Friday, September 1, 2017
"Be in the Great Hall in fifteen minutes, Mr. Malfoy."
Draco stared for a moment at the empty walls. He turned to his trunk, waiting beside the bed, and shrugged. His mother's charms would keep his robes pristine no matter how long they lay in the trunk, and he was tempted to leave everything packed so he could escape in a hurry in case this all turned out to be a colossal mistake. He wasn't convinced, yet, that it wasn't.
He closed his eyes, feeling the emptiness of the room - of his life - press in on him. He snorted mirthlessly, realizing that he missed Astoria, her light and laughter. For one aching instant he allowed himself to remember basking in Astoria's presence as it radiated out to fill the manor, once his parents had...
He sighed, opening his eyes. But that was in the past. He and Astoria had good reasons for splitting - better, in the end, than the reasons to stay. Theirs had been a typical pure-blood marriage of convenience, to cement loyalties, beget an heir. He supposed he was lucky, in a way. They'd been strangers, at first. Hardly unusual, in those circumstances. They'd come together to create Scorpius - the one good thing Draco had ever done, the one thing he could be proud of - and then faded back into their separate lives. They nodded when they passed one another in the hall, managed a civil conversation now and then, discussed the care and raising of their son. He'd favored men; she'd preferred women. He'd occasionally wondered if his parents had chosen her for that reason - if, in their way, they were trying to ensure his happiness. As much happiness as one could expect, governed by the rigidity of the Pureblood customs. Certainly their similarities had let them coexist peacefully - unlike Blaise and his harpy of a wife. They'd even become friends, of a sort. They'd had to, when the world turned away from them.
Their parents had been killed in a wave of anti-Death-Eater furor, not long after they'd married. The Aurors had assigned protection details, but... well. He'd never been convinced they could trust all the Aurors. Certainly his parents' had been mysteriously absent, that afternoon. And Astoria's parents - never on Voldemort's side, staunch supporters of Dumbledore, in fact - had been caught up in it. Because of him...
Draco sighed. He should be grateful, he knew, that he, Astoria, and Scorpius had been spared. That, even though the world turned its back on his family, still they were treated with a cold civility. Enough to get by, even if they did spend most of their time in their Manor, after. Harry'd had something to do with that, he was sure - not overtly, but his name was written all over it, if you knew him like Draco did. Had. He wished fervently that he'd been able to fall in love again, since Harry, but... Blaise's teasing warning came back to him, echoing down the halls of memory. "When a Slytherin falls, he falls once, he falls hard..."
"Touché, Blaise," he said softly. "Touché."
It had been surprisingly easy, being married to Astoria. They'd suited one another, in their strange, quiet ways. He almost wished he could turn around, go back to the comfort of their routine. But, no. Astoria deserved a second chance at happiness and love, even if Draco didn't want one. Didn't think he deserved one. He sighed, gathering his silence, his Malfoy mask around him like a familiar cloak, cold and hard as steel. He wasn't ready for this, would never be ready for this. But, as always, the world moved on around him, and he found himself shoved inexorably toward the future.
He waited until the echoes of McGonagall's heels clicking purposefully down the corridor faded away. Then, with one last glance at his trunk, and a quick pat to his pocket, to be sure he had the ridiculous key McGonagall had handed him, he turned back the way he'd come, shutting the door behind him. The lock engaged with a quiet snick, and he rested his forehead against the plain wooden surface, gathering his courage. His fingers moved to trace the small brass nameplate beside the door: D. Malfoy, Potions Master, Head of Slytherin House.
He wasn't the first at the Head Table – as a Malfoy he would never stoop to that – but he was still one of the earliest to arrive. He found his seat and sank into it, toying with the napkin as he waited disinterestedly for the others to arrive. He glanced around at the sea of unfamiliar faces, as the hall filled with students and professors alike, and he wondered again why he'd agreed to this ridiculous scheme. This was shaping up to be a mistake – he just knew it would be. He scowled down at his plate, refusing to engage in the idle chatter that soon surrounded him. He longed for the whole ridiculous affair to be over, so he could fall into his bed and take his nightly dose of Dreamless Sleep. He couldn't afford to dream – dreams were dangerous.
The clamor of voices was fast approaching a din, and he cringed away from the pounding, beating, roar of it. He felt the edges of panic lick at him, and frantically tamped them down. He would not lose it here of all places. He could do this. He could. He just needed a distraction.
Just then, the seat in front of him, the only empty one at the Head Table, was abruptly filled as a thoroughly rumpled figure slumped into it. Draco felt his eyes lifting in morbid curiosity past the rumpled robes to the stranger's face. To messy dark hair, and horridly unfashionable glasses. And eyes that Draco just knew would be a vibrant, mesmerizing green. Fuck. He felt himself leaning forward, gripping the edge of the table hard as he stared into that infuriatingly handsome face. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He heard the words pass his lips, distantly, hardly aware he was speaking. "Oh, for fuck's sake!"
Harry looked up, eyes widening in almost comical shock, and Draco melted.
