There are people in this world who hold grudges. Draco knows he is one of them. He knows this because, outside Potter's house (his son's invited muggles too, after all, and nobody wanted to risk apparition or the floo), he is stuck to the steps.
Muggle stuck. Not wizard stuck. No superglue (that irritating child James has no respect for authority whatsoever; if it had been him doing that at 13...); no trick steps; no spells aimed at his (top of the range, tailor-made, dragon-hide) shoes; no bear traps (and it was lucky he had caught wind of that one before it had been set off). It's just him, his nerves, and the step. Which sucks, really.
Scorpius, next to him, grins.
"What're you waiting for, Dad?" he says. "Are you doing non-verbs or something?"
Non-verbs. It's in the dictionary of slang, official abbreviations and code words his son and Albus have compiled so that nobody else knows what they're talking about. 'Non-verbs' mean non-verbal spells.
"Yes," he says. He isn't. He actually doesn't know how to use non-verbal spells; he's never been taught.
"'kay," says Scorpius. "Scrumptious."
(Damn that Blyton woman, thinks Draco, irritably, and curls up into his scarf.)
There is a slight pause, then...
"Are you gonna knock, Dad?" asks his infuriatingly quick-off-the-mark son, batting his beatific eyelashes, and smiling sweetly.
"Yes," he says, again. And then... "No, son. You can knock. It's your invitation."
"Hah!" says Scorpius. "Knew it!" Pushes on the door (it is open, curses), skips in, yells "Hey Albs! Dadsie's got the quaking pansies again!" and, dodging Malfoy's petrificus totalus like a pro, flies through into the laughter of the kitchen with the speed of a muggle assassin's bullet.
Another thing Potter's done to his son: cursed him with a muggle film addiction.
He follows warily, shutting the door behind him and removing his coat.
Potter exits the gaggle of assorted invitees, grinning. The worst thing is, this has become a sort of habit.
"Hi," says his nemesis.
"Hello," says Malfoy. "How many?" Pranks. James' morning pranks. They are unfailing. And, now that he's been named his Uncle George's official apprentice, they've gotten worse.
"Six successful," says Potter, looking at the carpet. Malfoy can see the slowly spreading bald patch across the man's scalp. It is worrying.
"You're going bald," he points out.
"James," says Harry. (Damn the man: he can even blame his baldness on his delinquent son!) "He nearly got me in the shower with a muggle hair-remover put in the shampoo. I got him back at breakfast."
"Ah," says Malfoy.
"Actually, me and Gin collaborated," says Harry. "She put the dye in the porridge, but it was my idea."
"Right," says Malfoy. "Anything more booked?"
The sad thing is, Potter knows exactly what he means.
"None for you," he says, holding up visible crossed fingers (how this is affective as a muggle luck charm, Scorpius isn't telling), "Although I think Scorps has been down for a while."
"It's his own fault," says Malfoy, nodding at Ginny as she bustles out into the hallway looking like her mother. He accepts the proffered biscuit.
"Oh, the underpants scissors thing?" says Potter. "No, that was Albus. Mostly. No, the unforgivable warm water beside bed thing. James won't forgive him for that. He thought it was Teddy at first, even though Teddy never gets involved with these sort of things."
"Wise," says Malfoy.
"Yeah," says Potter. "Did you hear about him and Victoire?"
"Yes," says Malfoy. "Through Neville Longbottom. Why did you not tell me of this sooner? Am I an acquaintance, or am I just a moving piece of furniture?"
"You're a friend of the family, Draco," says Ginny, hurrying back down the stairs in something a woman would say was 'more presentable'. "None of this acquaintance nonsense, or I'm telling George."
"Acquaintance," snaps Draco. "I'm an acquaintance."
Just as Potter says, "Gin, we've talked about this."
Ginny's eyes narrow, but her mouth quirks up at the edges.
"Denial," she mutters, finally, after staring at the two of them for a bit and doing her 'it's all madness' face. "Pure denial. Anyway, come on Harry, the table needs laying."
Draco gives Potter a sly smirk.
"Whipped," he mouths.
"No," hisses Potter. "Just obed- willin- a kind husband, Malfoy. I'm just a-"
"Oh shove it, Potter," says Malfoy. "Face your hen-pecked, Weasley-addled life for what it is and go lay the table like a good little husband."
Potter sidles off.
