Draco was content. It wasn't a loud, showy kind of contentment, but one that settled in quietly, deep and precise, ever since his conversation with Harry the week before. He felt something had shifted, they were closer now. And for him, that was dangerously tempting.
Harry was like the sun, warming, illuminating, and with each moment they drew nearer, it felt as if he melted away a little more of the shadows Draco kept to himself. There was in him a silent strength, a beauty that went beyond his face, beyond the delicate lines, beyond the green of his eyes.
It was impossible not to be drawn to that light, even knowing that if he got too close, he could be burned without warning, Draco knew that all too well, he'd been burned more than once before. And still, he didn't step away, he couldn't. He was willing to be burned again.
During the war, he had believed he'd reached the limit of fear, the Dark Lord had become his bogeyman. He still had nightmares and thought they would never go away. But seeing Harry curled up on the floor, hands covering his ears, crying, glass on the ground, feathers flying, the smell of something burned, objects scattered everywhere, that was the most terrifying thing he had ever seen.
His bogeyman had probably changed.
Weasley's words had echoed like a Glacius spell cast straight into his chest, reminding him that, despite having fathered the child Harry was carrying, despite watching him closely since they were eleven, he didn't know all the abysses of his story. The realization brought shame, and for a moment, he felt unworthy of meeting those green eyes that seemed to hold dozens of constellations in their brilliance.
But he couldn't help himself, selfishness was rooted deep in his nature. He was walking near the lake, driven by a habit dating back to the days when he could watch Harry from the Slytherin common room window, and he saw him there. He knew the right thing to do would be to walk away, give him space. He didn't. He didn't want to.
And he was deeply grateful that he hadn't. He remembered the conversation, the weight of Harry's head on his shoulder, as if it were a safe refuge. How Harry let himself be hugged, without resistance. But above all, he thought about the way he laughed, not just a sound, but something that seemed to come from deep within, full of life. It was a clean laugh, almost innocent, as if for a brief moment the weight of the world had lifted from his shoulders. A laugh so genuine that Draco wondered if he had ever heard anything so pure in his entire life.
The next day, Harry had asked for help with his Potions essay. Draco held back the urge to smile before agreeing. After years of knowing him, he had expected a disastrous performance, he had always wondered how the other boy had managed to keep his grades high enough to stay in the class, and he knew perfectly well that he had cheated in their sixth year.
But Harry wasn't bad. He didn't shine, but he had a solid grasp of the properties, and his biggest struggle was turning what he knew into precise words, rather than a lack of understanding.
Draco helped, but soon realized there was little need to intervene. And when Harry offered to review his Defense Against the Dark Arts assignment, he smiled, subtly, but genuinely, and handed over the parchment.
At that moment, they were in the hospital wing, with Harry lying on the bed, his belly exposed, the belly of someone unmistakably pregnant. In tighter clothes, people might have thought Harry had simply gained weight, but with the oversized shirts he wore, it was impossible to tell.
Draco felt a strange mix of pride and apprehension, as though that sight, Harry's belly growing, becoming round, was becoming more and more real.
Harry grew visibly tense whenever Healer Hawthorne raised her wand toward him. That day, however, Draco held his hand firmly, feeling the skin slightly cool and the restless fingers, while those beautiful green eyes remained fixed on the hospital wing's ceiling, refusing to look at what was happening around them.
There was a quiet satisfaction in noticing that, despite his usual reluctance, Harry allowed himself to stay there, leaning on him. It was proof that Draco was, little by little, claiming a place where the other trusted him enough to yield, and that silent victory stirred a restrained pride within him.
"Would you like to hear the heartbeat?" the woman asked, and Harry turned to her, nodding with an almost childlike urgency. Draco couldn't stop the slight curve of his lips.
When the sound filled the air, Draco's heart skipped a beat. It was fast, alive, undeniably strong, the most precious sound he had ever heard. There was his child, his heir, with that tiny heart beating with vigor, sheltered within Harry's body. His throat tightened painfully, and no upbringing, no lesson in composure inherited from the name he bore, could keep his eyes from welling with tears.
