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Changeling	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 7139 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter; that belongs to J. K. Rowling. I am making no money from this fic.

Chapter List
- 1-Changeling
- 2-The Faith and the Glory, one-shot sequel
- 1
- 2
Title: Changeling

Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.

Prompt: 13, "Magic is 1% inspiration and 99% incantation."

Wordcount: ~22,700

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Profanity, angst, Dark magic, flirting and kissing.

Summary: In the wake of an unexpected revelation about Scorpius's heritage, Draco's relationship to his son, and, oddly enough, his relationship to Harry Potter, turn out to be in need of a severe reworking.

Author's Note: This was written for Team Epilogue in the HD_Worldcup competition on LJ. Thanks to my beta, Linda, and my very helpful teammates!

Changeling

"Come along, Scorpius."

Draco kept his voice and his face both as stiff as he could, rather like the robes of gold brocade that rustled around him as he escorted Scorpius into Gringotts. This was a solemn ceremony, and they couldn't have it ruined by the antics of a boy who, having just turned eleven today, still wasn't as adult as Draco could wish.

But Malfoy children had been confirmed as the heirs to the estate and all its artifacts for generations on their eleventh birthdays, and Draco wouldn't give up more traditions than he'd already been forced to part with.

Scorpius followed the tug of his father's hand on his shoulder willingly enough. A moment before, he'd been chattering and speculating about the party that awaited him back at the Manor and the chance of seeing his mother-for a celebration like this, Astoria would put in an appearance-but now he swallowed and looked around with wide eyes.

Draco looked around himself. He had seen this place only once before, on his own eleventh birthday. They were in a sunken chamber of the bank, between the upper floors where the goblins processed transactions and the vaults of the great families. The walls gleamed pure, polished black; Draco had touched them on his previous visit, and encountered the slick surface of obsidian. Their reflections played along the walls in the light of the torches, distorted but recognizably white and gold and silver. Scorpius had inherited Draco's hair and eyes, something he found an immense comfort. It was like having Lucius with him again.

At least there can be two people with Malfoy coloring in the world, if not three.



The chamber started out wide, like the flung hoop of a skirt, and then narrowed as they approached the back of the cavern. The weight of magic also increased, so that by the time they neared the "point," Draco had to march through the accumulated density and Scorpius struggled forwards as if into a high wind. Draco kept his hand on his son's shoulder, a gesture that had begun as reassurance but had more practical reasons now.

The two goblins who guarded the key to the Malfoy wards and possessions stood waiting behind a waist-high-to them-block of gray stone, polished just as smooth as the obsidian. Each one held a single silver sphere, transparent and glittering now. They would shine like small moons once the transfer of blood occurred and the estate and artifacts, along with Draco, recognized Scorpius as his heir.

Scorpius halted in front of the gray block, panting. Draco tugged him up when he would have rested his forehead against it, and nodded to the goblins. "Erisshnatn, Therrissen, it is pleasant to see you." He had memorized the goblin names on the note from Gringotts and practiced them until he was certain he could say them correctly.

The goblin on the right, who had nodded in response to the name Erisshnatn, raised his silver sphere. "This is the key and lock of the wards of the Malfoys," he said, his voice holding the same ringing, eerie resonance Draco remembered from twenty-six years ago. He shivered, and hoped the creatures did not notice it. Goblins were the best protectors possible for a secret like this, but they were not equals, to be privy to Draco's emotions. "As long as this is held here and passed along the Malfoy blood, no thief or bastard can steal the family's ancient rights. Only a son or daughter confirmed by the blood and the present master or mistress of the line may use this key to piece this lock."

"I am the current master of the Malfoy line," Draco said. He froze his body and lifted his head. He was good at moments like this. He had trained himself to be good at them when Lucius died and he realized that he would not have a father in the world to coddle him ever again. "I confirm and adopt this young man as my heir. He is my son by blood, and only the blood test remains."

The other goblin, Therrissen, passed the sphere he held along in front of Draco at chest height, standing on tiptoe to do it. The sphere flashed once, a single white jolt of startling intensity. Scorpius squeaked, but caught his breath and said nothing else before Draco could scold him.

"It is so," said Therrissen. "The master of Malfoy stands before us. And there will be a young master now." He held out the sphere to Scorpius.

Scorpius hesitated. Draco drew breath to growl; if the boy did not remember the words and gestures they had spent so much time practicing-

But the next moment Scorpius's face lit up, and he fumbled in a pocket of his golden robes and pulled out a silver knife. The hilt was traced with the Malfoy arms, also in gold. "I come to prove the test of blood, and myself the young master," he said, in a voice shrill with excitement. Draco disapproved. He had sounded more sober himself when he took this test.

But then, he had long since had to accept that Scorpius would never be the son he had desired, rather than the son he loved.

Scorpius made a tiny slice near the base of his right thumb, and squeezed a drop of blood into Therrissen's sphere. Draco relaxed. He had spilled only one drop, and not fumbled much. Now the sphere would flare with silver light, and the light would pass to the other one-

The sphere turned red. The next moment, a loud retching sound traveled through the chamber, and the goblins both stepped back from the Malfoys, cradling the spheres to their chests protectively.

Draco felt his heart pounding so hard and fast he thought he would make a retching noise of his own. "What has happened?" he managed to say, locking his voice into pure coldness and aridity. "This is not a regular part of the ceremony."

"It is not," said Erisshnatn, and his ears were laid back to his head and he glared at Draco with a hostility that reminded him, suddenly, why goblins were said to be terrible enemies for any wizard. "It signifies that a bastard has been foisted upon the ceremony."

Draco froze. He could not have spoken if someone had cast a Killing Curse at him, or closed his mouth if someone had tried to slip a poisonous potion down it.

Scorpius made a confused, frightened sound. Draco turned to look at him, burning with steady wrath, and saw him cower.

The words didn't need to be said aloud, but goblins were pitiless, and Therrissen said them anyway.

"Scorpius Malfoy is not your son by blood."

*

"Astoria!"

Draco yelled his former wife's name up the stairs as he shoved Scorpius through the front door of her house. Scorpius promptly stepped into a corner and wrapped protective arms around himself, crumpling the golden brocade robes he had worn to the ceremony. Draco growled under his breath and turned away in disgust. He had paid well for the most expensive tutoring for eight years, so that Scorpius would be well-prepared for Hogwarts, and this was the result he got?

Astoria, in Draco's view, took a painfully long time to emerge from her dressing room, and she came down the stairs with her blonde hair flowing long and unbound down her back, as if to remind Draco that she could wear it in an undignified manner since their divorce. She saw Scorpius and immediately went to him, taking his hands in hers. Draco wiped his face tiredly. She was always spoiling the boy. Maybe this was the reason that none of the fancy education Draco had paid for had actually taken.

"What's the matter, Scorpius?" Astoria asked, in the voice Draco had once thought was musical and which now only grated on his nerves. "I thought this was supposed to be a happy day. Has your father done something to make it otherwise?" And she turned and glared at Draco as if she already suspected it was his fault.

He didn't even say a word, Draco thought. Thereare times I have to think the problem is all with her.

"We went to the confirmation ceremony, yes," he said, in a voice that could have cut rocks, and which he was gratified to see at least made Astoria pause. "And Scorpius had to pass a test of blood, and the goblins told me that he could not be my son by blood. The Malfoy artifacts rejected him."

Astoria was no fool, at least. She understood what he was implying, and drew herself up with a chilly pride. Her words made a slight shiver run down Draco's back. "I never betrayed you," she said. "I never conceived a child by another man. And I am ready to take Veritaserum to prove that, if necessary."

Astoria had refused to take Veritaserum to tell Draco the real reasons she was divorcing him. She must know that Draco might take the opportunity to ask whilst she was under the potion, and that he could find out. Draco stared at her, and felt his heart sink. That she would take the risk argued that she was telling the truth, and that meant. . .

That meant what? How in the world could Scorpius not be his son if Astoria had not betrayed him? Draco had been present at Scorpius's birth, which had taken place in Malfoy Manor. That was an ancient custom, because the Malfoys had once stood a high chance of having their children kidnapped from them by jealous rivals. Draco had thought the whole business silly at the time, but the older he grew, the more he appreciated Lucius's wisdom.

"If not that," he began.

Again, Astoria had jumped ahead of him. "There are spells that might be able to do this," she said, and turned towards the door which led to her own private library. Most of the books had once sat on Draco's shelves, but Astoria had taken strictly what she owned when she moved out, and had still left his shelves denuded. "I will find out."

Draco watched her go, comforted. Astoria might not be quite as good a researcher as Mrs. Find-an-Obscure-Loophole-and-Free-Thousands-of-Elves Granger-Weasley, but he trusted her to find an answer to the dilemma. Scorpius was her son, too.

I think so, anyway.

"Daddy?" Scorpius's voice quavered. "Does this mean that you don't want me anymore?"

Draco looked at his son, and felt a wave of helpless love come over him. Love, because he did care for Scorpius; he always had, from the moment when he had seen the scrunched-in face wrapped in blankets. Helpless, because no matter how much time he spent training Scorpius to be the perfect Malfoy, it never worked out.

"Of course I want you," he said, and managed to keep the other words silent as Scorpius ran to embrace him. I just wish you were a little more satisfactory.

*

Harry rested his chin on his hands and yawned. The smooth top of the desk felt delicious when he rubbed his cheek against it. He wished he could plop his head down right here and go to sleep.

Well, you can't, he reminded himself, lifting his head and rubbing his eyes. Andit's your own fault that you're tired, anyway. He was working extra hours now because he wanted to take a holiday after Al and James went to Hogwarts this autumn. He'd spend it with Lily, who he knew would be devastated by not going and by losing Al's company. And Ginny's team toured so much now that she simply couldn't keep Lily with her all the time. It would be best for all three of them.

Harry smiled faintly when he remembered the way Ginny had enthusiastically agreed to the plan. We certainly do get along better since the divorce, he thought, and reached for another file. He didn't go out into the field as much anymore; the next generation of potential Dark Lords had come along and seemed to see his murder as the first milestone on the way to Becoming Voldemort's Successor. It was just too dangerous for Harry, even with a partner. But it meant a lot of paperwork and offering opinions on cases that were just beginning.

He stared at the case in front of him and had enough time to note that those incompetents Molesworth and Brown had been picked to handle it before one of the silver globes that hung on the walls began to vibrate urgently.

Harry leaned back in his chair and stared at it, stupefied. The globe twitched and glistened and rocked in place. Harry leaped to his feet and managed to snatch it just before it smashed into a hundred pieces on the floor, which Kingsley would not have been happy about.

The globe went quiet the moment he touched it, and a cool, sexless voice spoke in Harry's head: the voice of the ward that the globe represented. Someone has removed the Grimoire of Haunted Blood from its place.

Harry swore and dumped the globe on his desk, wedging it with a book so it wouldn't roll off. The next moment, he snatched his wand and went charging out of the office and towards the lifts that would give him access to the Floos in the Atrium. Though it was for security reasons, for the first time he regretted not having Floos arranged for transportation as well as talking in the Auror Department itself.

The Grimoire of Haunted Blood was one of the most dangerous of the Dark Arts books that the Ministry had classified as "Forbidden" two hundred years ago. Just trying to touch it meant at least a month in Azkaban. Harry couldn't comprehend what Kingsley would want to see done to someone who had actually stolen it. There were curses in that book that could unleash blood-borne plagues on the wizarding world.

Harry thought the Ministry should have destroyed the damn thing. But apparently, they were afraid that someday they would need one of the spells in the book, and they wouldn't have those if they'd burned it.

Or maybe it was immune to destruction, Harry thought, as he paced restlessly in front of the lifts and cursed the anti-Apparition spells in the Ministry for the seven thousandth time. Kingsley had been vague when Harry asked him about the book, for understandable reasons.

Except now someone's stolen it, Harry thought as the lift arrived and he dashed in, jabbing the button that would take him to the Atrium, and I don't have the faintest idea what to expect because I don't know enough about it.

Wonderful.

Blasted bloody lift!

*

"Here it is," Draco breathed, and then caught his breath to hold against the cloud of choking dust that came with the book. Though no one was around-in fact, with Draco's and Astoria's combined Dark Arts knowledge it had been surprisingly easy to get through the wards and find the Grimoire of Haunted Blood-he had the conviction that those nonexistent ears would hear him if he sneezed.

"At last." Astoria took the book from him and began to flip briskly through the pages, her eyes scanning each one and moving on. Draco would have objected that she couldn't possibly see what they were looking for that way, but he had the same sense of urgency she did. Being caught in the Ministry's secure vaults in Scotland was not a sensible political move. Besides, she was a good researcher.

