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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Narcissa sipped her tea thoughtfully the next day as she sat across the table from her son during luncheon. The picnic had gone quite well, she reflected. So well, she dared to hope the long division between her sister and she might be ended, to some degree at least. At the very least, it had been a step in the right direction.
And on top of that, there was Harry Potter.
Narcissa hoped with all her heart that seeing a young father his own age with his children might prove to be the catalyst to Draco's getting out of his potions laboratory and back into life. He was only thirty-one, but by the time one reached Narcissa's age, one realised the speed with which years turned into decades when one wasn't looking. She was inordinately proud of his devotion to his work, but like any parent, she wanted more for her son. His work would not run up to him to show off some new creation or with a broom slung over its shoulder, begging for cake, as Potter's sons had done. Nor would it ride on his back laughing for him to "Giddy up!" as Potter's daughter had done.
As she continued worrying over her son's future, a very young elf appeared with a distinct pop and held a small silver plate up to Draco. "A letter is come for Master," the elf said.
Draco took the letter, and the elf vanished.
Narcissa watched him as he looked at the letter and set it down, only to pick it up again. When he'd repeated the actions twice more, she suggested, "Perhaps you should open it."
"It's from Potter," Draco said.
All the more reason for him to open it without delay, Narcissa felt, although she didn't say so.
Without opening the letter, Draco remarked in a low voice, "Al is a sweet child, did you not think so? Quiet, Potter said. His name is Albus Severus, did you know?"
"The Prophet reported on it at considerable length when the name was made known."
"Sycophants."
"Yes, quite," she said. A moment later, resisting the urge to strum her fingers on the table, she added, "The letter?"
Draco broke the wax seal with the air of a man expecting bad news. He looked over the letter for an inexplicable length of time—Draco and Potter had only spoken twice now in fourteen years, how much could the other man possibly have to write about?
Needing something to keep her from asking what the letter contained, Narcissa sipped her tea.
She waited in growing impatience until finally, refolding the letter and slipping it back into its envelope, Draco said, "He said he is taking the children to Diagon Alley for ice creams tomorrow evening and asked if I would care to join them."
"How lovely," she responded with carefully measured enthusiasm and restraint. Being seen publicly in Harry Potter's company could lead to potential openings back into Wizarding society for Draco that they could not have dreamt of only a few days ago.
At the same time, Draco said, "I shan't go, of course."
"For pity's sake, why not!" Narcissa cried out, setting her cup down so heavily that tea sloshed over the rim. Her chest heaved, and the hand lying on her lap clenched. To have such an opportunity presented to him—literally on a silver platter—and waste it was more than her well-practiced air of stoicism could tolerate.
Draco looked at her with the same wide-eyed look of disbelief he'd given her on the rare occasions she'd not allowed him something he'd wanted as a child.
"I have my potions—"
"To Circe with your potions!"
"Mother!"
Narcissa dropped her face into her hands. She took two deep breaths. Pressing her hands together in front of her, she rested her forehead against them like someone praying to their god.
"You know how important my research—"
"Yes, Draco, I do. I apologise. It did not mean to suggest otherwise—but there is more to life than work. Surely, one evening spent at leisure will not derail all your hard work. I realise Mr. Potter might not be the most—" she shook her head as she searched for an acceptable word, "—refined wizard in the world, but he is certainly the most influential. Your being seen in company with him in so public a place as Diagon Alley—"
"At Fortescue's, Mother. You remember Florean Fortescue, don't you? Murdered by Death Eaters, wasn't he? Because he wouldn't cooperate? Can you imagine the scene that would arise were I to walk in the door?"
"As a member of Mr. Potter's party, no one would dare say a word to you," she implored. "On the contrary—Potter's opinion carries tremendous weight. If people see that he has accepted you into his circle, to actually include you in an outing with his children—Draco, you must see that the rest of society will follow his lead! Think of the opportunities that would then open up to you! You could claim your proper place in our world! You would enjoy a respected position! Your company would be sought out! Think of what your life could be!"
