dracotops_mods (dracotops_mods) wrote in dracotops_harry,

FEST FIC: Myrtle, Orange Blossoms, and Hibiscus

Title: Myrtle, Orange Blossoms, and Hibiscus
Author: optimouse
Prompt: #32 by singlemomsummer
Summary: I’ll use the prompt: “A one night encounter leaves Harry pregnant, and alone. Will he ever come clean to Draco? Or is he bound to be a single parent forever?“
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Draco/Harry, Draco/Astoria, Blaise/Astoria
Warnings: lack of monogamy, Weasley bashing, mpreg
Word Count: 5,569
Author's Notes: Mainly canon compliant, sans the epilogue, and the affirmation of Blaise as a male in the last two books. I would like also to thank my beta, talekayler; for the lovely help with putting all of this together.

Myrtle, Orange Blossoms, and Hibiscus

The usual plan for Harry’s attendance at parties of any sort was that he would leave the flat he kept in London about five minutes after the party was supposed to start. While nothing ever started on time in the Wizarding World - perhaps due to clocks that read ‘in Mortal Peril,’ ‘At Work,’ and ‘Running Late,’ instead of the time in Greenwich Mean- his view was that being overtly late was rude, and being incredibly early was annoying to the hosts. He had enough of early drop-bys when he had hosted several people for a flat warming when he had finished gutting and rebuilding Grimmauld Place. Ginny and Molly arriving two hours early to help set up and then pout when they’d realized he had the whole thing under control, had certainly not been to his liking. While Molly was easy enough to deal with, Ginny had demanded that he pay court to her.

Ever since then, he’d made sure never to be early to someone else’s event, and placed up wards against early visitors at his own apartment. Reasonable earliness, but not busy-bodies. No one was arriving an hour early without regretting their decision. Borage Greengrass was hosting a party tonight for Hogmanay. They had only moved to Scotland two generations back, but Borage’s mother Siannon had five generations of Scottish wizardry in her blood, and his wife Mairi was McGonagall’s niece.

Mairi had died just after the end of the war, a victim of a carcinoma. Borage had decided in the wake of her death to rededicate her yearly Hogmanay parties to charity. In the intervening years, the Mairi Wing at Saint Mungo’s had been planned and was slowly growing in funds to be built as a home for Carcinoma research and victims.

Harry worked for the Mairi Fund in the planning offices, and he had spent the last two days in and out of The Greenhouse, the Greengrasses’ home near the Isle of Skye, and the offices of the fund in Hogsmeade. As one of the two event planners on staff, he would be at tonight’s event merely as a formality, as it was an event hosted by the Greengrass’, and not truly the Fund’s territory. Borage had asked them to help with some of the decoration, but mainly with the financials of the Hogmanay Gala. At a hundred Galleons per person, the issue had been at least once in the past that people did not want to pay but only enjoy the atmosphere. It would be embarrassing to all involved to ban someone from a party due to deception, and the planning committee had worked with Borage on an alternative idea for it.

So here he was, dressing in front of the mirror in his bedroom at Grimmauld Place, three hours later than he had planned. He had ended up first in a traffic jam using the public Floo in Hogsmeade to Diagon Alley, and hadn’t that been a pain? The second delay had been at his trip to the grocery. Usually he walked to the greengrocer’s on the corner, picked up what he needed and spoke with Elena behind the counter. Instead he’d gone to Tesco’s, theoretically to save time. That had failed. Magnificently.

Dinner was a fruit cup from Tesco’s while showering, and the groceries were put away by Mopsy. Standing in front of the closet with his hair dried with a spell and a lingering taste of strawberries in his mouth, Harry had hurried through getting dressed. Thankfully, the current line of dress robes that Madam Malkin favored were simple without excessive amounts of buttons. That didn’t mean that the style that she had talked him into didn’t rely on a corset to manage the figure of the fall of the fabric to mid-calf, but it didn’t have ruffles.
Everything in place, hair tied at the nape of his neck and shoes polished, Harry let himself have one more glance to the clock. ‘Really fucking late,’ had changed into ‘About to get lucky.’

