FIC: The Years That Walk Between, NC-17, SS/DM, HP/DM, 1/2

[femmequixotic]

Title: The Years That Walk Between (1/2)
Author: Femme
Pairings: Snape/Draco, Harry/Draco
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~15,800
Summary: Draco finds his way after the war.
Warnings: Please note. This fic is about 95% Deathly Hallows compliant. There are spoilers within.
Author's Notes: I started writing this a day after finishing Deathly Hallows. I wanted to know if I could write a canon-compliant slash fic that addressed Snape's death, the Snape/Lily, and the epilogue, particularly given my OTP. Heh. So…I gave it a shot. :)

Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking
--Ash-Wednesday, T.S. Eliot

"He's dead," Narcissa says quietly, touching his arm, and Draco's throat tightens. He stops in the middle of the Hogwarts corridor, just outside the Headmaster's office, and he looks at her. He won't believe Potter, would never believe Potter because Potter can't know-would never know-but Mother--

It's too much.

Draco pulls away from his mother, stumbles backwards blindly, hits a wall. He slides down, knees pulled to his chest, and his eyes burn. He dips his head; his hair falls forward, he presses his forehead to his thighs and breathes.

Just breathes.

He can still feel Severus's last touch, the press of his mouth against Draco's only a night before. A slow kiss, given just steps away from where he's now sitting, and then another, and another, and Draco had twisted his fingers in Severus's robe, not wanting to let go. Ever.

Perhaps he shouldn't have.

Draco brushes shaking fingertips across his lips, chapped and broken, still swollen from Weasley's punch only hours before.

It doesn't hurt any longer. He blinks hard, swallows, and his jaw clenches.

Nothing hurts. It can't. Not after-

He's not certain which is worse, Severus's death or the realisation that their kisses, their touches, their nights spent sweaty in Severus's bed meant nothing. Not in comparison to her. His Lordship's taunt to Potter still echoes in his mind: your mother, Snape's supposed great love…

Draco shudders, swallows against the bile rising in his throat.

His mother pulls him into her arms, and he realises only then that Narcissa Malfoy is curled on the filthy Hogwarts floor, robes twisted beneath her, and when she strokes his hair and whispers it will be fine, darling; it will be fine; you'll be fine, her voice cracks.

She knows. He doesn't know how, but she does and he looks up at her. She's paler than usual, and he can see the lines and crepey skin at the corner of her eyes that she tries so hard to hide. Narcissa touches his cheek.

Draco crumbles then, clutching at her arm, and he turns towards her, presses his face against his mother's shoulder. His whole body shakes when the tears finally come.

He's lost everything, he knows.

Draco doesn't care any more.

***

They go to collect his body.

Lucius asks permission from Potter stiffly, refusing to look him in the eye. Potter says nothing for a moment, then nods and says, "He's in the Shrieking Shack. I can send Neville and Bill to help-"

"We are quite capable of taking care of him ourselves," Lucius says, mouth tight, and Draco's eyes flit between Potter and his father. Potter tenses for a moment and then shrugs.

He has the oldest Weasley follow them anyway. At a distance.

They walk silently to the shack, as a family. It's only fitting for an old friend, Lucius says, voice tight, and it's only then that Draco remembers through the fog that has enveloped him that Severus has been his father's closest confidante for years. How losing him must hurt.

His father seldom shows pain.

Narcissa slips her fingers through Draco's. He clutches her hand tightly. Desperately.

As if he can make it all not true by the pressure of his fingers.

She pulls him back before he enters, letting Lucius go before them. "A word, Draco."

He turns his head; he can barely feel the movements of his body. This is surreal, strange. He's drifting, floating, lost.

Draco wonders if he'll ever find his way again.

Narcissa brushes his hair back out of his eyes. He feels a strange annoyance with her, and dips his head forward again, letting dirty strands swing back into his face. A lock of hair catches on his grimy cheek.

His mother sighs. "Don't let your father know," she says quietly. "Let him think-"

"That his only heir's not a poof?" It bursts out bitterly, and Draco looks away. Bites his lip.

"Yes," his mother says, and her voice hardens. "It's for the best."

Draco brushes past her, anger twisting in his stomach. He doesn't care how she knows. Doesn't want to ask. It doesn't matter any longer because Severus is-

He can't even think the word.

The shack is filthy and the walls are scarred with long, deep claw marks, as if a beast had gone mad. Draco shivers. He's never been inside this place. Never wished to be.

Severus has told him tales, though.

Draco touches a scratch on the doorjamb. Scrapes his thumbnail over the rotting wood. It flakes away, and a splinter catches in the ball of his thumb. Draco doesn't care.

His father is kneeling next to Severus's body and Draco stops, his heart in his throat. There's blood, so much blood. Everywhere. Spread across the floor. Thick, sticky pools curdled over worn wooden planks.

A muffled cry rips from his throat--half a sob--and then he's on his knees beside Severus, touching his robe. The wool is stiff with drying blood; Draco can feel more blood soak through his trousers, smear against his knees, his shins.

Severus's blood.

Lucius has pulled off his own robe, has transfigured it into a shroud. Draco reaches for it. "Let me," he says, and he doesn't look at his father.

There's a moment's pause, and then Narcissa says Lucius quietly from the doorway, and Lucius lets go of the shroud and stands.

Draco waits until his parents' footsteps echo down the hallway.

Severus is pale, so very, very pale, and Draco touches his cheek almost hesitantly.

He remembers the first time he'd touched Severus, ten months ago, in the middle of yet another argument on why Draco was an utter fool for taking the Dark Mark. Severus had shoved him against the wall of his bedroom in the Manor, his eyes bright and angry, and Draco's breath had caught in the back of his throat. He hadn't been able to stop his hand. His knuckles had brushed Severus's cheek, lightly, and Severus had jerked back as if Draco had burned him.

It was the first time Draco had ever seen his Head of House run from anything. Anyone.

Severus's skin is cold beneath his fingertips. Unnatural. Draco shudders, just slightly, but he strokes his fingers over Severus's mouth, across his nose.

"Stupid arse," he whispers roughly, his throat closing on him. Draco smoothes Severus's lank hair back from his forehead and he tries so bloody hard not to think of how he loved to twist it in his hands when he was pressed against the door of the Headmaster's office, Severus on his knees, sucking him as the portraits looked away, faces flushed in disapproval.

All but Dumbledore's, that is-and he had stopped Draco in the corridor afterwards, displacing a group of picnicking sisters in a field of poppies. Mr Malfoy, he had said, his eyes somber over the rims of his spectacles, if you must conduct yourself in such a manner… The old man had looked away then and sighed. Make him happy, Draco, he had said quietly, hands clasped in front of his garish blue-purple robe. It was the only time Dumbledore's portrait had spoken to him.

