The Ties That Bind
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Part One: The Dementors of Azkaban
Draco looks as ghastly as Helena feels, though the sight does not inspire comfort. Inside, the adults are already making preparations for a marriage neither of them are prepared for - to fulfil a marriage arrangement they were all blindsided by - and all Helena wants to do is run for the hills, as far and as fast as she possibly can.
"May I sit?" Draco asks, and his voice is hoarse. She wonders if he's been screaming, raging at the contract, the adults, the world, but she doesn't ask. She nods instead, slides towards the end of the bench she'd claimed for herself, and stares at the sky.
Draco sits, slumps against the sandstone wall behind them, and exhales noisily.
"What happened?"
"Father asked if you were marriageable yet. I left before Aunt Cassiopeia could share the details."
Helena squeezes her eyes shut, and prays for this nightmare to be over. A legally and magically recognised marriage agreement between the Ancient and Noble Houses of Black, Peverell, and Malfoy is awful in more ways than Helena can comprehend, but discussion about the status of her reproductive system over Blackthorn Park's formal dining table is completely and utterly mortifying.
She'll never be able to make eye contact with Mr Malfoy again.
"Have they figured out a date, then?" Helena asks, resigned. She can already feel the insistence of her family magics - they want the union, preferably as soon as possible - and Helena has no desire to incur their wrath. All the same, she resents that she's been put in this position, that yet more old men had chosen to arrange her life for their own ends, and the feeling festers inside her heart.
"August 15th."
"So soon?" she squeaks.
"They'd all rather avoid dealing with Dumbledore, and December is too long of a wait."
Unable to disagree, Helena nods her acknowledgement, gazes blankly at the manicured lawns ahead of her, and tries to imagine the rest of her life, devoid of the great, all-consuming love she'd always dreamed of. She and Draco are casual acquaintances at best, but with his father's history - and with his own blood-purist ideals - Helena had concluded some time ago that he was off-limits as a prospective life partner.
It seems, she reflects ruefully, Charles Potter, Arcturus Black, and Abraxus Malfoy had not shared her opinion.
Helena could almost laugh at the irony.
"I can't believe this is happening," Draco says. He sounds dazed.
"Neither," Helena concurs, "It all feels like a crazy dream. I keep praying I'll wake up."
Draco isn't insulted, though Helena half-expects him to jump down her throat at the perceived attack upon his character. Why on Earth wouldn't she want to marry him, after all? Presumably, though, Draco is too busy hoping, praying, wishing for something similar.
-!- -#-
"I realise you are young, but you'll not be a child forever," Aunt Cassiopeia says. She twines her fingers through Helena's long hair, and weaves the pale blonde tresses into a loose braid, "Grindelwald and Voldemort decimated our population, and our houses were struck particularly hard.
"With such few members, the family magics feel extremely vulnerable, which is why they're already pressing so hard for the match."
"I'm not ready. I don't…"
Helena clenches her eyes shut, and shoves down the desire to cry. Her tears will not solve anything, and between herself and Draco, Sirius and Narcissa, there have been enough emotional outbursts to last everyone a year.
"Unfortunately, delaying is not an option. Your family magic is already impatient, and it doesn't understand things as we do. If you're both old enough to procreate, then you're old enough for marriage. It's an antiquated notion, I know, but it cannot be helped. Not without a Head of House Peverell to counteract Charles' authority, that is."
Helena laughs hollowly. She can't claim Headship of the House of Peverell until she comes of age, marries, or is otherwise legally emancipated, but the family magic won't wait four years, she has no reasonable justification for legal emancipation - apparently, nullifying a marriage contract isn't reason enough - and Helena's marriage would render things moot.
In any case, Lord Black's health is failing, and he's expressed an interest in witnessing the culmination of his, Charles', and Abraxus' hard work. Helena and Draco's ages are irrelevant - Arcturus has known a number of child brides and grooms in his time - and as such, there'll not be any relief from that quarter.
"I'm scared."
"I'm sure Draco is too. He has as much of an idea of how to be a husband as you do a wife." Aunt Cassiopeia ties off the end of Helena's braid with a thin ponytail holder, sweeps her palms over her work, and meets Helena's gaze in the mirror, "You are not alone, child. You have your groom, but you've also your family by your side."
-!- -#-
Helena opts for a small, simple hand-fasting at dawn, and no one objects. Draco's mother is sad, and Sirius broods, but they help Helena select her ribbons and the flowers for her wedding wreath without complaint, without tears, angry outbursts, or entreaties to change her mind.
It's not what she ever imagined for herself, but it is what it is, and Helena tries hard to enjoy herself.
That same day, after tea and cakes, a seamstress arrives to fit Helena for her undyed robe, Draco reluctantly emerges from locations unknown to endure his own fitting, and Helena almost finds it in herself to smile. They're not eleven any more, not in Madam Malkin's, not about to embark on their First Year at Hogwarts, but…
"This feels familiar."
