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1. Four years old
There’s a bright flash of light, a rush of warm air fills the room, and the roar of the fireplace as the floo network activates.
Without looking up, Draco holds down a stack of papers. The last thing he needs is for them to fly away when he’s neck-deep in finally figuring out this will.
“Not going to say hi to me?” A voice asks from the fireplace.
Lifting his chin, a grin appears on Draco’s face when he sees his husband’s head appear in the flames. But the grin quickly fades when he sees the crease between Harry’s brows.
It’s not uncommon for Harry to interrupt him at work, but Harry never gets that furrow unless it’s important. So it’s something involving Scorpius.
“I’m heading to pick Scorpius up from school. His teacher said he threw up.” Harry’s lips purse. The transition to preschool has been hard on Harry. He’s always been a worrier, and Draco has the suspicion that Harry never feels entirely at ease unless he can see both Scorpius and Draco at the same time.
“Is he okay?” Draco asks, trying to hide his concern.
“He threw up, so probably not,” Harry replies with a grimace.
Draco lets out a frustrated sigh. “He did mention his stomach was hurting this morning, but he's a child. His stomach always hurts.”
Harry nods in agreement but then adds with a smirk. “There was also the eating dirt incident, remember?”
Seeing the furrow between Harry’s brow relax slightly makes Draco relax. Okay, it can’t be that serious, then.
Well, except… Draco can't help but think back to that one time during nursery. Scorpius had displayed a trait that must have been inherited from his Potter side.
Draco shudders at the memory. “I certainly never ate dirt as a child. My mother would have been horrified."
The worry continues to eke its way out of Harry, and Draco feels grateful for nearly seven years of marriage that have taught him what it takes to soothe Harry's anxieties.
“He’s a Malfoy, and that’s also why his stomach always hurts. It’s the generational trauma.” Harry responds, the remaining tightness to his lips easing into a smile. “You shouldn’t feel too bad. His stomach does hurt a lot, but he doesn’t throw up. I think he might be lactose intolerant, but I’ll let you know if we need anything. Don’t stay too late at the office.”
Harry says that for show because Draco always leaves the office right at five.
Since Scorpius had entered their lives, Harry embraced his role as a stay-at-home dad, and Draco makes it a point to leave work on time. After all, being a lawyer for old wizarding world contacts was by no means an urgent job. In fact, it was more of the steady, well-paying variety. But that didn't mean Draco wasn't good at it.
“Love you.”
Draco's words elicit a smile from Harry, whose smile grows even wider. Every time Draco tells him, 'I love you,' Harry's smile seems to stretch so far that it could split his face in two.
Bright, open. Trusting. Full of unconditional love that Draco sometimes feels like he doesn’t deserve but accepts because Draco’s selfish and can’t imagine letting himself go without it now that he’s felt it.
“Love you more.” The words spill out of Harry like a promise before his head vanishes from the floo. Draco’s eyes remain on the spot where Harry’s head was only seconds ago, and he reaches up to press his fingers against his lips, which are curled up into a smile.
Poor Scorpius, Draco thinks before he turns his attention back to the papers neatly stacked on his desk. After all, deciphering old wizarding legalese waits for no man.
Then he looks up. “Wait. Lactose intolerant?”
When Draco gets home that night, Scorpius is fast asleep in bed. He doesn’t look that terrible. Just an upset stomach, Draco guesses. Parenthood is all about the twenty-four-hour stomach bug.
Doing his best not to disturb him, Draco kneels and presses the back of his hand ever-so-gently to Scorpius’ forehead. Not even a fever.
He’s filled with the love he has for his son. He’s not entirely sure when it happened. Maybe it was the first time he held the squiggling, screaming child in his arms, but that was when he understood he would do anything and everything for him. Scorpius made him appreciate his parents more. Scorpius made him understand himself better.
He watches the rise and fall of Scorpius’ chest and places another hand to his forehead. Just in case. Then, he leans down and brushes a kiss to his son’s still-soft hair.
“Papa loves you.” He murmurs against the blonde strands. The words will never fully encapsulate just how much he loves this child. “More than anything.”
Draco waves his wand and turns on the nightlight in the corner before summoning a cup and filling it with water. Just in case Scorpius wakes in the middle of the night and finds himself thirsty.
Then he leaves his son to sleep off and heads to the living room, where Harry sits on the couch with a Quidditch magazine in hand, though Draco feels he’s concentrating more on the baby monitor spell than Puddlemere’s current rankings.
With his free arm, Harry stretches out and Draco moves to tuck himself against Harry’s side.
“How is he?”
“Better.” Harry smiles. Any tension he might have had is gone now that Draco is home and Scorpius is tucked in bed. “He’s a kid. They puke.”
Draco buries his face into Harry’s shoulder. “What’s this about him being lactose intolerant?”
His husband still has his nose buried in a magazine, but even with his eyes closed, Draco can hear the laughter in Harry’s voice, even if he’s doing his best to stifle it.
“Pretty sure that’s why he threw up. Had a carton of it at pre-K and threw up ten minutes later.”
A sigh escapes from Draco—only his son.
2. Four and a half
Draco runs a hand through Scorpius’s hair. It’s still sweaty.
“Is there anything I can get you?” Draco asks.
