Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Gold.

No matter how many times she looked, the colour stayed the same.

Gold.

Draconia Malfoy crouched on the cold marble floor of the Slytherin girls’ bathroom, her back pressed against the cupboard under the sink. She hugged her knees to her chest, hoping that making herself smaller might somehow make the truth go away. The cold from the tiles crept through her robes and stung her skin, but she barely felt it. The only sounds were the slow drip of a leaky tap and her pounding heart.

The enchanted lamps above the sinks cast a pale, weak light, stretching long shadows across the stalls. She stared at the small glass vial shaking in her hand, the potion inside shining gold—bright, impossible to ignore, and damning even in the dim light. Her fingers were numb from holding it so tightly, as if she could break the glass and erase what it showed.

The potion was supposed to remain silver.

Instead, it had turned gold.

She glared at it, willing the colour to shift or fade, to do anything but shine back at her so accusingly. Maybe she’d made a mistake, like miscounting a stir or grinding the moonstone too finely. But that was impossible. She had followed the instructions exactly, reading every step over and over until the words blurred, measuring each ingredient, checking the temperature, and counting every stir with the care that always made her one of Slughorn’s favourites.

She was good at Potions. Exceptionally good. Better than Granger, no matter what that insufferable know-it-all thought. That made this situation feel even more unreal. Potions was her safe place, the one thing she could control when everything else in her life was chaos. Here, mistakes weren’t supposed to happen.

She set a second vial beside the first, her hands shaking, as if the result might change if she blinked or breathed differently.

Gold. Again.

Two secret batches, two identical answers. She scanned the recipe once more, desperate for a missed detail, any loophole that might save her. There was none.

Draconia squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her palm to her forehead, as if she could block out what she already knew.

Merlin.

She was pregnant.

Pregnant.

The word echoed in her mind, impossible and undeniable at once, as if it belonged to someone else—a girl she might have pitied but never thought she’d become. Still, the truth pressed on her chest with a weight she couldn’t escape.

For weeks, she had made excuses: the exhaustion was just sleepless nights, the queasy mornings were only nerves, and the missed period was probably just stress. She brushed off her friends’ worried looks, told Pansy she’d just lost her appetite, laughed at Daphne’s half-joking comments about her pale face, and even let Millicent cover for her when she left breakfast without eating. Looking back, the signs had always been there—every skipped meal, every restless night, every small change she tried to ignore.

Her friends had noticed, even when she refused to.

Pansy had started bringing her extra tea from the kitchens, pressing warm mugs into her hands and hovering a little too closely during meals. Daphne would catch her eye across the common room, concern flickering in her expression before she looked away, as if afraid to pry. Even Blaise, in his typically blunt way, had commented that she was starting to look “a bit peaky.”

She was too proud and too scared to let anyone get close. Malfoys didn’t show weakness. Malfoys handled their own problems. So she hid behind a calm mask, hoping no one would notice how close she was to falling apart.

Now, with the proof right in front of her, she wondered how she hadn’t seen it sooner. All the signs had pointed in one direction, but she had done everything to avoid them, until those two golden vials made her face the truth.

And then there was the father.

Of all the boys at Hogwarts. Of all the wizards in Britain. It had to be Harry bloody Potter.

The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. Her father’s least favourite person, possibly rivalled only by Dumbledore. And she was carrying his child.

A Potter.

The idea was so ridiculous, she almost laughed. Her father would lose his mind. Her mother would probably faint. As for Harry, Draconia swallowed; she had no idea what he would do. They weren’t really a couple—Merlin, no. They never talked about things like this, never gave a name to whatever was between them. Most days, they could barely talk without arguing.

Potter was stubborn, arrogant, and always thought he was right about everything. She’d told him about these flaws many times, and he usually answered by pointing out her own—which was rich, coming from him. Yet, despite everything, when she tried not to think about him, his face always came to mind—softer than she remembered, sometimes almost shy.

It wasn’t always like this.

For years, she and Potter really hated each other, always mocking and competing, turning every meeting into a battle of pride and stubbornness. Their interactions were as sharp as their insults.

The ridiculous thing was that she had once wanted to be his friend.