A windfall of gold to the Fund? This would be good.

About to get lucky didn’t mean a windfall of gold.


Wiping spittle off his mouth, Harry glanced around the ballroom to look at the forthcoming predators trying to steal a kiss. It was traditional, and he could see Borage smiling where he and his daughter Daphne stood with Marcus Flint, the Patil twins’ brother Ganesha, and George Weasley. The first dark-haired man who came through the doors at midnight on Hogmanay brought the kiss of luck.

It was his luck that he was two minutes late. Here came another person with their lips puckered and a pointed look on their face.


This one wasn’t content with just a peck against the lips; she was trying to pry open his mouth with her tongue, and biting him.

Now she was sucking herself away, and Merlin’s tits, he didn’t want her anywhere near him. Perhaps it was time to seek the dubious safety of the more dignified members of the party. Or at least those less likely to molest their way into trying for a marriage using embarrassment as their weapon. A flash of red hair and he was following his eyes’ earlier path over to the host, to avoid her. Ginny was not welcomed by the Greengrasses, even if she’d married into their circle.

“Harry,” Borage had held out a hand, which Harry shook, and then moved forward, following the Hogmanay tradition, he pressed his lips’ to his friend’s cheek, and he found he preferred this general politeness.

“My apologies for running late.” Harry could feel the smile on his face, shaking hands and greeting those around him with a cheek kissed, except George who gifted his forehead with a chaste, loving peck. “I would have brought the traditional gifts if I’d known exactly how bad the problem was going to be.”

“Something’s wrong with the Floo Network?” Borage was fully familiar with the fact that Harry hated to Floo, but used it twice daily for work. “Some of the guests from Wiltshire were late.”
“Yes, there’s some sort of jam going through the big hubs.” Harry’s eyes darkened. “I think that someone may be locking certain fireplaces that are usually used, and they haven’t figured out which so the Network cannot be re-routed.” He sniffed with disdain. “I was late home from work and late leaving home for the Gala. What did I miss?”

“Marsilienne Tyrrhenium danced with Gregor Grosvenor, against Mars Tyrrhenium’s will, and Mars challenged Gregor to a duel over his daughter’s honor.” Parvati was smiling. “Marsilienne spoke with her father for twenty minutes in the rose garden, he came inside, and offered Grosvenor leniency if he would come for lunch next week. Grosvenor accepted, and his sister Catilene gifted the fund with a rather large cheque in celebration. I wish that Lord Greengrass would tell us the amount, but only his eyes gave us the hint.”

“It is at the fund’s discretion unless the donor should wish it to be told.” Harry had written that in the Fund’s bylines, and it had become a popular bit of advertising. Unless the donor should wish it, all donations to the Fund were anonymous.

“It was a brilliant bit of propaganda.” There was Malfoy, pressing a kiss to Daphne’s cheek with a smile, her sister Astoria coming to hug Daphne tightly before wrapping arms around Parvati and then Padma. “Good evening Lord Potter Black.” He stepped forward and pressed his lips to Harry’s, before pulling back with a smirk. “Would you care for a drink?”

That was how it started.

Harry giggled with Astoria, flutes of sparkling wine imported from the Colonies in their hands, Daphne stood with them, laughing, as the three of them avoiding the stalkers that Harry’s tardiness had attracted.

“The Viscomte Malfoy, well, the Viscomtess,” Harry was stumbling over the pronunciation and the title. “She walks into the office the morning of Valentine’s day, and was looking stressed.” Narcissa rarely allowed stress to color her face. That morning, her hair had escaped the chignon she wore to work, and her robes were skewed, her mouth swollen. “Into a room of flowers. Bunches of flowers. Pink, red, and white camellias. Globe amaranth. Red hyacinth. Cattleya.” Harry was giggling at the memory. “At lunch, Lucius sent a howler in answer to hers, groveling.”