Draco strokes a fingertip over heavy black eyebrows. "Did I?" he murmurs, and he chews on the slick skin inside his lip. He doesn't know. He supposes he never will now.

He's suddenly angry again, and it's better than the ache. He jerks the shroud over Severus's feet, and he pulls it up beneath him, pushing Severus over onto his side as he lays the shroud open across the blood-soaked floor. "Bastard," he says tightly. He pulls Severus onto his back and begins wrapping the shroud tightly around him. "You promised--"

The shroud tears just a bit and Draco stares down at it.

His cheeks are wet again, and he can taste the salt on his lips. He leans his head on Severus's chest and he listens for the familiar thump-thump of his heartbeat.

It doesn't come.

"I hate you," Draco says weakly, but he knows it's not true. He's never said the words, never had them said to him, and it's mad--useless--to bare his soul now. But he knows, and he thinks perhaps Severus did as well.

He takes a shaky breath, sits up. The shroud is fastened up to Severus's chin. Draco trails his knuckles over Severus's mouth. This is the last time he'll touch him; he knows this. The last time he'll see him.

Draco almost never wants this moment to end.

And then he kisses him softly, his lips warm against cold, and he lets the words be whispered just once, from his mouth to Severus's, a near silent declaration.

Draco pulls back. "Always," he murmurs, and he pulls the shroud over Severus's face, ties it closed.

His parents find him there, five minutes later, silent and still, his hands and trousers covered with Severus's blood. Narcissa helps him stand; he sways once, and she clutches him. Draco leaves a smeared handprint on the sleeve of her robe.

Lucius carries the body. No magic. Just the weight of an old friendship hefted in his arms.

Potter and Granger are waiting for them when they leave.

Lucius looks at them with disdain. "Let us bury our dead," he says with a curl of his lip, "before you round us up for Azkaban."

Potter's mouth thins; his eyes are cold. "I'll leave that for the Ministry, thanks." He looks at Draco then, and his face softens, almost imperceptibly, but Draco catches it. He frowns.

"I've something for you," Potter says to him. "I'll come by in a few days."

Draco just nods. He doesn't know what to say. All he can think is I hate your mother.

He turns away.

***

Severus is interred in the Malfoy crypt.

There's not a ceremony. No fanfare. Only Draco and his parents and a few house elves are present.

Oddly, Draco thinks Severus would have preferred it that way.

With his wand, Lucius inscribes Severus's name on the outside marble, along with his dates, and Draco traces one finger along the deep curves of one S.

He still can't breathe at times, can't think. He hasn't eaten in several days, despite his mother's worried looks and the elves' preparing his favourite foods at each meal.

Draco's not certain when Severus became this important to him. Perhaps he always was in one way or another. He thinks he might have known the first time they kissed. It had been after Burbage, and Draco had been horrified to watch her spin above them, a human toy waiting for His Lordship's interest. Draco had disappeared to his room afterwards, pleading exhaustion, and the Death Eaters had mocked him for his weakness.

The moon had hung low in the sky, barely brushing the tops of the cypress trees his great-grandfather had imported for the gardens, and Draco had been curled on the wide window seat, still shaking when Severus had entered-without knocking, of course. Severus had always eschewed social niceties unless forced otherwise.

He had pressed a glass of whisky into Draco's hand with a curt drink as he sat down on the windowseat, shoving Draco's bare feet out of the way.

Draco had said nothing for a long moment, turning the glass in his hands. He can still remember how the moonlight shone through the amber liquid, shadows curling around his wrist. Is it always that way? he asked finally, and he lifted the glass to his mouth.

The whisky had burned its way down his throat, smooth and rich, and Severus had smoothed a hand over the cool glass of the window, staring down at the gardens below.

This is what you wished for, Mr Malfoy.

Draco hadn't answered, had merely drained the whisky.

We are foolish men caught in a dangerous trap, Severus had said after a moment, and his long fingers traced over a leaded pane. He had looked at Draco then. Watch yourself.

Draco had leaned back against the wall, digging his toes into the velvet of the cushion. He ran a thumb over the lip of the empty glass. It squeaked softly. I'm frightened, he had admitted, and his hair fell into his face, obscuring his eyes. He'd curled his palm over the Mark on his arm. It had burned still that night, and Draco had the wild desire to claw it off his skin. Impossible, he knew; it was seared to the bone. A permanent remind of his stupidity. Severus had watched him, had said nothing. Will He kill me?

No. Severus's mouth had tightened and the word came out in an angry snap. I won't let Him.

And then Draco had looked at him, had seen then.

His breath had caught, and he had reached for Severus just as Severus's mouth came down on his.

The whisky glass had fallen to the floor and shattered.

Draco presses a shaking hand to the smooth, cold marble.

Saying goodbye is hard.

***

Potter arrives two days later. Draco is sitting in the conservatory with his mother when the elf announces him. The Ministry has come for Lucius; the Aurors have marched him off not to Azkaban, but rather to a holding cell far beneath the Ministry until he stands trial before the Wizengamot.

At least it's charmed to filter light through the bars.

Narcissa leaves them after a moment, pointedly summoning the elf to remain. His mother may be many things, but she's not a fool.

Potter merely seems amused.

"What do you want?" Draco says finally, weary. He hasn't been sleeping, though his mother coaxed him to eat a scrap of salmon at lunch. It's just too much effort to do anything other than lie curled in his bed, staring at the wall.

It's where he wants to be right now.

Instead he sits silent as Potter pulls a small phial from his pocket, along with an envelope, sealed with the Hogwarts crest. He hands them both to Draco; Draco turns the envelope over slowly.

His heart clenches at the sight of his name in Severus's hand.

"It was in his drawer," Potter says, meeting Draco's gaze. "Warded, but…" He looks away.

"You broke his wards?" Draco wants to laugh hysterically. Of course. The great Harry Potter could break any ward of Severus's-

Potter shakes his head. "When he-" He breaks off, and runs a hand through his hair. It stands up wildly on end. "Passed-"

"Died, Potter," Draco says tightly. He makes himself say the hated word again. The euphemisms are worse and he knows full well Severus would mock him for anything less than the proper terminology. "When he died."

"Yeah." Potter sighs. "When he died, he gave me some memories to see. About-" Potter chews his bottom lip. "About my mum and all."

Draco's mouth tightens. He loved her for nearly all of his life echoes in his mind. His stomach twists with hatred. Anger. Fuck you, Severus, he thinks for one wild moment. "Your mother."

