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It starts, as most things in Draco’s life do nowadays, in a Healer’s office.
Healer Jason Brooks’ office, M.M.D., to be precise. Of all the offices in St. Mungo’s Hospital, Draco really couldn’t have landed in a better one. The floors here are a polished stone rather than that awful Muggle li-no-leum still installed in the downstairs waiting rooms, and Jason has even seen fit to add a sea-scape watercolor to his decor, which Draco can’t complain about—it gives him something to focus on while he presses a warm hand to his stomach and breathes through his nose.
Jason is more than a skilled decorator and a sweet lad, however—he’s a damn good friend. They went through the first year of Healer training together, before they specialized and he moved on to the Maternity Ward, leaving Draco behind in the emergency sectors. They still do weekly brunches and the odd breakroom tea together every now and then, and the one time Draco had come down with the Muggle Flu Jason had been the one to help him home.
Which is why Jason’s the only person apart from himself that Draco fully trusts with a wand in unorthodox places (which they both insist is not a euphemism). He’s kind, reliable, and most importantly— very discreet.
So, disregarding the excessive poking and prodding, Jason really doesn’t deserve Draco’s adverse reaction to his diagnosis. It’s just that he’s coming from a twelve-hour shift in Spell Damage, and he’s been eating poorly for days, and his stomach can’t seem to settle no matter how many potions he drinks. This is the cherry on a shite Monday.
“Pregnant,” Draco repeats. There’s an unpleasant shiver running up and down his spine. His arms ache suddenly, and his palms are wet.
Jason gives him a kind smile. It reminds Draco uncannily of Neville Longbottom, which makes him think about plants and vegetables, which makes him feel ill again.
“Congratulations.” Jason really sounds sincere, and he probably is. “It looks like this is a bit of a surprise for you.”
“I’m not on fertility potions.”
“Not all male pregnancies require them,” Jason says. Draco knows this—had known it when he and Harry started having unprotected sex years ago. But it’s rare, incredibly so.
He thinks he might be in shock. The textbooks don’t do it justice.
“You’re about four weeks along,” Jason is saying. “You have a well-developed magical womb, but your iron intake is low, which is not uncommon in male pregnancies.” That would account for his awful fatigue, then. “I’m going to prescribe you some nutrient potions that shouldn’t aggravate your stomach, and then we can go over the logistics of your general health and next steps. How does that sound?”
“Brilliant,” Draco says, and then promptly sicks up all over the floor.
It’s not himself that Draco’s worried about.
He hates children with a passion—sticky, sneazy, unruly little beasts, he calls them. His worst nightmare is the Granger-Weasley household on a Sunday. Their offspring are at least half-banshee. Pregnant women baffle him. He’s seen Hermione waddling around like an oversized quaffle with the most ridiculously pleased look on her face, and each time it’s taken every social skill in his arsenal not to comment on her sanity.
The point remains: Draco is not a baby person.
But this child—this is Draco’s baby. Jason hands him a poppy seed on his way out, and Draco nearly tears up. This is how big his baby is.
He has to sit in the waiting room for ten minutes clutching the little seed before he can even think about Flooing home. It’s so small that he nearly loses it in the creases of his palm several times. A witch with a sizable bump sits next to him at one point and asks him if he’s quite alright, and all Draco can do is hold out the seed to show her.
“Congratulations, love,” she says with a knowing smile.
Congratulations. That’s what Ron and Hermione will tell him when they find out. But for them to know, Draco has to tell Harry.
Easier said than done.
Harry is his best friend. That’s how they’ve introduced one another for years. Before they were dating they were best friends, and after they got married they stayed best friends. It’s disconcerting to some people, but some people can fuck off. Harry is his best friend.
Which is why it’s so difficult to come home.
Among many brilliant things, Harry is a doting Godfather and a wonderful Uncle to Rose and Hugo. There seems to be no limit to his patience, and his adoration for the little buggers is clear as day. But there’s a vast difference between occasional babysitting and having a child of their own. It’s not something they’ve even thought to discuss—they’ve only been married four years, and knowing Draco’s dislike of anything small and whiny, neither of them had thought to bring up having children.
Until now. Because Draco is keeping this baby, whether or not it’s going to upend everything he knows. With every passing minute he can’t think of anything he wants more, and the shift in his outlook is frightening enough in and of itself. What makes it truly terrifying is Draco’s unsettling suspicion that, regardless of all outward signs, Harry doesn’t want children.
Draco knows about the cupboard. He suspects Ron and Hermione do too. More importantly, however, he knows about the burns and the cooking and the cleaning. Knows about Dudley’s pampered existence (although Harry insists he’s an alright bloke nowadays).
“I can’t imagine it,” Harry had once said offhandedly. “Them trying so hard in one instance and so little in the other, and still managing to ruin both our childhoods. Seems like a nerve wracking ordeal, parenting.”
As Draco was happily fit and newlywed at the time and, oh, not pregnant , he’d wholeheartedly agreed. Now, the words put a sour taste in his mouth.
So like most unpleasant orders of business, Draco puts this on the back burner. He’ll tell Harry when the time is right, or when he stops sweating at the thought of it; whichever comes sooner.
In the meantime, Draco will pretend he’s not just had the most monumental experience of his life. He tosses the poppy seed over his shoulder, then immediately dives after it and spends several minutes searching the carpet in front of their hearth until he finds it again. He tucks it into his pocket.
Having concluded his brief burst of madness and introspection, Draco hangs up his cloak and wanders into the kitchen where Harry stands at the stove. He’s forgotten to take his wand holster off again. He must have just gotten home, and yet he’s already cooking.
Draco comes up behind him and leans against his warm back, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades. The day is catching up to him and he closes his eyes while he breathes Harry in.
“Hey, love,” Harry says, and Draco can feel the rumble of it in his chest. “You’re late today.” It’s a question, and this is Draco’s chance.
“Got held up last minute,” he says instead. Draco hasn’t lied to Harry in a while, but he can’t help the swoop of fear that makes him press closer to his husband’s back. “Jason needed help with curse damage in M.W.” It’s partly true. That’s how Draco had ended up on the examination table in the first place. He’d been complaining about how awful he was feeling even as he sorted a mother with a maniacally giggling belly.
“That was good of you. I’ve made stew, I hope that’s alright.”
