It had been an interesting few weeks… Who was he trying to fool? He was fucking panicking.
But no one could know. The panic lived inside him; on the outside, he kept his spine straight, his hands clean, and his tone bored. Like a true Malfoy. Like someone trained from their first steps to never show weakness, to never lose composure. Like someone who knew that being watched was a constant, and every stray glance could turn into a blade.
Like someone who didn't tremble inside every time he saw Potter turn a corner.
Having Potter like that. His scent. His taste. The sound of muffled moans. The way he gave himself over, Merlin, that surrender. Potter offering himself with trembling hands but steady purpose, a hungry mouth, eyes half-lidded with pure bliss. It had been violent enough to make Draco forget the world, but gentle enough to make him think, for just a moment, that maybe, just maybe, he deserved it.
The warm body pressed against his, slim arms around his neck, the way Potter looked at him, unguarded, unashamed. That wasn't meant for him. Not for someone like him. Not for someone shaped to see the world in terms of power and weakness, desire and control. Not for someone who'd grown up in halls where affection was a poisoned ornament and love, a liability. He had the mark on his arm to prove it.
And still, Merlin, how he wanted it all again.
That whimpering sound Potter made when Draco opened him up with his fingers. The way he moaned, no, begged, when Draco finally pushed inside him. That wasn't something you forgot. It was something you kept. Something you locked away in some inner vault, buried under layers of silence.
He'd gone back to that memory so many times he started to wonder if he was sick. Obsessed. Maybe. But not with the night itself.
With the way Potter touched him like he was made of something alive, not stone. With the way he opened up to him, so trusting, like Draco wasn't someone to fear.
Like Draco was worth it.
Merlin.
He thought he had hallucinated it when he woke up the next morning, but Potter avoided his eyes, he never did that, and was limping, just barely. Draco felt like he could die. He had fucked Potter to tears, fuck, he could actually die in peace.
But he didn't. He was still there, breathing, aching. Waiting.
He kept waiting desperately for some clue, some sign that Potter wanted to do it again, but it never came, which started to irritate him, because he knew Potter had never been fucked as well as he had fucked him.
It was ridiculous how badly he wanted the bastard to show up. Sometimes he caught himself waiting for him in the corridors, pretending that wasn't why he was there. A glance, a nod, anything. It never came.
And that irritated him more than it should. As if he were the only one cursed by it. As if he were waiting, Merlin forgive him, for a letter. An invitation. A request. As if he wasn't hating himself every time he thought about him.
He wondered, in darker moments, if Potter would have done that with just anyone. If that kind of surrender was something he gave away easily. But then he remembered the way Potter looked at him. There was nothing casual in it. Nothing ordinary. Draco knew the emptiness in the eyes of someone who fucked to forget. Potter had looked at him like, for one second, the world had stopped.
And that, that destroyed him.
So when Potter knocked on his door, interrupting the small moment of peace he had only with his friends, one month and one week later, he felt irritated. He felt tempted to make him beg, especially after the way he spoke to him.
But what he got felt like a slap in the face.
It wasn't the first time he had had sex with someone drunk, Merlin, half of his fucks had happened when he was drunk. Curiously, every single time he slept with a woman, he'd been intoxicated. But the fact remained: he had never once forgotten the protection and contraceptive spells.
And yet he forgot.
Forgot with Potter.
As if instinct was stronger than pureblood breeding. As if his body had taken control of his mind. As if, for one night, Draco Malfoy wasn't anyone's son, he was just his own.
He forgot, and he got Potter pregnant.
And of all the people he could have done this with, out of all the possible combinations, it had to be him. The stubborn idiot, the brave one, the one who was kind even when furious.
Potter. Who now stood there, with a baby inside him, and Draco didn't know how to keep breathing. But he stayed impassive. Like he was taught. As expected of a Malfoy. As required by the name he carried.
Because if anyone dared to guess what was actually going on inside his mind at that moment, the panic, the primal urge to kneel, to beg for a way to fix it, everything would be lost.
