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Morning in Grimmauld Place never arrived quietly anymore.
The old house creaked and grumbled as it always had, its walls heavy with memories of the Black family, but the darkness had been driven out by the most unlikely forces imaginable: a toddler with boundless energy and a newborn whose lungs already rivalled his godfather Ron’s for dramatic flair.
The kitchen was full of life- the faint smell of porridge, the clatter of spoons against bowls, and, over all of it, Sirius Severus Potter-Malfoy’s delighted shrieks.
“PAPA! PAPA, I wan’ juice! Papa, ‘ere! PAPA!”
Draco, seated primly at the table with a mug of tea in hand, arched a pale brow as his son tugged furiously at his sleeve.
“Your father is literally standing by the sink, pouring it into your cup as we speak.”
Sirius, all wild black hair and mismatched pyjamas, ignored this entirely. He yanked harder, pointing insistently at Draco.
“PAPA do it! PAPA pour!”
Harry glanced over his shoulder, a grin tugging at his mouth as he held the jug of pumpkin juice mid-air.
“Hear that? He doesn’t trust my pouring skills.”
Draco sniffed, though his lips betrayed the faintest twitch.
“Clearly, he has discerning taste.”
He set his mug aside and rose with exaggerated dignity, wand flicking to pour the juice into Sirius’s small cup with a flourish.
Sirius clapped his hands, juice sloshing.
“PAPA! Papa pour good!”
Harry chuckled, turning back to the stove.
“You’re creating a tyrant.”
“Better than creating a child with no standards,” Draco replied smoothly, sliding back into his chair.
Secretly, though, his chest swelled every time Sirius’s little voice shouted “Papa!”- every demand, every declaration. He pretended irritation, but inside he cherished every syllable.
A faint whimper rose from the bassinet tucked into the corner of the kitchen. Draco immediately set down his tea.
“Scorp’s up,” Harry said over his shoulder, frying pan sizzling.
“Of course he is.”
Draco was already moving, scooping up the tiny bundle with surprising ease. Scorpius blinked up at him, pale lashes fluttering against rosy cheeks. He was only a month old, impossibly small, his hair just beginning to curl- a soft, pale blond with a faint wave Astoria had promised came from her side of the family.
Draco cradled him close, smoothing a hand down the baby’s back until the fussing quieted.
“There we are, little scorpion. None of this undignified noise.”
“Papa!”
Sirius piped up again, shoving a spoonful of porridge into his mouth. Half of it missed.
“Scorpy cry?”
“Yes, Scorpius cried,” Draco confirmed patiently, dabbing at the mess on his son’s chin with a napkin, “Unlike you, who shouts.”
Sirius grinned, porridge smeared across his cheek.
“Papa, I loud!”
Harry barked a laugh from the stove.
“Can’t argue with that.”
He slid plates of toast and eggs onto the table, then bent to press a kiss against Sirius’s sticky hair before planting another on Scorpius’s tiny forehead.
“You’ve got your hands full, love,” he murmured to Draco.
“I noticed,” Draco said dryly, though his eyes softened as he looked down at both boys.
Breakfast was a battle and a joy all at once. Sirius demanded that Draco cut his toast into “tiny-diny bits.” Harry tried to coax him into taking more than three spoonfuls of porridge before declaring himself “done-done.” Scorpius dozed against Draco’s shoulder, hiccupping occasionally.
Eventually, Sirius climbed down from his chair and toddled unsteadily around the table, chanting, “PAPA help! Papa help me find socks!” He tugged at Draco’s trousers until Draco finally gave in, setting Scorpius carefully back in the bassinet before scooping Sirius up.
“Your socks are where they always are,” Draco sighed, carrying him toward the hall.
“In my toy box?” Sirius asked, wide-eyed.
Draco’s composure cracked into a reluctant laugh.
“No, not in your toy box.”
By the time they returned, Harry had finished his tea and pulled on his healer’s robes. He was adjusting the collar when Sirius barrelled into his legs, arms wrapping around his knees.
“Daddy! Daddy go work?”
Harry crouched, scooping him up, and kissed the top of his head.
“That’s right, bug. Daddy’s got lots of children to look after today.”
Sirius pouted.
“But Daddy stay?”
Harry’s throat tightened.
“I’ll come home tonight. You’ll be with Scorpius and Nanny Mims. You’ll be fine.”
“Papa stay too?” Sirius asked hopefully, turning his big green-hazel eyes to Draco.
“Papa has to go frighten criminals into confessing their sins,” Draco said smoothly, fastening his robes. Sirius giggled at the word “sins,” though he clearly didn’t understand it.
Their nanny, a kindly witch named Primrose (who Sirius adorably called “Mims”), bustled in then, cheerful and efficient.
“There’s my boys!” she greeted, swooping Sirius up from Harry’s arms and planting a kiss on his cheek, “And little Scorpius, fast asleep as usual.”
Harry and Draco exchanged a look- tired, fond, and so full of love it made Harry’s chest ache.
“Ready?” Harry asked softly.
Draco adjusted his sleeve cuffs, gave one last glance at his sons, and nodded.
“Ready.”
They stepped into the Floo together, side by side, leaving their children in safe hands.
And Harry thought, as the green flames rose around them, that it was everything he’d ever wanted.
Grimmauld Place was unusually quiet for once.
Primrose- “Mims” to Sirius, despite her repeated insistence that her name was not Mims, thank you- had spent the morning running the household like a regimented general. Now, with Draco stepping gracefully out of the Floo just after lunch, she finally relented and prepared to take her leave.
“Master Malfoy,” she greeted, smoothing her apron, “All’s well. Sirius ate half his carrots and most of his potatoes. Scorpius has been angelic. I daresay you’ve got it easy this afternoon.”
Draco raised an elegant brow.
“Easy? With two children?”
Primrose chuckled.
“Well, relatively easy.”
She gathered her cloak.
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Do try to rest, sir.”
“Rest,” Draco echoed dryly. He adjusted his robes and nodded for her to go, “Good afternoon, Primrose.”
As the door shut behind her, Draco felt the house settle into a different rhythm- quieter, yes, but full.
In the sitting room, Sirius was sprawled on the carpet, a little nest of toy trains spread around him. He was very intent on connecting two of the carriages, tongue poking out in concentration. His hair stuck up wildly, soft tufts of black that refused to be tamed no matter how many combs Harry or Draco attempted. It had become just like Harry’s after the blood adoption that had happened when Sirius had turned 6 months old.
“Papa!” Sirius shouted the moment he noticed Draco.
His face lit up, the toy clattering to the floor.
“Papa home!”
Draco crossed the room in long strides, scooping him up with practiced ease. Sirius’s legs wrapped around his waist, his small arms clutching Draco’s neck.
“Yes, I’m home,” Draco murmured, pressing a kiss to his son’s forehead, “Have you been good for Mims?”
Sirius nodded furiously, curls bouncing.
“I eat ‘tatoes! Carrots yucky. Spit out.”
“Charming,” Draco said dryly, but he smoothed Sirius’s hair anyway, “Don’t tell your Daddy that. He’ll make you eat double carrots tomorrow.”
Sirius giggled, burrowing against Draco’s shoulder.
“No more carrots, Papa. Nooo!”
A soft gurgle drew Draco’s attention. He turned to the bassinet by the sofa, where Scorpius lay blinking up at him, pale lashes fluttering. His tiny fists waved in the air, his mouth forming an ‘O’ before he let out another happy noise.
“Scorpy wake!” Sirius cried delightedly, “Scorpy wake, Papa!”
“Yes,” Draco said softly, lowering Sirius back onto the rug with his train set, “Scorpius is awake, Siri.”
He lifted his youngest son into his arms. The baby was warm, impossibly small, his little body curling instinctively into Draco’s chest. Scorpius let out a gurgle and blinked with startlingly bright grey eyes- Draco’s own eyes staring back at him.
Draco’s throat tightened.
Sirius immediately toddled closer, tugging at Draco’s trousers.
“Papa, Scorpy smile? Smile, Scorpy!”
“He’s trying,” Draco murmured, brushing a fingertip across his son’s cheek, “He’s too little for smiles yet, Siri.”
“Too liddle?” Sirius repeated, frowning.
“Yes. Very little, mon étoile.”
Draco settled into the armchair, Scorpius nestled in his arms. The baby cooed again, tiny fingers curling around Draco’s thumb. For a long moment, Draco simply stared.
He still couldn’t quite believe it- this fragile, perfect child who carried his blood.
Astoria’s face came unbidden to his mind. He remembered the quiet conversation over tea, her careful words, her insistence that she wanted to do this for him, for them.
“Because family is worth it,” she’d said simply, when Draco had asked her why.
And here he was, holding proof of that extraordinary gift.
Draco’s chest ached with something raw and overwhelming. He had expected pride, perhaps- relief, even, at continuing the Malfoy line. But what he felt now was different. Fiercer.