Draco casts her a squinted, sideways glance. "I suppose it does."
-!- -#-
Part Three: The Defence Association
Chapter One:
There is something exceedingly satisfying about the fact Helena will never have to return to Privet Drive again. It's the thin silver lining of an otherwise terrible experience, but as she settles into life at Grimmauld Place with Sirius, Cassiopeia, and Draco, she tries hard not to dwell on the past. Instead, she throws herself into her summer studies, into redecorating their new home, into preparing for the war, and she is well. Not necessarily happy, but content, and certainly a far sight better than she was directly after her return from the graveyard.
Of course, things are not perfect. Draco's family have been obliged to house Voldemort at Mornington Park, visits to and from are therefore off the table, and Draco subsequently lives in a perpetual state of concern for Lucius and Narcissa both. Moreover, the Ministry of Magic refuses to entertain any thought of Voldemort's resurrection, Dumbledore has been ceaseless in attempting to have Sirius rejoin the Order of the Phoenix, and Helena has been unable to keep anything down for weeks.
"Dumbledore has asked if we might offer up Grimmauld Place as a headquarters for the Order," Sirius informs them over breakfast one day. Helena inhales the fragrant smell of her peppermint tea, uninterested, Draco grunts his non-verbal, bleary-eyed acknowledgement, and Aunt Cassiopeia clucks her tongue, unimpressed and unsurprised.
"Does he not understand how a courtship works? Very disappointing."
"I'm seriously considering it," Sirius continues, tongue firmly in cheek, "Do my part. There's a war on, you know?"
"I wasn't aware; Thank you for enlightening us. What would I ever do without you, Sirius?"
As Sirius and Cassiopeia's banter continues, Helena warily eyes her toast, contemplates foregoing that morning's attempt at breakfast, and then thinks better of it. They may look occupied, but she has no doubt Sirius and Cassiopeia are both watching her every move, and she has no interest in enduring their fretting. As is, Sirius is another sudden bout of nausea away from calling in their healer, and Helena is growing increasingly certain that she knows - and has no desire to hear - exactly what Healer Bernard will have to say.
Helena eats her toast slowly, her roiling stomach settles (for the moment), and breakfast continues without fanfare. The Daily Prophet arrives, Aunt Cassiopeia cackles her glee upon sight of the continued smear campaign against Dumbledore, and Sirius enjoys his own newspaper with a croissant, another mug of coffee, and his obligatory commentary.
Wordlessly, Helena sorts through the post, distributes the letters to their recipients, and indifferently flicks through her own. It's nice to receive correspondence from her friends, but Helena's been battling with an inescapable sense of fatigue since she'd awoken that morning, and she can't muster up any particular interest in reading - or responding - to any of the letters she'd received.
"Anyone interesting?" Draco asks, finally emerging from the fugue state she's come to expect from him every morning. He clears his throat, gulps down a mouthful of coffee, and palms at his sleep-crusted eyes. Lucius would probably have an aneurism if he ever saw Draco so unpresentable at the breakfast table, but Helena finds it endearing, and Sirius and Cassiopeia aren't the type to stand on ceremony at an informal meal, particularly when it's only family.
"A letter from your mum," Helena answers. She gestures at the letter in question, stacked on top of the rest of them, and Draco reaches for it quickly. He opens it, skims the contents to ensure all is well, and once satisfied, he relaxes, reads through it once again, and finds it in himself to smile. "How are they?"
"They're well, given the circumstances," Draco answers, "Father is too useful to set aside, so for now, they're safe. They've a plan to go into hiding, as well, which is a relief. They're just waiting for an opportunity to lock down the estate. Mother sends her love."
"They're welcome to join us here," Cassiopeia offers. Sirius pulls a face, unimpressed by the prospect of sharing a home with Lucius Malfoy, but he doesn't disagree, "We'd just have to let them into the fidelius, which may take some work."
"I'll let them know, but I think they'd prefer to join Grandmother. They'd have more mobility in Lyon than they would here."
"That's true," Cassiopeia concedes.
-!- -#-
Cepheus Draconis Malfoy is born early on the 16th of March, to a pair of young, terrified, besotted parents, and he is completely, utterly perfect.
Helena holds him while Healer Preston and Madam Pomfrey clear away the afterbirth and everything else, Draco hovers protectively with wide, awestruck eyes, Sirius weeps unabashedly on the other side of Helena's bed. Helena notices nothing but the infant she cradles in her exhausted arms though, and it isn't until the adults make themselves scarce that she is diverted from her reverie.
Draco sits gingerly beside her, brushes a trembling thumb across Cepheus' cheek, and exhales tremulously. "You're amazing, Helena. He's perfect."