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Chapter Text

Draco stared lifelessly at the ceiling fan, listening to it hum. He squinted against the glare of headlights shining through the window blinds as the light danced momentarily across his ceiling. A brief lapse of light in his omnipresent darkness.

A pale hand dared to rest on his abdomen, a frail thumb dragging shaky, shaky circles around his navel.

He had an egg.

In there.

Inside of him.

He had an egg .

He'd been aware he was part veela. He had, like any witch or wizard with veela blood in their veins, come into his inheritance on his eighteenth birthday.

But that had been the War. That had been bleeding and screaming and running and hiding. That had been lying and hurting and ducking and obeying. That had been his first and last prayer, the death of his hope, of his light, of his innocence. That had been starving and thinking and dreaming and thinking and drowning and thinking and thinking .

And regret.

That had been the War.

It had been nine years since then. He was twenty-seven, and the War was still with him, still on him. It was like the smoke from his cigarettes, the way it clung to his clothes. People could tell, they could see it. See he was dying. Slowly killing himself with every drag.

The War was with him, still on him, but not in him. Because in him, he had an egg.

He had run off to live with the Muggles. And he was a bloody good one, because no one knew him, and no one wanted to. He was polite, but distant, so when he smoked, and when he drank, and when he raged and threw things and burned things, it was okay, because Muggles did it all the time, and as long as he cleaned up his mess and appeared apologetic by the next day, when he lied and promised to never do it again, his neighbors laughed and smiled and turned away. Because that's what it was to be a Muggle.

No. Not really.

That's what it was to be a human.

They didn't care. The superego, the part of them that knew they should, did. It's what made them inquire after his health, his job. Was he eating okay? God, he looked awfully thin. Getting any sun? My, how pale. Was he done with that drinking business? That smoking? You know that stuff will kill you.

Not faster than an Avada Kedavra. No, this was a slow burning. A gradual torture. The kind he deserved. Self inflicted. And common. Oh, so very common. He would die like anyone else, because he was just like everyone else.

When he saw the homeless by the bar, when he saw the poor children selling themselves for their next meal, part of him ached, but a larger part of him wanted another drag, because he was only human.

Only, he wasn't. Not really.

He was a veela. He only ate things in their most natural state—fruits, uncooked vegetables.

But he couldn't eat meat. He'd tried, but it was repulsive, and he thought maybe he had turned vegan, but the urge to have meat was there.

And once he fucked up. It was a dog, a mangy thing. A stray. No home, no owners. It dug through his trash, making a mess worse than the raccoons, and how pathetic?

It had reminded him of himself, and he'd snapped, and next thing he knew, there was hot blood running from his mouth, and distantly he could hear screaming, hear the animal shriek and wail for help.

For mercy.

And Merlin, the meat was divine, and his stomach growled like never before, but the dog kept kicking, looking at him with wide, terror-stricken eyes, and he'd dropped it, watched it whimper and scramble off, limping as more blood gushed from the wound where he'd bitten right beneath its ribs.

The bite was large. There was no way his mouth was that large, but he could still taste the copper on his tongue, feel it sliding down his throat as he swallowed once more.

Draco didn't eat meat anymore. He didn't eat much, really. He was skeletal, and Muggles were fond of baggy clothing, and he had taken to them just as well. They hid him. Hid his figure, his scars, his sins.

He was just another one of them.

And only when the dog stopped coming around and begging for food did the Muggles leaves their comfortable homes, wondering where the tattered creature had gone. Only after days did they leave out food for it, having just learnt that none had ever fed it because they simply assumed another would. But now, in such a crisis when their consciences were heaviest, they banned together and everyone left out food.

Except Draco, because he knew it was likely dead, and the Muggles disgusted him.

But he wasn't any better. Not really.

He'd killed it, after all. They had all encouraged it, by starving the creature, forcing it to resort to digging out of dumpsters like Draco’s for food, but he'd been the one to take the final step by killing it.

He was only human.

Except he wasn't. He was a veela.

But Draco couldn't even sprout his wings. The Healer had initially said there was nothing inhibiting them, that he should be able, but he shouldn't try, because Mr. Malfoy, you're frightfully malnourished. Your body would not be able to withstand them.

But after prodding his wand at Draco’s navel, he found the ovum of Draco’s egg, and realized Draco couldn't release his wings because the veela magic was focused elsewhere. His body was so weakened, all the magic was draining away to keep the egg alive, because by himself, Draco couldn't. Draco would have killed it.

Not that there was anything to kill. It wasn't living. It wasn't fertilized, because Draco wasn't having sex, and hadn't been for years. The Healer had said his anus was now a cloaca, an organ found in all birds, male or female. It served as both an excretory opening, and a passage to his internal sex organs, either testes or ovaries.

Draco was a male. He had a fully functioning penis and testes, so, naturally, his cloaca had the sex organs he was missing—ovaries.

But it wasn't fertilized. It would never fully develop into maturity—if would simply be an egg. He was laying eggs because it was his ‘mating season,’ because the War was still plaguing his mind, but day by day, drink by drink, and drag by drag, it became easier to ignore, and he had done something right, something that sparked his dry, desolate ovaries into action.

The Healer had asked. Have you changed your diet, Mr. Malfoy? You're still underweight, dangerously so, so it must have been recent. I would encourage this change, Mr. Malfoy, because-

And Draco had pursed his lips, because he was betting it was the first meat he'd eaten since he was eighteen. That bloody dog.

It felt like alchemy. The law of equivalent exchange. He took a bite of a dog, and in return, it gave him an egg. Probably his only egg, considering it would be his only meat, but still.

He wondered about if he'd eaten the whole dog. Wondered about what would have happened then.

And, staring at his fan, he wondered if that would have even mattered. What if it had given him the egg, and Draco had fertilized it? What if, after eating the meat, he'd felt confident—no, disillusioned enough to seek out a shag? What if some Muggle was inebriated enough that they weren't disgusted by his body, be it his bony figure or his scars, and fertilized the egg?

He would have taken a dog's life, and gotten another in return?

A human life, from a dog’s?

That couldn't be. Dogs weren't equivalent to a human’s life.

But it wouldn't be a human. Not really.

The child would be veela.

Draco wasn't human, he was veela, but he wasn't any better than the bloody dog, and wasn't that interesting? They were one and the same, except Draco had attacked it. He'd shown mercy, but had he really?

Seven years. Seven years since Draco had seen another wizard, save for his discreet, back-alley sort of Healer, but Draco still carried around his wand. He could have killed the dog before he attacked it.

He could have healed it before letting it go.

But he'd let it run off, because he wasn't worth the magic, and nor was the dog, but the dog was like him, and he was the dog.

They deserved to suffer. To scar. To die slowly, each breath bringing them closer to release.

But was that his choice? Not really.

Draco jerked, and the free hand, the one not over his navel, arched through the air.

He threw the whiskey against the wall of his flat, watching it shatter with a sort of detached fascination, fixation, because whiskey wasn't usually his choice of liquor. It made him wallow, and think, and do stupid things, like burn off his hair, or smash the windows because he felt claustrophobic in the dark.

But this time... No, this time he wanted to go out.

Draco groaned, forcing himself up from his unmade bed like the dead trying to rise from a grave, because his shoulders, pointed and protruding, raised higher than his neck, than his chest, and he had to lean forward to really move forward. He didn't know if he was just drunk or if this was just his life now. The Healer was right. He was weak. Too weak to get up from bed, to put down the bottle instead of throwing it.

Too weak to lay his egg, his unfertilized egg, without scarring himself, damaging his bone structure. Nothing permanent, of course, but Draco didn't have the money to pay for any treatments.

He wasn't sure if he deserved any, but the whiskey and the familiar melancholy clinging to him like smoke, like fumes, like something toxic, something less toxic than him but just as fatal, convinced him he was sure of one thing. He was going out tonight. He had a dog to find.

He had the little sense to pull on a jacket. He didn't zip it up, because the sun hadn't even risen yet, no one was going to see his sickly self, and he couldn't feel it, anyway.

He didn't know whether that was just the alcohol, either.

But he stalked the neighborhood, hands in his pockets. He began to get twitchy as the fresh night air sobered him, and he pulled out a cigarette.

He also pulled out a lighter, because he couldn't even use his wand for such a menial task, anymore. He was too weak, and he didn't have the conviction to cast spells. All his thoughts were too muddled, and he was indecisive. Painfully so. He didn't know what he wanted, especially not what he needed. He acted compulsively, not impulsively, because in his own way, he did rationalize his actions. And rarely was it the right action, and he knew it wasn't, but at least it was a decision, and that's where the indecision came in.

Minutes, hours, days later.

He didn't know. But he had spat out his cigarette a while ago, and he was feeling the cold enough to have zipped his jacket, and the sun was just barely in the sky when Draco found the dog.

Flies swarmed its carcass, the wound green and black and festering. Inflamed. The surrounding fur, ratty and dark, was caked with dried blood and maggots, which had gleefully wormed their way into the tender flesh of the dog’s stomach, where Draco could now, very easily, see tens, hundreds of holes where they had burrowed in deep.

And then the dog began to scream, and Draco jumped, because how was it still alive?

It was a fighter, it seemed, because it wailed, a familiar, pathetic excuse of its previous ones, but it was impressive anyway, because the dog couldn't walk, couldn't even move, but it could smell another predator, worse than the flies, the maggots, or the coyotes that often prowled, because it was him , and Draco was the one who had done this, cause this in the first place, so he was worth screaming over.

But he wasn't. Not really.

Draco stared at the dog, listened to it scream until it began to remind him of screams he only heard in his nightmares, and occasionally when the silence was too loud and he had to turn on the telly, or the wireless. He listened to the dog, and then he approached, and it began to tremble, and he scooped up the dog. He ignored the bugs that fell, that wriggled against his jacket and hands, and held the dog close as he trudged back home.

The dog wailed the whole way, until he jerked it a little too hard and it abruptly cut off, either unconscious or actually dead this time.

When Draco got home, he shoved everything else off his kitchen table. He turned on the light, and shrugged off his jacket.

And then he went to wash his hands.

And then he drank a large glass of water.

Because what was he supposed to do? He could barely use his wand for an accio , the simplest of spells, let alone for a complex healing or cleansing spell.

And Draco didn't have a computer, but he could vaguely remember treating wounds for other Death Eaters during the Battle, and maybe, if he could just use enough magic...

Draco took his wand from his pocket as he placed the glass in the sink, and leveled the wood at the motionless canine.

He cast a scourgify , but nothing happened.

He tried again.

And again.

And nothing happened, and Draco stared, half waiting for maybe a delayed response, but when none came, he frowned.

He still felt complacent. Like saving the dog didn't matter.

It didn't. Not really.

But it should. He wanted it to, kind of. To see if he could do it. Not that he deserved it. Not that the dog did. But could Draco do it? Step out of himself, away from Draco Malfoy, the Death Eater, the Victim, the Scarred, the Scared, the Worthless, the Muggle, and step, even if only momentarily, into Draco the Wizard?

He wanted to. Not kind of, but he really wanted to.

And he tried again.

And nothing happened.

And Draco felt frustrated. The kind of frustration when he forgot to buy another cigarette pack, or when he didn't have enough money for even that, because he hadn't been working steadily for a while, and the odd jobs here and there weren't coming in because he looked as pathetic as he was. He couldn't even hide it anymore, he was so bad, and that was the frustration. The frustration at being so pathetic , but not worth getting better. He deserved it all.

That was what he told himself, anyway. He had known for a while, a nagging sort of feeling in the back of his head, that he only told himself he didn't deserve to get better because he couldn't.

But Draco was frustrated, because he kind of really wanted to fix this dog.

Because he wasn't worth anymore than the dog. He was a dog. Inferior, attacked, scarred, scared, worthless. A dog. And he couldn't fix himself, not really, not yet, but he could maybe do this. It was another one of his messes, wasn't it? He could clean this up. And if he cleaned up the dog, and cleaned up the wounds, and fixed the dog, he could maybe fix himself. Fix himself enough to get through the next months, so when he was forced to deliver the cold, lifeless egg from his unwilling body, he wouldn't kill himself trying.

Because Draco was like the dog, in that he was survivor, despite wishing with almost all of his being to just be done with everything and die.

Because that part of almost that couldn't make it completely wanted to live. For things to get better.

Draco stepped up to the table where he sat down, bypassed the oozing bite-wound, and looked to the tunneling in the dog’s abdomen, where he began pressing into the skin around it and, one by one, forcing out the botfly larvae. The white maggots squirmed and squiggled, and Draco found it oddly rewarding to squish them beneath his thumb. He felt like he was cleansing the animal, killing all of its regrets, its sins, one by one. It was a misplaced feeling, considering this was all his fault, but Draco knew he wasn't a good person. He wasn't even a person, but a thing. An animal.

And he was cleaning up his mess.

What had to be hours later, after squeezing and re-squeezing, just to make sure, Draco finished deworming the dog, and then dragged it into his bathroom, where he proceeded to fill the tub with warm water. Draco stripped, and didn't want any of the dog’s infection to rub off on him, but knew that his clothes would only get in the way.

This is where he proceeded to clean it. Some part of him knew not to use his cheap, filmy soap on the dog, but Draco didn't have the luxury of shampoo. Couldn't bother with it, especially not when his hair was so limp and choppy after the burning fiasco last month. Body soap would have to do, and so he began to scrub.

He found more larvae behind the ears, where he proceeded to kill them, and made sure to scrub the tunneled areas of the dog’s flesh thoroughly. The skinned pads of the dog's paws, however, he washed more gently than he had anything in a long, long time.

And then came the bite wound, which Draco scrubbed mercilessly, and he had the urge to lick it better, but while part of him thought it may help, the other didn't want to die of infection.

And that was another thing. The bite wound probably had an infection that was more than skin-deep, but this is what Draco could do, and so he did.

And then he dried it, gingerly, and the dog’s black fur was marginally softer after being cleaned.

And Draco looked at the still slightly-oozing wound, and felt a faint panic well within him that this would all be for nothing if this wound wasn't properly disinfected.

He really wanted the dog to heal. In fact, it felt imperative to him that it did.

He needed this.

And when Draco felt the urge again, he gave in. He didn't lick it, but he drooled profusely over the gummy niche in the dog’s torso. He smeared the saliva with his hands, spreading an even coating, and it felt oddly thick, his spit, but he wasn't sure if it was honestly more viscous or if it was his exhaustion fooling him.

And, considering that was all he could really do for now, Draco left out some fine china for the dog, filled one with water while he filled the other with a can of tomato soup—he knew better than to attempt to reintroduce the creature to solids so early after near-starvation—, and head off to bed.

It was much easier to return to his bed than it had been to leave it, he noted mildly, just before his head hit the pillow and he was out cold.

When Draco padded into his kitchen the next morning, it was to find piles of vomit on the floor, but he ignored them easily and looked for the dog.

He found it, tucked fearfully beneath his sofa, the single other piece of furniture in his flat other than his bed, the kitchen table, and the few wooden chairs in there.

It snarled at him, but Draco paid this no mind.

He lifted the sofa, and the dog darted out with a cry, and Draco, using instincts and moving with more speed than he had in years, spun and caught the dog, undoubtedly jarring its wounds, but after wailing again, the dog attacked him, sinking its teeth into his hand, but Draco merely winced.

He crowded the dog in his lap, and it continued screaming around his hand, struggling to escape, but Draco kept petting it, and it screamed harder, releasing his bloodied hand to thrash with abandon, but Draco held it closer, and pet more firmly, but still gently, and cooed at it, shushing it, and still the dog screamed.

But the morning sun slowly moved across the floor, and the birds outside sang as they did every morning, and soon Draco realized he was, indeed, hearing the birds.

The dog was just crying, whimpering, trembling, but it rested in his lap, and Draco didn't risk releasing it yet.

He had nothing else to do, no one else to occupy his time, so Draco kept petting, and cooing, and soon the dog was crying into him, instead of away from him, curled into his lap, and only then did Draco check the wounds.

The infected bite was still gummy, and open, but it wasn't bleeding, or oozing puss. The slight discoloration was only that, slight, and it looked healthier. Noticeably healthier. And the maggot holes were still there, of course, and they were pink and irritated, but he vowed to apply saliva to them as well as the bite when the dog eventually fell asleep.

But before bed, it must be hungry.

Draco carefully lifted the dog. It was large, in no way a lapdog, but it was so bony, skeletal, that he could carry it easily. It began to wail again, so quick to jump on the defensive, but Draco cooed some more, and kept cradling the dog as he filled another bowl with tomato soup—all he had to feed it, at the moment. And this time, as it lapped at the liquid, he didn't let it drink the whole thing, because the vomit wasn't necessarily angering him, but he knew the dog needed all the nutrients it could get.

Between ‘feedings,’ he let the dog outside to pee, carefully away from his rubbish bins, where he had first attacked it. The scene of the crime. That’s where he had a cigarette, because he didn’t want the smoke inside of the house. And when they were done, they went back in, where Draco coddled it some more as he listened to the wireless, and when it fell asleep, he drooled on the wounds some more—definitely thick—, and when it woke up, hours later, he gave it more soup, and some water, and monitored the dog’s intake before removing the dishes and returning to the living room to watch the telly.

He knew, distantly, that he hadn't eaten all day, but it didn't seem as important as the dog.

But then he remembered he would need to go out and buy dog supplies, eventually. And he would need money for that. And a job for that .

He went back into the kitchen, grabbed a banana on the verge of death, and clambered back on his sofa.

This is where the dog watched him guardedly from the doorway.

Draco pat his thigh, murmuring softly, and slowly, slowly the dog came forward, sniffing at his fingers hesitantly, and he pet the trembling creature softly as he watched television. And when the dog began to yawn, Draco slowly, slowly pulled into into his lap, where the both watched the glowing screen with drooping eyes. Where they both fell asleep.

TBC

Chapter Text

Draco had never set up his floo, because he didn't want to be contacted, or even worse, imposed upon.

But he set it up now, because he couldn't do this alone.

Not for him, but for Thuban, the dog.

His mother looked upon him with horrored eyes. She'd likely thought he was dead.

He wondered if she would have preferred it to what greeted her.

"Mother," he said simply.

"Draco," she replied, voice faint. "And to what do I owe this pleasant surprise?"

She was hurt. He hadn't called in seven years.

"I need help," he said bluntly.

Her smile was tight. "What is it you want? Money?"

Draco looked at her apathetically, unashamed. "Yes."

"I shall owl some at the nearest convenience, then," she replied, clearly dismissing him.

"No, I," Draco cut her off nervously. He hadn't seen his mother in seven years, and he missed her, but mostly he needed her help. "It's not money for me," he said, and her nose twitched in disgust. "It's my dog," he said weakly, and for a moment, her expression changed. Relief. She had thought he owed someone money. That he was in debt, be it from drugs, or gambling, or something worse.

He didn't blame her for assuming.

"Your dog?" she asked.

"He's hurt. And I don't know the spells—I haven't used magic for a while."

"So you won't be found," she said plainly.

"Initially," he mumbled, "but now, I can't."

Her eyes shone, and it was with unshed tears. "Oh, oh Draco," she whispered. "Oh, my poor child, what have you done to yourself?"

He recoiled from her as she leaned forward, as if to reach through the floo and cradle him. He didn't want to be. He didn't need to be.

He was practicing being strong, now. He couldn't be weak. His dog, his egg needed him.

"Would you," he said, nervously wringing his hands, "would you help me? I don't deserve it—your help, but Thuban-"

"Thuban?"

"M-my dog," he sputtered, flushing a bit, because judging by her expression, she understood.

Thuban was a star in the Draco constellation.

"And do you desire my help, or my assistance?" she asked, her gaze intense, and Draco knew the difference.

"Your help," he said. "I need—and Thuban needs—he needs me, but I can't—I can't-"

"The floo is open, darling," Narcissa smiled, and it was shaky, and her voice was thick, and she trembled.

She reminded him then of Thuban, and Draco wondered if maybe his mother needed him, too, even after so long.

"It's been open since the day you left," she whispered, "and will remain open for you until you return. Always," she said, and it was fierce, and this wasn't a lie—she meant it. She promised.

Days, weeks, months.

Draco had never really been self conscious of his body. Before the War, it was because he knew he looked good. During the war, keeping on his beautiful mask changed into keeping up a facade of false normalcy. And after the war, he just didn't care anymore.

His mother hated when he spoke like that. Before, after, and during the War, as though his entire life revolved around it, and always would. She didn't understand. During the hardest time in her life, she'd had decades beneath her belt. She wasn't wise, or experienced enough to have avoided it, but she knew enough. Draco hadn't either of those things, a wee babe in the face of so much horror.

But that wasn't fair. Not really.

She'd lost her husband, after all.

Lucius was a portrait. He was somewhere in the manor, but Draco couldn't find it in himself to seek it out. He couldn't face his father, not yet, and part of him noticed his father hadn't sought him out, either.

But he doubted that it was from shame, on his part.

And shame was a coat Draco wore often.

From his sins, from his mistakes, but also from how he handled them. Starving himself, drinking, smoking.

Running away.

But he was stronger now. At least, a little.

He was on a healthier diet of fruits, vegetables, legumes, nuts, seeds, soy products (albeit, not too much soy), and whole grains. He didn't eat eggs, for obvious reasons, and he didn't drink milk either. He supposed he could, but abstaining from animal products entirely felt safer. More humane. And he wasn't human, but he hoped he might find his humanity once more, someday.

The better eating, the slight exercise—he didn't like sweating too much in general, but he couldn't use his broom because he was still anxious about using his unstable magic—, and his mother's lack of tolerance for his indulgences put him on the right track.

It was hard, because cigarettes were mostly Muggle, so it took a few tries to find the right potion to curb his addiction, and even then, the potion itself was addictive, so Draco was forced to go through the Manor's library, to brush up on his Potions knowledge before brewing an elixir of his own.

And it worked. And Merlin, had he missed brewing.

So that's what he did. He ate well, and he jogged with Thuban, and he brewed, and studied, and used his wand for little things. And he socialized with the House Elves, and they taught him a thing or two about cooking, and sewing, and Healing spells and magicless remedies.

And he explored the Manor and its grounds. The garden, the fields. He introduced and reintroduced himself to the peafowl in the yard—it had been seven years, after all—who seemed rather keen on following him around, which Draco blamed entirely on being part Veela. He named them as well, after learning his mother had never been fond of pets and hadn't bothered.

His favorite was a leucistic peachick, a little too large to be considered a chick, really, but surely not large enough to be qualified as a peacock. It was mostly albino, like the rest of the Malfoy peafowl, but the lower half of its face was brilliant blue and green, like a normal peacock, as well as half of its tail feathers. The other half of his tail, and the very top of his head, however, were albino, and it almost looked as though he was covered partially with snow.

Draco had named him Demitri, just because he liked the name.

Even besides the birds, Draco was enjoying himself. He didn't have to work for his stay, to pay rent—likely, he wouldn't have to work for another day in his life, but that wasn't what made him so... so content. No, it was the feeling of improvement. That every day he was moving closer to a better Draco Malfoy. A Draco Malfoy who could care for his dog, who could deliver his developing egg the way he was supposed to be able to.

