Fame is a form, perhaps the worst form, of incomprehension.
Jorge Luis Borges
Valentine's Day, Draco knows, is an obscenely overcommercialized holiday. The saint around whom the tradition is based would have lived and died in complete obscurity were it not for the fact that he was made a saint for reasons no reliable historical source can explain. These days it is largely just an excuse to promote the sale of sweets and gifts, and is an unnecessary social expectation for romantic couples and emotional burden on those who are unattached.
But damn it all if Draco hasn't enjoyed the hell out of his Valentine's Day date with Harry.
"Is it good?" Harry asks after Draco spends a few moments experimentally rolling some of Honeydukes special Valentines "Heartburst" candy along his tongue.
"Mmn," Draco replies. It's sweet but rich milk chocolate with traces of mint. When he bites into it, there's a small rush of flavor that breaks free – soft, syrupy raspberry. Draco makes a very undignified noise.
Harry grins and fishes out a few sickles to pay for the bag. They're still picking at it when they make their way out of Honeydukes and onto the sunny, wintery streets of Hogsmeade.
"So was it a good Valentine's Day?" Harry asks as Draco licks the last traces of raspberry from his lips.
"Very good," Draco answers, smirking. "So good I feel sort of guilty for playing into all the hype."
And really, it had been a good day. As soon as class let out, they took the long, snow-dusted walk down to Hogsmeade, while Draco chatted about his medical project and Harry asked relevant questions. They'd had dinner and butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, did some window shopping, and rounded off the day with a trip to Honeydukes.
"Your intellectual resentment for it makes it more enjoyable," Harry insists, bending in to steal a kiss before Draco can protest. Draco hums against Harry's mouth, tugging at his Gryffindor scarf and returning it.
From behind them, a few older Hufflepuffs make a loud sound that reminds Draco of a cat throwing up a hairball. It's just distracting enough to pull away Draco's attention.
"Could have done without all the commentary, though," Draco mumbles. It had been following them not just through Hogsmeade but for the past several months, getting worse with every article published about them – and there had been many, getting more numerous as the Second Task approached.
"Don't mind them," Harry says. "They're just jealous they don't get to kiss someone who tastes of raspberry."
Draco laughs and Harry tries to swallow the sound with another kiss. Draco is looping one arm around Harry's neck when there's a sudden flash of white light from their left, and they both give a start and turn toward it.
Rita Skeeter – Draco had never met her, but if someone had asked him to picture what she looked like, he would have envisioned someone an awful lot like the woman standing in front of him. Her hair is blonde and perfectly coiffed against her oblong head, and her poison green fingernails are tapping against the side of her camera.
"Don't stop on my behalf," she croons, blood red lips curled into a smirk.
"Did no one ever tell you that it's in bad form to stalk people?" Harry asks.
"Darling, don't flatter yourself. It's strictly business. You boys are a hot item. My editor can't get enough of you."
"Good to know we're putting bread on your table," Harry says lowly.
"Let's go," Draco says, knowing better than to engage a reporter with anything they could quote.
"Young Mr. Malfoy! You've been quite a slippery one, haven't you? Have you been ignoring my owls?"
"With great enthusiasm," Draco says shortly, grabbing Harry's wrist and heading away. To his dismay, Skeeter falls a few steps behind.
"If you're upset by the publicity, an interview could be your chance to set the record straight," she says, and her voice is saccharine. "You could tell your side of the story."
"If you think I'm stupid enough to fall for that, you can't have done your research on me very well," Draco says.
"Leave him alone, Skeeter," Harry snaps, "he's not your story."
"I'd have gone to his parents, but they've been suspiciously tight-lipped about the whole thing!"
Draco stops in his tracks and turns around. There's a fire of anger in his chest that is only stoked when he sees the look of glee on Skeeter's face that she was able to provoke a reaction from him.
"Leave my parents alone," he says shortly.
"They certainly seem intent on keeping me away," she says. "They haven't responded to my owls – or anyone's owls, for that matter."
That was likely due to the fact that Draco had designed a ward for the Malfoy Manor that kept away owls and visitors bound out of major periodicals. Still, there was no reason Skeeter had to know that. "My parents know better than to associate with bottom-feeders."
"Is that what it is? Because that's not the popular theory," she says, and her bright green quill is poised at her notebook. "Any comment on the rumors circulating that they're being so quiet because they've disinherited you for your… proclivities?"
Draco purses his lips. His mind spins as he tries to come up with a suitable response. His concentration wars with his growing anger.
"After all," she continues, leaning forward, "the leanings of the Malfoy family are well-known, and I can't imagine that they'd take well the news that their son was romantically involved with the Boy Who Lived. The question is whether or not they'd take it so badly that they'd strip you of your inheritance and name."
Draco's nostrils flare. The anger is so intense now he wonders whether or not it's actually hatred – hatred, that's new, he realizes. Draco has never disliked someone so suddenly, so intensely, so passionately, that he has dared to call it hate, but there it is, snarling and snapping in his chest.
"Your assertion is as patently ridiculous and overwrought as your prose, Ms. Skeeter," he says. "Perhaps you should think of switching to writing romance novels and penny dreadfuls. That is clearly where your skill set lies; not in actual journalism."
Her smile widens and, without moving her gaze off of Draco, she scribbles a few lines in her notebook.
Draco spins on one foot and continues away. This time, Skeeter does not follow.
"Are you all right?" Harry asks.
"I'm fine," Draco says, a bit too loudly.
"Right, yeah, I shout when I'm fine, too."
"I just – rrrgh." Draco wants to rip out his hair. He hates this. He was never meant for celebrity. "Fuck Rita Skeeter and fuck The Daily Prophet. I have more important things to think about."
"Yeah," Harry agrees, somewhat tentatively.
"I can do more research on mermaids and put finishing touches on that gillyweed extract potion and finish my pet project and try to fucking figure out what the hell I'm missing in this grand design of the Dark Lord's that I can't bloody well untangle—"
"Draco," Harry says.
"—and the point is there are a million things I can think about that aren't bloody Rita Skeeter and her fucking assertions—"
"Draco," Harry says again, more loudly, grabbing him by the elbow.
"Who the hell is she to make assumptions about my family?" he snaps, whirling around to face Harry. "How can she profit on making those baseless fucking accusations? It's bad enough I'm getting bloody hate mail – how dare I lead the Savior into sin and debauchery – but now she's bringing my family into it—"
"Jesus," Harry says, "what the hell happened?"
Draco realizes, somewhat belatedly, that each breath is coming out as more of a wheeze, and his hands are shaking, though not from cold. He swallows.
"My mother is pregnant," he says. Perhaps he should have said it earlier. Perhaps he shouldn't have let it fester inside his head like a wound.
Harry stares at him in silence, mouth open.
"Shit," he eventually says.
"I'm going to have a sister and I don't know if – if I'll ever even meet her, if she can even make it out of this war that's apparently coming, and I can't – I don't know what to do, I don't know how to protect her, I feel like I can't do anything, and I just—"
Harry grabs him and pulls him into his arms. Draco buries his face in Harry's shoulder and breathes in the familiar scent of cedar and soap.
"It is not your job to protect everyone," Harry whispers into his hair.
"If not me, then who? She's my sister, I can't just…"
Harry kisses the side of his head without answering. There is no answer, of course. Draco would have come up with one by now if there was.
They stand there for a while in the snow until Draco collects himself. The walk back to Hogwarts is quiet, punctuated only by gusts of wind, and warmed only by the way Harry grips his hand in silent, constant reassurance. And as they walk, Draco wonders how he had ever done without it.