And there were other reasons he wanted to get away from here, too. Draco eyed the book uneasily. It was vast, bound in a sickly gray leather that reflected the light in odd patterns as if it were the surface of water, and slick and soft; Draco could feel a sucking warmth when he touched it. It was as if the book were alive and tasting its potential meals like a frog or the Giant Squid. Draco shuddered and turned away to scan up and down the narrow corridors of the vaults by the light of his wand. All around them, the fanged shelves that contained the Forbidden books weighed down like ledges of rock. Draco swallowed and told himself that he should be grateful that the Grimoire of Haunted Blood hadn't been in the Very Very Forbidden section.

"Here we are," said Astoria, and the hungry sound in her voice made Draco lean forwards, forgetting about the haze of uneasiness he was sure was down to the Ministry's wards, anyway. "I thought I remembered a spell that could affect the blood of a pure-blood child." She looked at him over the top of the book, her face set. Draco felt both terror and admiration. She was a worthy successor to Narcissa in the protection of her son, even if she wasn't Mrs. Malfoy anymore. "We'll find out who cast this and make them reverse it, Draco."

"We can't reverse it?" A hope Draco hadn't known he was nourishing withered and died in his mind.

"Of course not," Astoria said, and gave him a pitying glance. "Why would they choose something so simple as that if they truly wanted to hurt us?" Her fingers played along the page, and she bent closer to it. "Now, hush, and let me memorize the incantation. If we can't force them to take it off, then at least we can cast it on them in return and harm their children."

"I have enough evidence now to put you both in Azkaban for six years apiece," said a cold and strangely familiar voice from behind the nearest shelf. "Lower the book, now, madam."

Astoria met Draco's eyes. Her face was calm, but Draco couldn't tell what she was trying to communicate with the glance. He had frozen the moment he heard the voice speak, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth as he thought about all his accumulated political influence draining away like so much blood.

Maybe his being still was all Astoria had wanted, though, because she turned around to meet the voice with admirable coolness. "And if we are using the book only to revenge ourselves for its being used against us?" she asked. Her chin was lifted and her left hand braced on her hip. Draco couldn't comprehend how she was managing to hold on to the book with just her right hand.

From behind the shelf, Potter came into view, his wand pointed straight at them and his face not softened at all by Astoria's little speech.

Of course it would be Potter, Draco thought in resignation. Thefirst time I do something illegal in decades, and he's the one to catch me at it.

"You want revenge," Potter said, in a voice on the edge of sarcastic laughter, "and I'm here for justice, and you think that kind of talk is going to convince me?"

He did sarcasm better than he used to, Draco had to admit. He, in fact, looked far better than the last time Draco had bothered to glance at a photograph of him, which was back when the Prophet was still hysterical about him as the savior of Britain. He walked with a long, swinging stride, and he held his head up as if he intended to charge like a werewolf and rip out both their throats, and his green eyes blazed, and the scar shone on his forehead like a badge of honor instead of the stupid deformity Draco knew it was.

Why do I think he looks good if he's about to rip out our throats? Draco thought then. Or at least arrest us? It didn't help that Astoria had a sardonic look in her eyes when she glanced at him, too, and she was even better at sarcasm than Potter.

"Of course you wouldn't know what it's like to sacrifice anything for your children," he said to Potter, because his boiling wrath and bitterness at fate could no longer be contained. "Everyone knows that the Weaselette kept them after your divorce. Or should I call her the She-Potter now, since she still runs around with your name?"

Potter drew himself up and gave him such a withering stare that Draco had to look away from him.

"For your information," Potter said in a harsh whisper, "Ginny kept the children because she has more free time for them when her team isn't touring. When it is touring, I take them. And what in the world does this have to do with your pointy little son, anyway?"

Draco felt a wash of hot indignation, and then bewilderment that Potter would go around telling his domestic arrangements to his worst enemy (well, his worst enemy left alive, anyway). A moment later, the bitterness returned, as he realized what must be the reason. He's not ashamed of anything he's done with his ex-wife. His children please him. He doesn't see a reason to conceal anything about them.

"If you would listen to me for a moment," Astoria said, "instead of engaging Draco in a contest of wits that he is not prepared to have, I could tell you how closely this concerns Scorpius. Who is not, in fact, as pointy as you might think. He got some of my genes, thank Merlin."

And it was clear that Draco was going to taste a full seven-course meal of bitterness, because Potter turned to her and seemed to be listening, and that meant that Draco had to be grateful to her.

*

Harry reckoned he was doing something stupid and irresponsible by listening to Malfoy's too-pretty wife-no, ex-wife, if he was remembering the breathless newspaper articles correctly. Kingsley would have told him to Stun them both at once and then Apparate with them to the Ministry, where someone would be waiting to take them into custody, no matter how late.

But there was no one else here-he knew that because he'd watched the Malfoys carefully for a long while before approaching them-and he was confident he could handle them both.

And he had to listen when someone else mentioned their children. It was a character flaw, resulting from an emotionally stunted childhood and a sense of having a family as a blessing instead of normality; Harry could quote the lecture from Hermione, he'd heard it so many times. But just now, he could afford to listen, which wasn't the case when he and Ron confronted some other criminals.

"All right," he said, shifting his wand to his left hand so he could cover both of them. Mrs. Malfoy looked as if she might be left-handed, and Harry was better at what little wandless magic he could manage with his right. "So talk."

Mrs. Malfoy stood gazing at him with open contempt for long moments, seemingly trying to make him feel intimidated. Harry grinned back at her. He wasn't about to feel abashed by blond hair, thank you very much, which had had a negative association for him from Hogwarts thanks to that git over there, or green eyes, which he had himself. And it had been years since a pair of breasts could make him stutter. A nice thick cock was more likely to, if anything would.

"Our son," said Mrs. Malfoy, pronouncing the words with a clarity Harry valued, "has been cursed." She paused.

Harry waited, then drawled, in a deliberate imitation of Malfoy's voice from their school days, "Yes?" He was gratified to see the idiot toss him an infuriated look and then shift from foot to foot, as if his bladder were troubling him.

"I don't think it's a wise idea to tell him," Malfoy hissed to his wife.

"Wise idea or not," Harry said cheerfully, folding his arms, "you're telling me anyway. Because if I tell anyone what you did tonight, it's Azkaban and not Malfoy Manor that you'll be walking into."

"Fine, then, Potter!" Malfoy turned on him, his eyes wide and agonized. Harry felt his smile drop away. He wanted to apologize, but Malfoy was already spitting the words and wouldn't listen to him. "Scorpius isn't my son! We went to confirm him as the Malfoy heir by blood, and the ritual failed." There was something particularly bitter about the way he said failed that made Harry frown in interest again, but Malfoy seemed to have decided Harry should know more about the facts than the nuances of the situation. "His blood isn't my blood. And since Astoria says she didn't cheat and I have proof that no one switched my son with someone else's, the only choice is a curse."

"And that, in fact, is what we found," said Mrs. Malfoy, with a quiet, cold triumph that made Harry felt a tremor of dislike towards her. She nodded to the book she held. "The Changeling Curse. It literally changes the blood of the affected heirs in their veins and renders them unlike their parents. Depending on when it was cast, it may have even affected Draco's sperm-"

"Astoria!"

Harry kept his eyes fixed on Mrs. Malfoy's face and his expression stern, but he had to bite his cheek. Who knew Malfoy the High and Mighty was a prude?

"And that would mean that he could not father a child with Malfoy blood, no matter what happened," Mrs. Malfoy finished, disregarding her husband altogether. "So, yes, our son is a changeling, and we must know who did this, or we cannot reverse the curse, and Scorpius cannot take his place as the rightful owner of Malfoy Manor and the magical artifacts that go with it." She gave a little nod and looked at Harry expectantly. It was a look Harry had seen from other pure-bloods before, and it always made him sick. Now that we've explained our crazy ideas to you, it said, you'll have to believe us.

"I fail to see," said Harry, after a pause in which he scratched behind his ear, "why that's such a bad thing. You can will it to him, can't you? Maybe you won't be able to conduct whatever fancy ritual you wanted to conduct, but-"

"You don't understand, Potter," Malfoy hissed, and pushed his way forwards again, despite Mrs. Malfoy's attempt to put a hand on his arm and restrain him. In fact, he shook her grip off impatiently. Harry felt a certain amount of sympathy for him. He knew that he had done the same thing sometimes, when he had something important to say and Ginny didn't want him to. "The rituals have to be undergone so he can become the Malfoy heir. He can't have the Manor or the artifacts if he's not a blood heir. That was a measure taken long ago as a protection against bastards and pretenders." Once again, Harry had to bite his cheek not to laugh; Malfoy sounded as if he were talking about the heir to a medieval throne, for God's sake. "He'll be cast out on the streets if he doesn't have the right blood, as soon as I die, and he won't have a single heirloom to take with him. He won't even be able to touch them."

Harry caught his breath, and then let it drain out again. He was thinking about what would have happened if he hadn't been able to touch his father's Invisibility Cloak, or if some "ritual" like this had kept the Marauders' Map from him. And how would he feel if James and Al and Lily could never inherit the money he was working to secure them after his death, and the fortune that had made his life in the wizarding world comfortable?

It would be like not having a family.

But of course it was different. Of course Scorpius had living parents, and he knew they loved him.

Maybe.

There was a wild, bitter desperation in Malfoy's face that Harry had also seen before, on cases when pure-blood children got kidnapped. Some parents wanted their children back because they loved them. Others simply wanted an heir, a living flesh and blood copy of themselves-or at least of their ancestors-who could walk around with the right face and the right name and provide a guardian for a vault and some gemstones, and father or bear children of their own when the time came. Harry had grown to hate those cases; sometimes he wasn't sure that what the children were going back to was all that much better than what their captors gave them.

Harry had no idea if Malfoy really cared about Scorpius as his heir only. But he couldn't take the chance.

And even if Scorpius only faced the horror of having to work for a living instead of being despised at home for a curse he couldn't help, then Harry still thought he deserved to have what his parents intended to leave him.

"I'm doing this for the boy," he said to both the Malfoys, so that they would be sure to understand him. "Not for you."

"That is, in fact, the best reason you could do it," said Mrs. Malfoy, and pushed her hair behind her ears, and gave him a smile that she probably imagined would cause him to melt at her feet. At least, she looked a bit disconcerted when Harry turned away from her and focused on Malfoy.

"And I want your word, now, that you won't take vengeance on the caster of the curse when I introduce you to him," he said.

"You know who it is?"

Harry forbade himself to move back a step, but it was not easy. The Malfoys could look extraordinarily like piranhas when they wanted to.

"Of course I do," he said. "That book was last disturbed twelve years ago, and the person who used it is still in Azkaban." He cast a pointed look at Malfoy's groin, determined to get some of his own back. "Scorpius is under twelve, isn't he? Sorry for your sperm, Draco."

Malfoy had a delightful blush. Harry waited until they put the book back in its rightful place and then led them towards the surface again, muttering in his own mind about how Malfoy didn't have the right to a delightful anything, much less a blush.



*

Azkaban was still as Draco remembered it from his own brief residence there nineteen years ago whilst he was waiting for his trial: gloomy, cold, full of shadows and half-muted screams. The Dementors had gone, but their legacy lingered. Draco did his best not to fold his arms or shiver defensively as they passed over on the ferry. Or at least he could pretend that his shivers were ones of cold.

Not that Potter was likely to believe that.

When Draco's mother had wanted to visit him, it had taken her nearly a month to work through the gauntlet of permissions, forms in triplicate, and bribes that the guards demanded, and then she got to see him for approximately five minutes. Potter showed his face, and the Aurors on duty scrambled about, bowing and babbling, and never asked them what they'd come for.

The perks of being Harry Potter, Draco thought bitterly as he followed the Boy Hero-all right, all right, the Man Hero, which was at least better than that stupid Chosen One nickname-down the main prison corridor towards the Dark wizards' cells. He glared at the gracefully striding figure ahead of him, and sneered at the lordly way he nodded at the gaping, saluting Aurors. And he probably doesn't even notice that it's happening, and just assumes that it happens because people like him. Berk.

Astoria caught his eye and glanced from him to Potter with a smirk. Draco scowled back at her. Was she comparing them and deciding how best she could get Potter into bed? "Now is not the time for seducing him," he warned her in a low voice. He knew how incredibly lucky they were that Potter had decided he wept for Scorpius in his melting hero's heart and so needed to do this. He wouldn't let Astoria waste the chance.

For some reason, his words made her snort a muffled chuckle into her palm and then cup her hand frantically around her mouth, her cheeks turning red. Well, good, Draco thought, as he caught up to Potter, who had paused. She deserved some embarrassment.

And then he realized that Potter was motioning him towards the man in the cell, and he crowded up beside the bars, his eyes narrowed. This was the pathetic, envious weakling who had destroyed his son's future. Probably a Mudblood or a half-blood, of course, weeping over the loss of what he would never have been pure enough to possess.

The first thing Draco noticed was that the thin face looked familiar. And then he glanced from it to Astoria and gasped in shock.