Draco’s about to tell Harry how lovely he is for that, but the salty-sweet smell coming from the pot on the stove makes him feel both sick and anxious, or sick because he’s anxious, and he really can’t tell which it is.
“I already ate, actually,” he blurts out as he lets Harry go and steps back. “I think I’d rather just sleep.”
“You—oh, you did?” There’s a note of disappointment in his voice, but Draco would rather he be disappointed than have to clean sick up off their beautiful hardwood floor.
“We split some leftovers late in the afternoon,” he says by way of explanation.
“Wait, we?” Harry turns around in mild confusion, but Draco is already walking towards the door.
“Jason and I!” he calls over his shoulder. “I’m going to wash up and head to bed, that alright?”
Harry’s agreeing hum follows him out of the kitchen.
Draco thinks that might have been his first mistake.
It’s been two weeks since he found out, and Draco is no closer to telling Harry. He’s been in Jason’s office three times after work, milking him for information they both learned in Healer training and periodically freaking out into the box of tissues Jason seems to always have on hand. He told Harry he was meeting Hermione for drinks tonight, but he’s really getting his iron and magic levels evaluated.
“How’s the morning sickness?” Jason asks as he fills in Draco’s chart.
Draco groans. “A nightmare. I— it—” he stutters over the phrasing; it makes him feel warm and weird and excited to think about it “—it doesn’t like eggs. Who doesn’t like eggs?! And morning sickness is a bloody lie. It’s happening all the fucking time.”
Jason doesn’t comment on his language, but he does chuckle. “Every pregnancy is different. Your nausea is on the early side, but it’s nothing to worry about. Good iron, by the way. Your magical signature is nice and strong too. Have you been spending lots of time with your partner?”
“A decent amount, yes.” Draco doesn’t mention that he’s been avoiding Harry. Every time his husband comes in the room he feels overwhelmed with worry and love, and the mixture is unpleasant, to say the least. He’s both deliriously happy and terrified, and instead of abating as time passes, the feelings only grow stronger day by day.
“Excellent, keep that up,” Jason says. He sets his chart down and hands Draco a pamphlet. Magic, Motherhood, and Me is scrawled across it in glittering font. Draco scrunches his nose up. “Don’t make that face. Your baby is developing its magical signature. You’ll be able to feel it soon, and it’s important that you have magical support from the other parent while that happens. A magical conception, if you will.”
“You say magical an awful lot.”
“Get used to hearing it.”
Draco sticks his tongue out. He’s pregnant and fully justified in being immature.
Merlin, he’s pregnant .
Jason eventually shoos him out with a fresh batch of potions and a dozen more pamphlets. Draco Vanishes half of the papers and shrinks the rest before stuffing them in his pockets, wary of leaving something out in the open for Harry to pick up.
He doesn’t need to worry, however, because Harry barely pays his clothes any attention when he gets home. In fact, he seems singularly determined to get them off of Draco as fast as possible. As soon as he steps through the Floo he finds himself accosted with lips and busy hands. Harry shoves him up against the wall beside the fireplace, his nose buried in the crook of Draco’s neck as he pushes his shirt off his shoulders and works at his flies.
“Salazar, you oaf,” Draco laughs as Harry presses bruising kisses into his skin. “What brought this on?”
“Missed you,” Harry mumbles before claiming Draco’s mouth with a fierceness that makes him weak in the knees. He kisses Harry back as best he can, but he’s swept up in the storm of Harry’s firm grip and slick tongue, and he barely has the presence of mind to step out of his shoes before Harry is ripping off his trousers and pants.
With a sharp crack Harry Apparates them both to the bedroom, never breaking their kiss, and the next thing Draco feels is weightlessness as he’s tossed unceremoniously on the bed.
It’s like a bucket of cold water. His hand flies to his stomach. He knows— he knows he’s overreacting. Their mattress is soft, he’s barely six weeks along. But the strength of Harry’s hands against his hips, the press of lips against his sternum, it all fuels the panic growing in his chest.
Draco’s not even entirely sure what he’s frightened of. He’s not afraid of Harry. He’d never be. He’s not really nervous for the baby’s safety either. But he feels sensitive all over, lying exposed under Harry’s gaze, with a secret hidden right below the skin Harry is kissing so tenderly.
All Draco knows is he doesn’t want this right now—doesn’t want Harry touching him.
“Stop,” he whispers. “Stop, please.”
He doesn’t have to say another word. In true form, Harry freezes before the breath has fully left his lips. Draco can see the outline of his cock through his dark trousers—he’s already hard—but the look of flushed arousal on Harry’s face is quickly transforming into concern.
“Love, are you alright?” he asks.
He rubs his hand across Draco’s stomach in a way that’s meant to be calming, but that only makes Draco feel more upset. He’s not even that uncomfortable, just angry at himself and frustrated with Harry for being so fucking considerate. The lingering whispers of adrenaline heighten everything to the point where he just wants it all gone.
Harry kisses his stomach again. It’s entirely non-sexual, an act of comfort, but it makes Draco think about Jason’s reminders concerning magic. He can feel the comforting whisper of Harry’s wild power against his skin, so familiar it’s almost on par with the hum of his own core, and for a moment he’s sure Harry can sense it—can feel the nonexistent flutter of their baby’s budding magic.
He pushes Harry away by the shoulder. Harry looks a bit broken then, and Draco hates himself for that.
“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m just not feeling all that well. I think I may have a fever.”
The hurt doesn’t entirely clear Harry’s face. “I’m sorry,” he still says immediately. “Really, Draco.”
“Harry, you did nothing wrong.” Draco sits up quickly and cups his face with one hand. He brushes a thumb against Harry’s stubble absentmindedly. Fuck, he loves this man.
“No, I shouldn’t have jumped you like that.”
“You’ve jumped me plenty in the past, and I, you,” Draco reminds him. He kisses the tip of Harry’s nose lightly. “You’ve got blanket permission for all future jumping. I think tonight I’ll just rest, though.”
“Is there anything else I can do? Pepperup, maybe?”
“No, I’ll be fine,” Draco assures him. He’s making things up as he goes, and it’s so out of character for them, but he can’t seem to stop. “It might be allergies to some experimental potions we’ve started using. Jason seems to think so.”
Harry frowns. “Jason? I thought you were out with Hermione.”
Draco tries not to look caught out. “I saw him during my break.”