"It's how I knew about him. And Dumbledore." Potter clasps his hands between his thighs, his elbows on his knees. "Look, it's just at the end of them, I saw him put that in the drawer and ward it. And I reckon he wanted me to give it to you. So."

The clear phial is heavy and cold in Draco's palm. He twists it slowly, fingers smoothing across the sealing wax. Silver liquid sloshes up the side, shimmering in the late afternoon light. Dust motes dance around the phial. "All right."

"Yeah." Potter rubs his hands across his thighs, then stands up with a sigh. His glasses are smudged with fingerprints. "I'm sorry about your dad," he says, and Draco curls his lip.

Gryffindors.

"Get out, Potter," he says tightly, and Potter dips his head, that ridiculously messy fringe of his falling across his forehead.

Draco sits silently for a long while after Potter leaves, shadows darkening around his still figure.

***

Two weeks pass before he opens the phial.

He chooses his time carefully, picks an afternoon when his mother has gone to visit his father. Draco pleads a headache at the last moment. He's quite certain his mother is suspicious, or at the least curious, but she says nothing, just kisses him on the cheek and Floos out.

Draco gathers what he needs and carries it out to the mausoleum. It seems fitting, he thinks. He spreads a blanket over the worn flagstones in front of Severus's vault and sets his great-great grandfather's Pensieve on it.

He holds the note for a moment, fingers smoothing over the heavy cotton paper, then sets it aside, still unopened. He can't. Not yet.

His hand barely shakes as he empties the phial into the Pensieve; Draco stares down at the swirling silver-white liquid for a moment before he touches it, almost hesitantly,

He tumbles forward.

The mists clear; he sees himself on a windowseat next to Severus, kissing him, their bodies pressed tightly together, his white shirt a stark contrast to Severus's black robe.

He turns, and it's another night, another room, Severus's office at Hogwarts, high in the Headmaster's tower. They're arguing, bitterly, and he can remember how angry he was at Severus for denigrating him in front of His Lordship for yet another mistake Draco had made. An infant, Severus had called him, an inept brat-the memory still stings.

I'm not a child, Draco shouts and pushes past Severus only to be stopped by a firm hand on his elbow.

Do you wish to be killed? Severus's eyes are so dark, so bright, fixed on him and Draco shivers at the memory. He watches himself hesitate, watches Severus move closer.

Severus touches his cheek. Draco, he says quietly.

Draco's breath catches and he puts a hand up to his face. He can almost feel the press of Severus's fingers. He blushes at the sight of himself, at the raw want he can see on his own face.

But Severus--Draco's throat tightens. The way he looked at him that night--

Severus pulls Draco against him almost angrily, and Draco remembers how rough his mouth had been against his. How desperate.

They kiss for what seemed like ages, mouths open and wet, until the need slows finally into soft, slow presses of tongue to tongue. Draco twists his fingers in Severus's sleeve, holding him fast when he begins to pull away. Don't, he whispers, and Severus presses his forehead against Draco's.

I won't have you harmed, he says with a sigh.

Draco nods. I won't be, he murmurs, hands still fisted in Severus's robe. You promised me, remember? You won't let Him.

And then Severus laughs softly, a faint huff of breath against Draco's temple. Brat. He leans his forehead against Draco's.

Your brat.

Severus smoothes Draco's hair back. Yes. A quick kiss, hard and demanding. Mine. He pulls away, straightens his robe. Now return to your dormitory before Horace catches you out after curfew.

Draco watches himself frown. I could stay.

Severus hesitates, then shakes his head. Bed, Mr Malfoy. Your own. Kisses are one thing. Anything more, however… He turns away, into the mist.

Draco steps forward. "Severus," he whispers, but the room shifts around him, rearranging, and he's standing in Severus's sitting room.

Amycus and Alecto have orders to stay away from you, Severus says tightly, and he kneels in front of Draco, curled in the chair, shaking from the Stinging Hexes. A cut on Draco's cheek drips blood; Severus wipes it away with a cloth before smearing a dittany salve across it.

Draco still recalls how that stung.

All of Slytherin house, Snape continues, but you in particular.

Draco catches his hand. Won't they wonder?

Snape's mouth thins. They're too bloody stupid. He folds the cloth and sets it aside. Keep away from them.

Let me stay tonight. Draco looks up at him with wide eyes, catching Severus's hand and twining their fingers. Please.

Draco. Snape sounds almost helpless. It is not a good idea.

I think it is. Draco slides off the chair, between Severus's thighs. I'm tired of kisses.

He presses his mouth to Severus's throat, to the curve of skin just above that high, black collar. Please. His hand slips between them, fingers trailing over the swell of Severus's cock in his trousers. Please, he whispers again.

Severus closes his eyes, slides his hands into the back of Draco's hair, thumb rubbing tiny circles over Draco's skin. Madness.

Yes. Draco bites Severus's jaw. Please.

The mist returns, drifting across the room, and Draco closes his eyes because he remembers, he knows how Severus had pulled him to his feet, had led him into the bedroom, had pressed him onto the bed-

A gasp and a groan of Severus, yes, and Draco's eyes fly open. He sees himself sprawled across Severus's bed, long and white against dark blue cotton sheets, thin thighs wrapped tightly around Severus's hips. Please.

Draco circles the bed, and he's trying not to shake.

They move with the practiced rhythm of lovers familiar with one another's bodies, and Draco grips Severus's shoulder tightly with one hand. Don't stop, he breathes, staring up at him. Don't ever-oh God--

Shut up, Snape murmurs against his throat, and Draco can remember the sharp nip of teeth against his skin.

He groans softly, wraps his arms around his waist. He doesn't know why Severus left him this, doesn't know what he did to merit this torture, but his cheeks are wet and hot and he wants so badly. Needs.

"Severus," he whispers and he reaches out to touch his back, to feel the smooth warm skin stretched taught over Severus's spine.

He touches nothing.

Draco hates Severus right now. Hates him for this cruelty. Hates him for leaving him. Hates him for being gone. Hates him for her. For all he did for her sake. It's all about Potter; it always has been. The son of the great love of Severus's life, and Draco hates them. Hates them all.

"You bastard!" he screams into the memory, and he's answered only by gasps and groans and the slick-wet sound of skin against skin.

Draco runs towards the mist.

They lie together on the floor in front of Severus's Floo, wrapped in a blanket that barely reaches Severus's ankles. A cushion from a chair serves as a makeshift pillow. Draco can see their bare skin, and he presses his mouth into a thin line. He recognises the moment-only a few weeks past. Before everything. Severus had taken him roughly, desperately, there on the floor of his sitting room. They'd never even made it to bed. They'd slept wrapped in a blanket.