His hips had widened. His anal passage had changed to a cloaca to aid in delivery and fertilization. He was designed to give birth. It was in his genes, and now, now that he could lap the entire Manor grounds without dying of hyperventilation due to his cigarette-addled lungs and weak heart, he could do it. He could deliver the egg, no problem, because he was healthier. He wasn't healthiest—he still couldn't release his wings, or look at himself in the mirror too long without noticing the flaws, but he was getting there.

He was healthy enough to care for his dog, to not skip his meals. To do yoga to increase his flexibility and stretch out his brittle bones. To practice wandless combat, and healing. To watch the sun rise and set every day. To spend entire days in the garden, just exploring, and laughing delightedly at the flowers that crooned and stretched for him to stay a little longer each visit.

It was the single place he didn't permit Thuban, because the dog was obedient, sweetly so, but if there was one thing the canine couldn't control, it was the urge to chase garden gnomes and pee on any plant pretty enough to warrant interest, and Draco was having none of that.

"Draco, darling, would you be a dear and pass me the mail?" Narcissa asked around her teacup.

Draco nodded, absently flipping his hair over his shoulder, and when had it grown so long? And so beautifully?

Draco, even as a narcissistic child, had grudgingly acknowledged he had thin hair, and that it would become apparent as he grew older. Receding hairline, bald spots, and all that. But with his extra time, and lack of alcohol to convince him burning it all off was a splendid idea, Draco put his energy into more potions, and had been experimenting a bit to enhance its growth lengthwise, but it was definitely looking thicker. Luxurious. But, curiously, it was also wavy, definitely curling at the tips.

But perhaps that was all his veela, and not his experimenting at all? He would need to find other test subjects...

His eyes strayed to Thuban, who was calmly resting at—rather, on—his feet as he passed his mother the mail.

But then his eyes flickered up, and he caught sight of a familiar face in the newspaper.

Draco had adamantly stayed away from the papers. He didn't want to remind himself how much time had passed, how much had changed when he was only just beginning to change, himself.

But Potter looked... Well, he looked brilliant. Healthy. Strong. Provocative, really. Why, it was almost indecent, the way he smiled at the camera, the crows feet at the corner of his eyes as he laughed and smiled that familiar, crooked smile.

Draco felt a little flustered just thinking about it, because Potter had changed, but not badly. No, he'd changed for the better. He looked good, and part of Draco was intimidated, awed, while the other was determined, inspired.

He was only twenty-seven, really. He had at least a century ahead of him, if he kept up his good health. He could strive to be that, one day. To be like Potter.

For the eggs, and all the future ones. For Thuban. For his mother.

For Demitri, even. The peachick was young yet.

"Would you..." Narcissa trailed off. "Would you like to join me?" And then she looked at him, a mixture of imploringly and reassuringly and dissuading, all at once, and then came in familiar indecision that crawled beneath his skin. She could see how uncomfortable the question made him, but she asked every time, anyway, because she hoped. He could see it in her eyes, in her stance. She hoped.

And Draco wavered. Towards her, then back again, because every time, he felt closer to agreeing. He was still self conscious, still nervous, still scared. But he was close.

"Maybe next time," he said, as he always did, and Narcissa merely smiled, and then left.

The door sounded ominous in her wake, but Draco was used to it. It was used to spook guests, really, but he no longer found it amusing to needlessly do so.

And Draco wandered. He checked on the peafowl, on the garden. And he met some Elves there, which he kept company—rather, they kept him company—for a few hours before moving on.

He took Thuban for another run, less to expend the dog's seemingly boundless energy, and more simply to explore. He examined the pond, the fruit trees, and then sat on a boulder and sunbathed for a bit. And when Thuban began to doze, Draco grew hot, so he darted off, startling the dog who, after realizing what had happened, happily chased him and chased him until, with a predatory leap, the dog pounced, tackling Draco easily beneath the healthy weight. And on they tumbled, rolling in the grass.

Thuban, Draco had learned, was a breed Muggles called a Great Dane. Of course, Draco didn't cut the dog's fur as short as Muggles often fancied, because Thuban was self conscious about the malformation below his ribs. So Draco let the black fur grow, and Thuban was truly a majestic animal.

Draco had done a little tinkering with his formulas to see how it would react on a dog—only a portion, mind you, and he had a cancellation spell at the ready—, but Thuban's fur was glossy, long, and thick. Like a lion's mane, and sure, the additional fluff only made the hulking creature look even larger, but Draco didn't mind.

His mother, however, was terrified, but Thuban would grow on her. Honestly, the dog was as sweet as a butterfly. The worst he would do is love her endlessly, for Salazar's sake.

And then they jogged back inside, and Draco was exhausted, but he left Thuban near his water bowl before trekking up to his room, where he did some stretches before taking a shower.

And afterwards, Draco risked a look in the mirror.

The wounds. He could still see the mark on his arm, and the long, pink scar that ran from the protrusion of his left hip bone to his right shoulder.

But beneath the scar, was soft skin. And beneath the skin, was a layer of fat, a healthy layer, and beneath that was muscle, healthy, beautiful muscle, and beneath that was strong bones.

Draco didn't look like a model, he knew. More like a rat—especially after recently showered, when his hair was a stringy mess and the steam made his skin pink and blotchy. But he looked... normal. Maybe a little slim, but it was attractive, he supposed. He looked lanky, in his own opinion, all long legs and a frightfully long neck. But his mirror always assured him, when voicing his insecurities aloud, that he looked fine, and he only saw what once was, and what could be, not what was standing right before him, as others would.

Draco didn't usually mull over his appearance. He shaved only when it became necessary, because he didn't mind the scruff, but beards reminded him of alcohol and smoke and the hum of a ceiling fan, of stinging eyes and a pounding in his mind, possibly on his door.

But he did look. He liked to see the improvement, because it was empowering, and also, he wondered what might have been, if he skipped the part where he drowned for nine years. If, maybe, he'd been fine the whole time. Would he look the same? Buffer? More attractive? More scarred? Maybe he would be missing an eye, and he'd wear an eye patch, and then his beard would match. Maybe he'd have a lover, or children. Possibly both? Would it have been with Astoria, as was arranged before he ran off? Would he have his wings? Have already lain his first egg? Would he still eat meat?

Ah. But he wouldn't have Thuban.

But he would have kids.

Maybe. Was that worth it?

He didn't know. In that life, he would undoubtedly prefer his child, or children. But in this life, with this future, he knew he couldn't handle them. He could barely handle himself. But he could handle Thuban, and Thuban could handle him, and they weren't father and son, but man and dog, loyal partners, and that was okay.

And Draco realized with a start, yes, his hair was curling into loose ringlets, and that must be because he hadn't brushed it as it dried, as he usually did. Was that the potions, or his veela? Thuban's fur was definitely textured, like onyx ocean waves, but that wasn't even really hair, it was fur, and supposedly those were different.

Draco had always wanted a pet as a child, and crups and dogs were almost the same thing. He'd done his research on both, hoping that maybe, if his mother didn't want a magical pet, she would allow him a dog.

But then his father had chuckled, ruffled his hair, and bought him albino peafowl. Because a crup, or a dog, was unsophisticated, inelegant, and unworthy.

But Draco had proven to be all three of those things. And he'd gotten a dog.

Had he changed so much, since those days? Undoubtedly.

Was he worthy of a second chance? Maybe.

Maybe.

Narcissa distractedly searched through her purse. "Would you like to come, dear? It's only grocery shopping, but the remaining Elves are far too daft to maneuver the farmer's market without getting distracted or lost. Too many people."

Draco worried his lip, because he'd been up all night planning out this moment, but she wasn't visiting the quaint little Greenery this time, but an open farmer's market. With people. With wizards.

But it was outside. He could bring Thuban for support. And there would only be fruits and vegetables and such, no meat, surely. One didn't just leave slabs of raw meat out in the sun to attract flies as the day progressed and shoppers came and left, did they? It seemed unsanitary, but there were protective charms for that sort of thing, anyway, weren't there?

His mother paused in her harried searching, looking at him with wide, awed eyes. "Are you thinking about it? Oh Draco, oh my sweet dragon, please join me? Of course, you can change first-"

Draco frowned, because as much as he had initially missed his robes, he was no longer accustomed to wearing them everywhere, and he had every intention to going outside in his jeans and sweatshirt. Both were dark colored, and both were baggy, large enough to hide his skinny frame. He wasn't malnourished anymore, but he was still touchy about his weight, and the confident, Malfoy form-fitting robes were not going to do it for him today.

"You can stay by the outer stands," his mother continued after noting his mulish expression, "you don't have to navigate the crowds with me. You can even-" she wrinkled her nose in distaste, and Draco knew what she would say, and couldn't help smiling. "You can even bring your Thuban, I suppose, as long as he's on a short leash."

Draco's smile turned from amused to warm. "Do you think? I could always try again tomorrow. I don't know... I don't want to have a panic attack or anything." Draco drew his hands up nervously. "You don't think I would pass out, do you? I'm not—I'm not a hermit," he assured, a tad defensive. "I spoke with the people all the time. I just. Not with witches and wizards and the like," he mumbled.

Narcissa smiled encouragingly, sweeping towards with him open arms that he hesitated before stepping into. He only allowed the hugs because she seemed to need them, not because he wanted to rely on her too heavily, and that was the truth. He needed her help to get through his tougher times, but he didn't want her to hold his hand, didn't need it. He was stronger. He could do this.

And so he hugged her back briefly before stepping away and whistling.

Thuban came bounding to the foyer a scarce couple minutes later, his laws clacking eagerly on the marble tile as he ran, and then came the sound of his knees and arse slamming to the ground as the clumsy creature came to sliding halt before him, long tail sweeping back and forth at a dizzying speed.

"Accio Thuban's leash," he called, one of the few spells he allowed himself, and less than a second later, the thick rope was in his hands. He clipped it on the green collar, which was decorated with silvery dragons and golden flames, and patted the excited dog's head to calm him a bit. They wouldn't be going out for a run, but a calm stroll, and he didn't want the dog to start nosing at people.

Thuban was still terribly shy, still nervous around strangers, and that wasn't entirely Draco's fault. Before the blond had given into his veela, Thuban's life was often filled with the neighborhood families shooing and screaming at him, chasing him out of their rubbish bins with brooms and rakes and kicking legs.

Of course, Draco had bloody tried to eat him, so he wasn't saying he was innocent, but that he wasn't entirely to blame. Probably.

Besides, the dog was nothing if not resilient. He was even getting more comfortable around Narcissa, who scowled at him openly, much like the muggles used to, but Thuban adored her anyway. And he was resisting the urge to bark every time he heard the crack of apparition, which was a blessed improvement, as Draco could swear on more than one occasion that he had felt the soundwaves from the beast's bark against his hip.

"Can he be Side-Alonged?" Narcissa asked, but it was noticeably gentle. It was likely for his own sake, but he could imagine she was just being kind to his best friend.

"He's not magical, so no, but he can floo."

"I don't think any nearby establishments are going to feel pleased by an animal within their walls."

"So we'll walk right out," Draco said, and it was cheeky, and he even winked, and he supposed his playfulness is what won her over, judging by her exasperated but fond sigh.

And so they flooed, and calmly walked right out of the clothing store, pointedly ignoring the gasps and gawks.

Because not only was Narcissa Malfoy walking about with a familiar blond beside her, but with a monster of an animal trailing behind them, and wasn't that a sight to see?

And then they walked, and Thuban wasn't tugging as he often did when leashed, because he was in unfamiliar surroundings. He walked between Narcissa and Draco. His held was up high, of course, because he was still a Malfoy with good posture, but Draco could tell the dog was slightly hiding between them. Thuban, well fed and toned from good exercise, could easily take on an attacker. He was large, intimidatingly so, but the sweetpea was kind of a wuss, actually, and unless provoked, he doubted Thuban would even turn in a stranger's direction with anything more than a friendly tail-wag or cock of the head.

At least Thuban was curious. Draco was terrified. His back was slightly arched in, and he leaned forward a bit, a fruitless attempt to make himself smaller, but it was all he was willing to sacrifice without appearing foolish. He was walking his dog, for Christ's sake, why did anyone have to stare?

And when they got to the outskirts of the field where the farmer's market was held, Draco pulled up his hood and wordlessly took Thuban to the treeline, where they relaxed.

Thuban did his business, peeing on any and every tree he could before his admittedly impressive bladder was empty. And then Draco reclined against a tree, watching the witches and wizards shopping from afar. Thuban sat next to him before eventually laying down.

Seconds, minutes, hours passed, but Thuban was growing bored, and honestly, so was Draco. What was once fear was now restlessness, because where was his mother? What has she even set out to buy? Surely she wasn't shopping seriously—their elves weren't useless, and though he hadn't been out with his mother in forever, he still couldn't imagine her carrying bags and bags of groceries.

And so, pulling down his hood to look less dodgy, Draco carefully tugged Thuban up, and together they strolled over to the market. Draco was the face of calm, and when Thuban whined a bit at the crowd, Draco went down on one knee, and held the dog's face. Thuban pushed against his hands, hoping to poke Draco's eye out with his shiny, loveable nose, and Draco just snorted, ruffling the dog's long, wavy fur.

"You're fine," he mumbled, scratching behind the dog's ears, "Stop being a baby, you're fine. I've got you, Thuban."

And then Draco stood, running a hand through his hair. It was long enough that the shortest pieces brushed his shoulders, and peculiarly enough, the oldest hair, the very ends of his hair that curled, had been burned a light russet color, making the roots look silver in comparison to the golden tips.

Thuban tugged a bit, eager to explore the many stands filled with food, and with a nod, as though Thuban had asked or even looked at him—which he hadn't—, Draco let the dog lead.

As he walked, he glanced around furtively to see if anyone was staring, but they all seemed preoccupied with their shopping, and he had barely entered the shopping center, anyway. And what was he expecting? Someone to have been waiting, all these years, with a spell and weapon at the ready, aimed at his frantically beating heart?

Maybe, but no. Not really.

He was just paranoid, and scared, and trying something new.

But Thuban was powering through it, and so could Draco, because they were partners in this, and Draco was stronger now. And his Mother was just a scream away, if push came to shove, and he had Thuban to slobber on anyone who came too close.

But mostly, Draco was stronger now. He didn't need to be protected, but if he looked over his shoulder every few minutes, it was what he had to do.

But he didn't notice anyone hostile, or anyone really looking at him—mostly Thuban, who, though polite enough not to shove his way through people, walked close enough to pant down their unsuspecting backs for moving too slowly for his taste.

And they looked around, and though Draco had no money on him, he obliged the beckoning vendors by admiring their produce, and the few he saw selling raw meat, well, he used his nose to avoid them entirely, despite Thuban showing interest, and stayed to the fruits and vegetables.

And then he heard a squeal, and for a heart stopping moment, he thought it was Thuban.

But it was a baby boy.

Thuban, comically enough, looked terrified by the toddler, standing stock still as the giggling child scampered closer to him and made little baby fists at his long legs.

Thuban looked to Draco helplessly, and in the midst of his horror and shock, Draco was amused.

Draco looked around cautiously, searching for an adult, but saw none that were looking towards the child.

Knowing this couldn't be good, Draco stepped beside Thuban and kneeled next to the dog, catching the child's attention. When he leaned forward, his fringe swayed into the child's face, making the boy laugh and grab at the soft strands, but Draco quickly tucked the wayward hair back behind his ear.

"Hey," Draco greeted, his voice going syrupy the way it did when he spoke to Thuban. This, of course, caught the dog's attention, so Thuban butt his wet, twitchy nose against Draco's ear, making the blond grimace and gently push his face away.

The boy was squealing excitedly for Thuban, but the dog merely watched, content to let Draco handle the small human.

"Young one," Draco tried again, and the boy tore his brown eyes away from Thuban with visible difficulty. "How old are you?" he asked, unsure.

The boy smiled widely, proudly. "I'm three!" he exclaimed, and Draco nodded thoughtfully.

"Ah, and what's your name?"

"James!" the boy exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air happily and startling poor Thuban. Draco pet the dog's head comfortingly, and when Thuban nuzzled into Draco's hand for more attention, obviously growing bored, the boy looked so longing, Draco made a compromise.

"Hey," he said again, and the boy focused on him much faster. "Let's make a deal, yeah? I'll let you pet my dog, if you tell me where your parents are? We need to get you back to your Mum."

The boy eyed him. "Mum's not here, just Daddy."

"Okay, where is your dad? Do you know?"

The boy, James, made grabby hands at Thuban again. "Puppy!" he demanded, and Draco sighed.

He turned to Thuban. "Game face on, pup. Can you let the tiny human touch your face with his even tinier hands?"

Thuban blinked at him, and Draco laughed, ruffling the long fur and smiling when the dog's tongue lolled out.

Draco turned towards James as he gently nudged Thuban's head down, orchestrating the whole thing as a tiny hand awkwardly patted Thuban's head, right between his flickering ears.

Then Thuban abruptly licked, his large tongue slobbering all over the boy's face, peeling back James' wild black hair and sticking it up at odd angles.

Draco was horrified, but the boy was ecstatic, squealing again and giggling and tottering around in a delighted little circle.

Sighing, but pleased the boy hadn't cried, or worse, screamed, Draco took a moment to watch the boy celebrate before regathering his attention. All it took was a slight clearing of his throat, this time, and large brown eyes were trained on him.

"Now, where's your father? Can you bring me to Daddy, James? I can't let you wander around alone. It's not safe," Draco said, shaking his head as though saddened by this fact.

James nodded at him fiercely before spinning, running a few feet, and crashing right into the back of another man's legs. Said man quickly turned around.

Draco felt panic welling up within him as he scrambled over, quickly scooping up the giggling child and attempting to hold the small, wriggling body as he apologized to the stranger.

"Oh, Christ, I'm sorry," he blurted, grappling with the boy who was straining towards Thuban as though magnetically drawn to the dog. James' legs were kicking dangerously close to Draco's face while he held out his short arms for Thuban. "I told him to find—and he just shot off—Merlin, you aren't hurt, are you? God, I'm so sorry for this-"

"Malfoy?"

Draco stopped. Blinked. Stared.

And then he blanched, eyes widening as recognition dawned on him. "Wh- Potter?"

Potter blinked at him a bit, as if just as disbelieving, and then he smiled, and his eyes crinkled at the corners, and Draco felt faint.

"I almost didn't recognize you. Your voice is a lot raspier than I remember."

"I, um, yes," Draco stammered.

"And you have my son, I see."

Draco looked to the boy, who was still reaching for his dog, then back to Potter.

"I- Your son?"

And then he felt something flare within him, the same thing he felt when Thuban ran too quickly on the smooth floors of the Manor near the staircase, or when the young Elves naively looked away while chopping with knives.

He looked to the boy.

"James," he asked.

The boy squirmed in his hold until he was looking at Draco, beaming happily. "Yes?" he chirped.

"Is this your father?" he asked, and the boy looked to Potter, scrutinizing the man with a grave seriousness, and then nodded quickly.

"That's Daddy," he confirmed, and Draco nodded, awkwardly holding the child forward, and Potter took him with practiced ease.

Potter shook his head, still smiling.

"Just making sure?" he asked Draco, but he didn't seem upset. He was just teasing.

"Just making sure," Draco agreed, putting his hands in his pockets so his tight grip on Thuban's leash wouldn't attract attention. "Sorry for, um, harassing your son. I—he wanted to pet my dog, but Thuban sort of licked him from chin to hairline, just in case you're curious why said hair is now defying gravity in some places. Of course, some of those flyaways where already there. I'm sure it's genetic."

He sent a significant glance at Potter's messy hair, and Potter laughed lightly, and this was strange. Draco was talking with Harry bloody Potter and his son.

"I should be thanking you for humoring him. He's wanted a dog since he learned of Sirius, and is convinced any black dog will do. Yours just happens to be the largest I've ever seen."

Draco looked at Thuban, who looked back at him quickly, obviously looking for the cue they were supposed to leave. But Draco just smiled at him, so Thuban lolled his tongue out, panting lightly as he waggled his tail, clearly pleased with Draco's attention.

"He's big, but he's a wuss. Total softie, inside and out. Of course, he still scares my mother."

Potter hiked James against his hip, easily holding the child with one arm. "Still live with your Mum?" he asked, but it wasn't mocking, merely curious. And Potter looked genuinely interested, with his earnest eyes and distracted apologies to anyone who bumped into them for staying stationary so long in a near mob.

"I've been out of London for years," Draco said, putting the topic out there very gently, as he hadn't exactly been vacationing, but Potter didn't need to know that. "I came back a couple months ago, and she insisted." After I begged her. "She's just lonely, and I don't mind the company."

"I heard about Astoria's marriage, a couple years back," Potter said sympathetically. "Sorry 'bout that. Even if it wasn't true love, breaking off relationships is always tough."

Astoria had gotten married? Well, congrats to her.

Draco just shrugged. "And you? How have you been?" he was curious, and no hexes had been thrown yet, and he kind of wanted to continue talking with Potter.

Thuban, as if sensing this, laid down at Draco's feet, content to watch the other witches and wizards doing their shopping, for now.

Potter grinned at James, who, noticing this, grinned back, doubly wide. "Well, there's James, who was a bit of a surprise, but a lovely one indeed. Hermione and Ron even seem interested in having a kid of their own, sometime soon. When'd you get the dog?"

Draco blinked. That was it? But he didn't want to seem too nosy. "Couple months ago. He used to be a stray, so he's a rescue. Didn't seem to hate me, and I don't hate him, so now we mutually don't hate each other. And such is our relationship."

Potter was smiling again. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

"Calling what?" Draco asked innocently, admiring his nails.

"Oh, I don't know," Potter teased, "love?"

"I've no idea what you're talking about, Potter," Draco replied crossly, "but I would appreciate it if you would cease such accusations."

Potter laughed again, and it was easy. As easy as the roll of his shoulders, or the cords in his neck.

Draco was suddenly reminded of his own neck, abnormally long. His neck which he hadn't thought of once, because Potter didn't make him feel self conscious about it, even though he usually was. His neck which was bent upon entering the market, but was now ramrod straight, as was his posture, because Potter brought out old habits, and one of which demanded he never back down.

"Anyway," Potter continued, and it was easy, this was easy, "I have shopping I have to get back to. The wife doesn't like being forced to do 'housewife' work," he winked conspiratorially, and Draco smiled back weakly, both lonely at his own lack of love life, and hopelessly smitten by Potter's boyish charm.

Why did Potter being a father have to make him even more attractive than he already was?

"Maybe we can catch up some other time?" Potter asked, and Draco wasn't sure how genuine the question was, because Potter was busy fussing with James, who had taken to climbing over Potter's body like a jungle gym.

"Sometime, Potter," Draco agreed, knowing fully well that may be never, but willing to let his answer be somewhat hopeful, should Potter have meant it. "See you," Draco said simply, easily, and then he tugged on Thuban's leash, his free hand going back into his pocket, and then he was walking through the crowd once more, searching for his mother.

TBC

Chapter Text

Draco nervously jerked his head forward, assuring himself his fringe was masking his features. His hair had grown longer, easily reaching his shoulder blades, but he didn’t tie it up. Not due to any sort of vanity—if anything, Draco was extremely self conscious about his appearance—but because it hid his visage, his long neck, his angular face. Everything that made him, him.

