wizsprogs: (Default)
[personal profile] wizsprogs
Author: ([personal profile] tigersilver)
Title: ‘Goes Like This’
Characters/Pairings: Draco/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Schmoop. Smarm. Loud noises. Wall sex. (Wall-papered wall sex: East Wing, shaved cream velvet thin-stripe-on-eggshell coloured Chinese rice paper, to be exact.) Doting (Top) Draco. Granny Narcissa.
Word Count: 14, 400
Prompt:#53 for corona_0304: Draco/Harry; "To be a father" wasn't on Draco's to-do-list yet when he found out Harry was pregnant he started to plan how to spoil him/her rotten. Doting!Draco please. :)
Summary: Per the prompt, BB! All the way; no skids.
Notes: This was ever so late. I am incredibly so, so sorry. Also, I love my Beta. And the Mods, especially Kiss, who is exactly that: kissable. And [personal profile] megyal. And the Prompter (awesome job, darling!) Also (meh), all further errors are mine alone, as I have wickedly re-edited post-Beta. Which consumed eternities. IDK.


()()()(This very minute!)


“Ah...hah! Caught you, Potter!”

Draco Malfoy sprang out of the shadows, a silver-topped avenger swooping down inexorably, only to grasp at a gasping, red-faced, heel-spinning Potter by the crook of a flung-out elbow.

“Walked right into it, little fool!”

Augh!”

Potter yelped, leaping straight up by six solid inches at the touch of long cool fingers slithering about his upper arm.

Because, naturally, that was the exact moment when everything else happened.

‘Everything else’ being an alarum, newly triggered, and quite strident.

All about the two Wizards went the heart-stopping clang of many bells ringing and assorted chimes chiming—some loud, some soft—and a dizzying kaleidoscope of flashing multi-coloured lights whizzing cattycorner. It was much as if Potter had inadvertently horribly angered a giant, magically sentient Muggle disco ball and then been sucked into the throbbing guts of it.

“Huh? Ho!?” Potter exclaimed breathlessly, highly startled; understandably so. He staggered about in a tiny circle, peering upwards, but the cacophony was multi-directional. “Oi! Malfoy!”

He turned an accusing and completely bewildered face to his triumphant accoster, twisting his whole body to do so. Malfoy, still decked out in his most dapper pajamas, leered down at the smaller Wizard, nostrils flared wide in his triumph. The both of them were by turns striped with red, gold and blue beams of light, alternating, and a resounding crash of the bells.

It was very strange, the jangling and the explosion of lights. Not in the least as the Manor was normally a rather hushed place, quiet and peaceful of a weekday morning in summer.

“What’s all this, then?” Potter begged to know. He threw up his hands—or one of them, the free one “What are you doing to me now?”

“Gotcha, I said! Red-handed, Potty—in the actual act, even.” Malfoy crowed, clearly full of it, leering harder, brighter, madder. “Little git.”

Potter’s jaw dropped. ‘Perplexed’ described him, from shuffling boot tip to floppity fringe. “G-Got me what, now? I’m not even doing anything.”

“It’s positive,” Malfoy announced. “The spell’s bloody positive. Glory be, Potter, but it’s positive! Snap!” Maniacally, rather.

“Oi!” Potter jerked his arm, unsuccessfully. “Er, which spell is it that’s pos—“ he ventured, treading carefully.

“Oh, but it’s perfect. It’s ever so excellently perfect, Potter! Couldn’t be any better; could it ever be?”

Malfoy ceased his circling of Potter. He maintained his death grip on the crook of Potter’s one arm, though.

“Wah?” Potter insisted, threatening onset of dizziness receding before natural confusion. “What’s that now, Malfoy?”

“I knew it, Potter—I knew it,” Potter’s long-time enemy chuckled ominously, all freshly cleaned white teeth and tousled pale blond tendrils dangling before his brilliant eyes as he jabbed a finger at the swirly rainbow of light effects. “All along, I knew it. Can’t fool me.”

The Manor’s alarum spell stepped it up a notch…or five. To ‘unbearable’.

“Urrrgh!”

Potter groaned suddenly and stumbled under Malfoy’s hand, clutching frantically at his belly through his light blue work robes. “Umhum…ngh!”

“Oh, bollocks! You, stop faking it, you!” Malfoy snorted impatiently. He gave Potter’s arm a little shake. “You can’t hide these things from me; don’t even try it on, imbecile. I caught you, didn’t I? Fair and square I caught you; of course, I caught you. Who’s the better wizard now, Potter? Tell me, I dare you! And don’t bother to try diverting me from your error through some specious bout of pre-pre-morning sickness. It’s too soon for that, damn it; I won’t believe you. And I’m not the resident idiot in this room, Potter—that’d be you.”

“Ugh. Urrrgh-ah.”

Potter, despite the brilliantly alternating gold-scarlet-sapphire colours of the rotating beams, had gone markedly greenish of cast all the same. He slumped, groaning.

“No, no—oi, Malf—urp!” He fumbled for his wand, perhaps intending to summon a bucket. “I…really, I don’t feel so very we—”

“Oops!” Malfoy lost his strop instantly, springing into action. “No, no, bad. You really are, aren’t you? My bad, sorry, Harry. Shouldn’t have pushed at you like that, not now. Come on, over this way.”

“N-No!”

“Bugger.” Potter was righted by an abrupt upwards jerk of his elbow; Malfoy wasn’t listening to a word, much more intent on steering Potter to safe mooring . “Right—no. Can’t have this. You mustn’t fall, you know. Or cast up your accounts, either.”

A listing, eerily wan Potter was further steadied with a hand set upon his waist, one that spread out, dug in and yanked at him, albeit with care.

“Over here, Potter, on the double. Sit your arse down on this blasted bench right this moment. Off your feet, fool.”

“Hey, I—no, Malfoy,” Potter struggled against the encroaching tide of crab-wise motion, nobly if ineffectively. “No, I was just off to work—I’m alright. I am, ” he insisted.

“Oh, no, you aren’t.”

He was summarily dragged to the massive oaken hall-tree that served as the Malfoy’s impromptu cloak-rack and made to sit upon the padded bench of it, forcibly.

“Sit, I said,” Malfoy ordered. “Down, now. Meaning both arse cheeks planted, both of ‘em. Plant, Potter—make like a damned plant.” A warm hand at Potter’s nape guided his head down toward his kneecaps. “Now stay still, breathe in slowly and take fucking root. You’ll feel better in a moment, I’m sure.”

“Um-ah?…Malfoy?” After a moment, Potter was recovered enough to sit up. He blinked at Malfoy, hovering over him.

“Good man.” The narrowed steely orbs momentarily gleamed with grudging approval. “Just like that. Keep up with the breathing. Go slowly.”

“Malfoy!”

Potter’s voice rose dangerously as he seized the chance to stare about him. He didn’t seem to know where first to look: at the amorphous, unholy mélange of music and carnival strobe lights emanating from nowhere in particular or at Malfoy’s angry blond uni-brow and his anxious eyes beneath the furrow.

“Potter? That’s not slowly.”

“Right.”

The man in question drew in a deep breath, visibly leaving go of a loaded raft of tension as he flexed his fingers out of their automatic clench and shook the tense crick off his neatly robed shoulders.

“…Mal…foy,” he said slowly, clearly striving for a certain level of calm deliberation, yet all the while gathering about himself the nearly palpable folds of a righteous cloak of irkdom. “Malfoy, that’s enough, now. Of whatever this prank is you’re up to. Stop it. It’s sick-making. Enough now.”

He made as if to rise, glaring.

“Bah! Not on your life.”

Malfoy pushed him straight back down promptly, his not-so-habitual-these-days baleful glare returned and apparently taking up residence for the long haul.

“Potter, oh Potter?” he grimly demanded of his fellow. “Dear Potter. Fuck your ‘enough’, all right? Fuck it. I’ll stop the spell when I’m good and ready, is that clear? More importantly, just where was it you thought you might be trotting off to so early this fine morning, in your delicate condition? Precisely?”

“My—my? ‘Delicate’?”

The accused Wizard blushed scarlet of an instant, peering everywhere ‘round the room but most definitely back at Malfoy.

“Condition?” His expression of incipient ire faded away as if it had never been, replaced hastily by the newly minted aura of a man carrying about a highly suspect conscience. Hang-doggedness hung over Potter, like a cloud. “Ahem,” he coughed, a supposedly only polite hand rising to disguise his blushes.

“Yes, Potter,” Malfoy stated flatly, unconvinced. “Condition.”

“What d’you mean by ‘my’?” the other man enquired cautiously. “Er?”

His opponent curled the corner of his upper lip, ferally; Potter pulled a woebegone face at it, sighing inaudibly.

“Grrrr! You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” the taller man growled, glowering down from the alpine reaches of the land of those whose worst suspicions have been proven quite correct. “Always so secretive, little sod. I knew it. I knew you’d do this.” His growl became a hiss, morphing into an outright snort. “Potterrrrr!”

The crazy-house disco ball atmosphere meanwhile showed no signs of abating; both Wizards ignored it as best they could.

The slighter man gazed afar from under his lowered lashes, his lips pursed into what was an undeniably mutinous pout. Malfoy’s irate rictus thinned to nothingness.

“Yes, Potter?” he urged, dangerously. “Speak, Potter.”

“’My c-c-con-condition’, you say?” Potter waved his fingertips about as a sea creature would, swept up in a strong current, gesturing at both the nothing and the everything. “What d’you mean, when you say ‘my condition’? I wasn’t aware I even had a con—”

“Potter,” Malfoy stated sternly, dropping abruptly and smoothly to his lean haunches before the bench-edge, from which convenient position he affixed his cornered prey with a piercing glare of great intensity. “Potter, Potter, Potter.”

“What?” Potter mumbled, still mutinous.

Malfoy laid the flats of his hands across his fellow Wizard’s thews and squeezed, not quite hard enough to bruise, but certainly enough to keep the other man’s notice. He tapped all ten fingertips in a ticked-off tempo across the smooth planes of muscle under fine fabric, contemplating them with a frown.

“Twat of my life,” he went on softly, and with curious gentleness, “please do not fuck with me. You won’t win. Just…don’t dare. Don’t bother.”

“I…” Potter reddened all over again, rising anger improving his pale skin to a healthy flush. “You! I—I am not—the one,” he gasped, “daring! Or—or bothering! You are the bother, Malfoy. Call this cacophony off, can’t you?”

“Yes, you are.”