Complete.
Sirius climbed into his lap uninvited, wiggling into the narrow space beside Scorpius. He pressed his sticky hand against the baby’s blanket.
“Scorpy soft.”
“Careful,” Draco warned, adjusting his hold, “Gentle hands, Sirius.”
“I gentle!” Sirius announced, patting the baby’s arm with exaggerated care, “Gentle, Papa. Gentle.”
Draco’s mouth twitched despite himself.
“Yes, that’s better.”
The baby yawned, stretching his tiny arms before curling back against Draco’s chest, eyes fluttering shut again. Sirius giggled, delighted.
“Scorpy go sleep! Sleepy baby.”
“Yes. Sleepy baby.” Draco’s voice softened, so low Sirius almost didn’t catch it.
For a long moment, father and sons sat together, the house unusually quiet save for the occasional toot of Sirius’s train whistle and Scorpius’s faint breaths.
Draco let his thoughts wander. He wondered if Harry felt the same sense of wholeness. Sirius, adopted so fiercely, loved with every fibre of their beings. And now Scorpius, born of Draco’s blood, yet carried by another woman’s generosity. Together, they were… more than he had ever dreamed possible.
Would Harry feel the same completeness? Or did the difference matter?
Draco looked down at Sirius, who had begun pushing his toy train along Draco’s leg, making “choo-choo” noises under his breath. He looked at Scorpius, asleep and perfect, nestled close.
Maybe it didn’t matter. Family wasn’t about blood. Harry had taught him that. Harry had built this life with him- brick by brick, kiss by kiss, laugh by laugh.
Draco bent his head, pressing his lips gently to Scorpius’s hair, then to Sirius’s cheek when the toddler wriggled closer.
“Papa love us?” Sirius asked suddenly, looking up with solemn mismatched green-hazel eyes.
Draco’s breath caught.
“More than anything,” he whispered.
Sirius grinned, wide and sticky.
“I love Papa too!”
The words landed like a spell, warm and steadying. Draco felt something inside him loosen- some ancient fear, some old hollow.
Yes. Complete.
The Floo flared green, spilling ash into the hearth. Harry stepped out, robes crumpled, healer’s satchel slung tiredly over one shoulder. The smell of antiseptic and potion still clung faintly to him.
“Daddy home!” Sirius shrieked the moment he saw him.
The toddler launched himself across the rug, toy dragon forgotten, feet pounding unsteadily. He collided into Harry’s legs with such force that Harry nearly dropped his satchel.
Harry laughed, scooping him up.
“Sirius! Careful, bug, Daddy’s still got his shoes on-”
“Daddy no go ‘gain,” Sirius said with determined seriousness, pressing his sticky face against Harry’s cheek, “Stay home! No St Mun-gos. Stay!”
Harry’s chest twisted. He kissed his son’s temple, breathing in the scent of jam and toddler shampoo.
“I have to work, love. But I’m here now, aren’t I?”
“Now,” Sirius echoed, nodding sagely, as though this settled all matters.
Draco appeared in the doorway, cradling Scorpius in one arm, already dressed for dinner in neat black trousers and a soft grey jumper.
“You’re late,” he said, but his tone was softened by the faint curve of his mouth, “The Weasleys will be here any moment.”
Harry winced.
“Double shift. I’m sorry, love.”
“I know, mon émeraude,” Draco murmured, stepping close to kiss him- brief but grounding.
Then he passed Scorpius carefully into Harry’s free arm.
“Here. Trade me. I’ll finish the table.”
Harry settled into the familiar rhythm at once, Sirius on one hip, Scorpius cradled in the crook of his arm. Scorpius made a soft gurgle, his tiny fists curling, while Sirius proudly patted his baby brother’s head.
“Scorpy so soft, Daddy.”
“Yes, he is,” Harry said warmly, “And very patient with you, miracle of miracles.”
By the time the knock came at the door, the sitting room had been transformed into something halfway between elegant dinner and toddler playroom: neat plates and silverware, but with Sirius’s toy train stationed proudly at the head of the table.
Hermione and Ron stepped in, brushing ash from their coats. Hermione looked radiant, cheeks flushed, curls pulled into a neat plait over one shoulder. Ron hovered close, carrying a dish in one hand while his other lingered near the small of her back, protective as ever.
“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, moving in for a hug, “And Draco. It’s been too long.”
“Two weeks,” Draco said smoothly, shaking her hand instead of hugging, “But yes. Tragic.”
Ron rolled his eyes.
“Evenin’, Malfoy.”
“Weasley.”
Harry shot them both a warning look, then brightened.
“Come in, come in. Sirius, who’s here?”
Sirius peeked around Harry’s legs, then grinned.
“Mione!”
He darted forward, mispronouncing her name with all the confidence of a nearly-two-year-old.
“Mione come, Daddy!”
Hermione crouched down, delight lighting her face as she looked down at her little godson.
“Yes, Sirius. I came! My, haven’t you grown.”
“Grown!” Sirius repeated, puffing his chest, “I big boy now.”
Ron laughed, crouching too.
“Almost, mate. Give it another year.”
Dinner began smoothly enough, Scorpius snoozing in his bassinet by the fire, next to Ron’s chair, while Sirius clambered from chair to chair, alternating between demanding “juice, Papa!” and trying to sneak peas under the table. Draco kept his expression cool but adjusted Sirius’s fork whenever he got too enthusiastic. Harry, amused and weary in equal measure, kept the conversation flowing.
It was halfway through Hermione’s second helping of potatoes that she laid down her fork, a small, conspiratorial smile tugging at her mouth.
“I have some news,” she said softly, glancing between them.
Ron immediately stiffened, one hand tightening on her shoulder as if shielding her from any possible harm. Hermione swatted it away gently.
Harry leaned forward.
“News?”
Hermione’s smile widened.
“I’m pregnant.”
Harry froze. For half a beat, the room was utterly still. Then his face broke into pure, unfiltered joy.
“Hermione- Merlin, that’s wonderful! Congratulations!”
He surged forward, nearly upsetting his chair in his eagerness to hug her across the table.
Hermione laughed, eyes bright.
“Thank you, Harry.”
Ron beamed proudly, though he still looked like he was guarding a treasure chest.
“Found out last week. Due in January. We find out the gender.”
Draco, sipping his wine with deliberate calm, arched one pale brow.
“So you’ve been keeping secrets, Granger. How unlike you.”
“Cryptic pregnancy,” Hermione explained, unbothered, “I had no idea until recently. Honestly, it was a shock.”
“A shock?” Draco drawled, “For once, I believe you.”
“Draco,” Harry said warningly, though his grin didn’t dim.
He reached for Hermione’s hand.
“I’m so happy for you both. You’ll be brilliant parents.”
Ron’s ears turned slightly pink.
“Hope so. Just want her to take it easy, you know?”
Hermione gave him a fond but exasperated look.
“Ron thinks I’ll faint if I so much as look at a cauldron.”
“You’re carrying my child,” Ron shot back, “Forgive me for caring.”
Harry chuckled, warmth radiating from him. Draco rolled his eyes faintly but said nothing- because beneath his carefully neutral expression, something inside him twisted.
He watched Hermione glow, her hand resting protectively over her stomach. He watched Ron’s clumsy but sincere protectiveness. He watched Harry’s face alight with joy at the idea of new life, of family expanding.
And he thought of the ring hidden deep in his desk drawer.
Of six years of love. Of Sirius’s sticky hands tugging at his sleeves. Of Scorpius’s fragile breaths against his chest. Of Harry’s laughter, Harry’s steadiness, Harry’s love that had remade his world.
Draco’s lips tightened around the rim of his glass. Hermione’s news wasn’t envy-inducing, exactly. It was… clarifying.
He wanted that kind of certainty. Wanted it sealed, bound, undeniable.
He wanted to make Harry his husband.
Sirius, oblivious to the undercurrents, chose that moment to bang his spoon on the table and declare, “Papa, peas fall down!”
Draco smirked faintly, plucking the peas from the floor with a flick of his wand.
“Indeed they did. Much like your manners.”
Harry groaned, laughing anyway. Hermione laughed too, her hand brushing Ron’s as they reached for the gravy.
And Draco, even as he smirked at Sirius, felt the decision settle quietly in his bones.
Soon.
The Ministry offices were uncomfortably bright in the early afternoon, the enchanted windows streaming in the illusory sunlight over stacks of parchment and heavy oak desks. Draco’s office was neater than most- rows of case files arranged with military precision, a slim wand holster set on the corner, his ink pot aligned exactly with the blotter.
But today, it was chaos.
Draco sat slumped in his chair, long fingers worrying the clasp of a small, velvet box hidden in the drawer before him. He hadn’t even dared open it, not since purchasing it a few days ago in a fit of terrified determination. The weight of it was enough to set his chest heaving, as though the simple existence of the box demanded more from him than he could give.