A moment passes, and Scorpius responds with a weak, shy nod.
The fever appeared first, leaving Scorpius listless and tired. But the telltale, unsightly blisters that formed a day later made Draco panic.
His poor boy. Dragonpox was never fun. Draco blames one Rose Granger-Weasley and her father, who said it wasn’t Dragonpox, but a scab. At least Draco knows Hermione Granger is in the same position as him.
After all, Harry is out watching a Quidditch match with Ron – because Draco encourages Harry’s male friendships, thank you very much. Draco makes a mental note to send Hermione a commiserating owl.
But back to the situation at hand.
With his big, sweet eyes, Scorpius makes grabby hands towards Draco, and Draco can’t resist scooping the boy up.
Draco isn’t sure he’ll ever get over how sweet and soft Scorpius is.
Tender in all the same ways Draco was when he was a child. Before it was trained out of him, however, Scorpius has parents who encourage him to lean into that tenderness instead of repressing it.
“What do you want, sweetheart?” Draco prods gently but hopes he doesn’t have to start guessing. Harry’s always been the better guesser of Scorpius’s needs, which Draco thinks is bad. Scorpius needs to vocalize his wants and needs. Not feel like a burden.
“I want chicken noodle soup.” Scorpius looks up at Draco with his big, gray eyes and Draco feels himself crumble, despite the fact he has never once made chicken noodle soup. But he’s not a complete idiot, so he feels rather confident about the whole thing until Scorpius dashes his dreams with four words. “The kind Dada makes.”
Harry can cook, except Harry cooks somewhat haphazardly with the recipes only in his mind. And Harry is out watching the Quidditch match.
Draco thinks he’d instead like to bash his head against the wall. “What if I called your Grandmère? She would love to help us make chicken noodle soup.”
Then, Scorpius shakes his head. “No. I want Dada’s chicken noodle soup.”
The emphasis is clear and Draco curses himself for being such a good parent. “We’ll do our best, won’t we?”
“You want to come with me?”
Scorpius nods as he curls his chubby little fingers in the front of Draco’s button-up and Draco can’t help but melt, even as Scorpius coughs against his chest. He guesses he is doing this…
He’s starting to notice Scorpius is getting bigger. It’s become harder for him to carry Scorpius for longer times and Draco pales. Another sign his baby boy is beginning to grow up. Almost compulsively, Draco presses his lips to Scorpius’ curls. Is it just him or is it also beginning to darken?
“Has Dada ever shown you how to make his chicken noodle soup?” Draco asks, but Scorpius shakes his head.
Oh well. He’ll give it his best. Draco struggles to balance Scorpius in his arms as he navigates the kitchen, but he flicks his wand and gathers what he believes goes into a chicken soup.
Pots and pans clatter as he searches for the necessary ingredients, and it isn’t long until the counters are covered in a chaotic mess of chopped vegetables, spilled flour, and splatters of broth.
He holds up the black pepper grinder. “Do you how much of this Dada uses?” But Scorpius shakes his head again, so Draco eyeballs it. The last thing he needs is to make it too peppery. No need to clear out Scorpius’ sinuses when it's just dragon pox.
At some point, Draco puts together something that looks like chicken noodle soup. As Draco stands in the kitchen chaos, sweat glistening on his forehead as he tries to balance Scorpius on his hip, he thinks it smells rather good. For someone who barely has any chicken soup experience, Draco thinks it’s a rather spectacular first attempt.
The smell of chicken broth wafts through the air, mingling with the aroma of herbs and spices. Pots and pans lie scattered across the countertops like a battlefield, evidence of Draco's efforts.
Scorpius gets placed into his booster seat and Draco casts a cooling charm before he presents the soup to Scorpius, who Draco thinks might not be as impressed with Draco’s cooking as he is. Sighing, Draco makes a note to get Harry to write down his recipe.
Still, Scorpius gets his chicken noodle soup and seems satisfied, even if he isn’t impressed. Picking Scorpius up from his booster chair, Draco takes him to the living room and applies the healing ointment into his blisters. And then, remembering his own childhood, Draco sings and Scorpius falls asleep, curled against Draco’s chest like he’s still a baby.
When Harry apparates into the house, Draco looks up from where he’s sitting in his rocking chair. Scorpius is dozing in his arms. Harry’s face immediately softens and Draco sees Harry scrunch up his eyes, as if he’s trying to memorize the moment. He comes over to kneel at the side of the rocking chair. He presses his nose to the top of Scorpius’ head and inhales deeply.
“How are you two holding up?” He asks, voice a murmur not to wake Scorpius up.
“He wanted your chicken noodle soup.”
Harry nods. “You find the can okay?”
Draco’s jaw drops. “…the can?”
A single nod from Harry, who has finally decided to stand up. “Yeah, the can. I keep it on the bottom shelf.”
There’s a moment of silence before Draco points at the kitchen. Harry follows his index finger, and disappears. A few moments later, Draco hears Harry’s muted laughter. It really is a mess in there.
3. Five years old
At five on the dot, Draco floos home from his office.
With a deep inhale, Draco steps into the receiving room of Grimmauld Place and is immediately enveloped in a sense of calm. The familiar scent of home fills his nostrils, grounding him in a way only a few things can. This is where he belongs.
