Chapter Text
Draco is not late for his cross-channel portkey from the Charles De Gaulle EU Portkey Terminal to its British counterpart at Heathrow. No, he’s been here over an hour already, having factored in the extra time needed to get through security; international travel is less easy for those on terrorist watchlists. He wore a slate gray muggle-style Italian wool suit especially; appearances and first impressions matter. He wanted security to know he had changed. He wanted Aunt Andromeda to know he had changed.
Draco fingered the edging around his sleeve, anxious to be returning to England after all these years. Draco had walked away from the war remarkably lightly and he knew it, even as he and his mother were still climbing their way back into British society from their rather steep fall. His upcoming betrothal to the younger Greengrass girl will help with that.
Astoria Greengrass comes from a respectable, pureblood family within the sacred twenty eight. They have plenty of money (if not as much as the Malfoys), and their neutrality during the war had ensured the Greengrasses were welcome as they please. However, Astoria has had some recent scandals in the paper; a muggle arrest for being publicly drunk in Trafalgar Square, indecent exposure in the Ministry, getting caught philandering with the wife of a high-profile Member of the Wizamgamot at a charity gala for St. Mungo’s… So now the Greengrasses were desperate to see Astoria married off as soon as possible to protect their respectability, and Narcissa intended to use this to her own advantage.
Draco and Astoria have been communicating by owl post for the last couple weeks now, beginning after Narcissa first wrote to Mrs. Greengrass to restore (practically create) the connection. Before Astoria’s scandals, Narcissa had written the Greengrass girls off as potential matches for Draco; they were too high up on the social ladder for him to reach after the war. He was in a different position for courting than either of them had imagined ten years ago; he should have been one of Englands’ most eligible bachelors, especially as he was now one of the ten wealthiest British wizards under age thirty (per Witch Weekly’s reporting, of course). Inheriting the Lestrange Vaults and properties outright certainly helped.
Draco had sold all the Lestrange properties to pay war reparations for his family; he didn’t want to deal with them and he felt no loyalty to the Lestrange line. Bellatrix still featured in several of his nightmares seven years later, so he wasn’t about to move into her house.
He didn’t only have to pay fines as punishment, though he did manage to escape any time in Azkaban. Since he had been a juvenile during most of his more egregious crimes during the war and people- high profile people, even- had testified on his behalf that his crimes had been performed under duress, he had only been sentenced to two years house-arrest, community service, and mandatory anti muggle-hating classes.
The house-arrest had been the worst of it, for Draco. Who needed dementors when one was already trapped at the site of their worst memories? His father would not have agreed. Lucius had been sent back to Azkaban. There was no escaping it for him; he still had years to serve from his last sentence, plus the ones added for breaking out during the war, and a dozen more for aiding and abetting a known terrorist. Plus all the torture and murder.
Narcissa, not having taken the Dark Mark, had come out of the war practically free. She did have to perform community service and attend the anti muggle-hating classes, but her house-arrest had been entirely her own making; she had not been sentenced to it. Narcissa had been distraught with grief following the end of the war, and she clung to Draco as though he were her last saving grace. He wanted to pry her metaphorical fingers from their clutch on him and demand she let him live his own life, but he could not do that to her. She was his last saving grace, as well.
Potter had actually told Draco that; that Narcissa was his saving grace, though not in those exact words. It had been right after Draco’s trial, after he had been told he wouldn’t have to go to Azkaban. Draco could hardly hear anything after he received his verdict; the world had narrowed to the dry heat behind his eyes and his sudden, desperate need for fresh air. The halls were too crowded, the ceiling was too low. Draco’s solicitor grabbed him by the upper arm and led him through, auror guards surrounding them to ensure Draco returned to Malfoy Manor without incident. At the elevators, Potter stopped the auror in front of Draco (Dawlish, Draco learned his name was) and asked if he could speak to Malfoy.
Draco had just stared at Potter. The war had been rough on him; the glamour hiding the dark bags under Potter’s eyes wavered under Draco’s gaze and his dress robes practically hung off his skeletal frame. What had Potter been doing since the war? Had anyone been feeding him? And why had he lied to the Wizangamot about what happened this past Easter? Potter made it seem as though they had strategized a mission together so that Draco could transfer ownership of the Elder Wand to him, so that Potter could use it to go on and defeat the Dark Lord. It was ridiculous and made no sense; a bizarre blend of fact and fiction, but the jury ate it up.