Harry's eyes... Merlin, those eyes. The flames that Draco remembered burning in those eyes – flames that had been curiously absent, when they'd last met, only a few hours before – leapt suddenly, ferociously to life. Harry's eyes burned brighter, wilder, than even his memories of Fiendfyre, and Draco felt like an ember confronted with a wildfire, like a candle staring defiantly into the sun, and he forgot to be afraid. He forgot to breathe.
Then McGonagall cleared her throat pointedly, and Neville's voice boomed over them, washing over Draco in a meaningless roar. His attention was, as usual, entirely fixed on Harry.
Until he heard his son's name. He startled, leaning to the side, to see around Harry. And, yes, there was Scorpius, sitting proudly on the stool, lowering the Sorting Hat onto his platinum hair. Draco knew how much effort it was taking his son, to control his nervous trembling, and he felt a fierce upwelling of love for the boy. He knew what the Hat would say, of course. Knew, too, that Scorpius knew it – and dreaded it. Draco smiled softly, attempting to catch his son's eye. Scorpius didn't look up, just sat quietly until the hat cried "Hufflepuff!" Draco finally managed to catch his eye as Scorpius shuffled through the silence to join his new housemates. When he saw Draco's smile, though, he raised his chin, a new steel in his eyes, and joined the Hufflepuff table with pride intact.
Draco didn't relax until Albus Potter was sorted into Hufflepuff along with Scorpius. Draco watched Scorpius wrap a fond arm around Harry's son and ruffle his hair gently. He watched as Al's fingers found Scorpius' under the table and squeezed. He watched as neither seemed inclined to let go.
Draco felt an overwhelming urge to drop his head onto the table and give up, but the soft, confused light in Harry's eyes stopped him. He scowled down at his plate instead, kicking his chair moodily. What was it about Potters, anyway, that made them so damn irresistible to Malfoys? He remembered teasing Astoria about Ginny – was it only a few hours ago? – and groaned. The fates were mocking him. No, the entire universe was mocking him. That was the only explanation.
Harry, damn him, leaned forward, a teasing light in his eyes. Those maddening eyes that Draco couldn't seem to forget – that haunted his dreams even with the help of Dreamless Sleep. He had the sudden, horrified realization that he probably wouldn't even be able to escape those eyes in death. He squelched the whimper before it could escape, shoved it back behind his impenetrable Malfoy mask. Harry's brows drew down into a faint frown, then he shrugged, seemingly dismissing whatever he'd seen.
"Did you know about them?"
Draco stared. He hadn't expected civil words from Harry – not after his less-than-civil greeting. When Harry's brows began to draw down again, and Draco realized that the silence had dragged on too long, he said the first thing that came to mind. "Er, you mean that they'd be in Hufflepuff?"
Harry's lips twitched upwards, as if he was smiling despite himself, or as if he'd merely forgotten how to smile. "Well, yes, that too, I suppose. But I meant the... friendship."
Draco felt a muscle in his jaw twitch, and he glanced inadvertently back at their sons – yes, their hands were still clasped beneath the table. He groaned internally. "Yes, Potter, I did know – well, suspected, anyway – that Scorpius would end up in Hufflepuff. He's not... like I was. As for their friendship – Astoria hinted at it, when we dropped him off at the station earlier today." He couldn't suppress an eye-roll at his ex-wife's scheming.
Harry, to his surprise, huffed a quiet laugh. "Yes, well, Ginny didn't feel the need to inform me at all. But... yes, I suppose I knew Al would end up in Hufflepuff. I confess that I was a bit worried about it, since none of his cousins have ended up there. Not that Al was ever particularly like his cousins. But, now that he has a friend there – yes, Malfoy, even if it's your son – I find that I'm not all that worried. He's kind, is Al, and loyal. He'll be all right there."
Draco snorted. "Hmm. I suppose I'm glad Scorp has a friend too – even if it is your son."
"Malfoy." Harry's hand crept toward him, entreating, and Draco stiffened. Harry quickly pulled his hand back, blushing. "Sorry. Er. Malfoy – about what you said earlier."
Draco sighed. "Merlin, Potter. What is it?"
"You were never what you pretended to be." Harry didn't look at him, fidgeting absently with something he held below the table.
"Potter – "
"No, Malfoy. Let me finish. And then I'll never mention it again, OK? I just... I need to say it. You spend so much time putting yourself down – always have. Oh, you boast and brag and posture as I'm sure your father told you that you should, but that's not you. You're still doing it – implying you're not kind, or loyal, or any of those things. But I know different. I know you Malfoy. Not as well as I should, maybe, but well enough to know that you're a lot more like Scorpius than like the cold, indifferent mask you always wear." Harry looked up again, meeting his eyes, burning him with their heat.
"I... Thanks, I guess."
Harry nodded stiffly at him, then stood with everyone else and left the table.
Draco stared down at his untouched plate. "You don't know anything about me, Harry," he whispered. "Not anymore." Then his eyes hardened, and he glared down at his vegetables as if they had offended him personally. "And you never will."