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Disclaimer – This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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Two days later, Harry Potter was stood in his kitchen, an untasted cup of tea in his hand as he looked out the window. He hadn't slept well the night before, and he yawned. He'd dreamt that Teddy had arrived at Beauxbatons, bright eyed and thrilled to be there, only to be turned away. The condescending "Ah, but 'ad we but known . . ." of the faceless wizard from his dream still rang in his ears.

They'd been enjoying a stretch of warm, sunny weather recently, and the sky above was pale blue and perfectly clear. Not a single cloud could be seen for miles in any direction. As Harry stood staring out the window not drinking his tea and hardly noticing the weather, a single dark speck against the background of uninterrupted blue caught his well-trained eye. It was so small, that for one brief moment he mistook it for a bit of dirt on the glass until the speck began to get bigger.

An owl.

Setting his tea down hastily, Harry hurried outside. He received very few owls at his home; most often, his friends and business associates contacted him by Floo. This had to be the expected response from his letter to the director of the Quidditch school.

The bird was a pale barn owl with a distinctly heart-shaped face and dark eyes it fixed on Harry expectantly as it landed on his patio table. He rushed forward and retrieved the letter from the owl's leg, tearing it open unceremoniously.

Dear Mr Potter:

I am taking this opportunity to write to you regarding the concerns you expressed in your letter and assure you that, while certainly understandable, your fears are unnecessary. At Beauxbatons, we pride ourselves on the fact that any magical child who wishes to learn has always been, and always will be, welcome.

Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The letter went on for a few more lines, but a reproachful hoot from the delivery owl startled him and pulled his attention from the rest of what had been written. The critical gleam in the owl's unblinking eyes reminded Harry of a hotel bellboy he'd once seen in a Muggle film, standing with his white-gloved hand held out and rubbing his fingers together after bringing a guest's luggage to his room.

"Oh!" Harry exclaimed. He jumped up, the letter clutched tightly in his hand. "Right. Sorry." He kept a supply of owl treats in his garden shed for the rare times he received something through the post, and he fetched the bird a large handful, tossing them on the patio and telling the bird to enjoy.

Harry watched the bird eat, not missing a single crumb, before taking off into the sky again. A nice cuppa was sounding much better to him now than it had before, and he returned to his kitchen. Some eggs and bacon sounded good, too. Harry was surprised to find just how hungry he was all of a sudden. Maybe some sausages and fried bread as well, do it up right. With the help of a few handy greenhouse spells, he already had some lovely tomatoes nice and ripe in his vegetable garden . . .

It wasn't until after Harry had made and eaten a large breakfast that he returned his attention to his letter from Beauxbatons. After the part he'd been most interested in, there was a sentence or two about his payment having been deducted from his account at Gringotts—nothing he hadn't already known there. Another line explained that an information packet would be sent to the parents or guardians of all confirmed students in a few days' time—again, that was something he'd already known. The registration form had stated as much. Harry read on. The school's cancellation and refund policy was explained—something that had also been on the reservation form.

In the last lines of the letter, the school's director had reiterated his prior assurances, going so far as to say that the writer was personally looking forward to welcoming Teddy to the school.

Having received the assurances he had wanted, Harry had already begun to lower the letter when the name of the writer fully registered with him. After a double take that would have been funny to see had anyone been there to see it, he sat and stared at the signature.

Respectfully Yours,

Draco Malfoy

Flying Instructor, Beauxbatons Academy of Magic

Malfoy. Now there was a name Harry had neither heard nor thought of for ages. There had been a couple of times immediately following the war when he'd wondered where Malfoy and his mother had gone, but never in anything more than a passing way, and it had been several years now since he'd given the other wizard a second thought. To suddenly encounter the man again was rather a surprise.

Harry reread the letter a second time. He couldn't deny that every word read sincerely. It struck Harry that it was Malfoy who'd stated so unequivocally that he personally looked forward to welcoming Teddy—the grandson of his mother's disowned sister.

