch for a moment, the skin between the bones horribly transparent, then she folds them back against her body and she snuffles against his ear.

She watches calmly as he pulls out his wand. The look she gives him is kind, he thinks, as if she’s absolving him of guilt. But it doesn’t. Guilt doesn’t work that way, he’s found. You remember always. Every night. Every one of your sins replaying over and over again in your mind until finally you go mad.

Draco wonders if he’s well on his way to that.

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes out, and then it’s over in a flash of green light and a whispered incantation that Draco barely realises comes from his own lips.

Ismene lies sprawled on the ground, one eye staring up sightlessly at the nearly bare branches above.

Draco falls to his knees, retching, his body wracked with sobs for the first time in months. He’s barely aware of Hagrid and Firenze beside him, lifting the corpses, carrying them deeper into the forest. He lies on his side, curled up into himself, tears seeping across his face. For Ismene. For Creon. For Vince. For Pansy. For his parents.

For himself.

Small hooves appear, then a tiny body settles on the leaves beside him, delicate wings folding against cool skin. Draco pulls Druella closer. He doesn’t know how she’s found him; he suspects Hagrid’s sent her his way. He’s a sentimental fool, Draco’s found.

He buries his face against her mane and closes his eyes.***

Harry is in a foul mood when he comes into the Defence Club. For some inexplicable reason his back’s been hurting for days, he’s barely slept the night before, and it’s Halloween. He’d gone out to Godric’s Hollow earlier in the morning, Ron and Hermione alongside him, with the intention of visiting his parents’ graves. They’d barely made it down High Street before the reporters were there, the photographer’s flash nearly blinding Harry.

Ron and Hermione had each grabbed Harry’s arms, Apparating them out with a sharp crack. They’d landed just outside Hogwarts gates, falling onto the soft grass. Harry just lay there, staring up at the clear Autumn sky, his chest tight and his eyes burning.

“All right, mate?” Ron had asked carefully, and it had taken Harry a long moment before he’d nodded and pushed himself to his feet.

Hermione had tried to talk him out of going to the club, telling him he could come sit by the lake with her and Ron, but one look at Ron’s face, and Harry knew Ron--though he tried gamely to hide it--was disappointed by that particular option. So he’d shrugged her away, brushed the grass off his robe and stalked up the hill to the castle, Hermione’s scolding of Ron drifting behind him.

Professor Adoyo looks up from Levitating the mats across the classroom when Harry throws the door open. Her robe is a bright apple green that reminds him of Rita Skeeter’s acid quill, and he scowls at her. “Mr Potter.” Her eyebrow raises. “Is something wrong?”

Harry hangs his robe on one of the hooks lining the south wall. He tugs his jumper down; it’s a bit snugger than usual, and he thinks the house-elves might have shrunk it. “Sorry, Professor.” He pulls his wand from his pocket and sighs. “Just a bad day.”

“Halloween,” she says with a nod. She tosses a stack of thick torso shaped pads his way, and he catches them. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Harry sets the pads down beside the matted piste. “Where’s Malfoy?” The bastard’s usually here before him, helping Adoyo set up.

“There’s been an issue with one of the Thestrals.” Adoyo opens one of the leaded-glass windows, letting the cool air drift in. The room tends to get too warm once the students begin practicing. “He sent word that he’d be here as soon as possible.”

Harry feels a tendril of worry. Malfoy adores the animals. If there’s something seriously wrong with one of them, he’ll be upset.

The students’ arrival distracts him. Adoyo lines them up on the piste and with a flick of her wand sends the pads hovering in front of each of them. Harry goes down the line with her, correcting form and assisting with pronunciation. The youngest student is a third year--the first and seconds being deemed too small for the club--the oldest a sixth year who wanted more practice time for her NEWTs. She gives Harry a sideways glance, smiling at him as he touches her wrist, lifting it higher into the proper stance.

“Are you going to Hogsmeade next weekend?” she whispers. Harry can’t quite remember her name. Anne or Anna or Annabelle, he thinks. Or perhaps Amelia. He’s not certain.

He shrugs and watches her cast Relashio again. “Maybe.” The spell explodes against the shoulder of her pad. “Still a bit off--don’t let your wrist go so limp when you aim.”

“I’ll be in the Three Broomsticks, if you like,” Anne-Anna-Annabelle-Amelia says. She brushes her dark curls back from her face. Her eyes are a bright blue. “Might even be persuaded to buy you a drink, if you’re good.”

Harry gives her a blank look.

“I don’t particularly think you’re Potter’s type, Arabella,” a familiar voice drawls from behind Harry. Arabella. Right. Harry turns, and Malfoy’s there, looking rumpled and exhausted. His hair falls over one eye, and there’s dirt on one sleeve and what Harry thinks might be blood on the cuff. He looks wild. Unsettled.

Arabella huffs and wrinkles her nose at Malfoy. “As if anyone would listen to you,” she sneers. “Fancied yourself so highly, didn’t you, Malfoy? All that carrying on with the Carrows last year didn’t do you one whit of good. Look at you now, mucking out porlock shit.”

Malfoy’s face pales beneath his tan, then his cheeks flush and his eyes narrow dangerously. Harry puts a hand on his arm. “Leave her,” he says just loudly enough for Arabella to hear. “It’s not worth it. She’s just a child.”

Adoyo’s voice rings across the room. “Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy.” They look her way. “If we clear the piste, I should like the two of you to show the students proper duelling technique.”

A cheer rises up from the door, and Harry glances over. A rather large group of first and second year students have crowded around to watch as they often do on Saturday afternoons. Harry sees a few of the girls that trail after Malfoy in the throng.

He stops Malfoy with a hand on his arm as the rest of the club clears off the piste. “Are you all right?”

Malfoy starts to shrug, then he hesitates. “No,” he says after a moment. “The Thestrals...” His voice catches. “Swamp fever. We had to euthanise two of them.”

“Oh.” Harry drops his hand. No wonder Malfoy looks so shattered. “Which ones?”

Malfoy catches his lip between his teeth. “Ismene and her stallion.” He looks away. “I killed her.” His mouth twists. “First time I’ve actually used Avada Kedavra.”

Harry doesn’t say anything for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he says finally, knowing what that must have cost Malfoy, and Malfoy meets his gaze. He nods.

“Thanks.”

“The foal?” Harry asks. He doesn’t want to; he’s afraid of the answer.

Malfoy turns his wand between his fingers, staring down at it. “She’s fine.”

“Good.”

They stand awkwardly beneath the open window. Sunlight streams into the room, shining on dust motes and making Malfoy’s hair gleam gold. Harry resists the urge to reach out and touch his cheek, to pull Malfoy into a rough embrace.

Adoyo calls his name, and Harry looks away at last, the moment broken. They step up onto the piste, their wands out, the other students looking on in fascination. At Adoyo’s command, they duel, flicking hexes and jinxes at each other, sidestepping and blocking.

Malfoy’s an excellent opponent, quick on his feet and with his wand, and Harry’s soon sweating, his fingers slipping on his hilt. He ducks Malfoy’s Blasting Curse easily, and fires back the Bat-Bogey Hex Ginny had made him an expert at. Malfoy knocks it aside with a nonverbal Protego. Harry can’t help but grin. It’s like a dance, their duelling is, and they’re both in perfect rhythm with each other.

Harry whirls, bending to the left as an Anteoculatia zings over his shoulder. Malfoy snorts.

“Almost, Potter,” he taunts him, and Harry flicks a Steleus at him that lands squarely in Malfoy’s chest. He bursts into a series of sneezes, but still manages to deflect Harry’s horn-tongue hex.

Malfoy’s eyes flash at him; his hair is cloud of silver-gilt whipping around his face. His cheeks are flushed, his mouth pursed, and he’s absolutely breathtaking in his fury.

“Impedimenta,” he cries out as Harry stumbles over a lace of his trainers. Harry’s caught by surprise, distracted. The spell slams into Harry’s chest and knocks him backwards. Magic explodes across Harry’s skin, sending a burst of bright light throughout the room, enough to cause the others to shield their eyes before it fades. His wand falls from his limp grasp.

The last thing Harry sees before his head snaps back painfully is the horrified expression on Malfoy’s face and then he falls to the matted piste.

His body vibrates with the impact and darkness overtakes him.***

“Do you mind telling me what happened?” Granger asks. “Did you use something unusual or did you feel strange when you cast it? Did you make any strange motions?”

The waiting room is tucked away in an alcove along the main hall of the Spell Damage ward. Healers and mediwitches hurry past, faces sober and tense, thick file jackets packed with paperwork and parchment fluttering along behind them. Draco’s been here for three hours now, sent to wait with no news. It had all happened so quickly: the trauma Healers had rushed to take Harry from him the moment he’d tumbled through the Floo from the Hogwarts infirmary. Pomfrey had been right behind him, her voice clipped and sharp as she’d informed the intake Healer of what had happened. She’d left him after twenty minutes, promising to return as soon as she could. Instead, Granger and Weasley had arrived an hour ago, their faces pinched with worry and, in Weasley’s case, suspicion.

Granger’s eyes are bright, unnaturally so in her pale face. Her bushy brown hair is drawn back in a loose chignon and it makes her look much older. Draco hates to disappoint, but he isn’t going to go there. He had felt off, angry and drawn to Potter at the same time. It was as if his thoughts had gone in one direction and his magic in another, but he isn’t going to tell Granger this, especially not with Weasley glowering at him from the hideous avocado green chair opposite him.

“I don’t know what happened,” Draco says finally. He twists his shirt sleeve around his fingers and glances back at mediwitches’ station. They don’t look their way. “Harry had just given me this wand back and I wasn’t sure I had control of it. It was a simple jinx, really. I just said it by the book and he...” Draco is still shocked when he thinks about Harry falling to the ground without a word in front of him. “...he just collapsed.”

Weasley snorts. “Sure, Malfoy. I’m certain everyone will believe you. Why would they have any questions for a traitorous bastard like you?”

“Ronald!” Granger looks genuinely shocked and Draco tries not to smirk. It pleases him to see Weasley get a bit of trouble with the girlfriend; he’s eager for any distraction that will keep him from thinking about Potter and whether he’s okay, whether he hurt him too badly with whatever the hell it was that came out of his wand.

Draco just looks away as Granger upbraids Weasley, unleashing her worry on her truculent oaf of a boyfriend. He wishes he had something to do other than wait, wait, wait. A mediwitch leaves the station and walk towards them. He sits up from his slouch, his stomach twisting. As bored as he is, he’s not sure he can bear the news if something truly bad has befallen Potter. He refuses to think about it.

She stops beside them. “Would you like some tea, loves?” She glances back at the ward doors they’d taken Harry through. According to the hospital pass clipped to her pale blue robe, her name’s Primula Woodshaw. “There’s a tea shop up on the fifth floor, and it might be a while yet. Don’t worry, he’s not in critical condition. They’re just running a few more tests.”

Something infinitely tight in Draco’s chest lets go all of the sudden, like a breath he’d been holding for hours. Relief floods him and he can’t speak for gratitude for a moment. He realises he thought he might have actually killed Potter and as much as he’s wished it in the past, the thought horrifies him now. And his own horror at it horrifies him on another level. Has he truly begun to give a damn what happens to the speccy git?

Granger looks over at him. “Would you like to go up, Draco? We did miss dinner and it would be nice to have a cup of tea.”

He shrugs.

“I’m staying here,” the Weasel declares. He folds his arms over his chest.

Granger sniffs primly. “No one asked you.” She stands up. “Draco?”

He’ll be damned if he’s going to be left here with Weasley. “Fine.” He pushes himself out of his chair and follows Granger to the lift.

The Weasel calls something after them about bringing a sandwich back but Granger pretends not to hear. She punches the fifth floor button with vigour and when the lift doors close behind them, she turns a frown on Draco.

“So,” Granger says with a purse of her mouth. “You and Harry?”

Draco scowls at her. “What?”

“What’s going on between the two of you?” She fixes him with a determined stare, as though he’s a recalcitrant teacup that won’t transform.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean...” he says.

“You know exactly what I mean.” She eyes him. “I see the looks he gives you when he thinks no one is watching. And I can tell that you are paying attention to him, particularly when you pretend otherwise. You’re not invisible, you know.”

The lift doors open with a shudder and a clang and Draco takes the welcome avenue of escape. Granger’s words have thrown him into confusion - he’d no idea he’d been that transparent and the revelation is distinctly uncomfortable.

“Harry has no idea, of course.” She continues smoothly, walking down the dingy yellow hallway to the double doors marked Tearoom. “He gets all sulky because he thinks you’re ignoring him.” Granger lays a hand on Draco’s arm and he turns to face her involuntarily. She lets it fall. “So, what I want to know is, why?”

Draco doesn’t have words. At all. He just looks at her, unable to put voice to everything that’s tumbling through his mind.

Granger’s face softens. “Draco. It’s okay.”

“No,” he says stiffly. “It’s damn well not okay. Potter was a fool, and I never should have--” He breaks off sharply, his teeth digging into his lower lip.

“Never should have what?” Her voice is gentle. “Look, I don’t care if you and Harry have feelings for each other.”

“Shut up,” Draco says and he turns on her, his jaw tight. “You don’t know what the hell you’re on about--”

“Then what?” The look Granger gives him is pure steel.

Draco’s fists clench. “We fucked, Granger.”

She brings her hand to cover her mouth but he gives her credit for dropping it a moment later. “Oh,” she says in a very small voice. “That would explain a lot.”

“Explain what?”

Granger tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She doesn’t quite look at him.“Harry had a lot of questions about his identity over the summer.”

“He didn’t seem to have any questions while lying on his back,” Draco says, not caring how harsh it sounds. “But I suppose he thought it meant more than it did.”

“Perhaps it did.” Granger’s eyes narrow. “It’s a very intimate act for some, you know.”

Draco doesn’t answer.

Granger pushes the gouged yellow door open. “Do you want tea or not?” She doesn’t wait for him to answer, but strides in, without looking back to see if Draco is following.

He catches the door before it closes. “As if I know what I want,” he murmurs under his breath.

The door swings shut behind him.***

Harry wakes up to the familiar beep of a monitoring spell over his head. He groans softly, his entire body aching. Infirmary again, he thinks, and he tries to remember what exactly’s landed him here this time. Pomfrey’s going to be furious with him, he thinks. His head hurts and he hopes he doesn’t have a concussion - the potion for that tastes awful. He remembers falling and white blond hair--Malfoy. Did Malfoy push him?

His eyes flutter open, then blink quickly at the bright light above him. The infirmary smells odd, a bit more antiseptic than usual. And as he comes to fuller consciousness, he realises the spell array around him is far more complicated than usual: there seems to be a glittering tissue of monitoring spells interlaced with spells he doesn’t recognise, all wrapped around him like a cocoon.

“You’re awake,” Ron says next to him, and Harry turns his head to see the blur of his best friend perched on a too small chair next to his bed.

“Yeah.” Harry swallows, his throat dry. “Hey.” He tries to sit up, and a broad hand pushes him gently back against the pillows.

“No moving,” Ron says. “Hospital rules.”

“Hospital.” Harry blinks again, and this time the world around him shifts into focus as Ron slips his glasses back on his face. He recognises a near empty St Mungo’s ward, a privacy curtain drawn halfway around his bed. He licks his lip. “That bad?”

Ron gives him a lopsided smile. “Don’t know yet. The Healer’s haven’t said.” He shifts in his chair, his hands laced between his knees. “Hermione’s here too. She’s up in the tearoom with Malfoy.”

“Malfoy?” Harry’s tired. He must have misheard. Malfoy wouldn’t be here in the hospital waiting for him.

“Yeah,” Ron says with a sigh. “I told him he could leave anytime, mate. I really did. Bastard wouldn’t. I think he just wanted to be here to torment you when you woke up.”

Harry sinks back into his stack of pillows. His head hurts a lot. “What happened?”

“Impediment Jinx gone awry.” Ron’s brow furrows. “You don’t remember? Hermione’s trying to figure out if Malfoy did anything funny. Wouldn’t want to be him right now. You know how she can be when she wants to know something.”

“Fuck,” Harry says. He can’t help a wave of sympathy for Malfoy.

Ron grins. “Yeah. The Ferret deserves it though. He’s been acting funny all evening.”

Before Harry can ask him how, Guhathakurta enters the ward, a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Mr Potter.” He stands at the end of Harry’s bed. “Not precisely the way I’d have liked to see you again.” He frowns at Harry. “Not to mention I was called in from my grandmother’s birthday celebration.”

Harry feels an irrational prick of guilt. “Sorry.”

Guhathakurta snorts. “I probably owe you for that. Terribly boring dinner party with the whole extended family.” He glances at Ron. “You know how that goes.”

“Do I ever,” Ron mutters.

Harry doesn’t, but he just nods.

“How are you feeling?” Guhathakurta flicks his wand at Harry, and a trickle of warm magic slides through the cocoon of monitoring spells to settle against Harry’s sternum.

“Okay.” Harry clears his throat. “A bit nauseous, I guess. And my head hurts.”

Guhathakurta grunts softly and dips his wand lower. The magic slips down to Harry’s abdomen. It tingles softly. “Nothing else?”

Harry considers. “Not really.”

“Right.” Guhathakurta slips his wand back into his robe and scribbles something across one of his papers with a forceful sweep of his peacock quill. “I have some surprising news for you.” He hesitates. “You might want to hear it privately.”

Ron lifts his chin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Anything you want to tell me can be said in front of him,” Harry says, almost at the same time.

Guhathakurta eyes them both. “Very well.” He shuffles through the papers and coughs delicately. “It seems that in your last set of scans we may have overlooked something. A second magical field in the process of forming. Quite difficult to demarcate, actually. It’s no wonder the results were conflicting.”