He watched Potter's outrageously expressive eyes, those eyes that never learned how to hide what he felt. He liked that, secretly. Just like he liked that Potter was fifteen centimeters shorter than him.
But in that moment, all he could read was irritation and doubt. Not enough to offer him a safe route of reaction. And still, he wanted to get closer. To say he'd find a way. That he wouldn't run. That this wasn't just a one-night mistake, not for him.
And, to no one's surprise, he reacted the wrong way. But was rewarded, against all odds, with the revelation that he had been the first. The only one. He had taken Harry Potter's virginity. It stirred something old and deep.
A possessive, primal, almost heraldic satisfaction. As if, out of all the feats the Malfoy name had ever claimed, this was the one that truly mattered.
And at the same time, it terrified him. Because it made everything more real. More fragile. He didn't know how to care for anything, least of all something like this.
But he wanted to. Merlin, he wanted to.
A baby.
And, fuck, Potter.
He knew he wanted the child the moment Potter said he was pregnant. But even if he was a bastard, and he knew he was, he wasn't a monster. He would never pressure Potter to have that child if he didn't want it.
He tried, with all the stoicism inherited from his lineage, to remain neutral, so as not to influence the Gryffindor's choices. But he wanted to beg, ironically, for Potter to tell him what he decided.
It was hell to stay calm while his mind screamed, while his stomach twisted with possibilities. And still, he kept his chin up, his expression indifferent.
Malfoy blood knew how to hide tremors. The problem was that with Potter, everything trembled on the inside.
He was quick to tell Zabini, making him swear to keep quiet and to take care of Potter in the dormitory. He thanked Nott's attempt to show he had changed by choosing to study Care of Magical Creatures and asked him to keep an eye on Gryffindor.
Besides that, he spoke to Daphne, asking her to pass along any news that might be coming out in the Daily Prophet about Potter, trembling at the thought of it leaking without the shorter boy's permission.
The idea of seeing Potter's name in the papers, in a scandalous headline, made him break into a cold sweat. No article could ever capture what was truly at stake.
And Potter told him, told him that they were having a baby, and his heart beat so fast he felt like he no longer had control over his own body, which once again made him react the wrong way.
Because he always reacted wrong when he cared too much. Coldness was all that was left when he wasn't allowed to scream.
He was happy. He could fix his mistakes. He could teach a child all the things he had never been taught by his own parents, tolerance, respect, empathy.
That part scared him more than any Unforgivable Curse. The almost childlike desire to fix the world, or at least to start over with someone small enough not to hate him yet.
He wouldn't be like his father, who only showed love through gifts and money, no, he would be as present in that child's life as his mother had been in his.
And what if he failed? What if the child looked at him the way he once looked at Lucius?
He wrote a letter to his mother, telling her what had happened, and she was quick to reply that she had already sent an extensive confidentiality contract to Headmistress McGonagall, to cover not only the Hogwarts staff but also the Healer who would be chosen to handle the pregnancy.
His mother always knew how to act. Sometimes he wondered if he had inherited that precision from her or if he was just imitating what he thought should be done.
In the letter, he got scolded for his carelessness, and her clear concern about how he was feeling through all of this. And, as always, he was honest, that it was all a bit confusing, but that somehow, he was happy.
Happy, or maybe just hopeful. An emotion far too confusing for a Malfoy to name out loud.
He also asked his mother to sell his property in wizarding France so he could buy a flat in wizarding London, because he wanted to have a place of his own where his baby could visit, but he didn't want, under any circumstances, for them to set foot in the Manor.
It hurt. More than he was willing to admit. It hurt knowing that his child would never know the place where he himself had grown up, where he learned to walk, where he had etiquette lessons with his grandfather.
But he also knew, with the cruel clarity of survivors, that that place was now haunted. Haunted by ghosts that still roamed the marble halls. By silent memories of muffled screams, of tortures carried out under orders he never dared question.
Potter's friends. Innocents. Children.
