Hello everyone! The fic I'm posting now, Against All Odds, is completely written and betad, so it won't be long between updates. It's Harry Potter H/D Slash and was written for the 2015 Harry/Draco Pottermore Fair on Live Journal based on a prompt submitted by the lovely Gracerene.
Thank you to everyone who has helped get this story written: the fabulous Bryoney for all of her beta work, las très magnifique lamerezouille et cloelockless2 for the French translations and all things French, the super tavia_d for britpicking this for me, and all the brilliant Brits on hd_britglish for all their advice and suggestions. Any remaining mistakes are all my fault. And of course, thank you my lovely prompter for submitting a prompt that totally claimed me.
One note, a specific request of the prompter was Draco speaking fluent French, so I really asked a lot of lamerezouille and cloelockless2. I'm not including translations in my notes, but the gist of what's said should either be made by the surrounding narrative, or the dialogue is not critical to the plot. If what's being said is important or not made clear by the narrative, it'll be in English.
I hope you'll all enjoy the trip Gracerene's prompt took me on as much as I enjoyed writing it.
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Disclaimer – This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
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When a person looks at a photograph, they see a few short moments in time captured on film and printed on paper, moments which will repeat over and over in a potentially endless cycle. What they do not see are all the countless moments that led up to the ones captured and preserved, ones that came and went, witnessed only by those directly involved. One may comment on the handsome, happy faces or the beauty of the scenery. One does not comment on the long string of choices and decisions that brought the subjects of the photo to that particular time and place—or if they do, it is likely to be only fleetingly and on rare occasions. Perhaps because of the very nature of a photograph, because they repeat in front of our eyes time and time again, it is too easy to forget the unlikelihood that they ever happened at all.
In a villa in la Côte d'Azur, in the centre of a mantelpiece made of ornately carved white marble, stood a silver-framed photograph of two people looking at each other and smiling. It was one of several that lined the top of the mantel and covered the walls, each one depicting moments that could so easily never have happened had their subjects made any one of a number of choices differently. In fact, the chances that those moments might occur were once so slim, one might have said they were nonexistent. But they would have been wrong. Against all odds, the events those photographs depicted did happen, and the lives of their subjects were all the happier for them.
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AGAINST ALL ODDS
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The bright afternoon sun hurt Harry's eyes as he looked up into the sky, and he squinted, raising his hand to shield his them, not wanting to lose sight of the young flyer racing in hot pursuit of the Snitch. His godson, Teddy, lived for Quidditch. The boy could spend hours chasing after his training Snitch, catching and releasing it over and over, and Harry loved watching him. He would have supported any interest his godson developed, but that they shared a mutual love of the same sport—and the same position at that—was a source of real joy to him.
On the other hand, it was just that shared love and enthusiasm that led him to the predicament in which he now found himself.
"There's no way out of it, is there?" he asked the witch sitting beside him. After his short-lived career as a professional Seeker with the Chudley Cannons, Harry had found a cottage in the West Country with a lot of land. The elderly wizard who'd owned it hadn't lived there for ages, and it had been almost falling down when Harry'd bought it, but pitching in with the rebuilding of Hogwarts after the war had taught him all the construction spells and charms he'd needed to put it to rights. He loved that with all the land that came with it and numerous concealment charms, it was perfect for flying. He had a patio at the back of the cottage overlooking his garden, where he was currently sat with Andromeda as Teddy flew after the Snitch twenty feet off the ground. Next to Harry, Andromeda was rocking slowly and knitting a blue and white baby blanket, a gift for his best friends' new little one. "I mean, I did promise," he said.
Andromeda looked up and, like Harry, screened her eyes from the bright sun. She shook her head and smiled fondly. "Afraid not. He's so looking forward to it. It's all he's been talking about." She glanced sideways at him, and Harry knew what she was thinking. She often told him he worried too much. It was always hard when a child left home for the first time, Harry knew, but in Teddy's case there was more to worry about than with other children. His father's lycanthropy was no secret, and people could be cruel. Who Harry was, combined with Teddy's late parents' status as fallen war heroes, prevented a good deal of the open vitriol and prejudice he would have otherwise faced as the son of a werewolf, but they all knew there were whispers behind their backs. There had even been a time or two when nasty comments and questions as to the wisdom of allowing the offspring of a werewolf to attend Hogwarts had been unwittingly uttered within earshot of one of their own.
However, there came a time to let a child stand on his own, no matter how dearly you wanted to hold on tight, otherwise they would pull away all the harder. Teddy was a strong, independent little boy, and he was ten now. This time next year they'd be awaiting his Hogwarts letter, whether some people liked it or not. This new Quidditch Summer School they'd started in France was a good chance for him to be on his own, without having to be entirely alone. "Your friend Viktor will be there, of course," she pointed out.