Harry sits up, suddenly nervous. His head swims. “A second magical field?” All he can think of are Horcruxes. Perhaps Dumbledore had been wrong. Perhaps he hadn’t actually got rid of the bastard--

“You’re pregnant, Harry,” Guhathakurta says bluntly. He looks him in the eye. “Between thirteen to fifteen weeks, we estimate, although it’s difficult to ascertain in the absence of a menstrual cycle.”

Harry stills, staring at him. “I’m what?”

Ron swears softly. “You’re joking.”

“I’m afraid not, son.” Guhathakurta turns to him, taking in the hand he’d laid on Harry’s coverlet. “I’m afraid you’re going to be a father.”

“Me?” Ron’s voice squeaks. “I’m not. Harry. What--No, mate, you’ve got his all wrong. I’m not--” He turns to Harry, utterly speechless.

“It’s not him,” Harry says quietly. His hand settles on his stomach, smoothing the soft cotton over it. “This...” He bites his lip. “Men can’t get pregnant.”

Ron and Guhathakurta both look at him. “Not normally, no,” Guhathakurta says. “The frequency rate is roughly one every fifty, sixty years. I’ve read about it in the literature though, and my mentor assisted with a male pregnancy during his residency.”

“Shit,” Ron says. He pulls his hand away from Harry’s and rubs his face. “Pregnant.”

Guhathakurta sits on the edge of Harry’s bed. “All right. I have to ask a few questions.” He flips to another sheet of paper, this one pale green. “Have you taken any substances that would cause unnatural fertility?”

Harry shakes his head wordlessly.

Guhathakurta hmms and scrawls across the paper. “Has any being pronounced a fertility curse against you that you know of?”

Harry shakes his head again.

“Right.” Guhathakurta taps his quill lightly against the file jacket. “Have you had sexual intercourse with a man or a woman Polyjuiced or Metamorphed into the form of a man?

“No to the latter,” Harry says. His throat is tight. He can barely get the words out. He can’t look at Ron. “I did, um, have sex with someone. On my birthday.”

“What?” Ron’s eyebrows shoot to the ceiling. “Who?” He gives Harry a horrified look.

Guhathakurta frowns and looks through his papers. “July the thirty-first? That fits with the diagnostics.” He looks up. “You may want to inform this person of your situation, and we’d certainly like to test him too.”

“Why?” Harry can’t help asking. “You don’t think he--”

“To get the fullest medical description possible,” Guhathakurta says. “These cases are extremely rare and it’s important to chronicle everything we can. We still don’t understand all of the mechanisms, although they tend to be associated with unusual magical phenomena and extreme magical field fluctuations; however, we lack proper modern scientific descriptions. There’s also the question of genetic risk and whether the pregnancy is viable.”

“Viable,” Harry repeats weakly.

Guhathakurta nods. “Capable of producing live birth.” He takes in the look on Harry’s face. “By Caeserean of course. As for genetic risks, with the combination of two male gametes, the chromosomal results can be highly unstable.”

With a detached part of his brain, Harry notices Guhathakurta’s mounting excitement about the situation, like Hagrid with a new rare and dangerous magical creature. The rest of his mind is simply shut down and he has no idea what to say or so. He can’t possibly be pregnant. This must be a concussion and he’s delusional. Perhaps he’s even still unconscious and having a shockingly vivid dream. He pinches his arm surreptitiously. It hurts.

“You think his magic being unstable had something to do with this,” Ron says.

“Most likely.” Guhathakurta’s voice takes on a tinge of glee. “It’s highly unusual, of course, and there may have been other external factors that we need to run to ground, but it would provide a perfect environment for something like this to occur in.”

Other factors. Harry thinks of the shattered ring lying on his chest of drawers and swallows. It couldn’t have... He can see the clearing in his mind’s eye, can remember the swell of light and silvery magic that enveloped his and Malfoy’s bodies. Fuck.

Ron’s looking at him oddly. “Harry.”

Guhathakurta clears his throat. “Can you tell me if the father’s human?”

Harry nods. “He’s a wizard.”

“He.” Ron’s pale beneath his freckles. His mouth is twisted in a determined line. “Who?”

Harry closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. When he opens them, he turns to face his best friend of the past seven years, having no idea what effect his words will have on them, but knowing somehow everything’s changed. “Malfoy. It was Draco Malfoy.”

The ward’s silent. Guhathakurta takes a step back. “The Death Eater.”

“He’s not a Death Eater any more,” Harry says hotly. “He was pardoned and he’s serving a Community Order.”

Ron’s staring at him, his fists tight. “Malfoy.” The name is barely audible gritted out between clenched teeth.

“Yes.” Harry raises his chin. “That’s who it was.”

The door to the ward pushes open and Hermione slips in. “Harry,” she says, running to his bedside. A few moments later Malfoy comes shuffling through with wrapped sandwiches and a steaming mug of tea in his hands.

Harry’s heart leaps into his throat at the sight of Malfoy. There’s a strange twist in his belly at the thought of some part of Malfoy still being inside of him.

Ron’s head snaps up. He bares his teeth, and too late Harry realises what he’s about to do. “Ron,” he says urgently, but it’s too late.

With a full cry, Ron launches himself at Malfoy, toppling him to the ground. Tea splashes across the tiled floor; the cup shatters. Sandwiches bounce off the baseboards as Ron’s fist crashes into Malfoy’s face with a sickening crunch of bone and cartilage. Blood sprays in an arc.

Harry shouts and tries to leap up, but Guhathakurta holds him down and shouts over his shoulder for assistance. Mediwitches come running, as Hermione looks in shock between Harry thrashing on the bed and Ron and Malfoy rolling across the floor, their fists slamming against skin and bone. Belatedly she tries to pull Ron off of Malfoy, but stops short as a fist nearly connects with her jaw.

“Stop,” Harry yells. “Stop it, Ron. Stop.” He jerks against Guhathakurta’s hands, desperate to be free. One of the monitoring spells explodes in a shatter of blue sparks as the others blare shrilly in warning. He can feel his magic building, roiling through his nervous system. He screams wildly and digs his fingers into Guhathakurta’s arm.

“Don’t make me sedate you,” Guhathakurta growls in his ear. “I’d rather not, but it’s dangerous for you to be this upset.”

Malfoy’s flipped Ron over and is straddling him. He raises his fist and Hermione gasps as the mediwitches whisper about calling security. Harry breaks free of Guhathakurta’s grasp and flies off the bed, his body trembling with magic and adrenalin. He doesn’t even care that his arse is hanging out of his hospital gown.

Guhathakurta’s voice echos across the room. “Stop, Harry. You need to settle down right now or you’ll hurt yourself and the baby.”

Malfoy’s fist drops, and he gapes slack-jawed at the admonishing Healer. Ron takes the opportunity to twist his hips, throwing Malfoy off as he slams his fist one last time against Malfoy’s gut. He staggers to his feet, rubbing his jaw. “Fuck you,” he spits out.

“Ron,” Hermione says, and then she stops, looking back at Harry. “The baby?”

Ron wipes blood off his split lip. “That bastard,” he says bitterly, gesturing towards Malfoy still sprawled across the floor, “has somehow managed to get Harry up the duff.”

“That’s impossible,” Hermione and Malfoy say in chorus. Malfoy’s face is dripping blood and his eyes are leaking with tears. His nose is cocked at an unnatural angle.

“No,” Guhathakurta interjects. “It’s merely improbable. But it does happen, and Mr Potter is most definitely pregnant.”

Harry can’t take his eyes off Malfoy. “It’s yours,” he says quietly.

Malfoy just stares at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“My birthday,” Harry says. “You remember. You were there after all.”

Malfoy slumps slightly, and the mediwitches edge closer, eyeing his broken nose. “Circe. My parents will kill me.”

“I don’t understand,” Hermione murmurs. “Harry doesn’t have the proper reproductive system...”

“His body will adapt,” Guhathakurta says. He’s beginning to sound cheerful again. “The extreme magical field variation allows conception to occur without the normal mechanisms of human reproduction and the body evolves magically to create a proto-womb, though his normal sex organs remain intact.”

Harry can’t help the flush that rises on his cheeks. He’s not exactly comfortable having his sexual life examined out loud, not to mention his internal organs.

Ron turns to him. “If you weren’t preggers, I’d deck you too,” he snaps. “Fuck, Harry. All that time with my sister, and now you’re gay? What in buggery were you thinking?”

“Buggery, actually,” Malfoy intones dryly.

Ron raises a fist threateningly, and Malfoy bares bloody teeth at him.

Hermione wrinkles her nose. “Someone heal him please?”

The mediwitches swoop in to pull Malfoy aside, and Ron turns back to Harry. “Did you fuck him when you were with Ginny?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Harry says with a frustrated sigh. “You know I broke up with Ginny before I came to Hogwarts. I barely even knew I was gay myself. Ask Hermione.”

Ron’s face tightens. “You knew?” He wheels on Hermione.

Hermione raises her hands in protest. “I only knew he was exploring the possibility.”

“He seems to have been exploring more than that,” Ron says, gesturing towards Harry’s belly. “Now look where it’s got him. If only you’d told me, we could have stopped him before he became a freak.”

The room falls into uneasy silence. Harry tenses. “Get out,” he says quietly. “I don’t care how angry at me you are. That’s going too far.”

Ron shoots Harry a wounded look and storms out.

“Harry,” Hermione says, but he cuts her off.

“Just go after him,” he says. “He needs you.”

Hermione brushes his cheek with a quick kiss. “I’ll be back. Be careful and rest.”

Harry nods as she flies out the door. He looks back at Guhathakurta, ignoring Malfoy who’s had his face cleaned and Episkeyed by the mediwitches. “What’s next?”

Guhathakurta gathers up his files. “I’m going to prescribe a mild sleeping potion. Nothing too dangerous, of course. But you need to recover after all of this. I’ll send an owl to Hogwarts for the both of you. I’d like to run some more genetic tests in the morning, and I’d like to bring in an obstetric Healer for consultation.” He hesitates. “It’ll be necessary in any eventuality to have qualified help.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Harry climbs back into the bed, suddenly exhausted, his mind racing. “As long as it’s not tonight.”

He barely notices as the mediwitches file out of the ward. Malfoy hesitates, then edges closer to Harry’s bed.

“Potter.”

Harry turns his head on the pillows, looking at him. He feels a strange electric field surrounding their bodies as Malfoy leans over his bed.“What?”

Malfoy licks his lips. “I’m sorry I hit you with that spell.”

“It’s not your fault.” Harry’s eyelids are suddenly too heavy and he closes them.

Malfoy snorts. “If you say so. The Healer seems to think otherwise. Did you know?”

Harry’s eyes fly open. “No. Merlin. No. I had no idea until just now.”

Guhathakurta coughs softly from the edge of the privacy curtain. “Mr Malfoy. We’re arranging a bed for you in the Derwent Ward.”

“Very well. Thank you.” Malfoy steps away from the bed. He’s nearly at the door when Harry stops him.

“I’m sorry about Ismene,” he says softly. His eyes meet Malfoy’s for a long moment.

Malfoy’s lip trembles. He clenches his fist. “As am I.” He turns and the doors swing behind his retreating form.

The lights in the ward dim, and Harry’s left alone. A mediwitch appears with the potion and he’s scarcely drunk it before he closes his eyes and drifts into sleep.***

“Mr Malfoy, if you would, please focus again on the tip of my wand.”

With a sigh, Draco looks back at Guhathakurta’s wand. It glows a soft pale blue. The Healer’s performing a mildly hypnotic spell for diagnosis, Draco knows, and he’s explained that Draco has to remain conscious to get the proper reading. Draco’s well on his way to a cranky boredom: they’ve been at this all morning and it wouldn’t be an understatement to say he didn’t rest well last night. A large part of him refuses to believe this pregnancy nonsense can possibly be real. When he’d woken up to the rattle of the breakfast trolley --after only a few hours of sleep and nightmares involving the Killing Curse and Potter with a swollen stomach that exploded as a Thestral foal fought its way out of his body--he’d been certain he was the victim of a horrible Weasleycentric prank until Guhathakurta had bounded in to Draco’s corner of the ward at half seven to prove otherwise. He’d been running tests on Draco with the occasional interruption to dash across the hall to Harry’s ward to check the results ever since.

The wand dips ever so slightly. “I’m sorry to ask again, but please focus. We’re almost done with this set.” Guhathakurta is almost impossibly cheerful for number of hours they’ve been at it. According to the large clock on the wall, it’s nearly noon.

Draco scowls at him, but turns his gaze back to the faintly pulsating light. It makes his head hurt.

Guhathakurta finishes his reading and jots the results onto the topmost parchment of a large stack that perches precariously on the bedstand and threatens to knock over the mostly uneaten remains of Draco’s breakfast. “Well, that’s that then. You’re in fine health and you don’t seem to be under any unusual magical influences.” His glance falls on the Dark Mark on Draco’s forearm, and Draco has a sudden urge to cover it. He doesn’t, but he presses his arm against his side. His cheeks warm. Guhathakurta coughs and shuffles his papers, looking away. “It’ll most likely take a bit more time for the remainder of your and Mr Potter’s results to come down from the labs, but I’d say you needn’t worry about your own condition.”

Draco picks at the sheet draped over his hips. He’s not really concerned about his own health, but the entire situation is worrisome. He wishes he were anywhere but here. Being in hospital makes it all too too shatteringly real. “May I leave, Healer?”

Guhathakurta flips through his parchments. “I’d like to have you close by for at least the afternoon, if anything develops. We’re finished with the primary diagnostics, but it’s hard to say what else we’ll need to run after the first round of the laboratory tests comes back.” He scrawls something across a form and hands it to the mediwitch who’s just walked up. She murmurs something to him and he nods before turning back to the papers. His dark hair falls over one eye and he brushes it back impatiently with a flick of his peacock quill.

“I don’t really have anything to do here,” Draco says. His mouth twists to one side. “And I don’t particularly fancy reading year-old issues of Witch’s Weekly or the romance novels from the lounge.”

After a few moments, Guhathakurta looks up. He blinks. “Sorry. I was just tabulating something. What would you like? I might be able to find something else in the staff lounge, newspapers and the like.”

“I’d like to be back at Hogwarts doing my duties.” Draco’s surprised to find that he means it. He misses the rhythm of his day. God only knows what Hagrid might get up to, preparing for tomorrow morning’s Care of Magical Creatures class. He’ll have the third year Gryffindor and Slytherins, and Weasley will be no help at all with that lot. He sighs in annoyance. “But as that seems to be impossible, I don’t know. It seems ridiculous for me to lie about.” Pansy would laugh at him, he knows. You’ve always been a horribly lazy sod, Draco, she’d say. When did the thought of a day in bed become anathema to you? Still, the idea of being confined to a hospital bed makes Draco’s chest hurt. He supposes he’s more anxious than he’s willing to admit.

Guhathakurta frowns and taps his chin absentmindedly with his quill. “They always need help in the children’s ward. There are a lot of patients whose parents are gone during the day who could use someone to play with them or read to them.”

Draco snorts. “With all due respect, sir, I’m far better with animals than people.” He glances down at his arm. “And, frankly, no parent wants their child near a friendly helper with the Dark Mark.”

“Perhaps.” Guhathakurta sets his quill aside. “Do you enjoy working at Hogwarts?”

Draco is caught off guard. No one ever asks him what he thinks of his Community Order. “Mostly. Although there are moments…” He trails off, thinking of Ismene. He chews on his lip. He can’t believe it hasn’t even been a full twenty-four hours since he’d turned his wand on her.

“What moments?” Guhathakurta is directing his full attention to Draco now and it’s a bit disconcerting.

“I had to... there was a Thestral who was sick, and we had to...” Draco swallows around the lump that has appeared in his throat. He won’t see her again. The thought makes him want to curl into himself. “I had to euthanise her.”

Guhathakurta sits on the edge of the bed. “What was wrong with her?”

“She had swamp fever.” Draco says. He doesn’t look at Guhathakurta. “She’d just foaled three months ago and I helped during the process.”

A wave of terror grips Draco and he can’t speak for a moment. Somehow all of his dread is focused on one point. He doesn’t want to fall apart in front of the Healer, but he has to say something. He can’t pretend to be disinterested any longer. He licks his lip and stares down at the sheet accordion folded between his fingers. The crisp white cotton is striped with tiny pale blue lines. “She seemed healthy, and then she was about to die,” he says softly. He looks up at Guhathakurta. “Are you sure that Potter’s not in danger?”

Guhathakurta meets his gaze evenly. “I can’t say at the moment. I don’t see immediate signs of danger, and he has good care, but the situation is quite rare.”

“I’m afraid he’s going to die,” Draco murmurs. He drops the sheet and smoothes it across his thighs. It’s strange to admit this to a complete stranger. No one who knows either him or Potter would believe him, though. “I don’t want to kill him.”

“I see.” Guhathakurta regards him for a long moment. A mediwizard comes into the ward, stopping by one of the other beds with a steaming potion phial. Guhathakurta watches him, rolling his wand between his fingertips. Draco’s grateful for the Muffliato the Healer had cast earlier. “Even if something happened to him, it wouldn’t be your fault. You didn’t cause this, you know. No one knows what causes this.” Guhathakurta looks back at Draco. “Mr Potter’s unruly magic perhaps. Or the fact that he died and came back.”

“You know about that.”

Guhathakurta’s smile is wry. “I am his Healer, Mr Malfoy. I know a great many things about Harry’s recent experiences. The fact remains that magic is at times more of an art than a science and any numbers of factors could contribute to an unusual situation such as this.”

“But I’m the other...” Draco can’t say it. The word hangs between them, unspoken. He draws in a deep breath. “This happened because I had sex with him. And it’s dangerous precisely because no one knows how it works.” Draco’s face is hot and he’s raising his voice without thinking about it.

“Yes, that’s true.” Guhathakurta says in steadying tones. “And it’s very important to keep him under proper medical supervisions, whatever decision is made about the pregnancy.”