He knew it was no use trying to erase the past, but maybe, just maybe, he could build something new atop the ruins. Plant something that would bloom in the middle of what once rotted.
His mother agreed without much argument, saying she would not sell the property in France, it was still his, but that she would look for a place in London worthy of a Malfoy.
Of course she would say that. She was a Malfoy. Still was. And so was he, even if he rejected most of the legacy, he still knew the power appearances held. Sometimes, merely seeming untouchable was enough to fool the world.
There was something that had always bothered him, but ever since he found out about the pregnancy, ever since he began watching Potter through a lens of care, it had been driving him mad.
His eyes.
His face might not say much about what he was feeling, but his eyes said everything , which made him incredibly easy to read.
And that was dangerous. Because seeing Potter suffer, seeing those eyes flicker between fear, anger, and fragility, it affected him in ways he wasn't prepared to admit. Not even to himself.
He knew when he was uncomfortable, when he was sad, when he was angry, when he was bored, and fuck , when he wanted to cry, and that last one felt like it twisted his insides.
It was like being struck from within. As if a silent spell slashed through him every time he saw Potter's eyes shine with unshed tears. Sometimes Draco believed taking another sectumsempra would hurt less.
He didn't know how to deal with it. No one ever taught him. But he knew he had to do something, anything, to stop Potter from crying because of him again.
At the appointment with the Healer, he winced inwardly when he realized Potter wanted to cry. The mention of childhood malnutrition made his knees go weak, but nothing hit harder than the way those green eyes lit up like that, silently screaming that tears were being swallowed.
He hated having nothing to do in the face of that. Hated even more how his stomach turned every time he saw Potter swallowing back the tears like he was alone. Like no one cared.
It was those big, round, and incredibly green eyes that made him ask if there was anything he could do to help, to take away that painful shine from those beautiful round eyes. And damn, he felt so good when the Healer said yes, he could help, that he didn't hold back when he saw the smaller body curl up, casting a silent warming charm.
It was a solution. He needed solutions. The lack of control, quick answers, and effective ways to act was unbearable.
And the way Potter looked back at him, with surprise, with gratitude, with that little leftover sadness still shining in his eyes, gave him, for a brief moment, an illusion of control. Something to hold onto.
But during Tuesday's lunch, watching the way Potter stirred his food on the plate, following the friends' conversation but almost never actually bringing the food to his mouth, he lost control.
He stood up. Interrupted the conversation of his own friends, ignoring the raised eyebrows and confused looks. He even appreciated Goyle's worried glance, Goyle had been in Azkaban from the end of the Great Battle until classes started, but Draco couldn't take it anymore.
With every forkful not eaten, a crack widened inside him. And in that moment, the fracture overflowed.
He dragged Potter out of the hall, ignoring Weasel's pathetic attempt to stop him, pushing him with an ease that almost gave him pleasure. He pressed Potter against a corridor wall, careful not to be too rough to make him lose balance or hit his head.
Pure, almost tangible hatred filled those green eyes, and honestly, Draco was used to that look, he knew it well. But not with that weird warmth deep in his chest that came every time Potter looked at him, even if it was with anger.
"Why aren't you eating?" he asked, seeing the smaller one's face lose color instantly. "You've probably taken three bites, Potter. I didn't say anything at breakfast because I thought you were nauseous, and I saw you eat an apple in Potions, but this?" he asked, exasperated.
His child was growing inside Potter. He needed to eat enough for that baby to grow strong, and for that, the stubborn Gryffindor had to eat.
Because now Draco was responsible. Not out of obligation. But because he couldn't bear the idea of something going wrong. Enough had gone wrong already. Enough with the destroyed house, the ruined name, the broken childhood. He wouldn't let it happen again.
The hatred vanished from those beautiful green eyes, and that shine that made him twist inside appeared. Potter bit his lower lip, seeming to struggle to hold back tears, but something inside him seemed to break, and Draco saw those beautiful emeralds get covered by tears before the first one slid down his cheek.
