It was frightening to see him after all this time, he's grown, I think. Broader, and he's different, too, different in a way I can touch. He doesn't seem stronger, because he was always too strong for his own good, anyway, but perhaps more confident. Accomplished would be a better word, I think.
His father always insisted on concise language- and that was the word he used, as well. He always said that a certain degree of curtness was necessary, though. Never, he used to say, in his most impressively grand tones, never be verbose, Draco, it makes you seem upper class.
I do not know why a man so utterly obsessed with class didn't want his son to seem upper class. Besides, we were, we were the elite- our wedding should have been the event of the decade- people had always described both our families as 'dynasties' and we would have had a 'dynastic alliance'. All that didn't change the fact that he never did fall in love with me, though.
"There's a lot of ways we could handle this, Pansy," he says, finally. He's not speaking English, and I know it's so I know he hasn't brought the troops. It still hurts. "I, personally, would let you go if I thought you had half a chance of escape to France." People have always talked about that, the French aren't extraditing anyone to England and most especially not accused Death Eater's. "I'd give you the summer house there, honestly." He said, half-candid and half-calculating, if that's possible.
"But you've been in Potter's pocket for years," I said, smiling at him. I spoke English, I hadn't brought mine either. "I think I always knew."
"Everyone thinks they always knew," he said, laughing. "Be honest, Pansy, you didn't have a clue, I was just that good." He was always very conceited, just like his father. It's funny to talk like this, like we used too, with the world hanging in the balance. It's surreal, but oddly appropriate.
"Well, I did," I said, "The summer house was always gorgeous."
"Father hated it, do you remember? He closed it when I was a baby," he said, "Mother liked it there." I think Draco did honestly love his mother, an oddity for a Malfoy heir, they're trained not too love at all, in some way. Loyalties create bonds create emotions create promise and a Malfoy never breaks his word- which is why he avoids giving it at all.
"Severus always went with you," I said, switching over so we were speaking the same language. The code- our code, I like to think- is a blend of Latin, Spanish, French and a touch of Greek. It makes for interesting grammar. I was remembering the summer after our fourth year when Lucius and my father stayed at home while the rest of us went to the summer home near Paris. It was beautiful there- and the two of us went to the Eiffel tower on our own one night- Mum spent nights on end at home and Narcissa never did seem to want us around that summer.
It's sad to think that that was the most romantic night of my life. I suppose, at least, there can't be very much romance in Azkaban, after all. Not even now that the Dementors are gone.
"He hated it, too," he said. "I've been thinking of spending some time there, maybe a year or two," he said, offhand. "I haven't been since I was fifteen."
"I remember," I said, shakily. "Will our daughter have nursemaids, Draco?" I didn't want that, and I could tell, just looking at him, that he didn't want me. When he said he was leaving, he meant he was leaving.
"What did you call her?" He asked, finally, and I don't exactly want to tell him. I look at him now and see someone different from who I was expecting- I see someone who would name his daughter something sunny and beautiful, not one of the gothic names he would have chosen only a year ago.
"Sabin," I said, finally, "Sabin Tara Malfoy," I was tearing up, which was strange, as nearly never cry. A part of me wanted him to take me in his arms, and the rest of me knew he wouldn't.
"It's a good name," he said, after a moment of looking at me. "I want to let you get away Pansy, and I could, if you wanted. But you need to tell me- did you believe in it?" I wanted to say no, honestly, I wanted to lie to him. But I had believed it, and he hadn't and that had been the biggest betrayal of my life. And now, I would give my daughter to him because he was a good man, and he would be a good father. He would raise her wrong, and I knew that too, but she would be accepted in this world, and that was more than either of her parents had ever had.
"I did, I mean, I do," I said, softly. "I'm willing to go to Azkaban for that, Draco. Do you arrest me or do you call someone?" I needed to know what would happen next, how long I'd be in prison for. All I knew was a very, very long time.
"I do it," he said, and he was speaking English. I've always thought it was a cold and clinical language, brisk. "you hand over the baby to Ginny- not directly to me. Potter'll get that sorted so I don't have to go through the courts. She'll be at the house three minutes after you let go of her, and she'll be well taken care of. I'll take you to the Ministry and then you won't see the sky for at least ten years- that's with a great lawyer."
"Which I can get," I said, "so, where's the Weaslette?"
"No, you can't, they'll take all of your family's money for the survivors fund- nasty little piece of legislature Hermione and Potter set up," he grins. "Colin would have thrown a fit." My father died a year ago, a heart attack they said- Mum left for France the next day and our house burnt down a few weeks after that. There were rumors that it was Draco, in all the months after that, and it was one of the times when I just didn't know what to believe.
There were so many.
"Will our baby call her mother?" I asked, choking on something that wasn't even there.
"Never," Draco said, "but I can't say she'll ever call you that either."