“Oh. Alright.” Harry hesitates, but leans forward to kiss him deeply one more time, sliding his tongue into Draco’s mouth as if in reassurance. It reminds him of those first months when they started seeing each other, giddy with the feel of one another and unable to stop exploring each other's bodies. Draco almost pulls him back in when they break apart, but he’s still feeling shaky. “I’m going to work on a few reports, but call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”
“I will,” Draco promises.
He watches Harry leave with no small amount of regret. He’s not the least bit tired, but he gets under the covers nonetheless. It only occurs to him an hour of so later that that was the moment to tell Harry.
He puts it off until tomorrow.
Tomorrow comes and goes, and then so do several equally uneasy days. Draco feels high-strung and agitated. The stress of veering between delight and apprehension has him more irritable than usual, and he can see the effects written plainly in Harry’s behavior. He’s quieter around Draco and his replies are sharper.
Draco can’t blame him. He knows he’s being unfair to Harry. In order to avoid unnecessary questioning he’s spent several evenings with his mother at the Manor. It’s helped clear his head a bit and given him some space to enjoy his news without worrying about hiding it from Harry. Narcissa pointedly informed him—after reasoning out the cause of his strange behavior in no less than ten minutes; curse nosy mothers—that there would be no need for worry if he simply told Harry.
Draco can’t explain the panic that thought causes. He wants to share this more than anything, and yet the idea of Harry reacting poorly is the most heartbreaking thing Draco can imagine.
So he spends his days in a state of constant tension, acting out the conversation over and over in his mind as he trudges through twelve-hour shifts. At night he lies awake between unreasonably frequent trips to the toilet and cradles his flat stomach. The rhythm is leaving him utterly drained. He’ll need to ask for a reduction of hours soon, but in the meantime the secrecy and exhaustion wreck havoc on his patience.
Draco blames that for his eventual outburst.
It’s been several weeks since they’ve met with Ron and Hermione together, and although Draco generally enjoys their company, he’s just spent his afternoon fixing up a witch who had Polyjuiced herself into a squid (rather unsuccessfully). When he apparates to their usual restaurant, he’s tired and itchy from the antiseptic charms, and all he wants is a sinful amount of strawberry ice cream.
Draco has a clear view of their corner table from the entrance. Harry is still in his Auror robes. He’s gesturing wildly as he talks to Ron, a whirlwind of movement and bright red in the sea of white tablecloths. He hadn’t even bothered to change for their date.
Draco knows he’s being unreasonable. This isn’t a date—Harry’s always made their dates special. He also knows Harry’s often as tired as he is, and neither of them had time to dress up today. It doesn’t stop the spark of irritation.
He pulls out his chair with a sharp screech when he reaches the trio.
“Malfoy, you made it!” Ron says jovially.
Draco gives him a sharp nod. Hermione raises an eyebrow at his demeanor, but Harry hardly notices, only leaning over to kiss him briefly on the cheek.
“I got you a glass of red,” he says, pushing the wine towards Draco. It’s a lovely thought, and it’s terribly Harry— doing someone mindless to make Draco more comfortable, as if it’s second nature for Harry to care for him. Draco’s already reaching for it when he remembers himself. His meager gratitude turns sour in the blink of an eye. Worse, he doesn’t know what to say without alerting someone as sharp as Hermione.
“So I’m unable to order for myself, now, am I?” he snaps before he can think about it. That catches Harry’s attention.
“I thought you liked this one,” he says carefully. “It’s sweet.” He’s right. Draco has a terrible sweet tooth.
“It’s not for you to decide what I like!” Draco hisses. He’s conscious of the fact that Hermione and Ron are staring at them with matching looks of confusion.
Harry seems at a total loss. “I’m sorry. I—I guess I can send it back?”
“Do.” Draco spits it quietly. Even he can hear how harsh he sounds. And in the next moment, to his utter horror, he feels his eyes welling with hot tears.
“Merlin, Draco, are you alright?” Harry says.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Draco says tightly. “Please excuse me.” When Harry makes to stand with him, Draco has to swallow to dispel the tightness in his throat. “I’m just going to wash my hands.”
Harry hesitates, but lets him go with a short nod. Draco feels his eyes on him as he leaves.
He spends more time in the bathroom than he should, letting cold water run over his wrists and crying quietly. He tries not to at first, but the humiliation of it all only makes him more miserable. At least Harry hadn’t followed him. Small blessings.
The feelings pass with little warning. One moment he’s shuddering through unpleasant sobs, utterly miserable, and the next he’s breathing deeply. Draco finds himself staring at his wet cheeks in the mirror. He splashes his face with water, and now droplets dot the glass. He sighs.
“Throwing tantrums already, are we?” he says morosely to his stomach. He feels terrible, of course, but the thought of apologizing makes his eyes grow wet again for inexplicable reasons, so Draco resolves to wait until they get home. Perhaps he’ll even find the words to tell Harry what’s really happening—to both of them, at this point.
He rinses his face again and sets himself to rights with a few handy spells before going to rejoin their friends.
When he gets back to the table, however, the wine is nowhere to be seen, and in its place is water. Harry gives him a bright smile and reaches over to squeeze his hand when Draco sits down.
“How was work?” he asks. Hermione immediately turns to him with interest—she’s fascinated by the differences between magical and Muggle medicine.
The incident is lost in the ensuing debate about anesthesia, and the evening morphs into a pleasant night out. But by the time Draco finds the nerve to apologize, Harry is snoring quietly in bed beside him. Draco bites his lip as he watches Harry’s eyelashes flutter in sleep. Then he sighs and gets up to relieve his impatient bladder once more.
The problem with pregnancy, Draco is discovering, is that any issues that may arise are rarely serious enough to warrant a proper visit to the hospital, but usually pressing enough that he needs an immediate answer. He finds himself pacing for hours otherwise, wondering if he should pop into Mungo’s or if he should take a spoonful of Calming Draught and just go to bed.
The solution is the Floo.
As it turns out, expecting parents are granted a special call number for their preferred Healer. The benefit of the system is that it prevents worried men and women from storming the Maternity Ward at all hours of the day, and allows Healers to address their questions efficiently.
The downside is that a Floo with endless answers is irresistible to Draco. Nevermind that he has half a dozen detailed books squirreled away in his nightstand—having Jason tell him in slow tones that “no, Draco, you are not showing signs of anemia” and “yes, Draco, you’re free to eat cheese” is infinitely more comforting than any stuffy Healers’ text.