A few moments later of awkward shifting, wondering what to do with himself, there is a small tug on his sleeve.
"Are you that blonde git?" asks a small, feather-adorned shape in a tie-dye smock, looking up at him with large, round eyes.
Malfoy starts. "A..." he is about to say 'A what?' as if he hasn't been called a git most of his young life, but then realises he doesn't want to have clarified, what he must have misheard, so changes tack.
"Ah," it becomes.
"What's a git?" asks the small, feathery thing in the smock.
Smothered giggles break out from inside a nearby cupboard and Malfoy's eyes narrow.
"If you are looking for the blonde git," he says, spreading the syllables out like accusatory butter, "you may find a small, 13-year-old, statue in a few minutes time, standing near the dining table whilst everybody else eats dinner."
"Oh," says the child. "Is that 'Scorps' bastard your son, then?" And, without waiting for an answer, wanders off in the direction of the kitchen, humming a made up tune.
Malfoy, his eyes leaden, opens the cupboard. The giggling has stopped. The silence is crushing. Inside the cupboard, James, Albus, Scorpius, and two muggles of about his son's age, look up guiltily.
Or... four of them do, anyway. James Sirius Idiot Potter just waggles his fingers.
"Did you like my description?" he asks.
Malfoy's jaw cracks.
...
After a few minutes of tense, muffled threats, James exits the cupboard looking rather sheepish.
Malfoy huffs. His son and Potter's second are probably already at the dining table, waiting for him. He can hear chattering.
The muggles are talking about whatever muggles talk about, probably. The wizards are talking about Quidditch. The witches are talking about men. This is how it always is.
He trudges into the kitchen.
The response from the wizards is almost immediate. A complete and utter silence. To cover it up, Malfoy-
His plan was to sneer, to show that he was not afraid, but, from behind, his neck is pulled backwards with a forearm and knuckles are smashed into his head and rubbed fiercely over his scalp. His sneer turns into a muffled yelp.
"Weasley!" he growls. As one, the whole table erupts into roars of laughter and, behind him, Uncle George takes a bow.
"I learnt from the best," he says. (He has a list of quotes from 'the best' posted up around his house. The Marauders (three of them, anyway), James the younger (fondly dubbed 'idiot' as a distinguisher... or not so fondly, in Draco's case), Albus Dumbledore, and the Weasley Wizards as a collective. This normally means Fred. Nobody argues with the generalisation.)
"Would you mind not learning from them then," says Malfoy. "If you could be so kind." (Damn that Uncle George, corrupting the Malfoy heir!)
Uncle George laughs. Malfoy scowls at him and sits down across from Potter, who is talking to Ron about the Chudley Cannons.
Across the room, the small, feathered thing, runs up to a muscled, blonde-haired muggle and jumps into his arms.
Beside him on the bench is Hermione Granger. He is not looking at her and she is ignoring him.
"Pass the salt," says somebody on the other side of him. Now Teddy Lupin he can stand. He turns.
"The salt of the Earth is here," he says. "How may I help you?"
"I meant the actual salt," says Teddy. "But Dad's probably forgotten it again... either that or Ginny's put it away... so I'm kinda stuck, aren't I? Evening, Mr. Malfoy."
"Good evening, Teddy," says Malfoy.
"Victoire's not happy at me," grins Teddy. "She says I'm not being as polite as I should be, so I'm making up for it in little ways."
"Right," says Malfoy.
"I'm saying please and thank you a lot more often," says Teddy.
"Right," says Malfoy.
"And greeting people more seriously," says Teddy.
"Good," says Malfoy. He is glad there will be no more flying hug tackles.
"I do the dishes sometimes, even," says Teddy.
"What an improvement," says Malfoy. He pulls a piece of cake onto his plate and starts to dissect it with a fork, looking for tampering.
"In fact," says Teddy, "I've really gotten better."
Malfoy ignores him in favour of the cake slice. He's unearthed some sort of capsule.
"That, and I've stopped screaming profanities, when I'm climaxing," says Teddy.
The capsule explodes.
"What?" says Malfoy, startled. He wipes the fake blood off his face with his handkerchief and pushes the plate of ruined cake away.
"Victoire," replies Teddy, casually. "She doesn't like me screaming profanities when I'm climaxing. It wakes half the street. And Gran doesn't like the running commentary. So I'm giving it up for Lent."
