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The Inheritance	By : Laurel Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 4066 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Disclaimer: Of course these are not
my characters or my orginial idea. This is simply a work of imagination, and I
do not mean to infringe on any author(s)/corporation�s copywrights.

Harry wanted desperately to pretend
he wasn't following Libby Malfoy. Libby, with her tall
stature and bony, angular figure, pale pointed face and fine disdain.
Libby who looked so much like her father that it took Harry's breath away. She was twenty two, the
age Draco had been when it had all began.

Only Libby
was not Draco Malfoy. She might carry his name, and his white-blonde hair, and
his face and body, but she was no more him than she was any other person.
Desperately, Harry searched her face for other signs, and found traces of her
mother-- she had Pansy's cool brown eyes, a shade lighter, and her mouth was
full and red and pursed-- not Draco's slim, pale, curling line. Reluctantly, he
saw what James did: Libby Malfoy was beautiful and desirable.

She moved
through Madame Malkin's with express purpose, her dark eyes settling on one
thing, then another, never settling for long. It made Harry think
of pug-faced Parkinson, her eyes darting saliciously as she spread gossip in
the Dining Hall of Hogwarts. Only Libby's eyes held no malice, no fear. She was
calm, of course-- she was unaware she was being watched.

"Oh,
Madame, it's lovely," Libby said, and Harry noted she didn't have Malfoy's
voice either. Her tones were unbearably soft, her voice slightly sharpened by a
vague Slavic accent-- she had attented Durmstrang. "Perfect."

Something in
the corner of the room caught Libby's eyes. "Draco!" She said, taking
out her wand and grabbing a small figure in the corner. "If you mess Madame's display
I shall hex you!"

The child
couldn't have been more than three or four, and he looked up at his mother with
faint awe and reverence as Harry watched his face hungrily. He had dark hair,
dark auburn hair-- Ginny Weasely's hair, deepened. And it was messy and curling
at the nape of his neck, cowlicks at odd intervals in front. He was unbearably
pale, and his face was a Malfoy's-- pointed, angular, aristocratic, and
practiced from centuries of reproduction, it was undeniable. He carried himself
like a Malfoy too, acting far too proud of himself, pleased with his existence
in the world, eager to make a mark as he flinted his eyes probingly over his
mother's face. And he was still a child.

His face was
turned to Harry's, he could only see the profile of the child he was certain
was a Parkinson-- a Malfoy-- a Black-- a Potter-- a Weasley--

"Sorry,
Mother," the little boy said softly, but his voice was strong and
certain-- he had inherited the Malfoy sneer, even if his mother had no traces
of it.

She smiled
distractedly at him. "If you are good the rest of the day I shall take you
to Fred's shop and you might get a prize." She turned to Madame Malkin
again. "James needs new robes, really his look so treadbare I can't bare
to see him dress every morning, I must tell him a dozen times a week that one
fitting--"

Harry gasped
and the store fell silent at the same inopportune moment. His eyes-- the
child's eyes were green. Emerald green, as green as Avada
Kedarva cast on a sunny day-- as green as his own. Draco, the tiny boy in
the robe shop had his eyes. Lily's eyes. After the
shock wore off, Harry added another surname to the list.

He was an
Evans as well.

"Someone's
here, Mother," the little boy said confidently.

Libby Malfoy
was already absorbed in her purchases. "No one's there, Draco," she
said tiredly. "Are you trying to make me cross with you this
afternoon?"

"No,"
he said softly. "But I heard someone gasp."

Libby Malfoy
looked up from the paper Madame Malkin had handed her. "Draco Julius
Malfoy, you are going to send me to St. Mungo's mad floor one day with your
stories. Of course there is no one else here. Unless you have a ghost--"

Madame
Malkin, ancient and gray, snorted loudly. "No such thing, in my shop, Miss
Malfoy. Now, if you would just sign here--"

Harry wanted
intensely as she took the quill from Madame Malkin and signed her name to the
tab, paying no mind to the outrageous sum written there. Libertas Narcissa
Malfoy. The name swirled for a moment, sharp, elaborate calligraphy, before
it was inbedded into the paper as part of the contract.

At least
Harry was sure now. Libby Malfoy hadn't married his son. Not yet, most likely,
not ever. But she had been given her inheritance as much as the second James
Potter had.

Harry
remembered the first time he saw Libby Malfoy. A moving
picture on her father's desk in his Ministry office.

"She
looks just like you, Draco," he had laughed, taking the heavy silver frame
in his hands. A small infant with a shock of white hair looked up at him
noncommitally, as if caught between a smile and a cry. "What did you name
her again?"

