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Malfoy’s feet are pretty. With Malfoy draped across the couch and the fire crackling on a grey afternoon, Gregory kneads them like dough. If his feet really were made of dough, Gregory just knows they would make for the fluffiest little buns.
The thought makes his mouth water, and he imagines what Malfoy’s toes would feel like on his tongue… No, Gregory must focus, because Malfoy is talking, and Gregory wants to listen.
“...so I said an elf would take her to the door, if she couldn’t find it herself,” he is monologuing at the ceiling. “I was being helpful, wasn’t I? But she threw this whole hissy fit about how I was a ‘brute’, and I didn’t pay attention to her, didn’t refill her tea, didn’t let her have the last bonbon, and did I know Eustace Selwyn gave her her favourite flowers? Go chase that twat Selwyn, then, Merlin!”
“Was it the ganache heart bonbons?”
“Hazelnut seashells.”
“Ooh, I wouldn’t save those for no one.”
“Exactly, even you get it!”
Backhandedness ignored, the compliment only compounds on Gregory’s joy. He loves it when Malfoy’s dates go wrong; his whinging about them is music Gregory thinks his ears might never tire of. But then today Malfoy heaves a sigh so heavy that it makes Gregory question everything.
“I don’t know why Mother still bothers digging up these dregs of society,” he says, quieter than before. “Well, I suppose she has little else to do here alone, with Father away and all, but… Wearing yourself out on something hopeless can only distract from loneliness for so long.”
Gregory isn’t sure he’s talking only about his mother. Malfoy shouldn’t be lonely, though, he isn’t alone! He has Gregory. Yet Gregory feels the same uncertain sting he felt when they had just turned thirteen and Malfoy decided to be interested in Pansy Parkinson.
He spent nights awake reliving their childhood memories: being mounted like a dragon, playing the Muggle in catch-the-Muggle and getting yelled at for fighting back, but also sharing michievous grins sneaking sweets at night, flying together over the Malfoy gardens… In fact, another memory comes back to him now.
Crabbe couldn’t come that day, so it was just Gregory and Malfoy under the shade of a tree at Malfoy Manor. The setting felt intimate enough that Gregory made the mistake of sharing his insecurities: that Malfoy would marry Pansy, and no witch would ever want Gregory, no matter how good a contract his mother could write.
Of course that was met with disdain, with a silly idea Malfoy threw at him just to shut him up. Gregory knew he wasn’t supposed to find it comforting, so he made himself laugh along with Malfoy at the absurdity.
“Give it another eight years and you can marry me,” Gregory echoes that ancient joke in the present, hoping it will amuse Malfoy again.
“What?”
“That time you said you’d marry me if we ended up single by thirty, remember?” Gregory says with a little chuckle.
But Malfoy stays serious, his whole face scrunched up in cryptic thought. “Yeah… I remember.”
Fuck, that makes it awkward. “I mean, we were just messing—”
Malfoy suddenly sits up, soft feet gone from Gregory’s lap, pointy nose inches from Gregory’s face. “Marry me now.”
It’s Gregory’s turn to blurt, “What?”
“You said you’d marry me, so do it.”
“Malfoy, there’s still ti—” Gregory starts on reflex, but Malfoy is looking at him so intensely that he has to stop and check that the crackling is really coming from the fire.
Gregory has known that look since even before Hogwarts: the one Malfoy gets when he wants Gregory to do something important. When he needs Gregory to do something.
It’s only got wilder over the years, and Gregory has to admit it’s rather scary, but that’s not why it works. Gregory doesn’t do what Malfoy says because he’s intimidated; he does it because he thinks ‘the look’ must be scary from the giving end, too.
“Okay,” he says. “Yeah, okay, we can get married now.”
And just like that, it’s not so absurd, after all.
*
Draco’s mother blinks a couple of times. She sets down her teacup.
Then she nods.
“Gregory has been a loyal friend. I trust he will make for a reliable husband.”
Draco smiles, and she smiles back.
It’s still cold when the celebrant comes. The ceremony is held indoors, the Manor halls glittering with fairy-blown lights and white flowers delightedly selected by Narcissa. Even now she’ll jump at any chance to brighten up the place — even if Goyle’s parents ran away to Serbia, Draco ended up ghosting Pansy since she moved to Paris, and neither groom felt like inviting a bunch of phoneys just to make numbers.
Draco can’t blame his mother, though. He himself jumps at the chance to wear new bespoke robes of liberally embellished velvet, and puts the hired photographer to good use.
