HP Combustion

Movement 3: Andantino

"Granger, she's beautiful! So tiny!"

"Oh, Draco—you're such a softie at heart. Does Harry know?"

"Shut your trap, Granger. Of course he knows. He's not a total moron."

"…Does he know you want one of your own, Draco?"

In truth, Rose Molly Weasley was red and wrinkled and very ugly. Draco couldn't imagine why such rapid blinking was suddenly necessary—dust in his eyes—maybe he was allergic to something in St. Mungo's? Maybe it was the antiseptic…too many bad memories.

"Are you ever going to have the courage, Draco?" Damn Hermione for being such a fucking brain, not that it took a genius to figure this one out. Witness Pansy, who'd known the moment she'd caught the look on Draco's face when she'd mentioned—flaunted!— she was preggers, too. Hag.

Draco wished them both all the best in the world, he did. Truly.

*

Home again, not that this suite was anything like Grimauld or their upscale townhouse. Or the Manor. Too small; no space to retreat. Temporary quarters—though if this worked out like McGonagall claimed it would there'd a bigger suite next autumn.

Snog, shag, cuddle. Mark essays, red ink at the ready. Do rounds and cobble together lesson plans last minute. Why were all the texts so bleeding ancient? Hadn't they even heard of what was actually taught at the university level?

Shag in Hogsmeade for old times' sake. Snog in every alcove in Slytherin on a dare. Take tea and make nice with Minerva and Severus and Flitwick and that overgrown child Hagrid. And Longbottom, who was still an odd duck. Send Grainger and Weasley yet another bouquet of flowers for the baby's triumphant introduction to Burrow-life: roses this time, all colors, with appropriate baby's breath entwined. And posies for the Muggles and Molly and Arthur, too, naturally. Couldn't forget the grandparents. With proper congratulatory formal notes and silver birthing cups, monogrammed. Harry wouldn't know what to do without him, that ass. No proper upbringing. He should be grateful.

"Draco? Bathe with me."

"Um. Give me a minute, Potter."

"No. Now." Harry was already naked, pressed up against the back of his desk chair, the heat of his bared skin lapping around Draco like a warm Mediterranean sea.

"Harry—"

"Draco…." Oh, Merlin. Not the ear, not the ear. He could resist almost anything, but not the ears.

He almost fell to his knees, stumbling out of his chair, but Potter caught him. Didn't let him go till they were both sunk in the sybaritic little sunken tub Hogwarts had seen fit to provide them. And not then, either.

"Ohmygawd, you're sooo fucking good, Draco! Tight!tight!tight! Sogoodsogoodsofuck—!"

"Give it to me, Potter—give it!"

He would've split his skull wide-open on the tile backsplash but Potter's hand was already there, cradling his head. Good reflexes, the bastard. That was all.

*

"Are you okay, Draco?"

"Fine."

"…Just…that's the fourth time today. You should see a doct—"

"Don't need one. M'fine."

"Right."

"Go to sleep, Potter. Big day tomorrow."

"Yeah." Cuddle, snog.

"I like Christmas."

"You like presents."

"I like your PJ's"

"Fuck you, too."

"How's your tummy?"

"Fine. Shut up."

Just a passing bug, then. But he'd been rather wishing. Still, Harry wasn't ready.

*

"Merlin, I can't wait! Sun, sea, sailing—how many more days, Draco?"

"Twelve. What's that Flint child doing with the bread roll? See him?"

"Idiot. There—now it weighs twenty kilos. Let's see him lob that."

"You would've."

"Um. Maybe. If I were an idiot."

"You were."

"Potter!"

"Sir?"

"Points, Potter! That's your House, isn't it? Aren't you responsible for disciplining the little sods?"

"Well, yes, Headmaster. But I thought you had a certain fondness for Slytherins."

Snape glared. Harry smirked. Malfoy hid his grin in his pumpkin juice.

"Let me put it to you this way, then," sneered the Headmaster. "Thirty points from me, Professor Potter, or ten points from you? Make your choice."

"Thirty! Godric's Teeth, Severus—he didn't even throw it!"

"Potter!"

Fecking First Years. Still veritable babies, really. Practically swimming in their robes and too totally defenseless. Just like his collection of orphans, the oldest of whom would be Sorted next year, Salazar willing. Though, really, it had been long enough now that they could've had one themselves, perhaps, he and Harry. Not nearly ready for Hogwarts yet, but still…A little boy, with Harry's eyes and his hair. Beautiful. Mum would get off his case; Teddy would adore a younger cousin to play with; Severus would—would be happy for him. Proud.