He wanted to propose. Merlin, he did. Six years with Harry- six years of laughter and shouting matches and tentative peace that had bloomed into something more solid than anything Draco had ever believed himself capable of. They had a family. They had love. They had stability.
And still…
“Where?” he whispered to himself, head in his hands, “Where in Merlin’s name is it supposed to happen?”
He ran through the list again.
Grimmauld? Their home, yes, but messy, full of toddler toys and burp cloths. Too ordinary, too… lived-in. Harry deserved more than ordinary.
The Burrow? He scoffed aloud at the thought. The Weasleys would combust. Molly would weep, Arthur would fuss, Ron would go puce, and Harry- Harry would say yes, of course, but it wouldn’t be theirs. It would be swallowed by Weasley chaos.
Court? Absolutely not. He was already resented enough for his victories; to kneel before Harry Potter in the Ministry’s hallowed halls would ruin him professionally and make Harry furious in the same breath.
He raked his hands through his hair, breath stuttering. Nothing was right. Nothing was theirs.
He could feel it coming on- the tightness in his throat, the way his chest seemed to cave in, breath catching shallow and useless. His vision blurred at the edges, heart pounding too hard, too fast. Not here. Not now.
A knock.
He jolted, fumbling for composure.
“What?”
His voice cracked against the wood of the door.
“Draco?”
The voice was deep, steady, calm. Kingsley Shacklebolt.
Of all people.
“Come in,” Draco managed, though it was barely more than a croak.
The door opened, and Kingsley filled the frame- tall, broad, the picture of composed authority. His eyes, sharp and kind in equal measure, immediately scanned Draco’s dishevelled posture, the tremor in his hands.
“Breathe,” Kingsley said at once, crossing the room in a few long strides, “In, Malfoy. Slow. You know the drill.”
Draco tried, but the air caught. His chest heaved.
“Look at me.” Kingsley crouched slightly, lowering his massive frame to Draco’s eye level.
His voice remained low, commanding but gentle.
“In. Hold. Out. That’s it. With me now. In. Hold. Out.”
Draco clutched the edge of his desk, forcing the rhythm. In. Hold. Out. Kingsley’s voice anchored him, that rumbling tone like granite beneath his panic.
After a minute, his breathing steadied. His hands, though still shaking, unclenched from the wood.
“Better,” Kingsley said firmly.
He straightened, tugging a chair around and dropping into it with a familiarity that spoke of many such visits.
“Now. Explain.”
Draco rubbed at his temple, still pale.
“It’s nothing. I…”
His throat closed. He forced the words out.
“I want to propose to him.”
Kingsley’s brows rose, but his expression remained calm.
“Ah. About time.”
Draco bristled.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve been waiting for this day for years,” Kingsley said simply, folding his arms, “You’ve been half-married since the day you two moved into Grimmauld. You’re just catching up to the paperwork.”
Draco stared at him.
“…You are insufferable.”
Kingsley chuckled, deep and warm.
“So I’ve been told. Now, why’s this got you panicking?”
Draco swallowed, words tumbling faster than he could control.
“Because it has to be perfect. Because Harry deserves… he deserves something unforgettable, something worthy of him. And nothing I think of- Grimmauld, the Burrow, Merlin help me, the courtroom- none of it is right. It’s all wrong. Too ordinary, too public, too tainted. I don’t want to ruin it. I can’t ruin it.”
Kingsley leaned back, regarding him with steady eyes.
“So you’d rather do nothing at all than risk doing it wrong?”
Draco flinched.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
He pressed his fingers to his brow.
“You don’t understand-”
“I understand perfectly,” Kingsley interrupted, voice firm, “You want perfection. But you don’t need it. What Potter wants is you.”
Draco’s head snapped up, fury and disbelief mingling.
“That’s… that’s insufferably sentimental.”
“True nonetheless.”
Kingsley leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“You survived a war together. You built a family. Healer Potter, Prosecutor Malfoy- you’ve remade your lives. He isn’t asking for fireworks, Draco. He’s asking for commitment. For the promise that you’re not going anywhere. You don’t need to dazzle him. Just be honest.”
Draco’s throat worked. He wanted to scoff, but the words lodged in his chest.
Kingsley softened, his voice lowering.
“You’ve won every case you’ve taken. You face murderers in court without blinking. But here you are, panicking over how to tell the man you love that you want him forever. That tells me you already know your answer. You just need to trust he’ll give you his.”
Silence.
Draco exhaled, shaky but calmer. He looked down at his hands, at the faint ink stains, at the ring box hidden away.
“I want him,” he admitted finally, voice raw, “More than anything.”
Kingsley nodded, satisfied.
“Then you’ll find the right way. Don’t rush it. But don’t let fear choke you either.”
A pause. Then, in that dry, pub-banter tone Draco had come to expect after hours, Kingsley added, “For the record, Grimmauld wouldn’t be so bad. Ugly wallpaper, though.”
Draco let out a startled laugh- short, sharp, but real.
“You’re intolerable sometimes, Kings.”
“Ministerial prerogative.” Kingsley rose, clapping a massive hand briefly on Draco’s shoulder, “You’ll be fine, Malfoy. Now, finish your paperwork before I start wondering if panic attacks are just an excuse to dodge it.”
Draco rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Go back to your tower, Minister.”
Kingsley smirked, already striding toward the door.
“Pub tonight?”
“…Perhaps,” Draco said, softer now.
The door closed. Draco leaned back in his chair, breath finally steady. His chest still ached, but beneath it was something else- not calm exactly, but resolve.
It wasn’t perfect yet. But he’d find their place.
And when he did, Harry would be his.
The old front door of Grimmauld Place creaked open mid-afternoon, letting in a flurry of October air and a flash of bright turquoise hair.
“Uncle Harry! Uncle Draco!” Teddy Lupin announced at the top of his lungs, dragging a battered little suitcase nearly as big as himself across the hall.
His hair immediately shifted to a deep purple as Sirius came barrelling out from the sitting room, squealing.
“Teddy!” Sirius shrieked, legs pumping as he ran straight into Teddy’s shins, “Teddy here! TEDDY HERE!”
The six-year-old dropped his suitcase on the spot, crouching down to sweep Sirius into his arms with the easy affection of someone who had known him all his short life.
“Hey, little man! Look at you- you’ve grown loads!”
Sirius clung around his neck like a barnacle, babbling incoherently.
“Teddy my best fwiend, Teddy come play, Teddy train go choo choo, Papa say no in kitchen but we go, right, Teddy? Right?”
Harry stepped into the hall, already laughing as he ruffled Teddy’s hair, which obediently turned messy and black to mimic his godfather’s.
“Merlin, Teddy, it’s good to see you. Staying a whole week, eh? We’re lucky.”
Teddy grinned, though his arms stayed tight around Sirius.
“Gran said I should give you a break from Scorpius crying. And Cissy- uh, sorry, Narcissa- packed biscuits.”
Draco appeared then, carrying Scorpius in the crook of his arm, expression smooth but softened by the scene.
“Biscuits, hm? At least your grandmother knows how to bribe her way into this household.”
“Uncle Draco!”
Teddy bounded up, still clinging to Sirius, who hung upside-down against his hip, giggling like mad. Teddy tilted his chin up proudly.
“Did you know I can tie my own shoelaces now?”
Draco arched a brow.
“Astounding. Truly, the world will never be the same.”
Teddy laughed, Sirius shrieked “Shoos! Teddy shoe! Papa shoe!” and Harry clapped a hand to his forehead with a grin.
Dinner that evening was pandemonium.
Sirius insisted on sitting directly next to Teddy, copying everything his older cousin did with fierce determination. When Teddy ate carrots, Sirius poked at his own carrots suspiciously and announced, “Teddy eat. I eat.”
He then managed three bites before deciding the peas were more fun to squish between his fingers.
“Papa, look! Pea squish!” Sirius declared proudly.
Draco plucked the offending handful away with a sigh, flicking his wand to vanish the mess.
“You are not to model yourself after your cousin in every way, Sirius. There are limits.”
“Papa mean,” Sirius muttered, lower lip wobbling.
Teddy leaned conspiratorially close to him.
“Don’t worry, Siri. Your papa’s always mean when it comes to peas.”
Draco gave him a flat look across the table. Teddy’s hair turned a smug blond in response. Harry coughed into his napkin to disguise his laugh.
Conversation meandered- Teddy telling long-winded stories about Andromeda’s garden gnomes, Harry gently correcting Sirius’s fork grip for the tenth time, Draco soothing Scorpius with his wand hand while sipping wine with the other. It was the picture of chaos balanced on the knife’s edge of order, and Draco had never felt more aware of it: a family, his family.
It was Teddy’s innocent question halfway through pudding that pierced through everything.
“Uncle Draco?” he asked, mouth sticky with treacle tart, “Why aren’t you and Uncle Harry married?”