Astoria's face had been wiped clean of expression in the meanwhile. She stepped forwards to the bars like a queen and leaned in with her hands folded behind her back, where the pathetic creature in the cell couldn't catch a glimpse of them. Draco approved of that, and of the courteous way Potter had fallen back-until he realized that Potter was in a position where he could ogle Astoria's arse. He worked hard to keep a scowl off his face. This isn't the time for Potter to decide that he wants to shag her, either.

"Ricardo," Astoria said. "I wondered, once, how many times I would have to refuse you. I see now that even twenty times was not enough."

The man-who had once been Ricardo Greengrass, Astoria's first cousin and would-be lover-scrambled to his feet and took several shaky steps towards her. But he halted a distance away, as if he were afraid of her, and reached out grime-stained hands, "Astoria?" he whispered. "Astoria, my angel? Have you come at last? Is this a visitation? A flight of angels to sing me to my rest?"

"You always did spend too much time with Muggle rubbish." Astoria might have been speaking from the moon, her eyes and voice were both so distant. Draco thought he was the only one in the corridor who knew her well enough to realize how furious and hurt she really was. If anything, he thought, she would have decided in the back of her mind that this came from a covetous relative on Draco's side of the family who might stand to inherit if Scorpius was not of pure blood. The cousin who had begged literally on bended knee to marry her had not entered her head, probably because they had both believed he had gone to America twelve years ago. "Tell me why you stole my son's future."

"He wasn't your son," Ricardo said at once, smug and confident, as if he hadn't spent twelve years in this place. His eyes found Draco over Astoria's shoulder and burned with a hatred that made Draco almost flinch. "He doesn't share blood with you, or him. I made sure that he couldn't plant a real child in you, and so your womb is still undefiled." He nodded several times.

Draco felt a moment's pity for him then. Those words only proved that he had never really known Astoria.

"I," said Astoria, voice so low that Draco thought he could feel it echo in Azkaban's walls, "was never only a womb." She turned and faced Potter, every line of her body so straight and unflinching that she looked like a classical statue. "I have heard all I intend to hear from him. I know he cast the spell. I know he will not reverse it."

"But we haven't actually asked him that yet," said Potter, and stepped around Astoria to address Ricardo with courtesy that made Draco roll his eyes. Why was it that a convicted criminal got more respect from him than a mere accused criminal, like Draco? "Do you intend to reverse the spell that condemned Scorpius Malfoy?"

"No." Ricardo's reply was immediate and glad, the way Draco knew it would be. He was watching Astoria with greedy eyes, though what insights he hoped to glean from her still back and folded arms Draco didn't know. "I did it for the best of reasons, and nothing you say can convince me to change my mind."

"We can speak to the Wizengamot," said Potter. His tone was so mild that it took Draco a moment to recognize it as a threat.

"Of course we cannot," said Astoria, spinning on Potter with a grace and swiftness Draco was glad to see. "Otherwise, we would truly take Scorpius's future away from him. As it stands, this is an invisible difference. Would you have us expose him to the press, and ourselves to all manner of pity? No, Potter."

Potter stared at her as if dumbfounded. "But you want to help your son, don't you?" he demanded.

Draco sighed. Once again, it was up to him to explain the truth to a Potter whose acquaintance with reality was only reluctant. "He will have a better life as it stands if we do not speak out," he said. "He can at least marry a pure-blooded wife, and we can pretend that the reason he cannot inherit the Malfoy estates and artifacts is a matter of antagonism between us. He will produce children that, as far as anyone knows, are Malfoy in blood."

"Anyone," chirped Ricardo. "Except me."

Potter hadn't ceased frowning, and he didn't look away from Draco, either. "You would tell a lie," he whispered, as if he wanted to test the words before he spoke them in a loud tone. "To make your son's life better."

"As if you've never lied." Draco sneered at Potter. He would have felt better if he had some definite proof that Potter had done it beyond covering for his friends during minor incidents at Hogwarts, but that didn't matter. It was outrageous that Potter claimed he wanted to protect Scorpius and yet thought they should do so by placing their son on display in front of a mocking pure-blood world.

*

Harry stared at the man in the cell again. It was possible that he could be talked around, if only Malfoy and his wife would be more acquiescent. Really, hadn't they got enough practice at that when they bowed and scraped in front of the Wizengamot after the war?

But he had seen criminals like this, with the same set and staring eyes and smug mouths. Yes, it was possible Greengrass could be talked around; anything was possible. But he had gone to Azkaban for the maximum possible sentence rather than admit what he had wanted the Grimoire of Haunted Blood for, and if he had endured twelve years here without crumbling, Harry didn't know what persuasion he could employ that would convince him.

He probably had more chance of convincing Malfoy and his wife to take this to the Wizengamot.

But, when he turned around, their faces were set, too, if not smug, and there was a tightness and tension around Malfoy's eyes in particular that Harry didn't like. He began to wonder if perhaps they might know more about the pure-blood community, what it would mock and what it would accept, than he did. Maybe Scorpius's chances at a normal life would be compromised by releasing this information, as much as Harry thought it a good idea. He had managed to avoid conflicts with the newspapers over the last few years by living as honestly as possible and giving them no ability to print lies that would catch hold of any aspect of his life.

But you're a full-grown man with a powerful reputation of your own, and Scorpius Malfoy is an eleven-year-old boy.

Harry sighed and said, "If you really think it won't make Scorpius's life better to expose this, then we'll do something else."

"There's no way around it," Mrs. Malfoy said, turning about again. Harry looked at her with a certain amount of wonder. Malfoy had always struck him during school as rather explosive, someone who would demand emotion from anyone he became involved with, if only because he would need to be clucked and soothed over when the world didn't turn out the way he wanted it to. He wondered how the git had ended up choosing someone so cool and distant. "If we cannot force the caster to remove the curse, Scorpius will bear it forever."

"I don't believe that," Harry said calmly, and ignored the way she tried to stab him with her eyes. So she wasn't used to being contradicted. Hermione hadn't been, either, but she had got used to it after she had her children. "I've worked with Dark magic for years, and there almost always turns out to be an exception that someone overlooked before, if only because not that many people have studied it compared to the more common spells."

"Sometimes, Potter," Malfoy said, sounding as if admitting this made him ill, "you have more sense than it looks as if you have. Not that that's hard," he added.

Harry took a deep breath and managed to ignore him, focusing on Mrs. Malfoy. She studied him minutely, the way Snape had when thinking of fifteen ways he could kill Harry and get away with it, before she inclined her head.

"Then you will not speak of this to anyone else," she said. "And you will help us."

"In private, yes." Harry smiled a little grimly. He got along better with the newspapers, but they hadn't stopped pouncing on every stray little fact about his life the first chance they got. "So that my helping you doesn't provoke the suspicions that we want to avoid in the first place."

"Acceptable," said Mrs. Malfoy. "So you will come with us to meet our son as soon as possible, and you will arrange meetings on the weekends. Scorpius attends Hogwarts in less than a month. I will not pull him from school. You will need to make sure that he keeps up with his studies as you work to solve this problem."

"Of course," Harry said, and rolled his eyes, not caring if she saw. Now he saw how Malfoy could have chosen her. She was deeply managing, and if there was one thing Malfoy had, it was a need to be managed.

"I haven't given my permission for this," Malfoy said, fussily, and predictably.

"You need not," said Mrs. Malfoy. "You know that we must help Scorpius somehow, and you know the impossibility of reversing the curse, and you know the impossibility of speaking up in public about this. Be grateful that we have Potter to help us and do not need to approach some of your old-colleagues-for their expertise in Dark magic."

Malfoy shuddered with an apparently genuine disgust. Harry remembered that he had looked terrified in the majority of the visions Harry had of him during the war.

"All right," he said in a low voice. "And I presume that I'll be the one leading these meetings, Astoria, whilst you stay aloof from the mess as usual?"

A tight smile graced Mrs. Malfoy's face for a moment. Harry had the feeling that they'd had this conversation before. "Of course."

Malfoy folded his arms and turned away. Mrs. Malfoy watched him for a moment before she turned and walked away, not seeming to care about the way her cousin's gaze lingered on her.

"What time do you want the first meeting?" Harry asked Malfoy.

Malfoy's shoulders hunched, but he sighed noisily and turned to face Harry, wearing the expression he probably wore when he dealt with cooks, florists, and other necessary evils. "As you have the goodness to consult me on something," he said, "I want you to see Scorpius before he goes to school. Two weekends from now is the optimum time for me. Come to Malfoy Manor at eight in the morning on Saturday."

Harry concealed his annoyance at having to rise so early on a weekend, and nodded. He had done it before for Auror work, and there was a child in this case. Harry tried to imagine the way he would feel if Al was similarly affected-not by a curse that changed his blood, because who cared about that, but by Dark Arts-and grew more determined. He would help Scorpius no matter how irritating Malfoy was.

Besides, he would probably feel irritated if his schoolboy enemy possessed information like this, himself.

"Eight in the morning is fine," he said. "Please warn Scorpius I'm coming; I don't want this to be a surprise to him."

Malfoy gave him a look of contempt that was probably meant to wound. "He already knows something is wrong. He already knows that he failed the ritual that was supposed to confirm him as Malfoy heir."

"I meant," Harry said, and refrained from grinding his teeth by thinking of the damage it would do to the enamel, "that you should warn him I'm coming. Tell him the specifics. I would have wanted to know them, when I was his age." He had forgiven Dumbledore for much, but not for concealing information that was so necessary from him for so long.

"Thank Merlin you are not my son."

Harry managed to laugh, though he had thought that impossible, at the fervent tone of Malfoy's voice. "I think that's a prayer we can all agree on," he said.

*



There was a wrinkle in his left sleeve.

Draco smoothed the wrinkle out, and then sneaked a glance sideways at Scorpius. He still had a dangling bit of fluff on the back of his head, a single blond hair that would not lie down. Draco frowned. He didn't know where this tendency to wildness came from. Both his hair and Astoria's was as smooth as could be imagined, and he was sure that he had not been so unruly when he was Scorpius's age, either.

"Scorpius," he began.

His son sighed, most unbecomingly, and reached up to tap his wand against the hair and make it lie flat. It was the first spell he had learned, out of necessity. Draco nodded stiffly-if he knew what his father had wanted to say, why did he need the reminder at all?-and then faced the door again.

He and Scorpius were waiting in the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor for Potter, partially because it was the best room to impress a new visitor to the house and partially because Draco was determined that Potter would find nothing out of place about his son's behavior or appearance. Potter would be looking about with beady eyes, seeking something to make fun of if he could. Draco would leave him no dangling thread to seize, and then he would be compelled to offer respect.

Potter knocked a few minutes after eight. Draco drew himself up straight, assumed the most thunderous expression he possibly could, and nodded to the scurrying house-elves to let Potter in. House-elves.That is another thing Scorpius will not manage to inherit if we cannot fix this. He's never lived a day without their devoted care. What will happen to him if he doesn't have it?

Draco reminded himself, then, when the thoughts might have managed to fluster him as Potter entered the room, that this was one reason he was obliged to have Potter in his house at all. They had time before Scorpius came of age and Draco died. They would just have to find a solution.

Potter stepped into the entrance hall and didn't look up, at the great vaulted ceiling, or around, at the gilded tops of the pillars and the sweeping staircase. Instead, he smiled at Scorpius, held out his hand, and said, "I'm Harry Potter. You must be Scorpius Malfoy."

Draco's son blinked, so slowly that he looked like a lizard. Draco opened his mouth to intervene. Scorpius had always been too slow to recognize honor being done to him, too slow for a Malfoy.

But then Scorpius grinned, a dazzling grin Draco had never seen before, and shook Potter's hand firmly. "I am," he said. "And I would have recognized you without your introducing yourself, you know. You're pretty recognizable." He gestured to the faded scar on Potter's forehead, still grinning.



Draco froze, because he was so mortified. How was it possible that he had raised a boy who would respond like this in front of someone he didn't know?

But Potter smiled back, and Draco remembered: Potter was an undisciplined brat at Scorpius's age, too. He would expect a certain amount of informality, and he was unfamiliar with pure-blood customs. He probably thought Scorpius was acting natural and child-like.

"I like to introduce myself anyway," Potter explained, "just so people don't confuse me with my scar."

"I'd like to do that," Scorpius confided, "someday when I'm grown up and famous. So people don't confuse me with my name."

"A good plan." Potter nodded, as if satisfied, and then turned to Draco. "Do you have a drawing room where we can sit and talk about this? I want to explain some of what I've found out about potential cures for curses like this so far."

Draco opened his mouth to object. He and Potter should meet by themselves if at all. Scorpius wasn't old enough to understand all the information Potter would give him, let alone make decisions that affected his own welfare.

But then he saw the way Scorpius was looking back and forth between the two of them, his eyes bright for the first time since the confirmation ceremony, and the level gaze Potter was giving him. Draco suspected that Potter would try to include Scorpius in the conversation anyway if Draco refused.

And it might be better for Scorpius to hear about it.

Silently, Draco nodded and led the way.

*

Harry watched with an ache in his heart as the train began to move, carrying Al away. He hadn't realized until today that his son harbored such a strong fear of being put in Slytherin. Al was more like himself than Harry ever known.