All Draco could remember of that holiday was the sheer terror he had felt looking into Potter’s eyes at Malfoy Manor, and vomiting in a twelfth-century vase when Aunt Bellatrix pulled a dagger out of her boot and started carving into Hermione Granger’s arm. Draco was no hero. Yet Potter made it seem as though he had bravely defied the Dark Lord at great personal risk.
“Why?” Draco hadn’t meant to ask the question out loud, and it came out like a croak.
Harry walked around Dawlish and gazed at Draco as though he were searching for something.Their eyes were locked on each other as though there was no one else in the hall. Draco was still catching his breath from hearing his verdict, and he felt every shallow inhale and exhale as he peered past Harry’s hideous thick glasses to the green iris’ beneath.
“Why?” Draco asked again, this time a whisper. Harry opened and closed his mouth, once. Twice. The third time, Harry bit his lower lip and Draco broke the eye contact and watched as Harry drew his lip into his mouth, then poked his tongue out gently to lick the chapped skin as he released the lip. Draco felt a tightening in his lower belly, and had the oddest desire to reach for Potter and comfort him.
Dawlish coughed, and it brought them out of the reverie. Harry sighed and rubbed at his face with his hands.
“Look, Malfoy,” Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Your mother really loves you.”
“My mother? What does she have to do with this?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just-- just be good to her. She really loves you.”
It was perhaps the oddest moment of his trial. He asked his mother about it a few weeks later, once the dust had settled and their futures, at least for the next couple years, was decided. She hadn’t answered him though, not really. She had just patted his hand gently and said: “He’s a nice boy.”
Draco thought of Potter’s entreaty often, particularly in those first few months. It became a mantra, of sorts, one that he would repeat often to himself as his mother spiraled out of control with grief over the absence of her husband, the death of her sister, and the distance their once-friends were now putting between themselves and the Malfoy name.
Be good to her, Draco thought as he gently plied her from his father’s pillow and pressed a damp flannel to her tear streaked face.
Be good to her, Draco thought as he coaxed the scrub brush from her raw, uncalloused hands and led her back to bed, not even checking to see if this particular bloodied spot was real or imaginary.
Be good to her, Draco thought as he refreshed the silencing charm around his bed curtains with a practiced ease to ensure she never heard his screams in the night.
Be good to her, Draco thought as he moved her to Paris the summer his house arrest ended, knowing they both needed to get out of Malfoy Manor before it destroyed any lasting chance they had at happiness. They left as soon as Draco received approval from the ministry to exit the country, and they lived out of a hotel for the first two months. Draco had expected his mother to put up a bit of a fight (after all, she wouldn’t be able to visit his father every other week if they moved to France,) but when he announced one morning at breakfast that he had ordered the elves to pack their luggage for Paris, she had simply replied: “How lovely, darling, and just in time for the fall fashion shows.”
Paris gave Narcissa her life back. Well, to a degree. Some of the other pureblood families with strong (but not imprisonable) ties to the Dark Lord had also chosen to expatriate to Paris, so Narcissa at least had a few connections that would meet her for tea, and she began rebuilding her social network from there.
Draco had no NEWTs nor any need for employment, so he spent his days much as he did in the Manor, creating and fixing rare magical artifacts. In Paris, without a manor full of magical furnishings, Draco made his skills known to a few shopkeepers, and occasionally they would refer clients to him, but mostly he charmed simple things to bring his mother joy; a teacup that never gets cold, decorative rocks for her garden that dissuade insects from entering, a hairbrush that never pulls.
Be good to her.
In some ways, it was a trap. Draco felt consumed by his need to please his mother, much in the way he had been consumed as a child by his need to please his father. It couldn’t be healthy, this transfer of affection, this need for validation, but Draco had been raised on the tenets of familial duty, honor, and tradition, and taking care of his mother fell neatly in that list. As did his impending betrothal.
Draco checked his watch. It had been Grandfather Black’s and it was both astronomical as well as temporal, showing constellations or local time as the wearer dictates. There were three minutes remaining until the portkey activated. Draco was bored and warm from the close proximity to the other passengers. Charles De Gualle was crowded today. There were ten other adults and four children traveling on this portkey (a large, colorful stuffed caterpillar), each holding onto the specific caterpillar’s foot they had been assigned. Draco held the pink foot.
