Chapter Text
Dear Mr. Malfoy,
This notice is to inform you that, due to an anonymous witness testimony, the charges against you for previously specified war crimes have been dropped. There is no need to attend your scheduled Wizengamot hearings. Any evidence confiscated from you by Ministry personnel will be returned without delay.
If you have any further questions or concerns, do not hesitate to write me.
Muriel Boot
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Ministry of Magic
---
To Whom It May Concern:
Congratulations! Your application to enroll in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry’s Eighth Year N.E.W.T. Revision Program has been accepted. We are sure you will be pleased with what this program has to offer, including extra tutoring, career counseling, and other helpful services, all in our newly renovated castle (provided by Warlock’s Building BlocksTM).
As a reminder, in light of new Ministry policies, the following courses are compulsory for all Hogwarts students:
● Defense Against the Dark Arts
● Muggle StudiesA list of required texts and supplies is enclosed, along with those for your chosen elective courses.
PLEASE NOTE: Although all “eighth year” students will be legally of age upon attendance, they will be subject to the same restrictions of any normal student, including same-sex dormitories, nightly curfews, and once-per-month Hogsmeade privileges. Any student caught violating these rules will be subject to discipline and possible expulsion.
We look forward to seeing you September 1st!
Sincerely,
Filius Flitwick
Deputy Headmaster
Head of Ravenclaw House
---
Mr. Malfoy,
The circumstance you owled me about was unsurprising. Severus Snape informed the staff of your condition last term, in case it presented an emergency.
I see no reason why your having a child should stand in the way of your education, nor a reason why your education should stand in the way of you maintaining a relationship with your child. While Hogwarts offers no form of childcare, in the past Headmasters have allowed student parents to make more frequent trips to Hogsmeade to visit their children and spouses.
Please make an appointment with me at the start of term, and we will determine what is best for your situation.
—Minerva McGonagall
***
“You’re sure this is wise, Draco?” my mother asked. “The Malfoys in France have offered to have us at their chateau while we ride out this little spell.”
If you’d been on Platform 9 ¾ that day, you would understand what she meant. It seemed we weren’t the only ones shocked by our Ministry pardons: people gawked, sneered, and shook their heads as we pushed through.
I looked at the baby in her arms, and nodded. “I’m sure. I need to revise for my N.E.W.T.s. And if I want to avoid making a living hocking family heirlooms, I’ll need to score higher than any of these buggers.”
“Language,” she said, cupping Armand’s head.
We stopped near a clan of Weasleys. Just my luck. The father gave me a stiff nod, but I looked away like I hadn’t noticed. “At any rate, the Ministry is looting our property so fast, there won’t be anything left to hock. I can’t believe they're using Dad’s imprisonment to keep harassing us. A year in Azkaban! It’s bollocks.”
“Hush, now. This is not public conversation. You should know better. All right, Armand—” She held out the baby. “Do hold him before you go, darling. He’s already making a fuss.”
At six months old, Armand was a chubby worm of loudness, drool, and balled fists of excitement. He reached for me, the fists bursting into short, fat fingers that always ended up gnarled in my hair. I shook my head, shouldering my leather messenger bag. “I can’t hold you, I have to go.” I kissed my mother, ignored her admonishing face, and then I was off. My heart twisted as Armand began to wail behind me.
Understand, I loved that boy. And it wasn’t like my fatherhood was a secret. But the fact that I’d given birth to Armand seemed to give the most politically correct people the wrong impression: that I really was out to make pureblood babies at any cost. The notion put me on edge. No one understood that Armand was an accident, and I didn’t want to feed their assumptions by making a spectacle.
I strode through the train cars, ignoring the not-so-subtle whispers, though it was impossible not to pick out phrases like “Dark Mark” and “probably paid the Ministry off” and “him—a dad?” It took walking into three unfriendly compartments to find one in which I was not met with scowls or wand-points, and I was not really pleased to see these faces, either: Ginny Weasley, Granger, and Longbottom sat, staring at me in surprise. Didn’t they know Death Eaters took N.E.W.T.s, too? No one spoke until the train hooted and began to trundle down the tracks.
“Er,” Longbottom said, “did you want to sit down? OY!”
Weasley had elbowed him in the ribs. “This one’s full.”
“But there’s only three of us—”
She silenced him with a look, and then turned to Granger for backup. Granger was frowning at me in that troubled way she sometimes did at house-elves or hippogriffs chained up too tight. When she opened her mouth, I held up a hand.
“Spare me your philanthropies, Granger. Just point me to any Slytherins you may have seen.”
I made down the corridor in the direction of her finger, realizing just then that Harry Potter should have been with them. Not that it mattered. Not that I fantasized about him every time his face popped up in the news, in my magazines, on the radio, and in every third conversation happening in Europe the whole damn summer. No, sir.
Pansy, Zabini, and Goyle were in the very last compartment. When I opened the door, their eyes widened, and Pansy looked haughtily down the side of my body. “Nice purse,” she said.
I narrowed my eyes. “Thanks, I bought it in Milan. Where’d you get yours—a Weasley family jumble sale?”
We held eyes, and then began to laugh. She jumped up and hugged me, and informed me she really did like my messenger bag, to which I replied, “No shit, it’s Gucci.”
Zabini snorted, prodding Goyle with his finger. “Girls, right?”
Goyle said, “Er—wha’?” and looked around the compartment, and then returned to whatever it was he was reading. Comics in the Daily Prophet, it seemed.
Pansy settled in close to me, saying, “Come off it, Zabini. I was at the induction ceremony when the Dark Lord outed you. You make fun of Draco for being gay when you’ve slept with him yourself? We’re all still waiting for you to come out.”
“Come out? There’s nothing to come out about,” Zabini said casually, crossing his ankles on the seat across from him, which was right next to me. “Anyway, take a look at Malfoy: over-groomed, melodramatic, too many hand gestures—he’s basically a girl himself.”
Pansy pursed her lips. Before she could bite back, Goyle cut in, gobsmacking us all.
“Draco lived with the Dark Lord for a year and fought with a bum wand during the Battle. He’s more a man than you’ve ever been.”
Goyle never looked up from his comic (really, the way he was sniggering already, I don’t know if he realized he’d said it), but I felt immensely grateful for his friendship in that moment. Zabini sighed, made a pained face, and nudged me with his foot. I accepted it as an apology for everything.
We traded gossip. Goyle shared a rumor that the ghost of Snape was going to be our Head of House, to which Pansy replied, “If Snape were a ghost, he’d be the child-eating kind, not the child-minding kind.” I bored them with anecdotes about Armand: his ability to bounce when I held him upright, his fascination with the salt water on our holiday in the French Riviera, the way his hair was starting to curl on the ends, and so forth. They informed me of their mutual hardships with the Ministry.
“Of course, I didn’t have it as bad as you three,” Pansy told me. “A Dark Mark alone wasn’t enough to convict. I didn’t fight.”
“Did you fight at the Battle?” I asked Zabini, and he shrugged yes.
“Nobody bothered to speak against me,” Goyle said, looking up from the newspaper, “not even Potter.” When his eyes glazed over, I could tell he was thinking about those moments with Crabbe in the Room of Hidden Things.
“I suppose Potter served as witness for your Wizengamot hearing,” Zabini said, eyeing me head-to-toe.
I glowered at him, wondering if he’d ever let go of his knowledge of Potter and me. “Not that I know of. He did for my mum, but I had an anonymous witness.”
“Really? Well, he spoke at mine.” Zabini cocked his head, finally letting out the smirk I knew was in there somewhere. “Why do you suppose he would have openly witnessed for me and your mum, and not you?”
“I couldn’t say.” Really, I couldn’t. And I found something deeply troubling about the idea. I narrowed my eyes in realization. “Why would he witness for you at all?”
He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
My mind reeled with images of Zabini cornering Potter like he cornered me in the hospital wing, making allusions about blabbing sensitive information, extorting him for good favor, extorting him for other types of favors....
My fears were cut short when Pansy snorted. “His mummy gave the Order money in the end. Must have made a deal with Potter.”
Zabini rolled his eyes, and looked at me. “Your dad came by, suggested it to Mum. How’s he doing, anyway?”
“As well as can be expected,” I muttered.
“So, speaking of Potty!” Pansy said, snatching the Prophet from Goyle (“Oy, don’t rip the puzzle section!”). “Look how stupid he looks. And, ugh, they’re touting him as the greatest Auror who ever lived, even before he has the job.”
The article in question, “Potter the Protector,” was a two page editorial, detailing how Harry Potter selflessly jumped from being a war hero to being a minder of the social good, throwing aside his education to become an Auror, all before his 18th birthday last July. What a crock. I’m sure you’d agree. For instance, there was a photo of Potter saving a little girl from a swarm of dementors with his robes billowing behind him like a superhero’s cape. Upon closer inspection, one could see that the girl was a hologram and the dementors were made of chicken wire and black sheets. I imagined I should write to Dad’s financial manager about making a donation to the Auror Department, unless we wanted the next wave of the wizarding world’s finest to be adept only at beating piñatas with their wands.
“Don’t he have to be a good Auror?” Goyle asked. “Ain’t they letting him train without even taking his N.E.W.T.s?”
“Please,” Pansy scoffed, “they’ll give Potter anything he wants, and he’s eating it up. I heard that last week he complained to Ron Weasley that there wasn’t any ice cream for sale at the Ministry cafeteria, and the next day, they offered twelve different flavors. Oh, oh, this is priceless!” She leaned over the paper with glee. “The reporter is asking Potter what his favorite part of Auror training has been so far, and Potter says—” She deepened her voice. “—eeeerm, fighting the monsters?”
We all burst into laughter. After several more quotes, all in Potter’s deep, hesitant inflections, we were laughing so loud that the trolley witch came to check that we weren’t dying.
Fine, I admit it. I was disappointed to find out that Potter wouldn’t be returning to Hogwarts. But with my friends there with me and the lightness of a war-free environment finally restored, that rather made up for it.
Slytherin table was sparse that year (and, at the Head of it, Goyle was disappointed not to find a greasy ghost, but Horace Slughorn). We all clustered at one end, not filling half of it. There were more first years Sorted than ever before, since the Muggle-borns and half-bloods who didn’t get Hogwarts letters last year were making up for lost time. Out of the ninety-five new students, only eleven came to Slytherin House, fewer and fewer being called throughout the ceremony, as each new Slytherin was met with open jeering. When it was over, McGonagall stood, squashing the noise with her hands and clearing her throat for the Welcoming speech.
That was when I heard the rumble.
I could only describe it as an obnoxious car engine. It sounded as though it were coming from the ceiling at first, but then the vibrations picked up, louder still, just outside the Great Hall doors. The students murmured. Professors stood, confused. Then the main doors opened slowly, hesitantly—and the Great Hall exploded with applause.
Harry Potter had stepped in.
He seemed to realize he’d spoiled his quiet entrance, so he stood erect and strode towards Gryffindor table, as if the clapping and hollering were in his imagination.
I couldn’t help leaning forward. Holy shit, Potter put my favorite Italian model to shame: he was not skinny anymore. The robes in his Daily Prophet photo must have hidden it. His narrow waist was now a base for a chest and back that flared out into shoulders as wide as they looked strong. His thighs filled out his jeans, leading up to his arse—and, let me tell you, I had spent a fair amount of time with a young man obsessed with working out, and that right there was a deliberately sculpted, pert and perfect arse. He wore a green Weird Sisters shirt, fitted jeans, brown lace-up boots, and a designer leather jacket I knew I would have noticed if he’d worn it before. Good Lord, Auror training had beaten the awkward out of Potter and left him a bloody heap of hot. When he grinned at no one in particular, I nearly tossed pride to the wind and swooned.
Ginny Weasley beat me to it. She ran towards Potter, throwing her arms around his neck, and exclaimed, “You came on the motorcycle? That’s so cool!”
“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said over the excitement. She was standing at the Head Table, her eyes stern. “As pleased as I am to see you, did you not think you would have to apply to the Eighth Year Program, just like your peers? I cannot simply accommodate you at the last moment.”
Potter nodded, embarrassed. “I understand, Professor. And I’m sorry for interrupting. It was a last minute decision.”
McGonagall frowned for a long moment, causing Pansy to hiss, “She’s actually going to deny him special treatment. This is fantastic!”
At last, McGonagall looked to the nighttime ceiling, as if she were trying to summon some celestial energy, and said, “You could have at least come on the Hogwarts Express, Potter. Take your seat and see me after the feast.” Potter grinned, shuffling the Weasley girl over to Gryffindor table, where he was met with hugging and hair-ruffling. McGonagall added, “You, too, Mr. Weasley!” and then Ron Weasley emerged from the entrance hall, beet red, and took a seat next to a elated-looking Granger.