But, then…but then, Harry might not ever be ready. He certainly wasn't now. Not a good time, now. Too much to do, too much to learn, too many childish voices yapping endlessly already. Enough. Draco would deal with that; he had to. Malfoys could, of course. Malfoys could deal with anything.

*

"Merlin, you get this every year, Draco."

"I know, I know—you don't have to tell me, you ass."

"Maybe it's the cold. You're thin-skinned, that's what."

"Mother keeps the Manor at a comfortable twenty-three degrees Celsius all winter, Potter."

"Still…maybe it's the pine."

"S'not the pine."

"Mistletoe, then?"

An unexpected roll and ungainly scrambling and then something prickly nearly poked out Draco's eye. A green-eyed, troll-mannered Potty-head was suddenly grinning down at Draco, waving some sort of shoddy sheaf of vegetation all about like a fucking madman. It was just too much.

"Bugger off, arsehol! I didn't ask to be mauled!"

"Merlin, touchy!"

"You try keeping Christmas dinner down when all you want to do is hack up your intestines onto Blaise's new Prada loafers, then! See how you feel!"

The vegetation was tossed summarily over the side of their bed. Potter instantly assumed That Look.

"Draco."

"No."

"Draco."

"Cease and desist, Harry. I get this every year, alright? I know what to do and it's not as though I didn't come prepared this time—brewed the potions myself last week. And took one already. I'm fine, okay? I'm good. Leave me alone."

"…You could've asked me."

"Mmm-hmm."

"Here, budge over, then. I'll rub your belly."

"Um. Not so rough, Potter"

"…Alright?"

"Better. Good."

Draco ran a cautious fingertip over the contents of the latest jewelry box from Potter and blinked tiredly at the moonlight shining on the fresh coating of snow visible through his second-storey windows. It was a frigid Christmas season, this one, colder than it had been for years and years. He hated it. He was cold all the time now, except when Harry was touching him.

"Draco?"

"What, Harry?"

"Is it working?"

A polished cast-metal gryphon pendant – platinum, chased with accents of white gold – swung free from delicate links of the same material, the miniscule weight of it nestled now in the indent in his breastbone, warmed by his skin. That had been Potter's most recent present. Draco pressed it harder into his winter paleness to make sure it left a mark and then thoughtfully considered his overall state and condition. Warmish, comfortably so. Relaxed, with the anti-nausea potion flowing through his veins and the headache in abeyance. Safe, with Harry at his back, a living blanket. And perhaps all those protective and healing charms Harry said Pomfrey had doused it with were actually effective since there was nice little tingle happening in his groin that had nothing to do with sicking up…or perhaps it was the soothing feel of a warm hand still gently circling. Whatever—he felt better.

"Yes. I think so."

Harry kissed his ear. Draco eased back over, his post-dinner bleariness burnt away in a lambent silver fire.

"Harry. Come here."

Draco had a jeweler's box of his very own, tucked deep in the inner pocket of his second-best smoking jacket, left over from last Christmas. Hadn't told Potter about it. Wasn't planning on it, either. It would keep.

*

"Draco, I really never thought I'd be placed in the position to have to say this, and not to you of all people, given that you were a Prefect, but—"

"Minerva."

"You really must take a firmer hand with your Firsties. They're not babies, Draco. And you know better than to indulge them. They must learn somehow—"

"Yes, I know, I'm sorry—"

"They'll run rough-shod over you, Draco—they already have. And it's not as though you don't know how to handle these situations, Draco. I observed you most carefully all of last year, you know. I have every faith in your abilities, understand?"

"Yes, of course. Thank you, Minerva. I'm just— I just."

"Draco…is there something…well, is there anything you need to speak to me about, dear?"

"No. No, nothing. Everything's fine."

"Everything is well between you and Harry?"

"Yes, of course, Minerva! I hardly think that should even be pertinent to this discussion!"

"Er, of course. My apologies, but…well, I'm still glad to hear it. But."

"Yes?"

"You will be sure to pay closer attention, Draco? Do what is necessary to keep them in line?"

"Of course, Minerva."

"Very well. I shall leave it to you, then. And…Draco."

A white-blonde brow cocked up in a paler than normal face. Really, Minerva decided, the boy didn't look very well.

"Come to me should you need to. Please. You know I only want what's best for you two—always. But the older students really shouldn't have to suffer through these childish displays, Draco, and you must put a stop to it. It's beyond disruptive."

"Yes, Minerva. I will. And again, I am sorry. Please be assured you won't have any need to speak to me of this in the future."