And in public, without mother or Thuban to accompany him, Draco appreciated all the anonymity he could afford without glamouring or polyjuicing himself.

And he was doing well, if he did say so himself.

Scanning the apothecary aisle for the necessary ingredients for his newest potion idea, Draco barely noticed the witch mumbling to herself until it was too late.

“Oh, god,” Draco cursed, “I apologise for nearly toppling you—Merlin, I'm a clutz.”

The witch waved him off, looking more startled than annoyed. “It’s no issue, it was an accident.”

Draco froze at the familiar voice, and after noticing him tense up, none other than Astoria Greengrass stared back at him.

“Draco?” she whispered.

“I,” Draco faltered, “yes. Hi. How do you do?”

“How do I...?” And then the dreaded anger sparked in her eyes. “How do I do ? How do you do, you bastard ? How do you do that to someone? I bloody loved you! And you just up and left England?”

“I didn’t, actually,” Draco mumbled, feeling the hair on his arms rise. Her volume was drawing the attention of onlookers, despite their rather secluded aisle, and he didn’t like that at all. “I was still in England, but among the, erm, Muggles.”

“It doesn’t matter! I—Well, I bloody waited three years for you!”

“I’m sorry,” Draco whispered, ducking his head. “I haven’t been vacationing or anything, if that's what you think. I needed... I needed time. To heal.”

“ Seven years -”

“Nine.”

“What?”

“Since before I left,” Draco admitted, shifting on his feet. “I left seven years ago, but this... I haven’t been okay since before. Since the War. Hell, since before the War. Since Vince. Since Voldemort. It had all been building up, and I couldn’t... I thought about...” Draco hunched his shoulders, shakily gripping the wallet inside his sweatshirt pocket for well needed support. “I contemplated suicide, Astoria. I could barely function, let alone give you the love and attention you deserve. I should have told you, I should have-”

“You bloody well should have,” she hissed, but it sounded choked, and then she threw her arms around him, and Draco stiffened further.

Draco didn’t like hugs. He didn’t like people touching him, let alone encasing; suffocating; entrapping him.

But, like Mother, Draco suspected Astoria needed it, and so he persevered.

“I still love you,” he told her, hesitantly wrapping his arms around her.

“I still love you too,” she sobbed into him, and she was shaking.

He held her until she calmed, and politely averted his eyes when she wiped her eyes and, with a wordless spell, retouched her makeup.

“Well,” she then addressed, clearing her throat delicately. “How do you do, Draco?”

He laughed softly. “Better. I'm... still recovering, but now I'm here. In England.”

“I'm...” she paused. “I'm married now.”

Draco smiled at her. “I heard. Congratulations, darling. Who’s the lucky bloke?”

Astoria blushed prettily, and her delighted smile only made his heart ache.

He wasn't in love with her anymore, though he did love her platonically. To see her happy and healthy filled him with nothing but affection and pride. But to see her happy, healthy, and in a blossoming relationship, made him the tiniest bit envious. He wanted what she had.

But she didn't have Thuban.

She didn't have depression, nor was she an inept veela, or a recovering smoker or alcoholic.

But she didn't have Thuban.

“You'll never guess,” Astoria declared. “In fact, you'll just have to wait and see.”

“When?”

“You'll have to visit, of course.”

Draco felt his throat close up. “I can't,” he whispered.

From the smoking, and the screaming, and the bouts of month-long muteness in between, his voice was already raspy. But it had been a while since he sounded quite like he did just then, admitting that to her.

She seemed to sense this, judging by the softening of her features.

“Of course,” she amended. “Sometime,” she said. “Until then, maybe we can catch up for tea? Just you and me,” she assured.

Draco forced a weak smile. “Yeah?”

She nodded resolutely. “Of course. Just the two of us. We’ll drink, and we'll catch up, and then I won't feel like such an utter ingrate when I accidentally say things that are sensitive to you.”

“Merlin, Astoria, you aren't an-”

“Come on,” she prompted, gently, gently taking his arm. “Do you need to buy that before we go?”

Anxious, he shook his head and replaced the jar among the rest on the shelf. “Just the two of us?” he rasped.

“Just us,” she said, and it was fierce. A promise.

He thought of Mother, and he nodded.

“Isn't this moving too fast?” Draco asked nervously, wringing his hands in front of him.

Pansy, who Astoria had gently introduced into their weekly meet-ups, rolled her eyes.

“Salazar, Draco. We're going to yoga, not a bloody nightclub. Kindly untwist your knickers.”

When Draco merely nodded meekly, she looked faintly disappointed, and pouted.

“You're no fun anymore,” she whined, unaware of or simply ignoring Astoria’s sharp look.

Draco hadn't sat down with Pansy and told her every little thing, like he had Astoria. Instead, Pansy had simply acted like no time had passed. As though they were simply reuniting after a summer away from each other, like during school. Draco actually really liked that, so when Pansy said things like this, he merely smiled. It was true, and he missed his old confidence, but at the same time, he was sure he had changed for the better, in some cases. Surely. Hopefully.

Besides, she was just as smitten with Thuban as he was, so yes, Draco rather liked spending time with Pansy as well.

“Of course,” Astoria assured, “we can stay here, if you'd like.”

They were currently at Pansy’s, in her room, clad in their ‘yoga apparel’, which apparently consisted of a loose fitting shirt and tight-as-a-second-skin pants.

Draco shook his head. “No, I... I want to go. I'm just. I do hope there aren't too many people.”

“Why?” Astoria asked innocently. “You look so cute with your hair tied up. I can actually see your face.”

Draco flushed bright red, stuttering incoherently until Pansy cut in with a huff.

“Even if there are thousands of people, Draco,-”

He paled at the mere thought.

“-none of them will be looking at you. We're always too busy trying not to break our backs in an attempt to imitate that pretzel of an instructor, thanks ever so.”

Draco sniggered at that, and Pansy smirked.

Astoria sighed, albeit fondly, before ushering them to the floo. “You can borrow my extra yoga mat, Draco, but trust me. You'll love this.”

He wasn't so sure.

Admittedly, joining the class included very little fanfare, as though people joined all the time—though the small number of experienced members suggested they let just as frequently.

However, there still were twenty or so other witches and wizards, which made him uncomfortable, and then there was the actual yoga part, which made him even more so, because he didn't want the others to look at him, to watch him making a fool of himself.

But then, it happened.

“Sarvangasana?” Pansy groused. “Isn't that pose a little advanced? He's just starting out.”

Draco shook his head. “It's fine,” he told her, “I don't want her to go slowly just for me.” Or to call me out, he thought.

He followed Pansy and Astoria’s lead, lying on his back in the pose Savasana, before lifting his legs, balancing them with his arms, and then arching his back, until most of his weight rested in his upper back, shoulders, and arms.

“Good, good,” the instructor praised. “Everyone is doing so well! Now, for the more advanced members, follow my lead. We’re going to lean forward—slowly, like this—into the pose Halasana.”

“Good grief,” Pansy huffed, dropping from her Sarvangasana. “I’m about as flexible as a metal rod.”

“So you bend when you get hot and bothered?” Draco mused, sending her a smirk.

She looked momentarily startled. And then her eyes watered a bit, but she wiped them quickly before laughing.

“Good one, Draco,” she commended, and he wondered if, like Astoria, like Mother, she had missed him.

“Now remember, guys!” The instructor continued. “Look at your navel, to protect your neck. Plug your toes firmly into your mat. Lift your kneecaps to engage your legs muscles—Great job, Astoria!”

The brunette grunted a reply, too busy following the instructor’s words to a T, even though her face was red, and she was clearly struggling.

Feeling a little competitive, Draco tried to bend as well.

Pansy scoffed. “Draco, you can’t attempt yoga in one day, and expect to come out an expert—Oh, sweet Salazar,” she breathed, and Draco understood her awe.

At first, his body had been rigid—shaking, even, as he attempted to slide his legs forward without a) breaking his damn neck, or b) losing balance completely. And then when he haphazardly managed that, there was the simply fact that his muscles weren’t as agile as they used to be, and fuck , this was starting to hurt.

But then, he felt a shiver go through him. It were as if his body recalibrated, adjusted to the strain, because suddenly, he was pliable. He bent forward with ease, and grace, and then, just like that, his toes were on the mat, his arms outstretched behind him, and he was gazing at his navel, numbly aware that his head was below his thighs.

“Holy fuck,” Draco wheezed.

“This is your first time?” Pansy asked dryly, disbelieving. She didn’t know he was veela, like Astoria did. At least, that’s what Draco was blaming his sudden flexibility on.

“Help me?” he whimpered, and she relented, shuffling over to aid him in getting his arse back on the mat.

They stared at one another.

“Bloody hell,” he said, eyes still wide. He was shook.

Pansy cackled.

The yoga meetings, and the regular outings with either Astoria and/or Pansy must have been doing him some good. He couldn’t imagine, even a mere month ago, that he would find himself in a public, wizarding park.

To be fair, Draco had only gone to entertain Thuban, not to be social with other human beings, but it still counted in his book.

Said dog butt his head against the backs of Draco’s legs, just above his knees, too shy yet too excited to do much more than whine and push against his guardian.

“Go run around or something, you asinine creature,” he admonished fondly, stepping away from the dog. “Look, there are some other dogs over there. Or, over there, some more tiny humans. And their much larger counterparts. Or, look, I can see some geese. They’re nearly as loud as you are, pup. You’ll like them,” Draco assured.

“Malfoy?”

The blond jumped, clearly startled. “Salazar, Potter,” he groused while turning around to face said man.

Draco jerked his head a bit to get his fringe out of his face. He had cut his bangs recently, so they stylishly framed his face instead of tumbling all over in a haggard fashion. Now, the way his hair fell looked deliberate and artistic, which, he hoped, drew positive attention away from his visage.

“What a pleasant surprise,” Draco drawled.

Potter laughed. “S’good to see you too, Malfoy. How have you been? Your hair’s longer.”

Draco, self consciously, brushed his fringe out of his eyes and behind his ear. As Astoria had encouraged, he did tie his hair back for the day. His only line of defense against people, against their eyes, like the deep green ones staring back at him, were his bangs, which he had just brushed away from his face. Why? Because he kind of wanted Potter to look at him.

“Yes, well,” he began wearily, “hair does that.”

Potter shrugged. “Grew rather fast, is all. Taking your dog out?”

Draco threw an exasperated look at Thuban, who, after all the hoopla over finally going to a public park, seemed completely content merely laying by Draco’s feet and watching the other occupants having a good time.

“He’s supposed to be socializing, but, it is what it is. Before your arrival, I was attempting to convince him that he may, in actuality, be related to a goose considering his obnoxious vocal cords, but I think he’s a little disheartened by the lack of a beak. And feathers.”

“And wings?” Potter offered, looking quite serious.

“Yes, he’s missing his wings.”

“I think he’s gorgeous, either way. He doesn’t need wings to be a great dog.”

“But he’s not a dog, he’s a goose.”

Potter smiled at him lopsidedly. “Well. Wings are overrated, anyway. Looks like he’ll have to be a goose who takes his dumps on the ground, like any polite animal would do, instead of in the air.”

Draco laughed faintly, but he wanted to cry.

“What’s his name?” Potter asked, sticking his hands in his pockets. It occurred to Draco that they were just standing, talking, and that there were vacant benches nearby. But he wasn’t sure he had the courage to ask Potter to sit down with him.

“Thuban,” Draco said belatedly.

“That’s an interesting name,” Potter commented, but just like their first reunion, he didn’t seem to be judging, merely curious. Genuine.

“It’s a star in the Draco constellation,” Draco admitted awkwardly.

Potter’s smile was brilliant. “I think that’s fantastic, that you did that. If only my name weren’t Harry.” He sighed dramatically.

Draco smirked. “I’m sure we can come up with a more creative one, should push come to shove. Nincompoop, perhaps?”

Potter nodded sagely. “Should that day come, I’ll definitely owl you, Malfoy.”

“See that you do,” Draco sniffed. “Can’t have you naming another person James, after all.” Potter glanced at him, and, realing how that might have sounded, he quickly added, “I mean. What if you have another son? Some random name wouldn’t be nearly as special as your father’s, after all, and you can’t name him Lily, now can you? Well, I suppose you could. He’d definitely have a unique name, then. Unless, you would change the form? Lilian? Lilium?”

Potter shook his head, but he was smiling. “Why are we discussing baby names, again?”

Draco’s heart pounded. “You were complaining about your name, in your usual woebegone manner.”

“Usual?” Potter asked, mock-affronted.

“Even though Harry is a perfectly fine name, Potter.”

Harry smiled at him in that lopsided manner again. “I’m glad you think so.”

Fuck. Why was he so charming?

“So why are you here, anyway?” Draco asked, quick to change the subject. He was married, for Christ’s sake.

Potter pointed in some general direction. “James. He’s playing with a few of his friends from preschool. Many of which, actually, are named Harry.”

Draco put a pensive expression on his face. “How peculiar.”

“Indeed.”

“No offense, but I wouldn’t name any of my children Harry.”

Potter snorted. “Neither would I.”

“Well, there’s one thing we agree on. But, just to be clear; if you had a daughter, would you name her Lily? Or would it just depend on which child comes next, male or female?”

Potter looked amused. “Why does it concern you so much?”

“Maybe I’ll place a few bets with my friends.”

“You have friends?” Potter asked, grinning.

“Eat shit, Potter.”

“Such colorful language.”

“Answer the damn question.”

Potter laughed again. “Well, since you’re so curious, I suppose I would want to name my daughter Lily, if we had one. But, of course, it depends on what Ginny thinks, as it would be her child, too. And then there’s the fact that we haven’t talked about having more kids, so it’s not really worth thinking about just yet.”

“But you want more?”

“I don’t know. I’ve always imagined myself with a large family, but I don’t think we have time for it at the moment. Ginny’s always working-”

“What does she do?” Draco probed. “Pardon me for interrupting.”

Potter waved it off. “She’s Seeker for the Holyhead Harpies. She’s always off playing some game across England, which is fine and all, and I’ll support her no matter what, but James is only three, you know?”

“You feel she’s not being as present as she should be?” Draco asked, and he didn’t have to try very hard at all to have the question coming out the way Potter’s did. Non-judgemental, and genuine.

Potter glanced at him, and for a second he though Potter would brush him off, but then the Gryffindor turned thoughtful. “I feel like she’s missing out,” he corrected. “My break from the Aurors will end soon, so I won’t be able to stay home with James all day. We’ll have to call in a nanny for him then, and already I miss him. I’m know her career is important to her, and we already discussed that it wouldn’t fall on her to become a stay-at-home mom or anything—just like I don’t fancy being a stay-at-home dad just yet—but I don’t think it would be as bad as she thinks it would be. I don’t want her to stop following her dreams,” Potter assured, “but I wish she would take a break to just be with him. I don’t want her to come home one day and find a stranger in her home.”

“Fuck,” Draco said quietly, “I’m sorry, that was a terribly invasive question.”

Potter shrugged, not denying it, but not seeming too bothered. “You’ve been honest with me. I’m just returning the favor.”

“Well, you don’t have to,” Draco mumbled, uncomfortable. “Next time I ignorantly step on a landmine like that, kindly tell me to fuck off, yeah?”

Potter laughed. “It’s really not any information I mind sharing. Landmine?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Muggles and their euphemisms. Oh, look, here comes James.”

And come he did. As soon as he was within range, the child tackled a startled Thuban, who barely staggered up before James was clambering on his back as one would a horse.

“Go, horsey, go!” James cheered, giggling as he slapped Thuban’s side in an attempt to persuade the dog to run.

Draco just smiled, but he noticed Thuban begin to shake.

“Thuban,” Draco murmured, crouching down before the petrified animal. “Thuban, he’s only playing,” Draco continued, using soothing, musical tones he hadn’t even known he could make anymore. But, almost entirely, the rasp from his voice was gone, replaced by sounds not unlike birdsong as Draco cooed to his dog. “Can you look at me, love?”

Thuban did, quickly, look at Draco. His ears drooped, his tail tucked, and he began to tremble violently.

“Oh, boy,” Draco sighed.

“Malfoy?” Potter asked gently.

Draco waved him off, then turned to James, who was watching him attentively. Good boy. “James, I’m going to need you to hop off, alright? Thuban’s a little spooked.” He held out a hand for the boy who, rather maturely, nodded his head.

James took Draco’s hand, and the blond helped the boy slide off.

“What’s spooked Thoob’n?” James asked sweetly. “I’ll p-otect him,” he assured.

Draco smiled at him. “Sweet boy,” he complimented, and James smiled. “He’s just a big baby, really,” he said, then turned to his trembling, crying dog. “Do you need to be comforted?” he asked the dog.

Thuban shook harder, looking at Draco with droopy, sad, puppy eyes.

“Merlin, just look at the theatrics,” Draco teased, but leaned forward and cradled Thuban more gently than anything he had, ever, in his life. He hoisted the dog up, despite the strain on his arms, and laughed when Thuban tucked his wet, sniveling nose into the crook of Draco’s neck.

I need to protect him, Draco felt, more than he thought, and then, as if by mere willpower alone, Thuban felt lighter.

James, as if jealous, made grabby-hands at Potter, who snorted but scooped him up, anyway.

“Well, look at you,” Potter ribbed. “Practically a parent already.”

Draco laughed.

Chapter Text

“Well,” the Healer said with a smile, stepping away from Draco and finally allowing the blond to pull his shirt down once more. “Everything looks fine. You should expect to lay within the week.”

Narcissa clutched Draco’s hand tightly, proud tears prickling at her eyes.

Draco rolled his eyes at her, but inwardly, he felt a similar sense of elatedness. He was healthy now. There should be no complications. Everything was fine.

Everything was fine, and wasn’t that in itself worth celebration?

“That being said,” the Healer continued, “there is a slight procedure-”

Draco waved a hand flippantly. “I already read the books,” he assured.

“Of course,” the Healer agreed, “but let’s just run things through once more, alright?”

Draco sighed, but nodded. Part of him wanted to defend himself, to assure the man that he knew what he was talking about, but he still didn’t feel comfortable around most people yet. His mother, sure. Thuban, definitely. But even with Pansy, with Astoria, he was faintly uncomfortable.

And then there was Potter, with whom Draco forgot to feel discomfited by.

“Much of the specifics depend on what kind of bird your veela takes after,” the Healer began, “and I’m no veela Healer by any means, but there are some similarities between clutches for us to go off of until you find a Healer more suited for your needs.”

Draco shrugged noncommittally. He didn’t like the thought of opening himself up to another Healer about himself, about his history, and his genetics. He supposed he might need to eventually—might even want to, further down the line, when he was more confident—but until it was imperative, he would continue to push it off. For now.

“Now,” the Healer continued, “there should be no blood, but considering this is your first oviparity, lubricant would be a wise choice. If there is blood, however, I wouldn’t be concerned unless there are copious amounts of it, in which you should contact me immediately. Have you found a spot in which you would like to lay?”

Draco nodded.

“He’s been nesting,” Narcissa whispered, sending Draco a conspiratory wink.

Draco flushed in mortification.

The Healer laughed politely. “That’s fantastic!. Your egg has, of course, not been fertilized, so it will not hatch. However, you may still instinctively desire to incubate it. This is normal, and is sometimes accompanied by bouts of depression, as if it were stillborn. Your egg is most definitely not stillborn, Mr Malfoy, merely-”

“Unfertilized, yes, I understand,” Draco assured.

The Healer nodded calmly, but his eyes didn’t lose their sincerity. “Should the depression lead to suicidal thoughts, or any decline in health whatsoever, contact me immediately.”

Draco nodded again, but his stomach gave a little twist at the thought of having suicidal thoughts and depression once more.

But he was stronger now.

“Now, oviposition, while not childbirth, is not all rainbows and roses, Mr Malfoy. Physically, your hips have changed, of course, but they are still quite male, and still viable to being stretched further while you lay. If you experience any tremendous pain, contact me immediately.”

“What if it were fertilized?” Narcissa asked.

“Mother,” Draco hissed at her, flushing again.

The Healer smiled at her patiently. “No, no, this is good. It’s good to have questions. What about fertilization?”

“If it had been fertilized,” Narcissa repeated, “would any of this change?”

“Assuredly,” the Healer nodded, eyebrows furrowing. “The egg would be much larger, and it would form to near maturity inside of Mr Malfoy. He would likely need a cesarean section to remove the egg, as it would have an infant inside of it, and therefore would be much larger—not to mention, much less pliable—than a normal baby.”

Draco was admittedly interested. “And it would hatch? The child?”

The Healer made a so-so motion with his hand, rocking back on his heels and leaning against his desk opposite the examination table Draco was currently seated on.

“Hatch is a tad too avian of a term, I would say, but in a sense, yes. See, the zygote, embryo, and fetus formation would all happen in correlation with regular pregnancy. However, during the later stages, the shell would begin to form around the placenta, cutting off connection from the umbilical cord. This is around when the c-section would need to take place, because most of the shell is primarily composed of calcium carbonate, which much of comes from the hen's bones—or in this case, your bones. That being said, a diet low in calcium will produce thin-shelled eggs and poor bone quality in the child. Your body isn’t designed to hold the egg for much longer after the shell-forming stage, or you’ll quickly become calcium depleted, increasing susceptibility to the development of multiple bone fractures.”

“Fantastic,” Draco said faintly. “No, not really. That sounds terrifying.”

The Healer laughed. “That was me showing off my knowledge of veela birth, I’ll concede, so I apologize for getting too technical and making this sound more scary than it actually is. For all you really need to know, a fertilized birth would consist of a c-section, an incubation period of a few days to a month—again, depending on which bird your veela takes after—assisted by your magic, and then the ‘hatching’, as you called it. However, in most cases, the child cries for you to break their shells, instead. Unlike in normal childbirth, veela chicks who wake in shells feel like just that—waking from sleep, as there is no abrupt thrust into this world, but your magic slowly, gradually adjusting their lungs, and their stomachs, and all of those important functions. Most cry from shock and confusion when they first awake, but it has been recorded that a few woke without a fuss, and proceeded to break their shells on their own.”

“And they’re born just like that?” Narcissa breathed, and Draco knew from her face, from her voice, that she wanted that. She wanted one.

With one fell swoop in his stomach, Draco sort of, kind of, very much wanted one too.

He placed a hand over his abdomen, and thankfully, the Healer was too busy addressing his mother to notice.

“Brilliant, isn’t it?” The Healer smiled broadly. “Some have even been recorded to be born mid-transformation between their more avian counterpart, but as soon as they see their parents, other human-looking creatures, they adjust. Just like that.”

“Can that happen to adult veela as well?” Draco blurted. “I may have felt that, that abrupt adjusting you’re talking about.”

The Healer nodded. “Go on,” he prompted gently.

“Upon your recommendation, I started yoga with a couple of my friends-”

“Wonderful,” the Healer commended.

Draco brushed off the compliment with practiced ease. “I was doing some stretches, and it felt odd—kind of painful, actually. I’ve never really been very flexible, to be honest, but I could see the instructor bending this way, and Astoria—my friend— bending the same way from the corner of my eye, and then suddenly I could, as well. I’m not explaining it well, but does that make sense?”