Home smells like rich coffee beans, the sweetness of treacle tart, and freshly baked bread that lingers in the air. The distinct fragrances of turmeric and lemon light up his senses, reminding him of the flavors he's grown to adore. And if he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine catching a whiff of baby Scorpius - that intoxicating newborn scent that fades all too quickly but has never left Draco's memory.
As he toes off his shoes and hangs up his navy blue wool overcoat, he calls out in his usual manner, "Where are my two favorite men?"
But this time, there is no immediate reply. Normally, Scorpius would come running, wrapping his tiny arms around Draco's leg and excitedly telling him about his day.
The silence and absence of his son's usual greeting causes a crease on Draco's forehead. The usually vibrant and lively room feels muted and subdued without his husband and son there to greet him, as if the color has been drained from the world.
Scorpius must really be sick. He hadn’t been feeling good the past few days, but that morning he had taken a turn for the worse. Draco guesses they’ll be dealing with this sickness for another day or so if they go by Scorpius' previous illnesses.
Their decision to put Scorpius in a muggle nursery was a decision they stressed over. But Harry swore up and down that Scorpius needed some kind of understanding of the Muggle world. And he was right. Scorpius loved it. It was going great. Well, except that Scorpius caught both Muggle and Wizard sicknesses like it was no one’s business.
Not to mention Scorpius still had the Malfoy tendency always to have an upset stomach.
Before Draco’s mind can spin itself into circles and overanalyze the missing presence of his son and husband, a muffled ‘here’ comes from the direction of Scorpius’ room.
The door is open and Draco raps his fingers against the doorframe. There are toys scattered across the floor from a few days ago, when Scorpius built a castle to defend Draco from an evil wizard, played oh-so-kindly by Harry.
Luckily, Harry had taken that in good sport. Harry takes most things about fatherhood in good sport.
In the bedroom corner rests a small, child-sized table with papers stacked on top of each other. The papers all have drawings of families and Draco can make out two shocks of white hair next to a scribble of black curls.
A small twin bed tucked underneath a window is among the chaos of scattered drawings and toys.
Underneath a brightly covered duvet, piled under the pillows, are two lumps curled towards each other. One is much larger than the other, and no hair or smiles can be seen. Instead, there’s a faint giggle from underneath the duvet and Draco hears Harry shush Scorpius.
“If you’re quiet, he won’t hear you.” Harry stage whispers. The words only make Scorpius giggle more, but the boy makes a valiant effort to stifle his laughs. There’s an audible wheezing noise between every laugh and once again Draco wishes he could take away Scorpius’ discomfort.
As Draco leans against the door frame, he marvels at how everything that matters to him is in this one room - his son, his husband, and their happiness.
For the longest time, Draco didn’t think something like this would ever be possible for him. After all, why would it be? He had his past, his family, his name to contend with. None of those were recipes for a happy ever after.
Not until the night when a just-drunk-enough-to-not-care Harry pressed his lips to Draco’s own. After everything the two of them have endured, Draco basks in these moments.
“Scorpius? Harry?” Draco acts confused and looks around the room with exaggerated emotions, even though he knows neither Harry nor Scorpius can see him. “Where could they have gone?”
Scorpius giggles, but a cough and groan quickly cut it off. Draco's heart breaks for him—his poor little boy. No one ever tells you that watching your child get sick never gets easier, no matter how many times you go through it, no matter how many parenting books you read.
Draco sighs dramatically. “I guess I’ll have to eat the lemon scones I brought home all by my lonely self..”
“Papa!” The smaller lump thrashes under the bed before it stills, and another wheezing groan fills the air. Fueled by a fierce need to see his boys, Draco crosses the room and throws back the comforter to sit on the edge of the bed to reveal his son.
Scorpius's usually rosy cheeks are pale, and his typically bright eyes are dull. His hair, usually styled and neat, is now matted and disheveled, and even underneath the comforter, he is bundled in a thick blanket.
“Papa.” Scorpius repeats the word as he reaches out for Draco with his small, grabby hands. His voice sounds pitiful, and Harry props himself up on an arm, his expression mirroring Draco's mix of worry and determination. Over the years, they've learned to read each other's expressions without words.
There’s a look in Harry’s eyes – a narrowness to the inner corners – and Draco knows Harry’s committing the moment to memory. Once, Harry confessed to Draco he was terrified of missing a single moment of Scorpius’s life. Of missing out on the moments his parents never got to see. All Harry ever wanted was a family; maybe that was one of the reasons Harry decided to stay home.
There’s barely any space beside Scorpius, but Draco lies beside his family.
One awkward maneuver later, and one unpleasant ‘oof’ from Harry when Scorpius digs his elbow into Draco’s spleen while turning around, Draco lies on the bed. Scorpius’s knee might be pressing against his kidney.
But Draco doesn’t care because his baby is sick and his baby needs him. If Harry gets squished to death by a grown man and toddler in a twin bed, well, he’ll understand the need for his sacrifice.
“How are you feeling, my darling?” Draco asks, his feet and half his body dangling off the far too small bed. Thankfully, Scorpius crawls on top of Draco’s chest, giving them just a hair more room, resting his white-blonde head over Draco’s heartbeat.
Scorpius buries his face in Draco’s chest and Draco is sure he can feel the heat from Scorpius’s forehead through his shirt.