But he's going to have a better childhood, Harry resolved as the train pulled out of the station. If he's in Slytherin, then I hope he owls me immediately, and I'm going to owl him back and repeat what I told him about Snape. He doesn't deserve to think he'll be evil because of where the Sorting Hat chose to put him when he was eleven. I wish someone had thought to tell me that.

And Scorpius Malfoy, whom Harry had seen climb onto the same train with a determined but haunted look in his eyes, didn't deserve to suffer through the rest of his life because of a curse that had been cast before he was born.

I'm going to do my best for you, too, Harry told him silently. Whatare we for, if not to fight so that the next generation has a better chance?

"Are you all right, Harry?" Ginny smiled up at him and ran her hand over a sniffling Lily's hair. "You have that pensive look that means a monster's around the next corner and needs to feel the bite of one of your hexes."

Harry smiled back. He and Ginny really did work much better as friends than as spouses, and once they had divorced, Harry had noticed a massive relaxation of tension in his life. He didn't mind that Ginny had kept his name; it was a way to connect them as friends who had shared a bond that most of the rest of the world had no idea about. And Harry had come to think that sharing with other people was more productive than fighting with them-unless they were Dark wizards who needed to be shut into a cool cell in Azkaban and left to think over what they'd done for a while.

"Thinking," he said. "The same way I did when James went off last year, if you remember."

"I remember," Ginny said, and stretched up to kiss his cheek.

"Muuuuum," said Lily, who had reached the stage when kisses between her parents were the height of grossness. "Daaad. I want to go to Hogwarts, too."

"Next year, Lily-bee." Harry took her hand. He had charge of Lily for the next few weeks of his holiday. Ginny waved and vanished into the crowd at the train station, and Harry turned around to find Ron and Hermione. "Don't you want to go for ice cream with Hugo? I bet you can eat more than he can."

Hogwarts already half-forgotten, Lily pulled impatiently away from him and ran off to search for Hugo. Harry started to follow, then hesitated when he saw Malfoy standing near a pillar by himself, arms folded and shoulders hunched the way they always seemed to be. His wife had already vanished, and he looked cold.

He put Scorpius on a train this morning, too.

Harry changed his mind and strode over to Malfoy.

Malfoy, of course, straightened when he saw Harry coming, and tried to look as if he'd never done anything but stand there and sneer. Harry inwardly rolled his eyes, but he thought he was starting to understand Malfoy a bit better. Malfoy was someone who hadn't shared. He seemed anxious that Scorpius be nothing more than a perfect little automaton. Look at that first meeting they'd had, in August. He tried to direct the things Harry said, he frowned with disapproval whenever Harry asked Scorpius his opinion or answered one of his questions, and he continually snapped reminders for Scorpius to sit up, smooth his hair, not wrinkle his robes, and speak clearly.

He was worried for his child, and he seemed to always have lived with managing people-his parents, his wife-who ordered him around, so he didn't know what to do when he was left on his own. Harry told himself that so he wouldn't strangle the man for being such an annoying little pissant.

"We're meeting Scorpius at Hogwarts on September the fifteenth, right?" he asked, to have a plausible excuse for approaching Malfoy.

"Not even you could have forgotten the date that fast." Malfoy folded his arms until he looked as if he were trying to squeeze all the air out of his chest and squinted at him suspiciously. "What do you really want?"

Fine, then. Harry abandoned subtlety. Maybe that wasn't what Malfoy needed. Maybe his parents and his wife had tried to make him realize the truth in subtle ways, and he hadn't paid attention, because he wasn't forced to. "He'll be all right," Harry said softly.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Malfoy sniffed and looked away.

"Yes, you do." Harry nodded after the train. "I just sent a son off to Hogwarts, too. Well, both of them, but James was already there one year and he's eager to be away from us." Harry had to smile as he thought of James. Compared to Al, James was insensitive, loud, and boisterous, but he always did land on his feet. "I know what it feels like, that shattering of childhood. When you don't see them around every day anymore. When you have to worry that every owl from Hogwarts could bring report of a potential accident, just because you weren't there to hover over them and protect them from danger. When you realize that in six years they'll be of age, and in seven years they'll even leave Hogwarts, and then what will you do?" He leaned a shoulder on the pillar and watched Malfoy intently.

Malfoy gaped at him, then shut his mouth with a ferocious click. "How do you know that?" he demanded. "Has Astoria been writing to you?"

Harry rolled his eyes openly this time. Someone needs to let him know when he's being an idiot. "Only you would think of spying and conspiracies first," he said. "I have three children, Malfoy. I'm speaking to you as one father to another. It's all right to feel lost and lonely and abandoned for a little while. It happens to the best of us."

"You're not eloquent, Potter." Malfoy was whispering harshly now. "You're not interested in my welfare. Far be it from me to forbid you to feel these things, with your sensitive little Gryffindor heart, but why are you talking about them to me?"

"Because you looked lost, and lonely, and abandoned." Harry cocked his head when Malfoy's mouth dropped open again. "And because your feelings aren't the only ones involved here. Scorpius's are too, as you should have realized by now. If you don't, you're such a berk that you really don't deserve any further consideration. Right now, you're a pissant, yes, but no worse than that. Grow up and realize that your acting like this-haughty and unaffected and cold when you aren't those things at all-hurts Scorpius as well as you." Harry paused, then added, "Ponce."

And he turned and walked away, shaking his head. Right now, ice cream with Lily, Hugo, Ron, and Hermione sounded much more enjoyable than spending another minute with Malfoy.

He was almost dreading the fifteenth, or would have been, except that Scorpius was a great kid, and more than someone like Malfoy deserved.

*

What did Potter mean, calling me a ponce?

Draco knew he should be thinking about other things, but there weren't other things to think about. He'd done some desultory research during the last two weeks, but Astoria was the real expert on magic like this, and she hadn't found anything, so how could he? He'd done his usual Ministry work, made the right contributions to the right people, and got all the business out of the way that he could. He'd received a few owls from Scorpius, saying that he was Sorted into Slytherin and was friends with Potter's son Albus and that Transfiguration under Professor Brown was wonderful. Draco had already sent back plenty of advice on acting right and not betraying the Malfoy name, and anyway, he'd be seeing Scorpius in a few moments.

It was a bright, clear Sunday morning, and Draco was pacing back and forth in the Astronomy classroom. He'd wanted to meet in Hogsmeade at first, but the Headmaster wouldn't agree to let a first-year leave Hogwarts.

If anyone's a ponce, it's Longbottom.

Why did Potter feel free to insult me?

Draco scowled and paced faster.

Yes, he had to admit reluctantly, he'd felt some of the things Potter had accused him of feeling when he saw Scorpius climb into the train. But that didn't mean that Potter had the right to just announce them to Draco's face and expect Draco to gladly accept the announcement.

He didn't understand the Malfoy legacy. He didn't know what it was like after Lucius was discredited, and then basically resigned himself to not living in a world where he wasn't treated with dignity and respect, and died from it. It had been a quiet death, but one where every time Draco went into Lucius's room, he saw a pair of gray eyes staring at him with silent condemnation. Draco had to be the one who lived up to the Malfoy legacy now, who made sure it continued to survive, and he knew Lucius had severe doubts about his ability to be that person.

But Draco had worked, and worked, and worked. He had tried his best to raise Scorpius with the right pure-blood values. He had revived what political contacts he could and extended others that he thought Lucius would have liked him to pursue. He had tried to give his father a second chance to live again through him, and even a third, through Scorpius-

But he could never really know if he'd succeeded or not, and with Scorpius, it seemed as if he was foredoomed to failure.

Draco swore at himself under his breath and paced rapidly in a circle. He had to calm down. He had to meet Potter with serene eyes and contempt breathing through every pore in his face.

"You're almost human when you look like that."

Correction: You might have managed that if you'd heard Potter coming. Draco planted his hands on his hips and spun about. He could at least show anger if not contempt. "You took your time getting here, didn't you?" he drawled.

"I thought Scorpius would be here first," Potter said calmly, letting the door of the classroom fall shut behind him. "I wanted to give you some time alone with him, since you haven't seen each other in a fortnight."

"I'm not that weak, Potter." Draco leaned forwards, trying to emphasize the inch or so of height he had on the other man to make his point.

Potter stared at him with his mouth open, which Draco could imagine women found endearing, which no doubt was why he did it. "Why in the world would that make you weak?" he asked, as if he didn't know.

But then Draco reminded himself again that Potter had no way of understanding the Malfoy legacy, and so, yes, his mistaken conclusions were entirely natural. Maybe it was time he came up against the limits of his familiarity with the pure-blood world.

"Scorpius and I are more than father and son," he said coolly. "We are Master of the Manor and heir." He ignored Potter's muttering, which had the word "master" in it in no complimentary tone. He didn't have to pay attention to things that displeased him. "That creates a relationship that necessitates a certain degree of distance."

Potter's eyebrows slowly rose. "So you can't tell him you miss him."

"You understand nothing," said Draco. He should have known trying to explain wouldn't work. But luckily the classroom door opened then and Scorpius came in, so he could turn around and nod welcome to his son.

Correction again, he thought, incredulous and then furious as he realized Scorpius had not come alone. No question who the boy standing beside him was; only two people in the world could look that much like a young Potter, and Scorpius's letters had revealed that James Potter looked different from his father and was in Gryffindor besides, whilst this boy had on a Slytherin tie. "Scorpius," he said, and was glad to at least see his son jump a little. "I told you this was to be a private meeting."

Scorpius, his obedient son, the boy who understood, some of the time, how far he was from living up to the Malfoy legacy and respected that, lifted his chin and replied like an insolent Mudblood. "Al saw me getting ready and asked where I was going. I couldn't lie to him, so I brought him with me."

Albus Potter blinked and looked uncomfortable, but also looked at Draco defiantly. Draco spun on Potter. "He's your son," he said. "Order him out of here."

Potter looked at him evenly. "I would if he were doing something wrong. But he's standing by his friend, and that's admirable." He nodded at Albus, and the boy beamed.

"He can keep a secret, I suppose?" Draco hated it, but since the boy was here and no one else agreed to his going, he knew he would lose dignity if he went on insisting that Albus leave.

"He can," Potter said firmly. "He's kept quiet before about his brother's Christmas presents, and that is a challenge and a temptation in our house, let me tell you." He grinned and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Especially when he knows that James isn't getting everything he asked for."

With a sigh, Draco accepted the offer as the best one he would get. He was living in a diminished world since he knew of the curse; really, he'd been living in a diminished world since Scorpius's birth. He would just have to live with this. "Then you should know that I haven't discovered anything new, Scorpius," he said.

Scorpius nodded, but didn't take a bracing breath, the way that he had when Draco told him that right before he left home. He actually looked as if he cared less about not being of pure blood when he was at school, Draco thought, though being around his peers, who all had more claim to their heritage than he did to his, should have taught him better. "That's all right, Dad," he said. "I know you're trying."

Draco opened his mouth to question why the boy thought he needed to forgive Draco instead of the other way around, but Potter interrupted. "I, on the other hand, have discovered something that might work," he said.

"What?" Draco snapped, vaguely noticing that Scorpius didn't look as hopeful as he should have. "Why did you wait until now to tell me?"

Potter gave him an odd look. "Because it's Scorpius's blood and Scorpius's life," he said. "I thought he should know first." And whilst Draco was still spluttering, he turned and looked into Scorpius's eyes and spoke exactly as if the boy were either an adult or the perfect heir of the family that Draco had always envisioned and strived to rear. "The process is dangerous, though, and involves several steps. A potion is first." Draco scoffed to himself. A potion might be dangerous for Potter, but I can brew it with no problem. "Then several spells with long incantations, and then a ritual. Do you want to go through with it?"

Scorpius's face was pale, but he responded with a logical question, the first intelligent thing Draco had heard him say all day. "Why is it dangerous?"

Potter nodded, as if he'd been expecting Scorpius to ask that, too. "Because there's an emotional component to it all," he said. "And if the emotional component isn't perfect for each step of this, then the potion or the spells or the ritual could react badly. The potion might poison you. The spells might twist your limbs or cause you to grow an extra head. The ritual might drain all the blood from your body."

Scorpius looked at the floor and thought about it whilst Draco tried to grapple with this information. "Who told you?" Scorpius asked finally, sounding subdued. Draco, still too stunned to speak, wondered if the boy had unexpected talents with Legilimency. It was as if he was reading Draco's mind, asking the questions that Draco wanted or needed to ask.

"No one, really." Potter looked triumphant at last, in the way that Draco had thought he would from the beginning of the conversation, since he was getting one over on Draco by not telling him before by letter. "We found the procedure described in Ricardo Greengrass's notes. He was anxious that no one circumvent the spell, and so he listed all the ways they might be able to."

"He had notes?" Draco demanded, finding his tongue at last. "Why haven't Astoria and I been allowed to look at them?"