Before Hogwarts, before the years of insults and arguments, she had approached Harry Potter with every intention of befriending him. He was famous, of course, but that wasn’t the only reason. She had been curious about the boy everyone spoke of, the one who had somehow survived the Dark Lord.

And perhaps she had wanted him to like her.

She had offered him her friendship before the Sorting Ceremony, certain that he would accept. Why wouldn’t he? She was Draconia Malfoy, after all.

Instead, Potter had chosen Weasley.

Worse, he had rejected her in front of him.

She could still remember the humiliation. The way her cheeks had burned, how she had immediately straightened her back and pretended she hadn’t cared.

Naturally, she had decided Harry Potter was an arrogant, ungrateful little prat.

And she had spent the following years making certain he knew it.

Looking back, perhaps she had taken the rejection a little too personally.

Only a little.

But every rivalry has its cracks, and in fourth year, something changed.

It started at the Yule Ball, or rather, with a particularly stupid argument a few weeks beforehand. Word had spread that Harry Potter was still without a date. Apparently, he’d wanted to ask Cho Chang, only to discover she’d already agreed to go with Diggory.

Naturally, Draconia found the whole thing hilarious.

She happened to encounter Potter outside the Great Hall, looking particularly miserable, and simply couldn’t resist.

“Still haven’t found yourself a date, Potter?”

He looked up, already scowling. “Piss off, Malfoy.”

“Charming. I can see why the girls are queuing up.”

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“Oh, don’t be so miserable. I’m sure someone will take pity on you eventually.”

“And I suppose you’ve already got someone?”

Draconia lifted her chin, feigning boredom. “Naturally.”

That wasn’t entirely true. But he didn’t need to know that.

Potter raised an eyebrow. “Right.”

The nerve of him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Didn’t say that.”

He was smiling now.

Smiling. At her expense.

Draconia narrowed her eyes.

“Well, if you’re that desperate, Potter, I suppose I could always accompany you. Consider it an act of charity.”

It was sarcasm, obviously.

She expected him to tell her exactly where she could shove her charity.

Instead, Potter tilted his head. “All right.”

Draconia blinked. “What?”

“All right. I’ll go with you.”

For once in her life, Draconia Malfoy found herself without a suitable response.

Potter’s smile widened. “Unless you’re frightened, Malfoy.”

Oh, the absolute nerve.

“Of you? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Good. I’ll see you at the Ball, then.”

And with that, the insufferable prat walked away, leaving Draconia standing there, wondering how she’d managed to lose an argument she’d started.

Which was rather inconvenient, considering she hadn’t actually expected to dance with him.

Their dance was awkward and full of sharp words, as they both refused to let their guard down. Still, amid the teasing, she caught a brief softness—a smile just for her.

And, rather annoyingly, she found herself smiling back.

They never talked about it afterwards, but it stayed with her, refusing to fade.

A few months later, towards the end of fourth year, Snape paired them together for a Potions lesson. Draconia had expected disaster—either a public argument or, worse, awkward silence. Instead, they bickered over every step: he criticised her stirring, she rolled her eyes at his choice of ingredients. But when their cauldron nearly boiled over, they scrambled to fix it, their hands bumping as they grabbed for supplies, both of them laughing in spite of themselves. For a few moments, it was easy. She caught Harry looking at her, and for once, he didn’t glare. She didn’t either.

By fifth year, their rivalry was routine—arguments in the halls, competitions in class, the same old pattern. But now she started noticing things she shouldn’t: how he listened to his friends, or how he sometimes looked at her with both challenge and curiosity.

She was still a Malfoy, of course. A Slytherin prefect, a member of Umbridge’s Inquisitorial Squad, and perfectly willing to make Weasley’s life miserable with a particularly catchy song.

She enjoyed the privileges. Especially when they annoyed Potter.

But there were certain things she had begun to overlook. A broken school rule here, an opportunity to take points there. Sometimes she caught Potter doing something that would have earned Gryffindor a detention and simply looked the other way.

Not out of kindness, naturally.

She simply couldn’t be bothered.

At least, that was what she told herself.

The Quidditch match had been different.

She’d been furious about Slytherin losing. Naturally, she’d taken it out on Potter and Weasley, making a few particularly nasty remarks about the Weasley family.

