Disclaimer – All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
This fic was written for the 2015 hd Family Fest based on a prompt submitted by dragon2stars. Based on the prompt, there is necessarily some heaviness to this fic, but while I did bear in mind the need to deal with the grief both Harry and especially Draco have experienced, I tried to keep the overall theme of the fic one of healing and rebuilding. Draco will talk about the loss of his son, but it is not the dominant thread of the fic.
I would like to thank my awesome betas, eidheann_writes and kohaku_imaki55, for all their help and, as always, also thank you to all the lovely Brits at hp_britglish for helping this American to British her writing up a bit. Thanks also, of course to dragon2stars, I so glad you're happy with how the story came out!
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SEIZING SECOND CHANCES
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..oOo.
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Ten minutes before he was due to leave for his luncheon meeting, Draco stood in front of his mirror adjusting his business robes—smartly tailored lightweight wool in navy blue trimmed with black and charmed to keep him either cool or warm as needed. He dropped his arms to his sides. He closed his eyes and looked away, the image of a young boy on a swing playing behind his lids.
Turning his head, Draco saw the plastic carrier bag from his excursion into Muggle London yesterday lying on a chair in the corner of the room. He stared at it for so long, he might have risked being late to his meeting had Biddy not appeared to remind him of the time.
Having come to a decision, he stepped into the Floo a moment later with the bag in his hand.
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.oOo.
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Draco stood at the reception desk in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, impatiently waiting for the reception witch to deign to look up from her clipboards. When she finally did, he said in a curt tone, "Draco Malfoy to see Auror Potter."
Unsurprisingly, the witch's eyes widened. He had got almost the identical reaction from nearly everyone he'd passed since entering the Ministry. Their eyes would widen, then moments later narrow into a glare.
"And, is Mr. Potter expecting you?" she asked suspiciously.
"No. He is not."
"You don't have an appointment?" she asked, eyeing him up in a way that made Draco think she was considering shouting for the nearest Auror to come running, wand at the ready.
"I do not," he answered. He managed to restrain himself from adding that that much should be obvious to even the slowest of brooms, as he had just said Potter was not expecting him, but it was a near thing. No need to tip the scale against him.
Deep, masculine laughter boomed from a nearby office, and the reassurance appeared to bolster the witch. The good guys are just down the hall, you. Do keep that in mind, her gloating expression seemed to say.
"Mr. Potter has a class at the moment, Mr. Malfoy. If you would care to leave him a message—"
"I prefer to wait."
"Mr. Potter may be quite some time, sir. If you would—"
"I can wait."
"Very well," she said in forced professional tone. "If you will follow me?"
Draco was shown to a very poorly furnished waiting room. The chairs were uncomfortable and mismatched, and more than one bore spots of heavy wear. The walls had not seen a fresh coat of paint in recent memory—if, in fact, during Draco's lifetime—and the carpet was threadbare. He settled himself into what he deemed to be the least deplorable of the chairs, placed the plastic bag on his lap and prepared himself to be kept waiting for the better part of the afternoon.
"Malfoy?"
Less than five minutes after he'd sat down, Potter himself appeared in the door. Draco had been fiddling with the handle on bag, debating with himself whether to shrink it and slip it in his pocket. Too late now, he reckoned.
"Potter," he said as he rose to his feet.
Harry Potter was not a tall man—Draco was likely three or even four inches taller than he was—but there was no question he exuded strength standing there in his Auror robes. Not just magical strength—no one in his or her right mind would ever doubt Potter's magical strength—but physical strength.
It had to be some sort of charm woven into the robes, Draco told himself.
"You wish to see me?"
"I do."
Potter nodded his head as if he understood the purpose of Draco's visit and was not in the least surprised to see him.
"If you'll follow me, then?"
Draco followed Potter down a long corridor. On one side, offices with closed doors lined the wall, which was plastered with a number of maps and bulletins. To the other side was a large room filled with cubicles where a number of Aurors sat at their desks and worked. Oddly enough, it was the Aurors who took the least notice of him of all the people he'd encountered in the Ministry. They glanced up as Potter and he passed, but they paid them no special attention and returned to their work.
Draco diverted his eyes from the Aurors at their desks and looked straight ahead as he followed behind Potter. Judging by the way the other wizard's robes billowed behind him as he walked, Draco reckoned he'd learnt at least one thing from Professor Snape.
