Chapter Text
McGonagall asked Harry to keep the night’s events to himself, which he promised to do without hesitation. If it had been him in the hospital wing, he’d want nothing more than to be left in peace. Malfoy had to be feeling terrible enough as it was.
It turned out that their attempt at discretion came too late. Several students had seen Madam Pomfrey levitating a bleeding, unconscious Malfoy towards the hospital wing, a wailing bundle in her arm as she hurried down the corridors. Peeves, unfortunately, had spotted her too, and delighted in sharing lurid details with anyone who would listen. The Bloody Baron shut him down eventually, banishing him into the Great Lake for the time being, but by then the damage was done.
Rumors raced through the halls and dormitories like Fiendfyre. By the time Harry arrived at breakfast, he’d heard several versions of last night’s events, from Malfoy being found in the courtyard, having left his baby at the top of the Astronomy Tower from where he’d jumped, to an Auror squad carting him and the child off to Azkaban in the middle of the night.
“Are you listening to yourself at all?” Hermione snapped at Ernie Macmillan, finally losing her patience (Harry had seen her face darkening more with every ridiculous piece of gossip she overheard). “Why would anyone take a newborn baby to Azkaban?”
Macmillan shrugged, reaching for the toast rack. “A precaution, I s’pose.”
Hermione stared at him in a way Harry knew only too well. She’d perfected the look sometime around Third Year; an intimidating blend of Snape’s death stare and McGonagall’s thin-lipped Face of Disapproval.
Macmillan was no match for it. “Everyone’s saying it,” he defended himself, a blush creeping up his neck. “What if You-Know-Who really is the father? He was holed up at the Malfoys’ place all this time, wasn’t he? The Ministry wouldn’t let his spawn loose on a school full of students.”
“What utter rubbish.” Hermione turned away from Macmillan, who looked rather offended at her response. “I wish people would mind their own business instead of feeding the rumor mill. Honestly.”
“I don’t know, Hermione,” Ron said, in a tone Harry recognized, as well. Aware that Hermione would not like what he had to say, Ron was steeling himself for battle. “For all we know, it could be true. He was there. V-voldemort, I mean. And…” He broke off, looking faintly ill. “I mean, it’s not impossible.”
Harry supposed that Hermione answered him, but he didn’t quite catch her words. He felt empty, wishing he’d listened to his inner voice and stayed in the dorms. It wasn’t that the thought hadn’t occurred to him. It had, like a nasty, slimy thing on the floor he’d stepped into with his bare foot. He’d quickly pushed it away, which had worked surprisingly well in the privacy of his own mind. Now that he heard it voiced out loud, along with the disgust on Ron’s face, he could no longer pretend that it wasn’t a possibility.
For all his snakelike mannerisms, Voldemort had been a man. Had died like a man, in the end, his body ceasing to work, his heart no longer pumping blood through his veins. He’d been just that, an evil, sadistic excuse for a human being, capable of all the things such a person might do to others.
Poor sodding Malfoy might have suffered through unspeakable horrors, back at the Manor. And of course he wouldn’t tell anyone. Of course he’d keep that to himself.
Harry pushed back his plate and got up. People were talking, laughing, cutlery was clinking against tableware, and he couldn’t bear it a second longer. He needed to get out.
“Harry,” Hermione said, sounding concerned, which was another thing Harry couldn’t face. She and Ron wouldn’t share what they knew with anyone else, but right now, he wished he hadn’t told them.
He had to go and see Malfoy.
*
“Absolutely not.”
Harry had been taller than Madam Pomfrey for a couple of years now, but she might as well have been an immovable obstacle in his path, frowning at him with her arms crossed in front of her chest.
“Absolutely not, Potter. Mr. Malfoy woke up only an hour ago, and he’s still extremely weak. I know what the two of you are like. I had the pleasure of patching you up after many of your little scraps, after all. I will not have you upsetting a patient who nearly bled to death a mere twelve hours ago.”
Harry winced. “I promise I won’t. Upset him, that is. Really. I just thought…”
He trailed off. The thing was, he wasn’t sure what he’d thought. He’d left the Great Hall without a look back, convinced that seeing Malfoy was the only important thing just now. He hadn’t really progressed past that point.
Pomfrey lowered her voice a little. “Potter, I realize that this was a shock to you, but now is not the time to ask Mr. Malfoy the sort of questions you might want to ask. It’s not your concern, and Mr. Malfoy is to be left in peace. It’s bad enough this entire school is buzzing like a bag full of billywigs with ridiculous rumors about last night.”
“Fantastic,” a hoarse voice drawled, making them both turn. “Well done, Potter.”
Malfoy was leaning in the door at the back of the ward, dressed in blue-gray hospital robes that made his pale skin appear almost translucent. He’d recovered his trademark scowl, however, directing it at Harry.
“Couldn’t keep your big mouth shut, could you?”