She had nearly said something about Potter’s mother, too.

Nearly.

The insult had been right there, on the tip of her tongue. Something cruel about a woman who had been dead for nearly fifteen years.

But then she thought of her own mother. Of Narcissa, who still kissed her forehead whenever she returned home for the holidays, despite Draconia insisting she was far too old for such things.

Potter didn’t have that.

He never had.

And for some thoroughly irritating reason, she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

Not that it mattered. She’d already said enough to provoke Potter into losing his temper.

The resulting fight had been a disgrace. Umbridge’s decision to ban him from Quidditch, however, had initially seemed rather amusing.

Until she saw his expression.

Potter loved flying. Even Draconia knew that.

For once, she found herself looking away rather than enjoying his misery.

Then there was that dreadful woman in pink.

Draconia had never liked Umbridge’s sickly sweet smiles, particularly the ones she directed towards Potter. Every time that woman so much as looked at him, Draconia wanted to claw her eyeballs out.

Not that she was being protective of Potter, of course.

She simply couldn’t stand the woman.

She remembered encountering Potter outside the woman’s office one evening. He looked exhausted, his right hand tucked beneath the sleeve of his robes.

Naturally, she had been preparing an insult.

Until she noticed the blood.

A few drops had seeped through the fabric of his sleeve. Another fell onto the stone floor.

Draconia stared.

Potter noticed her looking and tried to pull his sleeve further down. He winced at the movement, his face tightening with pain. Even that simple task seemed to be giving him trouble.

For a moment, she could only watch him struggle.

Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced towards the closed office door.

That vile hag. 

She had always known there was something rotten beneath Umbridge’s pleasant little act, but this?

She wanted to march straight into that office, seize the woman by the collar of her hideous pink cardigan, and hex her until she forgot how to smile.

And the insufferable idiot had apparently decided to suffer in silence.

“What happened to your hand?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter. You’re bleeding.”

“Since when do you care?”

A perfectly reasonable question.

One she had absolutely no intention of answering.

Draconia looked away, then retrieved a clean handkerchief from her pocket.

“Here. Before you make a mess of the corridor.”

He stared at it.

“Malfoy—”

“Oh, just take it, Potter.”

He did.

Neither thanked the other.

And Draconia never mentioned it again.

By sixth year, pretending was impossible.

Potter was everywhere, always pushing, sure she was hiding something—and she was. Their arguments got sharper and more personal, the line between accusation and confession blurring until she found herself replaying their words at night, anger turning into something she didn’t dare name.

Everything changed after a heated argument in an empty classroom.

The fights didn’t stop; if anything, they got worse, but now quiet moments filled the space between them—after curfew, in empty halls, in the silence of unused classrooms.

It started with fleeting, curious touches. Sometimes she leaned against him, or his fingers brushed against hers, lingering just long enough for her to notice. Other times, there was a hand on her arm when no one was looking, or a dare in the glint of his eyes.

Draconia told herself it was merely curiosity. An entirely reasonable explanation, certainly more reasonable than admitting she might actually fancy Potter.

They never talked about it or made promises. Both pretended nothing had changed, even as everything shifted underneath.

The next argument ended with a kiss, sharper than before. After that, it became harder to stop: kisses that lasted a little longer each time, lips pressed in shadowed corners, breathless laughter muffled against his neck. Each kiss was a question neither wanted to answer, their feelings growing harder to ignore until neither could pretend it was just a game.

Weeks later, one night brought no arguments and no masks, just the two of them alone, letting the world fade away.

It was eager. Clumsy. Desperate. And somehow, still perfect.

The second the door clicked shut behind them, she was already reaching for his collar, dragging him down until their mouths met in a fierce, hungry kiss. He responded just as quickly, hands fisting in her hair, his glasses askew, both of them stumbling and bumping into the edge of the desk. Her laughter was breathless against his lips—he grinned, then kissed her harder, fingers tangling in her robes as though he couldn’t decide what he wanted more, to pull her closer or push her back against the desk.