Opening the second to last door at the end of the corridor, Potter motioned for him to enter. He closed the door behind them and gestured to a much more comfortable-looking chair in front of a desk covered with files and various objects, including a number of picture frames. Draco's fingers tightened on the bag.
Potter looked very much at home as he took his own seat behind the desk. He leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other, his elbows on the armrests and his fingers steepled together in front of him. He said nothing, seeming content to wait for Draco to speak first.
"I'm sorry to pull you out of class. I should have made an appointment."
Potter waived his apology aside.
"Saves me from having to make up an excuse to leave them alone in there, but I can only spare a few minutes before I get back. New recruits. They're sitting an exam."
"And you left them alone?"
Draco had been about to ask what Potter had been thinking, leaving a group of trainees alone to sit an exam, but as a grin that was more smirk than smile spread across Potter's lips, he fell silent.
Feeling suddenly discomposed at the very Slytherin expression on Potter's face, Draco blurted out, "Those are some bloody uncomfortable chairs you've got out there, you know. You'd think the Ministry of Magic could—"
"By design, of course."
"Excuse me?"
"The chairs? They're meant to be uncomfortable."
"Why would—"
"Well, without giving away too many tricks of the trade, I will just say that there are times when it proves advantageous to have a person wait in a comfortable waiting room, and times when the reverse is true. I do apologise for that, though. Sarah should have shown you to the other room, the comfortable one. I will speak to her about it. As for the trainees, leaving them alone during the exam is part of the test. That room is layered with every anti-cheating spell known to wizardkind. Someone so much as leans towards their neighbour, I'll know about it, and they'll be out on their arse faster than they can say Quidditch."
Leaning forward and putting his elbows on his desk, Potter continued, "Now, what can I do for you?"
Now that the moment had arrived, Draco's nerves failed him. His stomach twisted uncomfortably, and his throat felt tight. His mouth went as dry as a desert. Apart from his mother, he had never talked about Scorpius to anyone, and he hadn't fully appreciated just how difficult it would be.
"You came to see me for some reason, I suppose?" Potter said encouragingly and not at all unkindly.
"Yes," Draco responded, his eyes focused on his knees. He knew Potter was studying him. He also knew his encouragement was calculated, just as the small talk he had engaged in and the comfortable waiting room were calculated, to induce a person to feel at ease, to lower their resistance to telling all they knew. They were tactics Draco himself had been taught from an early age.
Potter's chair squeaked as he shifted positions.
"Shop at W H Smith often?" he asked in a friendly tone, referring to the carrier bag held tightly in Draco's hand.
"No. Not often. A couple times a year just." August and Christmas, Draco's mind filled in.
"Pick up the latest James Patterson?"
"Who?"
"Muggle author. Thrillers and such."
"No." Taking a deep breath, Draco said, "It's a children's book. A gift for a little—" The words got stuck. "A little boy"
"Oh? Whose?"
He cleared his throat. "Mine. But since I can't give it to him, I thought—I thought maybe your boy might like it. That was—that was your son—on the swing yesterday? He has your hair."
"Both the boys have, I'm afraid. Lily—Lily's her mother all through."
Potter's voice held a lingering grief when he mentioned his late wife, wistfulness for the life he'd once had.
The entire Wizarding world had mourned the sudden death of Ginevra Potter the year before, as if although perfect strangers they felt they were entitled to a share of the grief. Potter's inconsolable face had been splashed all over the Prophet alongside articles lamenting the tragic loss of the war heroine in a Muggle car crash—and earning the owners of the Prophet a massive pile of Galleons, Draco was sure. At the very least, Draco had suffered his own pain in private.
Potter had left field work for a desk job training prospective new Aurors following his bereavement.
"I don't understand. Why can't you give it to your own son?"
Draco inhaled sharply. There it was. THE question. He ran a dry tongue over equally dry lips and steeled his nerves.
"Because he died."
The words hung heavy and oppressive in the air. They were like a raging fire burning undetected all around them and steadily sucking up all the oxygen. After Potter's initial gasp of surprise, they were followed by a silence so absolute, so complete, it was as if a spell had been cast over the room which deadened all sound.