"It's not Lent," says Malfoy. "It's near Christmas."
"I know," says Teddy, "but it's what I tell the neighbours. Apparently it's even more of a disruption than Lorcan's violin practice." He pauses. "You remember Lorcan? Luna's child. Severe case of Dragon Pox when he was younger. His twin came over here during his quarantine: Albus fed him chicken liver in his sleep. No?"
"No," says Malfoy. He says it with finality, as if that will stop Teddy.
"Well, anyway. The neighbours were getting really upset. Apparently all the..." here, Teddy inserts a very realistic, elephantine groan and tops it with a pleasurable gasp. The noise he makes directly afterwards is so much like an accidentally breaking bedspring that Malfoy interrupts him with-
"Nice weather at the moment, isn't it?"
-because he is not sure he will be able to remove any of the images. A nearby muggle, high pink spots in her cheeks, lets out a relieved breath of air.
"It's sleeting," Teddy points out.
"Right," says Malfoy. "I love sleet."
"And it's been half hailing, half raining all week," says Teddy.
"Like I said, what nice weather."
"Blush all you like, Mr. Malfoy," says Teddy. "Do you know the going rate of bedsprings nowadays? It's horrendous."
"I don't want to know," says Malfoy, getting up and moving over to the other side of the room, to stand with the (sane, hopefully prudish) muggle parents.
"Oh, you must be Mr. Malfoy," says one of them, smiling at him and holding out a hand. "I'm Casie Harris. Tyler's mum. I work at the bakery. I've heard a lot about you."
"Have you," says Malfoy, flatly, refusing to respond to the bait.
"Oh yes," says Casie Harris. She has rather stringy hair and looks about 35. "You're the very rich bachelor, correct? Scorpius's father."
"Married," says Malfoy, crushing dreams.
Casie deflates like a balloon and moves off. (Uncle George is a menace of epic proportions. Rich, pining bachelor, Draco Malfoy's foot.)
From behind, another one approaches, and he steadies himself for more one-way flirting and unsubtle hints. The woman is plump, bland looking, and wispy-haired: a Tesco's Own yoghurt in woman form.
"Hello," she says. "Dudley's told me all about you."
Oh. Harry Potter's cousin's wife. Right.
"Ah," he says.
"Mhm," she nods. "No doubt Harry's said nothing about me, so I'll have to introduce myself. Dudley's rubbish at these things. My name's Jane Dursley. How do you do?"
"Fine," says Malfoy.
"Did you meet Bradley?" asks Jane, gesturing towards the be-smocked feathery shape sitting in its father's arms, nattering.
"Yes," says Malfoy. "Vaguely."
"Oh," says Jane. "He's always like that. I don't know where he's picking up all those swear words, I really don't. Whoever it is, they're getting a stern talking to from me. Personally, I blame the parents. Monkey see, monkey do, monkey gets a slapped bottom, but, most of the time, the monkey doesn't even know what it's doing wrong."
"Mm," says Malfoy. He mentally tallies the number of times he's sworn in the last week and comes up with none.
(Damn second years. Filthy-mouthed little buggers, the lot of them.)
"Yes," says Jane. "Yours is Scorpius, isn't it?"
"That's right," says Malfoy. "A dignified, noble Malfoy, my son. I'm proud of him."
It is at this moment, there is a sudden screeching noise from upstairs, like a room full of disgruntled barn owls, a shriek and a crash, several surprised shouts, elephant-foot noises on the stairs, and, past the kitchen door, for all to see, Albus, James, two muggles, Lily and Scorpius come thundering past holding hands over their heads and swearing, followed by a dozen or so angry owls.
"Is that so?" asks Jane, frostily.
Malfoy, a steady blush working its way up onto his cheeks, doesn't bother with a response.
The muggles in the room are all panicking and trying not to be obvious about it. Ginny has started offering round a second batch of tea and cakes, along with explanations about a home-based owl sanctuary that Malfoy knows are entirely made up.
Uncle George is doubled up crying, slapping the edge of the worktop in unabashed glee; a ministerial voice is muttering inanely in the hallway about children under a certain age and how they should not be allowed near delicate birds, which means Percy has arrived; Hermione is next to him again, because he can feel holes being glared into the back of his neck, and Ron is moaning incoherently in the corner about 'insurance debt' whatever that means.
...
