Fic, Five Times Draco Malfoy Was Told He Looked Like Hell, PG
Juuuust a fun little aside. A response to this, which purple_chalk can yell at me for linking to if she feels like it.
One
At his mother's funeral. He knew, of course, that she'd loved him; Potter had made that very clear, in his owl about the Battle. Still, she'd never actually said it, not to him, and even so it had gotten her killed, by a rogue maniac in Diagon on an otherwise average Tuesday afternoon.
Draco had been apartment hunting. Up the street. He hadn't even known she was in London.
He was, despite all this, surprised to find himself desolate at the loss, staring at her grave with a startling unselfish grief. Draco was used to being selfish, knew how to build his life around that particular character trait, and suddenly he hated himself, for killing her and for not killing her, for losing her and making her lose herself.
It was the pastor who said it, running a sad hand over his face. Draco didn't look at him.
Two
At that club, in the place, in the town, in England. Draco couldn't be more specific because he didn't really remember much about it; just the bloke who'd spoken. He'd been tallish and large-ish, but mostly he'd looked a lot like Crabbe, which had been nice. Comforting.
Three
After his father's first trial. That one was Potter, stupid, stupid Potter who kept insisting on showing his face places and being nice. Draco didn't want to like it, the kindness, but he did, it felt almost like friendship, and that made it worse.
Anyway he was outside having a cigarette thinking about appeals and sins and atonement and his mother, and Potter came from nowhere and said it. Draco couldn't even answer him--he just took another long drag and sighed. Potter put a hand on his shoulder for a minute, and he didn't say anything; he just stood there, being there. Draco wanted to cry, he was so grateful.
Four
Twenty minutes before his wedding. His bow-tie wouldn't tie and why were they called bow-ties if they WOULDN'T and oh, god, he'd conned this woman into marrying him under false pretenses because if she actually bothered to look closer she'd see it, how much better she could do, there were men out there who could tie their ties and get married without wanting to actually, you know, vomit all over the chapel and--
--Astoria opened the door, in her wedding dress, and said it. He looked at her, opened his mouth to say things about beauty or bad luck or, maybe, to commence with the vomiting, but she waved a hand and tied his bow-tie and called him stupid--for worrying or for putting his cufflinks on wrong, Draco wasn't sure. Then she pressed a kiss into the corner of his mouth and said "Buck up, 'High Society' is your middle name, and it's not like I'm going to jilt you, you idiot."
"But--" Draco started.
"In twenty minutes I'll be Mrs. Malfoy," she said. "Now shut up and brush your hair."
Five
Three weeks after Scorpius was born. Astoria fixed him with a mighty glare and said "Get out, get out and take him with you or I will kill you both, all I ask is a few hours of sleep and maybe a pastry, Draco, oh my god," and so he left, taking the baby with him.
What he didn't explain to Astoria--what he hadn't explained to anyone--was that he was afraid, for this baby and for himself. He'd had all these nightmares, when Astoria was pregnant, about her having the child and him just...not loving it, and watching its little face grow sharper and colder and still not loving it, no matter what, no matter how hard he tried. And then the child had been born, a beautiful boy, and Draco had felt his heart swell and crack with the pressure of this much love and thought what if it goes away, what if I wake up and it's gone. The worry made him careful and hesitant around the baby; if his love was conditional, he didn't want to know.
Despite this, Astoria had made it very clear that his life was conditional upon their absence, so he took little Scorpius to a park up the street. He sat on a bench and pulled out the warmed bottle of breast milk (ew ew ew, thought Draco) that his wife had given him.
Scorpius felt strange and heavy in his arms, squirmy and strong and fragile all at once, and Draco was terrified of him. He popped the bottle into his son's mouth and watched him drink, nearly trembling with the pressure. "Please," he whispered, without really knowing what he was asking for, "please, please." Then--and Draco planned on remembering it for the rest of his life--Scorpius pulled away from the bottle, and spat milk that had come out of Draco's wife all over Draco's face.
Scorpius had a hell of a spit take, for an infant. He started howling, screaming at the top of his lungs--it was deafening and awful, and Draco looked down at him through milk-soaked hair and thought Oh. Maybe, for me, this isn't really the kind of love that goes away.
"I think," he said to the baby, gravely, "that I shall call you Spawn, for certainly no normal child could have come to such evil so young."
Scorpius looked back at him, briefly mocked his grave expression, and then vomited on his shirt. It was a nice shirt. He was, in fact, quite fond of it. As such, he was surprised to find himself laughing--real, honest laughter--as he wiped the spit-up from his son's face.
A woman sat down on the bench next to him. "You look like hell," she said, cheerily.
