Title: The Anniversary

Summary: Every ... participant of the Battle of Hogwarts (because let's face it, I was nowhere near a hero) deals with the anniversary in his or her own way; fourteen years later, many of us have grown used to these once-yearly habits.

Genre(s): General, Drama

Warning(s): Mild Profanity

Timeline: DH, epilogue-compliant

Side Pairings: Draco/Astoria, Hermione/Ron

I can hear the light squeak of my galoshes hitting the damp ground—and the loud squeak of my son's. That, and his high-pitched squeal when he jumps into a particularly large—though thankfully quite shallow—puddle. It isn't raining, but I wouldn't put it past that sky. It's deceivingly nice out today; anyone who's spent longer than twenty minutes in London knows that partly cloudy, sunny, or foggy, rain is almost unavoidable in early May. Oh, no clouds in the sky? Tough luck, it'll rain anyway. I've an umbrella tucked into my jacket just in case. The boy is fascinated with the mechanisms under the black cloth, unused to Muggle contraptions. Considering we're standing in a park in Muggle London, I couldn't exactly protect his health with a quick charm. I'd have the Muggle-Protection Society or whatever the fuck they're calling themselves these days on my tail, threatening child services or some such shite. They just need an excuse, one bloody minuscule excuse, I swear.

Now, if only the weather'd hold up for the next couple hours, I'd be ever so grateful. Two hours is all I need. Is that too much to ask for? One could only hope.

"Look, Dad!" Scorpius' excited voice drags my attention to him, to his extended finger, and then to the sight of his small form bolting ahead. My eyes snap ahead to find our destination already populated with two brunettes and a redhead.

The Granger-Weasley clan, minus the "alpha" male. Let's not get into how well he does or does not fulfill that role. I'd rather not think about it, honestly.

Scorpius nearly levels little Rose Weasley as he envelopes her into what he's lately taken to identifying as a "bear hug." She grins, a pair of teeth missing from her smile. He turns to Rose's mother with a shy wave, then offering a more confident one to the small ginger-haired boy next to Granger: Hugo, her youngest.

Not only is it early May, it is May 2: the anniversary of the famed Battle of Hogwarts. The fourteenth, to be exact. In the earlier years, I'd tried my hand at celebrating through the bottom of a bottle of Ogden's Best, but my wife quickly rid me of that habit. (Honestly, I don't know how she ended up in Ravenclaw and not my own house; the woman is downright cunning.) After Scorpius was born—Merlin, has it already been six years?—she'd as good as shoved the boy in my arms each year on this day, trusting that the presence of my child would cut the brooding down substantially. Or at least, she'd trust me not to develop a need for magical dialysis while I was caring for Scorpius. Once, she'd told me she never worried that I'd purposely off myself. "You're much too proud for that, darling."I hadn't known—still don't, actually—whether to feel comforted or offended.

That day, I'd wandered about my favourite park in Muggle London with my then-four-month-old cradled as securely as possible in my arms until a sudden rain drove me running to the nearest cover: a small gazebo. A gazebo under which I'd found an incredibly surprised Granger. She was also incredibly pregnant. The meeting was awkward, each of us inching as far away as was possible while still avoiding the torrent of rain. I'm sure she was acting defensive because of the swollen abdomen she was sporting; I knew my own was due to the small bundle in my arms. Aside from the polite acknowledgement ("Granger." "Malfoy."), no words were spoken, and I bolted the moment the down-pour stopped.

The following year found me toting a sixteen-month-old Scorpius to the same park, this time stopping at a (thankfully dry) park bench near a play area for children. Not that it helped. Bloody wriggler, he was. He's always been a mover. Ever since he learned to crawl—and, eventually, walk—he's been a little man on a mission. Except . . . without a mission really, at least that we can tell. Eventually, I found a nice patch of grass to let him loose in, but I soon regretted that decision, as he crawled past a tree and within eyesight of my unwitting companion of the previous year, the only difference being the almost Scorpius-sized bundle of limbs near her that had then (I assumed) resided in her belly. And before I knew it, our toddlers were engaged in . . . some toddler game of whatever. I don't even know.