Parenthood is an experience he would never trade for anything. But Draco wishes he could protect Scorpius from the world and everything in it. Germs, kids at school, injuries… Another tough lesson in parenthood has been letting Scorpius be his own person. God knows Draco just wants to wrap him in bubble wrap and cushioning charms until he can guarantee Scorpius is safe forever.
“I threw up.” Scorpius’s voice is small and pathetic and the th sounds more like a f. Draco can only coo as he wraps his arms around his son. The universe, as Draco knows it, has narrowed to his son’s midnight blue sheets and light gray walls.
Before Scorpius’s birth, Draco spent hours worrying over every decision a parent could make. All of his fears about fatherhood were poured into the nursery, which Draco repainted at least four or five times before settling on the cool, light gray they are now. Draco often wonders if he should have done the light blue instead.
“He threw up a lot ,” Harry emphasizes. Maturity is Draco making a noise of affirmation instead of wrinkling his nose. Harry knows he’s understood. Their poor son is very sick and must be feeling very pathetic about the whole thing.
Draco coos again and wraps Scorpius up in his arms. “I’m sorry, my darling. Has Dada been taking care of you?”
Though he can’t see it, there’s the sensation of Scorpius nodding against Draco’s neck. Which means Draco can feel Scorpius’ fever and the flame of anxiety within his chest flares up again. But they've been through fevers before.
“We love Dada, don’t we? Doesn’t he take such good care of us?”
Scorpius nods in agreement. There’s a flash, and then Harry engulfs them both in a hug, their bodies pressed tightly against his chest. In moments like this, when Scorpius is screaming or ill, Draco is reminded of how lucky he is to have these precious moments with his son.
"I'm sorry, my darling." Draco's hand runs through Scorpius's soft, downy hair, a gesture learned from his mother during his childhood sicknesses. It's one of the few things from his past that Draco happily repeats for his son. "Is there anything I can get you?"
As he gently scratches Scorpius's scalp, the boy mumbles something unintelligible against Draco's neck. Over Scorpius's head, Draco looks at Harry, who is fluent in Scorpius's language. They both wear expressions of confusion.
"Scor?" Draco tries again, but Scorpius makes a pitiful noise that breaks his heart. He sounds like he is in pain and squirms against Draco's chest. It's a sound no parent wants to hear from their child and Draco's heart begins to race.
"I don't feel good! My tummy hurts!" Scorpius would be screaming if he had enough energy, but instead he just sounds sad.
"My tummy!" Finally managing to scream, Scorpius pulls away to look up at Draco with wide, fearful eyes. "...Papa?"
And then Scorpius throws up all over Draco's sweater. And the sheets. And the bed.
"Oops," he says once he has finished while Draco can only stare up at the ceiling, covered in his son's vomit.
Harry laughs, much to Draco's annoyance—the bastard.
4. Six years old
It’s never easy when Scorpius is sick. Anyone who said it would get easier is a filthy liar.
Today, it's some sort of fever and chest cold Scorpius caught from school. They both stayed home to take care of him and Scorpius swore he felt better enough to eat dinner. Except now, Scorpius wiggles in his booster seat and barely manages to eat some roasted chicken and carrots. Most of it ends up on the floor when they're not looking for the crup to gobble up.
Their kitchen is one of Scorpius’s favorite places. It’s all dark wood, stone floors and a giant hearth – which Draco has charmed to hell and back to make it child-safe – perfect for playing pretend or building a fort under the table. Tonight it's more a nightmare situation.
After multiple failed attempts to get food into their sick son, Draco gently scoops Scorpius up in his arms and carries him to the bathroom. The normally rambunctious boy doesn't even protest as Harry prepares a warm bath and charms it to the perfect temperature. Typically, Scorpius protests and whines during bathtime, but tonight, he is unusually quiet as Harry runs the water and charms it to the ideal temperature.
Instead of his usual energetic self, Scorpius hangs his head limply and makes low noises of discomfort. Draco knows his son has his own penchant for drama, so he can't tell whether Scorpius is genuinely suffering or exaggerating. Either way, every sound that escapes Scorpius's lips pains Draco to his very core. From Harry's reaction, Draco thinks he feels the same way.
Once they finish cleaning him up and dressing him in fresh pajamas, Harry carries Scorpius back to his bedroom. They tuck him into bed with freshly laundered sheets and give him an anti-nausea potion, charmed to taste like some sort of vanilla custard-type thing. Draco silently thanks his lucky stars that Scorpius inherited his sweet tooth. After all, it makes giving him medicine much more manageable.
As they settle in next to Scorpius, Draco asks if he wants them to read him a story. Scorpius nods weakly against his pillow, but his eyelids droop heavily with exhaustion. Glancing at Harry, Draco again places the back of his hand against Scorpius's forehead to ensure he doesn't have a fever.
Sensing Draco's concern, Harry silently casts a diagnostic spell with his wand, revealing that Scorpius' fever is only slight. Their shoulders relax. No need to worry, Harry mouths over Scorpius's head and Draco nods slightly.
Another perk of parenthood that people had avoided telling them. Children are magnets for disease and Scorpius catches everything.
As Harry's diagnostics spell fades into the air, Draco asks with a gentle tone, "What story would you like us to read, Scorpius? Anything in particular?"