Three minutes later, James, Albus, Scorpius, two muggles, Lily, Percy's children, Percy's wife and Percy all come skidding into the kitchen covered in feathers, and slam the door.
"Tyler!" shouts Casie Harris from across the room. (So that is who Tyler is...)
"Who was in charge of the owls!? Ginny? The... the owls... Who was...? Who was in charge of...? I... I... I... I've never seen so many of, of, of..."
Percy is on the verge of hysteria, and his wife is making an effort to comfort him and hold in her giggles. Their daughters are not even trying. James is white-faced and shaking, describing the owl attack in full detail to Uncle George whilst Uncle George makes an attempt to be straight-faced. Lily is doing cartwheels, already over whatever happened. Tyler is being forced to swallow cake by his anxious mother over in the corner. Rose and Hugo are getting a severe, uncompromising lecture involving large amounts of owls, muggles, and house arrest...
From behind him, there comes a small, repentant voice.
...
Draco stills.
...
"Daddy?" says the child, in the most innocent, lovingly-blue-eyed way that could ever be mustered. Hands snake around Draco's stomach from behind. A face is pressed adoringly into the back of his jacket.
...
"Da~ad?"
...
"..."
...
A beaming smile; golden curls; blue eyes.
...
Two beats.
...
Then...
...
"Is that a spell?" asks Draco.
Scorpius droops, irritably. "No," he lies.
"Your eyes are blue."
"Yeah, so? Lots of people have blue eyes."
"Not when they had green eyes this morning."
"I've had blue eyes for ages, Dad. Break thy brain not."
"Did Albus put a spell on your-?"
"Albs would never put a spell on-"
"Did James put a spell on-"
"No, James would never put a spell on-"
...
There was a pause.
...
"Ok, James put the spell on me. It's coolio, mon padre. Deal, ok? 'Sjust blue. Not red, or purple, or orange, or multicoloured like Albus' were...n't. Weren't. Were not. Albus does not have multicolou- I'm just gonna leave, now. Is that... Is that ok? Is that what people do when...? Er... yeah. Scooching!"
Draco's son sidles sideways in Albus and James' direction, looking down at the carpet to avoid looking at people's faces. It is a crab-like, embarrassed shuffle, which would have had Lucius revolving in his grave and possibly shooting himself with the revolver afterwards, if Lucius had been dead, and not 63 years old, rotting away in Azkaban, and it is not befitting of a Malfoy at all... but...
It stops. Scorpius, his son straightens.
(But he is entitled to it. This is his world, now: his future. He has a long way to go before he is a proper Malfoy, but who is to say proper Malfoys are not shufflers too? Who is to say his son is not the Malfoy history has been leading up to in hope? Who is to say...?)
"Da~ad?"
Oh bugger. Oh Merlin's scrotum... Oh bugger Merlin's scrotum; there's a bigger problem, and that is...
"Da~aaaad?"
..that is that he doesn't have a big enough bank account for that beaming smile...
"You know you lo~ve me~? Like, really really really really-"
Draco clears his throat.
"No," he says, calmly. Like all the other times he has done this, he is very calm.
"But..." The impossibly blue eyes bubble up with bravely unshed tears. The smile trembles and cracks. A tear slides down a perfect chee-
"Scorpius," says Draco, flatly, "we are not getting a broomstick."
Scorpius blinks. Wipes his face. "How did you know I was going to say-"
"I have my ways," says Draco, grimly. (Thank the Lord for Potter. Knowing birthday presents before they happened was an invaluable triumph over ambitious schoolchildren.)
"We have had this argument," he continues. (Oh, victory is sweet.) "No, you are not getting an insert here. Broomstick, pet eagle, second wand, skiving snack-box, penguin, gorilla, goat, dark-arts spell book, car, tevelision, gun, machine gun, fake gun, laser gun, laser pistol, water pistol, complete colour kit of hair dyes for aspiring hairdressers, birthday cake on April Fool's Day, baby brother, boggart, quidditch pitch, house, dragon, small grey rock called Charles, map of the solar system, clone of James, expanding trunk to give as a gift to James, or Albus' nail clippings. No. Finite. Done. Finished." He takes a breath. "Finished."
The cherub grimaces and looks away in disgust.
"It's a television, Dad," it mumbles, and then brightens. Turns back. "Dad," it says, breathlessly, all previous grudge forgotten, "Have you seen their new nintendo wii yet? It's a-"
"No."