()()()(A month prior…)


“Potter, Potter—Harry. C’mere, Harry; come to me. Missed you.”

Malfoy pounced instead, not waiting a’tall for a response, and shoved Potter up against the newly re-papered wall of the upper East Wing man corridor. Fortunately, the East Wing was considered Malfoy-Potter territory and the other inhabitants of Malfoy Manor knew better than to venture there unannounced.

“Potter, how is it you’re so…so delicious?” he seriously wanted to know, a bit later on. But he didn’t stop for an answer to that either; he snogged Potter as soon as the dazed man parted his lips to assay a reply. The complete whole-body sort of snog, it was; the holistic kind that spoke of passionate intent, unstoppable.

“Urk!” Potter snorted, when allowed at last a try at coherency. “Malfoy, what are you even doing, popping up like that? You startled me.”

“I want an answer, Potter,” Malfoy insisted, eyelids heavy, “and no fooling about, now. You’re up to no good, aren’t you?”

“Mal—Draco!” Potter was, of course, surprised by the accusation. It was one, after all, he’d been more accustomed to making.

“No, nope,” Malfoy grinned merrily, a wicked gleam in his smile. “Too late. Don’t care now; don’t bother yourself.” He pressed his mouth against the other Wizard’s a second time and this bout when on for what seemed like ages.

“Oh, but.”

“No, no. I’ll find out for myself, cheers,” Potter was cheerily informed at the end of it. “Right now.”

“Oh!” Potter clearly he’d not been expecting to be waylaid on his return journey back from the solar. “Oh—no—really?” he managed faintly between an onslaught of yet more passionate kisses, “Seriously—is—it now, Malf—oh!”

This was no passing fancy on Malfoy’s part. His bared throat was gratuitously gnawed upon when Malfoy’s grazing lips travelled further south, which instigated an instant effect; his knees buckled. A nipples was rolled teasingly between thumb and forefinger. A quite randy cockhead was presented to Potter’s bellybutton.

“Do that again, please….just that, that right there,” Potter pleaded, sagging. “The nipples, yes, yes, the nipples. Oh, yesssss; ungh….okay!”

Malfoy did do ‘that’ ; then he did ‘this’, which resulted in Potter’s casual linen trousers hitting the ages-old Persian runner with a little flapping rush. Also a wet neck, an extensive love bite, and a rapidly matching full erection on Potter’s part.

“Oh, god.”

The tongue of his belt buckle jabbed painfully against one of his naked toes, too, his pinkie one, but Potter never noticed. He kicked his trousers and pants off with alacrity, and practically climbed Malfoy’s hips in his eagerness to get on.

“Please, more!”

“Potter,” Malfoy gurgled, chomping down hard on the man’s nape, so beautifully bared, much as a hunting cat would bear down upon a contrary mouse, and twisting him about deftly to face the wall in place of being backed up against it. “Potter, I so want you. I want that arse of yours. I want that lovely, lovely cock, too; give it over, right now, and tell me? Tell me, why is it you always manage to have me panting after you like this? Like some rutting barnyard animal—no. No, it’s like—it’s like Imperius or something; I can’t think straight when I see you. Fuck, Potter, but it’s—blasted—in—con—venient of you!”

He rocked his pelvis into Potter’s arse, just for emphasis. The motion had them both moaning, just a bit.

“Dunno,” Potter wisped, slobbering just a little on the wallpaper as he was pressed into it, and graciously allowing the other to strip off his shirt by means of hauling both arms backwards and yanking it off regardless of buttons. “No idea. And don’t care-much,” he went on breathily, joining in the melee that was the last of mutual clothes-removal and the first of lube-summoning obliging by spreading his legs wide as he could and planting his bare feet on the cushy carpet. It was appallingly elegant wallpaper, he noted in passing. He hoped it would clean up well. “Either—oh! No, No. Do. Not. Know, Malfoy, but for Merlin’s sake, please carry on, yeah? You started—this-oh!” He sighed happily as two oiled fingertips twisted deftly into his exposed anus. “You finish it!”

“Yes,” Malfoy grunted, groping. “Gonna pound you, good and dirty, Potter. Drive it in you, never let you go. You’ll feel it, I guarantee. For days on , Harry, you’ll feel me.”

“Please!”Potter shrugged impatient. “I want that; gods, but I want that, Malfoy, everything you’re saying.”

“Yeah?’

“Oh, yeah. And now is good, any time now. Now would be super, yesss!”

“Good, ‘cause I’m going to pound you,” Malfoy stated, his lids half-lowered, eyes gleaming onyx-bright. “And pummel you and—and make your pretty little bum sore as shite and all achy-soft for me, Potter! You’ll be so wet!”

“Yes, yes,” Potter agreed, hips cocked up as high as he could get them and forearms braced. “So you say, wanker. Do—do it now, why don’t you? Any—damned—time—but now-oww-aaah-ouch-OOF!”

“So wet—fuck! Mercy, you’re too tight! And—and—so there,” Malfoy sneered, fully engaged with exactly the sort of urgency he’d just been promising. “Yes, there, there, I have you—Potter—Harry, keep that one leg up now; no back-sliding!” He thrust forward a tad bit more, a greedy satisfaction lighting up his features. “See, Potter? Exquisite, isn’t it? Ah! Told you.”

“Shut up,” Potter snarled nasally in reply, one nostril flattened by the bumpy flocking, “and please be fucking me now, chatty Cathy. Fuck me like you say you will; don’t just yap about it.”

“Exactly so.”

“Ack!”

“Hard enough for you, Potter? Yes? Heh! Changed your tune, haven’t you now? Liking this now, I’ll daresay.”

Potter vouchsafed no reply; he was occupied scratching off the new wallpaper with his stubby fingernails. Moaning happily all the while.

“Heh! Thought so.”

...It was a delightful shag, that, a beautiful shag, an ‘animal’ shag, but in no way particularly unusual. Despite the damage to the wallpaper.

()()()(This very minute! Again.)


Malfoy took the opportunity to grasp boldly at Potter’s damply sweaty palms where they lay twisting together in his lap. He stared straight into the guileless green gaze, never blinking, as the positions he’d placed them had brought them essentially to a most conveniently direct eye-level, the best sort for the heart-to-heart chat he so evidently—suddenly—desired. Ill-contented with merely staring Potter down, he leant in upon the other man all that much more overbearingly, crowding him till they were truly almost eyeball to eyeball, and rolled his own eyes disbelievingly.

“Bloody burr under my saddle,” he murmured softly. “Bloody liar, Potter,” he hissed, a tad bit louder, his hot breath fogging up Potter’s lenses. “Bloody miscreant,” he bit out nastily, summing up. “Fucking arse.”

“Er? Eh,” Potter gawped, mouth slightly open, tongue tip nervously darting out to touch the bow of his upper lip, then shifting to the corner. He licked them, nervously. “M-Me, d’you mean?”

“Yes, you; of course you!” Malfoy groaned under his breath but held steady to course with the industrial-strength and ominously level glare. “You hurt my feelings, Potter. Didn’t you?”

“Gods,” Potter summoned up a disapproving frown out of nowhere, gone nearly as soon as it appeared. “But you do have a foul mouth on you, Malfoy, when you want to, that is, and I—well, I. I didn’t! I’m not! Whatever it was you say I did, I didn’t do it, I swear!”

“You did,” Malfoy jibed immediately, all acid-toned and very lemony. “You are.” He chomped teeth on each word, crunching syllables to splinters. “You. Have. Even now. ”

“Eh…” Potter panted and licked again at his parted lips, which had quite dried out, whilst warily surveying the quite pissy features of his opponent. “Ah…erm. H’em.”

“Don’t you dare ‘ahem’ me, Potter.”

The man was all leg as ever, true, but he also possessed quite a lengthy torso; bent Potter’s way, it was doing its damndest to appear very menacing indeed. Gradually, Potter shrank back on his bench.

“Meh,” he eeped, blinkity-blinking. “...Um? Sorry.”

“Potter. Sorry doesn’t cut it.”

“No, really,” Potter gulped, giving way, his flush finally subsiding. “I am sorry, really and, well. Um, what is all this mess—this horribleness happening in our front entry, Malfoy?” He dropped his eyelids behind his smeared specs, affecting a much injured innocence. “I’m not quite—I mean, I don’t seem to follow. What’s wrong now, Malfoy? What crime is it exactly I’m supposed to have committed to have offended you so?”

“You. Enormous pain in my very fine arse, Potter,” Malfoy snapped back. “You are. To be blunt about it, you are the worst, the very worst sort of dissembler. To say it to your face, nitwit, you suck. Pants at this. Compleat cock-up. And you’re a bloody cunt of an out-and-out liar, through and through. Unconscionable.”

“N-No!” Potter protested, fretfully. “Now, hold up! If you’d just come out and say it--!”

“Not a chance. I shouldn’t have to.”

Malfoy scowled, because Potter, the scrawny runt, who still hadn’t sprouted up, despite all the good feeds the house elves pressed upon him with great regularity, only kept up with his airy-fairy stunned-guppy demeanor. But his eyes were quite shifty behind the askew spec frames; yes, they were.

Potter.”

“Ah? P-Pardon? You were…saying?”

“Bumbledunce, heathen, plebe.” Malfoy drew in s short, sharp breath. Expelled it with equal force, right up Potter’s wrinkled nose.

“Hey!”

“Lying by omission, aren’t you? Lying to me. Don’t I at least deserve a right to know, Potter? To be told?”

Potter, momentarily cowed, tilted his head to take in Malfoy at a better angle. Perhaps one that would make sense, which very little was, at the moment. This excruciatingly nerve-jangling moment, given the unabated disco madness.

Malfoy scowling was an unrelenting view of grim angles, all juxtaposed into a masque of noble marbled superiority. His triumphant flash of earlier had totally passed, though; he knew very well when Potter was attempting to pull a fast one. That mild-mannered bespectacled air hid much deceit. Naïve deceit, sloppily executed, of course, but still…lying. Potter—lying.

Of course Malfoy growled. Deep in his chest it rumbled, nearly drowned out by the magical alarum incantation.

“Told what, Malfoy? What’re you talking about?”

“Potter,” Malfoy thus enunciated every syllable patiently and slowly, as if speaking to someone mentally challenged or perhaps deranged, but certainly a certifiably dense sort of idiot. Possibly the nearby village of Malfoy Major’s very own recently escaped idiot, even. “You thick, stupid, jelly-headed, shite-for-brains prick of a prat of a twat, you’re fooling no one, here. No. One. Not me; definitely not me, and also? May I just say this? Right now, straight to your lying face, Potter?”