The little boy, already drifting close to sleep, mumbles something incomprehensible. Not a new experience.
Without missing a beat, Draco starts to tell one of Scorpius's favorite muggle fairy tales. The Niffler plush is tucked securely against Scorpius's side as Harry takes hold of his other hand and intertwines their fingers.
With a gentle touch and a soothing voice, Draco begins to tell one of Scorpius's beloved muggle fairy tales. As he speaks, he feels the warmth of Harry's hand firmly holding his own.
In this moment, the world falls away and all that exists is their small family.
Scorpius has already drifted off to sleep, and Draco takes a moment to close his eyes and soak in the peacefulness and joy surrounding him.
He knows these moments are fleeting and wants to remember every detail - the steady rhythm of Scorpius's breathing, the comforting weight of Harry's hand, and the overwhelming happiness of having both of his loves so close.
He commits it all to memory.
The moon is high in the sky, casting a soft glow through the window of Scorpius's room.
Time passes as they watch Scorpius sleep, but Draco’s ass finally starts to ache and he extracts himself from the bed, pulling Harry up with him using their linked hands. They tiptoe out of the room, trying not to make any noise.
As they made their way down the hallway, Harry couldn't help but cast yet another diagnostic spell, just to ease his nerves. Both of their nerves, really.
“I hate you.” Draco is pouring himself a glass of firewhisky. The amber liquid splashes into the crystal but doesn’t even get the opportunity to settle in the glass before Draco throws it back.
“I’m sorry. I just…” Harry chuckles and pours his own glass, trying his best to look sympathetic before clinking it against Draco’s empty one. “He was looking at you with his big, puppy dog eyes because he thought I wasn’t helping him and then he threw up all over you. The look on your face…”
Raising his glass up in a mock toast, Harry takes a sip before placing it down with a small ‘thunk.’ “Consider it revenge for all the times I’ve been spit up on.”
“You wanted to stay home with him.” Draco pushes himself away from the counter and goes to the pantry. He waves his hand and reveals the hidden ‘adult’ food shelf. A necessary spell after Scorpius found and then ate all the chocolate-covered digestives. He puked a lot then, too.
In fact, Scorpius has a predisposition to puking.
Draco doesn’t have to search long until he finds what he wants. He places the bag of M&Ms on the counter between them. Both of them are too impatient to bother with a bowl - they reach in and grab handfuls of the colorful candies, quickly popping them into their mouths. A few stray M&Ms make a break for it and scatter onto the floor, but Harry sends them flying back into the bag with a wave of his hand.
“I did. And I love it. But no one tells you about the puke.”
“They really do not.”
Harry places a hand over the one Draco has in the bag of M&Ms.
“I wouldn’t trade him for anything. I wouldn’t trade our life for anything.”
“Not even an eternal supply of M&Ms?”
Harry feigns deep thought, his brow furrowing as he contemplates the offer. "Well, perhaps for the peanut ones," he finally responds with a playful twinkle in his eye.
They both burst into fits of laughter simultaneously, the sound echoing through the room. Draco eagerly reaches into the bag, his fingers grazing against Harry's as they both go for the same candy. With a mischievous grin, Draco tosses it towards Harry, who expertly catches it in his mouth.
Merlin, Draco really is lucky. Moments like these make everything else fade away and remind them of just how lucky they are to have each other.
They sip on their drinks, and Harry gives Draco a heated look.
“Want something, Potter ?” Draco asks, lips curling into a smile.
“Potter-Malfoy. Actually.” Harry sets his glass down with something that sounds like finality. “I was just thinking I spent all day at home caring for our son, and maybe I just want to be appreciated by my husband.”
Sometimes, Draco has absolutely no idea where Harry gets the energy to chase after a six-year-old all day and also wants to seduce his husband, but Draco’s certainly not complaining. He sets his own glass down.
“Well, how about I do that?” And then he’s chasing Harry through Grimmauld Place, trying not to laugh too loud before he pushes him into sheets.
5. Three years old
They don't talk about the Boxing Day flu. Draco still has nightmares about cleaning the walls.
+1. Four years old
Draco wakes with a foot in his spleen and a hot forehead pressing against his arm. Only one of those things is normal.
“Scor?” Draco asks, lifting his head up from the pillow to spot a head of white-blonde hair tucked between his and Harry’s bodies. It’s not uncommon for the four-year-old to crawl into bed after a bad dream. Especially since neither him or Harry have the heart to carry Scorpius back to his Puddlemere-themed bed.
“Papa.” Scorpius looks up at Draco with his big, grey eyes. His poor baby has been sick, and he must have crawled into bed for comfort. But then, Scorpius reaches out and shakes Draco’s forearm. “Papa. Something’s wrong with Dada.”
And that makes Draco’s bleary eyes open wide, especially when his eyes can focus enough in the dark to see Harry’s back. Harry, who is sitting up straight on the edge of the bed.
Draco doesn’t even have time to enjoy how Harry’s spine moves under the muscles when he shudders and leans forward to put his head between his legs.
“Oh, shit.” Harry curses and Draco blinks in confusion. Then, Draco can only watch in horror as his husband stumbles into their en-suite. Any sleep that clung to him disappears.