Draco froze, feeling panic take over along with something else, he wasn't sure if it was worry, care, affection, but it was that something that made him take Potter's glasses off and pull him close, hugging his torso.
Instinct came before logic, before fear of being seen, before pride.
Potter cried against his chest, taking a moment to return the hug, but he did. And Draco began to stroke the mess that Gryffindor called hair, surprised by how soft his strands were.
He was small. Warm. Fragile and fierce at the same time.
He was Potter.
This was wrong. It should be wrong. Shouldn't it?
Having Potter pressed against him, that sweet yet woody scent so close, his hands clutching the fabric of the Slytherin cloak. Those things teleported him back to that Friday, two months earlier, made him remember the feeling of holding him in his arms, and it only made him tighten his grip around the smaller one.
Don't think about it. Just stay in control. Fix this.
"I'm trying, I swear I am," he heard him say muffled, before pulling away from the hug.
Malfoy got lost for a second, never having seen Potter without his glasses, his eyes were bigger than they seemed, brighter, the green there enchanting, hypnotizing, beautiful, almost impossible to look at for long without feeling your stomach twist. His lashes were long and curved, now wet with tears, as if each drop carried the weight of something precious.
Damn.
It was such a beautiful contrast with his tanned, soft skin, almost inviting to touch; the dark, well-shaped eyebrows perfectly marking every expression; the button nose, round and turned up; the well-defined lips, always naturally red, as if the cold had just touched them. Now he was flushed, his eyes and cheeks moist, his breathing uneven, and there was something there, in that whole set, that escaped understanding. Potter was magnificent.
And Draco needed to remember to breathe.
"But it's so tiring, it feels wrong," he added, pulling Malfoy back into focus.
Potter's skin seemed cold under the uniform, so he cast a silent warming charm, watching him relax a bit in his arms. He held the delicate face gently, wiping the tears before returning the glasses to where they belonged.
"It's not ideal, but we can talk to Madame Pomfrey about adding more nutrients and vitamins to the potion. You're taking it properly, right?" he suggested, and Potter nodded slowly, sniffing before pulling a little away. Draco almost whimpered at feeling him leave his arms.
Not that he'd ever do that. Never.
"I'm already taking one of those," he muttered low, Draco barely heard him. "She can't increase the dose, said I need to eat for the baby." He wiped his nose, sniffing, seeming to try to pull himself together.
Draco stopped, trying to think. Potter needed to eat. The ideal would be a well-balanced, healthy plate, but that didn't seem like an option since the boy didn't even seem able to eat. To get him started eating, to build the habit, he'd have to have something easy and tasty available.
"What's easier?" he asked, keeping his voice low, moving some hair away from the glasses. "More solid or liquid foods? Soft or crunchy? Sweet or salty?" he explained when he saw Potter didn't quite understand.
"I like Treacle tart, but when I can't eat, I always try to drink something, it's easier," he replied, and Malfoy stored the info.
Treacle tart,. Liquids.
"Alright," he nodded, unable to resist carefully wiping away any trace of tears from that beautiful face. "I'll think of something," he added, and saw the smaller one nod shyly.
For some reason, that made him satisfied. Ridiculously satisfied.
"Sorry about this," he spoke softly, his voice carrying something like anger. "I haven't stopped crying since last night," he added, and Draco realized the anger was directed at himself.
"It's normal, Potter, hormones, you don't have to apologize," he said, trying to sound sincere while choosing his words carefully. "I said I'd take responsibility, and that's what I'm doing," he finished.
Taking responsibility meant so much more than he'd ever say out loud.
The greenish eyes seemed to run through a series of emotions that passed too quickly for Draco to catch, but in the end Potter gave a small smile, lowering his head and pulling away a little more.
"Thank you," he said softly. "I'll try to eat more, I promise," he repeated before turning and walking back toward the eighth-year table.
Draco watched him leave. Felt the emptiness as the presence faded. And hated that he didn't have a solution for that.