When he could stand it no longer, Draco jumped to his feet. "Right, so, that's why I was at the play park yesterday. Here's the book." He thrust the bag forward and set it on Potter's desk before he could change his mind. "I hope your boy will enjoy it."
He hurried out of the office and made it three steps out the door before Potter ran out after him.
"Malfoy! Draco, wait!"
Potter caught him by the arm. The last thing in the world Draco wanted was to hear the "I'm so sorry" he knew was coming, but he stopped and braced himself for it. He understood the few people who knew about Scorpius meant the words to offer comfort, but comfort was impossible. Jaw clenched, eyes straight ahead, he waited.
"Let's grab a pint."
"What?" Draco asked, stunned.
Potter knocked on the door one down from his own. "Trevor?" he asked, opening the door after a voice called out from within. "Cover the rest of my class for me, yeah? Just collect their parchments and send them home. Something's come up."
"Yeah, sure, Harry," the voice said.
"Are you mad?" Draco asked.
Ignoring his question, Potter said, "There's a little pub just 'round the corner. The publican is a Muggle, but his daughter is married to a wizard, and since they're so close to the Ministry, they've got a back room for wizards."
"I am not one of your adoring fans, Potter—not to mention the fact that it's half one in the afternoon."
"Fine. You have a cuppa, and I'll have a pint."
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.oOo.
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A short while later, Potter and Draco were seated across from each other in a booth tucked into the back corner of the pub. In front of Potter stood a tall glass of dark ale. In front of Draco sat a cup of tea he had no intention of drinking. He didn't know what Potter was thinking, but he himself was wondering what in the name of Merlin they were doing there and why he hadn't refused point blank and returned to the manor—or for that matter, why he didn't just get up and leave right now.
Potter took a long draught from his glass. He left a bit of foam on the corner of his mouth and raised a hand to wipe it away. At Draco's look of disapproval, he reached for a paper napkin.
Crumpling the napkin into a ball, he asked, "What was his name?"
Draco did not want to talk to Potter about his son; the man was as good as a stranger to him.
"Scorpius," he responded after several seconds.
"Your family does like astronomical names."
"What do you want, Potter?" Draco asked. He had no interest in discussing his family's preference in names or any other matter with the man. "I do have things to be getting back to."
His potions research would still be there regardless of what time he returned to the manor, of course, but what he had to do with the rest of his day was none of Potter's concern.
"Okay, look," Potter said. "After Gin died last year, it was, I was . . . It was real bad. The kids . . . Molly and Arthur . . ." He bit his lip and wrapped a large, calloused hand around his ale, although he did not raise the glass. "I was the one with the dangerous job. She was the one always worried about whether I might not come home one night. She stayed home with the kids. She was the one who was supposed to be safe. She'd just gone out to run a few errands . . ." Potter ran a hand over his mouth. "It was real bad."
Draco was a lot of things, but heartless he was not. Sighing, he touched the cup in front of him. "I'm sure it was," he offered in place of condolences.
Potter drew a long breath. "The hardest was our anniversary, you know? "
Draco stared into his tea and swallowed. He did know.
"It was always our day, just the two of us. We'd've been married ten years, and we'd made plans to celebrate, but then the day came and . . . When you say your vows, you promise yourself to this person until death you do part. You don't realise it can happen so soon."
Potter raised his glass.
"Scorpius would have been five yesterday. His birthday is the worst. Every year. We should be celebrating another year older . . . We should be instructing Kebby what cake he would like. We should be marking his height on the back of his bedroom door. We should be watching him open his presents. But he's not here.
"I go—I go somewhere there will be children. Just to watch them play for a little while. Rather like rubbing salt in the wound, I know, but there it is."
Draco covered his mouth with his hand. He had no idea why he'd shared that with Potter. He'd opened up a door he'd always kept closed tight, preferring to keep his grief to himself. He expected Potter to ask what had happened, but he did not.
Uncomfortable after having shared something personal, Draco fidgeted in his seat. He sniffed and took the handle of his teacup between his thumb and forefinger, turning it a bit one way then the next on its saucer. He could see Scorpius' fragile little body so clearly.
"He was born too soon. He was so tiny I could've held him in the palm of one hand." He paused a moment, remembering, and twisted the signet ring on his left hand. "My ring could've slid all the way up his little arm. That's how tiny he was."
"How long did he live?"
