A/N: Another installment. Reviews are love.
In which Draco gets defensive of his little brother . . . cousin . . . sibling . . . Teddy.
Merlin, they're going to kill him.
He only left Teddy alone for two minutes — two minutes while he paid for the special moon globe they bought — and he lost him. One hundred and twenty minuscule little seconds of having his back turned, and he's managed to go and lose their precious little boy.
They're going to murder him.
Draco emerges from the dark little shop in a swirl of bottle-green robes, frantically scanning the cobbled street for any sign of the eight-year-old boy. As he steps into the sunlight, shielding his eyes from the glare, he tries to conjure up an image of Teddy that morning — his outfit, his hair color; anything that will help him locate his wayward family member. A flash of blue glimpsed out of the corner of his eyes makes him whirl about, but it's only a parakeet in the window of the Menagerie, and he remembers the moment he sees it that Teddy's hair was green when they left this morning, his customary indication of enthusiasm. They all remarked on it, in fact, and Draco was secretly ecstatic that Teddy considered a day in his presence something to look forward to.
And now he's gone and lost him.
Think, Draco. If you were an eight year old boy in Diagon Alley, where would you go? Still watching the street with growing desperation, he runs through the options in his mind. They've already been exploring in the junk shop, and Teddy just bought his owl, Rufus, a packet of treats last Wednesday. Fortescue's? No; he promised they'll eat lunch at the Leaky Cauldron. Teddy knows better than to get himself in trouble for eating ice cream when he's got the promise of a big lunch hovering in the back of his mind. He's too conscious of the wrath of his three guardians to dare taking a step into Knockturn Alley, though Draco, true to his duty as an older brother figure, has promised him a glimpse of it regardless once he's old enough. Come on, Draco. What did you like most when you were a boy? Not joke shops, nor the print shop . . .
Quidditch! That's it, surely! Less anxious now, Draco makes his way down the street to Quality Quidditch Supplies, where sure enough, glancing in the window, he sees Teddy's bright green head bobbing up and down as he converses eagerly with another little boy over a newly minted broom of the Firebolt series.
Smiling in pure relief, Draco pushes open the door, hearing the magical bell tinkle to announce his presence. He hangs back for a minute, however; Teddy is engrossed in conversation, clearly showing off his superior knowledge of Quidditch regulations, and by the look of it, the other boy is impressed. Draco can't help but feel smug at the somewhat awed look on the kid's face; he's changed immensely since his Hogwarts years, of course, but he still can't help but love when his family proves themselves superior in any way. Survival instincts, he thinks briefly to himself, then scoffs at the realization that he sounds an awful lot like his aunt Bellatrix. He might suffer from lingering pureblood pride, but that isn't a level of obsessiveness to which he ever wishes to stoop.
Content to wait, he settles into skimming the titles of the Quidditch almanacs lining the wall beside the door, still half-listening to the intense conversation across the store. It's only after a minute or so, however, that a new voice joins in, and suddenly, the tone of the conversation shifts. It's subtle, but enough to attract his notice, and he jerks his attention away from the almanacs, frowning as he listens closely.
" . . . Ought not to be allowed in public, oughtn't they, Whitby? Give the rest of the world the wrong impression, they do."
"It's not like that; it's not like that at all. Please don't talk about them like that. You don't know them."
"Oho, protective, are we? How touching. Don't see why, though, as they're not your real family — not even a real family, anyway! Disgusting concept, that is; all of it. In fact, every last bit of it repulses me. How can a witch marry another, let alone two others, let alone their own blood? Merlin, that's revolting."
He hears Teddy begin to counter with something firm and polite, but by that point, Draco's had enough. In several quick strides, he's across the room, laying a firm hand on Teddy's shoulder. He towers over the two young wizards facing off with the younger boy, both of them around the age of Seventh Years, most likely, but small of stature. Not even Potter was as puny as these gits.
"There is a point, young gentlemen, at which sarcasm fades to ugliness and what was amusing at first becomes rather rude and tasteless," he breaks in smoothly, hard anger evident in his tone. Even Teddy notices it, he whom Draco has tried so hard to shield from nastiness, and he shrinks just the slightest bit beneath his older relative's grip. His hair has reverted to the pale gold Draco has come to associate with fear and vulnerability.
"Would you look at that? More blood traitor scum. You'd think once would be enough, wouldn't you, Whitby, but these bastards never learn." Draco glares at the boy, his pale eyes icy.
