Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Ohh…ohh…ohh…” Potter panted in time with his thrusts. Draco felt the resultant puffs of air on his ear, and if he looked upwards toward Potter’s mouth, he would no doubt see his own hair fluttering in the warm exhalations. But Draco didn’t look up. Instead, he tried to ignore how amazing Potter felt inside of him and to push his hand under his own body. Potter’s weight — a feeling he told himself he did not like one bit — was pressing him into the bed, and Draco couldn’t reach his cock. Of course Potter seemed oblivious to Draco’s attempt at self-pleasure.

What could Draco expect? This was Potter’s first time with a man and he was so very, very good. Dammit. Draco had learned by now that Potter, by design or by accident, did everything well. Except Occlumency; he was rubbish at that. But Potter’s magic was so strong, he could keep Draco or anyone else out of his head if he chose to.

Draco had discovered as much when he looked for a motive behind Potter’s advances that night. Draco couldn’t read him at all. Had Draco admitted it, he’d have realised that although he and Potter had shared so many experiences through school and through a war, he didn’t know Potter at all. He’d miscalculated the Gryffindor from day one, and nothing had changed since. Potter’s reactions to everything seemed completely arbitrary. Like now, for instance.

This was not how things were supposed to go. Draco had never considered letting anyone fuck him; he had always been the one doing the fucking. And how had that even happened? How had Draco fallen asleep, naked, in a strange bed with Potter wrapped around him?

It had been an extremely bizarre night, and the night wasn't even over. The thick cock inside him pushed and pulled over his prostate, and he let out a moan before he could stop himself. Draco knew the stimulation had been inadvertent - Potter couldn’t yet have learned any proper technique. But damn, he could fuck.

Not that Draco had had enough experience with this sort of thing to even know how a proper shag should feel. Two encounters did not a sex-life make. He could have been fucking his way through Hogwarts had it not been for the war and the fact that his father would have killed him for touching anyone who wasn’t a pure-blood.

At least his two encounters had been pure-bloods, as far as he knew. Draco hadn’t asked, and anyway, blood status hadn’t been foremost in his mind at the time. It had been difficult enough to make himself understood, as his knowledge of French hadn’t stretched to many sexual terms, and his Russian was limited to Da and Nyet and Spaciba. (Although he’d never had cause to use that last one — Malfoys rarely said thank you).

But he nearly had thanked Potter earlier in the evening after receiving the best (though only the second) blowjob of his life.

Draco had considered returning the favour, but Potter had got distracted by more kissing and caressing and cuddling, and before he knew it, Draco was hard again and was desperate to fuck. And Potter had been so obliging — nervous but enthusiastic. And even after it was Potter’s turn to lie collapsed on the floor — they’d rolled off the sofa by the end — he never said anything to Draco about their past.

Strangely enough though, it had been their past that had brought them together that night.

When they'd run into each other — in Madam Malkin’s shop, now owned by a young and slightly more fashion-conscious witch — Potter had told Draco that he’d been looking for him. Which was odd, as most people knew he was living at the Manor whilst being groomed for one of the more obscure bureaucratic Ministry posts. Though Draco could understand Potter’s reluctance to visit the Manor again, he let Potter carry on with his babbling. "I've got something you want," he said, then blushed nearly the same scarlet as the Auror Corps robes he was being fitted for.

His wand — Draco’s wand — Potter had eventually stammered apologetically in order to assure Draco that he didn’t get the wrong idea. How wrong Potter’d been. He did have something Draco wanted: the most powerful magical signature in the Wizarding world. And a gorgeous arse.

Draco had never expected Potter to invite him into his house, which was decorated much like Potter dressed - shabbily. Draco had never expected the drink, the clumsy attempt at small talk, and the steadfast refusal to react to Draco’s belligerent tone. It was as though Potter knew there was no real malice behind it anymore. And then he had returned Draco’s wand, without expecting thanks or acknowledgement. Which made Draco’s stopping and turning at the front door a surprise to both of them. But not as much as when Draco had reached out and gently taken hold of Potter’s baggy sleeve, leaned forward, and given him the merest of pecks on the lips.

Draco turned again, had opened the door, and was stepping over the threshold when Potter finally found his voice.

“Malfoy,” he’d said, roughly grabbing Draco’s jacket, nearly yanking him back into the house. Draco'd kept his eyes on the floor. “What was that for?” Potter had sounded more perplexed than angry, but that didn’t make the whole scene any less embarrassing.

“For nothing...” Draco had murmured, “...for everything.”

He'd once again made to leave, but Potter had reached past him and slammed the door in his face, trapping Draco between his exit and the Saviour of the Wizarding World.

“Turn around,” Potter had ordered. He must have already learned vocal techniques in Auror training. It had a profound effect on... interesting parts of Draco’s anatomy, and he had turned to face Potter despite himself.

Draco had expected a dozen questions, accusations, even a punch to the gut. He'd closed his eyes, waiting for the humiliation he’d known was coming.