Still . . .

Harry rubbed a hand over his forehead then rested his head in his palm. He wasn't proud of it, but he had to admit he wasn't sure how he felt about Teddy attending a programme run by Malfoy. Moreover, he had no idea how Andromeda would feel. Not once in the last ten years had she mentioned her sister or nephew. She might well refuse to allow Teddy anywhere near Malfoy.

The sudden chiming of his Floo announcing a caller pulled Harry from his thoughts, and he looked at his watch, afraid he'd lost track of time. He had a big afternoon planned, and being late for Rose would never do. It was okay, though. It was barely gone eleven o'clock, and he wasn't expecting her till half past. He had plans for him and his best girl that afternoon, and he grinned in anticipation.

A woman's voice called to him from the flickering emerald green flames.

"I'm here," he responded as he crossed the room.

"I know it's a little early, but someone's anxious to see her Harry. She's been asking if it was time to go since she opened her eyes this morning," Hermione explained. "Is it alright if I bring her over now?"

Rose Weasley was his best friends' firstborn and his goddaughter. They'd had their second child recently, a little boy they'd called Hugo, and Harry'd promised to watch big sister Rose for the day so they could have one some one-on-one time with the new baby—and maybe the hope of catching up on some sleep when he napped.

Harry answered that it was fine, and a moment later the flickering flames shot six feet tall and Hermione stepped out of the Floo with a small child held in her arms.

"My Hawwy!" three-year-old Rose Weasley exclaimed, giggling and bouncing in her mother's arms as she stretched her hands out for Harry.

Hermione set her daughter down, and the moment her purple, light-up trainer clad feet touched the ground, she sprinted into Harry's arms.

"You my Hawwy," she said, poking him in the nose with her finger.

"You my Rosie," he replied, grinning and touching the tip of her nose.

"You my Hawwy," she said again, putting her hands flat on his cheeks and squeezing Harry's face.

"You my Rosie," Harry said. He kissed her chin before setting her down and giving her a pat on the bum.

"I heard from the Quidditch school this morning," he said to Hermione, his tone and expression conveying more than his words had.

"Oh," she said with a quick glance at her daughter, who had begun digging through a box of her toys Harry kept in his living room as if she was searching for buried treasure. "Don't tell me they—"

"No," Harry said quickly. He could see his friend's hackles rising, ready for a fight. "The director said he was personally looking forward to welcoming Teddy." As he spoke, Harry gave her a very pointed look. He enjoyed Hermione's confused expression for a moment—it wasn't one he was accustomed to seeing.

"Oh," she said again. "Well, that's good then. What's the problem?"

Harry exhaled. He scratched the back of his head. Was he making dragons out of flobberworms? "I don't know that there is one," he said. "I may be making something out of nothing. Tell me what you think," he said as he handed her the letter.

Hermione began reading, the confusion on her face increasing with every line. She read the last few sentences out loud and held the parchment out for Harry to take. "I don't understand," she said.

"Read the rest."

"There is no more."

"Yes, there is."

Hermione looked at the parchment again, flipping it over.

"The signature," Harry said. "Read the signature."

"Draco—oh." Hermione's face went slack. "Oh," she repeated, staring at the parchment much the same as Harry had done.

"Exactly. Oh."

Hermione pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and hesitated before saying, "Yes, that does rather—well, not change things, or rather, it shouldn't, but . . . It is a surprise. Have you told Andromeda?" she asked.

"It's only just come."

The two friends were quiet; the only sounds to be heard were Rosie playing with a doll, brushing its hair and telling it all about the animals at the zoo she would see with her Harry that afternoon.

Hermione was one of his oldest friends, and Harry valued her opinion over anyone else's. He'd testified in Malfoy's defence at his trial ten years ago, but this was something different. "Does it? Does Malfoy running the thing matter? It shouldn't, but does it?"