Which is why Draco finds himself on his knees in front of the fireplace late on a Wednesday evening, Jason’s curly head floating disconcertingly in the flames.
“For the last time, Draco,” he says through a pained smile, “you do not have appendicitis.”
“You don’t know that,” Draco hisses. “It’s a sharp pain, right here—” he presses on his right side, just above his hipbone. “You must know that’s high-risk. Are you sure I can’t come through?”
Jason finally breaks his faux-polite Healer tone. “No!” he snaps. “You’re perfectly capable of casting a diagnostic for that sort of issue, and you have—thrice!—and you do not have appendicitis. ”
“But it’s so sore,” Draco whines. He’s not even that convinced there’s something wrong with him anymore; he’s started to enjoy himself a bit, taking the piss out of his friend. “I know you did a number on me with the wandwork just yesterday, but you were a bit careless.”
“Maybe you pulled a muscle,” Jason says. “You’re not as flexible as you seem to—”
“Shh!” Draco says quickly. He tilts his head towards the stairs, and sure enough, he hears the creak of Harry’s heavy steps. He sends Jason a quick wince and cancels the connection just as his husband rounds the corner into their living room.
“Harry! What’s wrong, did I wake you?”
Harry’s got that sleepy haze to him that Draco’s loved from the first moment he saw it. His eyes are large and unfocused without his glasses, and Draco knows if he leans against him he’ll be hot as a furnace, even in just a shirt and pants.
“Thought I heard… were you on the Floo?” he mumbles. His eyes run over the carpet to the bowl of half-melted ice cream by Draco’s side. “What’re you doin’ up?”
“I just felt like reading by the fire,” Draco says. Lying should come easily to him, but with Harry, it never will. “It’s late, though. Shall we go to bed?” He stands and starts to usher Harry back upstairs, flicking his wand to send his bowl into the kitchen.
“There’s no Floo?” Harry asks again.
Draco shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but Harry’s half-asleep and this is no time to tell him. “I firecalled Hermione for a bit. She wanted to chat about our new admittance parameters at the hospital.” She still does, seeing as Draco hasn’t called her about it yet.
“Oh,” Harry says. Draco steers him into their room and bundles him back underneath the covers in record time. His heart is still pounding, and he turns instinctively towards the bathroom, but when Harry’s hand snags his wrist and tugs, Draco hesitates. Sits slowly on the bedside.
There’s a single candle going on their dresser—Harry hates the dark. He stares up at Draco, green eyes bright against the dim backdrop. The beginnings of a beard are growing on his strong jaw. He’s been too busy with work lately even for shaving charms.
“I love you,” he whispers to Draco. It’s quiet in the room, but Draco feels alive and full with it, full of how much he loves Harry back. How much he wants to share with him—how many more evenings he wants to spend with Harry’s warm hand on his wrist, watching his husband fall asleep in the candlelight.
An infinite amount.
“I love you too, Harry.”
Harry smiles, but it’s small. It makes something hurt inside of Draco. Harry’s smile shouldn’t ever be that small. “Want to stay like this forever. Just you and me.”
Fuck. It’s what Draco’s been thinking, but—but it’s not, it’s all wrong. He breathes deep as he watches those green eyes close.
“Goodnight, darling,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to Harry’s brow.
When Draco crawls into bed later on, he spends a brief moment of panic unable to find Harry’s hand in the sheets. He has to stretch his arm all the way across the expanse of mattress to touch his shoulder, and something lodges in his throat. He doesn’t know if Harry meant anything by his earlier comment, but he rarely sleeps turned away from Draco. They’ve always touched, somewhere.
It takes Draco a long while to fall asleep.
This can’t last, and it shouldn’t. Draco’s a little over eight weeks along, so he knows he has time before he starts showing, but he doesn’t want time anymore. He wants Harry to know—wants him there at the Healer’s office, wants him to brush his hair back when he feels ill, wants him to know why he’s been ordered to get five tubs of strawberry from Florean Fortescue’s, even if he’ll cheerfully take the piss out of Draco for it.
Most importantly, he wants Harry to know he’s going to be a father. He needs this new awkwardness between them to dissipate more than he needs the ambiguity of keeping this a secret. Harry deserves better, even if Draco is scared.
Friday finds Draco steeping tea in the kitchen when he hears the front door slam. Harry’s been over at Ron and Hermione’s cottage for dinner, but Draco was genuinely held up at work this time and couldn’t make it. He’d settled for the half-eaten tea cake sitting under Stasis on their counter.
“How was dinner?” Draco calls over his shoulder. “Did Hermione cook that awful stroganoff again? It’s inedible, really, with the way she slices onions. Has Ron figured out why her meat is always burnt and raw?”
He’s met with an unusual silence.
“Harry?” Draco says, turning. “That was you at the door, wasn’t it?” He catches sight of Harry in the doorway to the kitchen and smiles, leaning back against the counter in relief. “You’re still in your shoes, you berk.”
Draco takes note of his appearance then, and the way Harry’s eyes flick over the surfaces in the kitchen. He’s picking at his nails, strong hands flexing, shoulders taut. There’s worry in the rigid lines of his face, but more alarming is the sense discomfort that radiates off of him—Harry’s always so tense when he’s upset.
“Is something the matter?” Draco asks.
Harry won’t meet his eyes. “I’ve talked with Hermione,” he says woodenly, cautiously.
Draco raises an eyebrow at him. Blows on his tea and takes a scalding sip.
“She’s bought a few medicinal law books to go over in her free time. As a side project.”
“Has she?” Draco’s really not sure where Harry’s going with this. “Is she still set on personally evaluating St. Mungo’s protocols?”
“She is,” Harry says, and then he finally meets Draco’s eyes, “considering she hasn’t talked to you about them yet.”
Draco’s breath hitches.
“You said you were on the Floo with her,” Harry says. “You said you went out to drinks with her weeks ago.”
“Harry,” Draco breathes. And it’d be easier if Harry was angry, but he’s not—he looks pleading, and disappointed, but worst of all, he looks expectant, like he knows what’s about to happen.
“You’re hiding things.”
Draco jerks his head yes. His mug feels too hot in his hands, too hot for the room.
“Is it—is it a party, maybe?” Harry asks haltingly. “Are you planning something for me?”