Harry nodded silently as he continued to watch his godson fly. Knowing the Bulgarian superstar was one of the retired pro players volunteering their time as an instructor at the school gave Harry a welcomed sense of security. Teddy would have someone to turn to, someone he knew. But Harry still worried. It had always been him Teddy had turned to, and he wasn't ready to relinquish the position to someone else just yet.
If he was being honest, Harry knew that was part of what was troubling him. Teddy would be gone for two whole weeks. Why had he had to promise the Quidditch school to Teddy for a birthday present? Since the first time he'd set eyes on his godson, Harry'd never been away from him for that long, not even during the two years he'd played professional Quidditch before his cover had been blown. It felt like it was only yesterday he'd held his godson for the first time, and now Teddy was ten already. How the years had gone by so fast, Harry couldn't imagine, but he didn't want to let go of him any earlier than he had to.
As he watched Teddy fly, Harry's Seeker's eyes caught the familiar glint of gold just before Teddy did. He changed direction sharply and was off. Watching his godson, Harry felt almost the same thrill, the same rush of adrenaline as if he himself was up there racing after the little winged ball, and he leant forward in his seat, his eyes wide and his fingers flexing as if wanting to wrap around the Snitch themselves. He was mostly content with his new job—he found he rather enjoyed working behind the scenes, even if there wasn't quite as much for him to do as others might suppose—but nothing beat flying competitively. He felt himself leaning into a turn with Teddy. Come on, come on! The Snitch abruptly changed direction and eluded Teddy for a short while before he caught sight of it again. After a short chase, he caught it, and his hand thrust into the air in celebration.
Harry touched the tip of his wand to his throat and shouted, "Well done, mate!" his voice amplified several times over.
On the table beside Harry lay the brochure for the school. He picked it up and glanced at it before returning his attention skyward. Teddy was just landing, a wide grin splitting his face.
Harry looked back down to the brochure. The Beauxbatons Quidditch Pitch dominated the front cover, while in the distance stood the gleaming white Beauxbatons Palace, surrounded by beautifully manicured gardens. Why had he promised Quidditch school as a birthday present, Harry had asked himself moments ago? He knew very well why—if such a thing had existed when he'd been young, he'd have given all the gold in his vault to go.
"Did you see that!" Teddy asked breathlessly as he flopped down in a chair next to Harry. He sat back, his long arms stretched out on the arm rests and his broom propped on the empty chair beside him. His face was pink and had a sheen of sweat. He leant forward and poured himself a glass of lemonade, which he drank straight down.
Harry reached over and ruffled Teddy's hair. "Brilliant job."
"Lost sight of it for a bit there," Teddy said, "but I soon found it again. What kind of drills do you think Mr Krum will set up for us?" he asked excitedly. With a childlike thrill to his voice he added, "George told me Mr Krum told him that at Durmstrang, the captain makes new Seekers try-out while the Beaters hit Bludgers covered in spikes at them."
Andromeda lowered her needles and sighed as she cast a stern look at Harry, who flinched under the weight of her disapproval. If he'd told George Weasley not to tell Teddy such nonsense once . . .
"What's Rule Number One?" Harry asked Teddy.
"I know, I know," Teddy said, disappointment lacing his words. "Never listen to anything George says." He sat quietly, but Harry was sure he was contemplating the possibility of Beaters really aiming spike-covered Bludgers at prospective Seekers.
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That night, long after Teddy and Andromeda had gone home, Harry's fears regarding problems others might cause for Teddy due to Remus' having been a werewolf continued to prey on him, until finally, after a brief debate, he reached for a fresh roll of parchment and began to compose a short letter to the director of the school.
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Nestled in a valley within the Pyrenees Mountains between Spain and France stood a beautiful 700-year-old palace fit for any fairy tale princess to call home. Tall, white towers stretched skyward, their windows offering majestic views, their walls adorned with richly coloured tapestries. High within one of those towers sat not a princess, but a wizard—a wizard who was, at that very moment, cursing the very existence of a certain Muggle Studies professor.
Draco Malfoy sat in his office, his elbows on his desk, his fingers massaging his temples. A headache was forming behind his eyes. He was a Flying Instructor and Quidditch Referee, not an administrator, and at that moment, he should have been at his villa enjoying his summer holiday, not in his office with piles of parchments in front of him.
Si elle pense que c'est une idée si géniale, c'est elle qui devrait sacrifier une partie de ses vacances d'été pour s'en occuper, he told himself for the hundredth time.