“Do that again.”

What? What had Potter said? Did he really want Draco to kiss him again? Draco had looked at Potter with narrowed eyes, wondering what sort of game this was.

“Kiss me again. Please.”

Draco’s eyes had widened and Potter had stepped closer.

They'd gone at each other like they were fighting for a Snitch neither of them could see but which obviously occupied some hidden part of the other’s body. Draco didn’t remember the journey back to the sitting room, didn’t remember removing any of his clothes, but the next thing he knew, Potter’s mouth was on his cock and the taste of Potter’s tongue was on his lips.

By the time they’d fallen asleep — Draco couldn’t believe he had voluntarily followed Potter up to this bedroom — they’d exchanged more bodily fluids than words, but they'd got their messages across. It had taken Potter seven years to take Draco’s hand, but only another three after that to fall asleep holding it.

Now here he was, lying over Draco’s back, burying himself in Draco’s body as if he belonged there. Well, worse things had happened at sea, Draco thought absently.

Right before Potter reached around him and began stroking his cock.

Eight weeks later…

“You wanted me to tell you if I’d seen anything strange going on in the street,” Felix said. “I thought this would interest you.”

Rita Skeeter looked down her glasses at her young informant. The urchin – well, student on summer holidays, he just dressed like an urchin – was one of the many foot-soldiers in her army of gossip-traders, looking to earn a few Sickles. She decided she’d give him the usual two minutes of her time before dismissing him with a wave of her hand.

“I saw Draco Malfoy go into the apothecary.”

“And…?” Rita had already glanced away.

“Well, I know you were interested in information about the Malfoys—”

Now Rita did indeed wave her hand in a dismissive manner. “They’re old news. The war’s been over for two years, they’ve paid their reparations and their house arrest ended ages ago. There are other villains to pursue these days.”

“Yeah, but none of the new villains made it nearly impossible to hold my head up in the school corridors whilst wearing my House colours,” Felix said darkly.

Rita stared down at him. Bitterness was an emotion she understood; most everyone with whom she had ever dealt held a grudge of some kind against her, after all. She decided to give the little Snake the benefit of the doubt. “Talk to me.”

“Well,” Felix became animated, “he looked pale.”

Rita raised an eyebrow.

“Paler than usual,” Felix qualified. “He seemed to be dragging his feet as he walked to the door. And he looked around a lot, like he was afraid someone might see him there.”

“He could just be watching his back. He is a Malfoy, after all,” Rita said, trying and failing to keep the condescension out of her voice.

“Yes, yes,” Felix said shortly. “But when he came out…”

Rita raised both eyebrows this time.

“He looked like he was about to cry. I mean really cry. I followed him around the corner without being seen. He Apparated as soon as he could, but not before slamming his fist against the wall and growling Fuck!"

“Hmmmm…” Rita considered the story for a moment. “Probably nothing, but thanks for the tip. See the receptionist at the office, she’ll have your money.”

Felix grinned.

Amazing what the promise of a full-page advert in the Prophet could get a person. When a simple lie (Mr Malfoy is feeling poorly and asked me to come and get a receipt for his purchases) hadn’t worked, Rita resorted to bribery. She made a mental note to try to remember to tell the paper’s advertising department about the apothecary.

Which she promptly forgot when she got back to her desk and perused the list of Draco Malfoy’s purchases.

How very interesting… Rita thought. Nearly all of the potions were prescribed to assure a happy, healthy pregnancy. She recognised most of them from when she’d broken that Gilderoy Lockhart paternity scandal.

Pregnancy? The Malfoys? Rita’s mind immediately started to do somersaults. Narcissa Malfoy must be pregnant. This was news! And Draco’s reaction after stopping at the shop? Perhaps he was miffed at losing his only-child (and sole heir) status.

Or maybe, just maybe, Draco was himself going to be a father.

Rita perused the list again. There were vitamin supplements and a few other drugs that she couldn’t immediately identify. She assumed those were for Draco’s personal use, rather than for whoever the other things were for.

But why would Draco be collecting potions in an apothecary in the first place? Surely they’d be delivered to the Manor or the Malfoys would have sent a house-elf to pick up the purchases? This line of reasoning strengthened the Draco-as-expectant-father theory, but Rita wouldn’t put anything past the Malfoys. She’d start with the most obvious answer —that Narcissa was once again expecting — and work from there.

“A lady-miss from the Prophet is wanting to see Master.”

Lucius scowled. Since the end of the war, he’d had a shaky relationship with the press. On the one hand, he didn’t want to refuse to speak to them, as they would inevitably make up something in absence of any official statement. On the other hand, whenever he did give them an interview, they tended to take his comments completely out of context, which usually resulted in more misunderstanding than if he’d kept his mouth shut in the first place.

But Lucius was eager to raise the Malfoy profile now that they were no longer personae-non-gratae. Their house-arrest had ended and Draco was no longer subject to constant Auror supervision. In addition, Draco now had a position in the ranks of the Ministry’s bureaucracy.