“He needed to,” Daphne stated, bemused. “What was he thinking? No woman wants their ‘mature charms’ toasted.”

“He was thinking,” and there was Draco, a bit blurry. “That his love for my Lady mother has matured over the years.”

“Draco!” Both Astoria and Harry exclaimed, and he stole a kiss from both tipsy drinkers.

“It was still a silly idea.” Draco was watching Astoria try to right herself, and Harry who was barely managing it, and heaved a sigh. Daphne could get Astoria into bed, but if he let Harry try to do it himself, his Lady mother would gut him.

There could be a bastard born of this night if he wasn’t careful about this.

It ended with Harry abandoning an empty bed and taking to the shower.

The situation was new. The war had at the least taught him the value of analyzation, both of memories and events.

His memory was of Draco kissing him as they landed after Draco Apparated him to London. He had giggled, tripped on the pavement, and was showing Draco the lights.

Draco, not Malfoy, because Lucius was the Viscomte Malfoy, and working so closely with Narcissa at the Fund so closely had bred mutual respect and affection with her, and tolerance of the Comte.

The fireworks over the London Eye were what he had enjoyed in the past when returning from Hogmanay celebrations, and Draco must have been inspired. There had been assurances of retained friendship, expressions of lust both physical and verbal, and more kisses. Kisses that made his blood sear his veins, his feet dance on the starlit sky and his hands grasp warm earth.
At some point they had ended up in his bed, and his body ached in ways that Hermione had once explained to him, that it was as if some of the tension pent up for another had been released, but the body’s state was as if it had been ruptured, changed and rebuilt. Harry certainly ached, but Draco’s eyes, when they had stared into his after Draco had withdrawn made any pain worth it, for that moment.

The empty bed was not assuaging the pain, though the hot water had its effects, pounding against muscles and soothing away knots. His head echoed his body in this, and his thoughts rebelled as well. This was a thing that lacked morals; he had slept with the fiancé of a dear acquaintance. It had never been acknowledged as friendship, but he did not doubt that it would hurt as much as the shattered friendship that had resulted of Ginny and a vial of Amortentia.
No, no, he could not pursue this. It meant naught but Draco’s verbal promises of love, his deep and abiding affection, he could not abide that he might love Draco and agree with himself not to interact with Draco soon. Astoria was much more important, Astoria, the marriage of Draco to a woman who was not immediately related to him.

Astoria’s affections for Draco, Harry would not interfere. He could not shatter that friendship, Draco would have to do it if he wished to tell her of his infidelity.

“There is no expectation of fidelity between a wizard and witch within the bonds of matrimony,” Daphne stated, eyes on her sister who had laid her head on Blaise’s stomach. “However, Astoria, at the least some discretion is expected.” The champagne still tugged at her head, intoxication having melted into a mild hangover. “If I find you in the morning on a settee in one of the parlors, this is not discrete. What if Father had found you?”

“The door has a mild charm against curiosity on it,” Blaise explained, her hair stark against the brocade that covered the settee and the blond hair of the Greengrasses’. “I set it there last night.”

“You mean the one that compels curiosity?” Daphne begged the question. “Blaise, you were there when Professor Snape reminded us all about drunken spell casting, correct?”

“I believe that he said that it should only be done in times of greatest need.” Astoria smiled at her lover. “So what if it went wrong?”

“You’re damn lucky that spell didn’t disgrace the both of you!” Daphne could feel the shout bubbling out of her throat and clamped down on it. “I knew that Draco was going to take Potter to bed the moment he laid eyes on him, but he didn’t do it in the living room. He did it at Potter’s flat, which happens to be the closest thing to a blood-protected manor that hasn’t been in a family for five generations!”