The Healer nodded. “That makes perfect sense, Mr Malfoy. One of your many veela gifts, you should be pleased to know, is to adjust to your surroundings almost instantaneously. For some veela, I’ve read, it can be altering their appearance, or scent, or even their voice.”

Realization dawned on him. “I might be able to do that as well? Or maybe it’s just a bird thing?”

The Healer gave him a patient smile, and Draco continued.

“I was singing to Thuban—my, er, dog—and my voice sounded very... smooth. As though I hadn’t been smoking like a chimney for the majority of seven years.”

The Healer nodded. “It could very likely be either.” And then, his expression softened. “You can heal your vocal cords, you know. Maybe not completely, but we have potions for that.”

Draco swallowed.

Part of him wanted to keep it, to remind himself. He wanted to remember, every time he spoke, of what he had almost become.

But another part of him wanted to move on.

Draco felt a sharp intake of breath, because it was true.

He wasn’t focussing on before, during, and after the War, but on Tomorrow, on his egg, on Thuban, on Mother, and Astoria, and Pansy.

He wanted to move on.

Draco nodded silently, and if his lip wobbled a bit, the Healer politely took note of his request on his noteboard, and Narcissa offered silent support by placing a hand on his shoulder.

And he let her. Because he wanted it.

“Erm, hello,” Draco greeted Blaise Zabini.

Blaise raised an eyebrow a the shy Draco waving at him awkwardly.

“What’s up with him?” he asked Pansy, who was standing nearby, watching with amusement.

“He just got weird,” Pansy said simply, and Draco scowled at her, but Blaise just shrugged at them both, apparently appeased by their familiar antics, and that was... that was amazing. That was just what Draco wanted, really. To be treated normally.

And when Theodore Nott showed up for Pansy’s impromptu party, and Greg, and Zacharias Smith, well, they didn’t pay him much mind either, be it out of some annoyance with him for ‘ignoring’ them for so long, or plain disinterest. And when Longbottom and Lovegood showed up, and bloody Padma and Parvati Patil, well, Draco managed to throttle his anxiety enough to say his polite, stinted hellos before grabbing a glass of lemonade and chugging. It wasn’t exactly a firewhiskey, but Draco wasn’t going down that road again.

But, the tipsier they all got, the easier it was for him, and after an hour to two of fluttering about, Draco was even comfortable enough to plant himself next to Pansy, despite her being the life of the party, because no one was paying him any mind, besides the odd, genuine question thrown his way.

To say Draco was surprised he hadn’t met any aggression would be an understatement, but the longer he spent with the group, the more he realized how adult they were. They’d all grown up without him, and part of Draco felt blessed to even witness it, while a smaller, more selfish part of him wished they had waited. How had they all learned to act like a responsible adults? They could have learned together, but instead, it was... just him. Instead, he had done it all wrong, fucked it up, and was ever so slowly healing and relearning.

Had none of them gone through the same thing? Had none of them hurt as keenly as he did? Been as lost, and as hopeless, and as weak as he had been?

Of course they had, part of him reasoned. They just knew how to deal with it in a way that was productive. Or, he conceded, in a way that wasn’t quite so difficult and/or timely to recuperate from.

Everyone dealt with the War differently.

“So what did you even do?” Zach inquired from around the rim of his glass.

Draco blinked at him, startled. “Excuse me?” His heart pounded. This was it. Someone was going to ask him about the War. About how much of Potter’s testimony at his trials were true, and how much was-

“In America,” Zach clarified. “You lived there for years, didn’t you? What did you do there?”

Draco felt his shoulders retreat from where they’d been around his ears, and took a deep breath in, and an even deeper breath out.

Calm your tits, Draco, he was just asking about your scintillating life in the Americas, he assured himself dryly.

He also noted that he needed to stop talking to himself.

At least he wasn’t doing so aloud.

“Well?” Zack probed.

“Baseball,” Draco blurted, which was utter rubbish, but it was better than killing myself slowly.

“Baseball,” Zach repeated, blinking blearily back at him. “The fuck is that?”

“A muggle sport.” Draco snorted. “It’s no Quidditch, but it’s alright, I suppose.”

“Isn’t that that game where they hit balls with sticks?” Blaise asked, leaning over Draco drunkenly to peer into his face. “Sounds kind of gay,” he said in a stage whisper, before erupting into a fit of giggles.

“You’re kind of gay,” Pansy dismissed easily, and from what Draco had picked up from around the room, Blaise was bi and with plenty of conquests to prove it, so he supposed Pansy’s comment was truthful enough. “Tell us, Draco,” she then addressed. “How do we play this ‘Base Ball’ game?”

Draco thought on it. “You hit balls with bats. You catch them, you throw them—the baseballs , not the bats, Christ. If you catch the ball before the person who hit it gets to the base—the base is like a safe zone—then you get to smack them with your glove—they make your hands larger so it’s easier to catch the ball—and tag them out. If you don’t get to them in time, then they, uh, run around the diamond, I suppose.”

Pansy snapped up in her chair. “Diamond?” she asked, sounding rather breathless. “And this is played by muggles, you say?”

“I like the idea of smacking people with my large hands,” Parvati declared, looking at said hands with avid interest, as if seeing them for the first time.

“I hate running,” Padma argued.

“But you get to hit people with large hands, balls, and bats,” Greg said.

“You don’t hit people with the bats,” Draco cut in quickly.

“Large hands and baseballs,” Greg amended.

“You’re not supposed to hit people with the baseballs, either,” Draco said.

Zack squinted at him. “So what is the point of the game, exactly, if not to hit people?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Like in Quidditch, you uncultured trolls ,” he snapped, “the goal is to get as many points as you can. Only it’s harder than Quidditch, because you can’t rely on your fast broom, only your weak, human legs, and hitting moving balls with bats is also difficult, and so is catching them, and throwing them with any sort of accuracy,” he huffed.

The others stared at him.

“You know,” Pansy said after a second, “you almost sounded like the old Draco, just now.”

“I’m still me,” Draco said, and Blaise lifted his drink in a silent toast to that.

Zack seemed to have ignored them all completely. “How bloody hard can it be to hit a ball with a stick?” he sneered.

“Bat,” Neville corrected.

“If it’s anything like your aim in the bedroom, Smith, much more difficult for you than you’d think,” Blaise sniped with a shit eating grin.

Zach gaped, and Pansy looked on in clear interest.

“You two-?”

“No,” Zach denied vehemently, “ no , we did not . I’m not bloody gay-”

“Cute, nor am I,” Blaise replied.

“So how does he know?” Pansy pressed, like a dog with a bone.

“I didn’t.” Blaise snickered. “Not until he made that face, anyway.”

“You’re such an piece of shit!” Zacharias snarled, but he was too tipsy to do much more than wave his arm furiously.

Blaise raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “I’m offended?” he asked more than answered.

“I challenge you!” Zack slurred. “To a game of Bats and Balls, then!”

“Baseball,” Neville corrected.

“You’re on,” Blaise replied, eyes sparkling with challenge.

“Next weekend? We’ll meet up at the Manor around, say, twelve, and we’ll all apparate from there?” Draco offered hesitantly, half anxious, half excited by the thought. It would be absolutely amusing watching his old friends attempt to do something as common as hit a ball with a bat without getting hit with it, or losing their grip, or hitting someone else with it-

On second thought, maybe this wasn’t such a safe idea.

“It’s a date then,” Blaise agreed, and the rest of the party gave a single, drunken whoop before moving on to another topic with their tapering attention spans.

Draco, sipping on his drink, smiled to himself.

Luna, who sat opposite him, smiled back.

“I can’t believe you didn’t invite me!” Astoria whinged. “Does no one ever remember to invite me to parties? I’m married, not incarcerated!”

Draco smiled sheepishly. “Sorry? Come over for tea, and I’ll make it up to you,” he promised. “I can show you the garden! There are these lovely flower vines which I’m sure will like you as much as they do me. I think they have a thing for blue eyes, and get rather handsy.”

Astoria smiled. “Assuring me I’ll be groped by plants? I’ll be right over.”

“You’re not actually following me, are you?” Draco asked as he sat on the bench next to none other than Potter, who blinked at him in surprise.

“What?” he asked. “No, James just likes this park.” Then, Potter frowned a bit. “And I was here first.”

Draco smirked. “I was, actually. I was over there,” he waved in the general direction, “when I saw you two walk over.”

Potter raised an eyebrow, but he was smirking as well. “Watching us, were you? And you said I was following you ? Besides, that’s not what I meant. I was here first, as in, we’ve been going to this park longer than you have.”

Draco sniffed and raised his nose. “Yes, well. You’re clearly obsessed with me.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Ah, that must be it. Speaking of obsessed—since you’ve yet to use the L word to describe it—where's your dog?”

Draco reclined against the bench dramatically, wiping an invisible tear from his eye. “Off playing with the other crups. Can you believe it?”

“They grow up so fast,” Potter agreed facetiously. Then, he sighed.

Draco peered at him. “Something on your mind, Potter?”

Potter shrugged and crossed him arms, reclining against the bench as well. Of course, he looked more like he was slouching than Draco did.

“I’m gonna have to head back to work soon,” Potter said, hiking up one shoulder in another little shrug. “We need to find someone to watch James, is all, but it’s tough finding people to trust with that responsibility, with me being me and all.”

“Yes, with you being you. No Nanny will ever surpass you in parenting skills. Even I would be hesitant to try and compete with you, and we both know that I almost always beat you at everything.”

Potter snorted. “I meant because I’m Harry Potter, not because I’m a good dad, and even then, I’m not perfect, Malfoy.”

“I know that, Potter, and I know what you meant,” Draco said flippantly. “I just wanted a chance to boast my superiority.”

“Naturally,” Potter drawled, with a smile.

Then, Draco nudged him a bit with his elbow, because they sat that close. “Granger can’t watch him? You’re still friends with her, yeah?”

Potter sighed again. “She’s working a lot, and so is Ron—he’s my Auror partner, and her marital one. I could ask them occasionally, I’m sure, but not full-time, and not all the time.”

“Just hold auditions,” Draco suggested.

Potter groaned pitifully. “That could take years,” he grumbled.

“By then, James will be old enough to take care of himself,” Draco chirped. “Seems like a solid plan to me.”

Potter turned to look at him with a mixture of disbelief and amusement. “You do actually know that you’re being utterly useless, right?”

Draco smiled at him cheekily.

Potter shook his head. “I’ll figure something out,” he said.

“How long do you have?” Draco asked.

“A week,” Potter mumbled, and judging by the way he ducked his head, he was expecting Draco’s incredulous squawk.

“ What ? You’re an idiot ,” Draco hissed.

“I know,” Potter said miserably, peeking through his fingers at the blond. “To be fair, Ginny isn’t helping, and I’d rather, you know, spoil James than plan ways to get rid of him.”

Draco reared up, ready to go off again, before deflating. “You do actually know how utterly useless you are, right?”

Potter smiled at him charmingly, and Draco fought the genuine desire to swoon. That couldn’t be good.

“I suppose I could watch James for a bit?” Draco offered. “Until you find a replacement?”

Potter’s eyes widened and he sat up straight. “Oh, no, Christ, I couldn’t ask that of you.”

Draco forced a shrug, preparing himself for an awkward rejection. “I’m not currently working because of a, um, health thing, and it would only be for a week or so, yeah? Less, even, if you get lucky and find someone who knocks your socks off,” Draco tried.

Potter, much to Draco’s surprise, seemed to be considering it.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I might just take you up on that. Or, what about Thuban?”

Draco shook his head. “He’s potty trained. All Mother needs to do is leave a door open, and he should be able to keep himself amused for the rest of the time.”

“What about your health thing?” Potter asked, and with the way he tilted his head, and the way his eyes sparkled, it sounded as though he were asking after Draco’s health because he genuinely cared, and not because it might interfere with Draco working.

Draco couldn't resist his smile. “Worried about me, Potter?”

“My obsession’s rearing it’s ugly head again, what can I say?”

Draco’s smile widened. “It shouldn’t be an issue, but if it is, I won’t hesitate to make a big deal out of it and tell you.”

“Good.” Potter smirked. “Then, you’re temporarily hired, I guess. Though I suppose I should run it by Hermione, first. She’s usually the one who handles all this stuff because I’m-”

“Useless?” Draco offered.

“I was going to say trusting, but that works too.” Potter looked out at the field. “Oh, well, would you look at that.”

Thuban streaked by, tail wagging with ecstasy, as James screamed with delight, holding on for dear life.

Draco sighed. “He’ll stop running in approximately fifty-seven minutes. We can catch them then.”

Potter raised a challenging eyebrow at him. “Why, Malfoy, where’s your sense of adventure?”

And then Potter took off running, and Draco gaped after him.

“What are you, five?” Draco yelled after him. “Grow up, Potter!” But he was grinning as well.

Draco awkwardly fiddled his thumbs.

“Well,” Granger cleared her throat, “Harry seems to think highly of you.”

Draco shrugged awkwardly. Weasley and Potter had both gone somewhere else in the Granger-Weasley abode, leaving Granger to drill Draco about his qualifications for the job. It had seemed like a good idea at the park, but in actuality, Draco realized how daft he must seem. They were barely friends, and here he was, volunteering to watch Potter’s kid?

Obsession rearing it’s ugly head again, indeed.

“Look,” Granger sighed, and she sounded taxed to be having the mere conversation. “It’s been awhile since school. You’ve obviously changed, and while I don’t know you enough to trust you with anything, let alone someone as important as James, Harry trusts you. Considering he actually sat Ron and me down to ensure we treated you like his friend , not his boyhood enemy, I’m willing to trust his decision. He knows what’s best for his son, after all.”

Draco blinked at her. “Thank you, I suppose.”

“It’s not for you,” she assured, her eyes narrowed, “it’s for Harry.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, thank you for trusting Potter. He seems to be under the impression that his decisions are no good unless they’re passed by you first, so it’s refreshing to know that you don’t actually find him incompetent.”

Oh, yes, he could still sting, judging by her wince.

“I apologize,” she amended quietly, “that may have sounded rude, but that wasn’t my intention.”

Draco shrugged, still peeved with her, because, “I apologize as well, for hurting your feelings, I suppose, but I won’t take back what I said, as it’s true. Also, you really don’t need to apologize to me. Like, ever. I’ve done too much shite to you and your loved ones, for one-”

She opened her mouth, and he could tell by her expression that she was going to spout some nonsense about water under the bridge, or some other such rot, so he powered on.

“-And for another, your opinion doesn’t really matter to me.”

At this, Granger rolled her eyes, but she did, thankfully, shut her mouth.

“The female Weasley, however, I presume will want a word with me as well before trusting me with her sole offspring?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow as he knew for a fact that Ginevra was not even in the house.

Granger shifted in her seat. “She’s off with her Quidditch team at the moment, but she also trusts Harry’s judgment.”

Draco sent her a dry look.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Draco rolled his eyes again to cover his inner anxiety. Should he say something? He hadn’t the nerve to say anything to Potter’s face, but to Granger, he could probably get away with saying something, right? If she told Potter, and Potter confronted him about it, Draco could say he was just taking the piss to rile Granger up, because he was just an arsehole like that.

“She seems rather absent, is all,” Draco said innocently.

“Yes, well,” Granger sniffed. Then, she sent him an indecipherable look of her own before leaning forward a bit, a conspiratorial glint in her bright eyes.

“What is it you want to tell me?” Draco asked bluntly.

“I agree,” Granger said simply. “Ginny’s very absent, not only to poor James—that boy is a blessing, and she doesn’t even realize—but also to Harry. Of course, he would never speak against his wife, and she’s Ron’s sister, so he’ll always take her side, but you and I both know that their marriage is less than ideal.”

“Then why did they marry in the first place?”

“People dealt with the war in different ways,” Granger said, and Draco felt his throat tighten. “Harry especially, was taught early on that happiness doesn’t last—carpe diem, and all of that nonsense, because for a time, there was a definite possibility that they wouldn’t live to see tomorrow. They married right after school, because they wanted to experience it. But they’ve changed—they’re different people from the kids they once were.”

“Granger, why are you telling me this?” Draco asked skeptically.

Granger sighed. “Harry hasn’t seen you since school, right? Well, he seems to revert to his obnoxious, mullish, loveable old self when he’s around you, and I think that’s a good thing—that you’re a good thing for him. And if you watch James for him, you’ll also be giving him the space I think he needs to compose himself, so he and Ginny can talk out whatever it is that’s holding them back from loving like they once had. Without being there for James himself, Harry’s bound to ask Ginny about it sometime.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“I’ll interfere.”

“Naturally. And why is it you think I’ll help you with your little scheme?”

“You offered to watch James anyway,” Granger said reasonably. “So unless you were planning to break Harry and Ginny up, I really don’t see how you could ruin this for me. You aren’t going to break them up, are you?” Granger’s eyes were predatory.

Draco raised his nose. “I’m not a homewrecker, Granger. Honestly.”

Granger abruptly laughed. “I didn’t mean you get with Harry to break them up, I meant that you would find Harry or Ginny someone else to date.”

Draco squinted at her. “Why did you just assume that, if I were a homewrecker, I would get with Potter?”

Granger stared at him candidly. “You two have always had a thing for each other. Seemed more likely.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” But his heart was already racing. She could tell? How? Was he being obvious? Was she even talking about a romantic thing between them? And if so, was it between them , or between Draco and an unrequited Potter? Did it matter? The git was married!

But apparently there was some turbulence on their ship.

But he just promised not to break them apart.

Not that he could, even if he wanted to, because Potter didn’t think of him that way.

But Granger just wanted them to be happy, yeah?

As long as they were happy, no matter their decision...

He felt he should clarify that with her. “You just want the two of them to be happy,” Draco said.

Granger smiled genuinely. “Exactly. See, Malfoy, I’m actually a rather caring person, when you get to know me. I care about my friends. I’m only being so-”

“Manipulative?” he offered, and she swatted at him, but to his horror and pride, and it was playful.

“I’m only being so nosy in their affairs because, yes, I want them both to be happy.”

Draco pursed his lips, then nodded. “Okay. Fine. I agree. I’ll make sure to be a superb nanny so Potter can pull his head from his arse and decide what he will about his relationship with his wife.”

Granger’s slight smile was infectious.

Chapter Text

Draco had originally been a tad anxious about spending the day alone with James, because as much as he liked the boy, they hadn’t really spent any time alone together.

It seemed, his fears were for naught.

For one, James laughed at nearly everything Draco did, and for another, the boy seemed rather adept at finding things to do. Draco wasn’t sure if that was testament to how often the boy was left alone to entertain himself, or if he was naturally so action-oriented.

After a couple hours of chasing the little troll around outside, uprooting the couch cushions and chairs to make a pseudo-ship to play pirates, and letting the boy play with his hair—and make an utter mess of it in an attempt to interweave the flowers they had picked from outside, but it was the thought that counted—Draco was ready for a break.

“How about we make some cookies?” Draco suggested. “Oh, wait, are you allergic to anything? Are there things you aren’t supposed to eat?”

When James merely grinned at him, Draco threw his hands into the hair and let out a dramatic sigh.

He dropped to all-fours and crawled to the living room, where he made his way towards the floo, James crawling behind him and giggling the whole way.

Scooping his half-braided, half-curled, half-flowered hair from his face, Draco flooed the Weasleys, as they were listed as the first contact should Draco have any questions.

Molly Weasley picked up, and she was visibly startled to see Draco peering back at her.

“I apologize for the abrupt call,” Draco quickly cut in before she could say anything, “but I was wondering whether James had any allergies, or things he can’t eat?”

Mrs Weasley blinked at him for a moment before stuttering, “I—Um—No, I don’t believe so.”

Draco nodded. “Thank you, Mrs Weasley, I was worried-”

“What about Day-co?” James cut in, sticking his unruly head of hair into the hearth beneath Draco’s arms.

“Draco,” the blond corrected.

“Dwayco,” James tried.

“Dray,” Draco tried.

“Do-ray-co,” James enunciated.

Draco grinned down at him. “Perfect, but what do you mean?”

“Are you al-er-jick?”

“I don’t eat animal products,” Draco said simply, “but the cookies are for you, kiddo, not me. I’ve to watch my figure, you know.”

When James looked ready to throw a tantrum, Draco sent the other women a harried look.

“Again, I apologize for the floo out of the blue, but thanks so much for your information. Say bye-bye, James.”

“Buh-bye,” the boy called sulkily before removing himself from the floo to stomp off. It seemed Draco’s theatrics were rubbing off on the little tyke.

“Do you know any other recipes?” Molly asked.

Draco blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Any recipes that don’t need animal products. Substitutes, I mean. Do you know the substitutes.”

Draco stared at her blankly. “The most I’ve made successfully is an omelet, back when I was thirteen, but I figured a cookbook is similar enough to a potions book?”

Molly shook her head, smiling a little. “Well I’ve been cooking since I was ten years old, dear, and I know just the recipe you’re looking for. Open up the floo, I’ll come over and help you.”

Draco gulped, but nodded quickly. “O-of course,” he stuttered, nervous and uncomfortable and wringing his hands, because this was Molly Weasley, and she’d lost one of her sons, and surely she was only coming over to ensure her grandson’s safety.

But she was cordial to him, and when he activated the mixer and was promptly assaulted by a plume of flour, she laughed, and it was a deep bellow, and James couldn’t have been having a better time if he’d tried.

And when it came to the dough, Molly was the one who suggested they cut the cookies into special shapes instead of mere circles, and cut they did. From butterflies, to fish, to stars, and to hearts. Molly cut a few kneazle-heads, and upon James’ command, Draco cut a little crup head for Thuban. With the remaining dough, Draco cut out a little dragon.

Molly looked at it, and with a soft smile, she helped him make it more intricate, with frills, and scale-indents, and a sharp little black eye.

“Oooh! Can I have it?” James asked, making grabby hands at the dragon.

Draco made a face, sneering, “No, it’s for me. How presumptuous of you. But, since you’ve been such a good boy today, I suppose you can have it.”

James cheered.

Into the oven the cookies went, and the mother volunteered to clean (undoubtedly to give the boys more time together). Draco felt ten years old again as they sneakily returned to nick some dough from the spatulas, and when Mrs Weasley shooed them off with an exasperated but fond smile, Draco couldn't have been having a better time if he’d tried.

They read for a bit, and after James’ nearly illiterate attempts, Draco gratefully took over when the boy asked, and finished the tale about the princess saving the dragon from the mean knight with seconds to spare before Molly called and told them the cookies were done.

They were eating and listening to James retell a story about his preschool classmates when Potter flooed home.

If he was shocked to see Molly, he didn’t so much as blink before walking over and kissing both her and James on the cheek.

“Afternoon,” he greeted, then turned to Draco with a smile. “The house hasn’t burned down,” he noted.

“Only because Mrs Weasley taught me not only how to properly use an oven, but how not to dismember myself with a knife.”

Molly laughed and swatted at the blond with a kitchen towel. “Oh shush, you. You would have been fine on your own.”

Draco eyed her dubiously, but didn’t dare argue in fear of another swatting.

Potter sniggered at this. “I see you got into the flowerbed as well.”

Draco frowned, confused, until James, ever the good friend, raised his eyebrows exaggeratedly and gestured towards his own head.