"I would thank you not to use such language in front of a younger child," he says coldly. "But while we're on the subject of blood traitor bastards, let me remind you that my family was once one that considered everyone else to be unworthy of its notice. You were but children at the time of the war, so I will grant you your ignorance, but it is time for you to pick up the slack left by your clearly incompetent elders. The era of wizarding nobility and blood traitors is over; the stigma that once ruled so many generations has been quelled. As soon-to-be inductees into our newly rebuilt society, you would do well to remember that." The boys stared up at him, a mixture of anger and bafflement tangled across their faces.
"It's wrong," one of them finally sneers, giving up on forming an eloquent response and reverting to petty contradictions. "A widow, a Death Eater's broad — a disgraced whore, if you will — and a gold digger. That's not to mention you. You're not his real family, any of you, and the way you people mingle your blood is an abomination." A low hiss escapes Draco at that, and he opens his mouth to respond, but before he can speak, a quieter, more composed voice beats him to the punch.
"Then they are more my family for choosing me," Teddy tells them lowly. He is calm, unruffled, and it throws Draco off immensely. "One does not choose who one is born to, and so are not guaranteed to love them, but one can be sure to love those whom they choose as family. And besides, for your information, most of them are my family; you ought to do your research more thoroughly if you wish to win any arguments with anything more than theoretical evidence."
Draco nearly laughs at that — it's just like Teddy to respond with cool and eloquent logic to such idiocy — but he restrains himself; his anger still burns.
The boys stand speechless for a moment, obviously uncertain of how to respond, before one of them finally mutters a half-audible pathetic, pansy-ass bastard, and Draco's fury simmers down into cold, humorless amusement.
"Really?" he asks cooly, rolling up the the left sleeve of his cloak. He's more than aware of the witch behind the counter and several other customers watching, one wielding an object that looks suspiciously like a camera, but he ignores them entirely. "I admit, I might seem to have rather lost the arrogance I was famous for in the days of the war, but tell me," he taunts, yanking back his sleeve fully to reveal the faded Dark Mark still branded on his forearm. The boys flinch. "Do this look pathetic to you?" When the boys are unable to manage to reply with anything but stunned silence, he gives them a satisfied nod and rolls his sleeve back down.
"That's what I thought. Come, Teddy. It's nearly one thirty, and if I'm not mistaken, I believe we have a lunch planned. And oh," he adds, turning back after having spun on his heel to leave. "Perhaps you are right that our family is somewhat convoluted. It's true, after all, that I don't know exactly what I am to Teddy." He pauses, eyeing them coldly with a stare he knows matches his mother's precisely. "But he is my family," he continues, and the pure ice in his tone makes both boys shiver. "And if you ever insult my family again, I will show you that the Blacks, while we may have tamed ourselves somewhat, have not lost our penchant for uncontested power, and I will show you a truly minuscule taste of it by hexing you until you resemble the Giant Squid and can't tell a Kneazle from a Snargaluff." The latter comparison he adds for Teddy's benefit, wishing to promise something darker but knowing that he should refrain from doing so, and grateful for the young boy's presence for reigning in his more violent fantasies.
They make their way back down the street to the Leaky Cauldron in silence, both lost in thought. They're quiet taking their seats in the small pub, and so subdued that Draco doesn't realize until he looks up to ask Teddy what he would like to order that he sees that the young boy has changed his appearance again. He's taken slightly aback at what he sees; heavy eyes, the golden hue of his hair almost muffled; blunt, subdued features that are almost distorted. His eyelashes are short and thick — stubby. It's an odd look, and it takes Draco a moment to accustom himself to it enough to ask why he's done it.
"It's my face," Teddy tells him, with a laugh that lacks just enough humor to make it slightly cringe-worthy. "My real face." Draco blinks in surprise. His expression must be conveying his thoughts, for when Teddy glances up at him, he lets out another low laugh. "Not very flattering, is it? I suppose I missed out on the famous Black family genes." Draco frowns.
"You're a Black," he says shortly. "Nothing's about to change that." Rather than countering his statement, as Draco expects, Teddy flushes a dark red and lowers his eyes to the tabletop. Draco chooses to let him be for a moment as the waiter stops by to take their orders. He considers not saying anything at all, knowing that Teddy is, for whatever reason, suddenly uncomfortable, but when minutes pass and the boy still doesn't look up, he abruptly leans across the table. "Bear Cub," he says kindly. "Look at me."
The nickname is what makes Teddy raise his head, a funny sort of half-smile edging its way onto his face.
"Bear Cub, what am I to you?" Draco asks him. Teddy's expression puckers in a bemused frown.
"You're my Dragon," is his matter-of-fact response. Draco smiles in spite of himself; it's been the way Teddy has referred to him since he was a toddler and overheard Narcissa making a comment about her "Little Dragon."
"Who cooks for you?"
"My Cissa."
"Who reads you bedtime stories?"