Draco blinks and falls back against his pillows. Of course. Harry could have an abortion. It might be risky, too, but surely it would be far less risky than carrying a child your body wasn’t meant to hold. “Are you advising termination, then?” It goes against everything his father believed about the bloody sanctity of wizarding life—pureblood wizarding, at least—but Mother had been far more pragmatic. She’d made certain, back before it was clear that his proclivities leant the opposite direction, that he knew about contraceptive charms and how to discreetly obtain abortifacient potions, should his partner require one.

He wonders what she’ll think about this particular situation. Oh, Merlin.

“We don’t advise such things unless there is a direct threat to the life of the person carrying or something drastically wrong with the foetus.” Guthakurta’s face is impassive. “It’s up to the parents and their choices. In this case, there’s no endangerment indicated.”

“But that could change, couldn’t it?” Draco raises his voice again, tensing at the thought of his mother’s reaction to him getting Potter of all people up the duff. “It’s a risky situation and no one knows what could happen as you’ve said.”

“Well, of course. All pregnancy is risky,” Guhathakurta says. “For that matter, being alive is a fairly risky endeavour. But in Mr Potter’s case, he’s young and strong, albeit with unusual magical fluctuations, and there is no direct threat at the moment.” He pauses. “I’m sorry but I really shouldn’t discuss further particulars without his consent. I’ve likely said more than enough as it is, but as one of the fathers this concerns you as well. You really should talk to Harry yourself about the situation if you’re worried about the outcome.”

Draco refuses to be mollified. “If you were in my situation, what would you do?”

Guhathakurta smiles and stands. “I’d be concerned, as you are, and also completely surprised. And I’d want to discuss it with the other person directly involved. That is all I can advise: talk to him.”

Draco rubs his hands over his face with a groan. Talking isn’t exactly something he and Potter have ever been good at. Fighting, yes. Mocking, yes. Fucking, even, as surprising as that had been to discover. Talking, however….

His stomach growls. Loudly.

“I’m sure lunch will be served soon.” Guhathakurta drops the Muffliato as the meal trolley rolls through the ward doors. “ Ah. Just in time.” He picks up his stack of parchments. “If you were interested in helping on the children’s ward, I’m sure I could find you a robe with long sleeves. No one looks beyond the volunteer’s robe.”

“Thank you.” Draco realises how very kind Guhathakurta is trying to be. Still his heart pounds fiercely with anxiety. He needs something, anything, to distract him from his dread.

A young orderly barely older than Draco himself, his face still spotty, removes a tray from the trolley. Draco accepts it gratefully, suddenly ravenous at the sight of piping hot chicken and vegetable pie and mixed berry crumble covered with custard sauce. He realises that this is the first proper meal he’s had in at least a day, if not longer. After a brisk nod and a promise to check back in, Guhathakurta walks down the long ward at an impressive clip. Draco lets himself be seduced from his nebulous worries by the solidity of the food in front of him. He thinks only about eating and how one might go about obtaining a second tray.***

“Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy, would you please explain how we have arrived at this terrible state of affairs?” The Headmistress’s face is livid and her lips so compressed as to be almost invisible. The trilling quality of her rs and her crisp diction instills fear in Harry.

It’s never good when she’s rolling her rs this violently, he thinks. He sneaks a glance at Malfoy, sitting tensely in the other chair on this side of MacGonagall’s desk.

Malfoy grips the arms of the chair, his knuckles white. Still his voice barely quavers when he raises his chin and says, “I believe, Headmistress, it began when I fuck--”

Harry cuts him off. “It happened on my birthday.” He can feel the heat in his face rise. He shifts in his chair uncomfortably. The last thing he wants to do is discuss his sex life with his Headmistress, especially after three days of observation and painstakingly thorough examination at St Mungo’s.

McGonagall lays a hand on her breastbone for a moment. “Oh, thank God.” At Harry’s puzzled look, she explains. “The situation would be beyond saving if it had happened during term.”

“I’m staff, Potter,” Malfoy says in a bored tone. He stares up at the stony-faced portrait of Snape that glares down his hooked nose at the proceedings with a disapproving frown. “You’re a student, even if you are the Saviour of the Wizarding World.”

“This is highly irregular, Minerva,” Snape’s portrait says. The other Headmasters nod along with him, all save Dumbledore, who snoozes away in his chair.

She waves a hand at him. “Hush, Severus. I’ll thank you kindly to let me deal with this matter.” Harry’s amused to see even Snape flinch at the sharp glance McGonagall turns on him, until that look is focused back on him. “Mr Malfoy is correct,” McGonagall says. “And, that, Mr Potter, makes your condition very...” She hesitates. “Challenging.”

Snape snorts. “I rather think that would be the least challenging aspect, all things considered.” The look he gives Harry is scathing. “He’s with child, Minerva. It’s unprecedented in the history of Hogwarts.”

“I hadn’t failed to notice, Severus.” McGonagall keeps her steely glare fixed on Harry. “But thank you for reminding me yet again why we’ve all gathered here. At least we’ve determined that the contact occurred before Harry was enrolled as a student. Is that correct, Mr Potter?”

Harry thinks of Malfoy’s hands on his heated skin. He swallows. “It was just my birthday,” he says again. “We didn’t...” He trails off, not entirely certain how to continue.

“It was only the one night,” Malfoy says. He sits up straighter in his chair. “We haven’t been alone together since July.”

“Would you be willing to take Veritaserum to confirm that?” Snape snaps.

Malfoy turns towards his former Head of House. “I shouldn’t hesitate, Professor.” They exchange a long look before Snape leans back in his chair with a grunt.

“We won’t ask that of you.” McGonagall straightens the paperweights on her desk, setting them in precise distances from one another. “Your word and Mr Potter’s are good enough.” She looks at Harry expectantly. He nods.

Malfoy laughs, sharply. “You mean Potter’s is.” His mouth twists to one side, his expression shifting from wary to almost cruel. He’s hiding, Harry can tell. Malfoy’s foot bounces ever so slightly against the worn rug.

McGonagall gives him an even look. “No. I meant what I said. It’s important that you both corroborate this story. The Ministry will have questions.”

“Of course.” Malfoy glances away, but for a moment Harry can see the flash of fear in his eyes. His skin pales beneath his tan. “Is this where you tell me I’m going to Azkaban?”

“Whyever for, dear boy?”

Harry looks up at Dumbledore’s voice. The portrait of the former Headmaster stretches in his chair, scratching his beard as he yawns.

Malfoy shrugs. “The Ministry isn’t known for their judiciousness. And I have got Harry Potter up the duff.”

At Malfoy’s uncharacteristic slip into vulgarity, the portrait of Phineas Black bolts upright. “What?” Evidently the gist of the conversation hadn’t been entirely clear to him before. The other portraits shush him loudly, ignoring his protests.

Dumbledore merely beams down from his perch on the wall. “Quite exciting, really.” His blue eyes find Harry’s. “Miraculous, one might say.”

Harry looks away. The ring’s in his pocket now; he’d picked it up the moment he’d returned back to Hogwarts. The warmth of the tarnished gold is comforting in a strange way.

“Still, Minerva,” Snape says, leaning against his frame, “there must be consequences for Potter’s actions.”

“I wasn’t the only one,” Harry mutters under his breath, and Malfoy’s nostrils flare.

McGonagall sighs. “You needn’t worry, Severus. Given that this pregnancy is viable according to the Healers, we do need to know whether or not Mr Potter intends to carry to term.”

All eyes turn towards Harry. He rubs the palms of his hands along the seams of his jeans. “I...” He coughs softly as Malfoy sits forward, his hair falling into his face. “I don’t know.”

“You can’t be serious,” Malfoy says. His eyes are dark. “It’s too dangerous.”

“And you’re only eighteen,” Snape says tightly. “There’s no sense in Mr Malfoy being forced to throw his life away for your sentimental Gryffindor fantasies, Potter.”

Harry scowls. “I’m not forcing Malfoy into anything. If I keep the--if I keep it, he doesn’t have to have anything to do with either of us.”

Malfoy’s silent, looking at him.

“I have other people who’ll help me,” Harry says. “Andromeda for one.”

“No one’s asking you to make the decision this evening, Harry,” McGonagall says, her voice gentling. “You’ve had a long stay in hospital.” Her gaze flicks towards Snape’s portrait. “But I will need to know your intentions at some point in the near future as it will affect your schooling.”

“You’re not throwing me out.” Harry’s aghast. He hadn’t thought of that possibility.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Malfoy snaps. He sits up in his chair, uncrossing his legs. “They wouldn’t be that idiotic.” Harry’s surprised. He would have assumed Malfoy of all people would be the first to applaud his expulsion.

McGonagall purses her mouth. “Thank you for that rousing defence, Mr Malfoy.” She folds her hands, resting them on her desk blotter. “Although, you are correct. While in most cases such as this--” At Snape’s snort, she frowns. “Well, with other instances of student pregnancies, it has been the policy of the school to allow parents to remove their children with minimal disruption, your particular circumstances are a bit more...” She hesitates, searching for the proper word.

“Utterly witless,” Snape says dryly. “Or perhaps heedlessly cretinous.”

“Extraordinary.” McGonagall glares at him over the rims of her spectacles. “Honestly, Severus, if you can’t keep a civil tongue I’ll have your portrait hung in Horace’s office.”

“Cow,” Snape mutters beneath his breath, and Malfoy doesn’t bother to hide his smirk.

McGonagall turns back to Harry. She looks highly uncomfortable. “Arrangements will have to be made if you choose to remain pregnant. Gryffindor Tower is out of the question, of course.”

Harry’s temper flares, and his fingers dig into the arms of his chair. “Why the hell not? It’s not like it’s contagious.”

Snape opens his mouth, leaning forward in his frame, and Dumbledore says in that particularly calm tone of his, “Severus.” Snape sits back with a scowl and a flick of his robes, his sulking obvious.

“Thank you, Albus.” McGonagall sighs. She stands and walks over to her sideboard, her black robe swishing around her ankles. A ruffle of ivory lace at her throat is pinned with a heavy silver brooch in the shape of a thistle. She reaches for a crystal decanter and unstoppers it, pouring a golden liquid into a small glass. Her back is ramrod straight. “We simply can’t, Mr Potter. You’ll need a private room.”

“Talk about favouritism,” Malfoy says bitterly. “Everyone else gets sent down, and Potter gets a private room.”

McGonagall turns, her glass in her hand. She takes a sip. “You shouldn’t complain, Mr Malfoy. If he requires it, you’ll be sharing with him.”

“What?” Harry says. “You can’t--”

Malfoy’s already out of his seat, his hands clenched into fists. “I am not--”

McGonagall eyes them both over her whisky. “I can assure you that I can and you will.” She sits back down at her desk. “There will either be an abortion or there will not. If there is not, you will both live together as a couple while you are at Hogwarts.” The look she gives them is sharp and cold. “You are a staff member, Mr Malfoy, and Harry is a student. By all rights, I should sack you this moment, and do believe me when I say there are school governors who would insist upon it. But as you and Mr Potter are the same age, and Mr Potter has returned to Hogwarts under special circumstances, an exception can be made. Married staff have lived at the castle on occasion--”

“I am not marrying him,” Malfoy says hotly. “Have you lost your mind? We’re both wizards. It isn’t even legal--”

“Do sit down.” McGonagall’s tone brokes no argument, and Malfoy sinks back into his chair. His hands tremble and there’s a sheen of sweat on his upper lip.

Harry hesitates. “You’re not asking us to do that, ma’am. Are you?” He hadn’t even wanted to marry Ginny. There’s no way he’d let himself get shackled to Draco bloody Malfoy.

“No.” McGonagall sets her whisky down. “As there’s no legal option for legitimacy, you’ll merely have to live together for the remainder of the term.” She sighs again. “Really, Harry, you’ve put me in a terrible bind. Should you continue the pregnancy, I’ll be forced to go before the board of governors. The only way I can keep Mr Malfoy’s position is if I persuade them that you are indeed a couple with no legal recourse to marriage.”

Malfoy turns to Snape. “Professor--”

Snape’s already shaking his head. “You know as well as I do, Draco, that they’d send you to Azkaban otherwise.” He looks at Harry, his expression grim. “Surely this is a more humane form of prison.”

“And if I terminate?” Harry asks quietly.

“St Mungo’s would provide you the proper potions,” McGonagall says. “Your Healer has already advised me of that. When you returned, you and Mr Malfoy would each be allowed to stay in your separate capacity at Hogwarts, but there could be no sexual contact between the two of you for the duration of your time as a student.”

Malfoy relaxes into his chair. “See, that would work. There’s already nothing sexual between us.”

“I rather think that’s closing the gate after the horse is out of the barn,” Phineas Black pipes up from across the room. The other portraits chuckle. Snape rolls his eyes.

Harry stands. “How long do I have to make a decision?”

“As soon as possible.” McGonagall looks up at him. “There’s only so long the potions will work and we must avert the appearance of scandal.” She glances around the room. “Needless to say, this will remain within the walls of this office for the time being.

Harry nods and runs a hand through his hair. “Right. Can I go back to my room now? It’s just I’m tired--”

McGonagall pushes her chair back and steps around the corner of her desk. “I’ll send a house-elf with you.”

“I can make it.” Harry can’t bear the idea of being herded back to his dormitory as if he’s some sort of invalid. “Thanks.”

Malfoy starts to stand; McGonagall’s hand on his shoulder pushes him back down. “I’ll want a word with you alone, Mr Malfoy.” She doesn’t sound happy.

Harry thinks perhaps he should protest or at the very least defend Malfoy, but he’s exhausted and confused and more than a little upset. He supposes it’s not entirely fair to blame Malfoy for all this, given his own complicity in the matter, but there’s a part of him that does.

The office is quiet as he leaves. He casts a quick look back at Malfoy, slouched down in his chair, his thumb pressed against his mouth as he stares blankly at the floor. A lock of pale blond hair falls across his forehead, brushing his cheek.

Harry hurries down the curving staircase.

When he closes the Headmistress’s door behind him, Hermione’s in the chilly hall, waiting. She jumps off the windowsill she’s perched on, and she pulls her school robe tighter around her. Sconces flicker above them, casting long shadows down the corridor.

“Hi,” she says. “How’d it go?”

“She’s not sending me down.” Harry leans against the wall. The stones are cool against the back of his neck. “Malfoy’s probably getting a good bollocking right now.”

Hermione wraps her arms around herself. “He should have known better. He was staff.”

“I don’t think either of us were thinking of that at the time.” Harry lets his head loll to one side, looking at her. He sighs. “If I make the decision, all this could go away.”

“Yes.” Hermione steps closer, a worried frown drawing her brows together. “That’s what you’re planning, isn’t it?”

Harry shrugs. “I suppose.”

They stand there for a long moment. Harry looks away. Hermione bites her lip. “Harry.”

“What?” He just wants to go lie down. It’s all been too much and he wants to stop being asked questions he has no answers to.

“I know you’re scared,” Hermione says softly. “I understand that more than you’ll know.” When he looks at her she flushes. “Ron and I...this summer.” She draws in a shallow breath. “Well, there was a week when I thought--we hadn’t been careful once, you see, and it could have happened. I was late and it seemed as if...”

“Oh.” Harry doesn’t wonder why they haven’t told him. There’s been a widening gulf between him and his two best friends since June. He’s kept his secrets. They’ve kept theirs. He doesn’t blame them. Much. And as much as he wants to shout at her, that this is natural for someone in her situation, that this happens when boys and girls sleep together, he doesn’t because now he knows how it feels. He can’t help but wonder what he and Ginny would have done if this had been her, if she’d been the one carrying. If everything had been normal.

Hermione brushes her hair back from her shoulders, twisting it in her hands before letting it fall loose again. “I’d decided to have an abortion,” she says at last. “We’re both too young and I want to finish school and take on an apprenticeship somewhere. It wouldn’t have been the right time for me.” She drops her hands to her sides. “Or Ron. He’s eighteen, and I love him dearly, but he’s not ready to be a dad yet.” She hesitates. “Maybe you’re not either.”

“No,” Harry says. “I suppose not.” He knows she’s right. Knows he’ll have to make a decision soon. He might as well be pragmatic about it all. “It’s what Malfoy wants. If there’s anyone not ready to be a dad, it’s him. Not that I’d ask him to be, mind, no matter what.”

Hermione relaxes. Her fingers catch an opal pendant hanging from a thin silver chain around her throat. Ron had given it to her this summer. Harry’d helped him pick it out. “Thank God. I was afraid--” She breaks off. “Well, familial duty’s important to purebloods.”

“Not to Malfoy.”

Hermione doesn’t say anything about the sudden bitterness of his tone, but her sideways glance is wary. She twists her necklace around her fingertip. “Harry, if you’re not sure--”

He knows she’s just trying to help. He shakes his head. “No. Everyone’s right. I’m not even out of school...” He trails off with a soft huff. He suddenly wants to press his palm against his stomach. He resists.

“And this is dangerous magic.” Hermione steps closer, her worry evident. “I’ve been reading up on it while you were in hospital, and the magic has to rearrange your internal organs to build a sort of proto-uterus. It’s rather like an ectopic pregnancy in a woman where the fertilised egg implants itself in the abdomen. Even for Muggles those can occasionally--and very rarely--result in a viable birth. Your body’s going through something similar. But it’s not guaranteed that either you or the baby will survive.” Her eyes are bright and wet and she blinks rapidly. “Magic helps, but anything could happen. You could actually die, and there’d be no coming back this time.”

Harry pulls her up against him. She lays her head against his chest, and he can feel her tremble. “I know.” He strokes his fingers through her hair. “I’m not going to die.”

“If you do,” Hermione says against his robe, her voice muffled, “I’m going to be furious with you.”

Harry laughs quietly. He’s silent for a moment, and then he sighs. “It seems smarter to take the termination potions.” Guhathakurta had already gone over the procedure with him before discharging him that afternoon. Two potions twenty-four hours apart, then a procedure to remove the uterine sac and make certain his organs went back to their original positions. He’d be in hospital for another two to three days, then all of this would be over and he could go back to the normal life of a Hogwarts student.