"Well, hello there, little one. Who do you belong to, hmm?" Her voice sounded oddly bemused. That is, until she saw me watching from a short distance, just a metre or two away. She'd always been one of those who wear their hearts on their sleeves, and nearly a decade hadn't robbed her of that trait. I saw it all: surprise, fear (at which I gritted my teeth in anger), apprehension, and a roll of the eyes as her gaze rested on her child's new tow-headed companion. My smirk was almost involuntary. Yes, Granger, you should have figured. Who else would sire a boy with such hair?

I mentally weighed my current options: let Scorpius stay (content, not crying) on that blanket with Granger and mini-Granger or remove him (and my ears would bleed from the wailing) and leave. But Cor, I was exhausted. I'm a very light sleeper, so I was usually the first to tend to Scorpius in the middle of the night. And my insomnia seemed set on being at its worst in early May. So, I blamed my fatigue when I just slumped into a sitting position at the base of the tree.

No matter how hard she'd tried to appear comfortable, her spine gave away the tension. Later she would tell me that she hadn't been at all wary of Scorpius interacting with her precious daughter, just me. Typical Granger. Trust and protect from the corrupt those who are innocent. Even the innocent born of the corrupt, apparently. Well, it was good to see my son wasn't evil by association.

Some time later, he injured himself. Somehow. This happens more often than I'd care to admit. Turn your head for a millisecond, and by the time you're facing him again, he's got some bruise or cut or abrasion or combination thereof. My guess is that he'd decided to crawl much faster than his chubby little arms would carry him; this time it was a cut on his chin. His large eyes filled with the unavoidable tears, and almost instantaneously I was next to him, the small bag pulled from my pocket and expanded to its proper size.

A small washcloth.

A tub of disinfectant salve.

A discreet casting of iAguamenti/i to dampen the washcloth.

I can't tell whether my efficiency in cleaning my boy up was more a product of having done the same over and over the past year throughout his clumsy infancy or from the war itself, but regardless, he's comforted and cleaned in a trice.

That was the first moment I ever saw eye-to-eye with Hermione Granger. Something bordering on respect had been reflected in her eyes after I'd settled Scorpius back down to continue doing whatever the hell he'd been up to before his tragic injury.

Not a lot was said that year. Other than your typical baby gibberish, which those two were kind enough to share a torrent of.

Today, they talk just as much; the only difference is that we can understand what they're saying . . . most of the time. Too often, I can't even attempt to follow their trains of thought, and sometimes the very words they articulate evades me. I had hoped it wasn't a defect only present in my son, this apparent attempt to speak Japanese at 300 kilometres per hour, but thankfully, Rose is similarly defected. So, I'm assuming it's relatively natural. And Hugo will no doubt follow in his sister's footsteps as soon as she gives him a moment to get a bloody syllable in.

The boy waves wildly at me as I catch up with Scorpius and join the small gathering. The children are smiles all around, overjoyed to be with their once-yearly friends. Rose had grabbed Scorpius' hand and prepared to bolt over to the playground when her mother's stern voice halted her.

"Young lady, where are your manners?"

The fact that she hadn't greeted me would never have bothered me (I've long since grown used to being overlooked; Rose's forgetfulness is the most innocent reason yet.), but Granger is ever insistent in her attempt to turn her daughter and son into well-mannered children. Her insistence is rather reminiscent of my own mother, actually. She'd always claimed that, so long as raising me was her only job, she'd not be excused if I were to turn out a sloppy idiot. The result of this was dancing lessons, musical lessons, scolding on which fork to use when ("Go from the outside in, Draco dear."), and so on and so forth.

Granger had done the same, made her children her only job. (Although, I'm fairly certain the manners she was teaching were more of the mundane please-and-thank-you variety. Her children should consider themselves lucky that they've unwittingly evaded the torture that is ballroom lessons.) The world was shocked when Hermione Granger—er, I mean Weasley (I can't fucking kick the 'Granger' habit)—actually quit her post at the Ministry when she became pregnant. Almost everyone had expected her to take maternity leave but return as soon as that ended. I am ashamed to admit I was a little disappointed; I guess I always perceived her as this do-or-die feminist and campaigner. But then I think of my own son and experience something I thought I'd never share with the likes of her: understanding. Such a strange word to connect the two of us.

Besides, she could never not be a campaigner. She'd once mentioned that she was using the time between the birth of Rose and the day she dropped Hugo off at Platform 9 ¾ for his first year to compile research. On house-elves of all things. It was one of her favourite things to discuss with me for a couple of years. (She claims she needs to get the "pureblood point of view" on these issues, as it'd only be fair, and of course her report must be well-rounded, have every base covered, every contingency. Any former schoolmate of hers would expect no different.)