Draco wants out of here, away from these memories.

Away from Severus.

He never thought he would wish that.

Draco curls into Severus's chest, and he sleeps fitfully, making soft noises, his brow furrowing. Severus smoothes Draco's hair back from his forehead. Hush, he says softly, demandingly, and Draco quiets, his breath steadying.

Severus watches him sleep.

Draco pauses, looks back. It's a moment he's never been aware of, this. He'd be a fool not to be curious.

Severus brushes a thumb over Draco's mouth, drags his knuckles across Draco's cheek, his jaw, his throat. Beautiful, he says, and Draco smiles.

A quick kiss, and Draco shifts, half-awake and murmuring something under his breath before settling against Severus, his head on Severus's shoulder.

He sleeps again.

Severus watches.

And then he whispers it, softly against Draco's skin, and Draco can barely hear the words.

But he does.

And at that moment, Severus looks up, looks at him, Draco's certain of it, eyes dark and unblinking.

The memories come quick and fast, flowing between the two of them. Three children on a playground. A red-headed girl with green eyes. Severus standing in the corridor in front of Gryffindor Tower, the girl walking away from him. A grave in a churchyard with a freshly carved headstone and flowers piled high over leaf-strewn grass.

"Stop it," Draco says tightly, jealousy twisting in his stomach, and he can taste bile in the back of his throat. Tears burn his eyes. He blinks them back hard. He won't. He won't. "I don't want to see her."

Draco. Severus says those damned words again. Clearly this time. And then he looks at Draco and whispers, Forgive me.

"You left me," Draco screams and jerks backwards, and he tumbles out of the Pensieve, sprawling across the mausoleum flagstones with a sob.

He curls into himself, staring blankly at the wall next to him for hours, only rousing himself when he knows Narcissa will be back.

Numb, he refills the phial with the silver liquid, careful not to spill a drop, then tucks the note in his pocket.

Draco pauses at the door, looks back at the vault. Severus's name disappears into the shadows. "I can't," he whispers, and swallows hard. "Not yet."

He pulls the gate shut behind him and wards it closed.

The next time he enters will be to bury his father. The note sits tucked in the back of his wardrobe for decades.

***

Lucius is kept from Azkaban through Hary Potter's testimony.

Potter stands before the Wizengamot and answers their questions calmly. Tells them that during the Battle of Hogwarts the Malfoys assisted him. Kept him alive. He doesn't look at Lucius, but rather at Narcissa.

And Draco.

Draco looks away.

Afterwards, Potter stops the two of them in the hallway as they wait for Lucius's release. "Life debt repaid," he says to Narcissa, offering her his hand, and she takes it with a slight dip of her head. Potter turns to Draco. "Here's your second chance, Malfoy," he says quietly. "Don't cock it up."

"Go to hell, Potter," Draco says, and he means it.

Potter shrugs. "Already been there," he says and he grins as he ambles off, hands shoved in his pockets.

Draco grinds his teeth, lurches forward after Potter.

"Don't," his mother says, and she catches his elbow, pulling him back against her. "That is not a fight you wish to pick."

With a soft huff, Draco leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

He hates it when she's right.

Bloody fucking Potter.

Draco despises being indebted to him.

Despises.

***

Draco marries seven years later. He puts it off as long as he can, but his father is ill and there's the question of the next Malfoy heir to be settled. Aurélie is a pureblood of good family, acceptable to both his parents. He meets her through his position at Gringotts; she works as a charms researcher for the Paris branch.

His mother is relieved.

He asks her one day, two weeks before the wedding, as they take tea in Diagon, how she knew about Severus and himself. It's not a topic they've ever discussed before.

It's one he can't stop thinking of, through fittings and cake tastings and meetings with the vicar.

Narcissa says nothing at first, merely sips her tea, then sets her cup in the saucer with a soft clink. She stirs the Darjeeling with her spoon and sighs. "Because," she says finally, "your grief at that moment was what I would have felt if your father had died." She looks up at him then. "It hurt to watch you. Sometimes…" She hesitates, sets her spoon on the saucer. Tea puddles beneath it, pale brown against the white china. "Sometimes it still does."

Draco looks away. He still dreams of Severus some nights. He spends the next mornings tormenting the elves or that idiot Connors two offices down just to distract him from the ache inside.

He tugs at the sleeves of the black frock coat he's taken to wearing, buttoned high up his throat.

Narcissa's fingers curl around his. She squeezes tightly.

***

Lucius dies a month after Draco's wedding. They've barely been home from their honeymoon to Greece, barely settled into the Bloomsbury flat they've purchased.

The funeral is adequate, though Draco is quite certain his father would have found something to complain about. There are enough friends of the family left that Lucius doesn't have to suffer the indignity of an empty church. Draco sees Potter in the back, for just a moment, and he thinks perhaps he's hallucinating, but his presence is mentioned in the Prophet writeup the next day, and Draco realises the idiot came on purpose. Gave the Malfoys a brush of respectability again.

He doesn't know if he should hate him for that or not. Instead, he writes a stiffly worded, terse thank you-as much as he despises the correspondence, he's learned manners are important in reclaiming the Malfoy name in this new world-and Potter responds with an even shorter note that says simply, I did it for Snape.

Draco wads up the note, furious, his throat tight with bitterness, and then he smoothes it back out. He tucks it in the back of his wardrobe and tries again to forget.

***

Narcissa takes the Bloomsbury flat. Draco and Aurélie move into the Manor.

They have a child a year later. A son, and Draco's duty is fulfilled.

Aurélie wants to name him something ridiculous like Alphonse or Theophile. Draco refuses.

"Scorpius is his name," he says firmly, holding his son in his arms and his mother looks at him from across the room. "Scorpius Lucius Malfoy."

He knows she knows. The name's engraved in marble in the Malfoy vault after all.

Draco lifts his chin.

Narcissa smiles.

***

Life settles into an easy rhythm. Draco's world revolves around his work and his son. Aurélie has her own interests, her stacks of books that fill the Manor library now. They reach an easy comfortableness, a friendship that occasionally finds them in bed together. When she takes a lover, he doesn't object. He finds one of his own.

They're both discreet, as befits a proper pureblood family.

Draco enjoys sex, whether with a man or a woman, though he finds he has a preference for the firmness of the male body, and he shares his bed with a string of lovers. Aurélie teases him about his attention span; she keeps her companions for years at a time.