Only when the time comes for the marrying part does it sink in that this isn’t just a party. Draco recites his words mechanically. Goyle’s face glistens with a slight sheen of sweat. Draco realises he’ll have to stop calling Goyle “Goyle”.
He’ll be Gregory Goyle-Malfoy now, as agreed, and Draco will remain Draco Malfoy. Gre-go-ry. Gregory. Greg? Gregory. It sounds weird. Draco isn’t sure whether he will get used to it, but the tongues of flame have already wrapped themselves around their linked hands, and there’s nothing left to do but exchange rings.
Narcissa sprints to Draco, clapping and crying, and lunges at his shoulders to pull him into her embrace. “Oh, my baby, congratulations!”
Draco stumbles back, nearly falls, but his mother holds him steady. She keeps rubbing his back, warming up his bones, and Draco manages to draw from that the reassurance he was lacking.
“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart,” she says in his ear. “I wish you all the happiness, and love, and joy, and success, and health, and abundance, and all the good fortune in the world, my precious, forever and ever, every single day of your life.”
“Thanks, Mother,” he whispers sincerely.
“And don’t forget I’ll always be here for you, for whatever you need.”
“I know.” Draco doesn’t want to think in detail about all the times he needed her, or he’ll start crying too. He says simply, “I love you.”
“I love you too, darling.” Narcissa leaves red lipstick marks all over Draco’s cheeks, repeating like a mantra, “Love you, love you, love you.”
Draco is honestly past the stage of being embarrassed. That’s not why he feels a pang of discomfort when his eyes drift over to Gregory. Equally, there’s nothing mocking in Gregory’s expression; it’s just sad.
Narcissa follows her son’s gaze. When she sees Gregory’s glum features, she finally lets go of Draco and gives her son-in-law a hug, too.
“And you, Gregory!” Narcissa kisses his face, as well. “We’re ecstatic to welcome you into our family, I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful addition, dear.”
Grinning, Draco wipes the lipstick off his own skin and Gregory’s, and Gregory’s blush only subsides once they’ve all taken their seats at the dining table.
The feat is in full accordance with Draco’s post-war dietary convictions. On gleaming platters are beautifully golden roast potatoes, braised red cabbage with apple, artichoke gratin, and the main dish: a creamy chestnut mushroom pie Draco could kiss his mother for discovering. Oh, and aubergine parmigiana — which doesn’t go with the rest of the menu, but Gregory requested it, and Draco tolerates it because well, it is his wedding too.
Draco had forgot how good food can be, how good wine can be. He savours every bite and every sip, relishing that now he can eat and drink out of pleasure only. Now he doesn’t have anything to numb. Instead, he lets the acohol heighten the warm, relaxed happiness he feels.
Gregory, meanwhile, enjoys the meal in his own way. He would clear all the platters if Narcissa didn’t remind him, with a pointed look, to save some room for the cake, which Draco knows she is excited to show off.
Narcissa would not settle for fewer than three tiers, and spent several afternoons hassling the pâtissier over elaborate decorations. Draco was glad to let her handle it; all that really mattered to him was the traditional Malfoy vanilla honey flavour and white icing with gold leaf — purity and prosperity. He wasn’t sure how much he believed in that anymore, but he did want the comfort of at least one thing in his wedding being as he’d always pictured it.
The result is beautiful when it appears on the table: floral arabesques and vines like a tapestry embroidered in gold, lush confectionery peonies, and birds and butterflies fluttering about.
Draco and Gregory pose for a photo cutting the first slice together, with smiles that mask how eager they are to taste it. When they do, it’s a heavenly wave of sweetness on Draco’s tastebuds, even better than he could have dreamt.
Draco laughs watching Gregory snatch the butterflies and gobble them up, though when he grabs one of the birds, Draco slaps his hand. As a kid, Draco is sure he would have been the first to suggest using such figurines as practice targets for explosive spells, and Gregory would have been gleeful at the prospect. Now, though, Draco much prefers his mother’s placating suggestion to keep them preserved as a memento.
Gregory apparently comes to understand it somehow, because on their way to the ballroom, Draco sees him pet a careful finger over the bird’s head.
Gregory is as stiff a dancer as one would expect. While Draco and Narcissa take artful command of the room with their glides and twirls, Gregory and Draco resign themselves to swaying rather pathetically, lest Draco’s frustration gets the best of him.
It’s nice, though, Draco thinks after a while. Gregory is like a rock — something you can’t dance with, but something you can lean on.