Harry blinked, mid-spoonful. Draco froze. Sirius banged his cup on the table and shouted, “Daddy Papa MARRIED!” as though sheer force of toddler will could make it so.
Draco cleared his throat, schooling his features.
“That is a rather blunt inquiry, Mr. Lupin.”
Teddy shrugged, unfazed.
“Gran says people who love each other usually get married. And you love Uncle Harry, right? I mean, everyone knows that.”
Harry flushed scarlet, sputtering into his tart. Draco raised his chin, deliberately cool, though the words carved into his chest.
“Children ask the most inconvenient questions,” he drawled, flicking his napkin neatly, “Eat your pudding.”
But the thought stuck, buzzing through him long after Sirius fell into giggling hysterics at the word pudding.
Later, after dishes were cleared and Sirius finally toddled upstairs clutching Teddy’s hand like it was a lifeline, Draco made his move.
“Teddy.”
The boy paused at the foot of the stairs, hair flickering green as Sirius clung to him.
“Come along with me for a moment.”
Draco’s tone was crisp, but there was a softness underneath.
“Where?” Teddy asked, curious.
“Uncle-nephew bonding time,” Draco said smoothly, already steering him toward his office, “Your godfather can put Sirius to bed on his own for once.”
“Papa!” Sirius shrieked indignantly from the stairs, face scrunched, “No take Teddy!”
Draco bent briefly to kiss his forehead.
“He’ll be back, Sirius. Go with your Daddy. Off to bed.”
“Papa promise?” Sirius asked, eyes wide.
“Promise.”
Harry shot Draco a bemused look as he scooped Sirius into his arms.
“What exactly are you planning, love?”
“Bonding,” Draco said, already closing the study door behind Teddy and himself.
Harry’s muffled laugh followed them down the hall.
Inside, Draco sat Teddy down in the wingback chair opposite his desk. The boy swung his legs happily, waiting. Draco’s mind, however, was already racing. He wasn’t ready to tell Teddy everything- not yet. But he knew with sudden, startling clarity: this sharp-eyed, big-hearted little boy would be part of his plan.
For now, though, he simply poured Teddy a butterbeer in a tiny glass, as though they were equals.
“Bonding,” Draco said again, and for the first time in years, he allowed himself a small, genuine smile.
Draco wasn’t sure when he’d lost his mind.
Possibly in 1996, he thought grimly, when he accepted a cursed cabinet as a reasonable school project from a very insane megalomaniac Dark Lord. Or perhaps now- sitting in his study with a six-year-old perched cross-legged in a chair opposite, sipping a butterbeer far too large for his small hands.
“Uncle Draco?” Teddy asked, peering at him over the glass, “You’re staring funny.”
“Am I.”
Draco rubbed at his temple.
Yes, Malfoy, clearly the height of rational behaviour is unburdening yourself to a child barely out of nursery.
But Teddy watched him with those earnest, ever-shifting eyes- blue today, though a streak of green flickered through them, betraying excitement.
“Very well,” Draco muttered, “But if word of this leaves this office, Lupin, I’ll have to hex you. Kindly.”
Teddy giggled, sloshing his drink.
“You can’t hex kids.”
“Don’t test me.”
But Draco’s lips twitched despite himself.
He leaned back, exhaling, and before he could think better of it, the words tumbled out.
“I want to marry your godfather.”
Teddy’s butterbeer paused halfway to his mouth. His hair turned a startled pink.
“Marry Uncle Harry?”
“Yes,” Draco snapped, then softened, raking his hand through his hair, “Yes. Merlin help me. I want to marry him, and I can’t decide where or how, and the entire thing feels like a farce. He deserves something perfect, and I can’t-”
His breath stuttered.
“I can’t find it.”
Teddy blinked at him, silent for a long moment. Then, with the grave wisdom of a boy who took fairy tales as gospel, he nodded.
“Gran says you have to get the parents’ blessing first.”
Draco stared.
“Pardon?”
“The parents,” Teddy repeated patiently, setting his glass down as though this were common sense, “Like in stories. Before the prince can marry the princess, he has to ask the king and queen, or else the magic won’t work.”
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose.
“This is absurd.”
“No it’s not,” Teddy said seriously, hair flickering to a stern dark brown that made him look eerily like his grandmother, “It’s the rules.”
Draco opened his mouth to retort, then faltered. Harry’s parents. Lily and James Potter are dead. The thought never failed to knot something tight in his chest- especially now, with Sirius (the toddler) babbling “Daddy” and “Papa” as if those words had always been his to claim.
Harry’s parents were in heaven. Like Teddy’s own.
Teddy must have seen something shift in Draco’s face, because his voice softened.
“My mummy and daddy are in heaven too,” he said quietly, “Gran says sometimes you can feel them, if you try hard. Like… they’re happy when you’re happy.”
Something hot stung behind Draco’s eyes. He looked away, down at the parchment strewn across his desk, trying to gather his voice.
“Yes. I imagine they would be.”
“So you can’t ask them,” Teddy went on, matter-of-fact now, “But you can ask Uncle Harry’s family here. Like Mione and Ron. They’re kind of like his mum and dad, aren’t they?”
Draco’s stomach dropped.
Weasley and Granger. Harry’s so-called family, the very people who had tolerated Draco’s presence with varying degrees of thinly veiled hostility for years. He could already picture Ronald’s freckled face going blotchy red, Hermione’s sharp eyes narrowing as she dissected his intentions with all the precision of a cross-exam.
“I-” Draco swallowed, “That’s… not quite the same.”
“It is,” Teddy insisted, six years of confidence in every syllable, “If you don’t, it won’t be proper. You’ve gotta make sure they know you love him. Otherwise it’s cheating.”
Draco pressed a hand flat against his desk to steady himself. Proper. Love. Approval. His blood screamed that Malfoys did not ask permission from anyone, least of all Weasleys. And yet…
Harry’s face flashed in his mind. The laugh lines that had deepened around his eyes in the past six years. The exhausted, joyful way he held their sons close. The quiet trust he had placed, again and again, in Draco’s hands.
Yes. He had to do this properly.
Draco closed his eyes briefly, then opened them to find Teddy watching him solemnly, as though weighing the verdict of the century.
“Very well,” Draco said at last, voice low but steady, “I’ll ask them.”
Teddy grinned, triumphant, his hair turning bright gold.
“Told you! Gran’s always right.”
“Infuriating woman,” Draco muttered, but there was no venom in it.
“Hey,” Teddy said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial gleam, “When you do ask Uncle Harry, can Sirius and me be there? Please? We’ll clap really loud.”
Draco’s lips twitched. He reached across the desk, ruffling Teddy’s hair- the boy scowled but leaned into it all the same.
“We’ll see, Lupin. We’ll see.”
For the first time since the ring had entered his possession, Draco felt… not calm, exactly. But certain. The path was clear, however daunting.
He would get the blessing. He would find the place. He would make Harry his.
And somehow, impossibly, it had taken a six-year-old to remind him what mattered most.
Draco Malfoy had faced murderers, liars, and Death Eaters in court without flinching.
But sitting at a café table across from Hermione Granger, he felt… absurdly outmatched.
It wasn’t that she was hostile. Quite the contrary. She had greeted him warmly, ordered him tea without asking, and immediately launched into a lecture about goblin coinage reforms as if this were any other Thursday afternoon. But Draco knew why he was here. And for once, he had no strategy, no precedent to lean on.
He cleared his throat after she’d finished her tangent.
“Granger.”
She blinked, lowering her cup.
“Malfoy?”
“I need to… discuss something with you.”
He adjusted his cuffs, spine ramrod straight.
“It concerns Harry.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“Is he ill? Has something happened?”
“No!” Draco said quickly, then winced at his own vehemence, “No. Nothing of the sort. He is- well. Irritatingly healthy, as always.”
Hermione’s brows knit together.
“Then what-”
Draco inhaled slowly, as though preparing to enter a battlefield.
“I intend to propose to him.”
The silence was deafening.
For one terrifying moment, Hermione simply stared at him, brown eyes wide, lips parted. Then, to Draco’s utter horror, her hands flew to her mouth, and she made a sound that could only be described as a squeal.
“Oh, Merlin, Draco! You’re serious?”
“I don’t make jokes of this magnitude,” he said stiffly, though his ears burned.
Her squeal turned into a laugh, then back into something like a sob.
“I- oh! Harry’s going to be so happy!”
She leaned forward, seizing his hand across the table with a force that nearly made him spill his tea.
“This is- this is wonderful, Draco.”
Draco blinked, caught off guard by the earnest warmth in her face.
“I… appreciate your enthusiasm. However-”
Hermione’s expression shifted, her spine straightening.
“But listen to me. Harry’s happiness comes first. Always. If you ever-”
“Betray him? Humiliate him? Crush him?” Draco supplied dryly, “Yes, yes. Spare me the sermon. I am well aware of my obligations. I intend to spend the remainder of my life ensuring his happiness, not diminishing it.”