Draco knows, then, that he’s put this off long enough. “I need to tell you something,” he says quietly by way of answer. Harry’s face falls.
“Don’t,” he says.
That takes Draco by surprise. He can understand Harry being upset that he’s been keeping secrets, but his reaction is off. Harry’s never wanted the truth hidden from him. “What?”
“Don’t change things. Not—not yet.”
Draco’s stomach drops, his breath coming quicker. “What are you talking about?”
“Just—don’t say it.”
“Say what?” Draco is truly confused, but nervous all the same. The way Harry’s looking at him is too knowing. “Harry, I need to tell you something, because things—things are changed.”
“Fuck, don’t do this right now,” Harry snaps, turning his head away to dig a frustrated hand into his hair, and his voice is too thick, too loud. “Please, Draco, nothing’s different. Just for now—can’t we stay as we are? Just for a while, please, baby.”
Harry calls him baby when it’s too much for him to say anything else—when he’s too overwhelmed, elated, aroused, too angry, too tired. And Draco realizes, then, that Harry knows .
“No, we can’t,” he says incredulously, setting his cup on the counter just a bit too rough. “ Everything’s different. I don’t know who told you, but it’s done , Harry, it’s happening, and I’m not going to—to pretend it’s not, or whatever the fuck you want me to do.”
“So that’s it then? You’re not in the least bit attached to the life we’ve built? This is—this is disposable to you?” Harry says the word like it causes him physical pain.
“Don’t fucking say that,” Draco snaps, properly angry for once. “Don’t you dare say that. You know our life is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“And yet you’re so desperately set on throwing it away!” Harry shouts.
Draco doesn’t understand how this is going so horribly wrong. He’s angry, furious enough that his throat hurts and his eyes prickle even as he narrows them. Beneath the anger, however, is a deep, unexpected fear. He’d never really thought—he’d been nervous, but he’d never—
“Making our life disposable is your choice,” he hisses at Harry. “If you’re determined to ruin things because of something that’s made me fucking happy, then that’s on you.”
Draco can see the fight begin to drain out of Harry. His husband, usually so strong, so assertive—a Captain, a leader, a lover—looks small.
“Happy,” Harry whispers. He presses the back of his hand against his lips. “Always wanted— always wanted you to be happy. I—”
He cuts himself off, but Draco won’t ever know what he intended to say anyway. It’s almost poetic, the timing the world has when it comes to the two of them. He needs to finish this conversation, needs it more desperately than he needs to get away from Harry so he can have a good fucking cry.
But he doesn’t get his chance—with the standard soundless wind, a silvery Auror-grade Patronus lands between them. Everything turns still. It’s jarring, the swift change. The tension between them is taut and unsolved, and Draco wants to scream. Of all the times for an after-hours emergency.
“Arson at—” the Patronus recites in monotone, the location unattainable to Draco’s non-Auror ears. “Night shift occupied. Request for backup.”
Harry stares at the spot on the floor even after it dissipates.
“Oh, no,” Draco warns. “Don’t even think about it.”
When Harry turns and disappears into the hall, presumably to fetch his cloak and automated Portkey, Draco almost picks his mug up and throws it at the wall.
Instead, he waits for the final slam of the door, and then their home goes still. Draco stands there until the soles of his feet start to hurt in his socks, until the granite counter against his back aches and the flat is silent. He feels like if he moves he won’t be able to maintain the blankness he feels, both on his face and in his heart—like if he moves an inch his heart will take a mile, and he’ll have to confront the reality of what’s just happened, what is still happening.
His body, however, is too tired for the stubborn self-sabotage Draco’s attempting in his usual dramatic way (although for once in his life he feels the drama might be justified), so he leaves his half-drunk tea and goes to sit on their couch. The fire is crackling pleasantly, but Draco’s not in the mood for silver linings. He’s still too upset to reason things out—trapped in that limbo between argument and resolution. He just wants to be sad, and angry, and to hold his stomach and feel like he’s the last person in the world, alone, alone, alone.
As a child, this would be the moment when his mother came in to comfort him, and he would scream and throw things until she hugged him close and he wet her shoulders with his tears.
As an adult, however, Draco gets the pleasure of crying on the empty couch, wailing up at the ceiling while a vague part of his mind wonders just how many tears he can squeeze out before he’s run dry. He takes some pleasure in blowing his nose on Harry’s favorite blanket, then Scourgifies it and cries harder because Harry loves that blanket, and fuck, Draco loves Harry.
He falls asleep like that, slumped against the armrest, the fire dwindling down to glowing coals.
Draco jerks awake. It’s dark in the room, but the silence is disturbed by a high-pitched, distinct tone. His heart is already racing, his hand tense around his wand—his Portkey alarm is going off.
He’s slipped on his shoes on autopilot and slung his first aid satchel over his shoulder before it even occurs to him to ignore the call. He’s exhausted and high strung, breathing hard from being jarred awake, and he’ll likely be more of a hindrance than a help—training dictates that Healers stay behind when they aren’t fit for active duty.
But Emergency calls don’t come without reason. In his five years as a Healer, Draco can count on his hands the number of times he’s been summoned. It’s why he first added his name to the register of Emergency Response personnel—he knew he’d be needed, but rarely.
If his alarm has activated, he is needed.
Draco fishes his flashing Healer’s badge out of his robe pocket and is instantly whisked away.
There aren’t a lot of things that can truly disturb him at this point in his medical career, but when Draco opens his eyes, he thinks he might be sick.
It’s an Auror raid. The worst kind. A colossal brick building stands before him, flames roaring in its broken windows, the billowing column of smoke stark even against the blackness of the night sky. Shouts echo around him in an endless cacophony, both orders and cries of pain. Draco counts fifteen, maybe twenty red robes among the green of his colleagues, half of them on the ground—they’ve not even got stetchers set up yet. The fire flickers in puddled reflections on the wet pavement, and Draco doesn’t want to think about why the ground is so wet. Even as he watches, part of the building caves inwards, sending up a flurry of sparks.
“Malfoy!” Someone calls on his left. He knows her. She’s in the Physical Ward—broken bones, tissue regrowth. Mary . She’s kneeling beside a bloodied Auror, and Draco nearly stumbles at the shock of wild black hair. But his skin is too pale, his form bulkier. Not Harry.