Draco grinned back at her. "Yeah," he said, laughter still heavy on his breath, "I bet I do."
One
At his mother's funeral. He knew, of course, that she'd loved him; Potter had made that very clear, in his owl about the Battle. Still, she'd never actually said it, not to him, and even so it had gotten her killed, by a rogue maniac in Diagon on an otherwise average Tuesday afternoon.
Draco had been apartment hunting. Up the street. He hadn't even known she was in London.
He was, despite all this, surprised to find himself desolate at the loss, staring at her grave with a startling unselfish grief. Draco was used to being selfish, knew how to build his life around that particular character trait, and suddenly he hated himself, for killing her and for not killing her, for losing her and making her lose herself.
It was the pastor who said it, running a sad hand over his face. Draco didn't look at him.
Two
At that club, in the place, in the town, in England. Draco couldn't be more specific because he didn't really remember much about it; just the bloke who'd spoken. He'd been tallish and large-ish, but mostly he'd looked a lot like Crabbe, which had been nice. Comforting.
Three
After his father's first trial. That one was Potter, stupid, stupid Potter who kept insisting on showing his face places and being nice. Draco didn't want to like it, the kindness, but he did, it felt almost like friendship, and that made it worse.
Anyway he was outside having a cigarette thinking about appeals and sins and atonement and his mother, and Potter came from nowhere and said it. Draco couldn't even answer him--he just took another long drag and sighed. Potter put a hand on his shoulder for a minute, and he didn't say anything; he just stood there, being there. Draco wanted to cry, he was so grateful.
Four
Twenty minutes before his wedding. His bow-tie wouldn't tie and why were they called bow-ties if they WOULDN'T and oh, god, he'd conned this woman into marrying him under false pretenses because if she actually bothered to look closer she'd see it, how much better she could do, there were men out there who could tie their ties and get married without wanting to actually, you know, vomit all over the chapel and--
--Astoria opened the door, in her wedding dress, and said it. He looked at her, opened his mouth to say things about beauty or bad luck or, maybe, to commence with the vomiting, but she waved a hand and tied his bow-tie and called him stupid--for worrying or for putting his cufflinks on wrong, Draco wasn't sure. Then she pressed a kiss into the corner of his mouth and said "Buck up, 'High Society' is your middle name, and it's not like I'm going to jilt you, you idiot."
"But--" Draco started.
"In twenty minutes I'll be Mrs. Malfoy," she said. "Now shut up and brush your hair."
Five
Three weeks after Scorpius was born. Astoria fixed him with a mighty glare and said "Get out, get out and take him with you or I will kill you both, all I ask is a few hours of sleep and maybe a pastry, Draco, oh my god," and so he left, taking the baby with him.
What he didn't explain to Astoria--what he hadn't explained to anyone--was that he was afraid, for this baby and for himself. He'd had all these nightmares, when Astoria was pregnant, about her having the child and him just...not loving it, and watching its little face grow sharper and colder and still not loving it, no matter what, no matter how hard he tried. And then the child had been born, a beautiful boy, and Draco had felt his heart swell and crack with the pressure of this much love and thought what if it goes away, what if I wake up and it's gone. The worry made him careful and hesitant around the baby; if his love was conditional, he didn't want to know.
Despite this, Astoria had made it very clear that his life was conditional upon their absence, so he took little Scorpius to a park up the street. He sat on a bench and pulled out the warmed bottle of breast milk (ew ew ew, thought Draco) that his wife had given him.
Scorpius felt strange and heavy in his arms, squirmy and strong and fragile all at once, and Draco was terrified of him. He popped the bottle into his son's mouth and watched him drink, nearly trembling with the pressure. "Please," he whispered, without really knowing what he was asking for, "please, please." Then--and Draco planned on remembering it for the rest of his life--Scorpius pulled away from the bottle, and spat milk that had come out of Draco's wife all over Draco's face.
Scorpius had a hell of a spit take, for an infant. He started howling, screaming at the top of his lungs--it was deafening and awful, and Draco looked down at him through milk-soaked hair and thought Oh. Maybe, for me, this isn't really the kind of love that goes away.
"I think," he said to the baby, gravely, "that I shall call you Spawn, for certainly no normal child could have come to such evil so young."
Scorpius looked back at him, briefly mocked his grave expression, and then vomited on his shirt. It was a nice shirt. He was, in fact, quite fond of it. As such, he was surprised to find himself laughing--real, honest laughter--as he wiped the spit-up from his son's face.
A woman sat down on the bench next to him. "You look like hell," she said, cheerily.
Draco grinned back at her. "Yeah," he said, laughter still heavy on his breath, "I bet I do."