He glanced down at the man beside him and found the same glistening sheen on his face. Tears slid down that singular skin, and Draco, driven by an impulse he couldn't resist, gently removed his glasses, as if even that small touch were a privilege. Harry let out a soft, trembling laugh, a mix of emotion and shyness, and Draco felt his chest constrict even more. There was something devastating and yet intoxicating about seeing him like that, vulnerable, unguarded, and knowing he was the one granted the right to witness it.
"Would you like to know the baby's sex, or do you want it to be a surprise?" Healer Hawthorne asked, and Draco turned his gaze to Harry.
"You decide," he said softly, and Harry sniffled, reaching for his glasses and putting them back on.
"I want to know," he murmured, and Draco looked back at the healer, who smiled at them both.
The light at the tip of her wand shifted, and Harry looked up again, while Malfoy swallowed hard, feeling both nervous and anxious.
"Congratulations, it's a boy," she said, still smiling.
Again, Draco's heart stumbled in its rhythm, as if it had forgotten its purpose for an instant. A boy. His son. His heir. The word echoed inside him with an almost sacred weight. He looked at Harry and found him crying again, those silent tears that always seemed to strip away his defenses, and only then did he notice the dampness in his own eyes as well.
He slowly released the hand he had been holding, only to lean down and press a kiss to the top of Harry's hair, breathing in the soft, sweet scent. Almost immediately, he felt his arm being gripped tightly, as though Harry were anchoring himself to him. Draco closed his eyes for a brief moment, imprinting the sensation into memory, certain that no matter how many years passed, he would never forget it.
"James," Draco whispered, and Harry let out a small sob, followed by a laugh.
"Really?" he asked, and Draco pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. There it was, the doubt, the uncertainty, clear to him as an open book. That vivid green seemed to hesitate, as if testing whether that name was truly allowed.
"James Sirius Potter," Draco said firmly. He liked the way it sounded, full of weight and heritage. Harry laughed again, the tears still there, and Draco found him beautiful in a way that was almost painful.
"I have to congratulate you, Mr. Potter," the healer said with a smile. "Though you're still a little underweight for someone 15 weeks along, the baby's health is right on track, and you're close to reaching the ideal level of nutrition." Harry laughed, now with a relief that softened his features.
"Is he okay?" he asked, his voice trembling, just slightly. Draco saw the fear fade from his eyes.
"Yes. Your little boy is right at the ideal weight and size, with everything that should be formed already formed. The spells showed no absences or problems. He's measuring ten centimeters (approximately four inches) exactly as expected." The tension left him in a sigh.
They were released shortly after, and Draco watched him cover his stomach before getting up. He stepped closer, adjusting the overcoat the shorter man wore, the same one Draco had lent him the week before. He was caught off guard when he was pulled into a hug, but he returned it immediately, closing his eyes to breathe in the sweet scent of Harry's messy hair, with a care he would never admit to.
"A little boy," he heard him murmur against his chest.
"You heard right. James is fine. You're doing everything right, Harry. Our little boy is healthy," he said, slowly stroking the unruly strands beneath his fingers.
They stayed like that only a few seconds before Harry pulled away, wiping his face with the back of his hand, a small, timid smile curving his lips.
"I want to tell Ron, Hermione, and Neville," he began, his voice still unsteady. "I need to tell Molly and Arthur, Merlin, Ginny and Luna," he went on, listing names as his hand ran through his own hair, "and the press."
Draco saw his breathing start to quicken. He placed firm hands on his shoulders.
"Hey… let me handle the press, all right? I'll talk to my mother." Harry's eyes went wide, and Draco saw perfectly the thought forming behind that intense green before it was spoken.
"Merlin, your parents. Bloody hell." His voice trembled, and Draco only shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"No, hey… I'll handle it, okay? My parents and the press are mine to deal with. And nothing, nothing, goes to the press without your consent." Draco felt the tension ease from Harry's shoulders, his breathing returning to a calmer rhythm.