"Six days," Draco answered. "His skin was so thin, it was transparent. His lungs were severely underdeveloped. They used special spells to help him breathe. And to feed him—he couldn't suck or swallow on his own. His muscles were too poorly developed." Draco sat back, his fingers on the edge of the table. He didn't know why he was telling Potter any of this, but once he'd started, he found it hard to stop. Maybe there was something to the Healers' advice to talk about his loss with someone who could relate. Potter's children were all alive and well, but no one could argue he didn't understand loss. "Weak as he was, though, he fought to live, the little bugger."
It felt like it was five years ago. Draco could almost hear the mediwitches and wizards voices again, telling him to talk to Scorpius, to let him hear the sound of his father's voice. One of the mediwitches, he couldn't remember which, had handed him a Muggle children's book, and he had started to read.
The door to the back room opened and a group of people came in, talking loudly, and just like that, the mirage of the NICU in Toronto was gone.
"By the end of the fifth day, though, it was clear he was failing." Draco pressed his palms together, sliding his hands against each other for a moment before laying them on the table. "The Neonatal Healer talked to me. I had to decide what to do."
Potter reached out and squeezed Draco's hand. It would have helped to have had someone to hold his hand like that five years ago when he'd had to tell the Healer to stop treatment.
"I sat in a rocking chair and held him. As bad as it was, it was really very peaceful. I think that's
why I don't find that day as hard to face as the day he was born, how peaceful he looked."
Draco let out a breath and pushed the teacup aside.
"I think I will take that pint."
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.oOo.
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The grandfather clock chimed five times, announcing the hour. Narcissa Malfoy paced the length of the drawing room; she twisted her hands together in front of herself with growing urgency on every pass.
Her husband's portrait hung quietly on the wall. He'd tried to calm her with assurances, but when she'd finally threatened to send him to a Muggle boot sale if he said one more word, he'd wisely fallen silent.
Draco had been gone far longer than a luncheon meeting and a stop off at the Ministry could possibly account for. Had Potter caused trouble? Surely not. The man was not cruel. Had someone else? The war had been over for fourteen years, but old sins cast long shadows. There was still a large segment of the Wizarding population who would not bat an eye at shooting a hex at the back of someone they blamed for the atrocities suffered by so many, particularly if that someone's surname was Malfoy.
The Floo came to life in the reception hall just outside the door to the informal drawing room with a loud Whoosh, and a moment later, Draco's voice called out, "Mother?"
"Finally," Narcissa whispered under her breath. Quickly, she settled herself in her favourite chair and retrieved the embroidery she'd abandoned earlier. "In here, dear," she answered in a perfectly calm voice that betrayed none of the anxiety she'd felt a moment earlier.
"I'm sorry to have been gone so long," Draco said as he joined her.
"Nonsense. You are a grown man. You need hardly keep your mother informed of your every movement." She pulled a strand of sage green silk through the linen, adding a highlight to the leaf of a rose. "Your meeting with Petherbridge went well?"
"It was fine." Draco leaned heavily against the back cushion of the sofa and closed his eyes. "He agreed that the leaves of the aconite plant could possibly create a much more potent Wolfsbane Potion compared to the flowers, if I could just find a way to counter their toxicity and keep them from killing the drinker without rendering the potion useless, that is."
Narcissa knew Draco was determined to find a way to cut the needed seven doses of Wolfsbane down to only one. He considered it his personal mission to reduce the suffering endured by victims of Fenrir Greyback and others like him. It was part of the penance he'd set for himself.
"He must see real possibilities in the idea to have discussed it at such length."
Watching him from beneath her lashes as she pushed her needle through the fabric once more, Narcissa caught the slight stiffening of her son's pose in response to her words.
"Draco?"
"I wasn't with Petherbridge all this while," he said as he sat up straighter. His eyes flashed toward her then away. "I . . . was with Potter."
Narcissa abandoned the pretence of her embroidery and hurriedly pushed it aside.
"What? All this while? But, why?"
Draco stood up and walked around the room, picking up various little trinkets and setting them back down.
Incredulous, a hundred questions swam in Narcissa's mind. She had rarely seen her normally self-possessed son so visibly disconcerted. She hardly knew what to make of his behaviour. No one had ever been able to get under his skin quiet so efficiently as Harry Potter, and it seemed that was a skill the other wizard still possessed.