“James wanted to play with my hair,” Draco admitted with a shrug. “Simply to accentuate my dirt-like quality, I’m sure.”

Potter laughed again.

“Daddy!” James cut in, holding up the dragon cookie. “Look what Do-raco made!”

Potter looked at the treat, impressed. “Looks good. Is it for me?” he asked.

James made a face, holding the cookie to his chest. “S’for me! How p-re-sum-chous of you,” he sneered, and Draco couldn’t hold back his guffaw.

They looked at him, startled, but Draco couldn’t help the serious of laughter bubbling up his throat, because this was too much. After near minutes of his sniggering, Draco crumpled to the floor, eyes watering, because he couldn’t stop laughing. “P-p-presumptuous,” he wheezed, clutching at his stomach as he slid to his knees. “I-I-I can’t- ” Presumptuous. James had called Potter presumptuous. Struggling to breathe now, Draco managed to get himself under control, but the trembling remained as his stomach spasmodically convulsed in more, silent titters.

Potter was looking at him with wide eyes and disbelieving smile on his face.

James just had the startled, wide eyes, and Molly just had a smile.

“I’m sorry,” Draco managed eventually, breathless, pulling himself to his feet. “I’m just-” He wiped a tear from his eye, still smiling with mirth. “He’s learning so well, I’m just proud.”

James preened, and Potter smiled wider.

Things had been going well.

Too well.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Ginevra seethed. “In my home? With my child ?”

“Ginny,” Granger began, because this had been meant as welcoming party. People were staring. Potter was staring.

“I was told you knew,” Draco said nervously, softly.

“Of course I didn’t fucking know!” she screeched. “I would have never allowed someone like you -”

“Gin,” Potter said, and his voice was firm, and warning, and Draco’s pulse fluttered.

Ginevra turned to sneer at him. “And you ! You didn’t bloody tell me -”

“I owled-”

“You know I never check my owls when I’m on the job!”

“I thought she was always on the job,” Draco whispered to Granger, a tad too loudly. But that had been deliberate, because as much as he respected Potter and enjoyed James, Ginevra didn’t scare him.

Judging by the glint in Granger’s eyes when she replied, “Sort of,” she was thankful for his fearlessness.

“Shut up!” the Weaslette yelled. “I’m am not ! Hermione, how could you!”

“Ginny, to be fair...” Granger trailed off.

“We’ve even tried flooing, Gin,” Weasley piped in awkwardly. “You’re always busy.”

“And I trust him,” Potter said, after Ginevra’s gaping. “That should be enough.”

“ You ,” the redhead seethed, hair lashing out as she whipped around to pin her husband with seething eyes. “Why are you doing this to me? Why are you trying to hurt me, Harry? What have I-”

Potter blanched. “I what ? I’m not trying to hurt you, Gin, I just-”

She threw her hands in the air before stalking back towards the floo. “I can’t deal with you right now. I can’t deal with any of this.”

And then she was gone.

Draco sipped awkwardly at his tea, and Granger pat his knee sympathetically.

“Hey,” Potter called tiredly from the floo.

Draco smiled at him softly. “Hey. How are you?”

Potter blinked at him. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

Draco’s smile softened impossibly further. “Ginevra Weasley doesn’t scare me, Potter. You’re the one who just got told off by your wife. How are you holding up? I appreciate you standing up for me, by the way.”

Potter shook his head. “I’m fine. I...” He ran a hand down his face, and he looked exhausted. “Gin’s pissed, but it’s not your fault, and to be perfectly honest, it’s not mine. I did try to contact her, and yes, I acted without her explicit permission, but I wasn’t aware I needed it, and even if I did know she would be displeased, isn’t it my right to do what’s best for my kid? I trust you more than some stranger to watch James, and if she had calmly discussed it with us, she would, too. I apologize for how she handled the situation.”

Draco shrugged. “You don’t need to, really. Her opinion doesn’t matter to me, except in the case of me and James. He’s a good kid. I’d be upset if I couldn’t see him at all.”

Potter smiled wistfully. “Yeah. Yeah, I understand that feeling.”

Draco snorted. “You’re a sappy father, Potter. James will grow to detest that, if you keep it up.”

Potter smiled wider. “But he’s so cute when he’s upset!”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You’re hopeless, Potter. Hopeless.”

“Speaking of hopeless, Gin isn’t. See, Molly found out, and you seem to have charmed her, because she really went off on Ginny about how she treated you. She’s inviting you over to dinner on Sunday.”

Draco blanched. “She—what? And you want me to go ?”

“Of course,” Potter said seriously. “Why wouldn’t I want my wife and my friend to get along?”

“Over dinner ?” Draco whined. “That means at least an hour. At least an hour surrounded by weapon-esque cutlery, Potter.”

This time, it was Potter who rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a baby, you ponce. Everything will be fine.”

Except it wasn’t fine.

Dinner had been going surprisingly well, and Ginevra’s fury was kept to the occasional glare whenever he spoke, or drank, or lifted his fork—okay, the glare was constant, but she wasn’t voicing anything or calling him out, so he would take that as a win—but there was an uneasiness in his stomach. Said discomfiture wasn’t because Potter seemed to be keeping his distance as well (and if Ginny’s vice-like grip on his hand was anything to go by, it was her who didn’t want them near each other), but because of something else, despite what it looked like when Draco excused himself from the table not five minutes after Potter had done the same. Ginevra’s eyes were predatory as he left the dining room, but Draco had something much more imminent to deal with than Potter’s controlling wife.

“Shite,” Draco cursed, clutching at his midsection as his knees buckled and he slid down the wall. He’d been having stomach cramps all day, and though Draco had a growing suspicion what it was, he hadn’t expected it to impede him so much.

Draco had read as much as he could about Veela, using both the manor’s libraries and the Healer’s, but not much was known, considering veela were so secretive, and also because each one had characteristics of a different bird. Veela were diverse, and so were their needs, their diets, and their habitats.

But if he knew one thing, it was that this wouldn’t kill him. Veela laid eggs all the bloody time, dammit, and even if he felt like he was dying, he was relatively sure he was not, actually, in the throes of death.

Relatively.

With an irritated snarl, Draco forced himself up and onto his feet, only to hiss and fall back down. He felt a mixture of stabbing pain and constipation, both of which he had expected, but he didn’t quite know how to get rid of either. He wouldn’t be laying anytime soon, would he? He hadn’t made it through dinner yet, and this was one of the few events it was imperative of him to see through until the end.

And then he felt a sharp pulse, and he knew . This egg was coming now , whether he wanted it to or not.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Draco hissed, painfully hobbling his way out of the hall. He spotted two bathrooms, both in opposite directions, and both an equal distance from where he stood.

His instincts told him to go left—very strongly, in fact—and, assuming said instincts were choosing the safer option, he blindly followed.

When he pushed open the door and stumbled in, however, he felt his mouth drop open in horror.

Potter paused, wiping his hands, and looked over his shoulder at Draco in surprise.

Draco forced all expression from his face, and merely nodded.

Potter, awkwardly, smiled back. “Sorry about tonight. Gin needs my support right now-”

“Yes, yes, of course, it’s fine,” Draco cut him off.

Looking confused but nodding anyway, Potter began making his way towards the door Draco had just entered through.

Draco leaned against the wall, feigning indifference but really just needing the support as his knees threatened to buckle again.

Potter brushed passed him easily, and before he could stop himself, Draco’s inner veela forced him to do something , because Potter was leaving , and did he really want that?

Draco accidentally made a strangled noise.

Potter looked at him oddly, and Draco pretended he hadn’t made it, merely raising an eyebrow at Potter.

Potter, narrowing his eyes a bit, seemed to notice something was off.

“What are you doing, Malfoy?”

“Nothing,” Draco forced out, and the arms he had casually crossed over his chest fell down to cross over his stomach, which had a slight protrusion he felt the need to hide. Even if his new position made his shoulders hunched, he didn’t think Potter would notice his uncharacteristic posture. Imagine his surprise when it made Potter frown further.

“And you came in here to, what, lean against the wall?”

“I needed some time alone,” Draco said, and his voice sounded a bit too high even to himself. He grimaced the tiniest bit, and Potter, eyeing him like a hawk, took notice.

“Malfoy,” Potter warned, and Draco opened his mouth to reply something snide, something cutting that would send the nosy little bastard back where he came, but instead, all that came out was a surprised yelp as he felt another strong pulse, and he fell.

Potter, using the skill that made him the best seeker in Gryffindor, caught his arms before he tumbled, and slowly, slowly lowered Draco to the ground.

Potter looked concerned. “Malfoy?”

Draco’s breathing started coming in harsh pants, and his resolve wavered. Potter was Gryffindor, through and through. They weren’t enemies anymore, either, but friends, even Potter had said. Potter would keep his secret, wouldn’t he? Even with his wife breathing down his neck?

“Shite,” Draco hissed for the umpteenth time. “Okay, Potter, look,” he grunted, running a shaking hand through his glossy hair. “I need your word you won’t tell anyone.”

Potter’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “What-”

“Not a word ,” Draco hissed.

Potter worried his lip between his teeth for a moment, and Draco watched the action with no little intensity until Potter, with even more of a frown, stopped to speak. “Fine. What’s going on?”

“I’m laying an egg,” Draco blurted.

Potter nearly tumbled backwards, but managed to catch himself at the last second, balancing precariously on his toes as he squatted next to the blond. Draco felt the slightest bit of pride that when he squatted, his heels could touch the ground, but it was quickly replaced by more pain and a stronger, more insistent pulsing than before.

“You’re not joking,” Potter murmured, face pale. “You’re laying an egg?” he asked again, anyway.

“I’m a Veela,” Draco explained quickly. “They’re part bird. I’m not under a curse or anything, if that’s what you're— shit, fuck, that hurts ,” he hissed, and then, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“More the fact that you’re laying an egg,” Potter admitted, voice high with anxiety. “Should I- Should I get someone?”

“No!” Draco yelled, grabbing Potter’s shoulder roughly. “No! No one can know, no one can-”

“Yeah, okay, fine, but how are you going to do this?” Potter pressed. “How are you going to get it out?”

Draco stared at him incredulously. “From my cloaca.”

“Your what ?”

“My arse,” Draco amended.

“Your what ?” Potter repeated, voice bordering on hysterical. “You are not having an arse egg right now. No bloody way-”

“It’s not my arse, really, but my cloaca. It’s a birth thing, don’t think about it too much— fuuuuck ,” Draco breathed, forcing himself into a squat as well, but he raised his thighs and spread his legs, giving them both ample space, and Potter began to panic.

“Holy shit, this is really happening, you’re about to lay an egg, holy shit-”

“Potter,” Draco snapped, grabbing Potter by the face and forcing the wide-eyed Gryffindor to look him in the eye. “ I’m the one laying an egg. You should not be be more scared than I am, alright? I’ve never done this before, and it bloody hurts already, but my body was designed for this. I won’t die, so you can kindly untwist your knickers.”

Potter nodded slowly, but Draco wasn’t sure how much of it was him forcing Potter to nod, and how much was Potter actually listening to him.

“But,” Draco conceded, “this is my first time. I can’t promise I won’t scream or bleed or possibly shit, because I can’t really tell if the pressure is partially constipation, or just the egg. But I need you to bear with me, okay? I,” Draco hesitated, but his veela instincts were drowning him, flooding his senses with Potter and the need to nest and security. “I don’t think I can do this alone,” he admitted.

“Why me?” Potter whispered. “I can go grab Hermione, at least.”

“I’d say it was random,” Draco muttered to himself, shutting one eye in a grimace as he felt his cloaca expanding as something began to push. “But I think my veela knew you would help me, because it told me to go here- FUCK ,” Draco yelped, his legs trembling as he began to push. “Okay, okay, um, I’m going to vanish my pants beneath my robes, but, um, you can’t just let the egg fall, okay?”

Potter’s hands were moving frantically, hovering without touching and he stammered helplessly. “Catch it?” he asked faintly.

“I know this is gross and bizarre,” Draco said, “and the egg isn’t living, but I don’t want it to splatter over the floor, alright? Levitate it, if you think you can manage that,” Draco suggested, though by Potter’s nervous shaking, he doubted the other could even consider using magic.

“I—I,” Potter tried again, but Draco ignored him, vanishing his pants before dropping his wand, screwing his eyes shut, and gritting his teeth as he pushed harder. If his hands gripped Potter’s shoulders instead, Potter didn’t mention it.

When Draco began to whimper, Potter stopped his nervous noises and leaned forward, silently reaching beneath Draco’s long robes to hold his hands where he expected the egg would fall. He stayed silent, his breathing steady, and Draco gratefully focused on that as he pushed harder, a strangled scream tearing its way from his throat as the large end of the egg began pushing at the tight ring of muscles around his anus.

“Fuck, almost there, I’m so close,” he whispered to himself, and Potter pressed closer reassuringly, and Draco hid his face in Potter’s shoulder, too scared to nuzzle into his neck like he so dearly wanted to, and screamed one last time as he forced the egg out.

Potter made a noise of surprise before slowly pulling his hands back.

Draco stayed where he was, panting, and when Potter nudged him a little, he pressed his face harder into his shoulder.

Potter allowed him, but after a few more moments, he nudged again.

“Malfoy,” Potter murmured, “look.”

Draco, hesitantly, leaned away from Potter. He stared at Potter’s neck, at his jaw, then met Potter’s eyes. Potter was smiling, eyes glowing. He looked positively delighted, and with that as sufficient encouragement, Draco looked at the egg in Potter’s hand.

There wasn’t any blood, but also;

“That little monster felt a hell of a lot bigger when it was up my arse,” Draco defended himself. The egg wasn’t small , but for all the theatrics, Draco felt a bit like he’d overreacted. Then again, he had no idea how small newborn human babies were.

Potter sniggered a bit. “I’m sure it did. Touch it, it’s warm.”

Draco, oddly enough, flushed at that.

“It was in my body not two minutes ago, of course it’s warm!”

Potter shrugged a bit, eyes fixated on the egg. “I’ve never seen anything lay an egg before, let alone any one . This is a first for me, too.”

“With james... Didn’t you-”

Potter shook his head, his fringe barely obstructing his awed eyes as he admired the blue-green egg, nearly five inches in length. “As I told you before, Gin’s pregnancy was a surprise. She’d been off with her team the whole time, I didn’t even know until I got the floo from St. Mungo’s saying I had a kid.”

Draco stared at him, shocked. She honestly hadn’t told him? At all? But why wouldn’t she-

Unless she wasn’t sure she’d wanted to keep it?

With a little huff, because he was too tired to think of this right now, Draco gingerly sat down, hissing at the cold floor beneath his bare arse—which, thankfully, was still easily hidden by his robes—and holding out his hands.

Potter handed it over gently, as if afraid the slightest wind would shatter the egg, and when the surprisingly heavy weight pressed into his palms, warm and tangible and his , he understood why.

Draco heard an odd sound, and realized it was coming from him, and he was trilling.

Potter stared at him.

“What will you do with it?” Potter asked, sliding to sit next to Draco instead of crouching across from him.

Draco eyed the egg contemplatively. “I might put it under a preserving charm. I don’t particularly care about it, but I feel like, in the future, I might want to have it. Just to see my first one.”

“But it’s dead,” Potter said, not insensitively, but curious.

“It was never alive,” Draco explained. “It wasn’t fertilized. I haven’t been-” he flushed again, wondering why he was acting so shy around Potter. “I haven’t done anything, it just happened because it was breeding season, I suppose. But, I’m not sure how often this will happen, because I’m not completely sure what kind of bird my veela is.”

Potter’s eyes suddenly widened. “Don’t some birds lay eggs every day?”

“Yes,” Draco said, “but I’m fairly certain I won’t lay that often.”

“When do you think you’ll lay another?”

Draco squinted at Potter, not glaring, but easily showing how odd he found that question. “You’re peculiarly interested in my egg-laying habits.”

“It can’t be a habit if it only happened once.”

“I expect it will happen again.”

“Yes, but when?”

“Why-”

“Well,” Potter said, “I figure, if you don’t want anyone to know, I can try and be available. I don’t know if your second, or third time will be any harder, but, I mean, I can be moral support, if nothing else.”

Draco couldn’t help laughing.

“What?” Potter asked, then hesitated. “Is that a weird thing to say? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Yes, Potter,” Draco drawled. “You helped me through an egg-birth, and now I’m uncomfortable. It was your commitment to my comfort, your discretion, your support, and your assistance that fueled my discomfiture.” Draco waved a fist in the air. “This is me being angry about that, by the way.”

Potter snorted, pulling Draco’s hand down. “No, it’s not. I’ve seen you angry.”

“You’ve clearly been blessed to have seen so many of the more attractive sides to my character,” the blond scoffed, but part of him meant it. Potter had seen more sides of him than even some of his friends.

“You’re not all that bad,” Potter said. “What was that thing you were doing earlier?”

“Before or after the egg-laying?”

Potter smiled at that. “ After . You made a noise in your throat, kind of like purring? But, like, more musical.”

“Ah,” Draco said, cheeks pinkening a bit. “That was, um, my trill.”

“Your trill,” Potter echoed.

Draco nodded. “It’s what I would do to beckon, or to soothe. My veela wasn’t expecting, but obviously wanted children, so it trilled.”

“And what would the, erm, chick do back? If it was living, I mean.”

“I’m not sure,” Draco said. “Again, I don’t know everything about veela. I read somewhere that veela often sing to their young ones to help encourage them out of their shells, when they’re ready to hatch.”

“You can sing?” Potter asked.

“You ask a lot of questions, Potter.”

“I’m curious, and I figure, if you can’t find information about veela, and you are one, then neither can Hermione, so I can’t ask her. Also, I’m usually scolded after the fifth question or so for being annoying, but you haven’t snapped at me yet.” Potter grinned at him. “Imagine that.”

“You deserve a little patience, after what you’ve done for me today,” Draco said, but that hadn’t anything to do with it. As much as he liked to insult Potter’s intelligence, Draco knew better than most; if you never asked the questions you wanted to, you would never be told, and would never know. Ignorance was dangerous.

“So,” Potter said, peering at him curiously. “You can sing? Is it a veela thing, or could you always sing?”

“A veela thing,” Draco admitted, “but until the hatchling grows old enough to understand words, most of the music would be birdsong, anyway; melodies without lyrics.”

“Ah,” Potter said, and opened his mouth again before shutting it. Draco watched him, and Potter stared back at him.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Don’t get mad at me for asking this?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “That depends.”

“Sing for me?” Potter asked, eyes large and genuine and open. Endearing. “Would it sound like an actual bird, or just your voice, but, uh, birdlike?”

Draco rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “If you do continue to be my ‘moral support,’ you’ll probably find out, one day.”

But Draco was just saying that because he was nervous. He didn’t sing around people often because it wasn’t a skill his friends or family found particularly impressive, being talented musicians themselves.

That, and veela mostly only sang for their children, and their beloved.

“Do you think you’re feeling well enough to head back to dinner, or should I tell them you weren’t feeling well and went home?” Potter asked, and it was his sensitivity, his genuine care for Draco, that made the blond’s heart flutter like it did. Potter was dangerous. This was dangerous. Potter was married.

“I really want to head back,” Draco admitted. “If not to prove I can play nice with your wife, then at least to enjoy Mrs Weasley’s cooking, but I really don’t think I would be all that good company, being as sore and easily-irritable as I already am. I’ll send an apology to both women tomorrow.”

Potter nodded and he leaned forward, and for a second, Draco though he was going to kiss him, and he felt an odd camping in his shoulderblades.

But Potter just brushed Draco’s sweaty fringe aside and pressed their foreheads together.

“You’re amazing, you know that?”

Draco’s shoulder blades did the odd twinge again, and this time, it was in coordination with his heart.

Chapter Text

Narcissa found Draco curled up by the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket. She was momentarily startled by his odd shape beneath the blanket, and for a heartstopping moment, she wondered if they were his folded wings before snorting when said ‘wings’ wiggled a bit until a doggy nose poked out of the generous folds.

Thuban nosed Draco’s cheek, oddly subdued for the usually hyperactive animal, and Draco, usually egged on by the dog’s characteristic energy, was just as placid. He looked at the dog, who looked back, and gave Thuban a little pat on the head before shifting and encircling the animal in a hug.

Narcissa was nervous.

“Draco, dear?”

“Mother...” Draco barely turned to regard her. “Come here for a moment, please?”

Of course, she did, and gasped at what he gingerly placed in her hand.

“You-”

“Yes.”

“That's beautiful, dear! Absolutely beautiful!”

“Potter helped me deliver it,” Draco explained, voice monotonous.

Narcissa smiled, confused. “Wonderful, isn't it?”

Draco looked at her, uncaring of or simply not noticing Thuban’s wriggling to break free of his embrace. “Is it?” he asked.

“Darling, what's wrong?” Narcissa finally asked.

Draco blinked slowly, looking into the fire and finally releasing the dog, who stood clumsily before padding over to Narcissa and nosing at her hand.

“Potter’s married, mother.”

Narcissa was confused, distractedly petting Thuban as she asked, “I'm aware.”

“Part of me doesn't like that. I feel... wrong. It feels wrong. Something’s wrong—It's wrong .”

“Draco, my son, what-”

“I'm not jealous, precisely, but... I have this peculiar feeling that Ginevra is... dangerous. Too dangerous to be around Harry. In fact, maybe... maybe she should go away again... maybe I can—is there anyone we can pay to make that happen?”

Narcissa’s sweat felt cold. “Make what happen, Draco?”

“Make her disappear.”

“Potter loves her,” Narcissa said hastily.

“But he doesn't know, Mum. He doesn't know how dangerous she is, how she will only hurt him.”

“And how do you know this?”

“I can feel it. I know it, deep within me.”

“Draco. Draco, darling.”

Draco regarded her, eyes piercing and predatory. His pupils were dilated to the point of nearly eclipsing his sclera entirely. His form looked somehow bonier, protruding in sharp angles from beneath the folds of the blanket.

“Draco, what’s going on?” she said, her voice a mixture of disbelieving and horrified.

Draco stared at her for a while, a prickling sensation creeping down her spine the longer those inhuman eyes were on her, but then he glanced away, looking dejected.

She felt relief.

“You're right,” he said, lifting the blanket over his head, like the hood of a cloak.

Then, he raised a hand, waiting expectantly, and Narcissa gingerly replaced the egg in his palm. Draco cradled it to his abdomen, surrounded by his body heat.

“You're right,” he repeated, voice sounding hoarse, and more like her son than she had heard throughout the entire conversation.

“Perhaps... We should go see your Healer,” Narcissa offered stiltedly. “To tell him about your delivery, and how you're... feeling.”

Draco didn't respond, but he didn't need to. She was taking him, whether he wanted to go or not.

The Healer’s face was bright with delight as he carefully handed the egg back to Narcissa, who placed it expertly into the makeshift nest she had made out of her handbag.

“Looks perfectly healthy. The strong shell suggests strong bones. Well done, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco nodded, smiling softly but proudly.

“Quick question,” Narcissa began, “what if... Should he be changing, in any way?”

“Mother,” Draco frowned.

“No, no, it's fine for her to be concerned, but I'm afraid you'll have to be more clear. What do you mean, Mrs. Malfoy?”