“Show her in,” Lucius muttered to the house-elf. He posed himself next to the mantelpiece and affected a half-smile of welcome, which instantly evaporated when he saw Rita Skeeter enter the room.

“Good morning, Lucius,” Rita said, failing to notice the brief grimace Lucius directed at her for the casual greeting.

“What do you want?” Lucius asked, any semblance of politeness disappearing from his demeanour. Rita Skeeter was the one person at the Prophet with whom he had no desire to go on record. Lucius was surprised she’d even shown up to get a statement rather than just fabricating something.

That worried him even more; she’d actually come to see him for something.

“Still playing at lord of the manor, I see,” Rita said, looking Lucius up and down. “I assume you won’t be dressed so well after the birth. Wouldn’t want to get baby vomit on those fine robes, would you?” She smiled sweetly. “Oh, but I forget myself,” she continued. “Surely you won’t be sullying yourself with the more mundane aspects of child-rearing?”

“Woman, what are you talking about?” Lucius gave up all pretence of hospitality.

“The baby your family is expecting?” She walked to mantle, pretending to be interested in the expensive carriage clock, but with one eye on her quarry.

...

Rita got her quote. Too bad it was unpublishable.

“Lucius, don’t be ridiculous,” Narcissa said. It was hard to tell from her expression if she were serious or not. “Don’t you think that if I were pregnant, you’d know before Rita Skeeter?” In the dressing table mirror she watched her husband pace around the bedroom. “Why would that infernal woman even suggest such a thing?”

Lucius kept right on pacing. “She said we were expecting a baby.”

“She said I was expecting a baby?” Narcissa turned and faced her husband.

“She said that the family was expecting a baby. What was I supposed to think, Narcissa?”

The hairbrush fell from Narcissa’s hand. Lucius stopped pacing and stared at his wife.

“Draco,” they said in unison.

The meal was as formal as ever, the conversation anything but.

“I don’t care what the silly cow told you, I’ve not knocked up anyone!”

“Draco!” Narcissa admonished. “I did not raise you to speak that way!”

Draco winced. These damned hormonal changes, combined with the potions, were ruining his manners. Only that morning whilst having a cup of tea in the Ministry canteen, he’d actually called one of his colleagues mate. That had brought the conversation to a stand-still. Not unlike the current state of affairs.

“Maybe we have a cousin somewhere. Maybe that’s what she meant,” Draco said as nonchalantly as he could.

“Draco, you know we have no family in the United Kingdom, they’re all on the Continent,” Lucius said. “If you’ve got something you want to tell us, I think you’d better tell us now before we read about it in the Prophet”. He set down his half-empty wine glass a little more roughly than was necessary.

“Please, Draco,” Narcissa said more gently. “You know we won’t be angry with you.”

“No promises,” Draco thought he heard his father mutter under his breath.

“Lucius,” his mother cautioned. “Now Draco, if there’s any truth to this…accusation, we’d like to know. We’re your parents. We love you and we want to be supportive.”

“Mother…” Draco rolled his eyes. A house-elf appeared and removed his half-finished soup. Another house-elf set down a plate of salad in its place.

Lucius cleared his throat with a loud cough. “Draco, I know we never told you… That is… If… If you’re going to be… Well, you see, girls… and sex…” he trailed off, speaking volumes in the awkward silence that followed.

Draco looked down at his salad to hide his embarrassment at his father’s belated (and wildly inaccurate) attempt to discuss the birds and the bees. He also did his best to ignore the nausea that washed over him. Up until now, his parents’ discussion had provided a decent distraction to his current physical discomfort, but his stomach was quickly winning the battle over this interrogation.

“Father, I’m aware of the ramifications of irresponsible sexual behaviour.” Boy, was he aware of them. “I promise I’ve not—”

Narcissa tried another tack. “We’d be delighted to be grandparents, wouldn’t we, Lucius?”

Lucius looked down at his salad with about as much enthusiasm as Draco. “Who is it?”

Draco decided to play dumb. “Who’s who?”

“The witch. The mother of your child, Draco,” Narcissa said, matter-of-factly.

“What witch?”

“Oh dear lord, it’s not a Muggle woman, is it?” Lucius found his voice again.

“We’ll have to redecorate the nursery,” Narcissa said, almost to herself. She was now clearly off in her own little grandmother-shaped world.

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly feeling a headache coming on. “Please let her be from a good pure-blood family.”

Draco said nothing, just watched as his parents talked to themselves.

“And of course, they’ll be getting married,” Narcissa said. “A wedding. How wonderful!”

Draco’s fork clattered to his plate and brought the two disparate conversations to an abrupt end. “Excuse me,” he said, feeling the bile rising in the back of his throat. He quickly left the room.

The soft knocking on the door could no longer be ignored.