Madame Canfield, their wonderful American Muggle Studies professor, had blathered on and on to the Minister of Education at a function before the start of the school term last year about her experiences as a child in the Muggle world at what she called summer camp and lamented the lack of similar programmes for young witches and wizards. Several Muggle-born Ministry employees had joined in about similar experiences they'd had as children, and by the end of the evening, the lot of them were agreeing wholeheartedly that such a programme should be implemented at Beauxbatons, without so much as consulting the Headmistress or taking into consideration the realities of running such a programme. So there Draco sat, a week after the end of term, preparing to receive a couple of hundred nine and ten year olds—most, if not all, of whom would never have been away from their parents before—in addition to a score of retired Quidditch stars, half of whom clearly believed they did the broom a favour by flying on it, while Madame Canfield enjoyed Paris or Milan or New York or wherever the hell she'd gone. But grumble as he may, Draco had never complained to the Headmistress, nor would he ever. The life he and his mother had built for themselves after they'd left England following their trials was thanks, in large part, to her hiring him, and he was far too grateful to give her any flack.
Draco rubbed his forehead. Students and instructors combined, he was looking at a group that spoke perhaps over dozen languages. He ran his hand over his face as he made a mental note to check in with Monsieur Lartigue to make sure all the necessary translation charms would be in place. A significant portion of the Beauxbatons grounds would be used for instructions and practice, and a myriad of translation charms would need to cover every square centimetre. At least, he told himself not for the first time, being busy kept his mind focused on things he could control rather than things he could not.
Bearing that thought in mind and taking a deep breath, he eyed the stacks of parchments in front of him. He was rather surprised with the number of students who'd been enrolled. He hadn't expected nearly this many, but perhaps he should've. The chance to be coached in Quidditch by some of the biggest names in the game over the past twenty years? When Draco was ten, he'd have thrown one hell of a tantrum had his parents not allowed him to go.
He picked up the next parchment on the pile. On top of the practical matters in running a first of its kind Summer Quidditch School, there were also les papas et les mamans to be contended with. It was amazing how many parents had sent in letters telling him exaggerated stories of how skilled leur petit chérubin was on a broom. Draco had been the flying instructor at Beauxbatons long enough to know what one could reasonably expect children of that age to be capable of on a broom. He was rather glad he wasn't the Head of House for the first years, if this was any indication of what the person went through every September.
De Grande-Bretagne . . . D'Angleterre, he observed as he looked at the letter in his hand.
Draco had been living in France since immediately after his trial nearly ten years ago, better than a third of his life. It had been a long time since he had really thought of England in any meaningful way. He was content with his life as it was—recent events notwithstanding—but with every letter from across the Channel, it was as if a voice from his past blew in through his window. With a heavy weight settling in his chest, he began to read. Would this be the letter that bore the signature of someone he'd known?
With every word, the weight in his chest crumbled and fell to his stomach in pieces, the heaviness burning like too many shots of too strong liquor. This letter was from someone he'd known alright. Draco dropped it onto his desk and pressed his hands together in front of his face as if in prayer.
Potter.
Draco was taken completely by surprise. Potter's was not a name he'd expected to see. The school was for nine and ten year olds only, and Merlin knew ten years ago, Potter had hardly been in a position to be procreating. What had he and Granger been getting up to during their year on the run, Draco asked himself with a smirk as he picked up the letter, but the reason the other wizard was writing was made clear soon enough. This was no mere fancy or expectation of preferential treatment.
Qu'en dis-tu, Draco? Accèpterais-tu de garder leurs louveteaux?
The remembered hiss of the sibilant voice echoed inside Draco's head and made his stomach roll. He felt as if he'd had a particularly bad flying accident and landed on the ground flat on his back with no cushioning charm to soften the blow. He could still hear the barking, jeering laughter of all those gathered in his childhood home, see their gleeful, taunting faces, hear the banging of their fists on the table . . . Draco shuddered . . . the dining table at which he had sat down to everyday family dinners and formal holiday celebrations for the first fourteen years of his life but above which had then hung . . . He shuddered again, but shook it off.
He stood and crossed his office to stand at the window and look out across the Beauxbatons grounds. Until that moment, he'd had no idea a child had been born from his cousin's marriage, and was sure his mother was equally unaware. The Order had done a good job of keeping the pregnancy secret during the war, and afterwards—afterwards didn't bear thinking about.
Teddy Lupin. One of only three people alive to whom Draco was related by blood. The son of the cousin whose name had never been mentioned in Draco's home growing up and his former Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.
A werewolf.
And Potter was the boy's godfather. Well, Draco thought to himself, he could certainly understand Potter's concerns. Draco didn't doubt for a moment a larger segment of society would see the boy's father as a werewolf first and a war hero second, if at all, than would see it the other way around.
Accèpterais-tu de garder leurs louveteau? The words burned themselves into Draco's eardrums like white-hot pokers until he silenced them. He'd been a boy when those words had been spoken in ridicule and had terrified him, but that was a long time ago.
"Oui," Draco said out loud. "Il est le bienvenu ici, et que ceux qui pensent le contraire aillent se faire voir."
He returned to his desk and began his response.
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There's chapter 1! I hope you liked it. Chapter 2 will be up soon.
I tried to research Paris as much as possible. Places I will describe are real-Muggle places anyway. Although, even wizarding places are based on real places.