Something deep inside of him aches at the thought.

Hermione pulls back. She wipes her thumb beneath her eyes. “I’ll go with you to St Mungo’s if you like.” She hesitates. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

“It’s not.” Harry takes her hand. “But thanks.” Hermione gives him a watery smile and she leans in to kiss his cheek.

“Ron’s sorry,” she says. “About calling you a freak. He didn’t mean--”

Harry doesn’t want to think about it. Ron’s right, really. He is a freak. He shrugs. “It’s fine.”

Hermione doesn’t look convinced. Her fingers squeeze his. “We love you, you know.”

Sometimes Harry wishes he could still believe that. He knows they do, but everything’s changed now. It’s supposed to, he thinks. They’re growing up, and Harry hates that. He’s not ready for any of this. He doesn’t know if he ever will be.

“I’m tired,” he says finally, and Hermione nods.

“They’ll be wondering where you are,” she says. “The whole House has been worried about you.”

He tenses. “Do they know?”

Hermione shakes her head. “McGonagall made it clear that we weren’t to mention any of this. They just think it’s your magic acting up again.”

Relief washes over Harry. He doesn’t want to face the questions he’d get otherwise. Another reason to just go to St Mungo’s and take the damn potions, he thinks. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with Gryffindor’s horror at his spawning a Malfoy.

Harry lets Hermione lead him down the hall, back to the tower. He casts one last, lingering glance towards the Headmistress’s office, but Malfoy doesn’t come out. He tries to square his shoulders, but fails.

For the first time in months, Harry’s utterly terrified.***

“You’re a complete fool, you realise.”

Draco wheels around at the sharp voice. He’s not in the mood to deal with Severus, not after what he’s just endured in McGonagall’s office. His face burns with humiliation. “Yes. I believe you made that abundantly clear in there, Professor.” He gestures in the direction he’s just come.

Severus shoves a knight out of his portrait frame and clambers over a painted stone rampart, breathing hard. He pushes his lank hair out of his face and glares out at Draco. “What else do you want me to say, Draco? Should I be pleased that you’ve managed to impregnate the Saviour of the Wizarding World? Do you have any idea what your father’s reaction to this is going to be?”

“As a matter of fact,” Draco says coldly, “I rather think I know better than you. He may have been your friend, but he’s my father, and I can assure you I’m quite well acquainted with the lash of his fury. I’ve never managed to make him proud of me, and this bloody well makes certain that I never will. Is there anything else obvious you’d like to point out?”

The look his godfather gives him is vicious. “I may be reduced to oil paints and brushstrokes, Mr Malfoy, but I am still very capable of making your life hell if I so choose.”

Draco slumps against the wall. He’s only a corridor away from the staff quarters. He’d hoped to be in his rooms before Severus had caught up with him. It wasn’t enough that the man had outshouted McGonagall. Of course not. Draco’d known he’d fully intended to catch him alone and eviscerate him further. Severus had always been like that when you’d disappointed him in some way. He’d flog a dead Hippogriff until there’s no Hippogriff left to flog.

“Go ahead then,” he says. He’s too tired to fight. Even after three days he still hasn’t come to terms with the fact that Potter’s pregnant. By him. “Tell me again what an idiot I am. Tell me again how foolish I was, that I ought to have known better than to fuck Potter of all people, particularly at a time when I knew his magic was unstable, and particularly when I’m on a Community Order and could be sent to Azkaban at any moment. Tell me again I’m morally reprehensible for fucking a student, even if we are the same age--” His voice cracks.

That had been the worst of it all, the righteous anger they’d all turned on him, even the portraits, after Potter had left, berating him for improper fraternisation. The only one who hadn’t eviscerated his moral character had been Dumbledore, sitting silently in his chair as he sucked on a lemon drop until he’d finally leant forward and told them to stop.

Draco runs a hand over his face, pushing his hair back off his forehead. He wants to slide down the wall, bury his face against his knees and cry. If he was eleven, he would. Instead he leans his head against the wall and stares up into the shadows of the arched ceiling. He’s grateful it’s late enough that the other staff are in their rooms already, preparing for bed.

After a moment, Severus sighs. “You’re a stupid boy ruled by his cock.” He sits on the edge of the rampart. A non-existent wind ruffles the sleeves of his robe. He looks older than thirty-eight. Far more tired. There are deep lines etched in the corners of his eyes, between his brows. “Whether or not Potter chooses to abort the foetus, this will have implications on your life. The Board of Governors has an unfortunately long and irritating memory.”

“I know.” Draco pushes himself off the wall and walks to a window. Arms crossed over his chest, he looks out the leaded panes onto the grounds below. He can just see the edge of Hagrid’s hut from this angle. Light flickers from a side window, only to blocked for a moment by the half-giant’s shadow. “They’ll have to report it to the Aurors as well.” His mouth twists. “Must keep the Death Eater’s record current.”

He can still feel the soft press of Potter’s lips against his Mark. His fingers press lightly against it, and he shivers. How idiotic is he that he still wants Potter, even after all of this?

Draco turns back to Severus. “It won’t be an issue. They’ll talk him out of being sentimental. Not even his friends would tolerate him being stupid enough to carry my child.”

“We can only hope,” Severus says, his voice grim. “In my experience, Potter does whatever the hell he wishes with no thought to anyone else’s concerns--or advice.” He stands up and leans against the portrait frame. “I don’t wish you hurt,” he admits finally. “You’ve been through enough as it is.”

He sounds regretful. He meets Draco’s gaze slowly.

“Professor,” Draco says, but Severus shakes his head.

“I did what I could to protect you,” Severus says. “I would have done more if it hadn’t been for that damned snake.” His fingertips brush his high collar. Draco wonders if there’s a scar there now. He remembers what Severus’s body had looked like that night when the Aurors had allowed him and his parents to go with them to collect it from the Shrieking Shack. He’d been buried in Highgate a week later. Draco had gone with his mother, both of them standing at the side of the crowd, heads held high. There’d been a photograph in the Prophet the next morning. The caption had labeled them as Death Eaters and intimates of His Lordship.

Draco had incinerated it on the spot, leaving a lasting scorch mark on the dining room rug.

Severus had always protected him. This much is true. Even when he’d been angry at his Head of House, accusing him of trying to steal his glory. Draco knows now what that had cost Severus. He steps closer to the portrait frame, lets his fingers brush Severus’s sleeve.

“Mother made you Vow.”

“Narcissa never forced me into anything,” Severus says. He doesn’t look away from Draco. “I did what I could for you, Draco. I made the Vow for you. You were my godson. How could I do any less?” He looks wistful. “There were times I envied Lucius you.”

A lump aches in Draco’s throat. “I wish you were here. I mean--”

Severus smiles faintly. “I would prefer not to be a mouldering corpse myself.” He lays his hand near Draco’s fingertips. “Whatever Potter decides, you’ll need someone fully on your side. Gregory is utterly loyal to you, but useless for the most part, and while Mr Zabini may be of benefit, he will always place his own person above yours.” Severus frowns at Draco. “And don’t sleep with him again, Draco. For God’s sake, have a bit more respect for yourself. Blaise will never publicly be anything but heterosexual.”

Draco scowls, but he knows Severus’s right.

“Which leaves Miss Parkinson.” Severus taps a finger against his thin lips. “Cunning, bright, and an absolute bitch, bless her. You should speak with her soon. Explain the situation.” He cuts off Draco’s protest. “Potter has his friends and allies, Draco. You need yours as well, and Pansy, despite losing you to the temptations of the same sex, is viciously loyal to you. Arrange for tea or drinks or whatever it is you idiots indulge in. You need someone by your side at the moment.”

“But what if she...” Draco chews on his lip. “I mean, it’s Potter. Everyone thinks I hate him--”

Severus’s snort echoes in the hallway. “No one will be entirely surprised. Trust me.” Draco’s face flames, and Severus arches one dark eyebrow. His mouth twitches. “You’ve always been somewhat of an open book, Mr Malfoy. Particularly when it comes to Harry Potter.”

Draco doesn’t bother to argue. “Not as if you haven’t either. Sir.”

“True.” Severus’s surprisingly calm. “For different reasons.”

Draco turns away. “I’ll talk with Pansy.”

“She’s a sensible head on her shoulders,” Severus says, from behind him. “Listen to her.”

“Good night, Professor.” Draco’s boots thud softly against the stone floor as he walks away.

***

The next day, Harry stays in his dormitory for most of the day. He goes down for breakfast and a morning Potions lesson, but he enjoys the quiet of the Tower after lunch. With three days in hospital and the eager and concerned welcome in the Gryffindor Common Room last night, he is ready for a bit of peace. And he needs time to think.

He sits on his bed, reading Quidditch magazines and staring into space. He looks through his chocolate frog card collection, the ones he’d brought with him, and resolves to buy more frogs in Hogsmeade. He’s only got two or three from the Second Wizarding War Collection, and perhaps it’s time to add his friends and himself to the stack.

As the pale November sun slants low over the grounds, he can’t sit still any longer. The common room’s nearly empty when he strides through; only Ginny and Tabitha Braithwaite sit beneath the tall windows, books spread on the table between them.

“All right, Harry?” Ginny asks. She rolls her quill between her fingertips. Her red hair is plaited into a loose braid that hangs over one shoulder. Harry feels a twinge of sadness. He wonders what might have happened between them if things had been different. Maybe he’d have spent last night lying on the sofa next to her, his head in her lap as they whispered, the way they had his sixth year. Perhaps he wouldn’t feel so alone.

“Fine, thanks.” He stops. Part of him wants to tell Ginny about this, wants to ask her advice. He can’t, though. Not now. Not after everything.

She looks up at him, and the sunlight warms her pale skin. Faint freckles dot her cheeks, and Harry remembers how he’d loved to trace them with his fingertip.

“Have you seen Ron?” he asks instead. Hermione’s in Arithmancy this afternoon, and he hasn’t seen Ron since he’d rolled out of bed and stumbled to the shower.

Ginny looks disappointed.

“Lake, I think,” Tabitha says with a sideways glance at Ginny.

“Thanks.” Harry nods to her. “Later, Gin?” She nods and watches him as he clambers out of the portrait hole, her lip caught between her teeth.

Wrapping himself well in his robes and scarf against the chill, he sets forth at a good clip toward the greenhouses. He takes the right branch of the path before he reaches them, following the winding track down the back lawn to the lake. This late in the year, the landscape is devoid of colour. The lawns are already bleached yellow pale and dun and the trees are bare in the fading light.

A surprising patch of red catches Harry’s eye. The last rays of sun glint in Ron’s hair, setting it aflame. He’s sitting on the dock near the main road, the one they’d first encountered as first-years coming in by boat.

“Hey,” Harry says quietly.

Ron turns, looking up at him. “Didn’t think you wanted to see me.”

Harry settles next to him, grunting softly as his arse hits the worn planks. “I didn’t think you wanted to see me either, but I thought I’d make sure.”

“Right.” Ron pulls his knees up to his chest. His frayed black robe hangs over the edge of the dock, almost grazing the surface of the water. “Sometimes you’re an annoying git.”

“Thought I was a freak.” Harry watches a hawk soar over the far bank of the lake.

Ron sighs. “I told Hermione to tell you--”

“She did.” Harry looks over at him. “You weren’t wrong. I am a freak.” He gestures to his stomach. “I mean, this is all really weird for me too.”

“I can imagine.” Ron tosses a twig into the water and watches it bob away. “I’m glad I’m not in your shoes.” He hesitates. “I could’ve been. Well. In the Ferret’s shoes, I guess.”

“Yeah. Hermione said. I’d no idea.” Harry’s still a little hurt and tries not to show it, although he knows the summer was difficult for all of them.

Ron looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “I thought she might. I should have told you.”

Harry sighs. “Not like I said anything about Malfoy.”

“Yeah.” Ron’s silent for a moment. “That was a surprise. Sorry for decking him.”

“That’s all right. I’m sure you were just gagging for the chance, really.” Harry grins. “Opportunist.”

Ron laughs and relaxes. They’ve never been that great with staying angry with each other, not once they started to talk again. “Always thought I’d be decking you when you got Gin up the duff.”

“You wish you had such problems now, eh?” Harry raises his eyebrows.

Ron’s smile fades. “You need to talk to her, you know. Whatever you decide.”

Harry twists the fringe of his scarf in his fingers, then smoothes it out. “I know.”

They look out at the lake. The afterglow of the sunset gleams across the choppy waves, and one of the Great Squid’s tentacles breaks the surface, sending drops of water arcing into the air.

“What are you going to do?” Ron asks finally. His gaze drops to Harry’s abdomen.

“I’ve no idea. Literally none. I try to think about it and it’s like my mind goes blank.” Harry scowls. “I know everyone says it’s my choice but I have no idea what to say. I wish it weren’t, in a way.”

“You don’t mean that, mate. You know how bad you are at doing what other people tell you.” Ron hesitates. “Don’t you?”

Harry sighs and stares at his shoes. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I had someone to tell me what to do. Like Dumbledore. Or my parents. Or Sirius. But I don’t think they could help me with this, even if they were here.” He squints into the distance, to the barely distinguishable copse of trees that cloaks Dumbledore’s tomb.

“Pity you don’t have that stone you told me about,” Ron says lightly. “You could bring them all back.”

Harry reaches into his pocket. He pulls his hand out and opens it to display the battered ring containing the Resurrection Stone lying on his palm. “This one?”

Ron stares down at it. “I thought you lost it.”

“I did too.” Harry looks at him. “I found it again. After Draco and I--” He breaks off. “I was lying on it when we...well.”

“Stop right there.” Ron waves a hand. “Have you told Hermione about this?”

Harry gives him a look. “Is she in the library researching yet?”

“Good point.” Ron thinks for a moment. “Listen, don’t tell her for a day. I haven’t seen her much alone since you went into hospital. Or at least warn me.” He picks the ring up and eyes it suspiciously. “You think this did that to you?”

Harry shrugs. “I think it was a lot of things. My magic, the clearing, the Stone, who knows what else. Maybe there’s something wrong with sex on your eighteenth birthday and no one told me.”

“I think there’s something wrong with sex with Malfoy on your eighteenth birthday. Or any time really.” Ron grins, visibly trying to lighten the tone. Harry realises he must be scowling again.

Harry gives a short laugh. “It was nice, actually. He has a great cock--”

“No,” Ron says, his hands over his ears. “Not listening, mate. La-la-la-la-la.”

They smile at each other. Ron drops his hands and leans in, touching Harry’s stomach. Harry tenses, and Ron pulls away.

“It is kind of amazing,” he says, “No matter how it got there. And, well, even if it is the Ferret’s.” He looks up at Harry. “I mean, let’s face it, unless it takes after you, it stands a good chance of being a pointy faced git. Still, aren’t babies supposed to be good things?”

“Not right now,” Harry says. “Not if you’re still at Hogwarts. And definitely not if you’re not married. Although... yeah. I guess I’m fucked all round.”

Ron shrugs. “Don’t think being married has much to do with it. Look, when I though there could be a chance of having a kid with Hermione, it scared the shit out of me. I didn’t know what to do, or to say. It was her decision, yeah? And I knew that if she decided she wanted it, then I would have to want it to, no matter how I actually felt.”

Harry just looks at him. “How did you feel?”

“Completely unprepared,” Ron says calmly. “Almost mental at the thought of telling my mother. Scared witless at the thought of telling Hermione’s dad. Have you seen those tools he uses in people’s mouths?” Ron shudders. “Absolutely sadistic that is.”

“He’s a dentist, Ron.” Harry tries and fails to suppress a laugh at his best friend’s horror.

“Like that’s something normal.” Ron shoots back. He flips two fingers at Harry. “Anyway. At least he’s not a Malfoy. Can you imagine telling Malfoy’s father that you’re preggers with his heir?”

Harry blanches. He had thought of it, actually, and the very idea makes him sick. “Sadly, yes. I can. And I’d rather tell a dentist. Put that in the column for taking the potions.”

“But still, Malfoy’s not his father. He’s, well, he’s Malfoy but he’s different. And this is me saying that.” Ron looks almost shocked at his own words. “He’s good with animals. Hagrid says he is. Maybe he wouldn’t be awful with a kid.”

“You can’t be serious.” Harry eyes Ron suspiciously. He reaches out to feel Ron’s forehead. “Who are you and what have you done with my best mate?”

Ron smacks his hand away. “You can’t blame the kid for coming where it comes from. It didn’t have a choice.”

Harry sits back and rubs his eyes. His head suddenly hurts. “True. Is it even fair to think about bringing a kid into the world like this? It wouldn’t have a chance for an ordinary life.”

“Neither did you,” Ron says quietly.

“That’s what I mean.” Harry drops his hand to his stomach. The waist of his trousers is tight. He wonders how he’d managed to convince himself it was just the result of too much Hogwarts food, even though the rest of his body is thinner than it was earlier in the summer and he’d spent weeks sicking up.

A serious look crosses Ron’s face. “I don’t think any kid of yours would have an ordinary life, Harry. No matter how it got here. This one is just a little more special.”

Harry swallows past the lump in his throat. “I just want to be normal,” he murmurs. He wishes he didn’t feel like crying. Fucking hormones.

Ron’s arm slips around his shoulders, pulling him close. “That ship has sailed, mate. Long ago. Embrace the freakdom. How many people can say they’ve been walking around with a Dark Lord in their head since they were almost two?”

“You’re an arse,” Harry says, but he laughs. “I wish I could explain this as a side effect of Horcruxes. Or something. It’s so embarrassing.”

“You don’t know that it isn’t really,” Ron says. “I mean, it’s obviously also a side effect of something we are not going to talk about, but you don’t know it doesn’t also have to do with that.”

Harry glances up at him. “That is not making me feel more confident about this situation, Weasley.”

Ron drops his arm and shifts, turning to face Harry. “I know. But it could be. How’s your scar?”

“Fine.” Harry touches his forehead. “Scar-like.”

“No weird dreams?”