“Getting out of the damn thing in the morning was nigh impossible without waking Harry up.” Draco was leaning against the door, watching the trio jump with a smirk smeared across his face. “I thought it might be better if I didn’t try, and let him wake up himself, but I don’t think he’ll remember last night anyway.”

“Are you sure that you’re well?” Narcissa watched her coworker return from the sanctuary of the powder room for the third time this morning, as with the second return, with a water bottle in hand “I had heard you doing the same thing yesterday morning, and the day before that when we weren’t here, and our Mipsy said that her sister Mopsy at your house was attending a similar scene.”

“What similar scene?” A bedraggled and hassled Harry shot back. “I’m merely returning from the bathroom.”

“Where you spent ten minutes regurgitating everything that you’ve eaten.” Narcissa watched him, legs shaky and greening along the meeting of neck and jaw. Green at the gills was what the Healers called it, a medical term that she had once heard her Healer say during her pregnancy with Draco had leaked over into the Muggles about nausea. It was found in witches and wizards who felt persistent nausea, often daily. She had been greened throughout her first four months of pregnancy with Draco, until Severus had found a potion that worked for the nausea. “You are greening, Harry. Persistent nausea, are you sure that you have not caught the influenza?”

Harry thought on Neville’s little daughter Alison, who he hadn’t seen for nearly four months, Neville and Hannah having taken her to visit his grandmother Augusta in the Colonies and visiting with some of Hannah’s family as well. She was well, but he could not have caught an influenza of any sort from her, and the potions that the Fund had them take as part of their health plan kept him from catching any of the adult Wizarding strains.

“Alison only just got back to England a few days ago, and I had put off visiting her until I got better. I haven’t been in the vicinity of anyone who was ill or became ill with anything that can strain our medical preparations.”

“What about sex?” The greening in both she and Lucius had sent her to the Healer, his sympathy her first clue as to her pregnancy, and not the already missed menstrual cycle.

His paling skin did not match well with the greening, and Harry staggered to a chair. “Harry?” Narcissa had risen without realizing it from her chair and was kneeling now at Harry’s side, a hand on her coworker’s arm. “Harry, are you okay?”

Awash with mental nausea and memories alike, Harry was gagging, trying to breathe in and swallow air at the same time as he realized it. Protections in the form of spells hadn’t been used that night, Draco wouldn’t have touched Muggle things, even when Harry had offered, and he had not ever touched the potions that prevented conception, unlike most of his yearmates. They were taught and taken in the Seventh Year, and when he had studied for his NEWTs.

He hadn’t taken them, and when Ginny accused him of impregnating her, it had nearly resulted with them at the altar, until the Potions Professor at Hogwarts provided proof that she had taken the potion beforehand. Her loins might not be virginal, but they were certainly empty of children at that time. The Healers were the only providers of the antidote to that Potion, and she hadn’t gone to them.

No, he could have children, and Draco had been as absent as he had been from Hogwarts that year, alternately a hostage for his family’s compliance and a punishment for his own failures. While his godfather’s skill with potions was as legendary as his death in Dumbledore’s service, Draco would not have spent much time with the man who could have saved him, or perhaps influenced his loyalties. And since, what reason would there be for the universal contraceptive to be brewed, other than its place on a school curriculum when there were alternatives, far more malleable?


“Why didn’t you take the universal?” he could hear himself asking. “I didn’t- couldn’t take it that year. Hermione took it, Ron didn’t, and we all saw how well that worked out for the both of them. Hermione didn’t make me any, and I can’t make it well enough without supervision, so I never took it.”

“I did. I took the reversal at my blood tests with Lucius at Saint Mungo’s.” Narcissa was holding his hand. “Harry?”

“I could certainly be pregnant.” Harry could feel his cheeks burning with this, and it did make sense. He most certainly could be pregnant, but he wasn’t a woman who cycled through fertility. Wizards were always fertile, even if they bore children as well as sired them. Always fertile.