“I don’t believe this,” I deadpanned.
“I know,” Zabini agreed. “Everyone is going apeshit just to share his oxygen. Look at the those Hufflepuffs trying to touch the back of his jacket.”
“Amazing jacket, though,” Pansy said resentfully.
I was not referring to oxygen or jackets, but to the way Potter was leaning into the Weasley girl, whispering something that made her creamy skin blend in with her hair. I hadn’t felt this sick since the first months of my pregnancy, for Potter was facing Slytherin table, but had not looked at me once. He only had eyes for Weasley.
Halfway through dinner, Goyle asked me with his mouth full of chicken, “Are we done giving Potter a hard time, Draco?”
As for my chicken, I was stabbing it to bits. “Yes, Goyle. We are well and truly done with him.”
***
Don’t ask me why I was upset. Fine, ask. It was Potter! And not even the Ginny Weasley thing. The platonic stuff was infuriating on its own. You’d think after all this time, he would have—I don’t know—waved hello? Stopped me after dinner and thanked me for saving his life at the manor? Asked me if that kid of mine had any resemblance to him? If that idea had even occurred to him, the dolt. Maybe he didn’t read the Society section of the Daily Prophet, but it was indubitable he’d heard through the grapevine that I’d birthed a child. Indubitable!
Unpacking my new clothes brought a measure of peace. My mother and I had lived in the boutiques of Monte Carlo during our holiday. Armand had proven useful on those summer outings, his pram loaded with bags from up and down L’Avenue des Beaux-Arts. We would stop in the cafes and feed him, and laugh as he dribbled milk, and I hardly thought about my father in prison or the Battle of Hogwarts at all. That had probably been Mum’s plan. Now I had a trunkful of finery to show for it, but the novelty had worn off, replaced by the bitter irony of having riches to offer my son but no father. Well...second father.
Something at the bottom of my trunk caught my eye—a piece of parchment, stuck beneath one of the side panels. I reached for it, recognizing my mother’s tight, flowery script.
Draco,
The Easter holidays were a lovely interlude, but Mother is already lonely without you. I’m sure Armand feels the same.
He is a darling child. I still think I am looking at you when I hold him. Not that I often have the opportunity. When Montague hears Armand crying from afar, he flies into the nursery and tends to his every need. Why do we even keep house-elves?
Since Armand’s parentage is now clear and the Montagues have made no unsavory demands of us, your father no longer suspects foul play as a reason for your pregnancy. He chalks it up to your enormously magical heritage. “Malfoy potency,” he calls it in jest. I think the Blacks deserve as much credit, but I have not told him so. Whatever the reason, I am glad to see him relaxed enough to hold his grandson now. Between him and Montague passing Armand back and forth, you’re going to have a spoiled child on your hands by summer, but I think
I tore my eyes away, having read this letter long ago. It would go on to tell me how lucky I was to have such an attentive father to my child and that surely said attentiveness would carry over in marriage, which she urged me to keep considering, as my father was unlikely to take back his promise to let me flounder if I left the child a bastard.
Funny...my cheeks were wet. I wiped my face on my sleeve, but could not wipe away the image of Graham holding Armand close, feeding him, rocking him. Leave it to Graham to be so helpful that it hurt.
Of course, who knew if he’d been caring for his own child’s or Potter’s? Armand’s hair was going from white blond to tawny blond, his cheeks rounding out, and his skin going olive, but what did that prove? Nothing, except that the boy was obviously not conceived wholly of Malfoy blood. But after tonight, I knew it was best to let the world think Graham was the father, even if he wasn’t. Better to have a doting, fallen war hero for a dad than a pompous, attention-whoring one, who wouldn’t give me the time of day.
***
First, Zabini had been nagging me for fashion advice.
“Malfoy, vest and tie or dress robes?”
“Are you kidding me? Vest and tie. Only old people wear dress robes to brunch.”
Then I had spent all morning in the mirror, finally pleased with my appearance. After spending sixth year emaciated and seventh year chubby (or swollen with child, depending on who was looking), I was finally back to my normal, lean stature. There were a couple pink lines on either side of my navel, but I didn’t mind, as Doctor Wayman had banished the bulk of them. My middle was narrow, my arse full, and my shoulders square and poised. As my face filled out with the etches of manhood, I noticed the hollows of my cheeks becoming more prominent, as my father’s strong jaw and my mother’s high cheek bones played together. My hair was cropped shorter now, a protective measure against Armand’s grabby fingers, but still long enough to tuck behind my ears when I wore it loose. Today, I did not. I combed it back in waves, which shined golden-white when the light caught them.
Damn, I looked good.
Potter could suck it.
When I arrived in the Great Hall, I was bothered to find the eighth years and faculty still dining, having wanted to avoid all the sausages, quiches, and crepes with berry sauce; food seemed to stick to me easier now that I wasn’t pumping breastmilk. There were only two small, rectangular tables set side-by-side in the cavernous space, and I noticed with annoyance that Pansy and Zabini were backed up to the Gryffindors. I had to walk so close to Potter that my hand brushed his shoulder. Fuck you, it was an accident. Once again, he didn’t spare a glance.
“—don’t know what possessed you to do that, Harry,” Granger was saying, as I sank next to Pansy.
Weasley cut in. “Oy, everyone keeps thinking Harry was driving, but I was the one driving! Who do you think was parking the damn thing while he strutted in?”
“I did not strut.”
Potter’s firm voice had an immediate effect on my heartrate. I focused on my bran muffin, so as not do something classically Draco, like throw something at his head. Though, the bran muffin would have made lovely fodder.
Granger huffed. “I don’t care who was driving or strutting. It was irresponsible to make such a scene. And the rules say you have to come on the Hogwarts Express.”
“One’d fink you’d be over the rules at thif point,” Weasley said with his mouth full.
“Like I told McGonagall, I wasn’t trying to interrupt,” Potter said. “I was just...in the Ministry building, thinking of everyone at Hogwarts...and I realized this was where I belonged. So, I had a word with Auror Robards, grabbed Sirius’s bike, and followed the train tracks here.”
Weasley made a strained sound, as if he had swallowed too much toast at once. “Yeah, not before kidnapping me! ‘Where’re we going?’ I ask. ‘Short adventure,’ he says. Eight hours later, I can’t feel my arse and somehow I go from wearing Auror robes to wearing Hogwarts robes. What bird goes for a bloke in Hogwarts robes?” There was a moment of silence, and then he added, “Not that birds matter or anything. You matter. That’s not what I meant. You’re a bird, too. No—a woman!”
Frostily, Granger asked, “And they’re really going to let you go to Hogwarts and take Auror training at the same time?”
“Yeah, Kingsley helped me sort it out,” Potter admitted. I could imagine him rubbing his neck, sheepish about this fact. “They’ll just stretch out mine and Ron’s training for sixteen months, instead of twelve, and we’ll be done by next Christmas—as long as we show up to work every other weekend and during the holidays.”
“Well,” Granger said with flourish. “Looks like that’s all packaged up nicely. Guess you’ll get to wear those Auror robes for someone, Ron. I know I don’t care to look at them.”
As Weasley choked on his juice, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“You hear all that?” Pansy whispered. “It’s never-ending. Even Potter’s friends get special privileges by extension.”
I shrugged. “That’s not really news, is it?”
Zabini leaned around Pansy, looking rather dapper in the blue vest I chose. “I don’t happen to mind his favor with the Ministry, as long as I’m on the receiving end.” He frowned at our smiles. “That wasn’t sexual innuendo.”
“Anyway,” I said to Pansy. “It’s annoying, but not doing us any harm. And he did save our arses, loathe as I am to admit.” Zabini, Pansy, and Goyle looked oddly at me. I didn’t even know Goyle was across from me, the quiet prat. “What?” I asked.
Pansy’s nose looked more upturned than usual. “Saved us from what?”
“Come on, don’t make me say His name.”
“We was just...under the impression...” Goyle started, looking at his eggs.
Zabini finished for him, whispering, “that this defection talk of your family's was a big sham.”
“Yes, you were rather His pet, weren't you?” Pansy asked, eating a blueberry daintily, as if we were in the middle of gossiping about soap operas.
“No!”
“Well, it seemed so, the way He went on about you. After you got up the duff, it was like you were Merlin’s gift to the wizarding race.” She gave me a sidelong look. “And he did live with your family for a year. We just assumed...” Her voice was so quiet I had to read her lips. “...that your loyalties to the Cause still ran deep.”
For once, I wasn’t sure what was in my best interest: protecting my reputation among the purebloods or protecting my family's greater public image. I didn’t have to make a decision. McGonagall was standing at the end of the table, tossing down her napkin impatiently.
“It’s half-past,” she announced, “we’ll just start without him.”
“Who? What happened?” I asked.
Pansy didn’t answer, so Goyle did. “The Defense professor’s late from his first class.”
McGonagall indicated the man to her right. “I would like to introduce Mr. Reginald Lightbaum, the Ministry liaison for the Eighth Year N.E.W.T. Revision Program.” There was light applause, during which Lightbaum, a man with a boyish face and receding hair, accidently began to clap for himself. McGonagall continued, “The program is not just a continuation of your sixth or seventh year studies, but a tool designed to help navigate you over the hurdles the war created for most of you. Mr. Lightbaum will explain the details.”
Lightbaum ran his hands down the front of his suit and gave a practiced smile. “I’m pleased to see each and every one of you here to usher in a new era of—”
His face lost color.
Every head turned in the direction of his gaze.
Severus Snape was gliding into the hall, transparent and placid.
Goyle pulled on Pansy’s sleeve, saying, “I told you! I told you!”
You wouldn’t have believed it. I didn’t at first. But it was Snape. He was there in all his somber, hook-nosed, billowing glory. And, really, this incarnation had only improved the billowing.
“It’s a week for surprise entrances, then,” McGonagall said flatly. “Professor Snape, you missed the Welcoming Feast and today’s brunch.”
“I cannot eat. Why should I dine?” He floated along the Slytherin-Ravenclaw table (our mouths hanging open the whole while), and stopped, bobbing next to her.
“You hardly ate before, and yet you still—” McGonagall gathered herself, apparently still flustered by Snape’s presence herself. “Nevermind. Ladies and Gentlemen, as some of you already know, Professor Snape will be returning to his post as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, on the condition we avoid acknowledging his obvious change in...embodiment. Please continue, Mr. Lightbaum. My apologies for the delay.”
We shut our mouths, and got on with learning a gamut of frankly boring things: that Lightbaum would be available for career counseling (I imagined him handing me a hammer, and shuffling me off to be a plumber or whatever); that Professor Snape would serve as head of the N.E.W.T. tutoring committee (I imagined all the Gryffindors would fail on principle, in that event); that Professor Sprout would lead weekly grief counseling groups, which would switch off House pairings (blah, blah, unity, blah) and there we could discuss our feelings about the war (it stunk, the end).
When McGonagall dismissed us, I was so antsy to escape that I sprang from my seat and plowed right into a sturdy form.
“Ooof,” Potter said, catching me under the arms.
The world seemed to slow. The closest students grew tense, as if I might pull out my wand and stab Potter in the eye from this proximity. Granger and Weasley traded a worried look. Zabini leaned forward, rapt. Pansy pursed her lips. Goyle? He was eating a sandwich. None of those things mattered. Potter’s eyes were there, dark green with flecks of gold, huge without his glasses, which had fallen in the scuffle. I had only seen him twice without glasses: once before I punched him in the cushioned Room of Requirement and once as we lay on the floor staring at each other after our lovemaking, just before the Astronomy Tower battle. Now I knew why Potter refused to look me in the eye. He was hopeless at hiding his emotions. In the split second he held me, his pupils dilated and his eyebrows worried together, and I felt the way I felt when he asked me if I cared about him so long ago: frightened, confused, and desperate to say “yes.”
There would be no “yes” now. Not as long as he was seeing Ginny Weasley.
I let go of his arms and said, “Watch it,” before walking away.
“Malfoy, wait.”
I did. I turned on my heel, as the students trickled out past me, and found Potter reaching into his robes, still looking at me with that pitiful air about him.
“This is yours.”
He produced a ten inch, hawthorn wand. My wand.
I took it, avoiding his fingers, and left without a word.
***
A shadow overtook my Veritaserum essay, and I smelled a clean, feminine scent. I rolled my eyes. “Pansy, if you want to sit, you don’t have to be weird about it.”