Narcissa bit her lip for a moment before turning to the Healer once more. “Yesterday, he was... scaring me, a bit. Not intentionally, but he was speaking of someone as though... as though he wanted her dead. And the way his eyes were—his eyes were so dilated that I could hardly see any white—it almost seemed as though he wanted to be the one to do it...”

The Healer contemplated this, and then turned to Draco.

“Any thoughts?”

Draco shook his head, embarrassed. “I don't really remember the conversation, if I'm honest. Especially not in a threatening way.”

“Well, minor changes in behavior are completely expected,” the Healer assured. “In fact, this is good news. It suggests your body is pumping out more veela-targeted hormones, which usually only occurs during your initial magical creature developments. If it is indeed happening again now—I can run some tests if you'd like to make sure, but I'm fairly certain—then I would hazard a guess that your wings are finally developing.

“After an unsuccessful birth—in the terms of living offspring, anyway—your veela side is likely trying to do whatever it can to become fertilized for the next breeding season, and having wings would definitely heighten your chances of finding a mate—at least, in terms of attracting another veela.”

“It's not-” Draco began.

The Healer smiled kindly. “You're not attracted to another veela?”

Draco clamped his mouth shut, fully knowing that once he said it out loud, he could no longer deny it, but also fully aware it was too late to back out now. “No. He isn't a veela.”

The Healer showed no signs of disgust or surprise. He simply smiled. “That's expected, as veela are as rare as unicorns, in some sense. It really depends on their natural habitat. However, your veela still wants to impress this person to whom you're showing interest in the only way it knows how—impressing them as they would impress another veela. Your wings would definitely be more impressive than no wings at all, and with these additional hormones to develop them finally, your actions and emotions can vary in typicality to your character. You're becoming more, in a sense, primal.”

Draco flinched.

“I apologize for the poor wording,” the Healer hastened, looking genuinely embarrassed, “but I don't mean that you're becoming a common animal in any sense. Just that your more basic needs can be more potent than usual—anger, happiness, sadness. The more complex feelings will still come, of course, but they will likely be in response to the simple feelings arising, which, in your natural state, may not have risen at all. Due to your hormones, your reactions may vary.”

“So, like PMS,” Draco deadpanned.

“In a way, I suppose, but far more complex, and dangerous. As a veela, you're a predator. If you're having trouble suppressing feelings of anger or jealousy—enough to worry your mother— then perhaps I can prescribe you some medication to suppress the hormones.”

Draco was cross. He wanted his wings.

But he didn't want to accidentally kill Ginevra Weasley when his ‘veela’ had taken over.

But he wanted his wings , dammit!

“Will my wings still develop?” he asked.

The Healer nodded, making Draco sag with relief. “Yes, but at a much slower rate, depending on the dosage. I could prescribe a pill so they won't develop at all...?”

“No!”

The Healer winked. “Thought so. They will develop, but instead of rapid progression for a couple weeks, it could take one to two months—maybe even longer. All veela are different, and develop at different rates. If your natural time would have been two months, then on suppressants, they would develop in three to four months.”

Draco sighed. “I'm in no rush. That's... that's fine. Thank you, Healer.”

Narcissa placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder, and when he placed his hand atop hers, she squeezed said shoulder.

“It's always a pleasure,” the Healer assured. “The suppressants may make you feel groggy, or irritable—but not as bad as veela-hormone-irritable, of course—so it's important for you to ensure you're getting your exercise for both your physical health, and your mood. Exercise can release endorphins, which improve your mood exponentially, in some cases.”

Draco nodded. “Alright. Thank you.” He paused. “Rather, Thuban will thank you. He loves runs, after all.”

The Healer smiled again, and Narcissa giggled.

On that note, Draco decided he could get exercise with more than Thuban.

“You can’t be bloody serious,” Nott groaned, wiping sweat from his brow. “How can we still be tied? We’ve already had three extra innings!” he lamented as he tossed down his bat and grabbed his glove before heading back out on the field. He took up his place at catcher, putting on the gear with colorful language.

“Well maybe if BongLottom would get his arse out of the dirt and into the diamond, we’d get somewhere,” Parvati sneered, eyeing Neville as he used his wand to grow daisies instead of getting his head in the game. She tossed down her glove to grab her pink bat, grabbing his as well because if he wasn't going to play his part, she would make him.

Padma raised an eyebrow at her. “That would be like giving you an extra player. You know Luna doesn’t really count.” Padma guarded third base.

Draco, who’d been listening, merely shook his head and smiled, because he’d had loads of fun. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone out with friends to just be active in sun.

And by ‘being active,’ he meant of his own prerogative—not running away from curses or spying on someone.

Greg, walking by his side to grab his bat, smiled at him, and it was the dazzling smile of someone who was having similar thoughts.

“Almost done?” Pansy called from the bench, sipping on the drinks they had brought for the game she wasn't participating in.

“Not until I beat Zabini’s arse!” Zach hollered from the pitching mound.

“I'm the one with the bat,” said wizard teased from the plate, in batting position. He could barely fit the helmet over his natural hair, and was forced to tie it back.

“Hit it far!” Astoria hollered from first base. “I want to see how a ‘home run’ works!”

“It just means he'll run all the bases,” Draco called from the outfield. He was the fastest runner. Well, Luna was with him, but she was mostly chatting with the daisies Neville grew for her, except for the occasional catch she would get out of nowhere, shocking everyone and ultimately winning their team a point.

Greg got in line behind Zabini, Astoria, Neville, and Parvati behind him.

Draco, Zachariah, Luna, Astoria, Padma, and Nott were in the field.

“Enough talk!” Zack snarled. “Let's play!”

They played for another two hours before calling it a day.

Draco returned home sweaty and with a full stomach from lunch with them.

They'd all brought food and sat on the grass outside of the diamond to eat. It was lovely, and the daisies honestly made it all prettier, even though the community who took care of it would be displeased by the weeds on the mound.

But it was great, and fun, and Draco couldn't tank of a better way to shake off the depression which had been hanging around him for the past few days.

Of course, when he returned home to an excitable Thuban who was bouncing off the walls due to not getting out for his daily run, Draco wanted to cry. He'd run so much already, he felt like they were going to fall off!

His mother took one look at his sweaty, exhausted, sated self, and rolled her eyes. She accio ’d the leash, and hooked it on the surprised dog.

“Just a walk around the manor, yes? I can take him.”

Draco wanted to correct her to ‘jog’, but not only was Thuban very careful around his mother, but they usually just went for jogs around the garden (mind you, not in the garden, because never again), so he would still get in his exercise.

“Thanks,” he said, still too surprised to come up with much more than that.

Narcissa sniffed, but then smiled. “It's my pleasure. He's been keeping me company all day while someone was out.” She simultaneously rubbed Thuban behind the ears and send Draco an amused look. “You look like you have fun with your friends, though.”

Draco smiled widely, an embarrassing cheesy smile with teeth and eye-crinkles—the whole nine yards—but it was the only way he could express himself. “It was.”

Draco was just toweling off his hair when the floo chimed.

Curious, the blond began making his way towards the foyer only to find Thuban with his head already stuck in the flames, tail spinning with the speed of helicopter wings.

Draco cursed, stepping over and sliding the dog from the floo by his folded knees.

Thuban scrambled for a moment, startled, then saw his Draco and began tackling the distracted blond.

“You oaf, who was it?” Draco asked. “How do you know how to answer the floo?” He could hear tinny laughter, and managed to shove the excitable dog off and his face in. “Mrs Weasley?”

“Draco, dear!” Molly greeted. “James wanted to invite you over for tea.”

“Aren’t you watching him today for the precise reason that Ginevra doesn’t want me near him?” Draco deadpanned.

Molly huffed. “Yes, well, she’s being ridiculous, and if I happen to invite you over for tea because I want to have tea with you, it’s not my fault if James happens to be here as well.”

Draco smiled.

When the floo chimed the next day, Draco slid into the floo with a grin.

“Miss me already, Moll—Potter?”

Potter blinked at him. “Well, if it would get me a greeting like that , I kind of wish I was her.”

Draco snorted. “Two of her? How terrifying.”

“Indeed.” Potter smiled. “Just calling to say hi. I haven't seen you since...”

“Yes.”

“But James saw you yesterday, I heard.”

Draco panicked for a moment. “He—did he tell—?”

“Gin? No, he was only talking about it with me. Not that we need to hide it—I don't care if she knows that James likes you. The sooner she gets used to it, the better.”

“I'm flattered, really, but I think you need to sort things out with your wife before testing how far she'll take things. Why test when you can just talk it out, then and there? To prevent further misunderstandings.”

Potter nodded. “See, I agree, but Gin doesn't want to talk. She thinks she's right, and I'm wrong, and that's it. End of story.”

“She does sound like a mother when you say that,” Draco acquiesced, quirking a small smile.

“And she's a great mum, when she's here, but right now, she's just causing more stress than’s necessary. But, you're right. I'll keep badgering her. Eventually she'll give in, right?”

Draco squinted. “But also, maybe she just needs space.”

Potter groaned, scrubbing his hands up and down his face. “I know! I'm facing the same issue! How much space is too much? What if badgering her isn't the right choice? But also, what if I leave it and things just get worse?”

Draco hummed. “Sounds like you have an issue.”

“I know! You're supposed to help me,” Potter whined.

“I thought you called because you wanted to know how I was,” Draco teased.

“I do! Shite, I've just been complaining, haven't I? How are you, even? What have you been up to?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Are you free right now?”

“Um, for the next three hours or so, yes?”

“I'll open up the floo. Come in, and we'll talk, yeah? I'll tell you about my awesome times when you're not around, and then we'll talk about this snit with you and your wife. Sound fair?”

Potter smiled at him, and it was genuine, and relieved, and beautiful. “You're amazing, you know that?”

Draco flipped his hair over his shoulder. “Wouldn't hurt to hear it every now and again, of course, but yes, I'm aware.”

Potter snorted. “Alright, budge over, I'm coming through.”

“Oh, shit!” Draco realized. “You're going to have to greet Thuban though, otherwise he'll whine at the door until you do.”

Potter laughed. “That doesn't sound like a downside at all. I'll do so gladly.”

Draco huffed fondly, “you're the only one.”

Chapter Text

Draco looked on, unamused as Potter continued to avoid his questions by cooing at the blond’s dog. Thuban was cradled in Potter’s lap—which was impressive, because he certainly wasn’t a lap dog—tongue lolling out in pleasure as Potter showered him with kisses and tender words.

Draco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Thuban,” he barked, at the end of his patience.

The Great Dane, recognizing this tone, immediately snapped to attention, ducking and leaping from Potter’s forlorn embrace. He scampered over to Draco with happy eyes.

Draco roughly noogied the dog’s head with an affectionate roll of his eyes before shooing the distracting creature from the room. Then, it was just him and Potter.

“Potter,” Draco strained, “talking this out is the best way to do this.”

Potter nodded, though his expression turned rather mullish. “I know,” he assured.

“Do you?” Draco was skeptical.

“Yes.”

“Then, out with it.”

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me, Potty. Talk. When did your wife become distant?”

Potter sighed as he sunk into the fluffed chair of the Manor’s Blue room. “I dunno. Feels like forever, almost. Everything was fine before James, as bad as that sounds. I love him to bits, of course-”

“Harry,” Draco said, catching the Auror’s attention. “We’re friends. I know you—I’d like to think, anyway,” he added awkwardly, flushing a bit at his own presumption. But, he forged on. “You don’t need to explain every little thing. I get what you mean. I’m just getting this out of the way now, because I don’t want you mincing your words in fear of speaking badly about Ginevra to me. I know you love both her and your son,” Draco drawled, “but that doesn’t mean that things are perfect. Just talk, and I’ll ask for clarification where it’s needed, yeah?”

Potter stared at him for a moment before smiling a bit. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Draco nodded. “Good.” He leaned back in his own chair. “Now, spill the juicy bits.”

Potter snorted. “There isn’t anything scandalous, Malfoy. No egg-laying in secret.”

Draco ignored the jibe. “Ah, but there was some baby-delivering in secret.”

Potter frowned. “Yeah. That’s when she became distant. Didn’t come home, only flooed, and I didn’t have the faintest clue she was pregnant.” His face was blank. “Can I be honest?”

“I’d be offended if you weren’t,” Draco admitted.

“It ticked me off, a bit, after I found out. That she was hiding it. I know that, maybe, in the beginning, it could have been because she wasn’t sure we were ready for kids. Maybe she wanted to think it over on her own before coming to me. I get that, and I understand that. But...” Potter flexed his jaw, eyes dark with anger as he stared at the fireplace.

Draco thought he looked rather fetching.

“But by six months?” Potter whispered. “Seven? Eight? I don’t know the allotted time before it’s illegal to abort a baby, but at some point, she must have known she was going to have James, right? Why hide it, at that point? Why let every-bloody-one else know she was pregnant, be it her teammates, or townspeople. She must have been big, right? People would know , but I sure fucking didn’t. I mean...” Potter rubbed at his eyes tiredly. “I’m ecstatic to have a kid. Even when I found out, the annoyance didn’t even occur to me until a couple weeks had passed.”

Draco blinked. How on earth...?

Potter smiled at him drlyly. “I know, right? It’s just... I kind of forgot. I never really had parents, as you know, nor any siblings. I didn’t really notice that I should have had a part in that, which says something about me , I’ll admit, but I’ve never done this shite before, Malfoy. I mean, she gave me my son. My baby. What else could I ask of her?”

“A little heads up would have been nice,” Draco intoned softly.

Potter sighed again. “Yeah, it would've been, but I’m over that. Or, well, I’m not. I missed the first stage to being a parent, really, but I’ve forgiven her for that. After how many times she apologized, of course I’ve forgiven her for that. But I guess that’s the first thing that comes to mind when I think of her being distant.”

Draco frowned. “When did you two start having trouble in your relationship?”

Potter blinked at him. “We aren’t having trouble,” he said, “she was just distant. I mean, I don’t want to be that guy who thinks he has a say in what any woman does to her body, even if the baby is partially mine, but I’d’ve liked to have been aware, I guess. It’s different to have the option and decide against it, than to not have the option at all.”

Draco nodded thoughtfully. “Of course, and you’re many a woman’s dream by saying that, but that’s not what I mean. She’s still distant, isn’t she?”

Potter regarded him. “I don’t know,” he replied slowly, eyes a little narrow.

Draco huffed. “I’m not trying to be accusatory Potter, I’m just calling things as I see them. Back in Hogwarts, you two were all over each other. I’m sure some of that initial clinginess abated a bit after nine years , and it’s been, what, three years since James was born? You two should be a well-oiled machine by now.”

Potter looked up at the ceiling. “What are you saying.”

Draco worried his lip between his teeth for a moment.

He’d had friends before, obviously, and it’s not as though he never talked about his feelings with them, but his friends were blunt with their opinions. He didn’t want to be so callous with Potter, because unlike himself, he wasn’t sure the Auror could handle it at the moment, as sensitive as he was feeling. He was in a vulnerable place, and by having this chat, Draco was trapping him there and prodding at the wounds. Gently, but still. Potter was placing an immense amount of trust in Draco, in their bond as friends, to even be having this conversation.

Of course, Weasley might not be an option, considering it’s his sister, but surely Granger, the happily married one, might have even been a better candidate. Potter had even seemed excited at first, at the prospect of talking it out with Draco. Like two mates just talking about life over a pint, or even if Potter was imagining a bloody sleepover with hair-braiding, he must not have expected it to get this serious, or perhaps not so rapidly.

Potter was still staring at the ceiling with supposed fascination when Draco stood and walked over to him. Potter’s eyes were wet. He was thinking about things, apparently.

Draco, throwing caution to the wind, squeezed in the chair next to Potter. The other man blinked at him, startled, but obligingly scooted over so they could squeeze together. Draco considered enlarging it, but rather enjoyed the closeness of their bodies, and despite Potter’s rather befuddled expression, he hadn’t shoved the blond aside yet.

“Hey,” he said softly, looking at Potter, no, Harry, square on. “I’m not good with these talks. Not only am I single with no prosperous love life to speak of, even in the preterite sense, but I’ven’t been in good company for a good seven years prior to this. If I’m making you uncomfortable, kindly tell me to piss off, and I will.”

Potter opened his mouth, supposedly to retort, but Draco beat him to it.

“And if not, well, I’m just trying to help, but also, you don’t have to talk about this with me. Granger, for example, would be a better candidate. Molly Weasley, even, and I can tell by your pale face how horrifying that seems to you, but the only thing I’m going on here, P-Harry, is what I’ve seen, and what you’re telling me.

“I’m not telling you to divorce your wife. I’m not saying that she doesn’t love you, or that you don’t love her, or that your marriage is a failure, because it isn’t. There is love here somewhere, and James came out of it, and, if nothing else, I rather like him.”

Potter smiled a bit.

“I’m just saying,” Draco continued slowly, “that you should take some time together. Take her out to dinner. Go to a spa resort. Molly or myself can watch James. As disgusted as I am to suggest this, get some sparks flying, you old coot. Give her a reason to come to you, instead of always going to her.”

Potter’s face twisted up in a mixture of indignance and amusement. “Are you calling me old?”

Draco smirked. “I might’ve done.” And then he was serious again. “I’ve never had a successful relationship,” he reiterated, “but something I value above all else is honestly. I need trust, and honesty is all I can see really leading to that. The fact that Ginevra still isn’t keen on me implies that she doesn’t trust your decision. Molly, James—bloody Hermione Granger has spoken on my behalf, as insane and brilliant as I find that, and Ginevra is yet to acquiesce. I daresay, Potter, that this time, it isn’t you who needs to solve the issue.”

Potter nodded, sighed again.

“It, um,” Draco coughed, “it wasn’t just me who caused this issue, yeah? I don’t want to be a homewrecker-”

Potter abruptly barked out a laugh. “Merlin, no! She’s—We’ve been, I’ll admit, having a miscommunication problem for a while. Rather, a lack thereof, because she’s never around,” he mused. “Besides, homewrecking implies you’re trying to get with Gin or I.”

“Gin or me,” Draco corrected automatically.

Potter blue a raspberry at him, the childish man he was, and Draco curled his lip in response.

The door opened, and only then did Draco realize how close their faces were. Both quickly looked towards the door, where Hermione Granger stood, a little startled. Almost more startled than they were, honestly, which made Draco nervous, because she’d obviously been looking for them, so her surprise could only mean she was thinking similar thoughts to what Draco had just been thinking.

“Um,” she began, “I was looking for Harry, and Ginny said you were over here,” she coughed, “again.”

Potter nodded, and Draco could feel his wild hair brush against his jaw.

“Just talking about feelings and relationship stuff,” Po- Harry said, waving his hand casually. “Manly stuff,” he assured, and Draco could hear the smile in his voice, and his chest swelled with affection.

“Right,” Granger replied, still eyeing them. “Why are you sitting like that?” she finally came out and asked.

Potter sniggered. “He’s comforting me, apparently. A weird Slytherin thing.”

Draco felt humiliated for going out on a limb and apparently being oddly touchy. He just assumed Gryffindors were this soppy! But, he refused to show his embarrassment, and when he felt uncomfortable, it was his duty to make others just as much so.

Smirking, Draco lifted an arm around Potter’s shoulders.

Granger stared.

Draco flung a leg over Potter’s lap.

“What are you doing?” Potter asked, bemused.

Draco careened dramatically before wrapping his arms around Potter’s puzzled head, pulling the git to his chest in an awkward caress.

“Homewrecking,” he replied, making Granger sputter and Potter “Ah,” in understanding.

“I think you’re supposed to be making moves on Gin, though.”

“Are you assuming my sexuality?” Draco asked Granger’s general direction.

“Erm, no,” Potter replied, voice muffled, “but if you go after me, we can’t have a final battle where we spar for my wife’s affections.”

“True,” Draco conceded, “I’d rather take my chances kicking your arse than your wife’s.”

“And I could show off the new spells I’ve learned,” Potter added, “when I kick your arse.”

“In your dreams.”

“Want to take this outside?” Potter offered.

“I can’t change my story now, though,” Draco complained. “Granger would know I was only teasing, otherwise,” he announced obviously.

“Right,” Potter said, “we need to be convincing.”

Granger looked faint. “What?” she asked.

“It’s called a bromance, Granger. Totally legitimate,” Draco assured her.

Potter took Draco’s head in his hands, somehow dislodging Draco’s arms from around his own head, and brought them face to face.

Draco was smirking, and so was Potter, but when the Gryffindor began to lean in, eyes fluttering shut, Draco froze.

A million thoughts flew through his mind and slammed into the forefront like a bludger. What the actual fuck was he doing? He and Potter were barely friends, and now they had a bromance going on? To be fair, they were pretty bloody good friends, considering their earlier conversation, and Potter was casually playing along, so it couldn’t be too weird, but Potter didn’t seem to know Draco was gay, and after he found out, would things be weird? Would he feel used? Would he trust Draco again? What if he somehow found out how Draco felt about it? What then? Would he think Draco was scheming to break up him and his wife? Would he-

Potter tilted his head forward and gave a large, smacking kiss to the very top of Draco’s head, like he would do occasionally to James.

Granger rolled his eyes, but scoffed fondly, “You two.”

Potter winked at her before getting up.

Draco remained on the couch, staring at where Potter had previously been sitting.

“Malfoy?”

Draco looked up.

Potter was regarding him curiously, Granger having already left the doorway, supposedly to find her way back out. She must have assumed Potter was following.

“What?” Draco croaked, strangely askew. His heart was racing.

Potter stared at him.

Draco stared back.

Potter tilted his head. “You’re pink in the face.”

When uncomfortable, make others so.

“S’not my fault!” Draco cried, hands flinging up to hide his flaming cheeks. “I feel honored, because I was just kissed by the savior of the wizarding world, but also disgusted, because I was just kissed by Potter !”

Potter smiled. “Good to know I can still get a rise out of you.”

Draco didn’t know what face to make to respond to that, so he panicked and settled on a disgruntled, pinched expression, which had the unfortunate effect of making Potter guffaw.

When he calmed, Draco’s expression was pensive.

“Harry,” he said.

Potter blinked at him. “What’s up?”

“I am gay,” he disclosed quietly. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable, and I apologize for not telling you earlier. It didn’t occur to me until just now that this information might have affected how you reacted, and it’s not fair to keep that from you when you’ve been so honest and upfront with me about everything-”

Potter cut him off with the beaming smile which split his face. “I’m glad.”

Draco squinted. “That I’m gay?”

Potter sniggered again. “No, you ponce, that you told me. You shouldn’t feel like you had to tell me,” he argued, face stern, “because really, it’s none of my business, but I appreciate that you trust me enough to tell me. And no,” he smiled again, “it doesn’t make things weird. I do kind of like that you’re gay, I guess. I’ve never had dramatic friends, and it’s nice to tease ‘Mione like that. Ron would never agree to-” Potter abruptly looked guilty. “Ah, shit, is that a stereotype? I don’t mean to offend you,” he stumbled over his words.

Draco stared. His back twinged. And then he laughed. “In some cases, it might be, but I am rather dramatic, aren’t I?”

Potter grinned. “We should fuck with Hermione more often,” he decided. “Did you see her face?”