Draco throws back the duvet and runs to the bathroom, doing his best to make sure Scorpius is safely tucked in. “Fuck.” Sleep has been replaced by nothing but adrenaline.
He flips on the light in the bedroom and blinks as his eyes adjust to the bright lights. Harry hunches over the toilet.
“Please don’t throw up.” Draco begs from where he stands in the doorway.
A sick child is one thing. An ill husband and a sick child? Sure, some people might judge him and tell him to man up, but those people do not have a four-year-old.
Lifting his head from the toilet, Harry turns to look at Draco. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead and Draco knows this will not end well for Harry.
There’s a look in Harry’s eyes. Draco wonders if it’s one of resignation, and that look causes a slow-moving prickle of horror to descend over Draco. Because Harry never, ever gives up, so if Harry is steeling himself up to disappoint his partner. Well, then Draco knows he’s in for it.
Harry doesn’t even get the chance to apologize before he turns back to the toilet and hurls.
Even though Draco is internally screaming, he’s rather proud of himself for only lifting a brow as he observes the scene.
“I guess being a Potter-Malfoy comes with stomach problems, too.”
From his place at the toilet, Harry sends Draco a two-fingered salute.
Draco tucks Harry back into bed, before he runs to the kitchen to get some cool towels to put over both their foreheads. Before going to the bedroom, he hastily fills a glass with water and grabs a small tray of saltine crackers from the pantry. He knows their appetites completely vanish when Harry and Scorpius are sick, which isn't good.
Oh how quickly things had escalated. One moment, they were all sleeping peacefully. And the next? Well, the next was Draco hoping he wouldn't be spelling away vomit all night. Mentally, he’s preparing for it. He ought to tell work now he wasn’t coming in.
Draco places the items on the bedside table, ensuring they're within easy reach for Harry and Scorpius, who have curled up together. The room is dimly lit, with only a soft glow from the bedside lamp, casting shadows across the room.
“My poor boys.” Draco sits on the edge of the bed and runs fingers through Scorpius’ hair. He’d brush back Harry’s curls from his forehead, but the last thing Draco wants to do is disturb Harry's delicate state.
So instead, Draco gently brushes his fingers against Scorpius' cheek, feeling the warmth radiate out as Scorpius blinks up at Draco.
“Is Dada going to be okay?”
Draco nods. “He has the same sickness you do. A tummy bug.”
Scorpius nods solemnly as if he understands exactly what that means. Draco's heart aches because Scorpius takes after Harry when it comes to bravery, which means in only a few scant years Draco will have to worry about Scorpius getting into far too much trouble.
His bookish, sweet, and incredibly brave son.
"Yes, my darling, Dada will be okay. This is just like when you and Rose were throwing up, remember?" Draco reassures, his voice gentle and soothing.
Scorpius reaches out a small hand and grips Draco's fingers tightly. "I'll take care of Dada with you," he says. Determination colors his voice, but Draco can see his eyes are sagging from exhaustion.
Draco smiles softly at Scorpius, his heart swelling with love and pride. Too sweet.
"No, my darling. I'm going to take care of both of you. All you need to do is rest. Just like Dada."
Scorpius leans into Draco's touch and Draco watches as his son's eyes flutter closed, exhaustion finally taking its toll. He pulls the duvet up higher, tucking Scorpius in snugly and Scorpius curls around his father.
A soft sigh escapes Draco's lips as he observes Scorpius drifting into a peaceful slumber. With gentle care, he brushes a feather-light kiss against his son's forehead before turning his attention to Harry. The man's breathing is shallow and uneven, punctuated by the occasional weak cough. It seems Harry has caught exactly what Scorpius has but with ten times the severity.
The beads of sweat on Harry's temples glisten in the dim light, and his features are etched with exhaustion. If Harry were to open his eyes, Draco imagines they would be dull and lacking their usual vibrancy.
Draco knows that when Harry wakes up, he will blame himself for getting sick and being unable to help take care of their son. But this is just who Harry is - always taking on the world's weight and beating himself up over even the smallest things. It's both endearing and frustrating for Draco to witness. Especially since it's not Harry's fault, and the world owes Harry much more than they give him. Once again, Draco wishes he could ease his partner's worries.
Draco refreshes the cooling charm on the towel and places it back on Harry's forehead with the utmost carefulness. A wave of relief washes over him as he sees the lines of discomfort ease from Harry's face.
Draco leans in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "Rest up, love."
And then he Accio's himself an armchair and settles in for a long night.
—
Apparently, all Harry and Scorpius needed was a good night's rest and a few anti-nausea potions, but come morning, the two are still not in top shape. Draco calls Scorpius' school and tells them he's under the weather, only to hear that most children have had some sort of bug that week.
At least no one can call him a bad parent.
Curled on their plush couch, Scorpius nestles himself against Draco's chest, and Draco wraps an arm around him so he can carefully cradle the boy. In this position, he can feel the gentle rise and fall of Scorpius' chest against his own, a rhythmic lullaby that soothes any worries he might still have.
Harry lies next to them, his head resting on Draco's lap and arms wrapped tightly around his legs. With gentle fingers, Draco traces intricate patterns on Harry's forehead, brushing away stray locks that have escaped from his wild curls. The touch is light and soothing, causing Harry to emit soft hums of contentment every now and then.