Hermione’s eyes softened. For all her sharpness, there was a sheen of tears.
“Then you have my blessing. Absolutely.”
Draco exhaled, tension loosening from his shoulders.
“Good. That’s one ordeal over.”
But Hermione wasn’t finished. She shot to her feet with surprising agility for someone halfway through her pregnancy.
“Come on.”
Draco startled.
“Come on where?”
“To our townhouse. Ron needs to hear this.”
She was already bustling toward the door.
“You can’t ask one of us without the other.”
Draco rose reluctantly, smoothing his robes.
“This is absurd. He’ll hex me.”
Hermione glanced back, eyes alight.
“Nonsense. He’ll growl a bit, but he’ll come around.”
“Pregnancy hormones,” Draco muttered under his breath as he followed her out, “Have destroyed your sense of judgment.”
Their townhouse near the Ministry was small but warm, full of mismatched furniture and the faint smell of ginger biscuits. Ron Weasley opened the door, eyebrows shooting up at the sight of Draco Malfoy standing stiffly behind his wife.
“Er,” Ron said eloquently, “What’s this?”
“Inside,” Hermione ordered, shooing both of them into the sitting room like a general moving pawns.
Draco remained standing, spine straight as an iron rod, while Ron slumped into an armchair with the air of a man settling in for a duel.
“Well?” Ron demanded after a long pause.
Draco clasped his hands behind his back.
“I intend to propose to Harry.”
Ron choked.
“You what?”
“Propose,” Draco repeated evenly, “Marriage. Legal union. Rings and vows and the whole tedious ordeal.”
Ron’s face flushed red, ears going pink.
“And you’re telling me this why?”
“Because apparently,” Draco said through his teeth, “fairy-tale etiquette requires me to seek the blessing of Harry’s ersatz parents before proceeding according to Edward. That would be you and your wife. Delightful, I know.”
Hermione swatted Ron’s arm.
“Don’t scowl. He’s being serious.”
Ron stared at Draco, suspicion etched into every line of his face.
“You’re not having me on?”
“Believe me, Weasley, if I were attempting humour, you’d know. I’m not that cruel.”
Silence stretched. Draco held his ground, his jaw tight, every instinct screaming at him to sneer, to deflect. Instead, he forced himself to say the truth.
“I love him. Deeply. Irrationally. Against all odds and against the better judgment of anyone with sense. He is the father of my children, the centre of my life, and the reason I am not the man my father was. I would rather die than wound him.”
His voice cracked, just faintly, but he didn’t falter.
“So I’m asking for your approval, however reluctant.”
Ron gaped. Hermione sniffled.
Finally, Ron rubbed a hand over his face.
“Bloody hell, Malfoy.”
“Indeed,” Draco muttered.
Then Ron stood. For one heart-stopping second, Draco braced for violence. Instead, Ron reached out, grasped Draco’s shoulders, and pulled him into a rough, startling hug.
Draco froze, arms stiff at his sides.
“Don’t you ever hurt him,” Ron muttered into his ear, voice deadly serious, “Because if you do, I’ll make Azkaban look like a holiday. Got it?”
Draco swallowed hard.
“Crystal clear.”
Ron released him, stepping back with a grunt.
“Good. Then… fine. You have my blessing. Merlin help us all.”
Hermione beamed, clapping her hands.
“See? I told you it’d be fine!”
Draco smoothed his robes with icy dignity, though his pulse still raced.
“If by ‘fine’ you mean physically assaulted with affection and threatened with torture, then yes. Fine.”
Ron smirked despite himself.
“Welcome to the family, Malfoy.”
And for once, Draco didn’t have a retort.
Grimmauld Place was silent.
The rare kind of silence that only came when both children were asleep at the same time.
Sirius was curled up in his little bed upstairs, clutching his stuffed dragon with a vice-like grip. Scorpius, for once, had given in to slumber without fuss, his tiny breaths soft against the enchanted monitor that hummed faintly on Draco’s bedside table.
And Harry- Harry was beside him, sprawled inelegantly on his stomach, healer’s arm still twitching from the day’s long shift. His hair was an impossible mess, his glasses folded neatly on the nightstand, his scar pale against his skin.
Draco turned his head, watching him sleep for a long moment.
Merlin, he thought, chest aching, How did this happen? How did I get him?
Harry mumbled something incoherent and burrowed deeper into his pillow. Draco almost reached out, fingers twitching to smooth the hair from his brow. Instead, he slipped silently from the bed, pulling his dressing gown tight, and crossed to the desk in the corner of their room.
He opened his laptop- the muggle contraption Harry had insisted they learn to use- and began.
Milan.
The word alone sent a rush through him. He remembered, months ago, Harry pointing at a glossy photograph in a travel magazine Hermione had left on their table.
“Someday,” Harry had said softly, almost wistfully, his eyes caught on the sunset spilling over the Navigli canals. Draco had filed it away immediately.
And now- now it would be perfect.
He booked the flights first, fingers flying over the keys with sharp precision. A luxury hotel, of course- Harry deserved nothing less. He scrutinised every photograph, every review, until he settled on one with suites overlooking the water, child-friendly accommodations, and the kind of private balconies that begged for candlelit evenings.
Then came the itinerary. Draco mapped out everything: the Duomo at sunrise, a gondola ride along the canals, museums for Teddy, gelato stops for Sirius (who would inevitably get it all over his shirt), and carefully timed naps for Scorpius. He even checked which restaurants had allergy-safe children’s menus, though none of them needed it- yet.
By the time he was done, the list spanned three sheets of parchment.
He wasn’t finished.
Draco set up the house-elf schedule with military precision: Kreacher for deep cleaning, Hermione to take care of Draco’s duties in the Ministry, Molly on-call for emergencies with Sirius and Scorpius if something went wrong while they were away. He owled St Mungo’s, discreetly, to confirm Harry could have time off. He drafted a separate letter to the DMLE, notifying Kingsley of his temporary unavailability, though he worded it in a way that left room for plausible deniability.
He even scribbled down the numbers for emergency international mediwitches in Milan, folding the parchment neatly into his jacket pocket. Just in case.
Everything was accounted for. Every possible risk, every contingency. He could control this. He had to control this.
But then came the silence again. The faint hum of the monitor, Harry’s breathing steady behind him, the children safely upstairs. And with silence came thought.
What if he says no?
The idea struck like a curse. Draco’s hand froze on the desk, knuckles white. He felt his breath catch, chest tightening the way it always had in the days when anxiety clawed at him.
What if I’m wrong? What if six years of love, of children, of building this life… what if it isn’t enough? What if he looks at me and realises he deserves better?
He pressed his palms flat against the wood, head bowed. Images assaulted him: Harry’s face twisting with pity, the children confused, the ring discarded in a drawer forever.
No.
He forced himself to look over his shoulder. At Harry.
Harry, sprawled like a starfish, mouth slightly open, completely oblivious to Draco’s spiralling. The same Harry who kissed his forehead every morning before leaving for St Mungo’s. The same Harry who laughed himself sick when Sirius yelled “PAPA NOOO!” in the middle of Tesco. The same Harry who had trusted Draco with his godson, his children, his heart.
Harry, who had chosen him again and again, despite everything.
The panic ebbed. Draco drew a long breath, hand over his chest as if to anchor it.
He’ll say yes.
Because what they had wasn’t teenage infatuation anymore. Merlin, once upon a time it had been just that- tense silences in the Gryffindor common room during a game of Seventh Heaven, sharp debates across the Great Hall, and the secret, unspoken thing between them that had tasted of anger and yearning in equal measure, which had turned sweet like treacle tart over time. A first kiss on a last train journey.
But that was gone now. What had grown in its place was colossal.
Harry was no longer his rival, or his obsession, or his impossible dream. He was his life. His family. His home.
It swallowed Draco whole, this love- not like fire, not like poison, but like gravity. Inescapable. Inevitable. Every day it pulled him closer, until he couldn’t tell where Harry ended and he began.
Draco closed the laptop softly, extinguished the desk lamp, and returned to bed. He slid beneath the covers, curling instinctively toward the warmth waiting there. Harry shifted in his sleep, murmured something that sounded suspiciously like “pasta,” and pressed close without waking.
Draco let his forehead rest against Harry’s shoulder, the panic receding, replaced by quiet resolve.
He could do this.
Harry would say yes.
Because in the end, they already belonged to each other. The proposal was only a formality. A promise written aloud.
And Draco Malfoy was determined to make it unforgettable.
The front door groaned open just as Sirius’s toy train went careening off the edge of the kitchen table.
“Daddy!” Sirius squealed, abandoning the train entirely.
His little legs pumped furiously against the floorboards, his mismatched socks sliding.
“Daddy home! DADDY HOME!”
Harry barely had time to shrug off his healer’s cloak before Sirius flung himself into his knees. He staggered, catching him automatically, exhaustion written into every line of his face.