*
Draco. Draco, Draco, Draco — Gregory repeats in his mind over and over, basking in the honour of being trusted with the name. He remembers Crabbe spitting it out like something worthless, right before dying by his own moronic hand. Served him right. But Gregory will cradle Draco’s name in his lips as carefully as it deserves.
He considers whether he should cradle Draco himself in his arms on the way to their bedroom, but Draco just grabs him by the hand and leads him with tense force up the staircase.
There’s no need, Gregory thinks, hasn’t he just tied himself to Draco willingly? He’ll follow wherever he takes him, he’s letting Draco pull him to a threshold without knowing what to expect on the other side. But it occurs to Gregory that Draco might not know what to expect either, so he strokes the side of his thumb.
The suite is airy yet homely, all done in greyish green and shades of brown. There’s a huge bed in the middle, and Gregory finds that all his things have been arranged into one corner of the dressing room. Draco doesn’t say a word while Gregory explores.
They both go about their nightly routines in absolute silence, except for a click of Draco’s tongue when Gregory’s elbow touches his while they brush their teeth.
Perhaps the alcohol in Draco’s bloodstream has faded enough that this is different from when they were dancing not many minutes ago. Perhaps he is worried that now allowing anything would mean allowing everything.
Well, of course it wouldn’t. Though it was amazing dancing with Draco, and Gregory did feel rather cold and empty when the music stopped… But all he really wants is whatever will take away the stress he can always see coiled deep inside Draco’s muscles.
“This is like a hotel room,” Gregory tries to ease the mood, as he jumps onto the mattress and feels like he’s sinking into a cloud.
Draco is rooted to a spot by the door, staring around with a sour expression.
“Yeah,” he agrees dryly, unmoving. “That’s an apt way to put it.”
Gregory tries to figure out what exactly that means and, more importantly, what he can do to help. His thoughts are interrupted by the door slamming, and when Gregory looks up, Draco is gone. Fuck. Gregory pulls at his hair. Draco is always so bloody talkative, why does he have to go all clammed up now?
To be fair, neither of them spoke much about this at all, from the moment it was decided. Maybe Draco regrets it, maybe Gregory shouldn’t have agreed to it without thinking it through properly, there is really no way it could possibly—
Draco returns as suddenly as he went, clutching an emerald duvet Gregory recognises from his childhood bedroom. Oh, so that’s all that was wrong.
“Get up,” he says, and Gregory gets up.
Not even bothering with his wand, Draco pries off the beige comforter with a sort of viciousness that would be bizarre if Gregory didn’t know him, and throws it on the floor like it wounded him. He drapes the green one over the bed (and it isn’t quite large enough to cover all of it), then gets under it.
Gregory only stands and watches, until Draco frowns at him. “Lie down.”
Gregory lies down (and the duvet is large enough to cover both of them). Draco spells out the lights.
Gregory is ready to roll over to the other side, then, hoping he doesn’t wake up on the floor because Draco hogged the entire mattress and all the covers — but Draco reaches behind him, gropes the air until he finds Gregory’s arm.
He yanks on it and wraps it around his waist, and Gregory thinks he must already be dreaming. But he can’t be: Draco is more solid, more real than ever. There’s something so special about feeling his ribcage move as he breathes.
“Closer, idiot,” Draco commands, and Gregory finds it a privilege to obey.
Draco feels tiny as Gregory holds him, like a little white sugar bird — but if Gregory ever puts his mouth on him, it will be only to lick him lovingly until he melts. If Draco doesn’t want that, though, it’s alright; Gregory is happy to stay just like this, offering his arms for Draco to make a cosy new nest.
*
Draco hibernates for the tail end of winter, burrowed in silks with Gregory diligently curled around him. It’s different from the avoidant lethargy from before; this feels like actual rest.
As soon as spring sprouts its first blossoms, however, Gregory develops an interest in tending to the Manor grounds, and starts getting up frightfully early. He asks Draco if he minds, obviously, but Draco discovers he’s not selfish enough to stop Gregory from pursuing something he likes.
It’s probably good for Draco, too, as it encourages him to leave the bed more often — although emerging from his hideout doesn’t come as naturally as to the animals who simply follow the seasons.
Having sweets for breakfast helps, so one morning he grabs a box of hazelnut seashells. Sneaking out of the house before his mother can fuss and worry helps too, so he decides there are enough chocolates to allow Gregory a few.
Still in his dressing gown and slippers, Draco steps out into a chilly but bright day, with sunrays glowing through the fog. He finds Gregory sitting on the steps of the stone gazebo by the lake, hands resting on his knees, gardening gloves laid down at his side.