"They were flung into an Auror file and forgotten about," Potter said. "At the time, we thought his claims of actually having used the Grimoire of Haunted Blood were ridiculous. But we went through the notes again. I can copy out the relevant portions for you. In fact, I have most of them here." He produced a thick sheaf of paper from his robe pocket and held it out. Draco snatched it.

"Do you think you want to go through with it, Scorpius?" Potter added then, his voice soft. "It's dangerous, like I said."

Scorpius looked at Draco, for some reason. Draco stared back at him impatiently. He hadn't had the chance to read the notes yet, which would be the ultimate deciding factor, but he knew what Scorpius would say, what he had to say. Of course he would go through with this. There was no price too great to pay to have pure blood again.

At least he had raised a son who would realize the inherent importance of that, because Scorpius turned back to Potter with a little nod. "Yeah," he said. "I want to go through with it."

Potter smiled. The expression was tinged with sadness for some reason. "All right," he said. "Then I reckon, unless you have questions, or unless you want to stay and speak with your father-Al and I can leave-"

"I don't want Al to leave," Scorpius said, too quickly. Draco frowned at him for showing his emotions like that-showing people that you were invested in them caused them to betray you-but he was looking at Potter instead and missed the frown. "I don't have questions, and I've communicated with my father by letter-I don't think there's anything more to say." He looked hesitantly towards Draco.

"If you think that," Draco said, and didn't bother to keep the coolness or the displeasure out of his voice, "then of course you must be right."

Scorpius bowed his head and left the room as soon as he could, Albus in tow. Once, that boy looked back and frowned at him. Draco raised an eyebrow. He had borne harder looks from harder men. An eleven-year-old could hardly compare to his father lying in bed, dying of grief, and trying to teach Draco everything he should have learned already through his eyes alone.

The minute the door shut behind their sons, Potter turned and strode towards him. From the look on his face, he had murder on his mind.

Draco widened his eyes and backed up, thinking that his reactions must appeal to Potter's instincts that told him to protect all things helpless and innocent, but instead Potter simply backed him into a corner. And then he stood there, his hands clenched at his sides, his breathing harsh and his eyes focused on Draco as if Draco had raped his daughter. It was hard to meet and match that stare.

"You," Potter whispered, "treat your son like shite."

Of all the accusations, that was the last thing Draco had expected. "I think you're hardly the authority on how I treat my son," he said stiffly, "and hardly in the position to offer advice about it. You didn't even act as if you knew your son was there."

Potter ignored him completely. "You know what one requirement of that ritual is?" he asked, nodding to the notes Draco still held. "The last step in reversing the curse and getting your son's ‘pure blood' back? It requires absolute trust between parent and child. Absolute trust, you tosspot. Do you think you'll pull that one off? Really? Does your son trust you to do anything but scold him and try to make him into something he's not?"

"Are you supposed to insult someone you're helping on official Auror business?" Draco said, feeling as if he were pushing against an avalanche that was falling on him.

"This isn't official Auror business," Potter said, his eyes shining with a shark-like joy. "Remember? I agreed to help you on my own time, for my own reasons, and a lot of them are because there's Scorpius in the case." He put one arm on the wall and leaned so close that Draco could feel his warm breath on his face. For some reason, that made him shiver, even though it was warm. But then, Draco had never understood his own body that well. It had sometimes done very strange things when he and Astoria were in the same bed. "But you're always and forever after him. Staring disapprovingly at everything he does, not treating him like he's an adult or has any right to know about this-"

"Most parents think that about their children. Or did you retell every gruesome detail of Auror cases in front of yours?" If Potter would just listen-

"I told them when I almost died," Potter said, snarling now. A fleck of spit leaped out from his mouth and landed on Draco's cheek, and Draco felt so frozen that he couldn't even wipe it off. "I told them when someone cursed Al as ‘revenge' for my putting their sister in prison where she belonged. I hide truths that have nothing to do with them. But I've always, always let them know about dangers that might change their lives drastically. And this is Scorpius's life, Draco. Not yours. If you offered him one ounce of the respect and dignity that you seem to have crammed into the Malfoy name, then you'd be doing one hundred times better."

"You have no idea what it's like for me!" Part of Draco was appalled that he was screaming this, but when he grasped at his control, it whipped through his hands like uncoiling rope. "No idea at all! Trying to carry on my father's legacy-"

"Carry it on the way you like! I don't care! But you're forcing Scorpius into a mode he doesn't fucking fit, and you're doing it for what you think is his own good, and that doesn't fucking work, Malfoy! It doesn't fucking work!" Potter was screaming now, too, his eyes blazing like a sunset. "Dumbledore should have known that, and so should you!"

"So you see yourself in him." Draco sneered. "Very poetic and all that, but since you're sympathizing with him just because he's you-"

"If you had the least idea," Potter said, voice low and poisonous now, suddenly, "how unhappy that child is-if you knew a quarter of what Al told me in his letters, what he's said Scorpius said-how much he's afraid of you-"

"What?" Draco knew he should deny that, decry Albus's words as lies, but for some reason he could only stand there staring at Potter.

Potter laughed bitterly. "Yeah. Afraid of you, Malfoy. Afraid of disappointing you, that his life isn't worth anything if he isn't the kind of son you want. And he already knows that he isn't. He's interested in other things and he doesn't care that much about having his ‘pure blood' or the magical artifacts you want so badly for him to inherit. But he's doing it anyway, for you, because he loves you at the same time he's afraid of you." Potter abruptly flung himself away and stalked towards the door. "But you should have been able to figure this out on your own. I've said enough."

The sound of the classroom door slamming behind him echoed in Draco's bones, and then in his heart, and then in his soul.

*

You shouldn't have done that, you know.

Harry sighed and did his best to concentrate on Lily. She'd been staying with him the last few weeks, and she had demanded a lot of attention, as the only possible compensation for her brothers getting to go off to Hogwarts whilst she had to stay home. Right now she was chasing a paper bird that Harry had enchanted for her through the kitchen, her eyes fixed on its wings as if she could see the spell powering it.

But Lily was involved in her own giggling and jumping and the tiny efforts with her practice wand that didn't hurt the bird at all, and so there was nothing to distract Harry from his own punishing thoughts. Hermione-thoughts, he called them. Sometime during the Auror training process and their struggle to free the house-elves after that, her conscience had got into his head. And now it interrupted him at the most inconvenient times. It affected his work as an Auror, too. Sometimes he actually had to see a Dark wizard fire off a curse before he would consider them guilty.

You could have been gentler on him.

Harry growled under his breath. The sound was loud enough to make Lily turn and look at him in surprise. "What's the matter, Daddy? " she asked.

Harry made the bird dip down so that its wings brushed her hair. Lily smiled, but kept on looking at him, and he had to give her some answer. "I'm thinking about work," he said. "That always makes me grumpy."

Lily accepted that, since she knew it was true, and then stood still and began to fire spell after ineffective spell at the bird. Harry listened to her with a smile. Lily was going through the phase that all young children did, when they believed that wanting to perform a spell badly enough would result in its happening and make up for any pronunciation mistakes. She had yet to learn the phrase that Kingsley was fondest of repeating, "Magic is 1% inspiration and 99% incantation."

And Malfoy's got to learn that, too, if these spells are going to go successfully. The process that Greengrass's notes described was insanely complex, so much so that Harry couldn't really say he understood even now, but one thing was clear: the emotions guided the incantations of the spells as they guided the brewing of the potion and the success of the ritual. And during the spells, Malfoy had to be filled with affection, calmness, and trust.

He'll never make it. Not with the way he treats his son.

But did I have the right to explode at him? When I just lied to Lily, and I haven't always done well at raising my own children?

Harry folded his arms behind his head and thought about it for a moment. But the picture of Malfoy's face was overlaid in seconds by the picture of Scorpius's face as he looked at his father, and by the remembrance of the letters Al had written him from Hogwarts, full of indignation and sympathy over his new friend.

He's afraid of his Dad!!!! Al had written in the latest one, underlining the word "Dad" for emphasis even with all the exclamation marks. I can't imagine being afraid of you. But Scorpius always worries that he'll do something wrong and then his Dad won't want him anymore. His Dad used to read him stories of pure-blood children who had to be abandoned because they didn't please their families. Why would you do that? Scorpius's Dad is a bastard. And then Al had made an obvious, but feeble, effort to scratch out the word "bastard" and substitute “idiot” in its place. Harry's children always had been too honest for their own good; it hadn't been a taste for lying that had got Al Sorted into Slytherin.

Harry felt his mouth settle into a grim line. After what he had seen today, the way Malfoy had looked when considering the notes, as if they were a blessing from heaven despite all their dangers, he thought fear was a common Malfoy family problem.

But Scorpius was only a child. Malfoy ought to grow up and stop making his son's life hell.

I'm glad I yelled at him. At least he looked stunned after I did that, as if it had never happened before. Maybe it'll give him something to think about, and he'll be clearer-minded and less of an idiot when he needs to start brewing the potion and such.

"Daddy, Daddy, look! "

Harry jerked his head up, startled. Lily had managed to singe one of the bird's wings with an Incendio, and now it flapped in ragged circles. Harry smiled and held out his arms, and Lily ran over and hugged him.

Scorpius deserves just as much love, Harry thought, as he held his daughter. And Malfoy better provide it for him. I'll get it for Scorpius if it involves pinning the stubborn bastard's head to the ground and sitting on his neck.

*

How long had it been since he brewed Veritaserum? Two years? Twelve?

Draco truly could not remember, and that, combined with the way his hands shook as he dropped in the final ingredients and how many times he had to pause and look up the recipe, told him it had been too long, no matter the length of months.

He had started doing this soon after the war: regularly brewing a small batch of Veritaserum, giving it to himself, and then speaking the answers to his own questions aloud in a private place, before a mirror, so that he could watch his facial expressions. It was the best way he knew to get at the truth of how he felt and at the same time avoid exposing his vulnerabilities to the people around him. He had asked himself with Veritaserum if he really wanted to marry Astoria instead of waiting for some less cool and collected pure-blood girl, someone who would let him dominate her, and he had done the same thing when he wondered how committed he really was to maintaining the Malfoy legacy. Both times, the answers had been clear and sharp and soothing.

But now, he wondered how in the world he was going to phrase the question, and he faced the mirror in dread as he placed the three drops on his tongue.

His face was pale, of course, but there were burning spots of color on his cheekbones. They had looked like that since the day before, when he had come home after Potter scolded him and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

He affected me. He shouldn't have been able to do that. I'm going to show him that I don't really need to listen to him.

And in the end, he didn't have to worry about phrasing. Veritaserum was a crude tool, if a sure one. He should go with crude questions.

"Do I love Scorpius?" he asked.

At once, the answer came bubbling and dancing up his throat and flung itself eagerly out from between his teeth. "Yes."

All right.One question answered the way I wanted it answered. Draco slowed his breathing and studied his expression. The spots of color had faded a little, he thought, but the grey eyes were still too wide and solemn, as if Draco had just watched his father die.

Too much honesty in thoughts, thank you. Draco had never spoken aloud about his grief for his father, and he was not about to start now. "Do I love him enough to go through with this ritual, the potion-brewing and all the rest of it, and do as I have to do for it to work?" he asked.

"Yes." No hesitation.

Draco relaxed. There was really no other question he wanted to ask. He had proved to himself, if not to Potter, that he did love his son and had never meant to cause him fear. And his own confidence was what he most needed. As long as he had the comfort of sure answers, he could confront Potter calmly.

But then-then another question seized him. His shoulders hunched, and his face became so pale that he looked on the verge of fainting. And then he asked the question, courage or stupidity acting like a lash. He had not been so stupid since the war, but there it was, and perhaps the fear of not knowing this answer was greater than the fear of hearing it.

"What do I love more, the Malfoy legacy or Scorpius? My father's memory or my son?"

There was a long moment when the answer rose like a bird, and Draco couldn't tell what it was or what he wanted it to be, and the silence swung and wavered like a pendulum.

"Scorpius. My son."

And Draco dropped to his knees and put his clammy hands over his burning face and knelt there, in that moment of truth and unexpectedly shattered perfection, and the silence swung and swung, and lasted.

*



Harry hesitated for long moments at the door to Malfoy Manor. Then he lifted his hand, grumbling under his breath the entire time, and knocked.

The letter in his robe pocket crinkled when he moved. It was from Al, and he said that he was worried about Scorpius. As time passed and they got closer to casting the spells and enacting the ritual-because, after all, Malfoy had said that he would need only a week or so to brew the potion-Scorpius became more and more upset and frightened. Al thought he was reconsidering the decision he'd made to go through with the ritual, but didn't want to say so to his father.

I'll have to persuade him, somehow, Harry thought, as he stared out over the extensive gardens surrounding the Manor and waited for someone to answer his knock. I don't know what I'll say, but he has to give in to his concern for Scorpius. Doesn't he? He has to realize that his son is more important than a bunch of magical artifacts that are probably Dark and should have been turned over to the Ministry anyway.