Harry gives him a look. “Between the nightmares about the battle and the nightmares about dying, no not really.”

“Good. That’s normal then.” Ron’s matter-of-factness oddly makes Harry feel better. “For a freak, I mean.”

Harry bumps his shoulder against Ron’s. “Shut it or I’ll make you godfather.”

Ron grins in delight. “I’d like to see the Ferret’s face. Someone has to be a good influence.” He gives Harry a sober look. “But I’ll support you, you know. Whatever you decide. Just make sure it’s yours, right? Don’t let anyone else push you into it.”

Harry nods and warmth spreads through his chest. “Thanks.”

They watch the twilight fade into night and the faint glow of the Merpeople under the waters, the soft lap of the waves the only sound around them.***

“I hate this place,” Draco says, glaring at the besotted children in the tables surrounding them. He doesn’t know why Pansy insisted on meeting here, and on a Hogsmeade weekend at that.

“Don’t be cruel, darling.” Pansy grins, her red lips gleaming. There’s a new green streak in her dark, artfully shaped bob. Draco rather likes it on her. “I have fond memories of Madam Puddifoot’s.”

Draco slips his robe off and drapes it over the back of his chair. “It’s sweltering in here.”

“Madam likes it warm.” Pansy waves to the stout witch armed with two teapots and a plate of Battenburg cake, her shiny black hair twisted into a tight bun at the nape of her thick neck. “Smile, Draco. Don’t remind her we fought on the wrong side in the battle.”

A gold cherub zips over Draco’s head, settling in the sheer pink netting draped over one paned window. “I’m trying,” he says through gritted teeth as he bats another cherub away. It shoots a golden arrow at his cheek, stinging against his skin, and Draco swears. “But I’m afraid I fell into one of Lockhart’s nightmares. And really, it’s unlikely she’ll forget.”

“It is rather more pink than I remembered.” Pansy beams up at Madam Puddifoot as she sets one of the teapots in front of them. “Oh, how lovely. Darling, look. What a charming teapot.”

The teapot is in the form of two elephants kissing, their trunks arched to form a heart. Draco eyes it with distaste. “Absolutely.” He winces as Pansy kicks him beneath the table. He despises those pointy-toed heels of hers.

Madam Puddifoot just nods and moves on to the next table, leaving behind the plate of marzipan-covered cake slices.

“You are a bitch,” Draco murmurs.

Pansy beams at him and shakes one of the frilly lace napkins out before draping it across her lap. He can still see the shiny pink scars from the curse burns on her hands. “Don’t you remember the first time you took me here? We had our first kiss in that corner.”

Draco follows her nod. A sixth-year couple sits nearly twined together at a table beneath an overgrown spray of ivy hung with silver hearts that creeps ominously along the wall. The boy’s hand slides down to cup the girl’s breast. Draco frowns. “I should stop that.”

Pansy puts a hand on his arm. Her fingernails dig into his skin. “Or you could leave them be. They’re teenagers. We’re supposed to be randy all the time, or have you forgotten?”

“Some of us are too tired to think about it.”

“Oh, Draco, don’t be boring.” Pansy pours tea for them both, filling Draco’s cup mostly with milk and sugar. “Are you sure Hagrid’s not slipping saltpetre into your food?” She slides the cup across the table to him. The butterflies painted on the china flutter their rosy wings.

“Between feeding the Thestrals and mucking out the Porlock paddock, I hardly have the time.” Draco frowns. “Not to mention there’s almost no one out here whom I can shag with impunity.”

At the turn of a student’s head, Draco waves his wand irritably under the table and a Muffliato descends around their table.

“There’s always Blaise,” Pansy points out. “Didn’t he come to visit recently?”

“Before term,” Draco says, “and I’ve been warned off him.” At her raised eyebrow, he sighs. “Snape.”

“I’m assuming you mean his portrait.” Pansy stirs her tea. “I sincerely hope he’s not back from the dead. Don’t you two still have an arrangement?” She waves her hand. “You and Blaise, of course, not Snape.” She pauses to consider, her head tilted slightly. “Can portraits even have sex?”

Draco sips his tea. It’s hot and milky and far too sweet. Just the way he prefers. “I’d rather not know. As for Blaise, we did.” He hesitates. He wonders if Pansy has any idea how head over arse Blaise is for her. “I think Snape’s right though. Best to end it, all things considered.” He eyes her, taking in her new hair and the perfectly tailored new robe she’s wearing. It’s an emerald green wool, cut to fit the curve of her hips and to enhance the swell of her tits. “You’re shagging someone new, aren’t you?”

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” Pansy says primly, but her eyes sparkle.

“You’re looking terribly smart.” Draco sets his teacup down. “And you’re interested in my sex life. Which always means you’ve got your eye on someone, if you haven’t already dragged the poor sod off to your bed.”

Pansy’s mouth curves into a small smile that she hides behind her teacup. “Just looking at the moment, and no, I’m not telling you who yet. You’ll tell Blaise and then he’ll spoil it all.”

She’s learned over the past two years, Draco notes.

“So.” Pansy blows lightly on her tea. “What was so urgent that you needed to have me come all the way up from London for? Do you know how irritating it is to deal with the Aurors? They had me fill out two forms just to tell them I was crossing the border into Hogsmeade.” She frowns. “And then I had to flash a bit of tit at Purkiss just to get him to sign it.”

Draco runs his fingertip over the rim of his teacup. He waits until Pansy sets her cup back down in the saucer. She picks up her spoon to stir it again. “I got Potter up the duff.”

The silver spoon clatters against the saucer. Pansy stares at him. She blinks. “I’m sorry,” she says after a moment. “I’m terribly afraid I misheard you.”

“You didn’t.” Draco shifts in his chair, resting his arms on the tabletop. He flicks a glance towards the students beside them. They’re ignoring them, the Muffliato still in place. “Potter’s pregnant. With my child.”

“Harry Potter.” Pansy blinks again. “You’ve somehow managed to...impregnate Harry Potter.”

Draco nods. He picks up a slice of cake and bites into it.

Pansy sits back in her chair, gobsmacked. She puts a hand to her mouth. “Oh Draco.”

"How's this going to look on my Community Order?” Draco asks. He puts down the slice of cake, suddenly nauseous. “‘Yes, well, he got Saviour of the Wizarding World pregnant...’"

“But... How?” Pansy’s mouth is open in a small o and her hand hovers near her lips. There’s a ruby red smear on it that she doesn’t even notice.

“And that,” Draco says grimly, “is the great mystery. I mean, other than the obvious part of my cock up his arse, of course. Still, it shouldn’t have happened.”

Pansy drops her hand to her chest. “Well, darling, this is Harry Potter we’re talking about, yes? Isn’t he known for accommodating impossibilities terribly well?”

“Yes, I’ll attempt to remember that the next time I fuck--” Draco breaks off, frowning at Pansy. “No, there’s not going to be another time, so don’t ask.”

Pansy wrinkles her nose at him. “I wasn’t.” At Draco’s baleful look, she shrugs. “It’s not as if it’s an outrageous question, if he’s already pregnant.” She strokes the edge of her robe’s collar with one finger thoughtfully. “I can’t decide if Lucius will be furious or ecstatic. On the one hand, it’s Potter, but on the other, he has a biological heir without forcing you on some pathetic girl who can’t stand up to her daddy dearest.” Pansy’s tone makes it quite clear what she thinks of some of their former Housemates. She leans forward. “You must have enjoyed it though. Potter’s terribly fit.”

“Scrawny, awkward and a virgin,” Draco says. “What do you think?”

“Delicious?” Pansy asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“Rather,” Draco admits. He thinks of Potter beneath him, his thighs spread, his hands slipping across Draco’s damp skin, all the whilst begging Draco to fuck him. He looks away, a flush warming his cheeks.

Pansy presses a knuckle to her mouth. “Oh, dear.”

“Shut it.” Draco reaches for his teacup. He wishes the tea was liberally laced with brandy. He could use a good bottle or two right about now, even if it was what had landed him in this mess to begin with.

“But how?” Pansy asks again. “I mean, it’s not every day you of all people end up with Harry Potter in your bed. I mean, we all suspected it would happen one day. You can’t manage to keep up that amount of loathing without there being something fueling it, and you really were so terribly obsessed with him, darling. Blaise and I hardly knew what to do with you sometimes.”

Draco runs his hands over his face. His head hurts already. He loves Pansy, truly, but there are moments he’d like to hex her lips together. “It wasn’t a bed; it was a clearing in the Forest. And there were liberal quantities of brandy consumed. Plum brandy. Brewed by Hagrid.”

“There was your first mistake.” Pansy frowns at him. “Inferior alcohol always leads to horrible decisions. Not to mention hangovers. For all you know, it was brewed with unicorn dung.”

That’s not exactly something Draco can disagree with, so he scowls at her. Honestly, he thinks, Severus’s portrait must have been dropped down a flight or two of stairs if he thought Pansy would be helpful.

“I’m afraid this is worse than a hangover,” he says. “I thought McGonagall was going to send me straight to Azkaban.”

Pansy studies her teacup. “What does Potter say about all this? I’m assuming he has some sort of opinion, given that the...thing is in his body.”

Draco picks up his teacup. “He’s not saying much.” He looks at her. “Firenze predicted this.”

“The centaur? In the Forest?” Pansy peers at him. “Sometimes I forget you’re related to Lovegood.”

Draco takes offence at that. He hates that Pansy knows that connection. She always chooses to remind him at the most annoying times. “It’s a different line!”

“Barely, darling.” Pansy watches as the sixth-year couple disentangles themselves and stands. “What did your centaur say?”

He glares at her.

“Oh, just tell me.” Pansy rolls her eyes.

“I’d have an heir.” A rose droops from the bud vase on their table, one wilted petal fluttering to land on the lace cloth. Draco picks it up and crushes it between his finger and thumb. A sickly sweet smell wafts across the table. “I thought he was mad.”

The look Pansy gives him is gentle. She covers his hand with hers; she’s known what it means to him not to be able to provide his family with a son. “Draco.”

He pulls his hand away. “I resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t going to fulfill that particular duty, and now that it’s possible, I scarcely know what to think. But it’s too dangerous and it’s Potter. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to tell Lucius Malfoy that Harry Potter is bearing his grandchild.”

“I for one would quite like to hear that particular conversation,” Pansy says. “Especially if I could see his face from a safe distance.” The mutual disdain between Pansy and his father is legendary in Slytherin House history.

“Besides, it’s a moot point. Surely Old Scarhead is going to terminate and I’ll go back to being a normal, red-blooded nancy boy.”

“Blue-blooded, surely, darling.” Pansy shakes her head. “And he’s a Gryffindor. He’ll keep it.” At Draco’s protest, she holds her hand up. “If he does, this could be to your political advantage. The other father of Harry Potter’s child? Draco, love, no one will touch you. Potter’s the type who would never cause grief to his child by hiding you from him. And the rest of the wizarding world will follow his example.” She grabs his arm. “This baby could save your family.”

“How appropriate for the child of the Saviour of the Wizarding World.” Draco pulls away. “You’re living in a dream world, Pansy. And I don’t particularly care if Father rots in Azkaban or not at the moment.”

Pansy sighs. “One day you will. You’re angry now, but that won’t last. He’s your father, Draco, and nothing is going to change that.”

“Potter doesn’t know how lucky he is, not knowing his parents.” Draco swirls the dregs of his milky tea irritably. “He doesn’t have to answer to anyone with this or worry about his standing in Wizarding society.”

“Neither do you, darling.” Pansy looks evenly at him. “That’s the joy in falling so low. There’s no place further to sink. Who cares what they think of you? You’re already a queer, and you’re serving a Community Order for kissing the arse of a madman in order to save your life.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better? Because I feel like opening a vein now.” Draco sets his teacup down with a rattle and leans back in the musty, overstuffed armchair.

Pansy’s mouth purses and she reaches across the table to smack his arm. “Yes, you arse. Don’t be melodramatic. Even with all of this, you’re happier than you’ve been in years. And you look fabulous, even if you do need a haircut.”

He gives her a small smile. “You’re a harridan.” The doorbell clangs as a group of third-year Hufflepuffs wander in. “Have I told you about my fan club?”

She trills a long laugh. “No. Pour me another cup and tell me everything.”

Draco reaches for the teapot.

Perhaps, he thinks, Severus was right after all.***

It’s late at night and Harry can’t sleep. He stares at the hangings of his bed, listening to the rhythm of the other boys breathing, the snores and snuffles and grunts. He tries to count sheep, count dragons, count pygmy puffs, all to no avail.

It’s Tuesday. It’s been a week since he was discharged from hospital. He knows he’s supposed to make a decision soon. Too long and the potions won’t work. Professor McGonagall has also been looking at him more anxiously at meals since Sunday, although she hasn’t pressured him for a reply.

After tossing and turning for another time, he gets up and pulls his robes over his pyjamas. His favourite red slippers are next to the bed and he steps into them. Almost as an afterthought, he takes the invisibility cloak out from its hiding place among his mussed bedlinens.

He shuffles down the Tower stairs and into the Common Room. The fire is mere embers at this hour, waiting to be renewed in the morning. The usual rubbish is strewn about: shreds of paper from games of Exploding Snap, Wheezes labels, broken quills and parchment scraps. He sits for a moment on a large sofa of indeterminate colour, but he can’t come to rest here. It’s not as familiar as he’d hoped.

The Fat Lady is snoring in her portrait frame as Harry gently opens the door and closes it behind him, taking care not to disturb her. His slippers make a soft clacking noise as he walks down the hallway. After years of sneaking out for late night hijinks, he’s strangely nervous about walking alone tonight. He doesn’t mind the quiet but he knows he deserves to get caught for all of the times he’s done this with impunity. Still, he has too much on his mind to care overmuch. He merely notices that he’s anxious as he traverses the long corridors, wandering in an aimless fashion through the early morning stillness when one day is over and another has yet to begin. It could be any time or no time at all. He doesn’t put the invisibility cloak on; he just carries it like a talisman. He finds the slick fabric comforting against his skin.

Eventually Harry comes to a familiar corridor on the seventh floor. He studies the scene of troll ballet for a whilst, even though all of the principals are sleeping, smaller and larger lumps against the painted landscape. He pulls his robes more tightly around himself and makes the decision. He begins walking back and forth and concentrating on his need. He’s no idea if it will still works; he hasn’t tried it since he’s been back. He thought he wanted to leave this room in the past, but it’s called to him tonight and he has to see if it’s still there.

As Harry paces, three, four times, he thinks it’s been too long. It can’t possibly have taken that long. I have a need but it’s not here anymore. He turns on his heel and takes a few step towards the staircase. On a whim, he looks over his shoulder. A door has appeared in the stone of the wall. He heard nothing, but the fabric of the universe shifted and there it is now, the door in the wall.

Harry hurries over as if the entrance was an illusion that could disappear at any moment. When he turns the handle, the scene that meets his eye on the other side is an utter disaster. There are black charred marks and burnt piles of rubbish and plaster everywhere. It doesn’t smell of smoke, but the very air screams fire.

Harry remembers that Malfoy nearly died in this room. He remembers pulling him to safety on his broom, climbing, climbing into the night, carrying him away from the raging fire that Crabbe had begun. He remembers heat at his back and his eyes watering and Malfoy clinging tightly to his waist. It’s only been a few months, but it feels like an eternity. He’s fallen down the wrong rabbit hole and come out here, in this blackened wasteland, where nothing is the same. Still, the room continues.

When his eyes accustom to the gloom, Harry realises there’s a glint at the far wall. He says, “Lumos” and walks to find the source of the reflecting moonlight. And then he suddenly wonders if he must be dreaming because he’s standing in front of a mirror he hasn’t seen for a very long time.

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.

There is a chair against the wall, at right angles to the mirror. Harry sits in it for a moment. He’s not sure that he wants to look into the smooth, silvery surface, but the room must have assessed his need and presented him with the item in the castle most likely to help.

“Astounding, isn’t it?” Harry starts at the sound of Dumbledore’s voice. “I was asleep on a beach in the Seychelles somewhere near the Divination classroom and now suddenly I’m here. You must have very great need indeed, Mr Potter.”

Dumbledore’s portrait is hanging on the wall opposite the mirror. “I suppose I do,” Harry says slowly. “I’m sorry, Professor. I was wandering without really thinking about it and then I thought I’d see if the room was still here.”

“Why shouldn’t it be? It’s part of the castle and the castle is still here.” Dumbledore tilts his head to get a better look at Harry. “You shouldn’t be out of your dormitory, you know. At least you put on your slippers. It’s terribly nippy in November.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Harry shifts in the chair, which he wishes were more comfortable. The room doesn’t appear to want him to settle or get complacent. “I wanted to walk and clear my thoughts. I’ve been looking for answers and I don’t know where to find them.”

“And so you came here,” Dumbledore says. “Where you and Mr Malfoy escaped death by a hair. And where so many lost things were lost forever.” A sad look flits over his face.

Harry crosses, then uncrosses his legs, trying to find the most tolerable position in which to sit without success. This is a dedicatedly uncomfortable chair. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Shouldn’t you look in the mirror?” Dumbledore pours himself a cup of tea from the pot at his side. He settles back in his wide armchair. “You might see socks or perhaps even a jumper.”

Harry stands and rubs his hands together. “I don’t know if I can look. I’m afraid of what I want.” He hesitates, then barrels on. “I suppose I’m afraid of making a choice.”

“Ah, Harry. Everyone’s afraid of what they want at some point Or whom.” Dumbledore taps the side of his long nose. “But you already made a choice didn’t you? You chose to go looking for the Resurrection Stone after all.”

“I didn’t know it was there until... I didn’t know.” Harry purses his lips mulishly.

Dumbledore sips at his tea carefully, blowing on the surface and releasing brushstroke-puffs of steam. “But you chose that clearing. And on your birthday as well. May I see it?”