“Well, all right, but I’m not Pansy.”
Granger tossed her enormous bag on my table and made herself comfortable. “Why would Pansy be weird about sitting next to you?”
Because she’s worried I’m a blood-traitor, I thought. What I said was, “What. The fuck. Are you doing?”
“Studying.”
“With me?”
“All the tables are full.”
“No, they’re not. They’re taken, but they’re not full. Go on with—”
I flung a hand towards Finch-Fletchley, who had been trying to glare me to shreds for an hour, and then the other hand towards the Patil twins, who hadn’t been studying as much as bowing over a star-chart and attempting to predict my demise.
“None of them are in Potions,” she said, as if that settled everything. “Besides, wouldn’t it be helpful to bounce ideas off one another? We are the top two students in Slughorn’s class.”
I threw up my hands and looked around the room, like it was about to crumble around me. Perhaps this was a prank. Potter and Weasley would pop out with some horrid Wheeze in a moment. Or else Granger was trying to provoke me into hexing her, and all these students would serve as witness, and I would be banished from proper wizarding society. Well, fuck them! Fuck them to Hades!
Granger’s lips were twitching.
Maybe I was overreacting. I slowly lowered my hands to the table, remembering Zabini’s too-much-gesturing comment.
“Look, Malfoy,” she said, and deliberately set out her Potions text, a crisp roll of parchment, and a self-inking quill. “I’ll be forward. You owe me.”
“I owe you,” I said in three distinct but equally as dumbfounded syllables. “I owe you for what”—said with a moue to the lips and a breath on the “what,” because what had this fuzzy girl been drinking?
“For getting you to Hogwarts to study Potions to begin with.” She placed her hands challengingly on the table, close to mine. “Who do you think testified to the Wizengamot on your behalf?”
My fingers curled in, scratching back towards me, both to escape hers and to convey my shock. “No, you did not.”
“I’m quite certain I did.”
“All right. Why?”
“Because—” This was the first time her confidence wavered. “I heard what you were trying to do when Bellatrix was....”
My defenses fell as the memory rushed back. I’d been such a bleeding-heart that night in the drawing room, watching Granger twitch on the floor. I’d tried to trick Bellatrix off her, but had been too frightened to push the issue.
I flicked the memory away with a hand (damn it!). “I mean, really. That makes us even, if anything.”
“I succeeded in saving you from your fate, Malfoy,” she said dryly. “Look, I’m not trying to exploit you. If you don’t want to study with me, fine—we’re even. But I think we could both benefit. I’ve seen how people have been treating you, and I’m sorry for what Ginny did on the train. I know you’re not a bad person.”
Why did Gryffindors keep saying that to me?
“If you help me with my N.E.W.T. level Potions,” she went on, “you’ll be helping yourself, too. People won’t think as poorly of you if they see us working together.”
Only your people, I thought, rolling my eyes. “Fine! Just don’t try and hold my hand again.”
Granger flipped open her book. “Like I think you’d ever like me.”
“Yeah, Muggle-borns aren’t my thing.”
She smiled without looking at me. “Yes, because blood status is what I meant.” We read in silence for a moment, until she said, “Thank you, by the way.”
I heaved a sigh. “Don’t get sappy, we’re just studying.”
She lifted a thick brown eyebrow. Even while trying to look sarcastic, Granger’s eyes were unnervingly warm, rather like my mother’s on a day when she felt good about her hair and make-up. “Not for this,” she said. “The other thing.”
“Mmph,” I said. And then, “Yeah. I suppose...you, too.”
***
She leaned towards Mr. Montague, who had just led me into his cottage in Hogsmeade. “Draco’s first words were jinxes, and he used to cast them on his father’s ankles as he walked by. I imagined he liked the big thumping sound Lucius made when he fell.”
“Good lad, good lad,” Montague laughed. He grew distant. Just as fast, he shot off the sofa like a dart. “Here she is, our lovely hostess.”
Mrs. Montague frowned fondly as she padded into the room. “Stop,” she said, and enfolded me in a fleshy, vanilla-scented embrace. “I should hope we’ll be seeing more of you than this, Draco.”
“I took my time settling in, but now McGonagall’s given me leave to come two weekends a month, plus Hogsmeade days.”
“Dear, how splendid. It’s fortunate we live so close to the school. We’ve missed you—and you, darling!” She said this pulling on Armand’s cheek.
We settled in for tea. Armand would not suffer his baby chair nor his bouncy contraption, so I feigned reluctance, and settled him on my left knee with my tea saucer. In truth, I never wanted to let him go again. I had been so burdened with longing for the boy that I could hardly keep up with Granger during our last study session.
“Draco,” Mr. Montague said, placing not three, not four, but five cubes of sugar in his tea. “Tell us about your studies, lad.”
An hour later, we were breathless, laughing about Snape and how he hadn’t batted an eyelash when his lecture on combatting the undead had veered into spirit management.
“Regarding the everyday household pest,” I said in my most nasal voice, “the ghoul is a crazed, rogue unembodiment, while the ghost is a human soul but no less cumbersome.”
Mrs. Montague had to place her tea aside as she tittered, so as not to spill. She dabbed her eyes. “What a character, that man....”
“It is unfortunate, the way it went for Severus,” my mother said. “But I am pleased you won’t be going without your mentor. Have you spoken to him about a letter of recommendation yet?”
“Oh, Mum, I would like to let him rest in peace for a while before I hassle him about something so mundane.”
“I thought the point of being a ghost was that he’d never rested in peace, at all.” Mr. Montague swiped his mustache with his napkin, and winked at me.
“Graham did tell us stories about him,” his wife said, eyes glazing over. “He was always so good in school, but Potions wasn’t his subject. Snape let him know it, too.” The room grew silent. After moment, Mrs. Montague bounced towards me on the sofa. “The baby’s getting my family's eyes, you know.”
Grateful for the distraction, I exclaimed, “Is he? Sit up straight, let me get a look at you.” I said this imperiously, but Armand only smiled a wet smile at me.
It was true. His eyes were going from gray to green, almost like the pale green of Mrs. Montague and her kin. I thought he had taken after me in that regard, but perhaps his gray eyes had been a long-standing bout of newborn color. I kissed Armand on the head, feeling guilty I was thinking about Potter and not Graham in that moment.
***
I knocked on his office door that week. I don’t know what I had been expecting—certainly not for him to pop out of the wood, nearly floating through me, only to hover several inches higher off the ground than he had stood alive. It really enhanced that looking-down-his-nose effect.
“Can I help you?” Snape said flatly.
“Yes, hello,” I said, startled. “I wanted to talk to you about...Potions.”
“See Professor Slughorn.” He began to fade into the wood.
“No, wait! He and I are not on as good terms as you and me.” Snape stared blankly, and I was left wondering if I had gravely misinterpreted our relationship. “Anyway, I’m strongly considering the Potions industry after Hogwarts. Maybe even university level Potions, I don’t know. Would you consider offering me a letter of recommendation?”
Snape sighed for a long time. I wondered if he could go on forever, having no real reason to breathe. “Five minutes. I’m with a student.” He disappeared.
When the door opened, it was not Snape who came out. It was Potter. He was sniffing into his sleeve when he noticed me, and quickly dropped his arm. His eyes were pink. “He asked me to send you in,” he said quietly.
I nodded, reaching for the doorknob. We switched places. At the last moment, Potter said, “Hey! Er, how’s your wand working for you?”
“Oh. Fine.” I touched it thoughtfully. “Better than ever, actually.”
“Good. I was worried it wouldn’t revert it’s loyalty to you.”
I shrugged, turning for the door.
“Hey,” Potter said, stepping towards me. I looked at his shoulder, not his face, because surely I would do something rash otherwise. “I wanted to thank you. For what you did at your house. You probably saved my life.”
“No need. I really didn’t know it was you.”
“Yes, you did.” I could hear the smile in his voice. Stubbornly, I focused on his shoulder. It was bigger and taller than the last time we’d had a conversation. And it needed a lint brush. Potter’s voice grew full but gentle. “Look at me.”
“No.”
He shifted his weight, foot to foot. “Please.”
I did. And I thought I was looking into Armand’s eyes. I made a small noise in my throat, but before Potter could speak there was a voice down the corridor.
“Oy, are we doing this, or what!”
Ginny Weasley was holding out Potter’s leather jacket. She was bundled in her own (albeit cheaper-looking) version.
Potter’s wistful expression faded. He backed away, saying, “You know how people like a flying motorbike....”
As I watched them retreat, I heard their voices echo in the dungeon corridor.
“Was he harassing you, Harry?”
“Course not. He’s not bad like you think.”
“If you say so.”
“I do,” Potter said, looking over his shoulder.
***
Slughorn had assigned us a partnered project, brewing “professional caliber potions.” Naturally, neither Granger or I wanted to lower ourselves to the level of the rest of the class (though, Granger would never say this aloud, since the rest of the class was only Potter, Weasley, and two seventh years I didn’t know), so we had partnered up. I had my feet up on the library table, as I stared out at the Quidditch pitch. Perhaps I was imagining Potter playing, swooping, reaching for the Snitch with a smile on his face. I don’t know, it was a long time ago. Granger was reciting our project options.
“Okay, we can do super-concentrated Pepper-Ups...of course, then we have to make four of them in various percent-magic concentrations. I don’t mind! In fact—”
“I mind.”
She looked out from under her hair. “All right. There’s Skelegrow. Well, not the namebrand kind, but something with the same active ingredients.”
“Doesn’t that require a lot of temperature control? Not that I can’t do it, but it is attention-needy.”
“Malfoy, how do you expect to be hired by one of those fancy potions corporations you’re always talking about if you don’t put the effort into brewing?”
“I was hoping to work in research,” I said, spreading out my hands as if it were obvious. My face brightened. “Or management. Look at how well I’m managing you.”
Granger pinched the bridge of her nose, and continued reciting. When she got to the Gender Reassignment Drought, a potion usually prescribed to men trying to achieve pregnancy, she stopped. I turned my attention to the pitch again, as I felt her eyes slide up to my face.
“Malfoy, can I ask you something?”
“Perhaps,” I said stiffly.
“It’s altogether for my curiosity. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” I sighed, and rolled my head towards her. She was fluffing her hair awkwardly, and I marveled that it could grow even more voluminous. “You see, there’s been a rumor....”
“Just a guess. You heard that I gave birth to my son.”
She nodded. “I don’t hear you denying it.”
“That’s because I’m not a liar.” She quirked a cheek, and I added, “Certainly not about my ancestry. Though, I suppose he’s my descendant, but you know what I mean.”
“What’s his name?”
“Armand.”
“After the Norman invader, Armand Malfoy?”
“You just never take your nose out of anyone’s business, do you?”
“What? It’s not as if it’s hard to keep track of every pureblood’s lineage. You all seem to grow off the same tree.”
I hummed my indifference, looking around the library. Finch-Fletchley was back to sending mental daggers at my head. Perhaps he was concerned for Granger’s safety. I turned back to her. “Why do you care, anyway?”
“No reason, except that it’s fascinating. Obviously, Muggle men don’t ever have children. And the mechanics of the potions and charms are so intricate, not mention how remarkably—” She chewed her lip. “—well-adjusted you are about it all. As if it’s normal.”
“It’s normal for us.”
“I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. Only that it’s interesting that it’s viewed as natural—even though it can only happen with magical intervention—”
“Magic is natural. For us. It’s born unto us. By extension, the ends we achieve using the magic are born unto us. Therefore, they are also natural.”
Granger nodded apologetically. “You’re right. I amend my statement.” A tiny smile, and she returned to her notes.
I swung my feet off the table, and looked at her closely. “That’s it? You just...concede?”
“You made a valid point,” she said, holding her parchment up and squinting at it. “Would you have me argue for the sake of it?”
“I’m a Slytherin. We don’t tend to care about the truth as much as the being-right part.”
She laughed humorlessly, like she often did. “Well, I care about the truth. Now, what counts as truth is another conversation, but you did give a valid argument.”
“Yes, yes, I did.” I sniffed. “Besides, there was no magical intervention with me. I just turned up pregnant. So, not even a Muggle could call that unnatural.”
Granger’s parchment slipped out of her hand and floated towards the floor. “Excuse me? That’s impossible.”
“You sound like my father.” I eyed the parchment, where it landed near my shoe. No...I didn’t feel like picking it up.
“You must have Veela ancestry, then.”
“Certainly not—my father and I searched high and low for it. I really did just get pregnant.”
“You had a partner, though, right?”