Draco smirked darkly. “She seemed convinced that I had a chance at tainting you. My charms must not elude her.”

Potter scoffed. “Sure. If anything, it would be the other way around.”

Draco stared at him, expression blank as he processed that.

Potter raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Honestly?” Draco asked warily.

“Of course.”

“Well, I’m not sure whether you meant that in a combative, or sexual sense.”

“Oh. Oh!” Potter’s face was bright red. “Um, no. Sorry, but,” he coughed and laughed nervously, “not what I meant. At all. Definitely, erm, combative.”

Draco laughed nervously as well. “I knew that,” he assured.

Their awkward chuckled trailed off and Draco grimaced. This is exactly what he didn’t want.

He looked at Potter, who was looking at his shoes with acute fascination all of a sudden, and decided to be bold once more. With a sigh, Draco stood, faced Potter, and pecked him on the forehead.

Potter blinked at him, surprised.

“Now, we’re even,” Draco declared. Then, he grabbed Potter around the shoulders and forcefully spun him. “Now, out with you! You’ve been long enough. Any longer and Granger will never trust me alone with you again.”

Potter smiled a bit. “True. And hey, Draco?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. For listening. And for telling me.”

Draco smiled genuinely, all fear and trepidation from earlier sliding off his shoulders. “Yeah? Thanks for giving me a chance.”

Potter looked all emotional again, eyes moist.

Draco curled his lip in disgust. “Oh, my goodness, you are such a dad now! Look at you, all teary-eyed over some thankyous-”

“Oh, shut up, you,” Potter scowled, punching Draco in the arm. The blond didn’t miss his sniffle, however, nor his smile. “See you, Draco.”

Draco shivered at the sound of his name on Potter’s tongue.

“Until next time, Harry.”

Draco did not predict ‘next time’ being the next bloody day.

“You’re the one who suggested it,” Harry grumbled defensively, a stark difference to the cheery way he had flooed earlier, wished Draco good morning, and promptly invited him out hiking with ‘the family’. The annoying prat barely let him snag a slice of bread before yanking him through the floo. Draco felt anxious the entire time, as though he was forgetting something, and then realized he hadn’t even managed to toast the damn bread in his mouth before he was in Grimmauld place.

“I wanted you to go on a romantic trip with your wife ,” Draco groaned, coming back to the present, “not hiking with ‘the fam’!” he snapped, exasperated. “How on earth did you ever get her in your bed in the first place, you guileless troll?”

Potter flushed. “Piss off, would you?” he griped. “I tried, and since everyone else is going, she had to come! This is just the start,” he assured. “I’ll take her out later in the week-”

“Tomorrow.”

“I’ll take her out tomorrow,” Potter assured, raising his nose defiantly.

Draco smirked. “Good. I’ll try and get you two some alone time today, as well. Try and romance her, Potter.”

Potter nodded resolutely, flashing him a cheesy thumbs-up.

Draco rolled his eyes, but then he saw bushy brown hair from the corner of his eye and flung himself at Potter. Be it his Seeker reflexes, or his occupation as an Auror, Potter seamlessly caught Draco and twirled him theatrically before pulling him close. Potter cupped his face, and Draco, still being held at an angle, looked up into Potter’s eyes.

Granger giggled. “You two don’t have to do this stuff every time I enter a room.”

“What ever are you talking about?” Potter asked, glancing at her with confusion.

“This is who we are,” Draco agreed, raising one of his legs, like some exotic dancer, and arching it around Potter’s waist, cinching them closer at the hips.

Potter looked at him. “Saucy,” he said, face dead serious, and Draco couldn’t help his abrupt burst of laughter. He lost all strength in his limbs, causing him to drop the elegant pretense. Potter released a garbled noise as he scrambled to make up for the change in balance. As Draco wilted, still laughing, practically crying, Potter chastised him and pulled him upright.

Draco sniggered and pushed him away. “That,” he sighed wistfully, “was beautiful. I’m going to pensieve that.”

Potter smiled, but Granger wasn’t anymore. She looked between them and opened her mouth, but ceased when Ginevra entered the kitchen.

Her expression was stubborn, but she was dressed for a chilly hike, James in tow. His little goggles made Draco want to swoon, but refrained for various reasons.

Her expression was icy when regarding Draco, slightly less so when regarding Potter, and simply resigned when she looked to Hermione.

Suddenly, Draco felt guilty. Why was she even going hiking if she was displeased with the lot of them?

Then, Ron Weasley came tumbling through the floo, excited and ready to go hiking with his beloved sister and even lovelier wife, and Draco sighed in comprehension. At least she was trying. Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad.

It was.

The four of them walked in the back, chatting quietly, while Ginevra hiked further up ahead with James. Draco couldn’t tell if she was just competitive, or trying to stay the hell away from them.

Maybe she was trying to beat the rain, he considered as he eyed the darkening sky. She could always cast an Umbrella Charm, of course, but it was the principal of the matter, really.

He looked at Harry, who met his eyes soon after, and gestured towards the power couple up ahead with a jerky nod in their direction.

Potter smiled sheepishly before jogging to catch up with his wife and child, and Draco sighed in a mixture of relief and exasperation. Honestly, Weasley and Potter were Auror partners! How could they spend so much time together, and still wish to talk about Quidditch?

But then he was left with Granger and Weasley, who casually, domestically began discussing grocery shopping. Little things that needed fixing around their house.

Draco wistfully watched the family up ahead as well, James holding hands with both parents, arms swinging between them.

He sighed.

But then he heard voices raising, and when he looked up, Ginevra had snatched her hand away from the two and took off in a brisk pace before breaking into a sprint.

Draco watched her disappear around the corner of the trail, a shocked Granger and Weasley beside him.

He quickly rushed up to Potter, forcing the group to a stop.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Potter shook his head, scowling and looking straight ahead. James just looked sadly at his feet, and Draco felt a flare of anger rise within him.

With a snarl, he spun on his heel and dashed after Ginevra.

“Draco, wait!” Harry had called after him, but the blond ignored him in favor of picking up the pace. Speed, he needed speed, and suddenly he was sprinting like a professional runner, his body adjusting to his wishes, and a familiar sense of anxiety wriggled in his brain.

He ignored it, charging around the corner up ahead. The rest of the group was out of sight, but he saw red hair in the distance and shot off, literally leaping up the mountain towards her. He was a little startled, really, with how quickly he had seen her, reached her, and now he was practically on her. Like a predator, he swept before her, abruptly cutting her off.

“Malfoy-” she snarled before freezing. She slowly drew her wand.

Draco frowned at her. “Wh-”

“What’s wrong with your face?” she asked, eyes narrowed. “I knew I couldn’t trust you, you bloody little rat-”

He realized what he’d been forgetting and anxious about was his pill. He’d forgotten the pill to repress his veela instincts because Potter had been hollering at him like a madman, and suddenly he was feeling urges to get up in Ginevra’s face, to intimidate her.

A raindrop fell on his nose, and then it was pouring.

Neither moved an inch.

Draco forced himself to calm, thinking of his happy place, thinking of Thuban, back home, whining because he would have killed to go hiking with Draco, despite the blond not wanting to risk anything and give Potter another distraction from the main objective of wooing his wife.

Bollocksed that up, didn’t he.

“Look,” he said, “I think we should talk. Please excuse my rather feral expression—I have a condition. It’ll fade,” he assured, a mixture of serene and discomfited.

Ginevra eyed him for a little longer before pocketing her wand. Neither bothered with the rain.

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” she said tersely before brushing past him.

With a sneer, he spun around and grabbed her arm.

She freaked. “Don’t touch me!” she screamed, tearing away from him.

“Then don’t ignore me,” he snarled, knowing that was no excuse but needing an in. “Is this how difficult you are with Potter?” he sneered. “No wonder he thinks you don’t love him anymore!”

It was a bold faced lie, but he was looking to hurt.

Judging by her shocked expression, it had at least caught her attention.

“What?” she asked, voice drowned out by the rain, but he could hear her anyway. Instinct, maybe.

“He’s angry that you didn’t tell him about James,” Draco said. “And he feels guilty about it. He’s trying and trying to understand what’s wrong, what’s changed. He thinks he’s the problem.” Draco stared her down. “I think we both know that’s not true.”

Her face twisted into something ugly, something scared and threatened. “Don’t talk to me like you know me, like you know anything!” she cried. “You and your Death Eater self, coming into my home , into my family , like you belong here,” she snarled. “And with such ease ,” she moaned, like a wounded animal, “like you know !”

“Know what?” Draco asked gently.

“Anything!” she screamed, sobbed. “Everything! You think I wanted to get pregnant? To have a kid? You think I was ready?”

Draco took a step towards her, but she backed up rapidly, looking ready at flee at any sudden movement. Draco didn’t make any more advances towards her, holding out his hands as he dropped his wand to the ground to show he was unarmed. She was standing a little too close to a rather steep drop in the trail. A little cliff. He couldn’t even see the bottom from where he stood.

“Why didn’t you go to P-Harry?” he asked.

“Because you know what he would do,” she yelled, frustrated. “He would leave it up to me! He would tell me, ‘Gin, you know what’s best for us, you know what’s best for you,’ and I don’t need that! I wanted someone to tell me I should do it,” she mumbled, voice shaky, “that I would grow to love that kid.” She looked at her hands, eyes pouring with more than rain water. “I wanted someone to tell me that it would be the worst mistake I ever made.”

Draco watched her, silent. He vaguely wondered where the rest of the group was, but was confident they had apparated out. Hiking in the rain wasn’t safe, especially with james. They likely assumed to two of them had already apparated as well.

“Ginev-Ginny,” he corrected.

Her head snapped up to him.

“What did you think when you first saw James?” he asked, not daring to move and wipe the rivulets away from his eyes. Not daring to break this moment.

She stared at him, voice hollow when she answered. “Guilt,” she said. “For hiding him from Harry. For being angry at him for getting me pregnant, even though I know it was unintentional.” She looked at the sky. “For listening to my teammates, who told me a child was the best thing that could happen to me, and not understanding, but, like a child, agreeing with them.” She looked at Draco. “For looking at him, looking at James, and feeling nothing.”

Draco blinked slowly.

“I thought he was rather ugly,” she said softly. “All red, and wrinkled. I didn’t want to take him home.”

“You’re not the only one,” he said.

She squinted at him through the rain, through her tears.

Her clothing plastered to her body, her face was as red as her hair. Crimson strands curled around her eyes, her ears, stuck to her wet features. They almost completely masked the pearl earring he could just barely make out in her sopping tresses.

Her eyes were puffy and red, juxtaposing the fierce blue of her irises.

She looked beautiful.

“You’re not alone,” he repeated. “I’ve heard of mothers who feel the same way,” he said, and it was true. He’d read about it in a magazine, once, when he was at the barber. It had been in the early stages of his seven-year exile.

Lightning flashed above them, and suddenly Draco could hear thunder in the distance.

She looked at her hands.

“What’s wrong with me?” she asked, flexing her fingers, trembling.

“I’m no expert,” he reminded slowly, wincing at the blank look he received. “But, if memory serves... It could be postpartum depression.”

Ginny looked at him, lost.

“It has something to do with the chemical changes your body went through during pregnancy,” he tried, wracking his brain for any facts. “It’s an imbalance that can contribute to depression after birth.”

She coughed, loudly. “It’s been three years-” she began, voice cracking.

Draco’s vision sharpened, and his hair stood on end.

He looked up.

“Shite!” he screeched, leaping forward just as lightning struck.

He was holding Ginny, and then they were falling.

He had pushed them off the bloody mountain.

She was too shocked to scream, to do anything other than clutch his arms.

Out of the pan and into the fire, Draco thought in a moment of grim insanity.

He had just gotten them fucking killed !

And then Draco saw the ground approaching, swift, and felt the wind tearing through his hair, roaring so loudly he couldn’t make out the prayers Ginny spoke as she buried her face in his chest.

He looked up, at first squinting against the rush in his face, but then with wide, seeing eyes.

He could see the distance. Smell the ozone, like lightning. Feel the air around him. Every individual raindrop as it splashed into him.

He could feel the thunder in his bones, calling him home.

He didn’t even scream when his wings tore from his back, when he released Ginny just in time to slip his hands from his coat as his new limbs tore off his jacket, and he didn't want to break his arms, but Ginny was staring at him, wide-eyed, and Draco could feel the butterflies in his stomach as he lurched for her.

He felt calm.

He took her in his arms, and they swooped, and she screamed, but Draco was living, breathing, one with the atmosphere. He felt as if he was moving in slow motion, as if he could see every droplet as it descended.

It occurred to him that they were diving faster than the rainfall, and Draco released a hysterical laugh, thankfully lost in the roar of the wind.

Draco extended his wings, twisted, spun, flapped, and pictured the mountain in his mind. Pictured the cliff. Pictured Potter, and James, and Weasley and Granger.

And then he was flying, really flying.

He swooped onto the ledge with silence, with grace, and released Ginevra, who tumbled into a mess of trembling limbs as soon as he did so.

She stared at him in shock.

Draco blinked down at her, eyes still open and wide.

“That lightning must have struck something,” he murmured, “because now I can remember better than before.” He blinked at her owlishly. “In women who were receiving medical care during the study I read about, 50% of patients experienced depression for more than 1 year after childbirth.”

He knelt down towards her, and she shook, and he cupped her cheek. His voice was soft when he told her, “The review also found that, in women who were not receiving clinical treatment, 30% of women with postpartum depression were still depressed up to 3 years after giving birth.” He smiled gently. “You’re not lost, Ginny. There are treatments for this, should you so desire.” He took her hand. “You’re going to be all right.”

She screwed her face up and cried.

Draco shushed her quietly, wrapping his arms around her, his wings around her. Her kissed the top of her head, and she bawled louder.

He looked at his wings, speckled with browns, blacks, and creamier colors. The rain must have washed away the blood, he realized belatedly.

They hurt now.

Draco clenched his eyes and wished dearly for them to go away. He opened one eye.

Didn’t work.

He huffed, sighed, and shifted the sniffling woman in his arms.

God, was he exhausted.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Harry loves you,” Draco said softly. “He would understand.”

She looked up at him, eyes open, searching, hoping. “He would,” she agreed softly. She ducked her head in shame. “I didn’t know... I didn’t know it was a condition. I thought... I’ve never heard of any other mother not feeling that—that maternal instinct,” she whispered.

Draco nodded a bit. “It’s not commonly discussed in the open, because most mothers feel shame.”

Ginny sighed, and looked at Draco again, and then took a deep breath.

“Can you apparate with... with those ?”

Draco glanced at his wings, encircling them and blocking the two from the rain overhead.

“We can try it,” he said.

She looked at him incredulously. “Do you want to splinch them off?”

“They’re new, actually,” he mused. “I’ven’t the faintest idea how to get rid of them. If I can get rid of them.”

Ginny stared at him. “You’re a veela.”

“What gave it away.”

“Is that why your face looked like a bird, earlier?”

Draco winced. “That must have been attractive.”

“Does Harry know?”

Draco felt oddly guilty about answering the question, but did so, anyway. “He does,” he admitted, “though I didn’t mean to tell him. He found out on accident,” the blond supplied vaguely, not wanting to really go into details on that particular event.

He regarded her carefully. “Only you, him, and my dear mother know about me.”

She looked back at him honestly. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Draco was grateful. “Thank you.”

“You might not be thanking me long,” she warned, taking a hold of his shoulders. “I might splinch your wings off, after all.”

And then they apparated.

Chapter Text

They appeared in the living room of 12 Grimmauld Place with a tug and lurch, and then they were both gasping for startled breath.

“Merlin!” Weasley cried, eyes wide with shock. “What the-”

“Wings?” Granger asked softly, voice faint with awe.

“Malfoy!” Potter shouted, surprised. “Your wings!”

Draco laughed mirthlessly, “Yes, they are.” He could still feel the fall in his soul. The wind in his feathers, the roar in his ears. He could almost see the mountains, where the earth met the sky.

“What's going on!” Weasley yelled, looking around as if hoping someone would jump out and yell, “Surprise! It’s a joke!” No one did, of course.

“Veela,” Ginevra said simply, pulling herself up and away from Draco. Her face was hard. “Not that this information will be leaving this room,” she said icily, eyes narrowed.

Draco blinked at her, surprised by her protectiveness. It was endearing, of course, but part of him felt oddly unnerved by her. That feeling increased as she stepped towards Potter.

“Harry,” she said gently.

Draco’s eyes were sharp, watching them with the sort of detail he imagined one could only dream of achieving with some sort of ocular-enhancement spell. And yet.

When she reached up to cup his face, one of his wings flailed instinctively, knocking down a couple photo frames and one particularly ugly vase with a loud series of crashing.

He flinched, flushing with humiliation when all eyes snapped to him. He flushed harder at his own line of thought, which had been going something along the lines DON’T touch what's MINE!

“Still getting used to them,” he coughed awkwardly.

Granger eyed him speculatively as she lifted her wand and cast a quiet reparo .

Ginevra smiled at him a bit—he felt guilty at the way his gut clenched, because he liked Ginny—before taking Potter's hand and gently leading him from the room.

Potter looked at him briefly before disappearing around the corner, but Draco could still hear his breathing, his footsteps, and if he really tried, his heartbeat.

He could hear Potter’s bloody heartbeat.

“I—I should go,” he stuttered, clambering up to his feet.

Weasley looked faint, and Granger was openly curious.

“Could I ask a few-”

“Any other time,” he promised, sending her a brief smile. He felt Potters pulse pick up the pace, and he knew it was because of something Ginny was saying, and that just made him all the more jealous and possessive.

Granger nodded, eyes faraway, obviously already making plans.

He glanced at Weasley, who gulped at him.

“What?” he asked.

“You look...”

“Birdlike?” he offered, attempting a smirk but knowing he must have missed the mark at the way Weasley paled further.

“Scary,” he admitted, grimacing himself.

Draco frowned a bit, feeling somewhat insulted. “They're just wings,” he huffed.

“No,” Granger cut in, “he's right. Your eyes are different. Your whole face...”

Draco blanched at the thought. “What?” he asked, horrified, imagining feathers and a beak before turning on his heel and slipping into the floo with a hasty, “Malfoy Manor!” called out behind him.

When he tumbled into the manor, he didn't bother waiting for Thuban to dash around the corner, as was their usual routine. He wasn't sure he wanted Thuban, his best friend, his everything, seeing him like this.

He flew up the stairs, quite literally, before scrambling into his bedroom and slamming the door shut. He hurried over to his mirror, and gasped at what he saw.

They had been right. His eyes, which had always been somewhat catlike, with their sharp, upturned outer corners, but with his large, round pupils—larger than usual, rounder than usual, if possible—he really looked animalistic. He couldn't pinpoint it at first, but then it occurred to him why.

Usually, Draco could tell what Thuban was thinking. Whether or not the dog was wagging his tail, Draco could see the excited glint in his dog's eyes, or the restlessness of an animal who needed to go outside for a bit, or the sleepiness of a stubborn child who refused to submit before his parent retired for the night as well.

However, occasionally, when Draco approached Thuban slowly, playfully keeping his expression blank as he approached, Thuban would stare at him. Thuban would stare at him with large, piercing eyes, which was unusual, because dogs weren't known for going out of their way to hold prolonged eye contact, except for when they felt challenged.

When Draco did his little game, face empty to hide his intention as he drew nearer, Thuban would look at him with dark, empty eyes. Draco could never tell whether the dog was going to run, or pounce, or simply wait until Draco got close enough to pet him. Thuban didn't look aggressive, or scared, or calm, but empty. It was impossible to read him, in those moments. As if Draco didn't know him, and he didn't know Draco. Those were the eyes of an animal, not a pet, not even a dog. Just some creature, some beast.

And then Draco would pat his head, and Thuban’s tail would wag and his tongue would loll out. Sometimes, before Draco got close enough, Thuban would jump at him, tail whipping back and forth with abandon as he placed his large paws on the blond's chest and attempted to slobber over his face.

But Draco never knew what to expect. Not when Thuban looked at him with those eyes. That's what Draco's own eyes resembled, now. His pupils were large, and endless. Engulfing. Looking himself in the eye, he felt unnerved. His entire expression was just—unnerving.

Maybe it was that his eyelashes looked thicker—fluffy, almost feathery, as worrisome as that was. The white tufts shadowed his eyes, making them appear even more ominous.

Draco was brought back to the moment when he heard Thuban’s worried pawing and whining at his door.

He sighed. Honestly, he needed to teach that boy some manners. But, alas, he adored the dog.

When Draco opened the door, however, Thuban took one look at him and barked once, sharply, before booking it as though he had hellhounds on his heels.

Draco blinked after him.

Then, he threw his head back and laughed. Thuban had barked, all tall and imposing and intimidating, before running away with his tail between his legs!

Draco wiped his eye, feeling lighter than he had all day. “He takes after me more than I thought,” he sniggered to himself.

Attempting to find a comfortable sleeping position had been difficult, to put it lightly.

He usually slept on his side, but that left one wing slightly crushed. He couldn't really sleep on his stomach either, because it left his neck aching. He tried sleeping so close to the ledge of his bed that his wings fell over the side, but that just became tiring when he was forced to keep them pressed up against his back to fight the weight of gravity. He was nervous of allowing them to flop open and accidentally spraining something.

He'd ended up passing out from pure exhaustion on his stomach, neck ‘supported’ (poorly) by his crooked arm. He was awakened by a pressing hardness practically piercing his mattress, and the horrified groan of a man who'd had dreams about someone he shouldn't’ve.

Then came the dreadful sensation that he knew what this was. His Healer may had mentioned the subject once or twice—said subject being mates —and with their friendship, the brief, albeit playful romancing around Granger, and the whole egg-laying debacle, it was really no surprise that his abstinent and confused, affection-seeking self had deliriously fixated on Potter.

This didn't make it any more acceptable, of course, considering Potter was, as far as he was aware, heterosexual, with a wife and a child.

That being said, no, Draco did not wank himself to completion, instead, bypassing his morning wood entirely in order to do few gentle stretches, which soon turned into an hour-long session of yoga at home—Astoria would be annoyed that he didn't bother inviting her, but, well, he only got so into it because his erection had fought so admirably before finally deflating. She really did not want to be a part of that.

Draco had cast a quick freshening charm, wary of getting his wings unnecessarily wet with a physical shower, before getting dressed in casual, low-riding sweatpants and some band t-shirt in which he promptly slashed an opening in the back—despite how his mother loathed his muggle clothing—before going down for breakfast.

His mother had been startled, and then delighted, and then nervous.

“Should we go visit Dr. Gannet?” she asked.

Draco blinked. “Who?”

“Your Healer, Draco.”

Draco flushed, horrified. Over a year, and he was just learning the man’s name? Jesus.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” he replied, still flustered.

She looked hesitant. “Are you... sure? You've that wild look to yourself again, dear.”

Draco shook his head. “I'm certain. Besides, it's only polite to give a day’s notice.”

Narcissa acquiesced with a nod. “Alright. Have you seen Thuban today, darling? He was with me all morning, oddly enough. I know how you're usually with him.”

Draco grimaced. “He's unused to me like this. We'll have it all sorted out by tomorrow, however,” he assured—whether it was himself or his mother, he wasn't sure. Possibly both.