Doesn't he?

Harry's lip curled a little when he realized the gardens he was staring at were all perfectly square, with the exact same kinds of flowers planted around them in unvarying patterns. Maybe not, not if he is so chained that change itself is frightening. He planned to do this, and he'll probably argue that that's a reason to go through with it.

The door opened. Harry turned and said, "Tell your master-" Then he stopped, blinking. He hadn't expected Malfoy himself to appear.

"I'm master here," Malfoy said, and then leaned a shoulder against the doorway and closed his eyes. Harry watched him closely. He looked more like Scorpius than Harry had seem him look so far, and he knew the reason for it. Malfoy, too, looked drained, lost and frightened, as if he'd been running on too little sleep.

Good. Maybe now he'll understand what Scorpius feels.

Then Harry winced. He didn't want to wish anything evil on Malfoy, not really. He'd had enough bad things happen to him, thanks to the war. His father's end hadn't been easy, either, and since they had started this policy of regular contact, Harry had heard about his divorce, how it came out of the blue. Malfoy didn't need more trouble, especially when that would give him a reason to pity himself and not think about Scorpius.

"I came to ask you to be master of yourself in a different way," Harry said, and took Al's letter out of his pocket. "Scorpius doesn't want to do this. He's terrified. He doesn't think he can trust you enough for the ritual to take place." That was exactly what Al had said to him, and the words that Harry had determined to speak to Malfoy, because he thought they were the ones that might convince the git. But somehow, they sounded weak and pitiable in the face of Malfoy's continuing silence.

Malfoy opened his eyes. They didn't have the haunted look in them that Harry had expected, but they had been drained of-something. Some spark, some light that had made them flare and leap when Harry confronted Malfoy in the Astronomy classroom at Hogwarts.

"Will you come in and travel around my house with me?" Malfoy asked simply. "This is something you need to see before you can understand the response I'll make."

Harry snorted, a little uneasy at the words Malfoy used. "Travel."As if his house is another country. "I don't see what-"

"You're free to refuse," Malfoy interrupted. "And I know that you came into this mostly for Scorpius's sake, and not for mine. But I'd like you to see this."

Harry clenched his hands together behind him. He didn't know why he was battling this so hard.

Oh, wait. Yes, I do. Because he made life hard for Scorpius, and he doesn't deserve to just get his way.

"What about your wife?" he asked. "She seemed so intent on joining the research at first, but I haven't heard anything from her. What does she think about the potion, the spells, and the ritual?"

"She's against it," Malfoy said. "She thinks that Scorpius ought to live his own life. And I can see the appeal of that answer." He paused. "But I need you to understand why I was pushing so hard for Scorpius to choose something else."

Harry waited a few moments longer, staring into his face. Malfoy betrayed no sign of impatience. In fact, he looked as if he could stand there for days, or at least as if he had uneasy Aurors trying to make up their minds on his doorstep every day of the week.

In the end, Harry had to nod and step forwards. He had come into this case mostly for Scorpius, but he couldn't hate Malfoy. He pitied him instead.

And I can call this a gift of pity.

*

Potter started out with hard eyes and dismissive glances, as if he thought that Lucius's ghost was still lingering in the shadowed corners of the rooms and he could banish it that way. Draco had expected this. But he still wanted to show Potter the ideal to which he had devoted his life for nineteen years and which he had thought Scorpius would follow him in loving.

It was not worth sacrificing his son to, no. But it was beautiful, and he would not call it ugly because he could not serve it.

He showed Potter, in silence, the Malfoy family tapestry that hung on the wall of the largest drawing room. It bore all the descendents, the aunts and uncles who had died without issue, and the straight line of the last few generations of only children. The Malfoys, unlike the Blacks, did not burn blood traitors off their tapestry. They were Malfoys still, and worthy to have their names embroidered in glowing pale thread, the most perfect compromise between gold and silver that Draco knew.

Potter shifted his shoulders when he saw it. But his eyes lingered, and Draco had to call him twice to show him other things.

He showed Potter the sword that one of his ancestors, Caius Malfoy, had used to defend his home back in the fifteenth century, and had tempered by plunging into the heart's blood of his wife. Perfectly brilliant, a slender spear of ice-colored steel that shone with magic, it could not be used for evil. Potter studied it with wide eyes, and shuddered a little when he heard the legend.

He showed Potter, his head half-bowed, the memorial that Narcissa had reared to her brother-in-law Ted Tonks and her niece Nymphadora, both of them victims of the war. It stood in a sunny room that lay just off the gardens, a slender plinth of marble with their names carved on it and a phoenix rising at the very top. The Latin on the back side of the plinth spoke of glory, of light, of mourning that Narcissa had never known them.

He showed Potter what no one who was not a Malfoy had ever seen, their collection of blood artifacts-the ones that would respond to the hand of a true heir alone, the ones that Scorpius had gone through the Gringotts ceremony to inherit. A drum that would summon the bodies of the newly dead and transform them into Inferi. A small turquoise bowl, twined about with flowing strands of emerald like the tendrils of a living plant, that would turn the Manor into an island surrounded with impassable water. A pair of bronze scales that could weigh truth and falsehood. A Death Swan's feather, the only one of its kind left in the world; one clipping from it would provide the world's most potent poison or an antidote to any poison, as the cutter desired.

He shut the last door with a soft sigh and leaned his back against it, feeling as if he had spat out water that had been drowning him for a generation.

Then he opened his eyes and looked at Potter.

*

Harry told himself that, no matter what one of Hermione's favorite poets said, beauty was not truth and truth was not beauty, and therefore he had no right to be as affected as he was by the things that Malfoy showed him. They were beautiful, but they weren't right.

But they shone brightly enough that Harry could see how they would convince Malfoy they were.

He looked at the other man, because what he had seen was so far outside his experience that he had no idea how to react; he thought Malfoy might give him a cue. And then he saw that the grey eyes were calm, the gaze soft and steady, the head slightly cocked, as if Malfoy wondered how Harry had taken all this.

He has a right to wonder that, after the risk he took in showing me. Of course, Harry would have a hard time explaining what he was doing in the Manor even if he wanted to arrest Malfoy for the illegal possession of Dark artifacts, but he could have made up some lie that would have convinced the Ministry, and Malfoy had to know it.



He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand and finally spoke. "I understand. I wouldn't easily give up a chance for my children to inherit-that-either." And he probably understood better than Malfoy could guess, since he'd never had much that was his own to pass on to his children. Money and a map and a cloak, but not a house. Not a home. Not treasures that had been carefully hoarded from generation to generation. Not a family tree, even. Harry still knew more about his parents from the Black family tapestry than from any research he had done on his own, because so many of the Potter relatives were dead, either of old age or killed in the first war against Voldemort.

So he could see, without being greedy to possess what he looked at; and he could understand, without approving.

It was an odd position to be in, but he thought Malfoy might understand him back, from the strange way his mouth crooked.

"If Scorpius really doesn't want to go through with this," Malfoy said quietly, "then I won't force him to. But I want to speak with him alone, and make sure that this is really what he wants, not just what he's afraid of." He shook his head. "No matter what you may think of me at the moment, Potter, my relationship with my son is more complicated than my just trying to force him to do what I want."

"It doesn't look like it," Harry muttered, a little resentful about the death of his illusions.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Really? Even though you would expect Scorpius to be a complete coward if all he cared about was obeying me? Even though I should have crushed his spirit completely and replaced his will with mine if I was such a tyrant?" He sighed, a sound that, Harry thought, concealed a half-laugh. "Face it, Potter, I couldn't do that even if I wanted to. I've always been bad at tyranny of any kind."

Later, looking back on things, Harry identified that moment as the one when he began to change his mind about Malfoy. The great git had a sense of humor about himself.

In Harry's world, no one who could laugh at himself was all bad.

*

Scorpius came walking out onto the Quidditch pitch with his fists clenched so tightly that Draco could see the whiteness around his knuckles from a good distance away. He sighed to himself and wiped his eyes with one hand. He had done the best he could, arranging to meet Scorpius in the open so he wouldn't feel so cooped and confined as he might in the classroom, and he had promised to keep quiet most of the time and let Scorpius speak the most words. He intended to hold that promise.

Until he saw his son, he hadn't been sure that Scorpius would keep his part of the bargain and come without Albus Potter. But he had. Draco didn't truly dislike Potter's son, but he did think that he would cause an unnecessary complication right now. Scorpius was the one who had to make the decision, rather than his friend's making it for him and telling him what to do.

He has to be independent. Strong. Decisive.

Marching towards him, Scorpius looked like all those things, and it occurred to Draco that there was more than one way of being a Malfoy.

"What do you want, Father?" Scorpius's voice was still scrupulously polite on the surface, but with an undertone of fire that Draco had never heard before. Hogwarts, or the company of his friend, was good for him.

"I want to know if you really want to go through with the ritual and the potion and the spells," Draco said simply, "or if you only said yes because you thought that was what I wanted."

Scorpius opened his mouth, then closed it and shot Draco a suspicious look. "Yeah," he said. "That's what you want to know. And then you're going to scold me if I don't make the right choice."

"The only ‘right' choice is the one that stresses you the least." Draco held his eyes and didn't let him look away. They had got through eleven years together avoiding the worst conflicts; Draco had dictated and Scorpius had obeyed, or pretended to obey, not really granting allegiance to the principles Draco talked about in his heart. That had to stop now. They had to understand each other. "I've done too much of the stressing, put too much pressure on you. I'm sorry."

Scorpius stared at him, then swallowed. All at once, his words emerged in a rush. "I thought if I didn't go through with this, you would say that I wasn't your real son because I didn't have your blood."

Draco shook his head. He wanted to hug his son, but he'd never been that kind of man, and he doubted Scorpius would believe it if he tried to turn into one now. He settled for reaching out and lightly laying his hand on Scorpius's shoulder.

"No," he said. "Your mother explained it to me. Yes, the spell resembles a blood transfusion, but it didn't move your blood into someone I never met, someone who would be my son in a way you aren't. It affected my own blood. And hers, too. It ensured that we would never have a child who was, exactly, ours. But, Scorpius, we raised you and taught you and loved you. You are our child in every way that matters."

"You didn't say that when you were talking about Malfoy traditions and how much you wished I would fulfill them." Scorpius's eyes were enormous, and his hands were shaking a little, as if he wanted to believe Draco but didn't quite dare. He seemed to notice their trembling in the same moment Draco did, and put them safely behind his back.

"I know," Draco said. "But I've thought about it, and I asked myself questions-" no need, yet, for Scorpius to realize how literally true that was "-and I know that I love you more than the Malfoy traditions. It was a surprise to me, but I do."

Scorpius licked his lips, wavered, but looked ready to accept the absolute belief in Draco's voice. "Then what happens if we can't find any other cure and I can't ever inherit the Malfoy artifacts?" he asked at last.

"We'll try different ways," Draco said. "I would still like to pass the Manor on to you, because it's your home, and the other artifacts, because they're beautiful. But we'll take a less dangerous route, and I won't be upset or die cursing you if we can't find a way."

Scorpius stepped close to him and hugged him. It was so sudden that Draco froze, but luckily he managed to get his arms around Scorpius in return before he could get nervous and move away. The hug didn't last long, but the fact that it happened at all was the wondrous thing. Draco couldn't remember Scorpius hugging him since he was three years old and Draco had begun to tell him how undignified embraces were.

"Thank you," Scorpius said. "I-that's a lot better. I wasn't looking forwards to that." His face shone with relief.

I did force him into this. He was afraid. Draco gripped his son a little tighter, though Scorpius squirmed uncomfortably and seemed to want to step away. Potter was right. I'll be better if I can. I have to.

I want to.

*

Harry wasn't really sure why he kept looking up the Malfoys.

The case was solved and done, as far as he was concerned. They hadn't had a chance to use the Grimoire of Haunted Blood. Malfoy had decided not to force his son through the ritual, and Scorpius, Al told Harry, had seemed a lot happier since then. He had really done all he could, and maybe more than he should, when he'd gone after Malfoy in the Astronomy classroom like that. That should have been the end of it.

But it wasn't. Maybe he had too many tales of Scorpius from Al to listen to, which reminded him Malfoys could be human, too. Maybe he'd heard one too many sly digs from Ginny about how he showed more passion towards Malfoy than he'd ever shown for her. Maybe there was the fact that Malfoy had looked calm, and beautiful, and accepting, that day he showed Harry around his house, and when Harry fell hard, it tended to be for men who were doing the right thing.

Be that as it may, he sent Malfoy an owl or two some weeks after the matter had been handled to Scorpius's and Al's satisfaction. Or perhaps three owls. Each time he praised Malfoy for what he'd done in regards to his son, reassured him of the fact that the Ministry had no idea about their family's involvement with the Grimoire, and then asked what he was doing.