It registers then that he’s been standing and staring for several long seconds. He forces himself to take the steps to reach Mary’s side. She’s already spitting diagnostics at him, wand working deftly to slice away the man’s uniform in the places where Draco can still see blood spilling.
“Typical severing curse, but they’ve paired it with something new to prevent coagulation—I can’t stop his bleeding. It looks like a modified Stasis but I’m not—”
“I know what it is,” Draco says. One of the rare benefits of a Dark past, if it can be called that. He raises his wand, but the only voice in his head is the toneless drawl of the Patronus—
Arson . Behind him, the building burns.
He casts the countercurse. Mary immediately sets to work with Dittany. Draco leaves her to it.
He walks from one prone figure to the next, casting and analyzing and calling for help when the injuries fall outside of his field. The unharmed Aurors have moved on to binding and Portkeying the Stupified suspects away, waking them individually to read them their rights before sending them to the Ministry holding cells. Draco can hear them from where he stands. It’s a large group. If his hands weren’t already shaking with panic he would probably wonder about the story behind the arrests. As it is, Draco can barely concentrate enough to cast.
Harry’s not here. He’s not here , Draco tells himself firmly. He’s not.
But he doesn’t know that, can’t know that. He could be—still in the fire, passed out from the smoke, crushed under the falling brick, injured in the fight and left behind, anything— Draco doesn't know . Arson, the Patronus had said. The air is hot from the flames, but it feels cool on his cheeks, and that’s when he realizes they’re wet.
He can’t lose Harry. He can’t. There is no alternative to having him—no future without him that doesn’t feel as if his ribs have been cleaved open and his heart ripped from his chest. The ache at the very thought is so bone-deep, so sharp, that Draco has to pause between victims and press a hand to his stomach. He doesn’t care what Harry thinks about him, about their child, he just wants him back, he wants him, he wants Harry back now , please—
There’s yelling behind him, a sudden shout, and Draco turns.
It happens slowly, predictably, and quickly all at once.
He sees two figures scuffling on the ground, gravel and soot exploding into the air. A man in dirtied black robes has an Auror by the throat, and even as several others rush forward, shouts escalating, he rips the Auror’s wand away and launches to his feet. There’s nowhere for him to run, nowhere to hide between the Healers and Aurors, and he casts with all the viciousness of a cornered animal.
He makes a break for it, in the gap between two stretchers.
Draco knows what’s going to happen even as he raises his own wand. The man is running towards him, his face pulled into a grizzled snarl. Draco casts a shield charm and fires off a stunner simultaneously, but it’s been a while since he’s dueled and the double-cast weakens the protective bubble around him. The stunner sails over the man’s shoulder.
Something instinctual grabs hold of him in that moment, and he raises both hands in protection as if that will help, as if it will slow the angry black curse that rips through his shield, as if it will save his child when the magic hits his chest, hissing and crackling.
Then it sinks into him and all Draco knows is pain.
When he falls, he barely feels the impact of the ground against his head. He thinks he might be screaming, but he can’t make himself breathe—can’t bear the agony of every inhale. Something sharp has forced its way into his bones, has splintered them apart, and every second forces the feeling outward from his sternum until Draco’s jaw, his teeth, his very fingertips are doused in flame. He doesn’t want to look down at himself. He’s too afraid of what he’ll see, of what’s been done to him.
His vision is already darkening at the edges when he finally takes a shuddering inhale, and it’s worse than a Crucio, worse than anything he’s ever known. There is no barrier to it—no end, no rise and fall, only consistent torment.
He closes his eyes.
When Draco wakes, the world is too bright.
Light glows soft red through his closed eyes, and there’s a skin-deep warm settled across his chest that he associates with morning sun. He feels nearly weightless. It takes a moment for the comfort to feel unnatural, for him to recognize that the last time he’d been conscious he’d been in pain.
For a brief moment Draco thinks he’s at the Manor—his bedroom windows there face east. He cracks his eyes open, eyelids fluttering against the grainy feeling of sleep.
It’s not the Manor, though it’s just as familiar. He’s in the hospital. He knows as soon as he sees the magical light fixtures.
He’s in bed, and someone’s been kind enough to pull the blankets up over him, but one of his hands is hotter than the other, weighed down on top of the sheets. Draco tilts his head just enough to glance to the side, and wonders at the fact that he’s not even sore.
As soon as he sees Harry he recognizes the feeling of calloused skin against his palm. Harry’s pulled one of those horrid visitor’s chairs up to his bedside and has Draco’s right hand clasped in both of his. He’s staring out the window, and the sunlight reflects off his glasses. It doesn’t mask the dark circles under his eyes.
Harry rubs his thumb across Draco’s knuckles absentmindedly. Draco flexes his fingers on instinct. Harry glances at him, and his eyes widen when he realizes Draco’s awake.
“Good morning,” he says. His voice is gentle and relieved, but there’s an unwelcome clinical distance to it. For a brief moment their fight had seemed a thing of the past, but it grows sharp and clear in Draco’s mind the longer he lays there. He realizes with a fresh ache in his heart that it must have only been a few hours ago—Harry’s still in his uniform. But the red fabric is clean, unmarked by blood and spellfire. Draco unknowingly breathes a sigh of relief. Harry hadn’t been at the raid. It had only been coincidence.
There’s a niggling sense of alarm at the back of his mind, like there’s something monumental he’s missing, but it fades in the face of knowing that Harry is safe.
“How long was I out?” Draco finally asks. His voice sounds rough to his own ears, though he thinks that might be because he’s only just woken up. Regardless, Harry’s expression fills with worry.
“It’s around seven in the morning,” he says. “They gave you painkillers to help you rest. You were already under when they called me. You slept through the night.”
That’s when Draco truly recalls what’s happened to him. This is it, this is what he’s forgotten. His hand flies to his stomach, which is still frighteningly flat, but that’s no longer a safeguard, no longer a comfort—his breathing picks up. He feels sick, and Harry’s frowning, growing more alarmed by the second.
“Draco? Draco, what’s wrong, are you in pain?”
“What—what did they—”
“I’m going to call you a Healer,” Harry says firmly. Draco shakes his head, but Harry’s already pressed the call button on the side table.
“What was the curse—” he tries to say, but Harry shushes him. The click of the door catches their attention.
The Healer who walks in is short and young, with a charming gap between her teeth and a long, honey-colored plait. Draco realizes he must be in his own ward. He recognizes her from the night shift.