“Mr. Malfoy!” Madam Pomfrey snapped, all but sprinting towards him. “Back to bed, right now! I told you only five minutes ago that you’re not to get up under any circumstances!”
Malfoy allowed her to support him as she firmly steered him back into the private room. Which was probably a good thing, given that he was taking very small, shaky steps on legs that seemed to tremble with the effort.
“I have to use the loo,” Harry heard him whine, and Madam Pomfrey’s testy retort, “That’s what urinals are for, boy!”
Despite Malfoy’s venomous tone and expression, Harry felt strangely relieved after the exchange. Malfoy was being – Malfoy; contrary, snappish and generally obnoxious. Which used to drive Harry to the point of wanting to strangle him on sight, only… somehow, things had changed, and this – Malfoy being petty and sulky – made Harry feel a lot better.
A few minutes later, Madam Pomfrey returned from the private room, looking annoyed. “Fifteen minutes, Potter. I will throw you out after that, no matter what either of you say.” She sighed. “It appears Mr. Malfoy thinks he might benefit from your company, and is determined to exert himself arguing the case. So you may as well go in.”
Harry was sure Malfoy wanted to see him only to rant at him some more, but he didn’t care. A Malfoy who ranted and raved was reassuringly normal. “Thanks, Madam Pomfrey.”
“Fifteen minutes,” she repeated, then continued in a softer tone, “If you feel comfortable doing so, perhaps ask Mr. Malfoy if he’d like to hold the child. He hasn’t…” She broke off, then simply said, “He might respond differently if it’s you.”
Harry didn’t ask her what she meant by this, merely nodded and went into the little room set aside for patients in need of more privacy than the open ward provided.
The room was bright, more so with the snow glittering on the windowsill and the turrets outside. A single hospital bed sat against the far wall. Pushed against the wall beside it, Harry spotted a cot enveloped by the pale red glow of a warming charm. He couldn’t see the baby, only a swaddle of blankets and what might have been the tip of a knitted cap.
Malfoy was sitting up in bed, arms crossed in front of his chest. On seeing Harry, he took a deep breath and opened his mouth.
“Hello, Malfoy,” Harry said, cutting off what he was sure would have been the start of an epic diatribe. “How are you?”
Malfoy blinked. Harry could see that he was floundering for words, trying to work out a way to launch into his tirade as he’d intended. Then, he deflated, slumping back against his pillow. He looked unwell, Harry thought. Pale and kind of bruised around the eyes.
Of course he did.
“I’m sore,” Malfoy said. “I ache in places I didn’t even know about, my abdominal muscles feel like I’ve been stomped on by a giant, I can’t keep anything down but am supposed to drink the vilest nutrient potions in existence, and Madam Pomfrey just told me my scrotum tore and will have to be subjected to daily healing charms for the next two weeks. Apparently, I’m to count myself lucky that the same didn’t happen to my arsehole. Only some rather heavy bruising in that area. Other than that, I’m fine, Potter, thanks for asking.”
Harry sat down on the chair next to Malfoy’s bed. “Don’t hold back any details on my account, Malfoy.”
“I wouldn’t. You were there, front row, weren’t you?” Malfoy’s eyes flickered down, his lips thinning. “I assume everyone enjoyed your blow-by-blow account in the Gryffindor common room. Or the Great Hall perhaps? Wouldn’t want the other Houses to miss out on the fun, I’m sure they –”
“Malfoy.” Harry sighed. “I didn’t say a word to anyone, okay? I wouldn’t.”
Ron and Hermione didn’t count, but he wasn’t going to say so to Malfoy, who was certain to take a different view.
“Some people saw Madam Pomfrey when she – when she took you to the hospital wing. And Peeves was lurking in one of corridors.”
“Wonderful.” Malfoy tried for his usual sneer, but it was impossible to miss the slight trembling of his lips, the hitch in his voice and the overly bright sheen in his eyes. He’d only just woken up, Harry remembered. Woken up to find his body sore and damaged, himself confined to bed and the entire school gossiping about his private business. And of course, there was the baby Harry was supposed to get him to hold.
All things considered, Malfoy was holding up surprisingly well.
“Look,” Harry said. “Most people are leaving today. Christmas, remember?” he added when Malfoy looked confused. “Today’s the twenty-fourth.”
“I know what d-date it is,” Malfoy snapped, more for form’s sake than anything else.
Harry pretended he hadn’t seen him wipe a hand across his cheek. “Anyway. They’ll be gone for the holidays. Things will have blown over when they get back.”
“You think?” Malfoy gave a watery but rather sarcastic huff. “The junior Death Eater pushing a pram down the hallways of Hogwarts, oh, it’s all old news.”
Harry sighed. Malfoy was right, of course.