Malfoy finally answered the third owl. Harry thought he could smell the faint bewilderment arising from the penned words as Malfoy admitted that he didn't have any business meetings this weekend, and so he could accept Harry's invitation for a drink in the Leaky Cauldron. If Harry really wanted, of course. If he wasn't too busy himself. If he wanted to be seen in public with a former Death Eater. There were more qualifiers in the letter than agreeing words.

Harry was grinning as he shot back another letter accepting the acceptance before Malfoy could come up with some excuse to back out. From various ways that Malfoy had behaved around him, he wagered Malfoy had never dated another bloke.

Time to convince him that it's an option.

This was a bit of fun, Harry told himself as he ran a comb through his hair-unsuccessfully, as usual-later that evening. If it never went anywhere, well, that was fine. Harry could always use another friend.

But if it could. . .

The image of Malfoy's face after he shut the door on the room full of artifacts came to Harry again, beautiful as an icon.

If it could, I'd be stupid not to pursue the chance.

*

Draco blinked as he walked into the Leaky Cauldron. He could see Potter immediately-not because he'd taken a central table, but because he'd chosen one that faced the door, and was evidently watching for Draco. He raised his drink to him in a toast at once.

And the way Potter watched him made something gather together in a tight ball in Draco's groin.

Frowning, a little baffled, he ordered a drink from Tom and made his way over. Potter actually stood up and drew his chair out. Draco halted and blinked.

"Why did you do that?" he demanded.

"You deserve a little courtesy now and then." Potter's gaze was unwavering, bright. He looked as if he were a predator stalking prey, Draco thought. His uneasiness increased, but so did that tight pull in his belly. "And God knows I showed you precious little of it in the last few months."

Draco ended up nodding and sitting down stiffly, after which Potter pushed his chair back in. Too many people were watching, he told himself. Refusing would make him look stupid and would convince the public that he wanted to revive his old feud with Potter.

But he knew the real reason.

He was being courted. It had happened when women angled to catch him seven years or so after the war, just before he had married Astoria. By then, the taint of his name had faded enough, with Lucius's death, for them to find his money alluring.

But a man. . .

And as he felt Potter's fingers brush lightly across the back of his neck, toying with his hair, and his skin grew taut and hot beneath the touch, he thought he might know why Astoria had divorced him.

Potter began to talk to him. It seemed to Draco later that the conversation was little more than bubbles that burst and floated away inside his mind, leaving nothing of substance there. But they glittered at the time, and called attention to themselves, and made Draco laugh. He reckoned that everyone needed an evening now and then where they weren't entirely serious.

And then somehow it was several hours later, and Potter was escorting him to the threshold of the Manor. Draco paused with one hand on the door itself, heart pounding furiously, wondering if Potter would expect to be invited inside. Yes, it had happened once before, but that was for a special occasion, and they still weren't on a first-name basis.

Instead, Potter lifted one hand to him, nodded amiably, and then trotted back down the gravel path to get beyond the anti-Apparition wards.

Draco shook his head and shut the door behind himself. He didn't know why he felt-well, slightly disappointed. His own reactions made no sense to him sometimes.

*

"They didn't deserve to lose. They were playing fine until halfway through the game!" Ron waved his mug above his head, butterbeer slopping over the side and into his face.

Harry arched an eyebrow. "Halfway?" Even for themselves, the Chudley Cannons had played a spectacularly bad game.

"Well, through the first quarter of the match," Ron admitted. Then he took another drink and thought about it, his face gradually growing gloomier and gloomier. Harry stifled a laugh. "Maybe the first ten minutes," Ron said. Harry shook his head gravely. "Five minutes? One?"

"They were losing from the beginning, Weasley, you should know that."

Harry could feel the tension in the pub alter as Malfoy's voice echoed through it. The people here were Ron's friends and Harry's, men and a few women they usually saw only after a game. Because they saw them so little, they would usually talk over the game until dawn and mention all the ways that the team could have played better without once being truly angry. Outsiders weren't welcome.

Especially not outsiders that some of them would recognize as having had a Dark Mark on their arms during the war, Harry thought, but he was already standing and moving forwards. Malfoy leaned against the doorway, in the most casual pose Harry had ever seen him use. Of course, he also knew, as though someone had told him, that that was done solely because of all the tension in the room.

"Welcome," he said, loud enough to catch the attention of people who had been staring into their butterbeer or Firewhisky or stronger concoctions, as if that would somehow change the past and make the Cannons winners. "I didn't know that you knew where this pub was." That was about the politest way he could think of to ask what Malfoy was doing there.

"I knew enough to find the way to it." Malfoy was bristling, though to anyone else's eyes it might not have looked like it. But Harry had seen more of him than he thought most people except his ex-wife and his son had, and he knew what the sudden stiffness in his shoulders meant, and the slightly jerky way he raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know enough to realize it was private."

But before he could turn around again and leave, Harry snorted, rolled his eyes, and said, "Private? Not bloody likely." He leaned towards Malfoy and confessed in a loud whisper, "Here, the only criterion is whether you like the Cannons. They'd let in a mountain troll as long as he'd cheer for Breaker and Woodsmith."

Malfoy stared at him for a moment too long, and then gave a tiny smile and stepped into the room. Meanwhile, some of the people who didn't want a confrontation were turning back to their drinks. They were grateful that Harry had given them an out, Harry knew.

Ron was too busy staring to object at first. And then he was too drunk to be really offensive when Malfoy sat down at their table and he pointed and said, "Harry, that's Malfoy."

"Yes, well spotted," Harry said dryly. "Was it the blond hair or the pale pointy face that gave him away?" Malfoy choked beside him, but Harry thought it was on a laugh and not on a noise of indignation. At least, he hoped so. All he needed was to try and soothe two highly angry people at the same time.

"But what's he doing here?" Ron stared back and forth between the two of them, even sticking his face in Malfoy's as if he assumed that he was wearing a glamour that would fade on close approach.

Malfoy tensed up again, but once more Harry cut in. Malfoy had made a sacrifice, of a kind, by coming here in the first place, and admitting that he wanted Harry's company enough to face rejection. The least Harry could do was smooth over his entrance. "Because he's a Cannons fan like the rest of us. Though I suspect his allegiance is rather new." He cast a glance at Malfoy to tell him that he'd better go along with the lie.

"I don't see how you can say that, Potter." Malfoy sniffed and cocked his head to the side, as if he thought that somehow made him more attractive. Harry was more than a little miffed to admit he was right. "The Cannons have attracted my attention ever since I saw a game between them and the Falmouth Falcons when I was ten."

That placated Ron in a different way. "The game where Seeker Thomas fell off his broom twice running?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," said Malfoy, nodding solemnly. Harry had to bite his lip to hold back a laugh. Both the expression Malfoy wore and his ambiguous initial words seemed to pass muster with Ron, but then, Ron was a bit drunk right now.

"Glory days, glory days." Ron raised his mug in toast to Malfoy, which Harry wished he had a camera to take a picture of. At least he could put it into a Pensieve memory later. "They almost scored ten points that time!"

And then Ron and Malfoy started talking about Quidditch, and Harry sat back and reveled in the totally unexpected feeling of having two parts of his life come together without smashing each other to fragments.

*



Potter was, Draco suspected, a bit drunk.

They were walking slowly away from the pub where the Cannons fans met, on a dark street touched only by the light of stars. Draco felt more than he saw the flakes of fast, fleet snow falling. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his face and cast a Warming Charm.

Potter, the great idiot, was staring up into the snow instead, and his smile was wide and simple and silly. He extended a hand as if he would collect the flakes of snow to take home, never mind that they melted the moment they touched the heat of his palm.

"I wanted to ask you something," Draco said. He had come to the pub with the original intention of asking the question and leaving, but once he saw Potter sitting among his friends, he had decided to force a confrontation. He wouldn't let Potter date him in secret and conceal the fact from everyone he knew as well as the newspapers, whom Draco could agree didn't deserve to know anything about it.

Potter stiffened and tilted a too-keen glance sideways at him. Honestly, Draco thought, exasperated for no real reason. He doesn't have to be an Auror on duty all the time. "And that was the only reason you came after me tonight?"

Draco wondered for a moment what he should reply. The problem was, he thought, rubbing his face, that Potter was likely to be dissatisfied both with the real answer and with a lack of honesty. Draco knew how to read people like his parents, who were devoted to the ideals of pure-blood families. He didn't know how to read someone like Potter.

But he had already taken a risk by coming here tonight, and if sitting around in a pub for two hours discussing the Chudley Cannons with Weasley, of all people, didn't argue that he was willing to take more, he didn't know what was.

"I came to ask you a question," he admitted. "But I followed you into that pub and sat with you because I wanted to."

Potter spun around to face him. Draco started back, thinking Potter must have seen someone creeping in to attack, but instead Potter took his hand and leaned forwards to look intently into his face.

"Good," Potter whispered.

Then Potter let his breath rake across Draco's cheek and held his lips an inch away from Draco's, increasing his tension until his heart made his body vibrate. And then he moved away and continued walking casually down the street.

Draco stood quite still for a few minutes before moving after him. Bloody tease, he wanted to mutter, but he wouldn't add any more satisfaction to Potter's sideways glance, which he knew was just waiting for something like that.

"So what did you want to ask me?" Potter prompted, when Draco had begun to think they would walk the rest of the way down the street to the Apparition point in silence. Potter's pub was right on the border between Muggle and wizarding London, and it was best to get out of sight of the Muggles as much as possible before Apparating.

"It's about Scorpius," Draco whispered, and looked to the side, because he couldn't watch Potter's face whilst he asked. "Communicating with him is getting harder instead of easier. I'm trying to acknowledge that he's right to fear the ritual and that we don't need to do it, and that I value him for more than his blood. But he's getting more aggressive. His last letter was a long rant about how I need to step away and let him live his own life, when I'm trying to do exactly that. He forgot paragraphs, even."

"You get paragraphs?" Potter asked, with a tone of amazement. "I'm lucky if Al and James remember to put spaces between words."

Draco was able to turn around then, because he had a glare armed and ready. "If you're going to make fun of me, Potter-"

"No, no." Potter shook his head, his grin fading. "I just need time to think, and your worry over paragraphs let me laugh."

Draco wanted to say that every Malfoy born was trained to write correctly before being sent to school, but for all he knew, Potter was likely to say that was another instance of Draco's encouraging Scorpius to be too Malfoy for his own good. But Potter walked with his head bowed now, the corners of his lips flexing as if he were mouthing words, and Draco thought it best to keep silent.

At last, Potter said, in a temperate voice that didn't at all fit with the inane words he was spouting, "Have you ever heard the saying 'Magic is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent incantation?'"

"Have you ever heard the saying 'there's a time and a charm for everything?'" Draco retorted, acidly, stepping away from him. "If you think that a proverb that was stale with Merlin's death is going to help me-"

"No, no." Potter looked up at him, and his eyes were intense. Draco was a little unused to getting intense looks from Potter that weren't hostile, so he hushed and let himself be spoken to. "I'm not just giving you the saying and nothing else. But it's something I've been thinking about for a few years now, with Al especially. Al's a good kid, but he cost me more effort to raise than Lily and James, because he's more complicated than they are. I'd do something that worked with them, and with him it was still wrong. It just got him upset with me. But then, Al was fine when I got a divorce from Ginny, where James shouted and stormed and Lily shut herself in her room and wouldn't come out for days.

"There's magic in everything, Draco. That's something Hermione told me once. She means that other things are as special and as strong as magic, of course, but I think it has some literal meanings for us. We're wizards. Magic gets into everything, whether we want it to or not." For a moment, there was a smile on his voice, though there was none on his face.

"And we have to take the sayings about magic seriously when we raise our children in a magic-rich world. It would be nice to have a spell that takes care of everything complicated about children. But instead, just like spells don't get invented that often, we have ninety-nine percent incantation-effort, study, learning, mispronouncing the words. Saying the wrong thing." He turned towards Draco and put his hand on his arm. Draco could have told him that he didn't need the touch to make sure Draco was paying attention, but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth with surprise.

"I think Scorpius is testing you right now," Potter said softly, "pushing to see how much he can get away with. He'll always be waiting for you to snap that he's gone too far and try to put him back in his place. So you just have to keep up the patience and the understanding-which is harder than anger.

"But I don't know that. I do know that you've made an effort to treat him like an adult most of his life, however. Why not do it now? Explain to him that you're puzzled and that you'd like to know why he's so angry, and what you can do to make it right. He might tell you the truth, and he might demand a new Firebolt or something equally ridiculous, and he might not answer at all, but at least he'll know what you feel."

Then Potter coughed and dropped his hand away, as if embarrassed by the fact that he'd touched Draco when he didn't mean to tease him. "At least, that's my suggestion," he finished lamely.

It might not be the right one, Draco thought. But it's better than the interpretation I would have expected him to put on that proverb, so it doesn't waste my time.

Draco leaned forwards and cupped a hand under Potter's chin, turning his face to the side so he could kiss his right cheek. Potter started and shivered, and Draco hoped the kiss caused him one half the shivers that it did for him.