She didn't answer. Her hand moved to her right forearm, where Harry knew a scar spelling out the word "Mudblood" could still be seen if the light hit it at the right angle. He was sure the movement was subconscious. His hand sometimes drifted to one of his own scars, too.

After nearly a full minute, she shook her head slowly, but resolutely. "No. No, it doesn't." She held the letter out for him to take back.

Watching his goddaughter play, Harry took the letter from her and nodded his head in agreement. Ultimately, it would be Andromeda's final decision—Teddy was Harry's godson, but she was his grandmother and legal guardian. But for Harry, his decision had been made.

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"Tu as fait du très bon travail," Narcissa said to her son, her arm folded through his as they strolled along a path through the gardens surrounding Beauxbatons. All around them, construction crews were busy transforming a sizeable portion of the extensive grounds from their normal expanse of lush green lawns to the score of temporary, quarter-sized Quidditch pitches needed to hold practices for all the students who'd been enrolled. Where his mother and he walked, though, there was only the sound of gravel crunching under their feet, the sounds of construction drowned out by row after row of neatly groomed hedges. The familiar sound of footfalls on a gravel path reminded Draco of days spent running through the gardens at Malfoy Manor as a child. People spoke different languages from one country to the next, but the sounds that surrounded them daily, whether the song of a bird or wind chimes blowing in the breeze or gravel crunching underfoot, were the same.

Mon dieu!, Draco thought to himself. It was not like him to get hung up on such romantic nonsense. "Je peux ne m'attribuer tout le mérite," he replied as his mother stopped to admire some tall, rich purple irises. Not that he'd ever taken particular note whilst living there, but he rather thought there had been some just like those in the gardens at the manor. "Il y a beaucoup de gens impliqués dans l'organisation."

"Bien entendu. Je veux bien le croire," she agreed. Something in his expression must've caught her attention. She had been about to say something else but it died on her tongue, and she studied him for several long seconds. "Darling, you are not still thinking of François, I hope," she said in a tone that was simultaneously both blunt and regretful. "I had hoped that with so much to attend to, you might have put him out of your mind."

Draco's jaw clenched at the mere mention of the man's name, but no, he hadn't been thinking about François. Potter's letter had become the more dominant distraction. "Non."

"Then what is troubling you? It's no good denying it. Problems with your retired Quidditch players? I know you anticipated difficulties there."

He didn't answer immediately, but he knew he must. It was, after all, the reason he'd owled his mother to come have lunch with him today. "I received a letter regarding a student two days ago. From England," he eventually said as they continued down the path.

"I see." Narcissa turned her eyes away and kept her focus straight ahead, but the tightening of her arm around his betrayed the emotion that she did not otherwise allow to show. "I'm sure you have received several. This particular one stands out in some way?"

"Perhaps we should sit down," he suggested as he gestured towards a stone bench just in front of them.

"Oh, my," Narcissa said. "If I need to sit down, it must stand out rather significantly."

"Rather, yes."

Sitting herself and adjusting her robes to give her hands something to do and her eyes somewhere to look, she said, "Alright. I'm seated."

Draco inhaled and said, point blank, "It was from Potter."

Narcissa's surprise showed clearly on her face for a split second, but she regained her well-practised look of indifference quickly. "Mr Potter? Indeed? Well, that is a surprise. I'd no idea he had a child that age."

"He doesn't. The letter was concerning his godson."

"A Weasley, no doubt."

"No. Not a Weasley." Draco pulled the letter from the inside breast pocket of his robe. "A Black," he said.

Narcissa's shock was too great even for her self-control to mask, and her hand flew to her mouth.

"Although . . . regretfully brief . . . it seems my cousin's union produced a child." Draco held the letter out for her to take, and she snatched it from him.

Other than the rapid movement of her eyes as they darted across the lines, Narcissa was motionless as she read. Three times she read the letter before slowly refolding it. She lay her hands on her lap, still holding Potter's letter. Her eyes stared at a topiary beside the matching stone bench directly opposite them.