“Good morning, Mr. Malfoy,” she says. “It’s good to see you awake. We were hoping the sedative would wear off soon.” She makes a mark on the clipboard in her hand. “I saw that you called for assistance. I’m Healer Emilia Jenkins. How may I help you?”
Harry opens his mouth, but Draco interrupts him. “What was I admitted for?” he asks. He pushes himself upright, still feeling light from the lack of discomfort. “What—why the sedative? What was in it?”
Even though he feels a bit faint with worry, he appreciates her frankness when she replies—a courtesy most likely only awarded to fellow Healers.
“My colleague administered a half-dose of Beta-DLD to you last night,” she says. Draco breathes a sigh of relief—altered Draught of Living Dead. Antenatal safe. “You were brought in under Illusio Rimas. The curse is relatively harmless. It activates the receptors in the skeletal system and creates an illusion of pain without physical damage, similar to crucio. There isn’t an existing countercurse, but the effects fade within a few hours.”
“So I’m not—there’s nothing—”
Jenkins nods patiently. “There’s no need to worry,” she says. “You should be in perfect health, both you and your child. May I run a few diagnostics on you?”
Draco’s about to agree, but the grip on his hand suddenly grows crushing.
“What?” Harry chokes out. “Child—what?” He’s staring at Draco wide-eyed, glancing between him and Jenkins, mouth working.
“I apologize,” Jenkins says. She looks a bit flushed. “I didn’t realize your partner was unaware of your pregnancy.”
“He’s aware,” Draco snaps.
“No, I’m not ,” Harry says in that same winded tone. Draco turns to glare at him, but the look on Harry’s face stops him in his tracks. Harry appears lost, completely blindsided— disbelieving and hopeful and confused all at once. He looks the way Draco felt the first time he was told there was a child growing inside him. Nothing about his expression matches the malcontent from the night before.
“You didn’t know?” Draco finally asks. “You—you knew in the kitchen, last night—you said you didn’t want things to change.” He’s aiming for accusing, but hurt still leaks into his tone. The damage from Harry’s words is still fresh, and Draco is far more affected than he wants to let on. He knows it still shows on his face.
He vaguely registers Jenkins excusing herself to give them some privacy, but his focus is entirely on his husband.
“What would that have to do with—with this?” Harry exclaims.
“You didn’t want to talk about it! You wanted things to stay the way they were!”
Understanding dawns in Harry’s eyes.
“Draco, that was… I thought...” he says hesitantly. “You were staying at work so late, and—all the calls, I heard mens’ voices on the Floo. You were lying about going out and you seemed like you could barely stand to be around me. And then I found one of those godawful pamphlets in the laundry, and I thought it must be for someone else, but I didn’t know if it was for a friend or for—for—” he breaks off, but he doesn’t need to finish for his point to be clear.
“Harry,” Draco murmurs. “You thought I was cheating on you?”
He should be angry, but Harry looks too miserable and furious enough at himself as it is. Draco only feels regret—ashamed that he’d been so caught up in his own worry that he’d managed to convince his husband of something so awful. Embarrassed that he hadn’t realized how telling his signs were, though not in the way he’d originally thought.
“I thought you were leaving me,” Harry admits. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
Draco shakes his head quickly. “No, I am. I’m sorry, love. But Merlin, Harry, why would you ever think such a thing?” He has to know that much, at least.
“It’s not that I thought you would ,” Harry hurries to say. He looks so earnest that Draco almost smiles. “But I love you so much, too much, it feels like. Draco, I’m in awe of you, and sometimes it’s so much that I can’t imagine anyone in the world could possibly feel this way for another person. And then I wonder—I wonder if anyone could feel that way about me , if you can feel that way about me, because what you are to me is so much of everything that it’s hard to imagine.” Harry pauses, and Draco can see the movement of his throat when he swallows.
“I’m not leaving you,” Draco finally says, because he feels too choked up with Harry’s words. He’s never heard someone explain his own love for Harry so clearly. “I could never.”
“I know,” Harry replies. “I know that. It’s just hard, sometimes. You’re so much, and sometimes I feel like so little.”
“Harry,” Draco says gently, pleadingly. He lets go of Harry’s hand so he can run it through his tangled hair. “I wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t feel the same way about you. I wouldn’t be having your baby if you weren’t everything to me.”
Harry’s eyes are unnaturally glassy. “That’s for real?” he chokes out. “Oh my God, really? Really, really?”
Draco nods. “We’re having a baby. I’m pregnant.”
“We’re having a baby,” Harry repeats. He glances down at Draco’s stomach and back up again, and he looks so wonderful, mouth slightly open with shock and glasses crooked, so Draco takes his rough hand and presses it just between his hips, where he knows their child is growing. Harry leans forward and rests his forehead against their joined fingers, warm nose digging into Draco’s shirt. Draco rubs his hand over Harry’s firm back, delighting in the feeling of him, just knowing he’s close. His shoulders shake slightly under Draco’s palm.
“Is this ok?” Draco whispers. After weeks of worry, the fear hasn’t quite left him. “Are you happy?”
Harry takes a moment to answer. Draco bites his lip. But when Harry lifts his head to face him, he almost laughs.
“You’re such an ugly crier,” Draco says.
“Shut up,” Harry sobs. “You’re having my baby, you can’t be mean to me.” He’s sticky with tears, glasses smudged up. His face is already growing splotchy. Draco tsks at him even as he smiles, wrapping a hand around Harry’s neck to pull him close so he can wipe his cheeks with a corner of the sheet.
“I love you,” he says. Harry just pushes his hands aside so he can litter Draco’s face with wet kisses. He lands one on the corner of Draco’s mouth, and when he tries to continue, Draco guides him back with a firm hand on his jaw so he can slot their mouths together.
He’ll never get used to the familiarity of kissing Harry. Draco’s never had someone’s touch grow so comforting, to the point where the absence of it makes him feel cold. Harry’s nose nudges his cheek when he moves closer, pressing Draco down into his pillow, and he loves the feel of it. Loves having Harry close enough that his own space becomes Harry’s. Loves how he kisses with his whole body, like each kiss is special.
They haven’t kissed like this since Draco found out about the pregnancy— slow and deep, kissing for the pleasure of feeling each other’s warmth, of feeling the shape of Harry’s mouth. Draco spares a thought for the fact that they’re in a hospital bed, but then he indulges himself by curling his tongue around Harry’s and making them both moan. He can’t wait to get home.