"Thank you," he murmured, and Apparated. He didn't think he wanted to stay there one more moment, for fear of ruining all the incantation that Potter had just put in.

*

"Why are you asking about this now?" Harry didn't know why Ron had chosen a moment when he was busy with a late report to ask about Malfoy's showing up at their pub. He had been content to let it go for a week, and he might have let it go for an hour more, Harry thought irritably, putting his finger in the file he was consulting and glaring at Ron.

"I didn't think that much about it at the time," Ron said.

"I wonder why," Harry said.

Ron flushed-for some reason, even though he repeated the performance with every match the Cannons played, he was always embarrassed to be reminded that he got drunk-and then cleared his throat and went on doggedly. "But why was he there, mate? Even if he's really a Cannons fan-" Ron said that as if it weren't possible for someone to be a Cannons fan who wasn't born that way "-he didn't have to come celebrate in our pub."

Harry let out his breath as a little sigh of air, holding Ron's eyes. There were all sorts of answers he could give, but only a few that would be true to what he hoped to build with Draco. And he had made a habit in the past five years of never lying to his friends. If he had, then he would probably still be married to Ginny and sneaking in his liaisons with men on the side.

"No," Harry said. "He came to find me. I helped him with a problem his family had, which concerned his son." Ron nodded a little, probably building up his own equally plausible story in his mind; he knew that Scorpius and Al were friends. Harry was glad, because the one part of the story he was not about to tell was Malfoy's and Scorpius's private business. "And since then, we've seen each other, and talked, and-" He shrugged a little, helplessly. "I'm dating him."

Ron stared at him. As some moments went by, Harry grew concerned and waved a hand in front of his glazed eyes just to make sure that Ron could still see. That at least made Ron shake his head and snap out of it.

"All right," Ron said. "All right. I want to come up with a new rule right now."

Harry stared at him warily. He was breathing hard, and Harry didn't really like the look on his face, although he couldn't say he disliked it either; it was not Ron's "I'm-going-to-hex-you" expression, which meant it was an improvement on the way Harry had thought he would react.

"In the world out there" Ron said, stabbing a finger towards the windows, "you can date Draco Malfoy." He sounded only a little like he was strangling on a large cat. "But in here," and he pointed at the floor of the office, "is the world where you don't. We won't discuss it, we won't disagree about it, and if you ever come in with a love bite on your neck or something like that, then you'll cover it up decently before I see it. Understand?"

"Yes, Ron," Harry said gravely. "I understand."

Ron nodded back and marched out of the room, his head held high. Harry shut the door, cast a few discreet Silencing Charms on it, and then leaned back in his chair and laughed himself sick.

*

"Daddy."

Draco smiled. Scorpius never used to call him that, at least not past the time he was five and had learned better from Draco's disapproving stares. He was using it now as a means of defiance, Draco thought, probably encouraged by his friend Albus Potter. He had strutted through the front door, too, and stood looking at Draco with over-bright eyes now, as if he wanted to say that the Christmas holidays at Malfoy Manor had better be informal, or else.

"Scorpius," he said, and held out his hand for his son to shake. Scorpius shook it, peeking about the room from the corner of his eye, as though he thought Draco had set up a trap to administer the punishment he wouldn't give Scorpius himself. Draco felt a small surge of sadness that Scorpius would distrust him this much, but he had caused most of that himself. "I'm glad you're home."

Scorpius waited. Draco arched an eyebrow, and finally Scorpius shook his head and trotted into the small sitting room to welcome Astoria, who was staying with them until Boxing Day.

Potter had been right. Scorpius needed some room to rebel, and the moment he figured out that Draco wouldn't punish him for just expressing his opinion and not having his hair in perfect order, he would probably calm down. He already sounded calmer in his letters since Draco had just replied to him mildly and never snapped.

Potter.

Draco had already told Astoria, when she first arrived, that he understood now why she'd divorced him. She'd put a hand on his shoulder and smiled at him with more friendliness than she'd shown in years.

"I wondered when you would see it," she said. "But I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that it was Potter who showed you the way. You've always paid more attention to him than anyone I can think of."

And now, Draco thought, dropping his head back against the doorway, I'm free to think about him all I like. That's rather-pleasant.

And he wouldn't be true to the ideals he still honored if he didn't take advantage of that freedom and pleasure, would he?

*

Harry blinked and stumbled towards the front door when the knock on it was repeated for the twentieth time. His head pounded, and he stopped on the way there to lean against the wall and lament his life. He always told himself that he was going to resist his and George's annual tradition to hold a drinking contest on Christmas evening, after all the kids had been put to bed, and he always failed. But at least his friends should have known better than to come knocking on Boxing Day morning.

"Ron, I'm going to murder you," he warned as he opened the door.

"I feel more fortunate than usual not to be Weasley, then." Malfoy straightened up-he'd been leaning on the doorway the way he'd leaned on the doorway of the pub-and raised his eyebrow at Harry. "A fine reward for my patience. Though, I must say, I can take another." His eyes swept appreciatively over Harry's body.

Harry flushed. Al, James, and Lily always wanted to stay at the Burrow for Molly's Boxing Day breakfast, but Harry and George's tradition meant Harry spent the night alone at home and probably wouldn't be up until noon. Since his children weren't here, he had felt free to wander about in his pants. And of course he hadn't changed when he came to the front door; Ron had long since seen him in worse conditions.

"Erm, sorry," Harry said.

"Did I sound offended?" Malfoy's voice was so low that Harry had difficulty hearing it through the throb of the hangover. "Besides, I have a gift for you, and I'm sure you know how insistent I can be when I want something. Put on some clothes, pity though it is. You'll need them."

Harry blamed it on the hangover, but he obediently went to put on clothes without thinking about the fact that Malfoy was going to take him somewhere strange or feeling bad that he hadn't got a gift for Malfoy in return. And then he came out the front door and let Malfoy press his wand to his temple as though they'd never been enemies. Malfoy whispered something, and Harry's headache was gone.

"What-" he started.

"Charm that my father developed," Malfoy said briskly. "But Professor Snape made him promise never to teach it to anyone else. The professor made a good portion of his money selling hangover cures on the sly, you know."

Harry gaped at him. Malfoy looked serenely back. Whatever change in his soul his words indicated, they hadn't managed to ruffle his outward demeanor. "I want you fully aware and able to appreciate what I'm going to show you," he said. "Shall we go?"

Gazing into his eyes, Harry thought he was seeing the stronger side of the man who had shown him the Malfoy artifacts in the Manor.

And he couldn't distrust that man.

He held out his arm. "Let's go."

The Side-Along Apparition took a moment only, and then Harry was squinting through a dazzling storm of light. He thought for a moment they had arrived right in the middle of a snowstorm.

No, he realized, slowly, a few minutes later. It was snow, all right, but it all lay on the ground before them-and above-and to the sides. They were standing on the slope of a truly magnificent, steep hill, with other hills rising and falling all about them in jagged curves and gentle humps both. Snow refracted the light, scintillated in it, and tossed it aside like Lucius Malfoy tossing Galleons. Harry did shiver a bit until he remembered to cast a Warming Charm, but it was hard to remember when he'd last seen something more beautiful.

"Where is this?" he whispered.

"A piece of land that the rest of Britain has forgotten exists," Malfoy said calmly, his voice also soft and in perfect tune with the land around them. "My family preserved it, at one time, as a private refuge in case our name lost so much prestige that we had to retreat from general society. But my father didn't use it that way, and neither did I. Here is, simply, perfection, and a retreat from the noise and pollution of the Muggle world instead of our fellow wizards." He turned and waved his wand. Harry looked over his shoulder.

He thought his heart would stop when something giant and blue floated towards them, but a moment later, he realized it wasn't really a dragon. Instead, it was a dragon's wing, scalloped along the edges and fringed with the claws. It looked as perfect as if it had that moment been cut off the living body. Guiding it with his wand, Malfoy settled it flat on the snow in front of them, and then climbed over the edge of the wing, to sit in its bowl, as if he did this sort of thing every day.

He looked back at Harry with a glint of challenge in his eye, but his voice was still exquisitely polite. "Coming?"

Harry swallowed several times and looked down the slope of the hill. He couldn't tell how jagged or steep it might be, under all that snow.

He could hear Malfoy's sneer in his voice, though he wasn't looking at him. "Scared, Potter?"

And there was the echo of the twelve-year-old's voice in speaking it, there was the echo of all they had been and were, but Harry was thinking of what they were going to become, so he smiled, said, "We aren't as young as we were, after all," and then sat down on the wing behind Malfoy and clasped his arms around the other man's waist.

Malfoy sat quite still for a moment, as if he really had expected some other response from Harry and didn't know what to do now. But then he shook his head and cast a spell that set off a small explosion in the snow behind the wing, propelling them forwards like the release of an anchor.

The wing slid swiftly and smoothly, the edge flapping up and down as if it bore them through the air. Harry still found himself swearing and clutching at Malfoy, though. The wing didn't even have the rope handles on the sled that Harry had bought Lily last year, and if one of them flew off and into those claws. . .

But he was only swearing when he wasn't laughing madly, the particles of flying ice and snow stinging his throat.

Up and down and up and down they went. The surface of the hill beneath the snow seemed to be made of many smaller hills, their sides more or less round, but Harry and Malfoy still leaped into the air more than once, and then came back down on some other little hump or hillock that once again threw them high. And then they hit what had to be a huge rock, and flew.

The wing spread perfectly once they were in the air, whiffling with a noise like a tossed ball. Harry thought he felt its surface parting company with his arse, and yelped indignantly even as he grabbed at Malfoy.

"Relax," Malfoy yelled over his shoulder. "It's only snow."

Harry barely had time to register the words before the wing, which had begun to whirl the longer they traveled, fell away completely. Harry yelped again before he realized they were just a few feet from the ground. He'd had far worse falls in Quidditch.

They collapsed into the snow together. Harry smashed his face into a drift and had to let go of Malfoy to search for his glasses. Even the Warming Charm couldn't prevent him from shivering as flakes tumbled through his fingers, and he recast it as he sat up, shoved his glasses onto his face, cast another spell to clean them, and stared at Malfoy.

Malfoy grinned back at him. His cheeks were flushed with the cold, his hair mussed and tumbled in every direction until it looked more like pale straw than Harry had ever seen it. His hands were shaking as he cast a Warming Charm on himself.

But his eyes couldn't quite meet Harry's, and as Harry watched, he swallowed, a bob of his Adam's apple that told Harry what the real problem was.

Not cold but nervousness.

How hard must this have been for him? He took me to a secret place that belongs to his family, and then he sledded with me in a way that he must have known would make him lose his dignity. It's one thing to relax a little around his son, but to do it for me-

We've been friends for months and he's still cautious.

And then Harry figured it out, and reached out for Draco's hand, sliding his fingers between the shaking ones, smoothing them up to his shoulder, and latching them into the disheveled hair.

Idiot.He's trying to say that he's ready to go beyond friends. He couldn't have sent a much clearer signal, other than speaking the words-and that would be harder for him still.

When Draco had already gone to so much effort, Harry thought it would be churlish of him to misread the signals.

"Thank you," he said, voice low, and then showed Draco in what sense he meant those words.

*

Draco gasped as Harry's tongue slid over his lips, tracing the lower one thoughtfully. Draco expected a similar amount of attention to the upper one, but he should have remembered that Harry was never symmetrical if there was no compelling reason to be. He shoved his tongue into Draco's mouth like a rude guest intruding into a dinner party and making it all about him.

But the sweetness and warmth he brought along with him, which stung more than the snow working its way down Draco's neck in some ways, was not something Draco would ever expect of an unwelcome guest.

Harry hauled him and pushed him at the same time, in a complicated gesture that ended up with both of them kneeling in the snow, face to face, kissing like awkward teenagers. But Draco had gained some experience in reading people since Hogwarts, and he'd gained a few Harry-specific instincts in the last month. He knew this was Harry's way of repaying him for the trust he'd shown so far, letting them kiss exactly alike, rather than shoving him back into the snow and taking control.

At the same time, the tight grip of his arm around Draco's shoulders said he could do that, if he wanted to.

Draco put an arm in the same place around Harry's shoulders and dragged him more firmly into the kiss. Harry sighed into his mouth and finally drew back, grinning at him with eyes brighter than the snow.

"You're a much better father to Scorpius now than you were," he said thoughtfully, and Draco stared at him, because no one he knew would say it that bluntly. "Think you're ready to be a better lover as well?"

Draco knotted his free hand into Harry's hair and yanked. "Astoria never had any complaints," he said.

"But I'm not Astoria," Harry said, and made a gesture at his crotch. "There's this little matter of different genitals."

Draco snorted with laughter and dropped his head forwards until it rested against Harry's shoulder. No, Harry wasn't the fastidious partner he'd dreamed of, but then, Draco'd had a hard lesson in the last few months of how little perfection gained him.

On the other hand, there was no need to give up all standards.

"I think," he said with great care, "that we'll both do all right."

End.
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