"My 'Mione."
"Who stays up with you every time you have a nightmare and are too scared to go back to sleep?"
"My Andy."
"And who tells you all the stories about your Mum and Dad?"
"All of you do." Draco raises an eyebrow solemnly, nodding to the waiter as their lunches are placed before them. Teddy turns his eyes to his pasta, grateful for a distraction.
"We're all Blacks, Bear Cub," Draco concludes as he reaches for his sandwich. "Even your Mione, by marriage. Harry is by blood. Your Mum was, too. Your Dad was best friends with Cousin Sirius and with Harry's father James. You're not just surrounded by us, Bear Cub; you are one of us." For a moment, Teddy seems like he wants to argue, but then the waiter swings by with an offer of more Butterbeer, effectively quelling all angst. Draco, sensing his bashfulness, tactfully changes the subject to Puddlemere United's dreadful season, and the remainder of their lunch hour passes without mention of their recent debacle. It's only when they're preparing to exit the Leaky Cauldron that the aftermath of their morning escapade catches up with them; upon deciding to spend the remainder of their afternoon browsing through Flourish and Blotts, they emerge from the pub to discover three witches descending upon them like a swarm of angry hornets.
Narcissa, Hermione, and Andromeda are stalking down the cobbled street, reeking of predatory intent, parting the thin crowd of afternoon shoppers like Moses and the Red Sea. All three witches are dressed in their work robes, hair done elegantly, carefully made up. They've clearly come from work, and judging by their hard expressions, they're in a temper about something. Teddy shrinks a little at the sight of them.
When they halt in front of him, Draco makes a weak attempt at a smile.
"Hi, Mum . . ." he trails off when Narcissa shoots him a stony glare. Andromeda takes a step forward, nose inches away from his.
"What in Merlin's bloody name were you thinking, Draco?" she hisses, and Draco takes a hurried step back.
"I — I, er . . ." he can't seem to come up with a dignified response, and perhaps it's just as well, for Hermione is glaring at him with a look that tells him all too clearly that nothing he can possibly say will suffice to settle their tempers.
"Upon the formation of this family, I was under the impression that we spoke about conducting ourselves with dignity," the brunette witch hisses. Draco sends her a skeptical look, only to shrink back when she fixes him with a cold stare. "What about brandishing a Dark Mark around in public indicates a dignified response?" Understanding floods him — they're angry with him for the way he handled the situation with the boys; they seem to be as yet unaware that he lost Teddy.
He shivers thinking of it, and quickly casts the thought away; Hermione may not be skilled in Legilimancy, but his aunt and mother are, and he has no desire for them to pry into any level of his thoughts.
"I . . . er . . . I didn't . . ." he tries and utterly fails to come up with an appropriate reply. In all honesty, he doesn't know what he was thinking — perhaps he wasn't thinking. He has to admit that when faced with such taunting, he momentarily slipped back into his old habits. Consideration didn't have much part in it.
"Didn't think, did you, Draco?" Andromeda deals the next blow coldly. He begins to form an indignant reply, then shuts his mouth. No, he didn't.
"No," he mumbles reluctantly.
"Speak up, Draco." When push comes to shove, Narcissa may be a sweet and doting woman, but Draco doubts that anyone who knows her has ever not been intimidated by her at one point or another.
"No, Mother, I didn't think," he repeats, standing up slightly straighter in a subconscious effort to gain their faith. It's not that he thinks they don't trust him — they do, or they wouldn't have let their precious little boy out of their sight for a moment — but the combined presence of these three no-nonsense, powerful witches makes him feel as though he has something to prove, nonetheless.
"There was a reporter in the shop who caught the entire altercation; I won't be surprised if you make the cover of the Prophet. You ought to have been — "
"More careful? Less like my father? If you have something to say, Mother, kindly tell it to me directly."
"I was going to say rational, but if you think your actions are comparable to your father's, then by all means, let us discuss your shortcomings."
"Cissa!" It's hard to tell which of her wives the shocked admonishment issues from; with the astonished looks they're both sending her, Draco supposes it doesn't matter. He'd like to think it comes from Granger, though; he's always found an odd sort of satisfaction in seeing his former classmate lord over his imperious and resolute mother.
"Honestly, Draco, you'd think that after all Lucius's nonsense you'd know better than to flaunt his old ways." Provoked, now, Draco begins to respond indignantly, but is cut off by Teddy.
"He was protecting me, Cissa," the boy pipes up quietly. "Those boys were being horrible; he had to respond quickly. He was defending our family." This, at least, puts something of a halt to Narcissa's tirade. With a slight frown, she falls back and eyes them contemplatively, as though deciding how best to angle a fresh approach. Andromeda speaks up, taking advantage of her momentary silence.