The years pass. Draco takes Scorpius to the mausoleum twice a year. Once on the anniversary of Lucius's death, once on Severus's.

Even before Scorpius can read, he knows what the engraving on Severus's vault says. He recognises his own name, after all.

Severus Scorpius Snape
9 January, 1960 - 25 May, 1998

He traces the letters, his eyes wide, mouth slightly open, and he asks about him, wants to know all he can about the man he was named after.

Draco tells him almost everything. The good, the bad.

But he doesn't tell Scorpius about lying in Severus's bed, watching dawn crest over snow-capped mountains. He doesn't tell him how safe he felt there. How wanted.

He remembers, though.

And he begins to come to the mausoleum himself. Alone.

He talks to them both, his father and Severus, his voice echoing in the stone hall as he sits on the floor across from their vaults, knees pulled up to his chest.

It's oddly comforting.

Sometimes he thinks perhaps they hear him, and then he laughs. Ridiculous thought.

Still.

He wishes.

***

Draco watches Potter across the platform at King's Cross, surrounded by his children and the Weasel's horde. They make a display of themselves, of course, in that particularly loathsome Gryffindor way.

Aurélie turns her nose up at them. "Who on earth is that?"

Draco sometimes forgets that she wasn't born British. "Harry Potter," he says quietly and her eyes widen slightly.

"I see," she says, and she squeezes Scorpius's hand. "A connection to be made, then."

"Not bloody likely." Draco eyes the Gryffindors. There’s a disconcerting amount of red hair visible. He brushes a scrap of lint off the pristinely black wool sleeve of his frock coat. "Potter always was an arrogant arse. I doubt his brats are any different."

Scorpius is watching the younger boy, his grey eyes cool and appraising. "Is he my age, Papa?"

"Thereabouts." Draco frowns. Albus Severus, Potter had named him, and the very audacity curdles Draco's stomach. He has no right. None. Not Potter. Draco's fingers tighten on his son's shoulder. Potter's even forced the Ministry to put a portrait of Severus in Hogwarts, in his rightful place among the Headmasters. Draco had been attempting to do so for years.

Bastard.

Potter looks over, his hand ruffling the child’s dark hair, and their eyes meet.

Draco hesitates for just the briefest moment, then ignores the scowl Weasley throws his way, and nods curtly before turning away.

He takes his son’s hand. “I fully expect to hear you’ve been sorted Slytherin,” he says, and they walk towards the train.

Draco doesn't spare Potter another thought.

***

The Manor is oddly quiet without Scorpius running through the rooms at all hours. Draco misses his son waking him each morning by flinging himself onto Draco’s bed, although he will admit it is pleasant to wake on occasion with a lover beside him and no worries regarding his son discovering them.

When Scorpius’s first owl arrives nearly two weeks at the start of term, over breakfast, Draco laughs sharply.

Aurélie looks up from her book. “He is well?”

“Quite.” Draco skims the hastily scrawled note, frowning as he attempts to make out a word here and there. His son’s handwriting is atrocious. He hands it to his wife. “The Potter brat sorted Slytherin.”

Aurélie raises an eyebrow.

Draco smiles, a bright, feral flash of white teeth. “I should rather have liked to hear the howls of anguish at their supper table.”

His wife laughs.

Draco is pleased.

He goes down to the mausoleum later. He’s quite certain Severus would be amused to know of his namesake’s House affiliation.

“It’s entirely your fault, you realise,” he says, leaning against the bank of smooth marble vaults. “Guilt by association.”

He almost thinks he hears Severus’s sharp bark of laughter.

***

Draco’s delight in imagining Potter’s horror upon raising a Slytherin fades a few months later, however, when he is faced with the obvious, and highly disturbing fact that his son has become friends with young Albus Severus.

It discomfits him in many ways. Potter’s child, after all, and it burns deep down inside, in the whispers of memories that he's tucked away. Her blood.But he tolerates the owls peppered with references to Potters and on occasion Weasleys, though his son is far more disparaging regarding that particular clan, which reassures Draco. He doesn't think he could bear it if he were forced to endure the minutiae of Weasleyhood, not even for Scorpius.

He sends back his own owls, with polite, if stiff, questions about his son's best friend, and by Easter he's begun enclosing sweets not only for Scorpius but for Potter's brat as well. He doesn't tell Aurélie.

His mother confronts him one afternoon, during their weekly tea. They have their usual table by the window overlooking Diagon below, away from the quiet clink and clatter of teacups and whispers of conversation occasionally directed their way.

People haven't forgotten, after all.

"Scorpius tells me you've taken an interest in young Albus," she says calmly over her teacup, and Draco wonders if he could claim some goblinesque emergency as an excuse to return to the office.

Instead he stirs his Earl Grey slowly, adding another lump of sugar. He can almost taste the sweet bergamot against the roof of his mouth. "I will not ignore my son's friends, whomever spawned them."

Narcissa sets her cup down, and she leans her chin against her hand. Her nails are polished a soft pink and when her grey silk sleeve slips down, Draco recognises the diamond baguette serpentine bracelet that curls around her wrist. His father had given it to her on her birthday just before the Ministry imprisoned him in Azkaban during Draco's sixth year.

"I'm not objecting, Draco," Narcissa says. She raises an eyebrow. "Merlin knows my grandson befriending the Saviour of the Wizarding World's child cannot harm our family." She picks up her teacup, takes a sip. "Quite the opposite, I should think."

"Yes," Draco says, and he looks away, staring down into the busy street below.

His tea grows cold.

***

Summer hols arrive, and Draco's grateful to have Scorpius home again.

He's missed his son.

They're sitting along the River Kennet, just outside Avebury, fishing poles in hand, one lazy, warm afternoon the week Scorpius returns. Draco never would have imagined himself in such a plebian position, but it's his son's request.

Draco blames Potter and his ridiculous ideas of childrearing.

Fishing indeed.

Still, he admits that there's a certain peacefulness along the riverbank, his bare feet dangling in the cold, rushing water, his trousers rolled up to his knees. His shoes and frock coat are folded neatly on the grass beside them, and Draco doesn't feel thirty-eight.

And then Scorpius says, "You know, Headmaster Snape has a portrait at school. He comes and talks to me in the common room sometimes." He hesitates, chewing his bottom lip. "A lot actually, and he asks about you. He's called me your name a time or two when he forgets, and then he gets cranky and shouts at me. I didn't know portraits could be embarrassed, but Albus's father says that happens."

Draco's breath catches, and he looks sideways at his son. "Does he? You tell him about these conversations?"