“Come in, Mother,” Draco said. He’d been sick shortly after leaving the table, cursing Potter’s name throughout the entire disgusting process. Now he felt slightly better, sitting at his desk in pyjamas and dressing gown.

“Sweetheart,” Narcissa said as she entered the room. “Please let us be a part of this.” She folded her hands and waited with what Draco knew was well-hidden anxiety.

“Mother.” He sighed, it was time to pull out the big guns. “You know I love you, but would you please stop talking about this?”

“Draco, if you’re fathering a child, I think we should know about it. And you should get married. Please.”

Draco stood and walked over to her. Better to do this looking at her straight in the eye. “I swear to you that I’ve not fathered a child. I’ve got no one pregnant. I’m not even seeing a witch at the moment. Please assure Father that I would never do anything as reckless as that.”

Of course reckless was Harry Potter’s middle name, but in this case, Draco was telling Merlin's honest truth. Every word of it.

When Narcissa Malfoy actually appeared at the Prophet to set the record straight, Rita decided she'd have to believe her about not being pregnant. Lucius’ reaction and Narcissa’s assurances sounded genuine enough. Rita knew the Malfoy reputation well enough to be sure that if the family were expecting another child, it was unlikely they’d keep the fact hidden. They were all about cleansing the Malfoy name these days. A new baby, one who would be untainted by prior acts, would be a good way to show that they were once again fit to live in polite society.

So Rita returned to the theory of Draco fathering a child. She had him followed for the next week. He went to work, he went home. He had no social engagements at all, nor did he meet a witch even once. It seemed unlikely that he’d arranged to meet with a young lady at the Manor, since that would raise questions from his parents. The house-elves were loyal to the elder Malfoys, and wouldn’t think to keep a secret like that from them.

But Draco’s willingness to collect the potions himself suggested that he was personally involved, at least in some small way.

Rita reckoned that following her visit, Lucius and Narcissa would have drawn the same conclusion and would have interrogated their son. She was sure that any confirmation of her suspicions would have become public knowledge by now. Birth and marriage announcements were the bread and butter of the upper crust, and they would have made haste to publicise any upcoming nuptials of the sole Malfoy heir. Yet nothing of this had been seen in the Prophet.

Rita went back to her only lead — the list of potions. What were these other things, the ones Draco must have been getting for himself? Maybe they would give Rita a clue to the identity of the seemingly non-existent young lady.

Spurred into an uncharacteristic need to actually research a story, Rita went to the little-used reference department of the Prophet and found a copy of the British Wizarding Formulary. Looking up the mystery items, she found that one was an anti-emetic, prescribed for nausea, and another was a pregnancy-safe potion for anxiety. The third potion was something called a transfigurative hormone compound, found under the heading Obstetrics, Gynaecology, and Urinary-tract Disorders. The description read:

Indications Facilitating necessary organ formation in male pregnancy.
Contraindications Previous pregnancy, as organs will already be present.
Side effects Mild to moderate abdominal pain, headache, dry mouth.
Dose By mouth, 200mg diluted in 300ml solution, one-off treatment
Additional To be taken immediately following blood and spell-positive pregnancy test. Regular spell-scans should be arranged following application of potion.

There was a brief list of ingredients, but by this time, Rita’s eyes were so wide she couldn’t focus on the words.

Hours later Rita still sat in the reference room, stacks of marriage and birth records, a half-eaten sandwich, and cold cup of coffee beside her.

The BWF stipulated that the potion should only be used under supervision, and a host of other instructions, including the need for magic-dampeners, as directed by historical records of male pregnancy. She’d pored through old documents but could find nothing of the sort.

Rita’s brow furrowed as she re-read the passage for the third time. Why would a pregnant wizard need to dampen his magic? And was it truly possible for a wizard to become pregnant? There were stories of course, rumours, really. And though Rita had a healthy respect for rumour, she was canny enough to know they could be career-ending in her line of work. Since the end of the war, her stories were scrutinised much more carefully before the editor let them loose amongst the unsuspecting public.

But this…? This was either too good to be true, or someone’s idea of a joke. But if a joke, for what purpose, and on whom? Certainly Draco wasn't behind it - he couldn't have known Felix would see him or bring the information to her.

Rita stood and stretched, then walked to one of the bookshelves. She blew the dust from a couple of books’ spines and read their titles. Settling for Rare, Mythical, and Other Unlikely Phenomenon, 3rd ed. , she searched the index. Lo and behold, there was an entire chapter dedicated to male pregnancy.

Believed to have occurred only a handful of times in recorded history, male pregnancy is a true phenomenon. All progeny of male/male procreation is thought to be male. Conception occurs via simple consensual male/male intercourse.

Special potions must be taken in conjunction with the onset of pregnancy to cause the appropriate organs to form in order to support foetal growth. The womb, formed by the special potions mentioned above, would remain intact and could support subsequent pregnancies. It is believed that before the discovery of these potions, the foetus would have developed amid the existing organs, but complications could result during or shortly after birth due to the inability of the organs to function properly and/or insufficient space for the developing child. Any male pregnancy would, of course, need to be delivered via surgical section.