"What exactly were those boys saying, Teddy?" she inquires carefully. Teddy's expression is a stoic mask; Draco can tell that he's trying hard not to show how affected he truly is by the hateful words exchanged earlier in the day. The boy might be quite good at deflecting, and even better at calmly handling things beyond the capacity of most of the adults in his life, but his strong intellect and quiet introspection only makes him all the more easily wounded.
Draco wonders if anyone else has noticed the appearance he's currently wearing, and if they have, whether they're aware of its significance.
"The usual," is Teddy's nonchalant response, accompanied by a one-shouldered shrug. "That we're wrong, disgusting; not really a family. They're not very creative with their remarks, actually; it's not as though we haven't heard it all before."
"Actually, they really were quite rude," Draco adds in quietly. Narcissa, he notices, is a little more subdued with the thought of someone speaking ill of her family. The emotions flashing through her eyes seem unwilling to settle. "I believe the phrases 'disgraced whore' and 'gold digger' were employed."
At that, all three women draw closer together; he watches as they reach for each other, perhaps subconsciously, though in a movement clearly born of habit. The contact is mostly subtle — a hand on Narcissa's wrist; an arm around Hermione's waist. It's familiar, protective. Only their troubled eyes betray the true depth of their reactions, and Draco has to appreciate their resilience. Despite the oddity that their arrangement has always presented, it doesn't sap the vibrance of being of any of them; he doesn't think he's ever known three women he admires more.
"I'm sorry you have to hear such things, Teddy," Hermione breaks the silence eventually. Her voice is a little shaky, and Cissa and Andy both move closer to her in an automatic response to the audible tremor.
"It's unavoidable, Mione," Teddy waves it off. "Besides, I wandered off; today was my fault." Oh no; Merlin, Teddy. Draco cringes as the three turn back to him with sharp glares.
"You let him — "
"It was my fault, Andy," Teddy repeats, preventing her from finishing. His tone is firm enough to convey that this is the last he wants to hear of the subject, and hearing his silent plea, the three women seem to agree to let it go.
"Perhaps we should continue this conversation later," Hermione suggests mildly after a long minute of hesitant silence. "It's the middle of the day; the three of us ought to return to work." That appears to snap Narcissa and Andromeda out of their contemplation; both women straighten up, looking between their younger wife and their two boys, their eclectic, close-knit little family.
"I am expected back soon," Narcissa concedes. "We can all have dinner tonight; Draco, why don't you bring Harry along?" She's making a genuine effort to not spoil their interaction with discomfort after their slightly heated exchange; accordingly, he attempts to do the same.
"Of course, Mother," he acquiesces with a smile. "I'll see if Harry can take a few hours off tonight." She says nothing in reply, but offers him a true smile before landing each of her wives a swift kiss on the cheek, giving Teddy's hair an affectionate ruffle, and Disapparating. Andromeda swiftly follows, leaving them momentarily alone with Hermione. Draco watches his former classmate amicably; for a moment, they simply watch each other in silence until, with a rustling of robes, she steps forward and tugs him into a brief hug.
"Thank you." The words, though muttered, are audible, and he knows that she truly wants him to know that she's grateful. After more than eight years, they know each other better than they could ever have previously imagined; he knows how important this is to her, and that no matter the frustration she unleashes upon him, she considers him just as much her family as she does the others. Their family is everything to her.
In a way, he can understand the origin of the sentiment; the end of the war, while it brought immeasurable grief and devastation, also provided the possibility of a fresh start. In its aftermath, all were able to begin anew, and with that came wonderful opportunities. Risks that wouldn't otherwise be considered were taken without hesitation, and new alliances were formed.
Even now, eight years later, Hermione hasn't managed to locate her mother and father. As to whether or not they live she does not — will perhaps never — know. Yet she has them — her unconventional, helter-skelter family, and Draco knows that they mean the world to her. Having people who love her so intensely is a gift that he understands better than he can convey to her.
The thought almost makes him respond with an echoed expression of gratitude, but realizing that she hasn't specifically done anything to warrant it, he refrains, instead settling for a tight return of the hug and a murmured, "Anytime, 'Mione." She fixes him with a somewhat thin smile as she steps back, and anyone else might take it as grimness, but he knows, just as he knows the significance of the appearance worn by the boy beside him, that more gratitude and affection lies behind it than either of them would ever dare to display.
"Always the sap, Draco," she says snidely, though with a fond smile that rather ruins the effect, and he makes a motion to respond in kind, but she's stepped back already, arms falling back to her sides, and before the words can leave his mouth, she turns on the spot, and is gone.