Spoon lifted mid-way to his mouth, Draco was nearly startled into dropping it when the floo flared to life.

Draco and his mother stared at it as it rang. They rarely, if ever, received floo calls anymore. Unless it was Potter and his lot, in which Draco rather just wanted to let it ring.

Especially because the mere thought of Potter made his prick twitch a bit.

His mother gave him a look, and that was the only reprimand he needed before sighing and leaving the kitchen to enter the foyer, where he knelt down and took the call.

“Yes?” he drawled, and was startled to see Potter grinning back at him. Startled and painfully aroused .

“Hullo there, my feathered friend.”

Draco groaned, pretending it was from annoyance and not from hearing Potter’s voice. “Don't,” he warned, quite seriously.

Potter laughed. “Are you kidding me? Isn't this great? You have wings!”

“I only still have wings because I'm not quite sure how to get rid of them yet,” he grumbled. “I'll be seeing my Healer tomorrow, however, so hopefully it will all be sorted out by then.” He would also make sure, of course, to talk to his Healer about this possessiveness. Even over the floo, he felt the desire to yank Potter to him, to press close, to smell him and—disturbingly enough—lick him. To make him mine.

“Hey, let me over, will you? Maybe I can help you out,” Potter offered.

Draco barked out a derisive laugh. “Yeah, no.”

Potter blinked. “What's up?” he asked, confused.

I want to bone you so hard, it's a miracle you can't see the tenting over the floo.

He cleared his throat, flushing. “How did your talk with Ginny go?”

Potter frowned at him a bit. “That's actually what I flooed about. Seriously, Malfoy, can I come through?”

Draco worried his lip between his teeth, shaking his head. “How about tomorrow afternoon,” he offered. After his appointment with Dr. Gannet, of course.

Potter looked a little hurt. “Um, I guess,” he replied quietly.

Draco groaned again, this time in actual annoyance, scraping his hands down his face. “Don't make me feel guilty , Potter, with your stupid puppy-dog eyes and your dejected voice, you absolute tosser. This is for your own bloody good!”

Potter squinted at him. “And ‘this’ is...?”

Draco knew he was turning red. He could feel the heat in his cheeks, and judging by Potter's sudden amusement, he could as well.

“Seriously, Malfoy,” he repeated. “What's up?”

“You know I'm a veela, right?” he began awkwardly, voice high with anxiety.

Potter rolled his eyes. “Well I didn't , but now I sure do. What about it?”

“You know how veela have, um, eggs?”

Potter frowned. “Malfoy, what's wrong?”

“Well, in order to have those eggs hatch, veela want sex,” he blurted, scrambling for some more bullshit to spout in order to explain himself, “so they go into some sort of, like, heat, I guess, like bitches do, a certain time of the year. Or month. I’m not quite sure,” he babbled.

Potter looked shocked. “O-oh? But birds don't go into heat-”

“I don't fucking know, okay!” he shouted. “But I'm randy as all hell, Potter, and this isn't normal, and I really don't think now’s a good time, because as horny as I am, even you look nice right about now.”

Potter stared, eyes wide. “Um, yeah, okay,” he replied stiltedly. “I'll just... floo tomorrow evening?”

“Please,” Draco replied, miserable.

Big mistake.

Dr. Gannet had appointments all day, it turns out. He was free the day prior, of course, when Narcissa had suggested, but it was just Draco’s sodding luck that he couldn't find an appointment the one day he needed it promptly.

When Potter flooed the next afternoon, Draco told him this warily.

“That being said,” he continued, watching as Potter’s face fell, which was both flattering and pant-tightening, “I think that, as long as you don't do anything to provoke me, we should be fine. I do have some self control, after all. And you're Potter,” he scoffed.

Potter rolled his eyes. “Gee thanks, Malfoy.” But, he was smiling. “So, I can come through? As long as I don't make any crude jokes? Or, I don't know, offer you a handjob? I'm not sure what counts as a come-on to gay guys, but I'll try not to be too provocative,” he assured, mostly teasing.

He obviously wasn't picking up on how gravely Draco was handling the situation, but in all honesty, Draco was surprised at how well Potter was taking it. He had all but just admitted to being sexually attracted to Potter just yesterday, and even though he was blaming it on his veela, didn't Potter find that even the least bit uncomfortable? Apparently, he trusted Draco's self control and honesty more than Draco did himself .

“Alright,” Draco agreed, shuffling back from the floo as Potter tumbled in. Thuban remained hiding, wherever he was, but if Potter noticed, he didn't ask, too dumbstruck by Draco, whom he was staring at with wide eyes.

Draco felt embarrassment at being stared at so intently. “What?” he asked nervously, tucking some hair behind his ear. It was tied into a messy bun this morning, though some loose strands fell down to frame his face attractively. Not that he was trying to attract anyone.

Who was he kidding?

“You look...” Potter trailed off.

“Scary?” Draco offered, rolling his eyes.

“Really cool, actually,” Potter said, and Draco flushed a bit too hard at the mild compliment. “Your eyes are... intense.”

Draco took a deep breath. “Potter,” he warned slowly, “complimenting me, in this particular situation and at this particular time, is being translated as flirting, which is not okay, yeah?”

Potter glanced briefly at Draco’s crotch before turning bright red and stuttering, “O-oh, um, yeah. R-right. Shall we... sit down?”

Draco nodded stiffly. “You wanted to tell me about how things went with Ginny?”

Potter nodded mutely as he sat on the couch opposite Draco, looking at the hands in his lap. Potter clenched them into fists for a moment before releasing the tension and gently folding his fingers together.

Draco was uneasy with how fascinating this was, simply watching Potter’s hands. The faint, dark hairs on Potter’s digits. His squared fingers, his broad palms. Potter had masculine hands, Draco noted, swallowing.

When his eyes finally flickered back up to Potter, he was redder than ever before, eyes wide, lips slightly parted.

Potter resolutely shoved his hands in his pockets, and Draco felt his own face heat in shame.

Sweet Jesus, give me strength.

“Sorry,” he murmured awkwardly, ducking his head. When he peeked up through the loose hairs which airly swayed forward and into his eyes, Potter was looking out the window, brows furrowed and mouth quirked oddly with discomfort.

Draco felt a pang of annoyance before he could really understand why. And when he did, he paled. It was because Potter wasn’t looking at him, and he looked cute, dammit. He knew he did. With his hair framing his face, looking up through his thick eyelashes, face aflush, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

And he nearly slapped himself. He wasn’t trying to flirt with Potter!

He quickly straightened. “I’m...” He grimaced. “Is this-?”

“Weird?” Potter blurted, looking back at him. “Yes.”

Draco cringed. “We can try some other time,” he offered softly.

Potter ran a hand through his hair, only making it look more wild. Bed-mussed. Recently-shagged.

Draco bit his lip again, but averted his eyes to his toes, only just realizing he was bare-footed.

He wiggled them, just to distract himself. When was the last time he’d walked the manner shoeless? Why hadn’t his mother said anything? Had she noticed? How hadn’t he noticed? The floors were chilly.

With a frown at his own absent mindedness, he curled his feet into the couch before returning his attention to Potter who, much to his pleasure, was looking at him.

“It’s weird seeing you in normal clothes,” Potter said.

Draco stared. “Is it?” he asked, just to say something. He was watching Potter’s face for any hint of whether or not he liked it.

Potter’s cheeks slowly pinkened again, and then he looked away, tugging a bit at his collar. “I can almost feels your gaze,” he coughed awkwardly.

Draco’s eyelids lowered, and he felt a smirk pulling at his lips. “I can think of plenty of other things I could make you feel-”

“Alright!” Potter said, jumping to his feet, posture stiff. “I’ll just be taking my leave, then-”

“No!” Draco demanded, eyes wide, lurching forward and grabbing Potter’s wrist. He nearly lost his balance, the distance being what it was between the couches, and his wings raised to accommodate for the change in center of gravity.

When Potter looked ready to flee, Draco flinched a bit.

“Sorry,” he murmured, slowly leaning back in the chair, dropping his grip on Potter’s wrist. “I’m... not in my right mind right now, but I... It means a lot to me that you want to confide in me,” he whispered, peering down dejectedly at the hands folded in his lap.

He heard shuffling, and then a sigh, and then Potter plopped back into the chair.

The same chair as Draco.

Draco stiffened. “Do you think that’s a good idea?” he rasped, throat suddenly parched.

“Er...” Potter paused, but then his face turned determined and he leaned over and wrapped an arm over Draco’s stiff shoulders. “Mal-Draco,” he said carefully, “I know this isn’t really you , and as soon as we find a way to put your wings back into rights, you’ll go back to normal-”

Draco brightened visibly. “The wings,” he murmured, “I hadn’t even thought of that! Maybe if I— just a moment,” he assured before turning. “ Accio hormone pills,” he commanded, just before his hand touched his wand, yet Draco still heard the telltale clack! of the pill bottle as it clinked against a couple walls and marble pillars on it’s way over.

He stared, heart pounding in his head, in his ears, as he stared down at his wand, mere centimeters from his wand.

Had he just...?

Wandlessly ?

Draco glanced at Potter to see if he’d caught any of that, but Potter seemed suitably distracted by Draco’s wings, which he regarded with interest.

Before he did anything stupid, like ask if Potter wanted to touch them, Draco grabbed the bottle of pills from the air and downed a couple, as was the recommended dosage before the bloody things had sprouted from his back.

Draco sat, waited, and after a scant few minutes, he felt a brush of cold sweep through his heated flesh, and when his body relaxed, his eyes fluttering closed, he felt the stretching and compressing of his wings until there was nothing against his back but the faint flutter of the edge of his t-shirt, the gouge in the back from his early morning haphazard cutting now obvious.

He was too elated to care, however.

He looked to Potter with a grin. “I’m good,” he said.

Potter blinked. “You’re... good?”

“I’m not the total horndog I was earlier,” Draco amended, “and, I got rid of my wings!”

Potter blinked again. “Oh.” Then, he smiled. “Well, that’s brilliant. I was just...”

“Getting uncomfortable, I know. I promise I will make no more passes at you,” he swore, one hand over his heart while the other was raised, as if making an honest oath.

Potter was amused, and his smile was warm.

Draco wondered if he would be able to keep his promise.

“So,” he began gently, leaning towards Potter just enough to brush their arms encouragingly before he leaned away again. “How did things go?”

Potter sighed, suddenly looking worn out. “Right. Well, Gin told me about her... postpartum depression, I think it was?” At Draco’s intrigued nod, he continued. “And, of course, I told her we could do everything within our power to heal her, but...”

“But?” Draco prodded gently.

Potter seemed transfixed by his eyes again—which was peculiar, because he was no longer 70% veela, but perhaps that was why he was staring—before saying, “She wants a break. She said that she felt she needed to heal on her own, without the burden of... well, me. Us.”

Draco was shocked. “She... You’re...”

Potter smiled crookedly. “I’m officially single for the first time in—what—nine years?”

Draco didn’t dare let any emotion other than compassion show on his face, but was careful to avoid looking Potter directly in the eye, because he didn’t want to show his hunger.

“Is that what a break is?” he asked softly. “You’ve broken up, temporarily? Does that really mean you’re single?”

Potter regarded him. “I don’t really know, actually. I can’t imagine I’ll be doing any dating between work, and James, and helping Ginny as much as I can without helping her, if that makes sense. I don’t know how she would feel about me showing interest in other people, anyway. She told me she wasn’t sure how long things would take, but I can’t imagine doing that to Gin.”

Draco nodded faintly. “So what, exactly, does this mean?”

Potter shrugged. “I dunno. More guys-nights, I suppose. I get to sleep in my own bed. I can let loose on my grooming since I’ve no one to impress, anymore.”

Plastering a confused expression on his face, Draco mused aloud, “Do you normally groom?”

Potter punched him in the arm with a laugh.

Draco smiled. “So, do you?”

Potter laughed again. “What?”

“No, seriously.”

“No, seriously, what?”

“Do you groom?”

Potter raised an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”

Draco frowned a bit. “No, I’m just curious.”

“Oh,” Potter said, shrugging. “Okay.”

Draco stared at him.

After a few moments of staring off in the distance, Potter glanced back at him, eyebrow raised. “Can I help you?”

Draco felt an eye twitch. “Are you going to tell me?”

Potter regarded him for a moment, and then sighed.

Draco watched with anticipation as those lips parted.

“Am I going to tell you what ?” Potter stressed.

Draco grabbed the thing nearest to him—luckily for Potter, this happened to be a throw pillow— and bloody launched it at the git’s shocked face.

“Do. You. Groom ?” he hissed, accentuating each word with another smack of the pillow.

Potter was utterly cackling with glee. “This is killing you, isn’t it?” he wheezed between bellows of laughter.

This enraged Draco more. “You utter twat , you were being purposefully obtuse?”

Potter finally grabbed the pillow and, with surprising strength, shoved Draco back, pressing the pillow into the blond’s face, smothering him.

Draco flailed out wildly, beating at Potter’s shoulders, before dramatically spasming and lying still.

Potter snorted. “Cute,” he said, pulling the pillow away.

Draco sprung up as soon as the pressure was released, startling Potter with a yelp as he quickly leaned back in fear of clashing heads.

Draco grinned at him, hair in disarray as his hair clip pitifully clung to the ends of his hair. The bun was nothing more than a fond memory, at this point.

Still laughing a bit, Draco tugged the clip from the tangled strands at the end of his hair before sliding it on to his wrist and gently raking his fingers through his hair, from ends to roots.

“So, are you worried? About Ginny,” Draco said, half his attention on his hair.

Potter leaned back, propping an elbow on one of the armrests as he watched Draco fuss with his pale locks. “A little? To be honest, we’ve been distant for a couple years now. Before James, really. I can’t imagine much will change, really, except she’s going to stay with her Mum for a while, so I’ll have the house to myself.”

“And James?” Draco inquired before flipping his head forward in order to scoop all of his hair into one loose fist. Once he’d gathered most of the wayward strands in the back, he leaned back once more and lifted his head.

Potter looked surprised. “That scared me,” he admitted. “You lurching forward like that. Scared me a bit more when your hair smacked me in the leg.”

Draco snorted. “Grow your hair out and I’ll do yours for you some time. James?” he prompted, his empty hand moving towards his forehead in order to pin back the shorter strands in the front. When he spoke with Potter, he didn’t want any messy hair in his face anymore. He wanted to see Potter. He wanted Potter to see him, open and vulnerable.

He felt bare, once he’d lowered his arms. There was nothing between Potter and himself, and judging by Potter’s soft, small smile, he understood the severity of this choice.

But, ever the Gryffindor, Potter didn’t get too soppy, and simply answered the previous question. “James will be staying with Gin at the Burrow. I’m... Well,” Potter huffed, and it was a little too adorably indignant, “I’m not upset , because I know that part of her healing, probably, is spending time with him. I get that. But also, part of me is upset, because, in a way, it feels like I’m being kicked out? Which, I know , sounds selfish and shallow, but I don’t mean it like that, I just-” Potter made a few shapes with his mouths, several aborted attempts at words and concise explanations, before huffing again, this time looked a little less righteously indignant, and more dejected.

Draco placed a hand over Potter’s, rubbing awkward circles on the back of his hand with his thumb.

Draco studiously didn't stray his eyes from Potter’s head, fearful of becoming transfixed by those broad hands beneath his, once more.

“I just wish I could be there,” he whispered. “I don’t—not necessarily as her husband, which, I know, sounds... wrong. But I just... first and foremost, Ginny is my best friend. Sometimes, sure, I like to romance her, but, to be perfectly honest, I’d really just like to talk. I want her to open up to me more, and for me to do the same. I want to feel like she needs me for something, I guess, which is needy in itself, but I just...” Potter sighed.

“I get it,” Draco agreed.

Potter looked up at him.

“I understand your desire to just... be there with her. Not personally,” Draco added quickly, “because, heh, no —but, I get what you’re trying to say. You want to be the one to take her pain away, or at least to be the one she turns to for help, yes?”

Potter nodded, eyes open and vulnerable, worrying his lip between his teeth. Draco looked at his hand, still on Potter’s, instead, because even that was better than that .

“But, see, Ginevra doesn’t strike me as the kind of girl who wants that,” he said softly. “ Not that I’m claiming to know your wife better than you do—of course not—but I think that, for someone like Ginny to allow someone to hold her close like that... The fact that she wants to work things out on her own tells me that she’s an independent woman, yes, but a woman who doesn’t want you to always be there to heal her wounds. That she knows that’s what you’ll try to do.”

Potter clenched his hands into a fist, one hand clutching Draco’s fingers.

“But what can I do, then?” Potter whispered harshly, face drawn into a hopeless sneer. “If she never comes to me...”

Potter was was loosely arched over his crossed legs, like a large turtle, facing Draco on the couch.

With a small sound, the blond scooted closer and put a hand on Potter’s shoulder. When he wasn’t rebuffed, fearful of crossing any lines at as poor a time as this, he just barely moved his hands to Potter’s neck, where he gently pressed the skin with his knuckles.

“It’s definitely not all her fault, Potter,” he murmured, close enough that they could speak quietly, “but some of it is. I’m not denying that. Depression or not, as someone who hopes for you to continue to stand by her, she needs to stand by you as well. You’re partners. Two halves of the same coin, and all that mushy rubbish. I’m not implying either of you are perfect, or even more so than the other, but Potter, if she doesn’t want to talk to you, and you want her to talk to you, then I agree with Ginny on this. Perhaps a break is in order.”

Potter’s neck shifted as if he were going to look up at him, but Draco pressed into his neck harder, shifting forwards a bit so he could massage Potter’s neck with more ease.

Potter exhaled deeply, before relaxing again. With a slight sniff, he leaned forward just a scarce inch, and his head was pressed into Draco’s t-shirt, firmly against his chest.

“Not because you don’t love each other,” he whispered, “but because... You don’t know what you have until it’s gone, or however that depressing proverb goes. How much are you willing to sacrifice to keep this relationship going?”

Potter stiffened. “Wha-”

“How much is she willing to give in order to keep you around?”

Potter pulled away, looking at him with mildly insulted bemusement. “We’re not breaking up ,” he insisted slowly, as if speaking to a child.

Draco eyed him warily. “I’m only trying to help,” he replied loftily. “I’ve never been in a serious relationship, however, so perhaps I’m off.”

Potter scoffed derisively. “I’d say. Love isn't about how much you’re willing to give up in order to keep someone around, it’s about how you both accept each other.”

“Aren’t those, kind of, the same things?” Draco asked, perhaps a tad defensive. “You love Ginny. You guys go ‘off break’ and are back to being married, let’s say. Let’s say, something’s up, and she doesn’t want to talk about it. ‘I’ll handle it,’ she says. Well, Potter, you may ‘happily accept ’ this as one of Ginevra’s personality traits, just one of those things about her, but you’re giving up on your desire for connection though confession. You like to talk about your problems, and ask for help-”

Potter reeled back, as if stung.

Draco winced at his own poor wording. “I didn’t mean it like that-”

“Oh, no, well, if it just seems like I want to talk about all my problems ,” Potter hissed, pushing away from him and off the couch, “all my issues ,” he seethed.

“Potter,” Draco sighed. “Harry.”

“Don’t,” he warned.

“No, I...” Draco flopped back against the couch, on his back, staring at the ceiling.

After several moments, Potter stepped closer, angling his head forward enough to peer down his nose at the blond.

“I can see up your nose,” Draco said.

Potter’s lip quirked. “Charming.”

Draco sighed again. “I’m like you, in that regard.”

Potter raised both eyebrows. “You think I’m charming,” he said.

Draco sniggered. “ No , I meant...” He sobered. “I meant about wanting to talk things through,” he explained quietly. “Briefly, when I first moved in with Muggles, I did date around a bit. But... I didn’t like not being able to tell them everything. About my mark, my past, my—well, me . I don’t usually want to go off blathering about all my woes, mind you, but it’s different choosing not to do something, and-”

“Not having the option altogether.” Potter smiled. “I know.”

Draco smiled back at him a bit. “And when it was the opposite way, I would go crazy, a bit. I hate being treated like... Like they don’t need me, don’t want me as much as I want them. I’m not obsessed, really, or possessive, or jealous or anything, but when they wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t just tell me what they wanted, or how they wanted it, or when—and I don’t mean that in a solely sexual manner, of course, but yes, virgin Potter, blush at that anyway.”

“Sod off,” Potter huffed. “You’re probably more virgin than I am,” he insisted, however.

“How so?” Draco asked.

“Well, I’ve a kid. That implies sexual intercourse at some point.”

Draco face warped. “I did not need that image.”

“I thought you like the thought of me-” Potter cut himself off, sputtering at his own bloody bravado.

“I,” Draco didn’t know how to respond, knowing he was as red as a copper cauldron and without the ability to do much about it. “I was on bird hormones,” he protested weakly, anyway. “Besides, I’m bi.”

“So?” Potter asked, struggling for casualness, even after his previous... yes. Draco was impressed, honestly, that Potter had acknowledged what Draco wanted enough to comment on it so accurately. It was embarrassing, but also... kind of hot.

“So, I doubt you’ve done anal.”

Potter sputtered again, but this time, with a cough as well. “Well, no -”

“Blowjob?” Draco asked, smirking wickedly. “Rimming? Pegging? I’ve even tried docking once, if you can believe it. Unique experience, that one. Snowballing, perhaps? Oh, but you don’t seem like a polygamous sort of guy.”

Potter looked a mixture of interested and horrified. “I don’t even—Snowballing? What even is that?”

Draco laughed. “It’s a fun game. I’ll show you, some time.”

Potter looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Perhaps I’ll pass.”

Draco made a face. “You don’t even know what it is yet.”

“True, but I don’t like that smug look on your face.”

Draco smiled, and it wasn’t a smirk, just a little grin. “Truth or Dare, Potter?”

Potter blinked, surprised. “Since when are we-”

“Dare, it is!”

“Truth,” Potter insisted.

“You pathetic bastard.”

Potter smiled more confidently. “Truth,” he reiterated.

Draco smirked. “Do you groom?”

“ Oh , my God. You’re still on that?”

“Answer the question!”

“No, I don’t.”

Draco hummed. “Alright,” he said simply, and Potter made an exasperated noise. “Your turn.”

“I don’t-”

“Fine, my turn again then. Dare, this time?”

Potter rolled his eyes. “You’re going to force me into it, anyway, aren’t you?”

Draco smiled. “I dare you to... order us some pizza.”

Potter smirked. “You have all that power, and you want me to order pizza?”

“No, I want pizza, and you just happened to be here and willing. It’s a win-win, really. And you’re Gryffindor, so of course you’ll hold to your word and do so, yeah?” Draco fluttered his eyelashes.

Potter huffed. “Sure, sure. You owe me a truth and a dare, Malfoy.”

Draco grinned. “I’m shaking, truly. Now, I don’t eat animal shit, but I have a menu for this great vegan place-”

“I can easily go grab some nuts and leaves from outside, Malfoy. Honestly.”

Draco threw the throw pillow at him again, annoyed when Potter caught it, the grinning troglodyte that he was.

“More for me,” he sniffed.

Potter laughed but grabbed the menu Draco accio ’d anyway.