Another fleeting frown surfaced on Malfoy’s forehead, but furrows deeper, as if something struck him that was of particularly huge annoyance.

“Eh?” Potter offered up helpfully, but in no way guiltily at this point in proceedings. “Yes?”

“You’re going nowhere,” stated the other gentleman flatly. “Not this morning. Not on my watch. You’re not Flooing to the Ministry today, nor any other day, nor ever again, not if I’ve something to say to it, which I do, thanks ever so. It’s Quidditch, Potter; it’s brutal. It’s too dangerous for you now. I won’t stand for it; it’s not happening. You’re not going.”

“Oh, now!” Potter exclaimed, aghast but pointlessly, as Malfoy carried right on declaiming. “Malfoy!”

“So, stay put,” the man of the hour ordered plainly, in a sternly accented tone brooking no opposition, not from any quarter, not ever again—a’tall. “Here, right here. Cheers and all that, Potter. Welcome home.”

Indeed, the bells of Malfoy rang louder as if to underline every commanding twitch, every tetchy long vowel; the lights as they spun were practically epilepsy-inducing and yet somehow mildly hypnotic.

Potter swallowed, nonplussed. He cast down his gaze, examining with intent his freshly scrubbed fingertips as they trembled. “Hmm,” he said, but Malfoy was having none of it.

“Go nowhere. Better than that.” Malfoy leaned forward again, hissing as they were nigh atop one another. “Go the fuck back to bed, why don’t you? For the sake of Circe and by all that’s bloody holy, you shouldn’t even be awake at this early hour, much less readying for work. Bollocks to your bloody work! It’s Games, git; nothing more than stupid Games, and it’s a sign of your precarious hormonal condition you’re even considering risking our child for bloody-fucking Games! I’d hate you for that, Potter, if I was ever planning on hating you again, I’ll have you know. Dickhead. Idiot twit. Inconsiderate.”

Potter jerked, effectively ripping his hands out from under Malfoy’s. Also thumping the back of his head against the oaken slab back of the hall-tree.

“Wait just a bleeding minute, Malfoy, you idiot! Idiot!” he boggled, lips working frantically. Then he snapped back succinctly, running a very skeptical gaze over Malfoy’s pseudo-supplicant figure and a quite agitated hand through his equally agitated hair. “You’re the one completely out of line here, springing this—“

The hand waved frantically at ‘this’, the alarum spell, which never, ever stopped clanging and flashing.

“On me and—and you’re not actually even standing, liar. You’re not standing for anything, alright? You’re kneeling, like a bloody begger, okay? You’re on your knees before me, that’s what. You look like a fool, too, d’you realize? A stupid, overreacting contrary dickhead, is what, Malfoy.”

He harrumphed, bearing his eyeteeth and flashing his spec lenses fiercely.

“Don’t be nonsensical, Potter,” Malfoy frowned, shrugging. “That was a figure of speech, only. For emphasis. Learn the damned difference.”

“I don’t care what it was, Malfoy; what I want to know now is where you think you’re getting off? And—and, if you believe I’m ever, ever going to be scared of you, you have another think coming, ‘cause I’m not, okay? Not in this lifetime, you great big softy! You’re a bloody pussycat in Nundu’s clothing, git, nothing more! And another thing! Of course I’m going to work. Why ever wouldn’t I?”

Two quite irate Wizards stared one another down, unrelenting.

The bells and lights continued absolutely barmy all about them. It was a measure of their mutrual fascination that neither lifted a wand to end the incantation. Though, in fact and as one, each hunched down an inch or so, cowering under the weight of unmelodious cacophony.

Potter stayed horrendously silent, not offering up either the apology nor the explanation his fellow Wizard was so clearly awaiting. A gauntlet had been thrown down.

“Ah, fuck!” Malfoy was the first to take it up again, the invisible glove. “Potterrrr!”

()()()(Just the previous week! By way of explanation.)

Potter down upon his hands and knees across a mile-s-wide bed was a sight for sore eyes. Pert little arse in the air, chin burrowed into his pillow between the two lumps of his curled fists, Potter’s person described an indecent arch, a curve comprised wholly of all the best of Malfoy-sexual fantasies, and, by gum, Potter was taking Malfoy’s stiff cock like a fucking ten-Galleon whore. No. Not a whore.

An incredibly passionate, absolutely starving-for-it, ‘please, take me now’ man.

A man driven well-nigh to the bitter end of pleasurable desperation by another’s prick poked inside him, thick and fat, hot and wet, sloppily coated with an excess of fluids—left-over saliva, oil of almond, pre-cum. And he was begging for it, pleading for Malfoy to ‘give it to me’ and ‘do it—do it!’ and ‘fuck, harder!’

And if Malfoy perchance felt all along the length of his erection an odd little tingle, the likes of which he’d never felt before, and if it peaked to a fractured brilliance when he let go at last, when he’d rubbed Potter’s thrusting, blind-eyed, one-eyed trouser snake into slobbery submission, when the world made up of rubbing cloth and creaking mattress and frantic hissing-panting-grunting blanked out entirely and it was only he and his beloved lover floating about on a wifty-wafty cloud-raft of fucked-out delight, then it was to be expected, really.

Because he was a really rather brilliant Wizard, Malfoy was, and so was his bloody obstinate, always desirable, extremely unusually powerfully magical Potter. Betwixt the two of them, of course a miracle might very well happen.

Shit, but miracles were almost commonplace anymore, since the advent of this selfsame blessed-out, sexually satiated Potter.

It was only very shortly after that moment of tingling ecstasy Malfoy began seriously scheming his Potter’s eventual downfall.

()()()(This minute! Again, ho.)


Potterrrr!”

Malfoy shouted aloud, something he seldom indulged in, and looked to be doubly pissed off to be doing so.

Potter had also been forced to raise his voice over the continuous sound of bells and whistles and the incessant chiming; the coloured lights flashing had him squinting uncomfortably and budging his shoulders up about his ears even as he fiercely protested Malfoy’s treatment of him. It was a mockery of a Seventies club scene yanked straight from that Muggle Travolta’s worst nightmare, and it sat very ill in the hushed formal space of the Malfoy’s ancestral pile’s foyer.

The parquet inlay shivered in its ancient grout; the hall tree trembled in reactive abhorrence. All the portraits had fled, long since. It was truly, completely unbearable:

BING-BANG-BOM-BOOM!

Spin—

widdershins—spin clockwise and FLASH! Bing-bang-boooom-ping!


“Well, shite!” Malfoy, finally and completely distracted from his menacing of Potter by it and clearly annoyed at being so distracted, glared haughtily about, noting an incandescently glowing semi-circular rune drawing centred directly beneath where he and Potter were situated. “Aha! Well, bugger me for a lark, there it is, at last. That’s cut it!”

He grabbed at Potter’s chin with finger and thumb and forced it downwards, so that his fellow Wizard would also observe what brilliant new addition was claiming all his attention.

“See, there? Right there—can’t miss it? Proof’s always in the pudding, Potter. Charm worked just as it should. Like a charm, even. So there, now, stop your infernal waffling, damn you. You can’t even begin to deny it now, dickweed.”

“Ah?”

The flooring was glowing strongly, a doubly-outlined phosphorescent spell marker pulsing urgently with every clanging ring of every invisible bell. Potter looked there, and frowned his lack of understanding.

“See, now? Potter? Oh, oi…Potter?”

“Draco?” Potter only flinched away and whimpered, covering his face with two spread-fingered hands. “Draco, please make it stop now? I can’t bear it, really I can’t.”

“Blast.”

Malfoy snapped his fingers imperiously.

Finite detectum, will you?” he demanded of the House’s proven-to-be incredibly powerful early-pregnancy detection charms. “That’s enough out of you; you’re upsetting Potter. Shush!”

A blissful quiet blanketed the two men instantly. The marker blinked three times in rapid succession and disappeared, sizzling out with one final blast of gemstone-hued light; both Wizards blinked dazedly and cautiously at each other across the few inches between them, vastly relieved.

“All right, Potter?” Malfoy demanded instantly of him. “Speak to me, will you? Have you taken any damage from that?”

“Yes, okay!….I—thanks—er,” Potter mumbled grumpily, when a moment’s sullen pause had passed. “For chrissake, Malfoy. Talk about too much.” He folded his lips up thin and tilted his chin sharply at his concerned companion, eyes narrowed to nasty, accusing slits. “Whatever was that, just now?”

“I told you, Potter,” Malfoy snapped. “Detection sp—”

“Oh—whatever, then” Potter spat back impatiently. “I hardly even care about that, not anymore. Point is—point is, Malfoy, why’d you do it, anyway? S’not fair—pulling tricks. Specially not your blasted Old Magic-y ones. You know I always have trouble with those.”

“So what, Potter? You deserve to have trouble. Look at all the trouble you’ve given me, arse.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at the state of the most demonstrably ‘upset Potter’ seated before him, who looked to be also verging upon the ‘truculent Potter’ state, going by the sudden twitch of a pair of slashing black eyebrows.

He got in first, before Potter could open his mouth, even.

“No, really, Potter, calm your argumentative little bum right down, right this instant. It wasn’t some trick; it was a detection charm, like I said. The house is loaded with them, alright? And it was perfectly adequate, just as it should be for what it is, however antiquated. Did the job, I’d say—and you cannot tell me that was not proof undeniable, Potter. Don’t squirm about like some little first-form fibber and don’t think to quibble minor details about who did what to whom and who didn’t with me, either, Potter—not about this. It’s all because you’re bearing my—our—heir, of course. Duh.”

He smirked in a saccharine sweet manner at the other man; actually, in just exactly the way he knew Potter most fervently despised of years past.

“Uh…?” Potter, flummoxed, only gaped. “You…you knew? Are you assaying you knew, Malfoy? All along?”

“Besides,” Malfoy carried on, all light and reason, grey eyes glinting, “if you’d bothered to have the common courtesy to tell me the good news ‘ere now, I wouldn’t have had to sic the House on you like this, would I? Stubborn git; head up your arse is the least of it. And of course you’re not off to work. Work of any sort is as of now out of the question. Especially Games, and especially Quidditch refereeing. You could be struck by a Bludger, lackwit. You could be knocked off your damned broom. You could faint or feel ill or come suddenly down woozy—or—or suffer some sort of bilious turn or be accidently hammered senseless by some idiot Keeper’s stray repelling spell, couldn’t you? All and any of the above might happen. Well, absolutely not! I won’t have it, I tell you. You’re not going in to the Ministry. You’re not budging an inch out of the House unless I give you express leave to do so, Potter. And that’s final.”