Without thinking, Harry reaches to the pocket of his pyjamas. Dumbledore examines his face keenly. “So you are carrying it with you. And you think you haven’t made a choice.”

Harry pulls the cracked stone out of his pocket and walks to Dumbledore’s portrait. He holds it up for examination. Dumbledore twists and turns his head, examining the golden ring from several angles.

“Have you used it?” Dumbledore asks with a steely glint in his blue eyes.

Harry shakes his head. “No. I keep it around because it seems to calm the... the baby.”

Dumbledore nods. “You worked greater magic than you perhaps even knew, greater than has been recorded for this object. This isn’t a Resurrection, though, Harry. You haven’t brought the souls of the dead back. You’ve just created a link to the past through your body. Nothing more miraculous than a regular baby after all.”

Harry’s shoulders sink and he takes a few deep breaths. Even after all of the tests at St Mungos, he’d carried with him the fear that somehow the foetus was tainted by the dead or perhaps even one of the dead itself. He knew it was a bizarre and unreal fear, but he couldn’t shake it until now. “So it is just a regular baby then, Professor?”

When he receives no answer, Harry raises his voice. “Professor?”

Dumbledore snorts and shakes himself out of sleep. “What? Oh, sorry. What was the question again?”

“Is the baby a normal baby?’ Harry tries not to raise his voice too much. He speaks clearly and distinctly.

“Oh that, well, the means of its conception are quite unusual. Not that Gellert and I hadn’t discussed the possibility before the unpleasantness. But...”

“Professor, please.” Harry thinks he’ll die before Dumbledore gets to the point.

The professor’s voice takes on a kindly tone. “Yes, Harry. It’s as normal and as extraordinary as any other baby. You do not have to worry about bearing a monster. At least not until the little terror starts teething.”

Harry almost cries with relief. He stands there as the tension pours out of his body and into the room and the odd, post-inferno landscape. There is enough emptiness here for him to leave what he doesn’t need. He doesn’t need to carry the fear with him any longer.

With Dumbledore’s snores behind him, Harry squares his shoulders and turns to face the mirror.***

Pale lemony light spills across the unmade bed as Draco hurries to finish getting dressed. According to the Tempus charm, he has five minutes before he should be down at the staff table and he only has one boot. He crouches down on his knees, hunting under the fallen edge of the coverlet and reaching, reaching, until he touches leather under the bed. With a cry of triumph, he pulls the fugitive piece of footwear out from its hiding place.

A knock at the door interrupts the final steps of preparation for the day’s labours. With a distracted huff, Draco reaches for the door handle and opens it. And stops, boot in hand. Potter’s standing in the doorway, looking oddly luminous for seven in the morning. His skin almost glows and the dark circles beneath his eyes are virtually gone, not to mention the worry lines on his forehead. His eyes are incredibly green and clear.

Draco drops the boot and it falls to the floor with a soft thud. “Potter. Good morning.”

“May I come in?” Potter waits for a moment, then motions with his hand. Draco belatedly twigs and steps aside to let him enter, closing the door behind them. He wonders if he can get in trouble for having a student in his quarters, but it’s Potter and they’ve already committed improprieties, flagrant and breathtaking improprieties that still keep him warm at night. Besides if this conversation is what he thinks it is, they need privacy. Draco decides he can plead early morning stupour if anyone questions his actions, anyone being Minerva McGonagall and the gaggle of old biddies in the Headmasters’ portrait collection.

Potter stands, looking around Draco’s cramped quarters for a moment. “It’s not as neat as I expected,” he says finally.

“I like to live a little,” Draco says. “And it infuriates the elves.”

Potter nods. “I’ve made a decision.”

Draco sits down abruptly on the bed, his legs having turned to jelly without warning. He thinks Potter hasn’t hexed him, but he’s not sure. “Oh.” He stretches a leg to test it.

When Potter doesn’t say anything but continues looking around like a mooncalf, Draco prompts him. “Do I have to guess? Is it a riddle?”

“No,” Potter says slowly. He scratches his arm. “This is a nice room.” He turns to face Draco. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Draco tries to look possibly sympathetic but his brain is screaming out for clarity like oxygen. He wants to know why, how, and yet, he will know all too soon and isn’t sure he’s ready for the consequences. Surely Potter will do the sensible thing, as any wizard would. Draco sits up. “I can’t forgive you without knowing why.” He’s half-joking and he’s not sure which half.

“I’m sorry, Draco. I’m keeping the baby.” As Draco’s brain spins, some distant part of it registers that Potter has actually used his given name for the first time.

Potter waits in the middle of the room for a moment, looking in Draco’s direction, perhaps awaiting an answer. He traces a half-circle on the floor with a scuffed trainer. When Draco says nothing but continues to stare blankly, feeling as though he’s been petrified, Potter blinks at him. Eventually he turns and walks to the door. As he’s leaving, he casts a backwards glance over his shoulder at Draco, who still cannot move. There is a swish of black robes and then the door closes.

Draco’s whole world explodes.***

Ron Levitates Harry’s trunk into the centre of his new bedroom and looks around. “Almost bigger than the dormitory.” He sits on the edge of the bed, bouncing slightly on the mattress. “And at least you don’t have to share with the Ferret.”

Harry makes a face. “Eventually you’re going to have to stop calling him that.”

“I don’t know.” Ron drapes his lanky frame across the end of the frame. “Doesn’t every kid want a Dad and a Ferret?”

“Not funny.” Harry settles on the wide, overly cushioned windowseat. He eyes the octagonal room. Tucked away in one of the smaller turrets overlooking the lake, it’s bigger than anything he’s slept in before. Alone at least. The air smells of lemon and furniture polish: the suite had clearly been given a good going over before Harry and Draco’s arrival. The old, dark wood of the furniture gleams and there’s nary a cobweb or a speck of dust in the whole place. Heavy blue velvet curtains hang from the bed, and there’s a massive wardrobe hulking in the corner, opposite a worn leather sofa long enough for Harry to stretch out on. A fire crackles in the hearth. McGonagall’s already told him it’s connected directly to the infirmary and her office via the internal Floo network.

Ron pokes around a bit in the shared rooms and comes back. “What, no en-suite bath?”

“Bath’s down the hall, git. We have a sink for washing.” When Ron walks out of the door, Harry yells after him. “The loo’s the other way.” That’s going to become problematic soon enough, Harry thinks. He already has to piss like mad. Guhathakurta tells him it’s only going to get worse.

Harry’s already explored the few rooms. Malfoy’s bedroom is smaller than his, a fact which pleases Harry to no end, and there’s a long, sunlight-filled sitting room that stretches between the rooms. Arched windows line one wall, and the other is filled with bookcases. Harry’d just caught Hermione studying the rows of books longingly.

She appears in the doorway, a thick, dusty book in her hand. “Are you all right?”

Harry toes off his trainers and stretches his feet out. “I guess.” He gives her a half-smile. “Still narked at me for this?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hermione sets the book down on the sofa and perches on the arm. “It’s not what I’d do, but...” She trails off.

“But you’re more likely to have kids the, well, the usual way, aren’t you?” Harry says. His hand rests on his stomach. It’s become almost natural in the past couple of days. At Hermione’s frown, he shakes his head. “I want this. I know it’s mad, and I know it’s stupid, but I really do.”

“It makes all the sense in the world, Harry.” Hermione doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes. She ttraces the faded gilt ornaments on the leather book cover. “You’ve lost your family--”

Harry sighs. “It’s not just that.” He knows they all want to think he’s just trying to replace what he didn’t have. Maybe they’re not entirely wrong, but he’s tired of the assumption. He’s not a complete idiot. He’s fully aware this baby isn’t going to replace his mum or his dad or his godfather or Remus or Tonks or any of the people he loved who are mouldering away beneath solid granite monuments now. His fingers trace small circles across his robe.

A cloud drifts across the sun, its shadow greying the room. Hermione picks at the sleeve of her robe. “I do wish you could have arranged things with Ginny, but I suppose there was good reason for that too.” She looks up at him, exasperated. “Do you always have to do things the hard way?”

“Hermione, listen.” Harry leans forward and spreads his hands out, looking at them for a moment before continuing. “It’s like, if you’ve ever been close to death, and I know you have, then life just seems bloody amazing. And I know it’s not fully alive yet, maybe, or it doesn’t have to be, but in the end I couldn’t imagine making the choice any other way.”

“Sentimental twaddle.” Snape’s portrait glares from the pastoral landscape that spring lambs cavort across. The shepherdess hides in the low branches of a tree, her crook shaking the bright green leaves as she peers out at Snape. Harry snorts. Even the portraits are terrified of the bastard.

“Professor,” Hermione says, disapprovingly. “You’re scaring the horses.”

Snape glances back over his shoulder at the foals in the distance. “Who paints this tripe?” he asks, his nostrils flaring.

“I like it,” Harry says.

Dark eyes skewer him. “You would.”

“It’s calming when you’re not in it.” Harry pushes himself off the windowseat. “You’re not planning on taking up residence here, are you?”

“Not bloody likely.” Snape snorts. “I’m looking for Draco.”

“His room has the painting of gryphons,” Harry offers.

Snape rolls his eyes. “Minerva’s attempt at a joke, I’m certain.” He lifts the hem of his robe from a puddle with a scowl. “I do loathe nature. It smells.”

Harry watches him sweep from the frame. “That’s never not going to be weird,” he says thoughtfully. There’s a noise at the door. “Fall in the bog, mate?” he asks, not bothering to turn around. Hermione’s eyes widen.

“Potter, there’s no reason for you to be vulgar,” Malfoy says.

He’s leaning against the door, his arms crossed over his chest, obviously just come in from the grounds. His hair is mussed and his cheeks are rosy. Mud cakes the toes of his boots; stray pieces of hay are caught on his dark grey jumper. Harry wonders if Malfoy knows how good manual labour looks on him.

“Best be used to it if we’re living together,” Harry says lightly. He still finds it odd that he’ll be sharing these rooms with Malfoy of all people. He’s half-certain they’ll end up killing each other before Christmas hols. If Snape doesn’t heckle them to death first.

They look at each other. For a moment Harry forgets they’re not alone, until Hermione coughs softly. The sofa creaks as she stands up. “I should go up to the library,” she murmurs, picking up the book. May I borrow this?”

“Sure,” Harry says. “Just bring it back when you’re finished with it.”

She kisses Harry’s cheek. “See you at supper.” He nods. She brushes past Malfoy; he doesn’t move.

Harry rubs his hand along one arm. “Your trunks are moved in already.”

“Before breakfast,” Malfoy says. He’s looking at Harry oddly. “I didn’t think I’d want to move everything at the end of the day.” He glances around the room, his eyes falling on the few photographs Harry’s already set on the chimneypiece. He walks over and picks one up. “These are your parents.”

“Yeah.” Harry looks over his shoulder. It’s his parents in their garden at Godric’s Hollow. His father stands behind his mother, his arms wrapped around her swollen stomach, his hand smoothing across her robe. Sirius had given it to him the summer he spent at Grimmauld Place before fifth year. “She was pregnant with me.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes as he sets the photograph back down. “I assumed.” He studies it still. “She was rather pretty.”

“Everyone says I have her eyes,” Harry murmurs. Whose eyes would their baby have, he wonders. He doesn’t dare to voice the thought aloud.

“My mother wouldn’t let herself be photographed in that condition,” Malfoy says evenly. “The first photo I’ve seen is from my christening. After that there are albums and albums full.”

A pang goes through Harry. “I never had any photos of my family. Not until I came to Hogwarts. Hagrid gave me some, and then Sirius and Remus added a few more. I barely have an album.”

“God, Potter. That’s tragic.” Malfoy tilts his head and gives Harry a contemplative look. “Although it does spare you the time you spit carrots up on Great Aunt Griselda that no one will ever fail to find funny no matter how old you are.”

Harry laughs softly. “I take it there’s a story there?”

“I still hate carrots,” Malfoy says. “That’s all that’s worth knowing.”

They smile at each other, their eyes meeting, and then they look away. A flush rises on Malfoy’s cheeks.

“Harry.”

Ron’s in the doorway, Ginny behind him. Harry steps away from Malfoy, suddenly flustered.

“I need a shower,” Malfoy says. He doesn’t speak to either of the Weasleys as he pushes past them, his mouth tight.

Ron watches him, a furrow between his brow. “What a shit.”

Harry doesn’t defend Malfoy. He’s looking at Ginny, nervous. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” She doesn’t smile at him.

“I should go find Hermione.” Ron gives Harry a pointed look. “You two need to talk.”

Subtle as always, Harry thinks and his mouth quirks to one side.

Ginny stands in the doorway after her brother leaves, fingers twisting in the sleeves of her jumper. Her hair’s loose around her shoulders, and Harry remembers how he’d twist it around his fingers as he kissed her.

The light is fading now as blue spreads across the sky. Far off the pale glow still touches the lake and turns it to silver.

“So,” she says finally. “Malfoy.”

“Gin.” Harry reaches out a hand for a moment, then lets it drop before it touches her. “I don’t really know what to say except I’m sorry you found out like this.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Ginny says. “I’m glad you have to pay for it.” Her eyes drift down to Harry’s stomach. “And I’m really glad it’s not me.”

Harry sits on the sofa. It creaks beneath him. “Everyone knows then.”

“Not everyone.” Ginny sits beside him. “But you’re not going to keep it secret for long. The first-years are already poking about, trying to figure out why you get to move in with their hero.”

Harry laughs. He pulls at a thread on the cuff of his sleeve. “Should I watch my back with that lot?”

“I would. Too many glitter quills and too little sense.” Ginny leans back, crossing one denim-clad leg over the other. “Maybe I’ll help them out.”

He looks at her then. “I really am sorry.”

Ginny nods. Her hair falls over her cheek, obscuring her eyes. “I know.”

“Hey.” He brushes her dark red hair back, tucking it behind one ear, and she looks up at him. “I didn’t mean to--”

“Harry, I know.” Her voice is thick, and she swallows and looks away. “You’re bent, or at least bent enough that you and I...” She trails off and sighs. “Look, I want to be happy, and I’m happier with Dean than we were at the end.”

“Yeah.” Harry bites his lip. He wants her to be happy. He just wishes that he could have given her that. “I tried to be normal--”

Ginny touches his cheek. “You won’t be, love. You’re Harry Potter, and any possibility for a normal life for you went out the window when you were barely a year old.” She leans her forehead against his; he can smell the faintest hint of the cinnamon sweets she loves on her breath. “Don’t fight who you are. You’ll only make it worse for yourself. And hurt others.”

He nods, a knot of misery clenching in his chest. “I know.”

She pulls away and looks at him. “What’s it like?” she asks. “Being...you know.” She waves a hand in the general direction of his midriff.

“Weird.” Harry considers. “No. Very weird. The hormones are...strange.” He shifts uncomfortably. His trousers need to be let out a bit more, he thinks. His waist has been thickening more every day.

Ginny nods. “I will never forget my contraceptive potion,” she says fervently, and Harry can’t help the laugh that escapes.

“Weasley fertility?”

“More or less.” She frowns at him before a smile curves her lips. “Are you happy about this?”

“I am,” Harry says. “Yeah.” He looks down at his hands, clasped tightly between his thighs. “Hermione thinks I’ve lost my mind, wanting to be a single dad at eighteen.”

“Malfoy’s around too.”

Harry tugs his sleeve down over one bony wrist. “I’m not expecting anything of him. It’s not fair.”

Ginny doesn’t say anything for a moment, and when Harry looks up at her, she’s studying him. “You’re sharing rooms with him.”

“Because McGonagall’s making us,” Harry says. “To keep the board of governors from expelling us both.”

“As if they’d think of sending you down,” Ginny scoffs. She wrinkles her nose. “You’ve a pass for life now.”

Harry snorts. “I wish.” He watches the flames in the hearth glow against the lengthening shadows. Night falls early in the Highlands at this time of year. “She’s meeting with them tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry too much about it. McGonagall is formidable when she thinks justice is being served.” Ginny stands up. “I’ve got to get ready for supper.”

“Gin.” Harry calls when she’s at the door and she turns in a lovely arc to face him, her hair swinging. He takes a deep breath. “I still love you, you know.”

Her brows knit together. “I know, Harry. But you’re not in love with me. And that makes all the difference.”

He nods as she brushes past Malfoy who has emerged into the sitting room with his hair wet, wearing a fresh pair of corduroy trousers that hang low on his slim hips and pulling a jumper down over a smooth, taut abdomen.

When the door is safely closed, Malfoy makes kissing noises until Harry glares at him. “Shut it, Malfoy, before I hex your face like that.”

Malfoy drops into one of the overstuffed armchairs and crosses one long leg over the other. “Pathetic of you, still in love with your ex-girlfriend when you’re up the duff with another man’s sprog.” His mouth twists, but for a fleeting moment, Harry thinks he sees hurt on his face. “How horribly tawdry, Potter. Shame we’re not in a witches’ romance.”

“You’d know of that, wouldn’t you?” Harry’s irritable. He hadn’t meant for Malfoy to hear any of that. “Being the expert in love that you are.”

“I’m expert enough to leave it alone.” Malfoy drums his fingers against the arm of the chair. “So should you. Besides, the Weaselette’s missing something you rather enjoy. Vocally, as I recall.”

Harry remembers the press of Malfoy’s cock deep inside of him, the way he’d arched against that long, pale body, digging his nails into Malfoy’s shoulders and spreading his thighs wantonly, begging for more. His face warms. “Fuck off.”

Malfoy’s eyes glitter. “As you wish.” He stands up and ambles to the door. “I’ll see you in the Great Hall.”

When the door shuts, Harry barely makes it to his bedroom before he has his flies open, his fingers on his prick. It’s a matter of moments, a few quick, rough strokes, before he’s shaking, his body arching. The pressure builds in his groin and he tenses with need. His hand grasps roughly and then he’s shuddering in waves as his spunk spatters the floor.

It takes him a moment to realise the name he’s groaned is Malfoy’s.

