In Search of What Comes Easy - Part 3
Title: In Search of What Comes Easy
Fandom: Harry Potter/QAF crossover
Part: 3 of ??
Rating: Over all NC-17. This chapter is PG
Pairings/Characters: Brian/Draco, Harry, Draco, Harry/Draco
Timeline: Post Deathly Hallows for HP. Pre 101 and beginning to overlap with S1 cannon for QAF.
Warnings: This story begins and ends with Brian/Draco - they are the OTP in this fic, but I hope you will appreciate the relationship between Harry and Draco too. M/M sex. Some violence.
Summary: Brian knows that Draco is a wizard. He knows about his shady past. But strangest of all, Brian also knows that he wants Draco in his life. But sometimes wanting something isn't enough.
Last prologuey chap! I promise!!! Narcissa just wouldn't shut up. :)
"How did I end up with such a vast amount of crap?" Draco asks no one in particular as he lazily scratches at his sleep tousled hair.
The morning sunlight is spilling copiously into his bedroom, highlighting the vast piles of belongings in need of packing, strewn about on his bed and floor. The majority are clothes, and he has spent nearly an hour sorting them: too small, too big, too dated, too "wizardy", too impractical. Then there are the heaps of old school items: tests and essays. An old and overused potions kit. And of course there are the childhood mementos: his first broom, a practice wand, a miniature toy phoenix, that spontaneously combusts when you pet it on the head.
"We are Malfoy's. We pride ourselves on having vast amounts of crap."
Draco looks up to see his mother come into the room. Her hair is down, falling in straight, platinum layers, making her look young and fresh in her light pink robes.
"And look," She announces, lifting the box in her hands higher. "I bring yet more crap."
Draco smiles at her. Since returning home, he has observed a new level of flippancy in his mother's behavior. Lax humor that has surprised Draco in its wit and borderline crassness. He cannot help but wonder if this spunky lady is the woman his mother has always been and he had simply been too young to notice or if something about the passage of time has freed this more relaxed nature from within her.
She dumps a heavy box on Draco's bed with a dramatic sigh.
"What's all this?" He asks.
"A box Quimbly found this morning." She reaches to take of the lid. "It's your baby things."
"You've kept all that?"
"Of course, darling. You'll find the older you get, the more need you have for nostalgia. And the more you need those things that help you remember."
The contents reveal a silver rattle, a little tarnished with age. A lock of corn silk blond hair from his first hair cut, tied together with a white silk bow. His mother holds it up to his head and smiles when she sees that his hair has hardly darkened at all. She unfolds a royal blue baby outfit, complete with zip up front and fuzzy feet, a small green dragon embroidered on the front.
"I was really that small?" Draco says, looking at the pint sized outfit in awe.
"Smaller, when you were born. You were nearly six months old when you wore this." She folds the garment lovingly in her lap. "Sometimes I wish we'd had another just so babies weren't such an alien concept to you."
"Can't imagine I'll have much need for baby expertise, considering..."
"Your current choice in lover?" She finishes. Draco shrugs. "Ah, but is not that male lover about to become a father?"
"Biologically? Yes. Socially? That is yet to be determined."
His mother smiles. "Do not underestimate the power of seeing your own flesh and blood, Draco. You may need to know more about children than you might think."
She continues fishing through the box in silence for a few minutes, as Draco choses between a set of dress robes with gold lining or a set with silver to take.
"Ah. I hoped that was in here."
"What?"
"The Father Blanket."
"The what?"
"During the first Resurgence of the 15th century, when magical communities and families were thriving, the old pureblood families became quite comfortable in their place. They felt little threat to either their lineage or their continued supremacy in the magical world because their blood was strong and would always produce heirs.
"But over the years, as the magical population was hunted and killed by Muggles, first born sons became harder and harder to conceive and became all the more cherished when they were. All the while first born girls were often cast aside, disowned. Even killed by pureblood males looking to continue their line." She shakes her head sadly. "This of course was crushing to the mothers of these children, who simply wanted to love their children and to have their spouses love the children in return. So a spell was created and weaved into special blankets called Father Blankets, that when the father would hold the child for the first time, an intense sense of closeness would over come them. A need to protect the child and care for them, binding the father to the child - male or female. As a result the magical population stabilized and female children became just as accepted as males."
