A/N: Countdown to Malfoy's sexy dance: 3 chapters counting this one. I warn you now that the dance includes pirouettes :P. Anyway, this is long-er.
One of the things I thought I was never going to have to do was pacify Harry's uncle. As, for one thing, most people who hurt Harry that much I won't speak too (or, you know, end up falling in something-like-love with, but that's only Draco). But, here I was, comforting Vernon, and dealing with Dudley.
How those people managed to produce Harry I will never know. I mean, Harry isn't perfect- he has fits of idiocy and self-pity like nobody's business, he has a nobility complex the size of a horse but he's not a bad person. If I'd been raised- for lack of a better word- by these people rather than two manic dentists I would not have turned out well without some serious therapy. Harry makes a funny sound in the back of his throat whenever I suggest therapy for him.
"Will Harry be back?" Vernon asked, gulping down his- approximately- four thousandth cookie.
"Not if he can help it," I replied from where I was standing in front of the oven, rescuing Dudley's frozen pizza from whatever the worst fate that can befall a frozen pizza is. I considered telling him- again- exactly what I think of him, but didn't. He'd already heard and ignored it twice.
"And when are you people going to leave my house?" Petunia asked, deeply entrenched in her well-liquored tea.
"Whenever Draco gets here, I suppose," I replied, removing the blacked pizza from the oven and shooting it a dubious look before I flicked my wand at it and it disappeared. "Dudley, you'll have to eat something else," I said, sounding remarkably like my mother during one of my cooking attempts gone wrong. If it weren't for Harry we'd all have starved by now, really. I mean, Draco was always good at Potions, but he finds cooking demeaning, and I was excellent at Potions, and anything else I tried- except cooking.
I wished I could just take Snape to the Ministry and be done with it, but I didn't have that authorization. A citizen's arrest doesn't exist in the Wizarding World, and having been defunct for most of the past two years, I didn't have anything resembling the liberties given to the rest of the Order. So I couldn't get out of this house I hated, with these people I hated.
"Who's Draco?" Petunia asked, shrill as ever.
Now, I fought the urge to say 'my fantastically sexy lover,' most because I was trying not to give Petunia a heart attack, but also because I don't typically say things like that- even when they're very well on their way to being true. And also, I don't like to think that Malfoy has had as much influence over me that I will help him in his campaign to tell everyone he meets exactly how sexy he is.
Honestly, he's said it in exactly those words, too. Malfoy has a twisted sense of humor, even if he's nothing else particularly going for him.
"He's a good friend," I said, smiling at her, hopefully serenely. "He's going to take Snape with him and then I'll be on my way."
"Those children- are they yours?" she asked, next, which almost made me laugh out loud. It's not that I never thought about sex with Harry, but it's just that when I did think about sex with Harry it was with The-Boy-Who-Lived, not Harry. Sex with Harry would have just been- incestuous. Like sleeping with my cousin, or my brother, if I'd had one.
"No," I said, still restraining laughter. "No, one's my godson, though." It made me proud to say it- especially since I'd now seen the unspeakable adorableness that was James Ronald Potter. Jamie- I think Harry made it up because he couldn't bear to call someone James. But perhaps it's something Ginny calls him, I haven't spoken to her in, oh, about forever.
"They're not his, are they?" she said, in obvious disgust. And I had no clue who she was talking about- there is no one more obviously related to Harry than those boys. And if she were talking about Snape, well, there was something interesting to think about. Snape would probably be the one person I'd choose to raise my children after I'd choose Petunia.
"Of course they're Harry's," I replied, puzzled. But she ignored me and barreled right ahead.
"No, I mean his," she said, looking furtively at her steaming husband, who had collapsed into an armchair with a brandy a few minutes beforehand. I always hate how somehow people assume I'm on the same wavelength as them- Harry claims it's an aura I give off. Ron used to say it was because it was probably in a book somewhere only I'd read.
"Who is he?" I asked, pouring myself a little of the brandy. At least they had a well-stocked liquor cabinet.
"The boy's godfather," she settled on, finally, tentatively. And I was left to wonder how he thought a man dead for more than four years could have two infant sons.
"No, they're not," I said, "Harry's, through and through. His and Ginny's."