Draco had passed through security in a total faze, barely noticing the probity-probes and easily surrendering his luggage and wand for inspection. He was surprised that his mother had chosen to do this alone, Narcissa still became anxious easily, but she had wanted to arrive a couple weeks ahead of him to further mend her relationship with her sister before focusing on the preparations for Draco’s betrothal. Draco could hardly blame her; Narcissa and Andromeda had barely seen each other in nearly thirty-five years. Still, he couldn’t help but feel uncomfortably adrift without his mother nearby.
Draco was both nervous and eager to meet his Aunt Andromeda as well as his seven year old cousin, Teddy. He didn’t have much family growing up; everyone had either been dead, imprisoned, or disowned from the family. It had been lonely, being an only child in the Manor, and he was concerned the same might be the case for Teddy growing up in the old Black London Townhouse.
Draco had been delighted to learn that he and his mother would be staying at 12 Grimmauld Place this winter. He had expected Aunt Andromeda to live in a muggle cottage in the suburbs, but this was a proper wizarding house with centuries of magic built within it. He couldn’t wait to see what kind of artifacts the house held; hopefully Andromeda wouldn’t mind him tinkering around in the attic. He could make himself useful to her if needed, see if there were any repairs required about the house; he had plenty of experience fixing up the manor, of course. If not, maybe he could create some new toys for Teddy, custom made to his interests. What kind of things were seven year olds interested in these days?
“Two minutes to departure!” The portkey attendant called out in French and English from the kiosk behind him.
“Wait! I’m here. I’m sorry, so sorry. I’ve got my ticket right here; it’s in my pocket, hold on just a sec.”
Draco tensed as he felt a familiar tightening in his lower belly. He recognized that voice. He had heard that voice like a bug in his ear every time his mother had a meltdown, every time he thought of her interests over his own, every time he felt like fleeing his life and leaving her to fend for herself, yet did not. Be good to her. He hated that voice and he was indebted to it. It taunted him through seven years of Hogwarts and war, and has haunted him the seven years since. Draco did not have to turn around to confirm what he already knew. Harry Potter was here. Circe’s tits, he’s not even in England yet.
“Your late.” The portkey attendant was curt. Draco willed himself to stay as he was, holding the pink foot of a large stuffed caterpillar and facing away from the Paris to London portkey kiosk. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look. He couldn’t help himself from overhearing, though.
“You are supposed to arrive at least fifteen minutes prior to departure; it says so on your ticket, in English.”
“I was meant to be here an hour ago, but I got the times crossed.”
“Well, hurry up then; less than a minute to go. You have the green foot.”
Potter made his way towards the group holding the caterpillar portkey, and Draco again felt glad he had chosen to wear his muggle suit today. Muggle clothes made him look reformed, and if he had to be face to face with Potter after all these years, he wanted Potter to at least think he had made the right choice when he gave false testimony to the Wizamgamot in Draco’s favor. Plus, the suit was tailor-made to Draco’s measurements and it accentuated his tall, slender form and the slate gray softened the angularity in his face.
Draco stared at the plush caterpillar, unsure if he was ready to meet Potter’s eye, but as Potter walked around the portkey looking for the green foot he’d reserved, Draco couldn’t help himself. He looked up just as Potter noticed him. Their eyes locked and Draco’s breathing slowed. He struggled to look away. Draco could only see Potter’s shoulders and head from behind the other travelers around the portkey, but one thing was clear: Potter had grown since they last saw each other seven years ago. His hair was as unruly as ever, but it looked deliberate now and was long enough to reach his shoulders. And Merlin, what had Potter been doing all this time, to earn shoulders like that? He looked like he could easily toss Draco over and then run some stairs, and wasn’t that an interesting thought?
Draco was well aware his preferences for sexual partners ran masculine, that had long been true. It was one of the reasons his mother thought he and Astoria would make a good match. And it wasn’t as though he’d never wanked to the idea of Harry Potter; who didn’t? But it was always the idea of Harry Potter, not Potter Potter. However, the Potter standing before him made him reconsider. Draco would not mind running his hands up those arms.
“Thirty seconds!” the attendant announced. “Grab the green foot monsieur! No refunds if you miss your portkey!”
Potter shook himself free of Draco’s gaze and returned to searching the portkey group for his handhold. Draco looked around as well, and realized that the unoccupied green foot Potter was searching for was the one next to his. Of course it was.
“Fifteen seconds!”
“Oh, alright!” Draco sighed. “Potter, it’s this one here.”