"I explained . . . about Scorpius and gave him the book I'd bought—he has a boy about the same age . . . the same age Scorpius would have been. When I made to leave, he came out into the corridor after me and . . . we ended up going for a drink." He gave half a laugh. "He can make one talk when one has no intention of doing so. I do believe he would have done well in Slytherin. Who could possibly have guessed it?"
Whilst Draco's back was to her, she turned to Lucius' portrait. They had discussed their concerns for their son's future many times. He was only thirty-one; he had so much of his life to live yet. He needed to get out of the manor, to be among people. There was no one in the Wizarding world who held the sway that Harry Potter possessed. Being known to have been out with Potter socially could open doors for Draco that had been firmly barred shut since the war. It could be his reintroduction and acceptance into society.
Cautiously, Narcissa rose and crossed the room to where a late eighteenth century silver tea service had been laid. Striving for a casual tone, she asked, "Tea?"
Draco answered in the negative.
"What else did you and Mr. Potter talk about?" she asked, resuming her seat and placing a teacup and saucer on the table beside her.
It was so long before Draco answered, Narcissa wondered if he would not. He appeared reflective, pensive.
"This and that. He—he mentioned his late wife, talked briefly of what it was like when she died." Draco looked towards the windows leading out to the terrace. The rain had let up earlier but it now returned in full force. "I told him about Scorpius. Not—not everything."
It did not escape Narcissa's notice that Draco's hand had drifted to his abdomen. Male pregnancy was an extremely rare occurrence; the potential existed in only a small number of pureblood families. Although there were a number of theories ranging from the romantic to the dark, no one knew how or why the phenomena began, only that it could be traced back to one man from whom every family who possessed the trait was directly descended.
It also required, obviously, that the man who possessed the ability also possess the necessary inclinations—a man could not become pregnant alone any more than a woman could. To say that learning of the circumstance under which they were to be grandparents had been a surprise would be something of an understatement, but it hadn't mattered. The war had driven their priorities home in a way they would never forget. Their son was to have a child, and they were to have a grandchild.
"After that, we just . . . talked," Draco said. "Nothing of any great consequence. You know, just talk."
Narcissa resumed her embroidery.
"Did you discuss your potions research?"
"Er, yes," he said, distracted. "Briefly. He seemed quite interested, but Potions never was Potter's best subject."
Suddenly, Draco ran a hand over his face. "They have his hair," he said.
Not understanding, Narcissa looked up from her embroidery and asked, "I'm sorry. Who has whose hair?"
"Potter's boys. He said they both have his hair." Draco lowered his eyes. "I've often wondered whether Scorpius . . ." He breathed deeply. "Well, it does no good to wonder. I think I'll do a little work in my lab before dinner. See if I can't detoxify those aconite leaves. Send Biddy down when dinner is ready, would you?"
"Of course, dear," Narcissa said as Draco all but fled the room.
She turned to Lucius' portrait and saw the surprise she herself felt visible in the lines of her husband's face.
"Well," she said.
"Well, indeed."
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.oOo.
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"Hmm."
Draco raised his eyes from his reading. "Mother? What is it?" he asked.
Having finished breakfast, his mother and he were lingering at the table over their coffee. One of the journals he had been left by Severus Snape—gold mines of invaluable information—was open in front of him. It had been no secret the man had been a gifted potions master, but no one had guessed at the true scope of his skill. His journals were nothing short of revolutionary; his theories and experiments, his alterations and alternatives were genius. Draco had been studying Professor Snape's comparisons of the toxicity of various species of mistletoe and the means of counteracting that toxicity for use in potion making when his mother's soft hum had caught his attention.
In her hand, Narcissa held a sheet of parchment. To most people, his mother was unreadable; but Draco understood the subtle signs others did not. She was conflicted. Whatever was written on the parchment had affected her. Draco was curious. One could say that neither of them had a wide circle of correspondents, but he did not think she was entirely surprised this parchment had arrived. That being said, it was clear she was uncertain what to do now that it had.
"I've received a letter," she said unnecessarily, folding the parchment in half.
"Oh, yes?"
"From my sister."
She held the letter in her hand as if about to pass it to him, but she did not hold it out for him to take.