“Malfoy…” Potter tried to break the flow, quite determinedly. Really, he tried. “Malfoy!”

“La, la, la—not listening. You’re not off to work. You’re not off anywhere. I say so, Potter, and it’s my call now.”

“Malfoy. Draco.” Potter beetled his brows militantly and spoke straight out, as an ex- Gryffindor should. No honour without valour and all that. For England! “Malfoy, you ignoramus twat, I hardly think refereeing a simple off-season scrum will do me in. It’s a favour, a favour to Ron, alright? My old mate Ron, and I’m going ahead with it, no matter what you say. Blow it out your arse, Malfoy! It’s a bloody game, is all, nothing more—it’s what I do!”

“Grrrr!” Malfoy glowered, loweringly. “Potter, be quiet at once. Stop talking out your arse, and for fuck’s sake, don’t whinge at me for a single instant longer. No, and no. Not a chance in Hades, not for a frigging instant will you place yourself in the slightest hint of harm. I. Will. Not. Have. It. La, la, la, I don’t hear you, Potter!”

Malfoy’s expression resolved into one of great and sullen grimness as he clapped both his hands over his ears.

“There! Talk all you like, Pottyhead. Can’t hear you; not hearing a word now, am I? Tra-la-la!”

“Oh-for-fuck’s sake!” Potter gaped in appalled awe. “What are you, Malfoy?” he breathed, blinking rapidly. “All of three? Two, maybe? For chrissake!”

“Oh, no! Close your mouth, zip your lip, don’t go there,” Malfoy snarled, wrenching his fingers from his earlobes to grab hastily at Potter’s once more. He gave Potter’s captured hands a little shake, emanating impatience. “I won’t tolerate the risk. I also won’t tolerate you tolerating it, Potter. I’ve had quite enough of your heroics for one fucking lifetime, thanks ever so much for that, you bastard, and this would be where I draw the fucking line. You stay home. Right here. That’s final.”

“Mal—” Potter cut himself off, rolling his eyes, and heaved a huge sigh, theatrically. “Oh, buggerall, Draco. Can’t you ease up on it all, just a bit? I mean, I’m sorry—very sorry now!—I didn’t tell you all about it before but I only just started to suspect it myself—and it’s so very early. Waaay, waaaay early, Draco. Almost too soon to even think it might be—could be…ah.”

He humped a hesitant shoulder.

“Ah, er. You know.”

“Hah!” Malfoy sneered, rearing back his head so fast his fringe flew. “I knew, didn’t I? Suck on that, git. You’re an out-and-out dunce if you didn’t. I felt it, for sure. Just last week. Remember that Sunday?”

“Everyone,” Potter glared furiously, unimpressed, and poked Malfoy firmly in the chest with a forefinger, “and I mean everyone, knows when it’s this soon in the match there’s no extra precautions needed. No harm, no foul, Malfoy. It’s how it is—the baby’s but a speck, okay? Hermione will tell you that—gads-frigging-zooks, Malfoy, even your squeamish pal Pansy will tell you that!”

“Shut up, Potter!”

“And I,” Potter showed no signs of being willing to shut up. “Of all the fucking people in the world, you freaky twat, will hardly require the whole battery of cotton wool you’ve probably got hid up your sleeve, intended to wrap around me. Sod off with your silly single-mindedness, Malfoy. You can’t keep me protected from bloody everything. And it’s all of a bloody week in, no more! A week, damn it! Seven fucking days, seven? Besides, I wasn’t even planning to say anything at all to anyone till I was sure about it myself and now you’ve gone and ruined my surpr—”

“I know!” Malfoy scowled darkly, blisteringly furious. “I know you weren’t! And I don’t much appreciate it, Potter! What if something had happened and I didn’t know? Have you even spared a second’s thought as to how awful I might feel about that? How hurt?”

“Malfoy?” Potter’s eyebrows quirked, unhappily. “Draco? I wouldn’t ever—you know I wouldn’t even think…don’t you? You do, right?”

“Potter.”

The ‘hurt man’ huffed, pushing his face right back against Potter’s fretful one, so close as to blend their matching scowls together. Frown to frown, mano á mano.

“Potter? Listen, Potter, it’s important that you listen. Hear every word I’m saying, Harry, because I shan’t likely tell you again. You’re important, is what, even if you’re an utter ass for not saying the instant you knew, yeah? You’re still important; I’ll still forgive you for it, but on one condition and one only: no more taking chances, no more fielding risks. No. More. Quidditch. You consent to act like a reasonable adult from now onwards and I’ll treat you like one, alright? Forthwith, I swear I will, on any stack of grimmoires you like. But stop hiding things from me so I won’t worry, Harry! I always worry—you know that!”

“Oh…oh, but Draco,” Potter leant forward and took his hands gently from Malfoy’s desperate hold on them, only to drape them and the arms attached ‘round Malfoy’s hunched shoulders. “Draco, sweet. Don’t, please. Don’t waste your time. It’s all right. It’s fine, you know.” He smiled. “I’m fine—very fine. And very well and healthy, too.”

“That’s not enough!” Malfoy barked. “It…it damned well isn’t!”

“Yes, it is. Everything’s all good, I swear it is. On Dumbledore’s grave, I swear to you, Draco.”

“Oh, fuck me—fuck me. C’mere, Harry.”

“Gladly.”

It was a bit of an awkward embrace but it served its purpose: Malfoy relaxed, ever so slightly, and Potter smiled all the more, and fondly.

“What took you so long, git? Try a little ‘happy’ on, okay? Relax, already.”

“’Happy’? ‘Relax’, you say? Like that’s any great consolation,” Malfoy sniffed disdainfully into Potter’s robe’s collar. “As if.”

“Draco.” Potter sighed. “You great ninny. I am sorry, really I am. Of course I was planning to tell you. In fact, I had it all worked out, alright? Nice dinner, some wine—“

“No wine, Potter!” Malfoy burst out, his bleakest, nastiest scowl renewed as if by magic. Potter flinched under it, inadvertently. “And none of your cookery, either! I’ll not have you standing at that bloody Aga for hours on end; that’s what elves are for! There’s hot oil to burn you and heavy pots and pans to fall on your stupid bare feet because you’re a stupid klutz off a broom and you know that and I know that and—and, Merlin, Potter! Are you trying to kill me now, or what? What did I ever do to you to deserve this sort of treatment?”

“…A candelabra on the table, maybe, and some soft music playing,” Potter carried on calmly, apparently unaffected, his voice very soothing indeed and a slightly vacuous smile lighting up his faraway gaze. He patted Malfoy’s tumbled hair, just gently. “And maybe some kippers, as I’m really craving kippers now for some reason, but. Er. Romantic, like, you know? And then—and only then, Malfoy—I’d tell you all about it, every little detail and—and you wouldn’t flip your wig.” He scrunched up his nose slightly in temper. “As you are flipping it just now, unfortunately, what with all this fuss and bother, and then we could’ve maybe both enjoyed it, alright? That little romantic moment I had planned, just the two of us, you know? I mean, it’s not every day, after all, that a Wizard learns he’s, h’erm.”

“Harry,” Malfoy said softly, nuzzling the tip of his nose deep into the fragrant area below Potter’s earlobe. “Harry.”

“Um. Yes, well,” Potter blushed again, flitting his gaze away and fluttering his lashes. “Ah, in the family way.” He gulped. “Um. P-pregnant, I’d guess you’d call it, even for a man. Carrying, at least, no matter how it happened. Ah…right?”

“Right! Brilliant!” Malfoy smiled, again suddenly rearing his head and this time nearly clipping Potter sharply across the chin as he did. As it was, Potter ended up spitting out little tendrils of blond. He smiled at Malfoy through them, despite it. “Exactly so.”

It was a great, huge, toothy grin the man wore plastered across all his severe angles and planes and the effect of it was as if the sun had emerged from an overcast sky after days upon days of heavy weather.

“Good?” Potter asked, tentatively. “We’re all good, again?” He tried on smiling himself and was pleased enough when Malfoy’s grin went all boyishly charming, exactly right for his striped jimjams. “Tell me we’re all good, Malfoy? Like to hear it, now.”

Malfoy shook his head.

“Er, no? Not? But—”

“No, it’s awesome; it’s totally good, it’s a million leagues better than mere good. Amazing, is more like, what? And congratulations, Potter! You’re bloody weird as shite but as completely, marvelously incredible as always—“

“Now, Draco,” Potter murmured, blushing. “You don’t need—“

“And congratulations to me, too, come to think. We’re to be parents, aren’t we? Papas! Fathers! Men of family. Who’d have ever thought it?”

“Hmm! Eh-hehe-hehee…heh!”

Potter gave into the beckoning rise of a shudder of tiny chuckles, his shoulders shaking slightly as Malfoy abruptly extended a set of long, long arms to embrace him, ever so gently, and draw him even closer. It was very nice, the sudden embrace, and a lovely change from brangling.

“Ahem! Not me; no sir, that’s for certain sure.”

He buried his face into Malfoy’s chest, giggling.

“I know. Now, c’mere, you. Harry.”

So close to Malfoy was and tugging so insistently, Potter nearly lost his seat on the bench—and in fact did do so a split-second later, only to tumble into Malfoy’s suddenly conveniently available lap.

“My Harry,” Malfoy muttered, content.

“But,” Potter sighed, settling in. “But…it’s so true,” he mumbled as he wriggled about, nestling a smooth-shaven cheek against Malfoy’s handily available shoulder, busily rearranging his legs, arms and work robes to curl up cozily within the elegant elbows and flanks enclosing him, vice-like. “All of it, really true. Really real. And it’s.”

Malfoy squeezed down suddenly, causing a breathless pant of a laugh.

“Well, it is a bit amazing, isn’t it?” Potter laughed. “Unreal, a bit. Actually.”

“Shocking, Potter,” Malfoy concurred drolly, from above Potter’s tucked-in head. “Abnormal.” A kiss was dropped placidly upon Potter’s mop; the arms about him relaxed slightly, but only very slightly. “Actually, but of course to be expected from the likes of you. I, of all people, should have guessed it was on ages ago—the moment it happened, actually. Last Sunday, was it? I can only think I’ve been fully addled by your continued presence in my life, Potter. It must be your fault, what? Me not noticing. It nearly always is.”