Draco gazes at the scene before him, taking in every detail, savoring the precious moments of tranquility amidst the chaos of their recent illness. He watches chests rise and fall with each breath, eyelashes fluttering against cheeks. It almost makes Draco forget that earlier he definitely was spelling away vomit from every inch of their bathroom.
Then, Harry stirs, his eyes fluttering open to meet Draco's. A weak smile forms on his face, showing signs of life returning after a late night. The exhaustion is still evident, but a glimmer of animation and energy is returning to his face.
"Morning," Harry murmurs, his voice rough with sleep but still quiet. Sickness doesn't mean forgetting to speak just above a whisper if there's a chance Scorpius is sleeping.
Draco smiles tenderly. "Morning, love. How are you feeling?"
Harry rubs his temples and lets out a sigh. "Better than yesterday, but still a bit weak."
"Mmm. I bet." Draco nods sympathetically, his fingers gently pressing against Harry's forehead. "I think you threw up more than Scorpius. Very dramatic of you. Always knew you were an attention-seeker."
Harry's lips twitch into a grin at the familiar words. Once upon a time, this might have been an insult. But now they're something familiar, just like Scorpius. "You're so rude."
Draco chuckles softly, the sound reverberating through his chest and into Harry's ear. "Someone has to be," he replies, his voice filled with warmth and affection. "Besides, I have faith in your ability to bounce back."
Draco gracefully reaches over to the mahogany coffee table and delicately lifts a steaming mug, carefully avoiding the swirling tendrils of steam. The rich, enticing scent of freshly brewed tea wafts through the air as he holds it out to Harry, mindful not to let a single drop spill.
With a grateful smile, Harry sits up on their plush couch and cradles the mug in his hands, savoring the comforting warmth before taking a tentative sip. The soothing liquid slides down his throat, momentarily easing the tension in his body. "Thank you, Draco," he murmurs, his eyes conveying deep appreciation.
Draco leans in closer, pressing a tender kiss to Harry's forehead, careful not to disturb the sleeping figure between them. "Anything for you."
But their peaceful moment is abruptly interrupted by Scorpius' groaning voice.
"Ew." He scrunches up his face at seeing his parents' affectionate exchange. "Cooties."
"Cooties, indeed." Harry chuckles before peppering kisses all over Scorpius' rosy cheeks. The little boy squeals with joy and squirms under their loving attention, while Draco quickly grabs Harry's half-finished mug of tea before it spills anywhere. Draco's eyes sparkle with amusement as he watches Harry grab a nearby throw pillow and playfully (and very gently) smacks Scorpius with it. The pillow makes a soft thud against Scorpius' side, causing him to squeal and burst into uncontrollable giggles.
"Careful, Scorpius," Draco teases with a mischievous grin. "You wouldn't want any more of Dada's cooties to rub off on you."
Scorpius continues to squirm and laugh as he and Harry engage in a playful assault. The room fills with the sound of their laughter. "No cooties, Papa! I don't want any!"
For a moment, any exhaustion from being sick is gone. Instead, it's just the three of them. Only to be interrupted by the sound of Scorpius' stomach growling. The play immediately stops and Scorpius looks up at Draco.
"Papa? Can I have an omelet?" Scorpius asks and Draco winces slightly.
"Can you please have an omelet." Draco reminds Scorpius and Scorpius dutifully repeats the sentence with the correct level of politeness. Harry, on the other hand, nods. "I'll have what he's having."
Draco rolls his eyes playfully, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, but decides not to argue further. Something about his sick boys turns him into the most agreeable version of himself. So, he gets up from the couch and makes his way to the kitchen, his steps purposeful.
While Draco could be a better cook, he does know his way around simple dishes like eggs. With a flick of his wand, he starts cracking them into a bowl and melting butter in a pan. Soon, there's the rich scent of butter melting and mixing with eggs, a hint of fresh herbs and spices wafting through the air, making it feel warm and homey. In contrast, the sounds of the gentle tapping of utensils against each other, the soft cracking of eggs into the bowl, the sizzling of butter in the hot pan, and the rhythmic whisking of eggs fill the kitchen with a peaceful symphony.
Draco loves this. Every action where he provides and cares for his little family brings him immense joy and makes his heart swell with joy, even if he does end up covered in puke more than he thought possible.
Once cooked, Draco brings the plates back to the living room and sets everything down on the coffee table. Harry and Draco each get full-sized omelets, while Scorpius receives a smaller one cut into bite-sized pieces fit for a child.
"We get to eat in here?" Scorpius asks with wide eyes and Draco nods, moving to sit down on the floor.
"Special treat, since you and Dada are sick today."
Scorpius eagerly tumbles off the plush couch and onto the floor, his excitement palpable, but Draco gets a bright idea. With another flick of his wand, blankets fly out from the hall closet and drape over the furniture, creating a magical tent-like structure in the living room, transforming their usual living room into a cozy hideaway. Scorpius squeals with glee at the change and Draco pops a piece of omelet into his mouth with some satisfaction.
Harry raises a brow. "Where'd you learn that?"
It's a rhetorical question. They both know he learned it from the book sitting on Harry's bedside table: 1001 Magical Ways to Entertain Your Young Child.