They kept missing—noses bumping, teeth clacking, laughter tumbling out between kisses—but neither cared. She’d never wanted anything as much as she wanted him right then. Potter was just as shameless, tugging her jumper over her head, then immediately losing his own balance as she yanked his tie loose with trembling hands. Her fingers fumbled at his shirt buttons—he tried to help, but only made it worse, both of them swearing and giggling and then kissing again, harder, as if kissing could fix the mess they were making of everything else.

He tasted like peppermint and nerves. She pressed her mouth to his jaw, his throat, the hollow of his collarbone, and felt him shudder beneath her touch. His hands slid beneath her blouse, rough and careful all at once, and when she finally got his shirt open, she traced the scar on his chest with her fingertips, feeling the way he held his breath. He stared at her, green eyes wide, lips parted, and she wanted—Merlin, she wanted everything.

Her bra was a disaster—he tried, failed, tried again, and she finally snapped at him to just let her do it, undoing the clasp herself with a huff. He kissed her apology into her shoulder, his hands warm and reverent, and she pulled him down for another kiss, fierce and breathless and so full of longing she thought she might come apart. Every touch was new and uncertain, but it didn’t matter; they learned each other by touch and taste and sound, hands sliding over skin, mouths finding every inch they could reach.

They finally collapsed together, skin to skin, tangled in discarded robes and jumpers, her hair spilling over his chest. Their bodies fit together in a way that was nothing like a fairy tale—awkward, imperfect, but real. He whispered her name against her neck, and she bit his shoulder, muffling her laughter, her nerves, her fear.

Afterwards, they lay tangled up, his hand drawing lazy circles on her back, her face pressed to his chest, listening to his heart racing beneath her cheek. She’d never felt so exposed, so wanted, or so impossibly safe.

Draconia had never let herself believe in happy endings, but that night, with Harry tucking her hair behind her ear as if she might break, she almost wished she could.

The memory left her cheeks burning. She pressed her forehead to her knees, torn between a shaky smile and a wave of embarrassment so sharp it almost hurt. What would he think if he knew she was sitting here now, clutching proof of what they’d done? For one aching moment, she wanted nothing more than to see him, to feel his arms around her again.

But morning always came, and with it, the world.

Looking back, she could see how things had changed. Their hatred had slowly turned into something uncertain and fragile, built from countless little moments. She couldn’t say when she stopped wanting to beat him and started wanting him to choose her—not because he had to, but because he wanted her for who she was.

And now, all of that was tangled with something far more frightening.

A child.

She still didn’t know what she meant to Harry Potter. He had never told her he loved her, and she had never told him. Not that she was in love with the insufferable prat—obviously—yet sometimes, when he looked at her with those ridiculous green eyes, she wondered if he was waiting for her to say something first.

Now she might never know.

Harry Potter was exactly the sort of fool who would sacrifice his own happiness because he believed it was the right thing to do. He would want to help, insist on taking responsibility, probably start making plans before she had even finished telling him—and that was what frightened her. Not that he would abandon her, but that he would stay; stay because there was a child, stay because he was Harry Potter, and Harry Potter had never learnt how to walk away from someone who needed him.

Draconia didn’t want his pity. She didn’t want to become another responsibility he felt obliged to carry. She wanted—

Her throat tightened. She refused to finish that thought.

Because there were, of course, other possibilities. Other girls. Sometimes she caught Harry glancing at Weasley, or laughing too easily at something Granger said. He always seemed so sure with them—comfortable, at ease, never second-guessing himself or her. With Draconia, there was always another argument, another reason to mistrust. She wondered if she’d only ever been a curiosity, not really someone he could love.

She could survive Harry Potter rejecting her. She was a Malfoy. She had her pride.

But the child—

Her gaze dropped to her stomach. What about the child?

Harry would never abandon his own baby. She knew that much about him. And somehow, that certainty made everything worse, because he might stay; he might take her hand, promise to help, and spend the rest of his life convincing himself it was what he wanted—all while wishing things had been different, wishing the mother of his child had been someone else: someone who could stand beside him openly, someone his friends liked, someone he could trust, someone he could love without having to explain himself.