“Hmm.” Potter felt him lipping dainty kisses into his rumpled tresses.

Your fault. Pot-ter. As always and ever, your fault, all yours. Such a little wanker.”

“Twat,” Potter replied sweetly, nipping at Malfoy’s pointy chin. “Sod off with your blame-laying; you know it was never just me that made this happen. You and your potions—and your bloody Pureblood sperm, the wily little bastards. Give us a kiss then, and let me the hell up. I’ll be late; likely am already.”

“No.” Malfoy did provide the kiss, though. “Nope. Nuh-uh.”

Another brief but heartfelt buss landed square atop Potter’s scar. Which crinkled.

Not, Potter. Did you not hear me? No work—what did I just say to you about that? No work, not till later. Bludgers. Fainting fits. Not happening.”

“Draco.” Potter went squinty-eyed again, and looked as if he’d bitten a lemon. “It’s my job.” He set his jaw and Malfoy stared at him, not quite so fondly. “Malfoy.”

“Or maybe never,” Malfoy snapped. “You’ll be a stay-at-home Papa, if you keep pushing me on this, Potter. And also if it’s, say, twins, because it could very well be. That’d be worse, wouldn’t it? Double the trouble, double the work, right here at home. And not out of the question at all, nope.”

“No!”

“Hah.” Malfoy smirked. “Yes, indeed. So.”

“I hate you!”

“No you don’t.” Malfoy assumed a very well-satisfied air of smugness; it was evident in his tone and the way his fingertips trailed possessively over Potter’s person, particularly his abdominal area, which was flat as ever. “Not really.”

“N-No! Then I hate what you’re saying to me. Ma-Malfoy, say it isn’t so!”

“They run in the family, Potter, twins,” Malfoy advised him, all blatant patience-making and oozing of smarm. “Both sides, too. I’ve done my research, I have, and it’s entirely possible you’re carrying for two, you idiot git. There’s way too much Weasley in our lives as it is, and now they’ve likely gone and affected us, Potter. Transfer of magical attributes, isn’t it? Happens in families all the time. And there’s Pruitt to contend with as well, damn their infernal fecundity, and that’s on your dad’s side. Blame them for it if you like, the wankers, but it’s probably the way of it. It could very well be twins tucked away in that lovely belly of yours. My house-rune wouldn’t have reacted so strongly, otherwise. Face facts, Potter. It’s your house too, now, you know? You should know what it does when there’s an heir in the making. Heirs.”

“Oh, gods, oh fuck!” Potter jerked back to stare up at Malfoy’s bland face, utterly freaked and completely flabbergasted. “Really? Really, really? No!”

“But, yes.” Malfoy smirked peaceably. “Of course, really. I wouldn’t fib to you, Potter. I’m not the little liar, here. Well, no more than I need for your own good, of course. Now—Owl out to the Ministry like a good little fellow and then hie that shapely bottom of yours back to bed, this instant. I’m not letting you shift a pinkie toe till eleven. And that’s an order, Potter. Bed!”

“Malfoy!”

()()()(Some months after the Moment of Truth…but not many.)


“Castor and Pollux, maybe.”

“Um. What?’

“Castor. And. Pollux, Potter. Polydeuces, properly. Are you deaf now, too? As well as fat?”

“I…hate you,” Potter snarled, under his breath, not looking up from his rye toast. “Very much I do hate you. Malfoy.” He grimaced at his toast, which was both dry and dull. Malfoy had forbade excess butterfat days previously. “So there. Mocking a pregnant man like that.”

“I’m not mocking. Far from from it.”

Malfoy studiously buttered his own wheat toast. Very lightly and then added a faintest smear of jam. And then passed it over to Potter’s plate, with the tiniest of shrugs of encouragement.

“Here,” he said. “Fibre. You need fibre, Potter. Eat that, if you please. Even if you don’t please, actually. Get it down you.”

Potter scowled at his bowl of fruit sorbet next, ignoring the offering. He regarded it with a dispirited air.

“This.” He indicated the silver serving dish with a twitch of a brow. “This here. Er, must I?”

“You must.”

“Dears.”

Narcissa, smiling sweetly ‘round the expanse of the Malfoy family breakfast table, chimed in diplomatically.

“What about a more royal bent, my darlings? Agamemnon and Achilles, perhaps. Or…the Pleiades are always nice; perhaps it’s two girls we’re expecting?”

Potter slumped farther down in his armchair, muttering unintelligibly about ‘twos’ and ‘twins, why me, Merlin?’

“Oh, Mum!” Malfoy turned to scowl at his mother, ignoring Potter but still all sharp teeth and lowered brows of an instant. “Gods forfend! Bite your tongue, will you? Whatever will Potter and I do with two young ladies? Imagine the later years.” He cringed, rolling his eyeballs like two wild grey marbles. “Remember Pansy, when she was fourteen? Would you wish that on us—on poor Potter here? Nail lacquer fumes and endless gossip? I don’t think so.”

“Well, er,” winced Narcissa. “Yes. Perhaps you’re right, love. Sorry.”

“Of course I am.”

“I…” Potter cleared his throat, picking at his frozen treat dolefully and ignoring his toast, “I, er, ahem. Happen to like young ladies, Malfoy. They’re not so bad, really. Ginny was all--”

“Pah,” Malfoy snorted, tossing his sleek head. “Yes, they are. Now, eat up your persimmon ice, Potter. It’s said to be excellent for the digestion. You recall how your tummy was upset this morning. We don’t want that again.”

“Yes, dear,” Potter sighed. “Of course.”

()()()(Perhaps a month after that last one…)


“Hmm…” Ron frowned, thinking. He lounged back on the largest of the Malfoy’s reclining armchairs to do it in, too, sipping away at his butterbeer as if it offered the breath of life. “What would be the proper term for this, Harry? Cock-whipped, maybe? Baby-buggered, p’raps? Pram-rollered?” He grinned merrily, evilly, and looked just like one of his elder brothers for a moment. “Malfoy’d?”

“Oh, shut it,” Harry snapped, flinging a piece of popcorn at him. “I hate you. I hate you a lot.”

“No, really, Harry,” Hermione hopped impatiently in her seat, a far more demure embroidered ladies’ couchiere, done up in burgundy chrysanthemums and fleur- des-lys. He flapped a hand, the wrist of which was swollen slightly. “And it’s ‘browbeaten’, if anything, Ron. ‘Malfoy’d’ is not a verb form.”

“No?” Ron replied, dolefully. “Well, fancy. It should be.”

She was sipping tea, as was Harry, the two being co-sufferers of early, unexpected pregnancies.

“That aside, Herm—” Harry essayed, hopeful of changing the subject, “—ione, how’s your back been lately? Still sore?”

“He’s stifling you, what with all this ‘can’t do this, can’t do that’ nonsense,” his friend continued roundly—and in carrying tones. “There’s no reason you couldn’t have kept up your job. It’s perfectly possibly to continue working right up till the moment your water breaks—“

“Pfft!” Harry huffed pessimistically, slouching back. “That’s the thing, Hermione; no water to break. Nothing like, thanks. Not a woman, am I? And it’s…well, let’s just say this. It’s different, all right? I’m different, as usual. Nothing is ever bloody the same as everyone else, for Frigga’s sake—“

“Harry, language!” Hermione gasped. “I never! The babies! The babies are listening!”

“Oh, fuck that for a lark!” Harry growled, struggling back up in an instant. He leant forward, jabbing a finger at her. “Bloody hell, Hermione, the babies can’t even hear me—it’s too damned early for ears! Besides, you never minded before!”

“Um, mate!” Ron went pale and also sat upright. “Mate, mate, mate!”

“Harry,” Hermione shot back, stern of face and militant. “It’s never too early for ears. So there.”

“Well, fuuu—”

“Er, Harry! Harry, if you wouldn’t mind!?” Ron waved his glass of butterbeer frantically, making shushing noises. “No. Shh! Hush! Please don’t do that—don’t say that! Don’t curse; no foul language, not anymore. It upsets her, the cursing. Please don’t upset her, alright? For me? This is hard enough.”

“Oh…bah. Very well,” Harry sighed, put upon and back to slumping. “No bloody blaspheming, then. Whatever. Whatever, I say, even if it’s my own house and I should be able to do what I want, when I want. It’s only a few words, Hermione; hardly a crime. And it’s not like I ever get to do anything else I want, after all….” He trailed off, in a cloud of dark mumbling. “Bloody…”

“Erm. Harry?”

“…Harry?”

“Eh? Yes? Rather lost the page, sorry.” He coughed. “Um. Sorry. What was it we were talking about before, precisely?”

“It was—“ Ron began. “Your, er. Your Malfoy, Harry, he’s got you bloo—”

“Shut up, Ron,” Hermione spoke up. “I’ll say it, alright? Harry’ll take it better from me, I think.” She swiveled her head to stare her friend down, worry in every frowny twitch of her lips. “It’s. Well, it’s how Malfoy is an effing wanker, Harry. Telling you what to do and all, every minute of the day. No free will, really; I don’t know how you can stand it,” Hermione concluded, mendaciously. “That was what. We were expressing our sympathies, I think. Our, er…our opinions. And you--you were mumbling.”

“And that’s quite enough of that,” Malfoy announced, erupting into the room with a fresh tea tray and another smaller tray of capped, cooled butterbeers following, ringed with frosty mugs and cut-crystal snack-filled bowls of nuts, crisps and whatnot. And dip, but low-fat. He ignored Potter’s instantaneous angry pout at the label on the tub. “Potter’s weary, clearly; he’s losing track. Time for you both to head off home, I think. Nighty-nights, then. Hearth’s right over there. Floo safe, now.”

“Oh! Malfoy!”

“Oi!” Ron yelped. “Startled me, you did.”

“Hey!” Harry growled. “Wait, no, Malfoy, you can’t just—”

“Yes, I can,” Malfoy spat, glaring daggers down at his beloved. “Watch me, Potter.”

“Oh-ho! Really, now, Malfoy? Are you serious, just sending us home like this? Harry, are you going to simply stand by and watch?” Hermione demanded, her chin firming. “Ridiculous, the way he orders you about.”

“He’s sitting, Hermione, and so are you,” Malfoy turned on her, glaring, “sitting, the two of you, and but three months ago you’d both have been bowling quoits across the lawn like mad things or tromping endlessly ‘round the gardens for miles and miles, so it’s clear you are also fatigued, Madame Granger-Weasley. Time to go home, I think. Get some rest,” he added, kindly. “Gods blood, if you’re anything like Potter here, you frigging well need it.”