“Of course, I did,” I snapped, ducking under the table, grabbing the parchment, and taking the moment to roll my eyes. When I resurfaced, I slapped it down. “What am I, the Virgin Malfoy?”
“Either way—you had to have had an intervention. Your body doesn’t work like that.”
“There was no potion and no charm. Just...Malfoy potency!”
“Right,” Granger said, nodding. Her eyes narrowed in what I would come to know as her shit’s-about-to-go-down face. “It’s just that there’s no such thing.” She snapped her book shut, and stood up.
“What, no, wait,” I said, feeling very needy. She had been picking up my slack for weeks, and I didn’t feel like studying on my own anymore. “What about the project? Which potion shall we do?”
“The Pepper-Ups, I think. Since you clearly have no need for the Gender Reassignment Drought.” She shot me a look, heaved up her giant bag, and marched away.
That was when I learned never to pique Hermione Granger’s curiosity.
***
I folded my arms. “Make it quick. I have plans today.”
“Oh? Spending the Hogsmeade day with someone special?”
“Yes. My son. Well, come on. What was so important I had to slog all the way up here?”
She got a fire under her skirt again. She rounded the table, turned a large book towards me, and pointed triumphantly.
“Well done,” I said, peering into the ancient tome. “It’s a painting of a couple old men.”
“It’s Harpalion. He invented the first potion to enable male pregnancy. And that one holding the potion was his apprentice, Agosto.”
“I told you, I didn’t take a potion.” Was the whole world deaf or just mental?
Granger gave me a stern look. “Please, hold your comments until the end. And your applause, because this is about to get good.”
I crossed my arms, amused and perturbed to be hearing my voice come out of her.
“Now then. The original pregnancy potion was just a fluke of a sex-altering potion—old men wanting a makeshift woman, no doubt. And the potions didn’t work very well. If you stopped taking them while you were pregnant, you would revert back to your male form and spontaneously abort, if you didn’t die. Agosto saw that there were men taking Harpalion’s potions deliberately to get pregnant, and wanted to create a safer alternative. He succeeded, and the recipe was bought from him by the biggest wizarding vendor in Europe at the time, which—wouldn’t you know it?—correlated with the very beginnings of—”
“Muggle witch hunts,” I drawled.
“Yes,” she said, fanning through the book to find an image of a burning witch. “There were fewer witches to go around in the 900s through the 1500s, whether from execution or hiding, and for the wizard eaten up with blood status, this presented a problem. Not wanting to mate with Muggles, many of them started buying pregnancy potions by the fistful.”
“I remember most of this from History of Magic. What do you think it has to do with me?”
Her eyes lit up. “This next bit’s not taught in class. You see, the vendor may have bought the recipe from Agosto, but he wasn’t a practiced alchemist. His manufacturers were brewing cauldrons and cauldrons of the stuff, but, being unskilled, what they didn’t take into consideration were—” Granger smiled expectantly. When she received no response, she added, “It’s the focus of our Potions project? The Pepper-Ups are a series of...?”
I lifted an eyebrow.
She threw her hands up. “Percent-magic concentrations, Malfoy! I’m beginning to think you’re just pretending to study while you let me do all the work.”
Ah, she was finally catching on. I made a note to redouble my efforts to look involved.
“Anyway, many of these potions were saturated with far too much magic. In the end, some men retained the ability to conceive even after they were done taking potions.”
“If you’re trying to imply I dabbled in pregnancy potions in my childhood, then you’re bonkers.”
“Hush now, and listen. This is where my history ends and my theory begins. Let’s take our magic fundamentals and apply them to this situation. We know that magic absorption in high concentrations has the potential to manifest in a person’s DNA. We know that you come from a long line of pureblood-only witches and wizards. What if this men-carrying-babies trait is a recessive trait that’s popping back up in you hundreds of years later? Or what if it’s a dominant trait? But none of your male ancestors have engaged in the right type of sexual activity for it to have mattered until now?”
“You’ve gone off the deep end,” I said, touching my chin. “But I am intrigued.”
“So, yes! I’ve solved it. I told you I could.” A look of ecstasy overcame her, and I wondered if she and Weasley sat up at night solving riddles as foreplay.
“How can a man go eight days without sleep?” Weasley would ask.
Granger would roll her eyes. “He only sleeps at night, Ron!”
“Well, baby, you’re not going to be sleeping tonight.”
“Oh my!”
I was snickering to myself. Granger was staring in confusion. I gathered myself and said, “You didn’t solve anything, Granger. You made a hypothesis. Next time you talk to me about valid arguments, don’t use this as an example. It’s a good bit of speculation you have, but where’s your proof?”
“You’re my proof.”
“I’m one man. It doesn’t follow that if I get pregnant, I’m automatically a product of this history. I’ll need some sort of evidence before I go into the record books as a genetic oddity.”
She put her hands on her hips. “What do you want me to do, go to a lab at a Muggle university and isolate the gene?”
“I don’t want you to do anything. This is your quest, not mine. I’m happy assuming all Malfoys are exceptionally powerful wizards and leaving it at that. Malfoy potency.” I moved my hand through the air like I was drawing out a banner. “Has a regal sort of ring to it, don’t you think? We are truly remarkable.”
Her mouth opened in such a way that it was clear she did not find that regal or remarkable. “I’ll find something!”
“And how?” I asked, leaning towards her challengingly.
“The proper way.” She gathered herself up, tall and proud. “With books.”
“There, there, Granger. Keep it in the bedroom.” She looked confused again, so I added quickly, “Now, if you’ll excuse me I’ve got to—”
“Hermione!” someone hissed. Ah, lover boy himself had appeared. Weasley looked neither surprised nor pleased to see me. “There you are. I thought you were coming to Hogsmeade with us. We’ve been waiting for ages.”
“We just finished,” she said, gathering her book bag, which she shrunk into a manageable wrist purse. “Oh, Malfoy, you said you were on your way to Hogsmeade. Why don’t you walk with us?”
Weasley got visibly uncomfortable. I liked that.
“I suppose there’s no way around it,” I chirped.
But I should have predicted that Potter would be joining us, and I did not like that. It was just too uncomfortable. My mischievous spark burned out when I saw him on the castle steps with Longbottom and Dean Thomas, and I resigned to walking slightly behind the five of them, kicking through the autumn leaves starting to cover the ground.
“Where’s Ginny?” Granger was asking.
“Quidditch practice again,” Potter said, looking a touch bothered.
“Yeah, it’s bollocks,” Weasley declared. “Eighth years aren’t any different than seventh years. Why can’t we play on the teams?”
Granger and Longbottom shared an amused look. “Because it’s not fair, obviously,” she said. “Pitting eighteen and nineteen years olds against students as young as twelve? They wouldn’t stand a chance. Besides, there won’t be an eighth year program next year, so I’m sure it wasn’t worth McGonagall’s effort to worry about.”
“Still, a man likes to burn off some steam at the end of a hard day’s work.” It sounded like Weasley had been waiting a long time to say those words out loud.
“You should have thought of that before you decided to go to Hogwarts and work for the Ministry.”
“It was Harry’s bloody—”
“Here’s an idea,” said Longbottom, looking over his shoulder. I was caught off guard by the benevolence in his eyes. “Malfoy, what do you think the Slytherins would say to sort of an intramural league? We could get all the eighth years from each house together.”
“You’re interested in Quidditch, Nev?” Weasley asked, trying to steer the attention away from me.
“No, but it would probably help with all the negative feelings if we got everyone together. Lightbaum was going on about how our generation should be the first to take blood politics by the nuts and toss it aside.”
“Neville!” Granger admonished, grinning.
He blushed. “Well, that was the jist of it. And I think we should include everyone in the effort—everyone who wants to be included. Don’t you agree?”
We had stopped on the road. Granger and Dean Thomas seemed to be having a silent conversation. The rest were staring at me, making me feel oddly exposed. I wrapped my cloak tighter around myself.
Potter broke the silence. “Good man, Neville,” he said, squeezing Longbottom’s shoulder. He turned to me. “What do you say? Quidditch league?”
Really, I didn’t want to. I was busy enough with N.E.W.T.s and Armand, and I feared Pansy might actually never speak to me again if I took up with this crowd. But Potter was giving me a funny little half-smile, and, Good Lord, he was pretty. Imagine that new body of his fitted with riding gear.
I nodded slowly. “We might be amenable to that.”
Potter hung back, while the others walked a few paces ahead of us already picking captains and arguing over whether townspeople and faculty should be included. He looked at me sideways, the half-smile still softening his face. “It’ll be fun, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. I haven’t played in quite a long time—quit halfway through sixth year.” I regretted saying that. The reason why I quit hung unspoken in the air.
“Well,” he said, eyes crinkling like he had a secret, “you’ll pick it up. You’re a great flyer.”
“Don’t start complimenting me, Potter. I can’t handle all this at once. First Granger accosts me, and then you both thank me, and now all this Quidditch talk. I’m growing dizzy from the surrealness of it all.”
“Don’t faint,” he laughed, pretending to steady my elbow. We traded a heavy look, and he pulled back immediately. “Sorry. Oh, I met your son, by the way. Cute kid.”
“You what?” I stopped in my tracks, dirt billowing around me.
Potter adjusted his glasses. “Erm, yeah. He was there with your mum when I went to visit my godson. They’re the same age, Armand and Teddy, and they seem like best mates already. Anyway, my godson stays with your mum’s sister, and your mum was there when I popped in for tea. Bit awkward, but—” He made a whatever face, and continued down the road.
I had to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. “And when was this?”
“Last weekend when I was in London for work.”
“I see.”
“Yeah, and he rather likes me. Sorry about that. I know Malfoys aren’t supposed to.” He winked.
I ignored the way my stomach flipped. “Nonsense! Armand hates everyone but his father.”
“I suppose he just crawls after everyone he hates, then.”
“He crawls now?” I put both hands in my hair, despairing. I didn’t know what part of this was upsetting me most—missing even more of Armand’s progress or the fact that Potter, of all people, got to witness it instead. “I didn’t even know you knew I had a baby.”
“Yeah, there had been rumors. And I was...shocked, if I’m honest. I didn’t even know wizards could do that, which I never should have told Hermione, because then she yelled at me for not paying attention in a History of Magic.” He looked at me thoughtfully, almost sadly, and added, “I suppose magic knows no bounds, right?”
“Right,” I said softly, staring at the side of his head. Surely he was going to ask the obvious questions: How old is Armand—exactly? Do you think his eyes look like mine? Why does he crawl after me if he’s supposed to hate everyone but his father? But Potter just stared ahead, all handsome-like. “Don’t you have anything else to say to me?” I demanded.
He sighed. “Just that Montague was a good choice for you. Slytherin, but a stand up Slytherin. I’m sorry about what happened to him.” He touched my elbow again, but this time it was a comforting gesture. “Come on, the others are way ahead, and I think they may be trying to keep me from being a Quidditch captain.”
“Couldn’t have that, could we?” I remarked, enjoying the way his eyes hardened with determination.
***
I walked amongst the shops of Hogsmeade under a gentle rain, realizing that even if I wanted to know the truth, I didn’t know how to go about finding it. Laughter was floating out of the Three Broomsticks. Through the dingy glass, I could see Pansy, Zabini, and Goyle sharing a table covered in empty glasses and spent chip platters. Perhaps they could lift my spirits. With some spirits.
“Well, well,” Pansy said, gesturing at me with her wine glass, “you tore yourself away from the Mudblood long enough to see your friends.”
I stopped at the edge of the table, unsure if I was welcome.
“Don’t worry about her,” Zabini said, peeling Pansy’s fingers off the stem of her glass. “She’s on her fourth chardonnay of the evening.”
“No, I’m fine.” She pulled the glass to her chest. “We were just talking about you, Draco—weren’t we Goyle? Why’re you always in the library with her? It’s getting to be offensive.”
“I’m not always in the library. Just a couple times a week. She’s just...useful when it comes to Potions, all right? And it’s been helpful socially. No one really mutters about me being a You-Know-What anymore. You know as well as I do, we need every leg up we can get in this touchy-feely climate.”
Pansy studied me. Her eyes were hooded with suspicion and far too much make-up, and I worried for a moment blue shadow was returning to vogue. “All right,” she said, pulling out a chair. “I was just worried you were making friends with a Muggle-born. Silly me.”
I stole her chardonnay, and said, “Damn right, silly you.” She laughed.
“OY! MALFOY!”
I looked up, mid-sip. Ron Weasley was waving at me from across the pub, sloshing lager onto an unamused Granger’s head.