Draconia pressed her lips together. She hated herself for thinking it, hated the Weasley girl for having done absolutely nothing wrong, resented Granger for knowing Harry better than she did, and, most of all, hated Harry bloody Potter for making her care about any of it. Because somewhere along the way, between the arguments and the stolen kisses, she had begun wanting things she had no business wanting—not merely his help or his sense of duty, not even his affection if it came only from pity.

She wanted him to choose her, not because of the baby or honour, but because he wanted Draconia Malfoy, with all her sharp edges, her dreadful temper, and her habit of saying the wrong thing whenever she was frightened. And that—well, that was a far more humiliating admission than anything those golden vials had revealed.

Her eyes stung. She blinked furiously. Absolutely not. She was not going to cry over Harry bloody Potter. Not here. Not now.

As though Potter weren’t enough of a problem, everything else was, too. Her father was in Azkaban. Her mother was alone at the Manor, sending letters that grew increasingly anxious despite her efforts to sound calm. Her mother had always been skilled at pretending everything was perfectly fine, and Draconia wondered where she had learnt that particular habit.

Her father, meanwhile, had never been subtle about his displeasure. She could practically imagine his expression if he discovered that his only daughter was carrying Harry Potter’s child—the silence, the slow tightening of his jaw, the way he would say her name: Draconia—as though those four syllables alone could express an entire lecture.

She almost smiled. Almost. Because beneath all his expectations and lectures about proper conduct and the importance of the Malfoy name, her father had always been indulgent with her—a new broomstick when she asked, expensive jewellery she barely wore, books imported from France because she’d mentioned wanting them once over breakfast. He had spoilt her terribly, and she had never doubted that he loved her, which somehow made the thought of disappointing him worse.

Her mother would be different. Narcissa would worry, would ask if Draconia was well, if she’d been eating properly, if she needed anything, and would probably insist on bringing her home immediately. And then she would ask who the father was; that conversation would be an absolute disaster.

But her parents were only part of the problem. There were other expectations now, far greater ones—the kind she couldn’t discuss with her friends, her professors, or even the boy whose child she was carrying. She had already spent months trying to meet demands that felt more impossible every day. Every morning, she woke with another reminder of what was expected; every night, she went to bed knowing she was running out of time.

And now this. A baby.

Draconia looked down at her stomach again. It was strange, knowing something so important was happening inside her while the rest of the world carried on, completely unaware. Tomorrow, the students would complain about homework. Pansy would gossip over breakfast. Granger would undoubtedly raise her hand in every lesson. Potter would probably find another excuse to follow her around the castle. And Draconia would be expected to behave as though nothing had changed, as though she wasn’t carrying a child.

Their child.

For the first time, she wondered what the baby might look like. Would it have her pale hair? Harry’s green eyes? Merlin forbid, his dreadful eyesight? The thought came so unexpectedly she stared at the floor.

She had no business wondering about such things—not now, not when she hadn’t even decided what to do. But the questions continued regardless. Would it be a boy or a girl? Would it inherit her family’s features, or look so much like Potter that there’d be no denying its parentage? Would it be healthy?

Her hand moved towards her stomach before she realised what she was doing. She stopped, then, slowly, rested her palm against the fabric of her robes. She felt nothing, nothing to suggest another life had begun beneath her hand.

And yet—Merlin. She was going to have a baby.

Her breath caught. She couldn’t do this. She was sixteen. She hadn’t even finished school. She could barely manage the responsibilities she already had, and now she was supposed to become someone’s mother?

What did she know about babies? She had never changed a nappy in her life. She wasn’t even certain she’d ever held an infant. That was what house-elves and nannies were for.

Except—Stop. She couldn’t think about that either.

Draconia withdrew her hand and pressed it against her forehead. She needed to get a grip. Panicking would accomplish nothing. She was a Malfoy. Malfoys did not fall apart on bathroom floors. At least, not where anyone could find them.

She took a slow breath. Then another.

First, she needed to put the vials away. She couldn’t leave them here for someone to discover. Then she needed to return to her dormitory, wash her face, and pretend she hadn’t spent the better part of an hour contemplating the complete destruction of her life. Simple enough.

And after that—Harry.

She would have to tell him. Of course she would. He was the father; he had a right to know. Besides, keeping something like this from Potter would be impossible. The boy could barely leave her alone when he merely suspected she was hiding something.