Draco had
curled his mouth. "You haven't been reading the Prophet lately, have you?
Poor darlings not a week old and she's already been front page news."
Harry smiled back. Draco was proud of that, of course. His
child, front page news, simply for being born. Of course Harry had seen
the headline, Ginny or Hermoine would have shown it to
him disdainfully anyway.

Hero
Draco Malfoy's Wife Gives Birth to First Child.

"Libertas,"
Draco said softly, later, his head on Harry's bare lap as Harry stroked the
fine threads, slightly moist with sweat, his fingers languid with the
completion of their acts. "Libertas, because she freed
me. Never having to touch Pansy again, she gave me that beautiful gift.
That and Narcissa, for my mother."

Harry
laughed. "You aren't disappointed she's not a boy."

"No,"
Draco said softly, somewhere between Harry's crotch and navel. "She's
perfect. The only way I'd have been vaguely annoyed is if she had looked
anything like Pansy."

"There's
still hope for that," Harry said teasingly. "Baby's faces
change."

Draco looked
astonished that Harry would even insinuate that. "Potter," he drawled
evenly. "Watch your tongue when you talk about my daughter."

Harry smiled
blissfully, his fingers tangled in silky blond locks. "You're already
turning into a mother hen, Draco. Next you'll be playing dress up and taking
little Libby toy shopping at Merry Martha's Emporium."

"Libby?"
Draco said softly. "You nicknamed her."

Harry arched
an eyebrow. "What were you planning on calling her for short?" No
mention of Pansy. As far as Harry could see, she was gone, or had been, the
moment she released Draco Malfoy's child from her womb.

"I
don't know," Draco said thoughtfully. "Probably Cissy, that's what
everyone called Mother," he looked whistful. "But Libby is better,
much better, her own name. Charming, in a childish way, but everyone has to
have a silly nickname. Libby Malfoy."

"You
don't have one, Dray," Harry said teasingly, his face hovering over
Malfoy's beautiful white features.

"Shut
it, baby," Malfoy laughed as Harry began to tickle him. "Oh,
stop Potter! My stomach hurts. Besides, you know you love it when I call you
that."

"I love
lots of things you do," Harry said breathlessly as Draco climbed over him,
long limbs enveloping him. He leaned in for a kiss and Harry brought it deeper,
grabbing his arse and pulling him down. They lay flush for a minute before
Draco smirked and began to move, and Harry forgot everything, forgot how to
breathe--

"Dray." He whispered into the silence, surrounded
by blinding white light.

In the
begining, when they were both newlyweds, Harry thought that he could keep it a
secret. Ginny waddled through their flat, pregnant, and exhausted and every now
and again the faint disgust and firm friendship he had for her was turned into
guilt. Even though he was sure Ginny had gotten pregnant to "trap
him", as Draco so eloquently put it, he knew he didn't have to stay. Or
lie. Or cheat.

No, he had
to cheat. He needed Draco.

At first he
tried, he charmed off the lovebites, he let Draco feed him potions that would
cover up any traces of phermones, he brought changes of clothes, he made up elaborate excuses as to why he couldn't be a home
with his very pregnant wife.

But Ginny's
sharp eyes caught him at every turn.

He stopped
caring or even trying about the time James turned two and Ginny made vague
hints about a sibling, even though Harry barely pecked her cheek hello. He
would come home at three a.m, smelling of french cigarettes and expensive
colonge he'd never wear, and the undeniable scent of sex, and he would wallow
in it, Draco's distintiveness all over him, a Malfoy mark of possession. He
would leave the marks down his body wherever Draco's teeth had landed--one day
Ginny accidentially walked in on Harry changing and gasped at the bruises on
his hips. But before their eyes met, she had that same sharp look and nothing
was said.

He got more
careless, he took to not taking clothes and borrowing Draco's, not carrying if
Ginny saw the embroidered "DM" on the inside tags, and taking a final
leap of recklessness, he rented a flat in Muggle London for them which he
called the sanctuary and stayed for days at a time.

Harry knew
around the time James turned five, that Draco was
trying for an heir with Pansy. Pansy knew everything, of course, the
gossip-whore. It hardly seemed to matter to her, Harry
had passed her once or twice in the halls at the Ministry, visiting Draco. His
manner was usually cold for hours afterward.

It was
Pansy, not Draco, that told Harry that she was
pregnant.

"Hello,
Potter," she said said genially as she passed him.

" 'lo, Mrs. Malfoy," he said, in case anyone was
listening. Then Pansy's talons had grasped him and she whispered. "Draco's
got it done, thank Merlin."

Harry's face
had blanched. "You're--" She didn't answer, but kept walking down the
hall, her heels clicking impertiently against the marble.
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The Inheritance