"Oh," Draco said. That certainly explained his mother's lack of surprise at the letter's arrival. His mother's long-estranged sister, Andromeda Tonks, was Potter's godson's grandmother. He should have realised the likelihood of Potter's relaying their conversation to her. And of course, what could his aunt do then but write expressing her condolences? As deeply divided as the sisters were, they'd had limited contact in the years since the war, and there had been a couple very awkward and ultimately failed attempts at reconciliation. He closed the journal he'd been reading. Uncomfortable at having someone he had only laid eyes on a scant few times in his life know something so deeply personal about him, Draco said, "It's not as if I had asked him to keep what I told him in confidence." And it's not as if either of them know the whole truth, he added to himself as he rested his hand on his stomach under the table. Even if his aunt was aware he possessed the ability to conceive and carry a child—which, as a Black, she very likely was—there was no reason at all for her to suppose that that was in fact what had happened. "What does she say?" he asked.
"Deepest sympathies. Terrible loss. Had no idea. What one does say on such occasions." His mother hesitated. The hand holding the letter moved an inch in his direction only to be drawn back. "There is more. Perhaps—perhaps you should read it yourself," she said, having decided and holding the letter out for him.
Draco took the letter from her and read it through twice before laying on the table. He understood is mother's uncertainty.
"An invitation."
"Yes."
"To a picnic."
"Yes."
"At her home."
"Yes."
"Tomorrow week."
"Yes."
Draco tried to gauge his mother, but she was a closed book, even to him. That alone spoke volumes to him. It was not often his mother felt the need to hide what she felt from him. Her sister's letter had affected her more deeply than he'd realised.
"What do you think?" he asked.
She poured herself more coffee and added milk and sugar. "I don't know what to think," she answered.
Some rivers simply run too deep to be bridged, he remembered her saying after the last of the failed attempts to rebuild a relationship between the sisters. In spite of the very deep divide between them, he knew his mother wanted her sister back in her life, at least to some degree. He was afraid, though. He did not want to see her disappointed again. Perhaps she'd been right that last time. Perhaps the river running between them was simply too deep to be bridged.
Draco looked towards the frame his father's portrait typically inhabited in the breakfast room. It was empty. He would have liked to have his father's input.
Picking the letter up, he read it once more. His aunt wrote that Potter would be there with his children as well. Draco looked up from the letter. As he had been doing since running into Potter at the play park, he thought of a little boy playing on the swings.
He returned his attention to the parchment and thought for some little time. His mother was alone in the manor all day, every day. He lived there too, of course, but his case was different. He had his potions work to occupy his thoughts, and he spent most of his day in his lab. His mother had only a few idle pursuits to fill her days—needlework, the gardens and greenhouses, a few watercolours now and again. He worried about her. She needed activity. She needed people.
Right then.
Folding the parchment along the crease, he handed it back to his mother. "Well, I think we should go."
"You do?"
"Yes. Certainly. Why should we not? In fact, I think it would be rude to refuse."
"In that case, I shall write that we accept her invitation right away."
Draco drank his coffee.
"Perhaps we should have Kebby prepare one or two of those little iced cakes she makes so well. The children will like them," he said.
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.oOo.
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At daybreak on the anniversary of the day her grandson died, Narcissa lay in her bed. There were a number of days she dreaded seeing dawn every year, but there were none she dreaded more this day, although she knew that, for Draco, the worst had been six days earlier. She rolled over and looked up at the canopy above her bed. Five years ago on this date, she and Lucius had woken up grandparents, then that horrible emergency intercontinental Floo call had come—the second in under a week—and they no longer were. Her heart ached for what they'd all lost. If there was some spell that would have allowed her to trade her own life for that of her grandson, she'd have cast it in the beat of a heart, but there were things that no magic in the world could manage.
Narcissa rolled over again and punched her pillow three times, a ritual that, having got no sleep, she'd done time and again all night long.
As she did every year on that day, Narcissa lay in her bed until mid-morning. She did not call for Biddy to bring her morning tea; she had no appetite. When finally the majority of the morning had passed and the sun was high in the sky, Narcissa rose and dressed. She made her way out of the manor and across the grounds toward the Malfoy family mausoleum at the westernmost edge of the property where she knew her son would be sitting, keeping a silent vigil. There she joined him, placing her hand on his shoulder and standing behind him for a short while before moving to sit beside him.
Draco reached for her hand, and raised it to his lips, kissing the back of her knuckles.