“Er!” Ron sat up straight, abruptly, his face flushing. “Language, Malfoy! For godssake, language!”

“Oh, piss off, Ron,” Hermione growled at her husband. “I don’t care if Malfoy curses; why the goddamn bloody fuck should I? And I don’t want to go home yet. I’m not at all tired. And it’s boring there—you won’t let me do anything.”

“But, Hermione, he’s right, dear,” Ron groaned sadly. “Hate to say it, but Malfoy’s spot on.” He rose, casting aside his empty glass with a tiny moue of discontent. “Right, then, come on, love, I’ll give you a hand up. Time to be off home.”

“No! No, no, no, Malfoy,” Harry, caught up in the deep cushions of his own armchair, protested. He scrabbled his arms about, a hand thrust out absently seeking Malfoy’s help. “They’ree not ready to go; you heard them—fuckall, I’m not ready! It’s only just on nine, Malfoy. It’s too early, way too sodding early! We’re all adults here, not little kids and you can’t just be sending them off like this; you’ve no right. They’re my guests, damn it—and I’ll decide when I’ve had enough!“

“Harry.”

Malfoy took three solid paces, waving his attendant refreshments to a standstill behind him and fetching up before his love’s clingy comfy chair.

“Harry, love. You were up, casting up all your accounts in the toilet at three this morning. And then up again at six and then again at ten. Dry heaves, Harry, by the end. I had to administer a potion for it. You’re in absolutely no shape to entertain, consequently. I only allowed this soiree to happen a’tall because I know how you miss these two Gryffindorks something fierce, not being away every day at the Ministry and seeing them there. Now, say goodnight to your little pals—pardon, Granger, not so ‘little’ now, are you?—and let them be on their way. It’s more than late enough and you’re exhausted, you and Madame Weasley here, both. I see it; my eyes don’t lie, Potter. Call it a night.”

Potter blinked up at him, face falling. His excited energy seemed to fall away in an instant, leaving dark circles and pale lines behind.

“That bad, Malfoy? Really?”

Malfoy smiled, eyes softening to a warmed pewter shade. He patted Harry’s head, in the manner of one rewarding a small crup for excellently good behavior.

“Precisely that bad, idiot. Awful, even. Your rings have rings, your bag’s bags. Enough’s enough. Let your mates go off home now, silly git. Hermione’s about to drop.”

“Oh!” Hermione said furiously. “Why does no one ever listen to me anymore? What am I, chopped liver?”

Harry nodded. “Oh. Oh, alright, if I must.”

“Yes, of course you mu—”

“We all must, I think,” Ron yawned, having prised his vastly unhappy wife to her swollen feet. He stretched long and wide with one arm, the other kept fast round Hermione’s thickening waist, and finished up with a smack of the lips and a limp-wristed smile. “I’m knackered too, yeah? Have to go in early tomorrow, as well; Dad’s been after me to put in the overtime now, before the baby comes. No rest for the bloody working bloke, right? Not that you’d know anything about that, Malfoy.”

“Grrr, Weasley!” Malfoy speared his guest with a glance. “What you don’t know would fill a fucking library, alright? Speaking of, go the hell home to yours, why don’t you?”

Ron waved a freckled a hand at him, grinning.

“Yeah, right, okay. Hold up, can’t you? Saying goodnight, here. Being polite.”

“Hah!” Malfoy huffed. “As if you know how!”

“Bugger off, Malfoy. I already said g’night to you, didn’t I?” Ron spun back to a crestfallen Harry. “I’m sorry, really I am, but we must, all right? So, erm…thanks, mate. For the dinner and all—it was really grand. See you around soon again, yeah? Next time come to ours. We’ll do the dinner for once.”

“Well…all right,” Harry began.

“Faugh!” Malfoy exclaimed, sneering as he bustled a step forward, shouldering into their line of vision. “No, no, Weasley, bite your tongue—cancel that right now, this instant. Don’t put yourself out, not on our account. I’ve had more than I’ll ever need of your wife’s cookery, and yours. We’ll bring the dinner along with us when we come; not to fash yourselves. It’ll be…er, safer. Much safer. Palatable, even.”

“You’ll be alright, though, Harry?” Hermione persisted, gamely avoiding talk of any future dinners as her husband shuffled them toward the Floo. “You know,” she nodded meaningfully, “what with you-know-who over there, the Grinch? Mister Puppet Master?”

“Grinch, Granger? Puppet master? Whatever do you mean by that, I wonder?” Malfoy stared wide-eyed, all sweetness and light. “I do hope those aren’t some pathetic Muggle insults you’re using to lambast my sterling character. I had thought better of you, really I did.”

“Harrumph! Prickhead!” Hermione snorted, tapping the toe tip of her sensible ballerina flat in a very rapid tattoo. Ron winced in sympathy; so did Harry. “Hormones, Malfoy. Wicked bad nasty hormones, I tell you, run amuck. That’s what’s wrong with us, Harry and I, if you care to know, and you’d better watch the hell out for your own self, Malfoy, or I’ll slap your pretty face arse backwards again, git-for-brains, just for standing there, smarming at me and ordering poor Harry around whenever you like. No one died and left you king, alright? Warning you, Malfoy. Warning you.”

“Oh, ho!” Malfoy chuckled, completely unfazed by the finger shaking going on perilously close to his nose. “Testy, are we? Weasley, have I mentioned the beneficent powers of persimmon extract to you? You might consider taking advantage. Very soothing. I’ll even give you a vial, free of charge. For your own,” he winked, “protection.”

“Testy! You dare call me testy, you arse!? See how you like it, then!”

“Stuff it, Malfoy, do,” Ron grinned over at his host, a large freckled palm full of powder at the ready, the other palm still firmly attached to his swaying irate wife. “Don’t be stirring up the hornets’ nest any more now; not on me, mate. I have to sleep with her, you know—or try to, at least. And rub her back when she’s over the porcelain god, come the middle of the night. T’is not right, Malfoy, making fun of me—not sporting, even. Working chap here. Not like some.”

“Pity,” Malfoy smiled back, his face taking on an air of mock-woe as he rocked back on his heels, tapping the nails of one hand on a robed arm. “I’m not at all tired, you see. Had a bit of nap, earlier, between eating bonbons and reading French novels, you know. Was looking forward to a little excitement, really, and winding you two up sounds about perfect for that. I’m sorry I missed out on it, earlier. Never should’ve left you to yourselves so long.”

“Draco!” Harry clapped a hand to his brow. “Oh, bloody fuck, must you? Must you always?”

“Oh, piss the bleed-it-out-my-arse the fuck off, both of you,” Hermione erupted. “Harry, he’s just teasing us, alright? Sod Malfoy, that’s what he does.” She flounced heavily to glare at her other host, the thin one. “Malfoy, berk-wad, wanker-whose-gone and fucked up my best mate’s career, we’ll be back here to visit soon, I’m sure. Or you can come to ours. Either way, you’ll have your chance another time to yank my poor chains, you noisome git, and insult my husband. And, meanwhile, bastarding pick you are, you make sure to try carrying about an extra ten pounds, all stuck on your middle; see how you feel at the end of the day! Wicked nasty doesn’t begin to cover it. Now…g’night. Let’s be off, Ron. I’m tired of standing here for nothing.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Oh, but, Hermione,” Harry wheedled, a desperate light in his eyes. “Are you—do you really have to go?”

“No, we do, really,” Hermione smiled softy at him, her gaze sweeping up and down the droopy, bulked-out figure of her oldest friend, whose waistline bore a remarkable resemblance to her own—in that both were rotund and looked to be stuffed full of cats-in-sacks. “Malfoy’s correct, you know, even if he’s a noxious arse about it, as always. Honestly! It really is time for us to go home and you do seem bushwhacked, Harry. Try to sleep some tonight, will you? You know you need it.”

“Hmmm,” Harry sighed. “Fine, all right, whatever. And you.” Harry, with Malfoy’s hand at his elbow, had extricated himself from the clingy chair. He trotted over to give his friend a hug. “You, too, Hermione. Take care of baby Granger-Weasley, ok? And Mama Granger-Weasley, too.”

“Ooooh!” Hermione squealed. In a sickening sort of way, the two touched noses, Harry’s specs pressing a dent in her pert one. “You’re such a good friend, Harry. Such a. Very. Dear. Friend.”

“You, too, Hermione. I love you; so, so much. Ever so much. I’m so happy to know you.”

“Blech!” Malfoy gagged.

“Me, too, Harry. Oh! Me, too.”

Embracing, stomachs bumping, they blinked tearily at one another, all at once both very damp-eyed.

“Oh, shit, now see what you’ve done,” Malfoy nudged Weasley hard with a sharp elbow. “Set them off again, have you? Bloody well thanks a lot, mate. It’ll be hours now before I get him to sleep. Remember that last time, when you all watched that one film?”

“Not my fault! Not this time, at least,” Ron riposted immediately, spreading one hand wide but fortunately keeping hold of his Floo powder with the other. “It just happened; you saw! I had nothing to do with it, I swear!”

“Just, you know,” Malfoy hissed back, “just go home now. While the going’s goods, right? And try her out on some chamomile tea, not too hot, not too sweet, directly after she’s vomited up the coq au vin. It performs wonders, that brew—Snape swore by it. And some dry biscuits as well; the store-made ones from Sainsbury’s, mind you, not the ones from Tesco’s. They’re off-brand, Potter says, but he swears by them. The ginger kind only—no chocolate-dipped, Weasley, or you’ll hate me for it later. Don’t dare say I didn’t tell you that, either.”

“Alright,” Ron nodded gravely. “Thanks, Malfoy. Come along, Hermione, m’ love. Time to go home. You can’t very well terrorize the Ministry tomorrow on no sleep, can you?”

()()()(Terribly close to the time, but not quite there yet…)


Potter stood before his wardrobe and surveyed it. After a moment or two, his mouth twisted wryly at one corner.

“Malfoy.”

“Hmm?”

“Malfoy, have you gone and replaced all my clothes again? Because it looks a lot like you’ve gone and replaced all my clothes again. I don’t recognize a single thing here, Malfoy.”

“Mmmm. Mhhm?”

“Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Answer me, Malfoy. What have you done with all my old clothes?”

“Umm?”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake.” Potter turned about, the towel he was holding cinched at his burgeoning waist slipping, his hair in damp whorls and curls. “Malfoy, you cannot continue carrying on like this. I liked those clothes, the last ones. They suited me and now they’re all gone. Gone,” he repeated, plaintively. “My clothes.”