“YOU GONNA PLAY QUIDDITCH OR WHAT?”
Pansy’s face was pinching up so tight I thought it would bruise. Zabini was taking the chardonnay from my hand and knocking it back. Goyle was eating a meat pie.
“So, here’s the situation,” I said delicately to my friends. “It would...promote the idea of unity...” Saying the word made my teeth hurt. “...if we were to look as though we liked them enough to play Quidditch with them. It would improve our social standing. Make it easier for us to get jobs in the future. Same argument as before.”
“Plus, Quidditch is fun,” Goyle said.
I pointed at him. “Yes! Yes, it is.”
Zabini had the devil’s grin on his face. He looked at Potter, then back at me. “I’m in.”
Pansy rounded on him. “How could you say that? They’re blood-traitors and Gryffindors and annoying.”
“She’s in, too,” Zabini said, taking her by the wrist. “Let’s go.”
So, we did. How very strange it was. Zabini wouldn’t stop smirking at Potter. Weasley wouldn’t stop laughing uncomfortably. And I couldn’t look anyone in the eye but Goyle, not that he looked back; he was watching Thomas draw cartoons on a napkin. After the awkwardness was stripped away with another round of drinks, we decided to pick teams after the Christmas holidays. There weren’t enough Slytherins for a full House team, plus Longbottom was of the opinion that House separations would only tempt hostility. For this observation, he earned a kiss from the barmaid, Hannah Abbott, and all the Gryffindors whooped. Pansy was on her best behavior for Pansy, only embarrassing me once. “Shall we get some Muggles in on it, too?” she asked from Zabini’s lap (this development was news to me). “Perhaps they can referee.” With alcohol lubricating the mood, her comment went largely unnoticed. It wasn’t until a sober Ginny Weasley showed up with a broomstick slung over her shoulder that things got tense.
“What’s all this, then?” she asked, eyeing my group suspiciously. I felt my hackles go up as she slid into Potter’s lap, as well. Potter’s eyes flicked towards me, but he grabbed her around the waist, just the same, and launched into a drunken retelling of the news.
“Brilliant, I’m in!” she exclaimed.
Weasley jumped to his feet. “Nope, you can’t, you’re a seventh year. HA!”
“But I want to promote unity, too,” she said, eyeing me as if she wanted to promote uniting her broomstick to the back of my head.
Potter took a long drink of lager, and shrugged. “Exclusion isn’t the point, Ron. Go on, let her play. I’ll even let you have her on your team.”
“How generous of you to loan me out,” Ginny said, giving Potter a slow kiss.
“Fine,” Weasley said, sinking into his chair. “But it’s not competitive, Gin. It’s all in good fun.” He snatched his goblet and glowered. “Now, get off his lap, before I clobber you both.”
For the first time ever, I rather liked this Weasley fellow.
***
“Is that really an emotion you associate with me?”
“Malfoy, the first time you wore your Gucci boots, you literally squealed and spun in a circle.”
I did not have to dignify that with response. Instead, I watched her throw her bag onto the library table and dig in its depths. “If it’s the Pepper-Up Potions assignment, I already happen to know we got full marks,” I reminded her.
She made a high noise in her throat. “No thanks to you.”
“Bollocks, I watched it boil for hours.”
Finch-Fletchley shushed us. He had stopped making evil eyes and moved on to treating both Granger and me like we were very annoying. Which I supposed we were, spending more time musing about my pregnancy than studying.
“Over the holiday, I went to a Muggle university after all,” she whispered, “but not to isolate a gene. I spent days in the library at Cambridge—it was so wonderful!”
“Isn’t that an all-Muggle institution?”
“Yes,” she said cheekily, taking out a binder full of bright white parchment (“photocopies,” she later informed me). The page she revealed contained the biography of a man with whom I was somewhat familiar.
“William the Conqueror?” I asked.
“Your father may have researched your family history, but he missed some important details.”
I pushed it away. “I don't know what you're getting at, but you fail already. I’m not related to this Muggle.”
“You’re not. But some of your ancestors are.” She placed an open copy of the Malfoy Family History book in front of me, and I found myself looking at the official portrait of Armand Malfoy the First. He was decked in his finest armor, a crimson cloak, and sat brooding in his frame.
“What are you talking about? They were friends, not relations. Armand helped William conquer Britain with magic, and William thanked Armand by gifting him the Malfoy family lands.”
“Or did he put Armand on those lands, so he’d have a place to give birth to their children in privacy?”
Armand in the picture looked around frantically, trying to find the source of this scandalous statement.
“Granger, that’s preposterous!” (Armand nodded, and returned to brooding.)
She flipped to a bookmarked section of her binder. “These are letters from William the Conqueror's wife to her sister in Flanders. She was quite the unsavory gossip for someone so posh, and that’s lucky, because she provided some key information in my research.”
These photocopies seemed to come from originals riddled with watermarks and holes; their scrawling French was in a dialect I could barely comprehend.
“They were difficult to decipher,” Granger explained, “but once I did, I found her mentioning William’s nighttime meetings with ‘a war general with yellow hair’ who was seen to carry ‘a shining branch of yew in his waistbelt.’”
My mouth was hanging open. “These records are incredible. How did you—?”
“They were hiding in the Cambridge library’s special collections.”
“And they just let you walk in and make copies?”
“Of course not. Honestly. But I’m a witch. I manage.”
Granger had already translated several passages.
...The general is demanding more land in England. I don’t know why William succombs to his wishes with such relish...
...The general was here for a fortnight, though the the battles in England have been finished for some time, and I sense no uprising on the horizon. Sister, I fear for my husband’s soul if my suspicions for the general’s visits are true...
...He is terribly ugly. His figure fluctuates like no other man’s and the belly that currently precedes him could rival any woman’s filled with child...
“Filled with child,” I whispered, looking at Granger. She was smirking.
“I couldn’t find any relevant birth records in either man’s genealogy. But there are records of three new births in the Malfoy household around the time these letters were written. They were attributed to the hired help and sent to an orphanage. But records indicate that the Malfoys were using house-elves a hundred years before this. There were simply no other people at the manor, as Armand wasn’t married yet. I think you know where I’m going with this.”
I looked at the painting of Armand, aghast. “Is this true? Did you bear those children?” He shrugged an armored shoulder, and looked away. "And you put them out instead of being a gentleman about it?"
Armand pretended not to hear me.
If you asked me to pinpoint my outrage towards my ancestor, I could have spat many adjectives about him: home-wrecking, dishonorable, low-life, Muggle-loving. But to him I simply spat, “I named my son after you,” and closed the book on his snooty face.
Granger was leaning on her fist. “There’s no reason to be upset. You’re not a descendant of Armand’s children. Your blood is as pure as it was yesterday.”
“Sarcasm does not suit you,” I said, noting how pleased she was to have ruffled my feathers. “Anyway, if it were about blood I’d be more worried about my child than me.”
Her eyes sharpened.
Fuck. Did I just say what I think I said?
“I thought the Montagues were pureblood,” she said hastily.
“Never you mind. Many thanks for your assistance. Well, have a nice day.”
Before I could stand, she was leaning forward, quite intense. “Isn't Graham Montague your baby’s father?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that question, Granger.” Which was true.
“Is there someone else? Someone secret?” Her voice had risen so high that Finch-Fletchley had snapped his quill in frustration.
“Keep—it—down,” I hissed, looking at her like I would baby Armand if he had mashed peas into my Armani jacket. “And what’s with you and secrets? That's enough, all right? You’ve solved the mystery. Huzzah, my arse is fertile because an ancient merchant never took arithmetic. The end!”
Not for Granger. I could see in those beseeching eyes that her mystery had just begun.
"God, you must be bored," I moaned. “I don't think you wanted my help with N.E.W.T.s this year. I think you were just looking for stimulation that clearly Weasley isn't capable of providing."
"And who has been stimulating you?"
"Granger!" I exclaimed, putting a hand to my chest. Had I made her so catty? Was this the product of my hard work? Looking back, I’m proud, but at the time, I was right bothered. “Look, not that it's remotely your business, but you've got me—I don’t really know who Armand's father is. It’s one of two men, one of whom is dead. The other is occupied with someone else at the moment."
“And even if he weren’t, you wouldn’t tell him, because you wouldn’t want anyone to know your son might not be a pureblood.”
More like: my father would disown me and then hunt me for sport if he knew I’d been fucking his boss’s arch nemesis under his nose. But she didn’t have to know that.
“Yes.”
“Are you out of your mind, Malfoy? We live in a world where practically every wizarding family is grieving a lost loved one, and Graham Montague’s parents are probably clinging to your son as the last peice of their own, and you’re keeping a secret like this? It would probably make this other man very happy to learn he has a child."
“If it’s his.”
“If it’s his. You should find out for everyone’s sake.”
“Cut the nobility act. You’re just nosy.”
“I can be nosy and concerned.”
“It’s not your place to be either! And even if it were, there’s no way to figure this out. Graham is dead. And I’m certainly not going to walk up to the other bloke, twirl my hair, and ask him to escort me to the mediwizard for no apparent reason.”
She looked at me like I was stupid. How dare she?
“If you don’t want him to know beforehand,” she explained, “there are other ways. Muggle ways.”
“Muggle ways,” I scoffed, and pointedly looked out the window. I looked back. “I mean. Like what?”
“Simple DNA tests you can do with samples from Armand and the Montagues. I could probably order one by owl.”
The idea was appealing—receiving the answer to a near two-year-old question without having to reveal my dilemma to anyone.
“But then...what if it’s not Graham?" I muttered, more to myself than Granger. "I don’t know what my parents would do. His parents might go off the deep end. And the other fellow...he seems...I don't know...quite taken with that girl...."
I was startled when Granger leaned over her books and placed a gentle hand on my arm. “Wouldn’t you like to know for your own peace of mind? And what are you going to do when your son is older, keep up the lie?”
“It’s not a lie. I never actually told anyone Graham was the father. I just let them assume."
“Regardless, it’s the ethical thing to do.”
“No,” I snapped, brushing her away. “The ethical thing to protect my son’s interests. He has a large family that loves him now. If the wrong answer comes back—there’s no telling what will happen.”
“But Malf—”
“I said NO, Granger.”
Her mouth stopped working, but not her mind. Not that meddlesome girl’s mind.
***
“Stay up high and watch her,” Potter shouted over the wind, tossing his head towards Ginny Weasley. “She likes to zip around, make you think she sees something—you know, get you flustered.”
I nodded, though finding the Snitch was far from my mind, thinking back to the other day.
***
“Hey,” Potter said, holding me apart from the group. The soft, shy way he was looking at me, I expected something from his mouth other than, “What do you think about playing Seeker?”
I rumpled my hair, confused. “I’ve been practicing Chaser for weeks.”
“Yeah, and you’re fast. Faster than me now. You’ve really improved.”
“As much as I’d like to take credit, Potter, I’m not faster. You’re just slower.”
“Really,” he said, pretending to be offended.
“Really. That new muscle isn’t good for everything,” I said, nudging him on the arm. Can you believe my forwardness? It must have been the adrenaline of sport.
“So, you’ve noticed, then.” Potter looked deeply pleased with himself. When I hummed indifference, he went on. “Well, you have a point. I am slower. I’m thinking of switching to Beater, putting Zabini on Chaser, and you to Seeker. The talent will make up for the lost practice.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“You know I meant you,” he said, eyes shining.
***
“Malfoy, get your hands out of your pants and focus!” Thomas cried.
I gasped. The Snitch was startled away. I turned my broom for it, but Weasley was already zipping past me, red hair streaking behind her.
She plummeted towards the grass, hand stretched towards the glittering ball just out of reach. I angled my broom down, increasing my speed perilously, wanting to show Potter he hadn’t made a mistake, and when I fell in line with Weasley I could see her eyes smiling behind her goggles; a split second later, she jabbed me with her elbow, sending me careening to the left, and then she shot back up into the sky.
That bitch!
I flipped around, toes dragging through the grass, and launched after her.
“I thought Gryffindors played by the rules!” I shouted.
“Only excessive elbowing is against the rules!"
It must have been her smug little face that made my adrenaline-fueled forwardness spike again.
“You know what else is excessive? The amount of tongue Potter uses when he kisses. My God, it’s like a full-facial massage.”
“What are you—?" Her broom swerved, but she caught herself. "Shut up, you’re disgusting!”
“Pretty hot, though, don’t you think? He just loses himself when he’s passionate, and starts pawing at you like an animal. Gryffindor lion, indeed!”