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.oOo.
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The day of the picnic arrived bright and clear. Finding himself genuinely looking forward to the afternoon, Draco made his way to the manor's kitchen. How many years had it been since he'd last snuck into the kitchen to beg their kitchen elf for some treat or other, he wondered? It had been one of his favourite things in the world as a young child. He'd thought he'd been so clever at hiding his forays to the kitchen, sneaking down under his parents' noses for an extra little something. His parents had known all along, of course, and his mother had given Kebby strict instructions on what he was and was not allowed as a treat, but as a child, he'd not known that. That he'd thought he'd been getting away with something had made the sweets Kebby gave him all the sweeter.
Slipping into the long, rectangular room unnoticed, he watched as his former cohort in crime put the finishing touches on the iced cakes he'd requested.
"Oh, well done," he said as the little elf charmed the last sugar Snitch to hover over the surface of the cake. Draco inspected the iced cakes their kitchen elf had created according to his requests.
"Master," Kebby responded, curtseying so low he feared she might topple over. He was not the only one to get older in the intervening years. Kebby was not as young as she had once been Draco realised with a pang.
"Good heavens!" Narcissa cried from behind him.
"What?" he asked.
"Mr. Potter does only have three children, does he not?"
"Too many?" Draco asked, looking at the selection of cakes he'd asked Kebby to prepare.
"There are a dozen."
Yes, there were quite a few, but they were rather small, Draco reasoned. Hardly larger than fairy cakes—well hardly larger than particularly large fairy cakes, he admitted. And how could he know what flavours Potter's children might like? Better to cover all one's cauldrons.
"There is Teddy Lupin, as well, remember," he pointed out. "He'll be a teenager now."
Draco missed the look that appeared on his mother's face as she watched him supervise Kebby's preparing the cakes to be taken to the picnic.
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.oOo.
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"Giddy up, horsey! Giddy up!"
Lily Potter's laughter carried across the garden like the musical sound of wind chimes. Teddy Lupin was on his hands and knees in the grass; the little girl sat astride his back, her hands gripping the back of his shirt. He raised himself up at an angle, hands reaching out in front of him like the front legs of a prancing horse. A deep braying "Neigh!" mixed in the air with the child's high pitched laugh as she toppled off and fell backwards.
"Oh!" Narcissa exclaimed as she jumped to her feet.
"She's perfectly well, Narcissa," Andromeda said. "See?"
Rather than landing hard on the ground, the child bounced as if jumping on the bed.
"There are cushioning charms all over the garden. Harry's children are very active." Andromeda smiled approvingly. "Lily, in particular, is very rambunctious. Now, Al there," she indicated a boy sitting in the middle of a flagstone patio, close to where Draco and his father were stood, and playing contentedly with multi-coloured building bricks, "is more sedate than his brother and sister. He's the quietest of the three."
The sisters watched as Lily remounted her steed.
"Mother certainly never would have allowed us to tumble around on the ground," Andromeda remarked out of the blue.
Surprised by the reference to their mother, Narcissa's posture stiffened, and she did not immediately respond. On the limited occasions the sisters had met after the war, there were several topics which were simply not brought up. Of these, their parents, if not at the very top of the list, were not far from it. After several seconds, she replied, "No. No, she certainly would not have."
Andromeda's fingers absently fondled a pendant she wore on a long gold chain. She held her head high. "I believe that is why I approve of it so strongly. Children should get their robes dirty. It's good for them."
"Perhaps," Narcissa conceded.
"My Dora was forever up trees or under furniture or Merlin knew where." She smiled serenely as she slid the pendant back and forth on its chain.
"My Draco as well," Narcissa ventured to say, a smile of her own turning the corners of her mouth upwards.
"Harry tells me your Draco is trying to improve the Wolfsbane potion," Andromeda commented.
"Yes," Narcissa replied, allowing herself to relax more. She didn't pretend to understand the complexities of Draco's potions research, but she talked with enthusiasm of his ideas.
"You should be very proud," Andromeda said.
The words were simply stated, but they carried great meaning. They were a pillar upon which a bridge might be constructed.
Narcissa breathed easier. "As should you," she said.
The Black sisters sat together more comfortably than they had in over thirty-five years.
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.oOo.