A light blush flashes across Rose's freckled face at her mother's admonishment. What with Granger's light sprinkling and Weasley's overabundance, the poor children were destined to be freckled messes. Hugo had made it out, despite his red locks, about as freckled as his mother—which may as well be "unscathed" where Weasleys are concerned. Granger put it down to the fact that he'd inherited her brown eyes, while Rose had been "blessed" with her father's light blues—Granger's words, not mine. Something about jeans or some such Muggle rubbish. I'd been amazed to hear that it is actually considered a prestigious science. Honestly, do they have nothing better to do?

Rose's eyes crinkle as she smiles widely up at me. "Hullo, Mithter Malfoy!" she greets, that pair of missing teeth causing a slight lisp.

I smile in return. "Good morning, Rose."

The inquisitive little brunette standing before me has grown on me over the years. At times, I'd taken to calling her 'Inquisitive One'. One year, I'd tried to count all the questions she'd asked in a day (she and Scorpius were nearly-four and four), but had lost count. I can only imagine how annoyed most people get with her incessant questions—though I think she's completely aware of this; sometimes I catch the tiniest smirk when she earns an exasperated sigh from her mother (no small feat). If my interactions with her weren't limited to a few hours each year, I'd no doubt be at my wit's end after the first . . . oh, ten.

With a toothy grin, she turns once again towards the playground. She and Scorpius flank Hugo as the three run towards the sand in barely contained excitement, the smaller boy forced to take two steps for every one that Scorpius and Rose do.

"They're growing up so fast . . ." Granger's voice trails off.

Never have truer words been spoken. I feel like just a week ago I was holding my newborn son in my arms for the first time. Never before and never since have I felt such tumultuous emotions—or so many at once. Awe. Fear. Hesitance. Anticipation. Love, even. The first and last are the two that have never left me since that day. Naturally, the others squirm their way in off and on through the years, but my days of constant fear ended with the war. I would do it all over again—live my life the same way, make the same choices—if it meant I'd end up with that boy in my arms. He is the thing that I love most about my life and the thing that I am most proud of. I could not love anything or anyone as much as I do Scorpius.

Pureblood society strips away most romantic ideas of love, specifically in marriage. Here, in the realm of arranged marriages, love is something left to the middle classes, the Muggles, and trashy romance novels. Me? I'd been lucky that the Greengrasses had still honoured my betrothal to Astoria after the disgrace my family suffered after the war. We were socially decrepit and paying out the ears for war reparations. My day we married was the day I finally felt my life taking a turn for the better, but we were certainly not what one would call a 'Great Love'. Love had nothing to do with it, though I'm incredibly fond of my wife. I had sworn that I'd never experience something like that until Scorpius. As ridiculous as it sounds, my son is my Great Love; it was something I'd realised that first moment we spent together, the son in the father's arms.

Unfortunately, he's nowhere near tiny enough to hold like that. But at least he's not so old that fatherly affections become unwonted. Yet. I promised myself when I married Astoria that I'd never be a cold father like my own, so this entire experience has been completely unfamiliar. I have no idea what the signs will be that signal that need to change, though I guess it'll be somewhere around his double-digits—when he prepares to go off to Hogwarts, when he feels he's too big for hugs from Dad.

I nod. "Too fast. Our time's nearly halfway over now."

Rose and Scorpius are each six years old—at least, Rose will be in a week's time—and each a mere five years from their first one-way visit to Platform 9 ¾. Bloody depressing thought, that. After only five years—they would fly by, just as the previous six had—my interactions with my son will be limited to shipments of sweets accompanied by sure-to-be-left-unread letters and winter and summer holidays. It's all a bloody mind-fuck to think about.

"At least you've got Hugo a bit longer."

That earned me a sad smile. "Yes, for a whole two years. And you think five will fly by? It'll be one of those blink-and-you-miss-it moments. The two of them there one minute, Rose gone the next, and then a second later so is Hugo."

"Whatever happened to counting your blessings, Granger?"

She just shakes her head. I imagine she's slightly amused, someone like me admonishing someone like her for not being optimistic. What a joke. Optimism had a Hufflepuff reputation in my house. Pessimism—now that was something worthy of the green and silver.

"Why do you still call me Granger? You know it's not my name. At least, not anymore." Well now, that's a bit of a surprising change in subject.