“Hey, bug,” Harry murmured, scooping him up with one arm.
His voice was warm but frayed at the edges.
“Merlin, you’re getting heavier every day.”
“Me big boy!” Sirius declared proudly, squishing his sticky hands against Harry’s cheeks, “Big boy, Daddy!”
Harry laughed, though it cracked with tiredness.
“Yeah. Biggest boy in the world.”
From the sitting room, Scorpius let out a soft, indignant cry. Draco appeared a moment later, the baby nestled against his chest, a bottle in one hand. His expression softened at the sight of Harry- hair mussed, shoulders sagging, Sirius plastered to him like a barnacle.
“You’re late,” Draco observed quietly, though there was no bite in it.
Harry sighed, pressing a kiss to Sirius’s head.
“Double shift. Miriam had to cover the end for me.”
He looked up, and his gaze caught on Scorpius. His expression softened, instantly.
“Hey, Scorp. Were you good for Papa?”
Scorpius blinked, as if considering. Then he hiccupped.
“Apparently not,” Draco murmured, shifting him gently.
Sirius wriggled violently in Harry’s arms.
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy- train fall! Train go BOOM!”
He mimed an explosion with his hands, nearly smacking Harry in the face.
“I’ll fix it later,” Harry promised, trying to lower him to the floor.
Sirius clung tighter.
“No down! Daddy stay!”
Draco’s lips twitched.
“You’ve created a monster, Potter.”
Harry sent him a look, half-exasperated, half-fond. Then, with visible effort, he lowered Sirius to the floor and set his satchel down with a thud. He leaned against the table, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses.
Draco took in the slope of his shoulders, the lines of fatigue around his mouth, and thought- not for the first time- I want this man forever.
But forever required planning. Planning that was currently locked in the bottom drawer of his office desk, hidden beneath wards, because Sirius had an uncanny knack for ferreting out forbidden treasures. The toddler had already discovered the stash of Chocolate Frogs Draco had sworn were perfectly concealed. If he ever found the velvet ring box… Draco shuddered.
He set Scorpius carefully in the bassinet by the hearth, then crossed the room to Harry.
“Harry,” he said gently, “I need to tell you something.”
Harry blinked, wary.
“That’s never a good start.”
“I’ve arranged a holiday.” Draco kept his tone even, as though announcing something mundane, “For us. Milan.”
Harry froze.
“You… what?”
Draco clasped his hands behind his back.
“I spoke to Kingsley. Your mentor. Both of them approved the time off. Andromeda has agreed Teddy may accompany us.”
Harry’s eyes widened.
“You- wait, both workplaces? You went to St Mungo’s? And the Ministry? Without telling me?”
His voice pitched higher, breath quickening.
“And- Andromeda’s letting Teddy come? What if he doesn’t want to? What if Sirius gets sick abroad? What if Scorpius doesn’t sleep on the flight? What if-”
“Harry.”
Draco stepped closer, his voice calm but firm.
Harry’s breaths were coming too fast now, his chest rising and falling as panic built. He rubbed at his scarred wrist unconsciously, grounding himself in old scars.
“Draco, what if- what if I can’t keep up? What if something goes wrong and I-”
“Harry.” Draco caught his hands in both of his, pulling him close.
“Breathe.”
Harry shook his head, trembling faintly.
“You- you can’t just- spring things on me. You know that, I need- I need time, I need to prepare-”
“I know.”
Draco’s voice gentled, almost breaking. He cupped Harry’s jaw, forcing their eyes to meet.
“And I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner. I just… I wanted to do something for you. For us. You’ve been carrying the world again, and you deserve a break. That’s all this is.”
Harry swallowed hard, his eyes glassy.
“And if something happens while we’re gone?”
“Then we handle it,” Draco said simply, “Together. As we always do.”
For a long moment, Harry just stared at him, breath still shaky. Then slowly, the tension began to ease from his shoulders. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Draco’s.
“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered hoarsely.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
Draco slid his arms around him, holding tight, as though he could shield him from his own mind.
“You’re allowed to panic. You’re allowed to need. But this-” he pressed a kiss to Harry’s temple “-this is a good thing. We’ll make it a good thing.”
Harry sagged against him, finally letting go of his rigid stance, arms wrapping around Draco’s waist. Sirius came toddling up then, clutching his train engine, and wrapped his little arms around their legs.
“Group hug!” he shouted triumphantly.
Harry laughed, broken but real, muffled against Draco’s shoulder.
Draco bent, scooped Sirius into their embrace, and thought, with quiet ferocity: Yes. Forever. This is why.
The morning began with socks. Or rather, with Sirius refusing to put any on.
“Papa, no sock!” the toddler shrieked, his bare little feet pounding against the kitchen tiles as he darted away from Draco’s grasp.
The stuffed dragon clutched in his arms flopped along helplessly, its tail dragging through the crumbs of toast Sirius had previously hurled off his plate.
Draco, dressed immaculately despite the early hour, pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Sirius, we are not boarding an international flight barefoot.”
“Barefoot!” Sirius repeated gleefully, as though it were a triumph rather than a punishment.
Harry, crouched near the doorway, barely hid his laugh as he wrangled Scorpius into a tiny cardigan.
“You realise he only fights you harder when you use words like international?”
“Do not mock me, Potter,” Draco muttered, lunging for Sirius with the reflexes of a man who had spent years dodging hexes.
He caught him around the waist and hoisted him up, dragon and all. Sirius shrieked like a banshee, kicking furiously.
“No sock, Papa! NO SOCK!”
The dragon’s head smacked Draco in the chin. He sighed, resigned.
“Fine. But when security refuses to let you on the plane, you may explain yourself in your incomprehensible toddler dialect.”
Harry choked on a laugh.
“Don’t give him ideas. He’ll try it.”
By the time they actually made it to Heathrow, Sirius had socks on after all (Harry’s work, bribed with raisins), Teddy was humming cheerfully to himself as he pushed their carry-on trolley, and Draco’s nerves were stretched taut.
The airport was… indescribable.
The sheer volume of people made the Ministry at midday look like a Sunday stroll. Streams of travellers wove in and out, voices clashing in dozens of languages. Neon signs blinked above them, advertising shops with garish displays of sunglasses and sweets. Children screamed. An alarm bleated somewhere in the distance.
And there was no magic. None. Just the mechanical whirring of escalators and the tinny voice of an overhead announcer that kept repeating, “Flight 482 now boarding at Gate B14.”
Draco straightened his shoulders, summoning every ounce of Malfoy composure. He could do this. If Harry could, he could.
“Papa,” Sirius whispered loudly, tugging on his sleeve as they queued for check-in, “Big house.”
“It’s an airport, not a house,” Draco corrected automatically.
“Big house!” Sirius insisted, clutching his dragon tighter, “Bigger’n Grimmy Place!”
Harry chuckled, balancing Scorpius on one hip while digging in the nappy bag with the other.
“He’s not wrong. Grimmauld’s got nothing on Terminal Five.”
Draco sniffed.
“Size is not an indicator of quality.”
“You tell that to the runway,” Harry muttered, producing a packet of wipes like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.
Check-in was an ordeal. Sirius insisted the dragon needed a boarding pass of its own and shrieked when Draco tried to tuck the toy under his arm. Scorpius, sensing tension, began to whimper, his small fists flailing in his carrier. Teddy leaned earnestly across the counter, explaining to the bewildered airline attendant that, “Uncle Draco gets nervous about germs, so please don’t touch our bags too much.”
Draco nearly hexed him.
By the time security was finished confiscating the juice boxes Harry had optimistically packed, Sirius was halfway to tears again, wailing, “Dragon thirsty! Dragonnn thiiiirsty!”
“It’ll survive,” Draco muttered, steering him toward the gate with long strides.
“Papa mean,” Sirius sulked, dragging his dragon along the floor.
Harry slipped a hand against Draco’s back, warm and steady.
“He’s fine. You’re fine.”
Draco shot him a withering glare.
“If one more Muggle shoves past me, Potter, I am hexing them into oblivion.”
“Please don’t,” Harry said lightly, “I don’t think Obliviate works on CCTV footage.”
Boarding the plane was chaos distilled.
Scorpius began crying the moment they stepped into the narrow aisle, his little face scrunched red, his lungs impressively strong for a one-month-old. Sirius clung to Draco’s robes with both fists, refusing to let go of his dragon even when the flight attendant asked to check their seatbelts.
“Papa, no seat! Sit wif you!” Sirius howled.
“You are sitting with me, you insufferable little-” Draco broke off, closing his eyes. He adjusted the belt with precise flicks, ignoring the sympathetic smiles from nearby passengers.
Harry wrestled the nappy bag into the overhead bin while trying not to laugh at the sight of Draco Malfoy being reduced to a frazzled wreck by a toddler.
“We’re a sight, aren’t we?”