Always fertile. There was blood being drawn out of his body and into little vials with a spell and a wand tap against the crook of his elbow, and none of it was more that redundant. Green lived around his face, he had regurgitated the toast from breakfast right as he had entered the appointment, and the Healer was smirking.

Laurence Boot had been his Healer since he had asked Poppy for a referral to a Healer both skilled and discreet. There was no concept of Healer-patient confidentiality in the Wizarding World, and only the bankers had a confidentiality expectancy. The goblins’ treaties and spears enforced that. Laurence Boot had sworn confidences kept on his magic, and that was why Harry went to the half-blood Healer, and Luna Longbottom attended his small practice.

“Just get it over with,” he huffed. “If it’s not anything that you’ve tested for already, we both know the last test.”

“I already ran it.” Laurence held the glowing vial in his hand, the blood bleached white. “You conceived at the end of the year, Harry.” A heaved sigh; the shade of the colour indicated the length of the pregnancy. The ecru was a babe barely of two months of age, closer to three months, and the ecru would darken into either a deep blue or a deep red depending on the impending sex. “I cannot tell if it is boy or girl yet, but I can tell you that the fetus is healthy, vital, and surprisingly viable.”

Harry had taken classes to understand what Laurence was reading from his spells. He had chosen to work for the Fund because he wanted to help, not hinder, with his medical understanding, and he was reading what Laurence was finding in his blood just as well as the Healer. A quill in the corner of the room was kept busy inscribing a folder with the information.

“How many Potters have had viability problems?” It wouldn’t surprise him either. The purebloods had encouraged blood testing in every couple that intended to reproduce, and few families that weren’t mixed with Muggle blood had more than one child. The Weasleys had been cursed, and many of the families that had two children born to a couple had a Weasley in the bloodline.

“Your father was the eighth conception of his parents, of fifteen.” Laurence had grabbed his hands, pressing the vial in between their palms. “You were the third conception of your mother.” Harsh words, hard words. “The issue is that the fetus is viable, Harry. Your mother was tested as a good match for your father, and you were the first non-miscarriage of her pregnancies.”

Wizards and witches, especially those of strong magic had problems with child-bearing. The Weasley curse actually helped their problems out, something that people like the Malfoys dreamed of but eschewed, as if they were too close to the rabbit breeding of the Muggles. Lily being compatible with James was not a surprise, but his birth so early had been. The inbreeding forced the finickiness of the reproduction, he’d heard, and now the blood tests to make sure of as much compatibility and as little friction as possible between mates.

“Do you think that the fetus may at one point no longer be viable?” It was a question that he had considered for the two days until he could get an appointment, slid into a spot emptied by a cancellation. If there was a child, he had no obligation to the completion of the child. There was no stigma on a child born of an unmarried wizard, unless that child was named to be of two parents, similar to the witch. The child could be the heir of their parent easily. Stigma only became when there was obvious signs of betrayal.

Harry thought of the love of the child as well. He wished for a child, had wished for one of his own since Fleur had shown him Victoria, since he had first held his godson and then his god daughter. This child, he had decided, was no accident other than in conception and his choice in it. If he had thought of contraception that night, and had used it, it would have been another story. But this was fate, stupidity and all.

No, this child he wanted now, even as it ravaged his hormones and threatened his body’s form.
“If you go on regimen now,” Laurence dropped his hands, keeping their eyes steady on each other. “You don’t wish to abort the fetus?”

“I shall have a child of my own.” It was barely murmured, and the hand that he had held had reached to embrace his patient’s stomach. “My own to love, to raise, to teach.”

“I’ll take that as a no, Harry.” Laurence was at the cabinet, pulling out a few flasks and a small leather case. “I’m sending you home with a prescription that you’ll need filled, and the potion regimen that you start today is on it, as well as how to take them and when. Also a day’s dose to tide you over until the prescriptions are filled. I want you here next week for the beginning of the prenatal scans.”

“Special scans?”