It was almost fascinating, and at the same time painful, how much weight he carried in his eyes, and how Draco, even after all these years, still couldn't stop himself from wanting to bear it for him.
He adjusted the overcoat on the smaller man once more, along with the beige beanie he wore. The garment, tailored for Draco and clearly too large for Harry's frame, hung with an excess of fabric that emphasized his narrow shoulders. The hem nearly brushed his knees, the sleeves went well past their proper length, and yet Draco liked that contrast all the more.
There was something quietly satisfying in seeing him wrapped in something that was his. And Draco couldn't help but notice, with a nearly arrogant kind of satisfaction, how Harry not only accepted his gifts but wore them often. He didn't mind in the slightest having lost that dark gray overcoat. It looked better on him.
"Want to go to the common room?" he asked, and Harry nodded, wiping the traces of tears from his cheeks.
They left the hospital wing together, and Draco always found it endearing how Harry always kept one hand resting over his stomach, over James. Merlin, Draco was going to have a little boy, and he hoped, from the depths of his heart, that the child would have Harry's impossibly beautiful eyes, green like nothing Draco had ever seen, capable of making him lose control in an instant.
He could buy clothes for James, Merlin, he had to decorate the nursery in his new apartment. He'd have to tell his father, too, since only his mother knew so far. He knew that soon, another branch would appear on the family tree in his father's study, soon, James would be there.
"He's going to be born in the summer," Harry commented, breaking through his thoughts.
"We need to get clothes, blankets, a crib," Draco began listing, already feeling tired at the thought. "We could go look for things next Hogsmeade weekend," he suggested, watching the Gryffindor nod, tucking his hands into the overcoat pockets.
"I need to tell Arthur and Molly about this, if I ask for their help, they'll come over to put some things together for the room," Harry said, curling into himself a little. Draco reached for his wand to cast a nonverbal warming charm, earning a grateful smile. "But whatever I can manage without them, I will, I don't want to bother them," he murmured, seeming more at ease.
When they entered the common room, Weasley and Granger were sitting together by a window, Weasley working on something over a scroll of parchment, Granger reading a book, her legs draped over the redhead's lap.
Draco felt the urge to smile at the way they both immediately stopped what they were doing to pay attention to Harry as he approached, making room for him to sit on the couch. He could never fail to notice how Harry commanded attention wherever he went. With a sigh, knowing he had letters to write, Draco turned and climbed the stairs to the boys' dormitory.
When he opened the door to the dorm, he saw Gregory, Blaise, and Pansy sitting on his bed, chatting. He frowned at the sight, he didn't like people messing with his things, and also noticed that Theo's bed curtains were drawn.
He took off his coat, hung it neatly in his wardrobe, and then walked with his usual elegance toward Theodore's bed, pulling the curtains open to find his friend sitting in Longbottom's lap. The Gryffindor's hands were under Theo's shirt, and both of them looked breathless and startled, their lips flushed red.
"Seriously, Draco? Did it have to be now?" Theodore complained, unbothered, while Longbottom blushed so hard even his ears turned crimson.
"I've just come from an appointment with Healer Hawthorne," Draco said, watching both of their eyes widen.
"What? How did it go?" Theo asked, climbing off the Gryffindor's lap, while the latter stood and adjusted his trousers, probably trying to hide his erection.
"Where's Harry?" Longbottom asked.
"Downstairs, with Weasley and Granger," Draco replied, watching the other boy nod.
Before the Gryffindor could leave the room, Theo pulled him in for a quick kiss, then shoved the taller boy out with a smile before throwing himself onto Draco's bed, looking utterly satisfied.
"What happened with the Healer?" Blaise asked.
"The baby's healthy, and apparently Harry's improved in the food department," Draco said, sitting down in the chair at his desk.
"Harry," Pansy repeated in a teasing tone. Draco simply raised his middle finger at her.
"It's a boy," he announced, watching smiles spread across his friends' faces. "He's healthy, measuring ten centimeters (approximately four inches)" he added, feeling oddly light.