"Albus does." Scorpius kicks at a twig floating by. It spins and dips beneath the water before bobbing back up. "Albus thinks it's odd that he comes to talk to me. They all do." He snorts. "I think they're just afraid of him pointing out how stupid they are."

"Do you want him to stop?" Draco asks lightly, and his stomach twists a bit.

Scorpius shakes his head. "I like the stories he tells me. About you. Albus doesn't like them that much, though. His father's always doing something stupid." His son leans up against him. "Sometimes he talks about Albus's grandmother. He likes that well enough, I suppose."

Draco slides his arm around Scorpius, suddenly cold. Even all these years later he hasn't entirely forgiven Severus for that. He doesn't know if he will. He thinks again of the letter and the phial tucked in the back of his wardrobe. Sometimes, most times, he forgets they even exist.

Draco's a very good liar.

His son touches Draco's arm, his fingers gliding over white scarred skin, tracing the curve of a serpent, of a skull. He looks up at Draco, grey eyes curious.

"It was a very long time ago," Draco says quietly. "And I was very foolish."

Scorpius nods. "That's what the Headmaster says too."

A tug on Scorpius's line distracts them both, and they pull at it, laughing as a trout flies out of the river and lands on the bank next to them, flopping wildly.

Draco watches Scorpius cut it free, holding the fish up, a proud grin on his face.

He wonders what Severus thinks of his son.

***

The Mark hasn't hurt for two decades now.

Draco's grateful for that. It's faded into his skin now, white against white, only barely visible. But there's not a day that goes by that he's not aware of it.

He wears a coat even in the heat of summer. It's easier to keep it hidden from eyes that have yet to forget. And he refuses to let a lover touch it.

He shifts in the bath, and water splashes out onto the black and white tiled floor. An elf wipes it up immediately.

Draco runs his palm over the Mark and sighs. Sometimes he wonders if he could do it over, if he'd make another choice. Another decision.

He doesn't think he would.

It was for his family, after all. All of it. Everything he did. To protect his father, his mother. And if the Dark Lord's demand of allegiance from him was what kept his parents alive through the aftermath of that last battle…

Draco knows he would make the same vow.

It's not something someone like Potter or Weasley would understand, he thinks. Perhaps not even Severus-he had hated his family so very much.

But of course there had been her.

Draco closes his eyes, sinks deeper into the warm, sandalwood-scented water.

Perhaps he might have understood, after all.

***

Potter Floo calls on a Sunday morning, just after brunch.

Draco's abandoned the financial section of the Prophet in favour of the Quidditch scores-which he's only barely managed to wrest from his son's grip by invoking the universal because I'm your father and I say so.

It's strange to see Potter's head floating in the Manor fireplace.

Draco squats next to it. "What do you want?"

Potter sighs. "Hullo to you too, Malfoy."

"Am I to assume this has to do with my son?" Draco casts a glance towards the dining room. Scorpius lounges in a chair, long legs spread out, an apple in one hand, the Quidditch pages that he's stolen back in the other.

"Sort of." Potter coughs. "Look, it's Al's birthday coming up-"

"Al?" Draco raises an eyebrow.

Potter glares at him. "It's Al's birthday week after next and he wants Scorpius to come for visit." Potter's glasses shine in the fire. "Gin and I thought he might stay for a week, if you and his mum agree."

"You're asking me to allow my child to stay at your house?" Draco's mouth turns down. "Ridiculous, Potter."

"Yeah, well, it's not like I'm all that keen on it either," Potter snaps. "But our sons seem to get on better than we ever did, so I reckon for their sakes we can be polite?"

Draco doesn't say anything for a moment, then he nods, a terse, quick dip of his head.

"Right then," Potter says and Draco can see him relax. "Bring him by on Friday afternoon then? We'll make certain to have him back the next Friday."

"If anything happens to him, I'm holding you responsible," Draco snaps, and he shuts the Floo off, breathing out for a moment before he stands, dusting off his hands, and goes to tell his son.

Scorpius's whoop of delight almost makes the sour bile in the back of Draco's throat worthwhile.

***

The week his son is with the Potters, Draco goes to Hogwarts for the first time in years.

He claims, even to himself, that it's merely a desire to make certain this friendship is acceptable.

He knows better.

The portrait is easy enough to find, despite the frame being tucked away in the Headmaster's office. Draco sends Sir Cadogan after him, and Severus arrives shortly thereafter, irritated and haughty.

"Mr Malfoy," he says, with an imperious curl of his lip.

"Stuff it, Severus," Draco says with a small smile and he can't stop looking at him. He's beautiful, in his own way, though Draco's quite certain most others would think him mad for that pronouncement.

But Severus is, pale skin and greasy hair aside, and Draco can almost feel his breath on his neck, his hands on his hips.

"Watch yourself," Severus snaps, and Draco presses his hand to the canvas. To Severus's robe. Over his heart.

Severus's breath catches; he falls silent.

"You talk to my son," Draco says finally.

There's a moment's silence. "Yes."

"Why?"

Severus says nothing.

"Why?" Draco asks again, his voice quiet, firm.

The oil-daubed leaves in the tree behind Severus rustle. "Because," he says reluctantly, "I thought he was you at first."

"He's a bit young," Draco says dryly and Severus shoots him a dark look.

"Not amusing, Draco."

They fall silent. There's so much to say. Too much to say. So many years-

"You've stayed away," Severus says.

"Yes." Draco leans against the portrait frame, stares down the hallway. "It's hard," he says. "Still."

Severus just looks at him.

"Don't hurt my son," Draco says finally, and he meets Severus's gaze.

A curt nod. Severus looks away.

Draco’s halfway down the hall when he’s stopped by Severus’s voice. He turns.

Severus is in a new frame, across from him, and he shoves two witches away from their teatable and into the next frame, a windy seascape. The thinner one curses at him when her hat blows off, tumbling down the painted shore.

He looks out of place among the tufted chairs and pink floral chintz.

“Potter gave you the phial,” he begins and Draco cuts him off.

“Don’t, Severus,” he says and it’s only then he realises how angry he still is after all these years. Severus’s mouth twists down. Draco recognises the mulish look. “I went on with my life,” he says tightly. “Despite you.”

Severus crosses his arms over his chest. “One day you’ll be forced to forgive me,” he says quietly.

Draco meets his gaze. “Not today,” he says, after a long moment, and he walks away.

Malfoys do not forget easily.

***

He kneels in front of his wardrobe later that night, turning the unopened letter in his hands. Moonlight streams through the leaded glass windows behind him; his latest lover sighs and shifts in the bed. The wooden floor is cool against Draco’s bare knees.