His son grumbles off.
...
From behind him, he hears an amused huff.
"Kids, eh?" says Potter, coming to stand beside him with a very muggle mug of hot tea held in his right hand. It says 'Best Dad Ever' in bubble writing on the side of it, but it has had the 'Ever' crossed out and replaced with the word 'sometimes' in permanent marker.
"Yes," says Draco. "Kids."
On the other side of the room, Bradley Dursley is curled up in his father's arms, sucking his thumb and watching Scorpius and Albus perform a sleight-of-hand card trick, of which they keep dropping the cards. Dudley is looking very impressed (or he is acting), and is clapping and grinning whenever he thinks it's nearing the end. Bradley, however, is on the verge of falling asleep.
Next to them, leaning against the counter, Teddy is shrugging and talking to James in an off-hand kind of way. James, on the receiving end, is blushing like a finger trapped in a door, and trying to change the topic of conversation, whilst Uncle George looks on; a little smile quirked too fondly to be entirely innocent.
Hermione is sat at the table talking to Jane about something (dreadfully boring) to do with books. They have 'Muggles and their Many Mannerisms' open on the table in front of them, and Jane is running a finger down the contents page in fascination. They are chuckling at odd intervals.
Weasley... Ron, that is (there are too many of them, but he still thinks of them each individually as 'Weasley'), is chatting to Ginny and helping dry dishes (by hand), whilst she washes. It couldn't get any more muggle, but it looks like they're having fun doing it, despite the fact it's a chore.
The muggle mothers are still sneaking him interested looks. They're not acting upon them, thank goodness: he thinks they think they are being covert. Casie is in the corner, still forcing Tyler to eat cake to calm his nerves. Tyler looks irritated, and slightly too full.
Next to him, Potter grins. "Tea?" he asks.
It will be that dreadful Tetley stuff again. He rolls his eyes.
"Only if it has stewed for less than three minutes, and the water is just off the boil," he says, relishing the fact that he can talk about tea now like a native muggle, and not, as he had done months ago, get confused between the kettle and the toaster, and try to pour the milk into the water before it was in the cups.
Harry grins. "Fine," he says. "I'll tell Ginny." And he walks off to make Draco and possibly other guests cups of tea. Hopefully he is clever enough to miss Percy: Percy is a fiend when it comes to back-seat-driving and to making tea.
Some of the other children come rushing into the kitchen playing tag; dodging around and about the table, and then scrambling to get out of the door in a rush of squeals. Hugo is wearing a pirate's hat, and Lily Luna has bagsed one of her mother's pretty shirts to wear as a dress. One of the muggles is waving a sword.
"Oi, oi, oi; watch it," says Weasley (Ron) with a father's laugh, as the door bangs open behind them. Granger looks up at him fondly. They share a smile.
Teddy is still telling James about things James is probably too young to hear in a tone usually reserved for elderly relatives and their dinner parties whilst James sprinkles Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes Dissolving Teeth Powder into his tea.
Harry is across the kitchen pouring hot water into faded mugs.
Draco thinks maybe he should call Astoria: tell her they're going to stay a bit longer, just for the games, and another cup of tea, and a bit of a chat... Albus hasn't blown out his candles properly, yet, and the younger kids had been planning on playing some monopoly... and it's a very normal sort of thought: a thought he has gotten used to over the years: a family life with the Potters involved... and it's almost surreal. His eleven year old self... his seventeen year old self, for that matter... would've never thought of this as an option. Would've never thought of this as a future.
He takes the cup of Tetley tea from Harry and smirks slightly.
"James has been doctoring the tea," he says. "Scared, Potter?"
Harry slides him a glance.
"You wish," he says, and then he walks away. (Probably to scold James. Probably to warn Teddy. Maybe to laugh if it's all too late to do anything to prevent it, and to get the medical kit from upstairs, and patch up everybody's hurt pride, and warn Ginny about the prank war in its punishable infancy...)
And Draco sips his tea - it is just as awful as it should be - and he smiles.
.
A/N: I hope it's not too short. I have a terrible habit of making things too short, when they should be longer. Possibly because I write too slowly (I proofread on the way) I think it's slower-paced than it is. Anyway, please review, and I hope you like it.
Alibi
PS. Tell me any errors: I haven't checked it properly.
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