It must be noted that as well as copulation being consensual, one or both partners must have an extremely strong magical signature. This can be achieved through either genetic mutation or a programme of selective breeding. As the concept of eugenics is anathema to the philosophy of Wizarding society —

At this Rita snorted. The book was obviously in need of a new edition.

— the assumption is that only those wizards in possession of extremely strong mutation-derived magical signatures would be able to procreate. As a result, dampening fields would need to be erected around the growing foetus in order to prevent excessive magical transference. It must also be noted that a strong signatures of the amplitude required to facilitate male pregnancy are extremely rare. It is for this reason that male pregnancies are difficult to monitor, record, and indeed, even to corroborate.

There the chapter ended.

She went back to the dampening potion. For this substance to have been written up in the BWF, it would have had to have been used sometime, by someone. The BWF was a reputable reference work, it was not a source that would list unproven or spurious potions. The potions contained in its pages were only those that had undergone empirical study, and for which there was evidence of successful medicinal use. It was regularly updated, and Rita scanned for the date of the edition in her hand: 19th-20thC, it said. So this potion had to have been used between 1800 and 1999. Being 2000, another edition was due out soon, and as was required, the apothecary Draco visited would have reported all dispensed potions — this one included — to the book’s editors.

So, who had had cause to use this potion before now?

o0o

The next morning found Rita sitting in St Mungo’s dusty records office. Her first night of research had so far yielded nothing about any recipient of a male pregnancy potion. But she had learned that potions used in male pregnancy could not have been made anywhere but right there at the hospital prior to the early 20th century – the ingredients were too rare and too expensive for commercial manufacture. Perhaps the hospital’s pharmacy records might contain a clue, if they indeed still existed.

After several more hours and the demise of her manicure, Rita blew the dust off a an unlikely piece of parchment. It wasn’t exactly what she’d come to find…

...it was better.

The notations concerned a patient seen by a mediwizard in 1899. According to the scribblings, the patient had appeared from nowhere, unaccompanied, had been given the prescription, and had vanished. There was nothing about a diagnosis or later admission, just the prescription and a few brief comments. The hospital’s Potions Master had mixed and dispensed the brew, he and the mediwizard had watched the patient drink it, and there the notation ended. The only other pieces of information were several letters next to the notes - initials of the attending mediwizard, Potions Master, and presumably, the patient.

Rita rubbed her eyes and moved on to the task of identifying who SH, QL, and GG might have been. By the end of her second day of tracking down what was turning into an incredible story, Rita had learned that Saffron Harold had been an obstetric mediwizard at St. Mungo’s in 1899; she also knew that the hospital’s Potions Master at the time was a wizard named Quentin Leatherhead.

But even more importantly, she had a pretty good idea of who the patient was. As well as the sire of his baby.

Rita considered potential sires of Draco’s baby. While it was true that the Malfoy heir came from a once-powerful family, Rita had no knowledge of his intrinsic powers. She doubted, however, that the Malfoy pride would have let them hide a powerful magical signature if Draco were indeed possessed of one. It was time to come at this from a different angle - who could Draco have been cavorting with?

Her first thought was He Who Must Not Be Named. Rita wrinkled her nose, trying to imagine that union being consensual. Lucius Malfoy might have figuratively climbed into bed with that monster, but from what little Rita did know about Draco, she couldn’t see him participating willingly in such a relationship, no matter what his father’s wishes might have been.

The question was academic anyway. Voldemort had been dead for more than a year. And since the war, many once-strong allegiances had crumbled and friendships shifted. Lucius was certainly keeping better company these days, maybe Draco was too. But who — however unlikely — could Draco have been sleeping with that possessed the necessary characteristics?

Parchment fluttered to the floor and the chair nearly fell over backwards in Rita’s haste to bolt from the dusty room.

Lucius had just sat down before the drawing room fire when the house-elf appeared to tell him the Skeeter woman had returned. He cursed, and with Narcissa, went to meet the reporter in the foyer.

“What is it this time?” Lucius was even less than polite than before.

“Lucius,” Narcissa said and extended her hand to Rita. “Miss Skeeter, how can we help you?”

“Narcissa,” Rita said. If the reporter’s informal manner disturbed her, the only evidence of it was a slight twitch of Narcissa’s perfect brow. “I thought I might once again prompt you for a statement for our readers. After all, this is terribly exciting news.”

Rita sounded smug, more so than usual. The woman really was insufferable. Lucius opened his mouth to say so but Narcissa put a restraining hand on his arm.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Skeeter," she said politely. "I thought my husband and I made it clear to you that I wasn’t expecting a child.”

“You’re partially correct,” Rita clarified. “Is Draco about? I’d like to get a word with him whilst I’m here.” She looked around the large ornate room as if expecting Draco to materialise from thin air.