“More like a spectacle,” Draco muttered, bouncing Scorpius on his knee in a futile attempt to calm him.
Teddy, ever the peacemaker, piped up brightly from the seat across the aisle.
“We should sing! Gran always says singing helps babies feel better.”
He launched into a tuneless rendition of The Wheels on the Bus, clapping his hands enthusiastically.
Sirius’s tears cut off at once.
“Bus! Round’n round!” he crowed, joining in at top volume, dragon flopping helplessly as he clapped.
Even Scorpius hiccupped mid-cry, blinking up at the sound. His wails softened into soft whimpers, soothed by Teddy’s cheer.
Draco pressed a hand over his face.
“Merlin save me.”
Harry laughed, head thrown back, green eyes alight with fond exasperation. He reached over, tugged a baseball cap lower over his messy hair- one Teddy had insisted he wear to look “properly Muggle.”
“Our little circus,” Harry declared, grinning at the chaos around them.
Draco looked at him then- really looked- at the ridiculous man in a cap far too big for his head, smiling like he hadn’t been working double shifts for weeks, holding together a family made of stubborn toddlers, borrowed cousins, and one exhausted Malfoy.
And Draco’s heart ached so fiercely it nearly broke him.
Someday soon- very soon- Harry would be his fiancé. His husband. His always.
But for now, Draco reached across the cramped seats and laced their fingers together, letting Harry’s warmth anchor him as the plane rumbled to life beneath them.
The circus could wait.
He had everything he needed right here.
Milan was louder than Draco expected.
Not in the chaotic, graceless way of Heathrow, but in a manner that seemed… alive. The streets hummed with motorbikes zipping between cars, with the overlapping sound of Italian spilling from café tables, with pigeons cooing indignantly as Sirius chased them with unsteady toddler steps.
“Papa, birdy fly!” Sirius shrieked, waving his stuffed dragon in the air as though the toy itself might take wing, “Birdy go swoooosh!”
“Indeed,” Draco said dryly, though he scooped his son back against his hip before Sirius darted straight into a cluster of bewildered tourists, “You are not a bird, Sirius. Kindly remain on the ground.”
“Birdy Papa!” Sirius crowed, unfazed.
He jabbed the dragon at Draco’s chin with solemn authority.
“Papa birdy. Swoooosh.”
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. This trip had barely begun, and already Sirius had decided every statue, pigeon, and lamp post bore a suspicious resemblance to his “Papa.”
Their first stop was the Duomo.
Harry craned his neck back, eyes wide beneath his new baseball cap.
“Merlin’s pants. Look at that, Draco.”
Draco, who had spent an entire extra term at Durmstrang studying gothic architecture as a cover for learning duelling wards, could barely suppress the instinct to deliver a lecture on flying buttresses. Instead, he adjusted Scorpius’s sunhat- the baby dozed against Harry’s chest in the carrier- and said, “Yes. It’s adequate.”
Harry shot him a disbelieving grin.
“Adequate? It’s the size of Hogwarts.”
“Not everything is impressive merely because it’s oversized,” Draco muttered, though his lips twitched.
“Papa!” Sirius yelled from Teddy’s side, pointing an accusing finger at a carved saint looming above the cathedral doors, “Papa there! Papa tall tall tall!”
Teddy giggled, his hair flickering gold in the sunlight.
“Sirius, that’s not your papa, that’s a statue.”
“Papa statue,” Sirius insisted stubbornly, tugging at Draco’s robes, “Papa stand still, Papa tall!”
Harry dissolved into laughter, bending over so far the baby carrier creaked.
“He’s not wrong, you know.”
Draco sniffed.
“If you all continue to compare me to lumps of marble, I will leave you here to fend for yourselves.”
Sirius giggled maniacally, unbothered.
By midday, they had conquered the canals. Draco found them charming in theory but irritating in practice; the gondolas rocked alarmingly, and he spent half the ride with Sirius wedged between his knees, gripping the boat’s side with sticky hands.
“Papa, water splish!” Sirius announced, leaning far too close to the edge.
“Yes, thank you for observing the obvious,” Draco said sharply, yanking him back before catastrophe struck.
Harry, of course, found this hilarious. He was stretched comfortably against the gondola bench, Scorpius wide-eyed and grizzling happily against his chest at every passing ripple. Teddy leaned over the side with casual ease, pointing out ducks.
“Look, Harry, papera,” Teddy said proudly, brandishing the phrasebook, “That means duck.”
“Paper?” Harry squinted.
“No! Papera.”
“Paper-ah.”
Teddy groaned.
“Nooo, Uncle Harry! Like pah-peh-rah!”
Harry tried again, mangling it so badly a nearby gondolier gave him a pitying look. Draco snorted into his hand.
Sirius, oblivious, jabbed his dragon toward the water.
“Papa duck! Papa swim!”
Harry nearly dropped the phrasebook from laughing. Draco contemplated throwing himself into the canal.
The afternoon brought ice cream.
“Gelato,” Teddy corrected solemnly as they queued at a busy stall, clutching his phrasebook, “Say it right, Uncle Harry.”
“Jell-ah-toe,” Harry repeated carefully.
Teddy groaned, slapping his forehead.
“Nooo! Jeh-lah-to.”
Harry tried again. Still wrong. Teddy muttered, “Hopeless,” under his breath, which sent Draco into a silent fit of laughter so un-Malfoy-like he had to turn his head.
Sirius, meanwhile, was vibrating with excitement, bouncing on his toes as he clutched Draco’s hand.
“Ice cweam! Papa, ice cweam now now now!”
“Yes, yes, patience is a virtue,” Draco muttered, though when the vendor finally handed over three dripping cones and one tiny cup for Scorpius to gum experimentally, Draco was the one to carefully transfigure napkins into bibs.
It didn’t matter. Within seconds, Sirius was a disaster- chocolate smeared across his cheek, strawberry dribbling down his chin, his dragon’s wing dunked carelessly into pistachio.
“Dragon eat too!” Sirius crowed happily, brandishing the sticky toy.
“No, the dragon does not-” Draco cut himself off, resigned, “Very well. Your dragon enjoys pistachio now.”
Harry laughed so hard he nearly dropped his own cone, catching the drips with his tongue like a teenager. He looked ridiculous- glasses slipping down his nose, cap crooked, sunburn already pinking his ears- and Draco’s heart ached. Merlin, he was absurd. And perfect.
But Draco couldn’t enjoy it fully. Not when the velvet box weighed like lead in his pocket. Not when every laugh, every sticky smile, every crinkle of Harry’s eyes reminded him of what he still hadn’t done.
He was meant to propose here. In this city Harry had once dreamed of. At the canals. At the cathedral. At some romantic piazza. And yet every moment passed him by, none of them right, none of them perfect enough.
His hands were clammy. His chest tight.
And Teddy noticed.
The boy squinted at him over his dripping cone, hair flickering thoughtful grey. He leaned in conspiratorially, whispering, “You look funny, Uncle Draco. Have some ice cream. It helps.”
Before Draco could respond, Teddy reached out and- with deliberate precision- dabbed a cold lump of gelato directly onto the tip of Draco’s nose.
Draco froze. Stared.
Harry doubled over. Actually doubled, laughter spilling out of him so helpless and genuine it turned heads on the piazza.
“Merlin, Draco- you look-”
He couldn’t even finish, clutching his side as tears pricked his eyes.
Sirius shrieked in delight.
“Papa nose! Papa ice cweam nose!!”
He tried to copy Teddy, nearly smearing half his cone onto Draco’s sleeve.
Draco closed his eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out. Wiped his nose with elegant dignity, though his lips twitched traitorously at the edges.
“Infuriating children,” he muttered.
But inside- watching Harry laugh until his glasses fogged, Sirius crow with glee, Teddy beam with triumph, and Scorpius gurgle happily at the noise- his heart swelled so full it nearly spilled over.
He was terrified. He was waiting. He was planning.
But he was also, undeniably, happy.
The sun was sinking low, spilling liquid gold over the canals. Shadows stretched long across the cobblestones, and the air smelled faintly of roasted chestnuts from a nearby vendor.
Harry stopped in the middle of the little stone bridge, Sirius’s sticky hand curled tightly in his own. Scorpius was propped against his chest, tiny fists buried in Harry’s shirt, his soft breath warm against Harry’s collarbone.
“Look at that, bug,” Harry whispered, his voice hushed as though he didn’t want to disturb the glow, “The water’s all shiny.”
Sirius gasped as if Harry had just conjured a Patronus.
“Shiny water, Daddy! Shiny shiny shiny!”
He leaned dangerously far over the bridge rail, his dragon dangling from his grip.
“Papa water!!”
Harry snorted, tugging him back gently.
“Not Papa, Sirius. Just water.”
Behind them, Draco’s heart beat so loud he thought the pigeons circling overhead might hear it. His hands were clammy, his chest unbearably tight, and the velvet box in his pocket weighed more than the entire cathedral they’d visited that morning.