"There is nothing wrong with my life as it is," Draco insisted.
Calm yourself, Narcissa. You must control yourself, Narcissa warned herself. She took a moment before going on.
"There is nothing wrong with your life other than that it is passing you by while your head is bowed over a cauldron," she said bluntly, her voice deep with emotion but her tone level. "You are young still, Draco, but you will not remain so forever. I have two wishes in my life, two things I wish to see happen before I die—"
"Mother, you are not going to—"
"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I am. We both will. It is the folly of youth to think one has all the time in the world; age has learnt better. There are two things I wish to see happen which would give me peace. The first is to reconcile, to whatever degree possible, with my sister, Andromeda.
"But as deeply as I would like to accomplish that before it is too late, it is nothing in comparison to my second wish, which is to see you leading a rich, full life, and to see you with a family of your own to share that life with."
Draco recoiled from her words as if they were physical blows.
"Your mother is right, Draco," came the deep baritone of Lucius' voice from his portrait on the wall.
"Not you, too," Draco said tiredly. "Have I ever suggested that I am not content with my life as it is?"
"We do not wish to see you merely content. We wish to see you truly happy," Lucius said.
"I want to see you find someone to make you happy. It is not the position or the prestige that being seen with Harry Potter might bring you that I care about—the days when those things mattered are long gone. It is only the chance to find someone to love that those things could afford you that matters to me now. Your research is important, of course, but you cannot share your bed with it. "
"Mother!" Draco cried in embarrassment. "I do believe I have heard enough!"
Draco sprang to his feet and threw his napkin on his plate. He shot from the room like a spooked rabbit.
Narcissa threw her own napkin on the table as if in imitation of her son and sat back heavily in her chair. She turned to her husband's portrait.
"I do miss you, Lucius. So very much." Exasperated, she added, "Why must grown children act so appalled that their parents are aware of the existence of sex? How do they think we became their parents in the first place?"
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.oOo.
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Down in his potions lab, Draco sat at his desk with his head bent over one of Professor Snape's journals. He'd been staring at the same page since he'd opened the damn thing and still hadn't read one single line. He couldn't even see the words written on the parchment. All he could see was a little boy with wildly messy black hair, sparkling green eyes, and two missing front teeth. Draco pushed the journal away and rubbed his eyes.
Behind him, his father's portrait cleared its throat from within the small frame he'd mounted in his laboratory for his father to visit him whilst he worked.
"I am sorry if you were embarrassed."
Without turning, Draco said, "You do both realise that were I to find this person it would be a man, do you not? My male lover would be welcomed into the manor with open arms, I expect."
"We did figure that out when you wrote to tell us you were expecting a child, and that you yourself were carrying the child. Please do give us a little credit. We are not so old we forget how children are conceived. And as for welcoming him—yes, we would."
Draco turned to his father and folded his arms in front of himself. He thought of the worst man he could possibly ever develop feelings for and threw the name at his father. "And what if it was Potter? Would even he be welcomed? Maybe whilst he and I were talking at my Aunt Andromeda's picnic, we were making secret plans to elope."
"Nothing would surprise me more, seeing as he was married to a woman to whom he was clearly devoted. But if he were the one to make you happy, yes, he would be welcomed."
Draco grit his teeth. He turned away from this father and drew a long, shaky breath.
"Does Potter's behaviour not strike either of you as slightly odd? Do you not ask yourselves why a man who has never shown the least interest in my company should suddenly show such an interest? Should suddenly be inviting me out for drinks and to have ice creams with him and his children?"
"I do not pretend to understand the workings of a Gryffindor brain. They are unpredictable beings."
Like a petulant child being made to do something he did not want, Draco said, "Fine. I shall write and accept the damn invitation if it will make you both so happy."
"I would perhaps not word your response in quite that way."
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.oOo.
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Stepping out of the Floo in the middle of the Leaky Cauldron, Draco's senses were assaulted by every sight, sound, and scent that filled the busy pub. His stomach churned with nerves, and he checked the hood on his robes to make sure his features were hidden, but he couldn't deny his body thrummed with the magic pulse of the place. The Leaky Cauldron was as dark and shabby and as crowded as he could remember it ever being, but his long absence had unquestionably made his heart grow fonder. Feeling remarkably nostalgic, he remained near the Floo until his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. It had been years since he'd been in the place, and longer still since he'd seen it the warm, convivial place it was at that moment. He skimmed the crowd for a familiar face, unsure whether he did or did not want to see one. The matter was decided for him when he caught a glimpse of the witch behind the counter, a woman his age with long blonde hair and a smiling, welcoming face. A woman whose mother had been killed in her own home by Death Eaters early in their sixth year. Draco turned on the spot, ready to step back into the Floo.
"Hey, mate," a voice said from next to him. "You comin' or you goin'? Make up your mind, already, would 'ya? You're blockin' the Floo."
Draco hurriedly stepped aside and allowed a portly wizard to enter the Floo. He took a step back further and bumped into one of a number of wizards standing in a group and talking loudly, all with drinks in their hands.
"Sorry. Sorry," Draco said hurriedly.
"No harm done," the wizard responded in a jovial manner. He clapped a hand down Draco's shoulder before returning his attention to his companions.
The crowded pub that had stirred up feelings of nostalgia in him just moments ago now felt stifling hot. It felt like there was not enough air to breathe, and the walls appeared to have drawn closer, shrinking the space. Draco sprinted across the room towards the back door. Once outside, he slammed the door shut and fell against it. He breathed in great gulps of the evening air as if he'd been underwater for too long. If he had a lick of common sense, he told himself, he'd Apparate straight back to the manor.
Then he shook himself. Are you a grown man or some frightened little Firstie?
Maybe his parents were right. Maybe being seen with Potter would make a difference in people's attitudes. Maybe his mother would be able to once again stroll down Diagon Alley, to do something as simple as chose new robes in person rather than by owl order, to have tea, to shop at Madam Pimpernelle's.
He also thought about Henri, the way his hands had felt on Draco's skin. Five years was a long time to go without feeling another man's hands on him. His relationship with Scorpius' other father had not been serious, but it had been intense. And before him there had been a long line of others. What Draco wouldn't give to climb into his bed every night and curl up next to someone . . . His bed was awfully big for just one person.
With new resolve, Draco pushed himself away from the door. He pulled his wand and tapped the same bricks in the wall in front of him he'd seen his father and mother do innumerable times. He took a deep breath as the bricks rearranged themselves, opening an archway into the world Draco had not set foot in for fourteen years.
It surprised him that there were so many people. Had there always been that many and he'd just never noticed?
A thread of anxiety wove its way up his spine, but he broke it and stepped through the archway. As he heard the bricks rearranging themselves into a solid wall, Draco stepped forward and lowered the hood of his robes. If he was going to do this—he was damn well going to do it.
Draco walked down Diagon Alley in the direction of Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. He kept his head held high as he heard a succession of gasps; he kept his eyes straight ahead as whispers followed in his wake. It was with a deep sense of irony that he realised he was modelling his posture after Potter's on the night of the Battle of Hogwarts, when the boy-hero had walked bold-faced into the Great Hall in front of the entire student body and stood tall as Voldemort called for him to be handed over.
The gasps and whispers grew louder the further down the alley Draco progressed, and the louder they grew, the harder it was to keep his posture straight. It was a relief when the road curved and he saw the ice cream sundae-shaped sign hanging on the bracket beside Fortescue's front window, and as he pulled the door open and the loud chatter of the patrons fell abruptly silent, it was an even greater relief when Potter's voice called out to him, "Oy! Draco, over here!"
Potter took a spoonful of a very large sundae and pointed at him with it.
"You just won me ten galleons from Ron. Thanks for that."
Relief turned to dread—had Potter's invitation been nothing but a bet with his friends to see whether Draco would show up?
"I told him you'd walk in with your hood down. He thought you'd have it up."
Reluctantly, and looking around them at the staring faces and gaping mouths, Draco admitted he'd had it up when he Floo'd to the Leaky Cauldron.
"The Leaky doesn't count. We said 'walk in the door'." Potter's attention drawn by the size of the spoonful of ice cream his daughter scooped up from the sundae that the two were sharing, he quickly snagged the spoon from the child's hand. "Oh, no, you don't," he said as he deposited three quarters of the ice cream on the spoon back in the bowl. He handed the spoon back to the child. "There you go," he said as he stroked the back of the little girl's head. "You remember these three. Larry, Curly and Mo," Potter said as he pointed to each of his children in turn. "Stooges, say hello to Draco. Draco is Aunt Andromeda's nephew," he reminded them.
Two ice cream-covered mouths said hello.
Potter's elder son ate a child's ice cream sundae of his own served in a Snitch-shaped bowl. Feather-thin wafer cookies fluttered from the sides of the bowl when it was served, Draco remembered from his own childhood. His spoon looked like a miniature broom.
Rather than say hello, Al blew bubbles in whatever drink he had in a cup advertising Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle. The cup being almost full, the bubbles spilled all over the table.
"Al!" Potter yelled as he grabbed a napkin.
The child laughed an adorable little-boy laugh and raised the cup to his mouth to drink after his father took his straw away. When he lowered the cup his entire upper lip was covered with foam.
A lump formed in Draco's throat.
Potter's daughter, young as she was, took advantage of her father's distraction as he wiped up the spilled bubbles to snatch another much-too-big spoonful of ice cream.
Draco couldn't help but laugh. "Er, Potter?"
"What? No! Lils!" Potter took the spoon from his daughter and again returned most of the ice cream to the bowl. "That's too much, sweetheart. Here you go."
Potter's eyes moved over his children, one to the next to the next, as if he was trying to anticipate which of them would try something next.
Draco laughed harder. It was the eldest's turn, he reckoned.
"Don't encourage them," Potter said, still watching his children. "Laughing at a child is like dangling a Galleon in front of a Niffler." He turned to Draco about to say something else, but his expression changed and he closed his mouth.
"What?" Draco asked. He felt distinctly wary, but he could not honestly say why. Nothing about Potter's behaviour was offensive; but something made goose pimples breakout on the back of Draco's neck.
Potter suddenly looked away and wiped ice cream off his daughter's chin.
"Nothing. It's nothing," he said. "You just look very different when you laugh like that."
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.oOo.
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Draco returned to the manor over two hours after he left it, and in notably better spirits. He joined his mother in the drawing room, and dropped onto the sofa with a soft oof.
In her best Did I not tell you so? tone and without lowering the book she held, she asked, "Did you have a nice time?"
Draco rolled his eyes but admitted that he had.
"That's good, darling. I am glad—Draco?" she asked, setting her book aside, her tone changing dramatically. "What is that all over the front of your robes?"
"Relax, Mother. No one threw anything at me, if that's what you're worried about."
"Of course I wasn't—What a thing to say—I can't think why—"
"Narcissa," Lucius' portrait said.
His parents exchanged a glance, and his mother relaxed back into her chair.
Lightly prodding at the sticky mess on the front of his robes, Draco felt like a child who'd been caught dirtying his dress robes. "There's this Muggle concoction called a root beer float, and, er, well, it can be rather messy." He didn't add that it only became so when blowing bubbles in it through a straw with a five-year-old when said five-year-old's father's attention was diverted. "And you know what rubbish I am at cleaning spells."
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.oOo.
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"You can't be serious," Hermione said to Harry. She looked to Ron in disbelief.
"I am," he answered. Harry took a forkful of his steak and kidney pie. "Root beer and ice cream all over himself."
The three friends had met for lunch at the same pub he had taken Draco to the day after they'd run into each other at the play park.
Ron's eyes widened to the size of saucers, and he stared at Harry before erupting into fits of laughter.
Hermione's lips twitched, and she raised her napkin to her lips in an attempt to conceal the grin she could not fight.
"I'm sorry," she said in a strained voice. "I don't mean to laugh. I truly don't. I'm sure he was very embarrassed. But—I—He—"
Harry was glad he and his friends had long ago grown accustomed to casting the Muffliato spell over themselves when speaking together in public. He could only imagine the rumours that would start flying if the rest of the patrons in the pub could hear his friend's stomach-clutching laughter. As it was, he was still seething from the article Rita Skeeter had penned in the Prophet, coming up with one hundred and one hare-brained theories—each one worse than the last—as to why the Chosen One would have deigned to allow a known supporter of Voldemort to keep company with his children. The article hadn't surprised him—Merlin knew that woman lived and breathed to spread lies—but it had got under his skin.
"Oh, my ribs! Oh, I can't breathe," Hermione gasped. "I can't breathe."
Ron wiped tears from his eyes.
"Don't you think you're over doing it just a bit? He spilled a drink on himself."
"Spilling a drink on yourself because someone bumped your arm or because the cup slipped is one thing, mate. Spilling a drink on yourself because you were blowing bubbles in it like a five-year-old is quite another."
Okay, Harry admitted. He gave them that.
Calming down and catching her breath, Hermione said, "I still just don't understand why you're all of a sudden so interested in spending time with Malfoy, Harry. I mean, of course, I understand . . . after he told you about his son . . . And of course, Andromeda does want to be reconciled with her sister, and that necessarily involves Draco to some degree. But still . . . going out for ice creams? It's just a bit—odd. It's just so out of nowhere."
Harry pushed the food around on his plate before answering.
"When we talked over a couple pints, I just, I guess I just found him interesting to talk to. He was so passionate about his potions research. Most of the time he lived in Canada, he lived in Muggle Toronto. His parents were trying to get permission from the Canadian government to join him there, to be there when the baby was born. He's just—he's not the same person he used to be, and I think the person he is now is someone I like being around."
And there was his laugh, Harry thought to himself. Harry believed you could tell a lot about someone by the way they laughed. Draco didn't laugh the way he had in Hogwarts—a scornful, cruel crowing laugh. He laughed the same way Harry and his family and friends did—honestly, a laugh of enjoyment at being with someone rather than at someone's expense.
"Well, mate. I trust your judgment," Ron said. "If you say Malfoy's an okay bloke now, that's enough for me." The same competitive look that always filled Ron's eyes when Quidditch was brought up filled them now. "The Slytherin brain . . . Cunning, ambitious, clever. Reckon he's any good at chess?"
"Oh, Ronald." Hermione sighed indulgently.
"What?" he asked.
"Hermione," Harry asked very seriously, "are you okay with it?" He didn't need to explain; he knew both she and Ron understood what he meant. They'd all suffered during the war, but it had been Hermione who had been tortured on the Malfoys' drawing room floor. He'd genuinely liked the time he'd spent with Draco, but next to his children, there was no one in the world who meant what Hermione and Ron did to him. If the idea of his befriending Draco was too painful to her, he would not pursue it.
Ron put his hand on his wife's shoulder.
Hermione took her time before answering. In time, she spoke in a slow, soft voice, saying, "We all know what they suffered in Voldemort's rage after we escaped. That is enough. Bellatrix is dead. Lucius is dead. Let the war be dead, too."
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.oOo.
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Draco was sat at his desk in his laboratory, poring over Professor Snape's journals. He'd combed through every book ever written on the subject of advanced potions brewing. He'd searched out every periodical ever published. So far, he'd found nothing to give him the first clue of how to detoxify the aconite leaves—at least not without rendering the potion completely useless. He'd owled Professor Slughorn and was waiting for a response he was not entirely sure would ever come; the Malfoy name hardly held the prestige Slughorn favoured so strongly. He hoped, however, that his goal was ambitious enough to intrigue him. Slughorn was one of the most eminent potion brewers alive, and he had connections within the field whose combined expertise and experience Draco could never hope to rival. If Slughorn ignored his letter, Draco didn't know where to turn next.
Closing the journal he'd been reading for the umpteenth time in hopes of finding something he'd previously missed, Draco sat back. He rubbed his eyes and stretched his aching neck, turning his head this way and that.
An owl tapped at the top of one of the tall windows that lined the west-facing wall.
Startled, Draco grabbed his wand and opened the window for the bird to enter. He held his breath—was this Slughorn's response so soon? He dearly hoped it was.
The bird was a fine looking tawny owl that circled once around the room before landing on the corner of Draco's desk and holding its leg out for him to retrieve the letter it carried. The bird rotated its head, as if scoping the place out.
"Don't have much call for owl treats in potions brewing, I'm afraid. But, how about this?" Draco ruffled the feathers at the back of the bird's neck and stood up. He retrieved a jar from one of his shelves. "Feast on a couple of these," he said holding two rat spleens out for the bird, who snatched them from his palm. Stretching its wings out impressively, the bird took off and soared out the open window.
No response expected, then, Draco thought. Not promising, that, but not a definite 'that's that, then' either. The envelope was thin. It couldn't hold more than a slip of paper. As Draco broke the wax seal, he told himself Slughorn would very likely have only written a line or two at first to say he would discuss Draco's problem with his colleagues and be in touch.
Pulling the single bit of parchment, Draco read:
Draco,
Taking the Stooges to the park after tea. Say around six, if you're interested?
Harry
Draco's arms fell to his sides. He read the letter again before throwing it in a drawer in frustration. Sitting down and sighing, he reached for another of Snape's journals.
As he read the tightly scribbled script, Draco thought of the man he'd thought he'd known but hadn't really. To love someone as deeply as Snape had loved Potter's mother, Draco couldn't imagine it. Lovers, he'd had several of. Someone he loved, never.
He thought more and more of Professor Snape, his bravery and devotion, but he also thought of his isolation and joyless existence.
Draco thought of Al Potter. The child exemplified such simple happiness.
Draco thought of the night-and-day existences of Professor Snape and Harry Potter. He thought of his own life. With sudden and shocking honesty, he asked himself which man's life he wanted his own to resemble.
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.oOo.
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"Daddy! Higher!" his daughter begged.
"This is high enough, Lils," Harry responded, reaching his hands out to push her again as she swung back towards him. All three of his children, rather uncharacteristically, were playing on the swings at the same time. He rather wished he'd brought a camera.
"No! Higher! Higher like Dames!"
"James is older than you, princess."
Harry looked around as he pushed Lily again. There was still no sign of Draco, but they'd only been there a few minutes. He told himself the other wizard still might come.
"Daddy, push me, too!" Al pled.
It had already been a while since Al had needed to be pushed on the swings, but his children were getting too big too fast. Even his baby girl would roll her eyes at him soon enough—"Really, Daddy, I can do it myself," she would say to him. He took a step to his right and alternately pushed Al with one hand and Lily with the other.
With a loud holler to a friend who'd just arrived, James swung forward and jumped off when the swing was at its very highest point.
"James!" Harry yelled. He looked around nervously. It was a warm evening, and the play park was filled with Muggles, and just as another young child Harry had once seen in another man's memory had done, James had flown just a little too high in the air, stayed in the air just a little too long, and landed on his feet in the wood chips just a little too lightly.
A woman Harry had seen at the play park many times before came up and stood close to him. He cringed internally. This woman had recently taken to coming up to him and making small talk whenever they saw each other at the park. Jennifer, she'd told him her names was—not that he'd asked. She was hardly the only mother he saw at the play park who chatted with him, but this particular woman had a habit of standing too close, and last time, she'd touched his arm three times. That Harry still wore his wedding ring did not seem to deter her in the slightest.
It would be her who noticed James' stunt.
"Your little boy is quite the acrobat," she commented.
"Yes, he is," Harry said.
"Dames can fly!" Lily said enthusiastically.
Harry winced. His children occasionally slipped in front of Muggles and said something they ought not have, but at least Lily hadn't mentioned James' new broom.
"Yes, he certainly can," the woman responded.
"Yay!" Al cheered, beaming with excitement. "Daddy, Draco is here!"
After the root beer floats at Fortescue's a few evenings ago, Draco had made a friend of Harry's middle child. Looking quickly at his son, Harry followed the direction he was looking. Draco was indeed walking across the play park towards them, and when he reached them, Al gave him a wide grin.
"I'm glad you could make it," Harry said.
"I was working when I got your message. I decided an evening out of the lab would do me good," he said to Harry. He asked the children if they were behaving.
"How is the problem you're working on coming along?"
"It isn't."
"Daddy, I want Draco to push me," Al said.
"Okay." Harry moved over to make room.
Grinning, Draco stepped behind Al and raised his hands. When he swung towards him, Draco gently pushed his hands against Al's back.
"Oh," the woman gasped as she looked between Harry and Draco. She gave a sheepish sort of smile. "Can't blame a girl for trying," she said as she looked at Harry wistfully before hurrying off.
Draco watched the woman walk away, but Harry only watched Draco. When she was out of earshot, Draco said, "Sorry if I interrupted anything."
"Merlin, no."
"Daddy, I wanna play over there now," Lily said. She pointed to an area of the play park designed for young children and featuring a climbing frame designed like a castle, complete with bright yellow towers, and a climbing wall with different fruits and vegetables for the hand and foot holds. There was a bridge made of a fisherman's style net and a slide at just the right height.
"Me, too!" Al said, dragging his heels on the ground to slow himself.
Harry lifted Lily from the toddler swing and set her on the ground.
"Come on, Al!" she yelled, running off across the large play park.
As he and Draco followed dutifully behind, Harry kept an eye on where James was playing nearby with a bunch of other boys his age.
"You do know what that woman is thinking, don't you?" Draco asked, tipping his head in the direction Jennifer gone.
"I know. I'm fine with it. Hell, if it gets her to leave off trying to talk me up, I'm better than fine with it."
"Not ready for other women yet?" Draco asked in a low, sympathetic voice. He quickly added, "Not that it's any of my business."
Harry toyed with his ring. "I don't mind your asking," he assured Draco. "I don't know. I'm starting to think that maybe I'm getting there. I've even taken my ring off a couple times now—not for long, a few hours just, and only around the house. A year ago I would have said that that part of my life was over, and that I would never take this ring off as long as I lived. Gin was the centre of my world; she was my everything. I think, though, that recently I'm starting to think that maybe someday. You know. Maybe not today, but someday. If I find the right person. Gin and I were very happy together, and I miss that. Gin would be a tough act to follow, though. Someone would have to be very special. And sure as hell not someone who flirts with men wearing wedding rings."
A group of children ran in front of them, laughing and squealing.
"What about you?" Harry asked. "Anyone special for you since Scorpius' mother?"
"I've never been in love," Draco answered. Lowering his gaze, he said, "Scorpius was unplanned."
Feeling like he'd put his foot in his mouth, Harry changed the subject. While there was no one close enough to overhear, Harry asked, "No luck on detoxifying the aconite leaves yet, then?"
His face relaxing, Draco answered, "Oh, there are things I can add to counter the toxicity, that's not the problem. The problem is that any of those things would ruin the potion. Potion brewers at Petherbridge Potions are looking into it as well, and I've sent an owl to Professor Slughorn seeking his advice. If it can be done, someone will find a way."
That Draco seemed wholly unconcerned that someone else might manage it before him and take credit for his idea did not escape Harry's notice.
"Pity you can't just add a bezoar," Harry commented. "I've been thinking—"
Draco laughed.
"Stuff it, you," Harry said. "I had an old text book of Snape's in sixth year. He had all kinds of improvements and alterations written in the margins, and I've been trying to remember them in case there might be anything helpful. Remember when Slughorn taught us about—what was it? Galplath's Third Law or something like that."
"Golpalott."
"Right. Well, when I looked through the list of antidotes in the book, Snape had written 'Just shove a bezoar down their throats' across them."
Draco stopped in his tracks. He looked utterly gobsmacked.
Harry's eyes widened. "Bloody hell. That wouldn't actually work, would it?"
A full ten seconds passed before Draco came back to himself, and they resumed their course toward the climbing frame.
"It's not a viable solution, no. Consuming a bezoar on such a regular basis would be far too damaging to one's gastrointestinal tract ." Draco spoke in a soft voice, more to himself than to Harry as he ran through obstacles and possibilities like a student revising before an exam. "Added to the potion directly, powdered bezoar would nullify the poison in the leaves, but it would also react with . . . react with . . . " His voice trailed off as they reached the climbing frame. His face went slack, but his eyes were keenly alert.
Harry vacillated between keeping an eye on his children and watching Draco. He'd seen the look on Draco's face at that moment hundreds of times on Hermione's. He knew the look of one on the cusp of an important breakthrough.
Draco's hand went to his head, and he tugged on his hair. "Brew a tea," he said breathlessly. "Could it be as simple as brewing a pot of tea with the aconite leaves?" He pressed his hand to his forehead and looked at Harry. His speech was so rapid and disjointed, it was hard for Harry to follow along. "Bezoars are powdered before being added to antidotes because of their complete non-solubility because, in the case of an antidote, it's necessary for the bezoar to become part of the potion and be imbibed by the drinker. But I'm not brewing a potion for a poisoning victim. I don't need the drinker to consume the bezoar. Added to the potion whole—not powdered—and remaining entirely undissolved, a bezoar would detoxify the leaves—or at least I strongly suspect it would, because as you've just said, if being administered directly to a poisoning victim, a bezoar is given whole—but it would also affect every other ingredient in the potion, not just the aconite leaves. But I'm not trying to detoxify the entire potion—only the leaves. So why must the bezoar be added to the potion? I only need to add it to the leaves . . ." Draco grabbed Harry by the shoulders. "If I steep the leaves, I would get an aconite tea, that tea would contain all the properties of the leaves, the beneficial and the toxic. If I added a bezoar—whole, not powdered—to the tea, it could nullify the toxins and then be removed in its entirety, leaving no trace whatsoever behind to interact with any of the other ingredients, then, rather than adding the leaves themselves to the potion, I could add the now detoxified tea." He released Harry's shoulders and forcefully ran his hands through his hair, tugging furiously on great fistful at the back of his head. "I'd need to adjust the amount of water added to the potion itself to compensate, but that should be a simple enough alteration." Draco ran a hand over his face, pausing over his mouth. He looked at Harry so intently, Harry felt like he was unable to move and his breath stuck in his lungs. "Harry—I—I really think this could work. This really—this could really work." Draco drew the breath Harry could not and shook his head slowly, never breaking eye contact with Harry. "Potter, if I didn't know very well you would hex me inside out, I swear, I would kiss you right now." He covered his face with his hands and breathed deeply. "I have to go. I have to experiment. I'm sorry. Tell the Stooges I'm sorry I had to leave."
Draco hurried off but only made it four steps before turning and coming back. "Percival Petherbridge and Professor Slughorn, owl them for me, would you, tell them what I'm on to, ask their opinions?"
Draco hurried off again, that time making it only two steps before doubling back again. He was breathing like a marathon runner at the twenty-six mile marker. He shook his head again, more emphatically that time. He gave Harry no warning before he grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and kissed him full on the lips. "The hexing'll be worth it," he said.
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There's chapter 3! I hope you liked it! What do you think Harry thought of that kiss? Drop me a review and let me know!