"Habit, I suppose."

"Couldn't you just . . . I don't know, try to call me by my last name?"

"What, 'Weasley'? No, couldn't. In my mind 'Weasley' will always be reserved for . . . well, Weasley," I answered, hoping she understands that to mean her beloved husband. "Sorry. A Severing charm couldn't even separate you and that name; you'll always be Granger."

"If you say so." She laughs softly . . . almost mischievously. "Well, I suppose it is a step up from M—"

"Right," I interrupt as soon as I hear that first consonant. That is honestly the last thing I want to think about. With five years of conversation, we'd managed to avoid the more painful topics. I had hoped that we could avoid them forever but obviously, the Fates have it out for me. Not that I hadn't already suspected that, but honestly.

To my surprise, Granger looks apologetic. Which in turn makes me feel horrible for having ruined the mood of the conversation. Light was what it needed to be, light and carefree and away from all those things each of us tried to avoid each year on this day. The anniversary of that bloody (what a double entendre that is) battle was spent by every participant in a different way.

Vacations, like I'd heard Potter was prone to do.

Firewhisky.

Shopping trips.

Visits to the memorial on the school grounds.

And then there was downright avoidance, which seemed to be our preferred cup of tea. Run off to the Muggle world with your little ones and avoid all of the ruckus sure to be happening in the public Wizarding places like Diagon Alley and the Ministry, avoid all the topics that only serve to bring up painful memories and regrets. Because those are the last things that I want to expose my son to. If I had my way, his ears would never hear terms like what I'd called her in school or Death Eaters or V-Voldemort or the fucking Killing Curse.

"Honestly," I say, sighing as I rake fingers through my thinning hair, "sometimes I wish I could just freeze him, make him stay six years old forever."

And wouldn't that be grand? Six-year-old boys don't have problems other than valiant attempts to stay atop their broom mid-flight, misplacing a favourite toy, and whining enough that Mummy lets them have just one more biscuit, please. I dread the day that I'll have to sit down my ten- or eleven-year-old son to remove the veil from his innocent eyes, describe all the horrors that contained my life before him. The coward in me wants to wait as long as humanly possible, but I can honestly say that I'm not enough of a coward that I'd let him continue on in ignorance at school. Sometimes, though, I wish I were. I know without a shadow of a doubt that the day I explain my Death Eater past will be the day our entire father-son dynamic changes, probably for the worst.

Granger's looking at me in the heart-broken-for-you, sad way that she has nearly perfected. Fucking bleeding heart. I can't stand looking at her when she looks like that, like she'd gladly pick up every piece of you, no matter how miniscule, and glue you back together the Muggle way. Because she's that person. She's the one that cares about everyone and everything, no matter how terribly she may have been treated before. I can't stand seeing her look at me like that, like everything's-going-to-be-okay,-Draco.

I hate it, because I don't deserve it. I don't know how she can be so blindly kind and compassionate. It doesn't make sense. Compassion had never had a place in my world.

I hear her exhale softly, but still refuse to look at her. Instead, I find my clasped hands much more interesting. Stay within the familiar, Draco. Safe, where you understand everything and can keep it so much more black-and-white.

"It'd be wonderful if we could keep them cloaked for the rest of their lives. Keep them ignorant of everything that controlled what should have been a carefree childhood. It's why I come here." She's delving into topics that I've long since wanted to bury until I'm forced to rip them back up again.

I raise my gaze from my hands to her face, prepared to glare until she changes the subject and stops this nonsense discussion of our childhoods and their childhoods and the giant trench separating the two. She isn't fazed. Perhaps I used my glare too liberally in her presence.

"I come here, because it's the easiest way not to think about how utter shit our childhoods were," I snap. "Now can we please change the topic?"

She glares in return, her nose tipping up defiantly. "No, we can't. Who else are you going to talk to? Your wife? Oh, I'm sure that'll be a lovely conversation with someone who wasn't even involved. Parkinson, who tried to sell Harry out? I'm sure she'll be really understanding."

"Shut up!" I seethe, attempting to keep my voice low enough that the kids won't alert to our rather fiery discussion. "You think you're all set to understand what I go through every day? That is such bullshit. You don't have to tell your daughter that, no, you didn't kill anyone, but you almost did. And then again, you may as well have, because you were responsible for letting the 'evil ones' in." Her eyes narrow, and I simply chuckle under my breath. "No, of course not. You get to tell your daughter all about the heroics. About how the Golden Trio saved the fucking day and how proud she should be of you all for keeping her safe."