Joining them on the ground, Harry's lips curl into a grateful smile as he mouths a small 'thank you' at Draco. Apparently, he can't resist the urge to lean over to kiss Draco's lips. Without any additional fanfare, Harry starts tucking into his breakfast.
Draco smiles back and takes a moment to soak in the warmth and comfort of their little hideaway, the laughter of their son filling the air, and the taste of Harry's appreciation lingering on his lips.
"Papa? Will you and Dada read me a story?" Scorpius asks in between bites of his omelet, splattering eggs everywhere.
"Of course, my love. What story would you like to hear?" Draco takes a moment to wipe a smudge of egg from the corner of Scorpius' mouth before gently reminding him to chew with his mouth closed. It's a softer reprimand than what Draco had experienced growing up, but it's effective nonetheless as Scorpius nods solemnly in agreement.
Scorpius pauses, deep in thought, as he thinks about which story he wants to hear. Then, his eyes light up with delight. "The one about the dragon, Papa! The one Dada rescued when he broke into Gringotts."
A slight wince appears on Harry's face at the reminder. He had promised himself not to tell Scorpius about it until he was older, but curiosity had gotten the better of their precocious son. Scorpius was very curious about why his father had a lifetime ban.
They tell the story with many, many child-appropriate revisions to it.
Draco reaches out to intertwine his hand with Harry's. The warmth of their touch brings a smile to both their faces. "Are you tired of hearing about your boring Dada?" he asks. "Wouldn't you rather hear about the time when your Papa spent all of his second year raising baby mandrakes?"
Scorpius scrunches up his face, sticking out his tongue in an impish manner that only children can truly pull off. But even without words, it is clear that he is only interested in hearing about his father's past adventures.
Harry pouts and pulls the blanket tighter around him, pretending to be offended. Draco chuckles as he accios a cup of tea for Harry and places it gently into his hands. "Terrible thing to say to your sick husband," Harry pretends to protest half-heartedly, but he can't keep the smile off his face.
"You'll be fine." Draco replies.
"But I'm sick." The whine is so unlike Harry that it makes Draco laugh, and then Scorpius chimes in.
"Yeah, Papa! Dada's sick!"
With a laugh, Draco waves his wand and the plates disappear into thin air, returning to the kitchen. He then scoots the coffee table aside, making room for their impromptu floor fort. Pulling out pillows and blankets from the couch, he arranges them in a cozy circle on the soft carpet.
As they snuggle close, the warm rays of the morning sun peek through the colorful fabric of their blanket fort, casting a gentle glow that envelops them in the sense of calm and safety. It's almost as if they've entered another world, separate from the chaos and stress of their daily lives and the puking from earlier.
Draco leans back against a mound of plump pillows, sinking into their softness. Scorpius eagerly squirms with anticipation for his father's promised story, his eyes wide and sparkling with excitement as he nestles deeper. His small fingers trace intricate patterns on the blankets, while Draco summons his son's favorite stuffed Niffler plush with a flick of his wand. While Draco can see Harry and Scorpius are still ill, their spirits seem much lighter than they were earlier.
"How about I tell the story this time, love?" Draco says as Harry takes a sip of his tea, cocking his brow over the edge of his mug. "We both know I've heard it enough times and you can interject if I get a detail wrong."
That does the trick, and Harry relaxes with a tired but content smile. "Alright, go ahead," he says, his voice slightly hoarse from the lingering illness. "Let's see if you can do me justice."
Draco grins, but bites back a sarcastic remark because Scorpius is leaning in, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Did Dada have to fight off any trolls this time?"
So instead, Draco shakes his head and takes a moment to gather his thoughts. "Even better, sweetheart. Your Dada had to outsmart the goblins and uncover the hidden secrets.:
Draco's fingers absentmindedly play with the curls at the nape of Harry's neck as Scorpius climbs into his lap. His voice adopts a gentle and soothing tone as he begins the tale of the dragon Harry had rode to freedom all those years ago.
"Once upon a time, there was a brave and daring wizard named Harry Potter. He and his two friends had to embark on a dangerous mission to retrieve a precious artifact from deep within the cavernous vaults of Gringott's bank. Little did they know..."
As Draco weaves the tale, his voice rises and falls like the ebb and flow of the tide. He expects someone to interject, to interrupt him with questions or comments. But Harry's eyes flutter closed and he drifts off almost immediately, succumbing to exhaustion after a long night of throwing up.
With a full belly and still exhausted from sickness, Scorpius snuggles closer, his little hand gripping the fabric of Draco's robes as he drifts off into slumber barely ten minutes after Harry. But Draco keeps telling the story, even as Scorpius' breaths become steady and even in sleep.
Finally, Draco is the only one left awake in their little fort, and he watches the rise and fall of their chests, the tranquility that settles over their faces as sleep claims them. Draco's heart swells with love and gratitude for this moment, for the privilege of being part of this beautiful family. As he gazes at his son and husband, he can't help but reflect on how far they've come. From bitter enemies to devoted partners to now parents who share a bond stronger than any magic.
The soft rustling of blankets and gentle breathing are the only sounds that fill the room, creating a peaceful lullaby that soothes Draco's mind. And as Draco lets out a content sigh and closes his eyes, the sound of his family's breathing becomes his own lullaby, lulling him into a peaceful slumber.