He falls across his bed face-first, his curses muffled by the coverlet.***

The staff room falls silent as Draco walks in. It’s worse than it’d been last night at dinner when he’d entered the Great Hall. At least the students had merely hushed and whispered, then resumed their normal volume. And the staff couldn’t show displeasure in front of their pupils without invoking McGonagall’s ire. Here, though, where his sins were open and not merely purportedly unfounded rumours, their eyes follow him with obvious distaste and the muttered remarks are audible enough.

He’s never wished the Headmistress were present more than he does now. But McGonagall’s in London this afternoon, standing in front of the Board of Governors and presenting him and Potter as a love match, as if anyone would ever believe that possibility.

Opal Adoyo hands him a teacup as he stops by the tea station. “Chin up,” she says, and she goes to take her usual seat in the corner beside Flitwick and his pile of newspapers nearly as tall as himself. The tiny Charms professor nods to him and pats the empty sofa cushion to his left.

“Mr Malfoy,” he says, but before Draco can make his way across the room, Vector grabs his elbow, her nails scratching his skin through the thin wool of his jumper. He spills half his tea across the worn wooden floorboards and splashes the leg of his trousers.

The Arithmancy professor smirks at him. “How terribly clumsy of me.” Her voice drips with malice.

Draco pulls away. “You didn’t mean to, I’m certain,” he says through gritted teeth. A house-elf is already wiping up the spilt milky tea, but there’s little to be done about his trousers. He doesn’t have time to go back to the rooms to change.

“Unlike you and the other mess you’ve created here,” Vector says, and Sinistra gives him a disapproving look over the rims of her spectacles.

“Poor Harry,” she murmurs. “After all he’s been through.” Several heads nod in unison. Opal snorts and Flitwick shakes out a newspaper loudly.

Draco wants to scream. After all Potter’s been through? Honestly? Who’s the one who lived with His Lordship for months? Who’s the one whose father’s in Azkaban? Who’s the one who has a year and a half left to serve on his Community Order?

“It was his choice,” he says, his throat tight, but they’ll never listen. To them, Potter’s their Golden Boy, capable of doing no wrong. Somehow in their heads, they’ve worked it out that he’s the one responsible for this pregnancy. The fact that Potter begged him to fuck him senseless would never register with any of them.

Idiots.

“We didn’t used to ask about choice in such matters,” Slughorn intones. “Contact between a student and staff led to automatic dismissal.” He shakes his head. “I always warned Albus his permissiveness would foster corruption and insolence. Hogwarts has come down indeed.”

“I’d like to hear the old windbag say that to McGonagall’s face,” Opal mutters behind Draco.

Vector opens her pursed, thin lips to lay into Draco and he steels himself, hoping he won’t lose his temper, not knowing how long he can last. He notices idly that she has lipstick on her teeth and it’s not for nothing that she has so many frown wrinkles on her face. The rest of the staff circle round like vultures. “Permissiveness is one thing, preying on students, especially when one is as bent as a-”

“Well,” Hagrid says loudly, and he pushes his girth from the oversized armchair in the corner where he’s been knitting some sort of too large tea cosy. “Reckon I think that’s enough of that sort of balderdash.” He gathers his ball of yarn and stuffs it in one of his pockets, along with the enormous needles, as he looks around the room. “Ashamed of the lot of yeh, I am, running yer yaps about things what yeh don’ know about. What would Pr’fesser Dumbledore have to say about that? And I don’ think he’d take too kindly to yeh tying those two thoughts together like that, Septima. Never did try t’ hide his perclivities, now did he? Besides, as I see it, Draco here and ‘arry, well, both of ‘em are the same age. Nothin’ to be bellyachin’ over.”

“But he corrupted the Saviour of the Wizarding World!” Vector’s hand is clutched melodramatically to her chest but her gaze is steely.

“I don’t believe one fuck can do that,” Draco says mildly, “no matter how much one enjoys it. You might try it sometime.”

Vector’s eyes widen. She sits back down into her chair with a soft thud. “Well, I never--”

“I’m sure,” Flitwick says from behind his newspapers and Draco hastily suppresses a snort of astonishment. He’d no idea the diminutive Charms teach was paying attention.

“Eh, shut it, the both of you.” Hagrid’s hand comes down firmly on Draco’s shoulder. “And yeh too, Draco. Never was one t’ know when’s best t’ keep yer mouth closed. Now the Thestrals need seein’ to, so if yeh’ll excuse us.”

Hagrid steers Draco to the panelled door and all but pushes him through. Draco looks back and sees Opal smiling at him. She raises her cup to him and then Hagrid frogmarches him down the corridor.

They’re both silent as they make their way outside. Hagrid doesn’t even stop to let him grab his cloak, so by the time they’re halfway down the lawn, Draco’s shivering in the November chill.

“Best cast a warming charm,” Hagrid says, not looking down at him.

Draco flicks his wand and heat ripples across his fingertips and circles his torso. He sighs in relief. “Vector’s a bitch.”

“Most people know that right off.” Hagrid rubs the back of his neck. His knitting needles bounce against his hip. “Yeh should hear what Hermoine has to say about her.”

“I’d rather not.” Draco can barely keep up with Hagrid’s long strides. His boots slide on a patch of slick mud.

Hagrid just grunts and turns towards the forest. “Yeh need t’ learn when not to poke ‘er. Better for yeh to just let ‘er growl at yeh and get tired of it. Some creatures are just that way. She only attacks if yeh fight back.”

“I’m not about to let her say those sort of things about me.” Draco doesn’t add or Harry but the look Hagrid gives him over his bushy beard makes it clear that the words hang unspoken between them.

“Yeh and ‘arry are two peas in a pod,” Hagrid says. “‘E never let that cow Umbridge say anything to him without fightin’ back. Look what she did to him.”

“What?” Despite himself, Draco is intensely curious. Although they’d been to school together, he knows so little about Potter’s past when it comes down to details, other than their mutual animosity and infrequent encounters.

Hagrid’s voice rises an octave in outrage. “Why she tortured him. Made him write hundreds of lines with a Blood Quill. He still has the scars on his hand.” His eyebrows draw together. “I will not tell lies. That’s what it says.”

“Oh.” Draco thinks back. He’s seen a pale, jagged scar on the back of Potter’s right hand. He hadn’t realised it formed words.

“Anyway.” A half-rotted log snaps beneath Hagrid’s boot. “Point being that neither one of yeh know how to stay out of trouble.”

Draco doesn’t entirely like being lumped with Potter in this regard. “I managed to stay alive with the Dark Lord living in my house.”

Hagrid gives him a long look. “So yeh did, Draco Malfoy. So yeh did.”

They’ve reached the edge of the clearing and the Thestrals lift their heads from the hunks of meat spread across the dead grass. Druella whinnies sharply, then breaks away from the herd, galloping towards Draco, her mane streaming out behind her. He can’t stop a wide smile from crossing his face. A few feet away she unfurls her small, leathery wings and takes off, her hooves leaving the ground as she flies towards him, barely missing his shoulder.

Draco ducks just in time. “She’s flying!”

“Caught her just yesterday.” Hagrid beams at the tiny Thestral, reaching out to steady her as she drops back to the ground. “She’ll learn how to control it soon.”

Druella prances in front of Draco, nudging his hip with her beak. She nips through one of his belt loops.

“Yeh might as well be her mother now,” Hagrid says.

Draco gives him a baleful look. He strokes his fingers through Druella’s mane, pulling loose twigs and leaves from it. “I think Harry being a mother is enough.”

“Yer both protective of those yeh love.” Hagrid takes a large hunk of meat and tears it apart, tossing it to the herd. “Shame yeh don’t realise that about each other yet.”

Draco freezes, his hand on Druella’s bony withers. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Hagrid wipes his hands on his rough brown trousers. “I’ve watched enough animals matin’ to know. Seein’ yeh two circle each other and skitter away...well. Might be two Hippogriffs choosin’ each other.” He eyes Draco. “They mate for life, yeh know. Usually after they’ve ripped a good chunk or two out ‘a each other.”

Druella nudges Draco’s hand, annoyed that he’s stopped petting her. He resumes, and she huffs in pleasure. He doesn’t look at Hagrid. “I’m not mating with Potter. I think I’d have better chances with a Hippogriff.” He shudders a bit, thinking about the fierce orange eyes and the terrifyingly sharp beaks. Even though he’s become accustomed to the herd at Hogwarts and they to him, he still remembers the terror of his first encounter.

Hagrid chuckles. “Yeh might not be wrong. ‘Arry’s a lot more skittish and proud than he likes to think. Give him some time.” He lowers his voice. “Olympe says hormones make yeh foul-tempered.”

“In that case, Potter’s been pregnant since he was eleven.” Draco can’t believe he’s having this conversation. It defies the imagination that he’s actually having a serious discussion involving the mating habits of Hippogriffs, Gryffindors, and giants.

Hagrid turns appraising eyes on him. “Yeh’re nervous.”

“Who wouldn’t be?” Draco watches Druella as she rips a piece of meat off a hewn-off carcass and gobbles it down. “This isn’t exactly normal.”

“Isn’t exactly not normal either.” Hagrid settles his bulk on a wide stump, his elbows on his knees. He takes out his knitting needles and begins to work on the garish burnt orange hairy rag he’s crafting. “Creatures of all sorts breed. Don’ see why yeh and ‘arry are any different.”

Draco gives him an incredulous look. “He doesn’t have a uterus, to begin with.”

Hagrid wraps the yarn around one beefy finger. “That’s what magic’s for. Any breeder’ll tell yeh that about magical creatures. Sometimes they need a bit of an extra push, so to speak.”

The bare tree branches above Draco’s head creak in a faint breeze. He looks around, wrapping his arms around himself. It’d been here, although the trees were full of leaves then and the grass was green and long. They’d fucked here. Or a few feet away, really. He remembers Potter’s breath hot against his throat as he’d groaned with each frantic snap of Draco’s hips against his arse.

Draco shivers. He’s forgotten to recast his warming charm and his arms are cold.

Hagrid watches him, his eyes knowing. “Yeh need a hobby,” he says. “Somethin’ to take yer mind off things so yeh don’t pick fights in the staff room. Or up in yer rooms with ‘arry.”

“What?” Draco looks over at him, confused.

“Knittin’ always calms me nerves,” Hagrid says, holding up his thick needles. “Warm, too, in the winter.”

Draco realises he’s not joking. He blinks. “But why?”

“It’s soothin’. Yeh do the same thing over and over and yer mind goes to rest.” Hagrid’s enormous needles clack together softly. “And if there’s anybody I’ve met whose mind needs to rest a spell, it’s yers.”

Draco bursts into laughter. The knot in his chest loosens just a bit.

He sits beside Hagrid’s feet, pulling his knees to his chest as he casts another warming charm. “Show me then, you mad giant.”

Hagrid smiles down at him, and the Thestrals whinny.

For this moment, it’s enough.***

Harry sits down at the Gryffindor table, grabs a roll and bites into it angrily. Ron and Hermione eye him from across the huge dish of cottage pie one of the house-elves has just placed in front of Harry.

“All right there, mate?” Ron asks hesitantly. All he gets in return is a furious glare. “Right.” He looks over at Hermione. “Your turn.”

Hermione sighs. “Harry--”

“Don’t.” Harry stuffs the rest of his roll in his mouth. “I’m not in the mood.”

Wet crumbs spatter across the table as he speaks, and Hermione flinches. “Did Draco upset you?”

Harry swallows and wipes his napkin across his mouth. He supposes it’s a rational question, although really, he and Malfoy have only seen each other in passing over the past few days. They’ve both kept to their rooms: Harry falling asleep over his Potions and Defence essays due by supper on Friday and Malfoy...well. Harry’s not entirely certain what Malfoy’s been doing in his room. At one point he’d have suspected him of plotting the destruction of the world as Harry knew it. That was before he’d discovered Malfoy had an entire collection of The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle. It’s harder to accuse someone of being capable of abject evil when you know the comic antics of a gangly, clueless fourteen-year-old send him into fits of sniggers.

Malfoy’s an odd duck, Harry thinks, and he shakes his head.

“Pomfrey,” he says, and at Hermione’s frown, he drops his napkin next to his plate and scowls. “She called me up to the infirmary to go over my...” He glances around and his voice drops. “My Healing plan with Guhathakurta. Evidently I’ll have to see him monthly, but she’ll be keeping an eye on me weekly.”

“That doesn’t sound so terrible,” Hermione says cautiously.

Harry leans his elbows on the table. His frown deepens. “She says I have to switch from helping Professor Adoyo with Defence to helping Flitwick with Charms.” The absolute unfairness of this still stings. “I’m awful at Charms.”

Ron reaches for the basket of rolls and Hermione gives him a look. He stuffs one in his mouth and takes a second, then wipes the back of his hand across his face. “It’s not like you can blame her. You shouldn’t be handling Defence classes anyway in your condition.” At Hermione’s huff of annoyance, he shrugs. “He shouldn’t. Might hurt the baby.”

Hermione and Harry both shush him. Ron rolls his eyes. “It’s not as if you’re going to be able to hide it in a few weeks,” he says through a mouthful of cottage pie. “And this is Hogwarts. You snog someone one night in the broom closet and the whole school knows about it by breakfast.” He gives Hermione a guilty glance. “Not that I’d know, of course.”

“I do hope Lavender’s well,” Hermione says primly. She looks back over at Harry. “But he’s right, you realise. Defence is too dangerous for you and the...” She hesitates. Natalie MacDonald is watching them, obviously listening. “You know.”

“But Charms? Why Charms?” Harry puts his head melodramatically in his hands. “It’s like glowing bubbles and Christmas tree ornaments.”

Hermione sniffs, her mouth pursed. “Would you prefer History of Magic?”

“Cor.” Ron looks appalled. “That would be the worst. Can you imagine having to stay awake and help Binns?”

Suddenly Charms doesn’t seem too terrible to Harry. “But how am I going to help in a subject I’m pants at?”

“You could always ask Draco,” Hermione answers. “He was excellent at Charms as I remember.”

Ron and Harry both look at her, horrified. “No,” they say in unison.

“Besides,” Ron says, “he’s already got Harry up the duff--”

“I really don’t see how that affects his ability to help with Harry’s Charms work,” Hermione says tartly, just as Natalie gasps, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide.

Ron turns to her, reaching out to grab her arm, but she’s already gone before he can stop her. “Well, that’s gone and done it,” he mutters. “The whole of the fifth-year will be talking.”

Harry just blinks and then sighs. He’s almost been waiting for this moment. Ron’s not famous for his discretion, but if it wasn’t him, it would be something else.

“Ronald!” Hermione bites her lips into a fierce frown of disapproval.

Harry puts a hand on hers. “Don’t, Hermione. I mean, don’t worry.”

She just sighs and shakes her head.

By evening, the rumours have apparently spread through the fifth years and into the sixth and seventh. Fierce whispering conversations can be heard in Gryffindor common room that either Voldemort, Malfoy or perhaps even Snape has somehow got Harry Potter pregnant and that Ron and Hermione aren’t speaking to each other. Harry walks in on one such conversation as he comes to check on Ron.

“Do you know what Jimmy Peaks and Euan Abercrombie were just talking about?” Harry pushes the bed hangings further to the side to sit down.

“Ignore them, mate,” Ron says as Harry sends a pair of Keeper knee pads skittering to the floor.

Harry looks at them mournfully. He misses Quidditch, even though he tries not to think about it. McGonagall had categorically forbidden him to get on a broom from the moment he’d come back from hospital. Ginny’s taken over his position as Seeker. “Romilda offered to make me an anti-nausea potion.”

Ron sets his Astronomy textbook aside. “Tell me you told her no.”

“Do I look mad?” Harry stretches out across the end of Ron’s bed, his feet dangling over the edge of the mattress. “I miss being up here.”

“It’s quiet without your snoring.” Ron glances over at the empty bed Harry’d slept in. The other three are piled high with rumpled bedsheets and dirty laundry. The seventh-years are even less tidy than Dean and Seamus had been.

Harry flicks two fingers at him, then lets his hand settle on his abdomen. His robe hangs open, bunching at his sides, and the small swell of his stomach is more noticeable against the tight waistband of his trousers. His fingers make small circles against the wool. “Did I do the right thing?”

Ron moves a stack of parchments and flexes his feet in his garish purple and gold socks with lumpy red Quaffles embroidered on them. A pile of chocolate frog wrappers sifts from behind the bed. “About the baby?” At Harry’s nod he leans back against his mound of pillows, studying him. “I don’t know. Bit late now, isn’t it?”

“I guess.” Harry stares up at the constellation chart Ron’s spelled onto the ceiling of his bed to help him study. Sirius shines down on him. Harry wonders how furious his godfather would be with him. Or maybe he would be fiercely defensive and get in the way of his living with Draco. Harry can see both reactions. He does this sometimes, imagines what Sirius or his Mum or Dad would say. Even if he thinks they wouldn’t agree, it calms him to pretend they’re there, talking with him.

Ron watches him. “Do you want to sleep up here tonight?”

Harry pauses. “McGonagall--”

“Won’t know,” Ron says gruffly. “Or if she does, it’ll be too late.”

“I don’t have pyjamas.” Harry eyes his old bed.

“Like you haven’t borrowed mine before.” Ron flicks his wand at his wardrobe, and a pair of orange plaid flannel pyjama bottoms flies out, slapping Harry in the face.

He laughs and wads them in his hand. “You’re mad.”

Ron grins. “Shut it and put them on. And if you snore, I’m sending you back down to Malfoy.”

Harry shudders in mock horror. “Bastard.”

His heart feels oddly lighter.***

Draco throws a teacup at Potter when he walks into their rooms the next morning. He doesn’t think about it, he just draws his arm back and hurls it. The cup shatters against the wall just beside the bastard’s ear, shards of china falling to the floor and scattering across the carpet at the end of a trail of milky tea. Potter should be grateful he was mostly done, Draco thinks.