Draco sits on the edge of his bed, enrapt by his mother's tale.
"Over time, the need for the spell to be woven into the blanket became unnecessary, but the tradition remained. This," She fingers the satin lined blanket tenderly, "is nothing more than a blanket - no spells, no charms. But I will never forget the look on your father's face when they wrapped you in this and placed you in his arms for the first time."
She looks up at Draco, her eyes wet. "I thought I had seen him look at me with undying love, but it was nothing in comparison to how he looked at you."
A cold weight sinks through Draco's gut and he turns away from his mother.
There had been no time before Draco fled to Pittsburgh for he and his mother to come to terms with his father's punishment - less than twenty-four hours between when the Dementor's stole their vicious kiss and Draco found himself on the streets of a foreign city. Instead of finding comfort and support in their mutual grief, each had been left to deal with their loss alone. Draco's father was not dead, but as good as; his state resembling something akin to a vegetable rather than a grown man. He had been a menacing force in Voldemort's ranks prior to his failure to achieve the Prophecy. But in the following two years, during the heart of the war, he had been little more than Voldmort's minion - nearly as fearful of the Dark Lord's wrath as the mudbloods they sought to eliminate.
Had Lucius Malfoy deserved his fate? Most likely. He had never been one to shy away from his pride or ideologies. Had he been an arrogant, narcissistic, bigoted, controlling father who expected perfection and obedience from his son? Incontrovertibly. But had he been the man who had pulled Draco on a sled through three feet of fresh snow and spent hours in his study teaching his son the art of chess? Who regardless of his expectations, always found a way to speak of his quiet pride? Well, yes, he was that man too.
Since coming back to the Manor, he and his mother have danced around all mention of him. It seems today however that his mother has brought up the topic on purpose, perhaps seeking some closure of her own.
"Does it pain you to talk about him?"
Draco shrugs, picking at a stray thread on his duvet. "We just never have, that's all."
"I had been thinking that it might be good for you, before you left, if we went to go see..."
"Why on earth would I want to go there?" Draco cuts her off in a harsh whisper. "To go to that place? To see him in such a state? It was bad enough watching it happen."
"He just sits in his cell, staring off into the distance. It can be surprisingly peaceful to watch him. That is if you can ignore the Dementors, the cold, the smell and the screams from the other prisoners."
"You've been?" Draco asks, almost disgusted.
"Do you think me weak for doing so? For still caring about him even after all that he has done? All that he inflicted upon you? Upon us?"
"Mum," Draco says, lifting his face to hers. "Of course not. I still think about him, worry about how is being treated. But sometimes I wish..."
His mother encourages him to complete his thought with an expectant look.
"Sometimes I wish I could hate him."
His mother takes in a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling slowly in empathy, sympathy, understanding. All those things.
"But you can't. And neither can I. Your father was a complex man. So often antithetical to himself. Cruel yet constant. Affectionate yet indifferent. To you and to me. So it is not surprising that the emotions you feel in regards to him are equally complex. There have been many nights, spent alone in this place that I have wished for the same thing."
"And now?"
"Now, I wish that you had had time to know him in a world without the Dark Lord. To see the man his was without that poison in his life. And I wish he had had time to know you as a man and not just a boy. To see the handsome, resolute soul you now are." She touches his cheek lightly as his pale complexion flushes.
She drops her hand to her lap. "And I wish I did not have to live with the undue burden of being the only one in the family to have had the fortune of knowing both."
He reaches for his mother's hand, clasping her cool fingers in his own. "Me too." His voice is weak as he speaks, but in the presence of his mother's unflinching love, he doesn't much mind.
Several minutes later, Narcissa breaks the hard silence. "You'll take this." She places the blanket in his lap.
"Mum..." He complains, with all the chagrin of an embarrassed child.
"It is only right that Brian have it."
Draco looks at the blanket, it's white fabric still incredibly soft and warm. He looks at his mother then teases, "You really are smitten with him aren't you?"
"Not nearly as much as you." She quips back in an equally playful tone.
Unable to deny his mother's statement, Draco sends the blanket to his "to take" pile with a flick of his wrist.