“I fear you are still mistaken, Miss Skeeter. Draco doesn’t know anything the Prophet would be interested in reporting, I assure you.” Narcissa’s courteous tone belied her impatience. Lucius knew her well enough to be able to recognise her growing irritation.

“Ah, but he does. And so do you, I should think. Waiting to welcome that very special grandchild into the world must be exceptionally exciting.”

“Miss Skeeter,” Lucius said through gritted teeth. “We are not expecting a grandchild, not that it’s any business of yours. Draco has not fathered a child. Now, if you don’t mind...” He motioned towards the door of the parlour.

“Perhaps not in the manner in which you think, Lucius,” Rita said. “It’s Draco who’s expecting the child. He’s carrying it. Didn’t you know?”

With great determination, Lucius kept his less-than-pleasant smile intact while the rest of his face sagged around it. “I beg your… He... You... What?” he stuttered off into appalled silence.

“Draco. He’s pregnant. Surely he must have told you. After all, this is a very rare thing, indeed. I believe there hasn’t been a male pregnancy in… oh… well over a century.” Rita was positively beaming now.

Lucius felt his knees wobble, but his robes thankfully covered the movement. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Luckily, Narcissa was able to carry on.

“Male pregnancy? Surely, that’s a myth.”

“I have clear evidence of his condition. And there is precedent,” Rita continued as though neither Malfoy had questioned her declaration. “Why, I thought by this stage, wedding plans would be afoot, baby booties happily being knitted. What a boon for the Malfoy name this will be.” She smiled even more toothily.

Narcissa moved closer to her husband and placed a supporting hand on his back. To Rita it probably looked as though Narcissa were keeping him from falling over and she’d be right to think so. “What do you mean?” he ground out through clenched teeth, the false smile still resolutely in place. Narcissa squeezed his arm gently.

Rita’s grin grew until it was nearly unbearable to look at. “It isn’t every ex-Death Eater who can claim to be grandfather to the child of the Chosen One. You must be very pleased about your son’s relationship with him. Tell me, will Draco take Potter’s name?”

It was the last thing Lucius remembered hearing before Narcissa carefully helped him lie down on a nearby settee.

“Ahhhh… the prodigal son returns!” Draco heard as he stepped from the fireplace and wiped soot from his Ministry robes.

He looked up, startled. His father sat in a large wing-backed chair, waving a hand, with a smile - a smile! - on his face. Well, it could be called a smile, since the corners of his mouth appeared to be raised upwards. In his hand he clutched something that Draco couldn’t immediately recognise since it was moving a bit wildy as Lucius waved. Whatever it was, it was a toxic blue colour and sloshed about.

“Hello, Father.”

“Hello, my son. My beautiful…errant…wayward…son…” Lucius dissolved into a fit of giggles. Draco wondered if he’d Floo’ed into the wrong house or had somehow fallen asleep at his desk at the Ministry and was now dreaming.

“Father…?”

“Which part—” Lucius paused to hiccup, “— were you going to tell us first?”

Barely hearing his words, and somewhat frightened to approach any closer, Draco scrutinised his father’s appearance. Lucius’ hair was dishevelled. His robes, although impeccable as ever, somehow looked more casual than usual. Draco realised with a shock that this was due to his father’s posture - he veritably lounged. He never lounged.

Lucius smiled again and brought the blue object to his mouth. A bottle, it was a bottle with a blue potion of some kind in it. Draco wondered if this was what had affected both his father’s appearance and his mood.

Then the last sentence Lucius had uttered finally registered.

Draco peered at his father and bravely decided to ignore him and make a hasty exit. As he edged towards the parlour door, his father reached out with his free hand and snagged Draco’s robes. Draco was now close enough to realise that the "potion" his father was drinking was no potion at all.

“You’re… You’re drunk,” Draco accused. "And on alcopops??" Maybe he could change the subject.

“Yesh… Yes, I am!” Lucius declared and fell to giggling again.

“Oh, good, you’re home,” Narcissa said as she swept into the room. “Lucius, give me that.” She reached to take the bottle away from her husband, but he stood and staggered out of her reach, cradling the drink to his chest.

“Mine!” he said with a look that dared her to try to separate a middle-aged man from his favourite executive toy.

“Oh, dear Merlin,” Narcissa rolled her eyes and turned away from her inebriated spouse.

“Mother, I—” Draco began.

“Sit,” Narcissa said simply.

Draco sat in Lucius’ abandoned chair.

“Draco —” she began.

Here it comes, Draco thought. They’ve found out I’m gay. He took a deep breath. “Mother, I was going to tell you a long time ago, when you first started talking about arranging a marriage for me -" he began.

“A long time ago?!” Lucius cried from across the room. “How long has this affair been going on?”

“Er… pardon?” Draco was suddenly left with a severe inability to breathe properly.

“With him!” Lucius said. Then giggled some more.

“Lucius,” Narcissa interjected. “Do shut up.”