“I’ll be doing them weekly.” It was common practice with pregnant witches and wizards, a wanted infant too precious to be left to chance. Also in high-risk pregnancies, and with the family history the Potters’ had, it was needed. “Will the father be with you?”

His patient was blushing, stammering and negating, and Laurence knew the father to be irrelevant in this. “I’ll take that as a no.” Oh, Harry wanted Draco, the Draco who had trailed kisses and murmurs of love along his collarbone. Draco who had said that his affection was whole and everlasting.

Draco who was waiting in the room outside with Astoria for their own appointment, unable to meet his gaze across the waiting room.

The folder taunted him, a clue of what he had been unable to forget for almost a month, perhaps a bit more.

The Healer had bustled about after ushering them in as Harry left, eyes downcast and shoulders drooping. It had been Harry who Draco had to pull his eyes away from as he followed Astoria, hand gripped by hers into the examination room.

No, that folder, still open and glistening as the ink dried in the sun, and words just written about the man that Draco had slept with, a culmination of kisses and slow building lust kindled in the distastes of their school time. He had craved for the friendship of the boy as a child, and his rebuffed desire had turned to taunting. In the wake of the war, that desire had gently been indulged, and reformed, even as he bowed to the pressures of producing an heir and being the Lord-husband that Astoria wished to have he had felt that lust for friendship change to a lust for love, affections, and desire.

“Draco?” Astoria had sat on the window chair, and she looked at him, lips artfully parted. He’d seen her face drawn in ecstasy, glossy lips widely parted around air and sound as her hands clenched in Blaise’s hair. He had never caused such joy in her, and he would not, due to each of their own preferences, and that was to be left alone until they gave their blood and seed to the Wizarding world. “That was Harry, was it not?”

The note of intrigue in her voice bled through the motes between them, and a careful eye watched him.

“It was,” The Healer had taken their blood before he had bustled out. “I wish that I knew if he would have the place that your Blaise does not mind.”

“The Zabinis are matrilineal,” Astoria’s tartness soured the air. “And Blaise is a second daughter who took a curse during the war that blocked her carriage of children. There also would be no children of her, too much damage done to the magic. She neither needs nor wishes children, and her love is content to be quiet.”

“But what of yours?” They had each a sample of blood, and another of the whisps of magic that their bodies gave, and these were what the healer had taken into his little laboratory. “Would you be content to love quietly?”

“A quiet love of a beloved lover is naught to the purpose of our marriage, Draco. Children for the Wizarding world, to replenish the children that we lost both in potentiality and the reality in the war, which is what we must have. Draco, you know this.”

“I would not wish a child into the marriage that my grandparents shared.” He thought on it for but a moment; a meeting of minds that had kindled the life sparks of Lucius and Lisette had been prone to anger, misled intentions, and internalized hostility. Grandmere Margaux had not lived past the first five years of his life, and his mother had once verbalized her thought that she had disposed of herself, her only duty in life discharged. Grandfather Abraxas lived with the lover he had once kept in the manor, and he and Armand had escaped Voldemort’s madness in France. “Father and Aunt Lisette never knew the cause of their parent’s current discontent, even if it wasn’t with each other. Auntie once said that she was never quite sure if Armand was lover or slave, and that a political marriage seemed to victimize all parties, even if Grandmere infused the Malfoys with strength.”

“What are you saying?” Astoria’s paint did not cover the white her skin had bleached to. “Are you saying that you don’t wish the marriage? That you don’t wish for us to marry?”

“I am saying that I am uncertain of my wish for the marriage.” He had sidled to the folder, his eyes canting down and away from her accusing stare. She was bereft, her voice tearing at him, or perhaps it was his guilt at this. They had planned the marriage, the wedding for their bloodlines, despite their mutual interests in those of their own sex, and now that he found himself intrigued, the bloodlines were not enough to hold him.

“Draco!” Rebuke wrote across her voice, and he winced with it even as the door opened, the Healer returned, his hands filled with results, and Draco comprehended what the ink said, finally dry.