Fandom: Harry Potter/QAF crossover
Part: 3 of ??
Rating: Over all NC-17. This chapter is PG
Pairings/Characters: Brian/Draco, Harry, Draco, Harry/Draco
Timeline: Post Deathly Hallows for HP. Pre 101 and beginning to overlap with S1 cannon for QAF.
Warnings: This story begins and ends with Brian/Draco - they are the OTP in this fic, but I hope you will appreciate the relationship between Harry and Draco too. M/M sex. Some violence.
Summary: Brian knows that Draco is a wizard. He knows about his shady past. But strangest of all, Brian also knows that he wants Draco in his life. But sometimes wanting something isn't enough.
Last prologuey chap! I promise!!! Narcissa just wouldn't shut up. :)
"How did I end up with such a vast amount of crap?" Draco asks no one in particular as he lazily scratches at his sleep tousled hair.
The morning sunlight is spilling copiously into his bedroom, highlighting the vast piles of belongings in need of packing, strewn about on his bed and floor. The majority are clothes, and he has spent nearly an hour sorting them: too small, too big, too dated, too "wizardy", too impractical. Then there are the heaps of old school items: tests and essays. An old and overused potions kit. And of course there are the childhood mementos: his first broom, a practice wand, a miniature toy phoenix, that spontaneously combusts when you pet it on the head.
"We are Malfoy's. We pride ourselves on having vast amounts of crap."
Draco looks up to see his mother come into the room. Her hair is down, falling in straight, platinum layers, making her look young and fresh in her light pink robes.
"And look," She announces, lifting the box in her hands higher. "I bring yet more crap."
Draco smiles at her. Since returning home, he has observed a new level of flippancy in his mother's behavior. Lax humor that has surprised Draco in its wit and borderline crassness. He cannot help but wonder if this spunky lady is the woman his mother has always been and he had simply been too young to notice or if something about the passage of time has freed this more relaxed nature from within her.
She dumps a heavy box on Draco's bed with a dramatic sigh.
"What's all this?" He asks.
"A box Quimbly found this morning." She reaches to take of the lid. "It's your baby things."
"You've kept all that?"
"Of course, darling. You'll find the older you get, the more need you have for nostalgia. And the more you need those things that help you remember."
The contents reveal a silver rattle, a little tarnished with age. A lock of corn silk blond hair from his first hair cut, tied together with a white silk bow. His mother holds it up to his head and smiles when she sees that his hair has hardly darkened at all. She unfolds a royal blue baby outfit, complete with zip up front and fuzzy feet, a small green dragon embroidered on the front.
"I was really that small?" Draco says, looking at the pint sized outfit in awe.
"Smaller, when you were born. You were nearly six months old when you wore this." She folds the garment lovingly in her lap. "Sometimes I wish we'd had another just so babies weren't such an alien concept to you."
"Can't imagine I'll have much need for baby expertise, considering..."
"Your current choice in lover?" She finishes. Draco shrugs. "Ah, but is not that male lover about to become a father?"
"Biologically? Yes. Socially? That is yet to be determined."
His mother smiles. "Do not underestimate the power of seeing your own flesh and blood, Draco. You may need to know more about children than you might think."
She continues fishing through the box in silence for a few minutes, as Draco choses between a set of dress robes with gold lining or a set with silver to take.
"Ah. I hoped that was in here."
"What?"
"The Father Blanket."
"The what?"
"During the first Resurgence of the 15th century, when magical communities and families were thriving, the old pureblood families became quite comfortable in their place. They felt little threat to either their lineage or their continued supremacy in the magical world because their blood was strong and would always produce heirs.
"But over the years, as the magical population was hunted and killed by Muggles, first born sons became harder and harder to conceive and became all the more cherished when they were. All the while first born girls were often cast aside, disowned. Even killed by pureblood males looking to continue their line." She shakes her head sadly. "This of course was crushing to the mothers of these children, who simply wanted to love their children and to have their spouses love the children in return. So a spell was created and weaved into special blankets called Father Blankets, that when the father would hold the child for the first time, an intense sense of closeness would over come them. A need to protect the child and care for them, binding the father to the child - male or female. As a result the magical population stabilized and female children became just as accepted as males."