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Draco stood beside Potter in the back garden. He felt anxious and protective as he watched his mother and aunt sitting together on the small back porch, although they seemed to be getting on better than on previous occasions, he thought. No voices had been raised, if that was anything to go by. "What do you reckon they're talking about up there?" he asked Potter.
"Merlin knows," Potter responded, turning his attention to the two women. "No wands, though, so that's promising."
Draco said that his own thoughts ran much along those same lines.
In front of them, the little boy Draco had seen on the swings sat playing. A little farther off, but still close enough for his father to keep a watchful eye on him, the eldest Potter child rode a training broom, flying roughly three feet off the ground in determined pursuit of a Snitch.
The little boy Draco had seen on the swings came running up to them, holding up a very colourful arch he'd built for his father's approval. "Daddy, look what I made!" he said proudly.
"It's brilliant, Al," Potter responded, ruffling the little boy's hair.
Draco's chest felt tight. It was remarkable how much the little boy resembled his father—the same eyes, the same face de-aged. The elder brother had Potter's hair, but that was where the resemblance ended. The younger brother, however, was Potter in every detail.
"Al, show Draco what you made."
Holding his creation up, the child turned to Draco with a wide smile on his face that showed off this gap in his teeth where the front two on top had fallen out. His bottle-green eyes glittered.
"It's wonderful."
Pleased with their reactions, the child returned to his bricks.
Draco watched the little boy as he built another arch. He then set up both arches—one as a starting gate and the other as the finishing line—and played with two toy cars, pretending they were racing, the Vrrroom Vrrrooom of the engines and Eerrrr of squealing tires carrying to were Draco was stood.
"Is it some sort of sticking charm on the bricks?" Draco asked Potter.
"Nope. No magic at all. They're Muggle, actually." Potter retrieved a small number of extra bricks. "They stick together with these little pegs. They fit into tubes on the bottom of other bricks."
"Ingenious," Draco said, impressed.
Potter laughed.
"What's so funny?' Draco asked defensively.
Potter held his hands up as if in surrender.
"Nothing at all. I just get a kick out of you being impressed by Lego bricks."
James came running up to his father, his training broom slung over his shoulder, the Snitch held tightly in his hand. His face was sweaty and flushed, and he was breathing heavily. Draco revised his opinion. This boy was every bit his father.
"Daddy! Can we have cake now! Please!" the boy pled. "I'm starving!"
Al abandoned his bricks at the sound of the word 'cake' and joined his brother.
"I reckon so." Throwing a glance at Draco, he added, "Merlin knows there're enough of them."
"They're small," Draco insisted. "Practically fairy cakes, really."
"Bloody big fairies," Potter said under his breath.
"Lily! Teddy! Come on! Daddy said we can have cake now!" James yelled, running ahead of them and easily outpacing his brother, who followed several steps behind.
Potter waved his wand over the piles of bricks, and they swept up into the air and fell into a large plastic box shaped like the bricks themselves.
"You have lovely children, Potter." Draco said wistfully as he watched them bounce up and down in front of the table pudding had been set out on as his aunt cut the cakes.
Bent over, fitting the lid on the box, Potter looked up and over his shoulder at him.
"You can call me 'Harry' you know."
Suddenly uncomfortable, Draco shuffled his feet.
"I think the universe would collapse in on itself."
Potter—Harry—smirked, and Draco was as struck by the expression as he'd been when he'd first seen it in the pub.
"I think the universe will survive just fine. Stranger things have happened." He straightened up and looked toward his children. "Thank you, though. I am rather fond of them myself." He chuckled. "I know they say siblings are nothing like one another personality wise, but those three? One minute they could be carbon copies of each other, then the next I ask myself if we didn't bring one or more of the wrong children home from hospital."
Walking towards the house, Harry said softly, "They enjoyed the book, by the way."
"I'm glad."
"We go to that play park quite often, you know."
Draco's stomach twisted. He inhaled sharply.
"No. No, I didn't. I hadn't the least idea you would be there. If I had—"
Potter scratched his head. "What I meant was . . . I wanted to say, if you'd like, you could come with us sometime."
The doubt Draco felt must've shown on his face, because a moment later, Potter—Harry—said, "I mean it. Come out with us sometime."
"Why?"
Harry shrugged. "Why not?"
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There's chapter two! I hope you liked it. Chapter three will be up in a couple days.