Potter circled around, and the woman standing to Draco’s left shifted over to give him room. Potter slid between the woman and Draco and took hold of the caterpillar, fumbling to get the green foot in his grasp.Their fingers touched, only ever so briefly, but the heat lingered. Heat seemed to radiate from Potter. They were standing so close, and he took up so much space (though Draco was happy to note he still had a couple inches height on Potter.) Potter was near enough that Draco could count the scales on the obsidian dragonhide jacket Potter wore. It was too much. It had been too long since Draco last laid with a man; he couldn’t help himself. Draco took a deep breath in.
Harry smelled like broomsticks, leather, and pine. It was a rich and comforting scent, yet oddly primal. Harry was golden tanned and, this close, Draco could see chapping on his ears, which were turning an increasingly impossible shade of red. His dragonhide jacket was clearly quality, but made for function rather than fashion, especially considering some of the burns and scratches marring the leather. Draco wanted to bury his nose in it, slip his hands underneath, and feel this hard body envelop his own.
“Er, hi Malfoy,” Harry said. Draco realized he had been staring, but before he could manage anything as clever to say back as “hello”, the rainbowed caterpillar jerked them forward and their bodies slammed together.
Public portkeys are degrading. They always make Draco nauseous, and the indignity of being knocked about with strangers was nearly too much. If Draco had bought his ticket when he bought his mother’s, he could have had a private portkey too. As it was, Narcissa departed Charles De Gaulle alone and arrived in Heathrow in a private room. Draco bought her the Tea & Time package, so a hot pot of chamomile and peppermint was waiting for his mother when she arrived, and she could use the room for up to twenty minutes while her nerves settled.
Draco, having procrastinated buying his own ticket to England, was grateful he at least remained upright as the portkey reached its destination. It was more than he could say for Potter, who had fallen back onto the woman behind him. Draco meant to smirk, but the bile rising at the back of his throat prevented it. Breathe. In, out.
Potter was already standing and helping the woman he had knocked over get to her feet. She giggled as though she weren’t thirty years his senior. Draco looked away. He would not throw up in front of Potter. Breathe. In, out.
“Er, alright there Malfoy?” Draco nodded, not trusting himself yet to open his mouth.
“It’s been a while,” Potter continued. Was he trying to make conversation? Draco stared dumbly.
“I guess we’d better go on then, to the, er, floo’s,” Potter shifted his weight from one foot to the other and looked behind him. “They’re a floor down.”
Draco shook out of his faze and scowled.
“I know where the floo’s are, Potter.” It was harsher than he intended. The words came out and it was like they were in fifth year again, when the stakes at hand were just a quidditch match or the house cup. Except, instead of reaching for his wand or a cutting remark, Potter responded by smiling at him. A genuine smile. Did he have a screw knocked loose?
“It has been awhile.” Potter repeated.
“Move along, move along,” a portkey attended tugged the rainbow caterpillar from Potter’s hand and waved them away. “We have other portkeys arriving!”
Draco headed to the stairs and was not surprised to find Potter keeping pace with him, still trying to make small talk.
“How have you been?”
“Dandy, Potter, and yourself?” They were nearly at the stairs now. Draco was just one floo away from leaving this painfully awkward encounter behind him and seeing his mother again. And Aunt Andromeda and cousin Teddy, of course.
“I’ve been alright. How’s your mother?” Draco scowled. Why is Potter so obsessed with his mother?
“She’s fine, thanks for asking.” The floo corridor was in sight, and the second to last floo to the left was available. Draco headed right towards it. Potter followed.
“Well that’s good. It’s weird to be back in England. I feel like I’ve missed out on so much, you know? Ron and Hermione had a daughter this year, and I haven’t even met her. I’ve only seen my godson twice since he was three, some godfather I am, right? I got the whole month of December off work so I could-” Draco arrived at the open fireplace and cut Potter off.
“Well, this has been lovely, Potter, but I have to go meet mother now.” Draco took a handful of floo powder out of the travel pouch he kept in his pocket, and threw it into the fireplace. He then turned around to take one last, self-indulgent look at Potter. “Let’s be sure to catch up like this again in another seven years.”
Draco stepped into the roaring green flames and took a deep breath, steadying himself. Ash dug into the crevices of his shoes; when was the last time the public floo’s had been swept? He held his elbows in and trusted the network to safely guide him to his destination as he called out in a clear, firm voice: “12 Grimmauld Place.”