Rather than the number of things Draco feared his father would do upon hearing such an order, Lucius actually shut up. Draco was even more flabbergasted than before.

“Don’t worry, I’ve taken his wand away,” Narcissa confided quietly. “Now listen,” she knelt at her son’s feet, “we need to talk.”

“We need to drink!” Lucius exclaimed, raising his alcopop in a toast to his family.

Narcissa ignored him. “Draco, Rita Skeeter was here earlier.”

Draco's blood temperature plummeted. “Whatever she told you was a lie,” he stated, hoping that would be the end of it, but knowing instead it was only the beginning of what was sure to be a long and tortuous discussion.

“I need another drink,” Lucius mumbled and looked around. “Dabble!” A house-elf materialised next to the chair. “Ah, there you are. Bring me another!” Lucius held out the now-empty bottle.

“There are being no others, Master.” Dabble wrung its hands.

“Lucius,” Narcissa warned.

“Hush, woman!”

Narcissa rolled her eyes again.

“Then bring me the Malibu,” Lucius ordered.

Despite himself, Draco turned his face to his mother and raised both eyebrows. Malibu?he mouthed.

“Master is having finished the Malibu, too, sir.” Dabble looked ready to cry.

“Dabble,” Narcissa said gently. The elf turned its enormous eyes to its mistress. “Coffee.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Dabble said gratefully and disappeared with a POP.

“As I was saying, Draco,” Narcissa continued. “Rita Skeeter was here.”

“Disgusting woman,” Lucius belched. Narcissa continued to ignore him. Draco could only stare. He’d never seen his father drunk before. Nor would he ever have guessed that his father’s taste in alcohol was so…juvenile. The only thing Draco had ever seen his father consume before was wine, and that sparingly.

“She mentioned certain…things. We all know she has a tendency to exaggerate, so I thought it might be best to get the truth from you first — truth not being a word with which Rita Skeeter has much familiarity.”

Draco hadn’t seen his mother this uncomfortable since Voldemort had sat at her banquet table. He nodded and watched from the corner of his eye as his father paced the long room.

“I don’t want to upset you, Draco…” his mother began.

“How long have you been seeing Potter?” Lucius stopped pacing and lurched toward them.

Just then, Dabble re-appeared bearing a tray laden with cups, saucers, and various other coffee-drinking accoutrements. “Put it over there,” Narcissa instructed, pointing at a low table next to one of the settees.

The elf did as it was told and then vanished. Lucius wove his way over to the table and picked up a steaming cup. He took a sip and scowled. “There’s no Bailey’s in this!” He slammed the cup down, sloshing coffee over the silver tray, mahogany table, and plush rug. “Where’ish the Baileys?”

“Lucius!” Narcissa cried. “Please go to bed!”

Lucius stopped short and narrowed his eyes at his wife. “Not,” He swayed slightly. “Not until he…” He pointed a long finger at Draco, “answers the question.”

“What question?” Draco asked as innocently as he could.

“THE question!” Lucius roared.

Draco thought fast. “I… I drank the rest of the Baileys. Sorry.”

“Not THAT question, the OTHER question!”

Narcissa sighed. “Lucius, I really do think you ought to go to bed!”

“Where’s my wand?” Lucius suddenly started patting himself down.

“Sweetheart, your wand is by your bed.” Lucius was now turning in ungraceful circles and reaching around himself in a ridiculous manner as he attempted to retrieve his wand from various pockets in his clothing. “Ah! I shall get it. Don’t move.” he glared at Draco and staggered out of the room.

“Don’t move,” Narcissa repeated, and looked meaningfully at her son. She followed Lucius, no doubt worrying over his safety and that of any ornaments he might encounter on the way to the master bedroom.

Draco counted to five and then leapt for the Floo.

“So, to what do I owe this... visit?” Potter asked, when he appeared finally able to speak. He pulled the duvet over their cooling bodies.

“If I said my father, would that put you off?” Draco said, rolling off him and sighing.

“I was beginning to think nothing would put me off you, Malfoy, but yes, that would probably do it.” Potter folded his arms behind his head and squinted at the ceiling.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, talking about your father while we’re lying here in bed is bound to—”

“No, I mean the first part, about nothing putting you off.” Draco turned and raised himself up on an elbow.

“I mean,” Harry said, still talking to the ceiling, “That after the last time you were here… I’ve kind of… I’ve kind of been thinking about you. A lot.”

Draco tried to ignore the fluttering in his belly, seeing as though he had something else in his belly besides butterflies. And how the hell could he ever tell Potter about that? He couldn’t even tell his own mother, and she had carried him, for Merlin’s sake! “You have?” Draco’s voice cracked as he finally got the words out.

“Of course. It’s not every day I have sex with another man.”

Draco’s post-coital good mood plummeted.

“Particularly good sex, with a man I fancy,” Potter continued.

The fluttering came back with a vengeance. Draco had to tell him; he couldn’t do this alone. Carry a baby, yes, give birth to it, yes, even raise it, if he had to — that he could do on his own. But confront his parents with the truth? Not a chance.