This was it. Teddy knew it too.
The boy sidled up to Harry, tugging his sleeve with a conspiratorial look. His hair had gone bright, nervous gold.
“Uncle Harry,” he said seriously, as if reciting lines from a play, “Uncle Draco has a very important question for you.”
Harry frowned, turning slightly toward him.
“A question? What are you-”
Before he could finish, Teddy stretched his arms up, gently lifting Scorpius from Harry’s hold the way Draco had drilled him earlier. Harry blinked in surprise, suddenly lighter, his arms empty. Sirius squawked indignantly at being momentarily ignored.
And then Harry turned.
Draco was already kneeling.
His long fingers trembled around the small velvet box, open now to reveal the simple, elegant ring he had agonised over for weeks. The sunlight caught on the band, glinting as though the whole city had conspired to bless this moment.
Harry’s mouth fell open. His glasses slid down his nose.
“Draco-”
“Harry,” Draco said, and his voice shook but did not falter.
He drew in a breath, steadying himself against centuries of fear, pride, and longing.
“Do you remember… the first time?”
Harry blinked rapidly.
“The first-?”
“The game,” Draco pressed on, his lips twitching despite the hammering of his heart, “Eighth year. Seven Minutes in Heaven. A dreadful, ridiculous Muggle pastime someone thought amusing to introduce at Hogwarts.”
Harry’s eyes widened, a disbelieving laugh breaking out of him.
“Merlin- Draco, you’re not-”
“I am,” Draco said firmly, and the words poured out of him like floodwater, “That cupboard was the worst seven minutes of my life. I hated you. I hated myself. And yet-”
His throat caught, but he pushed through.
“And yet something changed. Something I couldn’t name, not then. Something that grew with every fight, every stolen look, every time you infuriated me by existing.”
Harry’s breath hitched. His free hand rose instinctively to his scarred wrist, rubbing at it as though anchoring himself.
Draco swallowed hard, pressing on.
“When the war ended, I thought I was ruined. Useless. Hopeless. And then you-”
His voice cracked. He forced it steady.
“You gave me a home. You gave me Teddy, and Sirius, and Scorpius. You gave me mornings with porridge spilled down my robes and nights where I could finally- finally- sleep without fearing the dark. You gave me a life. A family. You gave me everything.”
The bridge had gone still. Even the tourists seemed to sense it.
Draco’s grey eyes burned, fixed on Harry’s stunned, tear-bright green.
“And so I am asking you, Harry James Potter… will you marry me? Will you let me spend the rest of my life proving that I am worthy of what you’ve already given me?”
Silence.
And then Harry laughed. Not mocking, not disbelieving, but bright and broken all at once, the kind of laugh that burst through tears. He covered his face with one hand, shaking his head as though he couldn’t quite believe it.
“Merlin, Draco,” Harry choked out, his voice wrecked, “Of course I will. Yes. Yes!”
Sirius shrieked, clapping furiously.
“YES PAPA! YES YES YES!!!”
He jumped up and down, dragon flailing wildly, until a group of nearby onlookers began clapping too, caught up in the moment.
Draco surged to his feet in one motion, sliding the ring onto Harry’s shaking hand before grabbing him- actually grabbing him- and lifting him clean off the ground. Harry yelped, laughing through his tears, and Draco spun him around once, twice, until Harry was breathless and grinning like a fool.
Then Draco kissed him.
Deep, desperate, certain. He dipped Harry back in his arms, their laughter muffling between their mouths, the cheers of strangers swelling around them.
Sirius clapped harder, shouting, “PAPA KISS DADDY!! PAPA KISS!!!”
Teddy whooped, his hair blazing Gryffindor red in celebration. Scorpius, safe in Teddy’s arms, gurgled approvingly, as if even he understood the enormity of it.
Somewhere in the crowd, a camera clicked. A Muggle photographer lowered his lens, smiling softly as he approached. Wordlessly, he handed Harry a freshly printed photo- the two of them mid-kiss, Draco’s hand cupping Harry’s face, Sirius clapping wildly at their feet, golden light spilling across the canal behind them.
Harry stared at it, breath catching. Then he laughed again, a helpless, joyful sound, and pressed the photo to his chest.
“It’s perfect.”
Draco’s heart clenched so hard he thought it might burst.
He kissed Harry once more, softer this time, whispering against his lips, “No. You’re perfect.”
And for the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy truly believed it.
The hotel suite smelled faintly of lavender polish and new sheets, the windows cracked open to let in the muffled hum of the Milan streets below. Somewhere far off, a violin played on a corner. But inside their little world, everything was hushed, warm, safe.
Scorpius was the first to surrender. Barely five minutes after they returned, he had conked out in his travel cot, tiny chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm, his pale lashes soft against flushed cheeks.
Sirius lasted longer. He had been high on excitement, chattering endlessly about “Papa shiny ring!” and “Daddy spin Papa!” until Draco, with a firm “bedtime, Sirius,” finally coaxed him into the massive bed with Teddy. A bag of sugared almond sweets distracted them both long enough for Draco to cast a faint ward to keep crumbs from embedding in the sheets.
By the time Harry padded back from the bathroom, barefoot and in a borrowed hotel robe, Sirius was curled into a ball against Teddy’s side, dragon clutched in one arm, his thumb firmly in his mouth. Teddy had a chocolate smudge on his chin but was valiantly pretending he hadn’t fallen asleep mid-sentence.
Harry stopped in the doorway, soft-eyed.
“Look at them.”
Draco, already pouring two slim glasses of champagne, followed his gaze. The sight undid him a little- Sirius’s wild hair plastered to his forehead, Teddy’s arm flung protectively over him, the pair of them blissfully unaware of the chaos they’d caused all day.
“Yes,” Draco murmured, setting the glasses on the bedside table, “Our little circus at rest.”
Harry huffed a laugh, crossing to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. He leaned against Draco, still smelling faintly of soap and travel. His left hand hovered almost unconsciously, fingers tracing the new weight of the ring glinting in the lamplight.
“I keep thinking I’m dreaming,” Harry admitted softly, “That I’ll wake up and it’ll still be six years ago, and we’ll be shoved into a cupboard together, and none of this will have happened.”
Draco set his glass aside and caught Harry’s hand, steadying it.
“You’re not dreaming. I wouldn’t allow it.”
Harry laughed, broken and fond.
“You sound so bloody Malfoy about it.”
“Good,” Draco said simply, kissing the back of his hand.
They sat like that for a while, sipping champagne in comfortable silence, the steady hum of the city beneath their window, the quiet breaths of their children filling the room.
Then Draco cleared his throat, a rare flicker of nerves breaking through.
“There is something I should tell you.”
Harry shifted, frowning slightly.
“What’s that?”
Draco smoothed a hand down his sleeve, as though bracing himself for court.
“Before I asked you… I sought permission.”
Harry blinked.
“Permission?”
“Yes. From Granger and Weasley.”
Draco’s lips curved faintly at Harry’s startled expression.
“It was Teddy’s idea, and believe me, I considered hexing him for it. But… he wasn’t wrong. They’re your family. It felt proper.”
Harry’s eyes went wide, glassy.
“You- you asked Ron and Hermione?”
Draco nodded, dry but careful.
“Hermione squealed like a banshee, which was mortifying. Ron threatened me with Azkaban if I ever hurt you, then hugged me, which was worse. But they both gave me their blessing.”
Harry made a strangled sound- half laugh, half sob- and buried his face in Draco’s shoulder. His whole body shook with it.
Draco stroked his hair gently.
“There’s more.”
He reached into the drawer of the bedside table, producing a neatly folded envelope.
“They gave me this to give to you. For when you said yes.”
Harry took it with trembling fingers. His glasses slipped slightly as he tore it open, scanning the words. Draco watched his eyes dart, watched the way his hand rose instinctively to his mouth, watched the tears spill before Harry could even finish.
“It’s- it’s from both of them,” Harry whispered, voice raw, “They wrote that they’re proud of me. That… that I deserve to be happy. That they’re glad it’s you.”
Draco’s chest ached. He pulled Harry against him fully now, letting him cry into his robe, holding him steady the way Harry so often did for him.
“I’m sorry,” Harry hiccupped, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, “I just- Merlin, I’m so bloody happy, Draco. They’ve finally accepted us.”
“Don’t apologise,” Draco murmured, kissing the top of his head, “You’re allowed.”
Harry sniffled, leaning back at last, his face blotchy and wet but luminous with joy. He stared at the ring again, twisting it on his finger as though trying to weld it there. Then he looked back at Draco, his green eyes fierce in their sincerity.
“You’ve always been my always,” Harry whispered.
Draco’s throat tightened. He reached up, cupping Harry’s jaw, his thumb brushing away the last of the tears.
“And now,” he said softly, “my forever.”
-fin-