The wax on the seal has begun to crack; the paper is yellowing.

Draco hesitates.

He sets the letter back in the drawer and wards it shut.

He can’t.

Not yet.

He returns to bed, and Viktor curls an arm around him, pulling him close and murmuring something to him sleepily in a language Draco can’t understand.

It takes a very long while for Draco to close his eyes.

***

The Ministry has always been Draco’s least favourite place. Too many memories of his father in a holding cell. Of his trial.

Draco’s never asked why he wasn’t brought before the Wizengamot. He assumes it’s because of Potter.

He hates that thought.

Frances gives him a curious look, as she always does when he drops the monthly Gringotts reports off with the International Wizarding Currency Standards Body.

He meets her gaze evenly. She glances away and flushes.

Draco’s used to the whispers and the way their eyes dip to his left arm. It’s annoying. Frustrating.

But after twenty years, he’s stopped fighting it.

He turns the corner and nearly runs into Potter. And Weasley.

The Weasel curls his lip at him. “Malfoy.”

Draco bares his teeth. “Weasel.”

“Shut it, the both of you,” Potter says easily, and Draco hates him even more at the moment. He wasn’t certain that was possible. Potter grins at him. “Al’s looking forward to coming over this weekend. It’s all he’s talked about.”

Weasley snorts and says something under his breath; Potter steps on his toes.

“We’re pleased to have him,” Draco says, polite for the sake of his son-he still denies even to himself that he’s secretly grown fond of Potter’s brat--and he steps past them both.

Potter catches his elbow. “I’ve been thinking,” Potter says, and the Weasel whispers Harry, come on, mate and Potter says again, more determinedly this time, “I’ve been thinking that maybe we should have a drink, you and me. Sometime.”

“You can’t be serious.” Draco gives Potter an incredulous look. He pulls away from his grasp. He agrees with Weasley’s disgusted expression. “We loathe each other.”

Potter shoves his hands in his pockets. “Our kids don’t.”

“We are not our children,” Draco points out. He’s rather certain Potter’s lost his mind. He’s expected it to happen one day. All that hanging about with Weasleys would be certain to drive one mad.

Potter’s mouth thins. “Yeah, well, I’m tired of Al asking why I can’t stand Scorpius’s dad. Maybe it’s time to at least make an effort to be civil.”

“I am civil,” Draco snaps. “And I am not having a drink with you.”

Potter shrugs. “If you change your mind, I’ll be at the Leaky Cauldron after work.”

Draco doesn’t answer; he just walks away.

He’s beginning to think the world’s gone mad.

***

It takes Draco a good five minutes to open the door of the Cauldron.

This is utterly mad, he knows. He doesn’t want to make peace with Potter. It’s been the one constant in his life, this natural hatred. It’s easy. Comfortable.

He prefers it this way.

Draco curses his son under his breath.

Weasley stands when Draco walks up to the table. “This is my cue to leave,” he says, and he knocks Draco’s shoulder with his own when he brushes past.

Draco’s mouth tightens; he keeps his tongue. He’s learned to over the years.

Potter gives him a half-smile. “Sorry.”

Draco sits stiffly. “I’m only here for Scorpius.” He orders a whisky, neat.

“It’s a start,” Potter says.

They sit silently, awkwardly for a long moment. This is ridiculous, Draco thinks. He’ll drink his whisky and leave. And then this moronic experiment will be done and they can go back to despising one another comfortably.

“The Falcons are doing well,” Potter says at last, and he twists his beer between his hands.

Draco rolls his eyes. “They’ve not a chance against the United.” The barwitch levitates his whisky in front of him. A drop splashes on the back of his hand. Draco frowns. “Shall we discuss the weather now?”

Potter laughs at that, a rich, deep chuckle, and Draco looks up in surprise. “Scorpius’s handling a broom quite well. He says he’s going out for Quidditch next year.”

“Yes. Seeker.” Draco takes a sip of his whisky to hide his confusion. “I’ve been showing him a few tricks this summer.”

Potter grins. “Me too. He’s pretty quick on a Snitch.”

“I should be offended,” Draco says. He wonders why Scorpius hasn’t informed him of this fact. He suspects he knows. "I think I am."

“You want him to make the team, don’t you?” Potter drains half his beer in one swallow. Draco shudders. “He’s been going up against James as well in a few drills. He’s got talent.”

“He’s a Malfoy.” Draco doesn’t bother to hide his pride in his son.

“That he is,” Potter agrees.

Draco raises an eyebrow and sips his whisky.

Potter smiles.

***

“You’re not angry with me, are you?” Scorpius asks, standing in the conservatory doorway and clutching his broom tight in one hand, a Snitch in the other. “It’s just James is a brilliant Seeker and Mr Potter-“

Draco holds up his hand. “Don’t even say it.”

His son falls silent. He chews his bottom lip.

“I’m not angry,” Draco says finally. “I’d just prefer to know.” He sighs and shakes the Prophet open. “Potter was a decent enough Seeker, I suppose,” he admits grudgingly, and oh, how it costs him to choke that out.

Scorpius grins and in a dash and a jump, he’s sprawled across the chaise next to Draco. He drops his Firebolt on the floor; it rolls beneath Draco’s chair.

“He and James showed me how to do a Wronski Feint. Have you ever tried one, Papa?”

Draco grits his teeth. “No.” He keeps his voice level only with a great deal of effort. Really, he despises Potter.

“Albus says I’m a natural, but I think he’s just being nice. Best mate and all.”

Draco snorts. “Slytherins are never nice unless it’s required, Scorpius. Or unless we wish to receive something in return.” He raises an eyebrow. “Does he?”

Scorpius thinks for a moment, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. “I don’t think so,” he says finally.

“Well then.” Draco turns the page. Potter’s idiotic mug grins inanely up at him from an article regarding a restructuring of Auror Headquarters. Draco bares his teeth at him; Potter merely shakes his head and laughs.

“Maybe.” Scorpius stares down at the Snitch fluttering in his fingers, its wings beating lightly against his knuckles. “Papa?”

“Yes?” Draco glances over at an advert for Liam Lichtencraft’s Guaranteed Never-Fail Scrying Glasses. Anything to stop staring at Potter’s bloody smirk.

Scorpius is silent for a moment; Draco looks over the edge of the Prophet. “Yes?” he says again, and his son looks up at him then.

“Do you think you could come out to the garden and watch me? See if I do it properly?” Scorpius asks in a rush. “I trust you more.” He pushes his white-blond hair out of his face, his eyes uncertain, and Draco’s suddenly reminded of how young his son is. Barely twelve. He can hardly remember those days. Back when the slightest nod from his father was enough to send him over the moon.