As Draco approaches, Gregory remains still, with his back turned. Draco wants to know what could possibly have Gregory so rapt as to cause his own presence to go unnoticed. He bends sideways to peer beyond Gregory, and sees the answer to the mystery: a frog on a lilypad, and a cricket’s legs swiftly disappearing into its mouth.
The image of Gregory eating sugar butterflies flashes in Draco’s mind. The frog croaks, and for a second Draco wonders if Gregory will croak back. Draco’s chuckle is what finally makes Gregory’s head swivel around.
“Oh, hey,” he greets, with an almost endearing beam across his face. “Check this out, it’s the most massive frog ever.”
Draco grimaces, but sits down next to Gregory and glares at the creature. It truly is big. And gross. Draco deepens his grimace to make a point before looking away.
“I’ve brought us these,” he announces, holding up the box of bonbons and shaking it in front of Gregory’s face.
Gregory’s eyes grow wide as saucers, but even when the box is open on Draco’s knee, he merely stares at it with reverent restraint.
“What’s wrong with you? Eat,” Draco urges.
“You’re actually… sharing? Not just tossing me the leftovers?”
Draco scoffs, as though that were a completely unreasonable assumption to make. “We’re married now.”
So Gregory reaches for a silver-wrapped bonbon, gingerly, like he’s still expecting some hidden catch. It irritates Draco that his kindness can’t be accepted without second-guesses, but as soon as the chocolate touches Gregory’s lips his hesitancy thankfully vanishes, and takes Draco’s annoyance with it.
The rich aroma fills the air between them as they tear through the delicious treats. Draco secretly likes that around Gregory he never has to worry about being prim and proper. If there’s creamy hazelnut filling smeared around his lips, they just laugh about it; if it gets on his fingers, he licks it off without a care.
If he eats too much, too fast, it’s no issue, because Gregory is even worse, and soon two entire layers of seashells are down to the last one.
Their hands touch when both reach for it at the same time. Gregory looks up at Draco with a startle in his eyes, and Draco resolves to hold his gaze until he can soothe that away.
“Go on,” Draco says, as gently as he can. He doesn’t want it to sound like an order anymore.
Gregory’s eyes indeed soften. Sweet, warm browns like melted chocolate, glittering golden in the faint sun, but with a light that seems to come from within.
“You sure?” he asks, lips already turned upwards.
“Yeah,” Draco answers quietly, taking pleasure in drawing out this delicate moment, “I’m su— AAAHH!!!”
Draco doesn’t know what hit the box in his lap, he just knows he’s clutching Gregory before his scream has even fully left his mouth, and Gregory’s arm instantly wraps itself around him.
Not daring to breathe, Draco darts his eyes around the scene… And what he finds is the frog, serenely sitting on its lilypad, examining the bonbon in its slimy grip. Gregory raises his wand.
“Don’t hurt it,” snaps Draco.
“Was just gonna Summon—”
The chocolate disappears into the water with an unceremonious plop. Apparently having realised its loot was no shiny fish or metallic dragonfly, the frog simply hops away into the wilderness.
“Brainless thing,” Draco mutters.
“Sorry,” mumbles Gregory.
“Not you!”
“Oh.”
Draco sighs, focusses on getting air back into his lungs.
“You alright?” Gregory asks.
Now the tension has dissipated, Draco notices that he’s let his body sag against Gregory’s, that Gregory’s arm is still on his back… That such a position is warm and pillowy. Gregory isn’t really very amphibian.
“Yeah,” Draco replies, and drops his head on Gregory’s sturdy chest.
Gregory eagerly holds him tighter, and Draco reaches for his other hand, lacing his slender fingers between Gregory’s meaty ones. Draco enjoys hearing how Gregory’s heart leaps.
Eventually it settles down, though, becomes a calming rhythm Draco can relax into. The world is simple: the shelter of Gregory’s embrace, the sun’s reflection on the placid lake, the cheery tweeting of the birds, and nothing more.
It’s only after a long while that Gregory says, “Could still Summon it.”
Draco could be mad at Gregory for killing the mood, but instead he huffs a laugh.
“You’re disgusting,” he says with affection.
“What? It was wrapped! Could even do a Scourgify if you want.”
Draco shakes his head. “Shut up, Greg.”
Then Draco waits, both keen and patient, until his husband processes what just happened. An expectant, thrilling beat.
“Greg?” he says at last, and his smile is satisfyingly audible in his voice.
“Greg,” Draco confirms, through a smile of his own.