Weasley went bright pink, and I began to laugh. She grabbed my broom handle, trying to push me away. I heard Neville’s whistle blowing like mad, but she did not relent, so I continued to prod.
“And he gets his motor running so fast, wouldn’t you say? What is he? A full eight—eight and a half inches?”
“YOU FUCKING PERVERT—”
The Snitch was teasing me behind her head. It dropped out of sight. I hurdled under Weasley, sending her off balance with a squeal, and dove for it. I could hear the rush of wind, smell the sweetness of victory, imagine Potter hugging me in our triumph—and then I couldn’t breath.
I met the ground with a thud.
There was cheering. There was the scream of Longbottom’s whistle. All of it was hazy. I was mostly focused on the acute panging in my ribs.
“OY, RON!” someone shouted quite close. “Get your Beaters in line!”
I opened my eyes. Potter was crouching over me. “You didn’t fall far, but it looked like it hurt,” he said, heaving me up.
I moaned, leaning on his shoulder. “Where’s my broom?” I asked, determined to get back into the sky.
“Don’t worry about it.” He looked up. Both Weasleys were hugging on their brooms, with Ginny clutching the Snitch.
I growled, both in anger and pain. “How’d she knock me down from so far away?”
The players were beginning to gather around. Pansy pushed through the crowd and barked, “It wasn’t Weasley." She looked at a blond boy with curly hair. “It was Finch-Fletchley.”
Finch-Fletchley shrugged. “Thought that was my job.”
“You know there’s no hands-on contact like that,” she said, pushing into his space. “You plowed right into him, you bastard!”
“He was attacking Ginny,” Finch-Fletchley said, looking past Pansy to scowl at me.
The Weasleys were on the ground now. Ginny was flushed, pleased with her catch, but still glaring at me. “He wasn’t attacking me. He was just being an arsehole, trying to spin me up—”
Pansy charged up to her. “You were grabbing his broom, Weasley!”
“Ginny, really?” Granger said, breathless. She had just run down from the stands.
“You don’t know what he was saying! Some really—horrid stuff about Harry—”
Potter heaved a sigh, and took his arm off me to clap his hands hard. The arguing stopped. “It doesn’t matter what was said. There’s no broomstick grabbing.” He said this pointing to Ginny, and then rounded on Finch-Fletchley. “And no excessive contact. If anyone else is violent, they’re out.”
“Nah,” Finch-Fletchley said, tossing his broom on the ground. “I’m out right now. I don’t want to play with You-Know-Who’s favorite Death Eater.”
“I can’t say I feel differently,” Ginny said, crossing her arms.
Harry gave her a dark look. “Don’t you lower yourself like that,” he said roughly. He took me by the waist. “Come on, let’s go to the hospital wing.”
“No,” I said, jerking away. Even though no one else had openly agreed with Finch-Fletchley and Ginny, I could feel their judgement in the air. Longbottom was scuffing the ground with his shoe. Thomas was hovering protectively near Ginny. The others were trading worried looks. Cowards, all of them. “I don’t want to be where I’m not wanted," I said.
“Draco—”
“Just leave it, Potter.”
Pansy, Zabini, and Goyle followed me silently.
***
I didn’t look up from my Potions book. “I’ve been in the dungeons, where I belong.” She didn’t hear the unspoken, Now, go away. I looked up to find her chewing her lip and clutching a tiny parcel. “That better not be what I think it is,” I said wearily.
“Come on, Malfoy. I thought it might cheer you up...you know, take some uncertainty out of your life. So, I took the liberty of—well, here.”
She thrust it at me. The parcel read Dawdling Daddies DNA Services.
I looked at her from under my fringe, annoyed. She blathered like she couldn’t tell. “Obviously we’re not, well, friends, you and me. But we are something that could pass for it. Aren’t we? And I’ve known you long enough to see how important your family is to you. Maybe you're fine now, but when Armand gets older, you're going to want to tell him about his other half."
“Merlin, I’ve never met anyone like you," I sighed, pushing aside my book. The words had been swimming on the page, anyway. "Why are you so interested in me? Except for one hiccup, I’ve always treated you like dirt. And don’t tell me it’s Potions, because you’ve been doing my homework all year.”
She put her hand in her hair, fluffing it up in her way. “I don’t know. I think it might be Harry.”
Well, you know that honed my interest. “Come again?”
She sat quickly. “Harry...he’s really taken to these buzzwords floating around—unity, trust, reform—except Harry's not like those politicians who just say the words. He wants to act them, but he can’t do it all on his own. He gave me the idea to testify for you, after he did your mother and Zabini. He was sad because he didn’t want to overstep his bounds, testifying for half the Death Eaters, so I told him I would. And he was really grateful. He seems to think highly of you. You’re kind of his poster boy for this stuff, but don’t tell him I told you so."
"I see," I said, wrinkling my nose to hide the feelings overtaking me. He thinks of me. He looks out for me. He likes me.
“Anyway, it started out as just a favor to him, and then I—" Granger rolled her eyes bashfully. "—well, I took a liking to your smarmy arse. Pardon my language. And I thought if I kept on you, you’d come out of your slump and then all of us could benefit. It was working pretty well until the other day on the pitch.” She was giving me a most pitiful face, which I would come to know as her Let-Me-Help-or-I'll-Annoy-You-To-Death face.
Heaving a sigh, I placed the DNA kit between us. “You’ve got to stop mother henning me after this. I’ve already got Pansy for that, though she’s more like a mother tarantula."
She started bouncing in her seat. “So, you’ll do it?”
“Merlin's hat, why not?”
“Brilliant! All right, this will be tricky if you don’t want Montague’s family to know what’s going on. You'll need to get a DNA sample from one of his parents, as well as Armand.”
“Shouldn’t be hard. I see them two or three times a month.”
“But it’s not like Polyjuice, where you can just steal a hair off their pillow. It needs to be freshly acquired DNA—a cotton swab to the mouth, ideally. I was thinking—”
I snapped my fingers. “I’ve got it.”
“Do you?”
“Of course. I may not care for homework, but I'm just as clever as you."
"Malfoy,” she said, smiling, “was that a compliment?"
I turned back to my Potions book, nose up. "Don't get used to it."
***
“Oh! That was too kind of you, lad,” he said, plucking out a cotton swab. He sucked on it for a moment, and then gave me a disturbed look. “Why, these don’t taste of anything.”
“No? Right, I’ll just chuck the lot. Honeydukes isn’t a terribly reputable establishment, anyway....”
I retrieved Armand’s sample in privacy when he needed a nappy change.
“Draco, don’t you want to let a house-elf do that?” my mother chided.
“No, no, I see him so little that even the smelliest moments are charming moments.”
I took the sample, changed the nappy, and informed my mother that she had been right—some things should not be observed with decent eyes. Or noses, for that matter.
A week later, there was the April Hogsmeade trip, and I spotted Granger in the window of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. I made excuses to my friends, and rushed inside to loom over her shoulder.
“It’s been a whole week!”
Granger jumped. She whirled around wearing spectacles that made your eyes glitter with rainbow colors. “What?”
“A week, I say! How long does it take Muggles to complete a simple task? I paid good money for that test.”
“What test?” asked some Weasley with only one good ear, popping out from behind a shelf with a fresh box of merchandise.
Why were all Gryffindors so nosy? I pointed at him and said, “A test to see if you’re really that ugly or if your mother dropped you on your face, now bugger off!”
“OY, this is my store, and you can bugger off and out of it, you pointy little—”
“Sorry, George,” Granger said, giving me a dirty look. She pulled me outside, amongst skipping students and street vendors, and put her hands on her hips. “Malfoy, calm down. It’s not as if I’ve ever had to do this before, so I don’t know how long it’ll take. You’ll just have to be patient.”
“But it’s hard.”
“You didn’t even want to do this last week. What’s changed?”
“Nothing, except I keep seeing Armand’s maybe-father around every corner, and it’s driving me up the wall! I swear they have the same eyes.”
“What! Do you mean to tell me goes to Hogwa—?” She left her mouth open, looking over my shoulder. I turned in time for my eagle owl to drop a thick envelope unceremoniously onto my head.
“You—blighter!” But I wasn’t angry. I was suddenly frightened out of my mind. The answer was in my hand, and my world, Armand’s world, might be about to change forever. “What now?” I asked stupidly.
“Honestly, Draco.” She plucked the envelope from my fingers. I was so nervous I hardly noticed the over-familiarity. “Do you want me to open it?”
I nodded.
She ripped it open and scanned the contents, but I couldn’t read her expression. Maybe I shouldn’t try. Maybe I should just run away.
She frowned. “Do you want to know?”
I nodded.
“It’s not Montague,” she said gently.
“Are you...sure...?”
“I’m sure. They weren’t his genes.”
“Who’s jeans?”
I jumped when someone clapped me on the shoulder. Potter.
Potter!
I clutched my gut and looked away. In the window of Honeydukes, they were displaying the real Candy Brushes. I looked away again, which left me staring at the letter crumpled in Granger’s hand.
“Oh, er—Giorgio Armani’s jeans,” Granger said quickly. “We were speculating that Blaise Zabini might have been wearing knock-offs the other day.”
That did the trick. Potter zoned out immediately and turned to Ron Weasley, who had rushed up beside him with a bagful of Wizard Wheeze samples, and they set about trying to decide which of their Auror comrades they should boobytrap.
“Knock-off jeans? How dare you?”
Oh my God, it was Pansy. She pushed up on my other side with Zabini in tow, her black eyes flashing like a stormy sky.
“I would never date someone wearing knock-off jeans,” she said. “Your boyfriend, on the other hand, would do better to dress in burlap. And you, Granger, wear pantyhose.” She paused for effect. “In the summer!” When Granger simply gaped at me, Pansy followed her eyes. “I thought you weren’t hanging around this lot anymore.”
Weasley folded his long arms over his chest. “Leave him alone, Parkinson, he can see who he pleases.”
Zabini’s chest puffed out. “You’ll want to take a respectful tone when you’re talking to my girl, Weasel.”
“Big man, Zabini, stepping up to make sure everyone knows you have a girlfriend? We get it, you’re straight!”
“I ought to hex those blemishes right off your face!”
Granger was worrying her lip, looking between Weasley and my friends and then back at me, while I couldn’t focus on anything but the humming in my shoulder, where Potter’s hand still rested, his pinky finger just grazing my neck. I dared not look at him. But I could sense him, watching the conflict with a mixture of pity and amusement.
At last, Weasley waved Zabini away like a mosquito. “I don’t want to waste my day off on this rubbish. Come on ‘Mione, we’re all meeting up at the Three Broomsticks.”
“And we’ll be at Hogwarts. In Slytherin.” Pansy said Slytherin, but I knew what she really meant was not-Gryffindor.
I don’t think I exhaled until they dispersed. Potter walked away, quirking his cheek, tilting his head at me in a come-with gesture. Granger looked over her shoulder, clearly worried she was responsible for my impending suicide. I shook my head. They both looked disappointed, but I supposed for different reasons. I sank onto the steps of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, heedless of the teenagers tramping up and down past me, thinking one thought, over and over, until it began to seem unreal.
I have a baby with Harry Potter.
Merlin, I’d been a fool to take that test. It would never work out. Potter had a girlfriend. And a life in London. And he’d made his notoriety destroying my kind. And what about the Montagues? They’d be crushed. Their son had died protecting me, thinking I’d bore his child. And Armand was their only link to him. And if all that wasn’t enough, perhaps this could top it off nicely: my father was going to kill me. Maybe it was fortunate he hadn’t been pardoned from Azkaban.
The sun set. I pulled my legs to my chest and drew up my hood, trying to hide from the cruelty of it all.
***
A couple hours later, I saw a row of broomsticks outside the pub, and knew instantly that the eighth years had come to celebrate (and concede) a Quidditch victory. I didn’t want a bunch of loud company, but I didn’t want to be alone either; and certainly Pansy would be no comfort, since she thought I had abandoned her for this lot. I walked in, ordered two shots of Ogden’s brand vodka, and knocked them back before succombing to Granger’s worried gaze.
The only empty seat was on a bench between her and Potter. Such was my luck, you know. I lowered myself gently, so as not to draw Potter’s attention—thankfully both Weasleys were in the middle of a story about a spectacular play they had performed—and ended up edging so far away from him that I was practically in Granger’s lap.
“How are you doing?” she whispered.
I was still eyeballing Potter, hyper-aware of his hand near my thigh. Was he doing that on purpose? “You didn’t tell him anything, did you?” I asked absently.
“No, of course not.” Granger paused. “Wait. Harry? Why would I tell Harry?” Her eyes went round like saucers. She slapped one hand over her mouth to conceal a squeal. When that didn’t work, she slapped the other hand on top of it.