"Have you thought of names yet?" Greg asked, and Draco sighed, allowing himself a small smile.
"James Sirius Potter," he said calmly, and saw the way Theodore smiled, looking almost proud.
"How did your father react, knowing your heir won't carry your surname?" Blaise asked.
"I haven't told him yet, but honestly? I didn't even discuss the surname with Harry. I think an innocent little boy doesn't deserve to carry the weight of the Malfoy name," he said truthfully, leaning back in his chair.
"But he'll still carry the weight of the Potter surname," Pansy pointed out, and Draco sighed.
"Yeah, but the weight of Harry's name is from a family that's always fought on the right side of the war, always. Mine carries centuries of intolerance and supremacism," he explained, watching his friend nod.
"Why James Sirius? Was it Potter who suggested it?" Blaise asked, and Draco shook his head.
"No, I suggested it," he said, feeling proud. "I wanted to continue my mother's family tradition, so I wanted a constellation, but I know all too well what it's like to have an unusual name," he rolled his eyes. "So I thought of putting it as a middle name, and Sirius is beautiful, plus it was the name of Harry's godfather," he shrugged. "He nearly cried when I suggested it," he added with a small laugh.
"And James?" Greg asked.
"I like it, it has a good sound, it's strong, and it means 'he who supplants.' I think it's beautiful, I've always liked the name," he admitted, watching his friend nod.
"So, is there a due date for James?" Theo asked, smiling.
"Between the second and third week of August," he smiled, already wanting to see his son's face.
"A summer baby," Pansy said with a smile.
"He's been sleeping better, Potter," Blaise murmured, catching Draco's attention. "At the start of term, he was unbearable, he wouldn't stay in bed for a second, wandering all night long," he complained, rolling his eyes.
"I'm scared of him. I don't know how you managed to get close enough to him to get him pregnant, Draco," Theodore said, drawing a quiet laugh from Draco. "I'm serious, did you see him in the battle? He was unstoppable, literally. He survived the Dark Lord twice, and that's not even counting last week's magical outburst, he destroyed the entire dorm without even touching his wand. I heard people saying the tables in the Great Hall shook when it happened," he explained, and Draco took a deep breath.
"It was easy to provoke him at the start of the year. It was… a bit of normalcy in the middle of all the chaos," he paused briefly. "But I was completely drunk when we slept together," he said with a shrug.
"What a beautiful story you'll tell your son," Pansy said dryly, and Draco picked up a pillow and threw it at her without hesitation.
"Hope he inherits your hair, Potter's is a mess," Blaise teased, fiddling with one of Draco's books. The blond promptly took the volume back.
"His hair is actually really soft," he commented, noticing the way they all froze, the four of them sat in stunned silence, which was almost funny. "What?" he asked, confused.
"You've been complaining about his hair since first year," Greg murmured.
"He can't possibly manage that atrocious thing," Theo said, deepening his voice to imitate him.
"My day was ruined when I saw that bird's nest Potter calls hair," Pansy said, also deepening her voice.
"If his family got rich making hair products, why doesn't he use them?" Blaise asked, having to raise his voice a little.
"I've never touched his hair, I didn't say it was a mess, I just said it's soft," he rolled his eyes. "And I don't care about any other features James might have, but I would love it if he had Harry's eyes," he said sincerely. Theodore buried his face in the bed, groaning as if the mere mention of it hurt.
"I'm not listening to another speech about Potter's eyes," he muttered, his voice muffled against the comforter. "Just admit you're in love with the idiot," he grumbled.
"Oh, I'm in love?" Draco asked, feeling a sly smile form on his lips. "And what was that with Longbottom?" he asked, and Theodore quickly lifted his head.
"What do you mean?" he asked, his cheeks starting to redden.
"What do I mean? I mean you in his lap, with your tongue down his throat, when you haven't let any cis man touch you since the war," he said, and Theo groaned again, hiding his face. "Completely in love, aren't you?" he teased.
"The pot calling the kettle black," Pansy muttered.
The pillow flew at her at the same moment Theo shoved her off the bed.