“I love you too,” Harry says when they finally part long enough for words. Draco smiles, and from the way Harry raises an eyebrow at him he knows he must look completely smitten.
“There’s two of us here, Potter,” he says breathlessly in retaliation. That makes Harry’s eyes fill again, and he practically falls on top of Draco when he hugs him.
“Both of you, I love both of you,” he mumbles into Draco’s shoulder.
Later, when Jenkins comes back in with a trainee to finally run Draco’s diagnostics and settle his paperwork, Draco has to practically pry Harry off him and back into his chair. Harry takes extreme joy in loudly announcing that they are pregnant, and when he finally leaves for five minutes to run to the bathroom, he returns with the happy news that half the mens’ loo now knows. Draco would worry about word spreading, but Harry looks so happy, constantly asking to touch his stomach and kissing him whenever he gets the chance, that he just doesn’t have the heart to curb his enthusiasm. Draco’s too delighted himself.
“You’re fit to come back to work tomorrow or the day after,” Jenkins says when she finishes his tests. “Just notify your supervisor on the way out. But I highly recommend you not participate in Emergency Response for the time being. It’s an unnecessary risk in your situation.”
Draco gives his assent and signs the paperwork sloppily—Harry won’t let go of his right hand.
“Draco!” Harry snaps suddenly, as if he’s only just put the two together. “You took an emergency call while pregnant with my fucking child?!”
Draco starts laughing.
“Am I really to understand,” Harry asks him several nights later over a glass of sparkling apple juice, “that your midnight Floo call with Jason was about appendicitis and not cocksucking?”
“If you ask me one more time it’ll be your cock that’s not getting sucked tonight.”
Harry has the audacity to laugh at him. Draco might have been annoyed if it weren’t for the fact that Harry’s willingly drinking bubbly piss for him instead of one of the many bottles of wine they have stashed in the kitchen. The way they’re cosied up on the couch is also wonderful—Harry still can’t resist keeping a hand on Draco’s stomach, and though he won’t admit it, the steady weight makes him feel grounded and loved.
“I’m just not quite over the fact that you thought you were sneaky,” Harry says.
“Kept something from you for weeks, didn’t I?” Draco snaps lightheartedly.
“And look what an awful job you did of that.”
Draco snorts against Harry’s shoulder, but the truth of the words registers with them both and his mirth soon dies down.
“Why did you?” Harry asks. He doesn’t sound accusing, only curious and slightly concerned. “I hate the thought of you being frightened to tell me things.”
Draco takes his time answering, mostly because Harry’s right—he was frightened.
“I wasn’t afraid of you,” he says carefully. “But—there are very few things that would make me give you up, Harry, you have to understand that. And I wouldn’t give you up for a child, but I wouldn’t give this child up for you, either. If you’d decided you weren’t up to it, I wouldn’t have been able to choose between the two of you.” He doesn’t explain how unbearable losing Harry would have been. They both know.
“But how could you think I wouldn’t want children with you?”
Draco frowns. His reasons had seemed valid enough in the safety of his own head.
“Because you never seemed to want children at all.” Draco sits up so he can properly face Harry, holding his glass in both hands. Daring him to contradict him.
“I don’t think I did. But you should know by now that you’re the exception to everything I do,” Harry says firmly. “Parenting in general? Terrifying. Parenting with you?” Harry pauses and tilts his head. “Well, no, still scary as fuck. But it’s an adventure I feel like I want to have. Things are more exciting with you.”
That they are. Draco wouldn’t consider half the absolute buffoonery Harry proposes if he had to do it on his own.
Harry smiles at him, glancing down at his stomach for the fifth time in the last minute. “And it’s different when it’s happening. The fact that you’re having our baby kind of makes me want to kiss you right now.”
“ Kind of? ” Draco exclaims, mock-insulted. Harry’s smile grows wider. He’s right, Draco thinks. Frightening, but a fear he’d never trade for anything in the world.
The Wireless is playing softly in the background, a song about spring. He can’t hear all the lyrics, just the quiet piano and a word or two.
“Draco,” Harry says seriously. Draco meets his eyes. “You can’t lie to me about things like this. You can lie about doing the laundry, or liking the soap I buy. You can keep telling me you replied to Molly’s Christmas card.” They both know he hasn’t. “But not this.”
“You thought I was seeing someone,” Draco retorts, but it’s a weak excuse. Defensive. Harry doesn’t reply, just leaves his words hanging in the air. He does pull Draco closer though, letting him lean more firmly against his side.
“I’m sorry,” Draco finally says quietly. He is. Sorry he caused so much worry. Sorry he put his own fear above his trust in Harry. He’s never been good with genuine apologies, but in the way Harry rests his head against Draco’s and rubs his hand over his hip, Draco knows he’s understood.
“It’s ok.”
In the quiet, the music seems to grow a bit louder. The fire is burning low, and the room is theirs, this life is theirs . Draco could stay this way forever, relishing this relief. And now, the joy and anticipation he’d been grappling with is finally theirs to share together. He dreams for a moment of tiny little fingers, small baby toes, and he has to bite his lip to stop the silly expression that’s forming on his face.
“What on earth are they singing about?” Harry finally mutters, and Draco can hear his sceptical expression in his voice. He’s too full of warmth to poke fun at Harry—too grateful for the way he forgives Draco’s mistakes, even as he calls attention to them. Draco’s never had someone love him this way.
“Seasons. Love. It’s always love nowadays.” It is.
Harry snorts. “Whoever invented the violin has a lot to answer for.”
Draco sits back, affronted. “Take it back.”
“What?”
“You’d better not teach our child plebeian rhetoric like that, you swine!” He stares at Harry. “I like the violin.”
Harry just looks back at him, his expression fascinated and amused all at once. He lifts a hand to cup Draco’s cheek and run his thumb under his eye. “I like you , you strange man.”
And that, Draco thinks, is something worth telling the truth for. The fact that Harry means it. He likes Draco—likes him the way he is. It’s different from love, liking one another, and for Draco, Harry is both. He may never know another feeling like this. He raises his glass.
“Cheers to adventures, Potter,” Draco says.
“Cheers to this adventure,” Harry corrects.
They toast, and Harry’s kiss tastes like apple juice.
Draco’s ready for this one.