Only then did I realize my transparency. Damn fucking Ogden’s.
“Granger, shut it!” I barked.
Potter turned to us, tipsy. “You okay, ‘Mione? Oh, Draco—hi, there.” He flushed.
Granger kept her mouth covered, nodding, layers of frizz flopping. Then she stood up stiff as a post, and announced, “Malfoy and I are going on a walk!”
Weasley stopped his story, dejected. “But you already hung out with him today.”
“Yes, well, we both need the air, you see. Always in the library, and all that.” And she yanked me outside, like the bossy wench she was. We were in the dark alleyway between the Three Broomsticks and Catapult Cafe before she rounded on me. “How could you keep this a secret?”
“Well, it’s news to me, too! And nothing you need to be upset about. Merlin!”
“But it’s Harry. Our Harry! Why didn’t I see this sooner? I mean, I knew he liked you—but this much? Oh my goodness.” Her hands flew to her mouth again.
“Am I really that repulsive?”
“That’s not what I mean. You know your history with him. At least, what I thought was your history. And we all know you’re gay, but Harry—?”
“You all know I’m—? Why is that so obvious to everyone?” Yes, my voice was rising! Yes, my hands were waving! Who are you to judge? I’d had a very upsetting day!
Granger was paying me no mind. Her eyes were flicking every direction, catching the lamplight. “I guess he has been oddly sympathetic to you this year. And he was downright obsessed in sixth year. He was glued to that map of his the whole—”
“Wait, map? That sneaky—”
“Good Lord, Harry has a baby,” she exclaimed. “With you! I can’t get over it. Oh! Is that why you refused to identify him when they were holding us captive at your manor? Because you...had feelings for him?”
“No.” I crossed my arms, looking at the cobblestone, the streetlamp, anywhere but her fuzzy, always-right head. When Granger stood back and put her hands on her hips, my shoulders drooped in defeat. “Fine, yes. Whatever. Damn it all, this changes everything, Granger. I was perfectly happy thinking Armand’s father was dead. Now I have to lie to him his whole life.”
“Why?” she asked, taken aback.
“It’s Potter. He already has the Weasley girl, and if I tell him he has a son with me, he’ll want to take half the responsibility for him. Then what’ll I have? Half a son and still no Har—” My voice cracked.
Granger put a hand to her chest, looking at me for what seemed like the very first time. Her eyes were warm and sympathetic, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to hug or kill her.
“Besides,” I said softly, “he knows when we slept together. If he cared, he would have asked me about Armand’s paternity when he found out I’d had him.”
She touched my shoulder. “Don’t give me that. You know Harry is smart, but he’s really dense when it comes to things like this.”
“Things like what? Mathematics? He can count the months backwards, can’t he?”
“Malfoy,” she said, looking down the alley at the passersby. Some were glancing at us, and I dearly hoped we hadn’t spilled any details too loudly. “You have to understand. Harry didn’t even know wizards could have babies until rumors about you started popping up. He doesn’t pay attention to that kind of thing. He doesn’t pay attention to anything common sense, actually, like how to style his hair or how dress himself. Ginny and I showed him that last summer. In fact—” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “He came to me about being intimate with Ginny for the first time—”
My stomach lurched. “Please, spare me.”
“Goodness, I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “That was stupid of me. It’s just...I imagine when you and he—you know—he probably wasn’t the taking the initiative, was he?”
I thought back to that awkward afternoon in the abandoned classroom: Potter, clutching his pants, staring at my naked lower half, wondering, “Er, now what?”
“That’s true,” I said.
“You see. Harry knows a lot about fighting evil and being a naturally charming person. But he’s really quite dense about life stuff. If you want him to know that the baby is his, you’re going to have to spell it out for him.”
“Right, good to know.” I looked through the window at the eighth years. Potter, Weasley, and Ginny were huddled together, snickering, as if one of them had just told a joke too impolite for public. “That’s settled, then. He’ll never have to know.”
“Excuse me?”
“Come off it, Granger. Potter wants that.” I pointed. Potter’s arm was drawing up the back of Ginny’s chair, not quite touching her shoulder. “He wants in with their clan. What would he do with Malfoy baby?”
Granger’s eyes were beginning to shine angrily. “Harry wants a family, Draco. He’d be happy to have Armand. He’d love him more than anything. You can’t let him find out years from now he has a child he’s never met. He’d be crushed!”
“He doesn’t have to find out ever, Granger. I’ll be fine on my own.”
“IT’S NOT ALL ABOUT YOU!”
Her voice had rattled the window. Weasley’s chair scraped back as he jumped up and peered out at us. Granger held up a hand. Stay put.
“It’s not all about you,” she repeated, backing down the alleyway until she was nothing more than a halo of hair and a sad voice. “It’s about your son and Harry, too. But I won’t meddle, anymore. And I won’t bother you about it again.”
***
My eyes flicked up. Ginny Weasley was flirting with Potter, as they walked towards Hogwarts ahead of me.
“He’s just angry he has to write a speech for the Battle of Hogwarts Anniversary,” the other Weasley called out in front. He had his arm around Granger. She hadn’t spoken to me for the rest of the night.
“Shouldn’t be that hard,” Ginny sang, looping her arm into Potter’s. “Just take a few shots of Ogden’s and thank everyone you can still remember.”
“Not everything is about booze, Gin,” said Dean Thomas. He ducked as she tried to swipe the back of his head. She tripped, but he and Terry Boot caught her by either arm.
Clearly tonight was about booze. I’d had a couple more shots myself after returning from the alleyway. But I didn’t feel drunk as much as numb.
“Thanks, you two,” Potter said flatly, as they carried Ginny away. She seemed to have fallen asleep instantly on Thomas’s shoulder.
Potter and I were alone at the rear, with him a few paces ahead. I stuffed my hands into my pockets, at loss. I had thought this would be easier if I got pissed enough (maybe Ginny and I did have something in common), but words still escaped me.
“Lumos,” Potter said. His face lit up. He turned his wand to me. “Come on, then, you don’t want to get lost.”
I snorted. “Thank you, Savior.”
“Don’t start, Malfoy. I’m already sweating this speech for the Anniversary. I’m tired of people calling me shit like that.”
“Then why train to be an Auror?”
“Unfortunately, it’s what I’m good at.”
I was trying to think of a way to slip the news fluidly into the conversation. You know what you’re also good at? Making babies! With me!
“So, you didn’t win the tournament,” I said pointlessly.
“Nope. And it’s all your fault for leaving.”
“It was for the best. I wasn’t wanted.”
“I wanted you,” Potter said roughly. He cleared his throat. “I mean. We all did. Really. Neville’s always going on about how decent you are to him in Herbology. And Ron’s okay with you as long as there’s Quidditch involved. And then there’s Hermione....”
What if I jumped in here? So, speaking of Hermione...
“So, people do want you around,” he finished. “It’s just awkward right now.”
You know what else is awkward? How you’re related to Lucius Malfoy.
“Potter.” I stopped in my tracks. “I have to talk to you.”
“Oh. Yeah?” he breathed. His eyes were large behind his glasses.
“There’s just—” I bit my nail, looking around on the road to Hogwarts lit only by the lights of dozens of wands. “There’s just so many people here.”
“Yeah, there are. Erm—” He glanced at the treeline of the Forbidden Forest. “Let’s lose them.”
He grabbed my wrist, and we walked a few paces into the forest. We could still see students shuffling back to the castle, but were far enough away to have privacy.
Potter teetered on his heels. “So. What is it, then?”
Well, this was it. What you’ve been waiting for. My moment of truth. The big hoorah. Yes, I’m stalling. I opened my mouth, prepared to let the truth spill out however it saw fit, but Potter cut me off, saying, “Nevermind. Don’t tell me.” He dropped his wand with a thunk, and then—thank God for Gryffindors—he kissed me.
It was so good. He grabbed me, wrapping an arm around my waist, the other around my shoulders. He pushed me into a tree, settling against me, warm and firm. The heady taste of his tongue filled my mouth, enchanting me, bringing me back to the beginning. Had I really not tasted him for two whole years? My arms were trapped between our bodies. I drew my hands up his chest, touching his face, utterly pinned against him. The sturdiness of his body reminded me of Graham’s, but not—for where Graham had been insistent, Potter was tender; where Graham had been desperate, Potter was determined.
Potter, I realized, was my man.
“Harry,” I moaned, turning my head. “Harry, we can’t.”
He shook his head, eyes closed. “I’ll break up with her.”
He kissed me again. I wanted to lean into it, but there were matters too pressing, and it was all so very confusing. I put my hands on his chest, whispering, “Stop...stop....”
“I said I’d break up with her. Draco, please. I want you. It’s always been you.” His eyes were so dilated I could hardly make out the green. It took all my effort not to fall into them.
“It’s not that. It’s something else. It’s—” I grimaced. It was such a simple statement, but too heavy to push out of my mouth.
“Does it have to do with Graham Montague?”
“Yes. But not in the way you think.”
“If you’re still mourning him, I’ll wait for you.”
He was such a wonderful idiot.
“No,” I said. I just had to push it out: “It’s Armand!”
I sighed. There. Done.
“What about him?” Potter asked, leaning over me with his hand on the tree trunk.
I sighed again. “He was conceived around the time...you and I...were seeing each other.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Granger was right. You really did have to spell it out for this one.
“Potter, he was conceived at exactly the time you and I were seeing each other.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes, but he seemed to push it back, saying slowly, “So...you were sleeping with us both at the same time?”
“No! I saw Graham after you. Fuck.” I covered my eyes with my hand. I couldn’t watch this next part. “Harry, Armand is your baby.”
There was no sound except an owl hooting in the distance.
I peeked at him. He was still leaning, still close. “He can’t be mine,” he said. “Everyone says he’s Montague’s. You say he’s Montague’s.”
“I thought he was. I really did. I had been with Graham most recently when I turned up pregnant. He just seemed like the best bet. But then I sent off for that bloody DNA test, and it wasn’t Graham’s DNA, and there was no one else but you—well, Zabini, but obviously it’s not his kid—and, really, this is all Granger’s fault! I blame her, personally.”
“Hermione knows?” he asked distantly.
“She just found out today.”
“I have a son?” he said, not exactly to me. I began to nod, but I didn’t know why, for Potter was staring at the lit-up wand at our feet. He pushed off the tree trunk. “Um. I’ve got to go.”
And then he did.
***
“Hi,” he said, his hands deep in the pockets of his Auror robes. “Hermione said you were going to visit him here this weekend.”
I nodded.
“I took off work early, so I could—“ He cleared his throat. “Can I see him?”
“Um. Yeah. But it might have to wait, because I have to—”
“There he is,” someone exclaimed. It was my mother. She was gliding down the steps, and waving Armand’s hand at me. When she approached, I saw that Armand was wet in the eyes and throwing his weight frantically. He must have seen me from the window. “Is everything quite all right?” she asked, growing cold at the sight of Potter and his uniform.
I took the heavy toddler, now large enough to walk when he felt like it, and managed a quiet, “Yes.”
Armand clapped his hands onto my face, opened his mouth to show me four teeth, and then noticed Potter. He launched himself out of my arms. Potter caught him against his chest, laughing more genuinely than I have ever heard up close.
My mother lifted an eyebrow. “He took a liking to you at my sisters house, too, Mr. Potter. I thought it was a fluke, but apparently you have a gift with children.”
The way Potter’s face had lit up, the way he and Armand put their heads together, their hair curling in all the same directions, and certainly the way their eyes twinkled with the same shade of green, I thought my mother would have guessed before I spoke. Perhaps she had, as one white-gloved hand came up slowly to perch on her cheek. She didn’t make another movement until I said, “Mum, I think there’s a reason Armand likes Harry so much.”
She closed her eyes, as if it would block out the inevitable truth. By the time I finished explaining, both hands were on her face and she was leaning on the lamp post at the end of the drive like she might faint.
“There is much to discuss,” she said, looking at Potter like he was some kind of contagion on our house. “At least it will make a more interesting letter to your father than what Armand and I ate for breakfast that day.”
“No! Merlin, I forgot about Dad. Let me tell him when he gets out. It’s only another...oh fuck, it’s this month.” My mother gave me a sharp look, but the “language” admonishment never came. I imagine she was too preoccupied for properness. “Just let me handle it, Mum. I don’t want to upset him until it’s necessary.”
“Whatever you think is best,” she said coolly. “Now, we mustn’t be rude any longer. The Montagues have tea ready. You will have to tell them what you just told me.”