How very different the world was.

He sets his paper aside and stands up. He holds his hand out. “Shall I set the Snitch free?” he asks and Scorpius’s face lights up.

The Prophet can wait. His son can’t.

***

Scorpius loses control of his broom during the first Slytherin-Gryffindor match of the term. It’s a Wronski Feint gone wrong, and he ends up in the hospital wing for two days, Pomfrey forcing bone-mending potions into his system for the first twenty-one hours.

Severus stops Draco in the Entrance Hall to assure him that Scorpius is fine. He walks Draco through the corridors, shoving portraits from their frames along the way. Draco is oddly grateful for his concern.

In the infirmary, Scorpius gives his father a faint smile and nods towards the Snitch lying in a glass flask next to his bed, its wings curled around itself. “I caught it,” he says weakly and winces as he shifts in the bed.

Severus takes a seat in the painting across from Scorpius’s bed. “Indeed,” he says, and Draco thinks he detects a certain pride in his voice. He should be miffed, he supposes. Instead he smiles at Severus.

His son’s eyes brighten.

Draco sends the owl to Harry the next morning, a scathing diatribe on parental responsibility that ends with this is entirely your fault and don’t even think about showing my son any more of your stupid stunts, you feckless Gryffindor idiot.

Potter’s reply is short and to the point.

Slytherin won, yes? Look, stop being such an old woman and have another drink with me. Half five at the Cauldron again?

Draco doesn’t even give Potter’s owl a rest.

I hate you, you realise. I’ll meet you at six.

Aurélie shakes her head when he tells her at dinner. “You’re playing with fire, love,” she murmurs over her glass of wine.

“I’m quite certain I’ve no idea what you mean,” Draco snaps and he scrapes his fork tines over his salmon.

His wife shrugs one shoulder. “Of course not.” She meets his gaze evenly, her dark eyes suddenly so very reminiscent of Severus’s.

Draco flushes and looks away.

He later learns that Severus refused to leave the infirmary until Scorpius was released.

Draco sends his son the latest British Journal of Potionbrewing and Herbology with a note informing him to read the articles out loud to the former Headmaster.

Severus will understand.

***

Somehow-Draco’s never entirely quite certain how--drinks with Potter becomes a weekly habit.

Every Thursday at six, they meet in the back corner table at the Leaky Cauldron. Tom has a pint waiting for Potter and a whisky for Draco.

They spend approximately half an hour together. Long enough for a drink-or two, if the Ministry and Gringotts have been particularly demanding-and the plate of chips Potter insists on ordering and dousing in vinegar.

Draco finds himself liking the vile things.

At first they’re awkward. Uneasy. Their conversation is filled with silences and revolves around their children. Draco has no interest in Potter’s oldest, or the girl with that hated name, but on occasion he allows him to ramble on about them. At least then he can sit and sip his whisky rather than be forced to make small talk.

Eight months after their first drink, Draco finds himself calling Potter Harry. He freezes, glass raised halfway to his mouth.

Potter gives him that lazy smile of his and raises his pint. “Draco,” he says.

Draco takes a large sip of his Ogden’s and swallows past the burn. “Harry,” he mumbles, cheeks flushing, and that’s that.

***

It becomes oddly, surprisingly easy to find Potter--Harry--insinuated in his life.

The fact that it drives Weasley utterly mad is not lost on Draco. He takes great delight in the Weasel’s annoyance.

Draco begins to enjoy his conversations with Harry, to take them past family and work.

Their first argument on politics is spirited. Harry is tired of inept Ministerial involvement; Draco doesn’t fault him. He has his own issues with the idiocy of the Ministry.

“Just throw it over,” Harry says, irritated. His beer splashes over the rim of his pint as he gestures wildly. He switches hands, licks his fingers before drying them on a grimy serviette. Draco shudders. “Put in something entirely new. Something that works.”

Draco snorts. “If you think a new order will be any better than what we currently have, Harry, you obviously learned nothing from the war.” He sets his glass down. “Stay with the devil you know. At least you can work around it.”

“That’s shite,” Harry scoffs. “New governments are established all the time-“

“And how many of them fail?” Draco shakes his head. “You can’t argue against tradition, you dolt. Or expectations. No one truly wants change because then what would we have to complain about?”

Harry just stares at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I can be pragmatic,” Draco says calmly. “And if you go about shouting viva la revolucion in the streets, it’s only going to lead to you being ostracised by the Ministry and thought bloody mad by society.” He takes of sip of whisky. “Which you are, but that’s beside the point.”

Harry slumps in his chair, runs his hand through his fringe. Draco wants to slap his fingers away. “So stay with the status quo then. Even if it’s incompetent.”

“I didn’t say that.” Draco twists his glass between his hands. “But changes can be made discretely. Honestly, Potter, not everything must be a grand, overt gesture of defiance. Subtlety is a virtue, you realise.” He snorts. “Gryffindors.”

Harry just eyes him.

Draco shrugs and finishes his whisky. He stands, pulling his cloak around his shoulders. “Next week?”

Harry starts to nod, then catches himself. “I can’t. Anniversary.”

“The week after then.” Draco taps down a short burst of annoyance.

“Yeah.”

Draco tosses a Galleon down on the table. “Work within the system, Harry. Your life will be much less complicated.”

He knows Harry’s watching him as he leaves.

He’s strangely pleased.

***

A year later Harry and the Weasel are lauded for their reorganisation of Auror policy.

Draco finds this fact highly amusing, particularly given that several of their key ideas he suggested. He highly doubts even Weasley is aware of that.

Harry invites Draco and Aurélie to the Christmas party he and the Weasley girl throw each December. Draco declines-he’s no wish to spend his Christmas Eve surrounded by Weasleys-but sends Scorpius in their stead.

He knows that the presence of any Malfoy will be enough to turn some of the Gryffindors off their eggnog, and that’s enough of a Christmas gift for him.

Bastard, Harry writes back after his refusal. Don’t think I don’t know exactly what you’re up to.

Draco just smirks and goes to Hogwarts to speak with Scorpius.

This party will require some preparation, he thinks. He has some school secrets to share with his son.

He thinks perhaps Severus will be willing to help.

***

Potter’s owl arrives just after Christmas dinner. Scorpius is outside with his mother and grandmother, testing out his new racing broom.

You’re a bloody arse, it says. And you owe me a drink. God only knows when Ron’s going to be speaking to me again. Romilda’s sweets, Draco? Honestly? Did you have to tell him about that?

Draco laughs and pours another glass of wine.

Part Two