I feel a sharp jab to my ribs. "Ow! Merlin, what the hell was that for?"

Another jab. I scowl. Bloody pointy, jabby fingers. "Do you honestly think Rose is the only one who should be proud of her parents? You idiot. That boy loves you! He loves you, and he nearly worships the ground you walk on, so don't insinuate that he'll never be proud of you. And you know what? He should be proud of you. Yes, it won't be easy at first. God only knows how hurt and put out he'll be, but how much worse do you think it'll be if you completely ignore the issue and wait for someone else to tell him? If you don't tell him the honest-to-God truth, he's going to get some adulterated version from the son of—I don't know, Seamus Finnegan."

My scowl deepens just at the thought of some freckled, Irish idiot with two left feet explaining the sordid details of my betrayal of wizardkind. No doubt riddled with little Gryffindor remarks on my morality, probably a mention or two of that blasted transfiguration incident in fourth year.

"That boy deserves the honest truth. I swear on everything that is magical, Draco, if you're here the year they go off to school and haven't told him the truth, then I will."

I look at her then, surprised by her fervour. Maybe I've underestimated her. I never, honestly, thought she would be one to care that much. About Draco Malfoy's son. Yes, she'd always been rather compassionate. It took a lot to spout off rubbish about the welfare and rights of bloody house-elves, but her investment in Scorpius' life—and what he deserves—was a whole other unexpected development. It makes me wonder when exactly she started to care that much. For him. For me. For us. Because, as much as I'd like to ignore it, her little speech had been as much about offering me whatever atonement she thinks me deserving of as the truth we both know my son deserves.

Too tongue-tied to offer any sort of eloquent response or agreement, I simply nod. And she accepts it. I'll never understand where or when she managed to gain such a grasp—such an understanding—of me. But somewhere along the line, it happened. I haven't decided just yet how I feel about it.

And soon, it is time to go. Time for our families to separate, only to meet perhaps the following year for those few hours of solitude together. Rose, as she does nearly every year, is on the verge of tears upon learning that Scorpius will yet again be unable to attend her birthday party the following weekend. Granger had mentioned that she'd wanted to bring him a slice of her cake and had been immensely put-out when her mother claimed it would likely mould before a month had passed, much less eleven and a half. She was just glad, as well as I am, that they're still too young to think anything of their once-yearly friendship or the flimsy reasons we give for why they only can see one another once a year. It is this childlike naïveté that I find myself jealous of relatively often.

"D'you have fun, Scor?" I ask, grabbing his small hand as we walk the opposite way of the Granger-Weasley clan. He is tired from his long day of playing with his friends and doesn't even notice any of the puddles, much less care to jump feet first into anything resembling muddy water.

He nods and gives me a huge smile, one that spells contentment. As if he were the most satisfied little bugger in this great shithole of a world we've got. "'Course I did! Can we play with Rosie and Hugo again?"

"We'll see if they want to play again next time." I wish I could offer him more than a 'maybe'. It's even worse than that; it's a 'maybe in twelve months, son'.

The look on his face can only be described as resignation. Fuck, I think I'd rather see him bawling. Resignation and children are not things that belong together. Ever. Then, just as I begin contemplating the various ways I could bring that smile of contentment back to his face—a new broom; a box of Sugar Quills or Chocolate Frogs, maybe; or perhaps a spontaneous trip to Fortescue's, despite how I loathe the sight of Diagon Alley on the second of May—it appears. Like magic. He looks almost radiant, happy. His excitement is almost tangible.

"Dad, Dad!" The boy yanks on my arm with all his strength. "Can we bring Rosie a cake next year? That way we can celebrate her birthday together, all of us."

My eyebrows rise in surprise. Of all the things he could be so bloody radiant about, this was the last I'd ever have thought of.

"You'll have to remind me," I say, offering my acquiescence. After a quiet moment, I add, "When did you become so generous? Must have come from your mother's side of the family, because you certainly didn't get it from mine."

"Oh, I will!" he exclaims, his grin still luminescent.

Every year, I'm surprised that she shows up again. In fact, I'm surprised that I show up again. But if this sort of brilliant happiness in my son is the result, I doubt I will ever not show up.