Imagine what he would do if he actually knew. He would be insufferable. Even more than usual.

Draconia could almost hear him: Why didn’t you tell me? And what was she supposed to say? That she was frightened? That she didn’t know whether he wanted her? That she was terrified he would look at her differently? Absolutely not.

She would tell him. Eventually. When she had worked out what to say. When she had decided what she wanted. When things were a little less complicated.

Draconia stared at the golden vials, which, considering the state of her life, might never be. Perhaps she shouldn’t tell him at all. The thought made her stomach twist.

No. That wasn’t fair. But neither was dragging Harry into the mess she had made of her life. She could already imagine him trying to save her. Potter was always trying to save someone. And she couldn’t bear the thought of becoming another person he felt responsible for.

With trembling fingers, she gathered the two vials and tucked them carefully into her bag. She checked the clasps twice, then pushed herself to her feet.

Her legs felt unsteady, and for a moment she gripped the edge of the sink. Her eyes dropped to the silver bracelet at her wrist, the one her mother had fastened there at the Manor.

The sight pulled her sharply back to reality—a reminder of everything she hid, everything she could never let Harry see. Narcissa had enchanted it before Draconia returned to Hogwarts, weaving an old concealment charm into the silver. As long as she wore it, the skin beneath her sleeve appeared perfectly ordinary. No one would see what Voldemort had branded there. Not her friends. Not her professors. And certainly not Harry Potter.

Draconia stared at the bracelet. Slowly, she touched the clasp. The charm flickered as she loosened it, and there it was: the Dark Mark. A black skull, its mouth spilling a serpent, stretched across the pale skin of her left forearm.

Ugly. Unmistakable. Permanent.

She had spent months pretending it wasn’t there. Rather like everything else in her life.

Draconia swallowed. She had been foolish enough to believe that keeping it hidden meant she could somehow forget what it represented. But the Dark Lord had given her an order. She had yet to fulfil it.

Her father remained in Azkaban. Her mother was alone, frightened, and doing everything she could to keep their family from falling apart.

And she was pregnant.

Her gaze moved from the mark to her stomach.

The absurdity of it almost made her laugh. On one arm, she carried the symbol of the wizard who had murdered Harry’s parent, and inside her, she carried Harry’s baby.

Merlin. She was doomed. Utterly, completely doomed.

If the Dark Lord discovered the truth—No. She couldn’t allow herself to imagine it. Harry could never know about the mark. And the Dark Lord could never know about the child. But how long could she keep either secret? Sooner or later, something would give.

Draconia stared at the black skull. For the first time, she wondered whether there was any way out of the mess she had found herself in.

Perhaps she could tell her mother. Perhaps there was another spell, another potion, something in the Malfoy library that might help. Perhaps—oh, who was she fooling? She hadn’t the faintest idea.

Her fingers tightened around the bracelet. Then she fastened it again. The enchantment shimmered over her skin, and the Dark Mark disappeared beneath the illusion. Gone, as though it had never existed.

If only everything were that simple.

Draconia pulled down her sleeve. She would think of something. She had to. For now, that would have to be enough.

In the mirror, a pale girl stared back. Grey eyes. Blonde hair. The familiar Malfoy features. She looked exhausted. Frightened, even.

Draconia scowled. Well, that wouldn’t do.

She straightened her robes, smoothed her hair, and lifted her chin.

There. Much better. Almost respectable. Almost like the girl she had been before those two wretched vials had turned gold.

Her father was in prison. Her mother was frightened. She had expectations she couldn't escape, secrets she couldn't share, and now a child whose existence threatened to unravel everything.

And Harry Potter.

Harry bloody Potter.

She would tell him. Perhaps tomorrow. Or the day after. Or—Oh, Merlin. She didn’t know.

She didn’t know how to be a mother. She didn’t know how to protect her family. She didn’t even know whether the boy she might be falling in love with felt the same way.

But she couldn’t stay in this bathroom forever.

Draconia took one last breath, adjusted her bag strap, and walked to the door. The dungeon air was colder than she remembered. Shadows stretched along the stones, and the castle felt impossibly vast, impossibly empty.

Whatever happened next, she would have to face it.

Just not tonight.