“Mmm, yes,” Malfoy nodded, not glancing up from his morning Prophet. “They are, aren’t they? I do hope the fresh batch is pleasing. Antoine did his best for you, Potter. There’s a lovely emerald dress robe; be perfect to wear tonight when we go out—”

“Malfoy, I am damned sure that they’ll all be terribly, horribly ‘pleasing’, as you put it, and very elegant besides, but the point is—the real point of this is—you didn’t need do that. There’s spells for changing up one’s wardrobe. Why not just use them? Why must it be all new again?”

“Because.”

“Because why?” Potter traipsed over the bed and dropped his towel. “Why ever would you waste all those galleons, Malfoy?”

“Hmm…” Malfoy flapped a hand at him. “Galleons aren’t important. And one moment, Potter; I need to scan this.”

“No, Malfoy,” Potter replied, softly. “Put your bloody paper down now. This is more important that your paper.”

With some little effort, he clambered aboard the mattress and kneed his way over to Malfoy’s reclining unresponsive form. The paper rustled as Malfoy jerked its pages higher, glaring briefly over top of them.

“No. Nope, not letting you ignore this one,” Potter went on, dropping to hands and knees and crawling closer. “Answer my question, will you? Why would you do this? Why would even think it was necessary, just for me? I don’t need it.”

“Mmm, Harry, yes, yes. But...just a sec—“

“Please.” Potter carefully eased one leg over Malfoy’s long hips, hidden under the duvet. “Please, Malfoy? Talk to me?”

“Oh…alright. Stay your socks-and-garters, Potter. Just coming.”

“Good. Not as quick as I’d like, thanks, but…good. Thank you, Malfoy. Now…talk to me. Explain.”

“Mmm…Just a minute.”

“Malfoy!”

“Oh, for—! Fine!”

Pages of the Prophet began to scatter, disturbed by Potter as he settled himself across the other wizard, catching his balance at the last moment by reaching out and grasping at the jut of wide shoulders clothed in silky pewter coloured pajamas.

Finally.”

“Hmm, now what was it you wanted, Potter? I was just trying to read the paper, you know? I do this every day; takes twenty minutes, max, I need it for my work, ta, and….couldn’t it have waited? What’s so urgent, then? Do you not feel well?”

“No, it can’t wait. I’m fine, thanks, just a bit miffed at you, that’s all.”

“Miffed? Why miffed?”

“Malfoy, my sweet git, don’t you think this is a little silly of you? A tad bit of overkill? I don’t need a brand new wardrobe every single time I gain a pound, really I don’t. The old clothes were perfectly fine. You need to stop.”

“Humm? Stop?” Malfoy, meeting Potter’s worried gaze and absently casting all the Prophet but his precious Financial Section aside, shook his head in apparent confusion. “Stop with what, Potter? Exactly?”

“The new—I just said!“

“Oh!”Malfoy shrugged it off an ignored him. “That, never mind that. All taken care of, isn’t it? Oi, Potter, did I mention dragon hide futures are at an all time high? Made a tidy sum yesterday, us two. We should celebrate; go out to dinner tonight, maybe. I hear Pomme’s nice this time of year. All very fresh veg—very healthy. Be good for you.”

“Malfoy.” Potter frowned. “Malfoy, I could care less about dragon hide futures. Or some swanky hoity-toity vegetarian restaurant, either. The thing is, you’re being a nincompoop. The thing is, I opened the door to my half the bloody closet and there’s nothing there I even recognize, alright? All of it’s new, completely new, Malfoy, and it certainly wasn’t me who trotted off and spent an entire fortune at Antoine’s and likely Malkin’s, too. Or Twilfit and Tatters or wherever it is you deign worthy to shop from. Bloody hell, you have no self-control any more, Malfoy, ‘least not when it comes to me. Demonstrably. Now, please. Just. Cease and desist. Return this lot to Antoine or whoever and bring my old ones back. I don’t need you—”

“Yes, you do,” Malfoy snapped back smoothly, smiling brightly. “You do.”

One eyebrow arched judiciously. “Excuse me?”

“You need me, Potter.” He lifted the hand that wasn’t clutching the stocks page and stroked a fingertip down his bed partner’s freshly shaven cheek, ever so gently—a thistledown touch. Ended the tiny caress with a sharpish pinch to the cleft in Potter’s chin, which, at the mid-mark of his pregnancy, was beginning to be rather more plumply rounded. “Just as I need you,” he murmured. “And very much so.”

Potter’s expression went quite a bit softer, especially round the mouth. “Draco.”

“Shh.” The fingertip trailed softly across Potter’s slowly parting lips, a kiss in sign language. “Don’t argue. You always argue with me, prat, and that doesn’t change the fact you need every little indulgence, every single solitary one. Everything I can give you, everything I do for you, Harry, to make this all easier and better—and safer. Don’t deny me it, please? I like buying you new clothes, the ones that suit you; have you looking—and feeling—as delicious as you really are. I like taking you out for a nice meal or whisking you off to the seaside for a long weekend. I want to. ”

“Malfoy, really—”

“I like it, I say. No, more than that—I fucking well love it, Harry. Every bit of it, every damned galleon I spend, every Knut. Makes me feel like I’m helping you out, alright? And it’s not the galleons that are important, it’s you, Harry. I need to help you, any way I can, because I can’t do the most important part of this for you, my sweet fool. I can’t be the one who’s so carefully carrying our child…our babies.” He let go the paper altogether and laid a warm hand atop Potter’s bulgy middle, patting it, eyes terribly earnest. “I can’t be the one in hospital, not at the very end of it. And, worst of all, Harry, the absolute worst all of all these things is I can’t prevent this from being a little dangerous. It’s a risk, damn it—I admit it. It had been all along; it will be till you’re safely through it. And it frightens me, Potter, so much so I can’t even tell you. Can’t wrap words around , how fucking frightened this leaves me. At least let me buy you clothes that fit in the meantime and indulge you as much as I can whenever I have the chance, alright? It’s just such a small thing—let me.”

“Oh…Draco,” Potter sighed. “Draco, love.” He allowed himself to ease slowly forward, one arm half-heartedly propping his newer, greater width and girth until his partner had him securely braced. Malfoy eased him lower, spreading his legs to allow Potter a place to plant his kneecaps. “You’re just—just. So very—er.”

“Hmm?” Malfoy enfolded him even more, ankles wrapping shins and elbows clamping and rolled them sideways with care, so that Potter was tucked up against him, Malfoy’s chin resting on his head and Potter’s nose budging at Malfoy’s Adam’s apple, their legs and arms entangling with the ease of long familiarity. “I’m just what, Harry? A little too much for you, sometimes? Is that it? I know I can be difficult—”

“Hah!” Harry choked out a laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly, and pressed a fast hot kiss to Malfoy’s collarbone where it emerged from the grey pajamas. “Oh, gawd, yes—difficult!” he giggled. “I’ll say! But…but.”

“But?”

“But, alright. If it’s what makes you happy, alright. Do your worst, then. Indulge away. I’ll cope, I s’pose. Don’t have much choice in the matter, seems like.”

“Good man,” Malfoy grinned lazily, his eyes closing slowly as his hands moved about the languid, damp, fresh-smelling length of Potter’s person. “Always best to humour me, Harry. You know how I like things my way.”

“Hah! Or the bloody highway, more like…git,” Harry grumbled. “Hell. Now I have to accustom myself to what’s in there this time. How will I even begin? I’ve no clue what to wear today; don’t even know where to start.”

“Like I said,” Malfoy chuckled, “start with the emerald green robe for today and then go on to the next outfit after that. I’ve them all organized for you by day anyway; no need to make poor sartorial choices, Potter. I’m on it. You’re set.”

“Organized? What do you mean, ‘organized’?” Potter lifted his head to level a look at his interfering partner. “What can there possibly be to organize,” he deadpanned. “It’s bunch of bloody clothes, Malfoy. Pretty simple; you just put one whatever works in the morning, right?”

“Wrong, Harry. There’s a method, actually.”

“A method?”

“Hmmm.” Malfoy nodded which sent his uncombed hair flopping rakishly over one bright eye. “Every day you’re a smidge larger round the waist, correct? And that beautiful arse of yours—it’s ripening nicely. So, every day I’ve taken the liberty of ensuring your robes are adjusted up a part-size to suit you better. Antoine and I were ages wrangling over the correct spell for it.”

“Ex-excuse me?” Potter sputtered, pinkening. “What’s that you say?’

Malfoy sighed patiently. “Every day, Potter, like I only just said, your new clothes will—“

“The hell they will! My arse does not ripen, Malfoy! I’m not a fucking fruit!” Potter was scarlet and scandalized, so much so he ducked his face down and promptly hid it in Malfoy’s neck. “Bloody hell, the things you say to me!”

“Silly head.” Calmly, Malfoy patted the area under discussion. “Yes, it of course it does. Stands to reason, really. Today, for instance, it’s just a bit fuller than yesterday, your bum.” He patted it again, a considering expression visiting his patrician features. “Hmm, and a bit springier, too. Mind if I bite in, Potter? Since it really does feel a bit like a ripe peach? Might be tasty.”

“MALFOY!” Harry roared, rearing up in an effort to wriggle away—or tried to. It emerged as more of a strangled squeak and Malfoy had him too fast-held to even shift a millimetre. “Stop it! That’s—that’s humiliating! Biting me—Merlin! The idea!”

Malfoy laughed at his outraged expression, a warm low chuckle that had them both trembling.

“No, it isn’t, Potter. It’s only me, appreciating you. Nothing wrong with having your partner believe you’re more than a little edible. Mouthwatering, actually. Tell me, would you rather discuss your lovely new specially spelled wardrobe to death or would you rather have a bit of fun? Because I’m up for the fun bit, if there’s a vote to be had—or even if there’s not. And you do smell very tempting, Potter, fresh from the bath, and you do feel even better. Wanna shag?’

Oh-gawd!” Porter abruptly and thoroughly disengaged himself from his lover’s octopi-embrace and rolled right over onto his bare back, a concealing arm flung willy-nilly across his fiery-red cheeks. “Oh. My. Gawd! You—you’re serious?!”

“Is that a yes, then?” Malfoy promptly followed after, carefully covering every inch of Potter’s damp exposed body with his own, with every precaution taken not to squash the precious bundle located mid-ticked off Wizard. “Of course I’m serious; I always serious, Potter.” Hmm,” he considered a moment, “think I’ll take that as a yes, I think. Works for me.”