Draco sits on the edge of his bed, enrapt by his mother's tale.
"Over time, the need for the spell to be woven into the blanket became unnecessary, but the tradition remained. This," She fingers the satin lined blanket tenderly, "is nothing more than a blanket - no spells, no charms. But I will never forget the look on your father's face when they wrapped you in this and placed you in his arms for the first time."
She looks up at Draco, her eyes wet. "I thought I had seen him look at me with undying love, but it was nothing in comparison to how he looked at you."
A cold weight sinks through Draco's gut and he turns away from his mother.
There had been no time before Draco fled to Pittsburgh for he and his mother to come to terms with his father's punishment - less than twenty-four hours between when the Dementor's stole their vicious kiss and Draco found himself on the streets of a foreign city. Instead of finding comfort and support in their mutual grief, each had been left to deal with their loss alone. Draco's father was not dead, but as good as; his state resembling something akin to a vegetable rather than a grown man. He had been a menacing force in Voldemort's ranks prior to his failure to achieve the Prophecy. But in the following two years, during the heart of the war, he had been little more than Voldmort's minion - nearly as fearful of the Dark Lord's wrath as the mudbloods they sought to eliminate.
Had Lucius Malfoy deserved his fate? Most likely. He had never been one to shy away from his pride or ideologies. Had he been an arrogant, narcissistic, bigoted, controlling father who expected perfection and obedience from his son? Incontrovertibly. But had he been the man who had pulled Draco on a sled through three feet of fresh snow and spent hours in his study teaching his son the art of chess? Who regardless of his expectations, always found a way to speak of his quiet pride? Well, yes, he was that man too.
Since coming back to the Manor, he and his mother have danced around all mention of him. It seems today however that his mother has brought up the topic on purpose, perhaps seeking some closure of her own.
"Does it pain you to talk about him?"
Draco shrugs, picking at a stray thread on his duvet. "We just never have, that's all."
"I had been thinking that it might be good for you, before you left, if we went to go see..."
"Why on earth would I want to go there?" Draco cuts her off in a harsh whisper. "To go to that place? To see him in such a state? It was bad enough watching it happen."
"He just sits in his cell, staring off into the distance. It can be surprisingly peaceful to watch him. That is if you can ignore the Dementors, the cold, the smell and the screams from the other prisoners."
"You've been?" Draco asks, almost disgusted.
"Do you think me weak for doing so? For still caring about him even after all that he has done? All that he inflicted upon you? Upon us?"
"Mum," Draco says, lifting his face to hers. "Of course not. I still think about him, worry about how is being treated. But sometimes I wish..."
His mother encourages him to complete his thought with an expectant look.
"Sometimes I wish I could hate him."
His mother takes in a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling slowly in empathy, sympathy, understanding. All those things.
"But you can't. And neither can I. Your father was a complex man. So often antithetical to himself. Cruel yet constant. Affectionate yet indifferent. To you and to me. So it is not surprising that the emotions you feel in regards to him are equally complex. There have been many nights, spent alone in this place that I have wished for the same thing."
"And now?"
"Now, I wish that you had had time to know him in a world without the Dark Lord. To see the man his was without that poison in his life. And I wish he had had time to know you as a man and not just a boy. To see the handsome, resolute soul you now are." She touches his cheek lightly as his pale complexion flushes.
She drops her hand to her lap. "And I wish I did not have to live with the undue burden of being the only one in the family to have had the fortune of knowing both."
He reaches for his mother's hand, clasping her cool fingers in his own. "Me too." His voice is weak as he speaks, but in the presence of his mother's unflinching love, he doesn't much mind.
Several minutes later, Narcissa breaks the hard silence. "You'll take this." She places the blanket in his lap.
"Mum..." He complains, with all the chagrin of an embarrassed child.
"It is only right that Brian have it."
Draco looks at the blanket, it's white fabric still incredibly soft and warm. He looks at his mother then teases, "You really are smitten with him aren't you?"
"Not nearly as much as you." She quips back in an equally playful tone.
Unable to deny his mother's statement, Draco sends the blanket to his "to take" pile with a flick of his wrist.