“People are tossers, okay?” He paused, considering Malfoy’s hunched shoulders and the hands that were clenching the sheets. Somehow, Malfoy looked very young like this, very small in his baggy hospital gown. He was holding it together, barely, and Harry sensed that a single misplaced word might push him over the edge.
“Does – does your mum know?”
Malfoy shook his head. His teeth were digging into his lower lip.
“Does anyone know?” A sudden thought occurred to Harry, making his stomach clench. “God, Malfoy – did you know?”
He’d heard about women not realizing that they were pregnant; a lurid tale told by Aunt Petunia to Uncle Vernon over the breakfast table, about Mrs. Next-door’s niece’s friend, who was “a right slag” and hadn’t suspected a thing until she went to hospital with horrible stomach cramps.
Malfoy was staring at his hands. “I… I suppose. I don’t know. At first I thought it was some kind of – of curse. Then with the trials and everything, I…” He shrugged. “I was feeling horrible all the time, and I thought I was putting on weight. When I came back to school, I realized it wasn’t that, but I… I didn’t know what to do.”
Harry remembered the small bump he’d seen when he had lifted Malfoy’s robes, nothing at all like the proud bulge Fleur had carried around before Victoire was born in September. Mrs. Weasley, who had warmed to Fleur considerably after she and Bill had announced the impending arrival of a Weasley grandchild, had told her more than once that she ‘glowed’. And she had, in a way, looking happy and healthy as she sat in a sunchair in the Burrow’s garden, sending Bill inside for another helping of homemade strawberry ice-cream.
Malfoy hadn’t glowed. He’d been quiet and pale, slinking into classrooms like a stray dog expecting a kick. And Hogwarts school robes, Harry realized, hid unwelcome changes to the body rather effectively. It wasn’t so strange that no one had noticed.
“I’m sorry,” he said before he could stop himself. He thought of the conversation he’d overheard only this morning, on his way down to the Great Hall; some Ravenclaws who hadn’t bothered keeping their voices down.
“I’d say the wrong thing happened to the right person.”
“Yeah…. he should be in Azkaban, anyway. If Potter hadn’t spoken at his trial…”
One of them, a tall boy he vaguely remembered seeing at the battle, had met Harry’s eyes defiantly and shrugged.
It bothered him. Even more so because he couldn’t really blame them. People were still hurting in so many ways. Maybe Hermione was right, and the school should have just closed its doors for a year.
“I don’t need you to feel sorry for me, Potter,” Malfoy snapped. “I’m sure you’ll be lauded as a hero, as always. Saint Potter, saving his enemy from bleeding to death. I suppose you’ll be expecting me to thank you.”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath,” Harry said dryly. “And you’re not my enemy, Malfoy.”
For some reason, Malfoy looked even angrier at this, but at least he no longer seemed on the verge of tears. “Of course not. I suppose I’m too pathetic for that.”
“You’re not pathetic,” Harry said. “God, Malfoy. What does it matter what I think, or anyone in this bloody school for that matter? You just had a baby. You have a son.”
He hadn’t meant to raise his voice. This was Malfoy, however, the one person who always managed to get under Harry’s skin, and he was succeeding at it again, just by sitting there and being so damn fragile and insufferable at the same time.
“Shouldn’t you, I don’t know? Take care of him? Acknowledge that he exists, maybe?”
“Fuck you!” Malfoy yelled, and Harry saw that he’d been wrong, after all. Malfoy had been on the verge of tears, tears which were freely running down his cheeks now. “Fuck you, Potter, you don’t know a-anything!”
“I don’t know that this could be Voldemort’s kid?”
Harry wanted to take the words back as soon as they were out. He wasn’t sure what had made him say it, only that his head felt hot and full, his chest tight as if it was about to burst.
All remaining color leached from Malfoy’s face. His next words came out as a whisper. “So that’s what you think.”
“I don’t–”
“Get out, Potter. Now.”
Harry wanted to do – something. Yell at Malfoy some more, apologize, anything to make that stricken look disappear from his face.
Before he could act, however, the door opened and a furious Madam Pomfrey appeared, striding towards them. “I knew this was a mistake, Potter. What did I say about not upsetting Mr. Malfoy?”
“I didn’t mean–”
“Out, out, out!” She actually took his arm and steered him towards the door. “I don’t know why I thought the two of you could behave like adults for once. I – oh dear.”
A wail came from the cot in the corner. Malfoy winced, and Pomfrey looked as if she might want to slap Harry.
“Off with you, Potter. Out of my hospital wing.”
She all but pushed him out of the room and closed the door in his face. Harry heard the muffled sound of her voice over the baby’s crying. Malfoy didn’t say anything in reply.
Slowly, feeling rather miserable, Harry turned around and began to walk towards the door.
The portrait of a portly medieval healer frowned at him. “Never a wise move, young warlock, to be quarreling and shouting when the babe sleepeth.”
Ignoring her, Harry left, quietly closing the door behind him.