“Potter…” Draco began. “Can I tell you something?”

DING DONG!

Potter sat up in surprise. “Who could that be? This house is Unplottable, so it's got to be someone who already knows the place.” Insistent knocking now sounded from below. “I’d better go see who it is.” He turned at looked at Draco. “Will you stay?”

Draco nodded dumbly.

Potter leapt from the bed, tied an old terrycloth robe around himself, and disappeared. Draco heard him thudding down the stairs, bare feet hitting the wooden steps at a quick pace.

Draco was just contemplating searching for his clothing – which had been pulled off in short order the instant he’d arrived – when voices, a man’s and a woman’s, wafted up from downstairs.

Oh, Merlin, Morgana, and Arthur, Draco thought. It’s my bloody parents!

More than one pair of footsteps stomped back up the steps, and it was all Draco could do to cover himself properly with the duvet before Lucius and Narcissa barged into the room in front of a very embarrassed Potter.

“We are going to finish this conversation now, Draco,” Lucius said. He didn’t sound drunk anymore, which was a pity, rather. But at least he still wasn’t armed.

“Would you…er…like a …chair?” Potter looked awkwardly around the room, eyes resting on the only chair over which a variety of underclothing was draped. The room suddenly felt very crowded.

“Thank you, no, Mr Potter,” Narcissa said politely. She looked at her son. Draco could only imagine what she was thinking. Here he was, bare to the waist, covered only by a duvet, eyes which must resemble a house-elf’s, with Potter standing next to him, naked but for a tatty dressing gown.

Lucius was busy staring at Potter.

“How did you find this place?” Potter asked.

“Grimmauld Place belongs to the Black family Mr Potter,” Narcissa said simply. “I’m tied to it as surely as you are. And I’m very sorry to intrude on your privacy, but this is rather important, and I can’t just ignore it. Or allow Draco to do so. Any mother would do the same. Any grandmother would.”

“Er… huh?” Potter said. He sat down on the bed next to Draco, oblivious to the scene he was setting by doing so. It was a wonder Lucius hadn’t fainted again.

“Does he know?” Lucius barked, his eyes fixed on Draco.

“Know what?” Potter asked, looking back and forth between father and son.

“This isn’t just about me fancying men, is it?” Draco said sullenly.

Potter made things worse by reaching for his hand. “Mr Malfoy, I love your son. I’m sorry if that disgusts you…”

“Shut up, Potter, this isn’t about you,” Lucius sneered.

“You love me?” For a moment, Draco forgot his parents were in the room.

“Lucius, did that Sobering Charm erase your manners?” Narcissa asked, turning to her husband. "I think you’ll find this has a great deal to do with Harry.”

“What does?” Potter looked back at the Malfoys.

“Draco,” Narcissa continued. “We’ve known for years you didn’t fancy girls, this isn’t about that.”

“It isn’t?” Draco wasn’t sure he could take much more of this.

“No,” his father ground out. Being civil was clearly taking a lot of effort. “But why him?And why this?”

“What this?” Potter asked.

Lucius looked exasperated. “He’s—”

“Stop!” Narcissa ordered. She looked at the two young men on the bed and then back at her husband. “Draco should be the one to tell him. You of all people should know how important something like this is. We can’t take this moment away from them.” She placed her hand on Lucius’ arm.

“What are you talking about?” Potter sounded cross.

“I’m pregnant,” Draco blurted. His eyes were on his mother, whose countenance melted into sweetness and light.

Potter was silent for a long time. Then he burst out laughing.

An hour later, Potter wasn’t laughing. But he was still holding Draco’s hand.

Rita was very pleased. She had an exclusive on two of the most fantastic stories in 300 years, and an invitation to the evening reception. She had even magnanimously decided to report as accurately as possible, seeing as the weight of the Wizarding medical community was also scrutinising every syllable she wrote.

Draco knew how his mother felt. And Harry had made his feelings clearly known to anyone who asked, or indeed opened a newspaper. But his father — short of a brief accepting nod after imbibing too much buck's fizz at the wedding reception — hadn’t said much to Draco these last few months. He didn't look any happier today, standing in the corner of the room with his arms crossed.

With one arm occupied, Narcissa approached the hospital bed where Draco lay and took his hand with her other. “You did very well.”

“No he didn't,” Harry affectionately corrected from the chair beside the bed. “He did nothing but complain to the mediwizards through the entire procedure."

Narcissa turned and gently placed Lucius Malfoy’s grandson into his arms.

“He doesn’t look mad,” Harry whispered to Draco, trying to keep from being overheard.

Although he wasn't smiling, Lucius’ expression looked more like awe than anything else. Draco believed he could even see his father’s eyes filling with tears.

“He isn’t angry, Harry,” Narcissa said, leaning over her son. “In fact, I’ve only seen him look this happy once before. And at the time, he was doing exactly the same thing he is now.”

The End