“Oh! Oh, Malf—ah!”

()()()(Perilously near the final moment…)



“I…weigh a house, Malfoy. No…a Manor’s worth. That’s what I weigh.”

“Doesn’t make you any less attractive.”

“Malfoy!”

Whaaat?”

“I’m huge; this is horribly uncomfortable; my leg’s cramping—oh! For Merl—”

“Harry,” Draco whispered into his partner’s nape, pressing his erection all that more urgently into the well-licked crack of arse straining back against his thighs. “I only want to be in you. Don’t even care I if I come, Harry. I just want to be in; let me.”

“R-Really?” Harry panted, struggling to peer over his own shoulder and failing. “That’s all, Draco?”

“That’s all. For a moment only. I’ll stop if it hurts, alright? I promise.”

“Mmm…”

“…Harry?”

“I…I lo—it’s not—Draco?”

“I know. I promise, faithfully. You know Id not hurt you, Harry, not for a million years.”

“No. Yes, well. Well…”

“Shhh…just relax. Can I—may I touch you…here?”

“Uhh…um. That. That…feels good.”

“You like it?”

“I always did, didn’t I?”

“True.”

“Too true. Draco…oh, Draco!”

“You’re lovely, like this. Did you know?”

“….Yeah?”

“Yes. Yes.”

It was quiet and dark and oh, so, so private. And Malfoy treated Potter like glass, like fairy wings—like all the most fragile of things.

Until his lover begged him not to, to please not, and—

And Harry came, with a jolt, under Malfoy’s fingertips. Warm and peaceful, with none of the theatrics but all of the sweet.

“Draco,” he sighed and went silent, lax in the arms the held him so close in the darkened drapes of their bed.

“Har! Harry!”

Malfoy gasped once, jerked into a shuddery exhale, and went dead still, becalmed in the water. Clasped his arms round his lover, his loved one as soon as his muscles trembled back to something approaching normal, nuzzling deep into Potter’s hair.

“Mmmmh…ah,” Potter mumbled, briefly conscious. “That. That was good, really gooo….”

“…Harry?” Malfoy ventured, quite a long time after, or it felt like. “Harry. All right?”

“Mmmm….yes.”

“Right. Brilliant. Super, so you’ll be remembering to drink up all your potion in the morning, Harry. Won’t you? Will you, for once? So I don’t need stand over you and do that berating thing you hate so much?”

“Mmmh,” Harry sighed into the forgiving dim. A smiling sigh, it sank into Malfoy’s skin like all the best of silences between couples, sweet pauses containing whole volumes of communication. “Yesssss,” he murmured into his own forearm, barely awake. “Mnghff.”

“Promise me?” Malfoy was insistent, sharply so. He did stifle a yawn into Potter’s sticking up mop of hair, though, which rather took all the bite out of it.

“Promish,” Potter swore to his wrist. “Shhh, now. Schleep.”

“Good.” Malfoy tightened his arms and calves, spooning in. Folding in, more like, so that every part of available Potter was encapsulated by matching attendant part of a Malfoy. As was proper, good and right. “Very good.”

“Hmm, so? There’s….hope for me yet?” Potter rallied for a moment, grinning into his rumpled pillow. “And yet you always claim I’m so hopeless.” Harry’s question was all sly, hidden laughter, tucked well away into the dark and the warm. It had Malfoy smiling to hear it, so much so he almost missed the meaning of the actual words. “Draco?”

“Mmh? Hopeless, you? No, a thousand times no. Hopeful, now, Harry, that’s much more like it. That’s a yes.”

“Um…brill—ah-ummm….”

“Go to sleep, Harry. Go to sleep.”

()()()()(Shortly after the Grande Finale, which is really Only the Beginning)


“Lucasta.”

“Oh, gods no!”

“Eloise?”

“Bollocks! Try again.”

“Percival. Fold that one edge over, Potter, like I showed you before. You’ll stick her otherwise.”

“Shut it; I’ve got this. And do pull the other one, Malfoy. What a disgusting name for a child.”

“Eh, er? You don’t like Percival, Potter. Er, hmmm. Harold, then?”

“Ack!” Potter grimaced, but it may have been the rank odour of the dirty nappy his wand movements were in the midst of Vanishing. “Ick, pooh. Not Harold. Never Har-oof!”

He swayed, clutching desperately at the table edge, hissing. His already pale, tired features shaded into a pinched-mouth grey as he clutched one-handed at his belly. A set of brand-new royal blue robes set its newly trim state off to perfection.

“Potter!? Potter! You alright there?”

Malfoy hustled over from where he’d been lounging in the doorway in a trice, long legs eating up the miles of nursery room carpet. Tiny yellow, blue and pink ducklings squawked at him from the papered walls in passing.

“Oh, Merlin, you need to sit, Potter, I told you. And I told you before about standing for too long in one place, just this morning when you nearly fell on your arse in the bath. Leaves your legs all rubbery, all this standing about; not at all good for your circulation. Better to go and sit down, right this minute. Come away, now. I’ll do the other one.”

“Ahhh…” Potter leant into the arm Malfoy slid deftly about him, grateful. “Thanks.” He slanted a smile up at the crinkle of frown dawning on the high Malfoy brow. “Yes, Mum. Alright, maybe I will, just for a sec’.”

“This way.” Satisfied, Malfoy attempted to steer a listing Potter towards the rocking chair, conveniently situated right by the matching bassinets. “Good man, Pot—”

“No, wait! Wait, please, Malfoy,” Potter stalled suddenly, colour leaching back into his cheeks under Malfoy’s careful shoulder-rubbing motions. In a moment, he’d stood up straight again, visibly shaking off the painful spasm. “No, I’m fine now, really.” He smiled up at his hawk-eyed minder, shrugging. “Just a passing thing, little twinge, already over. See? It’s nothing but the stitches healing.”

“Potter.” Malfoy set a hand low on Potter’s back, at the very small of it, and gave him a little encouraging push toward the rocker. “Potter, you are not fine. You say you’re fine and you try to act as though you’re fine, brave little wanker, soldiering away, but you cannot in fact possibly be fine because it’s only been just the two days since Matron released you, alright? You’re overexerting yourself, git, and you’re too bloody stubborn for your good on top of it. Go and sit your idiot arse down, like I told you!”

“No.”

“Potter!” But Potter resisted.

“No, thanks, Malfoy. I’m good here. I’m alright.”

“No you’re not! Do you never, ever listen?”

He didn’t sit down at all, the infuriating wanker; instead, he doggedly continued the wand movements for nappy changing, though he did redirect his spell to the second infant.

It wailed. Loudly.

“Potter!” Malfoy snapped furiously over the pernicious shrieking. “Potter, I’ll do it—I’ve just said I’ll do it. What, did you lose all your working brain cells when Healer took the babies out of you? Are you that stupid? Go sit!”

“No, Malfoy, I won’t,” Potter replied steadfastly, the second noxious nappy Vanishing mid-stench. “It was just a passing thing, alright? Besides, you really aren’t my mum. No need to act like it.”

“Potter!”

“Dears? Did you call me?”

“Oh! Hullo, Narcissa,” Potter smiled, glancing up from the changing table where two tiny red-faced infants lay firmly attached by an ages-old Nursery Magic sticking charm, one blinking sweetly up at her Papa, the other still bawling as talc was amply dusted across his very small bare bottom. “Would you like to hold one of these in a moment? This one’s rather less stinky then the other.”

“Oh! The little darlings!” Narcissa cooed, her usual elegant stroll becoming quite fleet indeed with a pair of baby Malfoys stationed at the other end of it. She materialized at Potter’s flapping elbow as if by magic. “Oh, how sweet they are, boys!”

“Yes, indeed,” Potter grinned. “And see? She’s all set for her cuddle, Grandmum.” He pointed out the girl child, in the midst of making starfish arms and accidently batting her screaming brother across his bald pate at every other turn. “You caught us right in the midst, I’m afraid. Mind your nose.”

“Mother, finally! Here you are at last,” Malfoy exclaimed, confronting Narcissa with his hands thrown up in the air and a face chock-full of worried irritation. “Make yourself useful, will you? Tell Potter here to sit the hell down. His masseuse is due any moment now, he has to take his morning nap after, and he refuses to act at all sensibly. Little wanker never listens to me—never!”

“Now, darling,” Narcissa waved her son off casually. “I’m sure Harry is more than capable—”

“No, he’s not!” Malfoy protested. “That’s the thing, he’s an idiot, Mother, a total freaking nincompoop! Who else would be on their feet all day running after two infants when he doesn’t need to? When I beg him, on hands and knees, not to? Not to strain himself—”

“Heh,” Potter chuckled, glancing across the reaching arms of his mum-in-law and eyeing up the squinty-eyed, very evil glare his partner was directing him. “Hush, up, Malfoy. You’re fussing again, and that’s likely because you’re as full up of shi—er, guff and nonsense, Malfoy, as your kids here. All hot air, nasty smells and silly noises. Your mum knows that too, I bet. She’ll take my side.”

“—or do too much, or eat properly, or even come out of the damned rain! Who doesn’t come out of the rain when it’s pouring, I ask you? Potter, that’s who!” Malfoy howled, at wit’s end. “Merlin fuck!”

“Language, darling. And of course I will, darling Harry,” Narcissa agreed calmly. “Now give them over. That’s it. Oh, aren’t you two darlings the little sweetest darlings ever born? Yes, you are, sweeties—yes, you are. Gibe your Gran a kiss now, both of you, dearie lambs.”

Potter laughed, up his sleeve, and discreetly. Malfoy fulminated, quivering with ill-concealed rage.

Harry! Oh, you great fucking wanker! Just sit your bloody arse down before I bloody well make you! Before you fall down! Here, now—this second! Plant, Potter—make like a damned plant, will you? For once in your whole life long? Merlin’s balls, you tick me off!”

Completely undeterred, Malfoy stomped a heavy foot, reached round his mum and his offspring, manhandled a ducking, dodging Potter into the rocker despite his squeaking and stifled giggles, and so it began—the next bit, which was really only the beginning.

But we’ll be leaving them there, as that’s private.

END.

Please return to LJ to comment!

Profile

wizsprogs: (Default)
wizsprogs

August 2012

S M T W T F S
   1234
567891011
1213141516 1718
19 202122232425
262728293031 

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 20th, 2017 07:58 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios