FEST FIC: I'd Rather Change Nappies (2/3)

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During his final month, Draco had actually waddled. On the spectrum of indignities, it’d been a new low.

“I don’t know what’s up with you, but you look like a giant duck with piles,” Blaise had said one evening at a party he and Harry had been unable to avoid. “Did a spell go wrong or something?”

Draco had smiled humourlessly. “I injured my knee at practise.”

“I thought you weren’t flying these days. What’d you do? Trip over a Quaffle?”

“Very funny.”

“What do giant ducks with piles drink? I’ll get you something from the bar out of sheer pity.”

Draco had sighed. What wouldn’t he give for a good strong martini?

“Just a blackcurrant with soda is fine.”

“Jesus, Malfoy. What’s wrong with you? Seriously. You’ve been so odd lately.”

“Well, I’m flattered you asked,” Draco had said with a completely straight face. “Actually I’m eight and a half months pregnant, my ankles are swollen, and I can’t drink alcohol or eat prawns.”

Blaise had nearly fallen over he’d laughed so hard.

“Good one,” he’d said wiping his eyes with a cocktail napkin. “Oh God, wait till I tell Pansy. Draco Malfoy of all people is pregnant.”

“I’m quite serious,” Draco had said. “I’m going to be giving birth to a baby boy in about three weeks.”

Blaise had asked a passing waiter for another cocktail napkin.

“Only really, really gay wizards get pregnant. You’ve got a three-day beard going and scars on your knuckles from punching your opponents in the face. You’re a fucking man among men, Draco.”

He’d laughed at that and clinked Blaise’s glass with his in recognition of the compliment.

“Well, be that as it may, I’m still hugely pregnant and barely able to walk up a flight of stairs.”

“And I’ve got a bridge over the River Thames to sell you,” Blaise had said, slapping him on the back and walking away convulsed with laughter.

Draco had merely shrugged and gone to look for Harry.


* * * *


Harry’s mouth is warm; he swallows around Draco’s cock, trying to coax it into hardness. Draco’s eyes start to drift shut. It’s not that it doesn’t feel good; it just doesn’t feel good in a sexual way. It’d feel even better if Harry was rubbing his feet instead of his prostate.

He snaps back into consciousness when Harry turns him over, hoists him onto his knees and positions himself behind Draco’s arse. But this time, Harry’s erection wilts before he can even breech Draco’s body.

Draco knows he shouldn’t feel relieved, but all he can think is “thank God.”

Harry rolls off him and lies on his back, silently staring up at the ceiling. Draco knows he’s staring and not sleeping, because his eyes shine in the lights from outside.

He wants to say “It’s okay” or “I love you,” but the words that come out of his mouth are “Now you know what it feels like.”

“Well, I’m sorry I don’t turn you on,” Harry says, his voice a monotone.

He’s being a baby, and Draco tells him so.

“You used to get hard before I even touched you. You used to want me.”

Draco yawns a full body stretching yawn.

“Stop wallowing in self-pity.”

“There’s no room in your heart except for Scorpius.”

His voice sounds aggrieved, and Draco’s temper immediately flares.

“He’s a baby. He needs me,” he snarls.

“I need you, too.”

Christ, and so does Coach Devlin.

“Get in line, Potter.”

“I’m trying to help. You won’t let me.”

Draco wants to tell him that he’s not helping when he offers to take Scorpius away and shoos him upstairs to take a bath. Scorpius should be in the tub with him so Draco can gently wash his face and clean the whorls of his tiny ears.

His own baths last no longer than it takes to soap and rinse and wash his hair. In other words, three minutes, after which he’s running downstairs, holding out his arms to take Scorpius away from Harry.

“Is he okay?” he asks the second he comes back downstairs. “Here, give him to me.”

And Harry always does, no matter how reluctantly.

“He’s my baby, too,” Harry says, still staring at the ceiling.

“You didn’t carry him in your body for nine months. All you had to do was shoot your load.”

Harry flinches as though Draco has just hit him with a hex. Draco had spat on sacred ground. They’d always remembered that night with a sense of awe.

“Draco,” he says. “Please. We can’t go on like this . . .”

“Or what? You’ll go fuck that new recruit – the one who made Witch Weekly last month?”

Harry inhales sharply, and Draco’s heart begins to pound.

“You already have, haven’t you?”

“No!” Harry nearly shouts.

“But you’ve thought about it.”

Harry’s silent for a long time.

“You have, haven’t you? Is he even gay?”

Harry remains silent.

“He is. Have you kissed him?”

“No. He tried to kiss me, but I pushed him away.”

“But I’ll bet it turned you on. Young, fit, handsome. Tell me, Harry. Did your dick get hard?”

Harry is silent.

“Did you wank in a toilet stall?”

Harry is silent.

“Just so you know, I’m taking your silence for ‘yes’.”

Harry is still silent.

At last he says “I don’t want to have sex with him, but it’s nice to know that someone finds me desirable. And, yes, I did get an erection, and, yes, I did get off in the toilet. . . .”

Draco feels the pain like a razor slash to his heart. “Well, bully for you.”

“ . . . and I thought about you the whole time. About you touching me, wanting me. You can’t really believe I’d get off to thoughts of somebody else when all I want is you? I’m mad for you, Draco. In case you hadn’t realised it.”

Draco pulls the blankets tighter. Harry wouldn’t be so mad for him if he saw him naked in the light. (He’d insisted on a complete darkness charm every night Harry had wanted to have sex.) It was as though he hadn’t even given birth – he looked that fat.

“I want to hold you,” Harry says, turning to lie on his side. “If you won’t let me make love to you, then at least give me that.”

“Well, I have to use the toilet,” Draco says bounding out of bed before Harry can touch him. When he gets in the loo, he locks the door and waits there until he hears Scorpius cry.

* * * *


The night before the appointment at which they knew Draco would be told to avoid “being intimate” with Harry until after the birth, they’d made love for hours and in every position they could think of. Harry kept insisting that Draco ride him – he’d loved the taut skin of his swollen belly, which even Draco had thought was rather sexy at the time. Having a baby in your belly was infinitely preferable to being just plain old fat.

They’d been perfectly attuned to each other. Harry had spent ages rimming him because he knew that was Draco’s favourite thing. As he’d slowly relaxed, Harry had been able to shove in his tongue in as far as he could, and he’d come that way, just from Harry’s agile tongue. He’d never done that before, although he’d come close. But that night, he fell over the edge, and Harry had replaced his tongue with his finger to savour the spasms of his orgasm. Then he’d penetrated Draco with one long thrust and fucked him with abandon.

Draco had been unable to get enough of the feeling of Harry’s cock inside him, and they’d cast a charm that kept Harry hard even after he’d come. Draco had felt so greedy for him – greedy for the hard thrusts that buried Harry to his balls, and then greedy for the fast shallow thrusts that pounded his prostate. He’d spread himself open as wide as he could, urging Harry on with his thighs.

Harry had been delirious with need, saying things in a lust-soaked voice that’d enflamed Draco even more. The sheet beneath his bum was soaked with come and lube. But all the while – even when he was coming undone – Harry was careful of Draco’s seven-month swollen belly and their baby inside. His caution had turned Draco on even more. This was the two of them. This was their creation, their future. After they’d fucked each other to exhaustion, Harry dotted Draco’s belly with kisses and gasped when he felt the baby kick.

“I hope we didn’t disturb him too much.”

Draco had thought they didn’t, but then again, there’d been a strange sensation when Harry had taken him from behind and come deep inside his body. But the sensation went away when Harry turned him over and sucked his cock down his throat. After that, the only sensation he’d felt was his loins tightening behind an orgasm that took his breath away for so long he’d seen dark spots dance before his eyes.

Sure enough, as they’d predicted, the next morning the Healer told them they needed to stop having penetrative sex, and worse, that Draco should avoid coming at all. Apparently the changes his body went through up to and during orgasm carried a substantial risk of injuring the baby.

Draco remembered the strange sensation he’d felt the last time they’d had sex, and it terrified him to think that they may have come within inches of hurting their son.

That was a little more than three months ago. He hadn’t come since. And now, even worse, he couldn’t imagine coming at all.


* * * *


Harry is very quiet, but the breakfast he’s frying fills the silence and speaks of a tentative peace.

Draco walks down the stairs, rubbing Scorpius’s back as he burps and burbles. Stupidly, Harry reaches out his arms.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Draco says, but Harry glares at him and takes Scorpius. He’s barely started rubbing his back when Scorpius hiccups and spits up on his Auror robe.

Draco’s laughs at him and points to the towel draped over his shoulder.

“Did you think I wear this around all the time because it’s the newest fashion?” He takes Scorpius back and casts a wandless Tergeo.

“I may be late tonight,” is all Harry says in response. “I thought I’d just let you know, not that you’d even notice if I was here or not. Or care.”

Draco rolls his eyes. Still, the thought of why Harry might be late ties his stomach in knots.

“You’re a bigger baby than Scorpius,” he says feigning disinterest and accepting the mug Harry hands him without looking at him. “By the way, Mother and Auntie are coming here this morning. Something about workmen at the Manor.”

Harry usually laughs at Draco’s affectation, but not this morning. He silently fills a plate with eggs and rashers and buttered toast and drops it unceremoniously at the place at the table where Draco always sits.

“You really are trying to kill me,” Draco says, staring at the delicious sizzling heap of greasy food. “Mother’s always said you would one day.”

He’s babbling. Harry’s silence is distressing. “Talk to me,” he wants to plead, but of course he doesn’t.

“How late is late?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will you at least fire call?”

“If I can.”

He feels increasingly desperate. He swallows and says the hardest and scariest thing he’s said in weeks.

“Do you want to give Scorpius his bath this morning?”

Harry turns to look at him for the first time, his eyes wide as though Draco has just said he’d stolen the crown jewels for him.

“Really?”

Draco swallows again, his heartbeat lurching unpleasantly. “Yeah, but don’t put more than two inches of water in his tub. And use one of the soft clothes – the one with the lambs on it, not the daisies. Oh, and make sure the water’s not too hot. His skin is extremely sensitive. And try to keep water out of his eyes – make sure you use the baby shampoo and . . . .”

“Darling. Shut up.”

How had his mother arrived without him hearing the Floo?

“You are impossible, Draco. That man, no matter how ill-groomed he may be, is your child’s other father. He can bathe his son without being given exhaustive instructions.”

Harry’s eyes open even wider at Draco’s mother’s intervention. She notices his expression.

“Don’t count on me coming to your rescue again,” she says with a sniff. “Now go upstairs and wash the child before my son changes his mind.”

Harry smiles his first smile of the day and takes Scorpius upstairs.

“You’re not having sex with him, are you?”

Draco nearly falls out of his chair.

“Cissy, that was hardly discreet,” says his aunt, trying, and failing, not to laugh.

“I really don’t think that’s any of your business, Mother!”

“Let’s not start with this silly ‘not my business’ nonsense again. It’s foolish. You’re being naïve, Draco. This is the time a smart witch knows her husband will stray if she’s not careful. You have eyes only for Scorpius. That man must feel like a potted plant.”

“‘That man,’ I’m assuming is Harry?” he asks rather nastily. “And by the way, last I checked, which was this morning when I took a piss, I was a wizard not a witch.”

“Don’t get cheeky.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Harry would never ‘stray’ like some common bloke. He’s Harry, for God’s sake.”

His aunt smiles but nonetheless repeats her sister’s sentiments.

“You’re treating Harry as though he’s an annoyance rather than a partner. You should know he was absolutely wonderful with Teddy.”

“Well, Scorpius isn’t Teddy.”

His mother waves a hand at him dismissively. “You’re being a frightful bore,” she says. “Please try to expand your repertoire of conversation topics.”

Draco goggles at her, but is distracted before he can respond by a loud splash and then a thud. He dashes up the stairs so fast that he slips on the runner.

“Harry!” he shouts. “What. Are. You. Doing? I knew I shouldn’t have let you bathe him! Is he drowned? Fuck! I swear to God . . . If he’s hit his head . . . I’ll fucking kill you if anything’s happened to him!”

He tears around the corner and bursts into the bathroom. The door slams against the wall, leaving a hole in the plaster.

Harry is drying Scorpius and putting lotion his tummy. It’s clear he’d accidentally knocked the little tub off the counter after he’d removed Scorpius. He looks up, surprised, when he notices Draco panting and wild-eyed in the doorway.

Scorpius goes from a toothless smile to a face-scrunching scream, while Harry’s expression goes from startled to furious just as quickly. Draco sees his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“Draco,” he says. “Go away.”

Draco hears footsteps on the stairs, and soon his aunt is behind him, her hand resting on his back, just between his shoulder blades so that Harry can’t see.

“Draco,” she says gently. “Go back downstairs. I’ll stay up here and help Harry dress him.”

In the hall, his mother is not smiling. She hands him his cloak.

“Go to practise, Draco,” she says and escorts him with an ungentle hand to the door, opens it, shoves him out, and then closes it with far more force than necessary. Draco finds himself staring at the knocker wondering what the hell just happened.



He’s furious at himself and his flying shows it.

“Brilliant!” Coach Devlin yells up at him. “Fly like that on Saturday, and Racim won’t have a prayer!”

“You’re poetry in motion,” shouts Hamilton with a wink as she flies by. Draco grins and shakes his head.

“Only when you’re around, my angel,” he calls after her.

How had he managed to be away from his broom for nearly a year? In the sky – with the pitch below him an egg-shaped bit of green – everything felt sane again. The wind whips his hair around his face, and he leans into a burst of speed. Up here, he manages to forget that anything in his life has changed. He is fit and strong and not a fat hormone-crazed lunatic. He can almost pretend that after practise he’ll shower in the locker room, dress in jeans and a sick-free shirt, go with Harry to the pub, get drunk and then go home to fuck and fall asleep in tangled sheets and Harry’s arms.

He falls into a spiral. True he’s winded and his muscles ache, but he hasn’t lost his nerve. He misses the ground by mere inches, getting grass stains on his knees.

“Keep flying like that,” says Coach Devlin when he lands, “and you won’t need a personal trainer. Merlin, Malfoy! The sheer strength it takes to make that move! For a second there, I thought you were going to leave Harry a widower.”

Draco’s grin falters, and he mounts his broom again before his coach can notice his sudden pallor. Merlin! How could it have not occurred to him that he is a parent who should definitely not get himself killed? What would happen to Scorpius?

Suddenly, he feels terrified. The ground is so far away, and the wind feels too cold and brisk. Miles from him, Scorpius was sleeping under the blanket he and Harry had bought days before he was born. It was charmed to hum lullabies . . .

Draco clutches his broom, his heart pounding.

“What’s wrong up there?” Coach Devlin yells. “You look wobbly all of a sudden! Maybe you should have a rest! You’ve been flying for four hours straight!”

Four hours??? He’d only given his mother and aunt enough milk to last until noon! Draco lands as quickly as he can.

“Sorry,” he mumbles as he starts gathering his things and throwing them in his bag. “Forgot an important appointment. Gotta go!”

“See you tomorrow then,” his coach yells after him. “Bright and early, so you can warm up before the match. Get your sleep, Malfoy. Remember, we’re counting on you.”

Draco feels sick. Fuck the team! His baby is counting on him!

“Coach,” he says. “I need to tell you something. I didn’t have food poisoning. I was preg . . .”

But his confession is interrupted by Pendleton screaming in pain. Coach Devlin drops everything and runs out onto the pitch shouting for the team’s mediwitch.

Draco takes advantage of the distraction and Apparates home so fast he very nearly splinches himself.

* * * *


Four months into the pregnancy, he and Harry had had a vicious row. Harry was hovering and anxious and unwilling to let Draco out of his sight. It was driving Draco insane.

They’d yelled and broken plates and alarmed the neighbours (again), but in the end, he was kneeling on the floor, holding Harry in his arms.

“Potter,” he’d said. He would’ve added “love” but that just wasn’t something he did. “What’re you so afraid of?”

Harry had buried his face against Draco’s neck.

“Losing you,” he’d said, his voice catching on the words.

“I’m going to be okay,” Draco had replied. “Remember? You even told me so yourself.”

“I know you’re going to be okay, and I know the baby will be too. But I can already feel you slipping away.”

Draco hadn’t known what on earth he was talking about.

“There’ll be no room for me. It’ll just be the two of you.”

Draco frowned. “You can’t really be saying that you’re jealous of our unborn child.”

“I don’t know what I feel; all I know is that you seem distant and unreachable. Even when we make love, I feel you holding back. You don’t come from me being inside you anymore.”

Draco had inhaled sharply. Harry was being silly, but at the same time, he was right. It was stupid beyond words, but Draco suddenly realised his body – especially the inside of his body – now belonged to their baby. Harry was an intruder.

“It won’t always be like that.”

“I want you to fuck me,” Harry said suddenly. “I need to know we’re okay.”

Draco had pulled back and stared at him. Harry didn’t bottom. He didn’t like it. They’d only tried it a couple times, and Harry hadn’t come or even got hard. He’d claimed he was too self-conscious. He didn’t like anyone poking around his arsehole, even if it meant he got his prostate rubbed. He just didn’t like it.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am serious.”

Despite their recent row and the sheer weirdness of Harry’s request, Draco felt his cock twitch. Unlike Harry, he loved to bottom, but that didn’t mean he didn’t also love to top.

“Okay,” he’d said tentatively and kissed Harry deeply. He was so excited he could hardly breathe.

They’d found themselves undressed and in bed in a matter of minutes.

“Do you want me?” Harry had asked. It was a stupid question, and Draco told him so.

He’d instructed Harry to get on his knees and forearms and then tried to pry his arse open, but it was impossible. Harry was using his considerable strength to keep them clenched tight.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he’d said with fond exasperation. “Relax. I know what an arsehole looks like. You don’t need to hide yours.”

Slowly, by tiny increments, Harry had let Draco spread him open and when he’d finally succeeded in exposing Harry’s ridiculously (but endearingly) bashful hole, he’d buried his face between Harry’s arse cheeks and licked him gently.

“Relax,” he said again when he pulled back and Harry returned to clenching his arse cheeks. “Let your body open to me. You’re beautiful. Don’t be ashamed.”

Slowly but surely, Harry had allowed himself to open to the point where Draco could insert his tongue, and once he was fully open, Draco slicked his finger with lube and slowly slid it into Harry’s body.

Harry had been so tense that it’d actually been difficult to move his finger, and Draco’s belly (pregnant though it was) clenched deliciously at the mere thought of being buried in that tight shy opening.

“Are you okay?” he’d asked. “Are you sure you want me to do this?”

Harry’s skin glistened with sweat, and his entire body undulated with Draco’s slow probing. When he finally found Harry’s prostate, Harry dropped his face into the pillows and groaned.

He was good at this – very good. Harry was the only lover he’d ever bottomed with. Ever. He was an accomplished top, but there’d been something about Harry – something about their relationship – that’d been different. They’d fucked on their second date, and Draco had offered himself up without even thinking twice.

It’d taken nearly an hour of slow gentle opening, but finally Harry was ready. Again, Draco asked him if he was sure he wanted to continue, and again he’d said yes.

Draco braced himself. It was a little awkward because he was starting to show his pregnancy, but as soon as he’d pressed the head of his cock into Harry’s opening, he’d given himself over to instinct, fucking him with sure, deep strokes.

It felt so good that tears literally sprang to his eyes. He’d felt a wave of tenderness crash over him. Harry trusted him. Completely.

He’d come too quickly, and Harry was only half hard, but it’d been well worth it. Harry was soothed, and Draco’s body felt more relaxed than it did when he bottomed. For the first time in months, his back didn’t ache. He’d told Harry to roll over and then sucked him to orgasm. It was something else he rarely had the opportunity to do, and he revelled in Harry’s jerking thrusts and the flood of come that filled his mouth.

He’d pulled back and knelt between Harry’s spread legs, and then Harry had asked the stupidest question Draco had ever heard.

“Will you still love me?”

* * * *


Despite it being suppertime, Harry isn’t there. The house seems unnaturally quiet, and all Draco can hear is Scorpius suckling hungrily. He hadn’t even changed before he’d snatched Scorpius out of his mother’s arms and shoved up his sweaty jersey.

His mother was clearly still annoyed with him. She’d stepped into the Floo immediately upon relinquishing her grandson. His aunt had already left to do some shopping.

He and Scorpius are alone. It should be heaven, but it isn’t. His ears strain to hear the Floo. He’d say he’s sorry the second Harry finished brushing off the ashes.

But damn. He’d have to tell Harry about the match. He couldn’t keep it a secret. Especially now. Harry would never forgive him.

He knows it’s true. He really is treating Harry like shit. Even if he can’t get it up, he should at least try to pleasure Harry. It wouldn’t kill him to give Harry a blowjob. And fuck his stupid pride. It wasn’t as though Harry would leave him because he’d gained some weight . . .

. . . He wakes when he feels Scorpius wriggle in his arms. A quick glance at the clock tells him that it’s half past ten.

Harry has never been so late before – at least not without fire calling.

Fuck.

He stands up shakily and goes upstairs to change out of his Quidditch uniform and into his stupid magically expanded jeans and jumper. Scorpius is less easy. He cries and squirms when Draco tries to dress him in a warmer outfit and then wails when Draco pulls on the little hood with fox ears sticking off the top.

For reasons he doesn’t want to admit to himself, Draco doesn’t fire call before he steps into the Floo with Scorpius in his arms, and his worse fears are confirmed when he arrives in Harry’s office to find him alone with What’s-his-fucking-name. They’re standing close together, their elbows and hips touching, as they examine a map. There’s an ease to their contact, a certain physical comfort that spoke clearly of intimacy.

Harry looks up startled when he hears the whoosh of the Floo and quickly moves away from his companion.

He looks flushed . . . and kissed.

“Draco!” he exclaims. “What are you doing here?”

But Draco doesn’t have time for him. He shakes his wand out of his sleeve. Clutching it in one hand and Scorpius with the other, he advances on What’s-his-face, who looks gratifyingly alarmed.

“Draco,” Harry says with forced calm. “Lower your wand.” Harry knows him . . . and what he’s capable of.

What’s-his-name backs away until he hits a chair.

“Do not ever try to touch him again,” Draco says, coiled hatred in his voice. “Because I will kill you. Believe me. I’ve killed before.” It was a reference to the battles he’d fought by Harry’s side after he and his mother had defected.

The man stares at him, his eyes wide, but before Draco can cast the hex on his tongue, What’s-his-name draws his wand and shouts “ Stupefy!”

A hastily cast protective shield blocks the spell. Harry has nothing in his hands. He’d cast it wandlessly – a feat that was almost impossible. What’s-his-name stumbles backward and falls on his arse.

Harry is shaking when he turns to him, and his voice quavers with emotion.

“You just cast a stunning spell at my husband and my six-week old son,” he says with a deadly calm that Draco knows all too well. “Leave. We will discuss this on Monday.”

What’s-his-name looks heartbroken. “Harry, I can’t just go . . . you said . . . we were . . going to . . .”

The only thing that keeps Draco from casting an Avada Kedavra is the shield that’s clearly protecting What’s-his-name from Draco as much as – or even more than – it was protecting Draco from him.

“Do not ever call my husband ‘Harry’ again.” Draco spits out the words like a curse. “Believe me, you haven’t earned it even if he really was on the verge of fucking you. He’s ‘Senior Auror Potter’ to you even when he’s got his cock shoved up your arse.”

“He doesn’t love you anymore! You don’t care for him the way I do!”

Draco takes the hit straight to the heart. What’s-his-name’s words are far more painful than any spell he could cast. Scorpius starts to cry, and humiliatingly, Draco’s own eyes fill with tears. Harry sees them and groans in what could only be interpreted as pain.

“Leave now,” he says again, but his eyes never leave Draco’s. “I won’t ask a third time.”

To Draco’s vast relief, the fucker finally goes. But not without a pleading, longing look at Harry.

They are silent even after the door closes. Only Scorpius advertises his discomfort.

“I’m going to the Manor,” Draco says at last.

“Draco, listen to me. I was not going to fuck him . . .”

Draco takes a deep breath. “But you were intimate enough with him to discuss our marriage.”

“I didn’t ‘discuss our marriage.’ I had a little too much to drink and said a couple stupid things.”

Draco nods.

“Draco, please. . . . You know I’d never cheat on you!”

Draco merely nods again, knowing the worse thing he can do to Harry is to do nothing at all.

“Can we at least go home before we discuss this?”

Draco wraps Scorpius tighter in his blanket and kisses the top of his head as though Harry wasn’t even in the room.

“I just said some stupid things, and then he kissed me, and I pushed him away – but not as quickly as I should have. I’m sorry.”

Draco’s vision goes black for an instant. “So you told him you didn’t love me anymore and then snogged him? I’m going to the Manor,” he says again. “And you’d better believe I’m taking Scorpius with me.”

Harry swallows hard. “I didn’t want to kiss him. It wasn’t out of desire. If anything it was out of anger. You’ve hurt me, Draco. More than you will ever know.”

All Draco can hear is that Harry kissed someone else. Harry didn’t know what “hurt” was. Yet.

“I’m going to the Manor,” he says again. “I’m taking Scorpius, and while I’m gone, I want you to pack your things and move out of my flat.”

Harry looks utterly shocked. His mouth opens but no words come out.

“And what’s more, I’m playing a match tomorrow. I don’t want you there. If I see you there, I’ll be even more furious than I am now . . .”

Harry sits down hard in the chair behind his desk.

“You’re what?”

“I’m playing a match tomorrow. What are you? Deaf?”

He’s being cruel. He knows he’s being cruel, but he can’t stop himself. His heart feels like it’s being ripped to shreds.

“Draco, please! You can’t play. You’re not ready to play a match . . .”

“I think I know what I’m ready for and what I’m not.”

“Christ, Draco! I didn’t fuck him! I didn’t want to fuck him! I was stupid! I never intended to have you find out! I never meant to hurt you!”

Poor stupid Harry. He just kept digging himself a deeper and deeper hole.

“So you were going to lie to me.”

“No, that’s not what I mean . . .”

“What you mean, Potter, is that you’re too much of a slut to keep it in your pants for a few months while I recover . . .”

“I. Didn’t. Fuck. Him! I didn’t even touch him or let him touch me! We kissed. Nothing more!”

Harry reaches out to touch him – to touch them. But Draco pulls away, wounded and frightened. They’d never fought like this before. He pulls Scorpius closer against his chest and turns to walk to the Floo, keeping his hand on Harry’s desk so he wouldn’t fall. He’s shaking violently.

“We’ll discuss the necessary arrangements tomorrow after the match,” he says as calmly as he can and steps into the hearth. “Good-bye.”

The last thing he hears before the whoosh of the Floo drowns him out is Harry practically screaming his name. He emerges from his mother’s hearth feeling ill and clutching a kicking wailing infant.

How had his life come to this?

He must’ve spoken aloud because suddenly his mother’s there, lifting Scorpius from his arms. Scorpius has been crying so hard and for so long that his little body is soaked with sweat.

“I should never have agreed to have that baby,” he chokes. “Everything went wrong because of . . .”

His mother was walking away toward the sofa when she turns on him with a dangerous look in her eyes.

“If you even think about blaming this innocent little boy, I will hex you!”

Draco steps back, away from the gust of her fury.

“You’re the one who’s ruining your life, Draco, not Scorpius and not even your bloody husband. You seem intent on tearing everything you have apart . . .”

“He kissed someone else!”

“And that’s supposed to surprise me?”

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know how to.

“But he kissed . . .” He feels hysterical. Out of control. His Harry had kissed another man.

Before he realises what he’s about to do, he punches the mirrored wall. When he draws back his hand, he sees that it’s bleeding. He punches the mirror again with his other hand just for the sake of symmetry.

Scorpius is bawling and screaming.

To his horror, he suddenly understands how people can shake their infants to death. He stumbles backward, blood trickling down his fingers.

“Don’t let me have him,” he says, horrified at himself. “Don’t let me touch him. I’m not safe . . .”

“You most certainly are not, Draco,” his mother replies icily. “I want you to Floo home right now. You’ll kill yourself if you touch Scorpius in anger. I won’t survive losing both my son and my grandson.”

“I . . . I . . . if Harry comes here . . .”

“If Harry comes here, I’ll give him his son. But I won’t give him to you. So don’t even beg. You’ve forfeited your right to Scorpius until further notice.”


* * * *


They had an open-door policy, which meant neither locked the other out of the bathroom (unless absolutely necessary). Harry had never taken advantage of the policy as much as he had when Draco was pregnant. While Draco shaved, Harry would sit on the edge of the bath watching him as though he was doing some sort of fascinating Transfiguration. Or while Draco was combing his hair, Harry would stand behind him with his hands cradling his belly.

Often, their regular morning grooming turned into awkward shags on the bathroom floor.

Even when they were dressed and out in public, Harry had wanted to touch him constantly, which meant they did a lot of hugging. Harry loved to feel Draco’s swollen belly pressed up against him. It was alternately sweet and irritating depending on where they were and what they were doing.

They’d told nobody, except his mother and aunt. Even their closest friends thought they’d adopted Scorpius, and they seemed to believe the ruse despite the fact that Scorpius looked like a little clone of Draco. Harry had wanted to tell the world about the pregnancy, but Draco insisted on keeping it a secret. Despite Harry’s worship of his changing body, the real truth was that Draco had been ashamed.

“You’re beautiful,” Harry told him all the time. “You shine.”

But all Draco could hear was “Blah blah blah . . .You’re such a girl, Malfoy. Perhaps you’d like a pink maternity robe with frills and teddy bears all over it. I’m sure it would compliment the Mark.”

He’d insisted on wearing black for the entire final three months. Voluminous black robes with buttons carved in silver to look like Medusa’s head. Harry said they reminded him of Snape “and not in a good way.”

By far, Harry had preferred him naked, but nakedness in public was not an option.

“Men should not be pregnant,” Draco had told him on numerous occasions. “I feel like I’m walking around with a sign pinned to my abdomen reading ‘I take it up the arse.’ Because you know that’s what everybody thinks when they see a pregnant wizard. ‘Oh, does he have ovaries in his bum?’ or ‘Will giving birth feel like taking a satisfying shit on a Sunday morning?’”

“They’re also thinking, ‘Merlin, Harry’s a serious stud to have knocked up a bloke!’”

“Ha ha.”

But despite their light heartedness, the pregnancy was anything but a laughing matter. There’d been barely legal potions that burned like acid in his throat and several operations to create space for a developing foetus. There’d also been hormones that made him rage or cry uncontrollably for no apparent reason. He’d been amazed that Harry hadn’t left him; most of the time he was a complete arsehole to be around – one minute throwing plates and the next clinging like a barnacle.

He’d thought the craziness would all go away after the baby was born. The Healers had promised. But if anything, his moods only seemed to be getting worse.


* * * *


Coach Devlin would be proud.

It’s only half past five in the morning, and there he was doing sits-up and push-ups and running 50-yard sprints as though his life depended on it. His heart feels like it’s getting ready to rip out of his chest like a baby Horntail from its egg, but he’d rather feel that kind of pain than the pain he felt every time he thought of Harry and Scorpius. In one night, he’d managed to raise the spectre of divorce from the one person that knew his soul and cause his mother to fear for Scorpius’s life.

The muscles in his arms and shoulders burn with exertion. He knows he’s pushing himself too hard right before a match. It’s stupid; he’ll compromise his strength and agility. But he can’t stop.

Dawn finds him lying on his back in the grass, winded and sweating and (bugger it all) leaking milk like a wonky tap. What the fuck was he doing?

“You’re here early.”

Draco sits up, startled, as Coach Devlin recovers from his Apparition

“I hope you haven’t ruined yourself for the match. What’s wrong? Did Harry make you sleep on the sofa?”

Draco shakes his head, hoping his coach will leave alone the subject of Harry. For all Draco knew, Harry could be at their flat right now packing his belongings in an expandable trunk. The thought makes him want to scream and pull his hair out and tell Coach Devlin to take the match and shove it up his arse.

“Have you had anything to eat?”

Draco shakes his head again and catches the chocolate bar his coach throws to him.

“Drink some water. You look like you’re ready to pass out.”

The stupid chocolate bar tastes like shit, and the bottle of water he drinks in one gulp barely moistens his throat.

“You look like you’re ready to tear someone’s head off and then hex them into the middle of next week.”

Draco pulls his knees up and buries his head in his folded arms. This used to be a big part of his world – flying, fighting, joking around with his team mates, after-game pints at the pub. It all seemed hollow now. How could he ever have been so carefree? So frivolous?

He feels Coach Devlin’s hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Draco,” he says.

He looks up, startled by the empathy in his coach’s words, but Coach Devlin was already yards away whistling tunelessly and kicking at the grass as he went.


* * * *


He’d cheated on Harry once. It’d been a stupid one night thing. Harry had been away helping train recruits in the Shetlands, and Draco had been bored.

It’d been ages since he’d gone to a club. He and Harry rarely went because neither of them liked the tight-leather-trousers-and-net-shirt scene. But he’d thought what the hell.

The man he’d hooked up with looked nothing like Harry, and Draco had fucked him in one of the revolting rooms behind the bar. The man had been a walking stereotype of a bottom – mincing, flirtatious, pretty. He’d spread his arse cheeks with his hands giving Draco an unimpeded view of the first couple inches of his rectum. He’d begged Draco to fuck him as hard as he could, and Draco had. Later, he’d seen the same man with another top begging him in exactly the same way he’d begged Draco.

He hadn’t gone home that night. He’d checked into a hotel, soaked himself in near-boiling water, and scrubbed himself raw with some lye soap he’d bought at an all-night apothecary. There was no way he was going home to sleep in his and Harry’s bed stinking of mindless unsatisfying sex.

Harry had never found out. He hadn’t needed to. The whole thing had meant nothing to Draco. He hadn’t given a shit about the man he’d fucked. He didn’t know his name. He’d never see him again. Harry was in no way threatened by his one stupid night.

But this was different. Harry knew this What’s-his-name. He worked with him. He saw him everyday and exchanged greetings. The man was handsome and young. Barely out of Hogwarts. Like all the new recruits, he must worship Harry.

Harry had always been amazingly oblivious to the worship he received, but that’d been because he was in love and happy and cared for and needed.

And wanted.

What’s-his-name must’ve reached out and tenderly cupped Harry’s jaw, pulling him into a kiss he’d been longing for since he was a boy. He must’ve thought at last. And then Harry hadn’t pushed him away. He’d opened his mouth and invited his tongue. There was no way it couldn’t have been arousing. Sweet, desired, trembling. Harry’s eyes drifting shut so that his lashes touched his cheeks. His hands on Harry’s waist and Harry’s hands on his.

Draco knew because that was how their first kiss had been. Longed for. Ached for. Draco had had his cock buried to his balls in some rent boy’s arse, but that kiss – that one kiss that Harry hadn’t rejected quickly enough – was a thousand times worse.


* * * *


As he always did, Draco washed his face and shaved with a straight razor before he kitted up and laced his boots, polished to the point he could see his reflection on the leather. It was pompous, but he didn’t care. It was a ritual he’d engaged in since his Hogwarts years – even before he had whiskers. It made him feel like a man, and he needed to feel like man whenever Harry was around. He’d developed the ritual because of Harry – because Harry made him crazy – and he needed to calm himself before a match, whether he was actually playing against Harry or just knew Harry would be in the stands watching. If he’d known then why Harry made him so crazy, he would’ve forgone the shave for a good satisfying wank to the thought of Harry sucking his cock. That would’ve focused him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” says Crockaworth. “I would’ve played with my bad wrist, but I would’ve sucked. There’s no one like you up there.”

Draco smiles grimly and scrapes the whiskers off the razorblade with his thumb. His knuckles were still torn and bleeding from having punched the wall at the Manor. He isn’t surprised when most of his team mates avoid him. They know to leave him alone before a match.

The match. It’s all he can think of because after the match he’d have to face things he didn’t know if he could bear facing. He knows his pride and the havoc it can wreck. His mouth would curse Harry while his heart cried out for him. Hopefully Harry would be able to hear his heart and ignore his mouth. But that wasn’t always the case. Not when there were so many intense emotions – and equally intense insecurities – between them.

The stands are full.

“We leaked it to the press that you’d be playing,” Hamilton whispers, putting her arm around his shoulders. “I know you’re feeling rusty, but you’re going to be great. I know you will.”

He kisses her cheek. “You’ll be great too,” he says. “As always.”

She gives him a playful shove. “It’s good to have you back, Malfoy,” she says. “We’ve missed you.”

The Magpies walk out on to the pitch and the crowd lets out a roar. He can hear them chanting his name, and it fills him with a familiar rash elation. He could be a schoolboy again, willing to do anything to earn that devotion. He needs it like the air he breathes.

Today he is neither a husband nor a father. He’s Draco Malfoy, Seeker.

Adrien Racim is waiting for him, the wind whipping his cloak and blowing back his long hair. When their eyes meet, everyone and everything else disappears. It’s just the two of them.

“I’ve missed you,” says Racim as they shake hands. “The sad excuse they had as a Seeker while you were away was pathetic. Stealing the Snitch from him was like stealing sweets from a baby.”

Draco feels his heart turn over, but he cannot think of his baby. Not now.

He crushes Racim’s hand when he shakes it, and watches with pleasure as the other man grimaces. “Good luck up there,” he says as he does every time they fly against each other.

“And you too, Malfoy. You’d better not be out-of-shape because I’ve been waiting months for this day.”

They step apart, and the whistle blows, signalling the start of the match.


* * * *


He’d woke one morning just days before giving birth to find Harry watching him. His expression was sombre. Draco had smiled, but Harry’s smile in response was uncertain and fleeting.

“I wish I hadn’t suggested we have a baby,” he’d said.

Draco had wanted to punch him. There he was, hugely pregnant, and Harry was having second thoughts.

“I haven’t had enough time alone with you,” Harry continued. “I still don’t know how you feel about me.”

Draco had furrowed his brows. Harry was being mental. How on earth could he not know that Draco loved him more than anything? How could he not know how desperately Draco needed him? Harry was everything to him; he always had been. Everything he’d ever wanted from the moment they’d first met.

“You’re being an idiot. You know how I feel about you.”

Harry had looked away from his face and focused on his belly where he drew spirals and squiggly lines with his fingertip. Draco could feel the sheer power of Harry’s magic graze his own and their unborn child’s. It made him shiver.

“Actually, no I don’t.”

Draco had rolled his eyes.

“Of course you do; I tell you all the time.”

“You tell me what?”

“How I feel about you.”

“Which is?”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake. This is a stupid conversation.”

“How do you feel about me, Draco?”

“I feel that you’re being annoying and have woken me up for no good reason.”

“This is a good reason. I want to know how you feel about me.”

“Besides from fond irritation?”

“Yes, besides fond irritation.”

“I’ve told you a thousand times how I feel about you. This is getting tiresome. I don’t like it when you get clingy. It’s unnerving.”

“I’m not being clingy; I just want to hear you say how you feel about me.”

“Potter. I’m going to have your baby any day now. How do you think I feel about you?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you. Draco, how do you feel about me?”

Draco was beyond fond irritation by that point; he was genuinely pissed off and told Harry so. He’d got out of bed and slammed the door of the bathroom. Harry wanted too much from him. Wasn’t the fact that he was about to have his guts ripped out sufficient to tell Harry that he loved him . . . . ?

And that’s when he’d realised it: He had never, in the nearly three years they’d been together, actually told Harry that he loved him.

He’d always just assumed that Harry knew, because after all, wasn’t it blatantly obvious?

He’d left the bathroom intent on saying those three words to Harry, but Harry was already out of bed and cooking something delicious down in the kitchen. Draco had promised himself he’d tell Harry later.

He couldn’t remember if he actually had.



Next part

Comments

re: I'd Rather Change Nappies (2/3)

[vaysh]

I just know something bad is going to happen at that game, gnagnagna ...

[ura-hd.livejournal.com]

Oh, Draco... How can you be so oblivious?

[carolinelamb.livejournal.com]

oh god!

closes eyes in fear!

please don't fly draco!

[ldydark1.livejournal.com]

OH Wow. Wow. Wow. (this is a great story)

[minerva-may-i.livejournal.com]

I've cried through almost this entire chapter. I can't handle how much Harry loves Draco and how oblivious Draco is to this fact.

[tigersilver.livejournal.com]

ARRRRRGGGGHHHH! I am dying here and loving it at one and the same time!
You know this was Hot Recced at the Daily Snitch? It should be doubly so--triply! It's just..beyond words fantastic!
Next part before my head explodes, then.

[hpfangirl71.livejournal.com]

Ooh this is getting good!! You were right, the bottom!Harry scene was much needed. I don't mind switching anyways... I love the intensity of this story and the ending... OMG... Draco you dunce, this isn't Ghost... no "dittos" here, go tell the man you love him for crying out loud!!♥