Draco had known the letter would affect her; however, it seemed he'd underestimated just how much. If his mother showed even an inch of distress, she felt a mile. He tried to imagine how he would feel in her circumstances had he had a brother or sister. Perhaps he ought not to have told her. It wasn't as if anything had changed with the arrival of Potter's letter. The other man hadn't even known to whom he'd been writing, and now that he did—Draco was certain Potter would have received his response by now—it was likely Draco would be receiving notice of the boy's withdrawal from the school very shortly.

"Maybe I shouldn't have—" Draco began to say.

"Non," Narcissa cut him off. She gave him a small smile and reached out for his hand, holding it tightly before releasing it again. "Justes cieux," she said. "Andromeda, grand-mère."

Draco could not remember his mother ever saying her estranged sister's name. It had been his father who had told him what had happened all those years ago, that his mother had had a sister who'd run off and forsaken her family, marrying a Muggleborn. At the time, Draco had scarcely been able to imagine anything more shameful—though Merlin knew he knew better now. Both he and his mother did. Draco reflected on her acceptance of his attraction to other men as opposed to her own parents' absolute disavowal of their daughter for her choice of husband. He liked to think his father would have accepted him as well, had he lived, but he could have little doubt as the reaction his grandparents would have had.

"I'm glad you showed it to me," Narcissa said as she smoothed her robes. "Andromeda, a grandmother," she repeated. "It's funny, but, you know, I still imagine her as a headstrong twenty-year-old. She must be, heavens, she was fifty-five in December. She looked . . . very like Bellatrix, you know. Remarkably so. One could quite mistake one for the other, at least upon first glance." The tone of his mother's voice had picked up minutely, but fell again. "But, no. You wouldn't know that.

"And the boy," his mother continued, looking at the letter again, as if she might have forgotten, although Draco was sure nothing could have been further from the truth, "Teddy. Edward. They named him after his grandfather." Narcissa fell silent after the mention of her sister's late husband. The man had been killed by Snatchers, but Draco knew no details. From the boy's enrolment form, Draco knew he'd been born in April. He wondered how long before the birth of his grandchild and namesake the man had died. Had he even known a grandchild was on the way?

Narcissa shivered as if cold, although the day was quite warm. She rallied her spirits, refolding the letter and handing it back to him.

"Have you written back?" she asked.

"I have."

"What did you say, might I ask?"

Draco returned the letter to its envelope, which he placed in his robe pocket once more. "I replied that I was personally looking forward to welcoming the boy."

"And are you?"

"Yes, I am," he said resolutely, although he was unsure how his mother would feel about it. Her tone had given nothing away. "Not that it matters," he added. "I expect to receive word he will not be attending after all any day."

Narcissa patted his hand before standing. "I rather think not," she said. "Mr Potter has never given me the impression he was one to back down, and I can assure you my sister has never backed down in her life. Oh, no. I am quite certain you will be receiving young Mr Lupin as scheduled."

They resumed their walk through the garden in silence until his mother said suddenly, "I've never told anyone, but I've written to Andromeda a number of times since her marriage. Not even your father knew."

Draco was astonished. He'd had no idea his mother had remained in contact with her sister.

"Quite angry, scolding letters, at first. I told her how silent and withdrawn our father had become and how our mother's eyes were often red because of what she'd done, and I asked her how she could have been so selfish. In time, I wrote and told her I'd accepted Lucius' hand. I could understand her actions better by then. She loved that man as much as I loved your father." His mother touched his face briefly. "I wrote when I learned I was expecting you and then that you had been born. When our father became ill, I pled with her to come see him before it was too late. Years later I wrote and told her mother had died." She lowered her eyes. "The hardest letters to write were those expressing condolence for her losses." His mother raised her eyes and breathed deeply, wrapping her arm around his once more. "Perhaps the time has come to post something."

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I hope you liked chapter 2!