Potter freezes and stares at him like a gape-mouthed imbecile, that rats’ nest he calls hair falling into his eyes and his rumpled robe hanging off one shoulder. His jumper is clutched in one hand, the sleeve trailing on the floor. “What the hell, Malfoy? What the bloody hell?”

Calmly, Draco flicks his wand at the broken china, Vanishing it. He’s too angry to worry about the carpet right now. “If I’d meant to hit you, Potter, I would have.” His mouth is tight, and he’s exhausted. It’d been nearly half-three when he’d finally given up listening for the creak of Potter’s door. He doesn’t know why he’s so furious at the fucking shit for not coming back, but he is, and Draco’s never been one to hide his displeasure, especially not with Potter.

He reaches for his heavy black wool cloak. The first snow of the year is threatening outside, and whilst Draco doesn’t think it will actually fall, he’s not a complete fool.

Potter walks warily into the sitting room. “You’re angry.”

“Oh, well done.” Draco claps loudly, draping his cloak over his arm. “Ten points to Gryffindor.”

“You do realise those will actually take, given that you’re staff.” Potter attempts to smooth his hair down. It’s a lost cause.

Draco shrugs. He hadn’t and he’s furious that he’d forgotten, but he doesn’t want the git to see. “One makes sacrifices for the sake of sarcasm.” He heads for the door.

“Is this about me not coming back last night?” Potter asks.

Surprised that Potter’s had even an inkling of insight, Draco turns and looks back at him, his hand on the doorknob. “Oh, I’m sure you ended up in someone’s care.” The amount of venom in his voice shocks even him.

Potter’s eyebrows rise. “I didn’t realise you cared.”

Neither did Draco. It makes him uneasy, this flare of jealousy. He wonders whose bed Potter slept in. The Weasel’s? The Weaselette’s? That’s far more likely, all things considered. His mouth twists to one side. “I’m certain she was sympathetic. Poor ickle Potty, preggers by that horrible Death Eater. Did she spread her legs for you this time?” His brain tells his mouth to shut up, but as usual it doesn’t listen. “Or did you just rut up against her like a common strumpet?”

“Strumpet?” Potter laughs, his face screwing up into amusement. “Does anyone talk like that? What have you been reading?”

Draco has developed a taste for historical novels, but he’s not about to admit it. He rather enjoys their plots after a long day outside, thank you very much. It annoys him even more that Potter’s been keeping an eye on his reading materials lately. He sniffs. “Arcane seventeenth century Wizarding history, if you must know, although I’m certain you’ve no idea about the period.”

Potter shrugs. “Don’t really want to.”

“You’re a Philistine, Potter.” Draco’s gaze flicks towards the copy of Quidditch Weekly lying on the sofa. His parents had never allowed him to read anything amusing or adventurous. He’s found he’s a great deal of literature to catch up on. He’s even thinking about going into the Muggle section in the library. Severus had recommended a book called Vanity Fair, saying Draco might recognise himself in one of the characters. Not knowing whom else to ask about it, Draco had surreptitiously questioned Hermione when she was last in the suite. The oddest look had come over her face and he still wasn’t sure they’d understood each other.

“I wasn’t with Ginny.” Potter drops into an armchair. He looks up at Draco. “But if I had been, why would you care?”

“I don’t,” Draco says shortly. They both know that’s a stupendous lie now, but he refuses to back down.

Potter’s scepticism is evident. “Yeah. You don’t care so much that you threw a teacup at my head.”

“And deliberately missed.” Draco scowls at him. “But only because you’re carrying a Malfoy.”

The words shock him a little as they come out of his mouth. He still hasn’t quite got used to that idea, and judging from the look on Potter’s face, neither has he. Potter’s hand drops down to lie against his abdomen.

“Yeah.”

They just look at each other. Draco’s rage drains. He’s tired and uneasy, and he is fucking scared witless by all of this, not that he’d ever tell Potter that. He doesn’t want to look the fool, after all.

“I’m going to breakfast,” he says after a moment. “You should eat too.”

Potter nods. “I’m going to come in a few minutes.”

Draco is nearly out of the door when Potter calls after him. He doesn’t hear what he says, and turns back. “What?”

“I’m sorry.” Potter’s looking at his scuffed trainers and Draco wonders for a moment if he can Vanish them in an idle moment when he’s not paying attention. “I probably should have told you where I was.”

Draco shrugs. “It’s fine.”

He can feel Potter’s eyes watching him as he pulls the door shut behind him. He doesn’t know what to say.

The Great Hall is full when Draco reaches it. He usually breakfasts earlier than most of the students, in an attempt to avoid the unwanted attentions of what seems to be a growing clique of first-year girls. Thanks to Potter skulking in at quarter past seven, though, the moment he steps foot past the arched double doors, he’s beset by a clump of Ravenclaws and Slytherins--with one or two Gryffindors thrown in--who’ve obviously been lying in wait.

“Is it true?” one of them asks, her eyes wide. She’s the second-in-command, Draco thinks. Perdita’s best friend, Agnes. Her dark hair curls wildly around a plump, pale face.

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Draco says coolly, attempting to side-step them. The entire group steps with him, blocking him.

Agnes’s blue eyes narrow at him dangerously. It’s frightening how they can go from sickly sweet to feral in a heartbeat. “You know exactly what I mean. Why won’t you tell us?”

“Yeah, do you want the baby to grow up a--” The girl speaking lowers her voice dramatically and hisses, “Bastard?”

It looks for a moment like they are going to swoon collectively but it’s hard to swoon properly on a stone floor. Draco should know. Instead, the scrum of girls merely clutches at each other for support and lurches a bit to the side, the girls at the edge of the group being pressed up against the wall by the weight of others.

Draco is alarmed even though he thinks them horrendously melodramatic. “Calm down. Really. It’s okay.”

They eye him mistrustfully in their shared state of being overcome by the tragedy of the situation. “Why should we believe you?” The girl who has spoken from the centre of the group is a Ravenclaw as well, Liana something or other.

“Because he’s the baby’s other father,” says Violet Wilton, a third-year Gryffindor, leaning against the wall from few paces away and watching the affair from solid ground. Draco thinks her parents’ sadistic sense of humour must have toughened her up a bit.

The group of girls oscillates like an overexcited jellyfish and its constituent parts squeal as one, reaching out their hands. “How romannnnntic.”

Whilst they’re momentarily distracted by Violet’s dry pronouncement, Draco turns tail and all but runs into the Great Hall. He doesn’t stop until he’s made it safely to his place at the end next to Hagrid. A few eyebrows rise at his haste, especially when the mass of girls moving at an alarming speed is spotted at the far end of the hall, but most of the staff is focused on their eggs or marmalade.

McGonagall steps out in front of the tables, turning a stern eye on the first-years. They stop as one in the center aisle between the tables, and Draco’s fairly certain they’re sizing up the possibility of swarming over the Headmistress, at least until she says something to them that he can’t quite make out. Her meaning’s clear though, as the mass dissipates, each girl skulking off sullenly to her House table.

Draco slumps in relief. A house-elf pours him a cup of tea, which he takes gratefully.

When Potter walks in--or strides, rather, Draco thinks, with his head held high and his shoulders squared--the whispers begin again. They don’t seem to bother Potter; he just turns a cold stare on the gawkers until they look away, their faces flushing. Draco supposes Potter’s used to this; there hadn’t been a year that had gone by--until last year, at least--that a Potter rumour or twenty hadn’t flown by. He’d been responsible for more than one himself.

Potter grins at the Weasel, who tosses a piece of buttered toast his way. For a moment, Draco hates both of them again, loathes the easy way they have with each other. He’s always been jealous of that. It’s not that Blaise and Pansy aren’t good friends, but Draco’s never really considered his friendship with either of them to be easy. Slytherins never are, unless you’re counting being willing to tumble into bed at a moment’s notice--and even then there are rules.

Draco looks down at his bacon and eggs. He scrapes the tines of his fork across the shivering surface of the eggs, breaking through the whites. A stream of yellow yolk runs across his plate, soaking into a triangle of toast. When he looks back up again, Potter’s watching him from Gryffindor table, chewing slowly. His hair’s still damp from his shower, and his tie’s askew. Draco’s heart thuds oddly against his chest.

He’s distracted by McGonagall’s soft cough and the louder clank of her spoon against the rim of her glass. The whispers die down as the students turn on the benches to look her way.

She stands and clears her throat again. “Quiet, please. I have an announcement.” The sideways glance she casts Potter’s way makes Draco’s stomach twist. She wouldn’t, Draco thinks. Would she?

“As you know,” the Headmistress says primly, “Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were both seventh-year students at Hogwarts last year. Draco Malfoy is working among us as a junior assistant to Professor Rubeus Hagrid and Harry Potter is taking advanced NEWTs classwork and will now be assisting in Charms, rather than his previous Defence assignment.”

Draco sees Potter grimace and look away, a flush rising on the back of his neck. He hadn’t realised Potter had been removed from Defence. He bites his lip. Yet another sacrifice from St Potter. The students look between him and Potter, their curiosity evident. The first-years lean forward in excitement.

“The persistence of certain rumours has unfortunately made it necessary to clarify the current situation between them.” McGonagall looks horribly uncomfortable; Draco hasn’t an ounce of sympathy. He twists his napkin angrily between his fingers--she ought to have warned them she was going to do this. The glare he sends the Headmistress’s way is vehement. It doesn’t stop her from continuing. “Mr Potter,” she says, her reluctance obvious, “is, as the rumours suggest, expecting Mr Malfoy’s child.”

There’s a moment of utter silence. Even the ghosts hang frozen in the air. And then the entire hall erupts in a cacophony of response: chatter, shouts, outrage and uproar. McGonagall stands resigned as it echoes off the walls, and it’s only when both Slytherin and Gryffindor begin to climb onto their tables to hurl insults at each other that she pulls out her wand.

Bright orange fireworks explode into the air. The students fall silent, and McGonagall tucks her wand back into her robe. “Thank you,” she says tartly, “and I’ll ask Slytherin and Gryffindor Houses to take their seats again, if you please.” She waits as the students slide back onto the benches, still casting scowls across the hall. “And twenty points to Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff for having the good sense to remain in their places.”

Draco wants to slide beneath the head table and crawl out of the room. Half the hall is staring at him, the other half at Potter. It takes all he has to school his face into a frozen expression of a calm he doesn’t feel. Thank God for Sunday dinners with Voldemort.

Hagrid reaches over and pats his hand awkwardly. “Chin up, lad,” he mutters. “Yeh’ll make it through this, and then yeh can spend the rest of the day out in the forest, if yeh want.”

Draco nods, not trusting himself to speak.

“You will all, of course,” McGonagall says, “respect their privacy. But as I am quite aware how little that means when it comes to youthful gossip, your professors and I have worked this morning to establish a variant of the Fidelius Charm on the castle. The information will not leave Hogwarts grounds.” At this she casts a fiery look around the hall. The entirety of the head table with the exception of Draco stands up, their wands drawn, and the students shrink back. Draco knows everyone but the first-years are thinking of last term, of the Carrows with their wands at the ready to punish any student who crossed their path.

McGonagall’s face softens. “The spell has been designed so that no mention of this matter may be made outside of Hogwarts. Not to your families. Not to the press. Not even to each other on your holidays. And any student caught tampering with the charm will be sent down immediately. Do I make myself clear?”

As one, the whole hall nods. Potter doesn’t look up from his plate. He sits stiffly on the Gryffindor bench, his shoulders tight. Draco forces himself to sit still in his chair, despite his entire body screaming to go to Potter, even when he’s not certain why. Potter has an effect on him that Draco can’t explain; the bastard has a vulnerability that few people see. Now that Draco has seen it, he can’t ignore it. The urge to protect Potter unsettles him.

McGonagall nods towards the staff, and they lift their wands.

“Go on with yeh,” Hagrid whispers out of the corner of his mouth, and Draco pushes himself up just as they cast the Fidelius incantation. Magic streaks whitely across the stone walls and floor, causing the whole hall to shiver.

He looks back at the door, his gaze meeting Potter’s. The spell crackles around them, and for a moment Draco’s back in the forest, Potter’s body wrapped around his. Potter looks down, and Draco feels oddly adrift.

The magic sinks into the stones, disappearing with a soft whoosh. The hall is silent.

Draco slips away.***

Harry comes in from the library, tired, his satchel slung over his shoulder. He’s in a foul mood, and the looks he’s been getting from his fellow students the past few days haven’t helped.

They’re courteous enough, he supposes. No one’s going to dare to be hateful to the Boy Who Lived Again. At least not to his face. But he can hear the whispers when he passes. Freak. Poof. Pillow-biter.

And then there’s the first year girls. They follow him around, offering to carry his books for him, asking him what Malfoy’s like. Ron thinks this is hysterical, or at least he did until he told them all that Malfoy was a prick. Now they’ve taken to tripping him in the halls--or in the Gryffindors’ case, in the common room--which infuriates Ron to no end.

“It’s Malfoy,” he says angrily to Harry after one particularly nasty spill. He rubs his shin. “What the hell do the little cows see in him?”

Harry’d just shrugged and shifted his satchel from one side to the other as they climb a moving staircase to the third floor, breathing a bit heavily. “Your fault, mate. Everyone knows the whole lot of them are mad.”

His friends are watching him with sharp eyes, asking him constantly if he feels all right. He’d been rubbing at his scar just now in the library, and Hermione had looked at him, her brows drawn together in worry, and asked him if it hurt.

He’d slammed his book closed. “No. It doesn’t. My entire bloody head hurts, though, and my feet are swollen, and I’ve something growing next to my intestines, thanks ever so much, but I’m fine. Will you stop asking me?”

She’d drawn back as if he’d slapped her, and Ron had given him the look he always gets when he’s done something to upset Hermione. The look that says “I might not have sex for weeks if you don’t mend this.”

“Harry,” he’d said, and Harry’d just pushed his chair back, stuffing his books and parchment scrolls into his satchel.

“I’m going upstairs.”

They hadn’t tried to stop him, which had only made Harry more furious.

Malfoy looks up from two wooden sticks and a lapful of what Harry’s rather certain is some sort of yarn when he slams his satchel onto the floor and drops into the chair opposite him. A fire crackles in the hearth, and there’s a glass of wine hovering next to Malfoy’s elbow. Harry wants to grab it and drain it, but years of Muggle cautions about excessive drinking during pregnancy have had their effect.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

It’s a moment before Malfoy answers. “Knitting,” he says, and he stabs the yarn with one of the wooden sticks. He scowls. “Hagrid says it’s calming.”

“You don’t look calm.”

Malfoy glances up at him again. “Neither do you.”

Harry just grunts and slumps back in his chair. “I hate everyone.”

“Have you somehow switched bodies with Snape?” Malfoy asks suspiciously. He drops the knitting into a bag at his feet and kicks it across the rug. It hits the stone hearth, tipping to one side. A ball of yarn slips out and bounces against the floor.

“Unfortunately no.” Harry rubs his hand over his stomach. He unfastens his trousers and sighs in relief. The waistband’s started to dig into his skin. “I think being a painting would be more comfortable.”

Malfoy just looks at him. “Why aren’t you using proper tailoring charms?” he asks suddenly. “You have to have outgrown your trousers by now.”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know any.”

This draws an exasperated sigh from Malfoy. “Oh for goodness’ sake.” He pulls his wand out. “Stand up.”

Harry hesitates, but at Malfoy’s glare, he pushes himself out of the chair. “What?”

Malfoy eyes him for a moment. “Take your robe off and turn around.”

Feeling like a fool, Harry does. He tosses the robe down onto his chair and glances back over his shoulder, catching Malfoy studying his arse. “See anything you like?”

A pink flush spreads over Malfoy’s cheeks. “Shut it.” He waves at Harry to turn again. “Honestly, I don’t know how those trousers aren’t cutting you in two.” His nostrils flare. “And that shirt is a horrific fit in the shoulders.”

He flicks his wand at Harry, and suddenly his trousers hang looser. Another flick and Harry’s shirt shifts on his shoulders. Malfoy purses his mouth, his head tilted, then he flicks his wand again. Harry blinks as his trousers pull more snugly against his balls.

“Better,” Malfoy says. He sighs again. “Not perfect by any means. I’m neither Twilfit nor Tatting, but at least Mother made certain I knew those charms before my second year at Hogwarts.” He sniffs. “There’s no sense in being utterly tacky, Potter.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, and he realises he means it. He gives Malfoy a small smile as he settles back in his chair. “Will you teach me then?”

Malfoy reaches for his glass of wine. “I suppose I’ll have to. No sense in my child’s father looking like a ruffian.”

They look at each other for a long moment, the words hanging between them.

“It’s never going to be not-weird, is it?” Harry asks quietly.

Malfoy turns his glass in his hands, staring down at it. “How could it be? But you can learn to live with weird.” He gives Harry a sideways glance. “I suppose it’s stranger for you, though. All things considered.”

“Well, this wasn’t exactly a position I ever saw myself in,” Harry admits. “I mean, I thought I wanted kids one day. Before I figured out..well, you know. The poof thing.” He runs a hand over his face, pushing his glasses up. “But this isn’t how I thought it would go.”

“No.” Malfoy sips his wine. He rests the foot of his glass on his thigh. “It’s been a long time since I thought I might have...” He trails off. Harry waits, watching him. Malfoy shakes himself, then draws in a deep breath. “Anything like this, really. I suppose I’m surprised to be alive right now. Or outside of Azkaban.”

Harry rubs his thumb across the arm of his chair. “Yeah,” he says. He looks up at Malfoy. “It seems more real now that everyone knows.”

Malfoy nods. “We couldn’t have kept it hidden much longer.”

“I know.” Harry’s hand settles on his stomach again. It seems more natural there for some reason. “Still.”

“Yeah,” Malfoy says. He drains his wine glass and stands up. “I’m going to bed.”

“Night.” Harry watches Draco disappear into his bedroom.

He sits out by the fire until only the embers glow.

To Part Three