I looked imploringly at my mother, but I knew what had to be done.
“Should I—?” Potter started.
“No, I think you should go,” Mum said, sweeping Armand out of his arms. She started up the path so swiftly that Armand was caught off guard and didn’t have a chance to cry.
As I trailed behind her, I looked over my shoulder. Potter was leaning against the lamp post with his arms folded and a curious tilt to his head. I gave him a cautious nod. He smiled slowly, and nodded back. Well, all right. Even if things weren’t okay with my parents and me, perhaps things would be okay with us.
Us, I thought with a smile of my own.
***
That’s not sexual innuendo. During his speech at the Battle of Hogwarts Anniversary, while I was standing in front of Hogwarts with hundreds of witches and wizards, and my mother and father flanking me, Potter announced to the whole world he had a son. Got to be honest. It was kind of sweet the way he did it.
“The last person I’d like to thank,” he said, after spending an hour on the podium, mentioning every person ever born, “is Armand Malfoy. He is proof to me that our families can come together to create something wonderful, despite our cultural and political differences. He is a living bond that I want to make known, so that all of you can see how serious I am about promoting togetherness in the wizarding community.” He looked at me, smiling his sweet, sweet, stupid smile. “You see, Armand is my son. And I love him very much. And his father, Draco, too.”
It was so quiet, I heard a pin drop.
Wait, it wasn’t a pin. It was my father’s champagne glass shattering in his hand.
Armand began to wail. Every head in the audience turned to me.
“Got a set of lungs on him, doesn’t he?” Potter joked. He was guiltily trying to draw focus away from me, but no one took the bait.
There was a deep, nervous laugh somewhere. I thought it was Rubeus Hagrid. Zabini was smirking off to the side, standing between his mother and his golden-haired little sister, and I vowed never to give him fashion advice again. Pansy was probably somewhere behind me glaring a hole in the back of my head. Goyle? Well, there were sandwiches at the refreshment table, so I’m sure you can gather.
Potter cleared his throat. “Anyway, thanks very much.” The microphone squealed, and he practically fled.
I was distantly aware of Kingsley Shacklebolt inviting the crowd to disperse for pumpkin punch, but I was acutely aware of my father and his sudden ability to loom like Snape and the glass he wasn’t noticing embedded in his hand.
“Son, might I have a word with you privately?” Not really a question. He glowered at my mother, who was looking at him with the air of someone about to compliment him on his new scarf. “Might I have a word with both of you privately?”
“I should tend to Armand first,” I reasoned. “He’s crying—think he needs to be changed—”
“Oh, that won’t be a problem. I understand Harry Potter can look after him now.”
Potter had just popped up next to me, looking deeply apologetic. My father plucked Armand out of my arms and shoved him into Potter’s.
“Oy,” Potter exclaimed, clutching the crying baby. “Now wait just a second!”
My mother swept her hands in front of her, as if to quell the growing number of onlookers with gracefulness alone. “Lucius, darling,” she said, “you are making a small spectacle. Why don’t we adjourn to this charming vegetable patch? Draco, you will join us momentarily.”
She glided towards Hagrid’s hut. My father followed in a trance, stopping only to gawk at the ghost of Snape, who was hovering nearby, looking highly amused with our Earthly concerns. I guess no one had told Dad about that either.
“What?” Potter exclaimed, noticing my look of outrage. “You said you would tell him when he got out. I thought he knew. Thought that was why he came.”
“He only got out yesterday! Did you think we would put it on his welcome home banner?”
“Well.” Potter looked at Armand, who blinked back. Oh, now he was silent. “You should really communicate with me more,” he concluded, holding up Armand as evidence.
“Da,” the little traitor agreed.
***
“Son!” I exclaimed in my father’s voice, though I could not quite match his baritone. “Son! I would have preferred Weasley to Potter. Now I’ll have to join one of those pro-Muggle alliances.”
Potter steadied himself on my shoulder, still grinning. “Did he really say that?”
“Not quite, but I could see his mind working. He’ll need to shed a positive light on the fact that his grandson is now a half-blood.”
“The fact that he couldn’t tell the difference before rather sheds some light on the validity of all that nonsense, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe,” I said, giving him a sidelong glance. “I should hope you told your friends. I don’t want to be attacked by any rabid Weasleys. The male or the female variety.”
Potter stopped and made a guilty face.
I gasped. “Potter!”
He held up his hands, snickering. “I’m joking. I told them straight away. I think Ron may have taken it harder than Ginny. Though, at least he had the decency to yell and call me a daft git. Ginny won’t even look at me.”
“And here I thought they were taking a liking to me.”
“It’s a lot to take in.”
“Yes, well,” I said slowly, realizing the dungeons were fairly abandoned because of the celebration. “I know what else is a lot to take in.”
“Sorry?”
This would take all day if I waited for him to wise up. I launched myself into him, pushing him through the door of the Arithmancy classroom. He melted into my kiss immediately, grabbing me by the face, circling me around, and shoving me into the door, which shut with a heavy click. We hadn’t gotten many opportunities for intimacy, and I was thrilled to know we were utterly alone, and there was no need to rush.
So!
I pushed him away.
He was heavy-lidded, flushed, and visibly excited. Like, yeah, down-there excited. He let out a tragic noise when I began to slink down an aisle towards the professor’s desk, looking over my shoulder.
“Do you know where we are?” I asked, feeling lighter and freer than I had in years. “We’re in the same room where we first shagged. Remember when you didn’t know what to do with me?” I turned around, and found him panting where I’d left him.
“I do,” he said, pushing off the door. “But I know now.”
I trailed my finger along the edge of the desk, putting it in between us as Potter drew close. “Remember when I had to slap you to get a rise out of you?”
“Yes,” he said grittily, swooping around the desk. But I was faster. As established! I put the desk between us again, leaning on it challengingly.
“Remember when you kept insisting you weren’t gay?”
Potter did not move. He smirked. A dimple formed in one cheek and his eyes grew warm and dark. I was as transfixed as I had been September 1st when he burst into the Great Hall in his leather jacket. He slid his palm along the desk’s edge until he was covering my hand with it, and wrapped his arm around my middle.
“I’m still not gay,” he said very quietly. “I’m just mad for you, Draco Malfoy.” He jerked me so close it felt like our hearts were touching. “And I’m going to ask you this one more time. Do you feel the same about me?”
Slowly, I smiled.
I would never say no to him again.
***
Nine years later
“Draco, please.”
“Hmm, I think not, darling.”
“Draco,” he said shudderingly, hot and tense between my legs. He opened his eyes. They were beautifully green and agonized. “You’re just messing with me, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.” I ran my heels up the back of his thighs and clenched them around his waist. “But what do I get if I let you come in me?”
The agony turned to lust. He dipped his head and whispered against my mouth, “Another baby, like we talked about. Maybe a little girl this time.”
I hummed in pleasure as he kissed me. He took the opportunity to sink deeper inside me. “You know I won’t stop trying until you give me my girl,” he said, moving slowly. “I’ll knock you up ten times, if I have to. Just the thought of you swollen with my child—” He cried out, forgetting himself. He started pumping into me with abandon.
“Harry,” I laughed, grabbing his arse, holding him still.
He slowed, huffing against my ear. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll pull out.”
“No,” I said, not at all mischievous this time. “I was just messing with your head. You know I want it, too.”
“As devilish as ever,” he growled. I took him by the hair, as he kissed me brutally.
“I want it,” I said, though he had started to move on his own accord. “Give it to me.”
“Tell me,” he said, bearing down on me, so my knees were close to my ears. My dick was pressed between our stomachs, and as he moved his skin dragged against it, teasing me, bringing me close. “Tell me what you want, Draco.”
God, I would feel so stupid saying this at any other time. But looking up at my husband, into his adoring and passionate eyes, I felt like it fit. “I want your come, Harry. Fill me up. Give me another baby.”
I felt his dick swell inside me. No, I’m not exaggerating! My husband was ruthlessly sexy like that. He made a strained sound and kissed me to drown it, clutching the bends of my knees as he gave me the heat he knew I loved. He moved languidly at the end. His mouth opened, joyous, as he buried himself one last time.
He gave my arse a weak slap, an amusing afterthought. There was a wet pop as he slipped out of me, and made his way down my chest, kissing audibly. He arched a black eyebrow, finding wetness on my belly.
“You really do like that talk,” Harry said, impressed with himself.
“I don’t like that as much as I like you.”
“I am good at what I do,” he said, sinking into the pillows next to me. He folded his arms behind his head. Cocky arse. There was just enough time for me to throw him a mocking look of derision before someone yelled, “Daddy?” from outside the door.
Harry shot up. He widened his eyes at me. “Did you silence the room?”
“Being the brains of this operation—yes, I did.”
“Thank God.” He turned to the door. “What is it, Armand?”
“I silenced. The room,” I said, flicking my wand. The door swung open to reveal a sleep-rumpled ten-year-old boy. Harry flung the sheets back over himself, only to realize I had magicked on his sweatpants and cleaned us up, too. Did his cute dumb-arsery know no bounds?
Armand folded his arms, looking haughtily at us in a way I knew Harry attribute to me later. “James wet the bed again and it smells in there. Can I sleep with you tonight?” He was already climbing between us, pushing his head into my armpit.
“No, I didn’t!” Another boy, a couple years younger than Armand and the spitting-image of Harry, flew into the bed and landed on Harry’s gut, knocking the wind out of him. “Armand’s just scared of the dark. The nightlight Auntie Hermione gave us went out.”
“Because you broke it!”
“Nuh-uh, you broke it with your face!”
“That doesn’t even—” Armand stopped, pinched his nose, and inhaled slowly. All right, maybe he was like me. But who said that was a bad thing? “Daddy. Father. Do you see what I have to put up with? I would like my own bedroom like I have at Grandpa’s house.”
“You share a room there, too,” Harry reminded him.
“No,” Armand moaned, “Not Grandpa Montague! Grandpa Malfoy.”
“Ah. Well, Grandpa Malfoy has many bedrooms, but we only have three.”
“But Scorpius has his own room.”
Harry began to stretch and yawn. “Scorpius is two. But you’re welcome to bunk with him if Jamie isn’t to your liking. Though, I have a feeling your room really will smell like pee, in that event.”
Armand flounced into the pillows. It wasn’t long before he was asleep, arms still folded, but with a much softer expression than he tended to carry around in the day. I stroked his cheek and looked across him at Harry. He was smiling at me with Jamie drooling on his chest.
“Are you sure you want a fourth one of these?” I asked quietly. “I’m beginning to feel like Weasley’s mother. But attractive.”
“Oy,” Harry whispered, putting a hand on mine where it sat in Armand’s tawny blond hair. “You’d be lucky if anyone compared you to her. She’s a gem. As for your question, you know I do.”
“If it’s not a girl this time, I’m done. You can run off and adopt one of those orphans you’re always rescuing from trees, or whatever the Daily Prophet says you get up to.”
Harry snorted. He touched my face, stroking it with his thumb. “How can I ever repay you for bearing my children?”
“You could take my damned last name.”
“I’m not that thankful, am I?” He laughed quietly. “I already let you give our kids your last name, anyway.”
“Let me? I’m a Malfoy, that’s just the way it goes, by rights.”
“I love how we have a marriage of equity and respect.”
“Yeah, you’d better,” I said, leaning into his hand.
He gave me a half smile, yawning again. “You going to think about going to the mediwizard soon? I’m worried it’s taking so long this time. You were pregnant only a few weeks after trying for Scorpius. And you were carrying Jamie before we even left Hogwarts,” he added, winking at the memory.
“Well, how was I to know anything about birth control?” I said, looking at my nails.
“Draco.” He gave me that look he always did when I was overly foul-mouthed or refused to pick up after myself. “I want to know if something’s up. Let’s go tomorrow.”
“I have work tomorrow. Potions don’t brew themselves. We’ll go next week, I promise.”
“Thank you.”
Harry was asleep in an instant, his mouth hanging open like both of his children’s. I settled in, too, quite content with my family of five. Though, between you and me, it was a family of six.
I looked down at my protruding belly. With the illusion charm in place, no one knew but me (well, except for Granger, but she seemed to know when I was with child before even I did). I was waiting to tell Harry on his birthday this weekend. The sentimental prat would love that kind of presentation, and, besides, I had wanted to wait as long as possible, since he would refuse to manhandle me as soon as he knew. Harry was annoying like that. I took his hand off my face, kissed it, and put it on my belly. He was going to flip.
Because, yes—if you must know—it was a girl.
***
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