Pregnancy confirmed; conception at the beginning of January.

“Astoria!” His voice whipped out.

“Miss Greengrass, Mister Malfoy? I have your results,” the Healer said, and had the folders open, the door behind him closed as he read the results off. “It seems that you are-”

“I have found compatibility.” Draco burst out, and the Healer took in Draco’s place near the files. “Astoria, I will send formal notice tonight.”

“I’ve made a dreadful mess.” Luna’s eyes danced around the flat, and it was perhaps messy, but ankle deep in the things of children’s play was not the same thing. “But, Harry, you look as if you’ve seen the wrong end of a Manticore.”

“I’m pregnant, and that is a mess.” In Luna’s presence, such things could be said freely.

“Rather, I am pregnant by the son of my coworker and friend, a man whose betrothal has made the papers.”

“You finally tumbled Draco then?” Luna’s clarity of voice no longer surprised him. When during her pregnancy she had started speaking Prophecy in chants for days, her husband’s worry had been extreme. While he would always love his wife, it would be great trouble for their child to grow up in the home of a Seer who Saw always.

There were three Seers who came to visit, a Healer, and finally a young woman from the Department of Mysteries. Miss Lisette, actually a maternal cousin of Luna had noted that Luna’s mother had also had the Sight, and they had realized that the pregnancy had fully focused her Sight. The issue was resolved, or at the least controlled. An inner eye that ‘Shut’ was helpful. Luna couldn’t help but peak, even though her eye had always been stretched wide open.

“Yes, Luna, Hogmanay.” Harry’s arms had wrapped around his legs, letting his shoulders slump as he comforted himself. The queasiness had ceased, but he still felt vertigo at times, and this foetal position seemed to ease it. “You were right, I was late to the party.”

“And the child is healthy so far.” He had come to her, robes swirling and eyes flashing, nearly collapsing into her lap. Tea and sandwiches had brought him to this status. “You are not unhappy that there will be a child?”

“A child is a great surprise, but no great problem,” Harry wondered, hand on the stomach that’s concavity had to do with the nausea that the Healer’s concoctions dealt with. “The child will be loved, Luna, as I was not loved as a child. A child is certainly wanted, if unexpected. It is that the child’s conception may be messy.”

“All conception is messy. You’re worried about the emotions.”

“Harry, there’re flowers here for you.” Narcissa’s voice cut through his self-imposed mope.

“Oh, and how was the appointment at the Healer’s?”

Was it only yesterday that he had learnt of the pregnancy, only yesterday that he had realized it? Narcissa didn’t know, even if her profile reminded him of it as she spoke, his footsteps upon entering the office echoing off of the floor. Not marble, but he had added friction to the bottom of all of his shoes, and charms to cushion him on all of his robes. There would be no falls, he tried to assure himself. Harry’s worries for the pregnancy he would assuage with precautions.

She was standing, and his desk was kitty-corner to hers, and the flowers were immense; myrtle, orange blossoms, and hibiscus. “Someone loves you, and you told me naught of it?” she questioned. “The Jardinerie delivered them as I arrived, and the envelope is with the flowers.”

Harry picked up the note, the emblem of the Jardinerie pressed into gleaming silver wax on the slate of the vellum envelope.

It snapped open with a fingernail along the crease, and he let it drop to the table as he read it.

In all worlds, in all times, I ask that the Dux Black and Lord Potter accept my suit.
Draco of the Malfoy clan.


1.Blaise Zabini is being imagined as female in this story.
2.Terry Boot, whom we are assuming to be the younger brother of Laurence Boot is marked by Rowling as a muggleborn Ravenclaw in Harry’s year. I’ve changed this to blood status as Halfblood, muggle parent and wizard.

Tags: [admin] fest-2011, author: optimouse, contains: infidelity, fic length: medium, genre: mpreg, rating: r, type: fic

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